THE would-be playwright of to-day has, it would seem, a far greater chance of securing a hearing, or at all events a reading, than was accorded to his like in past times, a fact that undoubtedly works for the benefit of the play-going public; for where, some years ago, we could count the recognised authors almost on the fingers of one hand, not only would both hands now be wanted but even the feet-fingers might have to be requisitioned; the latter suggestion is not, perhaps, entirely inept, as some of the so-called plays which have actually been presented to a discriminating public verdict have been sufficiently clumsily contrived as to warrant the innuendo.

The "one-handed" authors, so to speak, have maintained their well-earned position, but serious rivals have sprung up in all directions, and some of the most notable successes of late years have been achieved by women writers, some of them being novelists of distinction and some entering the arena direct, thereby escaping one of the most insidious pitfalls laid for the former, that of a predisposition to redundancy which is the natural outcome of tale-writing as opposed to play- writing.

In this connection it is rather interesting to observe that the "dramatised novel" very rarely obtains the success achieved by the "original" play, and the writers who have succeeded in dramatising their own novels without seeking the aid of someone qualified to instruct in the art of stage construction are even rarer than the nigro cygno so frequently alluded to by the platitudinist. It is in fact becoming more and more plain that, with the exception of some few writers, more than one cook is an absolute necessity to the proper seasoning of the dramatic broth, and even among the exceptions are to be found exceptions where the friendly critic has been compelled to place a warning finger on a weak spot.

It is certain that in the case of musical plays it has become a sine qua non that a multiplicity of cooks shall be employed, even the writer of the love lyrics, in some cases, being considered as unequal to the strain, or should it be strains, of also providing the necessary humorous songs, thereby frequently producing a hotchpotch of style which has perhaps done as much as anything to earn for this kind of entertainment the definition of "go as you please."

As an instance of the incongruities which may, and do, arise out of this situation the present version of The Girl in the Train offers a striking example; with the inclusion in the cast of Miss Connie Ediss it became imperative to provide her with a song, sua generis, and an additional author was at once called in to furnish it, with the happy result of a great success for Miss Ediss in a ditty entitled "When I was in the Chorus at the Gaiety," which is set to a very captivating tune; I have not been able to discover the names of either author or composer, but gather that the former could hardly have seen the play, in which Miss Ediss' part is that of an old and valued confidential maid-servant in a Dutch family, resident in Holland, who could never by any possibility have appeared at the Gaiety Theatre, London.

Of course, where the story or plot of a piece is of no great consequence these glaring inconsistencies may by their effectiveness warrant their inclusion, but where there is more than a thread of a story – as there undoubtedly is in this play – it becomes a rather severe task on the energies and talents of the members of the cast holding that thread, to reunite it and reawaken the interest of the audience which has been shattered by a violent break at the moment it was thought to be secured.

The feelings of an author who revisited his play after a long absence, and possibly in ignorance of the changes made, can be more easily imagined than described; but even so, when met with the comforting assurance that the box-office receipts had appreciably increased, owing to these innovations, there is little doubt that his resentment would be soothed by the application of a little unearned increment.

I have often thought that it would be interesting, in the way of an experiment, to adopt the same procedure in the case of a comedy written, say, by some one of our autocratic authors who allows no other pen to have a share in his work.

Take for instance a play by Sir Arthur Pinero (any play) which has earned its usual great success and is at length approaching the end of the run; retain the main features of the plot and reverse all the characters; let the good long-suffering husband become the "pleasure-seeking-at-any-cost-to-domestic-happiness" person, in place of the wife, as in the original, and so on with the rest of the cast, possibly by this means arousing sufficient curiosity in the public mind to furnish another twelve months' run.

In the important matter of royalties the position of modern authors shows great improvement, the percentages are larger, and are paid with a regularity undreamt of in "the good old days," and therefore one successful play proves in itself a small fortune, another reason why so many plays are now exploited.

An excellent story apropos this question appeared the other day in London Opinion, which, with apologies, I venture to annex; the author was the well-known and popular musical director of Drury Lane, Jimmy Glover, who said that he once adapted a play from the French for three pounds, with promise of a further ten shillings if it were a success; the purchaser made something like twenty thousand out of it, and, concludes Glover, "it is only fair to say that when I wrote for the extra ten shillings it was paid without a murmur" – under modern conditions there would have been at least two noughts to follow that ten.

Another feature in the modern author contract is that after a certain term his play, with the rights in it, returns to him, manifestly a most fair arrangement, and one which prevents the locking up of the author's property, which may occur from some totally unforeseen cause.

I myself suffered from want of knowledge of this point when surrendering, for a very modest percentage, the entire rights of a musical play which I had adapted; it was quite a success, has been once reproduced, with equal success, in spite of adverse circumstances, and yet is lost to me for ever unless an opportunity, totally unlooked for by me, arises for a further production by the same manager.

