THAL MUSIC AND DRAMA T "INNOCENT"-A PLAY THAT BEGINS AT HE temptation and the downfall of Bela when Innocenthis too exquisite, too desirable ward, Innocent-suggests that she will be his, seems, in the light of New York criticism, the supreme effect in George H. Broadhurst's latest metropolitan triumph. The temptation and the downfall, as Mr. Rennold Wolf is careful to explain in the New York Telegraph, occur at night in front of a fireplace. This exquisite and desirable Innocent is in her night-dress. The glow of the fire outlines a figure which makes everything inevitable, which explains all. The construction of the play receives from the critics, because of its novelty, scarcely less attention than the daring scene in the second act. Mr. Broadhurst begins his play (or, rather, the Hungarian play he has adapted) with a prolog. Then, as the Journal of Commerce (New York) notes dubiously, the action goes back two years to show what led up to the prolog. Finally comes the very brief epilog after the fourth act. There are but two women in the cast, one being a maid with practically nothing to do. The other, Innocent, is the center and core of what to the New York Times is a sordid tragedy. "A girl of radiant beauty is, from her cradle and by the very lives and qualities of her father and mother, destined to meretriciousness. The man to whose care she is entrusted at her father's death is a man of good intention but one weak in the face of all temptation." From the day of his acceptance of Innocent as a ward, her guardian is doomed to destruction through her. "The destruction, the suicide, of the man is staged in the prolog and what follows is what had gone before." The device is not startlingly novel to New Yorkers, for Mr. Reizelstein has used the same method in his play, "On Trial"; but Mr. Broadhurst appears to New York newspaper critics successful in his adaptation of the Hungarian's experiment. (The Hungarian, by the way, is Arpad Pasztor.) "It has a big if by no means an exalted theme," to quote the New York Times' criticism of the play again, "and it holds the interest measurably and with increasing success because it tells a story." Let us take the story up at its tense moment in the second act. Bela has THE END brought Innocent all the way from Mukden, where her father died, to the house in Budapest, where guardian and ward are now at home. A year in the gay city has changed the girl into an eager, curious, beautiful woman, longing to intoxicate herself with the wine of life. Among the visitors to the house is Oskar von Guggen, "an adventurer," observes the New York Evening Sun (which does not like the way the play is built, with that anticipating prolog), "a profligate, a man boastful of his triumphs over women." He declares roundly to Bela that a man living in the same house with Innocent is a lucky dog! BELA. What do you mean? terest and curiosity. In India the Lotos flower is common and consequently disregarded; here the same flower is considered both beautiful and wonderful. The conditions, the surroundings, are different. Don't you see-eh? Don't you? BELA. Over there the sex question didn't enter the matter at all, but here every one seems to think that my one purpose is to wrong the girl. It's monstrous! It's damnable! (There is a pause. Von Guggen smiles.) think I have the slightest intention of wronging her? Do you? Do you VON GUGGEN. Not the slightest-at present. BELA.. What do you mean by-at present? Tell me. I demand it. VON GUGGEN. Very well! She is like a wonderful and glorious jewel which has been given into your charge for safe VON GUGGEN. Why, Innocent, of course! keeping. Familiarity has accustomed you You lucky dog! BELA. Von Guggen! VON GUGGEN. You're a sly one! You leave Mukden and intend to take her to the country, do you? You're like the man who stole the Mona Lisa from the Louvre. He showed excellent taste; it I was the best thing there. BELA. Have all the people here gone mad! What the devil do you mean by talking about this child and me? VON GUGGEN. Child! Ha! BELA. She's a child as far as I am concerned. I feel like a father toward her. VON GUGGEN. But you are not her father, nor even her brother. You are a man, that's all. You are just a man. BELA. There speak Europe and Civilization! VON GUGGEN. Exactly! We are civilized, and a man of your age-why, you are not yet forty-cannot live here alone with a beautiful girl to whom he is in no way related, without there being gossip and scandal. Many men have tried it, but it can't be done. Not even in the country. BELA. Yes, that's civilization! In China it was perfectly proper that she should be with me, that I should take care of her. We lived under the same roof for nearly six months and there wasn't a suggestion, or even a thought, that there