The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 39, 13 April 1928, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

My Dear Elisabeth: Once more the Scottish City may plume itself upon being the birthplace of a risen star. To the long list of men hailing from Dunedin, who have achieved distinction in this Dominion and the wider world heyond, is to be added the name of the latest appointment to the Judiciary. The wearer of the august robes of equity must needs be a very perfect knight indeed, if adequately he is to fulfil the claims of his high calling; the calibre of those who have gone before setting high standard for the manners and morals of men. Mr. Justice Smith is known to be able and fearless, a humanist who is not hide-bound in theory, but, possessing a strong sense of honourable obligation, is ever ready to attack the nearer duty to’ humanity with energy and conviction. One predicts for him a shining career upon his proud pedestal; and if, by ill chance, for some transgression we or our friends one day should figure before him in the doomful Chamber over which he holds omnipotent sway, let us hope he will insist on the suppression of names, although perhaps that particular privilege is reserved for the Lower Court, wherein do congregate lesser lights of the criminal constellation. Which reminds me of Lady Macbeth, that splendid treader of the downward path. A long way to leeward has swung the pendulum of taste, when London is asked to listen to this greatly tragic lady speak her magnificent lines clad in the latest mannequin mode of 1928.. Unduly iconoelastic, it would seem, thus to disturb a conception based upon the divine art of Ellen Terry as, swathed in classic draperies of a grace and import sublime, majestically bearing aloft a mediaeval lamp, she intoned that ower true tale, "‘... What’s done cannot be undone!" Other days, other ways; but having had a standard set by an Irving and a Terry, a Bellew and a Brown-Potter, it would perhaps be the better part of wisdom to let well alone as far as this particular tradition of the English stage is concerned. Richard the Good being encountered by chance on a recent evening, in an unwonted mood of frivolity, I was gathered in for a cinema show, whither we travelled by tram, incidentally observing how strangely

human beings run to type, the driver being an apparent reincarnation of Admiral of the Fleet Lord Jellicoe, and the conductor of the second car we boarded, wearing his eap at the well-known attractive angle, was, as Richard remarked, the dead spit of Earl Beatty. We chose our theatre carefully, in an endeavour to avoid anything of the Monkey Brand variety, this being especially abhorrent to us both. Alack, when the curtain rose upon the comic offering, two baboons, each as horrible as a bad dream, were protagonists, going carefully and cleverly through their pathetic stunt, at first on board ship, and later swinging from tall trees in one of those dense forests which, we are depressingly instructed, represent our aneestral home. Gloomily we watched the extraordinary production reel itself out, hoping for better things in the star item; but this, to the manifest satisfaction of the audience, revealed itself as a tale of wizardry and woe, the arch-villain being an exceedingly repulsive portrayal of the breed popularly regarded as the progenitors of the race. This incarnation of evil is trained to battle, murder and sudden death by a bold, bad magician, and makes a holocaust of his victims in the doomful dungeon where villainy is successfully hatched; the strange story at last coming to a by no means bitter end of kisses and courage rewarded. A mad world, my masters, when thousands of pounds are spent to create a picture like this, which has nothing at all to recommend it, except perhaps the acting of Edmund Lowe. We sallied forth to streets thronged with a holiday crowd, and recovered poise in a restaurant of noise and cheer, where after the theatre it is the pleasant practice of Orlando to convey his Rosalind of the moment, to drink admirable coffee, served with commendable civility and celerity. All to the strains of an orchestra rattling out jazz of the more virulent type, causing one to wonder why nerves should be shattered and general jumpiness augmented by such mirthless and unmusical instrumentation. Unusual, diverting, and available in a remarkably good translation, is a slim volume entitled "Letters from England," by Karel Capek; the

effect heightened by genuinely funny drawings by the Czech author himself, who, it will be remembered, wrote "R.U.R.," that striking play unpleasant of a year or so ago. These impressions might be dubbed Merrie England, the writer is so acutely observant of the Britisher’s small, shy, ingrained characteristics, setting them down with a gay sparkle and sense of humour unique. Thus does he chat concerning the sacred silence observed in London clubs, acecompanying his remarks with a sketch of a clubman completely submerged in that classic of contemporary journalism, the ‘Manchester Guardian": "This silence is not the silence of a man in solitude, nor the silence of a Pythagorean Philosopher, nor silence in the presence of God, nor the silence of death; it is a special silence, a society silence, the silence of a gentle. man among gentlemen." , And he ripples on about Bernard Shaw: "....An almost supernatural personality; he keeps moving about and talking. Immenscely tall, thin, straight. He looks half like God and half like a very malic-. ious satyr....something about him of Don Quixote, something apostolic, that makes fun of everything in the world, includ. ing himself." John Galsworthy appears to him "A very tranquil, refined and perfect man, with the face of a priest or a judge, slender and sinewy, made up of tact, reserve and reflective shyness, exceedly serious. He has a wife who is very similar to him, and his books are the beautiful and wise works of a sensitive and sad observer." The short and universal holiday season draws to a close. For many the happiness of Easter-tide was heightened by the quality of the musical programmes broadcast. Particularly interesting and appealing was the service from the Church of the Redemptorists, the musical portion of which was of a joyful solemnity and artistic beauty and interpretation quite memorable, Your

ANNABEL

LEE