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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d47ada --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61437 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61437) diff --git a/old/61437-0.txt b/old/61437-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4acf2e7..0000000 --- a/old/61437-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10106 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Set Down in Malice, by Gerald Cumberland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Set Down in Malice - A Book of Reminiscences - -Author: Gerald Cumberland - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61437] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SET DOWN IN MALICE *** - - - - -Produced by ellinora, David Wilson and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -SET DOWN IN MALICE - - - - - SET DOWN IN MALICE - A BOOK OF REMINISCENCES - - - BY - GERALD CUMBERLAND - - - ❦ - - - “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I - contradict myself.” - Walt Whitman. - - - BRENTANO’S - NEW YORK - MDCCCCXIX - - - - -PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED EDINBURGH - - - - -UXORI HORAS AMISSAS REDDO - - - - -PREFATORY NOTE - - -Very many of the following pages were written in the trenches and -dug-outs of Greece and Serbia. I added a chapter or two in Port Said, -Alexandria and Marseilles. That is to say, I wrote far away from books -and without reference to documents, and I wrote to refresh a mind -dulled by the conditions of Active Service in the Near East. A few -chapters were written in London and a few in Winchester. - -Here and there may be found factual inaccuracies, though if these -exist I am not aware of them. But the spirit of the book is as near -the truth as I can bring it. - - Gerald Cumberland - - Winchester - _2nd June 1918_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - I. Mr George Bernard Shaw 11 - - II. Miscellaneous 22 - Mrs Annie Besant—Mr Marcus Stone—Mr Lloyd - George—Bishop Welldon—Dr Walford Davies - - III. Mr Frank Harris 32 - - IV. Miscellaneous 47 - Madame Yvette Guilbert—Sir Victor Horsley— - Mrs Pankhurst—Mr Jacob Epstein—Madame Aïno - Ackté - - V. Mr Stanley Houghton and Mr Harold Brighouse 55 - - VI. Some Writers 68 - Mr Arnold Bennett—Mr G. K. Chesterton— - Mr Lascelles Abercrombie—Mr Harold Monro— - Mr John Masefield—Mr Jerome K. Jerome—Sir - Owen Seaman—Mr A. A. Milne - - VII. Sir Edward Elgar 79 - - VIII. Intellectual Freaks 88 - - IX. Fleet Street 102 - - X. Mr Hall Caine 117 - - XI. More Writers 128 - Rev. T. E. Brown—Mr A. R. Orage—Mr Norman - Angell—Mr St John Ervine—Mr Charles Marriott - —Mr Max Beerbohm—Mr Israel Zangwill—Mr - Alphonse Courlander—Mr Ivan Heald—Mr Dixon - Scott—Mr Barry Pain—Mr Cunninghame Graham - - XII. Musical Critics 143 - - XIII. Manchester People 153 - - XIV. Chelsea and Mr Augustus John 166 - - XV. Miscellaneous 175 - Mr Arthur Henderson, M.P.—Lord Derby—Miss - Elizabeth Robins—Mr Frank Mullings—Mr Harold - Bauer—Mr Emil Sauer—Mr Vladimir de Pachmann - - XVI. Cathedral Musical Festivals 187 - - XVII. People of the Theatre 199 - Sir Herbert Tree—Mr Gordon Craig—Mr Henry - Arthur Jones—Mr Temple Thurston—Miss Janet - Achurch—Miss Horniman. - - XVIII. Berlin and Some of its People 212 - - XIX. Some Musicians 226 - Edvard Grieg—Sir Frederick H. Cowen—Dr Hans - Richter—Sir Thomas Beecham—Sir Charles - Santley—Mr Landon Ronald—Mr Frederic Austin - - XX. Two Chelsea Rags, 1914 and 1918 239 - - XXI. More Musicians 246 - Professor Granville Bantock—Mr Frederick - Delius—Mr Joseph Holbrooke—Dr Walford Davies - —Dr Vaughan Williams—Dr W. G. McNaught—Mr - Julius Harrison—Mr Rutland Boughton—Mr John - Coates—Mr Cyril Scott - - XXII. People I would like to meet 263 - - XXIII. Night Clubs 273 - - Index 283 - - - - -CHAPTER I - -GEORGE BERNARD SHAW - - -It was when I was a very young man indeed that I caught and succumbed -to my first attack of Shaw-fever. I do not remember how I caught it; -something in the Manchester air, no doubt, was responsible for my -malady, for a handful of “intellectual” Manchester people had most -daringly produced a complete Shaw play, and, though I had not -witnessed the play, I had read it, and it was with delight that I saw -_The Manchester Guardian_ saying about _You Never Can Tell_ just the -very things I had myself already thought. I found that in my suburban -circle of friends I was regarded as harbouring “advanced” ideas. Shaw, -I was told, was “dangerous.” This bucked me up enormously, and I -thereupon wrote a long essay on Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_ and, desiring -further to astonish and bewilder my friends, got into communication -with Bernard Shaw with a view to having the essay published in -pamphlet form. When it was known in Manchester suburbia that Shaw had -written to me, a boy still at school, my friends could not decide -whether I was cleverer than they had hitherto supposed or Mr Bernard -Shaw more foolish than seemed possible. - -I have never completely recovered from that first attack of -Shaw-fever; like ague, it sleeps in my bones and, from time to time, -makes its presence known by little convulsions that are disturbing -enough while they last, but which generally die pretty quickly. - -It was in the middle of 1901 that I wrote to Mr Shaw about the -particular brand of socialism from which at that time I was -suffering. It must have been a very raw and crude brand, and my letter -to Bernard Shaw must have amused him considerably. Certainly his reply -was most diverting. Here it is: - - “By all means give ‘every penny you can spare to those who are - most in need of monetary help.’ If you will be kind enough to send - it to the Treasurer of the Fabian Society, 3 Clement’s Inn, - London, W.C., you may depend upon its being wanted and well used. - If you prefer relieving needy persons, I can give you the names - and addresses of several fathers of families who can be depended - on to absorb all your superfluous resources, however vast they may - be. By making yourself poor for their sakes you will have the - satisfaction of adding one more poor family to the existing mass - of poverty and contributing your utmost to the ransom which - perpetuates the existing social system. You will go through life - consoled by an inexhaustible sense of moral superiority to bishops - and other inconsistent Christians. And you will never be at a loss - for friends. Where the carcass is there will the eagles be - gathered. - - “A world of beggars and almsgivers—beautiful Christian ideal. - - “You are not a prig—only a damned fool. A month’s experience will - cure you.” - -But though I think this letter amusing now, I am convinced I did not -think so at the time I received it. I know not in what terms of pained -surprise and hurt vanity I replied to it, but a few days later I -received the following short note:— - - “Yes: you are an ass; and nothing will help you until you get over - that. - - “‘A has money, B is without. If A doesn’t share with B he - is—well, I call him a thief.’ Just what an ass would do. Pray what - do you call B if he accepts A’s bounty? - - “I strongly recommend you to become a stockbroker. You believe - that doing good means giving money; and you fancy yourself in the - character of Lord Bountiful with a touch of St Francis. - - “Yes, a hopeless ass. No matter; embrace your destiny and become a - philanthropist. It is not a bad life for people who are built that - way.” - -That, I think, most effectively closed the correspondence, as, I have -little doubt, it was intended to do. - -During the next few months, having approached Messrs Greening & Co., -the publishers, I was commissioned by them to write a book on Mr Hall -Caine for their _Eminent Writers of To-day_ series. The book being -completed and published before the end of the year, I conceived the -idea of writing another about Mr Bernard Shaw, and communicated with -the dramatist, informing him of my intention and asking him if he -would provide me with biographical details. This he consented to do, -and on 19th December 1901 wrote to me from Piccard’s Cottage, -Guildford, saying: “If you will let me know when you are coming to -London, I will make an appointment with pleasure and give you what -help I can.” - -A few weeks later I went to Guildford, but I went there with a guilty -secret hidden in my breast. The secret was this. My publishers did not -care about issuing a complete book devoted to Bernard Shaw and all his -works. I gathered, much to my amazement, that they did not think him -of sufficient importance. The astounding idea was then suggested that -half my book should be concerned with Bernard Shaw and the other half -with Mr George Moore. Now, at the time of my visit to Guildford, I had -not imparted this information to Mr Shaw. I did not anticipate that he -would like the suggestion and I thought it wiser to disclose it to -him by word of mouth rather than by letter. - -I came upon Mr Shaw taking photographs in the little front garden of -Piccard’s Cottage. It was a winter’s day and an inch of snow lay upon -the ground; yet he wore no overcoat. He insisted upon taking my -photograph. He took me sitting. He took me standing. And when he had -grown tired of playing with his new toy, he suggested that we should -go into the house. - -There a hideous surprise awaited me. Lying upon the sofa of the study -was an open copy of the current week’s _Candid Friend_, a most -brilliant and most ruthless paper edited by Mr Frank Harris. - -“There is something there,” said Shaw, nodding in the direction of the -sofa, “that should interest you, I think.” - -I sat down, took up the paper and looked at the open pages. To my -horror I saw a most brutal, murderously clever full-page caricature of -Mr Hall Caine on one side, and on the other a long and most hostile -review of my stupid little book on the famous novelist.... Shaw, tall -and erect, stood looking at me a little malignantly, and, on the -instant, I was on my guard. - -I read the review word by word and examined the caricature very -closely. The article was amazingly good, but, as I read it, I did so -wish it had been written about a book by somebody else. Frank Harris -himself, I think, had written the article and Frank Richardson had -drawn the caricature. I looked up at Shaw and smiled. - -“Awfully good, don’t you think?” I said. - -He nodded, and by his manner seemed to express approval of the way in -which I had come through the ordeal. He showed me some photographs he -had taken—not very good photographs. One, taken by his wife, I think, -showed Bernard Shaw with his arm round a female scarecrow; leaning -slightly forward, he was leering at it with narrowed eyes. - -During lunch Shaw devoured a large number of vegetarian dishes and -drank water, whilst Mrs Shaw and I ate meat and drank wine. It was, I -think, the mellowing influence of a basin of raisins that loosed his -tongue and set him talking without cessation. He spoke of Karl Marx -and Granville Barker, of Mrs Annie Besant and Janet Achurch, of -Mr Sidney Webb and the Fabian Society, of Morocco and Ancoats, of -Shorthand and Wagner, of _The Manchester Guardian_ and H. G. Wells ... -in a word, of Shakespeare and the musical glasses. - -I rather gathered that he had “got over” Karl Marx years ago, and I -inferred that he considered the work of this writer indispensable for -young cubs to sharpen their teeth upon, but that he was by no means -the last word in socialism. I think he thought that Bernard Shaw was -the last word. For Granville Barker he had even then a great regard, -and, speaking of him, he offered me some cider, a bottle of which -Barker had drunk some days previously; as he offered the cider he said -that Barker had “ridden over”—whence, I know not—on his bicycle and -that the cider had made him half tipsy.... The thought of Mrs Annie -Besant appeared to afford him vast amusement, but he spoke in terms of -high regard of Janet Achurch. - -“But she uses her voice wrongly. It is quite the finest voice on the -stage and, perhaps because she knows it is so fine, she is always -trying experiments with it. For a Shakespeare passage, for example, -she will plan out what I may call a scheme of sound; sound that will -rise and fall with the passion and decline of the words, that will -intensify and grow dim as the mood waxes and wanes. But the scheme, -the design—for it _is_ a kind of design—is nearly always too -elaborate, too involved. It is full of detail, and the detail is apt -to become more prominent than the general outline. She will start off -most magnificently, lose herself a little, recover herself, lose -herself again, and then abruptly strike a woefully wrong note. -Perhaps her ear is wrong; perhaps excitement betrays her. But, with -all her faults—and even her faults are more interesting than other -people’s excellencies—she remains a superb actress.” - -Of Mr Sidney Webb I remember nothing that he said, nor have any of the -loving words he spoke of the Fabian Society remained in my memory. He -spoke of it a great deal, both at lunch and during our subsequent -walk, but somehow or other the Fabian Society has always seemed to me -a bloodless and dull sort of institution, and while he talked about it -my thoughts wandered, and I mused rather sadly over the psychology of -this man whose moral earnestness was so much greater than my own. - -But I pricked up my ears when the word “Morocco” fell from his lips, -though in the event he said very little about it. I found he had no -great belief in the value of travel as a means of education, an -expander of the mind. He himself had never travelled; places and -countries so precisely fulfilled all your expectations that, really, -what was the use of going to see them? Facts, people and ideas: -nothing else aroused his curiosity. - -Of shorthand he said ... well, you don’t particularly want to know -what he said of shorthand, do you? And in _The Perfect Wagnerite_ he -has said all that it is necessary for him to say about Wagner. Last of -all comes H. G. Wells. - -Now, I have not the remotest idea what Shaw thinks of Wells in these -days, yet I would give a good deal to know. But sixteen years ago the -older man had for the younger an almost reverential admiration. At the -time of my visit to Shaw one of Wells’ books was appearing serially -in, I think, _The Fortnightly Review_. Wells was busy looking into the -future, and the future that he saw seemed, in some respects, so -disagreeable yet so likely that Shaw was dismayed at the prospect. - -“A great man, Wells,” said Shaw; “do you know anything about him?” - -I told him the little I knew and, as we had finished lunch, I asked -Mrs Shaw’s permission to light a cigarette. - -Almost immediately after, we started on our walk. - -Never shall I forget that terrible walk. I believed then, as I believe -now, that Shaw was deliberately pitting his powers of endurance -against my own—the powers of endurance of a middle-aged vegetarian -against those of a young meat-eater. He walked with a long, easy -stride, swinging his arms, breathing deeply through his wide nostrils. -His pace, which never for a moment did he attempt to accommodate to -mine, was at least five miles an hour. He forgot, or he did not choose -to remember, that I had that morning travelled by the slow midnight -train from Manchester, that I had crossed London, that I had reached -Guildford by a weary Sunday train from Waterloo, and that I had just -eaten an enormous lunch. I panted and struggled half a pace behind -him. I became stupendously hot. I made unexpected and unathletic -sounds, like a man who is being smothered. Blissfully unconscious of -all this was Shaw.... I wonder?... No; blissfully conscious of all -this was Shaw. - -He talked steadily the whole time, but I was suffering from an -inhibition of all my mental faculties. Yet, at the back of my mind, I -kept saying to myself: “You know, you have not yet told him that he is -to share your book with George Moore.” And each time I told myself -that, I shuddered somewhat. - -It was not until we had neared Mr G. F. Watts’ house that Shaw -moderated his pace a little. - -“That,” said he, in a curiously low voice—the kind of voice one uses -in churches—“that is where G. F. Watts lives.” - -And he pointed to some high chimneys that overtopped a belt of trees, -and stopped and gazed. But I was in no mood of reverence and, though I -have frequently struggled to induce a feeling of rapture when gazing -upon the large canvases of Watts, I have never been able to do so. So -I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my perspiring forehead. - -“Hot?” asked Shaw grimly. - -“Of course I’m hot. Aren’t