Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, October 6, 1920
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, October 6, 1920
I cannot get myself to believe that all these intelligent actors are
under any illusion as to the merits of the comedy. With the best wishes
in the world for the success of Miss MARIE LOeHR'S enterprises, I am
bound to regard it as yet another instance of a play where the
attractions of the leading part have a little deranged the judgment of
the actor-manager.
O.S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Richard Petafor_ (Mr. HUBERT HARBEN), the apostle of
Materialism and Physical Exercise, trying to convert _Antony Grimshaw_
(Mr. HERBERT MARSHALL), the believer in Mysticism and Armchairs.]
* * * * *
"THE CROSSING."
Mr. ALGERNON BLACKWOOD and Mr. BERTRAM FORSYTH (assisted by Mr. DONALD
CALTHROP) present to us in _The Crossing_ a certain _Mr. Anthony
Grimshaw_, a princely egotist of the poetic-idealist type who gets up on
the hearth-rug and says to his family, "I am a humanitarian before
everything," and things like that, and then wonders why his wife is
estranged from him. He has a daughter, _Nixie_, who is not old enough to
know how bad all this is, and together they hear the wind singing glees
without words (or in Volapuk, but anyway not intelligible to us poor
normals), a thing Mr. ALGERNON BLACKWOOD has been doing or pretending to
do for years without once taking me in.
_Anthony_ is run over and (as we say) dies. After an extraordinarily
tiresome conversation in the morning-room with his friend and his son
and his mother (who are also what people call dead) it dawns upon him
that something odd has happened to himself also. His wife and two
children, after his (so-called) death, become blissfully happy and set
to work to finish his book, that being, as they think, his wish. Well, I
wonder. At any rate in death (as we say) he was not divided--from his
egotisms.
One knows well enough, alas, how the temptation to spiritual drug-taking
has grown as the result of the accumulated sorrows of these past years,
but it is not well that such a treatment of the eternal question should
be taken seriously. Is this sort of thing really better than the
harp-and-cloud theory? It is not. One looked in vain for any trace of
real vision, any true sense of the height and depth of the problem.
Mr. MARSHALL struggled quite manfully with the part of _Anthony_, and of
course he had his moments. I hope so good a player is not developing the
"actor's pause," of which I detected signs. Miss IRENE ROOKE had nothing
in particular to do and did it very well. Mr. HUBERT HARBEN as the
impenitent profiteer from Lancashire, _Anthony's_ brother-in-law, was
better suited than I have seen him for some time, and provided the very
necessary relief. The precocious children infuriated me, but that is
purely temperamental. The actors who played the parts of those who had
"crossed" were wrapped in such an atmosphere of gloom, to the strains of
such meretricious music that (on the evidence) I can only advise people
to defer their crossing as long as possible; a thing they will doubtless
do, even if they have a friendlier feeling to the new religion than I
can command.... I am afraid I proved a bad sailor.
T.
* * * * *
TWO STUDIES IN MUSICAL CRITICISM.
(_With grateful acknowledgments to "The Times" and "The Morning
Post."_)
I.
We had quite a hectic time at the Philharmonic--I nearly wrote the
Phillemonade--concert last night, what with two Czechs, Dabcik and
Ploffskin, slabs of WAGNER, and Carl Walbrook's Humorous Variations,
"The Quangle Wangle," conducted by Carl himself. If the honest truth be
told, we sat down to the Variations with no more pleasurable
anticipation than one sits down with in the dentist's chair, preparatory
to the application of gags, electric drills and other instruments of
odontological torture. (Strange, by the way, that no modernist has
translated the horrors of the modern Tusculum into terms of sound and
fury!) But we were most agreeably surprised to find ourselves following
every one of the forty-nine Variations with breathless interest. Mr.
Walbrook is indeed a case of the deformed transformed. We found hardly a
trace of the poluphloisboisterous pomposity with which he used to
camouflage his dearth of ideas. His main theme is shapely and sinuous,
and its treatment in most of the Variations titillated us voluptuously.
But, since it is the function of the critic to criticise, let us justify
our _role_ by noting that the scoring throughout tends to glutinousness,
like that of the pre-war Carlsbad plum; further, that a solo on the
muted viola against an accompaniment of sixteen sarrusophones is only
effective if the sarrusophones are prepared to roar like sucking-doves,
which, as LEAR would have said, "they seldom if ever do." Still, on the
whole the Variations arrided us vastly.