was anything wrong about it; but here everyone attributed an evil motive to me. VON GUGGEN. Because conditions are different. She grew up there and everyone understood. The matter was familiar. Over there a Chinese woman in native dress would attract no attention; here the same woman would excite both in to its possession, and of its value and beauty you know nothing at present. Go on. BELA. Well? There's more. VON GUGGEN. Some day, perhaps quite by accident, the glory and value of this jewel will be revealed to you and then-! Then you will know the treasure that is in your possession and you will want it for your very own. BELA. It's a lie. VON GUGGEN. It is the truth. Why try to deceive ourselves about such things. We are Europeans, not middle-class English! BELA. Damn it, I wish I hadn't come back here. VON GUGGEN. But you are here. Don't you see? Eh? Don't you? (Bela shows his perturbation.) And why be anxious about it? Why trouble because the treasure is yours for the taking, with no one to question? BELA. For God's sake, keep still, Von Guggen! Keep still! VON GUGGEN. It is only natural that you should be impatient, but why should I not say what I think? If I am right I should speak, if I am wrong you can laugh at me! But I'm right and you know it. You've been here only two days and already you have changed and she has changed. Already your eyes are open, already you-! BELA. Good night. VON GUGGEN. Good night. (He offers his hand. Bela doesn't take it.) Why not? It means nothing. It is only a matter of form. (Bela still does not take it.) Very well. Good night. (The closing of the door is heard. Bela in pantomime shows his state of mind. He paces about and finally puts out the lights with the exceptio of one burning on the "INNOCENT"-A PLAY THAT BEGINS AT THE END desk. He lights a cigarette, opens the window and leans out, blowing the smoke of his cigaret in the air. Innocent enters, wearing her night-robe. She stands on top of the stairs. She comes on stage, silently looks about, then sits down without a sound. Bela turns slowly as if drawn by some magnetic object. He sees Innocent.) BELA. Innocent! INNOCENT. How did you know I was here? I made no sound. I barely breathed, and yet you kn.w. Why? Why aren't BELA. Never mind that. you in your room? INNOCENT. I couldn't sleep, I'm sure of it. I heard the door close and knew he was gone and so I came. BELA. You must go back. INNOCENT. Why? I couldn't sleep, Bela. It would be impossible. BELA. But you'll take cold. (Bela goes up, closes window.) INNOCENT. No. The air is so mild, so delightful. My window is open, too. BELA. The theater, the people, everything has excited you. Go to bed, dear. It will pass away quickly, and then you'll sleep. INNOCENT. I can't stay in that room any more. The night is different here. BELA. Different? INNOCENT. Yes. In Mukden when night came everything was dark and silent. Here I see the lights. BELA. Close the shutters. INNOCENT. I did, but I see them just the same, thousands of them. And then I hear music. BELA. There's no music now. INNOCENT. I hear it, tho. At home when night came I simply went to bed and died; here I live. (She sits on the footstool.) Oh, I am so restless (She shivers.) and so cold. (Bela throws a drapery over her.) BELA. (Severely.) your room, I tell you! You must go to INNOCENT. Why do you speak to me like that, so harshly? Don't you love me any more? BELA. Don't I! You mustn't say such things to me. You mustn't! INNOCENT. Why not? You do love me, don't you? You always said you did. Didn't you mean it? . BELA. Certainly I meant it. INNOCENT. Well, don't you love me now? If you don't I shall be dreadfully unhappy, because there is no one in the world to love me now but you-no one. (She begins to cry.) BELA. Don't cry, dear, please! Please! INNOCENT. Then tell me you love me. Tell me. BELA. I do love you. BELA. Of course I do. INNOCENT. Ah! Now I am happy again! (She nestles close to him. He moves away.) Why do you go away? You didn't before. BELA. Listen, dear. Things are different now. INNOCENT. Different? BELA. Yes. There is a change. INNOCENT. So you have changed too! BELA. Why have you changed? INNOCENT. Yes. I am a stranger to myself. It seems as tho to-night I had become someone else. else. 325 Bela tells Innocent, a part seductively interpreted by Pauline Frederick. He Innocent has discovered over night that she is beautiful and that she is a woman who knows much! And how have you changed? BELA. I-I—! I can't explain. INNOCENT. Oh, but you can. BELA. NO. Here, Bela. (She indicates the seat.) Just to please me. To please me! Come! (She takes his hand and draws him to the seat. She leans her head on his hand.) How warm and nice your hand feels. How pleasant it is. It has such a soft, INNOCENT. You can. Sit here. (She