The Genial Idiot: His Views and Reviews

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 that already?”

“I am sorry to say,” said Mr. Brief, “that I can. You ought to call your heroine Drivelina.”

“Splendid!” cried the Idiot. “Drivelina goes. Well, then, on comes Drivelina, and this beast of a pirate grabs her by the hand and makes love to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap-the-whip. She sings a soprano solo of protest, and the pirate summons his hirelings to cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell, when boom! an American war-ship appears on the horizon. The crew, under the leadership of a man with a squeaky tenor voice, named Lieutenant Somebody or Other, comes ashore, puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag, while his crew sing 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, who kills half the natives with his sword, and is about to slay the pirate when he discovers that he is his long-lost father,” said the Idiot. “The heroine then sings a pathetic love-song about her baboon baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoanut-shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the lieutenant and his forces to sleep, and the curtain falls on their capture by the pirate 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. “And I’ve proved it. I didn’t have that story in mind when I started. That’s where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn’t even have to think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right out of Mr. Brief’s mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the title – ‘The Isle of Piccolo’ – that’s a dandy, and I give you my word of honor, I’d never even thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the coon song, ‘My Baboon Baby,’ there’s a chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and Reginald de Koven writhe with jealousy. Can’t you imagine the lilt of 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 together in 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 in collaboration. So far, I’ve done the whole blooming business. I’ll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you’ve got to do a little colabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to do – collect the royalties?”

“I’m told,” said the Lawyer, “that that is sometimes the hardest thing to do in a comic opera.”

“Well, I’ll be self-sacrificing,” said the Idiot, “and bear my full share of it.”

“It seems to me,” said the Bibliomaniac, “that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run.”

“Thank you,” said the Idiot. “After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. 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.”

VI

HE DISCUSSES FAME

”MR. POET,” said the Idiot, the other morning as his friend, the Rhymster, took his place beside him at the breakfast-table, “tell me: How long have you been writing poetry?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the Poet, modestly. “I don’t know that I’ve ever written any. I’ve turned out a lot of rhymes in my day, and have managed to make a fair living with them, but poetry is a different thing. The divine afflatus doesn’t come to every one, you know; and I doubt if anybody will be able to say whether my work has shown an occasional touch of inspiration, or not until I have been dead fifty or a hundred years.”

“Tut!” exclaimed the Idiot. “That’s all nonsense. I am able to say now whether or not your work shows the occasional touch of inspiration. It does. In fact, it shows more than that. It shows a semi-occasional touch of inspiration. How long have you been in the business?”

“Eighteen years,” sighed the Poet. “I began when I was twelve with a limerick. As I remember the thing, it went like this:

“There was a young man of Cohasset
Turned on the red-hot water-faucet.
When asked: ‘Is it hot?’
He answered, ‘Well, thot
Is a pretty mild way for to class it.’”

“Good!” said the Idiot. “That wasn’t a bad beginning for a boy of twelve.”

“So my family thought,” said the Poet. “My mother sent it to the Under the Evening Lamp Department of our town paper, and three weeks later I was launched. I’ve had the cacœthes scribendi ever since – but, alas! I got more fame in that brief hour of success than I have ever been able to win since. It is a mighty hard job, Mr. Idiot, making a name for yourself these days.”