HOME OF POETS

Evening Post, Volume CXI, Issue 82, 8 April 1931, Page 9

HOME OF POETS

AMID THE IMMORTALS

SHAW AND DRINKWATER

LONDON ADVENTURER

(Written for "The Post" by Valeric C. Corliss.) LONDON, 27th February. The first person I saw in tho audience at the Grotrian Hall on the afternoon of Lillah McCarthy's poetry rocital was Bernard Shaw. No mistaking the shape of that grey head, the protruding tendency of those alert ears, the bushy spring of the engaging eyebrows, the angle of that Shavian beardl Miss Lillah McCarthy's (Lady Keeble's) campaign for the establishing of a National Poetry Eecital Hall has aroused the keenest interest amongst London's great ones. Her patrons include Her Majesty the Quecu, the Prince of Wales, tho Prime Minister, renowned writers, actors, musicians, and "many famous poets." . . . There was a ploasant thrill in tho air. In this hall one feels intimately related to the audience and to the artists upon the platform: This was particularly the case to-day, when that thrill-in-the-air seemed to assume a definite force which carried the afternoon along upon wings of enchantment. My eye dwelt lingeringly upon Bernard Shaw. 1 regarded intently his profile. I watched him smile, talk, nod his head. If only, I sighed, I could hear him talk! But still . . . you never know, in London. And there, quite near, was John Drinkwater, one of the "many famous poets." He too smiled, nodded his head. It was evident that ho was saying something rather charmingly provoking. THE POETBY HALL. This really was a thrill. If such an atmosphere of happy stimulation could be created in the Grotrian Hall by the combined rnagie touch of all these distinguished people how enchanting would be one's participation in the verse-speaiing recitals in a hall specially designed for, and dedicated to, poetry and those who delight in it. A small .pak hall in tho West End of London, yielding armchairs, luxurious divans, shelves bearing happy cargoes of poetry books, verse to be spoken by famous actors and poets themselves, nooks which are to be "set aside for special poets " —these are some of Lady Keeble's delectable dreams, which we know, through her enthusiasm, will eventually materialise. In her own words: "There has grown up within me the desire to luro back to poetry the minds of those who have ceased to be regular worshippers . . . and to establish in this greatest of cities, whose streets have been trod by more great poets than over trod Greece or Home, or any land whatsoever, a national poetry recital hall whore poets shall find a. sereno abiding place and where, perchance, tho poets themselves may lift up their voices and sing again to ns the songs which havo rejoiced and which still continue to rejoice tho world forever." MAGIC OF POETS. Suddenly that zestful flow- of conversation changed into a burst of applause. . . . Lillah M'Carthy's fellow reciialist, Harold Hipper, walked over to the footlights, bdwed a little, and then quite simply began to speak the verses of Walter de la Mare. . . . There followed an enchanted space of. mental and spiritual delight. How shall I describe it? Best, I thiuk,'in the words of Lillaji McCarthy herself: "Perhaps the magic that poets make has bewitched me." .. . Certainly that magic was with us upon this radiant afternoon. And these lovely versos were spoken "in the way in which the poets would have them told." Wo were held in a rapturous enjoyment