gentle touch. (He smells the fragrance indicates a seat beside her.) of her hair.) BELA. What do you put on your hair? INNOCENT. Perfume. Don't you like it? Horace bought it for me on the way to the opera. He said I was beautiful and should always use a little of it, not much. BELA. Horace told you that? INNOCENT. Yes, and other things, too. He gave me champagne and said if I were dressed as the other women were, I would be more beautiful than any of them. He said the man I love would be the happiest man in the world. BELA. Horace, too! Even Horace! INNOCENT. Is it true? Is it? Do you think the man I love will be very happy? Do you? BELA. I-I- (The phone bell rings. Bela throws off the spell and answers it. At phone.) Yes! Who is this speaking? Von Guggen! What do you want? No, I'm still up. Yes, she's here. What of it? Don't you laugh at me like that. Do you hear? Don't you laugh at me! Oh, go to the devil. (He replaces phone.) INNOCENT. Do you think he'll be very happy? BELA. You must go to your room now, at once. Understand? At once! INNOCENT. Why are you angry with me? Did I do wrong to put the perfume on my hair? BELA. Oh, it isn't that. INNOCENT. Then what is it? What? BELA. I shall send you to the country, to-morrow, in the morning. INNOCENT. I don't want to go to the country. BELA. Just the same you must go! INNOCENT. Shall you come, too? BELA. Shall I come? Shall IINNOCENT. Yes. I shan't mind it so much if you're there with me. And you will be, won't you? (Bela realizes the situation.) You couldn't be so cruel as to send me there alone. I should die. BELA. You mustn't stay here a minute longer! Go! INNOCENT. Don't be angry with me, please! Not to-night! It seems as if I had never seen you before, as if we were really meeting for the first time-that my life, my real life, with you were only just beginning. BELA. No, you don't! You don't! (He and not in the least humiliating or detakes her in his arms.) INNOCENT. I knew it all the time! In the third act Innocent has become the woman her father suspected all along she must prove to be that father who, dying, entrusted her to poor Bela. She has been false to Bela, of course, going from lover to lover, until, in the fourth act, we find her in a private dining room at Nice. She has come with "His Excellency," who is paying the expenses. Innocent must have a man who can meet her bills, her very big bills. It is the key to her career, this necessity, and "His Excellency understands everything, just like the good God." A grading! I don't think tho that I could have taken it from any other man in the room. You had hardly seemed to notice me while they had all stared at me with appraising eyes. HIS EXCELLENCY. To accept it was right. Fate has made you very charming, my dear. She has created you so that your nature demands an atmosphere of elegance. Without it you would be like a lamp that is extinguished. Fate has made you, in fact, a woman de luxe. Therefore, it is only proper that she should take care of you. INNOCENT. I'm glad you think that, and that she sent you to do it. HIS EXCELLENCY. I am more than glad. (Waiter enters.) INNOCENT. Only a little for me. (To His Excellency.) The spring air makes me passive and dreamy. HIS EXCELLENCY. (To waiter.) HIS EXCELLENCY. I understand. rather light dinner this evening. We are INNOCENT. I think of Mukden, where going to the motor parade and will have in the springtime we floated on the water this room again on our return. For the in Chinese junks. Why don't you ever hors d'œuvres, various, with Rhine Wine ask me where I came from and who I am? Sauce, the soup a clear turtle. (To In- HIS EXCELLENCY. Why should I? What nocent.) Don't you think so? possible good would the knowledge do? INNOCENT. Yes, dear, with a little You are yourself and you are here with Sherry in it. me! What else matters. HIS EXCELLENCY. Of course. (To waiter.) Follow it with some venison and a bottle of Château Lafitte, 82, then a squab with Algerian green oranges. INNOCENT. Might I suggest, dear, that he takes care to get last year's fruit, then we shall be certain that it isn't too sweet. HIS EXCELLENCY. You are learning. (To waiter.) Last year's fruit. For the wine, Tokay Imperial. We will order a sweet if we want one. (To Innocent.) The flowers I leave to you. INNOCENT. Thank you, I may have everything I like? it. HIS EXCELLENCY. Certainly, you know INNOCENT. Then we will have a change INNOCENT. In my room a few minutes ago a strange, wonderful feeling came over me. I realized for the first time that when you had gone to bed, there in the next room to mine a man would be sleeping! BELA. Yesterday you were just a child, tired at bedtime with your play. Yesterday you hardly knew the difference between night and morning. But now! How do you learn these