Music and Drama.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIV, Issue 5, 2 February 1910, Page 14

Music and Drama.

By

BAYREUTH.

BOOKINGS.

(Dates Subject to Alteration.) -AUCKLAND—HIS MAJESTY'S. Jan. 24 to Feb. 14 — J. C. Williamson. February 21 to March 12 —Carter the Magician. March 14 to 24 Harry Rickards' Company. Marell 26 (Easter Saturday! to April 16— Marlow Dramatic Company. April 18 to 23—Amy Castles. Apiil 28 to May 14 —J. C. Williamson. May 16 to 2!> —Allan Hamilton. May 30 to June IS—Meynell and Gunn. June 20 to July 6—J. C. Williamson. July 7 to 16— Meynell and Gunn. July IS to 31 —Hugh J. Ward. August 1 to 13 J. C. Williamson. September t to 3 — Auckland Boxing Association. September sto 24—J. C. Williamson. September 26 to October II* —Allan Hamilton October 20 to November 4 — Fred Graham. THE OPERA HOUSE, In Season—Fuller’s Pictures. ROYAL ALBERT HALL. In Season—Hayward's Pictures. WELLINGTON OPERA HOUSE. Jan. 20 to Feb. 19.-J. C. Williamson. Feb. 26 to March 25.—Allan Hamilton. March 26 to April 18.—J. C. Williamson. April 19 to 27 —Meynell and Gunn. April 28 to May IS.—J. C. Williamson* May 19 to June 3. — Fred. H. Graham. June 4 to 25.—J. C- Williamson. THREATRE ROYAL. .Vaudeville (permanent). TOWN lIAJ-L. February 19 to 26— Fisk Jubilee Singers. March 17, 18, 19 — Besses o' th’ Barn Band. Jews and Gentiles—Zangwill’s Remarkable Dramatic Vision of tke Future American. ISRAEL ZANGWILL, Jew. author, reformer and playwright, has given to the footlights a dramatic vision of the future American. The continuous influx of Jewish blood into the States has aroused several playwrights to the dramatic probabilities inherent in the question of inter marriage between Gentiles and Jews. America has seen no less than three plays on the subject recently. Zangwill’s creation is as remarkable as it is profound. It was first presented in Washington, and was countenanced by ex-President Roosevelt. It has had a season’s run in Chicago, and will inis year be presented in New York. The author of “The Melting Pot," as it is called, sees in the New World the gigantic crucible into which a-11 the racial hates and bitternesses of the centuries will be dissolved. and a greater America rise in the future. The first act takes us to the living room in the house of the Quixanos in a non-Jewish district in New York. The effect of the furniture is described as a curious blend of shabbiness, Americanism, Jewishness and music. These elements are combined in the figure of Mendel Quixano, master of the household, in the black skull cap, red carpet slippers and seedy velvet jacket. He is an elderly music master with a fine Jewish face pathetically furrowed by misfortunes, and a short grizzled beard. He is not an orthodox Jew. but his hopes and ideals are anchored in the past of his race. There is a tragic element in the character of Frau Quixano, his mother. She is an orthodox Jewess, unable to understand the New World or its language. Mendql’s nephew, David Quixano. the hero of Zangwill’s play, is a young Jewish musician with unabounded faith in this country that ■has hospitably received him coming, ax it were, from the blood-stained pavements of Kisliineff. Vera Revendal, daughter of a Russian official, who is devoted to settlement work in New York, having been disowned by her father for her anti-bureaucratie opinions, appears on the scene in order to ask David for his co-operation in a settlement concert. When incidentally she learns of his being a Jew, she is taken aback. “A Jew," she exclaims, “this wonderful boy a Jew! But then so was David the shepherd youth with his harp and psalms, the sweetest singer in Israel." She hesitates, but finally makes her request. David gladly accepts. waiving the possibility of a fee. “A fee! I'd pay a fee to see those

happy immigrants you gather together. I love going bo Ellis Island,” he goes on to explain, “to watch the ships coming in from Europe, and to think that all those weary sea-tossed wanderers are feeling what I felt when America first stretched out her mother hand to me!” Vera (softly): Were you very happy? David: It was Heaven. You must remember that all my life I had heard of America. Everybody in our town had friends there or was going there or got money-orders from there. The earliest game I played at was selling-off my toy furniture and setting up in America. AU my life America was waiting, beckoning, shining, the place where God would wipe away tears from off all faces. Mendel (rises, as in terror): Now, now, David, don’t get excited. David: To think that the same great torch -of liberty which threw its light across all the broad seas and lands into my little garret in Russia is shining also for all those other weeping millions of Europe, shining wherever men hunger and are oppressed! Mendel (soothingly): Yes, yes, David. (Lays hand on his shoulder.) Now sit down and calm yourself. David (unheeding): Shining over