HOW TO BRIGHTEN UP THE THEATRE.
"You want, I take it," said the stranger to the manager, "to make your theatre the most interesting in London?"
"Naturally," the manager replied. "I do all I can to make it so, as it is."
"Perhaps," said the stranger; "we shall see. But I have it in my power to make it vastly more interesting than any theatre has ever been."
"You have a play?" the manager inquired; amending this, after another glance, to "You know of a play?"
"Play? No. I'm not troubling about plays," said the caller. "Plays—what are plays? No, I'm bringing you a live idea."
"But I don't wish to make any change in the style of my performances," said the manager. "If you're thinking of a new kind of entertainment for me—super-cinema, or that 'real revue' which authors are always threatening me with—I don't want it. I intend to keep my stage for the legitimate drama."
The stranger had been growing more and more restless. "My dear Sir," he now protested, "do let us understand each other. Have I ever mentioned the word 'stage'? Have I? No. Your stage is nothing to me; it doesn't come into the matter at all. Do what you like on the stage, but let me tackle the front of the house. That's the real battle-ground. My scheme, which I bring to you first of all, because I think of you as the least unenlightened of all London managers, is concerned solely with the audience. Will you promise not to mention it for a week if I unfold it to you?"
The manager promised.
"Very well," said the other, settling down to business, "Let us begin by looking at audiences. What are they made of? Human beings. What kind of human beings? The nobs and the mob. What is the favourite occupation of the nobs? Recognising other nobs. What comes next? Seeing who the other nobs have got with them. What is the favourite occupation of the mob? Identifying nobs and saying how disappointed they are with their appearance. Isn't that so?"
"More or less," said the manager.
"Very well," the other continued. "Now, then, what do you do for the audiences in your theatre between the Acts?"
"There is an excellent orchestra," said the manager.
"I have heard it," replied his visitor drily. "Most of the music played is composed by the conductor, who conducts with the bow of his violin. No, Sir, that is not enough to do for an audience in the intervals. I warn you that the whole question of intervals will come up soon, and the cleverest manager will be the one who does most to make them amusing. But that's another matter. My scheme for you is to provide more than mere amusement, it is to enable your theatre to partake of some of the quality and some of the success of the great picture newspapers."
"How do you mean?" the manager asked, leaning forward. The word "success" galvanised him.
"Like this," said the enthusiast. "You grant that the proper study of mankind is man—as the POPE recently said? You grant an intense curiosity as to everybody else being implanted in the human breast? Very well. This, then, is my scheme. You must have each stall legibly numbered so that the whole house behind it and above it can see the number. The boxes must be numbered too. You then instal a printer with a little press somewhere behind the scenes, and to him is brought soon after the curtain rises a list of the names of all the box and stall holders, which he will print off in time for the assistants to sell them all over the house after Act I. This distribution will dispose of the first interval, and incidentally bring in a nice little sum for cigars and champagne for your business visitors, a new hat for your leading lady, and so forth."
"By the way," said the manager, "won't you smoke? These are mild."
"Thank you," said the other. "Very well," he continued, "the next interval will be wholly spent in the exciting and delightful task of identifying the nobs, in which the nobs themselves will take a part. And if there is still a third interval it will be equally amusingly filled by conversation as to the pasts or costumes of the more famous of the female nobs who are present—an interchange of opinion as to the lowness of their necks, conjectures as to the genuineness of their hair, and so forth. Do you see?"
The manager went to the sideboard and brought back some glasses and a bottle. "Yes," he said, "I see. There's something in what you say. But you don't explain how the names are to be obtained?"
"How?" exclaimed the other. "Why, ask for them, to be sure. You'll have to begin with a few blanks, of course, but directly it gets known that you're publishing them during the evening they'll all come in. Bless your soul, I know them! and if the nobs don't tumble to it the snobs will, and they're numerically strong enough to keep any play running. You won't have to worry about the play. As for the back rows of the stalls, where you put the people from the other theatres, why, they'll absolutely push their visiting-cards at you. What do you say?"
"I think it's ingenious," said the manager, "and not to be dismissed lightly. But I don't see anything to prevent all the other managers copying it."
"There isn't," said the inventor. "Nothing ever has been done or will be done that can prevent theatrical managers from copying each other. It's chronic. But you'll be the first, remember that; and the pioneer often has some credit. You'll get the start, and that means a lot. For some months, at any rate, it will be your theatre to which the snobs will crowd."
Such was the interview.
What the manager will decide cannot yet be stated, for the week has not expired.
First Mite. "AIN'T 'E JUST LIKE THE PICTURES, LIZ? I BETCHER 'E'S A COWBOY."
Second ditto. "GARN! 'E'S ONLY A SOLDIER."
