Chapter C: A. Tait (11)

G. K. CHESTERTON

_Verse_

GREYBEARDS AT PLAY. Brimley Johnson. 1900.

THE WILD KNIGHT. Grant Richards. 1900. Enlarged Edition. Dent. 1914.

THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE. Methuen. 1911.

POEMS. Burns & Oates. 1915.

WINE, WATER, AND SONG. Methuen. 1915.

[A reprint of the songs from _The Flying Inn_.]

_Prose_

THE DEFENDANT. Brimley Johnson. 1901. Cheap Edition in Dent's _Wayfarer's Library_, 1914.

TWELVE TYPES. A. L. Humphreys. 1902.

G. F. WATTS. Duckworth. 1902.

ROBERT BROWNING. Macmillan. (English Men of Letters Series.) 1903.

THE PATRIOTIC IDEA. Brimley Johnson. 1904.

THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL. John Lane. 1904.

THE CLUB OF QUEER TRADES. Harper. 1905. Cheaper Edition. Hodder & Stoughton. 1912.

HERETICS. John Lane. 1905.

CHARLES DICKENS. Methuen. 1906. Popular Edition. 1913.

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. Arrowsmith. 1908.

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Methuen. 1908.

ORTHODOXY. John Lane. 1908.

TREMENDOUS TRIFLES. Methuen. 1909.

ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS. Methuen. 1910.

FIVE TYPES. A. L. Humphreys. 1910. (Reprinted from _Twelve Types_. 1905.)

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE WORLD? Cassell. 1910.

WILLIAM BLAKE. Duckworth. 1910.

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. John Lane. 1910.

THE BALL AND THE CROSS. Wells Gardner, Darton. 1910.

APPRECIATIONS OF DICKENS. Dent. 1911. (Prefaces from Everyman Series of Dickens reprinted.)

THE INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN. Cassell. 1911.

SIMPLICITY AND TOLSTOY. A. L. Humphreys. 1912.

A MISCELLANY OF MEN. Methuen. 1912.

MANALIVE. Nelson. 1912.

MAGIC: A PLAY. Martin Secker. 1913.

THE VICTORIAN AGE IN LITERATURE. Williams & Norgate. 1913. (Home University Library Series.)

THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN. Cassell. 1914.

THE FLYING INN. Methuen. 1914.

THE BARBARISM OF BERLIN. Cassell. 1914.

LETTERS TO AN OLD GARIBALDIAN. Methuen. 1914.

THE CRIMES OF ENGLAND. Palmer. 1915.

A SHILLING FOR MY THOUGHTS. Methuen. 1916.

A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Chatto & Windus. 1917.

IRISH IMPRESSIONS. Collins. 1919.

[He has also written prefaces to the following:--Carlyle's _Past and Present_; Extracts from Boswell's _Life of Johnson_; _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_; _Sartor Resartus_; _The Pilgrim's Progress_; _Creatures that Once Were Men_, by Maxim Gorky; _Dickens's Works_; _Essays_, by Matthew Arnold; _Literary London_; _The Book of Job_; _From Workhouse to Westminster_; _Ruskin's Poems_; _The Cottage Homes of England_; _A Vision of Life_; _Meadows of Play_; _Selections from Thackeray_; _Eyes of Youth_ (an anthology); _Extracts from Samuel Johnson_; _The Book of Snobs_; _Famous Paintings Reproduced in Colour_; _The English Agricultural Labourer_; _Æsop's Fables_; _Dickens's Christmas Carol_; _Bohemia's Claim for Freedom_.

He has also illustrated the following books:--_Nonsense Rhymes_; _The Great Enquiry_; _Emmanuel Burden_; _Biography for Beginners_; _The Green Overcoat_.]

JOHN FREEMAN

_Verse_

TWENTY POEMS. Gay & Hancock. 1909.

[Out of print.]

FIFTY POEMS. Herbert & Daniel. 1911. New Edition, Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

STONE TREES AND OTHER POEMS. Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

PRESAGE OF VICTORY AND OTHER POEMS OF THE TIME. Selwyn & Blount. 1916.

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. Morland Press. 1918.

[No. 1 of _Green Pastures_ Series. Cover and frontispiece by James Guthrie.]

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD AND OTHER POEMS. Selwyn & Blount. 1919.

[Includes the twelve poems published in the last-named.]

_Prose_

THE MODERNS. Robert Scott. 1916.

[Critical Studies of Robert Bridges, H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw, etc.]

