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Goodwin and Daly — Mostly Daly 149
“you’d better do something for Mr. Daly ; he seems to need you more than I do. He’s very weak to-day.”
“Twenty-two years ago, in this City of Chicago,” Mr. Daly continued with magnificent disdain, “Frank Mayo appeared in ‘Pudd’nhead Wilson,’ using the continental method of acting. As he was at least fifty years ahead of his time he was not considered a good actor — except by members of his own profession.”
“He’s dead now, Arnold. What’s the point?”
“I’m coming to it, you overfed voluptuary ! — Thus I argue that for finite criticism on any art one must appeal to a member of his own profession. In music a musician is the only judge; in sculpture, a sculptor; in acting, the actor. Adequately to criticize acting, the critic must love the theater, despite the terrific boredom of bad plays and performances inflicted on him and the terrific dreariness he endures — just as the actor, adequately to act, must love the theater despite its disappointments and heartaches for himself. Now, speaking of music — you can ask me what I think of music.”
“He’ll furnish his own questions, too. He’s no piker,” quoth Mr. Goodwin.
“And I shall answer you as follows,” Mr. Daly went on serenely. “Music at best is primeval instinct ; every savage possesses it. I don’t mind the common adoration of music; I like to get drunk on it myself once in a while. But when a people mistakes music, especially opera, for culture, I am bored to extinction. Why, eighty-five per cent of the be jeweled attendance at opera only go to gape at one another. Remember that, will you? I’ll be back in a minute.” And Mr. Daly stalked stageward.