Musical Comedy, but the stupidity of the high-brows, their dull
acceptance of the solemn and the pompous, of anything in fact that is
not bright or imaginative or stirring, but is sufficiently pretentious,
does incalculable harm to that annually growing fraction of the
public which, fully appreciative of Revue and Musical Comedy, is yet
unsatisfied and is really thirsting for finer things. This public is
continually essaying samples of the drama of the high-brows and is
continually being driven back from such dry, unprofitable verbiage to
those theatres where there is humour, wit, charm and beauty. And for
this evidence of good taste it is roundly abused. I frequently wonder
whether anyone of these misguided zealots has ever been inside the
popular theatre, the theatre of the Musical Comedy. Have they any idea
what a revelation of beauty it is to large numbers of the population?
I dare to assert that in London the popular theatre has done more
to develop and educate the taste of the masses in dress, furniture,
and decoration than fifty years of propaganda from Ruskin, William
Morris, and all their disciples. The theatre, of course, has learnt
from the artists of all countries, but it has been the great cultural
organisation which has taken the fruits of the artists' work to the
people and opened their eyes.
In educating the senses the popular theatre has done and is still
doing invaluable work; it is when it comes to educating the finer
emotions that it fails so lamentably, though hardly so utterly as the
high-brow theatre, in which there are no emotions but those of despair,
disillusionment and derision. And yet it is strange that in spite of
the general abuse of the low standards of London plays, on the rare
occasions when a really fine play is put on it is generally met by the
critics with a chorus of disapproval or the praise that damns. We have
had a good example in London recently. Mr. Henry Ainley, by common
consent our finest actor, begins his management of the St. James's
Theatre with Tolstoy's _The Living Corpse_, the title being changed
to _Reparation_, in consideration of the mental state of a public
frightened out of its wits by the high-brows and the cranks. Tolstoy
was a great man, and _The Living Corpse_ is a fine play, a play that
ought to have a great success; but do the critics say, "Here at last is
a magnificent play, a play which everyone must see"? Not a bit of it.
The general spirit of their notices is one of chilly respect for the
famous name of Tolstoy, with an insinuation that the play would have
been much better if it had been handled by a competent dramatist like
Sir Arthur Pinero or Mr. Sutro. "What is the central theme? We are not
quite sure," says the critic of the leading London daily. Is it a mere
coincidence that on the same page that journal's musical critic, in
reference to _Prometheus_, the work of Tolstoy's compatriot, Scriabin,
one of the greatest of modern composers, says he does not understand it
and, asking himself whether Scriabin was "sane or deranged," declares
that he does not know? Here is a lesson for Drama Leagues, for it is
almost certain that when we do get good drama scarcely anyone will know
it.
* * * * *
A society called "The Phœnix," with headquarters at Dudley House,
Southampton Street, Strand, has been formed to revive plays of
Elizabethan, Restoration, and later times. The following plays have
been selected for early production:
_The Duchess of Malfi_ (John Webster), _Marriage à la Mode_ (John
Dryden), _The Fair Maid of the West_, Part I. (Thomas Heywood), _Don
Carlos_ (Thomas Otway), _Volpone_ (Ben Jonson). _The Duchess of Malfi_
will be given on Sunday, November 16th.
DRAMATIC LITERATURE
HEARTBREAK HOUSE, ETC. By BERNARD SHAW. Constable. 7_s._ 6_d._
Mr. Shaw is one of the most consistent authors living. His readers know
almost to a comma what he is going to give them every time they open
his latest book. That is perhaps the chief reason why there has been
such a falling off in Mr. Shaw's popularity of recent years. Another
reason is, of course, the war; but it is strange that Mr. Shaw's
opinions, or his particular way of expressing his opinion, during the
war should have alienated and even made bitterly hostile men of wide
knowledge and experience of his writings and his character who, if they
could be persuaded momentarily to reflect without prejudice, would have
to admit that what offends them now was precisely what offended so many
others in the years before the war, when they on the contrary were Mr.
