AT THE OPERA.
In these dull days of reaction, when, in the intervals of jazzing, we have nothing to satisfy the spiritual void left by the War except the possibility of an industrial cataclysm at home and the triumph of Bolshevism abroad, we owe a large debt of gratitude to Sir THOMAS BEECHAM for his efforts to revive the Town. And the Town is at last appreciating at their full worth his services both to the cause of popular education in music and to the encouragement of native talent.
It was perhaps a little unfortunate that Aïda should have been given on the night of the Guards' march through London, for the parade of the Pharaoh's scratch soldiery suffered badly by comparison. The priesthood of Isis, too, furnished more humour than could, I think, have been designed, and I doubt if even Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH could have given us anything funnier than the spectacle presented by the Egyptian monarch when making his announcement of an Ethiopian raid. Nor shall I easily forget the figure of the King of Ethiopia, with a head of hair like a Zulu's, and swathed in a tiger-skin. I should myself have chosen the hide of a leopard, for the leopard cannot change his spots nor the Ethiopian his skin, and when you get the two together you have an extraordinarily durable combination.
It would be false flattery to say that Miss ROSINA BUCKMAN quite looked the part of Aïda, or Miss EDNA THORNTON that of Amneris, but they both sang finely, and the orchestra did great work under Mr. EUGENE GOOSSENS, Sen.
In Louise, again, it was the orchestra, cleverly steered by Sir THOMAS BEECHAM through the difficult score for the choruses, that sustained us through the banalities of an opera which has only one dramatic moment—when her father hastens the eviction of Louise by throwing a chair at her, very well aimed by Mr. ROBERT RADFORD, who only just missed his mark. I suppose it is hopeless to expect that the makers of "Grand" Opera (whose sense of humour is seldom their strong point) will consent to allow the trivialities of ordinary speech in everyday life ("How do you do?" "Thank you, I am not feeling my best," and so on) to be said—if they must find expression of some sort—and not sung.
By way of contrast to the modern realism which makes so unlikely a material for serious opera, the fantastic irresponsibility of The Magic Flute came as a great relief. Its simpler music, serenely sampling the whole gamut of emotions, grave to gay, offered equal chances (all taken) to the pure love-singing of Miss AGNES NICHOLLS as Pamina, and Mr. MAURICE D'OISLY as Tamino, the light-hearted frivolity of Papageno (Mr. RANALOW), and the solemn pontifics (de profundissimis) of Mr. FOSTER RICHARDSON'S Sarastro. A most delightful and refreshing performance.
O. S.