DRAMA

CHILDREN'S PLAYS

The hold of the Pantomime on the affections of the public is possibly as strong as ever it was, but the character of those entertainments has been slowly changing and with it the character of the audience. Professedly I suppose the Pantomimes are for children, but except that almost any entertainment will amuse children, owing to their extreme curiosity, there is little in the modern Pantomime that seems to have been devised for them. In fact, the Christmas Pantomime has of late years come to have a particularly sophisticated and adult savour, which is to be noticed in the treatment of the old fairy-tales--one or other of which, in name at least, still forms the basis of every Christmas Pantomime, although in a shape that would scarcely be recognised by the compilers of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_.

This is particularly noticeable in the metamorphosis of the Witch who, fatigued by the possession of mysteriously terrible powers, dwindles into the obscene-faced mother-in-law. The sere old woman who turned the seven white-horsed princesses into low stones, over which the moss crept slowly, has become a gin-inoculated Widow Twankey, who dances like a man and gloats over the highly-successful love-affairs of her son as leading to more and better drink.

Pantomimes have always been less concerned with the imaginative, the more-than-human, than with the extraordinarily actual. Some will remember the artillery bombardment which was introduced one Christmas during the war into a Pantomime at Drury Lane, which was, if I remember rightly, superficially the story of _The Sleeping Beauty_. It was good fun that bombardment, much better fun than are the majority of these topical excrescences, but one felt that it had been introduced because the principal comedian had got bored with the comparative sober quietness of that land of imagination in which the inhabitants of a fairy-tale progress as if seen in a glass darkly. He had, therefore, deliberately pulled the story out of its semi-supernatural country into the limelight, and was rewarded by instant mirth and vociferous applause from nine-tenths of the audience. Only a few children hesitated, feeling the pangs of a violent up-rooting, a being torn out of a land, through which they had been slowly but with intense delight travelling, into a mass of gesticulating faces ranged in circles watching the elaborate and apparently comic contortions of two small grotesque figures on what was obviously the stage.

I have no doubt at all that the instincts and judgment of children in these matters is far superior to that of the majority of their elders. The steady vulgarisation in the theatre of fairy-tales originally the inventions of adult minds of phantasy and sensibility superior to the general is a record of the debasing influence of the mass of the inhabitants of our large cities, who are dissatisfied with less than an instant reaction to the efforts of those whom they pay to amuse them. They are too restless to submit to sit quietly and by slow degrees receive the heritage of beauty accumulated by the ambages of minds whose devious and amazed wanderings are like the apparently directionless perambulation of bees who are, without pause, gathering honey.

_Sinbad the Sailor_, _Aladdin_, _Ali Baba_--whatever they be, the essence of these Pantomimes is something grosser than any fairy-tale, and, whether borrowed from the brothers Grimm, or Andersen, or any other source, their fragile and mysterious beauty is roughly obliterated to give place to an obvious rough-and-tumble humour and crude topicality of the kind that not one in a million could miss. Of course the somewhat "hearty" atmosphere of Christmas-time is not conducive to fineness of vision. The subtler outlines in which resides the beauty of a fairy-tale, a girl, or a mountain are not to be grasped by eyes slightly dazzled with the inner glow of good feeding--that glow which has more heat than light. It is a time when a joke has to be obvious to be seen, and the propensity to enormous girth perceptible in the most popular characters of Pantomime may have a similar origin; but I speak from a painful experience when I declare that for a Christmas Pantomime nothing can be too crude, too stale, too trivial to be funny, and that the best condition in which to go to the Pantomime would be that in which you could see simultaneously the largest number of Moons.

The Change in the Pantomime

The Pantomime has become a sort of Christmas Revue, and parents in large numbers have ceased taking their children to these entertainments, appealing as they almost exclusively do to the "grown-up." In their place we have had of late years a large number of children's plays, of which Sir James Barrie's _Peter Pan_ is the best known. It is years since I saw _Peter Pan_, but I was, I remember, greatly taken with it, and went during that season five or six times. Part of the attraction it had for me lay in the charming personality of Peter himself, as played by Miss Pauline Chase, whose postcard portraits I bought in large numbers and gazed on adoringly for long intervals in the seclusion of my own room. But the very fact that the play gave scope to a young actress to embody a figure of such originality and charm as Peter must be accounted as a virtue in the author.

