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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5328.txt b/5328.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c9b1cf --- /dev/null +++ b/5328.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19252 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Writing for Vaudeville, by Brett Page + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Writing for Vaudeville + +Author: Brett Page + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5328] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on June 30, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE *** + + + + +This etext was produced by Steve Bonner. + + + +WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE + +WITH NINE COMPLETE EXAMPLES OF VARIOUS VAUDEVILLE FORMS BY +RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, AARON HOFFMAN, EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF, +TAYLOR GRANVILLE, LOUIS WESLYN, ARTHUR DENVIR, AND JAMES +MADISON + +BY BRETT PAGE + +AUTHOR OF "CLOSE HARMONY," "CAMPING DAYS," "MEMORIES," ETC. + +DRAMATIC EDITOR, NEWSPAPER FEATURE SERVICE, NEW YORK + +THE WRITER'S LIBRARY +EDITED BY J. BERG ESENWEIN + + + +FOREWORD + + +Can you be taught how to write for vaudeville? If you have the +native gift, what experienced writers say about its problems, what +they themselves have accomplished, and the means by which it has +been wrought, will be of help to you. So much this book offers, +and more I would not claim for it. + +Although this volume is the first treatise on the subject of which +I know, it is less an original offering than a compilation. Growing +out of a series of articles written in collaboration with Mr. +William C. Lengel for The Green Book Magazine, the subject assumed +such bigness in my eyes that when I began the writing of this book, +I spent months harvesting the knowledge of others to add to my own +experience. With the warm-heartedness for which vaudevillians are +famous, nearly everyone whose aid I asked lent assistance gladly. +"It is vaudeville's first book," said more than one, deprecating +the value of his own suggestions, "and we want it right in each +slightest particular." + +To the following kindly gentlemen I wish to express my especial +thanks: Aaron Hoffman, Edwin Hopkins, James Madison, Edgar Allan +Woolf, Richard Harding Davis--the foremost example of a writer who +made a famous name first in literature and afterward in +vaudeville--Arthur Hopkins, Taylor Granville, Junie McCree, Arthur +Denvir, Frank Fogarty, Irving Berlin, Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe +Gilbert, Ballard MacDonald, Louis Bernstein, Joe McCarthy, Joseph +Hart, Joseph Maxwell, George A. Gottlieb, Daniel F. Hennessy, +Sime Silverman, Thomas J. Gray, William C. Lengel, Miss Nellie +Revell, the "big sister of vaudeville," and a host of others whose +names space does not permit my naming again here, but whose work +is evidenced in the following pages. To Alexander Black, the man +who made the first picture play twenty-one years ago, I owe thanks +for points in the discussion of dramatic values. And for many +helpful suggestions, and his kindly editing, I wish to express my +gratitude to Dr. J. Berg Esenwein. To these "friends indeed" +belongs whatever merit this book possesses. + + +BRETT PAGE +BROOKLYN, NEW YORK +August 25, 1915 + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +It falls to the lot of few men in these days to blaze a new trail +in Bookland. This Mr. Brett Page has done, with firmness and +precision, and with a joy in every stroke that will beget in +countless readers that answering joy which is the reward of both +him who guides and him who follows. There is but one word for a +work so penetrating, so eductive, so clear--and that word is +_masterly_. Let no one believe the modest assertion that "Writing +for Vaudeville" is "less an original offering than a compilation." +I have seen it grow and re-grow, section by section, and never +have I known an author give more care to the development of his +theme in an original way. Mr. Page has worked with fidelity to +the convictions gained while himself writing professionally, yet +with deference for the opinions of past masters in this field. +The result is a book quite unexcelled among manuals of instruction, +for authority, full statement, analysis of the sort that leads the +reader to see what essentials he must build into his own structures, +and sympathetic helpfulness throughout. I count it an honor to +have been the editorial sponsor for a pioneer book which will be +soon known everywhere. + +J. BERG ESENWEIN + + + +WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE WHY OF THE VAUDEVILLE ACT + + +1. The Rise of Vaudeville + +A French workman who lived in the Valley of the Vire in the +fourteenth or fifteenth century, is said to be vaudeville's +grandparent. Of course, the child of his brain bears not even a +remote resemblance to its descendant of to-day, yet the line is +unbroken and the relationship clearer than many of the family trees +of the royal houses. The French workman's name was Oliver Bassel, +or Olivier Basselin, and in his way he was a poet. He composed +and sang certain sprightly songs which struck the popular fancy +and achieved a reputation not only in his own town but throughout +the country. + +Bassel's success raised the usual crop of imitators and soon a +whole family of songs like his were being whistled in France. In +the course of time these came to be classed as a new and distinct +form of musical entertainment. They were given the name of +"Val-de-Vire" from the valley in which Bassel was born. This +name became corrupted, into "vaux-de-vire" in the time of Louis +XVI, and was applied to all the popular or topical songs sung on +the streets of Paris. Then the aristocrats took up these songs +and gave entertainments at their country seats. To these +entertainments they gave the name of "vaux-de-ville," the last +syllable being changed to honor Bassel's native town [1] And +gradually the x was dropped and the word has remained through the +years as it is to-day. + +[1] Another version relates that these songs were sung on the Pont +Neuf in Paris, where stands the Hotel de Ville, or City Hall, and +thus the generic name acquired the different termination. + +As the form of entertainment advanced, the word vaudeville expanded +in meaning. It came to comprise not only a collection of songs, +but also acrobatic feats and other exhibitions. Having no dramatic +sequence whatever, these unrelated acts when shown together achieved +recognition as a distinct form of theatrical entertainment. As +"vaudeville"--or "variety"--this form of entertainment became known +and loved in every country of the world. + +Vaudeville was introduced into this country before 1820, but it +did not become a common form of entertainment until shortly before +the Civil War when the word 'variety' was at once adopted and +became familiar as something peculiarly applicable to the troubled +times. The new and always cheerful entertainment found the reward +of its optimism in a wide popularity. But as those days of war +were the days of men, vaudeville made its appeal to men only. And +then the war-clouds passed away and the show business had to +reestablish itself, precisely as every other commercial pursuit +had to readjust itself to changed conditions. + +Tony Pastor saw his opportunity. On July 31, 1865, he opened "Tony +Pastor's Opera House" at 199-201 Bowery, New York. He had a theory +that a vaudeville entertainment from which every objectionable +word and action were taken away, and from which the drinking bar +was excluded, would appeal to women and children as well as men. +He knew that no entertainment that excluded women could long hold +a profitable place in a man's affections. So to draw the whole +family to his new Opera House, Tony Pastor inaugurated clean +vaudeville [1]. Pastor's success was almost instantaneous. It +became the fashion to go to Pastor's Opera House and later when +he moved to Broadway, and then up to Fourteenth Street, next to +Tammany Hall, he carried his clientele with him. And vaudeville, +as a form of entertainment that appealed to every member of the +home circle, was firmly established--for a while. + +[1] In the New York Clipper for December 19, 1914, there is an +interesting article: "The Days of Tony Pastor," by Al. Fostelle, +an old-time vaudeville performer, recounting the names of the +famous performers who played for Tony Pastor in the early days. +It reads like a "who's who" of vaudeville history. Mr. Fostelle, +has in his collection a bill of an entertainment given in England +in 1723, consisting of singing, dancing, character impersonations, +with musical accompaniment, tight-rope walking, acrobatic feats, +etc. + +For Pastor's success in New York did not at first seem to the +average vaudeville manager something that could be duplicated +everywhere. A large part of the profits of the usual place came +from the sale of drinks and to forego this source of revenue seemed +suicidal. Therefore, vaudeville as a whole continued for years +on the old plane. "Variety" was the name--in England vaudeville +is still called "variety"--that it held even more widely then. +And in the later seventies and the early eighties "variety" was +on the ebb-tide. It was classed even lower than the circus, from +which many of its recruits were drawn. + +Among the men who came to vaudeville's rescue, because they saw +that to appear to the masses profitably, vaudeville must be clean, +were F. F. Proctor in Philadelphia, and B. F. Keith in Boston. +On Washington Street in Boston, B. F. Keith had opened a "store +show." The room was very small and he had but a tiny stage; still +he showed a collection of curiosities, among which were a two-headed +calf and a fat woman. Later on he added a singer and a serio-comic +comedian and insisted that they eliminate from their acts everything +that might offend the most fastidious. The result was that he +moved to larger quarters and ten months later to still more +commodious premised. + +Continuous vaudeville--"eleven o'clock in the morning until eleven +at night"--had its birth on July 6, 1885. It struck the popular +fancy immediately and soon there was hardly a city of any importance +that did not possess its "continuous" house. From the "continuous" +vaudeville has developed the two-performances-a-day policy, for +which vaudeville is now so well known. + +The vaudeville entertainment of this generation is, however, a +vastly different entertainment from that of even the nineties. +What it has become in popular affection it owes not only to Tony +Pastor, F. F. Proctor, or even to B. F. Keith--great as was his +influence--but to a host of showmen whose names and activities +would fill more space than is possible here. E. F. Albee, Oscar +Hammerstein, S. Z. Poli, William Morris, Mike Shea, James E. Moore, +Percy G. Williams, Harry Davis, Morris Meyerfeld, Martin Beck, +John J. Murdock, Daniel F. Hennessy, Sullivan and Considine, +Alexander Pantages, Marcus Loew, Charles E. Kohl, Max Anderson, +Henry Zeigler, and George Castle, are but a few of the many men +living and dead who have helped to make vaudeville what it is. + +From the old variety show, made up of a singer of topical songs, +an acrobatic couple, a tight-rope walker, a sidewalk "patter" pair, +and perhaps a very rough comedy sketch, there has developed a +performance that sometimes includes as many as ten or twelve acts, +each one presented by an artist whose name is known around the +world. One of the laments of the old vaudeville performers is +that they have a place in vaudeville no more. The most famous +grand opera singers and the greatest actors and actresses appear +in their room. The most renowned dramatists write some of its +playlets. The finest composers cut down their best-known works +to fit its stage, and little operas requiring forty people and +three or four sets of scenery are the result. To the legitimate +[1] stage vaudeville has given some of its successful plays and +at least one grand opera has been expanded from a playlet. To-day +a vaudeville performance is the best thought of the world condensed +to fit the flying hour. + +[1] _Legitimate_ is a word used in the theatrical business to +distinguish the full-evening drama, its actors, producers, and its +mechanical stage from those of burlesque and vaudeville. Originally +coined as a word of reproach against vaudeville, it has lost its +sting and is used by vaudevillians as well as legitimate actors +and managers. + +2. Of What a Vaudeville Show is Made + +There is no keener psychologist than a vaudeville manager. Not +only does he present the best of everything that can be shown upon +a stage, but he so arranges the heterogeneous elements that they +combine to form a unified whole. He brings his audiences together +by advertising variety and reputations, and he sends them away +aglow with the feeling that they have been entertained every minute. +His raw material is the best he can buy. His finished product is +usually the finest his brain can form. He engages Sarah Bernhardt, +Calve, a Sir James M. Barrie playlet, Ethel Barrymore, and Henry +Miller. He takes one of them as the nucleus of a week's bill. +Then he runs over the names of such regular vaudevillians as Grace +La Rue, Nat Wills, Trixie Friganza, Harry Fox and Yansci Dollie, +Emma Carus, Sam and Kitty Morton, Walter C. Kelly, Conroy and +LeMaire, Jack Wilson, Hyams and McIntyre, and Frank Fogarty. He +selects two or maybe three of them. Suddenly it occurs to him +that he hasn't a big musical "flash" for his bill, so he telephones +a producer like Jesse L. Lasky, Arthur Hopkins or Joe Hart and +asks him for one of his fifteen- or twenty-people acts. This he +adds to his bill. Then he picks a song-and-dance act and an +acrobatic turn. Suddenly he remembers that he wants--not for this +show, but for some future week--Gertrude Hoffman with her big +company, or Eva Tanguay all by herself. This off his mind, the +manager lays out his show--if it is the standard nine-act +bill--somewhat after the following plan, as George A. Gottlieb, +who books Keith's Palace Theatre, New York, shows--probably the +best and certainly the "biggest" vaudeville entertainments seen +in this country--has been good enough to explain. + +"We usually select a 'dumb act' for the first act on the bill. +It may be a dancing act, some good animal act, or any act that +makes a good impression and will not be spoiled by the late arrivals +seeking their seats. Therefore it sometimes happens that we make +use of a song-and-dance turn, or any other little act that does +not depend on its words being heard. + +"For number two position we select an interesting act of the sort +recognized as a typical 'vaudeville act.' It may be almost anything +at all, though it should be more entertaining than the first act. +For this reason it often happens that a good man-and-woman singing +act is placed here. This position on the bill is to 'settle' the +audience and to prepare it for the show. + +"With number three position we count on waking up the audience. +The show has been properly started and from now on it must build +right up to the finish. So we offer a comedy dramatic sketch--a +playlet that wakens the interest and holds the audience every +minute with a culminative effect that comes to its laughter-climax +at the 'curtain,' or any other kind of act that is not of the same +order as the preceding turn, so that, having laid the foundations, +we may have the audience wondering what is to come next. + +"For number four position we must have a 'corker' of an act--and +a 'name.' It must be the sort of act that will rouse the audience +to expect still better things, based on the fine performance of +the past numbers. Maybe this act is the first big punch of the +show; anyway, it must strike home and build up the interest for +the act that follows. + +"And here for number five position, a big act, and at the same +time another big name, must be presented. Or it might be a big +dancing act--one of those delightful novelties vaudeville likes +so well. In any event this act must be as big a 'hit' as any on +the bill. It is next to intermission and the audience must have +something really worth while to talk over. And so we select one +of the best acts on the bill to crown the first half of the show. + +"The first act after intermission, number six on the bill, is a +difficult position to fill, because the act must not let down the +carefully built-up tension of interest and yet it must not be +stronger than the acts that are to follow. Very likely there is +chosen a strong vaudeville specialty, with comedy well to the fore. +Perhaps a famous comedy dumb act is selected, with the intention +of getting the audience back in its seats without too many conspicuous +interruptions of what is going on on the stage. Any sort of act +that makes a splendid start-off is chosen, for there has been a +fine first half and the second half must be built up again--of +course the process is infinitely swifter in the second half of the +show--and the audience brought once more into a delighted-expectant +attitude. + +"Therefore the second act after intermission--number seven--must +be stronger than the first. It is usually a full-stage act and +again must be another big name. Very likely it is a big playlet, +if another sketch has not been presented earlier on the bill. It +may be a comedy playlet or even a serious dramatic playlet, if the +star is a fine actor or actress and the name is well known. Or +it may be anything at all that builds up the interest and appreciation +of the audience to welcome the 'big' act that follows. "For here +in number eight position--next to closing, on a nine-act bill--the +comedy hit of the show is usually placed. It is one of the acts +for which the audience has been waiting. Usually it is one of the +famous 'single' man or 'single' women acts that vaudeville has +made such favorites. + +"And now we have come to the act that closes the show. We count +on the fact that some of the audience will be going out. Many +have only waited to see the chief attraction of the evening, before +hurrying off to their after-theatre supper and dance. So we spring +a big 'flash.' It must be an act that does not depend for its +success upon being heard perfectly. Therefore a 'sight' act is +chosen, an animal act maybe, to please the children, or a Japanese +troupe with their gorgeous kimonos and vividly harmonizing stage +draperies, or a troupe of white-clad trapeze artists flying against +a background of black. Whatever the act is, it must be a showy +act, for it closes the performance and sends the audience home +pleased with the program to the very last minute. + +"Now all the time a booking-manager is laying out his show, he has +not only had these many artistic problems on his mind, but also +the mechanical working of the show. For instance, he must consider +the actual physical demands of his stage and not place next each +other two full-stage acts. If he did, how would the stage hands +change the scenery without causing a long and tedious wait? In +vaudeville there must be no waits. Everything must run with +unbroken stride. One act must follow another as though it were +especially made for the position. And the entire show must be +dovetailed to the split seconds of a stop-watch. + +"Therefore it is customary to follow an 'act in One' (See below) +with an act requiring Full Stage. Then after the curtain has +fallen on this act, an act comes on to play in One again. A show +can, of course, start with a full-stage act, and the alternation +process remains the same. Or there may be an act that can open +in One and then go into Full Stage--after having given the stage +hands time to set their scenery--or vice versa, close in One. +Briefly, the whole problem is simply this--acts must be arranged +not only in the order of their interest value, but also according +to their physical demands. + +"But there is still another problem the manager must solve. 'Variety' +is vaudeville's paternal name--vaudeville must present a _varied_ +bill and a show consisting of names that will tend to have a +box-office appeal. No two acts in a show should be alike. No two +can be permitted to conflict. 'Conflict' is a word that falls with +ominous meaning on a vaudeville performer's or manager's ears, +because it means death to one of the acts and injury to the show +as a whole. If two famous singing 'single' women were placed on +the same bill, very likely there would be odious comparisons--even +though they did not use songs that were alike. And however +interesting each might be, both would lose in interest. And yet, +sometimes we do just this thing--violating a minor rule to win a +great big box-office appeal. + +"Part of the many sides of this delicate problem may be seen when +you consider that no two 'single' singing acts should be placed +next each other--although they may not conflict if they are placed +far apart on the bill. And no two 'quiet' acts may be placed +together. The tempo of the show must be maintained--and because +tragic playlets, and even serious playlets, are suspected of +'slowing up a show,' they are not booked unless very exceptional." + +These are but a few of the many sides of the problem of what is +called "laying out a show." A command of the art of balancing a +show is a part of the genius of a great showman. It is a gift. +It cannot be analyzed. A born showman lays out his bill, not by +rule, but by feeling. + +3. The Writer's Part in a Vaudeville Show + +In preparing the raw material from which the manager makes up his +show, the writer may play many parts. He may bear much of the +burden of entertainment, as in a playlet, or none of the responsibility, +as in the average dumb act. And yet, he may write the pantomimic +story that pleases the audience most. Indeed, the writer may be +everything in a vaudeville show, and always his part is an important +one. + +Of course the trained seals do not need a dramatist to lend them +interest, nor does the acrobat need his skill; but without the +writer what would the actress be, and without the song-smith, what +would the singer sing? And even the animal trainer may utilize +the writer to concoct his "line of talk." The monologist, who of +all performers seems the most independent of the author, buys his +merriest stories, his most up-to-the-instant jests, ready-made +from the writer who works like a marionette's master pulling the +strings. The two-act, which sometimes seems like a funny impromptu +fight, is the result of the writer's careful thinking. The +flirtatious couple who stroll out on the stage to make everyone +in the audience envious, woo Cupid through the brain of their +author. And the musical comedy, with its strong combination of +nearly everything; is but the embodied flight of the writer's +fancy. In fact, the writer supplies much of the life-blood of a +vaudeville show. Without him modern vaudeville could not live. + +Thus, much of the present wide popularity of vaudeville is due to +the writer. It is largely owing to the addition of his thoughts +that vaudeville stands to-day as a greater influence--because it +has a wider appeal--than the legitimate drama in the make-believe +life of the land. Even the motion pictures, which are nearer the +eyes of the masses, are not nearer their hearts. Vaudeville was +the first to foster motion pictures and vaudeville still accords +the motion picture the place it deserves on its bills. For +vaudeville is the amusement weekly of the world--it gathers and +presents each week the best the world affords in entertainment. +And much of the best comes from the writer's brain. + +Because mechanical novelties that are vaudeville-worth-while are +rare, and because acrobats and animal trainers are of necessity +limited by the frailties of the flesh, and for the reason that +dancers cannot forever present new steps, it remains for the writer +to bring to vaudeville the never-ceasing novelty of his thoughts. +New songs, new ideas, new stories, new dreams are what vaudeville +demands from the writer. Laughter that lightens the weary day is +what is asked for most. + +It is in the fulfilling of vaudeville's fine mission that writers +all over the world are turning out their best. And because the +mission of vaudeville is fine, the writing of anything that is not +fine is contemptible. The author who tries to turn his talents +to base uses--putting an untrue emphasis on life's false values, +picturing situations that are not wholesome, using words that are +not clean--deserves the fate of failure that awaits him. As E. +F. Albee, who for years has been a controlling force in vaudeville, +wrote: [1] "We have no trouble in keeping vaudeville clean and +wholesome, unless it is with some act that is just entering, for +the majority of the performers are jealous of the respectable name +that vaudeville has to-day, and cry out themselves against +besmirchment by others." + +[1] "The Future of the Show Business," by E. F. Albee, in The +Billboard for December 19, 1914. + +Reality and truth are for what the vaudeville writer strives. The +clean, the fine, the wholesome is his goal. He finds in the many +theatres all over the land a countless audience eager to hear what +he has to say. And millions are invested to help him say it well. + +CHAPTER II + +SHOULD YOU TRY TO WRITE FOR VAUDEVILLE? + + +"I became a writer," George Bernard Shaw once said, "because I +wanted to get a living without working for it--I have since realized +my mistake." Anyone who thinks that by writing for vaudeville he +can get a living without working for it is doomed to a sad and +speedy awakening. + +If I were called upon to give a formula for the creation of a +successful vaudeville writer, I would specify: The dramatic genius +of a Shakespere, the diplomatic craftiness of a Machiavelli, the +explosive energy of a Roosevelt, and the genius-for-long-hours of +an Edison: mix in equal proportions, add a dash of Shaw's impudence, +all the patience of Job, and keep boiling for a lifetime over the +seething ambition of Napoleon. + +In other--and less extreme--words, if you contemplate writing for +vaudeville for your bread and butter, you must bring to the business, +if not genius, at least the ability to think, and if not boundless +energy, at any rate a determination never to rest content with the +working hours of the ordinary professions. + +If you suppose that the mere reading of this book is going to make +you able to think, permit me gently to disillusion you; and if you +are imbued with the flattering faith that after studying these +chapters you will suddenly be able to sit down and write a successful +playlet, monologue, two-act, musical comedy libretto, or even a +good little "gag," in the words of classic vaudeville--forget it! +All this book can do for you--all any instruction can do--is to +show you the right path, show precisely _how_ others have successfully +essayed it, and wish you luck. Do you remember the brave lines +of W. E. Henley, the blind English poet: + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + +And again in the same poem, "Invictus": + +I am the master of my fate: + I am the captain of my soul. + +There sings the spirit that will carry a writer to success in +vaudeville or in any other line of writing; and it is this inspired +attitude you should assume toward the present book of instruction. + +These chapters, carefully designed and painstakingly arranged, +contain information and suggestions which, if studied and applied +by the right person, will help him to a mastery of vaudeville +writing. But they should be viewed not as laying down rules, only +as being suggestive. This book cannot teach you how to write--with +its aid you may be able to teach yourself. + +Are you the sort of person likely to make a success of writing for +vaudeville? You, alone, can determine. But the following discussion +of some of the elements of equipment which anyone purposing to +write for vaudeville should possess, may help you find the answer. + +1. Experience in Other Forms of Writing Valuable + +Let us suppose that you have been engaged in writing for a newspaper +for years. You started as a reporter and because of your unusual +ability in the handling of political news have made politics your +specialty. You have been doing nothing but politics until politics +seems to be all you know. Suddenly the sporting editor falls ill, +and at the moment there is no one to take his place but you. Your +assistant takes over your work and you are instructed to turn out +a daily page of sporting news. + +If you knew nothing at all about writing you would find the task +nearly impossible to accomplish. But you do know how to write and +therefore the mere writing does not worry you. And your experience +as a special writer on politics has taught you that there are +certain points all special newspaper work has in common and you +apply your knowledge to the task before you. + +Still you are seriously handicapped for a time because you have +been thinking in terms of politics. But soon, by turning all your +energy and ability upon your new subject, you learn to think in +terms of sport. And, if you are a better thinker and a better +writer than the old sporting editor, it won't be long before you +turn out a better sporting page than he did. If you were the owner +of the newspaper, which, in the emergency, would you choose to be +your sporting editor: the untried man who has never demonstrated +his ability to write, the reporter who has no knowledge of special +writing, or the trained writer who has mastered one specialty and, +it may reasonably be supposed, will master another quickly? The +same care you would exercise in choosing another man to work for +you, you should exercise in choosing your own work for yourself. + +Do you know how to write? Do you write with ease and find pleasure +in the work? If you do, class yourself with the reporter. + +What success have you had in writing fiction? Have you written +successful novels or short-stories? If you have, class yourself +with the special writer. Did you ever write a play? Was your +full-evening play accepted and successful? If you have written a +play and if your play was a success, class yourself with the +sporting editor himself--but as one who has made a success in only +one specialty in the realm of sport. + +For, those who have had some success in other forms of writing--even +the successful playwright--and those who never have written even +a salable joke, all have to learn the slightly different form of +the vaudeville act. + +But, having once learned the form and become perfectly familiar +with vaudeville's peculiar requirements, the dramatist and the +trained fiction writer will outstrip the untrained novice. Remember +that the tortoise was determined, persistent, and energetic. + +2. Ability to Think in Drama and Technical Knowledge of the Stage +Required + +The dramatist and the trained fiction writer possess imagination, +they think in plots, they have learned how to picture vivid, +dramatic incidents, and they know a story when it comes up and +taps them on the shoulder. Furthermore, they know where to look +for ideas, and how to twist them to plot uses. In every one of +these points of special knowledge both the dramatist and the trained +fiction writer have the advantage over the untrained novice, for +the essence of all vaudeville writing lies in plot--which is +story--arrangement. + +But there is a wide difference between being able to think in a +story-plot and in drama, and in this the playwright who has produced +a full-evening play has the advantage over even the trained fiction +writer when it comes to applying his dramatic knowledge to vaudeville. +Precisely what the difference is, and what drama itself is--especially +that angle of the art to be found in vaudeville--will be taken up +and explained as clearly as the ideas admit of explanation, in the +following pages. But not on one page, nor even in a whole chapter, +will the definition of drama be found, for pulsating life cannot +be bound by words. However, by applying the rules and heeding the +suggestions herein contained, you will be able to understand the +"why" of the drama that you feel when you witness it upon the +stage. The ability to think in drama means being able to see drama +and bring it fresh and new and gripping to the stage. + +Of course drama is nothing more than story presented by a different +method than that employed in the short-story and the novel. Yet +the difference in methods is as great as the difference between +painting and sculpture. Indeed the novel-writer's methods have +always seemed to me analogous to those employed by the painter, +and the dramatist's methods similar to those used by the sculptor. +And I have marvelled at the nonchalant way in which the fiction +writer often rushes into the writing of a play, when a painter +would never think of trying to "sculpt" until he had learned at +least some of the very different processes employed in the strange +art-form of sculpture. The radical difference between writing and +playwrighting [1] has never been popularly understood, but some +day it will be comprehended by everybody as clearly as by those +whose business it is to make plays. + +[1] Note the termination of the word _playwright_. A "wright" is +a workman in some mechanical business. Webster's dictionary says: +"Wright is used chiefly in compounds, as, figuratively, playwright." +It is significant that the playwright is compelled to rely for +nearly all his effects upon purely mechanical means. + +An intimate knowledge of the stage itself is necessary for success +in the writing of plays. The dramatist must know precisely what +means, such as scenery, sound-effects, and lights--the hundred +contributing elements of a purely mechanical nature at his command-- +he can employ to construct his play to mimic reality. In the +present commercial position of the stage such knowledge is +absolutely necessary, or the writer may construct an act that +cannot possibly win a production, because he has made use of +scenes that are financially out of the question, even if they are +artistically possible. + +This is a fundamental knowledge that every person who would write +for the stage must possess. It ranks with the "a b c" course in +the old common school education, and yet nearly every novice +overlooks it in striving after the laurel wreaths of dramatic +success that are impossible without it. And, precisely in the +degree that stage scenery is different from nature's scenes, is +the way people must talk upon the stage different from the way +they talk on the street. The method of stage speech--_what_ is +said, not _how_ it is said--is best expressed in the definition +of all art, which is summed up in the one word "suppression." Not +what to put in, but what to leave out, is the knowledge the +playwright--in common with all other artists--must possess. The +difference in methods between writing a novel and writing a play +lies in the difference in the scenes and speeches that must be +left out, as well as in the descriptions of scenery and moods of +character that everyone knows cannot be expressed in a play by +words. + +Furthermore, the playwright is working with _spoken_, not _written_, +words, therefore he must know something about the art of acting, +if he would achieve the highest success. He must know not only +how the words he writes will sound when they are spoken, but he +must also know how he can make gestures and glances take the place +of the volumes they can be made to speak. + +Therefore of each one of the different arts that are fused into +the composite art of the stage, the playwright must have intimate +knowledge. Prove the truth of this statement for yourself by +selecting at random any play you have liked and inquiring into the +technical education of its author. The chances are scores to one +that the person who wrote that play has been closely connected +with the stage for years. Either he was an actor, a theatrical +press agent, a newspaper man, a professional play-reader for some +producer, or gained special knowledge of the stage through a +dramatic course at college or by continual attendance at the theatre +and behind the scenes. It is only by acquiring _special_ knowledge +of one of the most difficult of arts that anyone may hope to achieve +success. + +3. A Familiar Knowledge of Vaudeville and its Special Stage Necessary + +It is strange but true that a writer able to produce a successful +vaudeville playlet often writes a successful full-evening play, +but that only in rare instances do full-evening dramatists produce +successful vaudeville playlets. Clyde Fitch wrote more than +fifty-four long plays in twenty years, and yet his "Frederic +Lemaitre," used by Henry Miller in vaudeville, was not a true +vaudeville playlet--merely a short play--and achieved its success +simply because Fitch wrote it and Miller played it with consummate +art. + +The vaudeville playlet and the play that is merely short, are +separate art forms, they are precisely and as distinctly different +as the short-story and the story that is merely short. It is only +within the last few years that Brander Matthews drew attention to +the artistic isolation of the short-story; and J. Berg Esenwein, +in his very valuable work [1], established the truth so that all +might read and know it. For years I have contended for the +recognition of the playlet as an art form distinct from the play +that is short. + +[1] Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, published uniform +with this volume, in, "The Writer's Library." + +And what is true of the peculiar difference of the playlet form +is, in a lesser measure, true of the monologue, the two-act, and +the one-act musical comedy. They are all different from their +sisters and brothers that are found as integral parts of full-evening +entertainments. + +To recognize these forms as distinct, to learn what material [2] +best lends itself to them and how it may be turned into the most +natural and efficient form, requires a special training different +from that necessary for the writing of plays for the legitimate +stage. + +[2] The word _material_ in vaudeville means manuscript material. +To write vaudeville material is to write monologues and playlets +and the other forms of stage speech used in vaudeville acts. + +But not only is there a vast difference between the material and +the art forms of the legitimate and the vaudeville stage, there +is also a great difference in their playing stages. The arrangements +of the vaudeville stage, its lights and scenery, are all unique, +as are even the playing spaces and mechanical equipment. + +Therefore the author must know the mechanical aids peculiar to his +special craft, as well as possess a familiar knowledge of the +material that vaudeville welcomes and the unique forms into which +that material must be cast. + +4. What Chance Has the Beginner? + +The "gentle reader" who has read thus far certainly has not been +deterred by the emphasis--not undue emphasis, by the way--placed +on the value of proved ability in other forms of writing to one +who would write for vaudeville. That he has not been discouraged +by what has been said--if he is a novice--proves that he is not +easily downcast. If he has been discouraged--even if he has read +this far simply from curiosity--proves that he is precisely the +person who should not waste his time trying to write for vaudeville. +Such a person is one who ought to ponder his lack of fitness for +the work in hand and turn all his energies into his own business. +Many a good clerk, it has been truly said, has been wasted in a +poor writer. + +But, while emphasis has been laid upon the value of training in +other forms of literary work, the emphasis has been placed not on +purely literary skill, but on the possession of ideas and the +training necessary to turn the ideas to account. It is "up to" +the ambitious beginner, therefore, to analyze the problem for +himself and to decide if he possesses the peculiar qualifications +that can by great energy and this special training place him upon +a par with the write who has made a success in other forms of +literary work. For there is a sense in which no literary training +is really necessary for success in vaudeville writing. + +If the amateur has an imaginative mind, the innate ability to see +and turn to his own uses an interesting and coherent story, and +is possessed of the ability to think in drama, and, above all, has +the gift of humor, he can write good vaudeville material, even if +he has not education or ability to write an acceptable poem, article +or short-story. In other words, a mastery of English prose or +verse is not necessary for success in vaudeville writing. Some +of the most successful popular songs, the most successful playlets, +and other vaudeville acts, have been written by men unable to write +even a good letter. + +But the constant advancement in excellence demanded of vaudeville +material, both by the managers and the public, is gradually making +it profitable for only the best-educated, specially-trained writers +to undertake this form of work. The old, illiterate, rough-and-ready +writer is passing, in a day when the "coon shouter" has given the +headline-place to Calve and Melba, and every dramatic star has +followed Sarah Bernhardt into the "two-a-day." [1] + +[1] The _two-a-day_ is stage argot for vaudeville. It comes from +the number of performances the actor "does," for in vaudeville +there are two shows every day, six or seven days a week. + +Nevertheless, in this sense the novice needs no literary training. +If he can see drama in real life and feels how it can be turned +into a coherent, satisfying story, he can learn how to apply that +story to the peculiar requirements of vaudeville. But no amount +of instruction can supply this inborn ability. The writer himself +must be the master of his fate, the captain of his own dramatic +soul. + +CHAPTER III + +THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS + + +To achieve success in any art the artist must know his tools and +for what purposes they are designed. Furthermore, to achieve the +highest success, he must know what he cannot do as well as what +he can do with them. + +The vaudeville stage--considered as a material thing--lends itself +to only a few definite possibilities of use, and its scenery, +lights and stage-effects constitute the box of tools the vaudeville +writer has at his command. + + +I. THE PHYSICAL PROPORTIONS OF THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE + +The footlights are the equator of the theatre, separating the +"front of the house," or auditorium, from the "back of the house," +or stage. The frame through which the audience views the stage +is the "proscenium arch." Flat against the stage side of the arch +run the "house curtain" and the asbestos curtain that are raised +at the beginning and lowered at the end of the performance. + +That portion of the stage which lies between the curving footlights +and a line drawn between the bases of the proscenium arch is called +the "apron." The apron is very wide in old-fashioned theatres, +but is seldom more than two or three feet wide in recently built +houses. + +1. One + +Back of the proscenium arch--four feet or more behind it--you have +noticed canvas-covered wings painted in neutral-toned draperies +to harmonize with every sort of curtain, and you have noticed that +they are pushed forward or drawn back as it is found necessary to +widen or make narrow the stage opening. These first wings, called +"tormentors," [1] extend upward from the floor--anywhere from +18 to 25 feet,--to the "Grand Drapery" and "Working Drapery," or +first "border," which extend and hang just in front of them across +the stage and hide the stage-rigging from the audience. The space +lying between the tormentors and a line drawn between the bases +of the proscenium arch is called "One." + +[1] No one of the score I have asked for the origin of the word +_tormentor_ has been able to give it. They all say they have asked +old-time stage-carpenters, but even they did not know. + +It is in One that monologues, most "single acts"--that is, acts +presented by one person--and many "two-acts"--acts requiring but +two people--are played. + +Behind the tormentors is a curtain called the "olio," which +fulfills the triple purpose of hiding the rest of the stage, serving +as scenery for acts in One and often as a curtain to raise and +lower on acts playing in the space back of One. + +2. Two + +Five, or six, or even seven feet behind the tormentors you have +noticed another set of wings which--extending parallel with the +tormentors--serve to mask the rest of stage. The space between +these wings and the line of the olio is called "Two." + +In Two, acts such as flirtation-acts--a man and a woman playing +lover-like scenes--which use scenery or small "props," and all +other turns requiring but a small playing space, are staged. + +3. Three + +An equal number of feet back of the wings that bound Two, are wings +that serve as boundaries for "Three." + +In Three, playlets that require but shallow sets, and other acts +that need not more than twelve feet for presentation, are played. + +4. Four or Full Stage + +Behind the wings that bound Three are another pair of wings, set +an equal number of feet back, which serve as the boundaries of +"Four." But, as there are rarely more than four entrances on any +stage, Four is usually called "Full Stage." + +In Full Stage are presented all acts such as acrobatic acts, animal +turns, musical comedies, playlets and other pretentious acts that +require deep sets and a wide playing space. + +5. Bare Stage + +Sometimes the very point of a playlet depends upon showing not the +conventional stage, as it is commonly seen, but the real stage as +it is, unset with scenery; therefore sometimes the entire stage +is used as the playing stage, and then in the vernacular it is +called "Bare Stage." [1] + +[1] The New Leader, written by Aaron Hoffman and played for so +many years by Sam Mann & Company, is an excellent example of a +Bare Stage act. + +On the opposite page is a diagram of the stage of Keith's Palace +Theatre, New York City. A comparison of the preceding definitions +with this diagram should give a clear understanding of the vaudeville +playing stage. + +II. THE WORKING DEPARTMENTS OF THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE + +At audience-right--or stage-left--flat against the extended wall +of the proscenium arch in the First Entrance (to One) there is +usually a signal-board equipped with push buttons presided over +by the stage-manager. The stage-manager is the autocrat behind +the scenes. His duty is to see that the program is run smoothly +without the slightest hitch or wait between acts and to raise and +lower the olio, or to signal the act-curtain up or down, on +cues. [2] + +[2] A _cue_ is a certain word or action regarded as the signal for +some other speech or action by another actor, or the signal for +the lights to change or a bell to ring or something to happen +during the course of a dramatic entertainment. + + [diagram] + +STAGE-DIAGRAM OF THE PALACE THEATRE, NEW YORK + +The author wishes to express his thanks to Mr. Elmer F. Rogers, +house-manager, and Mr. William Clark, stage-manager, respectively, +of the Palace Theatre, for the careful measurements from which +this diagram was drawn. + +When an act is ready to begin, the stage-manager pushes a button +to signal the olio up or raises it himself--if, that drop [1] is +worked from the stage--and on the last cue he pushes another button +to signal the curtain down, or lowers it himself, as the case may +be. He keeps time on the various acts and sees that the performers +are ready when their turn arrives. Under the stage-manager are +the various departments to which the working of scenery and effects +are entrusted. + +[1] A _drop_ is the general name for a curtain of canvas--painted +to represent some scene and stretched on a batten--a long, thick +strip of wood--pocketed in the lower end to give the canvas the +required stability. _Sets of lines_ are tied to the upper batten +on which the drop is tied and thus the drop can be raised or lowered +to its place on the stage. There are sets of lines in the rear +boundaries of One, Two, Three and Four, and drops can be _hung_ +on any desired set. + +1. The Stage-Carpenter and His Flymen and Grips + +As a rule the stage-manager is also the stage-carpenter. As such +he, the wizard of scenery, has charge of the men, and is able to +erect a palace, construct a tenement, raise a garden or a forest, +or supply you with a city street in an instant. + +Up on the wall of the stage, just under a network of iron called +the "gridiron"--on which there are innumerable pulleys through +which run ropes or "lines" that carry the scenery--there is, in +the older houses, a balcony called the "fly-gallery." Into the +fly-gallery run the ends of all the lines that are attached to the +counter-weighted drops and curtains; and in the gallery are the +flymen who pull madly on these ropes to lift or lower the curtains +and drops when the signal flashes under the finger of the stage-manager +at the signal-board below. But in the newer houses nearly all +drops and scenery are worked from the stage level, and the +fly-gallery--if there is one--is deserted. When a "set" is to be +made, the stage-carpenter takes his place in the centre of the +stage and claps his hands a certain number of times to make his +men understand which particular set is wanted--if the sequence of +the sets has not yet been determined and written down for the +flymen to follow in definite order. Then the flymen lower a drop +to its place on the stage and the "grips" push out the "flats" +that make the wall of a room or the wings that form the scenery +of a forest--or whatever the set may be. + +2. The Property-Man and His Assistants + +Into the mimic room that the grips are setting comes the +Property-man--"Props," in stage argot--with his assistants, who +place in the designated positions the furniture, bric-a-brac, +pianos, and other properties, that the story enacted in this room +demands. + +After the act has been presented and the curtain has been rung +down, the order to "strike" is given and the clearers run in and +take away all the furniture and properties, while the property-man +substitutes the new furniture and properties that are needed. +This is done at the same time the grips and fly men are changing +the scenery. No regiment is better trained in its duties. The +property-man of the average vaudeville theatre is a hard-worked +chap. Beside being an expert in properties, he must be something +of an actor, for if there is an "extra man" needed in a playlet +with a line or two to speak, it is on him that the duty falls. +He must be ready on the instant with all sorts of effects, such +as glass-crashes and wood-crashes, when a noise like a man being +thrown downstairs or through a window is required, or if a doorbell +or a telephone-bell must ring at a certain instant on a certain +cue, or the noise of thunder, the wash of the sea on the shore, +or any one of a hundred other effects be desired. + +3. The Electrician + +Upon the electrician fall all the duties of Jove in the delicate +matter of making the sun to shine or the moon to cast its pale +rays over a lover's scene. Next to the stage-manager's signal-board, +or in a gallery right over it, or perhaps on the other side of the +stage, stands the electric switch-board. From here all the stage +lights and the lights in the auditorium and all over the front of +the house are operated. + +From the footlights with their red and white and blue and vari-tinted +bulbs, to the borders that light the scenery from above, the +bunch-lights that shed required lights through windows, the +grate-logs, the lamps and chandeliers that light the mimic rooms +themselves, and the spot-light operated by the man in the haven +of the gallery gods out front, all are under the direction of the +electrician who sits up in his little gallery and makes the moonlight +suddenly give place to blazing sunlight on a cue. + +It is to the stage-manager and the stage-carpenter, the property-man +and the electrician, that are due the working of the stage miracles +that delight us in the theatres. + +III. THE SCENERY OF THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE + +In the ancient days before even candles were invented--the rush-light +days of Shakespere and his predecessors--plays were presented in +open court-yards or, as in France, in tennis-courts in the broad +daylight. A proscenium arch was all the scenery usually thought +necessary in these outdoor performances, and when the plays were +given indoors even the most realistic scenery would have been of +little value in the rush-lit semi-darkness. Then, indeed, the +play was the thing. A character walked into the STORY and out of +it again; and "place" was left to the imagination of the audience, +aided by the changing of a sign that stated where the story had +chosen to move itself. + +As the centuries rolled along, improvements in lighting methods +made indoor theatrical presentations more common and brought scenery +into effective use. The invention of the kerosene lamp and later +the invention of gas brought enough light upon the stage to permit +the actor to step back from the footlights into a wider working-space +set with the rooms and streets of real life. Then with the electric +light came the scenic revolution that emancipated the stage forever +from enforced gloomy darkness, permitted the actor's expressive +face to be seen farther back from the footlights, and made of the +proscenium arch the frame of a picture. + +"It is for this picture-frame stage that every dramatist is composing +his plays," Brander Matthews says; "and his methods are of necessity +those of the picture-frame stage; just as the methods of the +Elizabethan dramatic poet were of necessity those of the platform +stage." And on the same page: The influence of the realistic +movement of the middle of the nineteenth century imposed on the +stage-manager the duty of making every scene characteristic of the +period and of the people, and of relating the characters closely +to their environment." [1] + +[1] The Study of the Drama, Brander Matthews. + +On the vaudeville stage to-day, when all the sciences and the arts +have come to the aid of the drama, there is no period nor place, +nor even a feeling of atmosphere, that cannot be reproduced with +amazing truth and beauty of effect. Everything in the way of +scenery is artistically possible, from the squalid room of the +tenement-dweller to the blossoming garden before the palace of a +king--but artistic possibility and financial advisability are two +very different things. + +If an act is designed to win success by spectacular appeal, there +is no doubt that it is good business for the producer to spend as +much money as is necessary to make his effects more beautiful and +more amazing than anything ever before seen upon the stage. But +even here he must hold his expenses down to the minimum that will +prove a good investment, and what he may spend is dependent on +what the vaudeville managers will pay for the privilege of showing +that act in their houses. + +But it is not worth spectacular acts that the vaudeville writer +has particularly to deal. His problem is not compounded of +extravagant scenery, gorgeous properties, trick-scenes and +light-effects. Like Shakespere, for him the play--the story--is +the thing. The problem he faces is an embarrassment of riches. +With everything artistically possible, what is financially advisable? + + +1. The Successful Writer's Attitude toward Scenery + +The highest praise a vaudevillian can conjure up out of his vast +reservoir of enthusiastic adjectives to apply to any act is, "It +can be played in the alley and knock 'em cold." In plain English +he means, the STORY is so good that it doesn't require scenery. + +Scenery, in the business of vaudeville--please note the word +"business"--has no artistic meaning. If the owner of a dwelling +house could rent his property with the rooms unpapered and the +woodwork unpainted, he would gladly do so and pocket the saving, +wouldn't he? In precisely the same spirit the vaudeville-act owner +would sell his act without going to the expense of buying and +transporting scenery, if he could get the same price for it. To +the vaudevillian scenery is a business investment. + +Because he can get more money for his act if it is properly mounted +in a pleasing picture, the vaudeville producer invests in scenery. +But he has to figure closely, just as every other business man is +compelled to scheme and contrive in dollars and cents, or the +business asset of scenery will turn into a white elephant and eat +up all his profits. + +Jesse L. Lasky, whose many pleasing musical acts will be remembered, +had many a near-failure at the beginning of his vaudeville-producing +career because of his artistic leaning toward the beautiful in +stage setting. His subsequent successes were no less pleasing +because he learned the magic of the scenery mystery. Lasky is but +one example, and were it not that the names of vaudeville acts are +but fleeting memories, dimmed and eclipsed by the crowded impressions +of many acts seen at one sitting, there might be given an amazing +list of beautiful little entertainments that have failed because +of the transportation cost of the scenery they required. + +When a producer is approached with a request to read a vaudeville +act he invariably asks, "What scenery?" His problem is in two +parts: + +1. He must decide whether the merits of the act, itself, justify +him in investing his money in scenery on the gamble that the act +will be a success. + +2. If the act proves a success, can the scenery be transported +from town to town at so low a cost that the added price he can get +for the act will allow a gross profit large enough to repay the +original cost of the scenery and leave a net profit? + +An experience of my own in producing a very small act--small enough +to be in the primary class--may be as amusing as it is typical. +My partners and I decided to put out a quartet. We engaged four +good singers, two of them men, and two women. I wrote the little +story that introduced them in a humorous way and we set to work +rehearsing. At the same time the scenic artist hung three nice +big canvases on his paint frames and laid out a charming street-scene +in the Italian Quarter of Anywhere, the interior of a squalid +tenement and the throne room of a palace. + +The first drop was designed to be hung behind the Olio--for the +act opened in One--and when the Olio went up, after the act's name +was hung out, the lights dimmed to the blue and soft green of +evening in the Quarter. Then the soprano commenced singing, the +tenor took up the duet, and they opened the act by walking +rhythmically with the popular ballad air to stage-centre in the +amber of the spot-light. When the duet was finished, on came the +baritone, and then the contralto, and there was a little comedy +before they sang their first quartet number. + +Then the first drop was lifted in darkness and the scene changed +to the interior of the squalid tenement in which the pathos of the +little story unfolded, and a characteristic song was sung. At +length the scene changed to the throne room of the palace, where +the plot resolved itself into happiness and the little opera closed +with the "Quartet from Rigoletto." + +The act was a success; it never received less than five bows and +always took two encores. But we paid three hundred and fifty +dollars for those miracles of drops, my partners and I, and we +used them only one week. + +In the first place, the drops were too big for the stage on which +we "tried out" the act. We could not use them there and played +before the house street-drop and in the house palace set. The act +went very well. We shipped the drops at length-rates--as all +scenery is charged for by expressmen and railroads--to the next +town. There we used them and the act went better. It was a +question whether the bigger success was due to the smoother working +of the act or to the beautiful drops. + +The price for which the act was playing at that breaking-in period +led me to ponder the cost of transporting the drops in their +rolled-up form on the battens. Therefore when I was informed that +the stage in the next town was a small one, I had a bright idea. +I ordered the stage-carpenter to take the drops from their battens, +discard the battens, and put pockets on the lower ends of the drops +and equip the upper ends with tie ropes so the drops could be tied +on the battens used in the various houses. The drops would then +fit small or large stages equally well and could be folded up into +a small enough space to tuck in a trunk and save all the excess +transportation charges. + +Of course the drops folded up all right, but they unfolded in chips +of scaled-off paint. In the excitement, or the desire to "take a +chance," I had not given a thought to the plain fact that the drops +were not aniline. They were doomed to chip in time anyway, and +folding only hastened their end. Still, we received just as much +money for the act all the time we were playing it, as though we +had carried the beautiful drops. + +Now comes the third lesson of this incident: Although we were +precisely three hundred and sixty-eight dollars "out" on account +of the drops, we really saved money in the end because we were +forced to discard them. The local union of the International +Association of Theatrical Stage Employees--Stage Hands' Union, +for short--tried to assess me in the town where we first used the +drops, for the salary of a stage-carpenter. According to their +then iron-clad rule, before which managers had to bow, the scenery +of every act carrying as many as three drops on battens had to be +hung and taken down by the act's own stage-carpenter--at forty +dollars a week. They could not collect from such an act today +because the rules have been changed, but our act was liable, under +the old rules, and I evaded it only by diplomacy. But even to-day +every act that carries a full set of scenery--such as a playlet +requiring a special set--must carry its own stage-carpenter. + +Therefore, to the problem of original cost and transportation +expense, now add the charge of forty dollars a week against +scenery--and an average of five dollars a week extra railroad fare +for the stage-carpenter--and you begin to perceive why a vaudeville +producer asks, when you request him to read an act: "What scenery?" + +There is no intention of decrying the use of special scenery in +vaudeville. Some of the very best and most profitable acts, even +aside from great scenic one-act dramas like "The System," [1] would +be comparatively valueless without their individual sets. And +furthermore the use of scenery, with the far-reaching possibilities +of the special set in all its beauty and--on this side of the +water--hitherto unrealized effectiveness, has not yet even approached +its noon. Together with the ceaseless advance of the art of +mounting a full-evening play on the legitimate stage [2] will go +the no less artistic vaudeville act. But, for the writer anxious +to make a success of vaudeville writing, the special set should +be decried. Indeed, the special set ought not to enter into the +writer's problem at all. + +[1] See Appendix. [2] The Theatre of To-Day, Hiram Kelly Moderwell's +book on the modem theatre, will repay reading by anyone particularly +interested in the special set and its possibilities. + +No scenery can make up for weakness of story. Rather, like a paste +diamond in an exquisitely chased, pure gold setting, the paste +story will appear at greater disadvantage: because of the very +beauty of its surroundings. The writer should make his story so +fine that it will sparkle brilliantly in any setting. + +The only thought that successful vaudeville writers give to scenery +is to indicate in their manuscripts the surroundings that "relate +the characters closely to their environment." + +It requires no ability to imagine startling and beautiful scenic +effects that cost a lot of money to produce--that is no "trick." +The vaudeville scenery magic lies in making use of simple scenes +that can be carried at little cost--or, better still for the new +writer, in twisting the combinations of drops and sets to be found +in every vaudeville house to new uses. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND IN VAUDEVILLE THEATRES + + +1. The Olio + +In every vaudeville theatre there is an Olio and, although the +scene which it is designed to represent may be different in each +house, the street Olio is common enough to be counted as universally +used. Usually there are two drops in "One," either of which may +be the Olio, and one of them is likely to represent a street, while +the other is pretty sure to be a palace scene. + +2. Open Sets + +Usually in Four--and sometimes in Three--there are to be found in +nearly every vaudeville theatre two different drops, which with +their matching wings [1] form the two common "open sets"--or scenes +composed merely of a rear drop and side wings, and not boxed in. + +[1] A _wing_ is a double frame of wood covered with painted canvas +and set to stand as this book will when its covers are opened at +right angles to each other. + +_The Wood Set_ consists of a drop painted to represent the interior +of a wood or forest, with wings painted in the same style. It is +used for knock-about acts, clown acts, bicycle acts, animal turns +and other acts that require a deep stage and can play in this sort +of scene. + +_The Palace Set_, with its drop and wings, is painted to represent +the interior of a palace. It is used for dancing acts, acrobats +and other acts that require a deep stage and can appropriately +play in a palace scene. + +3. The Box Sets + +A "box set" is, as the name implies, a set of scenery that is +box-shaped. It represents a room seen through the fourth wall, +which has been removed. Sometimes with a, ceiling-piece, but +almost invariably with "borders"--which are painted canvas strips +hanging in front of the "border-lights" to mask them and keep the +audience from seeing the ropes and pulleys hanging from the +gridiron--the box set more nearly mimics reality than the open +set, which calls upon the imagination of the audience to supply +the realities that are entirely lacking or only hinted at. + +The painted canvas units which are assembled to make the box set +are called "flats." A flat is a wooden frame about six feet six +inches wide and from twelve to eighteen feet long, covered with +canvas and, of course, painted with any scene desired. It differs +from a wing in being only one-half the double frame; therefore it +cannot stand alone. + +Upon the upper end of each flat along the unpainted outer edge +there is fastened a rope as long as the flat. Two-thirds of the +way up from the bottom of the corresponding edge of the matching +flat there is a "cleat," or metal strip, into which the rope, or +"lash-line" is snapped. The two flats are then drawn tight together +so that their edges match evenly and the lash-line is lashed through +the framework to hold the flats firmly together. + +While one flat may be a painted wall, the next may contain a doorway +and door, another a part of an ornamental arch, and still another +a window, so, when the various flats are assembled and set, the +box set will have the appearance of a room containing doors and +windows and even ornamental arches. The most varied scenes can +thus be realistically set up. + +In the rear of open doors there are usually wings, or perhaps +flats, [1] painted to represent the walls of hallways and adjoining +rooms and they are called "interior backings." Behind a door +supposed to open out into the street or behind windows overlooking +the country, there are hung, or set, short drops or wings painted +to show parts of a street, a garden, or a country-side, and these +are called "exterior backings." + +[1] When flats are used as backings they are made stable by the +use of the _stage-brace_, a device made of wood and capable of +extension, after the manner of the legs of a camera tripod. It +is fitted with double metal hooks on one end to hook into the +wooden cross-bar on the back of the flat and with metal eyes on +the other end through which _stage-screws_ are inserted and screwed +into the floor of the stage. + +_The Centre-door Fancy_ is the most common of the box sets. Called +"fancy," because it has an arch with portieres and a rich-looking +backing, and because it is supposed to lead into the other palatial +rooms of the house, this set can be used for a less pretentious +scene by the substitution of a matched door for the arch. + +In this plainer form it is called simply _The Parlor Set_. Sometimes +a parlor set is equipped with a French window, but this should not +be counted on. But there are usually a grate and mantelpiece, and +three doors. The doors are designed to be set, one in the rear +wall, and one in each of the right and left walls. A ceiling-piece +is rarely found, but borders are always to be had, and a chandelier +is customary. + +_The Kitchen Set_ is, as the name implies, less pretentious than +the changeable parlor set. It usually is equipped with three +doors, possesses matching borders, may have an ordinary window, +and often has a fireplace panel. + +Slightly altered in appearance, by changing the positions of the +doors and the not very common substitution of a "half-glass door" +in the rear wall, the kitchen set does duty as _The Office Set_. + +It is in these two box sets--changed in minor details to serve as +four sets--that the vaudeville playlet is played. + +On the following pages will be found eight diagrams showing how +the stock or house box sets can be set in various forms. A study +of these will show how two different acts using the same house set +can be given surroundings that appear absolutely different. These +diagrams should prove of great help to the playlet writer who +wishes to know how many doors he may use, where they are placed +and how his act will fit and play in a regulation set of scenery. + +INTRODUCTION TO DIAGRAMS + +The following diagrams, showing the scenic equipment of the average +vaudeville theatre, have been specially drawn for this volume and +are used here by courtesy of the Lee Lash Studios, New York. As +they are drawn to a scale of one-eighth of an inch to the foot, +the precise size of the various scenes may be calculated. + +The diagrams are based on the average vaudeville stage, which +allows thirty or thirty-two feet between tormentors. The proscenium +arch _may_ be much greater, but the average vaudeville stage will +set the tormentors about thirty feet apart. All vaudeville stage +settings are made back of the tormentor line. + +At the tormentor line there will be, of course, a Grand Drapery +and Working Drapery which will mask the first entrance overhead. + +There will be either a set of borders for each scene, or else the +borders will be painted to use with any scene, to mask the stage +rigging. The borders are usually hung from six to seven feet +apart, so that in planning a scene this should be considered. In +a few of the larger houses, a ceiling-piece is found, but, as has +been said, this is so rare it should not be counted on. + +Most houses have a floor cloth, and medallion or carpet, in addition +to the properties hereafter described. Reference to the diagrams +will show that the tormentors have a "flipper," which runs to the +proscenium arch wall; in the flipper is usually a door or a curtained +opening for the entrances and exits of acts in One. + +If you will combine with the diagrams shown these elements which +cannot be diagrammed, you will have a clear idea of the way in +which any scene is constructed. Then if you will imagine the scene +you have in mind as being set up on a stage like that of the Palace +Theatre, shown in the last chapter, you will have a working +understanding of the vaudeville stage. + +WHAT THE DIAGRAMS INCLUDE + +A well-ordered vaudeville stage, as has been described, possesses +Drops for use in One, one or more Fancy Interiors, a Kitchen Set, +and Exterior Sets. The Drops in One are omitted from these diagrams, +because they would be represented merely by a line drawn behind +the tormentors. + +The Fancy Interiors may include a Light Fancy, a Dark Fancy, an +Oak Interior, and a Plain Chamber set. As the differences are +largely of painting, the usual Centre-door Fancy is taken as the +basis for the variations--five different ways of setting it are +shown. + +Two out of the many different ways of setting the Kitchen Set are +given. + +The Exterior Set allows little or no variation; the only thing +that can be done is to place balustrades, vases, etc., in different +positions on the stage; therefore but one diagram is supplied. + + +DIAGRAM I.--FANCY INTERIOR No. 1 + +Showing the usual method of setting a "Fancy." It may be made +shallower by omitting a wing on either side. + + +DIAGRAM II.--FANCY INTERIOR No. 2 + +The double arch is thrown from the centre to the side, the landscape +drop being used to back the scene--the drop may be seen through +the window on stage-left. The window of the Fancy Interior is +always of the French type, opening full to the floor. + + +DIAGRAM III.--FANCY INTERIOR No. 3 + +This is a deeper and narrower set, approximating more closely a +room in an ordinary house. The double arch at the rear may be +backed with an interior backing or a conservatory backing. If the +interior backing is used, the conservatory backing may be used to +back the single four-foot arch at stage-left. + + +DIAGRAM IV.--FANCY INTERIOR No. 4 + +This shows the double arch flanked by a single arch on each side, +making three large openings looking out on the conservatory drop. + + +DIAGRAM V.--FANCY INTERIOR No. 5 + +The fireplace is here brought into prominence by setting it in a +corner with two "jogs" on each side. The window is backed with a +landscape or garden drop as desired. + + +DIAGRAM VI.--KITCHEN SET No. 1 + +This arrangement of a Kitchen Set makes use of three doors, +emphasizing the double doors in the centre of rear wall, which +open out on an interior backing or a wood or garden drop. In this +and the following setting a small window can be fitted into the +upper half of either of the single doors. + + +DIAGRAM VII.--KITCHEN SET No. 2 + +Two doors only are used in this setting; the double doors, in the +same relative position as in the preceding arrangement, open out +on a wood or landscape backing. The fireplace is brought out on +stage-right. The single door on stage-left opens on an interior +backing. + + +DIAGRAM VIII.--WOOD OR GARDEN SET + +Many theatres have two sets of Exterior wings--one of Wood Wings +and one of Garden Wings. In some houses the Wood Wings are used +with the Garden Drop, set vases and balustrades being used to +produce the garden effect, as shown here. Some theatres also have +a Set House and Set Cottage, which may be placed on either side +of the stage; each has a practical door and a practical window. +With the Set House and Set Tree slight variations of exterior +settings may be contrived. + +4. Properties + +In the argot of the stage the word "property" or "prop" means any +article--aside from scenery--necessary for the proper mounting or +presentation of a play. A property may be a set of furniture, a +rug, a pair of portieres, a picture for the wall, a telephone, a +kitchen range or a stew-pan--indeed, anything a tall that is not +scenery, although serving to complete the effect and illusion of +a scene. + +_Furniture_ is usually of only two kinds in a vaudeville playhouse. +There is a set of parlor furniture to go with the parlor set and +a set of kitchen furniture to furnish the kitchen set. But, while +these are all that are at the immediate command of the property-man, +he is usually permitted to exchange tickets for the theatre with +any dealer willing to lend needed sets of furniture, such as a +desk or other office equipment specially required for the use of +an act. + +In this way the sets of furniture in the property room may be +expanded with temporary additions into combinations of infinite +variety. But, it is wise not to ask for anything out of the +ordinary, for many theatre owners frown upon bills for hauling, +even though the rent of the furniture may be only a pair of seats. + +For the same reason, it is unwise to specify in the property-list-- +which is a printed list of the properties each act requires--anything +in the way of rugs that is unusual. Though some theatres have +more than two kinds of rugs, the white bear rug and the carpet rug +are the most common. It is also unwise to ask for pictures to +hang on the walls. If a picture is required, one is usually +supplied set upon an easel. + +Of course, every theatre is equipped with prop telephones and sets +of dishes and silver for dinner scenes. But there are few vaudeville +houses in the country that have on hand a bed for the stage, +although the sofa is commonly found. + +A buffet, or sideboard, fully equipped with pitchers and wine +glasses, is customary in every vaudeville property room. And +champagne is supplied in advertising bottles which "pop" and sparkle +none the less realistically because the content is merely ginger +ale. + +While the foregoing is not an exhaustive list of what the property +room of a vaudeville theatre may contain, it gives the essential +properties that are commonly found. Thus every ordinary requirement +of the usual vaudeville act can be supplied. + +The special properties that an act may require must be carried by +the act. For instance, if a playlet is laid in an artist's studio +there are all sorts of odds and ends that would lend a realistic +effect to the scene. A painter's easel, bowls of paint brushes, +a palette, half-finished pictures to hang on the walls, oriental +draperies, a model's throne, and half a dozen rugs to spread upon +the floor, would lend an atmosphere of charming bohemian realism. + +_Special Sound-Effects_ fall under the same common-sense rule. +For, while all vaudeville theatres have glass crashes, wood crashes, +slap-sticks, thunder sheets, cocoanut shells for horses' hoof-beats, +and revolvers to be fired off-stage, they could not be expected +to supply such little-called-for effects as realistic battle sounds, +volcanic eruptions, and like effects. + +If an act depends on illusions for its appeal, it will, of course, +be well supplied with the machinery to produce the required sounds. +And those that do not depend on exactness of illusion can usually +secure the effects required by calling on the drummer with his +very effective box-of-tricks to help out the property-man. + +5. The Lighting of the Vaudeville Stage + +At the electrical switchboard centre all the lights of the theatre, +as well as those of the stage itself. Presided over by the +electrician, the switchboard, so far as the stage and its light +effects are concerned, commands two classes of lights. The first +of these is the arc light and the second the electric bulb. + +_The Spot-lights_ are the lamps that depend upon the arc for their +illumination. If you have ever sat in the gallery of any theatre, +and particularly of a vaudeville theatre, you certainly have noticed +the very busy young man whose sole purpose in life appears to be +to follow the heroine around the stage with the focused spot of +light that shines like a halo about her. The lamp with which he +accomplishes this difficult feat is appropriately called a +"spot-light." While there are often spot-lights on the electrician's +"bridge," as his balcony is called, the gallery out front is the +surest place to find the spot-light. + +_The Footlights_ are electric bulbs dyed amber, blue, and red-- +or any other special shade desired--beside the well-known white, +set in a tin trough sunk in the stage and masked to shine only +upon the stage. By causing only one group of colors to light, +the electrician can secure all sorts of variations, and with the +aid of "dimmers" permit the lights to shine brilliantly or merely +to glow with faint radiance. + +_The Border-lights_ are electric bulbs of varying colors set in +tin troughs a little longer than the proscenium opening and are +suspended above the stage behind the scenery borders. They shine +only downward. There are border-lights just in front of the drops +in One, Two, Three and Four, and they take the names of "first +border-light," "second border-light," and so on from the drops +they illuminate. + +_Strip-lights_ are electric bulbs set in short strips of tin +troughs, that are equipped with hooks by which they can be hung +behind doors and out-of-the-way dark places in sets to illuminate +the backings. + +_A Bunch-light_ is a box of tin set on a standard, which can be +moved about the stage the length of its electric cord, and has ten +or twelve electric bulbs inside that cast a brilliant illumination +wherever it is especially desired. Squares of gelatine in metal +frames can be slipped into the grooves in front of the bunch-light +to make the light any color or shade desired. These boxes are +especially valuable in giving the effect of blazing sunlight just +outside the doors or windows of a set, or to shine through the +windows in the soft hue of moonlight. + +_Grate Logs_ are found in nearly every vaudeville house and are +merely iron painted to represent logs of wood, inside of which are +concealed lamps that shine up through red gelatine, simulating the +glow of a wood fire shining in the fireplace under the mantelpiece +usually found in the centre-door-fancy set. + +_Special Light-effects_ have advanced so remarkably with the science +of stage illumination that practically any effect of nature may +be secured. If the producer wishes to show the water rippling on +the river drop there is a "ripple-lamp" at his command, which is +a clock-actuated mechanism that slowly revolves a ripple glass in +front of a "spot-lamp" and casts a realistic effect of water +rippling in the moonlight. + +By these mechanical means, as well as others, the moon or the sun +can be made to shine through a drop and give the effect of rising +or of setting, volcanos can be made to pour forth blazing lava and +a hundred other amazing effects can be obtained. In fact, the +modern vaudeville stage is honeycombed with trapdoors and overhung +with arching light-bridges, through which and from which all manner +of lights can be thrown upon the stage, either to illuminate the +faces of the actors with striking effect, or to cast strange and +beautiful effects upon the scenery. Indeed, there is nothing to +be seen in nature that the electrician cannot reproduce upon the +stage with marvellous fidelity and pleasing effect. + +But the purpose here, as in explaining all the other physical +departments of the vaudeville stage, is not to tell what has been +done and what can be done, interesting and instructive as such a +discussion would be, but to describe what is usually to be found in +a vaudeville theatre. The effects that are at ready command are +the only effects that should interest anyone about to write for +vaudeville. As was emphasized in the discussion of scenery, the +writer should not depend for success on the unusual. His aim +should be to make use of the common stage-effects that are found on +every vaudeville stage--if, indeed, he depends on any effects at all. + +Here, then, we have made the acquaintance of the physical proportions +and aspects of the vaudeville stage and have inquired into all the +departments that contribute to the successful presentation of a +vaudeville entertainment. We have examined the vaudeville writer's +tool-box and have learned to know the uses for which each tool of +space, scenery, property, and light is specially designed. And +by learning what these tools can do, we have also learned what +they cannot do. + +Now let us turn to the plans and specifications--called manuscripts-- +that go to make up the entertaining ten or forty minutes during which +a vaudeville act calls upon these physical aids to make it live +upon the mimic stage, as though it were a breathing reality of the +great stage of life. + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE + + +The word monologue comes from the combination of two Greek words, +_monos_, alone, and _legein_, to speak. Therefore the word monologue +means "to speak alone"--and that is often how a monologist feels. +If in facing a thousand solemn faces he is not a success, no one +in all the world is more alone than he. + +It appears easy for a performer to stroll into a theatre, without +bothersome scenery, props, or tagging people, and walk right out +on the stage alone and set the house a-roar. But, like most things +that appear easy, it is not. It is the hardest "stunt" in the +show business, demanding two very rare things: uncommon ability +in the man, and extraordinary merit in the monologue itself. + +To arrive at a clear understanding of what a monologue is, the +long way around through the various types of "talking singles" may +be the shortest cut home to the definition. + +1. Not a Soliloquy. + +The soliloquy of the by-gone days of dramatic art was sometimes +called a monologue, because the person who spoke it was left alone +upon the stage to commune with himself in spoken words that described +to the audience what manner of man he was and what were the problems +that beset him. Hamlet's "To be or not to be," perhaps the most +famous of soliloquies, is, therefore, a true monologue in the +ancient sense, for Hamlet spoke alone when none was near him. In +the modern sense this, and every other soliloquy, is but a speech +in a play. There is a fundamental reason why this is so: A monologue +is spoken _to the audience_, while in a soliloquy (from the Latin +_solus_, alone, _loqui_, to talk) the actor communes _with himself_ +for the "benefit" of the audience. + +2. Not Merely an Entertainment by One Person + +There are all sorts of entertaining talking acts in vaudeville +presented by a single person. Among them are the magician who +performs his tricks to the accompaniment of a running fire of talk +which, with the tricks themselves, raises laughter; and the person +who gives imitations and wins applause and laughter by fidelity +of speech, mannerisms and appearance to the famous persons imitated. +Yet neither of these can be classed as a monologist, because neither +depends upon speech alone to win success. + +3. Not a Disconnected String of Stories + +Nor, in the strictest vaudeville sense, is a monologue merely a +string of stories that possesses no unity as a whole and owns as +its sole reason of being that of amusement and entertainment. For +instance, apropos of nothing whatever an entertainer may say: + + I visited Chinatown the other evening and took dinner in one of + the charming Oriental restaurants there. The first dish I ordered + was called Chop Suey. It was fine. They make it of several + kinds of vegetables and meats, and one dark meat in particular + hit my taste. I wanted to find out what it was, so I called the + waiter. He was a solemn-looking Chinaman, whose English I could + not understand, so I pointed to a morsel of the delicious dark + meat and, rubbing the place where all the rest of it had gone, + I asked: + + "Quack-quack?" + + The Chink grinned and said: + + "No. No. Bow-wow." + + +Before the laughter has subsided the entertainer continues: + + That reminds me of the deaf old gentleman at a dinner party who + was seated right next to the prettiest of the very young ladies + present. He did his best to make the conversation agreeable, + and she worked hard to make him understand what she said. But + finally she gave it up in despair and relapsed into a pained + silence until the fruit was passed. Then she leaned over and + said: + + "Do you like bananas?" + + A smile of comprehension crept over the deaf old man's face and + he exclaimed: + + "No, I like the old-fashioned night-gowns best." + +And so, from story to story the entertainer goes, telling his funny +anecdotes for the simple reason that they are funny and create +laughter. But funny as they are, they are disconnected and, +therefore, do not meet the requirement of unity of character, which +is one of the elements of the pure monologue. + +4. Not a Connected Series of Stories Interspersed With Songs and +the Like + +If the entertainer had told the stories of the Chinaman and the +deaf old gentleman as though they had happened to a single character +about whom all the stories he tells revolve, his act and his +material would more nearly approach the pure monologue form. For +instance: + + Casey's a great fellow for butting into queer places to get a + bite to eat. The other evening we went down to Chinatown and + in one of those Oriantal joints that hand out Chop Suey in real + china bowls with the Jersey City dragoons on 'em, we struck a + dish that hit Casey just right. + + "Mither av Moses," says Casey, "this is shure the atein fer ye; + but what's thot dilicate little tid-bit o' brown mate?" + + "I don't know," says I. + + "Oi'll find out," says Casey. "Just listen t'me spake that + heathen's language." + + "Here, boy," he hollers, "me likee, what you call um?" + + The Chink stares blankly at Casey. Casey looks puzzled, then + he winks at me. Rubbing his hand over the place where the rest + of the meat had gone, he says: + + "Quack-quack?" + + A gleam shot into the Chink's almond eyes and he says: + + "No. No. Bow-wow." + + It took seven of us to hold Casey, he felt that bad. But that + wasn't a patchin' to the time we had dinner with a rich friend + o' ours and Casey was seated right next to the nicest little old + lady y'ever saw. . . . + + +And so on until the banana story is told, with Casey the hero and +victim of each anecdote. + +But an entertainer feels no necessity of making his entire offering +of related anecdotes only. Some monologists open with a song +because they want to get the audience into their atmosphere, and +"with" them, before beginning their monologue. The song merely +by its melody and rhythm helps to dim the vividness of impression +left by the preceding act and gives the audience time to quiet +down, serving to bridge the psychic chasm in the human mind that +lies between the relinquishing of one impression and the reception +of the next. + +Or the monologist may have a good finishing song and knows that +he can depend on it for an encore that will bring him back to tell +more stories and sing another song. So he gives the orchestra +leader the cue, the music starts and off he goes into his song. + +Or he may have some clever little tricks that will win applause, +or witty sayings that will raise a laugh, and give him a chance +to interject into his offering assorted elements of appeal that +will gain applause from different classes of people in his audience. +Therefore, as his purpose is to entertain, he sings his song, +performs his tricks, tells his witty sayings, or perhaps does an +imitation or two, as suits his talent best. And a few end their +acts with serious recitations of the heart-throb sort that bring +lumps into kindly throats and leave an audience in the satisfied +mood that always comes when a touch of pathos rounds off a hearty +laugh. + +But by adding to his monologue unrelated offerings the monologist +becomes an "entertainer," an "impersonator," or whatever title +best describes his act. If he stuck to his stories only and told +them all on a single character, his offering would be a monologue +in the sense that it observes the unity of character, but still +it would not be a pure monologue in the vaudeville sense as we now +may define it--though a pure monologue might form the major part +of his "turn." + +II. WHAT A MONOLOGUE IS + +Having seen in what respects other single talking acts--the +soliloquy, the "talking single" that has no unity of material, the +disconnected string of stories, and the connected series of stories +interspersed with songs--differ from the pure monologue, it will +now be a much simpler task to make plain the elements that compose +the real vaudeville monologue. + +The real monologue possesses the following eight characteristics: + +1. It is performed by one person. +2. It is humorous. +3. It possesses unity of character. +4. It is not combined with songs, tricks or any + other entertainment form. +5. It takes from ten to fifteen minutes to deliver. +6. It is marked by compression. +7. It is distinguished by vividness. +8. It follows a definite form of construction. + +Each of these eight characteristics has either been mentioned +already or will be taken up in detail later, so now we can combine +them into a single paragraphic definition: + + The pure vaudeville monologue is a humorous talk spoken by one + person, possesses unity of character, is not combined with any + other entertainment form, is marked by compression, follows a + definite form of construction and usually requires from ten to + fifteen minutes for delivery. + +It must be emphasized that because some single talking acts do not +meet every one of the requirements is no reason for condemning +them [1]. They may be as fine for entertainment purposes as the +pure monologue, but we must have some standard by which to work +and the only true standard of anything is its purest form. +Therefore, let us now take up the several parts that make up the +pure monologue as a whole, and later we shall consider the other +monologue variations that are permissible and often desirable. + +[1] Frank Fogarty, "The Dublin Minstrel," one of the most successful +monologists in vaudeville, often opens with a song and usually +ends his offering with a serious heart-throb recitation. By making +use of the song and serious recitation Mr. Fogarty places his act +in the "entertainer" class, but his talking material is, perhaps, +the best example of the "gag"-anecdotal-monologue to be found in +vaudeville. + +Mr. Fogarty won The New York Morning Telegraph contest to determine +the most popular performer in vaudeville in 1912, and was elected +President of "The White Rats"--the vaudeville actors' protective +Union--in 1914. [end footnote] + +If you have not yet turned to the appendix and read Aaron Hoffman's +"The German Senator" do so now. (See Appendix.) It will be referred +to frequently to illustrate structural points. + +III. THE MONOLOGUE'S NOTABLE CHARACTERISTICS + +1. Humor + +All monologues, whether of the pure type or not, possess one element +in common--humor. I have yet to hear of a monologist who did not +at least try to be funny. But there are different types of monologic +humor. + +"Each eye," the Italians say, "forms its own beauty," so every +nation, every section, and each individual forms its own humor to +suit its own peculiar risibilities. Still, there are certain +well-defined kinds of stories and classes of points in which we +Americans find a certain delight. + +What these are the reader knows as well as the writer and can +decide for himself much better than I can define them for him. +Therefore, I shall content myself with a mere mention of the basic +technical elements that may be of suggestive help. + +(a) _The Element of Incongruity_. "The essence of all humor," it +has been said, "is incongruity," and in the monologue there is no +one thing that brings better laugh-results than the incongruous. +Note in the Appendix the closing point of "The German Senator." +Could there be any more incongruous thing than wives forming a +Union? + +(b) _Surprise_. By surprise is meant leading the audience to +believe the usual thing is going to happen, and "springing" the +unusual--which in itself is often an incongruity, but not necessarily +so. + +(c) _Situation_. Both incongruity and surprise are part and parcel +of the laughter of a situation. For instance; a meeting of two +people, one of whom is anxious to avoid the other--a husband, for +instance, creeping upstairs at three A. M. meeting his wife--or +both anxious to avoid each other--wife was out, too, and husband +overtakes wife creeping slowly up, doing her best not to awaken +him, each supposing the other in bed and asleep. The laughter +comes because of what is said at that particular moment in that +particular situation--"and is due," Freud says, "to the release +from seemingly unpleasant and inevitable consequences." + +(d) _Pure Wit_. Wit exists for its own sake, it is detachable +from its context, as for example: + + And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand. + With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the + other. [1] + +[1] The German Senator. See Appendix. + +(e) _Character_. The laughable sayings that are the intense +expression at the instant of the individuality of the person voicing +them, is what is meant by the humor of character. For instance: +the German Senator gets all "balled up" in his terribly long effort +to make a "regular speech," and he ends: + + We got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms--we got to feel + patriotic symp--symps--you got to feel the patri--you can't help + it, you got to feel it. + +These five suggestions--all, in the last analysis, depending on +the first, incongruity--may be of assistance to the novice in +analyzing the elements of humor and framing his own efforts with +intelligence and precision. + +In considering the other elemental characteristics of the monologue, +we must bear in mind that the emphasizing of humor is the monologue's +chief reason for being. + +2. Unity of Character + +Unity of character does not mean unity of subject--note the variety +of subjects treated in "The German Senator"--but, rather, the +singleness of impression that a monologue gives of the "character" +who delivers it, or is the hero of it. + +The German Senator, himself, is a politician "spouting," in a +perfectly illogical, broken-English stump speech, about the condition +of the country and the reason why things are so bad. Never once +do the various subjects stray far beyond their connection with the +country's deplorable condition and always they come back to it. +Furthermore, not one of the observations is about anything that a +politician of his mental calibre would not make. Also the +construction of every sentence is in character. This example is, +of course, ideal, and the precision of its unity of character one +of the great elements of a great monologue. + +Next to humor, unity of character is the most important requirement +of the monologue. Never choose a subject, or write a joke, that +does not fit the character delivering the monologue. In other +words, if you are writing a pure monologue, do not, just because +it is humorous, drag in a gag [1] or a point [2] that is not in +character or that does not fit the subject. Make every turn of +phrase and every word fit not only the character but also the +subject. + +[1] A _gag_ is the vaudeville term for any joke or pun. + +[2] A _point_ is the laugh-line of a gag, or the funny observation +of a monologue. + +3. Compression + +We have long heard that "brevity is the soul of wit," and certainly +we realize the truth in a hazy sort of way, but the monologue +writer should make brevity his law and seven of his ten commandments +of writing. Frank Fogarty, who writes his own gags and delivers +them in his own rapid, inimitable way, said to me: + +"The single thing I work to attain in any gag is brevity. I never +use an ornamental word, I use the shortest word I can and I tell +a gag in the fewest words possible. If you can cut out one word +from any of my gags and not destroy it, I'll give you five dollars, +and it'll be worth fifty to me to lose it. "You can kill the whole +point of a gag by merely an unnecessary word. For instance, let +us suppose the point of a gag is 'and he put the glass there'; +well, you won't get a laugh if you say, 'and then he picked the +glass up and put it there.' Only a few words more--but words are +costly. + +"Take another example. Here's one of my best gags, a sure-fire +laugh if told this way: + +"O'Brien was engaged by a farmer to milk cows and do chores. There +were a hundred and fifty cows, and three men did the milking. It +was hard work, but the farmer was a kind-hearted, progressive man, +so when he went to town and saw some milking-stools he bought three +and gave 'em to the men to sit down on while at work. The other +two men came back delighted, but not O'Brien. At last he appeared, +all cut-up, and holding one leg of the stool. + +"'What's the matter?' said the farmer. + +"'Nothing, only I couldn't make the cow sit down on it.' + +"When I tell it this way it invariably gets a big laugh. Now +here's the way I once heard a 'chooser' [1] do it. + +[1] _Chooser_--one who chooses some part of another performer's act +and steals it for his own use. + +"'O'Brien came to this country and looked around for work. He +couldn't get a job until at last a friend told him that a farmer +up in the country wanted a man to milk cows. So O'Brien got on a +trolley car and went out to the end of the line, took a side-door +pullman from there, was ditched and had to walk the rest of the +way to the farm. But at last he got to the farmer's place and +asked him for the job. + +"'"Sure I can use you," said the farmer, "here's a milk pail and +a milking-stool. Take 'em and go out and milk the cows in the +barn." + +"'Now O'Brien didn't know how to milk a cow, he'd never milked a +cow in his whole life, but he needed a job so he didn't tell the +farmer he hadn't ever milked a cow. He took the pail and the +milking-stool and went out to the barn. After half an hour he +came back to the farm house all cut-up, and he had one leg of the +milking-stool in his hand. + +"'"What's the matter?" asked the farmer, "How'd you get all cut +up--been in a fight or something?" + +"'"No," said O'Brien, "I couldn't get the cow to sit on it.'" + +"See the difference? There's only one right way to tell any gag +and that's to make it brief, little--like the works of a watch +that'll fit in a thin watch case and be better and finer than a +big turnip of a pocket clock." + +So, then, each point and gag in a monologue is told in the fewest, +shortest words possible and the monologue, as a whole, is marked +by compression. Remember, "brevity is the soul of wit"--never +forget it. + +4. Vividness + +If a successful monologue writer has in mind two gags that are +equally funny he will invariably choose the one that can be told +most vividly--that is, the one that can be told as if the characters +themselves were on the stage. For instance, the words, "Here stood +John and there stood Mary," with lively, appropriate gestures by +the monologist, make the characters and the scene seem living on +the stage before the very eyes of the audience. That is why the +monologist illustrates his points and gags with gestures that +picturize. + +Every gag and every point of great monologues are told in words +that paint pictures. If the gag is supposititious, and the direct +right-here-they-stood method cannot be used, the point is worded +so strikingly, and is so comically striking in itself, that the +audience sees--visualizes--it. [1] + +[1] Walter Kelly, "The Virginia Judge," offers a fine example of +the monologist who makes his words picturize. He "puts his stories +over" almost without a gesture. + +Unlike the playlet, the monologue does not have flesh-and-blood +people on the stage to act the comic situation. The way a point +or gag is constructed, the words used, the monologist's gestures, +and his inflections, must make the comic situation live in vivid +pictures. + +Therefore, in selecting material the monologue writer should choose +those gags and points that can be told in pictures, and every word +he uses should be a picture-word. + +5. Smoothness and Blending + +A monologue--like the thin-model watch mentioned--is made up of +many parts. Each part fits into, the other--one gag or point +blends perfectly into the following one--so that the entire monologue +seems not a combination of many different parts, but a smoothly +working, unified whole. + +Count the number of different points there are in "The German +Senator" and note how each seemingly depends on the one before it +and runs into the one following; you will then see what is meant +by blending. Then read the monologue again, this time without the +Panama Canal point--plainly marked for this exposition--and you +will see how one part can be taken away and still leave a smoothly +reading and working whole. + +It is to careful blending that the monologue owes its smoothness. +The ideal for which the writer should strive is so to blend his +gags and points that, by the use of not more than one short sentence, +he relates one gag or point to the next with a naturalness and +inevitableness that make the whole perfectly smooth. + +We are now, I think, in a position to sum up the theory of the +monologue. The pure vaudeville monologue, which was defined as a +humorous talk spoken by one person, possesses unity of character, +is not combined with any other entertainment form, is marked by +compression, follows a definite form of construction, and usually +requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery. Humor is its +most notable characteristic; unity of the character delivering it, +or of its "hero," is its second most important requirement. Each +point, or gag, is so compressed that to take away or add even one +word would spoil its effect; each is expressed so vividly that the +action seems to take place before the eyes of the audience. Finally, +every point leads out of the preceding point so naturally, and +blends into the following point so inevitably, that the entire +monologue is a smooth and perfect whole. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WRITING THE MONOLOGUE + + +I. CHOOSING A THEME + +Before an experienced writer takes up his pencil he has formed +definitely in his mind just what he is going to write about--that +is the simple yet startling difference between the experienced +writer and the novice. Not only does the former know what his +subject is, but he usually knows how he is going to treat it, and +even some striking phrases and turns of sentences are ready in his +mind, together with the hundreds of minute points which, taken +together, make up the singleness of impression of the whole. + +But just as it is impossible for the human mind--untrained, let +us say, in the art of making bricks--to picture at a glance the +various processes through which the clay passes before it takes +brick form, so it is identically as impossible for the mind of the +novice to comprehend in a flash the various purposes and half-purposes +that precede the actual work of writing anything. + +True as this is of writing in general, it seems to me particularly +true of writing the monologue, for the monologue is one of those +precise forms of the art of writing that may best be compared to +the miniature, where every stroke must be true and unhesitating +and where all combine unerringly to form the composite whole. + +In preparing monologue material the writer usually is working in +the _sounds_ of spoken--and mis-spoken--words, and the humor that +lies in the twisting of ideas into surprising conclusions. He +seldom deliberately searches for a theme--more often some +laugh-provoking incident or sentence gives him an idea and he +builds it into a monologue with its subject for the theme. + +1. Themes to Avoid + +Anything at all in the whole range of subjects with which life +abounds will lend itself for a monologue theme--provided the writer +can without straining twist it to the angle of humor; but propriety +demands that nothing blatantly suggestive shall be treated, and +common sense dictates that no theme of merely local interest shall +be used, when the purpose of the monologue is to entertain the +whole country. Of course if a monologue is designed to entertain +merely a certain class or the residents of a certain city or section +only, the very theme--for instance, some purely local happening +or trade interest--that you would avoid using in a monologue planned +for national use, would be the happiest theme that could be chosen. +But, as the ambitious monologue writer does not wish to confine +himself to a local or a sectional subject and market, let us +consider here only themes that have universal appeal. + +II. A FEW THEMES OF UNIVERSAL INTEREST + + Politics Woman Suffrage + Love Drink + Marriage Baseball + Woman's Dress Money + +While there are many more themes that can be twisted to universal +interest--and anyone could multiply the number given--these few +are used in whole or in part in nearly every successful monologue +now being presented. And, they offer to the new writer the surest +ground to build a new monologue. That they have all been done +before is no reason why they should not be done again: the new +author has only to do them better--and a little different. It is +all a matter of fresh vision. What is there in any art that is +really new--but treatment? + +Do not make the fatal mistake of supposing that these few themes +are the only themes possessing universal interest. Anything in +the whole wide world may be the subject for a monologue, when +transmuted by the magic of common sense and uncommon ability into +universal fun. + +III. HOW TO BEGIN TO WRITE + +As a monologue is a collection of carefully selected and smoothly +blended points or gags, with a suitable introduction to the routine +[1]--each point and gag being a complete, separate entity, and the +introduction being as truly distinct--the monologue writer, unlike +the playlet writer, may begin to write anywhere. He may even write +the last point or gag used in the routine before he writes the +first. Or he may write the twelfth point before he writes either +the first one or the last one. But usually, he writes his +introduction first. + +[1] _Routine_--the entire monologue; but more often used to suggest +its arrangement and construction. A monologue with its gags and +points arranged in a certain order is one routine; a different +routine is used when the gags or points are arranged in a different +order. Thus _routine_ means _arrangement_. The word is also used to +describe the arrangement of other stage offerings--for instance, a +dance: the same steps arranged in a different order make a new +"dance routine." + +1. The Introduction + +A monologue introduction may be just one line with a point or a +gag that will raise a snicker, or it may be a long introduction +that stamps the character as a "character," and causes amusement +because it introduces the entire monologue theme in a bright way. + +An example of the short introduction is: + +"D'you know me friend Casey? He's the guy that put the sham in +shamrock," then on into the first gag that stamps Casey as a +sure-'nuff "character," with a giggle-point to the gag. + +The very best example of the long introduction being done on the +stage today is the first four paragraphs of "The German Senator." +The first line, "My dear friends and falling Citizens," stamps the +monologue unquestionably as a speech. The second line, "My heart +fills up with vaccination to be disabled," declares the mixed-up +character of the oration and of the German Senator himself, and +causes amusement. And the end of the fourth paragraph--which you +will note is one long involved sentence filled with giggles--raises +the first laugh. + +Nat Wills says the introduction to the gag-monologue may often +profitably open with a "local"--one about the town or some local +happening--as a local is pretty sure to raise a giggle, and will +cause the audience to think the monologist "bright" and at least +start their relations off pleasantly. He says: "Work for giggles +in your introduction, but don't let the audience get set--with a +big laugh--until the fifth or sixth joke." + +The introduction, therefore, is designed to establish the monologist +with the audience as "bright," to stamp the character of the +"character" delivering it--or about whom the gags are told--and +to delay a big laugh until the monologist has "got" his audience. + +2. The Development + +The "point," you will recall, we defined as the funny observation +of a pure monologue--in lay-conversation it means the laugh line +of a joke; and "gag" we defined as a joke or a pun. For the sake +of clearness let us confine "point" to a funny observation in a +monologue, and "gag" to a joke in a connected series of stories. + +It is impossible for anyone to teach you how to write a really +funny point or a gag. But, if you have a well-developed sense of +humor, you can, with the help of the suggestions for form given +here and the examples of humor printed in the appendix, and those +you will find in the funny papers and hear along the street or on +the stage, teach yourself to write saleable material. All that +this chapter can hope to do for you is to show you how the best +monologue writes and the most successful monologists work to achieve +their notable results, and thus put you in the right path to +accomplish, with the least waste of time and energy, what they +have done. + +Therefore, let us suppose that you know what is humorous, have a +well-developed sense of humor, and can produce really funny points +and gags. Now, having your points and gags clearly framed in mind +and ready to set down on paper, you naturally ask, How shall I +arrange them? In what order shall I place them to secure the best +effect for the whole monologue? + +Barrett Wendell, professor of English at Harvard University, [1] +has suggested an effective mechanical aid for determining the +clearest and best arrangement of sentences and paragraphs in English +prose, and his plan seems especially adapted to help the monologue +writer determine a perfect routine. Briefly his method may be +paraphrased thus: + +[1] English Composition, page 165. + +Have as many cards or slips of paper as you have points or gags. +Write only one point or gag on one card or slip of paper. On the +first card write "Introduction," and always keep that card first +in your hand. Then take up a card and read the point or gag on +it as following the introduction, the second card as the second +point or gag, and so on until you have arranged your monologue in +an effective routine. + +Then try another arrangement. Let us say the tenth joke in the +first routine reads better as the first joke. All right, place +it in your new arrangement right after the introduction. Perhaps +the fourteenth point or gag fits in well after the tenth gag--fine, +make that fourteenth gag the second gag; and so on through your +cards until you have arranged a new routine. + +Your first arrangement can invariably be improved--maybe even your +seventh arrangement can be made better; very good, by shuffiing +the cards you may make as many arrangements as you wish and +eventually arrive at the ideal routine. And by keeping a memorandum +of preceding arrangements you can always turn back to the older +routine--if that appears the best after all other arrangements +have been tried. + +But what is really the ideal arrangement of a monologue? How may +you know which routine is really the best? Frankly, you cannot +_know_ until it has been tried out on an audience many, many +times--and has been proved a success by actual test. Arranging a +routine of untried points and gags on paper is like trying to solve +a cut-out puzzle with the key-piece missing. Only by actually +trying out a monologue before an audience and fitting the points +and gags to suit the monologist's peculiar style (indeed, this is +the real work of writing a monologue and will be described later +on) can you determine what really is the best routine. And even +then another arrangement may "go" better in another town. Still +there are a few suggestions--a very few--that can be given here +to aid the beginner. + +Like ocean waves, monologic laughs should come in threes and +nines--proved, like most rules, by exceptions. Note the application +of this rule in "The German Senator." + +Study the arrangement of the points in this great monologue and +you will see that each really big point is dependent on several +minor points that precede it to get its own big laugh. For instance, +take the following point: + + And if meat goes any higher, it will be worth more than money. + + Then there won't be any money. + + Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat + around. + + A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill. + + When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving + the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin + steak. + + If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny. + +The first line blends this point with the preceding one about +the high cost of eggs. The second line awakens interest and +prepares for the next, "Instead of carrying money in your pocket, +you'll carry meat around," which is good for a grin. The next +line states the premise necessary for the first point-ending +"--you'll slip him a sirloin steak," which is always good for a +laugh. Then the last line, "If you ask him for change, he'll +give you a hunk of bologny," tops the preceding laugh. + +From this example you see what is meant by monologic laughs coming +in threes and nines. The introduction of each new story--the line +after the blend-line--should awaken a grin, its development cause +a chuckle, and the point-line itself raise a laugh. + +Each new point should top the preceding point until with the end +of that particular angle or situation, should come a roar of honest +laughter. Then back to the grin, the chuckle, and on to the laugh +again, building up to the next big roar. + +With the end of the monologue should come complete satisfaction +in one great burst of laughter. This, of course, is the ideal. + +3. How and Where to End + +A monologue should run anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes. The +monologist can vary his playing time at will by leaving out points +and gags here and there, as necessity demands, so the writer should +supply at least a full fifteen minutes of material in his manuscript. + +"How shall I time my manuscript?" is the puzzling problem the new +writer asks himself. The answer is that it is very difficult to +time a monologue exactly, because different performers work at +different speeds and laughs delay the delivery and, therefore, +make the monologue run longer. But here is a very rough counting +scale that may be given, with the warning that it is far from +exact: + +For every one hundred and fifteen to one hundred and forty words +count one minute for delivery. This is so inexact, depending as +it does on the number of laughs and the monologist's speed of +delivery, that it is like a rubber ruler. At one performance it +may be too long, at another too short. + +Having given a full fifteen minutes of material, filled, let us +hope, with good points made up of grins, chuckles and laughs, now +choose your very biggest laugh-point for the last. When you wrote +the monologue and arranged it into the first routine, that biggest +laugh may have been the tenth, or the ninth, or the fifteenth, but +you have spotted it unerringly as the very biggest laugh you +possess, so you blend it in as the final laugh of the completed +monologue. + +It may now be worth while thus to sum up the ideal structure: + +A routine is so arranged that the introduction stamps the monologist +as bright, and the character he is impersonating or telling about +as a real "character." The first four points or gags are snickers +and the fifth or sixth is a laugh. [1] Each point or gag blends +perfectly into the ones preceding and following it. The introduction +of each new story awakens a grin, its development causes a chuckle, +and the point-line itself raises a laugh. The final point or gag +rounds the monologue off in the biggest burst of honest laughter. + +[1] It is true that some monologists strive for a laugh on the +very first point, but to win a big laugh at once is very rare. + +IV. BUILDING A MONOLOGUE BEFORE AN AUDIENCE + +When a writer delivers the manuscript of a monologue to a monologist +his work is not ended. It has just begun, because he must share +with the monologist the pains of delivering the monologue before +an audience. Dion Boucicault once said, "A play is not written, +but rewritten." True as this is of a play, it is, if possible, +even more true of a monologue. + +Of course, not all beginners can afford to give this personal +attention to staging a monologue, but it is advisable whenever +possible. For, points that the author and the monologist himself +were sure would "go big," "die," while points and gags that neither +thought much of, "go big." It is for precisely this purpose of +weeding out the good points and gags from the bad that even famous +monologists "hide away," under other names, in very small houses +for try-outs. And while the monologist is working on the stage +to make the points and gags "get over," the author is working in +the audience to note the effect of points and finding ways to +change a phrase here and a word there to build dead points into +life and laughter. Then it is that they both realize that Frank +Fogarty's wise words are true: "There is only one way to tell a +gag. If you can cut one word out from any of my gags I'll give +you five dollars, for it's worth fifty to me. Words are costly." + +Some entire points and gags will be found to be dead beyond +resurrection, and even whole series of gags and points must be +cast away and new and better ones substituted to raise the golden +laughs. So the monologue is changed and built performance after +performance, with both the monologist and the author working as +though their very lives depended on making it perfect. + +Then, when it is "set" to the satisfaction of both, the monologist +goes out on the road to try it out on different audiences and to +write the author continually for new points and gags. It may be +said with perfect truth that a monologue is never finished. Nat +Wills, the Tramp Monologist, pays James Madison a weekly salary +to supply him with new jokes every seventh day. So, nearly every +monologist retains the author to keep him up to the minute with +material, right in the forefront of the laughter-of-the-hour. + +V. OTHER SINGLE TALKING ACT FORMS + +The discussion of the monologue form has been exhaustive, for the +pure monologue holds within itself all the elements of the other +allied forms. The only difference between a pure monologue and +any other kind is in the addition of entertainment features that +are not connected gags and points. Therefore, to cover the field +completely it is necessary only to name a few of the many different +kinds of single talking acts and to describe them briefly. + +The most common talking singles--all of whom buy material from +vaudeville writers--are: + +(a) _The Talking Magician_--who may have only a few little tricks +to present, but who plays them up big because he sprinkles his +work with laughter-provoking points. + +(b) _The "Nut Comedian"_--who does all manner of silly tricks to +make his audience laugh, but who has a carefully prepared routine +of "nut" material. + +(c) _The Parody Monologist_--who opens and closes with funny +parodies on the latest song hits and does a monologue routine +between songs. + +(d) _The "Original Talk"_ Impersonator--who does impersonations +of celebrities, but adds to his offering a few clever points and +gags. + +VI. A FINAL WORD + +Before you seek a market [1] for your monologue, be sure that it +fulfills all the requirements of a monologue and that it is the very +best work you can do. Above all, make sure that every gag or point +you use is original with you, and that the angle of the subject you +have selected for your theme is honestly your own. For if you have +copied even one gag or point that has been used before, you have laid +your work open to suspicion and yourself to the epithet of "chooser." + +[1] See Chapter XXIV, Manuscripts and Markets. + +The infringer--who steals gags and points bodily--can be pursued +and punished under the copyright law, but the chooser is a kind +of sneak thief who works gags and points around to escape taking +criminal chances, making his material just enough different to +evade the law. A chooser damages the originator of the material +without himself getting very far. No one likes a chooser; no one +knowingly will have dealings with a chooser. Call a vaudeville +man a liar and he may laugh at you--call him a chooser and you'll +have to fight him. + +There are, of course, deliberate choosers in the vaudeville business, +just as there are "crooks" in every line of life, but they never +make more than a momentary success. Here is why they invariably +fail: + +When you sit in the audience, and hear an old gag or point, you +whisper, "Phew, that's old," or you give your companion a knowing +look, don't you? Well, half the audience is doing the very same +thing, and they, like you, receive the impression that all the +gags are old, and merely suppose that they haven't heard the other +ones before. + +The performer, whose bread and butter depends on the audience +thinking him bright, cannot afford to have anything ancient in his +routine. Two familiar gags or points will kill at least twenty-five +percent of his applause. He may not get even one bow, and when +audiences do not like a monologist well enough to call him out for +a bow, he might as well say good-by to his chances of getting even +another week's booking. Therefore the performer watches the +material that is offered him with the strained attention of an +Asiatic potentate who suspects there is poison in his breakfast +food. He not only guards against old gags or points, but he takes +great care that the specific form of the subject of any routine +that he accepts is absolutely new. + +Some of the deliberate choosers watch the field very closely and +as soon as anyone strikes a new vein or angle they proceed to work +it over. But taking the same subject and working around it--even +though each gag or point is honestly new--does not and cannot pay. +Even though the chooser secures some actor willing to use such +material, he fails ultimately for two reasons: In the first place, +the copier is never as good as the originator; and, in the second +place, the circuit managers do not look with favor upon copy-acts. + +As the success of the performer depends on his cleverness and the +novelty of his material, in identically the same way the success +of a vaudeville theatre lies in the cleverness and novelty of the +acts it plays. Individual house managers, and therefore circuit +managers, cannot afford to countenance copy-acts. For this reason +a monologist or an act is often given exclusive rights to use a +precise kind of subject-material over a given circuit. A copy-act +cannot keep going to very long with only a few segregated house +willing to play his act. + +Therefore before you offer your monologue to a possible buyer, be +sure--absolutely sure--that your theme and every one of your points +and gags are original. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE VAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT + + +The word "two-act" is used to describe any act played by two +people. It has nothing to do with the number of scenes or acts +of a drama. When two people present a "turn," it is called a +two-act. It is a booking-office term--a word made necessary by +the exigencies of vaudeville commerce. + +If the manager of a theatre requires an acrobatic act to fill his +bill and balance his show he often inquires for an acrobatic +two-act. It may matter little to him whether the act plays in One +or Full Stage--he wants an acrobatic act, and one presented by two +people. If he requires any other kind of two-people-act, he +specifies the kind of two-act of which he is in need. + +On the other hand, if a performer asks an author to write a +vaudeville two-act, an act of a certain definite character is +usually meant and understood. For, among writers, the vaudeville +two-act--or "act in One" as it is often called--has come to mean +a talking act presented by two persons; furthermore, a talking act +that has certain well-defined characteristics. + +1. What a Vaudeville Two-Act Is + +The most carefully constructed definition cannot describe even the +simplest thing with satisfying exactness. But the human mind is +so formed that it have a definition for a guide to learn anything +is new. Therefore let us set up this dogmatic definition: + + A pure vaudeville two-act is a humorous talking act performed + by two persons. It possesses unity of the characters, is not + combined with songs, tricks or any other entertainment form, is + marked by compression, follows a definite form of construction, + and usually requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery. + +You have noticed that this definition is merely that of the monologue +very slightly changed. It differs from it only in the number of +persons required for its delivery. But, like many such verbal +jugglings, the likeness of the two-act to the monologue is more +apparent than real. + +2. How the Two-Act Differs from the Monologue + +Turn to the Appendix and read "The Art of Flirtation," by Aaron +Hoffman. [1] It was chosen for publication in this volume as an +example of the vaudeville two-act, for two reasons: First, it is +one of the best vaudeville two-acts ever written; second, a careful +study of it, in connection with "The German Senator," will repay +the student by giving an insight into the difference in treatment +that the same author gives to the monologue and the two-act. + +[1] The Art of Flirtation," by Aaron Hoffman, has been used in +vaudeville, on the burlesque stage, and in various musical comedies, +for years and has stood the test of time. + +Aside from the merely physical facts that two persons deliver the +vaudeville two-act and but one "does" the monologue, you will +notice in reading "The Art of Flirtation," that the two-act depends +a surprising lot on "business" [1] to punch home its points and +win its laughs. This is the first instance in our study of +vaudeville material in which "acting" [2] demands from the writer +studied consideration. + +[1] _Business_ means any movement an actor makes on the stage. +To walk across the stage, to step on a man's toes, to pick up a +telephone, to drop a handkerchief, or even to grimace--if done to +drive the spoken words home, or to "get over" a meaning without +words--are all, with a thousand other gestures and movements, +_stage business_. + +[2] Acting is action. It comprises everything necessary to the +performing of a part in a play and includes business. + +So large a part does the element of business play in the success +of the two-act that the early examples of this vaudeville form +were nearly all built out of bits of business. And the business +was usually of the "slap-stick" kind. + +3. What Slap-Stick Humor Is + +Slap-stick humor wins its laughs by the use of physical methods, +having received its name from the stick with which one clown hits +another. + +A slap-stick is so constructed that when a person is hit a light +blow with it, a second piece of wood slaps the first and a +surprisingly loud noise, as of a hard blow, is heard. Children +always laugh at the slap-stick clowns and you can depend upon many +grown-ups, too, going into ecstasies of mirth. + +Building upon this sure foundation, a class of comedians sprang +up who "worked up" the laughter by taking advantage of the human +delight in expectation. For instance: A man would lean over a +wall and gaze at some distant scene. He was perfectly oblivious +to what was going on behind him. The comedy character strolled +out on the stage with a stick in his hand. He nearly walked into +the first man, then he saw the seat of the man's trousers and the +provokingly tempting mark they offered. In the early days of the +use of the slap-stick, the comedian would have spanked the man at +once, got one big laugh and have run off the stage in a comic +chase. In the later days the comedian worked up his laugh into +many laughs, by spacing all of his actions in the delivery of the +blow. + +As soon as the audience realized that the comedian had the opportunity +to spank the unsuspecting man, they laughed. Then the comedian +would make elaborate preparations to deliver the blow. He would +spit on his hands, grasp the stick firmly and take close aim--a +laugh. Then he would take aim again and slowly swing the stick +over his shoulder ready to strike--a breathless titter. Down would +come the stick--and stop a few inches short of the mark and the +comedian would say: "It's a shame to do it!" This was a roar, for +the audience was primed to laugh and had to give vent to its +expectant delight. A clever comedian could do this twice, or even +three times, varying the line each time. But usually on the third +preparation he would strike--and the house would be convulsed. + +In burlesque they sometimes used a woman for the victim, and the +laughter was consequently louder and longer. It is an interesting +commentary on the advancement of all branches of the stage in +recent years that even in burlesque such extreme slap-stick methods +are now seldom used. In vaudeville such an elemental bit of +slap-stick business is rarely, if ever, seen. Happily, a woman +is now never the victim. + +But it was upon such "sure-fire" [1] bits of business that the +early vaudeville two-acts--as well as many other acts--depended +for a large percentage of their laughs. It mattered little what +were the lines they spoke. They put their trust in business--and +invariably won. But their business was always of the same type +as that "bit" [2] of spanking the unsuspecting man. It depended +for its humor on the supposed infliction of pain. It was always +physical--although by no means always even remotely suggestive. + +[1] Any act or piece of business or line in a speech that can be +depended on to win laughter at every performance is called +_sure-fire_. + +[2] Anything done on the stage may be called a _bit_. A minor +character may have only a _bit_, and some one part of a scene that +the star may have, may be a _bit_. The word is used to describe a +successful little scene that is complete in itself. + +Because such acts did not depend on lines but on slap-stick humor, +they became known as slap-stick acts. And because these vaudeville +two-acts--as we have elected to call them--were usually presented +by two men and worked in One, in front of a drop that represented +a street, they were called "sidewalk comedian slap-stick acts." + +Their material was a lot of jokes of the "Who was that lady I saw +you with last night?"--"She weren't no lady, she was my wife," +kind. Two performers would throw together an act made up of +sure-fire comedy bits they had used in various shows, interpolate +a few old "gags"--and the vaudeville writer had very little +opportunity. + +But to-day--as a study of "The Art of Flirtation" will show--wit +and structural skill in the material itself is of prime importance. +Therefore the writer is needed to supply vaudeville two-acts. But +even to-day business still plays a very large part in the success +of the two-act. It may even be considered fundamental to the +two-act's success. Therefore, before we consider the structural +elements that make for success in writing the two-act, we shall +take up the matter of two-act business. + +4. The "Business" of the Two-Act + +The fact that we all laugh--in varying degrees--at the antics of +the circus clown, should be sufficient evidence of the permanence +of certain forms of humor to admit of a belief in the basic truth +that certain actions do in all times find a humorous response in +all hearts. Certain things are fundamentally funny, and have made +our ancestors laugh, just as they make us laugh and will make our +descendants laugh. + +"There's no joke like an old joke," is sarcastically but nevertheless +literally true. There may even be more than a humorous +coincidence--perhaps an unconscious recognition of the sure-firedness +of certain actions--in the warnings received in childhood to "stop +that funny business." + +5. Weber and Fields on Sure-Fire Business + +However this may be, wherever actors foregather and talk about +bits of stage business that have won and always will win laughs +for them, there are a score or more points on which they agree. +No matter how much they may quarrel about the effectiveness of +laugh-bits with which one or another has won a personal success--due, +perhaps, to his own peculiar personality--they unite in admitting +the universal effectiveness of certain good old stand-bys. + +Weber and Fields--before they made so much money that they retired +to indulge in the pleasant pastime of producing shows--presented +probably the most famous of all the sidewalk comedian slap-stick +acts. [1] They elevated the slap-stick sidewalk conversation act +into national popularity and certainly reduced the business of +their performance to a science--or raised it to an art. In an +article entitled "Adventures in Human Nature," published in The +Associated Sunday Mazagines for June 23, 1912, Joe Weber and Lew +Fields have this to say about the stage business responsible, in +large measure, for the success of their famous two-act: + + The capitalizing of the audiences' laughter we have set down in + the following statistics, ranged in the order of their value. + An audience will laugh loudest at these episodes: + + (1) When a man sticks one finger into another man's eye. + + (2) When a man sticks two fingers into another man's eyes. + + (3) When a man chokes another man and shakes his head from side + to side. + + (4) When a man kicks another man. + + (5) When a man bumps up suddenly against another man and knocks + him off his feet. + + (6) When a man steps on another man's foot. + +[1] The great success of the return of Weber and Fields to vaudeville +in 1915-16, with excerpts from their old successes, is only one +more proof of the perennial value of sure-fire business. + + Human nature--as we have analyzed it, with results that will be + told you by the cashier at our bank--will laugh louder and oftener + at these spectacles, in the respective order we have chronicled + them, than at anything else one might name. Human nature here, + as before, insists that the object of the attacks--the other + man--be not really hurt. + + Now, let us tell you how we arrived at our conclusions. The eye + is the most delicate part of the body. If a man, therefore, + pokes his two forefingers into the eyes of another man _without + hurting them_, then human nature will make you scream with mirth; + not at the sight of the poking of the fingers into the other + man's eyes (as you who have seen us do this trick night in and + night out have imagined), but because you get all the sensations + of such a dangerous act without there being any actual pain + involved in the case of the man you were watching. You laugh + because human nature tells you to. You laugh because the man + who had the fingers stuck into his eyes might have been hurt + badly, but wasn't. + + The greatest laughter, the greatest comedy, is divided by a hair + from the greatest tragedy. Always remember that! As the chance + of pain, the proportion of physical misery, the proportion of + tragedy, becomes diminished (see the other items in the table), + so does the proportion of laughter become less and less. We + have often tried to figure out a way to do something to the + other's kneecap--second in delicacy only to the eye--but the + danger involved is too great. Once let us figure out the trick, + however, and we shall have capitalized another item that may be + listed high in our table. Here is how you can verify the truth + of our observations yourself: + + You have seen those small imitation tacks made of rubber. Exhibit + one, put it on a chair, ask a stranger to sit down--and everybody + who is in on the joke will scream with mirth. Try it with a + real tack, and everybody will take on a serious face and will + want to keep the man from sitting down. + +6. What George M. Cohan Has to Say + +George M. Cohan spent his boyhood on the vaudeville stage as one +of "The Four Cohans." In collaboration with George J. Nathan, Mr. +Cohan published in McClure's Magazine for November, 1913, an article +entitled "The Mechanics of Emotion." Here is what he has to say +about some bits of business that are sure-fire laughs: [1] + +[1] These sure-fire bits of business should be considered as being +equally effective when used in any form of stage work. Some of +them, however, lend themselves most readily to the vaudeville +two-act. + + Here, then, are a few of the hundred-odd things that you constantly + laugh at on the stage, though, when you see them in cold type, + you will probably be ashamed of doing so. + + (1) Giving a man a resounding whack on the back under the guise + of friendship. The laugh in this instance may be "built up" + steadily in a climacteric way by repeating the blow three times + at intervals of several minutes. + + (2) A man gives a woman a whack on the back, believing in an + absent-minded moment that the woman (to whom he is talking) is + a man. + + (3) One character steps on the sore foot of another character, + causing the latter to jump with pain. + + (4) The spectacle of a man laden with many large bundles. + + (5) A man or a woman starts to lean his or her elbow on a table + or the arm of a chair, the elbow slipping off abruptly and + suddenly precipitating him or her forward. + + (6) One character imitating the walk of another character, who + is walking in front of him and cannot see him. + + (7) A man consuming a drink of considerable size at one quick + gulp. + + (8) A character who, on entering an "interior" or room scene, + stumbles over a rug. If the character in point be of the + "dignified" sort, the power of this laugh provoker is doubled. + + (9) Intoxication in almost any form. [1] + +[1] Intoxication, however, must never be revolting. To be welcomed, +it must always be funny; in rare instances, it may be pathetic. + + (10) Two men in heated conversation. One starts to leave. + Suddenly, as if fearing the other will kick him while his back + is turned, this man bends his body inward (as if he actually had + been kicked) and sidles off. + + (11) A man who, in trying to light his cigar or cigarette, strikes + match after match in an attempt to keep one lighted. If the man + throws each useless match vigorously to the floor with a muttered + note of vexation the laughter will increase. + + (12) The use of a swear-word. [2] + +[2] The use of swear-words is prohibited in most first-class +vaudeville theatres. On the walls of every B. F. Keith Theatre +is posted this notice: "The use of 'Damn' and 'Hell' is forbidden +on the stage of this theatre. If a performer cannot do without +using them, he need not open here." + + (13) A man proclaims his defiance of his wife while the latter + is presumably out of hearing. As the man is speaking, his wife's + voice is heard calling him. Meekly he turns and goes to her. + This device has many changes, such as employer and employee. + All are equally effective. + + (14) A pair of lovers who try several times to kiss, and each + time are interrupted by the entrance of some one or by the ringing + of the doorbell or telephone-bell or something of the sort. + + (15) A bashful man and a not-bashful woman are seated on a bench + or divan. As the woman gradually edges up to the man, the man + just as gradually edges away from her. + + All these "laugh-getters" are known to the experienced as "high + class"; that is, they may all be used upon the legitimate stage. + On the burlesque and vaudeville stages devices of a somewhat + lower intellectual plane have established a permanent standing + An authority on this phase of the subject is Mr. Frederick + Wyckoff, who catalogues the following as a few of the tricks + that make a vaudeville audience laugh: + + Open your coat and show a green vest, or pull out your shirt + front and expose a red undershirt. Another excellent thing to + do is to wear a shirt without sleeves and pull off your coat + repeatedly. [1] + +[1] Such ancient methods of winning laughs, however, belong to +vaudeville yesterdays. It should be remembered that Mr. Nathan, +who bore the labor of writing this excellent article, is blessed +with a satirical soul--which, undoubtedly, is the reason why he +is so excellent and so famous a dramatic critic. + + Ask the orchestra leader if he is married. + + Have the drummer put in an extra beat with the cymbals, then + glare at him. + + Always use an expression which ends with the query, "Did he not?" + Then say, "He did not." + + The men who elaborated this kind of thing into a classic are + Messrs. Weber and Fields. They are the great presiding deities + of "slap-stick" humor. They have capitalized it to enormous + financial profit. They claim that Mr. Fields' favorite trick + of poking his forefinger periodically in Mr. Weber's eye is worth + a large fortune in itself. A peculiarity of this kind of humor + is that it finds its basis in the inflicting of pain. A painful + situation apparently contains elements of the ridiculous so long + as the pain is not actually of a serious nature. Here, too, the + stage merely mirrors life itself. We laugh at the person who + falls on the ice, at the man who bumps against a chair or table + in the dark, at the headache of the "morning after," at the boy + who eats green apples and pays the abdominal penalty, at the + woman whose shoes are so tight they hurt her, at the person who + is thrown to the floor by a sudden lurch of a street-car, and + at the unfortunate who sits on a pin. A man chasing his rolling + hat in the street makes everybody laugh. + + The most successful tricks or jokes are all based on the idea + of pain or embarrassment. Tacks made of rubber, matches that + explode or refuse to light, exploding cigars or cigarettes, + fountain-pens that smear ink over the fingers immediately they + are put to use, "electric" bells with pins secreted in their + push buttons, and boutonnieres that squirt water into the face + of the beholder, are a few familiar examples. + +Here, then, we have the bits of business that three of the ablest +producers of the legitimate stage--all graduates from vaudeville, +by the way--agree upon as sure-fire for the vaudeville two-act. +Paradoxically, however, they should be considered not as instructive +of what you should copy, but as brilliant examples of what you +should avoid. They belong more to vaudeville's Past than to its +Present. Audiences laughed at them yesterday--they may not laugh +at them tomorrow. If you would win success, you must invent new +business in the light of the old successes. The principles +underlying these laugh-getters remain the same forever. + +7. Sure-Fire Laughs Depend upon Action and Situation, Not on Words + +If you will read again what Weber and Fields have to say about +their adventures in human nature, you will note that not once do +they mention the lines with which they accompanied the business +of their two-act. Several times they mention situation--which is +the result of action, when it is not its cause--but the words by +which they accompanied those actions and explained those situations +they did not consider of enough importance to mention. Every +successful two-act, every entertainment-form of which acting is +an element--the playlet and the full-evening play as well--prove +beyond the shadow of a doubt that what audiences laugh at--what +you and I laugh at--is not words, but actions and situations. + +Later on, this most important truth--the very life-blood of stage +reality--will be taken up and considered at greater length in the +study of the playlet. But it cannot be mentioned too often. It +is a vital lesson that you must learn if you would achieve even +the most fleeting success in writing for the stage in general and +vaudeville in particular. + +But by action is not meant running about the stage, or even wild +wavings of the arms. _There must be action in the idea--in the +thought_--even though the performers stand perfectly still. + +So it is not with words, witty sayings, funny observations and +topsy-turvy language alone that the writer works, when he constructs +a vaudeville two-act. It is with clever ideas, expressed in +laughable situations and actions, that his brain is busy when he +begins to marshal to his aid the elements that enter into the +preparation of two-act material. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL + + +It is very likely that in your study of "The German Senator" and +"The Art of Flirtation," there has crossed your mind this thought: +Both the monologue and the two-act are composed of points and gags. +The only difference--besides the merely physical difference of two +persons delivering the gags and the greater amount of business +used to "get them over" [1]--lies in the way the gags are constructed. +The very same gags--twisted just a little differently--would do +equally well for either the monologue or the two-act. + +[1] To _get over_ a vaudeville line or the entire act, means to +make it a success--to make it get over the foot-lights so that the +audience may see and appreciate it, or "get" it. + +I. THE INDIVIDUAL TWIST OF THE TWO-ACT + +There is just enough truth in this to make it seem an illuminating +fact. For instance, take the "janitor point" in "The German +Senator." We may imagine the characters of a two-act working up +through a routine, and then one saying to the other: + + A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to + be a man and he is thoroughly educated he can go into the public + school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month. + +The other swiftly saying: + + And the janitor gets ninety-five. + +There would be a big laugh in this arrangement of this particular +gag, without a doubt. But only a few points of "The German Senator" +could be used for a two-act, with nearly as much effect as in the +monologue form. For instance, take the introduction. Of course, +that is part and parcel of the monologue form, and therefore seems +hardly a fair example, yet it is particularly suggestive of the +unique character of much monologic material. + +But take the series of points in "The German Senator," beginning: +"We were better off years ago than we are now." Picture the effect +if one character said: + +Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing. + + 2nd + +Life to him was a pleasure. + + 1st + +There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about. + + 2nd + +Anything he wanted he could get. + + 1st + +But the old fool had to get lonesome. + + 2nd + +And that's the guy that started all our trouble etc. etc. etc. + +Even before the fourth speech it all sounded flat and tiresome, +didn't it? Almost unconsciously you compared it with the brighter +material in "The Art of Flirtation." But, you may say: "If the +business had been snappy and funny, the whole thing would have +raised a laugh." + +How could business be introduced in this gag--without having the +obvious effect of being lugged in by the heels? Business, to be +effective, must be the body of the material's soul. The material +must suggest the business, so it will seem to be made alive by it. +It must be as much the obvious result of the thought as when your +hand would follow the words, "I'm going to give you this. Here, +take it." + +Herein lies the reason why two-act material differs from monologic +material. Experience alone can teach you to "feel" the difference +unerringly. + +Yet it is in a measure true that some of the points and gags that +are used in many monologues--rarely the anecdotal gag, however, +which must be acted out in non-two-act form--would be equally +effective if differently treated in the two-act. But often this +is not due so much to the points themselves as to the fault of the +writer in considering them monologic points. + +The underlying cause of many such errors may be the family likeness +discernible in all stage material. Still, it is much better for +the writer fully to recompense Peter, than to rob Peter to pay +Paul inadequately. + +Nevertheless, aside from the "feel" of the material--its individual +adaptability--there is a striking similarity in the structural +elements of the monologue and the two-act. Everything in the +chapter on "The Nature of the Monologue" is as true of the two-act +as of the monologue, if you use discrimination. Refer to what was +said about humor, unity of character, compression, vividness, +smoothness and blending, and read it all again in the light of the +peculiar requirements of the two-act. They are the elements that +make for its success. + +II. THINKING OUT THE TWO-ACT + +The two-act--like all stage material in which acting plays a +part--is not written; it is constructed. You may write with the +greatest facility, and yet fail in writing material for the +vaudeville stage. The mere wording of a two-act means little, in +the final analysis. It is the action behind the words that suggests +the stage effect. It is the business--combined with the acting--that +causes the audience to laugh and makes the whole a success. So +the two-act, like every other stage form, must--before it is +written--be thought out. + +In the preceding chapter, you read of the elements that enter into +the construction of a two-act. They are also some of the broad +foundation elements which underlie, in whole or in part, all other +stage-acting--material. A few of the two-act elements that have +to do more particularly with the manuscript construction have been +reserved for discussion in the paragraphs on development. In this +chapter we shall consider what you must have before you even begin +to think out your two-act--your theme. + +1. Selecting a Theme + +Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but it is dangerous for +the imitator. And yet to stray too far afield alone is even more +hazardous. Successful vaudeville writers are much like a band of +Indians marching through an enemy's country--they follow one another +in single file, stepping in each other's footprints. In other +words, they obey the rules of their craft, but their mental strides, +like the Indians' physical footsteps, are individual and distinct. + +2. Fundamental Themes + +Experience has taught effective writers that certain definite +themes are peculiarly adaptable to two-act form and they follow +them. But success comes to them not because they stick to certain +themes only--they win because they vary these fundamental themes +as much as they can and still remain within the limits of proved +theatrical success. + +(a) _The Quarrel Theme_. Search my memory as diligently as I may, +I cannot now recall a single successful two-act that has not had +somewhere in its routine a quarrel, while many of the most successful +two-acts I remember have been constructed with a quarrel as their +routine motives. + +With this observation in mind, re-read "The Art of Flirtation" and +you will discover that the biggest laughs precede, arise from, or +are followed by quarrels. Weber and Fields in their list of the +most humorous business, cite not only mildly quarrelsome actions, +but actually hostile and seemingly dangerous acts. The more hostile +and the more seemingly dangerous they are, the funnier they are. +Run through the Cohan list and you will discover that nearly every +bit of business there reported is based on a quarrel, or might +easily lead to a fight. + +(b) _The "Fool" Theme_. To quote again from Weber and Fields: + + There are two other important items in human nature that we have + capitalized along with others to large profit. Human nature, + according to the way we analyzed it, is such a curious thing + that it will invariably find cause for extreme mirth in seeing + some other fellow being made a fool of, no matter who that fellow + may be, and in seeing a man betting on a proposition when he + cannot possibly win. We figured it out, in the first place, + that nothing pleased a man much more than when he saw another + man being made to look silly in the eyes of others. + + For example, don't you laugh when you observe a dignified looking + individual strutting down the street wearing a paper tail that + has been pinned to his coat by some mischievous boys? [1] + +[1] From the Weber and Fields article already quoted. + +Note how the "fool" theme runs all through "The Art of Flirtation." +Go to see as many two-acts as you can and you will find that one +or another of the characters is always trying to "show up" the +other. + +(c) _The "Sucker" Theme_. + + As for the quirk in human nature that shows great gratification + at the sight of a man betting on something where he is bound to + be the loser: in inelegant language, this relates simply to the + universal impulse to laugh at a "sucker." It is just like + standing in front of a sideshow tent after you have paid your + good money, gone in, and been "stung," and laughing at everyone + else who pays his good money, comes out, and has been equally + "stung." You laugh at a man when he loses the money he has bet + on a race that has already been run when the wager has been + posted. You laugh at a man who bets a man ten dollars "receive" + is spelled "recieve," when you have just looked at the + dictionary and appreciate that he hasn't a chance. . . . Comedy + that lives year after year--no matter whether you choose to call + it "refined" or not--never comes to its exploiters by accident. + The intrinsic idea, the germ, may come accidentally; but the + figuring out of the elaboration and execution of the comedy takes + thinking and a pretty fair knowledge of your fellow men. [1] + +[1] From the Weber and Fields article. + +Although there are very many two-acts--among them "The Art of +Flirtation"--which do not make use of this third fundamental theme, +there are a great many that depend for their biggest laughs upon +this sure-fire subject. + +In common with the "fool" theme, the "sucker" theme lends itself +to use as a part or bit of a two-act. And both these themes are +likely to be interspersed with quarrels. + +There are, of course, other themes that might be classed with these +three fundamental themes. But they tend to trail off upon doubtful +ground. Therefore, as we are considering only those that are on +incontrovertible ground, let us now turn our attention to the act +themes which we will call: + +3. Subject Themes + +What can you bring to the vaudeville stage in the way of themes +that are new? That is what you should ask yourself, rather than +to inquire what has already been done. + +Anything that admits of treatment on the lines of the two-act as +it has been spread before you, offers itself as a subject theme. +In the degree that you can find in it points that are bright, +clever, laughter-provoking and business-suggestive, does it recommend +itself to you as a theme. + +Here is the merest skimming of the themes of the two-acts presented +in one large city during one week: + +Flirting: done in a burlesque way. Our own example, "The Art of +Flirtation." + +Quarrelsome musicians in search of a certain street. One is always +wrong. Gags all on this routine subject. + +Getting a job: "sucker" theme. One character an Italian politician, +the other an Italian laborer. + +Wives: one man is boss at home, the other is henpecked. Furthermore, +the wives don't agree. Quarrel theme. + +Old times: two old schoolmates meet in the city. One a "fly guy," +the other a simple, quiet country fellow. "Fool" theme, in the +old days and the present. + +Note the variety of subjects treated. If my memory serves me +correctly, everyone of these acts had a quarrel either as its +entire subject, or the usual quarrels developed frequently in the +routine. These quarrels, as in most two-acts, were fundamental +to much of their humor. But no two of the acts had the same subject +theme. + +It would seem, then, that in thinking out the two-act, the author +would do well to avoid every theme that has been used--if such a +thing is humanly possible, where everything seems to have been +done--and to attempt, at least, to bring to his two-act a new +subject theme. + +But if this is impossible, the writer should bring to the old theme +a new treatment. Indeed, a new treatment with all its charm of +novelty will make any old theme seem new. One of the standard +recipes for success in any line of endeavor is: "Find out what +somebody else has done, and then do that thing--better." And one +of the ways of making an old theme appear new, is to invest it +with the different personalities of brand new characters. + +III. TWO-ACT CHARACTERS + +From the time when vaudeville first emerged as a commanding new +form of entertainment, distinct from its progenitor, the legitimate +stage, and its near relatives, burlesque and musical comedy, there +have been certain characters indissolubly associated with the +two-act. Among them are the Irish character, or "Tad"; the German, +or "Dutch," as they are often misnamed; the "black-face," or +"Nigger"; the farmer, or "Rube"; the Swedish, or "Swede"; the +Italian, or "Wop"; and the Hebrew, or "Jew." + +Not much chance for a new character, you will say--but have you +thought about the different combinations you can make? There is +a wealth of ready humor waiting not only in varying combinations, +but in placing the characters in new businesses. For example, +doesn't a "Jew" aviator who is pestered by an insurance agent or +an undertaker, strike you as offering amusing possibilities? + +But don't sit right down and think out your two-act on the lines +of the combination I have suggested on the spur of the moment. +Others are sure to be ahead of you. You can only win success with +new characters that are all your own. Then you are likely to be +the first in the field. + +As a final warning, permit the suggestion that bizarre combinations +of characters very probably will be difficult to sell. Make your +combinations within the limits of plausibility, and use characters +that are seen upon the stage often enough to be hailed with at +least a pleasant welcome. + +IV. THE TWO CHARACTER PARTS + +"Comedy" and "Straight" + +The characters of the two-act are technically called the "comedian" +and the "straight-man." The comedian might better be called the +"laugh-man," just as the straight is more clearly termed the +"feeder." + +In the early days of the business the comedian was always +distinguishable by his comedy clothes. One glance would tell you +he was the comical cuss. The straight-man dressed like a "gent," +dazzling the eyes of the ladies with his correct raiment. From +this fact the names "comedian" and "straight" arose. + +But today you seldom can tell the two apart. They do not dress +extravagantly, either for comedy or for fashion effect. They often +dress precisely alike--that is, so far as telling their different +characters is concerned. Their difference in wealth and intelligence +may be reflected in their clothes, but only as such differences +would be apparent in real life. Indeed, the aim today is to mimic +reality in externals, precisely as the real characters themselves +are impersonated in every shade of thought and artistic inflection +of speech. There are, to be sure, exceptions to this modern +tendency. + +The original purposes of their stage names, however, remain as +true today as they did when the two-act first was played. The +comedian has nearly all the laugh lines and the straight-man feeds +him. + +Not only must you keep the characters themselves pure of any +violation of their unity, but you must also see to it that every +big laugh is given to the comedian. If the comedian is the one +"getting the worst of it"--as is almost invariably the case--he +must get the worst of it nearly every time. But that does not +influence the fact that he also gets almost all the laugh lines. + +Note the working out of the laugh lines in "The Art of Flirtation." +You will see that only on the rarest of occasions does the +straight-man have a funny line given him. + +The only time the feeder may be given a laugh line, is when the +laugh is what is called a "flash-back." For example, take the +point in "The Art of Flirtation" beginning: + + COMEDIAN + + And does she answer? + + STRAIGHT + + She's got to; it says it in the book. + + COMEDIAN + + Does she answer you with a handkerchief? + + STRAIGHT + + Yes, or she might answer you with an umbrella. + +This is a flash-back. But, the comedian gets a bigger laugh on +the next line--worked up by a gesture: + + COMEDIAN Over the head. + +Or take this form of the flash-back, which may seem an even clearer +example: + + COMEDIAN + +Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to hear +me talk to my wife. + + STRAIGHT + +To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But +think--, + +and so on into the introduction to the next point. It is always +a safe rule to follow that whenever you give the straight-man a +flash-back, top it with a bigger laugh for the comedian. How many +flash-backs you may permit in your two-act, depends upon the +character of the material, and also varies according to the bigness +of the roars that the business adds to the comedian's laughs. No +stated rule can be given you. In this, as in everything else, you +must carve your own way to win your own business. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER + + +You have selected your theme, chosen your characters, thought out +every angle of business, and mapped nearly all of your points, as +well as your big laugh-lines: now you are ready to put your two-act +on paper. Before "taking your pen in hand," stop for a moment of +self-analysis. + +You can now determine how likely you are to succeed as a writer +of the two-act, by this simple self-examination: + +How much of my two-act have I thought out clearly so that it is +playing before my very eyes? + +If you have thought it all out, so that every bit of business moves +before your eyes, as every point rings in your ears, you are very +likely to turn out an acceptable two-act--if you have not played +a "chooser's" part, and your points are real points. + +But do not imagine because you are positive that you have thought +everything out beforehand, and now have come to writing it down, +that your job of thinking is ended. Not at all; there are a few +things still to be thought out, while you are writing. + +I. WHERE TO BEGIN + +As in the monologue--because your material is made up of points--you +may begin nearly anywhere to write your two-act. And like the +monologue, you need not have a labored formal introduction. + +The Introduction + +Still, your introduction is no less comprehensively informing +because it has not the air of formality. If your characters by +their appearance stamp themselves for what they are, you may trust +complete characterization--as you should in writing every form of +stage material--to what each character does and says. + +But in your very first line you should subtly tell the audience, +so there cannot possibly be any mistake, what your subject is. + +Why are those two men out there on the stage? + +What is the reason for their attitude toward each ther? + +If they are quarreling, why are they quarreling? + +If they are laughing, why are they laughing? + +But don't make the mistake of trying to tell too much. To do that, +would be to make your introduction draggy. You must make the +audience think the characters are bright--precisely as the +introduction of the monologue is designed to make the audience +think the monologist is bright. Write your introduction in very +short speeches. Show the attitude of the characters clearly and +plainly, as the first speech of our two-act example shows the +characters are quarreling: + + STRAIGHT + + Say, whenever we go out together you always got a kick coming. + What's the matter with you? + +Then get into your subject-theme quickly after you have given the +audience time to get acquainted and settled, with the memory of +the preceding act dimmed in their minds by the giggle-points of +your introduction. + +The introduction of the two-act is designed to stamp the characters +as real characters, to establish their relations to each other, +to give the audience time to settle down to the new "turn," to +make them think the performers are "bright" and to delay the first +big laugh until the psychological moment has come to spring the +initial big point of the subject theme, after the act has "got" +the audience. + +II. THE DEVELOPMENT + +It would seem needless to repeat what has already been stated so +plainly in the chapters on the monologue, that no one can teach +you how to write excruciatingly funny points and gags, and that +no one can give you the power to originate laughter-compelling +situations. You must rise or fall by the force of your own ability. + +There are, however, two suggestions that can be given you for the +production of a good two-act. One is a "don't," and the other a +"do." Don't write your points in the form of questions and answers. +The days of the "Why did the chicken cross the road?"--"Because +she wanted to get on the other side" sort of two-act, is past. +Write all your points in conversational style. + +Never write: + + What were you doing at Pat's dinner lathering your face with a + charlotte russe? + +Write it: + + So you were down at Pat's house for dinner, and you went and + lathered your face with a charlotte russe--I saw you. + +Of course when a legitimate question is to be asked, ask it. But +do not deliberately throw your points into question form. Your +guide to the number of direct queries you would use should be the +usual conversational methods of real life. + +Your subject, of course, in a large measure determines how many +questions you need to ask. For instance, if your theme is one +that develops a lot of fun through one character instructing the +other, a correspondingly large number of questions naturally would +be asked. But, as "The Art of Flirtation" plainly shows, you can +get a world of fun out of even an instruction theme, without the +use of a wearying number of inquiries. The two-act fashion today +is the direct, conversational style. + +Now for the second suggestion: + +Although some exceedingly successful two-acts have been written +with many themes scattered through their twelve or more minutes, +probably a larger number have won success through singleness of +subject. A routine with but one subject worked up to its most +effective height is often more likely to please. + +Furthermore, for the reason that the two-act is breaking away from +the offering that is merely pieced together out of successful +bits--precisely as that class of act struggled away from the old +slap-stick turn--the single-routine now finds readier sale. The +present tendency of the two-act seems to be to present clever +characterization--and so to win by artistic acting, as before it +won by cruder methods. + +Therefore, strive for unity of routine. Treat but one subject and +amplify that one subject with singleness of purpose. + +The point, or the gag, of a two-act is very much like that of the +monologue. In so far as construction is concerned--by this I mean +laugh-wave construction--they are identical. Study "The Art of +Flirtation," and you will see how little laughs precede big laughs +and follow after, mounting into still bigger laughs that rise into +roars of laughter. + +1. Introducing a Point + +If you were telling a joke to a friend you would be sure to tell +him in your very first sentence all the things he would need in +order to understand the point of the joke, wouldn't you? You would +take great care not to leave out one salient bit of information +that would make him see the joke plainly--you would be as logical +as though you were trying to sell him a bill of goods. Take the +same attitude toward each point that you introduce into your +two-act. Remember, you are wholesaling your "jokes" to the +comedians, who must retail them to their audiences. Therefore, +introduce each new point as clearly and as briefly as you can. + +Let us take a point from "The Art of Flirtation" and see how it +is constructed. The very first line the straight-man speaks when +he comes out on the stage unmistakably declares his relation to +the comedian. When he shows the book, he explains precisely what +it is. And while laugh after laugh is worked out of it, the precise +things that the book teaches are made clear. + + STRAIGHT + + No. It ain't ten cent love. It's fine love. (Opens book) + See--here is the destructions. Right oil the first page you + learn something. See--how to flirt with a handkerchief. + + COMEDIAN + + Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a + woman. + + STRAIGHT + + Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got + a language. According to this book flirters can speak with the + eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the + handkerchief, with anything; this book tells you how to do it. + + COMEDIAN + + For ten cents. + +Note that the straight-man does not say, "with the eye, cane, +umbrella--" and so on through the list. He says "With the eye, +with the fan, with the cane--." There can be no mistake--as there +might be if the items were enumerated swiftly. Each one is given +importance by the "with the eye, with the fan." The words "with +the" lend emphasis and a humorous weight. + + STRAIGHT + + Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along who wants + to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should do? + + COMEDIAN + + Run the other way. + + STRAIGHT + + No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. . . . + +You see precisely what the subject of this particular point is +because it is stated in unmistakable words. + + STRAIGHT + + . . .As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your + hands in your pockets. + + COMEDIAN + + And hold on to your money. + +Now this is a big laugh at every performance--a sure-fire laugh +when it is well done. Note that it is the fourth line the comedian +has after the specific point introduction, ". . .See--how to flirt +with a handkerchief?" Now the line "Who wants to flirt with a +handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman," is not intended to +be a real laugh-line. It serves as an audience settler, gives +emphasis to the explanation of just what the book tells and helps +to blend into the next line. + +There's a first laugh on, "For ten cents." A bigger laugh comes +on, "Run the other way." And the bigest--in this point-division-- +on the third laugh line "And hold on to your money." + +2. Blending into the Following Point + +When you have a big laugh, you must make the next line carry you +on smoothly into the succeeding lint. It matters not whether the +points are all related to the same general subject or not--although +we are considering here only the single-routine two-act--you must +take great care that each point blends into the following one with +logical sequence. + +The line, "Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt +with a woman," helps in the blending of the point division we have +just examined. + +The straight-man's line following the big laugh line in that point +division, "No, you take out your handkerchief," (biz. [1]) is +another example of the blend-line. And it is the very first +introduction of the peculiar style of business that makes of "The +Art of Flirtation" so funny an act. + +[1] _Biz._ is often used in vaudeville material for _bus._, the +correct contraction of _business_. + +3. The Use of Business + +Let us continue in the examination of this example. + + COMEDIAN + + Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief? + + STRAIGHT + + Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in the book. + Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this. (Biz) Do + you know what that means? + + COMEDIAN + + (Biz. of shaking head.) + + STRAIGHT + + That means you want her to give you-- + + COMEDIAN + + Ten cents. + +The reason why these two words come with such humorous effect, +lies in two causes. First, "ten cents" has been used before with +good laugh results--as a "gag line," you recall--and this is the +comedian's magical "third time" use of it. It is a good example +of the "three-sequence mystery" which Weber and Fields mentioned, +and which has been used to advantage on the stage for many, many +years. + +Second, the comedian had refused to answer the straight-man's +question. He simply stood there and shook his head. It was the +very simple business of shaking his head that made his interruption +come as a surprise and gave perfect setting for the "gag-line." + +Read the speeches that follow and you will see how business is +used. Note particularly how the business makes this point stand +out as a great big laugh: + + STRAIGHT + + . . .Den you hold your handkerchief by the comer like dis. + + COMEDIAN + + Vat does that mean? + + STRAIGHT + + Meet me on the corner. + + COMEDIAN + + Och, dat's fine. (Takes handkerchief). . . Den if you hold it + dis way, dat means (biz.): "Are you on the square?" + +This line reads even funnier than many laughs in the act that are +bigger, but its business cannot be explained in words. It seems +funnier to you because you can picture it. You actually see it, +precisely as it is done. + +Then the next line blends it into the next point, which is clearly +introduced with a grin--is developed into a laugh, a bigger laugh +by effective business, and then into a roar. + +Point after point follows--each point topping the preceding +point--until the end of the two-act is reached in the biggest laugh +of all. + +III. HOW AND WHERE TO END + +The business of the two-act, which secures its effects by actions +that are often wholly without words, makes the two-act more difficult +to time than a monologue. Furthermore, even if the time-consuming +bits of business were negligible, the precise timing of a two-act +by the author is not really necessary. + +Precisely as a monologist can vary the length of his offering by +leaving out gags, the two-act performers can shorten their offering +at will--by leaving out points. Hence it is much better to supply +more points than time will permit to delivery in the finished +performance, than to be required to rewrite your material to stretch +the subject to fill out time. All you need do is to keep the +two-act within, say, twenty minutes. And to gauge the length +roughly, count about one hundred and fifteen words to a minute. + +Therefore, having arranged your points upon separate cards, or +slips of paper, and having shuffied them about and tried them all +in various routines to establish the best, choose your very biggest +laugh for the last. [1] Wherever that biggest laugh may have been +in the sample routines you have arranged, take it out and blend +it in for your final big roar. + +[1] See description of card system, Chapter VI, section III. + +Remember that the last laugh must be the delighted roar that will +take the performers off stage, and bring them back again and again +for their bows. + +IV. MAKING THE MANUSCRIPT A STAGE SUCCESS + +The manuscript of a two-act is only a prophecy of what _may_ be. +It _may_ be a good prophecy or a bad prognostication--only actual +performance before an audience can decide. As we saw in the +monologue, points that the author thought would "go big"--"die"; +and unexpectedly, little grins waken into great big laughs. There +is no way of telling from the manuscript. + +When you have finished your two-act you must be prepared to construct +it all over again in rehearsal, and during all the performances +of its try-out weeks. Not only must the points be good themselves, +they must also fit the performers like the proverbial kid gloves. + +More two-acts--and this applies to all other stage-offerings as +well--have started out as merely promising successes, than have +won at the first try-out. For this reason, be prepared to work +all the morning rehearsing, at the matinee and the night performances, +and after the theatre is dark, to conjure giggle points into great +big laughs, and lift the entire routine into the success your +ability and the performers' cleverness can make it. + +Even after it has won its way into a contract and everybody is +happy, you must be prepared to keep your two-act up-to-the-minute. +While it is on the road, you must send to the performers all the +laughs you can think of--particularly if you have chosen for your +theme one that demands constant furbishing to keep it bright. + +V. OTHER TWO-ACT FORMS + +It is with direct purpose that the discussion of the two-act has +been confined to the kind of act that Weber and Fields made so +successful--and of which Mr. Hoffman's "The Art of Flirtation" is +a more up-to-date, mild and artistic form. There are other forms +of the two-act, of course, but the kind of two-act we have discussed +is peculiarly typical of two-act material. It holds within itself +practically all the elements of the two-act that the writer has +to consider. It is only necessary now to describe the other forms +briefly. + +By "pure two-act form," I mean the two-act that is presented without +songs, tricks, or any other entertainment elements. Yet many of +the most successful two-acts open with a song, introduce songs or +parodies into the middle of their dialogue, or close with a song +or some novelty. + +Do not imagine that a two-act in which songs are introduced cannot +be precisely as good as one that depends upon its talk alone. It +may be an even better act. If it pleases the audience better, it +is a better act. Remember that while we have been discussing the +two-act from the writer's view-point, it is the applause of the +audience that stamps every act with the final seal of approval. +But, whether a two-act makes use of songs or tricks or anything +else, does not change the principles on which all two-act points +and gags are constructed. + +The more common talking two-acts are: + +1. The Sidewalk Conversation or Gag Act + +This form may or may not open and close with songs, and depends +upon skillfully blended, but not necessarily related, gags and +jokes. + +2. The Parody Two-Act + +This sort of act opens and closes with parodies on the latest +song-hits, and uses talk for short rests and humorous effect between +the parodies by which the act makes its chief appeal. + +3. The Singing Two-Act + +This type makes its appeal not by the use of songs, but because +the voices are very fine. Such an act may use a few gags and +unrelated jokes--perhaps of the "nut" variety--to take the act out +of the pure duet class and therefore offer wider appeal. + +4. The Comedy Act for Two Women + +Such acts may depend on precisely the same form of routine the +pure talking two-act for men uses. Of course, the treatment of +the subject themes is gentler and the material is all of a milder +character. + +5. The Two-Act with Plot Interest + +Acts of this character make use of a comedy, burlesque, melodramatic +or even a dramatic plot. This form of sketch seldom rises into +the playlet class. It is a two-act merely because it is played +by two persons. Often, however, this form of the two-act uses a +thread of plot on which to string its business and true two-act +points. It may or may not make use of songs, parodies, tricks or +other entertainment elements. We have now come to a form of two-act +which is of so popular a nature that it requires more than passing +mention. This is + +6. The Flirtation Two-Act + +Usually presented with songs making their appeal to sentiment, +almost always marked by at least one change of costume by the +woman, sometimes distinguished by a special drop and often given +more than a nucleus of plot, this very popular form of two-act +sometimes rises into the dignity of a little production. Indeed, +many two-acts of this kind have been so successful in their little +form they have been expanded into miniature musical comedies [1]. + +[1] See Chapter XXX, The One-Act Musical Comedy. + +(a) _Romance_ is the chief source of the flirtation two-act's +appeal. It is the dream-love in the heart of every person in the +audience which makes this form of two-act "go" so well. Moonlight, +a girl and a man--this is the recipe. + +(b) _Witty Dialogue_ that fences with love, that thrusts, parries +and--surrenders, is what makes the flirtation two-act "get over." +It is the same kind of dialogue that made Anthony Hope's "Dolly +Dialogues" so successful in their day, the sort of speeches which +we, in real life, think of afterward and wish we had made. + +(c) _Daintiness of effect_ is what is needed in this form of +two-act. Dialogue and business, scenery, lights and music all +combine to the fulfillment of its purpose. The cruder touches of +other two-act forms are forgotten and the entire effort is +concentrated on making an appeal to the "ideal." Turn to the +Appendix, and read "After the Shower," and you will see how these +various elements are unified. This famous flirtation two-act has +been chosen because it shows practically all the elements we have +discussed. + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMATIC FORM + + +The playlet is a very definite thing--and yet it is difficult to +define. Like the short-story, painting as we know it today, +photography, the incandescent lamp, the telephone, and the myriad +other forms of art and mechanical conveniences, the playlet did +not spring from an inventor's mind full fledged, but attained its +present form by slow growth. It is a thing of life--and life +cannot be bounded by words, lest it be buried in the tomb of a +hasty definition. + +To attempt even the most cautious of definitions without having +first laid down the foundations of understanding by describing +some of the near-playlet forms to be seen on many vaudeville bills +would, indeed, be futile. For perhaps the surest way of learning +what a thing is, is first to learn what it is not. Confusion is +then less likely to creep into the conception, and the definition +comes like a satisfactory summing up of familiar points that are +resolved into clear words. + +I. NEAR-DRAMATIC FORMS WHICH PRECEDED THE VAUDEVILLE PLAYLET + +Even in the old music hall days, when a patron strolled in from a +hard day's work and sat down to enjoy an even harder evening's +entertainment, the skit or sketch or short play which eventually +drifted upon the boards--where it was seen through the mists of +tobacco smoke and strong drink--was _the_ thing. The admiration +the patrons had for the performers, whom they liberally treated +after the show, did not prevent them from actively driving from +the stage any offering that did not possess the required dramatic +"punch." [1] They had enjoyed the best of everything else the music +hall manager could obtain for their amusement and they demanded +that their bit of a play be, also, the very best of its kind. + +[1] It is worthy of note in this connection that many of the +dramatic and particularly the comedy offerings seen in the music +halls of twenty years ago, and in the "Honkitonks" of Seattle and +other Pacific Coast cities during the Alaskan gold rush, have, +expurgated, furnished the scenarios of a score of the most successful +legitimate dramas and comedies of recent years. Some of our +greatest legitimate and vaudeville performers also came from this +humble and not-to-be-boasted-of school. This phase of the growth +of the American drama has never been written. It should be recorded +while the memories of "old timers" are still fresh. + +No matter what this form of entertainment that we now know by the +name of vaudeville may be called, the very essence of its being +is variety. "Topical songs"--we call their descendants "popular +songs"--classic ballads, short concerts given on all sorts of +instruments, juggling, legerdermain, clowning, feats of balancing, +all the departments of dancing and of acrobatic work, musical +comedy, pantomime, and all the other hundred-and-one things that +may be turned into an amusing ten or twenty minutes, found eager +welcome on the one stage that made it, and still makes it, a +business to present the very newest and the very best of everything. +To complete its claim to the title of variety, to separate itself +from a likeness to the circus, to establish itself as blood brother +of the legitimate stage, and, most important of all, to satisfy +the craving of its audiences for _drama_, vaudeville tried many +forms of the short play before the playlet was evolved to fill the +want. + +Everything that bears even the remotest likeness to a play found +a place and had a more or less fleeting--or lasting--popularity. +And not only was every form of play used, but forms of entertainment +that could not by reason of their very excellencies be made to +fill the crying want, were pressed into service and supplied with +ill-fitting plots in the vain attempt. + +Musical acts, whose chief appeal was the coaxing of musical sounds +from wagon tires, drinking glasses, and exotic instruments, were +staged in the kitchen set. And father just home from work would +say, "Come, daughter, let's have a tune." Then off they would +start, give their little entertainment, and down would come the +curtain on a picture of never-to-be-seen domestic life. Even +today, we sometimes see such a hybrid act. + +Slap-stick sidewalk conversation teams often would hire an author +to fit them with a ready-made plot, and, pushed back behind the +Olio into a centre-door fancy set, would laboriously explain why +they were there, then go through their inappropriate antics and +finish with a climax that never "climaxed." All kinds of two-acts, +from the dancing pair to the flirtatious couple, vainly tried to +give their offerings dramatic form. They did their best to make +them over into little plays and still retain the individual elements +that had won them success. + +The futility of such attempts it took years to realize. It was +only when the stock opening, "I expect a new partner to call at +the house today in answer to my advertisement (which was read for +a laugh) and while I am waiting for him I might as well practice +my song," grew so wearisome that it had to be served with a special +notice in many vaudeville theatres, that these groping two-acts +returned to the pure forms from which they never should have +strayed. But even today you sometimes see such an act--with a +little less inappropriate opening--win, because of the extreme +cleverness of the performers. + +II. DRAMATIC FORMS FROM WHICH THE PLAYLET EVOLVED + +Among the dramatic forms--by which I mean acts depending on dialogue, +plot and "acting" for appeal--that found more or less success in +vaudeville, were sketches and short plays (not playlets) using +either comedy, farce, or dramatic plots, and containing either +burlesque or extravaganza. Let us take these dramatic forms in +their order of widest difference from the playlet and give to each +the explanatory word it deserves. + +1. Extravaganza Acts + +Extravaganza is anything out of rule. It deals comically with the +impossible and the unreal, and serves its purpose best when it +amazes most. Relying upon physical surprises, as well as extravagant +stage-effects, the extravaganza act may be best explained, perhaps, +by naming a famous example--"Eight Bells." The Byrne Brothers +took the elements of this entertainment so often into +vaudeville and out of it again into road shows that it is difficult +to remember where it originated. The sudden appearances of the +acrobatic actors and their amazing dives through seemingly solid +doors and floors, held the very essence of extravaganza. Uncommon +nowadays even in its pure form, the extravaganza act that tries +to ape the play form is seldom if ever seen. + +2. Burlesque Acts + +Burlesque acts, however, are not uncommon today and are of two +different kinds. First, there is the burlesque that is travesty, +which takes a well-known and often serious subject and hits off +its famous features in ways that are uproariously funny. "When +Caesar Sees Her," took the famous meeting between Cleopatra and +Marc Antony and made even the most impressive moment a scream. [1] +And Arthur Denvir's "The Villain Still Pursued Her" (See Appendix), +an exceptionally fine example of the travesty, takes the well- +remembered melodrama and extracts laughter from situations that +once thrilled. + +[1] In musical comedy this is often done to subjects and personalities +of national interest. The Ziegfeld perennial Follies invariably +have bits that are played by impersonators of the national figure +of the moment. Sometimes in musical revues great dramatic successes +are travestied, and the invariable shouts of laughter their +presentation provokes are an illuminating exemplification of the +truth that between tragedy and comedy there is but a step. + +Second, there are the acts that are constructed from bits of comedy +business and depend for their success not on dialogue, but on +action. Merely a thread of plot holds them together and on it is +strung the elemental humor of the comedy bits, which as often as +not may be slap-stick. The purpose being only to amuse for the +moment, all kinds of entertainment forms may be introduced. One +of the most successful examples of the burlesque tab, [2] James +Madison's "My Old Kentucky Home" (See Appendix), serves as the +basic example in my treatment of this vaudeville form. + +[2] _Tab_ is short for tabloid. There may be tabloid musical +comedies--running forty minutes or more--as well as _burlesque +tabs_. + +3. Short Plays + +Short plays, as the name implies, are merely plays that are short. +They partake of the nature of the long play and are simply short +because the philosophic speeches are few and the number of scenes +that have been inserted are not many. The short play may have +sub-plots; it may have incidents that do not affect the main design; +its characters may be many and some may be introduced simply to +achieve life-like effect; and it usually comes to a leisurely end +after the lapse of from twenty minutes to even an hour or more. + +Again like the full-evening play, the one-act play that is merely +short paints its characters in greater detail than is possible in +the playlet, where the strokes are made full and broad. Furthermore, +while in the playlet economy of time and attention are prime +requisites, in the short play they are not; to take some of the +incidents away from the short play might not ruin it, but to take +even one incident away from a playlet would make it incomplete. + +For many years, however, the following tabloid forms of the +legitimate drama were vaudeville's answer to the craving of its +audiences for drama. + +(a) _Condensed Versions, "Big" Scenes and Single Acts of Long +Plays_. For example--an example which proves three points in a +single instance: the need for drama in vaudeville, vaudeville's +anxiety for names, and its willingness to pay great sums for what +it wants--Joseph Jefferson was offered by F. F. Proctor, in 1905, +the then unheard-of salary of $5,000 a week for twelve consecutive +weeks to play "Bob Acres" in a condensed version of "The Rivals." +Mr. Jefferson was to receive this honorarium for himself alone, +Mr. Proctor agreeing to furnish the condensed play, the scenery +and costumes, and pay the salaries of the supporting cast. The +offer was not accepted, but it stood as the record until Martin +Beck paid Sarah Bernhardt the sum of $7,500 a week for herself and +supporting players during her famous 1913 tour of the Orpheum +Circuit. In recent years nearly every legitimate artist of national +and international reputation has appeared in vaudeville in some +sort of dramatic vehicle that had a memory in the legitimate. + +But that neither a condensed play, nor one "big" scene or a single +act from a long play, is not a playlet should be apparent when you +remember the impression of inadequacy left on your own mind by +such a vehicle, even when a famous actor or actress has endowed +it with all of his or her charm and wonderful art. + +(b) _The Curtain-Raiser_. First used to supplement or preface a +short three-act play so as to eke out a full evening's entertainment, +the little play was known as either an "afterpiece" or a +"curtain-raiser"; usually, however, it was presented before the +three-act drama, to give those who came early their full money's +worth and still permit the fashionables, who "always come late," +to be present in time to witness the important play of the evening. +Then it was that "curtain-raiser" was considered a term of reproach. +But often in these days a curtain-raiser, like Sir James M. Barrie's +"The Twelve Pound Look," proves even more entertaining and worth +while than the ambitious play it precedes. + +That Ethel Barrymore took "The Twelve Pound Look" into vaudeville +does not prove, however, that the curtain-raiser and the vaudeville +playlet are like forms. As in the past, the curtain-raiser of +today usually is more kin to the long play than to the playlet. +But it is nevertheless true that in some recent curtain-raisers +the compact swiftness and meaningful effect of the playlet form +has become more apparent--they differ from the vaudeville playlet +less in form than in legitimate feeling. + +Historically, however, the curtain-raiser stands in much the same +position in the genealogy of the playlet that the forms discussed +in the preceding section occupy. As in the other short plays, +there was no sense of oneness of plot and little feeling of +coming-to-the-end that mark a good playlet. + +Therefore, since the short play could not fully satisfy the +vaudeville patron's natural desire for drama, the sketch held the +vaudeville stage unchallenged until the playlet came. + +4. Vaudeville Sketches + +The vaudeville sketch in the old days was almost anything you might +care to name, in dramatic form. Any vaudeville two-act that stepped +behind the Olio and was able to hold a bit of a plot alive amid +its murdering of the King's English and its slap-stick ways, took +the name of "a sketch." But the "proper sketch," as the English +would say--the child of vaudeville and elder half-brother to the +playlet--did not make use of other entertainment forms. It depended +on dialogue, business and acting and a more or less consistent +plot or near-plot for its appeal. Usually a comedy--yet sometimes +a melodrama--the vaudeville sketch of yesterday and of today rarely +makes plot a chief element. The _story_ of a sketch usually means +little in its general effect. The general effect of the sketch +is--general. That is one of the chief differences between it and +the playlet. + +The purpose of the sketch is not to leave a single impression of +a single story. It points no moral, draws no conclusion, and +sometimes it might end quite as effectively anywhere before the +place in the action at which it does terminate. It is built for +entertainment purposes only, and furthermore, for entertainment +purposes that end the moment the sketch ends. When you see a +sketch you carry away no definite impression, save that of +entertainment, and usually you cannot remember what it was that +entertained you. Often a sketch might be incorporated into a +burlesque show or a musical comedy and serve for part of an act, +without suffering, itself, in effect. [1] And yet, without the +sketch of yesterday there would be no playlet today. + +[1] Not so many years ago, a considerable number of vaudeville +sketches were used in burlesque; and vice versa, many sketches +were produced in burlesque that afterward had successful runs in +vaudeville. Yet they were more than successful twenty-minute +"bits," taken out of burlesque shows. They had a certain completeness +of form which did not lose in effect by being transplanted. + +(a) _The Character Sketch_. Some sketches, like Tom Nawn's "Pat +and the Geni," and his other "Pat" offerings, so long a famous +vaudeville feature, are merely character sketches. Like the +near-short-story character-sketch, the vaudeville sketch often +gives an admirable exposition of character, without showing any +change in the character's heart effected by the incidents of the +story. "Pat" went through all sorts of funny and startling +adventures when he opened the brass bottle and the Geni came forth, +but he was the very same Pat when he woke up and found it all a +dream. [1] + +[1] The Ryan and Richfield acts that have to do with Haggerty and +his society-climbing daughter Mag, may be remembered. For longer +than my memory runs, Mag Haggerty has been trying to get her father +into society, but the Irish brick-layer will never "arrive." The +humor lies in Haggerty's rich Irishness and the funny mistakes he +always makes. The "Haggerty" series of sketches and the "Pat" +series show, perhaps better than any others, the closeness of the +character-sketch short-story that is often mistaken for the true +short-story, to the vaudeville sketch that is so often considered +a playlet. + +Indeed, the vaudeville sketch was for years the natural vehicle +and "artistic reward" for clever actors who made a marked success +in impersonating some particular character in burlesque or in the +legitimate. The vaudeville sketch was written around the personality +of the character with which success had been won and hence was +constructed to give the actor opportunity to show to the best +advantage his acting in the character. And in the degree that it +succeeded it was and still is a success--and a valuable entertainment +form for vaudeville. + +(b) _The Narrative Sketch_. Precisely as the character sketch is +not a playlet, the merely narrative sketch is not a true playlet. +No matter how interesting and momentarily amusing or thrilling may +be the twenty-minute vaudeville offering that depends upon incident +only, it does not enlist the attention, hold the sympathy, or +linger in the memory, as does the playlet. + +Character revelation has little place in the narrative sketch, a +complete well-rounded plot is seldom to be found, and a change in +the relations of the characters rarely comes about. The sketch +does not convince the audience that it is complete in itself--rather +it seems an incident taken out of the middle of a host of similar +experiences. It does not carry the larger conviction of reality +that lies behind reality. + +(1) _The Farce Sketch_. Nevertheless such excellent farce sketches +as Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Drew, Rice and Cohen, Homer Mason and +Margaret Keeler, and other sterling performers have presented in +vaudeville, are well worth while. The fact that many of the minor +incidents that occur in such finely amusing sketches as Mason and +Keeler's "In and Out" [1] do not lend weight to the ending, but +seem introduced merely to heighten the cumulative effect of the +farce-comedy, does not prove them, or the offering, to be lacking +in entertainment value for vaudeville. Rather, the use of just +such extraneous incidents makes these sketches more worth while; +but the introduction of them and the dependence upon them, for +interest, does mark such offerings as narrative sketches rather +than as true playlets. + +[1] By Porter Emerson Brown, author of A Fool There Was, and other +full-evening plays. + +(2) _The Straight Dramatic and Melodramatic Sketch_. In identically +the same way the introduction into one-act dramas and melodramas +of "bits" that are merely added to heighten the suspense and make +the whole seem more "creepy," without having a definite--an +inevitable--effect upon the ending makes and marks them as narrative +dramas and melodramas and not true playlet forms. + +From the foregoing examples we may now attempt + +5. A Definition of a Vaudeville Sketch + + A Vaudeville Sketch is a simple narrative, or a character sketch, + presented by two or more people, requiring usually about twenty + minutes to act, having little or no definite plot, developing + no vital change in the relations of the characters, and depending + on effective incidents for its appeal, rather than on the + singleness of effect of a problem solved by character revelation + and change. + +It must be borne in mind that vaudeville is presenting today all +sorts of sketches, and that nothing in this definition is levelled +against their worth. All that has been attempted so far in this +chapter has been to separate for you the various forms of dramatic +and near-dramatic offerings to be seen in vaudeville. A good +sketch is decidedly worth writing. And you should also remember +that definitions and separations are dangerous things. There are +vaudeville sketches that touch in one point or two or three the +peculiar requirements of the playlet and naturally, in proportion +as these approach closely the playlet form, hair-splitting separations +become nearly, if not quite, absurd. + +Furthermore, when an experienced playwright sits down to write a +vaudeville offering he does not consider definitions. He has in +his mind something very definite that he plans to produce and he +produces it irrespective of definitions. He is not likely to stop +to inquire whether it is a sketch or a playlet. [1] The only +classifications the professional vaudeville writer considers, are +failures and successes. He defines a success by the money it +brings him. + +[1] In discussing this, Arthur Hopkins said: "When vaudeville +presents a very good dramatic offering, 'playlet' is the word used +to describe it. If it isn't very fine, it is called a 'sketch.'" + +But today there is a force abroad in vaudeville that is making for +a more artistic form of the one-act play. It is the same artistic +spirit that produced out of short fiction the short-story. This +age has been styled the age of the short-story and of vaudeville--it +is, indeed, the age of the playlet. + +The actor looking for a vaudeville vehicle today is not content +with merely an incident that will give him the opportunity to +present the character with which he has won marked success on the +legitimate stage. Nor is he satisfied with a series of incidents, +however amusing or thrilling they may be. He requires an offering +that will lift his work into a more artistic sphere. He desires +a little play that will be remembered after the curtain has been +rung down. + +This is the sort of vehicle that he must present to win success +in vaudeville for any length of time. While vaudeville managers +may seem content to book an act that is not of the very first rank, +because it is played by someone whose ability and whose name glosses +over its defects, they do not encourage such offerings by long +contracts. Even with the most famous of names, vaudeville +managers--reflecting the desires of their audiences--demand +acceptable playlets. + +III. HOW THE VAUDEVILLE SKETCH AND THE PLAYLET DIFFER + +Edgar Allan Woolf, one of the day's most successful playlet writers +who has won success year after year with vaudeville offerings that +have been presented by some of the most famous actors of this +country and of England, said when I asked him what he considered +to be the difference between the sketch and the playlet: + +"There was a time when the vaudeville sketch was moulded on lines +that presented less difficulties and required less technique of +the playwright than does the playlet of today. The curtain generally +rose on a chambermaid in above-the-ankle skirts dusting the furniture +as she told in soliloquy form that her master and mistress had +sent for a new butler or coachman or French teacher. How the +butler, coachman or French teacher might make her happier was not +disclosed. + +"Then came a knock on the door, followed by the elucidating remark +of the maid, 'Ah, this must be he now.' A strange man thereupon +entered, who was not permitted to say who he was till the piece +was over or there would have been no piece. The maid for no reason +mistook him for the butler, coachman or French teacher, as the +case may have been, and the complications ensuing were made hilarious +by the entrance of the maid's husband who, of course, brought about +a comedy chase scene, without which no 'comedietta' was complete. +Then all characters met--hasty explanations--and 'comedy curtain.' + +"Today, all these things are taboo. A vaudeville audience resents +having the 'protiasis' or introductory facts told them in monologue +form, as keenly as does the 'legitimate' audience. Here, too, the +actor may not explain his actions by 'asides.' And 'mistaken +identity' is a thing of the past. + +"Every trivial action must be thoroughly motivated, and the finish +of the playlet, instead of occurring upon the 'catabasis,' or +general windup of the action, must develop the most striking feature +of the playlet, so that the curtain may come down on a surprise, +or at least an event toward which the entire action has been +progressing. + +"But the most important element that has developed in the playlet +of today is the problem, or theme. A little comedy that provokes +laughter yet means nothing, is apt to be peddled about from week +to week on the 'small time' and never secure booking in the better +houses. In nearly all cases where the act has been a 'riot' of +laughter, yet has failed to secure bookings, the reason is to be +found in the fact that it is devoid of a definite theme or central +idea. + +"The booking managers are only too eager to secure playlets--and +now I mean precisely the _playlet_--which are constructed to develop +a problem, either humorous or dramatic. The technique of the +playlet playwright is considered in the same way that the three-act +playwright's art of construction is analyzed by the dramatic +critic." + +IV. WHAT A PLAYLET IS + +We have seen what the playlet is not. We have considered the +various dramatic and near-dramatic forms from which it differs. +And now, having studied its negative qualities, I may assemble its +positive characteristics before we embark once more upon the +troubled seas of definition. The true playlet is marked by the +following ten characteristics: + +1--A clearly motivated opening--not in soliloquy form. + +2--A single definite and predominating problem or theme. + +3--A single preeminent character. + +4--Motivated speeches. + +5--Motivated business and acting. + +6--Unity of characters. + +7--Compression. + +8--Plot. + +9--A finish that develops the most striking feature into a +surprise--or is an event toward which every speech and every action +has been progressing. + +10--Unity of impression [1] + +[1] See page 30, Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, +published in "The Writer's Library," uniform with this volume. +Note the seven characteristics of the short-story and compare them +with the playlet's ten characteristics. You will find a surprising +similarity between the short-story and the playlet in some points +of structure. A study of both in relation to each other may give +you a clearer understanding of each. + +Each of these characteristics has already been discussed in our +consideration of the dramatic forms--either in its negative or +positive quality--or will later be taken up at length in its proper +place. Therefore, we may hazard in the following words + +A Definition of a Playlet + + A Playlet is a stage narrative taking usually about twenty minutes + to act, having a single chief character, and a single problem + which predominates, and is developed by means of a plot so + compressed and so organized that every speech and every action + of the characters move it forward to a finish which presents the + most striking features; while the whole is so organized as to + produce a single impression. + +You may haunt the vaudeville theatres in a vain search for a playlet +that will embody all of these characteristics in one perfect +example. [1] But the fact that a few playlets are absolutely perfect +technically is no reason why the others should be condemned. +Remember that precise conformity to the rules here laid down is +merely academic perfection, and that the final worth of a playlet +depends not upon adherence to any one rule, or all--save as they +point the way to success--but upon how the playlet as a whole +succeeds with the audience. + +[1] Study the playlet examples in the Appendix and note how closely +each approaches technical perfection. + +Yet there will be found still fewer dramatic offerings in vaudeville +that do not conform to some of these principles. Such near-playlets +succeed not because they evade the type, but mysteriously in spite +of their mistakes. And as they conform more closely to the standards +of what a playlet should be, they approach the elements that make +for lasting success. + +But beyond these "rules"--if rules there really are--and far above +them in the heights no rules can reach, lies that something which +cannot be defined, which breathes the breath of life into words +and actions that bring laughter and tears. Rules cannot build the +bridge from your heart to the hearts of your audiences. Science +stands abashed and helpless before the task. All that rules can +suggest, all that science can point out--is the way others have +built their bridges + +For this purpose only, are these standards of any value to you. