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WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
T H E W RITE R 'S L I R R.A.R.Y
EDITED BY J. BERG ESENWEIN, A.M., LITT.D.
WRITING THE SHORT-STORY
THE STANDARD MANUAL FOR AMATEUR
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CHAMBERS
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BY BRETT PAGE
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STUDYING THE SHORT-STORY
SIXTEEN COMPLETE MASTERPIECES WITH
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BY J. BERG ESENWEIN
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IN PREPARATION
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NYMS
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SYLVESTER MAwsON
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TERS BY J. BERG ESENWEIN AND
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ORAL STORY-TELLING
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STOCKARD
THE POET's worD BOOK
A CATALOGUE OF RBIYMES FOR ALL
WHO WRITE VERSE
BY J. BERG ESEN WEIN AND CHARLES
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MAKING THE RURAL NEWSPAPER
BY MERLE THORPE
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG
BY E. M. WICKES
oth ER voLUMES TO BE ANNOUNCED
Writing for Vaudeville
WITH NINE COMPLETE EXAMPLES OF
VARIO US VALID EVILLE FORMS BY
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, AARON
HOFFMAN, EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF,
TAYLOR GRANVILLE, LOUIS WESLYN,
ARTHUR DENVIR, AND JAMES MADISON
IBY
BRETT PAGE
33 g {
AUTHOR OF “CLOSE HARMONY,” “CAMPING DAYS,”
“MEMORIES,” ETC. -
DRAMATIC EDITOR, NEWSPAPER FEATURE
SERVICE, NEW YORK
THE WRITER's LIBRARY
EDITED BY J. BERG ESENWEIN
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SPRINGFIELD, MASS.
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COPYRIGHT, I 9 I 5
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All Rights Reserved
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WITH LOVE AND GRATITUDE
TO
MOTHER AND FATHER
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XV
INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XVII
CHAPTER I–THE WHY OF THE WAUDEVILLE ACT
I. The Rise of Vaudeville . . . . . . . . . . . . . I
2. Of What a Vaudeville Show is Made . . . . . . . 6
3. The Writer’s Part in a Vaudeville Show . . . . . . I2
CHAPTER II — SHOULD YOU TRY TO WIRITE
IFOR WAUDEVILLEP
I. Experience in Other Forms of Writing Valuable . . . I'7
2. Thinking in Drama, and Stage Knowledge . . . . . I9
3. Familiarity with the Vaudeville Stage Necessary . . . 22
4. What Chance Has the Beginner? . . . . . . . . . 24.
CHAPTER III — THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND
ITS DIMENSIONS
I. PHYSICAL PROPORTIONS OF THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE . . 27
I. Limits of “One” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
2. Limits of “Two” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
3. Limits of “Three” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
4. “Four,” or Full Stage . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
5. Bare Stage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3O
II. WoRKING DEPARTMENTS OF THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE . 30
I. The Stage-Carpenter, Flymen and Grips . . . . . . 32
2. The Property-Man and Assistants . . . . . . . . 33
3. The Electrician . . . . . . . . * * * * * * * * * 34
III. SCENERY OF THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE . . . . . . . . 35
1. The Successful Writer's Attitude Toward Scenery . . 37
CHAPTER IV — THE SCENERY IN VAUDEVILLE
THEATRES ^
I. The Olio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
2. Open Sets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
3. The Box Sets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
4. Properties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘. . . . 58
5. Lights. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6o
28.9743
vi CONTENTS
CHAPTER v —THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE
I. WHAT A MONOLOGUE IS NOT . . . . . . . . . . . 64
I. Not a Soliloquy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
2. Not Merely an Entertainment by One Person . . . . 65
3. Not a Disconnected String of Stories . . . . . . . 66
4. Not Stories Interspersed with Songs, etc. . . . . . . 67
II. WHAT A MONOLOGUE IS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
III. THE MONOLOGUE's NOTABLE CHARACTERISTICs . . . . 71
I. Humor: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(a) Incongruity; (b) Surprise; (c) Situation;
(d) Pure Wit; (e) Character.
2. Unity of Character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3. Compression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74.
4. Vividness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
5. Smoothness and Blending . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
CHAPTER VI—WRITING THE MONOLOGUE
I. CHOOSING A THEME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8o
Themes to Avoid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8I
II. THEMES OF UNIVERSAL INTEREST . . . . . . . . . . 82
III. How TO BEGIN TO WRITE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
I. The Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
2. The Development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
3. How and Where to End . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
IV. BUILDING A MONOLOGUE BEFORE AN AUDIENCE . . . . 9o
V. OTHER SINGLE TALKING ACTS . . . . . . . . . . . . QI
CHAPTER VII — THE WAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT
I. What a Vaudeville Two-Act Is . . . . . . . . . . . 96
2. How the Two-Act Differs from the Monologue . . . . 97
3. Slap-Stick Humor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
4. The “Business” of the Two-Act. . . . . . . . . . IOI
5. Weber and Fields on “Sure-Fire Business” . . . . Ioz
6. George M. Cohan’s Experience . . . . . . . . . . IO4.
7. Laughs Depend on Action and Situation, Not on Words Io'7
CHAPTER VIII — THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS
. OF TWO—ACT MATERIAL
I. THE INDIVIDUAL Twist of THE Two-ACT . . . . . . Io9
II. THINKING OUT THE TWO-ACT . . . . . . . . . . . . II 2
I. Selecting a Theme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II.3
CONTENTS vii
2. Fundamental Themes . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(a) The Quarrel; (b) The “Fool”; (c) The
“Sucker” themes. -
3. Subject Themes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II5
III. Two-ACT CHARACTERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II 7
IV. CHARACTER PARTS – “COMEDY” AND “STRAIGHT” . . . II8
CHAPTER IX. — PUTTING THE TWO—ACT ON
PAPER
I. WHERE TO BEGIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I 2.2
The Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I23
II. THE DEVELOPMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I24
I. Introducing a Point . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I26
2. Blending into the Following Point . . . . . . . . I29
3. The Use of Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I29
III. HOW AND WHERE TO END . . . . . . . . . . . . . I31
IV. MAKING THE MANUSCRIPT A STAGE SUCCESS . . . . . I32
V. OTHER TWO-ACT FORMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I33
I. The Sidewalk Conversation or Gag Act . . . . . . . I34
2. The Parody Two-Act . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I34.
3. The Singing Two-Act . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I35
4. The Comedy Act for Two Women . . . . . . . . . I35
5. The Two-Act with Plot Interest . . . . . . . . . . I35
6. The Flirtation Two-Act . . . . . . . . . . . . . I36
(a) Romance; (b) Witty Dialogue; (c) Dainty
Effect.
CHAPTER X—THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE
DRAMATIC FORM
I. ForMS WHICH PRECEDED THE PLAYLET. . . . . . . . 138
II. FORMS FROM WHICH THE PLAYLET EVOLVED . . . . . I4I
I. Extravaganza Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I42
2. Burlesque Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I42
3. Short Plays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I 43
(a) Condensed Versions, “Big.” Scenes and Single
Acts of Long Plays; (b) The Curtain-Raiser.
4. Vaudeville Sketches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I46
(a) The Character Sketch; (b) The Narrative
Sketch:
5. Definition of a Vaudeville Sketch . . . . . . . . . I5o
III. How THE WAUDEVILLE SKETCH AND THE PLAYLET DIFFER I52
IV. WHAT A PLAYLET IS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I54
viii - CONTENTS
CHAPTER XI — KINDS OF PLAYLET
Farce, Comedy, Tragedy, and Melodrama; Society,
Problem, Pastoral-Rural, and Detective dramas . . Ióo
CHAPTER XII — HOW PLAYLETS ARE
GERMINATED
I. THE THEME-PROBLEM AND ITS RANGE . . . . . . . . I65
I. What Themes to Avoid . . . . . . . . . . . . . I68
(a) Unfamiliar; (b) “Cause”; (c) Hackneyed;
and (d) Improper themes.
2. What Themes to Use . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I7o
II. WHERE PLAYLET WRITERs GET THEIR IDEAs. . . . . I'71
I. The Three Forms of Dramatic Treatment . . . . . I'71
2. Themes to Fit Certain Players . . . . . . . . . . I72
3. Themes Born in the Mind of the Writer . . . . . . I'73
4. The Newspaper as a Source of Ideas . . . . . . . I73
5. Happenings Told to or Observed by the Playwright . . 174
6. Personal Experiences of the Playwright. . . . . . . I74
III. A Supposititious ExAMPLE of GERM-DEVELOPMENT. . I74
IV. How A PLAYLET WRITER RECOGNIZES AN IDEA . . . . I'79
W. How MUCH Is ACHIEVED witH THE IDEA . . . . . . 179
CHAPTER XIII–THE DRAMATIC-THE VITAL
ELEMENT OF PLOT
I. Dramatic Instinct Defined . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
2. “Good Drama” Defined . . . . . . • - - - - - - 187
3 What is Tramatic? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I88
4. The Law of the Drama . . . . . . . . e e s s a I92
5. Dramatic Lies in Meaning, not in Movement or Speech 197
6. Comedy Achieved in the Same Dramatic Way. . . . 200
7. All Forms Depend on Dramatic Meaning. . . . . . 2O2
CHAPTER XIV — THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS
- OF PLOT
I. WHAT IS A PLAYLET PLOTP . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
II. THE VITAL PARTS OF THE PLOT . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 IO
I. Beginning States the Premises Clearly and Simply . 211
2. Middle Develops the Problem and Solves it . . . . . 2I5
(a) “Exciting Force”; (b) “Rising Movement”;
(c) Scenes that Must be Shown; (d) Climax.
3. Ending Rounds Out the Whole Satisfyingly . . . . . 219
CONTENTS ix
III. THE THREE DRAMATIC UNITIES . . . . . . . . . . . 225
I. Unity of Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
2. Unity of Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
3. Unity of Place . . . . . . . . . . • * * * * * * 23I
CHAPTER XV — THE CHARACTERS IN THE
PLAYLET
I. CHARACTERS VERSUS PLOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
II. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAYLET . . . . . . . . . . . 236
I. The Number of Persons . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
2. Selecting the Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
III. FITTING CHARACTERS TO PLOT . . . . . . . . . . . 24O
IV. CHARACTERIZATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
I. Methods of Characterization . . . . . . . . . . . 242
2. The Choice of Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
CHAPTER XVI — DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYTLET
I. What is Dialogue? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247
2. The Uses of Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
3. Fit and Becoming Dialogue. . . . . . . . . . . . 257
CHAPTER XVII — “BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET
I. The Part “Business” Plays in the Dramatic . . . . 262
2. Pantomime Condenses the Story and Illumines Char-
acter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
3. Long Speeches Broken up by Movement . . . . . 268
4. Business More than Dialogue Produces Comedy . . . 270
5. Entrances, Exits and the Stage Cross. . . . . . . . 272
6. How Business is Indicated in Manuscript . . . . . 274
CHAPTER XVIII — WRITING THE PLAYLET
I. WHEN TO BEGIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
I. Use of the Scenario . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
2. The Scenario not an Unalterable Outline . . . . . 28I
II. POINTS TO BRING OUT PROMINENTLY . . . . . . . . 281
I. Points the Beginning Must Emphasize . . . . . . 282
2. Points to be Brought Out in the Middle . . . . . . . 283
3. The Single Point of the Finish . . . . . . . . . . 285
III. PUTTING “PUNCH* INTO THE IDEA . . . . . . . . . 286
I. Keeping the Audience in Ignorance too Long . . . . 287 -
2. Being too Frank at the Beginning . . . . . . . . . 289
3. Being too “Talky” . . . . . . . . . . . . , , 289
X CONTENTS
4. Losing Singleness of Effect . . . . . . . . . . . 290
5. Action to be All Vital . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29O
6. The “Punch” Secured. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29I
IV. SELECTING A PROPER TITLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29I
I. What is a Proper Title? . . . . . . . . . . . . 29I
2. What is an Improper Title? . . . . . . . . . . . 292
3. Other Title Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
V. MAKING THE PLAYLET A HIT . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
CHAPTER XIX. — THE ELEMENTS OF A SUC–
CESSFUL ONE–ACT MUSICAL COMEDY
I. The Musical Elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299
2. Scenery and Costumes — Picture-Elements . . . . . 3OO
3. The Element of Plot . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘. . 3OI
4. Story Told by Situation, Not by Dialogue . . . . . 3O4.
5. The Comedy Element . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3O5
CHAPTER XX. — PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE–
ACT MUSICAL COMEDY; HINTS ON MAKING
THE BURLESQUE TAB
I. An Average One-Act Muscial Comedy Recipe . . . . .311
a 2. Timing the Costume-Changes . . . . . . . . . . . 3I3
3. The Production Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3I4
HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLESQUE TAB . . . . . . 316
CHAPTER XXI — THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF
THE POPULAR SONG
I. Music and Words Inseparable . . . . . . . . . . 322
2. One Octave the Popular Song Range . . . . . . . . 325
3. Melodies Should go Up on Open Vowels . . . . . . 326
4. Put “Punch” in Music Wherever Possible . . . . . 326
5. “Punch” Sometimes Secured by Repetition . . . . . 327
6. A Musical Theme Might be the Entire Song. . . . . 327
7. “Punches” Not Suggested by the Theme . . . . . . 329
8. Use of Themes or “Punches'’ of Other Songs . . . .329
CHAPTER XXII — THE ELEMENTS OF A SUC–
CESSFUL LYRIC
I, WHAT A POPULAR SONG LYRIC IS . . . . . . . . . . 334
ExAMPLES OF POPULAR SONG LYRICS . . . . . . . 336–348
“Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” by Irving Berlin;
“The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” by MacDonald
CONTENTS
xi
& Carroll; “When the Bell in the Lighthouse Rings
Ding Dong,” by Lamb & Solman; “Sweet Italian
Love,” by Berlin & Snyder; “Oh, How that German
Could Love,” by Berlin & Snyder; “When It Strikes
Home,” by Charles K. Harris; “My Little Dream
Girl,” by Gilbert & Friedland; “Memories,” by
Page & Levy; “Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet,” by
Murphy & Wenright; “There's a Little Spark of
Love Still Burning,” by McCarthy & Fischer;
“When I Lost You,” by Irving Berlin.
II. QUALITIES OF THE POPULAR SONG LYRIC . . . . . .
. Two Verses and One Chorus Usual . . . . . .
Regular Metre Rare . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Irregularity May be a Virtue . . . . . . . . .
. Regular and Precise Rhyming Not Necessary . . . .
. Regular and Precise Rhyming Good When Fitting. .
Hints on Lyric Measures . . . . . . . . . . . -
Simple Lyrics and Simple Music Necessary
I& -
. Rhythm the Secret of Successful Songs. . . . . .
Where the “Punch” in the Lyric is Placed . . . .
. Contrast an Element of the “Punch” . . . . .
II. Love the Greatest Single Element . . . . . . . .
I2. The Title . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
CHAPTER xxIII—wRITING THE POPULAR SONG
I. A POPULAR SONG IN THE MAKING . . . . . . . .
II. POINTS ON SONG BUILDING . . . . . . . . . . . .
. Sources of Ideas for Song Lyrics . . . . . . . .
. Chorus Written First . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. Chorus Conveys Emotion . . . . . . . .
. The “Punch '' Put in Clear Words Near the End
III. ASSEMBLING THE SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I. The “One Finger Composer’s” Aid . . . . . . .
2. Words and Music Must Fit Exactly . . . . . . .
3. Purchasing Music for a Song Seldom Advisable . . .
IV. SEEKING A PUBLISHER . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I. Private Publication Seldom Profitable . . . .
2. The “Song Poem.” Advertiser . . . . . . . . .
3. How to Seek a Market . . . . . . . . . . . .
. Emotion Conveyed by Broad Strokes . . . . . . . .
. First Verse the Introduction to the Chorus . . . .
Second Verse Rounds out the Story . . . . . . .
The “Punch'' Lines in the Verses . . . . . . .
Don'ts for Verse Last-Lines . . . . . . . . . .
XII CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXIV — MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS
. Preparing the Manuscript . . . . . . . . . . . .
. The Stage-Door the Vaudeville Market Place . . . .
. Producing Your Own Act . . . . . . . . . . . .
. Selling an Act to a Producer . . . . . . . . . . .
. Hints on Prices for Various Acts . . . . . . . . .
. Important Lists of Addresses . . . . . . . . . . . . ;
A. SOME OF THE MORE PROMINENT PLAY BROKERS . .
J B. A LIST OF WELL KNOWN WAUDEVILLE PRODUCERS .
C. THE LARGER CIRCUITS AND BOOKING OFFICES
J D. PUBLISHERs of WAUDEVILLE MATERIAL . . . . . .
E. PROMINENT THEATRICAL PAPERS . . . . . . . . .
:
~5
CHAPTER XXV — HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS
BOOKED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
APPENDIX
NINE FAMOUS WAUDEVILLE ACTS COMPLETE
#
A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A MONOLOGUE, “THE GERMAN SENATOR” . . . . . . .
By Aaron Hoffman
A VAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT, “THE ART OF FLIRTATION".
By Aaron Hoffman
A FLIRTATION TWO-ACT, “AFTER THE SHOWER’’ . . .
By Louis Weslyn
A TRAVESTY PLAYLET, “TIIE VILLATN STILT, PURSUED
HER” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By Arthur Denvir
A COMEDY PLAYLET, “THE LOLLARD” . . . . . . . .
By Edgar Allan Woolf *
A TRAGIC PLAYLET, “BLACKMAIL” . . . . . . . . . .
By Richard Harding Davis
A MELODRAMATIC PLAYLET, “THE SystEM” . . . .
By Taylor Granville, Junie McCree and Edward Clar
A ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY, “A PERSIAN GARDEN”
By Edgar Allan Woolf
A BURLESQUE TAB, “My OLD KENTUCKy Home”
By James Madison
427
433
445
457
TABLE OF DIAGRAMs
Diagram of KEITH's PALACE THEATRE, New York . . . . . 3I
Diagram I — FANCY INTERIOR No. 1 . . . . . . . . . . . So
Diagram II — FANCY INTERIOR No. 2 . . . . . . . . . . . 5I
Diagram III — FANCY INTERIOR No. 3 . . . . . . . . . . 52
Diagram IV — FANCY INTERIOR No. 4 . . . . . . . . . . 53
Diagram V — FANCY INTERIOR No. 5 . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Diagram VI— KITCHEN SET No. 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Diagram VII—KITCHEN SET No. 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Diagram VIII — WoOD OR GARDEN SET . . . . . . . . . 57
Facsimile Page of Ms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
Facsimile Page of Ms. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 388
FOREWORD
CAN you be taught how to write for vaudevilleP
If you have the native gift, what experienced writers
say about its problems, what they themselves have
accomplished, and the means by which it has been
wrought, will be of help to you. So much this book
offers, and more I would not claim for it.
Although this volume is the first treatise on the sub-
ject of which I know, it is less an original offering than
a compilation. Growing out of a series of articles
written in collaboration with Mr. William C. Lengel
for The Green Book Magazine, the subject assumed
such bigness in my eyes that when I began the writ-
ing of this book, I spent months harvesting the
knowledge of others to add to my own experience.
With the warm-heartedness for which vaudevillians
are famous, nearly every one whose aid I asked lent
assistance gladly. “It is vaudeville's first book,”
said more than one, deprecating the value of his own
suggestions, “and we want it right in each slightest
particular.” -
To the following kindly gentlemen I wish to express
my especial thanks: Aaron Hoffman, Edwin Hopkins,
James Madison, Edgar Allan Woolf, Richard Harding
Davis — the foremost example of a writer who made a
famous name first in literature and afterward in vaude-
xvi. + FOREWORD
ville — Arthur Hopkins, Taylor Granville, Junie
McCree, Arthur Denvir, Frank Fogarty, Irving
Berlin, Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe Gilbert, Ballard
MacDonald, Louis Bernstein, Joe McCarthy, Joseph
Hart, Joseph Maxwell, George A. Gottlieb, Daniel F.
Hennessy, Sime Silverman, Thomas J. Gray, William
C. Lengel, Miss Nellie Revell, the “big sister of
vaudeville,” and a host of others whose names
space does not permit my naming again here,
but whose work is evidenced in the following pages.
To Alexander Black, the man who made the first
picture play twenty-one years ago, I owe thanks
for points in the discussion of dramatic values. And
for many helpful suggestions, and his kindly editing,
I wish to express my gratitude to Dr. J. Berg
Esenwein. To these “friends indeed” belongs what-
ever merit this book possesses.
BRETT PAGE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
August 25, 1915
INTRODUCTION
IT falls to the lot of few men in these days to blaze
a new trail in Bookland. This Mr. Brett Page has
done, with firmness and precision, and with a joy in
every stroke that will beget in countless readers that
answering joy which is the reward of both him who
guides and him who follows. There is but one word.
for a work so penetrating, so eductive; so clear — and
that word is masterly. Let no one believe the modest
assertion that “Writing for Vaudeville” is “less an
original offering than a compilation.” I have seen it
grow and re-grow, section by section, and never have
I known an author give more care to the development
of his theme in an original way. Mr. Page has worked
with fidelity to the convictions gained while himself
writing professionally, yet with deference for the
opinions of past masters in this field. The result is a
book quite unexcelled among manuals of instruction,
for authority, full statement, analysis of the sort that
leads the reader to see what essentials he must build
into his own structures, and sympathetic helpfulness
throughout. I count it an honor to have been the
editorial sponsor for a pioneer book which will be soon
known everywhere.
J. BERG ESENWEIN
WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
CHAPTER I
THE WHY OF THE WAUDEVILLE ACT
I. The Rise of Vaudeville
2% French workman who lived in the Valley of the
Vire in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, is said
to be vaudeville's grandparent. Of course, the child
of his brain bears not even a remote resemblance to
its descendant of to-day, yet the line is unbroken
and the relationship clearer than many of the family
trees of the royal houses. The French workman’s
name was Oliver Bassel, or Olivier Basselin, and in
his way he was a poet. He composed and sang cer-
tain sprightly songs which struck the popular fancy
and achieved a reputation not only in his own town
but throughout the country.
Bassel’s success raised the usual crop of imitators
and soon a whole family of songs like his were being
whistled in France. In the course of time these came
to be classed as a new and distinct form of musical
entertainment. They were given the name of “Val-
de-Vire” from the valley in which Bassel was born.
This name became corrupted into “vaux-de-vire” in
the time of Louis XVI, and was applied to all the
popular or topical songs sung on the streets of Paris.
Then the aristocrats took up these songs and gave
2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
entertainments at their country seats. To these
entertainments they gave the name of “vaux-de-ville,”
the last syllable being changed to honor Bassel's
native town.” And gradually the 3 was dropped and
the word has remained through the years as it is to-day.
As the form of entertainment advanced, the word
... vaudeville expanded in meaning. It came to com-
prise not only a collection of Songs, but also acrobatic
feats and other exhibitions. Having no dramatic
sequence whatever, these unrelated acts when shown
together achieved recognition as a distinct form of
theatrical entertainment. As “vaudeville” — or “va-
riety” — this form of entertainment became known
and loved in every country of the world.
AVaudeville was introduced into this country before
1820, but it did not become a common form of enter-
tainment until shortly before the Civil War when
the word “variety’ was at once adopted and became
familiar as something peculiarly applicable to the
troubled times. The new and always cheerful enter-
tainment found the reward of its optimism in a wide
popularity. But as those days of war were the days
of men, vaudeville made its appeal to men only.
And then the war-clouds passed away and the show
business had to reëstablish itself, precisely as every
other commercial pursuit had to readjust itself to
changed conditions. ,
.”
* Another version relates that these songs were sung on the
Pont Neuf in Paris, where stands the Hôtel de Ville, or City Hall,
and thus the generic name acquired the different termination.
THE WHY OF THE VAUDEVILLE ACT 3
Tony Pastor saw his opportunity. On July 31,
1865, he opened “Tony Pastor's Opera House” at
I99–201 Bowery, New York. He had a theory that
a vaudeville entertainment from which every objec-
tionable word and action were taken away, and from
which the drinking bar was excluded, would appeal to
women and children as well as men. He knew that
no entertainment that excluded women could long
hold a profitable place in a man’s affections. So
to draw the whole family to his new Opera House,
Tony Pastor inaugurated clean vaudeville.* Pastor’s
success was almost instantaneous. It became the
fashion to go to Pastor’s Opera House and later
when he moved to Broadway, and then up to Four-
teenth Street, next to Tammany Hall, he carried his
clientele with him. And vaudeville, as a form of
entertainment that appealed to every member of the
home circle, was firmly established — for a while.
For Pastor’s success in New York did not at first
seem to the average vaudeville manager something
that could be duplicated everywhere. A large part
of the profits of the usual place came from the sale of
drinks and to forego this source of revenue seemed
1 In the New York Clipper for December 19, 1914, there is an
interesting article: “The Days of Tony Pastor,” by Al. Fostelle,
an old-time vaudeville performer, recounting the names of the
famous performers who played for Tony Pastor in the early days.
It reads like a “who's who’’ of vaudeville history. Mr. Fostelle,
has in his collection a bill of an entertainment given in England
in 1723, consisting of singing, dancing, character impersonations,
with musical accompaniment, tight-rope walking, acrobatic feats, etc.
4. WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
suicidal. Therefore, vaudeville as a whole continued
for years on the old plane. “Variety” was the name
— in England vaudeville is still called “variety”—
that it, held even more widely then. And in the later
seventies and the early eighties “variety” was on
the ebb-tide. It was classed even lower than the
circus, from which many of its recruits were
drawn.
Among the men who came to vaudeville's rescue,
because they saw that to appeal to the masses prof-
itably, vaudeville must be clean, were F. F. Proctor
in Philadelphia, and B. F. Keith in Boston. On
Washington Street in Boston, B. F. Keith had opened
a “store show.” The room was very small and he
had but a tiny stage; still he showed a collection of
curiosities, among which were a two-headed calf and
a fat woman. Later on he added a singer and a
serio-comic comedian and insisted that they elimi-
nate from their acts everything that might offend the
most fastidious. The result was that he moved to
larger quarters and ten months later to still more
commodious premises.
Continuous vaudeville – “eleven o’clock in the
morning until eleven at night” — had its birth on
July 6, 1885. It struck the popular fancy imme-
diately and soon there was hardly a city of any im-
portance that did not possess its “continuous” house.
From the “continuous” vaudeville has developed
the two-performances-a-day policy, for which vaude-
ville is now so well known.
THE WHY OF THE VAUDEVILLE ACT 5
The vaudeville entertainment of this generation is,
however, a vastly different entertainment from that
of even the nineties. What it has become in popular
affection it owes not only to Tony Pastor, F. F.
Proctor, or even to B. F. Keith — great as was his
influence — but to a host of showmen whose names
and activities would fill more space than is possible
here. E. F. Albee, Oscar Hammerstein, S. Z. Poli,
William Morris, Mike Shea, James E. Moore, Percy
G. Williams, Harry Davis, Morris Meyerfeld, Martin
Beck, John J. Murdock, Daniel F. Hennessy, Sullivan
and Considine, Alexander Pantages, Marcus Loew,
Charles E. Kohl, Max Anderson, Henry Zeigler, and
George Castle, are but a few of the many men living
and dead who have helped to make vaudeville what
it is.
. From the old variety show, made up of a singer of
topical songs, an acrobatic couple, a tight-rope walker,
a sidewalk “patter” pair, and perhaps a very rough
comedy sketch, there has developed a performance
that sometimes includes as many as ten or twelve
acts, each one presented by an artist whose name is
known around the world. One of the laments of the
old vaudeville performers is that they have a place
in vaudeville no more. The most famous grand opera
singers and the greatest actors and actresses appear
in their room. The most renowned dramatists write
some of its playlets. The finest composers cut down
their best-known works to fit its stage, and little
operas requiring forty people and three or four sets
6 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
of scenery are the result. To the legitimate stage
vaudeville has given Some of its successful plays and
at least one grand opera has been expanded from a
playlet. To-day a vaudeville performance is the best
thought of the world condensed to fit the flying hour.
2. Of What a Vaudeville Show is Made
There is no keener psychologist than a vaudeville
manager. Not only does he present the best of every-
thing that can be shown upon a stage, but he so
arranges the heterogeneous elements that they com-
bine to form a unified whole. He brings his audi-
ences together by advertising variety and reputa-
tions, and he sends them away aglow with the feeling
that they have been entertained every minute. His
raw material is the best he can buy. His finished
product is usually the finest his brain can form.
He engages Sarah Bernhardt, Calvé, a Sir James
M. Barrie playlet, Ethel Barrymore, and Henry
Miller. He takes one of them as the nucleus of
a week's bill. Then he runs over the names of such
regular vaudevillians as Grace La Rue, Nat Wills,
Trixie Friganza, Harry Fox and Yansci Dollie,
Emma Carus, Sam and Kitty Morton, Walter C.
1 Legitimate is a word used in the theatrical business to distin-
guish the full-evening drama, its actors, producers, and its mechan-
ical stage from those of burlesque and vaudeville. Originally
coined as a word of reproach against vaudeville, it has lost its
sting and is used by vaudevillians as well as legitimate actors and
managerS. -
THE WHY OF THE WAUDEVILLE ACT 7
Kelly, Conroy and LeMaire, Jack Wilson, Hyams
and McIntyre, and Frank Fogarty. He selects two
or maybe three of them. Suddenly it occurs to him
that he hasn’t a big musical “flash” for his bill, so
he telephones a producer like Jesse L. Lasky, Arthur
Hopkins or Joe Hart and asks him for one of his
fifteen- or twenty-people acts. This he adds to his
bill. Then he picks a song-and-dance act and an
acrobatic turn. Suddenly he remembers that he
wants — not for this show, but for some future
week — Gertrude Hoffman with her big company,
or Eva Tanguay all by herself. This off his mind,
the manager lays out his show — if it is the standard
nine-act bill — somewhat after the following plan,
as George A. Gottlieb, who books Keith's Palace
Theatre, New York, shows – probably the best and
certainly the “biggest” vaudeville entertainments seen
in this country – has been good enough to explain.
“We usually select a “dumb act’ for the first act
on the bill. It may be a dancing act, some good
animal act, or any act that makes a good impression
and will not be spoiled by the late arrivals seeking
their seats. Therefore it sometimes happens that
we make use of a song-and-dance turn, or any other
little act that does not depend on its words being
heard.
“For number two position we select an interesting
act of the sort recognized as a typical ‘vaudeville
act.’ It may be almost anything at all, though it
should be more entertaining than the first act. For
8 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
this reason it often happens that a good man-and-
woman singing act is placed here. This position on
the bill is to “settle’ the audience and to prepare it
for the show.
“With number three position we count on waking
up the audience. The show has been properly started
and from now on it must build right up to the finish.
So we offer a comedy dramatic sketch — a playlet
that wakens the interest and holds the audience
every minute with a culminative effect that comes
to its laughter-climax at the ‘curtain,’ or any other
kind of act that is not of the same order as the pre-
ceding turn, so that, having laid the foundations, we
may have the audience wondering what is to come next.
“For number four position we must have a “corker’
of an act — and a ‘name.’ It must be the sort of
act that will rouse the audience to expect still better
things, based on the fine performance of the past
numbers. Maybe this act is the first big punch of
the show; anyway, if milst strike home and build up
the interest for the act that follows.
“And here for number five position, a big act, and
at the same time another big name, must be presented.
Or it might be a big dancing act — one of those
delightful novelties vaudeville likes so well. In any
event this act must be as big a ‘hit’ as any on the
bill. It is next to intermission and the audience must
have something really worth while to talk over.
And so we select one of the best acts on the bill to
crown the first half of the show.
ves
THE WHY OF THE WAUDEVILLE ACT 9
“The first act after intermission, number six on the
bill, is a difficult position to fill, because the act
must not let down the carefully built-up tension of
interest and yet it must not be stronger than the acts
that are to follow. Very likely there is chosen a
strong vaudeville specialty, with comedy well to the
fore. Perhaps a famous comedy dumb act is selected,
with the intention of getting the audience back in
its seats without too many conspicuous interruptions
of what is going on on the stage. Any sort of act
that makes a splendid start-off is chosen, for there
has been a fine first half and the second half must be
built up again — of course the process is infinitely
swifter in the second half of the show — and the au-
dience brought once more into a delighted-expectant
attitude. * -
“Therefore the second act after intermission —
number seven — must be stronger than the first. It
is usually a full-stage act and again must be another
big name. Very likely it is a big playlet, if another
sketch has not been presented earlier on the bill.
It may be a comedy playlet or even a serious dramatic
playlet, if the star is a fine actor or actress and the
name is well known. Or it may be anything at all
that builds up the interest and appreciation of the
audience to welcome the “big” act that follows.
“For here in number eight position — next to
closing, on a nine-act bill — the comedy hit of the
show is usually placed. It is one of the acts for which
the audience has been waiting. Usually it is one of
IO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
A -.
Xew.
the famous “single' man or ‘single’ women acts that
vaudeville has made such favorites.
“And now we have come to the act that closes the
show. We count on the fact that some of the au-
dience will be going out. Many have only waited to
see the chief attraction of the evening, before hurry-
ing off to their after-theatre supper and dance. So
we spring a big ‘flash.’ It must be an act that does
not depend for its success upon being heard per-
fectly. Therefore a “sight’ act is chosen, an animal
act maybe, to please the children, or a Japanese
troupe with their gorgeous kimonos and vividly
harmonizing stage draperies, or a troupe of white-
clad trapeze artists flying against a background of
black. Whatever the act is, it must be a showy act,
for it closes the performance and sends the audience
home pleased with the program to the very last minute.
“Now all the time a booking-manager is laying
out his show, he has not only had these many artistic
problems on his mind, but also the mechanical work-
ing of the show. For instance, he must consider the
actual physical demands of his stage and not place
next each other two full-stage acts. If he did, how
would the stage hands change the scenery without
causing a long and tedious wait? In vaudeville
there must be no waits. Everything must run with
unbroken stride. One act must follow another as
though it were especially made for the position. And
the entire show must be dovetailed to the split sec-
onds of a stop-watch.
THE WHY OF THE WAUDEVILLE ACT II
“Therefore it is customary to follow an “act in
One’ (See page 28) with an act requiring Full Stage.
Then after the curtain has fallen on this act, an act
comes on to play in One again. A show can, of course,
start with a full-stage act, and the alternation process
remains the same. Or there may be an act that can
open in One and then go into Full Stage – after hav-
ing given the stage hands time to set their scenery —
or vice versa, close in One. Briefly, the whole prob-
lem is simply this — acts must be arranged not only
in the order of their interest value, but also according
to their physical demands. ' ' .
“But there is still another problem the manager
must solve. ‘Variety’ is vaudeville's paternal name
— vaudeville must present a varied bill and a show
consisting of names that will tend to have a box-office
appeal. No two acts in a show should be alike. No
two can be permitted to conflict. ‘Conflict’ is a word
that falls with ominous meaning on a vaudeville per-
former’s or manager’s ears, because it means death to
One of the acts and injury to the show, as a whole.
If two famous singing ‘single’ women were placed
on the same bill, very likely there would be odious
comparisons — even though they did not use songs
that were alike. And however interesting each might
be, both would lose in interest. And yet, sometimes
we do just this thing – violating a minor rule to win
a great big box-office appeal. -
“Part of the many sides of this delicate problem
may be seen when you consider that no two “single”
I2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
singing acts should be placed next each other —
although they may not conflict if they are placed far
apart on the bill. And no two ‘quiet” acts may be
placed together. The tempo of the show must be
maintained — and because tragic playlets, and even
serious playlets, are suspected of “slowing up a show,’
they are not booked unless very exceptional.”
These are but a few of the many sides of the prob-
lem of what is called “laying out a show.” A com-
mand of the art of balancing a show is a part of the
genius of a great showman. It is a gift. It cannot
be analyzed. A born showman lays out his bill, not
by rule, but by feeling.
3. The Writer's Part in a Vaudeville Show
In preparing the raw material from which the
manager makes up his show, the writer may play
many parts. He may bear much of the burden of
entertainment, as in a playlet, or none of the respon-
sibility, as in the average dumb act. And yet, he may
write the pantomimic story that pleases the audience
most. Indeed, the writer may be everything in a
vaudeville show, and always his part is an important
OIl62,
Of course the trained seals do not need a dramatist
to lend them interest, nor does the acrobat need his
skill; but without the writer what would the actress
be, and without the song-smith, what would the
singer sing? And even the animal trainer may utilize
the writer to concoct his “line of talk.” The mono-
THE WHY OF THE VAUDEVILLE ACT I3
logist, who of all performers seems the most independ-
ent of the author, buys his merriest stories, his most
up-to-the-instant jests, ready-made from the writer
who works like a marionette's master pulling the
strings. The two-act, which sometimes seems like a
funny impromptu fight, is the result of the writer's
careful thinking. The flirtatious couple who stroll
out on the stage to make everyone in the audience
envious, woo Cupid through the brain of their author.
And the musical comedy, with its strong combination
of nearly everything, is but the embodied flight of
the writer’s fancy. In fact, the writer supplies much
of the life-blood of a vaudeville show. Without him
modern vaudeville could not live.
Thus, much of the present wide popularity of
vaudeville is due to the writer. It is largely owing to
the addition of his thoughts that vaudeville stands
to-day as a greater influence — because it has a
wider appeal — than the legitimate drama in the
make-believe’ life of the land. Even the motion pic-
tures, which are nearer the eyes of the masses, are
not nearer their hearts. Vaudeville was the first to
foster motion pictures and vaudeville still accords the
motion picture the place it deserves on its bills. For
vaudeville is the amusement weekly of the world —
it gathers and presents each week the best the
world affords in entertainment. And much, of the
best comes from the writer’s brain.
Because mechanical novelties that are vaudeville-
worth-while are rare, and because acrobats and ani-
I4. WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
mal trainers are of necessity limited by the frailties
of the flesh, and for the reason that dancers cannot
forever present new steps, it remains for the writer to
bring to vaudeville the never-ceasing novelty of his
thoughts. New Songs, new ideas, new stories, new
dreams are what vaudeville demands from the writer.
Laughter that lightens the weary day is what is asked
for most. *
It is in the fulfilling of vaudeville's fine mission that
writers all over the world are turning out their best.
And because the mission of vaudeville is fine, the
writing of anything that is not fine is contemptible.
The author who tries to turn his talents to base uses
— putting an untrue emphasis on life's false values,
picturing situations that are not wholesome, using
words that are not clean — deserves the fate of fail-
ure that awaits him. As E. F. Albee, who for years
has been a controlling force in vaudeville, wrote: *
“We have no trouble in keeping vaudeville clean and
wholesome, unless it is with some act that is just
entering, for the majority of the performers are jealous
of the respectable name that vaudeville has to-day, and
cry out themselves against besmirchment by others.”
Reality and truth are for what the vaudeville
writer strives. The clean, the fine, the wholesome is
his goal. He finds in the many theatres all over the
land a countless audience eager to hear what he has to
say. And millions are invested to help him say it well.
* “The Future of the Show Business,” by E. F. Albee, in
The Billboard for December 19, 1914. ... •
CHAPTER II
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WRITE FOR VAUDEVILLE?
“I became a writer,” George Bernard Shaw once
said, “because I wanted to get a living without work-
ing for it — I have since realized my mistake.” Any-
one who thinks that by writing for vaudeville he
can get a living without working for it is doomed to
a sad and speedy awakening.
If I were called upon to give a formula for the
creation of a successful vaudeville writer, I would
specify: The dramatic genius of a Shakespere, the
diplomatic craftiness of a Machiavelli, the explosive
energy of a Roosevelt, and the genius-for-long-hours
of an Edison: mix in equal proportions, add a dash
of Shaw’s impudence, all the patience of Job, and
keep boiling for a lifetime over the seething ambition
of Napoleon. -
In other — and less extreme — words, if you con-
template writing for vaudeville for your bread and
butter, you must bring to the business, if not genius,
at least the ability to think, and if not boundless
energy, at any rate a determination never to rest
content with the working hours of the ordinary
professions. -- *
If you suppose that the mere reading of this book
is going to make you able to think, permit me gently
to disillusion you; and if you are imbued with the
I6 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
flattering faith that after studying these chapters
you will suddenly be able to sit down and write
a successful playlet, monologue, two-act, musical
comedy libretto, or even a good little “gag,” in the
words of classic vaudeville — forget it! All this book
can do for you — all any instruction can do — is to
show you the right path, show precisely how others
have successfully essayed it, and wish you luck. Do
you remember the brave lines of W. E. Henley, the
blind English poet:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
And again in the same poem, “Invictus”:
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
There sings the spirit that will carry a writer to
success in vaudeville or in any other line of writing;
and it is this inspired attitude you should assume
toward the present book of instruction.
These chapters, carefully designed and painstak-
ingly arranged, contain information and suggestions
which, if studied and applied by the right person,
will help him to a mastery of vaudeville writing.
But they should be viewed not as laying down rules,
only as being suggestive. This book cannot teach.
you how to write – with its aid you may be able
to teach yourself.
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WIRITE FOR VAUDEVILLE 17
Are you the sort of person likely to make a success
of writing for vaudeviller You, alone, can determine.
But the following discussion of some of the elements
of equipment which anyone purposing to write for
vaudeville should possess, may help you find the
3,1] SWCT.
1. Experience in Other Forms of Writing Valuable
Let us suppose that you have been engaged in
writing for a newspaper for years. You started as a
reporter and because of your unusual ability in the
handling of political news have made politics your
specialty. You have been doing nothing but politics
until politics seems to be all you know. Suddenly
the sporting editor falls ill, and at the moment there
is no one to take his place but you. Your assistant
takes over your work and you are instructed to turn
out a daily page of sporting news.
If you knew nothing at all about writing you
would find the task nearly impossible to accomplish.
But you do know how to write and therefore the mere
writing does not worry you. And your experience
as a special writer on politics has taught you that
there are certain points all special newspaper work.
has in common and you apply your knowledge to
the task before you.
Still you are seriously handicapped for a time
because you have been thinking in terms of politics.
But soon, by turning all your energy and ability upon
your new subject, you learn to think in terms of
I8 . ' WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
sport. And, if you are a better thinker and a better
writer than the old sporting editor, it won’t be long
before you turn out a better sporting page than he did.
If you were the owner of the newspaper, which, in
the emergency, would you choose to be your sporting
editor: the untried man who has never demonstrated
his ability to write, the reporter who has no knowl-
edge of special writing, or the trained writer who has
mastered one specialty and, it may reasonably be
supposed, will master another quickly? The same
care you would exercise in choosing another man to
work for you, you should exercise in choosing your
own work for yourself. g - *
Do you know how to write? Do you write with
ease and find pleasure in the work? If you do, class
yourself with the reporter.
What success have you had in writing fiction?
Have you written successful novels or short-stories?
If you have, class yourself with the special writer.
Did you ever write a play? Was your full-evening
play accepted and successful? If you have written a
play and if your play was a success, class yourself
with the sporting editor himself — but as one who
has made a success in only one specialty in the realm
of sport. - - -
For, those who have had some success in other
forms of writing — even the successful playwright –
and those who never have written even a salable joke,
all have to learn the slightly different form of the
vaudeville act.
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WIRITE FOR VAUDEVILLE I9
But, having once learned the form and become
perfectly familiar with vaudeville's peculiar require-
ments, the dramatist and the trained fiction writer
will outstrip the untrained novice. Remember that
the tortoise was determined, persistent, and energetic.
2. Ability to Think in Drama and Technical Knowl-
edge of the Stage Required
The dramatist and the trained fiction writer possess
imagination, they think in plots, they have learned
how to picture vivid, dramatic incidents, and they
know a story when it comes up and taps them on the
shoulder. Furthermore, they know where to look for
ideas, and how to twist them to plot uses. In every
one of these points of special knowledge both the
dramatist and the trained fiction writer have the
advantage over the untrained novice, for the essence
of all vaudeville writing lies in plot — which is story
— arrangement. *.
But there is a wide difference between being able
to think in a story-plot and in drama, and in this
the playwright who has produced a full-evening play
has the advantage over even the trained fiction writer
when it comes to applying his dramatic knowledge to
vaudeville. Precisely what the difference is, and what
drama itself is — especially that angle of the art to be
found in vaudeville — will be taken up and explained
as clearly as the ideas admit of explanation, in the
following pages. But not on one page, nor even in a
2O WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
whole chapter, will the definition of drama be found,
for pulsating life cannot be bound by words. How-
ever, by applying the rules and heeding the sugges-
tions herein contained, you will be able to understand
the “why” of the drama that you feel when you wit-
ness it upon the stage. The ability to think in drama
means being able to see drama and bring it fresh
and new and gripping to the stage.
Of course drama is nothing more than story pre-
sented by a different method than that employed in
the short-story and the novel. Yet the difference in
methods is as great as the difference between paint-
ing and sculpture. Indeed the novel-writer’s methods
have always seemed to me analogous to those em-
ployed by the painter, and the dramatist’s methods
similar to those used by the sculptor. And I have
marvelled at the nonchalant way in which the fiction
writer often rushes into the writing of a play, when a
painter would never think of trying to “sculp” until
he had learned at least some of the very different
processes employed in the strange art-form of sculp-
ture. The radical difference between writing and
playwrighting has never been popularly understood,
but some day it will be comprehended by everybody
as clearly as by those whose business it is to make
plays. -
* Note the termination of the word playwright. A “wright” is a
workman in some mechanical business. Webster's dictionary says:
“Wright is used chiefly in compounds, as, figuratively, playwright.”
It is significant that the playwright is compelled to rely for nearly
all his effects upon purely mechanical means.
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WRITE FOR WAUDEVILLE 2I
An intimate knowledge of the stage itself is nec-
essary for success in the writing of plays. The dram-
atist must know precisely what means, such as scenery,
Sound-effects, and lights – the hundred contributing
elements of a purely mechanical nature at his com-
mand — he can employ to construct his play to mimic
reality. In the present commercial position of the
stage such knowledge is absolutely necessary, or the
writer may construct an act that cannot possibly win
a production, because he has made use of scenes that
are financially out of the question, even if they are
artistically possible.
This is fundamental knowledge that every person
who would write for the stage must possess. It ranks
with the “a b c” course in the old common school
education, and yet nearly every novice overlooks it in
striving after the laurel wreaths of dramatic success
that are impossible without it. And, precisely in the
degree that stage scenery is different from nature's
Scenes, is the way people must talk upon the stage
different from the way they talk on the street. The
method of stage speech — what is said, not how it is
said — is best expressed in the definition of all art,
which is summed up in the one word “suppression.”
Not what to put in, but what to leave out, is the
knowledge the playwright — in common with all other
artists — must possess. The difference in methods
between writing a novel and writing a play lies in the
difference in the scenes and speeches that must be
left out, as well as in the descriptions of scenery and
22 - WRITING TOR VAUDEVILLE
moods of character that everyone knows cannot be
expressed in a play by words.
Furthermore, the playwright is working with spoken,
not written, words, therefore he must know something
about the art of acting, if he would achieve the high-
est success. He must know not only how the words
he writes will sound when they are spoken, but he
must also know how he can make gestures and glances
take the place of the volumes they can be made to speak.
Therefore of each one of the different arts that are
fused into the composite art of the stage, the play-
wright must have intimate knowledge. Prove the
truth of this statement for yourself by selecting at
random any play you have liked and inquiring into
the technical education of its author. The chances
are scores to one that the person who wrote that play
has been closely connected with the stage for years.
Either he was an actor, a theatrical press agent, a
newspaper man, a professional play-reader for Some
producer, or gained special knowledge of the stage
through a dramatic course at college or by continual
attendance at the theatre and behind the scenes. It
is only by acquiring special knowledge of one of the
most difficult of arts that anyone may hope to achieve
SUICCCSS.
3. A Familiar Knowledge of Vaudeville and its Special
Stage Necessary
It is strange but true that a writer able to produce
a successful vaudeville playlet often writes a successful
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WRITE FOR WAUDEVILLE 23
full-evening play, but that only in rare instances do
full-evening dramatists produce successful vaudeville
playlets. Clyde Fitch wrote more than fifty-four
long plays in twenty years, and yet his “Frederic
Lemaitre,” used by Henry Miller in vaudeville, was
not a true vaudeville playlet – merely a short play —
and achieved its success simply because Fitch wrote
it and Miller played it with consummate art.
The vaudeville playlet and the play that is merely
short, are separate art forms, they are precisely and
as distinctly different as the short-story and the story
that is merely short. It is only within the last few
years that Brander Matthews drew attention to the
artistic isolation of the short-story; and J. Berg
Esenwein, in his very valuable work," established the
truth so that all might read and know it. For years
I have contended for the recognition of the playlet as
an art form distinct from the play that is short. * -
And what is true of the peculiar difference of the
playlet form is, in a lesser measure, true of the mono-
logue, the two-act, and the one-act musical com-
edy. They are all different from their sisters and
brothers that are found as integral parts of full-evening
entertainments. -
To recognize these forms as distinct, to learn what
material” best lends itself to them and how it may be
1 Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, published uni-
form with this volume, in “The Writer's Library.” -
* The word material in vaudeville means manuscript material.
To write vaudeville material is to write monologues and playlets
and the other forms of stage speech used in vaudeville acts.
24 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
turned into the most natural and efficient form, re-
quires a special training different from that necessary
for the writing of plays for the legitimate stage.
But not only is there a vast difference between the
material and the art forms of the legitimate and the
vaudeville stage, there is also a great difference in
their playing stages. The arrangements of the vaude-
ville stage, its lights and scenery, are all unique, as are
even the playing spaces and mechanical equipment.
Therefore the author must know the mechanical
aids peculiar to his special craft, as well as possess a
familiar knowledge of the material that vaudeville
welcomes and the unique forms into which that mate-
rial must be cast.
4. What Chance Has the Beginner ?
The “gentle reader” who has read thus far cer-
tainly has not been deterred by the emphasis —
not undue emphasis, by the way — placed on the value
of proved ability in other forms of writing to one who
would write for vaudeville. That he has not been
discouraged by what has been said — if he is a novice
— proves that he is not easily downcast. If he has
been discouraged — even if he has read this far
simply from curiosity — proves that he is precisely the
person who should not waste his time trying to write
for vaudeville. Such a person is one who ought to
ponder his lack of fitness for the work in hand and
turn all his energies into his own business. Many a
SHOULD YOU TRY TO WRITE FOR VAUDEVILLE 25
good clerk, it has been truly said, has been wasted
in a poor writer.
But, while emphasis has been laid upon the value of
training in other forms of literary work, the emphasis
has been placed not on purely literary skill, but on
the possession of ideas and the training necessary
to turn the ideas to account. It is “up to.” the am-
bitious beginner, therefore, to analyze the problem
for himself and to decide if he possesses the peculiar
qualifications that can by great energy and this special
training place him upon a par with the writer who
has made a success in other forms of literary work.
For there is a sense in which no literary training is
really necessary for success in vaudeville writing.
If the amateur has an imaginative mind, the innate
ability to see and turn to his own uses an interesting
and coherent story, and is possessed of the ability to
think in drama, and, above all, has the gift of humor,
he can write good vaudeville material, even if he has
not the education or ability to write an acceptable
poem, article or short-story. In other words, a mas-
tery of English prose or verse is not necessary for
Success in vaudeville writing. Some of the most
successful popular songs, the most successful playlets,
and other vaudeville acts, have been written by men
unable to write even a good letter.
But the constant advancement in excellence de-
manded of vaudeville material, both by the managers
and the public, is gradually making it profitable for
only the best-educated, specially-trained writers to
26 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
undertake this form of work. The old, illiterate, rough-
and-ready writer is passing, in a day when the “coon
shouter” has given the headline-place to Calvé and
Melba, and every dramatic star has followed Sarah
Bernhardt into the “two-a-day.” "
Nevertheless, in this sense the novice needs no
literary training. If he can see drama in real life and
feels how it can be turned into a coherent, satisfying
story, he can learn how to apply that story to the
peculiar requirements of vaudeville. But no amount
of instruction can supply this inborn ability. The
writer himself must be the master of his fate, the cap-
tain of his own dramatic soul. - -
* The two-a-day is stage argot for vaudeville. It comes from the
number of performances the actor “does,” for in vaudeville there
are two shows every day, six or seven days a week.
CHAPTER III
THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS
To achieve success in any art the artist must know
his tools and for what purposes they are designed.
Furthermore, to achieve the highest success, he must
know what he cannot do as well as what he can do
with them.
The vaudeville stage — considered as a material
thing — lends itself to only a few definite possibilitics
of use, and its scenery, lights and stage-effects con-
stitute the box of tools the vaudeville writer has at
his command. •. -
I. THE PHYSICAL PROPORTIONS OF THE WAUDEVILLE
STAGE
The footlights are the equator of the theatre, sepa-
rating the “front of the house,” or auditorium, from
the “back of the house,” or stage. The frame through
which the audience views the stage is the “proscenium
arch.” Flat against the stage side of the arch run the
“house curtain” and the asbestos curtain that are
raised at the beginning and lowered at the end of the
performance. *
That portion of the stage which lies between the
curving footlights and a line drawn between the bases
of the proscenium arch is called the “apron.” The
apron is very wide in old-fashioned theatres, but is
28 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
seldom more than two or three feet wide in recently
built houses.
I. One
Back of the proscenium arch — four feet or more
behind it — you have noticed canvas-covered wings
painted in neutral-toned draperies to harmonize with
every sort of curtain, and you have noticed that they
are pushed forward or drawn back as it is found nec-
essary to widen or make narrow the stage opening.
These first wings, called “tormentors,” extend up-
ward from the floor — anywhere from 18 to 25 feet, —
to the “Grand Drapery’’ and “Working Drapery,”
or first “border,” which extend and hang just in
front of them across the stage and hide the stage-
rigging from the audience. The space lying between
the tormentors and a line drawn between the bases
of the proscenium arch is called “One.”
It is in One that monologues, most “single acts” –
that is, acts presented by one person – and many
“two-acts” — acts requiring but two people — are
played. * - -
Behind the tormentors is a curtain called the “olio,”
which fulfills the triple purpose of hiding the rest of
the stage, serving as scenery for acts in One and often
as a curtain to raise and lower on acts playing in the
space back of One.
* No one of the score I have asked for the origin of the word
tormentor has been able to give it. They all say they have asked
old-time stage-carpenters, but even they did not know.
THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 29
2. Two
Five, or six, or even seven feet behind the tor-
mentors you have noticed another set of wings which
— extending parallel with the tormentors — serve
to mask the rest of stage. The space between these
wings and the line of the olio is called “Two.”
In Two, acts such as flirtation-acts – a man and
a woman playing lover-like scenes — which use scenery
or small “props,” and all other turns requiring but a
Small playing space, are staged.
3. Three
An equal number of feet back of the wings that
bound Two, are wings that serve as boundaries for
“Three.”
In Three, playlets that require but shallow sets,
and other acts that need not more than twelve feet
for presentation, are played.
4. Four or Full Stage
Behind the wings that bound Three are another
pair of wings, set an equal number of feet back, which
serve as the boundaries of “Four.” But, as there are
rarely more than four entrances on any stage, Four is
usually called “Full Stage.”
In Full Stage are presented all acts such as acro-
batic acts, animal turns, musical comedies, playlets
and other pretentious acts that require deep sets and
a wide playing space.
3O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
5. Bare Stage
Sometimes the very point of a playlet depends upon
showing not the conventional stage, as it is commonly
seen, but the real stage as it is, unset with scenery;
therefore sometimes the entire stage is used as the
playing stage, and then in the vernacular it is called
“Bare Stage.” " - - -
On the opposite page is a diagram of the stage of
Reith's Palace Theatre, New York City. A com-
parison of the preceding definitions with this diagram
should give a clear understanding of the vaudeville
playing stage.
II. THE WORKING DEPARTMENTS OF THE
VAUDEVILLE STAGE
At audience-right — or stage-left — flat against the
extended wall of the proscenium arch in the First
Entrance (to One) there is usually a signal-board
equipped with push buttons presided over by the
stage-manager. The stage-manager is the autocrat
behind the scenes. His duty is to see that the pro-
gram is run smoothly without the slightest hitch or
wait between acts and to raise and lower the olio, or
to signal the act-curtain up or down, on cues.”
The New Leader, written by Aaron Hoffman and played for
so many years by Sam Mann & Company, is an excellent example
of a Bare Stage act.
* A cue is a certain word or action regarded as the signal for
some other speech or action by another actor, or the signal for the
lights to change or a bell to ring or something to happen during
the course of a dramatic entertainment. - *
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32 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
When an act is ready to begin, the stage-manager
pushes a button to signal the olio up or raises it
himself — if that drop i is worked from the stage —
and on the last cue he pushes another button to signal
the curtain down, or lowers it himself, as the case may
be. He keeps time on the various acts and sees that
the performers are ready when their turn arrives.
Under the stage-manager are the various departments
to which the working of scenery and effects are
entrusted.
I. The Stage-Carpenter and His Flymen and Grips
As a rule the stage-manager is also the stage-car-
penter. As such he, the wizard of scenery, has charge
of the men, and is able to erect a palace, construct a
tenement, raise a garden or a forest, or supply you
with a city street in an instant.
Up on the wall of the stage, just under a network
of iron called the “gridiron” – on which there are
innumerable pulleys through which run ropes or
“lines” that carry the scenery — there is, in the older
houses, a balcony called the “fly-gallery.” Into the
fly-gallery run the ends of all the lines that are
1 A drop is the general name for a curtain of canvas – painted
to represent some scene and stretched on a batten — a long, thick
strip of wood — pocketed in the lower end to give the canvas the
required stability. Sets of lines are tied to the upper batten on
which the drop is tied and thus the drop can be raised or lowered
to its place on the stage. There are sets of lines in the rear bound-
aries of One, Two, Three and Four, and drops can be hung on
any desired set.
THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 33
attached to the counter-weighted drops and cur-
tains; and in the gallery are the flymen who pull
madly on these ropes to lift or lower the curtains and
drops when the signal flashes under the finger of the
stage-manager at the signal-board below. But in the
newer houses nearly all drops and scenery are worked
from the stage level, and the fly-gallery — if there is
one — is deserted.
When a “set” is to be made, the stage-carpenter
takes his place in the centre of the stage and claps his
hands a certain number of times to make his men
understand which particular set is wanted — if the
sequence of the sets has not yet been determined and
written down for the flymen to follow in definite
order. Then the flymen lower a drop to its place on
the stage and the “grips” push out the “flats” that
make the wall of a room or the wings that form the
scenery of a forest — or whatever the set may be.
2. The Property-Man and His Assistants
Into the mimic room that the grips are setting
comes the Property-man —“Props,” in stage argot —
with his assistants, who place in the designated posi-
tions the furniture, bric-a-brac, pianos, and other prop-
erties, that the story enacted in this room demands.
After the act has been presented and the curtain
has been rung down, the order to “strike” is given
and the clearers run in and take away all the furni-
ture and properties, while the property-man substitutes
the new furniture and properties that are needed. This is
34 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
done at the same time the grips and flymen are chang-
ing the scenery. No regiment is better trained in its
duties. The property-man of the average vaudeville
theatre is a hard-worked chap. Beside being an expert
in properties, he must be something of an actor, for if
there is an “extra man” needed in a playlet with a
line or two to speak, it is on him that the duty falls.
He must be ready on the instant with all sorts of
effects, such as glass-crashes and wood-crashes, when
a noise like a man being thrown downstairs or
through a window is required, or if a doorbell or a
telephone-bell must ring at a certain instant on a
certain cue, or the noise of thunder, the wash of the
sea on the shore, or any one of a hundred other effects
be desired. - -
3. T he Electrician
Upon the electrician fall all the duties of Jove in
the delicate matter of making the sun to shine or the
moon to cast its pale rays over a lover's Scene. Next
to the stage-manager's signal-board, or in a gallery
right over it, or perhaps on the other side of the stage,
stands the electric switch-board. From here all the
stage lights and the lights in the auditorium and all
over the front of the house are operated. -
From the footlights with their red and white and
blue and vari-tinted bulbs, to the borders that light
the scenery from above, the bunch-lights that shed
required lights through windows, the grate-logs, the
lamps and chandeliers that light the mimic rooms
THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 35
themselves, and the spot-light operated by the man in
the haven of the gallery gods out front, all are under
the direction of the electrician who sits up in his little
gallery and makes the moonlight Suddenly give place
to blazing sunlight on a cue.
It is to the stage-manager and the stage-carpenter,
the property-man and the electrician, that are due the
working of the stage miracles that delight us in the
theatres.
III. THE SCENERY OF THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE
In the ancient days before even candles were in-
vented — the rush-light days of Shakespere and his
predecessors — plays were presented in Open court-
yards or, as in France, in tennis-courts in the broad
daylight. A proscenium arch was all the scenery usu-
ally thought necessary in these outdoor performances,
and when the plays were given indoors even the most
realistic scenery would have been of little value in the
rush-lit semi-darkness. Then, indeed, the play was
the thing. A character walked into the STORY and
out of it again; and “place” was left to the imagina-
tion of the audience, aided by the changing of a sign
that stated where the story had chosen to move itself.
As the centuries rolled along, improvements in
lighting methods made indoor theatrical presentations
more common and brought scenery into effective use.
The invention of the kerosene lamp and later the
invention of gas brought enough light upon the stage
to permit the actor to step back from the footlights
36 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
into a wider working-space set with the rooms and
streets of real life. Then with the electric light came
the scenic revolution that emancipated the stage for-
ever from enforced gloomy darkness, permitted the
actor’s expressive face to be seen farther back from
the footlights, and made of the proscenium arch the
frame of a picture.
“It is for this picture-frame stage that every dram-
atist is composing his plays,” Brander Matthews
says; “and his methods are of necessity those of the
picture-frame stage; just as the methods of the Eliza-
bethan dramatic poet were of necessity those of the
platform stage.” And on the same page: “The influ-
ence of the realistic movement of the middle of the
nineteenth century imposed on the stage-manager the
duty of making every scene characteristic of the period
and of the people, and of relating the characters
closely to their environment.” "
On the vaudeville stage to-day, when all the sciences
and the arts have come to the aid of the drama, there
is no period nor place, nor even a feeling of atmos-
phere, that cannot be reproduced with amazing truth
and beauty of effect. Everything in the way of
scenery is artistically possible, from the squalid room
of the tenement-dweller to the blossoming garden
before the palace of a king — but artistic possibility
and financial advisability are two very different
things.
If an act is designed to win success by spectacular
1 The Study of the Drama, Brander Matthews.
THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 37
appeal, there is no doubt that it is good business for
the producer to spend as much money as is necessary
to make his effects more beautiful and more amazing
than anything ever before seen upon the stage. But
even here he must hold his expenses down to the
minimum that will prove a good investment, and
what he may spend is dependent on what the vaude-
ville managers will pay for the privilege of showing
that act in their houses.
But it is not with spectacular acts that the vaude-
ville writer has particularly to deal. His problem is
not compounded of extravagant scenery, gorgeous
properties, trick-scenes and light-effects. Like Shake-
spere, for him the play — the story — is the thing.
The problem he faces is an embarrassment of riches.
With everything artistically possible, what is finan-
cially advisable?
1. The Successful Writer’s Attitude toward Scenery
The highest praise a vaudevillian can conjure up
out of his vast reservoir of enthusiastic adjectives to
apply to any act is, “It can be played in the alley
and knock 'em cold.” In plain English he means,
the STORY is so good that it doesn’t require scenery.
Scenery, in the business of vaudeville – please note
the word “business” – has no artistic meaning. If
the owner of a dwelling house could rent his property
with the rooms unpapered and the woodwork un-
painted, he would gladly do so and pocket the saving,
wouldn’t he? In precisely the same spirit the vaude-
38 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ville-act owner would sell his act without going to the
expense of buying and transporting Scenery, if he
could get the same price for it. To the vaudevillian
scenery is a business investment. .
Because he can get more money for his act if it is
properly mounted in a pleasing picture, the vaudeville
producer invests in scenery. But he has to figure
closely, just as every other business man is compelled
to scheme and contrive in dollars and cents, or the
business asset of scenery will turn into a white ele-
phant and eat up all his profits.
Jesse L. Lasky, whose many pleasing musical acts
will be remembered, had many a near-failure at the
beginning of his vaudeville-producing career because
of his artistic leaning toward the beautiful in stage
setting. His subsequent successes were no less pleas-
ing because he learned the magic of the scenery mys-
tery. Lasky is but one example, and were it not that
the names of vaudeville acts are but fleeting memories,
dimmed and eclipsed by the crowded impressions of
many acts seen at one sitting, there might be given
an amazing list of beautiful little entertainments that
have failed because of the transportation cost of the
scenery they required. -
When a producer is approached with a request to
read a vaudeville act he invariably asks, “What
scenery?” His problem is in two parts: . .
1. He must decide whether the merits of the act,
itself, justify him in investing his money in scenery OIl
the gamble that the act will be a success. * .
THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 39
2. If the act proves a success, can the scenery be
transported from town to town at So low a cost that
the added price he can get for the act will allow a
gross profit large enough to repay the Original cost
of the scenery and leave a net profit?
An experience of my own in producing a very small
act – small enough to be in the primary class — may
be as amusing as it is typical. My partners and I
decided to put out a quartet. We engaged four good
singers, two of them men, and two women. I wrote
the little story that introduced them in a humorous
way and we set to work rehearsing. At the same time
the scenic artist hung three nice big canvases on his
paint frames and laid out a charming street-scene in
the Italian Quarter of Anywhere, the interior of a
squalid tenement and the throne room of a palace.
The first drop was designed to be hung behind the
Olio — for the act opened in One — and when the Olio
went up, after the act’s name was hung out, the
lights dimmed to the blue and soft green of evening in
the Quarter. Then the soprano commenced singing,
the tenor took up the duet, and they opened the act
by walking rhythmically with the popular ballad air
to stage-centre in the amber of the spot-light. When
the duet was finished, on came the baritone, and then
the contralto, and there was a little comedy before
they sang their first quartet number.
Then the first drop was lifted in darkness and the
scene changed to the interior of the squalid tenement
in which the pathos of the little story unfolded, and
4O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
a characteristic song was sung. At length the Scene
changed to the throne room of the palace, where the
plot resolved itself into happiness and the little opera
closed with the “Quartet from Rigoletto.”
The act was a success; it never received less than
five bows and always took two encores. But we paid
three hundred and fifty dollars for those miracles of
drops, my partners and I, and we used them only
one week.
In the first place, the drops were too big for the
stage on which we “tried out” the act. We could
not use them there and played before the house
street-drop and in the house palace set. The act
went very well. We shipped the drops at length-
rates — as all scenery is charged for by expressmen
and railroads — to the next town. There we used
them and the act went better. It was a question
whether the bigger success was due to the smoother
working of the act or to the beautiful drops.
The price for which the act was playing at that
breaking-in period led me to ponder the cost of
transporting the drops in their rolled-up form on the
battens. Therefore when I was informed that the
stage in the next town was a small one, I had a bright
idea. I ordered the stage-carpenter to take the drops
from their battens, discard the battens, and put
pockets on the lower ends of the drops and equip the
upper ends with tie ropes so the drops could be tied
on the battens used in the various houses. The drops
would then fit small or large stages equally well and
THE VAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 4I
could be folded up into a small enough space to tuck in
a trunk and save all the excess transportation charges.
Of course the drops folded up all right, but they
unfolded in chips of scaled-off paint. In the excite-
ment, or the desire to “take a chance,” I had not
given a thought to the plain fact that the drops were
not aniline. They were doomed to chip in time any-
way, and folding only hastened their end. Still, we
received just as much money for the act all the time
we were playing it, as though we had carried the
beautiful drops.
Now comes the third lesson of this incident: Al-
though we were precisely three hundred and sixty-
eight dollars “out” on account of the drops, we really
saved money in the end because we were forced to dis-
card them. The local union of the International Asso-
ciation of Theatrical Stage Employees — Stage Hands’
Union, for short — tried to assess me in the town where
we first used the drops, for the salary of a stage-carpen-
ter. According to their then iron-clad rule, before
which managers had to bow, the scenery of every act
carrying as many as three drops on battens had to be
hung and taken down by the act’s own stage-carpen-
ter — at forty dollars a week. They could not collect
from such an act today because the rules have been
changed, but our act was liable, under the old rules,
and I evaded it only by diplomacy. But even to-day
every act that carries a full set of scenery — such as
a playlet requiring a special set — must carry its own
Stage-carpenter. -
42 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
Therefore, to the problem of original cost and trans-
portation expense, now add the charge of forty dollars
a week against Scenery — and an average of five dol-
lars a week extra railroad fare for the stage-carpenter
— and you begin to perceive why a vaudeville pro-
ducer asks, when you request him to read an act:
“What scenery?” -
There is no intention of decrying the use of special
scenery in vaudeville. Some of the very best and
most profitable acts, even aside from great scenic
one-act dramas like “The System,” would be com-
paratively valueless without their individual sets. And
furthermore the use of scenery, with the far-reaching
possibilities of the special set in all its beauty and — on
this side of the water — hitherto unrealized effective-
ness, has not yet even approached its noon. Together
with the ceaseless advance of the art of mount-
ing a full-evening play on the legitimate stage * will
go the no less artistic vaudeville act. But, for the
writer anxious to make a success of vaudeville Writing,
the special set should be decried. Indeed, the special
set ought not to enter into the writer's problem at all.
No scenery can make up for weakness of story.
Rather, like a paste diamond in an exquisitely chased,
pure gold setting, the paste story will appear at
greater disadvantage because of the very beauty of its
1 See Appendix. -
* The Theatre of To-Day, Hiram Kelly Moderwell's book on the
modern theatre, will repay reading by anyone particularly interested
in the special set and its possibilities.
f
THE WAUDEVILLE STAGE AND ITS DIMENSIONS 43
surroundings. The writer should make his story so
fine that it will sparkle brilliantly in any setting.
The only thought that successful vaudeville writers
give to scenery is to indicate in their manuscripts the
surroundings that “relate the characters closely to
their environment.”
It requires no ability to imagine startling and
beautiful scenic effects that cost a lot of money to
produce — that is no “trick.” The vaudeville scen-
ery magic lies in making use of simple scenes that can
be carried at little cost — or, better still for the new
writer, in twisting the combinations of drops and sets
to be found in every vaudeville house to new uses.
CHAPTER IV
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND IN VAUDEVILLE
* THEATRES
I. The Olio
In every vaudeville theatre there is an Olio and,
although the scene which it is designed to represent
may be different in each house, the street Olio is
common enough to be counted as universally used.
Usually there are two drops in “One,” either of which
may be the Olio, and one of them is likely to rep-
resent a street, while the other is pretty sure to be a
palace Scene. -
2. Open Sets
Usually in Four — and sometimes in Three — there
are to be found in nearly every vaudeville theatre
two different drops, which with their matching wings'
form the two common “open sets” – or scenes com-
posed merely of a rear drop and side wings, and not
boxed in. e
The Wood Set consists of a drop painted to represent
the interior of a wood or forest, with wings painted
in the same style. It is used for knock-about acts,
clown acts, bicycle acts, animal turns and other acts
1 A wing is a double frame of wood covered with painted canvas
and set to stand as this book will when its covers are opened at
right angles to each other. -
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 45
that require a deep stage and can play in this sort
of scene.
The Palace Set, with its drop and wings, is painted
to represent the interior of a palace. It is used for
dancing acts, acrobats and other acts that require a
deep stage and can appropriately play in a palace
SCCI16.
3. The Box Sets
A “box set” is, as the name implies, a set of scen-
ery that is box-shaped. It represents a room seen
through the fourth wall, which has been removed.
Sometimes with a ceiling-piece, but almost invariably
with “borders” — which are painted canvas strips
hanging in front of the “border-lights” to mask them
and keep the audience from seeing the ropes and
pulleys hanging from the gridiron — the box set more
nearly mimics reality than the open set, which calls
upon the imagination of the audience to supply the
realities that are entirely lacking or only hinted at.
The painted canvas units which are assembled to
make the box set are called “flats.” A flat is a
wooden frame about six feet six inches wide and from
twelve to eighteen feet long, covered with canvas and,
of course, painted with any scene desired. It differs
from a wing in being only one-half the double frame;
therefore it cannot stand alone.
Upon the upper end of each flat along the unpainted
outer edge there is fastened a rope as long as the flat.
Two-thirds of the way up from the bottom of the
46 - WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
corresponding edge of the matching flat there is a
“cleat,” or metal strip, into which the rope, or “lash-
line” is Snapped. The two flats are then drawn
tight together so that their edges match evenly and
the lash-line is lashed through the framework to hold
the flats firmly together. M.
While one flat may be a painted wall, the next may
contain a doorway and door, another a part of an
ornamental arch, and still another a window, so, when
the various flats are assembled and set, the box set
will have the appearance of a room containing doors
and windows and even ornamental arches. The most
varied scenes can thus be realistically set up.
In the rear of open doors there are usually wings,
or perhaps flats," painted to represent the walls of
hallways and adjoining rooms and they are called
“interior backings.” Behind a door supposed to
open out into the street or behind windows overlook-
ing the country, there are hung, or set, short drops or
wings painted to show parts of a street, a garden, or a
country-side, and these are called “exterior backings.”
The Centre-door Fancy is the most common of the
box sets. Called “fancy,” because it has an arch
with portières and a rich-looking backing, and because
* When flats are used as backings they are made stable by the
use of the stage-brace, a device made of wood and capable of
extension, after the manner of the legs of a camera tripod. It is
fitted with double metal hooks on one end to hook into the wooden
CrOSS-bar on the back of the flat and with metal eyes on the other
end through which stage-screws are inserted and screwed into
the floor of the stage. .
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 47
it is supposed to lead into the other palatial rooms of
the house, this set can be used for a less pretentious
scene by the substitution of a matched door for the
arch. -
In this plainer form it is called simply The Parlor
Set. Sometimes a parlor set is equipped with a
French window, but this should not be counted on.
But there are usually a grate and mantelpiece, and -
three doors. The doors are designed to be set, one
in the rear wall, and one in each of the right and left
walls. A ceiling-piece is rarely found, but borders
are always to be had, and a chandelier is customary.
The Kitchen Set is, as the name implies, less pre-
tentious than the changeable parlor set. It usually is
equipped with three doors, possesses matching borders,
may have an ordinary window, and often has a fire-
place panel.
Slightly altered in appearance, by changing the
positions of the doors and the not very common sub-
stitution of a “half-glass door” in the rear wall, the
kitchen set does duty as The Office Set.
It is in these two box sets — changed in minor
details to serve as four sets — that the vaudeville
playlet is played. -
On the following pages will be found eight diagrams
showing how the stock or house box sets can be set
in various forms. A study of these will show how two
different acts using the same house set can be given
surroundings that appear absolutely different. These
diagrams should prove of great help to the playlet
48 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
writer who wishes to know how many doors he may
use, where they are placed and how his act will fit
and play in a regulation set of Scenery.
INTRODUCTION TO DIAGRAMS
The following diagrams, showing the scenic equip-
ment of the average vaudeville theatre, have been
specially drawn for this volume and are used here by
courtesy of the Lee Lash Studios, New York. As
they are drawn to a Scale of one-eighth of an inch to
the foot, the precise size of the various scenes may be
calculated. &
The diagrams are based on the average vaudeville
stage, which allows thirty or thirty-two feet between
tormentors. The proscenium arch may be much
greater, but the average vaudeville stage will set the
tormentors about thirty feet apart. All vaudeville
stage settings are made back of the tormentor line.
At the tormentor line there will be, of course, a
Grand Drapery and Working Drapery which will mask
the first entrance overhead.
There will be either a set of borders for each scene,
or else the borders will be painted to use with any
scene, to mask the stage rigging. The borders are
usually hung from six to Seven feet apart, so that in
planning a scene this should be considered. In a few
of the larger houses, a ceiling-piece is found, but, as has
been said, this is so rare it should not be counted on.
Most houses have a floor cloth, and medallion or
carpet, in addition to the properties hereafter described.
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 49
Reference to the diagrams will show that the tor-
mentors have a “flipper,” which runs to the proscenium
arch wall; in the flipper is usually a door or a cur-
tained opening for the entrances and exits of acts in One.
If you will combine with the diagrams shown these
elements which cannot be diagrammed, you will have
a clear idea of the way in which any scene is con-
structed. Then if you will imagine the scene you have
in mind as being set up on a stage like that of the
Palace Theatre, shown on page 31, you will have a
working understanding of the vaudeville stage.
WHAT THE DIAGRAMS INCLUDE
A well-ordered vaudeville stage, as has been de-
scribed, possesses Drops for use in One, one or more
Fancy Interiors, a Kitchen Set, and Exterior Sets.
The Drops in One are omitted from these diagrams,
because they would be represented merely by a line
drawn behind the tormentors.
The Fancy Interiors may include a Light Fancy,
a Dark Fancy, an Oak Interior, and a Plain Chamber
set. As the differences are largely of painting, the usual
Centre-door Fancy is taken as the basis for the varia-
tions — five different ways of setting it are shown.
Two out of the many different ways of setting the
Kitchen Set are given.
The Exterior Set allows little or no variation; the
only thing that can be done is to place balustrades,
vases, etc., in different positions on the stage; there-
fore but one diagram is supplied.
w
{
WOOD WIN
BACKING JOG JOG - G
P. W. R. W.
Włº DOW
SSS. N.T.
BACK! NG
DOOR
}
PLAIN wd Iran WiNG. l
TOR e
a f CON 3 ERVATORY OR GARDEN DROP
DOUBLE ARC}}
DIAGRAM. I. — FANCY INTERIOR NO. I
Showing the usual method of setting a “Fancy.” It may be
made shallower by omitting a wing on either side.


PLAIN WING
I TO R.
ſ
U O G,
lº-AN D S CAPE.
DIAGRAM II. — FANCY INTERIOR No. 2
The double arch is thrown from the centre to the
side, the landscape drop being used to back the scene
— the drop may be seen through the window on stage-
left. The window of the Fancy Interior is always of
the French type, opening full to the floor.”
ſº. W. FIRE PLACE BALU ST RADE
WiN DOW
P. W.
D O OF





INTERIOR conse RVATORY BACK! NG
/ \
s] OG OOUBLE J O G
RW. |PVV.
JOG |
SINGLE
ARCH
FIREFLACE
tº - \PLAIN win G.
PLAIN WING DIA GRAM III. — FANCY INTERIOR No. 3 \tau, whe
TOR, This is a deeper and narrower set, approximating more
closely a room in an ordinary house. The double arch at
the rear may be backed with an interior backing or a con-
u servatory backing. If the interior backing is used, the
conservatory backing may be used to back the single
four-foot arch at stage-left.
*





conse RVATORY DROP —º
SINGLE DO U 63 LE , , SI N G LE
- AREsi" – “Aſſº" -- Kää-
F.W. P. W.
<> J O G 999 it it
A3
\y
Dooſt &
2.
Ş. Q
PLAIN and ulas WINS:
TO R. DIAGRAM IV. — FANCY INTERIOR No. 4
This shows the double arch flanked by a single arch on each side,
Toft. n \
r
making three large openings looking out on the conservatory drop.

Lºſ NDSCAPE OR GAR DEN DROP
, window
OOUBLE
£ARCH
DOOR
PLAN wing] lºan VING!
- TOR.
TORs DIAGRAM W. — FANCY INTERIOR No. 5 *
The fireplace is here brought into prominence by setting
it in a corner with two “jogs” on each side. The window
is backed with a landscape or garden drop as desired.
#




WOOD OF G-ARD EN
OR
/mº. exºkine N.
? Fº. VV, /* ^\ F. V.V.
fºVV. RW.
DOOR OOOR
PLAIN WIN G, Laº WiN G.
ran wind DIAGRAM VI. — KITCHEN SET No. 1)
*º ou Ble
DOORS
1 NT. ! N. T.
BACW KV N G, BACW N G,
T © R. This arrangement of a Kitchen Set makes use of three “t Q R.
doors, emphasizing the double doors in the centre of rear *
-i > wall, which open out on an interior backing or a wood .
Uls
or garden drop. In this and the following setting a small
window can be fitted into the upper half of either of the -
single doors.
f
(as
wood of LAND scaRE pRoP w
WłN DOW / ^\
DO U Bl-E PLAi N
OOORS WING
4J O G
3.
*
&
(t.
|P, VA/.
To R.
\ | NTERFOR
BACK! NG
DOOR
DIAGRAM WII. — KITCHEN SET No. 2 - H
Two doors only are used in this setting; the TO F.
double doors, in the same relative position as in the r-
preceding arrangement, open out on a wood or land-
scape backing. The fireplace is brought out on
stage-right. The single door on stage-left opens on
an interior backing.