you?” - -“Warm. Just nicely warm.” - -Presently we came to a tall tower of terra-cotta bricks which, Shaw -told me, had been erected by the villagers under the direction and at -the instigation of Watts himself. We stopped in front of this and, as -it was one of the “sights” of the district, I felt that I was expected -to say something wise or, at all events, something complimentary about -it. I could say neither. - -“Which do people imagine it to be—useful or ornamental?” I asked. - -“I wonder,” said he. - -“For it is neither,” I ventured. - -But his thoughts were otherwhere, for he began a long, technical -exposition on the art of making bricks and tiles. His talk became -art-and-crafty. I was carried back to my childhood days, my -kindergarten days. I heard the name of William Morris and I sighed -most profoundly. - -Shaw won that walk by a neck. Having reached Piccard’s Cottage, he put -me in a kind of conservatory, gave me a blanket and a deck chair and -told me to go to sleep. But already I _was_ asleep.... - -When I awoke it was quite dark, and, feeling rather miserable, I -groped my way back to the house. There I found Mr and Mrs Shaw in the -study, she frowning at her desk, he standing on the hearthrug and -looking at her most quizzically. - -“Well, how much is it?” she asked. “Four times into two hundred. The -cheque _must_ go by to-night’s post. I’ve done the sum three times, -and on each occasion I’ve got a different answer.” - -“Is it two hundred pence or two hundred pounds?” - -“Don’t be absurd, George. Even you know that you can’t get a furnished -house like this for two hundred pence a year.” - -“Four times into two hundred—let me see—fifty. Yes, fifty. You can -safely write down fifty pounds.” - -That little incident safely over, we turned to tea. - -I induced Shaw to talk about his own work, and I quickly discovered -that, unlike most authors, he had no feeling of bitterness that he had -had to spend years in hard work before he won public recognition. - -“A writer of originality must expect to have to wait. If a writer is -acclaimed immediately—I mean a writer on social and artistic -subjects—he may be pretty sure that he is saying things that have been -said before. He may be saying them better than anybody else; -nevertheless, they are the same things. My own success has been -gained, and is very largely maintained, by the force of my personality -and by the tradition about myself that has gradually grown up in the -mind of the public. For example, if I were to write an article and -give it to you to copy out and offer to editors in your own name, you -being the professional author, I doubt very much if a single editor -would look at it twice. A good deal, you see, _is_ in a name.” - -It was when Mrs Shaw, having sipped her tea, had left the room, that I -broached the subject of my book. - -“Publishers are curious people,” I remarked meditatively. - -He sat silent. - -“My own publishers in particular. They are now fighting shy of a book -solely about you.” - -I paused and glanced at him. But he was gazing at me with eyes of a -mild malice and he was very silent. - -“Yes,” I continued. “To put it bluntly, they think that a book solely -about you would not be a success. So that they propose the first half -of the book should be concerned with you and the second half with -George Moore.” - -“And the title?” he asked gently. - -“Why? What do you mean?” - -“Well, don’t you think _The Two Mad Irishmen_ would go rather well?” - -I floundered. If he was going to be witty or sarcastic, or anything -horrid of that kind, I should be nowhere at all. To cover my -confusion—and, as it chanced, to make that confusion worse—I began to -talk very rapidly. - -“I know their suggestion is awfully stupid, but then publishers do -make stupid suggestions. That, I suppose, is why they are so -successful. Of course, George Moore and yourself——” - -“Oh, George has worked awfully hard,” said Shaw reasonably. “I don’t -suppose there is a more conscientious artist living. He has dug out of -himself everything there was to be got. No one could have tried more. -As a worker, George is magnificent. But, really, when you suggest a -book——” - -“No! No! I don’t suggest it for one moment,” I interrupted. - -“Then what are we discussing?” - -“Well, in the first instance, my publishers suggested——” - -“Ha! ‘In the first instance!’ No; it really cannot be done. If you -wish to write the book nobody, of course, can stop you, but if you do -you must not expect me to countenance it. I shall wash my hands of the -whole business.” - -And, in spite of some further conversation, that remained his -unshakable attitude. - -An hour later he walked with me down to the station, I resolving all -the way that I would persuade my publisher to accept two books. Shaw -droned on about Sidney Webb and the Fabian Society.... So many people -have talked to me of Sidney Webb. I wonder why. I have heard Sidney -Webb speak; he knows all about figures and dates and money and wages, -and so on.... But of human nature he knows nothing; he knows less than -a child, for a child has at least intuition. Figures don’t go very -far, do they? Of course, by manipulation, you can make them go all the -way.... - -But, as I was saying, Shaw talked about Fabianism and Webbism all the -way to the station. - -He was good enough to wait till the train started, and the last I saw -of him as I leant through the window was a long, lean figure standing -under a lamp. The figure wore no overcoat, but I noticed, even when a -hundred yards separated us, a pair of thick, home-knitted woollen -gloves.... - - * * * * * - -_P.S._—The book was never written, for my publishers could not be -persuaded to take G.B.S. at his own or my estimate. - -Mr George Moore, on being approached, wrote me from Dublin, saying, -inconsequently enough, that he had never asked anybody to write about -him nor had he ever asked anybody to refrain from doing so. On the -whole, he thought it better that if A (myself) wished to write about B -(Mr George Moore), it would be an excellent arrangement, provided -that: - -(1) A was an intimate friend of B’s, or - -(2) A was a complete stranger to B. - -I was left, most courteously, to infer that I (A), being a complete -stranger, had better remain so. - -I did. - -I have done. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -MISCELLANEOUS - - Mrs Annie Besant—Marcus Stone—Lloyd George—Bishop - Welldon—Dr Walford Davies - - -Mrs Annie Besant, like her Himalayan Mahatmas, is lofty, remote, and -difficult of access. Only once was I admitted to The Presence. What -drove me there was, first of all, curiosity, and, secondly, a feeling -of great respect for her which I had retained from boyhood. I admired -her courage, her independence, her friendship with and loyalty to -Bradlaugh; moreover, I have always held in high regard those who, from -temperamental or spiritual discord with their fellows, have kicked over -the intellectual traces and run a race of their own. Annie Besant, -whatever else she may be, is a woman of courage, of vast resource and -of indomitable will. - -But alas! my hour’s interview with her did much to sap and destroy my -devotion. First of all, I must say that, previous to meeting her, I -had been for a short time an Associate of the Theosophical Society. I -was never admitted to membership of that body because I never claimed -the privilege; my associateship originated in my desire to hear Orage -lecture and in my anxiety to study some curious and not unintelligent -people at first hand. Nothing is at once more distressing and more -repellent to me than affectation, and the affectation of most members -of the Theosophical Society whom I met was really appalling. The people -were also grotesque. The men had dyspepsia and bald heads, and the -women wore djibbahs and a look of condescending benevolence. They read -Madame Blavatsky assiduously and gabbled nonsense to each other. - -Mrs Besant made an appointment for me one Saturday afternoon at the -Midland Hotel, Manchester. I was shown into a private sitting-room -which, upon entering, I took to be empty. But, after a few moments had -passed, I observed a snake-like movement in a corner of the room, and a -thin, pale lady advanced languidly towards me, holding out a lifeless -hand which hung nervelessly at her wrist. I glanced at her in surprise -and noticed that she wore a djibbah, a long necklace of yellow stones, -a most insincere smile, and vegetarian boots. - -“Mrs Besant will be with you shortly,” she said, scrutinising me -carefully. Having, as it appeared to me, taken a mental inventory of -my clothing, she glided to the door and, smiling at me once more, -disappeared. I took her to be a sort of bodyguard. - -The entrance of Mrs Besant was brisk and businesslike. She had a firm -handshake; she looked a capable business woman—a woman accustomed to -issuing commands and having them implicitly obeyed. Of medium height, -she was plump and heavily built; her pale face, surmounted by perfectly -white hair, was of an intensely serious cast, and I saw no humour in -her eye. - -Our conversation, a little halting at first, began to flow quite easily -when I mentioned her Autobiography and asked her why she had not issued -a second volume. - -“You see,” I said, “it stops just at the most interesting period of -your life. You have never stated fully how you became convinced of the -truth of theosophical doctrines. I, for one, cannot understand your -position.” - -“It isn’t very necessary that you should,” she observed calmly. - -“Who am I, you mean, that I should presume to understand you?” - -“Yes; perhaps I meant something like that. People who are intended to -understand me will understand me. The rest don’t matter. In any case, -this is not a subject that has much interest for me.” - -“But, surely, if you think you have discovered the truth, you are -anxious to spread it? As a matter of fact, I know, of course, that you -are anxious on this point, or you would not lecture and write.” - -“You are quite right,” she said, leaning forward a little. “I spread -the truth, but, then, the truth is not for everybody. Much of it falls -on stony ground.” - -“And it will continue to do so,” I half interrupted, “until you have -proved that the alleged miracles of Madame Blavatsky are really true. -Was Madame Blavatsky a charlatan or was she not?—on the answer to that -question all modern theosophy stands or falls.” - -She smiled at this attack of mine and at the violence of it. - -“It _is_ proved,” she answered; “it is proved up to the hilt. I and -thousands of others are entirely satisfied.” - -“And Madame Coulomb?—was she a mountebank? And were the mysteries of -Adyar frauds?” - -“Everyone is entitled to his own opinion about those matters. I have -my own view; you, no doubt, have yours. And now,” she added, a little -wearily, “let us have tea and talk about the weather.” - -Such was the substance of our talk. I gathered the impression, right or -wrong, that Mrs Besant had brought herself to a state of mind when no -evidence, however strong, that was opposed to her beliefs would shake -her faith for a moment. She desired most fervently to believe in the -_bona fides_ of Madame Blavatsky, and believe she did. The Theosophical -Society does not—or it did not in those days—demand from its members -the acceptance of any particular doctrine; you could accept as little -or as much as you wanted and still remain one of the faithful. But -Mrs Besant went the whole hog. - -Bernard Shaw once told me that, meeting Mrs Besant years after the -Bradlaugh days, he said to her, half jokingly: - -“You surely don’t believe one quarter of the rubbish you write and -talk, do you?” - -Her answer was to look at him coldly and turn on her heel. Which, after -all, was perhaps the wisest answer she could give. - - * * * * * - -A kindly old man took me to his studio and began to talk of Dickens. -He spoke of those Victorian days as though they were the greatest that -have ever been. He knew Anthony Trollope and all his works and looked -askance at me because _Barchester Towers_ was the only Trollope book I -had read. - -And then he took me to an easel and showed me his latest work—a -“pretty-pretty” picture of a girl in a garden; the sort of picture -that, according to my mood, either excites my laughter or throws me -into a fury of rage. - -But Marcus Stone was very old, and his ideals, being those of -yesteryear, left me untouched. The young can never understand the old -and, as I listened to him talking of art and literature and life, I -told myself that we to-day are centuries away from the mid-Victorian -days. If he had not been so old and kindly I should have wished to say: - -“Do you want to know what all you people were like fifty years -ago?—well, read _Punch_ for, say, the year 1870.” - -But though my friends tell me that I am brutal, and I know I am -ill-mannered, I could not find it in my heart to speak those words. - - * * * * * - -The amiable but rather weak Mr P. W. Wilson, who used to do “Lobby” -work for _The Daily News_, having declined a whisky, entered into -conversation with me at the hotel at Criccieth. He told me that till -that morning he had been staying with Mr Lloyd George, but that, -Mr Masterman, Sir Rufus Isaacs and other people of importance having -turned up, he himself had had to seek refuge in the hotel. - -The occasion of the assembly of these wits was the opening of an -institute at Llanystumdwy, the little village near Criccieth, where the -Prime Minister spent his childhood days. Mr Lloyd George had given the -institute to the inhabitants of the village and was himself to open it -publicly the following day. - -Mr Wilson’s amiability and his self-satisfaction at enjoying the -friendship of Mr Lloyd George rather put me out, and I felt a strong -desire to disturb his sleek smoothness. - -“I hope,” said I, “that the suffragettes will not be brutally treated -to-morrow, but I am very much afraid they will.” - -“Of course,” observed P. W. W., between draws at his pipe, “if they -create a disturbance here, in the very midst of Lloyd George’s -worshippers, they must expect a stiff time of it.” - -“Yes, and they will get it. The organised gang of roughs from Portmadoc -who are coming here to-morrow armed with clubs will see to that. The -uneducated Welsh, their passions once aroused, are little better than -savages....” I hesitated a moment. Then, as impressively as I could, -I added: “We must prepare ourselves for dreadful sights to-morrow. I -should not be very surprised if one or two women are not torn limb from -limb. And if they are, the responsibility will, in my opinion, rest -mainly with Mr Lloyd George himself.” - -P. W. Wilson took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me with some -concern. - -“How do you make that out?” he asked. - -“Well, hitherto he has not done very much to soothe the irritation of -meetings he has addressed which have been interrupted by suffragettes. -Lloyd George has not very much magnanimity. Moreover, in this -particular matter, he evinces but a shallow knowledge of human nature. -He would win the approval of all men of generous and chivalrous natures -if——” - -I allowed my voice to die away to nothing. - -Wilson, really disturbed, moved a little uneasily on his chair, rose, -scratched his head, sat down again and sighed. - -“I must tell him,” said he. “I must warn him that, at the very -beginning of his speech, he must appeal to the audience to deal gently -with any interrupters.... Torn limb from limb.... You really think -that?” - -I felt a little sorry to have disturbed him so much, and yet I knew -that I very much preferred an anxious, harassed Wilson to a Wilson who -was smooth and sleek. - -Next morning at breakfast he was again smooth and self-satisfied. - -“I have seen him,” he whispered, like a conspirator; “I have seen him. -It is arranged. Everything is all right.” - -Later on that morning I was myself received by Mr Lloyd George in his -house. I went prejudiced against him and determined at all hazards not -to allow myself to be won over by that charm of manner of which I had -heard so much. - -But in five minutes I had succumbed. He has a wonderful gift of -making you feel that he thinks you are the most interesting and most -intelligent person he has ever met. What he really does think, I -suppose, is that you (of course, I don’t mean you; I mean myself) are -an unmitigated bore, and while his eyes are smiling at you he is really -saying to himself: “Why doesn’t the fellow go?...” Yes, he has charm. -He does not fuss and he is not over-emphatic in his manner. And he is -a most deferential listener. He will even ask you your opinion about -matters of which he knows ten times more than