It was a curious but exhilarating experience to hear the Bohemians, the
playboys of Central Europe, interpreted in the roast-beef-and-plum-pudding
style of the Philharmonic at its beefiest and plummiest. Dabcik survived
the treatment fairly well, but poor Ploffskin was simply stodged under.
But they were in the same boat with RICHARD the Elder, whose Venusberg
music was given with all the orgiastic exuberance of a Temperance Band
at a Sunday-School Treat, recalling the sarcastic jape of old HANS
RICHTER during the rehearsal of the same work: "You play it like
teetotalers--which you are not." Yet the orchestra were lavish of
violent sonority where it was not required; the well-meaning but
unfortunate Mr. Orlo Jimson, who essayed the "Smithy Songs" from
_Siegfried_, being submerged in a very Niagara of noise. WAGNER'S
scoring no doubt is "a bit thick," but then he devised a special
"spelunk" (as BACON says) for his orchestra to lurk in, and there is no
cavernous accommodation at the Queen's Hall.
II.
Though fashion considers September as an unpropitious time for the
production of novelties, the scheme arranged for the patrons of the
Philharmonic Concert last night, under the direction of Sir Henry
Peacham, was successful in bringing together an audience of eminently
respectable dimensions. The occasion served for the launching under
favourable circumstances of what constituted the chief landmark of the
programme--a set of orchestral variations with the quaint title of "The
Quangle Wangle," from the prolific pen of Mr. Carl Walbrook. It is
satisfactory to be able to record the gratifying fact that this work met
with cordial acceptance. In the interests of serious art, the borrowing
of a title from one of the works of a writer so addicted to levity as
EDWARD LEAR may perhaps be deprecated, but there can be no doubt of the
ingenuity and sprightliness with which Mr. Walbrook has addressed
himself to, and accomplished, his task. If we cannot discover in his
composition the manifestation of any pronounced individuality or high
artistic uplift, it none the less commands the respect due to the
exhibition of a vigorous mentality combined with a notable mastery of
orchestral resource and mellifluous modulation. At the conclusion of the
performance Mr. Walbrook was constrained to make the transit from the
artistes' room to the platform no fewer than three times before the
applausive zeal of the audience could be allayed.
The remainder of the scheme was copious and well-contrived. Pleasurable
evidence of the friendly interest shown in the fortunes of the
Czecho-Slovakian Republic was forthcoming in the performance of two
works by composers of that interesting race--Messrs. Dabcik and
Ploffskin--of which it may suffice to say that the temperamental
peculiarities of the Bohemian genius were elicited with conspicuous
brilliancy under the inspiring direction of Sir Henry Peacham. In a
vocal item from _Siegfried_, Mr. Orlo Jimson evinced a sympathetic
appreciation of the emotional needs of the situation which augurs
favourably for his further progress, and the powerful support furnished
him by the orchestra was an important factor in the enjoyment of his
praiseworthy efforts. An almost too vivacious rendering of the Venusberg
music brought the scheme to a strepitous conclusion. It may, however, be
submitted that so realistic an interpretation of the Pagan revelries
depicted by the composer is hardly in accordance with the best
traditions of the British musical public.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DREAM OF BLISS.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Fussy Old Party_ (_who likes to make sure_). "ARE YOU
_CERTAIN_ YOU GO TO TUNBRIDGE WELLS?"
_Driver_ (_to Conductor_). "'ERE, BILL, WE _ARE_ CARELESS. SOMEONE MUST
HAVE PINCHED THE NAME-BOARDS WHEN WE WEREN'T LOOKING."]
* * * * *
"There is no such thing as infallibility in rerum
naturae."--_Provincial Paper._
Nor, apparently, in journalistic Latin.
