rapidity. Theater habitues eavesdropping on the rehearsal mumble in the
half-dark that there was never anything like this seen on earth or in
heaven. Mr. Anisfeld's scenery explodes like a succession of medieval
skyrockets. A phantasmagoria of sound, color and action crowds the
startled proscenium. For there is no question but that the proscenium,
with the names of Verdi, Bach, Haydn and Beethoven chiseled on it, is
considerably startled.

Through this business of skyrockets and crescendos and hobgoblins M. Coini
stands out like a lighthouse in a cubist storm. However bewildering the
plot, however humpty-dumpty the music, M. Coini is intelligible drama. His
brisk little figure in its pressed pants, spats and fedora, bounces around
amid the apoplectic disturbances like some busybody Alice in an operatic
Wonderland.

The opus mounts. The music mounts. Singers attired as singers were never
attired before crawl on, bounce on, tumble on. And M. Coini, as
undisturbed as a traffic cop or a loop pigeon, commands his stage. He
tells the singers where to stand while they sing, and when they don't sing
to suit him he sings himself. He leads the chorus on and tells it where to
dance, and when they don't dance to suit him he dances himself. He moves
the scenery himself. He fights with Mr. Prokofieff while the music
splashes and roars around him. He fights with Boris. He fights with
electricians and wigmakers.

* * * * *

It is admirable. M. Coini, in his tan spats and gray fedora, is more
fantastic than the entire cast of devils and Christmas trees and
lollypops, who seem to be the leading actors in the play. Mr. Prokofieff