Music and Drama.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 16, 20 October 1909, Page 14

Music and Drama.

By

BAYREUTH.

BOOKINGS. (Dates Subject to Alteration.) AUCKLAND.—HIS MAJESTY’S. October 20 to November 6—Pollard’s Opera Company. November B—Boxing Association. November 13 to 27—Allan Hamilton. Xmas Season—J. C. Williamson. THE OPERA HOUSE. In Season — Fuller’s Pictures Y.M.C.A. HALL. In Season — Bengough, Cartoonist. WELLINGTON.—OPERA HOUSE. Oct. 25 to Nov. 13 — J. C. Williamson. Nov. 15 to Dec. 9 — J. C. Williamson. December 10 to 18 — M. Branscombe. Dec. 26 (for six weeks) — J. C. Williamson. THEATRE ROYAL. In Season — Fuller’s Pictures. PALMERSTON NORTH MUNICIPAL OPERA HOUSE. 1909. Oct. 13 to 27 — Hayward’s Pictures. Nov. 1 to 6 — Hugh Ward Musical Comedy, Nov. 29 to Dec. 1 —r Pollard Opera Co. Dec. 9 — Local Concert. Dec. 27 to 29 — Carter, the Magician. Pinero’s New Play—■“ MidChannel.” LiJ f GLOOMY play, a deadly serious ■ I P la y, a play in which none of J I the characters are especially sympathetic, a play which begins with quarrels and ends with suicide —such is Sir Arthur Pinero’s latest play, produced at the St. James’ Theatre, London, recently. That, at all events, is a superficial description of the piece, the first impression which the critic received after the" four acts of the tragedy had been detailed before their eyes. But it is always necessary, especially in the case of dramatic work like that of Sir Arthur Pinero, to look beneath the surface, to try and discover the main ideas, to place oneself, so far as is possible, in the position of the dramatic author, and view the subject of bis play from his own angle of vision. In many respects “MidChannel” is a thoughtful contribution to the problems of modern society. Recently a London special correspondent in New York made reference to a controversy which seems to have caused a certain amount of excitement in the United States. The question was, whether or not there was in our modern age a revolt of women against motherhood. It is admitted, of course, that in America, as elsewhere, except, possibly, in Germany, marriages are proportionately fewer and families smaller than was the case some years ago. Now, who is to blame for this gradual impoverishment of the worlds population? Is it the fault of the husband, or the fault of the wife? The professors across the Atlantic seem determined to prove that the whole blame rests with the women, owing to their higher education, their culture, their ambitious claims of equality. But the women, on their side, have much to plead in self-defence; and with them must be ranged the heroine of Sir Arthur Pinero’s latest play, Zoe Blundell. Her marriage is a failure, as, indeed, according to our dramatists and novelists, most modern marriages are. And why is it a failure? Well, one reason is that the period of struggle, when Zoe and Theodore Blundell were climbing the steep ascent towards worldly riches, and a house in Lancaster-gate, is past and done with—a happy period, which is symbolically described as “up north in Fitzjohn’s-avenue.” the time when husband and wife alike were ardent and eager, and wealth had not bred discontent and satiety. But there is another and a graver reason for the failure of the Blundell marriage. Zoe is under no illusions on the subject. She is ,or she thinks she is, a born mother. And because everything had to be sacrificed to the career of ambition and prosperity, she has not been allowed to have any children. She states the matter with absolute clearness to her husband in the third act. “Our marriage,” ahe says, “was doomed from the very moment we agreed that we would never lx l encumbered in our career with anv brats of children.” If there had only been “brats of children” at home. It would have made a different woman

