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                            ARBITRAGE                                                                             Written by                        NicholasJarecki                                                                                4/17/11          BLACK.                                   Over CREDITS weHEAR:                                    MARIA (O.S.)           ...but you took a huge bet on the           housing crisis in the middle of the           biggest boom anybody'd ever seen.Why?                                    ROBERT (O.S.)           I'm a child of the 50's. My father           welded steel for the Navy. And my           mother worked at theVA.                                                            INT. ROBERT'S MANSION - DAY                                   As the conversation continues we see:                                   1. A MAID clean an expansive living room,waxing a mahogany          table.                                   2. A BUTLER open sliding doors to an empty grand sitting          room.                                   3. An overhead shot as a SERVANT carries packages up along          winding staircase.                                                   ROBERT           They lived through the Depression,           Pearl Harbor, and the Bomb. And they           didn't think bad thingsmight           happen; they knew they would happen.                                                   MARIA           Is that what's happening now?                                                   ROBERT           When I was akid my favorite           teacher was Mr. James. Mr. James           said that world events always           revolve around five things:           (extending his fingersone-                          BY-ONE)                                                            INT. ROBERT'S LIVING ROOM - DAY                                   And right on cue, we see for the first time -- ROBERTMILLER          (60) -- sitting on a sofa across from MARIA BARTIROMO and a          CAMERA CREW, mid-interview. ELLEN MILLER (58) watches on a          nearbyMONITOR.                                                   ROBERT           M-O-N-E-Y.           Goldenrod - 4.17.112.                                                   MARIA                          (LAUGHING)           Was this freshman econ?                                                   ROBERT           This was fifth-gradeecon.           (smiles, off her laugh)           But this is something we've seen           over and over again, time and time           again, that competition for this--           limited amount of dollars out           there, canmake even the best of us           manic. So it's not surprising that           we see these asset bubbles, but           when reality sets in of course,           they burst.                                   CUT TOBLACK.                                                  "ARBITRAGE"                                                            CLOUDS GIVE WAY TO A:                                   FALCON 900EX - SOARING THROUGHTHE SKIES AT 550MPH                                   And we push tighter into the plane, cutting into the engine,          as we hear a sonic boom and focus inside,revealing...                                                            INT. FALCON                                   A sleek, slate-gray cabin, divided into three seating areas.                                   At the back of the plane, fiveAIDES DE CAMP chatter in hushed          tones, pouring over a sea of red-inked paper.                                   In the galley, GAVIN BRIAR (42), pours a coffee. He brings it                         BACKTO                                                  ROBERT                                   who sits alone in his private area facing the cockpit,          scribbling his own red-ink across a stack ofCONTRACT          DOCUMENTS. His effortless slouch, silver hair, and all-          commanding mannerisms make one thing clear: Robert's our man.                                                   GAVIN           (handinghim the coffee)           Here you go...                                   Robert sips it.           Goldenrod - 4.17.11 3.                                                   GAVIN(CONT'D)                          (SITTING)           You're disappointed.                                                   ROBERT           Quants? Derivatives structures?           What was thatabout?                                                   GAVIN           It makes no sense.                                                   ROBERT           That's what you said last week.           Why'd we go downthere?                                                   GAVIN           To sign.                                                   ROBERT           And did wesign?                                                   GAVIN           No.                                                   ROBERT           No. We did not. Instead I fly two           thousand miles for amarketing           meeting... And where was Mayfield?           What was this "emergency"? What was           that about?                                                   GAVIN           (after a beat)           Did you speak tothe auditors?                                                   ROBERT           Why?                                                   GAVIN           What if... we don't don't close this           week...                                   Wepush into a close-up of Robert, as he contemplates what          this would mean.                                                            EXT. WESTCHESTER AIRFIELD - MOMENTS LATER                                   The ROARof thirty million dollars landing near tall grass.                                                            EXT. HANGAR - CONTINUOUS                                   Robert walks down the passenger steps onto thetarmac,          followed by Gavin and the aides.           Goldenrod - 4.17.11 4.                                   They approach a waiting MERCEDES MAYBACH. The aides hand file          BOXES and BRIEFCASES to the Hispanicdriver, RAMON, who loads          them into the trunk.                                                            EXT. STREETS - CONTINUOUS                                   The blur of city lights as the limo passes over bridgesand          towards the city and Park Avenue and finally approaches                                                            EXT. GRACIE SQUARE - ROBERT'S MANSION - CONTINUOUS                                   An enormousturn-of-the-last-century Stanford-White-designed          red-brick MANSION- two already-giant townhouses combined.          Robert and Gavin exit the limo and headinside.                                                            INT. ROBERT'S MANSION - ENTRY HALL - CONTINUOUS                                   It's our first glimpse of Robert's home, and it doesn't          disappoint. It's an1850's Tudor given a full once-over,          maintaining period details but updated with a Modernist          flair. It actually works.                                   A SERVANT takes Robert's briefcase from him as heenters,          handing him three small PRESENTS which he puts under his arm.                                   We HEAR sounds of a DINNER PARTY complete with CHILDREN          laughing. Hold on Robert's face- somemixture of excitement          and anticipation.                                                            INT. DINING ROOM - CONTINUOUS                                   A party in progress, dinner alreadyserved.                                   Seated around a large square table are: ELLEN (58, Robert's          wife), BROOKE (28, Robert's daughter), PETER (31, Robert's          son), TOM (Brooke's boyfriend), ANNE (Peter'swife), and          THREE GRANDCHILDREN.                                   Ellen's playing with one of the kids. She sees Robert.                                                   ELLEN                          (LIGHTINGUP)           Look, your grandfather's here!                                   The kids clamor for Robert's attention. He moves around the          table, hugging themall.                                                   ROBERT           Hi, guys!           Goldenrod - 4.17.11 5.                                                   GRANDCHILD           Hi Grampi! What did you bringus?                                   Robert hands out the presents, and the kids unwrap them in a          frenzy. He continues making the rounds until he finally gets to          Brooke and Peter, seated next to eachother.                                   They embrace, but we notice clear restraint, a marked contrast          to his behavior towards their kids.                                                   BROOKE           It's your birthday,Dad, not theirs.           You're spoiling them rotten.                                                   ROBERT                          (GRINNING)           It's my job! It's my job. You guys           turned outfine!                                                   BROOKE                          (HALF-SMILE)           Debatable.                                                   