H

ARMONY for Houston has been arranged and how?

Why, so adroitly that every faction within the Democratic Party believes that it alone is responsible for the good work and thrills with a sensation, new and yet strangely old, of accommodation and unity.

When, where, and by whom the program will be announced is, as yet, on the lap of the godlings. But the program has been made. Knowledge of it has blown about Washington for days. There has been no official announcement. Perhaps there never will be such. But there is to be harmony, full and complete-up to the point where the balloting begins. It may persist beyond that point, but if it perishes there something still will have been accomplished.

The deadlock in Madison Square Garden, with its deadly 103 ballots, was too bad. But it might have stopped short of engendering mortal enmities had the horrors of the platform fight not preceded it. There is to be nothing of that kind again. A cat might commit suicide the eighth time-but not the ninth. If there must be a finish fight between Smith and the battalion of death that opposes him-why, there must be. But there will be no preliminary bouts not unless something slips.

Claude Bowers is to be made Temporary Chairman, enthusiastically, by everybody. He is a New York editor. But his dry sympathies are known, and he is charged or credited-with just enough of an anti-Tammany leaning. He is enamored of the old glories of the party, its perennial principles. He can keynote safely.

Some one of half a dozen Southern men almost equally unantagonisticprobably Senator Robinson, of Arkansas will succeed as Permanent Chairman and rule on every point in accordance with old and sound traditions.

An agreed platform will be reported and adopted. That sounds a large contract. It would have been impossible of carrying out at any preceding Democratic Convention in thirty-two years. But Bryan is dead. And there was never any other who could talk the Democratic Party out of a fixed purpose.

The platform will say nothing of the principle of prohibition. It will declare

By DIXON MERRITT

in ringing terms for vigorous enforcement of the prohibition laws. In the roar and hum of the great hall delegates may think for a moment that they hear, coming mysteriously from somewhere, the impassioned protest of him who was the Boy Orator of the Platte. But the plank will hold.

The rules of the previous Convention will be adopted, without important exception. That most distinctive and most important of all Democratic rules-the one requiring that two-thirds of the delegates concur in a nomination--will probably not be mentioned at all. Within two years both great factions of the party wanted to be rid of it and denounced it vigorously. Now there is no responsible leader in either faction who would raise a voice against it. The Smith forces know, at least, that a majority nomination would not be worth the effort. And the anti-Smith coalition knows that to defeat him by anything less than a two-thirds vote would be to defeat themselves. The imperious voice of Andrew Jackson, too, still threads through the hum of Democratic convention halls.

So the Democratic National Convention of 1928 will arrive triumphantly at the point of nominating a candidate for President. And then

A group of politicians and those who make politicians were discussing that point the other day. They agreed that the plan is a beautiful combination of compromises. But there is always one dissenter. He spoke from the far end of the table. "That," he said, "is not compromise; it is conquest."

And so, in a sense, it is. Governor Smith has swept practically everything before him. Even in the antagonistic South delegations favorable to him have been selected. The West has seemed to be almost his own.

Until within the past few days the Smith campaign has had able Republican aid. Rather suddenly, the Republican Smith boomers became frightened. The frantic storm of Southern protest against Smith had failed to blow. The West had given no signs of rising in revolt against the wet, Tammany Gover

nor.

Here is a strange lethargy which the Republican Smithites have not been able to fathom, which has puzzled the Democratic anti-Smithites, and even the Democratic Smithites.

Henceforth the Smith candidacy will go under its own power. At least, Republicans will no longer act as a kicker for it.

Is Smith, then, already as good as nominated? No. The opposition to him has not weakened in the least. And not even his own most zealous supporters believe that all of his apparent strength is real. Everybody knows that in certain States the active Smith twenty per cent has prevailed over the lethargic anti-Smith eighty per cent.

The prejudice against Smith, if that is the name for it, has not been eradicated. At least, no informed person here believes that it has. It is, for the time being, dormant. But nobody doubts that it will be awakened. The Republicans, if nobody else, will see to that after the Conventions-if Smith is nominated.