of Zoe and a different man of Theodore. Here, at all events, is a plain issue, which the dramatist desires to drive home to the contemporary conscience. If marriages fail, it is largely because the one link which might keep husband and wife together is wanting. The Parable of “ Mid-Channel.” We must patiently take up the threads of the dramatic intrigue, one by one, if we wish to understand the play of “Mid-Channel.” The very title suggests another grave defect in the modern menage. A social philosopher lives and , moves in the play, a certain Peter Mottram, who is Theodore Blundell’s partner on the Stock Exchange; and in his role as a domesticated Marcus Aurelius he is perpetually holding up his forefinger, and instructing his friends as to what they have either done or left undone. He remarks that midway between Folkestone and Bou-logne—mid-Channel—there is a shoal, which the French sailors call Le Colbart, and we call The Ridge. There is broken water over this shoal, and passengers begin to feel a little uncom fortable until it is passed. So also in matrimony there is a ridge or shoal in mid-channel. The first illusions have worn away; familiarity has bred something not very different from contempt; and a sense of boredom and ennui has sprung up, more than a little difficult to endure. The husband has ceased to be a lover; the wife has become less of an idol, and has not yet attained the complacent security of being a friend. Married people must look out for this Mid-Channel shoal. If they can once pass over if, all is well. Only the world is an impatient one, and men and women are too much in a hurry to think that they have made a mistake, and that they must try another kind of existence. Assuredly if Theodore and Zoe Blundell had but exhibited a certain amount of patient philosophy, such as that which Peter Mottram recommended, they would have surmounted their difficulties, and gradually reached the haven where they would be. But no! They are hasty, quick-tempered, reckless, and feckless people. The break their china without compunction, and even when it is broken they do not recognise that some of its value can return to them, if properly mended. Here, then, is a second strain of thought in the satire, or sermon, which the dramatist sets before his audience. Zoe's Character. And now we open a third consideration, in which the dramatist finds his surest and most characteristic work. It is, of course, the nature of the men and women with whom he deals; it is the characters which he places on the boards. So far as one may hazard a guess, in all Arthur Pinero’s serious Work one seems to see the persistent drawing of one kind of feminine character, and one kind of masculine counterpart. Zoe Blundell comes at the end of a series of heroines who began with “The Second Mrs. Tanqueray,*’. and ran through “The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith,” “The Benefit of the Doubt,” and the play entitled “Iris.” Zoe Blundell is first cousin to Iris Bellamy, and, indeed, the fates of the two heroines are not wholly dissimilar. Both belong to the class of highlynervous, somewhat hysterical women, women who have suffered in life, who are inclined to take drugs, who, having lived the pace, discover that so far from gaining happiness they have ruined their physical constitution, and done serious injury to their moral nature. Iris Bellamy, after playing fast and loose with the various men who loved her, fell into the hands of Maldonado, and was by him turned out into the streets. Zoe, equally excitable, equally impulsive, equally devoid of strong volition or reasonable self-control, is driven to the desperate course of suicide, because she has made such a mess of things. Apparently modern civilisation breeds this kind of woman, and the only thing that one wonders is whether a wife like Zoe is or is not the born mother that she thinks. In the first act she is depicted to us as going by preference to what she calls a “kiddie play,” a play devotea to babea

