Chapter 3

The excuses for their interpolation in _Mr. Todd's Experiment_ were not marked by a very great subtlety. There was really none for the first three, which simply relieved _Mr. Todd_ of the tedious recital of the hero's disillusionments in love. The next two were introduced by way of illustrating his alleged gift of clairvoyance; and the last served frankly to fill in the interval while the rest of the company was away at dinner. The general effect of all these desultory little _Guignols_ was perhaps rather cheap, and not very complimentary to the intelligence of those of us who had outgrown a childish _penchant_ for peep-shows.

_Mr. Todd's Experiment_ (for I have spoken only of Mr. HACKETT'S) was to restore a _blasé_ and valetudinarian young man of thirty to a proper state of energy by recalling the memories of his past loves and so reviving in him a desire to stand well in the eyes of the sex. For this purpose he produces (1) a bunch of wood-violets to suggest (through the nose) the environment of his first passion; (2) a specially-tipped brand of cigarettes to revive (through the mouth) the sentiment of his second; and a gramophone record to recover (through the ear) the associations of his third.

So well does he succeed that the hero pulls himself together, shaves off his beard, becomes our OWEN NARES again, and sallies forth, habited for conquest, to pay calls on all the three. From all the three he retires disillusioned, having found them as egoistic as himself, and in the end finds solace rather shamelessly, in the love of a devoted slave who might have been his for the taking any time in the last several years.

The matter was pleasant enough, but its interest must, I think, have left us indifferent if it had not been for the diversion afforded by the playlets. While the idea was original, the presentation of it seemed to have a touch of amateurishness, though I would not go so far as to agree with the old fogey, played by Mr. FRED KERR, who pronounced the scheme to be "all Tommy rot." With the exception of one character--the devoted slave--the lightness of the dialogue, mildly cynical, was due not so much to its wit as to the absence of ponderable stuff. The easy trick, so popular with the modern playwright, of letting the audience down in the middle of a serious situation was illustrated by the hero when, being in deadly earnest, he tells every woman in turn that she is the only woman he has ever loved.

As _Mr. Todd_, Mr. HOLMAN CLARK was as fresh as he always is; but Mr. OWEN NARES could hardly hope to satisfy the exigent demands of adoration in the part of young _Carrington_. Who, indeed, could sustain his reputation as a figure of romance when addressed as "Arthur-John"? Mr. FRED KERR, who played _Martin Carrington_, the cantankerous uncle, cannot help being workmanlike; but he was asked to repeat himself too much. The best performance was that of Miss MARION LORNE, in the part of the hero's one devout lover, _Fancy Phipps_; her quiet sense of humour, salted with a slight American tang, kept the whole play together.

O.S.

"TEA FOR THREE."

Playwright Mr. ROI COOPER-MEGRUE, and principal players Miss FAY COMPTON, the wife; Mr. STANLEY LOGAN, the friend, and Mr. A.E. MATTHEWS, the husband, made a first-rate thing of two-thirds of _Tea for Three_.

The wife is without blemish physically or morally. The husband is faithful with a single-minded fidelity in thought, word and deed that looks (and, I am assured by equally innocent victims, is) positively deadly. The friend "frits and flutters" about in a distinctly casual, not to say polygamous, mood, but has one sacred place in his untidy heart in which the wife is enshrined. He can manage to sustain life so long as he may come to triangular tea on Thursdays. But the faithful husband puts his foot on that.

Hence the stolen lunch for two with which the play opens. Philosophy there is, and very good philosophy too, from the flutterer and fritter, and such love-making as every virtuous woman (at heart a minx) allows. She is sorry, doubtless, for the suffering she causes, but (this is my gloss, not, I think, the author's) is really enjoying it like anything and taking jolly good care to look her best. Then follow little lies and as little and as needless and quite innocent indiscretions; and the jealous husband on the rampage.

All this excellently put together, seasoned with wisdom and wit and most capably played; Miss FAY COMPTON, admirable example of a pretty actress who won't let herself be captured by stage tricks, making everything explicable except her continued love for her intolerable bore (and Turk) of a husband; Mr. A.E. MATTHEWS handling a desperately unsympathetic part, which was already beginning to look impossible, with great adroitness; and Mr. STANLEY LOGAN, though badly hampered by a shocking cold and fighting a coughing audience, carrying the bulk of the good talk and lifting it gently over the few difficult places with a brilliant and well-concealed art.

Thus till towards the end of the Second Act. Then a bad, a very bad, fairy stuffed into Mr. MEGRUE'S head the idea of the suicide lottery. The infuriated husband, finding his wife in her friend's room at 7 P.M. (frightfully improper hour), sternly offers his bowler (or Derby) hat, in which are two cards. The one marked with a cross is drawn by the flutterer and means that he is for it. He is to kill himself within twenty-four hours.... And all this with perfect seriousness.