ROBERT           (to Peter, as they hugand                          SMILE)           How you doin', son? Good?                                   Robert rounds the table and takes his seat next to Ellen as          she discreetly waves to theSERVANTS.                                                   ELLEN           We had to eat. The kids were           starving...                                                   ROBERT           (hugging her, happy)           No, nothat's okay. Where's my           drink, is this mine, here?                                   Another SERVANT enters with a CAKE flickering birthday          candles. Everyone notices and startsCLAPPING.                                                   ALL           HEY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! YAY!                                   Robert smiles. They finish cheering, then CLINK glasses fora          toast.                                                   ROBERT           Thank you, thank you, thank you all           very much, it's such a surprise, I           didn't even know it was mybirthday!                                   Everyone laughs a little.           Goldenrod - 4.17.11 6.                                                   ROBERT (CONT'D)           What did Mark Twain say about? He           said-- oldage... is clearly a case           of mind over matter. If you don't           mind, it doesn't matter.                          (MORE LAUGHTER)           I've done a lot of things in my life,           worked very hard, butbeing here,           looking around-- at all these shining,           radiant faces, I know that my best           work is right here in this room, right           now... I'm deeply proud of all of you.           That's the best gift yourmother and I           could have hoped for,                          (KISSES ELLEN)           so, thank you...                                                   PETER                          (CALLING


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                   STRANGERS ON A TRAIN                             by             Raymond Chandler and Czenzi OrmondeFINAL DRAFTOctober18, 1950Converted to PDF by SCREENTALK                                       FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLYwww.screentalk.orgFADE IN:EXT. UNION STATION, WASHINGTON, D.C.DAYLONG SHOT THE CAPITOL DOME IN THE B.G. AND THE AUTOMOBILEENTRANCE TO THE STATION IN THE F.G. LOW CAMERAActivity of cars and taxis arriving and dischargingpassengerswith luggage, busy redcaps, etcetera.We FOCUS on a taxi pulling up and stopping, The driver handsout modest looking luggage, including a bunch of tennisrackets in cases to a redcap. CAMERA PANS DOWNas thepassenger gets out of the taxi so that we see only his shoesand the lower part of his trousers. He is wearing darkcolored brogues and a conservative suit apparently. Thefeet move toward, the entrance to thestation and out ofscene. Immediately a chauffeur-driven limousine drives upand an expensive place of airplane luggage is handed out ofthis, and the passenger alighting from the back is seen tobe wearing black andwhite sport shoes which, as before, areall we see of him. The sport shoes start off in the wake ofthe brogues.INT. STATION LOBBYCAMERA FOLLOWS the sport shoes and the brogues across thelobby into apassenger tunnel. There is the usual activityof passengers walking to and from, a loud-speaker announcingtrains, etc.EXT. PASSENGER TUNNELAs the brogues and the sport shoes emerge to the trainplatform,CAMERA PANS them over to the steps of the train.INT. TRAINThe brogues and the sport shoes pass separately down theaisle, the sport shoes turning in at a compartment door andthe brogues continuingtoward the parlor car.                                                DISSOLVE TO:INT. PARLOR CAR (PROCESS)The brogues come to rest before a chair as the owner sitsdown. A moment later the sport shoescome to rest. beforein adjoining chair.      Converted to PDF by www.screentalk.org                 2.The legs belonging to the sport shoes stretch out, and oneof the shoes touches one of thebrogues.                      MAN'S VOICE (over scene)          Oh, excuse Me!CAMERA PULLS BACK AND UP to SHOW two young men seated in twoparlor car chairs. BRUN0 ANTHONY, the wearer of the sportshoes, is abouttwenty-five. He wears his expensive clotheswith the tweedy nonchalance of a young man who has alwayshad the best. The wearer of the brogues is a fine lookingbut, at the moment, a somewhat troubled young man.This isGUY HAINES. He, too, is in his middle twenties and is welldressed because he can now afford to be. He nods politely,acknowledging Bruno's apology, then turns away with thegesture implying he wantsprivacy.                      BRUNO              (smiling with sudden               recognition)          I beg your pardon, but aren't you          Guy Haines.Guy nods with a polite half smile. Being a well knowntournamenttennis player, he has had this sort of experiencebefore.                      BRUNO              (snapping his finger)          Sure! I saw you blast Faraday right          off the court in South Orange last          season.What a backhand! Made the          semi-finals, didn't you?Guy acknowledges this with a modest nod and turns to hismagazine rolled up in is fist.                      BRUNO              (with open admiration)          Icertainly admire people who do          things.              (smiling and               introducing himself)          I'm Bruno Anthony. Bruno. See Guy          looks up. Bruno indicates his gold          tie pin which bears his namein cut-          out letters. Guy looks at it with          the faintest expression of disdain.          I suppose you think it's corny. But          my mother gave it to me so of course          I wear it to pleaseher.      Converted to PDF by www.screentalk.org                3.                      GUY              (patiently)(a faint               smile)          How do you do.                      BRUNO              (with anapologetic               grin)          I don't usually talk so much.   Go          Ahead and read.                        GUY              (wryly)          Thanks.Guy tries to read but is uneasily aware of Bruno'sopenappraisal.                      BRUNO          It must be pretty exciting to be so          important.                      GUY              (fidgeting slightly)          A tennis player isn't soimportant.                      BRUNO          People who do things are important.          I never seem to do anything.Not knowing how to answer this, Guy looks alittleembarrassed.                      BRUNO              (still insistent on               being friendly)          I suppose you're going to Southampton --          for thedoubles.                      GUY              (politely)          You are a tennis fan.Bruno is inordinately pleased by this small tribute.                      BRUNO          Wish I could see you play. But I've          gotto be back in Washington tomorrow.          I live in Arlington, you know.He has taken out a cigarette case.   Holds it out to Guy.      Converted to PDF bywww.screentalk.org                      4.                               BRUNO             Cigarette?                         GUY             Not now, thanks.          I don't smokemuch.                         BRUNO             I smoke too much.He fumbles for a match.          Guy brings out a lighter and handsit to Bruno.                         BRUNO             Thanks.                 (hestares at the                  lighter, impressed)             Elegant.CLOSE SHOT OF THE LIGHTERShowing that it has the insignia of crossed rackets embossedon it, and underneath is engraved the inscription: "ToGfrom A".                         BRUNO'S VOICE                 (reading)             To G from A. Bet I can guess who A             is.WIDER SHOTGuy reactssharply.                               GUY                    (coldly)             Yes?                         BRUNO             Anne Burton. Sometimes I turn the             sport page and look at the society             news.And the pictures. She's very             beautiful, Senator Burton's daughter.                         GUY             You're quite a reader, Mr. Anthony.                         BRUNO             Yes, I am. Ask meanything, from             today's stock reports to Li'l Abner,             and I got the answer.                         (MORE)      Converted to PDF by www.screentalk.org         5.                      BRUNO(CONT'D)          Even news about people I don't know.          Like who'd like to marry whom when          his wife gets her divorce.                      GUY              (sharply)          Perhaps you read toomuch.                      BRUNO              (contritely)          There I go again. Too friendly. I          meet someone I' like and open my yap          too wide. I'm sorry...At the appeal on Bruno's face, Guy slowlyrelents.                      GUY          That's all right. Forget it.    I          guess I'm pretty jumpy.Bruno smiles with and signals a waiter.                      BRUNO          There's a new cure forthat.              (to waiter)          Scotch and plain water. A pair.          Double.              (to Guy with a chuckle)          Only kind of doubles I play.                      GUY          You'll have to drink both ofthem.                      BRUNO              (grinning)          And I can do it.              (moving in)          When's the wedding?                      GUY          What?                      BRUNO          Thewedding. You and Anne Burton.              (a gesture of               explanation)          It was in the papers.                      GUY          It shouldn't have been. Unless          they've legalized bigamyovernight.      Converted to PDF by www.screentalk.org             6.                     BRUNO         I have a theory about that. I'd         like to tell you about it some time.         But right now I supposedivorce Is         still the simplest operation.The waiter has brought the drinks. Bruno slips the lighterinto hip pocket to free his hands for the bills which hegives to the waiter, waving away the change. He offers aglass toGuy. Guy takes it.                     GUY             (as if he needs it)         I guess I will.                     BRUNO             (happily)         This is wonderful -- having your         company all the way to NewYork.                     GUY             (forced to explain)         As a matter of fact, I'm not going         direct. I'm stopping off. At         Metcalf.                     BRUNO         Metcalf? What would anybodywant to         go there for?                     GUY         It's my home town.                     BRUNO         Oh, I get it! A little talk with         your wife to about the divorce! I         suppose she was the girlnext door.         Held her hand in high school and         before you knew it -- hooked!             (proud of his              perspicacity)         Am I right?                     GUY             (laconically)         Closeenough.                     BRUNO             (raises his glass)         Well, here's luck, Guy. Drink up --         then we'll have some lunch sent to         my compartment.      Converted to PDF bywww.screentalk.org                7.                      GUY          Thanks very much. But I think I'll          go to the dining car.              (he hails a waiter               who is passing through               with afood-laden               tray)          Do you know if there are any vacant          seats in the dining car now?                       WAITER          Not for about twenty minutes I'm          afraid,Sir.                      BRUNO              (pleased)          See? You'll have to lunch with me.              (motions the waiter               back)          Say, waiter, bring me some lamb chops          and French fries andchocolate ice          cream, Compartment D, Car 121.              (turns to Guy)          What'll you have, Guy?                      GUY          Thanks just the same, but I really          don't think--                      BRUNO          Oh, go on and order.The waiter is hovering impatiently.   Guy gives in out ofembarrassment.                      GUY          Well, I'll Just have a hamburger and          a cupof coffee.                      BRUNO              (delighted, lifts his               glass in another               toast)          To the next Mrs. Haines.Guy nods curtly.                                                  DISSOLVETO:      Converted to PDF by www.screentalk.org              8.INT. BRUNO'S COMPARTMENT ON TRAIN (PROCESS)Bruno and Guy are finishing lunch. Bruno has been drinkingand his eyes arebright and feverish. An almost empty liquorbottle is near a couple of detective novels covered withgaudily Illustrated dust jackets. Bruno has in unlightedcigarette in his mouth. Guy's lighter is on the table.Bruno snaps it


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Boon, The Mind of the Race, The Wild Assesof the Devil, and The Last Trump;, by Herbert George WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Boon, The Mind of the Race, The WildAsses of the Devil, and The Last Trump;       Being a First Selection from the Literary Remains of George       Boon, Appropriate to the TimesAuthor: Herbert George WellsRelease Date: January 15, 2011 [EBook#34962]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOON, THE MIND OF THE RACE ***Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Barbara Tozier, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)                     Boon, The Mind of the Race,                     The Wild Asses of theDevil,                         _and_ The Last Trump                   Being a First Selection from the                   Literary Remains of George Boon,                       Appropriate to the Times                     Prepared for Publicationby                            REGINALD BLISS             AUTHOR OF "THE COUSINS OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE,"              "A CHILD'S HISTORY OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE,"                 "FIRELIGHT RAMBLES," "EDIBLEFUNGI,"                "WHALES IN CAPTIVITY," AND OTHER WORKS                                 WITH                     An Ambiguous Introduction by                             H. G. WELLS                        T. FISHER UNWIN,LTD.                       LONDON; ADELPHI TERRACE                      _First published in 1915_                        (All rights reserved)INTRODUCTIONWhenever a publisher gets a book by one author he wants anIntroductionwritten to it by another, and Mr. Fisher Unwin is no exception to therule. Nobody reads Introductions, they serve no useful purpose, andthey give no pleasure, but they appeal to the business mind, Ithink,because as a rule they cost nothing. At any rate, by the pressure of acertain inseparable intimacy between Mr. Reginald Bliss and myself,this Introduction has been extracted from me. I will confess that Ihave notread his book through, though I have a kind of first-handknowledge of its contents, and that it seems to me an indiscreet,ill-advised book....I have a very strong suspicion that this Introduction idea is designedtoentangle me in the responsibility for the book. In America, at anyrate, "The Life of George Meek, Bath Chairman," was ascribed to meupon no better evidence. Yet any one who likes may go to Eastbourneand find Meekwith chair and all complete. But in view of thecomplications of the book market and the large simplicities of thepublic mind, I do hope that the reader--and by that I mean thereviewer--will be able to see thereasonableness and the necessity ofdistinguishing between me and Mr. Reginald Bliss. I do not wish toescape the penalties of thus participating in, and endorsing, hismanifest breaches of good taste, literary decorum,and friendlyobligation, but as a writer whose reputation is already too crowdedand confused and who is for the ordinary purposes of every day knownmainly as a novelist, I should be glad if I could escape thepublicidentification I am now repudiating. Bliss is Bliss and Wells isWells. And Bliss can write all sorts of things that Wells could notdo.This Introduction has really no more to say thanthat.                                                      H. G. WELLS.CONTENTSINTRODUCTIONCHAPTER THE FIRSTTHE BACK OF MISS BATHWICK AND GEORGE BOONCHAPTER THE SECONDBEING THE FIRST CHAPTER OF "THEMIND OF THE RACE"CHAPTER THE THIRDTHE GREAT SLUMP, THE REVIVAL OF LETTERS, AND THE GARDEN BY THE SEACHAPTER THE FOURTHOF ART, OF LITERATURE, OF MR HENRY JAMESCHAPTER THE FIFTHOF THEASSEMBLING AND OPENING OF THE WORLD CONFERENCE ON THE MIND OFTHE RACECHAPTER THE SIXTHOF NOT LIKING HALLERY AND THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOR THE DISCOURAGEMENT OFLITERATURECHAPTER THESEVENTHWILKINS MAKES CERTAIN OBJECTIONSCHAPTER THE EIGHTHTHE BEGINNING OF "THE WILD ASSES OF THE DEVIL"CHAPTER THE NINTHTHE HUNTING OF THE WILD ASSES OF THE DEVILCHAPTER THETENTHTHE STORY OF THE LAST TRUMP       BOON, THE MIND OF THE RACE, THE WILD ASSES OF THE DEVIL,                        _and_ THE LAST TRUMPCHAPTER THE FIRSTThe Back of Miss Bathwick and George BoonÂ§1It is quite probable that the reader does not know of the death ofGeorge Boon, and that "remains" before his name upon the title-pagewill be greeted with a certain astonishment. In the ordinary course ofthings,before the explosion of the war, the death of George Boonwould have been an event--oh! a three-quarters of a column or more inthe _Times_ event, and articles in the monthlies and reminiscences. Asit is, he is not somuch dead as missing. Something happened at theeleventh hour--I think it was chiefly the Admiralty report of thefight off the Falkland Islands--that blew his obituary notices cleanout of the papers. And yet he was oneof our most popular writers, andin America I am told he was in the "hundred thousand class." But nowwe think only of Lord Kitchener's hundred thousands.It is no good pretending about it. The war has ended all that.Boondied with his age. After the war there will be a new sort ofbook-trade and a crop of new writers and a fresh tone, and everythingwill be different. This is an obituary, of more than George Boon.... Iregard theoutlook with profound dismay. I try to keep my mind off itby drilling with the Shrewsbury last line of volunteers and trainingdown the excrescences of my physical style. When the war is over willbe time enough toconsider the prospects of a superannuated man ofletters. We National Volunteers are now no mere soldiers on paper; wehave fairly washable badges by way of uniform; we have boughtourselves dummy rifles; we havepersuaded the War Office to give us areluctant recognition on the distinct understanding that we haveneither officers nor authority. In the event of an invasion, Iunderstand, we are to mobilize and ... do quite a numberof usefulthings. But until there is an invasion in actual progress, nothing isto be decided more precisely than what this whiff of printer'sshrapnel, these four full stops, conveys....