ii
The matter of playwrights is much more difficult than that of poets! A play cannot, as a rule, be satisfactorily quoted from. In the case of a play which is to be staged there are terrible objections (on the part of the producer) to any excerpts at all appearing in advance. The publication of the text of a play is hedged about by all manner of difficulties, copyrights, warnings and solemn notifications. As I write, it is expected that A. H. Woods, the producer of plays, will stage at the Times Square Theatre, New York, probably in September, 1922, the new play by W. Somerset Maugham, East of Suez. Pauline Frederick is expected to assume the principal rôle. Mr. Maugham’s play will be published when it has been produced, or, if the theatre plans suffer one of those changes to which all theatres are subject, will be published anyhow! Shall we say that the setting is Chinese, and that the characters are Europeans, and that Mr. Maugham has again shown his peculiar skill in the delineation of the white man in contact with an alien civilisation? We shall say so. And—never mind! A sure production of the play for the Fireside Theatre is hereby guaranteed. The Fireside Theatre, blessed institution, has certain merits. The actors are always ideal and the performance always begins on time, as a letter to the New York Times has pointed out.
Arnold Bennett has written a lot of plays; The Love Match is merely the latest of them. If I cannot very well quote a scene from The Love Match,—on the grounds of length and possible unintelligibility apart from the rest of the drama—I can give you, I think, an idea of the wit of the dialogue:
Russ (with calm and disdainful resentment). You’re angry with me now.
Nina (hurt). Indeed I’m not. Why should I be angry? Do you suppose I mind who sends you flowers?
Russ. No, I don’t. That’s not the reason. You’re angry with me because you came in here tonight, after saying positively you wouldn’t come, and I didn’t happen to be waiting for you.
Nina. Hugh, you’re ridiculous.
Russ. Of course I am. That’s not the reason. You took me against my will to that footling hospital ball last night, and I only got three hours’ sleep instead of six, and you’re angry with me because I yawned after you kissed me.
Nina. You’re too utterly absurd!
Russ. Of course I am. That’s not the reason, either. The real reason is (firmly) you’re angry with me because you clean forgot it was my birthday today. That’s why you’re angry with me.