things? How do you learn them? INNOCENT. I don't have to learn them. I know them. And I am beautiful-I know that, too. And you know it. Don't you? Don't you? BELA. Yes, it's true. You're beautiful! INNOCENT. And my eyes are as deep as a crater in which fire burns! BELA. Yes. shouldn't the eye, as well as the other senses, be appealed to at a dinner! HIS EXCELLENCY. Capital. INNOCENT. Let me see, first we will have gardenias, then with the soup red roses, with the venison chrysanthemums and with the roast cherry blossoms. What do you say? HIS EXCELLENCY. I say I was wrong. You are not learning, you have learned. INNOCENT. Thank you, what apéritif shall .e have? HIS EXCELLENCY. Crème de Paradis. That is 11. (To Innocent.) I am proud of my pupil; you are improving every day. INNOCENT. Why shouldn't I improve, with such a master? (His Excellency bows.) Tell me, when you spoke to me at the Casino for the first time, how did you know that it was my last franc that INNOCENT. And my flesh is like the I had bet and lost? INNOCENT. And pleasure, dancing and BELA. Yes. INNOCENT. And the man I love will be the happiest in the world! BELA. Yes, the very happiest. INNOCENT, And I don't have to go away, do I? HIS EXCELLENCY. I knew it just as I knew you would accept the five thousand francs I won for you, and tho I am quite sure you had never done such a thing before, permit me to tell you, my dear, that you took them like an artist. INNOCENT. I had never done it before. And yet, when I accepted the money from you, it seemed as tho it were the most natural thing in the world to do INNOCENT. You don't even know whether I have had one lover or many. Don't you care? (His Excellency points to a jewel Innocent is wearing.) HIS EXCELLENCY. Have you ever wondered how many women wore that jewel before I bought it and gave it to you? Of course not, why should you? I happen to know some of its history. It was discovered in India and found its way into the possession of a jeweler who polished it, cut it into a rectangular shape, and sold it to a maharajah, who gave it to his favorite. This excited the jealousy of his queen, who had the slave killed and, so that her husband should not recognize the jewel, had it cut into another shape and placed in a different setting. During the Indian mutiny it fell into the hands of an officer who took it to England, had it recut and gave it to his daughter as a wedding present. The daughter's husband, some time later, lost all his money and the jewel was sold. Since then it has adorned the hair of a duchess, the breast of a harlot and the finger of a wife of a South African millionaire, each of whom had it recut and reset to suit her individual fancy. Does the fact that these other women have owned it and worn it interfere with your happiness in its possession? Not in the slightest. All its adventures, all its vicissitudes, have finally resulted in perfection and that perfection is yours. INNOCENT. You have a wonderful viewpoint and I've learned much from you already. Life with you has lifted up my head and enlarged my vision, and now I see things from above instead of from below. HIS EXCELLENCY. Again I am glad. Little life artist, your health, and may your head always be exalted! INNOCENT. Thank you. (They clink their glasses and drink.) HIS EXCELLI NCY. After the motor parade we will core back here and then-! FIRST WAITER. (Off stage.) No! No, I tell you. No one can go in there. going. I have the right. FIRST WAITER. "INNOCENT"-A PLAY THAT BEGINS AT THE END BELA. (Off stage.) Just the same I'm and after a while I was released and I (Off.) You cannot go. HIS EXCELLENCY. Who is that? HIS EXCELLENCY. Let him come in. HIS EXCELLENCY. Show the gentleman in. (First Waiter exits.) There is no one who has the right to control you? INNOCENT. No one! HIS EXCELLENCY. Good! In any case it is better to see the gentleman! If there is a mistake it can easily be rectified; if there is anything to be adjusted it is much better to do it here than in public. At this moment the waiter enters. He is followed by Bela, who is unshaven and unkempt. An American in his position would be spoken of as "down and out." "Bela!" exclaims Innocent, aghast. His Excellency discreetly absents himself. A touching scene takes place between Bela and InBela explains how, metaphysnocent. ically speaking, he has gone through hell since his lovely inamorata deserted him for another. He has absolutely gone to pieces, shipwrecked by his great passion for her. The woman's heart is deeply touched. INNOCENT. My poor Bela ! BELA. When I awoke, after you left, it was afternoon, and I thought you had gone to the races. So I wasn't alarmed. But when evening came, when it grew dark, I couldn't understand and asked Juleska if you had given her a message. Then