-i
lis
VV VV.
TO RNAENTOR
BACK DROP - WOOD OR GARDEN
CUT DROF - woop OR GARDEN
*- *–
VASE - VASE
SET TREE
tº-4
DIAGRAM VIII. — WooD OR GARDEN SET
Many theatres have two sets of Exterior wings — one of
Wood Wings and one of Garden Wings. In some houses the
Wood Wings are used with the Garden Drop, set vases and
balustrades being used to produce the garden effect, as
shown here. Some theatres also have a Set House and Set
Cottage, which may be placed on either side of the stage;
each has a practical door and a practical window. With
the Set House and Set Tree slight variations of exterior
Settings may be contrived. -
ºn
wº
WOODW" N G \
vºwitH FLAFPER
TOR,




58 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
4. Properties
In the argot of the stage the word “property” or
“prop” means any article – aside from scenery —
necessary for the proper mounting or presentation of
a play. A property may be a set of furniture, a rug,
a pair of portières, a picture for the wall, a telephone,
a kitchen range or a stew-pan — indeed, anything at
all that is not scenery, although serving to complete
the effect and illusion of a scene.
Furniture is usually of only two kinds in a vaude-
ville playhouse. There is a set of parlor furniture to
go with the parlor set and a set of kitchen furniture
to furnish the kitchen set. But, while these are all
that are at the immediate command of the property-
man, he is usually permitted to exchange tickets for
the theatre with any dealer willing to lend needed
sets of furniture, such as a desk or other office equip-
ment specially required for the use of an act.
In this way the sets of furniture in the property
room may be expanded with temporary additions into
combinations of infinite variety. But, it is wise not to
ask for anything out of the ordinary, for many theatre
owners frown upon bills for hauling, even though
the rent of the furniture may be only a pair of seats.
For the same reason, it is unwise to specify in the
property-list — which is a printed list of the prop-
erties each act requires — anything in the way of rugs
that is unusual. Though some theatres have more
than two kinds of rugs, the white bear rug and the
carpet rug are the most common.
THE • SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 59
It is also unwise to ask for pictures to hang on the
walls. If a picture is required, one is usually sup-
plied set upon an easel.
Of course, every theatre is equipped with prop
telephones and sets of dishes and silver for dinner
Scenes. But there are few vaudeville houses in the
country that have on hand a bed for the stage,
although the sofa is commonly found.
A buffet, or sideboard, fully equipped with pitchers
and wine glasses, is customary in every vaudeville
property room. And champagne is supplied in adver-
tising bottles which “pop” and sparkle none the less
realistically because the content is merely ginger ale.
While the foregoing is not an exhaustive list of what
the property room of a vaudeville theatre may con-
tain, it gives the essential properties that are com-
monly found. Thus every ordinary requirement of
the usual vaudeville act can be supplied.
The special properties that an act may require must
be carried by the act. F or instance, if a playlet is
laid in an artist’s studio there are all sorts of odds
and ends that would lend a realistic effect to the
Scene. A painter’s easel, bowls of paint brushes, a
palette, half-finished pictures to hang on the walls,
Oriental draperies, a model’s throne, and half a dozen
rugs to spread upon the floor, would lend an atmos-
phere of charming bohemian realism.
Special Sound-Effects fall under the same common-
sense rule. For, while all vaudeville theatres have
glass crashes, wood crashes, slap-sticks, thunder
6o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
sheets, cocoanut shells for horses’ hoof-beats, and re-
volvers to be fired off-stage, they could not be ex-
pected to supply such little-called-for effects as realistic
battle sounds, volcanic eruptions, and like effects.
If an act depends on illusions for its appeal, it
will, of course, be well supplied with the machinery to
produce the required sounds. And those that do not
depend on exactness of illusion can usually secure the
effects required by calling on the drummer with his very
effective box-of-tricks to help out the property-man.
5. The Lighting of the Vaudeville Stage
At the electrical switchboard centre all the lights
of the theatre, as well as those of the stage itself.
Presided over by the electrician, the switchboard, so
far as the stage and its light effects are concerned,
commands two classes of lights. The first of these
is the arc light and the second the electric bulb.
The Spot-lights are the lamps that depend upon the
arc for their illumination. If you have ever sat in
the gallery of any theatre, and particularly of a vaude-
ville theatre, you certainly have noticed the very
busy young man whose sole purpose in life appears
to be to follow the heroine around the stage with the
focused spot of light that shines like a halo about her.
The lamp with which he accomplishes this difficult feat
is appropriately called a “spot-light.” While there
are often spot-lights on the electrician’s “bridge,” as
his balcony is called, the gallery out front is the
surest place to find the spot-light.
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 6I
The Footlights are electric bulbs dyed amber, blue,
and red — or any other special shade desired – be-
side the well-known white, set in a tin trough sunk
in the stage and masked to shine only upon the stage.
By causing only one group of colors to light, the
electrician can secure all sorts of variations, and with
the aid of “dimmers” permit the lights to shine bril-
liantly or merely to glow with faint radiance.
The Border-lights are electric bulbs of varying
colors set in tin troughs a little longer than the
proscenium opening and are suspended above the
stage behind the scenery borders. They shine only
downward. There are border-lights just in front
of the drops in One, Two, Three and Four,
and they take the names of “first border-light,”
“second border-light,” and so on from the drops they
illuminate.
Strip-lights are electric bulbs set in short strips
of tin troughs, that are equipped with hooks by
which they can be hung behind doors and out-of-the-
way dark places in sets to illuminate the backings.
A Bunch-light is a box of tin set on a standard,
which can be moved about the stage the length of its
electric cord, and has ten or twelve electric bulbs
inside that cast a brilliant illumination wherever it is
especially desired. Squares of gelatine in metal
frames can be slipped into the grooves in front of the
bunch-light to make the light any color or shade
desired. These boxes are especially valuable in giving
the effect of blazing sunlight just outside the doors or
62 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
windows of a set, or to shine through the windows
in the soft hue of moonlight.
Grate Logs are found in nearly every vaudeville
house and are merely iron painted to represent logs
of wood, inside of which are concealed lamps that
shine up through red gelatine, simulating the glow
of a wood fire shining in the fireplace under the man-
telpiece usually found in the centre-door-fancy set.
Special Light-effects have advanced so remarkably
with the science of stage illumination that practically
any effect of nature may be secured. If the producer
wishes to show the water rippling on the river drop
there is a “ripple-lamp” at his command, which is
a clock-actuated mechanism that slowly revolves a
ripple glass in front of a “spot-lamp” and casts a
realistic effect of water rippling in the moonlight.
By these mechanical means, as well as others,
the moon or the sun can be made to shine through a
drop and give the effect of rising or of setting, vol-
canos can be made to pour forth blazing lava and a
hundred other amazing effects can be obtained. In
fact, the modern vaudeville stage is honeycombed
with trapdoors and overhung with arching light-
bridges, through which and from which all manner of
lights can be thrown upon the stage, either to illu-
minate the faces of the actors with striking effect, or to
cast strange and beautiful effects upon the scenery.
Indeed, there is nothing to be seen in nature that
the electrician cannot reproduce upon the stage with
marvellous fidelity and pleasing effect.
THE SCENERY COMMONLY FOUND 63.
But the purpose here, as in explaining all the other
physical departments of the vaudeville stage, is not
to tell what has been done and what can be done,
interesting and instructive as such a discussion would
be, but to describe what is usually to be found in a
vaudeville theatre. The effects that are at ready
command are the only effects that should interest
anyone about to write for vaudeville. As was em-
phasized in the discussion of scenery, the writer
should not depend for success on the unusual. His
aim should be to make use of the common stage-
effects that are found on every vaudeville stage —
if, indeed, he depends on any effects at all.
Here, then, we have made the acquaintance of the
physical proportions and aspects of the vaudeville
stage and have inquired into all the departments that
contribute to the successful presentation of a vaude-
ville entertainment. We have examined the vaude-
ville writer’s tool-box and have learned to know the
uses for which each tool of space, scenery, property,
and light is specially designed. And by learning
what these tools can do, we have also learned what
they cannot do. -
Now let us turn to the plans and specifications —
called manuscripts — that go to make up the enter-
taining ten or forty minutes during which a vaude-
ville act calls upon these physical aids to make it
live upon the mimic stage, as though it were a breath-
ing reality of the great stage of life.
CHAPTER V
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE
The word monologue comes from the combination
of two Greek words, monos, alone, and legein, to
speak. Therefore the word monologue means “to speak
alone” – and that is often how a monologist feels.
If in facing a thousand Solemn faces he is not a
success, no one in all the world is more alone than
he.
It appears easy for a performer to stroll into a
theatre, without botherSome scenery, props, or tagging
people, and walk right out on the stage alone and set
the house a-roar. But, like most things that appear
easy, it is not. It is the hardest “stunt” in the show
business, demanding two very rare things: uncom-
mon ability in the man, and extraordinary merit in the
monologue itself.
To arrive at a clear understanding of what a mono-
logue is, the long way around through the various
types of “talking singles” may be the shortest cut
home to the definition.
I. WHAT A MONOLOGUE IS NOT
Although the word monologue means to speak
alone, not everything that is spoken alone is a mono-
logue in the vaudeville sense.
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 6 5
I. Not a Soliloquy
The soliloquy of the by-gone days of dramatic art
was sometimes called a monologue, because the person
who spoke it was left alone upon the stage to com-
mune with himself in spoken words that described
to the audience what manner of man he was and
what were the problems that beset him. Hamlet’s
*To be or not to be,” perhaps the most famous of
soliloquies, is, therefore, a true monologue in the
ancient sense, for Hamlet spoke alone when none
was near him. In the modern sense this, and every
other soliloquy, is but a speech in a play. There is
a fundamental reason why this is so: A monologue is
spoken to the audience, while in a soliloquy (from the
Latin solus, alone, loqui, to talk) the actor com-
munes with himself for the “benefit” of the audience.
2. Not Merely an Entertainment by One Person
There are all sorts of entertaining talking acts in
vaudeville presented by a single person. Among
them are the magician who performs his tricks to the
accompaniment of a running fire of talk which, with
the tricks themselves, raises laughter; and the per-
son who gives imitations and wins applause and
laughter by fidelity of speech, mannerisms and appear-
ance to the famous persons imitated. Yet neither
of these can be classed as a monologist, because
neither depends upon speech alone to win success.
66 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
3. Not a Disconnected String of Stories
Nor, in the strictest vaudeville sense, is a mono-
logue merely a string of stories that possesses no unity
as a whole and owns as its sole reason of being that
of amusement and entertainment. For instance, apro-
pos of nothing whatever an entertainer may say:
I visited Chinatown the other evening and took dinner in one
of the charming Oriental restaurants there. The first dish I ordered
was called Chop Suey. It was fine. They make it of several
kinds of vegetables and meats, and one dark meat in particular
hit my taste. I wanted to find out what it was, so I called the
waiter. He was a solemn-looking Chinaman, whose English I
could not understand, so I pointed to a morsel of the delicious dark
meat and, rubbing the place where all the rest of it had gone, I
asked:
“Quack-quack?”
The Chink grinned and said:
“No. No. Bow-wow.”
Before the laughter has subsided the entertainer
continues:
That reminds me of the deaf old gentleman at a dinner party
who was seated right next to the prettiest of the very young ladies
present. He did his best to make the conversation agreeable, and
she worked hard to make him understand what she said. But
finally she gave it up in despair and relapsed into a pained silence
until the fruit was passed. Then she leaned over and said:
“Do you like bananas?”
A smile of comprehension crept over the deaf old man’s face
and he exclaimed:
“No, I like the old-fashioned night-gowns best.”
And so, from story to story the entertainer goes,
telling his funny anecdotes for the simple reason that
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE . 67
they are funny and create laughter. But funny as
they are, they are disconnected and, therefore, do
not meet the requirement of unity of character, which
is one of the elements of the pure monologue.
4. Not a Connected Series of Stories Interspersed
With Songs and the Like
If the entertainer had told the stories of the China-
man and the deaf old gentleman as though they had
happened to a single character about whom all the
stories he tells revolve, his act and his material would
more nearly approach the pure monologue form. For
instance:
Casey's a great fellow for butting into queer places to get a bite
to eat. The other evening we went down to Chinatown and in
one of those Oriantal joints that hand out Chop Suey in real china.
bowls with the Jersey City dragoons on 'em, we struck a dish that
hit Casey just right. -
“Mither av Moses,” says Casey, “this is shure the atein fer ye;
but what’s thot dilicate little tid-bit o’ brown mate?”
“I don’t know,” says I.
“Oi’ll find out,” says Casey. “Just listen tº me spake that heath-
en’s language.”
“Here, boy,” he hollers, “me likee, what you call um?”
The Chink stares blankly at Casey. Casey looks puzzled, then
he winks at me. Rubbing his hand over the place where the rest
of the meat had gone, he says:
“Quack-quack?”
A gleam shot into the Chink’s almond eyes and he says:
“No. No. Bow-Wow.”
It took seven of us to hold Casey, he felt that bad.
But that wasn’t a patchin’ to the time we had dinner with a
rich friend o’ ours and Casey was seated right next to the nicest
little old lady y’ever saw. . . . -
68 - WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
And so on until the banana story is told, with Casey
the hero and victim of each anecdote.
But an entertainer feels no necessity of making his
entire offering of related anecdotes only. Some mon-
ologists open with a song because they want to get
the audience into their atmosphere, and “with ” them,
before beginning their monologue. The song merely
by its melody and rhythm helps to dim the vividness
of impression left by the preceding act and gives
the audience time to quiet down, serving to bridge
the psychic chasm in the human mind that lies
between the relinquishing of one impression and the
reception of the next.
Or the monologist may have a good finishing song
and knows that he can depend on it for an encore
that will bring him back to tell more stories and
sing another song. So he gives the orchestra leader
the cue, the music starts and off he goes into his
SOng.
Or he may have some clever little tricks that will
win applause, or witty sayings that will raise a laugh,
and give him a chance to interject into his offering
assorted elements of appeal that will gain applause
from different classes of people in his audience. There-
fore, as his purpose is to entertain, he sings his song,
performs his tricks, tells his witty sayings, or perhaps
does an imitation or two, as suits his talent best. And
a few end their acts with serious recitations of the
heart-throb sort that bring lumps into kindly throats
and leave an audience in the satisfied mood that al-
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 69
ways comes when a touch of pathos rounds off a
hearty laugh.
But by adding to his monologue unrelated offerings
the monologist becomes an “entertainer,” an “imper-
Sonator,” or whatever title best describes his act.
If he stuck to his stories only and told them all on
a single character, his offering would be a monologue
in the sense that it observes the unity of character,
but still it would not be a pure monologue in the
vaudeville sense as we now may define it — though
a pure monologue might form the major part of his
“turn.”
II. WHAT A MONOLOGUE IS
Having seen in what respects other single talking
acts — the soliloquy, the “talking single” that has
no unity of material, the disconnected string of stories,
and the connected series of stories interspersed with
songs — differ from the pure monologue, it will now
be a much simpler task to make plain the elements
that compose the real vaudeville monologue.
The real monologue possesses the following eight
characteristics:
I. It is performed by one person.
2. It is humorous.
3. It possesses unity of character.
4. It is not combined with songs, tricks or any
other entertainment form. *.
5. It takes from ten to fifteen minutes to deliver.
6. It is marked by compression.
7o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
7. It is distinguished by vividness.
8. It follows a definite form of construction.
Each of these eight characteristics has either been
mentioned already or will be taken up in detail later,
so now we can combine them into a single para-
graphic definition:
The pure vaudeville monologue is a humorous
talk spoken by one person, possesses unity of
character, is not combined with any other en-
tertainment form, is marked by compression,
follows a definite form of construction and
wsually requires from ten to fifteen minutes
for delivery.
It must be emphasized that because some single
talking acts do not meet every one of the require-
ments is no reason for condemning them." They
may be as fine for entertainment purposes as the
pure monologue, but we must have some standard
by which to work and the only true standard of any-
thing is its purest form. Therefore, let us now take
up the several parts that make up the pure mono-
1 Frank Fogarty, “The Dublin Minstrel,” one of the most
successful monologists in vaudeville, often opens with a song and
usually ends his offering with a serious heart-throb recitation. By
making use of the song and serious recitation Mr. Fogarty places
his act in the “entertainer” class, but his talking material is, per-
haps, the best example of the “gag”-anecdotal-monologue to be
found in vaudeville.
Mr. Fogarty won The New York Morning Telegraph contest
to determine the most popular performer in vaudeville in 1912, and
was elected President of “The White'Rats” — the vaudeville actors’
protective Union — in 1914. -
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 7I
logue as a whole, and later we shall consider the other
monologue variations that are permissible and often
desirable. -
If you have not yet turned to the appendix and
read Aaron Hoffman’s “The German Senator” do so
now. (See Appendix.) It will be referred to fre-
quently to illustrate structural points.
III. THE MONOLOGUE's NoTABLE CHARACTERISTICs
I. Humor
All monologues, whether of the pure type or not,
possess one element in common — humor. I have
yet to hear of a monologist who did not at least try
to be funny. But there are different types of mono-
logic humor. - -
“Each eye,” the Italians say, “forms its own
beauty,” so every nation, every section, and each
individual forms its own humor to suit its own
peculiar risibilities. Still, there are certain well-
defined kinds of stories and classes of points in which
we Americans find a certain delight.
What these are the reader knows as well as the
writer and can decide for himself much better than
I can define them for him. Therefore, I shall con-
tent myself with a mere mention of the basic tech-
nical elements that may be of suggestive help.
(a) The Element of Incongruity. “The essence of
all humor,” it has been said, “is incongruity,” and in
the monologue there is no one thing that brings
better laugh-results than the incongruous. Note in
72 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
the Appendix the closing point of “The German
Senator.” Could there be any more incongruous
thing than wives forming a Union?
(b) Surprise. By surprise is meant leading the
audience to believe the usual thing is going to happen,
and “springing” the unusual — which in itself is often
an incongruity, but not necessarily so.
(c) Situation. Both incongruity and surprise are
part and parcel of the laughter of a situation. For
instance; a meeting of two people, one of whom is
anxious to avoid the other – a husband, for instance,
creeping upstairs at three A. M. meeting his wife —
or both anxious to avoid each other — wife was out,
too, and husband overtakes wife creeping slowly up,
doing her best not to awaken him, each supposing the
other in bed and asleep. The laughter comes because
of what is said at that particular moment in that
particular situation —“and is due,” Freud says, “to
the release from seemingly unpleasant and inevitable
consequences.” f
(d) Pure Wit. Wit exists for its own sake, it is
detachable from its context, as for example:
And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.
With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell’s Island on the
other.”
(e) Character. The laughable sayings that are
the intense expression at the instant of the individ-
uality of the person voicing them, is what is meant
by the humor of character. For instance: the Ger-
1 The German Senator. See Appendix.
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 73
man Senator gets all “balled up” in his terribly
long effort to make a “regular speech,” and he ends:
We got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms — we got to feel
a patriotic symp — symps — you got to feel the patri — you
can’t help it, you got to feel it. fº
These five suggestions — all, in the last analysis,
depending on the first, incongruity — may be of
assistance to the novice in analyzing the elements of
humor and framing his own efforts with intelligence
and precision.
In considering the other elemental characteristics
of the monologue, we must bear in mind that the
emphasizing of humor is the monologue's chief reason
for being.
2. Unity of Character
Unity of character does not mean unity of subject
— note the variety of subjects treated in “The Ger-
man Senator” – but, rather, the singleness of im-
pression that a monologue gives of the “character”
who delivers it, or is the hero of it.
The German Senator, himself, is a politician “spout-
ing,” in a perfectly illogical, broken-English stump
speech, about the condition of the country and the
reason why things are so bad. Never once do the
various subjects stray far beyond their connection
with the country’s deplorable condition and always
they come back to it. Furthermore, not one of the
observations is about anything that a politician of
his mental calibre would not make. Also the con-
struction of every sentence is in character. This
74 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
example is, of course, ideal, and the precision of its
unity of character one of the great elements of a
great monologue.
Next to humor, unity of character is the most im-
portant requirement of the monologue. Never choose
a subject, or write a joke, that does not fit the char-
acter delivering the monologue. In other words, if
you are writing a pure monologue, do not, just because
it is humorous, drag in a gag" or a point” that is not
in character or that does not fit the subject. Make
every turn of phrase and every word fit not only the
character but also the subject.
3. Compression
We have long heard that “brevity is the soul of
wit,” and certainly we realize the truth in a hazy sort
of way, but the monologue writer should make brevity
his law and seven of his ten commandments of writ-
ing. Frank Fogarty, who writes his own gags and
delivers them in his own rapid, inimitable way, said
to me:
“The single thing I work to attain in any gag is
brevity. I never use an ornamental word, I use the
shortest word I can and I tell a gag in the fewest
words possible. If you can cut out one word from
any of my gags and not destroy it, I’ll give you five
dollars, and it’ll be worth fifty to me to lose it.
1 A gag is the vaudeville term for any joke or pun.
* A point is the laugh-line of a gag, or the funny observation of
a monologue.
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 75
“You can kill the whole point of a gag by merely
an unnecessary word. For instance, let us Suppose
the point of a gag is ‘and he put the glass there’;
well, you won’t get a laugh if you say, ‘and then he
picked the glass up and put it there.” Only a few
words more — but words are costly.
“Take another example. Here’s one of my best
gags, a sure-fire laugh if told this way:
“O’Brien was engaged by a farmer to milk cows
and do chores. There were a hundred and fifty cows,
and three men did the milking. It was hard work,
but the farmer was a kind-hearted, progressive man,
so when he went to town and saw some milking-
stools he bought three and gave 'em to the men to
sit down on while at work. The other two men came
back delighted, but not O'Brien. At last he appeared,
all cut-up, and holding one leg of the stool.
“‘What’s the matter?” said the farmer.
“‘Nothing, only I couldn’t make the cow sit
down on it.’
“When I tell it this way it invariably gets a big
laugh. Now here's the way I once heard a ‘chooser”
do it. e
“‘O’Brien came to this country and looked around
for work. He couldn’t get a job until at last a friend
told him that a farmer up in the country wanted a
man to milk cows. So O’Brien got on a trolley car
and went out to the end of the line, took a side-door
* Chooser — one who chooses some part of another performer's
act and steals it for his own use.
76 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
pullman from there, was ditched and had to walk
the rest of the way to the farm. But at last he got
to the farmer's place and asked him for the job.
“‘“Sure I can use you,” said the farmer, “here's
a milk pail and a milking-stool. Take 'em and go
out and milk the cows in the barn.”
“‘Now O’Brien didn’t know how to milk a cow,
he’d never milked a cow in his whole life, but he
needed a job so he didn’t tell the farmer he hadn’t
ever milked a cow. He took the pail and the milk-
ing-stool and went out to the barn. After half an
hour he came back to the farm house all cut-up, and
he had one leg of the milking-stool in his hand.
“‘“What's the matter?” asked the farmer, “How'd
you get all cut up — been in a fight or something?”
“‘“No,” said O'Brien, “I couldn’t get the cow to
sit on it.”” - - -
“See the difference? There's only one right way
to tell any gag and that’s to make it brief, little
— like the works of a watch that'll fit in a thin
watch case and be better and finer than a big turnip
of a pocket clock.”
So, then, each point and gag in a monologue is
told in the fewest, shortest words possible and the
monologue, as a whole, is marked by compression.
Remember, “brevity is the soul of wit” – never
forget it. * *
4. Vividness
If a successful monologue writer has in mind two
THE NATURE OF THE MONOLOGUE 77
gags that are equally funny he will invariably choose
the one that can be told most vividly — that is, the
one that can be told as if the characters themselves
were on the stage. For instance, the words, “Here
stood John and there stood Mary,” with lively, ap-
propriate gestures by the monologist, make the char-
acters and the scene seem living on the stage before
the very eyes of the audience. That is why the mon-
ologist illustrates his points and gags with gestures
that picturize. -
Every gag and every point of great monologues
are told in words that paint pictures. If the gag is
supposititious, and the direct right-here-they-stood
method cannot be used, the point is worded so strik-
ingly, and is so comically striking in itself, that the
audience sees — visualizes — it."
Unlike the playlet, the monologue does not have
flesh-and-blood people on the stage to act the comic
situation. The way a point or gag is constructed,
the words used, the monologist’s gestures, and his
inflections, must make the comic situation live in
vivid pictures.
Therefore, in selecting material the monologue
writer should choose those gags and points that can
be told in pictures, and every word he uses should be
a picture-word.
1 Walter Kelly, “The Virginia Judge,” offers a fine example of
the monologist who makes his words picturize. He “puts his
stories over” almost without a gesture.
78 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
5. Smoothness and Blending
A monologue — like the thin-model watch mentioned
— is made up of many parts. Each part fits into
the other — one gag or point blends perfectly into
the following one — so that the entire monologue
seems not a combination of many different parts,
but a smoothly working, unified whole.
Count the number of different points there are in
“The German Senator” and note how each seem-
ingly depends on the one before it and runs into the
one following; you will then see what is meant by
blending. Then read the monologue again, this
time without the Panama Canal point — plainly
marked for this exposition — and you will see how
one part can be taken away and still leave a smoothly
reading and working whole.
It is to careful blending that the monologue owes
its smoothness. The ideal for which the writer should
strive is so to blend his gags and points that, by the
use of not more than one short sentence, he relates
one gag or point to the next with a naturalness and
inevitableness that make the whole perfectly smooth.
We are now, I think, in a position to sum up the
theory of the monologue. The pure vaudeville mono-
logue, which was defined as a humorous talk spoken by
one person, possesses unity of character, is not combined
with any other entertainment form, is marked by com-
pression, follows a definite form of construction, and
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 79
usually requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery.
Humor is its most notable characteristic; unity of the
character delivering it, or of its “hero,” is its second
most important requirement. Each point, or gag, is so
compressed that to take away or add even one word
would spoil its effect; each is expressed so vividly that the
action seems to take place before the eyes of the audience.
Finally, every point leads out of the preceding point so
naturally, and blends into the following point so inevi-
tably, that the entire monologue is a smooth and perfect
whole.
CHAPTER VI
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE
I. CHOOSING A THEME
Before an experienced writer takes up his pencil
he has formed definitely in his mind just what he is
going to write about — that is the simple yet startling.
difference between the experienced writer and the
novice. Not only does the former know what his
subject is, but he usually knows how he is going to
treat it, and even some striking phrases and turns of
sentences are ready in his mind, together with the
hundreds of minute points which, taken together,
make up the singleness of impression of the whole.
But just as it is impossible for the human mind –
untrained, let us say, in the art of making bricks —
to picture at a glance the various processes through
which the clay passes before it takes brick form, so
it is identically as impossible for the mind of the
novice to comprehend in a flash the various purposes
and half-purposes that precede the actual work of
writing anything.
True as this is of writing in general, it seems to
me particularly true of writing the monologue, for
the monologue is one of those precise forms of the art
of writing that may best be compared to the minia-
ture, where every stroke must be true and unhesi-
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 8I
tating and where all combine unerringly to form the
composite whole.
In preparing monologue material the writer usually
is working in the sounds of spoken — and mis-spoken
– words, and the humor that lies in the twisting of
ideas into surprising conclusions. He seldom delib-
erately searches for a theme – more often some
laugh-provoking incident or sentence gives him an
idea and he builds it into a monologue with its sub-
ject for the theme.
I. Themes to Avoid
Anything at all in the whole range of subjects with
which life abounds will lend itself for a monologue
theme — provided the writer can without straining
twist it to the angle of humor; but propriety demands
that nothing blatantly suggestive shall be treated,
and common sense dictates that no theme of merely
local interest shall be used, when the purpose of
the monologue is to entertain the whole country.
Of course if a monologue is designed to entertain
merely a certain class or the residents of a certain
city or section only, the very theme — for instance,
some purely local happening or trade interest — that
you would avoid using in a monologue planned for
national use, would be the happiest theme that could
be chosen. But, as the ambitious monologue writer
does not wish to confine himself to a local or a sec-
tional subject and market, let us consider here only
themes that have universal appeal.
82 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
II. A FEW THEMES OF UNIVERSAL INTEREST
Politics Woman Suffrage
Love Drink
Marriage Baseball
Woman’s Dress Money
While there are many more themes that can be
twisted to universal interest — and anyone could
multiply the number given — these few are used in
whole or in part in nearly every successful monologue
now being presented. And, they offer to the new
writer the surest ground to build a new monologue.
That they have all been done before is no reason
why they should not be done again: the new author
has only to do them better — and a little different. It is
all a matter of fresh vision. What is there in any art
that is really new — but treatment?
Do not make the fatal mistake of supposing that
these few themes are the only themes possessing
universal interest. Anything in the whole wide
world may be the subject for a monologue, when
transmuted by the magic of common sense and
uncommon ability into universal fun.
III. How TO BEGIN TO WRITE
As a monologue is a collection of carefully selected
and smoothly blended points or gags, with a suitable
introduction to the routine' – each point and gag
* Routine — the entire monologue; but more often used to sug-
gest its arrangement and construction. A monologue with its gags
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 83
being a complete, separate entity, and the introduc-
tion being as truly distinct — the monologue writer,
unlike the playlet writer, may begin to write any-
where. He may even write the last point or gag used
in the routine before he writes the first. Or he may
write the twelfth point before he writes either the
first one or the last one. But usually, he writes his
introduction first.
I. The Introduction
A monologue introduction may be just one line
with a point or a gag that will raise a snicker, or it
may be a long introduction that stamps the char-
acter as a “character,” and causes amusement because
it introduces the entire monologue theme in a bright
way.
An example of the short introduction is:
“D’you know me friend Casey? He's the guy.
that put the sham in shamrock,” then on into the
first gag that stamps Casey as a sure-'nuff “char-
acter,” with a giggle-point to the gag.
The very best example of the long introduction
being done on the stage today is the first four para-
graphs of “The German Senator.” The first line,
“My dear friends and falling Citizens,” stamps the
and points arranged in a certain order is one routine; a different
routine is used when the gags or points are arranged in a different
order. Thus routine means arrangement. The word is also used
to describe the arrangement of other stage offerings — for instance,
a dance: the same steps arranged in a different order make a new
“dance routine.”
84 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
monologue unquestionably as a speech. The second
line, “My heart fills up with vaccination to be dis-
abled,” declares the mixed-up character of the ora-
tion and of the German Senator himself, and causes
amusement. And the end of the fourth paragraph
— which you will note is one long involved sentence
filled with giggles – raises the first laugh.
Nat Wills says the introduction to the gag-mono-
logue may often profitably open with a “local” —
one about the town or some local happening — as a
local is pretty sure to raise a giggle, and will cause
the audience to think the monologist “bright” and
at least start their relations off pleasantly. He says:
“Work for giggles in your introduction, but don’t
let the audience get set — with a big laugh – until
the fifth or sixth joke.”
The introduction, therefore, is designed to estab-
lish the monologist with the audience as “bright,”
to stamp the character of the “character” delivering
it — or about whom the gags are told — and to delay
a big laugh until the monologist has “got” his
audience.
2. The Development
The “point,” you will recall, we defined as the
funny observation of a pure monologue – in lay-
conversation it means the laugh line of a joke; and
“gag” we defined as a joke or a pun. For the sake
of clearness let us confine “point” to a funny obser-
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 85
vation in a monologue, and “gag” to a joke in a
connected series of stories.
# It is impossible for anyone to teach you how to
write a really funny point or a gag. But, if you have
a well-developed sense of humor, you can, with the
help of the suggestions for form given here and the
examples of humor printed in the appendix, and
those you will find in the funny papers and hear
along the street or on the stage, teach yourself to
write saleable material. All that this chapter can
hope to do ſor you is to show you how the best
monologue writers and the most successful monolo-
gists work to achieve their notable results, and thus
put you in the right path to accomplish, with
the least waste of time and energy, what they have
done. -
Therefore, let us suppose that you know what is
humorous, have a well-developed sense of humor,
and can produce really funny points and gags. Now,
having your points and gags clearly framed in
mind and ready to set down on paper, you naturally
ask, How shall I arrange them? In what order shall
I place them to secure the best effect for the whole
monologue?
Barrett Wendell, professor of English at Harvard
University," has suggested an effective mechanical
aid for determining the clearest and best arrangement
of sentences and paragraphs in English prose, and his
plan seems especially adapted to help the monologue
* English Composition, page 165.
86 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
writer determine a perfect routine. Briefly his method
may be paraphrased thus: *
Have as many cards or slips of paper as you have
points or gags. Write only one point or gag on One
card or slip of paper. On the first card write “In-
troduction,” and always keep that card first in your
hand. Then take up a card and read the point or
gag on it as following the introduction, the second
card as the second point or gag, and so on until
you have arranged your monologue in an effective
routine.
Then try another arrangement. Let us say the
tenth joke in the first routine reads better as the
first joke. All right, place it in your new arrange-
ment right after the introduction. Perhaps the four-
teenth point or gag fits in well after the tenth gag —
fine, make that fourteenth gag the second gag; and so
on through your cards until you have arranged a new
routine.
Your ſirst arrangement can invariably be improved
— maybe even your seventh arrangement can be
made better; very good, by shuffling the cards you
may make as many arrangements as you wish and
eventually arrive at the ideal routine. And by keep-
ing a memorandum of preceding arrangements you
can always turn back to the older routine — if that
appears the best after all other arrangements have
been tried.
But what is really the ideal arrangement of a
monologue? How may you know which routine is
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 87
really the best ? Frankly, you cannot know until it
has been tried out on an audience many, many times
— and has been proved a success by actual test.
Arranging a routine of untried points and gags on
paper is like trying to solve a cut-out puzzle with
the key-piece missing. Only by actually trying out
a monologue before an audience and fitting the points
and gags to suit the monologist’s peculiar style (indeed,
this is the real work of writing a monologue and will
be described later on) can you determine what really
is the best routine. And even then another arrange-
ment may “go” better in another town. Still there
are a few suggestions — a very few — that can be
given here to aid the beginner.
Like Ocean waves, monologic laughs should come
in threes and nines – proved, like most rules, by
exceptions. Note the application of this rule in
“The German Senator.”
Study the arrangement of the points in this great
monologue and you will see that each really big
point is dependent on several minor points that pre-
cede it to get its own big laugh. For instance, take
the following point: -
And if meat goes any higher, it will be worth more than money.
Then there won’t be any money. |
Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you’ll carry meat
around. *
A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.
When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of
giving the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you’ll slip him a sirloin
steak. - -
If you ask him for change, he’ll give you a hunk of bologny.
88 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
The first line blends this point with the preceding
one about the high cost of eggs. The second line
awakens interest and prepares for the next, “Instead
of carrying money in your pocket, you’ll carry meat
around,” which is good for a grin. The next line
states the premise necessary for the first point-end-
ing “– you’ll slip him a sirloin steak,” which is always
good for a laugh. Then the last line, “If you ask
him for change, he’ll give you a hunk of bologny,”
tops the preceding laugh. *
From this example you see what is meant by mono-
logic laughs coming in threes and nines. The intro-
duction of each new story — the line after the
blend-line — should awaken a grin, its development
cause a chuckle, and the point-line itself raise a laugh.
Each new point should top the preceding point
until with the end of that particular angle or situa-
tion, should come a roar of honest laughter. Then
back to the grin, the chuckle, and on to the laugh
again, building up to the next big roar.
With the end of the monologue should come com-
plete satisfaction in one great burst of laughter. This,
of course, is the ideal.
3. How and Where to End
A monologue should run anywhere from ten to
fifteen minutes. The monologist can vary his play-
ing time at will by leaving out points and gags here
and there, as necessity demands, so the writer should
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 89
*
supply at least a full fifteen minutes of material in
his manuscript.
“How shall I time my manuscript?” is the puzzling
problem the new writer asks himself. The answer is
that it is very difficult to time a monologue exactly,
because different performers work at different speeds
and laughs delay the delivery and, therefore, make
the monologue run longer. But here is a very rough
counting scale that may be given, with the warning
that it is far from exact:
For every one hundred and fifteen to one hundred
and forty words count one minute for delivery. This
is so inexact, depending as it does on the number of
laughs and the monologist’s speed of delivery, that it
is like a rubber ruler. At one performance it may be
too long, at another too short.
Having given a full fifteen minutes of material,
filled, let us hope, with good points made up of grins,
chuckles and laughs, now choose your very biggest
laugh-point for the last. When you wrote the mono-
logue and arranged it into the first routine, that
biggest laugh may have been the tenth, or the ninth,
or the fifteenth, but you have spotted it unerringly
as the very biggest laugh you possess, so you blend
it in as the final laugh of the completed monologue.
It may now be worth while thus to sum up the ideal
Structure:
A routine is so arranged that the introduction
stamps the monologist as bright, and the character he is
90 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
impersonating or telling about as a real “character.”
The first four points or gags are snickers and the
fifth or sixth is a laugh." Each point or gag blends
perfectly into the ones preceding and following it.
The introduction of each new story awakens a grin, its
development causes a chuckle, and the point-line itself
raises a laugh. The final point or gag rounds the
monologue off in the biggest burst of honest laughter.
TV. BUILDING A MONOLOGUE BEFORE AN AUDIENCE
When a writer delivers the manuscript of a mono-
logue to a monologist his work is not ended. It has
just begun, because he must share with the mono-
logist the pains of delivering the monologue before
an audience. Dion Boucicault once said, “A play
is not written, but rewritten.” True as this is of a
play, it is, if possible, even more true of a monologue.
Of course, not all beginners can afford to give this
personal attention to staging a monologue, but it
is advisable whenever possible. For, points that the
author and the monologist himself were sure would
“go big,” “die,” while points and gags that neither
thought much of, “go big.” It is for precisely this
purpose of weeding out the good points and gags
from the bad that even famous monologists “hide
away,” under other names, in very small houses for
try-outs. And while the monologist is working on
the stage to make the points and gags “get over,”
* It is true that some monologists strive for a laugh on the
very first point, but to win a big laugh at once is very rare.
wRITING THE MONOLOGUE 9I
the author is working in the audience to note the
effect of points and finding ways to change a phrase
here and a word there to build dead points into life
and laughter. Then it is that they both realize that
Frank Fogarty’s wise words are true: “There is only
one way to tell a gag. If you can cut one word out
from any of my gags I’ll give you five dollars, for it’s
worth fifty to me. Words are costly.”
Some entire points and gags will be found to be
dead beyond resurrection, and even whole series of
gags and points must be cast away and new and better
ones substituted to raise the golden laughs. So the
monologue is changed and built performance after
performance, with both the monologist and the author
working as though their very lives depended on mak-
ing it perfect. -
Then, when it is “set” to the satisfaction of both,
the monologist goes out on the road to try it out on
different audiences and to write the author continually
for new points and gags. It may be said with perfect
truth that a monologue is never finished. Nat Wills,
the Tramp Monologist, pays James Madison a weekly
salary to supply him with new jokes every seventh
day. So, nearly every monologist retains the author
to keep him up to the minute with material, right in
the forefront of the laughter-of-the-hour.
V. OTHER SINGLE TALKING ACT FORMS
The discussion of the monologue form has been
exhaustive, for the pure monologue holds within itself
92 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
all the elements of the other allied forms. The only
difference between a pure monologue and any other
kind is in the addition of entertainment features that
are not connected gags and points. Therefore, to
cover the field completely it is necessary only to name
a few of the many different kinds of single talking
acts and to describe them briefly. ſ
The most common talking singles — all of whom
buy material from vaudeville writers — are:
(a) The Talking Magician — who may have only
a few little tricks to present, but who plays them up
big because he sprinkles his work with laughter-
provoking points. .
(b) The “Nut Comedian ’’ — who does all manner
of silly tricks to make his audience laugh, but who
has a carefully prepared routine of “nut” material.
(c) The Parody Monologist — who opens and closes
with funny parodies on the latest song hits and does
a monologue routine between songs.
(d) The “Original Talk” Impersonator — who does
impersonations of celebrities, but adds to his offer-
ing a few clever points and gags.
VI. A FINAL WORD
Before you seek a market" for your monologue, be
sure that it fulfills all the requirements of a mono-
logue and that it is the very best work you can do.
Above all, make sure that every gag or point you
use is original with you, and that the angle of the
* See Chapter XXIV, Manuscripts and Markets.
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 93
subject you have selected for your theme is honestly
your own. For if you have copied even one gag or
point that has been used before, you have laid your
work open to suspicion and yourself to the epithet
of “chooser.”
The infringer – who steals gags and points bodily
— can be pursued and punished under the copyright
law, but the chooser is a kind of sneak thief who
works gags and points around to escape taking crim-
inal chances, making his material just enough differ-
ent to evade the law. A chooser damages the orig-
inator of the material without himself getting very
far. No one likes a chooser; no one knowingly will
have dealings with a chooser. Call a vaudeville man
a liar and he may laugh at you — call him a chooser
and you’ll have to fight him. -
There are, of course, deliberate choosers in the
vaudeville business, just as there are “crooks” in
every line of life, but they never make more than a
momentary success. Here is why they invariably
fail: *
When you sit in the audience, and hear an old
gag or point, you whisper, “Phew, that’s old,” or you
give your companion a knowing look, don’t you?
Well, half the audience is doing the very same thing,
and they, like you, receive the impression that all the
gags are old, and merely suppose that they haven’t
heard the other ones before.
The performer, whose bread and butter depends
on the audience thinking him bright, cannot afford
94. WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
to have anything ancient in his routine. Two famil-
iar gags or points will kill at least twenty-five per-
cent of his applause. He may not get even one bow,
and when audiences do not like a monologist well
enough to call him out for a bow, he might as well
say good-by to his chances of getting even another
week’s booking. Therefore the performer watches
the material that is offered him with the strained
attention of an Asiatic potentate who suspects there
is poison in his breakfast food. He not only guards
against old gags or points, but he takes great care
that the specific form of the subject of any routine
that he accepts is absolutely new.
Some of the deliberate choosers watch the field
very closely and as soon as anyone strikes a new vein
or angle they proceed to work it over. But taking the
same subject and working around it — even though
each gag or point is honestly new — does not and
cannot pay. Even though the chooser secures some
actor willing to use such material, he fails ultimately
for two reasons: In the first place, the copier is never
as good as the originator; and, in the Second place,
the circuit managers do not look with favor upon
copy-acts. - -
As the success of the performer depends on his
cleverness and the novelty of his material, in identi-
cally the same way the success of a vaudeville theatre
lies in the cleverness and novelty of the acts it plays.
Individual house managers, and therefore circuit
managers, cannot afford to countenance copy-acts.
WRITING THE MONOLOGUE 95
For this reason a monologist or an act is often given
exclusive rights to use a precise kind of subject-
material over a given circuit. A copy-act cannot
keep going for very long with only a few segregated
houses willing to play his act. +
Therefore before you offer your monologue to a
possible buyer, be sure — absolutely sure — that your
theme and every one of your points and gags are
original.
CHAPTER VII
THE VAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT
The word “two-act” is used to describe any act
played by two people. It has nothing to do with the
number of scenes or acts of a drama. When two
people present a “turn,” it is called a two-act. It
is a booking-office term — a word made necessary by
the exigencies of vaudeville commerce.
If the manager of a theatre requires an acrobatic
act to fill his bill and balance his show he often
inquires for an acrobatic two-act. It may matter
little to him whether the act plays in One or Full
Stage – he wants an acrobatic act, and one pre-
sented by two people. If he requires any other kind
of two-people-act, he specifies the kind of two-act of
which he is in need.
On the other hand, if a performer asks an author
to write a vaudeville two-act, an act of a certain
definite character is usually meant and understood.
For, among writers, the vaudeville two-act — or
“act in One” as it is often called — has come to
mean a talking act presented by two persons; fur-
thermore, a talking act that has certain well-defined
characteristics.
I. What a Vaudeville Two-Act Is
The most carefully constructed definition cannot
describe even the simplest thing with satisfying exact-
THE WAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT 97
ness. But the human mind is so formed that it
must have a definition for a guide to learn anything
that is new. Therefore let us set up this dogmatic
definition:
A pure vaudeville two-act is a humorous talk-
ing act performed by two persons. It pos-
sesses unity of the characters, is not combined
with songs, tricks or any other entertainment
form, is marked by compression, follows a def-
inite form of construction, and usually requires
from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery.
You have noticed that this definition is merely
that of the monologue very slightly changed. It
differs from it only in the number of persons required
for its delivery. But, like many such verbal jug-
glings, the likeness of the two-act to the monologue
is more apparent than real.
2. How the Two-Act Differs from the Monologue
Turn to the Appendix and read “The Art of
Flirtation,” by Aaron Hoffman." It was chosen
for publication in this volume as an example of the
vaudeville two-act, for two reasons: First, it is
one of the best vaudeville two-acts ever written;
second, a careful study of it, in connection with “The
German Senator,” will repay the student by giving
* “The Art of Flirtation,” by Aaron Hoffman, has been used
in vaudeville, on the burlesque stage, and in various musical come-
dies, for years and has stood the test of time,
98 wRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
an insight into the difference in treatment that the
same author gives to the monologue and the two-act.
Aside from the merely physical facts that two
persons deliver the vaudeville two-act and but one
“does” the monologue, you will notice in reading
“The Art of Flirtation,” that the two-act depends a
surprising lot on “business”" to punch home its points
and win its laughs. This is the first instance in our
study of vaudeville material in which “acting” ”
demands from the writer studied consideration.
So large a part does the element of business play
in the success of the two-act that the early examples
of this vaudeville form were nearly all built out of bits
of business. And the business was usually of the
“slap-stick” kind.
3. What Slap-Stick Humor Is
Slap-stick humor wins its laughs by the use of
physical methods, having received its name from the
stick with which one clown hits another.
A slap-stick is so constructed that when a person
is hit a light blow with it, a Second piece of wood
slaps the first and a surprisingly loud noise, as of a
hard blow, is heard. Children always laugh at the
* Business means any movement an actor makes on the stage.
To walk across the stage, to step on a man’s toes, to pick up a
telephone, to drop a handkerchief, or even to grimace — if done
to drive the spoken words home, or to “get over” a meaning with-
out words — are all, with a thousand other gestures and move-
ments, stage business.
* Acting is action. It comprises everything necessary to the
performing of a part in a play and includes business.
THE WAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT 99
slap-stick clowns and you can depend upon many
grown-ups, too, going into ecstasies of mirth.
Building upon this sure foundation, a class of
comedians sprang up who “worked up” the laughter
by taking advantage of the human delight in expec-
tation. For instance: A man would lean over a
wall and gaze at Some distant scene. He was per-
fectly oblivious to what was going on behind him.
The comedy character strolled out on the stage with
a stick in his hand. He nearly walked into the first
man, then he saw the seat of the man’s trousers and
the provokingly tempting mark they offered. In the
early days of the use of the slap-stick, the comedian
would have spanked the man at once, got one big
laugh and have run off the stage in a comic chase.
In the later days the comedian worked up his laugh
into many laughs, by spacing all of his actions in the
delivery of the blow.
As soon as the audience realized that the comedian
had the opportunity to spank the unsuspecting man,
they laughed. Then the comedian would make elab-
orate preparations to deliver the blow. He would
spit on his hands, grasp the stick firmly and take
close aim — a laugh. Then he would take aim again
and slowly swing the stick over his shoulder ready
to strike — a breathless titter. Down would come
the stick — and stop a few inches short of the mark
and the comedian would say: “It’s a shame to do
it!” This was a roar, for the audience was primed to
laugh and had to give vent to its expectant delight.
IOO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
A clever comedian could do this twice, or even three
times, varying the line each time. But usually on
the third preparation he would strike — and the house
would be convulsed.
In burlesque they sometimes used a woman for
the victim, and the laughter was consequently louder
and longer. It is an interesting commentary on the
advancement of all branches of the stage in recent
years that even in burlesque such extreme slap-
stick methods are now seldom used. In vaudeville
such an elemental bit of slap-stick business is rarely,
if ever, seen. Happily, a woman is now never the victim.
But it was upon such “sure-fire” + bits of business
that the early vaudeville two-acts – as well as many
other acts — depended for a large percentage of their
laughs. It mattered little what were the lines they
spoke. They put their trust in business — and in-
variably won. But their business was always of the
same type as that “bit” of spanking the unsus-
pecting man. It depended for its humor on the
supposed infliction of pain. It was always physical
– although by no means always even remotely
suggestive.
Because such acts did not depend on lines but on
* Any act or piece of business or line in a speech that can be
depended on to win laughter at every performance is called sure-
fire.
* Anything done on the stage may be called a bit. A minor
character may have only a bit, and some one part of a scene
that the star may have, may be a bit. The word is used to
describe a successful little scene that is complete in itself.
§
a s " -
:
:
&
i
;
&
THE WAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT IOI
slap-stick humor, they became known as slap-stick
acts. And because these vaudeville two-acts — as
we have elected to call them — were usually presented
by two men and worked in One, in front of a drop
that represented a street, they were called “sidewalk
comedian slap-stick acts.”
Their material was a lot of jokes of the “Who was
that lady I saw you with last night?” – “She weren’t
no lady, she was my wife,” kind. Two performers
would throw together an act made up of sure-fire
comedy bits they had used in various shows, inter-
polate a few old “gags” — and the vaudeville writer
had very little opportunity.
But to-day – as a study of “The Art of Flirta-
tion” will show — wit and structural skill in the
material itself is of prime importance. Therefore
the writer is needed to supply vaudeville two-acts.
But even to-day business still plays a very large
part in the success of the two-act. It may even be
considered fundamental to the two-act's success.
Therefore, before we consider the structural elements
that make for success in writing the two-act, we shall
take up the matter of two-act business.
4. The “Business” of the Two-Act
The fact that we all laugh – in varying degrees —
at the antics of the circus clown, should be sufficient
evidence of the permanence of certain forms of humor
to admit of a belief in the basic truth that certain
actions do in all times find a humorous response in
IO2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
all hearts. Certain things are fundamentally funny,
and have made our ancestors laugh, just as they
make us laugh and will make our descendants laugh.
“There's no joke like an old joke,” is sarcastically
but nevertheless literally true. There may even be
more than a humorous coincidence — perhaps an
unconscious recognition of the sure-firedness of certain
actions — in the warnings received in childhood - to
“stop that funny business.”
5. Weber and Fields on Sure-Fire Business
However this may be, wherever actors foregather
and talk about bits of stage business that have won
and always will win laughs for them, there are a
score or more points on which they agree. No matter
how much they may quarrel about the effectiveness of
laugh-bits with which one or another has won a per-
sonal success — due, perhaps, to his own peculiar
personality — they unite in admitting the universal
effectiveness of certain good old stand-bys.
Weber and Fields — before they made so much
money that they retired to indulge in the pleasant
pastime of producing shows – presented probably
the most famous of all the sidewalk comedian slap-
stick acts." They elevated the slap-stick sidewalk
conversation act into national popularity and cer-
tainly reduced the business of their performance to a
* The great success of the return of Weber and Fields to vaude-
ville in 1915–16, with excerpts from their old successes, is only on
more proof of the perennial value of sure-fire business.
THE WAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT IO3
science — or raised it to an art. In an article entitled
“Adventures in Human Nature,” published in The
Associated Sunday Mazagines for June 23, 1912, Joe
Weber and Lew Fields have this to say about the
stage business responsible, in large measure, for the
success of their famous two-act:
The capitalizing of the audiences’ laughter we have set down
in the following statistics, ranged in the order of their value. An
audience will laugh loudest at these episodes:
(1) When a man sticks one finger into another man’s eye.
(2) When a man sticks two fingers into another man’s eyes.
(3) When a man chokes another man and shakes his head from
side to side.
(4) When a man kicks another man.
. (5) When a man bumps up suddenly against another man
and knocks him off his feet.
(6) When a man steps on another man’s foot.
Human nature — as we have analyzed it, with results that will
be told you by the cashier at our bank — will laugh louder and
oftener at these spectacles, in the respective order we have chron-
icled them, than at anything else one might name. Human nature
here, as before, insists that the object of the attacks — the other
man — be not really hurt.
Now, let us tell you how we arrived at our conclusions. The
eye is the most delicate part of the body. If a man, therefore,
pokes his two forefingers into the eyes of another man without
hurting them, then human nature will make you scream with mirth;
not at the sight of the poking of the fingers into the other man’s
eyes (as you who have seen us do this trick night in and night out
have imagined), but because you get all the sensations of such a
dangerous act without there being any actual pain involved in the
case of the man you were watching. You laugh because human
nature tells you to. You laugh because the man who had the
fingers stuck into his eyes might have been hurt badly, but wasn’t.
The greatest laughter, the greatest comedy, is divided by a hair
, from the greatest tragedy. Always remember that! As the chance
of pain, the proportion of physical misery, the proportion of tragedy,
IO4 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
becomes diminished (see the other items in the table), so does the
proportion of laughter become less and less. We have often tried
to figure out a way to do something to the other's kneecap —
second in delicacy only to the eye – but the danger involved is
too great. Once let us figure out the trick, however, and we shall
have capitalized another item that may be listed high in our
table. Here is how you can verify the truth of our observations
yourself:
You have seen those small imitation tacks made of rubber.
Exhibit one, put it on a chair, ask a stranger to sit down – and
everybody who is in on the joke will scream with mirth. Try it
with a real tack, and everybody will take on a serious face and will
want to keep the man from sitting down.
6. What George M. Cohan Has to Say
George M. Cohan spent his boyhood on the vaude-
ville stage as one of “The Four Cohans.” In col-
laboration with George J. Nathan, Mr. Cohan pub-
lished in McClure’s Magazine for November, 1913,
an article entitled “The Mechanics of Emotion.”
Here is what he has to say about some bits of busi-
ncSS that arc sure fire laughs:
Here, then, are a few of the hundred-odd things that you con-
stantly laugh at on the stage, though, when you see them in cold
type, you will probably be ashamed of doing so.
(1) Giving a man a resounding whack on the back under the
guise of friendship. The laugh in this instance may be “built
up” steadily in a climacteric way by repeating the blow three times
at intervals of several minutes.
(2) A man gives a woman a whack on the back, believing in
1 These sure-fire bits of business should be considered as being
equally effective when used in any form of stage work. Some of
them, however, lend themselves most readily to the vaudeville
tWO-act.
THE WAUDEVILLE TWO—ACT IO5
an absent-minded moment that the woman (to whom he is talk-
ing) is a man.
(3) One character steps on the sore foot of another character,
causing the latter to jump with pain. . -
(4) The spectacle of a man laden with many large bundles.
(5) A man or a woman starts to lean his or her elbow on a
table or the arm of a chair, the elbow slipping off abruptly and
suddenly precipitating him or her forward.
(6) One character imitating the walk of another character, who
is walking in front of him and cannot see him.
(7) A man consuming a drink of considerable size at one quick
gulp.
(8) A character who, on entering an “interior” or room scene,
stumbles over a rug. If the character in point be of the “digni-
fied” sort, the power of this laugh provoker is doubled.
(9) Intoxication in almost any form."
(Io) Two men in heated conversation. One starts to leave.
Suddenly, as if fearing the other will kick him while his back is
turned, this man bends his body inward (as if he actually had been
kicked) and sidles off.
(II) A man who, in trying to light his cigar or cigarette, strikes
match after match in an attempt to keep one lighted. If the man
throws each useless match vigorously to the floor with a muttered
note of vexation the laughter will increase.
(I2) The use of a swear-word.”
(13) A man proclaims his defiance of his wife while the latter
is presumably out of hearing. As the man is speaking, his wife's
voice is heard calling him. Meekly he turns and goes to her.
This device has many changes, such as employer and employee.
All are equally effective.
* Intoxication, however, must never be revolting. To be wel-
comed, it must always be funny; in rare instances, it may be
pathetic.
* The use of swear-words is prohibited in most first-class vaude-
ville theatres. On the walls of every B. F. Keith Theatre is posted
this notice: “The use of “Damn’ and ‘Hell’ is forbidden on the
stage of this theatre. If a performer cannot do without using them,
he need not open here.”
Ioé WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
(14) A pair of lovers who try several times to kiss, and each
time are interrupted by the entrance of some one or by the ringing
of the doorbell or telephone-bell or something of the sort.
(15) A bashful man and a not-bashful woman are seated on a
bench or divan. As the woman gradually edges up to the man,'
the man just as gradually edges away from her.
All these “laugh-getters” are known to the experienced as
“high class”; that is, they may all be used upon the legitimate
stage. On the burlesque and vaudeville stages devices of a some-
what lower intellectual plane have established a permanent stand-
ing. An authority on this phase of the subject is Mr. Frederick
Wyckoff, who catalogues the following as a few of the tricks that
make a vaudeville audience laugh:
Open your coat and show a green vest, or pull out your shirt
front and expose a red undershirt. Another excellent thing to do
is to wear a shirt without sleeves and pull off your coat repeatedly."
Ask the orchestra leader if he is married.
Have the drummer put in an extra beat with the cymbals, then
glare at him. -
Always use an expression which ends with the query, “Did
he not?” Then say, “He did not.”
The men who elaborated this kind of thing into a classic are
Messrs. Weber and Fields. They are the great presiding deities
of “slap-stick” humor. They have capitalized it to enormous
financial profit. They claim that Mr. Fields’ favorite trick of
poking his forefinger periodically in Mr. Weber's eye is worth a
large fortune in itself. A peculiarity of this kind of humor is that
it finds its basis in the inflicting of pain. A painful situation
apparently contains elements of the ridiculous So long as the pain
is not actually of a serious nature. Here, too, the stage merely
mirrors life itself. We laugh at the person who falls on the ice,
at the man who bumps against a chair or table in the dark, at the
headache of the “morning after,” at the boy who eats green apples
* Such ancient methods of winning laughs, however, belong to
vaudeville yesterdays. It should be remembered that Mr. Nathan,
who bore the labor of writing this excellent article, is blessed with
a satirical soul — which, undoubtedly, is the reason why he is so
excellent and so famous a dramatic critic.
THE VAUDEVILLE TWO-ACT Io'7
and pays the abdominal penalty, at the woman whose shoes are
So tight they hurt her, at the person who is thrown to the floor by a
Sudden lurch of a street-car, and at the unfortunate who sits on a
pin. A man chasing his rolling hat in the street makes everybody
laugh. -
The most successful tricks or jokes are all based on the idea of
pain or embarrassment. Tacks made of rubber, matches that
explode or refuse to light, exploding cigars or cigarettes, fountain-
pens that Smear ink over the fingers immediately they are put to
use, “electric” bells with pins secreted in their push buttons, and
boutonnières that squirt water into the face of the beholder, are a
few familiar examples.
Here, then, we have the bits of business that three
of the ablest producers of the legitimate stage — all
graduates from vaudeville, by the way — agree upon
as Sure-fire for the vaudeville two-act. Paradoxically,
however, they should be considered not as instructive
of what you should copy, but as brilliant examples
of what you should avoid. They belong more to
vaudeville's Past than to its Present. Audiences
laughed at them yesterday – they may not laugh at
them tomorrow. If you would win success, you
must invent new business in the light of the old suc-
cesses. The principles underlying these laugh-getters
Yemain the same forever.
7. Sure-Fire Laughs Depend upon Action and Situa-
tion, Not on Words
If you will read again what Weber and Fields have
to say about their adventures in human nature, you
will note that not once do they mention the lines
with which they accompanied the business of their
Io8 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
two-act. Several times they mention situation —
which is the result of action, when it is not its cause
— but the words by which they accompanied those
actions and explained those situations they did not
consider of enough importance to mention. Every
successful two-act, every entertainment-form of which
acting is an element — the playlet and the full-eve-
ning play as well — prove beyond the shadow of a
doubt that what audiences laugh at — what you and
I laugh at — is not words, but actions and situations.
Later on, this most important truth – the very
life-blood of stage reality — will be taken up and con-
sidered at greater length in the study of the playlet.
But it cannot be mentioned too often. It is a vital
lesson that you must learn if you would achieve even
the most fleeting success in writing for the stage in
general and vaudeville in particular. #
But by action is not meant running about the
stage, or even wild wavings of the arms. There must
be action in the idea — ºn the thought — even though
the performers stand perfectly still.
So it is not with words, witty sayings, funny ob-
servations and topsy-turvy language alone that the
writer works, when he constructs a vaudeville two-
act. It is with clever ideas, expressed in laughable
situations and actions, that his brain is busy when
he begins to marshal to his aid the elements that
enter into the preparation of two-act material.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL
It is very likely that in your study of “The Ger-
man Senator” and “The Art of Flirtation,” there has
crossed your mind this thought: Both the monologue
and the two-act are composed of points and gags.
The only difference — besides the merely physical
difference of two persons delivering the gags and the
greater amount of business used to “get them over” +
— lies in the way the gags are constructed. The very
same gags — twisted just a little differently — would
do equally well for either the monologue or the two-
act.
I. THE INDIVIDUAL TWIST OF THE TWO-ACT
There is just enough truth in this to make it seem
an illuminating fact. For instance, take the “janitor
point” in “The German Senator.” We may imagine
the characters of a two-act working up through a
routine, and then one saying to the other:
A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to
be a man and he is thoroughly educated he can go into the public
school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.
The other swiftly saying:
And the janitor gets ninety-five.
1. To get over a vaudeville line or the entire act, means to make
it a success — to make it get over the foot-lights so that the au-
dience may see and appreciate it, or “get” it.
IIO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
There would be a big laugh in this arrangement
of this particular gag, without a doubt. But only a
few points of “The German Senator” could be used
for a two-act, with nearly as much effect as in the
monologue form. For instance, take the introduction.
Of course, that is part and parcel of the monologue
form, and therefore seems hardly a fair example,
yet it is particularly suggestive of the unique char-
acter of much monologic material.
But take the series of points in “The German
Senator,” beginning: “We were better off years ago
than we are now.” Picture the effect if one character
said:
Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.
2nd
Life to him was a pleasure.
ISt
There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.
2nd
Anything he wanted he could get.
ISt
But the old fool had to get lonesome.
2nd
And that’s the guy that started all our trouble
etC. etc. etC.
Even before the fourth speech it all sounded flat
and tiresome, didn’t it? Almost unconsciously you
compared it with the brighter material in “The Art
of Flirtation.” But, you may say: “If the business
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL III
had been Snappy and funny, the whole thing would
have raised a laugh.”
How could business be introduced in this gag —
without having the obvious effect of being lugged in
by the heels? Business, to be effective, must be the
body of the material’s soul. The material must sug-
gest the business, so it will seem to be made alive by it.
It must be as much the obvious result of the thought
as when your hand would follow the words, “I’m going
to give you this. Here, take it.”
Herein lies the reason why two-act material differs
from monologic material. Experience alone can teach
you to “feel” the difference unerringly.
Yet it is in a measure true that some of the points
and gags that are used in many monologues — rarely
the anecdotal gag, however, which must be acted
out in non-two-act form — would be equally effective
if differently treated in the two-act. But often this
is not due so much to the points themselves as to
the fault of the writer in considering them monologic
points. -
The underlying cause of many such errors may be
the family likeness discernible in all stage material.
Still, it is much better for the writer fully to rec-
ompense Peter, than to rob Peter to pay Paul
inadequately. • t
Nevertheless, aside from the “feel” of the material
— its individual adaptability — there is a striking
similarity in the structural elements of the monologue
and the two-act. Everything in the chapter on
II 2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
“The Nature of the Monologue” is as true of the
two-act as of the monologue, if you use discrimina-
tion. Refer to what was said about humor, unity of
character, compression, vividness, Smoothness and
blending, and read it all again in the light of the
peculiar requirements of the two-act. They are the
elements that make for its success.
II. THINKING OUT THE TWO-ACT
The two-act – like all stage material in which
acting plays a part — is not written; it is constructed.
You may write with the greatest facility, and yet
fail in writing material for the vaudeville stage. The
mere wording of a two-act means little, in the final
analysis. It is the action behind the words that sug-
gests the stage effect. It is the business — combined
with the acting — that causes the audience to laugh and
makes the whole a success. So the two-act, like every
other stage form, must — before it is written — be
thought out.
In the preceding chapter, you read of the elements
that enter into the construction of a two-act. They
are also some of the broad foundation elements which
underlie, in whole or in part, all other stage — act-
ing — material. A few of the two-act elements that
have to do more particularly with the manuscript
construction have been reserved for discussion in
the paragraphs on development. In this chapter we
shall consider what you must have before you even
begin to think out your two-act – your theme.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF Two-ACT MATERIAL II.3
I. Selecting a Theme -
Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but it is
dangerous for the imitator. And yet to stray too far
afield alone is even more hazardous. Successful
vaudeville writers are much like a band of Indians
marching through an enemy’s country — they follow
one another in single file, stepping in each other's
footprints. In other words, they obey the rules of
their craft, but their mental strides, like the Indians’
physical footsteps, are individual and distinct.
2. Fundamental Themes
Experience has taught effective writers that certain
definite themes are peculiarly adaptable to two-act
form and they follow them. But success comes to
them not because they stick to certain themes only
— they win because they vary these fundamental
themes as much as they can and still remain within
the limits of proved theatrical success.
(a) The Quarrel Theme. Search my memory as
diligently as I may, I cannot now recall a single suc-
cessful two-act that has not had somewhere in its
routine a quarrel, while many of the most successful
two-acts I remember have been constructed with a
quarrel as their routine motives.
With this observation in mind, re-read “The Art
of Flirtation” and you will discover that the biggest
laughs precede, arise from, or are followed by quarrels.
Weber and Fields in their list of the most humorous
II4. WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
business, cite not only mildly quarrelsome actions,
but actually hostile and seemingly dangerous acts.
The more hostile and the more seemingly dangerous
they are, the funnier they are. Run through the
Cohan list and you will discover that nearly every bit
of business there reported is based on a quarrel, or
might easily lead to a fight.
(b) The “Fool” Theme. To quote again from Weber
and Fields: -
There are two other important items in human nature that we
have capitalized along with others to large profit. Human nature,
according to the way we analyzed it, is such a curious thing that
it will invariably find cause for extreme mirth in seeing some other
fellow being made a fool of, no matter who that fellow may be,
and in seeing a man betting on a proposition when he cannot pos-
sibly win. We figured it out, in the first place, that nothing pleased
a man much more than when he saw another man being made to
look silly in the eyes of others.
For example, don’t you laugh when you observe a dignified
looking individual strutting down the street wearing a paper
tail that has been pinned to his coat by some mischievous boys?"
Note how the “fool” theme runs all through “The
Art of Flirtation.” Go to see as many two-acts as
you can and you will find that one or another of the
characters is always trying to “show up” the other.
(c) The “Sucker” Theme.
As for the quirk in human nature that shows great gratification
at the sight of a man betting on something where he is bound to
be the loser: in inelegant language, this relates simply to the uni-
versal impulse to laugh at a “sucker.” It is just like standing
in front of a sideshow tent after you have paid your good money,
gone in, and been “stung,” and laughing at everyone else who pays
1. From the Weber and Fields article already quoted.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL II.5
his good money, comes out, and has been equally “stung.” You
laugh at a man when he loses the money he has bet on a race that
has already been run when the wager has been posted. You laugh
at a man who bets a man ten dollars “receive” is spelled “re-
cieve,” when you have just looked at the dictionary and appre-
ciate that he hasn’t a chance. . . . Comedy that lives year after
year — no matter whether you choose to call it “refined” or not —
never comes to its exploiters by accident. The intrinsic idea, the
germ, may come accidentally; but the figuring out of the elabora-
tion and execution of the comedy takes thinking and a pretty fair
knowledge of your fellow men."
Although there are very many two-acts — among
them “The Art of Flirtation” — which do not make
use of this third fundamental theme, there are a great
many that depend for their biggest laughs upon this
sure-fire subject.
In common with the “fool” theme, the “sucker”
theme lends itself to use as a part or bit of a two-act.
And both these themes are likely to be interspersed
with quarrels.
There are, of course, other themes that might be
classed with these three fundamental themes. But
they tend to trail off upon doubtful ground. There-
fore, as we are considering only those that are on
incontrovertible ground, let us now turn our atten-
tion to the act themes which we will call:
3. Subject Themes
What can you bring to the vaudeville stage in the
way of themes that are new? That is what you
1. From the Weber and Fields article.
II6 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
should ask yourself, rather than to inquire what has
already been done.
Anything that admits of treatment on the lines of
the two-act as it has been spread before you, offers
itself as a subject theme. In the degree that you
can find in it points that are bright, clever, laughter-
provoking and business-suggestive, does it recommend
itself to you as a theme.
Here is the merest skimming of the themes of the
two-acts presented in one large city during one week:
Flirting: done in a burlesque way. Our own ex-
ample, “The Art of Flirtation.”
Quarrelsome musicians in Search of a certain street.
One is always wrong. Gags all on this routine subject.
Getting a job: “Sucker” theme. One character
an Italian politician, the other an Italian laborer.
Wives: one man is boss at home, the other is hen-
pecked. Furthermore, the wives don’t agree. Quarrel
theme.
Old times: two old schoolmates meet in the city.
One a “fly guy,” the other a simple, quiet country
fellow. “Fool” theme, in the old days and the
present. .
Note the variety of subjects treated. If my mem-
ory serves me correctly, every one of these acts had
a quarrel either as its entire subject, or the usual
quarrels developed frequently in the routine. These
quarrels, as in most two-acts, were fundamental to
much of their humor. But no two of the acts had
the same subject theme,
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF Two—ACT MATERIAL II.7
It would seem, then, that in thinking out the two-
act, the author would do well to avoid every theme
that has been used — if such a thing is humanly
possible, where everything seems to have been done —
and to attempt, at least, to bring to his two-act a
new subject theme.
But if this is impossible, the writer should bring
to the old theme a new treatment. Indeed, a new
treatment with all its charm of novelty will make
any old theme seem new. One of the standard
recipes for success in any line of endeavor is: “Find
out what somebody else has done, and then do that
thing — better.” And one of the ways of making
an old theme appear new, is to invest it with the
different personalities of brand new characters.
III. TWO-ACT CHARACTERS
From the time when vaudeville first emerged as
a commanding new form of entertainment, distinct
from its progenitor, the legitimate stage, and its near
relatives, burlesque and musical comedy, there have
been certain characters indissolubly associated with
the two-act. Among them are the Irish character,
or “Tad”; the German, or “Dutch,” as they are
often misnamed; the “black-face,” or “Nigger”;
the farmer, or “Rube”; the Swedish, or “Swede”;
the Italian, or “Wop ’’; and the Hebrew, or “Jew.”
Not much chance for a new character, you will
say — but have you thought about the different
combinations you can make? There is a wealth of
II.8 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ready humor waiting not only in varying combina-
tions, but in placing the characters in new businesses.
For example, doesn’t a “Jew” aviator who is pes-
tered by an insurance agent or an undertaker, strike
you as offering amusing possibilities?
But don’t sit right down and think out your two-
act on the lines of the combination I have suggested
On the spur of the moment. Others are sure to be
ahead of you. You can only win success with new
characters that are all your own. Then you are likely
to be the first in the field. -
As a final warning, permit the suggestion that
bizarre combinations of characters very probably will
be difficult to sell. Make your combinations within
the limits of plausibility, and use characters that are
seen upon the stage often enough to be hailed with
at least a pleasant welcome.
IV. THE TWO CHARACTER PARTS
“Comedy” and “Straight”
The characters of the two-act are technically called
the “comedian” and the “straight-man.” The
comedian might better be called the “laugh-man,”
just as the straight is more clearly termed the
“feeder.” • **
In the early days of the business the comedian
was always distinguishable by his comedy clothes.
One glance would tell you he was the comical cuss.
The straight-man dressed like a “gent,” dazzling the
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL II9
eyes of the ladies with his correct raiment. From
this fact the names “comedian” and “straight” arose.
But today you seldom can tell the two apart. They
do not dress extravagantly, either for comedy or for
fashion effect. They often dress precisely alike —
that is, so far as telling their different characters is
concerned. Their difference in wealth and intelli-
gence may be reflected in their clothes, but only as
such differences would be apparent in real life. Indeed,
the aim today is to mimic reality in externals,
precisely as the real characters themselves are imper-
sonated in every shade of thought and artistic inflec-
tion of speech. There are, to be sure, exceptions to
this modern tendency. -
The original purposes of their stage names, how-
ever, remain as true today as they did when the two-
act first was played. The comedian has nearly all
the laugh lines and the straight-man feeds him.
Not only must you keep the characters themselves
pure of any violation of their unity, but you must
also see to it that every big laugh is given to the
comedian. If the comedian is the one “getting the
worst of it” – as is almost invariably the case –
he must get the worst of it nearly every time. But
that does not influence the fact that he also gets
almost all the laugh lines.
Note the working out of the laugh lines in “The
Art of Flirtation.” You will see that only on the
rarest of occasions does the straight-man have a
funny line given him.
I2O WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
The only time the feeder may be given a laugh
line, is when the laugh is what is called a “flash-
back.” For example, take the point in “The Art
of Flirtation” beginning:
COMEDIAN
And does she answer?
- STRAIGHT
She’s got to; it says it in the book.
- COMEDIAN
Does she answer you with a handkerchief?
STRAIGHT
Yes, or she might answer you with an umbrella.
This is a flash-back. But, the comedian gets a
bigger laugh on the next line – worked up by a
gesture:
COMEDIAN
Over the head.
Or take this form of the flash-back, which may seem
an even clearer example:
COMEDIAN
Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady. You ought to
hear me talk to my wife.
STRAIGHT
To your wife? Any man can be disagreeable to his wife. But
think — , .
and so on into the introduction to the next point.
It is always a safe rule to follow that whenever
you give the straight-man a flash-back, top it with
a bigger laugh for the comedian.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF TWO-ACT MATERIAL I2I
How many flash-backs you may permit in your two-
act, depends upon the character of the material, and
also varies according to the bigness of the roars that
the business adds to the comedian’s laughs. No
stated rule can be given you. In this, as in every-
thing else, you must carve your own way to win
your own success.
CHAPTER IX
putting the two-act on PAPER
You have selected your theme, chosen your char-
acters, thought out every angle of business, and
mapped nearly all of your points, as well as your big
laugh-lines: now you are ready to put your two-act
on paper. Before “taking your pen in hand,” stop
for a moment of Self-analysis.
You can now determine how likely you are to suc-
ceed as a writer of the two-act, by this simple self-
examination:
How much of my two-act have I thought out clearly
so that it is playing before my very eyes?
If you have thought it all out, so that every bit of
business moves before your eyes, as every point rings
in your ears, you are very likely to turn out an accept-
able two-act – if you have not played a “chooser’s”
part, and your points are real points.
But do not imagine because you are positive that
you have thought everything out beforehand, and
now have come to writing it down, that your job of
thinking is ended. Not at all; there are a few things
still to be thought out, while you are writing.
I. WHERE TO BEGIN
As in the monologue — because your material is
made up of points — you may begin nearly anywhere
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I23
to write your two-act. And like the monologue, you
need not have a labored formal introduction.
The Introduction
Still, your introduction is no less comprehensively
informing because it has not the air of formality. If
your characters by their appearance stamp them-
Selves for what they are, you may trust complete
characterization — as you should in writing every
form of stage material – to what each character
does and says. . .
But in your very first line you should subtly tell
the audience, so there cannot possibly be any mis-
take, what your subject is. - -
Why are those two men out there on the stage?
What is the reason for their attitude toward each
other?
If they are quarreling, why are they quarreling?
If they are laughing, why are they laughing?
But don’t make the mistake of trying to tell too
much. To do that, would be to make your intro-
duction draggy. You must make the audience think
the characters are bright — precisely as the intro-
duction of the monologue is designed to make the
audience think the monologist is bright. Write your
introduction in very short speeches. Show the atti-
tude of the characters clearly and plainly, as the
first speech of our two-act example shows the char-
acters are quarreling:
I24 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
STRAIGHT
Say, whenever we go out together you always got a kick com-
ing. What's the matter with you?
Then get into your subject-theme quickly after
you have given the audience time to get acquainted
and settled, with the memory of the preceding act
dimmed in their minds by the giggle-points of your
introduction.
The introduction of the two-act is designed to stamp
the characters as real characters, to establish their
relations to each other, to give the audience time to
settle down to the new “turn,” to make them think
the performers are “bright” and to delay the first
big laugh until the psychological moment has come
to spring the initial big point of the subject theme,
after the act has “got” the audience.
II. THE DEVELOPMENT -
It would seem needless to repeat what has already
been stated so plainly in the chapters on the mono-
logue, that no one can teach you how to write excru-
ciatingly funny points and gags, and that no one can
give you the power to originate laughter-compelling
situations. You must rise or fall by the force of
your own ability.
There are, however, two suggestions that can be
given you for the production of a good two-act.
One is a “don’t,” and the other a “do.”
Don’t write your points in the form of questions
and answers. The days of the “Why did the chicken
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I25
cross the road?”—“Because she wanted to get on
the other side” sort of two-act, is past. Write all
your points in conversational style.
Never write:
What were you doing at Pat’s dinner lathering your face with
a charlotte russe?
Write it:
So you were down at Pat's house for dinner, and you went
and lathered your face with a charlotte russe — I saw you.
Of course when a legitimate question is to be asked,
ask it. But do not deliberately throw your points
into question form. Your guide to the number of
direct queries you would use should be the usual
conversational methods of real life.
Your subject, of course, in a large measure deter-
mines how many questions you need to ask. For
instance, if your theme is one that develops a lot of
fun through one character instructing the other, a
correspondingly large number of questions naturally
would be asked. But, as “The Art of Flirtation”
plainly shows, you can get a world of fun out of even
an instruction theme, without the use of a wearying
number of inquiries. The two-act fashion today is
the direct, conversational style.
Now for the second suggestion:
Although some exceedingly successful two-acts
have been written with many themes scattered through
their twelve or more minutes, probably a larger num-
ber have won success through singleness of subject.
I26 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
A routine with but one subject worked up to its
most effective height is often more likely to please.
Furthermore, for the reason that the two-act is
breaking away from the offering that is merely pieced
together out of successful bits – precisely as that
class of act struggled away from the old slap-stick
turn — the single-routine now finds readier sale.
The present tendency of the two-act seems to be to
present clever characterization — and so to win by
artistic acting, as before it won by cruder methods.
Therefore, strive for unity of routine. Treat but
one subject and amplify that one subject with single-
ness of purpose.
The point, or the gag, of a two-act is very much
like that of the monologue. In so far as construc-
tion is concerned — by this I mean laugh-wave con-
struction — they are identical. Study “The Art of
Flirtation,” and you will see how little laughs pre-
cede big laughs and follow after, mounting into still
bigger laughs that rise into roars of laughter.
I. Introducing a Point
If you were telling a joke to a friend you would be
sure to tell him in your very first sentence all the
things he would need in order to understand the point
of the joke, wouldn’t you? You would take great
care not to leave out one salient bit of information
that would make him see the joke plainly — you
would be as logical as though you were trying to sell
him a bill of goods. Take the same attitude toward
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I27
each point that you introduce into your two-act.
Remember, you are wholesaling your “jokes” to the
comedians, who must retail them to their audiences.
Therefore, introduce each new point as clearly and
as briefly as you can.
Let us take a point from “The Art of Flirtation”
and see how it is constructed. The very first line
the straight-man speaks when he comes out on the
stage unmistakably declares his relation to the come-
dian. When he shows the book, he explains pre-
cisely what it is. And while laugh after laugh is
worked out of it, the precise things that the book
teaches are made clear.
STRAIGHT
No. It ain’t ten cent love. It's fine love. (Opens book)
See — here is the destructions. Right on the first page you learn
something. See — how to flirt with a handkerchief. -
COMEDIAN
Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with
a, WOII 18.11.
STRAIGHT {
Listen to what the book says. To a flirter all things have got
a language. According to this book flirters can speak with the
eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the
handkerchief, with anything; this book tells you how to do it.
COMEDIAN
For ten cents.
Note that the straight-man does not say, “with
the eye, cane, umbrella —” and so on through the
list. He says “With the eye, with the fan, with the
cane – .” There can be no mistake — as there might
I28 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
be if the items were enumerated swiftly. Each one is
given importance by the “with the eye, with the
fan.” The words “with the ” lend emphasis and a
humorous weight. .
STRAIGHT
Shut up. Now when you See a pretty woman coming along
who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should
do?
COMEDIAN
Run the other way.
STRAIGHT
No, no. This is the handkerchief flirtation. . . .
You see precisely what the subject of this partic-
ular point is because it is stated in unmistakable
words.
STRAIGHT.
. . . As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put
your hands in your pockets.
COMEDIAN
And hold on to your money
Now this is a big laugh at every performance —
a sure-fire laugh when it is well done. Note that it is
the fourth line the comedian has after the specific
point introduction, “. . . See — how to flirt with a
handkerchief?” Now the line “Who wants to flirt
with a handkerchief? I want to flirt with a woman,”
is not intended to be a real laugh-line. It serves as
an audience settler, gives emphasis to the explana-
tion of just what the book tells and helps to blend
into the next line. •.
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I29
There's a first laugh on, “For ten cents.” A big-
ger laugh comes on, “Run the other way.” And the
biggest — in this point-division — on the third laugh
line “And hold on to your money.”
2. Blending into the Following Point
When you have a big laugh, you must make the
next line carry you on Smoothly into the succeeding
point. It matters not whether the points are all
related to the same general subject or not — although
we are considering here only the single-routine two-
act – you must take great care that each point blends
into the following one with logical sequence.
The line, “Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief?
I want to flirt with a woman,” helps in the blending
of the point division we have just examined.
The straight-man’s line following the big laugh
line in that point division, “No, you take out your
handkerchief,” (biz.) is another example of the blend-
line. And it is the very first introduction of the
peculiar style of business that makes of “The Art of
Flirtation” so funny an act.
3. The Use of Business
Let us continue in the examination of this example.
COMEDIAN
Suppose you ain’t got a handkerchief?
1 Biz. is often used in vaudeville material for bus., the correct
contraction of business,
I3O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
STRAIGHT
Every flirter must have a handkerchief. It says it in the book.
Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this. (Biz) Do
you know what that means?
COMEDIAN
(Biz. of shaking head.)
STRAIGHT
That means you want her to give you —
COMEDIAN
Ten cents.
The reason why these two words come with such
humorous effect, lies in two causes. First, “ten
cents” has been used before with good laugh results
— as a “gag line,” you recall — and this is the
comedian’s magical “third time” use of it. It is a
good example of the “three-sequence mystery” which
Weber and Fields mentioned, and which has been used
to advantage on the stage for many, many years.
Second, the comedian had refused to answer the
straight-man's question. He simply stood there and
shook his head. It was the very simple business of
shaking his head that made his interruption come as
a surprise and gave perfect setting for the “gag-
line.” -
Read the speeches that follow and you will see how
business is used. Note particularly how the business
makes this point stand out as a great big laugh:
STRAIGHT
. . . Den you hold your handkerchief by the corner like dis.
* COMEDIAN
Wat does that mean?
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I31
STRAIGHT
Meet me on the corner.
COMEDIAN
Och, dat’s fine. (Takes handkerchief) . . . Den if you hold it
dis way, dat means (biz.): “Are you on the square?”
This line reads even funnier than many laughs in
the act that are bigger, but its business cannot be
explained in words. It seems funnier to you because
you can picture it. You actually see it, precisely as
it is done. r
Then the next line blends it into the next point,
which is clearly introduced with a grin — is developed
into a laugh, a bigger laugh by effective business, and
then into a roar.
Point after point follows — each point topping the
preceding point – until the end of the two-act is
reached in the biggest laugh of all.
III. HOW AND WHERE TO END
The business of the two-act, which secures its
effects by actions that are often wholly without words,
makes the two-act more difficult to time than a mon-
ologue. Furthermore, even if the time-consuming bits
of business were negligible, the precise timing of a
two-act by the author is not really necessary.
Precisely as a monologist can vary the length of
his offering by leaving out gags, the two-act per-
formers can shorten their offering at will – by leav-
ing out points. Hence it is much better to supply
more points than time will permit of delivery in the
I32 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
finished performance, than to be required to rewrite
your material to stretch the subject to fill out time.
All you need do is to keep the two-act within, say,
twenty minutes. And to gauge the length roughly,
count about one hundred and fifteen words to a
minute. -
Therefore, having arranged your points upon sep-
arate cards, or slips of paper, and having shuffled
them about and tried them all in various routines
to establish the best, choose your very biggest laugh
for the last." Wherever that biggest laugh may have
been in the sample routines you have arranged, take
it out and blend it in for your final big roar.
Remember that the last laugh must be the delighted
roar that will take the performers off stage, and
bring them back again and again for their bows.
IV. MAKING THE MANUSCRIPT A STAGE SUCCESS
The manuscript of a two-act is only a prophecy of
what may be. It may be a good prophecy or a bad
prognostication – only actual performance before an
audience can decide. As we saw in the monologue,
points that the author thought would “go big” —
“die”; and unexpectedly, little grins waken into great
big laughs. There is no way of telling from the
manuscript. A:
When you have finished your two-act you must
be prepared to construct it all over again in rehearsal,
* See description of card system, page 85.
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I33
and during all the performances of its try-out weeks.
Not only must the points be good themselves, they
must also fit the performers like the proverbial kid
gloves.
More two-acts — and this applies to all other stage-
offerings as well — have started out as merely prom-
ising successes, than have won at the first try-out.
For this reason, be prepared to work all the morning
rehearsing, at the matinee and the night performances,
and after the theatre is dark, to conjure giggle points
into great big laughs, and lift the entire routine into
the success your ability and the performers’ clever-
ness can make it.
Even after it has won its way into a contract and
everybody is happy, you must be prepared to keep
your two-act up-to-the-minute. While it is on the
road, you must send to the performers all the laughs
you can think of – particularly if you have chosen
for your theme one that demands constant furbishing
to keep it bright.
V. OTHER TWO—ACT FORMS
It is with direct purpose that the discussion of the
two-act has been confined to the kind of act that
Weber and Fields made so successful — and of which
Mr. Hoffman’s “The Art of Flirtation” is a more
up-to-date, mild and artistic form. There are other
forms of the two-act, of course, but the kind of two-
act we have discussed is peculiarly typical of two-act
I34 g WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
material. It holds within itself practically all the
elements of the two-act that the writer has to con-
sider. It is only necessary now to describe the other
forms briefly.
By “pure two-act form,” I mean the two-act that
is presented without Songs, tricks, or any other enter-
tainment elements. Yet many of the most successful
two-acts open with a song, introduce Songs or parodies
into the middle of their dialogue, or close with a song
or some novelty.
Do not imagine that a two-act in which songs are
introduced cannot be precisely as good as one that
depends upon its talk alone. It may be an even
better act. If it pleases the audience better, it is a
better act. Remember that while we have been dis-
cussing the two-act from the writer’s view-point,
it is the applause of the audience that stamps every
act with the final seal of approval. But, whether
a two-act makes use of Songs or tricks or anything
else, does not change the principles on which all two-
act points and gags are constructed.
The more common talking two-acts are:
I. The Sidewalk Conversation or Gag Act
This form may or may not open and close with
songs, and depends upon skillfully blended, but not
necessarily related, gags and jokes.
2. The Parody Two-Act
This sort of act opens and closes with parodies on
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I35
the latest Song-hits, and uses talk for short rests and
humorous effect between the parodies by which the
act makes its chief appeal.
3. The Singing Two-Act
This type makes its appeal not by the use of songs,
but because the voices are very fine. Such an act
may use a few gags and unrelated jokes — perhaps
of the “nut” variety — to take the act out of the
pure duet class and therefore offer wider appeal.
4. The Comedy Act for Two Women
Such acts may depend on precisely the same form
of routine the pure talking two-act for men uses. Of
course, the treatment of the subject themes is gentler
and the material is all of a milder character.
5. The Two-Act with Plot Interest
Acts of this character make use of a comedy, bur-
lesque, melodramatic or even a dramatic plot. This
form of sketch seldom rises into the playlet class. It
is a two-act merely because it is played by two per-
sons. Often, however, this form of the two-act uses
a thread of plot on which to string its business and true
two-act points. It may or may not make use of
Songs, parodies, tricks or other entertainment elements.
We have now come to a form of two-act which is
of So popular a nature that it requires more than
passing mention. This is
136 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
6. The Flirtation Two-Act
Usually presented with Songs making their appeal
to sentiment, almost always marked by at least one
change of costume by the woman, Sometimes distin-
guished by a special drop and often given more than
a nucleus of plot, this very popular form of two-act
sometimes rises into the dignity of a little production.
Indeed, many two-acts of this kind have been so suc-
cessful in their little form they have been expanded
into miniature musical comedies."
(a) Romance is the chief source of the flirtation
two-act's appeal. It is the dream-love in the heart
of every person in the audience which makes this
form of two-act “go” so well. Moonlight, a girl
and a man — this is the recipe.
(b) Witty Dialogue that fences with love, that
thrusts, parries and — surrenders, is what makes the
flirtation two-act “get over.” It is the same kind
of dialogue that made Anthony Hope’s “Dolly Dia-
logues” so successful in their day, the sort of speeches
which we, in real life, think of afterward and wish
we had made. -
(c) Daintiness of effect is what is needed in this
form of two-act. Dialogue and business, scenery,
lights and music all combine to the fulfillment of its
purpose. The cruder touches of other two-act forms
are forgotten and the entire effort is concentrated on
making an appeal to the “ideal.”
* See Chapter XXX, The One-Act Musical Comedy, page 3oz.
PUTTING THE TWO-ACT ON PAPER I37
Turn to the Appendix, and read “After the Shower,”
and you will see how these various elements are
unified. This famous flirtation two-act has been
chosen because it shows practically all the elements
we have discussed.
CHAPTER X.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMATIC FORM
THE playlet is a very definite thing — and yet it
is difficult to define. Like the short-story, painting
as we know it today, photography, the incandescent
lamp, the telephone, and the myriad other forms of
art and mechanical conveniences, the playlet did not
spring from an inventor’s mind full fledged, but at-
tained its present form by slow growth. It is a
thing of life — and life cannot be bounded by words,
lest it be buried in the tomb of a hasty definition.
To attempt even the most cautious of definitions
without having first laid down the foundations of
understanding by describing some of the near-playlet
forms to be seen on many vaudeville bills would,
indeed, be futile. For perhaps the surest way of
learning what a thing is, is first to learn what it is
not. Confusion is then less likely to creep into the
conception, and the definition comes like a satisfac-
tory summing up of familiar points that are resolved
into clear words.
T. NEAR–DRAMATIC FORMS which PRECEDED THE
VAUDEVILLE PLAYLET
Even in the old music hall days, when a patron
strolled in from a hard day's work and sat down to
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I39
enjoy an even harder evening's entertainment, the
skit or sketch or short play which eventually drifted
upon the boards — where it was seen through the
mists of tobacco smoke and strong drink – was the
thing. The admiration the patrons had for the per-
formers, whom they liberally treated after the show,
did not prevent them from actively driving from the
stage any offering that did not possess the required
dramatic “punch.”* They had enjoyed the best of
everything else the music hall manager could obtain
for their amusement and they demanded that their
bit of a play be, also, the very best of its kind.
No matter what this form of entertainment that
we now know by the name of vaudeville may be
called, the very essence of its being is variety. “Top-
ical songs” — we call their descendants “popular
songs” – classic ballads, short concerts given on all
Sorts of instruments, juggling, legerdermain, clowning,
feats of balancing, all the departments of dan-
cing and of acrobatic work, musical comedy, panto-
mime, and all the other hundred-and-one things that
may be turned into an amusing ten or twenty min-
* It is worthy of note in this connection that many of the
dramatic and particularly the comedy offerings seen in the music
halls of twenty years ago, and in the “Honkitonks” of Seattle
and other Pacific Coast cities during the Alaskan gold rush, have,
expurgated, furnished the scenarios of a score of the most successful
legitimate dramas and comedies of recent years. Some of our
greatest legitimate and vaudeville performers also came from this
humble and not-to-be-boasted-of school. This phase of the growth
of the American drama has never been written. It should be
recorded while the memories of “old timers” are still fresh.
I4O WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
utes, found eager welcome on the one stage that made
it, and still makes it, a business to present the very
newest and the very best of everything. To com-
plete its claim to the title of variety, to separate itself
from a likeness to the circus, to establish itself as
blood brother of the legitimate stage, and, most
important of all, to satisfy the craving of its audiences
for drama, vaudeville tried many forms of the short
play before the playlet was evolved to fill the want.
Everything that bears even the remotest likeness to
a play found a place and had a more or less fleeting
— or lasting — popularity. And not only was every
form of play used, but forms of entertainment that
could not by reason of their very excellencies be made
to fill the crying want, were pressed into service and
supplied with ill-fitting plots in the vain attempt.
Musical acts, whose chief appeal was the coaxing
of musical sounds from wagon tires, drinking glasses,
and exotic instruments, were staged in the kitchen
set. And father just home from work would say,
“Come, daughter, let’s have a tune.” Then off they
would start, give their little entertainment, and down
would come the curtain on a picture of never-to-be-
seen domestic life. Even today, we sometimes see
such a hybrid act.
Slap-stick sidewalk conversation teams often would
hire an author to fit them with a ready-made plot,
and, pushed back behind the Olio into a centre-door
fancy set, would laboriously explain why they were
there, then go through their inappropriate antics and
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I4I
finish with a climax that never “climaxed.” All
kinds of two-acts, from the dancing pair to the flir-
tatious couple, vainly tried to give their offerings
dramatic form. They did their best to make them
over into little plays and still retain the individual
elements that had won them success.
The futility of such attempts it took years to real-
ize. It was only when the stock opening, “I expect
a new partner to call at the house today in answer
to my advertisement (which was read for a laugh)
and while I am waiting for him I might as well prac-
tise my song,” grew So wearisome that it had to be
served with a special notice in many vaudeville thea-
tres, that these groping two-acts returned to the pure
forms from which they never should have strayed.
But even today you sometimes see such an act —
with a little less inappropriate opening — win, because
of the extreme cleverness of the performers.
II. DRAMATIC FORMS FROM WHICH THE PLAYLET
EvolvKD
Among the dramatic forms — by which I mean
acts depending on dialogue, plot and “acting” for
appeal — that found more or less success in vaude-
ville, were sketches and short plays (not playlets)
using either comedy, farce, or dramatic plots, and
containing either burlesque or extravaganza. Let us
take these dramatic forms in their order of widest
difference from the playlet and give to each the
explanatory word it deserves, R
I42 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
I. Extravaganza Acts
Extravaganza is anything out of rule. It deals
comically with the impossible and the unreal, and
serves its purpose best when it amazes most. Rely-
ing upon physical surprises, as well as extravagant
stage-effects, the extravaganza act may be best ex-
plained, perhaps, by naming a famous example —
“Eight Bells.” The Byrne Brothers took the ele-
ments of this entertainment so often into vaudeville
and out of it again into road shows that it is difficult
to remember where it originated. The sudden ap-
pearances of the acrobatic actors and their amazing
dives through seemingly solid doors and floors, held
the very essence of extravaganza. Uncommon now-
adays even in its pure form, the extravaganza act
that tries to ape the play form is seldom if ever seen.
2. Burlesque Acts
Rurlesque acts, however, are not uncommon today
and are of two different kinds. First, there is the
burlesque that is travesty, which takes a well-known
and often serious subject and hits off its famous
features in ways that are uproariously funny. “When
Caesar Sees Her,” took the famous meeting between
Cleopatra and Marc Antony and made even the most
impressive moment a scream." And Arthur Denvir’s
* In musical comedy this is often done to subjects and person-
alities of national interest. The Ziegfeld perennial Follies in-
variably have bits that are played by impersonators of the national
figure of the moment. Sometimes in musical revues great dra-
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I43
“The Villain Still Pursued Her” (See Appendix),
an exceptionally fine example of the travesty, takes
the well-remembered melodrama and extracts laughter
from situations that once thrilled.
Second, there are the acts that are constructed
from bits of comedy business and depend for their
success not on dialogue, but on action. Merely a
thread of plot holds them together and on it is strung
the elemental humor of the comedy bits, which as
often as not may be slap-stick. The purpose being
only to amuse for the moment, all kinds of enter-
tainment forms may be introduced. One of the most
successful examples of the burlesque tab,” James
Madison’s “My Old Kentucky Home” (See Appen-
dix), serves as the basic example in my treatment
of this vaudeville form.
3. Short Plays
Short plays, as the name implies, are merely plays
that are short. They partake of the nature of the
long play and are simply short because the philo-
Sophic speeches are few and the number of scenes that
have been inserted are not many. The short play
may have sub-plots; it may have incidents that do
not affect the main design; its characters may be
many and some may be introduced simply to achieve
matic successes are travestied, and the invariable shouts of laughter
their presentation provokes are an illuminating exemplification of
the truth that between tragedy and comedy there is but a step.
* Tab is short for tabloid. There may be tabloid musical com-
edies — running forty minutes or more — as well as burlesque tabs.
I44 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
life-like effect; and it usually comes to a leisurely .
end after the lapse of from twenty minutes to even
an hour or more.
Again like the full-evening play, the one-act play
that is merely short paints its characters in greater
detail than is possible in the playlet, where the
strokes are made full and broad. Furthermore, while
in the playlet economy of time and attention are
prime requisites, in the short play they are not; to
take some of the incidents away from the short play
might not ruin it, but to take even one incident
away from a playlet would make it incomplete.
For many years, however, the following tabloid
forms of the legitimate drama were vaudeville’s an-
swer to the craving of its audiences for drama.
(a) Condensed Versions, “Big’” Scenes and Single
Acts of Long Plays. For example – an example
which proves three points in a single instance: the
need for drama in vaudeville, vaudeville's anxiety for
names, and its willingness to pay great sums for what
it wants — Joseph Jefferson was offered by F. F.
Proctor, in 1905, the then unheard-of salary of $5,000
a week for twelve consecutive weeks to play “Bob
Acres” in a condensed version of “The Rivals.”
Mr. Jefferson was to receive this honorarium for
himself alone, Mr. Proctor agreeing to furnish the
condensed play, the scenery and costumes, and pay
the salaries of the supporting cast. The offer was
not accepted, but it stood as the record until Martin
Beck paid Sarah Bernhardt the sum of $7,500 a week
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I45
for herself and supporting players during her famous
1913 tour of the Orpheum Circuit. In recent years
nearly every legitimate artist of national and inter-
national reputation has appeared in vaudeville in
some sort of dramatic vehicle that had a memory in
the legitimate.
But that neither a condensed play, nor one “big”
scene or a single act from a long play, is not a playlet
should be apparent when you remember the impres-
sion of inadequacy left on your own mind by Such a
vehicle, even when a famous actor or actress has en-
dowed it with all of his or her charm and wonderful
art.
(b) The Curtain-Raiser. First used to supplement
or preface a short three-act play So as to eke out a
full evening's entertainment, the little play was known
as either an “afterpiece” or a “curtain-raiser”;
usually, however, it was presented before the three-
act drama, to give those who came early their full
money’s worth and still permit the fashionables, who
“always come late,” to be present in time to witness
the important play of the evening. Then it was that
“curtain-raiser” was considered a term of reproach.
But often in these days a curtain-raiser, like Sir
James M. Barrie’s “The Twelve Pound Look,” proves
even more entertaining and worth while than the
ambitious play it precedes.
That Ethel Barrymore took “The Twelve Pound
Look” into vaudeville does not prove, however, that
the curtain-raiser and the vaudeville playlet are like
I46 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
forms. As in the past, the curtain-raiser of today
usually is more kin to the long play than to the play-
let. But it is nevertheless true that in some recent
curtain-raisers the compact swiftness and meaning-
ful effect of the playlet form has become more
apparent — they differ from the vaudeville playlet
less in form than in legitimate feeling.
Historically, however, the curtain-raiser stands in
much the same position in the genealogy of the play-
let that the forms discussed in the preceding sec-
tion occupy. As in the other short plays, there was
no sense of oneness of plot and little feeling of com-
ing-to-the-end that mark a good playlet.
Therefore, since the short play could not fully
satisfy the vaudeville patron’s natural desire for
drama, the sketch held the vaudeville stage unchal-
lenged until the playlet came.
4. Vaudeville Sketches
The vaudeville sketch in the old days was almost
anything you might care to name, in dramatic form.
Any vaudeville two-act that stepped behind the Olio
and was able to hold a bit of a plot alive amid its
murdering of the King’s English and its slap-stick
ways, took the name of “a sketch.” But the “proper
sketch,” as the English would say — the child of
vaudeville and elder half-brother to the playlet —
did not make use of other entertainment forms. It
depended on dialogue, business and acting and a
more or less consistent plot or near-plot for its appeal.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I47.
Usually a comedy — yet sometimes a melodrama
— the vaudeville sketch of yesterday and of today
rarely makes plot a chief element. The story of a
sketch usually means little in its general effect. The
general effect of the sketch is — general. That is
one of the chief differences between it and the playlet.
The purpose of the sketch is not to leave a single
impression of a single story. It points no moral,
draws no conclusion, and sometimes it might end
quite as effectively anywhere before the place in the
action at which it does terminate. It is built for
entertainment purposes only, and furthermore, for
entertainment purposes that end the moment the
sketch ends. When you see a sketch you carry away
no definite impression, save that of entertainment,
and usually you cannot remember what it was that
entertained you. Often a sketch might be incor-
porated into a burlesque show or a musical comedy
and serve for part of an act, without Suffering, itself,
in effect." And yet, without the sketch of yesterday
there would be no playlet today.
(a) The Character Sketch. Some sketches, like
Tom Nawn’s “Pat and the Geni,” and his other
“Pat” offerings, so long a famous vaudeville feature,
* Not so many years ago, a considerable number of vaudeville
sketches were used in burlesque; and vice versa, many sketches
were produced in burlesque that afterward had successful runs in
vaudeville. Yet they were more than successful twenty-minute
“bits,” taken out of burlesque shows. They had a certain com-
pleteness of form which did not lose in effect by being trans-
planted. -
I48 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
are merely character sketches. Like the near-short-
story character-sketch, the vaudeville sketch often
gives an admirable exposition of character, without
showing any change in the character's heart effected
by the incidents of the story. “Pat” went through
all sorts of funny and startling adventures when he
opened the brass bottle and the Geni came forth, but
he was the very same Pat when he woke up and found
it all a dream."
Indeed, the vaudeville sketch was for years the
natural vehicle and “artistic reward” for clever
actors who made a marked success in impersonating
some particular character in burlesque or in the legit-
imate. The vaudeville sketch was written around the
personality of the character with which success had
been won and hence was constructed to give the actor
opportunity to show to the best advantage his acting
in the character. And in the degree that it succeeded
it was and still is a success — and a valuable enter-
tainment form for vaudeville.
(b) The Narrative Sketch. Precisely as the char-
acter sketch is not a playlet, the merely narrative
1 The Ryan and Richfield acts that have to do with Haggerty
and his society-climbing daughter Mag, may be remembered. For
longer than my memory runs, Mag Haggerty has been trying to
get her father into society, but the Irish brick-layer will never
“arrive.” The humor lies in Haggerty’s rich Irishness and the
funny mistakes he always makes. The “Haggerty” series of
sketches and the “Pat” series show, perhaps better than any
others, the closeness of the character-sketch short-story that is
often mistaken for the true short-story, to the vaudeville sketch
that is so often considered a playlet.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM 149
sketch is not a true playlet. No matter how inter-
esting and momentarily amusing or thrilling may be
the twenty-minute vaudeville offering that depends
upon incident only, it does not enlist the attention,
hold the sympathy, or linger in the memory, as does
the playlet.
Character revelation has little place in the narra-
tive sketch, a complete well-rounded plot is seldom
to be found, and a change in the relations of the
characters rarely comes about. The sketch does not
convince the audience that it is complete in itself —
rather it seems an incident taken out of the middle
of a host of similar experiences. It does not carry
the larger conviction of reality that lies behind
reality.
(1) The Farce Sketch. Nevertheless such excel-
lent farce sketches as Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Drew,
Rice and Cohen, Homer Mason and Margaret Keeler,
and other Sterling performers have presented in vaude-
ville, are well worth while. The fact that many of
the minor incidents that occur in such finely amusing
sketches as Mason and Keeler’s “In and Out” do not
lend weight to the ending, but seem introduced
merely to heighten the cumulative effect of the farce-
comedy, does not prove them, or the offering, to be
lacking in entertainment value for vaudeville. Rather,
the use of just such extraneous incidents makes these
sketches more worth while; but the introduction of
* By Porter Emerson Brown, author of A Fool There Was,
and other full-evening plays.
I5o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
them and the dependence upon them, for interest,
does mark such offerings as narrative sketches rather
than as true playlets.
(2) ... The Straight Dramatic and Melodramatic
Sketch. In identically the same way the intro-
duction into one-act dramas and melodramas of “bits”
that are merely added to heighten the suspense and
make the whole seem more “creepy,” without having
a definite — an inevitable — effect upon the ending
makes and marks them as narrative dramas and
melodramas and not true playlet forms.
From the foregoing examples we may now attempt
5. A Definition of a Vaudeville Sketch
A Vaudeville Sketch is a simple narrative,
or a character sketch, presented by two or more
people, requiring usually about twenty min-
utes to act, having little or no definite plot, de-
veloping no vital change in the relations of the
characters, and depending on effective incidents
for its appeal, rather than on the singleness of
effect of a problem solved by character revelation
and change.
It must be borne in mind that vaudeville is pre-
senting today all sorts of sketches, and that nothing
in this definition is levelled against their worth. All
that has been attempted so far in this chapter
has been to separate for you the various forms of
dramatic and near-dramatic offerings to be seen in
vaudeville. A good sketch is decidedly worth writing.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I5I
And you should also remember that definitions and
separations are dangerous things. There are vaude-
ville sketches that touch in one point or two or three
the peculiar requirements of the playlet and natu-
rally, in proportion as these approach closely the play-
let form, hair-splitting separations become nearly, if
not quite, absurd.
Furthermore, when an experienced playwright sits
down to write a vaudeville offering he does not con-
sider definitions. He has in his mind something very
definite that he plans to produce and he produces
it irrespective of definitions. He is not likely to
stop to inquire whether it is a sketch or a playlet."
The only classifications the professional vaudeville
writer considers, are failures and successes. He defines
a success by the money it brings him.
But today there is a force abroad in vaudeville
that is making for a more artistic form of the one-
act play. It is the same artistic spirit that produced
out of short fiction the short-story. This age has
been styled the age of the short-story and of vaude-
ville — it is, indeed, the age of the playlet.
The actor looking for a vaudeville vehicle today
is not content with merely an incident that will give
him the opportunity to present the character with
which he has won marked success on the legitimate
stage. Nor is he satisfied with a series of incidents,
* In discussing this, Arthur Hopkins said: “When vaudeville
presents a very good dramatic offering, ‘playlet’ is the word used
to describe it. If it isn’t very fine, it is called a ‘sketch.’”
I52 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
however amusing or thrilling they may be. He
requires an offering that will lift his work into a more
artistic sphere. He desires a little play that will
be remembered after the curtain has been rung
down.
This is the sort of vehicle that he must present to
win success in vaudeville for any length of time.
While vaudeville managers may seem content to
book an act that is not of the very first rank, because
it is played by someone whose ability and whose
name glosses over its defects, they do not encourage
such offerings by long contracts. Even with the
most famous of names, vaudeville managers – reflect-
ing the desires of their audiences — demand accept-
able playlets.
III. HOW THE WAUDEVILLE SKETCH AND THE PLAY-
LET DIFFER
Edgar Allan Woolf, one of the day's most successful
playlet writers who has won success year after year
with vaudeville offerings that have been presented by
some of the most famous actors of this country and
of England, said when I asked him what he consid—
ered to be the difference between the sketch and the
playlet: *
“There was a time when the vaudeville sketch
was moulded on lines that presented less difficulties
and required less technique of the playwright than
does the playlet of today. The curtain generally rose
on a chambermaid in above-the-ankle skirts dusting
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM 153
the furniture as she told in soliloquy form that her
master and mistress had sent for a new butler or
coachman or French teacher. How the butler,
coachman or French teacher might make her happier
was not disclosed.
“Then came a knock on the door, followed by the
elucidating remark of the maid, “Ah, this must be he
now.” A Strange man thereupon entered, who was
not permitted to say who he was till the piece was
over or there would have been no piece. The maid
for no reason mistook him for the butler, coachman
or French teacher, as the case may have been, and
the complications ensuing were made hilarious by
the entrance of the maid’s husband who, of course,
brought about a comedy chase scene, without which
no ‘comedietta’ was complete. Then all characters
met — hasty explanations — and ‘comedy curtain.”
“Today, all these things are taboo. A vaudeville
audience resents having the ‘protiasis” or introductory
facts told them in monologue form, as keenly as does
the ‘legitimate” audience. Here, too, the actor may
not explain his actions by ‘asides.’ And ‘mistaken
identity’ is a thing of the past.
“Every trivial action must be thoroughly moti-
vated, and the finish of the playlet, instead of occur-
ring upon the ‘catabasis,” or general windup of the
action, must develop the most striking feature of
the playlet, so that the curtain may come down on a
surprise, or at least an event toward which the entire
action has been progressing.
I54 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
“But the most important element that has devel-
oped in the playlet of today is the problem, or theme.
A little comedy that provokes laughter yet means
nothing, is apt to be peddled about from week to
week on the “small time’ and never secure booking
in the better houses. In nearly all cases where the
act has been a ‘riot’ of laughter, yet has failed to
secure bookings, the reason is to be found in the
fact that it is devoid of a definite theme or central
idea.
“The booking managers are only too eager to
secure playlets — and now I mean precisely the
playlet – which are constructed to develop a problem,
either humorous or dramatic. The technique of the
playlet playwright is considered in the same way
that the three-act playwright’s art of construction is
analyzed by the dramatic critic.”
IV. WHAT A PLAYLET IS
We have seen what the playlet is not. We have
considered the various dramatic and near-dramatic
forms from which it differs. And now, having stud-
ied its negative qualities, I may assemble its positive
characteristics before we embark once more upon
the troubled seas of definition. The true playlet is
marked by the following ten characteristics:
I — A clearly motivated opening — not in solil-
oquy form.
2 — A single definite and predominating problem
or theme.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM I55
3 — A single prečminent character.
4 — Motivated speeches. -
5 – Motivated business and acting.
6 — Unity of characters.
7 – Compression.
8 — Plot.
9 – A finish that develops the most striking feature
into a surprise — or is an event toward which every
speech and every action has been progressing.
Io – Unity of impression."
Each of these characteristics has already been dis-
cussed in our consideration of the dramatic forms —
either in its negative or positive quality — or will
later be taken up at length in its proper place.
Therefore, we may hazard in the following words
A Definition of a Playlet
A Playlet is a stage narrative taking usually
about twenty minutes to act, having a single
chief character, and a single problem which
predominates, and is developed by means of a
plot so compressed and so organized that every
speech and every action of the characters move
it forward to a finish which presents the most
* See page 3o, Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein,
published in “The Writer's Library,” uniform with this volume.
Note the seven characteristics of the short-story and compare them
with the playlet’s ten characteristics. You will find a surprising
similarity between the short-story and the playlet in some points
of structure. A study of both in relation to each other may give
you a clearer understanding of each.
I56 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
striking features; while the whole is so organ-
ized as to produce a single impression.
You may haunt the vaudeville theatres in a vain
search for a playlet that will embody all of these
characteristics in one perfect example." But the fact
that a few playlets are absolutely perfect technically
is no reason why the others should be condemned.
Remember that precise conformity to the rules here
laid down is merely academic perfection, and that
the final worth of a playlet depends not upon adher-
ence to any one rule, or all — save as they point the
way to success — but upon how the playlet as a
whole succeeds with the audience.
Yet there will be found still fewer dramatic offer-
ings in vaudeville that do not conform to some of
these principles. Such near-playlets succeed not
because they evade the type, but mysteriously in
spite of their mistakes. And as they conform more
closely to the standards of what a playlet should
be, they approach the elements that make for lasting
SUICCCSS, -
But beyond these “rules” — if rules there really
are — and far above them in the heights no rules can
reach, lies that something which cannot be defined,
which breathes the breath of life into words and ac-
tions that bring laughter and tears. Rules cannot
build the bridge from your heart to the hearts of
your audiences. Science stands abashed and helpless
1 Study the playlet examples in the Appendix and note how
closely each approaches technical perfection.
THE PLAYLET AS A UNIQUE DRAMA FORM 157
before the task. All that rules can suggest, all that
Science can point out — is the way others have built
their bridges.
For this purpose only, are these standards of any
value to you.
CHAPTER XI
RINDS OF PILAYLET
The kind of playlet is largely determined by its
characters and their surroundings, and on these there
are practically no limits. You may have characters
of any nationality; you may treat them reverently,
or — save that you must never offend — you may
make them as funny as you desire; you may give
them any profession that suits your purpose; you
may place them in any sort of house or on the open
hills or in an air-ship high in the sky; you may show
them in any country of the earth or on the moon
or in the seas under the earth — you may do any-
thing you like with them. Vaudeville wants every-
thing — everything so long as it is well and strikingly
done. Therefore, to attempt to list the many differ-
ent kinds of playlet to be seen upon the vaudeville
stage would, indeed, be a task as fraught with hazard
as to try to classify minutely the divers kinds of men
seen upon the stage of life. And of just as little
practical value would it be to have tables showing the
scores of Superficial variations of character, nation-
ality, time and place which the years have woven
into the playlets of the past.
In the “art” of the playlet there are, to be sure,
the same three “schools” — more or less uncon-
sciously followed in nearly every vaudeville instance
— which are to be found in the novel, the short-
EINDS OF PTAYLET I59
story, painting, and the full-length play. These are,
of course, realism, romance, and idealism." These distinc-
tions, however, are—in vaudeville—merely distinctions
without being valuable differences. You need never
give thought as to the School to which you are paying
allegiance in your playlet; your work will probably be
neither better nor worse for this knowledge or its
lack. Your playlet must stand on its own legs, and
succeed or fail by the test of interest. Make your
playlet grip, that is the thing.
But do not confuse the word “romance,” as it is
used in the preceding paragraph, with love. Love is
an emotional, not a technical element, and consorts
equally well with either romance or realism in writing.
Love might be the heading of one of those tables we
have agreed not to bother with. Into everything
that is written for vaudeville love may stray. Or
it may not intrude, if your purpose demands that
love stay out. Yet, like the world, what would
vaudeville be, if love were left out?
* Should you wish to dally with the mooted question of the
difference between realism and romanticism — in the perplexing
mazes of which many a fine little talent has been snuffed out like
a flickering taper in a gust of wind — there are a score or more
volumes that you will find in any large library, in which the whole
matter is thrashed out unsatisfactorily. However, if you wish to
spend a half-hour profitably and pleasantly, read Robert Louis
Stevenson’s short chapter, A Note on Realism, to be found in
his suggestive and all-too-few papers on The Art of Writing.
In the collection of his essays entitled Memories and Portraits
will be found an equally delightful and valuable paper, A Gossip
on Romance. A brief technical discussion will also be found in
Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, pp. 64–67.
I6o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
And now we come to those broad types of playlet
which you should recognize instinctively. Unless you
do so recognize them — and the varying half-grounds
that lie between, where they meet and mingle quite
as often as they appear in their pure forms — you
will have but little success in writing the playlet.
In considering the broad types of playlet you should
remember that words are said to denote definitely the
ideas they delineate, and to connote the thoughts and
emotions they do not clearly express but arouse in
the hearer or reader. For example, what do “farce,”
“comedy,” “tragedy” and “melodrama” connote
to you? What emotions do they suggest? This is
an important matter, because all great artistic types
are more or less fully associated with a mood, as
feeling, an atmosphere.
Webster's dictionary gives to them the following
denotations, or definitions: $
Farce: “A dramatic composition, written without
regularity, and differing from comedy chiefly in the
grotesqueness, extravagance and improbability of its
characters and incidents; low comedy.”
Arthur Denvir’s “The Villain Still Pursued Her”
is one of the best examples of the travesty vaude-
ville has produced." James Madison’s “My Old
Kentucky Home” is a particularly fine example of
burlesque in tabloid form." These two acts have
been chosen to show the difference between two of
the schools of farce.
1 See Appendix.
EINDS OF PIAYLET I6I
Comedy: “A dramatic composition or representa-
tion, designed for public amusement and usually
based upon laughable incidents, or the follies or
foibles of individuals or classes; a form of the drama
in which humor and mirth predominate, and the
plot of which usually ends happily; the opposite of
tragedy.”
Edgar Allan Woolf’s “The Lollard” is an excep-
tionally good example of satirical comedy."
Tragedy: “A dramatic composition, representing an
important event or a series of events in the life of
some person or persons in which the diction is elevated,
the movement solemn and stately, and the catastrophe
Sad; a kind of drama of a lofty or mournful cast,
dealing with the dark side of life and character.”
Richard Harding Davis’s “Blackmail” is a notable
example of tragedy."
Melodrama: “A romantic [connoting love] play,
generally of a serious character, in which effect is
sought by startling incidents, striking situations,
exaggerated sentiment and thrilling denouement,
aided by elaborate stage effects. The more thrilling
passages are sometimes accentuated by musical ac-
companiments, the only surviving relic of the original
musical character of the melodrama.” -
Taylor Granville’s “The System” is one of the fin-
est examples of pure melodrama seen in vaudeville.”
* See Appendix.
* Written by Taylor Granville, Junie MacCree and Edward
Clark; see Appendix.
\
I62 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
There are, of course, certain other divisions into
which these four basic kinds of playlet — as well
as the full-length play — may be separated, but they
are more or less false forms. However, four are
worthy of particular mention:
The Society Drama: The form of drama in which
a present-day story is told, and the language, dress
and manners of the actors are those of polite modern
society." You will see how superficial the distinction
is, when you realize that the plot may be farcical,
comic, tragic or melodramatic. The same is true of
The Problem Drama: The form of drama dealing
with life’s “problems” — of sex, business, or what
not.” And the same is likewise true of
The Pastoral-Rural Drama: The form of drama.
dealing with rustic life.” And also of
The Detective Drama: * The form of drama dealing
with the detection of crime and the apprehension of
the criminal. I cannot recollect a detective playlet
— or three-act play, for that matter — that is not
* As the dramas of the legitimate stage are more often remem-
bered by name than are vaudeville acts, I will mention as example
of the society drama Clyde Fitch's The Climbers. This fine
satire skirted the edge of tragedy.
* Ibsen's Ghosts; indeed, nearly every one of the problem
master’s plays offer themselves as examples of the problem type.
* The long play Way Down East is a fine example of the
pastoral — or rural — drama of American life.
* Mr. Charlton Andrews makes a series of interesting and
helpful discriminations among the several dramatic forms, in his
work The Technique of Play Writing, published uniform with this
volume in “The Writer's Library.”
EINDS OF PLAYLET I63
melodramatic. When the action is not purely melo-
dramatic, the lines and the feeling usually thrill with
melodrama." “The System,” which is a playlet deal-
ing with the detection of detectives, is but one ex-
ample in point. t?
Here, then, we have the four great kinds of playlet,
and four out of the many variations that often seem
to the casual glance to possess elemental individuality.
Remember that this chapter is merely one of defi-
nitions and that a definition is a description of some-
thing given to it after – not before — it is finished.
A definition is a tag, like the label the entomologist
ties to the pin after he has the butterfly nicely dead.
Of questionable profit it would be to you, struggling
to waken your playlet into life, to worry about a defi-
nition that might read “Here Lies a Polite Comedy.”
Professor Baker says that the tragedies of Shake-
spere may have seemed to the audiences of their own
day “not tragedies at all, but merely more masterly
specimens of dramatic story-telling than the things
that preceded them.” If Shakespere did not worry
about the precise labels of the plays he was busy
writing and producing, you and I need not. Forget
definitions — forget everything but your playlet and
the grip, the thrill, the punch, the laughter of your
plot.
* Sherlock Holmes, William Gillette's masterly dramatization
of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous detective stories, is melo-
dramatic even when the action is most restrained.
* Development of Shakespere as a Dramatist, by Prof. Baker
of Harvard University.
I64 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
To sum up: The limits of the playlet are narrow,
its requirements are exacting, but within those limits
and those requirements you may picture anything
you possess the power to present. Pick out from
life some incident, character, temperament — what-
ever you will — and flash upon it the glare of the
vaudeville spot-light; breathe into it the breath of
life; show its every aspect and effect; dissect away
the needless; vivify the series of actions you have
chosen for your brief and trenchant crisis; lift it all
with laughter or touch it all with tears. Like a
searchlight your playlet must flash over the landscape
of human hearts and rest upon some phase of pas-
sion, some momentous incident, and make it stand
out clear and real from the darkness of doubt that
surrounds it.
CHAPTER XII
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED
WHERE does a playlet writer get his idea? How
does he recognize a playlet idea when it presents itself
to him? How much of the playlet is achieved when
he hits on the idea? These questions are asked
successful playlet writers every day, but before we
proceed to find their answers, we must have a para-
graph or two of definition.
I. THE THEME-PROBLEM AND ITS RANGE
Whenever the word “problem” is used — as, “the
problem of a playlet” – I do not mean it in the sense
that one gathers when he hears the words “problem
play”; nothing whatever of sex or the other problems
of the day is meant. What I mean is grasped at
first glance better, perhaps, by the word “theme.”
Yet “theme” does not convey the precise thought I
wish to associate with the idea.
A theme is a subject – that much I wish to convey
— but I choose “problem” because I wish to connote
the fact that the theme of a playlet is more than a
subject: it is precisely what a problem in mathe-
matics is. Given a problem in geometry, you must
solve it — from its first statement all the way through .
to the “Q.E.D.” Each step must bear a plain
and logical relation to that which went before and
what follows. Your playlet theme is your problem,
I66 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
and you must choose for a theme or subject only
such a problem as can be “proved” conclusively
within the limits of a playlet.
Naturally, you are inclined to inquire as a premise
to the questions that open this chapter, What are
the themes or subjects that offer themselves as best
suited to playlet requirements? In other words, what
make the best playlet problems? Here are a few
that present themselves from memory of playlets
that have achieved exceptional success:
A father may object to his son's marrying anyone
other than the girl whom he has chosen for him, but
be won over by a little baby — “Dinkelspiel’s Christ-
mas,” by George V. Hobart.
A slightly intoxicated young man may get into the
wrong house by mistake and come through all his
adventures triumphantly to remain a welcome guest
– “In and Out,” by Porter Emerson Brown.
A “crooked” policeman may build up a “system,”
but the honest policemen will hunt him down, even
letting the lesser criminal escape to catch the greater
– “The System,” by Taylor Granville, Junie Mac-
Cree and Edward Clark. -
Youth that lies in the mind and not in the body or
dress may make a grandmother act and seem younger
than her granddaughter – “Youth,” by Edgar Allan
Woolf.
A foolish young woman may leave her husband
because she has “found him out,” yet return to him
again when she discovers that another man is no
|HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I67
better than he is – “The Lollard,” by Edgar Allan
Woolf.
A man may do away with another, but escape the
penalty because of the flawless method of the killing
— “Blackmail,” by Richard Harding Davis.
A wide range of themes is shown in even these few
playlets, isn’t there? Yet the actual range of themes
from which playlet problems may be chosen is not
even suggested. Though I stated the problems of
all the playlets that were ever presented in vaude-
ville, the field of playlet-problem possibilities would
not be even adequately suggested. Anything, every-
thing, presents itself for a playlet problem — if you
can make it human, interesting and alive.
What interests men and women? Everything, you
answer. Whatever interests you and your family,
and your neighbor and his family, and the man
across the street and his wife's folks back home —
is a subject for a playlet. Whatever causes you to
stop and think, to laugh or cry, is a playlet problem.
“Art is life seen through a personality,” is as true of
the playlet as of any other art form.
Because some certain subject or theme has never
been treated in a playlet, does not mean that it can-
not be. It simply means that that particular subject
has never yet appealed to a man able to present it
successfully. Vaudeville is hungering for writers able
to make gripping playlets out of themes that never
have been treated well. To such it offers its largest
rewards. What do you know better than anyone
I68 . WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
else — what do you feel keener than anyone else does
— what can you present better than anyone else?
That is the subject you should choose for your playlet
problem. -
And so you see that a playlet problem is not merely
just “an idea"; it is a subject that appeals to a
writer as offering itself with peculiar credentials as
the theme that he should select. It is anything at all
— anything that you can make your own by your
mastery of its every angle.
I. What Themes to Avoid
(a) Unfamiliar Themes. If a subject of which
you have not a familiar knowledge presents itself to
you, reject it. Imagine how a producer, the actors
and an audience — if they let the thing go that far —
would laugh at a playlet whose premises were false
and whose incidents were silly, because untrue.
Never give anyone an opportunity to look up from
a manuscript of yours and grin, as he says: “This
person’s a fool; he doesn’t know what he's writing
about.” - -
(b) “Cause.” Themes. Although more powerful
than the “stump” or the pulpit today, and but little
less forceful than the newspaper as a means of expos-
ing intolerable conditions and ushering in new and
better knowledge, the stage is not the place for prop-
aganda. The public goes to the theatre to be enter-
tained, not instructed — particularly is this true of
vaudeville — and the writer daring enough to attempt
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I69
to administer even homeopathic doses of instruction,
must be a master-hand to win. Once in a genera-
tion a Shaw may rise, who, by a twist of his pen, can
make the public think, while he wears a guileful
Smile as he propounds philosophy from under a jest-
er’s cap; but even then his plays must be edited
– as some of Shaw's are – of all but the most dra-
matic of his belligerently impudent notions.
If you have a religious belief, a political creed, a
racial propagandum — in short, a “cause”—either to
defend or to forward, don’t write it in a drama. The
legitimate stage might be induced to present it, if
someone were willing to pay the theatre's losses, but
vaudeville does not want it. Choose any form of
presentation — a newspaper article, a magazine story,
anything at all — save a playlet for polemic or
“cause” themes.
(c) Hackneyed Themes. What has been “done to
death” in vaudeviller You know as well as the most
experienced playlet-writer, if you will only give the
subject unbiased thought. What are the things that
make you squirm in your seat and the man next you
reach for his hat and go out? A list would fill a page,
but there are two that should be mentioned because
so many playlets built upon them are now being
offered to producers without any hope of acceptance.
There is the “mistaken identity” theme, in which
the entire action hinges on one character's mistaking
another for someone else — one word spoken in time
would make the entire action needless, but the word
I7o WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
is never spoken — or there would be no playlet. And
the “henpecked husband,” or the mistreated wife,
who gets back at the final curtain, is a second.
Twenty years hence either one of these may be the
theme of the “scream” of the season, for stage fash-
ions change like women's styles, but, if you wish
your playlet produced today, don’t employ them.
(d) Improper Themes. Any theme that would
bring a blush to the cheek of your sister, of your wife,
of your daughter, you must avoid. No matter how
pure your motive might be in making use of such a
theme, resolutely deny it when it presents itself to
you. The fact that the young society girl who offered
me a playlet based on, to her, an amazing experience
down at the Women’s Night Court — where she saw
the women of the streets brought before the judge and
their “men” paying the fines — was a clean-minded,
big-hearted girl anxious to help better conditions, did
not make her theme any cleaner or her playlet any
better.
Of course, I do not mean that you must ignore
such conditions when your playlet calls for the use
of such characters. I mean that you should not base
your playlet entirely on such themes — you should
never make such a theme the chief reason of your
playlet’s being.
2. What Themes to Use
You may treat any subject or play upon any theme,
whatsoever it may be, provided it is not a “cause,”
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED 17I
is not hackneyed, is not improper for its own sake
and likely to bring a blush to the cheeks of those you
love, is familiar to you in its every angle, and is a
subject that forms a problem which can be proved
conclusively within the requirements of a playlet.
II. WHERE PLAYLET WRITERs GET THEIR IDEAs
I. The Three Forms of Dramatic Treatment
It is generally accepted by students of the novel
and the short-story that there are three ways of con-
structing a narrative: -
(a) Characters may be fitted with a story.
(b) A sequence of events may be fitted with char-
acters.
(c) An interesting atmosphere may be expressed by
characters and a sequence of events.
In other words, a narrative may be told by making
either the characters or the events or the atmosphere
peculiarly and particularly prominent.
It should be obvious that the special character of
vaudeville makes the last-named — the story of at-
mosphere — the least effective; indeed, as drama is
action — by which I mean a clash of wills and the
outcome — no audience would be likely to sit through
even twenty minutes of something which, after all,
merely results in a “feeling.” Therefore the very nature
of the pure story of atmosphere eliminates it from the
Stage; next in weakness of effect is the story of character;
while the strongest — blood of its blood and bone of
its bone — is the story of dramatic events. This
I72 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
is for what the stage is made and by which it lives.
To be sure, character and atmosphere both have
their places in the play of dramatic action, but for
vaudeville those places must be subordinate.
These last two ways of constructing a story will be
taken up and discussed in detail later on, in their
proper order; they are mentioned here to help make
clear how a playwright gets an idea.
2. Themes to fit Certain Players
It is not at all uncommon for a playlet writer to
be asked to fit some legitimate star, about to enter
vaudeville, with a playlet that shall have for its hero or
its heroine the particular character in which the star
has had marked success." And often a man and wife
who have achieved a reputation in vaudeville together
will order a new playlet that shall have characters
modeled on the lines of those in the old playlet. Or,
indeed, as I have know in many instances, three
performers will order a playlet in which there must
be characters to fit them all. When a writer receives
such an order it would seem that at least a part of
his task is already done for him; but this is not the
* In precisely the same way writers of the full-evening play for
the legitimate stage are forever fashioning vehicles for famous stars.
The fact that the chief consideration is the star and that the play
is considered merely as a “vehicle” is one of the reasons why our
plays are not always of the best. Where you consider a person-
ality greater than a story, the story is likely to suffer. Can you
name more than one or two recent plays so fashioned that have
won moré than a season's run? -
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I73
case, he still must seek that most important of all
things — a story.
3. Themes Born in the Mind of the Writer
The beginner, fortunately, is not brought face to
face with this problem; he is foot-free to wander
wherever his fancy leads. And yet he may find in
his thoughts a character or two who beg to serve
him so earnestly that he cannot deny them. So he
takes them, knowing them so well that he is sure he
can make them live – and he constructs a story
around them. *
Or there may first pop into his mind a story in its
entirety, full fledged, with beginning, middle and
ending — that is, thoroughly motivated in every part
and equipped with characters that live and breathe.
Unhappily this most fortunate of occurrences usually
happens only in the middle of the night, when one
must wake up next morning and sadly realize it was
but a dream.
4. The Newspaper as a Source of Ideas
A playwright, let us say, reads in the newspapers of
some striking characters, or of an event that appeals
to him as funny or as having a deep dramatic import.
There may be only a few bald lines telling the news
features of the story in one sentence, or there may be
an entire column, discussing the case from every angle.
Whatever it is, the bit of news appeals to him, and
maybe of all men to him only, so he starts thinking
about the possibilities it offers for a playlet.
I74 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
5. Happenings of which the Playwright is Told
or Which Occur under his Notice
Some striking incident rises out of the life about
the playwright and he sees it or hears about it, and
straightway comes the thought: This is a playlet
idea. A large number of playlets have been germi-
nated so.
6. Experiences that Happen to the Playwright
Some personal experience which wakens in the mind
of the playwright the thought, Here’s something
that'll make a good playlet, is one of the fruitful
Sources of playlet-germs. -
But however the germ idea comes to him —
whether as a complete story, or merely as one strik-
ing incident, or just a situation that recommends
itself to him as worth while fitting with a story —
he begins by turning it over in his mind and casting
it into dramatic form.
III. A SUPPOSITITIOUS ExAMPLE OF GERM-DEVEL-
OPMENT
For the purpose of illustration, let us suppose that
Taylor Granville, who conceived the idea of “The
System,” had read in the New York newspapers
about the Becker case and the startling exposé of the
alleged police “system” that grew out of the Rosen-
thal murder, here is how his mind, trained to vaude-
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I75
ville and dramatic conventions, might have evolved
that excellent melodramatic playlet."
The incidents of “the Becker Case” were these:
Herman Rosenthal, a gambler of notorious reputation,
one day went to District Attorney Whitman with the
story that he was being hounded by the police — at
the command of a certain Police Lieutenant. Rosen-
thal asserted that he had a story to tell which would
shake up the New York Police Department. He was
about to be called to testify to his alleged story when
he was shot to death in front of the Metropole Hotel
on Forty-third Street and the murderer or murderers
escaped in an automobile. Several notorious under-
world characters were arrested, charged with com-
plicity in the murder, and some, in the hope, it has
been said, of receiving immunity, Confessed and impli-
cated Police Lieutenant Becker, who was arrested on
1 As a matter of fact, Mr. Granville had the first draft of the
playlet in his trunk many months before the Rosenthal murder
occurred, and Mr. MacCree and Mr. Clark were helping him with
the final revisions when the fatal shot was fired.
In this connection it should be emphasized that the Becker case
did not make The System a great playlet; the investigation of
the New York Police Department only gave it the added attrac-
tion of timeliness and, therefore, drew particular attention to it.
Dozens of other playlets and many long plays that followed The
System on the wave of the same timely interest failed. Precisely
as Within the Law, Bayard Veiller's great play, so successful
for the Selwyn Company, was given a striking timeliness by the
Rosenthal murder, The System reaped merely the brimming
harvest of lucky accident. And like Within the Law, this great
playlet would be as successful today as it was then — because it is
“big” in itself.
176 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
the charge of being the instigator of the crime."
These are the bare facts as every newspaper in New
York City told them in glaring headlines at the time.
Merely as incidents of a striking story, Mr. Granville
would, it is likely, have turned them over in his mind
with these thoughts:
“If I take these incidents as they stand, I’ll have
a grewsome ending that’ll “go great’ for a while —
if the authorities let me play it — and then the play-
let will die with the waning interest. There isn’t
much that's dramatic in a gambler shown in the Dis-
trict Attorney’s Office planning to ‘squeal,” and then
getting shot for it, even though the police in the play-
let were made to instigate the murder. It'd make a
great ‘movie,’ perhaps, but there isn’t enough time
in vaudeville to go through all the motions: I’ve got
to recast it into drama.
“I must ‘forget’ the bloody ending, too—it may be
great drama, but it isn’t good vaudeville. The two-
a-day wants the happy ending, if it can get it.
“And even if the Becker story’s true in every detail,
Rosenthal isn’t a character with whom vaudeville
can sympathize — I’ll have to get a lesser offender, to
win sympathy — a ‘dip’s” about right — ‘The Eel.’
“There isn’t any love-interest, either — where's
the girl that sticks to him through thick and thin?
I'll add his sweetheart, Goldie. And I’ll give The
* Becker's subsequent trial, conviction, sentence to death and
execution occurred many months later and could not have entered
into the playwright's material, therefore they are not recounted
here. *
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I77
Eel more sympathy by making Dugan’s motive the
attempt to win her. -
“Then there's got to be the square Copper — the
public knows that the Police force is fundamentally
honest — so the Department has got to clean itself
up, in my playlet; fine, there's McCarthy, the hones
Inspector.” -
Here we have a little more, perhaps, than a bare
germ idea, but it is probably the sort of thing that
came into Mr. Granville’s mind with the very first
thought of “The System.” Even more might have
come during the first consideration of his new play-
let, and — as we are dealing now not with a germ
idea only but primarily with how a playwright’s
mind works — let us follow his supposititious reasoning
further:
“All right; now, there's got to be an incident that’ll
give Dugan his chance to “railroad’. The Eel, and a
money-Society turn is always good, so we have Mrs.
Worthington and the necklace, with Goldie, the sus-
pected maid, who casts suspicion on The Eel. Dugan
‘plants’ it all, gets the necklace himself, tries to lay
it to The Eel, and win Goldie besides — but a dicto-
graph shows him up. Now a man-to-man struggle
between Dugan and The Eel for good old melodrama.
The Eel is losing, in comes the Inspector and saves
him — Dugan caught — triumph of the honest police
— and Goldie and The Eel free to start life anew
together. That’s about it — for a starter, anyway.”
Re-read these dramatic incidents carefully, compare
I78 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE.
them with the incidents of the suggestive case as the
newspapers reported them, and you will see not only
where a playwright may get a germ idea, but how his
mind works in casting it into stage form.
The first thing that strikes you is the dissimilarity
of the two stories; the second, the greater dramatic
effectiveness of the plot the playlet-writer's mind has
evolved; third, that needless incidents have been cut
away; fourth, that the very premise of the story,
and all the succeeding incidents, lead you to recognize
them in the light of the denouement as the logical
first step and succeeding steps of which the final scene *
is inevitably the last; fifth, however many doubts
may hover around the story of the suggesting inci-
dent, there is no cloud of doubt about the perfect
justice of the stage story; and, sixth, that while you
greet the ending of the suggesting story with a feeling
of repugnance, the final scene of the stage story makes
the whole clearly, happily and pleasantly true —
truer than life itself, to human hearts which forever
aspire after what we sometimes sadly call “poetic
justice.”
Now, in a few short paragraphs, we may sum up
the answer to the question which opens this chapter,
and answer the other two questions as well.
A playlet writer may get the germ of a playlet
idea: from half-ideas suggested by the necessity of
fitting certain players; directly from his own imag-
ination; from the newspapers; from what someone
HOW PLAYLETS ARE GERMINATED I79
tells him, or from his observation of incidents that
come under his personal notice; from experiences that
happen to him — in fact, from anywhere.
IV. How A PLAYLET WRITER RECOGNIZES A PLAY-
- LET IDEA
A playlet writer recognizes that the character or
characters, the incident or incidents, possess a funny,
Serious or tragic grip, and the fact that he, himself, is
gripped, is evidence that a playlet is “there,” if –
IF — he can trust his own dramatic instinct. A
playlet writer recognizes an idea as a playlet idea,
because he is able so to recognize such an idea; there
is no escape from this: YOU MUST POSSESS
DRAMATIC INSTINCT * to recognize playlet ideas
and write playlets.
V. How MUCH OF THE PLAYLET IS ACHIEVED
WITH THE IDEA
No two persons in this world act alike, and cer-
tainly no two persons think alike. How much of a
playlet is achieved when the germ idea is found
and recognized, depends somewhat upon the idea –
whether it is of characters that must be fitted with
a story, a series of incidents, or one incident only —
but more upon the writer. I have known playlets
which were the results of ideas that originated in the
concepts of clever final situations, the last two min-
utes of the playlet serving as the incentive to the
* See the following chapter on “The Dramatic — the Vital
Element of Plot.”
I8o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
construction of the story that led inevitably up to
the climax. I have also known playlets whose big
Scenes were the original ideas – the opening and finish
being fitted to them. One or two writers have told
me of playlets which came almost entirely organized
and motivated into their minds with the first appear-
ance of the germ idea. And others have told me of
the hours of careful thinking through which they saw,
in divers half-purposes of doubt, the action and the
characters emerge into a definite, purposeful whole.
What one writer considers a full-fledged germ idea,
may be to another but the first faint evidence that
an idea may possibly be there. The skilled playlet-
writer will certainly grasp a germ idea, and appraise
its worth quicker than the novice can. In the eager
acceptance of half-formed ideas that speciously glitter,
lies the pitfall which entraps many a beginner.
Therefore, engrave on the tablets of your resolution
this determination and single standard:
Never accept a subject as a germ idea and
begin to write a playlet until you have turned
its theme over in your mind a sufficient length
of time to establish its worth beyond question.
Consider it from every angle in the light of the
suggestions in this chapter, and make its
characters and its action as familiar to you as
is the location of every article in your own
room. Then, when your instinct for the dra-
matic tells you there is no doubt that here is
the germ idea of a playlet, state it in one short.
HOW PLAYT.ETS ARE GERMINATED 181
sentence, and consider that statement as a
problem that must be solved logically, clearly
and conclusively, within the requirements of the
playlet form.
With the germ idea the entire playlet may flood
into the writer’s mind, or come in little waves that
rise continually, like the ever advancing tide, to the
flood that touches high-water mark. But, however
complete the germ idea may be, it depends upon the
writer alone whether he struggles like a novice to
keep his dramatic head above water, or strikes out
with the bold, free strokes of the practised swimmer.
CHAPTER XIII
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT
What the dramatic is — no matter whether it be
serious or comic in tone – requires some considera-
tion in a volume such as this, even though but a brief
discussion is possible and only a line of thought may
be pointed out. -
This discussion is placed here in the sequence of
chapters, because it first begins to trouble the novice
after he has accepted his germ idea, and before he
has succeeded in casting it into a stage story. Indeed,
at that moment even the most self-sure becomes con-
scious of the demands of the dramatic. Yet this
chapter will be found to overlap some that precede
it and some that follow – particularly the chapter
on plot structure, of which this discussion may be
considered an integral part – as is the case in every
attempt to put into formal words, principles separate
in theory, but inseparable in application.
In the previous chapter, the conscious thought
that precedes even the acceptance of a germ idea
was insisted on — it was “played up,” as the stage
phrase terms a scene in which the emotional key is
pitched high — with the purpose of forcing upon
your attention the prime necessity of thinking out—
not yet writing – the playlet. Emphasis was also
laid on the necessity for the possession of dramatic
instinct — a gift far different from the ability to
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT I83
think — by anyone who would win success in writing
this most difficult of dramatic forms. But now I
wish to lay an added stress — to pitch even higher
the key of emphasis – on one fundamental, this vital
necessity: Anyone who would write a playlet must
possess in himself, as an instinct – something that
cannot be taught and cannot be acquired — the abil-
ity to recognize and grasp the dramatic.
No matter if you master the technic by which the
great dramatists have built their plays, you cannot
achieve success in writing the playlet if you do not
possess an innate sense of what is dramatic. For,
just as a man who is tone-deaf" might produce musi-
cal manuscripts which while technically faultless
would play inharmoniously, so the man who is drama-
blind might produce “perfect” playlet manuscripts
that would play in dramatic discords.
I. What Dramatic Instinct Is
When you witness a really thrilling scene in a play
you find yourself sitting on the edge of your seat;
you clench your hands until the nails sink into your
flesh; tears roll down your cheeks at other scenes,
until you are ashamed of your emotion and wipe
them furtively away; and you laugh uproariously at
still other Scenes. But your quickened heart-beats,
your tears, and your laughter are, however, no evi-
dence that you possess dramatic instinct – they are a
* Not organically defective, as were the ears of the great com-
poser, Beethoven, but tone-deaf, as a person may be color-blind.
184 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE *
tribute to the possession of that gift in the person
who wrote the play. So do not confuse appreciation
— the ultimate result of another's gift — with the
ability to create: they are two very different things.
No more does comprehension of a dramatist’s
methods — a sort of detached and often cold appre-
ciation — indicate the posession of gifts other than
those of the critic.
Dramatic instinct is the ability to see the
dramatic moments in real life; to grasp the
dramatic possibilities; to pick out the thrills,
the tears and the laughter; and to lift these
out from the mass and set them — combined,
coherent and convincing — in a story that
seems truer than life itself, when unfolded on
the stage by characters who are more real than
reality." ..”
Yet, true as it is that dramatic ability inevitably
shines through finished drama when it is well played
upon the stage, there are so many determining fac-
tors of pleasing theme, acting, production and even
1 Amiel in his Journal says: “The ideal, after all, is truer than
the real; for the ideal is the eternal element in perishable things;
it is their type, their sum, their “raison d’être,’ their formula in the
book of the Creator, and therefore at once the most exact and the
most condensed expression of them.”
Elizabeth Woodbridge in her volume, The Drama, says: “It is
in finding the mean between personal narrowness which is too
selective, and photographic impersonality that is not selective at
all, that the individuality of the artist, his training, and his ideals,
are tested. It is this that determines how much his work shall
possess of what we may call poetic, or artistic, truth.”
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 18 5
of audience — and so many little false steps both in
manuscript and presentation, which might be counted
unfortunate accident — that the failure of a play is
not always a sure sign that the playwright lacks
dramatic instinct. If it were, hardly one of our
successful dramatists of today would have had the
heart to persevere — for some wrote twenty full-
evening plays before one was accepted by a manager,
and then plodded through one or more stage failures
before they were rewarded with final success. If
producing managers could unerringly tell who has
dramatic instinct highly developed and who has it
not at all, there would be few play failures and the
show-business would cease to be a gamble that Sur-
passes even horse-racing for hazard.
Not only is it impossible for anyone to weigh the
quantity or to assay the quality of dramatic instinct
— whether in his own or another’s breast – but it is
as nearly impossible for anyone to decide from read-
ing a manuscript whether a play will succeed or fail.
Charles Frohman is reported to have said: “A man
who could pick out winners would be worth a salary
of a million dollars a year.”
And even when a play is put into rehearsal the
most experienced men in the business cannot tell
unerringly whether it will succeed or fail before an
audience. An audience — the heart of the crowd,
the intellect of the mass, whatever you wish to call
it — is at once the jury that tries a play and the
judge who pronounces sentence to speedy death or a
I86 WRITING FOR WAUDEVIII.E.
N
long and happy life. It is an audience, the “crowd,”
that awards the certificate of possession of dramatic
instinct."
1 From three of the ablest critics of the “theatre crowd.” I
quote a tabloid statement:
“The theatre is a function of the crowd,” says Brander Mat-
thews, “and the work of the dramatist is conditioned by the audi-
ence to which he meant to present it. In the main, this influence
is wholesome, for it tends to bring about a dealing with themes of
universal interest. To some extent, it may be limiting and even
harmful — but to what extent we cannot yet determine in our
present ignorance of that psychology of the crowd which LeBon
has analyzed so interestingly.” - - -
Here is M. LeBon’s doctrine neatly condensed by Clayton Ham-
ilton: “The mental qualities in which men differ from one another
are the acquired qualities of intellect and character; but the quali-
ties in which they are one are basic passions of the race. A crowd,
therefore, is less intellectual and more emotional than the indi-
viduals that compose it. It is less reasonable, less judicious, less
disinterested, more credulous, more primitive, more partisan; and
hence, a man, by the mere fact that he forms a part of an organ-
ized crowd, descends several rungs on the ladder of civilization.
Even the most cultured and intellectual of men, when he forms an
atom of a crowd, loses consciousness of his acquired mental
qualities, and harks back to his primal nakedness of mind. The
dramatist, therefore, because he writes for the crowd, writes for an
uncivilized and uncultivated mind, a mind richly human, vehement
in approbation, violent in disapproval, easily credulous, eagerly
enthusiastic, boyishly heroic, and carelessly thinking.”
And Clayton Hamilton himself adds that, “ . . . both in its
sentiments and in its opinions, the crowd is hugely commonplace.
It is incapable of original thought and of any but inherited emotion.
It has no speculation in its eyes. What it feels was felt before
the flood; and what it thinks, its fathers thought before it. The
most effective moments in the theatre are those that appeal to
commonplace emotions — love of women, love of home, love of
country, love of right, anger, jealousy, revenge, ambition, lust and
treachery.” -
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PI,OT 187
2. What “Good Drama”. Is
By what standards, then, do producers decide.
whether a play has at least a good chance of success?
How is it possible for a manager to pick a successful
play even once in a while? Why is it that managers
do not produce failures all the time? -
Leaving outside of our consideration the question
of changeable fashions in themes, and the commercial
element (which includes the number of actors required,
the scenery, costumes and similar factors), let us de-
vote our attention, as the manager does, to the deter-
mining element — the story. -
Does the story grip? Does it thrill? Does it lure
to laughter? Does it touch to tears? Is it well con-
structed — that is, does it interest every minute of
the time? Is every word, is every action, thoroughly
motivated? Is the dialogue fine P Are the characters
interesting, lovable, hateable, laughable, to be remem-
bered? Does it state its problem clearly, so that
everyone can comprehend it, develop its angle absorb-
ingly, and end, not merely stop, with complete satis-
faction? Could one little scene be added, Or even. One
little passage be left out, without marring the whole?
Is it true to life — truer than life? If it is all this,
it is good drama.
Good drama is therefore more than plot. It is
more than story plus characters, dialogue, acting,
costumes, scenery – it is more than them all com-
bined. Just as a man is more than his body, his
I88 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
speech, his dress, his movings to and fro in the scenes
where he plays out his life, and even more than his
deeds, so is a play more than the sum of all its parts.
Every successful play, every great playlet, possesses
a soul — a character, if you like — that carries a
message to its audiences by means which cannot be
analyzed.
But the fact that the soul of a great play cannot.
be analyzed does not prevent some other dramatist
from duplicating the miracle in another play. And it
is from a study of these great plays that certain
mechanics of the drama — though, of course, they
cannot explain the hidden miracle — have been laid
down as laws.
3. What is Dramatic 2
These few observations upon the nature of drama,
which have scarcely been materially added to since
Aristotle laid down the first over two thousand
years ago, will be taken up and discussed in their
relation to the playlet in the chapter on plot con-
struction. Here they have no place, because we are
concerned now not with how the results are obtained,
but with what they are. *
Let us approach our end by the standard definition
route. The word “drama” is defined by Webster as,
“A composition in poetry or prose, or both, represent-
ing a picture of human life, arranged for action, and
having a plot, developed by the words and actions
of its characters, which culminates in a final situation
THE DRAMATIC - THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PILOT I89
of human interest. It is usually designed for produc-
tion on the stage, with the accessories of costumes,
scenery, music, etc.”
“Dramatic,” is defined as, “Of or pertaining to
the drama; represented by action; appropriate to
or in the form of a drama; theatrical. Characterized
by the force and fidelity appropriate to the drama.”
In this last sentence we have the first step to what
we are seeking: anything to be dramatic must be
forceful, and it also must be faithful to life. And
in the preceding sentence, “dramatic . . . is theat-
rical,” we have a second step.
But what is “forceful,” and why does Webster
define anything that is dramatic as “theatrical”?
To define one shadow by the name of another shadow
is not making either clearer. However, the necessary
looseness of the foregoing definitions is why they are
So valuable to us — they are most suggestive.
If the maker of a dictionary," hampered by space
restrictions, finds it necessary to define “dramatic”
by the word “theatrical,” we may safely assume that
theatrical effect has a foundation in the very heart
of man. How many times have you heard someone
say of another's action, “Oh, he did that just for
theatrical effect”? Instantly you knew that the
speaker was accusing the other of a desire to impress
you by a carefully calculated action, either of the
* Webster's Dictionary was chosen because it is, historically,
closely associated with American life, and therefore would seem to
reflect the best American thought upon the peculiar form of our
own drama.
I90 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
fineness of his own character or of the necessity and
righteousness of your doing what he suggested so force-
fully. We need not go back several thousand years
to Aristotle to determine what is dramatic. In the
promptings of our own hearts we can find the answer."
What is dramatic, is not what falls out as things
ordinarily occur in life’s flow of seemingly discon-
nected happenings; it is what occurs with precision
and purpose, and with results which are eventually
recognizable as being far beyond the forces that show
upon its face. In an illuminating flash that reveals
character, we comprehend what led up to that instant
and what will follow. It is the revealing flash that
is dramatic. Drama is a series of revealing flashes.
“This is not every-day life,” we say, “but typical
life — life as it would be if it were compactly ordered
— life purposeful, and leading Surely to an evident
somewhere.” -
And, as man’s heart beats high with hope and ever
throbs with justice, those occurrences that fall out
as he would wish them are the ones he loves the best;
in this we find the reason for “poetic justice” —
the “happy ending.” For, as “man is of such stuff
as dreams are made of,” so are his plays made of his
dreams. Here is the foundation of what is dramatic.
Yet, the dramatic ending may be unhappy, if it
* Shelley, in his preface to Cenci, says: “The highest moral
purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama is the teaching
of the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the
knowledge of itself.”
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT IQI
rounds the play out with big and logical design.
Death is not necessarily poignantly sad upon the
stage, because death is life’s logical end. And who
can die better than he who dies greatly?" Defeat,
sorrow and suffering have a place as exquisitely fit-
ting as success, laughter and gladness, because they
are inalienable elements of life. Into every life a
little sadness must come, we know, and so the lives
of our stage-loves may be “draped with woe,” and
we but love them better.
Great souls who suffer, either by the hand of Fate,
or unjustly through the machinations of their enemies,
win our sympathy for their sorrows and our admira-
tion by their noble struggles. If Fate dooms them,
there may be no escape, and still we are content;
but if they suffer by man’s design, there must be
escape from Sorrow and defeat through happiness to
triumph — for, if it were not so, they would not be
great. The heart of man demands that those he
loves upon the stage succeed, or fail greatly, because
the hero’s dreams are our dreams — the hero’s life
is ours, the hero’s Sorrows are our own, and because
they are ours, the hero must triumph over his enemies.
* “The necessity that tragedy and the serious drama shall possess
an element of greatness or largeness — call it nobility, elevation,
what you will — has always been recognized. The divergence has
come when men have begun to say what they meant by that qual-
ity, and — which is much the same thing — how it is to be attained.
Even Aristotle, when he begins to analyze methods, sounds, at
first hearing, a little superficial.” Elizabeth Woodbridge, The
Drama, pp. 23–24.
I92 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
4. The Law of the Drama
Thus, for the very reason that life is a conflict and
because man’s heart beats quickest when he faces
another man, and leaps highest when he conquers
him, the essence of the dramatic is — conflict. Vol-
taire in one of his letters said that every scene in a
play should represent a combat. In “Memories and
Portraits,” Stevenson says: “A good serious play
must be founded on one of the passionate cruces of
life, where duty and inclination come nobly to the
grapple.” Goethe, in his “William Meister” says:
“All events oppose him [the hero) and he either clears
and removes every obstacle out of his path, or else
becomes their victim.” But it was the French critic,
Perdinand Brunetière, who defined dramatic law most
sharply and clearly, and reduced it to such simple
terms that we may state it in this one free sentence:
“Drama is a struggle of wills and its outcome.”
In translating and expounding Brunetière’s theory,
Brander Matthews in his “A Study of the Drama”
condenses the French critic's reasoning into these
illuminating paragraphs:
“It [the drama] must have some essential principle
of its own. If this essential principle can be discov-
ered, then we shall be in possession of the sole law
of the drama, the one obligation which all writers
for the stage must accept. Now, if we examine a
collection of typical plays of every kind, tragedies and
melodramas, comedies and farces, we shall find that
THE DRAMATIC – THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 193
the starting point of every one of them is the same.
Some one central character wants something; and
this exercise of volition is the mainspring of the
action. . . . In every successful play, modern or an-
cient, we shall find this clash of contending desires,
this assertion of the human will against strenuous
opposition of one kind or another.
“Brunetière made it plain that the drama must
reveal the human will in action; and that the central
figure in a play must know what he wants and must
strive for it with incessant determination. . . . Action
in the drama is thus seen to be not mere movement
or external agitation; it is the expression of a will
which knows itself.
“The French critic maintained also that, when this
law of the drama was once firmly grasped, it helped
to differentiate more precisely the several dramatic
species. If the obstacles against which the will of
the hero has to contend are insurmountable, Fate or
Providence or the laws of nature — then there is
tragedy, and the end of the struggle is likely to be
death, since the hero is defeated in advance. But if
these obstacles are not absolutely insurmountable,
being only social conventions and human prejudices,
then the hero has a chance to attain his desire,
and in this case, we have the serious drama without
an inevitably fatal ending. Change this obstacle a
little, equalize the conditions of the struggle, set two
wills in opposition — and we have comedy. And if
the obstacle is of still a lower order, merely an ab-
I94 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
surdity of custom, for instance, we find ourselves in
farce.” -
Here we have, sharply and brilliantly stated, the
sole law of drama – whether it be a play in five acts
requiring two hours and a half to present, or a playlet
taking but twenty minutes. This one law is all that
the writer need keep in mind as the great general
guide for plot construction.
Today, of course, as in every age when the drama is
a bit more virile than in the years that have imme-
diately preceded it, there is a tendency to break away
from conventions and to cavil at definitions. This is
a sign of health, and has in the past often been the
first faint stirring which betokened the awakening of
the drama to greater uses. In the past few years,
the stage, both here and abroad, has been throbbing
with dramatic unrest. The result has been the pres-
entation of oddities — a mere list of whose names
would fill a short chapter — which have aimed to “be
different.” And in criticising these oddities — whose
differences are more apparent than real – critics
of the soundness and eminence of Mr. William Archer
in England, and Mr. Clayton Hamilton in America,
have taken the differences as valid ground for oppos-
ing Brunetière’s statement of the law of the drama.
Mr. Hamilton, in his thought-provoking “Studies
in Stage-craft,” takes occasion to draw attention to
the fact that Brunetière’s statement is not as old as
Aristotle's comments on the drama. Mr. Hamilton
seemingly objects to the eagerness with which Bru-
THE DRAMATIC – THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 195
netière’s statement was accepted when first it was
made, less than a quarter century ago, and the tenac-
ity with which it has been held ever since; while
acknowledging its general soundness he denies its
truth, more on account of its youth, it would seem,
than on account of the few exceptions that “prove
it,” putting to one side, or forgetting, that its youth
is not a fault but a virtue, for had it been stated in
Aristotle's day, Brunetière would not have had the
countless plays from which to draw its truth, after
the fruitful manner of a scientist working in a lab-
oratory on innumerable specimens of a species. Yet
Mr. Hamilton presents his criticism with such critical
skill that he sums it all up in these judicial sentences:
“. . . But if this effort were ever perfectly suc-
cessful, the drama would cease to have a reason for
existence, and the logical consequence would be an
abolition of the theatre. . . . But on the other hand,
if we judge the apostles of the new realism less by
their ultimate aims than by their present achieve-
ments, we must admit that they are rendering a very
useful service by holding the mirror up to many
interesting contrasts between human characters which
have hitherto been ignored in the theatre merely
because they would not fit into the pattern of the
well-made play.”
As to the foremost critical apostle of the “new
realism” — which seeks to construct plays which
begin anywhere and have no dramatic ending and
would oppose the force of wills by a doubtfully differ-
I96 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
^.
ent “negation of wills” — let us now turn to Mr.
William Archer and his very valuable definition of the
dramatic in his “Play-Making”:
“The only really valid definition of the dramatic
is: any representation of imaginary personages which
is capable of interesting an average audience assem-
bled in a theatre. . . . Any further attempt to limit
the term ‘dramatic’ is simply the expression of an
opinion that such-and-such forms of representation
will not be found to interest an audience; and this
opinion may always be rebutted by experiment.”
Perhaps a truer and certainly as inclusive an obser-
vation would be that the word “dramatic,” like the
words “picturesque” and “artistic,” has one meaning
that is historical and another that is creative or
prophetic. To say of anything that it is dramatic
is to say that it partakes of the nature of all drama
that has gone before, for “ic” means “like.” But
dramatic does not mean only this, it means besides,
as Alexander Black expresses it, that “the new writer
finds all the world's dramatic properties gathered as
in a storehouse for his instruction. Under the inspi-
ration of the life of the hour, the big man will gather
from them what is dramatic today, and the bigger
man will See, not only what was dramatic yesterday
and what is dramatic today, but what will be dra-
matic tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.”
Now these admirably broad views of the drama
and the dramatic are presented because they are sug-
gestive of the unrestricted paths that you may tread
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 197
in Selecting your themes and deciding on your treat-
ment of them in your playlets. True, they danger-
ously represent the trend of “individualism,” and a
master of stagecraft may be individual in his plot
forms and still be great, but the novice is very likely
to be only silly. So read and weigh these several
theories with care. Be as individual as you like in
the choice of a theme — the more you express your
individuality the better your work is likely to be —
but in your treatment tread warily in the footprints
of the masters, whose art the ages have proved to be
true. Then you stand less chance of straying into
the underbrush and losing yourself where there are no
trails and where no one is likely to hear from you again.
5. The Essence of the Dramatic lies in Meaning, not
in Movement or in Speech
But clear and illuminating as these statements of
the law of the drama are, one point needs slight
expansion, and another vital point, not yet touched
upon, should be stated, in a volume designed not for
theory but for practice.
The first is, “Action in the drama is thus seen to
be not mere movement or external agitation; it is
the expression of a will which knows itself.” Para-
doxical as it may seem, action that is dramatic is not
“action,” as the word is commonly understood.
Physical activity is not considered at all; the ac-
tion of a play is not acting, but plot — story. Does
the story move — not the bodies of the actors, but the
198 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
merely mental recounting of the narrative? As the
French state the principle in the form of a command,
“Get on with the story! Get on!” This is one-half
of the playwright’s action-problem.
The other half — the other question — deals, not
with the story itself, but with how it is made to “get
on.” How it is told in action — still mental and
always mental, please note — is what differentiates
the stage story from other literary forms like the
novel and the short-story. It must be told dramat-
ically or it is not a stage story; and the dramatic
element must permeate its every fibre. Not only
must the language be dramatic – slang may in a
given situation be the most dramatic language that
could be used — and not only must the quality of
the story itself be dramatic, but the scene-steps by
which the story is unfolded must scintillate with the
soul of the dramatic — revealing flashes.
To sum up, the dramatic, in the final analysis, has
nothing whatever to do with characters moving agi-
tatedly about the stage, or with moving at all, because
the dramatic lies not in what happens but in what
the happening means. Even a murder may be
undramatic, while the mere utterance of the word
“Yes,” by a paralyzed woman to a paralyzed man
may be the most dramatic thing in the world.
Let us take another instance: Here is a stage —
in the centre are three men bound or nailed to crosses.
The man at the left turns to the one in the middle
and Sneers: -
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 199
“If you’re a god, save yourself and us.”
The one at the left interrupts,
“Keep quiet! We're guilty, we deserve this, but
this Man doesn't.”
And the Man in the centre says,
“This day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”
Could there be anything more dramatic than that?!
To carry this truth still further, let me offer two
examples out of scores that might be quoted to
prove that the dramatic may not even depend upon
speech.
In one of Bronson Howard’s plays, a man the police
are after conspires with his comrades to get him
safely through the Cordon of guards by pretending
that he is dead. They carry him out, his face covered
with a cloth. A policeman halts them — not a word
is spoken — and the policeman turns down the cover
from the face. Dramatic as this all is, charged as it
is with meaning to the man there on the stretcher
and to his comrades, there is even more portentous
meaning in the facial expression of the policeman as
he reverently removes his helmet and motions the
bearers to go on — the man has really died.
The movements are as simple and unagitated as
one could imagine, and not one word is spoken, yet
could you conceive of anything more dramatic?
Do not attempt to stage this sacred scene. However, Ran
Kennedy, who wrote The Servant in the House, did so at Win-
throp Ames' Little Theatre, New York, in an evening of one-act
plays, with surprising results. *
2OO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Again, one of the master-strokes in Bulwer-Lytton's
“Richelieu’’ is where the Cardinal escapes from the
Swords of his enemies who rush into his sleeping
apartments to slay him, by lying down on his bed
with his hands crossed upon his breast, and by his
ward’s lover (but that instant won to loyalty to
Richelieu) announcing to his fellow conspirators that
they have come too late — old age has forestalled
them, “Richelieu is dead.”
6. Comedy is Achieved in the Same Dramatic Way
The only difference between the sublime and the
ridiculous is the proverbial step. The sad and the
funny are merely a difference of opinion, of viewpoint.
Tragedy and comedy are only ways of looking at
things. Often it is but a difference of to whom the
circumstance happens, whether it is excruciatingly
funny or unutterably sad. If you are the person to
whom it happens, there is no argument about it —
it is sad; but the very same thing happening to
another person would be — funny. -
Take for example, the everyday occurrence of a
high wind and a flying hat: If the hat is yours, you
chase it with unutterable thoughts — not the least
being the consciousness that hundreds may be laugh-
ing at you — and if, just as you are about to seize
the hat, a horse steps on it, you feel the tragedy of
going all the way home without a hat amid the stares
of the curious, and the Sorrow of having to spend your
good money to buy another.
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PIOT 26f
But let that hat be not yours but another's and
not you but somebody else be chasing it, and the
grins will play about your mouth until you smile.
Then let the horse step on the hat and squash it into
a parody of a headgear, just as that somebody else
is about to retrieve it — and you will laugh outright.
As Elizabeth Woodbridge in summing up says, “the
whole matter is seen to be dependent on perception
of relations and the assumption of a standard of
reference.” - -
Incidentally the foregoing example is a very clear
instance of the comic effect that, like the serious or
tragic effect, is achieved without words. Any num-
ber of examples of comedy which secure their effect
without action will occur to anyone, from the instance
of the lackadaisical Englishman who sat disconsolately -
on the race track fence, and welcomed the jockey
who had ridden the losing horse that had swept away
all his patrimony, with these words: “Aw, I say,
what detained you?”" to the comedy that was achieved
without movement or words in the expressive glance
that the owner of the crushed headgear gave the guile-
less horse. -
Precisely as the tragic and the serious depend for
their best effects upon character-revealing flashes
and the whole train of incidents which led up to the
* It would seem needless to state categorically that the sources
of humor, and the technical means by which comedy is made
comic, have no place in the present discussion. We are only con-
cerned with the flashes by which comedy, like tragedy, is revealed.
2O2 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
instant and lead away from it, does the comic depend
upon the revealing flash that is the essence of the
dramatic, the veritable Soul of the stage.
7. Tragedy, the Serious, Comedy, and Farce, all De-
pend on their Dramatic M eaning in the Minds
of the Audience
No matter by what technical means dramatic effect
is secured, whether by the use of words and agi-
tated movement, or without movement, or without
words, or sans both, matters not; the illuminating
flash which reveals the thought behind it all, the
meaning to the characters and their destiny — in
which the audience is breathlessly interested because
they have all unconsciously taken sides – is what
makes the dramatic. Let me repeat: It is not the
incident, whatever it may be, that is dramatic, but
the illuminating flash that reveals to the minds of the
audience the meaning of it.
Did you ever stand in front of a newspaper office
and watch the board on which a baseball game,
contested perhaps a thousand miles away, is being
played with markers and a tiny ball on a string?
There is no playing field stretching its cool green
diamond before that crowd, there are no famous play-
ers present, there is no crowd of adoring fans jam-
ming grand stand and bleachers; there is only a small
board, with a tiny ball swaying uncertainly on its
string, an invisible man to operate it, markers to
THE DRAMATIC — THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 203
show the runs, and a little crowd of hot, tired men
and office boys mopping their faces in the shadeless,
dirty street. There's nothing pretty or pleasant or
thrillingly dramatic about this.
But wait until the man behind the board gets the
flashes that tell him that a Cravath has knocked the
ball over the fence and brought in the deciding run in
the pennant race! Out on the board the little sway-
ing ball flashes over the mimic fence, the tiny piece
of wood slips to first and chases the bits of wood that
represent the men on second and third — home!
“Hurray! Hurray!! Hurray!!!” yell those weary men
and office boys, almost bursting with delight. Over
what? Not over the tiny ball that has gone back to
swaying uncertainly on its string, not over the tiny
bits of board that are now shoved into their resting
place, not even over those runs — but over what those
runs mean /
And so the playlet writer makes his audience go wild
with delight — not by scenery, not by costumes, not
by having famous players, not by beautifully written
speeches, not even by wonderful scenes that flash
the dramatic, but by what those scenes in the appeal-
ing story mean to the characters and their destiny,
whereby each person in the audience is made to be
as interested as though it were to him these things
were happening with all their dramatic meaning of
Sadness or gladness.
However, it is to the dramatic artist only that abil-
ity is given to breathe nobility into the whole and
2O4 - WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
to charge the singleness of effect with a vitality which
marks a milestone in countless lives. r
In this chapter we have found that the essence of
drama is conflict — a clash of wills and its outcome;
that the dramatic consists in those flashes which reveal
life at its significant, crucial moments; and that the dra-
matic method is the way of telling the story with such
economy of attention that it is comprehended by
means of those illuminating flashes which both reveal
character and show in an instant all that led up to
the crisis as well as what will follow.
Now let us combine these three doctrines in the fol-
lowing definition, which is peculiarly applicable to the
playlet: -
Drama — whether it be serious or comic in
tone — is a representation of reality arranged
for action, and having a plot which is developed
to a logical conclusion by the words and actions
of its characters and showing a single Silualion
of big human interest; the whole is told in a
series of revealing flashes of which the final
ſilluminating revelation rounds out the entire
plot and leaves the audience with a single
vivid impression.
Finally, we found that the physical movements of the
characters often have nothing to do with Securing dra-
matic effect, and that even words need not of necessity
be employed. Hence dramatic effect in its final analysis
depends upon what meaning the various minor scenes
THE DRAMATIC – THE VITAL ELEMENT OF PLOT 205
and the final big situation have for the characters
and their destinies, and that this dramatic effect
depends, furthermore, upon the big broad meaning
which it bears to the minds of the audience, who
have taken sides and feel that the chief character's
life and destiny represent their own, or what they
would like them to be, or fear they might be.
In the next chapter we shall see how the dramatic
spirit is given form by plot structure.
CHAPTER XIV
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PI, OT
In the chapter on the germ idea we saw that the
theme or subject of a playlet is a problem that must
be solved with complete satisfaction. In this chap-
ter we shall see how the problem – which is the first
creeping form of a plot — is developed and expanded
by the application of formal elements and made to
grow into a plot. At the same time we shall see how
the dramatic element of plot — discussed in the pre-
ceding chapter — is given form and direction in log-
ical expression.
I. WHAT IS A PLAYLET PLOTP
You will recall that our consideration of the germ
idea led us farther afield than a mere consideration of
a theme or subject, or even of the problem – as we
agreed to call the spark that makes the playlet go.
In showing how a playlet writer gets an idea and how
his mind works in developing it, we took the problem
of “The System” and developed it into a near-plot
form. It may have seemed to you at the time that
the problem we assumed for the purpose of exposi-
tion was worked out very carefully into a plot, but
if you will turn back to it now, you will realize how
incomplete the elaboration was – it was no more
complete than any germ idea should be before you
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 2O7
even consider spending time to build it into a
playlet.
Let us now determine definitely what a playlet
plot is, consider its structural elements and then take
one of the fine examples of a playlet in the Appendix
and see how its plot is constructed.
The plot of a playlet is its story. It is the general
outline, the plan, the skeleton which is covered by
the flesh of the characters and clothed by their words.
If the theme or problem is the heart that beats with
life, then the scenery amid which the animated body
moves is its habitation, and the dramatic spirit is the
Soul that reveals meaning in the whole.
To hazard a definition:
A playlet plot is a sequence of events logically
developed out of a theme or problem, into a
crisis or entanglement due to a conflict of the
characters’ wills, and then logically untangled
again, leaving the characters in a different
relation to each other — changed in them-
selves by the crisis.
Note that a mere series of incidents does not make
a plot — the presence of crisis is absolutely necessary
to plot. If the series of events does not develop a
complication that changes the characters in themselves
and in their relations to each other, there can be no plot.
If this is so, let us now take the sequence of events
that compose the story of “The Lollard” and see
* Edgar Allan Woolf’s fine satirical comedy to be found in
the Appendix.
2O8 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
what constitutes them a plot. I shall not restate
its story, only repeat it in the examination of its
various points."
The coming of Angela Maxwell to Miss Carey's
door at 2 A.M. – unusual as is the hour — is just an
event; the fact that Angela has left her husband,
Harry, basic as it is, is but little more than an event;
the entrance of the lodger, Fred Saltus, is but another
event, and even Harry Maxwell’s coming in search
of his wife is merely an event — for if Harry had
sat down and argued Angela out of her pique, even
though Fred were present, there would have been no
complication, save for the cornerstone motive of her
having left him. If this sequence of events forms
merely a mildly interesting narrative, what, then, is
the complication that weaves them into a plot?
The answer is, in Angela’s falling in love with Fred's
broad shoulders, wealth of hair and general good
looks — this complication develops the crisis out of
Harry’s wanting Angela. . If Harry hadn’t cared,
there would have been no drama — the drama comes
from Harry’s wanting Angela when Angela wants
Fred; Angela wants something that runs counter to
* As a side light, you see how a playlet theme differs from a
playlet plot. You will recall that on page 166, in the chapter
on “The Germ. Idea,” the theme of The Lollard was thus stated
in terms of a playlet problem: “A foolish young woman may
leave her husband because she has “found him out,’ yet return to
him when she discovers that another man is no better than he is.”
Compare this brief statement with the full statement of the plot
given hereafter.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PILOT 209
Harry's will — there is the clash of wills out of which
flashes the dramatic.
But still there would be no plot — and consequently
no playlet — if Harry had acknowledged himself
beaten after his first futile interview with Angela.
The entanglement is there — Harry has to untangle
it. He has to win Angela again — and how he does
it, on Miss Carey's tip, you may know from reading
the playlet. But, if you have read it, did you realize
the dramatic force of the unmasking of Fred — accom-
plished without (explanatory) words, merely by mak-
ing Fred run out on the stage and dash back into his
room again? There is a fine example of the revealing
flash! This incident — made big by the dramatic —
is the ironical solvent that loosens the warp of An-
gela's will and prepares her for complete surrender.
Harry’s entrance in full regimentals — what woman
does not love a uniform? — is merely the full rounding
out of the plot that ends with Harry’s carrying his
little wife home to happiness again.
But, let us pursue this examination further, in the
light of the preceding chapter. There would have
been no drama if the meaning of these incidents had
not — because Angela is a “character” and Harry
one, too — been inherent in them. There would have
been no plot, nothing of dramatic spirit, if Harry
had not been made by those events to realize his
mistake and Angela had not been made to see that
Harry was “no worse” than another man. It is the
change in Harry and the change in Angela that changes
2IO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
their relations to each other — therein lies the essence
of the plot." -
Now, having determined what a plot is, let us take
up its structural parts and see how these clearly
understood principles make the construction of a
playlet plot in a measure a matter of clear
thinking.
II. THE VITAL PARTS OF THE PLOT
We must Swerve for a moment and cut across lots,
that we may touch every one of the big structural
elements of plot and relate them with logical closeness
to the playlet, summing them all up in the end and
tying them closely into – what I hope may be — a
helpful definition, on the last page of this chapter.
The first of the structural parts that we must con-
sider before we take up the broader dramatic unities,
is the seemingly obvious one that a plot has a begin-
ning, a middle and an ending.
There has been no clearer statement of this element
inherent in all plots, than that made by Aristotle in
* Unfortunately, the bigger, broader meaning we all read into
this satire of life, cannot enter into our consideration of the struc-
ture of plot. It lies too deep in the texture of the playwright’s
mind and genius to admit of its being plucked out by the roots
for critical examination. The bigger meaning is there — we all see
it, and recognize that it stamps The Lollard as good drama.
Each playwright must work out his own meanings of life for him-
self and weave them magically into his own playlets; this is
something that cannot be added to a man, that cannot be satis-
factorily explained when seen, and cannot be taken away from him.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PI, OT 2II
his famous twenty-century old dissection of tragedy;
he says: - *
“Tragedy is an imitation of an action, that is com-
plete and whole, and of a certain magnitude (not
trivial). . . . A whole is that which has a beginning,
middle and end. A beginning is that which does not
itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after
which something naturally is or comes to be. An
end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally
follows some other thing, either by necessity or in
the regular course of events, but has nothing to follow
it. A middle is that which naturally follows some-
thing as some other thing follows it. A well-con-
structed plot, therefore, must neither begin nor end
at haphazard, but conform to the type here described.”"
Let us state the first part of the doctrine in this way:
I. The Beginning Must State the Premises of the
Problem Clearly and Simply
Although life knows neither a beginning nor an end
— not your life nor mine, but the stream of unsep-
arate events that make up existence – a work of art,
like the playlet, must have both. The beginning
of any event in real life may lie far back in history;
its immediate beginnings, however, start out closely
together and distinctly in related causes and become
more indistinctly related the farther back they go.
Just where you should consider the event that is the
1 Aristotle, Poetics VII.
2I2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
crisis of your playlet has its beginning, depends upon
how you want to tell it — in other words, it depends
upon you. No one can think for you, but there are
one or two observations upon the nature of plot-
beginnings that may be suggestive. - -
In the first place, no matter how carefully the
dramatic material has been severed from connection .
with other events, it cannot be considered entirely
independent. By the very nature of things, it must
have its roots in the past from which it springs, and
these roots — the foundations upon which the playlet
rises — must be presented to the audience at the
very beginning.
If you were introducing a friend of yours and his
sister and brother to your family, who had never met
them before, you would tell which one was your
particular friend, what his sister’s name was, and his
brother’s name, too, and their relationship to your
friend. And, if the visit were unexpected, you would
— naturally and unconsciously — determine how they
happened to come and how long you might have the
pleasure of entertaining them; in fact, you would fix
every fact that would give your family a clear under-
standing of the event of their presence. In other
words, you would very informally and delicately
establish their status, by outlining their relations to
you and to each other, so that your family might
have a clear understanding of the situation they
were asked to face.
This is precisely what must be done at the very
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 213
beginning of a playlet — the friends, who are the
author’s characters, must be introduced to his inter-
ested family, the audience, with every bit of informa-
tion that is necessary to a clear understanding of the
playlet’s situation. These are the roots from which
the playlet springs — the premise of its problem.
Precisely as “The Lollard” declares in its opening
speeches who Miss Carey is and who Angela Maxwell
is, and that Angela is knocking at Miss Carey's door
at two o'clock in the morning because she has left
Harry, her husband, after a quarrel the roots of
which lie in the past, so every playlet must state in
its very first speeches, the “whos” and “whys” — the
premises – out of which the playlet logically develops. .
The prologue of “The Villain Still Pursued Her”
is an excellent illustration of this point. When this
very funny travesty was first produced, it did not
have a prologue. It began almost precisely as the
full-stage scene begins now, and the audience did not
know whether to take it seriously or not. The instant
he watched the audience at the first performance,
the author sensed the problem he had to face. He
knew, then, that he would have to tell the next
audience and every other that the playlet is a farce,
a roaring travesty, to get the full value of laughter
that lies in the situations. He pondered the matter
and saw that if the announcement in plain type on
the billboards and in the program that his playlet
was a travesty was not enough, he would have to tell
the audience by a plain statement from the stage
2I4 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
before his playlet began. So he hit upon the prologue
that stamps the act as a travesty in its very first
lines, introduces the characters and exposes the roots
out of which the action develops so clearly that there
cannot possibly be any mistake. And his reward was
the making over of an indifferent success into one
of the most successful travesties in vaudeville.
This conveying to the audience of the knowledge
necessary to enable them to follow the plot is tech-
nically known as “exposition.” It is one of the
most important parts of the art of construction —
indeed, it is a sure test of a playwright’s dexterity.
While there are various ways of offering preliminary
information in the long drama – that is, it may be
presented all at once in the opening scene of the first
act, or homeopathically throughout the first act, or
some minor bits of necessary information may be
postponed even until the opening of the second act
— there is only one way of presenting the information
necessary to the understanding of the playlet: It
must all be compressed into the very first speeches
of the opening scene.
The clever playlet writer is advertised by the ease
— the simplicity — with which he condenses every
bit of the exposition into the opening speeches. You
are right in the middle of things before you realize
it and it is all done so skillfully that its straightfor-
wardness leaves never a suspicion that the simplicity
is not innate but manufactured; it seems artless, yet
its artlessness is the height of art.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PILOT 2I5
The beginning of a playlet, then, must convey to
the audience every bit of information about the
characters and their relations to each other that is
necessary for clear understanding. Furthermore, it
must tell it all compactly and swiftly in the very first
speeches, and by the seeming artlessness of its open-
ing events it must state the problem so simply that
what follows is foreshadowed and seems not only
natural but inevitable.
2. The Middle Must Develop the Problem Logically
and Solve the Entanglement in a “Big’” Scene
For the purpose of perfect understanding, I would
define the “middle” of a playlet as that part which
carries the story on from the indispensable introduc-
tion to and into the scene of final suspense – the
climax — in which the chief character's will breaks or
triumphs and the end is decided. In “The Lollard”
this would be from the entrance of Fred Saltus and
his talk with Angela, to Miss Carey's exposure of Fred's
“lollardness,” which breaks down Angela’s deter-
mination by showing her that her husband is no
worse than Fred and makes it certain that Harry has
only to return to his delightful deceptions of dress
to carry her off with him home.
(a) The “Exciting Force.” The beginning of the
action that we have agreed to call the middle of a
playlet, is technically termed “the exciting force.”
The substance of the whole matter is this: Remember
2I6 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
what your story is and tell it with all the dramatic
force with which you are endowed.
Perhaps the most common, and certainly the very
best, place to “start the trouble” — to put the excit-
ing force which arouses the characters to conflict—
is the very first possible instant after the clear, force-
ful and foreshadowing introduction. The introduc-
tion has started the action of the story, the chief
characters have shown what they are and the interest
of the audience has been awakened. Now you must
clinch that interest by having something happen that
is novel, and promises in the division of personal
interests which grow out of it to hold a punch that
will stir the sympathies legitimately and deeply.
(b) The “Rising Movement.” This exciting force
is the beginning of what pundits call “the rising
movement” — in simple words, the action which
from now on increases in meaning vital to the char-
acters and their destinies. What happens, of course,
depends upon the material and thc treatment, but
there is one point that requires a moment’s discussion
here, although closely linked with the ability to seize
upon the dramatic — if it is not, itself, the heart of
the dramatic. This important point is, that in every
story set for the stage, there are certain
(c) Scenes that Must be Shown. From the first
dawn of drama until today, when the motion pictures
are facing the very same necessity, the problem that
has vexed playwrights most is the selection of what
scenes must be shown. These all-important Scenes
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PI, OT 217
are the incidents of the story or the interviews
between characters that cannot be recounted by
other characters. Call them dramatic Scenes, essen-
tial scenes, what you will, if they are not shown ac-
tually happening, but are described by dialogue —
the interest of the audience will lag and each person
from the first seat in the orchestra to the last bench
in the gallery will be disappointed and dissatisfied.
For instance:
If, instead of Fred Saltus’ appearing before the
audience and having his humorously thoughtless but
nevertheless momentous talk with Angela in which
Angela falls in love with him, the interview had been
told the audience by Miss Carey, there would have
been no playlet. Nearly as important is the prologue
of “The Villian Still Pursued Her”; Mr. Denvir
found it absolutely necessary to show those charac-
ters to the audience, so that they might see them with
their own eyes in their farcical relations to each other,
before he secured the effect that made his playlet.
Turn to “The System” and try to find even one
scene there shown that could be replaced by narrative
dialogue and you will see once more how important
are the “scenes that must be shown.”
One of the all-rules-in-one for writing drama that
I have heard, though I cannot now recall what play-
wright told me, deals with precisely this point. He
expressed it this way: “First tell your audience what
