572 



The Review of Reviews. 



Dectmber 1, 1906. 



him there is no truth in the failure of the bank, and 

 he sees that his house is not ablaze. Again the rush 

 of the fire engines is heard. The servant tells him 

 that a large tenement house is on fire. He orders 

 her to prepare soup for the refugees, and departs 

 to gather them in. Then his women folks come in 

 with their escort, who proposes and is promptly 

 rejected, as he deserves, for he is only another 

 Mr. Self fashioned on other lines, and still unre- 

 generate. He departs, and then Mr. Self returns, 

 followed by a miscellaneous assortment of tatterde- 

 malions. He is carrying a child who has fallen 

 from a window, and with him is the old tramp. He 

 orders them supper, refuses to allow the crippled 

 child to be sent to a hospital ; she is to be nursed 

 in his own house. The old tramp discovers his long- 

 lost daughter, and Mr. Self, now transfigured into 

 Mr. Unselfishness, is rewarded by the adoring love 

 of the girl whom he is to wed. 



It is a very simple but very pretty play, which 

 holds the mirror up to selfish man and makes 

 him see the thing he is, in order that he might 

 become the thing he ought to be. 



GOMORRAH AT THE GAIETY. 



It was not until the evening of the day on which 

 I saw " The Message from Mars " that I ventured to 

 visit the Gaiet)- Theatre. As I did not want to 

 be prejudiced against the stage by seeing it at its 

 worst from an ethical point of view, I had hitherto 

 given the Gaiet},- a wide berth. It was, however, 

 obvious that if I had to form anything approach- 

 ing to an accurate impression of the modern theatre, 

 I rtiust visit the typical strojighold of the musical 

 comedy. So I went to the Gaiety Theatre last 

 month. The Gaiety Theatre ! As I came out I 

 could not help recalling the ghastly jest of Mr. 

 Vimch, who represented one poor, wretched, draggle- 

 tailed street walker accosting another as forlorn 

 with the question, " How long have you been gay ?" 

 For the gaiety of the Gaiety Theatre is as the gay- 

 ness of the gay women on the streets, as hollow and 

 as base. 



It is a disagreeable thing to have to describe in 

 plain English for the ordinary- reader the kind of 

 thing that I saw at the Gaiety. The place was full 

 of well-dressed men and women. The jeune fdle 

 was there in force, and her young man. The scenery 

 on the stage was very pretty, the dresses were very 

 bright, and there was absolutely nothing to be ob- 

 jected to in so far as the costumes went. The 

 music was a pleasant enough jingle. The grouping 

 of the dancers and their dresses made a kaleidos- 

 cope of the stage. There was plenty of bustle and 

 melody and laughter. All this may be fully and 

 frankly admitted. But as for the piece itself f 



I said somewhat strong things about Mr. Pinero's 

 " Wife Without a Smile." But the whole of " The 

 Spring Chicken " was little better than a magnified. 



glorified dancing doll. When I left the theatre 1 

 was appalled to think that such a performance can 

 be applauded nightly by thousands of well-dressed 

 English people without a word of protest from the 

 press. But the fact stares one in the face. The 

 play is no doubt an adaptation from the French, 

 but not even the lax and indifferent society of Paris 

 would allow such a play to be performed before a 

 theatre half full of young girls. The jeuiic file in 

 Paris does not haunt the Palais Royal. Her English 

 sister has the free run of the Gaiety. And this in 

 plain Saxon is what they see. 



In spring, sings the poet, a young mans fancy 

 lightly turns to thoughts of love. At the Gaiety for 

 ■' love read " lust." In spring, runs the Gaiet\ 

 variant, the lust of man becomes so ungovernable 

 that the husband becomes adulterous. It is almost 

 a profanation of adultery to apply such a term to 

 the promiscuous animalism which reigns supreme on 

 the stage of the Gaiety. Adulterv may be, and 

 often is, idealised by love. Of love in " The Spring 

 Chicken ' there is rK>t even the remotest glimmer. 

 The w'hole musical comedy is one long presentation 

 of lust, unredeemed by a single spark of sentiment. 

 The whole thing is reduced to the level of the 

 monkeys at the Zoo. It begins with the suggestion 

 of a mother-in-law to her daughter that the only 

 way in which it is possible to keep your husband 

 from committing adultery^ in spring time is to mix 

 a sleeping powder with his soup. It ends with the 

 mother-in-law drinking by mistake an aphrodisiac 

 mixed by her husband, who intended to drink it to 

 stimulate his passions. It takes immediate effect, 

 and the woman rushes about the stage seeking to 

 embrace her husband, who, dreading the conse- 

 quences of his own potion, flees from her passionate 

 pursuit. 



The first act is laid in a lawyer's office, much 

 frequented by applicants for divorce. The head of 

 the establishment is the younger husband, whose 

 passions are roused by the arrival of spring. He 

 locks himself into his office with frail clients, and 

 accompanies them to restaurants of ill-fame. The 

 first verse of the opening chorus defines with blunt 

 p.irticularity the ethics of the Divorce Court: — 



I( we live in the land we love 



We must love in the land we live. 



Wl:ere our joy is the thirst 



That we satisfy fiist— 

 Au excess we've all learned to forgive. 

 But when Nemesis waits on us, 

 .\ud we realise all too late 



That the fountain is dry. 



Then it's hither we hie 

 To consult an able advocate. 



The obligation to break the Seventh Commandment 

 could hardly be more cynically set forth. 



We have heard a good deal of the comic drama- 

 tists of the Restoration. But I doubt whether 

 Wycherley or Congreve ever compressed into any 



