ruene Kakadu
#mmemmnmmmunsnnmun
9.3. Der
box 15/3
braces her andl plunges a kute into her back.
It is a manifestation of erotomania, accentu¬
ated by Sadism. A distressing exhibition on
the stage. Ascene unfit to be seen and heard.
Very clever—alas, very human, too, bur in¬
compreisgasible to the bulk of the audience,
better that it should remain ununderstood. It
is bevond the province of art. It belongs to
the Clinique—or the book of learning. Nor
should it be compared with“ Ghosts“'; there
is no ethical groundwork in it—merely the
revelation of a terrible secret in the human
cupboard. The aeting in three instances was
perfect: Mr. Norman MeKinnel once more
condemned to portray aberration, terribly
realistie; Miss Ada King, a live figure of
woeful
netherworld self-euffieiency and
humour; Mr. Edmond Breon, the image of the
man whom we see Monday after Mndar in
the Marvlebone dock for having exacted wifely
##love, honour and obedience“' on Sabbath¬
ere when alcohol reigns supreme. Miss May
Blavney rightly outlined the unfortunate wife
in the first scene. Anon she eo swallowed her
words as to become inaudible and played to
the audience instead of her partners. She
used to be artless; she has become artificial.
III.
* Then came the world-famed Green
Cockatoo,' which has spent some ten vears in
crossing the Channel. Will people understand
it, thie grandly fantastic caricature of Paris
before the Place de la Grève became a by¬
word? Then, as now, the aristocracy loved
Pexeursions into the lower depths, or what is
represented as Bohemia. But now theretis no#
danger to descend, at Montmartre, into
boites where opprobrious names are a
cherished manner of welcome. But in 1789,
on that July 14 when the people rose as if by
magie to storm the Bastille, there was a
danger fer the counts and the dukes to enjoy
in the eine cellar of the Green Cockatoo
the antics of a band of unemployed actors ape¬
ing erime, apeing revolution for the delecta¬
tion of the noblesse. Even the actors them¬
selves did not know how far the fun meant
When Henri, the pet
serious business.
tragedian, newly wedded to Leocadie, and
deadly jealous, feigned the murder of his rival
üthe Duc, he hardly realised that, in a few
minutes, he would hear that what he had
mimieked was the truth. The truth which im¬
pelled real murder when the Dukercame to
the cellar to join his companions, who ap¬
plauded when he fell at his effort in acting.
Nor would they believe the manisc when he
#stormed in and told them incoherently that
#he Bastille had fallen. Had not the people
withont uttered murderous cries they would
have gone on carousing with their folk
enemies. Now they beat a hasty retreat. Let
them go, said the companions, their time will.
come eure enough. It was weird and wonder¬
ful. It taxed the brain, it kindled imagina¬
tion. How mad, yet how tragic it was. What,
boldness of dramatie painting—it reminded
oue of Meissonier—painted in words; and the
translation of Miss Penelope Wheeler never
betraved foreign origin. It might have been
an English play; I wish it had been that and
just a little shorter.“
It may seem to my r#ader that this come¬
what enthusiastic impression was derived from
the production at the Vaudeville. And I wish
that I could give the reply affirmative. But,
unfortunately, what I write above is the ap¬
preciation of the remarkable production of
the Stage Society, which introduced Schnitz¬
ler’s work to England. Although it was in no
wise perfect, there was at least an attempt ab
orchestration of voice and situations; there
was, to a certain extent, to be observed thef
dominating hand of a stage manager with a
definite conception of the play. In the re¬
vival there was nothing of that kind; it was
a pieture of the French Revolution as it has
lived for years in ridiculous absurdity in the
traditions of the theatre. The French Revo¬
Iution was emphatically not an orgy of beer
and alcohol, it, was an orgy of fanaticism,
roused by the oppression of centuries. The
artist who wishes to pieture this on the stage
should bear in mind the difference of effect:
mere drunkenness leads to hullabaloo,
freuetic enthusiasm for a cause graduates into
#tumult like a rising etorm. At the Vande¬
ville it was all noise, to say nothing of the
handicap of a small stage and clumsy setting.
Words were drowned and characters seemed
toexpress themselves powerlessly in general
vociferation. Such as could rise above the
din, like Mr. Norman MeKinnel, powerkul
as the actor, like the Duke of Mr. Malcolm
Cherry, a figure of distinction in a motley
stmosphere, left fragmentary impressions of
what the play really was. But, on the whole,
Schnitzler’s work had become melodrama in¬
stead of a subtie vision in miniature of a new
epoch in French history.
