are

ing night of "Dora's Dilemma." Mrs. Dean, Mr. Rosenbaum and the author enter a stage box, and presently the curtain goes up on the crucial act of the melodrama. Everything goes swimmingly until the climax, when Jerry, forgetting his overcoat, is forced to do a bit of impromptu acting, and seizing Betty in his arms, rushes out of her supposed husband's house with her, ruining the intricate plot of the play. But next morning, when we shown Belden's bachelor apartment and his man brings in the morning papers, we are surprised to learn that "Dora's Dilemma" has been an enormous success, that even Belden's acting has appealed to the critics as "delightfully unconventional," and that the play will undoubtedly run for months. Belden is more than angry at this undesired and disastrous success. Betty is, too. She can devise no other way to marry Belden than to compromise herself by visiting his apartment. Presently she arrives. They plan an elopement, declaring they will act in the play only that week. Following Betty arrives. Mrs. Dean, who, now that her daughter's success is assured, is not in the least worried about her being compromized. Mrs. Dean is magnificently gowned, and is already planning further theatrical ventures, having always had an ambition "to do a few things to Ibsen."

JERRY. Now Mrs. Dean, you've kept us apart on the plea that you wanted to see Betty on Broadway. You can take a long lingering look at her for five more nights and of course the usual matineesMRS. DEAN. What do you mean? JERRY. Sunday we're married. BETTY. No, to-day! I'll take no more chances.

JERRY. (Puts arms around Betty.) Suits me, darling. Then on Sunday we start on a still hunt for that farm with the chickens and the little calf.

MRS. DEAN. I won't permit it. JERRY. Then I'm afraid we won't wait for the permit. (Betty's head is on Jerry's shoulder. Rosenbaum enters, handsomely clothed and wearing a silk hat.)

ROSENBAUM. Well, we put it over. Didn't I always say it was a great play? MRS. DEAN. Oh, Mr. Rosenbaum, I am so glad you've come.

ROSENBAUM. (Puts high silk hat in armchair.) I'd been here before, but I was looking over the plans for the Rosenbaum Theater.

MRS. DEAN. Talk to these children-I can't do anything with them. They're impossible.

ROSENBAUM. You've got to make allowances after the hit they made last night. It's the artistic temperament.

MRS. DEAN. It's rank nonsense. ROSENBAUM. It's the same thing. Jerry, didn't I always say it took one fat part to make a Broadway star? Find out what they like in your personality, and hand it to them. When you get old you keep on handing it to them and they think it's character acting.

MRS. DEAN. (Sitting on couch.) We've

A PLAY WITHIN A PLAY

no time to listen to your theories of acting, even if you had any. They threaten to stop acting altogether on Saturday night.

ROSENBAUM. What?
JERRY. That's right.
ROSENBAUM. Never!

JERRY. Who's going to make me act? MRS. DEAN. Nobody can do that-the critics notwithstanding.

ROSENBAUM. You don't dare quit. JERRY. Don't I? You forget I own this show.

MRS. DEAN. What? You?

JERRY. Yes, I put up the money for Dora's Dilemma.

MRS. DEAN. Why wasn't I told? JERRY. Because I didn't want you to feel under obligations to me.

MRS. DEAN. (Rising.) Obligations? To furnish a few paltry thousand to put my daughter where she belongs? It was a privilege. Nevertheless, it was very generous of you. Betty, why don't you thank this noble-hearted man for all he has done for you?

BETTY. Thank him!

ROSENBAUM. Listen to her! She's as

bad as Belden. But why expect gratitude from actors.

JERRY. Gratitude to you? A fat lot you've done for us. Where's that failure you guaranteed me?

ROSENBAUM.

(Handing him check. Jerry takes it.) Here's your five thousand dollars. I don't need it.

MRS. DEAN. What's this I hear about failure?

JERRY. He promised me that it would fail. I relied on him.

MRS. DEAN. So, young man, you were going to put one over on mother?

