"Oo, do you think so?"
"Well, it depends how much Reynolds comes in. You didn't tell me what happened to him. Does he marry anybody?"
"Oo, no. He comes in because I want somebody to tell the audience about Tommy when Tommy isn't there."
(How well Bobby has caught the dramatic idea.)
"I see. He ought to be very useful."
"You see, the First Act's in a very grand restaurant, and Tommy comes in to have dinner, and he explains to Reynolds how he met Felicia on a boat, and she'd lost her umbrella, and he said, 'Is this your umbrella?' and it was, and they began to talk to each other, and then he was in love with her. And then he goes out, and then Reynolds tells the audience what an awfully decent chap Tommy is."
"Why does he go out?"
"Well, you see, Reynolds couldn't tell everybody what an awfully decent chap Tommy is if Tommy was there."
(Of course he couldn't.)
"And where's Felicia all this time?"
"Oo, she doesn't come on: She's in the country with Samuel. You see, the Second Act is a grand country wedding, and Samuel and Phyllis are married, and Tommy is one of the guests, and he's very unhappy, but he tries not to show it, and he shoots himself."
"Reynolds is there too, I suppose?"
"Oo, I don't know yet."
(He'll have to be, of course. He'll be wanted to tell the audience how unhappy Tommy is.)
"And how does it end?" I asked.
"Well, you see, when the wedding's over, Tommy sings a song about Felicia, and it ends up, 'Felicia, Felicia, Felicia,' getting higher each time—Short has to do that part, of course, but I've told him about it—and then the curtain comes down."
"I see. And has Short written any of the music yet?"
"He's got some of the notes. You see, I've only just got the plot, and I've written about two pages. I'm writing it in an exercise–book."
A shadow passed suddenly across the author's brow.
"And the sickening thing," he said, as he leant back in his chair and sipped his ginger–beer, "is that on the cover of it I've spelt Disappointment with two 's's.'"
(The troubles of this literary life!)
"Sickening," I agreed.
If there is one form of theft utterly unforgivable it is the theft by a writer of another writer's undeveloped ideas. Borrow the plot of Sir J. M. Barrie's last play, and you do him no harm; you only write yourself down a plagiarist. But listen to the scenario of his next play (if he is kind enough to read it to you) and write it up before he has time to develop it himself, and you do him a grievous wrong; for you fix the charge of plagiarism on him. Surely, you say, no author could sink so low as this.
And yet, when I got home, the plot of "Disappointment" (with one "s") so took hold of me that I did the unforgivable thing; I went to my desk and wrote the opera. I make no excuses for myself. I only point out that Bobby's opera, as performed at Covent Garden in Italian, with Short's music conducted by Richter, is not likely to be belittled by anything that I may write here. I have only written in order that I may get the scenario—which had begun to haunt me—off my chest. Bobby, I know, will understand and forgive; Short I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but I believe he is smaller than Bobby.
ACT I.
SCENE—A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just back from Oxford.
Tommy sings:
Felicia, I love you,
By all the stars above you
I swear you shall be mine!—
And now I'm going to dine.
[He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger–beer and some meringues.]
Waiter. Your dinner, Sir.
Tommy. Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if you see him? (To the audience) A week ago I was crossing the Channel—(enter Reynolds)—Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes." Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was Felicia. And now I must go and see about something. [Exit.]
Reynolds. Poor Tommy! An awfully decent chap if ever there was one. But he will never marry Felicia, because I happen to know her real name is Phyllis, and she is engaged to Samuel.
(Recitative.)
She is engaged to Samuel. Poor Tommy,
He does not know she's fond of Samuel.
He
will
be disappointed when he knows.
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE—A beautiful country wedding.
Tommy (in pew nearest door, to Reynolds). Who's the bride?
Reynolds. Phyllis. She's marrying Samuel.
Enter Bride.
Tommy. Heavens, it's Felicia!
Reynolds (to audience). Poor Tommy! How disappointed he must be! (Aloud) Yes, Felicia and Phyllis are really the same girl. She's engaged to Samuel.
Tommy. Then I cannot marry her!
Reynolds. No.
Tommy sings:
Good–bye, Felicia, good–bye,
I'm awfully disappointed, I
Am now, in fact, about to die,
Felicia, Felicia, Felicia!
[Shoots himself.]
CURTAIN.
That is how I see it. But no doubt Bobby and Short, when they really get to work, will make something better of it. It is an engaging theme, but, of course, the title wants to be spelt properly.
Among the Animals
Jeremy was looking at a card which his wife had just passed across the table to him.
"'Lady Bendish. At Home,'" he read. "'Pets.' Is this for us?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Jeremy.
"Then I think 'Pets' is rather familiar. 'Mr. and Mrs. J. P. Smith' would have been more correct."
"Don't be silly, Jeremy. It means it's a Pet party. You have to bring some sort of pet with you, and there are prizes for the prettiest, and the most intelligent, and the most companionable, and so on." She looked at the fox–terrier curled up in front of the fire–place. "We could take Rags, of course."
"Or Baby," said Jeremy. "We'll enter her in the Fat Class."
But when the day arrived Jeremy had another idea. He came in from the garden with an important look on his face, and joined his wife in the hall.
"Come on," he said. "Let's start."
"But where's Rags?"
"Rags isn't coming. I'm taking Hereward instead." He opened his cigarette–case and disclosed a small green animal. "Hereward," he said.
"Why, Jeremy," cried his wife, "it's—why, it's blight from the rose–tree!"
"It isn't just blight, dear; it's one particular blight. A blight. Hereward, the Last of the Blights." He wandered round the hall. "Where's the lead?" he asked.
"Jeremy, don't be absurd."
"My dear, I must have something to lead him up for his prize on. During the parade he can sit on my shoulder informally, but when we come to the prize–giving, 'Mr. J. P. Smith's blight, Hereward,' must be led on properly." He pulled open a drawer. "Oh, here we are. I'd better take the chain; he might bite through the leather one."
They arrived a little late, to find a lawn full of people and animals; and one glance was sufficient to tell Jeremy that in some of the classes at least his pet would have many dangerous rivals.