Nights out

Monday, January 29th., St Simon's Avenue, London.

Two busy and contrasting evenings.

Yesterday I went with Vaughan to a political debate between G.B. Shaw and Hilaire Belloc at the Queen's Hall. Subject for debate: Connection between private property and servitude. The hall was crammed, and at concert prices. Not a seat unsold. Shaw was very pale with white hair, and straight. His wife beside him. Effect too conjugal for a man at work. Sidney and Beatrice Webb next to them. Effect also too conjugal here. Maurice Baring supporting Belloc, both very shabby. Maurice with loose brown boots and creased socks.

Shaw, Belloc and Chesterton

They spoke thus: Belloc 30 minutes; Shaw 30; Belloc 20; Shaw 20; Belloc 10; Shaw 10. Time was kept to three minutes. Belloc's first was pretty good. Shaw's first was a first class performance, couldn't have been better; the perfection of public speaking (not oratory); not a word wrong. But then afterwards the impression that it was a gladiatorial show or circus performance gained on one, and at the end was a sense of disappointment, as the affair degenerated into a mere rivalry in 'scoring'. Still, I have never seen Shaw emotional before as he was then. Curious trick of audience, as of all audiences, of applauding sentiments with which they were already familiar, and receiving anything relatively new in silence. Did anyone in the audience come out with a view different from that they took in? I doubt it.

Then, this evening, to Covent Garden for the first English production of "Rosenkavalier". Began at 8.20 (20 minutes late) and finished at midnight, with many cuts. Then thirty minutes wait nearly for motor in procession of motors. I might have been quicker to walk. The thing was certainly not understood by stalls and grand circle. What its reception was in the amphitheatre and gallery I was too far off to judge. First act received quite coldly. Ovation as usual at the end, and an expolsive sort of shout when Thomas Beecham came to bow. All very conventional, done because it is the thing to do.

The beauty and symmetry of the book came out even more clearly than on reading it. An entirely false idea of this opera so far in England. Not sensual, nor perverse, nor depraved. It is simply the story of a young man providing a tragedy for an ageing woman by ceasing to love her, and an ecstatic joy for a young woman by beginning to love her. All the main theme is treated with gravity and beauty. The horse play, and the character of Ochs, and the eighteenth century colour is incidental. It seemed to me to be a work of the first order.