December 8, 1950
THE SALEMITE
Page Five
Pax Finds Christopher Fry
“Radiant And Rare Pleasure”
By Pax Davis
THE LADY’S NOT FOR
burning, by Christopher
Fry. The Oxford University
Press. 95 pp.
If you are the lucky possessor of
good hearing and a willing heart,
nothing will quite so amply repay
your time these gloomy days as a
moment’s attention in the direction
of the barren North. However in
congruous it may seem, an acquies
cent ear in that direction will dis
cover the sound of song and mirth,
and should you become curious
enough to investigate those out
laws’ origins, you would find them
.arising from nothing more fatal
than a play entitled “The Lady’s
not for Burning.” Were your in
vestigations more exhaustive, you
might have the enviable joy of dis
covering that its author is one of
tlie few men in the world today
who seems to know a way of mak
ing tunes and titillation respectable.
His name, to draw a circle on
nonsense, is Christopher Frv, and
if your sleep this fall has been so
sound that the din caused by his
great and grand success has es
caped your ears, you can only at
tempt compensation for vour mis
fortune bv hastilv gandering what
can still be said about the brightest
new star in England’s theatrical
firmament.
“The Lady’s not for Burning,”
you see, has caused an almost
schizophrenic babble since it opened
in New York last month. Its soar
ing verse received the wild applause
of most of the circle of Tired
Critics, and even the most luke
warm of them. Brooks Atkinson
of the Times, had to admit that its
author "may be a little deficient in
talent, but he has a touch of gen
ius,” Time grew lyric. Life raved
in a fine ecstasy and the town,
drunken without so much as a drop
of spirits for excuse, took Fry to
its weary but still hospitable bosom.
We, poor spirits that we are, will
be somewhat less blessed than the
denizens of Manhattan who’ve had
a chance at John Gielgud’s re
putedly fine production; but, how
ever hapless, we still have the in
credible joy—thanks to Oxford
University Press—of at least read
ing Fry’s fine frenzy.
And it will be, again and again,
a pleasure at once radiant and rare.
Hardly since Jonson—if ugly antho
logies are evidence—has dramatic
verse so acidly pointed out the
foibles of man. Hardly since Shake
speare has sheer verbal song so
made that recognition a delight.
And hardly since either, lest we
draw back from the final taunt, has
poetry of the stage so rhapsodically
taken its listeners into so com
pletely satisfying an other-exis
tence.
It is his genius, you see, that
Fry can never quite make himself
say anything simply. The hero of
“The Lady’s not for Burning” says
early in the game “What a won
derful thing is metaphor,” and we
who listen can only nod assent.
A young gipl describes an unsuit-
able suitor as “a winter in my
head”; a round of doubletalk be
comes, under the Fry magic, “the |
same April fit of exasperating non- |
sense”; shadows are “raven-quills”;
^ and “The night’s a pale pastureland
of peace.”
Unlike that sober judge, T. S.
Eliot, or that reluctant crooner,
Maxwell Anderson, Fry must sing
as he works, and he is like noth
ing so much as a mad arsonist
whom we unexpectedly come upon
running wildly, torch in hand, thro
ugh a field of freshly-stacked hay.
Though much of what he does is
admittedly excessive, we can but
marvel at the brilliance of the,
flames.
It is. Heaven knows, little morei
than a haystack to which he sets]
his torch. The principal dramatic
thread of “The Lady’s not for
Burning” is a transparent anecdote
about a misanthropic young soldier
who wants to be hanged, a lovely,
innocent girl who’s to be burned
as a witch, and the manner in
which their inevitable love laughs
at faggots and the world’s stupidi
ties alike. There’s nothing more.
Nothing? Only verse that soars
above the clouds as few poets have
dared let it. Only a heroine who
for sheer delight has gone un
equaled since Rosalind. Only a
hero whose melancholy knows only
Hamlet for peer. Nothing? Then
let young Will Shakespeare take
“The Comedy of Errors” back for
revision. Let him rework “A Mid
summer nights Dream” so that it
becomes more dramatically plau
sible. Let him withdraw “Twelfth
Night” until its improbabilities have
been made subject to the gray hand
of reason. Christopher Fry may
make no universal commitment, but
his perceptions are acute, and im
mutable, and if he babbles a little
drunkenly while he’s about his task
—well, have not alcoholism wards
their geniuses?
For its genius, 3'ou see, that is
Fry’s, and to say anything reason
able about either it or him is, as
Fry himself might put it, like try
ing to extinguish the sun with a
water-pistol. You may chastise him
for breaking the rules and spank
him for his disregard of order and
reason, but when you are through,
you find that you have only limned
order’s depotism and hightened
reason’s limitations.
Fry is so romantically rich and
rewarding, in fact, that to find his
equal, one can only call to mind
another Christopher who drove a
similar chariot. Like Fry, he called
himself “Kit,” and like the author
of “The Lady's not for Burning,”
he had an early triumph over rule
and reason in the articulation of
melodious dramatic verse. We can
only hope that his namesake con
tinues to emulate his example, for
literature tells us that before meet
ing his death at 29 in a messy bar
room brawl, he did well. His sur
name, you will of course have
guessed, was Marlowe.
The Big
Chef
By Peggie Johnson
About one Sunday every month.
Daddy drapes a dishtowel across
his stomach and retires to the kit
chen to display his culenary skill.
This is apt to be a leisurely process
for him, but it is rather tedious
for the rest of us who are doomed
to fast while he prepares his con
coctions. Some brave soul, hoping
to speed up the operation, may
offer his assistance, but he soon
discovers that his presence is
neither wanted nor appreciated in
this inner sanctum.
Daddy’s Sunday sojourns in the
kitchen require a great deal of
preliminary ceremony. First, a
i large collection of piano jazz re-
! cords must be played as loud as
the machine can possibly go. Our
neighbors frequently tell us that
they have little use for a radio or
victrola because they can listen to
ours so easily. Ne.xt, several lage
ash trays must be placed at strate
gic spots around the kitchen. Last,
but by no means least, there must
be an ample supply of liquid re
freshment, better known in our
house as “cough medicine”, to serve
as inspiration in case Daddy’s na
tural zest for his task fails him,
as it frequently does!
The tools of Daddy’s trade are
many and varied and must always
be within easy reach of his hand.
Daddy. himself is no small man,
and when he and every pot, pan,
and bowl, he can find are spread
around the kitchen, there is little
space left. Some cooks follow re
cipes from cookbooks; some file
their recipes in their heads, but
Daddy creates his own as he goes.
These inventions may be only a
small variation from the usual pro
cedure, but they necessitate huge
quantities of spices, sauces, and
herbs which are set at random
about the kitchen. These also
serve as an obstacle course for any
(Continued on page eight)
Cocky” Pearson To Marry
Dan Moser In December
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Mr. and Mrs. Plato P. Pearson.
The wedding will take place De
cember 26.
Cacky is a member of the senior
class and house president of Bit
ting Dormitory. She also is a
member of the Scorpions and vice-
president of the A. A.
Cacky is a primary education
UB ui o; suBjd pun joCbui
elementary school.
Dan is a senior and an economics
major at Duke. He is a member
of the Kappa Alpha Fraternity.
Cacky and Dan will graduate
from their respective schools next
spring. They plan to set up house
keeping in Durham on the week
end, but during the week Cacky
will continue to live on campus in
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Winston-Salem, Nort.h Carolina