be the last person to expect us to take this play seriously as a
contribution to dramatic literature. Although it is a play of modern
life in the most colloquial prose, it has less reality than the wildest
and most phantasmagoric drama of the Elizabethans. We may not expect
Mr. Arnold Bennett to create for us an imaginative world of his own in
which there is an inner and satisfying truth, but we look to him to
mirror in his own peculiarly brilliant fashion a part of contemporary
life with that precision which has so often delighted us. There is
nothing in this play that could not actually have happened, but it
is impossible to believe in it as it is happening. Mr. Bennett has
not visualised his people intensely enough; they are mere puppets
borne along by the machinery of the play. This machinery is from the
theatrical point of view effective, and it leaves the creation of the
illusion of life to the flesh and blood of the actors, so that on the
stage the play may have an effect which it can never have when read.
The play, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with sacred or
profane love; no hint of the tremendous reality of love in any sense
appears between its covers.
W. J. TURNER.
THE FINE ARTS
Group Making and Group Breaking
There is a distemper prevalent amongst artists of to-day. I refer to
the mania for group forming. We are told by grave scientists that
we carry in us the germs of various diseases; the latent microbe is
in our system, apt to be shaken into active life by some unforeseen
circumstance. Artists, it would appear, have the germ of "group making"
inborn in their systems; less quiescent than other microbes, it awaits
the often trivial cause for its activity--in some cases too much fame,
in other cases the gall of unnoticed mediocrity. Given, then, one or
other of these causes, a series of events is set in motion.
Mr. Maguilp gathers round him various fellow-brushmen of whose work he
approves and, if he is wise and is conversant with the recipe of group
making, he will exclude from the number any one who will be likely
to offer serious rivalry to his own position; he may also luckily
procure someone who can make play with the quill as well as the brush
to boost him and his band of worthies with the public. A manifesto is
next issued in which the faithful band begs to be entirely dissociated
from any form of art movement prior to its own, and its members
present themselves purged from original influences, risen like several
phœnixes from the fire. They offer, so to say, a firm breakwater to the
untiring waves of mediocrity. Good! After a few exhibitions of their
united work the brothers may be considered established and perhaps
not unnoticed by the critics. But now, mark the subtlety of the evil
genius which haunts artistic circles, the group begins to think of
self-aggrandisement. "Let us have other members, let us enlarge, let
us, in fact, become (fatal word) representative." But these good men
do not really mean "representative," their exact intentions are rather
to increase their numbers by a process of eclecticism. Alas! The most
carefully selected members may develop different ideas after their
election. What trouble might not be averted if we could see the mental
condition, as it were, of every chicken's egg through the shell; to
emphasise this point, however carefully you choose your cabbage there
may always be a slug in it. So, in this little band, which has now
become a "group," there are already forces of unrest, as the papers
say. The stages of dissolution from this point are very rapid: the
undesirables multiply, they question the authority of our original
worthies, they manage to introduce other undesirables, and on all sides
there is mutual suspicion and distrust of each other's motives. "I
fear he intends to swamp us with the work of his followers," or "He
intends to try and get control of the Group" is whispered round. Then
the rot sets in. One member, for convenience A., refuses to show in the
same room as B., as if the mere presence of the latter's work would
corrode the gilt on his frames. Another disagrees with the gallery,
a third has been maliciously hung. Worse follows, for one of our
original friends secedes and forms another group, drawing others away
with him: fresh manifestos are issued, and all original ideas revised,
"We shall burst upon the public," and so on, _da capo al fine_. The
public! What do they think of it all, does it interest them; do our
friends, the artists, fancy that their petty strife is watched with
eager anxiety? Surely to the public this formation and dissolution
of groups must be as puzzling as were the military categories of the
war. A layman, having once become accustomed to one artistic movement,
has his attention diverted to another; on refixing his attention to
the first he finds it split up into other formations. He is as a man
watching a parade of soldiers, he sees each battalion form and reform,
wheel and turn, flaunting the while their separate banners as they
march, a bewildering kinetic display. Samuel Butler used to wonder
why curates could not be hatched fully fledged in surplice and gown,
without the troublesome prelude of ordination. Could not artists be
