The Letters Of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 23, 23 December 1927, Page 6

The Letters Of Annabel Lee

My Dear Elisabeth, The Maoriland summer is upon us, ‘and the good old month of December is rushing past in a cold that is like unto that of Mount Cook or the regions of the Pole. Mr. Sidey, that altruist, that shedder of daylight in dark places, has been foiled by the powers that be, the clerk of the weather, the heavenly host; and, ‘though the clocks have been put forward, and the mantle of Elijah ‘draped reverently around the slim shoulders of the Jovian protagonist who so long and loudly has exclaimed: "Let there be light!’ so far the result has been disappointing. Ebullient youth has looked out its sports kit, flourished racquet and bat, only to encounter winds that are icy, trails that are slushy, noses that are red. But the shops are scoring heavily. Never have I seen those shops begin operations so early, and "Lis pleasant to notice the quiet and smiling patience displayed by those who stand and wait behind the counter, towards poor humanity that is apt to grow irritable and exacting in of perfection, the right gift for the its quest for that unattainable counsel right person at the right price. Blow, blowing are the trumpets of youth and the squeakers resound in the land, harassed are the mothers in Israel, and occasionally grumpy the fathers, as who can wonder when the depletion of the exchequer is envisaged. But apparently ‘tis all one to the nymphs of the counter who, with a tact that at times is worthy of the Secretary of State for Her Majesty’s Dominions, wait with angelic deference while the flustercd shopper makes a meticulous choice between a sixpenny powder puff and a nice and ninepenny modern equivalent of a "hussif." Truly the admirable art of courtesy is not extinct. "Know, dear brother," says Malory, "that courtesy is one of the qualities of God Himself, who of His courtesy giveth His sun and His rain to the just and the unjust, Courtesy being the sister of charity," and so on. Fain would I recommend this ancient writer to two dashing blades, who, unfortunately for us, sat beside us on the same hard bench at the Concert Chamber the other night, the occasion being the closing perfurmance of the year of the National Repertory Society. If the young man who, in appearance, so closely re-

sembled the pictures of Mr. Michael Arlen, wished to make comments as frequent and painful and free as those of Mark ‘Twain’s heathen Chinee, and snigger and whisper to his companion of the shiny hair and audibly yawn, why, oh why, did he not reserve the gallery for himself and his friends, instead of boring and disturbing those to whom the play is the thing? We look to the Repertory Society for an intelligent presentment of those modern plays which, in the nature of things, there is little opportunity of seeing in this Dominion, distant as it is from the bracing intellectual atmosphere of the Old World. And the Society on the whole has done well, and, though on the first night the audience was sparse, it was so responsive and receptive that players and producer could not fail to be gratified. The three plays presented were widely different in character and somewhat uneven in performance. ‘Posterity," by Mr. (. R. Allen, is whimsical, wise and witty, with that quality of putting us in touch with spiritual issues that one has grown to expect from the work of this New Zealand playwright. The fantasy, however, was not happily cast; Mr. Oswin often having been seen to better advantage than in the part of a Cambridge don, and much 6f the dialogue did not get over, Mr. Miles Cadman as the Ghost giving the best conception of the trio of actors. In essaying "Riders to the Sea" the Society was perhaps over-ambitious; but the performance of the heartstirring Irish tragedy was very good, and that the audience recognised this was shown by the remarkable stillness and attention with which it followed the simple, poignant unfolding of the plot. There was no rustling, no twittering, no coughing at inopportune moments; but instead a silence that could almost be felt as Mrs. Hannah, as Maurya, made her hopeless, fatalistic, heart-broken lament for her dead Michael and the others, and sprinkled holy water on that last lifeless rider to the sea. Everyone concerned deserves high appreciation for so faithfully presenting Synge’s great play. Especially appealing were Miss Chapman and Miss Vautier, who looked very sweet indeed, and admirably co-

ordinated their respective roles to their conception of the play as a whole. Mr. A. A. Milne is perhaps not at his best in "The Boy Comes Home," the concluding item on the programme, but it was amusing and well done, although I have seen that capable actor, Mr. Morris Dunkley, in parts that fitted him better. Mr. Pope, when a little more at ease, should do well on the boards; Miss Vyner, by clearness of enunciation and deftness of movement, helped along the action; Miss Willcocks was very funny indeed in a low comedy part; and Miss Hall adequate in the role of the kindly, elderly aunt. The Society is to be congratulated on its suceessful interpretation. Are people growing kinder, or is this just a thought engendered by the season of peace on earth? All round | one is aware of "little acts of kindness, little grains of sand," amid the striving and the clamour, the charging and the barging, that are so apparent in the race that we run. henchman, old and grey, whose boots might be younger and face might be cleaner, does an act of chivalry worthy of a knight of old; a child of the slums shows a radiant unselfishness that makes one think guiltily of indolent, selfish days; a man about town, concerning whom tongues wag, gives to charity with great generosity that he conceals as though it were a plague spot. Meantime, lest you think I grow iow high-minded, let me bring to yéur notice a bridge coat of golden broeade that is to be had at a not too fabulous cost, and would be useful for the holiday season. Commend me to the man of men, and to your Margie, to whom I send a drawing of Pierrot and Pierette, done in that seratchy clever way, picked out with brilliant colour, so dear to her heart and immature, but auite evident, talent. To the young Christmas-tide is instinct with gaiety and goodwill; as the years go, if the rose-colour fades, there are memories of days that were worth while, books and plays that perchance were read in close communion with friends of yesteryear. And amid much that passes and much that remains I send the old, old greetings. The peace of Allah be with you.-yYour

ANNABEL

LEE