has ceased to be the dramatic critic of "M. and W." Before definitely making another appointment you might submit names to me. We want something superior, of course. I notice a number of split infinitives in this week's issue. They are out of place in a high-class illustrated. Watch this. Francis. I say, Charlie. Sir C. Well? Francis. What do you say to giving me a trial as dramatic critic of "Men and Women"? Sir C. [after a pause]. Can you write? Francis. Can you? Sir C. [taken aback and recovering himself]. Writing is no part of my job.. [Reflectively]. But I suppose you can write. In fact [as if studying him] you ought to be able to turn out something pretty smart. You might even be a “find” in journalism. Francis. There's no knowing. Anyhow, one could try. You may take it from me I can write. I've got an idea that the English theatre must be a great joke. Sir C. I never go myself. But they say it's a most frantic bore. Francis. Yes. That's what I meant. I gather that on the whole it must be frantic enough to be worth studying. By the way, I went to a matinée at the Prince's Theatre yesterday. Sir C. Sort of freak theatre, isn't it? Queer? Francis. It's one of the most artistic shows I ever saw in my life. Sir C. [seriously]. Artistic! Yes, I was told it was queer. Francis. Who d'ye think I saw there -on the stage? Little Emily Nixonyou know, from Bursley. Sir C. What? Nixon? Sister of Abraham Francis. Yes. Don't you remember when we used to go to Nixon's on Saturday nights? She would be about five then. Don't you remember she used to call you "Tarlie"? Sir C. Oh! That child! Nice kid, she used to be. Francis. Nice! She's delightful. I went round to the stage-door after, and took here out to tea, She's a widow. Hasn't a friend in the world, and must be deuced hard up, I should think. But she's charming. And as clever as they make 'em. Sir C. What's she doing on the stage? Francis. Oh! St. John took her on. She reads plays for him. runThere's an Sir C. St. John? Who's St. John? Francis. He's the man that's ning the Prince's Theatre. artist if you like. In spite of weak acting, the way that chap got what they call the Celtic glamor over the footlights was amazing!-[laughing at himself, half aside]. Yes, "amazing," since I'm in the "Mercury" building. By the way, she's coming to see you this afternoon. Sir C. Who? Emily Nixon? But Francis. Now don't be a martyr. It's like this. She's been wanting to come and see you for some time. But she thought it would be no use-she'd heard so much about your being invisible. Sir C. What does she want to see me for? Francis. Some business, I suppose. I told her that of course you'd see her -like a shot. Or any one from Bursley. She asked when. So I said I should be here this afternoon and she'd better come then, and I'd arrange it. You might send word downstairs that when she comes she's to be shown up here at once. Sir C. [looking at him]. No, you've not altered. Dispose of me, my boy. I am yours. The entire staff is yours. Your wish is law. [Into dictaphone.] Mr. Ricketts. Later. Dramatic critic What the Public Wants. of "M. and W." I have appointed Mr. Francis Worgan, 11 Hamilton Place. Francis. 11 Hamilton Place? I'm at the Golden Cross Hotel. Sir C. You must leave it then, and come to my flat. I want you to see my flat. Look here, about screw? Francis. Oh! that doesn't matter. Sir C. [into dictaphone]. Salary fif[To Francis.] teen pounds a month. That's quite fair. You aren't a Macquoid yet. [Enter Page-boy with letters to sign, on a salver.] Sir C. [taking letters, to Boy]. Tell the Sergeant that if [To Francis.] What name does she go by, Frank? Her husband Francis. Vernon. Mrs. Vernon. was Sam [Exit Sir C. [to Boy]. Tell the Sergeant that if a Mrs. Vernon calls to see me she is to be shown up at once. Page-boy.] Just let me sign these letRe-enter ters. [Begins to sign them. Page-boy]. Hello! Oh! it's the tape. Give it to that gentleman. Look at it, Frank. [Francis takes the slips from the boy. Exit Boy. Sir Charles continues to sign letters.] Francis [after looking at the slips]. The Foreign Secretary seems to have guessed your ideal pretty closely. Sir C. What do you mean? Francis. Only instead of the boy of twelve he said the errand-boy. Sir C. What on earthFrancis [reading]. "In reply Foreign Secretary said no particle of truth in statements of newspaper in question. Our relations with Germany perfectly harmonious. Every one ought to be aware that, after Hong-Kong, Constantinople was the worst manufactory of false news in the world. Every one ought also to be aware that journal referred to was written by errand-boys for errand-boys. Cheers!" Sir C. [rising]. Give it here. [Takes slip, reads it, drops it on desk; then goes up to the disk signal and changes it from red to green then comes slowly down stage. With a sudden furious outburst.] The cursed swine! Francis [tranquilly]. But you said yourself Sir C. [savagely]. Oh! go to h-l! Francis well! [tranquilly]. Very Very well! Who is the Foreign Secretary, by the way? Sir C. Who is he? Lord Henry Godwin! Francis. Oh, yes. Wrote a book on Dryden. Sir C. I'd Dryden him if I had him If I had him here! [still savagely]. here I'd-! Whenever he meets me you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. When his idiotic daughter was married to that braying ass of a duke, he wrote me to say how