A Wodehouse Miscellany: Articles & Stories Part 4

ON THE WRITING OF LYRICS

The musical comedy lyric is an interesting survival of the days, long since departed, when poets worked. As everyone knows, the only real obstacle in the way of turning out poetry by the mile was the fact that you had to make the darned stuff rhyme.

Many lyricists rhyme as they p.r.o.nounce, and their p.r.o.nunciation is simply horrible. They can make "home" rhyme with "alone," and "saw"

with "more," and go right off and look their innocent children in the eye without a touch of shame.

But let us not blame the erring lyricist too much. It isn't his fault that he does these things. It is the fault of the English language.

Whoever invented the English language must have been a prose-writer, not a versifier; for he has made meagre provision for the poets.

Indeed, the word "you" is almost the only decent chance he has given them. You can do something with a word like "you." It rhymes with "sue," "eyes of blue," "woo," and all sorts of succulent things, easily fitted into the fabric of a lyric. And it has the enormous advantage that it can be repeated thrice at the end of a refrain when the composer has given you those three long notes, which is about all a composer ever thinks of. When a composer hands a lyricist a "dummy"

for a song, ending thus,

Tiddley-tum, tiddley-tum, Pom-pom-pom, pom-pom-pom, Tum, tum, tum,

the lyricist just shoves down "You, you, you" for the last line, and then sets to work to fit the rest of the words to it. I have dwelled on this, for it is noteworthy as the only bright spot in a lyricist's life, the only real cinch the poor man has.

But take the word "love."

When the board of directors, or whoever it was, was arranging the language, you would have thought that, if they had had a spark of pity in their systems, they would have tacked on to that emotion of thoughts of which the young man's fancy lightly turns in spring, some word ending in an open vowel. They must have known that lyricists would want to use whatever word they selected as a label for the above-mentioned emotion far more frequently than any other word in the language. It wasn't much to ask of them to choose a word capable of numerous rhymes. But no, they went and made it "love," causing vast misery to millions.

"Love" rhymes with "dove," "glove," "above," and "shove." It is true that poets who print their stuff instead of having it sung take a mean advantage by ringing in words like "prove" and "move"; but the lyricist is not allowed to do that. This is the wretched unfairness of the lyricist's lot. The language gets him both ways. It won't let him rhyme "love" with "move," and it won't let him rhyme "maternal" with "colonel." If he tries the first course, he is told that the rhyme, though all right for the eye, is wrong for the ear. If he tries the second course, they say that the rhyme, though more or less ninety-nine percent pure for the ear, falls short when tested by the eye. And, when he is driven back on one of the regular, guaranteed rhymes, he is taunted with triteness of phrase.

No lyricist wants to keep linking "love" with "skies above" and "turtle dove," but what can he do? You can't do a thing with "shove"; and "glove" is one of those aloof words which are not good mixers.

And--mark the brutality of the thing--there is no word you can subst.i.tute for "love." It is just as if they did it on purpose.

"Home" is another example. It is the lyricist's staff of life. But all he can do is to roam across the foam, if he wants to use it. He can put in "Nome," of course, as a pinch-hitter in special crises, but very seldom; with the result that his poetic soul, straining at its bonds, goes and uses "alone," "bone," "tone," and "thrown," exciting hoots of derision.

But it is not only the paucity of rhymes that sours the lyricist's life. He is restricted in his use of material, as well. If every audience to which a musical comedy is destined to play were a metropolitan audience, all might be well; but there is the "road" to consider. And even a metropolitan audience likes its lyrics as much as possible in the language of everyday. That is one of the thousand reasons why new Gilberts do not arise. Gilbert had the advantage of being a genius, but he had the additional advantage of writing for a public which permitted him to use his full vocabulary, and even to drop into foreign languages, even Latin and a little Greek when he felt like it. (I allude to that song in "The Grand Duke.")

And yet the modern lyricist, to look on the bright side, has advantages that Gilbert never had. Gilbert never realised the possibilities of Hawaii, with its admirably named beaches, sh.o.r.es, and musical instruments. Hawaii--capable as it is of being rhymed with "higher"--has done much to sweeten the lot--and increase the annual income of an industrious and highly respectable but down-trodden cla.s.s of the community.

THE PAST THEATRICAL SEASON

And the Six Best Performances by Unstarred Actors

What lessons do we draw from the past theatrical season?

