villainy, and I shall be nabbed in the end. I always am. But it is
no matter, I will be a
villain--ha! ha!"
On the whole, the stage
villain appears to us to be a rather badly
used individual. He never has any "estates" or property himself, and
his only chance of getting on in the world is to sneak the hero's. He
has an
affectionate
disposition, and never having any wife of his own
he is compelled to love other people's; but his
affection is ever
unrequited, and everything comes wrong for him in the end.
Our advice to stage
villains generally, after careful
observation of
(stage) life and (stage) human nature, is as follows:
Never be a stage
villain at all if you can help it. The life is too
harassing and the remuneration
altogether disproportionate to the
risks and labor.
If you have run away with the clergyman's daughter and she still
clings to you, do not throw her down in the center of the stage and
call her names. It only irritates her, and she takes a
dislike to you
and goes and warns the other girl.
Don't have too many accomplices; and if you have got them, don't keep
sneering at them and bullying them. A word from them can hang you,
and yet you do all you can to rile them. Treat them civilly and let
them have their fair share of the swag.
Beware of the comic man. When you are
committing a murder or robbing
a safe you never look to see where the comic man is. You are so
careless in that way. On the whole, it might be as well if you
murdered the comic man early in the play.
Don't make love to the hero's wife. She doesn't like you; how can you
expect her to? Besides, it isn't proper. Why don't you get a girl of
your own?
Lastly, don't go down to the scenes of your crimes in the last act.
You always will do this. We suppose it is some extra cheap excursion
down there that attracts you. But take our advice and don't go. That
is always where you get nabbed. The police know your habits from
experience. They do not trouble to look for you. They go down in the
last act to the old hall or the ruined mill where you did the deed and
wait for you.
In nine cases out of ten you would get off scot-free but for this
idiotic custom of yours. Do keep away from the place. Go
abroad or
to the sea-side when the last act begins and stop there till it is
over. You will be safe then.
THE HEROINE.
She is always in trouble--and don't she let you know it, too! Her
life is undeniably a hard one. Nothing goes right with her. We all
have our troubles, but the stage
heroine never has anything else. If
she only got one afternoon a week off from trouble or had her Sundays
free it would be something.
But no;
misfortune stalks beside her from week's
beginning to week's
end.
After her husband has been found
guilty of murder, which is about the
least thing that can ever happen to him, and her white-haired father
has become a
bankrupt and has died of a broken heart, and the home of
her
childhood has been sold up, then her
infant goes and contracts a
lingering fever.
She weeps a good deal during the course of her troubles, which we
suppose is only natural enough, poor woman. But it is depressing from
the point of view of the
audience, and we almost wish before the
evening is out that she had not got quite so much trouble.
It is over the child that she does most of her
weeping. The child has
a damp time of it
altogether. We sometimes wonder that it never
catches rheumatism.
She is very good, is the stage
heroine. The comic man expresses a
belief that she is a born angel. She reproves him for this with a
tearful smile (it wouldn't be her smile if it wasn't tearful).
"Oh, no," she says (sadly of course); "I have many, many faults."
We rather wish that she would show them a little more. Her excessive
goodness seems somehow to pall upon us. Our only
consolation while
watching her is that there are not many good women off the stage.
Life is bad enough as it is; if there were many women in real life as
good as the stage
heroine, it would be unbearable.
The stage
heroine's only pleasure in life is to go out in a snow-storm
without an
umbrella and with no
bonnet on. She has a
bonnet, we know
(rather a tasteful little thing); we have seen it
hanging up behind
the door of her room; but when she comes out for a night
stroll during
a heavy snow-storm (accompanied by thunder), she is most careful to
leave it at home. Maybe she fears the snow will spoil it, and she is
a careful girl.