JERRY. (To her.) You've put it all over us-let that satisfy you. But don't waste your time gloating-you'd better bend all your energies to find two people to play our parts. (Gets suit-case, starts to door.) And find them quickly. (Betty rises, takes Jerry's left arm. They start for door.)

331

pose.) I don't say I will-I'll do it on one condition, Mrs. Dean, that you withdraw your opposition to my marriage with Betty.

ROSENBAUM. You marry Betty over my dead body. (Turns to Jerry.)

JERRY. (To Rosenbaum.) Oh, I'll go to the chair for you.

BETTY. I'll play Dora and her old Dilemma with a wedding-ring or not at all. ROSENBAUM. (To Mrs. Dean.) Mrs. Dean-are you going to stand there and see them ruin us?

MRS. DEAN. Ruin us?

ROSENBAUM. Who's going to pay two dollars to see a man make love to his own wife? Oh, Betty, be reasonable. I'll make a great actress of you.

MRS. DEAN. I've done that already, Mr. Rosenbaum.

ROSENBAUM. Oh, Betty, don't do this. Stick to me. To show you the kind of fellow I am, I'll let you both do Shakespeare.

JERRY. (Furiously.) Shakespeare? You've done enough for me. Don't think you can put me in tights.

BETTY. I have an idea. Why couldn't we

be married quietly? (Jerry turns to her.) ROSENBAUM. Quietly!-What can you do in New York quietly?

BETTY. No one need know.

ROSENBAUM. The reporters would get it in a minute. There's a bunch of them downstairs now.

JERRY. Why?

ROSENBAUM. I've brought them around to interview you.

JERRY. (Goes quickly to phone.) Hello, is this the office? Send those reporters up to Mr. Belden's room at once. Yes, at once. Now you listen to me. I'm willing to think of you and Effie and Johnnie and the others-I'm willing to go on acting and acting and acting-to serve my sentence-so that you can go on producing and producing and producing. You can do your Shakespeare and you can do your Ibsen provided we can get married. Oh quietly I'll keep the marriage a secret. MRS. DEAN. (Stopping them.) You Either you do this or I'll give that bunch children don't realize what you're doing. of reporters a story of our engagement You can't leave this cast. You're both that will spread over the front page of necessary to the success of the play. every paper in this town. Now it's up to ROSENBAUM. (Turning.) You leave it you. (Knock at door. Whispers.) There and it won't draw a cent.

JERRY. We don't need the money. ROSENBAUM. What about me? JERRY. (Over his shoulder.) Oh, you! MRS. DEAN. What about the others. You can't stop the run of this playthrow all these people out of employment. Think of Effie and Johnnie-would you take their livelihood? Drive them back to a life of care and worry. You can't do that unless you're both marked with a wide streak of yellow.

they are. Now think and think fast. (Another knock at door.)

ROSENBAUM. (Whispering.) What will we do? MRS. DEAN. (Whispering.) What can we do?

JERRY. (Whispering.) Come with us. MRS. DEAN. (Whispering.) Where? JERRY. (Whispering.) To the Little Church Around the Corner.

ROSENBAUM. (Getting Mrs. Dean's coat from couch, gives it to her. WhisBETTY. Jerry, I suppose we must think pering.) For God's sake go, but go quietof the others.

JERRY. (To Rosenbaum, throwing down suit-case.) Why didn't you tell me if this was a success I couldn't get out of it without hurting other people? You promised me faithfully that my acting would kill it. Why didn't you warn me that I was in danger of making a hit?

ROSENBAUM. Oh, how did I know you had what gets across-whatever the damn thing is.

JERRY. (Starting to Mrs. Dean.) If I stick to this thing- (Betty starts to inter

ly! (Jerry reaching hand to Mrs. Dean.) JERRY. Come, Mother.

