Alfredo Valente

De Lawd God Jehovah

Throughout the country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, Richard B. Harrison's projection of the central figure in *The Green Pastures*—the Deity as pictured in the Negro imagination—is still a living reality. Since February 1930 the company has been playing continuously, save for two brief vacations. It has traveled the breadth of the continent and back, and next season will invade the South. The script had been admired by many New York managers, and refused by them on the ground that it was impossible to cast the central part without seem-

ing sacrilege. Then Lawrence Stebbins and Marc Connolly found Mr. Harrison, up on a visit to New York from an agricultural college in North Carolina in which he was reader and director of dramatics. He had never been on the professional stage before. Yet it is generally agreed that no other actor in America could have played the part wholly without creating a suggestion of irreverence. Mr. Harrison, now sixty-eight years old, is the son of fugitive slaves. He has been farmhand, bellboy, waiter, Pullman porter, police clerk, reader, lecturer, and teacher.

MARCH 8, 1930

hold Mr. Connelly pretty strictly to account, and if there are signs of the almost incredibly high standard of his first act sagging a bit in his second, he must answer to us for it. Mr. Shaw can write any old kind of tract and call it a "play," but Mr. Connelly must write a perfect play or we will have none of it. Well, Mr. Connelly has done just about that.

I do not remember ever crying before over the thing that made me cry almost continuously at "The Green Pastures." I cried because here was something so good. As the story of the Creation and Man's Fall and the Flood, told in terms of an ignorant Negro's imagination, unfolded itself in a series of eighteen scenes, beginning with a "fish fry" in Heaven (at which one of the smallest colored angels on record gets a fish bone caught in its throat) and ending with another "fish fry" at which God (in the almost unbearably lovable person of a colored preacher) accepts the destiny which comes even to divine rulers, one real-

ized that here was something not only new for the theatre but something good for the theatre. It is a fine, fine thing that Mr. Connelly has written.

The all-Negro cast which he has directed could not possibly be better. With material such as this to work with, their natural feeling for the theatre makes itself doubly manifest. As there are almost a hundred of them, including several extremely small angels and children of Israel, one can hardly mention all who deserve mention, but Richard B. Harrison, with a voice like Walter Huston's and a presence which radiates beneficence and proud humility, makes the rôle of the Lord one which not only is not sacrilegious but is excellent propaganda for the Christian Church. If the Lord is really anything like Mr. Harrison, may be I have been wrong all these years.

There must be a word for the settings which Robert Edmond Jones has done. They, too, are in the spirit of the play, resembling the conventional southern Negro's idea of a stage Heaven in terms of old New Orleans Opera House flats and flies, and yet modern in their effect—a pretty difficult job of designing, you will admit.

You have never seen anything like "The Green Pastures" in the theatre before, and you are not likely to see anything like it again, for it could not be imitated. And if you don't see it now, you don't deserve to.

to then.
—ROBERT BENCHLEY

NOW Marc Connelly has written in "The Green Pastures" a play which is, both in conception and execution, so much finer than "The Apple Cart" as a play that there is no basis for comparison. And he has put into it more beauty than twenty Mei Lanfangs could get out of twenty Chinese plays even if they were four thousand years old instead of two. And yet we

THE NEW YORKER

12

MARCH 15, 1930

in the world so good for the system as a wrong decision by a higher court. To get up in the morning and be able to make a sharp bitter remark about the Circuit Court of Appeals is the proper way to start the day. To open the paper and turn to one's wife and say: "Look here, will you look at what the Circuit Court of Appeals has decided—they're going to send Mrs. Dennett to jail! What kind of a lousy country is this we live in?"—to say that is to get in good condition for a hard day at the office. On the other hand to get up, as we did one morning last week, and discover that a higher court had made a good decision filled us with lassitude, and we had to go back to bed.

## The Green Pastures

IT'S not true that the negro actors in "The Green Pastures" were picked from Harlem night clubs. Most of them are professional actors with plenty of experience. An exception, however, is the man who plays the Lord, Richard B. Harrison. Of summers he has been a teacher in the Agricultural and Technical School at Greensboro, North Carolina, and of winters has been touring the country giving readings and recitations in schools and churches. He turned out to be pretty hard to direct, owing to his rather excellent English diction, with no trace of negro accent. He had to be coached in negro dialect by a white man who had played negro parts.

Harrison is an octoroon, born in London, Ontario. His parents were two former slaves who had escaped and met there. As a boy he worked as porter, bellboy, dining-car waiter, and

clerk. Afterwards he got into teaching and lecturing. He has a wife and two children in Chicago. The son conducts a jazz band, which he organized, and the daughter dances in a cabaret. He is actually several shades lighter in color than he appears in the part of the Lord—has to get blacked up.

Another amateur in the cast is one of the angels. Mr. Connelly borrowed her from a friend's house, where she was a maid. Most of the cast, which numbers ninety-five, have worked in the theatre before, however, many of

them at the Howard negro theatre in Washington. Wesley Hill, the Gabriel in the show, played in "Porgy" and has been on the stage forty years. Daniel Haynes, the Adam, played in the talkie, "Hallelujah," and understudied Jules Bledsoe in "Show Boat." Several in the cast have other occupations besides acting. The man who plays Noah is New York correspondent for a Chicago newspaper, the woman who plays Zeba is a champion swimmer, one of the angels is a concert pianist, Haynes has a printing shop in Brooklyn.

Mr. Connelly wrote much of the play on a boat going to and from New Orleans. He went there to visit Roark Bradford, author of the book from which the play is taken. Connelly himself is a native of Pittsburgh and never lived in the South. He finished the play one evening a year ago, typing the last page at 6:55 P.M., and dashing off to dine with Jed Harris at seven and read the play to him. Harris turned it down because Connelly insisted on directing it and Harris was afraid he wouldn't have much to say about how it was to be put on. The Theatre Guild next rejected it—afraid their subscribers wouldn't like to see the Lord on the stage. Arthur Hopkins read the script three times and liked the play but said he didn't see how it could be staged. Crosby Gaige said it was the funniest play he had ever read but that he wouldn't risk money on it. Finally, a man from unimagenative Wall Street agreed to produce it, Rowland Stebbins. He had retired from a big brokerage house a year or two before and had produced two plays. He is the "Laurence Rivers' of the program. That name came

from a favorite story he has read since boyhood, a ghost

story called "The Gateless Barrier," by Lucas Malet.

