MY LIFE AS A DRAMATIC CRITIC


I had always wanted to be a dramatic critic. A taste for sitting back
and watching other people work, so essential to the make-up of this
sub-species of humanity, has always been one of the leading traits in
my character.

I have seldom missed a first night. No sooner has one periodical got
rid of me than another has had the misfortune to engage me, with the
result that I am now the foremost critic of the day, read assiduously
by millions, fawned upon by managers, courted by stagehands. My
lightest word can make or mar a new production. If I say a piece is
bad, it dies. It may not die instantly. Generally it takes forty weeks
in New York and a couple of seasons on the road to do it, but it
cannot escape its fate. Sooner or later it perishes. That is the sort
of man I am.

Whatever else may be charged against me, I have never deviated from
the standard which I set myself at the beginning of my career. If I am
called upon to review a play produced by a manager who is considering
one of my own works, I do not hesitate. I praise that play.

If an actor has given me a lunch, I refuse to bite the hand that has
fed me. I praise that actor's performance. I can only recall one
instance of my departing from my principles. That was when the
champagne was corked, and the man refused to buy me another bottle.