allocated at birth in a system of unchangeable groups? Now all this
lamentable state of affairs is largely due to "cliquishness," and in a
lesser degree to an inherent distrust of each other which all artists
seem to possess. There is also another contention which hampers them in
their deeper divans. One man regards the exhibition of pictures as a
purely business concern, whereby he hopes to sell his work; another man
imagines it to be an opportunity of displaying, for the education of
the uncultured, the results of his own deep inspiration. The possible
difference in their position may be that the former has to live by what
work he sells, the latter has very likely a private income. If, for
the sake of convenience, we introduce our alphabetical friends again,
B. will despise A. for what appear to him to be mercenary feelings,
while A. holds B. in contempt for amateurishness. Of the two I prefer
A.'s idea because, once he has carried out his painting, his next idea
(a very sensible one too) is to sell it; while B. affects indifference
and thinks A. has been calculating his possible assets between his
brush strokes. This idea is neither just nor relevant. What can be
done for us all? We all want to sell our pictures; what need is there
for pretence, and why are we at the mercy only of a few members of the
"intelligentsia"? After all, I suppose group forming is in a sense
a protective instinct against the dealer, though the results are so
inadequate. What then is the alternative to group making, the remedy
for group breaking?
At the back of my mind I have visions for the future. A huge emporium
for pictures, run on business-like lines, and on a scale which will
put Mr. Gattie's warehouse scheme completely in the shade. Here each
artist may have his work shown in his turn, not one or two isolated
pictures disseminated among the exhibits of fifty other artists, but
each man's work hung in a group that all may see his development, note
his improvement, and criticise his faults. Why not a Selfridge Emporium
for the pictorial arts? "Woodcuts, Madame, fourth floor." Orders for
drawings and paintings and sculpture might be received, and commissions
for decorations undertaken in any possible style. Then imagine the
satisfaction of procuring a Lewis or a Nevinson in the Bargain
Basement: and the sales! "Things _were_ cheap!" as Little Tich says,
especially after the failure of the spring shows.
Mr. Nevinson's Exhibition at the Leicester Galleries
I do not imagine that Sisyphus in Hades ever wantonly let his stone
roll down to the bottom of the hill after his laborious ascent, yet
this is what Mr. Nevinson appears to have done in his passage up
the incline of artistic endeavour. The simile is perhaps not quite
applicable because, to be just, his work has seldom shown outward
evidence of great stress: perhaps it were better if it had. He seems
to have reached with extraordinary ease a position in contemporary art
which was entitled to our respect. We are grieved then, rather than
angry, to see his descent from that position. If this is his Peace
work then give me his War pictures. I suppose we are all conscious
that reconstruction is very slow in realising our anticipations; the
business of changing from war to peace makes this inevitable, but Mr.
Nevinson seems to have rushed, over-hurriedly, from one to the other.
I think he has not considered reconstruction enough, for his outlook
at present is chaotic and rather vulgar. This might be excused on the
ground that he was pulling the public's leg, but the diversion is worn
rather threadbare now. There are a few exceptions in the show, and
moreover his colouring remains good, even shows improvement, and no
one can deny his skill. "See," he cries, "how versatile I am. I have
catered for all sorts of people!" Yes, but _what_ sort of people?
No, we would speak more in sorrow than in anger; as Ruskin addressed
Millais in his decline--"If Mr. Nevinson were to paint nothing but
apricots for four years, etc...." But we feel sure his relapse is only
temporary.
The London Group
The eleventh exhibition at the Mansard Gallery does not differ greatly
from previous exhibitions. Probably most people have ceased to expect
any great surprise, pleasant or otherwise, though there may be still
a few who mount by lift to the gallery with the feeling rather of an
airman approaching some planetary _terra incognita_. I was assured the
other day by a candid friend that "your" London Group was as dull as
the Academy. This uncomfortable sort of person must give us a moment's
heart-searching, but I think nevertheless that the London Group still
holds its own pretty well amongst art exhibitions of to-day. With these
hopeful feelings uppermost let us examine the works displayed for
our notice. The absence of Charles Ginner's work is to be regretted,
and the rather alarming tendency of some artists to fasten on the
characteristics of other artists' work and mould them rather obviously
to their own use is more marked this year than formerly. I feel sure
that several of the members will have to try and throw these ingenious
people off their trail, for it is disconcerting to the highest degree
to find the plagiarist out-doing the original worker at his own job.