Â§ 2I must confess I was monstrouslydisappointed when at last I could getmy hands into those barrels in the attic in which Boon had stored hissecret writings. There was more perhaps than I had expected; I do notcomplain of the quantity, but of thedisorder, the incompleteness, thewant of discipline and forethought.Boon had talked so often and so convincingly of these secret books hewas writing, he had alluded so frequently to this or that greatproject, he wouldbegin so airily with "In the seventeenth chapter ofmy 'Wild Asses of the Devil,'" or "I have been recasting the thirdpart of our 'Mind of the Race,'" that it came as an enormous shock tome to find there was noseventeenth chapter; there was not even acompleted first chapter to the former work, and as for the latter,there seems nothing really finished or settled at all beyond thefragments I am now issuing, except a series ofsketches of LordRosebery, for the most part in a toga and a wreath, engaged in alettered retirement at his villa at Epsom, and labelled "PatricianDignity, the Last Phase"--sketches I suppress as of nopresentinterest--and a complete gallery of imaginary portraits (with severalduplicates) of the Academic Committee that has done so much forBritish literature (the Polignac prize, for example, and Sir HenryNewbolt'sprofessorship) in the last four or five years. Soincredulous was I that this was all, that I pushed my inquiries fromtheir original field in the attic into other parts of the house,pushed them, indeed, to the very verge ofransacking, and in that Igreatly deepened the want of sympathy already separating me from Mrs.Boon. But I was stung by a thwarted sense of duty, and quite resolvedthat no ill-advised interference should standbetween me and thepublication of what Boon has always represented to me as the mostintimate productions of his mind.Yet now the first rush of executorial emotion is over I can begin todoubt about Boon's intention inmaking me his "literary executor." Didhe, after all, intend these pencilled scraps, these marginalcaricatures, and--what seems to me most objectionable--annotatedletters from harmless prominent people forpublication? Or was hisselection of me his last effort to prolong what was, I think, if oneof the slightest, one also of the most sustained interests of hislife, and that was a prolonged faint jeering at my expense?Becausealways--it was never hidden from me--in his most earnest moments Boonjeered at me. I do not know why he jeered at me, it was always ratherpointless jeering and far below his usual level, but jeer he did.Evenwhile we talked most earnestly and brewed our most intoxicatingdraughts of project and conviction, there was always this scarceperceptible blossom and flavour of ridicule floating like a drowningsprig of blueborage in the cup. His was indeed essentially one ofthose suspended minds that float above the will and action; when atlast reality could be evaded no longer it killed him; he never reallybelieved nor felt the urgentneed that goads my more accurate natureto believe and do. Always when I think of us together, I feel that Iam on my legs and that he sits about. And yet he could tell me thingsI sought to know, prove what I sought tobelieve, shape beliefs to aconviction in me that I alone could never attain.He took life as it came, let his fancy play upon it, selected,elucidated, ignored, threw the result in jest or observation orelaborate mystification atus, and would have no more of it.... Hewould be earnest for a time and then break away. "The Last Trump" isquite typical of the way in which he would turn upon himself. It setsout so straight for magnificence; itbreaks off so abominably. Youwill read it.Yet he took things more seriously than he seemed to do.This war, I repeat, killed him. He could not escape it. It bore himdown. He did his best to disregard it. But its worststresses caughthim in the climax of a struggle with a fit of pneumonia brought on bya freak of bathing by moonlight--in an English October, a thing he didto distract his mind from the tension after the Marne--anditdestroyed him. The last news they told him was that the Germans hadmade their "shoot and scuttle" raid upon Whitby and Scarborough. Therewas much circumstantial description in the morning's paper. Theyhadsmashed up a number of houses and killed some hundreds of people,chiefly women and children. Ten little children had been killed ormutilated in a bunch on their way to school, two old ladies at aboarding-househad had their legs smashed, and so on."Take this newspaper," he said, and held it out to his nurse. "Takeit," he repeated irritably, and shook it at her.He stared at it as it receded. Then he seemed to be staring atdistantthings."Wild Asses of the Devil," he said at last. "Oh! Wild Asses of theDevil! I thought somehow it was a joke. It wasn't a joke. There theyare, and the world is theirs."And he turned his face to the wall and neverspoke again.Â§ 3But before I go on it is necessary to explain that the George Boon Ispeak of is not exactly the same person as the George Boon, the GreatWriter, whose fame has reached to every bookshop in theworld. Thesame bodily presence perhaps they had, but that is all. Except when hechose to allude to them, those great works on which that great famerests, those books and plays of his that have made him ahouseholdword in half a dozen continents, those books with their style asperfect and obvious as the gloss upon a new silk hat, with their flatnarrative trajectory that nothing could turn aside, their unsubduedandapparently unsubduable healthy note, their unavoidable humour, andtheir robust pathos, never came between us. We talked perpetually ofliterature and creative projects, but never of that "output" of his.We talked asmen must talk who talk at all, with an untrammelledfreedom; now we were sublime and now curious, now we pursuedsubtleties and now we were utterly trivial, but always it was in anundisciplined, irregular style quiteunsuitable for publication. That,indeed, was the whole effect of the George Boon I am now trying toconvey, that he was indeed essentially not for publication. And thiseffect was in no degree diminished by the fact thatthe photograph ofhis beautiful castellated house, and of that extraordinarilyirrelevant person Mrs. Boon--for I must speak my mind of her--and ofher two dogs (Binkie and Chum), whom he detested, were, so tospeak,the poulet and salade in the menu of every illustrated magazine.The fact of it is he was one of those people who will _not_photograph; so much of him was movement, gesture, expression,atmosphere, andcolour, and so little of him was form. His was theexact converse of that semi-mineral physical quality that men callhandsome, and now that his career has come to its sad truncation I seeno reason why I should furtherconceal the secret of the clear,emphatic, solid impression he made upon all who had not met him. Itwas, indeed, a very simple secret;--_He never wrote anything for his public with his own hand._He did this of setintention. He distrusted a certain freakishness ofhis finger-tips that he thought might have injured him with hismultitudinous master. He knew his holograph manuscript would certainlyget him into trouble. He employeda lady, the lady who figures in hiswill, Miss Bathwick, as his amanuensis. In Miss Bathwick was all hissecurity. She was a large, cool, fresh-coloured, permanently younglady, full of serious enthusiasms; she had beenfaultlessly educatedin a girls' high school of a not too modern type, and she regardedBoon with an invincible respect. She wrote down his sentences(spelling without blemish in all the European languages) as theycamefrom his lips, with the aid of a bright, efficient, new-lookingtypewriter. If he used a rare word or a whimsical construction, shewould say, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Boon," and he would at once correctit; and if by anylapse of an always rather too nimble imagination hecarried his thoughts into regions outside the tastes and interests ofthat enormous _ante-bellum_ public it was his fortune to please, then,according to the nature of hisdivagation, she would either cough orsigh or--in certain eventualities--get up and leave the room.By this ingenious device--if one may be permitted to use theexpression for so pleasant and trustworthy an assistant--hedid to alarge extent free himself from the haunting dread of losing his publicby some eccentricity of behaviour, some quirk of thought orfluctuation of "attitude" that has pursued him ever since the greatsuccess of"Captain Clayball," a book he wrote to poke fun at thecrude imaginings of a particularly stupid schoolboy he liked, had puthim into the forefront of our literary world.