In the first place, the success of _The Wanderer_ proves that the day of the small and intimate production is over and that what the public wants is the large spectacle. In the second place, the success of _Oh, Boy!_--(I hate to refer to it, as I am one of the trio who perpetrated it; but, honestly, we're simply turning them away in droves, and Rockefeller has to touch Morgan for a bit if he wants to buy a ticket from the speculators)--proves that the day of the large spectacle is over and that what the public wants is the small and intimate production.

Then, the capacity business done by _The Thirteenth Chair_ shows clearly that what the proletariat demands nowadays, is the plotty piece and that the sun of the bright dialogue comedy has set; while the capacity business done by _A Successful Calamity_ shows clearly that the number of the plotty piece is up.

You will all feel better and more able to enjoy yourselves now that a trained critical mind has put you right on this subtle point.

No review of a theatrical season would be complete without a tabulated list--or even an untabulated one--of the six best performances by unstarred actors during the past season.

The present past season--that is to say, the past season which at present is the last season--has been peculiarly rich in hot efforts by all sorts of performers. My own choice would be: 1. Anna Wheaton, in _Oh, Boy!_ 2. Marie Carroll, in the piece at the Princess Theatre. 3. Edna May Oliver, in Comstock and Elliott's new musical comedy. 4. Tom Powers, in the show on the south side of 39th Street.

5. Hal Forde, in the successor to _Very Good, Eddie_. 6. Stephen Maley, in _Oh, Boy!_

You would hardly credit the agony it gives me to allude, even in pa.s.sing, to the above musical melange, but one must be honest to one's public. In case there may be any who dissent from my opinion, I append a supplementary list of those ent.i.tled to honorable mention: 1. The third sheep from the O. P. side in _The Wanderer_. 2. The trick lamp in _Magic_. 3. The pink pajamas in _You're in Love_. 4.

The knife in _The Thirteenth Chair_. 5. The Confused Noise Without in _The Great Divide_. 6. Jack Merritt's hair in _Oh, Boy!_

There were few discoveries among the dramatists. Of the older playwrights, Barrie produced a new one and an ancient one, but the Shakespeare boom, so strong last year, petered out. There seems no doubt that the man, in spite of a flashy start, had not the stuff. I understand that some of his things are doing fairly well on the road.

Clare k.u.mmer, whose "Dearie" I have so frequently sung in my bath, to the annoyance of all, suddenly turned right round, dropped song-writing, and ripped a couple of hot ones right over the plate.

Mr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in shocking Broadway so that the sidewalks were filled with blus.h.i.+ng ticket-speculators.

Most of the critics have done good work during this season. As for myself, I have guided the public mind in this magazine soundly and with few errors. If it were not for the fact that nearly all the plays I praised died before my review appeared, while the ones I said would not run a week are still packing them in, I could look back to a flawless season.

As you can see, I have had a very pleasant theatrical season. The weather was uniformly fine on the nights when I went to the theatre. I was particularly fortunate in having neighbors at most of the plays who were not afflicted with coughs or a desire to explain the plot to their wives. I have shaken hands with A. L. Erlanger and been nodded to on the street by Lee Shubert. I have broadened my mind by travel on the road with a theatrical company, with the result that, if you want to get me out of New York, you will have to use dynamite.

Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory season, full of pregnant possibilities--and all that sort of thing.

POEMS

DAMON AND PYTHIAS A Romance

Since Earth was first created, Since Time began to fly, No friends were e'er so mated, So firm as JONES and I.

Since primal Man was fas.h.i.+oned To people ice and stones, No pair, I ween, had ever been Such chums as I and JONES.

In fair and foulest weather, Beginning when but boys, We faced our woes together, We shared each other's joys.

Together, sad or merry, We acted hand in glove, Until--'twas careless, very-- I chanced to fall in love.

The lady's points to touch on, Her name was JULIA WHITE, Her lineage high, her scutcheon Untarnished; manners, bright; Complexion, soft and creamy; Her hair, of golden hue; Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy, In colour, greyish blue.

For her I sighed, I panted; I saw her in my dreams; I vowed, protested, ranted; I sent her chocolate creams.

Until methought one morning I seemed to hear a voice, A still, small voice of warning.

"Does JONES approve your choice?"

To JONES of my affection I spoke that very night.

If he had no objection, I said I'd wed Miss WHITE.

I asked him for his blessing, But, turning rather blue, He said: "It's most distressing, But _I_ adore her, too."

"Then, JONES," I answered, sobbing, "My wooing's at an end, I couldn't think of robbing My best, my only friend.

The notion makes me furious-- I'd much prefer to die."

"Perhaps you'll think it curious,"

Said JONES, "but so should I."