scene. cave of the experienced manager in the centre of a labyrinth under the stage.

manager (to energetic young dramatist who has tracked him to his lair). yes, young feller, i’ve read your play, and, while it’s first-class in its way, it ain’t exactly what i want. now you seem to be a pushing, active sort of a feller—if you hadn’t been you never would have found your way in here—and if you can only get me up the sort of piece i want we can do a little business together. in writing a play you’ve got to bear one thing in mind, and that is to adapt yourself to the public taste and the resources of the theatre. are you on?

[pg 252]dramatist. certainly, sir; and i shall be only too happy to write something especially for your theatre. i think i can do it if i only get a chance. sardou is my model.

manager. well, sardou is all right enough in his way, but i’m looking after something entirely different. now i want a strong melodrama, and i’m going to call it only a type-writer; or, the pulse of the great metropolis. there are twenty thousand type-writers in the city, and they’ll all want to see it, and each of them will fetch her mother or her feller along with her. then they’ll gabble about it to all the people they know—nothing like a lot of women to advertise a piece—and if there’s any go in the play at all it’ll be talked about from harlem to the battery before it’s been on the boards a week. now, of course, there’s got to be a moral; in fact, you’ve got to come out pretty d—d strong with your moral. my idea[pg 253] is this: in the first act you show the type-writer—whose folks are all gilt-edged people and ’way up—in an elegant cottage at newport. she’s a light-hearted, innocent girl in a white muslin dress with a blue sash. i’m going to cast pearl livingston for the part, and she’s always crazy to make up for an innocent girl. recollect you can’t spread the innocence and simplicity on too thick. livingston wants to say a prayer with her hair hanging down her back, so if you can ring that in somehow it’ll be all the better. you must give her a good entrance, too, or she’ll kick like a steer.

dramatist. excuse me, but i don’t see exactly how a type-writer could live in a newport cottage.

manager. i’m coming to that right away. you see this act is just to show her as a light-hearted, innocent girl whose father has always been loaded up with dust, so she’s never known what it[pg 254] was to holler for a sealskin sack and not get it. but in the end of the act the father goes broke and exclaims, “merciful heavens, we are beggars!” and drops dead. his wife gives a shriek, and all the society people rush on from the wings so as to make a picture at the back, while the daughter—that’s livingston, you know—takes the centre of the stage and says, “no, mother”—or “mommer” would sound more affectionate, maybe—“no, mommer,” she says, “not beggars yet, for i will work for you!” curtain! are you on to the idea?

dramatist. well, i believe i understand your scheme so far. but who’s the hero, and where do you get your comedy element?

manager. oh, the comedy is easy enough to manage, and as for the hero, i forgot to tell you that he shows up in the first act and wants to marry her, but she gives him the bounce because he’s[pg 255] poor as a crow. better make him an artist or something of that sort. it might be a good idea to have him a reporter, and then he can read some good strong lines about the dignity of his profession or something of that sort, just so as to catch on with the press boys. well, the next act shows the girl living in a garret in new york, supporting herself and her mother by type-writing. lay it on thick about their being poor and industrious and all that, and have some good lines about the noble working-girl or the virtuous type-writer or something of that sort. livingston’s got an elegant new silk gown that she says she’s going to wear in that act, so you’ll have to give her a few lines to explain that although they’re poor she still has that dress and won’t part with it because her father gave it to her, and so she wears it at home nights when the other one’s in the wash.

[pg 256]dramatist. excuse me, but isn’t it rather strange for a poor type-writer to appear in a handsome new silk dress when she’s having hard work to support herself and her mother? why not put her in a plain gingham gown—?

manager. plain gingham be blowed! say, young feller, when you know that cat livingston as well as i do, you won’t sit here talking about plain gingham gowns. no, siree; she won’t touch any part unless she can dress it right up to the handle. well, this act is in two scenes. the first is a front scene showing the humble house on the virtuous-poverty plan, with the old lady warming her bands at a little fire and saying, “oh, it is bitter cold to-night, and the wind cuts like a knife.” and then we can have the wind whistling through the garret in a melancholy sort of way. the next scene shows a broker’s office where the type-writer is employed. here you can[pg 257] run in a little comedy and show them having a lot of fun while the old man is out at lunch. livingston’s got some first-rate music—sort of pathetic-like—and you can write some words to it for her to sing. write something appropriate, such as, “i’m only a working-girl, but i’m virtuous, noble, and true.” how does that sound, hey? well, in this act her employer insults her, and she leaves him, though she hasn’t a cent in the world and doesn’t know where to go. you must give her a good strong scene, and have the curtain fall on a tableau of indignant virtue rebuking the tempter. you must have a picture there that we can use on a three-sheet poster. in the next act we have the grand climax. the villain still pursues her to her new place, for she gets a job with the aid of the poor young lover who was bounced in the first act. just as the old villain is about to seize her and carry her off by main force, the[pg 258] young lover rushes in and knocks him out with a fire shovel. he falls and breaks his skull. in comes the doctor—the lover goes to fetch him—and meanwhile the type-writer gives him some pious talk and converts him. maybe it would be a good idea to ring in the prayer in this act. livingston’s dead stuck on having it in the piece. well, he repents of his wickedness, and when the doctor says he has only ten minutes to live he says, “oh, if i but had the time i would make a will and leave all my wealth to this noble girl; but there is not time enough to write it.” and then livingston says, “what’s the matter with my doing it on my faithful type-writing machine?” or words to that effect. so she takes it down like lightning, and he has just time to sign it before he expires. now, young feller, you’ve got my idea of a play. you go to work and write something on that basis; and mind you don’t forget what i said[pg 259] about livingston’s prayer and silk dress, but don’t work ’em both in in the same act. fetch it around to me and maybe we can do business. do you want to tackle the job?

dramatist (dubiously). i’ll try, sir, but i’m afraid it’s a little out of my line.