The Theatre
(" THE DANCE OF DEATH." By AUGUST STRINDBERG. AT THE APOLLO THEATRE. " REGATTA:' BY SUTTON VANE. AT THE PRINCE OF WALES THEATRE.] IN his Dissertation on Tragedy, David Hume warns dramatists that a play's action may be "too bloody and atrocious." It may excite " such movements of horror as will not soften into pleasure." And he quotes a scene from Rowe's Ambitious Stepmother, where " a venerable old man, raised to the height of fury and despair, rushes against a pillar and, striking his head upon it, besmears it all over with mingled brains and gore."
Pillars there would be—Corinthian columns—ready for accidental use in an eighteenth-century tragedy ; gore too in abundance, if not brains. We smile at Hume's instance. A motoring smash in full view of the audience would be for us a better example of the too atrocious denouement. But we agree with Hume and the Greeks that, in general, such catastrophes ought to happen " off " ; unless an atrocious taste deliberately seeks them at a Grand Guignol.
What, then, would Hume's lucid sense have made of Strindberg ? Would he have been " softened into pleasure " by the protracted spectacle of a husband and wife, hating and hateful pair, straining, wrestling, plotting against one another in a manner that does not compel compassion for either ? He would have asked for pity, as well as for terror, For " what so disagreeable as the dismal, gloomy, disastrous stories with which melancholy people entertain their companions ? "
We, on the contrary, admire this rhythm of hate, this logic of dominant emotion, in Strindberg. For us it would be an artistic bhmder to " soften " it into any sentimentalities. And if The Dance of Death holds the attention a little less grimly than The Father, it is only because there is far less progression of malevolent purpose to a definite triumph, in the fragment of it that we are allowed to see in Mr. Robert Loraine's production. To break down the conflicting will of her husband, even if, in so doing, she drives him mad—that was the wife's aim in The Father. Her increasing pressure gave her character consistency, and his a truly tragic pathos. Has Alice, the wife in The Dance of Death, an aim so clearly marked ? Obviously she would rejoice in the death of the rather theatrically heart-diseased Edgar. But she picks up her plot, which is (also theatrically and incredibly) to denounce and disgrace him, half-way through the play, after the appear- ance of cousin Curt who comes—here, for once, we have to laugh—in search of a rest cure on their island of brainstorms. Curt sends their temperatures up to the point of delirium. But mainly we watch fever monotonously rising and falling ; recrimination repeating itself without movement ; until at last temperatures inexplicably sink to subnormal, in a final reconciliation scene which Strindberg meant only for a lull. The sickness will take another turn I But what do the audience at the Apollo know of the sequel ? They depart puzzled ; or supposing, unjustly, that the author has made a concession to softness. Not he !
Nevertheless, one is grateful to Mr. Loraine for letting us see something—if only a piece—of Strindberg. He has his reward ; for he has enormously increased his reputation by these two fine performances. His is the very incarnation of the embittered martinet ; his face almost " phosphorescent " (as poor bewildered Curt describes it) with gloom ; a troll-like phantom in his flashy Captain's uniform ; defying a world that ignores him ; swearing recklessly that even Death shall humour him and come as he dictates—suddenly, with a snap of the fingers. Alas, Death teases him with reconnoitring stabs, so that he also begins to dread the approach, and to love life as an opportunity for revenge upon those who wish him out of it. A strange stalwart figure, admirably displayed 1 For the rest, Mr. Edmund Gwenn shows us a miserably puzzled Curt. As Alice, Miss Miriam Lewes has disdainful intonations and gestures that so reminded me of Mrs. Patrick Campbell in early days that I seemed to hear again the accents of Paula Tanqueray or of Mrs. Ebbsmith ; and it took me some time to rally from this shock of reminiscence. A trace of precious posing in her performance may be defended as a hint that Alice had formerly been an actress ; an actress acting an actress is often apt to be hard on the profession. But Alice was not acting her hate and somehow—I record an impression—Miss Lewes at no time gave me the sense that she felt a word of her eloquence.
Obscure, too—but for very different reasons—is Mr. Sutton Vane's meaninglessly named new play. Why Regatta ? Simply to make it more difficult ? As you might say, Eights Week for a winter tragedy taking place on the Cam ; or House Boat for a tussle between bargees at Rotherhithe ? Difficult, too, to understand why, if Lady Blair, wife Of the amiable Sir Ronald, wanted (as she plainly did) to bolt with an Egyptian dago named Ian Farr—these powerful adventurers always go North of the Tweed for their aliases— she couldn't have done it boldly, at Cairo, instead of allowing herself to be pursued on a boat called, the programme says, a dahabieh, and to be snatched away from a husband who is nobly ready and (I suspect) even eager to let her go. She is rescued, however, by old Lord Carthorne (Mr. C. M. Hallard) who reveals the antiquity of his lineage—he is the last of the Carthornes- by reiterating " thank'ee " in an old Whig manner ; but surprises us by melting with pity when the dago bursts into lamentations over his love, and then takes poison—in coffee. Mr. Vane has tried to avoid the usual strong silent man ; perhaps an error in a play of this kind. Women in the audience, I believe, do not like their heroes blubbering and garrulous. But Mr. Leslie Perrins makes an immense effort to gain sympathy for this Mr. Farr ; though, as far as I was concerned, he failed. The play would be immensely strengthened by the total omission of a good deal of comic relief, provided by a spiritualistic spinster and an idiot boy of the " dontcherknow " type of imbecility.
RICHARD JENNINGS.
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