reat tragic note in Shakespeare, but in Berlin it was
quite a playful matter. Just as the murderers played at murdering
Clarence, so Richard joked with himself over, "is there a murderer
here--Yes, I am."

The only way to explain such a Richard III to the audience was to
suggest--That is the sort of people the English are--thank their God
for their humility whilst in reality they stick at nothing to gain
their private ends, and are not troubled with conscience.

This production was entirely modern in its presentment. There was a
remarkable simplification of scenery. This was, perhaps, due to the
new poverty of Berlin. But it comprised merely a wall, a hole in the
wall called the Tower of London, a platform on top of the wall called
Tower Hill, carpeted stairs against the wall called the Court at
Westminster. Clarence mopes in the hole with one electric light--his
butt of malmsey wine is even out of view. Richard appears between the
two archbishops on the top of the wall, and finally he fights the
battle of Bosworth Field up and down the carpeted stairs. Indeed, he
suddenly appears at the top of the stairs naked to his middle and then
runs down the red carpet carrying his crown in his hand whilst he
shouts, "Mein Konigsreich fur ein Pferd,"--my kingdom for a horse.
This last was deservedly hissed by the audience as a palpable absurdity
being foisted on the half-stunned _intelligentsia_ of Berlin.

At the Lessing Theatre a few days later, "Peer Gynt," that poetical
drama of the Teuton's destiny--much better done because really nearer
to the German soul than Shakespeare. Solveig had faith; though it was
not quite certain that she was the sort of woman to whom one _had_ to
return. Peer's romantic return to his mother was, however, much
stressed, as in the Greig music. The sentiment that Peer "had women
behind him and, therefore, could not perish" appealed strongly to the
German mood, though the application of the button-moulder idea to the
plight of Germany just now appeared to have been missed. Peer ought to
have been a shining button on the vest of the Lord, but has missed his
chance, and now is to be melted down with other buttons into something
else--into a Polish button, a Czech button, an Alsatian button. There
was much scope for meditation looking at "Peer Gynt" at Berlin in 1921.

In lighter vein the traveller finds much more to delight him in the
operettas of Berlin. As at Vienna, they are better do