Judge — December 11, 1915 — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BETWEEN By CYRIL THE CURTAIN dropped on the telephone message of Jean Paurel to his about-to-be-latest inamorata, and the audience began to upheave here and there as men struggled into their coats and women adjusted their cloaks. (Why can’t a man wear one of those slip-easy things to the theatre instead of a top-coat?) I saw the Critic surrounded by a small coterie of admirers, and hastened tohim. I wanted to find out whether his opinion of the play corre- sponded with the distinctly favorable impression I had received. “But don’t you think that, as a matter of technique, the work of Ruth Allen left something to be desired?” asked one of the circle —a tall, thin man, with longish hair. “The matter of technical analysis doesn’t enter into the discus- sion,” said the Critic. ‘The real point at issue is, Did the play, as awhole, and including the really excellent work of Mr. Ditrichstein, please us? We should not dissect too closely a piece of dramatic writing like ‘The Great Lover.’” “T think you are wrong,” replied the other. “‘Is not the true function of criticism an inquiry into the merits or demerits of a piece of work ?” “True criticism is not analytic,” said the Critic. ‘‘The Public analyzes. The difference between a critic and the Public is the same as that between a diagnostician and a surgeon. We give opinions; the Public, by its attendance, operates; and the box- office receipts show the condition of the patient.” The Tired Business Man and his wife approached us, engaged in conversation. “T can’t conceive what you see in that thing to gush about,” the Tired Business Man was say- ing. ‘Personally, I’m not keen about following the trials of a manager of a lot of tempera- mental stars. And a glimpse into the private life of the Sun of the constellation doesn’t inter- est me.” “But—” began Mrs. Tired Business Man. “Oh, yes, I’ll admit that it’s a good play; but it doesn’t appeal to me. I suppose we all have our points of view.” “4 point of view becomes valuable as such only when it conflicts with the point of view of someone else,” said the Critic oracularly. “Apparently the play did not please us all.” What might have been a very acrimonious dis- cussion was prevented by the arrival, with pre- monitory rustlings, of the Débutante. “Aren’t you wild over Leo Ditrichstein?” she * es CURTAINS # ANDREW asked, oblivious of the long-haired man at the Critic’s side. “I’ve never been so thrilled by anyone—oh, I beg your par- don.” This to the Critic's companion, against whom she had brushed. The Critic made haste to achieve the social amenities. “Miss Débutante, allow me to present Mr. Impresario,” he said. The Impresario kissed the Débutante’s hand—a proceeding which reduced her to round-eyed silence—and immediately launched forth. “The work of the company as a whole was excellent,” said he. “The play was well written, the situations remarkable in their fidel- ity—allowing for the exaggerations necessary for the stage—to life; Mr. Ditrichstein cannot be too highly commended.” I thought it would be well to say something, as the Impresario was evidently warming up under the influence of an audience. “T took your advice,” I said to the Débutante, “and saw ‘Hoheit Tanzt Walzer.’” “Oh! And did you like it?” “To be perfectly honest, I did not,” I replied. ‘But the stock company which performed it had a great deal to do with my lack of enjoyment. The music was—well, it was Germanly fine. The lines were clever; but there was no escaping the fact that a stock com- pany was doing the performing.” The Suburbanite, having fought his way up the aisle from the second row, paused to gather his breath. “T wonder,” said the Tired Business Man in an aside to me, “why it is that people who have to hurry out after a show invariably sit as far front as possible?” An answer to his query was not forthcoming, as the Suburbanite spoke. “That,” he pronounced, “‘is my idea of SOME play.” The Tired Business Man snorted; but as even his wife was arrayed against him, held his peace. “T see,” said I, with an eye to averting a possible troublous time, “that ‘Back Home’ has left the Cohan Theatre.” The Débutante, the Tired Business Man, and the Suburbanite opened their mouths—to say “T told you so,” I suppose—but the Critic raised his hand. “No,” said he. ‘De mortuis nil.” And no one said even “nisi bonum.” comicbooks.com