It is curious that Boston's long quarantine from good plays should be lifted all at once with a veritable epidemic. With "He" at the Hollis. "Anna Christie" around the corner, "Captain Applejack", the Opera and above all Stuart Walker's remarkable "Book of Job", the week's offering is richer than it has been at one time for many seasons. Which will win the multitude, it is hard to forecast; at any rate, Andreyev's last play, "He Who Gets Slapped", merits most interest from lovers of the strange and the artistic in the theatre.

Set in the ante-room of a large Russian circus, seeped in the lore of the tanbark-ring, the play moves in a little world of its own, diverse enough and complete unto itself. Into this realm of play-people, with their human loves, rivalries, and eccentricities, there steps one from "out there", from the little known external world. He is a mysterious figure, something of a philosopher, and a keen observer. All he asks is a part to play, a life to live in this special world, and the right that his out world self be allowed to die. The part he chooses is humble; he becames a sort of buffer for the clowns, the one who gets slapped for the amusement of the audience; and he takes the name of "He". His own story is hinted only vaguely; but he flits on the edges of the little stories of his confreres, watches them hungrily, and finally is lost with them.

With Russian skill in diffuse natural detail, the scene is built up quickly and quietly, aided by the illusion of striking scenery. The clowns, the ballet, the lion-tamer, the wardrobe-mistress, go their way at home and without introduction; the manager carries on his routine of squabbles, and the actors come and go from rehearsals. Little by little, the threads of plot are woven together, the more important characters brought into relief and allowed to disclose their hearts in conversational ease. Their lives grow through the four acts of the play. The lion-tamer plays her wiles on all who come in range. The little bareback rider, used by her pseudo father for his own ends, loves and is loved by her riding-mate; she is sold instead to a roue baron. But "He", who has stood aside, unfathomable, jester like, commenting mildly cynical on all that passed, projects himself into the story and brings it to a different conclusion.

All this is intelligible enough, and entertaining. The other characters are knowable and their actions follow human motives, displayed for their own sake. Yet there is a topsy-turvy something in the play, a hinting at hidden meanings, which sets the key awry. What are the innuendoes of symbolism that seem to creep in, unexplained, from time to time? What lies lurking in the back of the author's mind, that he is unwilling to let us see? Is it merely the sense of a partness that "He" feels, the intangibility of the world and of his fellows, or is there something more definite to be said? If there is, the Theatre Gulid has missed it, and perhaps the author himself: surely the audience that tries to read between the lines with come away bewildered.

Beyond this tantalizing obscurity, acting and production are complete and harmonious. Mr. Bennett is sincere, thoughtful, and full of delightful whimsy. It is unfortunate that an extravagant press-agent should herald him on the program as "America's most distinguished actor", though he does his best to earn the title, and his charming curtain-speech won him many Boston hearts. Two or three of the many semi-minor parts, newly filled since the company left New York, are distressing; the rest fit cleanly into the well-planned pattern of the production.