I know there are people who object to fairy-tales. They have lately been greatly cheered by the public confession of Madame Montessori that she belongs to them. Apparently the essence of their and also of her objection to such seemingly innocent and delightful inventions of the human brain is that the most desperate need of children is for a steady inculcation of facts. Having schooled your child in facts--writes in a letter to the _Observer_ the gentleman who knows the Secret of Human Power--in the pleasantest manner possible up to the age of, say, sixteen, then the lessons to be derived from fiction may be gently and cautiously dealt with. The spectacle of an adult dealing "gently and cautiously" with a fairy-tale is one of those which seem to have been invented as a subject for a Max Beerbohm cartoon; but it is curious that anyone should have such a narrow conception of reality as to think that it is compassed in material facts. How one is to present love, honour, bravery, beauty, virtue, daring, adventurousness, and all the other qualities of the human mind except by imaginative creation, when they are purely creations of men's minds, I cannot see. Perhaps these deluded realists imagine that they are abstract nouns. They would have us say: "Here, dear children, are a number of abstract nouns; contemplate them as you would marbles, but remember that they are not marbles or even peanuts but nouns. You cannot play with them, you cannot eat them, and what good they are nobody knows, but everybody is supposed to know their names, as there is no other way of distinguishing them one from another." This same champion of Madame Montessori's Anti-Fairy-Tale Campaign writes further in his letter to the _Observer_ that Shakespeare's plays "were not written specially for children, but as morality incentives distinctly for adults." This is a pitiful notion for any intelligent adult to have, and one that no child with a mind not distorted by unnatural virtue could be expected to understand. It is most expressive of that horrible "seriousness" which seizes some minds like a cramp until the sufferer drowns himself in an ocean of blithering nonsense, refusing all the ropes which the onlookers on _terra firma_ throw him, because their faces are convulsed with laughter. "Morality incentives"--to cling to the shocking expression of Madame Montessori's disciple--are of two kinds. They are either negative or positive. The negative class is the only one that an Anti-Fairy-Tale League could put in its syllabus. It consists of a series of ejaculations: Do not drink! Do not swear! Do not tell lies! etc. Drawn up in an amended form suitable for children, it might read like this:

(1) Do not drink your brother's ginger-beer.
(2) and (3), etc. Do not imitate your parents.

It may appear excellent advice, but virtue--as many religious teachers have suspected and modern science is proving--does not reside in turning oneself into a van-load of inhibitions. Virtue is wholly positive, it is an expression of the spirit. He that imagines virtue is virtuous, and no other. It is a fairy-tale that men are trying to live in the world, and it can only be expressed in art. There is no virtue in a mere exhortation to be virtuous. Nobody takes any notice of exhortations, and quite rightly; but men who have seen a vision will try to capture it. What the creative artist does is to give men a vision of virtue, of beauty (for beauty is virtue), and it is just this vision which the Montessori teachers would have us put behind the backs of children while they glue their eyes to material things.

Not only would this practice be pernicious, it would be impossible to carry out, for, brought to its logical conclusion, the theory would demand the abolition of the teaching of mathematics and of science, as well as of poetry and of drama; or rather it would reduce mathematics to the counting of beads, science to the naming of smells (a return to "stinks" from which the schools are just escaping), poetry to this sort of thing:

Last night in pulling off a sock
I gave my little nose a knock.
To-day in jumping to get up
I fell across my brindle pup.

That is to say, poetry would vanish, and as for drama, the only drama we could have would be by taking a proscenium into the park and putting it up in front of two lovers kissing on a seat; but the moment the lovers saw us the "drama" would cease, and we could not pay them to go on with it for our amusement, for that would be deception, that would be make-believe.

Those of us who are not by infirmity of constitution natural victims to every new fad that is advertised will take pleasure in anticipating a great growth in the supply of and demand for children's plays. They offer great scope for development, and will increasingly appeal to authors who have no desire to write the conventional stage play--a thing without imagination or beauty, a mere artificial contrivance to enable actors to exhibit their charm and skill. There is no possibility of getting literary men of the highest class to write the plays we see succeeding in our London theatres during the greater part of the year. They could not possibly have any interest in work of that kind, and they could not do it well, but the children's play is a much more elastic and adaptable dramatic form. To-day, for instance, even verse is used in successful children's plays, and managers do not demand for this purpose work so conventional and stereotyped as they require ordinarily. This Christmas there were three children's plays produced in the West End: _Peter Pan_, _Once Upon a Time_, and _Where the Rainbow Ends_. Of these only _Once Upon a Time_ was new, and it was rather a series of fairy-tales--connected by the device of an elf telling the stories to a goblin who captured her--than an original work; but it was cleverly done by the author, Miss Wildig, and delightfully produced by Miss Edith Craig. I must confess to having enjoyed _Once Upon a Time_ far more than most of the plays I had seen during the preceding year, but it was a pastiche not a homogeneous invention, and it contained an absurd and very irritating pseudo-patriotic melodrama called _The Woman of the Black Mountain_, as well as an extremely amusing and rather savage burlesque of certain marriage customs which are not yet quite extinct entitled _The Bone of Contention_. This latter would make an excellent sketch for a Revue, or possibly Mr. Oscar Asche will introduce it into _Chu Chin Chow_.