something prompted me to inquire if you had returned the dress, and she said that you had paid for it, paid for it with money given you by Von Guggen. I told her she lied and ordered her from the house, but she showed me the receipt. Then I began to get afraid. I had a feeling as if the earth were dropping from under me and I was going down, down, down! It was horrible. Even then I didn't understand what had really happened, but as night came on the possibility that you had gone began to dawn 'on me. I fought against it as a man BELA. Give me the chance to get back my pride, my strength, my self-respect. could or should-surrender the comforts INNOCENT. It would be inevitable, and you know it. I am sorry for you. I pity BELA. You could if you loved me. INNOCENT. Bela! BELA. Tell me that you love me just BELA. Yes, I see. 327 INNOCENT. Promise me you won't do it. Promise me. BELA. You wouldn't lie to me. Do you want me to lie to you? INNOCENT. I want you to promise. Will you? BELA. Yes, I promise. INNOCENT. And you'll keep your word? Well HIS EXCELLENCY. (To Bela.) done, my friend, well done. Will you not stay, now that everything is settled? BELA. No, I must go. HIS EXCELLENCY. Then, since you must, I know you will pardon my saying that it is rather evident that Fortune has not been kind to you of late, and you will excuse me if I suggest— (His Excellency takes out his purse and offers it to Bela.) BELA. Impossible. HIS EXCELLENCY. Why? BELA. I'm not-a beggar. ́ HIS EXCELLENCY. Neither is any other man who accepts a gift from a friend. BELA. But-money? HIS EXCELLENCY. What difference does it make whether it is the money itself or the thing that it buys? (He takes Bela's hand and puts the purse into it. This is the same purse Bela has in the prolog.) Permit me. You will need it. BELA. Very well. HIS EXCELLENCY. Thank you. HIS EXCELLENCY. Good-by, my friend, and a pleasant journey. BELA. Good-by, Innocent. INNOCENT. Then good-by. (He kisses her hand, looks into her face and exits. Innocent cries. His Excellency comforts her.) And now for that epilog. How it concerns the critics! They are no less troubled by that prolog. Such an anticipation of events is a trick or a great advance in the art of the playwrights,-New York newspapers can not decide which. In the epilog, at any rate, we have Irving, Bela's old friend, reading a passage of the dead man's diary. For Bela has killed himself as we all found out at the very beginning, in that prolog. The scene is the same as the prolog. fights against the thought that he is going as I love you and that you'll go with Horace is discovered reading the diary. insane. That you would leave me without a line, without a word, seemed incredible. I couldn't believe it-I refused to believe it-and I went out into the streets looking for you and expecting to find you perhaps hiding behind a tree or sitting at some little table. I went about calling, "Innocent," "Innocent," and when I saw a woman who, in the least, resembled you, or who wore a hat or a dress like those I knew you had, I'd follow her and look into her face. Finally, one woman screamed and I realized what I was doing. Even then I couldn't help going on; so I wandered about under the tres, searching here and there, until finally gendarme took me in charge and I was sent to the hospital. And how I wished that I could die there! But I didn't die, me wherever I want to go! Lie to me! HIS EXCELLENCY. And I trusted you. BELA. It wasn't for her. I was going to kill myself. HIS EXCELLENCY. Not before a lady. It isn't being done! Like anything else you possess, your life is your own to do with as you please, provided that your actions injure no one else. But no gentleman deliberately involves the woman he loves in a public scandal. He removes it from her just as far as he possibly can. You see, my friend? other than yours I should be thought weak Who T view. A SERIOUS DECLARATION OF WAR AGAINST melodrama, "The Law of the Land," temporary things; and I may say that the HE so-called dramatic critic must go! This is a declaration of war recently issued by the Shuberts in their theatrical organ, the New York ReAnd there is sufficient reason to believe that theatrical magnates seriously intend to exterminate the dramatic critics of the daily press. The Review announces that a committee of managers will confer with the publishers of the great New York I dailies for the purpose of revolutioniz- American. ing the manner in which plays are treated by the press, "and of coming to an understanding which will be of great material value both to the newspapers and to those who spend their time and money in writing and producing plays." The present situation is analyzed in the Shubert manifesto in this fashion: "Producers and dramatists long have chafed under