Betty, Jerry and Mrs. Dean start to door, walking on tiptoes. Rosie tiptoes up to door. Knocking becomes louder on door. Betty, Jerry and Mrs. Dean turn, look at Rosie. Rosie motions to them to go. And as they slip out one door, Rosenbaum admits the curious representatives of the press at the other.

I

HAVE had such a wonderful time playing Dr. Blank's lovely Persian rugs!" This, according to a writer in The Musical Leader, was the exclamation of a young woman pianist and composer who was discussing the association of tone and color that is said to exist in the minds of many composers and artists. Her attitude, evidently, differs somewhat from that of the Russian composer, Alexander Scriabin. The latter attempts not to translate colors and patterns into tone, but to unite tone and color, or perhaps we might say, to translate tone into terms of color.

Under the direction of Modest Altschuler, the Russian Symphony Orchestra recently performed in New York Scriabin's "Prometheus - the Poem of Fire." For the first time anywhere it was produced with the use of colored lights that the mystic composer has introduced as a constituent element in producing the effect desired. A "keyboard of light" had been constructed according to the directions of the composer, and this keyboard was manipulated by one of the members of the orchestra, following the part that Scriabin wrote for it in his score. The effect, if we are to believe the musical critics, was far from successful. But the experiment is none the less interesting in view of the fact that Scriabin stands with Schoenberg and Stravinsky in the front ranks of the tonal revolutionists of the present day; and that he, like Wassily Kadinsky, the Munich artist who attempts "to paint music," is a Theosophist and a mystic.

Typical of the impression upon the audience who listened and watched Scriabin's strange "color-music," is this description of the color keyboard by the Boston critic, Henry T. Parker, who writes in the Boston Transcript:

"It worked; it distracted; and it added nothing-except the gratification of curiosity-to the impressions that the average listener received. Before the playing of Prometheus began, Carnegie Hall was darkened, save for the exit lamps over the doors and the necessary bulbs on the music-stands. Curtains were drawn at the back of the stage to disclose à considerable square of gauze screens. Across them, as the music proceeded and synchronously with the indications of the score, played yellow, orange, violet, purple, greenish and reddish lights. Sometimes a single color remained fixed for a moment; then it gave place to another in quick or gradual transition. Sometimes the colors were blended; occasionally the usual clear intensity of them was graduated in shadings presumably indi

cated in the score. In themselves all of the colors were pleasurable to see in soft radiance clear or dimmed. They yielded,

Alexander Scriabin was born in 1872, and before he entered the Moscow Conservatory had intended to follow the army. His inclination for music was too strong, however. He won several medals as a student, and since 1903 has devoted himself entirely to composition. These facts we learn

GENIUS OR MADMAN?

Alexander Scriabin, whose color symphony was recently played in New York, might have stepped out of the pages of James Huneker's "Melomaniacs." He dreams of creating a composite art out of sounds, colors, and odors, but thus far has united only two of the senses in a symphony.

from an article by Edward Burlingame Hill in the Boston Transcript. "Prometheus-the Poem of Fire" represents, we learn from the same source, the summit of his achievement in the fields of expression, harmonic dating, and the liberal use of an immense orchestra, to which is added bells, a celeste, a piano with an important part, and the "keyboard of light."

Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, the wellknown authority on Russian music, presented recently (in the Russian Review) an interesting interpretation of Scriabin's version of the Promethean myth. It is "no ordinary conception of the Titan, rock-rivetted and chained in height and cold, with the vultures

perpetually gnawing at his vitals; but one of that class of adepts symbolized by the Greeks under the name of Pro

metheus."

"According to the teaching of theosophy, the nascent races of mankind, not as yet illumined by the gift of Prometheus, were physically incomplete, possessing only the shadow of bodies, sinless because devoid of conscious personality (in theosophical terms 'without karma'). From this condition of nebulous darkness Prometheus delivered humanity by means of the spark of enlightenment which awakened man's conscious creative power. Those who were most prepared to receive it understood its value, and practiced it on the highest spiritual plane; they became the Arhats, or Sages, of succeeding generations. Those less highly organized turned it to material uses. Thus the Promethean gift assumed a dual aspect: on the one side it proved a boon; on the other a curse. The music of Prometheus can be heard with interest apart from its esoteric program; but it is difficult to see how anyone can really enter fully into the composer's intentions and follow the complex winding of his thoughts without some knowledge of the sources of his inspiration."

