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Perkins of Portland

<h2> VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRINCESS OF PILLIWINK </h2> PERKINS slammed the five-o'clock edition of the Chicago “Evening Howl” into the waste-paper basket, and trod it down with the heel of his Go-lightly rubber-sole shoe. “Rot!” he cried. “Tommy rot! Fiddlesticks! Trash!” I looked up meekly. I had seldom seen Perkins angry, and I was abashed. He saw my expression of surprise; and, like the great man he is, he smiled sweetly to reassure me. “Diamonds again,” he explained. “Same old tale. Georgiana De Vere, leading lady, diamonds stolen. Six thousand four hundred and tenth time in the history of the American stage that diamonds have been stolen. If I couldn't—” “But you could, Perkins,” I cried, eagerly. “You would not have to use the worn-out methods of booming a star. In your hands theatrical advertising would become fresh, virile, interesting. A play advertised by the brilliant, original, great—” “Illustrious,” Perkins suggested. “Illustrious Perkins of Portland,” I said, bowing to acknowledge my thanks for the word I needed, “would conquer America. It would fill the largest theatres for season after season. It would—” Perkins arose and slapped his “Air-the-Hair” hat on his head, and hastily slid into his “ready-tailored” overcoat. Without waiting for me to finish my sentence he started for the door. “It would—” I repeated, and then, just as he was disappearing, I called, “Where are you going?” He paused in the hall just long enough to stick his head into the room. “Good idea!” he cried, “great idea! No time to be lost! Perkins the Great goes to get the play!” He banged the door, and I was left alone. That was the way Perkins did things. Not on the spur of the moment, for Perkins needed no spur. He was fall of spurs. He did things in the heat of genius. He might have used as his motto those words that he originated, and that have been copied so often since by weak imitators of the great man: “Don't wait until to-morrow; do it to-day. Tomorrow you may be dead.” He wrote that to advertise coffins, and—well, Li Hung Chang and Sara Bernhardt are only two of the people who took his advice, and lay in their coffins before they had to be in them. I knew Perkins would have the whole affair planned, elaborated, and developed before he reached the street; that he would have the details of the plan complete before he reached the corner; and that he would have figured the net profit to within a few dollars by the time he reached his destination. I had hardly turned to my desk before my telephone bell rang. I slapped the receiver to my ear. It was Perkins! “Pilly,” he said. “Pilly willy. Pilly willy winkum. Pilliwink! That's it. Pilliwink, Princess of. Write it down. The Princess of Pilliwink. Good-by.” I hung up the receiver. “That is the name of the play,” I mused. “Mighty good name, too. Full of meaning, like 'shout Zo-Zo' and 'Paskala' and—” The bell rang again. “Perkins's performers. Good-by,” came the voice of my great friend. “Great!” I shouted, but Perkins had already rung off. He came back in about half an hour with four young men in tow. “Good idea,” I said, “male quartettes always take well.” Perkins waved his hand scornfully. Perkins could do that. He could do anything, could Perkins. “Quartette? No,” he said, “the play.” He locked the office door, and put the key in his pocket. “The play is in them,” he said, “and they are in here. They don't get out until they get the play out.” He tapped the long-haired young man on the shoulder. “Love lyrics,” he said, briefly. The thin young man with a sad countenance he touched on the arm and said, “Comic songs,” and pointing to the youth who wore the baggiest trousers, he said, “Dialogue.” He did not have to tell me that the wheezy little German contained the music of our play. I knew it by the way he wheezed. Perkins swept me away from my desk, and deposited one young man there, and another at his desk. The others he gave each a window-sill, and to each of the four he handed a pencil and writing-pad. “Write!” he said, and they wrote. As fast as the poets finished a song, they handed it to the composer, who made suitable music for it. It was good music—it all reminded you of something else. If it wasn't real music, it was at least founded on fact. The play did not have much plot, but it had plenty of places for the chorus to come in in tights or short skirts—and that is nine-tenths of any comic opera. I knew it was the real thing as soon as I read it. The dialogue was full of choice bits like,— “So you think you can sing?” “Well, I used to sing in good old boyhood's hour.” “Then why don't you sing it?” “Sing what?” “Why, 'In Good Old Boyhood's Hour,'” and then he would sing it. The musical composer sang us some of the lyrics, just to let us see how clever they