The Magistrate: A Farce in Three Acts

[INTRODUCTORY NOTE]

[THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY]

[THE MAGISTRATE]

[ACT I.]

[ACT II.]

[ACT III—Scene 1.]

[ACT III—Scene 2.]

[TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE]

The Magistrate

THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO

Paper cover, 1s 6d; cloth, 2s 6d each

The Magistrate

A FARCE
In Three Acts

By ARTHUR W. PINERO

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

First Impression 1892;
New Impressions 1894,
1895, 1897, 1899, 1901,
1903, 1905, 1907, 1909,
1911; 1914

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

“THE MAGISTRATE” is, after “Sweet Lavender,” perhaps the most popular of Mr. Pinero’s plays, and it is particularly interesting as being the first of his works in which his own individuality found absolutely independent expression, and emphatically and triumphantly asserted itself. In fact, this farce marks an epoch in the dramatist’s career, and shows him creating a really new and original order of English comic play, the further development of which may be traced in the successive plays which, together with “The Magistrate,” formed the famous Court series of farces, namely, “The Schoolmistress,” “Dandy Dick,” and “The Cabinet Minister.”

Because Mr. Pinero had previously written “The Rocket,” and “In Chancery,” for Mr. Edward Terry, who has performed them times out of number in London and the provinces with considerable success, it has been assumed that “The Magistrate” was also written for Mr. Terry. But this was not the case. As a matter of fact Mr. Pinero wrote the play quite independently, and on its completion he was to have read it to Mr. Charles Wyndham, but the necessities of the Court Theatre intervened. The management of the late Mr. John Clayton and Arthur Cecil was decidedly in low water in 1884 and the earlier part of 1885; play after play had been produced without success, when at length application was made to Mr. Pinero for a new piece. They had been performing serious plays, and he read them “The Weaker Sex,” which he had written some little time before; but Mr. Clayton felt uncertain about this play, which, by the way, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal have since produced, and then Mr. Pinero, mentioning the new comic play he had just finished, suggested that perhaps an entirely new order of entertainment might serve to change the fortunes of the house. “The Magistrate” was immediately accepted and produced, and his conjecture proved correct, for the luck of the theatre promptly turned.

“The Magistrate” was produced at the Court Theatre on Saturday, March 21, 1885, with a cast, particulars of which will be found in the following copy of the first night programme:—

ROYAL COURT THEATRE,

SLOANE SQUARE, S.W.

Lessees and Managers:
Mr. John Clayton and Mr. Arthur Cecil.

THIS EVENING, SATURDAY, MARCH 21,

At a Quarter to Nine o’clock,

WILL BE PRODUCED FOR THE FIRST TIME,

THE MAGISTRATE,

AN ORIGINAL FARCE, IN THREE ACTS,

BY

A. W. PINERO.

[ACT I.]

THE FAMILY SKELETON.

At Mr. Posket’s, Bloomsbury.

[ACT II.]

IT LEAVES ITS CUPBOARD.

Room in the Hôtel des Princes, Meek Street.

[ACT III.]

IT CRUMBLES.

[Scene 1.]—The Magistrates Room, Mulberry Street.

[Scene 2.]—At the Poskets’ again.

Preceded by a Comedietta by

A. W. DUBOURG,

entitled

TWENTY MINUTES UNDER AN UMBRELLA.

Cousin Kate . . . Miss Norreys.

Cousin Frank . . . Mr. H. Reeves Smith.

Musical Director . MR. CARL ARMBRUSTER.

Secretary . MR. GEORGE COLEMAN.

The success of “The Magistrate” was immediate, and the Court Theatre was crowded night after night for more than a year, the play being presented over 300 times. So prosperous was the run that there was no cessation during the Summer holiday season, and when Mr. Arthur Cecil went abroad for his vacation, his place as Posket was taken by Mr. Beerbohm Tree, while Miss Lottie Venne and Mrs. Tree in like manner relieved Mrs. John Wood and Miss Marion Terry.