Shaw's ardent champions or, at the very least, his apologists. It only
goes to show how very far anyone of us is from being able to judge a
man's work rationally once our own particular prejudice is touched. We
are all raw somewhere, and woe to the man who touches us on the raw,
for then all hope of dispassionate criticism, of Christian toleration
even, is gone. It has been Mr. Shaw's most vivid characteristic that
he has never lost his intellectual integrity. It is easy to be honest
among one's enemies, but to be honest among one's friends is a virtue
so rare, so uncomfortable, and outwardly so contrary to the spirit of
fair play that it is not surprising it should be generally detested.
Mr. Shaw has always retained what he believes, perhaps conceitedly, to
be his right to say the worst that can be said of his dearest friends,
and of the advocates of whatever cause happens at the moment to be
nearest to his heart. However ruinous such conduct may appear to be to
the immediate interests of the movement he is supposed to support, he
will not abandon his right to forge weapons for the enemy more damaging
than any discoverable by their own brains. When life or one's country
or one's family is at stake, such conduct appears little less than
devilish, yet Mr. Shaw has his right to express his opinions as lucidly
and as pointedly as he can, and it may be that when we are far enough
removed from the heat and blinding dust of the moment's conflict we
shall realise that Mr. Shaw has been faithful to the truth that is in
him, and if we have any reason to complain it is certainly not of Mr.
Shaw, but of the God who made him.
It may seem that what the ordinary man would call, and call wrongly,
Mr. Shaw's unreliability does not square with the assertion that he
is consistent, and that his readers know beforehand exactly what Mr.
Shaw is going to give them. But Mr. Shaw's consistency lies in his
artillery, not in his object of attack. The enemy varies, but the same
guns are always going off. In _Heartbreak House_ there is at times
all and more than all the old brilliancy. The dialogue of the first
and third acts is concentrated, savage, and burns with an intensity
that casts a dull imaginative glow over the play. The characters of
the Hushabyes, of Captain Shotover, of the sham millionaire Mangan,
of Mazzini Dunn, and the fluteplayer are drawn with a pen steeped in
vitriol and, exaggerated as they are, they have a genuine imaginative
reality deeper than most Shavian figures. There is a moral passion in
this play gloomier and more savage than in anything Mr. Shaw has yet
done, and an absence of that childish and inconsequent flippancy which
so often mars his work. The other plays in the volume vary in quality
from some excellent fooling in _Great Catherine_ to a depressing
mechanical liveliness, almost utterly without humour, in _Augustus
Does His Bit_. The best of them is _O'Flaherty, V.C._; but although it
frequently makes one laugh one finds oneself, at the end, closing the
book with that tired yawn that seems to be the fatal consequence of
reading a great deal of Mr. Shaw at one time.
FIRST PLAYS. By A. A. MILNE. Chatto & Windus. 6_s,_
I am not sure that I do Mr. Milne any injustice by asserting that
the best thing in his first volume of plays is the Introduction,
describing how the five plays came to be written. It is turned with
that inimitable grace and lightness of touch which have made Mr. Milne
famous as a journalist. Mr. Milne's charm and quaint humour need a
certain space in which to display themselves. It would be fatal to
hurry him or to try to straighten his meanderings and digressions, but
that is exactly what the dramatic form does do. It is not that Mr.
Milne cannot express himself in a few sentences, he can; but however
few the sentences they will be allusive, indirect, full of parabolas
and curves that seem to lead away but really come back to the point.
These qualities are difficult to transfer to dialogue, especially when
one is hampered by the consciousness of theatrical convention, and in
his first effort, _Wurzel-Flummery_, after inventing that wonderful
name, Mr. Milne fails entirely to get his own individual qualities
into the play. The dialogue is in short, flavourless sentences that
seem to have been shot out of a popgun, and the characters being mere
lay-figures, the play is simply dull. The _Lucky One_ is a much more
ambitious and more successful experiment. The people are alive, but
Mr. Milne is probably right in seeing no hope of its being produced.
It is intelligence without frills or decoration; and, as he says, "the
girl marries the wrong man." It is in _Belinda_ that Mr. Milne is most
successfully himself. Mr. Milne calls it an "April Folly in three
acts." and that describes it exactly.