pleased she had been with the "Mercury's" special description of the wedding. Francis. Wrote to you, did he? Sir C. then! Francis. Sir C. the Club. No mention of errand boys Where do you meet him? Where do I meet him? The Whitehall. At Francis. Do you belong to the Whitehall? Sir C. Considering that I was specially elected by the Committee under Rule 9, I should say I did! Errandboys! I sent Teddy Marriott specially out to Constantinople. I suppose nobody will deny he's the showiest of the whole gang of specials. Do you know Two thousand a what I pay him? year, all his expenses, and a pension of five hundred a year to his widow What price if he's killed on duty. that? Not much errand-boy about that! Look at his copy. Is it readable, or isn't it? Francis. But after all, supposing what he says isn't true? Sir C. Isn't true! Nobody ever said it was! Look at the thing! Francis [looking at paper]. [Reads.] Well! "England and her enemy. Grave situation. Is the Government my circulation. I'm told I want a war. asleep?" All across two columns. Sir C. Yes, yes. But what does he say at the end? [looking over Francis's shoulder]. "The above facts, which I have no wish to unduly emphasize, and which I give with due reserve, are the staple of current conversation in certain circles here, and I should be failing in my duty if I did not bring them to the attention of the British public. Francis. Why didn't he begin by 'saying that? Sir C. Oh, rot! You don't know what journalism is. He said it, and that's enough. We've got to give all the news there is going about, and we've got to sell the paper. And by G- we do sell it! We spend money like water, and we have the largest circulation in the country. We please the largest public. We pay the highest prices. We make the largest profits. You may or may not like the paper, but nine hundred thousand of Lord Henry Godwin's esteemed fellow-citizens like it. And it's a national institution, let me tell you. It's a national institution! The swine might just as well say at once that the British nation is a nation of errand-boys. Francis. You may bet he does do, in private. Sir C. Let him say it in public, then! He daren't. None of 'em dare. I'm the only one that makes no pretences about the British nation. I know what they want and I give it 'em. And what then? Am I to be insulted? Are they to be insulted? What's the matter with the British nation, anyhow? From the way some of you superior people talk, one might think the British nation ought to be thankful it's alive. Francis. But Sir C. [carried away] I'm told I'm unscrupulous because I "fan the war fever," as it's called, so as to send up Dd nonsense! Nothing but d-d nonsense! All I want is for the public to have what it wants. It's the public that would like a war, not me. The public enjoys the mere thought of a war. Proof: my circulations. I'm told I pander to the passions of the public. Call it that, if you like. It's what everybody is trying to do. Only I succeed. . . . Mind you, I don't call it that. I call it supplying a legitimate demand. When you've been to the barber to be shaved, do you round on him for pandering to your passions? You superior people make me sick! Sick! Errandboys, indeed! Cheers! There's a lot of chaps in the House that would like to be errand-boys of my sort. Cheers, eh! I could have scores of the swine to lick my boots clean every morning if I wanted! Scores! I don't make out to be anything except a business man, but that's no reason why I should stand the infernal insolence of a pack of preposterous hypocrites. Francis. But Sir C. If I couldn't organize some of their departments better than they do, I'd go out and sell my own papers in the Strand! Let 'em come here, let 'em see my counting-house, and my composing-rooms, and my special trains-I'd show 'em. Francis. But Sir C. And I'll tell you another thing. [Francis gets up and approaches the door.] Where are you going to? Francis. I'm going to h-l! I'll come back later, after the monologue. Sir C. Hold on. What were you going to say? Francis. I was merely going to ask why, if you're only a business man, you should worry yourself about these superior people. Why not leave them alone? You mentioned flannel; or was it soap? Supposing they do accuse you of having persuaded nine hundred thousand errand-boys to buy soap dash it, you ought to take it as a compliment! You aren't logical. Sir C. Yes, I am. Let them leave me alone, and I'll leave them alone. But they won't. And it's getting worse. That's the point. It's getting worse. Francis [after a pause). This is really very interesting. Sir C. [snorting, offended]. Is it? Thanks! Francis. Now look here. Charlie. Of course we're strangers, but still I'm your brother. Don't be an ass. When I say that this is really very interesting, I mean that it is. I'm not laughing at you. My attitude to you-and to everybody, as far as that goesis entirely sympathetic. Because after all we're all in the same boat. Sir C. All in the same boat? How in the same boat? Francis. Well, on the same planet. Always getting in each other's way. And death staring all of us in the face! You keep on talking about superior people. There aren't any. Sir C. There's a lot that think they are. Francis. And if there are! They can't do you any harm. So why shout? What do you want? Sir C. I want to give them beans. Francis. Well, from