and sucklings; and in an eloquent passage she depicts for us the glory of being able to evoke in imagination divine babies and kiddies to satisfy the deepest instincts of a mothers’ heart. Whether she is right or wrong about herself, at all events she is persuaded that motherhood would have cured her and made her a sane woman. And side by side with a modern heroine of this sort, Arthur Pinero generally puts one or two men assuredly not conspicuous for their gallantry or kindliness. Theodore Blundell is not quite a Maldonado; but he is a callous, clumsy, rough husband, who does not make a pretence of keeping his temper, and invariably rubs his wife the wrong way. And what are we to say of the other men in the play? Peter Mottram may stand at one side as the philosopher of the fireside hearth—apparently a sweet-tempered man, who has been wise in sticking to his bachelorhood. But what of Leonard Ferris, the lover? Peter not inaptly described him as a cub; but he seems to be worse than a cub. He sometimes comes perilously near being a cad. The way in which he treats Zoe, especially when, with almost indescribable cruelty, he talks about “other fancy men” with whom she may have dangerously flirted; the w-ay, also, in which the same I.eonard Ferris treats the young girl, Ethel Pierpont—prove to us that he is anything but a distinguished specimen, even among the dubious class of stage lovers, and in many respects nothing more nor less than a contemptible hound. If only there was a good man in this cortege! But no; the dramatist will not give us relief of this kind. The modern woman is a bundle of nerves—fitful reckless, incomprehensible; and the modern man wavers between the dull blackguard and the offensive cad. It is assuredly not a pleasant picture. The Outline of the Story. In considerations like these suggested by the actual conduct of the plot, the nature of the story has already been revealed. Theodore and Zoe Blundell have been married for some fourteen years, and they are not happy, despite the sage counsels of the Hon. Peter Mottram. Zoe has a number of “tame robins,” as she calls them, Peter himself being the elderly leader of the group, and the chief and most ardent devotee being Leonard Ferris. Now, when one of many serious rows had taken place between Theodore and Zoe, and the husband had packed up his bag and left his. house, and the wife had determined to go abroad, it is, of course, Leonard Ferris who becomes the inseparable companion of Zoe. It is true that at an earlier moment he had very marly engaged himself to Ethel Pierjoint, a fresh and innocent girl; but if any one held his heart in safe keeping it was, of course, Zoe Blundell, and at her bidding he is ready to leave everything else. Meanwhile Theodore, in a flat in Cavendish-square, has consoled himself with a flighty Mrs Annerly; and poor Peter Mottram, in his amiable desire to mend up the broken pieces, has obviously a very difficult task before him. Nevertheless, he very nearly succeeds in reconciling the divergent pair. Theodore sends Mrs Annerly to the right-about, and Zoe recommends Leonard Ferris to marry Ethel Pierpoint. But the wounds were too deep to be thus easily cicatrised. Zoe might possibly forgive Theodore for his dalliance with Mrs. Annerly; but how could a man like Theodore forgive Zoe for the miserable confession which she makes to him of her relations with Leonard Ferris? And from this point the story moves on to its inevitable end. As Theodore will no longer resume the ordinary married life, Zoe goes back to Leonard Ferris, only to find that she has come too late, and that already her friend, Ethel Pierpoint, has been made a happy woman by the definite arrangement of a marriage. Zoe may be a “ rotter,” as she elegantly expresses it, but she is not such a “ rotter ” as to break into the happiness of a newlymarried eouple. And so, from the high balcony of Leonard Ferris’s flat, from which one lias a view of the upper part of the Albert Hall and other lofty buildings, poor, hapless Zoe throws herself headlong into the street, and Peter and Theodore- and Leonard are left aghast at the swift fatality of the denouement. “Violent delights,” the dramatist would seem to repeat, “ have violent ends.” Given a woman like Zoe, and men like Theodore and Leonard, and the chances of happiness, or even of peace, are hopeless. The Reception. The piece was received with the most respectful ■ attention and interest, and Sometimes with enthusiasm. The first act especially pleased the spectators, and

■when Sir Arthur Pinero and Mr. George Alexander oame before the footlights at the close, they were greeted most cordially. Obviously, however, from wliat has been already said, it is not a play that is Likely to send away an audience in hilarious humour. Nevertheless, it is full of good things and clever speeches, and its seriousness made a deep impression on the house. The two principal actors were Mr. Lyn Harding (Blundell), and Miss Irene Vanbrugh (Zoe). Advice for All. “To be a good singer one needs twenty other things besides voice, and the most important of these is temperament,” said Mr. Charles Manners, managing director of the Moody-Manners English Opera Company recently. His remarks, although addressed to the English, are worthy of being admitted to the Imperial sphere. “It is the non-demonstrative temperament of the English which is so much against them in art and business also. “Church of England ministers sadly lack temperament. I have heard the first two sentences of the Bible delivered in

a way which, however sincere, left one absolutely bored. Ministers sometimes simply mutilate the Bible.” Mr. Manners showed h:s meaning by singing a verse from “The Lost Chord” in a “deadly dull, respectable style.” The audience laughed, but their laughter turned to applause when he sung the same verse as it should be sung. Referring later to opera, Mr. Manners said:— “In England, after the mention of some five opera companies, you have done. In Italy there are 360, and more than twice as many in Germany or France. “Opera is educative. Music halls are not, dn that some people are convinced by them that it is quite the correct and noble thing to get drunk, fight policemen, and kick your mother-in-law. “The English fight shy of opera because they endeavour to take the heavy stuff —‘Lohengrin’ and 'Siegfried’—first, instead of beginning on ‘Carmen,’ ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ or ‘The Merry Widow.’ You will be surprised to hear that ‘The Merry Widow’ was recently played at the Royal Opera House, Berlin, with a chorus of over 100—and before royalty. But the audience there that night would not dream of going to see ‘Tannhauser’ the following evening.” Mr. Manners concluded with the advice: “Go to see light opera first.”