you are going to do, then show it to them happening,
and then tell 'em it has happened!”
218 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
You will not make a mistake, of course, if you
show the audience those events in which the dramatic
conflict enters. The soul of a playlet is the clash of
the wills of the characters, from which fly the reveal-
ing flashes; a playlet, therefore, loses interest for the
audience when the scenes in which those wills clash
and flash revealingly are not shown.
It is out of such revealing scenes that the rising
movement grows, as Freytag says, “with a progressive
intensity of interest.” But, not only must the events
progress and the climax be brought nearer, but the
scenes themselves must broaden with force and reveal-
ing power. They must grow until there comes one big
scene – “big” in every way — somewhere on the toes
of the ending, a scene next to the last or the last itself.
(d) The Climax. Here is where the decisive blow
is struck in a moment when the action becomes throb-
bing and revealing in every word and movement.
In “The Lollard” it is when Fred makes his revealing
dash through the room — this is the dramatic blow
which breaks Angela’s infatuation. It is the crown-
ing point of the crowning scene in which the forces of
the playlet culminate, and the “heart wallop” — as
Tom Barry calls it' — is delivered and the decision
is won and made. -
* Vaudeville Appeal and the “Heart Wallop,” by Tom Barry,
author of . The Upstart and Brother Fans, an interesting article in
The Dramatic Mirror of December 16, 1914. For this and other
valuable information I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness and
to express my thanks to The Dramatic Mirror and its courteous
Vaudeville Editor, Frederick James Smith.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PIOT 2I9
Whatever this decision may be and however it is
won and made, the climax must be first of all a real
climax — it must be “big,” whether it be a comedy
Scream or the seldom-seen tragic tear. Big in move-
ment and expression it must be, depending for effect not
on words but on the revealing flash; it must be the
Summit of the action; it must be the event toward
which the entire movement has been rising; it must
be the fulfillment of what was foreshadowed; it must
be keen, quick, perfectly logical and flash the illumi-
nating revelation, as if one would say, “Here, this is
what I’ve kept you waiting for — my whole reason
for being.” Need I say that such a climax will be
worth while?
And now, as the climax is the scene toward which
every moment of the playlet — from the first word of
the introduction and the first scene-statement of the
playlet’s problem — has been motivated, and toward
which it has risen and culminated, so also the climax
holds within itself the elements from which develops
the ending.
3. The Ending Must Round the Whole Out
Satisfyingly.
For the purpose of clearness, let me define the
ending of a playlet as a scene that lies between the
climax or culminating scene – in which the au-
dience has been made to feel the coming-to-an-end
effect – and the very last word on which the curtain
22O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
descends. If you have ever watched a sailor splicing
a rope, you will know what I mean when I say that
the worker, reaching for the loose ends to finish the
job off neatly, is like the playlet writer who reaches
here and there for the playlet’s loose ends and gathers
them all up into a neat, workmanlike finish. The
ending of a playlet must not leave unfulfilled any
promises of the premise, but must fulfill them all
satisfyingly. ... •
The characteristics of a good playlet ending —
besides the completeness with which the problem has
been “proved” and the satisfyingness with which it
all rounds out — are terseness, speed and “punch.”
If the climax is a part of the playlet wherein words
may not be squandered, the ending is the place where
words — you will know what I mean – may not be
used at all. Everything that must be explained must
be told by means which reach into the spectator's
memory of what has gone before and make it the
positive pole of the battery from which flash the wire-
less messages from the scene of action. As Emerson
defined character as that which acts by mere presence
without words, let me define the ending of a playlet
as that which acts without words by the simple bring-
ing together of the characters in their new relations.
The climax has said to the audience, “Here, this
is what I’ve kept you waiting for – my whole reason
for being,” therefore the ending cannot dally — it
must run swiftly to the final word. There is no
excuse for the ending to linger over anything at all — the
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 22 I
shot has been fired and the audience waits only for the
smoke to clear away, that it may see how the bull’s-eye
looks. The Swifter you can blow the Smoke away,
show them that you’ve hit the bull's-eye dead in the
centre, and bow yourself off amid their pleased
applause, the better your impression will be.
Take these three examples:
When Fred Saltus dashes revealingly across the
stage and back into his room again, “The Lollard's”
climax is reached; and as Soon as Angela exclaims
“What ‘a lollard’ that is!” there’s a ring at the door
bell and in comes Harry to win Angela completely
with his regimentals and to carry her off and bring
the curtain down — in eight very short speeches.
In “The System,” the climax arrives when the
honest Inspector orders Dugan arrested and led
away. Then he gives “The Eel” and Goldie their
freedom and exits with a simple “Good Night” —
and the curtain comes down — all in seven speeches.
The climax of “Blackmail” seems to come when
Fallon shoots Mohun and Kelly breaks into the
room — to the curtain it is seven speeches. But the
real climax is reached when Kelly shouts over
the telephone “Of course, in self-defense, you fool,
of course, in self-defense.” This is — the last speech.
Convincing evidence, is this not, of the speed with
which the curtain must follow the climax?
And so we have come to this most important point
— the “finish” or “the curtain,” as vaudeville calls
it. The very last thing that must be shown, and the
222 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
final word that must be said before the curtain comes
down, are the last loose ends of the plot which must
be spliced into place — the final illuminating word to
round out the whole playlet humanly and cleverly.
“The Lollard” goes back to Miss Carey's sleep,
which Angela’s knock on the door interrupted: “Now,
thank Gawd, I’ll get a little sleep,” says Miss Carey
as she puts out the light. A human, an everyday
word it is, spoken like a reminiscent thrill — and down
comes the curtain amid laughter and applause. A
fine way to end. * .
But not the only way — let us examine “The
System.”
“Well, we’re broke again,” says Goldie tearfully.
“We can’t go West now, so there's no use packing.”
Now, note the use of business in the ending, and the
surprise. The Eel goes stealthily to the window L, looks
out, and pulls the dictograph from the wall. Then
he comes down stage to Goldie who is sitting on the
trunk and has watched him. He taps her on the
shoulder, taking Dugan’s red wallet out of his pocket.
“Go right ahead and pack,” says The Eel, while
Goldie looks astonished and begins to laugh. The
audience, too, look astonished and begin to laugh
when they see that red wallet. It is a surprise — a
surprise so cleverly constructed that it hits the au-
dience hard just above the laughter-and-applause-belt
— a surprise that made the act at least twenty-five
per cent better than it would have been without it.
And from it we may now draw the “rules” for the
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 223
use of that most helpful and most dangerous element,
surprise in the vaudeville finish:
Note first, that it was entirely logical for The Eel to
steal the wallet — he is a pickpocket. Second, that
the theft of the wallet is not of trivial importance to
Goldie's destiny and to his—they are “broke” and they
must get away; the money solves all their problems.
And third, note that while The Eel's possession of
the wallet is a surprise, the wallet itself is not a sur-
prise — it has first played a most important part in
the tempting of Goldie and has been shown to the
audience not once but many times; and its very color
— red — makes it instantly recognizable; the specta-
tors know what it contains and what its contents mean
to the destinies of both The Eel and Goldie — it is
only that The Eel has it, that constitutes the sur-
prise. .
Now I must sound a warning against striving too
hard after a surprise finish. The very nature of
many playlets makes it impossible to give them such
a curtain. If you have built up a story which touches
the heart and brings tears to the eyes, and then turn
it all into a joke, the chances are the audience will
feel that their sympathies have been outraged, and
so the playlet will fail. For instance, one playlet
was ruined because right on top of the big, absorbing
climax two of the characters who were then off stage
stuck their heads in at the door and shouted at the
hero of the tense situation, “April Fool.”
Therefore, the following may be considered as an
224 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
important “rule”; a playlet that touches the heart
should never end with a trick or a surprise."
Now, let me sum up these four elements of Surprise:
A surprise finish must be fitting, logical, vi-
tally important, and revealingly dramatic; if
3you cannot give a playlet a surprise-finish that
shall be all of these four things at once, be con-
tent with the simpler ending.
The importance of a playlet’s ending is so well
understood in vaudeville that the insistence upon a
“great finish” to every playlet has sometimes seemed
to be over-insistence, for, important as it is, it is no
more important than a “great opening” and “great
scenes.” The ending is, of course, the final thing that
quickens applause, and, coming last and being fresh-
est in the mind of the audience, it is more likely to
carry just a fair act to success than a fine act is likely
to win with the handicap of a poor finish. But,
discounting this to be a bit under the current valua-
tion of “great finishes,” we still may round out this
discussion of the playlet’s three important parts,
with this temperate sentence:
A well constructed playlet plot is one whose
Beginning states the premises of its problem
clearly and simply, whose Middle develops the
problem logically and solves the entanglement in a
“big” scene, and whose Ending rounds out the
whole satisfyingly — with a surprise, if fitting.
* See Chapter XVIII, page 290.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 225
But, temperate and helpful as this statement of a
well constructed plot may be, there is something
lacking in it. And that something lacking is the
very highest test of plot — lightly touched on at
various times, but which, although it enters into a
playwright’s calculations every step of the way,
could not be logically considered in this treatise until
the structure had been examined as a whole: I mean
the formidable-sounding, but really very simple
dramatic unities.
III. THE THREE DRAMATIC UNITIES
Now, but only for a moment, we must return to the
straight line of investigation from which we swerved
in considering the structural parts of a playlet plot.
At the beginning of this chapter we saw that a
simple narrative of events is made a plot by the
addition of a crisis or entanglement, and its resolu-
tion or untying. Now, the point I wish to present
with all the emphasis at my command, is that com-
plication does not mean complexity. &
I. Unity of Action
In other words, no matter how many events you
place one after another — no matter how you pile
incident upon incident — you will not have a plot
unless you so inter-relate them that the removal of
any one event will destroy the whole story. Each
event must depend on the one preceding it, and in
turn form a basis for the one following, and each
226 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
must depend upon all the others so vitally that if you
take one away the whole collapses."
(a) Unity of Hero is not Unity of Action. One of
the great errors into which the novice is likely to
fall, is to believe that because he makes every event
which happens happen to the hero, he is observing the
rule of unity. Nothing could be farther from the truth
— nothing is so detrimental to successful plot construc-
tion.” *
Aristotle tried to correct this evil, which he saw
in the plays of the great Athenian poets, by saying:
“The action is the first and most important thing,
the characters only second;” and, “The action is not
given unity by being made to concern only one
person.”
Remember, unity of action means unity of story.
(b) Double-Action is Dangerous to Unity. If you
have a scene in which two minor characters come
together for a reason vital to the plot, you must be
extremely careful not to tell anything more than the
facts that are vital. In long plays the use of what is
called “double-action” — that is, giving to characters
necessary to the plot an interest and a destiny sep-
arate from that of the chief characters — is, of course,
recognized and productive of fine results. But, even
in the five-act play, the use of double-action is dan-
gerous. For instance: Shakespere developed Falstaff
* See Aristotle, Poetics, Chapter VIII, and also Poe's criticism,
The American Drama.
* See Freytag's Technique of the Drama, p. 36.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PIOT 227
so humorously that today we sometimes carelessly
think of “Henry IV” as a delightful comedy, when
in reality it was designed as a serious drama — and
is most serious, when Falstaff’s lines are cut from
the reading version to the right proportions for to-
day’s stage effect. If Shakespere nodded, it is a nod
even the legitimate dramatist of today should take
to heart, and the playlet writer — peculiarly restricted
as to time — must engrave deeply in his memory.
The only way to secure unity of action is to con-
centrate upon your problem or theme; to realize
that you are telling a story; to remember that each
character, even your hero, is only a pawn to advance
the story; and to cut away rigorously all non-essential
events. If you will bear in mind that a playlet is
only as good as its plot, that a plot is a story and that
you must give to your story, as has been said, “A
completeness — a kind of universal, dovetailedness, a
sort of general oneness,” you will have little difficulty
in observing the one playlet rule that should never
be broken — Unity of action.
2. Unity of Time
The second of the classical unities, unity of time,
is peculiarly perplexing, if you study to “understand”
and not merely to write. Briefly — for I must reit-
erate that our purpose is practice and not theory —
the dramatists of every age since Aristotle have quar-
reled over the never-to-be-settled problem of what
space of time a play should be permitted to represent.
228 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Those who take the stand that no play should be
allowed to show an action that would require more
than twenty-four hours for the occurrences in real
life, base their premise on the imitative quality of the
stage, rather than upon the Selective quality of art.
While those who contend that a play may disregard
the classical unity of time, if only it preserves the
unity of action, base their contention upon the fact
that an audience is interested not in time at all —
but in story. In other words, a play preserves the
only unity worth preserving when it deals with the
incidents that cause a crisis and ends by showing its
effect, no matter whether the action takes story-years
to occur or happens all in a story-hour.
If we were studying the long drama it might be
worth our while to consider the various angles of this
ancient dispute, but, fortunately, we have a practical
and, therefore, better standard by which to state this
unity in its application to the playlet. Let us
approach the matter in this way:
Vaudeville is variety – it strives to compress into
the space of about two hours and a half a great num-
ber of different acts which run the gamut of the enter-
tainment forms, and therefore it cannot afford more
than an average of twenty minutes to each. This
time limit makes it difficult for a playlet to present
effectively any story that does not occur in consecu-
tive minutes. It has been found that even the low-
ering of the curtain for one second to denote the lapse
of an hour or a year, has a tendency to distract the
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PLOT 229
minds of the audience from the story and to weaken
the singleness of effect without which a playlet is
nothing.
On the other hand, this “rule” is not unbreakable:
a master craftsman’s genius is above all laws. In
“The System” the first scene takes place in the even-
ing; scene two, a little later the same evening; and
scene three later that same night. The story is
really continuous in time, but the story-time is not
equal to the playing-time even though this playlet
consumes nearly twice twenty minutes. But, you .
will note, the scenery changes help to keep the inter-
est of the audience from flagging, and also stamp the
lapses of time effectively. &
A still greater violation of the “rule” — if it were
stated as absolutely rigid — is to be found in Mr.
Granville's later act, “The Yellow Streak,” written
in collaboration with James Madison. Here scene
two takes place later in the evening of the first scene,
and the third scene after a lapse of four months. But
these two exceptions, out of many that might be
cited, merely prove that dramatic genius can mold
even the rigid time of the vaudeville stage to its
needs.
Of course, there is the possibility of foreshortening
time to meet the exigencies of vaudeville when the
scene is not changed. For instance: a character
telephones that he will be right over and solve the
whole situation on which the punch of the playlet
depends, and he enters five actual minutes later —
23O s WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
although in real life it would take an hour to make
the trip. This is an extreme instance, as time fore-
shortening goes, because it is one where the audience
might grasp the disparity, and is given for its side-
light of warning as well as for its suggestive value.
More simple foreshortenings of time are found in
many playlets where the effect of an hour-or-more of
events is compressed into the average twenty min-
utes. As an example of this perfectly safe use of
shortening, note the quickness with which Harry
returns to Miss Carey's apartment when he goes out
to change into his regimentals. And as still Safer
foreshortenings, note the quickness with which Fred
Saltus enters after Miss Carey goes to bed leaving
Angela on the couch; and the quickness with which
Angela falls in love with him — in fact, the entire
compression inherent in the dramatic events which
cannot be dissociated from time compression.
A safe attitude for a playlet writer to take, is that
all of his action shall mimic time reality as closely as
his dramatic moment and the time-allowance of pres-
entation will permit. This is considered in all dra-
matic art to be the ideal.
A good way to obviate disparaging comparison is
to avoid reference to time — either in the dialogue or
by the movements of events.
To sum up the whole matter, a vaudeville playlet
may be considered as preserving unity of time when
its action occurs in continuous minutes of about the
length the episode would take to occur in real life.
THE STRUCTURAL ELEMENTS OF PILOT 23I
3. Unity of Place
The commercial element of vaudeville often makes
it inadvisable for a playlet to show more than one
scene — very often an otherwise acceptable playlet is
refused production because the cost of Supplying spe-
cial scenes makes it a bad business venture."
Yet it is permissible for a writer to give his playlet
more than one place of happening – if he can make
his story so compact and gripping that it does not
lose in effect by the unavoidable few seconds' wait
necessary to the changing of the scenery. But, even
if his playlet is so big and dramatic that it admits of
a change of scenes, he must conform it to the obvious
vaudeville necessity of scenic alternation.” With this
scenic “rule” the matter of unity of place in the play-
let turns to the question of a playwright’s art, which
rules cannot limit.
This third and last unity of the playlet may, how-
ever, for all save the master-craftsman, be safely
stated as follows: 3.
Except in rare instances a playlet should deal with
a story that requires but one set of Scenery, thus
conserving the necessities of commercial vaudeville,
aiding the smooth running of a performance, and pre-
Serving the dramatic unity of place.
We may now condense the three dramatic unities
into a statement peculiarly applicable to the playlet
* See Chapter III, page 38.
* See Chapter I, page II.
232 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
— which would seem as though specially designed to
fulfill them all:
A playlet preserves the dramatic unities
when it shows one action in one time and in
one place.
And now it may be worth while once more to sum
up what I have said about the elements of plot – of
which the skeleton of every playlet must be made up:
A mere sequence of events is not a plot; to become
a plot there must develop a crisis or entanglement due to
a conflict of the characters’ wills; the entanglement must
be of such importance that when it is untangled the
characters will be in a different relation to each other
— changed in themselves by the crisis. A plot is
divided into three parts: a Beginning, a Middle and
an Ending. The Beginning must state the premises
of the playlet’s problem clearly and simply; the
Middle must develop the problem logically and solve
the entanglement in a “big” scene, and the Ending
must round out the whole satisfyingly — with a sur-
prise, if fitting. A plot, furthermore, must be so
constructed that the removal of any one of its com-
ponent parts will be detrimental to the whole. It is
told best when its action occurs in continuous time
of about the length the episode would take to occur
in real life and does not require the changing of
scenery. Thus will a playlet be made to give the
singleness of effect that is the height of playlet art.
CHAPTER XV
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET
In this chapter the single word “character” must,
of necessity, do duty to express three different things.
First, by “characters,” as used in the title, I mean
what the programs sometimes more clearly express
by the words “persons of the play.” Second, in the
singular, it must connote what we all feel when we
use the word in everyday life, as “he is a man of —
good or bad — character.” And third, and also in
the singular, I would also have it connote, in the
argot of the stage, “a character actor,” meaning one
who presents a distinct type — as, say, a German
character, or a French character. It is because of
the suggestive advantage of having one word to
express these various things that the single term
“characters” is used as the title of this chapter. But,
that there may be no possible confusion, I shall seg-
regate the different meanings sharply.
I. CHARACTERS VERSUS PLOT
In discussing how a playwright gets an idea, you
will recall, we found that there are two chief ways of
fashioning the playlet: First, a plot may be fitted
with characters; second, characters may be fitted
with a plot. In other words, the plot may be made
most prominent, or the characters may be made to
stand out above the story. You will also remember
234 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
we found that the stage — the vaudeville quite as
much as the legitimate – is “character-ridden,” that
is, an actor who has made a pronounced success in
the delineation of one character type forever afterward
wants another play or playlet “just like the last, but
with a different plot,” so that he can go right on
playing the same old character. This we saw has
in Some cases resulted in the story being considered
merely as a vehicle for a personality, often to the
detriment of the playlet. Naturally, this leads us
to inquire: is there not some just balance between
characters and plot which should be preserved?
Were we considering merely dramatic theory, we
would be perfectly right in saying that no play should
be divisible into plot and characters, but that story
and characters should be so closely twinned that one
would be unthinkable without the other. As Brander
Matthews says, “In every really important play the
characters make the plot, and the story is what it
is merely because the characters are what they are.” An
exceptionally fine vaudeville example — one only, it is
agreeable to note, out of many that might be quoted from
vaudeville's past and present—that has but two persons
in the playlet is Will Cressy’s “The Village Lawyer.”
One is a penniless old lawyer who has been saving for
years to buy a clarionet. A woman comes in quest
of a divorce. When he has listened to her story he
asks twenty dollars advance fee. Then he persuades
her to go back home — and hands the money back.
There is a splendid climax. The old lawyer stands
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 235
in the doorway of his shabby office looking out into
the night. “Well,” he sighs, “maybe I couldn’t play
the darned thing anyway!” If the lawyer had not
been just what he was there would have been no
playlet. But vital as the indissoluble union of plot
and characters is in theory, we are not discussing
theory; we are investigating practice, and practice
from the beginner's standpoint, therefore let us ap-
proach the answer to our question in this way:
When you were a child clamoring for “a story”
you did not care a snap of your fingers about any-
thing except “Once upon a time there was a little
boy — or a giant — or a dragon,” who did something.
You didn’t care what the character was, but whatever
it was, it had to do something, to be doing something
all of the time. Even when you grew to youth and
were on entertainment bent, you cared not so much
what the characters in a story were, just so long as
they kept on doing something — preferably “great”
deeds, such as capturing a city or scuttling a ship or
falling in love. It was only a little later that you
came to find enjoyment in reading a book or seeing
a play in which the chief interest came from some
person who had admirable qualities or was an odd
sort of person who talked in an odd sort of way.
Was it George Cohan who said “a vaudeville audi-
ence is of the mental age of a nine-year-old child”?’
Theoretically and, of course, practically too, when
it is possible, the characters of a playlet should be as
interesting as the plot. Each should vitally depend
236 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE:
upon the other. But, if you must choose whether
to sacrifice plot-interest or character-interest, save
the interest of plot every time. As Aristotle says, “the
action is the first and most important thing, the
characters only secondary.”
How a playwright begins to construct a play,
whether he fits a plot with characters, or fits char-
acters with a plot, does not matter. What matters
is how he ends. If the story and the characters blend
perfectly the result is an example of the highest art,
but characters alone will never make a stage story —
the playlet writer must end with plot. Story is for
what the stage is made. Plot is the life blood of the
playlet. To vivify cold dramatic incidents is the
province of playlet characters. *
II. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAYLET
While it is true that, no matter with what method
he begins, a playwright may end by having a success-
ful playlet, the clearer way to understanding is for us
to suppose that you have your plot and are striving
to fit it with live people — therefore I shall assume
that such is the case. For if the reverse were the
case and the characters were all ready to fit with a
plot, the question would be primarily not of char-
acters but of plot.
I. The Number of Persons
How many people shall I have in my playlet?
ought to be one of the very first questions the writer
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 237
asks, for enough has been said in the earlier Chap-
ters, it would seem, to establish the fact that vaude-
ville is first of all a commercial pursuit and after that
an artistic profession. While there can be no hard
and fast rule as to the number of persons there may
be in a playlet, business economy dictates that there
shall be no more than the action of the playlet posi-
tively demands. But before I say a short word
about this general “rule,” permit me to state another
that comes fast upon its heels: A really big playlet
— big in theme, in grip of action, and in artistic effect
— may have even thrice the number of characters a
“little” playlet may possess. Merit determines the
number.
Let us find the reasons for these two general state-
ments in this way:
In “The Lollard” there are four persons, while in
“The System” there are thirteen speaking parts and
a number of “supers.” Would it then be correct to
suppose that “The System” is a “bigger” playlet
than “The Lollard”? It would not be safe to assume
any such judgment, for the circuit that booked “The
System” may have been in need of a playlet using a
large number of persons to make what is known as a
“flash,” therefore the booking manager may have
given orders that this playlet be built to make that
flash, and the total return to the producer might
not have been any greater proportionally than the
return to the producer of the numerically smaller
“The Lollard.” Therefore of two playlets whose total
238. WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
effects are equal, the one having the lesser number of
persons is the better producing gamble, and for this
reason is more likely to be accepted when offered for
Sale. -
If you will constantly bear in mind that you are
telling a story of action and not of character, you
will find very little difficulty in reducing the number
of players from what you first supposed absolutely
necessary. As just one suggestion: If your whole
playlet hangs on an important message to be deliv-
ered, the property man, dressed as a messenger boy, may
hand in the message without a word. I have chosen
this one monotonously often-seen example because it
is suggestive of the crux of the problem — the final
force of a playlet is affected little by what the char-
acter says when he delivers a vital message. All
that matters is the message itself. The one thing to
remember in reducing the number of characters to
the lowest possible number is — plot.
Four Persons the Average. While there are playlets
ranging in number of characters from the two-person
“The Village Lawyer,” through “The Lollard’s”
four, to “The System’s” thirteen speaking parts, and
even more in rare instances, the average vaudeville
playlet employs four people. But it is a fact of im-
portance to note that a three-person playlet can be
sold more easily – I am assuming an equal standard
of merit – than a four-person playlet. And, by the
same law of demand, a two-person playlet wins a
quicker market than a three-person playlet.
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 239
The reason for this average has its rise in the de-
mands of the dramatic, and not merely in economy.
The very nature of the playlet makes it the more
difficult to achieve dramatic effect the more the num-
ber of characters is reduced. But while four persons
are perfectly permissible in a playlet designed for
vaudeville's commercial stage, the beginner would do
well to make absolutely sure that he has reduced his
characters to their lowest number before he markets
his playlet, and, if possible, make a three-person
or a two-person offering.
2. Selecting the Characters
There would seem to be little need, in this day of
wide curiosity about all the forms of writing and those
of playwriting in particular, to warn the beginner
against straying far afield in search of characters whom
he will not understand even when he finds them. Yet
this is precisely the fault that makes failures of many
otherwise good playlets. The whole art of selecting
interesting characters may be summed up in one
sentence — choose those that you know. The most
interesting characters in the world are rubbing elbows
with you every day.
Willard Mack — who developed into a successful
legitimate playwright from vaudeville, and is best
known, perhaps, for the expansion of his vaudeville
act, “Kick in,” into the long play of the same name
— has this to say on the subject:
24O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
“I say to the ambitious playwright, take the types
you are familiar with. Why go to the Northwest, to
New Orleans in the 40's, to the court of Louis XIV,
for characters? The milkman who comes to your door
in the morning, the motorman on the passing street
car, the taxi driver, all have their human-interest
stories. Any one of them would make a drama. I
never attempt to write anything that has not sug-
gested itself from something in real life. I must know
it has existed.”! -
Precisely as it is impossible to tell anyone how to
grasp the dramatic and transplant it into a playlet,
is it impossible to show how to seize on character
and transplant it to the stage. Only remember that
interesting characters are all about you, and you will
have little difficulty — if you have, as the French
say, the “flare.”
III. FITTING CHARACTERS TO PLOT
It would seem that a playwright who has his plot
all thought out would experience little difficulty in
fitting the characters of a playlet into their waiting
niches; it is easy, true enough – if his plot is per-
fectly dovetailed and motivated as to character. By
this I mean, that in even a playlet in which plot
rides the characters, driving them at its will to attain
its end, logic must be used. And it certainly would
1 Willard Mack on the “Vaudeville Playlet,” The New York
Dramatic Mirror, March 3, 1915.
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 24I
not be logical to make your characters do anything
which such persons would not do in real life. As
there must be unity in plot, so must there be unity
in character.
The persons in a playlet are not merely puppets,
even if plot is made to predominate. They are —
let us hope — live persons. I do not mean that you
have transplanted living people to the stage, but that
you have taken the elements of character that you
require out of life and have combined these into a
consistent whole to form characters necessary to
your playlet. Therefore, you must be careful to
make each character uniform throughout. You must
not demand of any character anything you have not
laid down in the premises of your problem — which
presupposes that each character possesses certain defi-
nite and logical characteristics which make the plot
what it is. w -
Bearing this single requirement firmly in mind, you
must so motivate your plot that everything which
occurs to a character rises out of that character's
personality; you must make the crisis the outward
evidence of his inner being and the change which
comes through the climax the result of inner change.
This was considered in the chapters on the dramatic
and on plot construction and expressed when I said:
It is the meaning hidden in the events that makes
the dramatic. It is this inner meaning that lies in
the soul of the character himself which marks the
change in his own character and his own outward life.
242 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
IV. CHARACTERIZATION
How a playwright delineates character in the per-
Sons of his playlet, is at once the easiest thing to
explain and the most difficult for which to lay down
helpful methods, for while the novelist and the short-
story writer have three ways of telling their readers
what manner of man it is in whom he asks interest,
the dramatist has but two.
I. Methods of Characterization
First, a playwright may build up a characteriza-
tion by having one character tell another what sort
of a person the third is. Second, he may make the
character show by his own speech and actions what
he is. This latter is the dramatic way, and peculiarly
the playlet way. -
As the first method is perfectly plain in itself, I
shall dismiss it with the suggestive warning that even
this essentially undramatic method must partake of
the dramatic to be most effective: to get the most out
of one character's describing a second to a third, the
reason for the disclosure must be bone-and-brawn a
part of the action. * ,
The two elements of the dramatic method are:
First, the character may disclose his inner being by
his own words, and second, by his actions.
The first is so intimately connected with the succeed-
ing chapter on dialogue that I shall postpone its con-
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 243
sideration until then and discuss here the disclosure of
character through action. -
When you meet a man whom you have never met
before, you carry away with you a somewhat com-
plete impression. Even though he has spoken but a
word or two, his appearance first of all, the cut of his
clothes, his human twinkle, the way he lights his
cigar, the courteous way in which he gives precedence
to another, or his rough way of “butting into” a
conversation, all combine to give him a personality
distinct from every other man's. What he does not
disclose of himself by actions, you read into his
personality yourself. “First impressions are the
strongest,” is a common saying — we make them
strong by reading character on sight, by jumping at
conclusions. Man does not need to have a whole
life laid before him to form a judgment. Little
things are what drive character impressions home.
It is this human trait of which the playwright
makes use in the delineation of character. The play-
let writer has even less time than the legitimate
dramatist to stamp character. He must seize on the
essentials, and with a few broad strokes make the
character live as distinct from all other men.
For much of his characterization — aside from that
absolutely inherent in the plot — the playlet writer
depends upon the actor. By the use of costumes
and of make-up, the age and station in life, even the
business by which a character earns his daily bread,
are made clear at a glance. And by the trick of a
244 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
twitching mouth, a trembling hand, or a cunningly
humble glance, the inner being is laid bare, with the
help of a few vital words which are made to do duty
to advance the story as well.
In a word, the playwright and the actor work in
partnership, with broad strokes, relying upon the
eager imagination of the audience to amplify the tiny
sketch into a well-rounded, full personality. This is
the method simply stated. It does not admit of the
laying down of precepts.
2. The Choice of Names
In the old days of vaudeville the persons of a play-
let were often named to fit their most prominent
characteristic; for instance, a sneaky fellow would be
named Sam Sly, and a pretty girl Madge Dimples.
But with the change in fashion in the long play, the
playlet has relegated this symbolical method of nam-
ing characters to burlesque and the lurid types of
melodrama, and cven there it is going out of fashion.
Today, names are carefully chosen to seem as life-
like as do the characters themselves. Instead of
trying to express characteristics by a name, the very
opposite effect is sought, except when the character
would in real life have a “monicker,” or the naming of
the character in the old way would serve to relate the
act more closely to its form and awaken pleasing
reminiscences." The method today is to select a name
* See The System and My Old Kentucky Home, in the Ap-
pendix.
THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYLET 245
that shall fit a character in a general way and yet be
so unobtrusive that it will not be remarked.
Simple names are always the best. The shorter they
are the better — usually nicknames, if true to life
and the character, have a “homey” sort of sound
that is worth securing. Bill, and Jack, and Madge,
and Flo, or any one of a hundred others, sound less
formidable than William, and James, and Margaret,
and Florence. Names that are long and “romantic”
are usually amusing; merely listen to Algernon,
Hortense, and Reginald Montmorency, and you have
to smile — and not always with pleasure.
But for a name to be simple or short or unromantic
does not solve the problem for all cases. A long
“romantic” name might be the very best one you
could choose for a certain character. 1 The name you
should select depends on what effect you wish to
secure. No one can tell you just what name to
choose for a character you alone have in mind.
But do not make the mistake of pondering too
long over the naming of your characters. It is not
the name that counts, it is the character himself, and
behind it all the action that has brought the char-
acter into being — your gripping plot.
And now, let us sum up this brief discussion of
characters and characterization before we pass on to
a consideration of dialogue. Because of time-restric-
tion, a playlet must depend for interest upon plot
1 See The Villain Still Pursued Her in the Appendix.
246 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
rather than upon character. The average number of
persons in a playlet is four. Interesting characters are
to be found everywhere, and the playlet writer can
delineate those he rubs elbows with better than those
he does not know well and therefore cannot fully
understand. The same unity demanded of a plot is
required of a character — characters must be con-
sistent. Characterization is achieved by the dramatic
method of letting actions speak for themselves, is
done in broad strokes growing out of the plot itself,
and is conveyed in close partnership with the actor by
working on the minds of the audience who take a
meagre first impression and instantly build it up into
a full portrait.
CHAPTER XVI
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET
We have now come to one of the least important
elements of the playlet — yet a decorative element
which wit and cleverness can make exceedingly
valuable.
If it is true that scenery is the habitation in which
the playlet moves, that its problem is the heart
beating with life, that the dramatic is the soul which
shines with meaning through the whole, that plot is
the playlet's skeleton which is covered by the flesh
of the characters – then the dialogue is, indeed,
merely a playlet’s clothes. Clothes do not make a
man, but the world gives him a readier welcome who
wears garments that fit well and are becoming. This
is the whole secret of dialogue — speeches that fit
well and are becoming.
I. What is Dialogue?
It has been said that “Romeo and Juliet” played
in English in any country would be enjoyed by every-
one, even though they could not understand a word
of what was said. There is a story told about a Slav
in Pennsylvania who could not speak one word of
English, but who happened to come up from his
work as a laborer in a coal mine just as the people
were filing in to the performance of “The Two Or-
248 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
phans,” and as he had nothing in particular to do, in
he went — and nearly broke up the performance by
the loudness of his sobbing. I shall never forget an
experience of my own, when I took a good French
friend to see David Warfield in “The Music Master”;
this young chap could not understand more than a
word here and there, but we were compelled to miss
the last act because he cried so hard during the
famous lost-daughter Scene that he was ashamed to
enter the theatre after the intermission.
Every great play is, in the last analysis, a panto-
mime. Words are unnecessary to tell a stage story
that has its wellspring deep in the emotions of the
human heart. Words can only embellish it. A great
pantomimist – a Mlle. Dazie, who played Sir James
M. Barrie’s “The Pantaloon” in vaudeville without
speaking a word; a Pavlowa, who dances her stories
into the hearts of her audience; a Joe Jackson, who
makes his audiences roar with laughter and keeps
them convulsed throughout his entire act, with the
aid of a dilapidated bicycle, a squeaky auto horn
and a persistently annoying cuff – does not need
words to tell a story.
The famous French playwright Scribe — perhaps
the most ingenious craftsman the French stage has
ever seen – used to say, “When my subject is good,
when my scenario (plot) is very clear, very complete,
I might have the play written by my servant; he
would be sustained by the situation; – and the play
would succeed.” Plutarch tells us that Menander,
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 249
the master of Greek comedy, was once asked about
his new play, and he answered: “It is composed and
ready; I have only the verses (dialogue) to write.”"
If it is true that a great play, being in its final analysis
a pantomime, is effective without dialogue, and if some
famous dramatists thought so little of dialogue that
they considered their plays all written before they wrote
the dialogue, then speech must be something that has
little comparative value—something primarily employed
to aid the idea behind it, to add emphasis to plot —
not to exist for itself.
2. The Uses of Dialogue
Dialogue makes the dramatic story clear, advances
it, reveals character, and wins laughter — all by five
important means:
(a) Dialogue Conveys Information of Basic Events
at the Opening. As we saw in the discussion of the
structural elements of plot, there are of necessity some
points in the basic incidents chosen for the story of
a playlet that have their roots grounded in the past.
Upon a clear understanding of these prior happenings
which must be explained immediately upon the rise
of the curtain, depends the effect of the entire se-
quence of events and, consequently, the final and total
effect of the playlet. To “get this information over”
the characters are made to tell of them as dramatically
as possible. For instance:
* Reported in A Study of the Drama, by Brander Matthews.
25o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Angela Maxwell knocks on Miss Carey's door the
instant the curtain rises on “The Lollard,” and as
Soon as Miss Carey opens the door Angela says:
“Listen, you don’t know me, but I’ve just left my
husband.” And the dialogue goes on to tell why she
left Harry, clearly stating the events that the audience
must know in order to grasp the meaning of those
that follow.
At the very beginning of a playlet the dialogue
must be especially clear, vividly informing and con-
densed. By “condensed,” I meant the dialogue must
be tense, and supported by swift action — it must
without delay have done with the unavoidable expla-
nations, and quickly get into the rising movement of
eVentS.
(b) Dialogue Brings out the Incidents Clearly.
Never forgetting that action makes dialogue but that
dialogue never makes action, let us take the admirable
surprise ending of “The System,” for an example:
The Inspector has left, after giving The Eel and
Goldie their freedom and advising them to clear out
and start life anew. The audience knows they are
in hard straits financially. How are they going to
secure the money to get away from town? Goldie
expresses it concisely: “Well, we’re broke again
(tearfully). We can’t go West now, so there's no use
packing.” This speech is like a sign-post that points
out the condition the events have made them face.
And then like a sign-post that points the other way,
it adds emphasis to the flash of the surprise and the
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 25I
solution when The Eel, stealthily making Sure no one
will see him and no one can hear him, comes down
to Goldie, sitting forlornly on the trunk, taps her
on the shoulder and shows her Dugan’s red wallet.
Of course, the audience knows that the wallet spells
the solution of all their problems, but The Eel clinches
it by saying, “Go right ahead and pack.”
Out of this we may draw one observation which is
at least interesting, if not illuminating: When an
audience accepts the premises of a playlet without
question, it gives over many of its emotions and most
of its reasoning power into the author’s hands. There-
fore the author must think for his audience and keenly
suggest by dialogue that something is about to hap-
pen, show it as happening, and make it perfectly
clear by dialogue that it has actually happened.
This is the use to which dialogue is put most tellingly
– bringing out the incidents in clear relief and at
the very same time interpreting them cunningly.
(c) Dialogue Reveals Character Humanly. Char-
acter is tried, developed and changed not by dialogue,
but by action; yet the first intimate suggestion of char-
acter is shown in dialogue; and its trials, develop-
ment and change are brought into clear relief – just
as events, of which character-change is the vital part,
are made unmistakably clear – by the often illu-
minating word that fits precisely. As J. Berg Esen-
wein says, “Just as human interest is the heart of the
narrative, so human speech is its most vivid expres-
sion. In everyday life we do not know a man until
252 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
we have heard him speak. Then our first impressions
are either confirmed, modified, or totally upset.”"
It is by making all of his characters talk alike
that the novice is betrayed, whereas in giving each
character individuality of speech as well as of action
the master dramatist is revealed. While it is per-
missible for two minor characters to possess a hazy
likeness of speech, because they are so unimportant
that the audience will not pay much attention to
them, the playlet writer must give peculiar individ-
uality to every word spoken by the chief characters.
By this I do not mean that, merely to show that a
character is different, a hero or heroine should be
made to talk with a lisp or to use some catch-word –
though this is sometimes done with admirable effect.
What I mean is that the words given to the chief
characters must possess an individuality rising from
their inner differences; their speech should show them
as not only different from each other, but also different
from every other character in the playlet – in the
whole world, if possible — and their words should be
just the words they and no others would use in the
circumstances.
If you will remember that you must give to the
dialogue of your chief characters a unity as complete
as you must give to plot and character as shown
through action, you will evade many dialogue dan-
gers. This will not only help you to give individ-
uality to each character, but also save you from
* Writing the Short-Story, page 247.
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 253
making a character use certain individual expressions
at one time and then at another talk in the way
some other character has spoken. Furthermore, strict
observance of this rule should keep you from putting
into the mouth of a grown man, who is supposed to
be most manly, expressions only a “sissy” would
use; or introducing a character as a wise man and
permitting him to talk like a fool. As in life, so in
dialogue — consistency is a test of worth.
Keep your own personality out of the dialogue.
Remember that your characters and not you are doing
the talking. You have laid down a problem in your
playlet, and your audience expects it to fulfill its
promise dramatically — that is, by a mimicry of
life. So it does not care to listen to one man inhab-
iting four bodies and talking like a quartet of
parrots. It wants to hear four different personalities
talk with all the individuality that life bestows so
lavishly — in life.
You will find little difficulty in keeping your indi-
viduality out of dialogue if you will only remember
that you cannot write intelligently of characters you
do not know. Make use of the characters nearest
you, submerge yourself in their individualities, and
you will then be so interested in them that you will
forget yourself and end by making the characters of
your playlet show themselves in their dialogue as
individual, enthrallingly entertaining, new, and —
what is the final test of all dialogue — convincing.
(d) Dialogue Wins Laughter. There are three
254 t WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
sources from which laughter rises out of dialogue.
First, from the word that is a witticism, existing for
its own sake. Second, from the word that is an
intensely individual expression of character — the
character-revealing phrase. Third, the word that is
funny because it is spoken at the right instant in the
action. All three have a place in the playlet, but the
last, the dialogue that rises out of and illuminates a
situation, is productive of the best results. This is
but another way of saying what cannot be too often
repeated, that the playlet is plot."
Even in dialect, dialogue does not bother with
anything much but plot-expression of character.
Indicate the odd twist of a character's thoughts as
clearly as you can, but never try to reproduce all
his speech phonetically. If you do, you will end
disastrously, for your manuscript will look like a
scrambled alphabet which nobody can decipher. In
writing dialect merely suggest the broken English
here and there — follow the method so clearly shown
in “The German Senator.” Remember that the actor
who will be engaged to play the part has studied the
expression of that particular type all his life. His
method of conveying what you intend is likely to be
different from your method. Trust him — for you
must.
(e) Dialogue Advances the Action and Rounds
Out the Plot. Precisely in the way that incidents are
* See Chapter V, page 71, in which humor was discussed in
relation to the monologue.
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 255
brought out clearly by dialogue, dialogue advances
the action and rounds out the plot at the curtain.
Clear as I hope the method has been made, I wish
to point out two dialogue peculiarities which come
with the rise of emotion.
First, as the action quickens, there inevitably occurs
a compression inherent in the dramatic that is felt
by the dialogue. Joe Maxwell’s epitome of vaude-
ville as he once expressed it to me in a most suggest-
ive discussion of the two-a-day, illustrates this point
better, perhaps, than a chapter would explain:
“Vaudeville is meat,” he said, “the meat of action,
the meat of words.” There is no time in vaudeville
climaxes for one word that does not point out, or
clinch home the action. Here action speaks louder
than words. Furthermore, in the speed of bodily
movement there is actually no time for words. If
two men are grappling in a life and death struggle
they can’t stop for speech.
And second, as the playlet nears its ending there is
no need for explanatory words – if the preceding action
has been dramatic. Every new situation rises out of
the old, the audience knows it all now, they even
foresee the climax, and, in a well constructed playlet,
they feel the coming-to-an-end thrill that is in the air.
What need is there for dialogue? Only a need for the
clearing, clinching kind, and for
The Finish Line. While the last speech of a playlet
is bone of the bone and blood of the blood of plot,
the finish line is peculiarly a part of dialogue. It is
256 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
here, in the last line, that the tragic has a strangely
illuminating force and the comic must be given full
play. Indeed, a comedy act that does not end in a
“scream” is hardly worth anything. And, as comedy
acts are most in demand in vaudeville, I shall relate
this discussion solely to the comic ending. Here it
is, then, in the last line of a comedy act, that the
whole action is rounded neatly off with a full play of
fancy — with emphasis on the use of wit.
Of course I do not mean that the last line may be
permitted to stray away from the playlet and crack
an unrelated joke. But the last line, being a complet-
ing line, may return to some incident earlier than the
closing action. It may with full profit even go back
to the introduction, as “The Lollard’s” last line takes
Miss Carey back to her interrupted sleep with, “Now,
thank Gawd, I’ll get a little sleep.”
Or it may be merely a quaint line, like that which
ended a very successful playlet which has stuck in
my memory, but whose title I have forgotten. Here
the sweethearts were brought together, they flew
into each other’s arms, they kissed. Naturally the
curtain was on that kiss, but no – they drew apart
and the girl rubbed her lips with the back of her hand.
“Aw,” said the boy, “what you rubbing it off for?”
And the girl, half-crying, half-laughing, answered,
“I ain’t rubbing it off; I’m rubbing it in!”
Or the last line may be a character line, rounding
back to the opening, perhaps, but having its main-
spring in character, like the last line of “The Village
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 257
Lawyer”: “Well,” he sighs — as he watches the
money with which he could have satisfied his longing
to buy a clarionet, disappear – “Maybe I couldn’t
play the darned thing anyway!”.'
Example after example might be quoted to illus-
trate every possible variation, yet in the end we
would come to the very same conclusions these four
instances reveal. The finish line is the concluding
thought of the action. It may round back to the
opening plainly; bring out sharply the most prominent
point developed; vividly present a pleasing side-
light with a punch; illuminate a character point;
take some completing element and twist it into a
surprise — indeed, the finish line may present anything
at all, so long as it thrills with human interest and
laughter.
3. Fit and Becoming Dialogue
In playlet dialogue there is as much need of the
dramatic spirit as in the playlet plot. Not what is
said in real life, but what must be said to express the
action concisely, is its aim. Playlet dialogue cannot
take time to reproduce Small talk. It must connote,
not denote, even the big things. To omit is more
important than to include. A whole life must be
compressed into a single speech and entire stages of
progression be epitomized in a single sentence. True
enough, in really big scenes a character may rise to
lofty expression; but of all playlet moments, here
* See page 234.
258 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
sane selection and compression are most vital. The
wind of talk must be made compressed air.
Conversation for conversation’s sake is the one
thing above all others that stamps a playlet as in
vain. I have seen producing manager after producing
manager run through manuscripts to select for careful
reading the ones with short speeches. Those weighty
with long speeches were returned unread. Why?
Because experience had taught them that a playlet
filled with long speeches is likely to be filled with
little else. They realize that conversation as an art
died the day the first automobile did the mile in sixty
flat. Speed is what the playlet needs, and talk slows
the track. In the classic words of vaudeville, if you
must talk, “hire a hall.” -
Where is it you hear more clever lines than
anywhere else? In vaudeville. Where is it that
slang hits the hardest? In vaudeville. On what
stage do people talk more nearly like you and I
talk? The vaudeville stage. For vaudeville is up-
to-the-minute — vaudeville is the instant’s dramatic
review. - *
And it is this speech of the instant that playlet
dialogue needs — the short, sharp, seemingly thought-
less but vividly pulsating words of everyday life.
If today men talked in long speeches filled with
grandiloquent periods, the playlet would mimic their
length and tone, but men today do not speak that
way and the playlet must mimic today’s shortness
and crispness. As Alexander Black says, “The lan-
DIALOGUE IN THE PLAYLET 259
guage of the moment is the bridge that carries us
straight to the heart of the whole world, and all the
past. Life or fancy that comes in the language of
the moment comes to us translated. Fantastically,
the language of the street is always close to the bones
of art. It is always closer to the Bible and to all the
big fellows than the language of the drawing rooms.
Art is only the expression of ideas. Ideas, emotions,
impulses, are more important than the medium, just
as religion is more important than theology. There
is just as much excuse for saying “theology for its
own sake' as for saying ‘art for art's sake.” The joy
of a new word should make us grateful for the fertil-
ity of the street out of which most of the really strong
words come. The street doesn’t make us fine, but
it keeps us from being too sweet and thin. It loves
the punch. And the punch clears the path.” It is
the punch in dialogue that the playlet demands.
Before we agree upon what is fit and becoming dia-
logue, I think it advisable to condense into a few words
all that I have said on the subject. In its final analysis
a playlet is a pantomime. Dialogue is primarily em-
ployed to add emphasis to the plot. It does this by
conveying information of basic events at the opening;
by bringing out the succeeding incidents clearly; by
revealing character humanly; by winning laughter; by
advancing the action; and by rounding out the plot
in a finish line which thrills with human interest and,
in the comedy playlet, with laughter.
26o WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
And now, what is fit and becoming dialogue? Fit
dialogue is — what fits the plot exactly. Becoming
dialogue is — what makes the plot seem even better.
But dialogue cannot make plot better, it can only
make it seem better — it can only dress it. Remem-
ber that.
CHAPTER xVII
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET
In considering the “business” of the playlet, we
have come to the place where it would seem that
writing must be left behind and the function of the
producer entered upon. For business is the detail of
stage action and movement. But, while it is the
peculiar function of the producer to invent and to
incorporate into the playlet little bits of everyday
movements of the characters to lend the effect of real
life to the mimic picture, it is the province of the
writer — in reducing his words to the lowest possible
number, in an effort to secure that “economy of
attention” which is the foundation of all art — to
tell as much of his story as he can by actions that
speak even louder than words. Every great play-
wright is as much a producer as he is a writer.
As we saw in Chapter VII, “business” includes
every movement an actor makes while he is on the
stage. Thus a facial expression may be called “busi-
ness,” if it lends a peculiar significance to a line.
And a wild leap of a man on horseback through a
window — this has actually been done in a vaudeville
act — is also called business. In fact everything,
262 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
from “mugging,” walking about, sitting down, pick-
ing up a handkerchief, taking off or putting on a
coat, to the wordless scenes into which large parts
of the story are condensed and made clear solely by
situation — everything is called “business.” But to
differentiate the actor’s part from the work of the
playwright, I shall arbitrarily call every action which
is as indivisible from acting as facial play, “pan-
tomime”; while I shall employ the word “business”
to express the use of movement by the playwright
for the purpose of condensing large parts of the story
and telling it wordlessly. -
I. The Part Business Plays in the Dramatic”
Let us turn to that part of the third scene of “The
System” where The Eel and Goldie — who have
been given their liberty “with a string to it” by
Inspector McCarthy in his anxiety to catch Officer
Dugan red-handed — are “up against it” in their
efforts to get away from town. They have talked it
all over in Goldie's flat and The Eel has gone out to
borrow the money from Isaacson, the “fence.” Now
when The Eel closes Goldie's door and runs down-
stairs, Goldie listens intently until the outer door
1 “Mugging,” considered by some to be one of the lowest forms
of comedy, is bidding for laughter by facial contortions unrelated
to the action or the lines — making the scene subservient to the
comical faces made by the actor. - -
* The impossibility of keeping separate the designing and the
writing of business, will be seen as the chapter progresses, therefore
I shall treat both freely in one. - - -
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 263
slams, then begins to pack. She opens the trunk
first, gets her jacket from the couch where she has
thrown it, puts it in the trunk and then goes up into
the bedroom and gets a skirt. She shakes the skirt
as she comes down stage. Then a long, low whistle
is heard — then the rapping of a policeman's club.
“Bulls!” She gasps. Looking up at the light burn-
ing, she turns it out and closes the trunk at the same
time. And she stands still until she sees the shadow
of a man’s hand cast by the moonlight on the wall.
Then she gives a frightened exclamation and cowers
on the sofa. - - -
Here we have packed into little more than sixty
seconds a revelation of the fear in which all crooks.
live, the unthinking faith and love Goldie bears The
Eel, and a quiet moment which emphasizes the rush
of the preceding events — a space also adding punch
to the climax of incidents which follow hot upon its
heels. When the long, low whistle sounds and the
policeman's club raps out its alarm, the audience feels
that the action is filled with tense meaning — The
Eel has been caught. That hand on the wall is like
a coming event casting its shadow before, and when
Goldie gives her frightened exclamation and cowers
on the couch, her visible fear — coming in contrast to
her commonplace packing to get away — builds up
the scene into a thrill that is capped by the mean-
ingful window entrance of Dugan. “Ah!” says the
audience, “here's the first time they’ve gotten together
alone. It’s the first time we’ve really seen that
264 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Dugan is behind it all. Something big is going to
happen.”
All of these revealing flashes, which illumine like
searchlights, are told by movement. The only word
that is spoken is Goldie's cry “Bulls!” The only
other Sounds are the whistle and the rapping of the
club. But if Goldie had taken up the time with
telling the audience how glad she was to pack and
get away with The Eel to a new life, and if she had
expressed her fear by bewailing the hardness of fate
— the dramatic effect would have been lost. Do you
See how words can kill and soundless movements vivify?
In “The Lollard,” when Miss Carey wants to dis-
illusionize Angela, she does not sit down and argue her
out of her insane infatuation for Fred; nor does she
tell Angela that Fred is a “lollard” and weakly
unmask him by describing his “lollard” points.
She cries “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Whereupon Fred dashes
out on the stage and Angela and the audience with
their own eyes behold Fred as a “lollard.” Here the
whole problem of the playlet is solved in a flash. Not
one word of explanatory dialogue is needed.
In “Three of a Kind,” a comedy playlet produced
by Roland West, two crooks fleece a “sucker” and
agree to leave the money in a middle room while they
sleep in opposite rooms. They say they trust each
other implicitly, but each finds a pretext to sit up
and watch that money himself. The comedy rises
from their movements around the room as they try
to outmaneuver each other.
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 265
These three examples plainly show how movement,
unexplained by dialogue, may be used to condense a
middle action, a climax, and an opening. Now, if
you will turn to the surprise ending of “The System”
— which has been discussed before in its relation to
dialogue — you will see how business may condense
an ending. Indeed, the very essence of the surprise
ending lies in this dramatic principle. Of course,
how the condensation of story into movement is to be
made in any given case depends upon the material,
and the writer’s purpose. But as a part of the prob-
lem let us see
2. How Pantomime Helps to Condense Story and
Illumine Character
Consider the inimitable gesture the Latins use when
they wish to express their helplessness. The shoulders
shrug until the man seems folding into himself, his
hands come together approaching his face and then
he drops them despairingly to his side as if he would
say: “But what can I do?” A gesture such as this
reveals in a flash the depths of a human soul. Vol-
umes could say no more.
This is what the actor may bring to your play-
let, and what you, with the greatest caution, may
sometimes — though rarely — indicate in your
manuscript.
“Walk up stage,” said David Belasco to an actor
who was proving “difficult,” “and when you turn
your back, get some meaning into it. Make your
266 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
back express — the whole play, if you can.” Most
certainly you would not write this in the directions
for a playlet — the producer would laugh at it and
the actor would be indignant. But you might with
the greatest helpfulness direct that the character turn
his back — and this is the point of the problem – if,
by turning his back on Some one, the character Con-
veys, say, contempt for or fearlessness of an enemy’s
bravado. Every direction for acting in your playlet
must be of such a kind that anyone can convey the
meaning — because the emphasis is inherent in the
situation. A stage direction ought not to depend for its
value on the actor’s ability. If this were not so, play
writing would consist chiefly in engaging fine actors.
When an actor receives a part he studies it not
only to learn the lines, but with the desire to famil-
iarize himself with the character so thoroughly that
he may not seem to be playing it. He hopes to make
the audience feel that the character is alive. For this
reason, it is not amiss to indicate characteristic actions
once in a while. A good example of this is found in
“The Lollard,” where Angela says to Miss Carey:
“But — excuse me — how do you know so many
different kinds of men if you’ve never been married?”
“Boarders,” says Miss Carey quickly. “To make
ends meet, I’ve always had to have a male boarder
since I was left an orphan.” “She rises — turns her
back to audience — gives a touch to her pigtail,
during laugh on this line. This business always
builds laugh,” say the directions.
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 267
It is such little touches that stamp a character as
individual; and therefore they are just the little
touches the playwright may add to his manuscript
by way of suggestion to the actor. They may be
very helpful, indeed, but they should be made with
great care and discretion. For the actor, if he is a
capable performer, is ready when rehearsal begins
with many suggestions of a like nature. He will
often suggest something that will not only exhibit
character clearly, but will also condense story by
eliminating needless words and movement.
For instance: F. F. Mackay was rehearsing to play
the French count in the famous old play, “One of
Our Girls.” Mr. Bronson Howard had directed in
his manuscript that the count, when struck across
the face with a glove by an English officer, should
become very violent and angry, in accordance with
the popular notion of an excitable Frenchman’s
character. “But Mr. Mackay,” says Daniel Froh-
man, “argued that the French count, having been
shown in the play to be an expert duellist with both
the rapier and the pistol, and having faced danger
frequently, was not liable to lose control of himself.
Mr. Howard readily saw the point. The result was
one of the most striking situations in the American
drama; for the Frenchman received the insult without
the movement of a muscle. He stood rigid. Only
the flash of the eye for an instant revealed his emo-
tion. Then the audience saw his face grow red, and
then pale. This was followed by the quiet announce-
268 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ment from the count that he would send his seconds
to see the Englishman.
“This exhibition of facial emotion betrayed by the
visible rush of blood to the actor's face was frequently
noted at the time. It was a muscular trick, Mr. Mac-
kay told me. He put on a tight collar for the scene
and strained his neck against it until the blood came,
and when he released the pressure, and the blood
receded, the effect was reached. It was a splendid
moment, and it is one of the many effects that have
been studied out during the progress and develop-
ment of a play during rehearsals.”
It is for the great majority of such little touches,
therefore, that the playwright must depend on the
actor and the producer to add to his playlet. How-
ever, the playwright may help to the limit of his
ability, by giving very short, very carefully thought
out directions in his manuscript. But it is much
better for the novice to disregard suggestions to the
actor for character analysis and even to be sparing
with his hints for facial expressions or slight move-
ments – and to content himself with an effort to
condense his story in the broader ways.
3. How Tediously Long Speeches may be Broken up
by Movement
As the playlet is primarily action, and as the audi-
ence expects the playlet to keep moving all the time,
it is a common practise to try to trick the audience
“BUSINESS’’ IN THE PLAYLET 269
into believing every speech is vibrant with emotional
force, by keeping the actors moving about the stage.
But the fact that a really vital speech may be killed
by a movement which distracts the attention of the
audience ought to be proof positive that needless
movements about the stage are merely a confession
of poverty in the playlet. Nevertheless, as a long
explanatory speech seems sometimes unavoidable, I
devote two or three short paragraphs to what has
saved some playlets from absolute failure. -
If you are unable to tell every bit of your story by
dramatic means and therefore face a long speech that
may seem tiresomely wordy, break it up with natural
movements which lend a feeling of homely reality to
the scene. For instance, don’t let the character who
is delivering that long speech tell it all uninterrupt-
edly from the chair in which he is sitting. Let
him rise after he has spoken two or three sentences
and cross to the other character, or do something
that will illustrate a point in his story, or have the
one who is listening interrupt now and then. Inject
motive into the interruptions if you can; but in any
event, keep your characters moving.
But make the movements natural. To this end,
study the movements of the men and women about
you. Try to invent new ways of expressing the old
things in movement. Strive not so much to be “dif-
ferent,” as to be vividly interesting. You can make
the movements of your characters about the Stage as
brilliant as dialogue.
27o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Above all, make sure that you do not let your
characters wander about the stage aimlessly. To
make it a complete unity every little scene demands
as careful thought as does the entire playlet. A
playlet may be suggestively defined as a number of
minute-long playlets moving vividly one after the
other to make a vivid whole. Remember this, and
you may be able to save a tiresome scene from
ruining the entire effect of your playlet. -
4. Why Business is More Productive of Comedy than
. Dialogue
As a playlet is nothing if it is not action, so a
comedy playlet is nothing if its comedy does not
develop from situations. By “action,” as the word
is used here, I mean that the story of the playlet is
told by the movements of its characters. In real
life, you know, comedy and tragedy do not come from
what persons say they are going to do — but from
what they actually do. Therefore, the merry jests
that one character perpetrates upon another must be
told not in words, but by showing the character
actually perpetrating them on the victim. In a
comedy playlet, the playwright must be a practical
joker. Every funny happening in a playlet is a
“scene that must be shown.” . -
For instance, in “Billy's Tombstones,” the football
player who is in love with the girl, whom he has
followed half around the world, is shown first as
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 271
losing his “tombstones” — his false teeth, made
necessary by the loss of his real ones in a famous
college game; then he is shown in his wild efforts
to pronounce his sweetheart’s name without the
dental help. Much of the comedy arises from his
efforts to pronounce that loved name – and the
climax comes when the lost tombstones are found
and Billy proposes to her in perfect speech that lingers
fondly on her name.
In farce — particularly in the old farces which
depended on mistaken identity, a motive force con-
sidered hardly worthy of use today — the comedy
arises very rarely from a witty saying in itself. The
fun usually depends upon the humorous situations
that develop. “The New Coachman” — one of
those old farcical “screams” — contained an excep-
tionally fine czample of this point and is pertinent to-
day because it had no relation to mistaken identity in
this humorous scene. Here the best fun of the comedy
came from the use of a stepladder by the supposed
coachman, who got all tangled up in it. After the
first misstep with that stepladder, there was never any
time for more than a word here and there. Of course,
such a scene depends upon the actor almost entirely,
and therefore cannot be indicated in the business by
the playwright, but I use it for an example because
it is a peculiarly brilliant instance of the fact that
hearty laughter depends not on hearing, but on seeing.
But do not make the mistake of trying to patch
together a comedy playlet from the bits of funny
272 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
stage business you have seen in other acts. If you
present such a manuscript to a producer you may be
very sure it will be refused, for there are plenty of
producers and performers in vaudeville who can Sup-
ply such an act at a moment’s notice from memory.
The sort of comedy expected from the playwright
is comedy that develops from situation. It is in the
invention of new situations and new business to fit
these situations that the playlet writer finds his
reward in production and profit.
5. Entrances, Exits and the Stage-Cross
Among the many definitions of drama — frequently
misleading, but equally often helpful — there is one
which holds the whole art of play writing lies in get-
ting the characters on the stage naturally and effect-
ively and getting them off again — naturally and
effectively. But, even the most daring of definition
makers has not yet told us how this is to be accom-
plished in all cases. The fact is, no one can tell us,
because a method that would be natural and effective
in a given playlet, would very likely be most unnat-
ural and ineffective in another. All that can be said
is that the same dramatic sense with which you have
constructed the story of your playlet will carry you
forward in the inevitable entrances and exits. How
these moments are to be effective, lies in the very
nature of the story you are telling. This is boldly
begging the question, but it is all that may with
honest helpfulness be said.
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 273
However, regarding the stage-cross, and allied
movements of the actors, there are two suggestions
that may be helpful. The first is founded on the old
theory that a scene ought to be “dressed” all the
time — that is, if one character moves across the stage,
the other ought to move a little up stage to give him
room to cross and should then move down on the
opposite side, to keep the scene dressed or “balanced.”
But no hard and fast rule can be given, even
for the stage-cross. If it seems the easy and nat-
ural thing for the characters to do this, all well and
good. But you should feel no compulsion about
it and really should give to the matter but little
thought.
The second is based on the common-sense under-
standing at which you yourself will arrive if you
will take the trouble to notice how the slightest move-
ment made by one of two persons to whom you are
telling a story distracts the other's attention. Briefly,
never indicate business for a character during the
moments when short and vitally important speeches
are conveying information to the audience.
Both of these minor suggestions may be summed up
in this sentence with which I shall dismiss the subject:
The box sets in which the playlet is played in vaude-
ville are usually not very deep and are so arranged
that every part of the scene is in plain view from
practically every seat in the house, therefore you may
forget that your story is being played in a mimic
room and may make your characters move as if the
274 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
room were real. If you will only keep this clearly
in mind you should have little trouble.
6. How “Business '' is Indicated in Manuscript
In the old days before the boxed set, the manu-
script of a play bristled with such cryptic signs as
R. U. E., and L. F. E., meaning, when reduced to
everyday English, “right upper entrance,” “left
first entrance,” and the like. But as the old “en-
trances” of the stage have been lost with the intro-
duction of the box set, which closely mimics a real
room — being, indeed, a room with the fourth wall
removed — the modern stage directions are much
simpler. “Right door,” “centre door,” “left door,”
are the natural directions to be found in a playlet
manuscript today. .
It is a good general rule to avoid in your stage
directions expressions which show you are dealing
with a stage scene and not a scene of real life. In
the first place, if you attempt to be technical, you
are very likely to be over-technical and confusing.
In the second place, you will be more likely to pro-
duce a life-like playlet if you are not forever groping
among strange terms, which make you conscious all
the time that you are dealing with unreality. There-
fore choose the simplest directions, expressed in the
fewest possible words, to indicate the effects you have
carefully thought out. Never forget that reality and
simplicity go hand in hand. -
And now it may be of advantage to sum up what
“BUSINESS” IN THE PLAYLET 275
has been said about stage business in this chapter.
We have seen how business may be used to condense
the story of a playlet; how business is often — though
not always – the very heart of the dramatic; how
pantomime may be skillfully used to condense salient
parts of the playlet story and illumine character;
how business may be employed to break up a clumsy
but necessarily long speech — thus sometimes saving
a playlet from the failure of the tedious; — and why
business is more productive of comedy than is dia-
logue. We have concluded that the playlet writer
must not ape what has already been done, but can
win success only in the measure he succeeds in bring-
ing to his playlet new business which makes his new
situations all the more vivid and vital. Finally, we
have seen that entrances and exits must be natural
and effective, and that all stage business should be
conceived and thought of and indicated in the manu-
script as simple expressions of reality.
With this chapter, the six elements of a successful
playlet have been discussed from the angle of exposi-
tion. In the next chapter I shall make use of all this
expository material and shall endeavor to show how
playlets are actually written.
CHAPTER XVIII
WRITING THE PLAYLET
While it is plain that no two writers ever have, nor
ever will, go about writing a playlet in precisely the
same way, and impossible as it is to lay down rules
which may be followed with precision to inevitable
success, I shall present Some suggestions, following
the logical order of composition.
First, however, I must point out that you should
study the vaudeville stage of this week, not of last
year or even of last month, before you even entertain
a germ idea for a playlet. You should be sure before
you begin even to think out your playlet, that its
problem is in full accord with the very best, and that
it will fit into vaudeville’s momentary design with a
completeness that will win for it an eager welcome.
You should inquire of yourself first, “Is this a
comedy or a serious playlet I am about to write?”
And if the latter, “Should I write a serious playlet?”
One of vaudeville's keenest observers, Sime Silver-
man, editor of Variety, said when we were discussing
this point: “Nobody ought to write a tragic or even
a serious playlet who can write anything else. There
are two or three reasons why. First, vaudeville likes
WRITING THE PLAYLET 277
laughter, and while it may be made to like tears, a
teary playlet must be exceedingly well done to win.
Second, the serious playlet must be so well done and
so well advertised that usually a big name is necessary
to carry it to success; and the “name’ demands So
much money that it is sometimes impossible to engage
an adequate supporting cast. Third, the market for
tragic and serious playlets is so small that there is
only opportunity for the playlet master; of course,
there sometimes comes an unknown with a great
success, like ‘War Brides,’” but only rarely. There-
fore, I would advise the new writer to write comedy.”
Miss Nellie Revell, whom B. F. Keith once called
“The Big Sister of Vaudeville,” and who was Vaude-
ville Editor of the New York Morning Telegraph be-
fore becoming General Press Representative of the
Orpheum Circuit, Summed up her years of experience
as a critic in these words: -
“The new writer should first try his hand at a
comedy playlet. Then after he has made a success
of Comedy, or if he is sure he can’t write anything
but Sobby playlets, let him try to make an audience
weep. Vaudeville, like any other really human thing,
would rather laugh than cry, yet if you make vaude-
ville cry finely, it will still love you. But a serious
playlet must be mighty well done to get over —
therein lies a stumbling block sometimes. A few
great artists can make vaudeville sob finely — but
* Written by Miss Marion Craig Wentworth, and played by
Olga Nazimova.
278 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
only a few. Comedy, good comedy, always gets
by.
“How many comedy playlets are there to one
Serious playlet in vaudevilleP I should say about
ten to one. That ought to convince anybody that
comedy is the thing to write for vaudeville.”
There have been many hybrid playlets which have
combined tragedy and comedy to give some particular
star an opportunity to show versatility in acting."
But some of these playlets have been merely vehicles
for a personality, and therefore cannot be considered
in this discussion.
On the other hand, there have been some serious
playlets which have had comedy twists, or a light
turn, which brought the curtain down amid laughter
that was perfectly logical and in good taste. An
example of the surprise ending that lightens the
gloom is found in “The Bomb,” finely played by
Wilton Lackaye, in which the Italian who so movingly
confesses to the outrage is merely a detective in
disguise, trapping the real bomb thrower — and Sud-
denly he unmasks. If a serious playlet can be made
to end with a light touch that is fitting, it will have a
better chance in vaudeville. But this is one of the
most difficult and dangerous effects to attempt.
The hazard is so great that success may come but
once in many efforts.”
Since comedy should be the new writer's aim, the
* See page I72.
* See page 223.
WRITING THE PLAYLET 279
following discussion, while conceived with the broad
view to illustrate the writing of the playlet in general,
brings into particular prominence the writing of
Comedy. -
I. WHEN TO BEGIN
When should you begin to write your playlet?
Assuming that you already have a germ idea, the
next step is to express your theme in a single short
Sentence, and consider it as your playlet problem,
which must be proved logically, clearly and conclu-
sively. To do this you must dovetail your incidents
into a playlet plot; but how far should you think
out your playlet before beginning to set it down on
paper?
I. The Use of the Scenario
Nearly all the playlet writers with whom I have
talked during a period of more than five years have
with surprising unanimity declared in favor of begin-
ning with the scenario, the Summary of the dramatic
action. But they disagree as to the completeness
with which the scenario should be drawn up.
Some merely sketch the main outlines of the plot
and leave to the moment of actual writing the details
that often make it a success. Others write out a
long scenario, boiling it down to the essence for the
stage version. Still other playlet writers carry their
Scenarios just far enough to make sure that they will
not have to think about the details of plot when they
28o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
set about writing the dialogue — they see that there
is an effective reason for the entrance of each char-
acter and a clear motive for exit. But, however
they disagree as to the completeness the Scenario
should show, they all agree that the plot should be
firmly fixed in its general outlines before pen is set to
paper.
It may be of suggestive value as well as of interest
to point out that in olden times the scenario was the
only part of the play the playwright wrote. The
groundwork of the plot was fixed beyond change, and
then the actors were permitted to do as they pleased
within these limits. Even today, in the construction
of hurried entertainments for club nights at the va-
rious actors’ club-houses, often only the scenario or
general framework of the act is typewritten and
handed to the performers who are to take part. All
that this tells them is that on some given cue they
are to enter and work opposite so-and-So, and are, in
turn, to give an agreed-upon cue to bring on Such-
and-such a performer. In a word, the invaluable
part of any dramatic entertainment is the scenario.
One valuable aid to the making of a clear and ef-
fective scenario is the use of a diagram of the set in
which the act is to be played. Reference to the chap-
ter on “The Scenery Commonly Found in Vaudeville
Theatres,” pages 44-63, will place in your hands a wide
—if not an exhaustive—range of variations of the com-
monly found box sets. Within the walls of any one
of these diagrams you may carefully mark the exact
WRITING THE PLAYLET 28I
location of chairs, tables and any other properties
your action demands. Then, knowing the precise
room in which your characters must work, you can
plot the details of their movements exactly from
entrances to exits and give to your playlet action a
clearness and preciseness it might not otherwise possess.
2. The Scenario not an Unalterable Outline
But there is one point I feel the necessity of em-
phasizing, whose application each one must determine
for himself: While you ought to consider your sce-
nario as directive and as laying down the line that
should be followed, you ought not to permit your
playlet to become irrevocably fixed merely because
you have written your scenario. It is often the sign
of a dramatic mind, and of a healthy problem too,
that the playlet changes and develops as the theme
is carefully considered. To produce the very best
work, a scenario must be thought of as clay to be
molded, rather than as iron that must be Scrapped
and melted again to be recast.
II. POINTS TO BRING OUT PROMINENTLY
This section is so arranged that the elements of
writing discussed in the preceding chapters are sum-
marized, and the vital elements which could not be
considered before are all given their proper places
in a step-by-step scheme of composition. The whole
forms a condensed standard for review to refresh your
282 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
memory before writing, and by which to test your
playlet after it is written. -
Every playlet must have a beginning, a middle and
an ending. The beginning must state the premises
of the problem clearly and simply; the middle must
develop the problem logically and solve the entangle-
ment in a “big” scene, and the ending must round
out the whole satisfyingly — with a surprise, if fitting.
I. Points the Beginning Must Emphasize
Because the total effect of a playlet is complete
oneness, there lie in the “big” scene and in the ending
certain results of which the beginning must be the
beginning or immediate cause. Such causes are what
you must show clearly.
(a) The Causes before the Curtain Rose. If the
causes lie far back in events that occurred before the
Curtain rose, you must have those events carefully and
clearly stated. But while you convey this necessary
exposition as dramatically as possible, be sure to make
the involved dramatic elements subservient to clearness.
(b) The Causes that Occur after the Curtain Rises.
If the causes do not lie in the past, but occur after
the curtain rises, you must show them as clearly
occurring right then and there. They must be as
plain as dawn, or the rest of the playlet will be
shrouded in the darkness of perplexing doubts.
(c) The Character Motive from which the Compli-
cation Rises. If the causes lie in character, you must
show the motive of the person of the playlet from
WRITING THE PLAYLET 283
whose peculiar character the complication rises like a
spring from its source. You must expose the point
of character plainly.
But in striving to make your premises clear do not
make the mistake of being prolix – or you will be
tedious. Define character sharply. Tell in quick,
searching dialogue the facts that must be told and
let your opening scenes on which the following events
depend, come with a snap and a perfectly adequate
but nevertheless, have-done-with-it feeling.
2. Points that Must Be Brought out in the Middle
In every scene of your playlet you must prepare
the minds of your audience to accept gladly what
follows — and to look forward to it eagerly. You
must not only plainly show what the causes of every
action are, but you must also make the audience feel
what they imply. Thus you will create the illusion
which is the chief charm of the theatre — a feeling of
superiority to the mimic characters which the gods
must experience as they look down upon us. This
is the inalienable right of an audience.
(a) The Scenes that Make Suspense. But while
foreshadowing plainly, you must not forestall your
effect. One of the most important elements of playlet
writing is to let your audience guess what is going to
happen — but keep them tensely interested in how
it is going to happen. This is what creates the play-
let’s enthralling power — suspense.
It is so important to secure suspense in a playlet
284 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
that an experienced writer who feels that he has not
created it out of the body of his material, will go back
to the beginning and insert some point that will
pique the curiosity of the audience, leaving it unex-
plained until the end. He keeps the audience guess-
ing, but he satisfies their curiosity finely in the finish
— this is the obligation such a suspense element
carries with it. 4.
(b) The Points that Balance the Preparation with
the Result. Nothing could be more disastrous than
to promise with weighty preparation Some event
stupendously big with meaning and then to offer a
weak little result. And it would be nearly as unfor-
tunate to foreshadow a weak little fulfillment and then
to present a tremendous result. Therefore, you must
so order your events that you balance the prepara-
tion with the result, to the shade of a dramatic hair.
But take care to avoid a too obvious preparation.
If you disclose too plainly what you are aiming at
your end is defeated in advance, because your au-
dience is bound to lapse into a cynically smiling does-
this-fellow-take-us-for-babies? attitude.
The art of the dramatic is the art that conceals
art. The middle of your playlet must conceal just
enough to keep the stream of Suspense flowing eagerly
toward the end, which is dimly seen to be inevitably
approaching.
(c) The One Event that Makes the Climax Really
Big. From the first speech, through every speech,
and in every action, your playlet has moved toward
WRITING THE PLAYLET 285
this one event, and now you must bring it out so
prominently that everything else sinks into insignif-
icance. This event is: The change in the relations of
the characters.
This is the planned-for result of all that has gone
before. Bear firmly in mind that you have built up
a suspense which this change must crown. Keep
foremost the fact that what you have hidden before
you must now disclose. Lay your cards on the table
face up — all except one. This last card takes the
final trick, completing the hand you have laid down,
and everyone watches with breathless interest while
you play:
3. The Single Point of the Finish
If you can make this final event a surprise, all the
better. But if you cannot change the whole result
in one dramatic disclosure, you must be content to
lay down your last card, not as a point in itself sur-
prising, but nevertheless dramatically. -
The Finish must be Complete — and Completely
Satisfy. You have sprung your climax; you have
disclosed what it is that changes the relations of your
characters; now you must show that those relations
have been changed. And at the same time you bring
forward the last strand of plot that is loose and
weave it into the now complete design. You must
account for everything here in the finish, and do it
with speed.
286 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
III. PUTTING PUNCH INTO THE IDEA
Now let us say that you have expanded the first
draft of your plastic scenario into a nearly perfect
manuscript. But as you read it over, you are not
content. You feel that it lacks “punch.” What is
“punch,” and how are you going to add it when it is
lacking? -
Willard Mack says: “‘Punch’ is the most abused
word I know. The dramatic punch is continually
confused with the theatrical trick. Critics said the
third act of ‘Kick In’” — in which the detective is
overpowered in a hand-to-hand fight after a hypo-
dermic has been jabbed into his wrist — had a punch.
It didn’t. What it really had was a theatric trick.
But the human punch was in the second act, when
the little frightened girl of the slums comes to see
her wounded lover — who is really dead. If the
needle should suddenly be lost in playing the third
act the scene would be destroyed. But the other
moment would have its appeal regardless of theatrical
detail.” -
Punch comes only from a certain strong human
appeal in the story. Punch is the thing that makes
the pulse beat a little quicker, because the heart has
been touched. Punch is the precise moment of the
dramatic. It is the second in which the revelation
flashes upon the audience.
* Developed into a long play from the vaudeville act of the
SalſT1C Ila,IIIC,
WRITING THE PLAYLET 287
While whatever punch you may be able to add
must lie in the heart of your material — which no
one but yourself can know — there are three or four
ways by which you may go about finding a mislaid
punch. -
If you have turned the logical order of writing
about and let your playlet drag you instead of your
driving it, you may find help in asking yourself
whether you should keep your secret from the
audience.
I. Have You Kept Your Audience in Ignorance Too
Long?
While it is possible to write a most enthralling novel
of mystery or a detective short-story which suddenly,
at the very last moment, may disclose the trick by
which it has all been built up, such a thing is not
Successfully possible in a playlet. You must not
conceal the identity of any one of your characters
from the audience. Conceal his identity from every
other character and you may construct a fine play-
let, but don’t conceal his motive from the audi-
€IlC6. -
The very nature of the drama – depending as it
does on giving to the spectator the pleasure of feeling
omniscient — precludes the possibility of “unheralded
surprise.” For instance, if you have a character
whom the audience has never seen before and of whom
they know nothing suddenly spring up from behind a
Sofa where he has overheard two other characters
288 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
conspiring — the audience may think he is a Stage-
hand. How would they know he was connected with
the other characters in the playlet if you neglected to
tell them beforehand? They could not know. The
Sudden appearance of the unknown man from behind
the Sofa would have much the effect of a disturbance
in the rear of the theatre, distracting attention from
the characters on the stage and the plot of the
playlet. -
If your plot calls for an eavesdropper behind a sofa
— though I hope you will never resort to so ancient
a device – you must first let the audience know who
he is and why he wants to eavesdrop; and second you
must show him going behind that sofa. The audi-
ence must be given the god-like pleasure of watching
the other two characters approach the sofa and sit
down on it, in ignorance that there is an enemy
behind it into whose hands they are delivering
themselves. - .
This is only a simple instance, but it points out
how far the ramifications to which this problem of
not keeping a secret from the audience may extend.
Moreover, it should suggest that it is possible that
your playlet lacks the required punch – because you
have kept something Secret that you ought to have
disclosed. Therefore, go through your playlet care-
fully and try to discover just what you have not
treated with dramatic frankness.
On the other hand, of course, if you decide you
must keep a secret — some big mystery of plot —
WRITING THE PLAYLET 289
you must be sure that it is worth keeping. If you
build up a series of mysterious incidents, the solu-
tion must be adequate to the suspense. But, I have
treated this angle of secret-keeping in “ preparation
versus result,” so I shall now direct your atten-
tion to the other side of the problem of dramatic
frankness — which may be the cause of the lack of
punch:
2. Have You been too Frank at the Beginning?
Go back through the early moments of your playlet
and see if you have not given the whole thing away
at the very beginning. If you have, you have, as we
saw, killed your suspense, which is the road on which
punch lies in wait. The way to remedy this defect
is to condense the preparation and so express it in
action and by dialogue that you leave opportunity
for a revealing flash.
In going over your manuscript you must strive to
attain the correct balance between the two. The
whole art lies in knowing just what to disclose and
when to disclose it — and what not and when not to
disclose. .
3. Have You Been Too “ Talky”2
Remember that vaudeville has no time for “fine
speeches.” Cut even the lines you have put in for
the purpose of disclosing character, and — save in
rare instances — depend chiefly on character revelation
through action.
290 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
4. Have You Lost Your Singleness of Effect by Mixing
Playlet Genres?
One of the most common reasons why playlets
lack the effect of vital oneness is to be found in the
fault of mixing the kinds: for example, making the
first half a comedy and the second half a tragedy.
It is as if a song began with one air and suddenly
switched to a totally different melody. If your play-
let is a comedy, make it a comedy throughout; it if
is a deeply human story, let it end as it began; * if
you are writing a straight drama or a melodrama,
keep your playlet straight drama or melodrama all
the way through. Go over your playlet with the eye
of a relentless critic and make sure that you have
not mixed your genres, which only in the rarest cases
can be done effectively. &
5. Are You Sure Your Action Is All Vital?
Finally, if every other investigation has failed to
develop the needed punch, go over your playlet again
to see if it is possible that you have erred in the
first principle of the art. If you have permitted even
one tiny scene to creep in that does not hold a vital
meaning to the single point of your climax, you have
lost by so much the possibility of the punch. Re-
member, here, that a great playlet can be played
without a single word being spoken and still be viv-
idly clear to every one. Realizing this, chop every
second of action that is not vital.
1 See Chapter XIV, page 224.
WRITING THE PLAYLET 29I
6. The Punch Secured.
But long before you have exhausted these sugges-
tions you will have developed your punch. Your
punch has risen out of your material — if you possess
the sense of the dramatic. If the punch has not
developed — with a series of minor punches that all
contribute to the main design of the “heart wallop”
— there is something wrong with your material.
But even a realization of this ought not to discour-
age you, for there are instances every day of well-
known playwrights who have chosen the wrong
material. We all have seen these plays. You must
do as they do — cast your playlet aside and begin
anew with new material. The man who keeps at it
is the only one who wins — but he must keep at it
with the right stuff.
IV. SELECTING A PROPER TITLE
When you have trimmed your playlet by cutting off
all the trimmings, your thoughts naturally turn to a
title. More than likely you have selected your title
long before you have written “curtain” — it is pos-
sible a title sprang into your mind out of the germ
idea. But even then, you ought now to select the
proper title. e
I. What is a Proper Title?
A proper title is one that both names a playlet and
concisely suggests more than it tells. For instance,
292 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
“The System” suggests a problem vital to all big
cities – because the word “system” was on every-
body's tongue at the time. “The Lollard” piques
curiosity – what is a “lollard,” you are inclined to
want to know; it also carries a suggestion of whim-
sicality. “The Villain Still Pursued Her,” tells as
plainly as a whole paragraph could that the playlet
is a travesty, making fun of the old blood-and-thun-
der melodrama. “In and Out” is a short, snappy,
curiosity-piquing name; it is a title that hangs out
a sign like a question mark. “Kick In” is of the
same class, but with the added touch of slang. “War
Brides” is another luring title, and one that at-
tracts on frankly dramatic and “problem” grounds.
“Youth” is a title that suggests much more than it
tells — it connotes almost anything. “Blackmail” has
the punch of drama and suggests “atmosphere” as
well. But these are enough to establish the fact that
a good title is one which suggests more than it tells.
A good title frankly advertises the wares within,
yet wakens eager curiosity to see what those wares
a.I.C.
2. What is an Improper Title?
An improper title, first, is one that does not pre-
cisely fit a playlet as a name; or second, that tells too
much. For instance, “Sweets to the Sweet” is the
title of a playlet whose only reason for being so
named is because the young man brings the girl
a box of candy – it does not name the playlet at
WRITING THE PLAYLET 293
all precisely, its connotation is misleading. Do not
choose a title just because it is pretty. Make your
title really express the personality of your playlet.
But more important still, do not let your title tell
too much. If “The Bomb” were called “The Trap,”
much of the effect of the surprise would be discounted,
and the unmasking of the detective who confesses to
throwing the bomb to trap the real criminal would
come as something expected. In a word, be most
careful not to select a title that “gives it all
away.”
3. Other Title C onsiderations
A short title seems to be the playlet fashion today;
but tomorrow the two- or three-word title may grow
to a four- or five-word name. Yet it will never be
amiss to make a title short.
This same law of good use points to a similar varia-
tion in the context of even the short title — I mean
that every little while there develops a fad for certain
words. There may at any time spring up a wide use
of words like “girl,” or “fun,” or color words, like
“red” or “purple” or “blond.” But your close
study of the vaudeville of the moment will show you
when these fad-words may be used advantageously
in a title. -
You need never worry over-long about a title for
your playlet if you put the emphasis in your own
mind upon the fact that your title is an advertise-
ment.
294 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
V. MAKING THE PLAYLET A HIT
But when you have a playlet manuscript that is
full of laughter and vibrant with dramatic thrills, and
even after you have sold it to a manager who has pro-
duced it, your work as a playlet writer is not done.
You still must cut and polish it until it is a flawless
gem that flashes from the stage. As Edgar Allan
Woolf expressed it to me in one of our conversations:
“The work of the author of a one-act comedy is
not over until, after several weeks of playing, his
playlet has been so reshaped and altered by him
that not a single dull spot remains. Individual lines
must be condensed so that they are as short as they
possibly can be made. The elimination of every
unnecessary word or phrase is essential. Where a
line that develops the plot can be altered so that it
will still serve its purpose, and also score a laugh on
its own account, it must be so changed. Where
lines cannot be changed, bits of comedy business may
perhaps be inserted to keep the audience from laps-
ing into listlessness. For it is a deplorable fact that
a vaudeville audience that is not laughing outright
at a comedy becomes listless. Vaudeville managers
never book a playlet that makes an audience smile
— for while the humor that brings a Smile may be
more brilliant than the comedy that gets a laugh, it
must always be remembered that vaudeville audiences
come to laugh and not to Smile. Some of the biggest
laughs in every one of my many acts I put in after
WRITING THE PLAYLET 295
the acts had been playing some weeks. And I attrib-
ute whatever success they have had later in the best
vaudeville theatres to the improvements I have made
during their “breaking in' periods.”
To sum up: While no two writers ever have writ-
ten and never will write a playlet in precisely the
same way, the wise beginner chooses for his first play-
let a comedy theme. Your germ idea you express in
a single short sentence which you consider as the
problem of your playlet, to be solved logically, clearly
and conclusively. Instinct for the dramatic leads
you to lift out from life’s flowing stream of events the
separate incidents you require and to dovetail them
into a plot which tells the story simply by means of
characters and dialogue skillfully blended into an in-
divisible whole, flashing with revealing meaning and
ending with complete Satisfaction.
After you have thought out your playlet, you set
down so much of it as you feel is necessary in the
form of a scenario. But you do not consider this
scenario as unchangeable. Rather you judge the value
of the idea by the freedom with which it grows in
effectiveness. And while this process is going on, you
carefully select the basic points in the beginning of
the story that must be brought out prominently.
Then you develop the story by making the points
that foreshadow your “big” scene stand out So as
to weave the enthralling power of suspense. You
let your audience guess what is going to happen, but
296 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
keep them tensely interested in how it is going to
happen. And you prepare your audience by a care-
fully preserved balance between the promise and the
performance for the one big point of the climax
which changes the relations of the characters to each
other. -
After you have shown the change as happening,
you punch home the fact that it has happened, and
withhold your completing card until the finish. In
your finish you play the final card and account for the
last loose strand of the plot, with a speed that does
not detract from your effect of complete satisfaction.
In seeking to “punch up' your playlet, you go
over every word, every bit of characterization, every
moment of action, and eliminate single words, whole
speeches, entire scenes, to cut down the playlet to
the meat, seeking for lost punches particularly in the
faults of keeping secrets that should be instantly dis-
closed, and in the too frank disclosures of secrets
that ought to be kept in the beginning. And out of
this re-writing there rises into view the “heart wal-
lop” which first attracted you.
Finally, when your playlet is finished, you decide
on a proper title. Remembering that a title is an
advertisement, you choose a short name that both
names and lures. And then you prepare the manu-
script for its market — which is discussed in a later
chapter.
But when you have written your playlet and have
sold it to a manager who has produced it, your work
wRITING THE PLAYLET 297
is not yet done. You watch it in rehearsal, and dur-
ing the “breaking in ’’ weeks you cut it here, change
it there, make a plot-line do double duty as a laugh-
line in this spot, take away a needless word from
another — until your playlet flashes a flawless gem
from the stage. The final effect in the medium of
expression for which you write it is UNITY. Every
part — acting, dialogue, action — blends in a perfect
whole. Not even one word may be taken away
without disturbing the total effect of its vital oneness.
CHAPTER XIX
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL ONE-ACT MUSICAL
COMEDY
IF you were asked, “What is a one-act musical
comedy?” you might answer: “Let’s see, a one-act
musical comedy is — is — . Well, all I remember is
a lot of pretty girls who changed their clothes every
few minutes, two lovers who sang about the moon, a
funny couple and a whole lot of music.”
i Hazy? Not at all. This is really a clear and
reasonably correct definition of the average one-act
musical comedy, for this type of act is usually about
fifty per cent. girl, twenty per cent. Costumes and
scenery, twenty-five per cent. music, and usually,
but not always, five per cent. comedy. A musical
comedy, therefore, is not music and comedy — it is
girls and music. That is why the trade name of
this, one of the most pleasing of vaudeville acts, is
—“a girl-act.”
It was the girl-act, perhaps more than any other
one style of act, that helped to build vaudeville up to
its present high standing. On nearly every bill of
the years that are past there was a girl-act. It is a
form of entertainment that pleases young and old, and
ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL MUSICAL COMEDY 299
coming in the middle or toward the end of a varied
program, it lends a touch of romance and melody
without which many vaudeville bills would seem
incomplete.
A girl-act is a picture, too. Moreover, it holds a
touch of bigness, due to the number of its people,
their changing costumes, and the length of time the
act holds the stage. With its tuneful haste, its
swiftly moving events, its rapid dialogue, its succession
of characters, and its ever-changing, colorful pictures,
the one-act musical comedy is not so much written as
put together. 4.
I. The Musical Elements
Technically known as a girl-act, and booked by
managers who wish a “flash” — a big effect — the one-
act musical comedy naturally puts its best foot fore-
most as soon as the curtain rises. And, equally of
course, it builds up its effects into a concluding best-foot.
The best-foot of a musical comedy is the ensemble
number, in which all the characters — save the prin-
cipals, sometimes – join in a rousing Song. The en-
semble is musical comedy, and one-act musical
comedy is — let this exaggeration clinch the truth –
the ensemble."
* Of course, I am discussing the usual musical comedy — the
flash of a bill — in pointing out so forcefully the value of the
ensemble. There have been some fine one-act musical comedies
in which the ensemble was not used at all. Indeed, the musical
comedy in one act without any ensemble offers most promising
possibilities. -
3OO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Between the opening and the closing ensembles
there is usually one other ensemble number, and
Sometimes two. And between these three or four
ensembles there are usually one or two single num-
bers — solos by a man or a woman — and a duet,
or a trio, or a quartet. These form the musical
element of the one-act musical comedy.
2. Scenery and Costumes — The Picture-Elements
While the one-act musical comedy may be played
in one set of scenery only, it very often happens that
there are two or three different scenes. The act may
open in One, as did Joe Hart’s “If We Said What We
Thought,” and then go into Full Stage; or it may
open in Full Stage, go into One for a little musical
number, and then go back into a different full-stage
scene for its finish. It may even be divided into
three big scenes — each played in a different set —
with two interesting numbers in One, if time per-
mits, or the act be planned to make its appeal by spec-
tacular effects.
Very often, as in Lasky’s “A Night on a House-
boat,” a big set-piece or a trick scene is used to give
an effect of difference, although the entire act is
played without dropping a curtain.
To sum up the idea behind the use of musical
comedy scenery: it is designed to present an effect of
bigness — to make the audience feel they are viewing
a “production.”
ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL MUSICAL COMEDY 301
The same thought is behind the continual costume
changes which are an integral part of the one-act
musical comedy effect. For each ensemble number
the girls' costumes are changed. If there are three
ensembles there are three costumes, and four changes
if there are four ensembles. Needless to say, it
sometimes keeps the girls hustling every minute the
act is in progress, changing from One costume to
another, and taking that one off to don a third or a
fourth.
The result in spectacular effect is as though a scene
were changed every time an ensemble number is
sung. Furthermore, the lights are so contrived as to
add to this effect of difference, and the combination of
different colors playing over different costumes, mov-
ing about in different sets, forms an ever-changing
picture delightfully pleasing and big.
Now, as the musical comedy depends for its appeal
upon musical volume, numbers of people, sometimes
shifting scenery, a kaleidoscopic effect of pretty girls
in ever changing costumes and dancing about to
catchy music, it does not have to lean upon a fas-
cinating plot or brilliant dialogue, in order to succeed.
But of course, as we shall see, a good story and funny
dialogue make a good musical comedy better.
3. The Element of Plot
If your memory and my recollection of numerous
musical comedies of both the one-act and the longer
production of the legitimate stage are to be trusted,
3O2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
a plot is something not vital to the success of a
musical comedy. Indeed, it is actually true that
many a musical comedy has failed because the empha-
sis was placed on plot rather than on a skeleton of a
story which showed the larger elements to the best
advantage. Therefore I present the plot element of
the average one-act musical comedy thus:
Whereas the opening and the finish of the playlet
are two of its most difficult parts to write, in the
musical comedy the beginning and the finish are ready-
made to the writer’s hand. However anxious he may
be to introduce a novel twist of plot at the end, the
writer is debarred from doing so, because he must
finish with an ensemble number where the appeal is
made by numbers of people, costumes, pretty girls
and music. At the beginning, however, the writer
may be as unconventional as he pleases — providing
he does not take too long to bring on his first en-
semble, and So disappoint his audience, who are wait-
ing for the music and the girls. Therefore the
writer must be content to “tag on” his plot to an
opening nearly always — if not always — indicated,
and to round his plot out into an almost invariably
specified ending.
Between the opening and the closing ensembles the
writer has to figure on at least one, and may be more,
ensembles, and a Solo and a duet, or a trio and a
quartet, or other combinations of these musical ele-
ments. These demands restrict his plot still further.
He must indeed make his plot so slight that it will
ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL MUSICAL COMEDY 303
lead out from and blend into the overshadowing stage
effects. Necessarily, his plot must first serve the
demands of scenery and musical numbers — then
and only then may his plot be whatever he can
make it.
The one important rule for the making of a musical
comedy plot is this: The plot of a one-act musical
comedy should be considered as made up of story and
comedy elements so spaced that the time necessary for
setting scenery and changing costumes is neither too
long nor too short.
More than one dress rehearsal on the night before
opening has been wisely devoted to the precise re-
hearsing of musical numbers and costume changes
only. The dialogue was never even hastily spoken.
The entire effort was directed to making the entran-
ces and exits of the chorus and principals on time.
“For,” the producer cannily reasons, “if they slip up
on the dialogue they can fake it — but the slightest
wait on a musical number will seem like a mortal
wound.”
If you recall any of Jesse L. Lasky’s famous musi-
cal acts, “A Night at the Country Club,” “At the
Waldorf,” “The Love Waltz,” “The Song Shop”
(these come readily to mind, but for the life of me I
cannot recall even one incident of any of their plots),
you will realize how important is the correct timing
of musical numbers. You will also understand how
unimportant to a successful vaudeville musical com-
edy is its plot.
3O4 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
4. Story Told by Situations, Not by Dialogue
As there is no time for studied character analysis
and plot exposition, and little time for dialogue, the
Story of a musical comedy must be told by broad
strokes. When you read “A Persian Garden,”
Selected for full reproduction in the Appendix because
it is one of the best examples of a well-balanced musi-
cal comedy plot ever seen in vaudeville, you will
understand why so careful a constructionist as Edgar
Allan Woolf begins his act with the following broad
stroke:
The opening chorus has been sung, and instantly
an old man’s voice is heard off stage. Then all the
chorus girls run up and say, “Oh, here comes the
old Sheik now.”
Again, when Paul wishes to be alone with Rose,
Mr. Woolf makes Paul turn to Phil and say, “What
did I tell you to do?” Then Phil seizes Mrs. Schuyler
and runs her off the stage into the house.
Mr. Woolf’s skill built this very broad stroke up
into a comedy exit good for a laugh, but you and
I have seen other exits where the comedy was
lacking and the mechanics stood out even more
boldly.
So we see that the same time-restriction which ,
makes a musical comedy plot a skeleton, also makes
the exits and entrances and the dialogue and every
happening structurally a skeleton so loosely jointed
that it would rattle horribly — were it not for the
ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL MUSICAL COMEDY 3O5
beautiful covering of the larger effects of costumes,
Scenery and music. Therefore the overshadowing
necessity for speed makes admissible in the musical
comedy broad strokes that would not be tolerated
anywhere else.
It is by willingly granting this necessary license
that the audience is permitted to enjoy many single
musical numbers and delightful ensembles within the
time-limits vaudeville can afford for any one act. So
we see why it is — to return to the bald expository
statement with which this division begins — that the
writer must consider his story and his comedy scenes
only as time-fillers to make the waits between musical
numbers pleasantly interesting and laughter-worth-
while.
5. The Comedy Element
Plainly recognizing the quickness with which one
character must be brought on the stage and taken off
again, and thoroughly appreciating that whatever is
done between the musical numbers must be speedily
dismissed, let us now see what forms of comedy are
possible. -
Obviously the comedy cannot depend upon delicate
shades. It must be the sort of comedy that is physi-
cal rather than mental. Slap-stick comedy would
seem to be the surest to succeed.
But while this is true, there is no need to depend
entirely on the slap-stick brand of humor. For
instance, while we find in “A Persian Garden” one
306 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
whole comedy Scene built on the killing of mosqui-
toes on Phil's face — certainly the slap-stick brand,
even though a hand delivers the slap — we also
have the comedy of character in Mrs. Schuyler’s
speeches. - - - -
Comedy rising directly out of and dependent upon
plot, however, is not the sort of comedy that usually
gives the best results, because plot is nearly always
Subservient to the musical and picture making ele-
ments. But the comedy element of plot may be made
to run throughout and can be used with good effect,
if it is the kind that is easily dismissed and brought
back. This is why so many musical comedies have
made use of plots hinged on mistaken identity, Kings
and Princesses in masquerade, and wives and hus-
bands anxiously avoiding each other and forever
meeting unexpectedly.
Still, plot-comedy may be depended upon for at
least one big scene, if the idea is big enough. For
instance, the internationally successful “The Naked
Truth” possessed a plot that was big enough to carry
the musical comedy on plot-interest alone, if that
were necessary. Indeed, it might have been used as
a good farce without music. The whole act hung on
a magic statue in whose presence nothing but the
truth could be told, on pain of parting from one's
clothes. And the comedy scenes that developed out
of it carried a series of twists and turns of real plot-
interest that made the musical numbers all the more
delightful and the whole act a notable success.
ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL MUSICAL COMEDY 307
The musical element of this delightful vaudeville
form makes certain other humorous acts fit into the
musical comedy structure. For instance, if the com-
edy character is left alone on the stage, he can with
perfect propriety deliver a short monologue. Or he
may do anything else that will win laughter and
applause.
And the two-act, even more perfectly than the
monologue, fits into the musical comedy. No matter
what the two-act is, if it is short and humorous, it
may be used for one of the ornamental time-gap
stoppers. A quarrel scene may be just what is
needed to fill out and advance the plot. But more
often, the flirtation two-act is the form that best
suits, for the nature of the musical comedy seems
best expressed by love and its romantic moments.
Indeed, the flirtation two-act is often a little musical
comedy in itself, minus a background of girls. As an
example, take Louis Weslyn’s very successful two-act,
“After the Shower.”* You can easily imagine all the
other girls in the camping party appearing, to act as
the chorus. Then suppply a talkative chaperon, and
you have only to add her comical husband to pro-
duce a fine musical comedy offering.
So we see once more that the one-act musical
comedy is the result of assembling, rather than of
writing. There is no need of adding even one instruc-
tion paragraph here.
Before we take up the one or two hints on writing
* See the Appendix.
308 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
that would seem to present themselves in helpful
guise, you should read Edgar Allan Woolf’s “A
Persian Garden.” Turn to the Appendix and this
act will show you clearly how the writer welds
these different vaudeville forms into one perfect
whole.
CHAPTER XX
PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY
- WITH
HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLESQUE TAB
Unless you have a definite order to write a one-act
musical comedy, it would seem, from the compara-
tively small part the writer has in the final effect,
that the novice had better not write the musical
comedy at all. Although this would appear to be
clear, from the discussion of the elements in the pre-
ceding chapter, I want to make it even more emphatic
by saying that more than once I have written a
musical comedy act for the “small time” in a few
hours — and have then spent weeks dovetailing it to
fit the musical numbers introduced and whipping the
whole act into the aspect of a “production.” -
But there is one time when even the amateur may
write a musical comedy — when he has a great idea.
But I do not mean the average musical comedy idea
— I mean such an idea as that which made “The
Naked Truth” so successful. And in the hope that
you may possess such an idea, I offer a few hints
that may prove helpful in casting your idea into
Smooth musical comedy form.
3IO WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
As I have already discussed plot in the chapters
devoted to the playlet, and have taken up the structure
of the monologue and the two-act in the chapters on
those forms, there is now no need for considering
“writing” at all save for a single hint. Yet even this
one suggestion deals less with the formal “writing”
element than with the “feel” of the material. It is
stated rather humorously by Thomas J. Gray, who has
written many successful one-act musical comedies, vary-
ing in style from “Gus Edwards’ School Boys and
Girls” to “The Vaudeville Revue of 1915” — a musical
travesty on prevailing ideas — and the books of a few
long musical successes, from comedy scenes in “Watch
your Step” to “Ned Wayburn's Town Topics,” that
“Musical comedy, from a vaudeville standpoint, and
a ‘Broadway’ or two-dollar standpoint, are two different
things. A writer has to treat them in entirely different
ways, as a doctor would two different patients suffer-
ing from the same ailment. In vaudeville an author
has to remember that nearly everyone in the audience
has some one particular favorite on the bill — you
have to write something funny enough to please the
admirers of the acrobat, the magician, the dancer,
the dramatic artist, the rag-time singer and the moving
pictures. But in ‘Broadway’ musical comedy it is easier
to please the audiences because they usually know
what the show is about before they buy their tickets,
and they know what to expect. That’s why you can
tell ‘vaudeville stuff’ in a ‘Broadway’ show — it’s the
lines the audience laugh at.
PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY 311
“To put it in a different way, let me say that while
in two-dollar musical comedy you can get by with ‘Smart
lines’ and Snickers, in vaudeville musical comedy you
have to go deeper than the lip-laughter. You must
waken the laughter that lies deep down and rises in
appreciative roars. It is in ability to create situations
that will produce this type of laughter that the one-act
musical comedy writer’s success lies.” -
I. An Average One-Act Musical Comedy Recipe
While it is not absolutely necessary to open a
musical comedy with an ensemble number, many fine
acts do so open. And the ensemble finish seems to
be the rule. Therefore let us assume that you wish
to form your musical comedy on this usual style. As
your act should run anywhere from thirty to fifty
minutes, and as your opening number will consume
scarcely two minutes, and your closing ensemble per-
haps three, you have — on a thirty-five minute basis
— thirty minutes in which to bring in your third
ensemble, your other musical numbers and your
dialogue.
The third ensemble — probably a chorus number,
with the tenor or the ingenue, or both, working in
front of the chorus — will consume anywhere from
five to seven minutes. Then your solo will take
about three minutes. And if you have a duet or a
trio, count four minutes more. So you have about
eighteen minutes for your plot and comedy — includ-
ing specialties.
3I2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
While these time hints are obviously not exact,
they are suggestive of the fact that you should time
everything which enters into your act. And having
timed your musical elements by some such rough
standard as this – or, better still, by slowly reading
your lyrics as though you were singing — you should
Set down for your own guidance a schedule that will
look something like this:
Opening ensemble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 minutes
Dialogue { Introducing Plot, -
First Comedy Scenes. . . . . . . 4. 55
Solo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 53
& Comedy and
Dialogue { ś tº e e º e º 'º e g º e g º º 5 *
Ensemble number . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 22
Specialties, Comedy. Plot
Dialogue climax — perhaps a “big”
love scene, leading into . . . 7 °
Duet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. 5 y
Plot Solution — the
Dialogue final arrangement
of characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 55
Closing ensemble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 y
3 5 55
Of course this imaginary schedule is not the only
schedule that can be used; also bear firmly in mind
that you may make any arrangement of your ele-
ments that you desire, within the musical comedy
form. Let me repeat what I am never tired of saying,
that a rigid adherence to any existing form of vaude-
ville act is as likely to be disastrous as a too wild
PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY 3I3
desire to be original. Be as unconventional as you
can be within the necessary conventional limits.
This is the way to success.
You have your big idea, and you have the safe,
Conventional ensemble opening, or a semi-ensemble
novelty opening. Also you have a solo number for
the tenor or the ingenue, with the chorus working
behind them. Finally you have your ensemble
ending. Now, within these boundaries, arrange your
solo and duet – or dispense with them, as you feel
best fits your plot and your comedy. Develop your
story by comedy situations — don’t depend upon
lines. Place your big scene in the last big dialogue
space – the seven minutes of the foregoing schedule
— and then bring your act to an end with a great big
musical finish.
2. Timing the Costume Changes
Although the schedule given allows plenty of time
for costume changes, you must not consider your
Schedule as a ready-made formula. Read it and learn
the lesson it points out — then cast it aside. Test
every minute of your act by the test of time. Be
especially careful to give your chorus and your prin-
cipal characters time to make costume changes.
In gauging the minutes these changes will take,
time yourself in making actual changes of clothing.
Remember that you must allow one minute to get
to the dressing room and return to the stage. But
do not make the mistake of supposing that the first
3I4 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
test you make in changing your own clothes will
be the actual time it will take experienced dress-
ers to change. You yourself can cut down your
time record by practice — and your clothes are not
equipped with time-saving fasteners. Furthermore, it
often happens that the most complicated dress is
worn in the first scene and a very quick change is
prepared for by under-dressing — that is, wearing
some of the garments of the next change under the
pretentious over-garments of the preceding Scene.
These are merely stripped off and the person is ready
dressed to go back on the stage in half a minute.
But precise exactness in costume changes need not
worry you very much. If you have been reasonably
exact, the producer — upon whom the costume
changes and the costumes themselves depend — will
add a minute of dialogue here or take away a minute
there, to make the act run as it should.
3. The Production Song
Certain songs lend themselves more readily to
effective staging, and these are called “production
songs.” For instance: “Alexander's Ragtime Band”
could be — and often was — put on with a real
band. The principal character could sing the first
verse and the chorus alone. Then the chorus girls
could come out in regimentals, each one “playing”
some instrument — the music faked by the orchestra
or produced by “zobos” — and when they were all on
the stage, the chorus could be played again with
PUTTING TOGETHER THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY 315
rousing effect. During the second verse, sung as a
Solo, the girls could act out the lines. Then with the
repetition of the chorus, they could produce funny
characteristic effects on the instruments. And then
they could all exit – waiting for the audience to
bring them back for the novelties the audience would
expect to be introduced in an encore.
This is often the way a “popular song” is
“plugged” in cabarets, musical comedies, burlesque,
and in vaudeville. It is made so attractive that it is
repeated again and again — and so drummed into the
ears of the audience that they go out whistling it.
Ned Wayburn demonstrated this in his vaudeville act
“Staging an Act.” He took a commonplace melody
and built it up into a production — then the audience
liked it. George Cohan did precisely the same thing
in his “Hello, Broadway”; taking a silly lyric and a
melody, he told the audience he was going to make
'em like it; and he did — by “producing” it.
But not every “popular song” lends itself to pro-
duction treatment. For instance, how would you
go about producing “When it Strikes Home”? How
would you stage “When I Lost You”? Or — to show
you that serious songs are not the only ones
that may not be producible — how would you put
on “Oh, How that German Could Love”? Of course.
you could bring the chorus on in couples and have
them sing such a sentimental song to each other—but
that would not, in the fullest sense, be producing it.
* Just as not every “popular Song” can be pro-
316 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
duced, so not every production Song can be made
popular. You have never whistled that song pro-
duced in “Staging an Act,” nor have you ever
whistled Cohan’s song from “Hello, Broadway.” If
they ever had any names I have forgotten them, but
the audience liked them immensely at the time.
As many production songs are good only for 'stage
purposes, and therefore are not a Source of much
financial profit to their writers, there is no need for me
to describe their special differences and the way to
go about writing them. Furthermore, their elements
are precisely the same as those of any other song —
with the exception that each chorus is fitted with
different catch lines in the place of the regular punch
lines, and there may be any number of different verses.”
Now having your “big” idea, and having built it
up with your musical elements carefully spaced to
allow for costume changes, perhaps having made
your comedy rise out of the monologue and the two-
act to good plot advantage, and having developed
your story to its climax in the last part of your act,
you assemble all your people, join the loose plot ends
and bring your musical comedy to a close with a
rousing ensemble finish. -- •
HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLEsque TAB
The word “tab’’ is vaudeville's way of saying
“tabloid,” or condensed version. While vaudeville
is in itself a series of tabloid entertainments, “tab”
1 See Chapter XXII.
HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLESQUE TAB 3I7
is used to identify the form of a musical comedy act
which may run longer than the average one-act musi-
cal comedy. Although a tabloid is almost invariably
in one act, it is hardly ever in only one scene. There
are usually several different sets used, and the unin-
terrupted forty-five minutes, or even more than an
hour, are designed to give a greater effect of bigness
to the production. -
But the greatest difference between the one-act
musical comedy and the burlesque tab does not lie
in playing-time, nor bigness of effect. While a one-
act musical comedy is usually intended to be made up
of carefully joined and new humorous situations, the
burlesque tab – you will recall the definition of bur-
lesque – depends upon older and more crude humor.
James Madison, whose “My Old Kentucky Home”!
has been chosen as showing clearly the elements pe-
culiar to the burlesque tab, describes the difference in
this way:
“Burlesque does not depend for success upon
Smoothly joined plot, musical numbers or pictorial
effects. Neither does it depend upon lines. Making
its appeal particularly to those who like their humor
of the elemental kind, the burlesque tab often uses
slap-stick comedy methods. Frankly acknowledging
this, vaudeville burlesque nevertheless makes a clean
appeal. It does not countenance either word or
gesture that could offend. Since its purpose is to
raise uproarious laughter, it does not take time to
* See the Appendix.
318 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
smooth the changes from one comedy bit to the
next, but one bit follows another swiftly, with the
frankly avowed purpose to amuse, and to amuse for
the moment only. Finally, the burlesque tab comes
to an end swiftly: it has made use of a plot merely
for the purpose of stringing on comedy bits, and
having come toward the close, it boldly states that
fact, as it were, by a Swift rearrangement of char-
acters — and then ends.”
While the burlesque tab nearly always opens with
an ensemble number, and almost invariably ends
with an ensemble, there may be more solos, duets,
trios, quartets and ensembles than are used by the
musical comedy – if the act is designed to run for
a longer time. But as its appeal is made by humor
rather than by musical or pictorial effect, the bur-
lesque tab places the emphasis on the humor. It does
this by giving more time to comedy and by making
its comedy more elemental, more uproarious.
In a burlesque tab, the comedy bits are never
barred by age — providing they are sure-fire — and
therefore they are sometimes reminiscent." The effort
to give them freshness and newness is to relate the
happenings to different characters, and to introduce
the bits in novel ways. -
Therefore, it would seem obvious that the writing
& &
1 Mr. Madison informed me that the “statuary bit” in “My
Old Kentucky Home” is one of the oldest “bits” in the show
business. It is even older than Weber and Field's first use of it
a generation ago.
HINTS ON MAKING THE BURLESQUE TAB 3I9
of the burlesque tab is not “writing” at all. It is
stage managing. And as the comedy bits are in
many cases parts of the history of the stage – written
down in the memories of actor and producer – the
novice had better not devote his thoughts to writing
burlesque. However, if he can produce bits of new
business that will be sure-fire, he may find the bur-
lesque tab for him the most profitable of all oppor-
tunities the vaudeville stage has to offer. That,
however, is a rare condition for the beginner.
CHAPTER XXI
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG
The easiest thing in the world is to write a song;
the most difficult, to write a song that will be popu-
lar. I do not mean a “popular” song, but a Song
everybody will whistle — for few songs written for the
populace really become songs of the people. The
difference between poverty and opulence in the busi-
ness of song-writing is – whistling.
What is the difference, then, between the man who
can “write songs” and the one who can write songs
everybody will whistle? Wherein lies the magic?
Here is the difference, unexplained it is true, but at
least clearly stated:
There are hundreds of men and womcn all over
the land who can rhyme with facility. Any one of
them can take almost any idea you suggest off hand,
and on the instant sing you a song that plays up that
idea. These persons are the modern incarnations of
the oldtime minstrels who wandered over the land
and sang extemporaneous ditties in praise of their
host for their dinners. But, remarkable as the gift
is, many of these modern minstrels cannot for the
life of them put into their songs that something which
makes their hearers whistle it long after they leave.
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 32I
W
The whistle maker is the one who can rhyme with
perhaps no more ease than these others, but into his
Song he is able to instil the magic — sometimes.
But what is this magic that makes of Song-writing
a mystery that even the genius cannot unerringly
solve each time he tries? Not for one moment would
I have you believe that I can solve the mystery for
you. If I could, I should not be writing this chap-
ter — I should be writing a song that could not fail
of the greatest sale in history. Still, with the kind
assistance of the gentlemen in the profession – as the
prestidigitator used to say in the old town hall when
he began his entertainment — I may be able to lift
the outer veils of the unknown, and you may be able
to face the problem with clearer-seeing eyes.
I called for help first from Irving Berlin, without
doubt the most successful popular song writer this
country has ever known; then the assistance of phe-
nomenally successful writers of Such diverse genius
as Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe Gilbert, Ballard
MacDonald, Joe McCarthy, Stanley Murphy, and
Anatol Friedland, was asked and freely given. It is
from their observations, as well as from my own,
that the following elements of the art of whistle-
making have been gathered.
Although we are interested only in the lyrics of the
popular song, we must first consider the music, for the
lyric writer is very often required to write words to
music that has already been written. Therefore he
must know the musical elements of his problem,
322 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
I. Music and Words are Inseparable
Think of any popular song-hit, and while you are
recollecting just “how it goes,” stand back from
yourself ; and watch your mental processes. The
words of the title first pop into your mind, do they
not? Then do not you find yourself whistling that
part of the music fitted to those words? Conversely,
if the music comes into your mind first, the words
seem to sing themselves. Now see if the bars of music
you remember and whistle first are not the notes
fitted to the title.
If these observations are correct, we have not
only proof of the inseparable quality of the words
and the music of a popular Song, but also evidence
to which you can personally testify regarding the
foundations of lyric-writing.
But first let us hear what Berlin has to say about
the inseparable quality of words and music: “The
song writer who writes both words and music, has
the advantage over the lyric writer who must fit his
words to somebody else's music and the composer
who must make his music fit someone else’s words.
Latitude — the mother of novelty — is denied them,
and in consequence both lyrics and melody suffer.
Since I write both words and music, I can compose
them together and make them fit. I sacrifice one
for the other. If I have a melody I want to use, I
plug away at the lyrics until I make them fit the
best parts of my music, and vice versa.
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 323
“For instance: “In My Harem' first came to me
from the humorous possibility that the Greeks, who
at that time were fighting with the Turks, might be
the cause of a lot of harems running loose in Turkey.
I tried to fit that phrase to a melody, but I couldn’t.
At last I got a melody; something that Sounded
catchy; a simple “dum-te-de-dum.’ I had it,
In my harem,
In my harem.
“With “Ragtime Violin’ I had the phrase and no
music, I got a few bars to fit, then the melody made
a six-syllable and then a five-syllable passage neces-
sary. I had it: --.
Fiddle up! Fiddle up!
On your violin.
“The lyric of a song must sing the music and the
music sing the words.”
Charles K. Harris, who wrote the great popular
success, “After the Ball,” so far back in the early
days of the popular song that Some consider this
song the foundation of the present business, has
followed it up with innumerable successes. Mr. Harris
has this to say on the same point: -
“I believe it is impossible to collaborate with
anyone in writing a popular song. I don’t believe
one man can write the words and another the music.
A man can’t put his heart in another’s lyrics or music.
To set a musical note for each word of a song is not
all — the note must fit the word.”
324 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
But, while Mr. Harris's words should be considered
as the expression of an authority, there is also con-
siderable evidence that points the other way. Just
to mention a few of the many partnerships which
have resulted in numerous successes, there are Wil-
liams and Van Alstyne, who followed “Under the
Shade of the Old Apple Tree” with a series of hits;
Ballard MacDonald and Harry Carroll, who made
“On the Trail of the Lonesome Pine” merely the first
of a remarkably successful brotherhood; Harry Von
Tilzer with his ever varying collaborators, and L.
Wolfe Gilbert, who wrote “Robert E. Lee,” “Hitchy
Roo,” and other hits, with Louis Muir, and then
collaborated with Anatol Friedland and others in
producing still other successes. These few examples
out of many which might be quoted, show that two
persons can collaborate in writing Song-hits, but, in
the main, as Mr. Berlin and Mr. Harris say, there
are decided advantages when words and music can
be done together by one writer.
What is absolutely essential to the writing of
songs which will make the nation whistle, may be
stated in this principle:
The words and music of a song must fit each other
so perfectly that the thought of one is inseparable from
the other.
And now before we turn to the essential elements of
the words, to which I shall devote the next chapter,
permit me to name a few of the elements of popular
music that may be helpful to many modern -min-
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 325
strels to know. In fact, these are all the Suggestions
on the writing of popular music that I have been
able to glean from many years of curious inquiry.
I believe they represent practically, if not quite, all
the hints that can be given on this subject."
2. One Octave is the Popular Song Range
The popular song is introduced to the public by
vaudeville performers, cabaret singers, and demon-
Strators, whose voices have not a wide range. Even
some of the most successful vaudeville stars have
not extraordinary voices. Usually the vaudeville
performer cannot compass a range of much more
than an octave. The cabaret singer who has com-
mand of more than seven notes is rare, and the
demonstrator in the department store and the five-
and ten-cent store usually has a voice little better
than the person who purchases. Therefore the com-
poser of a song is restricted to the range of one
Octave. Sometimes, it is true, a song is written in
“one-one,” or even “one-two” (one or two notes
more than an octave), but even such “rangey” Songs
make use of these notes only in the verses and con-
fine the chorus to a single octave. But in the end,
the necessity for the composer’s writing his song
5
* Because of the obvious impossibility of adequately discussing
Syncopation and kindred purely technical elements, ragtime has
not been particularly pointed out. The elements here given are
those that apply to ragtime as well as to nearly every other sort
of popular song.
326 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
within one octave to make an effective offering for
his introducing singers, works out to his advantage.
The average voice of an octave range is that possessed
by those who buy popular Songs to sing at home.
Now here is a helpful hint and another bit of evi-
dence from the music angle, to emphasize the neces-
sity for the perfect fitting of words and music. Let
me state it as Berlin did, in an article written for
the Green Book Magazine:
3. Melodies Should Go Up on Open Vowels
“Melodies should go up on open vowels in the
lyrics — A, I or O. E is half open and U is closed.
Going up on a closed vowel makes enunciation difficult.”
Experience is the only thing warranted to con-
vince beyond doubt, so test this rule on your own
piano. Then take down the most popular songs you
have in your collection and measure them by it.
4. Put “Punch” in Music Wherever Possible
As we shall see later, another definition of the pop-
ular song-hit might be, “A song with a punch in the
lyrics and a punch in the music.” Berlin expressed the
application to the problem of melody by the following:
“In the ‘International Rag,’ for example, I got
my punch by means of my melody. I used the
triplet, the freak, from out of my bag of tricks:
Raggedy melody,
Full of originality.
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 327
5. Punch is Sometimes Secured by Trick
of Repetition
Anatol Friedland, who composed the music of
“My Persian Rose,” and L. Wolfe Gilbert’s “My
Little Dream Girl,” in discussing this question, said:
“Ten notes may be the Secret of a popular song
success. If I can make my listeners remember ten
notes of a song that’s all I ask. Whenever they
hear these ten notes played they’ll say, ‘That's . . .,’
and straightway they’ll begin to whistle it. This
is the music punch, and it depends on merit alone.
Now here’s one angle of the musical punch trick:
“To make a punch more punchy still, we repeat
it at least once, and Sometimes oftener, in a song.
You may start your chorus with it, repeat it in the
middle, or repeat it at the end. Rarely is it repeated
in the verse. High-brow composers call it the theme.
For the popular Song Composer, it’s the punch.
Clever repetition that makes the strain return with
delightful satisfaction, is one of the tricks of the
trade — as well as of the art of popular music.”
6. A Musical Theme Might be Practically
the Entire Song
If what Friedland says is so, and you may turn
to your well-thumbed pile of music for confirmation,
the theme or the punch of popular music may prove
the entire song. I mean, that in its final sales
analysis, the magic bars are what count.
328 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
To carry this logical examination still further, it
is possible for a popular song to be little more than
theme. As a musical theme is the underlying mel-
ody out of which the variations are formed, it is pos-
sible to repeat the theme so often that the entire
song is little more than clever repetitions.
One of the most common methods is to underlay
a melody with what E. M. Wickes, one of the keen-
est popular song critics of today, calls the “internal
vamp.” This is the keeping of a melody so closely
within its possible octave that the variations play
around a very few notes. Try on your piano this
combination — D, E flat, and E natural, or F nat-
ural, with varying tempos, and you will recognize
many beginnings of different famous songs they
represent. Either the verse of these songs starts off
with this combination, or the chorus takes these
notes for its beginning. “Sweet Adeline” and “On
the Banks of the Wabash” are but two of the many
famous songs built on this foundation. Of course,
there are other combinations. These few combina-
tions taken together might be considered as the
popular idea of “easy music.” -
And now it is through the consideration of the
importance of the variations of the theme that we
may come to an understanding of what, for the want
of a better phrase, I shall call unexpected punches.
* Mr. Wickes has been contributing to The Writer’s Monthly
a series of valuable papers under the general caption, “Helps for
Song Writers.”
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 329
7. Punches not Suggested by the Theme
The impossibility of adequately pointing out by
words the specific examples of what I mean in cer-
tain songs makes it necessary for me to direct you
back to your own piano. Run over a group of your
favorites and see how many musical punches you
can find that are not due directly to the theme.
Pick out the catchy variations in a dozen Songs —
you may chance on one or two where the biggest
punch is not in the theme. Of course you may trace
it all back to the theme, but nevertheless it still
stands out a distinct punch in the variation. If
you can add this punch to your theme-punch, your
song success is assured. t
8. Use of Themes or Punches of Other Songs
When Sol P. Levy, the composer of “Memories,”
the “Dolly Dip Dances,” and a score of better-class
melodies, shared my office, one of our Sources of
amusement was seeking the original themes from
which the popular songs were made. As Mr. Levy
was arranging songs for nearly all the big publishers,
we had plenty of material with which to play our
favorite indoor sport. It was a rare song, indeed,
whose musical parent we could not ferret out. Nearly
all the successful popular songs frankly owned themes
that were favorites of other days — some were fa-
vorites long “before the war.”
Berlin's use of “Way down upon the Swanee River”
33O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
—“ played in ragtime ’’—for a musical punch in “Alex-
ander’s Ragtime Band,” was not the first free use of a
theme of an old favorite for a punch, but it was one of
the first honestly frank uses. The way he took Men-
delssohn’s “Spring Song” and worked it into as dar-
ing a “rag” as he could achieve, is perhaps the most
delightfully impudent, “here-see-what-I-can-do,” spon-
taneously and honestly successful “lift” ever perpe-
trated. Berlin has “ragged” some of the most perfect
themes of grand opera with wonderful success, but
not always so openly. And other composers have
done the same thing.
The usual method is to take some theme that is
filled with memories and make it over into a theme
that is just enough like the familiar theme to be
haunting. This is the one secret or trick of the
popular song trade that has been productive of more
money than perhaps any other.
This lifting of themes is not plagiarism in the
strict sense in which a solemn court of art-indepen-
dence would judge it. Of course it is well within
that federal law which makes the copyrightable part
of any piece of music as wide open as a barn door,
for you know you can with “legal honesty” steal
the heart of any song, if you are “clever” enough,
and want it. The average popular song writer who
makes free use of another composer's melody, doubt-
less would defend his act with the argument that he
is not writing “serious music,” only melodies for the
passing hour and therefore that he ought to be per-
THE MUSICAL ELEMENTS OF THE POPULAR SONG 33 I
mitted the artistic license of weaving into his Songs
themes that are a part of the melodic life of the day."
But, although some song writers contend for the right
of free use, they are usually the first to Cry “Stop
thief” when another composer does the same thing
to them. However, dismissing the ethics of this
matter, right here there lies a warning, not of art or
of law, but for your own Success.
Never lift a theme of another popular song. Never
use a lifted theme of any song – unless you can
improve on it. And even then never try to hide a
theme in your melody as your own — follow Mr.
Berlin’s method, if you can, and weave it frankly
into your music.
Now, to sum up all that has been said on the
music of the popular song: While it is an advantage
for one man to write both the words and music of a
Song, it is not absolutely essential; what is essential
is that the words and music fit each other so per-
fectly that the thought of one is inseparable from the
other. One octave is the range in which popular
music should be written. Melodies should go up on
open vowels in the lyrics. A “punch” should be
put in the music wherever possible. Punch is some-
times Secured by the trick of repetition in the chorus,
as well as at the beginning and end. The theme may
* An interesting article discussing the harm such tactics have
done the popular song business is to be found over the signature
of Will Rossiter in the New York Star for March 1, 1913.
332 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
be and usually is the punch, but in the variations
there may be punches not suggested by the theme.
Themes, semi-classical, or even operatic, or punches
of old favorites may be used — but not those of
other popular songs — and then it is best to use
them frankly.
To state all this in one concise sentence permit
me to hazard the following:
The music-magic of the popular song lies in a catchy
theme stated at, or close to, the very beginning, led
into clever variations that round back at least once
and maybe twice into the original theme, and finish-
ing with the theme — which was a punch of intrinsic
merit, made stronger by a repetition that makes it
positively haunting,
CHAPTER XXII
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC
One question about . Song-writing is often asked
but will never be settled: Which is more important,
the music or the words? Among the publishers
with whom I have discussed this qustion is Louis
Bernstein, of Shapiro, Bernstein & Co. He summed
up what all the other publishers and song-writers I
have known have said:
“A great melody may carry a poor lyric to success,
and a great lyric may carry a poor melody; but for
a Song to become widely popular you must have
both a great melody and a great lyric.”
This is but another way of stating the fact noted
in the preceding chapter, that the words and music
of a popular song-hit are indivisible. And yet Mr.
Bernstein gives an authoritative reply to the ques-
tion with which this chapter opens.
Charles K. Harris put it in another way. Refer-
ring particularly to the ballad — and to the particular
style of ballad that has made him famous —he said:
“The way to the whistling lips is always through
the heart. Reach the heart through your lyrics, and
the lips will whistle the emotion via the melody.
When the heart has not been touched by the lyric,
334 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
the lips will prove rebellious. They may, indeed,
whistle the melody once, even twice, but it takes
more than that to make a song truly popular. A
catchy tune is not sufficient in itself. It goes far, it
is true, but it will not go the entire distance of pop-
ularity, or even two-thirds of the distance, unless it
is accompanied by a catchy lyric.”
You may read into this a leaning toward the lyric,
if you like. And it might be better if you did, for
you would then realize that your part of a popular
song must be as “great” as you can make it. But
whatever may be your opinion, it does not alter the
fact that both Mr. Harris and Mr. Bernstein have
pointed out — catchy words are needed as much as
catchy melody. And permit me to say very humbly
that personally I have no leaning toward the musical
one of the twins: my reason for discussing first the
musical elements, is that a lyric writer often is called
on to fit words to music, and because an understand-
ing of the musical elements forms a fine foundation
for an easy, and therefore a quick, dissection of the
popular song — that is all.
I. WHAT A POPULAR SONG LYRIC Is
In its original meaning, a lyric is verse designed
to be sung to the accompaniment of music. Nowa-
days lyrical poetry is verse in which the poet's per-
Sonal emotions are strongly shown. Popular song-
lyrics especially are not only designed to be sung, but
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 335
are verses that show a great deal of emotion — any
kind of emotion. But remember this point: Whatever
and how great Soever may be the emotion striving
for expression, the words designed to convey it do
not become lyrics until the emotion is shown, and
shown in a sort of verse which we shall presently
examine. If you convey emotion, your words may be
worth thousands of dollars. If you fail to convey it,
they will be only a sad joke.
As illustrations of this vital point, and to serve as
examples for the examination of the elements of the
popular lyric, read the words of the following famous
songs; and while you are reading them you will see
vividly how music completes the lyric. Stripped of
its music, a popular Song-lyric is often about as attrac-
tive as an ancient actress after she has taken off all
the make-up that in the setting of the stage made her
look like a girl. Words with music become magically
one, the moving expression of the emotion of their
day.
IMPORTANT NOTE
All the popular song lyrics quoted in this volume
are copyright property and are used by special per-
mission of the publishers, in each instance personally
granted to the author of this book. Many of the
lyrics have never before been printed without their
music. Warning: – Republication in any form by
anyone whosoever will meet with civil and criminal
prosecution by the publishers under the copyright law.
336 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ALEXANDER'S RAGTIME BAND
Words and Music by IRVING BERLIN
Oh, ma honey, Oh, ma honey,
Better hurry and let's meander,
Ain't you goin', ain’t you goin,”
To the leader man, ragged meter man,
Oh, ma honey, Oh, ma honey,
Let me take you to Alexander’s grand stand, brass
band, -
Ain't you comin’ along?
CHORUS
Come on and hear, come on and hear
Alexander’s ragtime band,
Come on and hear, come on and hear,
It’s the best band in the land,
They can play a bugle call like you never heard
Leſole,
So natural that you want to go to war;
That’s just the bestest band what am, honey lamb,
Come on along, come on along,
Let me take you by the hand,
Up to the man, up to the man, who's the leader of
the band,
And if you care to hear the Swanee River played in
ragtime,
Come on and hear, come on and hear Alexander’s
ragtime Band.
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 337
Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey,
There’s a fiddle with notes that screeches,
Like a chicken, like a chicken,
And the clarinet is a colored pet,
Come and listen, come and listen,
To a classical band what’s peaches, come now,
Somehow,
Better hurry along.
Copyright, 1911, by TED SNYDER Co. (INC.)
THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE
Words by Music by
BALLARD MACDONALD HARRY CARROLL
On a mountain in Virginia stands a lonesome pine,
Just below is the cabin home, of a little girl of mine,
Her name is June,
And very very soon,
She’ll belong to me, w
For I know she's waiting there for me,
'Neath that old pine tree.
REFRAIN
In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine,
In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine,
Where she carved her name and I carved mine,
Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue,
Like the pine, I am lonesome for you,
In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine.
338 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
*
I can hear the tinkling water-fall far among the hills,
Bluebirds sing each so merrily, to his mate rapture
thrills,
They seem to say, Your June is lonesome too.
Longing fills her eyes,
She is waiting for you patiently,
Where the pine tree sighs.
Copyright, MCMXV, by SHAPIRO, BERNSTEIN & Co.
WHEN THE BELL IN THE LIGHTHOUSE
, RINGS DING DONG
Lyric by Music by
ARTHUR J. LAMB ALFRED SOLMAN
Just a glance in your eyes, my bonnie Kate,
Then over the sea go I,
While the sea-gulls circle around the ship,
And the billowy waves roll high.
And over the Sea and away, my Kate,
Afar to the distant West;
But ever and ever a thought I’ll have,
For the lassie who loves me best.
REFRAIN
When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong,
When it clangs with its warning loud and long,
Then a sailor will think of his sweetheart so true,
And long for the day he'll come back to you;
And his love will be told in the bell's brave song
When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong,
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 339
Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong!
When the bell in the lighthouse rings
Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong!
For a day is to come, my bonnie Kate,
When joy in our hearts shall reign
And we'll laugh to think of the dangers past,
“When you rest in my arms again.
For back to your heart I will sail, my Kate,
With love that is staunch and true;
In storm or in calm there’s a star of hope,
That’s always to shine for you.
Copyright, MCMV, by Jos. W. STEIN Co.
SWEET ITALIAN LOVE
Words by Music by
IRVING BERLIN TED SNYDER
Everyone talk—a how they make-a da love
Call-a da sweet name like-a da dove,
It makes me sick when they start in to speak-a
Bout the moon way up above.
What's-a da use to have—a big-a da moon?
What’s the use to call-a da dove
If he no like-a she, and she no like-a he,
The moon can't make them love. But,
CHORUS
Sweet Italian love,
Nice Italian love,
34O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
You don’t need the moon-a-light your love to tell her,
In da house or on da roof or in da cellar,
Dat’s Italian love,
Sweet Italian love;
When you kiss-a your pet,
And it’s–a like-a spagette,
Dat’s Italian love.
Ev'ryone say they like da moon-a da light,
There's one-a man up in da moon all-a right,
But he no tell—a that some other nice feller
Was-a kiss your gal last night.
Maybe you give your gal da wedding-a ring,
Maybe you marry, like-a me
Maybe you love your wife, maybe for all your life,
But dat’s only maybe. But,
CHORUS:
Sweet Italian love,
Nice Italian love,
When you squeeze your gal and she no say, “Please
stop-a!”
When you got dat twenty kids what call you “Papa!”
Dat’s Italian love, -
Sweet Italian love;
When you kiss one-a time,
And it's-a feel like-a mine,
Dat's Italian love!
Copyright, 1910, by TED SNYDER Co. (INC.)
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 341
OH HOW THAT GERMAN COULD LOVE
Words by Music by
IRVING BERLIN TED SNYDER
Once I got stuck on a sweet little German,
And oh what a German was she,
The best what was walking, well, what’s the use talking,
Was just made to order for me.
So lovely and witty; more yet, she was pretty,
You don’t know until you have tried.
She had such a figure, it couldn’t be bigger,
And there was some one yet beside.
CHORUS
Oh how that German could love,
With a feeling that came from the heart,
She called me her honey, her angel, her money,
She pushed every word out so Smart.
She spoke like a speaker, and oh what a speech,
Like no other speaker could speak;
Ach my, what a German when she kissed her Herman,
It stayed on my cheek for a week.
This girl I could squeeze, and it never would hurt,
For that lady knew how to Squeeze;
Her loving was killing, more yet, she was willing,
You never would have to say please.
I just couldn’t stop her, for dinner and Supper,
Some dishes and hugs was the food;
When she wasn’t nice it was more better twice;
When she's bad she was better than good.
342 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Sometimes we'd love for a week at a time,
And it only would seem like a day;
How well I remember, one night in December,
I felt like the middle of May.
I’ll bet all I’m worth, that when she came on earth,
All the angels went out on parade;
No other one turned up, I think that they burned
up
The pattern from which she was made.
Copyright, 1910, by TED SNYDER Co. (INC.)
WHEN IT STRIKES HOME
|Words and Music by CHARLEs K. HARRIs
You sit at home and calmly read your paper,
Which tells of thousands fighting day by day,
Of homeless babes and girls who’ve lost their sweet-
hearts,
But to your mind it all seems far away.
FEERAIN
When it strikes home, gone is the laughter,
When it strikes home your heart’s forlorn,
When it strikes home the tears fall faster,
For those dear ones who’ve passed and gone.
And when you hear of brave boys dying,
You may not care, they’re not your own;
But just suppose you lost your loved ones,
That is the time when it strikes home.
THE EICEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 343
Out on the street, a newsboy crying “Extra,”
Another ship has gone down, they say;
'Tis then you kiss your wife and little daughter,
Give heartfelt thanks. that they are safe today.
Copyright, MCMXV, by CHAS. K. HARRIS
MY LITTLE DREAM GIRL
Words by Music by
L. WOLFE GILBERT ANATOL FRIEDLAND
The night time, the night time is calling me,
It’s dream-time, Sweet dream-time, for you and me.
I’m longing, I’m longing to close my eyes,
For there a sweet vision lies.
FEFRAIN
My little dream girl,
You pretty dream girl, -
Sometimes I seem, girl, to own your heart.
Each night you haunt me,
By day you taunt me,
I want you, I want you, I need you so.
Don’t let me waken,
Learn I’m mistaken,
Find my faith shaken, in you, Sweetheart.
I’d sigh for,
I’d cry for, sweet dreams forever,
My little dream girl, good-night.
While shadows are creeping through darkest night,
In dream-land, sweet dream-land, there's your
love-light.
344 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
It’s beaming, it's gleaming, and all for me,
Your vision I long to see. -
Copyright, MCMXV, by Jos. W. STERN & Co.
MEMORIES
Lyric by Music by
BRETT PAGE SOL. P. LEvy
Oh, those happy days, when first we met, before you
said good-bye,
You soon forgot, I can’t forget, no matter how I try,
Those happy hours like incense burn,
They’re all that’s left for me,
You took my heart and in return
You gave a memory.
Oh, memories, dear memories, of days I can’t forget,
Dear memories, sweet memories, my eyes with tears
grow wet,
For like a rose that loves the sun,
And left to die when day is done,
I gave my all, the heart you won,
Sweetheart, I can’t forget.
. In all my dreams I dream of you, your arms enfold
me, dear.
Your tender voice makes dreams seem true, your
lips to mine are near. i
But when I turn your kiss to take,
You turn away from me,
In bitter sadness I awake,
Awake to memory.
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 345
Oh, memories, dear memories, a face I can’t forget,
Oh, memories, Sweet memories, a voice that haunts
me yet,
For like a rose that loves the sun,
And left to die when day is done,
I gave my all, the heart you won,
Sweetheart, I can’t forget.
Copyright, MCMXIV, by HAMILTON S. GORDON
PUT ON YOUR OLD GREY BONNET
Words by Music by
STANLEY MURPHY PERCY WENRIGHT
On the old farm-house veranda
There sat Silas and Miranda,
Thinking of the days gone by.
Said he “Dearie, don’t be weary,
You were always bright and cheery,
But a tear, dear, dims your eye.”
Said she, “They’re tears of gladness,
Silas, they’re not tears of sadness,
It is fifty years today since we were wed.”
Then the old man's dim eyes brightened,
And his stern old heart it lightened,
As he turned to her and said:
CHORUS
“Put on your old grey bonnet with the blue ribbons
on it,
While I hitch old Dobbin to the shay,
346 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
And through the fields of clover, we'll drive up to Dover,
On our Golden Wedding Day.”
It was in the same old bonnet,
With the same blue ribbon on it,
In the old shay by his side,
That he drove her up to Dover,
Thro’ the same old fields of clover,
To become his happy bride.
The birds were sweetly singing
And the same old bells were ringing,
As they passed the quaint old church where they
were wed.
And that night when stars were gleaming,
The old couple lay a-dreaming,
Dreaming of the words he said:
Copyright, MCMIX, by JEROME H. REMICK & Co.
THERE'S A LITTLE SPARK OF LOVE
STILL BURNING
Words by - Music by
JoE McCARTHY FRED FISCHER
There was a fire burning in my heart,
Burning for years and for years,
Your love and kisses gave that flame a start,
I put it out with my tears;
You don’t remember, I can’t forget,
That old affection lives with me yet,
I keep on longing, to my regret,
I know I can’t forget. w
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 347
CHORUS
There's a little spark of love still burning,
And yearning down in my heart for you,
There’s a longing there for your returning,
I want you, I do! §
So come, come, to my heart again,
Come, come, set that love aflame,
For there’s a little spark of love still burning,
And yearning for you.
I left you laughing when I said good-bye,
Laughing, but nobody knew -
How much relief I found when I could cry,
I cried my heart out for you;
I’ve loved you more than you ever know,
Though years have passed I’ve wanted you so,
Bring back the old love, let new love grow,
Come back and whisper low:
Copyright, MCMXIV, by LEO FEIST & Co.
WHEN I LOST YOU
By IRVING BERLIN
The roses each one, met with the Sun,
Sweetheart, when I met you.
The sunshine had fled, the roses were dead,
Sweetheart, when I lost you.
CHORUS
I lost the sunshine and roses,
I lost the heavens of blue,
348 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
I lost the beautiful rainbow,
I lost the morning dew;
I lost the angel who gave me
Summer the whole winter through,
I lost the gladness that turned into sadness,
When I lost you.
The birds ceased their song, right turned to wrong,
Sweetheart, when I lost you.
A day turned to years, the world seem’d in tears,
Sweetheart, when I lost you.
Copyright MCMXII, by WATERSON, BERLIN & SNYDER Co.
II. QUALITIES OF THE POPULAR SONG LYRIC
Having read these eleven lyrics of varying emo-
tions, note the rather obvious fact that
T. Most Popular Songs Have Two Verses
and One Chorus
I am not now speaking of the “production song,”
which may have a dozen verses, and as many differ-
ent catch-lines in the chorus to stamp the one chorus
as many different choruses, but only of the popular
song. And furthermore, while two different choruses
are Sometimes used in popular Songs, the common
practice is to use but one chorus.
Now let us see the reason for a peculiarity that must
have struck you in reading these lyrics.
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 349
2. A Regular Metre is Rare
Metre is the arrangement of emphatic and unem-
phatic syllables in verse on a measured plan, and is
attained by the use of short syllables of speech varied
in different rotations by long syllables. The metrical
character of English poetry depends upon the recur-
rence of similarly accented syllables at short and more
or less regular intervals. Let us take this as the defi-
nition of what I mean by metre in the few sentences
in which I shall use the word.
Among recognized poets there has always been a
rather strict adherence to regularity of form. Indeed,
at times in the history of literature, poetry, to be
considered poetry, had to confine itself to an absolutely
rigid form. In such periods it has been as though
the poet were presented with a box, whose depth and
breadth and height could not be altered, and were
then ordered to fill it full of beautiful thoughts
expressed in beautiful words, and to fill it exactly, or
be punished by having his work considered bad.
In ages past this rigidity of rule used to apply to
the song-poet also, although the minstrel has always
been permitted more latitude than other poets. To-
day, however, the poet of the popular song may write
in any measure his fancy dictates, and he may make
his metre as regular or as irregular as he wishes. He
may do anything he wants, in a song. Certainly,
his language need not be either exact or “literary.”
Practically all that is demanded is that his lyrics
35o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
convey emotion. The song-poet’s license permits a
world of metrical and literary sinning. I am not
either apologizing for or praising this condition — I
am simply stating a proved fact.
3. Irregularity of Metre May Even Be a Virtue
Even without “scanning” the lyrics of the eleven
songs you have just read their irregularity of metre
is plain. It is so plain that some of the irregularities
rise up and Smite your ears. This is why some
popular songs seem so “impossible” without their
music. And the reason why they seem so pleasing
with their music is that the music takes the place of
regularity with delightful satisfaction. The very
irregularity is what often gives the composer his
opportunity to contribute melodious punches, for the
words of a popular song are a series of catchy phrases.
In some cases irregularity in a song may be the crown-
ing virtue that spells success.
4. Regularity and Precision of Rhymes
Are Not Necessary
There is no need to point to specific examples of
the lack of regularity in the recurrence of rhymes in
most of the lyric specimens here printed, or in other
famous songs. Nor is there any necessity to instance
the obvious lack of precise rhyming. Neither of
these poetic qualities has ever been a virtue of the
average popular Song-poet. -
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 35I
So far as the vital necessities of the popular Song
go, rhymes may occur regularly or irregularly, with
fine effect in either instance, and the rhymes may be
precise or not. To rhyme moon with June is not un-
forgivable. The success of a popular song depends on
entirely different bases. Nevertheless, a finely turned
bit of rhyming harmony may strike the ear and stand
out from its fellows like a lovely symphony of fancy.
If you have given any attention to this point of rhym-
ing you can recall many instances of just what I
In 1628, Il.
5. Strive for Regular and Precise Rhyming
— If Fitting
If you can be regular and if you can be precise in
the use of rhymes in your Song-poem, be regular
and be precise. Don’t be irregular and slovenly just
because others have been and succeeded. You will
not succeed if you build your lyrics on the faults and
not on the virtues of others. The song-poem that
gleams like a flawless gem will have a wider and more
lasting success — all other things being equal.
On the other hand, it is absolutely fatal to strive
for regularity and precision, and thereby lose expres-
sion. If you have to choose, choose irregularity
and faulty rhymes. This is an important bit of
advice, for a song-poem is not criticized for its regu-
larity and precision — it is either taken to heart
and loved in spite of its defects, or is forgotten as
valueless. As Winifred Black wrote of her child, “I
352 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
love her not for her virtues, but oh, for the endear-
ing little faults that make her what she is.”
6. Hints On Lyric Measures
Reference to the lyrics already instanced will show
you that they are written in various measures. And
while it is foreign to my purpose to discuss such
purely technical points of poetry," permit me to direct
your attention to a few points of Song measure.
An individual poetic measure is attained by the
use of metre in a certain distinct way. Because the
normal combinations of the emphatic and the unem-
phatic syllables of the English language are but five,
there are only five different poetic measures. Let us
now see how an investigation of the bafflingly unexact
measures of our examples will yield — even though
their irregular natures will not permit of precise
poetic instances – the few helpful hints we require.
(a) The first measure — called by students of poetry
the trochaic measure — is founded on the use of a
long or emphatic syllable followed by a short or
unemphatic syllable. It has a light, tripping move-
ment, therefore it is peculiarly fitted for the expression
of lively subjects. One of our examples shows this
rather clearly:
There's al little spark of love still burn ing
1 The Art of Versification, by J. Berg Esenwein and Mary
Eleanor Roberts — one of the volumes in “The Writer's Library”
— covers this subject with a thoroughness it would be useless for
me to attempt. Therefore if you wish to take this subject up
more in detail, I refer you to this excellent book.
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 353
Yet this is not a measure that is commonly found in
the popular song. Other combinations seem to fit
popular Song needs quite as well, if not better.
(b) The second measure — called the iambic meas-
ure — is the reverse of the first. That is, the short
or unemphatic syllable precedes the long or emphatic
syllable. “Alexander's Ragtime Band” uses this meas-
ure at the beginning of the chorus.
p y y p
Come on and hear come on and hear
The first verse of Mr. Harris's song shows this
measure even more clearly:
You sit at home and calm ly read your pa per
This second measure, being less sustained in syl-
labic force, is more easily kept up than the first
measure. It is therefore in common use.
(c) The third measure — called the dactylic meas-
ure — is formed of a combination of three syllables.
Its characteristic is an emphatic syllable followed
by two unemphatic syllables, as: .
The old oak en buck et
- The iron bound bucket
(d) The fourth measure — called by the frighten-
ingly long name of amphibrachic measure — is
formed by a short or unemphatic syllable followed by
a long or emphatic syllable, which is followed again
by another short or unemphatic syllable.
I won der who's kiss ing her now
(e) The fifth measure — called anapestic measure
354 - WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
— is made up of two short, or unemphatic syllables
followed by a long or emphatic syllable.
When the bell in the light house rings dingdong
All these three-syllabic measures have a quicker
movement than the two-syllabic, owing to the greater
number of unaccented, unemphatic syllables. They
lend themselves to a rushing impetuosity of expres-
sion which is the notable characteristic of the popular
Song. But they are not always regular, even in
high-grade poetry. Therefore in the popular song we
may look for, and certainly be sure to find, all
Sorts of variations from the regular forms here given.
Indeed, regularity, as has been clearly pointed out, is
the exception and not the rule; for few single lines,
and, in a still more marked degree, almost no songs,
adhere to one measure throughout. Precisely as
“apt alliteration’s artful aid” may be used or not
used as may suit his purpose best, so the song-writer
makes regularity of measure subservient to the effect
he desires. , ,
However, I give these examples not with a view to
the encouragement of either regularity or irregularity.
My purpose is to show you what combinations are
possible, and to say, as the jockey whispers in the
eager ear of the racehorse he has held back so long,
“Go to it!” Break every rule you want to — only
break a record. As Mr. Berlin said, “I’ve broken
every rule of versification and of music, and the
result has often been an original twist. In popular
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 355
songs a comparative ignorance of music is an advan-
tage. Further, since my vocabulary is somewhat
limited through lack of education, it follows that my
lyrics are simple.”
This is only Berlin's modest way of saying that not
one in ten successful song-writers know anything
about the art of music, and that very few are well
enough educated to err on the side of involved lan-
guage and write other than simple lyrics. He drew
the application as to himself alone, although his
native genius makes it less true of him than of
many another less gifted. The big point of this obser-
vation lies in his emphasis on the fact that
7. Simple Lyrics and Simple Music Are Necessary
Perhaps in Mr. Berlin’s statement rests the expla-
nation of the curious fact that nearly all the successful
popular song-writers are men who had few educa-
tional advantages in youth. Most of them are self-
made men who owe their knowledge of English and
the art of writing to their own efforts. Conversely,
it may also explain why many well-educated persons
strive for success in song-writing in vain. They seem
to find it difficult to acquire the chief lyric virtue —
simplicity. -
Not only must the words of a popular song be
“easy,” but the idea of the lyric must be simple. You
cannot express a complex idea in the popular song-
form, which is made up of phrases that sometimes
356 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
seem short and abrupt. And, even if you could over-
come this technical difficulty, you would not find an
audience that could grasp your complex idea. Re-
member that a majority of the purchasers of popular
songs buy them at the five- and ten-cent store. To
sell songs to this audience, you must make your music
easy to sing, your words easy to say and your idea
simple and plain.
8. Rhythm the Secret of Successful Songs
Being barred from other than the simplest of ways,
by his own limitations, his introducers and his market,
the song-writer has to depend upon a purely inherent
quality in his song for appeal. This appeal is com-
plex in its way, being composed of the lure of music,
rhyme and emotion, but when analyzed all the parts
are found to have one element in common. This
element to which all parts contribute is rhythm.
Now by rhythm I do not mean rhyme, nor metre,
nor regularity. It has nothing necessarily to do with
poetic measures nor with precision of rhymes. Let
me attempt to convey what I mean by saying that the
rhythm of a Song is, as Irving Berlin said, the swing.
To the swing of a song everything in it contributes.
Perhaps it will be clearer when I say that rhythm is
compounded of the exactness with which the words
clothe the idea and with which the music clothes the
words, and the fineness with which both words and
music fit the emotion. Rhythm is singleness of effect.
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 357
Yet rhythm is more – it is singleness of effect plus a
Sort of hypnotic fascination.
And here we must rest as nearly content as we can,
for the final effect of any work of art does not admit
of dissection. I have shown you some of the ele-
ments which contribute to making a popular song
popular, and in the next chapter we shall see still
others which are best discussed in the direct applica-
tion of the writing, but even the most careful exposi-
tion must halt at the heart of the mystery of art.
The soul of a song defies analysis.
9. Where the “Punch” in the Lyric is Placed
Just as it is necessary for a popular Song to have
a punch somewhere in its music, so it must come
somewhere in its lyric. Just what a lyrical punch is
may be seen in the chorus of “The Trail of the
Lonesome Pine.”
In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine,
In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine,
Where she carved her name and I carved mine,
Oh, June, like the mountains I’m blue,
Like the pine, I am lonesome for you,
In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine.
The underlined words are plainly the punch lines
of this famous song — the most attractive lines of
the whole lyric. Note where they are placed —
in the chorus, and next to the last lines.
358 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
Read the chorus of “My Little Dream Girl” and
you will find a similar example of punch lines:
I’d sigh for, -
I’d cry for, sweet dreams forever,
My little dream girl, good night.
These, also, are placed next to the last lines of the
chorus.
The punch lines of “When it Strikes Home,” are
found in
And when you hear of brave boys dying,
You may not care, they’re not your own,
But just suppose you lost your loved one
That is the time when it strikes home.
IIere the punch is placed at the very end of the
chorus.
Now test every song on your piano by this labora-
tory method. You will find that while there may be
punch lines at the end of the verses there are nearly
always punch lines at the end of the chorus. There
must be a reason for this similarity in all these pop-
ular songs. And the reason is this: The emphatic
parts of a sentence are the beginning and end. The
emphatic part of a paragraph is the end. If you have
a number of paragraphs, the last must be the most
emphatic. This is a common rule of composition
founded on the law of attention — we remember best
what is said last. The same thing is true of songs.
And song-writers are compelled by vaudeville per-
formers to put a punch near the end of their choruses
THE ELEMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 359
because the performer must reap applause. Thus com-
merce keeps the song-writer true to the laws of good
art. Therefore remember:
The most attractive lines of a popular song must be
the last lines, or next to the last lines, of the chorus.
This holds true whether the song is a “sob” ballad
or a humorous number. And — strictly adhering to
this rule – put a punch, if you can, at the end of
each verse. But whether you put a punch at the
end of a verse or not, always put a punch close to the
end of your chorus.
Io. Contrast an Element of the “Punch.”
One of the easiest ways of securing the vitally nec-
essary punch lies in contrast. Particularly is this
true in humorous songs – it is the quick twist that
wins the laughter. But in all songs contrast may
form a large part of the punch element.
The ways of securing a contrast are too many to
permit of discussion here, but I name a few:
You may get contrast by switching the application
as Harris did in:
You, may not care, they’re not your own,
But just suppose you lost your loved one.
Or you may get contrast by changing your metre
and using a contrasting measure. While you may do
this in the middle of the chorus, it is nearly always
done throughout the chorus. I mean that the meas-
360 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ure of the chorus is usually different from the meas-
ure used in the verse.
And of course when you change the measure of your
lyric, the movement of the music changes too. It is
in the resulting contrasting melody that lies much of
the charm of the popular song.
But, whatever means you use, be sure you have a
contrast somewhere in your lyric — a contrast either
of subject matter, poetic measure or musical Sounds.
II. Love the Greatest Single Element
If you will review all the great song successes of
this year and of all the years that are past, you will
come to the conclusion that without love there could
be no popular song. Of course there have been songs
that have not had the element of love concealed any-
where in their lyrics, but they are the exceptions.
If your song is not founded on love, it is well to
add this element, for when you remember that the
song's reason for being is emotion, and that the most
moving emotion in the world is love, it would seem
to be a grave mistake to write any song that did
not offer this easy bid for favor. If you have not
love in your lyrics make haste to remedy the
defect. -
The ballad is perhaps the one form by which the
greatest number of successful song-writers have
climbed to fame. It is also one of the easiest types
to write. It should seem worth while, then, for the
THE EI.EMENTS OF A SUCCESSFUL LYRIC 361
newcomer to make a ballad one of his earliest bids
for fame.
I2. The Title
The title of a song is the advertising line, and
therefore it must be the most attractive in your
Song. It is the whole Song Summed up in one line.
It may be a single word or a half-dozen words. It
is not the punch line always. It is often the very
first line of the chorus, but it is usually the last line.
There is little need for constructive thought in
choosing a title. All that is necessary is to select
the best advertising line already written. You have
only to take the most prominent line and write it at
the top of your lyrics. Study the titles of the songs
in this chapter and you will see how easy it is to
Select your title after you have written your song.
To sum up: a great lyric is as necessary to the suc-
cess of a popular song as a great melody, but not
more necessary. A lyric is a verse that conveys a
great deal of emotion. Most popular songs have two
verses and one chorus. A regular metre is rare;
irregularity may even be a virtue. The regular occur-
rence of rhymes and precise rhymes are not neces-
sary — but it is better to strive after regularity and
precision. There are five lyrical measures common to
all poetry, but you may break every rule if you only
break a record. Rhythm — the swing — is the secret
of successful songs. Every lyric must have one or
362 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
more punch lines — which may occur at the end of
each verse, but must be found in the last lines of the
chorus. Contrast – either of idea, poetic measure
or music — is one sure way of securing the punch.
Love is the greatest single element that makes for
success in a song idea. The one-word standard of
popular-song writing is simplicity — music easy to
sing, words easy to say, the idea simple and plain.
CHAPTER XXIII
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG
In the preceding chapters we saw how the elements
of a popular song are nearly identical in music and
in lyrics, no matter how the styles of Songs may dif-
fer. In this chapter we shall see how these elements
may be combined — irrespective of styles – into a
song that the boy on the street will whistle, and the
hand organs grind out until you nearly go mad with
the repetition of its rhythm.
Not only because it will be interesting, but because
such an insight will help to a clear understanding of
methods I shall ask you to glance into a popular
song publisher's professional department.
I. A POPULAR SONG IN THE MAKING
A very large room — an entire floor, usually — is
divided into a reception room, where vaudeville and
cabaret performers are waiting their turns to rehearse,
and half-a-dozen little rooms, each containing a piano.
As the walls of these rooms are never very thick, and
often are mere partitions running only two-thirds of
the way to the ceiling, the discord of conflicting songs
is sometimes appalling. Every once in a while some
364 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
performer comes to the manager of the department
and insists on being rehearsed by the writers of the
latest song-hit themselves. And as often as not the
performer is informed that the writers are out. In
reality, perhaps, they are working on a new song in
a back room. Being especially privileged, let us go
into that back room and watch them at work.
All there is in the room is a piano and a few chairs.
One of the chairs has a broad arm, or there may be
a tiny table or a desk. With this slender equipment
two persons are working as though the salvation of
the world depended on their efforts. One of them is
at the piano and the other is frowning over a piece
of paper covered with pencil marks.
Perhaps the composer had the original idea — a
theme for a melody. Perhaps the lyric writer had
one line — an idea for a song. It does not matter at
all which had the idea originally, both are obsessed by
it now.
“Play the chorus over, will youp” growls the writer.
Obediently the composer pounds away, with the soft
pedal on, and the writer sings his words so that the
composer can hear them. There comes a line that
doesn’t fit. “No good!” they say together.
“Can't you change that bar?” inquires the writer.
“I’ll try,” says the composer. “Gimme the sheet.”
They prop it up on the piano and sing it together.
“Shut up!” says the composer. And the writer
keeps still until the other has pounded the offending
bar to fit.
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 365
Or perhaps the writer gets a new line that fits the
music. “How's this?” he cries with the intonation
Columbus must have used when he discovered the
new world.
“Punk!” comments the composer. “You can’t
rhyme “man’ with ‘grand’ and get away with it
these days.”
“Oh, all right,” grumbles the harassed song-poet,
and changes both lines to a better rhyme. “I don’t
like that part,” he gets back at the composer, “it
sounds like ‘Waiting at the Church.’”
“How's this, then?” inquires the composer, chan-
ging two notes.
“Fine,” says the lyric writer, for the new varia-
tion has a hauntingly familiar sound, too elusive to
label — is amazingly catchy.
For hours, perhaps, they go on in this way — chan-
ging a note here, a whole bar there, revising the lyric
every few lines, substituting a better rhyme for a bad
one, and building the whole song into a close-knit unity.
At last the song is in pretty good shape. As yet
there is no second verse, but the “Boss” is called
in and the boys sing him the new song. “Change
“dream’ to ‘vision’—it sounds better,” he says; or
he may have a dozen suggestions — perhaps he gives
the song a new punch line. He does his part in
building it up, and then the arranger is called in.
With a pad of manuscript music paper, and a fly-
ing pencil, he jots down the melody nearly as fast as
the composer can pound it out on the piano.
366 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
“Get a “lead-sheet’ ready as quick as you can,”
commands the Boss. “We’ll try it out tonight.”
“Right!” grunts the arranger, and rushes away to
give the melody a touch here and there. As often as
not, he comes back to tell the composer how little
that worthy knows about music and to demand that
a note be changed or a whole bar recast to make it
easier to play, but at last he appears with a “lead-
sheet” – a mere suggestion of the song to be played,
with all the discretion the pianist commands — and
the composer, the lyric writer and the “Boss” go
across the street to some cabaret and try out the new
Song.
Here, before an audience, they can tell how much
of a song they really have. They may have some-
thing that is a “winner,” and they may see that their
first judgment was wrong — they may have only the
first idea of a hit.
But let us suppose that the song is a “knock 'em
off their seats” kind, that we may get down to the
moral of this little narrative of actual happenings.
The “pluggers” are called in and bidden to memo-
rize the song. They spend the afternoon singing it
over and over again — and then they go out at night
and sing it in a dozen different places all over the
city. On their reports and on what the “Boss” sees
himself as he visits place after place, the decision is
made to publish immediately or to work the song
over again. It is the final test before an audience
that determines the fate of any song. The new song
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 367
may never be sung again, or tomorrow the whole
city may be whistling it.
And now permit me to indicate a point that lies
in the past of the song we have seen in process of
manufacture: From somewhere the composer gets an
idea for a melody – from somewhere the lyric writer
gets an idea for a lyric. *
But we must put the music of a song to one side
and devote our attention to the lyric.
II. PoſNTS ON SONG BUILDING
1. Sources of Ideas for Song Lyrics
As a popular Song becomes popular because it fits
into the life of the day and is the individual expres-
sion of the spirit of the moment, Charles K. Harris
was doubtless right when he said:
“The biggest secret of success, according to my
own system, is the following out in Songs of ideas
current in the national brain at the moment. My
biggest song successes have always reflected the fa-
vorite emotion — if I may use the word — of the
people of the day. How do I gauge this? Through
the drama! The drama moves in irregular cycles, and
changes in character according to the specific tastes
of the public. The yearly mood of the nation is
reflected by the drama and the theatrical entertain-
ment of the year. At least, I figure it out this way,
and compose my Songs accordingly.
“Here are just two instances of my old successes
368 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
built on this plan: When ‘The Old Homestead' and
“In Old Kentucky’ were playing to crowded houses,
I wrote ‘’Midst the Green Fields of Virginia” and
“In the Hills of Old Carolina,’ and won. Then when
Gillette's war plays, “Held by the Enemy’ and ‘Se-
cret Service’ caught the national eye, I caught the
national ear with “Just Break the News to Mother.’
But these are examples enough to show you how the
system works.”
Irving Berlin said, “You can get a song idea from
anywhere. I have studied the times and produced
such songs as “In My Harem' when the Greeks were
fleeing from the Turks and the harem was a humor-
ous topic in the daily newspapers. And I have got
ideas from chance remarks of my friends. For
instance:
“I wrote ‘My Wife's Gone to the Country’ from
the remark made to me by a friend when I asked
him what time he was going home. “I don’t have to
go home,’ he said, “my wiſe’s gone to the country.”
It struck me as a great idea for a title for a song, but
I needed a note of jubilation, so I added ‘Hooray,
Hooray!' The song almost wrote itself. I had the
chorus done in a few minutes, then I dug into the
verse, and it was finished in a few hours.” -
L. Wolfe Gilbert wrote “Robert E. Lee” from the
“picture lines” in one of his older songs, “Mammy's
Shuffling Dance” and a good old-fashioned argument
that he and I had about the famous old Mississippi
steamboat. That night when I came back to the
wRITING THE POPULAR SONG . . 369
office we shared, Gilbert read me his lyric. From the
first the original novelty of the Song was apparent,
and in a few days the country was whistling the
levee dance of “Daddy’ and ‘Mammy,” and “Ephram'
and “Sammy,’ as they waited for the Robert E. Lee.
Had Gilbert ever seen a levee? No — but out of
his genius grew a Song that Sold into the millions.
“Most of our songs come from imagination,” said
Joe McCarthy. “A song-writer's mind is ever alert
for Something new. What might pass as a casual
remark to an outsider, might be a great idea to a
writer. For instance, a very dear young lady friend
might have said, ‘You made me love you — I didn’t
want to do it.’ Of course no young lady friend said
that to me – I just imagined it. And then I went
right on and imagined what that young lady would
have said if she had followed that line of thought to
a climax.”
“It’s the chance remark that counts a lot to the
lyric writer,” said Ballard MacDonald. “You might
say something that you would forget the next minute
— while I might seize that phrase and work over it
until I had made it a lyric.”
But, however the original idea comes — whether it
creeps up in a chance remark of a friend, or the
national mood of the moment is carefully appraised
and expressed, or seized “out of the air,” let us sup-
pose you have an idea, and are ready to write your
song. The very first thing you do, nine chances out
of ten, is to follow the usual method of song-writers:
37O WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
2. Write Your Chorus First
The popular song is only as good as its chorus.
For whistling purposes there might just as well be
no verses at all. But of course you must have a
first verse to set your scene and lead up to your
chorus, and a second verse to finish your effect and
give you the opportunity to pound your chorus home.
Therefore you begin to write your chorus around your
big idea. - -
This idea is expressed in one line — your title,
your catchy line, your “idea line,” if you like — and
if you will turn to the verses of the songs reproduced
in these chapters you will be able to determine about
what percentage of times the idea line is used to intro-
duce the chorus. But do not rest content with this
examination; carry your investigation to all the
songs on your piano. Establish for yourself, by this
laboratory method, how often the idea line is used
as a chorus introduction.
Whether your idea line is used to introduce your
chorus or not, it is usually wise to end your chorus
with it. Most choruses — but not all, as “Put
on your Old Grey Bonnet,” would suggest – end
with the idea line, on the theory that the emphatic
spots in any form of writing are at the beginning
and the end — and of these the more emphatic
is the end. Therefore, you must now concentrate
your chorus to bring in that idea line as the very
last line.
5
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 37I
3. Make the Chorus Convey Emotion
As we saw in the previous chapter, a lyric is a set
of verses that conveys emotion. The purpose of the
first verse is to lead up to the emotion — which the
chorus expresses. While, as I shall demonstrate later,
a story may be proper to the verses, a story is rarely
told in the chorus. I mean, of course, a story con-
veyed by pure narrative, for emotion may convey a
story by sheer lyrical effect. Narrative is what you
must strive to forget in a chorus – in your chorus
you must convey emotion swiftly – that is, with a
punch. -
While it is impossible for anyone to tell you how
to convey emotion, one can point out one of the
inherent qualities of emotional speech.
4. Convey Emotion by Broad Strokes
When a man rushes through the corridors of a
doomed liner he does not stop to say, “The ship has
struck an iceberg — or has been torpedoed — and is
sinking, you’d better get dressed quickly and get on
deck and jump into the boats.” He hasn't time.
He cries, “The ship's sinking! To the boats!”
This is precisely the way the song-writer conveys
his effect. He not only cuts out the “thes” and the
“ands” and the “ofs” and “its” and “perhapses”
– he shaves his very thoughts down — as the lyrics
printed in these chapters so plainly show — until
37.2 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
even logic of construction seems engulfed by the flood
of emotion. Pare down your sentences until you con-
vey the dramatic meaning of your deep emotion,
not by a logical sequence of sentences, but by reveal-
ing flashes. *
5. Put Your Punch in Clear Words Near the End
And now you must centre all your thoughts on
your punch lines. Punch lines, as we saw, are some-
times the entire point of a song — they are what
makes a “popular” lyric get over the footlights when a
performer sings the song and they are the big factor
— together with the music punches — that make a
song popular. However lyrical you have been in
the beginning of your chorus, you must now Summon
all your lyrical ability to your aid to write these, the
fate-deciding lines.
But note that emotion, however condensed the
words may be that express it, must not be so con-
densed that it is incoherent. You must make your
punch lines as clear in words as though you were
drawing a diagram to explain a problem in geometry.
The effect you must secure is that of revealing clear-
In 62.SS. - tº
Be very careful not to anticipate your punch lines.
For instance, if Mr. Gilbert had used “All day I
sigh, all night I cry,” before “I’d sigh for, I’d cry
for, sweet dreams forever” in his “My Little Dream
Girl,” the whole effect would have been lost. As your
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 373
punch lines must be the most attractive lines, keep
them new and fresh, by excluding from the rest of
your song anything like them. g
If you can put your punch in the very last lines,
fine. If you wish to put your punch lines just before
the last two lines – in the third and fourth lines from
the last — well and good. But it is never wise to put
your punch so far from the end that your audience
will forget it before you finish and expect something
more. It is a good rule to write your punch lines
and then end your Song. -
Having constructed your chorus from a beginning
that uses or does not use your idea line, and having
by broad strokes that convey emotion developed it
into your punch lines, you end your chorus, usually,
but not invariably, with your idea line — your title
line. - • .
Now you are ready to write your first verse.
6. Make the First Verse the Introduction
of the Chorus
If you have characters in your song, introduce
them instantly. If you are drawing a picture of a
scene, locate it in your first line. If your song is
written in the first person — the “you and I.” kind —
you must still establish your location and your “you
and I” characters at once. If you keep in mind all ,
the time you are writing that your first verse is merely
an introduction, you will not be likely to drag it out.
374 g wRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
(a) Write in impersonal mood – that is, make your
song such that it does not matter whether a man or
a woman sings it. Thus you will not restrict the
wide use of your song. Anyone and everyone can
sing it on the stage. Furthermore, it will be apt to
sell more readily.
(b) “Tell a complete story” is a rule that is some-
times laid down for popular song-writers. But it
depends entirely upon what kind of song you are
writing whether it is necessary to tell a story or
not. “A story is not necessary,” Berlin says, and
an examination of the lyrics in the preceding chap-
ter, and all the lyrics on your piano, will bear him
out in this assertion.
All you need remember is that your Song must
express emotion in a catchy way. If you can do
this best by telling a story, compress your narrative
into your verses, making your chorus entirely emo-
tional.
(c) “Make your verses short” seems to be the law
of the popular song today. In other years it was
the custom to write long verses and short choruses.
Today the reverse seems to be the fashion. But
whether you decide on a short verse or a long verse
— and reference to the latest songs will show you
what is best for you to write – you must use as
few words as possible to begin your story and —
with all the information necessary to carry over the
points of your chorus – to lead it up to the joining
lines.
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 375
7. Make Your Second Verse Round Out the Story
You have introduced your chorus in your first
verse, and the chorus has conveyed the emotion to
which the first verse gave the setting. Now in your
second verse round out the story so that the repeti-
tion of the chorus may complete the total effect of
your Song. -
More than upon either the first verse or the chorus,
unity of effect depends upon the second verse. In it
you must keep to the key of emotion expressed in
the chorus and to the general trend of feeling of the
first verse. If your first verse tells a love-story of
two characters, it is sometimes well to change the
relations of the characters in the second verse and
make the repetition of the chorus come as an answer.
But, whatever you make of your second verse, you
must not give it a different story. Don’t attempt
to do more than round out your first-verse story to a
satisfying conclusion, of which the chorus is the com-
pleting end. -
And now we have come to
8. The Punch Lines in the Verses
Toward the end of each verse it is customary to
place punch lines which are strong enough picto-
rially to sum up the contents of the verse and round
it out into the chorus. In humorous songs, these
punch lines are often used as the very last lines, and
376 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
the first line of the chorus is depended on to develop
the Snicker into a laugh, which is made to grow into
a roar with the punch lines of the chorus. In other
words, there are in every song three places where
punch lines must be used. The most important is
toward the end of the chorus, and the other places
are toward the end of the verses.
9. Don'ts for Verse Last-Lines
Don’t end your lines with words that are hard to
enunciate — there are dozens of them, of which are
“met,” and most of the dental sounds. Experience
alone can teach you what to avoid. But it may be
said that precisely the same reason that dictates the
use of open vowels on rising notes, dictates that open
sounds are safest with which to end lines, because the
last notes of a song are often rising notes. This
applies with emphatic force, also, to your chorus.
Never use such unrhetorical and laugh-provoking
lines as the grotesquely familiar “and then to him
I did say.” -
Don’t always feel that it is necessary to tell the
audience “here is the chorus.” Imagination is com-
mon to all, and the chorus is predicted by the turn
of thought and the “coming to it” feeling of the
melody.
III. ASSEMBLING THE SONG
Having gone over your verses and made sure that
you have punch lines that rise out of the narrative
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 377
effect into revealing flashes, and are completed and
punched home by the punch lines of the chorus, and
having made sure that your lyrics as a whole are the
best you can write, you must give thought to the
music.
1. The “One Finger Composer’s” Aid
If you are the sort of modern minstrel who has
tunes buzzing in his head, it is likely that you will
have composed a melody to fit your lyrics. The
chances are that you know Only enough about music
to play the piano rather indifferently. Or, you may
be an accomplished pianist without possessing a
knowledge of harmony sufficient to admit of your
setting down your melody in the form of a good
piano Score. But even if you are only able to play
the piano with one finger, you need not despair.
There are dozens of well-known popular Song com-
posers who are little better off. You may do pre-
cisely what they do — you can call to your aid an
arranger. This is the first moral I shall draw from
the true story with which this chapter begins.
As the composer played over his melody for the
arranger to take down in musical notes, you may
sing, whistle or play your melody on the piano with
one finger, for the arranger to take down your song.
All you need give him is the bare outline of your
melody. At best it will be but a forecasting shadow
of what he will make out of it. From it he will
make you a “lead-sheet,” the first record of your
378 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
melody. Then, if you desire, he will arrange your
melody into a piano part, precisely identical in form
with any copy of a song you have seen. With this
piano version — into which the words have been
carefully written in their proper places — you may
Seek your publisher.
For taking down the melody and making an “ink
lead-sheet,” the arranger will charge you from one to
two dollars. For a piano copy he will charge you
anywhere from three to ten dollars—the average price
is about five dollars.
2. Be Sure Vour Words and Music Fit Exactly
Here we may draw the second moral from the little
scene we witnessed in the song publisher’s room—this
is the big lesson of that scene. In a word, successful
song-writers consider a song not as a lyric and a
melody, but as a composite of both. A successful
song is a perfect fusing of both. The melody writer
is not averse to having his melody changed, if by
changing it a better song can be made. And the suc-
cessful lyric writer is only too glad to change his
words, if a hit can be produced. With the one end
in view, they go over their song time after time and
change lyrics and melody with ruthless hands until a
whistle-making unity rises clear and haunting.
This is what you must now do with your song.
You must bend all your energies to making it a per-
fect blend of words and music – a unity so com-
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 379
pressed and so compactly lyrical that to take one
little note or one little word away would ruin the
total effect. -
This is why
3. Purchasing Music for a Song is
Seldom Advisable
If you are invited to purchase music for a new
song, it is the part of wisdom to refuse — because
only in very rare instances has a successful song been
the result of such a method. The reason is perfectly
plain, when you consider that the composer who offers
you a melody for a cash price is interested only in the
small lump sum he receives. You are his market.
He does not care anything about the market the
music must make for itself, first with a publisher and
then with the public.
Therefore, no matter how willing a composer may
appear to change his melody to fit your Song, Scan
his proposition with a cynical eye. On the surface.
he will make the music fit, but he would be wasting
his time if he worked over your lyric and his music
to the extent that a composer who is paid by the
ultimate success of a song would have to labor.
It is very much better to take your chances with
even an inferior melody maker who is as much inter-
ested as you are in a final success. And when you
have found a composer, do not quibble about chang-
ing your words to fit his music. And don’t fear to
38o WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
ask him to change his melody, wherever constant
work on the Song proves that a change is necessary.
It is only by ceaselessly working over both words
and melody that a Song is turned into a national
whistle.
IV. SEEKING A PUBLISHER 1
You have written your lyrics, and you have fash-
ioned your melody, or you have found a composer
who is anxious to make his melody fit your lyrics so
perfectly that they have been fused into a unity so
complete that it seems all you have to do to start
everybody whistling it is to find a publisher. And
so you set about the task. - ,'
I. Private Publication Seldom Profitable
While it is perfectly true that there have been
many songs that have paid handsome profits from
private pilhlication, it is more nearly exact to believe
that private publication never pays. Printers and
song publishers who make a business of this private
trade will often lure the novice by citing the many
famous songs “published by their writers.”
Whenever you see such an advertisement, or when-
ever such an argument is used in a sales talk, dig
* The matter under this section would seem to be an integral
part of the following Chapter, “Manuscripts and Markets,” but
it is included in this chapter because some of the points require a
discussion too expansive for the general treatment employed in
describing the handling of other stage material. -
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 381
right down to the facts of the case. Nine chances
out of ten, you will find that the writers are success-
ful popular song publishers – it is their business
to write for their own market. Furthermore — and
this is the crux of the matter – they have a care-
fully maintained sales force and an intricate outlet
for all their product, which would take years for a
“private publisher” to build up. Really, you can-
not expect to make any money by private publica-
tion, even at the low cost of song-printing these days
— unless you are willing to devote all your energies
to pushing your song. And even then, the song must
be exceptional to win against the better organized
competition. *.
2. Avoid the “Song Poem.” Advertiser
It is never my desire to condemn a class even
though a majority of that class may be worthy of
reproach. Therefore, instead of inveighing against
the “song-poem.” fakir with Sounding periods of
denunciation, permit me to state the facts in this way:
The advertisers for song-poems may be divided
into two classes. In the first class are publishers
who publish songs privately for individuals who have
enough money to indulge a desire to see their songs
in print. The writer may not intend his song for
public sale. He wishes to have it printed so that he
may give copies to his friends and thus satisfy his
pride by their plaudits. It is to these song-writers
that the honest “private publisher” offers a conven-
382 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
ient and often cheap opportunity. His dealings are
perfectly honest and fair, because he simply acts as
a printer, and not as a publisher, for he does not offer
to do more than he can perform.
The second class of song-poem advertisers lure
writers by all sorts of glowing promises. They tell
you how such and such a song made thousands of
dollars for its writer. They offer to furnish music
to fit your lyrics. They will supply lyrics to fit your
music. They will print your song and push it to
success. They will do anything at all — for a feel
And I have heard the most pitiful tales imaginable
of high hopes at the beginning and bitter disappoint-
ment at the end, from poor people who could ill afford
the money lost. -
These “publishers” are not fair – they are not
honest. They make their living from broken prom-
ises, and pocket the change with a grin over their
own cleverness. Why these men cannot perform
what they promise is perfectly plain in the light of
all that has been said about the popular Song. It
does not need repetition here. If you wish to pub-
lish your song privately for distribution among your
friends, seek the best and cheapest Song printer you
can find. But if you hope to make your fortune
through publication for which you must pay – in
which the publisher has nothing to lose and every-
thing to win — take care! At least consider the
proposition as a long shot with the odds against you
— then choose the fairest publisher you can find.
WRITING THE POPULAR SONG 383
3. How to Seek a Market for Your Song
But let us hope that you are the sort of Song-
writer who is anxious to test his ability against the
best. You do not care to have your Song published
unless it wins publication on its merits – and unless
you can be reasonably sure of making Some money
out of it. You aspire to have your song bear the
imprint of one of the publishers whose song-hits are
well known. To find the names and addresses of such
publishers you have only to turn over the music on
your piano. There is no need to print individual
names here. -
But a few words of direction as to the way you
should approach your market may be helpful. I
quote here the composite opinion of all the well-
known song publishers with whom I have talked:
“To find a great song in the manuscripts that
come through the mail — is a dream. It is rare that
the mail brings one worthy of publication. If I were
a song-writer I should not submit my Song through
the mails. Of course, if I were far from the big
markets I should be compelled to. But if I were
anywhere near the market I should go right to the
publisher and demonstrate the Song to him.
“You see, I must be convinced that a song is a
winner before I’ll gamble my money on its publica-
tion. And the only way I can be easily convinced is
to be compelled to listen to the song. Naturally,
being a song publisher, I think I know a hit when
384 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
I hear it — I may ‘kid’ myself into believing I can
pick winners, but I can be made to see the possibil-
ities by actual demonstration, where I might “pass a
Song up' in manuscript.”
Therefore, it would seem wise to offer a song
through the mails only when a personal visit and
demonstration are impossible. You need not copy-
right your song, if you send it to a reputable pub-
lisher. All you need do is to submit it with a short
letter, offering it on the usual royalty basis, and
enclose stamps for return, if it is not available. From
two to four weeks is the usual time required for con-
sideration.
If you are near a song publisher, the very best
thing you can do is to fortify yourself with unassail-
able faith in your Song and then make the publisher
listen to you. If you have a song that shows any
promise at all, the chances are that you will come
out of the door an hour later with a contract.
CHAPTER XXIV
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS
It is in the hope of directing you to your market
that this chapter is designed. But there is no form
of writing for which it is more difficult to point out
a Sure market than for vaudeville material. Even
the legitimate stage — with its notorious shifting of
plans to meet every veering wind — is not more
fickle than the vaudeville stage. The reason for this
is, of course, to be found in the fact that the stage
must mirror the mind of the nation, and the national
mind is ever changing. But once let the public learn
to love what you have given them, and they will not
jilt your offering in a day. The great advantage the
writer of vaudeville material today has over every
one of his predecessors, lies in the fact that the mod-
ern methods of handling the vaudeville business lend
him security in the profits of his success.
I. Preparing the Manuscript
(a) The acceptable manuscript forms into which all
vaudeville material may be cast may be learned by con-
sulting the examples of the different vaudeville acts
given in the appendix to this volume. A moment's
386 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
examination of them will show you that there is no
difference between the manuscript ways of presenting
the different acts. All are made up of the names of
characters, business and dialogue. Therefore they
may all be discussed at the same time.
(b) Have your manuscript typewritten. This Sug-
gestion has the force of law. While it would seem
self-evident that a manuscript written out in long
hand has a mussy appearance, however neat the
writing may be, the many hand-written manuscripts
I have tried to read suggest the necessity for pointing
out this fact. You surely handicap your manuscript
by offering it in long hand to a busy producer.
(c) The two recognized methods for the typing of
stage manuscripts. First, the entire manuscript is
typed in black, blue or purple. Then, after the
manuscript is complete, the name of the character
above each speech is underlined in red ink, and every
bit of business throughout the manuscript is also under-
lined in red. This method is illustrated on page 387.
Second, a typewriter using two colors is employed.
The name of the character above each speech is
typed in red, and red is used to type the bits of busi-
ness. The speeches alone are typed in black, blue or
purple as the case may be. Page 388 illustrates this
method.
Either of these methods serves the same purpose
equally well. The aim is to separate the names and
business from the dialogue, so that the difference may
be plain at a glance. The use of either of these
Act II)
GRAVES.
GRAWES.
BURTON.
tº-mºmºsºme
GRAWES •
BURTON.—
RAVES.
BURTON.
GRAVES,
BURTON.
Yes. (Turns to dictionary). That's all.
*...* anxiºm
(Ellen, though curious, continues reading
## an underEOñETÉöThe F father. Häflih
afīāTJöHTTGFäVäST5EGISTEHSTörötion-
arly, starts at sight of the note,
snatches it up with trembling fingers,
and reads it. His fury rises. After
a pause: , Grumpling the note, he turns
to Burton and speaks with an effort]
Burton