the starving villages of Italy and Ireland, over the swarming stony cities of Poland and Galicia, over the ruined farms lof Roumania, over tJie shambles of Russia! Mendel (pleadingly): David! David: Oh, Miss Revendal, when I look at our statue of Liberty, I seem to hear the voice of America crying: “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you rest." Mendel: Don't talk any more. You know it is bad for you. David: But Miss Revendal asked, and I want to explain to her what America means to me. Mendel: You can explain it in your American Symphony. Vera (rising, eagerly, to David): You compose? David: Oh. uncle, why did you talk of my music? It is so thin and tinkling. When I am writing my American Symphony it seems like thunder crashing through a forest full of bird songs. But next day, oh, next day! (Laughs dolefully.) Vera: So your music finds inspiration in America? David: Yes, in the seething of the Crucible. Vera: The Crucible? I don’t understand! David: Not understand! You, the spirit of the Settlement! Not understand that America is God’s crucible where all the races of Europe are rising and re forming! Here you stand, good folk, think I, when I see them at Ellis Island, here you stand in your fifty groups with your fifty languages and histories and your fifty hatreds and rivalries. But you won’t be long like, that, brother, for these are the fires of God you've come to; these are the fires of God! A fig for your feuds and vendettas! German and Frenchman, Irishman and Englishman, Jews and Russians—into the Melting Pot wifh you all! God is making the American. Tlhe Conversation turns on Russia, when Vera happens to remark she is a native of Kisliineff. David becomes violently agitated at the mention of the latter, which was his native haunt, and also to learn Vera is Russian. He flies from the room in a burst of hysterical sobbing. The girl learns then that his father, mother and family were massacred there, he being the only one to escape. The Second Act. The second act takes place on the day of Purim, the Jewish Carnival. Old Dame Quixano has bought false noses and other paraphernalia of fun sanctified by tradition. David is playing a merry lune on the fiddle, when Vera appears to redeem her promise, accompanied by Quincy Davenport, jun., an “unemployed millionaire,'’ and his private orchestra conductor, the celebrated Herr Pappelmeister. Davenport, although married, is actuated by his unreciprocated love for Vera to take an interest in the young

Jewish musician. Pappelmeister examines the score of the symphony critically and declares it to be a masterpiece. Davenport at once proposes to produce it at one of his private concerts, and the shy young David is summoned from the kitchen, where he had hidden himself, to receive the tidings. When the identity of Davenport is divulged to him, the lad overcomes his bashfulness and turns to cross-examine his prospective protector. David takes him to task for promoting the extravagant dinners and pastimes of “The Smart Set,” whilst women and children die of hunger in New York. A powerful scene ensues. David: And these are the sort of people you would invite to hear my symphony, these gondola-guzzlers! Vera: Mr Quixano! David: These magnificent animals whs went into the gondolas two by two, to feed and flirt! Quincy: Sir! David: I should be a new freak for you, for a new freak evening—l and my dreams and my music! Quincy: You low-down, ungrateful David: Not for you and such as you have I sat here writing and dreaming, not for you who are killing my America! Quincy: You never told me your Jewscribbler was a Socialist! David: I am nothing but a simple artist, but I come from Europe, one of her victims, and I know that she is a failure; that her palaces and peerages are outworn toys of the human spirit, and that the only hope oi mankind lies, in a new world. And here, in the land of to-morrow. you are bringing back all the follies and fetishes of yesterday, trying to bring back Europe, Europe with her comic opera coronets and her wormeaten stage decorations and her pomp and chivalry built on a morass of crime and misery. But you shall not kill my dream! There shall come a fire round the Crucible that will melt you and your breed like wax in a blowpipe. David’s fiery denunciation brings an excited cheer from the leader of the orchestra, whom Quincy dismisses on the spot and goes out in a white heat. Vera, instead of reproaching the lad, expresses her admiration for him. In a sudden wave of tenderness, he passionately takes her hand and she suffers him to embrace her. David: You cannot care for me. You so far above me! Vera: Above you, you simple boy. Your genius lifts you to the stars. David: No, no, it is you who lift me. Vera: And to think that I was brought up to despise your race. David (sadly) : Yes, all Russians are. Vera: But we of the nobility in particular. David (amazed, half-releasing her) : You are