us to the facial agony above
those incompetent, disobedient, heedless feet?

"Here was honest endeavour, an almost prayerful determination, again
and again thwarted by feet that recked not of rhythm or even of bare
mechanical accuracy. Those feet, so apparently aimless, so little under
control, were perhaps the most mirthful feet the scored failure in the
dance. But the face, conscious of their clumsiness, was a mask of fine
tragedy.

"Such is the combination, it seems to me, that has produced the artistry
now so generally applauded, an artistry that perhaps achieved its full
flowering in that powerful bit toward the close of Brewing Trouble--the
return of the erring son with his agony of appeal so markedly portrayed
that for the moment one almost forgot the wildly absurd burlesque of
which it formed the joyous yet truly emotional apex. I spoke of this.

"'True burlesque is, after all, the highest criticism, don't you
think?' he asked me. 'Doesn't it make demands which only a sophisticated
audience can meet-isn't it rather high-brow criticism?' And I saw that
he had thought deeply about his art.

"'It is because of this,' he went on, 'that we must resort to so much of
the merely slap-stick stuff in our comedies. For after all, our picture
audience, twenty million people a day--surely one can make no great
demands upon their intelligence.' He considered a moment, seemingly
lost in memories of his work. 'I dare say,' he concluded, 'there are
not twenty million people of taste and real intelligence in the whole
world.'

"Yet it must not be thought that this young man would play the cynic.
He is superbly the optimist, though now again he struck a note of almost
cynic whimsicality. 'Of course our art is in its infancy--' He waited
for my nod of agreement, then dryly added, 'We must, I think, consider
it the Peter Pan of the arts. And I dare say you recall the outstanding
biological freakishness of Peter.' But a smile--that slow, almost
puzzled smile of his--accompanied the words.

"'You might,' he told me at parting, 'call me the tragic comedian.' And
again I saw that this actor is set apart from the run of his brethren
by an almost uncanny gift for introspection. He has ruthlessly analysed
himself. He knows, as he put it, 'what God meant him to be.' Was here a
hint of poor Cyrano?

"I left after some brief reference to his devoted young wife, who, in
studio or home, is never far from his side. "'It is true that I ha