(Startled by his tone, the others turn and
regard Graves curiously). "Tº TT
Yes, sir.
Where's Sam?
He went out, sir---
Went out?
Y-yes, sir. About a quarter of an hour ago.
Where to?
He didn't say, sir.
(Graves turns away helplessly. Burton
_listeris B.II GäTE::ffs Cº-Gräväs
TWäTES HE BITúðWñTWFTHging-his-hands)
MEAD. Anything wrong?
GRAVES (Lamely). No, no. Don't mind me. Marlin's
proposition's all right---
Pauşe:... Susan enters. R. and is troubled at
sight of TGFävés's emotionſ ---
SUSAH (Approaches him) Father---!
GRAVES (Unable, longer to restrain himself). Hell's
fire :
MEAI). Christopher: º
-32-
Act 1 }
Booth
Heavens: It reads like a fairy tale, doesn't it?
Henry
I don't know; does it?
Booth
Yes; and many thanks. . I'll do my best not to let you re-
gret it.---Only, in the old fairy tale, you know, it always
ended with the---the young man's marrying the---the rich
old geezer's daughter: -
Henry
f Chuckling)
And I'm the rich old geezer, eh? Well, I mightn't "a" been
half as rich this minute if it wasn't for you! ---Heigho:
(sizes up Booth }
IWow, I suppose my cantankerous daughter wouldn't have you,
Piercy; not if I said anything to her about it. But if she
would---and you was willin' ---
(Helen and Booth exchange eloquent glances)
---why, you're just about the feller I'd want her to have.
(Helen dances a little skirt dance of delight between
the door I, and the screen. Then she darts into
the adjoining room, being observed only by Booth)
Booth.
(With spontaneity;
Say, Boss, put her there again:
(Another handshake),
Do you know, you and I are getting to be better friends
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 389
ways of typing a manuscript is desirable, but not
absolutely necessary. -
(d) Use a “record ribbon.” in typewriting manu-
Script, because a “copying ribbon’’ smudges easily
and will soil the hands of the reader. Observation
of this mechanical point is a big help in keeping
a manuscript clean –and respecting the temper of
your judge.
(e) Neatness is a prime requisite in any manuscript
offered for sale. Be sure that the finished copy is
free from erasures and penciled after-thoughts. “Do
all your after-thinking beforehand,” or have a clean,
new copy made.
(f) Re-copy a soiled manuscript as soon as it shows
evidence of handling. Keep your “silent salesman”
fresh in appearance.
(g) Bind your manuscript in a flexible cover to give
it a neat appearance and make it handy to read.
(h) Type your name and address in full on the out-
side of the cover, and on the first white page. Thus
you stamp the manuscript as your act, and it always
bears your address in case of loss.
(i) Have your act copyrighted is a bit of advice that
would seem needless, but many performers and pro-
ducers refuse to read an act unless it is copyrighted.
The copyright — while it is not as good proof in court
as a public performance – is nevertheless a record .
that on such and such a date the author deposited in
the Library of Congress a certain manuscript. This
record can be produced as incontrovertible evidence
390 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
of fact. The view of the performer and the producer
is that he wishes to protect the author as much as
possible – but himself more. He desires to place
beyond all possibility any charge of plagiarism.
Therefore, copyright the final version of your act
and typewrite on the cover the date of copyright
and the serial number. -
(j) How to copyright the manuscript of a vaudeville
act. Write to the Register of Copyrights, Library of
Congress, Washington, D.C., asking him to send
you the blank form prescribed by law to copyright
an unpublished dramatic composition. Do not send
stamps, as it is unnecessary. In addition to the
blank you will receive printed instructions for filling
it out, and full information covering the copyright
process. The fee is one dollar, which includes a
certificate of copyright entry. This covers copyright
in the United States only; if you desire to copyright
in a foreign country, consult a lawyer.
(k) The preparation of a scene plot should not be a
difficult task if you will remember that you need
merely draw a straight-line diagram — such as are
shown in the chapter on “The Vaudeville Stage and
its Dimensions” — so as to make your word-descrip-
tion perfectly clear. On this diagram it is custom-
ary to mark the position of chairs, tables, telephones
and other properties incidental to the action of the
story. But a diagram is not absolutely necessary.
Written descriptions will be adequate, if they are
carefully and concisely worded. -
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 391
(l) The preparation of property plots and light plots
has been mentioned in the chapter on “The Vaude-
ville Stage and Its Dimensions,” therefore they require
a word here. They are merely a list of the prop-
erties required and directions for any changes of
lighting that may occur in the act. For a first pres–
entation of a manuscript, it is quite unnecessary for
you to bother about the technical plots (arrangement
plans) of the stage. If your manuscript is accept-
able, you may be quite sure that the producer will
supply these plots himself.
(m) Do not offer “parts” with your manuscript. A
“part” consists of the speeches and business indi-
cated for one character, written out in full, with the
cues given by the other characters — the whole bound
so as to form a handy copy for the actor to study.
For instance, there would be four “parts” in a four-
people playlet manuscript – therefore you would be
offering a producer five manuscripts in all, and the
bulk of your material might deter a busy man from
reading it carefully. If your manuscript progresses
in its sale to the point where parts are desired, the
producer will take care of this detail for you. And
until you have made a sale, it is a waste of money
to have parts made.
2. The Stage Door the Vaudeville Market-Place
Unlike nearly every other specialized business,
there is a market in each city of the country for
vaudeville material. This market is the stage door
i
*
:
;
:
;
392 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
of the vaudeville theatre. While it would be unlikely
that a dramatist would find a market for a long play
at the “legitimate” stage door — although this has
happened — there are peculiar reasons why the stage
door may be your market-place. A large percent-
age of vaudeville performers are the owners of their
own acts. They buy the material, produce it them-
selves, and play in it themselves. And they are ever
on the lookout for new material.
Not only is there a market at the stage door, but
that market changes continually. Without fear of
exaggeration it may be said that with the weekly
and sometimes semi-weekly changes of the bill in
each house, there will in time flow past the stage door
nearly all the acts which later appear in vaudeville.
Offering a manuscript at the stage door, however,
should not be dones without preparation. As you
would not rush up to a business man on the street
or spring at him when he emerges from his office
door, you certainly would not care to give a vaude-
ville performer the impression that you were lying in
wait for him.
(a) The personal introduction is a distinct advan-
tage in any business, therefore it would be an advantage
for you to secure, if possible, a personal introduction
to the performer. However, you must be as dis-
criminating in choosing the person to make that
introduction as you would were you selecting an
endorser at a bank. A stage-hand or an usher is
likely to do you more harm than good. The “mash
:
:
& ©
©
&
i
3.
&-
i
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS . 393
notes” they may have carried “back stage” would
discount their value for you. The manager of the
theatre, however, might arrange an introduction
that would be of value. At least he can find out for
you if the performer is in the market at the time.
(b) The preliminary letter is never amiss, therefore
it would seem advisable to write to the performer for
whom you feel sure you have an act that will fit.
Make the letter short. Simply ask him if he is in
the market for material, state that you have an act
that you would like him to read, and close by request-
ing an appointment at his convenience.
Do not take up his time by telling him what a fine
act you have. He does not know you, and if you
praise it too highly he may be inclined to believe
that you do not have anything worth while. But
do not under-rate your material, either, in the hope
of engaging his attention by modesty. Leave it for
him to find out if you have an act, first, that is worth
while, and second, that fits him.
If you do not hear from the performer, you may be
sure that he is not interested in your act. He may
be out for the first few weeks in a brand new act,
and not in the market at all. So if you do not
hear from him, wait until another act comes along
and you see someone for whom your act is “just
made.”
(c) Should you receive a favorable reply to your re-
quest for an appointment, you may be reasonably sure
that your prospective purchaser at least needs a new
394 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
act. In meeting your appointment, be on time, and
have someone with you. A woman, of course, would
have a chaperon, precisely as she would if she were
meeting any other stranger. And a man might care
to have someone to engage the attention of the per-
former's companion and leave him an uninterrupted
opportunity to talk business.
(d) Ask for an immediate reading of your manu-
script, or at least request it read the next day, when
you can be present while he is reading it. Do not
leave a manuscript to be returned to you by mail.
Vaudeville performers are as honest as any other class
of men, but they are busy people and the thing that
is put off is forgotten. They are in one town today
and miles away tomorrow, and they may leave the
manuscript on the bureau of their hotel room intend-
ing to mail it at the last minute—and rush away and
forget it. Therefore you should ask for an immediate
reading. It will take a performer only a few minutes
to decide if he cares to consider your act. He knows
of what he is in need — and usually is prepared to
tell you. -
(e) Do not ask for specific criticism, for of all people
in the world vaudeville performers are the most good-
hearted. They would rather please you than hurt
you. They will evade the point nine times out of
ten; so save them and yourself needless embarrass-
ment. And thus you may also avoid a false valua-
tion of your manuscript. -
(f) If the performer cannot use the act himself, and
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 395
if the act possesses merit, the chances are that he
will suggest some other performer who might want
it. If he does not suggest someone himself, ask him.
Vaudeville performers know what other performers
want, because they are continually discussing plans
for “next season.” You may thus pick up some
valuable information, even if you do not dispose of
the particular manuscript you have for sale. f
3. Producing Your Act Yourself
While you are likely at many turns of the sales
road to have offered you an opportunity to produce
your own act, this method of finding a market is
rarely advisable. You would not start a little maga-
zine to get your short-story into print; your story
could not possess that much value even if it were a
marvel — how much less so if you were unable to
find someone willing to buy it!
But there is a still more important reason why you
should not rush into producing your act yourself.
Producing is a specialized business, requiring wide
experience and exact knowledge. Besides, it is one
of the most expensive pastimes in the world. With-
out a most comprehensive experience and peculiar
abilities, failure is sure. Do not attempt private
production even if you are offered the Services of a
performer or a producer in whom you have absolute
faith. Remember, if they thought your act was
really worth while they would be anxious to reap
the profits for themselves.
396 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE 'A
4. Selling an Act to a Producer
While any performer who owns his act is a pro-
ducer in the sense that he “produces” his act, there
are men who make a business of buying manuscripts,
engaging people, and producing many acts in which
they do not themselves play. Producers who may
own a dozen acts of all different kinds would seem to
offer to the writer for vaudeville an ideal market.
How, then, is the writer to get in touch with them?
(a) Selling through a play broker is a method that
is precisely the same as though you consigned a bill
of goods to a commission agent, and paid him for
disposing of it. The play broker reads your manu-
script and engages to try to dispose of it for you, or
returns it as not likely to fit in with the particular
line of business of which he makes a specialty. If
your act is really good and yet the broker is able to
make some suggestions that will improve it, he is
likely to offer such suggestions, purely in the hope of
earning a commission, and in this way he may prove
of distinct value as a critic. In any event, if he
accepts a manuscript to sell for you, he will offer it
in the quarters he thinks most likely to produce it
and will attend to all the business incidental to the
making of the contract.
For this service the broker charges a ten per cent
commission. This commission is paid either on the
price of outright sale, or on the royalty account. If
the act is sold on royalty, he will collect the custom-
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 397
ary advance and also the weekly payments. After
deducting his commission, he will remit the balance
to you.
On the last page of this chapter you will find a
partial list of well-known play brokers. Although I
do not know of any who deal exclusively in vaude-
ville material, any one of the agents who handles long
plays is glad to handle an exceptionally fine playlet.
(b) Seeking a personal interview with a producer is
usually productive of one result: The office-boy says,
“Leave your manuscript, and he’ll read it and let
you know.” Anxious as he is to secure good material,
a man who is busily engaged in producing vaudeville
acts has little time to spend on granting personal
interviews. And there is another reason — he fears
you will try to read your act to him. A personal
reading by the author is either a most distressing
affair, because the average writer cannot read stage
material as it should be read, or else it is very dan-
gerous to the listener's judgment. Many a producer
has been tricked into producing an act whose merits
a masterly reader has brought out so finely that its
fatal faults were forgotten. And so the producer
prefers to read a manuscript himself. Alone in his
office he can concentrate on the act in hand, and give
to it the benefit of his best judgment.
(c) Offering a manuscript by mail is perfectly safe.
There has never come to my knowledge one clearly
proved instance of where a producer has “stolen an
idea.”
398 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
(d) Send your manuscript by registered mail and
demand a return receipt. Thus you will save losses
in the mail and hold a check against the loss of your
manuscript in the producer’s office. And when you
send your manuscript by mail, invariably enclose
stamps to pay the return to you by registered deliv-
ery. Better still, enclose a self-addressed envelope
with enough postage affixed to insure both return
and registry.
(e) Three weeks for consideration is about the usual
time the average producer requires to read a manu-
script at his leisure. In times when a producer
is actively engaged in putting on an act, he may not
have an hour in the week he can call his own. There-
fore have patience, and if you do not receive a reply
from him in three weeks, write again and courteously
remind him that you would like to have his decision
at his earliest convenience. Impatient letters can
only harm your chance.
5. Hints on Prices for Various Acts
What money can be made by writing vaudeville
material? This is certainly the most interesting
question the writer for vaudeville can ask. Like the
prices of diamonds, the prices of vaudeville acts
depend on quality. Every individual act, and each
kind of act, commands its own special price.
There are two big questions involved in the pri-
cing of every vaudeville manuscript. First, of what
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 399
value is the act itself? Second, what can the per-
former or the producer afford to pay or be made to
pay for the act?
The first question cannot be answered for even a
class of acts. The value of each individual act deter-
mines its own price. And even here there enters the
element inherent in all stage material — a doubt of
value until performance before an audience proves
the worth of the act. For this reason, it is custom-
ary for the purchaser of a vaudeville act to require
that it first make good, before he pays for it. “Try
and then buy,” is the average vaudevillian’s motto.
If you are a good business man you will Secure an
advance against royalty of just as much as you can
make the producer “give up.” Precisely as in every
other business, the price of service depends upon the
individual’s ability to “make a deal.”
The answer to the second question likewise depends
upon the vaudeville writer’s individual ability as a
business man. No hints can be given you other than
those that you may glean from a consideration of
average and record prices in the following paragraphs.
(a) The monologue is usually sold outright. The
performer nearly always will tell you — with no small
degree of truth — that the monologist makes the
monologue, not the monologue the monologist. Many
a monologue has sold for five dollars, and the pur-
chaser been “stung” at that price. But very rarely
is a monologue bought outright in manuscript – that
is, before a try-out. A monologue must prove itself
4OO WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
“there,” before a monologist will pay any more
than a small advance for the exclusive privilege of
trying it out. t
If the monologue proves itself, an outright offer will
be made by the performer. While there are no “reg-
ular rates,” from two hundred and fifty dollars to
seven hundred dollars may be considered as sugges-
tive of the market value of the -average successful
monologue. * -
In addition to this, the monologist usually retains
the author to write new points and gags for him each
week that he works. This, of course, increases the
return from a monologue, and insures the writer a
small weekly income.
In very rare cases monologues are so good and,
therefore, so valuable that authors can retain the
ownership and rent them out for a weekly royalty.
In such a case, of course, the author engages himself to
keep the material up to the minute without extra
compensation. But such monologues are so rare they
can be counted on the fingers of one hand. There is
little doubt that “The German Senator” is one of the
most valuable monologue properties – if it does not
stand in a class by itself — that has ever been written.
For many years it has returned to Aaron Hoffman
a royalty of $100 a week, thirty and forty weeks in
the year. This may be considered the record price
for a monologue.
(b) The vaudeville two-act varies in price as greatly
as the monologue. Like the monologue, it is usually
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 4OI
sold outright. The performers use precisely the same
argument about the two-act that is used about
the monologue. It is maintained that the material
itself is not to be compared with the importance of
its presentation. When a two-act has been tried out
and found “there,” the performers or the producer
will offer a price for it. -
The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth
only as much as it will bring, applies to the two-act.
From two hundred and fifty dollars to whatever you
can get, may be considered suggestive of two-act
prices. Although more two-acts have sold outright
for less than three hundred dollars than have sold
above five hundred dollars, a successful two-act may
be made to yield a far greater return if a royalty
arrangement is secured.
Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville
act, the royalty asking price is ten per cent of the
weekly salary. This rate is difficult to enforce, and
while five per cent is nearer the average, the pro-
ducer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each
week, than a percentage that must be reckoned on
what may be a varying salary. Usually a compromise
of a flat amount per playing week is made when a
royalty is agreed on. -
(c) The playlet varies in returns amazingly. While
One Small-time producer pays no advance royalty and
a flat weekly royalty of from ten dollars to fifteen
dollars a week — making his stand on the fact that
he gives a longer playing season than his average
4O2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
competitor – many a big-time producer pays a
good round advance and as high as $100 a week
royalty. -
Edgar Allan Woolf has said: “The desire for the
one-act comedy is So great that even an unknown
writer can secure an advance royalty as great as is
paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has writ-
ten a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story
and cleverness of dialogue.”
George V. Hobart is reported to have had a va-
riously-quoted number of playlets playing at the same
time, each one of which returned him a weekly roy-
alty of $1oo a week. And half a dozen other one-act
playwrights might be named who have had nearly
equal success. +
On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is
quoted as saying: “The work of writing a playlet
is nearly as great as writing a three-act play, and the
returns cannot be compared.” -
One of the collaborators on a famous big-time suc-
cess received forty dollars a week for three seasons
as his share. Another playlet writer was paid one
hundred dollars a week for one act, and only twenty
dollars a week for another. And a third was content
with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the
same time that another act of his was bringing him
in fifty dollars a week. -
These examples I have cited to demonstrate that
the return from the playlet is a most variable quantity.
The small-time pays less than the big-time, and each
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 4O3
individual act on both Small- and big-time pays a
different royalty.
When a playlet – either comedy or straight dra-
matic–is accepted for production, it is customary,
although not an invariable rule, that an advance roy-
alty be paid “down.” When the act proves success-
ful, one or more of three propositions may be offered
the writer: outright sale at a price previously agreed
upon; outright sale to be paid in weekly royalties
until an agreed upon figure is reached, when owner-
ship passes from the author to the producer; the
more customary weekly royalty. As I have said
before, what price you receive for your act finally
depends upon your keenness in driving a bargain.
In nearly every case, outright sale has its advan-
tage in the fact that the author need not then worry
about collecting his royalty. Of course, when a rec-
ognized producer puts out the act there need be
no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a
royalty is preferable. But in some cases, as when the
performer is making long jumps and has a hard time
making railroad connections, a weekly royalty has
its disadvantages in causing worry to the author.
(d) The one-act musical comedy is usually bought
outright — after the act “gets over.” While many a
“book” is contracted for in advance at a small figure,
to be doubled or trebled on success, it is also true that
royalties are paid. In this case, the custom is to
divide the royalty equally between the writer of the
book and lyrics, and the composer of the music.
4O4 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
When a third person writes the verses of the songs
and ensemble numbers, the royalty is usually split
three ways. It would be misleading to quote any
figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that
circumstances vary So greatly with each that there
are no standards.
(e) The burlesque tab pays about the same rates as
the one-act musical comedy, its kindred form.
(f) The popular song, unlike the other material
treated in this volume, has a well established royalty
price: One cent a copy is the standard. Of this,
half a cent goes to the writer of the lyric, and half a
cent to the composer of the music.
As a popular Song, to be considered successful,
must sell anywhere from half a million to a million
copies, it is easy to estimate the song-writer’s return.
If the same man writes both the words and the music
he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars – or
twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he
divides with another — for being able to make the
nation whistle. Of course, many song-writers have
two successful songs selling in a year — therefore you
may double the figures above to estimate some suc-
cessful song-writers’ incomes. But it may safely be
said that the song-writer who has an income of twelve
thousand dollars a year is doing very well indeed!
There are many more professional song-writers who
work year after year for the salary of the average
business man in every other line of endeavor. Don’t
count your royalty-chickens too soon.
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 4O5
6. Important Lists of Addresses
SOME of THE MORE PROMINENT PLAY
BROKERS
AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New York
MARY Asquit H, 145 W. 45th St, New York
ALICE KAUSER, I402 Broadway, New York
DARCY AND Wolfo RD, II4 W. 39th St., New York
EIRKPATRICK, LTD., IoI Park Ave., New York
MoDERN PLAY Co., Columbus Circle, New York
LAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New York
GEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New York
PAUL SCOTT, I4oz Broadway, New York
SANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New York
MRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York
A LIST OF WELL KNOWN VAUDEVILLE
PRODUCERS
The producers given here offer a market which
varies so widely in each instance that no attempt has
been made to list their needs. Some are interested
in other lines of the amusement business as well;
and their activities elsewhere must be taken into
consideration as determining factors in their special
market needs. No division of these producers into
big-time and Small-time producers is made, because
such a distinction would be likely to be misleading
rather than helpful.
406 WRITING FOR, VAUDEVILLE
ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New York’
JoSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New York
JESSE L. LASKY, I2O W. 41st St., New York
PLAYLET PRODUCING COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New
York -
B. A. ROLFE, I493 Broadway, New York
JoE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New York
RolanD WEST PRODUCING COMPANY, 26o W. 42d St.,
New York
HARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New York
PAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New York
BILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New York
JoE PAIGE SMITH, I493 Broadway, New York
ALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New York
JoHN C. PEEBLEs, 1564 Broadway, New York
JAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New York
C. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New York
LEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia. Theatre Building, 7th
Ave. at 47th St., New York
MAX HART, I564 Broadway, New York
JAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia. Theatre Building, 7th
Ave. at 47th St., New York
WILLIAM A. BRADy, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St.,
New York
BART McHUGH, Land Title Building, Philadelphia
MENLO E. MooRE, 22 W. Monroe St., Chicago
MINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago
MANUSCRIPTS AND MARKETS 4O7
THE LARGER CIRCUITS AND BOOKING OFFICES
The following vaudeville circuits, while they may
not maintain regular producing departments, pro-
duce acts every now and then.
THE UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF AMERICA, I564
Broadway, New York. This organization books
the B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- and
big-time houses
ORPHEUM CIRCUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York
LOEw's THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES, 1493 Broadway,
New York
Poli’s CIRCUIT, I493 Broadway, New York
THE WESTERN WAUDEVILLE MANAGERS’ ASSOCIA-
TION, Majestic Theatre Building, Chicago
GUs SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building,
Springfield, Ohio
BERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San
Francisco
PANTAGE’s CIRCUIT, Seattle
SULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, Seattle
To these markets nearly every booking agent and
manager in the vaudeville business might be added.
Each one has a list of acts he handles that need new
material from time to time. And often the agent or
manager will add to his list of clients by producing
an exceptionally fine act himself.
The reason such a list is not given here is that it
would require a small volume merely for the names
and addresses. Consultation of “The Clipper Red
408 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Book”—a handy directory of theatrical agents, sold
at ten cents — will supply this information. A
knowledge of the special kinds of acts handled by
each agent or manager, and the producers previously
given as well, may be gathered by a careful reading
of the various theatrical specialized journals. This
knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a
little there through persistent attention to the notices
of new acts and announcements of plans.
PUBLISHERS OF WAUDEVILLE MATERIAL
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New York
T. S. DENNISON, Chicago
PROMINENT THEATRICAL PAPERS
VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC MIRROR, I493 Broadway, New York
THE NEW YORK MoRNING TELEGRAPH, 5oth St. &
8th Ave., New York
THE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New York
THE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New York
THE BILLBOARD, I465 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC NEws, 17 W. 42d St., New York
THE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New York
THE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New York
THE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Build-
ing, Chicago. -
CHAPTER XXV
FIOW A VATUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED
While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is
transformed from a manuscript into a commercial
Success may not be necessary to the writing of a good
act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary to the
writer who hopes to make money by his work. For
this reason I shall devote this final chapter to a brief
discussion of the subject.
Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an
act, assuming for my purpose that it represents a
monologue or a two-act, a playlet or a musical com-
edy, and trace its commercial career from the author’s
hands, into a producer's, through a booking-office, to
Success. Any one of the famous examples printed in
this volume could be so taken and its history told,
but no one would combine in its experience all the
points that should be given. So I shall ask you to
imagine that the act whose commercial story I am
about to tell represents in itself every kind of act to
be seen in vaudeville. I shall call this act by the
name of “Success.”
When Mr. Author, the writer of “Success,” received
a letter from Mr. Producer accepting the act and
4IO WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
requesting him to call at his office to discuss terms,
Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there as fast
as he could go.
The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer’s
private office, and before the caller could get his
breath Mr. Producer had made him an offer. He
accepted the offer without haggling over the terms,
which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory. To
tell the truth, he would have accepted almost any-
thing, so eager was he to get his first act on the
stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms were
really fair.
He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed
it, with the advance royalty check, in his bosom
pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged into business.
He pressed a button for the office boy and told him
to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in. Now Mr. Scenic
Artist was the representative of a great scenic studio,
and he sketched a design for a special set in a jiffy;
then he thought of another, and then of a third.
And Mr. Producer and he were so interested in com-
bining all their good ideas into one admirable set
that Mr. Author was startled when they shoved a
sketch under his nose and asked for suggestions. He
made two that were pertinent to the atmosphere he
had imagined for his room, and when they were incor-
porated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K’d it and
Mr. Scenic Artist bowed himself out, promising to
have a model ready the next day.
Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 4II
told her to have Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and
other performers in the office next morning at eleven
o'clock, gave her a list of the characters he wished
to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order
to get out parts, and to have them out that night.
He turned to Mr. Author with a request for the inci-
dental music for the act. Mr. Author told him he
had none. Then Mr. Producer reached for the tele-
phone, with the remark that the music could wait,
and called up the United Booking Offices of America.
After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the
special Mr. Booking Manager for whom he had
inquired, told him he had an act for which he wanted
a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a
date three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act
had been booked. Mr. Author marveled that the
act should be contracted to appear when it was not
even yet out of manuscript form, but when he men-
tioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to
know how he ever would get “time” for an act if he
didn’t engage it ahead. He explained that he had a
regular arrangement with Mr. House Manager to
play new acts in his house at a small “break-in.”
salary. It was an arrangement convenient to him
and gave Mr. House Manager fine acts at Small
COSt.
After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr.
Author went out, promising to be on hand that eve-
ning at eight to go over the manuscript and make
some changes that Mr. Producer promised to prove
4I2 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
were necessary to the success of the act. And as he
passed through the outer office, Mr. Author heard
Miss Secretary explain over the telephone that Mr.
Producer wished a hall at eleven o’clock two days
later to rehearse a new act.
Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author
presented himself at the office again, and found Mr.
Producer busily engaged in reading the manuscript.
A tiny paper model of the mimic room in which the
act was to be played stood upon the desk. When he
stooped he saw that the walls were roughly colored
after the sketch they had discussed and that the
whole scene bore an amazing likeness to the place of
his imagination. Mr. Producer explained that he had
had the model rushed through to make it possible for
them to “get down to brass tacks” at once. The
act needed so many little changes that they would
have to get busy to have it ready for the morning.
When Mr. Producer began discussing various points
about the act, Mr. Author could not for the life of
him imagine what all these changes could be. But
when Mr. Producer pointed out the first, Mr. Author
wondered how he ever had imagined that the hero-
ine could do the little thing he had made her do —
it was physically impossible. Point after point Mr.
Producer questioned, and point after point they
changed, but there was only the one glaring error.
A motive was added here, a bit of business was
changed there, and as they worked they both grew
so excited that they forget the time, forgot every-
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 4I3
thing but that act. And when the manuscript at
last dropped from their exhausted hands, it looked
as if an army had invaded it.
Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound
parts and sighed. All that work would have to be
done over! “Only another one of my mistakes,”
smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss
Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together
with these now useless parts, and laid them on her
desk, as he and Mr. Author went out into the cool
night air. “See you tomorrow at eleven,” said Mr.
Producer as they parted. And Mr. Author looking
at his watch wondered why he should take the
trouble to go home at all.
At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office
crowded with actors and actresses. Miss Secretary
was busily directing the typing of the new manu-
script and parts. Mr. Producer was late. After
Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office,
Miss Secretary came in and said he should wait no
longer, because Mr. Producer had been called out of
town to straighten out some trouble which had
developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned
that he would not be in until late that afternoon.
Rehearsal would be as scheduled next morning, Miss
Secretary explained. The performers would be on
hand, and she hoped to goodness they would have
some idea of their parts by then. Mr. Author wanted
to know how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Pro-
ducer was away, and Miss Secretary told him that
4I4 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of every one who
had called and had even directed her to engage the
ones he named.
The following morning Mr. Author saw his char-
acters for the first time in the flesh — and was dis-
appointed. Also, the rehearsal was a sad awakening;
it wasn’t anything like he had imagined it would be.
They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told
them what the act was all about. Then he suggested
that they go through it once, at any rate. Chairs were
placed to mark the footlights, chairs were used to
indicate the doors and window, and chairs were made
to do duty as a table, a piano and everything else.
Finally they got started and limped through the
lines, reading their parts. Then Mr. Producer began
to show them how he wanted it done, and before he
had finished he had played every part in the act.
They went through the act once more with a myriad
of interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on
getting things right the very first time, and then he
knocked off, calling it a day’s work.
The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early
with some suggestions: one Mr. Producer adopted,
the others he explained into forgetfulness—and
rehearsing began in earnest. They worked all morn-
ing on the first quarter of the act and went back at
it late that afternoon. Miss Leading Lady uncon-
sciously added one line and it was so good that it
was kept in the act. Then Mr. Star did something
that made them all laugh, and they put that in. Of
EIOW A VATDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 4I5
course some pretty lines in the dialogue had to come
out to make room, but they came out, and Mr. Author
never regretted their loss. And the next day it was
the same, and the day after that, and the seventh
day, and the eighth day.
Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act
taking shape and form, and when he spoke to Mr.
Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he thought
that after all the act might whip around into some-
thing pretty good. -
A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the
rehearsal hall, there were three strange men facing
the company, who were going through the act for the
first time without interruptions from Mr. Producer.
Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched
their faces with interest to see how they liked his act.
After a while he came to consider as great compli-
ments the ghosts of Smiles flickering across their jury-
like faces. And when it was all over the performers
gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over
to him, and the three men whispered among them-
selves. Mr. Producer explained that they were book-
ing managers, and then Mr. Author sensed the
psychological reason for the unconscious drawing
together of the different clans.
His heart beat rather violently when the three
men came across the room, and he felt a great wave
of gladness sweep over him when the tallest of the
three pulled out a little black book and said, “Mr.
Producer, I’ll pencil it in one of my houses for next
416 WRITING FOR VAUDEVIT,LE
week at this figure,” and he showed Mr. Producer
what he had written.
“And I’ll take you for the second break-in, as we
agreed when you 'phoned,” said the shortest man.
“And I’ll take the third at that.”
Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admira-
tion for Mr. Producer, because Mr. Producer dared
assert his personality. Mr. Producer objected to the
figure, talking of the “name” of Mr. Star.
“That’s every penny he's worth,” came the ada-
mant anSWer.
Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs,
and the cost of hauling Scenery, as additional arguments.
“Why didn’t you say special set at first?” said the
smallest man; “I’ll give you this advance.” Then
all four looked, and they all agreed.
Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually.
“Guess your act’ll get by,” conceded one of the jury
generously, as they all left.
“So you’re going to open a week earlier?” gasped
Mr. Author to Mr. Producer, when they were alone
in the interval between the exit of the three and the
entrance upon the scene of the performers, who came
swiftly across the room to learn their fate. “And
you’ve booked three weeks more!”
“Well,” said Mr. Producer, “you know the boys
only pencilled those weeks in — pencil marks can
be rubbed out.” +
The next day as they were on their way to the
train to go up to the town where the act was to open,
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 417
Mr. Producer suddenly remembered that he had for-
gotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking.
Offices for his contrāct. He wanted that contract
particularly, for he had a feud of long standing with
the manager of that particular house. So up he,
rushed to get that contract, with Mr. Author tagging
at his heels.
It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the
waiting room of a booking office.— it amazed him by
its busy air. A score or more performers crowded
its every inch of space. They were thickest around
a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy
who seemed to know them all. Some he dismissed
with a “Come in tomorrow.” Others he talked with
at length, and took their cards. When he had a
handful he disappeared from the window.
But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author. Mr.
Producer stood holding open the inner door. So in
Mr. Author went — to another surprise. Here there
was no crush of people — here there was no rush, and
little noise. Stenographers stood about, seemingly
idle, and at a dozen little desks sat a dozen men
quietly bending over rather odd-looking books, or
talking with the few men who came in.
One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr.
Booking Manager, for whom they were to play the
second week. He was about to speak to him, when
up came a bustling little man who said, “Do you
want Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth?
I can give her to you.”
418 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
“Nope, all filled. Give you the week of the twenty-
third.”
“All right.”
Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book,
and Mr. Booking Manager bent over his desk and
wrote Miss Headliner's name in his big book – and a
business transaction was consummated.
Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another
desk and repeated his offer of the week of the thir-
tieth. te
“Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third,”
said this man.
“Just filled it,” said Mr. Booking Agent. “Can’t
you give me the thirtieth? Who's got the thirtieth .
open?”
The man at the next desk heard him. “Who for?
Miss Headliner? All right, I’ll take her.”
Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room
and Mr. Author followed him in a wild dash to
catch the train. In the smoker he asked Mr. Pro-
ducer to explain what he had seen in the Booking
Offices. And Mr. Producer said: “Each one of
those men you saw up there is in charge of the
shows of one, or maybe three or four vaudeville
theatres in different cities. It is their duty to make
up the shows that appear in each of their houses.
For instance, Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we
are playing this week, books the shows in four other
houses.
“The man you heard ask him if he would take
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 4I9
Miss Headliner for the thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's
business representative. His name is Mr. Booking
Agent. Besides Miss Headliner, he is the represen-
tative for maybe fifty other acts. For this service
he receives a commission of five per cent of Miss
Headliner's salary and five per cent on the salaries of
all the acts for whom he gets work. It is his business
to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid by
her and his other clients for keeping them working.
“Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not
paid a commission. He receives a flat salary for the
work that he does for his houses. You remember
you met him, yesterday, when he pencilled ‘Success’
in for the house we are on our way to play. Well,
that is also a part of his business. For some of his
houses that like to make a big showing at little
expense, he must dig up new big acts like ours,
which are breaking-in.
“Now, the price I get for this act for the break-
ing-in weeks, is mighty low. But this is customary.
That is the reason why the performers have to be
content with half salaries, and you with half-royalty.
But this price does not affect the future price I will
receive. It is marked on the books as the ‘show
price.’ That means that it is recorded in the
book-keeping department by the cashier as the price
for which I am showing this act to the managers.
When the act has made good, a price is set on the
act, and that is the standard price for the other
houses that book through these offices. The book-
42O WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if I tried
to ‘sneak a raise over,’ he would catch it, and both
yours truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be
called up on the carpet by the head of the Offices.
The only increase that is permitted is when a new
season rolls around, or two or three booking man-
agers agree to an increase and consult the office head
about boosting the salary on the books.”
That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a
dress rehearsal of the act; he was disappointed. But
the next morning there was a full dress rehearsal,
played in the brand new special set which had come
up with them and that now shone like a pretty pic-
ture in the dingy theatre.
It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the
emphasis of this rehearsal was not put on the speeches,
but upon the entrances and exits, and the precise use
and disposal of the various properties employed. A
glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star
promised to murder anyone who moved a book that
he used in his “big” scene. “Unless it is here —
right here — I’ll never be able to reach it and get
back for the next bit without running.”
And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to
improve the lines, but only to blend the physical
movements of every one of the performers to make a
perfect whole and to heighten the natural effect of
even the most natural action. Then the dress re-
hearsal came to an end, and the entire party went
out to see the town.
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 42I
That night, after the performance, they worked
again on the act, because Mr. Producer had been
Seized by an idea. And when they had gone through
the act time and again to incorporate that idea, they
all went wearily to bed, praying for success next
day. -
At ten o’clock in the morning Mr. Author was at
the theatre. He found that other acts had preceded
him. The stage was littered with trunks and scen-
ery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not of
a vaudeville show. Each performer as he came in
was greeted by the doorman with the gift of a brass
check, on which there was stamped a number. This
number told the performer in what order he was
entitled to rehearse. Vaudeville is a democracy —
first come, first rehearsed.
The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which
express-men had dumped on the sidewalk, the elec-
trician was busy mentally rehearsing light effects
according to the formula on a printed light plot
which was being explained to him by a performer.
“Props” was busy trying to satisfy everyone with
what he had on hand, or good-naturedly sending out
for what had not been clearly specified on the prop-
erty plot. The spot-light man in the gallery out
front was busy getting his lamp ready for the mat-
inée, and consulting his light plot. And the stage-
manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shov-
ing his scenery here and there to make room for the
newly arrived sets, directing the flying of the hanging
422 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
stuff, and settling questions with the directness of a
CZa.I. -
Suddenly through the caverny house sounded
the noise of the orchestra tuning up. The leader
appeared and greeted the performers he knew like
long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check
Number One dropped into his hand, and the Monday
morning rehearsal began. Then it was that Mr.
Author learned that it is not the acts, which are re-
hearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville
orchestra, and the light men and “Props.”
This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer
arrived with the performers and “Success” went into
rehearsal. Although the entire staff of the theatre
had been rehearsed the night before at the final dress
rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some
lights, to instruct “Props” more clearly, and to jack
up the orchestra into perfection. Therefore they all
went through the act once more. Then the scrub-
women appeared and demanded the centre of the
stage with great swishes of watery cloths. The cur-
tain came down to hide the stage from the front of
the house, and the first early comers of the audience
filtered in.
Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how
“Success” played that first performance. He has
dim memories of a throbbing heart, fears that lines
would be forgotten or the whole “big” scene fall to
pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain
came down, amid — applause. The curtain went up
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 423
and came down a number of times, but Mr. Author
was too busy pinching himself to make sure that he
wasn’t dreaming, to Count how many curtains the
act took.
It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr.
Producer was in a rage. There were scores of points
that had not “got over,” half a dozen of his finest
effects had been ruined, and he was bound those points
should “get over,” and those effects shine out clear
and big.
Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it
as a nightmare of changes. They cut out speeches,
and changed speeches, and took out bits of business,
and added new bits — they changed everything in
the act, and some of the changes they changed back
again, until by Saturday the act was hardly to be
recognized. And then they played two more per-
formances to crowded houses that applauded like
madmen; and Mr. Producer Smiled for the first
time. -
Then they moved to the next theatre, and the
first performance showed even Mr. Author that all
the work had been wise. Now he was even more
anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes
by which this week was marked. And by the end of
the week “Success” looked like — success.
They were preparing for a week of great things in
the next town, when Wednesday night a cancellation
notice came for that precious week. Something had
gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be rubbed
424 WRITING FOR WAUDEVILLE
out. Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures
that week should never have been rubbed out, because
there was a contract fully binding on both the theatre
and Mr. Producer. But the week was rubbed out
of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer — knowing
vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only
the most dire necessity made Mr. Booking Manager
“do this thing to him” — forgave it all with a smile
and was quite ready to get back to town when Mon-
day morning rolled around. -
But Monday morning there occurred a “disap-
pointment” at another theatre in a town only a few
miles away. The act that was to have played that
date was wrecked, or had overslept itself. Anyway,
the resident house manager telephoned to the Book-
ing Offices that he was shy one act. Now it happened
that the act that “disappointed,” was of the same
general character as “Success.” The Booking Man-
ager knew this, and remembered that “Success” was
within a few miles and with an open week that ought
to have been filled. Therefore, just as Mr. Producer
and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join the
other members of “Success” at the railroad station,
Mr. Producer was called to the telephone — long
distance. -
In less time than it takes to recount it, the resi-
dent manager who was suffering from a disappoint-
ment, and Mr. Producer, suffering from the lack of a
playing week, were both cured of their maladies at
the same time. And So, instead of going back to
HOW A VAUDEVILLE ACT IS BOOKED 425
town, “Success” rushed to the next city and played
its week.
Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author
realized one fact that stands out rather prominently
in his memory; it is a simple little fact, yet it sums
up the entire problem of the show business. Perhaps
the rush of events had made it impossible before for
the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when
there suddenly came to him a tiny little bit of busi-
ness which made a very long Speech unnecessary. He
explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr. Producer seized
on it instantly and put it into the act. That night
the act went better than it had ever gone before.
This little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash
which was responsible for it, “punched up” the big
scene into a life it had never had before. Then it
was that there also flashed upon Mr. Author’s mind
this truth:
A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper.
It is written with characters of flesh and blood.
Strive as hard as man may, he can never fully foretell
how an ink-written act will play. There is an inex-
plicable something which playing before an audience
develops. Both the audience and the actors on the
stage are affected. A play — the monologue and
every musical form as well — is one thing in manu-
script, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a differ-
ent thing before an audience. Playing before an
audience alone shows what a play truly is. There-
fore, a play can only be made – after it is produced.
426 WRITING FOR VAUDEVILLE
Even in the fourth week of playing — the first
week of metropolitan playing — Mr. Author and Mr.
Producer made many changes in “Success” that were
responsible for the long popularity it enjoyed. Mr.
Author had learned his lesson well. He approached
his next work with clearer eyes.
APPENDIX
NINE FAMOUS VAUDEVILLE ACTS
COMPLETE
“THE GERMAN SENATOR,” A Monologue, by Aaron
Hoffman.
“THE ART OF FLIRTATION,” A Two-Act, by Aaron
Hoffman.
“AFTER THE SHOWER,” A Flirtation Two-Act, by
Louis Weslyn.
“THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER,” A Travesty
Playlet, by Arthur Denvir.
“THE LOLLARD,” A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan
Woolf.
“BLACKMAIL,” A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding
Davis.
“THE SystEM,” A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor
Granville.
“A PERSIAN GARDEN,” A One-Act Musical Comedy, by
Edgar Allan Woolf. -
“My OLD KENTUCKy HoME,” A One-Act Burlesque, by
James Madison.
A WORD ABOUT THE ACTS
The nine acts which are given, complete, in the fol-
lowing pages are representative of the very best in
vaudeville. Naturally, they do not show every possible
vaudeville variation — a series of volumes would be .
428 APPENDIX
required for that — but, taken together, they represent
all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are
commonly Seen.
THE MONOLOGUE
The German Senator . . . . . . . Page 433
This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen
as perhaps the best example of the pure monologue ever
written. Originally used by Cliff Gordon — continu-
ally being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute — it has,
since his death, been presented by numerous successors
of the first “German Senator.” It is doubtful if any
other dramatic work – or any other writing — of
equal length, and certainly no monologue, has returned
to its author so much money as “The German Senator”
has earned.
THE TWO-ACTS
The Art of Flirtation . . . . . . . Page 445
For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville
two-act, this exceptionally fine example of two-act
form has been used by various famous German
comedians. It may be considered to stand in much
the same relation to the two-act that “The German
Senator” does to the monologue. Its author, also Mr.
Aaron Hoffman, holds a unique position among vaude-
ville and musical comedy writers.
After the Shower . . . . . . . . . Page 457
This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was
played for more than four years by Lola Merrill and
Frank Otto. It has been instanced as one of the dainti-
APPENDIX 429
est and finest flirtation-couple-acts that the two-a-day
has seen. Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps more
successful acts of this particular style than any other
author. -
THE PLAYLETS
The Villain Still Pursued Her . . . Page 475
This travesty, one of the most successful on record,
was used for years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan. Writ-
ten by Mr. Arthur Denvir, whose specialty is travesties,
it undoubtedly became the inspiration for the many
similar acts that created thc travesty-vogue of 1912–15.
The Lollard . . . . . . . . . . . Page 495
Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical
comedy, is perhaps the most successful writer of playlets
in this country. For many years he has turned out
success after success for famous legitimate stars, while
still other performers have become vaudeville stars in his
acts. Mr. Woolf himself chose “The Lollard” as repre-
sentative of his best comedies. The star rôle, Angela
Maxwell, was created in this country by Miss Regina
Cornelli, and in England by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.
Blackmail . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 513
Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction. This
remarkable little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum
Circuit by Mr. Charles Feleky, who declares it to be
“the best tragic playlet I have produced.” From so
eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed, high
praise. The character of Richard Fallon was created by
Mr. Walter Hampden.
43O APPENDIX
The System. . . . . . . . . . . . Page 537
Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big
productions with which Mr. Taylor Granville has
supplied The United Booking Offices of America, during
his many years as a producing star. Mr. Junie
McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was
once president of “The White Rats,” the vaudeville
actors’ union, and is now a successful vaudeville writer.
Mr. Edward Clark, the third collaborator, has written
many successful vaudeville acts.
“The System” is said to have been characterized by
Mr. George M. Cohan as the best one-act melodrama
he ever saw. Its extraordinary popularity in this
country and in England is but added proof of the tense-
ness of its scenes and its great ending.
THE ONE-ACT MUSICAL COMEDY
A Persian Garden . . . . . . . . . Page 575
Played by Louis Simons season after season, this
real comedy set to music is without question Mr.
Edgar Allan Woolf’s best effort in this field. Unlike
the usual musical comedy, this act possesses dialogue
interest as well as pleasing brilliancy. It has won its
many years of success not because of Scenery, costumes
and the chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent
in the manuscript divorced from them.
THE BURLESQUE TAB
My Old Kentucky Home . . . . . Page 595
Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts
in vaudeville, this “Tab’’ has been played in various
APPENDIX 43I
guises in the two-a-day and in burlesque for many
Seasons. It is the work of a writer who justly prides
himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque
form, and who possesses the most complete library of
burlesque manuscripts in America. To the thousands
of readers of “Madison’s Budget,” James Madison
requires no introduction.
Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance,
been personally granted to the author of this volume.
This kind permission covers publication in this book
only. Republication of these acts in whole or in
part, in any form whatsoever, is expressly prohibited.
Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise
forbidden. A Special Warning has been inserted in
the introductory page of every act, at the request of
each author. The reason for such repetition is to be
found in the commercial value of successful vaudeville
material, and in the fact that the general public has
never precisely understood the reservations permitted
to the author of a dramatic work under the copyright
law. Infringements of any sort are subject to severe
penalties under United States law and will be rigidly
prosecuted.
To the writers of these acts the author of this volume
wishes to express his deep appreciation for the per-
missions that enable him to print as illustrations of
his text some of the finest acts that vaudeville has ever
SCCI1.

