Theatre Production - Quality Street

"WE are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. Is it due to excess of poetry, or of stupidity, that we are never tired of describing what King James called a woman's 'makdom and fairnesse,' never weary of listening to the twanging of the old troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other kind of 'makdom and fairnesse' which must be wooed by industrious thought and patient renunciation of small desires" ?

As though to meet this plaintive protest of George Elliot, Phoebe of the ringlets has sprung into existence, and possessing in her single person the 'makdom and fairnesse' of King James of blessed memory and the more exacting qualities that go to fulfil the term according to George Eliot. The dashing Captain Brown could never have read "Middlemarch," when he exclaimed in self reproach: "The brave Captain Brown! Good God, ma'am, how much more brave are the ladies who keep a school!"

But courage has its limits, and the "patient renunciation of small desires," though consistently practised by a young and pretty woman, is some times displaced by a not unreasonable rebellion against the too confident acceptance of these sacrifices by her friends and acquaintances as constituting, in their opinion, the ordinary daily routine of her life.

"I am tired of being lady-like," exclaims poor Phoebe in one such outbreak, when the dashing Mr. Brown-who went to the wars nine years before, her devoted servant and admirer, if not her avowed lover returns full of pity for the tired and faded little schoolmistress, wearily repeating the Latin declensions and summing up the ascending and descending powers of x. But the "patient renunciation" has not obliterated all the spirit from the quaint school ma'am, and her indignation at this too evident pity from one who should have gazed deeper and understood better, expresses itself in a great gust of passionate rebellion: "He thought I was old, because I look old; and he should not have forgotten. I am only thirty. Susan, why does thirty seem so much more than twenty-nine?" And then addressing an imaginary Brown: "Oh, sir, how dare you look so pityingly at me? Because I have had to work so hard? Is it a crime when a woman works? Because I have tried to be courageous.

But it has given me the headache; it has tired my eyes. Alas! Miss Phoebe, all your charm has gone. Susan, I am tired of being lady-like! I am a young woman still, and to be ladylike is not enough. I wish to be bright, and thoughtless, and merry. It is every woman's birthright to be petted and admired. I wish to be petted and admired! Was I born to be confined within these four walls? Are they the world, Susan, or is there anything beyond them? I want to know. My eyes are tired because for ten years they have seen nothing but maps and desks ...It is not fair! This is not me, this is some other person! I want to be myself! "

Alas, poor Phoebe! the fair curls crushed within the staid confines of your prim cap are not more outraged than that genial nature struggling against the tedium and weariness of school hours A little shaking out, a little glimpse into the world of light and gaiety, and both your curls and your dainty self could dance and twinkle with the best of them. So, at any rate, thinks Patty, the honest maid-of-all-work, whose affectionate service with the Misses Throssell includes the offering of some very blunt but always pertinent advice. For Patty tolerates the quaint gentility of her employers only up to a point, and when their welfare is in question the maid becomes the mistress and dominates the situation.

Patty is not overburdened with humility, the saving grace of "females" in the world peopled by Jane Austen. Patty is homely in feature, but what of that? Her sweetheart will turn the corner of that, be sure. Patty is advancing in years-near forty to be accurate-but what of that? She has, to use her own phrase, "the advantage by ten years" over giddy young things of thirty. Men must have comforts and Patty never falters in the conviction that he will be a lucky man who gains her companionship as a solace in his declining years. In fact, after fifteen years of waiting, "there's not a more hopeful woman in all the King's dominions". "This will be a great year for females, ma'am," she exclaims to Miss Susan, "think how many of the men that marched away strutting to the wars have come back limping. Who is to take off their wooden legs of an evening, Miss Susan? You, ma'am, or me ! "

It is the same Patty who breaks into the story after the rebellion of Phoebe, and pleads for her younger mistress. "Give her her chance, ma'am, and take her to the balls; if Miss Phoebe were to dress young again and put candles in her eyes that used to be so bright, and coax back her curls-" but the rest is lost, for at the word there appears the vision of the old Phoebe, the dainty curls, the bright eyes, the girlish figure of the little maid of ten years ago. And the vision breaks the momentary spell and speaks: "Susan, this is the picture of my old self, that I keep locked away in my room and sometimes take out of its box to look at. This is the girl who kisses herself in the glass and sings and dances with glee, until I put her away frightened; lest you should hear her. Susan, is it like ?"