noble? Vera: My father is Baron Revendal, but I have long since carved out a life of my own. David: Then he will not separate us? Vera: No. (Re-embraces him.) Nothing can separate us. (A knock at the street door. They separate. Sound of an automobile clattering off.) David: It is my uncle coming back. Vera (in low tense tones) : Then I shall slip out. I eould not bear a third. I will write. (Goes to door.) David: Yes, yes, Vera- (Follows her to door. He opens it and she slips out.) Mendel (half seen, expostulating): You, too, Miss Revendal? (Enters.) Oh, David, you have driven away all your friends. David- Not all, uncle. (Throws his arms boyishly round his uncle.) I am so happy. Mendel: Happy? David: She loves me. Vera loves me. Mendel: Vera? David: Miss Revendal. Mendel: Miss Revendal? Have you lost your wits? David: I don’t wonder you’re amazed. Do you think I wasn’t? It is as if an angel should stoop down. Mendel (hoarsely): This is true? This is not some stupid Purim joke? David: True and sacred as the sunrise. Mendel: But you are a Jew! David: Yes, and just think. She was brought up to despise Jews. Her father was a Russian baron. In spite of his uncle’s protest, David remains firm for his love. A Thrilling Scene. Davenport, still bent on marrying Vera after divorcing his wife, informs her father of the impending marriage off his daughter w*rth the Jewish fiddler. The Baron, a Russian of the most ortho-

dox type and a convinced antisemite, hastens to New York to rejoin his rebellious child, to whom his heart still goes out in affection. The Baron is a great music lover, and Vera, in an intensely dramatic interview, reminds him that Rubinstein was a Jew. He goes out to quiet his commotion and promises to meet David on his return. It appears that David has left the Mendel home and 'is living in a garret not far from A era’s abode. She quickly summons him and tells him that her father has weakened in his opposition. “Dear little father,” she exclaims, “if only he were not so narrow about Holy Russia!” David: If only my folks were not so narrow about Holy Judea! But tire ideals of the fathers shall not be foisted on the children. Each generation must live and die for its own dream. Vera: Yes, David, yes. You are the prophet of the living present. I am so happy. Kiss me. (He kisses her gently.) It is all too wonderful. You are happy, too? David: I cannot realize that all our troubles have melted away. Vera: You, David, who always see everything in such rosy colours? Now that the whole horizon is one great splendid rose you almost seem as if gazing out towards a blackness. David: We Jews are cheerful in gloom, mistrustful in joy. It is our tragic history. Vera: But you have come to end the tragic history, to throw off the coils of the centuries. David: Yes, yes, Vera. You bring back my sunnier self. I must be a pioneer on the lost road of happiness. Today shall be all joy, all lyric ecstasy. (Takes up his violin). Y’es, I will make my old fiddle-strings burst with joy! (At this moment the face of Baron Revendal appears at the door.) David: (Hoarsely.) The face! The face! Vera: David, my dearest! David: (His eyes closed.) Don’t be anxious. I shall be better soon. I oughtn’t to have talked about it, the hallucination lias never been so complete! Vera: Don’t speak. Rest against Vera’s heart, till it has passed away. (The Baron comes dazedly forward, half with a shocked sense of Vera’s impropriety. half to relieve her of* her burden. She motions him back.) This is the work of your Holy 'Russia. Baron: (Harshly). What is the matter with him? David’s violin falls from his grasp. Only the bow remains in his band.) David: The voice! (He opens his eyes, stares frenziediy at the Baron, then struggles out of Vera’s arms.) Vera: (Trying to hold him). Dearest! David: Let me go. (He moves like a sleep-walker towards the paralyzed Baron, puts out his left hand and testingly touches his face.) Baron: (Shuddering back.) Hands off! David: (Shrieking.) A-a-a-h! It is flesh and blood. No, it is stone, the man of stone! Monster! (Raises the bow frenziediy.) Baron: (Whipping out his pistol.) Baek, dog! David: Ha! You want my life, too! Is the cry not yet loud enough? Baron: The cry? David: (Mystically.) Can you not hear it? The voice of the blood of my brothers crying out against you from the ground? Oh, how can you bear not to turn that pistol against yourself and execute upon yourself the justice which Russia denies you? Baron: Tush! (Pockets the pistol a little Shamefacedly.) Vera: Justice, on himself? For what? David: For crimes 'beyond human penalty, for obscenities beyond human utterance, for— Vera: You are raving. David: Would to heaven T were. Vera: But this is my 'father. David: Your father! God! (Staggers back, drops bow). Baron: Come, Vera, I told you— Vera: (Frenziediy, shrinking track.) Don’t touch me! Baron: (Starting aback in amaze.), Vera! Vera: (Hoarsely.) Say it’s not true. Baron: What is not true? Vera: What David said. It was the mob iliat massacred. You had no band in it? Baron:' (Sullenly.)' T Was there with my soldiers. (Takes pistol half mechanically from her drooping hand.) David: (Pale, leaning against a chaff,