Â§ 4He had a peculiar, and, I think, a groundlessterror of the public ofthe United States of America, from which country he derived the largermoiety of his income. In spite of our remonstrances, he subscribed tothe New York _Nation_ to the very end, and he insisted,in spite offact, reason, and my earnest entreaties (having regard to the futureunification of the English-speaking race), in figuring thatcontinental empire as a vain, garrulous, and prosperous female ofuncertain age, andstill more uncertain temper, with unfoundedpretensions to intellectuality and an ideal of refinement of the mostnegative description, entirely on the strength of that one sample. Onemight as well judge England by the_Spectator_. My protests seemedonly to intensify his zest in his personification of Columbia as theAunt Errant of Christendom, as a wild, sentimental, and advancedmaiden lady of inconceivable courage and enterprise,whom everythingmight offend and nothing cow. "I know," he used to say, "somethingwill be said or done and she'll have hysterics; the temptation tosmuggle something through Miss Bathwick's back is getting almosttoomuch for me. I _could_, you know. Or some one will come along withsomething a little harder and purer and emptier and more emphaticallyhandsome than I can hope to do. I shall lose her one of these days....Howcan I hope to keep for ever that proud and fickle heart?"And then I remember he suddenly went off at a tangent to sketch out agreat novel he was to call "Aunt Columbia." "No," he said, "they wouldsuspect that--'AuntDove.'" She was to be a lady of great,unpremeditated wealth, living on a vast estate near a rather crowdedand troublesome village. Everything she did and said affected thevillage enormously. She took the people'schildren into heremployment; they lived on her surplus vegetables. She was to have aparticularly troublesome and dishonest household of servants and aspoiled nephew called Teddy. And whenever she felt dull orenergeticshe drove down into the village and lectured and blamed thevillagers--for being overcrowded, for being quarrelsome, for beingpoor and numerous, for not, in fact, being spinster ladies of enormousgoodfortune.... That was only the beginning of one of those vastschemes of his that have left no trace now in all the collection.His fear of shocking America was, I think, unfounded; at any rate, hesucceeded in the necessarysuppressions every time, and until the dayof his death it was rare for the American press-cuttings that wereremoved in basketfuls almost daily with the other debris of hisbreakfast-table to speak of him in anything butquasi-amorous tones.He died for them the most spiritual as well as the most intellectualof men; "not simply intellectual, but lovable." They spoke of hispensive eyes, though, indeed, when he was not glaring at acamera theywere as pensive as champagne, and when the robust pathos bumpedagainst the unavoidable humour as they were swept along the narrowtorrent of his story they said with all the pleasure of anaptquotation that indeed in his wonderful heart laughter mingled withtears.Â§ 5I think George Boon did on the whole enjoy the remarkable setting ofhis philosophical detachment very keenly; the monstrous fame ofhimthat rolled about the world, that set out east and came backcircumferentially from the west and beat again upon his doors. Helaughed irresponsibly, spent the resulting money with an intelligentgenerosity, andtalked of other things. "It is the quality of life,"he said, and "The people love to have it so."I seem to see him still, hurrying but not dismayed, in flight from thecamera of an intrusive admirer--an admirer not so much ofhim as ofhis popularity--up one of his garden walks towards his agreeablestudy. I recall his round, enigmatical face, an affair of rosyrotundities, his very bright, active eyes, his queer, wiry, black hairthat went out toevery point in the heavens, his ankles and neck andwrists all protruding from his garments in their own peculiar way,protruding a little more in the stress of flight. I recall, too, hisgeneral effect of careless and, on thewhole, commendable dirtiness,accentuated rather than corrected by the vivid tie of softorange-coloured silk he invariably wore, and how his light pacesdanced along the turf. (He affected in his private dominionstrousersof faint drab corduroy that were always too short, braced up withvehement tightness, and displaying claret-coloured socks above hiseasy, square-toed shoes.) And I know that even that lumberingcameracoming clumsily to its tripod ambush neither disgusted nor vulgarizedhim. He liked his game; he liked his success and the opulentstateliness it gave to the absurdities of Mrs. Boon and all thecircumstances of hisprofoundly philosophical existence; and he likedit all none the worse because it was indeed nothing of himself at all,because he in his essence was to dull intelligences and commonplaceminds a man invisible, a man wholeft no impression upon thecamera-plate or moved by a hair's breadth the scale of a materialistbalance.Â§ 6But I will confess the state of the remains did surprise anddisappoint me.His story of great literary enterprises,holograph and conducted inthe profoundest secrecy, tallied so completely with, for example,certain reservations, withdrawals that took him out of one's companyand gave him his evident best companionship, as itwere, when he wasalone. It was so entirely like him to concoct lengthy books away fromhis neatly ordered study, from the wise limitations of Miss Bathwick'ssignificant cough and her still more significant back, that weall, Ithink, believed in these unseen volumes unquestioningly. While thosefine romances, those large, bright plays, were being conceived in apublicity about as scandalous as a royal gestation, publicly plannedand


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<title>All About Eve</title>
FADE IN:INT. DININGHALL - SARAH SIDDONS SOCIETY - NIGHTIt is not a large room and jammed with tables, mostly forfour but some for six and eight. A long table of honor, forabout thirty people, has been placed upon a dais. Dineris over. Demi-tasses, cigars and brandy. The overalleffect is one of worn elegance and dogged gentility. It isJune.The CAMERA, as it has been throughout the CREDIT TITLES, ison the SARAH SIDDONS AWARD. It is agold statuette, about afoot high, of Sarah Siddons as The Tragic Muse. Exquisitelyframed in a nest of flowers, it rests on a miniature altar inthe center of the table of honor. Over this we hear the crisp, cultured, preciseVOICE ofADDISON deWITT: ADDISON'S VOICE The Sarah Siddons Award for Distinguished Achievement is perhaps unknown to you. It has been spared the sensational and commercial publicity that attendssuch questionable "honors" as the Pulitzer Prize and those awards presented annually by the film society...The CAMERA has EASED BACK to include some of the table ofhonor and a distinguished gentleman withsnow-white hair whois speaking. We do not hear what he says.  ADDISON'S VOICE The distinguished looking gentleman is an extremely old actor. Being an actor - he will go on speaking for some time. It isnot important what you hear what he says. The CAMERA EASES BACK some more, and CONTINUES until itdiscloses a fairly COMPREHENSIVE SHOT of the room ADDISON'S VOICE However it is important thatyou know where you are, and why you are here. This is the dining room of the Sarah Siddons Society. The occasion is its annual banquet and presentation of the highest honor our Theater knows - the Sarah SiddonsAward for Distinguished Achievement. A GROUP OF WAITERS are clustered near the screen masking theentrances of the kitchen. The screens are papered with oldtheatrical programs. The waiters are all aged andvenerable.They look respectfully toward the speaker.  ADDISON'S VOICE These hollowed walls, indeed many of these faces, have looked upon Modjeska, Ada Rehan and Minnie Fiske; Mansfield's voice filledthe room, Booth breathed this air. It is unlikely that the windows have been opened since his death. CLOSE - THE AWARD on its altar, it shines proudly above fiveor six smaller altars which surround it and which arenowempty.  ADDISON'S VOICE The minor awards, as you can see, have already been presented. Minor awards are for such as the writer and director - since their function is merely to construct a tower so thatthe world can applaud a light which flashes on top of it and no brighter light has ever dazzled the eye than Eve Harrington. Eve... but more of Eve, later. All about Eve, in fact.  THE CAMERA MOVES TO: CLOSE -ADDISON deWITT, not young, notunattractive, a fastidious dresser, sharp of eye andmerciless of tongue. An omnipresent cigarette holder projectsfrom his mouth like the sward of D'Artagnan. He sits back in his chair,musingly, his fingers makinglittle cannonballs out of bread crumbs. His narration coversthe MOVE of the CAMERA to him: ADDISON'S VOICE To those of you who do not read, attend the Theater, listen touncensored radio programs or know anything of the world in which we live - it is perhaps necessary to introduce myself. My name is Addison deWitt. My native habitat is the Theater - in it I toil not, neither do I spin. Iam a critic and commentator. I am essential to the Theater - as ants are to a picnic, as the ball weevil to a cotton field... He looks to his left. KAREN RICHARDS is lovely and thirtyishin an unprofessional way. She isscraping bread crumbs,spilled sugar, etc., into a pile with a spoon. Addison takesone of her bread crumbs. She smiles absently. Addison rollsthe bread crumb into a cannonball.  