THE "MIRACLE."

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10418, 23 March 1912, Page 4

THE "MIRACLE."

[Fhoii Oct* Lady Coiuiespoxdext.] LONDON, January 12. The topic of greatest interest just now in the private life of London is assuredly "The Miracle," the wordless play at Olvmpia that forms the subject of dozens of letters in the daily papers. Everybody asks everyone else "Have you seen it?" and unfailingly recommends one to do so.' All those not Roman Catholics are curious to know how members of that body regard the stage procedure, Romanists wonder how Protestants feel, and are convinced that "The Miracle" is at once a reverent and alluring advertisement for Roman CathoHcisj.ul; stern Protestants go to criticise and come away and do so with much gusto; Churchmen, nonChurchmen, free- thinkers, Jews—in short, all sorts and conditions—flock to Olympia. That thero would be an outcry of some sort anyone could have predicted who knew the play—that the clamour has been as reasonable and as temperate as it has is another tribute to tho wonder of "The Miracle."

The question of the propriety of presenting plays set round sacred or religious subjects in a place where peoplo go to bo entertained, is, of course, always likely to be raised. Nevertheless, out of the many cries as to'what tlio public really docs want the most oft reiterated probably is that, in general, it wants what it considers real life—that is something it can understand and appreciate and of which it can consider itself part. That this state of things is wholly satisfactory no one will assert save successful playwrights and owners of fashionable theatres, but that the general theatre-going public is an ass, as many of the intellectuals declare, is equally sweeping. If, then,, tho majority of popular plays are so because they deal with* subjects that como into tho hen of the onlookers and are. therefore, to some extent, conventional, whatever their theme, how is religion, which in some guise is part cf every conventional man or woman|s life- to be excluded? It has been specially asked for by many religious peoplo, probably on tho score that whilo the attendance at places of worship is noticeably on the decline, that at theatres steadily keeps up, possibly on tho " real life" principle Religion in general is. however, ono thing, tho doctrines and special trappings of one special creed quite another when tho .latter are shown in a stage play where there will bo audiences of mixed views. Tho writer, who is not a Roman Catholic, must confess that her views on seeing "Tho Miracle" for the first time were that Romanists might reasonably shudder at seeing such serious stag© use made of ecclesiastical banners, vestments and even life size cruoifixes.

