perusal of its illustrated pages, I was led to think seriously
about comic drawings. _Punch_ has probably the largest circulation
of comic papers, its position is undeniably established, it is, in
fact, an institution in much the same way as the British Museum: we
are accustomed to it, it exacts its quota of mirth from hundreds
of thousands of people each week. It always contains some amusing
things, but it is a pity that its drawings are not funnier. As comic
drawings, most of them are quite valueless; they are not comic
drawings but drawings of persons correctly portrayed in more or less
amusing situations, the whole greatly helped by the wording beneath.
Even the faces joined to the carefully-rendered bodies, with their
carefully-drawn clothes (texture is felt here) and surroundings, are
presented with the correct lines and expressions which a professor
of physiognomy would connect with the various human emotions. The
artist's personality behind these productions is rarely felt except
as a stumbling-block to any progress of the absurd or whimsical. Mr.
Max Beerbohm sums the matter up in his preface to a recent book of
nonsense: "That a comic drawing should itself be comic seems to be
a reasonable demand. Yet it is a demand which few comic draughtsmen
meet. Comic drawings for the most part are but comic ideas seriously
illustrated. We are shown an angry man who has just raised his stroke
at golf; near him a caddie grinning behind his hand; and a view of
the golf-links. Admirable! The man's stockings and knickerbockers,
his cap, his collar, and tie are so rendered that a hosier would not
blush to sign them. The drawing of the caddie's fingers would satisfy
any drawing-master in any municipal art school. The treatment of the
golf-links is faithful, sensitive, reverent. But--where does the fun
come in? Through the text beneath maybe. But only for a moment. Out it
goes, arrested, in the grip of the artist's firm and laborious hand."
Quite recently a friend of mine, whose drawings were more remarkable
for their absurdity than for their strict draughtsmanship, attempted to
obtain some work at the offices of one of our latest and most frivolous
papers. The following conversation matured between him and the art
editor:
ART EDITOR: These drawings are too queer for us, they won't go down
over here.
ARTIST: How do you mean won't go down?
ART EDITOR: People don't understand them. They might do for France,
but (mind you) they'd be queer even there.
ARTIST: Ah!
ART EDITOR: Now frankly (I hope you don't mind my being
frank?)--(ARTIST: Not at all.)--You wouldn't say you could draw,
would you?
ARTIST: I should not dare to be so presumptuous.
ART EDITOR: Well, these are the sort of drawings that children do in
the suburbs of an evening.
ARTIST: Indeed!
ART EDITOR: Now, see here, in this drawing--you've only put three
fingers on one hand. People notice that, you know. Now, if you
could do us something like this (producing a third-rate imitation
of Bateman figuring some gentleman of a pronounced Semitic type)
we might be able to find you a job.
ARTIST: Well, I think I won't swell the ranks of people who are doing
drawings of this kind.
ART EDITOR (surprised and suspicious): Ah, I'm sorry, I fear the
drawings are no use to us, but I hope you don't mind my giving my
opinion?
ARTIST: No, no, not at all. I shall value it. And now, please, how do
I get out of this building?
Among the hosts of illustrators working for the comic papers there
are very few comic artists and more artists than comedians. _Punch_
would do well to relieve the monotony of its pages more often with
the drawings of Mr. Bateman. There is a strength and subtlety in Mr.
Bateman's line which places him far above other illustrators of this
nature, while his knowledge and portrayal of types with the utmost
economy of means is very stimulating: but then he can afford to be
realistic also because he is above all a humorist. He possesses the
faculty for letting himself go. Mr. George Morrow pleases us frequently
by his gentle humour, and Mr. Haselden, a remarkable man, sustains our
daily interest in the _Daily Mirror_. Mr. Heath Robinson is a master
of whimsical invention, but I am not certain if he is not a very
skilful engineer and mechanician in disguise--but certainly ingeniously
disguised. Of the too regular contributors to _Punch_ very little need
be said, and of the illustrators of the cheaper comic publications
still less: the best one can say of some of them is that they reproduce
drawings from Continental papers. Between the extremes of academic
respectability on the one hand and feeble vulgarity on the other there
would seem to be no middle course. Our humorous papers are far below
the level of such papers as the German _Jugend_ or _Simplicissimus_,
or the French _Le Rire_. One feels that their draughtsmanship is more
simple and effective and their humour more spontaneous. This is not
a plea for mere savagery of caricature, which appears foreign to our
national temperament. But what a relief it would be if one fine week
_Punch_ went quite mad and appeared with its print upside down, or,
better still, no print at all, and if all the artists gave free rein to
whatever absurdity possessed them that week!