ADDISON'S VOICE This isKaren Richards. She is the wife of a playwright, therefore of the Theater by marriage. Nothing in her background or breeding should have brought her any closer the stage than row E, center...Karen continues herdoodling.  ADDISON'S VOICE ... however, during her senior year in Radcliffe, Lloyd Richards lectured on drama. The following year Karen became Mrs. Lloyd Richards. Lloyd is the author of 'Footsteps on theCeiling' - the play which has won for Eve Harrington the Sarah Siddons Award...Karen absently pats the top of her little pile of refuse. Ahand reaches in to take the spoon away. Karen looks as theCAMERA PANS with ITto MAX FABIAN. He sits at her left. He'sa sad-faced man with glasses and a look of constantapprehension. He smiles apologetically and indicated a whitepowder with he unwraps. He pantomimes that his ulcerissnapping.   Karen smiles back, returns to her doodling. Addison mashes acigarette stub, pops it out of his holder. He eyes Max.  ADDISON'S VOICE There are two types of theatrical producers. One has agreat many wealthy friends who will risk a tax deductible loss. This type is interested in Art. Max drops the powder into some water, stirs it, drinks, burpsdelicately and close his eyes.  ADDISON'S VOICE Theother is one to whom each production mean potential ruin or fortune. This type is out to make a buck. Meet Max Fabian. He is the producer of the play which has won Eve Harrington the Sarah Siddons Award...Max restsfitfully. He twitches. A hand reaches into theSCENE, removes a bottle of Scotch from before him. The CAMERAfollows the bottle to MARGO CHANNING. She sits at Max's left,at deWitt's right. An attractive, strong face.She ischildish, adult, reasonable, unreasonable - usually one whenshe should be the other, but always positive. She pours astiff drink.   Addison hold out the soda bottle to her. She looks at it, andat him, as if it were atarantula and he had gone mad. Hesmiles and pours a glass of soda for himself.  ADDISON'S VOICE Margo Channing is the Star of the Theater. She made her first stage appearance, at the age of four, in'Midsummer Night's Dream'. She played a fairy and entered - quite unexpectedly - stark naked. She has been a Star ever since. Margo sloshes her drink around moodily, pulls at it. ADDISON'S VOICE Margo isa great Star. A true Star. She never was or will be anything less or anything less... (slight pause) ... the part for which Eve Harrington is receiving the Sarah Siddons Award was intended originally for MargoChanning...Addison, having sipped his soda water, puts a new cigarettein his holder, leans back, lights it, looks and exhales inthe general direction of the table of honor. As he speaks theCAMERA MOVES in the directionof his glance... ADDISON'S VOICE Having covered in tedious detail not only the history of the Sarah Siddons Society, but also the history of acting since Thespis first stepped out of the chorus line - ourdistinguished chairman has finally arrived at our reason for being here...  At this point Addison's voice FADES OUT and the voice of theaged actor FADES IN. CAMERA is in MEDIUM CLOSE SHOT of himand the podium. AGED ACTOR I have been proud and privileged to have spent my life in the Theater - "a poor player ... that struts and frets his hour upon the stage" - and I have been honored to be, for forty years, ChiefPromoter of the Sarah Siddons Society... (he lifts the Sarah Siddons Award from its altar) Thirty-nine times have I placed in deserving hands this highest honor the Theater knows... (he grows a bit arch, he uses hiseyebrows) Surely no actor is older than I - I have earned my place out of the sun... (indulgent laughter) ... and never before has this Award gone to anyone younger than its recipient tonight. How fitting that it shouldpass from my hands to hers...EVE HANDS: Lovely, beautifully groomed. In serene repose,they rest between a demi-tasse cup and an exquisite smallevening cup.   AGED ACTOR Such young hands. Such ayoung lady. Young in years, but whose heart is as old as the Theater...Addison's eyes narrow quizzically as he listens. Then,slowly, he turns to look at Karen... AGED ACTOR Some of us a privileged to knowher. We have seen beyond the beauty and artistry- Karen never ceases her thoughtful pat-a-cake with the crumbs.  AGED ACTOR -that have made her name resound through the nation. We know her humility.Her devotion, her loyalty to her art. Addison's glance moves from Karen to Margo.  AGED ACTOR Her love, her deep and abiding love for us-Margo's face is a mask. She looks down at the drink whichshecradles with both hands.  AGED ACTOR -for what we are and what we do. The Theater. She has had one wish, one prayer, one dream. To belong to us. (he's nearing his curtain line) Tonight her dream hascome true. And henceforth we shall dream the same of her. (a slight pause) Honored members, ladies and gentlemen - for distinguished achievement in the Theater - the Sarah Siddons Award to Miss Eve Harrington.The entire room is galvanized into sudden and tumultuousapplause. Some enthusiastic gentlemen rise to her feet...Flash bulbs start popping about halfway down the table of theAged Actor's left... Eve rises - beautiful,radiant, poised, exquisitely gowned.She stands in simple and dignified response to the ovation. A dozen photographers skip, squat, and dart about like waterbugs. Flash bulbs pop and pop and pop...THE WAITERSapplaud enthusiastically...AGED ACTOR, Award in hand, he beams at her...EVE smiles sweetly to her left, then to her right...MAX has come to. He applauds lustily.ADDISON's applauding too, more discreetly. MARGO,not applauding. But you sense no deliberate slight,merely an impression that as she looks at Eve her mind is onsomething else...KAREN, nor is she applauding. But her gaze is similarly fixedon Eve in a strange, farawayfashion. ADDISON, still applauding, his eyes flash first at Margo andthen at Karen. Then he directs them back to Eve. He smilesever so slightly.  The applause has continued unabated. EVE turns now, andmovesgracefully toward the Aged Actor. She moves throughapplauding ladies and gentlemen; from below the flash bulbskeep popping... As she nears her goal, the Ages Actor turns to her. He holdsout the award. Herhand reaches out for it. At that precisemoment - with the award just beyond her fingertips - THEPICTURE HOLDS, THE ACTION STOPS. The SOUND STOPS.  ADDISON'S VOICE Eve. Eve, the Golden Girl. Thecover girl, the girl next door, the girl on the moon... Time has been good to Eve, Life goes where she goes - she's been profiled, covered, revealed, reported, what she eats and when and where, whom she knows andwhere she was and when and where she's going...   ADDISON has stopped applauding, he's sitting forward, staringintently at Eve... his narration continues unbroken. ADDISON'S VOICE ... Eve. You all knowall about Eve... what can there be to know that you don't know...?As he leans back, the APPLAUSE FADES IN as tumultuous asbefore. Addison's look moves slowly from Eve to Karen.  KAREN, she leans forward now, hereyes intently on Eve. Herlovely face FILLS THE SCREEN as the APPLAUSE FADES ONCE MORE -as she thinks back: KAREN'S VOICE When was it? How long? It seems a lifetime ago. Lloyd always said that in the


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Shewing-up of Blanco Posnet, by George Bernard ShawThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Shewing-up of Blanco PosnetAuthor: George Bernard ShawRelease Date: May, 2004[EBook #5722]This file was first posted on August 17, 2002Last Updated: April 10, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET ***Produced by EveSobol and Distributed ProofreadersTHE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNETBy Bernard Shaw1909TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The edition from which this work was taken wasprinted without contractions, so there is Ill for I'lland dont fordon't, for example, and show is spelt shew.PREFACETHE CENSORSHIPThis little play is really a religious tract in dramatic form. If oursilly censorship would permit its performance, it might possibly help tosetright-side-up the perverted conscience and re-invigorate the starvedself-respect of our considerable class of loose-lived playgoers whosepoint of honor is to deride all official and conventional sermons. As itis, it onlygives me an opportunity of telling the story of the SelectCommittee of both Houses of Parliament which sat last year to enquireinto the working of the censorship, against which it was alleged bymyself and others that asits imbecility and mischievousness could notbe fully illustrated within the limits of decorum imposed on the press,it could only be dealt with by a parliamentary body subject to no suchlimits.A READABLE BLUEBOOKFewbooks of the year 1909 can have been cheaper and more entertainingthan the report of this Committee. Its full title is REPORT FROM THEJOINT SELECT COMMITTEE OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS AND THE HOUSE OFCOMMONSON THE STAGE PLAYS (CENSORSHIP) TOGETHER WITH THE PROCEEDINGS OF THECOMMITTEE, MINUTES OF EVIDENCE, AND APPENDICES. What the phrase "theStage Plays" means in this title I do notknow; nor does anyone else.The number of the Bluebook is 214.How interesting it is