Not content with merely uniting color and the orchestra, the Russian composer dreams, as many other artists have dreamed before him, of the unification of all the mediums of art. "Prometheus" is only a step toward the realization of Scriabin's ideals. Mrs. Newmarch further elucidates this point:

are

"Regarding all art as religion, he aims, like Wagner, at a union of the arts, which shall work together to induce an effulgent spiritual ecstasy, leading mankind to a genuine view of the higher spiritual planes. In this great religious ritual all the arts cannot play equally important Those which parts. manifested through mediums incontestably subordinate to the will, such as music, poetry and the plastic arts, will be dominant elements in the combination. Other elements which are not subject to the willpower, such as light and perfume, take a These secondary place in the scheme. 'accompanying' arts are, however, capable hitherto been supposed. In 'Prometheus' of much further development than has Scriabin makes his first attempt to introduce one of them in his accompanying play of light and color. In the work now engaging his attention, which he calls a 'Mystery,' every means will be used to enhance its incitement to ecstasy, and the symphony of sound will be accompanied by the dance and by corresponding symphonies of light and perfume. In this ticipate must experience the whole evo'Mystery' we are told that those who parlution of the creative spirit, and that there will be no division between those who are initiated passively (the hearers and on

lookers) and those who take part in the celebration of this ritual (the executants). We shall look with expectant interest to the next development of his art."

Clarence Lucas, writing in the Musical Courier, frankly hints at the insanity of artists of the Scriabin type. "All of these mystics, maniacs, realists, who exhibit abnormal tastes for the sensuous, whether of the eye, the ear, or the nose, are suffering from an atavism which retrogrades to animals, who are guided almost exclusively by their senses and hardly at all by their

reason."

"Scriabin may be laboring under the delusion which is common to all neurotic degenerates, whether men of genius or ordinary idiots, namely, that he has enlarged the boundaries of art by making it more comprehensive. He has not done so. He has taken a step backward. Can a reader better understand a poem or an essay if he sits on a tack or stands on a hot stove? No; the mind will be disturbed in its attention to the poem by the

DRAMA VS. PICTURE-PLAY

pain of the scratch and the burn. In a like manner do the flaring and restless colors prevent the mind from fixing a too concentrated attention on the music. All the colors of Titian and Turner were there; but there was no picture. All the harmonies of Wagner, Grieg and Strauss were there; but there was no recognizable musical composition. All the words of Shakespeare, Milton and Swinburne are in the dictionary; but there is no visible poem in that monumental volume."

It is well that Mr. Altschuler performed the Scriabin composition twice during the same evening, that unusually discerning critic Sigmund Spaeth writes in The Opera Magazine, for most of his hearers were so much interested in the colored lights that they took almost no note of the music the first time. He explains further:

"This brings up at once a serious defect in the scheme. A screen filled with changing colors is no more a part of an orchestra than is the stage setting of a Wagner opera, much as some of our con

333

ductors might argue to the contrary. The Tastiera per luce in Scriabin's Prometheus was essentially a soloist, accompanied by some very discordant and uninteresting music. Moreover, the connection between the color-changes and the corresponding orchestral tones was scarcely ever clear. The impression was not at all of a necessary, universally valid relationship, but of an elaborate toy, governed by the whims of the composer.