M. Henri Matisse
I suppose it is natural that the landscapes of M. Matisse should have a
stronger appeal to me than his other works in the Leicester Galleries.
Yet, apart from any purely egotistical considerations, I think many
people will agree that his landscapes play a very important, if not
the most important, part in the success of his exhibition. In many of
them there seems to be no striving for the accomplishment of a unique
or startling design, but there is a depth of feeling in their form
and a mystery in their colour that alone accounts sufficiently for
Matisse's reputation in modern art. I am extremely covetous of any
one or all of these pictures. Matisse, in his landscapes, is a poet
as well as a painter: his intense feeling for the quiet and rather
awe-inspiring moments in Nature, his rendering of the vague profusion
of growth, the cool grey horizontal clouds and subtle effects of
light, make him a master in this branch of his art. I do not find this
intensity of feeling in his other works, they are apt to cool one's
ardour after the landscapes, and we are brought to think of design _per
se_, and confronted with a flatness of handling that is not nearly
so intriguing. His largest painting, _Portrait de Femmes_ (_trois
sœurs_), is very noble, and the drawings should not fail to satisfy
the diminishing (I hope) body of people who _will_ sniff at such an
exhibition and utter those well-worn and unpardonable remarks on lack
of draughtsmanship. Messrs. Brown and Phillips are to be congratulated
on procuring for us such an interesting exhibition, and for giving us
in the catalogue a photograph of M. Matisse. A glance at this likeness
might still the outcries of Philistia more effectually than much
argument.
Goupil Gallery Salon
Mr. William Marchant's salons, discontinued during the war, have
come to life again, and the ninth of the series has been open during
November and December. The Goupil Gallery has a large capacity, and Mr.
Marchant seems to have gone out into all parts of the United Kingdom
and gathered in a large crowd of artists, nor has he been able entirely
to exclude some of the halt and the blind. A detailed criticism from
picture to picture, or even from one man's group of work to another's,
would be very tedious, for there are some 300 exhibits displayed in the
series of rooms. The choice of work is very comprehensive, ranging from
James Pryde to Pamela Bianco, from Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Pound to
the post-Millais backwash of Mr. Ranken.
In the Large Gallery are Mr. Augustus John and Mr. Sickert. The former
exhibits two soldier portraits and No. 51, _Birdie_, all of which serve
to remind us of his unequalled position in that branch of art. Mr.
Sickert, the contemporary in age with most of the artists in this room,
shines forth in his work with all the vigour and freshness of youth.
His No. 49, _Bridge at Bath_, challenges the declining interest in the
work of the more established artists in the room, while he runs level
with, even sets the pace for, the younger generation.
In the First Gallery Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Ezra Pound is apt to
blunt our sensibilities to the other works therein. It is indeed a
remarkable painting, standing like a ferro-concrete factory amidst a
peaceful and rather decaying village. Of its faithfulness I am unable
to judge, being acquainted with Mr. Pound solely in the pages of the
_Little Review_, but its hard compelling colour and the solidity of its
built-up design make it a thing difficult to forget. Mr. Robert Bevan's
landscape, No. 100, has a reposeful design that is very telling. Mr.
Ginner's sturdy realism is refreshing, and his painting in this room
is, I think, more successful in design and colour than his other
exhibit.
The Third Gallery.--Here, again, Mr. Sickert's two charming paintings
attract our attention, and Mr. Mark Gertler's fine portrait is
essentially a picture that leaves an impression in this maze of
paintings. There are besides two fine wall paintings by Mr. William
Rothenstein.
The Grey Room deserves its name indeed. It is difficult to say why the
standard of water-colours is so low compared to the oils: with a very
few exceptions, noticeably the drawings of Mr. Albert Rutherston, we
seem to have touched bottom in this room, and a very muddy bottom too,
so that coming at last to Mr. Shackleton's _Peace Day_ one felt there
remained nothing but to burst through the skylight into the air again.
The absence of line in the water-colour drawings is very depressing.
ARTISTIC PERIODICALS
_ILLUSTRATION_
Foremost among the periodicals issued recently is Mr. Gerard Meynell's
_Illustration_. This is a trade circular, and as such would naturally
demonstrate within its covers the printer's aspirations in the
reproduction of blocks and lettering. "Circular" is not an attractive
word, but Mr. Meynell is no ordinary printer, and his circular is still
less an ordinary affair. To those who are unacquainted with it, I would
hasten to say that _Illustration_ is more like a beautifully-coloured
fairy-tale book than the accepted idea of a circular. This time Mr.