Since the show opened no one has made any fuss about portraying the Lord on the stage, but on the other hand approval has

come from many ministers. Harrison, playing that part, had misgivings, but they are gone. So far he has been cheered by the audience after every performance. Mr. Bradford, author of the stories upon which the play is based, is

in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he has been held ten months by the illness of his wife. Last Saturday night he read the play to the assembled patients in the sanatorium where she is confined.

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MARCH 22, 1930

SHOUTS AND MURMURS

“THE GREEN PASTURES”

J. M. KERRIGAN, a strolling playactor from Dublin, used to tell the story of a play he had once seen in the English provinces wherein the ingénue, breaking free from the lecherous embraces of the vil-lain, cried out “Nay, Sir, nay. I cannot yield to your entreaties, but in-stead I will give you my impression of Miss Edna May singing ‘Follow On’ in ‘The Belle of New York.’”

Kerrigan himself never needed any such laborious music-cue for his own specialty. In any gathering of con-genial souls around a fire, someone could always be counted on to ask him for a song. Like the mighty Robeson, he was one of those blessed singers who never protested prettily that he had not brought his music. He needed none, nor any accompanist either. He would just stand, glass in hand, with one arm resting on the mantel shelf, his head held back a lit-tle, his eyes closed. Then he would sing—so fondly, so caressingly. And there would be a peace and a quiet and warmth in the room. I find, in speak-ing of Kerrigan, that I am using the past tense. After all, he has merely gone to Hollywood.

Kerrigan would always sing his bal-lad of the Fireship, all about the girl whose hair hung down in ringalets. She was a nice girl, a decent girl, but one of the rakish kind. Then I am afraid he was rather given to “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy” number, which was, I admit, just a wee bit Hey-Nonny. But his dearest song he held back for most special occasions. It was an old English canticle, written in that age of sturdy faith when the peasants in any village thought of the Holy Family as plain folks much like them-selves who had lived and died not un-thinkably long before in some village on the other side of the hill. It was the age that invited the hearty, back-slapping, companionable jocosity of the first morality plays. For that mat-ter, it was the age that flung to the startled stars that marvel of stone and glass called Chartres Cathedral. Well, Kerrigan's canticle had come down to us from that simple time and he so

loved it that he was ever jealous in its behalf and would sing it only when the lights were soft, the mood of the room right, the listeners gentle and fit to hear it.

IN the ambling sequence of its verses, the old canticle recited a fable of Joseph and Mary moving through the mid-summer countryside. They come to the edge of an orchard and Mary asks Joseph to pick her some cherries. For a great hunger is upon her. The surly Joseph bids her pick them herself if she is so hungry. Meekly, she reminds him, then, that she is heavy with child. And he jeers at her. He, Joseph, had had nothing to do with that. Let whoever had got her with child fetch and carry for her now. Thus Joseph, the husband of Mary. At that, a wind runs through the trees, but it is the Child in the womb that makes an-swer. “Cherry trees, cherry trees.” It is the voice of the Child, “My mother is hungry. Bow down that she may eat.” And lo—how I wish I could reproduce in words the bated breath and the wonder in Kerrigan's voice as he sang this verse!—and lo, there is a mighty sound in the orchard and all the branches of all the trees bow down to the ground.

That was the end of the song. Our minstrel would stand for a moment with his eyes still closed as if loath to open them on the twentieth century. And his lashes would be wet with inex-plicable tears. Then he would look about him sheepishly and go mooning on his way.

I have thought so often of that song and the heartstrings it touched so gent-ly. Nowhere else have I felt quite the same emotion—nowhere else, that is, until one night a few weeks ago I came under the spell of that miracle play which works a nightly marvel in the puzzled year called 1930. For “The Green Pastures” is of that same emo-tion all compact. I have since heard old curmudgeons barking in surprise at their own susceptibility to it; wonder-ing why “The Green Pastures” is so ineffably touching and what there is in this deeply humble play of Connelly's that brings such a lump to the throat and so fills the eyes with tears. Do you

suppose we can be weeping for the lost innocence of the world?

THEY tell me that up in Harlem in front of Connie's Inn there is an umbrageous maple known locally as the Tree of Hope. On or around a milk can which stands beneath it, the dusky actor who wants a job is supposed to loiter of an afternoon as formal notice to all the world that he is what is technically known as “At Liberty.” This plaisance is the dark Rialto. It is to Harlem what the side-walk of Union Square was fifty years ago to the paler theatre. For some weeks past the Tree of Hope has been almost deserted. And still will be, I think, this time next year. For all the happy lot of them are downtown work-ing for ole Massa Connelly.

At the tumultuous success of “The Green Pastures” there is, therefore, a great rejoicing in Harlem. But some there be downtown who must find that success annoying. It must, I should think, annoy all those who have cher-ished the legend that the Algonquin Round Table is a huddle of sneering sophisticates, their backs calloused from one another's slaps, their lips lame from wisecracking jeers at the rest of the world. Yet from that Table, of all places, has issued a play, lofty, simple, and so strong in its loving-kindness that it warms the heart. “The Green Pastures” has all the sneering sophistication of the Twenty-third Psalm.

Then its success must also annoy those remaining few who are still in-terested in the Pulitzer Prize. That sprig of laurel, they say, cannot be awarded to “The Green Pastures” because it must go to an “original” play, and Connelly it seems, derived his inspiration from a book by Roark Bradford, to say nothing of a some-what earlier work called the Old Testament. Well, it's too bad. Of course with all America trying to get into the Mansfield at once, “The Green Pastures” does not need the Pulitzer Prize. But it fairly staggers one to think how much, for the sake of its lost prestige, the Pulitzer Prize needs “The Green Pastures.”

—ALEXANDER WOOLLCOTT

audience more reluctant to leave a theatre or more bent on applauding the last echo at a moment when most playgoers are rushing out in the nightly stampede for the escaping taxi. We have only a faint murmur of protest against the applause which occasionally drowns out the spirituals. There is also one line which, so far as we know, has never been heard beyond the front rows, and probably never will be. As the Lord is walking down a country lane he passes a clump of daisies whose spirit is represented by three of the tiniest, brownest and most irresistible troupers that ever faced the footlights. "How you little flowers making out?" the Lord inquires solicitously. And with great dramatic force and in the baby treble which is at once so ludicrous and so heartbreaking the daisies chirp. "We O. K., Lord." By this time, however, the house is in such convulsions at the sight of these ridiculous, adorable figures that the big line of Ruby, Freda and Joe is utterly lost in the storm of laughter.