One great difficulty with which authors have to contend is in writing a play for a certain cast or, possibly, one or two certain performers, this difficulty being intensified in the case of a play written for an actor- manager.

I once dramatised a very well-known novel for an equally well-known man of this position, and on reading the play to him was more than pleased when he remarked, "That is one of the best plays I've heard for a long time," but my satisfaction was short lived, for he went on to say, "but – there are too many good parts in it for it to suit me – it is an absolute necessity that the part I play should stand out in importance above all the rest"; naturally this line of argument did not appeal to me, but assuming him to be the best judge of his own interests I felt that discussion was useless, and the manuscript joined the others on my shelf of "waiting in hopes."

One of the most painful sensations which an author can inflict upon himself may be found in the reperusal of some play which he has taken down from the aforesaid shelf, under the impression that it would be "just the thing" for So-and-so, who has perhaps communicated the want of a play; the film of dust on the cover (he is a tidy man and it is but a film) is removed, and he sits down to read it with anticipatory enjoyment. More often than not he gets no further than the first act before finding out that the six months or so which have elapsed since its completion have covered the film of dust with an accumulation of rust which makes every situation and speech creak with antiquity; his only consolation being the rare fortune of finding the germ idea still good, and worth the expenditure of fresh hours of hard work.

Dramatic authors suffer far less than those who write the libretti for musical pieces from the alterations and eliminations to which their plays are subjected, and very necessarily so, at the earlier rehearsals. So many pages of dialogue require so much time to deliver, and the length can be fairly easily determined before coming to the stage at all, but when the musical numbers have to be reckoned with, not to speak of time allowed for the inevitable encores, the time-sheet is thrown very much out of balance, and I have known it necessary, even as late as the dress rehearsal, to cut out solid blocks of the play, which, unless done by a practised hand, is apt to render the whole somewhat disjointed.

The fatigue of these lengthy rehearsals is enormous, and I have constantly known them to last from eleven o'clock until five-thirty, with an interval for lunch.

In one play we were producing at Daly's some years since we had a remarkable sequence of these long days, owing to what was perhaps a somewhat unusual vagueness in the method of the author, and as they threatened to become a serious item of expense to the choristers, George Edwardes, with his invariable thoughtfulness for all concerned in his productions, commissioned a certain caterer to supply tea and beef sandwiches and cake for the sustenance of the hard-working members of the chorus. Needless to say that this kind action was fully appreciated by all, except perhaps one man who fancied he saw in it a possibility of getting even further concessions from the management in shape of payment for rehearsals, and, with this object in view, proposed that they should all sign a letter of thanks to Edwardes; this was received with acclamation, and the letter written, whereupon he suggested an addition in the shape of a request for payment; this being as peremptorily negatived as the other had been approved he remarked: "Well, we might write it and scratch it out!"

Naturally none but the merest tyro actually enjoys rehearsing, and in the case of a play which is running well and, in consequence of illness or absence from some other cause of one or two members of the cast, needs constant attendance at the theatre for the sake of those taking their places, is much more of a weariness than the original affair. We have been curiously unfortunate in this respect with The Girl in the Train, having had few entire weeks without a call of some sort.

Speaking about this on one occasion brought me a recompense in the form of an interesting reminiscence on the part of my old friend Colonel McCalmont, to whom I was unburdening myself of the grievance. It seems that many years ago he played Sir Joseph Porter in Pinafore with some amateurs in Belfast, and made such a hit in the part that D'Oyly Carte gave him permission to appear in the part with the Repertoire Company whenever it found itself in the town, and he cared to do so. He told me that on several occasions he did so, and only relinquished the pleasure on finding out the distaste the company evinced for attending rehearsals of a play which they had been appearing in for years. As a reward for their forbearance he took advantage of his last appearance chancing to be made on the eve of the wedding of one of the ladies of the company to invite them all to dinner, and a very joyous gathering resulted, the Dick Deadeye of the company, my old friend Billington, afterwards declaring that from the time of demolition of the lobster salad he had no further recollection of how the evening was spent, except that he did make up for the part. The colonel gave the bride away at the ceremony on the following day, and used his authority as loco parentis to soothe the anger of a christening party which insisted on a prior claim on the church and failed to appreciate the very natural impatience of the bride and bridegroom, whose occupation necessitated an appearance the same evening in Iolanthe.