yourself, and he will do -you the honour of arguing with you. - -That afternoon, at the formal ceremony of “opening” the institute, my -warning concerning the suffragettes was nearly prophetic. Mr Lloyd -George, of course, did all in his power to quell the mob’s anger, -but the women were violently assaulted, their breasts beaten, their -clothes ripped from their backs, their hair torn by the roots from -their heads.... On the edge of the mêlée I saw P. W. Wilson standing -deploring it. - - * * * * * - -It has always seemed to me an extraordinary thing that, in company -with Dr Walford Davies, I should have been asked some years ago to be -a guest at the annual dinner of the Church Diocesan Music Society. I -am always ready for adventure, of however hazardous a nature, so I -accepted the invitation even after I had been told that a speech was -expected from me. - -Bishop Welldon, arriving late—in fact, I believe he had dined -elsewhere—plumped himself on a chair next to me, and immediately began -to dominate everything and everybody within a radius of twenty yards. -He is one of those distressing people who _will_ be jocular. And his -jocularity is rather noisy. He laughed a great deal and rubbed his -hands together. And he asked me a question and then asked me another -before I had had time to answer the first. And, really, he did talk so -awfully loudly.... I had come across him before in trams and shops and -places of that kind, and it was always the same; he invariably talked -_at_ you.... Even in the Manchester Cathedral, where Dr Kendrick Pyne -introduced me to him, he shouted at me and never allowed me to finish a -sentence. - -But I perceive that I am becoming petulant, and I ought not to do so -for, as a matter of fact, the dinner was a screamingly funny affair. -I had prepared a fierce and warlike speech, a speech attacking the -Society whose food I had just eaten and whose wine was still warm in my -veins. I am, I suppose, quite the worst speaker in the world; so I had -memorised my speech and, so good I thought it that I had vastly enjoyed -doing so. But alas! when the minute drew near for me to deliver it, I -found myself in an atmosphere of such conviviality, such kindness, such -flattering attention, that I could not find it in my heart to deliver -the words I had prepared and memorised. Yet an impromptu speech of a -different tenor was impossible. I simply hadn’t the talent to do it. My -name was called and I rose to my feet. - -My speech was offensive: it was meant to be. But offensive though I -knew it to be, I did not know how offensive it really was. I mentioned -the name of Wagner and, as I did so, I saw Dr Walford Davies shudder -most violently. Though I attacked the Church for her unimaginative -attitude to music, though I stamped on hymns and hymn tunes, though I -slanged the microscopic brains of many organists, though I said that -nearly all Cathedral music was to me anathema maranatha, nobody except -Bishop Welldon appeared to care in the least, and he did not care half -so much as poor, virginal Walford Davies, who, at the name of Wagner, -shuddered and put his glass aside. - -Davies spoke: earnestly, like St Francis; frenziedly, like Savonarola; -passionately, like Venus ... no! no! no! ... passionately, like -St Paul. Eschew Wagner! That’s what it all came to.... “Eschew....” -Hate the sin, love the sinner, but most certainly “eschew” both. His -cheeks were very white, his lips pale. He trembled a little. Wagner, it -appeared, was one of the devils. Ab-so-lute-ly pernicious.... Have you -ever noticed how accurately you can estimate a man by his adjectives? -Dr Walford Davies used “pernicious” eleven times, “poisonous” twice, -“very-much-to-be-distrusted” once, “naughty” once (“this naughty man!” -was the phrase), “unlicensed” thrice, and “immoral” fifteen times.... -I must say, _en passant_, that I am writing from memory and that my -memory for figures is atrocious; still, these adjectives, collectively -represent the impression his speech left on my mind. - -After dinner (well, neither after nor before dinner) one does not -ardently desire a speech of that kind. It fell flat. A fat organist -from Bolton (or was it Bacup?) winked me a fat wink. The man on my -left—a young musical doctor from Cambridge—dug his elbow into my ribs. - -And then came Bishop Welldon’s speech. He was extraordinarily clever. -He said some of the most cutting things imaginable. He was scathing. -He hurt me. Reaching for my glass, I hastily swallowed the large -brandy I had been careful to ask for beforehand. He made epigrams, -epigrams adapted most skilfully from the writings of his friend, John -Oliver Hobbes. And he spoke so well; he had presence; he had a manner; -he, like Sir Willoughby Patterne, had a leg ... and a leg that was -gaitered. Perhaps it was the gaiters that did it. One has heard a good -deal lately about the Hidden Hand, but what about the influence of the -Hidden Leg? The leg hidden under the table? The gaitered leg hidden -under the table? Most of the diners, remembering that Bishop Welldon -was indeed a bishop—though, truly, only, so to speak, an ex-bishop, -and an ex-bishop only of Calcutta, and now possessing only the powers -of a dean (whatever those powers may be!)—most of the diners, I say, -recollecting that Bishop Welldon was indeed a bishop, looked at me with -eyes of faint hostility or did not look at me at all. - -I was very young, said Bishop Welldon. I was enthusiastic; I was -inexperienced; I was “artistic”; I was a jumper-at-conclusions. - -When he finished and, with one of his good-natured smiles, turned and -looked at me, I was crumbling bread very rapidly, rolling the bread -into soiled little pills, putting the little pills all in a row. - -Later on in the evening Bishop Welldon, a little group of jolly people -and I myself sat and smoked and drank very inferior coffee. Dr Walford -Davies did not join us. He shot little pointed darts at me from his -eyes, but (as, of course, you must have anticipated) when he and I -parted he was most studiously polite. - -And, on my way to my tram, I hummed Davies’ _Hame! Hame! Hame!_ to -myself and pondered over the mystery that enables a man to write such -a wonderful, soul-searching melody and yet possess an intellect of -quality only ... well, so-so. - - Here a little child I stand, - Heaving up my either hand ... - -Do you know Walford Davies’ setting of that Grace, the setting he made -some years ago for one of the daughters of the late Canon Gorton? If -you do, if, as I do, you adore its Blake-like simplicity, its Ariel -freshness, you will not mind his hatred of Wagner. Only, it is rather -strange, don’t you think, that we outsiders who love Wagner (and I -believe, don’t you, that all intense lovers of Wagner must be rather -outsiderish?) should be able to love Walford Davies also, though he -(most unhappy!) can’t or won’t love us? - -But it is being borne in upon me that for the last five minutes I have -been writing like the adorable Eve in _The Tatler_. Let me, for her -sake, begin another chapter. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -FRANK HARRIS - - -It must have been five or six years ago that a friend came to me with -the news that Frank Harris had expressed a desire to see some of my -verse. Precisely what my friend had told Harris about me, I do not -know; something very exaggerated, perhaps; something complimentary, -doubtless; something that piqued Harris’s curiosity, it was evident. As -Harris is one of the few modern writers for whom my boyish admiration -has survived manhood, I felt subtly gratified that he should take -even a fleeting interest in me, and I sat down at once and copied out -various poems that had already appeared in _The Academy_, under Lord -Alfred Douglas’s editorship, and in _The English Review_ in the days of -Ford Madox Hueffer, and, more recently, when edited by Austin Harrison. -With my verses I sent a letter, hypocritically modest as regards -myself, honestly full of admiration as regards Harris. He replied from -his villa in Nice, sending me a long letter in which he did me the -honour to enter fully into the supposed merits and demerits of my work. -Of one poem he said that it was not sufficiently sensual, and I have -never been able quite to understand what he meant, for I had, with some -particularity, described seven naked ladies swimming in a pool, and I -had felt that my verses had obviously enough expressed my feelings. - -The correspondence continued until, one day, Harris wrote to tell me -he was returning to London and to invite me to visit him there. In the -event, however, my first meeting with Harris was in Manchester, whither -he came to lecture on Shakespeare to the local dramatic society. Jack -Kahane (a great friend of mine) and I met him at the Midland Hotel upon -his arrival, and from the very first moment he intoxicated me. Whilst -he changed from his travelling clothes to evening dress he talked and -ejaculated, beseeching us to remain with him as he had had “a rotten -journey from London and felt unutterably bored.” I remember very little -of what he said except that, with some venom, he called Browning “a not -unprosperous gentleman.” He refused to eat or drink before his lecture -and, presently, we went down to the large room in the hotel where he -was to speak. - -We found there a mixed assembly. Everybody in Manchester, it should -be explained, writes plays; at least, I never yet met a man in that -delectable city who does not. Moreover, they “study” them. They weigh -and compare the merits of Stanley Houghton and Ibsen, Harold Brighouse -and Strindberg, Allan Monkhouse and Bjornson, Arnold Bennett and -Hauptmann, Laurence Housman and Brieux, and so forth. They search -for “inner meanings”; the more earnest of them hunt for “messages”; -the more delicate seek to perceive Fine Shades. They are veritable -disciples of Miss Horniman—priggishly intellectual, self-consciously -superior. And, of course, the rock of their salvation is St Bernard. -Innocuous people enough, but impossible to live in the same city with. - -To this assembly of earnest, pale men and spectacled women Harris was -to lecture, and I looked from them to Harris and from Harris to them -with joyful expectations. From the very first sentence he was fiery and -provocative, throwing out daring theories, anathematising all forms -of respectability, upholding with unparalleled fierceness a wonderful -ideal of chivalry and nobility and condemning, _en bloc_, the whole -human race, and particularly that portion of it seated before him. -Ladies rustled; men stirred uneasily. Then, having delivered himself -of a passage of hot eloquence, he paused. A clock ticked. He looked -defiantly at us and still paused. A fat lady in the front row, palpably -embarrassed by the long silence and, no doubt, feeling that she had -reached one of the most dramatic moments of her existence, banged her -plump hands together and ejaculated: “Bravo!” A few other ladies of -both sexes joined her, but Harris was not to be placated. Thrusting -out his chin, he began again. And this time he attacked the Mancunian -literary idol, Professor C. H. Herford, a great scholar, but a more -than suitable object for Harris’s ridicule. Herford is a man who has -not lived fully: a semi-invalid, asthmatic, bloodless and spectacled; -a man of books and rather dusty books; in effect, a professor. He -had recently reviewed Harris’s book, _The Man Shakespeare_, in _The -Manchester Guardian_, and had called it “a disgrace to British -scholarship.” Why this should have annoyed the author I cannot tell, -but Harris is at times a little unreasonable. Indeed, “annoyance” but -feebly describes the feeling that spent itself in scalding invective -and the most terrible irony. Each sentence he spoke appeared to be the -last word in bitterness; but each succeeding sentence leaped above -and beyond its predecessor, until at length the speaker had lashed -himself into a state of feeling to express which words were useless. -He stopped magnificently, and this time the room rang with applause. -It is probable that not half-a-dozen people present believed his -attack on Professor Herford was justified; indeed, it is probable that -not half-a-dozen were qualified to form any opinion of value on the -matter. Nevertheless, they applauded him with enthusiasm, and they did -so because they had been deeply stirred by eloquence that can only be -described as superb and by anger that was lava hot in its sincerity. -Briefly, the lecture was an overwhelming success. - -I was soon to discover that Harris, like all the men of genius I have -met, is vain. I do not mean that he overrates his gifts: he does not; -nor that his recognition of his own genius is offensively insistent: -such is very far from being the case. I mean that he is inordinately -proud, innocently and childlikely proud, of things that are not of the -least consequence. At supper in the French Restaurant the head waiter -slipped noiselessly across to the table at which Harris, Kahane and I -were sitting. (Harris is the kind of man who acts as a magnet to all -head waiters—a high tribute to his dominating personality.) When our -orders had been given the waiter, turning to go, said: “Very good, -Mr Harris.” On the instant Harris looked up. “So you know me?” he -asked. “Yes, sir. I have had the pleasure of waiting on you in Monte -Carlo and, if I am not mistaken, in New York as well.” It is difficult -to describe the naïve pleasure Harris took in this: it stamped him at -once as a man of the world—he who, of all people, required, in our -opinion, no such stamp. - -For six hours we talked—talked long after every other visitor in the -hotel had retired, and we were left alone in the Octagon Court in a -pool of dim light. Harris is the only brilliant talker I have met who -has not made me feel an abject idiot. To begin with, though he has a -pronounced strain of violence, almost of brutality, in his nature, he -is always infinitely courteous. He will listen to your (I mean my) -feeble contributions to a discussion with interest which, if feigned, -is so admirably feigned that you are completely deceived. And he can -keep this sort of thing up indefinitely. Moreover, though his mind is -agile enough, his speech is rarely quick; it is slow and deliberate, -but without hesitation, without a single word of tautology. - -I cannot hope, after so long a lapse of time, to reproduce, however -faintly, the true quality of Harris’s conversation, but I remember the -substance of it most vividly. In his lecture earlier in the evening he -had mentioned Jesus Christ, and the reference to our Saviour had been -so original in its implication, yet so reverent in its manner, that I -felt he must have much that is new to say on a subject that has aroused -more discussion than any other during the last two thousand years. So I -broached it tentatively. He was aroused immediately, and skilfully drew -me out to discover if I had anything new to say. I had not. I merely -voiced what must be an age-long regret, that only one side of Christ’s -nature has been presented to us in the Gospels; that the feasting, -joyous Christ has been only faintly indicated; and that His tolerance -towards the weaknesses of the body’s passions had always been shirked -by those of the priestly craft. I thought it possible that at some -future crisis in the world’s history Christ might come again and, on -His second coming, present to the world a more complete embodiment of -all the potentialities inherent in human nature. - -With much of this Harris agreed, though I soon perceived that his mind -had for long been intuitively building up, and giving true proportion -to, those elements in Christ’s nature that are only hinted at in -the Gospels. He was all for a full-blooded, passionate Jesus, for a -Jesus who had tested the body’s powers, for a Jesus who was crucified -by passion before He was crucified by Pilate. In a word, he applied -to Jesus the same intuitive method that he had already applied to -Shakespeare. The danger of this method, of course, is that one is -tempted (and it is almost impossible not to succumb to the temptation) -to project one’s own personality into that of the man one is studying. - -“My next book shall be about Jesus Christ,” said Harris. “No man in -these days has written honestly about Him.” - -“Shall you write as a believer?” I asked. - -“Most assuredly,” he replied. - -Then Harris told us some stories—stories he had written, stories he -had yet to write. I remember Austin Harrison once saying to me: “Frank -Harris is the most astounding creature! He will tell you a story -and tell it so marvellously that, when he has finished, you say to -yourself: ‘That is the most wonderful thing I have ever heard.’ And -you say to him: ‘Why, in God’s name, don’t you write that?’ Well, he -does write it, and when you read it you see that, after all, it is by -no means so wonderful a thing as you had thought it.” But this is only -half true. The story that is told is a very different thing from the -story that is written: so different, indeed, that one cannot find any -basis for comparison. In telling a story Harris is elliptical; a faint -gesture serves for a sentence; a momentary silence is an innuendo; a -lifting of the eyebrows, a look, a dropping of the voice, a slowness -in his speech—all these take the place of words. He is an exquisite -actor and he is at his best when he is sinister and menacing. One -need scarcely say that the effect of one of Harris’s stories, told in -private, with only one or two listeners, is extremely powerful, for his -personality, so quick to melt and suffuse his speech—colouring it and -vitalising it—is strong and strange and full of tropical richness.... - -But the actor’s gift is not rare, whereas that combination of -talents that makes a great short-story writer is met with only once -or twice in a generation. Harris’s claims to greatness in this -direction cannot justly be denied, though of late years there has -been a noticeable tendency to treat his work as though it were not -of first-rate importance. His choice of subject, the violence of his -thought, his strict honesty of mind, his open contempt for many of his -contemporaries—these have brought him enemies whose only method of -retaliation is to decry work they will not understand. - -But Harris could not be happy without hostility. There is something of -the jaguar in his nature; he must, for his soul’s peace, have his teeth -in the flesh of an enemy. And, if he is not fighting an individual, he -is offending society at large. Years ago, so Harris told me, when he -was editing _The Fortnightly Review_ with such distinction, he printed -one of his own short stories in that magazine—a story that, for one -reason or another, gave great offence to a large section of readers. -Within twenty-four hours he had a hornet’s nest about his ears, and -the directors of the firm, Messrs Chapman & Hall, who published the -_Fortnightly_, met in solemn conclave to discuss what should be done -with so injudicious and reckless an editor. Needless to say, Harris -stood by his guns, and one can imagine the splendidly arrogant way -in which he would uphold his right to insert anything he chose in a -magazine edited by himself. But discussion made matters only more -critical, and Harris told me he would have been compelled to hand in -his resignation if an unforeseen event had not occurred. That event -was the entrance of George Meredith, who, at that time, was a reader -for Messrs Chapman & Hall. As soon as his eyes lit on Harris he held -out his hand, and walked quickly up to him, saying: “My warmest -congratulations! Your story in the new number is quite the finest thing -you have done—an honour to yourself and the _Fortnightly_!” That left -no further room for discussion and, needless to say, Harris retained -his editorship of the great magazine. - -My first meeting with Harris was of the friendliest nature, and on his -return to London he wrote to me thanking me for something I had written -about him in _The Manchester Courier_. (I noticed with amusement that -_The Manchester Guardian_, unable, no doubt, to forgive Harris for -attacking Professor Herford, had absolutely ignored the Shakespeare -lecture, except to announce baldly that it had been given.) - -Very soon after this meeting in Manchester I went to live in London, -and called on Harris in Chancery Lane. He was running a curious -illustrated weekly, entitled _Hearth and Home_, and I remember sitting -in a little back room in his office turning over the files of his -magazine and wondering what on earth he hoped to do with such a -production. It was tame; it was watery; it was feeble. I looked at him -quizzically. - -“What do you think of it?” he asked. - -“Well, don’t you see?...” I began hesitatingly; “don’t you see that ... -well, now, look at the _title_!” - -“Title’s good enough, don’t you think?” - -“Oh yes, good enough ... good enough for Fleetway House. Why not sell -it to Northcliffe? But you’ve got no Aunt Maggie’s column, and no -Beauty Hints, and no Cupid’s Corner! Oh, Harris!” - -He laughed, and invited me out to lunch. - -I never discovered what strange circumstances had conspired to make -him the possessor of this extraordinary production. No doubt he bought -it for nothing, with the intention of rapidly improving it and selling -it for something substantial later on. But I believe it died soon -after—perhaps urged on to its grave by some verses of mine which were -printed close to an advertisement of ladies’ ——. - -On our way out of the office we were joined by a very beautiful lady -who, it soon transpired, shared my admiration for Harris’s genius. We -jumped on to a bus running at full speed and alighted, a couple of -minutes later, at Simpson’s. - -Harris should write a book on cookery. Perhaps he will. Harris should -run a hotel. But he has already done so. Harris should be induced to -print all the indiscreet things he says over coffee and liqueurs.... - -It was a close study of Simpson’s menu that started the cookery -discussion. The Beautiful Lady and I were told what was wrong and what -was right with the menu. And then there began a discourse, profound, -full of strange knowledge and recondite wisdom, a discourse that -Balzac should have heard, that the de Goncourts would have envied. -We listened, amazed. And a waiter, having rushed to our table in the -stress of his work, stood anchored, his mouth slightly open, his whole -attention riveted on the Master from whom no gastronomic secrets were -hid. Truly, Harris was amazing! - -After a considerable time his enthusiasm evaporated and we began to -eat. And then ensued a long talk, full of indiscretions, of most -enjoyable malice. Harris told us many things that, perhaps, it would -have been wiser if he had kept to himself. But, in spite of his venom, -his real hatred of certain individuals, he never for a moment permits -himself to be blinded to the quality of a man’s work. - -“So-and-so is the most detestable person,” he said, speaking of a -well-known writer, “but he is one of the few real poets alive.” Again: -“X is the most generous-hearted man I have ever met; it’s a pity he -can’t learn to write.” - -Mention of Richard Middleton, who had only recently died by his own -hand in Brussels, troubled him, and it was clear that he had not yet -recovered from the shock of this tragedy. - -“He killed himself in a mood of sheer disgust—disgust at his lack of -success. True, he was still young, and was becoming more widely known -month by month; also, he had many friends. Nevertheless, life did not -give him what he asked and, tired of asking, he ended life. I remember -him coming to me just before he left England. He wanted to get away. -Some mood of loathing had come to him; he was fretful, yet determined. -I offered him my villa at Nice; it was empty, the caretaker would -attend to his wants and he would have ample leisure for his work. He -hesitated, stayed in London a day or two longer and then disappeared to -Brussels.... I know the poison he used, and a score of times I have -gone over in my mind the tortures he must have endured.” - -Harris paled; his face twitched and, involuntarily, as it seemed, -his shoulders twisted themselves. Brooding, he was silent for a few -minutes, and then, collecting himself with a little shudder, began to -speak of other things. - -A little later the Beautiful Lady departed and we were left alone. - -“And now,” said Harris, “tell me about yourself. What are you doing? -Why have you left Manchester?—but there is no reason to ask that. Tell -me this—are you making enough money for yourself?” - -“Well, I’ve lived in London just one week,” said I, “and my tastes are -rather expensive. Just before I left Manchester a very experienced -journalist told me I should be making a thousand pounds a year at the -end of eighteen months; another, equally experienced, declared I should -never make more than six pounds a week. I hope the second one won’t -prove correct.” - -He mused for a few moments. - -“You ought to make a thousand pounds a year pretty easily, I should -think,” he said at length. “Whom do you know?” - -I knew nobody, and said so. He thereupon took a piece of paper from his -pocket and wrote a list of names; at the top of the list stood J. L. -Garvin; at the bottom, Lord Northcliffe. - -“Northcliffe’s away,” he said, “buying forests in Newfoundland to -make paper with. However, he’ll be back in a week or two, and in the -meantime I’ll write you a letter to give to him. And now we’ll take a -taxi and see people.” - -Harris gave up the whole of that day to me and, largely owing to him, -I had within the next few days more work offered to me than I could -possibly get through. From time to time, months later, good things -would come my way, and nearly always I could trace them to something -generous and fine that Harris had said of me. - -It was chiefly because he was so generous with his time that I so -rarely called upon him. Often I would curb a strong desire to see him, -feeling that however embarrassing my visit might be, he would, out of a -quixotic kindness, throw up his work and come with me to talk. For this -reason I had not seen him for some little time, when, one morning, I -received a letter from him reproaching me for my absence. “Why have you -hidden yourself for so long?” he asked. “I go to the Café every night; -come, you will find me there.” - -“The Café,” of course, was the Café Royal. It so chanced that, that -very afternoon, my duties took me to a symphony concert in the Queen’s -Hall; the concert over, I found myself passing the Café Royal on my way -from the Queen’s Hall to Piccadilly Circus, and turned in on the remote -chance of finding Harris. - -At the end of the passage, near the windows where French papers are -displayed, I found a crowd of a dozen excited men, all talking and -gesticulating. The rest of the Café was empty, as one would expect at -that time of the day. In the middle of the small crowd was Harris, who -caught my eye almost at once. He came to me, and I saw that he was -rather agitated. - -“Come and sit over here, Cumberland,” he said. “I’ve just been through -a beastly quarter of an hour.” - -It appeared that a well-known and very distinguished _littérateur_ had -quarrelled with him in the Café.... Blows had been exchanged.... - -We talked of money—an ever-absorbing topic both to Harris and to me. He -told me his books had brought him practically nothing. For _The Bomb_, -if I remember correctly, he received fifty pounds—certainly not more -than one hundred pounds. - -“If I had been compelled to live by what my books have brought -me,” he said, “I should have starved. Yet it is not long ago that -Arnold Bennett assured me that I should be able to earn five thousand -pounds a year if I gave my whole time to fiction. But Bennett is -wrong. My books, ever since _Elder Conklin_ was published, have been -enthusiastically praised, but they have not had large sales. Most -authors must find book-writing the most unremunerative work in the -world. I put an enormous amount of labour into _The Bomb_, as I do -into all my books, and the labour was not made any the less from the -fact that much of the earliest part of the book is autobiographical. -In my young manhood I worked as a labourer, deep under water, at the -foundations of Brooklyn Bridge; it is all described in my book.” - -Though I went to the Café Royal at frequent intervals after that I very -rarely saw Harris there. He had abandoned _Hearth and Home_, or it had -abandoned him, and he was now throwing away his brilliant gifts on -_Modern Society_. I was elected an honorary member of the Cabaret Club, -run by Madame Strindberg, the widow of the great Swedish writer, and I -used to look in there occasionally in the early hours of the morning, -expecting to run across Harris, who, I heard, also visited that exotic, -underground and rather riotous place. But I never chanced to see him, -and two or three months must have passed without my hearing of him. - -In March, 1914, I went to Athens for a holiday. Something brave and -wonderful in that city, some ancient Bacchic madness, some fierce -exaltation of soul took hold of me, and I remember sitting down one -night, after a visit to fever-stricken Eleusis, to write to Harris, -feeling the necessity of expressing myself to one who would understand. -The reader may be amused that I should think Harris akin to ancient -Greece, but if the reader is amused he does not know Harris. Only A. R. -Orage is more Greek in spirit than he is. In reply Harris wrote at -great length, full of the fervour of a young student. He told me that -in his young manhood he had spent a year of study in that wonderful -city, and urged me to visit him on my return to England. - -But I was destined not to see him again. Very soon after my return -to England he got into trouble with reference to something libellous -that he had published in _Modern Society_. He was kept in prison, if -I remember rightly, for about a month. I sought permission to visit -him there, but was refused, and I was staying in Oxford when he was -released. - -Soon after the war broke out he wrote me the following letter from -Paris:— - - 23, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, Paris, - _29th Aug. ’14_. - - My dear Cumberland,—I’m just back from the frontier.... This war - of nations is going to test every man as by fire before it’s - over. It will be long in spite of Mr Kipps and Bernard Shaw. The - Russian masses will hardly come decisively into action (they - have scarcely any railways and no good roads) till next May or - June, and long before then, or rather in a couple of months from - now, the French will be pressed back to within twenty miles of - besieged Paris, when I hope the English forces on the flank will - stop the German advance. Then will begin the slow process of - driving the Germans home, which will be quickened by the Russian - weight behind Cossack pricks. Fancy one _man_ having the power to - set 400 millions of men fighting for their lives. And then they - talk of man as a rational animal!! - - Don’t say you like what I wrote in _The Daily Sketch_; all my - best things were carefully cut out and filled up with drivel, - till my cheeks burned. - - Your sketch of me is very kindly; the fault you find in me is not - a fault. Jesus, Shakespeare, Napoleon—all the greatest men have - known their own value and insisted on it—perhaps because they - have all _come to their own and their own received them not_. - When you have done great work you feel it is not yours, but given - to you; you are only a reed shaken in the wind; you can judge - it as if it had nothing to do with you. Moreover, you see that - this failure to recognise greatness is the capital sin of all - time, the sin against the Holy Ghost which He said could never be - forgiven. Modesty is the fig-leaf of mediocrity—don’t let us talk - of it. Remember how Whistler scourged it. - - I’m writing now on _Natural Religion_—my best thing yet: I’ve - done more than Nietzsche: don’t think I’m bragging. I am the - Reconciler; though my cocked nose and keen eyes may make you - think me a combatant. Twenty years hence, Cumberland, if your - eyes keep their promise, you’ll think differently of me. I - remember as a young man getting Wagner to praise himself and - saying to myself that no man was ever so conceited as the little - hawk-faced fellow with the ploughshare chin. Did he not say that - the step from Bach to Beethoven was not so great as that from - Beethoven to Wagner! And yet for these fifteen years past I have - agreed with him and find nothing conceited in the declaration. - Only weak men are hurt by another man’s conceit; are we not gods - also to be spoken of with reverence? - - To see the world in a grain of sand - And Heaven in a wild flower, - To hold Infinity in your hand - And Eternity in an hour. - - The question for you is, have I quickened you? Encouraged you to - be a brave soldier in the Liberation War of Humanity? Did virtue - come out of me? or discouragement? Now at nearly sixty I am about - to rebuild my life: my own people have stoned and imprisoned and - exiled me. Well—the world’s wide. In October I shall be in New - York, ready for another round with Fate. Meanwhile, all luck to - you and all good will from your friend, - - Frank Harris. - - Remember this word of Joubert: there is no such sure sign of - mediocrity as constant moderation in praise. Ha! Ha! Ha! Yours - ever, - F. H. - -There is not in this letter a single word to indicate that he was not, -heart and soul, in sympathy with the Allied Cause. Late in September, -1914, I was myself in Paris, having visited Amiens and the Marne. I -took the earliest opportunity of calling upon Harris, but discovered -that he had left his rooms a few days earlier, leaving no indication -of his next resting-place. On calling upon the American Consul I -discovered that my friend had already sailed for the States. - -Subsequently he wrote bitterly about England in an American paper. I -never had an opportunity of reading his articles, but I read various -extracts from them in British newspapers, and was astounded both by -the views they contained and by the manner in which those views were -expressed. - -Years ago Ruskin wrote Rossetti a curious letter: he said he could -regard no man as friend who did not value his (Ruskin’s) gifts as -highly as he (Ruskin) did. Harris, no doubt, adopted the same kind of -attitude towards England. England refused to accept him at his own -estimate and, at length, in fierce disgust, Harris turned his back on a -country which he deemed unworthy of him. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -MISCELLANEOUS - - Madame Yvette Guilbert—Sir Victor Horsley—Mrs Pankhurst—Jacob - Epstein—Madame Aïno Ackté - - -Yvette Guilbert!... Yvette Guilbert! I suppose that only a writer -who really can write can say anything useful or dignified about this -most wonderful woman.... And yet I must try. Do you remember that -extraordinary breath-catching passage in _Villette_ where Charlotte -Brontë describes the acting of Vashti—Vashti who was Rachel—Vashti who -went to London when Charlotte loved Héger?... That, I always think, -was a great event. Little Currer Bell, with her most modest mind and -her most proud heart, sitting, so breathlessly, on one side of the -footlights, and Rachel walking from the wings, beyond the footlights, -and, like an empress, speaking, thinking like an empress, and, like a -veritable woman, loving and hating.... Do you remember that passage? If -you do, perhaps you will think, as I do, that, after all, only women -can write of women. Did not Jane Austen create Elizabeth Bennet? And -who was it who wrote the _Sonnets from the Portuguese_? And even, after -all, Aphra Behn ... well, _she_ knew something about women, didn’t she? - -So that I feel only a woman can write at all convincingly of Yvette -Guilbert. I must just gossip and prattle a little while. - -I must have heard Yvette Guilbert a score of times. The first occasion -was in the Midland Hall, Manchester, eight or ten years ago, when -she sang to an audience of about two hundred frigid people who, -apparently, knew as much French as I know of the language of the Serbs, -and as much about Art as the pencil with which I write knows about the -thoughts it records. Ernest Newman was there and, that night, wrote -an article for _The Manchester Guardian_ that must have more than -compensated Guilbert for the smallness of the audience. For she loves -praise, even the praise she gives herself, as the following letter -addressed to myself will testify: - - Je reçois votre aimable lettre et votre _admirable article_!! Je - ne peux pas vous dire toute _la joie_ que je ressens en lisant - que vous comprenez _si bien_ mes efforts! Je n’ai jamais _su être - hypocrite_ et j’ai toujours manqué de diplomatie dans la vie à - cause de cela; aussi, je n’hésite pas à vous dire que je _crois_ - sincèrement mériter vos bonnes paroles parce que je passe _ma - vie entière_ à _me dévouer_ à mon art sans jamais de vacances. - Mon amour pour le travail et la Beauté et tout ce qui est _pure_ - en art est tout le “mateur” de mes forces intellectuelles. Merci - d’avoir deviné ce que le public ne voit pas toujours. Mes mains - dans les vôtres. - - Yvette Guilbert. - -Guilbert has no singing voice, and yet she sings. Her singing voice -is small ... ever so small. Yet clear, distinct, expressive and, in -the lowest register, most deep and thrilling. How little mere “voice” -matters! Only consider. Here, on one hand, we have Madame Clara Butt -with, I suppose, one of the most wonderful organs that this world, -or any other world, has ever listened to. But would you walk five -miles to hear her sing? I wouldn’t. You, I hope and believe, wouldn’t -either. Would you walk five miles to hear Blanche Marchesi sing—Blanche -Marchesi, whose voice, as mere voice, is like a hundred other voices? -Of course you would. Voice matters little. It is the temperament, the -intellect, behind the voice that counts. And the eternal struggle -that Yvette Guilbert has had to undergo has been the struggle to make -her comparatively small voice express the wonderful things of her -imagination. - -A gesture. A look. An inflection. Two paces on the platform. A little -cry ... a little cry of dismay. A superb and beautiful signal that -tells us the Mother of God is big with a Child. A tiny silence. A -moment of jauntiness. Something arch and irresistible. Something tragic -that makes you clench your fists.... - -One day Yvette Guilbert wrote to ask me to call on her. I did not go. -One feels so foolish in the presence of genius. One’s vanity is hurt. -One is afraid of being found out. - - * * * * * - -In the early days of the war I visited Sir Victor Horsley several times -at his home. I was interested in shell shock, in the influence that -the horror of war has on certain types of human nature, and he was -good enough to supply me with a great deal of information. Quiet and -undemonstrative, he used always to stand, or move slowly up and down -the room; in the long talks we had together, I do not remember his -sitting down once. - -I don’t think I ever met a man more careful to express his exact -meaning; he appeared to have a horror of exaggeration and he qualified -nearly every statement he made. In discussing scientific subjects such -scrupulous carefulness is, of course, not only wise but necessary, and -when, later on, I wrote a newspaper article on the effect that the -strain and horror of war have on the human brain, Sir Victor showed -himself very anxious that, in quoting his views, I should do so in -language that could not possibly be interpreted in two different senses. - -He told me what my own experience in France and Salonica in 1915–1917 -confirmed later on, that it is frequently the neurotic, the artistic, -the excitable man who most quickly adapts himself to, and is least -disturbed by, the incredible cruelties of warfare, whilst the -phlegmatic type of man is more liable to be broken by those cruelties. -Sir Victor Horsley suggested that this was, in some measure, due to -the fact that the neurotic man has, in imagination, tasted the terror -of war before he has actually experienced it; that he has, as it were, -prepared his mind for the shock it is to receive. The unimaginative man -cannot do this, so that when his turn comes to go to the trenches and -witness stark horrors, his nervous system reacts most violently. - -Sir Victor spoke a good deal to me about the evil influence of drink, -and continually regretted that rum was served out to our soldiers. On -this subject, of course, though I disagreed with him profoundly, I did -not attempt to argue, though I pointed out that Napoleon had won many -of his campaigns by almost drugging his men with spirits. To this he -made no reply, though he shook his head gravely and seemed to ponder -a little. - -My last interview with him was in his long, bare dining-room, where, as -we stood before the fire, he described to me in a low, serious voice -two or three war cases of mental trouble (functional, of course, not -organic), and I could see that the war was, so to speak, closing in -around him and enveloping him with its violent appeals, its tragic -interests. - - * * * * * - -Mrs Pankhurst I met only once, but the impression she has left on my -mind is that of a most vivid personality. I saw her in many ridiculous -situations that would have made almost any other person look positively -foolish; but Mrs Pankhurst’s sense of personal dignity is so strong, -her personality is so imperious, and, above all, she possesses so much -humour and good sense, that it is impossible to imagine any situation, -however grotesque, that would render her ridiculous. - -My interview with her was at the close of a day during which she had -worked incessantly. She was tired, and her face was lined and rather -dim. An hour earlier I had seen her in Oxford Street, Manchester, -seated in an open, horseless carriage, a dozen enthusiastic girls -pulling at the shafts, a few ribald boys following and shouting small -obscenities. I admired the perfect way she carried off the trying -situation. She sat perfectly calmly, as though nothing in the least -unusual were happening, as though, indeed, it were her daily custom, -and the daily custom of all women, to be dragged through the public -streets by a band of young ladies. - -We sat under a lamp at a large table. The things we discussed are now -of no consequence, for the need for their discussion no longer exists. -I can only give my impression of her. - -She struck me as being unutterably weary, weary bodily and perhaps -mentally. Her personality suggested a body and a spirit being driven -by an implacable will, a will that had no mercy for herself or for -others, a will that no power could break. I could not help wondering, -as I looked at her, whether she had not her moments of doubt, of -self-distrust. She must have had, for all men and women have. But those -moments would be few and short. Though she spoke to me very quietly, -without a gesture, with one rather tightly clenched hand on the table, -I felt the sheer _power_ of her, the power that a quenchless spirit -always gives to its owner. - -Fanatic? Well, yes, if to be indifferent to the opinion of other people -and to be absolutely sure of yourself is to be fanatical. Certainly, -she was strange and grim and relentless. And yet one could not doubt -her tenderness, her deep sympathy, her devotion to humanity. Yes, a -strange woman, but perhaps not so very strange. The qualities I saw in -her are common qualities; the difference between her and others was -simply that she possessed those qualities in an unusual degree. - - * * * * * - -Jacob Epstein, after flouting the artistic conventions for at least ten -years, is being taken to the heart of the public. The impossible is -happening, and it is happening because of the war. The war has forced -reality upon us; it has made us love beauty rather than prettiness, -truth rather than make-believe, the soul of things rather than their -appearances. - -Epstein, I think, could never be said to be in revolt against any of -the artistic tendencies of the time. He simply did not follow those -tendencies or permit them to influence him. But three or four years -ago, when I first met him, he had the appearance, the manner, and even -the thoughts of one who is in revolt. - -I remember discussing with him some very curious and, indeed, rather -alarming designs of his which were being exhibited at a little gallery -whose name I have forgotten. The designs were openly and widely -described as “indecent”; to me they were not indecent: they were merely -meaningless. I could see no idea behind them. - -“They are not designs,” said Epstein, a little petulantly, I thought. - -“Then what _are_ they?” I asked. “What do _you_ call them?” - -“I am not aware that I call them anything.” - -“But what do they _mean_?” - -He smiled curiously and (we were sitting in the Café Royal) lit a -cigarette. - -“Ah! That is for you to find out. Surely you don’t expect an artist to -explain himself?” - -Of course he was perfectly right, and I was more than foolish to ask -him these questions. But I flogged at it. - -“Now, your busts! Especially that wonderful head of Augustus John’s -son!—beautiful, marvellous! But those extraordinary red drawings.” - -“I cannot explain them,” said he, “but I would certainly like you to -understand them, for it seems to me that you are not unintelligent.” - -He gave me a quick, sly look, and we began to talk of John. I am afraid -that Epstein must have qualified his opinion of my intelligence, for -he asserted, in contradiction to what I was saying, that John was on -the wrong tack, and we failed to come to any agreement about this most -wonderful of living painters. - -Like most artists, Epstein is pronouncedly inarticulate. He is, I -suppose, as much a mystery to himself as he is to others. But his work -is, of course, a hundred times more interesting than himself. - -I used to see him often, but we rarely did more than acknowledge -each other’s existence, and when I saw him the other week in khaki, -sitting in the Café Royal, it was clear to me that, though he said he -remembered me, he had only a vague recollection of my personality and -had completely forgotten my name. - - * * * * * - -I have often thought it strange that while singers like Madame Patti -and Madame Tetrazzini should conquer the world—and by the world I -mean every section of the musical public, vulgar and fastidious -alike—another and, to my mind, a very much finer artiste, Madame Ackté, -should be regarded with delight only by those whose musical experience -is wide and whose minds have been tutored by comprehensive study. -Personality, after all, is almost everything in Art, and Madame Ackté -has a personality that dwarfs into insignificance nearly all singers -who are her equal in technical attainments and in musical subtlety. - -Her great part is Salomé, in Richard Strauss’s opera of that name. With -the wonderful intuition of a healthy, robust mind she has divined all -the perverted wickedness of that most tortured woman. Her acting is -among the finest things of our day. - -No one could guess, in talking to this quiet, almost demure woman, -that she has in her such fires of passion, such powers of portraying -devastating wickedness. She has charm, graciousness, simplicity. Like -Yvette Guilbert, she has worked hard almost every day of her life. Her -talk is all of music and acting. She seems most unmodern. Her ingenuous -love of praise is delightful, and if you notice the little subtleties -in her singing and acting that most people do not notice, she is your -friend for ever. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -STANLEY HOUGHTON AND HAROLD BRIGHOUSE - - -But perhaps you have forgotten who Stanley Houghton was? Well, not so -long before the Great War he was famous, both in England and America, -as the author of _Hindle Wakes_, he was universally alluded to as -a charming personality, and he promised to become one of the most -prosperous playwrights in England. Then, while still young and not -yet accustomed to his fame, he died in Italy. Thereupon some thousand -newspaper-writers recorded his death and wrote about him some of the -most lamentable nonsense it has ever been my misfortune to read. - -Let me tell you all about it. - -I was introduced to Stanley Houghton in Manchester by Jack Kahane—the -latter a most brilliant and engaging personality who knew everybody: -or, rather, everybody knew him. - -“This,” said Kahane, indicating Houghton, “is one of Miss Horniman’s -pets. She is doing a play of his this week at the Gaiety. Now, let me -see, Stanley, what is the name of your little play?” - -Houghton laughed deprecatingly. - -“Oh, I saw it last night,” said I, “and jolly good it was. But I’ve -seen another play of yours besides _The Younger Generation_; it was -founded on a story by Guy de Maupassant. That, also, was tremendously -amusing.” - -He frowned, and I understood from the way that he looked over my head -that I had displeased him. For a moment he was silent, then: - -“I’ve just been reading some of your verses in _The English Review_,” -said he; “quite nice, quite nice.” - -So then I examined him closely and saw a tall, fair youth, with plenty -of straw-coloured hair, a prominent, rather crooked nose, and a manner -of painful self-consciousness. I believe that, from that moment, we -distrusted each other most heartily. We parted a few minutes later -and I think Houghton must have shared my suspicion and regret that we -should often have to meet after that date. Kahane was and is (though -he has been in France these three years and I in Macedonia) my most -intimate friend, and had lately “taken up” Houghton, and whenever -Kahane did a thing he did it pretty thoroughly. And friends of a friend -are bound to tumble across each other continually. - -Later in the day I protested to Kahane. - -“What on earth has induced you to take up this man Houghton?” I asked. - -“He amuses me,” said Jack. “And, really, you know, one or two of his -little things are quite promising. When he bores me I rag him. And then -he loses his temper. _Il m’amuse_, and that’s all I require from him.” - -Shortly after I was elected a member of a funny little coterie in -Manchester, called the Swan Club. Kahane had founded it. There were -twelve of us altogether: Kahane; Stanley Houghton; Harold Brighouse -(whose play, _Hobson’s Choice_, is making “big money” in London at -the moment of writing); Charles Abercrombie (now a Lt.