One would have thought that Mr. Gertler's apple painting was the last
word in that line, but some people appear to differ and you will find
many feeble echoes of these rare fruit and many paintings also of the
chipped corner variety _ad nauseam_. I do not really know to whom most
sympathy should be extended: to Mr. Gertler for his apples, to Mr.
Fry who is very hotly pursued by his admirers, or to the landscape
painters who, I think, might almost seek the assistance of the patent
law. Mr. Bomberg has returned in great force, and his _Barges_, No.
31, is indeed an earnest of further excellence; all his paintings have
distinction. Mr. Dickey has presented us with a very fine effort in
his _Kentish Town_, a careful and refined painting, very beautiful
in colour. Mr. Gertler's paintings at the Goupil Gallery are more
interesting than his exhibit here. No. 36, _Still Life_, by Mr. Coria,
is a painting of note, despite its cold flatness of texture. The
exhibition deserves more detailed criticism than space permits. There
is great character in the two paintings of _Caledonian Market_, by
Therese Lessore, whose exhibition at the Eldar Gallery is now open. Mr.
Duncan Grant's pleasant _Farmyard_ painting should not go unmentioned,
and there is other good work by A. P. Allinson, Mrs. Bashford, Keith
Baynes, Ethelbert White, and Bernard Meninsky.
ARTISTIC PUBLICATIONS
THE LIFE OF JOHN THOMSON OF DUDDINGSTON. By R. W. NAPIER, F.R.S.A.
Oliver & Boyd. Price 42_s._
This is a vast book. Besides the usual foreword and introduction
there are six chapters in which Mr. Napier most anxiously assures
us that Thomson's evangelical labours and lack of artistic training
in no way interfere with the exercise of his genius. This seems a
little unnecessary; for we are quite ready to take him on his merits.
Then comes the biography proper, and there are also five indices, a
three-part appendix, and six separate catalogues of his work, besides
numerous illustrations, etc. All this immense labour and care over an
artist who I think was not a very significant figure among British
painters. Perhaps he was overshadowed by his contemporaries Turner and
Constable. He was not free, it appears, from the landscape tradition of
Claude and Poussin, which he applied to his own Scottish scenery, and
there would also seem to be a strong influence of Richard Wilson in his
work. For all this, I think we may call him a "great little man," and
Mr. Napier's book will be most valuable to the student of the history
of British art.
JOHN NASH
MUSIC
THE BEECHAM OPERA
The season of opera in English at Covent Garden, which opened at
the beginning of November, offers a programme of unusual interest.
_Tristan_ and _Prince Igor_ are its oldest classics; Mozart, so it is
rumoured, is being held in reserve for a special season of his own. The
list contains hardly a single work that is not either a masterpiece
or at least a novelty. Wagner is represented only by _Tristan_ and
_Parsifal_, Verdi by _Otello_ and _Falstaff_. Except for a few Puccini
operas on Saturdays, the commonplace popular operas that are obliged
to form the backbone of every continental opera-house's repertory have
been struck out altogether. It is certainly to London's credit that
for so uncompromising a choice the response of the public has been
enthusiastic.
As long as Sir Thomas Beecham was fighting the battle of English opera
with dogged persistence and unstinted expenditure of material in the
face of apathy and indifference, and possibly the hostility of vested
interests as well, there was a very general feeling that his courage
and high idealism should not be hampered by a too searching criticism
of his performances. The Beecham opera has by now become an established
institution, and it is inevitable, now that it has taken possession of
Covent Garden, that it should be considered in a more impartial spirit.
It need not fear comparison with the imported opera of the summer
season. It has made its own high standards; but it follows that its
performances must be judged in general by the standards of its highest
individual achievements.
