"None the less, Pottuh," he said, "why shouldn't you play Othello
as a mulatto? I maintain, you see, it would be taking a step in
technique; they'd get the face, you see. Then I want you to do
something really and truly big: Oedipus. Why not Oedipus? Think of
giving the States a thing like Oedipus done as you could do it! Of
coss, I don't say you could ever be another Mewnay-Sooyay. No. I
don't go that far. You haven't Mewnay-Sooyay's technique. But you
could give us just the savour of Attic culture--at least the savour,
you see. The mere savour would be something. Why should you keep on
producing these cheap little plays they foist on you? Oh, I know you
always score a personal success in the wahst of them, but they've
never given you a Big character--and the play, outside of you, is
always piffle. Of coss, you know what I've always wanted you to do,
what I've constantly insisted in print: Rostand. You commission
Rostand to do one of his magnificent things for you and we serious
men will do our part. Now, my duh good chap, I must be getting on,
or the little gel will be telephoning all round the town!" He turned
to the door, pausing upon the threshold.
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