This review of the New York Production of Galsworthy's The Pigeon and the Little Theater (now the Helen Hayes) by Walter Prichard Eaton

AN INTIMATE THEATER AND AN UNUSUAL PLAY
"The Pigeon"-Little Theater, March 11, 1912

One of the most interesting, and we are inclined to think one of the most important, theatrical events of the winter is the launching of Winthrop Ames' Little Theater. The opening attraction was Galsworthy's new play, "The Pigeon," a fascinating drama almost flawlessly acted. Mr. Ames has begun his novel work with fortune smiling, and he has deserved his success and our gratitude.

The Little Theater is one of the most beautiful play houses in America. It is situated on Forty-fourth street, just west of Long Acre Square. Two old houses have given way to it. The front is no higher than the old houses, but instead of remaining brown stone, it is colonial brick, with a simple colonial entrance in white, and old-fashioned wooden window shutters. The wooden sign swings out over the sidewalk like the sign of an ancient inn. The interior is also colonial, or more properly Georgian, but very rich. The auditorium has no balconies, and seats but 300 people, inwidely spaced, comfortable chairs. There are no boxes. The walls are paneled half way up the quartered oak, and oak pilasters continue to the ceiling, framing tapestries. The ceiling is flat, white and embossed with a colonial wreath design in very low relief. The chandeliers are, of course, the old cut glass pendant type. The stage opening is small. The lobbies are, like the auditorium, intimate rooms, and downstairs is a coffee-room, where refreshments are served gratis between acts, quite like afternoon tea. The whole atmosphere is that of social intimacy, exquisite taste, quiet refinement, good breeding. There is not theater like it in size and style, and only the Maxine Elliott Theater can even compare with it in charm.

In such a house, of course, the plays must have an intimate appeal, and they ought, as well, to have distinct quality. It is a theater for the presentation of exceptional drama, drama that of necessity is not always well fitted to meet the diverse demands of the larger playhouses. Such drama e3xists. A theater to welcome it ought to exist. Mr. Ames has provided such a theater and provided it with prodigal hand.

"The Pigeon," his first bill, is an exceptional play, a fascinating, thoughtful, human play (though full of delightful comedy), and it is acted by an exceptional company, drilled into a flawless ensemble.

Mr. Ames has retained as stage director George Foster Playy, who was his director at the New Theater, a man who works at his best in an intimate auditorium, and he has also retained Wilfrid North, his assistant stage director at the New Theater. Further, he still has in his company Miss Matthison (though she is not in "The Pigeon"), Miss Pamela Gaythorne and several minor players. The new members of his staff, however, are not players who have been spioled by the star system, and they have worked at the very start into the spirit of ensemble playing. Among them are Russ Whytal, Frank Reicher and Sidney Valentine, three fine actors, who in "The Pigeon," perform in a way to restore our sometimes tottering faith in latter-day histrionic art. Mr. Ames, obviously, gained experience at the New Theater. He also achieved the nucleus of an organization, which he has brought over with him, and so starts with a considerable advantage.

"The Pigeon" is now available in book form. We need not, therefore, escribe it minutely, for most people who are interested in the finer things in the modern theater will undoubtedly procure it. Mr. Galsworthy describes it as a fantasy. It is not, however, fantastic. Evidently Galsworthy's idea of being fantastic is merely to smile while talking tenderly and touchingly about sad or serious things. That is characteristic of an author who comes so modestly to New York to see his play that nobody knew he was coming till the steamer arrived, and who takes a walk in Central Park while his play is being produced. Mr. Galsworthy inevitably reminds one of Arnold Bennett-he's so different!

Superficially, and only superficially, "The Pigeon" resembles "Passers-by." In each play waifs of the London streets come into the action. But there the similarity ceases. In "Passers-by" the real interest was not in the waifs, but in the sentimental story of the young London bachelor who invited them in. "The Pigeon," on the other hand, has no sentimental story. In a way, it is almost as neuter as "Strife." Its interest lies in the problem of the waifs themselves, and its message, beautifully and tenderly expressed by the action, is simply that to help sucyh folk at all effectively the essential thing is not a public court nor an organized charity nor a soup kitchen, but rather love and understanding. The Pigeon of the title is an old artist who cannot help loving these human wrecks, and who is called a pigeon because they pluck him.

His daughter calls them "rotters." All through the play the poor girl makes determined effort to keep her father from bringing these waifs into his studio. Finally, she makes him move to a new studio, up seven flights, without a "lift," in order to avoid the "rotters," and the philanthropic vicar and the professor with social theories, and the police magistrate who believes in the reformatory value of the workhouse. But at the end, the poor old artist gives his new address to all of them. "It's stronger than me," he wails. It is his dissipation. His love for them is his weakness. But it is also his strength. It is he alone who gets to the waifs at all. The play is not a plea for a social theory. It is a plea for love and sympathy and understanding.