were; but he wheezed too much to do them justice. He admitted that they would sound better if a pretty woman with a swell costume and less wheeze sang them. The plot of the play—it was in three acts—was original, so far as there was any plot. The Princess of Pilliwink loved the Prince of Guam; but her father, the leading funny man, and King of Pilliwink, wanted her to marry Gonzolo, an Italian, because Gonzolo owned the only hand-organ in the kingdom. To escape this marriage, the Princess disguised herself as a Zulu maiden, and started for Zululand in an automobile. The second act was, therefore, in Zululand, with songs about palms and a grand cakewalk of Amazons, who captured another Italian organ-grinder. At the request of the princess, this organ-grinder was thrown into prison. In the third act he was discovered to be the Prince of Guam, and everything ended beautifully. Perkins paid the author syndicate spot cash, and unlocked the door and let them go. He did not want any royalties hanging over him. “Ah!” he said, as soon as they were out of sight. We spent the night editing the play. Neither Perkins nor I knew anything about plays, but we did our best. We changed that play from an every-day comic opera into a bright and sparkling gem. Anything that our author syndicate had omitted we put in. I did the writing and Perkins dictated to me. We put in a disrobing scene, in which the Princess was discovered in pain, and removed enough of her dress to allow her to place a Perkins's Patent Porous Plaster between her shoulders, after which she sang the song beginning,— “Now my heart with rapture thrills,” only we changed it to:— “How my back with rapture thrills.” That song ended the first act; and when the opera was played, we had boys go up and down the aisles during the intermission selling Perkins's Patent Porous Plasters, on which the words and music of the song were printed. It made a great hit. The drinking song—every opera has one—we changed just a little. Instead of tin goblets each singer had a box of Perkins's Pink Pellets; and, as they sang, they touched boxes with each other, and swallowed the Pink Pellets. It was easy to change the song from “Drain the red wine-cup— Each good fellow knows The jolly red wine-cup Will cure all his woes” to the far more moral and edifying verse,— “Eat the Pink Pellet, For every one knows That Perkins's Pink Pellets Will cure all his woes.” When Perkins had finished touching up that opera, it was not such an every-day opera as it had been. He put some life into it. I asked him if he didn't think he had given it a rather commercial atmosphere by introducing the Porous Plaster and the Pink Pellets, but he only smiled knowingly. “Wait!” he said, “wait a week. Wait until Perkins circulates himself around town. Why should the drama be out of date? Why avoid all interest? Why not have the opera teem with the life of the day? Why not?” He laid one leg gently over the arm of his chair and tilted his hat back on his head. “Literature, art, drama,” he said, “the phonographs of civilization. Where is the brain of the world? In literature, art, and the drama. These three touch the heartstrings; these three picture mankind; these three teach us. They move the world.” “Yes,” I said. “Good!” exclaimed Perkins. “But why is the drama weak? Why no more Shakespeares? Why no more Molières? Because the real life-blood of to-day isn't in the drama. What is the life-blood of to-day?” I thought he meant Perkins's Pink Pellets, so I said so. “No!” he said, “advertising! The ad. makes the world go round. Why do our plays fall flat? Not enough advertising. Of them and in them. Take literature. See 'Bilton's New Monthly Magazine.' Sixty pages reading; two hundred and forty pages advertising; one million circulation; everybody likes it. Take the Bible—no ads.; nobody reads it. Take art; what's famous? 'Gold Dust Triplets;' 'Good evening, have you used Pear's?' Who prospers? The ad. illustrator. The ad. is the biggest thing on earth. It sways nations. It wins hearts. It rules destiny. People cry for ads.” “That is true enough,” I remarked. “Why,” asked Perkins, “do men make magazines? To sell ad. space in them! Why build barns and fences? To sell ad. space! Why run street-cars? To sell ad. space! But the drama is neglected. The poor, lonely drama is neglected. In ten years there will be no more drama. The stage will pass away.” Perkins uncoiled his legs and stood upright before me. “The theatre would have died before now,” he said, “but for the little ad. life it has. What has kept it alive? A few ads.! See how gladly the audience reads the ads. in the programmes when the actors give them a little time. See how they devour the ad. drop-curtain! Who first saw that the ad. must save the stage? Who will revive the down trod theatrical art?” “Perkins!” I cried. “Perkins will. I don't know what