The present season has so far been something of a disappointment.
Several of the operas to be seen have been given over and over again
in the provinces if not in London. In the case of an absolutely new
opera insufficiency of rehearsal may be pardoned; but it is not a
sign of good management when the performance of stock classics is
allowed to become slack and indifferent. Sir Thomas has not been
seen very often at the conductor's desk, and this is the more to be
regretted, since he has a most remarkable genius for pulling through
a performance which in other hands would be always trembling on the
verge of disintegration. He has very little sympathy with singers, it
seems. He always tends to regard the orchestra as the main thing, and
the singers as mere adjuncts to it, so that an opera under his beat
might easily become a symphony with voices _ad libitum_ unless, as,
for instance, in _Trovatore_, the composer has understood voices and
written for them in such a way that nothing could ever dominate them.
Mr. Goossens follows in the steps of his master, but with less genius.
The performance of _Falstaff_ was instructive on this problem. Compared
with that in the other Verdi operas, the treatment of the orchestra
is so complex as to make it almost symphonic in character. None the
less, it is an opera in which the voices must lead and the band
accompany, for if this is not done the work at once becomes patchy and
formless. It requires, in fact, that the singers should have a strong
symphonic sense, should feel themselves all parts of a continuous vocal
_ensemble_ which must be kept going not by the conductor but by their
own co-operative efforts. The orchestra can then accompany, and it must
also play its part with a sense of vocal expression and individual
personality. This is the real difficulty of _Falstaff_. As it was, the
singers had little or no feeling for _ensemble_. I use the word in a
large sense, meaning not merely the passages where several voices are
singing simultaneously, but all those in which the phrase of one voice
is answered directly, or even at some bars' distance, by another. Mr.
Goossens did his best to hold the singers to a steady beat, but he
allowed the orchestra to get very much out of hand. Mr. Percy Pitt has
probably suffered too much from the old conventional Covent Garden
routine. He lets the singers do more or less what they like, and allows
the orchestra to play Wagner and Rimsky-Korsakov as if their music
were no more interesting than that of Bellini and Donizetti. The one
salvation of the opera season will be Mr. Albert Coates, who, even
considered merely as a concert conductor, is in a different category
from any of our English conductors. He adds to this a real knowledge
and understanding of the stage, and a personality which has the quality
of being able to get the best possible work out of every single person
under his control. That quality is as rare as it is important.
The stage-management of the season has been, on the whole, good.
_Falstaff_ went with plenty of activity and comic business, if with
nothing else. Indeed, there seems to be a pretty general tendency to
romping, which might well be put under restraint. Romping may pass
with some audiences as a substitute for acting, but it can never,
even in English opera, quite take the place of singing. Singers, it
must be frankly admitted, are the weak point of the Beecham company.
Covent Garden, partly by its own acoustic properties, partly by its
traditions, which no one who enters the house can quite forget, shows
up vocal deficiency only too severely. Sir Thomas Beecham possesses
only one really first-class operatic artist--Mr. Frederick Ranalow. He
is a real actor, equally at home in comedy or tragedy, and always a
real singer. It is because he is a real singer, singing all the time,
that one never misses a single word that he says. He is a musician with
a large understanding of the deeper things of music. His Falstaff forms
a continuous line; as King Mark he makes what with most singers is a
tedious recitative into a perfect song of rare beauty. Mr. Frederick
Austin is a good second; but whereas Mr. Ranalow is a singer who is
also a musician, Mr. Austin is a musician who also sings. Of the other
male singers there is not much to be said. Some have voices, some can
sing, a few can act and throw their words out. At the best they may
in certain cases do remarkably good work in one or two special parts.