THE *
GERMAN SENATOR
A MONOLOGUE
BY
AARON HOFFMAN
Author of “The Politicians,” “The Belle
of Avenue A,” “The Newly-weds and their Baby,”
“Let George Do It,” “School Days,” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, MARCH 3, 1914, BY AARON HOFFMAN
CLASS D. XXc, 36,330
SPECIAL WARNING
This monologue is fully protected by copyright in the United
States and all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Hoffman’s work.
Its public performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur
or for professional purposes, is strictly prohibited, and any one
infringing the copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the
copyright law which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
THE GERMAN SENATOR
My dear friends and falling citizens:
My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to
come out here before such an intelligence massage of
people and have the chance to undress such a large
conglomerated aggravation.
I do not come before you like other political speakers,
with false pride in one hand and the Star Strangled
Banana in the other.
I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man
who is for the public and against the people, and I
want to tell you, my 'steemed friends, when I look
back on the early hysterics of our country, and think
how our forefathers strangled to make this country
voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed
and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling
of patriotic symptoms — we got to feel a patriotic
symp — symps — you got to feel the patri – you can’t
help it, you got to feel it. -
I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion
when we look out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way
she stands, all alone, dressed up in nothing, with a light
in her hand, showing her freedom. -
And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to
stand.
With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell’s
Island on the other.
And when she stands there now, looking on the
436 APPENDIX
(
country the way it is and what she has to stand for, I
tell you tears and tears must drop from her eyes. Well,
to prove it — look at the ocean she filled up.
And no wonder she's Crying. Read the nuisance
papers. See what is going on. • *
Look what the country owes.
According to the last report of the Secretary of the
Pleasury, the United States owes five billion dollars.
Nobody knows what we owe it for;
And nobody ever sees what we have got for it;"
And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the
United States, and ask them, THEY don’t even know
THEMISELVES.
Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the
., Pay-no-more Canal.
It cost the Government nine thousand dollars a, Il
hour to dig the canal. THINK OF THAT!
Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the
worst of it is, they ain’t digging.
Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy
million dollars to dig a hole — they’ve been at it for
over nine years — and the only hole they’ve dug is in
the United States Treasury.
Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up
with a report;
* With the next line begins the “Panama Canal point,” referred
to in Chapter V, page 78. It runs to and includes the line marked
with footnote reference on page 435. -
First read the monologue including this point, then read it
skipping the point — thus you will see, first, what a complete “point”
is; second, what “blending” means; and third, how a monologist
may shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a
point. {
APPENDIX y
437
He says: “Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better
every day, a million dollars MORE please.”
He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels,
then sends back a telegram: HOORAY – The digging is
very good, the two oceans will soon be one.
Can you beat that?
Before they started the canal it didn’t cost us
nothing, and we had two oceans.
And by the time they get through, it’ll cost us three
hundred million and we’ll only have one.
And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks
like it was going to get us into trouble.
Japan is against it on one side and England don’t
like it on the other. r
And that’s why we’ve got to have a navy."
Of course, we’ve got a navy.
Büt everybody is kicking about it.
Why should they kick?
All we appropriated for the navy last year was four
million dollars. *
And there's eighty million people in this country.
And that figures a nickel apiece.
And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for
a nickel? --i
Still they are crying that the country is in destitution
circumstances. That is inconsis — inconsis — you can’t
deny it.
Our country has got a superabum, a Superabum – a
Superabum – we’ve got a lot of money.
There’s money lying in the treasury that never was
* End of “Panama Canal point.” See page 434; also Chapter V,
page 78.
\
438 APPENDIX
#
touched. And the first fellow that will touch it will
get six months. A
The whole trouble is the trusts. ,
Look what the cold storage trust have done with the
eggs. Sixty cents a dozen — for the good ones. And
the good ones are rotten. g-
Then they say the reason prices are going up is be-
cause wages are getting higher.
But why should they raise the price of eggs?
The chickens ain’t getting any more wages.
And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth
more than money.
Then there won’t be any money.
Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you’ll
carry meat around.
A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.
When you go down to the bank to make a deposit,
instead of giving the cashier a thousand dollar bill,
you’ll slip him a sirloin steak.
If you ask him for change, he’ll give you a hunk of
bologny. -
L_If they keep on, we won’t be able to live at all.
Statistics prove that the average wages of the work-
ingman is one dollar a day.
Out of that, he’s got to spend fifty cents a day
for food; fifty-five cents for rent; ten cents for car
fare. ,
And at the end of a hard day’s work — he owes him-
self fifteen cents. &
TVet the rich people say that the poor people are
getting prosperous. -
They say, look at our streets. You see nothing but
APPENDIX 439
automobiles. You don’t see half the poor people now
that you used to.
Certainly you don’t.
Half of them have already been run over and the
other half is afraid to come out.
Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the
poor man hasn’t got a chance to live.
And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the
price of gas will go up So high a poor man won’t even
be able to commit suicide.
They’ll have him both ways. He can’t live and he
can’t die.
And that’s why I am with the socialists.
They say, “Down with the trusts! Do away with
money. Make everything equal.”
Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:
Ł “Give me a diamond ring, here’s a lemon.” *
But the socialists have got some good ideas for the
working people. And my heart and Soul is with the
labor class of people. I am for labor unions.
But what help are the labor unions to the working
man?
Look at it in the right light.
A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union. He
gets a job in a shop for two dollars a day, works two
weeks, the union gets out on a strike and he owes
himself a dollar.
The unions are crying the days are too long.
They want the days shorter. They want the days
should be eight hours long.
But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where
the days are six months long.
44O APPENDIX
That’s the place for the poor man to live.
When the landlord comes around and says, “Rent,”
all you have to do is to tell him to come around the
day after tomorrow.
.Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us
you should save money and put it in the bank.
What’s the use of putting your money in the bank?
It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to
get it out. When you want to take your money out,
you got to give the cashier sixty days notice.
And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go
in sixty days?
Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improv-
ing.
It’s ridiculum.
We were better off years ago than we are now.
Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.
Life to him was a pleasure;
There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.
Anything he wanted he could get.
But the darn fool had to get lonesome.
And that’s the guy that started all our troubles.
We would be all right today, if it wasn’t for Adam
and Evil. -
Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.
It just shows how men have improved.
No man would fall for an apple today.
It would have to be a peach.
And I tell you, it’s no wonder that women feel stuck
up. They say they can do more than men can do.
That’s very true, when you go back to the first
woman, Eve.
APPENDIX 441
She was only one little woman, all by herself, and
she put the whole human race on the bum.
Could a man do that?
And yet she was only a rib out of Adam’s side.
It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition
WOIſla,I), Wa.S.
Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman,
you got to buy a diamond ring, take her to the
theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what’s left of
your wages you got to spend on candy and tango
trots and turkey teas. There’s where Adam had it
on all of us.
All Eve cost him was one bone.
It all goes to show you how much better off man
was in those days than today, and while John D.
Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede, he comes out and
Says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says, anybody
can live on eighteen dollars a week.
He don’t have to tell us that.
Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.
And still that great statesment, William Chinning
Bryan, he comes out and says, we are living in a great
Country. He says we are living in a country of excite-
ment, intelligence and education.
That’s very true.
Look at our public school system.
A child can go to school for nothing, and when he
grows up to be a man and he is thoroughly educated, he
can go into the public school and be a teacher and get
fifty dollars a month.
And the janitor gets ninety-five.
That shows you how education is coming to the front.
442 APPENDIX
Wouldn’t it better, instead of sending a child to
school, to learn him to clean out a cellar?
And what's the cause of all the trouble?
The House of Representatives. -
We send them to Washington to look out for the
people and the only time they look out for the people
is when they look out the window and see them coming.
Then they get $7,500 a year. They spend $10,000
a year, and at the end of the year they have $100,ooo
saved.
No wonder they are careless with our money.
That’s all they got to do. Sit around Washington
and touch the treasury.
Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress
and says: -
“Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,ooo.”
That’s all they do, is make touches for millions.
You never heard of those suckers making a touch for
a quarter, or a half a dollar.
To show you what they do with our money, look at
our Weatlier Burcau Department.
We pay a fellow $10,000 a year. For what?
To tell us when it’s going to rain.
And he don’t know himself.
But he don’t want to know.
He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going
to lose his job. But believe me, it’s a soft job.
Nothing to do.
He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast,
Smokes a good fat cigar; then he looks out of the
window and says, “Fine weather to-day.”
Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk.
APPENDIX 443
ſº I tell you, my dear friends, the way the country
stands now, the country stands on the brink of a preci →
the country stands on the brink of a precip — and if
somebody shoves it, it is going over.
And the cause of all the trouble in the country is
the crooked politics.
And that’s why the women suffering gents have gotten
together and are fighting for their rights.
And you can’t blame them.
Now I see where one married woman has hit on a
great idea.
She says there's only one protection for the wives.
And that’s a wives’ union.
Imagine a union for wives.
A couple gets married. .
And as soon as they get settled, along comes the
walking delegate and orders a strike.
Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives
walking up and down the streets on strike, and scabs
taking their places.