So much like her former self, so unlike the staid schoolmistress, is this Phoebe, that Valentine Brown, unexpectedly entering the room, is for a moment taken aback. But half-an-hour before he had left a grey, weary and downcast little figure in this same room, and returns to find a merry and radiant vision in white, skipping lightly to the distant strains of a waltz. Patty the astute turns his bewilderment to advantage. He has forgotten the charm that Phoebe of the ringlets exerted over him. Very well, he shall recognise them in her niece, and forth with Phoebe becomes Miss Livvy, and Valentine Brown her first conquest.

Into the spirit of this farce Phoebe enters with zeal. There is little of the tired school mistress in the gay mercurial Livvy. Primness belonged to Phoebe; Livvy not only discards it, but becomes an outrageous flirt, bent on "inspiring frenzy in the breast of the male." Ensign Blades and Lieutenant Spicer become her devoted servants. At the ball a grim circle of envious women lament their loneliness while all their partners hover round Miss Livvy, and proposals are apparently an incident of each separate dance.

But all the time there is a despairing note in her very success. Valentine Brown's attentions to "this horrid, forward, flirting, heartless, hateful little toad of a Livvy," as she terms herself, arouse the keenest indignation in Phoebe. "To weary of Phoebe," she says, "patient, ladylike Phoebe - the Phoebe whom I have lost-to turn from her with a ' Bah! you make me old,' and become enamoured in a night of a thing like this."

The spirit that prompts her in her flirtations with Brown is clear enough. "I did love him all those years," she says, "though I never spoke of it. I never had any hope. I put that away at once, I folded it up and kissed it, and put it away like a pretty garment I could never wear again, but I loved to think of him as a noble man. But he is not a noble man, and Livvy found it out in an hour. The gallant! I flirted that I might enjoy his fury, Susan, there has been a declaration in his eyes all to-night, and when he cries' adorable Miss Livvy, be mine!' I mean to answer him with an "Oh la, how ridiculous you are! You are much too old, I have been but quizzing at you, sir". "Phoebe, how can you be so cruel?" exclaims Miss Susan. "Because," she replies, "he has taken from me the one great glory that is in a woman's life. Not a man's love-she can do without that, but her own dear sweet love for him. He is unworthy of my love, that is why I can be so cruel."

But it is only a momentary infatuation on the part of Valentine Brown, and the gallant gentleman comes to his senses and leaves Phoebe breathless and joyful that Miss Livvy can be discarded so easily by both of them. After all, then, Phoebe finds she is not to have her revenge so easily, and when she seems nearest to it he unexpectedly turns the tables on her when he comes to speak to her in the interests of the man to whom he says he hopes to see her affianced. "Who is this happy man?" she says, confident that he refers to himself. "As to who he is," he replies, "of course I have no notion, nor I am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. But some day, Miss Livvy, the right man will come. Not to be able to tell him all, would it not be hard? And how could you acquaint him with this poor sport? His face would change, ma'am, as you told him of it, and yours would be a false face until it was told. This is what I have been so desirous to say to you by the right of a friend."

To Livvy, or rather to Phoebe, now humiliated, he tells of his love, awakened by the contrast that brought additional force to the sterling qualities of the little schoolmistress. "Phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma'am. I have visited her in her home several times this week-you were always out. I thank you for that, I was alone with her and with fragrant memories of her.". "Memories! " she exclaims, "yes, that is the Phoebe you love, the bright girl of the past, not the schoolmistress in her old maid's cap!". "There you wrong me," he replies, "for I have discovered for myself that the schoolmistress in her old maid's cap is the noblest Miss Phoebe of them all."

It only remains now to get rid of Miss Livvy, and the task proves, after all, no easy one. Much might be written about her mysterious malady, and of the suspicions of the Misses Willoughby and Miss Turnbull. By these ladies Brown is finally enlightened and sees through the fraud. He watches with some amusement the distress of his friends to sustain the double part assumed in a moment of thoughtlessness. Quality Street has been gossiping. The neighbours are on the alert for a scandal, for, notwithstanding Miss Livvy's reported illness, no apothecary has attended on her. Officious friends are not easily to be satisfied with anything less than an actual sight of the invalid or of her departure.

But at length the difficulty is solved, and Valentine Brown, taking matters into his own hands, rids them and himself of the now troublesome Miss Livvy, and the story ends as it began, with the triumph of a woman's "makdom and fairnesse" according to King James and George Elliot.

IN the stilted parlance of those far-off days, one and all will protest that the frocks and frills in this delightful play are "vastly quaint and becoming." That a young woman could look pretty while wearing a dark grey linsey gown, absolutely untrimmed, and a drawn white muslin cap completely hiding her hair, seems an idea quite inconceivable, but Miss Ellaline Terriss as Miss Phoebe Throssell proves that even this is possible. Still her soul hankered after her discarded finery.