Among the ladies the most interesting is Miss Sylvia Nelis. At present
she is little more than a singer. As a singer she goes on steadily
improving, in accomplishment of technique, in diction, and in quality
of tone; indeed, there can be little doubt that if she continues at her
present rate of progress she will from about 1970 onwards be annually
enrapturing the Albert Hall with _Home, Sweet Home_. As an actress
she has a good deal to learn, but with her intelligence and undoubted
capacity for hard work there is no reason why she should not develop
in this direction. Sir Thomas Beecham has hitherto confined her almost
exclusively to _coloratura_ parts; it would be well to give her a
chance in some part that required bright and vivacious acting rather
than vocal agility. Miss Agnes Nicholls has worked so hard to become
an operatic actress that one regrets bitterly the non-existence of the
Beecham company in the days when she made her first appearance. As it
is, she has obviously sung too often in oratorio. That is the great
fault of English singing. It has only two styles (apart from the ballad
concert style)--oratorio or Gilbert-and-Sullivan. Neither of these will
take a singer through _Falstaff_. Miss Nicholls did not happen to be
in her best vocal form that evening; but her acting was surprisingly
good--indeed, she was the only character on the stage, except Mr.
Ranalow and sometimes Mr. Percy Heming as Ford, who gave one a real
impression of a Shakespearean character. Miss Rosina Buckman has also
improved, but is very unequal in different styles. As Isolde she sang
with a firmer sense of rhythm than before, and if she did not act very
convincingly, at least looked--in a black dress with a long white veil
and a small crown--a figure of so queenly a dignity that it was not
surprising to see Mr. Mullings as Tristan keeping a respectful distance
even in the most passionate moments.
Stravinsky's _The Nightingale_ was the nearest approach to a novelty
that has yet appeared. Evidently it had been very inadequately
rehearsed. The performance fell far below the level of the Russian
production at Drury Lane in 1914. Miss Nelis as the Nightingale seemed
to be the only singer who was certain of the notes to be sung, and
almost the only singer who was taking the opera seriously. Stravinsky's
music is a good deal less bewildering now than it was five years ago.
The first act has a good deal of beauty: so has the third. The second
seemed merely bizarre--but the performance did not do the composer much
justice. A modern opera of such intricate difficulty ought to be staged
properly and conscientiously or not at all.
There has not yet been time since the end of the war for foreign
artists to visit England in the large numbers which were inevitable
five or six years ago. Yet even though the givers of concerts are at
the moment almost exclusively natives of this country, or foreigners
who have definitely made England their home, the scarcity of concert
halls is being very acutely felt. Almost every day there are three
concerts at the Æolian and Wigmore Halls, and when operas begin at 7.45
or earlier, music-lovers have often to choose between their first act
or their dinner. What is to happen when travelling conditions become
easier and the annual foreign invasion reaches its full tide?
A new and very attractive series of Sunday evening concerts has been
inaugurated at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, under the direction
of Mr. Arthur Bliss. The programmes have been generally of a simple
and informal character, with a liberal admixture of seventeenth and
eighteenth century music, either for chamber combinations or for what
may be called a chamber orchestra. Designed originally to supply the
artistic needs of the Hammersmith neighbourhood, these concerts have,
as a matter of fact, attracted a great many of the habitual frequenters
of the more central concert-rooms. Mr. Bliss intends to continue his
concerts after Christmas, and has announced for performance several
works, both modern and ancient, which are of exceptional interest.
The Patrons Fund, originally founded by Sir Ernest Palmer, has resumed
its concert-giving activities, but on new and much improved lines.
Instead of giving performances of new English works at public concerts,
the programmes of which contained nothing else but the music of
unknown or almost unknown composers, it is proposed to hold a series
of semi-private rehearsals in the hall of the Royal College of Music,
at which the works selected are tried over and properly studied, as
far as is possible within the limits of a single morning. The first of
these rehearsals took place on November 13th, and it was very generally
agreed that the new system was an undoubted improvement on the old. One
could not help feeling that the atmosphere was both more friendly and
more genuinely critical. There is undoubtedly a very strong feeling
among all lovers of music in this country that the young British
composer deserves far more encouragement than he gets, although it
must be admitted that the young British composer is actually getting a
great deal more than he did twenty or thirty years ago. Rehearsals of
this kind are also of great educational value to the representatives of
the Press, for in the struggle for publicity it is not always the most
serious and genuinely original composers who receive the most attention
in this period of violent and natural reaction against the overcharged
emotionalism of the last generation.
EDWARD J. DENT
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