W. J. TURNER
THE FINE ARTS
It may be of interest at this juncture, now that the "close time"
for artists between the spring and autumn exhibitions has come to an
end, to review past events in artistic circles, and attempt to place
readers _au courant_ with events to come. The war has not been without
its effects on some branches of artistic development. The supporters
of Burlington House, it is true, pursue their way more or less
undisturbed by the startling incidents of the last four years; I would
be inclined to rank with them the greater part also of the members of
the International Society of Painters, Sculptors, and Engravers, whose
twenty-sixth exhibition is now being held at the Grosvenor Galleries.
It is only fair to say, however, that the so-called revolutionary in
art can sometimes find a place for his work even on these august walls.
The New English Art Club has been handicapped by the commandeering of
its gallery by the Government. Still, here again the god-fathers and
professors still hold the sway, and it is only in such bodies as the
Allied Artists Association, the Friday Club, and the London Group,
that the new blood can be more or less assured of a place to exhibit
their work and obtain their share in the business of acceptance for,
and arrangement of, exhibitions. All these societies are now firmly
established, though the last-named has sustained a great loss by the
death of its admirable president, Harold Gilman. The Allied Artists is
a thoroughly democratic institution and a step towards a trade union of
artists, if such a thing is possible: that some step in that direction
is needed there can be no doubt, as the artist suffers very severely
indeed from the middleman. These societies, then, in their exhibits
generally, show renewed signs of energy and development in art.
The employment of younger men in an official capacity as war artists
instead of such Academicians as were not too infirm to bear the weight
of a steel helmet, showed unusual wisdom and perspicuity on behalf
of the responsible bodies concerned. The direct result was a fine
collection of paintings by men who, for the most part, had been able to
depict their impressions of war in war's surroundings, or record their
experiences, not easily forgotten, after they had been freed from the
ranks. An exhibition of these paintings held in America was attended
with marked success, and helped to make known the work of young English
artists in that country. C. R. W. Nevinson, Paul Nash, Wyndham Lewis,
and Eric Kennington, to mention only a few, have produced some fine
and lasting records of their impressions _in medias res_. The public
will have an opportunity of seeing the fine collection of paintings
commissioned and collected by the Imperial War Museum this winter. The
effect of this official employment is particularly noticeable upon the
more extreme body of painters known as the Vorticists with Wyndham
Lewis at the head: they have voluntarily or involuntarily made certain
concessions to representation ("compromise" is in bad odour now) in
their work, but these concessions have in no way weakened the results
of their toil, as appeared evident at the Canadian War Memorials
Exhibition this spring.
Turning to other events--the exhibition of foreign artists at the
Mansard Gallery, which has recently closed, is, I believe, the first
one of its kind since the post-impressionist Exhibition at the Grafton
Galleries before the war. Now, as then, I fancy, it will be found
to be a case of a little garden in a patch of wilderness. Mr. Clive
Bell would perhaps have us bow unreservedly before the lions of the
continent, but I feel that some of the artists are only repeating with
variations the themes given out by their forerunners. Even the work
of the accepted masters, such as Picasso and Derain, and so forth,
does not seem quite convincing at first sight, but perhaps these
were acting purposely as foils to their younger contemporaries. The
Exhibition was, nevertheless, of great interest, especially if we may
take it to show roughly the various tendencies of continental art.
The Memorial Exhibition of the works of Harold Gilman at the Leicester
Galleries deserves special notice. Harold Gilman died suddenly of
influenza this spring. To everyone who knew him his death must have
come as a severe shock; his unfailing courtesy and true gentleness of
manner had endeared him to many. As an artist, the sane outlook and
sincere purpose in his work were valuable assets to whatever movement
he was connected with. It is difficult at this time to estimate his
value as a painter, but I am inclined to think it will be considerable.
He had elaborated a fine sense of colour which was as effective in his
painting as it was useful in his teaching. His work, hung all together
in this exhibition, seems far more striking than when seen in isolated
examples, the drawings forming a decidedly important part of the whole.
He was not accustomed to show these drawings nor did he seem to value
them very much, except as a means to the end; and I am surprised by
their excellence. No. 23 is a design for a large painting commissioned
by the Canadian Government, and left unfinished at his death. No. 37
is one of the gems of the collection. An illustrated memorial volume
of Gilman's work will be published shortly. Other picture shows
forthcoming in London during the autumn and winter are--an exhibition
of the works of Matisse, Mr. Marchant's Salon, open for the first
time since the war at the Goupil Galleries, the Imperial War Museum
Exhibition, and the London Group at the Mansard Gallery in November.