Seasoned politicians, many of them kindly disposed to Smith, are saying that if Smith is elected President it will be not merely with a Republican Congress but with a greatly reduced Democratic minority; that if he is nominated and defeated the Democratic minority will be reduced to a remnant. That may not be at all true. But the thought of it makes a certain number of Democratic office-holders uneasy as to their own safety and adds an unannounced element to anti-Smith coalition. A considerable number of Democratic Congressmen, particularly from the South and Middle West, would campaign fo Smith as the nominee with the convic tion that they were making certain their own defeat even though they helped him to election. What will they contribute to the harmony program at Housto after the point of balloting has been reached?

That group previously referred to as discussing the situation agreed that the harmony program is fine. The man a the far end of the table-incidentally. he was a New York Democrat-spoke again. "Who was it," he asked, "tha said something about making a deser and calling it peace?"

གྲུ་ ་

not be

even

W

HILE Mr. Ossip Gabrilowitsch's instructions to those

intending to be present at Carnegie Hall on the occasion of the performance last Maunday Thursday of "The Saint Matthew Passion," by Johann Sebastian Bach, were undoubtastedly prompted by an entirely proper

acy

feeling of respect and reverence, one couldn't help feeling (somewhat on the principle of good wine needing no bush) that if that colossal masterpiece were performed in the proper spirit, a suitable per atmosphere would be created no matter

how vivid the colors worn by the audiinence might be. On the other hand, if the proper reverence were wanting in the ranks of the performers themselves, the feeling of devotion and reverence i would be lacking though we might sit in robes of sable hue, cocooned in yards of crape, for the entire evening.

We refer to the request, published in call the advance notices of this perform ance, that members of the audience Swould please come dressed in dark clothes and, once arrived, would kindly refrain from applauding.

The first request was more or less acceded to, though one great lady arit rived in her box wearing a bright-red (dress, an amber-colored evening cloak,

and something twinkly round her head, for which we personally tendered her a

vote of thanks which was none the less sincere for being unexpressed.

As for applause, there was none, with the result that many of us emerged feeling much as a well-charged siphon must feel if it has any definite sensation. After all, notwithstanding the sacred subject, it was a performance in a concert-hall, not in a church, and, while it was eminently suitable not to break into the

mood of the work with applause during the performance, it did seem something of a let-down to have to mope out in silence after that glorious music. Besides, all that bottled-up emotion must be hard on our insides.

By EUGENE BONNER

transported to New York for two performances only (Thursday evening and Saturday afternoon), an undertaking which we are glad to note has been fully appreciated not only by the musical press but by the public. The boy choristers of St. Thomas's Church here also assisted nobly in the proceedings.

To bring this great work within the time limit necessary for an evening performance many beautiful passages had perforce to be omitted. In making such omissions it's, of course, quite impossible to please everybody, but, in our opinion, the cuts made by Mr. Gabrilowitsch showed both good taste and sound judgment. Of course the ideal performance of such a masterpiece would be to have it given in such a place as the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and given in its entirety, with just such an organization as this, but, unfortunately, such a presentation would be well-nigh impossible entation would be well-nigh impossible to arrange.

The performance itself, as might have been expected from such a fine musician as Mr. Gabrilowitsch, was of a very high order. Conducting entirely without score, and playing himself the special piano, constructed in imitation of the clavicembalo of Bach's time, he kept than fine balance between soloists, choruses, and orchestra so essential to a harmonious presentation.

One of the choral groups was placed at the rear of the hall in the balcony to sing the unaccompanied chorales sung (or supposed to have been sung) in Bach's time by the congregation. This experiment was highly successful, a very beautiful effect being achieved by the innovation.

Margaret Matzenauer, in spite of several lapses from the pitch, a rather unusual thing for her, sang the contralto part with the breadth and dignity one For the last three years Mr. Gabrilohas grown to expect from this artist in witsch has been giving "The Saint all her work. A glorious voice, and how Matthew Passion" in Detroit, until it very well she sings in the English lanhas now become a regular Holy Week guage! Richard Crooks was perhaps offering, much as the Metropolitan's somewhat too dramatic at times, but the Good Friday performances of "Parsifal" lovely quality of his voice and his ex

in this city. His own orchestra, the Detroit Symphony Society, with three choral organizations from that city, were

pert handling of this extremely difficult music made him an unusually fine "narrator."