kisses.) And yon looked on with that eold face of hate while nty mother —- Baron: (Sullenly.) I could not see everything. David: Now and again you ordered your soldiers to fire. Vena: (In joyous relief.) Ah, he did cheek the mob; he did tell his soldiers to fire! David: At any Jew who tried to defend himself. Vera: God; (Falls on the sofa, buries her head on the cushion, moans.) Baron: It was the people avenging itself, Vera. The people rose like a flood. It had centuries of spoliation to wipe out. The voice of the people is the voice of God. Vera: (Moaning.) But you eould have stopped them! Baron: I had no orders to defend the foes of Christ and the Czar. The people— Vein: (Moaning.) But you could have stopped them! Baron: Who ean stop a flood? I did my duty. A soldier's duty iis not so pretty as a musician's. Vera: (Moaning.) But you eould have'stopped them! Baron: Silence! You talk like an ignorant girl, blinded by passion. The pogrom is a holy crusade. Are we Russians the finst people to crush down the Jew? No, from the dawn of history the nations have had to stamp upon him, the Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Persians, the Babylonians, the Greeks, the Romans— David: ’ Yes, it is true. Even Christianity did not invent hatred. But not till Holy Church arose 'were we burnt at the stake, and not till Holy Russia arose were our 'babes torn limb from limb. Oh, it is not much! Delivered from Egypt four thousand years ago to be slaves to the Russian Pharaoh to-day. (Falls as if kneeling on a chair, leans his head on the rail.) O God, shall we always be broken on the wheel of history? How long, 0 Lord, how long? Baron: (Savagely.) Till you are all stamped out. ground into your dirt. (Tenderly.) Look up, little Vera! You saw how your little father loves you; bow he was ready to hold out his hand and bow this cur tried to bite it. Be calm; tell him a daughter of Russia cannot mate with dirt. ... Vera: (Rising.) Father, I will be calm. I will speak without passion or blindness. I will tell David the truth. I was never absolutely sure of my love for him.- Perhaps that was why I doubted'■his love for me. Often a.fter our enchanted moments there would come a nameless uneasiness, some vague instinct, relic of the long centuries of Jew-loath-ing, some strange shrinking from his Christless creed. Baron: (Exultantly.) .She is a Revendal. Vera: But now (Turns to David) now, David. I conic to you and say in the words of Ruth, thy people shall be. my people and thy God my God! (Stretches out her hands to David.) Baron: You shameless— (His pistol rises in his hand almost of itself, then lowers, as he perceives that David remains impassive.) Vera: (With agonised cry.) David! David: (In low icy tone.) You cannot come to me. There is a river of blood between us. Vera: Were it seven seas our love must cross them. David: Easy words to you. You never saw that red flood bearing the mangled breasts of women and the spattered brains o.f babes and sucklings. Oh! (Covers eyes with hands.) It was your Easter and the air was full of holy bells and the streets of holy processions, priests in black and girls in white, and waving palms and crucifixes, and everybody exchanging Easter eggs and kissing one another three times on the mouth in token of peace and good-will, and even the .lew-boy felt the spirit of love brooding over the earth, though he did not then know that this Christ, whom holy chants proclaimed re-risen, was born in the form of a brother Jew. And what added to the peace and holy joy was that our own Passover was shining before us. My mother had already made the raisin •wine and my greedy little brother Soloman had sipped it on the sly that very morning. We were all at home, all except my father. He was away in a little synagogue at which he was cantor. I was playing my cracked little fiddle. Little Miriam was making her doll dance to it. , Ah! that decrepit old china doll! We were all laughing to see it caper to my music.' Suddenly my father flies in through the door desperately, clasping Co his breast the Holy .Scroll. We cry