"When trumpets seemed to blare a vivid scarlet, the screen showed only a mild and gentle amber tint, and in the dullest gray moments of the music the Tastiera per luce flashed its most sustained crimson message. In themselves the colors were extremely beautiful, suggesting changeable silks of endless versatility. Of the music it was impossible to judge fairly, because of the distraction of the screen. The thematic material sounded interesting at times, but no real beauty forced its way into the hearer's consciousness. Audible colors and visible tones may be a practical possibility of the future, but what was exhibited by Mr. Altschuler can hardly be called more than a diverting novelty."

I

camera

F, AS some of the champions of cubism and futurism claim, the and photography have eliminated the realistic and subjective mission of painting, and have forced the artist into subjective and spiritual fields, where he no longer need concern himself with the aim of representation, there is good reason to suppose that the development of the moving picture may have a similar influence upon the drama and the theater. Writing on "A Laocoon for the Movies" in The Play-Book, H. M. Hedges makes several interesting suggestions for the future development of the moving picture and the play and the drama proper.

"There is the language of pantomime and the language of verbal speech. Both are elemental and fundamental. The universal sign-language, the signal of the hand and the expression of the face, is at its base dramatic. The universal oral language, ejaculations of pain and joy such as 'ah,' is at its base dramatic. Both languages are the material of drama; neither alone makes drama. The closet drama attempts to give a representation of life through the ear alone; the picture drama attempts to give a representation of life through the eye alone. Each is an incomplete representation because each is only partially real. To reveal the depths of passion in a soul, to reproduce the multiplex deeds of men, both languages, adequately employed, are all too inadequate. As one instance of the inadequacy of the two universal languages, note the use of the symbolic silence of M. Maeterlinck, which the picture-drama may utilize but has not yet fully. The picturedrama then fails to be a complete repre

DIFFERENT ROADS

sentation of life because it misses the richly artistic support of verbal language."

The picture-drama, Mr. Hedges points out, can never fully reflect our modern sophisticated life. At the same time the picture-drama is preeminent in the portrayal of realistic settings. Vistas of hills and plains, burning buildings, the expanse of lakes and seas, are all supreme in the "movies." "The garden of Allah," because it lay in the broad out-of-doors, would have succeeded better in the films than on the boards. "Who would not rather give five cents to see a perfect replica of the Sahara in pictures than two dollars to see a canvas desert?"

"The picture-drama, supreme as a representation of objective life, can never hope, as far as present indications go, to enter the subjective world of the soul. The objective and subjective worlds are equally real, but not equally important to drama. For drama, great drama, the only thing of importance is human personality in conflict. The proverbial barren stage of the Elizabethans supports this assertion. How can the struggle of a soul be adequately portrayed by pantomime? Emotion, perhaps deep physical emotion, can be expressed by face, attitude and gesture; but as soon as a portrayal of conflict is attempted, the support of language, with its rich suggestiveness, is needed.

"I once saw paternal emotion and pain conveyed adequately in picture-drama. An old farmer lost his only daughter to a rascal in elopement. The old man was dazed by the loss. He was shown us at

sundown sitting upon the bench in front of the house, scanning the empty road down which his daughter was wont to come. By the light of the moon at midnight we saw the motionless figure, tense with anguish; and when the sun rose, the old, motionless figure was still there waiting, waiting.

"That is effective presentation of emotion. But how could the conflict in Father Lear's heart, before Gloucester's castle, be portrayed thus? No, until the art of the picture-dramatist develops marvelously, the realm where the soul battles is shut to the picture-dramatist.

And here we have a line of distinction between melodrama and tragedy. A play which presents the objective world in detail and in preponderance is melodrama;

a play which reveals the subjective world is tragedy. Pictures are the province of melodrama; the legitimate stage is the province of motivated drama, high comedy and tragedy.

"Late years have been disastrous to American drama proper. Managers maintain that moving pictures have contributed their share to the catastrophe. It seems plain that the disaster is due to a poor

definition of the fields of the two kinds of art. When once the managers see that it is folly to compete with the pictureplays in their own field, melodrama, they will turn to the production of realistic, poetic comedy and tragedy; they then

will till a field where the fatal sickle of their competitors cannot go."

