The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 44, 18 May 1928, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

Y dear Elisabeth:-"Does everything go wrong as usual?" wrote Voltaire long ago in a postscript to a letter. And there are times that come, individually or to the herd, when the baleful light of an evil star seems to glare upon us. So felt the community when it heard of the severe illness of the beloved Chief Justice; and in the Capital City the one and only morning paper was snatched at with even more than the wonted daily determination to get first look, in order to know the latest bulletin. Sir Charles Skerrett has ever turned to the world so kindly a light of princely hospitality, good comradeship and true sporting spirit amid the changes and chances of life, that we have been very triste over his illness, and everyone rejoices that the ordeal is over and all is well. Possessing a personality of the most beguiling, a musical voice that utters wise, witty and noble thoughts, preaching a tolerant creed in a world in which, alas, so many creeds are far indeed from sweet reasonableness; graceful of gesture, fearless of expression, Miss Maude Royden moves on her way throughout our Dominion, scattering around her, as she goes, an aura of beautiful achievement and high resolve. Fortunate is New Zealand to see and to hear this great woman, who from the midst of English prejudices and English conservatism, emerged as a spiritual torch that has lighted, and will light, the lamp of faith, hope and charity in many a dark place of the soul. Sincerity and selfless service, these are attributes that lift the latch of the heart of all; and when allied with a knowledge of the wider world and a great gift of oratory, prove a moving force in the cause of righteousness. Even the smug and the fat-minded (to use an adjective beloved of Mr. Michacl Arlen) are impressed, and go their ways a little softlier, sadlier when they glimmer something of nobler aims and ideals co-existent alongside selfish preoccupations, profiteering, and silly scramble for places in the social sun. At the Civic welcome accorded by the Capital City to Miss Royden, the audience was cordial, and the speakers at their good best, in especial the Bishop of Wellington voicing witty and gracious welcome to the distinguished visitor. Ensembled in silk and moracain of nutmeg brown, slim coat pleated by a London tailor, than whom none is more skilful, jumper dress reaching distinction by means of deft, tantalis-

ing revealments of Oriental embroideries, Evangeline lured me to the Exhibition now shown in the Whitmore Street Gallery, which is demurely perched in so sequestered a spot that ’tis the easiety thing in the world to pass it by unnoticed. In my ramble through the rooms, I admired much that was good, and some that was better than good, reflecting how undeniably the standard of achievement has soared within recent years. The influence of Sydney Thompson’s One-Man show of a year or so back is apparent in bold treatment of colour and sweeping workmanship of some younger painters; while Mrs. Tripe’s work is, as ever, original and arresting, one sunshiny study of trees and water being a pure joy. There are some eharming subjects gleaned by Myr. Murray Fuller in his sojourn on the Continent, good in draughtmanship and in colour so appealing as to be provocative of a pang of envy. Also Miss D. K. Richmond’s zinnias are so gorgeous as they flame and beckon that one longs to carry them away and hang them in just the right surroundings. Another flower study, as beautiful though entirely different in subject and treatment, is Miss Stoddart’s sweet primroses and catkins, of a design and execution very perfect and lovely. Two of Nugent Welch’s pictures I liked, while of the younger men Marcus King’s daring treatment of colour is attractive. Intriguing are both promise and performance of E. D. Jackson, whether her subject be sparkling wavelets breaking on rocks that really look like rocks, or admirable sketch of the head of a grave-eyed girl in a blue gown, drawn with truthfulness and skill, the modelling of face and head excellent, thought and experience shining from the blue, brave eyes of the model. Mrs. Jackson should go far in an art the difficulties of which she faces up to so gamely. If bored or worried, if the world is awry, your figure too large or your bank balance too small, you cannot do better than pack up your troubles in your vanity bag and go to see "The Ringer,’ where you will forget them all. Mr. Edgar Wallace’s play is extremely good in its genre, and Mr. Moskovitch himself, it goes without saying, very able in his portrayal of the unscrupulous trader in men’s souls. Very sinister did he appear, with his mobile face and figure of grace; while Mr. Nat Madison, as Sam. ’Ackett, a humorous jailbird, is just as good as we have grown to expect this versatile young

actor to be in everything he undertakes, alike in conception and finish of detail. Mr. Newson, as D.S.O. and Detective, moves and speaks very well indeed; and the whole of the cast is good, particularly the distinetly attractive Cora Ann. Dry. Lomond is beyond praise; he arrests our attention from the moment he ambles on to the stage, in his excellent makeup and portrayal of a son of Scotia, just as though he had wandered in from Manners Street. This big part is played by Mr. Patric Curwen excellently well, with reticence and consistent appreciation of its subleties; and we delight in him as, sagging in his chair, or wandering absentmindedly about the room rolling a cigarette, he delivers himself of his droll, shrewd, essentially Scottish comments. Things rush along to an exciting denouement, and the huge and unusually well dressed audience on the opening night was delighted with the play, which went with a bang from start to finish. Speaking of melodrama, Mr. Hugh Walpole’s successful excursion into that particular field of literary endeavour was a terrifying novel, "The Man with Red Hair,’’ which has now been dramatised, with such sincerity that one hears of a hardened dramatic critic being made so literally sick by its realism that in haste and horror he had to leave the theatre; and I don’t wonder if the play closely follows the story. After a spell of this kind of thing, she whose mind to her a kingdom is turns with relief to fresh fields of literature; perchance some gentle modern verse, which still is to be found, though not much of it. Mr. Gerald Gould, for instance, My love is fair, she is better than fair to me; She puts me in mind of a wild white seagull flying over the sea; She puts me in mind of a dim wind going softly in the grass,Of things remembered and young things and things that shall come to pass. Always from a boy, as I walked the evening road And saw the curtained windows where the warm light glowed, I have desired little children, and old songs, and sleep, And an ache has come in my throat for the need I had to weep. Strange that tender things, and the sweetest, are so often written by men,

ANNABEL

LEE