#mmemmnmmmunsnnmun
9.3. Der
box 15/3
braces her andl plunges a kute into her back.
It is a manifestation of erotomania, accentu¬
ated by Sadism. A distressing exhibition on
the stage. Ascene unfit to be seen and heard.
Very clever—alas, very human, too, bur in¬
compreisgasible to the bulk of the audience,
better that it should remain ununderstood. It
is bevond the province of art. It belongs to
the Clinique—or the book of learning. Nor
should it be compared with“ Ghosts“'; there
is no ethical groundwork in it—merely the
revelation of a terrible secret in the human
cupboard. The aeting in three instances was
perfect: Mr. Norman MeKinnel once more
condemned to portray aberration, terribly
realistie; Miss Ada King, a live figure of
woeful
netherworld self-euffieiency and
humour; Mr. Edmond Breon, the image of the
man whom we see Monday after Mndar in
the Marvlebone dock for having exacted wifely
##love, honour and obedience“' on Sabbath¬
ere when alcohol reigns supreme. Miss May
Blavney rightly outlined the unfortunate wife
in the first scene. Anon she eo swallowed her
words as to become inaudible and played to
the audience instead of her partners. She
used to be artless; she has become artificial.
III.
* Then came the world-famed Green
Cockatoo,' which has spent some ten vears in
crossing the Channel. Will people understand
it, thie grandly fantastic caricature of Paris
before the Place de la Grève became a by¬
word? Then, as now, the aristocracy loved
Pexeursions into the lower depths, or what is
represented as Bohemia. But now theretis no#
danger to descend, at Montmartre, into
boites where opprobrious names are a
cherished manner of welcome. But in 1789,
on that July 14 when the people rose as if by
magie to storm the Bastille, there was a
danger fer the counts and the dukes to enjoy
in the eine cellar of the Green Cockatoo
the antics of a band of unemployed actors ape¬
ing erime, apeing revolution for the delecta¬
tion of the noblesse. Even the actors them¬
selves did not know how far the fun meant
When Henri, the pet
serious business.
tragedian, newly wedded to Leocadie, and
deadly jealous, feigned the murder of his rival
üthe Duc, he hardly realised that, in a few
minutes, he would hear that what he had
mimieked was the truth. The truth which im¬
pelled real murder when the Dukercame to
the cellar to join his companions, who ap¬
plauded when he fell at his effort in acting.
Nor would they believe the manisc when he
#stormed in and told them incoherently that
#he Bastille had fallen. Had not the people
withont uttered murderous cries they would
have gone on carousing with their folk
enemies. Now they beat a hasty retreat. Let
them go, said the companions, their time will.
come eure enough. It was weird and wonder¬
ful. It taxed the brain, it kindled imagina¬
tion. How mad, yet how tragic it was. What,
boldness of dramatie painting—it reminded
oue of Meissonier—painted in words; and the
translation of Miss Penelope Wheeler never
betraved foreign origin. It might have been
an English play; I wish it had been that and
just a little shorter.“
It may seem to my r#ader that this come¬
what enthusiastic impression was derived from
the production at the Vaudeville. And I wish
that I could give the reply affirmative. But,
unfortunately, what I write above is the ap¬
preciation of the remarkable production of
the Stage Society, which introduced Schnitz¬
ler’s work to England. Although it was in no
wise perfect, there was at least an attempt ab
orchestration of voice and situations; there
was, to a certain extent, to be observed thef
dominating hand of a stage manager with a
definite conception of the play. In the re¬
vival there was nothing of that kind; it was
a pieture of the French Revolution as it has
lived for years in ridiculous absurdity in the
traditions of the theatre. The French Revo¬
Iution was emphatically not an orgy of beer
and alcohol, it, was an orgy of fanaticism,
roused by the oppression of centuries. The
artist who wishes to pieture this on the stage
should bear in mind the difference of effect:
mere drunkenness leads to hullabaloo,
freuetic enthusiasm for a cause graduates into
#tumult like a rising etorm. At the Vande¬
ville it was all noise, to say nothing of the
handicap of a small stage and clumsy setting.
Words were drowned and characters seemed
toexpress themselves powerlessly in general
vociferation. Such as could rise above the
din, like Mr. Norman MeKinnel, powerkul
as the actor, like the Duke of Mr. Malcolm
Cherry, a figure of distinction in a motley
stmosphere, left fragmentary impressions of
what the play really was. But, on the whole,
Schnitzler’s work had become melodrama in¬
stead of a subtie vision in miniature of a new
epoch in French history.