We may conclude, therefore, that both the moving picture and the drama have their own separate and distinct fields, and that if each is to develop to its highest point, neither should attempt to encroach upon the preserves of the other.

T

HE amateur is violating the atrical neutrality. He is rushing in, and winning, where the experienced theatrical producer has feared to tread. At least, so we must conclude from the enthusiastic reception that has been accorded by the New York dramatic

critics to two new democratic ventures -the productions of the Washington Square Players at the Bandbox Theater, and the opening of the new Neighborhood Playhouse in the heart of the East Side. Each is an experimental and democratic organization, if not completely amateur in personnel. Both organizations are presenting plays that have no appeal to the commercial manager. Both are attracting cultivated and enthusiastic audiences. Both are pleasing the professional critics. This fact is of peculiar and ironical significance in a season when unfavorable and caustic criticism has resulted in a bitter war between managers and critics a war that in one case at least (the New York Times vs. Messrs. Shubert) has already been carried into the courts.

The Washington Square Players are a group of artists, writers, actors and others who are supposed to inhabit that elusive district of lower New York known as Greenwich Village. When their first program of one-act plays was presented at the Bandbox Theater, the general excellence and novelty of the performance led the New York Herald to exclaim editorially: "There has been plenty of drama worth fifty cents sold for two dollars a seat in New York from time to time; but rarely indeed does one get two dollars' worth for fifty cents. . . . Yet that is exactly what 299 persons had served to them last night in the little Bandbox Theater. . .

No less impressed was the New York Tribune, declaring that if the group of individuals composing the enterprize can preserve the freshness of spirit and originality of idea which it indicates in its original offering, it promises to be a theatrical force to be reckoned with. "In the moving bit of drama 'Interior,' by Maeterlinck, the producer and company achieve an atmosphere of simplicity and sincerity which is admirable. If the players do nothing else, they are to be congratulated on their presentation of this virtually unknown bit of literature by the Belgian dramatist." The Brooklyn Eagle was even more enthusiastic over the open

ing program. Admitting the danger of superlatives, it nevertheless was of the opinion that these plays comprised probably "the most novel theatrical opening ever seen in this city."

The second bill of the Washington

Square Players was scarcely less enthusiastically received by the metropolitan critics. It was composed of Leonid Andreyev's "Love of One's Neighbor"; "Two Blind Beggars and One Less Blind," by Philip Moeller; "Moondown," by John Reed; and a pantomime in black and white, "The Shepherd in the Distance," by Holland

SHE SPEAKS EUGENICALLY

The heroine of Edward Goodman's "Eugenic ally Speaking," performed by the Washington Square Players, selects a car conductor for her husband after reading an article by George Bernard Shaw in a magazine. Her father, the traction magnate, wants to sue Shaw, but fortu

nately-or unfortunately-the conductor is married.

Hudson. The performance was of such merit that one of our most austere critics, James Metcalfe, was led to remark in Life:

"If the work of the Washington Square Players is not spoiled by too much pecuniary success, or by awakening the interest, patronage and interference of the highbrow element in this community, it promises to become an excellent influence in a theatrical way. It is the theater in its most democratic form. The young

The danger of commercialization for this enterprize, which some of the critics seem to fear, is evidently small, in view of this essentially democratic nature. The artistic aims are scarcely less democratic, as indicated by a writer in the Boston Transcript:

"The purpose, briefly, was this: To establish a stage for experimentation; to put it at the disposal of competent authors and producers who might have something vital to contribute; to put into execution, swiftly and without undue regard for hampering detail, any artistic idea that seemed worthy of trial; to maintain a theater flexible and responsive, one capable of developing into a permanent institution of such a character as events might dictate. There are perhaps dreams for the future; there are as yet no set plans. The response accorded the opening performance, the ability of directors, artists and actors, will go far towards determining the immediate evolution. Naturally, the theater hopes for permanency. A stable financial basis, with a decent living wage to actors and other workers, is a reasonable expectation. Beyond that the only desire is to make the theater responsive to any artistic impulse that may spring up spontaneously."