may be judged from the fact that it containsverbatim reports of long and animated interviews between the Committeeand suchwitnesses as W. William Archer, Mr. Granville Barker, Mr. J.M. Barrie, Mr. Forbes Robertson, Mr. Cecil Raleigh, Mr. John Galsworthy,Mr. Laurence Housman, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Mr. W. L. Courtney, SirWilliamGilbert, Mr. A. B. Walkley, Miss Lena Ashwell, Professor GilbertMurray, Mr. George Alexander, Mr. George Edwardes, Mr. Comyns Carr,the Speaker of the House of Commons, the Bishop of Southwark, Mr. HallCaine, Mr.Israel Zangwill, Sir Squire Bancroft, Sir Arthur Pinero, andMr. Gilbert Chesterton, not to mention myself and a number of gentlemenless well known to the general public, but important in the world of thetheatre. Thepublication of a book by so many famous contributors wouldbe beyond the means of any commercial publishing firm. His Majesty'sStationery Office sells it to all comers by weight at the veryreasonable price ofthree-and-threepence a copy.HOW NOT TO DO ITIt was pointed out by Charles Dickens in Little Dorrit, which remainsthe most accurate and penetrating study of the genteel littleness ofour class governments in theEnglish language, that whenever an abusebecomes oppressive enough to persuade our party parliamentariansthat something must be done, they immediately set to work to facethe situation and discover How Not ToDo It. Since Dickens's daythe exposures effected by the Socialists have so shattered theself-satisfaction of modern commercial civilization that it is no longerdifficult to convince our governments that something must bedone,even to the extent of attempts at a reconstruction of civilization ona thoroughly uncommercial basis. Consequently, the first part of theprocess described by Dickens: that in which the reformers were snubbedbyfront bench demonstrations that the administrative departments wereconsuming miles of red tape in the correctest forms of activity, andthat everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds,is out offashion; and we are in that other phase, familiarized by thehistory of the French Revolution, in which the primary assumption isthat the country is in danger, and that the first duty of all parties,politicians, andgovernments is to save it. But as the effect of thisis to give governments a great many more things to do, it also gives apowerful stimulus to the art of How Not To Do Them: that is to say, theart of contriving methodsof reform which will leave matters exactly asthey are.The report of the Joint Select Committee is a capital illustration ofthis tendency. The case against the censorship was overwhelming; and thedefence was moredamaging to it than no defence at all could havebeen. Even had this not been so, the mere caprice of opinion had turnedagainst the institution; and a reform was expected, evidence or noevidence. Therefore theCommittee was unanimous as to the necessity ofreforming the censorship; only, unfortunately, the majority attachedto this unanimity the usual condition that nothing should be done todisturb the existing state ofthings. How this was effected may begathered from the recommendations finally agreed on, which are asfollows.1. The drama is to be set entirely free by the abolition of the existingobligation to procure a licence fromthe Censor before performing aplay; but every theatre lease is in future to be construed as if itcontained a clause giving the landlord power to break it and evict thelessee if he produces a play without first obtaining theusual licencefrom the Lord Chamberlain.2. Some of the plays licensed by the Lord Chamberlain are so viciousthat their present practical immunity from prosecution must be put anend to; but no manager who procuresthe Lord Chamberlain's licence fora play can be punished in any way for producing it, though a specialtribunal may order him to discontinue the performance; and even thisorder must not be recorded to hisdisadvantage on the licence of histheatre, nor may it be given as a judicial reason for cancelling thatlicence.3. Authors and managers producing plays without first obtaining theusual licence from the Lord Chamberlainshall be perfectly free to doso, and shall be at no disadvantage compared to those who follow theexisting practice, except that they may be punished, have the licencesof their theatres endorsed and cancelled, and havethe performancestopped pending the proceedings without compensation in the event of theproceedings ending in their acquittal.4. Authors are to be rescued from their present subjection to anirresponsible secrettribunal which can condemn their plays withoutgiving reasons, by the substitution for that tribunal of a Committee ofthe Privy Council, which is to be the final authority on the fitness ofa play for representation; and thisCommittee is to sit in camera if andwhen it pleases.5. The power to impose a veto on the production of plays is to beabolished because it may hinder the growth of a great national drama;but the Office of Examiner ofPlays shall be continued; and the LordChamberlain shall retain his present powers to license plays, but shallbe made responsible to Parliament to the extent of making it possibleto ask questions there concerning hisproceedings, especially now thatmembers have discovered a method of doing this indirectly.And so on, and so forth. The thing is to be done; and it is not to bedone. Everything is to be changed and nothing is to bechanged. Theproblem is to be faced and the solution to be shirked. And the word ofDickens is to be justified.THE STORY OF THE JOINT SELECT COMMITTEELet me now tell the story of the Committee in greater detail,partly asa contribution to history; partly because, like most true stories, it ismore amusing than the official story.All commissions of public enquiry are more or less intimidated bothby the interests on which they have tosit in judgment and, whentheir members are party politicians, by the votes at the back of thoseinterests; but this unfortunate Committee sat under a quite exceptionalcross fire. First, there was the king. The Censor is amember of hishousehold retinue; and as a king's retinue has to be jealously guardedto avoid curtailment of the royal state no matter what may be thefunction of the particular retainer threatened, nothing but anexpressroyal intimation to the contrary, which is a constitutionalimpossibility, could have relieved the Committee from the fear ofdispleasing the king by any proposal to abolish the censorship of theLord Chamberlain. Now allthe lords on the Committee and some of thecommoners could have been wiped out of society (in their sense of theword) by the slightest intimation that the king would prefer not to meetthem; and this was a heavy riskto run on the chance of "a great andserious national drama" ensuing on the removal of the Lord Chamberlain'sveto on Mrs Warren's Profession. Second, there was the Nonconformistconscience, holding the LiberalGovernment responsible for the Committeeit had appointed, and holding also, to the extent of votes enough toturn the scale in some constituencies, that the theatre is the gate ofhell, to be tolerated, as vice istolerated, only because the power tosuppress it could not be given to any public body without too serious aninterference with certain Liberal traditions of liberty which are stilluseful to Nonconformists in other directions.Third, there was thecommercial interest of the theatrical managers and their syndicates ofbackers in the City, to whom, as I shall shew later on, the censorshipaffords a cheap insurance of enormous value. Fourth, therewas thepowerful interest of the trade in intoxicating liquors, fiercelydetermined to resist any extension of the authority of teetotaller-ledlocal governing bodies over theatres. Fifth, there were the playwrights,withoutpolitical power, but with a very close natural monopoly of atalent not only for play-writing but for satirical polemics. And sinceevery interest has its opposition, all these influences had createdhostile bodies by theoperation of the mere impulse to contradict them,always strong in English human nature.WHY THE MANAGERS LOVE THE CENSORSHIPThe only one of these influences which seems to be generallymisunderstood is thatof the managers. It has been assumed repeatedlythat managers and authors are affected in the same way by thecensorship. When a prominent author protests against the censorship, hisopinion is supposed to bebalanced by that of some prominent managerwho declares that the censorship is the mainstay of the theatre, andhis relations with the Lord Chamberlain and the Examiner of Plays acherished privilege and aninexhaustible joy. This error was not removedby the evidence given before the Joint Select Committee. The managersdid not make their case clear there, partly because they did notunderstand it, and partly becausetheir most eminent witnesses were notpersonally affected by it, and would not condescend to plead it, feelingthemselves, on the contrary, compelled by their self-respect to admitand even emphasize the fact that theLord Chamberlain in the exercise ofhis duties as licenser had done those things which he ought not tohave done, and left undone those things which he ought to have done. MrForbes Robertson and Sir Herbert Tree, forinstance, had never felt thereal disadvantage of which managers have to complain. This disadvantagewas