You will see how the Third Act of a comedy which had tied itself in this kind of a knot simply could not be played. The author had completely sacrificed plausibility, and it was not uninteresting to see him twisting and turning, hedging and bluffing to save it; and a little uncomfortable to note the conviction oozing away out of the performers.... Queer also that it isn't more generally recognised that to come to the theatre with a loud persistent cough is a form of premeditated robbery with violence.

T.

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A NEW LEAGUE OF NATIONS.

The latest development in connection with the International Brotherhood movement is the establishment of a College of Correct Cosmopolitan Pronunciation. The need of such an institution has long been clamant, and the visit of the Ukrainian choir has brought matters to a crisis. At their concert last week several strong women wept like men at their inability to pronounce the title of one of the most beautiful items on the programme-- "Shtchedryk." Again, as Mr. SMILLIE must have bitterly reflected, how can we possibly render justice to the cause of Bolshevism so long as we are unable to pronounce the names of its leaders correctly? The same remark applies to the Russian Ballet; the Yugo-Slav handbell-ringers; the vegetarian Indian-club swingers from the Karakoram Himalayas; the polyphonic gong-players from North Borneo; the synthetic quarter-tone quartette from San Domingo; the anthropophagous back-chat comedians from the Solomon Islands; not to mention a host of other interesting companies, troupes, corroborees and pow-wows which are now in our midst for the purpose of cementing the confraternity of nations.

Suitable premises for the College have been secured in the heart of Mayfair and a competent staff of instructors has already been appointed, who, with the aid of gramophones, will be able to train the students to perfection in the requisite command of the most explosive gutturals, labials and sibilants. Doctor Prtnkeivitchsvtnshchitzky will be the director of the College; Dr. SETON WATSON and Mr. WICKHAM STEED have kindly undertaken to supervise the Yugo-Slav section, and the list of patrons and patronesses includes the names of the Prince of Prinkipo; Madame KARSAVINA, so long a victim of the mispronunciation of her melodious surname; Dr. DOUGLAS HYDE, the famous Irish scholar; Prenk-Bib-Doda, the Albanian chieftain; Sir RABINDRANATH TAGORE; Lord PARMOOR; Sir THOMAS BEECHAM and the Dowager Begum of BHOPAL.

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* * * * *

PEGASUS AT POLO.

"The following teams have entered for the Lahore Polo Tournament:--4th Cavalry, 17th Cavalry, 21st Lancers, 33rd Cavalry, 39th Central India Horse, Lahore, the Fox-hunters from Meerut, and the Royal Air Horse from Delhi."--_Civil and Military Gazette._

* * * * *

AN UP-TO-DATE COSTUME.

"For your evening dress I advise you simply to buy a piece of broad silver ribbon, pass it twice round the waist and knot it at the side, with a little bunch of berries and leaves caught into the knot."-- _Ladies' Paper._

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REVOLT OF THE SUPER-GEORGIANS.

WILD SCENES AT A MEETING OF PROTEST.

An Indignation Meeting, to protest against the outrageous attacks levelled against Georgian writers and critics by Professor NOYES in his recent lecture at the Royal Institution and by Mr. A.D. GODLEY in an article in the current _Nineteenth Century_, was held last Saturday evening at the Klaxon Hall. The chair was taken by Mr. EDWARD MARSH, C.M.G., who was supported on the platform by a compact bevy of Georgian bards; but at an early stage of the meeting it became apparent that a majority of those present in the body of the hall were extremists of violent type, and eventually, as will be seen, the proceedings ended in something approximating to a free fight.

Mr. MARSH began by a frank confession. He had taken a First Class in the Cambridge Classical Tripos. But the days in which he had been steeped to the lips in Latin and Greek were long past, never to return. For many years he had not composed hexameters, elegiacs or iambics. He had thrown in his lot with insurgent youth, not as a competitor or rival, but as an advocate, an admirer and an adviser. Indeed, if he might venture to say so, he sometimes acted as a brake on the wheels of the triumphal Chariot of Free Verse. He was not an adherent of the fantastic movement known as "Dada." He had no desire to abolish the family, morality, logic, memory, archæology, the law and the prophets. A little madness was a splendid thing, but it must be methodic. Still, for the rest he was a Georgian, heart and soul, and it pained him when men who ought to know better raised the standard of reaction and sought to discredit the achievements of his _protégés_. These attacks could not be passed over in silence, and the meeting had been convened to consider how they should be met, whether by a reasoned protest or by retaliation.

Miss Messalina Stoot, who punctuated her remarks with the clashing of a pair of cymbals, observed that as a thorough-going Dadaist she had no sympathy with the half-hearted attitude of the Chairman. It was a battle between Dada and Gaga, and emphatically Dada must win.