-Colonel and a -C.B.); Walter Mudie, the best of good fellows; Ernest Marriott, artist; -W. Price-Heywood, accountant and leader-writer; myself and a few -hangers-on of the Arts. We used to meet for lunch at a shabby little -restaurant in Peter Street, Manchester, opposite the Theatre Royal, -and we did our utmost to induce each other to talk about ourselves. - -In this little coterie Houghton was a veritable whale among the -minnows. He was also a fish out of water. From the very first his -success spoiled him. He would take himself ponderously. Brighouse -worshipped success, so he worshipped Houghton. The rest of us, if we -worshipped anything at all, worshipped genius, and as Kahane was the -only one among us who had a touch of that divine quality, we rather -tended to worship him. But Kahane frittered away his gifts; he made a -lot of money by dint of working about an hour a day and by the sheer -force of his personality. For the rest he played and played hard. He -talked; he ragged; he listened to music and saw plays; he fell in love; -he indulged harmless vices; and he wrote two wonderful plays, full of -faults, but streaked with originality, with fire and with colour. In -effect, he could beat both Houghton and Brighouse at their own game, -and they knew it. But, at that time, playwriting with Kahane was only -a game; with the other two it was deadly earnest. - -Houghton and Brighouse were something (and, I gathered, something not -very brilliant) in the city. Quite what that something was I do not -know, though I remember seeking out Brighouse once in a dark warehouse -smelling of damp cloth. Every afternoon Houghton and Brighouse would -close their ledgers, or petty-cash books, or whatever it was they did -close, and rush off home—Brighouse to catch, perhaps, his six-five P.M. -train to Eccles, and Houghton to jump gymnastically (he played hockey, -I believe) on to a passing tram bound for Alexandra Park. After a -hurried meal, out with the MSS., the notebooks, the typescript and to -work! And how hard they _did_ work! - -I remember Brighouse telling me some years ago that he had written more -than thirty plays, but I cannot conceive that anybody but himself has -read them all. Brighouse slogged, and he beat so long at the door of -success that at last it opened to him. Houghton also slogged, but in a -dandified way. He was clever, he was cute, and he played his cards well. - - * * * * * - -Houghton was, not without full justice, called the leader of the -Manchester School of dramatists. He was hard; he was unimaginative; he -was unromantic. But he was extraordinarily apt, and he had a neat and -tidy brain. Close must have been that union of souls that bound his -soul to the soul of Miss Horniman. Miss Horniman never (well, hardly -ever) produced a romantic play, and Stanley Houghton never wrote one. -He was out to “make good,” and Miss Horniman helped him to go one -better. - -I need scarcely say that Houghton was, so far as his plays were -concerned, an industrious man of business. When the real artist has -finished a work, he ceases to take interest in it; but, with Houghton, -when a play was completed his interest in it immediately intensified. -He sent his plays everywhere: to the provinces, to London, to America, -to agents. As soon as a play came back, “returned with thanks,” out it -went again by the next post. And he pulled strings—oh! ever so gently, -but he pulled them. - -Though quite a few of his plays had been produced in the north, -and though he had written some clever dramatic criticism for _The -Manchester Guardian_, he was unknown in London till the Stage Society -produced _Hindle Wakes_. Then Fame came to him and knocked him off -his feet. It is impossible to imagine a man more conscious of his -success. His consciousness of it made him, on occasion, tongue-tied. -In conversation he could be ready, and his repartee was frequently -brilliant, but during the years I knew him his attitude always -suggested that he anticipated and feared attack. I saw him once at -the bar of the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, in the midst of a group -of friends. I was not of their company, but I noticed that he stood -silent, erect and strained, his head a little thrown back, his face -set. Then, and on many other occasions, it seemed to me that he longed -to break down the feeling of awkwardness—to throw off the obsession of -self-consciousness—that overcame him. - -But I must confess that I rarely saw him in company in which there -were not two or three who were hostile to him; therefore I saw him but -seldom at his best. Not infrequently, there was a “dead set” against -him, and if the banter were edged with malice (as it not infrequently -was) he withered like a lily under the grip of a frost. The truth -is, he was not modest and he could not feign modesty. His vanity was -neither charming nor aggressive; it was cold and distant, without -geniality, without humour. Genius is one of the wombs of vanity, but -Houghton had no genius; there was not a trace of magic in him; he was -merely extraordinarily clever, closely observant and possessed of an -instinctive sense of form and of literary values. - - * * * * * - -There came a day when it entered my head to interview him for _The -Manchester Courier_, a paper for which I wrote musical criticism. He -accepted my proposal with alacrity, invited me to the Winter Garden of -the Midland Hotel, and provided me with coffee, liqueurs and cigars. - -He began by telling me that this was the first time he had been -interviewed for the Press. - -“An uncomfortable half-hour awaits you, then,” said I, and, on the -instant, he began to fidget. - -I noticed that he was dressed for the occasion; he looked prosperous -and literary and there hung about him just a suspicion of -cosmopolitanism. Not only sartorially was he prepared; his mind was in -tune to the occasion and the right pose was donned. That is to say, he -was determined not to appear conceited or self-satisfied; but he did -not succeed. He made light of his success in a heavy, emphatic way. He -praised _Hindle Wakes_ with faint damns, and suggested that this play -would soon cease its successful run in London. He was careful not to -evince any pleasure in his success, any natural buoyancy of spirit, -any momentary delight. In a word, he was dull, tactless and insincere. -There was nothing boyish or charming or graceful in his words; he had -on all his heavy armour and it banged and clanged as he moved. - -When the interview was over he invited me to his father’s house for the -evening meal. I went. I went out of curiosity. He did not amuse me, but -most certainly he did interest me. - -When we had finished our meal he took me to his study. Near the window -was a typewriter; in the typewriter was a sheet of paper half covered -with script. There were very few erasures. - -“I always compose straight on to the machine,” said Houghton. - -“Ah yes,” said I, “and so did J. M. Synge. It has always seemed to me -remarkable that Synge should do that; in your own case, of course, it -is not quite so remarkable.” - -“It is a comedy for Cyril Maude” (I think he said Cyril Maude). “He -wired to me the other day to go up to London to see him. Yes; he wanted -a comedy, and he wanted me to write it. That was about a fortnight ago. -Well, the thing’s nearly finished; in another week it will be on its -way to London. Rather quick work, don’t you think?” - -“Quite. But all that you have told me I know already, and, really, you -must know that I know. You see, Brighouse comes to the Swan Club day -by day, drinks his beer—you know, the conventionally British pint he -_will_ have in a pewter mug——” - -“Yes; Harold is very British,” interrupted Houghton. - -“Isn’t he? Well, as I was saying, Brighouse drinks his beer, fixes his -eyes on his plate, and then spasmodically tells us all the news about -you. He told us, for example, about Cyril Maude giving you a hundred -(or was it a thousand?) guineas for the sight of a new comedy; he told -us about _The Daily Mail_ wanting articles from you at some colossal -figure; he told us about the host of people who send you wires every -day; he told us about——” - -Houghton stirred uneasily, but he looked intensely gratified. - -“He told us about everything,” I added, after a slight pause. “What -you tell him he tells us. But why don’t you come and tell us yourself, -Houghton? We never see you at the Swan Club nowadays. It must not be -said of you that you desert old friends, that success has made you -careless of those you once liked.” - -He darted a glance at me and decided, as was indeed the case, that I -was attempting to be ironical. - -“The truth is,” said he, “that the company I find at the Swan Club -is not always very congenial. One or two new men have been lately -introduced——” - -He looked away from me meaningly. - -“Quite,” said I, unperturbed; “oh, quite.” - -“And,” he continued, “I am kept very busy with one thing and another. -It is true that I have given up my business and now intend devoting all -my energy to literary work, but just at the present moment I am kept at -it from dawn to dusk.” - -Silence fell upon us, a rather oppressive silence, I think, for I -remember hunting about in my mind for something to say. I noticed a -copy of _The Playboy of the Western World_ on the little table before -us. - -“Still reading Synge?” I asked. - -“Yes; still reading Synge,” he replied. Then, after a pause: “A great -man, Synge.” - -“An interesting man, a curious man,” said I, “but great? Only G. H. -Mair, Willie Yeats and high school girls think Synge great, Houghton.” - -“Is that so?” asked he languidly. - -I invited him to have a cigarette, but he refused. In truth, we were -both very uncomfortable and, by the subtle understanding and inverted -sympathy that hearty dislike engenders, we rose simultaneously to our -feet, rather hurriedly left the room, and soon found ourselves in the -hall downstairs. He opened the front door and we stood for a moment, -looking around us. - -Next day my interview with Houghton appeared in _The Manchester -Courier_, with a portrait of the young dramatist. I do not remember a -word of that article, but I am quite sure it was insincere, without -distinction, and full of inanities; indeed, I would bet at least ten -drachmæ that there occur in it such expressions as “inherent modesty,” -“charming personality,” “interesting outlook on life,” and so on. A -journalist (must I say it?) is like a barrister: he is fee’d to say -what is required to be said. At all events, the interview pleased -Houghton, for he sent me a copy of _Hindle Wakes_ with a jocular -inscription on its title-page. - - * * * * * - -The friendship between Brighouse and Houghton increased in intensity, -and when Arnold Bennett publicly referred to Brighouse in terms of no -small admiration Houghton decided that his eager disciple could be -received into the inner sanctum of his coldly fraternal breast. And -Brighouse, grateful to Bennett, loudly proclaimed that _Milestones_ was -“the greatest play since Congreve.” - -“But why Congreve, Brighouse?” I asked. “Surely you mean H. J. Byron?” - -But no! He said he meant Congreve. - -“I do not,” I said, considerably perturbed, “I do not like to think, -Brighouse, that you have stained your virgin mind with Congreve.” - -“I’ve looked at him,” said he icily. “He wrote comedies. _Milestones_ -is a comedy.” - -Now, I was used to Brighouse for, from the age of eleven to thirteen I -had been at the same school with him, and I remembered how enormously -sensitive and how self-contained and how stubborn he was. I also -remembered that Rabelaisianism, or Congrevism, or, indeed, any ism that -denoted the real philosophic vulgarity of the human mind, or any jolly -indecent wit, was repellent to him. - -“There are, I suppose, expurgated editions of Congreve, Brighouse. I -imagine you as a collector of expurgated editions.” - -But he buried his nose in his pint of beer and refused further converse. - -Now, such are the influences that one man may have upon another, it -came about that the more successful Houghton became, the harder worked -Brighouse. Said Brighouse to himself, I imagine: “If Stanley can do all -this, why not I?” So he worked desperately, sloggingly, overwhelmingly. -Yet, in spite of all his hard work, he kept a most watchful and jealous -eye on his contemporaries, and I remember meeting him at one of Miss -Horniman’s orgies at the Gaiety Theatre when a new play of Galsworthy’s -was given. It was a beautiful play (Galsworthy has not written many -beautiful plays), but I regret to say I do not remember its name. At -the end of the first act Brighouse was disgustingly “superior,” and -at the end of the second he was contemptuous. So I sought a quarrel -with him. There are, I think, few emotions so devastating, and so -difficult to control, as the anger that surges upon one when one -hears a beautiful work of art, noble, subtle and full of humanity, -treated with contempt by a man whose vanity has blinded the eyes of -his soul. But I do not remember making any attempt to control my anger -at Brighouse; rather did I nurse and nourish it, and, when the proper -time came, I poured it upon him with generosity. Harold—or “Brig,” as -we used to call him—is too much a man of the world not to know how to -deal with an excitable man in a temper, and I remember coming away from -our quarrel feeling rather foolish and having a disturbing admiration -for Brighouse’s dignity. After this little episode, we were always very -polite to each other, and, later on, when we met in London, our meeting -was not without some cordiality. - -Since these days Brighouse has scored a big success with _Hobson’s -Choice_. He will score other successes. He will die reputed and rich. -He will live, some day, in a West End flat and have a cottage in the -country from which he will issue at regular intervals and take long -walks in muddy lanes. I believe he will sedulously cultivate the -friendship of those who may be of service to him, and he will drink his -pint of beer every day of his life. He will be praised twice a year by -Sir William Robertson Nicoll. Yes, he will be praised twice a year by -Sir William Robertson Nicoll. And when Sir William dies, Mr St John -Adcock will take up the cry. And, when the war is over, our successful -young dramatist will go to America, where the money comes from.... I -should like to see Harold in America. - - * * * * * - -There came a day when a new one-act play by Houghton was given at -the Manchester Gaiety—a play I subsequently saw at a London music -hall, its fit home; but I remember neither the play’s title nor its -plot. I recollect, however, that three or four men and women met in -the corridor of a London hotel and talked or suggested risky things. -Rather stupid, I thought it, and it certainly never occurred to me -that it was immoral or nasty; it was merely a dramatic experiment that -did not quite come off. But the dramatic critic of _The Manchester -Guardian_—either Mr A. N. Monkhouse or Mr C. E. Montague (I think -the former)—“went for” it tooth and nail on the score of its alleged -immorality. The criticism was scathing: it made a wound and then poured -acid into the wound. Houghton must have felt the criticism sorely, -but when I met him next day he pluckily treated it as a matter of no -consequence whatever. - -“A reasonable man cannot expect always to be understood,” said he, “and -I suppose _The Manchester Guardian_, which has always been very good to -me in the past, has a right to scold me if it thinks fit.” - -“A _scolding_, Houghton? Why, you were thrashed.” - -“Well, I s’pose I was. But I can stand it.” - -Vain men are invariably supersensitive, and for that reason I think -Houghton felt every word and act of hostility; but he never showed -weakness under opposition, and he could hit back when he thought it -worth while. - -I once witnessed a physical assault upon him after a rather rowdy -dinner, when we all took to ragging each other. There was no excuse -for the assault, except what excuse may be found in bitter feeling -and enmity, but Houghton received the blow without a word, and we who -witnessed it neither