It seemed to me that it is the Church pageantry that must suffer if contrasted with this graphic and gorgeous theatrical performance. Not only is tho play remarkable Joecause it is a moving picture where words would be only a disturbance, nor because it is so marvellously stagemanaged with its two thousand players, not even because it is all done without the aid of a special stage and without drop curtains, wings, or special exits, or footlights, but iii an arena; but because, behind all we looked at was Humperdinck's music That is of such extraordinary sensitiveness that, knowing the story, I think a blind man could follow its subtle changes from phase to phase. So does tho music play on the feelings of tho audiences thougli no words are there, that every mood of the nun, tho heroine, is concrete. The world in music, bright, virile youn.o-, calls her out from her sanctified corner, hymns of adoration call her back to sacred duty, sunshine, travel, love lures her again, passion inflames her, shame, vengeance, horror, all express themselves in the tapestry of melody so cunningly woven. As a production tho play probably opens a new era in stagecraft. The story—a mediaeval' German legend—is not new, but is, indeed, an n.ncient tale that Davidson perverto:! into his "Ballad of a Nun," altered again, set to music, and modified to suit tho palate of an English audience. The first wonder of the production strikes home when, entering tho huge amphitheatre, through doors which hold printed notices that " absolute silence must be observed throughout the whole performance," one finds'the atmosphere one in which there is no temptation to talk. For all the crowded auiience, as well as the players, are in a great cathedral. High up near tho domed roof subdued light filters through rose windows" of wondrous stained glass. All down tho aisles are further magnificent windows, the cathedral lights aro shaded in exquisitely wrought lanterns of brass,an aroma of incense clings to the whole. In the semi-darkness, bc~ foro the play begins, pilgrims can be seen on their knees in adoration before "the Blessed Virgin. On her throne, approached by steps and surrounded with railings of brass, and beneath an enormous canopy, sits the Madonna—one of the wonders, too, of stagecraft, for she is a living, beautiful woman, wife of the author of " The Miracle " a delicate lovely form, white like a marble statue, yet with a face almost divine liko an understanding mother of men. In her arms is the Christ-child. The Miraculous Madonna, as she is hailed, draws to her feet worshippers from far and near of all grades, of the cloister and of the world, and the scene opens on a day of high festival, when a great procession of bishops, priests, laymen, villagers and n pitiful army of the sick in mind and in body will arrive to do homage. First there enter about a hundred nuns with their ancient Abbess at their head. A now sacristan is installed, and we see the mighty keys of the cathedral handed over to the young and beautiful nun, the heroine of the lesion;!. She opens the great portals (which arc a hundred feet high), and we seo outside a sunshiny sward with fir trees on its summit. Down tbis conies an extraordinary host, the great ecclesiastical, dignitaries walking under canopies of great magnificence, censers swung by scarlet- 1 robed acolytes, banners and crucifixes carried aloft, Ueautiful music fills the air. The lame, tho crippled and blind are led in by Rympatiiir.ors--o.iie hears their moans an J f-oes their eyes strained towards the Miraculous Madonna seated above the kneeling crowds. Suddenly there goes up a great shout. A man brought in on a stretcher rises to his feet. He is cured. The congregation bursts into a mighty ecstasy of thanksgiving, which finally dies away as tho people return to their homes, pinging, almost beside themselves with joy and gratitude. The community of nuns goes, and the young sacristan is left by herself to lock the doors. Then is heard the piping of tho Spielmann—tho lure that means The Workl—the delicate thread of melody, tender, gracious, fearless, fearful, cruel, wi-ked. terrifying, that now holds the nun's late through all the tale. Tiie Spielmann, a sort of Pied Piper, Mophistopheles, imp and ghost in one. now pipes in a merry crowd of children who run toward the nun with g-irlaud.s, their little feet tripping a joylul measure. Her face, alight still from the

miracle, the piping of the Spielmann kindles to merriment, and like a delicious spirit of mischief, she dances slowly, unconsciously at first, in her demure habit, towards the little ones. They crown her, above her black and grey veil with a garland, and she dances with them, the simple pretty steps that children love. They dance out of the edifice, but Spielmann, his Puck-like figuro crouching on the sward, plays on, and she, left alone, dances like a very Fairy of Grace—round and round, with every beautiful gesture ever thought out by noet. So the Knight sees her, the whirling figure of grey and white and black, with the garland above its face. He stands transfixed, and so does she. And at this moment the Abbess and her nuns enter. The nun's punishment is that she must stay in the cathedral throughout the night, in devotion before the Madonna.

Now, though the story continues without interruption, she is supposed to be overcome by weariness, ana to dream the horror of what follows. The Spielmann's pipe is heard once more, tender, insinuating, tempting in the cold darkness of the cathedral. Tho nun starts up, her face once more alight. ' She throws herself before the Madonna. A knocking is heard, and she runs towards, the door, then bock ones more to an unseeing Madonna. Back again to the door where the great keys are missing. She beats with her little hands on tho bars—again and again, moaning, sobbing and straining. Then back to the feet of the Image she goes, and prays frantically for her freedom, the music all the time infuriating her. Suddenly a miracle occurs. In a moment of madness she snatches the Infant from the Virgin's armfc, and it is caught in a flash up to heaven, while a thud of thunder is heard.

The nun stands terror-stricken when, of a sudden, tho doors open and tho Knight in his shining armour enters and slowly walks towards her, his arms out-held. Spielmann is seen on the sward, and with him two chargers. It is Spielmann who creeps into the dimness of tho shadowed cathedral with a cloak for the girl divests herself of her veil and grey habit, and in her long white wool under-habit, is borne in the Knight's arms out to hor horse. Now occurs the second miracle, -and for a beautiful piece of acting does it give occasion, for tho Image comes to life, and laying aside her gorgeous festal robes, puts on the discarded veil of the nun and takes her place, and afterwards fulfils her duties. Meanwhile, in the world, the nun falls stqp by step by reason of her amazing beauty anad her wonderful dancing. There is a thrilling scene when tho Knight and she, betrayed by the Spielmann, are set on by a marauding Count and his band of robbers, and the Knight being bound, she tries to dance his freedom from his captors.