Mr. Mimram Stoot, who accompanied himself on the sarrusophone, endorsed the iconoclastic views of his sister. The only poetry that counted was that which caused spinal chills and issued from husky haughty lips. The moanings of mediæval molluscs were of no avail, though they might excite the crustacean fossils of Oxford, the home of lost causes.

Mr. Seumas O'Gambhaoil wished to protest against Mr. NOYES' statement that there were ten thousand Bolshevist poets in our midst. This was a shameless underestimate of the total, which was at least twice that figure. Mr. GODLEY'S offence, however, was much worse, as he was an Irishman, though of the self-expatriated type to which GOLDSMITH and MOORE belonged. The rest of Mr. O'Gambhaoil's speech was delivered in Irish, but he was understood to advocate a repatriation of all Irish renegades to be tried and dealt with by the Sinn Fein Republic.

Mr. Caradoc Cramp applauded the sentiments of the last speaker, but considered that he avoided the real issue. The Chairman had declared himself a Georgian, but that was not enough. The worst enemies of Free Verse were to be found in that camp. In technique and even in thought there was little to choose between many so-called Georgians and the most effete and reactionary Victorians. He alluded to the War poets, or rather the "Duration" poets, most of whom were already back-numbers. Between these and the Post-war poets, the true super-Georgians or paulo-post-Georgians, it was necessary to make a clean cut. To protest against Messrs. GODLEY and NOYES was a mere waste of time and energy. They might just as well protest against the existence of an extinct volcano or the skeleton of the brontosaurus. The real danger to be faced was the intrinsic subjectivity of the early and mid-Georgian poets, of whom the Chairman had been so powerful and consistent a supporter. He accordingly called for volunteers to storm the platform, and, a large number having responded to his appeal, Mr. MARSH was dislodged from the Chair after a gallant fight. A resolution of adherence to the principles of "Dada" having been passed by a large majority, the meeting broke up to the strains of the famous song--

a e ou o youyouyou i e ou o youyouyou drrrrdrrrrdrrrrgrrrrgrrrrrgrrrrrrrr beng bong beng bang boumboum boumboum boumboum.

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"Gentleman, Interested in Tattooing and largely covered, would like to hear from other enthusiasts to compare notes."--_Times._

We trust the "bare-back" mode is not going to spread to the more modest sex.

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From a "stores" circular:--

"THIS WEEK'S ECONOMY OFFERS.

Honey in Sections, each 3/9, three for 14/0."

The economy consists, of course, in buying them one at a time.

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WATER-BABIES.

In a limbo of desolate waters, In the void of a flood-stricken plain, You will find them--the sons and the daughters Of tropical rain.

For when rivers are one with the ocean, When the ricefields and roads are no more, There's a feeling of magic, a notion Of fairyland lore;

And the babies of Burma can revel In a nursery of whirlpool and slime, Where it thunders and rains like the devil For weeks at a time.

They paddle their rafts through the jungle; They swim through a network of leaves; They clamber with never a bungle To dive from the eaves.

'Tis an orgy of goblins, an image Of nudity flouting the flood, Of shorn-headed brownies who scrimmage And splash in the mud.

As we row neath a tamarind, one'll Roll off with a gesture of fright, Bobbing up like a cork at our gunwale And gurgling delight.

But never a stanza shall measure The joy of that desperate crew Of four-year-olds scouring for treasure Astride a bamboo.

Their fathers smoke, huddled in sorrow, Their mothers chew betel and fret, And the pariahs howl for a morrow Which shall not be wet;

The plovers wheel o'er them complaining, And it's only the babies who pray That the skies may be raining and raining For ever and aye.

J.M.S.

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ANOTHER MESOPOTAMIAN SCANDAL.

"The commodious and fast ss. 40 will leave Basrah for Baghdad and all intermediate ports on Saturday morning at 9 A.M. Passengers will embark at 10 A.M."--_Basrah Times._

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"END OF COTTON SUIT.

DRAMATIC COLLAPSE."--_Daily Paper._

We are more than ever convinced of the superior wearing qualities of woollen.

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"The Government of the Commonwealth of Australia agrees to the admission on passport of Indian merchants, students, tourests, with there irrespective wives."--_Indian Paper._

But ought any Government to encourage this sort of thing?