This success, however, was not confined to London, for three companies were soon carrying the play triumphantly over the English provinces, while in September 1885 Mr. Pinero went to New York to produce his work at Daly’s Theatre. Mr. Daly had suggested that Miss Ada Rehan should play the boy, Cis Farringdon, but to this the author objected, and Miss Rehan played Mrs. Posket, while Mr. Posket was represented by Mr. James Lewis, and Colonel Lukyn by Mr. John Drew. “The Magistrate” enjoyed an exceptionally long run in New York, as well as in Boston, and in the latter city it is now performed every year, being included in the regular season of classic English comedies at the Boston Museum. “The Magistrate” has also been played throughout the United States, the late John T. Raymond having been closely associated with the play for a considerable time.

“The Magistrate” has travelled more widely than most modern English plays, and, besides being a stock piece in Australia, India, and South Africa, it has been translated into more than one foreign tongue. Under the title “Der Blaue Grotte” (“The Blue Grotto”) it is constantly played all over Germany and Austria, while in the Slavonic language it is a favourite play at the National Theatre, Prague. At one time a proposal was made, through the late Mr. John Clayton, that “The Magistrate” should be adapted to the French stage, but the suggestions of the proposed Parisian adapter were, though eminently characteristic, of such a nature that Mr. Pinero did not feel justified in acceding to them.

While Mrs. John Wood and Mr. Arthur Chudleigh were still joint managers of the Court, there was some intention of reviving “The Magistrate” at that theatre, but as matters afterwards developed, Mr. Pinero arranged that the revival should take place under the auspices of Mr. Edward Terry, who accordingly appeared as Mr. Posket at his own theatre on Wednesday, April 13, 1892.

Malcolm C. Salaman.

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

THE FIRST ACT

THE FAMILY SKELETON

THE SECOND ACT

IT LEAVES ITS CUPBOARD

THE THIRD ACT

IT CRUMBLES

THE MAGISTRATE

THE FIRST ACT

The scene represents a well-furnished drawing-room in the house of Mr. Posket in Bloomsbury.

Beatie Tomlinson, a pretty, simply dressed little girl of about sixteen, is playing the piano, as Cis Farringdon, a manly youth wearing an Eton jacket, enters the room.

Cis.

Beatie!

Beatie.

Cis dear! Dinner isn’t over, surely?

Cis.

Not quite. I had one of my convenient headaches and cleared out. [Taking an apple and some cobnuts from his pocket and giving them to Beatie.] These are for you, dear, with my love. I sneaked ’em off the sideboard as I came out.

Beatie.

Oh, I mustn’t take them!

Cis.

Yes, you may—it’s my share of dessert. Besides, it’s a horrid shame you don’t grub with us.

Beatie.

What, a poor little music mistress!

Cis.

Yes. They’re only going to give you four guineas a quarter. Fancy getting a girl like you for four guineas a quarter—why, an eighth of you is worth more than that! Now peg away at your apple.

[Produces a cigarette.

Beatie.

There’s company at dinner, isn’t there?

[Munching her apple.

Cis.

Well, hardly. Aunt Charlotte hasn’t arrived yet, so there’s only old Bullamy.

Beatie.

Isn’t old Bullamy anybody?

Cis.

Old Bullamy—well, he’s only like the guv’nor, a police magistrate at the Mulberry Street Police Court.

Beatie.

Oh, does each police court have two magistrates?

Cis.

[Proudly.] All the best have two.

Beatie.

Don’t they quarrel over getting the interesting cases? I should.

Cis.

I don’t know how they manage—perhaps they toss up who’s to hear the big sensations. There’s a Mrs. Beldam, who is rather a bore sometimes; I know the Guv always lets old Bullamy attend to her. But, as a rule, I fancy they go half and half, in a friendly way. [Lighting cigarette.] For instance, if the guv’nor wants to go to the Derby he lets old Bullamy have the Oaks—and so on, see?

[He sits on the floor, comfortably reclining against Beatie, and puffing his cigarette.

Beatie.

Oh, I say, Cis, won’t your mamma be angry when she finds I haven’t gone home?

Cis.

Oh, put it on to your pupil. Say I’m very backward.

Beatie.

I think you are extremely forward—in some ways. [Biting the apple and speaking with her mouth full.] I do wish I could get you to concentrate your attention on your music lessons. But I wouldn’t get you into a scrape!

Cis.

No fear of that. Ma is too proud of me.

Beatie.

But there’s your step-father.

Cis.

