The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 40, 20 April 1928, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

My Dear Elisabeth: Privileged is Wellington just now to have the opportunity of seeing a fine collection of pictures by English artists; brought to this Dominion by Mr. E. Murray Fuller, and on view at the Art Gallery, Whitmore Street. Lovers of art will be well advised to stand not upon the order of their going, but go at once. Interesting it is to see the Italian Peasants of Mrs. Laura Knight, quite lately elected a Royal Academician; virile work with life, colour, movement, and also the quality possessed by some humans, of leaving an indelible impression upon the memory even if seen but once. How delightful is the Sydney Thompson corner, giving us more glimpses of Concarneau the beloved, and glowing with the colour of which he is a master, Many pesple liked the "Pierrot Beguiled," by W. E. Webster, the dainty darling of which fascinates many more than poor Pierrot. Of the two by Frances Hodgkins, I preferred "‘Ebbing Tide," the other being somewhat puzzling to those who admired Miss Hodgkins’ early beautiful work. Lucy KempWelch’s horses are such dear, companionable beasts that one longs to stroke them; but for a kind of shimmering glory and sheer loveliness of painting and pose, the "May Morning," by Harold Speed, is, in the opinion of many, the most beautiful ‘picture in the collection. At the Private View on Friday some delight‘ful frocks were worn, one of an elegance most enviable being decor‘ated with a veritable sunburst of erystal and diamante. That friend in need, the black gown, was much to the fore, one quite perfect in line being worn by a recent arrival from England, who, accompanied by her mother, was lucky enough to have some chat from Mr. Chas. Wilson on the merits of the different pictures. A society hostess, who follows the one true light of Art in all branches, wore black satin, with a suecessful touch of that ermine which always bestows a distinctive touch. It was pleasant to see Lady Stout among the crowd, and one felt she would appreciate the great work on exhibition by women painters, as she has always worked valjantly for the cause that lacked assistance for many years-a better chance for our sex. Two landscapes by A, Heaton Cooper were lovely and wistful as a dream, and always had a small knot of admirers; as also

did one highly praised by Mr. Wilson in his brief opening speech, the magnificent "Autumn," by Arnesby Brown, priced at 250 guineas, and well worth it. A statuesque Juno, swathed around and about with Geranium-red ring velvet, swishy train lined with gold tissue, ornaments of rich and rare crystals, dark hair parted Madonnawise, her smile divinely sweet as of yore, Miss Amy Evans played havoe with our hearts at her first concert on Saturday evening. The large audience was all intelligence and discrimination, and accorded applause of the rapturous variety to both the visiting singers. Not a cough was heard, not a chair was seraped throughout, Mr. Fraser Gange being in great voice. Delightful artists these, the rendering of the lovely fragment "Duna" exquisite enough to bring tears to the eye of the least susceptible. Fire, declamatory force, restraint, allied to the beautiful baritone of his, are the attributes of Mr. Fraser Gange; he and Miss Evans proving so charming about encores that the audience hardly realised how rapacious it was. A song of Wales by the Welsh singer was interesting and beautiful; and her interpretation effective in dramatic and devotional numbers on the finely-selected programme; but perhaps the song that reached our hearts most successfully was a beguiling invocation of Celia, in which the singer’s voice was very lovely. The youthful pianiste played a Brahms Waltz and some Chopin very delightfully indeed, and is by way of being that rare bird, a perfect accompanist. How great the vogue of crystal, by the way, and:how miraculously it gives just the right touch for decorating what used to be called our person, or the greater adornment and equipment of hearth and home, Earrings, clasps and _ brooches for our delight make insistent appeal with skilful workmanship and design of the subilest. Many and varied appear flowers and furbelows, the former ranging from the "lilies and languors of virtue" to the "roses and raptures of vice’’; and assuredly their like was never grown on land or sea. What wicked-looking posies some of them are, to be sure. Inanimate things to take upon themselves at times import of the most dire. Par exemple, a big brass safety-pin innocently reposing on the floor of the apartment of mere man, or a

hairpin, if any are left in the world, | takes upon itself a prominence quite out of keeping with its humble utility ! Great is the Sitwell Trio, and the greatest of these is Osbert. Unusually gifted, all three, with the unmistakable flair for literature which, like murder, will out at some time or other, they are badly bitten with that unpleasant modern microbe, the gentle art of self-adver-tisement. Apparently desirous to live and move in a rarefied atmos-. phere of the most adulatory, being hyper-sensitive, not to say huffy, to anything approaching criticism of their creative work, they prove a source of joy to the shrewd and vulgar mob, who find the posings and pacings of these gifted ones extremely diverting. Some of Miss Edith Sitwell’s "Facade"? poems have been set recently to what is described as amusing music; but ’tis difficult to associate anything very, rollicking with this Sister Superior, who passionately prides herself upon not possessing’ a sense of humour, and it will be remembered, was photographed by Cecil Beaton as the Corpse Beautiful. Miss Sitwell has a wonderful sense of the beauty of words, the lure of lovely language; but the meaning around which is wrapped her poetic phraseology is obscure beyond all understanding, possessing an elusiveness only equalled by that of our last threepence that escapes our cluteh and rolls to the furthest corner of the tramcar. I have been re-reading my "Anthony and Cleopatra," which of all the Plays I love the best. How greatly moving is that last requestI am dying, Egypt, dying; only I hear importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips. And Cleopatra’s majestic voicing of all woeNoblest of men, woo’t die? Hast thou no care for me? shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty?-0, see, my women, The crown o’ the earth doth ‘melt... And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon, ~ Your

ANNABEL

LEE