Meynell has surpassed himself in his efforts not merely in the turn-out
of his book, which to the professional and the amateur glance must be
entirely admirable, but in giving us the added interest of a Supplement
containing eight reproductions of modern art.
JOHN NASH
MUSIC
COVENT GARDEN
One success at least Covent Garden has achieved--_Parsifal_. It
fills the house, and it deserves to do so, for it is by far the best
performance that has been seen this season. The scenery and costumes,
as far as could be seen from the topmost proscenium box, in which the
LONDON MERCURY was accommodated, were those of the original Covent
Garden production. The Temple of the Grail was dignified and beautiful,
the magic flower-garden ridiculous. The flower-maidens, who sang
extremely well and were in themselves quite competent to look their
parts, wore dresses that might have been discarded by a travelling
Gilbert-and-Sullivan company, half from _Iolanthe_ and half from _The
Mikado_. The swan was as ridiculous as ever. That worst trap of all
for producers of _Parsifal_, the undressing and washing of the hero
in the first scene of the third act, was painfully successful. It was
a toss-up whether Kundry would not remove Parsifal's wig along with
his helmet, and the struggles of the holy knight to pull his white
draperies down from under his armour were comic in the extreme. There
are many little hitches and absurdities in all operas which pass
unnoticed, because something of greater importance happens at the same
moment and distracts the attention. But these particular episodes are
in themselves the most important things happening at their particular
moments. It is on them that all attention must be concentrated by the
audience, and if they are made ludicrous by careless handling the
solemnity of the drama is very gravely impaired. It is not as if they
depended upon elaborate machinery. What is required is forethought and
common sense.
Miss Gladys Ancrum's Kundry was a very notable achievement. Her
gestures would be the better for a little more restraint and a good
deal more sense of definite design. Her singing was full of colour, and
she showed great dramatic power in the use of different qualities of
tone. It is a part which covers a very wide range of character-drawing;
there are at least four distinct personalities in Kundry, and Miss
Ancrum went a very considerable way towards distinguishing them and
endowing them with life. Parsifal is one of the most ungrateful parts
ever given to a hero. Pure fools may be quite attractive people in
ordinary life, but on the operatic stage, especially when tenors,
there is little to be done with them. Van Dyck, who was reputed the
greatest of Parsifals, was corpulent, and sang out of tune. Mr.
Walter Hyde did not look very boyish, but he at least sang well. Mr.
Langley's melodramatic manner was well suited to the part of Klingsor.
As Gurnemanz Mr. Norman Allin showed a fine voice and a dignified
presence; but of all Wagnerian bores Gurnemanz is the most boring,
surpassing even Wolfram in tediousness, and it is only a very ripe
actor, with that quality of vocal style which may be called either
unction or unctuousness according to taste, who can make the part
really effective on the stage. The most sympathetic character in
_Parsifal_ is Amfortas, and Mr. Percy Heming being one of the most
sympathetic actors and singers in the company, it was very poignantly
realised.
When we read of a new opera by Mr. Delius, _Fennimore and Gerda_,
having been produced recently at Frankfurt with great success, it
was indeed a bitter disappointment that Covent Garden could not
even resuscitate _A Village Romeo and Juliet_. The Beecham Company
performed it in a previous season, so it cannot have presented all
the difficulties of a new creation. It may well have been better to
withdraw it altogether than to give it badly; but if more time was
wanted for rehearsal it might well have taken the place of _Nail_,
which reflects more credit on Sir Thomas Beecham's good nature than on
his artistic judgment.
Moussorgsky's _Khovantchina_ had an indifferent performance and an
indifferent house. It is less popular than _Boris Godunov_, and less
obviously dramatic, but it has more unity of purpose and contains much
better music. Both operas, however, are invariably so much cut about
that the difficulty of following the story is very much increased. Mr.