All complaints concerning these minor disturbances are silenced, however, by the sincerity of their tribute. For the rest, the house follows every mood of the play with unerring response. This is all the more gratifying because there are bound to be some members out front who came in slight misapprehension as to its intention ("They say it's better than 'Blackbirds,'" we heard one misguided enthusiast say to his girl while studying the lobby display). It is an impressive tribute to the universality of the theme that the play can make the endlessly varied classes of theatregoers behave as one body. These audiences couldn't be better if Marc Connelly had directed them himself: a statement which represents our sincerest bow toward practically perfection.

THEATRE GUILD MAGAZINE

# IT'S NOT A BAD SEASON

## A ROVING PLAYGOER DISCOVERS THAT WE HAVE A CIVILIZED THEATRE

BY Mark Van Doren

To the theatregoer who enjoys good plays and is bored at the others, Broadway around holiday time looked depressing. But with the turn of spring the New York stage has become suddenly and surprisingly more interesting. Mark Van Doren, who is no professional play reviewer but goes to the theatre to be entertained, here talks of some of the plays he has recently seen.

When is a play more than a play?— When it is literature—when it contains something over and above the machinery that is needed to keep our attention riveted upon a group of actors masquerading as men and women. This machinery can have its perfections and its fascinations; but there is nothing like a play which makes us forget that machinery exists, which occupies our minds, for instance, or sets our imaginations to work so that they have something to do on the way home. Such plays, of course, have been rare, and they have been particularly rare in modern times. We have been too busy representing life on the stage to do the one thing which seems to me worth while for a dramatist to do—say something about life, or better yet, show life not in representative phases but in something like its full and rounded glory. I think I would go so far as to say that the purpose of a good playwright is to misrepresent life; only I should want to be understood there as meaning merely that he represents it as something more interesting than in actuality it probably is. Or maybe the dramatist, like any other artist, is not dealing directly with life at all; maybe he is creating something out of pretty whole cloth. At any rate I like the spectacle of a dramatist who makes free with the materials of his world, who indeed makes a world, and who plays his mind over the surfaces of that world with something like the affection which God presumably felt on the sixth day, if never since. Most Broadway plays are like most other plays in that they are bare of any such suggestion. They are merely adequate to the task of entertainment. Whereas there is so much more entertainment in excess, in superabundance, in the visible gesture of a creating hand.

I have talked with no one and I have read no critic who seems not to have been touched with this kind of joy at *The Green Pastures*, a "fable" by Marc Connelly in eighteen scenes. People were rather inartic-

ulate over *The Green Pastures*, and no wonder, for it is like any other good dramatic spectacle in that one does not know, much less find oneself able to say, what it is and how it was done. To say that it is the Old Testament seen and heard through the Negro mind is to be merely ethno-logical. To say that it is clever is to be hopelessly removed from the fact that it is also, for some curious reason, sublime. To say that it is ingenious is to miss the point, and to say that it is naive is to tell a flat falsehood.

The best way to appreciate *The Green Pastures* is to read the book of stories on which it was based. Roark Bradford's *Ol' Man Adam an' his Chillun* is a collection of "tales they tell about the time when the Lord walked the earth like a natural man." It therefore has the central idea of Mr. Connelly's play. It is a translation of the Old Testament narrative into Negro language, image, and idea; it is a version of God, Adam, Noah, Abraham, and Moses that any Negro child would understand, because it is told strictly in terms of the child's own life in Louisiana, Mississippi,

Georgia, or wherever he might happen to have spent his days. Furthermore, it is immensely clever in the details of this translation, so that one reviewer of the book could call it "as funny as Milt Gross at his best." And further yet, it supplies Mr. Connelly with much of his dialogue; I have looked into the book and found a number of speeches that went over without change into the text of the play. Yet the net effect is not the same at all. Mr. Bradford is merely funny. Mr. Connelly is both funny and deeply moving. Where does this second quality come in?

I can point to a few places where it does come in, and then leave the rest of the question unanswered. It comes in, significantly enough, at the highest moments of the play, and it comes in directly, I think, as a result of Mr. Connelly's desire to be dramatic instead of narrative or humorous, and as the reward of his knowledge concerning the things which make for drama. For me the most moving moments were the moments of recognition—when we, the audience, recognized God, when God recognized Noah, and when Noah in turn recognized God. I happen to think that Aristotle was right when he said that the most stirring theme in drama is the theme of recognition. We ought to be stirred by other things to an equal degree, but I fancy we aren't; our natures are such that we sit easily through suffering but tremble with the profoundest excitement as we watch a sister in the act of realizing that this man before her is her brother, or as we watch someone receiving a piece of news that we already know—but he does not. So here in *The Green Pastures* the moments which move to excitement, even to tears, are the moments when the Lord arrives at the fish fry in his long black coat and is perceived by us to be someone greater than all the angels because he does not wear wings; when, walking on the earth in a later day and talking with another old gentleman in

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a long black coat, he asks the other gentleman's name and hears that it is Noah; and when, as the two old gentlemen are seated by Noah's table, Noah is suddenly made aware of his great guest's identity. These are the moments, and they are not in Mr. Bradford's book. Or at least they are not

is drama; its end is art, and the excitation of the soul.

John Wexley's *The Last Mile* might be supposed to perform the sort of function I have been talking about, and judging by its notices it is rather generally thought to do so. For me it does not. It was exciting

should be the aim. Mr. Wexley's aim, if it was to let us know how painful would be the spectacle of a real execution, may have its sociological value. It might be vastly important to write a play which would make every citizen sick of capital punishment. It might be important, that is, for the purposes of society. For the purposes of art it would have no importance whatever. And I have my doubts of its efficacy in the direction of reform. Just as the newer novels about the war seem romantic to the younger generation, though they seem terrible enough to those who are over thirty, so *The Last Mile* very likely has its kick for those who love the spectacle of physical torture. Propagandist literature so often works the other way. *Journey's End*, which I had valued as a document showing the pitiful waste of war, turned out to be a hit with the West Point cadets. For them it showed the admirable stoicism of the British subaltern.

