Louie Pounds (1872-1970)

"THE FRENCH MAID"
By Basil Hood and Walter Slaughter.
Produced at Terry's Theatre - 25th April, 1897.
Reviewed in The Daily Mail (London)

"THE FRENCH MAID": A LIVELY LITTLE THING

They are true disciples of Whitman, these authors, actors, singers, dancers, who romped and rioted to success on Saturday. One and all, they "sing the body electric." And a gay and frolicsome song of love it is! And a wholesome one withal! Whether in Arden, where Miss Julia Neilson was but yesterday singing to Orlando - you remember: "Hey ding a ding a ding; Sweet lovers love the spring" or here in a clarified, beatified, melodified Boulogne.

The authors of "The French Maid" are not Shakespeare - though Mr. Basil Hood, the writer of the "book," can stand to his puns against the man of Avon and not fear defeat. But they are just as good at getting, brightness and lightness and atmosphere out of their plot, and Shakespeare, as a practical man would envy them the snap and go of their "French Maid."

That is where they win - they and, I presume, Mr. Frank Parker, their stage coach, whom henceforth I shall think of as a rival of the great George Edwardes himself. They never give us time to find them out. One hour, two hours, three hours - we are all the time in a maze of pretty peasants and lovely bal-masqueraders; with bright eyes laughing, lithe ankles flashing through the air, and little feet twinkling among billows of lace and shimmering silk. Three hours, and barely a moment hangs heavy on our hands. Children of Adam - and Eve - they are singing the body electric! With Whitman they are singing, See these bodies, shapely and undulant, these are our drama, these are our music, these are our poem! And in looking and listening we really don't need any more. That is the central fact and the supreme; but around it are ranged a dozen lesser ones - infinitely lesser ones, which embrace the actual story, such as it is, the individual efforts of the players, the flow of humour, and the war of witty words.

To me these seem of no particular importance. What is of prime consequence in drama is of next to none here. Once a feast of beauty and, grace and youth and high spirits is spread, rules of etiquette seem of little moment. The great thing is to enjoy it no matter how. No doubt. Mr. Herbert Standing, as an ass of a gendarme, ought to pursue in act two the plan to arrest two innocent English girls, so elaborately arranged in act one. Equally certain is it that, according to rule, something dramatic ought to come of the uxoriousness of Mr. Eric. Lewis's exquisitely foolish Frenchman and the lofty sense of duty inspiring the little English admiral, who regards him as the lover of his wife. And beyond all question, amorous Indian princes, flag lieutenants, gallant Jack Tars, and Boulogne waiters ought not to be so systematically and bewilderingly mistaken for one another, as almost to require Mr Douglas Sladen to make clear to us "Who's Who."

But musical comedy has dispensed with coherent and interesting intrigue before, this, and musical comedy, when it is "French Made," can afford to do it again. For if the action be not progressive and cumulative, there are at least a dozen such songs and dances and humorous tit-bits as set feet tapping and heads and tongues wagging with delight. Moreover, not a piece in town can vie with this in frankly singing "the body electric."

The authors have brought together a very strong company, and taken especial pains to get Mr. Walter Slaughter's tuneful music admirably sung. The dainty singing of Miss Louie Pounds and the stirring patriotic ballads put into the mouth of Mr. Richard Green recall the style of the Savoy, whither, indeed, the piece, for its picturesqueness and utter freedom from suggestiveness, ought by rights to have gone. Then Mr. Eric Lewis, as only this accomplished actor can, sings a witty French songy "Je ne le compren pas," and wins encores it were wearisome to count; and Miss Kate Cutler, as Suzette, the French maid, provides a worthy vis-a-vis, with a pretty accent and a piquant charm and a lively sense of fun, in which I don't know where to name her equal. Comedy talents, new to London, but deserving of marked recognition, are displayed by Mr. Murray King, Mr. H.O. Clarey, a kind of John Hare of the musical comedy stage, and still more noticeably by Mr. Joseph Wilson, whose genial tar has seen service on a stouter ironclad than the "Pinafore," and is indeed a breezy sea salt worthy of Black-Ey'd Susan herself.

And all these ladies and gentlemen work so hard and throw; such gusto into everything they do that when the tangle of knots suddenly falls apart, and the piece ends amid a shower of the ribbons, of Mi-Careme, any idea of discontent seems almost ridiculous. On Saturday, however, a few malcontents there were, earnest and intelligent I am sure, but how sadly insensible to that Circe-song of the body electric!

A. A. B.

THE DRESSES

Miss Louie Pounds wears a charming dress of rose-pink glace in the first act. At each side there are panels of ivory satin edged with ruffling of cream and black lace, and then these give place to a number of little pink frills edged with lace, which curve upwards as they near the back. On the bodice there are revers to match, and tight sleeves of cream lace, with frilled epaulettes to relieve the shoulders, while at the waist folds of ivory satin are combined with bands of black velvet. Her hat of cream straw has the sailor brim veiled with white and black spotted tulle, and is encircled by a wreath of shaded roses, with the leaves and buds to give an aigrette effect at the side.

The second act brings Miss Louie Pounds on in an exquisite evening gown of white satin, with a drapery of yellowish lace on the skirt, and clusters of yellow roses, which have showered down some of their petals to form an edging for the hem. On the bodice a butterfly-shaped bolero outlined in burnished steel, paillettes, comes beneath the rose-bordered decolletage, and scarves of lace are drawn over the shoulders into a point at the back of the waist, and then after being caught on to a steel buckle, fall to the hem of the skirt. The elaborately dressed brown hair is finished with a cluster of scarlet geraniums placed low down-on the neck with excellent effect.

PHOEBE.

Daily Mail (London) - 26th April, 1897