They, rough boors, form a large ring around her, and to the Spielmann's music she starts to dance, the Knight in the meantime straining on the sward at his ropes. As her magic feet go round, the while her face struggles to smile in its agony of fear, the ring of burly watchers draw nearer and nearer, moving on their stomachs like animals till no room is left for her to dance, and she breaks from them to throw herself at the feet of the Count. It is of no avail—the Knight is killed, she is bound and carried off as the spoil of the Count. The next scene shows a wild and elaborate feast, where the nun, slender in robes of brocade and sable, is placed on a table and made to dance- a measuro of fierce passion to the music of tho Spielmann, ono of the guests. As she proceeds the door opens and the King's son enters, with his retinue. Fascinated he advances, and there is, at once, a conflict between the robber Count and the King's son. It is settled by the cast of dice over which the Spielmann presides, and the King's son wins. Then she is taken-by him, afterwards by tho King himself, who slays his son, all these events, of course, surrounded each with its own scene, of which space forbids description. There is, in tho very midst of a masquerade a groat fire—the nun, torch in hand, has been dancing a mad dance before the King when her torch sets light to some trappings and tho whole banqueting hall is in a blaze. Here is another remarkable piece of stage mechanism, tho flames—-wild quivering tongues of flame—coloured silk being blown up by gusts managed from below. All perish except tho King and the nun, and a horde, rushing in from outside, drag tho nun to trial as a witch. She is tried, tortured, and condemned, in a tumultous scene with Spielmann in disguise as the Chief Inquisitor, but at the very moment the axe is raised over her the people, affected by her beauty, rescue her. She i's lifted on to a white horso and rides off while tho rabble cheers. Spielmann, pursuing, sells her at last for a pile of silver, and she fall:; to tho lowest degradation reserved for woman. The next scene is in tho snow, and we see -a motley multitude following the soldiers, —animals, barking dogs, asses laden with packs and all sorts of rough peasantry. And. last comes Spielmann striding fiercely and carelessly and lagging behind him tho nun, in rags, with a ragged infant at her breast. She is footsore, but Spielmann allows her no rest. Finally she falls in tho snow, and buries her face on her baby's. It is dead. Then Spielmann dragging her up causes a procession to pass Wore her shuddering oyes—tho lino of men who havo died because of her fatal beauty. Again and again she bides her face, always Spielmann forces her up. Light streams out on the snow from tho cathedral and the wretched mother enters and prostrating herself in deepest penitence before tho Madonna, now again in her place/lays her dead babe at the feet of Our Lady. Nov.' tho last miraclo occurs, for tho Virgin, stooping, raises the babo and nestles it in her arms.

Pells peal out joyously, the nuns rush in and a shower of crimson rose leaves fall on their heads as from heaven, music rings out and the nun awakes.

lb is morning. Tho whole hideous panorama has been a dream. Sho opens the doors to the dawn,, and carols greet the opening of Christmas Day: tho sacristan reverently returns to her duties.

As to plot the play is very weak—the world is not nil evil, though tho lesson may bo that it is seen through cloistered eye;;; tho Abbess and her nuns, having discovered the Madonna's identity, would not allow her to quietly take over the tasks of a nun. As a moral its text is plain for all to read. As a picture and a poem it is well called ''Tho Miracle," this splendid spectacle, with its ever-changing scorn's magic effects, rich music, its combination of real and unreal, its medieval and primal simplicity, its vast netting and detailed perfection ; above all. in tpito of faults, its deep spiritual import. Around the production, the. public outside the theatre rages or praises,

each as vehemently. None has attempted to say that there is anywhere shown tho tiniest suspicion of want of reverence for tho sacred subjects dealt with. Everyone appears to bo unselfishly thinking of the 'harm it may do other people. In tho meantime the London world flocks to the Cathedral at Olympia.