"There's a satisfaction in being gowned in the fashion which even religion cannot give," says the weary little schoolmarm. But perhaps one thing helps the other. The knowledge that a dress is pretty and becoming, induces in the wearer a happy frame of mind. To be at peace with one's self, is to be at peace with all the world; and there's both religion and happiness in such a condition.

In Act I, Miss Marion Terry, as Miss Susan Throssell, looks delightfully Quakerish. Her dress is made of an old-fashioned silk called, years ago, Sarsnet; but it was not like the "Sarcenet" of to-day. The hue is lavender, and it is narrowly striped with white. The short-waisted bodice is slightly full in front, and the bishop sleeves are small and drawn in at the wrist with a frill. The skirt only touches the ground and is trimmed with a narrow flounce. Sister Susan's Indian cashmere scarf is white, with a narrow coloured border in which pines play a part; her flat collar is of finest muslin work, and her pretty mob cap is of muslin and lace, tied round with a lavender-grey ribbon. From her arm hangs a pale green satin reticule, with long green ribbons.

Of the young ladies who are listening to the romantic novel of the period only a brief glimpse is caught, for Phoebe's entrance disturbs the reading. Pretty Phoebe, in her pale green frock and hat, with her snowy boa and muff, looks like a Christmas supple ment. The frock is, in its way, quite as plain as Sister Susan's, and its only relief is a neckerchief of white cambric edged with fine lace and pinned down in a point at both back and front of the bodice. The wide-brimmed hat, so quaintly tied down, is of pale green satin, and her muff is of "Granny" proportions. Her scarf is of white crepe with green borders and white fringe.

The exit of the Misses Willoughby is very effective as they and Miss Henrietta Turnbull have meantime donned their walking attire, which is in the exaggerated fashion of the time. Miss Henrietta Watson's pelisse is of bottle-green cloth and scanty in width; a triple cape collar covers her shoulders; her boa and huge muff are of Virginia fox fur, and her poke bonnet matches the colour of her pelisse. Miss Constance Hyem, as Miss Henrietta Turnbull, wears a long plum-coloured pelisse and a coalscuttle bonnet of satin to match, tied round with pale brown ribbon. In this Act, Mr. Seymour Hicks is in a riding suit. His coat, blue cloth with broad velvet collar; his waistcoat, deep red, and his riding breeches a light tan colour.

In Act II, the sad state of the Throssell exchequer introduces us to society, which, if tiresome to the instructresses, is amusing enough to ourselves. In all their ugliness, we observe the tunic suits of the past which have suggested the pretty tunic suits of the present; and see boys of eight or nine in shortsleeved frocks with unmentionables and socks. More picturesque and most decidedly picturesque are the little girls, some in blue and white check linen frocks, with white frilled trousers reaching to their ankles; others in pink or yellow gingham, with white pinafores and close fitting caps with full borders.

Isabella, whose question, "will you or won't you?" is so emphatic, is all in white, evidently a spoilt child. Miss Marion Terry is very simply dressed in black, and her scarf is of grey crepe; her collar, embroidered muslin, and her plain cap of the same delicate fabric. Miss Phoebe looks like Mrs. Elizabeth Fry. AIl her ringlets are gone, hidden away beneath the close white muslin cap, and her dark grey frock is of the very very plainest. But not for long does Phoebe of the ringlets maintain her sad demeanour. Captain Brown has returned, has called, and has rescued her from William Smith, bully. Nay, has even hinted at tickets for the Waterloo ball. The session is over, the holidays begun.

J. M. BARRIE - QUALITY STREET
(VAUDEVILLE, September 1902)

The charm of a genuine Barrie, while it is undeniable, is at the same time not very easily explicable. In the ultimate analysis I believe that the pleasure of a genuine Barrie will be found not so much in what the work - whether novel or play - says as in what it implies. That, of course, is true in a sense of any work of art; what we admire or dislike in it is, in the last resort, the artist behind it. Behind any genuine Barrie, by which I mean any work in which the man allows himself freely "to abound," as the French say, "in his own sense," lets himself go, as we English say, we are conscious of a sweet nature.