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +KINDS OF PLAYLET + + +The kind of playlet is largely determined by its characters and +their surroundings, and on these there are practically no limits. +You may have characters of any nationality; you may treat them +reverently, or--save that you must never offend--you may make them +as funny as you desire; you may give them any profession that suits +your purpose; you may place them in any sort of house or on the +open hills or in an air-ship high in the sky; you may show them +in any country of the earth or on the moon or in the seas under +the earth--you may do anything you like with them. Vaudeville +wants everything--everything so long as it is well and strikingly +done. Therefore, to attempt to list the many different kinds of +playlet to be seen upon the vaudeville stage would, indeed, be a +task as fraught with hazard as to try to classify minutely the +divers kinds of men seen upon the stage of life. And of just as +little practical value would it be to have tables showing the +scores of superficial variations of character, nationality, time +and place which the years have woven into the playlets of the past. + +In the "art" of the playlet there are, to be sure, the same three +"schools"--more or less unconsciously followed in nearly every +vaudeville instance--which are to be found in the novel, the +short-story, painting, and the full-length play. These are, of +course, realism, romance, and idealism. [1] These distinctions, +however, are--in vaudeville--merely distinctions without being +valuable differences. You need never give thought as to the school +to which you are paying allegiance in your playlet; your work will +probably be neither better nor worse for this knowledge or its +lack. Your playlet must stand on its own legs, and succeed or +fail by the test of interest. Make your playlet grip, that is the +thing. + +[1] Should you wish to dally with the mooted question of the +difference between realism and romanticism--in the perplexing mazes +of which many a fine little talent has been snuffed out like a +flickering taper in a gust of wind--there are a score or more +volumes that you will find in any large library, in which the whole +matter is thrashed out unsatisfactorily. However, if you wish to +spend a half-hour profitably and pleasantly, read Robert Louis +Stevenson's short chapter, A Note on Realism, to be found in his +suggestive and all-too-few papers on The Art of Writing. In the +collection of his essays entitled Memories and Portraits will be +found an equally delightful and valuable paper, A Gossip on Romance. +A brief technical discussion will also be found in Writing the +Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, pp. 64-67. + +But do not confuse the word "romance," as it is used in the preceding +paragraph, with love. Love is an emotional, not a technical +element, and consorts equally well with either romance or realism +in writing. Love might be the heading of one of those tables we +have agreed not to bother with. Into everything that is written +for vaudeville love may stray. Or it may not intrude, if your +purpose demands that love stay out. Yet, like the world, what +would vaudeville be, if love were left out? And now we come to +those broad types of playlet which you should recognize instinctively. +Unless you do so recognize them--and the varying half-grounds that +lie between, where they meet and mingle quite as often as they +appear in their pure forms--you will have but little success in +writing the playlet. + +In considering the broad types of playlet you should remember that +words are said to _denote_ definitely the ideas they delineate, +and to _connote_ the thoughts and emotions they do not clearly +express but arouse in the hearer or reader. For example, what do +"farce," "comedy," "tragedy" and "melodrama" _connote_ to you? +What emotions do they suggest? This is an important matter, because +all great artistic types are more or less fully associated with a +mood, a feeling, an atmosphere. + +Webster's dictionary gives to them the following denotations, or +definitions: + +_Farce_: "A dramatic composition, written without regularity, and +differing from comedy chiefly in the grotesqueness, extravagance +and improbability of its characters and incidents; low comedy." + +Arthur Denvir's "The Villain Still Pursued Her" is one of the +best examples of the travesty vaudeville has produced. [1] James +Madison's "My Old Kentucky Home" is a particularly fine example +of burlesque in tabloid form. [1] These two acts have been chosen +to show the difference between two of the schools of farce. + +[1] See Appendix. + +_Comedy_: "A dramatic composition or representation, designed for +public amusement and usually based upon laughable incidents, or +the follies or foibles of individuals or classes; a form of the +drama in which humor and mirth predominate, and the plot of which +usually ends happily; the opposite of tragedy." + +Edgar Allan Woolf's "The Lollard" is an exceptionally good example +of satirical comedy. [1] + +_Tragedy_: "A dramatic composition, representing an important event +or a series of events in the life of some person or persons in +which the diction is elevated, the movement solemn and stately, +and the catastrophe sad; a kind of drama of a lofty or mournful +cast, dealing with the dark side of life and character." Richard +Harding Davis's "Blackmail" is a notable example of tragedy. [1] + +[1] See Appendix. + +_Melodrama_: "A romantic [connoting love] play, generally of a +serious character, in which effect is sought by startling incidents, +striking situations, exaggerated sentiment and thrilling denouement, +aided by elaborate stage effects. The more thrilling passages are +sometimes accentuated by musical accompaniments, the only surviving +relic of the original musical character of the melodrama." + +Taylor Granville's "The System" is one of the finest examples of +pure melodrama seen in vaudeville. [2] + +[2] Written by Taylor Granville, Junie MacCree and Edward Clark; +see Appendix. + +There are, of course, certain other divisions into which these +four basic kinds of playlet--as well as the full-length play--may +be separated, but they are more or less false forms. However, +four are worthy of particular mention: + +_The Society Drama_: The form of drama in which a present-day story +is told, and the language, dress and manners of the actors are +those of polite modern society. [1] You will see how superficial +the distinction is, when you realize that the plot may be farcical, +comic, tragic or melodramatic. + +[1] As the dramas of the legitimate stage are more often remembered +by name than are vaudeville acts, I will mention as example of the +society drama Clyde Fitch's The Climbers. This fine satire skirted +the edge of tragedy. + +The same is true of + +_The Problem Drama_: The form of drama dealing with life's +"problems"--of sex, business, or what not. [2] + +[2] Ibsen's Ghosts; indeed, nearly every one of the problem master's +plays offer themselves as examples of the problem type. + +And the same is likewise true of + +_The Pastoral-Rural Drama_: The form of drama dealing with rustic +life. [3] + +[3] The long play Way Down East is a fine example of the pastoral--or +rural--drama of American life. + +And also of + +_The Detective Drama_: [4] The form of drama dealing with the +detection of crime and the apprehension of the criminal. I cannot +recollect a detective playlet--or three-act play, for that +matter--that is not melodramatic. When the action is not purely +melodramatic, the lines and the feeling usually thrill with +melodrama. [5] "The System," which is a playlet dealing with the +detection of detectives, is but one example in point. + +[4] Mr. Charlton Andrews makes a series of interesting and helpful +discriminations among the several dramatic forms, in his work The +Technique of Play Writing, published uniform with this volume in +"The Writer's Library." + +[5] Sherlock Holmes, William Gillette's masterly dramatization of +Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous detective stories, is melodramatic +even when the action is most restrained. + +Here, then, we have the four great kinds of playlet, and four out +of the many variations that often seem to the casual glance to +possess elemental individuality. + +Remember that this chapter is merely one of definitions and that +a definition is a description of something given to it after--not +before--it is finished. A definition is a tag, like the label the +entomologist ties to the pin after he has the butterfly nicely +dead. Of questionable profit it would be to you, struggling to +waken your playlet into life, to worry about a definition that +might read "Here Lies a Polite Comedy." + +Professor Baker says that the tragedies of Shakespere may have +seemed to the audiences of their own day "not tragedies at all, +but merely more masterly specimens of dramatic story-telling than +the things that preceded them." [1] If Shakespere did not worry +about the precise labels of the plays he was busy writing and +producing, you and I need not. Forget definitions--forget everything +but your playlet and the grip, the thrill, the punch, the laughter +of your plot. + +[1] Development of Shakespere as a Dramatist, by Prof. Baker of +Harvard University. + +To sum up: The limits of the playlet are narrow, its requirements +are exacting, but within those limits and those requirements you +may picture anything you possess the power to present. Pick out +from life some incident, character, temperament--whatever you +will--and flash upon it the glare of the vaudeville spot-light; +breathe into it the breath of life; show its every aspect and +effect; dissect away the needless; vivify the series of actions +you have chosen for your brief and trenchant crisis; lift it all +with laughter or touch it all with tears. Like a searchlight your +playlet must flash over the landscape of human hearts and rest +upon some phase of passion, some momentous incident, and make it +stand out clear and real from the darkness of doubt that surrounds +it. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED + + +Where does a playlet writer get his idea? How does he recognize +a playlet idea when it presents itself to him? How much of the +playlet is achieved when he hits on the idea? These questions are +asked successful playlet writers every day, but before we proceed +to find their answers, we must have a paragraph or two of definition. + + +I. THE THEME-PROBLEM AND ITS RANGE + +Whenever the word "problem" is used--as, "the problem of a playlet"--I +do not mean it in the sense that one gathers when he hears the +words "problem play"; nothing whatever of sex or the other problems +of the day is meant. What I mean is grasped at first glance better, +perhaps, by the word "theme." Yet "theme" does not convey the +precise thought I wish to associate with the idea. + +A theme is a subject--that much I wish to convey--but I choose +"problem" because I wish to connote the fact that the theme of a +playlet is more than a subject: it is precisely what a problem in +mathematics is. Given a problem in geometry, you must solve +it--from its first statement all the way through to the "Q.E.D." +Each step must bear a plain and logical relation to that which +went before and what follows. Your playlet theme is your problem, +and you must choose for a theme or subject only such a problem as +can be "proved" conclusively within the limits of a playlet. + +Naturally, you are inclined to inquire as a premise to the questions +that open this chapter, What are the themes or subjects that offer +themselves as best suited to playlet requirements? In other words, +what make the best playlet problems? Here are a few that present +themselves from memory of playlets that have achieved exceptional +success: + +A father may object to his son's marrying anyone other than the +girl whom he has chosen for him, but be won over by a little +baby--"Dinkelspiel's Christmas," by George V. Hobart. + +A slightly intoxicated young man may get into the wrong house by +mistake and come through all his adventures triumphantly to remain +a welcome guest--"In and Out," by Porter Emerson Brown. + +A "crooked" policeman may build up a "system," but the honest +policemen will hunt him down, even letting the lesser criminal +escape to catch the greater--"The System," by Taylor Granville, +Junie MacCree and Edward Clark. + +Youth that lies in the mind and not in the body or dress may make +a grandmother act and seem younger than her granddaughter--"Youth," +by Edgar Allan Woolf. + +A foolish young woman may leave her husband because she has "found +him out," yet return to him again when she discovers that another +man is no better than he is--"The Lollard," by Edgar Allan Woolf. + +A man may do away with another, but escape the penalty because of +the flawless method of the killing--"Blackmail," by Richard Harding +Davis. + +A wide range of themes is shown in even these few playlets, isn't +there? Yet the actual range of themes from which playlet problems +may be chosen is not even suggested. Though I stated the problems +of all the playlets that were ever presented in vaudeville, the +field of playlet-problem possibilities would not be even adequately +suggested. Anything, everything, presents itself for a playlet +problem--if you can make it human, interesting and alive. + +What interests men and women? Everything, you answer. Whatever +interests you and your family, and your neighbor and his family, +and the man across the street and his wife's folks back home--is +a subject for a playlet. Whatever causes you to stop and think, +to laugh or cry, is a playlet problem. "Art is life seen through +a personality," is as true of the playlet as of any other art form. + +Because some certain subject or theme has never been treated in a +playlet, does not mean that it cannot be. It simply means that +that particular subject has never yet appealed to a man able to +present it successfully. Vaudeville is hungering for writers able +to make gripping playlets out of themes that never have been treated +well. To such it offers its largest rewards. What do you know +better than anyone else--what do you feel keener than anyone else +does--what can you present better than anyone else? That is the +subject you should choose for _your_ playlet problem. + +And so you see that a playlet problem is not merely just "an idea"; +it is a subject that appeals to a writer as offering itself with +peculiar credentials--as the theme that he should select. It is +anything at all--anything that you can make _your own_ by your mastery +of its every angle. + +1. What Themes to Avoid + +(a) _Unfamiliar Themes_. If a subject of which you have not a +familiar knowledge presents itself to you, reject it. Imagine how +a producer, the actors and an audience--if they let the thing go +that far--would laugh at a playlet whose premises were false and +whose incidents were silly, because untrue. Never give anyone an +opportunity to look up from a manuscript of yours and grin, as he +says: "This person's a fool; he doesn't know what he's writing +about." + +(b) _"Cause" Themes_. Although more powerful than the "stump" or +the pulpit today, and but little less forceful than the newspaper +as a means of exposing intolerable conditions and ushering in new +and better knowledge, the stage is not the place for propaganda. +The public goes to the theatre to be entertained, not +instructed--particularly is this true of vaudeville--and the writer +daring enough to attempt to administer even homeopathic doses of +instruction, must be a master-hand to win. Once in a generation +a Shaw may rise, who, by a twist of his pen, can make the public +think, while he wears a guileful smile as he propounds philosophy +from under a jester's cap; but even then his plays must be edited--as +some of Shaw's are--of all but the most dramatic of his belligerently +impudent notions. + +If you have a religious belief, a political creed, a racial +propagandum--in short, a "cause"--either to defend or to forward, +don't write it in a drama. The legitimate stage might be induced +to present it, if someone were willing to pay the theatre's losses, +but vaudeville does not want it. Choose any form of presentation--a +newspaper article, a magazine story, anything at all--save a playlet +for polemic or "cause" themes. + +(c) _Hackneyed Themes_. What has been "done to death" in vaudeville? +You know as well as the most experienced playlet-writer, if you +will only give the subject unbiased thought. What are the things +that make you squirm in your seat and the man next you reach for +his hat and go out? A list would fill a page, but there are two +that should be mentioned because so many playlets built upon them +are now being offered to producers without any hope of acceptance. +There is the "mistaken identity" theme, in which the entire action +hinges on one character's mistaking another for someone else--one +word spoken in time would make the entire action needless, but the +word is never spoken--or there would be no playlet. And the +"henpecked husband," or the mistreated wife, who gets back at the +final curtain, is a second. Twenty years hence either one of these +may be the theme of the "scream" of the season, for stage fashions +change like women's styles, but, if you wish your playlet produced +today, don't employ them. + +(d) _Improper Themes_. Any theme that would bring a blush to the +cheek of your sister, of your wife, of your daughter, you must +avoid. No matter how pure your motive might be in making use of +such a theme, resolutely deny it when it presents itself to you. +The fact that the young society girl who offered me a playlet based +on, to her, an amazing experience down at the Women's Night +Court--where she saw the women of the streets brought before the +judge and their "men" paying the fines--was a clean-minded, +big-hearted girl anxious to help better conditions, did not make +her theme any cleaner or her playlet any better. + +Of course, I do not mean that you must ignore such conditions when +your playlet calls for the use of such characters. I mean that +you should not base your playlet entirely on such themes--you +should never make such a theme the chief reason of your playlet's +being. + +2. What Themes to Use + +You may treat any subject or play upon any theme, whatsoever it +may be, provided it is not a "cause," is not hackneyed, is not +improper for its own sake and likely to bring a blush to the cheeks +of those you love, _is_ familiar to you in its every angle, and is +a subject that forms a problem which can be proved conclusively +within the requirements of a playlet. + +II. WHERE PLAYLET WRITERS GET THEIR IDEAS + +1. The Three Forms of Dramatic Treatment + +It is generally accepted by students of the novel and the short-story +that there are three ways of constructing a narrative: + +(a) Characters may be fitted with a story. + +(b) A sequence of events may be fitted with characters. + +(c) An interesting atmosphere may be expressed by characters and +a sequence of events. + +In other words, a narrative may be told by making either the +characters or the events or the atmosphere peculiarly and particularly +prominent. + +It should be obvious that the special character of vaudeville makes +the last-named--the story of atmosphere--the least effective; +indeed, as drama is action--by which I mean a clash of wills and +the outcome--no audience would be likely to sit through even +twenty minutes of something which, after all, merely results in a +"feeling." Therefore the very nature of the pure story of atmosphere +eliminates it from the stage; next in weakness of effect is the +story of character; while the strongest--blood of its blood and +bone of its bone--is the story of dramatic events. This is for +what the stage is made and by which it lives. To be sure, character +and atmosphere both have their places in the play of dramatic +action, but for vaudeville those places must be subordinate. + +These last two ways of constructing a story will be taken up and +discussed in detail later on, in their proper order; they are +mentioned here to help make clear how a playwright gets an idea. + +2. Themes to fit Certain Players + +It is not at all uncommon for a playlet writer to be asked to fit +some legitimate star, about to enter vaudeville, with a playlet +that shall have for its hero or its heroine the particular character +in which the star has had marked success. [1] And often a man and +wife who have achieved a reputation in vaudeville together will +order a new playlet that shall have characters modeled on the lines +of those in the old playlet. Or, indeed, as I have know in many +instances, three performers will order a playlet in which there +must be characters to fit them all. When a writer receives such +an order it would seem that at least a part of his task is already +done for him; but this is not the case, he still must seek that +most important things--a story. + +[1] In precisely the same way writers of the full-evening play for +the legitimate stage are forever fashioning vehicles for famous +stars. The fact that the chief consideration is the star and that +the play is considered merely as a "vehicle" is one of the reasons +why our plays are not always of the best. Where you consider a +personality greater than a story, the story is likely to suffer. +Can you name more than one or two recent plays so fashioned that +have won more than a season's run? + +3. Themes Born in the Mind of the Writer + +The beginner, fortunately, is not brought face to face with this +problem; he is foot-free to wander wherever his fancy leads. And +yet he may find in his thoughts a character or two who beg to serve +him so earnestly that he cannot deny them. So he takes them, +knowing them so well that he is sure he can make them live--and +he constructs a story around them. + +Or there may first pop into his mind a story in its entirety, full +fledged, with beginning, middle and ending--that is; thoroughly +motivated in every part and equipped with characters that live and +breathe. Unhappily this most fortunate of occurrences usually +happens only in the middle of the night, when one must wake up +next morning and sadly realize it was but a dream. + +4. The Newspaper as a Source of Ideas. + +A playwright, let us say, reads in the newspapers of some striking +characters, or of an event that appeals to him as funny or as +having a deep dramatic import. There may be only a few bald lines +telling the news. features of the story in one sentence, or there +may be an entire column, discussing the case from every angle. +Whatever it is, the bit of news appeals to him, and maybe of all +men to him only, so he starts _thinking_ about the possibilities it +offers for a playlet. + +5. Happenings of which the Playwright is Told or Which Occur +under his Notice + +Some striking incident rises out of the life about the playwright +and he sees it or hears about it, and straightway comes the thought: +This is a playlet idea. A large number of playlets have been +germinated so. + +6. Experiences that Happen to the Playwright + +Some personal experience which wakens in the mind of the playwright +the thought, Here's something that'll make a good playlet, is one +of the fruitful sources of playlet-germs. + +But however the germ idea comes to him--whether as a complete +story, or merely as one striking incident, or just a situation +that recommends itself to him as worth while fitting with a story--he +begins by turning it over in his mind and casting it into dramatic +form. + +III. A SUPPOSITITIOUS EXAMPLE OF GERM-DEVELOPMENT + +For the purpose of illustration, let us suppose that Taylor +Granville, who conceived the idea of "The System," had read in the +New York newspapers about the Becker case and the startling expose +of the alleged police "system" that grew out of the Rosenthal +murder, here is how his mind, trained to vaudeville and dramatic +conventions, might have evolved that excellent melodramatic playleet. +[1] + +[1] As a matter of fact, Mr. Granville had the first draft of the +playlet in his trunk many months before the Rosenthal murder +occurred, and Mr. MacCree and Mr. Clark were helping him with the +final revisions when the fatal shot was fired. + +In this connection it should be emphasized that the Becker case +did not make The System a great playlet; the investigation of the +New York Police Department only gave it the added attraction of +timeliness and, therefore, drew particular attention to it. Dozens +of other playlets and many long plays that followed The System on +the wave of the same timely interest failed. Precisely as Within +the Law, Bayard Veiller's great play, so successful for the Selwyn +Company, was given a striking timeliness by the Rosenthal murder, +The System reaped merely the brimming harvest of lucky accident. +And like Within the Law, this great playlet would be as successful +today as it was then--because it is "big" in itself. [end footnote] + +The incidents of "the Becker Case" were these: Herman Rosenthal, +a gambler of notorious reputation, one day went to District Attorney +Whitman with the story that he was being hounded by the police--at +the command of a certain Police Lieutenant. Rosenthal asserted +that he had a story to tell which would shake up the New York +Police Department. He was about to be called to testify to his +alleged story when he was shot to death in front of the Metropole +Hotel on Forty-third Street and the murderer or murderers escaped +in an automobile. Several notorious underworld characters were +arrested, charged with complicity in the murder, and some, in the +hope, it has been said, of receiving immunity, confessed and +implicated Police Lieutenant Becker, who was arrested on the charge +of being the instigator of the crime. [1] These are the bare facts +as every newspaper in New York City told them in glaring headlines +at the time. Merely as incidents of a striking story, Mr. Granville +would, it is likely, have turned them over in his mind with these +thoughts: + +[1] Becker's subsequent trial, conviction, sentence to death and +execution occurred many months later and could not have entered +into the playwright's material, therefore they are not recounted +here. + +"If I take these incidents as they stand, I'll have a grewsome +ending that'll 'go great' for a while--if the authorities let me +play it--and then the playlet will die with the waning interest. +There isn't much that's dramatic in a gambler shown in the District +Attorney's Office planning to 'squeal,' and then getting shot for +it, even though the police in the playlet were made to instigate +the murder. It'd make a great 'movie,' perhaps, but there isn't +enough time in vaudeville to go through all the motions: I've got +to recast it into drama. + +"I must 'forget' the bloody ending, too--it may be great drama, +but it isn't good vaudeville. The two-a-day wants the happy ending, +if it can get it. + +"And even if the Becker story's true in every detail, Rosenthal +isn't a character with whom vaudeville can sympathize--I'll have +to get a lesser offender, to win sympathy--a 'dip's' about right-- +'The Eel.' + +"There isn't any love-interest, either--where's the girl that +sticks to him through thick and thin? I'll add his sweetheart, +Goldie. And I'll give The Eel more sympathy by making Dugan's +motive the attempt to win her. + +"Then there's got to be the square Copper--the public knows that +the Police force is fundamentally honest--so the Department has +got to clean itself up, in my playlet; fine, there's McCarthy, the +honest Inspector." + +Here we have a little more, perhaps, than a bare germ idea, but +it is probably the sort of thing that came into Mr. Granville's +mind with the very first thought of "The System." Even more might +have come during the first consideration of his new playlet, and--as +we are dealing now not with a germ idea only but primarily with +how a playwright's mind works--let us follow his supposititious +reasoning further: + +"All right; now, there's got to be an incident that'll give Dugan +his chance to 'railroad' The Eel, and a money-society turn is +always good, so we have Mrs. Worthington and the necklace, with +Goldie, the suspected maid, who casts suspicion on The Eel. Dugan +'plants' it all, gets the necklace himself, tries to lay it to The +Eel, and win Goldie besides--but a dictograph shows him up. Now +a man-to-man struggle between Dugan and The Eel for good old +melodrama. The Eel is losing, in comes the Inspector and saves +him--Dugan caught--triumph of the honest police--and Goldie and +The Eel free to start life anew together. That's about it--for a +starter, anyway. + +"Re-read these dramatic incidents carefully, compare them with the +incidents of the suggestive case as the newspapers reported them, +and you will see not only where a playwright may get a germ idea, +but how his mind works in casting it into stage form. + +The first thing that strikes you is the dissimilarity of the two +stories; the second, the greater dramatic effectiveness of the +plot the playlet-writer's mind has evolved; third, that needless +incidents have been cut away; fourth, that the very premise of the +story, and all the succeeding incidents, lead you to recognize +them in the light of the denouement as the logical first step and +succeeding steps of which the final scene is inevitably the last; +fifth, however many doubts may hover around the story of the +suggesting incident, there is no cloud of doubt about the perfect +justice of the stage story; and, sixth, that while you greet the +ending of the suggesting story with a feeling of repugnance, the +final scene of the stage story makes the whole clearly, happily +and pleasantly true--truer than life itself, to human hearts which +forever aspire after what we sometimes sadly call "poetic justice." + +Now, in a few short paragraphs, we may sum up the answer to the +question which opens this chapter, and answer the other two questions +as well. A playlet writer may get the germ of a playlet idea: +from half-ideas suggested by the necessity of fitting certain +players; directly from his own imagination; from the newspapers; +from what someone tells him, or from his observation of incidents +that come under his personal notice; from experiences that happen +to him--in fact, from anywhere. + +IV. HOW A PLAYLET WRITER RECOGNIZES A PLAYLET IDEA + +A playlet writer recognizes that the character or characters, the +incident or incidents, possess a funny, serious or tragic _grip_, +and the fact that he, himself, is gripped, is evidence that a +playlet is "_there_," if--IF--he can trust his own dramatic instinct. +A playlet writer recognizes an idea as a playlet idea, because he +is able so to recognize such an idea; there is no escape from this: +YOU MUST POSSESS DRAMATIC INSTINCT [1] to recognize playlet ideas +and write playlets. + +[1] See the following chapter on "The Dramatic--the Vital Element +of Plot." + +V. HOW MUCH OF THE PLAYLET IS ACHIEVED WITH THE IDEA + +No two persons in this world act alike, and certainly no two persons +think alike. How much of a playlet is achieved when the germ idea +is found and recognized, depends somewhat upon the idea--whether +it is of characters that must be fitted with a story, a series of +incidents, or one incident only--but more upon the writer. I have +known playlets which were the results of ideas that originated in +the concepts of clever final situations, the last two minutes of +the playlet serving as the incentive to the construction of the +story that led inevitably up to the climax. I have also known +playlets whose big scenes were the original ideas--the opening and +finish being fitted to them. One or two writers have told me of +playlets which came almost entirely organized and motivated into +their minds with the first appearance of the germ idea. And others +have told me of the hours of careful thinking through which they +saw, in divers half-purposes of doubt, the action and the characters +emerge into a definite, purposeful whole. + +What one writer considers a full-fledged germ idea, may be to +another but the first faint evidence that an idea may possibly be +there. The skilled playlet-writer will certainly grasp a germ +idea, and appraise its worth quicker than the novice can. In the +eager acceptance of half-formed ideas that speciously glitter, +lies the pitfall which entraps many a beginner. Therefore, engrave +on the tablets of your resolution this determination and single +standard: + + Never accept a subject as a germ idea and begin to write a playlet + until you have turned its theme over in your mind a sufficient + length of time to establish its worth beyond question. Consider + it from every angle in the light of the suggestions in this + chapter, and make its characters and its action as familiar to + you as is the location of every article in your own room. Then, + when your instinct for the dramatic tells you there is no doubt + that here is the germ idea of a playlet, state it in one short + sentence, and consider that statement as a problem that must be + solved logically, clearly and conclusively, within the requirements + of the playlet form. + +With the germ idea the entire playlet may flood into the writer's +mind, or come in little waves that rise continually, like the ever +advancing tide, to the flood that touches high-water mark. But, +however complete the germ idea may be, it depends upon the writer +alone whether he struggles like a novice to keep his dramatic head +above water, or strikes out with the bold, free strokes of the +practised swimmer. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE DRAMATIC--THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT + + +What the dramatic is--no matter whether it be serious or comic in +tone--requires some consideration in a volume such as this, even +though but a brief discussion is possible and only a line of thought +may be pointed out. + +This discussion is placed here in the sequence of chapters, because +it first begins to trouble the novice after he has accepted his +germ idea, and before he has succeeded in casting it into a stage +story. Indeed, at that moment even the most self-sure becomes +conscious of the demands of the dramatic. Yet this chapter will +be found to overlap some that precede it and some that +follow--particularly the chapter on plot structure, of which this +discussion may be considered an integral part--as is the case in +every attempt to put into formal words, principles separate in +theory, but inseparable in application. + +In the previous chapter, the conscious thought that precedes even +the acceptance of a germ idea was insisted on--it was "played up," +as the stage phrase terms a scene in which the emotional key is +pitched high--with the purpose of forcing upon your attention the +prime necessity of thinking out--not yet writing--the playlet. +Emphasis was also laid on the necessity for the possession of +dramatic instinct--a gift far different from the ability to think--by +anyone who would win success in writing this most difficult of +dramatic forms. But now I wish to lay an added stress--to pitch +even higher the key of emphasis--on one fundamental, this vital +necessity: Anyone who would write a playlet must possess in himself, +as an instinct--something that cannot be taught and cannot be +acquired--the ability to recognize and grasp the dramatic. + +No matter if you master the technic by which the great dramatists +have built their plays, you cannot achieve success in writing the +playlet if you do not possess an innate sense of what is dramatic. +For, just as a man who is tone-deaf [1] might produce musical +manuscripts which while technically faultless would play inharmoniously, +so the man who is drama-blind might produce "perfect" playlet +manuscripts that would play in dramatic discords. + +[1] Not organically defective, as were the ears of the great +composer, Beethoven, but tone-deaf, as a person may be color-blind. + +1. What Dramatic Instinct Is + +When you witness a really thrilling scene in a play you find +yourself sitting on the edge of your seat; you clench your hands +until the nails sink into your flesh; tears roll down your cheeks +at other scenes, until you are ashamed of your emotion and wipe +them furtively away; and you laugh uproariously at still other +scenes. But your quickened heart-beats, your tears, and your +laughter are, however, no evidence that you possess dramatic +instinct--they are a tribute to the possession of that gift in the +person who wrote the play. So do not confuse appreciation--the +ultimate result of another's gift--with the ability to create: +they are two very different things. + +No more does comprehension of a dramatist's methods--a sort of +detached and often cold appreciation--indicate the possession of +gifts other than those of the critic. + + Dramatic instinct is the ability to see the dramatic moments in + real life; to grasp the dramatic possibilities; to pick out the + thrills, the tears and the laughter, and to lift these out from + the mass and set them--combined, coherent and convincing--in a + story that seems truer than life itself, when unfolded on the + stage by characters who are more real than reality. [1] + +[1] Arniel in his Journal says: "The ideal, after all, is truer +than the real; for the ideal is the eternal element in perishable +things; it is their type, their sum, their 'raison d'etre,' their +formula in the book of the Creator, and therefore at once the most +exact and the most condensed expression of them." + +Elizabeth Woodbridge in her volume, The Drama, says: "It is in +finding the mean between personal narrowness which is too selective, +and photographic impersonality that is not selective at all, that +the individuality of the artist, his training, and his ideals, are +tested. It is this that determines how much his work shall possess +of what we may call poetic, or artistic, truth." [end footnote] + +Yet, true as it is that dramatic ability inevitably shines through +finished drama when it is well played upon the stage, there are +so many determining factors of pleasing theme, acting, production +and even of audience--and so many little false steps both in +manuscript and presentation; which might be counted unfortunate +accident--that the failure of a play is not always a sure sign +that the playwright lacks dramatic instinct. If it were, hardly +one of our successful dramatists of today would have had the heart +to persevere--for some wrote twenty full-evening plays before one +was accepted by a manager, and then plodded through one or more +stage failures before they were rewarded with final success. If +producing managers could unerringly tell who has dramatic instinct +highly developed and who has it not at all, there would be few +play failures and the show-business would cease to be a gamble +that surpasses even horse-racing for hazard. + +Not only is it impossible for anyone to weigh the quantity or to +assay the quality of dramatic instinct--whether in his own or +another's breast--but it is as nearly impossible for anyone to +decide from reading a manuscript whether a play will succeed or +fail. Charles Frohman is reported to have said: "A man who could +pick out winners would be worth a salary of a million dollars a +year." + +And even when a play is put into rehearsal the most experienced +men in the business cannot tell unerringly whether it will succeed +or fail before an audience. An audience--the heart of the crowd, +the intellect of the mass, whatever you wish to call it--is at +once the jury that tries a play and the judge who pronounces +sentence to speedy death or a long and happy life. It is an +audience, the "crowd," that awards the certificate of possession +of dramatic instinct. [1] + +[1] [four paragraphs:] + +From three of the ablest critics of the "theatre crowd" I quote a +tabloid statement: + +"The theatre is a function of the crowd," says Brander Matthews, +"and the work of the dramatist is conditioned by the audience to +which he meant to present it. In the main, this influence is +wholesome, for it tends to bring about a dealing with themes of +universal interest. To some extent, it may be limiting and even +harmful--but to what extent we cannot yet determine in our present +ignorance of that psychology of the crowd which LeBon has analyzed +so interestingly." + +Here is M. LeBon's doctrine neatly condensed by Clayton Hamilton: +"The mental qualities in which men differ from one another are the +acquired qualities of intellect and character; but the qualities +in which they are one are basic passions of the race. A crowd, +therefore, is less intellectual and more emotional than the +individuals that compose it. It is less reasonable, less judicious, +less disinterested, more credulous, more primitive, more partisan; +and hence, a man, by the mere fact that he forms a part of an +organized crowd, descends several rungs on the ladder of civilization. +Even the most cultured and intellectual of men, when he forms an +atom of a crowd, loses consciousness of his acquired mental +qualities, and harks back to his primal nakedness of mind. The +dramatist, therefore, because he writes for the crowd, writes for +an uncivilized and uncultivated mind, a mind richly human, vehement +in approbation, violent in disapproval, easily credulous, eagerly +enthusiastic, boyishly heroic, and carelessly thinking." + +And Clayton Hamilton himself adds that, ". . .both in its sentiments +and in its opinions, the crowd is hugely commonplace. It is +incapable of original thought and of any but inherited emotion. +It has no speculation in its eyes. What it feels was felt before +the flood; and what it thinks, its fathers thought before it. The +most effective moments in the theatre are those that appeal to +commonplace emotions--love of women, love of home, love of country, +love of right, anger, jealousy, revenge, ambition, lust and +treachery." + +[end footnote] + +2. What "Good Drama" Is + +By what standards, then, do producers decide whether a play has +at least a good chance of success? How is it possible for a manager +to pick a successful play even once in a while? Why is it that +managers do not produce failures all the time? + +Leaving outside of our consideration the question of changeable +fashions in themes, and the commercial element (which includes the +number of actors required, the scenery, costumes and similar +factors), let us devote our attention, as the manager does, to the +determining element--the story. + +Does the story grip? Does it thrill? Does it lure to laughter? +Does it touch to tears? Is it well constructed--that is, does it +interest every minute of the time? Is every word, is every action, +thoroughly motivated? Is the dialogue fine? Are the characters +interesting, lovable, hateable, laughable, to be remembered? Does +it state its problem clearly, so that everyone can comprehend it, +develop its angle absorbingly, and end, not merely stop, with +complete satisfaction? Could one little scene be added, or even +one little passage be left out, without marring the whole? Is it +true to life--truer than life? If it is all this, it is good +drama. + +Good drama is therefore more than plot. It is more than story +plus characters, dialogue, acting, costumes, scenery--it is more +than them all combined. Just as a man is more than his body, his +speech, his dress, his movings to and fro in the scenes where he +plays out his life, and even more than his deeds, so is a play +more than the sum of all its parts. Every successful play, every +great playlet, possesses a soul--a character, if you like--that +carries a message to its audiences by means which cannot be analyzed. + +But the fact that the soul of a great play cannot be analyzed does +not prevent some other dramatist from duplicating the miracle in +another play. And it is from a study of these great plays that +certain mechanics of the drama--though, of course, they cannot +explain the hidden miracle--have been laid down as laws. + +3. What is Dramatic? + +These few observations upon the nature of drama, which have scarcely +been materially added to since Aristotle laid down the first over +two thousand years ago, will be taken up and discussed in their +relation to the playlet in the chapter on plot construction. Here +they have no place, because we are concerned now not with _how_ +the results are obtained, but with _what they are_. + +Let us approach our end by the standard definition route. The +word "drama" is defined by Webster as, "A composition in poetry +or prose, or both, representing a picture of human life, arranged +for action, and having a plot, developed by the words and actions +of its characters, which culminates in a final situation of human +interest. It is usually designed for production on the stage, +with the accessories of costumes, scenery, music, etc." + +"Dramatic," is defined as, "Of or pertaining to the drama; represented +by action; appropriate to or in the form of a drama; theatrical. +Characterized by the force and fidelity appropriate to the drama." + +In this last sentence we have the first step to what we are seeking: +anything to be dramatic must be forceful, and it also must be +faithful to life. And in the preceding sentence, "dramatic. . . +is theatrical," we have a second step. + +But what is "forceful," and why does Webster define anything that +is dramatic as "theatrical"? To define one shadow by the name of +another shadow is not making either clearer. However, the necessary +looseness of the foregoing definitions is why they are so valuable +to us--they are most suggestive. + +If the maker of a dictionary, [1] hampered by space restrictions, +finds it necessary to define "dramatic" by the word "theatrical," +we may safely assume that theatrical effect has a foundation in +the very heart of man. How many times have you heard someone say +of another's action, "Oh, he did that just for theatrical effect"? +Instantly you knew that the speaker was accusing the other of a +desire to impress you by a carefully calculated action, either of +the fineness of his own character or of the necessity and righteousness +of your doing what he suggested so forcefully. We need not go +back several thousand years to Aristotle to determine what is +dramatic. In the promptings of our own hearts we can find the +answer. [2] + +[1] Webster's Dictionary was chosen because it is, historically, +closely associated with American life, and therefore would seem +to reflect the best American thought upon the peculiar form of our +own drama. + +[2] Shelley, in his preface to Cenci, says: "The highest moral +purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama is the teaching +of the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the +knowledge of itself." + +What is dramatic, is not what falls out as things ordinarily occur +in life's flow of seemingly disconnected happenings; it is what +occurs with precision and purpose, and with results which are +eventually recognizable as being far beyond the forces that show +upon its face. In an illuminating flash that reveals character, +we comprehend what led up to that instant and what will follow. +It is the revealing flash that is dramatic. Drama is a series of +revealing flashes. + +"This is not every-day life," we say, "but _typical_ life--life +as it would be if it were compactly ordered--life purposeful, and +leading surely to an evident somewhere." + +And, as man's heart beats high with hope and ever throbs with +justice, those occurrences that fall out as he would wish them are +the ones he loves the best; in this we find the reason for "poetic +justice"--the "happy ending." For, as "man is of such stuff as +dreams are made of," so are his plays made of his dreams. Here +is the foundation of what is dramatic. + +Yet, the dramatic ending may be unhappy, if it rounds the play out +with big and logical design. Death is not necessarily poignantly +sad upon the stage, because death is life's logical end. And who +can die better than he who dies greatly? [1] Defeat, sorrow and +suffering have a place as exquisitely fitting as success, laughter +and gladness, because they are inalienable elements of life. Into +every life a little sadness must come, we know, and so the lives +of our stage-loves may be "draped with woe," and we but love them +better. + +[1] "The necessity that tragedy and the serious drama shall possess +an element of greatness or largeness--call it nobility, elevation, +what you will--has always been recognized. The divergence has +come when men have begun to say what they meant by that quality, +and--which is much the same thing--how it is to be attained. Even +Aristotle, when he begins to analyze methods, sounds, at first +hearing, a little superficial." Elizabeth Woodbridge, The Drama, +pp. 23-24. + +Great souls who suffer, either by the hand of Fate, or unjustly +through the machinations of their enemies, win our sympathy for +their sorrows and our admiration by their noble struggles. If +Fate dooms them, there may be no escape, and still we are content; +but if they suffer by man's design, there must be escape from +sorrow and defeat through happiness to triumph--for, if it were +not so, they would not be great. The heart of man demands that +those he loves upon the stage succeed, or fail greatly, because +the hero's dreams are our dreams--the hero's life is ours, the +hero's sorrows are our own, and because they are ours, the hero +must triumph over his enemies. + +4. The Law of the Drama + +Thus, for the very reason that life is a conflict and because man's +heart beats quickest when he faces another man, and leaps highest +when he conquers him, the essence of the dramatic is--conflict. +Voltaire in one of his letters said that every scene in a play +should represent a combat. In "Memories and Portraits," Stevenson +says: "A good serious play must be founded on one of the passionate +cruces of life, where duty and inclination come nobly to the +grapple." Goethe, in his "William Meister" says: "All events +oppose him [the hero] and he either clears and removes every +obstacle out of his path, or else becomes their victim." But it +was the French critic, Ferdinand Brunetiere, who defined dramatic +law most sharply and clearly, and reduced it to such simple terms +that we may state it in this one free sentence: "Drama is a +struggle of wills and its outcome." + +In translating and expounding Brunetiere's theory, Brander Matthews +in his "A Study of the Drama" condenses the French critic's +reasoning into these illuminating paragraphs: + +"It [the drama] must have some essential principle of its own. +If this essential principle can be discovered, then we shall be +in possession of the sole law of the drama, the one obligation +which all writers for the stage must accept. Now, if we examine +a collection of typical plays of every kind, tragedies and melodramas, +comedies and farces, we shall find that the starting point of +everyone of them is the same. Some one central character wants +something; and this exercise of volition is the mainspring of the +action. . . . In every successful play, modern or ancient, we shall +find this clash of contending desires, this assertion of the human +will against strenuous opposition of one kind or another. + +"Brunetiere made it plain that the drama must reveal the human +will in action; and that the central figure in a play must know +what he wants and must strive for it with incessant determination. +. . .Action in the drama is thus seen to be not mere movement or +external agitation; it is the expression of a will which knows +itself. + +"The French critic maintained also that, when this law of the drama +was once firmly grasped, it helped to differentiate more precisely +the several dramatic species. If the obstacles against which the +will of the hero has to contend are insurmountable, Fate or +Providence or the laws of nature--then there is tragedy, and the +end of the struggle is likely to be death, since the hero is +defeated in advance. But if these obstacles are not absolutely +insurmountable, being only social conventions and human prejudices, +then the hero has a chance to attain his desire,--and in this case, +we have the serious drama without an inevitably fatal ending. +Change this obstacle a little, equalize the conditions of the +struggle, set two wills in opposition--and we have comedy. And +if the obstacle is of still a lower order, merely an absurdity of +custom, for instance, we find ourselves in farce." + +Here we have, sharply and brilliantly stated, the sole law of +drama--whether it be a play in five acts requiring two hours and +a half to present, or a playlet taking but twenty minutes. This +one law is all that the writer need keep in mind as the great +general guide for plot construction. + +Today, of course, as in every age when the drama is a bit more +virile than in the years that have immediately preceded it, there +is a tendency to break away from conventions and to cavil at +definitions. This is a sign of health, and has in the past often +been the first faint stirring which betokened the awakening of the +drama to greater uses. In the past few years, the stage, both +here and abroad, has been throbbing with dramatic unrest. The +result has been the presentation of oddities--a mere list of whose +names would fill a short chapter--which have aimed to "be different." +And in criticising these oddities--whose differences are more +apparent than real--critics of the soundness and eminence of Mr. +William Archer in England, and Mr. Clayton Hamilton in America, +have taken the differences as valid ground for opposing Brunetiere's +statement of the law of the drama. + +Mr. Hamilton, in his thought-provoking "Studies in Stage-craft," +takes occasion to draw attention to the fact that Brunetiere's +statement is not as old as Aristotle's comments on the drama. Mr. +Hamilton seemingly objects to the eagerness with which Brunetiere's +statement was accepted when first it was made, less than a quarter +century ago, and the tenacity with which it has been held ever +since; while acknowledging its general soundness he denies its +truth, more on account of its youth, it would seem, than on account +of the few exceptions that "prove it," putting to one side, or +forgetting, that its youth is not a fault but a virtue, for had +it been stated in Aristotle's day, Brunetiere would not have had +the countless plays from which to draw its truth, after the fruitful +manner of a scientist working in a laboratory on innumerable +specimens of a species. Yet Mr. Hamilton presents his criticism +with such critical skill that he sums it all up in these judicial +sentences: + +". . .But if this effort were ever perfectly successful, the drama +would cease to have a reason for existence, and the logical +consequence would be an abolition of the theatre. . . . But on the +other hand, if we judge the apostles of the new realism less by +their ultimate aims than by their present achievements, we must +admit that they are rendering a very useful service by holding the +mirror up to many interesting contrasts between human characters +which have hitherto been ignored in the theatre merely because +they would not fit into the pattern of the well-made play." + +As to the foremost critical apostle of the "new realism"--which +seeks to construct plays which begin anywhere and have no dramatic +ending and would oppose the force of wills by a doubtfully different +"negation of wills"--let us now turn to Mr. William Archer and his +very valuable definition of the dramatic in his "Play-Making": + +"The only really valid definition of the dramatic is: any +representation of imaginary personages which is capable of interesting +an average audience assembled in a theatre. . . . Any further +attempt to limit the term 'dramatic' is simply the expression of +an opinion that such-and-such forms of representation will not be +found to interest an audience; and this opinion may always be +rebutted by experiment." + +Perhaps a truer and certainly as inclusive an observation would +be that the word "dramatic," like the words "picturesque" and +"artistic," has one meaning that is historical and another that +is creative or prophetic. To say of anything that it is dramatic +is to say that it partakes of the nature of all drama that has +gone before, for "ic" means "like." But dramatic does not mean +only this, it means besides, as Alexander Black expresses it, that +"the new writer finds all the world's dramatic properties gathered +as in a storehouse for his instruction. Under the inspiration of +the life of the hour, the big man will gather from them what is +dramatic today, and the bigger man will see, not only what was +dramatic yesterday and what is dramatic today, but what will be +dramatic tomorrow and the day after tomorrow." + +Now these admirably broad views of the drama and the dramatic are +presented because they are suggestive of the unrestricted paths +that you may tread in selecting your themes and deciding on your +treatment of them in your playlets. True, they dangerously represent +the trend of "individualism," and a master of stagecraft may be +individual in his plot forms and still be great, but the novice +is very likely to be only silly. So read and weigh these several +theories with care. Be as individual as you like in the choice +of a theme--the more you express your individuality the better +your work is likely to be--but in your treatment tread warily in +the footprints of the masters, whose art the ages have proved to +be true. Then you stand less chance of straying into the underbrush +and losing yourself where there are no trails and where no one is +likely to hear from you again. + +5. The Essence of the Dramatic lies in Meaning, not in Movement +or in Speech + +But clear and illuminating as these statements of the law of the +drama are, one point needs slight expansion, and another vital +point, not yet touched upon, should be stated, in a volume designed +not for theory but for practice. + +The first is, "Action in the drama is thus seen to be not mere +movement or external agitation; it is the expression of a will +which knows itself." Paradoxical as it may seem, action that is +dramatic is not "action," as the word is commonly understood. +Physical activity is not considered at all; the action of a play +is not acting, but plot--story. Does the story move--not the +bodies of the actors, but the merely mental recounting of the +narrative? As the French state the principle in the form of a +command, "Get on with the story! Get on!" This is one-half of the +playwright's action-problem. + +The other half--the other question--deals, not with the story +itself, but with how it is made to "get on." How it is told in +action--still mental and always mental, please note--is what +differentiates the stage story from other literary forms like the +novel and the short-story. It must be told dramatically or it is +not a stage story; and the dramatic element must permeate its every +fibre. Not only must the language be dramatic--slang may in a +given situation be the most dramatic language that could be used--and +not only must the quality of the story itself be dramatic, but the +scene-steps by which the story is unfolded must scintillate with +the soul of the dramatic--revealing flashes. + +To sum up, the dramatic, in the final analysis, has nothing whatever +to do with characters moving agitatedly about the stage, or with +moving at all, because the dramatic lies not in what happens but +in what the happening means. Even a murder may be undramatic, +while the mere utterance of the word "Yes," by a paralyzed woman +to a paralyzed man may be the most dramatic thing in the world. +Let us take another instance: Here is a stage--in the centre are +three men bound or nailed to crosses. The man at the left turns +to the one in the middle and sneers: + +"If you're a god, save yourself and us." + +The one at the left interrupts, + +"Keep quiet! We're guilty, we deserve this, but this Man doesn't." + +And the Man in the centre says, + +"This day shalt thou be with me in paradise." + +Could there be anything more dramatic than that? [1] + +[1] Do not attempt to stage this sacred scene. However, Ran +Kennedy, who wrote The Servant in the House, did so at Winthrop +Ames' Little Theatre, New York, in an evening of one-act plays, +with surprising results. + +To carry this truth still further, let me offer two examples out +of scores that might be quoted to prove that the dramatic may not +even depend upon speech. + +In one of Bronson Howard's plays, a man the police are after +conspires with his comrades to get him safely through the cordon +of guards by pretending that he is dead. They carry him out, his +face covered with a cloth. A policeman halts them--not a word is +spoken--and the policeman turns down the cover from the face. +Dramatic as this all is, charged as it is with meaning to the man +there on the stretcher and to his comrades, there is even more +portentous meaning in the facial expression of the policeman as +he reverently removes his helmet and motions the bearers to go +on--the man has really died. + +The movements are as simple and unagitated as one could imagine, +and not one word is spoken, yet could you conceive of anything +more dramatic? Again, one of the master-strokes in Bulwer-Lytton's +"Richelieu" is where the Cardinal escapes from the swords of his +enemies who rush into his sleeping apartments to slay him, by lying +down on his bed with his hands crossed upon his breast, and by his +ward's lover (but that instant won to loyalty to Richelieu) +announcing to his fellow conspirators that they have come too +late--old age has forestalled them, "Richelieu is dead." + +6. Comedy is Achieved in the Same Dramatic Way + +The only difference between the sublime and the ridiculous is the +proverbial step. The sad and the funny are merely a difference +of opinion, of viewpoint. Tragedy and comedy are only ways of +looking at things. Often it is but a difference of to whom the +circumstance happens, whether it is excruciatingly funny or +unutterably sad. If you are the person to whom it happens, there +is no argument about it--it is sad; but the very same thing happening +to another person would be--funny. + +Take for example, the everyday occurrence of a high wind and a +flying hat: If the hat is yours, you chase it with unutterable +thoughts--not the least being the consciousness that hundreds may +be laughing at you--and if, just as you are about to seize the +hat, a horse steps on it, you feel the tragedy of going all the +way home without a hat amid the stares of the curious, and the +sorrow of having to spend your good money to buy another. + +But let that hat be not yours but another's and not you but somebody +else be chasing it, and the grins will play about your mouth until +you smile. Then let the horse step on the hat and squash it into +a parody of a headgear, just as that somebody else is about to +retrieve it--and you will laugh outright. As Elizabeth Woodbridge +in summing up says, "the whole matter is seen to be dependent on +perception of relations and the assumption of a standard of +reference." + +Incidentally the foregoing example is a very clear instance of the +comic effect that, like the serious or tragic effect, is achieved +without words. Any number of examples of comedy which secure their +effect without action will occur to anyone, from the instance of +the lackadaisical Englishman who sat disconsolately on the race +track fence, and welcomed the jockey who had ridden the losing +horse that had swept away all his patrimony, with these words: +"Aw, I say, what detained you?" [1] to the comedy that was achieved +without movement or words in the expressive glance that the owner +of the crushed headgear gave the guileless horse. + +[1] It would seem needless to state categorically that the sources +of humor, and the technical means by which comedy is made comic, +have no place in the present discussion. We are only concerned +with the flashes by which comedy, like tragedy, is revealed. + +Precisely as the tragic and the serious depend for their best +effects upon character-revealing flashes and the whole train of +incidents which led up to the instant and lead away from it, does +the comic depend upon the revealing flash that is the essence of +the dramatic, the veritable soul of the stage. + +7. Tragedy, the Serious, Comedy, and Farce, all Depend on their +Dramatic Meaning in the Minds of the Audience + +No matter by what technical means dramatic effect is secured, +whether by the use of words and agitated movement, or without +movement, or without words, or sans both, matters not; the +illuminating flash which reveals the thought behind it all, the +meaning to the characters and their destiny--in which the audience +is breathlessly interested because they have all unconsciously +taken sides--is what makes the dramatic. Let me repeat: It is not +the incident, whatever it may be, that is dramatic, but the +illuminating flash that reveals to the minds of the audience the +_meaning_ of it. + +Did you ever stand in front of a newspaper office and watch the +board on which a baseball game, contested perhaps a thousand miles +away, is being played with markers and a tiny ball on a string? +There is no playing field stretching its cool green diamond before +that crowd, there are no famous players present, there is no crowd +of adoring fans jamming grand stand and bleachers; there is only +a small board, with a tiny ball swaying uncertainly on its string, +an invisible man to operate it, markers to show the runs, and a +little crowd of hot, tired men and office boys mopping their faces +in the shadeless, dirty street. There's nothing pretty or pleasant +or thrillingly dramatic about this. + +But wait until the man behind the board gets the flashes that tell +him that a Cravath has knocked the ball over the fence and brought +in the deciding run in the pennant race! Out on the board the +little swaying ball flashes over the mimic fence, the tiny piece +of wood slips to first and chases the bits of wood that represent +the men on second and third--_home_! "Hurray! Hurray!! Hurray!!!" +yell those weary men and office boys, almost bursting with delight. +Over what? Not over the tiny ball that has gone back to swaying +uncertainly on its string, not over the tiny bits of board that +are now shoved into their resting place, not even over those +runs--but over what those runs _mean_! + +And so the playlet writer makes his audience go wild with delight-- +not by scenery, not by costumes, not by having famous players, not by +beautifully written speeches, not even by wonderful scenes that +flash the dramatic, but by what those scenes in the appealing story +_mean_ to the characters and their destiny, whereby each person in +the audience is made to be as interested as though it were to _him_ +these things were happening with all their _dramatic meaning_ of +sadness or gladness. + +However, it is to the dramatic artist only that ability is given +to breathe nobility into the whole and to charge the singleness +of effect with a vitality which marks a milestone in countless +lives. + +In this chapter we have found that the essence of drama is conflict-- +a clash of wills and its outcome; that the dramatic consists in those +flashes which reveal life at its significant, crucial moments; and +that the dramatic method is the way of telling the story with such +economy of attention that it is comprehended by means of those +illuminating flashes which both reveal character and show in an +instant all that led up to the crisis as well as what will follow. + +Now let us combine these three doctrines in the following definition, +which is peculiarly applicable to the playlet: + + Drama--whether it be serious or comic in tone--is a representation + of reality arranged for action, and having a plot which is + developed to a logical conclusion by the words and actions of + its characters and showing a single situation of big human + interest; the whole is told in a series of revealing flashes of + which the final illuminating revelation rounds out the entire + plot and leaves the audience with a single vivid impression. + +Finally, we found that the physical movements of the characters +often have nothing to do with securing dramatic effect, and that +even words need not of necessity be employed. Hence dramatic +effect in its final analysis depends upon what meaning the various +minor scenes and the final big situation have for the characters +and their destinies, and that this dramatic effect depends, +furthermore, upon the big broad meaning which it bears to the minds +of the audience, who have taken sides and feel that the chief +character's life and destiny represent their own, or what they +would like them to be, or fear they might be. In the next chapter +we shall see how the dramatic spirit is given form by plot structure. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT + + +In the chapter on the germ idea we saw that the theme or subject +of a playlet is a problem that must be solved with complete +satisfaction. In this chapter we shall see how the problem--which +is the first creeping form of a plot--is developed and expanded +by the application of formal elements and made to grow into a plot. +At the same time we shall see how the dramatic element of +plot--discussed in the preceding chapter--is given form and direction +in logical expression. + +I. WHAT IS A PLAYLET PLOT? + +You will recall that our consideration of the germ idea led us +farther afield than a mere consideration of a theme or subject, +or even of the problem--as we agreed to call the spark that makes +the playlet go. In showing how a playlet writer gets an idea and +how his mind works in developing it, we took the problem of "The +System" and developed it into a near-plot form. It may have seemed +to you at the time that the problem we assumed for the purpose of +exposition was worked out very carefully into a plot, but if you +will turn back to it now, you will realize how incomplete the +elaboration was--it was no more complete than any germ idea should +be before you even consider spending time to build it into a +playlet. + +Let us now determine definitely what a playlet plot is, consider +its structural elements and then take one of the fine examples of +a playlet in the Appendix and see how its plot is constructed. + +The plot of a playlet is its story. It is the general outline, +the plan, the skeleton which is covered by the flesh of the +characters and clothed by their words. If the theme or problem +is the heart that beats with life, then the scenery amid which the +animated body moves is its habitation, and the dramatic spirit is +the soul that reveals meaning in the whole. + +To hazard a definition: + + A playlet plot is a sequence of events logically developed out + of a theme or problem, into a crisis or entanglement due to a + conflict of the characters' wills, and then logically untangled + again, leaving the characters in a different relation to each + other--changed in themselves by the crisis. + +Note that a mere series of incidents does not make a plot--the +presence of crisis is absolutely necessary to plot. If the series +of events does not develop a complication that changes the characters +in themselves and in their relations to each other, there can be +no plot. If this is so, let us now take the sequence of events +that compose the story of "The Lollard" [1] and see what constitutes +them a plot. I shall not restate its story, only repeat it in the +examination of its various points [2]. + +[1] Edgar Allan Woolf's fine satirical comedy to be found in the +Appendix. + +[2] As a side light, you see how a playlet theme differs from a +playlet plot. You will recall that in the chapter on "The Germ +Idea," the theme of The Lollard was thus stated in terms of a +playlet problem: "A foolish young woman may leave her husband +because she has 'found him out,' yet return to him when she discovers +that another man is no better than he is." Compare this brief +statement with the full statement of the plot given hereafter. + +The coming of Angela Maxwell to Miss Carey's door at 2 A.M.--unusual +as is the hour--is just an event; the fact that Angela has left +her husband, Harry, basic as it is, is but little more than an +event; the entrance of the lodger, Fred Saltus, is but another +event, and even Harry Maxwell's coming in search of his wife is +merely an event--for if Harry had sat down and argued Angela out +of her pique, even though Fred were present, there would have been +no complication, save for the cornerstone motive of her having +left him. If this sequence of events forms merely a mildly +interesting narrative, what, then, is the complication that weaves +them into a plot? + +The answer is, in Angela's falling in love with Fred's broad +shoulders, wealth of hair and general good looks--this complication +develops the crisis out of Harry's wanting Angela. If Harry hadn't +cared, there would have been no drama--the drama comes from Harry's +wanting Angela when Angela wants Fred; Angela wants something that +runs counter to Harry's will--_there_ is the clash of wills out +of which flashes the dramatic. + +But still there would be no plot--and consequently no playlet--if +Harry had acknowledged himself beaten after his first futile +interview with Angela. The entanglement is there--Harry has to +untangle it. He has to win Angela again--and how he does it, on +Miss Carey's tip, you may know from reading the playlet. But, if +you have read it, did you realize the dramatic force of the unmasking +of Fred--accomplished without (explanatory) words, merely by making +Fred run out on the stage and dash back into his room again? _There_ +is a fine example of the revealing flash! This incident--made big +by the dramatic--is the ironical solvent that loosens the warp of +Angela's will and prepares her for complete surrender. Harry's +entrance in full regimentals--what woman does not love a uniform?-- +is merely the full rounding out of the plot that ends with Harry's +carrying his little wife home to happiness again. + +But, let us pursue this examination further, in the light of the +preceding chapter. There would have been no drama if the _meaning_ +of these incidents had not--because Angela is a "character" and +Harry one, too--been inherent in them. There would have been no +plot, nothing of dramatic spirit, if Harry had not been made by +those events to realize his mistake and Angela had not been made +to see that Harry was "no worse" than another man. It is the +_change_ in Harry and the _change_ in Angela that changes their +relations to each other--therein lies the essence of the plot. [1] + +[1] Unfortunately, the bigger, broader meaning we all read into +this satire of life, cannot enter into our consideration of the +structure of plot. It lies too deep in the texture of the +playwright's mind and genius to admit of its being plucked out by +the roots for critical examination. The bigger meaning is there--we +all see it, and recognize that it stamps The Lollard as good drama. +Each playwright must work out his own meanings of life for himself +and weave them magically into his own playlets; this is something +that cannot be added to a man, that cannot be satisfactorily +explained when seen, and cannot be taken away from him. + +Now, having determined what a plot is, let us take up its structural +parts and see how these clearly understood principles make the +construction of a playlet plot in a measure a matter of clear +thinking. + +II. THE VITAL PARTS OF THE PLOT + +We must swerve for a moment and cut across lots, that we may touch +every one of the big structural elements of plot and relate them +with logical closeness to the playlet, summing them all up in the +end and tying them closely into--what I hope may be--a helpful +definition, on the last page of this chapter. + +The first of the structural parts that we must consider before we +take up the broader dramatic unities, is the seemingly obvious one +that _a plot has a beginning, a middle and an ending_. + +There has been no clearer statement of this element inherent in +all plots, than that made by Aristotle in his famous twenty-century +old dissection of tragedy; he says: + +"Tragedy is an imitation of an action, that is complete and whole, +and of a certain magnitude (not trivial). . . . A whole is that +which has a beginning, middle and end. A beginning is that which +does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after +which something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the +contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing, +either by necessity or in the regular course of events, but has +nothing to follow it. A middle is that which naturally follows +something as some other thing follows it. A well-constructed plot, +therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform +to the type here described." [1] + +[1] Aristotle, Poetics VII. + +Let us state the first part of the doctrine in this way: + +1. The Beginning Must State the Premises of the Problem Clearly +and Simply + +Although life knows neither a beginning nor an end--not your life +nor mine, but the stream of unseparate events that make up +existence--a work of art, like the playlet, must have both. The +beginning of any event in real life may lie far back in history; +its immediate beginnings, however, start out closely together and +distinctly in related causes and become more indistinctly related +the farther back they go. Just where you should consider the event +that is the crisis of your playlet has its beginning, depends upon +how you want to tell it--in other words, it depends upon you. No +one can think for you, but there are one or two observations upon +the nature of plot-beginnings that may be suggestive. + +In the first place, no matter how carefully the dramatic material +has been severed from connection with other events, it cannot be +considered entirely independent. By the very nature of things, +it must have its roots in the past from which it springs, and these +roots--the foundations upon which the playlet rises--must be +presented to the audience at the very beginning. + +If you were introducing a friend of yours and his sister and brother +to your family, who had never met them before, you would tell which +one was your particular friend, what his sister's name was, and +his brother's name, too, and their relationship to your friend. +And, if the visit were unexpected, you would--naturally and +unconsciously--determine how they happened to come and how long +you might have the pleasure of entertaining them; in fact, you +would fix every fact that would give your family a clear understanding +of the event of their presence. In other words, you would very +informally and delicately establish their status, by outlining +their relations to you and to each other, so that your family might +have a clear understanding of the situation they were asked to +face. + +This is precisely what must be done at the very beginning of a +playlet--the friends, who are the author's characters, must be +introduced to his interested family, the audience, with every bit +of information that is necessary to a clear understanding of the +playlet's situation. These are the roots from which the playlet +springs--the premise of its problem. Precisely as "The Lollard" +declares in its opening speeches who Miss Carey is and who Angela +Maxwell is, and that Angela is knocking at Miss Carey's door at +two o'clock in the morning because she has left Harry, her husband, +after a quarrel the roots of which lie in the past, so every playlet +must state in its very first speeches, the "whos" and "whys"--the +premises--out of which the playlet logically develops. + +The prologue of "The Villain Still Pursued Her" is an excellent +illustration of this point. When this very funny travesty was +first produced, it did not have a prologue. It began almost +precisely as the full-stage scene begins now, and the audience did +not know whether to take it seriously or not. The instant he +watched the audience at the first performance, the author sensed +the problem he had to face. He knew, then, that he would have to +tell the next audience and every other that the playlet is a farce, +a roaring travesty, to get the full value of laughter that lies +in the situations. He pondered the matter and saw that if the +announcement in plain type on the billboards and in the program +that his playlet was a travesty was not enough, he would have to +tell the audience by a plain statement from the stage before his +playlet began. So he hit upon the prologue that stamps the act +as a travesty in its very first lines, introduces the characters +and exposes the roots out of which the action develops so clearly +that there cannot possibly be any mistake. And his reward was the +making over of an indifferent success into one of the most successful +travesties in vaudeville. + +This conveying to the audience of the knowledge necessary to enable +them to follow the plot is technically known as "exposition." It +is one of the most important parts of the art of construction--indeed, +it is a sure test of a playwright's dexterity. While there are +various ways of offering preliminary information in the long +drama--that is, it may be presented all at once in the opening +scene of the first act, or homeopathically throughout the first +act, or some minor bits of necessary information may be postponed +even until the opening of the second act--there is only one way +of presenting the information necessary to the understanding of +the playlet: It must all be compressed into the very first speeches +of the opening scene. + +The clever playlet writer is advertised by the ease--the +simplicity--with which he condenses every bit of the exposition +into the opening speeches. You are right in the middle of things +before you realize it and it is all done so skillfully that its +straightforwardness leaves never a suspicion that the simplicity +is not innate but manufactured; it seems artless, yet its artlessness +is the height of art. The beginning of a playlet, then, must +convey to the audience every bit of information about the characters +and their relations to each other that is necessary for clear +understanding. Furthermore, it must tell it all compactly and +swiftly in the very first speeches, and by the seeming artlessness +of its opening events it must state the problem so simply that +what follows is foreshadowed and seems not only natural but +inevitable. + +2. The Middle Must Develop the Problem Logically and Solve the +Entanglement in a "Big" Scene + +For the purpose of perfect understanding, I would define the +"middle" of a playlet as that part which carries the story on from +the indispensable introduction to and into the scene of final +suspense--the climax--in which the chief character's will breaks +or triumphs and the end is decided. In "The Lollard" this would +be from the entrance of Fred Saltus and his talk with Angela, to +Miss Carey's exposure of Fred's "lollardness," which breaks down +Angela's determination by showing her that her husband is no worse +than Fred and makes it certain that Harry has only to return to +his delightful deceptions of dress to carry her off with him home. + +(a) _The "Exciting Force."_ The beginning of the action that we +have agreed to call the middle of a playlet, is technically termed +"the exciting force." The substance of the whole matter is this: +Remember what your story is and tell it with all the dramatic force +with which you are endowed. + +Perhaps the most common, and certainly the very best, place to +"start the trouble"--to put the exciting force which arouses the +characters to conflict--is the very first possible instant after +the clear, forceful and foreshadowing introduction. The introduction +has started the action of the story, the chief characters have +shown what they are and the interest of the audience has been +awakened. Now you must clinch that interest by having something +happen that is novel, and promises in the division of personal +interests which grow out of it to hold a punch that will stir the +sympathies legitimately and deeply. + +(b) _The "Rising Movement."_ This exciting force is the beginning +of what pundits call "the rising movement"--in simple words, the +action which from now on increases in meaning vital to the characters +and their destinies. What happens, of course, depends upon the +material and the treatment, but there is one point that requires +a moment's discussion here, although closely linked with the ability +to seize upon the dramatic--if it is not, itself, the heart of the +dramatic. This important point is, that in every story set for +the stage, there are certain + +(c) _Scenes that Must be Shown_. From the first dawn of drama +until today, when the motion pictures are facing the very same +necessity, the problem that has vexed playwrights most is the +selection of what scenes must be shown. These all-important scenes +are the incidents of the story or the interviews between characters +that cannot be recounted by other characters. Call them dramatic +scenes, essential scenes, what you will, if they are not shown +actually happening, but are described by dialogue--the interest +of the audience will lag and each person from the first seat in +the orchestra to the last bench in the gallery will be disappointed +and dissatisfied. For instance: + +If, instead of Fred Saltus' appearing before the audience and +having his humorously thoughtless but nevertheless momentous talk +with Angela _in which Angela falls in love with him_, the interview +had been told the audience by Miss Carey, there would have been +no playlet. Nearly as important is the prologue of "The Villian +Still Pursued Her"; Mr. Denvir found it absolutely necessary to +show those characters to the audience, so that they might see them +with their own eyes in their farcical relations to each other, +before he secured the effect that made his playlet. Turn to "The +System" and try to find even one scene there shown that could be +replaced by narrative dialogue and you will see once more how +important are the "scenes that must be shown." + +One of the all-rules-in-one for writing drama that I have heard, +though I cannot now recall what playwright told me, deals with +precisely this point. He expressed it this way: "First tell your +audience what you are going to do, then show it to them happening, +and then tell 'em it has happened!" You will not make a mistake, +of course, if you show the audience those events in which the +dramatic conflict enters. The soul of a playlet is the clash of +the wills of the characters, from which fly the revealing flashes; +a playlet, therefore, loses interest for the audience when the +scenes in which those wills clash and flash revealingly are not +shown. + +It is out of such revealing scenes that the rising movement grows, +as Freytag says, "with a progressive intensity of interest." But, +not only must the events progress and the climax be brought nearer, +but the scenes themselves must broaden with force and revealing +power. They must grow until there comes one big scene--"big" in +every way--somewhere on the toes of the ending, a scene next to +the last or the last itself. + +(d) _The Climax_. Here is where the decisive blow is struck in a +moment when the action becomes throbbing and revealing in every +word and movement. In "The Lollard" it is when Fred makes his +revealing dash through the room--this is the dramatic blow which +breaks Angela's infatuation. It is the crowning point of the +crowning scene in which the forces of the playlet culminate, and +the "heart wallop"--as Tom Barry calls it [1]--is delivered and +the decision is won and made. + +[1] Vaudeville Appeal and the "Heart Wallop," by Tom Barry, author +of The Upstart and Brother Fans, an interesting article in The +Dramatic Mirror of December 16, 1914. For this and other valuable +information I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness and to express +my thanks to The Dramatic Mirror and its courteous Vaudeville +Editor, Frederick James Smith. + +Whatever this decision may be and however it is won and made, the +climax must be first of all a real climax--it must be "big," whether +it be a comedy scream or the seldom-seen tragic tear. Big in +movement and expression it must be, depending for effect not on +words but on the revealing flash; it must be the summit of the +action; it must be the event toward which the entire movement has +been rising; it must be the fulfillment of what was foreshadowed; +it must be keen, quick, perfectly logical and _flash_ the illuminating +revelation, as if one would say, "Here, this is what I've kept you +waiting for--my whole reason for being." Need I say that such a +climax will be worth while? + +And now, as the climax is the scene toward which every moment of +the playlet--from the first word of the introduction and the first +scene-statement of the playlet's problem--has been motivated, and +toward which it has risen and culminated, so also the climax holds +within itself the elements from which develops the ending. + +3. The Ending Must Round the Whole Out Satisfyingly. + +For the purpose of clearness, let me define the ending of a playlet +as a scene that lies between the climax or culminating scene--in +which the audience has been made to feel the coming-to-an-end +effect--and the very last word on which the curtain descends. If +you have ever watched a sailor splicing a rope, you will know what +I mean when I say that the worker, reaching for the loose ends to +finish the job off neatly, is like the playlet writer who reaches +here and there for the playlet's loose ends and gathers them all +up into a neat, workmanlike finish. The ending of a playlet must +not leave unfulfilled any promises of the premise, but must fulfill +them all satisfyingly. + +The characteristics of a good playlet ending--besides the completeness +with which the problem has been "proved" and the satisfyingness +with which it all rounds out--are terseness, speed and "punch." +If the climax is a part of the playlet wherein words may not be +squandered, the ending is the place where words--you will know +what I mean--may not be used at all. Everything that must be +explained must be told by means which reach into the spectator's +memory of what has gone before and make it the positive pole of +the battery from which flash the wireless messages from the scene +of action. As Emerson defined character as that which acts by +mere presence without words, let me define the ending of a playlet +as that which acts without words by the simple bringing together +of the characters in their new relations. + +The climax has said to the audience, "Here, this is what I've kept +you waiting for--my whole reason for being," therefore the ending +cannot dally--it must run swiftly to the final word. There is no +excuse for the ending to linger over anything at all--the shot has +been fired and the audience waits only for the smoke to clear away, +that it may see how the bull's-eye looks. The swifter you can blow +the smoke away, show them that you've hit the bull's-eye dead in the +centre, and bow yourself off amid their pleased applause, the better +your impression will be. + +Take these three examples: + +When Fred Saltus dashes revealingly across the stage and back into +his room again, "The Lollard's" climax is reached; and as soon +as Angela exclaims "What 'a lollard' _that_ is!" there's a ring +at the door bell and in comes Harry to win Angela completely with +his regimentals and to carry her off and bring the curtain down-- +_in eight very short speeches_. + +In "The System," the climax arrives when the honest Inspector +orders Dugan arrested and led away. Then he gives "The Eel" and +Goldie their freedom and exits with a simple "Good Night"--and the +curtain comes down--_all in seven speeches_. + +The climax of "Blackmail" seems to come when Fallon shoots Mohun +and Kelly breaks into the room--to the curtain it is _seven +speeches_. But the real climax is reached when Kelly shouts over +the telephone "Of course, in self-defense, you fool, _of course_, +in self-defense." This is--_the last speech_. + +Convincing evidence, is this not, of the speed with which the +curtain must follow the climax? + +And so we have come, to this most important point--the "finish" +or "the curtain," as vaudeville calls it. The very last thing +that must be shown, and the final word that must be said before +the curtain comes down, are the last loose ends of the plot which +must be spliced into place--the final illuminating word to round +out the whole playlet humanly and cleverly. "The Lollard" goes +back to Miss Carey's sleep, which Angela's knock on the door +interrupted: "Now, thank Gawd, I'll get a little sleep," says Miss +Carey as she puts out the light. A human, an everyday word it is, +spoken like a reminiscent thrill--and down comes the curtain amid +laughter and applause. A fine way to end. + +But not the only way--let us examine "The System." + +"Well, we're broke again," says Goldie tearfully. "We can't go +West now, so there's no use packing." Now, note the use of business +in the ending, and the surprise. The Eel goes stealthily to the +window L, looks out, and pulls the dictograph from the wall. Then +he comes down stage to Goldie who is sitting on the trunk and has +watched him. He taps her on the shoulder, taking Dugan's red +wallet out of his pocket. "Go right ahead and pack," says The +Eel, while Goldie looks astonished and begins to laugh. The +audience, too, look astonished and begin to laugh when they see +that red wallet. It is a surprise--a surprise so cleverly constructed +that it hits the audience hard just above the laughter-and-applause-belt-- +a surprise that made the act at least twenty-five per cent better +than it would have been without it. And from it we may now draw +the "rules" for the use of that most helpful and most dangerous +element, surprise in the vaudeville finish: + +Note first, that it was entirely logical for The Eel to steal the +wallet--he is a pickpocket. Second, that the theft of the wallet +is not of trivial importance to Goldie's destiny and to his--they +are "broke" and they must get away; the money solves all their +problems. And third, note that while The Eel's possession of the +wallet is a surprise, the wallet itself is _not_ a surprise--it +has first played a most important part in the tempting of Goldie +and has been shown to the audience not once but many times; and +its very color--red--makes it instantly recognizable; the spectators +know what it contains and what its contents mean to the destinies +of both The Eel and Goldie--it is only that The Eel has it, that +constitutes the surprise. + +Now I must sound a warning against striving too hard after a +surprise finish. The very nature of many playlets makes it +impossible to give them such a curtain. If you have built up a +story which touches the heart and brings tears to the eyes, and +then turn it all into a joke, the chances are the audience will +feel that their sympathies have been outraged, and so the playlet +will fail. For instance, one playlet was ruined because right on +top of the big, absorbing climax two of the characters who were +then off stage stuck their heads in at the door and shouted at the +hero of the tense situation, "April Fool." + +Therefore, the following may be considered as an important "rule"; +a playlet that touches the heart should never end with a trick or +a surprise. [1] + +[1] See Chapter XVIII, section III, par. 4. + +Now, let me sum up these four elements of surprise: + + A surprise finish must be fitting, logical, vitally important, + and revealingly dramatic; if you cannot give a playlet a + surprise-finish that shall be all of these four things at once, + be content with the simpler ending. + +The importance of a playlet's ending is so well understood in +vaudeville that the insistence upon a "great finish" to every +playlet has sometimes seemed to be over-insistence, for, important +as it is, it is no more important than a "great opening" and "great +scenes." The ending is, of course, the final thing that quickens +applause, and, coming last and being freshest in the mind of the +audience, it is more likely to carry just a fair act to success +than a fine act is likely to win with the handicap of a poor finish. +But, discounting this to be a bit under the current valuation of +"great finishes," we still may round out this discussion of the +playlet's three important parts, with this temperate sentence: + + A well constructed playlet plot is one whose Beginning states + the premises of its problem clearly and simply, whose Middle + develops the problem logically and solves the entanglement in a + "big" scene, and whose Ending rounds out the whole satisfyingly-- + with a surprise, if fitting. + +But, temperate and helpful as this statement of a well constructed +plot may be, there is something lacking in it. And that something +lacking is the very highest test of plot--lightly touched on at +various times, but which, although it enters into a playwright's +calculations every step of the way, could not be logically considered +in this treatise until the structure had been examined as a whole: +I mean the formidable-sounding, but really very simple dramatic +unities. + +III. THE THREE DRAMATIC UNITIES + +Now, but only for a moment, we must return to the straight line +of investigation from which we swerved in considering the structural +parts of a playlet plot. + +At the beginning of this chapter we saw that a simple narrative +of events is made a plot by the addition of a crisis or entanglement, +and its resolution or untying. Now, the point I wish to present +with all the emphasis at my command, is that complication does not +mean complexity. + +1. Unity of Action + +In other words, no matter how many events you place one after +another--no matter how you pile incident upon incident--you will +not have a plot unless you so _inter-relate_ them that the removal +of anyone event will destroy the whole story. Each event must +depend on the one preceding it, and in turn form a basis for the +one following, and each must depend upon all the others so vitally +that if you take one away the whole collapses. [1] + +[1] See Aristotle, Poetics, Chapter VIII, and also Poe's criticism, +The American Drama. + +(a) _Unity of Hero is not Unity of Action._ One of the great errors +into which the novice is likely to fall, is to believe that because +he makes every event which happens happen to the hero, he is +observing the rule of unity. Nothing could be farther from the +truth--nothing is so detrimental to successful plot construction. +[2] + +[2] See Freytag's Technique of the Drama, p. 36. + +Aristotle tried to correct this evil, which he saw in the plays +of the great Athenian poets, by saying: "The action is the first +and most important thing, the characters only second;" and, "The +action is not given unity by being made to concern only one person." + +Remember, unity of action means unity of _story_. + +(b) _Double-Action is Dangerous to Unity_. If you have a scene +in which two minor characters come together for a reason vital to +the plot, you must be extremely careful not to tell anything more +than the facts that are vital. In long plays the use of what is +called "double-action "--that is, giving to characters necessary +to the plot an interest and a destiny separate from that of the +chief characters--is, of course, recognized and productive of fine +results. But, even in the five-act play, the use of double-action +is dangerous. For instance: Shakespere developed Falstaff so +humorously that today we sometimes carelessly think of "Henry IV" +as a delightful comedy, when in reality it was designed as a serious +drama--and is most serious, when Falstaff's lines are cut from the +reading version to the right proportions for to-day's stage effect. +If Shakespere nodded, it is a nod even the legitimate dramatist +of today should take to heart, and the playlet writer--peculiarly +restricted as to time--must engrave deeply in his memory. + +The only way to secure unity of action is to concentrate upon your +problem or theme; to realize that you are telling a _story_; to +remember that each character, even your hero, is only a pawn to +advance the story; and to cut away rigorously all non-essential +events. If you will bear in mind that a playlet is only as good +as its plot, that a plot is a _story_ and that you must give to +your story, as has been said, "A completeness--a kind of universal +dovetailedness, a sort of general oneness," you will have little +difficulty in observing the one playlet rule that should never be +broken--Unity of action. + +2. Unity of Time + +The second of the classical unities, unity of time, is peculiarly +perplexing, if you study to "understand" and not merely to write. +Briefly--for I must reiterate that our purpose is practice and not +theory--the dramatists of every age since Aristotle have quarreled +over the never-to-be-settled problem of what space of time a play +should be permitted to represent. Those who take the stand that +no play should be allowed to show an action that would require +more than twenty-four hours for the occurrences in real life, base +their premise on the imitative quality of the stage, rather than +upon the selective quality of art. While those who contend that +a play may disregard the classical unity of time, if only it +preserves the unity of action, base their contention upon the fact +that an audience is interested not in time at all--but in story. +In other words, a play preserves the only unity worth preserving +when it deals with the incidents that cause a crisis and ends by +showing its effect, no matter whether the action takes story-years +to occur or happens all in a story-hour. + +If we were studying the long drama it might be worth our while to +consider the various angles of this ancient dispute, but, fortunately, +we have a practical and, therefore, better standard by which to +state this unity in its application to the playlet. Let us approach +the matter in this way: + +Vaudeville is variety--it strives to compress into the space of +about two hours and a half a great number of different acts which +run the gamut of the entertainment forms, and therefore it cannot +afford more than an average of twenty minutes to each. This time +limit makes it difficult for a playlet to present effectively any +story that does not occur in consecutive minutes. It has been +found that even the lowering of the curtain for one second to +denote the lapse of an hour or a year, has a tendency to distract +the minds of the audience from the story and to weaken the singleness +of effect without which a playlet is nothing. + +On the other hand, this "rule" is not unbreakable: a master +craftsman's genius is above all laws. In "The System" the first +scene takes place in the evening; scene two, a little later the +same evening; and scene three later that same night. The story +is really continuous in time, but the story-time is not equal to +the playing-time even though this playlet consumes nearly twice +twenty minutes. But, you will note, the scenery changes help to +keep the interest of the audience from flagging, and also stamp +the lapses of time effectively. + +A still greater violation of the "rule"--if it were stated as +absolutely rigid--is to be found in Mr. Granville's later act, +"The Yellow Streak," written in collaboration with James Madison. +Here scene two takes place later in the evening of the first scene, +and the third scene after a lapse of four months. But these two +exceptions, out of many that might be cited, merely prove that +dramatic genius can mold even the rigid time of the vaudeville +stage to its needs. + +Of course, there is the possibility of foreshortening time to meet +the exigencies of vaudeville when the scene is not changed. For +instance: a character telephones that he will be right over and +solve the whole situation on which the punch of the playlet depends, +and he enters five actual minutes later--although in real life it +would take an hour to make the trip. This is an extreme instance, +as time foreshortening goes, because it is one where the audience +might grasp the disparity, and is given for its side-light of +warning as well as for its suggestive value. + +More simple foreshortenings of time are found in many playlets +where the effect of an hour-or-more of events is compressed into +the average twenty minutes. As an example of this perfectly safe +use of shortening, note the quickness with which Harry returns to +Miss Carey's apartment when he goes out to change into his +regimentals. And as still safer foreshortenings, note the quickness +with which Fred Saltus enters after Miss Carey goes to bed leaving +Angela on the couch; and the quickness with which Angela falls in +love with him--in fact, the entire compression inherent in the +dramatic events which cannot be dissociated from time compression. + +A safe attitude for a playlet writer to take, is that all of his +action shall mimic time reality as closely as his dramatic moment +and the time-allowance of presentation will permit. This is +considered in all dramatic art to be the ideal. + +A good way to obviate disparaging comparison is to avoid reference +to time--either in the dialogue or by the movements of events. + +To sum up the whole matter, a vaudeville playlet may be considered +as preserving unity of time when its action occurs in continuous +minutes of about the length the episode would take to occur in +real life. + +3. Unity of Place + +The commercial element of vaudeville often makes it inadvisable +for a playlet to show more than one scene--very often an otherwise +acceptable playlet is refused production because the cost of +supplying special scenes makes it a bad business venture. [1] + +[1] See Chapter III. + +Yet it is permissible for a writer to give his playlet more than +one place of happening--if he can make his story so compact and +gripping that it does not lose in effect by the unavoidable few +seconds' wait necessary to the changing of the scenery. But, even +if his playlet is so big and dramatic that it admits of a change +of scenes, he must conform it to the obvious vaudeville necessity +of scenic alternation. [2] With this scenic "rule" the matter of +unity of place in the playlet turns to the question of a playwright's +art, which rules cannot limit. + +[2] See Chapter I. + +This third and last unity of the playlet may, however, for all +save the master-craftsman, be safely stated as follows: + +Except in rare instances a playlet should deal with a story that +requires but one set of scenery, thus conserving the necessities +of commercial vaudeville, aiding the smooth running of a performance, +and preserving the dramatic unity of place. + +We may now condense the three dramatic unities into a statement +peculiarly applicable to the playlet--which would seem as though +specially designed to fulfill them all: + + A playlet preserves the dramatic unities when it shows one action + in one time and in one place. + +And now it may be worth while once more to sum up what I have said +about the elements of plot--of which the skeleton of every playlet +must be made up: + +A mere sequence of events is not a plot; to become a plot there +must develop a crisis or entanglement due to a conflict of the +characters' wills; the entanglement must be of such importance +that when it is untangled the characters will be in a different +relation to each other--changed in themselves by the crisis. A +plot is divided into three parts: a Beginning, a Middle and an +Ending. The Beginning must state the premises of the playlet's +problem clearly and simply; the Middle must develop the problem +logically and solve the entanglement in a "big" scene, and the +Ending must round out the whole satisfyingly--with a surprise, if +fitting. A plot, furthermore, must be so constructed that the +removal of anyone of its component parts will be detrimental to +the whole. It is told best when its action occurs in continuous +time of about the length the episode would take to occur in real +life and does not require the changing of scenery. Thus will a +playlet be made to give the _singleness_ of effect that is the height +of playlet art. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET + + +In this chapter the single word "character" must, of necessity, +do duty to express three different things. First, by "characters," +as used in the title, I mean what the programs sometimes more +clearly express by the words "persons of the play." Second, in +the singular, it must connote what we all feel when we use the +word in everyday life, as "he is a man of--good or bad--character." +And third, and also in the singular, I would also have it connote, +in the argot of the stage, "a character actor," meaning one who +presents a distinct type--as, say, a German character, or a French +character. It is because of the suggestive advantage of having +one word to express these various things that the single term +"characters" is used as the title of this chapter. But, that there +may be no possible confusion, I shall segregate the different +meanings sharply. + +I. CHARACTERS VERSUS PLOT + +In discussing how a playwright gets an idea, you will recall, we +found that there are two chief ways of fashioning the playlet: +First, a plot may be fitted with characters; second, characters +may be fitted with a plot. In other words, the plot may be made +most prominent, or the characters may be made to stand out above +the story. You will also remember we found that the stage--the +vaudeville quite as much as the legitimate--is "character-ridden," +that is, an actor who has made a pronounced success in the delineation +of one character type forever afterward wants another play or +playlet "just like the last, but with a different plot," so that +he can go right on playing the same old character. This we saw +has in some cases resulted in the story being considered merely +as a vehicle for a personality, often to the detriment of the +playlet. Naturally, this leads us to inquire: is there not some +just balance between characters and plot which should be preserved? + +Were we considering merely dramatic theory, we would be perfectly +right in saying that no play should be divisible into plot and +characters, but that story and characters should be so closely +twinned that one would be unthinkable without the other. As Brander +Matthews says, "In every really important play the characters make +the plot, and the story is what it is merely because the characters +are what they are." An exceptionally fine vaudeville example--one +only, it is agreeable to note, out of many that might be quoted +from vaudeville's past and present--that has but two persons in +the playlet is Will Cressy's "The Village Lawyer." One is a +penniless old lawyer who has been saving for years to buy a +clarionet. A woman comes in quest of a divorce. When he has +listened to her story he asks twenty dollars advance fee. Then +he persuades her to go back home--and hands the money back. There +is a splendid climax. The old lawyer stands in the doorway of his +shabby office looking out into the night. "Well," he sighs, "maybe +I couldn't play the darned thing anyway!" If the lawyer had not +been just what he was there would have been no playlet. But vital +as the indissoluble union of plot and characters is in theory, we +are not discussing theory; we are investigating practice, and +practice from the beginner's standpoint, therefore let us approach +the answer to our question in this way: + +When you were a child clamoring for "a story" you did not care a +snap of your fingers about anything except "Once upon a time there +was a little boy--or a giant--or a dragon," who did something. +You didn't care what the character was, but whatever it was, it +had to do something, to be doing something all of the time. Even +when you grew to youth and were on entertainment bent, you cared +not so much what the characters in a story were, just so long as +they kept on doing something--preferably "great" deeds, such as +capturing a city or scuttling a ship or falling in love. It was +only a little later that you came to find enjoyment in reading a +book or seeing a play in which the chief interest came from some +person who had admirable qualities or was an odd sort of person +who talked in an odd sort of way. Was it George Cohan who said +"a vaudeville audience is of the mental age of a nine-year-old +child"? + +Theoretically and, of course, practically too, when it is possible, +the characters of a playlet should be as interesting as the plot. +Each should vitally depend upon the other. But, if you must choose +whether to sacrifice plot-interest or character-interest, save the +interest of plot every time. As Aristotle says, "the action is +the first and most important thing, the characters only secondary." + +How a playwright begins to construct a play, whether he fits a +plot with characters, or fits characters with a plot, does not +matter. What matters is how he ends. If the story and the +characters blend perfectly the result is an example of the highest +art, but characters alone will never make a stage story--the playlet +writer must end with plot. _Story_ is for what the stage is made. +Plot is the life blood of the playlet. To vivify cold dramatic +incidents is the province of playlet characters. + +II. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAYLET + +While it is true that, no matter with what method he begins, a +playwright may end by having a successful playlet, the clearer way +to understanding is for us to suppose that you have your plot and +are striving to fit it with live people--therefore I shall assume +that such is the case. For if the reverse were the case and the +characters were all ready to fit with a plot, the question would +be primarily not of characters but of plot. + +1. The Number of Persons + +How many people shall I have in my playlet? ought to be one of +the very first questions the writer asks, for enough has been said +in the earlier chapters, it would seem, to establish the fact that +vaudeville is first of all a commercial pursuit and after that an +artistic profession. While there can be no hard and fast rule as +to the number of persons there may be in a playlet, business economy +dictates that there shall be no more than the action of the playlet +positively demands. But before I say a short word about this +general "rule," permit me to state another that comes fast upon +its heels: A really big playlet--big in theme, in grip of action, +and in artistic effect--may have even thrice the number of characters +a "little" playlet may possess. Merit determines the number. + +Let us find the reasons for these two general statements in this +way: + +In "The Lollard" there are four persons, while in "The System " +there are thirteen speaking parts and a number of "supers." Would +it then be correct to suppose that "The System" is a "bigger" +playlet than "The Lollard"? It would not be safe to assume any +such judgment, for the circuit that booked "The System" may have +been in need of a playlet using a large number of persons to make +what is known as a "flash," therefore the booking manager may have +given orders that this playlet be built to make that flash, and +the total return to the producer might not have been any greater +proportionally than the return to the producer of the numerically +smaller "The Lollard." Therefore of two playlets whose total +effects are equal, the one having the lesser number of persons is +the better producing gamble, and for this reason is more likely +to be accepted when offered for sale. + +If you will constantly bear in mind that you are telling a story +of action and not of character, you will find very little difficulty +in reducing the number of players from what you first supposed +absolutely necessary. As just one suggestion: If your whole playlet +hangs on an important message to be delivered, the property man, +dressed as a messenger boy, may hand in the message without a word. +I have chosen this one monotonously often-seen example because it +is suggestive of the crux of the problem--the final force of a +playlet is affected little by what the character says when he +delivers a vital message. All that matters is the message itself. +The one thing to remember in reducing the number of characters to +the lowest possible number is--plot. + +_Four Persons the Average_. While there are playlets ranging in +number of characters from the two-person "The Village Lawyer," +through "The Lollard's" four, to "The System's" thirteen speaking +parts, and even more in rare instances, the average vaudeville +playlet employs four people. But it is a fact of importance to +note that a three-person playlet can be sold more easily--I am +assuming an equal standard of merit--than a four-person playlet. +And, by the same law of demand, a two-person playlet wins a quicker +market than a three-person playlet. The reason for this average +has its rise in the demands of the dramatic, and not merely in +economy. The very nature of the playlet makes it the more difficult +to achieve dramatic effect the more the number of characters is +reduced. But while four persons are perfectly permissible in a +playlet designed for vaudeville's commercial stage, the beginner +would do well to make absolutely sure that he has reduced his +characters to their lowest number before he markets his playlet, +and, if possible, make a three-person or a two-person offering. + +2. Selecting the Characters + +There would seem to be little need, in this day of wide curiosity +about all the forms of writing and those of playwriting in particular, +to warn the beginner against straying far afield in search of +characters whom he will not understand even when he finds them. +Yet this is precisely the fault that makes failures of many otherwise +good playlets. The whole art of selecting interesting characters +may be summed up in one sentence--choose those that you know. The +most interesting characters in the world are rubbing elbows with +you every day. + +Willard Mack--who developed into a successful legitimate playwright +from vaudeville, and is best known, perhaps, for the expansion of +his vaudeville act, "Kick in," into the long play of the same +name--has this to say on the subject: "I say to the ambitious +playwright, take the types you are familiar with. Why go to the +Northwest, to New Orleans in the 40's, to the court of Louis XIV, +for characters? The milkman who comes to your door in the morning, +the motorman on the passing street car, the taxi driver, all have +their human-interest stories. Anyone of them would make a drama. +I never attempt to write anything that has not suggested itself +from something in real life. I must know it has existed." [1] + +[1] Willard Mack on the "Vaudeville Playlet," The New York Dramatic +Mirror, March 3, 1915. + +Precisely as it is impossible to tell anyone how to grasp the +dramatic and transplant it into a playlet, is it impossible to +show how to seize on character and transplant it to the stage. +Only remember that interesting characters are all about you, and +you will have little difficulty--if you have, as the French say, +the "flare." + +III. FITTING CHARACTERS TO PLOT + +It would seem that a playwright who has his plot all thought out +would experience little difficulty in fitting the characters of a +playlet into their waiting niches; it is easy, true enough--if his +plot is perfectly dovetailed and motivated as to character. By +this I mean, that in even a playlet in which plot rides the +characters, driving them at its will to attain its end, logic must +be used. And it certainly would not be logical to make your +characters do anything which such persons would not do in real +life. As there must be unity in plot, so must there be unity in +character. + +The persons in a playlet are not merely puppets, even if plot is +made to predominate. They are--let us hope--live persons. I do +not mean that you have transplanted living people to the stage, +but that you have taken the elements of character that you require +out of life and have combined these into a consistent whole to +form characters necessary to your playlet. Therefore, you must +be careful to make each character uniform throughout. You must +not demand of any character anything you have not laid down in the +premises of your problem--which presupposes that each character +possesses certain definite and logical characteristics which make +the plot what it is. + +Bearing this single requirement firmly in mind, you must so motivate +your plot that everything which occurs to a character rises out +of that character's personality; you must make the crisis the +outward evidence of his inner being and the change which comes +through the climax the result of inner change. This was considered +in the chapters on the dramatic and on plot construction and +expressed when I said: It is the _meaning_ hidden in the events +that makes the dramatic. It is this inner meaning that lies in +the soul of the character himself which marks the change in his +own character and his own outward life. + +IV. CHARACTERIZATION + +How a playwright delineates character in the persons of his playlet, +is at once the easiest thing to explain and the most difficult for +which to lay down helpful methods, for while the novelist and the +short-story writer have three ways of telling their readers what +manner of man it is in whom he asks interest, the dramatist has +but two. + +1. Methods of Characterization + +First, a playwright may build up a characterization by having one +character tell another what sort of a person the third is. Second, +he may make the character show by his own speech and actions what +he is. This latter is the dramatic way, and peculiarly the playlet +way. + +As the first method is perfectly plain in itself, I shall dismiss +it with the suggestive warning that even this essentially undramatic +method must partake of the dramatic to be most effective: to get +the most out of one character's describing a second to a third, +the reason for the disclosure must be bone-and-brawn a part of the +action. + +The two elements of the dramatic method are: First, the character +may disclose his inner being by his own words, and second, by his +actions. + +The first is so intimately connected with the succeeding chapter +on dialogue that I shall postpone its consideration until then and +discuss here the disclosure of character through action. + +When you meet a man whom you have never met before, you carry away +with you a somewhat complete impression. Even though he has spoken +but a word or two, his appearance first of all, the cut of his +clothes, his human twinkle, the way he lights his cigar, the +courteous way in which he gives precedence to another, or his rough +way of "butting into" a conversation, all combine to give him a +personality distinct from every other man's. What he does not +disclose of himself by actions, you read into his personality +yourself. "First impressions are the strongest," is a common +saying--we make them strong by reading character on sight, by +jumping at conclusions. Man does not need to have a whole life +laid before him to form a judgment. Little things are what drive +character impressions home. + +It is this human trait of which the playwright makes use in the +delineation of character. The playlet writer has even less time +than the legitimate dramatist to stamp character. He must seize +on the essentials, and with a few broad strokes make the character +live as distinct from all other men. + +For much of his characterization--aside from that absolutely +inherent in the plot--the playlet writer depends upon the actor. +By the use of costumes and of make-up, the age and station in life, +even the business by which a character earns his daily bread, are +made clear at a glance. And by the trick of a twitching mouth, a +trembling hand, or a cunningly humble glance, the inner being is +laid bare, with the help of a few vital words which are made to +do duty to advance the story as well. + +In a word, the playwright and the actor work in partnership, with +broad strokes, relying upon the eager imagination of the audience +to amplify the tiny sketch into a well-rounded, full personality. +This is the method simply stated. It does not admit of the laying +down of precepts. + +2. The Choice of Names + +In the old days of vaudeville the persons of a playlet were often +named to fit their most prominent characteristic; for instance, a +sneaky fellow would be named Sam Sly, and a pretty girl Madge +Dimples. But with the change in fashion in the long play, the +playlet has relegated this symbolical method of naming characters +to burlesque and the lurid types of melodrama, and even there it +is going out of fashion. + +Today, names are carefully chosen to seem as life-like as do the +characters themselves. Instead of trying to express characteristics +by a name, the very opposite effect is sought, except when the +character would in real life have a "monicker," or the naming of +the character in the old way would serve to relate the act more +closely to its form and awaken pleasing reminiscences. [1] The +method today is to select a name that shall fit a character in a +general way and yet be so unobtrusive that it will not be remarked. + +[1] See The System and My Old Kentucky Home, in the Appendix. + +Simple names are always the best. The shorter they are the +better--usually nicknames, if true to life and the character, have +a "homey" sort of sound that is worth securing. Bill, and Jack, +and Madge, and Flo, or anyone of a hundred others, sound less +formidable than William, and James, and Margaret, and Florence. +Names that are long and "romantic" are usually amusing; merely +listen to Algernon, Hortense, and Reginald Montmorency, and you +have to smile--and not always with pleasure. + +But for a name to be simple or short or unromantic does not solve +the problem for all cases. A long "romantic" name might be the +very best one you could choose for a certain character. [1] The +name you should select depends on what effect you wish to secure. +No one can tell you just what name to choose for a character you +alone have in mind. + +[1] See The Villain Still Pursued Her in the Appendix. + +But do not make the mistake of pondering too long over the naming +of your characters. It is not the name that counts, it is the +character himself, and behind it all the action that has brought +the character into being--your gripping plot. + +And now, let us sum up this brief discussion of characters and +characterization before we pass on to a consideration of dialogue. +Because of time-restriction, a playlet must depend for interest +upon plot rather than upon character. The average number of persons +in a playlet is four. Interesting characters are to be found +everywhere, and the playlet writer can delineate those he rubs +elbows with better than those he does not know well and therefore +cannot fully understand. The same unity demanded of a plot is +required of a character--characters must be consistent. +Characterization is achieved by the dramatic method of letting +actions speak for themselves, is done in broad strokes growing out +of the plot itself, and is conveyed in close partnership with the +actor by working on the minds of the audience who take a meagre +first impression and instantly build it up into a full portrait. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET + + +We have now come to one of the least important elements of the +playlet--yet a decorative element which wit and cleverness can +make exceedingly valuable. + +If it is true that scenery is the habitation in which the playlet +moves, that its problem is the heart beating with life, that the +dramatic is the soul which shines with meaning through the whole, +that plot is the playlet's skeleton which is covered by the flesh +of the characters--then the dialogue is, indeed, merely a playlet's +clothes. Clothes do not make a man, but the world gives him a +readier welcome who wears garments that fit well and are becoming. +This is the whole secret of dialogue--speeches that fit well and +are becoming. + +1. What is Dialogue? + +It has been said that "Romeo and Juliet" played in English in any +country would be enjoyed by everyone, even though they could not +understand a word of what was said. There is a story told about +a Slav in Pennsylvania who could not speak one word of English, +but who happened to come up from his work as a laborer in a coal +mine just as the people were filing in to the performance of "The +Two Orphans," and as he had nothing in particular to do, in he +went--and nearly broke up the performance by the loudness of his +sobbing. I shall never forget an experience of my own, when I +took a good French friend to see David Warfield in "The Music +Master"; this young chap could not understand more than a word +here and there, but we were compelled to miss the last act because +he cried so hard during the famous lost-daughter scene that he was +ashamed to enter the theatre after the intermission. + +Every great play is, in the last analysis, a pantomime. Words are +unnecessary to tell a stage story that has its wellspring deep in +the emotions of the human heart. Words can only embellish it. A +great pantomimist--a Mlle. Dazie, who played Sir James M. Barrie's +"The Pantaloon" in vaudeville without speaking a word; a Pavlowa, +who dances her stories into the hearts of her audience; a Joe +Jackson, who makes his audiences roar with laughter and keeps them +convulsed throughout his entire act, with the aid of a dilapidated +bicycle, a squeaky auto horn and a persistently annoying cuff--does +not need words to tell a story. + +The famous French playwright Scribe--perhaps the most ingenious +craftsman the French stage has ever seen--used to say, "When my +subject is good, when my scenario (plot) is very clear, very +complete, I might have the play written by my servant; he would +be sustained by the situation;--and the play would succeed." +Plutarch tells us that Menander, the master of Greek comedy, was +once asked about his new play, and he answered: "It is composed +and ready; I have only the verses (dialogue) to write." [1] + +[1] Reported in A Study of the Drama, by Brander Matthews. + +If it is true that a great play, being in its final analysis a +pantomime, is effective without dialogue, and if some famous +dramatists thought so little of dialogue that they considered their +plays all written before they wrote the dialogue, then speech must +be something that has little _comparative_ value--something primarily +employed to aid the idea behind it, to add emphasis to plot--not +to exist for itself. + +2. The Uses of Dialogue + +Dialogue makes the dramatic story clear, advances it, reveals +character, and wins laughter--all by five important means: + +(a) _Dialogue Conveys Information of Basic Events at the Opening_. +As we saw in the discussion of the structural elements of plot, +there are of necessity some points in the basic incidents chosen +for the story of a playlet that have their roots grounded in the +past. Upon a clear understanding of these prior happenings which +must be explained immediately upon the rise of the curtain, depends +the effect of the entire sequence of events and, consequently, the +final and total effect of the playlet. To "get this information +over" the characters are made to tell of them as dramatically as +possible. For instance: + +Angela Maxwell knocks on Miss Carey's door the instant the curtain +rises on "The Lollard," and as soon as Miss Carey opens the door +Angela says: "Listen, you don't know me, but I've just left my +husband." And the dialogue goes on to tell why she left Harry, +clearly stating the events that the audience must know in order +to grasp the meaning of those that follow. + +At the very beginning of a playlet the dialogue must be especially +clear, vividly informing and condensed. By "condensed," I meant +the dialogue must be tense, and supported by swift action--it must +without delay have done with the unavoidable explanations, and +quickly get into the rising movement of events. + +(b) _Dialogue Brings out the Incidents Clearly_. Never forgetting +that action makes dialogue but that dialogue never makes action, +let us take the admirable surprise ending of "The System," for an +example: + +The Inspector has left, after giving The Eel and Goldie their +freedom and advising them to clear out and start life anew. The +audience knows they are in hard straits financially. How are they +going to secure the money to get away from town? Goldie expresses +it concisely: "Well, we're broke again (tearfully). We can't go +West now, so there's no use packing." This speech is like a +sign-post that points out the condition the events have made them +face. And then like a sign-post that points the other way, it +adds emphasis to the flash of the surprise and the solution when +The Eel, stealthily making sure no one will see him and no one can +hear him, comes down to Goldie, sitting forlornly on the trunk, +taps her on the shoulder and shows her Dugan's red wallet. Of +course, the audience knows that the wallet spells the solution of +all their problems, but The Eel clinches it by saying, "Go right +ahead and pack." + +Out of this we may draw one observation which is at least interesting, +if not illuminating: When an audience accepts the premises of a +playlet without question, it gives over many of its emotions and +most of its reasoning power into the author's hands. Therefore +the author must think for his audience and keenly suggest by +dialogue that something is about to happen, show it as happening, +and make it perfectly clear by dialogue that it has actually +happened. This is the use to which dialogue is put most +tellingly--bringing out the incidents in clear relief and at the +very same time interpreting them cunningly. + +(c) _Dialogue Reveals Character Humanly_. Character is tried, +developed and changed not by dialogue, but by action; yet the first +intimate suggestion of character is shown in dialogue; and its +trials, development and change are brought into clear relief--just +as events, of which character-change is the vital part, are made +unmistakably clear--by the often illuminating word that fits +precisely. As J. Berg Esenwein says, "Just as human interest is +the heart of the narrative, so human speech is its most vivid +expression. In everyday life we do not know a man until we have +heard him speak. Then our first impressions are either confirmed, +modified, or totally upset." [1] + +[1] Writing the Short-Slory, page 247. + +It is by making all of his characters talk alike that the novice +is betrayed, whereas in giving each character individuality of +speech as well as of action the master dramatist is revealed. +While it is permissible for two minor characters to possess a hazy +likeness of speech, because they are so unimportant that the +audience will not pay much attention to them, the playlet writer +must give peculiar individuality to every word spoken by the chief +characters. By this I do not mean that, merely to show that a +character is different, a hero or heroine should be made to talk +with a lisp or to use some catch-word--though this is sometimes +done with admirable effect. What I mean is that the words given +to the chief characters must possess an individuality rising from +their inner differences; their speech should show them as not only +different from each other, but also different from every other +character in the playlet--in the whole world, if possible--and +their words should be just the words they and no others would use +in the circumstances. + +If you will remember that you must give to the dialogue of your +chief characters a unity as complete as you must give to plot and +character as shown through action, you will evade many dialogue +dangers. This will not only help you to give individuality to +each character, but also save you from making a character use +certain individual expressions at one time and then at another +talk in the way some other character has spoken. Furthermore, +strict observance of this rule should keep you from putting into +the mouth of a grown man, who is supposed to be most manly, +expressions only a "sissy" would use; or introducing a character +as a wise man and permitting him to talk like a fool. As in life, +so in dialogue--consistency is a test of worth. + +Keep your own personality out of the dialogue. Remember that your +characters and not you are doing the talking. You have laid down +a problem in your playlet, and your audience expects it to fulfill +its promise dramatically--that is, by a mimicry of life. So it +does not care to listen to one man inhabiting four bodies and +talking like a quartet of parrots. It wants to hear four different +personalities talk with all the individuality that life bestows +so lavishly--in life. + +You will find little difficulty in keeping your individuality out +of dialogue if you will only remember that you cannot write +intelligently of characters you do not know. Make use of the +characters nearest you, submerge yourself in their individualities, +and you will then be so interested in them that you will forget +yourself and end by making the characters of your playlet show +themselves in their dialogue as individual, enthrallingly entertaining, +new, and--what is the final test of all dialogue--convincing. + +(d) _Dialogue Wins Laughter_. There are three sources from which +laughter rises out of dialogue. First, from the word that is a +witticism, existing for its own sake. Second, from the word that +is an intensely individual expression of character--the +character-revealing phrase. Third, the word that is funny because +it is spoken at the right instant in the action. All three have +a place in the playlet, but the last, the dialogue that rises out +of and illuminates a situation, is productive of the best results. +This is but another way of saying what cannot be too often repeated, +that the playlet is plot. [1] + +[1] See Chapter V, in which humor was discussed in relation to the +monologue. + +Even in dialect, dialogue does not bother with anything much but +plot-expression of character. Indicate the odd twist of a character's +thoughts as clearly as you can, but never try to reproduce all his +speech phonetically. If you do, you will end disastrously, for +your manuscript will look like a scrambled alphabet which nobody +can decipher. In writing dialect merely suggest the broken English +here and there--follow the method so clearly shown in "The German +Senator." Remember that the actor who will be engaged to play the +part has studied the expression of that particular type all his +life. His method of conveying what you intend is likely to be +different from your method. Trust him--for you must. + +(e) _Dialogue Advances the Action and Rounds Out the Plot_. +Precisely in the way that incidents are brought out clearly by +dialogue, dialogue advances the action and rounds out the plot at +the curtain. Clear as I hope the method has been made, I wish to +point out two dialogue peculiarities which come with the rise of +emotion. + +First, as the action quickens, there inevitably occurs a compression +inherent in the dramatic that is felt by the dialogue. Joe Maxwell's +epitome of vaudeville as he once expressed it to me in a most +suggestive discussion of the two-a-day, illustrates this point +better, perhaps, than a chapter would explain: "Vaudeville is +meat," he said, "the meat of action, the meat of words." There +is no _time_ in vaudeville climaxes for one word that does not point +out, or clinch home the action. Here action speaks louder than +words. Furthermore, in the speed of bodily movement there is +actually no time for words. If two men are grappling in a life +and death struggle they can't stop for speech. + +And second, as the playlet nears its ending there is no _need_ for +explanatory words--if the preceding action has been dramatic. +Every new situation rises out of the old, the audience knows it +all now, they even foresee the climax, and, in a well constructed +playlet, they feel the coming-to-an-end thrill that is in the air. +What need is there for dialogue? Only a need for the clearing, +clinching kind, and for + +_The Finish Line_. While the last-speech of a playlet is bone of +the bone and blood of the blood of plot, the finish line is +peculiarly a part of dialogue. It is here, in the last line, that +the tragic has a strangely illuminating force and the comic must +be given full play. Indeed, a comedy act that does not end in a +"scream" is hardly worth anything. And, as comedy acts are most +in demand in vaudeville, I shall relate this discussion solely to +the comic ending. Here it is, then, in the last line of a comedy +act, that the whole action is rounded neatly off with a full play +of fancy--with emphasis on the use of wit. + +Of course I do not mean that the last line may be permitted to +stray away from the playlet and crack an unrelated joke. But the +last line, being a completing line, may return to some incident +earlier than the closing action. It may with full profit even go +back to the introduction, as "The Lollard's" last line takes Miss +Carey back to her interrupted sleep with, "Now, thank Gawd, I'll +get a little sleep." + +Or it may be merely a quaint line, like that which ended a very +successful playlet which has stuck in my memory, but whose title +I have forgotten. Here the sweethearts were brought together, +they flew into each other's arms, they kissed. Naturally the +curtain was on that kiss, but no--they drew apart and the girl +rubbed her lips with the back of her hand. "Aw," said the boy, +"what you rubbing it off for?" And the girl, half-crying, +half-laughing, answered, "I ain't rubbing it off; I'm rubbing it +_in!_" + +Or the last line may be a character line, rounding back to the +opening, perhaps, but having its mainspring in character, like the +last line of "The Village Lawyer": "Well," he sighs--as he watches +the money with which he could have satisfied his longing to buy a +clarionet, disappear--"Maybe I couldn't play the darned thing +anyway!" [1] + +[1] Chapter XV, section I. + +Example after example might be quoted to illustrate every possible +variation, yet in the end we would come to the very same conclusions +these four instances reveal. The finish line is the concluding +thought of the action. It may round back to the opening plainly; +bring out sharply the most prominent point developed; vividly +present a pleasing side-light with a punch; illuminate a character +point; take some completing element and twist it into a surprise-- +indeed, the finish line may present anything at all, so long as it +thrills with human interest and laughter. + +3. Fit and Becoming Dialogue + +In playlet dialogue there is as much need of the dramatic spirit +as in the playlet plot. Not what is said in real life, but what +must be said to express the action concisely, is its aim. Playlet +dialogue cannot take time to reproduce small talk. It must connote, +not denote, even the big things. To omit is more important than +to include. A whole life must be compressed into a single speech +and entire stages of progression be epitomized in a single sentence. +True enough, in really big scenes a character may rise to lofty +expression; but of all playlet moments, here sane selection and +compression are most vital. The wind of talk must be made compressed +air. + +Conversation for conversation's sake is the one thing, above all +others that stamps a playlet as in vain. I have seen producing +manager after producing manager run through manuscripts to select +for careful reading the ones with short speeches. Those weighty +with long speeches were returned unread. Why? Because experience +had taught them that a playlet filled with long speeches is likely +to be filled with little else. They realize that conversation as +an art died the day the first automobile did the mile in sixty +flat. Speed is what the playlet needs, and talk slows the track. +In the classic words of vaudeville, if you must talk, "hire a +hall." + +Where is it you hear more clever lines than anywhere else? In +vaudeville. Where is it that slang hits the hardest? In vaudeville. +On what stage do people talk more nearly like you and I talk? The +vaudeville stage. For vaudeville is up-to-the-minute--vaudeville +is the instant's dramatic review. + +And it is this speech of the instant that playlet dialogue needs-- +the short, sharp, seemingly thoughtless but vividly pulsating words +of everyday life. If today men talked in long speeches filled +with grandiloquent periods, the playlet would mimic their length +and tone, but men today do not speak that way and the playlet must +mimic today's shortness and crispness. As Alexander Black says, +"The language of the moment is the bridge; that carries us straight +to the heart of the whole world, and all the past. Life or fancy +that comes in the language of the moment comes to us _translated_. +Fantastically, the language of the street is always close to the +bones of art. It is always closer to the Bible and to all the big +fellows than the language of the drawing rooms. Art is only the +_expression_ of ideas. Ideas, emotions, impulses, are more important +than the _medium_, just as religion is more important than theology. +There is just as much excuse for saying 'theology for its own sake' +as for saying 'art for art's sake.' The joy of a new word should +make us grateful for the fertility of the street out of which most +of the really strong words come. The street doesn't make us fine, +but it keeps us from being too sweet and thin. It loves the punch. +And the punch clears the path." It is the punch in dialogue that +the playlet demands. + +Before we agree upon what is fit and becoming dialogue, I think +it advisable to condense into a few words all that I have said on +the subject. In its final analysis a playlet is a pantomime. +Dialogue is primarily employed to add emphasis to the plot. It +does this by conveying information of basic events at the opening; +by bringing out the succeeding incidents clearly; by revealing +character humanly; by winning laughter; by advancing the action; +and by rounding out the plot in a finish line which thrills with +human interest and, in the comedy playlet, with laughter. And +now, what is fit and becoming dialogue? Fit dialogue is--what +fits the plot exactly. Becoming dialogue is--what makes the plot +_seem_ even better. But dialogue cannot make plot better, it can +only make it seem better--it can only dress it. Remember that. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +"BUSINESS" IN THE PLAYLET + + +In considering the "business" of the playlet, we have come to the +place where it would seem that writing must be left behind and the +function of the producer entered upon. For business is the detail +of stage action and movement. But, while it is the peculiar +function of the producer to invent and to incorporate into the +playlet little bits of everyday movements of the characters to +lend the effect of real life to the mimic picture, it is the +province of the writer--in reducing his words to the lowest possible +number, in an effort to secure that "economy of attention" which +is the foundation of all art--to tell as much of his story as he +can by actions that speak even louder than words. Every great +playwright is as much a producer as he is a writer. + +As we saw in Chapter VII, "business" includes every movement an +actor makes while he is on the stage. Thus a facial expression +may be called "business," _if it lends a peculiar significance +to a line_. And a wild leap of a man on horseback through a +window--this has actually been done in a vaudeville act--is also +called business. In fact everything, from "mugging," [1] walking +about, sitting down, picking up a handkerchief, taking off or +putting on a coat, to the wordless scenes into which large parts +of the story are condensed and made clear solely by situation--everything +is called "business." But to differentiate the actor's part from +the work of the playwright, I shall arbitrarily call every action +which is as indivisible from acting as facial play, "pantomime"; +while I shall employ the word "business" to express the use of +movement by the playwright for the purpose of condensing large +parts of the story and telling it wordlessly. + +[1] "Mugging," considered by some to be one of the lowest forms +of comedy, is bidding for laughter by facial contortions unrelated +to the action or the lines--making the scene subservient to the +comical faces made by the actor. + +1. The Part Business Plays in the Dramatic [2] + +[2] The impossibility of keeping separate the _designing_ and the +_writing_ of business, will be seen as the chapter progresses, +therefore I shall treat both freely in one. + +Let us turn to that part of the third scene of "The System" where +The Eel and Goldie--who have been given their liberty "with a +string to it" by Inspector McCarthy in his anxiety to catch Officer +Dugan red-handed--are "up against it" in their efforts to get away +from town. They have talked it all over in Goldie's flat and The +Eel has gone out to borrow the money from Isaacson, the "fence." +Now when The Eel closes Goldie's door and runs downstairs, Goldie +listens intently until the outer door slams, then begins to +pack. She opens the trunk first, gets her jacket from the couch +where she has thrown it, puts it in the trunk and then goes up +into the bedroom and gets a skirt. She shakes the skirt as she +comes down stage. Then a long, low whistle is heard--then the +rapping of a policeman's club. + +"Bulls!" she gasps. Looking up at the light burning, she turns +it out and closes the trunk at the same time. And she stands still +until she sees the shadow of a man's hand cast by the moonlight +on the wall. Then she gives a frightened exclamation and cowers +on the sofa. + +Here we have packed into little more than sixty seconds a revelation +of the fear in which all crooks live, the unthinking faith and +love Goldie bears The Eel, and a quiet moment which emphasizes the +rush of the preceding events--a space also adding punch to the +climax of incidents which follow hot upon its heels. When the +long, low whistle sounds and the policeman's club raps out its +alarm, the audience feels that the action is filled with tense +meaning--The Eel has been caught. That hand on the wall is like +a coming event casting its shadow before, and when Goldie gives +her frightened exclamation and cowers on the couch, her visible +fear--coming in contrast to her commonplace packing to get +away--builds up the scene into a thrill that is capped by the +meaningful window entrance of Dugan. "Ah!" says the audience, +"here's the first time they've gotten together alone. It's the +first time we've really seen that Dugan is behind it all. Something +big is going to happen." + +All of these revealing flashes, which illumine like searchlights, +are told by movement. The only word that is spoken is Goldie's +cry "Bulls!" The only other sounds are the whistle and the rapping +of the club. But if Goldie had taken up the time with telling the +audience how glad she was to pack and get away with The Eel to a +new life, and if she had expressed her fear by bewailing the +hardness of fate--the dramatic effect would have been lost. Do +you see how words can kill and soundless movements vivify? + +In "The Lollard," when Miss Carey wants to disillusionize Angela, +she does not sit down and argue her out of her insane infatuation +for Fred; nor does she tell Angela that Fred is a "lollard" and +weakly unmask him by describing his "lollard" points. She cries +"Fire! Fire! Fire!" Whereupon Fred dashes out on the stage and +Angela and the audience with their own eyes behold Fred as a +"lollard." Here the whole problem of the playlet is solved in a +flash. Not one word of explanatory dialogue is needed. + +In "Three of a Kind," a comedy playlet produced by Roland West, +two crooks fleece a "sucker" and agree to leave the money in a +middle room while they sleep in opposite rooms. They say they +trust each other implicitly, but each finds a pretext to sit up +and watch that money himself. The comedy rises from their movements +around the room as they try to outmaneuver each other. + +These three examples plainly show how movement, unexplained by +dialogue, may be used to condense a middle action, a climax, and +an opening. Now, if you will turn to the surprise ending of "The +System"--which has been discussed before in its relation to +dialogue--you will see how business may condense an ending. Indeed, +the very essence of the surprise ending lies in this dramatic +principle. Of course, how the condensation of story into movement +is to be made in any given case depends upon the material, and the +writer's purpose. But as a part of the problem let us see + +2. How Pantomime Helps to Condense Story and Illumine Character + +Consider the inimitable gesture the Latins use when they wish to +express their helplessness. The shoulders shrug until the man +seems folding into himself, his hands come together approaching +his face and then he drops them despairingly to his side as if he +would say: "But what can I do?" A gesture such as this reveals +in a flash the depths of a human soul. Volumes could say no more. + +This is what the actor may bring to your playlet, and what you, +with the greatest caution, may sometimes--though rarely--indicate +in your manuscript. + +"Walk up stage," said David Belasco to an actor who was proving +"difficult," "and when you turn your back, get some meaning into +it. Make your back express--the whole play, if you can." Most +certainly you would not write this in the directions for a +playlet--the producer would laugh at it and the actor would be +indignant. But you might with the greatest helpfulness direct +that the character turn his back--and this is the point of the +problem--if, by turning his back on some one, the character conveys, +say, contempt for or fearlessness of an enemy's bravado. Every +direction for acting in your playlet must be of such a kind that +_anyone_ can convey the meaning--because the emphasis is inherent +in the situation. A stage direction ought not to depend for its +value on the actor's ability. If this were not so, play writing +would consist chiefly in engaging fine actors. + +When an actor receives a part he studies it not only to learn the +lines, but with the desire to familiarize himself with the character +so thoroughly that he may not seem to be playing it. He hopes to +make the audience feel that the character is alive. For this +reason, it is not amiss to indicate characteristic actions once +in a while. A good example of this is found in "The Lollard," +where Angela says to Miss Carey: "But--excuse me--how do you know +so many different kinds of men if you've never been married?" + +"Boarders," says Miss Carey quickly. "To make ends meet, I've +always had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan." +"She rises--turns her back to audience--gives a touch to her +pigtail, during laugh on this line. This business always builds +laugh," say the directions. It is such little touches that stamp +a character as individual; and therefore they are just the little +touches the playwright may add to his manuscript by way of suggestion +to the actor. They may be very helpful, indeed, but they should +be made with great care and discretion. For the actor, if he is +a capable performer, is ready when rehearsal begins with many +suggestions of a like nature. He will often suggest something +that will not only exhibit character clearly, but will also condense +story by eliminating needless words and movement. + +For instance: F. F. Mackay was rehearsing to play the French count +in the famous old play, "One of Our Girls." Mr. Bronson Howard +had directed in his manuscript that the count, when struck across +the face with a glove by an English officer, should become very +violent and angry, in accordance with the popular notion of an +excitable Frenchman's character. "But Mr. Mackay," says Daniel +Frohman, "argued that the French count, having been shown in the +play to be an expert duellist with both the rapier and the pistol, +and having faced danger frequently, was not liable to lose control +of himself. Mr. Howard readily saw the point. The result was one +of the most striking situations in the American drama; for the +Frenchman received the insult without the movement of a muscle. +He stood rigid. Only the flash of the eye for an instant revealed +his emotion. Then the audience saw his face grow red, and then +pale. This was followed by the quiet announcement from the count +that he would send his seconds to see the Englishman. + +"This exhibition of facial emotion betrayed by the visible rush +of blood to the actor's face was frequently noted at the time. +It was a muscular trick, Mr. Mackay told me. He put on a tight +collar for the scene and strained his neck against it until the +blood tame, and when he released the pressure, and the blood +receded, the effect was reached. It was a splendid moment, and +it is one of the many effects that have been studied out during +the progress and development of a play during rehearsals." + +It is for the great majority of such little touches, therefore, +that the playwright must depend on the actor and the producer to +add to his playlet. However, the playwright may help to the limit +of his ability, by giving very short, very carefully thought out +directions in his manuscript. But it is much better for the novice +to disregard suggestions to the actor for character analysis and +even to be sparing with his hints for facial expressions or slight +movements--and to content himself with an effort to condense his +story in the broader ways. + +3. How Tediously Long Speeches may be Broken up by Movement + +As the playlet is primarily action, and as the audience expects +the playlet to keep moving all the time, it is a common practise +to try to trick the audience into believing every speech is vibrant +with emotional force, by keeping the actors moving about the stage. +But the fact that a really vital speech may be killed by a movement +which distracts the attention of the audience ought to be proof +positive that needless movements about the stage are merely a +confession of poverty in the playlet. Nevertheless, as a long +explanatory speech seems sometimes unavoidable, I devote two or +three short paragraphs to what has saved some playlets from absolute +failure. + +If you are unable to tell every bit of your story by dramatic means +and therefore face a long speech that may seem tiresomely wordy, +break it up with natural movements which lend a feeling of homely +reality to the scene. For instance, don't let the character who +is delivering that long speech tell it all uninterruptedly from +the chair in which he is sitting. Let him rise after he has spoken +two or three sentences and cross to the other character, or do +something that will illustrate a point in his story, or have the +one who is listening interrupt now and then. Inject motive into +the interruptions if you can; but in any event, keep your characters +moving. + +But make the movements natural. To this end, study the movements +of the men and women about you. Try to invent new ways of expressing +the old things in movement. Strive not so much to be "different," +as to be vividly interesting. You can make the movements of your +characters about the stage as brilliant as dialogue. + +Above all, make sure that you do not let your characters wander +about the stage aimlessly. To make it a complete unity every +little scene demands as careful thought as does the entire playlet. +A playlet may be suggestively defined as a number of minute-long +playlets moving vividly one after the other to make a vivid whole. +Remember this, and you may be able to save a tiresome scene from +ruining the entire effect of your playlet. + +4. Why Business is More Productive of Comedy than Dialogue + +As a playlet is nothing if it is not action, so a comedy playlet +is nothing if its comedy does not develop from situations. By +"action," as the word is used here, I mean that the story of the +playlet is told by the movements of its characters. In real life, +you know, comedy and tragedy do not come from what persons say +they are going to do--but from what they actually do. Therefore, +the merry jests that one character perpetrates upon another must +be told not in words, but by showing the character actually +perpetrating them on the victim. In a comedy playlet, the playwright +must be a practical joker. Every funny happening in a playlet is +a "scene that must be shown." + +For instance, in "Billy's Tombstones," the football player who is +in love with the girl, whom he has followed half around the world, +is shown first as losing his "tombstones"--his false teeth, made +necessary by the loss of his real ones in a famous college game; +then he is shown in his wild efforts to pronounce his sweetheart's +name without the dental help. Much of the comedy arises from his +efforts to pronounce that loved name--and the climax comes when +the lost tombstones are found and Billy proposes to her in perfect +speech that lingers fondly on her name. + +In farce--particularly in the old farces which depended on mistaken +identity, a motive force considered hardly worthy of use today--the +comedy arises very rarely from a witty saying in itself. The fun +usually depends upon the humorous situations that develop. "The +New Coachman"--one of those old farcical "screams"--contained an +exceptionally fine example of this point and is pertinent to-day +because it had no relation to mistaken identity in this humorous +scene. Here the best fun of the comedy came from the use of a +stepladder by the supposed coachman, who got all tangled up in it. +After the first misstep with that stepladder, there was never any +time for more than a word here and there. Of course, such a scene +depends upon the actor almost entirely, and therefore cannot be +indicated in the business by the playwright, but I use it for an +example because it is a peculiarly brilliant instance of the fact +that hearty laughter depends not on hearing, but on seeing. + +But do not make the mistake of trying to patch together a comedy +playlet from the bits of funny stage business you have seen in +other acts. If you present such a manuscript to a producer you +may be very sure it will be refused, for there are plenty of +producers and performers in vaudeville who can supply such an act +at a moment's notice from memory. + +The sort of comedy expected from the playwright is comedy that +develops from situation. It is in the invention of new situations +and new business to fit these situations that the playlet writer +finds his reward in production and profit. + +5. Entrances, Exits and the Stage-Cross + +Among the many definitions of drama--frequently misleading, but +equally often helpful--there is one which holds the whole art of +play writing lies in getting the characters on the stage naturally +and effectively and getting them off again--naturally and effectively. +But, even the most daring of definition makers has not yet told +us how this is to be accomplished in all cases. The fact is, no +one can tell us, because a method that would be natural and effective +in a given playlet, would very likely be most unnatural and +ineffective in another. All that can be said is that the same +dramatic sense with which you have constructed the story of your +playlet will carry you forward in the inevitable entrances and +exits. How these moments are to be effective, lies in the very +nature of the story you are telling. This is boldly begging the +question, but it is all that may with honest helpfulness be said. + +However, regarding the stage-cross, and allied movements of the +actors, there are two suggestions that may be helpful. The first +is founded on the old theory that a scene ought to be "dressed" +all the time--that is, if one character moves across the stage, +the other ought to move a little up stage to give him room to cross +and should then move down on the opposite side, to keep the scene +dressed or "balanced." But no hard and fast rule can be given, +even for the stage-cross. If it seems the easy and natural thing +for the characters to do this, all well and good. But you should +feel no compulsion about it and really should give to the matter +but little thought. + +The second is based on the common-sense understanding at which you +yourself will arrive if you will take the trouble to notice how +the slightest movement made by one of two persons to whom you are +telling a story distracts the other's attention. Briefly, never +indicate business for a character during the moments when short +and vitally important speeches are conveying information to the +audience. + +Both of these minor suggestions may be summed up in this sentence +with which I shall dismiss the subject: The box sets in which the +playlet is played in vaudeville are usually not very deep and are +so arranged that every part of the scene is in plain view from +practically every seat in the house, therefore you may forget that +your story is being played in a mimic room and may make your +characters move as if the room were real. If you will only keep +in mind you should have little trouble. + +6. How "Business" is Indicated in Manuscript + +In the old days before the boxed set, the manuscript of a play +bristled with such cryptic signs as R. U. E., and L. F. E., meaning, +when reduced to everyday English, "right upper entrance," "left +first entrance," and the like. But as the old "entrances" of the +stage have been lost with the introduction of the box set, which +closely mimics a real room--being, indeed, a room with the fourth +wall removed--the modern stage directions are much simpler. "Right +door," "centre door," "left door," are the natural directions to +be found in a playlet manuscript today. + +It is a good general rule to avoid in your stage directions +expressions which show you are dealing with a stage scene and not +a scene of real life. In the first place, if you attempt to be +technical, you are very likely to be over-technical and confusing. +In the second place, you will be more likely to produce a life-like +playlet if you are not forever groping among strange terms, which +make you conscious all the time that you are dealing with unreality. +Therefore choose the simplest directions, expressed in the fewest +possible words, to indicate the effects you have carefully thought +out: Never forget that reality and simplicity go hand in hand. + +And now it may be of advantage to sum up what has been said about +stage business in this chapter. We have seen how business may be +used to condense the story of a playlet; how business is often--though +not always--the very heart of the dramatic; how pantomime may be +skillfully used to condense salient parts of the playlet story and +illumine character; how business may be employed to break up a +clumsy but necessarily long speech--thus sometimes saving a playlet +from the failure of the tedious;--and why business is more productive +of comedy than is dialogue. We have concluded that the playlet +writer must not ape what has already been done, but can win success +only in the measure he succeeds in bringing to his playlet new +business which makes his new situations all the more vivid and +vital. Finally, we have seen that entrances and exits must be +natural and effective, and that all stage business should be +conceived and thought of and indicated in the manuscript as simple +expressions of reality. + +With this chapter, the six elements of a successful playlet have +been discussed from the angle of exposition. In the next chapter +I shall make use of all this expository material and shall endeavor +to show how playlets are actually written. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +WRITING THE PLAYLET + + +While it is plain that no two writers ever have, nor ever will, +go about writing a playlet in precisely the same way, and impossible +as it is to lay down rules which may be followed with precision +to inevitable success, I shall present some suggestions, following +the logical order of composition. + +First, however, I must point out that you should study the vaudeville +stage of _this week_, not of last year or even of last month, before +you even entertain a germ idea for a playlet. You should be sure +before you begin even to think out your playlet, that its problem +is in full accord with the very best, and that it will fit into +vaudeville's momentary design with a completeness that will win +for it an eager welcome. + +You should inquire of yourself first, "Is this a comedy or a serious +playlet I am about to write?" And if the latter, "_Should_ I write +a serious playlet?" + +One of vaudeville's keenest observers, Sime Silverman, editor of +Variety, said when we were discussing this point: "Nobody ought +to write a tragic or even a serious playlet who can write anything +else. There are two or three reasons why. First, vaudeville likes +laughter, and while it may be made to like tears, a teary playlet +must be exceedingly well done to win. Second, the serious playlet +must be so well done and so well advertised that usually a big +name is necessary to carry it to success; and the 'name' demands +so much money that it is sometimes impossible to engage an adequate +supporting cast. Third, the market for tragic and serious playlets +is so small that there is only opportunity for the playlet master; +of course, there sometimes comes an unknown with a great success, +like 'War Brides,' [1] but only rarely. Therefore, I would advise +the new writer to write comedy." + +[1] Written by Miss Marion Craig Wentworth, and played by Olga +Nazimova. + +Miss Nellie Revell, whom B. F. Keith once called "The Big Sister +of Vaudeville," and who was Vaudeville Editor of the New York +Morning Telegraph before becoming General Press Representative of +the Orpheum Circuit, summed up her years of experience as a critic +in these words: + +"The new writer should first try his hand at a comedy playlet. +Then after he has made a success of comedy, or if he is sure he +can't write anything but sobby playlets, let him try to make an +audience weep. Vaudeville, like any other really human thing, +would rather laugh than cry, yet if you make vaudeville cry finely, +it will still love you. But a serious playlet must be mighty well +done to get over--therein lies a stumbling block sometimes. A few +great artists can make vaudeville sob finely--but only a few. +Comedy, good comedy, always gets by. + +"How many comedy playlets are there to one serious playlet in +vaudeville? I should say about ten to one. That ought to convince +anybody that comedy is the thing to write for vaudeville." + +There have been many hybrid playlets which have combined tragedy +and comedy to give some particular star an opportunity to show +versatility in acting. [1] But some of these playlets have been +merely vehicles for a personality, and therefore cannot be considered +in this discussion. + +[1] See Chapter XII, section II, topic 2. + +On the other hand, there have been some serious playlets which +have had comedy twists, or a light turn, which brought the curtain +down amid laughter that was perfectly logical and in good taste. +An example of the surprise ending that lightens the gloom is found +in "The Bomb," finely played by Wilton Lackaye, in which the Italian +who so movingly confesses to the outrage is merely a detective in +disguise, trapping the real bomb thrower--and suddenly he unmasks. +If a serious playlet can be made to end with a light touch that +is fitting, it will have a better chance in vaudeville. But this +is one of the most difficult and dangerous effects to attempt. +The hazard is so great that success may come but once in many +efforts. [2] + +[2] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3. + +Since comedy should be the new writer's aim, the following discussion, +while conceived with the broad view to illustrate the writing of +the playlet in general, brings into particular prominence the +writing of comedy. + +I. WHEN TO BEGIN + +When should you begin to write your playlet? Assuming that you +already have a germ idea, the next step is to express your theme +in a single short sentence, and consider it as your playlet problem, +which must be proved logically, clearly and conclusively. To do +this you must dovetail your incidents into a playlet plot; but how +far should you think out your playlet before beginning to set it +down on paper? + +1. The Use of the Scenario + +Nearly all the playlet writers with whom I have talked during a +period of more than five years have with surprising unanimity +declared in favor of beginning with the scenario, the summary of +the dramatic action. But they disagree as to the completeness +with which the scenario should be drawn up. + +Some merely sketch the main outlines of the plot and leave to the +moment of actual writing the details that often make it a success. +Others write out a long scenario, boiling it down to the essence +for the stage version. Still other playlet writers carry their +scenarios just far enough to make sure that they will not have to +think about the details of plot when they set about writing the +dialogue--they see that there is an effective reason for the +entrance of each character and a clear motive for exit. But, +however they disagree as to the completeness the scenario should +show, they all agree that the plot should be firmly fixed in its +general outlines before pen is set to paper. + +It may be of suggestive value as well as of interest to point out +that in olden times the scenario was the only part of the play the +playwright wrote. The groundwork of the plot was fixed beyond +change, and then the actors were permitted to do as they pleased +within these limits. Even today, in the construction of hurried +entertainments for club nights at the various actors' club-houses, +often only the scenario or general framework of the act is typewritten +and handed to the performers who are to take part. All that this +tells them is that on some given cue they are to enter and work +opposite so-and-so, and are, in turn, to give an agreed-upon cue +to bring on such-and-such a performer. In a word, the invaluable +part of any dramatic entertainment is the scenario. + +One valuable aid to the making of a clear and effective scenario +is the use of a diagram of the set in which the act is to be played. +Reference to Chapter IV, "The Scenery Commonly Found in Vaudeville +Theatres," will place in your hands a wide--if not an exhaustive-- +range of variations of the commonly found box sets. Within the walls +of any one of these diagrams you may carefully mark the exact +location of chairs, tables and any other properties your action +demands. Then, knowing the precise room in which your characters +must work, you can plot the details of their movements exactly +from entrances to exits and give to your playlet action a clearness +and preciseness it might not otherwise possess. + +2. The Scenario not an Unalterable Outline + +But there is one point I feel the necessity of emphasizing, whose +application each one must determine for himself: While you ought +to consider your scenario as directive and as laying down the line +that should be followed, you ought not to permit your playlet to +become irrevocably fixed merely because you have written your +scenario. It is often the sign of a dramatic mind, and of a healthy +problem too, that the playlet changes and develops as the theme +is carefully considered. To produce the very best work, a scenario +must be thought of as clay to be molded, rather than as iron that +must be scrapped and melted again to be recast. + +II. POINTS TO BRING OUT PROMINENTLY + +This section is so arranged that the elements of writing discussed +in the preceding chapters are summarized, and the vital elements +which could not be considered before are all given their proper +places in a step-by-step scheme of composition. The whole forms +a condensed standard for review to refresh your memory before +writing, and by which to test your playlet after it is written. + +Every playlet must have a beginning, a middle and an ending. The +beginning must state the premises of the problem clearly and simply; +the middle must develop the problem logically and solve the +entanglement in a "big" scene, and the ending must round out the +whole satisfyingly--with a surprise, if fitting. + +1. Points the Beginning Must Emphasize + +Because the total effect of a playlet is complete oneness, there +lie in the "big" scene and in the ending certain results of which +the beginning must be the beginning or immediate cause. Such +causes are what you must show clearly. + +(a) _The Causes before the Curtain Rose_. If the causes lie far +back in events that occurred before the curtain rose, you must +have those events carefully and clearly stated. But while you +convey this necessary exposition as dramatically as possible, be +sure to make the involved dramatic elements subservient to clearness. + +(b) _The Causes that Occur after the Curtain Rises_. If the causes +do not lie in the past, but occur after the curtain rises, you +must show them as clearly occurring right then and there. They +must be as plain as dawn, or the rest of the playlet will be +shrouded in the darkness of perplexing doubts. + +(c) _The Character Motive from which the Complication Rises_. If +the causes lie in character, you must show the motive of the person +of the playlet from whose peculiar character the complication rises +like a spring from its source. You must expose the point of +character plainly. + +But in striving to make your premises clear do not make the mistake +of being prolix--or you will be tedious. Define character sharply. +Tell in quick, searching dialogue the facts that must be told and +let your opening scenes on which the following events depend, come +with a snap and a perfectly adequate but nevertheless, have-done-with-it +feeling. + +2. Points that Must Be Brought out in the Middle + +In every scene of your playlet you must prepare the minds of your +audience to accept gladly what follows--and to look forward to it +eagerly. You must not only plainly show what the causes of every +action _are_, but you must also make the audience feel what they +_imply_. Thus you will create the illusion which is the chief +charm of the theatre--a feeling of superiority to the mimic +characters which the gods must experience as they look down upon +us. This is the inalienable right of an audience. + +(a) _The Scenes that Make Suspense_. But while foreshadowing +plainly, you must not forestall your effect. One of the most +important elements of playlet writing is to let your audience guess +_what_ is going to happen--but keep them tensely interested in _how_ +it is going to happen. This is what creates the playlet's enthralling +power--suspense. + +It is so important to secure suspense in a playlet that an experienced +writer who feels that he has not created it out of the body of his +material, will go back to the beginning and insert some point that +will pique the curiosity of the audience, leaving it unexplained +until the end. He keeps the audience guessing, but he satisfies +their curiosity finely in the finish--this is the obligation such +a suspense element carries with it. + +(b) _The Points that Balance the Preparation with the Result_. +Nothing could be more disastrous than to promise with weighty +preparation some event stupendously big with meaning and then to +offer a weak little result. And it would be nearly as unfortunate +to foreshadow a weak little fulfillment and then to present a +tremendous result. Therefore, you must so order your events that +you balance the preparation with the result, to the shade of a +dramatic hair. + +But take care to avoid a too obvious preparation. If you disclose +too plainly what you are aiming at your end is defeated in advance, +because your audience is bound to lapse into a cynically smiling +does-this-fellow-take-us-for-babies? attitude. + +The art of the dramatic is the art that conceals art. The middle +of your playlet must conceal just enough to keep the stream of +suspense flowing eagerly toward the end, which is dimly seen to +be inevitably approaching. + +(c) _The One Event that Makes the Climax Really Big_. From the +first speech, through every speech, and in every action, your +playlet has moved toward this one event, and now you must bring +it out so prominently that everything else sinks into insignificance. +This event is: _The change in the relations of the characters_. + +This is the planned-for result of all that has gone before. Bear +firmly in mind that you have built up a suspense which this change +must _crown_. Keep foremost the fact that what you have hidden +before you must now disclose. Lay your cards on the table face +up--all except one. This last card takes the final trick, completing +the hand you have laid down, and everyone watches with breathless +interest while you play: + +3. The Single Point of the Finish + +If you can make this final event a surprise, all the better. But +if you cannot change the whole result in one dramatic disclosure, +you must be content to lay down your last card, not as a point in +itself surprising, but nevertheless dramatically. + +_The Finish must be Complete--and Completely Satisfy_. You have +sprung your climax; you have disclosed what it is that changes the +relations of your characters; now you must show that those relations +_have_ been changed. And at the same time you bring forward the +last strand of plot that is loose and weave it into the now complete +design. You must account for everything here in the finish, and +do it with speed. + +III. PUTTING PUNCH INTO THE IDEA + +Now let us say that you have expanded the first draft of your +plastic scenario into a nearly perfect manuscript. But as you +read it over, you are not content. You feel that it lacks "punch." +What is "punch," and how are you going to add it when it is lacking? + +Willard Mack says: "'Punch' is the most abused word I know. The +dramatic punch is continually confused with the theatrical trick. +Critics said the third act of 'Kick In' [1]--in which the detective +is overpowered in a hand-to-hand fight after a hypodermic has been +jabbed into his wrist--had a punch. It didn't. What it really had +was a theatric trick. But the human punch was in the second act, +when the little frightened girl of the slums comes to see her +wounded lover--who is really dead. If the needle should suddenly +be lost in playing the third act the scene would be destroyed. +But the other moment would have its appeal regardless of theatrical +detail." + +[1] Developed into a long play from the vaudeville act of the same +name. + +Punch comes only from a certain strong human appeal in the story. +Punch is the thing that makes the pulse beat a little quicker, +because the heart has been touched. Punch is the precise moment +of the dramatic. It is the second in which the revelation flashes +upon the audience. + +While whatever punch you may be able to add must lie in the heart +of your material--which no one but yourself can know--there are +three or four ways by which you may go about finding a mislaid +punch. + +If you have turned the logical order of writing about and let your +playlet drag you instead of your driving it, you may find help in +asking yourself whether you should keep your secret from the +audience. + +1. Have You Kept Your Audience in Ignorance Too Long? + +While it is possible to write a most enthralling novel of mystery +or a detective short-story which suddenly, at the very last moment, +may disclose the trick by which it has all been built up, such a +thing is not successfully possible in a playlet. You must not +conceal the identity of anyone of your characters from the audience. +Conceal his identity from every other character and you may construct +a fine playlet, but don't conceal his motive from the audience. + +The very nature of the drama--depending as it does on giving to +the spectator the pleasure of feeling omniscient--precludes the +possibility of "unheralded surprise." For instance, if you have +a character whom the audience has never seen before and of whom +they know nothing suddenly spring up from behind a sofa where he +has overheard two other characters conspiring--the audience may +think he is a stage-hand. How would they know he was connected +with the other characters in the playlet if you neglected to tell +them beforehand? They could not know. The sudden appearance of +the unknown man from behind the sofa would have much the effect +of a disturbance in the rear of the theatre, distracting attention +from the characters on the stage and the plot of the playlet. + +If your plot calls for an eavesdropper behind a sofa--though I +hope you will never resort to so ancient a device--you must first +let the audience know who he is and why he wants to eavesdrop; and +second you must show him going behind that sofa. The audience +must be given the god-like pleasure of watching the other two +characters approach the sofa and sit down on it, in ignorance that +there is an enemy behind it into whose hands they are delivering +themselves. + +This is only a simple instance, but it points out how far the +ramifications to which this problem of not keeping a secret from +the audience may extend. Moreover, it should suggest that it is +possible that your playlet lacks the required punch--because you +have kept something secret that you ought to have disclosed. +Therefore, go through your playlet carefully and try to discover +just what you have not treated with dramatic frankness. + +On the other hand, of course, if you decide you must keep a +secret--some big mystery of plot--you must be sure that it is worth +keeping. If you build up a series of mysterious incidents, the +solution must be adequate to the suspense. But, I have treated +this angle of secret-keeping in "preparation versus result," so I +shall now direct your attention to the other side of the problem +of dramatic frankness--which may be the cause of the lack of punch: + +2. Have You been too Frank at the Beginning? + +Go back through the early moments of your playlet and see if you +have not given the whole thing away at the very beginning. If you +have, you have, as we saw, killed your suspense, which is the road +on which punch lies in wait. The way to remedy this defect is to +condense the preparation and so express it in action and by dialogue +that you leave opportunity for a revealing flash. + +In going over your manuscript you must strive to attain the correct +balance between the two. The whole art lies in knowing just what +to disclose and it when to disclose it--and what not and when not +to disclose. + +3. Have You Been Too "Talky"? + +Remember that vaudeville has no time for "fine speeches." Cut +even the lines you have put in for the purpose of disclosing +character, and--save in rare instances--depend chiefly on character +revelation through _action_. + +4. Have You Lost Your Singleness of Effect by Mixing Playlet Genres? + +One of the most common reasons why playlets lack the effect of +vital oneness is to be found in the fault of mixing the kinds: +for example, making the first half a comedy and the second half +a tragedy. It is as if a song began with one air and suddenly +switched to a totally different melody. If your playlet is a +comedy, make it a comedy throughout; it if is a deeply human story, +let it end as it began; [1] if you are writing a straight drama +or a melodrama, keep your playlet straight drama or melodrama all +the way through. Go over your playlet with the eye of a relentless +critic and make sure that you have not mixed your genres, which +only in the rarest cases can be done effectively. + +[1] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3. + +5. Are You Sure Your Action Is All Vital? + +Finally, if every other investigation has failed to develop the +needed punch, go over your playlet again to see if it is possible +that you have erred in the first principle of the art. If you +have permitted even one tiny scene to creep in that does not hold +a vital meaning to the single point of your climax, you have lost +by so much the possibility of the punch. Remember, here, that a +great playlet can be played without a single word being spoken and +still be vividly clear to everyone. Realizing this, chop every +second of action that is not vital. + +6. The Punch Secured. + +But long before you have exhausted these suggestions you will have +developed your punch. Your punch has risen out of your material-- +if you possess the sense of the dramatic. If the punch has not +developed--with a series of minor punches that all contribute to +the main design of the "heart wallop"--there is something wrong +with your material. + +But even a realization of this ought not to discourage you, for +there are instances every day of well-known playwrights who have +chosen the wrong material. We all have seen these plays. You +must do as they do--cast your playlet aside and begin anew with +new material. The man who keeps at it is the only one who wins--but +he must keep at it with the right stuff. + +IV. SELECTING A PROPER TITLE + +When you have trimmed your playlet by cutting off _all_ the trimmings, +your thoughts naturally turn to a title. More than likely you +have selected your title long before you have written "curtain"--it +is possible a title sprang into your mind out of the germ idea. +But even then, you ought now to select the _proper_ title. + +1. What is a Proper Title? + +A proper title is one that both names a playlet and concisely +suggests more than it tells. For instance, "The System" suggests +a problem vital to all big cities--because the word "system" was on +everybody's tongue at the time. "The Lollard" piques curiosity--what +is a "lollard," you are inclined to want to know; it also carries +a suggestion of whimsicality. "The Villain Still Pursued Her," +tells as plainly as a whole paragraph could that the playlet is a +travesty, making fun of the old blood-and-thunder melodrama. "In +and Out" is a short, snappy, curiosity-piquing name; it is a title +that hangs out a sign like a question mark. "Kick In" is of the +same class, but with the added touch of slang. "War Brides" is +another luring title, and one that attracts on frankly dramatic +and "problem" grounds. "Youth" is a title that suggests much more +than it tells--it connotes almost anything. "Blackmail" has the +punch of drama and suggests "atmosphere" as well. But these are +enough to establish the fact that a good title is one which suggests +more than it tells. A good title frankly advertises the wares +within, yet wakens eager curiosity to see what those wares are. + +2. What is an Improper Title? + +An improper title, first, is one that does not precisely fit a +playlet as a name; or second, that tells too much. For instance, +"Sweets to the Sweet" is the title of a playlet whose only reason +for being so named is because the young man brings the girl a box +of candy--it does not name the playlet at all precisely, its +connotation is misleading. Do not choose a title just because it +is pretty. Make your title really express the personality of your +playlet. But more important still, do not let your title tell too +much. If "The Bomb" were called "The Trap," much of the effect +of the surprise would be discounted, and the unmasking of the +detective who confesses to throwing the bomb to trap the real +criminal would come as something expected. In a word, be most +careful not to select a title that "gives it all away." + +3. Other Title Considerations + +A short title seems to be the playlet fashion today; but tomorrow +the two- or three-word title may grow to a four- or five-word name. +Yet it will never be amiss to make a title short. + +This same law of good use points to a similar variation in the +context of even the short title--I mean that every little while +there develops a fad for certain words. There may at any time +spring up a wide use of words like "girl," or "fun," or color +words, like "red" or "purple" or "blond." But your close study +of the vaudeville of the moment will show you when these fad-words +may be used advantageously in a title. + +You need never worry over-long about a title for your playlet if +you put the emphasis in your own mind upon the fact that your title +is an advertisement. + +V. MAKING THE PLAYLET A HIT + +But when you have a playlet manuscript that is full of laughter +and vibrant with dramatic thrills, and even after you have sold +it to a manager who has produced it, your work as a playlet writer +is not done. You still must cut and polish it until it is a +flawless gem that flashes from the stage. As Edgar Allan Woolf +expressed it to me in one of our conversations: + +"The work of the author of a one-act comedy is not over until, +after several weeks of playing, his playlet has been so reshaped +and altered by him that not a single dull spot remains. Individual +lines must be condensed so that they are as short as they possibly +can be made. The elimination of every unnecessary word or phrase +is essential. Where a line that develops the plot can be altered +so that it will still serve its purpose, and also score a laugh +on its own account, it must be so changed. Where lines cannot be +changed, bits of comedy business may perhaps be inserted to keep +the audience from lapsing into listlessness. For it is a deplorable +fact that a vaudeville audience that is not laughing outright at +a comedy becomes listless. Vaudeville managers never book a playlet +that makes an audience smile--for while the humor that brings a +smile may be more brilliant than the comedy that gets a laugh, it +must always be remembered that vaudeville audiences come to laugh +and not to smile. Some of the biggest laughs in every one of my +many acts I put in after the acts had been playing some weeks. +And I attribute whatever success they have had later in the best +vaudeville theatres to the improvements I have made during their +'breaking in' periods." + +To sum up: While no two writers ever have written and never will +write a playlet in precisely the same way, the wise beginner chooses +for his first playlet a comedy theme. Your germ idea you express +in a single short sentence which you consider as the problem of +your playlet, to be solved logically, clearly and conclusively. +Instinct for the dramatic leads you to lift out from life's flowing +stream of events the separate incidents you require and to dovetail +them into a plot which tells the story simply by means of characters +and dialogue skillfully blended into an indivisible whole, flashing +with revealing meaning and ending with complete satisfaction. + +After you have thought out your playlet, you set down so much of +it as you feel is necessary in the form of a scenario. But you +do not consider this scenario as unchangeable. Rather you judge +the value of the idea by the freedom with which it grows in +effectiveness. And while this process is going on, you carefully +select the basic points in the beginning of the story that must +be brought out prominently. + +Then you develop the story by making the points that foreshadow +your "big" scene stand out so as to weave the enthralling power +of suspense. You let your audience guess _what_ is going to happen, +but keep them tensely interested in _how_ it is going to happen. +And you prepare your audience by a carefully preserved balance +between the promise and the performance for the one big point of +the climax which changes the relations of the characters to each +other. + +After you have shown the change as happening, you punch home the +fact that it has happened, and withhold your completing card until +the finish. In your finish you play the final card and account +for the last loose strand of the plot, with a speed that does not +detract from your effect of complete satisfaction. + +In seeking to "punch up" your playlet, you go over every word, +every bit of characterization, every moment of action, and eliminate +single words, whole speeches, entire scenes, to cut down the playlet +to the meat, seeking for lost punches particularly in the faults +of keeping secrets that should be instantly disclosed, and in the +too frank disclosures of secrets that ought to be kept in the +beginning. And out of this re-writing there rises into view the +"heart wallop" which first attracted you. + +Finally, when your playlet is finished, you decide on a proper +title. Remembering that a title is an advertisement, you choose +a short name that both _names_ and _lures_. And then you prepare +the manuscript for its market--which is discussed in a later +chapter. + +But when you have written your playlet and have sold it to a manager +who has produced it, your work is not yet done. You watch it in +rehearsal, and during the "breaking in" weeks you cut it here, +change it there, make a plot-line do double duty as a laugh-line +in this spot, take away a needless word from another--until your +playlet flashes a flawless gem from the stage. The final effect +in the medium of expression for which you write it is UNITY. Every +part--acting, dialogue, action--blends in a perfect whole. Not +even one word may be taken away without disturbing the total effect +of its vital oneness. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY + + +If you were asked, "What is a one-act musical comedy?" you might +answer: "Let's see, a one-act musical comedy is--is--. Well, all +I remember is a lot of pretty girls who changed their clothes every +few minutes, two lovers who sang about the moon, a funny couple +and a whole lot of music." + +Hazy? Not at all. This is really a clear and reasonably correct +definition of the average one-act musical colnedy, for this type +of act is usually about fifty per cent. girl, twenty per cent. +costumes and scenery, twenty-five per cent. music, and usually, +but not always, five per cent. comedy. A musical comedy, therefore, +is not music and comedy--it is girls and music. That is why the +trade name of this, one of the most pleasing of vaudeville acts, +is--a girl-act." + +It was the girl-act, perhaps more than any other one style of act, +that helped to build vaudeville up to its present high standing. +On nearly every bill of the years that are past there was a girl-act. +It is a form of entertainment that pleases young and old, and +coming in the middle or toward the end of a varied program, it +lends a touch of romance and melody without which many vaudeville +bills would seem incomplete. + +A girl-act is a picture, too. Moreover, it holds a touch of +bigness, due to the number of its people, their changing costumes, +and the length of time the act holds the stage. With its tuneful +haste, its swiftly moving events, its rapid dialogue, its succession +of characters, and its ever-changing, colorful pictures, the one-act +musical comedy is not so much written as put together. + +1. The Musical Elements + +Technically known as a girl-act, and booked by managers who wish +a "flash"--a big effect--the one-act musical comedy naturally puts +its best foot foremost as soon as the curtain rises. And, equally +of course, it builds up its effects into a concluding best-foot. + +The best-foot of a musical comedy is the ensemble number, in which +all the characters--save the principals, sometimes--join in a +rousing song. The ensemble _is_ musical comedy, and one-act musical +comedy is--let this exaggeration clinch the truth--the ensemble. [1] + +[1] Of course, I am discussing the usual musical comedy--the flash +of a bill--in pointing out so forcefully the value of the ensemble. +There have been some fine one-act musical comedies in which the +ensemble was not used at all. Indeed, the musical comedy in one +act without any ensemble offers most promising possibilities. + +Between the opening and the closing ensembles there is usually one +other ensemble number, and sometimes two. And between these three +or four ensembles there are usually one or two single numbers--solos +by a man or a woman--and a duet, or a trio, or a quartet. These +form the musical element of the one-act musical comedy. + +2. Scenery and Costumes--The Picture-Elements + +While the one-act musical comedy may be played in one set of scenery +only, it very often happens that there are two or three different +scenes. The act may open in One, as did Joe Hart's "If We Said +What We Thought," and then go into Full Stage; or it may open in +Full Stage, go into One for a little musical number, and then go +back into a different full-stage scene for its finish. It may +even be divided into three big scenes--each played in a different +set--with two interesting numbers in One, if time permits, or the +act be planned to make its appeal by spectacular effects. + +Very often, as in Lasky's "A Night on a Houseboat," a big set-piece +or a trick scene is used to give an effect of difference, although +the entire act is played without dropping a curtain. + +To sum up the idea behind the use of musical comedy scenery: it +is designed to present an effect of bigness--to make the audience +feel they are viewing a "production." + +The same thought is behind the continual costume changes which are +an integral part of the one-act musical comedy effect. For each +ensemble number the girls' costumes are changed. If there are +three ensembles there are three costumes, and four changes if there +are four ensembles. Needless to say, it sometimes keeps the girls +hustling every minute the act is in progress, changing from one +costume to another, and taking that one off to don a third or a +fourth. + +The result in spectacular effect is as though a scene were changed +every time an ensemble number is sung. Furthermore, the lights +are so contrived as to add to this effect of difference, and the +combination of different colors playing over different costumes, +moving about in different sets, forms an ever-changing picture +delightfully pleasing and big. + +Now, as the musical comedy depends for its appeal upon musical +volume, numbers of people, sometimes shifting scenery, a kaleidoscopic +effect of pretty girls in ever changing costumes and dancing about +to catchy music, it does not have to lean upon a fascinating plot +or brilliant dialogue, in order to succeed. But of course, as we +shall see, a good story and funny dialogue make a good musical +comedy better. + +3. The Element of Plot + +If your memory and my recollection of numerous musical comedies +of both the one-act and the longer production of the legitimate +stage are to be trusted, a plot is something not vital to the +success of a musical comedy. Indeed, it is actually true that +many a musical comedy has failed because the emphasis was placed +on plot rather than on a skeleton of a story which showed the +larger elements to the best advantage. Therefore I present the +plot element of the average one-act musical comedy thus: + +Whereas the opening and the finish of the playlet are two of its +most difficult parts to write, in the musical comedy the beginning +and the finish are ready-made to the writer's hand. However anxious +he may be to introduce a novel twist of plot at the end, the writer +is debarred from doing so, because he must finish with an ensemble +number where the appeal is made by numbers of people, costumes, +pretty girls and music. At the beginning, however, the writer may +be as unconventional as he pleases--providing he does not take too +long to bring on his first ensemble, and so disappoint his audience, +who are waiting for the music and the girls. Therefore the writer +must be content to "tag on" his plot to an opening nearly always-- +if not always--indicated, and to round his plot out into an almost +invariably specified ending. + +Between the opening and the closing ensembles the writer has to +figure on at least one, and maybe more, ensembles, and a solo and +a duet, or a trio and a quartet, or other combinations of these +musical elements. These demands restrict his plot still further. +He must indeed make his plot so slight that it will lead out from +and blend into the overshadowing stage effects. Necessarily, his +plot must first serve the demands of scenery and musical numbers-- +then and only then may his plot be whatever he can make it. + +The one important rule for the making of a musical comedy plot is +this: _The plot of a one-act musical comedy should be considered +as made up of story and comedy elements so spaced that the time +necessary for setting scenery and changing costumes is neither too +long nor too short_. + +More than one dress rehearsal on the night before opening has been +wisely devoted to the precise rehearsing of musical numbers and +costume changes only. The dialogue was never even hastily spoken. +The entire effort was directed to making the entrances and exits +of the chorus and principals on time. "For," the producer cannily +reasons, "if they slip up on the dialogue they can fake it--but +the slightest wait on a musical number will seem like a mortal +wound." + +If you recall any of Jesse L. Lasky's famous musical acts, "A Night +at the Country Club," "At the Waldorf," "The Love Waltz," "The +Song Shop" (these come readily to mind, but for the life of me I +cannot recall even one incident of any of their plots), you will +realize how important is the correct timing of musical numbers. +You will also understand how unimportant to a successful vaudeville +musical comedy is its plot. + +4. Story Told by Situations, Not by Dialogue + +As there is no time for studied character analysis and plot +exposition, and little time for dialogue, the story of a musical +comedy must be told by broad strokes. When you read "A Persian +Garden," selected for full reproduction in the Appendix because +it is one of the best examples of a well-balanced musical comedy +plot ever seen in vaudeville, you will understand why so careful +a constructionist as Edgar Allan Woolf begins his act with the +following broad stroke: + +The opening chorus has been sung, and instantly an old man's voice +is heard off stage. Then all the chorus girls run up and say, +"Oh, here comes the old Sheik now." + +Again, when Paul wishes to be alone with Rose, Mr. Woolf makes +Paul turn to Phil and say, "What did I tell you to do?" Then Phil +seizes Mrs. Schuyler and runs her off the stage into the house. + +Mr. Woolf's skill built this very broad stroke up into a comedy +exit good for a laugh, but you and I have seen other exits where +the comedy was lacking and the mechanics stood out even more boldly. + +So we see that the same time-restriction which makes a musical +comedy plot a skeleton, also makes the exits and entrances and the +dialogue and every happening structurally a skeleton so loosely +jointed that it would rattle horribly--were it not for the beautiful +covering of the larger effects of costumes, scenery and music. +Therefore the overshadowing necessity for speed makes admissible +in the musical comedy broad strokes that would not be tolerated +anywhere else. + +It is by willingly granting this necessary license that the audience +is permitted to enjoy many single musical numbers and delightful +ensembles within the time-limits vaudeville can afford for anyone +act. So we see why it is--to return to the bald expository statement +with which this division begins--that the writer must consider his +story and his comedy scenes only as time-fillers to make the waits +between musical numbers pleasantly interesting and laughter-worthwhile. + +5. The Comedy Element + +Plainly recognizing the quickness with which one character must +be brought on the stage and taken off again, and thoroughly +appreciating that whatever is done between the musical numbers +must be speedily dismissed, let us now see what forms of comedy +are possible. + +Obviously the comedy cannot depend upon delicate shades. It must +be the sort of comedy that is physical rather than mental. +Slap-stick comedy would seem to be the surest to succeed. + +But while this is true, there is no need to depend entirely on the +slap-stick brand of humor. For instance, while we find in "A +Persian Garden" one whole comedy scene built on the killing of +mosquitoes on Phil's face--certainly the slap-stick brand, even +though a hand delivers the slap--we also have the comedy of character +in Mrs. Schuyler's speeches. + +Comedy rising directly out of and dependent upon plot, however, +is not the sort of comedy that usually gives the best results, +because plot is nearly always subservient to the musical and picture +making elements. But the comedy element of plot may be made to +run throughout and can be used with good effect, if it is the kind +that is easily dismissed and brought back. This is why so many +musical comedies have made use of plots hinged on mistaken identity, +Kings and Princesses in masquerade, and wives and husbands anxiously +avoiding each other and forever meeting unexpectedly. + +Still, plot-comedy may be depended upon for at least one big scene, +if the idea is big enough. For instance, the internationally +successful "The Naked Truth" possessed a plot that was big enough +to carry the musical comedy on plot-interest alone, if that were +necessary. Indeed, it might have been used as a good farce without +music. The whole act hung on a magic statue in whose presence +nothing but the truth could be told, on pain of parting from one's +clothes. And the comedy scenes that developed out of it carried +a series of twists and turns of real plot-interest that made the +musical numbers all the more delightful and the whole act a notable +success. The musical element of this delightful vaudeville form +makes certain other humorous acts fit into the musical comedy +structure. For instance, if the comedy character is left alone +on the stage, he can with perfect propriety deliver a short +monologue. Or he may do anything else that will win laughter and +applause. + +And the two-act, even more perfectly than the monologue, fits into +the musical comedy. No matter what the two-act is, if it is short +and humorous, it may be used for one of the ornamental time-gap +stoppers. A quarrel scene may be just what is needed to fill out +and advance the plot. But more often, the flirtation two-act is +the form that best suits, for the nature of the musical comedy +seems best expressed by love and its romantic moments. Indeed, +the flirtation two-act is often a little musical comedy in itself, +minus a background of girls. As an example, take Louis Weslyn's +very successful two-act, "After the Shower." [1] You can easily +imagine all the other girls in the camping party appearing, to act +as the chorus. Then suppply a talkative chaperon, and you have +only to add her comical husband to produce a fine musical comedy +offering. + +[1] See the Appendix. + +So we see once more that the one-act musical comedy is the result +of assembling, rather than of writing. There is no need of adding +even one instruction paragraph here. + +Before we take up the one or two hints on writing that would seem +to present themselves in helpful guise, you should read Edgar Allan +Woolf's "A Persian Garden." Turn to the Appendix and this act +will show you clearly how the writer welds these different vaudeville +forms into one perfect whole. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY WITH HINTS ON MAKING +THE BURLESQUE TAB + + +Unless you have a definite order to write a one-act musical comedy, +it would seem, from the comparatively small part the writer has +in the final effect, that the novice had better not write the +musical comedy at all. Although this would appear to be clear +from the discussion of the elements in the preceding chapter, I +want to make it even more emphatic by saying that more than once +I have written a musical comedy act for the "small time" in a few +hours--and have then spent weeks dovetailing it to fit the musical +numbers introduced and whipping the whole act into the aspect of +a "production." + +But there is one time when even the amateur may write a musical +comedy--when he has a great idea. But I do not mean the average +musical comedy idea--I mean such an idea as that which made "The +Naked Truth" so successful. And in the hope that you may possess +such an idea, I offer a few hints that may prove helpful in casting +your idea into smooth musical comedy form. + +As I have already discussed plot in the chapters devoted to the +playlet, and have taken up the structure of the monologue and the +two-act in the chapters on those forms, there is now no need for +considering "writing" at all save for a single hint. Yet even +this one suggestion deals less with the formal "writing" element +than with the "feel" of the material. It is stated rather humorously +by Thomas J. Gray, who has written many successful one-act musical +comedies, varying in style from "Gus Edwards' School Boys and +Girls" to "The Vaudeville Revue of 1915"--a musical travesty on +prevailing ideas--and the books of a few long musical successes, +from comedy scenes in "Watch your Step" to "Ned Wayburn's Town +Topics," that "Musical comedy, from a vaudeville standpoint, and +a 'Broadway' or two-dollar standpoint, are two different things. +A writer has to treat them in entirely different ways, as a doctor +would two different patients suffering from the same ailment. In +vaudeville an author has to remember that nearly everyone in the +audience has some one particular favorite on the bill--you have +to write something funny enough to: please the admirers of the +acrobat, the magician, the dancer, the dramatic artist, the rag-time +singer and the moving pictures. But in 'Broadway' musical comedy +it is easier to please the audiences because they usually know +what the show is about before they buy their tickets, and they +know what to expect. That's why you can tell 'vaudeville stuff' +in a 'Broadway' show--it's the lines the audience laugh at. + +"To put it in a different way, let me say that while in two-dollar +musical comedy you can get by with 'smart lines' and snickers, in +vaudeville musical comedy you have to go deeper than the lip-laughter. +You must waken the laughter that lies deep down and rises in +appreciative roars. It is in ability to create situations that +will produce this type of laughter that the one-act musical comedy +writer's success lies." + +1. An Average One-Act Musical Comedy Recipe + +While it is not absolutely necessary to open a musical comedy with +an ensemble number, many fine acts do so open. And the ensemble +finish seems to be the rule. Therefore let us assume that you +wish to form your musical comedy on this usual style. As your act +should run anywhere from thirty to fifty minutes, and as your +opening number will consume scarcely two minutes, and your closing +ensemble perhaps three, you have--on a thirty-five minute basis-- +thirty minutes in which to bring in your third ensemble, your other +musical numbers and your dialogue. + +The third ensemble--probably a chorus number, with the tenor or +the ingenue, or both, working in front of the chorus--will consume +anywhere from five to seven minutes. Then your solo will take +about three minutes. And if you have a duet or a trio, count four +minutes more. So you have about eighteen minutes for your plot +and comedy--including specialties. + +While these time hints are obviously not exact, they are suggestive +of the fact that you should time everything which enters into your +act. And having timed your musical elements by some such rough +standard as this--or, better still, by slowly reading your lyrics +as though you were singing--you should set down for your own +guidance a schedule that will look something like this: + + + Opening ensemble............. 2 minutes + + Dialogue + Introducing Plot, + First Comedy Scenes....... 4 " + + Solo......................... 3 " + + Dialogue + Comedy and Specialties.... 5 " + + Ensemble number.............. 5 " + + Dialogue + Specialties, Comedy. + Plot climax--perhaps + a "big" love scene, + leading into.............. 7 " + + Duet......................... 4 " + + Dialogue + Plot Solution--the + final arrangement + of characters............. 2 " + + Closing ensemble............. 3 " + ------- + 35 " + + +Of course this imaginary schedule is not the only schedule that +can be used; also bear firmly in mind that you may make any +arrangement of your elements that you desire, within the musical +comedy form. Let me repeat what I am never tired of saying, that +a rigid adherence to any existing form of vaudeville act is as +likely to be disastrous as a too wild desire to be original. Be +as unconventional as you can be within the necessary conventional +limits. This is the way to success. + +You have your big idea, and you have the safe, conventional ensemble +opening, or a semi-ensemble novelty opening. Also you have a solo +number for the tenor or the ingenue, with the chorus working behind +them. Finally you have your ensemble ending. Now, within these +boundaries, arrange your solo and duet--or dispense with them, as +you feel best fits your plot and your comedy. Develop your story +by comedy situations--don't depend upon lines. Place your big +scene in the last big dialogue space--the seven minutes of the +foregoing schedule--and then bring your act to an end with a great +big musical finish. + +2. Timing the Costume Changes + +Although the schedule given allows plenty of time for costume +changes, you must not consider your schedule as a ready-made +formula. Read it and learn the lesson it points out--then cast +it aside. Test every minute of your act by the test of time. Be +especially careful to give your chorus and your principal characters +time to make costume changes. + +In gauging the minutes these changes will take, time yourself in +making actual changes of clothing. Remember that you must allow +one minute to get to the dressing room and return to the stage. +But do not make the mistake of supposing that the first test you +make in changing your own clothes will be the actual time it will +take experienced dressers to change. You yourself can cut down +your time record by practice--and your clothes are not equipped +with time-saving fasteners. Furthermore, it often happens that +the most complicated dress is worn in the first scene and a very +quick change is prepared for by under-dressing--that is, wearing +some of the garments of the next change under the pretentious +over-garments of the preceding scene. These are merely stripped +off and the person is ready dressed to go back on the stage in +half a minute. + +But precise exactness in costume changes need not worry you very +much. If you have been reasonably exact, the producer--upon whom +the costume changes and the costumes themselves depend--will add +a minute of dialogue here or take away a minute there, to make the +act run as it should. + +3. The Production Song + +Certain songs lend themselves more readily to effective staging, +and these are called "production songs." For instance: "Alexander's +Ragtime Band" could be--and often was--put on with a real band. +The principal character could sing the first verse and the chorus +alone. Then the chorus girls could come out in regimentals, each +one "playing" some instrument--the music faked by the orchestra +or produced by "zobos"--and when they were all on the stage, the +chorus could be played again with rousing effect. During the +second verse, sung as a solo, the girls could act out the lines. +Then with the repetitioin of the chorus, they could produce funny +characteristic effects on the instruments. And then they could +all exit--waiting for the audience to bring them back for the +novelties the audience would expect to be introduced in an encore. + +This is often the way a "popular song" is "plugged" in cabarets, +musical comedies, burlesque, and in vaudeville. It is made so +attractive that it is repeated again and again--and so drummed +into the ears of the audience that they go out whistling it. Ned +Wayburn demonstrated this in his vaudeville act "Staging an Act." +He took a commonplace melody and built it up into a production--then +the audience liked it. George Cohan did precisely the same thing +in his "Hello, Broadway"; taking a silly lyric and a melody, he +told the audience he was going to make 'em like it; and he did--by +"producing it." + +But not every "popular song" lends itself to production treatment. +For instance, how would you go about producing "When it Strikes +Home"? How would you stage "When I Lost You"? Or--to show you +that serious songs are not the only ones that may not be producible-- +how would you put on "Oh, How that German Could Love"? Of course you +could bring the chorus on in couples and have them sing such a +sentimental song to each other--but that would not, in the fullest +sense, be producing it. + +Just as not every "popular song" can be produced, so not every +production song can be made popular. You have never whistled that +song produced in "Staging an Act," nor have you ever whistled +Cohan's song from "Hello, Broadway." If they ever had any names +I have forgotten them, but the audience liked them immensely at +the time. + +As many production songs are good only for stage purposes, and +therefore are not a source of much financial profit to their +writers, there is no need for me to describe their special differences +and the way to go about writing them. Furthermore, their elements +are precisely the same as those of any other song--with the exception +that each chorus is fitted with different catch lines in the place +of the regular punch lines, and there may be any number of different +verses. [1] Now having your "big" idea, and having built it up +with your musical elements carefully spaced to allow for costume +changes, perhaps having made your comedy rise out of the monologue +and the two-act to good plot advantage, and having developed your +story to its climax in the last part of your act, you assemble all +your people, join the loose plot ends and bring your musical comedy +to a close with a rousing ensemble finish. + +[1] See Chapter XXII. + +HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLESQUE TAB + +The word "tab" is vaudeville's way of saying "tabloid," or condensed +version. While vaudeville is in itself a series of tabloid +entertainments, "tab" is used to identify the form of a musical +comedy act which may run longer than the average one-act musical +comedy. Although a tabloid is almost invariably in one act, it +is hardly ever in only one scene. There are usually several +different sets used, and the uninterrupted forty-five minutes, or +even more than an hour, are designed to give a greater effect of +bigness to the production. + +But the greatest difference between the one-act musical comedy and +the burlesque tab does not lie in playing-time, nor bigness of +effect. While a one-act musical comedy is usually intended to be +made up of carefully joined and new humorous situations, the +burlesque tab--you will recall the definition of burlesque--depends +upon older and more crude humor. + +James Madison, whose "My Old Kentucky Home" [1] has been chosen +as showing clearly the elements peculiar to the burlesque tab, +describes the difference in this way: + +"Burlesque does not depend for success upon smoothly joined plot, +musical numbers or pictorial effects. Neither does it depend upon +lines. Making its appeal particularly to those who like their +humor of the elemental kind, the burlesque tab often uses slap-stick +comedy methods. Frankly acknowledging this, vaudeville burlesque +nevertheless makes a clean appeal. It does not countenance either +word or gesture that could offend. Since its purpose is to raise +uproarious laughter, it does not take time to smooth the changes +from one comedy bit to the next, but one bit follows another +swiftly, with the frankly avowed purpose to amuse, and to amuse +for the moment only. Finally, the burlesque tab comes to an end +swiftly: it has made use of a plot merely for the purpose of +stringing on comedy bits, and having come toward the close, it +boldly states that fact, as it were, by a swift rearrangement of +characters--and then ends." + +[1] See the Appendix + +While the burlesque tab nearly always opens with an ensemble number, +and almost invariably ends with an ensemble, there may be more +solos, duets, trios, quartets and ensembles than are used by the +musical comedy--if the act is designed to run for a longer time. +But as its appeal is made by humor rather than by musical or +pictorial effect, the burlesque tab places the emphasis on the +humor. It does this by giving more time to comedy and by making +its comedy more elemental, more uproarious. + +In a burlesque tab, the comedy bits are never barred by age--providing +they are sure-fire--and therefore they are sometimes reminiscent. +[2] The effort to give them freshness and newness is to relate the +happenings to different characters, and to introduce the bits in +novel ways. + +[2] Mr. Madison informed me that the "statuary bit" in "My Old +Kentucky Home" is one of the oldest "bits" in the show business. +It is even older than Weber and Field's first use of it a generation +ago. + +Therefore, it would seem obvious that the writing of the burlesque +tab is not "writing" at all. It is stage managing. And as the +comedy bits are in many cases parts of the history of the +stage--written down in the memories of actor and producer--the +novice had better not devote his thoughts to writing burlesque. +However, if he can produce bits of new business that will be +sure-fire, he may find the burlesque tab for him the most profitable +of all opportunities the vaudeville stage has to offer. That, +however, is a rare condition for the beginner. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG + + +The easiest thing in the world is to write a song; the most +difficult, to write a song that will be popular. I do not mean a +"popular" song, but a song everybody will whistle--for few songs +written for the populace really become songs of the people. The +difference between poverty and opulence in the business of +song-writing is--whistling. + +What is the difference, then, between the man who can "write songs" +and the one who can write songs everybody will whistle? Wherein +lies the magic? Here is the difference, unexplained it is true, +but at least clearly stated: + +There are hundreds of men and women all over the land who can rhyme +with facility. Anyone of them can take almost any idea you suggest +off hand, and on the instant sing you a song that plays up that +idea. These persons are the modern incarnations of the old time +minstrels who wandered over the land and sang extemporaneous ditties +in praise of their host for their dinners. But, remarkable as the +gift is, many of these modern minstrels cannot for the life of +them put into their songs that something which makes their hearers +whistle it long after they leave. The whistle maker is the one +who can rhyme with perhaps no more ease than these others, but +into his song he is able to instil the magic--sometimes. + +But what is this magic that makes of song-writing a mystery that +even the genius cannot unerringly solve each time he tries? Not +for one moment would I have you believe that I can solve the mystery +for you. If I could, I should not be writing this chapter--I +should be writing a song that could not fail of the greatest sale +in history. Still, with the kind assistance of the gentlemen in +the profession--as the prestidigitator used to say in the old town +hall when he began his entertainment--I may be able to lift the +outer veils of the unknown, and you may be able I to face the +problem with clearer-seeing eyes. + +I called for help first from Irving Berlin, without doubt the most +successful popular song writer this country has ever known; then +the assistance of phenomenally successful writers of such diverse +genius as Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe Gilbert, Ballard MacDonald, +Joe McCarthy, Stanley Murphy, and Anatol Friedland, was asked and +freely given. It is from their observations, as well as from my +own, that the following elements of the art of whistle-making have +been gathered. + +Although we are interested only in the lyrics of the popular song, +we must first consider the music, for the lyric writer is very +often required to write words to music that has already been +written. Therefore he must know the musical elements of his +problem. + +I. Music and Words are Inseparable + +Think of any popular song-hit, and while you are recollecting just +"how it goes," stand back from yourself and watch your mental +processes. The words of the title first pop into your mind, do +they not? Then do not you find yourself whistling that part of +the music fitted to those words? Conversely, if the music comes +into your mind first, the words seem to sing themselves. Now see +if the bars of music you remember and whistle first are not the +notes fitted to the title. + +If these observations are correct, we have not only proof of the +inseparable quality of the words and the music of a popular song, +but also evidence to which you can personally testify regarding +the foundations of lyric-writing. + +But first let us hear what Berlin has to say about the inseparable +quality of words and music: "The song writer who writes both words +and music, has the advantage over the lyric writer who must fit +his words to somebody else's music and the composer who must make +his music fit someone else's words. Latitude--the mother of +novelty--is denied them, and in consequence both lyrics and melody +suffer. Since I write both words and music, I can compose them +together and make them fit. I sacrifice one for the other. If I +have a melody I want to use, I plug away at the lyrics until I +make them fit the best parts of my music, and vice versa. "For +instance: 'In My Harem' first came to me from the humorous possibility +that the Greeks, who at that time were fighting with the Turks, +might be the cause of a lot of harems running loose in Turkey. I +tried to fit that phrase to a melody, but I couldn't. At last I +got a melody; something that sounded catchy; a simple 'dum-te-de-dum.' +I had it, + + In my harem, + In my harem. + +"With 'Ragtime Violin' I had the phrase and no music. I got a few +bars to fit, then the melody made a six-syllable and then a +five-syllable passage necessary. I had it: + + Fiddle up! Fiddle up! + On your violin. + +"The lyric of a song must sing the music and the music sing the +words." + +Charles K. Harris, who wrote the great popular success, "After the +Ball," so far back in the early days of the popular song that some +consider this song the foundation of the present business, has +followed it up with innumerable successes. Mr. Harris has this +to, say on the same point: + +"I believe it is impossible to collaborate with anyone in writing +a popular song. I don't believe one man can write the words and +another the music. A man can't put his heart in another's lyrics +or music. To set a musical note for each word of a song is not +all--the note must fit the word." But, while Mr. Harris's words +should be considered as the expression of an authority, there is +also considerable evidence that points the other way. Just to +mention a few of the many partnerships which have resulted in +numerous successes, there are Williams and Van Alstyne, who followed +"Under the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" with a series of hits; +Ballard MacDonald and Harry Carroll, who made "On the Trail of the +Lonesome Pine" merely the first of a remarkably successful +brotherhood; Harry Von Tilzer with his ever varying collaborators, +and L. Wolfe Gilbert, who wrote "Robert E. Lee," "Hitchy Koo," +and other hits, with Louis Muir, and then collaborated with Anatol +Friedland and others in producing still other successes. These +few examples out of many which might be quoted, show that two +persons can collaborate in writing song-hits, but, in the main, +as Mr. Berlin and Mr. Harris say, there are decided advantages +when words and music can be done together by one writer. + +What is absolutely essential to the writing of songs which will +make the nation whistle, may be stated in this principle: + +_The words and music of a song must fit each other so perfectly +that the thought of one is inseparable from the other_. + +And now before we turn to the essential elements of the words, to +which I shall devote the next chapter, permit me to name a few of +the elements of popular music that may be helpful to many modern +minstrels to know. In fact, these are all the suggestions on the +writing of popular music that I have been able to glean from many +years of curious inquiry. I believe they represent practically, +if not quite, all the hints that can be given on this subject. [1] + +[1] Because of the obvious impossibility of adequately discussing +syncopation and kindred purely technical elements, ragtime has not +been particularly pointed out. The elements here given are those +that apply to ragtime as well as to nearly every other sort of +popular song. + +2. One Octave is the Popular Song Range + +The popular song is introduced to the public by vaudeville performers, +cabaret singers, and demonstrators, whose voices have not a wide +range. Even some of the most successful vaudeville stars have not +extraordinary voices. Usually the vaudeville performer cannot +compass a range of much more than an octave. The cabaret singer +who has command of more than seven notes is rare, and the demonstrator +in the department store and the five-and ten-cent store usually +has a voice little better than the person who purchases. Therefore +the composer of a song is restricted to the range of one octave. +Sometimes, it is true, a song is written in "one-one," or even +"one-two" (one or two notes more than an octave), but even such +"rangey" songs make use of these notes only in the verses and +confine the chorus to a single octave. But in the end, the necessity +for the composer's writing his song within one octave to make an +effective offering for his introducing singers, works out to his +advantage. The average voice of an octave range is that possessed +by those who buy popular songs to sing at home. + +Now here is a helpful hint and another bit of evidence from the +music angle, to emphasize the necessity for the perfect fitting +of words and music. Let me state it as Berlin did, in an article +written for the Green Book Magazine: + +3. Melodies Should Go Up on Open Vowels + +"Melodies should go up on open vowels in the lyrics--A, I or O. E +is half open and U is closed. Going up on a closed vowel makes +enunciation difficult." + +Experience is the only thing warranted to convince beyond doubt, +so test this rule on your own piano. Then take down the most +popular songs you have in your collection and measure them by it. + +4. Put "Punch" in Music Wherever Possible + +As we shall see later, another definition of the popular song-hit +might be, "A song with a punch in the lyrics and a punch in the +music." Berlin expressed the application to the problem of melody +by the following: + +"In the 'International Rag,' for example, I got my punch by means +of my melody. I used the triplet, the freak, from out of my bag +of tricks: + + Raggedy melody, + Full of originality. + +5. Punch is Sometimes Secured by Trick of Repetition + +Anatol Friedland, who composed the music of "My Persian Rose," and +L. Wolfe Gilbert's "My Little Dream Girl," in discussing this +question, said: + +"Ten notes may be the secret of a popular song success. If I can +make my listeners remember ten notes of a song that's all I ask. +Whenever they hear these ten notes played they'll say, 'That's. . .,' +and straightway they'll begin to whistle it. This is the +music punch, and it depends on merit alone. Now here's one angle +of the musical punch trick: + +"To make a punch more punchy still, we repeat it at least once, +and sometimes oftener, in a song. You may start your chorus with +it, repeat it in the middle, or repeat it at the end. Rarely is +it repeated in the verse. High-brow composers call it the theme. +For the popular song composer, it's the punch. Clever repetition +that makes the strain return with delightful satisfaction, is one +of the tricks of the trade--as well as of the art of popular music." + +6. A Musical Theme Might be Practically the Entire Song + +If what Friedland says is so, and you may turn to your well-thumbed +pile of music for confirmation, the theme or the punch of popular +music may prove the entire song. I mean, that in its final sales +analysis, the magic bars are what count. To carry this logical +examination still further, it is possible for a popular song to +be little more than theme. As a musical theme is the underlying +melody out of which the variations are formed, it is possible to +repeat the theme so often that the entire song is little more than +clever repetitions. + +One of the most common methods is to underlay a melody with what +E. M. Wickes, [1] one of the keenest popular song critics of today, +calls the "internal vamp." This is the keeping of a melody so +closely within its possible octave that the variations play around +a very few notes. Try on your piano this combination--D, E flat, +and E natural, or F natural, with varying tempos, and you will +recognize many beginnings of different famous songs they represent. +Either the verse of these songs starts off with this combination, +or the chorus takes these notes for its beginning. "Sweet Adeline" +and "On the Banks of the Wabash" are but two of the many famous +songs built on this foundation. Of course, there are other +combinations. These few combinations taken together might be +considered as the popular idea of "easy music." + +[1] Mr. Wickes has been contributing to The Writer's Monthly a +series of valuable papers under the general caption, "Helps for +Song Writers." + +And now it is through the consideration of the importance of the +variations of the theme that we may come to an understanding of +what, for the want of a better phrase, I shall call unexpected +punches. + +7. Punches not Suggested by the Theme + +The impossibility of adequately pointing out by words the specific +examples of what I mean in certain songs makes it necessary for +me to direct you back to your own piano. Run over a group of your +favorites and see how many musical punches you can find that are +not due directly to the theme. Pick out the catchy variations in +a dozen songs--you may chance on one or two where the biggest punch +is not in the theme. Of course you may trace it all back to the +theme, but nevertheless it still stands out a distinct punch in +the variation. If you can add this punch to your theme-punch, +your song success is assured. + +8. Use of Themes or Punches of Other Songs + +When Sol P. Levy, the composer of "Memories," the "Dolly Dip +Dances," and a score of better-class melodies, shared my office, +one of our sources of amusement was seeking the original themes +from which the popular songs were made. As Mr. Levy was arranging +songs for nearly all the big publishers, we had plenty of material +with which to play our favorite indoor sport. It was a rare song, +indeed, whose musical parent we could not ferret out. Nearly all +the successful popular songs frankly owned themes that were favorites +of other days--some were favorites long "before the war." + +Berlin's use of "Way down upon the Swanee River"--"played in +ragtime"--for a musical punch in "Alexander's Ragtime Band," was +not the first free use of a theme of an old favorite for a punch, +but it was one of the first honestly frank uses. The way he took +Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" and worked it into as daring a "rag" +as he could achieve, is perhaps the most delightfully impudent, +"here-see-what-I-can-do," spontaneously and honestly successful +"lift" ever perpetrated. Berlin has "ragged" some of the most +perfect themes of grand opera with wonderful success, but not +always so openly. And other composers have done the same thing. + +The usual method is to take some theme that is filled with memories +and make it over into a theme that is just enough like the familiar +theme to be haunting. This is the one secret or trick of the +popular song trade that has been productive of more money than +perhaps any other. + +This lifting of themes is not plagiarism in the strict sense in +which a solemn court of art-independence would judge it. Of course +it is well within that federal law which makes the copyrightable +part of any piece of music as wide open as a barn door, for you +know you can with "legal honesty" steal the heart of any song, if +you are "clever" enough, and want it. The average popular song +writer who makes free use of another composer's melody, doubtless +would defend his act with the argument that he is not writing +"serious music," only melodies for the passing hour and therefore +that he ought to be permitted the artistic license of weaving into +his songs themes that are a part of the melodic life of the day. +[1] But, although some song writers contend for the right of free +use, they are usually the first to cry "stop thief" when another +composer does the same thing to them. However, dismissing the +ethics of this matter, right here there lies a warning, not of art +or of law, but for your own success. + +[1] An interesting article discussing the harm such tactics have +done the popular song business is to be found over the signature +of Will Rossiter in the New York Star for March 1, 1913. + +Never lift a theme of another popular song. Never use a lifted +theme of any song--unless you can improve on it. And even then +never try to hide a theme in your melody as your own--follow Mr. +Berlin's method, if you can, and weave it frankly into your music. + +Now, to sum up all that has been said on the music of the popular +song: While it is an advantage for one man to write both the words +and music of a song, it is not absolutely essential; what is +essential is that the words and music fit each other so perfectly +that the thought of one is inseparable from the other. One octave +is the range in which popular music should be written. Melodies +should go up on open vowels in the lyrics. A "punch" should be +put in the music wherever possible. Punch is sometimes secured +by the trick of repetition in the chorus, as well as at the beginning +and end. The theme may be and usually is the punch, but in the +variations there may be punches not suggested by the theme. Themes, +semi-classical, or even operatic, or punches of old favorites may +be used--but not those of other popular songs--and then it is best +to use them frankly. + +To state all this in one concise sentence permit me to hazard the +following: + +The music-magic of the popular song lies in a catchy theme stated +at, or close to, the very beginning, led into clever variations +that round back at least once and maybe twice into the original +theme, and finishing with the theme--which was a punch of intrinsic +merit, made stronger by a repetition that makes it positively +haunting. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC + + +One question about song-writing is often asked but will never be +settled: Which is more important, the music or the words? Among +the publishers with whom I have discussed this question is Louis +Bernstein, of Shapiro, Bernstein & Co. He summed up what all the +other publishers and song-writers I have known have said: + +"A great melody may carry a poor lyric to success, and a great +lyric may carry a poor melody; but for a song to become widely +popular you must have both a great melody and a great lyric." + +This is but another way of stating the fact noted in the preceding +chapter, that the words and music of a popular song-hit are +indivisible. And yet Mr. Bernstein gives an authoritative reply +to the question with which this chapter opens. + +Charles K. Harris put it in another way. Referring particularly +to the ballad--and to the particular style of ballad that has made +him famous--he said: + +"The way to the whistling lips is always through the heart. Reach +the heart through your lyrics, and the lips will whistle the emotion +via the melody. When the heart has not been touched by the lyric, +the lips will prove rebellious. They may, indeed, whistle the +melody once, even twice, but it takes more than that to make a +song truly popular. A catchy tune is not sufficient in itself. +It goes far, it is true, but it will not go the entire distance +of popularity, or even two-thirds of the distance, unless it is +accompanied by a catchy lyric." + +You may read into this a leaning toward the lyric, if you like. +And it might be better if you did, for you would then realize that +your part of a popular song must be as "great" as you can make it. +But whatever may be your opinion, it does not alter the fact that +both Mr. Harris and Mr. Bernstein have pointed out--catchy words +are needed as much as catchy melody. And permit me to say very +humbly that personally I have no leaning toward the musical one +of the twins: my reason for discussing first the musical elements, +is that a lyric writer often is called on to fit words to music, +and because an understanding of the musical elements forms a fine +foundation for an easy, and therefore a quick, dissection of the +popular song--that is all. + +I. WHAT A POPULAR SONG LYRIC IS + +In its original meaning, a lyric is verse designed to be sung to +the accompaniment of music. Nowadays lyrical poetry is verse in +which the poet's personal emotions are strongly shown. Popular +song-lyrics especially are not only designed to be sung, but are +verses that show a great deal of emotion--any kind of emotion. +But remember this point: Whatever and how great soever may be the +emotion striving for expression, the words designed to convey it +do not become lyrics until the emotion is _shown_, and shown in a +sort of verse which we shall presently examine. If you _convey_ +emotion, your words may be worth thousands of dollars. If you +fail to convey it, they will be only a sad joke. + +As illustrations of this vital point, and to serve as examples for +the examination of the elements of the popular lyric, read the +words of the following famous songs; and while you are reading +them you will see vividly how music completes the lyric. Stripped +of its music, a popular song-lyric is often about as attractive +as an ancient actress after she has taken off all the make-up that +in the setting of the stage made her look like a girl. Words with +music become magically one, the moving expression of the emotion +of their day. + +IMPORTANT NOTE + +All the popular song lyrics quoted in this volume are copyright +property and are used by special permission of the publishers, in +each instance personally granted to the author of this book. Many +of the lyrics have never before been printed without their music. +Warning:--Republication in any form by anyone whosoever will meet +with civil and criminal prosecution by the publishers under the +copyright law. + + + ALEXANDER'S RAGTIME BAND + +Words and Music by IRVING BERLIN + +Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey, +Better hurry and let's meander, +Ain't you goin', ain't you goin,' +To the leader man, ragged meter man, +Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey, +Let me take you to Alexander's grand stand, brass + band, +Ain't you comin' along? + +CHORUS + +Come on and hear, come on and hear +Alexander's ragtime band, +Come on and hear, come on and hear, +It's the best band in the land, +They can play a bugle call like you never heard + before, +So natural that you want to go to war; +That's just the bestest band what am, honey lamb, +Come on along, come on along, +Let me take you by the hand, +Up to the man, up to the man, who's the leader of + the band, +And if you care to hear the Swanee River played in + ragtime, +Come on and hear, come on and hear Alexander's +ragtime Band. + +Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey, +There's a fiddle with notes that screeches, +Like a chicken, like a chicken, +And the clarinet is a colored pet, +Come and listen, come and listen, +To a classical band what's peaches, come now, + somehow, +Better hurry along. + + + THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE + + Words by Music by +BALLARD MACDONALD HARRY CARROLL + +On a mountain in Virginia stands a lonesome pine, +Just below is the cabin home, of a little girl of mine, +Her name is June, +And very very soon, +She'll belong to me, +For I know she's waiting there for me, +'Neath that old pine tree. + +REFRAIN + +In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, +On the trail of the lonesome pine, +In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine, +Where she carved her name and I carved mine, +Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue, +Like the pine, I am lonesome for you, +In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, +On the trail of the lonesome pine. +I can hear the tinkling water-fall far among the hills, +Bluebirds sing each so merrily, to his mate rapture + thrills, +They seem to say, Your June is lonesome too. +Longing fills her eyes, +She is waiting for you patiently, +Where the pine tree sighs. + + + WHEN THE BELL IN THE LIGHTHOUSE + RINGS DING DONG + + Lyric by Music by +ARTHUR J. LAMB ALFRED SOLMAN + +Just a glance in your eyes, my bonnie Kate, + Then over the sea go I, +While the sea-gulls circle around the ship, + And the billowy waves roll high. +And over the sea and away, my Kate, + Afar to the distant West; +But ever and ever a thought I'll have, + For the lassie who loves me best. + +REFRAIN + +When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong, +When it clangs with its warning loud and long, + Then a sailor will think of his sweetheart so true, + And long for the day he'll come back to you; +And his love will be told in the bell's brave song +When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong, + Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong! +When the bell in the lighthouse rings + Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong! + +For a day is to come, my bonnie Kate, + When joy in our hearts shall reign +And we'll laugh to think of the dangers past, + When you rest in my arms again. +For back to your heart I will sail, my Kate, + With love that is staunch and true; +In storm or in calm there's a star of hope, + That's always to shine for you. + + + SWEET ITALIAN LOVE + + Words by Music by +IRVING BERLIN TED SNYDER + +Everyone talk-a how they make-a da love +Call-a da sweet name like-a da dove, +It makes me sick when they start in to speak-a +Bout the moon way up above. +What's-a da use to have-a big-a da moon? +What's the use to call-a da dove +If he no like-a she, and she no like-a he, +The moon can't make them love. But, + +CHORUS + +Sweet Italian love, +Nice Italian love, + +You don't need the moon-a-light your love to tell her, +In da house or on da roof or in da cellar, +Dat's Italian love, +Sweet Italian love; +When you kiss-a your pet, +And it's-a like-a spagette, +Dat's Italian love. + +Ev'ryone say they like da moon-a da light, +There's one-a man up in da moon all-a right, +But he no tell-a that some other nice feller +Was-a kiss your gal last night. +Maybe you give your gal da wedding-a ring, +Maybe you marry, like-a me +Maybe you love your wife, maybe for all your life, +But dat's only maybe. But, + +CHORUS + +Sweet Italian love, +Nice Italian love, +When you squeeze your gal and she no say, "Please + stop-a!" +When you got dat twenty kids what call you "Papa!" +Dat's Italian love, +Sweet Italian love; +When you kiss one-a time, +And it's-a feel like-a mine, +Dat's Italian love! + + + OH HOW THAT GERMAN COULD LOVE + + Words by Music by +IRVING BERLIN TED SNYDER + +Once I got stuck on a sweet little German, + And oh what a German was she, +The best what was walking, well, what's the use talking, + Was just made to order for me. +So lovely and witty; more yet, she was pretty, + You don't know until you have tried. +She had such a figure, it couldn't be bigger, + And there was some one yet beside. + +CHORUS + +Oh how that German could love, + With a feeling that came from the heart, +She called me her honey, her angel, her money, + She pushed every word out so smart. +She spoke like a speaker, and oh what a speech, + Like no other speaker could speak; +Ach my, what a German when she kissed her Herman, + It stayed on my cheek for a week. + +This girl I could squeeze, and it never would hurt, + For that lady knew how to squeeze; +Her loving was killing, more yet, she was willing, + You never would have to say please. +I just couldn't stop her, for dinner and supper, + Some dishes and hugs was the food; +When she wasn't nice it was more better twice; + When she's bad she was better than good. + +Sometimes we'd love for a week at a time, + And it only would seem like a day; +How well I remember, one night in December, + I felt like the middle of May. +I'll bet all I'm worth, that when she came on earth, + All the angels went out on parade; +No other one turned up, I think that they burned up + The pattern from which she was made. + + + WHEN IT STRIKES HOME + +Words and Music by CHARLES K. HARRIS + +You sit at home and calmly read your paper, + Which tells of thousands fighting day by day, +Of homeless babes and girls who've lost their sweet-hearts, + But to your mind it all seems far away. + +REFRAIN + +When it strikes home, gone is the laughter, + When it strikes home your heart's forlorn, +When it strikes home the tears fall faster, + For those dear ones who've passed and gone. +And when you hear of brave boys dying, + You may not care, they're not your own; +But just suppose you lost your loved ones, + That is the time when it strikes home. +Out on the street, a newsboy crying "Extra," + Another ship has gone down, they say; +'Tis then you kiss your wife and little daughter, + Give heartfelt thanks that they are safe today. + + + MY LITTLE DREAM GIRL + + Words by Music by +L. WOLFE GILBERT ANATOL FRIEDLAND + +The night time, the night time is calling me, + It's dream-time, sweet dream-time, for you and me. +I'm longing, I'm longing to close my eyes, + For there a sweet vision lies. + +REFRAIN + +My little dream girl, +You pretty dream girl, +Sometimes I seem, girl, to own your heart. +Each night you haunt me, +By day you taunt me, +I want you, I want you, I need you so. +Don't let me waken, +Learn I'm mistaken, +Find my faith shaken, in you, sweetheart. +I'd sigh for, +I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever, +My little dream girl, good-night. + +While shadows are creeping through darkest night, + In dream-land, sweet dream-land, there's your love-light. +It's beaming, it's gleaming, and all for me, + Your vision I long to see. + + + MEMORIES + + Lyric by Music by +BRETT PAGE SOL. P. LEVY + +Oh, those happy days, when first we met, before you + said good-bye, +You soon forgot, I can't forget, no matter how I try, +Those happy hours like incense burn, + They're all that's left for me, +You took my heart and in return + You gave a memory. + +Oh, memories, dear memories, of days I can't forget, +Dear memories, sweet memories, my eyes with tears grow wet, + For like a rose that loves the sun, + And left to die when day is done, + I gave my all, the heart you won, +Sweetheart, I can't forget. + +In all my dreams I dream of you, your arms enfold + me, dear. +Your tender voice makes dreams seem true, your + lips to mine are near. +But when I turn your kiss to take, + You turn away from me, +In bitter sadness I awake, + Awake to memory. + +Oh, memories, dear memories, a face I can't forget, +Oh, memories, sweet memories, a voice that haunts me yet, + For like a rose that loves the sun, + And left to die when day is done, + I gave my all, the heart you won, +Sweetheart, I can't forget. + + + PUT ON YOUR OLD GREY BONNET + + Words by Music by +STANLEY MURPHY PERCY WENRIGHT + +On the old farm-house veranda +There sat Silas and Miranda, + Thinking of the days gone by. +Said he "Dearie, don't be weary, +You were always bright and cheery, + But a tear, dear, dims your eye." +Said she, "They're tears of gladness, +Silas, they're not tears of sadness, + It is fifty years today since we were wed." +Then the old man's dim eyes brightened, +And his stern old heart it lightened, + As he turned to her and said: + +CHORUS + +"Put on your old grey bonnet with the blue ribbons +on it, +While I hitch old Dobbin to the shay, +And through the fields of clover, we'll drive up to Dover, + On our Golden Wedding Day." + +It was in the same old bonnet, +With the same blue ribbon on it, + In the old shay by his side, +That he drove her up to Dover, +Thro' the same old fields of clover, + To become his happy bride. +The birds were sweetly singing +And the same old bells were ringing, + As they passed the quaint old church where they were wed. +And that night when stars were gleaming, +The old couple lay a-dreaming, + Dreaming of the words he said: + + + THERE'S A LITTLE SPARK OF LOVE + STILL BURNING + + Words by Music by +JOE MCCARTHY FRED FISCHER + +There was a fire burning in my heart, + Burning for years and for years, +Your love and kisses gave that flame a start, + I put it out with my tears; +You don't remember, I can't forget, +That old affection lives with me yet, +I keep on longing, to my regret, +I know I can't forget. + +CHORUS + +There's a little spark of love still burning, + And yearning down in my heart for you, +There's a longing there for your returning, + I want you, I do! +So come, come, to my heart again, +Come, come, set that love aflame, +For there's a little spark of love still burning, +And yearning for you. + +I left you laughing when I said good-bye, + Laughing, but nobody knew +How much relief I found when I could cry, + I cried my heart out for you; +I've loved you more than you ever know, +Though years have passed I've wanted you so, +Bring back the old love, let new love grow, +Come back and whisper low: + + + WHEN I LOST YOU + By IRVING BERLIN + +The roses each one, met with the sun, + Sweetheart, when I met you. +The sunshine had fled, the roses were dead, + Sweetheart, when I lost you. + +CHORUS + + I lost the sunshine and roses, +I lost the heavens of blue, + + I lost the beautiful rainbow, +I lost the morning dew; + I lost the angel who gave me +Summer the whole winter through, + I lost the gladness that turned into sadness, +When I lost you. + +The birds ceased their song, right turned to wrong, + Sweetheart, when I lost you. +A day turned to years, the world seem'd in tears, + Sweetheart, when I lost you. + + +II. QUALITIES OF THE POPULAR SONG LYRIC + +Having read these eleven lyrics of varying emotions, note the +rather obvious fact that + +1. Most Popular Songs Have Two Verses and One Chorus + +I am not now speaking of the "production song," which may have a +dozen verses, and as many different catch-lines in the chorus to +stamp the one chorus as many different choruses, but only of the +popular song. And furthermore, while two different choruses are +sometimes used in popular songs, the common practice is to use but +one chorus. + +Now let us see the reason for a peculiarity that must have struck +you in reading these lyrics. + +2. A Regular Metre is Rare + +Metre is the arrangement of emphatic and unemphatic syllables in +verse on a measured plan, and is attained by the use of short +syllables of speech varied in different rotations by long syllables. +The metrical character of English poetry depends upon _the recurrence +of similarly accented syllables at short and more or less regular +intervals_. Let us take this as the definition of what I mean by +metre in the few sentences in which I shall use the word. + +Among recognized poets there has always been a rather strict +adherence to regularity of form. Indeed, at times in the history +of literature, poetry, to be considered poetry, had to confine +itself to an absolutely rigid form. In such periods it has been +as though the poet were presented with a box, whose depth and +breadth and height could not be altered, and were then ordered to +fill it full of beautiful thoughts expressed in beautiful words, +and to fill it exactly, or be punished by having his work considered +bad. + +In ages past this rigidity of rule used to apply to the song-poet +also, although the minstrel has always been permitted more latitude +than other poets. To-day, however, the poet of the popular song +may write in any measure his fancy dictates, and he may make his +metre as regular or as irregular as he wishes. He may do anything +he wants, in a song. Certainly, his language need not be either +exact or "literary." Practically all that is demanded is that his +lyrics convey emotion. The song-poet's license permits a world +of metrical and literary sinning. I am not either apologizing for +or praising this condition--I am simply stating a proved fact. + +3. Irregularity of Metre May Even Be a Virtue + +Even without "scanning" the lyrics of the eleven songs you have +just read their irregularity of metre is plain. It is so plain +that some of the irregularities rise up and smite your ears. This +is why some popular songs seem so "impossible" without their music. +And the reason why they seem so pleasing with their music is that +the music takes the place of regularity with delightful satisfaction. +The very irregularity is what often gives the composer his opportunity +to contribute melodious punches, for the words of a popular song +are a series of catchy phrases. In some cases irregularity in a +song may be the crowning virtue that spells success. + +4. Regularity and Precision of Rhymes Are Not Necessary + +There is no need to point to specific examples of the lack of +regularity in the recurrence of rhymes in most of the lyric specimens +here printed, or in other famous songs. Nor is there any necessity +to instance the obvious lack of precise rhyming. Neither of these +poetic qualities has ever been a virtue of the average popular +song-poet. + +So far as the vital necessities of the popular song go, rhymes may +occur regularly or irregularly, with fine effect in either instance, +and the rhymes may be precise or not. To rhyme _moon_ with _June_ +is not unforgivable. The success of a popular song depends on +entirely different bases. Nevertheless, a finely turned bit of +rhyming harmony may strike the ear and stand out from its fellows +like a lovely symphony of fancy. If you have given any attention +to this point of rhyming you can recall many instances of just +what I mean. + +5. Strive for Regular and Precise Rhyming--If Fitting + +If you can be regular and if you can be precise in the use of +rhymes in your song-poem, be regular and be precise. Don't be +irregular and slovenly just because others have been and succeeded. +You will not succeed if you build your lyrics on the faults and +not on the virtues of others. The song-poem that gleams like a +flawless gem will have a wider and more lasting success--all other +things being equal. + +On the other hand, it is absolutely fatal to strive for regularity +and precision, and thereby lose expression. If you have to choose, +choose irregularity and faulty rhymes. This is an important bit +of advice, for a song-poem is not criticized for its regularity +and precision--it is either taken to heart and loved in spite of +its defects, or is forgotten as valueless. As Winifred Black wrote +of her child, "I love her not for her virtues, but oh, for the +endearing little faults that make her what she is." + +6. Hints On Lyric Measures + +Reference to the lyrics already instanced will show you that they +are written in various measures. And while it is foreign to my +purpose to discuss such purely technical points of poetry, [1] +permit me to direct your attention to a few points of song measure. + +[1] The Art of Versification, by J. Berg Esenwein and Mary Eleanor +Roberts--one of the volumes in "The Writer's Library"--covers this +subject with a thoroughness it would be useless for me to attempt. +Therefore if you wish to take this subject up more in detail, I +refer you to this excellent book. + +An individual poetic measure is attained by the use of metre in a +certain distinct way. Because the normal combinations of the +emphatic and the unemphatic syllables of the English language are +but five, there are only five different poetic measures. Let us +now see how an investigation of the bafflingly unexact measures +of our examples will yield--even though their irregular natures +will not permit of precise poetic instances--the few helpful hints +we require. + +(a) _The first measure_--called by students of poetry the trochaic +measure--is founded on the use of a long or emphatic syllable +followed by a short or unemphatic syllable, It has a light, tripping +movement, therefore it is peculiarly fitted for the expression of +lively subjects. One of our examples shows this rather clearly: + + + ' ' ' ' ' + There's a | little | spark of | love still | burning + + +Yet this is not a measure that is commonly found in the popular +song. Other combinations seem to fit popular song needs quite as +well, if not better. + +(b) _The second measure_--called the iambic measure--is the reverse +of the first. That is, the short or unemphatic syllable precedes +the long or emphatic syllable. "Alexander's Ragtime Band " uses +this measure at the beginning of the chorus. + + + ' ' ' ' + Come on | and hear | come on | and hear + + +The first verse of Mr. Harris's song shows this measure even more +clearly: + + + ' ' ' ' ' + You sit | at home | and calm | ly read | your pa | per + + +This second measure, being less sustained in syllabic force, is +more easily kept up than the first measure. It is therefore in +common use. + +(c) _The third measure_--called the dactylic measure--is formed +of a combination of three syllables. Its characteristic is an +emphatic syllable followed by two unemphatic syllables, as: + + + ' ' + The | old oak en | buck et + + ' ' + The | iron bound | buck et + + +(d) _The fourth measure_--called by the frighteningly long name +of amphibrachic measure--is formed by a short or unemphatic syllable +followed by a long or emphatic syllable, which is followed again +by another short or unemphatic syllable. + + + ' ' ' + I won der | who's kiss ing | her now + + +(e) _The fifth measure_--called anapestic measure--is made up of +two short or unemphatic followed by a long or emphatic syllable. + + + ' ' ' + When the bell | in the light | house rings ding | dong + + +All these three-syllabic measures have a quicker movement than the +two-syllabic, owing to the greater number of unaccented, unemphatic +syllables. They lend themselves to a rushing impetuosity of +expression which is the notable characteristic of the popular song. +But they are not always regular, even in high-grade poetry. +Therefore in the popular song we may look for, and certainly be +sure to find, all sorts of variations from the regular forms here +given. Indeed, regularity, as has been clearly pointed out, is +the exception and not the rule; for few single lines, and, in a +still more marked degree, almost no songs, adhere to one measure +throughout. Precisely as "apt alliteration's artful aid" may be +used or not used as may suit his purpose best, so the song-writer +makes regularity of measure subservient to the effect he desires. + +However, I give these examples not with a view to the encouragement +of either regularity or irregularity. My purpose is to show you +what combinations are possible, and to say, as the jockey whispers +in the eager ear of the racehorse he has held back so long, "Go +to it!" Break every rule you want to--only break a record. As Mr. +Berlin said, "I've broken every rule of versification and of music, +and the result has often been an original twist. In popular songs +a comparative ignorance of music is an advantage. Further, since +my vocabulary is somewhat limited through lack of education, it +follows that my lyrics are simple." + +This is only Berlin's modest way of saying that not one in ten +successful song-writers know anything about the art of music, and +that very few are well enough educated to err on the side of +involved language and write other than simple lyrics. He drew the +application as to himself alone, although his native genius makes +it less true of him than of many another less gifted. The big +point of this observation lies in his emphasis on the fact that + +7. Simple Lyrics and Simple Music Are Necessary + +Perhaps in Mr. Berlin's statement rests the explanation of the +curious fact that nearly all the successful popular song-writers +are men who had few educational advantages in youth. Most of them +are self-made men who owe their knowledge of English and the art +of writing to their own efforts. Conversely, it may also explain +why many well-educated persons strive for success in song-writing +in vain. They seem to find it difficult to acquire the chief lyric +virtue--simplicity. + +Not only must the words of a popular song be "easy," but the _idea_ +of the lyric must be simple. You cannot express a complex idea +in the popular song-form, which is made up of phrases that sometimes +seem short and abrupt. And, even if you could overcome this +technical difficulty, you would not find an audience that could +grasp your complex idea. Remember that a majority of the purchasers +of popular songs buy them at the five- and ten-cent store. To +sell songs to this audience, you must make your music easy to sing, +your words easy to say and your idea simple and plain. + +8. Rhythm the Secret of Successful Songs + +Being barred from other than the simplest of ways, by his own +limitations, his introducers and his market, the song-writer has +to depend upon a purely inherent quality in his song for appeal. +This appeal is complex in its way, being composed of the lure of +music, rhyme and emotion, but when analyzed all the parts are found +to have one element in common. This element to which all parts +contribute is _rhythm_. + +Now by rhythm I do not mean rhyme, nor metre, nor regularity. It +has nothing necessarily to do with poetic measures nor with precision +of rhymes. Let me attempt to convey what I mean by saying that +the rhythm of a song is, as Irving Berlin said, _the swing_. To +the swing of a song everything in it contributes. Perhaps it will +be clearer when I say that rhythm is compounded of the exactness +with which the words clothe the idea and with which the music +clothes the words, and the fineness with which both words and music +fit the emotion. Rhythm is singleness of effect. Yet rhythm is +more--it is singleness of effect plus a sort of hypnotic fascination. + +And here we must rest as nearly content as we can, for the final +effect of any work of art does not admit of dissection. I have +shown you some of the elements which contribute to making a popular +song popular, and in the next chapter we shall see still others +which are best discussed in the direct application of the writing, +but even the most careful exposition must halt at the heart of the +mystery of art. The soul of a song defies analysis. + +9. Where the "Punch" in the Lyric is Placed + +Just as it is necessary for a popular song to have a punch somewhere +in its music, so it must come somewhere in its lyric. Just what +a lyrical punch is may be seen in the chorus of "The Trail of the +Lonesome Pine." + + In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, + On the trail of the lonesome pine, + In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine, + Where she carved her name and I carved mine, + _Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue, + Like the pine, I am lonesome for you!_ + In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, + On the trail of the lonesome pine. + +The underlined words are plainly the punch lines of this famous +song--the most attractive lines of the whole lyric. Note where +they are placed--in the chorus, and next to the last lines. Read +the chorus of "My Little Dream Girl" and you will find a similar +example of punch lines: + + _I'd sigh for, + I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever,_ + My little dream girl, good night. + +These, also, are placed next to the last lines of the chorus. + +The punch lines of "When it Strikes Home," are found in + + And when you hear of brave boys dying, + You may not care, they're not your own, + _But just suppose you lost your loved one + That is the time when it strikes home._ + +Here the punch is placed at the very end of the chorus. + +Now test every song on your piano by this laboratory method. You +will find that while there may be punch lines at the end of the +verses there are nearly always punch lines at the end of the chorus. +There must be a reason for this similarity in all these popular +songs. And the reason is this: The emphatic parts of a sentence +are the beginning and end. The emphatic part of a paragraph is +the end. If you have a number of paragraphs, the last must be the +most emphatic. This is a common rule of composition founded on +the law of attention--we remember best what is said last. The +same thing is true of songs. And song-writers are compelled by +vaudeville performers to put a punch near the end of their choruses +because the performer must reap applause. Thus commerce keeps the +song-writer true to the laws of good art. Therefore remember: + +_The most attractive lines of a popular song must be the last +lines, or next to the last lines, of the chorus._ + +This holds true whether the song is a "sob" ballad or a humorous +number. And--strictly adhering to this rule--put a punch, if you +can, at the end of each verse. But whether you put a punch at the +end of a verse or not, always put a punch close to the end of your +chorus. + +10. Contrast an Element of the "Punch" + +One of the easiest ways of securing the vitally necessary punch +lies in contrast. Particularly is this true in humorous songs--it +is the quick twist that wins the laughter. But in all songs +contrast may form a large part of the punch element. + +The ways of securing a contrast are too many to permit of discussion +here, but I name a few: + +You may get contrast by switching the application as Harris did in: + + You may not care, they're not your own, + But just suppose you lost your loved one. + +Or you may get contrast by changing your metre and using a contrasting +measure. While you may do this in the middle of the chorus, it +is nearly always done _throughout_ the chorus. I mean that the +measure of the chorus is usually different from the measure used +in the verse. + +And of course when you change the measure of your lyric, the +movement of the music changes too. It is in the resulting contrasting +melody that lies much of the charm of the popular song. + +But, whatever means you use, be sure you have a contrast somewhere +in your lyric--a contrast either of subject matter, poetic measure +or musical sounds. + +11. Love the Greatest Single Element + +If you will review all the great song successes of this year and +of all the years that are past, you will come to the conclusion +that without love there could be no popular song. Of course there +have been songs that have not had the element of love concealed +anywhere in their lyrics, but they are the exceptions. + +If your song is not founded on love, it is well to add this element, +for when you remember that the song's reason for being is emotion, +and that the most moving emotion in the world is love, it would +seem to be a grave mistake to write any song that did not offer +this easy bid for favor. If you have not love in your lyrics make +haste to remedy the defect. + +_The ballad_ is perhaps the one form by which the greatest number +of successful song-writers have climbed to fame. It is also one +of the easiest types to write. It should seem worth while, then, +for the newcomer to make a ballad one of his earliest bids for +fame. + +12. The Title + +The title of a song is the advertising line, and therefore it must +be the most attractive in your song. It is the whole song summed +up in one line. It may be a single word or a half-dozen words. +It is not the punch line always. It is often the very first line +of the chorus, but it is usually the last line. + +There is little need for constructive thought in choosing a title. +All that is necessary is to select the best advertising line already +written. You have only to take the most prominent line and write +it at the top of your lyrics. Study the titles of the songs in +this chapter and you will see how easy it is to select your title +after you have written your song. + +To sum up: a great lyric is as necessary to the success of a popular +song as a great melody, but not more necessary. A lyric is a verse +that conveys a great deal of emotion. Most popular songs have two +verses and one chorus. A regular metre is rare; irregularity may +even be a virtue. The regular occurrence of rhymes and precise +rhymes are not necessary--but it is better to strive after regularity +and precision. There are five lyrical measures common to all +poetry, but you may break every rule if you only break a record. +Rhythm--the swing--is the secret of successful songs. Every lyric +must have one or more punch lines--which may occur at the end of +each verse, but must be found in the last lines of the chorus. +Contrast--either of idea, poetic measure or music--is one sure way +of securing the punch. Love is the greatest single element that +makes for success in a song idea. The one-word standard of +popular-song writing is _simplicity_--music easy to sing, words +easy to say, the idea simple and plain. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +WRITING THE POPULAR SONG + + +In the preceding chapters we saw how the elements of a popular +song are nearly identical in music and in lyrics, no matter how +the styles of songs may differ. In this chapter we shall see how +these elements may be combined--irrespective of styles--into a +song that the boy on the street will whistle, and the hand organs +grind out until you nearly go mad with the repetition of its rhythm. + +Not only because it will be interesting, but because such an insight +will help to a clear understanding of methods I shall ask you to +glance into a popular song publisher's professional department. + +I. A POPULAR SONG IN THE MAKING + +A very large room--an entire floor, usually--is divided into a +reception room, where vaudeville and cabaret performers are waiting +their turns to rehearse, and half-a-dozen little rooms, each +containing a piano. As the walls of these rooms are never very +thick, and often are mere partitions running only two-thirds of +the way to the ceiling, the discord of conflicting songs is sometimes +appalling. Every once in a while some performer comes to the +manager of the department and insists on being rehearsed by the +writers of the latest song-hit themselves. And as often as not +the performer is informed that the writers are out. In reality, +perhaps, they are working on a new song in a back room. Being +especially privileged, let us go into that back room and watch +them at work. + +All there is in the room is a piano and a few chairs. One of the +chairs has a broad arm, or there may be a tiny table or a desk. +With this slender equipment two persons are working as though the +salvation of the world depended on their efforts. One of them is +at the piano and the other is frowning over a piece of paper covered +with pencil marks. + +Perhaps the composer had the original idea--a theme for a melody. +Perhaps the lyric writer had one line--an idea for a song. It +does not matter at all which had the idea originally, both are +obsessed by it now. + +"Play the chorus over, will you?" growls the writer. Obediently +the composer pounds away, with the soft pedal on, and the writer +sings his words so that the composer can hear them. There comes +a line that doesn't fit. "No good!" they say together. + +"Can't you change that bar?" inquires the writer. + +"I'll try," says the composer. "Gimme the sheet." + +They prop it up on the piano and sing it together. + +"Shut up!" says the composer. And the writer keeps still until +the other has pounded the offending bar to fit. + +Or perhaps the writer gets a new line that fits the music. "How's +this?" he cries with the intonation Columbus must have used when +he discovered the new world. + +"Punk!" comments the composer. "You can't rhyme 'man' with 'grand' +and get away with it these days." + +"Oh, all right," grumbles the harassed song-poet, and changes both +lines to a better rhyme. "I don't like that part," he gets back +at the composer, "it sounds like 'Waiting at the Church.'" + +"How's this, then?" inquires the composer, changing two notes. + +"Fine," says the lyric writer, for the new variation has a hauntingly +familiar sound, too elusive to label--is amazingly catchy. + +For hours, perhaps, they go on in this way--changing a note here, +a whole bar there, revising the lyric every few lines, substituting +a better rhyme for a bad one, and building the whole song into a +close-knit unity. + +At last the song is in pretty good shape. As yet there is no +second verse, but the "Boss" is called in and the boys sing him +the new song. "Change 'dream' to 'vision'--it sounds better," he +says; or he may have a dozen suggestions--perhaps he gives the +song a new punch line. He does his part in building it up, and +then the arranger is called in. + +With a pad of manuscript music paper, and a flying pencil, he jots +down the melody nearly as fast as the composer can pound it out +on the piano. "Get a 'lead-sheet' ready as quick as you can, +commands the Boss. "We'll try it out tonight." + +"Right!" grunts the arranger, and rushes away to give the melody +a touch here and there. As often as not, he comes back to tell +the composer how little that worthy knows about music and to demand +that a note be changed or a whole bar recast to make it easier to +play, but at last he appears with a "lead-sheet"--a mere suggestion +of the song to be played, with all the discretion the pianist +commands--and the composer, the lyric writer and the "Boss" go +across the street to some cabaret and try out the new song. + +Here, before an audience, they can tell how much of a song they +really have. They may have something that is a "winner," and they +may see that their first judgment was wrong--they may have only +the first idea of a hit. + +But let us suppose that the song is a "knock 'em off their seats" +kind, that we may get down to the moral of this little narrative +of actual happenings. The "pluggers" are called in and bidden to +memorize the song. They spend the afternoon singing it over and +over again--and then they go out at night and sing it in a dozen +different places all over the city. On their reports and on what +the "Boss" sees himself as he visits place after place, the decision +is made to publish immediately or to work the song over again. +It is the final test before an audience that determines the fate +of any song. The new song may never be sung again, or tomorrow +the whole city may be whistling it. + +And now permit me to indicate a point that lies in the past of the +song we have seen in process of manufacture: From somewhere the +composer gets an idea for a melody--from somewhere the lyric writer +gets an idea for a lyric. + +But we must put the music of a song to one side and devote our +attention to the lyric. + +II. POINTS ON SONG BUILDING + +1. Sources of Ideas for Song Lyrics + +As a popular song becomes popular because it fits into the life +of the day and is the individual expression of the spirit of the +moment, Charles K. Harris was doubtless right when he said: + +"The biggest secret of success, according to my own system, is the +following out in songs of ideas current in the national brain at +the moment. My biggest song successes have always reflected the +favorite emotion--if I may use the word--of the people of the day. +How do I gauge this? Through the drama! The drama moves in irregular +cycles, and changes in character according to the specific tastes +of the public. The yearly mood of the nation is reflected by the +drama and the theatrical entertainment of the year. At least, I +figure it out this way, and compose my songs accordingly. + +"Here are just two instances of my old successes built on this +plan: When 'The Old Homestead' and 'In Old Kentucky' were playing +to crowded houses, I wrote ''Midst the Green Fields of Virginia' +and 'In the Hills of Old Carolina,' and won. Then when Gillette's +war plays, 'Held by the Enemy' and 'Secret Service' caught the +national eye, I caught the national ear with 'Just Break the News +to Mother.' But these are examples enough to show you how the +system works." + +Irving Berlin said, "You can get a song idea from anywhere. I +have studied the times and produced such songs as 'In My Harem' +when the Greeks were fleeing from the Turks and the harem was a +humorous topic in the daily newspapers. And I have got ideas from +chance remarks of my friends. For instance: + +"I wrote 'My Wife's Gone to the Country' from the remark made to +me by a friend when I asked him what time he was going home. 'I +don't have to go home,' he said, 'my wife's gone to the country.' +It struck me as a great idea for a title for a song, but I needed +a note of jubilation, so I added 'Hooray, Hooray!' The song almost +wrote itself. I had the chorus done in a few minutes, then I dug +into the verse, and it was finished in a few hours." + +L. Wolfe Gilbert wrote "Robert E. Lee" from the "picture lines" +in one of his older songs, "Mammy's Shuffiing Dance" and a good +old-fashioned argument that he and I had about the famous old +Mississippi steamboat. That night when I came back to the office +we shared, Gilbert read me his lyric. From the first the original +novelty of the song was apparent, and in a few days the country +was whistling the levee dance of 'Daddy' and 'Mammy,' and 'Ephram' +and 'Sammy,' as they waited for the Robert E. Lee. Had Gilbert +ever seen a levee? No--but out of his genius grew a song that +sold into the millions. + +"Most of our songs come from imagination," said Joe McCarthy. "A +song-writer's mind is ever alert for something new. What might +pass as a casual remark to an outsider, might be a great idea to +a writer. For instance, a very dear young lady friend might have +said, 'You made me love you--I didn't want to do it.' Of course +no young lady friend said that to me--I just imagined it. And +then I went right on and imagined what that young lady would have +said if she had followed that line of thought to a climax." + +"It's the chance remark that counts a lot to the lyric writer," +said Ballard MacDonald. "You might say something that you would +forget the next minute--while I might seize that phrase and work +over it until I had made it a lyric." + +But, however the original idea comes--whether it creeps up in a +chance remark of a friend, or the national mood of the moment is +carefully appraised and expressed, or seized "out of the air," let +us suppose you have an idea, and are ready to write your song. +The very first thing you do, nine chances out of ten, is to follow +the usual method of song-writers: + +2. Write Your Chorus First + +The popular song is only as good as its chorus. For whistling +purposes there might just as well be no verses at all. But of +course you must have a first verse to set your scene and lead up +to your chorus, and a second verse to finish your effect and give +you the opportunity to pound your chorus home. Therefore you begin +to write your chorus around your big idea. + +This idea is expressed in one line--your title, your catchy line, +your "idea line," if you like--and if you will turn to the verses +of the songs reproduced in these chapters you will be able to +determine about what percentage of times the idea line is used to +introduce the chorus. But do not rest content with this examination; +carry your investigation to all the songs on your piano. Establish +for yourself, by this laboratory method, how often the idea line +is used as a chorus introduction. + +Whether your idea line is used to introduce your chorus or not, +it is usually wise to end your chorus with it. Most choruses--but +not all, as "Put on your Old Grey Bonnet," would suggest--end with +the idea line, on the theory that the emphatic spots in any form +of writing are at the beginning and the end--and of these the more +emphatic is the end. Therefore, you must now concentrate your +chorus to bring in that idea line as the very last line. + +3. Make the Chorus Convey Emotion + +As we saw in the previous chapter, a lyric is a set of verses that +conveys emotion. The purpose of the first verse is to lead up to +the emotion--which the chorus expresses. While, as I shall +demonstrate later, a story may be proper to the verses, a story +is rarely told in the chorus. I mean, of course, a story conveyed +by pure narrative, for emotion may convey a story by sheer lyrical +effect. Narrative is what you must strive to forget in a chorus--in +your chorus you _must_ convey emotion _swiftly_--that is, with a +punch. + +While it is impossible for anyone to tell you how to convey emotion, +one can point out one of the inherent qualities of emotional speech. + +4. Convey Emotion by Broad Strokes + +When a man rushes through the corridors of a doomed liner he does +not stop to say, "The ship has struck an iceberg--or has been +torpedoed--and is sinking, you'd better get dressed quickly and +get on deck and jump into the boats." He hasn't time. He cries, +"The ship's sinking! To the boats!" + +This is precisely the way the song-writer conveys his effect. He +not only cuts out the "thes" and the "ands" and the "ofs" and "its" +and "perhapses"--he shaves his very thoughts down--as the lyrics +printed in these chapters so plainly show--until even logic of +construction seems engulfed by the flood of emotion. Pare down +your sentences until you convey the dramatic meaning of your deep +emotion, not by a logical sequence of sentences, but by revealing +flashes. + +5. Put Your Punch in Clear Words Near the End + +And now you must centre all your thoughts on your punch lines. +Punch lines, as we saw, are sometimes the entire point of a +song--they are what makes a "popular" lyric get over the footlights +when a performer sings the song and they are the big factor--together +with the music punches--that make a song popular. However lyrical +you have been in the beginning of your chorus, you must now summon +all your lyrical ability to your aid to write these, the fate-deciding +lines. + +But note that emotion, however condensed the words may be that +express it, must not be so condensed that it is incoherent. You +must make your punch lines as clear in words as though you were +drawing a diagram to explain a problem in geometry. The effect +you must secure is that of revealing clearness. + +Be very careful not to anticipate your punch lines. For instance, +if Mr. Gilbert had used "All day I sigh, all night I cry," before +"I'd sigh for, I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever" in his "My Little +Dream Girl," the whole effect would have been lost. As your punch +lines must be the most attractive lines, keep them new and fresh, +by excluding from the rest of your song anything like them. + +If you can put your punch in the very last lines, fine. If you +wish to put your punch lines just before the last two lines--in +the third and fourth lines from the last--well and good. But it +is never wise to put your punch so far from the end that your +audience will forget it before you finish and expect something +more. It is a good rule to write your punch lines and then end +your song. + +Having constructed your chorus from a beginning that uses or does +not use your idea line, and having by broad strokes that convey +emotion developed it into your punch lines, you end your chorus, +usually, but not invariably, with your idea line--your title line. + +Now you are ready to write your first verse. + +6. Make the First Verse the Introduction of the Chorus + +If you have characters in your song, introduce them instantly. +If you are drawing a picture of a scene, locate it in your first +line. If your song is written in the first person--the "you and I" +kind--you must still establish your location and your "you and I" +characters at once. If you keep in mind all the time you are +writing that your first verse is merely an introduction, you will +not be likely to drag it out. + +(a) _Write in impersonal mood_--that is, make your song such that +it does not matter whether a man or a woman sings it. Thus you will +not restrict the wide use of your song. Anyone and everyone can +sing it on the stage. Furthermore, it will be apt to sell more +readily. + +(b) _"Tell a complete story"_ is a rule that is sometimes laid +down for popular song-writers. But it depends entirely upon what +kind of song you are writing whether it is necessary to tell a +story or not. "A story is not necessary," Berlin says, and an +examination of the lyrics in the preceding chapter, and all the +lyrics on your piano, will bear him out in this assertion. + +All you need remember is that your song must express emotion in a +catchy way. If you can do this best by telling a story, compress +your narrative into your verses, making your chorus entirely +emotional. + +(c) _"Make your verses short"_ seems to be the law of the popular +song today. In other years it was the custom to write long verses +and short choruses. Today the reverse seems to be the fashion. +But whether you decide on a short verse or a long verse--and +reference to the latest songs will show you what is best for you +to write--you must use as few words as possible to begin your story +and--with all the information necessary to carry over the points +of your chorus--to lead it up to the joining lines. + +7. Make Your Second Verse Round Out the Story + +You have introduced your chorus in your first verse, and the chorus +has conveyed the emotion to which the first verse gave the setting. +Now in your second verse round out the story so that the repetition +of the chorus may complete the total effect of your song. + +More than upon either the first verse or the chorus, unity of +effect depends upon the second verse. In it you must keep to the +key of emotion expressed in the chorus and to the general trend +of feeling of the first verse. If your first verse tells a +love-story of two characters, it is sometimes well to change the +relations of the characters in the second verse and make the +repetition of the chorus come as an answer. But, whatever you +make of your second verse, you must not give it a different story. +Don't attempt to do more than round out your first-verse story to +a satisfying conclusion, of which the chorus is the completing end. + +And now we have come to + +8. The Punch Lines in the Verses + +Toward the end of each verse it is customary to place punch lines +which are strong enough pictorially to sum up the contents of the +verse and round it out into the chorus. In humorous songs, these +punch lines are often used as the very last lines, and the first +line of the chorus is depended on to develop the snicker into a +laugh, which is made to grow into a roar with the punch lines of +the chorus. In other words, there are in every song three places +where punch lines must be used. The most important is toward the +end of the chorus, and the other places are toward the end of the +verses. + +9. Don'ts for Verse Last-Lines + +Don't end your lines with words that are hard to enunciate--there +are dozens of them, of which are "met," and most of the dental +sounds. Experience alone can teach you what to avoid. But it may +be said that precisely the same reason that dictates the use of +open vowels on rising notes, dictates that open sounds are safest +with which to end lines, because the last notes of a song are often +rising notes. This applies with emphatic force, also, to your +chorus. Never use such unrhetorical and laugh-provoking lines as +the grotesquely familiar "and then to him I did say." + +Don't always feel that it is necessary to tell the audience "here +is the chorus." Imagination is common to all, and the chorus is +predicted by the turn of thought and the "coming to it" feeling +of the melody. + +III. ASSEMBLING THE SONG + +Having gone over your verses and made sure that you have punch +lines that rise out of the narrative effect into revealing flashes, +and are completed and punched home by the punch lines of the chorus, +and having made sure that your lyrics as a whole are the best you +can write, you must give thought to the music. + +1. The "One Finger Composer's" Aid + +If you are the sort of modern minstrel who has tunes buzzing in +his head, it is likely that you will have composed a melody to fit +your lyrics. The chances are that you know only enough about music +to play the piano rather indifferently. Or, you may be an +accomplished pianist without possessing a knowledge of harmony +sufficient to admit of your setting down your melody in the form +of a good piano score. But even if you are only able to play the +piano with one finger, you need not despair. There are dozens of +well-known popular song composers who are little better off. You +may do precisely what they do--you can call to your aid an arranger. +This is the first moral I shall draw from the true story with which +this chapter begins. + +As the composer played over his melody for the arranger to take +down in musical notes, you may sing, whistle or play your melody +on the piano with one finger, for the arranger to take down your +song. All you need give him is the bare outline of your melody. +At best it will be but a forecasting shadow of what he will make +out of it. From it he will make you a "lead-sheet," the first +record of your melody. Then, if you desire, he will arrange your +melody into a piano part, precisely identical in form with any +copy of a song you have seen. With this piano version--into which +the words have been carefully written in their proper places--you +may seek your publisher. + +For taking down the melody and making an "ink lead-sheet," the +arranger will charge you from one to two dollars. For a piano +copy he will charge you anywhere from three to ten dollars--the +average price is about five dollars. + +2. Be Sure Your Words and Music Fit Exactly + +Here we may draw the second moral from the little scene we witnessed +in the song publisher's room--this is the big lesson of that scene. +In a word, successful song-writers consider a song not as a lyric +and a melody, but as a composite of both. A successful song is a +perfect fusing of both. The melody writer is not averse to having +his melody changed, if by changing it a better song can be made. +And the successful lyric writer is only too glad to change his +words, if a hit can be produced. With the one end in view, they +go over their song time after time and change lyrics and melody +with ruthless hands until a whistle-making unity rises clear and +haunting. + +This is what you must now do with your song. You must bend all +your energies to making it a perfect blend of words and music--a +unity so compressed and so compactly lyrical that to take one +little note or one little word away would ruin the total effect. + +This is why + +3. Purchasing Music for a Song is Seldom Advisable + +If you are invited to purchase music for a new song, it is the +part of wisdom to refuse--because only in very rare instances has +a successful song been the result of such a method. The reason +is perfectly plain, when you consider that the composer who offers +you a melody for a cash price is interested only in the small lump +sum he receives. You are his market. He does not care anything +about the market the music must make for itself, first with a +publisher and then with the public. + +Therefore, no matter how willing a composer may appear to change +his melody to fit your song, scan his proposition with a cynical +eye. On the surface he will make the music fit, but he would be +wasting his time if he worked over your lyric and his music to the +extent that a composer who is paid by the ultimate success of a +song would have to labor. + +It is very much better to take your chances with even an inferior +melody maker who is as much interested as you are in a final +success. And when you have found a composer, do not quibble about +changing your words to fit his music. And don't fear to ask him +to change his melody, wherever constant work on the song proves +that a change is necessary. It is only by ceaselessly working +over both words and melody that a song is turned into a national +whistle. + +IV. SEEKING A PUBLISHER [1] + +[1] The matter under this section would seem to be an integral +part of the following Chapter, "Manuscripts and Markets," but it +is included in this chapter because some of the points require a +discussion too expansive for the general treatment employed in +describing the handling of other stage material. + +You have written your lyrics, and you have fashioned your melody, +or you have found a composer who is anxious to make his melody fit +your lyrics so perfectly that they have been fused into a unity +so complete that it seems all you have to do to start everybody +whistling it is to find a publisher. And so you set about the +task. + +1. Private Publication Seldom Profitable + +While it is perfectly true that there have been many songs that +have paid handsome profits from private publication, it is more +nearly exact to believe that private publication never pays. +Printers and song publishers who make a business of this private +trade will often lure the novice by citing the many famous songs +"published by their writers." Whenever you see such an advertisement, +or whenever such an argument is used in a sales talk, dig right +down to the facts of the case. Nine chances out of ten, you will +find that the writers are successful popular song publishers--it +is their business to write for their own market. Furthermore--and +this is the crux of the matter--they have a carefully maintained +sales force and an intricate outlet for all their product, which +would take years for a "private publisher" to build up. Really, +you cannot expect to make any money by private publication, even +at the low cost of song-printing these days--unless you are willing +to devote all your energies to pushing your song. And even then, +the song must be exceptional to win against the better organized +competition. + +2. Avoid the "Song Poem" Advertiser + +It is never my desire to condemn a class even though a majority +of that class may be worthy of reproach. Therefore, instead of +inveighing against the "song-poem" fakir with sounding periods of +denunciation, permit me to state the facts in this way: + +The advertisers for song-poems may be divided into two classes. +In the first class are publishers who publish songs privately for +individuals who have enough money to indulge a desire to see their +songs in print. The writer may not intend his song for public +sale. He wishes to have it printed so that he may give copies to +his friends and thus satisfy his pride by their plaudits. It is +to these song-writers that the honest "private publisher" offers +a convenient and often cheap opportunity. His dealings are perfectly +honest and fair, because he simply acts as a printer, and not as +a publisher, for he does not offer to do more than he can perform. + +The second class of song-poem advertisers lure writers by all sorts +of glowing promises. They tell you how such and such a song made +thousands of dollars for its writer. They offer to furnish music +to fit your lyrics. They will supply lyrics to fit your music. +They will print your song and push it to success. They will do +anything at all--for a fee! And I have heard the most pitiful tales +imaginable of high hopes at the beginning and bitter disappointment +at the end, from poor people who could ill afford the money lost. + +These "publishers" are not fair--they are not honest. They make +their living from broken promises, and pocket the change with a +grin over their own cleverness. Why these men cannot perform what +they promise is perfectly plain in the light of all that has been +said about the popular song. It does not need repetition here. +If you wish to publish your song privately for distribution among +your friends, seek the best and cheapest song printer you can find. +But if you hope to make your fortune through publication for which +you must pay--in which the publisher has nothing to lose and +everything to win--take care! At least consider the proposition +as a long shot with the odds against you--then choose the fairest +publisher you can find. + +3. How to Seek a Market for Your Song + +But let us hope that you are the sort of song-writer who is anxious +to test his ability against the best. You do not care to have +your song published unless it wins publication on its merits--and +unless you can be reasonably sure of making some money out of it. +You aspire to have your song bear the imprint of one of the +publishers whose song-hits are well known. To find the names and +addresses of such publishers you have only to turn over the music +on your piano. There is no need to print individual names here. + +But a few words of direction as to the way you should approach +your market may be helpful. I quote here the composite opinion +of all the well-known song publishers with whom I have talked: + +"To find a great song in the manuscripts that come through the +mail--is a dream. It is rare that the mail brings one worthy of +publication. If I were a song-writer I should not submit my song +through the mails. Of course, if I were far from the big markets +I should be compelled to. But if I were anywhere near the market +I should go right to the publisher and demonstrate the song to him. + +"You see, I must be convinced that a song is a winner before I'll +gamble my money on its publication. And the only way I can be +easily convinced is to be compelled to listen to the song. +Naturally, being a song publisher, I think I know a hit when I +hear it--I may 'kid' myself into believing I can pick winners, but +I can be made to see the possibilities by actual demonstration, +where I might 'pass a song up' in manuscript." + +Therefore, it would seem wise to offer a song through the mails +only when a personal visit and demonstration are impossible. You +need not copyright your song, if you send it to a reputable +publisher. All you need do is to submit it with a short letter, +offering it on the usual royalty basis, and _enclose stamps for +return_, if it is not available. From two to four weeks is the +usual time required for consideration. + +If you are near a song publisher, the very best thing you can do +is to fortify yourself with unassailable faith in your song and +then make the publisher listen to you. If you have a song that +shows any promise at all, the chances are that you will come out +of the door an hour later with a contract. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS + + +It is in the hope of directing you to your market that this chapter +is designed. But there is no form of writing for which it is more +difficult to point out a sure market than for vaudeville material. +Even the legitimate stage--with its notorious shifting of plans +to meet every veering wind--is not more fickle than the vaudeville +stage. The reason for this is, of course, to be found in the fact +that the stage must mirror the mind of the nation, and the national +mind is ever changing. But once let the public learn to love what +you have given them, and they will not jilt your offering in a +day. The great advantage the writer of vaudeville material today +has over every one of his predecessors, lies in the fact that the +modern methods of handling the vaudeville business lend him security +in the profits of his success. + +1. Preparing the Manuscript + +(a) _The acceptable manuscript forms into which all vaudeville +material may be cast_ may be learned by consulting the examples +of the different vaudeville acts given in the appendix to this +volume. A moment's examination of them will show you that there +is no difference between the manuscript _ways_ of presenting the +different acts. All are made up of the names of characters, +business and dialogue. Therefore they may all be discussed at the +same time. + +(b) _Have your manuscript typewritten._ This suggestion has the +force of law. While it would seem self-evident that a manuscript +written out in long hand has a mussy appearance, however neat the +writing may be, the many hand-written manuscripts I have tried to +read suggest the necessity for pointing out this fact. You surely +handicap your manuscript by offering it in long hand to a busy +producer. + +(c) _The two recognized methods for the typing of stage manuscripts._ +First, the entire manuscript is typed in black, blue or purple. +Then, after the manuscript is complete, the name of the character +above each speech is underlined in red ink, and every bit of +business throughout the manuscript is also underlined in red. +This method is illustrated below. + +[Here, text originally underlined in red appear in all CAPS.] + + + + -36- + +ACT II) + + GRAVES. Yes. (TURNS TO DICTIONARY) That's all. + (ELLEN, THOUGH CURIOUS, CONTINUES READING + IN AN UNDERTONE TO HER FATHER, MARLIN + AND JOHN. GRAVES OPENS THE DICTIONARY, + STARTS AT SIGHT OF THE NOTE, + SNATCHES IT UP WITH TREMBLING FINGERS, + AND READS IT. HIS FURY RISES. AFTER + A PAUSE, CRUMPLING THE NOTE, HE TURNS + TO BURTON AND SPEAKS WITH AN EFFORT) + + GRAVES. Burton! + + (STARTLED BY HIS TONE, THE OTHERS TURN AND + REGARD GRAVES CURIOUSLY) + + BURTON. Yes, sir. + + GRAVES. Where's Sam? + + BURTON. He went out, sir--- + + GRAVES. Went out? + + BURTON. Y-yes, sir. About a quarter of an hour ago. + + GRAVES. Where to? + + BURTON. He didn't say, sir. + + (GRAVES TURNS AWAY HELPLESSLY. BURTON + LISTENS AND THEN EXITS C. GRAVES + WALKS UP AND DOWN, WRINGING HIS HANDS) + + MEAD. Anything wrong? + + GRAVES (LAMELY) No, no. Don't mind me. Marlin's +proposition's all right--- + + (PAUSE. SUSAN ENTERS R AND IS TROUBLED AT + SIGHT OF GRAVES'S EMOTION) + + SUSAN (APPROACHING HIM) Father---! + + GRAVES (UNABLE LONGER TO RESTRAIN HIMSELF) Hell's fire! + + MEAD. Christopher! + + +Second, a typewriter using two colors is employed. The name of +the character above each speech is typed in red, and red is used +to type the bits of business. The speeches alone are typed in +black, blue or purple as the case may be. The following example +illustrates this method. + + + + -32- + +ACT I) + + BOOTH + +Heavens! It reads like a fairy tale, doesn't it? + + HENRY + +I don't know; does it? + + BOOTH + +Yes; and many thanks. I'll do my best not to let you +regret it.---Only, in the old fairy tale, you know, it always +ended with the---the young man's marrying the---the rich +old geezer's daughter! + + HENRY + + (CHUCKLING) +And I'm the rich old geezer, eh? Well, I mightn't 'a' been +half as rich this minute if it wasn't for you!---Heigho! + + (SIZES UP BOOTH) +Now, I suppose my cantankerous daughter wouldn't have you, +Piercy; not if I said anything to her about it. But if she +would---and you was willin'--- + + (HELEN AND BOOTH EXCHANGE ELOQUENT GLANCES) + +---why, you're just about the feller I'd want her to have. + + (HELEN DANCES A LITTLE SKIRT DANCE OF DELIGHT BETWEEN + THE DOOR L AND THE SCREEN. THEN SHE DARTS INTO + THE ADJOINING ROOM, BEING OBSERVED ONLY BY BOOTH) + + BOOTH + + (WITH SPONTANEITY) +Say, Boss, put her there again! + + (ANOTHER HANDSHAKE) +Do you know, you and I are getting to be better friends + + + +Either of these methods serves the same purpose equally well. The +aim is to separate the names and business from the dialogue, so +that the difference may be plain at a glance. The use of either +of these ways of typing a manuscript is desirable, but not absolutely +necessary. + +(d) _Use a "record ribbon"_ in typewriting manuscript, because a +"copying ribbon " smudges easily and will soil the hands of the +reader. Observation of this mechanical point is a big help in +keeping a manuscript clean--and respecting the temper of your +judge. + +(e) _Neatness_ is a prime requisite in any manuscript offered for +sale. Be sure that the finished copy is free from erasures and +penciled after-thoughts. "Do all your after-thinking beforehand," +or have a clean, new copy made. + +(f) _Re-copy a soiled manuscript_ as soon as it shows evidence of +handling. Keep your "silent salesman" fresh in appearance. + +(g) _Bind your manuscript in a flexible cover_ to give it a neat +appearance and make it handy to read. + +(h) _Type your name and address in full_ on the outside of the +cover, and on the first white page. Thus you stamp the manuscript +as _your_ act, and it always bears your address in case of loss. + +(i) _Have your act copyrighted_ is a bit of advice that would seem +needless, but many performers and producers refuse to read an act +unless it is copyrighted. The copyright--while it is not as good +proof in court as a public performance--is nevertheless a record +that on such and such a date the author deposited in the Library +of Congress a certain manuscript. This record can be produced as +incontrovertible evidence of fact. The view of the performer and +the producer is that he wishes to protect the author as much as +possible--but himself more. He desires to place beyond all +possibility any charge of plagiarism. Therefore, copyright the +final version of your act and typewrite on the cover the date of +copyright and the serial number. + +(j) _How to copyright the manuscript of a vaudeville act._ Write +to the Register of Copyrights, Library of Congress, Washington, +D.C., asking him to send you the blank form prescribed by law to +copyright an unpublished dramatic composition. Do not send stamps, +as it is unnecessary. In addition to the blank you will receive +printed instructions for filling it out, and full information +covering the copyright process. The fee is one dollar, which +includes a certificate of copyright entry. This covers copyright +in the United States only; if you desire to copyright in a foreign +country, consult a lawyer. + +(k) _The preparation of a scene plot_ should not be a difficult +task if you will remember that you need merely draw a straight-line +diagram--such as are shown in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage +and its Dimensions"--so as to make your word-description perfectly +clear. On this diagram it is customary to mark the position of +chairs, tables, telephones and other properties incidental to the +action of the story. But a diagram is not absolutely necessary. +Written descriptions will be adequate, if they are carefully and +concisely worded. + +(l) _The preparation of property plots and light plots_ has been +mentioned in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage and Its Dimensions," +therefore they require a word here. They are merely a list of the +properties required and directions for any changes of lighting +that may occur in the act. For a first presentation of a manuscript, +it is quite unnecessary for you to bother about the technical plots +(arrangement plans) of the stage. If your manuscript is acceptable, +you may be quite sure that the producer will supply these plots +himself. + +(m) _Do not offer "parts" with your manuscript._ A "part" consists +of the speeches and business indicated for one character, written +out in full, with the cues given by the other characters--the whole +bound so as to form a handy copy for the actor to study. For +instance, there would be four "parts" in a four-people playlet +manuscript--therefore you would be offering a producer five +manuscripts in all, and the bulk of your material might deter a +busy man from reading it carefully. If your manuscript progresses +in its sale to the point where parts are desired, the producer +will take care of this detail for you. And until you have made a +sale, it is a waste of money to have parts made. + +2. The Stage Door the Vaudeville Market-Place + +Unlike nearly every other specialized business, there is a market +in each city of the country for vaudeville material. This market +is the stage door of the vaudeville theatre. While it would be +unlikely that a dramatist would find a market for a long play at +the "legitimate" stage door--although this has happened--there are +peculiar reasons why the stage door may be your market-place. A +large percentage of vaudeville performers are the owners of their +own acts. They buy the material, produce it themselves, and play +in it themselves. And they are ever on the lookout for new material. + +Not only is there a market at the stage door, but that market +changes continually. Without fear of exaggeration it may be said +that with the weekly and sometimes semi-weekly changes of the bill +in each house, there will in time flow past the stage door nearly +all the acts which later appear in vaudeville. + +Offering a manuscript at the stage door, however, should not be +done without preparation. As you would not rush up to a business +man on the street or spring at him when he emerges from his office +door, you certainly would not care to give a vaudeville performer +the impression that you were lying in wait for him. + +(a) _The personal introduction_ is a distinct advantage in any +business, therefore it would be an advantage for you to secure, +if possible, a personal introduction to the performer. However, +you must be as discriminating in choosing the person to make that +introduction as you would were you selecting an endorser at a bank. +A stage-hand or an usher is likely to do you more harm than good. +The "mash notes" they may have carried "back stage" would discount +their value for you. The manager of the theatre, however, might +arrange an introduction that would be of value. At least he can +find out for you if the performer is in the market at the time. + +(b) _The preliminary letter is never amiss_, therefore it would +seem advisable to write to the performer for whom you feel sure +you have an act that will fit. Make the letter short. Simply ask +him if he is in the market for material, state that you have an +act that you would like him to read, and close by requesting an +appointment at his convenience. + +Do not take up his time by telling him what a fine act you have. +He does not know you, and if you praise it too highly he may be +inclined to believe that you do not have anything worth while. +But do not under-rate your material, either, in the hope of engaging +his attention by modesty. Leave it for him to find out if you +have an act, first, that is worth while, and second, that fits him. + +If you do not hear from the performer, you may be sure that he is +not interested in your act. He may be out for the first few weeks +in a brand new act, and not in the market at all. So if you do +not hear from him, wait until another act comes along and you see +someone for whom your act is "just made." + +(c) _Should you receive a favorable reply_ to your request for an +appointment, you may be reasonably sure that your prospective +purchaser at least needs a new act. In meeting your appointment, +be on time, and have someone with you. A woman, of course, would +have a chaperon, precisely as she would if she were meeting any +other stranger. And a man might care to have someone to engage +the attention of the performer's companion and leave him an +uninterrupted opportunity to talk business. + +(d) _Ask for an immediate reading_ of your manuscript, or at least +request it read the next day, when you can be present while he is +reading it. Do not leave a manuscript to be returned to you by +mail. Vaudeville performers are as honest as any other class of +men, but they are busy people and the thing that is put off is +forgotten. They are in one town today and miles away tomorrow, +and they may leave the manuscript on the bureau of their hotel +room intending to mail it at the last minute--and rush away and +forget it. Therefore you should ask for an immediate reading. +It will take a performer only a few minutes to decide if he cares +to consider your act. He knows of what he is in need--and usually +is prepared to tell you. + +(e) _Do not ask for specific criticism_, for of all people in the +world vaudeville performers are the most good-hearted. They would +rather please you than hurt you. They will evade the point nine +times out of ten; so save them and yourself needless embarrassment. +And thus you may also avoid a false valuation of your manuscript. + +(f) _If the performer cannot use the act himself_, and if the act +possesses merit, the chances are that he will suggest some other +performer who might want it. If he does not suggest someone +himself, ask him. Vaudeville performers know what other performers +want, because they are continually discussing plans for "next +season." You may thus pick up some valuable information, even if +you do not dispose of the particular manuscript you have for sale. + +3. Producing Your Act Yourself + +While you are likely at many turns of the sales road to have offered +you an opportunity to produce your own act, this method of finding +a market is rarely advisable. You would not start a little magazine +to get your short-story into print; your story could not possess +that much value even if it were a marvel--how much less so if you +were unable to find someone willing to buy it! + +But there is a still more important reason why you should not rush +into producing your act yourself. Producing is a specialized +business, requiring wide experience and exact knowledge. Besides, +it is one of the most expensive pastimes in the world. Without a +most comprehensive experience and peculiar abilities, failure is +sure. Do not attempt private production even if you are offered +the services of a performer or a producer in whom you have absolute +faith. Remember, if they thought your act was really worth while +they would be anxious to reap the profits for themselves. + +4. Selling an Act to a Producer + +While any performer who owns his act is a producer in the sense +that he "produces" his act, there are men who make a business of +buying manuscripts, engaging people, and producing many acts in +which they do not themselves play. Producers who may own a dozen +acts of all different kinds would seem to offer to the writer for +vaudeville an ideal market. How, then, is the writer to get in +touch with them? + +(a) _Selling through a Play broker_ is a method that is precisely +the same as though you consigned a bill of goods to a commission +agent, and paid him for disposing of it. The play broker reads +your manuscript and engages to try to dispose of it for you, or +returns it as not likely to fit in with the particular line of +business of which he makes a specialty. If your act is really +good and yet the broker is able to make some suggestions that will +improve it, he is likely to offer such suggestions, purely in the +hope of earning a commission, and in this way he may prove of +distinct value as a critic. In any event, if he accepts a manuscript +to sell for you, he will offer it in the quarters he thinks most +likely to produce it and will attend to all the business incidental +to the making of the contract. + +For this service the broker charges a ten per cent commission. +This commission is paid either on the price of outright sale, or +on the royalty account. If the act is sold on royalty, he will +collect the customary advance and also the weekly payments. After +deducting his commission, he will remit the balance to you. + +On the last page of this chapter you will find a partial list of +well-known play brokers. Although I do not know of any who deal +exclusively in vaudeville material, any one of the agents who handles +long plays is glad to handle an exceptionally fine playlet. + +(b) _Seeking a personal interview with a producer_ is usually +productive of one result: The office-boy says, "Leave your manuscript, +and he'll read it and let you know." Anxious as he is to secure +good material, a man who is busily engaged in producing vaudeville +acts has little time to spend on granting personal interviews. +And there is another reason--he fears you will try to read your +act to him. A personal reading by the author is either a most +distressing affair, because the average writer cannot read stage +material as it should be read, or else it is very dangerous to the +listener's judgment. Many a producer has been tricked into producing +an act whose merits a masterly reader has brought out so finely +that its fatal faults were forgotten. And so the producer prefers +to read a manuscript himself. Alone in his office he can concentrate +on the act in hand, and give to it the benefit of his best judgment. + +(c) _Offering a manuscript by mail_ is perfectly safe. There has +never come to my knowledge one clearly proved instance of where a +producer has "stolen an idea." + +(d) _Send your manuscript by registered mail and demand a return +receipt_. Thus you will save losses in the mail and hold a check +against the loss of your manuscript in the producer's office. And +when you send your manuscript by mail, invariably enclose stamps +to pay the return to you by registered delivery. Better still, +enclose a self-addressed envelope with enough postage affixed to +insure both return and registry. + +(e) _Three weeks for consideration_ is about the usual time the +average producer requires to read a manuscript at his leisure. +In times when a producer is actively engaged in putting on an act, +he may not have an hour in the week he can call his own. Therefore +have patience, and if you do not receive a reply from him in three +weeks, write again and courteously remind him that you would like +to have his decision at his earliest convenience. Impatient letters +can only harm your chance. + +5. Hints on Prices for Various Acts + +What money can be made by writing vaudeville material? This is +certainly the most interesting question the writer for vaudeville +can ask. Like the prices of diamonds, the prices of vaudeville +acts depend on quality. Every individual act, and each kind of +act, commands its own special price. There are two big questions +involved in the pricing of every vaudeville manuscript. First, +of what value is the act itself? Second, what can the performer +or the producer afford to payor be made to pay for the act? + +The first question cannot be answered for even a class of acts. +The value of each individual act determines its own price. And +even here there enters the element inherent in all stage material-- +a doubt of value until performance before an audience proves the +worth of the act. For this reason, it is customary for the purchaser +of a vaudeville act to require that it first make good, before he +pays for it. "Try and then buy," is the average vaudevillian's +motto. If you are a good business man you will secure an advance +against royalty of just as much as you can make the producer "give +up." Precisely as in every other business, the price of service +depends upon the individual's ability to "make a deal." + +The answer to the second question likewise depends upon the +vaudeville writer's individual ability as a business man. No hints +can be given you other than those that you may glean from a +consideration of average and record prices in the following +paragraphs. + +(a) _The monologue_ is usually sold outright. The performer nearly +always will tell you--with no small degree of truth--that the +monologist makes the monologue, not the monologue the monologist. +Many a monologue has sold for five dollars, and the purchaser been +"stung" at that price. But very rarely is a monologue bought +outright in manuscript--that is, before a try-out. A monologue +must prove itself "there," before a monologist will pay any more +than a small advance for the exclusive privilege of trying it out. + +If the monologue proves itself, an outright offer will be made by +the performer. While there are no "regular rates," from two hundred +and fifty dollars to seven hundred dollars may be considered as +suggestive of the market value of the average successful monologue. + +In addition to this, the monologist usually retains the author to +write new points and gags for him each week that he works. This, +of course, increases the return from a monologue, and insures the +writer a small weekly income. + +In very rare cases monologues are so good and, therefore, so +valuable that authors can retain the ownership and rent them out +for a weekly royalty. In such a case, of course, the author engages +himself to keep the material up to the minute without extra +compensation. But such monologues are so rare they can be counted +on the fingers of one hand. There is little doubt that "The German +Senator" is one of the most valuable monologue properties--if it +does not stand in a class by itself--that has ever been written. +For many years it has returned to Aaron Hoffman a royalty of $100 +a week, thirty and forty weeks in the year. This may be considered +the record price for a monologue. + +(b) _The vaudeville two-act_ varies in price as greatly as the +monologue. Like the monologue, it is usually sold outright. The +performers use precisely the same argument about the two-act that +is used about the monologue. It is maintained that the material +itself is not to be compared with the importance of its presentation. +When a two-act has been tried out and found "there," the performers +or the producer will offer a price for it. + +The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth only as much as +it will bring, applies to the two-act. From two hundred and fifty +dollars to whatever you can get, may be considered suggestive of +two-act prices. Although more two-acts have sold outright for +less than three hundred dollars than have sold above five hundred +dollars, a successful two-act may be made to yield a far greater +return if a royalty arrangement is secured. + +Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville act, the royalty +asking price is ten per cent of the weekly salary. This rate is +difficult to enforce, and while five per cent is nearer the average, +the producer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each week, +than a percentage that must be reckoned on what may be a varying +salary. Usually a compromise of a flat amount per playing week +is made when a royalty is agreed on. + +(c) _The playlet_ varies in returns amazingly. While one small-time +producer pays no advance royalty and a flat weekly royalty of from +ten dollars to fifteen dollars a week--making his stand on the +fact that he gives a longer playing season than his average +competitor--many a big-time producer pays a good round advance and +as high as $100 a week royalty. + +Edgar Allan Woolf has said: "The desire for the one-act comedy is +so great that even an unknown writer can secure an advance royalty +as great as is paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has +written a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story and +cleverness of dialogue." + +George V. Hobart is reported to have had a variously-quoted number +of playlets playing at the same time, each one of which returned +him a weekly royalty of $100 a week. And half a dozen other one-act +playwrights might be named who have had nearly equal success. + +On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is quoted as saying: "The +work of writing a playlet is nearly as great as writing a three-act +play, and the returns cannot be compared." + +One of the collaborators on a famous big-time success received +forty dollars a week for three seasons as his share. Another +playlet writer was paid one hundred dollars a week for one act, +and only twenty dollars a week for another. And a third was content +with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the same time +that another act of his was bringing him in fifty dollars a week. + +These examples I have cited to demonstrate that the return from +the playlet is a most variable quantity. The small-time pays less +than the big-time, and each individual act on both small- and +big-time pays a different royalty. + +When a playlet--either comedy or straight dramatic--is accepted +for production, it is customary, although not an invariable rule, +that an advance royalty be paid "down." When the act proves +successful, one or more of three propositions may be offered the +writer: outright sale at a price previously agreed upon; outright +sale to be paid in weekly royalties until an agreed upon figure +is reached, when ownership passes from the author to the producer; +the more customary weekly royalty. As I have said before, what +price you receive for your act finally depends upon your keenness +in driving a bargain. + +In nearly every case, outright sale has its advantage in the fact +that the author need not then worry about collecting his royalty. +Of course, when a recognized producer puts out the act there need +be no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a royalty +is preferable. But in some cases, as when the performer is making +long jumps and has a hard time making railroad connections, a +weekly royalty has its disadvantages in causing worry to the author. + +(d) _The one-act musical comedy_ is usually bought outright--after +the act "gets over." While many a "book" is contracted for in +advance at a small figure, to be doubled or trebled on success, +it is also true that royalties are paid. In this case, the custom +is to divide the royalty equally between the writer of the book +and lyrics, and the composer of the music. When a third person +writes the verses of the songs and ensemble numbers, the royalty +is usually split three ways. It would be misleading to quote any +figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that circumstances +vary so greatly with each that there are no standards. + +(e) _The burlesque tab_ pays about the same rates as the one-act +musical comedy, its kindred form. + +(f) _The popular song_, unlike the other material treated in this +volume, has a well established royalty price: one cent a copy is +the standard. Of this, half a cent goes to the writer of the +lyric, and half a cent to the composer of the music. + +As a popular song, to be considered successful, must sell anywhere +from half a million to a million copies, it is easy to estimate +the song-writer's return. If the same man writes both the words +and the music he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars--or +twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he divides with +another--for being able to make the nation whistle. Of course, +many song-writers have two successful songs selling in a year-- +therefore you may double the figures above to estimate some successful +song-writers' incomes. But it may safely be said that the song-writer +who has an income of twelve thousand dollars a year is doing very +well indeed! There are many more professional song-writers who +work year after year for the salary of the average business man +in every other line of endeavor. Don't count your royalty-chickens +too soon. + +6. Important Lists of Addresses + +SOME OF THE MORE PROMINENT PLAY BROKERS + +AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New York +MARY ASQUITH, 145 W. 45th St, New York +ALICE KAUSER, 1402 Broadway, New York +DARCY AND WOLFORD, 114 W. 39th St., New York +KIRKPATRICK, LTD., 101 Park Ave., New York +MODERN PLAY CO., Columbus Circle, New York +LAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New York +GEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New York +PAUL SCOTT, 1402 Broadway, New York +SANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New York +MRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York + + +A LIST OF WELL KNOWN VAUDEVILLE PRODUCERS + +The producers given here offer a market which varies so widely in +each instance that no attempt has been made to list their needs. +Some are interested in other lines of the amusement business as +well; and their activities elsewhere must be taken into consideration +as determining factors in their special market needs. No division +of these producers into big-time and small-time producers is made, +because such a distinction would be likely to be misleading rather +than helpful. + +ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New York +JOSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New York +JESSE L. LASKY, 120 W. 41St St., New York +PLAYLET PRODUCING COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York +B. A. ROLFE, 1493 Broadway, New York +JOE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New York +ROLAND WEST PRODUCING COMPANY, 260 W. 42d St., New York +HARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New York +PAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New York +BILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New York +JOE PAIGE SMITH, 1493 Broadway, New York +ALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New York +JOHN C. PEEBLES, 1564 Broadway, New York +JAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New York +C. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New York +LEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th + Ave. at 47th St., New York +MAX HART, 1564 Broadway, New York +JAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th + Ave. at 47th St., New York +WILLIAM A. BRADY, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St., New York +BART McHUGH, Land Title Building, Philadelphia +MENLO E. MOORE, 22 W. Monroe St., Chicago +MINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago + + +THE LARGER CIRCUITS AND BOOKING OFFICES + +The following vaudeville circuits, while they may not maintain +regular producing departments, produce acts every now and then. + +THE UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF AMERICA, 1564 + Broadway, New York. This organization books + the B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- and + big-time houses +ORPHEUM CIRUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York +LOEW'S THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES, 1493 Broadway, New York +POLI'S CIRCUIT, 1493 Broadway, New York +THE WESTERN VAUDEVILLE MANAGERS' ASSOCIATION, + Majestic Theatre Building, Chicago +GUS SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building, + Springfield, Ohio +BERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San Francisco +PANTAGE'S CIRCUIT, Seattle +SULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, Seattle + + +To these markets nearly every booking agent and manager in the +vaudeville business might be added. Each one has a list of acts +he handles that need new material from time to time. And often +the agent or manager will add to his list of clients by producing +an exceptionally fine act himself. + +The reason such a list is not given here is that it would require +a small volume merely for the names and addresses. Consultation +of "The Clipper Red Book"--a handy directory of theatrical agents, +sold at ten cents--will supply this information. A knowledge of +the special kinds of acts handled by each agent or manager, and +the producers previously given as well, may be gathered by a careful +reading of the various theatrical specialized journals. This +knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a little there through +persistent attention to the notices of new acts and announcements +of plans. + + + +PUBLISHERS OF VAUDEVILLE MATERIAL + +SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New York +T. S. DENNISON, Chicago + +PROMINENT THEATRICAL PAPERS + +VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New York +THE DRAMATIC MIRROR, 1493 Broadway, New York +THE NEW YORK MORNING TELEGRAPH, 50th St. & + 8th Ave., New York +THE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New York +THE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New York +THE BILLBOARD, 1465 Broadway, New York +THE DRAMATIC NEWS, 17 W. 42d St., New York +THE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New York +THE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New York +THE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Building, + Chicago. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED + + +While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is transformed from +a manuscript into a commercial success may not be necessary to the +writing of a good act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary +to the writer who hopes to make money by his work. For this reason +I shall devote this final chapter to a brief discussion of the +subject. + +Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an act, assuming +for my purpose that it represents a monologue or a two-act, a +playlet or a musical comedy, and trace its commercial career from +the author's hands, into a producer's, through a booking office, +to success. Anyone of the famous examples printed in this volume +could be so taken and its history told, but no one would combine +in its experience all the points that should be given. So I shall +ask you to imagine that the act whose commercial story I am about +to tell represents in itself every kind of act to be seen in +vaudeville. I shall call this act by the name of "Success." + +When Mr. Author, the writer of "Success," received a letter from +Mr. Producer accepting the act and requesting him to call at his +office to discuss terms, Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there +as fast as he could go. + +The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer's private office, and +before the caller could get his breath Mr. Producer had made him +an offer. He accepted the offer without haggling over the terms, +which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory. To tell the truth, +he would have accepted almost anything, so eager was he to get his +first act on the stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms +were really fair. + +He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed it, with the advance +royalty check, in his bosom pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged +into business. He pressed a button for the office boy and told +him to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in. Now Mr. Scenic Artist +was the representative of a great scenic studio, and he sketched +a design for a special set in a jiffy; then he thought of another, +and then of a third. And Mr. Producer and he were so interested +in combining all their good ideas into one admirable set that Mr. +Author was startled when they shoved a sketch under his nose and +asked for suggestions. He made two that were pertinent to the +atmosphere he had imagined for his room, and when they were +incorporated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K'd it and Mr. Scenic +Artist bowed himself out, promising to have a model ready the next +day. + +Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and told her to have +Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and other performers in the office +next morning at eleven o'clock, gave her a list of the characters +he wished to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order to +get out parts, and to have them out that night. He turned to Mr. +Author with a request for the incidental music for the act. Mr. +Author told him he had none. Then Mr. Producer reached for the +telephone, with the remark that the music could wait, and called +up the United Booking Offices of America. + +After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the special Mr. Booking +Manager for whom he had inquired, told him he had an act for which +he wanted a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a date +three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act had been booked. +Mr. Author marveled that the act should be contracted to appear +when it was not even yet out of manuscript form, but when he +mentioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to know how he +ever would get "time" for an act if he didn't engage it ahead. +He explained that he had a regular arrangement with Mr. House +Manager to play new acts in his house at a small "break-in" salary. +It was an arrangement convenient to him and gave Mr. House Manager +fine acts at small cost. + +After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr. Author went +out, promising to be on hand that evening at eight to go over the +manuscript and make some changes that Mr. Producer promised to +prove were necessary to the success of the act. And as he passed +through the outer office, Mr. Author heard Miss Secretary explain +over the telephone that Mr. Producer wished a hall at eleven o'clock +two days later to rehearse a new act. + +Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author presented himself +at the office again, and found Mr. Producer busily engaged in +reading the manuscript. A tiny paper model of the mimic room in +which the act was to be played stood upon the desk. When he stooped +he saw that the walls were roughly colored after the sketch they +had discussed and that the whole scene bore an amazing likeness +to the place of his imagination. Mr. Producer explained that he +had had the model rushed through to make it possible for them to +"get down to brass tacks" at once. The act needed so many little +changes that they would have to get busy to have it ready for the +morning. + +When Mr. Producer began discussing various points about the act, +Mr. Author could not for the life of him imagine what all these +changes could be. But when Mr. Producer pointed out the first, +Mr. Author wondered how he ever had imagined that the heroine could +do the little thing he had made her do--it was physically impossible. +Point after point Mr. Producer questioned, and point after point +they changed, but there was only the one glaring error. A motive +was added here, a bit of business was changed there, and as they +worked they both grew so excited that they forget the time, forgot +everything but that act. And when the manuscript at last dropped +from their exhausted hands, it looked as if an army had invaded it. + +Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound parts and sighed. +All that work would have to be done over! "Only another one of my +mistakes," smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss +Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together with these now +useless parts, and laid them on her desk, as he and Mr. Author +went out into the cool night air. "See you tomorrow at eleven," +said Mr. Producer as they parted. And Mr. Author looking at his +watch wondered why he should take the trouble to go home at all. + +At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office crowded with +actors and actresses. Miss Secretary was busily directing the +typing of the new manuscript and parts. Mr. Producer was late. +After Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office, Miss +Secretary came in and said he should wait no longer, because Mr. +Producer had been called out of town to straighten out some trouble +which had developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned +that he would not be in until late that afternoon. Rehearsal would +be as scheduled next morning, Miss Secretary explained. The +performers would be on hand, and she hoped to goodness they would +have some idea of their parts by then. Mr. Author wanted to know +how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Producer was away, and Miss +Secretary told him that Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of +everyone who had called and had even directed her to engage the +ones he named. + +The following morning Mr. Author saw his characters for the +first time in the flesh--and was disappointed. Also, the rehearsal +was a sad awakening; it wasn't anything like he had imagined it +would be. They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told +them what the act was all about. Then he suggested that they go +through it once, at any rate. Chairs were placed to mark the +footlights, chairs were used to indicate the doors and window, and +chairs were made to do duty as a table, a piano and everything +else. + +Finally they got started and limped through the lines, reading +their parts. Then Mr. Producer began to show them how he wanted +it done, and before he had finished he had played every part in +the act. They went through the act once more with a myriad of +interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on getting things +right the very first time, and then he knocked off, calling it a +day's work. + +The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early with some suggestions: +one Mr. Producer adopted, the others he explained into forgetfulness--and +rehearsing began in earnest. They worked all morning on the first +quarter of the act and went back at it late that afternoon. Miss +Leading Lady unconsciously added one line and it was so good that +it was kept in the act. Then Mr. Star did something that made +them all laugh, and they put that in. Of course some pretty lines +in the dialogue had to come out to make room, but they came out, +and Mr. Author never regretted their loss. And the next day it +was the same, and the day after that, and the seventh day, and the +eighth day. + +Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act taking shape and form, +and when he spoke to Mr. Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he +thought that after all the act might whip around into something +pretty good. + +A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the rehearsal hall, +there were three strange men facing the company, who were going +through the act for the first time without interruptions from Mr. +Producer. Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched their +faces with interest to see how they liked his act. After a while +he came to consider as great compliments the ghosts of smiles +flickering across their jury-like faces. And when it was all over +the performers gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over +to him, and the three men whispered among themselves. Mr. Producer +explained that they were booking managers, and then Mr. Author +sensed the psychological reason for the unconscious drawing together +of the different clans. + +His heart beat rather violently when the three men came across the +room, and he felt a great wave of gladness sweep over him when the +tallest of the three pulled out a little black book and said, "Mr. +Producer, I'll pencil it in one of my houses for next week at this +figure," and he showed Mr. Producer what he had written. + +"And I'll take you for the second break-in, as we agreed when you +'phoned," said the shortest man. "And I'll take the third at +that." + +Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admiration for Mr. Producer, +because Mr. Producer dared assert his personality. Mr. Producer +objected to the figure, talking of the "name" of Mr. Star. + +"That's every penny he's worth," came the adamant answer. + +Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs, and the cost of +hauling scenery, as additional arguments. + +"Why didn't you say special set at first?" said the smallest man; +"I'll give you this advance." Then all four looked, and they all +agreed. + +Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually. "Guess your act'll +get by," conceded one of the jury generously, as they all left. + +"So you're going to open a week earlier?" gasped Mr. Author to Mr. +Producer, when they were alone in the interval between the exit +of the three and the entrance upon the scene of the performers, +who came swiftly across the room to learn their fate. "And you've +booked three weeks more!" + +"Well," said Mr. Producer, "you know the boys only pencilled those +weeks in--pencil marks can be rubbed out." + +The next day as they were on their way to the train to go up to +the town where the act was to open, Mr. Producer suddenly remembered +that he had forgotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking +Offices for his contract. He wanted that contract particularly, +for he had a feud of long standing with the manager of that +particular house. So up he rushed to get that contract, with Mr. +Author tagging at his heels. + +It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the waiting room +of a booking office--it amazed him by its busy air. A score or +more performers crowded its every inch of space. They were thickest +around a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy who seemed +to know them all. Some he dismissed with a "Come in tomorrow." +Others he talked with at length, and took their cards. When he +had a handful he disappeared from the window. + +But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author. Mr. Producer stood holding +open the inner door. So in Mr. Author went--to another surprise. +Here there was no crush of people--here there was no rush, and +little noise. Stenographers stood about, seemingly idle, and at +a dozen little desks sat a dozen men quietly bending over rather +odd-looking books, or talking with the few men who came in. + +One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr. Booking Manager, for +whom they were to play the second week. He was about to speak to +him, when up came a bustling little man who said, "Do you want +Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth? I can give her to +you." + +"Nope, all filled. Give you the week of the twenty-third." + +"All right." + +Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book, and Mr. Booking +Manager bent over his desk and wrote Miss Headliner's name in his +big book--and a business transaction was consummated. + +Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another desk and repeated +his offer of the week of the thirtieth. + +"Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third," said this man. + +"Just filled it," said Mr. Booking Agent. "Can't you give me the +thirtieth? Who's got the thirtieth open?" + +The man at the next desk heard him. "Who for? Miss Headliner? +All right, I'll take her." + +Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room and Mr. Author +followed him in a wild dash to catch the train. In the smoker he +asked Mr. Producer to explain what he had seen in the Booking +Offices. And Mr. Producer said: "Each one of those men you saw +up there is in charge of the shows of one, or maybe three or four +vaudeville theatres in different cities. It is their duty to make +up the shows that appear in each of their houses. For instance, +Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we are playing this week, books +the shows in four other houses. + +"The man you heard ask him if he would take Miss Headliner for the +thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's business representative. His name +is Mr. Booking Agent. Besides Miss Headliner, he is the representative +for maybe fifty other acts. For this service he receives a +commission of five per cent of Miss Headliner's salary and five +per cent on the salaries of all the acts for whom he gets work. +It is his business to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid +by her and his other clients for keeping them working. + +"Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not paid a commission. +He receives a flat salary for the work that he does for his houses. +You remember you met him yesterday, when he pencilled 'Success' +in for the house we are on our way to play. Well, that is also a +part of his business. For some of his houses that like to make a +big showing at little expense, he must dig up new big acts like +ours, which are breaking-in. + +"Now, the price I get for this act for the breaking-in weeks, is +mighty low. But this is customary. That is the reason why the +performers have to be content with half salaries, and you with +half-royalty. But this price does not affect the future price I +will receive. It is marked on the books as the 'show price.' That +means that it is recorded in the book-keeping department by the +cashier as the price for which I am showing this act to the managers. +When the act has made good, a price is set on the act, and that +is the standard price for the other houses that book through these +offices. The book-keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if +I tried to 'sneak a raise over,' he would catch it, and both yours +truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be called up on the carpet by +the head of the Offices. The only increase that is permitted is +when a new season rolls around, or two or three booking managers +agree to an increase and consult the office head about boosting +the salary on the books." + +That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a dress rehearsal of +the act; he was disappointed. But the next morning there was a +full dress rehearsal, played in the brand new special set which +had come up with them and that now shone like a pretty picture in +the dingy theatre. + +It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the emphasis of this +rehearsal was not put on the speeches, but upon the entrances and +exits, and the precise use and disposal of the various properties +employed. A glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star +promised to murder anyone who moved a book that he used in his +"big" scene. "Unless it is here--right here--I'll never be able +to reach it and get back for the next bit without running." + +And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to improve the lines, +but only to blend the physical movements of everyone of the +performers to make a perfect whole and to heighten the natural +effect of even the most natural action. Then the dress rehearsal +came to an end, and the entire party went out to see the town. + +That night, after the performance, they worked again on the act, +because Mr. Producer had been seized by an idea. And when they +had gone through the act time and again to incorporate that idea, +they all went wearily to bed, praying for success next day. + +At ten o'clock in the morning Mr. Author was at the theatre. He +found that other acts had preceded him. The stage was littered +with trunks and scenery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not +of a vaudeville show. Each performer as he came in was greeted +by the doorman with the gift of a brass check, on which there was +stamped a number. This number told the performer in what order +he was entitled to rehearse. Vaudeville is a democracy--first +come, first rehearsed. + +The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had +dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing +light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot +which was being explained to him by a performer. "Props" was busy +trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly +sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property +plot. The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting +his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot. +And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving +his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets, +directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions +with the directness of a czar. + +Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra +tuning up. The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew +like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number +One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began. +Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which +are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra, +and the light men and "Props." + +This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the +performers and "Success" went into rehearsal. Although the entire +staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the +final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights, +to instruct "Props" more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra +into perfection. Therefore they all went through the act once +more. Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of +the stage with great swishes of watery cloths. The curtain came +down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first +early comers of the audience filtered in. + +Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how "Success" played +that first performance. He has dim memories of a throbbing heart, +fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole "big" scene fall +to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down, +amid--applause. The curtain went up and came down a number of +times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure +that he wasn't dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took. + +It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a +rage. There were scores of points that had not "got over," half +a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound +those points should "get over," and those effects shine out clear +and big. + +Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare +of changes. They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took +out bits of business, and added new bits--they changed everything +in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until +by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized. And then they +played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like +madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time. + +Then they moved to the next theatre, and the first performance +showed even Mr. Author that all the work had been wise. Now he +was even more anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes +by which this week was marked. And by the end of the week "Success" +looked like--success. + +They were preparing for a week of great things in the next town, +when Wednesday night a cancellation notice came for that precious +week. Something had gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be +rubbed out. Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures that +week should never have been rubbed out, because there was a contract +fully binding on both the theatre and Mr. Producer. But the week +was rubbed out of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer--knowing +vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only the most dire +necessity made Mr. Booking Manager "do this thing to him"--forgave +it all with a smile and was quite ready to get back to town when +Monday morning rolled around. + +But Monday morning there occurred a "disappointment" at another +theatre in a town only a few miles away. The act that was to have +played that date was wrecked, or had overslept itself. Anyway. +the resident house manager telephoned to the Booking Offices that +he was shy one act. Now it happened that the act that "disappointed," +was of the same general character as "Success." The Booking Manager +knew this, and remembered that "Success" was within a few miles +and with an open week that ought to have been filled. Therefore, +just as Mr. Producer and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join +the other members of "Success" at the railroad station. Mr. +Producer was called to the telephone--long distance. + +In less time than it takes to recount it, the resident manager who +was suffering from a disappointment, and Mr. Producer, suffering +from the lack of a playing week, were both cured of their maladies +at the same time. And so, instead of going back to town, "Success" +rushed to the next city and played its week. + +Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author realized one +fact that stands out rather prominently in his memory; it is a +simple little fact, yet it sums up the entire problem of the show +business. Perhaps the rush of events had made it impossible before +for the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when there suddenly +came to him a tiny little bit of business which made a very long +speech unnecessary. He explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr. +Producer seized on it instantly and put it into the act. That +night the act went better than it had ever gone before. This +little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash which was +responsible for it, "punched up" the big scene into a life it had +never had before. Then it was that there also flashed upon Mr. +Author's mind this truth: + +A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper. It is written +with characters of flesh and blood. Strive as hard as man may, +he can never fully foretell how an ink-written act will play. +There is an inexplicable something which playing before an audience +develops. Both the audience and the actors on the stage are +affected. A play--the monologue and every musical form as well--is +one thing in manuscript, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a +different thing before an audience. Playing before an audience +alone shows what a play truly is. Therefore, a play can only be +made--after it is produced. Even in the fourth week of playing--the +first week of metropolitan playing--Mr. Author and Mr. Producer +made many changes in "Success" that were responsible for the long +popularity it enjoyed. Mr. Author had learned his lesson well. +He approached his next work with clearer eyes. + + + +APPENDIX + +NINE FAMOUS VAUDEVILLE ACTS COMPLETE + + +"THE GERMAN SENATOR," A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman. + +"THE ART OF FLIRTATION," A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman. + +"AFTER THE SHOWER," A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn. + +"THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER," A Travesty Playlet, by Arthur +Denvir. + +"THE LOLLARD," A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf. + +"BLACKMAIL," A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis. + +"THE SYSTEM," A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville. + +"A PERSIAN GARDEN," A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf. + +"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME," A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison. + + +A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS + +The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages +are representative of the very best in vaudeville. Naturally, +they do not show every possible vaudeville variation--a series of +volumes would be required for that--but, taken together, they +represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are +commonly seen. + + +THE MONOLOGUE + +The German Senator + +This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the +best example of the pure monologue ever written. Originally used +by Cliff Gordon--continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute--it +has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the +first "German Senator." It is doubtful if any other dramatic +work--or any other writing--of equal length, and certainly no +monologue, has returned to its author so much money as "The German +Senator" has earned. + + +THE TWO-ACTS + +The Art of Flirtation + +For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this +exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various +famous German comedians. It may be considered to stand in much +the same relation to the two-act that "The German Senator" does +to the monologue. Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a +unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers. + +After the Shower + +This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was played for +more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto. It has been +instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts +that the two-a-day has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps +more successful acts of this particular style than any other author. + + +THE PLAYLETS + +The Villain Still Pursued Her + +This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for +years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir, +whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration +for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of +1912-15. + +The Lollard + +Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is +perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country. +For many years he has turned out success after success for famous +legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville +stars in his acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose "The Lollard" as +representative of his best comedies. The star role, Angela Maxwell, +was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England +by Miss Hilda Trevelyan. + +Blackmail + +Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This remarkable +little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles +Feleky, who declares it to be "the best tragic playlet I have +produced." From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed, +high praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr. +Walter Hampden. + +The System + +Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions +with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking +Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star. +Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once +president of "The White Rats," the vaudeville actors' union, and +is now a successful vaudeville writer. Mr. Edward Clark, the third +collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts. + +"The System" is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M. +Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw. Its extraordinary +popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of +the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending. + + +THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY + +A Persian Garden + +Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set +to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf's best effort +in this field. Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses +dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its +many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the +chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript +divorced from them. + + +THE BURLESQUE TAB + +My Old Kentucky Home + +Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville, +this "Tab" has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and +in burlesque for many seasons. It is the work of a writer who +justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque +form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque +manuscripts in America. To the thousands of readers of "Madison's +Budget," James Madison requires no introduction. + +Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been +personally granted to the author of this volume. This kind +permission covers publication in this book only. Republication +of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is +expressly prohibited. + +Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden. A +_Special Warning_ has been inserted in the introductory page of +every act, at the request of each author. The reason for such +repetition is to be found in the commercial value of successful +vaudeville material, and in the fact that the general public has +never precisely understood the reservations permitted to the author +of a dramatic work under the copyright law. Infringements of any +sort are subject to severe penalties under United States law and +will be rigidly prosecuted. + +To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to +express his deep appreciation for the permissions that enable him +to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that +vaudeville has ever seen. + + + +The German Senator +A Monologue + +By Aaron Hoffman +Author of "The Politicians," "The Belle of Avenue A," +"The Newly-weds and their Baby", "Let George Do It," +"School Days," Etc., Etc. + + +THE GERMAN SENATOR + +My dear friends and falling citizens: + +My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here +before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance +to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation. + +I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false +pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other. + +I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for +the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my +'steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our +country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this +country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed +and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of +patriotic symptoms--we got to feel a patriotic symp--symps--you +got to feel the patri--you can't help it, you got to feel it. + +I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look +out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone, +dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her +freedom. + +And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand. + +With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the other. + +And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it +is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must +drop from her eyes. Well, to prove it--look at the ocean she +filled up. + +And no wonder she's crying. Read the nuisance papers. See what +is going on. + +Look what the country owes. + +According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, the +United States owes five billion dollars. + +Nobody knows what we owe it for; + +And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1] + +[1] Here begins the "Panama Canal point," referred to in Chapter +V. It continues until the "End of Panama Canal Point" footnote +below. + +First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping +the point--thus you will see, first, what a complete "point" is; +second, what "blending" means; and third, how a monologist may +shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a +point. [end footnote] + +And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and +ask them, THEY don't even know THEMSELVES. + +Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-more +Canal. + +It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the +canal. THINK OF THAT! + +Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is, +they ain't digging. + +Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to +dig a hole--they've been at it for over nine years--and the only +hole they've dug is in the United States Treasury. + +Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report; + +He says: "Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a +million dollars MORE please." + +He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends +back a telegram: HOORAY--The digging is very good, the two oceans +will soon be one. + +Can you beat that? + +Before they started the canal it didn't cost us nothing, and we +had two oceans. + +And by the time they get through, it'll cost us three hundred +million and we'll only have one. + +And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was +going to get us into trouble. + +Japan is against it on one side and England don't like it on the +other. + +And that's why we've got to have a navy. [1] + +[1] End of "Panama Canal point." See footnote above, also Chapter +V. + +Of course, we've got a navy. + +But everybody is kicking about it. + +Why should they kick? + +All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars. + +And there's eighty million people in this country. + +And that figures a nickel apiece. + +And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel? + +Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances. +That is inconsis--inconsis--you can't deny it. + +Our country has got a superabum, a superabum--a superabum--we've +got a lot of money. + +There's money lying in the treasury that never was touched. And +the first fellow that will touch it will get six months. + +The whole trouble is the trusts. + +Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs. Sixty +cents a dozen--for the good ones. And the good ones are rotten. + +Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are +getting higher. + +But why should they raise the price of eggs? + +The chickens ain't getting any more wages. + +And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money. + +Then there won't be any money. + +Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat around. + +A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill. + +When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving +the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin +steak. + +If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny. + +If they keep on, we won't be able to live at all. + +Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one +dollar a day. + +Out of that, he's got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five +cents for rent; ten cents for car fare. + +And at the end of a hard day's work--he owes himself fifteen cents. + +Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous. + +They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but automobiles. +You don't see half the poor people now that you used to. + +Certainly you don't. + +Half of them have already been run over and the other half is +afraid to come out. + +Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn't +got a chance to live. + +And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas +will go up so high a poor man won't even be able to commit suicide. + +They'll have him both ways. He can't live and he can't die. + +And that's why I am with the socialists. + +They say, "Down with the trusts! Do away with money. Make everything +equal." + +Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying: + +"Give me a diamond ring, here's a lemon." + +But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people. +And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people. I am for +labor unions. + +But what help are the labor unions to the working man? + +Look at it in the right light. + +A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He gets a job in +a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out +on a strike and he owes himself a dollar. + +The unions are crying the days are too long. + +They want the days shorter. They want the days should be eight +hours long. + +But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are +six months long. That's the place for the poor man to live. + +When the landlord comes around and says, "Rent," all you have to +do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow. + +Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save +money and put it in the bank. + +What's the use of putting your money in the bank? + +It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out. +When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier +sixty days notice. + +And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days? + +Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving. + +It's ridiculum. + +We were better off years ago than we are now. + +Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing. + +Life to him was a pleasure; + +There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about. + +Anything he wanted he could get. + +But the darn fool had to get lonesome. + +And that's the guy that started all our troubles. + +We would be all right today, if it wasn't for Adam and Evil. + +Then they say that Adam fell for an apple. + +It just shows how men have improved. + +No man would fall for an apple today. + +It would have to be a peach. + +And I tell you, it's no wonder that women feel stuck up. They say +they can do more than men can do. + +That's very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve. + +She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the +whole human race on the bum. + +Could a man do that? + +And yet she was only a rib out of Adam's side. + +It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was. + +Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond +ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what's +left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and +turkey teas. There's where Adam had it on all of us. + +All Eve cost him was one bone. + +It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days +than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede, +he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says, +anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week. + +He don't have to tell us that. + +Let him tell us how to get the eighteen. + +And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes +out and says, we are living in a great country. He says we are +living in a country of excitement intelligence and education. + +That's very true. + +Look at our public school system. + +A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be +a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public +school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month. + +And the janitor gets ninety-five. + +That shows you how education is coming to the front. Wouldn't it +better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean +out a cellar? + +And what's the cause of all the trouble? + +The House of Representatives. + +We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only +time they look out for the people is when they look out the window +and see them coming. + +Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000 a year, and at +the end of the year they have $100,000 saved. + +No wonder they are careless with our money. + +That's all they got to do. Sit around Washington and touch the +treasury. + +Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says: + +"Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000." + +That's all they do, is make touches for millions. + +You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or +a half a dollar. + +To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather Bureau +Department. + +We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what? + +To tell us when it's going to rain. + +And he don't know himself. + +But he don't want to know. + +He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his +job. But believe me, it's a soft job. + +Nothing to do. + +He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good +fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, "Fine weather +to-day." + +Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk. I tell you, +my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands +on the brink of a preci--the country stands on the brink of a +precip--and if somebody shoves it, it is going over. + +And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked +politics. + +And that's why the women suffering gents have gotten together and +are fighting for their rights. + +And you can't blame them. + +Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea. + +She says there's only one protection for the wives. + +And that's a wives' union. + +Imagine a union for wives. + +A couple gets married. + +And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate +and orders a strike. + +Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down +the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places. + + + +The Art of Flirtation +A Two-Act for Two Men +by Aaron Hoffman + +Author of "Toblitz, or The End of the World," +"The New Leader," "The Son of Solomon," +"The Speaker of the House," Etc., Etc. + + +THE ART OF FLIRTATION + +STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick +coming. What's the matter with you? + +COMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me. + +STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter. + +COMEDIAN: What's the trouble? + +STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don't know nothing. + +COMEDIAN: Yes, I do. + +STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half of what you don't know, +I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world. + +COMEDIAN: What you got against me? + +STRAIGHT: You ain't a gentlemen. + +COMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen? + +STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit +people no matter vat happens. + +COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless. + +STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you. How can a man be a +gentlemen with such a face like that. There are two kinds of +men--gentlemen and rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy. + +COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit people. Ven you +met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them? + +STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I spoke like a gentlemen. + +COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink. + +STRAIGHT: Ve did. + +COMEDIAN: Didn't I pay for it? + +STRAIGHT: Sure--that shows you are a rummy. + +COMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen. + +STRAIGHT: Dat's right. In a saloon you are a gentlemen. + +COMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender. + +STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don't know how to mingle. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle. + +STRAIGHT: You don't know the first thing about mingling. As a +mingler you are a flivver. Among men you are all right, but as +soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see +some women around, your brains get loose. + +COMEDIAN: Why--what do I do? + +STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say. +No matter how you do it--no matter how you say it, the women get +insulted. You ain't got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable +to the ladies. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought +to hear me talk to my wife. + +STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. +But tink of other women--the trouble with you is, you have no, as +the French people say, you have no _savoir faire_. + +COMEDIAN: No what? + +STRAIGHT: I say that you ain't got no, what the French people call, +_savoir faire_. + +COMEDIAN: What's dot? + +STRAIGHT: _Savoir faire_. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair. + +STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain't got no +_savoir faire_. You are not a mingler. You have no vit, no humor. +You ain't got no _esprit_. + +COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words? + +STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen. + +COMEDIAN: Then I'm glad I am a rummy. + +STRAIGHT: Sure you're a rummy. If you wasn't a rummy, you'd have +_esprit_. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times. + +STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I mean _esprit_. I mean you ain't got no +refinement--like me. I got polish. + +COMEDIAN: You're a shine. + +STRAIGHT: No, I ain't a shine. I am a lady killer. + +COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any lady. + +STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with the ladies, I talk +to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy +you, you don't know how to make the ladies feel unhappy. + +COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy? + +STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them. + +COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies? + +STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to +flirt vit her. + +COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt? + +STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing. You say +something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it +liable to end up in anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination +meeting with a lady. + +COMEDIAN: Vat kind of a meeting is dot? + +STRAIGHT: Don't you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman +in a shady spot. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot. + +STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman in a shady spot. + +COMEDIAN: How do you know so much about flirting? + +STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a book on the art of +flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows book.) + +COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book? + +STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a lady fall in love +with you for ten cents. + +COMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me Five +Hundred Dollars. + +STRAIGHT: That's because you didn't have this book. This book +tells you how to make love. This book is full of the finest kind +of love. + +COMEDIAN: For ten cents. + +STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents. + +COMEDIAN: Oh, it's ten cents love. + +STRAIGHT: No, it ain't ten-cent love. It's fine love (opens book). +See--here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn +something. See--how to flirt with a handkerchief. + +COMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt +with a woman. + +STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things +have got a language. According to this book, flirters can speak +with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with +the handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you how to do it. + +COMEDIAN: For ten cents. + +STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty woman coming along +who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should +do? + +COMEDIAN: Run the other way. + +STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. As soon +as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your +pockets. + +COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money. + +STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.) + +COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief? + +STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in +the book. Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this +(biz.). Do you know what that means? + +COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.) + +STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you-- + +COMEDIAN: Ten cents. + +STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give you a smile. So you +shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw +it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean? + +COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer. + +STRAIGHT: No, dat means "I would like to speak with you." + +COMEDIAN: And does she answer? + +STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book. + +COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handkerchief? + +STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might umbrella. + +COMEDIAN: Over the head. + +STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de umbrella over the head, +that means something. Ven she holds the umbrella over her head, +she means that she is a married woman. + +COMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting. + +STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes it dis way (biz.), +dat means-- + +COMEDIAN: Her husband is coming. + +STRAIGHT: No. Dat means "You look good to me." Den you hold your +handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.). + +COMEDIAN: Vat does that mean? + +STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner. + +COMEDIAN: Och, dat's fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold +it dis way, dat means (biz.) "Are you on the square?" + +STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will soon be a flirter. +Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book. You are +a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female. + +COMEDIAN: You are what? + +STRAIGHT: A female. A female. + +COMEDIAN: Vat's dat, a female? + +STRAIGHT: A female. Don't you know what fee means? Fee, that +means money. Male, that means man. Female. That means "Get money +from a man." That's a female. I am a beautiful woman and just +to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a walk thro' the +park. + +COMEDIAN: I thought you were a gentlemen. + +STRAIGHT: No. No. Just for an instance I am a lady. I will walk +past in a reckless way, and I will make eyes at you. + +COMEDIAN: If you do, I will smash my nose in your face. + +STRAIGHT: No. No. When I make eyes at you, you must wave your +handkerchief at me three times. Den you reproach me vit all the +disrespect in the world and den you take off your hat and you say +something. Vat do you say? + +COMEDIAN: Ten cents. + +STRAIGHT: No. No. You say something pleasant. You speak of the +weather, for instance. You say "Good-evening, Madam, nice day." + +COMEDIAN: Suppose it ain't a nice day? + +STRAIGHT: No matter what kind of a day it is, you speak about it. +Now I'm the lady and I am coming. Get ready. + +(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . . STRAIGHT +stops and drops handkerchief.) + +COMEDIAN: Say--you dropped something. + +STRAIGHT: I know it. I know it. Flirt. Flirt. + +(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.) + +COMEDIAN: I am flirting. I am flirting. + +STRAIGHT: What are you trying to do, flag a train? Why don't you +pick up my handkerchief? + +COMEDIAN: I don't need any, I got one. + +STRAIGHT: (Picks up handkerchief and turns.) Oh, you rummy you. +Why don't you reproach me and say something about the weather? + +COMEDIAN: All right, you do it again. + +STRAIGHT: Now don't be bashful! Don't be bashful! Here I come +(biz. of walk). + +COMEDIAN: (pose with hat.) Good evening. Are you a flirter? + +STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push). + +COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is. + +STRAIGHT: You musn't ask her if she's a flirter. You must say +something. De way it says in the book. You must speak of something. +If you can't speak of anything else, speak of the weather. + +COMEDIAN: All right, I'll do it again this time. + +STRAIGHT: This is the last time I'll be a lady for you. Here I +come (biz.). + +COMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy weather we're having. + +STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It's no use; I can't teach you how to +be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book. Listen. Here +is what it says. "After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady, +you should call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate +you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like +this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you." + +COMEDIAN: The bulldog. + +STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. "You valk quickly to the door." + +COMEDIAN: The bulldog after you. + +STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don't flirt vith a +bulldog. + +COMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you? + +STRAIGHT: Shut up. "She meets you at the door. You have your +handkerchief on your arm" (biz.) + +COMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg. + +STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm. Dat means "Can I +come in?" + +COMEDIAN: And den what do you do? + +STRAIGHT: If she says "Yes," you go in the parlor, you sit on the +sofa, side by side, you take her hand. + +COMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch. + +STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say: "Whose goo-goo +luvin' baby is oosum?" + +COMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book? + +STRAIGHT: Sure. + +COMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out page.) Den vat do you +do? + +STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: She'll press her head upon your manly shoulder-- + +COMEDIAN: And den-- + +STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: You hold her tight-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: She sighs-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: You sigh-- + +COMEDIAN: And den? + +STRAIGHT: Dat's the end of the book. + +COMEDIAN: Is dat all? + +STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten cents? + +COMEDIAN: But vat do you do after you turn down the gas? + +STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you everything? + + + +AFTER THE SHOWER + +A TWO-ACT FOR A +MAN AND WOMAN + +By +Louis Weslyn + +Author of "At the News Stand," "The Girl and +the Pearl," "An Easy Mary," "A Campus +Flirtation," Etc., Etc. + + + +AFTER THE SHOWER + +CHARACTERS + +THE FELLOW THE GIRL + + +SCENE: A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop) supposed to +be near Lake George. Rustic bench on R. of stage. When the +orchestra begins the music for the act, the girl enters, dressed +in a fashionable tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol. She comes +on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her shoulder at THE +FELLOW, who follows after her, a few paces behind. THE GIRL wears +only one glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other one to her +as he makes his entrance. He is dressed in a natty light summer +suit and wears a neat straw hat. + +THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I don't see why on +earth you insist upon following me. + +THE FELLOW: (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why I was _on earth_ +until I met you. (Waving glove at her.) Say, this is your glove--you +_know_ it's your glove. + +THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to somebody else. + +THE FELLOW: No, it doesn't. I saw you drop it. Besides, you are +wearing only one glove, and this one matches it. + +THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning +to face him, holding out her hand.) You are right. It _is_ my +glove. I'll take it, please. + +THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.) No, on second +thought, I'll _keep_ it. (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in +the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.) I'll keep it right here, +too,--near my heart. + +THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You've never seen me but three times +in your life. + +THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes--that's true. And you look +better every time I see you. Say, you do look awfully nice this +morning. Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you +belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George. I +guess that thunder storm last night didn't bother you a little +bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue. + +THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I got caught in that +shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve's, gown. (To him.) +What a jollier you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning, +it seems to me. + +THE FELLOW: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins +has made a hit with her. I guess I'll just let her think they +belong to me, and won't tell her that I got soaked in the rain +last night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I'm tickled nearly +to death to have you say such complimentary things to me. It makes +me glad I came on this camping trip. + +THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the +skull and cross-bones, don't you? + +THE FELLOW: Yes--all the boys are young doctors, except me. + +THE GIRL: And what are you? + +THE FELLOW: I'm the patient. + +THE GIRL: Are you sick? + +THE FELLOW: Love-sick. + +THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous! What brought you +to Lake George? + +THE FELLOW: You. + +THE GIRL: I! Oh, you are too absurd for anything. Give me my +glove, please, and let me go. + +THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don't be rash. There's no place +to go. All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip +except yourself. You're surely not going back there and hang +around the camp all alone? + +THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YOU know that the rest of my party +had gone away for the day? + +THE FELLOW: I saw 'em start. Why didn't you go with 'em? + +THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a +girl can't go boating in a dress like this. I only intended to +stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp, +and was not prepared with enough clothes. I've sent home for +clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning-- +_that's_ why I didn't go boating, since you are impertinent enough +to ask. (She gives him an indignant look.) + +THE FELLOW: I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down? + +THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite indignant, she sits +down immediately on bench. He sits down beside her.) + +THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out of the corners +of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the +stage with one foot.) + +THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp. +I believe you have been spying on us. + +THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls in your camp. + +THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses her head.) So +you have been following me up in order to send some message to +another girl. Who is she? + +THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson. + +THE GIRL: (Aside.) I'll _never_ let him know now that I have on +Genevieve's clothes. + +THE FELLOW: But you're mistaken. I've already sent the message. +It was about _you_. + +THE GIRL: About _me_? What about me? + +THE FELLOW: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us. Say--you haven't +told me your name yet. + +THE GIRL: I don't intend to. I think you are very forward. + +THE FELLOW: Shall I tell you _my_ name? + +THE GIRL: By no means. + +THE FELLOW: You're not interested? + +THE GIRL: Not a bit. + +(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away. He looks +upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.) + +THE FELLOW: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are there any bugs in +your camp? + +THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir! + +THE FELLOW: I mean gnats, mosquitoes--things like that. + +THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito. + +THE FELLOW: (Very much interested.) Where did he get you? + +THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh that I can't be mad +at you. You're _too_ funny. Since you want to know so much, he _got +me_ on the knee. I wasn't far-seeing enough to bring mosquito +netting. It's a bad bite. + +THE FELLOW: Is it possible? + +THE GIRL: Don't you believe it? + +THE FELLOW: Well, I'm not far-seeing enough to know for sure. (With +a sly glance at her knees.) + +THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say--I know a joke on you. I saw +you fall in the lake yesterday. + +THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) While I was fishing? + +THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don't know when I've enjoyed +such a hearty joke. How did you come to fall in? + +THE FELLOW: I _didn't_ come to fall in. I came to fish. + +THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp. +What was he dojng? + +THE FELLOW: Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York. He was +taking moving pictures of our cheese. + +THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any fish since you came? + +THE FELLOW: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies. + +THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting! What did you do +with them? + +THE FELLOW: We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones, +and we are using the big one to guard the camp. + +THE GIRL: To guard the camp? + +THE FELLOW: Yes--it's a watch-dog fish. + +THE GIRL: Well, I've heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before +that-- + +THE FELLOW: Oh, yes--quite common. I suppose, of course, you heard +the cat-fish having a concert last night. + +THE GIRL: No--surely you are joking. + +THE FELLOW: No, indeed--they were all tom-cats. + +THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing? + +THE FELLOW: Well, you've heard of tom-cods, haven't you? + +THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but-- + +THE FELLOW: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say, you must be sure +to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private +aquarium. We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter +fish on one side, and-- + +THE GIRL: The daughter fish! + +THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-fish on the +other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.) + +THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan't listen to you another +moment. Give me my glove, sir, I demand it. + +THE FELLOW: (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.) +Oh, please don't get mad. We were getting along so nicely, too. + +THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) "WE" were getting along so nicely. You +mean YOU were. I wasn't. + +THE FELLOW: Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me, +and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me. +Besides--ah-ah--fraulein--mam'selle--you know, I don't know your +name--besides I--I--I like you. I--I think you're the sweetest +girl I've ever seen. + +THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his +grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You've said that to a hundred girls. + +THE FELLOW: No--believe me, I have not. YOU'VE made a mighty big +hit with me. I'm hard hit this time. I-- + +THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you foolish boy. +How can you expect me to believe you? I'll bet anything that your +coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this +very minute. + +THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust. Clementina, you are-- + +THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How _dare_ you address +me by such a ridiculous-- + +THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clementina was quite poetic. +Besides, I've got to call you something. You do me a terrible +injustice. On my word of honor--as a--as a _fisherman_--I haven't +a love letter in my coat pocket--or anywhere else. I am young, +innocent, virtuous and-- + +THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And utterly foolish, I +should judge. You are afraid to let me search your pockets. + +THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who's afraid? Me afraid! Well, I'd be tickled +to death to have you search my pockets. I _dare_ you to search +my pockets. I dare you--understand? (He faces her and throws up +his hands over his head.) + +THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just _won't_ take a dare. +I'll do it. + +THE FELLOW: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I _dare_ you! If you +doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie. I +_dare_ you! + +THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to +him in very business-like manner.) Very well, then. I accept your +challenge. You can't bluff me out. I believe that ALL men lie +when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you +are no exception. Keep your hands up in the air--promise? + +THE FELLOW: I promise. + +THE GIRL: This is the first time I've ever held up anybody, but +here goes. (She searches his right-hand pocket.) I don't suppose +you've ever been robbed before? + +THE FELLOW: Oh, yes--I was once surrounded by a band of robbers. + +THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public highway? + +THE FELLOW: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in a New York hotel +cafe. They were the waiters. + +THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.) Well, there's +nothing in that one but a box of matches. How about this one? +(She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls +out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what +I expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at it +critically.) Yes, this is the one--no need to search further. + +THE FELLOW: What the devil!--(His hands drop to his sides, and he +opens his eyes in amazement.) + +THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir--such language! + +THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon--but--but--(He points to letter.) +I--I--that letter isn't mine. I can't understand how it got into +my pocket. I--(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his +face. Aside, he says.) By thunder!--I had forgotten all about it. +This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins. Oh, what a mess +I've made of it. She'll never believe me _now_ if I tell her I am +wearing another fellow's suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say--listen +to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins, +you see-- + +THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You probably thought +you didn't have it with you. Falsehoods are always found out, you +see. I was right. You are like all the rest of the men--a born +liar--only with this difference--you are a _bigger_ liar than the +average. You are really in a class all by yourself. (With the +letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.) + +Oh, this is immense!