From Theatre Management to the Music Hall. Seymour Hicks, after whom the onetime Hick’s Theatre in London took its name, has given up theatrical management and gone wholly over to the music halls as a star artist. He has been lured away from the career on which he had launched by the blissful prospect of seven months’ work a year “at a satisfactory salary,” with somebody else to bear the worries of management. “Until quite recently I was doing donkey work. I wrote plays, produced them, played in them. Now I have a two years’ engagement, seven months in the year, at a satisfactory salary, and no worry. The other five months I could, if I liked, spend in producing plays: but no more management for me. I find acting in a music-hall splendid. A music-hall audience is very much quicker than that in a theatre. They want to be interested right away, and they appreciate a point at once The music-hall is going to play an even more important role than it does at present in the amusement of the people. The time limit for sketches must,

of course, be abolished. At present it is ineffectual, and merely makes for scamped work. Personally, I am going to devote more attention to the music-' halls. I am going to present some grim Grand Guignol playlets, varied with light comedy sketches.” The Rise of the Music Hall. The reports which reach this side of the world regularly - that famous actors and singers have gone over to the musichall, may appear at first sight perplexing. There are two cardinal reasons for the phenomenon, however sad it may seem. The music-hall is popularly. supposed to be an improper place for virtuous young men and maidpns in view, of its late Victorian traditions. ' The supposition is out of date. The modern music-hall stage in London is usually distinguished for its clever turns, bright and wholesome vaudeville, and its varied, though as yet entirely superficial entertainment. ' In its march to prosperity it has killed the circus and seriously turned popular fancy from musical comedy and farce. The truth is, of" course, that the latter are rapidly becoming a decadent form of entertainment, though not before they vitiated the public taste for serious drama. The musie-halls pay excellent salaries, which the prosperity of their business justify. With sensational and romantic

drama declining, and tl«e concert plaA forms overcrowded, it is little woode* that actors with the talents of Mr. Seymour Hucks, or singers such as Albani, whose past glories the English public do not forget, should merge into the uukflchall artist. The influence of suen people is bound to raise the level of public appreciation, however much of their art they may have to concede to the prevailing taste. The music-hall is undoubtedly the theatre of the future. The rapidly expanding taste for modern or realistic drama associated with such names as Pinero, Galsworthy, Sutro or Bernard Shaw may challenge its supremacy- in time, but for the present it is rising, Phoenix-like, out of the ashes of the effete comedy and a malingering romanticism which still appeals to popular taste in the Australasian Colonies in such forms as “Monsieur Beaucaire” or “The Royal Divorce.” Hard Words for the Unmusical English. Mr. Thomas Beecham, who is now regarded as one of the leading English conductors, has been saying some hard things about the people of his native country-. Coming from a man of his eminence, they are worth noting. Although he sung as a child of five, and studied the piano from the time he was six, it was not till he went to Oxford that Thomas Beeoham commenced his musical career as a composer. His first efforts took the shape of various songs and orchestral works, which were produced at Oxford under his direction, and on leaving college be went to reside for eighteen months in his native town of St. Helens, founding and conducting an orchestra there. His success in this venture led him to taJce up conducting in earnest, and he is next heard of conducting the Halle orchestra in St. Helens, and also for the Imperial Opera Company, which toured the suburbs in 1902. During this time be wrote two operas and many other works, and then, after two years of foreign travel, founded the New Symphony Orchestra, in 1906. In the autumn of last year he founded the Thomas Beecham Orchestra, which has won many successes already, and with Mr. Beecham will tour America this year. “ So Musical, Don’t Yon Know.” The flattering critics, who. for patriotic reasons, insist upon telling us that we are a musical nation (says Mr. Beecham), always seem to me to be the principal stumbling blocks to musical advancement in this country. As long as you go on patting a man on the back and telling him he is musical, he will be content to sit in his chair at home without troubling to cross the road to a concert. Tell him he is unmusical, and that his lack of knowledge in this direction is a thing to be ashamed of, and you at once spur him on to make some effort towards advancement. Surely, if we were a musical nation, we should have fine English artists, opera houses, provincial orchestras, and a hundred and one musical things which other countries can boast of. Of course, foreign artists who come to this country are never tired of telling us that we are intensely musical, for the simple reason that they wish us to go on being self-satisfied, since our advancement would mean competition with them. Tlie truth is we have allowed ourselves to be flattered up into such a state of self-conceit that, apart from being the musical laughing stock of the world, we are looked upon as “mugs,” who can continually be taken in by foreign artists, because we are content to listen to rotten foreign pianists, rotten foreign singers, rotten foreign orchestras; to be content with rotten foreign conductors, and so on. The fact is, music in this country is largely an economic question. I doubt if in any other country in the world as much money flows into its coffers as here. But, alas, it flows in in the wrong way. We spend millions on charitable musical affairs. People who will not spend one hundred pence to hear good music, or to assist the foundation of a national opera house, will willingly give .£lOO for a bad concert in aid of some hospital. simply for the sake of seeing their names in the published lists. I do not, believe me, grudge this money to our hospitals, but, intensely interested in music as I am, and believing from the bottom of my heart in our national abilities in this direction, I cannot help deploring the state of things which now prevails. Give the hospitals their .£lOO by all means, but, if this must be done through the medium of a concert, provide good music

