"THE LABYRINTH."

The New York advent of Miss Nethersole in "The Labyrinth" occurred at the Herald Square Theatre, on November 27, 1905, and, as usual, her coming made known an accession of trouble at the dwelling of the Widow Jones,-the emotional disturbance being of a character to diffuse not merely a mist, but a dense fog of woe. Poor Matilda Heron, a wonderful actress in her lawless, wild way,-who followed in Mrs. Lander's path, playing the Camilles, Medeas, and Phædras, and who always meant well,-customarily clamored for "the woman who is lost." "Only give me that," cried Matilda, "and I ask for no more!" The same tender longing seems to have agitated the bosom of Miss Nethersole, and that performer exhibited much facility in finding "lost" women to impersonate.

The afflicted Widow Jones, in "The Labyrinth," is named Marianne-which somehow sounds better than the English Mary Ann. Marianne got married, gave birth to a boy, and, for a time, dwelt in bliss; but only for a time. The French husband, it appears, is a gay being, and like unto the butterfly he flits from flower to flower. Marianne's husband was gay. He flitted. And that volatile behavior on the part of her spouse so displeased Marianne that presently she obtained a divorce from him, and married another man,-consenting, meanwhile, that the boy, dear relic of Number One,

should periodically abide with his sire. Time passed,according to its custom,-and Marianne dwelt in bliss with Number Two, but only for a time. Then the child fell sick of the infectious and perilous disease of diphtheria and Marianne and Number One were brought together at his crib. Then-"Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day!" . . . There are, manifestly, occasions when even chloride of lime and tincture of the perchloride of iron are powerless to stay the course of "Love." This consideration, though, seems to have had no weight with Number Two, even when it was sustained by the opinion of a maternal relative, opposed, on religious principle, to the expedient of divorce,—and, after Marianne had told her little tale of woe, Number One and Number Two were slain by each other (going out behind the house and tumbling over a convenient precipice) and their double-barrelled widow was left in frenzy. The boy recovered,-Dr. Bolus being on hand, presumably with antitoxin.

The "labyrinth," perhaps, was the maze in which the sense of decency got lost when this farrago of a play was written: for the piece provides one of those aromatic themes to which Othello's comprehensive remark is eminently pertinent: "Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks!" The public was instructed, all the same, that M. Hervieu's drama abounds in "lessons" -one of them being the complete irrationality of the Roman Catholic Church dogma "Once married, always

married." But the truly practical "lesson" deducible from it was the axiom that cleanliness, on the Stage, might now and then be advantageously stimulated by a vigorous use of a fire hose. Plays such as Miss Nethersole has customarily produced would always be benefited by that treatment. That actress, as Marianne, comported herself in her customary manner,—as made familiar in "Carmen," "Sapho," and kindred carnalisms, -that is to say, with convulsions, shudderings, gurgitations, bleatings, and such other denotements of "genius" as are usual with performers of the hysterical order. Delirium, of course, is consummate acting. Persons who go to pieces and hammer on things are, obviously, full of heart, and heart is nature, and tears are real, and so are red noses. "I will roar," says Bottom, “that I will do any man's heart good to hear me." And that is not altogether a bad method for public performers to adopt who wish to communicate the old "Festus" dictum:

"The might and truth of hearts is never shown

But in loving those whom we ought not to love,
Or cannot have."

The situations in "The Labyrinth" are forced, but the forcing is expertly done, and there is enough in the play about children and the domestic affections to gloss over its rank obfuscation of principle and melt the waxen hearts of a sentimental auditory. In calm demeanor and in level speech the acting of Miss Nether

sole is sometimes finely effective: it would be wholly so, but for a certain coarseness of physical quality and a commonness of tone which perhaps may be correctly designated as animal and plebeian. During the first half of that representation of "The Labyrinth" Miss Nethersole's performance was artificial to the extent of deadly insincerity. Nothing could be worse than was her endeavor to express maternal feeling. In the denotement of a much lower form of emotion-in the wife's surrender to her repentant first husband (an extremely contemptible person, whose conduct, however, was perhaps not more dishonorable than that which is frequently caused by the much admired infatuation of love),—she was more successful; in fact, quite actual.

This actress, an expert advertiser, bulged into print with the statement that "The Labyrinth" is "a great moral drama," and expressed herself as being “amazed and shocked at the action" of certain ladies of Montreal in withdrawing their patronage from a charitable performance of "The Labyrinth" because of its immorality, adding her conviction that the mantle of charity should "have covered anything sinful the good women thought they saw." How nice! The old, old story. A drama that dumps a load of garbage on the Stage and, incidentally, mentions that garbage is a noxious product is "moral." That is folly or humbug; in either case it is bosh. The "question" raised in this play, that of divorce, is not suitable for stage presentment, except

as an incidental expedient to a drama. The "question" of morality of conduct under social conventions which establish and recognize divorce does not admit of debate -is not a "question" at all. The Theatre, moreover, is not a place to debate "questions." The moral influence of the Stage is incidental, for morality is an intrinsic and ever present attribute of art, entirely competent to take care of itself, and it should be always implicit.

The assumption of Miss Nethersole in undertaking moral preachments in the Theatre was an intolerable impudence. Who has authorized or asked the people of the Stage to instruct the public in "morality"? The attitude of the whole tribe of self-proclaimed theatrical "teachers" is insolent. The "Camille-Tanqueray-SaphoEasiest-Way-Narrow-Path" Drama is a public nuisance and a crying shame. What good have such plays done? Whose morals have been protected or renovated by them? Who finds the portrayal and contemplation of such subjects as those plays obtrude beneficial? "What," asks Reason, "is the cause of all this theatrical anxiety about the morals of other persons?" And Echo gently answers, "The cause is greed of publicity and gain." Camille, Izeyl, Cléopâtre, Mrs. Tanqueray, Madga, Mrs. Trevelyan, Carmen, Sapho, and their sisters-what a galaxy! And to that gallery of charming figures Miss Nethersole, with a lofty ideal of womanhood and the mission of an artist which ought to settle, for all time,