with the sirocco. And, he went on, as was his wont, exactly the wrong colour for a theatre. A theatre should never be blue, for a theatre must be warm; even in summer, the effect of a theatre should be warm.
Ronald dear, I agree with you, said Campaspe. We cannot discuss that. Anyway your theatre isn't blue, so there would be nothing to discuss even if I felt argumentative. But the opera . . .
Well, of course, the Duke began tentatively, I don't mean exactly an opera. Rather a p-p-p-play, b-b-b-but the kind of play you don't see in New York. Not modern either. Whenever I hear the word I think of Cocteau's phrase, a nigger prostrate before the telephone. Everything one called modern a year or two ago is old-fashioned: Freud, Mary Garden, Einstein, Wyndham Lewis, Dada, glands, the Six, vers libres, Sem Benelli, Clive Bell, radio, the Ziegfeld Follies, cubism, Sacha Guitry, Ezra Pound, The Little Review, vorticism, Marcel Proust, The Dial, uranians, Gordon Craig, prohibition, the young intellectuals, Sherwood Anderson, normalcy, Guillaume Apollinaire, Charlie Chaplin, screens in stage d-d-d-d-decoration, Aleister Crowley, the Russian Ballet, fireless cookers, The Chauve Souris, Margot Asquith, ectoplasm, Eugène Goossens, the tango, Jacques Copeau, Negro dancing! Let's not be modern. Let's turn back to the great period around 1910—even a trifle earlier.
The Frogs? suggested Campaspe.