of communion with their inspiration. Their messages wero revealed to us through the understanding of the speakers. How refreshing was this art of simplicity in interpretation! Rrancis Thompson, John Masefteld, W. B. Yeats, Thomas Hardy, Alice Meynell, Shelly, Keats, Blake, Shakespeare . . . here was a galaxy of drama and verse. And as I HsteiKwl I became awaro of yet an added charm in the knowledge that these two rccitalists wero personal friends of many of our modern writers and poets. . . . Lillih M'Carthy's book of reminiscences, which is to come out in tho spring, scintillates, I believe, with stories of her celebrated friends —"G. 8.5,," tho Poet Laureate, Mr. Galsworthy, Mr. Arnold Bennett, Sir James Barrie, Thomas Hardy, Swinburne, and many others. As Eer fine dramatic genius vitalised the lines of Masefield's "Nan," it was certainly thrilling to know that she is a neighbour of Masefield at Boar's Hill, that she has on notable occasions spoken his verse at his famous theatre there; that many times have they discussed poetry and the speaking of it. HAEDT'S GIFT. And it was with a specially quickenefl interest that we awaited Thomas Hardy's "Tramp Woman's Tragedy," after Lillah M'Carthy's few prefacing remarks: "This poem Thomas Hardy himself gave to me when I last saw him. He asked me to speak his verse in public, and 1 promised him to do so. We agreed that I should go to his home and that we should go over tliem together. But, alas! Before I could get there he passed away. He told mo that in the 'Tramp Woman' he had condensed a three-act tragedy into r seven-minutos poem." Another intriguing instance of this personal link with our poets occurred when Harold Ripper, prefacing a late 17th century poem, ''Tom o' Bedlam's Song,"bya few explanatory remarks, added: "Kipling told me that when he first read this it excited him so much that he could not take his mind off it for at least a. fortnight." Thus wore we "tuned in" to receive the exciting vibrations of Tom o' Bedlam's Song! The recital ended with Lillah M'Carthy's exquisite speaking of a group of poems by Keats, William Blake, Shakespeare, and Wordsworth. I sighfid. It was all over. I was preparing, reluctantly, to leavo tho hall and penetrate into tho gloom of a winter's afternoon, when suddenly my eye came back once again to rest upon George Bernard Shaw. . . He was standing with two friends between the stage and the front row of the stalls, and appeared to be in no hurry to leave. Nearby, John Drinkwater iistened attentively to some earnest speaker. I hesitated, and was lost. And I was not the only one. There wore groups scattered all over Ihe hall pretending to chat, but all the while casting surreptitious glances at tho Olympians— lured irresistibly by their tempting proximity. I moved, cautiously, several rows forward (remember my former earnest prayer that I might hear him ■talk) and solemnly regarded . G.B.S. from two rows away, awaiting I knew not what —as you never know in London. A RUSH OF FEIENDS. Suddenly he began to move towards the left-hand corner of tho stage. Was he departing? Leaving nought but footprints on the carpets of the-Grot-rian? Scores of eyes follower] him from the dim. recesses of stalls and rircle. Bland and unconcerned, he ■ placed both palms upon the edge of tho stage, hoisted himself "Op backwards infco a sitting position and. proceeded to swing M? long legs to-and fro with a, carefree abandon.