THE ART
OF FLIRTATION
A TWO-ACT FOR TWO MEN
BY
AARON HOFFMAN
Author of “Toblitz, or The End of the World,”
“The New Leader,” “The Son of Solomon,”
“The Speaker of the House,” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, IQIo, BY AARON HOFFMAN
SPECIAL WARNING
This vaudeville two-act is fully protected by copyright in the
United States and all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Hoffman’s
work. Its public performance, either in whole or in part, for ama-
teur or for professional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one
infringing the copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the
copyright law which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
THE ART OF FLIRTATION
STRAIGHT: Say, whenever we go out together, you
always got a kick coming. What's the matter with you?
CoMEDIAN: Nothing is the matter with me.
STRAIGHT: With you always everything is the matter.
COMEDIAN: What’s the trouble? -
STRAIGHT: The trouble is you don’t know nothing.
COMEDIAN: Yes, I do.
STRAIGHT: You know! If I only knew one-half
of what you don’t know, I would know twice as much
as the Smartest man in the world.
CoMEDIAN: What you got against me?
STRAIGHT: You ain’t a gentlemen.
CoMEDIAN: What is a gentlemen?
STRAIGHT: A gentlemen is a man who knows how
to act senseless vit people no matter vat happens.
COMEDIAN: I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.
STRAIGHT: You are a gentlemen! Look at you.
How can a man be a gentlemen with such a face like
that. There are two kinds of men — gentlemen and
rummies. I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.
COMEDIAN: I am a rummy? I know how to act vit,
people. Wen you met your friends down the street,
vat did you say to them?
STRAIGHT: I said come on and have a drink. I
spoke like a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: And ve all vent to have a drink.
STRAIGHT: We did.
448 APPENDIX
CoMEDIAN: Didn’t I pay for it?
STRAIGHT: Sure — that shows you are a rummy.
CoMEDIAN: No, that shows I was a gentlemen.
STRAIGHT: Dat’s right. In a Saloon you are a
gentlemen.
CoMEDIAN: Sure I am. I act just a bartender.
STRAIGHT: But the trouble with you is you don’t
know how to mingle.
CoMEDIAN: Oh, I can mingle.
STRAIGHT: You don’t know the first thing about
mingling. As a mingler you are a flivver. Among men
you are all right, but as soon as I take you out to Some
parties and dinners and you see Some women around,
your brains get loose.
CoMEDIAN: Why — what do I do?
STRAIGHT: It makes no resemblance what you do
or what you say. No matter how you do it — no matter
how you say it, the women get insulted. You ain’t
got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable to the
ladies. -
CoMEDIAN: Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to
a lady. You ought to hear me talk to my wife.
STRAIGHT: To your wife? Any man can be dis-
agreeable to his wife. But tink of other women — the
trouble with you is, you have no, as the French people
say, you have no Savoir faire.
CoMEDIAN: No what? •
STRAIGHT: I say that you ain’t got no, what the
French people call, savoir faire.
COMEDIAN: What’s dot?
STRAIGHT: Savoir faire.
CoMEDIAN: Oh, I can salve for fair.
APPENDIX 449
STRAIGHT: You can salve for fair; yes, but you
ain’t got no savoir faire. You are not a mingler.
You have no vit, no humor. You ain’t got no esprit.
COMEDIAN: Vere do you get all dose words?
STRAIGHT: I get them because I am a gentlemen.
COMEDIAN: Then I’m glad I am a rummy.
STRAIGHT: Sure you’re a rummy. If you wasn’t
a rummy, you’d have esprit.
CoMEDIAN: Oh, I had a spree lots of times.
STRAIGHT: Not a spree. I mean esprit. I mean
you ain’t got no refinement — like me. I got polish.
COMEDIAN: You’re a shine.
STRAIGHT: No, I ain’t a shine. I am a lady killer.
COMEDIAN: One look at you is enough to kill any
lady. - *~~~~ ;
STRAIGHT: I am a Beau Brummel. Ven I am with
the ladies, I talk to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet
nothings, but you, you rummy you, you don’t know
how to make the ladies feel unhappy.
COMEDIAN: How do you make them unhappy?
STRAIGHT: You got to be disagreeable to them.
COMEDIAN: And vat do you do to be disagreeable to
ladies?
STRAIGHT: The only vay to be disagreeable to a
lady, you got to flirt vit her.
COMEDIAN: Flirt. Vat does that mean flirt?.
, STRAIGHT: Flirting is a thing that begins in noth-
ing. You say something, you talk like everything
and you mean nothing, and it’s liable to end up in
anything. A flirtation is a clan-destination meeting
with a lady. --
CoMEDIAN: Wat kind of a meeting is dot?
450 APPENDIX
STRAIGHT: Don’t you know? Wen you flirt, you
meet a pretty woman in a shady spot.
CoMEDIAN: Oh, you meet a shady woman in a
pretty Spot.
STRAIGHT: Not a shady woman. A pretty woman
in a shady spot.
CoMEDIAN: , How do you know so much about
flirting? & -
STRAIGHT: Now you come to it. I got here a
book on the art of flirtation. Here it is. (biz. shows
book.)
COMEDIAN: What is the name of that book?
STRAIGHT: The art of flirtation. How to make a
| lady fall in love with you for ten cents. -
CoMEDIAN: A lady fell in love with me once and it
cost me Five Hundred Dollars. -
STRAIGHT: That’s because you didn’t have this
book. This book tells you how to make love. This
book is full of the finest kind of love.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Yes, for ten cents.
CoMEDIAN: Oh, it’s ten cents love. -
STRAIGHT: No, it ain’t ten-cent love. It's fine love
(opens book). See — here is the destructions. Right
on the first page you learn something. See — how to
flirt with a handkerchief. * •.
CoMEDIAN: Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief ?
I want to flirt with a woman. r
| STRAIGHT: Listen to what the book says. To a
flirter all things have got a language. According to
...? this book, flirters can speak with the eye, with the
fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the
APPENDIX 45I
handkerchief, with anything. This book tells you
how to do it.
COMEDIAN: For ten cents.
STRAIGHT: Shut up. Now when you see a pretty
woman coming along who wants to flirt with you, what
is the first thing a man should do?
COMEDIAN: Run the other way.
STRAIGHT: No, no. This is the handkerchief flir-
tation. As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at
you, you put your hands in your pockets. -
COMEDIAN: And hold on to your money.
STRAIGHT: No, you take out your handkerchief.
(biz.) -
COMEDIAN: Suppose you ain’t got a handkerchief ?
STRAIGHT: Every flirter must have a handkerchief.
It says it in the book. Now you shake the handkerchief
three times like this (biz.). Do you know what that
means?
COMEDIAN: (Biz. of shaking head.)
STRAIGHT: That means you want her to give you —
COMEDIAN: Ten cents.
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means you want her to give
you a smile. So you shake the handkerchief three
times like this (biz.), then you draw it across your
mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?
COMEDIAN: That means you just had a glass of beer.
STRAIGHT: No, dat means “I would like to speak
with you.”
COMEDIAN: And does she answer?
STRAIGHT: She got to, it says it in the book.
COMEDIAN: Does she answer you with a handker-
chief?
452 APPENDIX
Ł
%
!-
STRAIGHT: Yes, or she might answer you with an
umbrella.
COMEDIAN: Over the head.
STRAIGHT: Sure. If she answers you with de um-
brella over the head, that means Something. Ven she
holds the umbrella over her head, she means that she
is a married woman.
CoMEDIAN: Den you quit flirting.
STRAIGHT: No, den you commence. If she shakes
it dis way (biz.), dat means —
CoMEDIAN: , Her husband is coming. -
STRAIGHT: No. Dat means “You look good to
me.” Den you hold your handkerchief by the corner
like dis (biz.).
COMEDIAN: Wat does that mean?
STRAIGHT: Meet me on the corner.
CoMEDIAN: Och, dat’s fine (takes handkerchief). Den
if you hold it dis way, dat means (biz.), “Are you on
the square?” -
STRAIGHT: You are learning already. You will
soon be a flirter. Now I vill show you how you flirt
according to the book. You are a man flirter, and I
am a beautiful female.
T COMEDIAN: You are what?
STRAIGHT: A female. A female.
CoMEDIAN: Wat’s dat, a female?
STRAIGHT: A female. Don’t you know what fee
means? Fee, that means money. Male, that means
man. Female. That means “Get money from a
man.” That’s a female. I am a beautiful woman and
just to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a
walk thro’ the park. +
APPENDIX 453
CoMEDIAN: I thought you were a gentlemen.
STRAIGHT: No. No. Just for an instance I am a
lady. I will walk past in a reckless way, and I will
make eyes at you.
CoMEDIAN: If you do, I will smash my nose in your
face.
STRAIGHT: No. No. When I make eyes at you,
you must wave your handkerchief at me three times.
Den you reproach me vit all the disrespect in the world
and den you take off your hat and you Say Something.
Vat do you say?
COMEDIAN: Ten cents.
STRAIGHT: No. No. You say something pleas-
ant. You speak of the weather, for instance. You
say “Good-evening, Madam, nice day.”
CoMEDIAN: Suppose it ain’t a nice day?
STRAIGHT: No matter what kind of a day it is,
you speak about it. Now I’m the lady and I am com-
ing. Get ready.
(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . .
STRAIGHT stops and drops handkerchief.)
COMEDIAN: Say — you dropped something.
STRAIGHT: I know it. I know it. Flirt. Flirt.
(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.)
COMEDIAN: I am flirting. I am flirting.
STRAIGHT: What are you trying to do, flag a train?
Why don’t you pick up my handkerchief?
COMEDIAN: I don’t need any, I got one.
STRAIGHT: (Picks up handkerchief and turns.) Oh,
you rummy you. Why don’t you reproach me and
say something about the weather?
COMEDIAN: All right, you do it again.
454 APPENDIx
STRAIGHT: Now don’t be bashful! Don't be bash-
full Here I come (biz. of walk).
COMEDIAN: (pose with hat.) Good evening. Are you
a flirter?
STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).
COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is.
STRAIGHT: You musn’t ask her if she’s a flirter.
You must say something. De way it says in the book.
You must speak of something. If you can’t speak of
anything else, speak of the weather.
CoMEDIAN: All right, I’ll do it again this time.
STRAIGHT: This is the last time I’ll be a lady for
you. Here I come (biz.).
CoMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy
weather we’re having. - #
STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It’s no use; . I can’t
teach you how to be a flirter, you got to learn it from
the book. Listen. Here is what it says. “After you
made the acquaintanceship of de lady, you should
call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate
you look up at the vindow and she will wave a hand-
kerchief like this (biz.). That means, somebody is
vaiting for you.” *
CoMEDIAN: The bulldog.
STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. “You valk quickly
to the door.” * - -
CoMEDIAN: The bulldog after you.
STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don’t
flirt vith a bulldog. t
CoMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?
STRAIGHT: Shut up. “She meets you at the door.
You have your handkerchief on your arm” (biz.)
APPENDIX 455
CoMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg.
STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm.
Dat means “Can I come in?”
CoMEDIAN: And den what do you do?
STRAIGHT: If she says “Yes,” you go in the parlor,
you sit on the sofa, side by side, you take her hand.
CoMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch.
STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say:
“Whose goo-goo luvin' baby is oosum?”
CoMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book?
STRAIGHT: Sure.
CoMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out
page.) Den vat do you do?
STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She’ll press her head upon your manly
shoulder — -
COMEDIAN: And den —
STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You hold her tight —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She sighs —
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You sigh —
COMEDIAN: And den?
456 APPENDIX
STRAIGHT: Dat’s the end of the book.
CoMEDIAN: Is dat all? +
STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten
cents?
CoMEDIAN: . But vat do you do after you turn down
the gas? t
STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you
everything?

AFTER THE SHOWER
A TWO ACT FOR A
MAN AND WOMAN
BY
IOUIS WESLYN
Author of “At the News Stand,” “The Girl and
the Pearl,” “An Easy Mark,” “A Campus
Flirtation,” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY LOUIS WESLYN
SPECIAL WARNING
This act is fully protected by copyright in the United States and
all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Weslyn's work. Its public
performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for profes-
sional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one infringing the
copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the copyright law,
which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
AFTER THE SHOWER
CHARACTERS
THE FELLOW THE GIRL
SCENE: A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop)
supposed to be near Lake George. Rustic bench on
R. of stage. When the orchestra begins the music
for the act, the girl enters, dressed in a fashionable
tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol. She comes
on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her
shoulder at THE FELLOW, who follows after her,
a few paces behind. THE GIRL wears only one
glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other
one to her as he makes his entrance. He is dressed
in a natty light summer suit and wears a neat straw
hat.
THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I
don’t see why on earth you insist upon following me.
THE FELLow: . (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why
I was on earth until I met you. (Waving glove at her.)
Say, this is your glove – you know it’s your glove.
THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to some-
body else. p
THE FELLOw: No, it doesn’t. I saw you drop it.
Besides, you are wearing only one glove, and this one
matches it.
THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic
bench and turning to face him, holding out her hand.)
You are right. It is my glove. I’ll take it, please.
46o APPENDIX
THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.)
No, on second thought, I’ll keep it. (He folds it up ten-
derly, and places it in the upper left-hand pocket of his
coat.) I’ll keep it right here, too, - near my heart.
THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You’ve never
seen me but three times in your life.
THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes — that’s
true. And you look better every time I see you.
Say, you do look awfully nice this morning. Nobody
would think, from your appearance, that you belonged
to a camping party here on the Shore of Lake George.
I guess that thunder storm last night didn’t bother you
a little bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a
stroll on Fifth Avenue.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I
got caught in that shower and am now wearing my
chum, Genevieve’s, gown. (To him.) What a jollier
you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning,
it seems to me.
THE FELLOw: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got
from Tommy Higgins has made a hit with her. I
guess I'll just let her think they belong to me, and
won’t tell her that I got soaked in the rain last
night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I’m tickled
nearly to death to have you Say Such complimentary
things to me. It makes me glad I came on this camp-
ing trip.
THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying
the flag of the skull and cross-bones, don’t you?
THE FELLOw: Yes—all the boys are young doctors,
except me.
THE GIRL: And what are you?
APPENDIX 46I
THE FELLOw: I’m the patient.
THE GIRL: Are you sick?
THE FELLow: Love-sick.
THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous!
What brought you to Lake George?
THE FELLOW: You.
THE GIRL: I. Oh, you are too absurd for anything.
Give me my glove, please, and let me go.
THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don’t be
rash. There’s no place to go. All of your camping
party have gone on a boating trip except yourself.
You’re surely not going back there and hang around
the camp all alone?
THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YoU know that
the rest of my party had gone away for the day?
THE FELLOw: I saw 'em start. Why didn’t you
go with 'em?
THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-
made gown, and a girl can’t go boating in a dress like
this. I only intended to stay two days when I came
up here from New York to join the camp, and was not
prepared with enough clothes. I’ve sent home for
clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp
this morning — that’s why I didn’t go boating, since
you are impertinent enough to ask. (She gives him an
indignant look.)
THE FELLOw: I beg your pardon. Won't you sit
down? -
THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite in-
dignant, she sits down immediately on bench. He sits
down beside her.)
THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out
462 APPENDIX
of the corners of his eyes, and she turns her face away,
nervously tapping the stage with one foot.)
THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been
going on at our camp. I believe you have been spying
OIl UIS. -
THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls
in your camp.
THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses
her head.) So you have been following me up in order
to send some message to another girl. Who is she?
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) I’ll never let him know now
that I have on Genevieve's clothes.
THE FELLOw: But you’re mistaken. I’ve already
sent the message. It was about you.
THE GIRL: About me? What about me?
THE FELLOw: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us.
Say — you haven’t told me your name yet.
THE GIRL: I don’t intend to. I think you are very
forward.
THE FELLow: Shall I tell you my name?
THE GIRL: By no means.
THE FELLOW: You’re not interested?
THE GIRL: Not a bit.
(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away.
He looks upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)
THE FELLow: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are
there any bugs in your camp?
THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir!
THE FELLow: I mean gnats, mosquitoes – things
like that. - .
APPENDIX - 463
THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by
a mosquito. -
THE FELLOw: (Very much interested.) Where did
he get you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh
that I can’t be mad at you. You’re too funny. Since
you want to know so much, he got me on the knee. I
wasn’t far-seeing enough to bring mosquito netting.
It’s a bad bite.
THE FELLOw: Is it possible?
THE GIRL: Don’t you believe it?
THE FELLow: Well, I’M not far-seeing enough to
know for sure. (With a sly glance at her knees.)
THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say — I know
a joke on you. I saw you fall in the lake yesterday.
THE FELLow: (Nodding his head.) While I was
fishing?
THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don’t know
when I’ve enjoyed such a hearty joke. How did you
come to fall inf
THE FELLOW: I didn’t come to fall in. I came to fish.
THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera
over in your camp. What was he doing?
THE FELLow: Oh, he was a moving picture man
from New York. He was taking moving pictures of
our cheese. t
THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any
fish since you came?
THE FELLOw: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of
puppies.
THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting!
What did you do with them?
464 ATPPENDIX
THE FELLOw: We made frankfurter sausages out
of the little ones, and we are using the big one to guard
the camp.
THE GIRL: To guard the camp?
THE FELLOw: Yes — it’s a watch-dog fish.
THE GIRL: Well, I’ve heard of sea-dogs, but I
never knew before that – -
THE FELLOW: Oh, yes – quite common. I sup-
pose, of course, you heard the cat-fish having a concert
last night. -
THE GIRL: No — surely you are joking.
THE FELLOW: No, indeed — they were all tom-cats.
THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing?
THE FELLOW: Well, you’ve heard of tom-cods,
haven’t you?
THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but —
THE FELLOw: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say,
you must be sure to come over to our camp and see the
collection in our private aquarium. We have two
compartments, and keep the little daughter fish on
one side, and — -
THE GIRL: The daughter fish!
THE FELLow: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-
fish on the other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)
THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan’t
listen to you another moment. Give me my glove,
sir, I demand it.
THE FELLOw: (Also jumping to his feet and grasp-
ing her by the arm.) Oh, please don’t get mad. We
were getting along so nicely, too.
THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) “WE’’ were getting along
so nicely. You mean YOU were. I wasn’t.
APPENDIX 465
THE FELLOw: Yes, you were doing FINE. You
were listening to me, and I can get along all right
with anybody that will listen to me. Besides — ah-ah-
fraulein – mam'selle – you know, I don’t know your
name — besides I — I — I like you. I — I think
you’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever seen. -
THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing
her arm from his grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You’ve said
that to a hundred girls.
THE FELLOw: No — believe me, I have not.
YoU’ve made a mighty big hit with me. I’m hard
hit this time. I —
THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you
foolish boy. How can you expect me to believe you?
I’ll bet anything that your coat pockets are filled with
love letters from other girls this very minute.
THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust.
Clementina, you are —
THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How
dare you address me by such a ridiculous —
THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clem-
entina was quite poetic. Besides, I’ve got to call you
Something. You do me a terrible injustice. On my
word of honor — as a — as a fisherman — I haven’t
a love letter in my coat pocket — or anywhere else. I
am young, innocent, virtuous and — …
THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And
utterly foolish, I should judge. You are afraid to let
me search your pockets. -
THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who’s afraid? Me afraid!
Well, I’d be tickled to death to have you search my
pockets. I dare you to search my pockets. I dare
466 APPENDIX
you — understand? (He faces her and throws up his
hands over his head.)
THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just
won’t take a dare. I’ll do it. - -
THE FELLOw: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I
dare you! If you doubt my word, prove to your
satisfaction that I never lie. I dare you!
THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and
stepping up to him in very business-like manner.) Very
well, then. I accept your challenge. You can’t bluff
me out. I believe that ALL men lie when they talk to
women, and I am under the impression that you are no
exception. Keep your hands up in the air – promise?
THE FELLOW: I promise.
THE GIRL: This is the first time I’ve ever held up
anybody, but here goes. (She searches his right-hand
pocket.) I don’t suppose you’ve ever been robbed
before?
THE FELLow: Oh, yes – I was once surrounded by
a band of robbers. -
THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public
highway? .
THE FELLow: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in
a New York hotel cafe. They were the waiters.
THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand
pocket.) Well, there’s nothing in that one but a box of
matches. How about this one? (She thrusts her hand
into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls out a letter,
written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what I
expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at
it critically.) Yes, this is the one — no need to search
further.
APPENDIX 467
THE FELLow: What the devil! — (His hands drop
to his sides, and he opens his eyes in amazement.)
THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir — such
language!
THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon — but — but
— (He points to letter.) I — I — that letter isn’t mine.
I can’t understand how it got into my pocket. I —
(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his face.
Aside, he says.) By thunder! — I had forgotten all
about it. This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy
Higgins. Oh, what a mess I’ve made of it. She’ll
never believe me now if I tell her I am wearing another
fellow’s suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say — listen to me,
honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy
Higgins, you see –
THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You
probably thought you didn’t have it with you. False-
hoods are always found out, you see. I was right.
You are like all the rest of the men — a born liar —
only with this difference – you are a bigger liar than
the average. You are really in a class all by yourself.
(With the letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)
Oh, this is immense! — this is delicious!
THE FELLow: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give
that to me, please. *
THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper
to read other people’s letters, but the present circum-
stances are unusual. I shall certainly read it — and
read it aloud. I want to make you Swallow every
word and see how they agree with you. Listen to
this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) “My
beloved Affinity — Come back to town next Saturday
468 APPENDIX
without fail. Just slip away from the other boys at
the camp. Tell them that an important business
matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy
to see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come
to me, my dearest, without delay. z
Always your own,
Clementina.”
THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.)
CLEMENTINA!! -
THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at
him in utter scorn.) So that’s where you got the
name! So you were thinking of the writer of this
letter when you addressed ME by the name of
Clementina a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She
stamps her feet.) -
THE FELLow: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just
happened to say “Clementina” because I thought it
was a pretty name. Won't you believe me? I don’t
know who this Clementina is. I never saw the writer
of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for
Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes —
THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don’t even attempt to
make ridiculous explanations. Don’t make yourself
more of a liar than you have already proved. I won’t
listen to another word from you. I didn’t want to
listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity’s
letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and
stuffs it angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have
my parasol, please, and my glove. (She reaches for the
parasol, but he catches it up and holds it behind his back,
as he rises from the bench.)
APPENDIX 469
THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you
hear what I want to Say. Tommy Higgins —
THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!
THE FELLOw: Yes. That’s what I say — only
stronger. But listen, please —
THE GIRL: Don’t discuss the matter further. My
parasol and glove, sir! (She is facing him angrily.)
THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don’t be so hard
on a fellow. I tell you that letter wasn’t written to me.
What if I should search your pockets and find a letter
that belonged to somebody else? How would you feel
about it? -
THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY
pockets that I am ashamed of — that is, if I HAD any
pockets. But I have no pockets.
tº THE FELLOw: (Pointing with one hand at the right
side of her jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that
you know how to tell 'em, too. What’s that, if it
isn’t a pocket? -
THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh — yes — so it
is. (Aside.) I had forgotten that I was wearing
Genevieve's suit.
THE FELLOw: Well, turn about is fair play, isn’t
it? I’m going to search your pocket now.
THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have any-
thing in my pocket of a compromising nature? How
dare you!
THE FELLOw: You won’t believe ME! Why should
I believe You? For all I know, you may be a far differ-
ent kind of girſ than I took you to be.
THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir.
But since I stooped so low as to search your pockets, I
47O APPENDIX
will give you the satisfaction of searching mine — and
then that will be an end of our acquaintance. You
can then go your way — and I’ll go my way.
THE FELLow: We'll see about that. Hold up your
hands.
THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and
holding her hands over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry
up, please, and have it over with. (THE FELLOW very
deliberately goes to bench, leans the parasol up against
it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and imitating the
business-like way in which she had gone through his
pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves,
as if preparing for a serious piece of business.)
THE FELLow: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don’t
suppose you’ve ever been held up before?
THE GIRL: (Icily.) No — you are the first burglar
I have ever met.
THE FELLOw: Promise to hold your hands up until
I have finished?
THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I’m a girl of
my word.
THE FELLOw: All right then. (He deliberately kisses
her squarely on the lips, while her hands are held up over
her head. She gives a cry and starts to drop her hands
and push him away, but he catches her arms and gently
holds them up over her head again.) No, no, I’m not
through yet.
THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy
to associate with a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW
thrusts his hands into the pocket of her jacket and pulls
out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He holds them up
before her horrified eyes.)
APPENDIX 47I
THE FELLow: Well. I’ll be — (He starts to say
“damned,” but stops just in time. THE GIRL's arms
drop limply to her sides, and with eyes staring in com-
plete bewilderment she staggers to the bench and collapses
down upon it.)
THE GIRL: Good heavens! -
THE FELLOw: (Blinking his eyes at the articles
which he holds before him.) What innocent playthings!
A box of Pall Malls and a letter — no doubt, an affinity
letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.) Well, well! And
you just said I wasn’t fit to associate with you.
TIII, GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.)
Oh, this is a terrible mistake! What could Genevieve
have been doing with those things?
THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Gene-
vieve?
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve.
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson—the girl you
know — my best friend. Oh, can’t you understand?
Those things don’t belong to me. They are — (She
stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her hands. Then
says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn't allow
Genevieve's reputation to be ruined. I might as well
take the blame and brave it out myself. This situation
is frightful. (She turns to him again.) I can’t explain,
but don't — oh, please don't think that I — that I –
(She stops, looking as if she is about to cry.)
THE FELLOw: (Again looking at the articles and
shaking his head.) And you always looked like such a
nice girl, too. Cigarettes – and – (He opens up the .
letter.)
472 APPENDIX
THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You
must not read that letter. It does not belong to me.
You have no right to read that letter.
THE FELLOw: But you read the letter that didn’t
belong to me.
TIIE GIRL: It did belong to you.
THE FELLOW: It didn’t!
THE GIRL: DID !
THE FELLOW: Didn't!
THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab
the letter, which he holds out of her reach.) I for-
bid you to read that letter. I swear to you, it is
not mine.
THE FELLow: (Still holding it out of her reach and
looking it over.) By George! You are right — it is
NOT yours. It is MINE! -
THE GIRL: YOURSP
THE FELLOw: Yes, mine. It’s the very message I
sent to Genevieve Patterson yesterday — the letter in
which I asked for an introduction to you. (He hands it
to her.) Here — read it yourself, if you don’t believe
me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter
and reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide
open in surprise.)
THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at
him.) Then you are NOT such a liar after all. You
did tell me the truth.
THE FELLOw: Nothing but the truth.
THE GIRL: But what about that other letter?
THE FELLOw: (Taking her by the shoulder and speak-
ing quickly.) Now, you’ve got to listen. That other
letter was written to Tommy Higgins. I was caught
APPENDIX 473
in the shower last night, and had to borrow this suit
of clothes from Tommy.
THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her
face.) O—h-h! -
THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my
letter written to Genevieve?
THE GIRL: Oh, don't you understand? (She looks
at him beseechingly.)
THE FELLOw: (The truth suddenly striking him.)
Oh-h—h–ſ I see! You got caught in the shower, too.
You borrowed that tailor-made suit from Genevieve.
THE GIRL: Can you doubt it?
THE FELLOw: But the cigarettes?
THE GIRL: I can’t account for them. I only know —
THE FELLOw: Never mind. I don’t care. (He
Stuffs the cigarettes into his own pocket and grasps both
of her hands in his own.) Tell me — you don’t think
I’m the biggest liar in the world, do you?
THE GIRL: (Archly.) No — not quite.
THE FELLOw: (Slipping his arm around her.) And
if you were married — to — to a fellow like me, you’d
make him an awfully good wife, wouldn’t you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.) No – I’d try to make
HIM a good husband. (He bends over and is just about
to kiss her when a MAN's voice is heard off stage to the
Right.) -
MAN's VoICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss — your
trunk has come. (THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring
apart, guiltily.) -
THE FELLOw: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all
cinched. (THE GIRL runs to the bench, picks up her
parasol, still laughing.)
474 APPENDIX
THE GIRL: It’s the wagon from the railroad station,
with my clothes from town. Good-bye. (She starts
off, Right.)
THE FELLOW: But you’re coming back again?
THE GIRL: Well — maybe – perhaps — If you’re
good. (She exits laughing.)
THE FELLOw: She’s got me going. My head’s in
a muddle, and I feel like a sailor full of horn-pipes.
And that reminds me of Tommy Higgins’ latest song.
It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic song. At
finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed
in a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty
silk parasol. THE FELLow takes his hat off and holding
it high over his head, exclaims:) Here comes the
rainbow after the shower!
THE GIRL: I must explain to you — I saw Gene-
vieve — the cigarettes belong to her brother, Jack.
THE FELLOw: And I’ve just found out what be-
longs to me.
THE GIRL: What?
THE FELLOw: You! (He takes her parasol, opens
it, and holds it in front of them for an instant so that
their faces are hidden from audience. This is music
cue for the Conversation. Number which brings the sketch
to a finish.)

THE VILLAIN
STILL PURSUED HER
A TRAVESTY
BY
ARTHUR DENVIR
Author of “Busy Isabel,” “How Ignatius Got
Pneumonia,” “When Wit Won,” “The War
Correspondent,” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY ARTHUR DENVIR
SPECIAL WARNING
This travesty, in a prologue and one act, is fully protected by
copyright in the United States and all foreign countries, as is all
Mr. Denvir’s work. Its public performance, either in whole or in
part, for amateur or for professional purposes, is strictly pro-
hibited, and anyone infringing the copyright in any way will be
prosecuted under the copyright law which provides for both civil
and criminal penalties.
THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER
CHARACTERS
GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . . A Deserted Wife
ALPHONso DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild
MoE REISS DRESSUITCASE . . Her Fugitive Husband
BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival
ALGERNON O’FLAHERTY - The Villain Who Pursued Her
SCENE OF PROLOGUE
STREET IN ONE . . . LIGHTS OUT
Music: “Mendelssohn's Spring Song,” played in discords.
Spot Light on L. I.
PROLOGUE
Enter GLADys wearing linen duster and dragging a big
rope to which is attached a case of beer with about
eight empty bottles in it. She stops C.
GLADYs: (Tearfully.) At last I am almost home.
Eleven miles walk from the sweat shop here, and
that’s some hoofing it, believe me. (Sways.) Oh, I
am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint for the
want of my Coca-Cola. (Enter ALGERNON R. I — wears
slouch hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots.
She is facing L.) Oh, I have a hunch I’m being
shadowed — flagged by a track-walker! But I mustn't
think of that, (Starts to drag case L.) I must get home
478 APPENDIX
to my dying child. He needs me — he needs me.
(Exits L. I.)
ALGERNON: (Goes L. C. and looks after her.) It is
Gladys — found at last! (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is
in bright red with white plumes and is a beautiful, radiant
adventuress.)
BIRDIE: Did you get a good look at her?
ALGERNON: Yes — it’s Gladys and she’s down and
out — (Both together:) Curse her! -
ALGERNON: Now I can begin pursuing her again.
BIRDIE: Yes, and I can gloat over her misery —
and gloating's the best thing I do.
ALGERNoN: Come (fiercely!) We are wasting
time.
BIRDIE: She’ll never know me with this dark hair
and no make-up on. -
ALGERNoN: (At L. 1 — still more fiercely.) Can
that junk! Come! (Exits L. I.)
BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power.
I must follow him. Curse him! (Exits after ALGERNoN.
Enter MOE REISS in bum evening-clothes and opera hat.
Carries cane.)
MoE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.) Down
this street and turn into the alley full of ash cans!
I’m on the right track at last. Once more I shall see
my wife and my little boy! Of course, she’ll be sore
because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her no
alimony except the dying che-ild. But I must produce
a real wife and child from somewhere or I'll lose the
$9.75 my uncle left me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why
do I love money so? Ay, that’s the question. (Look-
ing up at gallery.) And what’s the answer? (Points
APPENDIX 479
off L. with cane — dramatically.) We shall see — we
shall see. (Dashes off L.)
The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time
that the clock Strikes Sixteen or seventeen to go up, so
it is timed very slowly.
FULL STAGE SCENE
THE WRETCHED HOME OF GLADYS
A Mott Street Garret — everything of the poorest descrip-
tion. Old table down stage R., with chair on either
side and waste paper basket in front. Cot bed down
stage L. Old cupboard up stage C. Small Stand
at head of cot.
PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up. He
should weigh over two hundred pounds. He wears
Buster Brown wig and nightie that buttons up the back.
GLADYS is seated at table d. S. R., sewing on a tiny
handkerchief. She is magnificently dressed and wears
all the jewelry she can carry. Pile of handkerchiefs
at back of table within reach and a waste basket
in front of table where she can throw handkerchiefs
when used.
As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for
the sixteenth or seventeenth time.
GLADYs: Five o’clock and my sewing still un-
finished. Oh, it must be done to-night. There’s the
rent — six dollars. To-day is Friday — bargain day —
48o ATPPENDIX
I wonder if the landlord would take four ninety-eight.
(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs
more medicine. The dog biscuits haven’t helped him
a bit, and his stomach is too weak to digest the skin
foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless he is,
poor little tot! !!! Fatherless and deserted, sick and
emaciated — eight years have I passed in this wretched
place, hopeless, hapless, hipless. At times the struggle
seems more than I can bear, but I must be brave for
my child, my little one. (Buries face in hands.)
(Business. Sews.) -
PHONSIE: (Business.) Mommer! Mommer! Are
you there? (Blows pea blower at her.)
GLADYs: (Hand to cheek where he hit her.) Yes,
dolling, mommer is here.
PHONSIE: Say, mommer, am I dying? (Loud and
toughly.) -
GLADYS: (Sadly.) I am afraid not, my treasure.
PHONSTE: Why not, mommer? *.
GLADYS: You are too great a pest to die, Sweetheart.
PHONSIE: But the good always die young, don’t
they, mommer? & -
GLADYs: (Still sewing.) But you were not speak-
ing about the good — you were speaking of yourself, my
precious.
PHONSTE: Ain’t I good, mommer, don’t you think?
GLADYs: (Business.) Oh, I don’t dare to think! !!!
(Moves up stage.)
PHONSIE: Don’t think if it hurts you, mommer.
GLADYs: (At dresser.) But come, it is time for
your medicine. (Shows enormous pill.)
PHONSIE: (Scared.) What is that, mommer?
APPENDIX 481
GLADYS: Just a horse pill, baby. (Puts it in his
mouth.) There, that will help cure mother's little
man. (At table.)
PHONSTE: Gee! That tasted fierce. (Business.
Knock.) Some one is knocking, mommer.
GLADYS: They’re always knocking mommer. (At
door.)
VoICE: Have yez th’ rint?
GLADYS: I haven’t.
VoICE: Much obliged.
GLADYS: You’re welcome.
PHONSTE: Who was that, mommer?
GLADYs: That was only the landlord for the rent.
Alas, I cannot raise it. -
PHONSIE: Then if you can’t raise the rent, raise
me, mommer. Can’t I have the spot-light to die
with? *
GLADYs: Why certainly you shall have one. Mr.
Electrician, will you kindly give my dying child a
spot-light? (Business.) There, dearest, there's your
Spot-light. -
PHONSTE: (Laughs.) Oh, that’s fine. Mommer,
can I have visions?
GLADYS: Why surely, dear, you can have all the
visions you want. (Shoves opium pipe in his mouth and
lights it.) Now tell mommer what you see, baby!
PHONSIE: Oh, mommer, I see awful things. I can
see the Gerry Society pinching me. And oh, mommer,
I can see New York,' and there ain’t a gambling house
in the town.
GLADys: He's blind! !!! My child’s gone blind! !!!
* Substitute name of any big city.
482 APPENDIX
(PHONSIE snores.) He sleeps at last, my child, my little
dying child!!! ! (Enter ALGERNoN and BIRDIE.)
GLADYS: (Discovers ALGERNON.) You! !!! (AL-
GERNON turns to Orchestra and conducts Chord with cane.)
(GLADYS Left, ALGERNON C., BIRDIE R.)
ALGERNON: (Chord.) Yes, Gladys Dressuitcase,
GLADYs: And the lady with the Brooklyn' gown! !
Ah, you will start, but I know you in spite of your
disguise, Birdie Bedslatz.
BIRDIE: Disguise! What disguise?
GLADYS: Woman, you cannot deceive me. You’ve
been to the dry-dock and had your face scraped.
BIRDIE: So, you still want war?
GLADYS: No, I want justice! !!! (ALGERNON con-
ducts Chord.) You have tracked me like sleuthhounds.
You have hunted me down after all these years. You
have robbed me of home, husband, honor and friends.
What then is left me? (L.) -
BIRDIE: (Menacingly.) There is always the river.
GLADYS: What, you dare suggest that, you with
your past!
BIRDIE: How dare you mention that to me! I am
now writing Sunday stories for the New York
“American.” (Crosses to left and sits.)
GLADYs: (Stunned.) Sophie Lyons, now I see it
all.
ALGERNON: (Center.) I have here a mortgage.
GLADYs: A mortgage! !!! What is it on?
ALGERNON: I don’t know. What difference does
* Substitute name of the local gag town.
* Substitute name of the local sensational newspaper.
APPENDIX 483
that make? It is a mortgage. That’s all that’s
necessary. -
GLADYs: Can it be a mortgage on the old farm?
ALGERNON: (Moves over to R.) Certainly, on the
old farm! !!! The dear old homestead in New
Hampshire. (Takes paper from pocket. Crosses over
to GLADYS.) I have also the paper that always
goes with the mortgage. Sign this paper and the
mortgage shall be yours, refuse – and — do you
mind my coming closer so that I can hiss this in
your ear?
GLADYs: Not at all, come right over.
ALGERNON: (Close to GLADYs.) Refuse (Hiss), I
say, and you and your child shall be thrown into the
streets to starve. (Hiss.)
GLADYs: (Crosses R.) Oh, I must have time to
drink — I mean think. But this is infamous. The
landlord will—
ALGERNON: I am the landlord. Now will you sign
the papers?
GLADYs: No, a thousand times no! !!! ! (Chord.)
(ALGERNON conducts Chord.) No! !!!
BIRDIE: (Hand to ear.) Good gracious, don’t
Scream so, where do you think you are?
ALGERNON: You won’t sign?
GLADYs: No, do your worst, throw me into the
street with my child. He is sick, dying!!! !
ALGERNON: What’s the matter with him? (Goes to
bed.) (PHONSIE is heaving and whistling.) Great heav-
ens, he has the heaves. (Goes R.)
BIRDIE: What are you doing for him?
GLADYS: Trying the hot air treatment.
484 APPENDIX
BIRDIE: I should think you would be an expert at
that. -
GLADys: The doctor says he has grey matter in
his brain. .
BIRDIE: (Comes down L.) I am Sorry, very sorry.
ALGERNoN: Sorry! Bah, this is a cheap play
for sympathy! (To GLADYS:) Will you sign the
papers? .
GLADys: Never, I defy you: (To BIRDIE.) As for
you, beautiful fiend that you are, you came between
me and my husband; you stole him from me with your
dog-faced beauty; I mean doll-faced. But I can see
your finish, I can see you taking poison in about
fifteen minutes.
BIRDIE: (Over to ALGERNON.) Put me wise, is this
true? *
ALGERNON: No, 'tis false, false as hell! ! ! ! !
(Points up.) -
GLADYs: It’s true, as true as heaven. (Points
down.) I swear it. -
ALGERNoN: (Crosses up to GLADYS.) Why, curse
you, I’ll —
desperate woman! !!! ! -
ALGERNoN: (Center.) Foiled, curse the luck, foiled
by a mere slip of a girl. -
BIRDIE: What’s to be done? -
ALGERNoN: (Yells.) Silence! !!! (Business.) Once
aboard the lugger the girl must and shall be mine! !!!
BIRDIE: But how do you propose to lug her there?
(ALGERNON moves up to door.) -
GLADYS: Oh, I see it all. You have brought this
APPENDIX 485
she-devil here to work off her bad gags on me. Man,
have you no heart?
ALGERNON: (Comes down C.) Of course I have a
heart. I have also eyes, ears, nose, tongue and —
BIRDIE: Brains, calves’ brains — breaded.
ALGERNON: That will be about all from you. Go,
leave us! • .
BIRDIE: Alone?
ALGERNON: Alone!
GLADYS: Alone!
PHONSIE: ... (In sepulchral tone.) Oh, Gee!
BIRDIE: But it’s hardly decent. You need a
tamer.
ALGERNoN: Go! (Crosses to R.) Go, I say, before
it is too late.
BIRDIE: Oh, there’s no hurry. Every place is open.
ALGERNON: Don’t sass me, Birdie Bedslatz, but
clear out, scat! !!!
BIRDIE: Ain’t he the awful scamp? (Starts to door.)
GLADYS: (Clinging to her.) No, you cannot, must
not go. Don’t leave me alone with that piano
II].OVéI’.
BIRDIE: I must go. I have poison to buy. (At
door.) Ah, Algernon O'Flaherty, if there was more
men in the world like you, there'd be less women like
me — I just love to say that. Ta – ta. (PHONSIE
blows pea-shooter at her as she Exits. She screams and
grabs cheek.)
ALGERNON: (To GLADYS back.) So, proud beauty,
at last we are alone!
GLADYs: Inhuman monster! ! ! What new villainy
do you propose?
486 APPENDIX
ALGERNON: None, it’s all old stuff. Listen, Gladys.
When I see you again, all the old love revives and I
grow mad, mad.
GLADYs: You dare to speak of love to me? Why,
from the first moment I saw you, I despised you. And
now I tell you to your face that I hate and loathe you,
for the vile, contemptible wretch that you are.
ALGERNON: (Center.) Be careful, girl! I can give
you wealth, money, jewels — jewels fit for a king’s
TailSOIIl.
GLADYs: (Runs into his arms.) Oh, you can —
Where are they?
ALGERNON: They are in hock for the moment, but
see, here are the tickets. I shall get them out, anon.
GLADYs: Dastardly wretch! !!! ! With your pawn
tickets to try and cop out a poor sewing girl. (Up at
door.) There is the door, go! (Points other way.)
ALGERNoN: (Up to her.) Why curse you, I’ll —
GLADYs: Strike, you coward! (Chord.) (ALGERNON
conducts Chord.)
ALGERNON: Coward! !!! (He conducts same Chord
an Octave higher.)
GLADYS: Yes, coward. . . . Now go, and never
cross this threshold again! !
ALGERNON: (Going up stage.) So, I’m fired with
the threshold gag” Very well, I go, but I shall return.
. . . I shall return! (Exits.)
PHONSTE: (Blows pea-blower after him.) Who was
that big stiff, mommer, the instalment man?
GLADYS: No, darling, he is the floor-walker in a
slaughter house.
PHONSTE: Mommer, when do I eat?
APPENDIX 487
GLADYs: Alas, we cannot buy food, we are penniless.
PHONSTE: If you would only put your jewels in
Soak, mommer. *
GLADys: What, hock me sparks? Never! I may
starve, yes, but I’ll starve like a lady in all my
finery! -
PHONSIE: Mommer, I want to eat.
GLADys: What shall I do? My child hungry,
dying, without even the price of a shave! Oh, my
heart is like my brother on the railroad, breaking —
breaking – breaking — (Weeps.)
PIIONSTE: Ah, don’t cry, mommer. You’ll have
the whole place damp. You keep on Sewing and I’ll
keep on dying.
GLADys: Very well. (Drying eyes.) But first I’ll
go out and get a can of beer. Thank goodness, we
always have beer money.
PHONSIE: Oh yes, mommer, do rush the growler.
Me coppers is toastin’. And don’t forget your misery
cape and the music that goes with you, will you,
mommer? 4.
GLADys: I’ll get those.
PHONSIE: And you’d better take some handker-
chiefs. You may want to cry. But don’t cry in the
beer, mommer, it makes it flat.
GLADYs: Thank you, baby, I do love to weep. Oh,
if we only had a blizzard, I’d take you out in your
nightie. But wait, sweetheart, wait till it goes below
zero. Then you shall go out with mommer, bare-
footed.
PHONSTE: Don’t stand chewing the rag with the
bartender, will you, mommer? .
488 APPENDIX
GLADys: Only till he puts a second head on the
beer. (Exit R.)
PHONSTE: Gee, it’s fierce to be a stage child and
dying. I wonder where my popper is? I want my
popper – I want my popper. (Bawls.) f
MoE REIss: (Enters.) Why, what is the matter,
my little man?
PHONSTE: Oh, I’m so lonely, I want my popper.
MoE REIss: And where is your popper?
PHONSIE: Mommer says he is in Philadelphia.
(Sniffles.) - -
MoE REIss: (Lifts hat reverently.) Dead, and his
child doesn’t know. And where is your mama?
PHONSTE: Oh, she’s went out to chase the can.
MoE REIss: And what is your name, my little
man?
PHONSTE: Alphonso. Ain't that practically the
limit? e
MoE REIss: Alphonsop I once had a little boy
named Alphonso, who might have been about your age.
PHONSTE: And what prevented him?
MoE REIss: (Sighs.) Alas, I lost him!
PHONSTE: That was awful careless of you. You
oughtn’t to have took him out without his chain.
(Sniffs.) *
MoE REIss: What’s the matter with your nose?
PHONSIE: I have the glanders – and the heaves.
I get all the horse diseases. Father was a race track
tout. - -
MoE REIss: A race track tout? What is your last
name?
PHONSIE: Dressuitcase, Alphonso Dressuitcase,
APPENDIX 489
MoE REISs: Dressuitcase? And have you heavy
shingle marks on your person, great blue welts?
PHONSTE: You bet I have, and my popper put
them there, too.
MOE REISS: Why, it’s my boy, Phonsie, my little
Phonsie. Don’t you know me? It’s popper. (Slams
him in face hard with open hand.)
PHONSIE: Well, your style is familiar, but you don’t
need to show off!
GLADYs: (Enters. Carrying Growler carefully.)
Moe! Moe! My husband! (Buries face in can.)
MoE REISs: Gladys! Gladys! My wife! (Takes
can from GLADYS.)
PHONSIE: (Comes between them.) Here, I want to
have my fever reduced. (Back to bed.)
GLADYS: Where have you been all these years,
Moe? -
MoE REISS: Just bumming around, just bumming
around. When I deserted you and copped out Birdie
Bedslatz, I went from bad to worse, from Jersey City
to Hoboken." When my senses returned, I was insane.
GLADYS: My poor husband, how you must have
suffered!
MoE REISS: At heart, I was always true to you and
our little boy, and I want to come back home.
GLADYs: But tell me, Moe, how are you fixed?
(Tries to feel his vest pocket.)
MoE REIss: Fine, I am running a swell gambling
joint. t
GLADYs: Splendid! Now, Phonsie shall have proper
nourishment.
1 Local.
490 APPENDIX
MoE REISs: He shall have all the food he can eat.
(Up to bed.)
GLADys: Yes, and all the beer he can drink.
MoE REISs: Great heavens, I could never pay for
that.
GLADYS: Ah, then he will have to cut out his souse.
Dear little chap; he loved to get tanked up. Oh look
at him, Moe, he is the living image of you. I think if
he lives, he will be a great bull fighter. (PHONSIE has
finished the beer, and is sucking at a nipple on large
bottle marked “Pure Rye.”) -
MoE REISS: Then he does take after me — dear
little chap. (Hits him.)
GLADYs: Indeed he does. But is it safe for you to
come here, Moe?
MoE REIss: Not with Whitman' on my trail. You
know, Gladys, in the eyes of the world, I am guilty.
GLADYs: Then the world lies. (Chord. ALGER-
NON comes on from R. I and conducts and then Exits.)
I still trust you, my husband, though the police want
you for stealing moth balls. (Crash off.) What’s that?
(Runs to door.) Oh, it’s the health department. They
have come with the garbage wagon to arrest you.
Quick, in there. (Points to door R.) -
MOE REISS: No, let them come. I am here to see
my wife and here I shall remain.
GLADYS: But for our child’s sake. See, he holds
up his little hands and pleads for you to go. (PHONSIE
in pugilistic attitude.)
PHONSIE: Say, pop, if you don’t get a wiggle on and
duck in there, there’ll be something doing. (Business.)
* Local District Attorney.
APPENDIX 491
MoE REISS: My boy, I can refuse you nothing.
(Exits.) . .
GLADYs: (At door C.) They are sneaking up, on
rubbers! (To PHONSIE.) Lie down, Fido. (Guarding
door R. Enter ALGERNON and BIRDIE, Door C.)
ALGERNoN: There’s some hellish mystery here!
BIRDIE: You can search me.
ALGERNON: (Sees GLADYS.) Aha! Now will you
sign those papers? -
GLADYs: Never. (Bus.) I’ll sign nothing. (Down
R.)
ALGERNoN: (Takes carrot from his hip pocket.)
You won’t? There, curse you, take that. (Hits her
in neck with carrot.)
GLADys: In the neck! In the neck, where I always
get it! .
ALGERNoN: (Center.) Quick, Birdie, seize the child
and run. ."
BIRDIE: (Left, looks scornfully at PHONSIE.) You’ve
got your nerve. He weighs a ton! !
PHONSTE: Oh! She's going to kidnap me!! AS-
sistance! ! *
ALGERNoN: Silence! ! Enough! ! (To GLADYS.)
I have just come from the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals.
GLADYS: Well?
ALGERNON: I have reported to them that your
child has the heaves.
GLADYS: Well?
ALGERNON: The Society is sending a horse ambu-
lance to take him to the dump. -
GLADYs: Dump? To the dump?! ! ! No, no, it’s
492 APPENDIX
a cruel, hideous jest! Take away my little dying boy?
It would kill him, you understand, it would kill him!!
PHONSTE: (Toughly.) Sure, it would kill me! !
(Bites off big chew of Tobacco.) --
ALGERNON: Nevertheless, in five minutes the
horse ambulance will be here. • ,
GLADYS: Oh no! no! no! What if my child should
die? -
ALGERNON: Then they will make glue out of his
Ca,IC3,SS.
GLADYs: Glue. Aw! (Shakes snow on herself from
box hanging over the table L.)
PHONSIE: I don’t want to be no glue, mommer, I’d
be all stuck up. -
GLADYs: (Goes C. to PHONSIE.) Why this fiendish
plot? What have I done that you thus pursue me?
ALGERNON: (R. C.) You repulsed my hellish ca-
TCSS6S.
GLADYs: Oh, I will do anything to save my child.
I’ll try to love you. . . . I will love! See? (Business.)
(Into his arms.) I love you now!
MoE REIss: (Enter, center.) What’s this? My
wife in that man’s arms? Oh! (Crosses L.)
GLADYs: (At right, to MoE REISS.) Oh, Moe, I
can explain. (Grabs his throat and shakes him.)
MoE REIss: (To GLADYS.) Explain!!! How? I go
away and desert you for eight years. (Turns from
her and goes L.) In that short absence you forget
your husband. (Turns to her.) I return to find
you in his arms, before my very nose. (Smashes
PHONSIE in face.) (Business.) (He sees BIRDIE.)
You, Birdie! -
APPENDIX 493
BIRDIE: Yes, I, little Birdie — Birdie on the spot.
MoE REIss: Ah, you she-fiend, you lady demon!
(Kisses her.)
GLADys: (Screams.) No, no! (Runs to him.). It’s
all a plot! A hideous plot to part us! This man has
complained to the S. P. C. A. that our little Phonsie
has the heaves. They are sending a horse ambulance
to take him to the dump! They’ll make glue out of
his carcass! (To ALGERNON.) You see what you have
done! (Beats him on back.) Tell my husband, you
devil, tell him the truth! ! !
ALGERNON: (To MOE REISS) (C.) Well, if you
must know the truth, your wife loves me and was
forcing her caresses upon me when you entered.
MOE REISs: It’s true then, it’s true?
PHONSIE: (Sits up.) No, popper, it’s false, and I
can prove it.
ALGERNON: The child is delirious from the heaves!
PHONSTE: I’ll heave you out of here in a minute.
Listen, popper, mommer’s done the best she could.
It ain’t easy to nurse a dying child who is liable to
croak at any moment. But she's done that, popper,
she’s often went without her dill pickle so I could have
my spavin cure. She thought I might get well and
strong and maybe get a job as a safe mover. But
I’ve been so busy dying I couldn’t go to work. (Shakes
fist at ALGERNON.) Don’t believe that man, popper;
I’m dying, cross my heart if I ain’t dying, so I couldn’t
tell a lie. (Back to bed.)
MoE REIss: Oh, my boy! My boy! (heart-brok-
enly.) (Hits PHONSIE.)
GLADYs: Oh, Moe Reiss, don’t you believe him?
494 APPENDIX
ALGERNON: (Left of C.) Of course not, he saw you
with your arms around my neck. -
MOE REIss: Yes, I saw it, I seen it.
BIRDIE: I can swear to it, if necessary.
PHONSTE: I can swear too, popper, want to hear me?
MoE REIss: No, I have heard enough. Now I in-
tend to act. (Throws off coat, L.)
ALGERNON: What do you mean?
MoE REISs: I mean that either you or I will never
leave this place alive. For I tell you plainly, as sure as
there is a poker game above us, I mean to kill you!
ALGERNoN: (Throws off coat and hat.) Well, if it’s
a roughhouse you’re looking for, I’m right there with
the goods. (Struggle.)
PHONSTE: Give him an upper cut, popper, soak
him! ! !
BIRDIE: Knife him, Algernon, knife him! (Has out
her hat pin.) (During struggle, PHONSIE shoots three
times.) (As they struggle to window, ALGERNON turns
back, and PHONSIE sees [after third shot] his vest is a
target and fires three times. Bell on each shot.) Curse
you, you’ve got me. Here are your three cigars.
(Falls dead, C.)
MoE REIss: (Kneels and feels heart.) Dead! ! !
Who could have done this?
PHONSIE: Father, I cannot tell a lie, I done it with
my little hatchet. (Shows big gun and a picture of
George Washington. All the others lift American flags
and wave them.) (PHONSIE L. waving flag, MOE and
GLADYS C. BIRDIE dead in chair R.)
STAR SPANGLED BANNER, FF,
AS CURTAIN FALLS

T H E L O L L A R D
A SATIRICAL COMEDY
BY
EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF
Author of “Youth,” “Little Mother,” “Mom
Désir,” “The Locks at Panama,”
“Lady Gossip,” Etc., Etc.
f
COPYRIGHT, IgEA, BY EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF
SPECIAL WARNING
This playlet is fully protected by copyright in the United States
and all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Woolf’s work. Its
public performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for
professional purposes, is strictly prohibited, and any one infring-
ing the copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the copy-
right law which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
THE LOLLARD
CHARACTERS
8.
ANGELA MAXWELL HARRY MAXWELL
FRED SALTUS MISS CAREY
SCENE: The apartment of Miss Carey, a hardworking
modiste about 45 years of age, rather sharp in
manner, very prudish and a hater of men.
TIME: About 2 A.M.
When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. First, “femi-
nine snores” are heard, then a sharp ringing of .
bell. Then MISS CAREY from her bed in next room
(curtained off, but partly visible) calls out:
MISS CAREY: Who is it?
VoICE: (Off stage.) It’s me. Open!
MISS CAREY: (Poking her night-capped head out of
curtains.) Well, who are you?
VoICE: (Off stage.) You don’t know me. But
that’s all right. Please let me in — hurry! Hurry!
MISS CAREY: (Rising and getting into a kimono.)
• Well — whoever you are — what do you mean by
waking me at two in the morning? I'll report this to
the janitor. (She turns up light and opens door. ANGELA
MAxwell rushes in — in fluffy peignoir – her hair in
pretty disorder — her hands full of wearing apparel, etc.,
498 APPENDIX
as if she just snatched same up in haste. An opera
coat, a pair of slippers, etc.)
ANGELA: (Rushing in — closing door after her and
silencing MISS CAREY by the mysterious way she seizes her
by the wrist.) Listen, you don’t know me, but I’ve
just left my husband.
MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) Well, that’s no reason
why I should leave my bed.
ANGELA: (Reassuringly.) You can go right back
again, dear — in fact, I’ll go with you and we’ll talk it
over there.
MISS CAREY: I don’t wish to talk it over anywhere,
and —
ANGELA: Well, Surely, you don’t think it was wrong
of me to leave Harry — now do you?
MISS CAREY: I never blame any woman for leaving
any man.
ANGELA: See, I knew it. After I fired the Wedge-
wood vase at him — and just for doing it he was brute
enough to call me “Vixen,” — I snatched up as much as
I could that was worth taking, and left him forever.
(Suddenly, as she sees dress on model.) Oh, what a
lovely little frock. (Back to other tone.) Yes, forever;
and it was only when I stood out in the cold hall that
I realized it would have been better to have left him
forever when I was all dressed in the morning. (Be-
ginning to shiver and weep.) Take my advice, dear, if
you ever leave your husband, never do it on a cold night.
MISS CAREY: (Sharply.) I’m not married.
ANGELA: (Weeping copiously and shivering.) Well,
then, you needn’t bother, dear, about the weather,
'cause you never will be married.
APPENDIX 499
MISS CAREY: No, I never will — catch me selling
my freedom to any selfish brute of a man.
ANGELA: (As before.) See, I knew it. I said to
myself, that little lady on the second floor who makes
dresses with a long, thin nose —
MISS CAREY: (Outraged.) Makes dresses with a
long, thin nose? -
ANGELA: Yes — she’s the only one in the whole
apartment house I can go to — she's the only one
won’t give Harry right.
MISS CAREY: No man is ever right.
ANGELA: I’m commencing to believe all men are
brutes.
MISS CAREY: Of course they are. (Commencing to
thaw.) Have a cup of tea. (She goes to table to prepare
tea things.)
ANGELA: Thanks — I brought my own tea with
me. (Takes a little paper bag of tea out of one of the
slippers and crosses to MISS CAREY.) If I had struck
him with the vase, I could understand his calling me
“Vixen” (Beginning to weep again.) – but I only
flung it at him, 'cause I cracked it by accident in the
morning, and I didn’t want him to find it out. He
was always calling me “butter-fingers.” (Sits at oppo-
site side of table.)
MISS CAREY: Oh, he was always calling you names.
ANGELA: No, that’s all he ever called me – “Butter-
fingers.” (Cries again.)
MISS CAREY: (Pouring tea.) Oh, he's the kind
that just loves to stay home and nag.
ANGELA: I’d like to catch any husband I ever get,
na.g.
5OO APPENDIX
MISS CAREY: Oh a pouter — I know that kind.
ANGELA: Oh no. Why, every time I insulted him
he kissed me — the brute. (After a second’s pause.)
But – excuse me – how do you know so many kinds
of men if you’ve never been married?
MISS CAREY: (Quickly.) Boarders — to make ends
meet, I’ve always had to have a male boarder since I
was left an orphan. (She rises – turns her back to
audience – gives a touch to her pigtail, during the laugh
on this line. This business always builds laugh.)
ANGELA: (Absent-mindedly.) Well, I’ve heard that
male boarders are very nice.
MISS CAREY: I’ve never had a nice one yet, but
I’ve named nearly all the style male brutes there are.
What kind of a brute have you? (She sips tea.)
ANGELA: Why, I don’t know — I’ve often wondered
— you might call Harry a “lollard.”
MISS CAREY: A lollard?
ANGELA: Yes, I invented the word, and believe me,
a woman suffers with a lollard. (At this, MISS CAREY
lets her spoon fall in cup.)
MIss CAREY: I should think she would. How did
a sweet young thing like you ever meet such a type of
a vertebrate?
ANGELA: At a military ball, and oh Mrs. —
Miss CAREY: Miss Carey.
ANGELA: Miss Carey — he was the handsomest
specimen. His hair looked so spick — his shoulders
were so big and broad — his teeth so white — and his
skin, well, Miss Carey, if you’d seen him, I’ll bet
you’d have just gone crazy to kiss him yourself.
(MISS CAREY, who is drinking tea, nearly chokes
APPENDIX 5OI
on this — coughing on the tea which goes down the wrong
way.) &
MISS CAREY: (After the business.) How did he
lose his looks? *
ANGELA: By becoming a lollard. Listen! (They
pull chairs in front of table together, teacups in hand.)
It happened on the honeymoon – on the train — as we
sat hand in hand, when all at once, the wind through
the window, started to blow his hair the wrong way,
and oh, Miss Carey, what do you think I discovered?
MISS CAREY: He had been branded on the head as
a criminal.
ANGELA: Oh nothing so pleasant as that — but the
hair that I thought grew so lovely and plentifully, had
been coaxed by a wet brush from the back over the
front, and from the east over to the west. (Indicates
by imitating action on her own head.)
MISS CAREY: Oh, a lollard is a disappointment of
the hair. *
ANGELA: No, Miss Carey, no. Listen. I said, “Oh,
Harry, your hair which I thought grew so evenly and
plentifully all over your head really only grows in
patches.” He only answered, “Yes, and now that
we’re married, Angela, I don’t have to fool you by
brushing it fancy anymore.” In despair, I moaned
“Yes, Harry — fool me — go on — love, fool me and
brush it fancy.”
MISS CAREY: (Rising and crossing R.) That was
your first mistake. No woman should ever call any
man “love.”
ANGELA: Oh, I didn’t know what I said — I was so
busy the whole journey pulling his hair from the back
5O2 APPENDIX
to the front and the east to the west (Same business of
illustrating.) — and then, oh Miss Carey, what do you
think was the next thing I discovered?
MIss CAREY: . (In horror.) His teeth only grew in
patches. -
ANGELA: No, but I had fallen in love with a pair
of tailor’s shoulder-pads – yes – when he took off
his coat that night, he shrunk so, I screamed (Pause —
as laugh comes here.) – thinking I was in a room with
a strange man – but all he muttered was “Angie, I
can loll about in easy things now, I’m married” — and
that’s how gradually his refined feet began to look
like canal-boats – his skin only looked kissable the
days he shaved — twice a week — his teeth became
tobacco stained — and to-night — to-night, Miss Carey,
he stopped wearing hemStitched pajamas and took to
wearing canton flannel night shirts. (In depth of woe
after the big laugh this gets.) Miss Carey, have you ever
seen a man in a canton flannel night shirt?
MISS CAREY: (After an expression of horror.) I
told you T am not married, -
ANGELA: (Innocently.) Oh, excuse me, I was think-
ing of your boarders. (MISS CAREY screams “what” and
shows herself insulted beyond words.) Is it any wonder
my love for him has grown cold? Men expect a woman
to primp up for them – we must always look our best
to hold their love — but once they wheedle us into
signing our names to the marriage contract – they
think (Suddenly, seeing dress again.) – Oh Miss Carey,
what do you charge for a frock like that?
MISS CAREY: I have no night rates for gowns,
Mrs. — -
APPENDIX 503
ANGELA: Just call me Angie – 'cause I probably
will live with you now. (Slips her arm through MISS
CAREy's, laying her head on the older woman’s shoulder.)
MISS CAREY: (Disengaging her.) We’ll talk that
over in the morning — if you want, you may sleep
upon that couch – I’ll put out the light. (She does so.)
I’m going to bed — I must get a little rest. (She gives
a sharp turn and goes to her room. Blue light floods
stage. Through the 'half open curtain she is seen
having trouble with her bed covers — getting them too
high up, then too far down, etc. Big laughs on this
business.) -
ANGELA: (Taking down hair.) Miss Carey, you
said you were an orphan – I’m an orphan, too. (There
is no answer.) I can’t tell you how I appreciate your
insisting on my staying — let me make your breakfast
in the morning, Miss Carey. (No answer.) Harry
might at least try to find me. Aren’t men brutes, Miss
Carey? º
MISS CAREY: (Loudly from within.) They cer-
tainly are.
ANGELA: (Lets peignoir slip off her shoulders, is in
pretty silk pajamas.) In the morning, I must think
how I can earn my own living. (She lies down as
snores come from next room.) Miss Carey, are you
asleep? (Snore.) Oh dear, she's asleep before I am —
she might have waited. (A key is heard in the door —
Angela sits up in alarm — as key turns, she screams.)
Oh Miss Carey, wake up — someone's at the door —
wake up. (Miss Carey jumps up and out of bed.)
MISS CAREY: Good Lord — what is it now? (Puts
wp light — the door opens, an immaculately dressed, hand-
5O4 APPENDIX
some young man in evening clothes, white gloves, etc.,
enters — FRED SALTUs.)
ANGELA: Burglars! (She runs behind curtain of
MISS CAREY’s room.)
MISS CAREY: You simpleton. I told you I had a
male boarder. This is it, Mr. Saltus.
FRED: Oh, Miss Carey, pardon me — I’d have
come in by the back door, but I didn’t know you were
entertaining company.
MISS CAREY: I’m not entertaining anyone — I’m
trying to get a little rest before it’s time for me to get
up – and young lady, if you’ll come out of my room
and let me in, I’ll beg of you not to disturb me again.
(She shoves ANGELA out in her pajamas, unintentionally
knocking her into MR. SALTUS, and goes back to bed.) ,
(Ad. lib. talk.)
ANGELA: (Embarrassed and rushing behind the
frock on the dressmaker’s figure.) I’ve made her awfully
cross — but I thought it must be a burglar – 'cause,
you see, I never knew boarders were allowed out so
late at night. -
FRED: (Recognizing her.) What are you doing
here? -
ANGELA: (Forced to confess.) I’ve left my husband.
(He gives a whistle of surprise.) You know he's the
man on the floor below — you may have seen me
with him — once in a great while.
FRED: I’ve seen you often (Delighted.) — and so
you’ve left him, eh? -
ANGELA: Yes — and I’m really quite upset about
it — naturally he’s the first husband I’ve ever left —
and you can imagine how a woman feels if you’ve left
APPENDIX 505
'your husband — that is your wife. (All in one breath.)
Are you married? ~
FRED: No indeed — not a chance.
ANGELA: (Quickly fishes her opera cloak off couch —
slips it over her and goes to couch.) Then come here and
sit down. (He does so.) I should think the girls
would all be crazy about you.
FRED: Oh — they are — are you boarding here too
now?
ANGELA: Yes, but Miss Carey doesn’t know it yet.
FRED: Tell me, have you ever noticed me coming
in or going out of the building?
ANGELA: Oh yes, indeed — I used to point you
out to Harry and show him how you always looked so
immaculate and dapper — just as he used to look
before we were married. (Starting to weep.)
FRED: Oh, you’ll go back to your home to-morrow.
ANGELA: No — I’ll never enter it again — never
again — except for lunch.
FRED: Then you’re planning a divorce?
ANGELA: (As it dawns on her — with a smile.) I
suppose it would be well to get something like that.
FRED: Is he in love with another woman?
ANGELA: (Indignantly.) My Harry – I guess not.
(His hand is stretched toward her — in anger she slaps it.)
FRED: Then you’ll never get it (Making love to her.)
unless you fall in love with another man and let your
husband get the divorce.
ANGELA: (Innocently.) I think I’d like that better
— I’ll tell Miss Carey (She approaches curtain — a
snore makes her change her mind.) — I’ll tell her later.
FRED: I’m awfully glad I’m a fellow boarder here.
506 APPENDIX
(He advances to her — as he is about to put his arm
about her — suddenly a pounding on door and a gruff
voice without:) Open – open! -
ANGELA: (In terror.) Oh, it’s my husband — it’s
Harry. -
FRED: Don’t talk, or he'll hear you. - -
ANGELA: I’ll hide — and you open, or he'll break
down the door. -
FRED: I’ll have nothing to do with this mixup.
HARRY: (Loudly, without.) Open, or I’ll bang —
down — the – door.
ANGELA: If you don’t open, he’ll do it — he's a
regular “door-banger.”
FRED: Well, I’ll not.
ANGELA: Then I’ll get Miss Carey. (Up to curtains
again.) Miss Carey – Miss Carey — get up.
MISS CAREY: (Sticking her head out of curtains.)
My Gawd, what is it now?
ANGELA: (After struggle as to how to explain.) My
husband is here to see us. - -
MIGG CAREY: Confound your hushand.
HARRY: (Outside.) I want my wife. A.
ANGELA: (Pleading.) Oh, Miss Carey, the poor
man wants his wife — tell him I’m not here.
MISS CAREY: (Jumping up — to FRED.) You go
to your room, Mr. Saltus — I’ll bet you were afraid to
open the door. (FRED goes to his room.) And you
go into my bed — if he sees you, I’ll never get any
sleep. - •,
ANGELA: Don’t hurt my Harry's feelings, Miss
Carey — he's awfully sensitive. (She goes behind
curtains.) -
APPENDIX 507
MISS CAREY: No, I won’t hurt his feelings —
(Opening door fiercely for HARRY.) What do you want?
HARRY: (Pushing her aside as he rushes in.) My
wife — she’s in here.
MISS CAREY: (Following him down.) She’s not
here – and you get out — what do you mean by wak-
ing me up at this hour?
HARRY: I’ve waked up everybody else in the build-
ing — why should you sleep?
MISS CAREY: I’ve never seen you before, but now
that I have, I don’t wonder your wife left you.
HARRY: Madam, you look like a woman who could
sympathize with a man. - .
MIss CAREY: With a man? Never — now get out.
HARRY: (Making a tour of the room – she following.)
Not till I’ve searched your place — my wife must be
here.
Miss CAREY: I don’t know your wife — and I
don’t want to.
HARRY: Why, madam — I’m crazy about her –
suppose I’m the only man in the world who would be,
but she’s my doll.
MISS CAREY: Well, you’ve lost your doll — good
night. -
HARRY: Oh, I’ll get her back again — but a change
has seemed to come over her of late, and to-night she
broke out in a fury and hit me violently over the head
with a Wedgewood vase.
ANGELA: (Rushing out — ready to slap him again.)
Oh Harry, I did not — it never touched you.
MISS CAREy: (Throwing up her hands.) Now I’ll
never get to sleep. .
508 APPENDIX
HARRY: (Turning on MISS CAREY.) Oh, I under-
stand it all — it’s you who’ve come between us — you
designing, deceitful homebreaker.
MISS CAREY: You leave my apartment — you im--
pertinent man. -
HARRY: Not without my wife.
ANGELA: Then you’ll stay forever – 'cause I’m
not going with you. (She sits right of little table.)
MISS CAREY: See here — you argue this out be-
tween you — but I’m going to bed — but don’t you
argue above a whisper or I’ll ring for the police — the
idea of you two galavanting about my apartments.
(Going behind curtains.) -
(A funny scene ensues between husband and wife —
they start their argument in whispered pantomime — she
shakes her finger at him — he shakes back at her — it
finally grows slightly louder and louder until they are
yelling at each other.)
ANGELA: (Screaming.) If you say the vase hit
you — you're a wicked —
HARRY: I don’t care anything about the vase —
you’re coming downstairs with me. (He pulls her off
chair and swings her R.)
ANGELA: (Falling on couch.) I’m not.
HARRY: (Grabbing her again.) You are.
ANGELA: I’m not. (He tries to pull her to door —
she bites his finger, and breaking away, runs up to
curtains again.) Miss Carey, Miss Carey, wake
up, he bit me. (MISS CAREY dashes out in fury,
ANGELA hangs to her.) Oh, Miss Carey, you’re the
only one I have in all the world to keep me from this
APPENDIX 509
monster. Oh, Miss Carey, pity me, make believe
you’re my mother.
MISS CAREY: I told you I'm not married.
ANGELA: Well, think how you’d feel if you were
and I were your own little girl and a wicked man was
ill-treating me, etc. (She finally touches the mother
vein in MISS CAREY.)
MIss CAREY: (Affected.) Go into my room, dear.
(She leads her up to bed behind curtains. After Angela
disappears behind curtains, MISS CAREY turns — facing
HARRY.) I’ll settle with this viper. (Coming down.)
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
HARRY: Why should I be ashamed?
MIss CAREY: (Resolutely.) Because you’re a lol-
lard. .
HARRY: I’m what?
MISS CAREY: You’re one of those vile creatures
whose hair grows from east to west. (Dramatically.)
Where are your refined feet now? - -
HARRY: (Thinking she’s mad.) What on earth are
you talking about? .
MISS CAREY: The man she fell in love with and
married was spick and span — his shoulders were big
and broad — his teeth were white — and his skin —
well, if he were standing before me now, I’d be just
crazy to kiss him myself.
HARRY: I was all that you say when I married her —
that's how I won her. -
MISS CAREY: And now you’re not all that I say —
that’s how you lost her. You can’t blame a little
woman if she thinks she's getting a man of gold and
she finds she’s got a gold brick.
5IO APPENDIX
HARRY: Why, I’m not different now than I was
then — only before I was married I was like all men, I
did everything to appear at my best – to fool her.
MISS CAREY: Fool her now — we women love to
be fooled. We want to be proud of our husbands.
Most of us get gold bricks, but we don’t want anyone
else to know it.
HARRY: By George, there may be something in all
this. How did you come to know it?
MISS CAREY: I’m an old maid, and old maids
know more about men than anyone – that’s why they
stay old maids. What were you wearing the first time
you met? -
HARRY: (Reminiscently.) A suit of regimentals.
MISS CAREY: (Hurrying up to door.) Quick, go
downstairs and put 'em on and come up as quick as
you can. - :
HARRY: (Looks at himself in glass near door.) By
George — you’re right. Oh, Miss Carey, I am a
lollard. (He runs off.). :
MISS CAREY: You’re a lollard, all right. Now
young woman — get your things together and get
ready to go — young woman, do you hear me? (She
goes up to curtains, and opens them — there lies ANGELA
cozily huddled in a heap, fast asleep.) Well, if the
little fluff hasn’t fallen asleep. Here — wake up — the
idea. * ,
ANGELA: (In her sleep.) Harry, be gentle with
Miss Carey – she can’t help it. (MISS CAREY shakes
her so she jumps up.) Oh Miss Carey — hello.
MISS CAREY: Now get your things together — you
husband is coming for you in a minute. -
APPENDIX 5II
ANGELA: (A la Ibsen.) I shall never return to
Harry again — I’ve left him for life. g
MISS CAREY: You’ll not stay here all that time.
ANGELA: (As she comes down, dreamily.) No, I
intend to marry another – and oh, Miss Carey, his
hair is so Spick — his shoulders so broad — his teeth
are so white.
MISS CAREY: Good Lord, woman, now you’re com-
mencing with another. Who is it? *
ANGELA: Surely you must have foreseen my danger
— I’m in love with your boarder. -
MISS CAREY: Why, you must be crazy – girl — I
won’t let you enter into such a madness. -
ANGELA: (In horror.) Oh Miss Carey, don’t tell
me you’re in love with him yourself. (MISS CAREY
sinks in chair.) But you’ll not get him.
Miss CAREY: Why, my dear, I wouldn't have him
for a birth-day present and neither will you. (After an
ad lib. argument.) We’ll see. (She calls off in next
room.) Fire! Fire! ! Fire! ! !
(ANGELA gets scared and starts to run one way as
FRED runs in — in canton flannels without toupee, etc.,
etc. ANGELA flops. After audience has seen FRED's con-
dition, he realizes presence of ladies and rushes back to
door — sticking his head out.)
FRED: Where? Where’s the fire?
MISS CAREY: Go back to your bed, Mr. Saltus.
(With a look at ANGEL.A.) There was a fire.
ANGELA: (Disgusted.) But Miss Carey — has —
put — it — out.
(On word “out” she gestures him out of room and out
of her life. FRED closes door as he withdraws head.)
5I2 APPENDIX
ANGELA: Oh Miss Carey, what an awful lollard
that is. (There is a ring at bell.)
(Music commences sweet melody.) -
MIss CAREY: (Knowing it is HARRY.) Open the
door and see who it is.
(ANGELA opens the door – HARRY stands there in regi-
mentals — handsome, young and dapper. ANGELA falls
back in admiration.)
HARRY: Angela.
ANGELA: Oh, Harry darling!
MIss CAREY: He does look good!
ANGELA: (As she picks up her belongings.) I’m
going home with you. - -
MISS CAREY: (As ANGELA goes up to HARRY.)
Don’t forget your tea dress. (Hands her the little bag.)
ANGELA: I’m so tired, Harry — take me home. (He
lifts his tired little wife up in his arms and as he goes out,
she mutters:) You’re not such a bad lollard after all.
MISS CAREY: (Going to put out light.) Now, thank
Gawd, I’ll get a little sleep.
ČURTAIN FALLS