not put directly to the Committee; and though the managers areagainst me on the question of the censorship, Iwill now put their casefor them as they should have put it themselves, and as it can be readbetween the lines of their evidence when once the reader has the clue.The manager of a theatre is a man of business. He isnot an expert inpolitics, religion, art, literature, philosophy, or law. He calls ina playwright just as he calls in a doctor, or consults a lawyer, orengages an architect, depending on the playwright's reputation andpastachievements for a satisfactory result. A play by an unknown man mayattract him sufficiently to induce him to give that unknown man a trial;but this does not occur often enough to be taken into account:hisnormal course is to resort to a well-known author and take (mostly withmisgiving) what he gets from him. Now this does not cause any anxietyto Mr Forbes Robertson and Sir Herbert Tree, because they areonlyincidentally managers and men of business: primarily they are highlycultivated artists, quite capable of judging for themselves anythingthat the most abstruse playwright is likely to put before them, But theplainsailing tradesman who must be taken as the typical manager (forthe West end of London is not the whole theatrical world) is by no meansequally qualified to judge whether a play is safe from prosecution ornot. He maynot understand it, may not like it, may not know what theauthor is driving at, may have no knowledge of the ethical, political,and sectarian controversies which may form the intellectual fabric ofthe play, and mayhonestly see nothing but an ordinary "character part"in a stage figure which may be a libellous and unmistakeable caricatureof some eminent living person of whom he has never heard. Yet if heproduces the play he islegally responsible just as if he had written ithimself. Without protection he may find himself in the dock answeringa charge of blasphemous libel, seditious libel, obscene libel, or allthree together, not to mention thepossibility of a private action fordefamatory libel. His sole refuge is the opinion of the Examiner ofPlays, his sole protection the licence of the Lord Chamberlain. Arefusal to license does not hurt him, because he canproduce anotherplay: it is the author who suffers. The granting of the licencepractically places him above the law; for though it may be legallypossible to prosecute a licensed play, nobody ever dreams of doing it.Thereally responsible person, the Lord Chamberlain, could not be putinto the dock; and the manager could not decently be convicted when hecould procure in his defence a certificate from the chief officer of theKing'shousehold that the play was a proper one.A TWO GUINEA INSURANCE POLICYThe censorship, then, provides the manager, at the negligible premiumof two guineas per play, with an effective insurance against theauthorgetting him into trouble, and a complete relief from all conscientiousresponsibility for the character of the entertainment at his theatre.Under such circumstances, managers would be more than human if theydidnot regard the censorship as their most valuable privilege. This is thesimple explanation of the rally of the managers and their Associationsto the defence of the censorship, of their reiterated resolutions ofconfidencein the Lord Chamberlain, of their presentations of plate,and, generally, of their enthusiastic contentment with the presentsystem, all in such startling contrast to the denunciations of thecensorship by the authors. It alsoexplains why the managerial witnesseswho had least to fear from the Censor were the most reluctant in hisdefence, whilst those whose practice it is to strain his indulgence tothe utmost were almost rapturous in hispraise. There would be absoluteunanimity among the managers in favor of the censorship if they were allsimply tradesmen. Even those actor-managers who made no secret beforethe Committee of their contempt forthe present operation of thecensorship, and their indignation at being handed over to a domesticofficial as casual servants of a specially disorderly kind, demanded,not the abolition of the institution, but such a reformas might make itconsistent with their dignity and unobstructive to their higher artisticaims. Feeling no personal need for protection against the author, theyperhaps forgot the plight of many a manager to whom themodern advanceddrama is so much Greek; but they did feel very strongly the need ofbeing protected against Vigilance Societies and Municipalities andcommon informers in a country where a large section of thecommunitystill believes that art of all kinds is inherently sinful.WHY THE GOVERNMENT INTERFEREDIt may now be asked how a Liberal government had been persuaded tomeddle at all with a question in which so manyconflicting interestswere involved, and which had probably no electoral value whatever.Many simple simple souls believed that it was because certain severelyvirtuous plays by Ibsen, by M. Brieux, by Mr GranvilleBarker, and byme, were suppressed by the censorship, whilst plays of a scandalouscharacter were licensed without demur. No doubt this influencedpublic opinion; but those who imagine that it could influenceBritishgovernments little know how remote from public opinion and how fullof their own little family and party affairs British governments, bothLiberal and Unionist, still are. The censorship scandal had existed foryearswithout any parliamentary action being taken in the matter, andmight have existed for as many more had it not happened in 1906 thatMr Robert Vernon Harcourt entered parliament as a member of the LiberalParty, ofwhich his father had been one of the leaders during theGladstone era. Mr Harcourt was thus a young man marked out for officeboth by his parentage and his unquestionable social position as oneof the governing class.Also, and this was much less usual, hewas brilliantly clever, and was the author of a couple of plays ofremarkable promise. Mr Harcourt informed his leaders that he was goingto take up the subject of the censorship.The leaders, recognizing hishereditary right to a parliamentary canter of some sort as a prelude tohis public career, and finding that all the clever people seemed tobe agreed that the censorship was an anti-Liberalinstitution andan abominable nuisance to boot, indulged him by appointing a SelectCommittee of both Houses to investigate the subject. The then Chancellorof the Duchy of Lancaster, Mr Herbert Samuel (nowPostmaster-General),who had made his way into the Cabinet twenty years ahead of the usualage, was made Chairman. Mr Robert Harcourt himself was of course amember. With him, representing the Commons, wereMr Alfred Mason, a manof letters who had won a seat in parliament as offhandedly as he hassince discarded it, or as he once appeared on the stage to help me outof a difficulty in casting Arms and the Man when thatpiece was thenewest thing in the advanced drama. There was Mr Hugh Law, an Irishmember, son of an Irish Chancellor, presenting a keen and joyous frontto English intellectual sloth. Above all, there was ColonelLockwood torepresent at one stroke the Opposition and the average popular man. Thishe did by standing up gallantly for the Censor, to whose support theOpposition was in no way committed, and by visibly defying themostcherished conventions of the average man with a bunch of carnationsin his buttonhole as large as a dinner-plate, which would have made aBunthorne blench, and which very nearly did make Mr GranvilleBarker(who has an antipathy to the scent of carnations) faint.THE PEERS ON THE JOINT SELECT COMMITTEEThe House of Lords then proceeded to its selection. As fashionable dramain Paris and London concerns itselfalmost exclusively with adultery,the first choice fell on Lord Gorell, who had for many years presidedover the Divorce Court. Lord Plymouth, who had been Chairman to theShakespear Memorial project (now merged inthe Shakespear MemorialNational Theatre) was obviously marked out for selection; and it wasgenerally expected that the Lords Lytton and Esher, who had takena prominent part in the same movement, would havebeen added. Thisexpectation was not fulfilled. Instead, Lord Willoughby de Broke, whohad distinguished himself as an amateur actor, was selected along withLord Newton, whose special qualifications for the Committee,if he hadany, were unknown to the public. Finally Lord Ribblesdale, the arguteson of a Scotch mother, was thrown in to make up for any shortcomingin intellectual subtlety that might arise in the case of hisyoungercolleagues; and this completed the two teams.THE COMMITTEE'S ATTITUDE TOWARD THE THEATREIn England, thanks chiefly to the censorship, the theatre is notrespected. It is indulged and despised as adepartment of what ispolitely called gaiety. It is therefore not surprising that the majorityof the Committee began by taking its work uppishly and carelessly.When it discovered that the contemporary drama, licensed bythe LordChamberlain, included plays which could be described only behind closeddoors, and in the discomfort which attends discussions of very nastysubjects between men of widely different ages, it calmly put itsownconvenience before its public duty by ruling that there should be nodiscussion of particular plays, much as if a committee on temperancewere to rule that drunkenness was not a proper subject of conversationamong