A LOST ART

Evening Star, Issue 21784, 28 July 1934, Page 2

A LOST ART

[Written by Marv Scorr, for the * Evening Star.’] 1 had a glimpse of a charming picture the other day. I passed a lighted window before which the curtains were not drawn, and, with no intention of playing Paul Pry, secured in a flash a clearly-etched picture of the scene within. A log fire—most delightful of all backgrounds—was burning brightly, and before it two chairs were drawn, in which what was very clearly a married couple took their ease. The woman was knitting, the man held a book. A clear voice floated through the open window, and with a start of amazement and delight I realised that they were reading aloud. ■ The shock of surprise instinctively halted my stops and automatically I paused a moment. Yes, there was no mistake about it; unquestionably the man was rending aloud while the woman sewed; best of all, ho was reading ‘ Henry Esmond,' that loveliest passage of all that describes Esmond’s return. 1 could hear the words: “ She gave him hii' hand, her little fair hand ; there was only her marriage ring on it.” I felt as if I must be lost in the Garden of Eden, returned to some older, kindlier existence, possibly even to something so antediluvian as my own childhood.

For I had scarcely realised that the habit still persisted, that there were still houses where evenings thus passed happily and quietly,, where no gramophone blared or wireless trumpeted, where gentle voices read clearly and softly before the fire. “ Why on earth are you loitering? I’m surprised at you—peering in at someone clse’s window ! And such a dull one—two people actually reading aloud—how ineffably boring.” My companion gave my arm an impatient tug and we walked on. At the next corner another lighted window greeted us; from, the room behind the strains of jazz beat wildly. My friend was comforted. That was life.

But the spell was broken. For the moment I had lost my picture of peace and serenity, of the firelight glinting on a silver thimble and a head bent quietly above it, lost the sound of that pleasant voice, those well-loved words. “ Nonsense,” said my friend. “ That sort of thing is too hopelessly dated. They must have been ■ old people.” Perhaps they were; I had not noticed. At least they had reached the golden age when they had learnt to love the peace that comes dropping slow, the quiet and abiding things of life. And why should reading aloud be so dreadfully “dated”? It should be vastly fashionable. Our children aije all being taught elocution—some of them very badly, but that is by the way. Reading clubs are more popular than over, and amateurs still, alas! recite upon the public platform. Then what is the difference between reading aloud at a club and at the fireside ? It is a pity that it has been abandoned, for it was a pleasant custom. Personally, 1 hate to sit darning or knitting while the Head of the Household buries himself in a book. The very sight makes me an ardent feminist. Why should 1 have to do all the dull womanly things while he is so obviously enjoying himself? By the end of the evening I could gladly padlock mvself to any city railings and harangue, the crowd about my wrongs. If he is so unwise as to chuckle softly to himself or to draw an enraptured breath I find myself very close to murder. Naturally my sewing js very badly done and my knitting goes a-gley in niy wrath ; the Master of the House would have far fewer skinned heels if he made a habit of reading that delightful book aloud. When he says amiably, “ This is a good book; like to hear it?” my sense of grievance vanishes at once and I become the perfect housewife. My sewing progresses apace and my knitting needles flash- triumphantly. lam having an ideal time—doing my duty and yet enjoying myself—rarest of combinations. My thoughts become harmonious at once; of course, it is my duty and my privilege to # darn socks, In short, it lias been a delightful evening.

“ But so few books nowadays lend themselves to rending aloud," my friend objected. But that is all nonsense; the best of our modern novels are admirably adapted for reading aloud. For the inexperienced reader they are ever so much more simple than the classics. The brevity they affect, the short direct sentences and staccato effects make rending aloud much simpler than the diffuse and elaborate sentence 'formation. of the Victorians. There is beauty, too, in the best of Pur modern stylists. James Hilton’s novels read aloud beautifully; every word of Testament of Youth ’ would bear that test, and the poetry almost demands it; Maurice Walsh and Dona Byrne both repay reading aloud, and Wodehouse is never funnier than when thus shared. “ But it’s such a dull way of spending an evening.” I am not suggesting it for seven nights a. week. Youth must be served, and at the moment the service must at all costs be restless and noisy, But an evening at home by the fire still occasionally occurs, and knitting is more than ever the craze. The hands that can knit steadily through a college lecture or a Bernard Shaw address are not likely to lose their way through the distractions of more literature. Those of us who love our books love to share them. To discuss a book afterwards is half the pleasure of knowing it. But even such discussion is not so good as actual sharing. Pleasure, excitement, sympathy are all increased when they are felt simultaneously by those we like. More accurate judgments, more impartial criticisms arc engendered in this way. Above all, we shall avoid the pitfall of skipping. Never have so many novels been published as to-day; everybody is writing and nobody has time to read properly. With half a dozen reputed masterpieces—according to the publishers—being published every month we become harassed in our choice. The temptation to sample a little of everything then assails us; we yield to it, and almost at once are attacked by intellectual indigestion. So many unassimilated scraps, so many half-tasted delicacies eventually spoil the palate for more solid fare. Skipping is the worst of all evils in the render and critic, for it very soon becomes a habit, and a habit that is very hard to break. ‘‘But think of the pitfalls! These modern books are so dreadfully outspoken.’’ 1 was not suggesting ‘ A Warping to Wantons ’ as suitable choice for reading aloud to a mixed company of young people. Generally speaking, we know where we may safely choose, and we make our novelist fit our audience. Nor is the experienced reader easily taken unawares. Certain symptoms usually herald the approach of the purple patches—scarcely the hoisting of a red flag, rather" that murmur of “ Ducdame, duedame. A Greek invocation to call fools in a circle.” And how eagerly the fools respond. After all. need wo expurgate so religiously for young people who are quite able to enjoy the most startling film in each other’s unembarrassed company? Frankness is the order of the day, and, within certain limits, what a. wise order it isl