B L A C KMA IL
A. ONE-ACT PLAY
BY
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
Author of “Van Bibber Stories,” “Soldiers of Fortune,” .
The Playleis, “The Littlest Girl,” played by Robert
Hilliard for ten years, “Miss Civilization,” etc., and
many full-evening plays.
COPYRIGHT, 191o, BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
Published by Permission of
ARTHUR HAMMERSTEIN
and
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
SPECIAL WARNING
This playlet is fully protected by copyright in the United States
and all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Davis's work. Its public
performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for profes-
sional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one infringing the
copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the copyright law
which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
BLACKMAIL
CHARACTERS
RICHARD FALLON, a millionaire mine owner.
“LOU” MoHUN, a crook.
KELLY, a Pinkerton detective.
MRS. HowARD:
SCENE
The scene shows the interior of the sitting room of a suite
in a New York hotel of the class of the Hotel Astor
or Claridge. In the back wall a door opens into
what is the bedroom of the suite. The hinges of this
door are on the right, the door knob on the left. On
the wall on either side of the door is hung a framed
copy of a picture by Gibson or Christy. In the left
wall, half way down, is a door leading to the hall.
Higher up against the wall is a writing desk on which
are writing materials and a hand telephone. Above
this pinned to the wall is a blue-print map. In
front of the desk is a gilt chair without arms. Above
and to the right of the gilt chair is a Morris chair
facing the audience. In the seat of the chair is a
valise; over the back hangs a man’s coat.
In the right wall are two windows with practical blinds.
Below them against the wall, stretches a leather sofa.
On it is a suitcase, beside it on the floor a pair of
men's boots. Below the sofa and slightly to the
516 APPENDIX
left stands a table, sufficiently heavy to bear the
weight of a man leaning against it. On this table
are magazines, a man’s sombrero, a box of safety
natches, a pitcher of ice water and a glass, and
hanging over the edge of the table, in view of the
audience, are two blue prints held down by pieces
of ore. The light that comes through the two win-
dows is of a sunny day in August.
WHEN THE CURTAIN RISES
RICHARD FALLON is discovered at table arranging the
specimens of ore upon the blue prints. He is a young
man of thirty-five, his face is deeply tanned, his
manner is rough and breezy. He is without a coat,
and his trousers are held up by a belt. He is smoking
a cigar.
FALLON crosses to Morris chair, opens valise, turns over
papers, clothing, fails to find that for which he is
looking and closes the valise. He recrosses to suit-
case which is at lower end of the sofa. He breaks
it open and searches through more pupers, shirts,
coats. Takes out another blue print, tightly rolled.
Unrolls it, studies it, and apparently satisfied, with
his left hand, places it on table.
In attempting to close the suit case the half nearer the
audience slips over the foot of the sofa, and there
falls from it to the floor, a heavy “bull dog” revolver.
FALLON stares at it, puzzled, as though trying to recall
when he placed it in his suit case. Picks it up.
Looks at it. Throws it carelessly into suit case and
shuts it. His manner shows he attaches no im-
portance to the revolver. He now surveys the blue
APPENDIX 5I7
prints and the specimens of ore, as might a hostess,
who is expecting guests, survey her dinner table. He
crosses to hand telephone.
FALLON: (To 'phone.) Give me the room clerk,
please. Hello? This is Mr. Fallon. I’m expecting
two gentlemen at five o’clock. Send them right up.
And, not now, but when they come, send me up a box
of your best cigars and Some rye and Seltzer. Thank
you. (Starts to leave telephone, but is recalled.) What?
A lady? I don't know any. I don't know a soul in
New York! What’s her name? What — Mrs. Tom
Howard? For heaven's sake! Tell her I'll be there
in one second! What? Why certainly! Tell her to
come right up. (He rises, muttering joyfully.) Well,
well, well!
(Takes his coat from chair and puts it on. Lifts
valise from chair and places it behind writing desk.
Kicks boots under sofa. Places cigar on edge of table
in view of audience. Looks about for mirror and finding
none, brushes his hair with his hands, and arranges his
tie. Goes to door L. and opens it, expectantly.)
MRS. HowARD enters. She is a young woman of
thirty. Her face is sweet, sad, innocent. She is dressed
in white — well, but simply. Nothing about her suggests
anything of the fast, or adventuress type.)
Well, Helen! This is fine! God bless you, this is
the best thing that’s come my way since I left Alaska.
And I never saw you looking better.
MRs. HowARD: (Taking his hand.) And, it’s
good to see you, Dick. (She staggers and Sways slightly
as though about to faint.) Can I sit down? (She moves
to Morris chair and sits back in it.)
518 APPENDIX
FALLON: (In alarm.) What is it? Are you ill?
MRs. HowARD: No, I’m — I’m so glad to find
you — I was afraid! I was afraid I wouldn’t find you,
and I had to see you. (Leaning forward, in great
distress.) I’m in trouble, Dick — terrible trouble.
FALLON: (Joyfully.) And you’ve come to me to
help you? -
MRS. HOWARD: Yes.
FALLON: That's fine! That’s bully. I thought,
maybe, you’d just come to talk over old times. (Ea-
gerly.) And that would have been fine, too, understand
—but if you’ve come to me because you’re in trouble,
then I know you’re still my good friend, my dear old
pal. (Briskly.) Now, listen, you say you’re in trouble.
Well, you knew me when I was down and out in San
Francisco, living on free lunches and chop Suey. Now,
look at me, Helen, I’m a bloated capitalist. I’m a
millionaire.
MRs. HowARD: (Wervously.) I know, Dick, and
I’m so glad! That’s how I knew you were here, I
read about you this morning in the papers.
FALLON: And half they said is true, too. See those
blue prints? Each one of them means a gold mine,
and at five, I’m to unload them on some of the biggest
swells in Wall Street. (Gently.) Now, all that that
means is this: I don't know what your trouble is, but,
if money can cure it, you haven't got any trouble.
MRS. HowARD: Dick, you’re just as generous and
kind. You haven’t changed in any way. .
FALLON: I haven’t changed toward you. How’s
that husband of yours? (Jokingly.) I’d ought to shot
that fellow. -
APPENDIX 519
MRS. HowARD: (In distress.) That’s why I came,
Dick. Oh, Dick —
FALLON: (Anaciously, incredulously.) Don’t tell me
there's any trouble between you and Tom? Why,
old Tom he just worships you. He loves you like —
MRS. HowARD: That’s it. And I want to keep his
love.
FALLON: (Laughingly.) Keep his love? Is that
all you’ve got to worry about? (Throughout the follow-
£ng scene, Mrs. Howard speaks in a fateful voice, like a
woman beaten and hopeless.)
MRS. HowARD: Dick, did you ever guess why I
didn’t marry you?
FALLON: No, I knew. You didn’t marry me be-
cause you didn’t love me, and you did love Tom.
MRS. HowARD: No, I didn’t know Tom then.
And I thought I loved you, until I met Tom. But I
didn’t marry you, because it wouldn’t have been honest
— because, three years before I met you, I had lived
with a man — as his wife.
FALLON: Helen! (His tone is one of amazement,
but not of reproach. In his astonishment, he picks the
cigar from the table, puffs at it standing and partly
seated on the table.) ~
MRS. HowARD: (In the same dead level, hopeless
voice.) I was seventeen years old. I was a waiter
girl at one of Fred Harvey’s restaurants on the Santa
Fè. I was married to this man before a magistrate.
(Fallon lifts his head.) Three months later, when he'd
grown tired of me, he told me the magistrate who had
married us was not a magistrate but a friend of his, a
man named Louis Mohun, and he brought this man to
52O APPENDIX
live with us. I should have left him then, that was
where I did wrong. That was all I did that was
wrong. But, I couldn’t leave him, I couldn’t, because
I was going to be a mother — and in spite of what he
had done — I begged him to marry me.
FALLON: And — he wouldn’t?
MRs. HowARD: Maybe he would – but — he was
killed.
FALLON: (Eagerly.) You?
MRs. HowARD. (In horror.) God, no!
FALLON: It’s a pity. That’s what you should
have done.
MRs. HowARD: He was a gambler, one night he
cheated — the man he cheated, shot him. Then —
my baby — died! After two years I came to San
Francisco and met you and Tom. Then you went to
Klondike and I married Tom.
FALLON: And, you told Tom?
MRs. HowARD: (Lowering her face.)
FALLON: Helen!
MRs. HowARD: I know, but I was afraid. I loved
him. So, and I was afraid.
FALLON: But Tom would have understood. Why,
you thought you were married. - *
MRs. HowARD: I was afraid. I loved him too
much. I was too happy, and I was afraid I’d lose him.
(FALLON shakes his head.) But, we were leaving San
Francisco forever — to live in the East — where I
thought no one knew me.
FALLON: Well? -
MRS. HowARD: Well, one man knew me. Mohun,
the man who played the magistrate. He came East,
APPENDIX 52I
too. Three years ago he saw me one night with Tom
in a theatre. He followed us and found out where I
lived. The next morning he came to see me, and
threatened to tell! And, I was terrified, I lost my head
and gave him money. (Slowly.) And I have been
giving him money ever since.
FALLON: Helen! You! Fall for blackmail? Why,
that isn’t you. You’re no coward! You should have
told the Swine to go to Hell, and as soon as Tom came
home, you should have told him the whole story.
MRS. HowARD: (Fiercely.) My story, yes! But
not a story Mohun threatens to tell! In a week he
had it all backed up with letters, telegrams, God
knows what he didn’t make me out to be — a vile, de-
graded creature.
FALLON: And who’d have believed it?
MRS. HowARD: Everybody! He proved it! And
my children. He threatened to stop my children on
the way to school and explain to them what kind of a
woman their mother was. So, I paid and paid and paid.
I robbed Tom, I robbed the children. I cheated them
of food, and clothes, I’ve seen Tom look almost ashamed
of us. And when I’d taken all I’d dared from Tom, I
pretended I wanted to be more independent, and I
learned typewriting, and needlework and decorating,
and I worked at night, and when Tom was at the
office — to earn money — to give to Mohun. And
each time he said it was the last, and each time he came
back demanding more. God knows what he does with
it, he throws it away — on drink, on women, opium.
FALLON: Dope fiend, too, hey?
MRS. HowARD: He's that, too; he’s everything
522 - APPENDIX
that’s vile; inhuman, pitiless, degenerate. Sometimes,
I wonder why God lets him live. (Her voice drops to
a whisper.) Sometimes, I almost pray to God to let
him die. (FALLON who already has determined to kill
MoHUN, receives this speech with indifference, and con-
tinues grimly to puff on his cigar.) He's killed my
happiness, he's killing me. In keeping him alive, I’ve
grown ill and old. I see the children growing away
from me, I see Tom drawing away from me. And now,
after all my struggles, after all my torture, Tom must
be told. Mohun is in some new trouble. He must
have a thousand dollars! I can no more give him a
thousand dollars than I can give him New York City.
But, if I don’t, he’ll tell! What am I to do?
FALLON: (Unmoved.) When did you see this —
this thing last? -
MRS. HowARD: This morning. He’d read about
you in the papers. He knows I knew you in San
Francisco. He said you’d “struck it rich,” and that
you’d give me the money. (Rises, and comes to him.)
But, get this straight, Dick. I didn't come here for
money. I don’t want money. I won’t take money.
I came to you because you are my best friend, and
Tom’s best friend, and because I need a man’s brain, a
man's advice. -
FALLON: (Contemptuously.) Advice! Hell! Am I
the sort of man that gives girls — advice? (With
rough tenderness.) Now, you go home to Tom, and
tell him I’m coming to dinner. (Impressively.) And
leave this leech to me. And, don’t worry. This thing
never happened, it’s just a bad dream, a nightmare.
Just throw it from your shoulders like a miner
APPENDIX 523
drops his pack. It’s never coming back into your
life again. .
MRs. HowARD: (Earnestly.) No! I won’t let you
pay that man! He'd hound you, as he's hounded me!
FALLON: (Indignantly.) Pay him? Me? I haven’t
got enough money to pay him!
MRS. HowARD: What!
FALLON: No man on earth has money enough to
pay blackmail. Helen, this is what I think of a
blackmailer: The lowest thing that crawls, is a man
that sends a woman into the streets to earn money
for him. Here, in New York, you call them “cadets.”
Now, there's only one thing on earth lower than a
cadet, and that’s the blackmailer, the man who gets
money from a woman — by threatening her good name
— who uses her past as a club – who drags out some
unhappy act of hers for which she's repented, in tears,
on her knees, which the world has forgotten, which
God has forgiven. And, for that past sin, that’s for-
gotten and forgiven, this blackguard crucifies her.
And the woman – to protect her husband and her
children, as you have done — to protect her own good
name, that she’s worked for and won, starves herself
to feed that leech. And, you ask me, if I’m going to
feed him, too! Not me! Helen, down in lower Cali-
fornia, there are black bats, the Mexican calls “Vam-
pire” bats. They come at night and fasten on the sides
of the horses and drink their blood. And, in the
morning when you come to saddle up, you’ll find the
horses too weak to walk, and hanging to their flanks
these vampires, swollen and bloated and drunk with
blood. Now, I’ve just as much sympathy for Mr.
524 APPENDIX
Mohun, as I have for those vampires, and, I’m going
to treat him just as I treat them! Where is he?
MRs. HOWARD: Downstairs. In the cafe.
FALLON: Here, in this hotel?
MRS. HOWARD: Yes.
FALLON: (Half to himself.) Good!
MRs. HowARD: He said he’d wait until I telephoned
him that you would pay. If you won’t, he's going
straight to Tom. .
FALLON: He is, is he? Helen, I hate to have you
speak to him again, but, unless he hears your voice, he
won’t come upstairs. (Motions towards telephone.)
Tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes. Tell him I’ve
agreed to make it all right.
MRs. How'ARD: But, how, Dick, how?
FALLON: Don’t you worry about that. I’m going
to send him away. Out of the country. He won’t
trouble you any more.
MRs. HowARD: But he won’t go. He's promised
me to go many times —
FALLON: Yes, but he’s not dealing with a woman,
now, he’s dealing with a man, with boots on. Do as
I tell you. .
(MRs. HowARD sits at writing desk and takes receiver
off telephone. FALLON leans against table right, puffing
quickly on his cigar, and glancing impatiently at the
valise that holds his revolver.)
MRs. HowARD: Give me the cafe, please. Is this
the cafe? I want to speak to a Mr. Mohun, he is
waiting to be called up — oh, thank you. (To FALLON.)
He's coming. (To 'phone.) I have seen that man and
he says he'll take up that debt, and pay it. Yes, now,
APPENDIX 525
at once. You’re to wait for ten minutes, until he can
get the money, and then, he’ll telephone you to come
up. I don’t know, I’ll ask. (To Fallon.) He says it
must be in cash.
FALLON: (Sarcastically.) Why, certainly! That’ll
be all right. (MRS. HowARD places her hand over the
mouth piece.)
MRS. HowARD: I’ll not let you pay him!
FALLON: I’m not going tol. I’m going to give him
just what’s coming to him. Tell him, it’ll be all right.
MRs. HowARD: (To 'phone.) He says to tell you,
it’ll be all right. The room is 2Io on the third floor.
In ten minutes, yes. (She rises.)
FALLON: Now, then, you go back to Tom and get
dinner ready. Don’t forget I’m coming to dinner.
And the children must come to dinner, too. We’ll have
a happy, good old-time reunion.
MRs. HowARD: (With hand on door knob of door
left.) Dick, how can I thank you?
FALLON: Don’t let me catch you trying.
MRs. HowARD: God bless you, Dick. (With a
sudden hope.) And you really believe you can make
him go?
FALLON: Don’t worry! I’m sure of it.
MRS. HowARD: And, you think he won’t come
back?
FALLON: (After a pause, gravely.) I know he won’t
come back.
MRs. HowARD: God bless you, Dick!
FALLON: See you at dinner.
(MRS. HowARD exits. FALLON stands considering,
and chewing on his cigar. Then, he crosses room briskly
526 APPENDIX
and lowers the blind at each window. Opens valise and
examines revolver. Places the revolver in his left hip
pocket. Then, in a matter-of-course manner from his
right hand pocket, he draws his automatic pistol. This,
as though assured he would find loaded, he examines in
a quick, perfunctory way, and replaces. He crosses left
to desk, and taking from it a cheque book, writes out a
cheque, which he tears from the book, and holds in his
right hand. With left hand he removes the receiver
from the telephone.)
Give me Murray Hill 2828. Hello, is this the Corn
and Grain Bank? I want to speak to the cashier.
Hello, is that the cashier? This is Richard Fallon, of
San Francisco, speaking from the Hotel Wisteria. I
opened an account with you day before yesterday, for
two hundred thousand dollars. Yes, this is Mr.
Fallon speaking. I made out a cheque yesterday pay-
able to Louis Mohun (Glances at cheque.), dated August
4th, for two thousand dollars. I want to know if he’s
cashed it in yet? He hasn’t, hey? Good! (He con-
tinues to look at cheque, to impress upon audience, that
the cheque they have just seen him write, is the one which
he is speaking about.) Well, I want to stop payment on
that cheque. Yes, yes. I made it out under pressure,
and I’ve decided not to stand for it. Yes, sort of a
hold up! I guess that’s why he was afraid to cash it.
You'll attend to that, will you? Thank you. Good-
bye. (He takes an envelope from desk, places cheque in
it and puts envelope in his breast pocket. Again takes
off receiver.) Hello, give me the cashier, please. Am
I speaking to the cashier of the hotel? This is Mr.
Fallon in room 21o. Is your hotel detective in the
APPENDIX 527
lobby? He is? Good! What — what sort of a man
is he, is he a man I can rely on? A Pinkerton, hey?
That's good enough! Well, I wish you’d give him a
thousand dollars for me in hundreds. Ten hundred-
dollar bills, and before you send them up, I wish you’d
mark them and take their numbers. What? No,
there's no trouble. I just want to see that the right
bills go to the right people, that’s all. Thank you.
(He crosses to door centre, and taking key from the
bedroom side, places it in keyhole on side of door in view
of the audience. He turns the key several times. He
takes the revolver from his left hip pocket and holding it
in his right hand, rehearses shooting under his left arm
through his coat which he holds from him by the fingers
of his left hand. Shifting revolver to his left hand, he
takes the automatic from his right hip pocket, and goes
through the motions of firing with both guns in opposite
directions. His pantomine must show he intends making
wse of both guns at the same time, using one apparently
wpon himself, and the other, in earnest, upon another
person. He replaces the revolvers in his pockets. There
is a knock at the door.)
Come in.
(KELLY enters. In his hand he carries an envelope. He
is an elderly man with grey hair, neatly dressed and carry-
ing a straw hat. He has an air of authority. His manner
to FALLON is respectful.)
KELLY: Afternoon, Mr. Fallon. I am Kelly, the
house detective.
FALLON: Yes, I know. I’ve seen you in the lobby.
KELLY: Mr. Parmelee said I was to give you this.
(Gives envelope to FALLON. FALLON takes out ten yellow-
528 APPENDIX
back bills.) There ought to be a thousand dollars there
in hundreds. -
FALLON: That’s right. Now, will you just sit over
there, and as I read the numbers, you write them down.
KELLY: ' Mr. Parmelee made a note of the numbers,
Mr. Fallon.
FALLON: I know. I want you to identify them too.
RELLY: I can do that. I saw him mark them.
FALLON: Good. And if you saw these bills in the
next five minutes you’d be able to swear they’re the
same bills you gave me?
KELLY: Sure. (Starts towards door.)
FALLON: Wait a minute. Sit down, Kelly. (KELLY
seats himself in Morris chair, holding his hat between his
knees.) Kelly, this hotel engages you from the Pinker-
tons to stay around the place, and — protect the guests?
RELLY: Yes, sir.
FALLON: Well, there’s a man downstairs thinks he
has a claim on this money. Now, I’d like you to wait
in that bedroom and listen to what he says with a
view to putting him in jail.
RELLY: Blackmail, Mr. Fallon?
FALLON: Yes, blackmail. -
RELLY: (Eagerly.) And you’re not going to stand
for it?
FALLON: I am not!
KELLY: (Earnestly.) Good! That’s the only way
to treat those dogs. Never give up, never give up/
FALLON: No, but yesterday, I had to give up. He
put a gun at my head.
RELLY: (Excitedly.) Where? Not in this hotel?
FALLON: Yes, in this room. I gave him a cheque
APPENDIX - 529
for two thousand dollars. That made him think I
was easy, and he telephoned this morning that he’s
coming back for another thousand, and he wants it
in cash. That’s why I marked those bills.
KELLY: Why, we got him now! He's as good as
dead.
FALLON: (Startled.) What?
RELLY: I say, we’ve got him nailed now.
FALLON: Oh, yes. (Pause.) He hasn’t turned in
the cheque yet – I’ve just called up the bank to
find out. I guess he means to hold that over my head,
hey?
RELLY: More likely he's afraid of it. (Eagerly.)
We may get that back, too. We may find it on him.
FALLON: What? Yes, as you say, we may find it
on him.
KELLY: (Eagerly.) And as Soon as he gets those
bills in his clothes, you give me the high sign (Fiercely.)
— and we’ll nail him!
FALLON: Yes, we’ll nail him. And, if he puts his
gun in my face today, he won’t catch me empty-handed
the second time. (Draws automatic from his pocket.)
I’m ready for him, today!
RELLY: (Greatly concerned.) Here, none of that
stuff, Mr. Fallon. A gentleman like you can’t take
that chance.
FALLON: Chance? Kelly, I haven’t always lived in
a swell hotel. The man that gets the drop on me —
when I’ve got a gun – has got to be damned quick.
KELLY: That’s just what I mean I’m not thinking
of him, I’m thinking of you. Give me that gun.
FALLON: Certainly not.
53O APPENDIX
KELLY: You don’t want to go to jail for a rat like
that.
FALLON: I don’t mean to go to jail, and, I don’t
mean to die, either. For the last six years I’ve been
living on melted ice and bacon. Now, I’m worth
Seven million dollars. I’m thirty-five years old and
my life is in front of me. And, I don’t mean to waste
one hour of it in a jail, and I don’t mean to let any
blackmailer take it away from me.
KELLY: You don’t want no judge to take it away
from you, either! You’re not in the Klondike.
FALLON: I guess, I’ve got a right to defend myself,
anywhere. -
KELLY: Yes, but you’ll get excited and —
FALLON: (Quietly.) I? Excited? I never get ex-
cited. The last time I was excited was when I was
Seven years old, and the circus came to town.
RELLY: Don’t mix up in this. What am I here for?
FALLON: You won’t be here. How can you help
me in that room, when a fellow’s pumping lead into my
stomach in this one?
KELLY: He won't pump no lead.
FALLON: (Carelessly.) I hope not. But, if he
does, he's got to do it awful quick. (Motions towards
centre door.) Now, you go in there and shut the door,
and I’ll talk out here. And you tell me if you can
hear what I say? (KELLY goes into bedroom and closes
door. FALLON walks to door R. with his back turned
towards KELLY.) Have you got the door shut tight?
KELLY: (From bedroom.) Yes.
FALLON: (Speaks in a loud tone, to an imaginary
person.) No, not another penny. If I pay you, will
APPENDIX 53I
you promise not to take the story to the newspapers?
I give you this thousand dollars — (Turns towards
centre door. KELLY opens door.) Could you hear me?
KELLY: Yes, I could hear you, but he won’t talk
that loud. You put him in that chair (Points to Morris
chair.) — so that he’ll sit facing me, and you stand over
there (Points at safe.) — so then he’ll have to speak up.
FALLON: I see. Are you all ready?
KELLY: Yes. (KELLY closes door. FALLON goes to
desk. Lifts both guns from his pocket an inch or two,
and then takes receiver from telephone. To 'phone :)
Give me the cafe, please. Is this the cafe? There's
a Mr. Mohun down there waiting to hear from Mr.
Fallon – yes. All right. Tell him to come up.
(KELLY opens door.)
RELLY: Hist. Listen, this guy knows what he’s
up against; he knows it might land him in Sing Sing
and he’ll be leery of this door being shut. So, if he
insists on looking in here, you speak up loud, and say,
“That’s my bedroom. It’s empty.” Say it quick
enough to give me time to get out into the hall.
FALLON: I see.
RELLY: Then, when he's had his look around, you
slam the door shut again, and I’ll come back into the
bedroom. Have you got it?
FALLON: I understand. (In loud voice.) That’s
my bedroom. It’s empty.
RELLY: That’s the office for me to sneak into the
hall. (In bedroom, he disappears right.)
FALLON: (At open door, rehearsing.) You see, the
room is empty. (Closes the door with a bang. Pause,
then he calls.) Are you there now, Kelly?
532 APPENDIX
RELLY: Yes, I’m here.
(FALLON stands looking at the key in the door. For
an instant his hand falters over it as though he would
risk turning it. Then, he shakes his head, and walks
to table right. There is a low knock at door left.)
FALLON: Come in.
(MOHUN enters door left. He is lean, keen faced,
watchful. He is a head taller than FALLON. His manner
always has an undercurrent of insolence.)
MoHUN: Afternoon. Am I speaking to Mr. Fallon?
FALLON: Yes. Lou Mohun?
MoHUN: Yes. (MoHUN stands warily at the door.
Glances cautiously around the room. Bends over quite
openly to look under the sofa. For some seconds his
eyes rest with a smile on bedroom door. He speaks
slowly, unemotionally.) A mutual friend of ours said
you wanted to see me.
FALLON: (Sharply.) We’ve no mutual friend. No
one's in this but you and me. You want to get that
straight!
MoHUN: (Easily.) All right. That’s all right.
Well, what do you want to see me about?
(FALLON speaks in a loud voice. In the speeches that
follow, it must be apparent that his loud tone and excited
'manner is assumed, and is intended only to convince
RELLY.) -
FALLON: I understand, you think you have a claim
on me for a thousand dollars. And, I’m going to give
it to you. But, first, I want a plain talk with you.
(Sharply.) Are you listening to me?
MoHUN: No, not yet. Before there’s any plain
talking, I want to know where that door leads to.
APPENDIX - 533
FALLON: What door? That? (In a louder voice.)
That’s my bedroom. It’s empty. Is that what you
want? Think I got someone in there? Do you want
to look for yourself? (Opens door.) Go on in, and look.
(MoHUN takes a step forward, and peers past FALLON
ânto bedroom.) Go on, search it. Look under the bed.
MoHUN: I guess that’s all right.
FALLON: Don’t you want to look?
MoHUN: (Falling back to door left.) Not now.
No need to, if you’re willing to let me. (Impatiently.)
Go on. What is it you want with me? (FALLON
closes door with a slam. Comes down to table.)
FALLON: What do I want? I want you to under-
stand that this is the last time you come to me for
money.
MoHUN: (Indifferently.) That’s all right.
FALLON: No, its not all right. (Takes out bills.)
Before I give you this, you’ve got to promise me to keep
silent. I’ll stand for no more blackmail.
MoHUN: Don’t talk so loud. I’m not deaf. Look
here, Mr. Fallon, I didn’t come here to be shouted at,
I came here to get the money you promised me.
FALLON: Well, here it is. (Gives him bills. MoHUN
sticks them in his right-hand vest pocket.) No, you listen
to me. (As soon as he obtains the money, MOHUN’s
manner changes. He is amused, and insolent.)
MoHUN: No, not a bit like it. Now that I’ve got
this, you’ll have to listen to me. (Moves deliberately
to Morris chair and seats himself.) Mr. Fallon, I don’t
like your tone. -
FALLON: (Slowly.) You — don’t — like my tone?
I don’t think I understand you. *
534 APPENDIX
MoHUN: You talk like you had a whip over me.
You don’t seem to see that I got you dead to rights.
FALLON: (In pretended alarm.) Have you?
MoHUN: Have I? I got a mortgage on you for
life. You got in wrong when you gave me that money.
Don't you see that? Mr. Fallon, I've been taking out
information about you. Some 'Frisco lads tell me you
used to be pretty sweet on a certain party, but she
chucked you and married the other fellow. But the
first day you come back a millionaire she visits your
rooms — and you give her a thousand dollars! Why?
She can’t tell. You can’t tell. But I can tell. I can
tell her husband. He’s only got to ask the hotel clerk
and the cashier and the bell hops, and when I’ve told my
story as I’ll tell it — he's liable to shoot you. (There
fis a pause during which FALLON stares at MOHUN in-
credulously.) Let it sink in, Mr. Fallon.
FALLON: (Quietly.) I am — letting it sink in.
MoHUN: Now, a thousand dollars is all well enough
from a lady that has to scrape to find it, but a thousand
dollars from a millionaire like you is a joke. And
unless you want me to go to the husband, you’ll come
across with fifty thousand dollars, and until I get it,
I’m not going to leave this room.
FALLON: (Solemnly.) Then, I don’t believe you
are going to leave this room.
MoHUN: (Impudently.) Oh, I’ll go when I’m ready.
FALLON: (Going up close to centre door.) Let me
understand you. You are going to this husband with
a lie that will wreck his faith in his wife, that will wreck
his faith in his best friend, unless I give you a thousand
dollars?
APPENDIX 535
MoHUN: No! Fifty thousand dollars!
FALLON: Fifty thousand. It’s the same thing.
But, you'd keep quiet for ten dollars, wouldn’t you, if
that was all I had?
MoHUN: (Grinning at him.) If that was all you
had.
FALLON: (In a whisper, slowly, impressively.) Then,
Mr. Mohun (He raises his right arm.), may — God —
have mercy — on your soul. (In loud, excited tones
and purposely, so that MOHUN can see him, he turns his
face towards the centre door.) I won’t pay that fifty
thousand. I won’t stand for blackmail, you’re robbing
— (MoHUN leaps to his feet, and points at centre door.)
MoHUN: (Fiercely.) Here. What are you doing?
You're trying to trap me? There is someone in that
room. (FALLON laughs mockingly at MOHUN, but speaks
for KELLY to hear.)
FALLON: Don’t go near that room. (With his left
hand he quickly turns the key in the door.) Don’t lock
that door! Don’t lock that door! Kelly, he's locked
the door. (He draws the revolver from his left pocket.
RELLY is heard shaking the handle of the door, and beating
wpon the panel. FALLON speaks in a whisper.) I told
you, you’d never leave this room, Mr. Mohun. (In
a loud, excited tone.) Drop that gun. Drop that gun.
Don’t point that gun at me! (Still smiling mockingly
at MoHUN, FALLON shoots twice through his own coat on
the left side, throws the gun at MOHUN’s feet, and drawing
his automatic pistol, shoves it against MOHUN’s stomach
and fires. MoHUN falls back into the Morris chair dead.)
(Shouts loudly.) Break in the door. Break in the
door. (From his pocket he takes the envelope containing
536 APPENDIX
the cheque, and sticks it into the inside pocket of MoHUN's
coat. Then turns to table, right, as KELLY bursts open the
door and sees MoHUN.)
RELLY: My God, Mr. Fallon. I told you to give
me that gun! -
FALLON: Have I hurt him?
KELLY: (Bending over body.) Hurt him? You've
killed him! (FALLON with his face turned from KELLY,
smiles. He speaks with pretended emotion.) Killed
him? Here, you’re an officer. (Throws gun on table.)
I give myself up. (KELLY runs to hand telephone.
FALLON picks up his cigar from the table and a box of
matches. Starts to light cigar, but seeing KELLY at 'phone
hesitates and listens eagerly.)
KELLY: (To 'phone.) Send the hotel doctor here.
Quick!. Mr. Fallon’s wounded. (To FALLON.) Are
you badly hurt? (FALLON places his left hand on his
left hip under the coat and removes it showing the fingers
covered with blood.)
FALLON: Only scratched.
KELLY: (To 'phone.) Some crank tried to shoot
him up. Mr. Fallon fired back and killed him. (Pause.)
No! Mr. Fallon killed him! (Pause.) Of course, in
self-defense, you fool, of course, in self-defensel (KELLY
slams back the receiver, and rising quickly, turns to the
right and stands with hands on his hips, and back to
audience, gazing down at MOHUN. He does not once
look at FALLON.)
FALLON: (On hearing the words “in self-defense”
Sighs, smiles and striking the match, lights the cigar as
THE CURTAIN FALLS.

THE SYSTEM
A ONE–ACT MELODRAMA
BY
TAYLOR GRAN VILLE
Author, producer and star of “The Star Bout,” “The
Futurity Winner,” “The Yellow Streak,” Etc., Etc.
IN COLLABORATION WITH
JUNIE McCREE AND EDWARD CLARK
Author of “The Marital Author of “The Winning
Coach,” “Neighbors,” “Coon Widows,” “When We Grow
Town Divorçons,” Etc., Etc. Up.” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, SEPT. Io, IQI2
SPECIAL WARNING
This playlet is fully protected by copyright in the United States
and all foreign countries, as are all of the authors’ works. Its public
performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for profes-
sional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one infringing the
copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the copyright law
which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
THE SYSTEM
CHARACTERS
BILLY BRADLEY . . . . . . Alias “The Eel.”
DAN McCARTHY . . . . . . Inspector of Police.
TIM DUGAN . . . . . . . . Lieutenant of Police.
JAMES O’MARA . . . . . . . Desk Lieutenant.
OFFICER FLYNN . . . . . . Patrolman.
BOBBY PERKINS . . . . . . A Police Reporter.
HAROLD BROOKTHORNE . . . A Cub Reporter.
MR. INBAD . . . . . . . . . A Souse.
+.) . . . . . . . . . . Central Office Men.
MRs. DEMMING WoRTHINGTON, A Noted Horsewoman.
JANITRESS . . . . . . . . . At 327 East Broadway.
GOLDIE MARSHALL . . . . . The Eel’s “Gal.”
Policemen, Citizens, Morbid Crowds, Etc.
SCENTE I
POLICE STATION, NEW YORK CITY. EVENING
Door C. Door L. 2nd E. leading below to cells. Windows
in flat R. and L. showing two green lights in front of
Station. Street backing, showing the other side of
Street. Bench at L. window, chair at R. window.
Small platform R. 2, with desk, railing, etc. Chairs
on platform.
AT RISE: (O’Mara at desk speaking through telephone.
PERKINS in chair R., writing. FIYNN searching
INBAD, who is intoxicated.)
54O APPENDIX
O’MARA: (Speaking through 'phone.) All right!
Good-bye! (Puts 'phone down.) Take him down,
that fellow is a champion souse.
INBAD: (As FLYNN is jerking him off L.) Thatsh
what I am, and I’ll defend my title against all comers.
(Exit INBAD followed by FLYNN.)
PERKINs: (Coming R. to O’MARA.) That Worth-
ington robbery will make a corking story, if it’s true.
(Starts for door C.)
O’MARA: Well, why don’t you wait till the pinch
comes off and then get the story for sure?
PERKINS: Your word’s good enough.
O’MARA: But I haven’t given you me word. I
don’t know whether they’ve nailed him yet or not.
PERKINS: (Coming back to desk railing R.) (Dis-
appointed.) Oh, I thought you said they’d got him.
O’MARA: That’s the way you reporters twist
everything. I said “Dugan was after him,” that’s all.
PERKINS: Well, that’s as good as got him; anything
Dugan sets out to get, comes pretty near materializing.
(Starts C., stops on meeting BROOKY, who enters door C.)
Hello! Brooky! Just in time. Here's a chance for
you to distinguish yourself in your new capacity.
BROOKY: (Coming C.) Got a story?
PERKINS: A pippin! Listen to this. (Reads from
notes.) “Police fishing. Make a big haul! Throw out
the dragnet and once more capture the Eel.” A very
slippery article.
BROOKY: I don’t understand.
PERKINs: Oh, can’t you understand, the Eel is
the nickname, the alias of one of the slickest crooks
in the country, Billy Bradley.
|
APPENDIX 54I
BROOKY: Billy Bradley? Oh yes, I’ve heard of him.
PERKINS: Well, that’s the Eel.
BROOKY: Oh I see; well, what about him?
PERKINS: He's been taken, or at least is going to
be.
BROOKY: What’s he done?
PERKINs: (Looking at BROOKY surprised.) You’re
up on that Worthington robbery, aren’t you?
BROOKY: What robbery is that?
PERKINs: (Disgusted.) Don’t tell me you don’t
know that burglars entered Mrs. Demming Worthing-
ton’s house last night, and made off with a five
thousand dollar necklace?
BROOKY: I hadn’t heard of it.
PERKINS: Good heavens, man! hasn’t your paper
got it?
BROOKY: (Going L.) I don’t know. I never read
our paper. (Perkins follows BROOKY in disgust.)
O’MARA: (Smiling.) Well, I don’t know but what
you’re just as well off. (Enter INSPECTOR door C.,
O’MARA comes from behind desk and stands above it for
INSPECTOR to cross him.)
PERKINS: Good evenin', Inspector.
INSPECTOR: (Glancing about room, without stopping,
goes straight to stool behind desk.) How are you, boys!
(INSPECTOR salutes O’MARA as he passes him, O’MARA
returns the salute, then goes to upper end of desk, where
he stands.)
BROOKY: How do you do, sir.
INSPECTOR: (Back of desk.) Well, O’Mara. They’ve
got the Eel. -
O’MARA: They have?
542 APPENDIX
INSPECTOR: Dugan is on his way up with him now.
PERKINs: I guess it will go pretty hard with him,
won’t it Inspector?
INSPECTOR: If he is guilty.
PERKINs: Well, he is, isn’t he?
INSPECTOR: I believe every man innocent until
proven guilty.
BROOKY: Bravo, Inspector! Those are my senti-
mentS.
INSPECTOR: ' I’ve sent for Mrs. Worthington. When
we get her, Goldie, the Eel and Dugan together, we
shall be able to get a clearer view on the matter.
Bring up Goldie. (O’MARA exits door L.) --
PERKINs: (Coming R. C.) Inspector, has this girl
Goldie Marshall ever been up before?
INSPECTOR: Well, she’s been arrested a number of
times, on shop-lifting charges, but we’ve never been
able to prove anything on her.
PERKINs: Perhaps she's square after all.
INSPECTOR: Not at all unlikely; as I said before, I
believe a person innocent until proven guilty.
BROOKY: (Crossing R. to railing of desk.). And as
I said before — Bravo, old chap. (The INSPECTOR
looks at BROOKY sternly and he retires up slage R. con-
fusedly, bumping into chair, sits in it.)
PERKINS: (Crossing R. to railing.) Inspector?
INSPECTOR: Well?
PERKINS: I Suppose many a person has been rail-
roaded through the System?
INSPECTOR: (Rising angrily.) System! How dare
you! What do you mean?
PERKINS: I — I — beg your pardon, Inspector, I —
APPENDIX 543
BROOKY: (Rising from chair and coming down L.
of PERKINs.) I Say, don’t make a bally ass of yourself.
INSPECTOR: Don’t ever let me hear you say that
again. (Voices of O’MARA and GOLDIE are heard off L.)
(Enter GoLDIE, followed by O’MARA. Door L.)
GoLDIE: (Jerking away from O’MARA.) Well, don’t
yank my arm off. (Looking around room.) I know
the way. (Starts R.)
O’MARA: (Following GOLDIE, catches her by the
back of neck as she reaches C.) Don’t give me any back
talk or I'll yank your neck off.
INSPECTOR: O’Mara! let go your hold. Don’t
forget you’re dealing with a woman. (O’MARA re-
leases hold.)
GoLDIE: (Mockingly courteous.) Thanks, Inspector!
What’ll I send you for Christmas, a bunch of sweet
forget-me-nots or a barrel of pickles?
INSPECTOR: Goldie, don’t be so incorrigible.
GOLDIE: Gee! but you’re an educated guy.
INSPECTOR: Have a seat. (O’MARA jumps for chair
with mock politeness.)
GoLDIE: (To reporters.) He's polite, too. (Crosses
to chair.)
INSPECTOR: Well, Goldie!
GoLDIE: (Sitting.) Well, Inspector!
INSPECTOR: Do you intend to stay here to-night or
are you going to get bail?
GoLDIE: Where would I get bail?
INSPECTOR: I thought perhaps some gentleman
friend of yours —
GoLDIE: (Rising angrily.) I ain’t got no gentle-
men friends. What do you think I am, a Moll? (Sits.)
544 APPENDIX
INSPECTOR: Don’t make any grand stand play
now, Goldie!
GoLDIE: Well, if you mean that I’m a bad girl,
you’d better not say it (Rising, crosses to desk and
pounds angrily on railing.), 'cause I ain’t, see?
INSPECTOR: Well, you don’t deny that you and the
Eel are sweethearts?
GOLDIE: Was, yes. Gee, we was goin’ to get married,
until in a jealous huff he tried to kill me and was shipped
for two years for assault and battery, but it wasn’t
none of my doin’s.
INSPECTOR: Didn’t you prefer charges against him?
GOLDIE: I did not. Do you think I’d squeal on a
pal? If it wasn’t for Dugan, they'd turn the Eel loose.
(Sits.)
INSPECTOR: Why Dugan?
GOLDIE: Didn’t he shove him in?
INSPECTOR: He was simply acting in his official
duty. -
GoLDIE: Official duty, my eye:
INSPECTOR: What other motive could Mr. Dugan
possibly have had?
GoLDIE: (With a sneer.) Maybe you don’t know.
Well, I’ll tell you. He thought by shovin’ the Eel out
of the way, he could get me. -
INSPECTOR: And did he?
GOLDIE: Not so as you could notice it. I ain’t no
fall guy for nobody.
INSPECTOR: Now that, the Eel’s been sprung, are
you going back to him?
GoLDIE: (Almost in tears.) Oh gee! I wish I
could, but there’s nothing doin’, he's sore on me.
APPENDIX 545
INSPECTOR: When did you last see him?
GOLDIE: Just before he went up, two years ago.
INSPECTOR: How about this Worthington robbery,
wasn’t he in on it?
GoLDIE: (Hastily.) No, he wasn’t.
INSPECTOR: (Quickly.) Who was?
GOLDIE: (After a slight pause as though to confess.)
Well, I’ll tell you. There was three of us, me, Jesse
James, and Christopher Columbus. (Looks first at
INSPECTOR then to PERKINS.) Ah, put it down on
your little yellow paper.
INSPECTOR: (Angrily.) Answers like that'll get
you nothing here.
GoLDIE: See, you won’t believe me when I tell you.
INSPECTOR: Silence, I say! (To O’MARA.) Take
her down. (GOLDIE rises from chair leisurely and strolls
impudently L. as she comes to BROOKY.) Oh, poo! poo!
INSPECTOR: (Stopping GOLDIE at door L.) And
you’ll stay down unless you have a confession to make.
GOLDIE: (At door L.) Say, Inspector, if you’re
waitin’ for a confession from me, you’ll wait until pigs
fly kites. (Exit door L. GoLDIE followed by O’MARA.)
(PERKINS and BROOKY look off after them.)
BROOKY: What a little terror!
PERKINS: Looks mighty like her work, doesn’t it,
Inspector?
INSPECTOR: No! The job has all the ear marks of
the Eel, but she undoubtedly is his accomplice. (Enter
MRS. WORTHINGTON door C., she looks around uncom-
fortably and as she comes down C., BROOKY and PERKINs
on seeing her, remove their hats. INSPECTOR rises and
indicates chair R. C.) Ah! Mrs. Worthington! (In-
546 APPENDIX
dicating Reporters.) Have you any objection to talking
for publication? -
MRs. WORTHINGTON: (Looking toward Reports.)
No, not at all. (PERKINS has note paper and takes down
as she talks.)
INSPECTOR: Will you kindly be seated? And we shall
proceed? (MRS. W. sits.) Now in the first place, how
long had this girl, Goldie Marshall, been in your employ?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Just one week.
INSPECTOR: (Half aside.) That’s about the time
the Eel was sprung. (To Mrs. W.) Had you missed
anything else up to the time of this robbery?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: No, nothing.
INSPECTOR: Who else was in the house at the time,
besides yourself and the maid?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Only my guests who were at
dinner with me. Mr. Appleby and his wife.
INSPECTOR: The horseowner?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Yes, and a Miss Hazelton
from Pittsburgh.
INSPECTOR: Would you suspect them?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Well, hardly.
INSPECTOR: Any one else?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Yes, Mr. Dugan.
INSPECTOR: What Dugan?
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Why, your Mr. Dugan here.
INSPECTOR: Oh, Tim Dugan.
MRs. WoRTHINGTON: Yes, we’re great friends, and
he frequently dines at my house. (Low murmur begins
in the distance and grows louder. MRS. W. rises in fear
and appeals to the INSPECTOR, who comes from behind the
desk and –)
APPENDIX - 547
INSPECTOR: Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Worthington,
just step behind the desk. (MRS. WORTHINGTON steps
back of desk and sits in chair below stool. INSPECTOR
replaces the chair in which MRS. W. has been sitting in
front of the window R. C. then returns to back of desk
where he stands. The REPORTERS at first sound show
excitement, PERKINS goes to door C. and looks off R. B.)
PERKINs: (At door C.) It's Dugan and he's got
the Eel. (Goes down L. C.) (DUGAN is seen out of
window R. bringing the EEL along, who is hand-cuffed.
They are followed by a noisy crowd. DUGAN throws the
EET, down, C., then chases the crowd away from door C.)
EEL: (Looks around smiling until he sees INSPECTOR.)
Hello, Inspector! Gee! it’s real oil for the wicks of my
lamps to see you again.
DUGAN: (Coming down C.) Yes, he's tickled to
death to see you, ain’t you, Billy?
EEL: (Angrily.) The Eel to you, Copper; Billy to
my pals.
INSPECTOR: Well, Billy!
EEL: That’s right, Inspector, you’re my pal.
(Movement from INSPECTOR.) Oh, I ain’t forgot when
you was just a plain Bull and saved me from doin’ my
first bit on a phoney charge. They tried to railroad
me, you remember, and Dugan here was runnin’ the
engine.
INSPECTOR: Oh, you’ve got Dugan wrong, Billy, he
bears you no malice.
EEL: No, it’s a mistake, he just loves me. Say,
he thinks so much of me, that if he saw me drowning,
he’d bring me a glass of water.
DUGAN: You know why you were brought here?
548 APPENDIX
EEL: Sure, So's you could railroad me again.
INSPECTOR: Nonsense, Dugan has nothing against
you personally.
EEL: Oh yes he has; when he was new on the force,
I beat him up good. He was only a harness cop
then, and one night he thought he made me coppin'
a super from a lush, which you know ain’t my graft.
He started to fan me with a Sap, So I just clubbed my
smoke wagon, and before I got through with him, I
made him a pick-up for the ambulance, and he ain’t
never forgot it.
INSPECTOR: What do you know about this Worth-
ington robbery? (EEL looks around suspiciously.)
Before you answer, Billy, I warn you to be careful,
everything you say will be used against you.
EEL: Yes, and everything I don’t say will be used,
too. I know the system.
DUGAN: (Crossing R. to EEL. REPORTERS follow.)
Well, what have you got to say?
EEL: (Taking time, looks around.) You don’t
think I’m goin’ to address this Mass Meeting here.
(BROOKY looks L. to see if there is anyone else there.)
INSPECTOR: You’re not afraid to talk in front of a
couple of newspaper reporters, are you?
EEL: (Grinning at INSPECTOR to gain time.) Roose-
velt gets a dollar a word, where do I come in? (Re-
signedly.) All right, flag the pencil pushers and I’ll
gab my nob. (DUGAN turns L. to tell the REPORTERs
to go. BROOKY says he don't understand. PERKINs
pulls him off door C., remonstrating, going R.) (The
INSPECTOR signs to DUGAN that they will now grill the
EEL.) \
*
APPENDIX 549
INSPECTOR: This lady I suppose you know.
EEL: (Looks at MRS. WoRTHINGTON.) I never
lamped her before in my life.
DUGAN: That is Mrs. Worthington, the lady you
robbed.
EEL: (Banteringly to MRS. WoRTHINGTON to gain
time.) Is it? How do you do, pleased to meet you.
Gee! but you must be an awful mark to be robbed.
(INSPECTOR raps on desk.) What was it I stole from
you, Mrs. Worthington?
DUGAN: Nix on that bull. You know what you stole.
EEL: Yes, and I suppose you know what I stole
before I stole it. -
DUGAN: With dips like you, I always look far ahead.
EEL: Get out! you couldn't look far enough ahead
to see the ashes on your cigar. Why, if it wasn’t for
your stool pigeons —
DUGAN: That’s enough out of you.
EEL: Oh, go chase yourself. (DUGAN smashes at
EEL, who ducks around back of him.)
INSPECTOR: Dugan! ! ! (When Dugan locates the
EEL, he goes after him again. MRS. WORTHINGTON
screams.)
INSPECTOR: None of that, Dugan! Remember, he
had no marks on him when you brought him in.
(DUGAN crosses L. in front of EEL and looks off door L.
in subdued rage.) A little more civility out of you,
Bradley.
EEL: All right, Inspector. (To MRs. W.) I beg
your pardon, lady.
INSPECTOR: You have been brought here as a sus-
pect in a five thousand dollar jewelry theft which
55o ATPPENDIX
happened at the home of Mrs. Worthington last night.
(EEL makes no move.) Circumstances point strongly
in your direction. Your former sweetheart, Goldie
Marshall, was serving as maid to Mrs. Worthington
at the time of the robbery.
EEL: And you think I planted her there as a stall.
DUGAN: Goldie spilled that much, and we didn’t
have to third degree her.
EEL: So Goldie declared me in on this?
INSPECTOR: She couldn’t help it, we knew it was
a two-man’s job.
EEL: She snitched me into a frame-up.
DUGAN: Same as she did two years ago.
EEL: Why say, Inspector, I ain’t seen Goldie since
I was sprung from the Pen.
DUGAN: Is that so? I got it straight that the first
place you mozied to was Goldie's flat on East Broad-
way. You were trailed.
EEL: Sure I was, by one of you pathfinders at the
Central Office. Oh, I’ve played tag with you before;
Tugan, whatever you say, is.
INSPECTOR: Then you admit —
EEL: I don’t admit nothin’.
INSPECTOR: Be careful what you say. Have you
retained counsel?
EEL: A mouthpiece! What for?
INSPECTOR: You’ve got to be represented. Have
you any money?
EEL: Sure! I left the hotel of Zebra clothed with
a pocket full of smiles and a wad of joy. (INSPECTOR
whispers for O’MARA to bring up GOLDIE. O’MARA
exits door L.)
APPENDIX - 55I
INSPECTOR: Well, the state will furnish you with
an attorney.
EEL: What, one of them record shysters? Eighty
years old and never won a case. No, thanks, Inspector.
I’ll plead my own case; then I got at least a chance to
beat this rap.
DUGAN: You’d have a swell time pleading your
OWIl Ca,S62.
EEL: Yes, and believe me I’ll spring a sensation
when I open up. I’ll show up some of this rotten
graft. I’ll bust “The System” to Smithereens. Dugan,
I won’t be railroaded – (EEL crosses in rage L. to
Dugan.)
INSPECTOR: Bradley! hold your tongue, you’ve
said enough.
EEL: I ain’t said half what I’m going to say —
INSPECTOR: (Fiercely.) Not another word out of
you. Do you understand?
EEL: (Coming down.) All right, Inspector. I don’t
want to get anybody that’s right, in bad, but I’ve got
something up my sleeve. (DUGAN laughs and goes up
stage.) (GOLDIE enters door L. brought in by O’MARA.
She is startled at seeing EEL, then pleadingly :)
GOLDIE: Billy! (EEL turns and is about to go to
GOLDIE but stops.)
EEL: You snitched again! You Snitched again!
(Running L. to GOLDIE with arms up as though to hit her
with hand-cuffs. GOLDIE snatches his upraised arms.)
GoLDIE: Oh no, Billy! True as God I didn't!
DUGAN: (Aside to INSPECTOR.) Let’s leave them
alone, they’ll talk. (MRs. WoRTHINGTON, INSPECTOR,
DUGAN and O’MARA exit door R.)
'552 APPENDIx
GoLDIE: (Still holding EEL's arms.) Why, I’d
rather die than Snitch.
EEL: (Jerking away and going R.) How about two
years ago? -
GoLDIE: I didn’t even then when you left me
dying. They framed you while I was in the hospital.
EEL: Who?
GoLDIE: Dugan and his ——
EEL: Sh! ! ! Oh if I could only believe you, kid.
GOLDIE: Look at me, Billy. Do you think I’d
Snitch?
EEL: (Looks at her, then pushes her head roughly
back.) No, I can’t believe you did it, kid. (EEL takes
GOLDIE in his arms.)
GOLDIE: (Sobbingly.) I’m so glad to see you again.
EEL: Me, too, kid. Gee, your head feels as natural
on my shoulder as a piece of pie on a prize-fighter’s
knife. (EEL takes GOLDIE from his shoulder and says
inquiringly.) But what are you doing here?
GOLDIE: (Drying her tears.) Bein’ held on sus-
picion, but they can’t get me, I’m protected. Dugan’s
got to —
EEL: Nix on the crackin', don’t shoot your trap,
they’re leavin’ us together for a stall. Talk about
Something else. (EEL turns R. and GOLDIE grabs his
hand.) Do you still love me?
GOLDIE: Always.
EEL: Will you marry me?
GOLDIE: If you want me to.
EEL: You know I do. (Looks around suspiciously.)
ºf Say, if I beat this rap (DUGAN comes, on door R., and
stands at upper end of desk), let’s get spliced and go
APPENDIX 553
out West, turn over a new leaf, and begin life all over
again, far away from the Subway world where the sun
of happiness is always clouded and the ace of joy is
coppered. What do you say?
GOLDIE: Gee! them's the kindest words you’ve
ever said to me. (Then lightly.) And I’ll march down
the aisle with you, with my hair in a braid.
EEL: Great! ! Gee, I wonder if we could make our
get-away now. (Both start for door C., but DUGAN, who
has come down behind them, stops them.)
DUGAN: How do you do! Would you like to take
a little trip out in the air with me?
GOLDIE: Say, I’d rather be home with the head-
ache, than at the Movies with a guy like you.
(Crosses L.) (INSPECTOR enters door R. going behind
desk.)
INSPECTOR: Well, have you got anything to say
to me before I lock you up for the night?
EEL: Nothin', except that it’s a frame-up, and we
defy you to go through with it.
INSPECTOR: Take 'em down.
DUGAN: (Above door L.) Come on. (EEL starts
for door L.)
GOLDIE: Good-night, Inspector.
INSPECTOR: Good-night.
EEL: (Turning at door L.) Same from me, In-
Spector.
INSPECTOR: Good-night, Bradley. (DUGAN shoves
the EEL roughly off. GOLDIE circles around and switches
in front of DUGAN.) By the way, Goldie, what’s the
number of your flat on East Broadway?
GOLDIE: (Hesitatingly at door L.) 327, Inspector.
554 APPENDIX
INSPECTOR: Thanks.
GOLDIE: (Impudently.) You're welcome. (Exit door
L. followed by DUGAN.) (O'MARA locks door after them.)
INSPECTOR: (Calling O’MARA.) O’Mara! *
O’MARA: (At door L.) Yes, sir.
INSPECTOR: I want a wire installed at 327 East
Broadway. &
O’MARA: (In front of desk.) Goldie's flat?
INSPECTOR: Yes. I’m leaving it to you to see that
the orders are carried out to the letter.
O’MARA: Yes, sir, to-morrow. t
INSPECTOR: To-night, at once. I’m going to turn
them loose. You understand?
O’MARA: (Looks puzzled, then face brightens.) I
understand. -
DARK CHANGE
SCENE II
STREET SCENE, IN EAST BROADWAY
Showing flat house with stoop. Time: The same evening.
A small boy enters L. with bottle of milk, goes up
steps door C., rings bell, clicker sounds, and he
exits door C. MAGGIE enters door C. She is an
East side janitress. She has a tin pail on her arm
around which is wrapped newspaper. She walks off
L. PERKINs and BROOKY are heard off R.)
PERKINs: (Entering R. briskly.) Come on, Brooky,
don’t be so slow. -
BROOKY: (Straggling in after PERKINs.) I say, old
APPENDIX 555
chap, this sort of work is most laborious. This flitting
from one tram to another, and being jostled and
ordered to “step lively” by vulgar guards, and running,
yes actually running. It’s not only bad taste, old man,
but positively undignified. (Dusting shoes with hand-
kerchief, L., PERKINS is up in vestibule of door C.)
PERKINS: If you want to supply your paper with
live news, you’ve got to keep hustling.
BROOKY: Very true, but it seems such a waste of
energy.
PERKINS: (Coming down to BROOK.Y.) No energy
is wasted that is productive of flaring headlines. Now
take that note pad I gave you, and get your pencil
busy with a description of this neighborhood. (Goes
R. making notes.)
BROOKY: (Taking paper and pencil from pockets
after a search for them.) This is more like being a
Scotland Yarder than a reporter.
PERKINS: A Scotland Yarder!
BROOKY: I should say detective.
PERKINS: (Coming L.) Let me tell you something,
Brooky. The reporters and newspapers unravel more
cases than the police.
BROOKY: I dare say you do. You’re so damned
inquisitive. g
PERKINS: It isn’t inquisitiveness, my boy, it’s just
being on the level with the public.
BROOKY: (Laughing.) You know, some great man
said, “The public be damned.”
PERKINS: He wasn’t a great man, he was an igno-
rant man. The public will stand for just so much, then
look out; let your mind wander back to the history
556 APPENDIX
of the French Revolution. An infuriated public is
the most ferocious blood-lapping animal in the earth’s
jungle.
BROOKY: Perky, I adore your descriptive talents.
PERKINS: (Going up into vestibule and ringing bell.)
You make me sick.
BROOKY: But Surely you’re not going to enter that
apartment house unannounced?
PERKINs: No, I’ll tell them a couple of reporters
want Some news, then you’ll hear language no paper
can print.
BROOKY: Why, are they all foreigners?
PERKINS: Say, Brooky, you’re a perfect ass.
BROOKY: No, my dear fellow, none of us are perfect.
PERKINs: (Coming down out of vestibule to BROOKY.)
Now listen, I told you that I had inside information
that the EEL and GOLDIE were to be released, that’s
why I hustled you over here. I could have come alone,
but I let you in on a big scoop for your paper.
BROOKY: Righto, old chap, righto; but what both-
ers mc is, what’s it all about?
PERKINS: It’s about time you got next to yourself.
BROOKY: Another impossible metaphor, my dear
fellow; how can one get next to one’s self without
being twins?
PERKINs: Brooky, Englishmen as a rule are thick,
but you are a density of thickness that is impenetrable.
BROOKY: Yes, I know I am a rare sort.
PERKINS: Now, we haven’t time to argue a lot of
piffle. The girl isn’t in yet, there's no answer to my
ring, so let’s stroll around and come back later. (Exit
R.)
APPENDIX 557
BROOKY: (Not seeing that PERKINS has gone.)
Righto! old man, we’ll stroll, for if there's anything
that I like, its having a nice little — (Seeing that
PERKINS is gone.) Perkins' you said stroll. Don’t run,
don’t run, it’s so damned undignified. (Exit R.)
(Enter L., O’MARA dressed in citizen’s clothes. He looks
at number on house then motions off L. for TOM to
come on. TOM comes on L., they go up into vestibule
and look for names on bells. Enter Officer FLYNN,
stealthily.) -
FLYNN: Come on, now, you don’t live there, I’ve
had my eye on you for five minutes.
O’MARA: (Coming down from vestibule to FLYNN.)
Well, keep your eye on something else, if you know
what’s good for you. (Takes badge out of pocket.)
FLYNN: (Surprised.) Central Officer! (Whistles and
walks off R.)
O’MARA: (Returning to vestibule.) Ring any bell?
ToM: No, her flat’s on the second floor, so I’ll ring
up the top flat. (TOM rings the bell and sound of
electric door opener is heard, they both exit door C.)
(FLYNN strolls back on from R. and MAGGIE enters
from L.)
FLYNN: Hello, Maggieſ been out to get the evening
paper? There is not much in it.
MAGGIE: There's enough in it to quench me thirst
after a hard day’s work.
FLYNN: I see you’ve got the paper wrapped around
Something good.
MAGGIE: I have that, and it’s meself instead of the
paper’ll be wrapped around it in a minute. (Light goes
wp in window above.)
558 APPENDIX
FLYNN: I see you’ve got a new tenant. Is she
hard on you?
MAGGIE: Divel-a-bit! She's a nice respectable
dacent girl, and aisy to get along with. I never seen
her with no men folks. Maybe she’s a widdy, as I’d
like to be.
FLYNN: A widow? What’s the matter with your
old man?
MAGGIE: He ain’t worth powder enough to blow up
a cock-roach.
FLYNN: Is he working?
MAGGIE: He ain’t done a tap since the civil war.
FLYNN: That’s quite a vacation.
MAGGIE: Vacation? It’s a life sentence of laziness.
FLYNN: There’s many a good man layin' off.
MAGGIE: No, the good men are dyin' off, it’s the
bums that are layin' off.
FLYNN: (Looking at house.) Well, the landlord of
this house ain’t particular about his tenants.
MAGGIE: Not a bit, it’s been a nest for thieves ever
since T came here.
FLYNN: Well, they’ve got to live somewhere, the
jails are overcrowded.
MAGGIE: Oh, I don’t mind thim, they can steal
nothin' from me but me old man, and they're welcome
to him without usin’ a jimmy.
FLYNN: A jimmy? You're getting on to the thief
Slang.
MAGGIE: Why wouldn't I? That’s all I hear
mornin’ and night from “Tommy the Rat,” “Tim the
Flim,” and “John the Con.”
FLYNN: You know all their monakers?
APPENDIX 559
MAGGIE: I do that. Say, they’ve given me a
monaker, too. -
FLYNN: What do they call you?
MAGGIE: “Mag the Jag.”
FLYNN: (Laughs.) Well, I must be off. (Starts off
R.)
MAGGIE: (As she goes up into vestibule.) Won’t
you come in and have a sup of beer and a pull at the
old man’s pipe?
FLYNN: I can’t, I’ve got a stationary post.
MAGGIE: Look at that now, that shows where you
stand. Good-night, John.
FLYNN: Good-night, Maggie. (Exits R.) (Enter
EEL and GOLDIE arm in arm, talking earnestly. As
they come to steps, GOLDIE goes up and unlocks door.
EEL sees FLYNN coming up on R., he lights cigarette and
'motions to go in. GOLDIE exits door C. FLYNN comes
wp to EEL, who throws the match, in his face and dis-
appears door C. as FLYNN is rubbing his eyes.)
DARK CHANGE
SCENE III
SAME NIGHT, INTERIOR OF GOLDIE's FLAT
Living room, bedroom, and kitchen can be seen. At rise,
O’MARA and TOM are installing the dictagraph, on
wall L. C. ToM is standing on chair L. C. He
places the instrument—then runs his hand down to
wire.)
560 APPENDIX
ToM: All right, Jim, hand me that picture.
O’MARA: (C. handing TOM framed picture.) Here
you are, Tom.
TOM: (Hangs picture over dictagraph, gets off of
chair and backs off, seeing if it’s placed right.) There,
that’ll do, I guess.
O’MARA: Nobody would ever suspect anything's
been happening here. -
ToM: (Picking up bits of wire and tools from floor
L. C. O’MARA puts chair TOM has been standing on,
R. and brings bag C.) Pick up these pieces. Did you
give the Inspector the office?
O’MARA: Twenty minutes ago.
TOM: (Putting scraps into bag.) The job took a
little longer than I thought it would.
O’MARA: (Closing bag and handing it to ToM.)
Yes, and we’d better get a gait on out of here, or the
EEL and his girl will be walkin' in on us. (Door slams
off stage.) -
BOTH: What’s that!
O’MARA . Tf must be them!
ToM: (Starts for door R.)
O’MARA: We can’t go that way.
ToM: (Indicating the window L.) The fire escape,
Quick. (TOM crosses quickly to window L., opens it, and
goes through.)
O’MARA: (Follows ToM, but stops at window L.)
Wait a minute! (Goes back, turns out light, then goes
through window, closing it after him.) (Footsteps begin
on steps off stage as O’MARA pulls down window.) Stage
is in darkness but for the moonlight that streams in through
window L. Steps sound closer. Key rattles and door is
APPENDIX 56I
unlocked. Door R. opens just a bit at first, then GoLDIE
enters, followed by the EEL.)
EEL: (Holding GOLDIE back.) Wait a minute, kid,
till I strike a match.
GOLDIE: Oh, never mind, Billy, I don’t need one.
(Gropes her way C. and turns on light. EEL stays at
door R. listening to hear if they are followed.) Home
again! Gee! but that guy what said “ther ain’t no
place like home” must have travelled some.
EEL: (Turning around.) Yep! Gee, but this is
some swell dump you got here, Kid!
GOLDIE: Ain’t this classy P -
(The EEL hurries into bedroom and then into kitchen as
though looking for some one. GOLDIE follows him, but stops
at kitchen door.) What are you looking for, the ice-box?
EEL: (Coming down to C. R. of GOLDIE.) No, it ain’t
that. . -
GOLDIE: What then, lookin’ for a sleeper?
EEL: No telling what they’re up to. You don’t think
they’ve given us our liberty, without a string to it, do
you? They’re Indian givers, they are. -
- (Starts for door R.)
GoLDIE: Gee, Billy! I hadn’t thought of that.
(Goes into bedroom and lights electric light L. of bedroom
off C.)
EEL: (R. C. looking at door R.) I kind of thought
I saw a light through the bottom of this door, when we
was coming up the stairs.
GoLDIE: (Coming down C.) Oh, it must have been
the reflection of the moon. (Takes off hat and puts
it on dresser in bedroom. EEL crosses room backwards
to L., holding hand in moonlight to make the shadow on
562 APPENDIx
bottom of door. GOLDIE watches him. EEL then turns
to window and GOLDIE looks under bed.)
EEL: (Excitedly.) This latch is sprung.
GOLDIE: I must have left it open, when they
hiked me down to the club house.
EEL: Are you sure?
GOLDIE: SURE! -
EEL: (Going down L.) Well, then, I guess we’re
all right for the present at least. -
GOLDIE: (Coming down C. with travelling bag whic
she has taken off of bed.) Yes, until Dugan finds out
we've been sprung, and then he'll be after us like a
cat after a mouse. (Puts bag on table up R.)
EEL: We'll be on a rattler for Chi, before that.
How long will it take you to pack?
GoLDIE: (Going into bedroom.) About a half hour.
EEL: That's good. If Dugan does go after us
(Chuckles.), he's got to get us first. -
GoLDIE: (Coming down C. with kimono which she
has taken from door C. in bedroom, and is folding.)
Say, Billy, I guess I’d better lock this door. (Starts
for door, but his next line stops her.)
EEL: He can’t break in here without a search
warrant, and he can’t get that before Monday. (Lying
down on couch.) : -
GOLDIE: Well, what’s he going to get it on then?
(Putting kimono in bag on table R., picking up a pair
of shoes from the floor near table, but the EEL's next line
stops her.)
EEL: (Still on couch.) You ought to know Dugan
well enough by this time. He'll get something on us,
leave it to him. -
APPENDIx 563
GOLDIE: (Stopping thoughtfully in door C., then
throwing shoes on floor near bed decisively and coming
down C.) If he does, I’ll turn squealer for the first
time in my life. -
EEL: (Jumping off of couch quickly.) Don’t you
do it. I could never look you square in the eyes again
if you did. - -
GOLDIE: It ain’t no worse to squeal than it is to steal.
EEL: Yes, it is, Kid, God’ll forgive a thief, but he
hates a Squealer.
GOLDIE: Maybe you’re right, Billy. Well, I guess
we’d better get a move on. (Going into bedroom and
getting hair brush off of dresser.) We can’t get out
of here any too soon to suit me. (Putting brush in bag
on Table R., then smiling at EEL.) - -
EEL: You betcher! (Goes to mantle L. and leans
against it thoughtfully.)
GOLDIE: (Coming C.) What's on your mind now?
EEL: I was just thinkin’ of that first job I'd have
to do when we get to Chi.
GOLDIE: What do you mean?
EEL: Gee, Goldie, I hate to go back to the old life.
(Sits on sofa L.) -
GOLDIE: Old life? I thought you said we wa
goin’ to begin all over again, and live like decent, re-
spectable people? -
EEL: I know, but you’ve got to have money to be
respectable. -
GoLDIE: Well, we'll get the money.
EEL: That’s what I hate about it. Having to get
it that way. .
GOLDIE: But Billy, I mean honestly, work for it.
564 APPENDIX
EEL: (Rising and coming R.) Yes, but supposing
we can’t get work? And supposing we can’t hold it
after we do get it?
GOLDIE: If they go digging into our past, it’ll be
tough rowing. But there (caressing EEL.), don’t let’s
worry till we come to the bridge. Wait until we get to
Chicago. (Goes into bedroom and takes down coat which
fs hanging on door C.) -
EEL: (Lies on couch L.) Have you got enough cale
to carry us over there? -
GoLDIE: (Brushing off coat at door C.) What?
EEL: I say, have you got enough money to hold us
till we get to Chip
GoLDIE: (C. looking in surprise.) Why no, Billy,
I ain’t got no money. *
EEL: (Surprised, slowly rising from couch to sitting
position.) What?
GoLDIE: I ain’t got a cent. I thought you had the
Sugar.
EEL: Me?
GOLDIE: AIN'T you got no money neither?
EEL: (Throwing away cigarette and going R.) I
ain’t got enough money to buy the controlling interest
in a rotten egg. (Goldie throws coat on couch.) How
about that necklace P
GoLDIE: Why, Dugan’s got it.
EEL: Well, how about your share?
GoLDIE: Well, he promised I was going to get
five hundred out of it, but now that you’re sprung, I
suppose I’ll have to whistle for it.
EEL: Well, I see where I have to get to work
before we get to Chicago.
APPENDIX - 565
GoLDIE: (Turning him around quickly.) What do
you mean? -
EEL: Well, we’ve got to get to Chi, and as the rail-
roads are very particular, Somebody’ll have to pay our
fares. I won’t be long. (Crosses L. in front of GOLDIE
and gets hat and coat off of sofa. GOLDIE runs to door
R., then as EEL turns :)
GOLDIE: Oh no, no, don’t, please don’t. We’re
going to be good, you said So yourself. We’re going to
travel the straight road. ×
EEL: (C. with hat and coat in hand.) But that
road won’t take us to Chi. (Pause.) You See, there's
no other way out of it. (Starts toward door but GOLDIE
stops him pleadingly.)
GoLDIE: Oh no, you musn’t, you shan’t. I won’t
go with you if you do. I won’t go! I won’t go! (Be-
comes hysterical, pounds on door, then begins to cry.)
EEL: (Putting arm around her.) There, there,
don’t cry. Look! (He turns her around and then puts
his hat and coat in chair above door R.) (GOLDIE takes
his hands in relief. The EEL pats her cheek.) You
see, I’ll do as you say. (Crossing down C.) I'll cut it
Out.
GoLDIE: (Following the EEL and putting her arms
around him.) I knew you would.
EEL: Oh, you did? Well, what's the next move?
GoLDIE: I don’t know, Billy.
EEL: There you are. (Crosses L.) We’re no
better off than we were before. By Monday, Dugan’ll
have me back in the Tombs, maybe on a charge of
murder. You know that he ain’t going to rest while
I’m loose.
566 APPENDIX
GOLDIE: Then why not let me end it all?
EEL: Not by Squealing.
GOLDIE: It will be that sooner or later.
EEL: (Coming R. slowly.) No, the best way is to
let me go out and get some money. (Crossing GOLDIE
and going toward hat and coat on chair R.)
GoLDIE: (Stopping him.) But, Billy, you promised
Iſle
EEL: (Turning to GOLDIE.) I don’t mean to rob
anybody (Scratches head in puzzled way, then brightly,
as thought strikes him), I mean to borrow it. *.
GoLDIE: (Joyfully.) Borrow it?
EEL: Yes, I’ll knock a guy down, strip him of his
leather, get his name and address, then when we
get to Chicago, I’ll send it back to him.
GoLDIE: (Shaking her head and smiling.) Oh no,
it won’t do.
EEL: Why?
GoLDIE: You might forget his address. (Going up
C. into bedroom.) Now, you come and help me pack
the trunk. (Stopping.) Oh Billy, come help me pull
this trunk in there. (Disappearing to R. of trunk. EEL
comes and takes L. end and they carry it into living room
and place it C. under chandelier to open up stage. As
they carry it down stage she speaks.) There are a few
more things to go in.
EEL: (As they set trunk down.) I’ve got it.
GOLDIE: What?
EEL: I know where I can get that money.
GOLDIE: Where?
EEL: Isaacson.
GOLDIE: What Isaacson?
APPENDIX 567
EEL: Why the fence on Second Ave. I’m aces with
GOLDIE: Yes, but what have you got to pawn?
EEL: I don’t need nothing. I’ve thrown thousands
of dollars his way in business, he’ll lend me a century
sure. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. (Goes to chair
and gets coat and hat, then starts for door R.)
GoLDIE: Wait! (Crosses to mantel L. and gets keys
from up stage end.) Here, take my keys. (Coming back
to C. above trunk where EEL meets her putting on coat and
hat.) To make sure, we’d better work on signals.
EEL: (Taking keys.) How do you mean?
GOLDIE: In case anything happens while you’re
gone, when you come back, ring the bell downstairs
three times. If I don’t answer, everything’s O. K.,
come up; but if I do answer, don’t come up, See?
EEL: ' If you don’t answer, everything's all right,
come up; but if you do answer, don’t come up.
GOLDIE: That’s it.
EEL: I got you. (Goes to door R. Opens it quickly
to see if anyone is there. Closes door, footsteps are heard
in hall, then going downstairs, then door slams.)
GOLDIE: (Listens intently until door slams, then
begins to pack trunk. Opens trunk first. Gets jacket
from couch where she has thrown it, puts it in trunk.
Goes up into bedroom and gets skirt which hangs out of
sight on end of dresser. Comes down C. Shaking skirt.
Long, low whistle stops her, then club raps.) Bull's!!
(Looks up at light burning, turns it out and closes the
trunk at the same time. Stands still until She sees the
shadow of man’s hand in the moonlight on the wall R.
Frightened exclamation, then cowers on sofa. DUGAN
568 APPENDIX
appears at window, looks in, then raises window and
enters, closing window after him. Takes gun out of
pocket, then goes up into kitchen and bedroom. At door
C. he sees GOLDIE, points gun at her.
DUGAN: Ah! (GOLDIE springs to her feet with
frightened exclamation, and DUGAN says:) don’t squawk
or I’ll pop sure!
GoLDIE: (Nervously.) Me squawk? What do you
think I am, a school teacher?
DUGAN: (Goes to door R., opens it to see if anyone
is there, closes it and locks door. Comes to C., turns
on light, then puts gun in pocket. Coming L. to GOLDIE.)
I don’t want to frighten you.
GOLDIE: (L. nervously.) I know, but one look at
you would scare some people to death.
DUGAN: Am I that homely?
GOLDIE: Homely? Why an undershot bulldog is
a peacock, 'long side of you. w -
DUGAN: Ain’t I welcome? -
GOLDIE: You’re about as welcome as a rainy holi-
day. (Sits on sofa.) -
DUGAN: Say, Goldie, we’ve been almost more than
friends in the last two years.
GOLDIE: You mean almost friends. (Rising.) Never
more. Dugan, you know why I’ve been your go-be-
tween in the System. Because you promised to let
up on the Eel.
DUGAN: I’ll never let up on him. He's a crook.
GOLDIE: Well, what are you? (Turns L. away
from DUGAN.)
DUGAN: Don’t get sore, Goldie. You know I want
you for myself. (Puts his arms around GOLDIE’s waist.)
APPENDIX 569
GOLDIE: Well, you're wasting time. (Pulls savagely
away from him and crosses R.)
DUGAN: (Following GoLDIE R.) Am I? Well,
I’ll get you, or I'll send you both up for twenty
years.
GOLDIE: (Savagely into DUGAN's face.) Is that why
you had me steal that necklace?
DUGAN: Yes, if you want to know it, I’ve been try-
ing for two years to get something on you, and now
I’ve got you. -
GOLDIE: Well, suppose I squeal.
DUGAN: It’s my word against yours, the word of
an officer against a crook.
GOLDIE: Say, Dugan, if looks of contempt would
hurt a man’s feelings, I’d disable you with a squint.
(DUGAN goes L., getting necklace out of pocket; GOLDIE
is in panic for fear EEL will ring the bell, but she crosses
and sits on trunk.)
DUGAN: Goldie, this necklace will bring four thou-
sand dollars from a Buffalo fence, and if you’ll say
three words, “I love you,” the price is yours. Won't
you say them, Goldie? Just three words?
GOLDIE: (Thinks it over, then looks at DUGAN.)
Go-to-Hell.
DUGAN: (Going L. puts back necklace and takes
out red wallet, then comes C. to GoLDIE.) Well, how
does this strike you? Here's twenty thousand dollars.
It’s all yours for the asking. Twenty thousand dollars.
(Sits on trunk beside GoLDIE.)
GOLDIE: Gee, but you’re doing a land office business.
DUGAN: I’ve got no kick coming. Why say, I
can take care of you in real style. Why waste your
57O APPENDIX
time on the EELP I can make more money in a week
than he can steal in a year.
GOLDIE: That’s because you’re a better thief than
he is. (Rises and goes R.)
DUGAN: I wouldn’t say that. (Following GOLDIE
R.) Come on, Goldie (putting his arms around her,
with purse in front of her face), what’s the answer?
GOLDIE: (Apparently weakening.) Twenty thou-
Sand dollars! Gee, that’s a lot of money, and I could
live right. -
DUGAN: (Greedily, as though he has won her.) Sure
you could. I’d set you up like a Queen, and between
us we could milk the Tenderloin dry.
GOLDIE: But the Eel?
DUGAN: (Crossing L. and putting wallet away.)
I’ll attend to him! (Then to GOLDIE who has come L.)
Listen to this! Ten minutes after you two were turned
loose, an old man was beaten and robbed, not two
blocks from here. He never came to! (GOLDIE
backs R. in horror. DUGAN follows.) He died on his
way to Bellevue. Do you know who the murderer is?
I’m here to arrest him on the charge of murder.
GOLDIE: (In mad rage.) You lie, Dugan! Billy
said you’d frame him, but you won’t this time -
(GOLDIE flies at DUGAN as though to scratch his eyes
out, but he struggles with her and throws her to the floor L.)
No, Dugan, not murder, that would mean the chair!
(GOLDIE on knees pleading to DUGAN. Bell rings three
times, they both start. DUGAN puzzled and surprised,
and GOLDIE terror-stricken, wondering what to do. Then
the thought of the bell on the wall comes. Looking at
DUGAN with a forced smile and still on the floor.) Oh,
APPENDIX 57I
I wonder who that can be? (By the last two words she
is on her feet and makes a dash for the bell up L., but
DUGAN reaches it first.)
DUGAN: No, you don’t. I’m wise. “If I answer,
don’t come up.” (GOLDIE, in disgusted rage, goes
down to head of couch, followed by DUGAN.) Old stuff,
Goldie. Let him come, I want him. (Door slams off
stage. GOLDIE starts and DUGAN goes to door R. and
unlocks it. They both stand rigid. DUGAN with gun
in hand, while footsteps come nearer. As door opens
and EEL enters.)
GoLDIE: Look out, Billy! (DUCAN grabs EEL's
hand and throws him in the room and locks the door.
While he is doing this EEL runs across room over trunk
and disappears behind sofa. When DUGAN turns, he
can’t locate EEL and points gun up into bedroom.)
DUGAN: Hands up, Billy! Hands up! (He then
locates EEL behind sofa.) I won’t tell you again!
Hands up! (The EEL holds hands up and appears
behind sofa.) (GOLDIE is up C. behind trunk.) Goldie,
frisk him clean. (GOLDIE protests.) Come on! Come
on! (DUGAN points gun at EEL, and GOLDIE runs to
him and goes through his pockets. She finds tobacco bag
which she hands to DUGAN. He doesn’t take it, and she
drops it on floor.) Get to his gun pocket. Get to his
gun pocket. (GOLDIE hesitates, then goes to EEL's hip
pocket, where she finds a roll of money. She tries to put
it back but DUGAN sees it.) Come on, hand it over.
(GOLDIE appeals to the EEL who pantomimes to do so, and
she hands it to DUGAN.) This is the money he took
from the man he killed. (Putting money into red wallet
and returning wallet to pocket.)
572 APPENDIX
EEL: Do you think I’d frisk a stiff? Let me tell
you something, Dugan. (Throwing hat on floor.) You
staked me two years ago in the Pen, and then tried to
make me believe that Goldie was in on the frame.
You lied like a yellow dog, Dugan, and you know it.
Yes, I am a crook and a thief, and I’ve robbed a lot
of people, but I’m just a little bit above you, Dugan,
just a little bit above you. Because, I never took
money from a woman, and that’s part of your graft.
(DUGAN takes out gun as though to hit EEL with it.
GOLDIE grabs his arm and bites his hand and he drops
the gun. Noise begins off stage. GOLDIE runs to door
R. while EEL and DUGAN struggle. DUGAN throws EEL
off and goes toward window L. EEL sees gun on floor
R., runs and gets it, but GOLDIE prevents his shooting it.
The Police break in the door at this point. One catches
GOLDIE as she is running toward the window L. Another,
who comes through the window, catches the EEL. The
Inspector stands at door R., crowd back of him. DUGAN
comes down to him.)
DUCAN: Well, Inspector, I got him. IIc robbed
and croaked an old man. I got him with the goods on! .
INSPECTOR: Let these people go! (Pointing to
DUGAN.) There's your man, arrest him! (GOLDIE
and the EEL are released.)
DUGAN: Inspector, you’ve got nothing on me.
INSPECTOR: No? (Crossing to DUGAN.) Well, there’s
a dictagraph in this room (GOLDIE rushes into EEL's
arms.), and we’ve got everything on you, you dog.
You're a disgrace to all mankind. It is unclean curs
like you that have bred a cancer in the department,
and pointed the finger of suspicion at ten thousand
APPENDIX 573
honest policemen. But that cancer must be cut out,
and the operation begins now. Take him away.
(Policemen hand-cuff DUGAN, who struggles, then re-
signedly walks off, preceded and followed by police. The
INSPECTOR follows them, but stops and turns at door R.)
Well, Billy! (EEL and GOLDIE come C. and stand in
front of trunk.)
EEL: Well, Inspector?
INSPECTOR: If you’re going to live square, Stick to it.
(EEL takes GOLDIE’s hand.) I never want to see you
at headquarters again. (EEL drops his head and GOLDIE
puts her arm around him.) I won’t even need you
as a witness. The dictagraph has recorded all. (EEL
and GOLDIE pleased.) Good-night! (INSPECTOR exits,
closing door after him.)
EEL and GOLDIE: Good-night, Inspector! (They
both listen until his footsteps die off, and door slams.
Then EEL runs to door to listen, and GOLDIE sits dejectedly
on trunk.)
GoLDIE: Well, we’re broke again. (Tearfully.)
We can’t go West now, so there’s no use packing.
(The EEL goes stealthily to window L., looks out, pulls
dictagraph from wall, then comes down R. of GOLDIE
who is sitting on trunk and has watched him. He taps
her on the shoulder, taking DUGAN's red wallet out of
pocket.)
EEL: Go right ahead and pack! (GOLDIE looks
astounded, and begins to laugh.)
CURTAIN
First picture. (Both sitting on trunk counting money.)

