we have noticed that in writing about pantomimes the critics of our contemporaries usually make two rather serious mistakes. the first is the assumption that pantomime is really intended for the amusement of children, and the second (which to a certain extent is implicit in the first) is the conclusion that most pantomimes are unsatisfactory because they fail to provide the children with suitable fare. a glance at any pantomime audience should dispel the first illusion. even at matinées the children are in the minority, while at night the disproportion is quite startling. to us it seems that the real purpose of modern pantomime is to give conscientious objectors to music-halls an opportunity of witnessing a music-hall entertainment without shame. it follows that, even if the second criticism were just, p. 213it would not be very important; but though we agree that the average pantomime is far removed from the ideal entertainment for children, it is at all events quite harmless, and contains a number of elements that children like. they appreciate the colour of the pageant, the papier-maché treasures, the gilt moons and ultramarine sunsets, the jewelled and gilt scenery; they like the funny clothes and red noses and boisterous horseplay of the low comedians; they like the “little girls” in short skirts, in whom the sophisticated recognise the tired ladies of the ballet; they like, in fact, nearly all the things which writers with sentimental views on children think it necessary to condemn. as a general rule they do not care for the love-making or the singing; after a long experience of pantomimes we are prepared to say that they are right, though our reasons are not perhaps theirs. the singing in pantomimes is nearly always extremely bad, and the fact that the principal boy is always the principal girl makes the love-scenes ridiculous. the wonder is that in an entertainment that p. 214must at all costs be made attractive to adults there should be so much that gives genuine pleasure to young people.
from the days of our youth we have always had a kindness for drury lane theatre, and, above all, for drury lane pantomime. the theatre has an individual atmosphere, the pantomime is not like the pantomime one sees anywhere else. in order to appreciate the size of the place it is necessary to put on a very small pair of knickerbockers and gaze upwards from the stalls between the chocolates and the ices. it is like looking into the deeps of heaven, though here the gods suck oranges and make cat-calls—those fascinating sounds that our youthful lips would never achieve. drury lane is the only theatre that preserves the old glamour. we never enter its doors without thinking of charles lamb, and it would hardly astonish us if mistress nell gwynn came to greet us with her basket of china oranges, wearing that famous pair of thick worsted stockings that the little link-boy gave her to save her pretty feet from the chilblains. outside, the image of shakespeare p. 215leans on its pedestal, sadly contemplative of the grey roofs of covent garden. the porters who carry about bunches of bananas unconsciously reproduce the pictures of mr. frank brangwyn. if shakespeare ever slips down from his perch to watch a scene or two of the pantomime from the shadows of the auditorium, he must wonder a little at our twentieth-century masques. like the children, he would probably appreciate the splendid colour and brightness of the spectacle, and, having been an actor himself, he would perhaps pardon the actors’ cheerful neglect of the rights of the dramatist. for modern pantomime is a business of strongly contrasted individualities rather than the product of blended and related effort. this is especially true of drury lane, whose stage at this season of the year is always crowded with vaudeville napoleons and musical-comedy cleopatras. in detail the pantomime is excellent; as an artistic entity it does not exist.
at first sight this seems rather a pity. given a wonderfully appointed stage, gorgeous mounting, a fine orchestra, and a p. 216number of gifted performers, it is natural to expect that the result should be more than the mere sum of these units. but, as a matter of fact, pantomime is essentially formless. those critics who clamour for straightforward versions of the old nursery stories would be vastly disappointed if they got what they wanted. the old stories are well enough when told by firelight in the nursery after tea of a winter’s evening. but they lack humour, and are not, as a rule, dramatic. (“bluebeard,” of course, is a striking exception.) when a story lasting twenty minutes must be expanded to last four hours the story is bound to suffer. when, in addition, all the characters are played by performers whose strength lies in their individuality, it will be surprising if any part of the illusion created by the original fable survives at all.