* * * * *
To the most hardened critic the sounding title of the International
Society of Sculptors, Painters, and Engravers may seem a little
overaweing; each time, as the Society's exhibition comes round, he must
feel this peculiar thrill; the catalogue also, with its crescendos of
lay members, honorary lay members, and deceased honorary lay members,
has a conscious feeling of "well-to-do-ness" which is very impressive,
and may tend to undermine impartial judgment. The twenty-sixth
exhibition of this Society is, notwithstanding, very like many others
which have gone before. A long search for instances of any serious
purpose, with a few exceptions, meets with nothing but superficial
cleverness or work of a purely negative value. As in the exhibitions
of Burlington House, so here, the artists seem entirely concerned with
the portrayal of the anecdote for itself, without the least regard for
design, in fact with the least amount of solid purpose or feeling, and
with the free use of cheap _bravura_ painting. There are, of course,
the well-known stand-bys who provide what is expected of them with
satisfactory regularity. Mr. MacEvoy's portraits of the nobility and
gentry seem more and more evanescent, and one would hardly credit them
with a drop of red blood, let alone blue--but they have their charm.
The portraits in general are not peculiarly interesting, characterised
as they are by good but uninspired painting. Mr. Frampton's No. 29 is
a case in point. The only bright exception, both as a portrait and a
work of art, is Mr. Alvaro Guevara's portrait of Miss Edith Sitwell,
which alone is worth paying 1s. 6d. to see. The painting throughout is
curiously realistic, the colour is very fine, and the arrangement of
the figure so as to present a view looking down upon it, together with
the placing of the mats on the floor, make a most interesting design.
Placed as it is among the portraits of Mr. MacEvoy, the contrast is
startling and a little cruel, not unlike a bird of paradise amongst a
batch of ring-doves. I am surprised to see that the perseverance of the
firm of Nicholson and Son, though the business is now mostly carried on
by Mr. Benjamin Nicholson, has not yet been awarded by royal warrant.
No one, I hope, will be so obtuse as not to distinguish the filial from
the paternal jug. Considerable mention has been made of the landscapes
in water-colour by Miss Frances Hodgkins, and though I cannot
quite agree with all that has been said, I think her work has charm
and a strong sense of pattern. No. 214, _Threshing_, is especially
attractive. The drawings of J. D. Revel will repay attention,
particularly No. 194. Mr. Keith Baynes contributes two pleasing
drawings, one of which has an interesting design of boats, while Mr.
William Rothenstein has a good but very war-like self-portrait. I
feel glad my acquaintance with him has been so far only in a civilian
capacity. It would appear that sheep-skin jerkins are regulation dress
for official war-artists.
ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS
Art and Letters
With the autumn number of _Art and Letters_ the periodical completes
its fourth publication since the beginning of the new series. _Art and
Letters_ was first published in July, 1917, under the editorship of
Frank Rutter, Harold Gilman, and Charles Ginner, and was devoted to the
reproduction of the graphic arts and the publication of short essays,
stories, poems, and reviews. After the first four numbers the magazine
came under the management of Mr. Frank Rutter and Mr. Osbert Sitwell,
who changed the cover from a set design to one of a varied pattern each
quarter.
_Art and Letters_ has continued to supply a certain demand as an
artistic quarterly, and indeed, with the exception of _Colour_, it
seems to be the only periodical which reproduces the works of younger
contemporary artists. The first numbers contained some excellent
drawings by Walter Sickert, Harold Gilman, and Charles Ginner, with
woodcuts by Lucien Pissaro; later, work by Paul Nash, MacKnight
Kauffer, and Therèse Lessore formed a pleasing contribution. With the
inception of the new series in 1918, the paper was given fresh impetus
and still maintains its high level. A criticism which applies to many
other like publications may be also applied to _Art and Letters_: it is
too precious. There is need of a wider scope and more general appeal to
the public.
The chief item of artistic interest in Volume 2, No. 4, of _Art and
Letters_, which has just appeared, is the drawing by Modigliani, who
was one of the most promising exhibitors at the recent exhibition of
Continental Artists held at the Mansard Gallery, and referred to above.