Jeannette Vreeland (soprano), Reinald Werrenrath (baritone), and Fred Patton (bass) were more than equal to the demands made upon them, while Chandler Goldthwaite played the organ part, harmonized by Mr. Gabrilowitsch himself from the original figured bass.

The chorus sang superbly, with fine attack, precision, and excellent tone quality, and a large portion of praise is due the auxiliary choir in the balcony for its very beautiful singing and faithful adherence to pitch in those unaccompanied chorales.

The New York musical public owes Mr. Gabrilowitsch a profound debt of gratitude for having had the courage and energy to transport this huge organization, bag and baggage, from Detroit for two performances only, and we sincerely hope that the financial response was such that he will feel justified in repeating his experiment next year.

With a yearly representation of "The Saint Matthew Passion" and the annual performance of "The Saint John Passion" by the Friends of Music, to say nothing of the other works of the master given by that organization, Bach will soon lose his terrors for the great public and come to be recognized for what he is as dramatic as Wagner, as simple as Mozart, and fully as "modern" as the best of the avant-garde of the musical composers of the present day.

While Bach, according to some sources, is credited with five "Passions," only two have survived in their entirety and portions of the music of a third. The first of these, "The Saint John Passion," was originally produced on Good Friday, 1723. Six years later came the great "Saint Matthew Passion," to be followed two years later (1731) by "The Saint Mark Passion."

This last was inferior to the other two; so much so that it no longer exists as a complete work, such parts of it as are now extant having been incorporated by the composer himself in the "Trauer Ode," given a few weeks ago by the Friends of Music under the leadership of Artur Bodanzky.

These "Passions" were performed on Good Fridays at vespers, sometimes in St. Thomas's, sometimes at St. Nicholas's Church, both in Leipzig.

T

The Father

HERE is a father in this country who has always believed in fair

play. He has given his two sons an even chance in life, and both men have grown up to justify his hope and devotion. One would think that this was enough.

But this man, sitting back to watch and enjoy the progress of his two sons, observed a strange thing. Life was not following out his own ideas. Life was

not playing fair with them. To one son success came easily-friends, honors, advancements were his without asking; these things seemed to belong to him by rightful heritage, a heritage the father knew nothing about.

To the other son life was an obstacle race what he gained he gained at hard cost. Success with him was measured by painful inches-at times by the mere fact of not losing ground.

These two brothers lived in the same city. The first brother rose to prominence as an attorney. He became President of the Bar Association in his city, and by the time the father had reached the age of eighty years the successful son was about to achieve one more honor in his distinguished career. He was to be appointed by the President to the bench. of one of the higher courts. It was also by this time that the other son, through hard work, patience, and perseverance, had become a clerk of the same court.

Now there is a ruling that demands. the resignation of those clerks whose relatives are called to the bench. This new honor for one son meant disaster for the other. The old man had let life do as it pleased. He had handed over his sons years before, and, for himself, was about done with living. But he could not allow this. He became suddenly the father again, the arbitrator. His eighty years fell away from him. It was his to decide what was right and what was fair.

The newspaper account that tells this story boasts that it is news-that this is the first time in the annals of the Government when a father has interceded to prevent the promotion of his son. For in his audience with the President the father made his explanation and defense. "The honor will mean little to one of them," he insisted, "while the loss of his position is the loss of everything to the other." Then the old man had his final twinge. He looked helplessly into the

Miniatures from the Life

By IBBY HALL

eyes of the President. "It is a hard thing," he said, "for a father to do."

A

Sublimation

LITTLE cat in New England has solved the tragedy of existence with no help from Freud, physicians, or spiritual advisers.

