V
HE SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA
"There's a harvest for you," said the Idiot, as he perused a recentlypublished criticism of a comic opera. "There have been thirty-nine newcomic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It isvery evident that the Gilbert and Sullivan industry hasn't gone to thewall whatever slumps other enterprises have suffered from."
"That is a goodly number," said the Poet. "Thirty-nine, eh? I knew therewas a raft of them, but I had no idea there were as many as that."
"Why don't you go in and do one, Mr. Poet?" suggested the Idiot. "Theytell me it's as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is toforget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard,slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write two dozen lyrics aboutsome Googoo Belle, hire a composer, and there you are. Hanged if Ihaven't thought of writing one myself."
"I fancy it isn't as easy as it looks," observed the Poet. "It requiresjust as much thought to be thoughtless as it does to be thoughtful."
"Nonsense," said the Idiot. "I'd undertake the job cheerfully if somemanager would make it worth my while, and, what's more, if I ever gotinto the swing of the business I'll bet I could turn out a libretto aday for three days of the week for the next two months."
"If I had your confidence I'd try it," laughed the Poet, "but, alas! inmaking me Nature did not design a confidence man."
"Nonsense, again," said the Idiot. "Any man who can get the editors toprint sonnets to 'Diana's Eyebrow,' and little lyrics of Madison Square,Longacre Square, Battery Place, and Boston Common, the way you do, hasa right to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll dowith you: I'll swap off my confidence for your lyrical facility, and seewhat I can do. Why can't we collaborate and get up a libretto for nextseason? They tell me there's large money in it."
"There certainly is if you catch on," said the Poet. "Vastly more thanin any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I wouldlike to collaborate with you on something of the sort. What is youridea?"
"Mind's a blank on the subject," sighed the Idiot. "That's the reason Ithink I can turn the trick. As I said before, you don't need ideas.Better go without 'em. Just sit down and write."
"But you must have some kind of a story," persisted the Poet.
"Not to begin with," said the Idiot. "Just write your choruses andsongs, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done.First act, get your hero and heroine into trouble. Second act, get 'emout."
"And for the third?" queried the Poet.
"Don't have a third," said the Idiot. "A third is always superfluous;but, if you must have it, make up some kind of a vaudeville show andstick it in between the first and second."
"Tush!" said the Bibliomaniac. "That would make a gay comic opera."
"Of course it would, Mr. Bib," the Idiot agreed. "And that's what wewant. If there's anything in this world that I hate more than another itis a sombre comic opera. I've been to a lot of 'em, and I give you myword of honor that next to a funeral a comic opera that lacks gayety isone of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went toone of 'em last week called 'The Skylark,' with an old chum of mine whois a surgeon. You can imagine what sort of a thing it was when I tellyou that after the first act he suggested we leave the theatre and comeback here and have some fun cutting my leg off. He vowed that if heever went to another opera by the same people he'd take etherbeforehand."
"I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac."If it was as bad as all that, why didn't it put you to sleep?"
"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. Therewas no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."
"Well, about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What doyou think we should do first?"
"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did yousuppose? A finale? Something like this:
"If you want to know who we are, Just ask the Evening Star, As he smiles on high In the deep-blue sky, With his tralala-la-la-la. We are maidens sweet With tripping feet, And the googoo eyes Of the skippity-hi's, And the smile of the fair gazoo; And you'll find our names 'Mongst the wondrous dames Of the Who's Who-hoo-hoo-hoo."
"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blond wigs and goldslippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russiancavalry, and you've got your venture launched."
"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.
"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would youlay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.
"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your owngeography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there ofone kind or another, and as defenceless as a two-weeks'-old infant. Ifyou want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make oneup for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of thatsort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, whoshould be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's thechap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow.That will make a bully song:
"I'm a pirate bold With a heart so cold That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow; And the hero-ine, With her eyes so fine, I am going to--marry--to-morrow.
CHORUS
"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow The maid with a heart full of sorrow; For her we are sorry For she weds to-morry-- She is going to-marry--to-morrow."
"Gee!" added the Idiot, enthusiastically, "can't you almost hear thatalready?"
"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call yourheroine Drivelina."
"Splendid!" cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then, on comesDrivelina, and this beast of a pirate grabs her by the hand and makeslove to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap-the-whip. Shesings a soprano solo of protest, and the pirate summons his hirelings tocast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell, when boom! an American war-shipappears on the horizon. The crew, under the leadership of a man with asqueaky tenor voice, named Lieutenant Somebody or Other, comes ashore,puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag, while his crewsing the following:
"We are jackies, jackies, jackies, And we smoke the best tobaccys You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo. And we fight for Uncle Sammy, Yes, indeed we do, for damme You can bet your life that that's the thing to do, Doodle-do! You can bet your life that that's the thing to doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do."
"Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot.
"Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?"
"Well--the pirate gets lively, tries to assassinate the lieutenant, whokills half the natives with his sword, and is about to slay the piratewhen he discovers that he is his long-lost father," said the Idiot. "Theheroine then sings a pathetic love-song about her baboon baby, in agreen light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys bangingcocoanut-shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the lieutenant andhis forces to sleep, and the curtain falls on their capture by thepirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:
"Hooray for the pirate bold, With his pockets full of gold; He's going to marry to-morrow. To-morrow he'll marry, Yes, by the Lord Harry, He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row! And that's a thing to doodle--doodle-doo."
"There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?"
"It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but, after all,you have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one."
"I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "AndI've proved it. I didn't have that stor
y in mind when I started. That'swhere the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have tothink of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped rightout of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina hadbeen written on his heart for centuries. Then the title--'The Isle ofPiccolo'--that's a dandy, and I give you my word of honor, I'd nevereven thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like aflash from the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there'sa chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagnerand Reginald de Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the liltof it:
"My bab-boon--ba-habee, My bab-boon--ba-habee-- I love you dee-her-lee Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee. My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee."
"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut-shells togetherin the green moonlight--"
"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that.The audience generally knows what to do."
"But your second act?" asked the Poet.
"Oh, come off," said the Idiot, rising. "We were to do this thing incollaboration. So far, I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leavethe second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to doa little colabbing on your own account. What did you think you were todo--collect the royalties?"
"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thingto do in a comic opera."
"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my fullshare of it."
"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced inthe right place might stand a chance of a run."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of somepenetration. How long a run?"
"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot, with a smile.
"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac, severely.
"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the superintendent."