This is really a beautiful drawing, delicate and sensitive; the artist,
while relying chiefly on the rhythmic value of his line, has introduced
ever so slightly into the face the literary interest, so to speak,
of a subtle expression which is the quintessence of placid kindness.
There are also excellent drawings by the late Gaudier Brzeska and
Wyndham Lewis, and a wood-cut by Paul Nash which, at the risk of being
censored for partiality, I venture to think is of interest in another
branch of his art. The drawing by Miss Anne Estelle Rice is competent
and decorative. A new periodical entitled _The Owl_ was hatched in the
early summer, in which the excellence of the literary contributions
greatly outweighed the value of the artistic reproductions. I hope in
the future that the art editor will range a little wider in his choice
of drawings.
The Poetry Bookshop
Mr. Harold Monro is publishing a series of monthly chap-books, which
has already run into three numbers; it purports to be a record of the
poetry and drama of to-day. In so far as it bears upon these columns,
Volume 2 is of interest as containing reproductions of Mr. Albert
Rutherstone's theatre designs for Bernard Shaw's play, _Androcles and
the Lion_, produced at St. James's Theatre before the war. This is
altogether an admirable and valuable little book. The most recently
published number is entitled _Poems Newly Decorated_, and contains some
charming and effective designs by the younger artists.
JOHN NASH
MUSIC
THE PROMENADE CONCERTS
IT has been good to see the Queen's Hall filled once more with a
happy crowd, after the thin and uncertain audiences which listened to
the Promenade Concerts during the war. Even to a jaded professional
critic there is a peculiar sense of pleasure to be derived from them
which no other concerts can convey. One is free to smoke, to begin
with, and free to move about and see one's friends; for that is one of
the pleasant things about a Promenade Concert, that one always finds
friends there. And just as one finds unexpected old friends on the
floor of the house, so one finds them in the programme. There are many
works from which the hardened concert-goer flees when he sees them put
in to fill up time in an ordinary symphony concert. At the Promenades
he may find himself listening to them in the company of someone who has
never heard them before, and suddenly discover that they have taken on
a new aspect in relation to all the music which memory has accumulated
since the last time that he came across them. The more heterogeneous
the programme, the more delightful it is, and one wonders what goes
on in the minds of those listeners who crowd to the evenings that are
given up to Wagner alone or to Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. It is on a
Wagner night that one begins to be conscious of how badly the band is
playing. They are trotting through the old stock extracts, which they
are supposed to know by heart. The old hands are bored to death, the
new ones do not yet know their way about. At least so one is tempted
to think for the moment. And on a classical night one is tempted to
quarrel with some of Sir Henry Wood's interpretations.
Such judgments are unprofitable, even if one could be sure that
they were true. It is the homogeneous programme that alters one's
critical angle. The last new versification of a suburban house-agent's
advertisement in the second half of the programme restores a juster
balance. To judge from old Promenade programmes, the "one-style" night
must be a relic of earlier tradition. When Mr. Robert Newman first
started the concerts, in 1895, there would be a Scottish night, an
Irish night, a Military night, and, besides a Wagner night, a Gounod
night. The Irish night meant a programme of Stanford, Balfe, Wallace
and Sullivan. Sullivan still figures in our programmes; the others have
dropped out, and so has the Gounod night. The programme of a Military
night does indeed seem a curiosity to-day. Here it is: _Military
March_ (Schubert), overture _Les Dragons de Villars_ (Maillart), _The
German Patrol_ (Eilenberg), _Trumpet Overture_ (Mendelssohn), _The Red
Hussar_ (Solomon), _The British Army Quadrilles_ (Jullien), _The Drum
Polka_ (Anonymous), and the "Soldiers' Chorus" from _Faust_. Maillart's
overture still figures in this year's list; but probably no one wants
a military programme in these days, even if it were made up from the
classics. It is interesting to note that what we called a "Popular"
night differed very little from the Saturday programmes of this year,
in spite of the number of novelties that have in the course of time
been gradually added to the repertory. The operatic selections were
dropped a long time ago, but such things as Handel's _Largo_, Grieg's
_Peer Gynt_, the overture to _William Tell_, and Bizet's _L'Arlésienne_
have probably been played once or even twice in every season.