The dear old guv’nor! Why, he is too good-natured to say “Bo!” to a goose. You know, Beatie, I was at a school at Brighton when ma got married—when she got married the second time, I mean—and the guv’nor and I didn’t make each other’s acquaintance till after the honeymoon.

Beatie.

Oh, fancy your step-father blindly accepting such a responsibility.

[Gives him a cobnut to crack for her.

Cis.

Yes, wasn’t the guv’nor soft! I might have been a very indifferent sort of young fellow for all he knew.

[Having cracked the nut with his teeth, he returns it to her.

Beatie.

Thank you, dear.

Cis.

Well, when I heard the new dad was a police magistrate, I was scared. Said I to myself, “If I don’t mind my P’s and Q’s, the guv’nor—from force of habit—will fine me all my pocket-money.” But it’s quite the reverse—he’s the mildest, meekest——[The door opens suddenly.] Look out! Some one coming!

[They both jump up, Beatie scattering the nuts that are in her lap all over the floor. Cis throws his cigarette into the fireplace and sits at the piano, playing a simple exercise, very badly. Beatie stands behind him counting.

Beatie.

One—and two—and one—and two.

Wyke, the butler, appears at the door, and mysteriously closes it after him.

Wyke.

Ssss! Master Cis! Master Cis!

Cis.

Hallo—what is it, Wyke?

Wyke.

[Producing a decanter from under his coat.] The port wine what you asked for, sir. I couldn’t get it away before—the old gentlemen do hug port wine so.

Cis.

Got a glass?

Wyke.

Yes, sir. [Producing wine-glass from his pocket, and pouring out wine.] What ain’t missed ain’t mourned, eh, Master Cis?

Cis.

[Offering wine.] Here you are, Beatie dear.

Beatie.

The idea of such a thing! I couldn’t!

Cis.

Why not?

Beatie.

If I merely sipped it I shouldn’t be able to give you your music lesson properly. Drink it yourself, you dear, thoughtful boy.

Cis.

I shan’t—it’s for you.

Beatie.

I can’t drink it!

Cis.

You must.

Beatie.

I won’t!

Cis.

You’re disagreeable!

Beatie.

Not half so disagreeable as you are.

[They wrangle.

Wyke.

[To himself, watching them.] What a young gentleman it is! and only fourteen! Fourteen—he behaves like forty! [Cis chokes as he is drinking the wine; Beatie pats him on the back.] Why, even Cook has made a ’ash of everything, since he’s been in the house, and as for Popham——! [Seeing some one approaching.] Look out, Master Cis!

[Cis returns to the piano, Beatie counting as before. Wyke pretends to arrange the window curtains, concealing the decanter behind him.

Beatie.

One and two—and one and two—and one, &c.

Enter Popham, a smart-looking maid-servant.

Popham.

Wyke, where’s the port?

Wyke.

[Vacantly.] Port?

Popham.

Port wine. Missus is furious.

Wyke.

Port?

Popham.

[Pointing to the decanter.] Why! There! You’re carrying it about with you!

Wyke.

Why, so I am! Carrying it about with me! Shows what a sharp eye I keep on the guv’nor’s wines. Carrying it about with me! Missus will be amused.

[Goes out.

Popham.

[Eyeing Cis and Beatie.] There’s that boy with her again! Minx! Her two hours was up long ago. Why doesn’t she go home? Master Cis, I’ve got a message for you.

Cis.

[Rising from the piano.] For me, Popham?

Popham.

Yes, sir. [Quietly to him.] The message is from a young lady who up to last Wednesday was all in all to you. Her name is Emma Popham.

Cis.

[Trying to get away.] Oh, go along, Popham!

Popham.

[Holding his sleeve.] Ah, it wasn’t “Go along, Popham” till that music girl came into the house. I will go along, but—cast your eye over this before you sleep to-night. [She takes out of her pocket-handkerchief a piece of printed paper which she hands him between her finger and thumb.] Part of a story in “Bow Bells,” called “Jilted; or, Could Blood Atone?” Wrap it in your handkerchief—it came round the butter.

[She goes out; Cis throws the paper into the grate.

Cis.

Bother the girl! Beatie, she’s jealous of you!

Beatie.

A parlour-maid jealous of me—and with a bit of a child of fourteen!

Cis.