Someone said to me that there was no more reason for going to *The Last Mile* than for going to Sing Sing to see an electrocution. To say this is, in my opinion, to say very little in praise of the play. If a play gives you no more—or less—than you could get yourself, then I do not see it as a play. Certainly *The Last Mile* seems to be perfect in the way of naturalism. I never expect to share the last hour of a condemned man, but if I did I am confident that it would be like this—the ghastly last meal, the slitting of the trouser leg, the shaving of the face in front of the ears, the slang of the gong and the coming and going of innumerable guards, the business of the priest, the conversations with other condemned men along the corridor, the nervous bravado, the bloodless face, the last faltering walk through the last door. Yes, it was harrowing—harrowing without meaning or relief. The jail break in the second and third acts furnished a kind of relief, since action now became possible. But that ended in universal death, as any reader of the newspapers might know. Indeed, the newspapers had told us all of it long before. The reference of the play, the meaning—if any—of the action, was determined from without the theatre. We knew no more about these seven men in the death

Vandamm
ADAM (DANIEL HAYNES) AND EVE (INEZ WILSON) IN "THE GREEN PASTURES"

given the same sort of treatment, so that they fail of the same effect. Noah's identification is not delayed; God's revelation of himself is achieved not in simplicity at all but with the aid of a tin crown which he pulls out of his Prince Albert. Mr. Connelly has added something—just what I cannot say, but I can say that it seems to spring from the sort of imagination which makes a play more than a play. Its means

enough, of course, but the excitement was of the harrowing kind. It left me a wreck, and I am convinced that no play ought to do that. I am convinced, indeed, that no work of art ever ought to be painful. Good tragedy certainly gives pleasure; the effect is not of our being torn apart but of our being rebuilt into some warmer, wiser, and more salubrious whole. Everywhere through the realm of art, I think, pleasure

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house than we would know of seven real men whom we visited in a penitentiary. Their pasts did not exist for us. Only the present counted—a present in which we saw seven two-legged animals penned up for slaughter. Now that, as I said before, may have its moral value; it cannot in my opinion have much dramatic value.

*Journey's End* depended for its emotion, even for its simple comprehension, upon our knowledge of the external fact of the World War; the theme itself was never present. So in *The Last Mile* the author's dependence was upon our familiarity with the idea of electrocution, and the fact. Whereas *The Green Pastures* was rich with an inner and confessed consistency. This consistency, this completeness of a play within itself, is quite necessary if drama is to give us pleasure—if, in the genre of tragedy for instance, we are to experience that purgation through pity and fear which Aristotle has puzzled twenty-four centuries by talking about. The capacity to achieve this completeness is what I mean by imagination.

It is quite as necessary in comedy, where its presence is signified by the fact that we feel the comic author to be wise. It is present in great abundance in Shaw's new play, *The Apple Cart*, where our perception of the author's wisdom has nothing to do with the question of whether or not we agree with his notions about politics. Shaw is

wise for me not at all because I think he is right about democracy, money, sex, vivi-section, power, justice, and good manners. I happen to think him right about most of these things, but rightness is different from wisdom, and it is wisdom that I most strongly feel when I see one of his later plays. *The Apple Cart* seems to me quite as good as any of the four plays he has produced since the war; that is to say, it seems to me quite as full of that excess which comedy always must have in order to be good comedy. Anyone, I suppose, could work out a play in which democracy by 1965 had proved itself a failure; anyone could construct a king who won his battles with his ministers without their knowing that there had been battles; anyone could have delivered himself of such ideas as this play contains. But it would not need to have been comedy, and certainly it could not possibly have been Shaw, since there is only one comic artist of his order. Only Shaw could have announced the subject of his new play and then treated us, when the curtain went up, to a festival of laughter at the expense of a hundred things, not one thing. Or shall I say a thousand? It doesn't matter, since the thing to be said is that Shaw has laughed at life. Not at democracy. That is a relatively trivial theme. I cannot suppose it to be important to decide whether representative government is a success in Europe and America. I can think

of many more interesting questions. And it is those—or rather a certain sum of them along with many more—which Shaw sets us laughing at. *The Apple Cart* is about life, and it is by a wise man who knows how to make us love life by laughing at it. As usual he has given us more than he promised, or than the machinery of his piece demanded.

His scheme called for an intelligent king, and we get such a king in Magnus. But on top of this intelligence we get what could come only out of a great author's large nature. We get a smiling sense of power, a dynamic good nature, a dancing, prancing selfconfidence; and this is what we take away from the theatre, not the ideas of the man or the outline of his political strategy. Indeed his strategy, by which he outwits his ministers time and again, is of the simplest sort, growing as it does out of his nature rather than out of his mind. Now I have an idea that this impression is created in part by the very excellent acting of Tom Powers, whose smile is difficult to forget; but it must have been in the lines too, as indeed it is in Shaw. So everywhere in the play; both the actors and the lines contribute towards that sensation of mental wellbeing in the audience which good comedy always causes; one feels that life is important and good even while one is forced to admit that nowhere is it logical, just, decent, or dignified. The talk of the two secretaries at the beginning is quite wonderful talk, though they seem perhaps to say little. Here again the acting of Rex O'Malley as Sempronius contributes to the effect; his face as he talks is glowing with delight in the things he has to express; it is almost as if he had thought of them himself. The ministers, and particularly Claude Rains as the dramatic premier, achieve a similar result in their childish conferences. The American Ambassador, played by Frederick Truesdell, was much less amusing to me than he was to most people, and I suspect that this was because I found in him a narrower world of implication. Shaw has merely thought about Americans, whereas he has lived with Englishmen. The thought of Shaw's comedies is much less interesting than their life.

*It was* amusing, however, to see that in

HUBERT DRUCE, THE HEADMASTER, AND FRANK MORGAN AS M. TOPAZE

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the interlude between the two acts an opportunity to show the king at the business of love with his mistress was rejected with characteristic firmness by this Puritan playwright. It turned out that she was his mistress in name only; their relations were "singularly innocent"; it seems they never did anything but talk, though the public at large supposed, and liked to suppose, that they were Antony and Cleopatra to each other. Shaw, of course, has always managed love this way, and now that he has done it so long one can cease to complain. One respects his refusal to try something at which he would certainly fail; and one finds the picture not unrefreshing. Besides, it is nobody's business how he shall show his lovers.