Presently Lillah M'Carthy appeared through tho entrance door at the aide of the stage. Bernard Shaw scrambled up delightedly to meet her. Them I was a rush, of friends from, the front stalls to the footlights as she knelt down on the spot just vacatod by tho great man, and received handshakes and congratulations. G.B.S, crossed to the contro stage and thor/stood deliberately in the prescribed/manuer preparatory to a speech, with his hands clasped l»ehiud his back and the added attraction of an ironical twhiklo in the eye. ' By this time a distinguished group had gathered together upon the stago awaiting Lilhih M'Carthy, who was iv the act of bidding good-bye to the last of tho stall-queue. . . Tho last? At this moment I had an inspiration. I should be the last. I approached, held out my card, said I had come from New Zealand, asked if I might _bo permitted to thank her for a magical afternoon and prepared to make a graceful exit. But you .never know in London. I found my hand still held and listened to a warm friendly voice saying: "New Zealand! How wonderful! O, but you must come and see mo at Curzon street!" She suggested that I should mouut to the stage, meet her secretary, and fix a day. In a dazo I did as I was bid. When I got there I found that as far as secretaries wero concerned tho cupboard was bare. .. . Bernard Shaw, and I think, Mrs. Shaw, John Drinkwater, a lady unknown to me, Harold Hipper, and one of the many famous poets, whose aspect was more familiar to me than his name —these composed the entire company. . VIVID TALK. The poet, taking it for granted that, being thus elevated, I was one of the family so to Bpeak, plunged straight away into a discussion upon poetry. Lillah M'Carthy had one earnest hand upon the shoulder of John Drinkwater while with the other she executed a series of forceful gestures as she talked. Bernard Shaw beside me, discussed a number of things with Harold Kipper, and the lady unknown, in a deceiving manner of lamb-like traetability. With an ear upon the pearls of witty wisdom which were falling from his lips, and an eye upon the charming aspect of my new friend the poet I was beginning to feel that altogether I was in for almost too strenuous a time when suddenly Lillah M'Carthy swooped down upon us. She swept me into the fold and tho general conversation, taking it for granted that I should be there and that I should also stay. Now the fun became fast and furious. There stood I between the great actress and Bernard Shaw while they sparred, told anecdotes, discussed poetry and poets, the Poetry Hall —and each other. She was animated, vivid, enthusiastic, amusing—overflowing with the zest of life and of poetry. He was suave, witty, reminiscent, teasing, ironical, eulogistic, reacting with evident relish to the yitalty of this great actress's personality. " Now, look here, G. 8.5." ... " Now, G. 8.5., you must holp me (in her campaign) by writing articles to tho papers." "I'll sec if I can see M about it," he promised, mentioning tho name of ono of Fleet street's giants. I remember her ending up some account of her progress with: "So you, see, G. 8.5., now I only want the hall." "Oh, yes, of course," ho replied dryly, with an airy sweep of the arm, "that would only cost you about £53,000!" "Now you be quiet, G. 8.5.!" Here I caught sight ol Lady Keeble's secretary, labouring under a pile of "prompting" books which had never once been required. We arranged a future date for my visit. . . POETIC QUALITY. In the meantime another discussion upon poetry had arisen. I gathered that' Shaw had been perhaps a little deprecatory concerning the poetic quality of his own works, for Lillah M' Carthy flashed her vivid eyes upon me for a moment and cried: "Why, the man is full of poetry! He is a poet!" "Your work, G. 8.5.," sho repeated tensely, pointing a dramatic forefinger at him, "is full of poetry!" Shaw pretended to look a little guilty. "Heavens! Look at 'Saint Joan!' How I love that! And look at 'Iphigenia,' which I did in Masefield's Theatre at Boar's Hill, and 'Anthony and Cleopatra!' Heavens! What poetry!" Here the great man nodded mildly, and perhaps even approvingly. . . "I should like," cried the incomparable Lillah, with a sweep of her arm, "to take all tho purple patches from all your works and speak them up and down the land!" They swung from Shaw to Swinburuc. Lillah M'Carthy launched into a vivid reproduction of the great poet's manner of speaking verse. She clenched her hands and spoke somo blazing lines, the voico vibrating with intense emotion: "My child," he would say to her, "speak the poetry with your whole soul. .." "Swinburne put the emotion of the verses into me!'' she said feelingly. Bernard Shaw capped these reminiscences with an exceedingly amusing story about Swinburne, and next proceeded to rock idiotically to and fro upon Ms feet, demonstrating, he said,, the way in which a certain poet (I think it was also Swinburne) used to "rock when he spoke poetry." DKQTKWATEE. John Drinkwater strolled over to join our hilarious group. I was introduced to him as "Miss Corliss, of New Zealand." He shook me by the hand, smiling gaily upon me, said "How do you do?" in a charming voice. . . Then ho turned to Shaw and said, apropos of tho Poety Hall campaign: "G. 8.5., I feel that you ought to- write soino sonnets." Shaw protended to look a little shocked. "Do you know what a sonnet is?" asked Drinkwater wickedly. And G.B.S. replied guilelessly: "Of course I do, my dear Drinkwater; I've already writteu a number." "Oh, havo you«" drawled the poet in feigned surprise. To me Harold Bipper was bewailing the fact of his inability to feel that thrill which comes from "doing-a thing roally well." "It must bo great to feel that," ho said. Then ho turned to Shaw: "G. 8.5., do you ever enjoy the thrill of feeling you've done a really perfect piece of work?" Tho answer came with Shavian nonchalance: "Oh, I never worry about that! I just write the thing, and when it's done I don't think about how I've done it." . . . Then he began to wax enthusiastic about the afternoon's recital: "Beally, it was magnificent! To tell you frankly (his eyes twinkled provokingly), I came merely as a friend, and was prepared to be quite bored and probably go to sleep. Instead of which I was really thrilled the whole time." . . . But all good things come to an end. I proeeoded to execute quite a round of handshaking—with Lillah M'Carthy, who said: "You're coming to see me1?"; with Harold Eipper; with John Drinkwater, and •with Bernard Shaw, who smiled upon me with kind friendliness as if to say: "We've had sonic fun, haven't we?" The last remark I heard John Drinkwater make as ho strolled through the stalls was: "What a late afternoon tea!"