I may be only fourteen, but I feel like a grown-up man! You’re only sixteen—there’s not much difference—and if you will only wait for me, I’ll soon catch you up and be as much a man as you are a woman. Will you wait for me, Beatie?

Beatie.

I can’t—I’m getting older every minute!

Cis.

Oh, I wish I could borrow five or six years from somebody!

Beatie.

Many a person would be glad to lend them. [Lovingly.] And oh, I wish you could!

Cis.

[Putting his arm round her.] You do! Why?

Beatie.

Because I—because——

Cis.

[Listening.] Look out! Here’s the mater!

[They run to the piano, he resumes playing, and she counting as before.

Beatie.

One and two—and one—and two, &c.

Enter Agatha Posket, a handsome, showy woman, of about thirty-six, looking perhaps younger.

Agatha Posket.

Why, Cis child, at your music again?

Cis.

Yes, ma, always at it. You’ll spoil my taste by forcing it if you’re not careful.

Agatha Posket.

We have no right to keep Miss Tomlinson so late.

Beatie.

Oh, thank you, it doesn’t matter. I—I—am afraid we’re not making—very—great—progress.

Cis.

[Winking at Beatie.] Well, if I play that again, will you kiss me?

Beatie.

[Demurely.] I don’t know, I’m sure. [To Agatha Posket.] May I promise that, ma’am?

[Sits in the window recess. Cis, joining her, puts his arm round her waist.

Agatha Posket.

No, certainly not. [To herself, watching them.] If I could only persuade Æneas to dismiss this protégée of his, and to engage a music-master, it would ease my conscience a little. If this girl knew the truth, how indignant she would be! And then there is the injustice to the boy himself, and to my husband’s friends who are always petting and fondling and caressing what they call “a fine little man of fourteen!” Fourteen! Oh, what an idiot I have been to conceal my child’s real age! [Looking at the clock.] Charlotte is late; I wish she would come. It will be a relief to worry her with my troubles.

Mr. Posket.

[Talking outside.] We smoke all over the house, Bullamy, all over the house.

Agatha Posket.

I will speak to Æneas about this little girl, at any rate.

Enter Mr. Posket, a mild gentleman of about fifty, smoking a cigarette, followed by Mr. Bullamy, a fat, red-faced man with a bronchial cough and general huskiness.

Mr. Posket.

Smoke anywhere, Bullamy—smoke anywhere.

Mr. Bullamy.

Not with my bronchitis, thank ye.

Mr. Posket.

[Beaming at Agatha Posket.] Ah, my darling!

Mr. Bullamy.

[Producing a small box from his waistcoat pocket.] All I take after dinner is a jujube—sometimes two. [Offering the box.] May I tempt Mrs. Posket?

Agatha Posket.

No, thank you. [Treading on one of the nuts which have been scattered over the room.] How provoking—who brings nuts into the drawing-room?

Mr. Posket.

Miss Tomlinson still here? [To Beatie.] Don’t go, don’t go. Glad to see Cis so fond of his music. Your sister Charlotte is behind her time, my darling.

Agatha Posket.

Her train is delayed, I suppose.

Mr. Posket.

You must stay and see my sister-in-law, Bullamy.

Mr. Bullamy.

Pleasure—pleasure!

Mr. Posket.

I have never met her yet, we will share first impressions. In the interim, will Miss Tomlinson delight us with a little music?

Mr. Bullamy.

[Bustling up to the piano.] If this young lady is going to sing she might like one of my jujubes.

[Beatie sits at the piano with Cis and Mr. Bullamy on each side of her. Mr. Posket treads on a nut as he walks over to his wife.

Mr. Posket.

Dear me—how come nuts into the drawing-room? [To Agatha.] Of what is my darling thinking so deeply? [Treads on another nut.] Another! My pet, there are nuts on the drawing-room carpet!

Agatha Posket.

Yes, I want to speak to you, Æneas.

Mr. Posket.

About the nuts?

Agatha Posket.

No—about Miss Tomlinson—your little protégée.

Mr. Posket.

Ah, nice little thing.

Agatha Posket.

Very. But not old enough to exert any decided influence over the boy’s musical future. Why not engage a master?

Mr. Posket.

What, for a mere child?

Agatha Posket.

A mere child—oh!

Mr. Posket.

A boy of fourteen!

Agatha Posket.

[To herself.] Fourteen!

Mr. Posket.