This creature was born with a consuming passion-the passion to tend, and nourish, and discipline, which is motherhood. With no one to inform her what was ahead of her, and no one to assist her when her time of distress arrived, she relied serenely upon her wealth of instinct. The sharpness of a new and bewildering experience was scarcely over when the little pussy was purring as loudly as an alarm clock.

With all her instinct, the little cat had little or no general knowledge. Statistics meant nothing to her. The fact that her kittens were just so many more unwanted kittens never even occurred to her. But suddenly there were no kittens. This could not be reasoned out, or explained. This was tragedy-the end of the world. The little cat had only one need: life had left her, and she must somehow find it. Down strange roads and in unknown pastures, through unexplored woods and rocky country, she went calling for her kittens. was not interested in food or drink-she was consumed by this other need. There was no warm or hidden spot, or natural nesting-place of any kind that missed her eye. And at last she found them.

She

It was a strange tree stump, with its little hollowed-out room-how had they ever wandered so far? Only two of them were left after what must have been a

long and dangerous journey, and these two had changed incredibly. Their ears, through fright, no doubt, had grown to an enormous length. And each little tail, that had been like a delicate spear, had been worn off by the bushes and branches to a little ball of white fur. But there was no mistaking her children. They turned to her ravenously, and she did not disappoint them.

In the hollow of the tree stump the little family flourishes and has already reached the stage of school and discipline. For when one of these small bunnies wanders too far from home the little

cat-mother brings it back firmly by the nape of the neck, in spite of those long and troublesome ears.

Ο

The Country

Na country road the other day visitors from New York were taking snap-shots. The objects to be snapped were patient and indifferent-an apple tree that had moved with the march of a hundred seasons, but never from that spot of earth; walls running silently always in the same grooves; a fence that still followed its serpentine course as it fell, fast returning to the earth again.

Down the road sounded the slow hoofs of a horse, the squeak and turn of a wagon wheel. The solitary occupant of the two-seater was an old man with a beard curling around to the back of his neck. He held the reins loosely in his gnarled brown hands. He could see that something unusual was going on along the familiar stretch of road. "Whoa!" he said, softly, and then, in guarded undertones to the strangers, "I won't disturb ye none." He sat as still as one of the old stones in the pasture, and the horse, as old and shaggy as his master, might have been carved on the instant out of granite.

The city visitors gazed at the old man. "You can drive by, if you like," said

one.

The old man immediately lifted the reins, but opposite the camera he stopped. "I lived down the road a piece in that house yonder for nineteen years once," he offered, "but I couldn't stand it. Had to move where there wasn't so much to do. Blood-pressure. I've been living up the country a ways quite a spell." He looked at them reminiscently. "I used to live in New York. I can't abide New York. Noise and dirtenough to drive you crazy. So I give up a good job there. Yessir, I had a good job, but I give it up and moved to the country."

One of the city visitors moved closer to the two-seater. The old man looked like Santa Claus. Even his eyes wore a fabled expression. "What was your job?" she asked, curiously.

"It was a good job," he said. "Waitin' for me yet. They said I could alwus have it back again. Sixth Avenue car line. Yessir, I worked years with the Sixth Avenue car line. Shoein' horses." He lifted the reins in his hands. "I ain't seen that town," he said, "since '88, but I can't abide New York."

T

"Love"

HE current week having been one of numerous "hold-overs," this space may legitimately be given over to discussion of a picture which has not before been noticed here, although it has been on view for several months. The picture is "Love," and in it John Gilbert and Greta Garbo are co-starred with the most satisfying results.

The story of "Love" is an adaptation of "Anna Karenina," and not only did it impress us as a wise and faithful transcription of that towering work, it even succeeded in lending point and dignity to its own title. If you remember the grim idyll of Anna and Vronsky, you will perhaps be of a mind to admit that "Love" is far from being a bad title for it. After all, Vronsky's threatened ejection from his regiment and Anna's affair with an onrushing locomotive were directly traceable to the biological urge, and nothing else.

Edmund Goulding directed "Love," and did it with taste and discernment. Admitting that we, personally, know nothing of the visual aspects of Russian life except what we've learned from the screen, we still contend that the picture has an atmosphere which fits its Slavic story to perfection, and that is, to say the least, something.