* * * * *
"Reward.--Bedroom taken Tuesday, 27th, between Holborn and
Woburn-place. A basket and umbrella left."--_Daily Paper._
We compliment the victim of this theft on his courtesy in calling the
thieves' attention to their oversight.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Exhausted War Profiteer._ "DEER FORESTS FOR THE 'IDLE
RICH' BE BLOWED! THE 'NEW POOR' CAN 'AVE 'EM FOR ME."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
The long-promised _Herbert Beerbohm Tree_ (HUTCHINSON), than which I
have expected no book with more impatience, turns out to be a volume
full of lively interest, though rather an experiment in snap-shot
portraiture from various angles than a full-dress biography. Mr. MAX
BEERBOHM has arranged the book, himself contributing a short memoir of
his brother, which, together with what Lady TREE aptly calls her
_Reverie_, fills some two-thirds of it with the more intimate view of
the subject, the rest being supplied by the outside appreciations of
friends and colleagues. If I were to sum up my impression of the
resulting picture it would be in the word "happiness." Not without
reason did the TREES name a daughter FELICITY. Here was a life spent in
precisely the kind of success that held most delight for the
victor--honour, love, obedience, troops of friends; all that _Macbeth_
missed his exponent enjoyed in flowing measure. Perhaps TREE was never a
great actor, because he found existence too "full of a number of
things"; if so he was something considerably jollier, the enthusiastic,
often inspired amateur, approaching each new part with the zest of a
brief but brilliant enthusiasm. I suppose no popular favourite ever had
his name associated with more good stories and wit, original and
vicarious. Despite some entertaining extracts from his commonplace book
I doubt if this side of him is quite worthily represented; at least
nothing here quoted beats Lady TREE'S own _mot_ for a mendacious
newspaper poster--_Canard a la Press_. Possibly we are still to look for
a more official volume of reference; meantime the present memoir gives a
vastly readable sketch of one whose passing left a void perhaps
unexpectedly hard to fill.
* * * * *
In the prefatory chapter of _Our Women_ (CASSELL) Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT
coyly disclaims any intention of tackling his theme on strictly
scientific principles. The warning is perhaps hardly necessary, since,
apart from the duty which the author owes to his public as a novelist
rather than a philosopher, the title alone should be a sufficient guide.
One would hardly expect a serious zoologist, for instance, in attempting
to deal with the domesticated fauna, to entitle his work _Our Dumb
Friends_. The book is divided in the main between adjuration and
prophecy. As a result of their emancipation from economic slavery, Mr.
BENNETT expects women--women, that is to say, of the "top class," as he
calls it--to adopt more and more the _role_ of professional
wage-earners; but at the same time he insists that they do not as yet
take themselves seriously enough as professional housekeepers. How the
two functions are to be combined it is a little difficult to see, but
apparently women are to retain a profession as a stand-by in case they
fail to marry or to remain married. At the same time Mr. BENNETT takes
it for granted that woman will never relinquish her position as a
charmer of man, or even the use of cosmetics and expensive lingerie.
Speaking neither as a novelist nor as a philosopher, I cannot help
feeling that Mr. BENNETT is too apt to consider the things he
particularly likes about women to be eternal, and those that he does not
like so much to be susceptible of alteration and improvement. Anyhow, it
looks as if Our Men were going to have rather a thin time.
* * * * *
Miss BEATRICE HARRADEN calls her latest story _Spring Shall Plant_
(HODDER AND STOUGHTON). She might equally well have called it _The
Successes of a Naughty Child_. Certainly it is chiefly concerned with
the many triumphant insubordinations of _Patuffa_ (whom I suspect of
having been encouraged by her too challenging name) both at home and at
the various schools from which she either ran away or was returned with
thanks. This is all mildly attractive if only from the vivacity of its
telling; but I confess to having felt a mild wonder whether a child's
book had not got on to my table by error--when the grown-ups suddenly
began to carry on in a way that placed all such doubts at rest. There
was, for example, a Russian lady, godmother of _Patuffa_, who escaped
from somewhere and established herself, with others of her kind, in an
attic in Coptic Street. My welcome for this interesting fugitive was to
some extent shaken by a realisation that she was (so to speak) a refugee
from the other side and, in a sense, a spiritual ancestress of
Bolshevism. Miss HARRADEN would however object, and justly, that the
clean-purposed conspirators of the earlier revolution had little in
common with the unsavoury individuals who at present obscure the Russian
dawn. Soon after this, _Patuffa's_ papa begins to go quite dreadfully
off the rails, even to the extent of wishing to elope with her governess
and eventually losing all his money and shooting himself. There was also
a famous violinist--well, you can see already that _Patuffa's_ vernal
experiences were on generous lines. It is to the credit of all concerned
that she and her story retain an appreciable charm under adverse
conditions.