expostulated with his assailant nor expressed -sympathy with his victim. Houghton paled and his large eyes gleamed, -and I have no doubt that on a subsequent occasion he settled the matter -with the man who was responsible for his humiliation. - -Only a very few men really understood Houghton, and those were men who, -like Walter Mudie, had known him intimately in boyhood. Mudie swore -by him and would hear no word against him. But there was something -forbidding in Houghton’s nature—a barricade of reserve that he himself -had not wilfully erected, but which had been placed there by Nature. It -was impossible for people who met him casually a few times to form a -high opinion either of his intellect or of his personality. I remember -Captain James E. Agate, a most original and brilliant colleague of -Houghton’s on _The Manchester Guardian_, once saying to a group of -people: “Don’t you make any mistake about Houghton. He’s not such a -fool as he appears.” But it is a very incomplete man who requires such -a double-edged defence as that. - -Though the contrary has often been stated, Houghton did not, I believe, -take much interest in anybody’s work except his own. He patronised a -young bank clerk, Charles Forrest, who had written a promising little -play that was subsequently, by Houghton’s recommendation, I believe, -given in Manchester and Liverpool; but when he came in contact with -work that was, in many respects, superior to his own, he was airily -superior and supercilious. He once asked to see a blank-verse play of -my own that was given at the Manchester Gaiety, but as I was aware -that he knew as much of blank verse as I do of conic sections—which -is nothing at all—I refrained from passing on my MS. to him. In other -men’s work he looked for faults; in his own he found perfection. - - * * * * * - -I need scarcely say that when I went to London I did not seek out -Houghton, who had settled down in the Metropolis some months before me. -But we met in the Strand, he wearing a fur-lined overcoat and looking a -trifle like H. B. Irving, and I carrying a load of review books under -my arm. We looked at each other; we hesitated; we stopped. Stanley -was a trifle languid and, after a few inconsequent remarks, he began -telling me the history of his fur overcoat. He had, he said, bought it -for five pounds or seven pounds, or some such ridiculously low price, -and he had bought it second-hand. - -And (Fate wills these things) whenever I hear the name Stanley Houghton -I think of that rather tall, rather aristocratic, figure in the -Strand wearing its second-hand fur-lined overcoat and talking, with -embarrassment, about nothing in particular, standing first on one foot -and then on the other. - -It is, of course, impossible to predict with certainty what further -successes Houghton would have achieved had he lived, but there can be -little doubt that his sharp and lively talents would have produced -plays even more noticeable than _Hindle Wakes_. A little more -experience of life would probably have shown him the futility and the -destructive effects of his intellectual snobbery. He was raw and crude, -and success did not mellow or enlarge him. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -SOME WRITERS - - Arnold Bennett—G. K. Chesterton—Lascelles Abercrombie—Harold - Monro—John Masefield—Jerome K. Jerome—Sir Owen Seaman—A. A. Milne - - -Of all the famous writers I have met, I have found Arnold Bennett the -most surprising. I do not know what kind of man I expected to see -when it was arranged that I should meet him, but I certainly had not -anticipated beholding the curiously, wrongly dressed figure that, one -spring afternoon some few years ago, walked up the steps leading from -the floor of Queen’s Hall to the foyer of the gallery. I was there by -appointment. I was a friend of a friend of his—Havergal Brian, a young -fire-eating genius from the Potteries, and Brian had planned this -curious meeting. It was during the interval of an afternoon concert of -a Richard Strauss Festival, and Ackté was singing. - -Bennett was rather short, thin, hollow-eyed, prominent-toothed. He wore -a white waistcoat and a billycock hat very much awry, and he had a -manner of complete self-assurance. I cannot say that I was unimpressed. -We were introduced, and he looked at me drowsily, indifferently, -insultingly indifferently. He did not speak and I, nervous, and a -little bewildered by the colour of his socks, which I at that moment -noticed for the first time, blundered into some futility. - -“I don’t see why,” said Bennett, in response. - -I didn’t either, so far as that went. Desperately uncomfortable, I -looked round for Brian, and saw him standing fifteen yards or so away, -grinning malignantly. - -So I plunged into a new topic—with even more disastrous results. - -“I notice,” said I, “that you continue writing for _The New Age_ in -spite of their violent attacks on you.” - -“Yes,” he answered laconically, and he looked dizzily over my left -shoulder. - -Then and there I decided that I would not speak again until he had -spoken. I had not sought the interview any more than he had. Presently: - -“I have been working very hard lately,” I heard. I turned quickly -to him; he had spoken into space. I showed a polite interest and he -thawed a little. He told me something of the number of words and hours -he wrote a day, of the work he had planned for the next two years, -of the regularity of his methods, of his disbelief in the value of -“inspiration.” I seemed to have heard it all before about Anthony -Trollope. He was not exactly loquacious, but he communicated a great -deal in spite of a rather unpleasant impediment in his speech.... - -Soon our interview was over, for we heard the orchestra tuning up, and -we left each other with just a word of farewell and without a sigh of -regret. - -His conversational powers never, I believe, reach the point of -eloquence. I remember G. H. Mair giving me an amusing description -of a breakfast he gave to Arnold Bennett and Stanley Houghton in -his lodgings in Manchester. Bennett and Houghton had not previously -met, and the latter was young and inexperienced enough to nurse the -expectation that the personality of the famous writer would be as -impressive as his work, and impressive in the same way. It is true that -very extraordinary circumstances would be necessary to make breakfast -in Manchester free from dullness, but Houghton no doubt thought that -his meeting with Bennett _was_ an extraordinary circumstance. In the -event, however, he was disillusioned. - -They went in to breakfast, and Bennett sat moody and silent, crumbling -a piece of bread. It chanced that on being admitted to the house -Bennett had caught sight of a cabman carrying a particularly large -trunk downstairs, and he began to question Mair closely about the -incident, Mair explaining that a fellow-lodger was removing that -morning and taking all his luggage with him. - -“Yes, yes,” said Bennett, a little impatiently, “but why should he have -such a large trunk? It was enormous. I don’t think I have ever seen so -large a trunk before. It was at least twice the usual size.” - -He took a mouthful of bacon and spent a minute in mastication. Having -swallowed: - -“Absurdly large,” he said challengingly. “I can’t think why anyone -should wish to own it. Besides, it’s not right to ask any man to carry -such an enormous weight. That’s how strangulated hernia is caused. Yes, -strangulated hernia.” - -The topic did not prove fruitful, and I can imagine Houghton cudgelling -his brains to discover what strangulated hernia really was, and Mair -saying something witty about it. But with his second cup of coffee and -his marmalade and toast Bennett once more talked of the cabman, the -impossible trunk, and the cabman’s hypothetical hernia. - -“Of course,” he remarked meditatively, “the man must have _some_ reason -for owning such an incredibly large trunk, but I confess I can’t guess -the reason. And, in any case, it is bound to be a selfish one. Now, -strangulated hernia——” - -And that was all that issued during a whole hour from one of the -cleverest brains in England. - -That Arnold Bennett is almost painfully conscious of his own -cleverness there is no manner of doubt. He is stupendously aware of -the figure he cuts in contemporary literature. He is for ever standing -outside himself and enjoying the spectacle of his own greatness, and he -whispers ten times a day: “Oh, what a great boy am I!” I was once shown -a series of privately printed booklets written by Bennett—booklets that -he sent to his intimates at Christmas time. They consisted of extracts -from his diary—a diary that, one feels, would never have been written -if the de Goncourts had not lived. One self-conscious extract lingers -in the mind; the spirit of it, though not the words (and perhaps not -the facts) is embodied in the following:—“It is 3 A.M. I have been -working fourteen hours at a stretch. In these fourteen hours I have -written ten thousand words. My book is finished—finished in excitement, -in exaltation. Surely not even Balzac went one better than this!” - -A great writer: no doubt, a very great writer: but you might gaze at -him across a railway carriage for hours at a time and never suspect it. - - * * * * * - -But if Arnold Bennett is the least picturesque and literary of figures, -G. K. Chesterton is the most picturesque and literary. His mere bulk -is impressive. On one occasion I saw him emerge from Shoe Lane, hurry -into the middle of Fleet Street, and abruptly come to a standstill -in the centre of the traffic. He stood there for some time, wrapped -in thought, while buses, taxis and lorries eddied about him in a -whirlpool and while drivers exercised to the full their gentle art of -expostulation. Having come to the end of his meditations he held up his -hand, turned round, cleared a passage through the horses and vehicles -and returned up Shoe Lane. It was just as though he had deliberately -chosen the middle of Fleet Street as the most fruitful place for -thought. Nobody else in London could have done it with his air of -absolute unconsciousness, of absent-mindedness. And not even the most -stalwart policeman, vested with full authority, could have dammed up -London’s stream of traffic more effectively. - -The more one sees of Chesterton the more difficult it is to discover -when he is asleep and when he is awake. He may be talking to you most -vivaciously one moment, and the next he will have disappeared: his body -will be there, of course, but his mind, his soul, the living spirit -within him, will have sunk out of sight. - -One Friday afternoon I went to _The Daily Herald_ office to call on -a friend. As I entered the building a taxi stopped at the door and I -found G. K. C. by my side. - -“I have half-an-hour for my article,” said he, rather breathlessly. -“Wait here till I come back.” - -The first sentence was addressed to himself, the second to the -taxi-driver, but as we were by now in the office the driver heard -nothing. Chesterton called for a back file of _The Daily Herald_, sat -down, lit a cigar and began to read some of his old articles. I watched -him. Presently, he smiled. Then he laughed. Then he leaned back in his -chair and roared. “Good—oh, damned good!” exclaimed he. He turned to -another article and frowned a little, but a third pleased him better. -After a while he pushed the papers from him and sat a while in thought. -“And as in uffish thought he” sat, he wrote his article, rapidly, -calmly, drowsily. Save that his hand moved, he might have been asleep. -Nothing disturbed him—neither the noise of the office nor the faint -throb of his taxi-cab rapidly ticking off twopences in the street -below.... He finished his article and rolled dreamily away. - -His brother Cecil has the same gift of detachment. He can write -anywhere and under any conditions. I have seen him order a mixed grill -at the Gambrinus in Regent Street, begin an article before his food -was served, and continue writing for an hour while the dishes were -placed before him and allowed to go stone cold. Like most men in Fleet -Street who do a tremendous amount of work, he has always plenty of time -for play, and I do not remember ever to have come across him when he -was not ready and willing to spend a half-hour in chat in one of the -thousand and one little caravanserai that lurk so handily in the Strand -and Fleet Street. - - * * * * * - -Of poets of the younger generation I have met only three—Lascelles -Abercrombie, Harold Monro, and John Masefield. Abercrombie I remember -as a lean, spectacled man, who used to come to Manchester occasionally -to hear music and, I think, to converse intellectually with Miss -Horniman. Of music he had a sane and temperate appreciation, but -was too prone to condemn modern work, of which, by the way, he knew -nothing and which by temperament he was incapable of understanding. He -struck me as cold and daring—cold, daring and a little calculating. He -appeared unexpectedly one day at my house, stayed for lunch, talked all -afternoon, and went away in the evening, leaving me a little bewildered -by the things he had refrained from saying. Really, we had nothing -in common. My personality could not touch his genius at any point, -and the things he wished to discuss—the technicalities of his craft, -philosophy, æsthetics and so on—have no interest for me. If I had not -studied his work and admired it whole-heartedly, I should have come -to the conclusion that he had written poetry through sheer cleverness -and brightness of brain. No man was less of a poet in appearance and -conversation. He professed at all times a huge liking for beer, but I -never saw him drink more than a modest pint, and his pose of “muscular -poet” (a school founded and fed by Hilaire Belloc) deceived few. - - * * * * * - -Harold Monro I used to see occasionally in the Café Royal, and I -met him a few times at the Crab Tree Club. I remember going with -him, early one morning in June, 1914, after sitting up all night, to -the Turkish baths in Jermyn Street. We swam a little in a tank and -were then conducted to a cubicle, where I wished to talk, but Monro -was heavy with sleep and soon began to breathe stertorously. A few -days later he received me rather heavily at his office at The Poetry -Bookshop, read some of my verses, and told me quite frankly that he -did not consider me much of a poet. A sound, solid man, Monro, and he -has written at least one poem—_Trees_—as delicate and as beautiful as -anything done in our time. - - * * * * * - -But neither Monro nor Abercrombie, greatly gifted and earnest in their -work though they be, fulfils one’s conception of a poetic personality. -There is no mystery about them, no glamour; they do not arouse wonder -or surprise. John Masefield, on the other hand, has an invincible -picturesqueness—a picturesqueness that stamps him at once as different -from his fellows. He is tall, straight and blue-eyed, with a complexion -as clear as a child’s. His eyes are amazingly shy, almost furtive. His -manner is shy, almost furtive. He speaks to you as though he suspected -you of hostility, as though you had the power to injure him and were -on the point of using that power. You feel his sensitiveness and you -admire the dignity that is at once its outcome and its protection. - -There are many legends about Masefield; he is the kind of figure that -gives rise to legends. And, as he is curiously reticent about his early -life, some of the most extravagant of these legends have persisted and -have, for many people, become true. But the bare facts of his life are -interesting enough. As a young man he grew sick of life, of the kind -of life he was living, and went to sea as a sailor before the mast. He -had neither money nor friends; or, if he had, he relinquished both. -The necessity to earn a living drove him into many adventures, and I -am told that for a time he was pot-boy in a New York drink-den. Here -his work must have been utterly distasteful, but the observing eye and -the impressionable brain of the poet were at work the whole time, and -one can see clearly in some of Masefield’s long narrative poems many -evidences of those bitter New York days. How Masefield came to London -and settled in Bloomsbury, becoming the friend of J. M. Synge, I do not -know. For six months he was in Manchester, editing the column entitled -Miscellany in _The Manchester Guardian_, and writing occasional -theatrical notices. I have been told by several of his colleagues -on that paper that Masefield’s reserve was invulnerable; he quickly -secured the respect of his fellow-workers, but not one of them became -intimate with him. He lived in dingy lodgings, he worked hard