MR. JULIAN STURGIS'S COMEDIES.*
LBSSING complained of the German stage in his day that, though there were actors, there was no "art of acting ;" and that with the best will in the world it would be impossible to found a truly national theatre, as long -as the Germans were con- tent to bow to French supremacy in adopting and imitating French plays. We are afraid that these are reproaches that our countrymen deserve now ; they appear to have given up all wish for originality in the drama, and are quite content to see on our stage any adaptation from the French, good, bad, or in- different. We seem to be a play-loving people, from the number of new theatres that have sprung up in all directions, and which are always well filled ; but the audience is content to be super- ficially amused, and makes little claim to higher or more solid intellectual food. That the theatre is not taken "an grand serieux " here, but merely as an occasional pastime, may be the reason why we have English poets and English novelists, but no English dramatists of the present day. Yet this must be a subject of deep regret to every Englishman who thinks about the matter at all. Our authors seem to have over- looked the great influence and real power that the writing of a successful play would give them. What can be the reason of this dearth of English dramatists ? Is writing for the drama incompatible with le 011ie de la nation ? or does it come simply from mercantile reasons, and the high price that a publisher gives for a successful three-volume novel ? or does the fault lie with the managers, who are satisfied if they fill their houses, and care nothing for the improvement of the drama ? or is life in London too busy, too much of a race, for " Society " to seek for anything more than they get in the pre- sent theatres? Wherever the fault lies, dramatic art in England will never be higher until our best authors again turn their attention to the stage, and give it renewed vitality by represent- ing there, in a form which does not lose its interest or go out of fashion with the day, the actions and characters of men, and the mysteries, joys, and sorrows of human life.
This is rather a serious introduction to Mr. Julian Sturgis's Little Comedies, which we welcome as an earnest that better things are in store for English dramatic art, for here is an author who has not feared to give us poetry, life, and interest in a dramatic form. Some of these little pieces were noticed in this journal a couple of years or so ago, but among the seven new ones are some of the most attractive of the collection. These pieces are without pretension, but are very complete in their way ; the plot is always slight ; they are never for more than two, or at the Most three, persons ; the dialogue is sparkling and bright, often with touches of a deeper meaning ; and many of them contain a real ring of poetry and feeling. They are not all equally adapted for acting. Some of them—viz., "Florio," " Mabel's Holiday," and "Fireflies "—seem written in a dreamy, unsatisfied spirit, content with suggesting, without caring to solve, problems of love, and life, and death. These pieces, especially "Florio," remind one a little of De Mnsset; not that Mr. Julian Sturgis has imitated the French poet, but one feels that he has, to a certain extent, imbibed his influence and spirit. We think that finished drawing-room acting would do greater justice to these comedies, with their delicate shades and graceful and refined touches, than the public stage. There are five of
Little Comedies, °Wand New. By Julian Sturgis. London : Blackwood and Co. Private Theatricals. By an Old Stager. London : W. H. Allen and C).
them most complete in meaning and execution, and these, in con- sequence, would be best for acting. They are "Apples," "A False Start," "Heather," "Round Delia's Basket," "Picking up the Pieces." Of these, perhaps, the first and two last would be most telling, as there is a little more motive in them than in the others. But in all, the dialogues are exceedingly bright and suggestive. In "Apples" (one of the first series) we have a studio in Rome, where the artist, an old friend of Lady Roe- dale's, is painting her portrait; she is a languid, fine lady, but with a warm heart hid away somewhere ; and he, "a man not too young—a sort of Lord Burleigh, a Heinrich Heine without the poetry "—who thinks they would both get on well together, as they have both outlived some illusions, have known each
other a long time, and always been friends. Lady Roedale does not feel very grateful for this "magnificent offer of a banquet of lost illusions and Dead-Sea fruit," but instead of giving a direct refusal, manages to bring the conversation round to a little episode of the year before, when Claud was sketch-