Demand and Supply

It is a great pity that the Pantomime has so degenerated now when it had got rid of much of the knock-about farcical element, of a great deal of the tyranny of the spectacular, and of the "transformation scene," because it is a form that offers great possibilities to the author, and if a genius came along he could do something wonderful with it. Even without a genius or without waiting for him a great deal could be done. If only those responsible for the annual Pantomimes at Drury Lane and the Lyceum would leave the beaten track for once and get into touch with the younger generation of writers and commission them to produce a Pantomime we might get a valuable addition to our dramatic literature. It involves very little commercial risk, and holds the possibility of an immense financial success, apart from other considerations. It may be asked why do not these young men write a Pantomime on their own initiative? But the answer is simple. Our young writers have no time to spend on work which has no prospect of ever being looked at, much less produced; besides, a Pantomime is essentially a thing for collaboration between two or three of them, and they are nearly all as busy as they can be with bread-and-butter journalism and with individual projects in those few spare hours that remain to them. There is, however, little doubt that they could produce a Pantomime which would draw all London for months, just as there is little doubt that the Pantomime and the children's play are the most promising and flexible of the dramatic forms which confront our young writers. The Revue may be thought to offer almost equal opportunities, and to be capable of development out of its present chaotic state, but it is rather more restricted by the fact that it has such a large public. To have the largest public is to have the least hope of commanding the attention of your audience sufficiently for them to appreciate what is not obvious. Besides, the Revue supplies a definite demand which does not change from year to year. It is a demand for pretty girls, pretty dresses, dancing and humour, and if there suddenly appeared among us a greater dramatic genius than any that has ever lived he would not be able to satisfy that demand as well as Mr. C. B. Cochran, Mr. André Charlot, or Sir Alfred Butt do. It is the minority that is not catered for in drama as it is catered for in literature. Where are the thirty-five thousand readers of the _Times Literary Supplement_ in the land of theatres? They are scattered in twos and threes here and there, always dissatisfied and disgruntled. Whether at a Pantomime, at a Revue, at a Comedy, or at a Drama they find the entertainment a hundred per cent. below the standard they demand, and their only pleasure is an occasional Shakespearean production or a children's play. But they could be mobilised and brought together to support solidly and without the fickleness of the large public a theatre that gave them what they wanted. If the experiment were made with children's plays they would be reinforced by the thousands of parents who will not submit their children to the vulgarities of the latter-day Pantomime.

* * * * *

The next performance of the Phœnix Society will take place on February 8th and 9th, when Dryden's _Marriage à la Mode_ will be given.

* * * * *

It is rumoured that Mr. Henry Ainley's next production at the St. James's will be Stephen Phillip's _Paolo and Francesca_, in which Mr. Ainley made his first success.

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR. By LOUIS CALVERT. Simpkin. 7_s._

This is a book which can be thoroughly recommended not only to every amateur but to every professional actor and theatre-lover. It is full of the most uncommon sense, and although Mr. Calvert has decided opinions on voice-training, gesture, team-work, scenery, dressing, music, and producing, he does not lay down the law with the evidence of inexperience, but reasons his position from point to point with a quietness that is far more impressive and convincing. Mr. Calvert has also done more than he probably set out to do. The book is, in the first instance, a guide for the young actor or would-be actor, giving him a good deal of wise advice on the technical side of his craft. But in doing this Mr. Calvert has written a book which should be read by every theatre-goer, since it will increase his appreciation of the theatre enormously by opening his mind to detail of which he was, in all probability, completely unaware, although more or less conscious of its cumulative effect. After reading Mr. Calvert's book he will find himself itching to go immediately to the nearest playhouse and regard the drama being enacted there with what he will feel are new eyes; and since the standard of acting and of drama generally is dependent largely upon the level of intelligence of its audience, Mr. Calvert's book will be as beneficial to the theatre when studied by the ordinary public as when studied by the actor. Finally, this book is an attempt to put the actor again in his proper position as the pillar of the drama. On this point I am in absolute agreement with Mr. Calvert. Plays are conceivable in which the actor may be no more than an instrument in the orchestra. I think they will be written, but I have yet to see them. But in the plays of Shakespeare and the Elizabethans the actor is first in importance, and scenery, dressing, music, and everything else must be used simply as a background and a subsidiary to him. Moreover Mr. Calvert makes a claim--which is also made by the late Mr. H. B. Irving in an introduction--to the consideration of the actor in his highest moments as a creative artist. This claim, in my opinion, Mr. Calvert makes good, and if there are any people to-day who still cherish the old superstition that the actor is merely a sort of clever but shallow showman, then unless they are bigoted beyond the reach of intelligence this book will dispel it once for all.

W. J. TURNER

THE FINE ARTS

War-pictures at Burlington House

One would have hesitated to predict success for a set of commissioned war pictures: meaning success in the sense of excellence. In commissioning any painting or piece of sculpture with a dictated subject there is always the danger that the subject will be uncongenial to the artist, that it may have no connection with his own intimate experience. This is one of the disadvantages of portrait painting. The artist is supposed to be capable and desirous of depicting all kinds of characters, not to speak of flattering them. The novelist and dramatist are more fortunate. People are anxious to avoid and also tired of their revelations. But Mr. Horatio Bottomley still expects the Poet Laureate to boom out the appropriate ode.

