First Plays | Page 2

tired of the whole business by now,
and I am beginning to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of
Wurzel-Flummery at all. Probably the whole thing is an invention.
The Lucky One was doomed from the start with a name like that. And
the girl marries the wrong man. I see no hope of its being produced.
But if any critic wishes to endear himself to me (though I don't see why
he should) he will agree with me that it is the best play of the five.
The Boy Comes Home was produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the
Victoria Palace in September, 1918, introduced afterwards into Hallo,
America! at the Palace, and played by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the
Coliseum in the following April.
Belinda was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in
April, 1918, with Miss Irene Vanbrugh in the name-part. Miss Ethel

Barrymore played it in New York. I hope it will read pleasantly, but I
am quite incapable of judging it, for every speech of Belinda's comes to
me now in Miss Vanbrugh's voice.
The Red Feathers has not yet been produced, one reason being (perhaps)
that it has never been offered to anybody. It is difficult enough to find a
manager, but when one has also to get hold of a composer, the business
of production becomes terrifying. I suppose there is a way of
negotiating these difficulties, but I suspect that most of the fun to be got
out of this operetta we have already had in writing it.
In conclusion, I must distress my friend J. M. Barrie (who gave me a
first chance) by acknowledging my great debt to him. It would be more
polite to leave him out of it, but I cannot let him off. After all, these are
only "First Plays." I can always hope that "Last Plays" will be more
worthy of that early encouragement.
A. A. MILNE.

WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
CHARACTERS.
ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P. MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife).
VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter). RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
DENIS CLIFTON.
A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault
at the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:
Robert Crawshaw--NIGEL PLAYFAIR. Margaret Crawshaw--HELEN
HAYE. Viola Crawshaw--PEGGY KURTON. Richard
Meriton--MARTIN LEWIS. Denis Clifton--DION BOUCICAULT.
Lancelot Dodd--BERTRAM SIEMS.
WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
[SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.]
[It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT
CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the
house-agent, our attention would first be called to the delightful club
fender round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa
comes out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA
CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would
hesitate to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points

out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In
the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid
knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference,
and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest
of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we must
leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the sofa
opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five,
has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit.
We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands
over her eyes.]
RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.
VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.
RICHARD. No.
VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.
RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your
last guess.
VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.
RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes
round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace.)
How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)
VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.
RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.
Anything in the paper?
VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--
RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
RICHARD. It would be.
VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as
father.
RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
before. ... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the
other day.
RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled by

your spiritual