The Project Gutenberg EBook of Five Little Plays, by Alfred Sutro

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Title: Five Little Plays

Author: Alfred Sutro

Release Date: December 29, 2004 [EBook #14519]

Language: English

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FIVE LITTLE PLAYS

FIVE LITTLE PLAYS

BY ALFRED SUTRO

BRENTANO NEW YORK 1922

Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh

CONTENTS

THE MAN IN THE STALLS

A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED….

THE MAN ON THE KERB

THE OPEN DOOR

THE BRACELET

THE MAN IN THE STALLS

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

HECTOR ALLEN ELIZABETH ALLEN (BETTY) WALTER COZENS

This play was produced at the Palace Theatre on October 6, 1911

THE MAN IN THE STALLS

The sitting-room of a little flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. At back is a door leading to the dining-room—it is open, and the dinner-table is in full view of the audience. To the extreme right is another door, leading to the hall.

The place is pleasantly and prettily, though quite inexpensively, furnished. To the left, at angles with the distempered wall, is a baby-grand piano; the fireplace, in which a fire is burning merrily, is on the same side, full centre. To the right of the door leading to the dining-room is a small side-table, on which there is a tray with decanter and glasses; in front of this, a card-table, open, with two packs of cards on it, and chairs on each side. Another table, a round one, is in the centre of the room—to right and to left of it are comfortable armchairs. Against the right wall is a long sofa; above it hang a few good, water-colours and engravings; on the piano and the table there are flowers. A general appearance of refinement and comfort pervades the room; no luxury, but evidence everywhere of good taste, and the countless feminine touches that make a room homelike and pleasant.

When the curtain rises, HECTOR ALLEN, a youngish man of forty, with an attractive intellectual face, is seen standing by the dining-table in the inner room, draining his liqueur-glass, with WALTER COZENS to the right of him, lighting a cigarette. WALTER is a few years younger than his friend, moderately good-looking, with fine, curly brown hair and a splendid silky moustache. His morning-clothes are conspicuously well-cut—he is evidently something of a dandy; HECTOR wears a rather shabby dress-suit, his boots are awkward, and his tie ready-made. BETTY, a handsome woman of thirty, wearing a very pretty tea-gown, is talking to the maid at the back of the dining-room.

HECTOR puts down his glass and comes into the sitting-room, followed by WALTER. HECTOR is puffing at a short, stumpy little black cigar.

HECTOR [Talking as he comes through, continuing the conversation—he walks to the fireplace and stands with his back to it.] I tell you, if I'd known what it meant, I'd never have taken the job! Sounded so fine, to be reader of plays for the Duke's Theatre—adviser to the great Mr. Honeyswill! And then—when the old man said I was to go to all the first nights—why, I just chortled! "It's the first nights that show you the grip of the thing—that teach you most"—he said. Teach you! As though there were anything to learn! Oh my stars! I tell you, it's a dog's life!

WALTER. [Sitting to left of the round table.] I'd change places with you, sonny.

HECTOR. You would, eh? That's what they all say! Four new plays this week, my lad—one yesterday, one to-day—another to-morrow, and the night after! All day long I'm reading plays—and I spend my nights seeing 'em! D'you know I read about two thousand a year? Divide two thousand by three hundred and sixty five. A dog's life—that's what it is!

WALTER. Better than being a stockbroker's clerk—you believe me!

HECTOR. Is it? I wish you could have a turn at it, my bonny boy! Your hair'd go grey, like mine! And look here—what are the plays to-day? They're either so chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep—or they reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage!

WALTER. Well, you've the change, at any rate.

HECTOR. [Snorting.] Change? By Jove, give me a Punch and Judy show on the sands—or performing dogs! Plays—I'm sick of 'em! And look here—the one I'm off to to-night. It's adapted from the French—well, we know what that means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife, husband, lover. That's what a French play means. And you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate!

BETTY. [Coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining-room.] You ought to be going, Hector.

[She, stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other door into the hall.

HECTOR. [Disregarding her, too intent on his theme.] And I tell you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing. Husband strikes attitudes—sometimes he strikes the lover. The lover never stands up to him—why shouldn't he? He would—in real life. [BETTY comes back, with his overcoat and muffler—she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time.] He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say—well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the playwriting chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you? There you'd have truth, something big. But no—they're afraid—think the public won't like it. The husband's got to down the lover—like a big tom-cat with a mouse—or the author'd have to sell one of his motor-cars! That's just the fact of it!

BETTY. [Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece.] Twenty-five past,
Hector.

HECTOR. [Cheerily.] All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye, Walter—keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye, sweetheart. [He kisses her.] Don't wait up. Now for the drama. Oh, the dog's life!

[He goes. BETTY waits till the hall door has banged, then she sits on the elbow of WALTER'S chair, and rests her head on his shoulder.