Besides the general objection there was the further feeling that the war was a sufficient preoccupation in itself, and a disagreeable one of such a kind that deliberately to set out to make contemporaneous art about it would be not only superfluous but almost profane. It would amount to gloating. The war was a foul and dirty job that had to be gone through with, and the experience of concentrating on this was enough. It was not without good reason that immediately following the war the most popular forms of art were the Revue and the Russian Ballet.

Again, one rather grudges the large sums of State money spent on war-pictures when one thinks of the comparatively small expenditure on art in peace-time. And those two rich and influential patrons who started the ball rolling with large contributions, did they before the war, will they now after the war, patronise art extensively and seriously? The motive may have been sound, but it was in all probability very mixed.

But doubt and scepticism tend to be quashed by the result, which must be admitted to be a very considerable success. The field appears to have been so wide that the artists have been able to select the themes which had most significance for them, and there is a direct continuity in their present with their past work. Even pure landscapes have not been ruled out. It is, in fact, far the best modern exhibition that has graced the walls of the Academy for some time, and the memory of it will still be fresh in the spring.

It is not meant, however, that the Exhibition is full of masterpieces. It contains work that is representative of much of the best English art of to-day, but the keynote of that art is talent, accomplishment, and not genius. And this judgment does not exclude such well-known painters as Sargent, Cameron, Muirhead Bone, Francis Dodd, Clausen, Orpen, Lavery.

I shall, no doubt, be accused of iconoclasm, of indulging in easy destructive criticism; and the term Futurist will be hurled at me with such a lot of prejudicial glue on it that, although it is inapplicable, it will inevitably stick. And I shall be asked if I would consign the whole of the past to the rubbish-heap and abolish all tradition, and so on. The answer is, emphatically and vehemently, no! It is precisely because the past looms so imposing and ever watchful that the late twentieth-century English painters are dwarfed. Place a Muirhead Bone beside a Meryon (the comparison is not irrelevant, because there are definite similarities between the two) and the Muirhead Bone will disappear into the Meryon. Two possible exceptions in the present Exhibition are _The Great Crater_, _Athies_ (280) and _Deniecourt Chateau_, _Estrées_(284). Place a Sargent beside a Manet, Courbet or Velazquez and Sargent's horses beside those of Géricault, and the Sargent loses all vitality. Or, again, neither Steer nor Clausen will stand very prolonged comparison with Constable or even Monet. Practically the whole of English late twentieth-century art is derived from Constable and from the French Barbizon and Impressionist schools, and is inferior to it. The latter is the significant point. This may sound too sweeping, and indeed it probably does leave out of account the few gems which a complete collection would reveal. Still, the fact of it being necessary to hunt for these few gems and not rather to eliminate the few failures would confirm the general judgment. We have never had anything like the great constellation of French nineteenth-century art.

In reaction against the tendency of English Impressionism to degenerate into the pleasant but slipshod æstheticism of a Lavery there is the crude Vorticism of Wyndham Lewis and W. P. Roberts. It had once a negative, destructive, rebellious value, but as a permanent constructive effort it surely is a _cul-de-sac_, a mere mechanical formula. Before any theory comes into play the primary test is whether a picture really moves us, appeals to us. If Vorticist or Futurist art did this, then no amount of argument refuting their abstract theory could condemn the actual art. But, at any rate, so far as I am concerned, this art has no appeal to me in a picture-frame. Indeed, it seems to me to be becoming increasingly stereotyped, and it is amazing that Mr. Wyndham Lewis should honestly believe in it himself. Mr. Wadsworth's Vorticist design for a house, which was recently exhibited by the Arts League of Service, absurdly unpractical though it was, had far larger possibilities in it.

The most interesting work exhibited by the younger painters is that painted in the more traditional manner--that is to say it is not abstractionist. It is possible that on seeing for the first time the pictures of the Nash brothers, Meninsky, Schwabe, Elliott Seabrooke, one might mistake them for "Futurist" efforts. This is, however, not owing to any distortion or abstraction, but to the fact that they have in common with the abstractionists a certain restlessness of design. Even when allied to absolute truth in representation, this trait might at first sight appear novel and revolutionary. It is, or tends to be, expressive of a new outlook.