a condition by which their most cherished efforts-ventures which represent often months of effort and thousands of dollars-have been at the mercy of a dozen self-styled 'critics' whose sole interest in reviewing productions seemed to be to turn a felicitous phrase, indulge in questionable facetiousness, or vent splenetic bias. "Those who invest their money and their brains in theatrical productions feel that it is not right that their chances of success are placed at the mercy of these few men, whose method of writing and of criticism appears to be based solely upon an endeavor to say something bright, no matter whom it may harm, in the effort to hold their jobs. "Analytical criticism of constructive intent long since ceased to be in New York. There is no standard of criticism here, and not in one review in a dozen printed in the New York papers does the 'critic' give a sane reason for his praise or condemnation, or tell why a thing is bad, if he considers it bad, or good if he thinks it good. That a few scarcely informed men should be permitted to print their individual opinions of a play as gospel truth, and thereby sway the decision of thousands of possible patrons, who form their opinions through the press, is a condition containing no vestige of justice. "The managers believe that the newspapers should publish only such reports of new plays as would give the news of the opening and something about the type and plot of the piece, leaving it to the people to form their own opinion as to whether they wish to see it or not." The managers object mostly to critics with a predilection for satire, points out Variety, the theatrical trade journal. The same paper notes the disappearance last month of Alan Dale's reviews in the New York American and declares that this sharp-penned reviewer did not attend the opening performance of George Broadhurst's Singularly in agreement with the stand taken by the Shuberts is the opinion of Professor Brander Mat AN ABOLISHED DRAMATIC CRITIC Alan Dale, the brightest as well as the most thews, as expressed in an interview in "The time at hand for its writing nec- daily criticism, even if he could be found. It would frequently mean devoting the best in him to plays that are absolutely worthless, and, in many cases, would be like placing a six-pounder, as one great writer said, at the door of a pig-sty. "If I were a managing editor, I shouldn't allow the expression of critical opinion in a daily review. The Saturday or Sunday edition is excepted, for that is in the nature of a magazine with time allowed for verifying opinion. But a newspaper is for news. People go to it for news about pictures, news about books, news about plays. They want to know these things: What kind of play is it? What actors are appearing? And will I like it? That is explicit criticism, but not opinion." The retort courteous to the Shubert ultimatum comes from the pen of a Chicago dramatic critic, Mr. Percy Hammond, writing with none too subtle irony in the Chicago Tribune. The theater as a subject of criticism, he says, has almost ceased to exist. The few exceptional plays which might suggest serious comment may be disregarded, or considered cautiously and leisurely in books by Brander Matthews, or upon the editorial page. He admits that this condition has been due in great part to newspaper writers, tho authors, producers, actors and audiences are not altogether blameless in the matter. Mr. Hammond continues: "There is another reason for a change in the prevailing relations of newspapers to theaters. That is the exaggerated idea of publishers concerning the importance to their readers of theatrical news and views. If there ever was a moribund, worn out, tottering institution, that thing is the theater at the present time. Every expert from New York who visits this sanctum recites pitiable tales of the loss of public interest in all branches of theatrical entertainment excepting variety and motion pictures. The Union Loop, they say, is the garden spot in a desert of disasters, reaching from coast to coast. They tell of receipts that are incredibly small, even in minor centers where there are no critics. "In spite of these admitted conditions newspapers continue to devote columns to the announcement of managerial enterprizes, to the plans of actors, to stories of and interviews with the people of the theater, and to criticism of plays. Tradition and nothing else inspires this absurd attention to an almost obsolete institution. Of course, it will not be long until there is a change. It is already on the horizon. Instead of the pages of a few years ago, columns are now given to the theater by wide-awake newspapers; and the predicion is ventured that ere long it will join chess and the resin market in importance as news." |