Russ Whytal is a sweet, benignant figure as the old artist, who, the tramp says, can hardly be a Christian, because he has such a kind face. The three waifs are a London flower girl, who later goes on the streets, played touchingly by Parmela Gaythorne, Timson, a tipsy old cabbie, played with irresistible humor by Sidney Valentine, and Ferrand, a tramp (a character out of one of the author's earlier books), played by Frank Reicher. Ferrand is no ordinary vagabond of the comic papers. He is a cosmopolitan vagabond, French by blood, full of quaint, racy idiom, with a strong vein of philosophy-a truly extraordinary man. He is a man who would have been a considerable success in the world if he had been differently balanced, if he had been endowed with concentration instead of the wanderlust. The type is not unknown. It is not even rare (though people who have had no experience of the underworld will not believe this). But no doubt it is more common in Europe than in America, and for that reason Frank Reicher's German blood possibly enabled him to understand the character better. He plays it, certainly, with wonderful feeling. All the humor, all the philosophy, all the pathetic futility of this strange being are in his impersonation. The character goes beyond the confines of the stage. He is a real man. You wander with him over the globe, see the world from his point of view, and realize at last the grim futility of institutional charity to catch and tame such a wild bird, to reform him by giving him a bath.

"But," he cries to the artist, "are you really English? You treat me like a brother!"

"Ah, Monsieu," he says again, "I am a loafer, waster-what you like-for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime. If I were rich, should I not be simply veree original, 'ihjly respected, with soul above commerce, traveling to see the world? And that young girl, would she not be 'that charming ladee,' 'veree chic, hou know?' And the Old Tims, good old-fashioned gentleman, drinking his liquor well. Eh, bien!-what are we now? Dark beasts, despised by all. That is life, Monsieur."

Strange, disquieting words, these, when you come to think of them-disquieting with the naked truth!The poor little flower girl had been taken after act two, when her young husband refused to receive her back, into an institution by the vicar. In act three she had begun her life on the streets. "She wanted the joy of life-she chose the life of you-not quite the same thing!" says the philosophical tramp. She overhears some of the tramp's bitter words, and tries to drown herself. But the policeman, who admits she were better off dead, saves her. Sobbing on the old artist's shoulder, she says the people at the institution where she was placed looked at her as if they wanted her dead. "I couldn't stop there, you know."

"Too cooped up, eh?" says the artist.

"Yes. No life at all, it wasn't-not after sellin' flowers. I'd rather be doin' what I am!"

Terrible words again!-though the audience is prone to laugh at them.

Then she is carried off to the station-house, to be tried for the crime of trying to kill herself, by a magistrate who believes that there is no hope for her, and she'd be much better off dead. Even the vicar has admitted his belief in the "lethal chamber" as her happiest resting place. The poor, simple-minded artist cannot see the logic in all this-you grasp how simple-minded he is? Only the vagabond rises to the occasion.

"Do not grieve, Monsieur," he says, "this will give her courage. There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of things."

The irony of things-that is the play. Under its wit (for it is witty) and its comedy (for it is full of comic situations), run the undercurrent of irony, the irony of our poor, feeble institutions to deal with so individual and wild a thing as the human soul. The irony is not lessened by the fact that the only person in the play who reaches the hearts of these waifs is the poor pigeon, whose love for them is regarded as an amiable weakness by everybody else.

Of course, there is one great point which Galsworthy has here ignored. There are men, thank God, and women, too, whose love is no less than the old artist's, who have his weakness, too but who have in addition a power of character to inject into other souls something of their own faith and strength. The Salvation Army understands this, and sends men and women among the "rotter," who very often cause a "new birth" in these folk, a mighty welling up of strength from subconscious depths, a faith which gives them the joy of life they crave, and the steadfastness they need. Galsworthy, of course, is absolutely right that this cannot be done by institutions or baths, that such souls can only be reached by personalities who love them and who, above all, sympathetically understand them. But it is not true that such souls are only loved and understood by men and women in whom sympathy is a weakness, and that the only persons who really want ;them to live are persons who do not know how to give them something to live for.

The present writer knows today a business man in America who has handled dozens of cases of men and women in worse plight than these waifs in "The Pigeon." And made them all good members of society. He loved them. They knew it, and loved and trusted him. He let them pluck him, too, if they wanted to. But very soon they didn't want to, because he inspired in each a new conception of the joy of life. He did not chain them. He simply substituted for an old motive a new and better one. Insome cases it took him months, or even years. But he did it, and is doing it every day. It is this constructive side of love and sympathy Mr. Galsworthy ignores.

But, none the less, "The Pigeon" touches not the conventional stuff of the drama, but real life; to see it is to feel that you have enlarged your human experience. It is bitter with irony, yet tender with sympathy, and lambent with humor. And it is here acted with exquisite and understanding art. No season can be called vain which has given us the Little Theater and "The Pigeon."