Norman Allin had a magnificent opportunity in the part of Dositheus,
but it is not sufficient to treat it as if Dositheus were one of the
conventional operatic ministers of religion. It was one of Chaliapin's
most overwhelming creations; but Mr. Allin, though undoubtedly a fine
singer, has far to go before he can achieve the ease and perfection of
Chaliapin's vocalisation. Our singers do not concentrate nearly enough
attention on the pure art of singing. They may be divided roughly
into two categories: the clever ones who think that the psychological
understanding of a character and the vigorous declamation of words are
enough to carry them through any part, and the stupid ones who think
that fine singing consists in imitating the external mannerisms of
Caruso or any other Milanese or Neapolitan star. The clever ones are
quite right in realising that English singing can never be achieved by
trying to make a bad copy of Italian tricks. Many of these tricks do
not indeed belong to the fine art of singing at all; they are merely
appeals to false emotion, which excite a vulgar Italian audience just
as the well-worn ballad-concert mannerisms excite a vulgar audience
in England. A training in the real Italian style is without doubt of
the greatest possible value to an English singer, provided that it
means a thorough training in Italian literature and conversation, for
that involves a study of speech-rhythms and a purity of articulation,
which are invaluable to any one who makes use of his voice either as a
singer or as a speaker. Pure singing and pure speaking are essential
requirements to any operatic artist, and the singer must grasp the
principle that his vocal technique is to be the servant of his artistic
idea and not a hindrance to its sincere expression.
For Bizet's _Djamileh_ Sir Thomas Beecham would no doubt have deserved
sincere gratitude had it not been postponed until too late for
inclusion in this notice. There was much that was laughable in the _The
Fair Maid of Perth_, but Bizet even at his lowest has always charm and,
what is more important, unexpected turns of originality.
There are historical reasons for thinking that the lighter forms of
opera are those most suited to the English temperament in general.
Attempts are constantly being made to re-establish light opera of a
really artistic kind in this country, and although no one has yet
succeeded in rivalling Sullivan in this field, Sir Thomas is certainly
doing an excellent work in perpetually holding up Mozart and Bizet as
working models for both the English composer and the English public to
study and to enjoy.
CONCERTS
When Busoni next visits this country it is to be hoped that he will
have better opportunities of being heard under appropriate conditions.
The crowded and enthusiastic audiences which filled the Wigmore Hall
for his two recitals showed that he might well have given half-a-dozen
similar programmes instead of appearing as star turn at the Albert Hall
on Sunday afternoons, and there is not the slightest doubt that the
Wigmore Hall audiences were of the kind that he could play to with real
pleasure. He appeared at one of the Queen's Hall Symphony Concerts as
composer and conductor, and also played Mozart's Concerto in C minor.
Here, too, it was impossible to separate Busoni the pianist from Busoni
the composer, for the concerto was embellished by cadenzas of singular
originality and loveliness. Those inserted in the slow movement were
startlingly modern, but with a modernity that Mozart himself might
well have achieved if he had lived to the age of his interpreter, for
they were certainly designed on thoroughly Mozartian principles of
composition. Two fragments from a _Faust_ opera, on which Busoni is now
engaged, gave the highest hopes of the complete work, for they were
most noble and impressive musical pictures. At his farewell recital on
December 6th he played Liszt's Sonata in B minor with a breadth and
dignity that placed Liszt almost on a level with Beethoven. As a player
of Chopin, Busoni has always been somewhat hard to accept; but the
mellowing of style which the last five years have brought him was very
apparent in his treatment of the Five Ballades, and still more in the
Nocturne in C minor, which of all the Nocturnes is the most suited to
Busoni's very monumental interpretation.
Of singers by far the most interesting has been Mme. Jane Bathori, who
appeared at one of the Classical Concert Society's concerts. She has
long been known as the finest exponent of modern French songs. She is
also an excellent pianist, and often plays her own accompaniments, thus
securing a perfect homogeneity of performance, which the best pair of
partners can hardly ever realise.
The Royal Philharmonic Society, after passing through some trying
moments during the war, has made energetic efforts to regain its
ancient honourable traditions. With Mr. Coates, Mr. Geoffrey Toye, Mr.
Adrian Boult, and Mr. Landon Ronald as conductors, it is quite clear
that London has no scarcity of orchestral directors. A new departure
has been made by the establishment of the Philharmonic Choir, under the
management of Mr. Charles Kennedy Scott, the conductor of the Oriana
Madrigal Society. The programmes of the concerts exhibit a judicious
selection of classic and modern works, among which English music is
prominent. The general verdict on the first two concerts was that
some of the pieces chosen, both old and new, were not of first-rate
importance. The compilers of the programmes were probably quite well
aware of that fact. There are, in fact, plenty of works, such as
Holbrooke's _Ulalume_ and Meyerbeer's _Struensee_ Overture, to name two
examples only, which certainly are not immortal masterpieces, but are
none the less quite interesting and well worth an occasional hearing.
Even acknowledged masterpieces have been known to suffer from too
frequent performance.