--this is delicious! + +THE FELLOW: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give that to me, please. + +THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper to read other +people's letters, but the present circumstances are unusual. I +shall certainly read it--and read it aloud. I want to make you +swallow every word and see how they agree with you. Listen to I +this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) "My beloved +Affinity--Come back to town next Saturday without fail. Just slip +away from the other boys at the camp. Tell them that an important +business matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy to +see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come to me, my dearest, +without delay. + + Always your own, + + Clementina." + +THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.) CLEMENTINA!! + +THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.) +So _that's_ where you got the name! So you were thinking of the +writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina +a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She stamps her feet.) + +THE FELLOW: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just happened to say +"Clementina" because I thought it was a pretty name. Won't you +believe me? I don't know who this Clementina is. I never saw the +writer of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for +Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes-- + +THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don't even attempt to make ridiculous +explanations. Don't make yourself more of a liar than you have +already proved. I won't listen to another word from you. I didn't +want to listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity's +letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and stuffs it +angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have my parasol, please, +and my glove. (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up +and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.) + +THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you hear what I want to +say. Tommy Higgins-- + +THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins! + +THE FELLOW: Yes. That's what I say--only stronger. But listen, +please-- + +THE GIRL: Don't discuss the matter further. My parasol and glove; +sir! (She is facing him angrily.) + +THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I tell +you that letter wasn't written to me. What if I should search +your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else? +How would you feel about it? + +THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am +ashamed of--that is, if I HAD any pockets. But I have no pockets. + +THE FELLOW: (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her +jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that you know how to tell +'em, too. What's that, if it isn't a pocket? + +THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh--yes--so it is. (Aside.) I had +forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve's suit. + +THE FELLOW: Well, turn about is fair play, isn't it? I'm going +to search _your_ pocket now. + +THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket +of a compromising nature? How dare you! + +THE FELLOW: You won't believe ME! Why should _I_ believe you? For +all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took +you to be. + +THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir. But since I stooped +so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction +of searching mine--and then that will be an end of our acquaintance. +You can then go your way--and I'll go my way. + +THE FELLOW: We'll see about that. Hold up your hands. + +THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands +over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry up, please, and have it +over with. (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the +parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and +imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his +pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if +preparing for a serious piece of business.) + +THE FELLOW: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don't suppose you've +ever been held up before? + +THE GIRL: (Icily.) No--you are the first burglar I have ever met. + +THE FELLOW: Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished? + +THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I'm a girl of my word. + +THE FELLOW: All right then. (He deliberately kisses her squarely +on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head. She gives +a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches +her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.) No, no, +I'm not through yet. + +THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy to associate with +a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket +of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He +holds them up before her horrified eyes.) + +THE FELLOW: Well. I'll be--(He starts to say "damned," but stops +just in time. THE GIRL'S arms drop limply to her sides, and with +eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench +and collapses down upon it.) + +THE GIRL: Good heavens! + +THE FELLOW: (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds +before him.) What innocent playthings! A box of Pall Malls and a +letter--no doubt, an affinity letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.) +Well, well! And you just said I wasn't fit to associate with you. + +THE GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.) Oh, this is a +terrible mistake! What could Genevieve have been doing with those +things? + +THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Genevieve? + +THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve. + +THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson. + +THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson--the girl you know--my best +friend. Oh, _can't_ you understand? Those things don't belong to +me. They are--(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her +hands. Then says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn't allow +Genevieve's reputation to be ruined. I might as well take the +blame and brave it out myself. This situation is frightful. (She +turns to him again.) I can't explain, but don't--oh, please don't +think that I--that I--(She stops, looking as if she is about to +cry.) + +THE FELLOW: (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.) +And you always looked like such a nice girl, too. Cigarettes--and-- +(He opens up the letter.) + +THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that +letter. It does not belong to me. You have no right to read that +letter. + +THE FELLOW: But you read the letter that didn't belong to me. + +THE GIRL: It _did_ belong to you. + +THE FELLOW: It didn't! + +THE GIRL: DID! + +THE FELLOW: Didn't! + +THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which +he holds out of her reach.) I _forbid_ you to read that letter. +I swear to you, it is not mine. + +THE FELLOW: (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it +over.) By George! You are right--it is NOT yours. It is MINE! + +THE GIRL: YOURS? + +THE FELLOW: Yes, mine. It's the very message I sent to Genevieve +Patterson yesterday--the letter in which I asked for an introduction +to you. (He hands it to her.) Here--read it yourself, if you don't +believe me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and +reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in +surprise.) + +THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.) Then you +are NOT such a liar after all. You _did_ tell me the truth. + +THE FELLOW: Nothing but the truth. + +THE GIRL: But what about that other letter? + +THE FELLOW: (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.) +Now, you've _got_ to listen. That other letter was written to Tommy +Higgins. I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow +this suit of clothes from Tommy. + +THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.) O-h-h! + +THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my letter written to +Genevieve? + +THE GIRL: Oh, _don't_ you understand? (She looks at him beseechingly.) + +THE FELLOW: (The truth suddenly striking him.) Oh-h-h-! I see! You +got caught in the shower, too. You borrowed that tailor-made suit +from Genevieve. + +THE GIRL: Can you doubt it? + +THE FELLOW: But the cigarettes? + +THE GIRL: I can't account for them. I only know-- + +THE FELLOW: Never mind. I don't care. (He stuffs the cigarettes +into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.) Tell +me--you don't think I'm the biggest liar in the world, do you? + +THE GIRL: (Archly.) No--not quite. + +THE FELLOW: (Slipping his arm around her.) And if you were +married--to--to a fellow like me, you'd make him an awfully good +wife, wouldn't you? + +THE GIRL: (Laughing.). No--I'd try to make HIM a good husband. (He +bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN'S VOICE is +heard off stage to the Right.) + +MAN'S VOICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss--your trunk has come. +(THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.) + +THE FELLOW: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all cinched. (THE GIRL +runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.) + +THE GIRL: It's the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes +from town. Good-bye. (She starts off, Right.) + +THE FELLOW: But you're coming back again? + +THE GIRL: Well--maybe--perhaps--If you're good. (She exits laughing.) + +THE FELLOW: She's got me going. My head's in a muddle, and I feel +like a sailor full of horn-pipes. And that reminds me of Tommy +Higgins' latest song. It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic +song. At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in +a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol. +THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head, +exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower! + +THE GIRL: I must explain to you--I saw Genevieve--the cigarettes +belong to her brother, Jack. + +THE FELLOW: And I've just found out what belongs to me. + +THE GIRL: What? + +THE FELLOW: You! (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in +front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from +audience. This is music cue for the Conversation Number which +brings the sketch to a finish.) + + + +THE VILLAIN +STILL PURSUED HER + +A TRAVESTY + +By +Arthur Denvir +Author of "Busy Isabel," "How Ignatius Got +Pneumonia," "When Wit Won," "The War +Correspondent," Etc., Etc. + + +THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER + +CHARACTERS + +GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . A Deserted Wife +ALPHONSO DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild +MOE REISS DRESSUITCASE. . . . Her Fugitive Husband +BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival +ALGERNON O'FLAHERTY . . . . . The Villain Who Pursued Her + +SCENE OF PROLOGUE + +STREET IN ONE. . . LIGHTS OUT + +Music: "Mendelssohn's Spring Song," Played in discords. Spot Light +on L. I. + +PROLOGUE + +Enter GLADYS wearing linen duster and dragging a big rope to which +is attached a case of beer with about eight empty bottles in it. +She stops C. + +GLADYS: (Tearfully.) At last I am almost home. Eleven miles walk +from the sweat shop here, and that's some hoofing it, believe me. +(Sways.) Oh, I am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint +for the want of my Coca-Cola. (Enter ALGERNON R. I--wears slouch +hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots. She is facing L.) +Oh, I have a hunch I'm being shadowed--flagged by a track-walker! +But I mustn't think of that. (Starts to drag case L.) I must get +home to my dying child. He needs me--he needs me. (Exits L. I.) + +ALGERNON: (Goes L. C. and looks after her.) It is Gladys--found +at last! (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is in bright red with white plumes +and is a beautiful, radiant adventuress. ) + +BIRDIE: Did you get a good look at her? + +ALGERNON: Yes--it's Gladys and she's down and out--(Both together:) +Curse her! + +ALGERNON: Now I can begin pursuing her again. + +BIRDIE: Yes, and I can gloat over her misery--and gloating's the +best thing I do. + +ALGERNON: Come (fiercely!) We are wasting time. + +BIRDIE: She'll never know me with this dark hair and no make-up on. + +ALGERNON: (At L. I--still more fiercely.) Can that junk! Come! +(Exits L. I.) + +BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power. I must follow +him. Curse him! (Exits after ALGERNON. Enter MOE REISS in bum +evening-clothes and opera hat. Carries cane.) + +MOE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.) Down this street and +turn into the alley full of ash cans! I'm on the right track at +last. Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy! Of course, +she'll be sore because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her +no alimony except the dying che-ild. But I must produce a real +wife and child from somewhere or I'll lose the $9.75 my uncle left +me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why do I love money so? Ay, that's the +question. (Looking up at gallery.) And what's the answer? (Points +off L. with cane--dramatically.) We shall see--we shall see. (Dashes +off L.) + +The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time that the +clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to go up, so it is timed very +slowly. + +FULL STAGE SCENE + +THE WRETCHED HOME OF GLADYS + +A Mott Street Garret--everything of the poorest description. Old +table down stage R., with chair on either side and waste paper +basket in front. Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up stage C. +Small stand at head of cot. + +PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up. He should weigh +over two hundred pounds. He wears Buster Brown wig and nightie +that buttons up the back. GLADYS is seated at table d. s. R., +sewing on a tiny handkerchief. She is magnificently dressed and +wears all the jewelry she can carry. Pile of handkerchiefs at +back of table within reach and a waste basket in front of table +where she can throw handkerchiefs when used. + +As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for the +sixteenth or seventeenth time. + +GLADYS: Five o'clock and my sewing still unfinished. Oh, it must +be done to-night. There's the rent--six dollars. To-day is +Friday--bargain day--I wonder if the landlord would take four +ninety-eight. + +(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs more medicine. +The dog biscuits haven't helped him a bit, and his stomach is too +weak to digest the skin foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless +he is, poor little tot!!!! Fatherless and deserted, sick and +emaciated--eight years have I passed in this wretched place, +hopeless, hapless, hipless. At times the struggle seems more than +I can bear, but I must be brave for my child, my little one. (Buries +face in hands.) (Business. Sews.) + +PHONSIE: (Business.) Mommer! Mommer! Are you there? (Blows pea +blower at her.) + +GLADYS: (Hand to cheek where he hit her.) Yes, dolling, mommer is +here. + +PHONSIE: Say, mommer, am I dying? (Loud and toughly.) + +GLADYS: (Sadly.) I am afraid _not_, my treasure. + +PHONSIE: Why not, mommer? + +GLADYS: You are too great a pest to die, sweetheart. + +PHONSIE: But the good always die young, don't they, mommer? + +GLADYS: (Still sewing.) But you were not speaking about the good--you +were speaking of yourself, my precious. + +PHONSIE: Ain't I good, mommer, don't you think? + +GLADYS: (Business.) Oh, I don't dare to think!!!! (Moves up stage.) + +PHONSIE: Don't think if it hurts you, mommer. + +GLADYS: (At dresser.) But come, it is time for your medicine. +(Shows enormous pill.) + +PHONSIE: (Scared.) What is that, mommer? + +GLADYS: Just a horse pill, baby. (Puts it in his mouth.) There, +that will help cure mother's little man. (At table.) + +PHONSIE: Gee! That tasted fierce. (Business. Knock.) Some one is +knocking, mommer. + +GLADYS: They're always knocking mommer. (At door.) + +VOICE: Have yez th' rint? + +GLADYS: I haven't. + +VOICE: Much obliged. + +GLADYS: You're welcome. + +PHONSIE: Who was that, mommer? + +GLADYS: That was only the landlord for the rent. Alas, I cannot +raise it. + +PHONSIE: Then if you can't raise the rent, raise me, mommer. Can't +I have the spot-light to die with? + +GLADYS: Why certainly you shall have one. Mr. Electrician, will +you kindly give my dying child a spot-light? (Business.) There, +dearest, there's your spot-light. + +PHONSIE: (Laughs.) Oh, that's fine. Mommer, can I have visions? + +GLADYS: Why surely, dear, you can have all the visions you want. +(Shoves opium pipe in his mouth and lights it.) Now tell mommer +what you see, baby! + +PHONSIE: Oh, mommer, I see awful things. I can see the Gerry +society pinching me. And oh, mommer, I can see New York, [1] and +there ain't a gambling house in the town. + +[1] Substitute name of any big city. + +GLADYS: He's blind!!!! My child's gone blind!!!! (PHONSIE snores.) +He sleeps at last, my child, my little dying child!!!! (Enter +ALGERNON and BIRDIE.) + +GLADYS: (Discovers ALGERNON.) You!!!! (ALGERNON turns to Orchestra +and conducts Chord with cane.) (GLADYS Left, ALGERNON C., BIRDIE R.) + +ALGERNON: (Chord.) Yes, Gladys Dressuitcase, once more we meet!!!!! + +GLADYS: And the lady with the Brooklyn [1] gown!! Ah, you will +start, but I know you in spite of your disguise, Birdie Bedslatz. + +[1] Substitute name of the local gag town. + +BIRDIE: Disguise! What disguise? + +GLADYS: Woman, you cannot deceive me. You've been to the dry-dock +and had your face scraped. + +BIRDIE: So, you still want war? + +GLADYS: No, I want justice!!!! (ALGERNON conducts Chord.) You have +tracked me like sleuthhounds. You have hunted me down after all +these years. You have robbed me of home, husband, honor and +friends. What then is left me? (L.) + +BIRDIE: (Menacingly.) There is always the river. + +GLADYS: What, you dare suggest that, you with your past! + +BIRDIE: How dare you mention that to me! I am now writing Sunday +stories for the New York "American." [2] (Crosses to left and sits.) + +[2] Substitute name of the local sensational newspaper. + +GLADYS: (Stunned.) Sophie Lyons, now I see it all. + +ALGERNON: (Center.) I have here a mortgage. + +GLADYS: A mortgage!!!! What is it on? + +ALGERNON: I don't know. What difference does that make? It is a +mortgage. That's all that's necessary. + +GLADYS: Can it be a mortgage on the old farm? + +ALGERNON: (Moves over to R.) Certainly, on the old farm!!!! The +dear old homestead in New Hampshire. (Takes paper from pocket. +Crosses over to GLADYS.) I have also the paper that always goes +with the mortgage. Sign this paper and the mortgage shall be +yours, refuse--and--do you mind my coming closer so that I can +hiss this in your ear? + +GLADYS: Not at all, come right over. + +ALGERNON: (Close to GLADYS.) Refuse (Hiss), I say, and you and +your child shall be thrown into the streets to starve. (Hiss.) + +GLADYS: (Crosses R.) Oh, I must have time to drink--I mean think. +But this is infamous. The landlord will-- + +ALGERNON: I am the landlord. Now will you sign the papers? + +GLADYS: No, a thousand times no!!!!! (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts +Chord.) No!!!! + +BIRDIE: (Hand to ear.) Good gracious, don't scream so, where do +you think you are? + +ALGERNON: You won't sign? + +GLADYS: No, do your worst, throw me into the street with my child. +He is sick, dying!!!! + +ALGERNON: What's the matter with him? (Goes to bed.) (PHONSIE is +heaving and whistling.) Great heavens, he has the heaves. (Goes R.) + +BIRDIE: What are you doing for him? + +GLADYS: Trying the hot air treatment. + +BIRDIE: I should think you would be expert at that. + +GLADYS: The doctor says he has grey matter in his brain. + +BIRDIE: (Comes down L.) I am sorry, very sorry. + +ALGERNON: Sorry! Bah, this is a cheap play for sympathy! (To +GLADYS:) Will you sign the papers? + +GLADYS: Never, I defy you: (To BIRDIE.) As for you, beautiful fiend +that you are, you came between me and my husband; you stole him +from me with your dog-faced beauty; I mean doll-faced. But I can +see your finish, I can see you taking poison in about fifteen +minutes. + +BIRDIE: (Over to ALGERNON.) Put me wise, is this true? + +ALGERNON: No, 'tis false, false as hell!!!!! (Points up.) + +GLADYS: It's true, as true as heaven. (Points down.) I swear it. + +ALGERNON: (Crosses up to GLADYS.) Why, curse you, I'll-- + +GLADYS: (With pistol.) Stand back!!!!! I'm a desperate woman!!!!! + +ALGERNON: (Center.) Foiled, curse the luck, foiled by a mere slip +of a girl. + +BIRDIE: What's to be done? + +ALGERNON: (Yells.) Silence!!!! (Business.) Once aboard the lugger +the girl must and shall be mine!!!! + +BIRDIE: But how do you propose to _lug her_ there? (ALGERNON moves +up to door.) + +GLADYS: Oh, I see it all. You have brought this she-devil here +to work off her bad gags on me. Man, have you no heart? + +ALGERNON: (Comes down C.) Of course I have a heart. I have also +eyes, ears, nose, tongue and-- + +BIRDIE: Brains, calves' brains--breaded. + +ALGERNON: That will be about all from you. Go, leave us! + +BIRDIE: Alone? + +ALGERNON: Alone! + +GLADYS: Alone! + +PHONSIE: (In sepulchral tone.) Oh, Gee! + +BIRDIE: But it's hardly decent. You need a tamer. + +ALGERNON: Go! (Crosses to R.) Go, I say, before it is too late. + +BIRDIE: Oh, there's no hurry. Every place is open. + +ALGERNON: Don't sass me, Birdie Bedslatz, but clear out, scat!!!! + +BIRDIE: Ain't he the awful scamp? (Starts to door.) + +GLADYS: (Clinging to her.) No, you cannot, must not go. Don't +leave me alone with that piano mover. + +BIRDIE: I must go. I have poison to buy. (At door.) Ah, Algernon +O'Flaherty, if there was more men in the world like you, there'd +be less women like me--I just love to say that. Ta--ta. (PHONSIE +blows pea-shooter at her as she Exits. She screams and grabs +cheek.) + +ALGERNON: (To GLADYS back.) So, proud beauty, at last we are alone! + +GLADYS: Inhuman monster!!! What new villainy do you propose? + +ALGERNON: None, it's all old stuff. Listen, Gladys. When I see +you again, all the old love revives and I grow mad, mad. + +GLADYS: You dare to speak of love to me? Why, from the first +moment I saw you, I despised you. And now I tell you to your face +that I hate and loathe you, for the vile, contemptible wretch that +you are. + +ALGERNON: (Center.) Be careful, girl! I can give you wealth, money, +jewels--jewels fit for a king's ransom. + +GLADYS: (Runs into his arms.) Oh, you can--Where are they? + +ALGERNON: They are in hock for the moment, but see, here are the +tickets. I shall get them out, anon. + +GLADYS: Dastardly wretch!!!!! With your pawn tickets to try and +cop out a poor sewing girl. (Up at door.) There is the door, go! +(Points other way.) + +ALGERNON: (Up to her.) Why curse you, I'll-- + +GLADYS: Strike, you coward! (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts Chord.) + +ALGERNON: Coward!!!! (He conducts same Chord an Octave higher.) + +GLADYS: Yes, coward. . . . Now go, and never cross this threshold +again!! + +ALGERNON: (Going up stage.) So, I'm fired with the threshold gag? +Very well, I go, but I shall return. . . . I shall return! (Exits.) + +PHONSIE: (Blows pea-blower after him.) Who was that big stiff, +mommer, the instalment man? + +GLADYS: No, darling, he is the floor-walker in a slaughter house. + +PHONSIE: Mommer, when do I eat? + +GLADYS: Alas, we cannot buy food, we are penniless. + +PHONSIE: If you would only put your jewels in soak, mommer. + +GLADYS: What, hock me sparks? Never! I may starve, yes, but I'll +starve like a lady in all my finery! + +PHONSIE: Mommer, I want to eat. + +GLADYS: What shall I do? My child hungry, dying, without even the +price of a shave! Oh, my heart is like my brother on the railroad, +breaking--breaking--breaking--(Weeps.) + +PHONSIE: Ah, don't cry, mommer. You'll have the whole place damp. +You keep on sewing and I'll keep on dying. + +GLADYS: Very well. (Drying eyes.) But first I'll go out and get +a can of beer. Thank goodness, we always have beer money. + +PHONSIE: Oh yes, mommer, do rush the growler. Me coppers is +toastin'. And don't forget your misery cape and the music that +goes with you, will you, mommer? + +GLADYS: I'll get those. + +PHONSIE: And you'd better take some handkerchiefs. You may want +to cry. But don't cry in the beer, mommer, it makes it flat. + +GLADYS: Thank you, baby, I do love to weep. Oh, if we only had a +blizzard, I'd take you out in your nightie. But wait, sweetheart, +wait till it goes below zero. Then you shall go out with mommer, +bare-footed. + +PHONSIE: Don't stand chewing the rag with the bartender, will you, +mommer? + +GLADYS: Only till he puts a second head on the beer. (Exit R.) + +PHONSIE: Gee, it's fierce to be a stage child and dying. I wonder +where my popper is? I want my popper--I want my popper. (Bawls.) + +MOE REISS: (Enters.) Why, what is the matter, my little man? + +PHONSIE: Oh, I'm so lonely, I want my popper. + +MOE REISS: And where is your popper? + +PHONSIE: Mommer says he is in Philadelphia. (Sniffles.) + +MOE REISS: (Lifts hat reverently.) Dead, and his child doesn't +know. And where is your mama? + +PHONSIE: Oh, she's went out to chase the can. + +MOE REISS: And what is your name, my little man? + +PHONSIE: Alphonso. Ain't that practically the limit? + +MOE REISS: Alphonso? I once had a little boy named Alphonso, who +might have been about your age. + +PHONSIE: And what prevented him? + +MOE REISS: (Sighs.) Alas, I lost him! + +PHONSIE: That was awful careless of you. You oughtn't to have +took him out without his chain. (Sniffs.) + +MOE REISS: What's the matter with your nose? + +PHONSIE: I have the glanders--and the heaves. I get all the horse +diseases. Father was a race track tout. + +MOE REISS: A race track tout? What is your last name? + +PHONSIE: Dressuitcase, Alphonso Dressuitcase. + +MOE REISS: Dressuitcase? And have you heavy shingle marks on your +person, great blue welts? + +PHONSIE: You bet I have, and my popper put them there, too. + +MOE REISS: Why, it's my boy, Phonsie, my little Phonsie. Don't +you know me? It's popper. (Slams him in face hard with open hand.) + +PHONSIE: Well, your style is familiar, but you don't need to show +off! + +GLADYS: (Enters. Carrying Growler carefully.) Moe! Moe! My husband! +(Buries face in can.) + +MOE REISS: Gladys! Gladys! My wife! (Takes can from GLADYS.) + +PHONSIE: (Comes between them.) Here, I want to have my fever +reduced. (Back to bed.) + +GLADYS: Where have you been all these years, Moe? + +MOE REISS: Just bumming around, just bumming around. When I +deserted you and copped out Birdie Bedslatz, I went from bad to +worse, from Jersey City to Hoboken. [1] When my senses returned, +I was insane. + +[1] Local. + +GLADYS: My poor husband, how you must have suffered! + +MOE REISS: At heart, I was always true to you and our little boy, +and I want to come back home. + +GLADYS: But tell me, Moe, how are you fixed? (Tries to feel his +vest pocket.) + +MOE REISS: Fine, I am running a swell gambling joint. + +GLADYS: Splendid! Now, Phonsie shall have proper nourishment. + +MOE REISS: He shall have all the food he can eat. (Up to bed.) + +GLADYS: Yes, and all the beer he can drink. + +MOE REISS: Great heavens, I could never pay for that. + +GLADYS: Ah, then he will have to cut out his souse. Dear little +chap; he loved to get tanked up. Oh look at him, Moe, he is the +living image of you. I think if he lives, he will be a great bull +fighter. (PHONSIE has finished the beer, and is sucking at a nipple +on large bottle marked "Pure Rye.") + +MOE REISS: Then he does take after me--dear little chap. (Hits him.) + +GLADYS: Indeed he does. But is it safe for you to come here, Moe? + +MOE REISS: Not with Whitman [1] on my trail. You know, Gladys, +in the eyes of the world, I am guilty. + +[1] Local District Attorney. + +GLADYS: Then the world lies. (Chord. ALGERNON comes on from R. I +and conducts and then Exits.) I still trust you, my husband, though +the police want you for stealing moth balls. (Crash off.) What's +that? (Runs to door.) Oh, it's the health department. They have +come with the garbage wagon to arrest you. Quick, in there. (Points +to door R.) + +MOE REISS: No, let them come. I am here to see my wife and here +I shall remain. + +GLADYS: But for our child's sake. See, he holds up his little +hands and pleads for you to go. (PHONSIE in pugilistic attitude.) + +PHONSIE: Say, pop, if you don't get a wiggle on and duck in there, +there'll be something doing. (Business.) + +MOE REISS: My boy, I can refuse you nothing. (Exits.) + +GLADYS: (At door C.) They are sneaking up, on rubbers! (To PHONSIE.) +Lie down, Fido. (Guarding door R. Enter ALGERNON and BIRDIE, Door C.) + +ALGERNON: There's some hellish mystery here! + +BIRDIE: You can search me. + +ALGERNON: (Sees GLADYS.) Aha! Now will you sign those papers? + +GLADYS: Never. (Bus.) I'll sign nothing. (Down R.) + +ALGERNON: (Takes carrot from his hip pocket.) You won't? There, +curse you, take that. (Hits her in neck with carrot.) + +GLADYS: In the neck! In the neck, where I always get it! + +ALGERNON: (Center.) Quick, Birdie, seize the child and run. + +BIRDIE: (Left, looks scornfully at PHONSIE.) You've got your nerve. +He weighs a ton!! + +PHONSIE: Oh! She's going to kidnap me!! Assistance!! + +ALGERNON: Silence!! Enough!! (To GLADYS.) I have just come from +the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. + +GLADYS: Well? + +ALGERNON: I have reported to them that your child has the heaves. + +GLADYS: Well? + +ALGERNON: The Society is sending a horse ambulance to take him to +the dump. + +GLADYS: Dump? To the dump?!!! No, no, it's a cruel, hideous jest! +Take away my little dying boy? It would kill him, you understand, +it would kill him!! + +PHONSIE: (Toughly.) Sure, it would kill me!! (Bites off big chew +of Tobacco.) + +ALGERNON: Nevertheless, in five minutes the horse ambulance will +be here. + +GLADYS: Oh no! no! no! What if my child should die? + +ALGERNON: Then they will make glue out of his carcass. + +GLADYS: Glue. Aw! (Shakes snow on herself from box hanging over +the table L.) + +PHONSIE: I don't want to be no glue, mommer, I'd be all stuck up. + +GLADYS: (Goes C. to PHONSIE.) Why this fiendish plot? What have +I done that you thus pursue me? + +ALGERNON: (R. C.) You repulsed my hellish caresses. + +GLADYS: Oh, I will do anything to save my child. I'll try to love +you. . . . I will love! See? (Business.) (Into his arms.) I love +you now! + +MOE REISS: (Enter, center.) What's this? My wife in that man's +arms? Oh! (Crosses L.) + +GLADYS: (At right, to MOE REISS.) Oh, Moe, I can explain. (Grabs +his throat and shakes him.) + +MOE REISS: (To GLADYS.) Explain!!! How? I go away and desert you +for eight years. (Turns from her and goes L.) In that short absence +you forget your husband. (Turns to her.) I return to find you in +his arms, before my very nose. (Smashes PHONSIE in face.) (Business.) +(He sees BIRDIE.) You, Birdie! + +BIRDIE: Yes, I, little Birdie--Birdie on the spot. + +MOE REISS: Ah, you she-fiend, you lady demon! (Kisses her.) + +GLADYS: (Screams.) No, no! (Runs to him.) It's all a plot! A hideous +plot to part us! This man has complained to the S. P. C. A. that +our little Phonsie has the heaves. They are sending a horse +ambulance to take him to the dump! They'll make _glue_ out of his +carcass! (To ALGERNON.) You see what you have done! (Beats him on +back.) Tell my husband, you devil, tell him the truth!!! + +ALGERNON: (To MOE REISS) (C.) Well, if you must know the truth, +your wife loves me and was forcing her caresses upon me when you +entered. + +MOE REISS: It's true then, it's true? + +PHONSIE: (Sits up.) No, popper, it's false, and I can prove it. + +ALGERNON: The child is delirious from the heaves! + +PHONSIE: I'll heave you out of here in a minute. Listen, popper, +mommer's done the best she could. It ain't easy to nurse a dying +child who is liable to croak at any moment. But she's done that, +popper, she's often went without her dill pickle so I could have +my spavin cure. She thought I might get well and strong and maybe +get a job as a safe mover. But I've been so busy dying I couldn't +go to work. (Shakes fist at ALGERNON.) Don't believe that man, +popper; I'm dying, cross my heart if I ain't dying, so I couldn't +tell a lie. (Back to bed.) + +MOE REISS: Oh, my boy! My boy! (heart-brokenly.) (Hits PHONSIE.) + +GLADYS: Dh, Moe Reiss, don't you believe him? + +ALGERNON: (Left of C.) Of course not, he saw you with your arms +around my neck. + +MOE REISS: Yes, I saw it, I seen it. + +BIRDIE: I can swear to it, if necessary. + +PHONSIE: I can swear too, popper, want to hear me? + +MOE REISS: No, I have heard enough. Now I intend to act. (Throws +off coat, L.) + +ALGERNON: What do you mean? + +MOE REISS: I mean that either you or I will never leave this place +alive. For I tell you plainly, as sure as there is a poker game +above us, I mean to kill you! + +ALGERNON: (Throws off coat and hat.) Well, if it's a roughhouse +you're looking for, I'm right there with the goods. (Struggle.) + +PHONSIE: Give him an upper cut, popper, soak him!!! + +BIRDIE: Knife him, Algernon, knife him! (Has out her hat pin.) +(During struggle, PHONSIE shoots three times.) (As they struggle +to window, ALGERNON turns back, and PHONSIE sees [after third shot] +his vest is a target and fires three times. Bell on each shot.) +Curse you, you've got me. Here are your three cigars. (Falls +dead, C.) + +MOE REISS: (Kneels and feels heart.) Dead!!! Who could have done +this? + +PHONSIE: Father, I cannot tell a lie, I done it with my little +hatchet. (Shows big gun and a picture of George Washington. All +the others lift American flags and wave them.) (PHONSIE L. waving +flag, MOE and GLADYS C. BIRDIE dead in chair R.) + +STAR SPANGLED BANNER, FF, AS CURTAIN FALLS + + + +THE LOLLARD +A SATIRICAL COMEDY + +BY +EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF +Author of "Youth," "Little Mother," "Mon +Desir," "The Locks at Panama," +"Lady Gossip," Etc., Etc. + + +THE LOLLARD + +CHARACTERS + + ANGELA MAXWELL HARRY MAXWELL + FRED SALTUS MISS CAREY + + +SCENE: The apartment of Miss Carey, a hardworking modiste about +45 years of age, rather sharp in manner, very prudish and a hater +of men. + + TIME: About 2 A.M. + +When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. First, "feminine snores" +are heard, then a sharp ringing of bell. Then MISS CAREY from her +bed in next room (curtained off, but partly visible) calls out: + +MISS CAREY: Who is it? + +VOICE: (Off stage.) It's me. Open! + +MISS CAREY: (Poking her night-capped head out of curtains.) Well, +who are you? + +VOICE: (Off stage.) You don't know me. But that's all right. +Please let me in--hurry! Hurry! + +MISS CAREY: (Rising and getting into a kimono.) Well--whoever you +are--what do you mean by waking me at two in the morning? I'll +report this to the janitor. (She turns up light and opens door. +ANGELA MAXWELL rushes in--in fluffy peignoir--her hair in pretty +disorder--her hands full of wearing apparel, etc., as if she just +snatched same up in haste. An opera coat, a pair of slippers, etc.) + +ANGELA: (Rushing in--closing door after her and silencing MISS +CAREY by the mysterious way she seizes her by the wrist.) Listen, +you don't know me, but I've just left my husband. + +MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) Well, that's no reason why I should leave +my bed. + +ANGELA: (Reassuringly.) You can go right back again, dear--in fact, +I'll go with you and we'll talk it over there. + +MISS CAREY: I don't wish to talk it over anywhere, and-- + +ANGELA: Well, surely, you don't think it was wrong of me to leave +Harry--now do you? + +MISS CAREY: I never blame any woman for leaving any man. + +ANGELA: See, I knew it. After I fired the Wedgewood vase at +him--and just for doing it he was brute enough to call me "Vixen,"-- +I snatched up as much as I could that was worth taking, and left him +_forever_. (Suddenly, as she sees dress on model.) Oh, what a +lovely little frock. (Back to other tone.) Yes, forever; and it +was only when I stood out in the cold hall that I realized it would +have been better to have left him forever when I was all dressed +in the morning. (Beginning to shiver and weep.) Take my advice, +dear, if you ever leave your husband, never do it on a _cold night_. + +MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) I'm not married. + +ANGELA: (Weeping copiously and shivering.) Well, then, you needn't +bother, dear, about the weather, 'cause you never will be married. + +MISS CAREY: No, I never will--catch me selling my freedom to any +selfish brute of a man. + +ANGELA: (As before.) See, I knew it. I said to myself, that little +lady on the second floor who makes dresses with a long, thin nose-- + +MISS CAREY: (Outraged.) Makes dresses with a long, thin nose? + +ANGELA: Yes--she's the only one in the whole apartment house I can +go to--she's the only one won't give Harry right. + +MISS CAREY: No man is ever right. + +ANGELA: I'm commencing to believe all men are brutes. + +MISS CAREY: Of course they are. (Commencing to thaw.) Have a cup +of tea. (She goes to table to prepare tea things.) + +ANGELA: Thanks--I brought my own tea with me. (Takes a little paper +bag of tea out of one of the slippers and crosses to MISS CAREY.) +If I had struck him with the vase, I could understand his calling +me "Vixen" (Beginning to weep again.)--but I only flung it at him, +'cause I cracked it by accident in the morning, and I didn't want +him to find it out. He was always calling me "butter-fingers." +(Sits at opposite side of table.) + +MISS CAREY: Oh, he was always calling you names. + +ANGELA: No, that's all he ever called me--"Butter-fingers." (Cries +again.) + +MISS CAREY: (Pouring tea.) Oh, he's the kind that just loves to +stay home and nag. + +ANGELA: I'd like to catch any husband I ever get, nag. + +MISS CAREY: Oh, a pouter--I know that kind. + +ANGELA: Oh, no. Why, every time I insulted him he kissed me--the +brute. (After a second's pause.) But--excuse me--how do you know +so many kinds of men if you've never been married? + +MISS CAREY: (Quickly.) Boarders--to make ends meet, I've always +had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan. (She +rises--turns her back to audience--gives a touch to her pigtail, +during the laugh to this line. This business always builds laugh.) + +ANGELA: (Absent-mindedly.) Well, I've heard that male boarders are +very nice. + +MISS CAREY: I've never had a nice one yet, but I've named nearly +all the style male brutes there are. What kind of a brute have +you? (She sips tea.) + +ANGELA: Why, I don't know--I've often wondered--you might call +Harry a "lollard." + +MISS CAREY: A lollard? + +ANGELA: Yes, I invented the word, and believe me, a woman suffers +with a lollard. (At this, MISS CAREY lets her spoon fall in cup.) + +MISS CAREY: I should think she would. How did a sweet young thing +like you ever meet such a type of a vertebrate? + +ANGELA: At a military ball, and oh Mrs.-- + +MISS CAREY: _Miss_ Carey. + +ANGELA: Miss Carey--he was the handsomest specimen. His hair +looked so spick--his shoulders were so big and broad--his teeth +so white--and his skin, well, Miss Carey, if you'd seen him, I'll +bet you'd have just gone crazy to kiss him yourself. (MISS CAREY, +who is drinking tea, nearly chokes on this--coughing on the tea +which goes down the wrong way.) + +MISS CAREY: (After the business.) How did he lose his looks? + +ANGELA: By becoming a lollard. Listen! (They pull chairs in front +of table together, teacups in hand.) It happened on the honeymoon-- +on the train--as we sat hand in hand, when all at once, the wind +through the window, started to blow his hair the wrong way, and +oh, Miss Carey, what do you think I discovered? + +MISS CAREY: He had been branded on the head as a criminal. + +ANGELA: Oh nothing so pleasant as that--but the hair that I thought +grew so lovely and plentifully, had been coaxed by a wet brush +from the back over the front, and from the east over to the west. +(Indicates by imitating action on her own head.) + +MISS CAREY: Oh, a lollard is a disappointment of the hair. + +ANGELA: No, Miss Carey, no. Listen. I said, "Oh, Harry, your +hair which I thought grew so evenly and plentifully all over your +head really only grows in patches." He only answered, "Yes, and +now that we're married, Angela, I don't have to fool you by brushing +it fancy anymore." In despair, I moaned "Yes, Harry--fool me--go +on love, fool me and brush it fancy." + +MISS CAREY; (Rising and crossing R.) That was your first mistake. +No woman should ever call any man "love." + +ANGELA: Oh, I didn't know what I said--I was so busy the whole +journey pulling his hair from the back to the front and the east +to the west (Same business of illustrating.)--and then, oh Miss +Carey, what do you think was the next thing I discovered? + +MISS CAREY: (In horror.) His _teeth_ only grew in patches. + +ANGELA: No, but I had fallen in love with a pair of tailor's +shoulder-pads--yes--when he took off his coat that night, he shrunk +so, I screamed (Pause--as laugh comes here.)--thinking I was in a +room with a strange man--but all he muttered was "Angie, I can +loll about in easy things now, I'm married"--and that's how gradually +his refined feet began to look like canal-boats--his skin only +looked kissable the days he shaved--twice a week--his teeth became +tobacco stained--and to-night--to-night, Miss Carey, he stopped +wearing hemstitched pajamas and took to wearing canton flannel +night shirts. (In depth of woe after the big laugh this gets.) +Miss Carey, have you ever seen a man in a canton flannel night +shirt? + +MISS CAREY: (After an expression of horror.) I told you I am not +married. + +ANGELA: (Innocently.) Oh, excuse me, I was thinking of your boarders. +(MISS CAREY screams "what" and shows herself insulted beyond words.) +Is it any wonder my love for him has grown cold? Men expect a +woman to primp up for them--we must always look our best to hold +their love--but once they wheedle us into signing our names to the +marriage contract--they think (Suddenly, seeing dress again.)--Oh +Miss Carey, what do you charge for a frock like that? + +MISS CAREY: I have no night rates for gowns, Mrs.-- + +ANGELA: Just call me Angie--'cause I probably will live with you +now. (Slips her arm through MISS CAREY'S, laying her head on the +older woman's shoulder.) + +MISS CAREY: (Disengaging her.) We'll talk that over in the morning-- +if you want, you may sleep upon that couch--I'll put out the light. +(She does so.) I'm going to bed--I must get a little rest. (She +gives a sharp turn and goes to her room. Blue light floods stage. +Through the half open curtain she is seen having trouble with her +bed covers--getting them too high up, then too far down, etc. Big +laughs on this business.) + +ANGELA: (Taking down hair.) Miss Carey, you said you were an +orphan--I'm an orphan, too. (There is no answer.) I can't tell you +how I appreciate your insisting on my staying--let me make your +breakfast in the morning, Miss Carey. (No answer.) Harry might at +least try to find me. Aren't men brutes, Miss Carey? + +MISS CAREY: (Loudly from within.) They certainly are. + +ANGELA: (Lets peignoir slip off her shoulders, is in pretty silk +pajamas.) In the morning, I must think how I can earn my own living. +(She lies down as snores come from next room.) Miss Carey, are you +asleep? (Snore.) Oh dear, she's asleep before I am--she might have +waited. (A key is heard in the door--Angela sits up in alarm--as +key turns, she screams.) Oh Miss Carey, wake up--someone's at the +door--wake up. (Miss Carey jumps up and out of bed.) + +MISS CAREY: Good Lord--what is it now? (Puts up light--the door +opens, and immaculately dressed, handsome young man in evening +clothes, white gloves, etc., enters--FRED SALTUS.) + +ANGELA: Burglars! (She runs behind curtain of MISS CAREY'S room.) + +MISS CAREY: You simpleton. I told you I had a male boarder. This +is it, Mr. Saltus. + +FRED: Oh, Miss Carey, pardon me--I'd have come in by the back door, +but I didn't know you were entertaining company. + +MISS CAREY: I'm not entertaining anyone--I'm trying to get a little +rest before it's time for me to get up--and young lady, if you'll +come out of my room and let me in, I'll beg of you not to disturb +me again. (She shoves ANGELA out in her pajamas, unintentionally +knocking her into MR. SALTUS, and goes back to bed.) (Ad. lib. +talk.) + +ANGELA: (Embarrassed and rushing behind the frock on the dressmaker's +figure.) I've made her awfully cross--but I thought it must be a +burglar--'cause, you see, I never knew boarders were allowed out +so late at night. + +FRED: (Recognizing her.) What are you doing here? + +ANGELA: (Forced to confess.) I've left my husband. (He gives a +whistle of surprise.) You know he's the man on the floor below--you +may have seen me with him--once in a great while. + +FRED: I've seen you often (Delighted.)--and so you've left him, eh? + +ANGELA: Yes--and I'm really quite upset about it--naturally he's +the first husband I've ever left--and you can imagine how a woman +feels if _you've_ left _your_ husband--that is your wife. (All in one +breath.) Are you married? + +FRED: No indeed--not a chance. + +ANGELA: (Quickly fishes her opera cloak off couch--slips it over +her and goes to couch.) Then come here and sit down. (He does so.) +I should think the girls would all be crazy about you. + +FRED: Oh--they are--are you boarding here too now? + +ANGELA: Yes, but Miss Carey doesn't know it yet. + +FRED: Tell me, have you ever noticed me coming in or going out of +the building? + +ANGELA: Oh yes, indeed--I used to point you out to Harry and show +him how you always looked so immaculate and dapper--just as he +used to look before we were married. (Starting to weep.) + +FRED: Oh, you'll go back to your home to-morrow. + +ANGELA: No--I'll never enter it again--never again--except for +lunch. + +FRED: Then you're planning a divorce? + +ANGELA: (As it dawns on her--with a smile.) I suppose it would be +well to get something like that. + +FRED: Is he in love with another woman? + +ANGELA: (Indignantly.) My Harry--I guess not. (His hand is stretched +toward her--in anger she slaps it.) + +FRED: Then you'll never get it (Making love to her.) unless you +fall in love with another man and let your husband get the divorce. + +ANGELA: (Innocently.) I think I'd like that better--I'll tell Miss +Carey (She approaches curtain--a snore makes her change her +mind.)--I'll tell her later. + +FRED: I'm awfully glad I'm a fellow boarder here. (He advances +to her--as he is about to put his arm about her--suddenly a pounding +on door and a gruff voice without:) Open--open! + +ANGELA: (In terror.) Oh, it's my husband--it's Harry. + +FRED: Don't talk, or he'll hear you. + +ANGELA: I'll hide--and you open, or he'll break down the door. + +FRED: I'll have nothing to do with this mixup. + +HARRY: (Loudly, without.) Open, or I'll bang--down--the--door. + +ANGELA: If you don't open, he'll do it--he's a regular "door-banger." + +FRED: Well, I'll not. + +ANGELA: Then I'll get Miss Carey. (Up to curtains again.) Miss +Carey--Miss Carey--get up. + +MISS CAREY: (Sticking her head out of curtains.) My Gawd, what is +it now? + +ANGELA: (After struggle as to how to explain.) My husband is here +to see us. + +MISS CAREY: Confound your husband. + +HARRY: (Outside.) I want my wife. + +ANGELA: (Pleading.) Oh, Miss Carey, the poor man wants his wife-- +tell him I'm not here. + +MISS CAREY: (Jumping up--to FRED.) You go to your room, Mr. +Saltus--I'll bet you were afraid to open the door. (FRED goes to +his room.) And you go into my bed--if he sees you, I'll never get +any sleep. + +ANGELA: Don't hurt my Harry's feelings, Miss Carey--he's awfully +sensitive. (She goes behind curtains.) + +MISS CAREY: No, I won't hurt his feelings--(Opening door fiercely +for HARRY.) What do you want? + +HARRY: (Pushing her aside as he rushes in.) My wife--she's in here. + +MISS CAREY: (Following him down.) She's not here--and you get +out--what do you mean by waking me up at this hour? + +HARRY: I've waked up everybody else in the building--why should +_you_ sleep? + +MISS CAREY: I've never seen you before, but now that I have, I +don't wonder your wife left you. + +HARRY: Madam, you look like a woman who could sympathize with a +man. + +MISS CAREY: With a man? Never--now get out. + +HARRY: (Making a tour of the room--she following.) Not till I've +searched your place--my wife must be here. + +MISS CAREY: I don't know your wife--and I don't want to. + +HARRY: Why, madam--I'm crazy about her--suppose I'm the only man +in the world who would be, but she's my doll. + +MISS CAREY: Well, you've lost your doll--good night. + +HARRY: Oh, I'll get her back again--but a change has seemed to +come over her of late, and to-night she broke out in a fury and +hit me violently over the head with a Wedgewood vase. + +ANGELA: (Rushing out--ready to slap him again.) Oh Harry, I did +not--it never touched you. + +MISS CAREY: (Throwing up her hands.) Now I'll never get to sleep. + +HARRY: (Turning on MISS CAREY.) Oh, I understand it all--it's you +who've come between us--you designing, deceitful homebreaker. + +MISS CAREY: You leave my apartment--you impertinent man. + +HARRY: Not without my wife. + +ANGELA: Then you'll stay forever--'cause I'm not going with you. +(She sits right of little table.) + +MISS CAREY: See here--you argue this out between you--but I'm going +to bed--but don't you argue above a whisper or I'll ring for the +police--the idea of you two galavanting about my apartments. +(Going behind curtains.) + +(A funny scene ensues between husband and wife--they start their +argument in whispered pantomime--she shakes her finger at him--he +shakes back at her--it finally grows slightly louder and louder +until they are yelling at each other.) + +ANGELA: (Screaming.) If you say the vase hit you--you're a wicked-- + +HARRY: I don't care anything about the vase--you're coming downstairs +with me. (He pulls her off chair and swings her R.) + +ANGELA: (Falling on couch.) I'm not. + +HARRY: (Grabbing her again.) You are. + +ANGELA: I'm not. (He tries to pull her to door--she bites his +finger, and breaking away, runs up to curtains again.) Miss Carey, +Miss Carey, wake up, he bit me. (MISS CAREY dashes out in fury, +ANGELA hangs to her.) Oh, Miss Carey, you're the only one I have +in all the world to keep me from this monster. Oh, Miss Carey, +pity me, make believe you're my mother. + +MISS CAREY: I told you I'm not married. + +ANGELA: Well, think how you'd feel if you were and I were your own +little girl and a wicked man was ill-treating me, etc. (She finally +touches the mother vein in MISS CAREY.) + +MISS CAREY: (Affected.) Go into my room, dear. (She leads her up +to bed behind curtains. After Angela disappears behind curtains, +MISS CAREY turns--facing HARRY.) I'll settle with this viper. +(Coming down.) Aren't you ashamed of yourself? + +HARRY: Why should I'be ashamed? + +MISS CAREY: (Resolutely.) Because you're a lollard. + +HARRY: I'm what? + +MISS CAREY: You're one of those vile creatures whose hair grows +from east to west. (Dramatically.) Where are your refined feet +now? ) + +HARRY: (Thinking she's mad.) What on earth are you talking about? + +MISS CAREY: The man she fell in love with and married was spick +and span--his shoulders were big and broad--his teeth were white--and +his skin--well, if he were standing before me now, I'd be just +crazy to kiss him myself. + +HARRY: I was all that you say when I married her--that's how I won +her. + +MISS CAREY: And now you're _not_ all that I say--that's how you _lost_ +her. You can't blame a little woman if she thinks she's getting +a man of gold and she finds she's got a gold brick. + +HARRY: Why, I'm not different now than I was then--only before I was +married I was like all men, I did everything to appear at my best-- +to fool her. + +MISS CAREY: Fool her now--we women love to be fooled. We want to +be proud of our husbands. Most of us get gold bricks, but we don't +want anyone else to know it. + +HARRY: By George, there may be something in all this. How did you +come to know it? + +MISS CAREY: I'm an old maid, and old maids know more about men +than anyone--that's why they stay old maids. What were you wearing +the first time you met? + +HARRY: (Reminiscently.) A suit of regimentals. + +MISS CAREY: (Hurrying up to door.) Quick, go downstairs and put +'em on and come up as quick as you can. + +HARRY: (Looks at himself in glass near door.) By George--you're +right. Oh, Miss Carey, I am a lollard. (He runs off.) + +MISS CAREY: You're a lollard, all right. Now young woman--get +your things together and get ready to go--young woman, do you hear +me? (She goes up to curtains, and opens them--there lies ANGELA +cozily huddled in a heap, fast asleep.) Well, if the little fluff +hasn't fallen asleep. Here--wake up--the idea. + +ANGELA: (In her sleep.) Harry, be gentle with Miss Carey--she can't +help it. (MISS CAREY shakes her so she jumps up.) Oh Miss Carey-- +hello. + +MISS CAREY: Now get your things together--your husband is coming +for you in a minute. + +ANGELA: (A la Ibsen.) I shall never return to Harry again-- +I've left him for life. + +MISS CAREY: You'll not stay here all that time. + +ANGELA: (As she comes down, dreamily.) No, I intend to marry +another--and oh, Miss Carey, his hair is so spick--his shoulders +so broad--his teeth are so white. + +MISS CAREY: Good Lord, woman, now you're commencing with another. +Who is it? + +ANGELA: Surely you must have foreseen my danger--I'm in love with +your boarder. + +MISS CAREY: Why, you must be crazy--girl--I won't let you enter +into such a madness. + +ANGELA: (In horror.) Oh Miss Carey, don't tell me you're in love +with him yourself. (MISS CAREY sinks in chair.) But you'll not get +him. + +MISS CAREY: Why, my dear, I wouldn't have him for a birth-day +present and neither will you. (After an ad lib. argument.) We'll +see. (She calls off in next room.) Fire! Fire!! Fire!!! + +(ANGELA gets scared and starts to run one way as FRED runs in--in +canton flannels without toupee, etc., etc. ANGELA flops. After +audience has seen FRED'S condition, he realizes presence of ladies +and rushes back to door--sticking his head out.) + +FRED: Where? Where's the fire? + +MISS CAREY: Go back to your bed, Mr. Saltus. (With a look at +ANGELA.) There was a fire. + +ANGELA: (Disgusted.) But Miss Carey--has--put--it--out. + +(On word "out" she gestures him out of room and out of her life. +FRED closes door as he withdraws head.) + +ANGELA: Oh Miss Carey, what an awful lollard _that_ is. (There is +a ring at bell.) + +(Music commences sweet melody.) + +MISS CAREY: (Knowing it is HARRY.) Open the door and see who it is. + +(ANGELA opens the door--HARRY stands there in regimentals--handsome, +young and dapper. ANGELA falls back in admiration.) + +HARRY: Angela. + +ANGELA: Oh, Harry darling! + +MISS CAREY: He does look good! + +ANGELA: (As she picks up her belongings.) I'm going home with you. + +MISS CAREY: (As ANGELA goes up to HARRY.) Don't forget your tea +dress. (Hands her the little bag.) + +ANGELA: I'm so tired, Harry--take me home. (He lifts his tired +little wife up in his arms and as he goes out, she mutters:) You're +not such a bad lollard after all. + +MISS CAREY: (Going to put out light.) Now, thank Gawd, I'll get a +little sleep. + +CURTAIN FALLS + + + +BLACKMAIL +A ONE-ACT PLAY +BY +RICHARD HARDING DAVIS + +Author of "Van Bibber Stories," "Soldiers of Fortune," +The Playlets, "The Littlest Girl," played by Robert +Hilliard for ten years, "Miss Civilization," etc., and +many full-evening plays. + + +BLACKMAIL + +CHARACTERS + +RICHARD FALLON, a millionaire mine owner. +"LOU" MOHUN, a crook. +KELLY, a Pinkerton detective. +MRS. HOWARD: + +SCENE + +The scene shows the interior of the sitting room of a suite in a +New York hotel of the class of the Hotel Astor or Claridge. In +the back wall a door opens into what is the bedroom of the suite. +The hinges of this door are on the right, the door knob on the +left. On the wall on either side of the door is hung a framed +copy of a picture by Gibson or Christy. In the left wall, half +way down, is a door leading to the hall. Higher up against the +wall is a writing desk on which are writing materials and a hand +telephone. Above this pinned to the wall is a blue-print map. +In front of the desk is a gilt chair without arms. Above and to +the right of the gilt chair is a Morris chair facing the audience. +In the seat of the chair is a valise; over the back hangs a man's +coat. + +In the right wall are two windows with practical blinds. Below +them against the wall, stretches a leather sofa. On it is a +suitcase, beside it on the floor a pair of men's boots. Below the +sofa and slightly to the left stands a table, sufficiently heavy +to bear the weight of a man leaning against it. On this table are +magazines, a man's sombrero, a box of safety matches, a pitcher +of ice water and a glass, and hanging over the edge of the table, +in view of the audience, are two blue prints held down by pieces +of ore. The light that comes through the two windows is of a sunny +day in August. + +WHEN THE CURTAIN RISES + +RICHARD FALLON is discovered at table arranging the specimens of +ore upon the blue prints. He is a young man of thirty-five, his +face is deeply tanned, his manner is rough and breezy. He is +without a coat, and his trousers are held up by a belt. He is +smoking a cigar. + +FALLON crosses to Morris chair, opens valise, turns over papers, +clothing, fails to find that for which he is looking and closes +the valise. He recrosses to suit case which is at lower end of +the sofa. He breaks it open and searches through more papers, +shirts, coats. Takes out another blue print, tightly rolled. +Unrolls it, studies it, and apparently satisfied, with his left +hand, places it on table. + +In attempting to close the suit case the half nearer the audience +slips over the foot of the sofa, and there falls from it to the floor, +a heavy "bull dog" revolver. FALLON stares at it, puzzled, as +though trying to recall when he placed it in his suit case. Picks +it up. Looks at it. Throws it carelessly into suit case and shuts +it. His manner shows he attaches no importance to the revolver. +He now surveys the blue prints and the specimens of ore, as might +a hostess, who is expecting guests, survey her dinner table. He +crosses to hand telephone. + +FALLON: (To 'phone.) Give me the room clerk, please. Hello? This +is Mr. Fallon. I'm expecting two gentlemen at five o'clock. Send +them right up. And, not now, but when they come, send me up a box +of your best cigars and some rye and seltzer. Thank you. (Starts +to leave telephone, but is recalled.) What? A lady? I don't know +any. I don't know a soul in New York! What's her name? What--Mrs. +Tom Howard? For heaven's sake! Tell her I'll be there in one +second! What? Why certainly! Tell her to come right up. (He rises, +muttering joyfully.) Well, well, well! + +(Takes his coat from chair and puts it on. Lifts valise from chair +and places it behind writing desk. Kicks boots under sofa. Places +cigar on edge of table in view of audience. Looks about for mirror +and finding none, brushes his hair with his hands, and arranges +his tie. Goes to door L. and opens it, expectantly.) + +MRS. HOWARD enters. She is a young woman of thirty. Her face is +sweet, sad, innocent. She is dressed in white--well, but simply. +Nothing about her suggests anything of the fast, or adventuress +type. + +Well, Helen! This is fine! God bless you, this is the best thing +that's come my way since I left Alaska. And I never saw you looking +better. + +MRS. HOWARD: (Taking his hand.) And, it's good to see you, Dick. +(She staggers and sways slightly as though about to faint.) Can I +sit down? (She moves to Morris chair and sits back in it.) + +FALLON: (In alarm.) What is it? Are you ill? + +MRS. HOWARD: No, I'm--I'm so glad to find you--I was afraid! I was +afraid I wouldn't find you, and I _had_ to see you. (Leaning +forward, in great distress.) I'm in trouble, Dick--terrible trouble. + +FALLON: (Joyfully.) And you've come to me to help you? + +MRS. HOWARD: Yes. + +FALLON: That's fine! That's bully. I thought, maybe, you'd just +come to talk over old times. (Eagerly.) And that would have been +fine, too, understand--but if you've come to me because you're in +trouble, then I know you're still my good friend, my dear old pal. +(Briskly.) Now, listen, you say you're in trouble. Well, you knew +me when I was down and out in San Francisco, living on free lunches +and chop suey. Now, look at me, Helen, I'm a bloated capitalist. +I'm a millionaire. + +MRS. HOWARD: (Nervously.) I know, Dick, and I'm so glad! That's +how I knew you were here, I read about you this morning in the +papers. + +FALLON: And half they said is true, too. See those blue prints? +Each one of them means a gold mine, and at five, I'm to unload +them on some of the biggest swells in Wall Street. (Gently.) Now, +all that that means is this: I don't know what your trouble is, +but, if money can cure it, you _haven't got any trouble_. + +MRS. HOWARD: Dick, you're just as generous and kind. You haven't +changed in any way. + +FALLON: I haven't changed toward you. How's that husband of yours? +(Jokingly.) I'd ought to shot that fellow. + +MRS. HOWARD: (In distress.) That's why I came, Dick. Oh, Dick-- + +FALLON: (Anxiously, incredulously.) Don't tell me there's any +trouble between you and Tom? Why, old Tom he just worships you. +He loves you like-- + +MRS. HOWARD: That's it. And I want to _keep_ his love. + +FALLON: (Laughingly.) Keep his love? Is that all you've got to +worry about? (Throughout the following scene, Mrs. Howard speaks +in a fateful voice, like a woman beaten and hopeless.) + +MRS. HOWARD: Dick, did you ever guess why I didn't marry you? + +FALLON: No, I knew. You didn't marry me because you didn't love +me, and you _did_ love Tom. + +MRS. HOWARD: No, I didn't know Tom then. And I thought I loved +you, until I met Tom. But I didn't marry you, because it wouldn't +have been honest--because, three years before I met you, I had +lived with a man--as his wife. + +FALLON: Helen! (His tone is one of amazement, but not of reproach. +In his astonishment, he picks the cigar from the table, puffs at +it standing and partly seated on the table.) + +MRS. HOWARD: (In the same dead level, hopeless voice.) I was +seventeen years old. I was a waiter girl at one of Fred Harvey's +restaurants on the Santa Fe. I was married to this man before a +magistrate. (Fallon lifts his head.) Three months later, when +he'd grown tired of me, he told me the magistrate who had married +us was not a magistrate but a friend of his, a man named Louis +Mohun, and he brought this man to live with us. I should have +left him then, that was where I did wrong. That was all I did +that was wrong. But, I couldn't leave him, I couldn't, because I +was going to be a mother--and in spite of what he had done--I +begged him to marry me. + +FALLON: And--he wouldn't? + +MRS. HOWARD: Maybe he would--but--he was killed. + +FALLON: (Eagerly.) You? + +MRS. HOWARD. (In horror.) God, no! + +FALLON: It's a pity. That's what you should have done. + +MRS. HOWARD: He was a gambler, one night he cheated--the man he +cheated, shot him. Then--my baby--died! After two years I came +to San Francisco and met you and Tom. Then you went to Klondike +and I married Tom. + +FALLON: And, you told Tom? + +MRS. HOWARD: (Lowering her face.) + +FALLON: Helen! + +MRS. HOWARP: I know, but I was afraid. I loved him so, and I was +afraid. + +FALLON: But Tom would have understood. Why, you thought you were +married. + +MRS. HOWARD: I was afraid. I loved him too much. I was too happy, +and I was afraid I'd lose him. (FALLON shakes his head.) But, we +were leaving San Francisco forever--to live in the East--where I +thought no one knew me. + +FALLON: Well? + +MRS. HOWARD: Well, one man knew me. Mohun, the man who played the +magistrate. He came East, too. Three years ago he saw me one +night with Tom in a theatre. He followed us and found out where +I lived. The next morning he came to see me, and threatened to +tell! And, I was terrified, I lost my head and gave him money. +(Slowly.) And I have been giving him money ever since. + +FALLON: Helen! You! Fall for blackmail? Why, that isn't you. +You're no coward! You should have told the swine to go to Hell, +and as soon as Tom came home, you should have told him the whole +story. + +MRS. HOWARD: (Fiercely.) My story, yes! But not a story Mohun +threatens to tell! In a week he had it all backed up with letters, +telegrams, God knows what he didn't make me out to be--a vile, +degraded creature. + +FALLON: And who'd have believed it? + +MRS. HOWARD: Everybody! He proved it! And my children. He threatened +to stop my children on the way to school and explain to them what +kind of a woman their mother was. So, I paid and paid and paid. +I robbed Tom, I robbed the children. I cheated them of food, and +clothes, I've seen Tom look almost ashamed of us. And when I'd +taken all I'd dared from Tom, I pretended I wanted to be more +independent, and I learned typewriting, and needlework and decorating, +and I worked at night, and when Tom was at the office--to earn +money--to give to Mohun. And each time he said it was the last, +and each time he came back demanding more. God knows what he does +with it, he throws it away--on drink, on women, opium. + +FALLON: Dope fiend, too, hey? + +MRS. HOWARD: He's that, too; he's everything that's vile; inhuman, +pitiless, degenerate. Sometimes, I wonder why God lets him live. +(Her voice drops to a whisper.) Sometimes, I almost pray to God +to let him die. (FALLON who already has determined to kill MOHUN, +receives this speech with indifference, and continues grimly to +puff on his cigar.) He's killed my happiness, he's killing me. +In keeping him alive, I've grown ill and old. I see the children +growing away from me, I see Tom drawing away from me. And now, +after all my struggles, after all my torture, Tom must be told. +Mohun is in some _new_ trouble. He must have a thousand dollars! +I can no more give him a thousand dollars than I can give him New +York City. But, if I don't, he'll _tell!_ _What_ am I to do? + +FALLON: (Unmoved.) When did you see this--this _thing_ last? + +MRS. HOWARD: This morning. He'd read about you in the papers. +He knows I knew you in San Francisco. He said you'd "struck it +rich," and that you'd give me the money. (Rises, and comes to him.) +But, get this straight, Dick. I didn't come here for money. I +don't want money. I won't take money. I came to you because you +are my best friend, and Tom's best friend, and because I need a +_man's brain_, a man's advice. + +FALLON: (Contemptuously.) Advice! Hell! Am I the sort of man that +gives girls--_advice?_ (With rough tenderness.) Now, you go home +to Tom, and tell him I'm coming to dinner. (Impressively.) And +leave this _leech_ to me. And, _don't_ worry. This thing never +happened, it's just a bad dream, a nightmare. Just throw it from +your shoulders like a miner drops his pack. It's never coming +back into your life again. + +MRS. HOWARD: (Earnestly.) No! I won't _let_ you pay that man! He'd +hound you, as he's hounded me! + +FALLON: (Indignantly.) Pay him? Me? I haven't got enough _money_ +to pay him! + +MRS. HOWARD: What! + +FALLON: _No man_ on earth has money enough to pay blackmail. +Helen, this is what I think of a blackmailer: The _lowest_ thing +that crawls, is a man that sends a woman into the streets to earn +money for him. Here, in New York, you call them "cadets." Now, +there's only one thing on earth lower than a cadet, and that's the +blackmailer, the man who gets money from a woman--by threatening +her good name--who uses her past as a _club_--who drags out some +unhappy act of hers for which she's repented, in tears, on her +knees, which the world has forgotten, which God has forgiven. +And, for that _past_ sin, that's forgotten and forgiven, this +blackguard crucifies her. And the woman--to protect her husband +and her children, as you have done--to protect her own good name, +that she's worked for and won, starves herself to feed that _leech_. +And, you ask me, if _I'm_ going to feed him, too! Not me! Helen, +down in lower California, there are black bats, the Mexican calls +"Vampire" bats. They come at night and fasten on the sides of +the horses and drink their blood. And, in the morning when you +come to saddle up, you'll find the horses too weak to walk, and +hanging to their flanks these vampires, swollen and bloated and +drunk with blood. Now, I've just as much sympathy for Mr. Mohun, +as I have for those vampires, and, I'm going to treat him just as +I treat them! Where is he? + +MRS. HOWARD: Downstairs. In the cafe. + +FALLON: Here, in this hotel? + +MRS. HOWARD: Yes. + +FALLON: (Half to himself.) Good! + +MRS. HOWARD: He said he'd wait until I telephoned him that you +would pay. If you won't, he's going straight to Tom. + +FALLON: He is, is he? Helen, I hate to have you speak to him +again, but, unless he hears your voice, he won't come upstairs. +(Motions towards telephone.) Tell him I'll see him in ten minutes. +Tell him I've agreed to make it all right. + +MRS. HOWARD: But, _how_, Dick, _how_? + +FALLON: Don't you worry about that. I'm going to send him away. +Out of the country. He won't trouble you any more. + +MRS. HOWARD: But he won't _go_. He's promised _me_ to go many times-- + +FALLON: Yes, but he's not dealing with a woman, now, he's dealing +with a man, with boots on. Do as I tell you. + +(MRS. HOWARD sits at writing desk and takes receiver off telephone. +FALLON leans against table right, puffing quickly on his cigar, +and glancing impatiently at the valise that holds his revolver.) + +MRS. HOWARD: Give me the cafe, please. Is this the cafe? I want +to speak to a Mr. Mohun, he is waiting to be called up--oh, thank +you. (To FALLON.) He's coming. (To 'phone.) I have seen that man +and he says he'll take up that debt, and pay it. Yes, now, at +_once_. You're to wait for ten minutes, until he can get the +money, and then, he'll telephone you to come up. I don't know, +I'll ask. (To Fallon.) He says it must be in _cash_. + +FALLON: (Sarcastically.) Why, certainly! That'll be all right. +(MRS. HOWARD Places her hand over the mouth piece.) + +MRS. HOWARD: I'll not _let_ you pay him! + +FALLON: I'm not going to! I'm going to _give_ him just what's coming +to him. Tell him, it'll be all right. + +MRS. HOWARD: (To 'phone.) He says to tell you, it'll be all right. +The room is 210 on the third floor. In ten minutes, yes. (She +rises.) + +FALLON: Now, then, you go back to Tom and get dinner ready. Don't +forget I'm coming to _dinner_. And the children must come to +dinner, _too_. We'll have a happy, good old-time reunion. + +MRS. HOWARD: (With hand on door knob of door left.) Dick, how can +I thank you? + +FALLON: Don't let me catch you trying. + +MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick. (With a sudden hope.) And you +really believe you can make him _go_? + +FALLON: Don't worry! I'm sure of it. + +MRS. HOWARD: And, you think he won't come back? + +FALLON: (After a pause, gravely.) I _know_ he won't come back. + +MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick! + +FALLON: See you at dinner. + +(MRS. HOWARD exits. FALLON stands considering, and chewing on his +cigar. Then, he crosses room briskly and lowers the blind at each +window. Opens valise and examines revolver. Places the revolver +in his left hip pocket. Then, in a matter-of-course manner from +his right hand pocket, he draws his automatic pistol. This, as +though assured he would find loaded, he examines in a quick, +perfunctory way, and replaces. He crosses left to desk, and taking +from it a cheque book, writes out a cheque, which he tears from +the book, and holds in his right hand. With left hand he removes +the receiver from the telephone.) + +Give me Murray Hill 2828. Hello, is this the Corn and Grain Bank? +I want to speak to the cashier. Hello, is that the cashier? This +is Richard Fallon, of San Francisco, speaking from the Hotel +Wisteria. I opened an account with you day before yesterday, for +two hundred thousand dollars. Yes, this is Mr. Fallon speaking. +I made out a cheque yesterday payable to Louis Mohun (Glances at +cheque.), dated August 4th, for two thousand dollars. I want to +know if he's cashed it in yet? He hasn't, hey? Good! (He continues +to look at cheque, to impress upon audience, that the cheque they +have just seen him write, is the one which he is speaking about.) +Well, I want to stop payment on that cheque. Yes, yes. I made +it out under _pressure_, and I've decided not to stand for it. Yes, +_sort_ of a hold up! I guess that's why he was afraid to cash it. +You'll attend to that, will you? Thank you. Good-bye. (He takes +an envelope from desk, places cheque in it and puts envelope in +his breast pocket. Again takes off receiver.) Hello, give me the +cashier, please. Am I speaking to the cashier of the hotel? This +is Mr. Fallon in room 210. Is your hotel detective in the lobby? +He is? Good! What--what sort of a man is he, is he a man I can +rely on? A Pinkerton, hey? That's good enough! Well, I wish you'd +give him a thousand dollars for me in hundreds. Ten hundred-dollar +bills, and before you send them up, I wish you'd mark them and +take their numbers. What? No, there's no trouble. I just want +to see that the right bills go to the right people, that's all. +Thank you. + +(He crosses to door centre, and taking key from the bedroom side, +places it in keyhole on side of door in view of the audience. He +turns the key several times. He takes the revolver from his left +hip pocket and holding it in his right hand, rehearses shooting +under his left arm through his coat which he holds from him by the +fingers of his left hand. Shifting revolver to his left hand, he +takes the automatic from his right hip pocket, and goes through +the motions of firing with both guns in opposite directions. His +pantomine must show he intends making use of both guns at the same +time, using one apparently upon himself, and the other, in earnest, +upon another person. He replaces the revolvers in his pockets. +There is a knock at the door.) + +Come in. + +(KELLY enters. In his hand he carries an envelope. He is an +elderly man with grey hair, neatly dressed and carrying a straw +hat. He has an air of authority. His manner to FALLON is +respectful.) + +KELLY: Afternoon, Mr. Fallon. I am Kelly, the house detective. + +FALLON: Yes, I know. I've seen you in the lobby. + +KELLY: Mr. Parmelee said I was to give you this. (Gives envelope +to FALLON. FALLON takes out ten yellow-back bills.) There ought +to be a thousand dollars there in hundreds. + +FALLON: That's right. Now, will you just sit over there, and as +I read the numbers, you write them down. + +KELLY: Mr. Parmelee made a note of the numbers, Mr. Fallon. + +FALLON: I know. I want you to identify them too. + +KELLY: I can do that. I saw him mark them. + +FALLON: Good. And if you saw these bills in the next five minutes +you'd be able to swear they're the same bills you gave me? + +KELLY: Sure. (Starts towards door.) + +FALLON: Wait a minute. Sit down, Kelly. (KELLY seats himself in +Morris chair, holding his hat between his knees.) Kelly, this hotel +engages you from the Pinkertons to stay around the place, and--protect +the guests? + +KELLY: Yes, sir. + +FALLON: Well, there's a man downstairs thinks he has a claim on +this money. Now, I'd like you to wait in that bedroom and listen +to what he says with a view to putting him in jail. + +KELLY: Blackmail, Mr. Fallon? + +FALLON: Yes, blackmail. + +KELLY: (Eagerly.) And you're not going to stand for it? + +FALLON: I am not! + +KELLY: (Earnestly.) Good! That's the only way to treat those dogs. +Never _give up_, never _give up_! + +FALLON: No, but yesterday, I _had_ to give up. He put a gun at +my head. + +KELLY: (Excitedly.) Where? Not in this hotel? + +FALLON: Yes, in this room. I gave him a cheque for two thousand +dollars. That made him think I was _easy_, and he telephoned this +morning that he's coming back for another thousand, and he wants +it in _cash_. That's why I marked those bills. + +KELLY: Why, we got him _now_! He's as good as _dead_. + +FALLON: (Startled.) What? + +KELLY: I say, we've got him nailed now. + +FALLON: Oh, yes. (Pause.) He hasn't turned in the cheque yet--I've +just called up the bank to find out. I guess he means to hold +_that_ over my head, hey? + +KELLY: More likely he's _afraid_ of it. (Eagerly.) We may _get_ +that back, too. We may find it _on him_. + +FALLON: What? Yes, as _you_ say, we may find it on him. + +KELLY: (Eagerly.) And as soon as he gets those bills in his clothes, +you give me the high sign (Fiercely.)--and we'll _nail_ him! + +FALLON: Yes, we'll nail him. And, if he puts his gun in my face +_today_, he won't catch me empty-handed the second time. (Draws +automatic from his pocket.) I'm _ready_ for him, today! + +KELLY: (Greatly concerned.) Here, none of _that_ stuff, Mr. Fallon. +A gentleman like you can't take _that_ chance. + +FALLON: Chance? Kelly, I haven't _always_ lived in a swell hotel. +The man that gets the drop on _me_--_when_ I've got a gun--has got +to be damned quick. + +KELLY: That's just what I mean! I'm not thinking of him, I'm +thinking of _you_. Give me that gun. + +FALLON: Certainly not. + +KELLY: You don't want to go to jail for a rat like that. + +FALLON: I don't mean to go to jail, and, I don't mean to die, +either. For the last six years I've been living on melted ice and +bacon. Now, I'm worth seven million dollars. I'm thirty-five +years old and my life is in front of me. And, I don't mean to +waste one hour of it in a jail, and I don't mean to let any +blackmailer take it away from me. + +KELLY: You don't want no judge to take it away from you, either! +You're not in the Klondike. + +FALLON: I guess, I've got a right to _defend_ myself, _anywhere_. + +KELLY: Yes, but you'll get excited and-- + +FALLON: (Quietly.) I? Excited? I never get excited. The last +time I was excited was when I was seven years old, and the circus +came to town. + +KELLY: Don't mix up in this. What am _I_ here for? + +FALLON: You won't be here. How can you help me in that room, when +a fellow's pumping lead into my stomach in this one? + +KELLY: He won't pump no lead. + +FALLON: (Carelessly.) I hope not. But, if he does, he's got to +do it awful quick. (Motions towards centre door.) Now, you go in +there and shut the door, and I'll talk out here. And you tell me +if you can hear what I say? (KELLY goes into bedroom and closes +door. FALLON walks to door R. with his back turned towards KELLY.) +Have you got the door shut tight? + +KELLY: (From bedroom.) Yes. + +FALLON: (Speaks in a loud tone, to an imaginary person.) No, not +another penny. If I pay you, will you promise not to take the +story to the newspapers? I give you this thousand dollars--(Turns +towards centre door. KELLY opens door.) Could you hear me? + +KELLY: Yes, I could hear _you_, but _he_ won't talk that loud. You +put him in that chair (Points to Morris chair.)--so that he'll sit +facing me, and you stand over there (Points at safe.)--so then +he'll have to speak up. + +FALLON: I see. Are you all ready? + +KELLY: Yes. (KELLY closes door. FALLON goes to desk. Lifts both +guns from his pocket an inch or two, and then takes receiver from +telephone. To 'phone.) Give me the cafe, please. Is this the +cafe? There's a Mr. Mohun down there waiting to hear from Mr. +Fallon--yes. All right. Tell him to come up. (KELLY opens door.) + +KELLY: Hist. Listen, this guy knows what he's up against; he knows +it might land him in Sing Sing and he'll be leery of this door +being shut. So, if he insists on looking in here, you speak up +loud, and say, "That's my bedroom. It's empty." Say it quick +enough to give me time to get out into the hall. + +FALLON: I see. + +KELLY: Then, when he's had his look around, you slam the door shut +again, and I'll come back into the bedroom. Have you got it? + +FALLON: I understand. (In loud voice.) That's my bedroom. It's +empty. + +KELLY: That's the office for me to sneak into the hall. (In bedroom, +he disappears right.) + +FALLON: (At open door, rehearsing.) You see, the room is empty. +(Closes the door with a bang. Pause, then he calls.) Are you there +now, Kelly? + +KELLY: Yes, I'm here. + +(FALLON stands looking at the key in the door. For an instant his +hand falters over it as though he would risk turning it. Then, +he shakes his head, and walks to table right. There is a low knock +at door left.) + +FALLON: Come in. + +(MOHUN enters door left. He is lean, keen faced, watchful. He +is a head taller than FALLON. His manner always has an undercurrent +of insolence.) + +MOHUN: Afternoon. Am I speaking to Mr. Fallon? + +FALLON: Yes. Lou Mohun? + +MOHUN: Yes. (MOHUN stands warily at the door. Glances cautiously +around the room. Bends over quite openly to look under the sofa. +For some seconds his eyes rest with a smile on bedroom door. He +speaks slowly, unemotionally.) A mutual friend of ours said you +wanted to see me. + +FALLON: (Sharply.) We've no mutual friend. No one's in this but +you and me. You want to get that straight! + +MOHUN: (Easily.) All right. That's all right. Well, what do you +want to see me about? + +(FALLON speaks in a loud voice. In the speeches that follow, it +must be apparent that his loud tone and excited manner is assumed, +and is intended only to convince KELLY.) + +FALLON: I understand, you think you have a claim on me for a +thousand dollars. And, I'm going to give it to you. But, first, +I want a plain talk with you. (Sharply.) Are you listening to me? + +MOHUN: No, not yet. Before there's any plain talking, I want to +know where that door leads to. + +FALLON: What door? That? (In a louder voice.) That's my bedroom. +It's empty. Is that what you want? Think I got someone in there? +Do you want to look for yourself? (Opens door.) Go on in, and look. +(MOHUN takes a step forward, and peers past FALLON into bedroom.) +Go on, search it. Look under the bed. + +MOHUN: I guess that's all right. + +FALLON: Don't you _want_ to look? + +MOHUN: (Falling back to door left.) Not now. No need to, if you're +willing to let me. (Impatiently.) Go on. What is it you want with +me? (FALLON closes door with a slam. Comes down to table.) + +FALLON: What do I want? I want you to understand that this is the +last time you come to me for money. + +MOHUN: (Indifferently.) That's all right. + +FALLON: No, its not all right. (Takes out bills.) Before I give +you this, you've got to promise me to keep silent. I'll stand for +no more blackmail. + +MOHUN: Don't talk so loud. I'm not deaf. Look here, Mr. Fallon, +I didn't come here to be shouted at, I came here to get the money +you promised me. + +FALLON: Well, here it is. (Gives him bills. MOHUN sticks them in +his right-hand vest pocket.) No, you listen to me. (As soon as he +obtains the money, MOHUN'S manner changes. He is amused, and +insolent.) + +MOHUN: No, not a bit like it. Now that I've got _this_, you'll +have to listen to me. (Moves deliberately to Morris chair and seats +himself) Mr. Fallon, I don't like your tone. + +FALLON: (Slowly.) You--don't--like my tone? I don't think I +understand you. + +MOHUN: You talk like you had a whip over me. You don't seem to see +that I got you dead to rights. + +FALLON: (In pretended alarm.) Have you? + +MOHUN: Have I? I got a mortgage on you for life. You got in wrong +when you gave me that money. Don't you see that? Mr. Fallon, +I've been taking out information about you. Some 'Frisco lads +tell me you used to be pretty sweet on a certain party, but she +chucked you and married the other fellow. But the first day you +come back a millionaire she visits your rooms--and you give her a +thousand dollars! Why? She can't tell. You can't tell. But _I_ +can tell. I can tell her _husband_. He's only got to ask the +hotel clerk and the cashier and the bell hops, and when I've told +my story _as I'll tell it_--he's liable to shoot you. (There is a +pause during which FALLON stares at MOHUN incredulously.) Let it +sink in, Mr. Fallon. + +FALLON: (Quietly.) I am--letting it sink in. + +MOHUN: Now, a thousand dollars is all well enough from a lady that +has to scrape to find it, but a thousand dollars from a millionaire +like you is a joke. And unless you want me to go to the husband, +you'll come across with fifty thousand dollars, and until I get +it, I'm not going to leave this room. + +FALLON: (Solemnly.) Then, I don't believe you are going to leave +this room. + +MOHUN: (Impudently.) Oh, I'll go when I'm ready. + +FALLON: (Going up close to centre door.) Let me understand you. +You are going to this husband with a lie that will wreck his faith +in his wife, that will wreck his faith in his best friend, unless +I give you a thousand dollars? + +MOHUN: No! Fifty thousand dollars! + +FALLON: Fifty thousand. It's the same thing. But, you'd keep +quiet for ten dollars, wouldn't you, if that was all I had? + +MOHUN: (Grinning at him.) If that was all you had. + +FALLON: (In a whisper, slowly, impressively.) Then, Mr. Mohun (He +raises his right arm.), may--God--have mercy--on your soul. (In +loud, excited tones and purposely, so that MOHUN can see him, he +turns his face towards the centre door.) I won't pay that fifty +thousand. I won't stand for blackmail, you're robbing--(MOHUN +leaps to his feet, and points at centre door.) + +MOHUN: (Fiercely.) Here. What are you doing? You're trying to +trap me? There _is_ someone in that room. (FALLON laughs mockingly +at MOHUN, but speaks for KELLY to hear.) + +FALLON: Don't go near that room. (With his left hand he quickly +turns the key in the door.) Don't lock that door! Don't lock that +door! Kelly, he's locked the door. (He draws the revolver from his +left pocket. KELLY is heard shaking the handle of the door, and +beating upon the panel. FALLON speaks in a whisper.) I told you, +you'd never leave this room, Mr. Mohun. (In a loud, excited tone.) +Drop that gun. Drop that gun. Don't point that gun at me! (Still +smiling mockingly at MOHUN, FALLON shoots twice through his own +coat on the left side, throws the gun at MOHUN'S feet, and drawing +his automatic pistol, shoves it against MOHUN'S stomach and fires. +MOHUN falls back into the Morris chair dead.) (Shouts loudly.) +Break in the door. Break in the door. (From his pocket he takes +the envelope containing the cheque, and sticks it into the inside +pocket of MOHUN'S coat. Then turns to table, right, as KELLY +bursts open the door and sees MOHUN.) + +KELLY: My God, Mr. Fallon. I _told_ you to give me that gun! + +FALLON: Have I hurt him? + +KELLY: (Bending over body.) Hurt him? You've killed him! (FALLON +with his face turned from KELLY, smiles. He speaks with pretended +emotion.) Killed him? Here, you're an officer. (Throws gun on +table.) I give myself up. (KELLY runs to hand telephone. FALLON +picks up his cigar from the table and a box of matches. Starts +to light cigar, but seeing KELLY at 'phone hesitates and listens +eagerly.) + +KELLY: (To 'phone.) Send the hotel doctor here. Quick! Mr. Fallon's +wounded. (To FALLON.) Are you badly hurt? (FALLON places his left +hand on his left hip under the coat and removes it showing the +fingers covered with blood.) + +FALLON: Only scratched. + +KELLY: (To 'phone.) Some crank tried to shoot him up. Mr. Fallon +fired back and killed him. (Pause.) _No_! Mr. Fallon killed _him_! +(Pause.) Of course, in self-defense, you fool, _of course_, in +self-defense! (KELLY slams back the receiver, and rising quickly, +turns to the right and stands with hands on his hips, and back to +audience, gazing down at MOHUN. He does not once look at FALLON.) + +FALLON: (On hearing the words "in self-defense" sighs, smiles and +striking the match, lights the cigar as) + +THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + + +THE SYSTEM +A ONE-ACT MELODRAMA + +BY +TAYLOR GRANVILLE +Author, producer and star of "The Star Bout," "The +Futurity Winner," "The Yellow Streak," Etc., Etc. + + IN COLLABORATION WITH + + JUNIE MCCREE AND EDWARD CLARK +Author of "The Marital Author of "The Winning +Coach," "Neighbors," "Coon Widows," "When We Grow +Town Divorcons," Etc., Etc. Up," Etc., Etc. + + +THE SYSTEM + +CHARACTERS + +BILLY BRADLEY . . . . . . Alias "The Eel." +DAN MCCARTHY . . . . . . Inspector of Police. +TIM DUGAN . . . . . . . . Lieutenant of Police. +JAMES O'MARA. . . . . . . Desk Lieutenant. +OFFICER FLYNN . . . . . . Patrolman. +BOBBY PERKINS . . . . . . A Police Reporter. +HAROLD BROOKTHORNE . . . A Cub Reporter. +MR. INBAD . . . . . . . . A Souse. +JIM, TOM . . . . . . . . Central Office Men. +MRS. DEMMING WORTHINGTON. A Noted Horsewoman. +JANITRESS . . . . . . . . At 327 East Broadway. +GOLDIE MARSHALL . . . . . The Eel's "Gal." + +Policemen, Citizens, Morbid Crowds, Etc. + + +SCENE I + +POLICE STATION, NEW YORK CITY. EVENING + +Door C. Door L. 2nd E. leading below to cells. Windows in flat +R. and L. showing two green lights in front of Station. Street +backing, showing the other side of Street. Bench at L. window, +chair at R. window. Small platform R. 2, with desk, railing, etc. +Chairs on Platform. + +AT RISE: (O'Mara at desk speaking through telephone. PERKINS in +chair R., writing. FLYNN searching INBAD, who is intoxicated.) + +O'MARA: (Speaking through 'phone.) All right! Good-bye! (Puts +'phone down.) Take him down, that fellow is a champion souse. + +INBAD: (As FLYNN is jerking him off L.) Thatsh what I am, and I'll +defend my title against all comers. (Exit INBAD followed by FLYNN.) + +PERKINS: (Coming R. to O'MARA.) That Worthington robbery will make +a corking story, if it's true. (Starts for door C.) + +O'MARA: Well, why don't you wait till the pinch comes off and then +get the story for sure? + +PERKINS: Your word's good enough. + +O'MARA: But I haven't given you me word. I don't know whether +they've nailed him yet or not. + +PERKINS: (Coming back to desk railing R.) (Disappointed.) Oh, I +thought you said they'd got him. + +O'MARA: That's the way you reporters twist everything. I said +"Dugan was after him," that's all. + +PERKINS: Well, that's as good as got him; anything Dugan sets out +to get, comes pretty near materializing. (Starts C., stops on +meeting BROOKY, who enters door C.) Hello! Brooky! Just in time. +Here's a chance for you to distinguish yourself in your new capacity. + +BROOKY: (Coming C.) Got a story? + +PERKINS: A pippin! Listen to this. (Reads from notes.) "Police +fishing. Make a big haul! Throw out the dragnet and once more +capture the Eel." A very slippery article. + +BROOKY: I don't understand. + +PERKINS: Oh, can't you understand, the Eel is the nickname, the +alias of one of the slickest crooks in the country, Billy Bradley. + +BROOKY: Billy Bradley? Oh yes, I've heard of him. + +PERKINS: Well, that's the Eel. + +BROOKY: Oh I see; well, what about him? + +PERKINS: He's been taken, or at least is going to be. + +BROOKY: What's he done? + +PERKINS: (Looking at BROOKY surprised.) You're up on that Worthington +robbery, aren't you? + +BROOKY: What robbery is that? + +PERKINS: (Disgusted.) Don't tell me you don't know that burglars +entered Mrs. Demming Worthington's house last night, and made off +with a five thousand dollar necklace? + +BROOKY: I hadn't heard of it. + +PERKINS: Good heavens, man! hasn't your paper got it? + +BROOKY: (Going L.) I don't know. I never read our paper. (Perkins +follows BROOKY in disgust.) + +O'MARA: (Smiling.) Well, I don't know but what you're just as well +off. (Enter INSPECTOR door C., O'MARA comes from behind desk and +stands above it for INSPECTOR to cross him.) + +PERKINS: Good evenin', Inspector. + +INSPECTOR: (Glancing about room, without stopping, goes straight +to stool behind desk.) How are you, boys! (INSPECTOR salutes O'MARA +as he passes him, O'MARA returns the salute, then goes to upper +end of desk, where he stands.) + +BROOKY: How do you do, sir. + +INSPECTOR: (Back of desk.) Well, O'Mara. They've got the Eel. + +O'MARA: They have? + +INSPECTOR: Dugan is on his way up with him now. + +PERKINS: I guess it will go pretty hard with him, won't it Inspector? + +INSPECTOR: If he is guilty. + +PERKINS: Well, he is, isn't he? + +INSPECTOR: I believe every man innocent until proven guilty. + +BROOKY: Bravo, Inspector! Those are my sentiments. + +INSPECTOR: I've sent for Mrs. Worthington. When we get her, Goldie, +the Eel and Dugan together, we shall be able to get a clearer view +on the matter. Bring up Goldie. (O'MARA exits door L.) + +PERKINS: (Coming R. C.) Inspector, has this girl Goldie Marshall +ever been up before? + +INSPECTOR: Well, she's been arrested a number of times, on +shop-lifting charges, but we've never been able to prove anything +on her. + +PERKINS: Perhaps she's square after all. + +INSPECTOR: Not at all unlikely; as I said before, I believe a +person innocent until proven guilty. + +BROOKY: (Crossing R. to railing of desk.) And as I said before--Bravo, +old chap. (The INSPECTOR looks at BROOKY sternly and he retires +up stage R. confusedly, bumping into chair, sits in it.) + +PERKINS: (Crossing R. to railing.) Inspector? + +INSPECTOR: Well? + +PERKINS: I suppose many a person has been railroaded through the +System? + +INSPECTOR: (Rising angrily.) System! How dare you! What do you +mean? + +PERKINS: I--I--beg your pardon, Inspector, I-- + +BROOKY: (Rising from chair and coming down L. of PERKINS.) +I say, don't make a bally ass of yourself. + +INSPECTOR: Don't ever let me hear you say that again. (Voices of +O'MARA and GOLDIE are heard off L.) (Enter GOLDIE, followed by +O'MARA. Door L.) + +GOLDIE: (Jerking away from O'MARA.) Well, don't yank my arm off. +(Looking around room.) I know the way. (Starts R.) + +O'MARA: (Following GOLDIE, catches her by the back of neck as she +reaches C.) Don't give me any back talk or I'll yank your neck off. + +INSPECTOR: O'Mara! let go your hold. Don't forget you're dealing +with a woman. (O'MARA releases hold.) + +GOLDIE: (Mockingly courteous.) Thanks, Inspector! What'll I send +you for Christmas, a bunch of sweet forget-me-nots or a barrel of +pickles? + +INSPECTOR: Goldie, don't be so incorrigible. + +GOLDIE: Gee! but you're an educated guy. + +INSPECTOR: Have a seat. (O'MARA jumps for chair with mock politeness.) + +GOLDIE: (To reporters.) He's polite, too. (Crosses to chair.) + +INSPECTOR: Well, Goldie! + +GOLDIE: (Sitting.) Well, Inspector! + +INSPECTOR: Do you intend to stay here to-night or are you going +to get bail? + +GOLDIE: Where would I get bail? + +INSPECTOR: I thought perhaps some gentleman friend of yours-- + +GOLDIE: (Rising angrily.) I ain't got no gentlemen friends. What +do you think I am, a Moll? (Sits.) + +INSPECTOR: Don't make any grand stand play now, Goldie! + +GOLDIE: Well, if you mean that I'm a bad girl, you'd better not +say it (Rising, crosses to desk and pounds angrily on railing.), +'cause I ain't, see? + +INSPECTOR: Well, you don't deny that you and the Eel are sweethearts? + +GOLDIE: Was, yes. Gee, we was goin' to get married, until in a +jealous huff he tried to kill me and was shipped for two years for +assault and battery, but it wasn't none of my doin's. + +INSPECTOR: Didn't you prefer charges against him? + +GOLDIE: I did not. Do you think I'd squeal on a pal? If it wasn't +for Dugan, they'd turn the Eel loose. (Sits.) + +INSPECTOR: Why Dugan? + +GOLDIE: Didn't he shove him in? + +INSPECTOR: He was simply acting in his official duty. + +GOLDIE: Official duty, my eye. + +INSPECTOR: What other motive could Mr. Dugan possibly have had? + +GOLDIE: (With a sneer.) Maybe you don't know. Well, I'll tell +you. He thought by shovin' the Eel out of the way, he could get +me. + +INSPECTOR: And did he? + +GOLDIE: Not so as you could notice it. I ain't no fall guy for +nobody. + +INSPECTOR: Now that the Eel's been sprung, are you going back to +him? + +GOLDIE: (Almost in tears.) Oh gee! I wish I could, but there's +nothing doin', he's sore on me. + +INSPECTOR: When did you last see him? + +GOLDIE: Just before he went up, two years ago. + +INSPECTOR: How about this Worthington robbery, wasn't he in on it? + +GOLDIE: (Hastily.) No, he wasn't. + +INSPECTOR: (Quickly.) Who was? + +GOLDIE: (After a slight pause as though to confess.) Well, I'll +tell you. There was three of us, me, Jesse James, and Christopher +Columbus. (Looks first at INSPECTOR then to PERKINS.) Ah, put it +down on your little yellow paper. + +INSPECTOR: (Angrily.) Answers like that'll get you nothing here. + +GOLDIE: See, you won't believe me when I tell you. + +INSPECTOR: Silence, I say! (To O'MARA.) Take her down. (GOLDIE +rises from chair leisurely and strolls impudently L. as she comes +to BROOKY.) Oh, poo! poo! + +INSPECTOR: (Stopping GOLDIE at door L.) And you'll stay down unless +you have a confession to make. + +GOLDIE: (At door L.) Say, Inspector, if you're waitin' for a +confession from me, you'll wait until pigs fly kites. (Exit door +L. GOLDIE followed by O'MARA.) (PERKINS and BROOKY look off after +them.) + +BROOKY: What a little terror! + +PERKINS: Looks mighty like her work, doesn't it, Inspector? + +INSPECTOR: No! The job has all the ear marks of the Eel, but she +undoubtedly is his accomplice. (Enter MRS. WORTHINGTON door C., +she looks around uncomfortably and as she comes down C., BROOKY +and PERKINS on seeing her, remove their hats. INSPECTOR rises and +indicates chair R. C.) Ah! Mrs. Worthington! (Indicating Reporters.) +Have you any objection to talking for publication? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: (Looking toward Reports.) No, not at all. (PERKINS +has note paper and takes down as she talks.) + +INSPECTOR: Will you kindly be seated? And we shall proceed? (MRS. +W. sits.) Now in the first place, how long had this girl, Goldie +Marshall, been in your employ? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Just one week. + +INSPECTOR: (Half aside.) That's about the time the Eel was sprung. +(To Mrs. W.) Had you missed anything else up to the time of this +robbery? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: No, nothing. + +INSPECTOR: Who else was in the house at the time, besides yourself +and the maid? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Only my guests who were at dinner with me. Mr. +Appleby and his wife. + +INSPECTOR: The horseowner? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Yes, and a Miss Hazelton from Pittsburgh. + +INSPECTOR: Would you suspect them? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Well, hardly. + +INSPECTOR: Anyone else? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Yes, Mr. Dugan. + +INSPECTOR: What Dugan? + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Why, your Mr. Dugan here. + +INSPECTOR: Oh, Tim Dugan. + +MRS. WORTHINGTON: Yes, we're great friends, and he frequently dines +at my house. (Low murmur begins in the distance and grows louder. +MRS. W. rises in fear and appeals to the INSPECTOR, who comes from +behind the desk and--) + +INSPECTOR: Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Worthington, just step behind +the desk. (MRS. WORTHINGTON steps back of desk and sits in chair +below stool. INSPECTOR replaces the chair in which MRS. W. has +been sitting in front of the window R. C. then returns to back of +desk where he stands. The REPORTERS at first sound show excitement, +PERKINS goes to door C. and looks off R. B.) + +PERKINS: (At door C.) It's Dugan and he's got the Eel. (Goes down +L. C.) (DUGAN is seen out of window R. bringing the EEL along, who +is hand-cuffed. They are followed by a noisy crowd. DUGAN throws +the EEL down, C., then chases the crowd away from door C.) + +EEL: (Looks around smiling until he sees INSPECTOR.) Hello, +Inspector! Gee! it's real oil for the wicks of my lamps to see you +again. + +DUGAN: (Coming down C.) Yes, he's tickled to death to see you, +ain't you, Billy? + +EEL: (Angrily.) The Eel to you, Copper; Billy to my pals. + +INSPECTOR: Well, Billy! + +EEL: That's right, Inspector, you're my pal. (Movement from +INSPECTOR.) Oh, I ain't forgot when you was just a plain Bull and +saved me from doin' my first bit on a phoney charge. They tried +to railroad me, you remember, and Dugan here was runnin' the engine. + +INSPECTOR: Oh, you've got Dugan wrong, Billy, he bears you no +malice. + +EEL: No, it's a mistake, he just loves me. Say, he thinks so much +of me, that if he saw me drowning, he'd bring me a glass of water. + +DUGAN: You know why you were brought here? + +EEL: Sure, so's you could railroad me again. + +INSPECTOR: Nonsense, Dugan has nothing against you personally. + +EEL: Oh yes he has; when he was new on the force, I beat him up +good. He was only a harness cop then, and one night he thought +he made me coppin' a super from a lush, which you know ain't my +graft. He started to fan me with a sap, so I just clubbed my smoke +wagon, and before I got through with him, I made him a pick-up for +the ambulance, and he ain't never forgot it. + +INSPECTOR: What do you know about this Worthington robbery? (EEL +looks around suspiciously.) Before you answer, Billy, I warn you +to be careful, everything you say will be used against you. + +EEL: Yes, and everything I don't say will be used, too. I know +the system. + +DUGAN: (Crossing R. to EEL. REPORTERS follow.) Well, what have +you got to say? + +EEL: (Taking time, looks around.) You don't think I'm goin' to +address this Mass Meeting here. (BROOKY looks L. to see if there +is anyone else there.) + +INSPECTOR: You're not afraid to talk in front of a couple of +newspaper reporters, are you? + +EEL: (Grinning at INSPECTOR to gain time.) Roosevelt gets a dollar +a word, where do I come in? (Resignedly.) All right, flag the +pencil pushers and I'll gab my nob. (DUGAN turns L. to tell the +REPORTERS to go. BROOKY says he don't understand. PERKINS pulls +him off door C., remonstrating, going R.) (The INSPECTOR signs to +DUGAN that they will now grill the EEL.) + +INSPECTOR: This lady I suppose you know. + +EEL: (Looks at MRS. WORTHINGTON.) I never lamped her before in my +life. + +DUGAN: That is Mrs. Worthington, the lady you robbed. + +EEL: (Banteringly to MRS. WORTHINGTON to gain time.) Is it? How +do you do, pleased to meet you. Gee! but you must be an awful +mark to be robbed. (INSPECTOR raps on desk.) What was it I stole +from you, Mrs. Worthington? + +DUGAN: Nix on that bull. You know what you stole. + +EEL: Yes, and I suppose you know what I stole before I stole it. + +DUGAN: With dips like you, I always look far ahead. + +EEL: Get out! you couldn't look far enough ahead to see the ashes +on your cigar. Why, if it wasn't for your stool pigeons-- + +DUGAN: That's enough out of you. + +EEL: Oh, go chase yourself. (DUGAN smashes at EEL, who ducks around +back of him.) + +INSPECTOR: Dugan!!! (When Dugan locates the EEL, he goes after him +again. MRS. WORTHINGTON screams.) + +INSPECTOR: None of that, Dugan! Remember, he had no marks on him +when you brought him in. (DUGAN crosses L. in front of EEL and +looks off door L. in subdued rage.) A little more civility out +of you, Bradley. + +EEL: All right, Inspector. (To MRS. W.) I beg your pardon, lady. + +INSPECTOR: You have been brought here as a suspect in a five +thousand dollar jewelry theft which happened at the home of Mrs. +Worthington last night. (EEL makes no move.) Circumstances point +strongly in your direction. Your former sweetheart, Goldie Marshall, +was serving as maid to Mrs. Worthington at the time of the robbery. + +EEL: And you think I planted her there as a stall. + +DUGAN: Goldie spilled that much, and we didn't, have to third +degree her. + +EEL: So Goldie declared me in on this? + +INSPECTOR: She couldn't help it, we knew it was a two-man's job. + +EEL: She snitched me into a frame-up. + +DUGAN: Same as she did two years ago. + +EEL: Why say, Inspector, I ain't seen Goldie since I was sprung +from the Pen. + +DUGAN: Is that so? I got it straight that the first place you +mozied to was Goldie's flat on East Broadway. You were trailed. + +EEL: Sure I was, by one of you pathfinders at the Central Office. +Oh, I've played tag with you before; Dugan, whatever you say, is. + +INSPECTOR: Then you admit-- + +EEL: I don't admit nothin'. + +INSPECTOR: Be careful what you say. Have you retained counsel? + +EEL: A mouthpiece! What for? + +INSPECTOR: You've got to be represented. Have you any money? + +EEL: Sure! I left the hotel of Zebra clothed with a pocket full +of smiles and a wad of joy. (INSPECTOR whispers for O'MARA to bring +up GOLDIE. O'MARA exits door L.) + +INSPECTOR: Well, the state will furnish you with an attorney. + +EEL: What, one of them record shysters? Eighty years old and never +won a case. No, thanks, Inspector. I'll plead my own case; then +I got at least a chance to beat this rap. + +DUGAN: You'd have a swell time pleading your own case. + +EEL: Yes, and believe me I'll spring a sensation when I open up. +I'll show up some of this rotten graft. I'll bust "The System " +to smithereens. Dugan, I won't be railroaded--(EEL crosses in +rage L. to Dugan.) + +INSPECTOR: Bradley! hold your tongue, you've said enough. + +EEL: I ain't said half what I'm going to say-- + +INSPECTOR: (Fiercely.) Not another word out of you. Do you +understand? + +EEL: (Coming down.) All right, Inspector. I don't want to get +anybody that's right, in bad, but I've got something up my sleeve. +(DUGAN laughs and goes up stage.) (GOLDIE enters door L. brought +in by O'MARA. She is startled at seeing EEL, then pleadingly:) + +GOLDIE: Billy! (EEL turns and is about to go to GOLDIE but stops.) + +EEL: You snitched again! You snitched again! (Running L. to GOLDIE +with arms up as though to hit her with hand-cuffs. GOLDIE snatches +his upraised arms.) + +GOLDIE: Oh no, Billy! True as God I didn't! + +DUGAN: (Aside to INSPECTOR.) Let's leave them alone, they'll talk. +(MRS. WORTHINGTON, INSPECTOR, DUGAN and O'MARA exit door R.) + +GOLDIE: (Still holding EEL'S arms.) Why, I'd rather die than snitch. + +EEL: (Jerking away and going R.) How about two years ago? + +GOLDIE: I didn't even then when you left me dying. They framed +you while I was in the hospital. + +EEL: Who? + +GOLDIE: Dugan and his-- + +EEL: Sh!!! Oh if I could only believe you, kid. + +GOLDIE: Look at me, Billy. Do you think I'd snitch? + +EEL: (Looks at her, then pushes her head roughly back.) No, I can't +believe you did it, kid. (EEL takes GOLDIE in his arms.) + +GOLDIE: (Sobbingly.) I'm so glad to see you again. + +EEL: Me, too, kid. Gee, your head feels as natural on my shoulder +as a piece of pie on a prize-fighter's knife. (EEL takes GOLDIE +from his shoulder and says inquiringly.) But what are you doing +here? + +GOLDIE: (Drying her tears.) Bein' held on suspicion, but they can't +get met I'm protected. Dugan's got to-- + +EEL: Nix on the crackin', don't shoot your trap, they're leavin' +us together for a stall. Talk about something else. (EEL turns +R. and GOLDIE grabs his hand.) Do you still love me? + +GOLDIE: Always. + +EEL: Will you marry me? + +GOLDIE: If you want me to. + +EEL: You know I do. (Looks around suspiciously.) Say, if I beat +this rap (DUGAN comes, on door R., and stands at upper end of +desk), let's get spliced and go out West, turn over a new leaf, +and begin life all over again, far away from the subway world where +the sun of happiness is always clouded and the ace of joy is +coppered. What do you say? + +GOLDIE: Gee! them's the kindest words you've ever said to me. (Then +lightly.) And I'll march down the aisle with you, with my hair in +a braid. + +EEL: Great!! Gee, I wonder if we could make our get-away now. (Both +start for door C., but DUGAN, who has come down behind them, stops +them.) + +DUGAN: How do you do! Would you like to take a little trip out in +the air with me? + +GOLDIE: Say, I'd rather be home with the headache, than at the +Movies with a guy like you. (Crosses L.) (INSPECTOR enters door +R. going behind desk.) + +INSPECTOR: Well, have you got anything to say to me before I lock +you up for the night? + +EEL: Nothin', except that it's a frame-up, and we defy you to go +through with it. + +INSPECTOR: Take 'em down. + +DUGAN: (Above door L.) Come on. (EEL starts for door L.) + +GOLDIE: Good-night, Inspector. + +INSPECTOR: Good-night. + +EEL: (Turning at door L.) Same from me, Inspector. + +INSPECTOR: Good-night, Bradley. (DUGAN shoves the EEL roughly off. +GOLDIE circles around and switches in front of DUGAN.) By the way, +Goldie, what's the number of your flat on East Broadway? + +GOLDIE: (Hesitatingly at door L.) 327, Inspector. + +INSPECTOR: Thanks. + +GOLDIE: (Impudently.) You're welcome. (Exit door L. followed by +DUGAN.) (O'MARA locks door after them.) + +INSPECTOR: (Calling O'MARA.) O'Mara! + +O'MARA: (At door L.) Yes, sir. + +INSPECTOR: I want a wire installed at 327 East Broadway. + +O'MARA: (In front of desk.) Goldie's flat? + +INSPECTOR: Yes. I'm leaving it to you to see that the orders are +carried out to the letter. + +O'MARA: Yes, sir, to-morrow. + +INSPECTOR: To-night, at once. I'm going to turn them loose. You +understand? + +O'MARA: (Looks puzzled, then face brightens.) I understand. + +DARK CHANGE + + +SCENE II + +STREET SCENE, IN EAST BROADWAY + +Showing flat house with stoop. Time: The same evening. A small +boy enters L. with bottle of milk, goes up steps door C., rings +bell, clicker sounds, and he exits door C. MAGGIE enters door C. +She is an East side janitress. She has a tin pail on her arm +around which is wrapped newspaper. She walks off L. PERKINS and +BROOKY are heard off R.) + +PERKINS: (Entering R. briskly.) Come on, Brooky, don't be so slow. + +BROOKY: (Straggling in after PERKINS.) I say, old chap, this sort +of work is most laborious. This flitting from one tram to another, +and being jostled and ordered to "step lively" by vulgar guards, +and running, yes actually running. It's not only bad taste, old +man, but positively undignified. (Dusting shoes with handkerchief, +L., PERKINS is up in vestibule of door C.) + +PERKINS: If you want to supply your paper with live news, you've +got to keep hustling. + +BROOKY: Very true, but it seems such a waste of energy. + +PERKINS: (Coming down to BROOKY.) No energy is wasted that is +productive of flaring headlines. Now take that note pad I gave +you, and get your pencil busy with a description of this neighborhood. +(Goes R. making notes.) + +BROOKY: (Taking paper and pencil from pockets after a search for +them.) This is more like being a Scotland Yarder than a reporter. + +PERKINS: A Scotland Yarder! + +BROOKY: I should say detective. + +PERKINS: (Coming L.) Let me tell you something, Brooky. The +reporters and newspapers unravel more cases than the police. + +BROOKY: I dare say you do. You're so damned inquisitive. + +PERKINS: It isn't inquisitiveness, my boy, it's just being on the +level with the public. + +BROOKY: (Laughing.) You know, some great man said, "The public be +damned." + +PERKINS: He wasn't a great man, he was an ignorant man. The public +will stand for just so much, then look out; let your mind wander +back to the history of the French Revolution. An infuriated public +is the most ferocious blood-lapping animal in the earth's jungle. + +BROOKY: Perky, I adore your descriptive talents. + +PERKINS: (Going up into vestibule and ringing bell.) You make me +sick. + +BROOKY: But surely you're not going to enter that apartment house +unannounced? + +PERKINS: No, I'll tell them a couple of reporters want some news, +then you'll hear language no paper can print. + +BROOKY: Why, are they all foreigners? + +PERKINS: Say, Brooky, you're a perfect ass. + +BROOKY: No, my dear fellow, none of us are perfect. + +PERKINS: (Coming down out of vestibule to BROOKY.) Now listen, I +told you that I had inside information that the EEL and GOLDIE +were to be released, that's why I hustled you over here. I could +have come alone, but I let you in on a big scoop for your paper. + +BROOKY: Righto, old chap, righto; but what bothers me is, what's +it all about? + +PERKINS: It's about time you got next to yourself. + +BROOKY: Another impossible metaphor, my dear fellow; how can one +get next to one's self without being twins? + +PERKINS: Brooky, Englishmen as a rule are thick, but you are a +density of thickness that is impenetrable. + +BROOKY: Yes, I know I am a rare sort. + +PERKINS: Now, we haven't time to argue a lot of piffle. The girl +isn't in yet, there's no answer to my ring, so let's stroll around +and come back later. (Exit R.) + +BROOKY: (Not seeing that PERKINS has gone.) Righto! old man, we'll +stroll, for if there's anything that I like, its having a nice +little--(Seeing that PERKINS is gone.) Perkins! you said stroll. +Don't run, don't run, it's so damned undignified. (Exit R.) (Enter +L., O'MARA dressed in citizen's clothes. He looks at number on +house then motions off for TOM to come on. TOM comes on L., they +go up into vestibule and look for names on bells. Enter Officer +FLYNN, stealthily.) + +FLYNN: Come on, now, you don't live there, I've had my eye on you +for five minutes. + +O'MARA: (Coming down from vestibule to FLYNN.) Well, keep your eye +on something else, if you know what's good for you. (Takes badge +out of pocket.) + +FLYNN: (Surprised.) Central Officer! (Whistles and walks off R.) + +O'MARA: (Returning to vestibule.) Ring any bell? + +TOM: No, her flat's on the second floor, so I'll ring up the top +flat. (TOM rings the bell and sound of electric door opener is +heard, they both exit door C.) (FLYNN strolls back on from R. ad +MAGGIE enters from L.) + +FLYNN: Hello, Maggie! been out to get the evening paper? There +is not much in it. + +MAGGIE: There's enough in it to quench me thirst after a hard day's +work. + +FLYNN: I see you've got the paper wrapped around something good. + +MAGGIE: I have that, and it's meself instead of the paper'll be +wrapped around it in a minute. (Light goes up in window above.) + +FLYNN: I see you've got a new tenant. Is she hard on you? + +MAGGIE: Divel-a-bit! She's a nice respectable dacent girl, and +aisy to get along with. I never seen her with no men folks. Maybe +she's a widdy, as I'd like to be. + +FLYNN: A widow? What's the matter with your old man? + +MAGGIE: He ain't worth powder enough to blow up a cock-roach. + +FLYNN: Is he working? + +MAGGIE: He ain't done a tap since the civil war. + +FLYNN: That's quite a vacation. + +MAGGIE: Vacation? It's a life sentence of laziness. + +FLYNN: There's many a good man layin' off. + +MAGGIE: No, the good men are dyin' off, it's the bums that are +layin' off. + +FLYNN: (Looking at house.) Well, the landlord of this house ain't +particular about his tenants. + +MAGGIE: Not a bit, it's been a nest for thieves ever since I came +here. + +FLYNN: Well, they've got to live somewhere, the jails are overcrowded. + +MAGGIE: Oh, I don't mind thim, they can steal nothin' from me but +me old man, and they're welcome to him without usin' a jimmy. + +FLYNN: A jimmy? You're getting on to the thief slang. + +MAGGIE: Why wouldn't I? That's all I hear mornin' and night from +"Tommy the Rat," "Tim the Flim," and "John the Con." + +FLYNN: You know all their monakers? + +MAGGIE: I do that. Say, they've given me a monaker, too. + +FLYNN: What do they call you? + +MAGGIE: "Mag the Jag." + +FLYNN: (Laughs.) Well, I must be off. (Starts off R.) + +MAGGIE: (As she goes up into vestibule.) Won't you come in and +have a sup of beer and a pull at the old man's pipe? + +FLYNN: I can't, I've got a stationary post. + +MAGGIE: Look at that now, that shows where you stand. Good-night, +John. + +FLYNN: Good-night, Maggie. (Exits R.) (Enter EEL and GOLDIE arm +in arm, talking earnestly. As they come to steps, GOLDIE goes up +and unlocks door. EEL sees FLYNN coming up on R., he lights +cigarette and motions to go in. GOLDIE exits door C. FLYNN comes +up to EEL, who throws the match in his face and disappears door +C. as FLYNN is rubbing his eyes.) + +DARK CHANGE + + +SCENE III + +SAME NIGHT, INTERIOR OF GOLDIE'S FLAT + +Living room, bedroom, and kitchen can be seen. At rise, O'MARA +and TOM are installing the dictagraph, on wall L. C. TOM is standing +on chair L. C. He places the instrument--then runs his hand down +to wire.) + +TOM: All right, Jim, hand me that picture. + +O'MARA: (C. handing TOM framed picture.) Here you are, Tom. + +TOM: (Hangs picture over dictagraph, gets off of chair and backs +off, seeing if it's placed right.) There, that'll do, I guess. + +O'MARA: Nobody would ever suspect anything's been happening here. + +TOM: (Picking up bits of wire and tools from floor L. C. O'MARA +puts chair TOM has been standing on, R. and brings bag C.) Pick +up these pieces. Did you give the Inspector the office? + +O'MARA: Twenty minutes ago. + +TOM: (Putting scraps into bag.) The job took a little longer than +I thought it would. + +O'MARA: (Closing bag and handing it to TOM.) Yes, and we'd better +get a gait on out of here, or the EEL and his girl will be walkin' +in on us. (Door slams off stage.) + +BOTH: What's that! + +O'MARA: It must be them! + +TOM: (Starts for door R.) + +O'MARA: We can't go that way. + +TOM: (Indicating the window L.) The fire escape, quick. (TOM crosses +quickly to window L., opens it, and goes through.) + +O'MARA: (Follows TOM, but stops at window L.) Wait a minute! (Goes +back, turns out light, then goes through window, closing it after +him.) (Footsteps begin on steps off stage as O'MARA pulls down +window.) Stage is in darkness but for the moonlight that streams +in through window L. Steps sound closer. Key rattles and door is +unlocked. Door R. opens just a bit at first, then GOLDIE enters, +followed by the EEL.) + +EEL: (Holding GOLDIE back.) Wait a minute, kid, till I strike a +match. + +GOLDIE: Oh, never mind, Billy, I don't need one. (Gropes her way +C. and turns on light. EEL stays at door R. listening to hear if +they are followed.) Home again! Gee! but that guy what said "ther +ain't no place like home" must have travelled some. + +EEL: (Turning around.) Yep! Gee, but this is some swell dump you +got here, Kid! + +GOLDIE: Ain't this classy? + +(The EEL hurries into bedroom and then into kitchen as though +looking for some one. GOLDIE follows him, but stops at kitchen +door.) What are you looking for, the ice-box? + +EEL: (Coming down to C. R. of GOLDIE.) No, it ain't that. + +GOLDIE: What then, lookin' for a sleeper? + +EEL: No telling what they're up to. You don't think they've given +us our liberty, without a string to it, do you? They're Indian +givers, they are. + +(Starts for door R.) + +GOLDIE: Gee, Billy! I hadn't thought of that. (Goes into bedroom +and lights electric light L. of bedroom off C.) + +EEL: (R. C. looking at door R.) I kind of thought I saw a light +through the bottom of this door, when we was coming up the stairs. + +GOLDIE: (Coming down C.) Oh, it must have been the reflection of +the moon. (Takes off hat and puts it on dresser in bedroom. EEL +crosses room backwards to L., holding hand in moonlight to make +the shadow on bottom of door. GOLDIE watches him. EEL then turns +to window and GOLDIE looks under bed.) + +EEL: (Excitedly.) This latch is sprung. + +GOLDIE: I must have left it open, when they hiked me down to the +club house. + +EEL: Are you sure? + +GOLDIE: SURE! + +EEL: (Going down L.) Well, then, I guess we're all right for the +present at least. + +GOLDIE: (Coming down C. with travelling bag which she has taken +off of bed.) Yes, until Dugan finds out we've been sprung, and +then he'll be after us like a cat after a mouse. (Puts bag on table +up R.) + +EEL: We'll be on a rattler for Chi, before that. How long will +it take you to pack? + +GOLDIE: (Going into bedroom.) About a half hour. + +EEL: That's good. If Dugan does go after us (Chuckles.), he's got +to get us first. + +GOLDIE: (Coming down C. with kimono which she has taken from door +C. in bedroom, and is folding.) Say, Billy, I guess I'd better +lock this door. (Starts for door, but his next line stops her.) + +EEL: He can't break in here without a search warrant, and he can't +get that before Monday. (Lying down on couch.) + +GOLDIE: Well, what's he going to get it on then? (Putting kimono +in bag on table R., picking up a pair of shoes from the floor near +table, but the EEL's next line stops her.) + +EEL: (Still on couch.) You ought to know Dugan well enough by this +time. He'll get something on us, leave it to him. + +GOLDIE: (Stopping thoughtfully in door C., then throwing shoes on +floor near bed decisively and coming down C.) If he does, I'll +turn squealer for the first time in my life. + +EEL: (Jumping off of couch quickly.) Don't you do it. I could +never look you square in the eyes again if you did. + +GOLDIE: It ain't no worse to squeal than it is to steal. + +EEL: Yes, it is, Kid, God'll forgive a thief, but he hates a +squealer. + +GOLDIE: Maybe you're right, Billy. Well, I guess we'd better get +a move on. (Going into bedroom and getting hair brush off of +dresser.) We can't get out of here any too soon to suit me. (Putting +brush in bag on Table R., then smiling at EEL.) + +EEL: You betcher! (Goes to mantle L. and leans against it +thoughtfully.) + +GOLDIE: (Coming C.) What's on your mind now? + +EEL: I was just thinkin' of that first job I'd have to do when we +get to Chi. + +GOLDIE: What do you mean? + +EEL: Gee, Goldie, I hate to go back to the old life. (Sits on +sofa L.) + +GOLDIE: Old life? I thought you said we was goin' to begin all +over again, and live like decent, respectable people? + +EEL: I know, but you've got to have money to be respectable. + +GOLDIE: Well, we'll get the money. + +EEL: That's what I hate about it. Having to get it that way. + +GOLDIE: But Billy, I mean honestly, work for it. + +EEL: (Rising and coming R.) Yes, but supposing we can't get work? +And supposing we can't hold it after we do get it? + +GOLDIE: If they go digging into our past, it'll be tough rowing. +But there (caressing EEL.), don't let's worry till we come to the +bridge. Wait until we get to Chicago. (Goes into bedroom and takes +down coat which is hanging on door C.) + +EEL: (Lies on couch L.) Have you got enough cale to carry us over +there? + +GOLDIE: (Brushing off coat at door C.) What? + +EEL: I say, have you got enough money to hold us till we get to +Chi? + +GOLDIE: (C. looking in surprise.) Why no, Billy, I ain't got no +money. + +EEL: (Surprised, slowly rising from couch to sitting position.) +What? + +GOLDIE: I ain't got a cent. I thought you had the sugar. + +EEL: Me? + +GOLDIE: AIN'T you got no money neither? + +EEL: (Throwing away cigarette and going R.) I ain't got enough +money to buy the controlling interest in a rotten egg. (Goldie +throws coat on couch.) How about that necklace? + +GOLDIE: Why, Dugan's got it. + +EEL: Well, how about your share? + +GOLDIE: Well, he promised I was going to get five hundred out of +it, but now that you're sprung, I suppose I'll have to whistle for +it. + +EEL: Well, I see where I have to get to work before we get to +Chicago. + +GOLDIE: (Turning him around quickly.) What do you mean? + +EEL: Well, we've got to get to Chi, and as the railroads are very +particular, somebody'll have to pay our fares. I won't be long. +(Crosses L. in front of GOLDIE and gets hat and coat off of sofa. +GOLDIE runs to door R., then as EEL turns:) + +GOLDIE: Oh no, no, don't, please don't. We're going to be good, +you said so yourself. We're going to travel the straight road. + +EEL: (C. with hat and coat in hand.) But that road won't take us +to Chi. (Pause.) You see, there's no other way out of it. (Starts +toward door but GOLDIE stops him pleadingly.) + +GOLDIE: Oh no, you musn't, you shan't. I won't go with you if you +do. I won't go! I won't go! (Becomes hysterical, pounds on door, +then begins to cry.) + +EEL: (Putting arm around her.) There, there, don't cry. Look! (He +turns her around and then puts his hat and coat in chair above +door R.) (GOLDIE takes his hands in relief The EEL pats her cheek.) +You see, I'll do as you say. (Crossing down C.) I'll cut it out. + +GOLDIE: (Following the EEL and putting her arms around him.) I +knew you would. + +EEL: Oh, you did? Well, what's the next move? + +GOLDIE: I don't know, Billy. + +EEL: There you are. (Crosses L.) We're no better off than we were +before. By Monday, Dugan'll have me back in the Tombs, maybe on +a charge of murder. You know that he ain't going to rest while +I'm loose. + +GOLDIE: Then why not let me end it all? + +EEL: Not by squealing. + +GOLDIE: It will be that sooner or later. + +EEL: (Coming R. slowly.) No, the best way is to let me go out and +get some money. (Crossing GOLDIE and going toward hat and coat on +chair R.) + +GOLDIE: (Stopping him.) But, Billy, you promised me-- + +EEL: (Turning to GOLDIE.) I don't mean to rob anybody (Scratches +head in puzzled way, then brightly, as thought strikes him), I +mean to borrow it. + +GOLDIE: (Joyfully.) Borrow it? + +EEL: Yes, I'll knock a guy down, strip him of his leather, get his +name and address, then when we get to Chicago, I'll send it back +to him. + +GOLDIE: (Shaking her head and smiling.) Oh no, it won't do. + +EEL: Why? + +GOLDIE: You might forget his address. (Going up C. into bedroom.) +Now, you come and help me pack the trunk. (Stopping.) Oh Billy, +come help me pull this trunk in there. (Disappearing to R. of +trunk. EEL comes and takes L. end and they carry it into living +room and place it C. under chandelier to open up stage. As they +carry it down stage she speaks.) There are a few more things to +go in. + +EEL: (As they set trunk down.) I've got it. + +GOLDIE: What? + +EEL: I know where I can get that money. + +GoLDffi: Where? + +EEL: Isaacson. + +GOLDIE: What Isaacson? + +EEL: Why the fence on Second Ave. I'm aces with him. + +GOLDIE: Yes, but what have you got to pawn? + +EEL: I don't need nothing. I've thrown thousands of dollars his +way in business, he'll lend me a century sure. I'll be back in +fifteen minutes. (Goes to chair and gets coat and hat, then starts +for door R.) + +GOLDIE: Wait! (Crosses to mantel L. and gets keys from up stage +end.) Here, take my keys. (Coming back to C. above trunk where EEL +meets her putting on coat and hat.) To make sure, we'd better work +on signals. + +EEL: (Taking keys.) How do you mean? + +GOLDIE: In case anything happens while you're gone, when you come +back, ring the bell downstairs three times. If I don't answer, +everything's O. K., come up; but if I do answer, don't come up, +see? + +EEL: If you don't answer, everything's all right, come up; but if +you do answer, don't come up. + +GOLDIE: That's it. + +EEL: I got you. (Goes to door R. Opens it quickly to see if anyone +is there. Closes door, footsteps are heard in hall, then going +downstairs, then door slams.) + +GOLDIE: (Listens intently until door slams, then begins to pack +trunk. Opens trunk first. Gets jacket from couch where she has +thrown it, puts it in trunk. Goes up into bedroom and gets skirt +which hangs out of sight on end of dresser. Comes down C. shaking +skirt. Long, low whistle stops her, then club raps.) Bull's!! +(Looks up at light burning, turns it out and closes the trunk at +the same time. Stands still until she sees the shadow of man's +hand in the moonlight on the wall R. Frightened exclamation, then +cowers on sofa. DUGAN appears at window, looks in, then raises +window and enters, closing window after him. Takes gun out of +pocket, then goes up into kitchen and bedroom. At door C. he sees +GOLDIE, points gun at her.) + +DUGAN: Ah! (GOLDIE springs to her feet with frightened exclamation, +and DUGAN says:) don't squawk or I'll pop sure! + +GOLDIE: (Nervously.) Me squawk? What do you think I am, a school +teacher? + +DUGAN: (Goes to door R., opens it to see if anyone is there, closes +it and locks door. Comes to C., turns on light, then puts gun in +pocket. Coming L. to GOLDIE.) I don't want to frighten you. + +GOLDIE: (L. nervously.) I know, but one look at you would scare +some people to death. + +DUGAN: Am I that homely? + +GOLDIE: Homely? Why an undershot bulldog is a peacock, 'long side +of you. + +DUGAN: Ain't I welcome? + +GOLDIE: You're about as welcome as a rainy holiday. (Sits on sofa.) + +DUGAN: Say, Goldie, we've been almost more than friends in the +last two years. + +GOLDIE: You mean almost friends. (Rising.) Never more. Dugan, you +know why I've been your go-between in the System. Because you +promised to let up on the Eel. + +DUGAN: I'll never let up on him. He's a crook. + +GOLDIE: Well, what are you? (Turns L. away from DUGAN.) + +DUGAN: Don't get sore, Goldie. You know I want you for myself. +(Puts his arms around GOLDIE'S waist.) + +GOLDIE: Well, you're wasting time. (Pulls savagely away from him +and crosses R.) + +DUGAN: (Following GOLDIE R.) Am I? I'll get you, or I'll send you +both up for years. + +GOLDIE: (Savagely into DUGAN's face.) Is that why you had me steal +that necklace? + +DUGAN: Yes, if you want to know it, I've been trying for two years +to get something on you, and now I've got you. + +GOLDIE: Well, suppose I squeal. + +DUGAN: It's my word against yours, the word of an officer against +a crook. + +GOLDIE: Say, Dugan, if looks of contempt would hurt a man's feelings, +I'd disable you with a squint. (DUGAN goes L., getting necklace +out of pocket; GOLDIE is in panic for fear EEL will ring the bell, +but she crosses and sits on trunk.) + +DUGAN: Goldie, this necklace will bring four thousand dollars from +a Buffalo fence, and if you'll say three words, "I love you," the +price is yours. Won't you say them, Goldie? Just three words? + +GOLDIE: (Thinks it over, then looks at DUGAN.) Go--to--Hell. + +DUGAN: (Going L. puts back necklace and takes out red wallet, then +comes C. to GOLDIE.) Well, how does this strike you? Here's twenty +thousand dollars. It's all yours for the asking. Twenty thousand +dollars. (Sits on trunk beside GOLDIE.) + +GOLDIE: Gee, but you're doing a land office business. + +DUGAN: I've got no kick coming. Why say, I can take care of you +in real style. Why waste your time on the EEL? I can make more +money in a week than he can steal in a year. + +GOLDIE: That's because you're a better thief than he is. (Rises +and goes R.) + +DUGAN: I wouldn't say that. (Following GOLDIE R.) Come on, Goldie +(putting his arms around her, with purse in front of her face), +what's the answer? + +GOLDIE: (Apparently weakening.) Twenty thousand dollars! Gee, +that's a lot of money, and I could live right. + +DUGAN: (Greedily, as though he has won her.) Sure you could. I'd +set you up like a Queen, and between us we could milk the Tenderloin +dry. + +GOLDIE: But the Eel? + +DUGAN: (Crossing L. and putting wallet away.) I'll attend to him! +(Then to GOLDIE who has come L.) Listen to this! Ten minutes after +you two were turned loose, an old man was beaten and robbed, not +two blocks from here. He never came to! (GOLDIE backs R. in horror. +DUGAN follows.) He died on his way to Bellevue. Do you know who +the murderer is? I'm here to arrest him on the charge of murder. + +GOLDIE: (In mad rage.) You lie, Dugan! Billy said you'd frame him, +but you won't this time--(GOLDIE flies at DUGAN as though to scratch +his eyes out, but he struggles with her and throws her to the floor +L.) No, Dugan, not murder, that would mean the chair! (GOLDIE on +knees pleading to DUGAN. Bell rings three times, they both start. +DUGAN puzzled and surprised, and GOLDIE terror-stricken, wondering +what to do. Then the thought of the bell on the wall comes. +Looking at DUGAN with a forced smile and still on the floor.) Oh, +I wonder who that can be? (By the last two words she is on her +feet and makes a dash for the bell up L., but DUGAN reaches it +firse.) + +DUGAN: No, you don't. I'm wise. "If I answer, don't come up." +(GOLDIE, in disgusted rage, goes down to head of couch, followed +by DUGAN.) Old stuff, Goldie. Let him come, I want him. (Door +slams off stage. GOLDIE starts and DUGAN goes to door R. and +unlocks it. They both stand rigid. DUGAN with gun in hand, while +footsteps come nearer. As door opens and EEL enters.) + +GOLDIE: Look out, Billy! (DUGAN grabs EEL'S hand and throws him +in the room and locks the door. While he is doing this EEL runs +across room over trunk and disappears behind sofa. When DUGAN +turns, he can't locate EEL and points gun up into bedroom.) + +DUGAN: Hands up, Billy! Hands up! (He then locates EEL behind +sofa.) I won't tell you again! Hands up! (The EEL holds hands up +and appears behind sofa.) (GOLDIE is up C. behind trunk.) Goldie, +frisk him clean. (GOLDIE protests.) Come on! Come on! (DUGAN points +gun at EEL, and GOLDIE runs to him and goes through his pockets. +She finds tobacco bag which she hands to DUGAN. He doesn't take +it, and she drops it on floor.) Get to his gun pocket. Get to his +gun pocket. (GOLDIE hesitates, then goes to EEL'S hip pocket, where +she finds a roll of money. She tries to put it back but DUGAN +sees it.) Come on, hand it over. (GOLDIE appeals to the EEL who +pantomimes to do so, and she hands it to DUGAN.) This is the money +he took from the man he killed. (Putting money into red wallet and +returning wallet to pocket.) + +EEL: Do you think I'd frisk a stiff? Let me tell you something, +Dugan. (Throwing hat on floor.) You staked me two years ago in the +Pen, and then tried to make me believe that Goldie was in on the frame. +You lied like a yellow dog, Dugan, and you know it. Yes, I am a crook +and a thief, and I've robbed a lot of people, but I'm just a little +bit above you, Dugan, just a little bit above you. Because, I never +took money from a woman, and that's part of your graft. (DUGAN takes +out gun as though to hit EEL with it. GOLDIE grabs his arm and bites +his hand and he drops the gun; Noise begins off stage. GOLDIE runs +to door R. while EEL and DUGAN struggle. DUGAN throws EEL off and +goes toward window L. EEL sees gun on floor R., runs and gets it, +but GOLDIE prevents his shooting it. The Police break in the door +at this point. One catches GOLDIE as she is running toward the +window L. Another, who comes through the window, catches the EEL. +The Inspector stands at door R., crowd back of him. DUGAN comes +down to him.) + +DUGAN: Well, Inspector, I got him. He robbed and croaked an old +man. I got him with the goods on! + +INSPECTOR: Let these people go! (Pointing to DUGAN.) There's your +man, arrest him! (GOLDIE and the EEL are released.) + +DUGAN: Inspector, you've got nothing on me. + +INSPECTOR: No? (Crossing to DUGAN.) Well, there's a dictagraph in +this room (GOLDIE rushes into EEL'S arms.), and we've got everything +on you, you dog. You're a disgrace to all mankind. It is unclean +curs like you that have bred a cancer in the department, and pointed +the finger of suspicion at ten thousand honest policemen. But +that cancer must be cut out, and the operation begins now. Take +him away. (Policemen hand-cuff DUGAN, who struggles, then resignedly +walks off, preceded and followed by police. The INSPECTOR follows +them, but stops and turns at door R.) Well, Billy! (EEL and GOLDIE +come C. and stand in front of trunk.) + +EEL: Well, Inspector? + +INSPECTOR: If you're going to live square, stick to it. (EEL takes +GOLDIE'S hand.) I never want to see you at headquarters again. +(EEL drops his head and GOLDIE puts her arm around him.) I won't +even need you as a witness. The dictagraph has recorded all. (EEL +and GOLDIE pleased.) Good-night! (INSPECTOR exits, closing door +after him.) + +EEL and GOLDIE: Good-night, Inspector! (They both listen until his +footsteps die off, and door slams. Then EEL runs to door to listen, +and GOLDIE sits dejectedly on trunk.) + +GOLDIE: Well, we're broke again. (Tearfully.) We can't go West +now, so there's no use packing. (The EEL goes stealthily to window +L., looks out, pulls dictagraph from wall, then comes down R. of +GOLDIE who is sitting on trunk and has watched him. He taps her +on the shoulder, taking DUGAN'S red wallet out of pocket.) + +EEL: Go right ahead and pack! (GOLDIE looks astounded, and begins +to laugh.) + +CURTAIN + +First picture. (Both sitting on trunk counting money.) + + + + +A PERSIAN GARDEN + +A MUSICAL COMEDY +IN ONE ACT + +BOOKS AND LYRICS BY +EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF +Author of "The Lollard," "The Lady of the Press," +"A College Proposition," "Master Willie Hewes, or +The Lady of the Sonnets," Etc., Etc. + +MUSIC BY +ANATOL FRIEDLAND +Composer of "My Little Dream Girl," "My +Sweet Adair," Etc., Etc. + + +A PERSIAN GARDEN +CHARACTERS +(Order in which they appear.) + +ROSE DUDLEY STANFORD +LETTY PHIL +BETTY DOWLEH +SHEIK ABU MIRZAH NEHMID DUCKIN +MRS. SCHUYLER HAMILTON SCHUYLER + PAUL MORGAN + + +SCENE + +The Rose Gardens of the American Legation in Persia--the entrance +to the building on left. Large Persian jardinieres on right with +a large Persian Rose Tree. + +OPENING NUMBER + +ROSE: "The Girl in the Persian Rug." After number off stage is +heard in old man's voice: "Illa au Rose aboukar." + +GIRLS: (Running up.) Oh--here comes the old Sheik now. (Enter the +old SHEIK ABU MIRZAH preceded by Persian servant.) + +ABU: Ah--ma Rosa Persh--ma waf to be--to-morrow we marry, eh? (The +SHEIK carries eartrumpet.) + +ROSE: (Running from him in alarm.) Oh, don't touch me--don't--don't! +(They are both yelling at each other as MRS. SCHUYLER enters first +arch and sees ROSE'S actions--she is flashy--an ex-chorus girl--married +to the retiring consul.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Say, tie a can to that duet. What's the matter? + +ROSE: (Crossing to her.) Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, I won't marry him--I +hate him! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, the poor old prune. (Crossing to ABU, garrulously.) +How are you, Sheik? Our little ward, Rose, is so young and foolish! +But I was just that innocent when I was in the chorus. When I +came out of it, believe me, I was a different woman. (Enter Persian +servant.) + +SERVANT: The new consul wants to know when we are going to move out-- + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Not till after Rose's wedding to-morrow. (ROSE +utters exclamation of rage, slaps the SHEIK'S face and exits.) I +was just that emotional until I'd been married a few times--Come, +Sheik--my husband won't return from Tabris till this evening--join +me in a cocktail. (She illustrates drink in pantomime.) + +ABU: (Understanding pantomime.) Yes! Yes! (LETTY and BETTY go up +to table and chair C.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Mousta, two cocktails on my back porch. Come, +Sheik--Sheik! (Business with girls.) This way to the dog house. +(Takes hold of chain on his ear trumpet and passes him in. Girls +have gone off.) Oh--and, Mousta--don't put any cherries in--they +take up too much room in the glass. (She exits one way--Waiter, +another.) + +(MUSIC. Entrance of men.) + +PAUL: (Entering with DUDLEY.) Well, there are some beautiful girls +in our new Persian home--has Phil brought our things from the boat? +Phil! Phil! (Phil enters with all the luggage.) + +PHIL: (Meekly.) Here I am, sir.-- + +PAUL: (As if brushing mosquitoes away.) Oh gee! these Persian +mosquitoes! (Finally kills one on his own face.) + +PHIL: (Hungrily.) When are we going to have lunch, sir? + +PAUL: Well, there are several little things I want you to do first. +(Whacking him on one side of face.) Another mosquito. + +PHIL: (Gratefully.) Oh, thank you, sir. + +DUDLEY: Paul, you look as if you were mashed on that Madison +girl--(Sees mosquito on PHIL's face.) Another mosquito. (Whacks +him on other side of face.) + +PHIL: Oh, thank you, sir--I have never seen such extreme kindness. +(Both whack him this time--one on each side of face.) + +PAUL: Ho! Ho! Two of them this time. + +PHIL: Probably twins. + +DUDLEY: I'll go in and see when the retiring consul will move out. + +PAUL: All right, and I'll get a bite of luncheon awhile. (DUDLEY +exits.) + +PHIL: (Hungrily.) Oh--are you going to have your luncheon _alone_? +(PAUL sees mosquito on PHIL--is about to kill it--PHIL falls back.) +Ah--let it live--let it live. + +PAUL: Now--you run in the house and take our things out of the +grips. + +PHIL: Is there any other little thing I can do for you? + +PAUL: Not till after I've had my lunch. + +PHIL: Thank you, sir! (PHIL looks a starved look at him--exits +into house--stumbling over bundles.) (ROSE is heard singing off-stage +chorus of "My Little Persian Rose"--enters humming.) + +PAUL: (As he hears her singing.) It's Miss Madison--I know her +sweet voice! + +ROSE: (As she enters and sees PAUL, she stops singing, embarrassed.) +Oh, I didn't know you were here. (The music continues faintly in +orchestra.) + +PAUL: I'm not--I'm in heaven when I hear you sing. + +ROSE: Oh, I hope you don't mean my singing kills you. + +PAUL: No--for _then_, I'm afraid I wouldn't be in heaven. What was +that song? + +ROSE: An old Persian poet taught me the words. + +PAUL: (Ardently.) Oh, how I love--those words. Are you going back +to America with Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler? + +ROSE: (Sadly.) No, I must stay here in Persia. + +PAUL: (Forgetting himself.) Hooray! + +ROSE: Ah--but you don't know. + +PAUL: Know what? + +ROSE: Don't ask me now--good day, sir. (She courtesies and runs +off.) + +(Music in orchestra stops.) + +PAUL: I wonder what she meant by that? + +PHIL: (Rushing on.) I've taken out your things. Now, may I eat? +(Persian servant enters in haste.) + +SERVANT: Oh please, sir, the Sheik has drunk three cocktails, and +Mrs. Schuyler says he is disgusting. Quick, get someone to take him +home. + +PAUL: Phil--do you hear? The Sheik's disgusting--take him home. +(Servants exit.) + +PHIL: (As he exits.) Is there any little thing I can do for you? + +PAUL: Not just now. (PHIL exits.) The melody of that song haunts +me. (He starts to hum it.) (PHIL enters with SHEIK on his +shoulders--struggles to get him off. Finally exits with him. As +he exits, MRS. SCHUYLER enters first arch.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: I hope he gets the old fool home, all right. (Sees +PAUL.) Oho--it looks good to mother. (Business of humming same +song.) + +PAUL: (Turning and seeing her, with great surprise.) Agnes! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Startled.) Mercy, where was I Agnes? + +PAUL: (Crosses to MRS. SCHUYLER.) Have you forgotten--the summer +I met you in Niagara Falls? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Niagara Falls? I must have been on one of my +honeymoons--oh, yes--of course--Mr. Morgan. (They shake hands.) +You see, I've met so many mushy men. (He sighs.) What makes you +look so unhappy? + +PAUL: I'm in love with a girl. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Only one? Why so economical? + +PAUL: Ah--I'm afraid you don't know what real love is. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, yes I do! Real love is the kind that lasts after +you've heard a man sleeping right out loud. Who's the girl? + +PAUL: Miss Madison. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Surprised.) Our Rose? Not on your life. To-morrow, +before we return to America, she's to marry the Abu Mirzah, and +nothing can prevent it. + +PAUL: (In horror.) She's being sacrificed to that old mummy--I'll +kill him. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: The doctors say he is so strong, nothing can kill +him, except his fondness for Persian plums, and there is a mandate +out inflicting death upon any man who sends him any. (ROSE enters.) + +PAUL: (Crossing to her.) Oh, Miss Madison, I've just heard-- + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Rose--go to the grape arbor at once--I'll join you +there presently. (DUDLEY enters.) + +DUDLEY: Say, Paul--I--(Sees MRS. SCHUYLER--with surprise.) Lena-- + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Du, "Allmaechtiger Strohsach"--where was I Lena? + +DUDLEY: Have you forgotten, in Germany, Unter den Linden? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Germany? Oh, the man who made love to me over a +plate of frankfurters? Well--well--wie geht's! Tell me, do you +think I've grown stouter since the days when I was Lena? (PAUL +laughs.) + +DUDLEY: Not a bit. (PAUL and ROSE laugh.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Seeing ROSE and PAUL in earnest conversation.) +Excuse me. (She crosses and grabs ROSE.) Rose, there's some grape +juice waiting for us in the grape arbor. (She sends ROSE off.) +(Boys step toward MRS. SCHUYLER.) Boys--later--when Rose has gone, +you may come and crush a grape with me in the arbor. (She exits.) + +PAUL: Aber nit! Dud, she's determined to keep us apart--you must +help me--go and grab her, and run her off into the house. + +DUDLEY: Lena--not much--she once flung a glass at my head. + +PAUL: Well, then, where's Phil? (Calls.) Phil--Phil! (DUDLEY calls +also. PHIL rushes on.) + +PHIL: Am I going to eat? + +PAUL: Quick, go and grab Mrs. Schuyler in the grape arbor. + +PHIL: Grab her in the grape arbor? + +PAUL: (Pushing them off.) And run her into the house. Quick. (He +pushes PHIL off one way.) And you run into the house and hold her +there. (Rushes DUDLEY into house.) I'll run to the grape arbor to +join Rose when she's alone. (He exits.) (PHIL enters, pushing MRS. +SCHUYLER toward the house. They enter from grape arbor.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Beating him with parasol.) The idea! What's the +meaning of this? You little runt! (Pushing him off.) (Ad lib +talk.) Who are you, anyhow? + +PHIL: (Turning and seeing her.) Maggie! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (As before.) For the love of the Chambermaids' +Union, where was I Maggie? + +PHIL: Don't you remember when I was a "merry merry" with you in +the "Blonde Broilers' Burlesque" troupe? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Were you one of the Blonde Broilers? + +PHIL: Sure, I was the fellow that came out in the last act disguised +as a bench. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Finally remembering him.) Oh, you dear old Benchie! +(They embrace.) And I used to come in and sit all over you. + +PHIL: That's how I came to fall in love with you. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: A man always thinks more of a woman when she sits +on him. + +PHIL: Do she? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: She do. + +PHIL: Come and sit on me now. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Coyly.) Oh, you fascinating devil. + +PHIL: Ah, go on--ah, sit on me. (Business of sitting--nearly +flopping--finally getting on his knee.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: You're not the bench you used to be! + +PHIL: You're not the sitter you used to be. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Remember the night you let me flop? + +PHIL: I couldn't get into my part at all that night. I kept saying +to myself: Phillip, be a bench, be a bench; but when I felt you +near me, all the benchiness left me. When you sat on me, I put +my arms about you, like this. (Does so.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah--how it all comes back to me now! When you would +put your arms about me, I would close my eyes and make believe it +was Otis Skinner. (Business.) + +PHIL: And then before all the crowd, I kissed you so. (He illustrates +as PAUL enters with ROSE from arbor.) + +PAUL: (Seeing PHIL and MRS. SCHUYLER.) Well--(They break apart.) +I'm surprised! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Works PHIL around to hide him first, then turns +him around to PAUL.) You wouldn't be if you were as used to it as +I am. + +PAUL: (Aside to PHIL.) What did I tell you to do? + +(PHIL seizes MRS. SCHUYLER and runs her into house--she saying: +"What's the idea," etc., till off.) (Sunset falls upon scene.) + +SONG--PAUL and ROSE--"My Little Persian Rose." (ROSE exits at end +of song.) + +PAUL: (Left alone.) I won't let her marry him. (A girl passes, +crying out "Persian Plums--who will buy?") + +PAUL: Persian Plums--Mrs. Schuyler said the old Sheik had such a +passion for them, they might prove his death. Here! Girl--let me +have a basket. (Hands her a roll of money.) There! (As he comes +down with plums, the girl exits.) But she said whoever was caught +sending him any would suffer the penalty of death. (Gets idea and +calls off.) Phil--Phil! (Moonlight effect. As PHIL enters, anxiously, +PAUL extends the basket of plums to him.) + +PHIL: (Taking plums, greedily.) Oh thanks, I was starving-- + +PAUL: (Stopping him as he is about to eat.) Here--here--they're +not for you. Quick--take them to the palace of the old Sheik Abu +Mirzah. + +PHIL: But I left him asleep in his bed, sir. + +PAUL: Well, place them where he'll see them when he wakes, and +(ominously) don't let anyone catch you with them, for the country +is full of revolutionists and it might mean death. + +PHIL: (Trembling.) My death! Is there any other little thing I can +do for you? + +PAUL: No. (Several pistol shots are heard. PHIL drops plums and +starts to run into house. PAUL catches him by the hair--business.) +You coward! I'm surprised! Go to the Palace of the Abu Mirzah. (He +places basket in PHIL's hands.) Go! + +(As PHIL backs off with plums, he bumps into a fierce looking +Persian who enters. PHIL starts and has comedy exit. The Persian +is the Emir Shahrud, who has disguised himself as DOWLEH the chef. +DOWLEH grinds his teeth at PAUL, who runs off.) + +(DOWLEH sneaks over to house mysteriously--sees someone coming, +and then runs and hides behind rosebush.) + +(Now, moonlight floods scene. MRS. SCHUYLER enters in evening +gown with LETTY and BETTY. Waiter enters and sets two tables.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Turn up the lights! + +LETTY: Our last night in Persia. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: I've ordered my "paflouka" out here. (MRS. SCHUYLER +crosses to rosebush and, DOWLER jumps out at her.) Mercy--how you +scared me! + +DOWLEH: Fatima! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Now, I'm a cigarette! + +DOWLEH: You are cruel to me--the noble Prince of Persia, who just +to be near you, disguised himself as a cook. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Prince, I eat your cooking--that's kind enough. + +DOWLEH: (Business.) Yes, I love you so that one day I hear a lady +say you paint your face--I put a secret poison in her food--she +took one taste--in ten seconds, she die. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: It serves her right for telling the truth. + +DOWLEH: Come! Fly with me! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh Prince, I've flown so much in my days, there +isn't another flap left in me. (Throws him off.) Go--serve my +"paflouka!" + +DOWLEH: You throw me down--very well--I will be revenged. (Grinds +his teeth in her ear.) Mmmm-ha! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (With start, holding ear.) He bit me. (The girls +come down as DOWLEH goes off bumping into DUDLEY, who enters in +dress clothes--he swears at DUDLEY, in Persian and exits.) + +DUDLEY: (To MRS. SCHUYLER.) Oh Lena--if it's you that has made him +mad, I'd advise you not to taste any of his food again. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Why? + +DUDLEY: I just heard _he's_ under suspicion of having put poison +in a lady's food, which killed her in ten seconds. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Ten seconds! Then it was true. (Waiter enters with +"paftouka.") Oh my beautiful paflouka--and it smells so good. + +DUDLEY: But Lena--you _daren't touch_ it unless you get someone +to try it first. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Will you? + +DUDLEY: Excuse me. (She turns to the three--they all decline.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, if heaven would only send some unsuspecting +imbecile to taste my paflouka for me--(PHIL backs on from grape +arbor--looking to see if he's being followed.) Heaven has sent it +hither. (She steps PHIL's way. As he bumps into her, he starts.) +Hello! + +PHIL: (After start.) Hello. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Why, what's the matter? + +PHIL: Oh, I'm faint--for food. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Aside to others.) Oh, it's a shame to do it. (To +PHIL.) How would you like to "paflouka" with me? + +PHIL: (After business.) No--before I do anything else, I must eat. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: To "paflouka" is to eat. + +PHIL: Well--hurry--let's do it. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (To waiter.) Now, Mousta place my "rakoush" before +him. + +PHIL: (As waiter places soup and roll before him.) Oh, it looks +like soup. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Crossing to him.) I always start with something +hot. + +PHIL: (Takes spoonful.) It is soup! (As he goes for second spoonful, +they hold his hand.) + +WARNING: Could not break paragraph: +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Counting.) One--two--three--four--five--six-- +seven--eight--nine--ten--(Looking at him.) How do you feel? + +PHIL: (Completely puzzled.) Well, I can't say I feel just full yet. + +DUDLEY: Go on, take a bite of roll. + +PHIL: Thank you! (He takes one bite--as he goes for second bite, +DUDLEY holds his hand--as they all count ten. Looking from one +to another.) Say, what is this--a prize fight? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Looking at him closely.) (DUDLEY takes roll from +PHIL.) It's all right--he still lives--I feel better now. + +PHIL: I'm glad of that. (He starts to take another spoonful of +soup.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Mousta, bring my rakoush. (Just as PHIL gets spoon +to mouth, MOUSTA grabs it out of his hand and crosses with soup +and roll to MRS. SCHUYLER, saying to PHIL in Persian: "Rekkra milta +suss.") + +PHIL: Say, isn't there some mistake? I understood that was my +rakoush. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: No, dear boy--it's ours. (She starts to eat.) + +PHIL: I guess that's what they call to paflouka. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, it tastes good. + +PHIL: It sounds good. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Now, Mousta, my bird and salad. (He exits.) + +PHIL: I hope the bird's an ostrich. (He hears MRS. SCHUYLER drink +soup.) (Enter MOUSTA--crosses with bird to MRS. SCHUYLER.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: No--place it before him. + +PHIL: Yes--put it down--put it down. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: No one can cook a bird like Princey. + +PHIL: A bird? It looks like an insect! (He sees them approaching +him as before and grabbing the bird in his hand starts to make off +with it--they seize him and throw him into chair.) + +PHIL: (As DUDLEY snatches bird from him.) Say, what kind of a game +is this anyhow? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: I'll explain. The chef is enraged at me, and as +he's under suspicion of having put poison in a lady's food that +killed her in ten seconds-- + +PHIL: (Jumping up in alarm.) Poison? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (With DUDLEY'S help setting him down again.) Yes, +so we got you to try my food on-- + +PHIL: Oh, I see--I'm the dog. + +DUDLEY: Precisely. Now go on--taste that bird. + +PHIL: No, thanks--I've had enough. + +ALL: (Together.) Go on--commence! (Business of making him taste +bird.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: One-- + +PHIL: (Finishing counting for her.) Two--(To nine.) (As he reaches +ten, he sneezes.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: I'm afraid to look. (Business of PHIL tasting bird, +then getting idea of pretending to be poisoned, he commences to +get a fit.) Help! Bring a chair! (They finally get his feet on +chair.) Well, we got him on the chair anyhow. + +DUDLEY: He's poisoned-- + +LETTY and BETTY: We've killed him. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Come on--let's beat it--(They all run off. PHIL +gets up to grab all the food, when DUDLEY is heard off, calling +"Lena."--He flops back with a jump to same dead position on floor. +Finally gets up, grabs all the food and exits. MRS. SCHUYLER +re-enters.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: He's gone and he's taken all the food with him. +Quick, Mousta, clear away all these things. (Paul enters.) + +PAUL: Mrs. Schuyler, I'm really in love with Rose. (DOWLEH enters +now in Persian dress clothes.) + +DOWLEH: Ah, Fatima--can I see you alone? (DUDLEY enters.) + +DUDLEY: Oh, Lena, could I see you alone? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: If any more turn up, I'll scream. (LETTY and BETTY +run on, carrying a note.) + +LETTY: An important letter. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Opening it.) From my husband. + +BETTY: I'm afraid it's bad news. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Bad news! P'raps he's coming home earlier than I +expected. (Reads:) "Dear Becky!" + +ALL THE MEN: Becky! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Yes, we met at Arverne! "I have heard of your +carrying on with four old sweethearts: Had it been _one_, I would +have killed him quietly and let the matter drop, but four are too +many. I shall kill them all and divorce you. Expect me at +ten.--Hamilton." Oh, gentlemen, this is awful--Hamilton is unlike +most men--he means what he says-- + +PAUL: (Following.) But surely you can find a few more to help us +defend ourselves. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah, you don't know Hamilton. When he's angry, an +army couldn't withstand him. + +DOWLEH: If your husband kills, I will kill him. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah, that doesn't worry me--but he may cut my +allowance. + +DUDLEY: (Following.) We _must_ save you from such a fate. + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Save me? You could! If there was one among you +brave enough to say: "I am the only guy here ever loved your wife. +Kill _me_, but don't cut her allowance." + +MEN: (Going up stage.) Excuse me! (Waiter enters with straws in +glass, from arbor.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah--straws--the very thing--gentlemen. +(Takes them out of glasses.) Come--choose--whoever has the shortest +straw is to show his courage and die for me--who is it? Who is +it? (PHIL enters--they see him--drop straws--and seize him.) + +PAUL: Phil! + +MEN: Ah! Welcome to our city. Welcome! Welcome! + +PHIL: Is there any little thing I can do for you? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Yes. My husband will be here at any moment to kill +these gentlemen and divorce me. You can save us all by saying you +are the only old sweetheart of mine here. + +PHIL: Excuse me! + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, Benchie! Think of your bench days when I used +to sit on you-- + +PHIL: If you'd only sit on me now, I'd feel safer-- + +PAUL: Now don't be a fool. When he comes, say: "I am the only +man here ever had an affair with your wife. What have you to say +about it?" + +ALL: (Together.) Repeat that now. + +PHIL: (In terror.) I am the only man here ever had anything to do +with your wife--just like that. (An automobile horn heard.) + +GIRLS: Oh, here he is--(They run off. Business of men holding +PHIL and finally rushing off as an enormous figure in Persian +"get-up" enters.) + +MRS. SCHUYLER: (Picking up PHIL.) Benchie, it's sweet and accommodating +of you to die for these three gentlemen--a favor I shan't forget. +(From behind the Persian giant steps a midget in swell citizen +clothes)--"It's Hamilton--(Mrs. Schuyler picks him up and kisses +him.) Oh, Hamilton-I'm so glad you've come. (Crossing to Persian.) +And Nehmid Duckin--it is an honor to have the prime minister with +us. I'll go for a stroll with you and come back when (Turning to +husband) you're through with this gentleman. + +NEHMID: (In deep voice.) Is he the one? + +MRS. SCHUYLER: Yes--you're looking great. (Takes his arm.) + +NEHMID: So are you! (In deep tones to PHIL.) And now sir, you +explain. (Exits with Mrs. Schuyler.) (PHIL stands in terror, +thinking a powerful foe stands behind him. In reality, it is the +midget husband. PHIL tries to talk. At first he cannot.) + +PHIL: (After comedy biz.) I have a wife with an affair--I mean an +affair with your wife--what have you to say about it? + +MR. SCHUYLER: (In piping voice.) I'm very angry. (PHIL starts--looks +up to see where voice comes from--doesn't see anyone--walks and +bumps into HAMILTON--rolls up his sleeves.) + +PHIL: (Bravely.) What have you to say about it? (Slaps his hand +over his mouth.) Don't say a word--I've been waiting for something +like you to show up. (He backs HAMILTON off--his hand on his face.) + +FINALE: (During this, ROSE enters in bridal costume to be wed to +SHEIK. Servant enters announcing his death from eating Persian +Plums. + +SONG: "Who Sent These Persian Plums?" + +Then, final meeting and happiness of lovers and comedy characters +and picture as "My Little Persian Rose" is repeated for + +CURTAIN + + + + +MY OLD +KENTUCKY HOME + +A BURLESQUE IN ONE ACT + +BY +JAMES MADISON + +Author of "Love Blossoms," "Cohen from Bridgeport," +"Before and After," Monologues for Nat M. Wills, +Joe Welch, Etc., Etc., Author and Publisher +"Madison's Budget." + + +MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME +CHARACTERS + +OLD BLACK JOE . . . . . . . . An ex-slave, eighty years of age +ARTHUR MAYNARD. . . . . . . . . Owner of a Kentucky Plantation +VIOLA MAYNARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His Daughter +CHARLIE DOOLITTLE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her Sweetheart +EDGAR TREMBLE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . With a heart of stone +MRS. ALICE WILSON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A frail widow +HARVEY SLICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An adventurer +FELIX FAKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His assistant +CHLORINDA SOURGRASS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . A lady of color +CISSIE, LOTTIE, FANNIE, + TILLIE, GOLDIE, DORA, + MAGGIE, MABEL, GERTIE. . . . . . . . . . . . Invited Guests + + +SCENE: Garden of ARTHUR MAYNARD'S plantation. Landscape backing. +Set house at left with practical veranda (if possible). Wood wings +at right. Set tree up stage at right behind which old pocketbook +containing a number of greenbacks is concealed. Bench in front +of tree. Pedestal up stage at left, dog-house at right. + +DISCOVERED: (At rise of curtain an invisible CHORUS is heard singing +"My Old Kentucky Home." Then GOLDIE and other invited girl friends +come on stage and sing a MEDLEY OF POPULAR CHORUSES. At conclusion +of medley, VIOLA enters from house.) + +VIOLA: Girls, do you know why I've invited you all today? + +FANNIE: To tell us that you're engaged to be married. + +VIOLA: Nothing so fortunate. This is my father's birthday, and +I've arranged a little celebration in his honor, and I want you +all to participate. + +LOTTIE: We won't do a thing but enjoy ourselves. + +VIOLA: But there's one dark cloud, girls. + +(CHLORINDA enters from house.) + +TILLIE: Yes, here comes the dark cloud now. + +VIOLA: The dark cloud I refer to is Mrs. Wilson, who calls herself +a widow and who has been hanging around father for the last few +months in the hope that he'll make her Mrs. Maynard number two. + +DORA: The hussy! + +MAGGIE: The cat! + +VIOLA: I wouldn't care if she loved father, but I suspect that all +she's after is his money. + +CHLORINDA: His mazuma. + +GERTIE: Get on to the African Jew! + +LOTTIE: Any woman that wants to fool your father has to get up +early in the morning. + +VIOLA: Mrs. Wilson sometimes looks as if she stays up all night. +(All girls laugh.) + +VIOLA: If she only knew that the old plantation is mortgaged up +to the roof, I guess she wouldn't be so anxious about marrying +father. + +VIOLA: (To CHLORINDA.) Well, Chlorinda, what brings you out here? + +CHLORINDA: I jes' came out to say dat refreshments am ready in de +house if de young ladies am thirsty or hungry. + +(CHORUS by ladies of company, then they exit into house. VIOLA +remains on stage.) + +(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from R. and stealing up softly behind +VIOLA, puts his hands over her eyes.) + +CHARLIE: Guess who it is? + +VIOLA: Is it a human being? + +CHARLIE: (Effeminately.) Why, I like that! Of course, it is. + +VIOLA: It's Lottie. + +CHARLIE: No. + +VIOLA: Then it's Fanny. + +CHARLIE: No. + +VIOLA: Then it must be Lillie. + +CHARLIE: No; you silly goose, it's Charlie. + +VIOLA: (In disgust.) I thought you said it was a human being? + +CHARLIE: Just for that you must sit down on the bench and give me +a kiss. + +VIOLA: Wait a minute till I go into the house and get a veil. The +sunlight hurts my eyes. (She exits at L.) + +CHARLIE: (Moving towards R.) That will just give me time to go +into the grove and smoke a cigarette. (Exits.) + +(Enter CHLORINDA from house. She has a green veil on, which hides +her face; she sits down on bench.) + +CHLORINDA: Ebery wench on dis plantation has got a fellah 'ceptin +me, so I went to a fortune tellah an' she said Ah should sit on +dis heah bench ebery day and ah nice fellah would come along. +Well, I'se been doing it now for ovah a month an' Ah habent seen +no nice fellah yet; in fact, Ah habent seen a fellah of any kind. + +(Enter CHARLIE from R.) + +CHARLIE: Ah, there, my sugar plum. + +CHLORINDA: Ain't he jes' too sweet for anything? + +CHARLIE: So you love your baby? + +CHLORINDA: 'Deed I do, honey. + +CHARLIE: Then lay your beautiful head on my manly breast and let +me pour sweet words of love into your ear. + +CHLORINDA: Go to it, kiddo. (Business of CHARLIE petting CHLORINDA.) + +CHARLIE: And now, ain't you going to, give me a nice, sweet kiss, +darling? + +CHLORINDA: Help yourself to as many as you want. + +(CHLORINDA lifts veil just enough to let CHARLIE touch her lips. +He does not, however, notice that she is colored, and is busily +engaged hugging and kissing her, as VIOLA enters from house; she +is very much surprised.) + +VIOLA: Charlie Doolittle, what does this mean? (CHLORINDA raises +her veil, then laughs and runs into house.) + +CHARLIE: (Discovering his error.) Why, my dear, it's all a mistake; +I thought--that is to say--er-- + +VIOLA: I'm not surprised at your embarrassment. The idea of making +love to our colored cook the minute my back is turned. + +CHARLIE: If you'll just let me explain-- + +VIOLA: Explain nothing. I'm going to tell my father how you've +insulted me. He doesn't like you, anyhow, and if he ever catches +you on the premises, your life won't be worth 23 cents in Confederate +money. (VIOLA exits into house.) + +CHARLIE: Ain't she the exasperating creature! I declare, she's +made me so peevish, I could crush a grape. The idea of telling +me her father doesn't like me. Why shouldn't he like me? (ARTHUR +MAYNARD appears in back-ground unnoticed by CHARLIE.) But, anyhow, +I'm not afraid of her father. Why, if he were to stand before me +right at this moment, I'd-- + +MAYNARD: (Stepping suddenly to the front.) Well, what would you do? + +CHARLIE: I'd run like the devil. (Runs off stage at R.) + +MAYNARD: I'm going to keep that disgusting fellow off the premises +if I have to notify the dog-catcher. (Notices pedestal.) Ever +since a tornado knocked that statue off its pedestal, this garden +has looked rather bare, so I've put an advertisement into the +newspaper, offering five hundred dollars for a suitable statue to +take its place. + +(Mrs. Wilson enters from R. and coughs gently to attract MR. +MAYNARD'S attention.) + +MAYNARD: (Turning around.) Why, Mrs. Wilson! + +MRS. WILSON: Good morning, Mr. Maynard! + +(Both talking at the same time.) This is indeed a surprise. I did +not expect to see you as early as this. How are you feeling? +Good? That's good. Lovely day, isn't it? + +MAYNARD: I have often wanted to ask you, Mrs. Wilson, where is +your husband? + +MRS. WILSON: I don't know. + +MAYNARD: What's that, you don't know where your husband is? + +MRS. WILSON: No; you see, he is dead-- + +MAYNARD: (Laughingly.) I understand. Did he leave you much? + +MRS. WILSON: Yes, nearly every night. + +MAYNARD: No, no; I mean, did he leave you any property? + +MRS. WILSON: Yes, five small children, and believe me, Mr. Maynard, +it's hard to lose a husband when you have five children. Do you +think I ought to get another? + +MAYNARD: No; I think five are enough. + +MRS. WILSON: I see you will have your joke. + +MAYNARD: Are you fond of horses? + +MRS. WILSON: I love horses. + +MAYNARD: Well, come down to the stable and I'll show you some of +the finest thoroughbreds you ever looked at. (They both exit Right +I.) + +(Enter HARVEY SLICK and FELIX FAKE at centre; HARVEY carries a +heavy blackthorn walking stick.) + +HARVEY: Now remember, you're a statue. + +FELIX: You're a liar. + +HARVEY: Don't call me a liar. + +FELIX: Then don't call me a statue. + +HARVEY: Don't you understand, the guy what owns this plantation +offers five hundred dollars for a statue and I've come to get the +money. + +FELIX: But what have I got to do with all this? + +HARVEY: You're the statue. + +FELIX: Go on; I never was a statue in my life. + +HARVEY: All you have to do is to get on that pedestal and stand +perfectly still. + +FELIX: Oh, I just have to stand perfectly still. + +HARVEY: That's the idea. Don't move a muscle. + +FELIX: But suppose a fly hops on my nose? + +HARVEY: Don't notice it. + +FELIX: Or suppose some bad boys throw stones at me? + +HARVEY: Why, my boy, simply don't notice it. + +FELIX: I don't think I want the job. + +HARVEY: Why, of course you do. The figure you are to represent +is called "Ajax defying the lightning." + +FELIX: Oh, a jackass defying the lightning. + +HARVEY: No, Ajax; but look sharp, for here comes Mr. Maynard now. +Quick, jump on the pedestal. + +(HARVEY hands stick to FELIX, who quickly jumps on pedestal and +poses in funny position, as Maynard enters from right.) + +MAYNARD: (To HARVEY.) Well, sir, what can I do for you? + +HARVEY: You advertised for a statue, I believe. + +MAYNARD: I did, sir. + +HARVEY: Well, I think I've got just what you want--"a jackass +defying the lightning." + +MAYNARD: What's that? + +HARVEY: Excuse me, I mean "Ajax." (Aside, and pointing to FELIX.) +That son of a gun has got me talking that way now. + +MAYNARD: I'll be pleased to look at your statue. + +HARVEY: (Pointing to FELIX on pedestal.) Here it is, sir. + +MAYNARD: (After surveying it critically.) What material is the +statue made of? + +HARVEY: Brass--pure brass. + +MAYNARD: I think the statue will suit me except that the nose is +a bit too long. + +HARVEY: Well, you can easily take off a piece with a hammer and +chisel. + +MAYNARD: Why, so I can. But here's another objection. Suppose +thieves come around some night and steal the statue? + +HARVEY: All you have to do is to bore a hole through one of its +legs, pass a chain through it and fasten to the pedestal. (FELIX +works up this situation by comic mugging.) + +MAYNARD: A very good idea. How much do you want for the statue? + +HARVEY: Five hundred dollars. + +MAYNARD: That's a lot of money, but I think I shall buy it anyhow. + +HARVEY: Well, just hand over the five hundred, and the statue is +yours. (MAYNARD and HARVEY move to a position in front of the +statue. MAYNARD takes a roll of bills from his pocket and in +handling them, drops one. As he bends forward to pick it up, FELIX +pokes him with the stick, knocking him over frontwards. MAYNARD +thinks HARVEY has kicked him.) + +MAYNARD: (To Harvey.) What do you mean by kicking me, sir? + +HARVEY: Why, I didn't kick you. + +MAYNARD: If I hadn't set my heart on owning the statue, I'd call +the deal off right now. + +HARVEY: (Starting to get a bit angry.) I tell you I didn't kick +you. + +MAYNARD: Well, don't do it again. Here's your money. (MAYNARD +hands HARVEY roll of bills, who counts it and lets the last bill +fall on stage. In stooping to pick it up, FELIX pokes HARVEY, +causing him to fall over frontwards. HARVEY thinks MAYNARD has +kicked him.) + +HARVEY: (To MAYNARD.) A joke's a joke, but this is going entirely +too far. + +MAYNARD: What on earth are you talking about? + +HARVEY: You just kicked me. + +MAYNARD: I didn't. + +HARVEY: You did. + +MAYNARD: I didn't. + +FELIX: Shut up. + +MAYNARD and HARVEY: (Both talking together.) + +Don't tell me to shut up. I didn't tell you to shut up. Well, +somebody did. + +HARVEY: I'm awful thirsty. + +MAYNARD: I'll go into the house and get you a glass of wine. + +FELIX: Well, hurry up about it. + +MAYNARD: (Thinking HARVEY spoke.) I never heard such impudence in +all my life. Why, the idea! + +(Exits into house.) + +FELIX: Yes, the idea. + +HARVEY: Well, I got the old fool's money all right. + +FELIX: Where's my share? + +HARVEY: (Laughing.) Now, who ever heard of a statue having mo-non-ey. + +FELIX: But you promised me half of the five hundred dollars. + +HARVEY: Well, suppose I did; you don't expect me to keep my word, +do you? You'd be a pretty looking sight, carrying two hundred and +fifty dollars around with you. Why, I'd have to lay for you in +some dark alley and take it away from you. I want you to understand +that I'm the wise guy of this combination and if you want any of +my money, you've got to take it away from me. (HARVEY has taken a +position just in front of FELIX, who is still on the pedestal. +FELIX slips his hand slyly into HARVEY'S pocket and takes all the +money.) + +HARVEY: (Moving to centre exit.) Well, so long, Felix, so long, +and remember, Felix, that money is the root of all evil. + +(HARVEY exits.) + +FELIX: (Holding up roll of bills.) Well, I've extracted some of +the root all right, all right. (FELIX exits at right.) + +(Big SINGING NUMBER by VIOLA and ladies of company.) + +(Then, MR. MAYNARD enters from the house.) + +GOLDIE: In behalf of all your friends who are assembled here today, +Mr. Maynard, I want to congratulate you on your birthday anniversary. + +MAYNARD: Ah, thank you, ladies, I appreciate your good wishes very +much. + +DORA: I hope you will live to be a hundred years old. + +MAYNARD: (Laughing.) I hope so--but why should the Lord take me +for a hundred when he can get me at 70? + +(OLD BLACK JOE comes ambling in from Right to melody of "Old Black +Joe.") + +MAYNARD: Well, Old Black Joe, how are you feeling today? + +JOE: Well, Massa, I'se got rheumatiz in the lef' shoulder--an' +de lumbago in mah back--an' I don' hear very well--an' ma teeth +am troubling me some--an' mah eyes is going back on me--an' mah +stomach ain't as good as it used to be--but otherwise, Massa, I'se +feelin' as sound as a nut. + +MAYNARD: What can I do for you, Old Black Joe? + +JOE: Massa, my mind ain't as clear like it used ter be, but der's +one thing I ain't never forgotten, and dat is your birthday +university, so I'd feel powerful flattered if you would accept +these few flowers what I picked myself. (Hands MAYNARD small +bouquet.) + +MAYNARD: Of all the many gifts I will receive to-day, Old Black +Joe, there is none that I will treasure more highly than these +flowers. + +JOE: Ah, thank you, Massa, thank you. + +(OLD BLACK JOE exits to melody of "Old Black Joe.") + +GOLDIE: I never could understand, Mr. Maynard, why you always make +such a fuss about that nigger, Old Black Joe. + +MAYNARD: Old Black Joe may have a black skin, but he's got a white +heart and I'll cherish and protect him as long as I have a roof +over my head. + +GOLDIE: One would think that he had done you some great favor, Mr. +Maynard. + +MAYNARD: He more than did me a favor. He once saved my life. + +CHORUS OF GIRLS: Tell us about it. + +MAYNARD: (To melodramatic music.) It was during the days of '61, +when brother fought against brother and the Blue was striving to +overpower the Grey. On this very plantation, while hardly more +than a lad, I was attacked and badly wounded and would have fallen +into the hands of the enemy if it had not been for Old Black Joe, +who, at the risk of his own life, carried me to a place of safety +and nursed me back to health again. + +CHORUS OF LADIES: Three cheers for Old Black Joe. + +(SONG by Ladies--all exit.) + +(Enter CHARLIE at centre.) + +CHARLIE: I'm crazy about Viola, but I know she will never marry +me unless her father gives his consent. If I only knew a way to +win him over. Ah, here comes Chlorinda. Perhaps she can help me. + +(Enter CHLORINDA from house.) + +CHARLIE: Hello, Chlorinda. + +CHLORINDA: Miss Sourgrass, if you please. + +CHARLIE: What's the matter with Chlorinda? + +CHLORINDA: I only allows gentlemen I'se well acquainted with to +call me Chlorinda. + +CHARLIE: Well then, Miss Sourgrass, do you want to earn a dollar? + +CHLORINDA: What's the matter with it? + +CHARLIE: There's nothing the matter with it. You see, I'm in love +with Viola Maynard, but her father doesn't like me. Now, if you +can fix things up so her father will accept me as a son-in-law, I +will give you a dollar. + +CHLORINDA: Jes leave it to me and in half an hour he'll be so +tickled to see you that he'll put his arms around your neck and +kiss you. + +CHARLIE: That will be splendid. + +CHLORINDA: The dollar, please. + +CHARLIE: I never pay in advance. + +CHLORINDA: No dollar, no kisses. + +CHARLIE: (Handing her a dollar.) Oh, very well, but see that you do +as you promise. + +CHLORINDA: Leave it to me. + +(CHARLIE exits at right.) + +(MR. MAYNARD enters from house.) + +CHLORINDA: Did you hear what happened to Charlie Doolittle? + +MAYNARD: I suppose he took a pinch of snuff and blew his brains +out. + +CHLORINDA: Goodness no; guess again. + +MAYNARD: No, I won't. I'm not at all interested in that addlepated, +monkey-faced nincompoop. He's after my daughter, but he shall +never marry her. Why, if wives could be supported for fifty cents +a year, that empty-headed specimen of vacuous mentality couldn't +even keep a cock-roach from starving. + +CHLORINDA: Don't say dat, massa, for Charlie's uncle has jes' died +an' left him fifty thousand dollars. + +MAYNARD: (Very much astonished.) How much did you say? + +CHLORINDA: Five hundred thousand dollars. + +MAYNARD: Five hundred thousand dollars? + +CHLORINDA: Yes, sah; five million dollars? + +MAYNARD: I always did like Charlie. + +CHLORINDA: But you jes' said-- + +MAYNARD: Never mind what I just said. I was only joking. Here's +a dollar to keep your mouth shut. + +(MAYNARD hands CHLORINDA a dollar.) + +CHLORlNDA: Yes, sah. + +MAYNARD: I consider Charlie Doolittle an exceptionally bright young +man, and even if he didn't have a dollar in the world I would still +consider him an excellent match for my daughter. + +CHLORINDA: But you jes' said he couldn't even support a cock-roach. + +MAYNARD: Never mind about that. Here's another dollar. (Hands +CHLORINDA another dollar.) And now, if you see Charlie Doolittle, +tell him I want to see him right away. + +CHLORINDA: Yes, sah. (She exits at right.) + +MAYNARD: (Looking at empty pedestal.) I wonder what became of the +statue? I guess Chlorinda carried it into the barn because it +looks like rain. (Enter CHARLIE from right. He coughs to attract +MAYNARD'S attention.) + +CHARLIE: Are you very angry at me, Mr. Maynard? + +MAYNARD: Angry at you, Charlie? Why, how can you only imagine +such a thing? Have a cigar. + +CHARLIE: (Accepting the cigar with misgivings.) It isn't loaded +with dynamite, is it? + +MAYNARD: Certainly not. I give you the cigar because I like you, +Charlie, and I always have liked you. + +CHARLIE: It's very kind of you to say that. (During these speeches, +FELIX has sneaked back on the pedestal, still carrying the blackthorn +stick.) + +MAYNARD: You have only to say the word and you can have anything +I've got. + +CHARLIE: Can I have your daughter? + +MAYNARD: Why certainly, Charlie. Just say the word and she's +yours. + +CHARLIE: It all seems like a dream. (Business of FELIX hitting +MAYNARD on hat with stick and smashing it in. MAYNARD thinks +CHARLIE did it.) + +MAYNARD: Now see here, Charlie, as my future son-in-law, I want +you to feel perfectly at home here, but there's such a thing as +carrying things too far. + +CHARLIE: Why, Mr. Maynard, what do you mean? + +MAYNARD: I saw you smash my hat just now, Charlie. + +CHARLIE: I didn't smash your hat. + +MAYNARD: You didn't smash my hat? + +CHARLIE: No; I didn't smash your hat. + +MAYNARD: Well, somebody did. However, as I was about to remark, +you have but to name the day and I'll give my daughter a wedding +that will--(FELIX smashes CHARLIE'S hat with stick. CHARLIE thinks +MAYNARD did it.) + +CHARLIE: Now, see here, Mr. Maynard, I may have straw-colored hair +and wear a number fourteen collar, but I object--I very seriously +object to having anybody crush my hat. + +MAYNARD: I didn't crush your hat. + +CHARLIE: I saw you. + +MAYNARD: (Getting very angry and shaking fist in CHARLIE'S face.) +You say you saw me crush your hat? + +CHARLIE: (Backing water.) Well, I thought I saw you. + +MAYNARD: (Mollified once more.) Well, that's different. However, +it really isn't worth talking about. You know that all I want in +this world is to see you happy. + +CHARLIE: Then perhaps you can lend me fifty dollars. + +MAYNARD: Lend you fifty dollars? Why certainly. Here you are. +(Hands CHARLIE the money.) No doubt, you'll be able to pay me back +when you receive the money that was left you in the will. + +CHARLIE: What will? + +MAYNARD: Why, the will of your uncle. + +CHARLIE: What uncle? + +MAYNARD: What uncle? Why, your millionaire uncle who just died +and left you all his money. + +CHARLIE: I never had a millionaire uncle and nobody has left me a +penny. + +MAYNARD: (Wiping perspiration off his face.) What; then you are +not a rich man? + +CHARLIE: Rich; why, that fifty dollars you just gave me is every +penny I've got in this world. + +MAYNARD: (Getting excited.) Oh you fraud, you deceiver, you +disgraceful beggar; I've a great mind to--(Raises fist as if to +strike CHARLIE.) + +CHARLIE: (Rushing off at right.) Assistance. Assistance! + +(HARVEY comes in at centre and stands in background ground; FELIX +is still on pedestal.) + +MAYNARD: There is only one way to keep that disgusting dude off +the premises. I'll get a savage dog if it costs me a thousand +dollars. (Exits into house.) + +HARVEY: (To FELIX, who steps off pedestal.) You hear that? + +FELIX: Hear what? + +HARVEY: He wants a savage dog. + +FELIX: Well, suppose he does? + +HARVEY: You're the dog. + +FELIX: What? + +HARVEY: You're the dog. + +FELIX: Say, what's the matter with you anyhow? First I was a +statue and now I'm a dog. Next I suppose I'll be an automobile +or a bag of peanuts. + +HARVEY: That's all right. Pass yourself off as the dog and we'll +divide the thousand dollars between us. + +FELIX: Yes, you'll get nine hundred and ninety-nine and I'll get +the balance. + +HARVEY: Nonsense; I'll only take what is right. + +FELIX: And I'll have to take what is left. + +HARVEY: For the love of Mike be reasonable. This is the chance +of a lifetime. + +FELIX: I'll impersonate the dog if you get me something to eat. + +HARVEY: What do you want to eat for? + +FELIX: I'm starving. + +HARVEY: All right, it's a bargain. You impersonate the savage dog +and I'll see that you're well fed. (Both exit at centre.) + +(Enter MRS. WILSON, from right.) + +MRS. WILSON: I must force a proposal of marriage out of Mr. Maynard +today yet. It's true I don't love him, but he's got lots of money, +and money is everything in this world. + +(Enter CHLORINDA from house, crying.) + +MRS. WILSON: Why Chlorinda, what's the matter? + +CHLORINDA: I'se just been down to the cemetery. + +MRS. WILSON: Well, you ought to laugh. + +CHLORINDA: Why, why should I laugh? + +MRS. WILSON: It's the people who are in the cemetery and cannot +get out who ought to be crying. + +CHLORINDA: Dat's all very well, Mrs. Wilson, but I jes' copied +some of de inscriptions off de tombstones, and I tells you I feels +awful mournful about it. + +MRS. WILSON: I don't see why you should feel sad, Chlorinda. + +CHLORINDA: You don't? Well, jes' listen to some of dese. (Reads +from a stack of cards, one tombstone inscription being written on +each card.) + +"Here lies the body of Michael Burke, who lost his life while +dodging work." + +"I loved my mother, I hated to leave her, but what can you do with +the typhoid fever? " + +"Mamma loves Papa, and Papa loves women; Mamma saw Papa with two +girls in swimmin'." + +"Here lies the mother of 28; there might have been more, but now +it's too late." + +"Shed a few tears for Matty Mack, a trolley car hit her a slap in +the back." + +"Here lies my poor wife much lamented. She's happy and--well, I +am contented." + +"Here lies the body of Martin Brown. He was blown in the air and +he never came down." + +"Willie Greene, sad regrets--aged 9--cigarettes." + +(Enter MR. MAYNARD from house.) + +MAYNARD: Won't you step inside the house, Mrs. Wilson--I mean +Alice--and have a glass of birthday punch with the other ladies? + +MRS. WILSON: Delighted, I'm sure. (Exits into house.) + +CHLORINDA: Won't I get punch, too? + +MAYNARD: Yes, if you don't get back to your work, you'll get a +punch in the jaw in about another minute. + +MAYNARD: I hope some one comes along soon with a savage dog. I'd +rather go to Charlie Doolittle's funeral than to a picnic. (Looks +off toward house.) Ah, there is Mrs. Wilson. How beautiful she +is. I think this is my golden chance to propose to her. (Exits +into house.) + +(Enter HARVEY at centre, pulling FELIX in by chain fastened around +his neck. FELIX now wears a dog's head and body.) + +HARVEY: (Aside to FELIX.) Now remember, all you have got to do is +to act like a savage dog, and after I collect the money from Mr. +Maynard, you'll get yours. + +FELIX: (Removing dog's head.) I hope I don't get it where I've got +this collar. + +HARVEY: Oh, you'll get it all right. + +FELIX: (Starting to leave stage.) I'm going home. + +HARVEY: (Catching him by chain.) Here, here, where are you going? + +FELIX: I don't like the way you say, "Oh, you'll get it." + +HARVEY: Oh, that's all right. And now whatever you do, act like +a dog. + +(FELIX tries to nip HARVEY'S leg, but he springs aside and says.) +Delighted. Why, you're commencing to feel like a dog already. + +FELIX: When do I get something to eat? + +HARVEY: Very shortly now. + +(Sees MAYNARD coming from house.) Quick, put on your dog's head, +for here comes Mr. Maynard. + +(Enter MAYNARD.) + +MAYNARD: (To HARVEY.) Well, sir, and what can I do for you? + +HARVEY: Your servant told me you were looking for a ferocious dog +and I think I have an animal that will just suit you. + +MAYNARD: Yes, I do want a savage dog, and if you have such a beast +we can do business together. + +FELIX: (Aside.) Now, I'm a beast. + +(HARVEY kicks at FELIX to get him to shut up.) + +HARVEY: (Pointing to FELIX.) This animal is so ferocious that if +anyone should come across his path at night when he is unchained +he would tear him limb from limb. + +MAYNARD: (Noticing FELIX.) Is this the dog? + +HARVEY: (Rubbing his hands.) Yes, sir, and if you searched the +world over, you couldn't find a more savage high-bred animal. He +is full of animation. + +MAYNARD: (Scratching himself.) I think he is full of fleas. But, +tell me, what do you ask for him? + +HARVEY: One thousand dollars. + +MAYNARD: That's a lot of money. + +HARVEY: Not for this dog. + +MAYNARD: Perhaps I ought to explain to you what I want the dog for. + +HARVEY: I daresay you feel lonely for a companion. + +MAYNARD: No, sir; I want a dog for my daughter, sir, to keep off +a worthless, good-for-nothing dude who comes pestering around here +after her because he knows that her father has a lot of money, and +thinks that if he marries his daughter he can move to Easy Street. + +HARVEY: I see; he is looking for a soft snap. + +MAYNARD: That's it, but I'll fool him. I want a dog that will +chew him up into pieces if he ever dares to set his foot inside +my garden gate again. + +HARVEY: My dog will suit you exactly. + +MAYNARD: But a thousand dollars is an awful lot of money. + +HARVEY: Not for this animal. In the first place, you never have +to feed him. + +MAYNARD: What's that! You mean to say that this dog goes without +food? + +HARVEY: That's the idea exactly. + +(FELIX shows signs of disgust. He can work up some funny business +by taking off his mask whenever HARVEY and MAYNARD are talking +together and quickly slipping it on again when he thinks their +attention is directed towards him.) + +MAYNARD: Why, it's preposterous. You don't suppose I would keep +a dog around the house and never feed him? + +HARVEY: I tell you this dog never eats. + +MAYNARD: Why, that's cruelty to animals! + +HARVEY: Well, if you feel that way about it, you might go out into +an empty lot and get some rusty tomato cans and a few pieces of +scrap iron and feed those to him. + +MAYNARD: Does he enjoy such things? + +HARVEY: Certainly he does. In fact, if you were to put a choice +piece of juicy tenderloin steak before him right now that dog +wouldn't touch it. + +MAYNARD: A most remarkable animal. + +FELIX: (Taking off his dog mask, aside.) I'm going home. + +HARVEY: (Aside, to FELIX.) Shut up or you'll spoil everything. + +(FELIX makes a grab for MAYNARD'S leg.) + +MAYNARD: Help! Help! Your dog is killing me. + +HARVEY: Don't get frightened, Mr. Maynard, he is perfectly +domesticated and will eat off your hand. + +MAYNARD: Yes; he'll eat off my leg, too, if I'm not careful. + +HARVEY: (To FELIX.) Lie down, Otto, lie down, I say. (Kicks FELIX, +who lets go of MAYNARD'S leg.) + +MAYNARD: (Going quickly out of harm's way, yet delighted.) Just +the dog I want--a fine animal. I am sure with him around that +Charlie Doolittle won't dare to show his face on the premises. + +HARVEY: Better buy him while you have the chance. + +MAYNARD: (Taking roll of bills from pocket and counting out the +money.) I think I will. Here's the thousand dollars. + +HARVEY: And now the dog is yours. + +(MAYNARD fastens dog to exterior of dog-house.) + +MAYNARD: I hope I have better luck with him than I had with my +other dogs. + +HARVEY: Why, what do you mean? + +FELIX: (In back-ground.) Yes, please explain yourself. + +MAYNARD: (Chuckling.) Well, you see my neighbors ain't very fond +of dogs and as fast as I get one they either poison him or shoot +him. + +FELIX: (In back-ground.) I can see my finish. + +HARVEY: Well, it won't make any difference with this dog. You can +fill him full of bullets and he won't even feel it. + +FELIX: (Aside.) No, I'll be dead. + +HARVEY: (Continuing.) And as for poisoned meat, why, he would +rather have Paris green or strychnine on his meat than salt. + +MAYNARD: (Chuckling.) Certainly a remarkable animal. And now, if +you will excuse me a minute, I will go into the house and tell my +daughter about the dog. (He exits into house.) + +HARVEY: (Gleefully.) The scheme worked beautifully and I am just +a thousand dollars ahead. + +FELIX: (Indignantly.) What do you mean by telling him that I eat +tin cans and scrap iron? + +HARVEY: Why, that was only a little joke on my part. + +FELIX: Oh, it was a joke, was it? And suppose the neighbors fire +their pistols at me and riddle me with bullets, what then? + +HARVEY: Why, simply don't notice it. Anyhow, don't complain to +me, you're the dog, not I, and if the neighbors kill you, that's +not my funeral. + +FELIX: I can see myself in dog heaven already. And how about my +share of the money? + +HARVEY: The what? + +FELIX: The money. The dough, the mazuma. + +HARVEY: The money? Since when do dogs carry money? Ha, ha! That's +a good joke. A very good joke. (Exits at R. 2.) + +MAYNARD: (Re-enters from house.) And now to see if I can't make +friends with the dog. + +(FELIX barks furiously at MAYNARD as soon as he comes near.) + +MAYNARD: He is just the animal to keep Viola's lover away. I will +call her out, and show her the dog. (Calls off to house.) Oh, +Viola! (Dog snaps at MAYNARD as latter passes him.) + +VIOLA: (From the doorstep of house.) What do you want, father? + +MAYNARD: I want to show you the new dog I bought. (Dog barks +furiously.) See if you can make friends with him. + +(VIOLA approaches FELIX, who leans his head affectionately against +her and puts his arm around her waist.) + +VIOLA: He seems to like me all right, father. + +MAYNARD: I cannot understand it. + +VIOLA: Perhaps he doesn't like men. + +FELIX: (Aside.) No; I ain't that kind of a dog. + +VIOLA: I wonder if the dog is hungry? + +MAYNARD: I'll go into the house and get him a bone. (Exits into +house.) + +(FELIX starts rubbing his dog's head against VIOLA'S hip. She +screams and exits into house.) + +(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from Right.) + +CHARLIE: I haven't seen Viola for half an hour, so I think I'll +serenade her. + +(Starts in singing chorus of song, "Only One Girl in This World +for Me.") + +(FELIX howls accompaniment. CHARLIE sees dog, who tries to grab +him.) + +CHARLIE: I'll get a pistol and shoot the beast. + +FELIX: Gee, but he's got a nasty disposition! + +CHARLIE: I'll return in two minutes. (Exits at right.) + +FELIX: (Unfastening catch that holds him to dog-house.) And I will +be gone in one minute. (Exits at Centre.) + +(MR. MAYNARD and VIOLA enter from house.) + +MAYNARD: Viola, I am worried. + +VIOLA: What's the matter, father? + +MAYNARD: I am afraid that Old Black Joe's mind is beginning to +weaken. Sometimes he sits for hours babbling about the old +plantation as it existed in the days of '61. + +VIOLA: How strange! + +MAYNARD: Only last week a celebrated doctor assured me that if Old +Black Joe could but gaze once more on the old plantation as it +looked before the War, his mental powers would come back to him +as sharp and clear as ever. + +VIOLA: I have an idea. + +CHARLIE: (Appearing suddenly from Right.) Well, pickle it, because +it's going to be a hard Winter. + +(MAYNARD starts to chase CHARLIE, who quickly exits.) + +MAYNARD: (To VIOLA.) What is your idea, daughter? + +VIOLA: I propose that all the girls dress themselves as pickaninnies +and indulge in the sports and pastimes of the South before the +War, so that Old Black Joe will think he is once more among the +scenes of his boyhood days. + +MAYNARD: A great idea--and we'll put it into execution at once. + +(A PICKANINNY NUMBER BY THE GIRLS LED BY VIOLA. When the pickaninny +number is over, "Old Black Joe." ENTIRE COMPANY DRESSES THE STAGE +and forms itself into picturesque groupings. Selections by a +colored quartette can also be appropriately introduced.) + +(Song, "Old Black Joe," by OLD BLACK JOE, company joining in the +chorus.) + +JOE: Bless me, am I dreaming, or do I see once more de old plantation? + +MAYNARD: (Cordially.) The very same, Joe, the very same. + +JOE: Why, it seems, Massa, as if a heavy load is lifting from mah +mind and de memory of things dat I'se forgotten dese fifty years +am coming back to me. + +VIOLA: Three cheers for Old Black Joe! (Entire company gives +cheers.) + +MAYNARD: And now, ladies and gentlemen, on the occasion of my +birthday, I also have the honor to announce that Mrs. Wilson has +this day consented to become my wife. + +(MRS. WILSON steps forward from house and bows to assembled guests +in a triumphant way, the guests coldly return her bow.) + +(EDGAR TREMBLE enters from Centre.) + +MAYNARD: What can I do for you, Mr. Tremble? + +TREMBLE: Just one thing, and that is to give me the money you owe +me. The mortgage I hold on your plantation for $50,000 is due +today and, unless you hand over the money right away, I'll turn +you out bag and baggage. + +MAYNARD: (Pleadingly.) Won't you give me a few days longer to try +and raise the money? + +TREMBLE: Not a day, not an hour. I must have the money at once +or out you go. + +MAYNARD: (Wringing his hands.) I am a ruined man! (Turning to MRS. +WILSON.) But at least I will have the consolation of a true and +loving companion. (MAYNARD reaches out for her hand, but she draws +it away.) Why, what does this mean, Alice? + +MRS. WILSON: I fear, Mr. Maynard, that I was never cut out to be +a poor man's wife, so I ask you to release me from my engagement. +(Walks off stage at Right accompanied by the hisses of the guests.) + +TREMBLE: (To MAYNARD.) As you evidently haven't got the $50,000 +to pay the mortgage, the plantation becomes mine and I now order +you all off the premises. + +OLD BLACK JOE: Not so fast. + +TREMBLE: (To Joe.) What do you mean by butting in, you black devil? +(Sarcastically.) Perhaps you've got the $50,000 to pay the mortgage? + +OLD BLACK JOE: No, sah, ain't got no money, but somethin' in mah +memory tells me dat I know where some money is hidden. + +MAYNARD: (In surprise.) Why, what do you mean, Old Black Joe? + +VIOLA: Yes, explain yourself. + +OLD BLACK JOE: Well, sah, jes' after de War broke out your father +went and hid $50,000 where de Union soldiers couldn't find it. + +MAYNARD: (Imploringly.) Can't you remember where the money was +hid, Joe? + +OLD BLACK JOE: Let me think, Massa, let me think. + +VIOLA: Yes, Joe, try and remember. + +OLD BLACK JOE: (With a sudden burst of light in his eyes.) I +remembers now. He hid the money in dat old tree over dere. + +(VIOLA rushes over to tree accompanied by several of the guests.) + +TREMBLE: I hope you don't place any faith in the silly fairy stories +of this doddering old nigger. + +VIOLA: (Pulling an old and worn pocketbook from behind the trunk +of the tree.) Here it is! Father, here it is! (She runs to her +father and hands him the pocketbook. He eagerly takes out +the contents, a big roll of bank bills, and hastily counts them.) + +MAYNARD: It's fifty thousand dollars and the old plantation is +saved, thanks to Old Black Joe! (To JOE.) Let me grasp your hand. +(Shakes OLD BLACK JOE by the hand.) + +CHARLIE: (Who has sneaked on the scene from R. 2. To JOE.) Yes, +give us your flipper, Joe. + +HARVEY: (Who suddenly appears on the scene and shakes JOE'S hand.) +It's all right, Joe; you wait for me after the show and I'll buy +you some horseradish ice cream and a fried cigarette sandwich. + +MAYNARD: Now that the plantation remains, I invite you one and all +to join me in a Fried 'Possum and Sweet Potato Dinner. + +FELIX: (Who also appears on the scene, carrying his dog's head in +his hand.) Thank heavens, I'll get something to eat at last. + +CHORUS OF VOICES: Three cheers for Mr. Maynard! + +MAYNARD: And don't forget Old Black Joe, for it was through him +that I have been able to save + +"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME." + +(Final Chorus by entire company.) + +CURTAIN + + + +GLOSSARY + + +ACT IN ONE.--An act playing in One (which see). +AD LIB.--Ad libitum--To talk extemporaneously so as to +pad a scene or heighten laughter. +AGENT, VAUDEVILLE.--The business agent for an act. +APRON.--That part of the stage lying between the footlights and +the curtain line. +ARGOT.--Slang; particularly, stage terms. +ASIDE.--A speech spoken within the sight and hearing of other +actors, but which they, as characters in the act, do not "hear." +AUDIENCE-LEFT.--Reverse of stage-left (which see). +AUDIENCE-RIGHT.--Reverse of stage-right (which see). +BACK OF THE HOUSE.--Back stage; the stage back of the curtain. +BACKING.--A drop, wing, or flat used to mask the working stage +when a scenery-door or window is opened. +BACKING, INTERIOR.--Backing that represents an interior. +BACKING, EXTERIOR.--Backing that represents an exterior. +BARE STAGE.--Stage unset with scenery. +BIG-TIME.--Circuits playing two shows a day. +BIT, A.--A successful little stage scene complete in itself. +A small part in an act. +BOOK OF A MUSICAL COMEDY.--The plot, dialogue, etc., to +differentiate these from lyrics and music. +BOOK AN ACT, TO.--To place on a manager's books for playing +contracts; to secure a route. +BOOKING MANAGER.--One who books acts for theatres. +BOOSTER.--See "PLUGGER." +BORDER.--A strip of painted canvas hung above the stage in +front of the border-lights to mask the stage-rigging. +BORDER-LIGHT.--Different colored electric bulbs set in a tin +trough and suspended over the stage to light the stage and scenery. +BOX SET.--A set of scenery made of "flats" (which see) lashed +together to form a room whose fourth wall has been removed. +BREAKING-IN AN ACT.--Playing an act until it runs smoothly. +BUNCH-LIGHT.--Electric bulbs set in a tin box mounted on a +movable standard to cast any light--moonlight, for instance-- +through windows or on drops or backings. +BUSINESS, or BUS., or BIZ.--Any movement an actor makes on +the stage, when done to drive the spoken words home, or "get over" +a meaning without words. +CENTRE-DOOR FANCY.--An interior set containing an ornamental +arch and fitted with fine draperies. +CHOOSER.--One who steals some part of another performer's +act for his own use. +CLIMAX.--The highest point of interest in a series of words or +events--the "culmination, height, acme, apex." (Murray.) +CLOSE-IN, TO.--To drop curtain. +COMEDY.--A light and more or less humorous play which ends +happily; laughable and pleasing incidents. +COMPLICATION.--The definite clash of interests which produces +the struggle on the outcome of which the plot hinges. +CRISIS.--The decisive, or turning, point in a play when things +must come to a change, for better or worse. +CUE.--A word or an action regarded as the signal for some other +speech or action by another actor, or for lights to change, or +something to happen during the course of an act. +CURTAIN.--Because the curtain is dropped at the end of an +act--the finish. +DIE.--When a performer or his act fails to win applause, he or +the act is said to "die." +DIMMER.--An electrical apparatus to regulate the degree of light +given by the footlights and the border-lights. +DRAPERY, GRAND.--An unmovable Border just in front of the +Olio and above Working Drapery. +DRAPERY, WORKING.--The first Border; see "BORDER." +DROP.--A curtain of canvas painted with some scene and running +full across the stage opening. +DUMB ACT, or SIGHT ACT.--Acts that do not use words; acrobats +and the like. +EXPOSITION.--That part of the play which conveys the information +necessary for the audience to possess so that they may understand +the foundations of the plot or action. +EXTERIOR BACKING.--See "BACKING, EXTERIOR." +EXTRA MAN, or WOMAN.--A person used for parts that do not +require speech; not a regular member of the company. +FANCY INTERIOR.--The same as "Centre-door Fancy" (which see). +FARCE.--A play full of extravagantly ludicrous situations. +FIRST ENTRANCE.--Entrance to One (which see). +FLASH-BACK.--When a straight-man turns a laugh which a +comedian has won, into a laugh for himself (see chapter on "The +Two-Act"). +FLAT.--A wooden frame covered with a canvas painted to match +other flats in a box set. +FLIPPER.--Scenery extension--particularly used to contain curtained +entrance to One, and generally set at right angles to the +proscenium arch (which see). +FLIRTATION ACT.--An act presented by a man and a woman +playing lover-like scenes. +FLY-GALLERY.--The balcony between the stage and the grid +iron, from where the scenery is worked. +FLYMEN.--The men assigned to the fly-gallery. +FOUR.--The stage space six or more feet behind the rear boundaries +of Three. +FRONT OF THE HOUSE.--The auditorium in front of the curtain. +FULL STAGE.--Same as Four. +GAG.--Any joke or pun. See "POINT." +GENRE.--Kind, style, type. +GET OVER, TO.--To make a speech or entire act a success. +GLASS-CRASH.--A basket filled with broken glass, used to imitate +the noise of breaking a window and the like. +GO BIG.--When a performer, act, song, gag, etc., wins much +applause it is said to "go big." +GRAND DRAPERY.--See "DRAPERY, GRAND." +GRIDIRON.--An iron network above the stage on which is hung +the rigging by which the scenery is worked. +GRIP.--The man who sets scenery or grips it. +HAND, TO GET A.--To receive applause. +HOUSE CURTAIN.--The curtain running flat against the proscenium +arch; it is raised at the beginning and lowered at the end of the +performance; sometimes use to "close-in" on an act. +INTERIOR BACKING.--See "BACKING, INTERIOR." +JOG.--A short flat used to vary a set by being placed between +regulation flats to form angles or corners in a room. +LASH-LINE.--Used on flats to join them tightly together. +LEAD-SHEET.--A musical notation giving a melody of a popular +song; a skeleton of a song. +LEGITIMATE.--Used to designate the stage, actors, theatres, etc., +that present the full-evening play. +MELODRAMA.--A sensational drama, full of incident and making +a violent appeal to the emotions. +MUGGING.--A contortion of the features to win laughter, +irrespective of its consistency with the lines or actions. +OLIO.--A drop curtain full across the stage, working flat against +the tormentors (which see). It is used as a background for acts in +One, and often to close-in on acts playing in Two, Three and Four. +ONE.--That part of the stage lying between the tormentors and +the line drawn between the bases of the proscenium arch. +OPEN SET.--A scene composed of a rear drop and matching wings, +and not "boxed"--that is, not completely enclosed. See "BOX SET." +PALACE SET.--Palace scene. +PART.--Noun: the manuscript of one character's speeches and +business; the character taken by an actor. Verb: to take, or play, +a character. +PLAY UP, TO.--To pitch the key of a scene high; to play with +rush and emphasis. +PLUGGER.--A booster, a singer who sings new songs to make +them popular. +POINT.--The laugh-line of a gag (see "GAG"), or the funny +observation of a monologue. +PRODUCE, TO.--To mount a manuscript on the stage. +PRODUCER.--One who produces plays, playlets, and other acts. +PROPERTIES.--Furniture, dishes, telephones, the what-not employed +to lend reality--scenery excepted. Stage accessories. +PROPERTY-MAN.--The man who takes care of the properties. +PROPS.--Property-man; also short for properties. +PROSCENIUM ARCH.--The arch through which the audience +views the stage. +RIGGING, STAGE.--The ropes, pulleys, etc., by which the scenery +is worked. +RIPPLE-LAMP.--A clock-actuated mechanism fitted with ripple-glass +and attached to the spot-light to cast wave-effects, etc., on or +through the drops. +ROUTE.--A series of playing dates. To "route" is to "book" +acts. +ROUTINE.--Arrangement. A specific arrangement of the parts of +a state offering, as a "monologue routine," or a "dance routine." +SCENARIO.--The story of the play in outline. +SET.--Noun: a room or other scene set on the stage. Verb: to +erect the wings, drops, and flats to form a scene. +SET OF LINES.--Rigging to be tied to drops and other scenery to +lift them up into the flies. +SIGHT ACT.--See "DUMB ACT." +SINGLE MAN--SINGLE WOMAN.--A man or woman playing +alone; a monologist, solo singer, etc. +SLAP-STICK BUSINESS.--Business that wins laughs by use of +physical methods. +SMALL-TIME, THE.--The circuits playing three or more shows a day. +SOUND-EFFECTS.--The noise of cocoanut shells imitating horses' +hoof-beats, the sound of waves mechanically made, and the like. +SPOT-LIGHT.--An arc-light with lenses to concentrate the light +into a spot to follow the characters around the stage. +STAGE-DRACE.--An implement used with stage-screws to clamp +flats firmly to the floor. +STAGE-CENTRE.--The centre of the stage. +STAGE-LEFT.--The audience's right. +STAGE-MANAGER.--One who manages the "working" of a +show behind the scenes; usually the stage-carpenter. +STAGE-RIGGING.--See "RIGGING, STAGE." +STAGE-RIGHT.--The audience's left. +STRIKE, TO.--To clear the stage of scenery. +STRIP-LIGHT.--Electric bulbs contained in short tin troughs, hung +behind doors, etc., to illuminate the backings. +TAB.--The contraction of "tabloid," as burlesque tab, musical +comedy tab. +TALKING SINGLE.--A one-person act using stories, gags, etc. +THREE.--The stage space six or more feet behind the rear +boundaries of Two. +TIME.--Playing engagements. See "BIG-TIME," "SMALL-TIME." +TORMENTORS.--Movable first wings behind which the Olio runs, +fronting the audience. +TRAP.--A section of the stage floor cut for an entrance to the scene +from below. +TRY-OUT.--The first presentation of an act for trial before an +audience with a view to booking. +TWO.--The stage space between the Olio and the set of wings +six or more feet behind the Olio. +TWO-A-DAY.--Stage argot for vaudeville. +WING.--A double frame of wood covered with painted canvas +and used in open sets as a flat is used in box sets; so +constructed that it stands alone as a book will when its covers are +opened at right angles. +WOOD-CRASH.--An appliance so constructed that when the handle +is turned a noise like a man falling downstairs, or the crash of a +fight, is produced. +WOOD-SET.--The scenery used to form a forest or woods. +WORKING DRAPERY.--See "DRAPERY, WORKING." +WORK OPPOSITE ANOTHER, TO.--To play a character whose +speeches are nearly all with the other. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE *** + +This file should be named 5328.txt or 5328.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, vaude11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, vaude10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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