If *Topaze*, an adaptation by Benn W. Levy from the French of Marcel Pagnol, is an improvement upon life, it works in the way of all classical comedy, namely, by artifice. And that is not a bad way. Plautus, Molière, or perhaps any French comic

writer whatever, proceeds without apparent regard for the necessity of convincing us that his story is true. What he begins with is a situation and a character—the first determined more or less exactly by the second. The character is rather simple in outline, and often quite transparent; but that exactly suits the playwright's purpose, which is to amuse us by showing this character doing a number of sharply characteristic things. So M. Topaze, the protagonist of the present piece, is a foolishly humble man; he is that at the beginning and he is always that—humble always in the same high, absurd degree, though in as many different situations as the author has time to invent. That he switches over to effrontery in the second scene of the last act does not affect the technique of the procedure; for his transformation, taking place in a single instant when a certain coveted button has been placed upon his coat, is only the transition to another comedy wherein he plays now the part of an extremely and absurdly self-confident man. It is as if M. Pagnol had here defied all the canons of romantic or naturalistic comedy with one

impertinent gesture. "It is not necessary," I can hear him saying, "that comedy be believed; it is only desirable that it be lively; so I shall dispense with all the hocus-pocus of pretending that the change in my hero is gradual and painful and sufficiently caused; I shall merely wave my wand and gain a new hero, and then go on as before." The result happens to be a very lively play indeed, one that is always beautifully logical and almost never true. The acting of Frank Morgan as Topaze, supported admirably by the acting of Clarence Derwent, Phoebe Foster, Hubert Druce, and the group of school children whom Topaze teaches, is in itself a delight.

Ruth Draper's new program of character sketches is difficult to discuss in connection with a string of plays, since the material and the medium are so different in her case. She is alone upon her stage; she is speaking her own lines; and it is her business not so much to reveal as to suggest. She is an impersonator. But the reason for her im-

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22

THEATRE GUILD MAGAZINE

MEI LAN-FANG

AS AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW HIM IN HIS NATIVE THEATRE

BY Evelyn Gill Klahr

The art of Mei Lan-fang, the distinguished Chinese actor now touring America with his troupe, is remote from us not only by thousands of miles in space, but by hundreds of years in time. These impressions of Mei and his theatre in their homeland may serve as an informal introduction to their baffling beauty. A more technical explanation of the conventions of the Chinese theatre will be published in an early issue.

One of the marvels of the Mei Lan-fang acting company which has been playing in New York was the intricate facial make-ups, fantastic and powerful. Most of the lines and colors are character symbols.

By Paul Love

Once, in all innocence of what I was doing, I mortally offended a young Korean geisha girl. The way of it was this: having sung for us in our rooms, the pretty young thing—these Korean singing girls are supposed to be the prettiest girls in the world—had accompanied us to the theatre, and there between the acts, while we watched that amazingly garbed audience, we made conversation as best we could through the medium of an interpreter. Herself famous for her singing and dancing she was asked for criticism of the singing and dancing upon the stage.

Then idly I put this question: "Ask her," I said to the interpreter, "whether she herself would like to go on the stage."

He stared at me without replying.

I repeated the question.

Again he failed to respond, though now I saw plainly enough that he understood what I had said.

I spoke more insistently. For after all, why else was he there?

But the minute he repeated my question to the geisha girl I knew that something had gone seriously wrong.

Instantly, as if by a sponge, all the friendliness was wiped from her face. It was more than withdrawn: it was as if an icy partition had been dropped between us.

"No, she would not," the interpreter replied shortly.

And now, conversation being so flatly ended, I was free to give all my attention to the audience, and an audience intriguing enough for anyone. A few of the younger women wore bright colors. But they were very few. Practically the whole audience was a long robed, white-silk-clad audience, as if they were some strange religious sect. The women sat on one side of the gallery and the men occupied the rest of the house. The men were additionally intriguing, with their little horsehair hats, sitting atop the head and tied under the chin, hats transparent enough to reveal the topknot of hair, looking for all the world like a trapped sparrow in a horsehair cage.

But even that audience could not make me forget the annoyance of that young thing beside me, so I got to the bottom of it through the interpreter. This was the trouble: in Korea actors and actresses come

from the very lowest class and a geisha girl was of course insulted to be thought one of them!

Explanations followed and amiability came once more to sit in our midst.

It was all the more stupid of me in that I had just come from China where the same condition holds true. But in China, it must be said in my defense, my experience of the theatre was colored entirely by my impressions of the great Chinese actor, Mei Lan-fang, who is, one might say, the Prince of the land. He has only one rival in the heart of China, and that one the memory of General Sun Yat-sen.

(I did a low thing when I was in China: when I saw how well it worked, I made a point of casually mentioning my slight personal acquaintance with Mr. Mei and the fact that I had had tea with him at his house. With train conductors, with opulent merchants and with those of a higher class, it was a sort of magic.)

Mr. Mei's house was once the home of a Prince of the Ch'ing dynasty. Hidden behind its gray walls, as are hidden all the great houses of Peking, and further protected from the eye of the passerby—in the accident of the gate being left open—by the Spirit Screen, with which they are all equipped, Mr. Mei's house among its lovely gardens and courts and painted galleries, has kept its regal atmosphere. And to see him there with his tutor, with his rare old library of dramas of the Yuan and

APRIL 1930

24

Yale University Library
The James Weldon Johnson
Memorial Collection of
Negro Arts & Letters
Founded by Carl Van Vechten
1941

Gift of
Mrs. James Weldon Johnson

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the new york magazine program

SURPRISE WITNESS

A Short Short Story

By

JACK WOODFORD

Deming forced himself to bring his mind to bear on what the prosecutor was saying.

DEMING was unworried. As he stepped to the witness chair a strong sense of the peculiarity of his situation came over him. He even smiled a little to himself.

Here he was, sitting in the very witness chair where he had himself so often and so mercilessly grilled other witnesses. Here he was, instead of prosecuting—being prosecuted. But they wouldn't trip him up. He had done too much prosecuting not to know every quirk of the game.

He reviewed the whole thing from the very start, for the hundredth time. He could see no loophole, nothing that this "surprise witness" of the especially appointed prosecutor might spring that could damage him.

True, he was guilty. Guilty as hell. But only two people in the wide world could possibly know that, and one of them was himself. The other, Mike Tomaso, sitting across the room, was the most tight-lipped gangster in town. They'd get nothing from him.

His mind pictured that first moment when Tomaso had come to him

and wanted to "talk business," when he, Deming, as prosecuting attorney, had him dead to rights at last. Tomaso had plenty of money. His long career of successful crime had netted him well over a million. And Deming now had a quarter of a million of Tomaso's money neatly salted away in a safety deposit box which he was sure the prosecution had not found.

He had been careful to get the money in actual currency from Tomaso's hand. He remembered with satisfaction the hotel room where the delivery had taken place. He had selected that room with care. It had been in the new Graille Hotel, just recently completed, and of fireproof construction throughout. The walls were of thick cement. No one on earth could have wired that room with a dictagraph in the short time after he had engaged it. The door had been of steel. And, better still, it had been high up in the hotel. Looking from the window, one saw nothing but rooftops for half a mile around; the Graille was the only building of its height in that section of town.

