Special Interview with Mr. C, R. Allen

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 11, 30 September 1927, Page 6

Special Interview with Mr. C, R. Allen

I trod an unknown path, the dusk was falling, the wind chilly, and, like Chesterfield, I was a little weary of this silly world, as I drew near the residence of Sir James Allen, lately New Zealand’s own High Commissioner; my aim being to interview his gifted son, Mr. Charles R. Allen, joint-author of the play produced last week for the benefit of the Plunket Society. Once indoors, however, my point of view veered, gloom vanished under the gracious courtesy of Lady Allen's greeting, and I venturcd to hope that, after all, authors were not so aloof and unapproachable as I had feared. And, as it turned out, for a short half-hour my lines were cast in @ pleasant place. After lighting a fire for me-which pleased me, for, being cold, I am dull-Mr. Allen chatted of men and manners, and his life in London, the lure of that fascinating city cvidently binding his heart with hoops of steel. Those who know anything of Mr. Allen’s books will not be surprised that he is mainly interested in music, books, poetry; and he told me he was a member of the Londow Panton Club, that most modern of modern institutions, where gather together many of whom we hear now and again from the greai world beyond, but alas, do not expect to know much about on the personal side. The late Cayley Robinson, A.R.A., was president of ‘he Art Section when Mr. Allen was in England, and Mr. John Drinkwater presided over the literary top-notchers. It was interesting to hear illuminating comments on the latter, and to realise that the author of "Abraham Lincolv? has a very human side, and loves to read aloud to the other members his own verses, even as you and I would do, if we could write poetry like Mr. Drinkwater’s! The Panton Club brings out a yquarterly, of which I saw an interesting number. Nothing cheap or nasty about this publication; critical revicws, unbiased comment, a sensitivencss alcrt-as to the trend of art in all its phases-modern, sane, arresting. E quote at random from a contributor:

"No true greatness is achieved in any art without that intense love of it which is deeper thar words, a stove in which loss of sleep, forgotten food, and rest long delayed count as naught in the balance against the great result te be achieved." Art for art's sake, in fact; and one feels in one’s bones that, when Mr. Allen is pursuing the Grail, writing those rare books, with their poetic diction and imaginative perception, material consideration will not weigh greatly. In this journal I noted this paragraph: "Following on the production by the

Panton Players at the Eylinger Theatre last July, the British Drama League has accepted for publication in its autumn series a@ volume of ‘Fantasies’ by C. R. Allen. Mr. Allen's third novel, ‘Tarry, Knight? will shortly be published by John Hamiltox, Ltd." — Several of Mr. lllen's plays have been produced for the sweet cause of charity. Within the last ycar or so, "The Four Foundlings" was acted in London for the benefit of the wellknown church, St. Martin’s-in-the-F ield, mecting with a most appreciative reception from the London Press. This playlet is included with several athers, among them "When Mr. Punch was Young" and "The Singing Heart,’ this latter containing, in the opinion of many, his most delightful work, with its ex-

(quisite imagery and central inspirational theme. Mr. Allen wrote "Nemo," a quaint and beautiful play for children for Italia Conti, in whose School for Dramatic Lducation so many gifted Sprites have been trained for a successful carecr on the English. stage. Speaking of radio and its tumultuous possibilities, Mr. Allen said he had a letter recently from Captain Perkins, of Robertson and Mullins, stating that in one of his weekly literary talks from the Afelbourne Station, 3LO, where it is his custom to recommend to his listeners books that are worth while, he had spoken of Mr. Allen’s "Tarry, Knight" as one to be looked for by the discerning reader. i We spoke of music, too, but Mr. Allen says he docs not often sing these days-not in public, at any rate. I reminisced a KHle, and told him how one morning, in time long past, I sat in the dim and wistful light of an old church and listened to his very appealing voice in a beautiful devotional solo. This was at Alf Saints, Dunedin, before the shadows gathered and the shattering war years had had their way. In that same church now glows a stained glass window of noble design, in memory of John Allen, of the Gallant Company of those who passed from us in the Great War. This other son of Sir James and Lady Allen also was possessed of great literary gifts, as those who have read his published Letters will remember, He was one of a band of brilliant young university men, perhaps the most outstanding of whom was Rupert Brooke, wha, had the gods seen fit, would have taken great places in politics and art and letters, in England or her Dominions, as their fathers did before them, ‘On the subject of children, whom he understands so well and depicts in magical fushion, Mr. Allen was reticent. Not to be wondered at, perhaps, for sone things do not lend themselves to discussion, but are imysterious and fragile as the wing of a butterfly, and of such is the heart of a child-IHHV.L. 4