what I know of you, I would have been ready to wager that if you wanted to give them beans, beans they would instantly get. Now as regards this Godwin person for example. What's to prevent you from conferring upon him the gift of beans in the presence of your morning audience of nine hundred thousand, and your afternoon audience of I don't know how many? You've got paper, ink, printing-presses, special trains, writers Sir C. That's just where you're wrong. I haven't got a writer in the place that can do what I want doing. Francis. Didn't you mention some one named Smythe, as being very wonderful? Sir C. Yes, he's the chief of the editorial staff of the "Mercury." But he couldn't do this. You don't understand. He could give Lord Henry beans for the benefit of our public, and he will! But he couldn't persuade Lord Henry that the swine had got beans. He couldn't do it. It's a different sort of thing that's needed-not our snap, something else. Smythe doesn't know enough. Francis. Well, why don't you go out and get some one who does? Sir C. Can't. I've tried. I've had several of you superior people in this shop, and at fancy salaries too; but it doesn't work. Either they lose their own snap because they think they must imitate ours, or they come down with stuff that nobody else in the blessed building can make head or tail of, and that would ruin the paper in a fortnight. [In a different tone.] How do I strike you, straight now? Francis. How do you strike me? Sir C. As a man. Am I a born fool, or something just a bit out of the common in the way of ability. Francis. Well, it's quite impossible to believe that a man is a genius if you've been to school with him, or even known his father. But I don't mind telling you, in the most unbrotherly way, that if I were meeting you now for the first time, I should say you were something in the nature of a genius-a peculiar kind, of coursebut still Sir C. [quickly]. Well, let me tell you this-somehow your intellectual, your superior people won't have anything to do with me, anything serious, that is! There seems to be a sort of boycott among 'em against me! I don't think I have an acquaintance that I don't despise, and I haven't got any pals at all. Mind you, I've never said as much before to any one. I can put it in a nutshell. It's like this. Supposing some people are talking about Swinburne, or theosophy, or social reform, or any of those things, and I come along-well, they immediately change the conversation and begin about motor-cars! Francis. But do you really care about Swinburne-and those things? Sir C. I don't know. I've never tried. But that's not the point. The point is that I'm just as good as they are, and I don't like their attitude. Francis. There's only one thing for you to do, my boy-get married. Sir C. [continuing his train of thought]. I object to being left out in the cold. They've no right to do it. Francis [repeating his own tone]. There's only one thing for you to do, my boy-get married. Sir C. [quietly]. I know. Francis. Some nice, charming, intellectual woman. You could have an A1 house first class, but not stiff. Tiptop dinners, without a lot of silly ceremony. A big drawing-room, and a little one opening off it where they could talk to her-you know the sort of thing. You'd soon see how she'd rope 'em in for you. It would really be very interesting to watch. Once get the right sort of woman- -! Sir C. Exactly. But you rattle on as if these nice, charming, intellectual women were sitting about all over the place waiting for me. They aren't. I've never seen one that would do. Francis. Well, you won't get where you want to be without a woman. you'd better set to and find one. Sir C. Where? So Francis. I don't know. . . Who's Lady Calder, for instance? Sir C. Lady Calder? Oh! she wouldn't wait to be asked twice. Francis. What age? Sir C. Oh! younger than me. Sir C. No! Besides-well, she's a nice woman, but there's too much of the county family touch about her. Sporting, you see. The late Calder lived for nothing but the abolition of wire fences. Before I knew where I was I should be let in for a steam yacht. She's a widow, of course, and that's in her favor [hesitatingly]. Francis. Is she intellectual? Sir C. She would be if I wanted her to be [half sheepishly]. Francis. That's no good, no good at all! [With a sudden outburst of discovery]. I know who you ought to marry. Sir C. Who? Francis. Sir C. thanks! Francis. Sir C. Francis. Emily Vernon. Me marry an actress! She isn't an actress. You said she was. No, No, I said she was on the stage. She can't act for nuts. But she's the very woman for you. Pretty; and awfully decent. Oh! and she can talk, my boy, she can talk. And she knows what she's talking about. Intellectual, eh? I bet she could wipe the floor with some of these women novelists. Sir C. And I suppose she hasn't a cent. Francis. What does that matter? Francis. You'd never guess she was hard up, to look at her. She'd run a big house for you, and be even with the best of them. And then she comes from Bursley. She's our sort. Sir C. Go on! Go on! I shall be married to her in a minute. Francis. No, but really! Sir C. What's she coming here for, to-day, by the way? Francis. I gathered that it was a question of [Enter Page-boy]. Page-boy. Mrs. Vernon. Sir C. [after a pause]. Show her in! [Enter Emily Vernon. Exit Page-boy.] |