I cannot, therefore, advance my own childish recollections
of my first pantomime as trustworthy evidence of what
other children like. But I should wish you to
know that when I was taken to Beauty and the Beast
at the age of seven, it was no elephant, nor any other
kind of beast, which made the afternoon sacred for
me. It was Beauty. I just gazed and gazed
at Beauty. Never had I seen anything so lovely.
For weeks afterwards I dreamed about her. Nothing
that was said or done on the stage mattered so long
as she was there. Probably the author had put
some of his most delightful work into that pantomime—“dialogue
which showed a wonderful insight into the child’s
mind”; I apologize to him for not having listened
to it. (I can sympathize with him now.) Or it may
be that the author had written for men and women of
the world; his dialogue was full of that sordid cynicism
about married life which is still considered amusing,
so that the aunt who took me wondered if this were
really a pantomime suitable for children. Poor
dear!—as if I heard a word of it, I who
was just waiting for Beauty to come back.
What do children like? I do not think that there
is any answer to that question. They like anything;
they like everything; they like so many different
things. But I am certain that there has never
been an ideal play for very young children. It
will never be written, for the reason that no self-respecting
writer could bore himself so completely as to write
it. (Also it is doubtful if fathers and mothers, uncles
and aunts, would sacrifice themselves a second time,
after they had once sat through it.) For very young
children do not want humour or whimsicality or delicate
fancy or any of the delightful properties which we
attribute to the ideal children’s play.
I do not say that they will rise from their stalls
and call loudly for their perambulators, if these
qualities creep into the play, but they can get on
very happily without them. All that they want
is a continuous procession of ordinary everyday events—the
arrival of elephants (such as they see at the Zoo),
or of postmen and policemen (such as they see in their
street), the simplest form of clowning or of practical
joke, the most photographically dull dialogue.
For a grown-up it would be an appalling play to sit
through, and still more appalling play to have to
write.
Perhaps you protest that your children love Peter
Pan. Of course they do. They would be
horrible children if they didn’t. And they
would be horrible children if they did not love (as
I am sure they do) a Drury Lane pantomime. A
nice child would love Hamlet. But I also
love Peter Pan; and for this reason I feel that
it cannot possibly be the ideal play for children.
I do not, however, love the Drury Lane pantomime...
which leaves me with the feeling that it may really
be “the children’s pantomime” after
all.