Instead of drivel, which only lowers the whole tone of art and helps to encourage the nation to continue wallowing in its musical slough of despond. There are many things characteristic of our national and social life, which themselves combat advance in art. First of all, let us consider the average life of the average Englishman. It is a hopelessly cut-and-dried affair that discourages any development of the imagination. The average middle-class Englishman—and the middle-class, having most money, can do most to encourage Art—has eggs and bacon for breakfast every morning, catches a certain train, or starts at • certain time, to get to his office, or his shop, returns home at a fixed hour, reads his paper in the evening, and invariably eats roast beef on Sunday. If, once in a while, he requires amusement, he goes to a musical comedy or a variety entertainment. Perhaps once in ten years expansion in his imagination occurs, but if it does, he invariably goes—abroad! It is the conventional life we lead which smothers ©ur imagination, and which is responsible for the fact that, whether it be in politics, philosophy, poetry, drama, literature, or art, we have little invention and few ideas. If ever a man who is any good arises in our midst he is sure either to have a dash of the foreigner or to-be an Irishman! The Dreadful Puritanical Spirit. Another thing which bars advance in tnany directions is the conservative puritanical spirit which prevails so overwhelmingly in England. There are millions of people in the North who regard theatrical performances and concerts as dangerous, perilous, and Satanic. affairs, and until this point of view is altered we shall continue to be content with dirty and dismal surroundings rather than consent to innovations which are bright, clean, and up to date. The lower classes are distinctly better off in this respect. They have fewer conventions, are freer, and possess a certain amount of imagination and emotion in consequence. They have neither the inclination nor the opportunity to like fine or distinguished music, but, although their outlook is narrow, primitive, and undistinguished, yet they do like music of a kind, and, according to their lights, are at any rate genuine. I have no doubt whatever that as education advances musical and artistic appreciation will also advance among the masses. The Horror of It. To read sentimental novels, to live in dirty and soot-blackened towns, and to lead cut-and-dried existences does not promote an appreciation of, or a desire for, refinement, and as refinement is the keynote of all that is best in art, the artistic appreciation of England as a nation must lag behind that of other nations until we take some steps to improve the surroundings in which we live. Fortunately, in productive and executive directions, things are very different. For I believe that there are more able musicians among us to-day than there have ever been before. I consider that the standard here is as high as it is in any other country, for <we have a large number of fine, executive artists, and a variety of talent in the way of composers that can hold its «wn at the present day against any »!her country. But what chance has music of sending its message to the millions of workers who spend their lives, for instance, in those great commercial and manufacturing towns of ours where they seldom see the sky for smoke? It is beneath ■the green trees and among the smiling meadows of nature that the sermon or art can be best understood, and most easily appreciated, and not till we have learnt to live as people have learnt to live in other countries, will our children have time to look beyond their smokegrimed roof-trees to the sunlit, verdant hills where Orpheus discourses a strain capable of awakening in their hearts all that is noblest, purest and best.

