Mr. Punch at the Play Part 13

_No. 1._ What do you mean by that? I only want to pop in and out between the accounts.

_No. 3._ Then the Diddlers ought to suit you. They rose six last week, and ought to touch ten before settling day.

_No. 1._ Then I am on. Thanks very much for the information. Ah!

the curtain has fallen. So much for the first act! (_Enter visitor._) Ah! how are you? Where are you?

_Visitor._ Well, I have got a stall, but I have only just come into the house. What are they playing?

_No. 2._ I am sure I don't know; but if you are curious about it, here's the programme.

_Visitor._ And what's it all about?

_No. 1_ (_on behalf of self and companions_). We haven't the faintest notion.

[_Conversation becomes general, and remains so until the end of the evening, regardless of the dialogue on the stage side of the curtain._

[Ill.u.s.tration: MELODRAMA IN THE SUBURBS.--_Elder Sister._ "Do give up, Nellie! They're only acting." _Nellie_ (_tearfully_). "You leave me alone. I'm enjoying it!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RULING Pa.s.sION.--_Doctor._ "No, my dear sir, we must keep ourselves quiet for the present. No stimulants--nothing more exciting than gruel. Gruel for breakfast, gruel for luncheon, gruel for dinner, gruel for----" _Peter Pundoleful_ (_a noted burlesque writer--though you wouldn't have thought it to look at him--rousing himself suddenly_). "Ah! my dear doctor, why is there not a society for the prevention of gruelty to animals?"]

HIS FIRST AND LAST PLAY

RALPH ESSENDEAN, _aged about fifty, is discovered at a writing-desk. He studies a newspaper, from which he reads aloud, thoughtfully:--"So that a successful play may bring its author anything from five to twenty thousand pounds." He lays down the paper, mutters, "H'm!" and taking up a pencil bites it meditatively. Enter Mrs. Essendean._

_Mrs. Essendean_ (_crossing to Ralph, and placing her hand on his shoulder, asks affectionately_). Well, dear, and how is the play getting on?

_Ralph_ (_irritably_). You talk of the play, Matilda, as though it were possible to write a four-act drama in ten minutes. The play is not getting on at all well, for the simple reason that I am only just thinking out the idea.

_Mrs. Essendean_ (_seating herself by the table_). How nice, dear! And what _is_ the idea?

_Ralph_ (_grimly_). That is just what I am wondering about. Now if you will kindly retire to the kitchen and make an omelette, or discharge the cook, I shall be obliged.

[_Leans over his desk._

_Mrs. E._ But, dear, I am sure the cook is a most excellent servant, and----

_Ralph_ (_turning round and speaking with repressed exasperation_). That was simply my attempt at a humorous explanation of my wish to be alone, Matilda.

_Mrs. E._ (_smiling indulgently and rising_). Well, dear, of course if it's going to be a _funny_ play, I know you would like to be alone.

(_Pausing at the open door._) And will you read it to us after dinner?

You know the Willoughby-Smythes will be here, and Mr. and Mrs. Vallance from the Bank are coming in afterwards. I am sure they would like to hear it.

_Ralph_ (_irritably_). The play isn't written yet. (_Plaintively._) _Do_ go!

_Mrs. E._ (_sweetly_). I'm sure you'd like to be alone. Don't keep dinner waiting.

[_Beams on him affectionately and exits. Ralph gives a sigh of relief, rumples his hair, and then writes for a few minutes. Then pauses, leans back, biting his pencil, when the door is flung open, and a very good imitation of a whirlwind bursts into the room. The whirlwind is a robust person of forty, he has a large round red face fringed with sandy whiskers, and is one ma.s.s of health and happiness. He wears Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, gaiters and thick boots, and carries a golfing bag. He slaps Ralph heartily on the back, and laughs boisterously. Ralph collapses._

_Tom_ (_heartily_). How are you? Going strong--what? Asked the wife for you, and she told me you were in here writing a play. Rippin' idea--what?

_Ralph_ (_worried, but striving to be pleasant and polite_). What do you want, old chap?