Just the faintest shade of uneasiness crossed Deming's mind for a minute. He hadn't pulled down the shades. But after all, there wouldn't have been much point in doing that.

Damn this surprise witness! Who was he, anyway? What testimony

*Continued on page 4*

[2]

the new york magazine program

SURPRISE WITNESS

A Short Short Story

By
JACK WOODFORD

and wanted to "talk business," when he, Deming, as prosecuting attorney had him dead to rights at last. Tomaso had plenty of money. His long career of successful crime had netted him well over a million. And Deming now had a quarter of a million of Tomaso's money neatly salted away in a safety deposit box which he was sure the prosecution had not found.

*Continued on page 4*

[2]

the new york magazine program

SURPRISE WITNESS

*Continued*

could he possibly give? But now
the prosecutor was talking. Deming
forced himself to bring his mind to
bear upon what the prosecutor was
saying.

"Swear in the witness," ordered
the prosecutor grimly. Deming was
sworn in.

"Mr. Deming," began the pros-
ecutor, "on January eighth, while you
were preparing to prosecute Tomaso,
you went to the Graille hotel, met
him there, and accepted a quantity
of currency from his hands, in room
twenty-two hundred and eight."

Deming smiled.

"Do you deny it?" insisted the
prosecutor.

"Absolutely!" snapped Deming.
"I have put myself in a position to
be hated and feared by the criminal
element of this town. If you have
a witness who says that I did any
such thing it is a frame up. I spe-
cifically deny, under oath, and real-
izing that to avoid the truth would
constitute perjury, that I ever re-
ceived money from Tomaso."

"That will be all, thank you,"
smiled the prosecutor. Deming
stepped down from the stand. There

were short, sharp direc-
tions 'from the prose-
cutor. Presently the
room was thrown in
darkness. A screen, un-
rolled at one side of the
room, opposite the jury
box, was covered with
brilliant light. Presently
Deming was plainly vis-
ible upon the screen.
Then Tomaso. Money
passed between them.

The screen was dark. The lights
were turned on again in the court-
room and the window shades were
pulled up.

"It's crooked work somewhere,"
roared Deming.

"Just a moment, Mr. Deming,"
smiled the prosecutor. "See if the
character of this witness I shall now
call to the stand can, in your opinion,
be impeached."

The prosecutor called a name. A
little old man climbed to the witness
chair. When he had stated his name,
and recited the string of awesome
letters after it, explained their mean-
ing, reported his years of work at the
state university astronomical labora-
tory, Deming knew that to attempt
to impeach anything he said would
be sheer idiocy. He hardly grasped
the import of the professor's testi-
mony. Only vague snatches of it
penetrated to his mind.

. . . New method for
photographing the sky, gentlemen.
Testing it out that night.
Selected Graille Hotel for experi-
ments. Pictures are very small.
Must be magnified. Wife read me
something about Deming's accusa-

tion. Saw his picture in
the paper, compared the
two. Naturally gave
my information to the
authorities . . ."

Deming stopped lis-
tening. He was won-
dering what would hap-
pen to him at the state
penitentiary, which was
full of men to whom
he had brought stiff
raps.

*Presently Deming was vis-
ible upon the screen. Then
Tomaso. Money passed
between them.*

[ 4 ]

mansfield theatre

MISS VIOLET ARNOLD,
of Earl Carroll's
"Sketch Book"

The comfort and enjoyment of the daily tub
are unmistakably heightened by adding to the water a
half-handful of No. 4711 Bath Salts in your favorite odor
(there are eleven in all!) ... No. 4711 Bath Salts
are gently stimulating to fagged nerves and body ... and
the water takes on the gentle softness of pearly dew.

BATH SALTS

Made in U.S.A. by MULHENS & KROPFF, Inc., 25 West 45th St., New York

[ 5 ]

the new york magazine program

WHAT
the Woman Will
Wear

IN watching the progress of the present mode from week to week, one point has come to stand out so prominently in my mind as to warrant a short speech on the subject. It's this: that greater attention never has been paid to comfort and convenience in women's clothes.

The fact is that those same ladies who wept the loudest for their short-skirt-

ed, uncorseted freedom last fall, when the first shocked whispers about corsets and longer skirts began to circulate, have now acquired a new standard of comfort. Do you hear any more wails around town from a female population coerced by those dreadful Paris couturiers? You do not; and this is because the bullied ladies have at last tried out the new mode, and found that there has been an awful lot of kicking done about nothing. They have had a taste of a new kind of comfort

—the kind that comes of not having to tug eternally at skirts with tendencies to ride unbecomingly above the knee; of not being forced to pull continually at this, and push at that; in short, of being effortlessly well groomed all day long. It's a grand and glorious feeling.

The return of the corset, I think.

caused more hair tearing than any one other feature of the thing. But corsetry has become an art, with comfort as its goal and watchword, so that even this bugbear has been overcome.

In addition to all this, the new clothes are being designed deliberately to fill certain needs nobody has paid a great deal of attention to before. The informal evening frock, for instance, (as shown in our first

sketch)—a casual affair of lace or chiffon, easily slipped into for less important evening occasions. The commuting costume, usually in tweed: a suit or coat equally correct for traveling and for wear in town and country. The pajama costume for the hostess. The type of out-of-the-illustrated on this page—a printed dress, short sleeved, with a cape—an ideal arrangement for New York's summer climate, since it gives a lady a chance to be comfortable though

correct. All these things fit definite niches in our somewhat hectic lives. It's pleasant to sit back and leave our problems to be worked out on a wholesale scale by designers with a feeling not only for fashion, but for comfort and convenience as well.

Incidentally, the chiffon evening frock illustrated may be seen at Bergdorf Goodman. The short sleeve, tied above the elbow is its distinguishing feature. The printed silk cape and frock are from Milgrim. The cape can be worn any number of ways, all of them nonchalant.

—MARIE.

The Inevitable Chiffon for Informal Evenings.

The Cape Replaces Last Year's Jacket.

[ 6 ]

gram
any
But
with
word,
been
new
iber-
has
be-
ock,
first

aces
et.
white
ves.
ave
na
a
for
ing
at
ve.
in-
k
m.
per

mansfield theatre

SMART-BECAUSE IT'S MODERN!