you mean to do, but you will revive the drama. I can see it in your eyes. Go ahead. Do it. I am willing.” I thought he would tell me what he meant to do, but he did not. I had to ask him. He lifted the manuscript of the opera from the table. “Sell space!” he exclaimed. “Perkins the Originator will sell space in the greatest four-hour play in the world. What's a barn? So many square feet of ad. space. What's a magazine? So many pages of ad. space. What's a play? So many minutes of ad. space. Price, one hundred dollars a minute. Special situations in the plot extra.” I did not know just what he meant, but I soon learned. The next day Perkins started out with the manuscript of the “Princess of Pilliwink.” And when he returned in the evening he was radiant with triumph. Every minute of available space had been sold, and he had been obliged to add a prologue to accommodate all the ads. The “Princess of Pilliwink” had some modern interest when Perkins was through with it. It did not take up time with things no one cared a cent about. It went right to the spot. There was a Winton Auto on the stage when the curtain rose, and from then until the happy couple boarded the Green Line Flyer in the last scene the interest was intense. There was a shipwreck, where all hands were saved by floating ashore on Ivory Soap,—it floats,—and you should have heard the applause when the hero laughed in the villain's face and said, “Kill me, then. I have no fear. I am insured in the Prudential Insurance Company. It has the strength of Port Arthur.” We substituted a groanograph—the kind that hears its master's voice—for the hand-organ that was in the original play, and every speech and song brought to mind some article that was worthy of patronage. The first-night audience went wild with delight. You should have heard them cheer when our ushers passed around post-cards and pencils between the acts, in order that they might write for catalogues and samples to our advertisers. Across the bottom of each card was printed, “I heard your advertisement in the 'Princess of Pilliwink.'” Run? That play ran like a startled deer I It drew such crowded houses that we had to post signs at the door announcing that we would only sell tickets to thin men and women; and then we had an especially narrow opera chair constructed, so that we were able to seat ten more people on each row. The play had plenty of variety, too. Perkins had thought of that. He sold the time by the month; and, when an ad. expired, he only sold the space to a new advertiser. Thus one month there was a lullaby about Ostermoor mattresses,—the kind that advertises moth-eaten horses to show what it isn't made of,—and it ran:— “Bye, oh! my little fairy. On the mattress sanitary Sent on thirty days' free trial Softly sleep and sweetly smile. “Bye, oh! bye! my little baby, Though your poor dad busted may be. Thirty days have not passed yet, So sleep well, my little pet.” And when Perkins sold this time space the next month to the makers of the Fireproof Aluminum Coffin, we cut out the lullaby, and inserted the following cheerful ditty, which always brought tears to the eyes of the audience:— “Screw the lid on tightly, father, Darling ma has far to go; She must take the elevator Up above or down below. “Screw the lid on tightly, father, Darling ma goes far to-night; To the banks of rolling Jordan, Or to realms of anthracite. “Screw the lid on tightly, father, Leave no chinks for heated air, For if ma is going one place, There's no fire insurance there.” You can see by this how different the play could be made from month to month. Always full of sparkling wit and clean, wholesome humor—as fresh as Uneeda Biscuit, and as bright as a Loftis-on-credit diamond. Take the scene where the Princess of Pilliwink sailed away to Zululand as an example of the variety we were able to introduce. The first month she sailed away on a cake of Ivory Soap—it floats; the next month she sailed on an Ostermoor Felt Mattress—it floats; and then for a month she voyaged on the floating Wool Soap; and she travelled in steam motor-boats and electric motor-boats; by Cook's tours, and across the ice by automobile, by kite, and on the handle of a Bissell Carpet Sweeper, like an up-to-date witch. She used every known mode of locomotion, from skates to kites. She was a grand actress. Her name was Bedelia O'Dale; and, whatever she was doing on the stage, she was charming. Whether she was taking a vapor bath in a $4.98 cabinet or polishing her front teeth with Sozodont, she was delightful. She had all the marks of a real lady, and gave tone to the whole opera. In fact, all the cast was good. Perkins spared no expense. He got the best artists he could find, regardless of the cost; and it paid. But we nearly lost them all. You remember when we put the play on first, in 1897,—the good old days when oatmeal and rolled wheat