_Tom_ (_cheerfully_). Nothin' particular, only just to see how you were gettin' on--what? Do you good to have half an hour out, just a few holes--golf--what?

_Ralph_ (_with great self-restraint_). Thanks, old man. Not now. You don't mind my asking you to leave me to myself a bit?

_Tom_ (_amiably rising and picking up his bag_). All right, old chap, you know best--what? Thought I'd just look in--hey?--what? Well, I'm off. (_Goes to door, thinks for a moment, and then turns round._) I say, I know Thingummy's acting manager. If I can put in a word about your play--hey?--what?

_Ralph_ (_rises hurriedly. Shakes hands with Tom, and skilfully manoeuvres him into the pa.s.sage, then calls after him_). Good-bye, old man, and many thanks. (_Closes the door and returns to his desk, grinding his teeth._) Confound him! (_Takes up paper and writes a few lines, then reads aloud._) "Puffington puts the letter in his pocket and pa.s.ses his hand through his hair. He groans 'O, why did I ever write those letters? I know Flossie, and this means fifty pounds at least, and if ever my mother-in-law gets to hear of it! O lor, here she is'" (_Puts down the paper and looks up at the ceiling._) Now, speaking to myself as one man to another, I can't help thinking that this sort of thing has been done before. I seem to have heard it somewhere. I'll--I'll--try a fresh start. (_Writes hurriedly for a few minutes and then reads._) "Scene.--Fas.h.i.+onable watering place, the beach is crowded; on the pier the band is playing a dreamy waltz. Edwin and Maud are discovered in an open boat. _Edwin._ You must be tired of rowing, sweetest; come and steer. _Maud._ Just as you like, darling. (_As they change seats the boat capsizes. After clinging for twenty minutes to the upturned keel, they are rescued by a pa.s.sing steamer._)" That's all right for a "situation," but there seems a lack of dialogue. They can't very well talk while they are clinging to the boat; and what the deuce could they be talking about before? If I let them drown I shall have to introduce fresh characters. Bother! (_Meditates with frowning brow._) Playwriting appears to present more difficulties than I thought. (_Takes up a newspaper._) "May bring in anything from five to twenty thousand pounds!" Sounds tempting, but I wonder how it's done?

[_Takes a cigar from the mantelpiece, lights it, and, seating himself near the fire, smokes thoughtfully. Gradually his head sinks back on to the top of the chair, the cigar drops from his relaxed fingers, and as he sleeps, the shadow of a smile breaks across his face. An hour elapses; he is still sleeping. Enter Mrs.

Essendean, who brushes against the writing-table and sweeps the sheets of ma.n.u.script to the ground._

_Mrs. Essendean_ (_crossing to Ralph and lightly shaking him_). My dear, my dear, not dressed yet! Do you know the time--just the half-hour.

(_Ralph starts up._) Eh? (_Looks at the clock._) Nearly half past, by Jove! I shan't be two seconds.

[_Rushes hastily from the room._

_Mrs. Essendean (picks up the extinguished cigar, and drops it daintily into the fire. Looks round the room and sees the littering ma.n.u.script._) What an untidy old thing it is! (_Picks up the sheets, crumples them into a ball and throws them into the waste-paper basket._) There, that looks better.

[_Gazes into the mirror, pats her hair, and exit._

(_End of the play._)

[Ill.u.s.tration: PARADOXICAL.--_Ethel._ "It was a most wonderful performance, Aunt Tabitha! First, she was shot out of a cannon's mouth on to a trapeze fifteen yards above the orchestra, and then she swung herself up till she stood on a rope on one leg at least a hundred and twenty feet above our heads!" _Aunt Tabitha._ "Ah! I always think a woman _lowers_ herself when she does that!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: FORM

_First Masher._ "Let's stop and look at Punch and Judy, old chappie!

I've heard it's as good as a play."

_Second Masher._ "I dessay it is, my brave boy. But we ain't dressed, you know!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: PROPERTY HAS ITS RIGHTS