Page:Men of Letters, Scott, 1916.djvu/194

168 168 THE REAL STANLEY HOUGHTON the whole joke was that he was not a real dramatist. It was immense fun to be doing the whole thing him- self, pulling off all the old tricks, the approved coups and curtains, piling up the glooms gleefully, streaking in the fat sentiment, watching all the fascinating pulleys and levers of stageland responding as dutifully and solemnly to his touch as if he was a genuine play- wright. Even at the age of five-and-twenty and though still a suburban, Houghton, we may be sure, knew perfectly well that people in real life don't have touching conversations like this : — Sidney. I say things without reflecting enough. But you know I didn't mean to hurt you — mother. May I call you mother now ? Mrs. Forsyth. I hope you will, dear, and I hope that I shall be able to take the place of the mother you have lost. Sidney. If I can only be good enough to be your daughter. {Sits on the arm of Mrs. Forsyth's chair, and slips her arm about neck.) Mrs. Forsyth {stroking her hand). I haven't any fear of that. People don't do things like that in drawing-rooms — but they always did in drawing-room melodramas ; and when Sidney cooed *' Mo-ther " so creamily she was behaving like a true daughter of the stage. Houghton showed his knowledge of human nature, in fact, by misrepresenting it. These plays were the result of a close study of character — but not of the characters they contain. His gifts of insight and observation were being used to estimate sympatheti- cally the attitude and expectations of his little private " house." He had not the smallest intention of holding the mirror up to nature. But his genius made it im- possible for him to write even a claptrap comedietta without turning it into a perfect reflection of his audience, a faithful response to their senses, simple, artless, humorous. He gave them exactly what they