out to him to explain, and then we see that in.that beloved mouth of song there is no longer a tongue! Ho tries to bar the door. The rnotb breaks in. We dash out through the back into the street. There are the soldiers and the Face! Vera: (Who has listened tensely, gives a low spasmodic sob.) O God! (Baron turns away slowly.) David: When I came to myself I saw lying beside me a strange shapeless something. By the crimson doll in what seemed a hand I knew it must be little Miriam. The doll was a dream of beauty and perfection beside all that remained of my sister, of my mother, of greedy little Solomon! Oh, you Christians can only see that rosy splendour on the horizon of happiness. And the Jew didn’t see rosily enough for you. Ha! Ha! Ha! The Jew who gropes in one great crimson mist. Vera: Hush, David! Your laughter hurts more than tears. Let Vera comfort you. (Kneels by his chair, tries to put arms round him.) David: (Shuddering.) Take them away! Don't you feel the cold dead pushing between us? Vera: (Unfalteringly moving his faee towards her lips.) Kiss me! David: I should feel the blood on my lips. Vera: My love shall wipe it out. David: Unwinds her dinging arms and springs up.) Love! Christian love! (Laughs frenziedly.) Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! For this I gave up my people, darkened the home that sheltered me. There was always a still voice at my heart calling me back, but I heeded nothing, only the voice of the butcher’s daughter! (Brokenly.) Let me go home, let me go home! (Begins tottering towards the door with dazed pauses, but never looking at Vera. The door closes behind him.) — Remarkable Closing Scene. Aet four transpires on the fourth of July. David has joined Pappelmeister’s new orchestra and his symphony is being performed for the first time before the immigrants of all nations banded together under the guidance of the settlement workers. He scores a musical triumpn, but his heart is dead to the praise showered upon him. Even when Vera adds her voice to the general chorus he is not consoled. “The irony in all the congratulations,” he bitterly exclaims. “How can I ever endure them, when I know what a terrible failure I have made.” Vera: Failure! You have produced something real and new. David: Every bar of my music cried, “Failure! Failure! Failure!” Vera (vehemently, coming still nearer) : Oh no! no! I watched the faces, those faces of toil and sorrow, those faces from many lands. In some strange beautiful way the inner meaning of your music stole into all those simple souls. David (springing up) : And my soul! What of my soul? False to its own mission, its own dream. That is what I mean by failure, Vera. I preached of God’s Crucible, this great new continent that could melt up all race differences and vendettas, and God tried me with, his supremest test. He gave me a heritage from the Old World, hate and vengeance and blood, and said: “Cast it all into my Crucible.” And I said: “Even thy Crucible cannot melt thia hate, cannot drink up this blood.” And so I sat crooning over the dead past, the prophet of the God of our children. Oh, how my music mocked me! And you, so fearless, so high above fate, how you must despise me! Vera: I? Ah no! David- You must. You do. Your words still sting. Were it seven seas between us, you said, our love must cross them. And I, I who have prated of seven seas! Vera: Not seas of blood! (Shudders and covers her eyes.) David: There lies my failure, to have brought it to your eyes, instead of blotting it from my own. Vera: No man could have blotted it out. David: Yes, by faith in the Crucible. From the blood of battlefields spring daisies and buttercups. But in the supreme moment my faith was found wanting. You came to me, and I thrust you away. Vera: I ought not to have come to you. We must not meet again. David: Ah. you cannot forgive me! Vera: Forgive? It is 1 that should go down on my knees for my father’s sin. (She is half sinking to her knees. He stops her by a gesture and a cry.) David: No! The sins of the fathers

shall not be visited on the children. Vera: My brain follows you, but not my heart. It is heavy with the sense of unpaid debts, debts that can only cry for forgiveness. David: You owe me nothing. Vera: But my father, my people, my country —(Breaks down, recovers her self.) My only consolation is, you need nothing. David (dazed): I need nothing? Vera: Nothing but your music, your dreams. David: A.nd your love. Do 1 not need that? Vera (shaking her head sadly) : No. David: Your love for me is dead? Vera: No, it is my love for myself that is dead. David: You torture me. What do you mean Vera: I used to be jealous of your music, your prophetic visions. 1 wanted to come first, before them all! Now, dear David, I only pray that they may fill your life to the brim. David: But they cannot. Vera: They will. Have faith in yourself. in your mission! Good-bye. (The music from below surges up softly, sad and sweet.) David (dazed) : You love me and you leave me? Vera: What else ean I do? Shall the shadow of Kishineff hang over all your years to come? Shall I kiss you and leave blood upon your lips, cling to you and be pushed away by all those cold dead hands? David (taking her bands with a great cry) : Yes, cling to me despite them all, cling to me till all these ghosts are exorcised, cling to me till our love triumphs over death. Kiss me, kiss me now. Vera (resisting, drawing back) : I dare not! It will make you remember. David: It will make me forget. Kiss me. (A slight pause