ABSTRACT
This revival of Chekhov's comedy, for it is a comedy, although it ends with a suicide and some air of disaster, seemed less well done than it was when, with several of the present players in the cast, it was performed at the Little Theatre. The atmosphere was somehow thinner than it was then, and the whole company appeared to be excessively aware of the fact that they were acting in a Russian play and to be determined to be dismal. Chekhov's singular gaiety was not for a moment manifested in this production. Wave after wave of gloom rolled off the stage and swamped the audience, which soon foundered. If the players could have been rehearsed without being told the name of the author of the play, they might have given a finer performance, but they evidently felt that they must act up to Chekhov's reputation as a dreary highbrow. They lumped about the stage as if at any minute they might come upon a corpse. When someone said, ‘There must be many fish in the lake!’ he spoke as if he was certain that anyone who ate a fish would immediately come out in a rash or contract ptomaine poisoning. Something must be done about this awe and respect which actors feel for eminent and dead authors. Set one of them loose in a play by Shakespeare or Ibsen and he instantly begins to be solemn and respectful and awe-stricken, when he would do better to behave as if no one had ever heard of the author, as if the play had lately been written and the author were an unknown dramatist. We might then witness fresh performances, the sort that the plays received before their authors became great. It will be terrible if fifty years hence Mr. Shaw's comedies are acted as if they had been composed for centenary celebrations in a crematorium. These remarks apply to the entire company, even to Miss Margaret Swallow and Miss Valerie Taylor, but less to Miss Miriam Lewes than to any other person. The scenery was as morbid as the acting.