At one of our lengthy rehearsals at the Savoy, when the company was also playing at night, I remember we were all getting very tired, and Gilbert perhaps a little irritated at the inevitable slackness, when suddenly one of the ladies of the chorus stepped forward and said, "I want to go home." Gilbert, ready as usual, replied, "Well, we all want to go home – what's the matter?" The lady announced that she must go, as she had been very much annoyed by one of the gentleman choristers putting his arm round her waist and calling her "a pretty dear," but she was immediately mollified, and resumed her place, on Gilbert assuring her very seriously that "he couldn't have meant it!"

Most actors are blessed with a sense of humour, which is undoubtedly fostered by the nature of their calling, and it is indeed fortunate that this should be so for the workers in a profession so full of vicissitudes and trials of all kinds; the actor is almost always optimistic and that good engagement which is to bring fame and wealth is always in the immediate future, even after weary months of waiting, and as a rule he bears his reverses with a jauntiness born of the brave heart he carries. The much-discussed question of "Sketches" must frequently bring an anxious thought to the minds of many to whom "the Halls" have been a boon not fully appreciated perhaps by those in regular work. Surely there is room for all: the sketch players do not oust the single-turn artists, and many a manager has discovered in a sketch the very person he has been vainly seeking to fill some position in a forthcoming production; neither managers nor actors can spend all their time on the steps of the agent's office, and a short visit to a music hall may often result in profit as well as amusement.

That there should be a time limit is, I think, reasonable, both in fairness to the regular theatres and in defence of the single-turn artist, who might be in danger of being crowded out, though this danger, owing to the cosmopolitan taste of music-hall audiences is reduced to a minimum.

The sense of humour is naturally not always in evidence, a proof of which was furnished to me the other day in the telling of a story by Huntley Wright to myself and another actor, who shall be nameless. Two brother play-actors had foregathered in a hotel bar in Manchester and one remarked, "Dear old chap – haven't seen you for years – where are you now?" "Oh, I'm out with Wicked Women and this week, dear boy, we're regularly 'off the map,' a place called 'Ince' – sort of suburb of Wigan – but next week, thank goodness! we get back to civilisation." "Oh – where are you next week?" "'Delf,' old boy." "Ah!" Both Wright and myself thoroughly enjoyed this, but the third never even smiled and then said: "I never heard of either of those places."

I heard from the same source two stories concerning theatrical landladies which strongly appealed to me, having lately had an experience of some of the weird specimens of this product; needless to say that both the ladies were provincial and of quite an ordinary type.

The first related to Christmas Day. Huntley Wright having, of course, a night off, and wishing to take advantage of it by giving a little dinner and card party, had done all his shopping and rang for his landlady after breakfast, to give final instructions. She appeared, with red eyes, a most woebegone expression, and clad in deep mourning which had seen much wear; having taken his courage in both hands he started on his instructions, to be met at once with the statement: "You can't 'ave no dinner in this 'ouse to-day." Fearing some terrible bereavement, the would-be host inquired the reason. "Well, sir," was the reply, "you see this is 'ow it is. I lost my dear 'usband on Chrismiss Day ten years ago." "Ten years!" shouted Wright. "Well, but –" "Wait a moment," sniffed the mourner – "every year since then I've took a day's 'oliday – which I spends sittin' on 'is tombstone." There was no dinner.

The other case was that of a very sympathetic old Lancashire landlady, and the occasion was the catching of a chill which necessitated lying in bed for a day or so; she was one of that type of women who has inevitably suffered from the same complaint as the patient to whom she may be talking, but always in a much more virulent form, or, if that course appears inconvenient, has had a friend or relation who was "never free from it."

On this occasion the patient was suffering, as I said before, from a chill on the liver, and it is a very odd thing about this type of lady that although she will discuss, with appalling frankness, the state of her internal mechanism there is one exception she makes, and that is the liver, no lady being supposed to possess such a thing; it was therefore her husband who was used in the following species of monologue: – "Chill on the liver? – ah – and well I remember my 'usband with it –'e 'ad jest your 'igh colour –couldn't fancy anything but a little rum and milk – I suppose you – No? – ah, you've gone past it – jest like 'e did, poor fellow – an' that's jest 'ow 'e used to swear at me too – lor' – you are like 'im – died in that very bed 'e did, where you're a-lyin' – " Hasty exit to avoid a carefully aimed golf-boot.

Whatever their faults, however, they are a kind-hearted race, and prone to great disappointment if the appetite of their tenant proves unequal to the lavish supply they make when left to their own devices, although in some cases there is this method in their madness: that much will be "left over" which will never be asked for again. That this is not always so was proved to me by my landlady once in Manchester, when I was dining out on the Sunday; just as I was getting into the cab she waddled up and thrust a very sticky parcel into my hand with the remark: "In case they don't give ye enough!" The packet contained some half-dozen sandwiches, and a cake of home-made toffee which was rapidly melting all over the bread.

Page modified 3 February 2008