were still the only breakfast foods. We had a breakfast scene, where the whole troup ate oatmeal, and pretended they liked it. That scene went well enough until we began to get new ads. for it. The troup never complained, no matter how often he shifted them from oatmeal to rolled wheat and back again. They always came on the stage happy and smiling, and stuffed themselves with Pettijohns and Mothers' Oats, and carolled merrily. But about the time the twentieth century dawned, the new patent breakfast foods began to boom; and we got after them hotfoot. First he got a contract from Grape-nuts, and the cast and chorus had to eat Grape-nuts and warble how good it was. Perkins was working up the Pink Pellets then, and he turned the Princess of Pilliwink job over to me. If Perkins had been getting the ads., all would still have been well; but new breakfast foods cropped up faster than one a month, and I couldn't bear to see them wait their turn for the breakfast scene. There were Malta-Vita and Force and Try-a-Bita and Cero-Fruto and Kapl-Flakes and Wheat-Meat, and a lot more; and I signed them all. It was thoughtless of me. I admit that now, but I was a little careless in those days. When our reviser revised the play to get all those breakfast foods in, he shook his head. He said the audience might like it, but he had his doubts about the cast. He said he did not believe any cast on earth could eat thirteen consecutive breakfast foods, and smile the smile that won't. He said it was easy enough for him to write thirteen distinct lyrics about breakfast foods, but that to him it seemed that by the time the chorus had downed breakfast food number twelve, it would be so full of oats, peas, beans, and barley that it couldn't gurgle. I am sorry to say he was right. We had a pretty tough-stomached troup; and they might have been able to handle the thirteen breakfast foods, especially as most of the foods were already from one-half to three-quarters digested as they were sold, but we had a few other lunchibles in the play already. <hr /> <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/158.jpg" alt="158" width-obs="100%" /> </div> That year the ads. were running principally to automobiles, correspondence schools, and food stuffs; and we had to take in the food stuffs or not sell our space. As I look back upon it, I cannot blame the cast, although I was angry enough at the time. When a high-bred actress has eaten two kinds of soup, a sugar-cured ham, self-rising flour, air-tight soda crackers, three infant foods, two patent jellies, fifty-seven varieties of pickles, clam chowder, devilled lobster, a salad dressing, and some beef extract, she is not apt to hanker for thirteen varieties of breakfast food. She is more likely to look upon them with cold disdain. Ho matter how good a breakfast food may be by itself and in the morning, it is somewhat unlovely at ten at night after devilled lobster and fifty-seven varieties of pickles. At the sight of it the star, instead of gaily carolling,— “Joy! joy! isn't it nice To eat Cook's Flaked Rice,” is apt to gag. After about six breakfast foods, her epiglottis and thorax will shut up shop and begin to turn wrong side out with a sickly gurgle. The whole company struck. They very sensibly remarked that if the troup had to keep up that sort of thing and eat every new breakfast food that came out, the things needed were not men and women, but a herd of cows. They gave me notice that they one and all intended to leave at the end of the week, and that they positively refused to eat anything whatever on the stage. I went to Perkins and told him the game was up—that it was good while it lasted, but that it was all over now. I said that the best thing we could do was to sell our lease on the theatre and cancel our ad. contracts. But not for a moment did my illustrious partner hesitate. The moment I had finished, he slapped me on the shoulder and smiled. “Great!” he cried, “why not thought of sooner?” And, in truth, the solution of our difficulty was a master triumph of a master mind. It was simplicity itself. It made our theatre so popular that there were riots every night, so eager were the crowds to get in. People long to meet celebrities. If they meet an actor, they are happy for days after. And after the theatre people crave something to eat. Perkins merely combined the two. We cut out the eating during the play, and after every performance our actors held a reception on the stage; and the entire audience was invited to step up and be introduced to Bedelia O'Dale and the others, and partake of free refreshments, in the form of sugar-cured ham, beef extract, fifty-seven varieties of pickles, and thirteen kinds of breakfast foods, and other choice viands. <h3> THE END. </h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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