Ye Olde Fashioned Merrie Christmas

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 270, 4 February 1928, Page 26

Ye Olde Fashioned Merrie Christmas

Pamela Travers, THE PUN'S London correspondent, sends a "breezy budget " from England in tvhich particular stress is laid upon the joys of a snowy Christmas. , .

(Exclusive to THE SUN.) —| OMEBODY down in Chancery Lane, just beneath my window, is bidding me in no very tuneful tone to hark to \^lßVS ts Jl the herald angels. But I am tired of harking to them and cow heartily wish that they had not harkened to me when I prayed for a really and truly snowbound Christmas. Two days ago we got it with a vengeance. It was very pretty and Christmas-cardish the scurrying, brightly-clothed people, the dark figures of the policemen, the scatter of infinitesimal white wings—and a sense of excitement prevailed everywhere as though the curtain were just about to go up on a wonderful play. Then the temperature began to fall. When I reached home I had neither hands nor feet, and every tap in the house was frozen. The fountain in the Staple Inn had stiffened into down-dropping shimmering peaks of whiteness. I would not so evade the technical term were I quite positive as to the difference between stalactite and stalagmite. The Serpentine, I learned, was frozen over, and I was bidden to hold myself in readiness to skate upon it as soon as the ice was four inches thick. The Round Pond was white-and crunchy, and four or five small ships were ice-bound in the centre. Ice everywhere—hanging from the eaves, in water-jugs—and, worst of all, in water-taps. No amount of coaxing would make them emit water—not even hot water when I

went to my baih this morning. I began to think I was frozen in for the winter and prepared to hibernate when the thaw set in. Rain poured down in torrents, freezing as it fell, until the streets and squares were sheets of glass with people falling down comically all over them—breaking legs, arms, and in some 'cases even necks. Never shall l pray for an old--1 ashioned Christmas again. 1 know now what they are like. I

\ esterday I went to s€;e the new Peter Pan” at a before-the-beginning matinee given for the benefit of a' thousand or so poor children. For the first time I was really enchanted at a stage representation of Peter. As played by Jean Forbes Robertson he was an elfin, wistful fairy, fun of heavenly lightnings, with a sense of wings about him. His hair rushed back from his brow like a brown bird’s wings, his eyes were secret as the secret movements of a wing in the nest. And Mary Casson, daughter of Sybil Thorndike and Lewis Casson, was the cosiest creature—full of soft, . important motherliness and a bustling worldliness that threw up the elfin Peter into still more faery light. Usually Peter is a stout middle-aged actress in private life and the Wendy a skittish creature chosen rather for her close relationship to some prominent figure in the theatrical world than for any acting ability. Not so with these children—they were so perfect that the Lost Boys—always played by a handful of complete nonentities—seemed worse than ever beside them. I have never seen such bad Lost Boys—l would willingly have drowned them all in a bucket. But to make up for their dullness there was a perfect Michael —a tiny Michael with a small, sweet shrill voice, a Michael who was a real, skinny little boy instead of a fat little curly girl dressed in trousers. Marie Lohr was a tender and tranquil Mrs. Darling, Henry Ainley was to have been Mr. Darling and Captain Hook, but owing to illness had to relinquish) his part to Frank Allenby at the last moment. Allenby was with Marie Tempest when she last toured Australia and New Zealand. The Slightly was the same Slightly I have seen for several years—full of a wistful sadness because he had no mother, and then transported into a very pleasant heaven when he discovered that the diminutive Liza was his parent. Liza was a darling—as she always is. To me she is the best thing in the play. Even Peter does not come anywhere near her in my affection. I feel that if I had a maid like Liza life would be full of fantastic delight. The story unwound itself—creaking a little, it must be confessed—but still retaining most of its old charm. The more subtle points were lost by the audience who frequently, to emphasise their complete lack of obligation to anybody, blew whistles and trumpets during the performance. As a variation on their theme, some of them popped balloons and kicked their heels against the seats behind them. Their interest in the proceedings on the stage was only held dur ing the playing of the Red Indian and pirate scenes. When Peter Pan breathlessly demanded of them the trembling question, “Do you believe in fairies?” they clapped and hooted and cheered, but I believe that this was merely an outlet for their feelings and no indication of their faith in the Small People. Not all London's children are concerned with such trivial things as fairy plays. Some of them have higher thoughts—the batch of young English Communists, for instance, who have just returned from Russia with rhapsodic accounts of the joys of life under Soviet rule. These more-than-mortal creatures —none of them is more than 14—have published a report. I will give their own words:

“To draw the attention of the Young Workers of Great Britain to

the imminent danger of an attack on the First Workers’ Republic by the imperialist powers and to the necessity of all young workers to use all their strength to prevent such a catastrophe, and, should the attack materialise, to stand shoulder to shoulder with - our Russian comrades.”

There is a batch of little darlings for you. Such high-minded creatures could obviously have no use for Peter Pan —nor could he, I fancy, have any for them—little prigs! All of you who weep because you are not as the willow may now dry your eyes. The willowy figure is going out—strange phrase! Famous dress shops are fattening up their mannequins hastily, and girls who have lived meagrery upon lemonjuice and the seed of a fig for years are now wallowing in cream buns and

chocolates. The word “bouffant” is upon every tongue. It is chanted like a refrain in some choral hymn. At last people in political circles have begun to do graceful and nonutilitarian things. The Italian Ambassador has just formally presented to the British Government the first copy of a special edition of the works of Ugo Foscolo, the Italian poet. The impossible lias happened. This year marks the centenary of Ugo’s death, and the copy of the book sent to England contains a specially printed leaf bearing a message signed by Mussolini—“To England, hospitable exile and first burying-place of Ugo Foscolo, the head of the Italian Government has presented this book as a mark of gratitude and as a token of the lasting spiritual fellow-feeling of the two nations.” Isn’t that sweet? Ido hope it will create a precedent and that we shall be dashing off copies of Byron to Greece and Tennyson to Germany. I think dear Felicia Hemans must go to America to cement relations there and tone down with her harmless meandering rhymes the blasts of free verse that blow out from the pens across the Atlantic. Macbeth is to be done in modern dress—at last. I saw Hamlet in plus fours and delighted in tile experiment. It will be interesting to see the bitter king clad in crisp khaki as he denies the coming of Birnam to Duninsane. But how to dress a modern witch? In a dressing-gown and dyed hair, I suppose, with n great crystal or a pack of cards instead of a cauldron. But Scotland will stand where it did. no matter in what garb they dress its stricken kings. F-S. —The thaw has set in with a vengence. I must swim to the post.