Life — November 17, 1898 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

388 The Drama of To-Day. DRAMATIS PERSON. Hat Carne. A real Christian, itLerte, A secret servant. Avoustin Daty, The real author of “Beautiful Snow.” Cuarnces Frouman, The Napoleon of Art. Ricnarp MANsPLELD. “nose” his business, EN. ) Twoleading Maupe Apams. f ladies, Apa Renan. A friend of Mansfeld, Cronus or Critics, By themselves, Who Scene—Stage of the Empire Thea- tre at midnight, As curtain rises, chorus of critics, each flourishing a stub pen, sings: take our pens in hand,” As the letter-writors say, To make you understand A modern critic's way. We write some yards of stuff, Then add a dozen more, Then, if it's not enough We write another score. (Wild dance.) As critics, wo must hail Each actress as divine; Whilst every man we flail And put off with a line. And authors we just rake— Their doom wo quickly seal; Their plays we roast and bake Unless—we make a “deal.” (Thunder and lightning.) Frown (appears through star trap, a con- tract in his hand): What's all this noise? Cuonvs: We are the critics bold. And who are you? Frome. Your owner! (Thunder. and lightnin Critics fall on their knees in silent supplicati Cons: FRouMan (waves contract aloft): On con- dition that hereafter you submit all criticisms to my blue pencil. Cuonvs: Agreed! (Ezeunt,) FROBMAN (solus): Oh, Lam a manager bold, Yoho! A lutu-bird, I'm told— Just 60! I buy and sell great plays! ‘Teo hee! And cash for them I pays— Ab, mo! I hire actors, too— They say! And actresses a few I pay! I crush my rivals quick— Poor them! Forg “LIFE - I make them deathly sick, Ab, hem! All theatres [ own— They're mine! My slaves all wail and groan— It's flne! Tam a magnate great— Hurrah! An instrument of fate— Tra lal (Speaks): I'm gesat, even 1.if Napoleon did resem- ble me. (Touches but- ton.) MANSPIELD (enters from flies); You called, sire? Frouman: Idid. I want you to make up Cy- rano’s nose to resemble mine. Mansriecp: But, sire— Frouman: That'll dol Who owns you, anyway? MANSFIELD (humbly): You do, sire, Frouman: Then do as you're told, (Mansrietp bows and exits.) Frouman: These actors aro getting altogether tooindependent. They'll want to eat next. Daty (pops his head in atk. ULE. want— Frouman: Well, you won't get it. Daty: Lonly wished to say— Frouman: Don’t say it, Alf. Hayman does ull the talking for this firm, Dary: I'm going to— Frouman: Well, go thero—the Devil's ready. Day: Cyrano— FRouMAn (angrily): Get out! (Daty gets.) FROHMAN (sinks on to a pile of unread plays by American authors and yawns): This worry will drive me to— (Drops into slumber.) (Hall Caine, Gillette, Viola Mande Adams appear.) Allen and Omnes : God save our Charlie bold, Give bim of cash untold— And watch the stage! May all his ventures grow, Gold to his coffers flow— Givo bim a lot of dough— And raise our wage! (Dance silently around the slumbering form.) ‘MISS KAROLYN BROWNE, OF 19 wat NOW PREPARED TO RECEIVE PUPILS ON THE PiANv. INGTON STREET, 13 (Hall Caine's red hair bursts into flames, and, as Gillette tights his cigar on it, Froh- man wakes'up.) Frouman: Who's there? Omxes: Your humble slaves. Frouman: ‘Tis well! I have great news for you. I have just’ bought tho last independent theatre, have subsidized the last independent critic, and have written a play! Omnes: Tell us about it! FrouMan: It is called “Cyrano de Ber- gerac,” and I wrote it— ADA es suddenly): What's Day Mansrieny § ‘at? Froaman: I said that I wrote it. MANSFIELD: Rostand wrote it, Day: He didn’t! I wrote it, Frouman: ) I say I did! MANSFIELD: ' Rostand did! Day: I did! Vioua ALLEN: Maupe ADAMS: Hau1 Carve (as the noise subsides): I know who wrote the play. Omxes: Who? Hatt Carxe: Antonio Pastor. t Gentlemen! comicbooks.com