Claude Frollo, holding the first printed book he had seen in
one hand, and pointing with the other to the gigantic mass of
Notre Dame, dark against the sunset, prophesied “Ceci
tuera cela.” One might to-day paraphrase the
sentence which Victor Hugo put into his archdeacon’s mouth,
and pointing to the elaborately appointed dinner-tables of our
generation, assert that the Dinner was killing the Drama.
New York undoubtedly possesses at this moment more and better
constructed theatres, in proportion to its population, than any
other city on the globe, and, with the single exception of Paris,
more money is probably spent at the theatre by our people than in
any other metropolis. Yet curiously enough, each decade,
each season widens the breach between our discriminating public
and the stage. The theatre, instead of keeping abreast with
the intellectual movement of our country, has for the last thirty
years been slowly but steadily declining, until at this moment
there is hardly a company playing in legitimate comedy, tragedy,
or the classic masterpieces of our language.
In spite of the fact that we are a nation in full literary
production, boasting authors who rank with the greatest of other
countries, there is hardly one poet or prose-writer to-day, of
recognized ability, who works for the stage, nor can we count
more than one or two high-class comedies or lyric dramas of
American origin.
It is not my intention here to criticise the contemporary
stage, although the condition of the drama in America is so
unique and so different from its situation in other countries
that it might well attract the attention of inquiring minds; but
rather to glance at the social causes which have produced this
curious state of affairs, and the strained relations existing
between our élite (here the word is used in its widest and
most elevated sense) and our stage.
There can be little doubt that the deterioration in the class
of plays produced at our theatres has been brought about by
changes in our social conditions. The pernicious
“star” system, the difficulty of keeping stock
companies together, the rarity of histrionic ability among
Americans are explanations which have at different times been
offered to account for these phenomena. Foremost, however,
among the causes should be placed an exceedingly simple and
prosaic fact which seems to have escaped notice. I refer to
the displacement of the dinner hour, and the ceremony now
surrounding that meal.
Forty years ago dinner was still a simple affair, taken at
hours varying from three to five o’clock, and uniting few
but the members of a family, holidays and fêtes being the
rare occasions when guests were asked. There was probably
not a hotel in this country at that time where a dinner was
served later than three o’clock, and Delmonico’s,
newly installed in Mr. Moses Grinnell’s house, corner of
Fourteenth Street and Fifth Avenue, was the only establishment of
its kind in America, and the one restaurant in New York where
ladies could be taken to dine. In those tranquil days when
dinner parties were few and dances a rarity, theatre-going was
the one ripple on the quiet stream of home life.
Wallack’s, at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Broadway,
Booth’s in Twenty-third Street, and Fechter’s in
Fourteenth Street were the homes of good comedy and high-class
tragedy.
Along about 1870 the more aristocratically-minded New Yorkers
took to dining at six or six-thirty o’clock; since then
each decade has seen the dinner recede further into the night,
until it is a common occurrence now to sit down to that repast at
eight or even nine o’clock. Not only has the hour
changed, but the meal itself has undergone a radical
transformation, in keeping with the general increase of luxurious
living, becoming a serious although hurried function. In
consequence, to go to the theatre and be present at the rising of
the curtain means, for the majority possessing sufficient means
to go often to the play and culture enough to be discriminating,
the disarrangement of the entire machinery of a household as well
as the habits of its inmates.
In addition to this, dozens of sumptuous establishments have
sprung up where the pleasure of eating is supplemented by
allurements to the eye and ear. Fine orchestras play
nightly, the air is laden with the perfume of flowers, a scenic
perspective of palm garden and marble corridor flatters the
senses. The temptation, to a man wearied by a day of
business or sport, to abandon the idea of going to a theatre, and
linger instead over his cigar amid these attractive surroundings,
is almost irresistible.
If, however, tempted by some success, he hurries his guests
away from their meal, they are in no condition to appreciate a
serious performance. The pressure has been too high all day
for the overworked man and his énervée wife
to desire any but the lightest tomfoolery in an
entertainment. People engaged in the lethargic process of
digestion are not good critics of either elevated poetry or
delicate interpretation, and in consequence crave amusement
rather than a mental stimulant.
Managers were quick to perceive that their productions were no
longer taken seriously, and that it was a waste of time and money
to offer high-class entertainments to audiences whom any nonsense
would attract. When a play like The Swell Miss
Fitzwell will pack a New York house for months, and then
float a company on the high tide of success across the continent,
it would be folly to produce anything better. New York
influences the taste of the country; it is in New York really
that the standard has been lowered.
In answer to these remarks, the question will doubtless be
raised, “Are not the influences which it is asserted are
killing the drama in America at work in England or on the
Continent, where people also dine late and well?”