of hesitation, filled up by the Cathedral music from “Faust” coming softly from below.) Vera (slowly) : I will kiss you as we Russians kiss at Easter, the three kisses of peace. (Kisses him three times on the mouth as in ritual solemnity.) David (very calmly) : Easter was the date of the massacre. See! I am at peace. Vera: God grant it endure! (They stand quietly hand in hand.) How beautiful the sunset is after the storm! (David turns. The sunset, which has begun to grow beautiful just after Vera's entrance, has now reached its most magnificent moment. Below there are narrow lines of saffron and gold, and above the sky is one glory of burning flame.) David (prophetically exalted by the spectacle) : It is the fires of God round His Crucible. (Drops her hand and points downwards.) There she lies, the great melting-pot. Listen! Can't you hear the Iroaring and the bubbling? There gapes her mouth (Points ea<st.) the harbour where a thousand mammoth feeders come from the ends of the world to pour in their human freight. Ah, what a stirring and seething! Celt and Latin, Slav and Teuton, Greek and Syrian, black and yellow. Vera (softly, nestling to him) : Jews and Gentile— David: Yes, East and West and North and South, the palm and the pine, the hole and the equator, the Crescent and the Cross, how the great Alchemist melts and fuses them with His purging (lame! (Raises hie hands in benediction over the shining city.) Ah, all ye unborn millions, fated to fill this giant continent, the God of our children give you peace! (An instant’s solemn pause. Then from below comes up the sound of voices and instruments joining in "My Country, ’Tis of Thee”: the sunset sinks to a more restful golden glory, the curtain falls slowly.) The High Hand o£ Popular Prejudice. The news was received last week that Herr Richard Strauss’ opera “Salome” has been prohibited for production at Covent Garden Opera House, London, by the Censor. The news can hardly be regarded as surprising. The objection to "Salome” is that it portrays on the stage a Biblical subject, thus breaking the unwritten law of respectable England. For the same reason, Wagner's last and possibly his most sublime opera, “Parsifal,” is denied to the British public because of its intimate suggestion of the Christian Saviour. The difficulty of presenting such productions in Englishspeaking countries outside of America is the fact that one has only got to say they touch Biblical characters, and yon

have a hoot of good people incenses against them at once. The Americans, strange to say. despite the Puritanical strain that runs through the race, have produced both "Salome'' and “Parsifal” with eminent success. On the Continent, of course, where racial prejudices against art are not so conspicuous as in AngloSaxon communities, both operas are produced without restriction. "Parsifal" is confined to Wagner's own theatre at Bayreuth because it was his wish that it should be so. It can hardly be said to be an opera, but more in the nature of a sacred and singularly impressive performance. A very tine description of the opera is given in the late Rev. H. R. Haweis’ charming book, entitled “My Musical Life.” • Salome” treads on equally dangerous ground where conservative religious thought i< concerned, it. is frankly a horrible story, and both Wilde, the poet, and Strauss, the musician, have conspired to make it such artistically—not brutally. It would never lie produced in Australasia, for the reason that apart from all technical difficulties, there are comparatively few people who would be interested in it. Norn- the less there is a considerable section of musical people in England who will be further incensed against the high hand of popular prejudice and artistic ignorance that onc-e more denies them the right to see and hear what all other intellectual circles of Western Europe and America have had every opportunitv to follow. A Charming Children’s Play. London has been making a distinct advance this season in juvenile plays for children of all ages up to greybeards. After Maeterlinck's fairy play "Tile Blue Bird,” which will exert a tremendous influence on future Christmas productions in the Homeland, comes a delightful play at the Garrick, entitled "Where Children Rule.” It is essentially a young folks' play—■ a play acted by children for children, a play whereof the sober nonsense is such as miust appeal as directly to childhood's heart as would a mother's open arms. Its theme is a land where children really do rule, where sums and spankings are reserved for the grow-n-up<s, where naughty parents are sent to bed or made to stand for half an hour in a corner with their faces turned to the wall. This Wonderful land has been discovered by David Pennyfather, a Boy Scout, and his tiny sister Elizabeth, who leave home tor a week-end to explore its alluring mysteries. On their way to the gates of the enchanted realm they rescue a number