ing down in Limeshire ; where, "after having been in many societies and seen all sorts of people, and grown rather tired of it all and rather snappish and cross, he sketched because he had nothing better to do, and he looked at Miss Hetty for the same reason, and so by degrees he found himself soothed and refreshed by the girl's artlessness." Lady Roedale knows that Miss Hetty is in Rome, though Claud does not, and she helps to bring about a most satisfactory denouement. In "A False Start," we have a humorous sketch of a newly-married couple, most eager to ensure each other's happiness, each bent on giving up to the other with such sweet, unreasoning unselfishness, that they are fast drifting into a hopeless state of mutual deception, in which their happiness would probably be wrecked, had not our old friend Lady Roedale stepped in to help, in the nick of time. " Heather " we noticed at some length before, though rather more from the poetical than from the practical and acting point of view. "Round Delia's Basket" opens with Delia's mistress, Miss Dorothy, wondering to herself if Pussy could ever bear to leave their own little home, and her comfortable corner, and rest and quiet, to have a great collie dog sprawling on the mat, and upsetting her saucer ? "They say that dogs grow like their masters, and certainly that great dog is very like Tom, dear Tom, who certainly is very noisy." And she goes on to wonder what she shall say, if he asks her to be his wife—he has always been such an old friend, and she has always been so fond of him, since the time when they were boy and girl together, and she scolds herself for being so silly at her age as to ponder on what she shall answer, when there has been no question. If be had wished to say anything, he might have said it ten years ago, or more ; but now he comes every day for nothing in particular, merely to stride about, and perhaps ask some question about "little Lily," his ward. Miss Dorothy confides to Pussy that she thinks him the best man in the world ; no one else would have adopted and cared for a little orphan. as Tom has done, merely because he was her father's friend. Of "Little Lily," Miss Dorothy still thinks as a child, not seeing that she is fast developing into a woman, with all a woman's thoughts and feelings. There is a very pretty little scene between Dorothy and Lily, in which each is at cross-pur- poses with the other, though we suspect that Lily has some slight insight into Miss Dorothy's mind. And then we have another scene between Tom and Dorothy :—
" Tom : Some men understand women. I never did. I've always wondered about them. When I was a boy, a woman's handkerchief or gloves left in an empty room was enough to make me awkward. lify voice used to crack when I spoke to them ; though I was loud enough —most likely, a deal too loud—on the cricket-ground or in the hunting-field. And yet, do you know, Dorothy, I suspect I was a romantic fellow, all the time. I'm half afraid I'm a romantic fellow still. I must be a confounded old idiot—but that isn't to the point. Only I want you to understand that I know nothing about women. I was afraid of them so long, that the fear became a habit ; I shall never get over it. Now, I want you to tell me some things. First, are you quite sure that I'm not too old to be married F—Dorothy : Yes, Tom. I am quite sure.— T. : And not too rough ? I think I must be noisy. I never thought about it till—I've been practising at home. I've been shutting doors without banging them ; and taking off my big boots directly I come in. I think I get on a little. It's bard, though, to reform at my age ; and harder to reform the dogs. Of course, I could turn 'em into the stable—all except Bairnie. I don't think I could turn Bairnie out of the house ; she wouldn't understand it ; and I love the slut. —D. : Tom !—T. : What ?—D. : Would you mind not going quite so near to Delia's basket. She has been a little nervous lately ; and I am afraid you may frighten her.—T. : Delia! Who's Delia ? Oh, I know. Of course, it's Pussy. Really, I am awfully sorry, Dorothy ; but when I get excited, I can't help stamping about ; and when I get into a little place like this, all fall of jolly little things, where there isn't room to swing a cat, : Tom !—T.: What ?—D. : 0, Tom, don't speak like that.—T. : Oh, I beg your pardon. I talked about swing- ing a— yes, yes, I won't say it again. I beg Delia's pardon. And try to keep quiet. I'm afraid that I am noisy.—D. : No, Tom. I am sure you are not. I am sure you can be very gentle when you think of what you are saying.—T.: I can but try. Oh, then, there's
another thing. How about my clothes ? Do I dress like other people ?
