Review of Revietos, lfl2/06. 



IMPRESSIONS OF THE THEATRE. 



"A MESSAGE FROM MARS." GOMORRAH AT THE GAIETY- 



"THE SPRING CHICKEN." 



Following is Air. Stead's criticism of "The Sp 

 being performetl in Australia. There have been so 

 criticism, so I print it in full. — Editor. 



The illogic of confounding, under the generic 

 term Theatre, all representations given on the stage 

 was brought very- forcibly home to me last month, 

 when I witnessed on one and the same day " A 

 Message from Mars " at the Avenue, and " The 

 Spring Chicken " at the Gaiety. It is difficult to 

 conceive two pieces better calculated to bring into 

 the clearest possible relief the difference tliere is 

 between plays. " A Message from Mars '' is even- 

 thing that " The Spring Chicken " is not. Mrs. 

 Grundy, in her most exalted state of prudishness, 

 could not find a word, a look, or an act to which to 

 take exception in the performance at the Avenue. 

 At the Gaiety the master of the ceremonies at the 

 Floralia of ancient Rome might find cause to blush. 

 To confound them both under the same anathema 

 is to repeat the blunders of the Fathers of the 

 Church, who, in their wrath against licentiousness, 

 launched their invectives indiscriminately against 

 the whole female sex. Woman is a generic term 

 that covers both Jeanne d'Arc and Nana, and on 

 the stage there are plays which are representative of 

 both. 



" A MESSAGE FROM MARS ' AT THE 

 AVENUE. 



" A Message from Mars " is a compound of a 

 fairy stor\' and a morality play. It is a dramatic 

 sermon in three acts, with the simplest of motives, 

 and the most obvious of morals. It is a clever satire 

 levelled against the egregious selfishness of the 

 pampered pharisaic male, to whom his women-folks 

 are but humble ancillaries existing for the purpose 

 of ministering to his comfort. Three hundred years 

 ago the wealthy, smug, complacent, middle-aged 

 bachelor, who is admirably represented by Mr. 

 Charles Hawtrey, would have been labelled Self- 

 indulgence in a morality play, but that would be too 

 obvious for our tastes. So he is Mr. Somebody or 

 other — I forget the label — but he is Mr. Selfish all 

 the time — a smug, complacent, self-deceived, self- 

 centred man, who is so supremely concentrated 

 upon his own selfish gratification that he has never 

 realised that he is selfish. He is not a bad man in 

 the ordinary sense of the word. He is a capital 



ring Chicken," as he saw it in London. It is now 

 me criticisms in the newspapei-s upon Mr. Stead's 



type of the man who does well to himself, who 

 thinks well of himself, who is not a bad-hearted sort 

 of a fellow, who is well-to-do, respectable, well fur- 

 nished with all the maxims which afford a semi- 

 virtuous mask to self-indulgence. He is embodied 

 comfort. It sj>eaks in every feature, in his fur- 

 lined coat, his luxurious easy-chair before the blaz- 

 ing fire, his whisky and soda, his cigars, and above 

 all in his calm acceptance, as a matter of self-evident 

 right, of the petting and eager homage of the girl 

 he is going to marry. When he fusses about his 

 little comforts, he is not unkind ; he accepts them 

 as a matter of course. He is sure that the girl is 

 in for a very good thing in marrying him, and it is 

 but natural she should wait upon him hand and 

 foot. He cannot lav his hand upon his cigar case. 

 His fiancee rushes hither and thither, upstairs and 

 downstairs, hunting everywhere for the missing ar- 

 ticle. While she has been so engaged he puts his 

 hand in his pocket and pulls out the cigar case. 

 '■ What a pity !' he exclaims ; and when everyone 

 else is thinking of the trouble he has given his lady- 

 love, he adds, ■' I might have been smoking all this 

 time." That is the kind of man he is. A man who 

 has a thousand prototypes everywhere, being the 

 natural products of an age where, the marriage mar- 

 ket being overstocked with women, the man gives 

 himself airs. But it has been so in every age. 

 Poverty always fawns on wealth, weakness on 

 strength, and the lord of creation has ever been apt 

 to regard the homage paid to his power and his 

 riches as a legitimate tribute to his own pre-eminent 

 intrinsic worth. And he becomes so completely 

 spoiled that it never even occurs to his smug, self- 

 complacent mind that he is a ver\ selfish fellow. 



At the Avenue this selfishness displays itself in 

 mere trifles, in the refusal to pay the tithe of mint, 

 anise and cumin which man owes to society. The 

 man coming in out of the cold of a winter's dav. 

 which strikes through even the thick folds of his 

 fur-lined overcoat, curls himself up before his study 

 fire and amuses himself with reading a paper dis- 

 cussing life in Mars. He has promised to take his 

 fiancee and her aunt out to a dance. He flatly re- 

 fuses to go. He refuses even to take the trouble 

 to call them a cab, and when the difficulty is solved 

 by the coming of a rival who takes the ladies off in 