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Following the iconoclastic spirit of the age, Mr. BARRY PAIN has essayed in _The Death of Maurice_ (SKEFFINGTON) the revolutionary experiment of a murder mystery tale that does not contain (_a_) a love interest, (_b_) a wrongly suspected hero, (_c_) a baffled inspector, (_d_) an amateur, but inspired, detective. It would be a grateful task to add that the result proves the superfluity of these time-worn accessories. But the cold fact is that, to me at least, the proof went the other way. From the first I was painfully aware of a lack of snap about the whole business, and I am more than suspicious that the author himself may have shared my unwilling indifference. _Maurice_ was an artistic bachelor, a landowner, a manufacturer of jam, a twin (with a bogie gift of knowing at any moment the relative position of his other half, which might have been worked for far more effect than is actually obtained from it), and a reputation of making enemies. He had also an unusual neighbour, in the person of a young woman whose unconventionality led her to perambulate the common at midnight, playing the first bars of _Solveig's Song_ upon the flute. One night, at the close of the first chapter, a gun was heard. But you are wrong to suppose (however naturally) that the flute-player was the victim. It was _Maurice_. And of course the problem was, who did it. I have told you my own experience of the working out; nothing written by Mr. BARRY PAIN can ever be really dull, just as no story starting with a mysterious murder can lack a certain intrigue; but the fact remains that my wish, heroically resisted, to look on to the last chapter was prompted more often by impatience than by any compelling curiosity. Others may be happier.

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The author of _A Journal of Small Things_ has done much to make us understand the sufferings of stricken France and the more intimate sorrows of war. _Chill Hours_ (MELROSE) deals with that dark period before the end, when, to some, it seemed all but certain that the will to victory must fail. Of the three parts of this gracious little book the first consists of six sketches of life behind the lines, life both gentle and simple, as affected by war. "Odette in Pink Taffeta," an episode of bereavement, is in particular exquisitely visualised. "Their Places" and "The Second Hay" treat, with a quiet intensity of conviction, of the absolutely deadening absorption, by overwork and anxiety, of peasant wives and children left to carry on in the absence of their men. The third part is a series of hospital vignettes. They do not attempt to be too cheery, but they have the stamp of realised truth. "Nostalgia," the second part, is in another mood--recalled memories of the beauties of a loved land and of dear common things affectionately seen. To those who dare look at war with open eyes and who take pleasure in sincere and beautifully-phrased writing I commend Mrs. HELEN MACKAY'S book without reserve.

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_Somewhere in Christendom_ (ALLEN AND UNWIN) is somewhat embarrassing to a reviewer, for it has the theme of a great book with the manner of a trivial one. It is the history of a very much smaller nation, Ethuria, left despoiled and starving at the end of a nine-years' war, in which its great neighbours have used it as a battle-ground. Revolution begins, but a woman prophet steps in and switches it off in an unusual direction. The Ethurians perfect among themselves that fellowship which is the nice ideal behind many nasty manifestations in the real world, and, when next they are invaded by neighbouring nations anxious to use them as an excuse for belligerency, they resolutely stick to their guns (only the metaphor is most unsuitable), refuse to find any cause of quarrel with their "foreign brothers," and finally persuade them to abandon the ideals of war, so that peace on earth becomes a reality at last. Here is the book's theme; its working out allows for a boxing match between the President of Hygeia and the Foreign Secretary of Tritonia as the minimum of hostilities; a wicked newspaper lord, who pulls strings in both countries, and a faithful butler to the Royal Family, who becomes assistant state nursemaid and cleans silver as a hobby. Though I quite agree with Miss EVELYN SHARP and the Ethurians that it _is_ love that makes the world go round, I am not so sure that either hers or theirs is the best way of advocating their common cause.

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You may remember an original and striking book of papers about the theatre under the title of _Buzz-Buzz_. Its author, JAMES E. AGATE, has now followed it with another, called, rather grimly, _Responsibility_ (RICHARDS). You will be absolutely correct in guessing that this is not a treatise on revue, being indeed an autobiographical novel of (I feel bound to add) precisely the same calibre as, in the sister realm of drama, made the name of Manchester at one period a word of awe. Why do these young Mancunians recollect to such stupendous purpose? Here is Mr. AGATE, with an introduction of forty-four pages, all about time and infinity, before he can get his protagonist so much as started anywhere at all. It is a little like one of those demon-scenes out of the pantomimes he describes so lovingly--"_Do so! May safety and success attend on Crusoe._" But of course the subsequent action is more responsible. I imagine Mr. AGATE'S picture of young-man life in the Manchester of the nineties to be very much like the real thing. Relaxation was not wholly remote from it. Cotton and commandments were broken with equal facility. Also you may be impressed by the number of Germans in it. Finally, after telling us, sometimes engagingly, sometimes verbosely, all he can remember about Lancashire, Mr. AGATE brings his hero to Town, levers him along, year after year, and gets (almost on his last page) to his big situation. I won't spoil it. _Responsibility_, which might better have been called "Garrulity," is a novel containing boredom and charm in about equal proportions; not to mention promise for the days when its author has learned to discipline his too-ready pen.

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