There is ozone in the air; we are once more young barbarians, all at play; all things for us become seemly and of good report. It may look like aesthetic disparagement of Mr. Barrie's work thus to dwell on its ethical aspect; and I shall run the risk of exciting prejudice against him in a certain order of minds if I say that he is one of the most moral writers I know. Yet so it is. Mr. Barrie justifies the simple, natural life; he demonstrates the essential virtuousness of cakes and ale and even of ginger hot i' the mouth. Quality Street is a case in point. Its theme, to speak generally, is the joy of living - of living, as the pedants would say, κατà Φúσιν. More particularly the theme is the desire of women to love tenderly and to be honourably loved in return. That desire is never more charmingly exhibited than it is in young spinsters verging on an age when love seems in danger of passing them by. It is the theme of Jane Austen's Persuasion. If that classic instance comes automatically to the pen it is because Mr. Barrie's play chooses Jane Austen's period, and his characters speak the delightfully stilted language of Jane Austen's people.

It is true they all speak that language a little too emphatically; they are more royalist than the king, more Austenite than Jane herself. There are too many "ma'ams," and "vastlys," and "elegant females," and "vowings," and "pretestings." Jane Austen's idiom was much more like our own than Mr. Barrie would have us suppose. And there are incongruities which grate on the ear. Jane Austen would never have talked of "object-lessons" or of a lady being "gown'd." To say "This will be a great year for females" and "I long to dazzle a male" is to burlesque her style.

In harping on Jane Austen I am paying Mr. Barrie the greater compliment. He gives us something very like her delicate sampler-work, her pomander fragrance. And the story he tells might have been told by her. Only she would have told it more quietly. Quality Street is always, what Jane Austen's work was never, a trifle jerky. It is Jane a little out of breath and flustered, just as Miss Susan Throssell's dear "white and blue" room is a little too garish for the period of the Brothers Adam. Miss Susan's younger sister Phoebe, aged twenty-one, expects a proposal of marriage from Mr. Valentine Brown. He once kissed her cheek on the pretext that it was wet. But he only meant friendship, and, instead of proposing marriage, calls to say he is going to the wars. Then, for nine weary years, the dear "white and blue" room is turned into a school, and Phoebe's brightness becomes dimmed in the effort to master the rudiments of algebra for beginners.

Let me say in passing that the fun of the scholars and the difficult algebra occupy nearly a whole act of the play. That is Mr. Barrie's way; he follows his humour wherever it leads him; and it sometimes leads him very far from the business in hand. Then, after nine years, Mr. Valentine Brown returns from the wars, at length convinced that what he thought was friendship was really love. The interval is significant; it is that for which Horace advised poets to bottle up their verses; and we may say, in Mr. Brown's case, that love, like poetry, is improved by observation of the maxim, "... nonumque prematur in annum."

But Mr. Brown is not yet allowed to realise the full meaning of his feeling for Phoebe, for we are only at the end of Act II., and what would become of the play? Accordingly the interest is prolonged by a fantastic device. That also is Mr. Barrie's way; his plots are apt to be thin, and he spins them out by the first artifice that comes to hand. Phoebe pretends to be an imaginary niece of hers, one Livy, in order that she may reassume her well-nigh vanished youth without let or hindrance, and in order, too, that she may flirt violently with Mr. Valentine Brown at the officers ball. Mr. Brown has a moment of mad love for the supposed Livy; but only a moment, for a revulsion of feeling against the lively, forward Livy shows him that it is the shy modesty of Phoebe that he really adores.

That is a delicious scene - a passage of Marivaux turned into Austenite English - wherein Brown, thinking that he is telling Livy why he does not love her, is really telling her why he does. Perhaps it is rather subtle for the footlights. That, once more, is Mr. Barrie's way: the way of supersubtlety, of emotional casuistry, which is rather the method of the novelist than of the playwright. And, finally, it is Mr. Barrie's way to prolong the story after the story is really at an end by a last act which is much ado about nothing. But we leave everything and everybody quite happy and cosy in the "white and blue" room; Mr. Brown has kissed Phoebe again and has even kissed Miss Susan, who had never before in her life been kissed by a male.

It is all very pretty and sweet, but, as Matthew Arnold was never tired of quoting from Sainte-Beuve, every literary genre has its écueil particulier; and the écueil particulier of the pretty and sweet is the namby-pamby.

Here and there Quality Street verges on the namby-pamby, so that we almost sigh for a wolf in the little sheep-fold. Here and there, too, it is a little garrulous - as garrulous, shall we say? as Jane Austen's Miss Bates. But the fact remains that it is a genuine Barrie, and, being a genuine Barrie, has an irresistible charm. It shows us the sweetness of life as lived by old maids, and by young maids who are honestly determined not to be old maids if they can help it. It makes us, like St. Augustine in his youth, in love with love. It has laid us up in lavender.

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