Paul Nash's large picture, _The Menin Road_, is a distinct achievement. It grips one's attention. Yet it is overloaded, the incident, the drama of the landscape is piled on too thickly. John Nash's _Over the Top_, on the other hand, attracts attention because of its very bareness and simplicity. On a small section of a snow-covered front men are stumbling out of a jagged muddy trench into rolling fog cloud. Yet in spite of its success in convincing us that that is exactly how it was, the picture lacks intensity and depth. We are grateful to Mr. Nash, as also to Mr. Sargent, for having spared us the harassing agonies of the typical old-fashioned Academy war-picture. But neither has altogether succeeded in providing the real substitute. What such a picture would be like still remains to be seen. For it has not yet been painted.

The distinctive characteristics of the younger school, its sense of actuality, of lively conflicting movement, its combination of realism with rhythm, are summed up in Stanley Spencer's _Travoys Arriving with Wounded at a Dressing Station at Smoll, in Macedonia_. In spite of certain possible faults of perspective, this is a thoroughly good picture. But although about a scene in the war, it is not of the war. It contains an inner civilian joyfulness expressed in unhampered, rhythmical activity. Equal praise must be bestowed on Henry Lamb's _Irish Troops in the Judaean Hills Surprised by a Turkish Bombardment_, which possesses the same sense of concrete (not abstract) dynamic form.

The New English Art Club

There are two large pictures by Stanley Spencer at the New English Art Club Exhibition which confirm the impression that there is an immense promise in his art and already considerable attainment. It has such depth and breadth, such spontaneity and comprehensiveness. Boggle as we may at certain neo-primitive tendencies in his figures, at certain humorous irrelevancies in their occupations, overriding and almost justifying these eccentricities there is the fact that these two pictures do immediately and irresistibly heighten and intensify our consciousness: they give us a "silent and instantaneous flash of collusion with beauty." The picture _Swan Upping at Cookham_ is freer from the static archaistic convention than the pseudo-Biblical composition, _The Sacrifice of Zacharias_, which is, nevertheless, because of the landscape background, equally fascinating. In the former it is the rigid mask of the woman lifting the cushion out of the punt and the distortion of the shoulders of the dark-faced gentleman that provoke criticism: in the latter nearly all the figures are a little inexplicable, except (and here the realist will demur strongly) the gentleman who is footing it gently towards Zacharias and the Florentine gentleman who is indulging in a graceful and somewhat reminiscent dancing gesture. These two are an inevitable part of that luxuriant and yet refreshing scenery. Pre-Raphaelite will doubtless be the derogatory term applied to Mr. Stanley Spencer, and it is true that he has affinities with that group which started with such promise and then proceeded to develop its vices more fully than its virtues. But Spencer has not got these particular vices, an inordinate love of photographic detail and a languishing sentimentality. His work suggests, rather than actually contains, an infinite wealth of detail, and it is swept with fresh country air precluding any Pre-Raphaelite hothouse languor.

Nor must we fall into the error of demanding realistic character studies from an artist who does not see people from that point of view at all. His outlook is nearer to that of Blake: his people are embodiments of universal emotions, they are penetrated with a sense of religious awe and beauty. Or, rather, this is what they would be if his expression were to reach its full maturity and get rid of its present archaistic obsession. His figures might still be stiff and intense, but we would not notice this because of their profound significance.

HOWARD HANNAY

MUSIC

MR. ARTHUR RUBINSTEIN'S RECITAL

During the last few months the Wigmore Hall has been the scene of some very notable recitals given by pianists of the first rank. They had several interesting points in common. Their audiences consisted largely of professional musicians, their programmes were generally of a severe and far from popular type. Yet in spite of the somewhat exclusive character of both programmes and audiences, so well adapted, one might think, to the intimate atmosphere of a small hall, intimacy was exactly the quality that in all cases was entirely absent from the performances. Both with Busoni and Cortôt, and lastly with Mr. Arthur Rubinstein, it was impossible to avoid feeling that one was at much too close quarters. The difference between such players as these and the more intimate type of pianist is moral rather than physical. Some players give the impression that they are playing for themselves alone, and that it is by mere accident that we happen to overhear them; the others seem almost to assume that their audience will not listen to them unless its attention is gripped and consciously dominated by the overmastering compulsion of a powerful personality. If we are soothed and charmed by the intimate players, we may indeed be uplifted and transported by the men of might, but there is at the same time the chance that we may be crushed and exhausted.

Mr. Arthur Rubinstein is certainly to be counted among the great pianists, but not yet among the greatest. He is a player of outstanding ability, but not of outstanding personality. He lacks Cortôt's inspiring animation, and, still more, the monumental intellectuality of Busoni. A conventional programme, or an almost conventional one, was the index of an almost conventional mind. The usual Bach-Somebody, the usual heavy Chopin; no Beethoven (thank goodness!), some modern French and Spanish, a Liszt Rhapsody to end up with. What saved the programme were the Spanish pieces and Liszt's _Funérailles_. If Mr. Rubinstein had had the courage to offer a programme as individual as those of Busoni he might have given himself a better chance of asserting his own individuality.

