“THE CHEVALEER” AT THE GARRICK.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume XIII, Issue 763, 20 October 1904, Page 20

“THE CHEVALEER” AT THE GARRICK.

Mr Arthur Bourchier let in the autumn theatrical season in August when he reopened the Garrick Theatre with the production of Mr Henry Arthur Jones's new comedy, entitled, “ The Chevaleer.” In many respects the Garrick is one of the best managed playhouses in London. The architect has ensured the comfort of the public by giving them ample space between the capacious seats —and what that means only the professional playgoer or inveterate amateur can fully appreciate—the nippy little pages in the front of the house never oblige one to ask for a light for one’s cigarette, and the critics are provided with programmes into which several blank pages are bound and to which pencils are attached. It gives one a feeling of physical revulsion to have to inscribe unfavourable comments on those programmes, and on Saturday evening I could only find the courage to write, “ Why, oh, why, in this otherwise ex-emplarily-conducted house, does the old fee system still obtain ? Why should a guest be charged a nimble sixpence to ensure the safety of his overcoat ?” I did not dare to hazard a solution of the problem I propounded. London may be empty in August, as tradition insists, but the Garrick on Saturday was packed with a capacity audience which included a number of wellknown people, and the reception accorded to “ The Chevaleer ” was, on the whole, very cordial. The galleryites indulged in some gratuitous booing on the fall of the curtain, but the “ ayes ” were distinctly in the majority, and the goodnatured smile that Mr Bourchier directed towards his “ bob-a-nob ” patrons indicated that he was not attaching any undue importance to their verdict. The production, without betraying any serious pretensions to be regarded as an “ epochmaking job ” —to adopt the picturesque phraseology of the Chevalier Mounteagle —is a clever and amusing piece of work, and it should serve to entertain Mr Bourchier’s admirers for some time to come. There is a drunken scene to commence with which is too long for art and too defective in its realism to serve any useful or profitable purpose, and there are minor details which betray injudiciousness in the author’s selection of material, but the principal weakness of the play is observed in the comparative frailty of the structure to support -such a stupendous central character as that of the Chevalier Mounteagle. The Chevaleer —his title was self-confer-red in recognition of many valuable services rendered —is a showman in appearance, habits, and ambitions. His face is a study in smiles and radiant self-con-sciousness, topped by flowing, oily locks, and bounded on the south by a gor-

geous fair waistcoat adorned with a massive watch-chain of many saucer-like pendants. His walk is a separate ecstasy; his tones are dulcet and rotund as those of a well-manipulated concertina ; his language is weird, ornate, and wonderful. He believes implicitly in himself, his personal magnetism, his profession, and his star. His luck is colossal. When, in the first act, Lady Anne Kellond leaves her husband’s roof as a protest against his project of giving a huge centenary fete in Kellond Park, in honour of an heroic ancestor who earned the deathless sobriquet of Inkerman ” Kellond, she has the misfortune to encounter the Chevalier Mounteagle in the parlour of the Woolpack Hotel at Grandbury. The Chevaleer learns that he is the wife of the “gallant and aristocratic Bart.” who has advertised for a master-showman to organise the centenary. Immediately he proffers his claim upon her good nature to obtain for him the office, and the lady hastily consents. Moreover, she accepts his escort and a seat in his carriage, and returns home as the sworn supporter of his pretensions. This change of front on Lady Anne’s part would seem extraordinary to the audience if they had not learned that her ladyship has committed an accidental indiscretion which she imagines the showman has become acquainted with. As a matter of fact, the incident is so entirely innocent that no woman outside a play would endeavour to hide it from her husband, but Lady Anne is a victim to the exigencies of the dramatic moment, and she suffers herself to be ogled, and dictated to, and terrorised by the Chevaleer rather than give a matter-of-fact explanation of a simple, if ridiculous, occurrence. But the Chevaleer does not know this —he attributes the lady’s amiability to his personal charms, and he exploits it solely in the interests of the fete he is to organise. When he presently discovers that it is fear rather than favour that actuates

the lady’s action with regard .to him, he is slightly bewildered but in no wise cast down. He doesn’t even trouble his head as to what the particular piece of information he is supposed to be possessed of really amounts to. It is sufficient for him to know that a bland smile, a knowing look or a “ I-could-and-I-would ” familiarity of tone brings Lady Anne into line instantly, and he does not hesitate to employ them. In short, he plays upon a wife’s uneasy conscience, and she seconds all his proposals as to the dimensions and cost of the fete with read;, obedience.

And her support is most valuable, since Sir John Kellond has changed his mind about the fete-giving altogether, and he scorns the Chevaleer’s proposals as to expenses. For awhile the showman expostulates and cajoles to no purpose, until by a happy chance he adumbrates upon the inexpediency of washing one’s dirty linen in public. Whereupon the gallant Bart, winces, weakens, and gives in, and the Chevaleer has carte-blanche to spend what he likes and make the festival a sumptuous success, he realises that Sir John’s conscience can be stimulated by a reference to dirty linen. He doesn’t know that the baronet was once locked up, by accident, for a night in a sanitary laundry, in company with a couple of sanitary laundry-maids,, and has sedulously kept the incident from his wife. The Chevaleer neither knows nor cares, but whenever Sir John discloses a tendency to draw the purse-strings he drops a remark about dirty linen, and the tendency is curbed. The showman has not learned that Mrs Fulkes-Meesom, who is engaged to a straight-laced, plain-speaking parson, once put in a week at Edinburgh with a certain Captain in the Army, but he has seen her blanch during a conversation with Lady Anne when the word Edinburgh was mentioned, and directly he finds that she is intriguing to disclose Lady Anne’s secret and wreck the fete, he

gives her to understand that he is thoroughly cognisant of the Edinburgh episode. So Mrs Fulks-Meesom capitulates right away, and when the curtain falls the festival bids fair to be one of the most expensive, gorgeous, and nerveracking shows on record. I have given an idea of the kind of man the showman is, and it is only necessary to add that Mr Arthur Bourchier plays it with a breadth and variety of humorous invention and abounding high spirits. He takes the burden of the play upon his capable shoulders, and his march through the evening is a triumphant procession. The intrigue proper is slight and unengrossing, the other characters are colourless and old, and the dramatic movement is almost imperceptible, but the Chevaleer of Mr Bourchier rises superior to all these defects. It was certainly the actor’s triumph, and whatever success the play achieves will be due to his consummate art. —(“ L.V. Gazette.”)