An admirably unsympathetic performance by Brandon Hurst as Karenin and the uncanny acting of little Philippe de Lacy are other matters which must be given consideration as preliminaries to the main event; as distant bugles faintly sounding the coming of the queen; as dancing maidens strewing blooms before the fairest of all creation-and that'll be quite enough of that, and we ask your pardon. We get that way about Greta Garbo-we can't help it.

In "Love" the Sorceress of the Silver Screen is given the best breaks she has had since coming to Hollywood. Until you've seen Greta Garbo do Anna Karenina you've seen nothing. Bring on your Duses, say we, your Lina Cavalieris, Maxine Elliotts, Marilyn Millers, Janet Gaynors, and Mary Astors-none of them has equaled her for sheer physical allure and few of them have been half as accomplished artists. The élan, the quiet dignity of her performance in "Love" are matchless. Either Mr. Goulding ought to direct Miss Garbo

The Movies

By A. M. SHERWOOD, Jr.

henceforward or else his successor should be chosen from among those who've had the opportunity of seeing how it was done.

We had almost forgotten about John Gilbert, but, as we remember it, he was fine. What with the fact that he wears snappy uniforms and flashes his eyes and teeth as arrestingly as usual, the charming ranks of his admirers will no doubt be substantially added to as a result of his showing in "Love." But for us the final dictum must be: If you are interested in seeing the most beautiful woman in the world doing a fine piece of acting in a really interesting film, Greta Garbo in "Love" is your recommended destination.

Emil Jannings in "Tartuffe

TH

the Hypocrite "

HIS German picture, directed by F. W. Murnau (maker of "Sunrise" and "The Last Laugh"), is having a revival just now, and we review it for the reasons given elsewhere on this page.

Just when it was made we do not know; but a lot of present-day productions could be safely patterned after it in more respects than one. Dr. Murnau has so many virtues as a director, and Jannings as an actor, that it would be no easy task to point to any one outstanding capability in either. Our own view is that Murnau is the greatest living expert on scene-lighting and that Jannings does frightfully unpleasant characters better than he does anything else. "Tartuffe the Hypocrite" is so beautifully lighted that old Lux himself seems actually to be a member of the cast; and if there be any spectator who feels that some other actor than Jannings could

have made Tartuffe more chillingly horrible, he should become a casting director.

A very handsome and capable young lady named Lil Dagover appears in this absorbing little film study and plays the part of Mme. Elmire, who accomplishes by her intuition (and highly pleasing physique) the ultimate downfall of Tartuffe. She is convinced that her husband's blind adherence to the monkish impostor can be upset only by a demonstration of Tartuffe's real character. She achieves this by kidding Tartuffe into the notion that she is in love with his saintly nature, and finally overcomes his cunning reluctance sufficiently to get him into her personal bedchamber. Here he gives himself completely away, and the husband is summoned by an old retainer to view the proceedings through the keyhole.

He sees his attractive wife in (more or less) deshabille, and he sees Tartuffe putting on a most horrifying exhibition of nuzzling and guzzling; and, if you get the opportunity to take in this fragmentary masterpiece, we advise you to see it, too.

Adolphe Menjou in "A Night of Mystery"

T

HERE are some things one would much rather leave unsaid but which, for purposes of the record, must be said: for instance-Adolphe Menjou is beginning to look very old. He should do something to overcome the fallenaway look which has appeared in his once masklike face, or he won't be able to create the same illusion of inscrutable sophistication which has marked his every past performance.

This would be a pity; in fact, it is a pity, for Mr. Menjou's latest picture is far less acceptable than it would have been a year ago. It is a better-thanaverage film, although its ending is pretty unconvincing and its components nearly all stereotyped: the gallant offi cer, the lovely girl whose weak brother is unjustly accused of murder; the judge's wife who exacts silence to con ceal her own indiscretions with the offi cer-you know how they go.

A striking girl named Nora Lane (to us previously unknown) has the rather small part of the heroine; our guess is that she will be heard from.