To begin with the two extremes: the Bach transcription at the beginning and the Liszt Rhapsody at the end are long out of date. Liszt's arrangements of Bach's organ works may have been very wonderful fifty years ago or more when there were not many organs in England on which the originals could be played, even if there were the organists to play them. To-day they are familiar to all of us. Moreover, the modern big pianists play them too easily. They seek to reproduce, as far as they can, the effect of the organ, and sometimes achieve a very remarkable uniformity of tone, as faultlessly regular as any given row of pipes can produce. But this uniformity of the organ's tone-colour is just the obvious deficiency of that instrument, and the exact reproduction of it on the pianoforte very easily tends to reproduce no more than the relentless accuracy of the mechanical piano-player. Mr. Rubinstein played his Bach-Liszt with intelligence and skill, and even succeeded in suggesting a certain organ-like effect of sonority by means of an ingenious method of pedalling; but in these days we should prefer either a more astounding miracle of transcription or, still better, the direct simplicity of Bach unadorned. Again, if it is still necessary to end a recital with a display of fireworks there are surely more showy things available now than Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies; and if we want Liszt for his own musical thoughts, we want something that represents him in a more serious mood. For the _Funérailles_ Mr. Rubinstein deserves sincere gratitude.

Liszt's Hungary is only less difficult to believe in than Chopin's Poland. It is true that Hungary exists, and true that in Hungarian _cafés_ one may still hear the tunes which Liszt embellished, but such underlying truth as the Rhapsodies possess is completely disguised by their tawdry romantic theatricality. As for Poland, "if she had not existed, it would have been necessary to invent her," for Paris of the eighteen-thirties. That Poland, populated entirely by devout and amorous aristocrats, is the musician's Mrs. Harris--no, his Countess Harricka. Certainly the robust vigour of Mr. Rubinstein's playing make short work of the languor and swagger of the Scherzo in B flat minor and the Polonaise in A flat. All pianists are expected to play Chopin; but there are not many works of Chopin that will stand the strain of interpretation in the modern virtuoso's manner. The Barcarole is one of the few which by virtue of its serene and classical beauty has still been able to survive it.

MODERN SPANISH MUSIC

One composer stood out with unexpected prominence from Mr. Rubinstein's programme--Isaac Albeniz. Albeniz is hardly to be counted among the moderns. His training as a composer was mainly German, and he came to a certain extent under English influences as well. Like Chopin, he was primarily a pianist and a composer for the pianoforte. His songs, a few of which have been heard recently in London, are pianoforte pieces with a voice thrown in. He lives almost entirely by virtue of the volume of Spanish pictures entitled _Iberia_. Mr. Rubinstein has spent a considerable time in Spain, and it is clear that he has succeeded to a wonderful extent in absorbing the musical spirit of the country. There was a depth of poetry and passion about his playing of the _Evocation_ and _Triana_ which he never attained in any other item of his programme. Spanish music has at last begun to come into its own. We can trace its development clearly in the successive stages represented by Albeniz, Granados, Turina, and De Falla. Granados, like Albeniz, writes on a harmonic system that is predominantly German, in that German influences are the foundation of almost all nineteenth-century music. Turina, a pupil of Vincent d'Indy at the Schola Cantorum, has affinities with the French intellectuals. He is the chief Spanish representative of chamber music. De Falla is more definitely one of the moderns. All four are pianists--Turina less obviously so than the other three.

It is easy to see the Spanish element that is common to the whole group. Anyone can recognise the rhythms and turns of phrase that are derived from Spanish national song and dance, the more so as all four have drawn their principal inspiration from popular sources. But it is to us foreigners that the Spanish local colour is most insistently obvious. In listening to the music of any particular school we may approach it in two ways. At first we are conscious of the school as a homogeneous group; we notice similarities and look out for more of them. This may easily lead us into error, for we are tempted thus to regard as essential characteristics things that in reality are only tricks of manner or stereotyped conventions of a particular place or period. If we are to form a reasonable judgment we must be prepared to ignore these and keep our ears open for differences. We must note not so much the local theme that is common to all the group as the diverse treatment of it which each separate composer affects. If there is anything really Spanish about these four composers that is of vital importance, it should be not the mere choice of a Spanish melody or rhythm as the foundation of their music, but the method on which the complete structure is designed and built up.

Here begin the difficulties of understanding even Albeniz and Granados. The Spanish themes appeal directly to the foreign ear, almost too directly; we might even dismiss them as cheap and obvious. It is the treatment of them that is individual. One's first impression of _Iberia_ and the _Gozescas_ is that they are rambling and incoherent--yet it would be strange if a Latin composer should lapse into a Celtic indifference to form and logic. Mr. Rubinstein succeeded in making the Albeniz pieces not only poetical but lyrical. They tempt a pianist at first to play them at top speed; their style of piano-forte-writing suggests the rattling brilliance of the virtuoso. Mr. Rubinstein avoided the error; but it takes a very skilful pianist to do so.