* * * * *
Nothing, one would imagine, could promise much more restful reading than
a book that concerns itself with such things as christening robes for
caterpillars, the dyeing blue of white chickens and searches among
Californian lilies and pine-trees for the soul of a hog unseasonably
defunct. But, since this most uncharitable age refuses to believe
anything just because it is told it should, the peaceful pages of _The
Diary of Opal Whiteley_ (PUTNAM) are unfortunately fussed over with a
controversy that no one who reads them can quite escape. Miss WHITELEY'S
diary is presented with every circumstance of solemn asseveration as the
unaided work of a child of seven, only now pieced together by the writer
after quite a number of years. If you care to throw yourself into the
argument you will certainly find heaps of reasons for thinking unkind
thinks, as the writer would say, of the truth of this claim,
particularly in the completeness with which every incident is carried
through various stages to its literary finish; but, if you will be ruled
by me, you will try to forget anything but the book itself, with its
quite charming pictures of many animals and one little girl, their
understanding friend. The quaint idiom in which the diary is supposed to
have been written (or, of course, was written) adds to the delight of a
rather uncommon feeling for nature at its simplest, while the scrapes
for which the small heroine receives (or, you may say, is alleged to
receive) well-deserved punishment preserve the book from ever dropping
into mere mawkishness. A great pity, I think, that it was not published
rather as based on childish memories than as the actual printed script
of a prodigy.
* * * * *
_Moon Mountains_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is a story which with the best
will in the world I found it impossible to regard wholly seriously. The
greater part of the scene is laid in Darkest Africa, where the father of
the hero, _Peter_ (my hope that the _Peter_ habit had blown over appears
to have been premature), disappears at an early stage. The subsequent
course of events reminds me of the words of the musical-comedy poet,
popular in my youth, who wrote, "It were better for you rather not to
try and find your father, than to find him"--well, certainly better than
to find him as _Peter_ found his. Perhaps it would not be unfair to
suppose that Miss MARGARET PETERSON had at this point her eye already
firmly fixed upon her big situation. Certainly the course of _Peter_ is
rather impatiently and spasmodically sketched till the moment when
matters are sufficiently advanced to ship him also to Africa, in company
with an elderly hunter of butterflies named _Mellis_. Their adventures
form the bulk of the tale (filled out with some chat about elephants,
and a sufficiency of love-making on the part of _Peter_), and I suppose
I need hardly tell you how one of them, poor _Mellis_, is immediately
captured and brought before the terrible white king of the hidden lands,
nor how this same monarch, a really dreadfully unpleasant person, turns
out to be--Precisely. So there the tale is; little more incredible than,
I dare say, most of its kind; and if you have no rooted objection to
characters all of whom behave like persons who know they are in a book
there is no reason why you should not find it at least passably
entertaining.
* * * * *
Mr. F. BRETT YOUNG'S manner of presenting _The Tragic Bride_ (SECKER) is
not free from affectation, and this is the more irritating because his
literary style is in itself admirably unpretentious. But having recorded
this complaint I gladly go on to declare that his tale of _Gabrielle
Hewish_ has both charm and distinction. I protest my belief in
_Gabrielle_ both in her Irish and English homes, but my protest would
have been superfluous if Mr. BRETT YOUNG had not almost super-taxed my
powers of belief. So also with _Arthur Payne_; he is a fascinating lad,
and the battle between his mother and _Gabrielle_ for possession of him
was a royal struggle, fought without gloves yet very fairly. All the
same I caught myself doubting once or twice whether any boy could at the
same time be so human and so inhuman. It is to Mr. BRETT YOUNG'S credit
that these doubts do not interfere with one's enjoyment of his book, and
the reason is that he is first and last and all the time an artist.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _New Clerk._ "BEG PARDON, SIR, BUT THERE'S A GENTLEMAN
OUTSIDE WHO SAYS THAT YOU'VE ROBBED HIM OF ALL HE HAD."
_Turf Accountant._ "WELL, WHAT'S HIS NAME? ASK HIM TO GIVE YOU HIS NAME.
HOW AM I TO DISTINGUISH HIM IF HE DOESN'T SEND HIS NAME IN?"]