I never thought about clothes till—that is, my tailor always sent down what he liked ; they all looked alike to me. Now, these things that
I've got on—are they the sort of thing men wear now-a-days ?— D. : Really, I don't think I have noticed,—ram afraid I don't know. —7'. : Do they look all right ? It's a confounded ridiculous thing for me to be turning about here like a tailor's dummy. Is there any- thing peculiar about them P—D.: Oh no, Torn. I think they are very nice.—T. : Well, then, there's only one thing more for me to ask. (She turns away to stoop over Delia's basket.)—T. : You think it possible that somebody might really care for me P—D. (faintly): Yes.—T. : Now, take care what you say. You don't think it impos- sible that I should be loved—loved, mind you—by a young girl ?— D. : A young girl ! (She turns away again, and stoops to Delia's basket.) Poor, dear Pussy, your shawl is all rumpled. There, dear.— T. : You hesitate; you wish to be kind, but you hesitate ; you know it can't be. Thank you, Dorothy.—D. (facing him) : No, Tom ; no. I am sure that you may be loved by any girl. Will you tell me ? May I know who it is P—T. : You must know.—D. : Is it Bertha Hale, or Caroline ?—T. : Bertha or Caroline ? Good heavens, no ! D. : I am glad of that, Tom. I think—perhaps I wrong them, but I can't help thinking—that they might have been influenced—a very, very little influenced—by considerations of the property and position in the county.—T.: There never was a Hale who wouldn't sell his soul—or her soul, either—for a ploughed field.—D. : Tom !—T.: No, thank Heaven ! The little girl who is the light of my eyes, and— confound it ! I can't bear to speak about it ; I couldn't say a word about it to anybody but you ; you are such an old friend, Dorothy— such a dear old friend ; you know what a fool I am.—D.: Oh no, Tom ; and thank you very much.—T.: She has grown up in my home, as in my heart; she loves the old place, and not it's money's worth ; she—.—D.: Tom, whom do you mean ? T.: Who should I mean but Lily, my little Lily P—D.: But, Tom, she's only a child.—T.: I thought so six weeks ago. D.: How old is she Why, yes, of course —why, really she must be—.—T. : Never mind how old she is. Six weeks ago I hadn't thought of her age. I knew she was growing tall; I supposed all children grew, but I never thought about it. I'll tell you how it was. It was one of those first spring days—you re- member them at the beginning of April ?—well, I was strolling across the lawn, with my hands in my pockets and Bairnie at my heels—I remember the tune I was whistling, I suppose I shall never get that confounded tune out of my head.—.D.: Yes, Tom P—T. : I heard Lily calling me; I looked round for her, and I couldn't see her.—D. : Yes, Tom P—T. : You know the old cedar, the one with the boughs coming down and lying on the grass ? —D. : Yes, Tom.—T. : I saw something white in the shadows, so I stepped in. She was sitting on one of the big branches, with her back against the seamed old trunk—just about as high as my heart. No; I can't tell you what she looked like. She was like all sorts of beautiful things. Of course, I'd always liked to look at her ; but I never thought about it before. She laughed at my finding her. I believe I could find her in a tropical forest. I put out my hands to lift her down.—D. : Yes, Tom ?—T: I'd done it a thousand times ; I thought nothing of it. But somehow I'd never seen her eyes like that ; there was something in them—what a confounded old fool I am ! Before I had time to think if I would, or to decide that I'd better not—just at the moment when I held her in my arms, I—I kissed her.—D. : But surely there was nothing strange in that ; surely you had often—that is, that surely was not the first—.—T. : The first ! I'd kissed her every morning and evening since she was a baby. —D.: Well, then, why—I am not sure that I understand why —7'. : I don't know. I never thought of that. I'd never kissed her at that time of day.—D. : Yea, Tom ; I see.—T.: Oh, you see, do you 11—D.: Yes, Tom. And then you sent her away.—T. : Yes, I- -D. : Of course.—T. : You seem to know all about it. I thought she'd better see some young men ; confound 'em ! I suppose she has seen some at the Armstrong& ? "
This extract is, perhaps, rather of undue length, but we have preferred to let our readers judge for themselves of the liveli- ness, combined with delicacy, with which Mr. Julian Sturgis his treated a well-worn theme, investing it with an interest and vitality all his own. We have not, however, left ourselves space in consequence to speak in detail of the other pieces. Since Mr. Sturgis has shown himself master in the art of charming and interesting us by small means, we can only hope he will not rest content with these, however perfect they are of their kind, but turn his really creative fancy, his power of observation, and poetic feeling to account, by giving us a work that will live on the English stage. We can only repeat again,—" Let Mr. Stnrgis try something of higher scope, and we believe he might be able to produce something with the unmistakable mark of genius on the finished work."
While on the subject of plays, we must mention a little book which treats of private theatricals in a popular and helpful manner. It purports to be written by an "Old Stager," who gives advice and instruction from ample experience. We can recommend the book for its prac- tical help, and think that those who wish to erect a tem- porary or impromptu stage, who wish to paint their own scenes, and are not above taking advice on lighting and dressing, will find many useful hints in it. There is also a very complete list of all the plays that are suitable for private acting, with the number of actors, and a few remarks on the general purport of each play, which will be found very useful to refer to, when that difficult question arises, "What play shall we act ?" In conclusion, we most thoroughly endorse the opinion of the "Old Stager," that the training for private theatricals may be made a most important element in promoting intellectual culture.
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