It is not the local colour about Spanish music that we must respect, but its grave seriousness of intention. Spain has always remained artistically somewhat behind other countries, just as England has done; and Spain at the present moment, unlike England, is not anxious to be in a hurry over progress. Hence even De Falla, the most modern of the group, is possibly a little old-fashioned as compared with the modern French and Italian composers. Yet he is modern, in the sense that he is intellectual and anti-sentimental, as compared with Albeniz. This was very evident in his ballet, _The Three-cornered Hat_, which the Russians performed all too seldom. But his intellectuality and anti-sentimentality are distinguished and serene. He makes no experiments with the purely grotesque, he has no desire to make a complete and irrevocable breach with the art of the past, as some of the French and Italians appear to do. Even in a traditional idiom he has something genuinely new to say.

A SCRIABIN RECITAL

If anyone could have converted me to Scriabin it should have been Mr. Edward Mitchell, who gave a whole afternoon of his works on January 17th at the Westminster Central Hall, ranging from Op. 8 to Op. 72. Mr. Mitchell is a player of extraordinary persuasiveness. He evidently understands Scriabin, and is determined to make his audience understand him. He has a very efficient and vigorous technique, and plays with remarkable accuracy and assurance. No one could listen to his programme without learning a great deal about the composer to whom it was devoted. Yet in spite of a very well-chosen selection of pieces, in spite of considerable variety of touch and style, the concert left only an impression of deadly and morbid monotony. An afternoon of Scriabin recalled at once to memory the effect of a concert of Hugo Wolf's songs, or of Elgar's _The Apostles_. It was morbid and narcotic, a perpetual command to abrogate reason and abandon one's brain to feeling, to emotion, to a mystical trance. The emotional force of such music is at times undeniable; what it sets out to achieve, the representation of moods and emotions, it achieves overwhelmingly. Scriabin has in the main three moods, a mood of violence and pain, a mood of comatose oppression, and a mood of struggle, the last of which is well illustrated by _Vers la flamme_. Perhaps this is all that some people require of music. Others demand a sense of dignity and nobility, with a conscious beauty of formal design.

Technically Scriabin can be summed up in a few words. His outlook on music is purely harmonic. Even in his early works he shows a partiality for certain well-known discords which he gradually comes to use so often that the resolution of them becomes superfluous. By this road we lead on to Stravinsky, Casella, and Malipiero. Melodic tone there is none. This melodic poverty is very apparent and easily demonstrable in the early works. Here Scriabin is obviously building, or trying to build, on Chopin. But while comparing Scriabin with Chopin, compare Chopin with Field. Chopin is clearly an advance on Field in every way--he has a much stronger melodic line, and a much deeper sense of harmonic values. But Scriabin is no advance on Chopin, only a retrogression from him. He can only imitate Chopin's emotional climaxes. He appears to be more interesting harmonically, because he keeps Chopin's discords and omits his concords, roughly speaking.

EDWARD J. DENT

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THE LONDON
MERCURY

_Editor_--J. C. SQUIRE _Assistant-Editor_--EDWARD SHANKS

Vol. I No. 5 March 1920

EDITORIAL NOTES

As we write a deputation is to wait upon Mr. Fisher, President of the Board of Education, in order to press the claims of a National Theatre. "Why Mr. Fisher?" it may be asked--a member of the deputation was, in fact, asked the question. The Board of Education cannot establish a National Theatre; the Treasury would scarcely allow Mr. Fisher to make a grant to the National Theatre fund; and whatever the advantages of a National Theatre and the elevating influence which might conceivably be exercised by the drama, few people think of it _primarily_ as educational in the narrow sense of the word. The answer given to the question was: "Because he's the nearest approach we've got to a Minister of Fine Arts."

* * * * *

We suppose that in this special connection the answer was a true one. The President of the Board of Education may be supposed to stand in a closer relation with the drama than other Ministers, though had other arts been under consideration other Ministers would have been thought of. Had domestic architecture been the deputation's concern it would have addressed itself to the Minister of Health, and within a narrow range Sir Alfred Mond at the Office of Works actually performs some of the functions of a Minister of Fine Arts. The fabric of the Houses of Parliament is under his care; his predecessors, Lord Harcourt and Lord Beauchamp, left their marks upon it. It was the Office of Works which commissioned and supervised the later frescoes on staircase and corridor at Westminster, and it is its business to see that alterations are made consonantly with the character of the structure. But this is a very minor thing compared with the vast field in which the Government does at present exercise functions in which æsthetic considerations are largely involved.