He is, one might say, a
masterly draftsman with a rich cool sense of color, whose work has
something of the still force of a drawing of Ingres with, as well, the
sensitive detail one finds in a Redon, like a beautiful drawing on
stone. An excellent knowledge of dramatic contrasts is displayed by
the brothers Barrymore, John and Lionel, in the murder scene, one of
the finest we have seen for many years, technically even, splendid,
and direct, concise in movement. Every superfluous gesture has been
eliminated. From the moment of Peter's locking the door upon his uncle
the scene is wrapped in the very coils of catastrophe, almost
Euripedean in its inevitability. All of this episode is kept strictly
within the realm of the imagination. It is an episode of hatred, of
which there is sure to be at least one in the life of every young
sensitive, when every boy wants, at any rate somewhere in his mind, to
destroy some influence or other which is alien or hateful to him. The
scene emphasizes once again the beauty of technical power for its own
sake, the thrill of discarding all that is not immediately essential
to simple and direct realization.

Little can be said of the play beyond this point, for it dwindles off
into sentimental mystification which cannot be enjoyed by anyone under
fifty, or appreciated by anyone under eighteen. It gives opportunity
merely for settings and some rare moments of costuming, the lady with
the battledore reminding one a deal of a good Manet. This and, of
course, the splendid appearance of the Duchess of Towers in the first
act--all these touches furnish more than a satisfying background for
the very shy and frail Peter.

This performance of Barrymore holds for me the first and last
requisite of organized conception in art--poise, clarity, and perfect
suggestibility. Its intellectual soundness rules the emotional
extravagance, giving form to what--for lack of form--so often perishes
under an excess of energy, which the ignorant actor substitutes for
the plastic element in all art. It has the attitude, this performance,
almost of diffidence to one's subject-matter, except as the intellect
judges clearly and coolly. Thus, in the sense of esthetic reality, are
all aspects clarified and made real. From the outward inward, or from
the inward outward, surface to depth or depth to surface--it is
difficult to say which is the precise method of approach. John
Barrymore has mastered the evasive subtlety ther