A PERSIAN GARDEN
A MUSICAL COMEDY
IN ONE ACT
BOOKS AND T.YRICS BY
EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF
Author of “The Lollard,” “The Lady of the Press,”
“A College Proposition,” “Master Willie Hewes, or
The Lady of the Sonnels,” Etc., Etc.
MUSIC BY
ANATOL FRIEDLAND
Composer of “My Little Dream Girl,” “My
Sweet Adair,” Etc., Etc.
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF
SPECIAL WARNING
This musical comedy is fully protected in the United States
and all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Woolf’s work. Its
public performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for
professional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one infringing
the copyright in any way will be prosecuted under the copyright
law which privides for both civil and criminal penalties.
A PERSIAN GARDEN
CHARACTERS
(Order in which they appear.)
ROSE DUDLEY STANFORD
LETTY PHIL
BETTY DOWLEH
SHEIK ABIT MTRZAH NEHMID DUCKIN
MRS. SCHUYLER HAMILTON SCHUYLER
PAUL MORGAN
SCENE
The Rose Gardens of the American Legation in Persia —
the entrance to the building on left. Large Persian
jardinieres on right with a large Persian Rose Tree.
OPENING NUMBER
Rose: “The Girl in the Persian Rug.” After number
off stage is heard in old man’s voice: “Illa ou Rose
aboukar.” -
GIRLs: (Running up.) Oh — here comes the old
Sheik now. (Enter the old SHEIK ABU MIRZAH preceded
by Persian servant.)
ABU: Ah — ma Rosa Persh — ma waf to be — to-
morrow we marry, eh? (The SHEIK carries ear
trumpet.)
ROSE: (Running from him in alarm.) Oh, don’t
touch me — don’t — don't! (They are both yelling at
578 APPENDIX
each other as MRS. SCHUYLER enters first arch and sees
ROSE's actions — she is flashy — an ex-chorus girl —
married to the retiring consul.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: Say, tie a can to that duet.
What’s the matter?
ROSE: (Crossing to her.) Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, I
won’t marry him — I hate him!
MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, the poor old prune. (Crossing
to ABU, garrulously.) How are you, Sheikº Our little
ward, Rose, is so young and foolish! But I was just
that innocent when I was in the chorus When I
came out of it, believe me, I was a different woman.
(Enter Persian servant.) -
SERVANT: The new consul wants to know when we
are going to move out —
MRS. SCHUYLER: Not till after Rose's wedding
to-morrow. (ROSE utters exclamation of rage, slaps the
SHEIK’s face and exits.) I was just that emotional
until I’d been married a few times–Come, Sheik – my
husband won’t return from Tabris till this evening —
ioin me in a cocktail. (She illustrates drink in panto-
mime.) - -
ABU: (Understanding pantomime.) Yes! Yes!
(LETTY and BETTY go up to table and chair C.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: ' Mousta, two cocktails on my
back porch. Come, Sheik – Sheikl (Business with
girls.) This way to the dog house. (Takes hold of
chain on his ear trumphet and passes him in. Girls
have gone off.) Oh — and, Mousta—don't put any
cherries in — they take up too much room in the glass.
(She exits one way — Waiter, another.)
(MUSIC. Entrance of men.)
APPENDIX 579
PAUL: (Entering with DUDLEY.) Well, there are
some beautiful girls in our new Persian home — has
Phil brought our things from the boat? Phill Phill
(PHIL enters with all the luggage.)
PHIL: (Meekly.) Here I am, sir. —
PAUL: (As if brushing mosquitoes away.) Oh gee!
these Persian mosquitoes! (Finally kills one on his
own face.) -
PHIL: (Hungrily.) When are we going to have
lunch, sir? - -
PAUL: Well, there are several little things I want
you to do first. (Whacking him on one side of face.)
Another mosquito. -
PHIL: (Gratefully.) Oh, thank you, sir.
DUDLEY: Paul, you look as if you were mashed on
that Madison girl— (Sees mosquito on PHIL’s face.)
Another mosquito. (Whacks him on other side of face.)
PHIL: Oh, thank you, sir — I have never seen such
extreme kindness. (Both whack him this time — one
on each side of face.)
PAUL: Ho! Ho! Two of them this time.
PHIL: Probably twins. -
DUDLEY: I’ll go in and see when the retiring consu
will move out. -
PAUL: All right, and I’ll get a bite of luncheon
awhile. (DUDLEY exits.)
PHIL: (Hungrily.) Oh — are you going to have
your luncheon alone? (PAUL sees mosquito on PHIL —
is about to kill it – PHIL falls back.) Ah — let it live —
let it live.
PAUL: Now — you run in the house and take our
things out of the grips.
58o APPENDIX
PHIL: Is there any other little thing I can do for
you?
PAUL: Not till after I’ve had my lunch.
PHIL: Thank you, sir! (PHIL looks a starved look
at him — exits into house — stumbling over bundles.)
(ROSE is heard singing off-stage chorus of “My Little
Persian Rose” – enters humming.)
PAUL: (As he hears her singing.) It's Miss Mad-
ison — I know her sweet voice!
ROSE: (As she enters and sees PAUL, she stops singing,
embarrassed.) Oh, I didn’t know you were here.
(The music continues faintly in orchestra.)
PAUL: I’m not — I’m in heaven when I hear you
sing.
ROSE: Oh, I hope you don’t mean my singing kills
you.
PAUL: No — for then, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be in
heaven. What was that song?
Rose: An old Persian poet taught me the words.
PAUL: (Ardently.) Oh, how I love — those words.
Are you going back to America with Mr. and Mrs.
Schuyler?
Rose: (Sadly.) No, I must stay here in Persia.
PAUL: (Forgetting himself.) Hooray!
Rose: Ah — but you don’t know.
PAUL: Know what? -
RosB: Don’t ask me now — good day, sir. (She
courtesies and runs off.)
(Music in orchestra stops.)
PAUL: I wonder what she meant by that?
PHIL: (Rushing on.) I’ve taken out your things.
Now, may I eat? (Persian servant enters in haste.)
APPENDIX 581
SERVANT: Oh please, sir, the Sheik has drunk three
Cocktails, and Mrs. Schuyler says he is disgusting.
Quick, get someone to take him home.
PAUL: Phil — do you hear? The Sheik's disgust-
ing — take him home. (Servants exit.)
PHIL: (As he exits.) Is there any little thing I
can do for you?
PAUL: Not just now. (PHIL exits.) The melody
of that song haunts me. (He starts to hum it.) (PHIL
enters with SHEIK on his shoulders — struggles to get him
off. Finally exits with him. As he exits, MRS. SCHUYLER
enters first arch.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: I hope he gets the old fool home,
all right. (Sees PAUL.) Oho — it looks good to mother.
(Business of humming same song.) •.
PAUL: (Turning and seeing her, with great surprise.)
Agnes!
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Startled.) Mercy, where was I
Agnes?
PAUL: (Crosses to MRS. SCHUYLER.) Have you
forgotten — the summer I met you in Niagara
Falls?
MRs. SCHUYLER: Niagara Falls? I must have been
on one of my honeymoons — oh, yes – of course — Mr.
Morgan. (They shake hands.) You see, I’ve met so
many mushy men. (He sighs.) What makes you look
so unhappy?
PAUL: I’m in love with a girl.
MRs. SCHUYLER: Only one? Why so economical?
PAUL: Ah — I’m afraid you don’t know what real
love is.
MRs. SCHUYLER: Oh, yes I do! Real love is the
582 APPENDIX
kind that lasts after you’ve heard a man sleeping right
out loud. Who's the girl?
PAUL: Miss Madison.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Surprised.) Our Rose? Not on
your life. To-morrow, before we return to America,
she's to marry the Abu Mirzah, and nothing can pre-
vent it.
PAUL: (In horror.) She's being sacrificed to that
old mummy — I’ll kill him.
MRS. SCHUYLER: The doctors say he is so strong,
nothing can kill him, except his fondness for Persian
plums, and there is a mandate out inflicting death
upon any man who sends him any. (Rose enters.)
PAUL: (Crossing to her.) Oh, Miss Madison, I’ve
just heard -
MRS. SCHUYLER: Rose — go to the grape arbor at
once — I'll join you there presently. (DUDLEY enters.)
DUDLEY: Say, Paul — I — (Sees MRs. SchUYLER
— with surprise.) Lena — -
MRs. SCHUYLER: Du, “Allmächtiger Strohsach” –
where was I Lena?
DUDLEY: Have you forgotten, in Germany, Unter
den Linden? -
MRS. SCHUYLER: Germany? Oh, the man who
made love to me over a plate of frankfurters? Well —
well — wie geht's! Tell me, do you think I’ve grown -
stouter since the days when I was Lena? (PAUL
laughs.)
DUDLEY: Not a bit. (PAUL and ROSE laugh.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Seeing ROSE and PAUL in earnest
conversation.) Excuse me. (She crosses and grabs
ROSE.) Rose, there's some grape juice waiting for us
APPENDIX 583
in the grape arbor. (She sends ROSE off.) (Boys step
toward MRS. SCHUYLER.) Boys — later — when Rose
has gone, you may come and crush a grape with me
in the arbor. (She exits.)
PAUL: Aber nit! Dud, she's determined to keep
us apart — you must help me — go and grab her, and
run her off into the house. -
DUDLEY: Lena – not much – she once flung a
glass at my head.
PAUL: Well, then, where’s Phil? (Calls.) Phil —
Phill (DUDLEY calls also. PHIL rushes on.)
PIIIL: Am I going to eat?
PAUL: Quick, go and grab Mrs. Schuyler in the
grape arbor.
PHIL: Grab her in the grape arbor?
PAUL: (Pushing them off.) And run her into the
house. Quick. (He pushes PHIL off one way.) And
you run into the house and hold her there. (Rushes
DUDLEY into house.) I’ll run to the grape arbor to
join Rose when she's alone. (He exits.) (PHIL enters,
pushing MRS. SCHUYLER toward the house. They enter
from grape arbor.) - -
MRs. SCHUYLER: (Beating him with parasol.) The
idea! What’s the meaning of this? You little runtl
(Pushing him off.) (Adlib talk.) Who are you, any-
how? -
PHIL: (Turning and seeing her.) Maggie!
MRs. ScHUYLER: (As before.) For the love of the
Chambermaids’ Union, where was I Maggie?
PHIL: Don’t you remember when I was a “merry
merry” with you in the “Blonde Broilers’ Burlesque”
troupe? -
584 APPENDIx
MRS. SCHUYLER: Were you one of the Blonde
Broilers? -
PHIL: Sure, I was the fellow that came out in the
last act disguised as a bench.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Finally remembering him.) Oh,
you dear old Benchie! (They embrace.) And I used
to come in and sit all over you.
PHIL: That's how I came to fall in love with you.
MRS. SCHUYLER: A man always thinks more of a
woman when she sits on him.
PHIL: DO she?'.
MRS. SCHUYLER: She do.
PHIL: Come and sit on me now. -
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Coyly.) Oh, you fascinating devil.
PHIL: Ah, go on — ah, sit on me. (Business of
sitting — nearly flopping — finally getting on his knee.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: You’re not the bench you used
to be! . te
PHIL: You’re not the sitter you used to be.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Remember the night you let me
flop”
PHIL: I couldn’t get into my part at all that night.
I kept saying to myself: Phillip, be a bench, be a
bench; but when I felt you near me, all the benchiness .
left me. When you sat on me, I put my arms about
you, like this. (Does so.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah — how it all comes back to
me now! When you would put your arms about me, I
would close my eyes and make believe it was Otis
Skinner. (Business.)
PHIL: And then before all the crowd, I kissed you
so. (He illustrates as PAUL enters with ROSE from arbor.)
APPENDIX 585
PAUL: (Seeing PHIL and MRS. SCHUYLER.) Well —
(They break apart.) I’m surprised! --
MRs. SCHUYLER: (Works PHIL around to hide him
first, then turns him around to PAUL.) You wouldn’t be
if you were as used to it as I am.
PAUL: (Aside to PHIL.) What did I tell you to do?
(PHIL seizes MRS. SCHUYLER and runs her into house —
she saying: “What's the idea,” etc., till off.) (Sunset
falls upon scene.)
SoNG – PAUL and Rose – “My Little Persian
Rose.” (ROSE exits at end of song.)
TAUL: (Left alone.) I won’t let her narry him. (A
girl passes, crying out “Persian Plums—who will buy?”)
PAUL: Persian Plums — Mrs. Schuyler said the old
Sheik had such a passion for them, they might prove
his death. Here! Girl — let me have a basket.
(Hands her a roll of money.) There! (As he comes
down with plums, the girl exits.) But she said whoever
was caught sending him any would suffer the penalty
of death. (Gets idea and calls off.) Phil–Phil! (Moon-
light effect. As PHIL enters, anxiously, PAUL extends
the basket of plums to him.)
PHIL: (Taking plums, greedily.) Oh thanks, I was
starving—
PAUL: (Stopping him as he is about to eat.) Here —
here — they’re not for you. Quick — take them to
the palace of the old Sheik Abu Mirzah.
PHIL: But I left him asleep in his bed, sir.
PAUL: Well, place them where he’ll see them when
he wakes, and (ominously) don’t let any one catch you
with them, for the country is full of revolutionists and
it might mean death.
586 APPENDIX
PHIL: (Trembling.) My death! Is there any other
little thing I can do for you?
PAUL: No. (Several pistol shots are heard. PHIL
drops plums and starts to run into house. PAUL catches
him by the hair — business.) You coward! I’m sur-
prised! Go to the Palace of the Abu Mirzah. (He
places basket in PHIL’s hands.) Go!
(As PHIL backs off with plums, he bumps into a fierce
looking Persian who enters. PHIL starts and has comedy
exit. The Persian is the Emir Shahrud, who has dis-
guised himself as DowlFH the chef. DowlFH grinds
his teeth at PAUL, who runs off.)
(DowlFH sneaks over to house mysteriously — sees
someone coming, and then runs and hides behind rose-
bush.)
(Now, moonlight floods scene. MRS. SCHUYLER enters
in evening gown with LETTY and BETTY. Waiter enters
and sets two tables.)
MRs. SCHUYLER: Turn up the lights!
LETTY: Our last night in Persia.
MRs. SCHUYLER: I’ve ordered my “paflouka” out
here. (MRS. SCHUYLER crosses to rosebush and, DOWLEH
jumps out at her.) Mercy — how you scared me!
DOWLEH: Fatimal w
MRS. SCHUYLER: Now, I’m a cigarette!
Dowl EH: You are cruel to me — the noble Prince
of Persia, who just to be near you, disguised himself
as a cook. -
MRS. SCHUYLER: Prince, I eat your cooking —
that’s kind enough.
DOWLEH: (Business.) Yes, I love you so that one
day I hear a lady say you paint your face — I put a
APPENDIX 587
Secret poison in her food — she took one taste — in
ten Seconds, she die. - -
MRS. SCHUYLER: It serves her right for telling the
truth.
DowlFH: Come! Fly with me!
MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh Prince, I’ve flown so much in
my days, there isn’t another flap left in me. (Throws
him off.) Go — serve my “paflouka!”
DowlFH: You throw me down – very well — I will
be revenged. (Grinds his teeth in her ear.) Mmmm —
ha!
MRS. SCHUYLER: (With start, holding ear.) He bit
me. (The girls come down as DOWLEH goes off bumping
into DUDLEY, who enters in dress clothes—he swears at
DUDLEY, in Persian and exits.)
DUDLEY: (To MRs. SCHUYLER.) Oh Lena — if it’s
you that has made him mad, I’d advise you not to
taste any of his food again.
MRs. SCHUYLER: Why?
DUDLEY: I just heard he's under suspicion of having
put poison in a lady's food, which killed her in ten
Seconds.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Ten seconds! Then it was true.
(Waiter enters with “paflouka.”) Oh my beautiful
paflouka — and it smells so good.
DUDLEY: But Lena — you daren’t touch it unless
you get someone to try it first.
MRs. SCHUYLER: Will you?
DUDLEY: Excuse me. (She turns to the three — they
all decline.) º
MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, if heaven would only send
Some unsuspecting imbecile to taste my paſlouka for
588 APPENDIX
me — (PHIL backs on from grape arbor — looking to see
if he's being followed.) Heaven has sent it hither.
(She steps PHIL’s way. As he bumps into her, he starts.)
Hello!
PHIL: (After start.) Hello.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Why, what’s the matter?
PHIL: Oh, I’m faint — for food.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Aside to others.) Oh, it’s a
shame to do it. (To PHIL.) How would you like to
“paflouka” with me?
PHIL: (After business.) No — before I do anything
else, I must eat. •
MRS. SCHUYLER: To “paflouka” is to eat.
PHIL: Well — hurry — let’s do it.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (To waiter.) Now, Mousta —
place my “rakoush” before him.
PHIL: (As waiter places soup and roll before him.)
Oh, it looks like soup.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Crossing to him.) I always start
with something hot. -
PHIL: (Takes spoonful.) It is soup! (As he goes
for second spoonful, they hold his hand.)
MRs. SCHUYLER: (Counting.) One — two — three
— four — five — six — seven — eight — nine — ten
— (Looking at him.) How do you feel?
PHIL: (Completely puzzled.) Well, I can’t say I
feel just full yet.
DUDLEY: Go on, take a bite of roll.
PHIL: Thank you! (He takes one bite – as he goes
for second bite, DUDLEY holds his hand — as they all
count ten. Looking from one to another.) Say, what is
this — a prize fight?
APPENDIX 589
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Looking at him closely.) (DUDLEY
takes roll from PHIL.) It’s all right — he still lives — I
feel better now. t
*PHIL: I’m glad of that. (He starts to take another
spoonful of soup.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: Mousta, bring my rakoush. (Just
as PHIL gets spoon to mouth, MOUSTA grabs it out of his
hand and crosses with soup and roll to MRS. SCHUYLER,
saying to PHIL in Persian: “Rekkra milia suss.”)
PHIL: Say, isn’t there some mistake? I understood
that was my rakoush.
MRs. SCHUYLER: No, dear boy — it’s ours. (She
starts to eat.)
PHIL: I guess that’s what they call to paſlouka.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Oh, it tastes good.
PHIL: It sounds good. -
MRS. SCHUYLER: Now, Mousta, my bird and salad.
(He exits.)
PHIL: I hope the bird’s an ostrich. (He hears MRs.
SCHUYLER drink soup.) (Enter MoUSTA – crosses with
bird to MRS. SCHUYLER.)
MRs. SCHUYLER: No — place it before him.
PHIL: Yes — put it down — put it down.
MRS. SCHUYLER: No one can cook a bird like
Princey. -
PHIL: A bird? It looks like an insect! (He sees
them approaching him as before and grabbing the bird
ſin his hand starts to make off with it — they seize him
and throw him into chair.)
PHIL: (As DUDLEY snatches bird from him.) Say,
what kind of a game is this anyhow?
MRS, SCHUYLER: I’ll explain. The chef is enraged
590 APPENDIX
at me, and as he's under suspicion of having put poison
in a lady’s food that killed her in ten seconds
PHIL: (Jumping up in alarm.) Poison?
MRs. ScHUYLER: (With DUDLEY's help setting him
down again.) Yes, So we got you to try my food on
PHIL: Oh, I see — I’m the dog.
DUDLEY: Precisely. , Now go on — taste that bird.
PHIL: No, thanks — I’ve had enough.
ALL: (Together.) Go on — commence! (Business
of making him taste bird.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: One —
PHIL: (Finishing counting for her.) Two — etc. —
(To nine.) (As he reaches ten, he sneezes.)
MRs. SCHUYLER: I’m afraid to look. (Business
of PHIL tasting bird, then getting idea of pretending to
be poisoned, he commences to get a fit.) Help! Bring a
chair! (They finally get his feet on chair.) Well, we
got him on the chair anyhow.
DUDLEY: He's poisoned —
LETTY and BETTY: We’ve killed him.
MRs. ScHUYLER: Come on — let's beat it — (They all
run off. PHIL gets up to grab all the food, when DUDLEY
is heard off, calling “Lena.” — He flops back with a jump
to same dead position on floor. Finally gets up, grabs
all the food and exits. MRS. SCHUYLER re-enters.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: He's gone and he's taken all the
food with him. Quick, Mousta, clear away all these
things. (Paul enters.)
PAUL: Mrs. Schuyler, I’m really in love with Rose.
(DowlFH enters now in Persian dress clothes.)
DOWLEH: Ah, Fatima — can I see you alone?
(DUDLEY enters.)
APPENDIX 59I
DUDLEY: Oh, Lena, could I see you alone?
MRS. SCHUYLER: If any more turn up, I’ll scream.
(LETTY and BETTY run on, carrying a note.)
LETTY: An important letter.
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Opening it.) From my husband.
BETTY: I’m afraid it’s bad news. -
MRS. SCHUYLER: Bad news! P'raps he's coming
home earlier than I expected. (Reads:) “Dear Becky!”
ALL THE MEN: Beckyl
MRs. SCHUYLER: Yes, we met at Arverne! “I
have heard of your carrying on with four old sweet-
hearts. Had it been one, I would have killed him
quietly and let the matter drop, but four are too many.
I shall kill them all and divorce you. Expect me at
ten. — Hamilton.” Oh, gentlemen, this is awful —
Hamilton is unlike most men — he means what he
says —
PAUL: (Following.) But Surely you can find a
few more to help us defend ourselves.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Ah, you don’t know Hamilton.
When he’s angry, an army couldn’t withstand him.
DowlFH: If your husband kills, I will kill him.
MRs. SCHUYLER: Ah, that doesn’t worry me — but
he may cut my allowance. * -
DUDLEY: (Following.) We must save you from
Such a fate.
MRS. SCHUYLER: Save me? You could! If there
was one among you brave enough to say: “I am the
only guy here ever loved your wife. Kill me, but
don’t cut her allowance.”
MEN: (Going up stage.) Excuse me! (Waiter enters
with straws in glass, from arbor.)
592 APPENDIX
MRs. SCHUYLER: Ah — straws — the very thing—
gentlemen. (Takes them out of glasses.) Come —
choose — whoever has the shortest Straw is to show his .
courage and die for me — who is it? Who is it? (PHIL
enters — they see him — drop straws – and seize him.)
PAUL: Phill
MEN: Ah! Welcome to our city. Welcome! Wel-
come! -
PHIL: Is there any little thing I can do for you?
MRS. SCHUYLER: Yes. My husband will be here
at any moment to kill these gentlemen and divorce me.
You can save us all by saying you are the only old
sweetheart of mine here.
PHIL: Excuse me!
MRs. SCHUYLER: Oh, Benchie! Think of your
bench days when I used to sit on you —
PHIL: If you’d only sit on me now, I’d feel safer —
PAUL: Now don’t be a fool. When he comes, say:
“I am the only man here ever had an affair with your
wife. What have you to say about it?”
ALL: (Together.) Repeat that now.
PHIL: (In terror.) I am the only man here ever
had anything to do with your wife — just like that.
(An automobile horn heard.) -
GIRLs: Oh, here he is — (They run off. Business of
men holding PHIL and finally rushing off as an enormous
figure in Persian “get-up” enters.)
MRS. SCHUYLER: (Picking up PHIL.) Benchie, it’s
Sweet and accommodating of you to die for these three
gentlemen – a favor I shan’t forget. (From behind the
Persian giant steps a midget in swell citizen clothes) —
“It’s Hamilton — (Mrs. Schuyler picks him up and kisses
APPENDIX 593
him.) Oh, Hamilton — I’m so glad you’ve come.
(Crossing to Persian.) And Nehmid Duckin — it is an
honor to have the prime minister with us. I’ll go for a
stroll with you and come back when (Turning to hus-
band) you’re through with this gentleman.
NEHMID: (In deep voice.) Is he the one?
MRS. SCHUYLER: Yes — you’re looking great.
(Takes his arm.) .
NEHMID: So are you! (In deep tones to PHIL.)
And now sir, you explain. (Exits with Mrs. Schuyler.)
(PHIL stands in terror, thinking a powerful foe stands
behind him. In reality, it is the midget husband. PHIL
tries to talk. At first he cannot.)
PHIL: (After comedy biz.) I have a wife with an
affair — I mean an affair with your wife — what have
you to say about it? -
MR. SCHUYLER: (In piping voice.) I’m very angry.
(PHIL starts — looks up to see where voice comes from —
doesn’t see anyone—walks and bumps into HAMILTON –
rolls up his sleeves.)
PHIL: (Bravely.) What have you to say about it?
(Slaps his hand over his mouth.) Don’t say a word—
I’ve been waiting for something like you to show up.
(He backs HAMILTON off — his hand on his face.)
FINALE: (During this, Rose enters in bridal costume
to be wed to SHEIK. Servant enters announcing his death
from eating Persian Plums.
SONG: “Who Sent These Persian Plums?” .
Then, final meeting and happiness of lovers and comedy
characters and picture as “My Little Persian Rose” is
repeated for
CURTAIN

MY OLD
KENTUCKY HOME
A BURLESQUE IN ONE ACT
BY
JAMES MADISON
Author of “Love Blossoms,” “Cohen from Bridgeport,”
“Before and After,” Monologues for Wat M. Wills,
Joe Welch, Etc., Etc., Author and Publisher
“Madison’s Budget.”
SPECIAL WARNING
This act is fully protected by copyright in the United States and
all foreign countries, as is all of Mr. Madison's work. Its public
performance, either in whole or in part, for amateur or for pro-
fessional purposes, is strictly prohibited and any one infringing
the copyright in any way, will be prosecuted under the copyright
law which provides for both civil and criminal penalties.
MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME
CHARACTERS
OLD BLACK JOE . . . . . . An ex-slave, eighty years of age
ARTHUR MAYNARD. . . Owner of a Kentucky Plantation
VIOLA MAYNARD. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His Daughter
CHARLIE DOOLITTLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her Sweetheart
EDGAR TREMBLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . With a heart of Stone
MRS. ALICE WILSON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A frail widow
HARVEY SLICK. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An adventurer
FELIX FAKE... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His assistant
CHLORINDA SOURGRASS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A lady of color
CISSIE, LOTTIE, FANNIE,. . . . . . . . . . . .
TILLIE, GOLDIE DORA, . . . . . . . . . . . . Invited Guests.
MAGGIE, MABEL, GERTIE. . . . . . . .
SCENE: Garden of ARTHUR MAYNARD's plantation.
Landscape backing. Set house at left with practical
veranda (if possible). Wood wings at right. Set tree
wp stage at right behind which old pocketbook con-
taining a number of greenbacks is concealed. Bench
ſin front of tree. Pedestal up stage at left, dog-house
at right. f
DISCOVERED: (At rise of curtain an invisible
CHORUS is heard singing “My Old Kentucky
Home.” Then GOLDIE and other invited girl friends
come on stage and sing a MEDLEY OF POPULAR
CHORUSES. At conclusion of medley, VIOLA
enters from house.)
598 APPENDIX
VIOLA: Girls, do you know why I’ve invited you
all today?
FANNIE: To tell us that you’re engaged to be
married.
VIOLA: Nothing so fortunate. This is my father's
birthday, and I’ve arranged a little celebration in his
honor, and I want you all to participate.
LOTTIE: We won’t do a thing but enjoy ourselves.
VIOLA: But there's one dark cloud, girls.
(CHLORINDA enters from house.)
TILLIE: Yes, here comes the dark cloud now.
VIOLA: The dark cloud I refer to is Mrs. Wilson,
who calls herself a widow and who has been hang-
ing around father for the last few months in the
hope that he’ll make her Mrs. Maynard number
tWO.
DORA: The hussy!
MAGGIE: The cat!
VIOLA: I wouldn’t care if she loved father, but I
Suspect that all she’s after is his money.
CHLORINDA: His mazuma.
GERTIE: Get on to the African Jew!
LOTTIE: Any woman that wants to fool your
father has to get up early in the morning.
VIOLA: Mrs. Wilson sometimes looks as if she
stays up all night. (All girls laugh.)
VIOLA: If she only knew that the old plantation
is mortgaged up to the roof, I guess she wouldn’t be so
anxious about marrying father. -
VIOLA: (To CHLORINDA.) Well, Chlorinda, what
brings you out here? * *
CHLORINDA: I jes’ came out to say dat refreshments
APPENDIX 599
am ready in de house if de young ladies am thirsty or
hungry. -
(CHORUS by ladies of company, then they exit into
house. VIOLA remains on stage.)
(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from R. and stealing up
softly behind VIOLA, puts his hands over her eyes.)
CHARLIE: Guess who it is?
VIOLA: Is it a human being?
CHARLIE: (Effeminately.) Why, I like that! Of
course, it is.
VIOLA: It’s Lottie.
CHARLIE: No.
VIOLA: Then it's Fanny.
CHARLIE: No.
VIOLA: Then it must be Lillie.
CHARLIE: No; you silly goose, it’s Charlie.
VIOLA: (In disgust.) I thought you said it was a
human being? - -
CHARLIE: Just for that you must sit down on the
bench and give me a kiss. .
VIOLA: Wait a minute till I go into the house and
get a veil. The sunlight hurts my eyes. (She exits
at L.)
CHARLIE: (Moving towards R.) That will just give
me time to go into the grove and Smoke a cigarette.
(Exits.) -
(Enter CHLORINDA from house. She has a green veil
on, which hides her face; she sits down on bench.)
CHLORINDA: Ebery wench on dis plantation has
got a fellah 'ceptin me, so I went to a fortune tellah
an’ she said Ah should sit on dis heah bench ebery
day and ah nice fellah would come along. Well, I'se
6oo APPENDIX
been doing it now for ovah a month an’Ah habent seen
no nice fellah yet; in fact, Ah habent seen a fellah of
any kind. -
(Enter CHARLIE from R.)
CHARLIE: Ah, there, my Sugar plum.
CHLORINDA: Ain’t he jes' too sweet for anything?
CHARLIE: So you love your baby?
CHLORINDA: 'Deed I do, honey.
CHARLIE: Then lay your beautiful head on my
manly breast and let me pour Sweet words of love into
your ear.
CHLORINDA: Go to it, kiddo. (Business of CHARLIE
petting CHLORINDA.)
CHARLIE: And now, ain’t you going to give me a
nice, sweet kiss, darling?
CHLORINDA: Help yourself to as many as you want.
(CHLORINDA lifts veil just enough to let CHARLIE touch
her lips. He does not, however, notice that she is colored,
and is busily engaged hugging and kissing her, as VIOLA
enters from house; she is very much surprised.)
VIOLA: Charlie Doolittle, what does this mean?
(CHLORINDA raises her veil, then laughs and runs into
house.)
CHARLIE: (Discovering his error.) Why, my dear,
it’s all a mistake; I thought — that is to say — er
VIOLA: I’m not surprised at your embarrassment.
The idea of making love to our colored cook the minute
my back is turned.
CHARLIE: If you'll just let me explain
VIOLA: Explain nothing. I’m going to tell my
father how you’ve insulted me. He doesn’t like you,
anyhow, and if he ever catches you on the premises,
APPENDIX 6or
your life won’t be worth 23 cents in Confederate money.
(VIOLA exits into house.) :
CHARLIE: Ain’t she the exasperating creature! I
declare, she’s made me so peevish, I could crush a
grape. The idea of telling me her father doesn’t like
me. Why shouldn’t he like me? (ARTHUR MAYNARD
appears in back-ground unnoticed by CHARLIE.) But,
anyhow, I’m not afraid of her father. Why, if he were
to stand before me right at this moment, I’d
MAYNARD: (Stepping suddenly to the front.) Well,
what would you do?
CHARLIE: I’d run like the devil. (Runs off stage at R.)
MAYNARD: I’m going to keep that disgusting fellow
off the premises if I have to notify the dog-catcher.
(Notices pedestal.) Ever since a tornado knocked
that statue off its pedestal, this garden has looked
rathcr bare, so I’ve put an advertisement into the
newspaper, offering five hundred dollars for a suitable
statue to take its place.
(Mrs. Wilson enters from R. and coughs gently to
attract MR. MAYNARD’s attention.)
MAYNARD: (Turning around.) Why, Mrs. Wilson!
MRS. WILSON: Good morning, Mr. Maynard!
(Both talking at the same time.) This is indeed a sur-
prise. I did not expect to see you as early as this.
How are you feeling? Good? That’s good. Lovely
day, isn’t it?
MAYNARD: I have often wanted to ask you, Mrs.
Wilson, where is your husband? -
MRS. WILSON: I don’t know.
MAYNARD: What’s that, you don’t know where
your husband is?
602 APPENDIX
MRS. WILSON: No; you see, he is dead
MAYNARD: (Laughingly.) I understand. Did he
leave you much?
MRs. WILSON: Yes, nearly every night.
MAYNARD: No, no; I mean, did he leave you any
property?
MRS. WILSON: Yes, five small children, and believe
me, Mr. Maynard, it’s hard to lose a husband when
you have five children. Do you think I ought to get
another? . - -
MAYNARD: No; I think five are enough.
MRs. WILSON: I see you will have your joke.
MAYNARD: Are you fond of horses?
MRS. WILSON: I love horses.
MAYNARD: Well, come down to the stable and I’ll
show you some of the finest thoroughbreds you ever
looked at. (They both exit Right I.) -
(Enter HARVEY SLICK and FELIX FAKE at centre;
HARVEY carries a heavy blackthorn walking stick.)
HARVEY: Now remember, you’re a statue.
FELIX: You’re a liar.
HARVEY: Don’t call me a liar.
FELIX: Then don’t call me a statue.
HARVEY: Don’t you understand, the guy what owns
this plantation offers five hundred dollars for a statue
and I’ve come to get the money.
FELIX: But what have I got to do with all this?
HARVEY: You’re the statue.
FELIX: Go on; I never was a statue in my life.
HARVEY: All you have to do is to get on that
pedestal and stand perfectly still.
FELIX: Oh, I just have to stand perfectly still.
APPENDTX 603
HARVEY: That's the idea. Don't move a muscle.
FELIX: But suppose a fly hops on my nose?
HARVEY: Don’t notice it.
FELIX: Or suppose some bad boys throw stones
at me? .
HARVEY: Why, my boy, simply don’t notice it.
FELIX: I don’t think I want the job.
HARVEY: Why, of course you do. The figure
you are to represent is called “Ajax defying the
lightning.”
FELIX: Oh, a jackass defying the lightning.
HARVEY: No, Ajax; but look sharp, for here comes
Mr. Maynard now. Quick, jump on the pedestal.
(HARVEY hands stick to FELIX, who quickly jumps on
pedestal and poses in funny position, as Maynard
enters from right.) .
MAYNARD: (To IIARVEY.) Well, sir, what can I
do for you? - g
HARVEY: You advertised for a statue, I believe.
MAYNARD: I did, sir.
HARVEY: Well, I think I’ve got just what you want
– “a jackass defying the lightning.”
MAYNARD: What’s that?
HARVEY: Excuse me, I mean “Ajax.” (Aside, and
pointing to FELIX.) That son of a gun has got me
talking that way now. -
MAYNARD: I’ll be pleased to look at your statue.
HARVEY: (Pointing to FELIX on pedestal.) Here it
is, Sir. .
MAYNARD: (After surveying it critically.) What
material is the statue made of? - -
HARVEY: Brass — pure brass.
604 APPENDIX
MAYNARD: I think the statue will suit me except
that the nose is a bit too long. |
HARVEY: Well, you can easily take off a piece with
a hammer and chisel.
MAYNARD: Why, so I can. But here’s another ob-
jection. Suppose thieves come around some night
and steal the statue?
HARVEY: All you have to do is to bore a hole through
one of its legs, pass a chain through it and fasten
to the pedestal. (FELIX works up this situation by
comic mugging.)
MAYNARD: A very good idea. How much do you
want for the statue?
HARVEY: Five hundred dollars.
MAYNARD: That’s a lot of money, but I think I
shall buy it anyhow. -
HARVEY: Well, just hand over the five hundred,
and the statue is yours. (MAYNARD and HARVEY move
to a position in front of the statue. MAYNARD takes a
roll of bills from his pocket and in handling them, drops
one. As he hends forward to pick it up, FELIX pokes
him with the stick, knocking him over frontwards. MAY-
NARD thinks HARVEY has kicked him.)
MAYNARD: (To Harvey.) What do you mean by
kicking me, sir?
HARVEY: Why, I didn’t kick you.
MAYNARD: If I hadn’t set my heart on owning the
statue, I’d call the deal off right now.
HARVEY: (Starting to get a bit angry.) I tell you I
didn’t kick you. - -
MAYNARD: Well, don’t do it again. Here's your
money. (MAYNARD hands HARVEY roll of bills, who
APPENDIx 605
counts it and lets the last bill fall on stage. In stooping to
pick it up, FELIX pokes HARVEY, causing him to fall over
frontwards. HARVEY thinks MAYNARD has kicked him.)
HARVEY: (To MAYNARD.) A joke's a joke, but this
is going entirely too far.
MAYNARD: What on earth are you talking about?
HARVEY: You just kicked me. -
MAYNARD: I didn’t.
HARVEY: You did.
MAYNARD: I didn’t.
FELIX: Shut up.
MAYNARD and HARVEY: (Both talking together.)
Don’t tell me to shut up. I didn’t tell you to shut up.
Well, somebody did.
HARVEY: I’m awful thirsty. -
MAYNARD: I’ll go into the house and get you a
glass of wine.
FELIX: Well, hurry up about it.
MAYNARD: (Thinking HARVEY spoke.) I never
heard such impudence in all my life. Why, the idea!
(Exits into house.)
IFELIX: Yes, the idea.
HARVEY: Well, I got the old fool's money all right.
FELIX: Where’s my share?
HARVEY: (Laughing.) Now, who ever heard of a
statue having mo-non-ey. -
FELIX: But you promised me half of the five hun-
dred dollars.
HARVEY: Well, suppose I did; you don’t expect
me to keep my word, do you? You’d be a pretty look-
ing sight, carrying two hundred and fifty dollars
around with you. Why, I’d have to lay for you in
606 APPENDIX
Some dark alley and take it away from you. I want
you to understand that I’m the wise guy of this com-
bination and if you want any of my money, you've
got to take it away from me. (HARVEY has taken a
position just in front of FELIX, who is still on the pedestal.
FELIX slips his hand slyly into HARVEY's pocket and
takes all the money.) -
HARVEY: (Moving to centre exit.) Well, so long,
Felix, so long, and remember, Felix, that money is the
root of all evil.
(HARVEY exits.)
FELIX: (Holding up roll of bills.) Well, I’ve ex-
tracted some of the root all right, all right. (FELIX
exits at right.)
(Big SINGING NUMBER by VIOLA and ladies of com-
pany.)
(Then, MR. MAYNARD enters from the house.)
GoLDIE: In behalf of all your friends who are as-
sembled here today, Mr. Maynard, I want to congratu-
late you on your birthday anniversary.
MAYNARD; Ah, thank you, ladies, I appreciate your
good wishes very much.
DORA: I hope you will live to be a hundred years
old. * :
MAYNARD: (Laughing.) I hope so — but why should
the Lord take me for a hundred when he can get me
at 7op
(OLD BLACK JoE comes ambling in from Right to
melody of “Old Black Joe.”)
MAYNARD: Well, Old Black Joe, how are you
feeling today?
JoE: Well, Massa, I’se got rheumatiz in the lef
APPENDIX 607
shoulder — an’ de lumbago in mah back — an' I don’
hear very well — an’ ma teeth am troubling me Some —
an’ mah eyes is going back on me — an’ mah Stomach
ain’t as good as it used to be — but otherwise, Massa,
I’se feelin’ as sound as a nut. . -
MAYNARD: What can I do for you, Old Black Joe?
JOE: Massa, my mind ain’t as clear like it used
ter be, but der’s one thing I ain’t never forgotten, and
dat is your birthday university, so I’d feel powerful
flattered if you would accept these few flowers what I
picked myself. (Hands MAYNARD small bouquet.)
MAYNARD: Of all the many gifts I will receive to.
day, Old Black Joe, there is none that I will treasure
more highly than these flowers.
JOE: Ah, thank you, Massa, thank you. .
(OLD BLACK JoE exits to melody of “Old Black Joe.”)
GOLDIE: I never could understand, Mr. Maynard,
why you always make such a fuss about that nigger,
Old Black Joe. . .
MAYNARD: Old Black Joe may have a black skin,
but he’s got a white heart and I’ll cherish and protect
him as long as I have a roof over my head.
GOLDIE: One would think that he had done you
Some great favor, Mr. Maynard. -
MAYNARD: He more than did me a favor. He
once saved my life.
CHORUS OF GIRLs: Tell us about it. t
MAYNARD: (To melodramatic music.) It was during
the days of ’61, when brother fought against brother
and the Blue was striving to overpower the Grey. On
this very plantation, while hardly more than a lad, I
was attacked and badly wounded and would have fallen
608 APPENDIX
into the hands of the enemy if it had not been for
Old Black Joe, who, at the risk of his own life, carried
me to a place of safety and nursed me back to health
again.
CHORUS OF LADIES: Three cheers for Old Black Joe.
(SONG by Ladies — all exit.)
(Enter CHARLIE at centre.)
CHARLIE: I’m crazy about Viola, but I know she
will never marry me unless her father gives his consent.
If I only knew a way to win him over. Ah, here comes
Chlorinda. Perhaps she can help me.
(Enter CHLORINDA from house.)
CHARLIE: Hello, Chlorinda.
CHLORINDA: Miss Sourgrass, if you please.
CHARLIE: What’s the matter with Chlorinda?
CHLORINDA: I only allows gentlemen I'se well
acquainted with to call me Chlorinda.
CHARLIE: Well then, Miss Sourgrass, do you want
to earn a dollar? - -
CHLORINDA: What’s the matter with it?
CIIARLIE: There’s nothing the matter with it.
You see, I’m in love with Viola. Maynard, but her
father doesn’t like me. Now, if you can fix things up
so her father will accept me as a son-in-law, I will give
you a dollar. -
CHLORINDA: Jes leave it to me and in half an hour
he'll be so tickled to see you that he’ll put his arms
around your neck and kiss you.
CHARLIE: That will be splendid.
CHLORINDA: The dollar, please.
CHARLIE: I never pay in advance.
CHLORINDA: No dollar, no kisses.
APPENDIX 609
CHARLIE: (Handing her a dollar.) Oh, very well,
but see that you do as you promise.
CHLORINDA: Leave it to me.
(CHARLIE exits at right.)
(MR. MAYNARD enters from house.)
CHLORINDA: Did you hear what happened to Charlie
Doolittle? g
MAYNARD: I suppose he took a pinch of Snuff and
blew his brains out. ;
CHLORINDA: Goodness no; guess again.
MAYNARD: No, I won’t. I’m not at all in-
terested in that addlepated, monkey-faced nincom-
poop. He's after my daughter, but he shall never
marry her. Why, if wives could be supported for
fifty cents a year, that empty-headed specimen of
vacuous mentality couldn’t even keep a cock-roach
from starving.
CHLORINDA: Don’t say dat, massa, for Charlie's
uncle has jes' died an’ left him fifty thousand dollars.
MAYNARD: (Very much astonished.) How much did
you say? -
CHLORINDA: Five hundred thousand dollars.
MAYNARD: Five hundred thousand dollars?
CHLORINDA: Yes, sah; five million dollars?
MAYNARD: I always did like Charlie.
CHLORINDA: But you jes’ said : -
MAYNARD: Never mind what I just said. I was
only joking. Here’s a dollar to keep your mouth shut.
(MAYNARD hands CHLORINDA a dollar.)
CHLORINDA: Yes, sah.
MAYNARD: I consider Charlie Doolittle an excep-
tionally bright young man, and even if he didn’t have
6Io APPENDIX
a dollar in the world I would still consider him an ex-
cellent match for my daughter.
CHLoRINDA: But you jes’ said he couldn’t even
support a cock-roach.
MAYNARD: Never mind about that. Here’s another
dollar. (Hands CHLORINDA another dollar.) And now,
if you see Charlie Doolittle, tell him I want to see
him right away.
CHLORINDA: Yes, sah. (She exits at right.)
MAYNARD: (Looking at empty pedestal.) I wonder
what became of the statue? I guess Chlorinda carried
it into the barn because it looks like rain. (Enter
CHARLIE from right. He coughs to attract MAYNARD's
attention.)
CHARLIE: Are you very angry at me, Mr. May-
nard?
MAYNARD: Angry at you, Charlief Why, how can
you only imagine such a thing? Have a cigar.
CHARLIE: (Accepting the cigar with misgivings.) It
isn’t loaded with dynamite, is it?
MAYNARD: Certainly not. I give you the cigar
because I like you, Charlie, and I always have liked
you. -
CHARLIE: It’s very kind of you to say that. (During
these speeches, FELIX has sneaked back on the pedestal,
still carrying the blackthorn stick.)
MAYNARD: You have only to say the word and you
can have anything I’ve got. -
CHARLIE: Can I have your daughter?
MAYNARD: Why certainly, Charlie. Just say the
word and she's yours.
CHARLIE: It all seems like a dream.
APPENDIX. 6II
(Business of FELIX hitting MAYNARD on hat with stick
and smashing it in. MAYNARD thinks CHARLIE did it.)
MAYNARD: Now see here, Charlie, as my future
son-in-law, I want you to feel perfectly at home here,
but there’s such a thing as carrying things too far.
CHARLIE: . Why, Mr. Maynard, what do you mean?
MAYNARD: I saw you Smash my hat just now, Char-
lie.
CHARLIE: I didn’t Smash your hat.
MAYNARD: You didn’t smash my hat?
CHARLIE: No; I didn’t Smash your hat.
MAYNARD: Well, somebody did. However, as I
was about to remark, you have but to name the day and
I’ll give my daughter a wedding that will
(FELIX smashes CHARLIE’s hat with Stick. CHARLIE
thinks MAYNARD did it.)
CHARLIE: Now, see here, Mr. Maynard, I may have
straw-colored hair and wear a number fourteen collar,
but I object — I very seriously object to having any-
body crush my hat. -
MAYNARD: I didn’t crush your hat.
CHARLIE: I saw you. -
MAYNARD: (Getting very angry and shaking fist in
CHARLIE’s face.) You say you saw me crush your hat?
CHARLIE: (Backing water.) Well, I thought I saw
you.
MAYNARD: (Mollified once more.) Well, that’s dif-
ferent. However, it really isn’t worth talking about.
You know that all I want in this world is to see you
happy. * *
CHARLIE: Then perhaps you can lend me fifty
dollars. -
6I2 APPENDEX
§
MAYNARD: Lend you fifty dollars? Why certainly.
Here you are. (Hands CHARLIE the money.) No doubt,
you’ll be able to pay me back when you receive the
money that was left you in the will.
CHARLIE: What will?
MAYNARD: Why, the will of your uncle.
CHARLIE: What uncle?
MAYNARD: What uncle? Why, your millionaire
uncle who just died and left you all his money.
CHARLIE: I never had a millionaire uncle and no-
body has left me a penny.
MAYNARD: (Wiping perspiration off his face.) What;
then you are not a rich man?
CHARLIE: Rich; why, that fifty dollars you just
gave me is every penny I’ve got in this world.
MAYNARD: (Getting excited.) Oh you fraud, you
deceiver, you disgraceful beggar; I’ve a great mind
to (Raises fist as if to strike CHARLIE.)
CHARLIE: (Rushing off at right.) Assistance. Assist-
ance! (HARVEY comes in at centre and stands in back-
ground; FELIX is still on pedestal.)
MAYNARD: There is only one way to keep that dis-
gusting dude off the premises. I’ll get a savage dog
if it costs me a thousand dollars. (Exits into house.)
HARVEY: (To FELIX, who steps off pedestal.) You
hear that?
FELIX: Hear what?
HARVEY: He wants a savage dog.
FELIX: Well, suppose he does?
HARVEY: You’re the dog.
FELIX: What?
HARVEY: You’re the dog.
APPENDIX 613
FELIX: Say, what’s the matter with you anyhow?
First I was a statue and now I’m a dog. Next I Sup-
pose I’ll be an automobile or a bag of peanuts: . . .
HARVEY: That's all right. Pass yourself off as
the dog and we’ll divide the thousand dollars between
liS. 3.
FELIX: Yes, you’ll get nine hundred and ninety-
nine and I’ll get the balance.
HARVEY: Nonsense; I’ll only take what is right.
FELIX: And I’ll have to take what is left.
HARVEY: For the love of Mike be reasonable. This
is the chance of a lifetime.
FELIX: I’ll impersonate the dog if you get me some-
thing to eat.
HARVEY: What do you want to eat for?
FELIX: I’m starving.
HARVEY: All right, it’s a bargain. You impersonate
the savage dog and I’ll see that you’re well fed.
(Both exit at centre.)
(Enter MRs. WILSON, from right.) -
MRS. WILSON: I must force a proposal of marriage
out of Mr. Maynard today yet. It’s true I don’t
love him, but he’s got lots of money, and money is
everything in this world.
(Enter CHLORINDA from house, crying.)
MRs. WILSON: Why Chlorinda, what’s the matter?
CHLORINDA: I’se just been down to the cemetery.
MRS. WILSON: Well, you ought to laugh.
CHLORINDA: Why, why should I laugh?
MRS. WILSON: It’s the people who are in the
Cemetery and cannot get out who ought to be crying.
CHLORINDA: Dat’s all very well, Mrs. Wilson, but
614 APPENDIX
I jes' copied some of de inscriptions off de tombstones,
and I tells you I feels awful mournful about it.
MRs. WILSON: I don’t see why you should feel sad,
Chlorinda. -
CHLORINDA: You don’t? Well, jes’ listen to some
of dese. (Reads from a stack of cards, one tombstone in-
scription being written on each card.)
“Here lies the body of Michael Burke, who lost his
life while dodging work.” . . .
“I loved my mother, I hated to leave her, but what
can you do with the typhoid fever?”
“Mamma loves Papa, and Papa loves women;
Mamma Saw Papa with two girls in swimmin’.”
“Here lies the mother of 28; there might have been
more, but now it’s too late.”
“Shed a few tears for Matty Mack, a trolley car hit
her a slap in the back.”
“Here lies my poor wife much lamented. She’s
happy and — well, I am contented.”
“Here lies the body of Martin Brown. He was
blown in the air and he never came down.”
“Willie Greene, sad regrets — aged 9 — cigarettes.”
(Enter M.R. MAYNARD from house.)
MAYNARD: Won’t you step inside the house, Mrs.
Wilson — I mean Alice – and have a glass of birthday
punch with the other ladies? -
MRS. WILSON: Delighted, I’m sure. (Exits into house.)
CHLORINDA: Won’t I get punch, too? -
MAYNARD: Yes, if you don’t get back to your
work, you’ll get a punch in the jaw in about another
minute. - - -
MAYNARD: I hope some one comes along soon with
APPENDIX 6I5
a savage dog. I’d rather go to Charlie Doolittle's
funeral than to a picnic. (Looks off toward house.)
Ah, there is Mrs. Wilson. How beautiful she is. I
think this is my golden chance to propose to her.
(Exits into house.) . -
(Enter HARVEY at centre, pulling FELIX in by chain
fastened around his neck. FELIX now wears a dog’s head
and body.) -
HARVEY: (Aside to FELIX.) Now remember, all you
have got to do is to act like a Savage dog, and after I
collect the money from Mr. Maynard, you’ll get yours.
FELIX: (Removing dog’s head.) I hope I don’t get
it where I’ve got this collar. - . -
HARVEY: Oh, you’ll get it all right.
FELIX: (Starting to leave stage.) I’m going home.
HARVEY: (Catching him by chain.) Here, here,
where are you going? -
FELIX: I don’t like the way you say, “Oh, you’ll
get it.” -
HARVEY: Oh, that’s all right. And now whatever
you do, act like a dog.
(FELIX tries to nip HARVEY's leg, but he springs aside
and says.) Delighted. Why, you’re commencing to
feel like a dog already.
FELIX: When do I get something to eat?
HARVEY: Very shortly now.
(Sees MAYNARD coming from house.) Quick, put on
your dog's head, for here comes Mr. Maynard.
(Enter MAYNARD.)
MAYNARD: (To HARVEY.) Well, sir, and what can
I do for you? -
HARVEY: Your servant told me you were looking
6I6 APPENDIX
for a ferocious dog and I think I have an animal that
will just suit you.
MAYNARD: Yes, I do want a Savage dog, and if you
have such a beast we can do business together.
FELIX: (Aside.) Now, I’m a beast.
(HARVEY kicks at FELIX to get him to shut up.)
HARVEY: (Pointing to FELIX.) This animal is so
ferocious that if anyone should come across his path
at night when he is unchained he would tear him limb
from limb. .
MAYNARD: (Noticing FELIX.) Is this the dog?
HARVEY: (Rubbing his hands.) Yes, sir, and if you
searched the world over, you couldn’t find a more
savage high-bred animal. He is full of animation. -
MAYNARD: (Scratching himself.) I think he is full
of fleas. But, tell me, what do you ask for him?
HARVEY: One thousand dollars.
MAYNARD: That’s a lot of money.
HARVEY: Not for this dog.
MAYNARD: Perhaps I ought to explain to you what
I want the dog for.
HARVEY: I daresay you feel lonely for a companion.
MAYNARD: No, sir; I want a dog for my daughter,
sir, to keep off a worthless, good-for-nothing dude who
comes pestering around here after her because he knows
that her father has a lot of money, and thinks that if
he marries his daughter he can move to Easy Street.
HARVEY: I see; he is looking for a soft snap.
MAYNARD: That’s it, but I’ll fool him. I want a
dog that will chew him up into pieces if he ever dares to
set his foot inside my garden gate again.
HARVEY: My dog will suit you exactly.
APPENDIX 617
MAYNARD: But a thousand dollars is an awful lot
of money. -
HARVEY: Not for this animal. In the first place,
you never have to feed him. -
MAYNARD: What’s that! You mean to say that
this dog goes without food?
HARVEY: That’s the idea exactly.
(FELIX shows signs of disgust. He can work up some
funny business by taking off his mask whenever HARVEY
and MAYNARD are talking together and quickly slipping
ſit on again when he thinks their attention is directed
towards him.)
MAYNARD: Why, it’s preposterous. You don’t sup-
pose I would keep a dog around the house and never
feed him?
HARVEY: I tell you this dog never eats.
MAYNARD: Why, that’s cruelty to animals!
HARVEY: Well, if you feel that way about it, you
might go out into an empty lot and get Some rusty
tomato cans and a few pieces of Scrap iron and feed
those to him.
MAYNARD: Does he enjoy such things? .
HARVEY: Certainly he does. In fact, if you were
to put a choice piece of juicy tenderloin steak before
him right now that dog wouldn’t touch it.
MAYNARD: A most remarkable animal.
FELIX: (Taking off his dog mask, aside.) I’m going
home. -
HARVEY: (Aside, to FELIX.) Shut up or you'll spoil
everything.
(FELIX makes a grab for MAYNARD’s leg.)
MAYNARD: Help! Help! Your dog is killing me.
618 APPENDIX
HARVEY: Don’t get frightened, Mr. Maynard, he
is perfectly domesticated and will eat off your hand.
MAYNARD: Yes; he’ll eat off my leg, too, if I’m not
careful. * -
HARVEY: (To FELIX.) Lie down, Otto, lie down, I
say. (Kicks FELIX, who lets go of MAYNARD’s leg.)
MAYNARD: (Going quickly out of harm’s way, yet
delighted.) Just the dog I want – a fine animal. I
am sure with him around that Charlie Doolittle won’t
dare to show his face on the premises.
HARVEY: Better buy him while you have the chance.
MAYNARD: (Taking roll of bills from pocket and
counting out the money.) I think I will. Here's the
thousand dollars.
HARVEY: And now the dog is yours.
(MAYNARD fastens dog to exterior of dog-house.)
MAYNARD: I hope I have better luck with him than
I had with my other dogs.
HARVEY: Why, what do you mean?
FELIX: (In back-ground.) Yes, please explain your-
self. -
MAYNARD: (Chuckling.) Well, you see my neigh-
bors ain’t very fond of dogs and as fast as I get one
they either poison him or shoot him.
FELIX: (In back-ground.) I can see my finish.
HARVEY: Well, it won’t make any difference with
this dog. You can fill him full of bullets and he won’t
even feel it.
FELIX: (Aside.) No, I’ll be dead.
HARVEY: (Continuing.) And as for poisoned meat,
why, he would rather have Paris green or strychnine on
his meat than salt.
APPENDIX 619
MAYNARD: (Chuckling.) Certainly a remarkable
animal. And now, if you will excuse me a minute, I
will go into the house and tell my daughter about the
dog. (He exits into house.)
HARVEY: (Gleefully.) The scheme worked beauti-
fully and I am just a thousand dollars ahead.
FELIX: (Indignantly.) What do you mean by
telling him that I eat tin cans and scrap iron?
HARVEY: Why, that was only a little joke on my part.
FELIX: Oh, it was a joke, was it? And suppose the
neighbors fire their pistols at me and riddle me with
bullets, what then?
HARVEY: Why, simply don’t notice it. Anyhow,
don’t complain to me, you’re the dog, not I, and if the
neighbors kill you, that’s not my funeral.
FELIX: I can see myself in dog heaven already.
And how about my share of the money?
HARVEY: The what?
FELIX: The money. The dough, the mazuma.
HARVEY: The money? Since when do dogs carry
money? Ha, ha! That’s a good joke. A very good
joke. (Exits at R. 2.)
MAYNARD: (Re-enters from house.) And now to see
if I can’t make friends with the dog.
(FELIX barks furiously at MAYNARD as soon as he
comes near.)
MAYNARD: He is just the animal to keep Viola’s
lover away. I will call her out, and show her the
dog. (Calls off to house.) Oh, Viola! (Dog snaps at
MAYNARD as latter passes him.)
VIOLA: (From the doorstep of house.) What do you
want, father? -
62o APPENDIX
MAYNARD: I want to show you the new dog I
bought. (Dog barks furiously.) See if you can make
friends with him. *
(VIOLA approaches FELIX, who leans his head affec-
tionately against her and puts his arm around her waist.)
VIOLA: He seems to like me all right, father.
MAYNARD: I cannot understand it.
VIOLA: Perhaps he doesn’t like men.
FELIX: (Aside.) No; I ain’t that kind of a dog.
VIOLA: I wonder if the dog is hungry?
MAYNARD: I’ll go into the house and get him a
bone. (Exits into house.)
(FELIX starts rubbing his dog's head against VIOLA’s
hip. She screams and exits into house.) -
(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from Right.)
CHARLIE: I haven’t seen Viola for half an hour, so
I think I’ll serenade her.
(Starts in singing chorus of song, “Only One Girl in
This World for Me.”) -
(FELIX howls accompaniment. CHARLIE sees dog,
who tries to grab him.) - -
CHARLIE: I’ll get a pistol and shoot the beast.
FELIX: Gee, but he's got a nasty disposition!
CHARLIE: I’ll return in two minutes. (Exits at:
right.) 3. -
FELIX: (Unfastening catch that holds him to dog-
house.) And I will be gone in one minute. (Exits at
Centre.)
(MR. MAYNARD and VIOLA enter from house.)
MAYNARD: Viola, I am worried.
VIoLA: What’s the matter, father? .
MAYNARD: I am afraid that Old Black Joe's mind
APPENDIX 62I
is beginning to weaken. Sometimes he sits for hours
babbling about the old plantation as it existed in the
days of ’61.
VTOLA: How strange!
MAYNARD: Only last week a celebrated doctor as-
sured me that if Old Black Joe could but gaze once
more on the old plantation as it looked before the
War, his mental powers would come back to him as
sharp and clear as ever. -
VIOLA: I have an idea.
CHARLIE: (Appearing suddenly from Right.) Well,
pickle it, because it’s going to be a hard Winter.
(MAYNARD starts to chase CHARLIE, who quickly exits.)
MAYNARD: (To VIOLA.) What is your idea, daugh-
ter?
VIOLA: I propose that all the girls dress themselves
as pickaninnies and indulge in the sports and pastimes
of the South before the War, so that Old Black Joe will
think he is once more among the scenes of his boyhood
days. -
MAYNARD: A great idea — and we’ll put it into
execution at once.
(A PICKANINNY NUMBER BY THE GIRLS
LED BY WIO.L.A. When the pickaninny number is over,
“Old Black Joe.” ENTIRE COMPANY DRESSES
THE STAGE and forms itself into picturesque groupings.
Selections by a colored quartette can also be appropriately
tntroduced.)
(Song, “Old Black Joe,” by OLD BLACK JoE, company
joining in the chorus.)
JOE: Bless me, am I dreaming, or do I see once more
de old plantation?
622 APPENDIX
MAYNARD: (Cordially.) The very same, Joe, the
very same. -
JoE: Why, it seems, Massa, as if a heavy load is
lifting from mah mind and de memory of things dat
I’se forgotten dese fifty years am coming back to me.
VIOLA: Three cheers for Old Black Joe! (Entire
company gives cheers.)
MAYNARD: And now, ladies and gentlemen, on the
occasion of my birthday, I also have the honor to an-
nounce that Mrs. Wilson has this day consented to
become my wife.
(MRS. WILSON steps forward from house and bows to
assembled guests in a triumphant way; the guests coldly
return her bow.) ge
(EDGAR TREMBLE enters from Centre.)
MAYNARD: What can I do for you, Mr. Tremble?
TREMBLE: Just one thing, and that is to give me
the money you owe me. The mortgage I hold on your
plantation for $50,000 is due today and, unless you
hand over the money right away, I’ll turn you out
bag and baggage.
MAYNARD: (Pleadingly.) Won’t you give me a
few days longer to try and raise the money? -
TREMBLE: Not a day, not an hour. I must have
the money at once or out you go.
MAYNARD: (Wringing his hands.) I am a ruined
man! (Turning to MRS. WILSON.) But at least I will
have the consolation of a true and loving companion.
(MAYNARD reaches out for her hand, but she draws it
away.) Why, what does this mean, Alice?
MRs. WILSON: I fear, Mr. Maynard, that I was
never cut out to be a poor man’s wife, so I ask you to
APPENDIX 623
release me from my engagement. (Walks off stage at .
Right accompanied by the hisses of the guests.)
TREMBLE: (To MAYNARD.) As you evidently haven’t
got the $50,000 to pay the mortgage, the plantation
becomes mine and I now order you all off the premises.
OLD BLACK JoE: Not so fast.
TREMBLE: (To Joe.) What do you mean by butting
in, you black devil? (Sarcastically.) Perhaps you’ve
got the $50,000 to pay the mortgage?
OLD BLACK JoE: No, sah, I ain’t got no money, but
somethin’ in mah memory tells me dat I know where
some money is hidden.
MAYNARD: (In surprise.) Why, what do you mean,
Old Black Joe?
VIOLA: Yes, explain yourself.
OLD BLACK JoE: Well, sah, jes' after de War broke
out your father went and hid $50,000 where de Union
soldiers couldn’t find it.
MAYNARD: (Imploringly.) Can’t you remember
where the money was hid, Joe?
OLD BLACK JoE: Let me think, Massa, let me think.
VIOLA: Yes, Joe, try and remember.
OLD BLACK JoE: (With a sudden burst of light in
his eyes.) I remembers now. He hid the money in
dat old tree over dere.
(VIOLA rushes over to tree accompanied by several of
the guests.)
TREMBLE: I hope you don’t place any faith in the
silly fairy stories of this doddering old nigger.
VIOLA: (Pulling an old and worn pocketbook from
behind the trunk of the tree.) Here it is! Father, here
it is! (She runs to her father and hands him the pocket-
624 APPENDIX
book. He eagerly takes out the contents, a big roll of
bank bills, and hastily counts them.)
MAYNARD: It’s fifty thousand dollars and the old
plantation is saved, thanks to Old Black Joel (To
JOE.) Let me grasp your hand. (Shakes OLD BLACK
JoE by the hand.)
CHARLIE: (Who has sneaked on the scene from R. 2.
To JoE.) Yes, give us your flipper, Joe.
HARVEY: (Who suddenly appears on the scene and
shakes JoE’s hand.) It’s all right, Joe; you wait for
me after the show and I’ll buy you some horseradish
ice cream and a fried cigarette sandwich. -
MAYNARD: Now that the plantation remains, I
invite you one and all to join me in a Fried 'Possum
and Sweet Potato Dinner.
FELIX: (Who also appears on the scene, carrying his
dog’s head in his hand.) Thank heavens, I’ll get some-
thing to eat at last. g
CHORUs of VoICEs: Three cheers for Mr. Maynard!
MAYNARD: And don’t forget Old Black Joe, for it
was through him that I have been able to save
“My OLD KENTUCKY HOME.”
(Final Chorus by entire company.)
CURTAIN
GLOSSARY
ACT IN ONE. — An act playing in One (which see). . .
AD LIB. — Ad libitum — To talk extemporaneously so as to
pad a scene or heighten laughter. .
AGENT, WAUDEVILLE. — The business agent for an act.
APRON. — That part of the stage lying between the footlights and
the curtain line. - .
ARGOT. – Slang; particularly, stage terms.
ASIDE. — A speech spoken within the sight and hearing of other
actors, but which they, as characters in the act, do not “hear.”
AUDIENCE-LEFT. — Reverse of stage-left (which see).
AUDIENCE-RIGHT. — Reverse of stage-right (which see).
BACK OF THE HOUSE. — Back stage; the stage back of the curtain.
BACKING. — A drop, wing, or flat used to mask the working stage
when a scenery-door or window is opened. .
BACKING, INTERIOR. — Backing that represents an interior.
BACKING, ExTERIOR. — Backing that represents an exterior.
BARE STAGE. – Stage unset with scenery.
BIG-TIME. — Circuits playing two shows a day.
BIT, A. — A successful little stage scene complete in itsell.
A small part in an act.
Book OF A MUSICAL COMEDY. — The plot, dialogue, etc., to
differentiate these from lyrics and music.
Book AN ACT, To.—To place on a manager's books for playing
contracts; to secure a route. -
BooKING MANAGER. — One who books acts for theatres.
BOOSTER. — See “PLUGGER.”
BORDER. — A strip of painted canvas hung above the stage in
front of the border-lights to mask the stage-rigging.
BordER-LIGHT. — Different colored electric bulbs set in a tin
trough and suspended over the stage to light the stage and scenery.
Box SET. — A set of scenery made of “flats” (which see) lashed
together to form a room whose fourth wall has been removed.
626 GLOSSARY
BREAKING-IN AN ACT. — Playing an act until it runs smoothly.
BUNCH-LIGHT. — Electric bulbs set in a tin box mounted on a
movable standard to cast any light — moonlight, for instance —
through windows or on drops or backings.
BUSINESS, or BUS., or BIZ. — Any movement an actor makes on
the stage, when done to drive the spoken words home, or “get over”
a meaning without words.
CENTRE-DOOR FANCY. — An interior set containing an ornamen-
tal arch and fitted with fine draperies.
CHOOSER. — One who steals some part of another performer's
act for his own use. - -
CLIMAx. — The highest point of interest in a series of words or
events — the “culmination, height, acme, apex.” (Murray.)
CLOSE-IN, To. — To drop curtain.
COMEDY. — A light and more or less humorous play which ends
happily; laughable and pleasing incidents.
COMPLICATION.—The definite clash of interests which produces
the struggle on the outcome of which the plot hinges.
CRISIS. — The decisive, or turning, point in a play when things
must come to a change, for better or worse.
CUE. — A word or an action regarded as the signal for some other
speech or action by another actor, or for lights to change, or some-
thing to happen during the course of an act. -
CURTAIN.- Because the curtain is dropped at the end of an
acL – Llle ſiliisli. -
DIE. – When a performer or his act fails to win applause, he or
the act is said to “die.”
DIMMER. — An electrical apparatus to regulate the degree of light
given by the footlights and the border-lights.
DRAPERY, GRAND. — An unmovable Border just in front of the
Olio and above Working Drapery.
DRAPERY, WoRKING. — The first Border; see “BoRDER.”
DROP. — A curtain of canvas painted with some scene and running
full across the stage opening. -
DUMB ACT, or SIGHT ACT. — Acts that do not use words; acrobats
and the like.
ExPOSITION. — That part of the play which conveys the informa-
tion necessary for the audience to possess so that they may under-
stand the foundations of the plot or action.
GLOSSARY 627
ExTERIOR BACKING. — See “BACKING, ExTERIOR.”
EXTRA MAN, or WOMAN. — A person used for parts that do not
require speech; not a regular member of the company.
FANCY INTERIOR. — The same as “Centre-door Fancy”
(which see). - º
FARCE. — A play full of extravagantly ludicrous situations.
FIRST ENTRANCE. — Entrance to One (which see).
FLASH-BACK. – When a straight-man turns a laugh which a
comedian has won, into a laugh for himself (see chapter on “The
Two-Act”).
FLAT. — A wooden frame covered with a canvas painted to match
other flats in a box set.
FLIPPER. – Scenery extension — particularly used to contain cur-
tained entrance to One, and generally set at right angles to the
proscenium arch (which see).
FLIRTATION ACT. — An act presented by a man and a woman
playing lover-like scenes.
FLY-GALLERY. — The balcony between the stage and the gridiron,
from where the scenery is worked.
FLYMEN. — The men assigned to the fly-gallery.
FOUR. — The stage space six or more feet behind the rear bound-
aries of Three.
FRONT OF THE House. — The auditorium in front of the curtain.
FULL STAGE. — Same as Four.
GAG. — Any joke or pun. See “PoſNT.”
GENRE. — Kind, style, type.
GET over, To. — To make a speech or entire act a success.
GLASS-CRASH. — A basket filled with broken glass, used to imitate
the noise of breaking a window and the like.
GO BIG. – When a performer, act, song, gag, etc., wins much
applause it is said to “go big.”
GRAND DRAPERY. — See “DRAPERY, GRAND.”
GRIDIRON. — An iron network above the stage on which is hung
the rigging by which the scenery is worked.
GRIP. — The man who sets scenery or “grips” it.
HAND, TO GET A. — To receive applause.
HousE CURTAIN.—The curtain running flat against the proscenium
arch; it is raised at the beginning and lowered at the end of the
performance; sometimes used to “close-in” on an act.
628 GLOSSARY
INTERIOR BACKING. — See “BACKING, INTERIOR.”.
JoG. — A short flat used to vary a set by being placed between
regulation flats to form angles or corners in a room.
LASH-LINE. – Used on flats to join them tightly together.
LEAD-SHEET. — A musical notation giving a melody of a popular
song; a skeleton of a Song.
LEGITIMATE. – Used to designate the stage, actors, theatres, etc.,
that present the full-evening play.
MELODRAMA. — A sensational drama, full of incident and making
a violent appeal to the emotions. º
MUGGING. — A contortion of the features to win laughter, irre-
spective of its consistency with the lines or actions.
OLIO. — A drop curtain full across the stage, working flat against
the tormentors (which see). It is used as a background for acts in
One, and often to close-in on acts playing in Two, Three and Four.
ONE. — That part of the stage lying between the tormentors and
the line drawn between the bases of the proScenium arch.
OPEN SET. — A scene composed of a rear drop and matching wings,
and not “boxed” – that is, not completely enclosed. See “Box
SET.” - -
PALACE SET. — Palace scene.
PART. — Noun: the manuscript of one character's speeches and
business; the character taken by an actor. Verb: to take, or play,
a character.
PLAY UP, To. —To pitch the key of a scene high; to play with
rush and emphasis. - -
PLUGGER. — A booster, a singer who sings new songs to make
them popular.
PoſNT. — The laugh-line of a gag (see “GAG”), or the funny ob-
servation of a monologue.
PRODUCE, TO. — To mount a manuscript on the stage.
PRODUCER. — One who produces plays, playlets, and other acts.
PROPERTIES. — Furniture, dishes, telephones, the what—not em-
ployed to lend reality — scenery excepted. Stage accessories.
PROPERTY-MAN. — The man who takes care of the proper-
ties. &
PROPs. – Property-man; also short for properties.
PROSCENIUM ARCH. — The arch through which the audience
views the stage.
GLossARY 629
RIGGING, STAGE. – The ropes, pulleys, etc., by which the scenery
is worked. w
RIPPLE-LAMP. — A clock-actuated mechanism fitted with ripple-
glass and attached to the spot-light to cast wave-effects, etc., on or
through the drops. -
RouTE.—A series of playing dates. To “route” is to “book”
acts. -
RouTINE. – Arrangement. A specific arrangement of the parts of
a state offering, as a “monologue routine,” or a “dance routine.”
SCENARIO. — The story of the play in outline.
SET. — Noun: a room or other scene set on the stage. Verb: to
erect the wings, drops, and flats to form a scene.
SET OF LINEs. – Rigging to be tied to drops and other scenery to
lift them up into the flies,
SIGHT ACT. — See “DUMB ACT.”
SINGLE MAN – SINGLE WOMAN. — A man or woman playing
alone; a monologist, solo singer, etc. -
SLAP-STICK BUSINESS. — Business that wins laughs by use of
physical methods. -
SMALL-TIME, THE.-The circuits playing three or more shows
a day. -
Sound-EFFECTS. – The noise of cocoanut shells imitating horses’
hoof-beats, the sound of waves mechanically made, and the like.
SPOT-LIGHT. — An arc-light with lenses to concentrate the light
into a spot to follow the characters around the stage.
STAGE-BRACE. — An implement used with stage-screws to clamp
flats firmly to the floor.
STAGE-CENTRE. — The centre of the stage.
STAGE-LEFT. — The audience's right.
STAGE-MANAGER. —One who manages the “working ” of a
show behind the scenes; usually the stage-carpenter.
STAGE-RIGGING. — See “RIGGING, STAGE.”
STAGE-RIGHT. — The audience’s left.
STRIKE, To. — To clear the stage of scenery.
STRIP-LIGHT. — Electric bulbs contained in short tin troughs, hung
behind doors, etc., to illuminate the backings.
TAB. — The contraction of “tabloid,” as burlesque tab, musical
comedy tab. -
TALKING SINGLE. — A one-person act using stories, gags, etc.
63o GLOSSARY
THREE. — The stage space six or more feet behind the rear
boundaries of Two.
TIME. — Playing engagements. See “BIG-TIME,” “SMALL-TIME.”
TORMENTORS. – Movable first wings behind which the Olio runs,
fronting the audience.
TRAP. — A section of the stage floor cut for an entrance to the scene
from below.
TRY-OUT. — The first presentation of an act for trial before an
audience with a view to booking.
Two. — The stage space between the Olio and the set of wings
six or more feet behind the Olio. g
Two-A-DAY. — Stage argot for vaudeville.
WING. — A double frame of wood covered with painted canvas
and used in open sets as a flat is used in box sets; so con-
structed that it stands alone as a book will when its covers are
opened at right angles.
WooD-CRASH. — An appliance so constructed that when the handle
is turned a noise like a man falling downstairs, or the crash of a
fight, is produced.
WooD-SET. — The scenery used to form a forest or woods.
WORKING DRAPERY. — See “DRAPERy, WORKING.”
WoRK OPPOSITE ANOTHER, To. — To play a character whose
speeches are nearly all with the other.
GENERAL INDEX
A
Act in One, II, 64, 96.
Acting vs. material, 243, 254,
265-268.
Action, IoS, II 2, 197, 225-227,
25I, 270, 289-290,
“After the Shower,” by Louis
Weslyn, 137, 307, 428-429;
Text of, Appendix, 457-474.
ALBEE, E. F., 5, 14.
“Alexander's Ragtime Band,”
3I4, 330, 336–337.
AMERICAN PLAY CO., 405.
Apron of Stage, 27.
ARCHER, WILLIAM, 194, 196.
ARISTOTLE, 188, 190, 191, 2Io-
2II, 226.
ARMSTRONG, JAMES J., 406.
“Art of Flirtation, The,” 97,
Io9, IIo, II3-II4, II6, II9,
I2O, I 23-I24, I25, I27-I3I,
428; Text of, Appendix, 445–
456.
ASQUITH, MARY, 405.
“Associated Sunday Magazine,
The,” ro2-roa, II4-115.
B
BAKER, GEORGE PIERCE, 163.
Ballad, The (see Song, Popular).
Bare Stage, 30.
BARRIE, SIR JAMES M., 6, 145,
248.j
BARRY, TOM, 218.
BARRYMORE, ETHEL, 6, 145.
BASSEL, OLIVER, I.
BECK, MARTIN, 5, 144.
BEETHOVEN, LUDw1G von, 183.
BELASCO, DAVID, 265.
BERLIN, IRVING, xvi, 321, 322,
323, 324, 326, 330; “Alex-
ander's Ragtime Band,” 336–
337; “SweetItalian Love,”339–
34o; “Oh, How that German
Could Love,” 341–342; “When
I Lost You,”347–348, 355, 374.
BERNHARDT, SARAH, 6, 26, 144.
BERNSTEIN, LOUIS, xvi, 333.
“Billboard, The,” 14, 408.
BLACK, ALEXANDER, xvi, 196,
258-259. -
BLACK, WINIFRED, 351–352.
“Blackmail,” by Richard Hard-
ing Davis, 161, 167, 221, 292,
429; Text of, Appendix, 513–
536. -
BLANCHARD, C. M., 406.
Blending, Monologue, 78; Two-
act, II2, I29.
Booking Acts, Methods of, 411,
415, 417-42O, 4:23-425.
632
INDEX
BoucICAULT, DION, 90.
BRADY, WILLIAM. A., 406.
BREVITY, (See Compression).
BROWN, PortER EMERSON, “In
and Out,” I49, 166, 292, 402.
BRUNETIERE, FERDINAND, IQ2-
I94, 195. t
BULWER-LYTTON, EDWARD,
“Richelieu,” 200.
BURKE, BILLIE, 406.
Burlesque, Ioo, I47.
Burlesque Acts, 142.
Burlesque Tab, 316–319, 404,
43o; Text of “My Old Ken-
tucky Home,” Appendix, 595–
624.
Business, Stage, Two-act, 98–
Io8, III, 126; Playlet, 261–
275.
ByRNE BROTHERs, “Eight Bells,”
I42.
C
CALVá, MME., 26.
CARROLL, HARRY, 324, 337.
CARUS, EMMA, 6.
CASEY, PAT, 406.
CASTLE, GEORGE, 5.
Centre-door Fancy Set, 46; Dia-
grams of, 50-54.
Characterization, 72, 97, 119,
123-124, 155; Playlet, 242–
244, 282-283.
Characters, Two-act, II 7–121;
Playlet, 233-246.
Character Sketch, The, 147.
Chooser, The, 75, 93-95.
Chorus (See Song, Popular).
CLARK, EDWARD, I61, 430, 537.
CLARK, WILLIAM M., 31.
“Clipper, The,” 407-408.
COHAN, GEORGE M., IoA-Io'7,
235; “Hello Broadway,” 315;
43O.
Comedian, Nut, 92; Comedian
of Two-act; 118–121.
Comedy (See Humor). Playlet,
IóI, 200-202, 253–257, 270–
272, 276-279; C. of Musical
Comedy, 305-307; Text of
“The Lollard ” Appendix,
495-5 I:2.
Comedy Act for two women, 135.
Compression, Monologue, 74–76;
Two-act, II2; Playlet, 155,
289-290.
CONROY AND LEMAIRE, 7.
Consistency of Dialogue, 253.
Copy-acts, 94-95.
Costumes, Musical Comedy,
3OO-3ol.
CRESSY, WILL, “The Village
Lawyer,” 234-235, 238, 256–
257.
Curtain-raiser, The, 145-I46.
D
DARCY, AND WOLFORD, 405.
DAVIS, HARRY, 5. -
DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING, xv-
xvi; “Blackmail,” 161, 167,
22I; Appendix, 429; Text of
“Blackmail,” Appendix, 513–
536.
DAZIE, MLLE., 248.
DENNISON, T. S., 408.
DENVIR, ARTHUR, xvi; “The
Villain Still Pursued Her,”
INDEX
633
142-143, 16o, 217, 429; Text
of, Appendix, 475-494.
Detective Drama, The, 162–163.
Diagrams, Stage of Keith's
Palace Theatre, N. Y., 31;
Fancy Interior No. 1, 5o;
Fancy Interior No. 2, 51;
Fancy Interior No. 3, 52;
Fancy Interior No. 4, 53;
Fancy Interior No. 5, 54;
Ritchen Set No. 1, 55; Kitchen
Set No. 2, 56; Wood or Gar-
den Set, 57; Manuscript Copy,
387, 388. -
Dialect, Use of, 254.
Dialogue, Two-act,
Io9-II2, II9–I2I,
Playlet, 247–26o.
DOLLY, YANSCI, 6.
DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR ConAN,
“Sherlock Holmes,” 163.
Drama, 162, 187–188, 204–205;
Law of the, 192-197.
Dramatic, The, 182-205.
Dramatic instinct, 179, 183–184.
Dramatic treatment, 171–172.
Dressing a scene, 273. -
DREw, M.R. and MRs. SYDNEY,
I49. -
Io'7–Io8,
I23-I33;
E
Short-Story,” 23, 155, 159,
EDWARDS, GUs, 310.
“Eight Bells,” I42.
Ensemble, The musical comedy
(See Musical Comedy; also,
Burlesque).
Entertainer, 65–69.
Entrance, The, 272, 280.
ESENWEIN, J. BERG, xvi; In-
troduction, xvii; “Writing the
*
251–252; “The Art of Versi-
fication,” 352.
Exit, The, 272, 280.
Exterior Set, Diagram, 57.
Extravaganza Acts, 142.
F
Farce, 160.
“Feel” of Vaudeville material,
The, III, 3Io. .
Finish, The, Monologue, 88–90;
Two-act, 131–132; Playlet,
2I9-222, 254–257, 285; Sur-
prise, 223; Musical Comedy,
3oo, 3I2; Popular Song, 373,
376.
FISCHER, FRED, 346.
FITCH, CLYDE, 23.
Flash, The T)ramatic, 190, 198,
2OI-2O2, 204, 209, 219.
Flash, Vaudeville, Io, 237, 299.
Flash-back, The Two-act, 120–
I2 I.
Flirtation, Two-act, The, 136–
137; Text of “After the
Shower,” Appendix, 457–474.
FOGARTY, FRANK, xvi, 7,70,74, 91.
Four, 29.
Fox, HARRY, 6.
FRENCH, SAMUEL, 408.
FREYTAG, GUSTAv, 218.
FRIEDLAND, ANATOL, 321, 324,
327, 343. | “.
FRIGANZA, TRIXIE, 6.
FROHMAN, CHARLEs, 185.
FROHMAN, DANIEL, 267–268.
Full stage, 29. -
Furniture, Stage, 58.
634
INDEX
G
Gag, The monologue, 74–76, 84-
85.
Gag-line, The, I3o.
Garden Set, 57.
“German Senator, The,” 71, 72,
73, 78, 83–84, 87–88, Io9–
IIo, 254, 399-400, 428; Text
of, Appendix, 433-443.
GILBERT, L. WOLFE, xvi, 321,
324; “My Little Dream Girl,”
343, 368–369, 372.
Girl Act, The (See Musical
Comedy).
GOETHE, 192.
GoTTLIEB, GEORGE. A., xvi,
7–12.
GRANVILLE, TAYLOR, xvi; “The
System,” I61, 174–175, 430;
Text of “The System,” 537–
573; “The Yellow Streak,”
229.
GRAY, THOMAS J., xvi, 3Io.
“Green Book Magazine, The,”
xv. 326, 408. º
H
HAMILTON, CLAYTON, I86, 194–
I95.
HAMMERSTEIN, OSCAR, 5.
HARRIS, CHARLES K., xvi, 221–
323, 333; “When It Strikes
Home,” 342, 367–368.
HART, JoSEPH, xvi,
4O6.
HART, MAx, 406.
HENLEY, W. E., 16.
HENNESSY, DANIEL F., xvi, 5.
7, 3OO,
HoBART,
4O2.
HoFFMAN, AARON, xv, 30,
“The German Senator,” 71,
72, 73, 78, 83, 87, Io9, 254,
4oo, 428; Text of “The
German Senator,” Appen-
dix, 433–443. “The Art of
Flirtation,” 97, Io9, IIo,
II3-II4, II6, II9–I2O, I 23-
I25, 127-131, 428; Text
of “The Art of Flirtation,”
445-456.
HOFFMAN, GERTRUDE, 7.
HOPKINS, ARTHUR, xvi, 7, 151,
4O6.
HOPKINS, EDWIN, xv.
HowARD, BRONSON, 199; “One
of Our Girls,” 267.
Humor, 71–72; Monologue, 73;
Two-act, Io2–107; Playlet
(See Playlet, The). -
HYAMS and McINTYRE, 7.
GEORGE W., 166,
I
Impersonator, “Original Talk,”
92.
Infringer, The, 93 (See
Chooser).
Incongruity, 71. - * ,
INTERNATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF
STAGE EMPLOYEES, 41.
Intoxication, Use of, on Stage,
IO5.
J
JACKSON, JOE, 248.
JEFFERSON, JOSEPH, 144.
INDEX
635
E.
KAUSER, ALICE, 405.
KEITH, B. F., 4, IoS, 277.
KEITH's, B. F., Circuit, 407.
KEITH's PALACE THEATRE,
N. Y., 7; Diagram of, 30.
KELLY, WALTER C., 6–7, 77.
KENNEDY, RAN, 199.
KIRKPATRICK, Ltd., 405.
Ritchen Set, 47; Diagrams of,
55-56.
KOHL, CHARLES E., 5.
L
LACKAYE, WILTON, 278.
LAMB, ARTHUR J., 338.
LA RUE, GRACE, 6.
LASH, LEE, STUDIOS, 48.
LASKY, JESSE L., 7, 38, 300, 303.
LE BON, I86.
Legitimate Drama, The, 139–
I40, 144, 162 (See Play,
The Full-evening).
Legitimate Stage, The, 6, 24, 42.
LEMBECK, MRS. M. A., 405.
LEVEY CIRCUIT, THE BERT, 407.
LEVY, SOL P., 329, 344–345.
LEWIS AND GORDON, 406.
Lighting of Stage, 60–63.
LOEw, MARCUS, 5; Theatrical
Enterprises, 407.
“Lollard, The,” by Edgar Allan
Woolf, 161, 166–167, 207–210,
213, 215, 2I7—218, 22I-222,
23O, 237, 25O, 256, 264, 266,
292, 429. Text of, Appendix,
495-5I2.
Lyric (See Song, Popular).
M
McCREE, JUNIE, Collaboration
“The System,” I61, 430, 537.
MACDONALD, BALLARD, xvi,
321; “The Trail of the Lone-
Some Pine,” 337–338, 369.
MACK, WILLARD, “Kick In,”
239–240, 286, 292.
MACKAY, F. F., 267–268.
MADISON, JAMES, xv, 91; “My
Old Kentucky Home,” 143,
I6o; Collaboration “The Yel-
low Streak,” 229; 244, 317–
318, 430–431; Text of “My
Old Kentucky Home,” Appen-
dix, 595-624.
Magician, The Talking, 92.
MANN, SAM, 3o.
Manuscripts, Preparation of,
385–391; Prices for, 398-404.
Marketing a Manuscript, 391–
398.
MASON AND KEELER, I49.
MATTHEWS, BRANDER, 23, 36,
I86, 192-194, 234.
MAXWELL, JOE, xvi, 255, 406.
MCCARTHY, JOE, xvi, 321;
“There's a Little Spark of
Love Still Burning,” 346–347,
369.
MCHUGH, BART, 406.
MELBA, M.M.E., 26.
Melodrama, 161; Text of “The
System,” Appendix, 537-573.
“Memories,” Lyric of, 344–345.
MENANDER, 248–249.
MEYERFELD, MORRIs, 5.
MILLER, HENRY, 6, 23.
636
INDEX
“Mirror, The Dramatic,” 218,
240, 408.
MODERN PLAY Co., 405.
MODERWELL, HIRAM KELLY,
“The Theatre of To-day,” 42.
Monologue, 64–95, 399–400;
Text of “The German Sena-
tor,” Appendix, 433–443.
MOORE, JAMES E., 5.
MOORE, MENLO E., 406.
MORRIS, WILLIAM, 5.
MoRTON, SAM AND KITTY, 6.
MUIR, LOUIS, 324.
MURDOCK, JOHN J., 5.
MURPHY, STANLEY, 321; “Put
on Your Old Gray Bonnet,”
345-346.
Music (See Musical Comedy;
also, Song, Popular).
Music Hall, The, 3, 139.
“Music Master, The,” 248.
Musical Comedy, 298–316; 403–
404; Text of “A Persian Gar-
den,” Appendix, 575-593.
“My Little Dream Girl,” lyric
Uſ, 343-344, 358, 372.
“My Old Kentucky Home,” by
James Madison, I43, 16o, 244,
430–431; Text of, Appendix,
595-624.
N
Narrative Sketch, The, 148–150.
NATHAN, GEORGE JEAN, Io4–Io'7.
NAWN, TOM, 147.
NAZIMOVA, OLGA, 277.
“News, The Dramatic,” 408.
Newspapers, 173–178.
O
Office Set, 47.
“Oh, How that German Could
Love,” by Irving Berlin, lyric
of, 341-342.
Olio, 44.
One, 28.
ORPHEUM CIRCUIT, I44–145,
4O7.
P
PALACE THEATRE, N. Y., 7, 30;
Diagram of stage of, 31.
PALMER, MINNIE, 406.
PANTAGES, ALEXANDER, 5; Cir-
cuit, 407. f
Pantomime, 248, 262, 265-268.
Parlor Set, 47.
Parodies, Use of in Two-act,
I34.
Parody, Monologist, The, 92.
PASTOR, TONY, 3.
PAVLOWA, 248.
PEEBLES, JoHN C., 406.
“Persian Garden, A,” by Edgar
Allan Woolf, 3O4, 306, 430; .
Text of, Appendix, 575-593.
Play, The Full-evening, 144–145,
172, 214.
Play, The Short, 139, 143-144.
Playbrokers, 396-397; List and
addresses of, 405.
Playlet, The, 23, 41, 138–297,
401–403, 429–43o; Text of
four examples, Appendix, 475–
573.
PLAYLET PRODUCING Co., 406.
Plot, Two-act, 135; Sketch, 146–
INDEX
637
I47; Playlet, 206-232; 279-
292; Musical Comedy, 306.
PLUNKETT, JAMES, 406.
PLUTARCH, 248.
Point, The Monologue, 74–79,
84–88; Two-act, I24, 127-129.
POLI, S. Z., 5; Circuit, 407.
Prices of material, 398; Mono-
logue, 399–400; Two-act, 400–
401; Playlet, 401–403; One-
act Musical Comedy, 403–
404; Burlesque Tab, 404;
Popular Songs, 404–405.
Problem Drama, The, 162.
PROCTOR, T. F., 4, 5, 144.
Producers, 396-398; List and
addresses, 405-406.
Properties, 58–60.
“Punch, The,” Playlet, 286–291;
Music, 326–332.
“Put on Your Old Gray Bon-
net,” 345–346.
R
RAPF, HARRY, 406.
Rehearsing, Monologue, 90–91;
Two-act, 132–133; Playlet,
294-295; Musical Comedy,
3O3.
REVELL, NELLIE, xvi, 277.
“Review, The New York,” 408.
RICE AND COHEN, I49.
ROBERTS, MARY ELEANOR, 352.
ROLFE, B. A., 406.
ROSSITER, WILL, 331.
Routine, Monologue, 82–83, 85–
87, 89–90; Two-act, II.3, 126.
RYAN AND RICHFIELD, I48.
S
SANGER AND JORDAN, 405.
Scenario, The, 279-281.
Scenery, 37-43, 44–49; Playlet,
280–281; Musical Comedy,
300–30I; Burlesque Tabs, 317.
Scenic alternation, II, 231.
SCOTT, PAUL, 405.
SCRIBE, AUGUSTIN EUGENE, 248.
SELwyN Co., THE, 175.
Sets, Open, 44–45; Box, 45–48.
SHAKESPERE, I5, 36, 163.
SHAw, GEORGE BERNARD, 15,
I69. -
SHEA, MIKE, 5.
SHELLY, PERCY BYSSHE, Igo.
Show business, Hazard of, 185.
Sidewalk comedian acts, IoI,
IO2, I34. -
SILVERMAN, SIME, xvi, 276-277.
Singing Two-act, 135.
Situation, 72, Io'7–Io8; Playlet
(See Dramatic, The), 272;
Musical Comedy, 304–305.
Sketch, The, 146–154.
Slang, Use of, 198.
Slap-stick (See Business).
Small-time, The, 154.
SMITH, FREDERICK JAMEs, 218.
SMITH, JoE PAIGE, 406.
Smoothness and blending, Mono-
logue, 78; Two-act, II2.
SNYDER, TED, 339, 341.
Society Drama, The, 162.
Soliloquy, 65, I53.
SOLMAN ALFRED, 338.
Song, the Popular, 320-384,404–
4O5.
638
INDEX
Song, The Production, 3I4–316.
Sound-effects, 59–60.
Stage-carpenter (See
manager).
Stage-cross, The, 272-274.
Stage-manager, 31, 41.
“Star, The New York,” 331, 408.
STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS, I59,
I92.
Stories, Monologue, 66–69.
Story (See Plot).
Straight, Two-act character, II8–
II9.
SULLIVAN AND CONSIDINE, 5;
Circuit, 407.
SUN CIRCUIT, GUS, 407.
Subject (See Theme).
Surprise, 72; Playlet, 223.
“Sweet Italian Love,”
339-34C.
“System, The,” 42, 161, 166,
I74–178, 206, 217, 22I-222,
229, 237, 244, 25O, 262, 265,
292, 43o; Text of, Appendix,
537-573.
Stage-
lyric,
T
Tab (See Burlesque Tab).
Talking Single, The, 69.
TANGUAY, EVA, 7.
“Telegraph, The N. Y. Morn-
ing,” 277, 408.
“Theatre Magazine, The,” 408.
Theatrical effect, 189.
“There's a Little Spark of Love
Still Burning,” lyric, 346–347.
Theme, Monologue, 80–82;
Two-act, II3-II7, 125-126;
Playlet, 154, 165–181; Musi-
cal, 327–332.
Three, 29.
Time foreshortening, 229–23o.
Timing, Monologue, 89; Two-
act, 132; Playlet (See Two-
act), Musical comedy, 311-314.
Title, Playlet, 29.1–293; Song,
36I.
Tragedy, I61, 223-224, 276-278;
Text of “Blackmail,” Ap-
pendix, 51.3—5.36.
“Trail of the Lonesome Pine,
The,” 337–338, 357.
Travesty, I42–143; Text of “The
Villain Still Pursued Her,”
Appendix, 475-494.
Treatment, 82, Io?, II.3, 17I.
Two, 29.
Two-act, The, 96–137, 400-401;
Text of “The Art of Flirta-
tion,” Appendix, 445-456;
Text of “After the Shower,”
Appendix, 457-474.
U
UNITED BOOKING OFFICES OF
AMERICA, Mo?, 4TT, 417–420.
Unities, The Three Dramatic,
Action, 225–227; Time, 227—
23o; Place, 231-232.
Unity, Monologue, 79; Two-
act, II 2, 129; Playlet, I55,
297.
V
Variety, 4.
“Variety,” 276, 408.
Vaudeville, Historical and com-
INDEX
639
mercial, I, 4, IS, I39; I44, 237,
258.
Vaudeville Circuits, List and
addresses, 407.
VEILLER, BAYARD, “Within the
Law,” I 75.
“Villain Still Pursued Her,
The,” by Arthur Denvir, 142,
Ióo, 213, 217, 245, 292, 429;
Text of, Appendix, 475-494.
Vividness, Monologue, 76–77;
Two-act, II2.
VOLTAIRE, AROUET, 192.
VON TILZER, HARRY, 324.
/
W
WARFIELD, DAVID, 248.
WEBER AND FIELDS, Io2–Io4,
Ioë, II3-II4.
WENDELL, BARRETT, 85–87.
WENRIGHT, PERCY, 345–346.
WENTwo RTH, MARION CRAIG,
“War Brides,” 277, 292.
WESLYN, LOUIs, “After the
Shower,” I37, 307, 428-429;
Text of, Appendix, 457-474.
WEST, ROLAND, 264, 406.
WESTERN WAUDEVILLE MAN-
AGERS ASSOCIATION, 407.
Weyburn, Ned, 315.
“When I Lost You,” 315; lyric
of, 347–348.
“When It Strikes Home,” 315;
Lyric of, 342–343, 358.
“When the Bell in the Light-
house Rings Ding Dong,”
lyric of, 338-339.
WHITE RATS, THE, 7o.
WICKES, E., 328.
WILK, LAURA D., 405.
WILLIAMS, PERCY G., 5.
WILLIAMS AND WAN ALSTYNE,
324.
WILLS, NAT, 6, 84, 91.
WILSON, JACK, 7.
WILTON, ALF, 406.
WINNIETT, G. W. 405.
Wit, 72.
Wood Set, 44–45; Diagram of,
57.
WooDBRIDGE, ELIZABETH, “The
Drama,” 184, 191, 20I.
WoOLF, EDGAR ALLAN, xv, I52;
“The Lollard,” 161, 166–167,
207-2Io, 2I3, 2I5, 217, 218,
221, 222, 230, 237, 25o, 256,
264, 266, 292, 429; Text of
“The Lollard,” Appendix, 495–
512; “A Persian Garden,”
3O4, 306, 430; Text of, Ap-
pendix, 575-593.
“Writer’s Monthly,
328.
WYCKOFF, FREDERICK, Ioë.
The,”
Z
Ziegfeld, Florence, I42.
ZIEGLER, HENRY, 5.
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