A new Italian composer, Francesco Malipiero, has been very prominent
in recent programmes. M. Yves Tinayre sang his _Chanson Morave_, Mr.
Mark Hambourg played his _Barlumi_ for pianoforte; of his orchestral
music, _Impressioni dal Vero_ was heard at the Promenades, a _Ditirambo
Tragico_ at the Queen's Hall Symphony Concerts, and, lastly, at the
second Philharmonic, _Le Pause del Silenzio_. No explanation has
been offered of this curious title, but it may possibly bear some
connection with an interesting passage in D'Annunzio's novel, _Il
Fuoco_, in which Stelio Effrena maintains that the essence of music
lies not in the sounds but in the silences that separate them. It is
something of a compliment to Malipiero that his last work succeeded in
rousing a Philharmonic audience to hostility. Such demonstrations are
rare in this country, though their rarity is due less to broadminded
receptivity than to courteous indifference. Malipiero will survive
his hisses. His language is harsh and obscure, although a study of
his scores shows that he has plenty of technical skill, for he is
evidently dealing with emotions which he has not yet been able to
express clearly, and which we have probably not been accustomed to hear
expressed. Judging from the scores, it seemed that the performances,
both under Mr. Toye at the Philharmonic and under Sir Henry Wood, were
lacking in the singing sense. There is a temptation in these days to
lay too much stress upon the strangeness of strange harmonies. They
would become clearer if more attention was given to the elucidation and
intensification of the strange melodies which are at the foundation of
all modern music that is likely to last. There can be no doubt about
the sincerity and depth of feeling in Malipiero's music, though it has
not the more attractive qualities of Casella's facile ingenuity.
EDWARD J. DENT
SELECT LIST OF PUBLICATIONS
ART
ESSAYS ON ART. By A. CLUTTON-BROCK. Methuen. 5_s._
GARDENS: THEIR FORM AND DESIGN. By VISCOUNTESS WOLSELEY. Arnold.
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PERSONALITIES. Twenty-four Drawings. By EDMOND X. KAPP. Secker. 21_s._
BYE-PATHS IN CURIO COLLECTING. By ARTHUR HAYDEN. Fisher Unwin. 21_s._
WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL: ITS MONUMENTS AND MEMORIALS. By JOHN VAUGHAN,
Canon Residentiary of Winchester Cathedral. Selwyn & Blunt. 10_s._
6_d._
SAXON AND NORMAN CHURCHES IN ENGLAND. By the REV. E. HERMITAGE DAY,
D.D., F.S.A. Mowbray. 3_s._ 6_d._
BRITISH MARINE PAINTING. With articles by A. L. BALDRY. Edited by
GEOFFREY HOLME. "The Studio." 10_s._ 6_d._
HAROLD GILMAN: AN APPRECIATION. By WYNDHAM LEWIS and LOUIS F.
FERGUSSON. Chatto & Windus. 21_s._
HEXHAM: ITS ABBEY. By CHARLES CLEMENT HODGES and JOHN GIBSON. London:
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ATHLETICS
FIFTY YEARS OF GOLF. By HORACE G. HUTCHINSON. "Country Life." 10_s._
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BELLES-LETTRES
SHAKESPEARE AND THE MAKERS OF VIRGINIA. By SIR A. W. WARD. (The
Annual Shakespeare Lecture, 1919.) For the British Academy.
Milford. 4_s._
NOT THAT IT MATTERS. By A. A. MILNE. Methuen. 6_s._
RATHER LIKE ... SOME ENDEAVOURS TO ASSUME THE MANTLES OF THE GREAT.
By JULES CASTIER. Herbert Jenkins. 7_s._ 6_d._
ADDRESSES IN AMERICA, 1919. By JOHN GALSWORTHY. Heinemann. 6_s._
SMALL THINGS. By MARGARET DELAND. Appleton. 5_s._
PLOUGHSHARE AND PRUNING HOOK. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Swarthmore Press.
6_s._
THE ART OF WRITING VERSE. By EDITHA JENKINSON. Erskine Macdonald.
2_s._ 6_d._
A TREASURY OF ENGLISH PROSE. Edited by LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH.
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THE OFFICIUM ET MIRACULA OF RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE. Edited by
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THE PHANTOM JOURNAL. By E. V. LUCAS. Methuen. 6_s._
ENJOYING LIFE AND OTHER LITERARY REMAINS OF W. N. P. BARBELLION.
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AN INTERPRETATION OF KEATS'S ENDYMION. By H. CLEMENT NOTCUTT.
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