of its inhabitant- who have been captured by a schoolmaster of the outer world, who treats them like the ordinary children that they seem to be. For this good deed they are exalted in the new land of freedom, whose atom of a baby queen —elected to the throne for the very proper reason that her dimples are sweeter than those of any other baby- loads them down with marks of royal favour, and, incidentally, dances like a fairy. AVicked Schoolmaster. In due time David's father and mother come to take their ’children home, and simultaneously the wicked schoolmaster arrives and endeavours to break the spell which enables the small folks to keep the upper hand in the land. “Where Children Rule.” Needless to say, he* is foiled by David; foiled also is another wicked conspirator who endeavours to dethrone the Queen by producing a baby with lovelier dimples. These dimples are proved to be false onis, however, and the dear little real queen retains undisputed possession of her throne and country. There is music all through the play—songs reminiscent of nursery rhymes, and dances that belong to fairyland. But the points that win the grown-ups in the audience are the remarkable beauty of the setting, and the infinite cleverness of the children in the cast —tiny Bella Terry as Elizabeth, little Marjorie Dane as the Queen, Master Bobbie Andrews as David the Boy Scout, and. in particular, a three foot high rogue Master Eric Rae, who laid the seven feet or thereabouts of Mr. Jorroeks (Mr. Reginald'Crompton) across his knee, when occasion so required, and spanked him soundly and well. The Busy Film Man. The moving picture continues to claim regular support from the large section of the city populaces in New Zealand, who prefer its delights to those the oriinary stage presents. Both Fuller nmf

He nry Hayward, at the Opera House and the Royal Albert Hall respectively, are showing both amusing and instructional films. It lies within the scope of the cinematograph man to educate the masses as much as to amuse. The travel pictures, that are a frequent and popular item with both firms above mentioned, do a lot towards shaping public conception as to the lands across the sea. The machine has yet to be produced that will give the voices conjointly with the actions of the figures that flit gaily across our many pictured screens. The cinematograph still continues to be a virile and popular institution, and so long as it adds to the people’s amusement a knowledge of the wider world of men and things, its vogue will always be welcome. * Tire Flag Lieutenant.” With the production of “The Flag Lieutenant” as the second piece of their Auckland season at His Majesty's. Mr. J. Williamson's new dramatic company emerged from the melodramatic commonplaces and restrictions of “The Cheat” into an atmosphere far more serene and healthy. Nowadays there are two distinct points of view from which the stage must be viewed—one is the actors, the other the piece itself. A poor piece not only deprives an actor of the opport unity of giving an audience the edge of his talent—it endangers the reputation of a company in the eyes of an undiscerning public. “The Flag Lieutenant” is a sparkling, naval comedy, with an undercurrent of serious drama. It is clear, consistent, and pointed with delightful Hashes of satire. When a man has carried a forlorn hope to success in the face of desperate odds, it is more than the commonplace that leads an author to remark that the hero will be almost as famous as if he had scored a century in a test match. Breezy utterances of this calibre burst from the dialogue in almost every scene. They strike one as the flashes of a merry wit untouched by gall. “The Flag Lieutenant” is essentially English in its sentiments, and appeals directly to the national susceptibility for the navy. The scene is laid in Malta, first on board H.M.S. Royal Edward, in Rear-Admiral the Hon. Sir Berkeley Wynne's cabin. ■Richard Laxelles is a light-hearted, reckless Flag Lieutenant, whom the Admiral permits to accompany Major Theosiger with a flying expedition to quell a rising in Crete. Theosiger ami Lascelles are intimate friends. The Major has seen over twenty years' service without gaining a char.ee for distinction. He is poor, where his younger ami more ardent companion has wealth. Tlieosiger's chance, however, has come at the eleventh hour, and immediately after he has met and ■became interested in Mrs. (ameron, a pretty widow, who stimulates him to make a bid for achievement. The trouble in Crete is more serious than ■was at first realised. The two officers with a detachment of troops, effect a junction with Colonel McLeod, ere they arc cut oil’ l»y thousands of rebels. Food and ammunition are desperately needed. Half a mile away is a telegraph station, by means of which communication can tbe got through to the fleet to send assistance. Theo-iger determines to pierce the enemy's lines and get a message