Compacte le Début... as charming an accessory as ever a lovely lady carried! Finished in gold or silver... topped with genuine cloisonné in four colors—green, blue, black, or ivory white... to harmonize with any costume. Powder and rouge in the popular shades and in a delightful blend of the four odeurs of Parfum le Début... Price $5.00 (finished in Enamel Dotted Top $2.50). Practical refills available. This and other lovely le Début articles—at any of the better shops.

171

mansfield theatre

NEW YORK THEATRES

Operated by IRWIN S. CHANIN and HENRY I. CHANIN

HARRY D. KLINE, Managing Director
ELBERT SEVERANCE, General Press Representative

Now Playing

BILTMORE THEATRE

47th Street
West of Broadway
CHickering 5161
Mats. Wed. & Sat., 2.40
Evenings at 8.50

KENNETH MACGOWAN and
JOSEPH VERNER REED present

BASIL SYDNEY
and
MARY ELLIS
in
CHILDREN OF DARKNESS
By Edwin Justus Mayer

Now Playing

WALLACK'S THEATRE

42nd Street
West of Broadway
WISconsin 6064
Mats. Wed.—Sat. at 2.30
Evenings at 8.50

LOUIS A. SAFIAN
presents

“PHANTOMS!”

By A. E. Snitt and L. Sands

Now Playing

MANSFIELD THEATRE

47th Street
West of Broadway
CHickering 5852
Mats. Wed. & Sat., 2.30
Evenings at 8.50

LAWRENCE RIVERS, INC., presents

“The Green Pastures”

By Marc Connelly
Settings by Robert Edmond Jones
Play Staged by the Author
Music Under Direction of
Hall Johnson

CHANIN AUDITORIUM

50th and 51st FLOOR OF THE CHANIN BUILDING

42nd Street at Lexington Avenue

Seats 200—Full Stage Equipment—Complete installation for all makes of Silent and Sound Pictures—Available for Board Meetings. Salesmen's Conferences—Lectures, Motion Picture Previews, Inti mate Concerts. For Bookings, Mornings, Afternoon or Evenings. inquire at General Offices

CHANIN REALTY CORPORATION

122 East 42nd Street Lexington 3800

SEE NEW YORK FROM THE CHANIN BUILDING

Observation Promenade on 54th Floor Commands 45-mile View of New York, Long Island, New Jersey, Palisades, Orange Mountains and Harbor. Express Elevator to Tower.

Open Daily, Including Sunday, 9.30 A. M. to 11 P. M.

For Tickets Apply Information Desk Main Lobby

[9]

the new york magazine program

IN
THE AIR

*When the Vagrant Springtime*
*Fancy Lightly Turns to Flight*

By ANTHONY HAZARD

NOW that Spring is almost here—
or is it?—you may want to take
to the air like the birdies and fly
places. New York is moderately en-
dowed with air lines to accommodate
you, and their rates are constantly
getting cheaper and closer to railroad
fares. These lines go in the several di-
rections of the compass and give you
a good choice of destinations.

The Eastern Air Transport Company
operates from Hadley Field, New
Brunswick, New Jersey, and will pop
you in one day from here to Atlanta,
Georgia, and the following day to all
parts of Florida. Leaving the field at
9:10 A.M. and stopping at a good many
cities en route, the planes arrive in
Atlanta at 5:10 P.M. Miami can be
reached the next afternoon at 1:45.

New York is saddled with the most
distant from town airports in the coun-
try. St. Louis has one eighteen miles
from town, which seems like quite a
distance; but that is nothing compared
to Hadley Field's fifty miles from Man-
hattan. You can get to it by motor
through the Holland Tunnel and along
the Lincoln Highway in two hours and
fifteen minutes, or, if you prefer, you
can take a train from the Pennsylvania
Station and then taxi and make the
trip in only an hour and a half. Trains
leave about every fifty minutes.

The other three air lines take off
from the Newark Airport, which is the
most accessible of all the local fields.
You can motor to it from Times
Square in 45 minutes by way of the
Holland Tunnel and the Lincoln High-
way, or you can take a tube and taxi
and get there in fifty minutes.

The following all go from Newark:
Pittsburgh Airways, Inc., departs every

Wednesday and Saturday for—maybe
you’ve guessed it—Pittsburgh, and
makes a stop at Camden, New Jersey.
Leaves Newark at 12:30 and arrives
at 4:45, and a lot of scenery thrown in.

Colonial Air Transport goes twice daily, except Sunday, to Boston. You can leave at 11:45 and arrive 1:30, or leave at 4:00 and arrive at 5:45. Some of the curse is taken off the getting-to-the-field-problem by a bus that leaves the Pennsylvania Hotel three-quarters of an hour before the departure of the plane.

The Canadian Colonial Airways goes
to Montreal with a stop at Albany
daily except Sunday, and again trans-
portation to the field is provided. The
plane leaves Newark at 7:00 A.M.,
Albany at 8:45, and arrives at Mon-
treal at 11:15 in the morning. You get
a lot of scenery with this one, too.

You do not have to provide yourself
with any special clothing when you
embark on an air trip. In winter an
extra sweater and a pair of warm ga-
loshes might be a good idea, for al-
though aeroplanes are supposed to be
well heated the scheme does not al-
ways work out. In summer you can
wear the daintiest clothes and emerge
at the end of the trip unwrinkled and
unsoiled.

The amount of baggage you are per-
mitted varies with the carrier from
thirty pounds to less, but you will do
well to make part of your weight al-
lotment a good book.

Don't hesitate to bring the children.
It is remarkable the soothing effect
aeroplanes have on them. Whether it
is the altitude, or the vibration, or the
sound of the engine, I know not; but
they usually go to sleep.

10

the new york magazine program

THE AMERICAN THEATRE IN PARIS

*Our Stage Is Now Represented in
France By a Group of Players
Under the Direction of Carol Sax*

GOLDAM. GOLDMAN

FOR many years there
has been in the French
capital a group of Eng-
lish Players under the
direction of Mr. Edward
Stirling, but the Ameri-
can stage has never been
directly represented there
except for short produc-

tions such as "The Light of Saint Ag-
nes," which played for two weeks last
spring.

On November 22nd there was in-
augurated at the Theatre Femina on
the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, the
first season of the Paris American
Players, under the direction of
Carol M. Sax. Mr. Sax is well
known to American theatre lovers, as
it was he who inaugurated the old-
est existing little theatre in Amer-
ica, the Vagabond Theatre of Balti-
more. Of recent years Mr. Sax has
been associated with the Province-

town Players, Morris
Gest, George Tyler,
and the Shuberts.

