"SEARCHLIGHTS."
The title was not, of course, meant to deceive, for Mr. VACHELL is an
honest man; and anyhow the critics, for that is their business, would be
swift to disillusionize the public; but in our permissible state of
suspicion, the audience might easily be led to suppose from the word
"Searchlights," combined with the early appearance of an imported Teuton
in the person of _Sir Adalbert Schmaltz_, that spy-work was in the air.
But the genial domesticity of this naturalized Scot quickly disposed of
our unworthy apprehensions, and we soon learned that his _provenance_
had no bearing upon the issue.
That issue was concerned with a question of paternity, whose acuteness
happened to be contemporaneous with that of the present European crisis.
I say "happened"; for here again I cast no reflection upon Mr. VACHELL'S
intent, or suggest that the war-element in his play was introduced as an
afterthought into his original scheme. If it was, which I doubt, then
the patchwork was cleverly concealed; and my only complaint must be of a
certain obscurity in the relation between the two patterns in his
design. For if the title implied that the effect of the War was to throw
a searchlight into the dark places of the human heart (as distinguished
from its influence upon our City streets), I do not think that in the
case of _Robert Blaine's_ heart, if he had one, the author has made this
operation sufficiently clear.
Mrs. Blaine had a grown-up son, born after five years of barren wedlock,
who was the object of her husband's profound detestation. After some
twenty years--a little late, perhaps, in the day, but the author wished
us to be present when he did it--_Robert Blaine_, at a moment when his
wife is trying to get her boy out of a tight corner, declares an
inveterate doubt of his fatherhood, and she makes confession of her
fault. Subsequently--in a "strong" scene--she recants, alleging that her
confession was a work of creative art, produced in a spasm of spite; and
everybody except the immovable _Blaine_ is vastly relieved.
But not for long, for she presently recants her recantation. You will
guess that, though a little shaken, we were not in despair, but looked
hopefully for a re-recantation. But you are in error. Her second
confession, though no words passed her lips, was obviously final. And
what induced it? What was the piece of conviction? If you will believe
me, it was just a photograph with which her husband confronted her--an
old photograph of her lover that she mistook for her son's, so close was
the likeness. This was surely a flaw in Mr. VACHELL'S scheme, for it is
unbelievable that she should have hitherto overlooked this fatal
resemblance, even if her attention had not as a fact been called to it
by a garrulous friend at quite an early stage in the proceedings of the
play.
[Illustration: ROBERT BLAINE EXPERIENCING HOW VERY MUCH SHARPER THAN A
SERPENT'S TOOTH IT IS TO HAVE SOMEBODY ELSE'S THANKLESS CHILD.
_Robert Blaine_ MR. H. B. IRVING.
_Harry Blaine_ MR. REGINALD OWEN.]
Another weakness, common enough where an author wants to show a variety
of types and excuses himself from the trouble of assorting them, was to
be seen in the extreme improbability of the friendship between _Blaine_
and _Sir Adalbert Schmaltz_. These two were always staying in one
another's houses yet there never could have been the smallest of tastes
in common between the dour and moody financier and the light-hearted
consumer of lager beer and _delikatessen_.
But I prefer, if you please, to dwell upon the shining virtues of Mr.
VACHELL'S _Searchlights_. With the exception of an interlude or two of
needless triviality--_Lady Schmaltz's_ sobbing scene, for instance--the
essentials of the tragic theme held us grimly in their grasp. But always
we could find relief in the author's humanity, revealed not only in the
passionate devotion of the mother's heart, but in the persuasive
character of her boy, and the unaffected quality of his relations both
to her and to the girl who wanted his love.
Mr. VACHELL would be the first to acknowledge, and generously, how much
he owes to the really remarkable performance, as _Mrs. Blaine_, of Miss
FAY DAVIS, who can never before have accomplished so high an
achievement. But the matter was there for her clever hands to shape, and
that was the author's doing.
Mr. HARRY IRVING'S, too, was a fine performance, though, from the moment
of his entrance, a figure of sinister portent, he lacked all contrast of
light and shade. But, to be just, that was hardly in the part, as
made--deliberately, so it seemed--for those particular methods of which
he is the master.
As for Mr. HOLMAN CLARK, if all Teutons, naturalized or other, were like
his _Sir Adalbert Schmaltz_ (or _Sir Keith Howard_, as he called himself
after the War began, on the principle that the best was good enough for
him) I should have small ground of quarrel with the race. But how this
joyous German ever came to wear a kilt and own a deer-forest I cannot
hope to understand, for there was no hint of Semitic origin in his face
or composition.
Mr. REGINALD OWEN made a most human soldier-boy, and I shall never want
to meet a Guardsman with a better manner or an easier sense of humour. I
remark, by the way, that young _Blaine_ is the second stage-hero (the
first was in _The Cost_) whom the War has affected in the head.
Miss MARGERY MAUDE, though she had the rather ungrateful part of a girl
who is quite ready, thank you, to be loved as soon as you feel like it,
played, as always, with a very perfect tact and charm.
Finally, Miss KATE BISHOP was her dear old self, and Mr. TOM REYNOLDS'
sketch of a solicitor was as bright as it was brief.
I venture to offer my best compliments both to the cast and to the
author, and to hope that his _Searchlights_ may serve well to pierce the
shadows of the night through which we are passing.
O. S.
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[Illustration: _Tommy_ (_late gamekeeper_). "MARK OVER!"]
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