Punch (86.1884)

280

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[Junk 14, 1884.

LETTERS TO SOME PEOPLE

About Other People’s Business.

On “ Called Back ” at the Prince’s.

Dear Kendal,

Love to Hare—I should say Fairs—but as your senior
partner is just now free to go about and see everything, I don’t write
to him. You have to stay at the theatre, and do the “ Ironmon-
gering ” business, which, I hear, is producing eminently satisfactory
results. My compliments to your talented wife, on her admirable
impersonation of real presence of mind, when those dastardly Dyna-
mitards caused such a shock in your neighbourhood. However,

“your good lady,” as the civil
old - fashioned shopkeepers term
one’s wife—a phrase I personally
resent, as suggestive of bigamy,
or of what, in the very upperest-
crustiest circles, is called a
“ Morganatic Marriage,” because
the next question, after asking
after “your good lady,” would
naturally be to inquire after
“ your bad lady,”—well, as I was
about to observe, your excellent
Lady is so accustomed to ‘ ‘ bring-
ing down a house ” that there is
less merit in her having retained
her sang froid, on the occasion of
the explosion, nearly a fortnight
ago.

So much for that. And now
to tell you about Called Back,
at the Prince’s, written by the
Tramway Car Co.—meaning, of
course, Messrs. Comyns Carr
and Hugh Conway, who have
dramatised the latter’swell-known
Christmas story. (By the way,
read his Bound Together, in two
vols. Capital book with a cigar;
it will wake you up, if drowsy.) I
didn’t believe a Play could be made
out of the novel; but it has been

Mr. Kyrle Bellew, in his celebrated
imitation of the late Charles Kean
as Louis dei Franchi, with a dash
of the present Henry Irving.

done. Next I didn’t believe that a good Play could he made out of
the novel; and this hasn’t been done. As your partner -John Hare
would say, with all the fun of the Fairs, “ It may be Called Back or
Called a Tale, but it can’t be called a really good Play.”

And, mind you, John Hare would be, as I need hardly say he

always is, correct. Those who
have read the book will go
to see the Play, just to “see
how it is done,” and those who
haven’t' read the book will see
the Play and then order the
novel,—so it’s good for the
bookseller anyhow; but neither
the first nor second division of
the above-mentioned Playgoers
will, I fancy, pay it a second
visit, because there is nothing
whatever to attract them either
in the acting or in the mise-en-
scene. Between ourselves, I
don’t think much of your Iron-
monger as a Play. It was
better left as the Maitre de
Forges. But there is acting in
that which people would go
twice to see,—need I say to
whose acting I allude ? No, 1
need not. So, don’t blush as
you read this.

How, though Called Back
is undoubtedly a hit with the
public at present, yet unfor-
tunately for it as a lasting
success, its most powerful Act
is the Prologue, which, though it will not bear critical examination,
is. thoroughly dramatic, and so whets the appetite for sensation-
alism that the audience, like Oliver, “ asks for more,” and, also
like Oliver, doesn't get it. With the Prologue the interest virtually
ceases, and it says much for Mr. Comyns Carr’s dramatic craftiness
and for Mr. Beerbohm-Tree’s ability, that Author and Actor are
able to detain a far from enthusiastic audience in their seats, up to
the fall of the Curtain on the final situation in the last Act, for the

Miss Lingard c.s Donna Elvira from
“Don Giovanni,” — without the
music.

sole purpose of seeing what becomes of Paolo Macari, and whether
he is killed by a determined little consjjirator of the name of Petroff,
who goes about like a Guy Fawkes out of work, in a very bad hat,
and with a long carving-knife gleaming from out of the folds of a
regular decrochez-moi-ga conspirator’s cloak.

If little Peter Petroff's character were only half as bad as his hat
poor Paolo Beerhohm Macari wouldn’t stand a chance. But—will
you believe it F—Petroff doesn’t kill Macari. No !—the audience has
waited for this to be done—it is all they ask, it is all they want, and
then they will go home satisfied to bed,—but no !—Peter Petroff only
glides in from behind a pillar,—he has been visible to every one
except poor Beerhohm Macari for about half an hour before, or at
least his shadow has, on the tops of the trees (somehow) in the garden
below,—and slowly producing his inconvenient carving-knife, he
utters in a sepulchral tone some strange word sounding like
“ Walk-ar ! ” which makes poor Paolo shrink and stagger, and then
—down goes'the Curtain, and that’s all.

The audience, certain that this can’t be the finish, or, if so,
“they’ll know the reason why,” applauds, for the sake of getting
the Curtain up again,—when they expect to see the Stage cleared ot
such encumbrances as the Ladies must he on such an occasion, ano
to hear Paolo's death-cry, as he sinks on the ground, while little
Peter Petroff shall be seen wdping his knife on the old Guy Fawkee
hat, as he once more mutters the awful word “Walk-ar ! ” and turns
on his heel. That is the sort of Tableau that you and John Hare (even

Last Act.—Dumb-Crambo Entertainment, as given by the celebrated Anson-

Ceneri Troupe before a very select audience. Evening parties attended.

The subject is “March Past—a Review.”

without our dear old Sir Anthony Pinero) would have arranged at
the St. James’s, eh? But Messrs. Comy'ns Carr and Conway and
Bruce, and the whole lot of ’em, have missed the tip (which, if you
show them' this letter, they will now seize with avidity) and, even
when the Curtain rises again, that stupid little Petroff is as far off as
ever from killing Beerhohm Macari, who is shrinking and squirming
with all his might and main, there being nothing else for him to do
except bolt, and Comyns Carr and Conway won’t let him do that.

At that supreme moment no one wants to see Mr. Kyrle Bellew,
Miss Lingard, Mr. Lethcourt, and Miss Tilbury. As long as the
Ladies are present, little Petroff, who, though a bloodthirsty con-
spirator, is evidently innately polite, is completely paralysed. As
long as those Ladies stay there, Macari is safe. In fact, he would,
be all right, if, taking advantage of their presence, he were to bolt by
the side-door, locking it after him, or if he jumped down into the
garden; as the chances would be against Peter Petroff making any-
thing of a shot at him with his carving-knife from a great distance,
unless he happened to be well up in the Japanese dagger-throwing
trick, of which proficiency, however, no mention has been made in
any earlier part of the piece.

So much for the finish, which is nearly as weak as the commence-
ment is strong. There is plenty of comic relief in the piece, however,
in the Second Act, when Mr. Kyrle Bellew calls on Mr. Anson, who,
as Dr. Ceneri, has been sent to prison in Siberia. Of this place Messrs.
Carr and Conway have evidently made a close study,—it would have-
resulted in a closer study had they been caught. They probably
adopted Mr. Bancroft’s admirable plan of going to the place where
the scene of your piece is laid, and bringing back with you the local
colour. Mr. Bancroft, to produce The Rivals, went to Bath;
Messrs. Carr, Conway, and Bruce went of course to Siberia, and
brought hack a fortress and prisoners, a Prisoner’s Comic Song and
Chorus, some old shoes, warm coats, and plenty of “padding” for an
entire Act,