The Neighborhood Playhouse is the outcome of the work of the festival and dramatic groups of the famous Henry Street Settlement. During the past eight years, as Miss Helen Arthur points out in The Play-Book, these groups presented festivals and pantomimes in the gymnasium of the settlement, and for the last three years the dramatic club (now named the "Neighborhood Players") has produced at Clinton Hall plays like Ôlive Tiford Dargan's "The Shepherd" and John Galsworthy's "The Silver Box." The

erection of a theater was the inevitable outcome of the success of these performances. Designed by the architects of Winthrop Ames' Little Theater, the Neighborhood Playhouse, with is exquisite appointments and complete lighting and scenic facilities, will offer every encouragement and inducement for artistic producing and acting.

an

The theater was opened with a Biblical festival, entitled "Jephthah's Daughter." More recently another series of plays, including Lord Dunsany's "The Glittering Gate," Oliphant Down's "The Maker of Dreams," and American folk-drama, "Tethered Sheep," by Robert Gilbert Welsh, was produced. The last-named play was interesting as an attempt to do for the South, evidently, what the Irish dramatists of the Dublin Abbey Theater group have done for the peasant life of Ireland.

But the Neighborhood Playhouse is confining itself not merely to plays of this type. Moving pictures, camera talks, folk songs and dances, marionets and music, and artistic vaudeville will further help to carry out the democratic idea in the institution. Regarding the value of such a theater to the East Side, Hiram Kelly Moderwell writes in the Boston Transcript:

"The value of such an institution in spiritual and es'thetic results may be great. We have come to realize that a democracy goes to seed without vigorous local self-government, and an art institution always tends to degenerate when it is too highly centralized. The great school of power, in art as in politics, lies in people's doing things for themselves. It is in no figurative sense that the people of the Grand Street Neighborhood are making their theater. All who are in any way interested contribute

ARTISTIC AMATEURS

according to their special talents and desires. Those who want to act, act; and their friends who come to see them feel a more personal response to the miraculous fact The costumes and properties, designed by people working in the neighborhood, are made entirely by the various art and handicraft classes in the settlement. Finally, unless the organization has serious flaws, the thing produced will be the thing desired; the art will grow out of the audience as well as out of the artist. It is such a creative audience that is the foundation for every great art."

that a person can seem somebody else.

"It would appear that everybody is in the theatrical business but the theatrical managers," remarks George Jean Nathan in the Smart Set, "when one surveys the great number of amateur organizations that are at present spreading over the country." This may not be a bad thing at all, he continues. It has remained for the Washington Square Players to institute probably

A POSTERESQUE PANTOMIME

335

the most likely forum for the short play that New York has enjoyed since Arnold Daly's brilliant lease of the Berkeley in 1907. And it has remained, in a remote amusement chamber named he points out, for a squad of amateurs

The Neighborhood Playhouse to introduce the work of Lord Dunsany to the New York stage.

"That the stage introduction to the local proletariat of the rare and imaginative work of Dunsany would eventually have to be vouchsafed by amateurs was, of course, to be expected. Just as it is a tradition on the part of our professional managers that, in a military play, no matter where a soldier is wounded he must always wear a bandage around his forehead, so is it a tradition of our theater that either amateurs or Arnold Daiy must finally be entrusted with introducing to the American public all the really worthwhile dramatists. Thus, Shaw had to

a side street. So, too, Echegaray (at Mrs. Osborn's Playhouse). So, too, Strindberg. So, too, Björnson. So, too, all the rest of them. And now, too, Dunsany."

Thus it would appear that the artistic mission of the new theatrical amateurs is a far more serious one than would at first be supposed. Theirs. seems to be that of the pioneer in art. To succeed they continually

must

open new fields of theatrical endeavor.