"Still the power of the stage as a teacher," began Ferdinand, "is really----"
"Is really nothing," interrupted Beaumont sharply; "the stage of the present day is meant to amuse, not teach--no one cares to go to school after school hours; we are not even original in our dramas--we either translate from the French stage, or reproduce Shakespeare with fine scenery and tea-cup and saucer actors."
"Well, you cannot object to Shakespeare," observed Reginald, who was much interested in Beaumont's remarks.
"Certainly not. Shakespeare, like other things, is excellent--in moderation. I quite agree that we should have a national theatre, where the Elizabethan drama should be regularly acted, but our so-called National Theatre devotes itself to gingerbread melodramas, and tries to hide its poverty of thought under a brilliant _mise-en-scene_; but when you have Shakespeare's plays at three or four theatres and French adaptations at a dozen others, where does the local playwright come in?"
"But from what I hear there are so few good local playwrights," said Dick quickly.
"And whose fault is that?" asked Beaumont acidly, "but the fault of the English nation. France has a strong dramatic school because she produced her own drama to the exclusion of foreign writers; if the English people, who pride themselves on their patriotism, were to refuse to countenance French and German adaptations, the managers would be forced to produce English plays written by English playwrights, and though, very likely, for a time we would have bad workmanship and crude ideas, yet in a few years a dramatic school would be formed; but such an event will never happen while one of our leading playwrights adapts Gallic comedies wholesale and another dramatises old books of the Georgian period. England has not lost her creative power but she's doing her best to stamp it out."
"But how terribly true," retorted Beaumont carelessly. "However, I will not preach any more as I'm sure you must all be tired of my chatter--and see, there is Doctor Larcher coming."
He arose to his feet as he spoke, for the vicar came striding across the little lawn like a colossus.
"Tea and scandal, I suppose," he roared in his hearty voice as he shook hands with the artist.
