WIT AND WICKEDNESS

Dominion, Volume 21, Issue 120, 18 February 1928, Page 19

WIT AND WICKEDNESS

“A BRILLIANT BATTLE OF WORDS” CHESTERTON HOLDS THE SCALES Dominion Special Service. (By Nellie M. Scanlan.) London, January 6. In a small space, metaphorically, in the hollow of your hand, sat the picturesque bulk of G. K. Chesterton, Conal O’Riordon, the brilliant Irishman, Reginald Berkley, the successful New Zealand playwright, Gilbert Frankau, distinguished novelist, and H. N. Nevliisou, one of the grand old men of British journalism. Nevinsou was showing signs of advancing years. He was much thinner and lus face less ruddy than when 1 knew him in Washington six years ago. The others I had not seen before, but Chesterton, that magnificent figure of fun, the joy of cartoonists, needs no label.

Outside nearly every London picture show and theatres of musical flim-nam, long queues —hundreds of yards in some eases—waited for admission. The Wyndham Theatre threw open its doors free to a succulent debate, and a partially full house slowly dribbled in. G. K. Chesterton was in the chair, and Conal O’Riordon and H. N. Nevinson opposed Reginald Berkley and Gilbert Frankau in a brilliant battle of words. The theme was whether Congreve’s wit atones for liis wickedness. The reason was the fact that Congreve’s masterpiece, “The Way of the World," is now drawing crowded houses each night at the Wyndham Theatre. It is not solely the wit and wickedness of Congreve, but the superb acting and infinite grace of Edith Evans, and the glorious voice of Godfrey Tearle. Congreve, who has been dead a couple of centuries, had the robust language of his time: some of the vigour of a Shakespearean vocabulary, and the crude candour of the Elizabethan age. His mind and method, his soul and savour were spread upon the carpet for our inspection, and sometimes tossed with a contemptuous toe. Chesterton; who arrived in a great, flowing Inverness coat, which exaggerated his girth, while obscuring his contour, had a black felt hat perched airly. upon his massive head. He has the soft fair skin of a baby, and loose white curls supported the curly brim of his dark hat. As he stood up and sat down, his vast convexity displaced the table, which tilted as though in awe. As he spoke, he tried to balance his notes on the narrow neck of a water bottle, but ever and again the water Ixattle failed him. No wonder Chesterton has little faith in water. In the charm of Ins voice and the graceful flow of language, Conal O’Rior(Ton has compensation for the height and symmetry of figure of which nature has deprived him. Reginald Berkley might have stepped out of Hawke’s Bay. Tall, well-built, ruddy, he wore no spats, and stood with Ills hands in his pockets as he spoke. He might have been a cheerful young slieepfarnier. But his mind has not been wool-gathering. “French Leave” was his first great success. The “White Chateau,” a play recently produced in London, has been acclaimed one of the finest staged last year. But. it was not for the mob. and its life was short The element of war probably killed it, because To-day wants to bo amused, not reminded. .... Gilbert Frankau, still in his thirties, was sleek and dapper. Neat of features, with a trim moustache, his voice is, however, rather high in pitch. But whenever he speaks he has something Nevinson, white-haired, with snowy moustache and tiny beard against his ruddy face, now sagging slightly, stood as erect as an old soldier. Playfully they tossed the theme of wit and wickedness about. What dexterous juggling! What deft phrasing! There was absolute freedom of speech. “A candid expression of candour," as Chesterton-remarked, and no one minced his words nor plucked a . single tail feather from the most startling quotation. Conal O’Riordon, after . quoting a passage from Congreve, said: * No gentieman could possibly use such language on the stage to-day," and then joined in the laughter against himself. There were many jests at the foibles of each other, and Chesterton s fat sides rippled with mirth when he was the victim impaled on some verbal rapier. In one serious moment Gilbert Frankau made an impassioned appeal tor the freedom of the stage from censorSl “%ood. God in heaven what does it matter if we are wicked! The best censor in the world is the good old British public. Let us have some of the freedom wo fought for in 191418, instead of submitting to the censorship of some doddering old Government official.” ■ , , “I really think our wickedness is considered of some slight concern in ■

the quarter you refer to,” said Chesterton, with a twinkle in his eye, as he smiled benignly at Gilbert Frankau. When Chesterton smiles he shows his two front teeth, which are very wide apart, and the highlight on his principal chin ripples and glows. H. N. Nevinson’s speech was the most amusing. There was no buffoonery, but a grim, almost acidulous, humour; a chuckle behind the ruddy mask, an outpouring from a mind that is a storehouse of literary treasure. It was Conal O’Riordon, however, who clothed his argument in most courtly dress, as when he implored Chesterton to pray nightly that “The ghostly hand of Dickens might arise - and descend hard upon the spiritual buttocks of Congreve.”