through to the station. He dons the garb of the enemy, hut he is knocked senseless by a ricochet bullet when he is.on the point, of leaving. In a moment of characteristic daring Lascelles dons •the Major'." disguise, and taking desperate chances accomplishes his mission. He returns to the camp unscathed except for a bullet wound in the wrist. His sense of discipline i-. subordinated to an intolerable desire to what he terms “pull the Major's leg,” when questioned as to his absence, at a time his services as interpreter happened to be badly in requisition. Theosiger recovers only to puffer a complete loss of memory concerning the expedition. It is then that Lascelles decides io give his companion the credit of his achievement, which subsequently brought succour to the garrison. On the consequences of this act of self sacrifice, the dramatic development of the play turn*, ami it must be seen to realise its force. The story appear." improbable, but it L so cleverly ami circumstantially woven, and the force of reality conveyed by excellent noting is so strong that much of it cannot but be accepted as stirring sensational drama underlying a lighter world of comedy. The dialogue readily lends Itself to intelligent acting. It was a rare pleasure to see Mr. Thomas Kiqg<t on ns Lascelles emancipated froia

the crudities of melodrama, personifying to the full of his generous store of vitality and resonance of voice the reckless light-hearted Flag Lieutenant. He not only realised the essentials of the character, but in voice and gesture gave it vivid impersonation. He was admirably contrasted to tha difficult, but strongly individualised, personality of Major Theosiger, which Mr. Cyril Mackay treated with rare insight. The close of the third act. where Theosiger as the most intimate and tried friend of Lascelles asks the latter why he is silent on the closing incidents of the campaign in Crete, leads up to a strong curtain by the splendid acting of both men. As a study in fidelity of impersonal ion and a finished character, Mr. Geo. Titlieradge, as the Admiral, leaves little to be desired. He has the rarer qualities that stamp the artist. It is seldom an actor of his calibre comes before the footlights in New Zealand. Miss Ethel Warwick makes a charming widow of Mrs. Cameron. She invests the character with all the understanding of maturity, and yet one never escapes her own youthful ehann and attractiveness. Miss Emma Temple as .Mrs. Gough Bogle, and the impersonation of Lady Hermione Wynne by Miss Nellie Calvin were the best of the other performances of individual Inerit and quality. The piece will be continued till Saturday night next, and followed by “Brewster’s Millions” on the Monday. Stray Notes. Mr Alfred Hill left last week for Sydney, where he will be staying some weeks on a visit, the object of ’which may form the subject of an interesting announcement later. The Asches who have been drawing in the shekels so abundantly in Melbourne and Sydney are by no means without their critics. Chic of these writing to the “Bulletin” says: Even at this late hour I am impelled to rise up and essay to dam the flood of adulation which is surging over the heads of the Asches. The thing that is most stressed is the essential artistry of the couple. In the Art line they have been acclaimed It with deafening emphasis. For a while the universal clamour in re the intensely artistic fashion - in wludh Asche and his spouse presented the Bard impressed me. Then I began to have my doubt?. Consider an Asche audience. Is it a serious crowd with the spectacles and tall ascetic forehead that bespeak intellect. Not so. At Sydney Chi., while “Othello” was on, I noticed not on one but on four several occasions that the audience, broadly speaking, was the good old nar-row-browed peanut-eating stage-gore-lustful-aggregation of humans that used to roll up there in quest of shudders during Bilanderson’s regime. I visited “the Shrew” twice. Both times the house was what I would term a “C'harley’s Aunt” one. These patrons of Asche weren’t there to acclaim any fine shades of humour or such streaks erf poetry as “The Shrew” owns. The object of their desire was a hearty -farce: some-thing-with lots of assault, noise and battery in it, an 'entertainment calculated io cause aching sides, short, sharp veils, enraptured stampings and long, deep howls of joy. Asche and his ecdlea-gues provide this brand of theatric goods. No single opportunity, whether in make-up, business or delivery, is neglected to evoke the loud laugh of the uncultivated bloque. An when melodrama is required! Well, watch Othello Asolie as he twists the dagger horiffieally in the writhing body l>eneath him. note the berlud on his hands, observe the horrid blaze of bis African eyeballs. The thing is a lesson in the art of making the public’s flesh creep like a baby on the floor. But it isn’t any other sort of art. It is a dashed sight too crude.