The American Play-
ers opened with "The
Road to Rome" as the
first of the six plays
which they will pro-
duce for two weeks
each. Mr. Sax took
over with him an
exceptionally strong
cast, consisting of

McKay Morris to play
the role of Hannibal,
Rose Burdick to appear
as Amytis, Wright Kra-
mer, whose interpretation
of Fabius was admirable,
and Jessie Ralph to play
the mother of Fabius.

The first night audi-
ence, most of whom were subscrib-
ers for the season, included every-
body of importance in the American
Colony who was able to get seats.
Among them were the American
Chargé d'Affaires and his wife, the
President of the American Club, the
President of the American Women's
Club, the director of the Rockefeller
Restoration fund in France, the Mili-
tary Attaché at the American Em-
bassy, etc.

"The Road to Rome" is being fol-
lowed by "The Torchbearers," and af-
ter that will come "Desire Under the

Elms," "Let Us Be
Gay," "Enter Ma-
dame," "Just Su-
pose," and "The Bark-
er." An ambitious
program for a first
season, but one whose
success is assured,
judging by the warmth
with which the audi-
ences greeted acting,
costumes, and scenery
in the first production.

[ 14 ]

mansfield theatre

ITS COLOR CHANGES . .
to blend with your complexion
TANGEE

Tangee Lipstick $1. Tangee Rouge Compact 75¢. Tangee Crème Rouge $1. The new Tangee Powder $1. Tangee Day Cream $1. Tangee Night Cream $1. Tangee Cosmetic for the eyelashes and eyebrows $1.

Based on a marvelous color principle, Tangee changes as you put it on . . . and blends perfectly with your individual complexion, whether blonde, brunette or titian.

For Tangee gives a natural glow without thickness or substance . . . permanent with never a trace of grease or smear. Unlike other lipsticks, Tangee has a solidified cream base . . . it not only beautifies but actually soothes and heals. There is only one TANGEE. Be sure you see the name TANGEE on the package.

The Geo. W. Luft Co., 417 Fifth Ave., New York.

[ 15 ]

the new york magazine program

True thrift is built on value
— not on price

A new Steinway Upright
piano can be bought for
**$875**

GRANDS $1475 and up
10% down, balance in two years

Any Steinway piano may be purchased with a cash deposit of 10%, and the balance will be extended over a period of two years. Used pianos accepted in partial exchange. Steinway pianos may also be obtained on rental at reasonable rates for town and country.

STEINWAY & SONS, Steinway Hall
109 West 57th St., New York City

A STEINWAY naturally costs more than an ordinary piano, because it is a more-than-ordinary instrument. Its price exceeds those of other makes, yet in point of long life, prestige, and beauty of line and tone it is the greatest piano value ever offered. ● Steinway pianos never have been built to meet a price. They are made as well as human skill can make them, and the price is determined later. The result is the world's finest piano. ● Such a piano is an investment which will continue to make its rich and sure return years after less distinguished instruments have gone their way. ... And the new convenient terms place it within the reach of every one. Make your visit to Steinway Hall —today.

STEINWAY

The Instrument of the Immortals

Leading Player in
"Young Sinners"

Dorothy Appleby says:

"Women Are 'In Good Form'
Again"

"The Princess Silhouette Has Given Them the Gratifying Trimness They Missed So Badly for a Number of Years

"I Find I Am Best Served by my

a la Spirite
BODICETTE"

For the Woman of Fashion
at the better shops

[18]

mansfield theatre

The gotham gold stripe
stops the run before
the run can ruin the
stocking.

GOTHAM
GOLD STRIPE
SILK STOCKINGS

PROGRAM CONTINUED

<table><tbody><tr><td>FIRST BOY</td><td>JAZZLIPS RICHARDSON, Jr.</td></tr><tr><td>SECOND BOY</td><td>HOWARD WASHINGTON</td></tr><tr><td>THIRD BOY</td><td>REGINALD BLYTHWOOD</td></tr><tr><td>RANDOLPH</td><td>JOE BYRD</td></tr><tr><td>A COOK</td><td>FRANCES SMITH</td></tr><tr><td>CUSTARD MAKER</td><td>HOMER TUTT</td></tr><tr><td>FIRST MAMMY ANGEL</td><td>ANNA MAE FRITZ</td></tr><tr><td>A STOUT ANGEL</td><td>JOSEPHINE BYRD</td></tr><tr><td>A SLENDER ANGEL</td><td>EDNA THROWER</td></tr><tr><td>ARCHANGEL</td><td>J. A. SHIPP</td></tr><tr><td>GABRIEL</td><td>WESLEY HILL</td></tr><tr><td>THE LORD</td><td>RICHARD B. HARRISON</td></tr><tr><td>CHOIR LEADER</td><td>McKINLEY REEVES</td></tr><tr><td>ADAM</td><td>DANIEL L. HAYNES</td></tr><tr><td>EVE</td><td>INEZ RICHARDSON WILSON</td></tr><tr><td>CAIN</td><td>LOU VERNON</td></tr><tr><td>CAIN'S GIRL</td><td>DOROTHY RANDOLPH</td></tr><tr><td>ZEBA</td><td>EDNA M. HARRIS</td></tr><tr><td>CAIN THE SIXTH</td><td>JAMES FULLER</td></tr><tr><td>BOY GAMBLER</td><td>LOUIS KELSEY</td></tr><tr><td>FIRST GAMBLER</td><td>COLLINGTON HAYES</td></tr><tr><td>SECOND GAMBLER</td><td>IVAN SHARP</td></tr><tr><td>VOICE IN SHANTY</td><td>JOSEPHINE BYRD</td></tr><tr><td>NOAH</td><td>TUTT WHITNEY</td></tr></tbody></table>

PROGRAM CONTINUED ON SECOND PAGE FOLLOWING

"IT'S THE FLAVOR" Whether it's a skiing party, a strawride, a southern beach by moonlight, or your favorite dessert, it's the flavor that counts. It's the flavor that distinguishes

HORTON'S ICE CREAM

[ 21 ]

the new york magazine program

... in the foyer it's
FASHION!

... in a cigarette it's TASTE!

STYLES change at a whim, but when Chesterfield “came into fashion” it *stayed* in—for its unfailing good taste.

No fad, this swing to Chesterfield, but real appreciation of mild, satisfying flavor, good tobaccos and blending — in short, good taste.

“TASTE above everything”

Chesterfield
SUCH POPULARITY MUST BE DESERVED

© 1930, LIGGETT & MYERS TOBACCO CO.

[ 22 ]