Mr. Dloy’s Violin Recital. An appreciative audience gathered in the Choral Hall, Auckland, on Thursday evening, when Mr. Herbert B!oy submitted a chamber concert for the violin, interspersed with vocal numbers. The compositions selected were “Preislied” (Wag-ner-Wilhelmj) , “Souvenir de Moscou” (Wieniawski), and Max Bruch’s fine “Concerto No. 1.” The evening’s work undoubtedly centred round the lastnamed, and in which Mr. Bloy has been seldom heard to better advantage. The piece was cleanly rendered and well phrased. Though not a robust player, Mr. Bloy’s musicianship is 'built up_on a sound superstructure, and he produces a clear, true tone and neat execution. A little more freedom in bowing might be desirable, and this was particularly noticeable in the Wieniawski number. With Herr Kreutzer and Messrs. H. Hemus and C. B. Plummer, Mr. Bloy contributed “Die Mullerin” (Rafi), and “Die Muhle,” by the same composer. The l itter proved very enjoyable, the portamento being well managed and the rhythm happy. A well-deserved recall followed,

and was responded to with Boccherini’s “Minuet,” which was played with exquisite daintiness, the pizzicato culminating in a fine pianissimo. The Lyric Quartet came in for a good share of attention, their artistic singing being much admired, and earning a hearty recall. Miss Blanche Garland, though .suffering from a cold, contributed songs in a commendable manner, and Mr. J. W. Ryan rendered Maude V. White’s rousing Royalist song “King Charles’’ with good spirit and verve. Miss Elsie Hamilton’s fine accompanying was a feature of the evening’s performance. Rare Bengongli—Cartoonist, Mimic, Reciter, Raconteur, etc. Versatility is a rare art in these days of specialisation, but to see it personified one must on no account miss Bengough. lie is just a bundle of it. and strung together, too, with the silken threads of the artist. The Y.M.C.A. Hall is not usually the place to meet “laughter holding both his sides.” But the moment Bengough comes forward with his droll man-

nerisms and exuberant humour, the Sombre hall and its depressed assemblage suddenly ripple and merge into the vast substantial smile that is ever reminiscent of the beatific Mrs. Fezziwig. Cartoonist, elocutionist, reciter (not a popular one, thanks'be unto Olympus), mimic, and raconteur, he seems hardly off the stage before he is on, and, what’s more important, hardly on before he is off, such is the interest he inspires. Bengough is the type of artist to whom public affection would naturally turn if only we could but keep him long enough. He slashes a few lines deftly across his blameless sheet in chalk to the accompaniment of a running comment delicately anticipatory •of his subject. You are never quite sure what it is going to end up in seeing that his beginning was marked by a few inauspicious and Euclidean outlines. When in a flash it merges into a delicious caricature of the young lady who is predestined to recite by the inevitable certainty that foredooms an audience to listen, the quality of the man seizes upon you. He has that grip of

human varieties which never wounds, but just turns them off into amiable and laughing channels. From a pictorial presentation of the New Euclid, he lapses into an Irish debate on “Home Rule,” and then flashes off a topical cartoon in which Sir Joseph Ward and local railway agitations are placed in amiable juxtaposition. In a superficial moment the query arises: Is he ever serious? How little is the need to ask this of the cartoonist as much as the artist, whose satires are flashed from the burning brand of truth. Bengough measures the breadth of human nature well in a pathetic little recital entitled “Getting On.” He lets us down to the bedrock of his humanity in a graphic set of verses touching the visit of the American fleet. He has a subtle knack, too, of reminding his audience that there are other places on earth besides New Zealand; but it is all so amiable and cheerful that there is not a man worthy of the race who will not applaud him to the echo. There is a rarity associated with the name of an Elizabethan dramatist whose

fame is region in the world of letter*. AH London once rang with the qualities of rare Ben Jonson. I wonder how many of us may one day call to mind the visit and name of the inimitable artist and entertainer in terms for which history will never blush. To test the allusion, you ought to go and see the man who actually made Auckland laugh. Bengough is assisted by a whistler of promising qualities in Borneo Gardiner, whilst Mr. Claud Allan (baritone) and Miss Dora Carroll (pianist) provide interludes of a more or less entertaining nature.