Yes, and no! People abroad dine as well, undoubtedly; as
elaborately? Certainly not! With the exception of the
English (and even among them dinner-giving has never become so
universal as with us), no other people entertain for the pleasure
of hospitality. On the Continent, a dinner-party is always
an “axe-grinding” function. A family who asked
people to dine without having a distinct end in view for such an
outlay would be looked upon by their friends and relatives as
little short of lunatics. Diplomatists are allowed certain
sums by their governments for entertaining, and are formally
dined in return by their guests. A great French lady who is
asked to dine out twice a week considers herself fortunate; a New
York woman of equal position hardly dines at home from December 1
to April 15, unless she is receiving friends at her own
table.
Parisian ladies rarely go to restaurants. In London
there are not more than three or four places where ladies can be
taken to dine, while in this city there are hundreds; our people
have caught the habit of dining away from home, a custom
singularly in keeping with the American temperament; for,
although it costs more, it is less trouble!
The reason why foreigners do not entertain at dinner is
because they have found other and more satisfactory ways of
spending their money. This leaves people abroad with a
number of evenings on their hands, unoccupied hours that are
generally passed at the theatre. Only the other day a
diplomatist said to me, “I am surprised to see how small a
place the theatre occupies in your thoughts and
conversation. With us it is the pivot around which life
revolves.”
From one cause or another, not only the wealthy, but the
thoughtful and cultivated among us, go less each year to the
theatre. The abstinence of this class is the most
significant, for well-read, refined, fastidious citizens are the
pride of a community, and their influence for good is
far-reaching. Of this élite New York has more than
its share, but you will not meet them at the play, unless Duse or
Jefferson, Bernhardt or Coquelin is performing. The best
only tempts such minds. It was by the encouragement of this
class that Booth was enabled to give Hamlet one hundred
consecutive evenings, and Fechter was induced to linger here and
build a theatre.
In comparison with the verdicts of such people, the opinions
of fashionable sets are of little importance. The latter
long ago gave up going to the play in New York, except during two
short seasons, one in the autumn, “before things get
going,” and again in the spring, after the season is over,
before they flit abroad or to the country. During these
periods “smart” people generally attend in bands
called “theatre parties,” an infliction unknown
outside of this country, an arrangement above all others
calculated to bring the stage into contempt, as such parties
seldom arrive before the middle of the second act, take ten
minutes to get seated, and then chat gayly among themselves for
the rest of the evening.
The theatre, having ceased to form an integral part of our
social life, has come to be the pastime of people with nothing
better to do,—the floating population of our hotels, the
shop-girl and her young man enjoying an evening out. The
plays produced by the gentlemen who, I am told, control the stage
in this country for the moment, are adapted to the requirements
of an audience that, having no particular standard from which to
judge the literary merits of a play, the training, accent, or
talent of the actors, are perfectly contented so long as they are
amused. To get a laugh, at any price, has become the
ambition of most actors and the dream of managers.
A young actress in a company that played an American
translation of Mme. Sans Gêne all over this
continent asked me recently what I thought of their
performance. I said I thought it “a burlesque of the
original!” “If you thought it a burlesque here
in town,” she answered, “it’s well you
didn’t see us on the road. There was no monkey trick
we would not play to raise a laugh.”
If one of my readers doubts the assertion that the better
classes have ceased to attend our theatres, except on rare
occasions, let him inquire about, among the men and women whose
opinions he values and respects, how many of last winter’s
plays they considered intellectual treats, or what piece tempted
them to leave their cosy dinner-tables a second time. It is
surprising to find the number who will answer in reply to a
question about the merits of a play en vogue, “I
have not seen it. In fact I rarely go to a theatre unless I
am in London or on the Continent!”
Little by little we have taken to turning in a vicious and
ever-narrowing circle. The poorer the plays, the less
clever people will make the effort necessary to see them, and the
less such élite attend, the poorer the plays will
become.
That this state of affairs is going to last, however, I do not
believe. The darkest hour is ever the last before the
dawn. As it would he difficult for the performances in most
of our theatres to fall any lower in the scale of frivolity or
inanity, we may hope for a reaction that will be deep and
far-reaching. At present we are like people dying of
starvation because they do not know how to combine the flour and
water and yeast before them into wholesome bread. The
materials for a brilliant and distinctly national stage
undoubtedly exist in this country. We have men and women
who would soon develop into great actors if they received any
encouragement to devote themselves to a higher class of work, and
certainly our great city does not possess fewer appreciative
people than it did twenty years ago.
The great dinner-giving mania will eat itself out; and
managers, feeling once more that they can count on discriminating
audiences, will no longer dare to give garbled versions of French
farces or feeble dramas as compiled from English novels, but,
turning to our own poets and writers, will ask them to contribute
towards the formation of an American stage literature.
When, finally, one of our poets gives us a lyric drama like
Cyrano de Bergerac, the attractions of the dinner-table
will no longer be strong enough to keep clever people away from
the theatre, and the following conversation, which sums up the
present situation, will become impossible.
Banker (to Crushed Tragedian).—No, I
haven’t seen you act. I have not been inside a
theatre for two years!
C.T.—It’s five years since I’ve been
inside a bank!