and, at -the end of six months, withdrew to London on the plea that he found it -impossible to do literary work at night. - -But if the circumstances of Masefield’s life are little known, his -spiritual history is more than indicated in his work. Here one sees -a stricken soul; a nature wounded and a little poisoned; a nervous -system agitated and apprehensive. His mind is cast in a tragic mould -and his soul takes delight in the contemplation of physical violence. -His personality, as I have said, is furtive. He shrinks. His intimate -friends may have heard him laugh. I have not. - -It must be nearly six years since I visited him at his house in Well -Walk, Hampstead. It was a miserably cold afternoon in February, -and though it was not yet twilight the blinds of the drawing-room -were drawn and the lights already lit. Masefield’s conversation was -intolerably cautious, intolerably shy. In a rather academic way he -deplored the lack of literary critics in England; the art of criticism -was dead; the essay was moribund. He expanded this theme perfunctorily, -walking up and down the room slowly and never looking me in the eyes -once. It was only when, at length, he had sat down—not opposite me, -but with the side of his face towards me—that, very occasionally, his -eyes would seek mine with a rapid dart and turn away instantly, and at -such moments it seemed as though he almost winced. Such shrinking, such -excessive timidity, whilst arousing my curiosity, also made me feel no -little discomfort, and I was glad when a spirit kettle was brought in, -with cups and saucers, and Masefield began to make tea. - -This making of tea, a most solemn business, reminded me of _Cranford_. -The poet walked to a corner of the room, took therefrom a long -narrow box divided into a number of compartments and proceeded, most -delicately, to measure out and mix two or three different kinds of tea. -The teapot was next heated, the blended tea thrown in, and boiling -water immediately poured on it. And then the tea was timed, Masefield -holding his watch in his hand and pouring out the fluid into the cups -at the psychological second.... He ought, I think, to have taken a -little silver key from his waistcoat pocket and locked up the tea-box. -He ought to have taken his knitting from a work-box. He ought to have -asked me if I had yet spoken to the new curate. But he did none of -these things.... - -Though for an hour he continued talking, he said nothing—at least, -he said nothing I have remembered. The extraordinary thing about him -was that, in spite of his timidity, his seeming apprehensiveness, he -left on my mind a deep impression of adventure—not of a man who sought -physical, but spiritual, risks. I think he is a poet who cannot refrain -from exacerbating his own soul, who must at all costs place his mind in -danger and escape only at the last moment. I believe he is intensely -morbid, delighting to brood over dark things, seeing no humour in life, -but full of a baffled chivalry, a nobility thwarted at every turn. - - * * * * * - -A man of a very different type is Jerome K. Jerome, whom I met at the -National Liberal Club and elsewhere in the early days of the war. -Like all humorists, he is an inveterate sentimentalist; his belief -in human nature is as wide-eyed and innocent as that of a child. He -is an untidy, prosperous, middle-aged man—very kindly, but a little -intolerant. His mental attitude is that of a man sitting a little apart -from life, alternately amused and saddened by the things he sees. In -the drawing-room of his flat at Chelsea he seemed a little out of -place; he did not harmonise with his surroundings. But in the Club he -was easy, natural, at home. More than twenty years ago I heard him -lecture in Manchester; the Jerome of to-day is the Jerome of those -far-off years, a little mellower perhaps, a little quieter, a little -more sentimental, but essentially the same in appearance, in manner and -in his attitude towards life. - - * * * * * - -I have met other humorists, but of a type very different from that -represented by Jerome. Sir Owen Seaman I met at a little dinner given -by the Critics’ Circle at Gatti’s to a colleague of ours who was on -the point of leaving for the Front, and who, alas! is now no more. Sir -Owen was made both by nature and training for a squarson—that useful -but fast-dying gentleman who combines the duties and responsibilities -of squire and parson. His personality, rather beefy and John Bullish, -confirms one’s expectations. He made an excellent chairman at this -particular dinner. - - * * * * * - -His very brilliant assistant, A. A. Milne, I once interviewed for a now -defunct Labour paper. I was invited to the office of _Punch_, and met a -tall, slim, yellow-haired and blue-eyed youth, who was so inordinately -shy that, after half-an-hour’s perfunctory conversation, I discovered -that I had not sufficient material for a paragraph, whereas I had -orders to make a column article of the interview. I knew instinctively -that Milne must find, as I do, a good deal in W. S. Gilbert’s writings -that is in deplorable taste, and I did my utmost to induce him to say -something very rude about Sullivan’s collaborator. But he would not -“bite.” He nodded and smiled at, and appeared to agree with, all the -savage things I said of Gilbert, but he would say very little—and -certainly not enough for my purpose—on his own account. I tried other -subjects, but without success; finally, I got up in despair, thanked -him for the time he had given me and prepared to depart. - -“But,” said Milne, eyeing me, a little distrustfully, “I must see a -copy of your article before it is printed.” - -“Why, certainly,” said I, and that evening posted it to him, expecting -to see it back with perhaps one or two minor alterations. - -But when my poor article arrived back (really, I thought it an -excellent piece of work) I could scarcely recognise it, so heavily -was it scored out, so numerous were the alterations. And Milne’s -accompanying letter was scathing. I remember one or two sentences. -“I cannot tell you how thankful I am,” he wrote, “that I insisted on -seeing your article before it was printed. It does not represent my -views in the least; your talent for misrepresentation is remarkably -resourceful.” - -When the article was finally passed for publication at least -seventy-five per cent. of it was from Milne’s pen. He wrote one or two -other stabbing sentences to me, from which it appeared that, however -numerous his virtues may be, he is unable to suffer fools gladly. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -SIR EDWARD ELGAR - - -The weaknesses that seem to be inseparable from genius—and, most -particularly, from artistic genius—are precisely those one would -not expect to discover associated with greatness of mind. It would -appear that few men are so great as their work, or, if they are, their -greatness is spasmodic and evanescent. Works of genius, it is sometimes -stated, are created in moods of exaltation, when the spirit is in -turmoil, when the mind is lit and the nerves are tense. In some cases -it may be so. It was so, I believe, in the case of Wagner, who had -long spells, measured by years, of unproductiveness, when his creative -powers lay fallow; and it was so in the case of Hugo Wolf, Beethoven, -Shelley, Poe, Berlioz and many other men whose names spring to the -mind. But it certainly was not so with Balzac and Dickens, any more -than it is to-day with Arnold Bennett. - -There is in Sir Edward Elgar’s work a strange contradiction: great -depth of understanding combined with a curious fastidiousness of style -that is almost finicking. Many aspects of life appeal to his sympathies -and to his imagination, but an innate and exaggerated delicacy, an -almost feminine shrinking, is noticeable in even his strongest and most -outspoken work.... It is this delicacy, this shrinking, that to the -casual acquaintance is at once his most conspicuous and most teasing -characteristic. - -My first meeting with Elgar was ten years ago, when, being commissioned -to interview him for a monthly musical magazine, I called on him at the -Midland Hotel, Manchester, where he was staying for a night. On my way -to his room I met him in the corridor, where he carefully explained -that he had made it a strict rule never to be interviewed for the Press -and that under no circumstances could that rule be broken. His firm -words were spoken with hesitation, and it was quite obvious to me that -he was feeling more than a trifle nervous. I have little doubt that -this nervousness was due to the fact that in an hour’s time he was to -conduct a concert at the Free Trade Hall. However, he was kind enough -to loiter for some minutes and talk, but he took care, when I left him, -to remind me that nothing of what he had said to me must appear in -print. - -I, of course, obeyed him, but, in place of an interview, I wrote an -impressionistic sketch of the man as I had seen him during my few -minutes’ conversation at the Midland Hotel. Of this impressionistic -sketch I remember nothing except that, in describing his general -bearing and manner, I used the word “aristocratic.” At this word Elgar -rose like a fat trout eager to swallow a floating fly. It confirmed -his own hopes. And I who had perceived this quality so speedily, so -unerringly, and who had proclaimed it to the world, was worthy of -reward. Yes; he would consent to be interviewed. The ban should be -lifted; for once the rule should be broken. A letter came inviting -me to Plas Gwyn, Hereford—a letter written by his wife and full of -charming compliments about my article. - -So to Hereford I went and talked music and chemistry. It was Christmas -week, and within ten minutes of my arrival Lady Elgar was giving me hot -dishes, wine and her views on the political situation. The country was -in the throes of a General Election, and while I ate and drank I heard -how the Empire was, as Dr Kendrick Pyne used to say, “rushing headlong -to the bow-wows.” Lady Elgar did not seem to wish to know to what -particular party (if any) I belonged, but I quickly discovered that to -confess myself a Radical would be to arouse feelings of hostility in -her bosom. Radicals were the Unspeakable People. There was not one, I -gathered, in Hereford. They appeared to infest Lancashire, and some had -been heard of in Wales. Also, there were people called Nonconformists. -Many persons were Radicals, many Nonconformists; but some were both. -The Radicals had won several seats. What was the country coming to? -Where was the country going? - -Where, indeed? I did not allow Lady Elgar’s rather violent political -prejudices to interfere with my appetite, and she appeared to be -perfectly satisfied with an occasional sudden lift of my eyebrows, -and such ejaculations as: “Oh, quite! Quite!” “Most assuredly!” and -“Incredible!” If she thought about me at all—and I am persuaded she did -not—she must have believed me also to be a Tory. After all, had not I -called her husband “aristocratic,” and is that the sort of word used by -a Radical save in contempt? - -After lunch Elgar took me a quick walk along the river-bank. For the -first half-hour I found him rather reserved and non-committal, and I -soon recognised that if I were to succeed in obtaining his views on -any matter of interest I must rigidly abstain from direct questions. -But when he did commit himself to any opinion, he did so in the -manner of one who is sure of his own ground and cannot consider, even -temporarily, any change in the attitude he has already assumed. - -I found his views on musical critics amusing, but before proceeding to -set them down I must make some reference to his relations with Ernest -Newman. Newman, it is generally agreed, is unquestionably the most -brilliant, the fairest-minded and the most courageous writer on music -in England. His power is very great, and he has done more to educate -public opinion on musical matters in England than any other man. For -some little period previous to the time of which I am writing he and -Elgar had been close friends, and their friendship was all the stronger -because it rested on the attraction of opposites. Elgar was an ardent -Catholic, a Conservative; Newman was an uncompromising free-thinker and -a Radical. Elgar was a pet of society, a man careful and even snobbish -in his choice of his friends, whilst Newman cared nothing for society -and would be friendly with any man who interested or amused him. - -Up to the time Elgar composed _The Apostles_ he had no more -whole-hearted admirer than Newman, but this work was to sever their -friendship and, for a time, to bring bitterness where before there -had been esteem and even affection. Newman was invited by a New York -paper—I think _The Musical Courier_—to write at considerable length -on _The Apostles_. As his opinion of this work was, on the whole, -unfavourable, he may possibly have hesitated to consider an invitation -the acceptance of which would lead to his giving pain to a friend. But -probably Newman thought, as most inflexibly honest men would think, -that, on a matter of public concern, silence would be cowardly. In the -event, he wrote his article and sent it to America, also forwarding -a copy to Elgar himself, telling him that, though it went against -his feelings of friendship to condemn the work, he thought it a -matter of duty to speak what was in his mind. That letter and that -article severed their friendship, and the severance lasted for some -considerable time. - -My visit to Elgar took place during his estrangement from Newman, and -when I mentioned the subject of musical criticism to him it was, I -imagine, with the hope that the name of the famous critic would crop -up. It did. - -“The worst of musical criticism in this country,” said Elgar, “is that -there is so much of it and so little that is serviceable. Most of those -who are skilled musicians either have not the gift of criticism or -they cannot express their ideas in writing, and most of those who can -write are deplorably deficient in their knowledge of music. For myself -I never read criticism of my own work; it simply does not interest me. -When I have composed or published a work, my interest in it wanes and -dies; it belongs to the public. What the professional critics think of -it does not concern me in the least.” - -Though I knew that Elgar had on previous occasions given expression to -similar views, his statement amazed me. So I pressed him a little. - -“But suppose,” I urged, “a new work of yours were so universally -condemned by the critics that performances of it ceased to take place. -Would you not then read their criticisms in order to discover if there -was not some truth in their statements?” - -“It is possible, but I do not think I should. But your supposition is -an inconceivable one: there is never universal agreement among musical -critics. I think you will notice that many of them are, from the -æsthetic point of view, absolutely devoid of principle; I mean, they -are victims of their own temperaments. They, as the schoolgirl says, -‘know what they like.’ The music they condemn is either the music that -does not appeal to their particular kind of nervous system or it is -the music they do not understand. They have no standard, no norm, no -historical sense, no——” - -He stammered a little and waved a vague arm in the air. - -“There are exceptions, of course,” I ventured. “Newman, for example.” - -“No; Ernest Newman is not altogether an exception. He is an unbeliever, -and therefore cannot understand religious music—music that is at once -reverential, mystical and devout.” - -“‘Devout’?” whispered I to myself. Aloud I said: - -“A man’s reason, I think, may reject a religion, though his emotional -nature may be susceptible to its slightest appeal. Besides, Newman has -a most profound admiration for your _The Dream of Gerontius_.” - -Elgar was silent for a few minutes. Then, with an air of detachment and -with great inconsequence, he said: - -“Baughan, of _The Daily News_, cannot hum a melody correctly in tune. -He looks at music from the point of view of a man of letters. So does -Newman, fine musician though he is. Newman advocates programme music. -Now, I do not say that programme music should not be written, for I -have composed programme music myself. But I do maintain that it is a -lower form of art than absolute music. Newman, I believe, refuses to -acknowledge that either kind is necessarily higher or lower than the -other. He has, as I have said, the literary man’s point of view about -music. So have many musical critics.” - -“And so,” I interpolated, “if one has to accept what you say as -correct, have many composers, and composers also who are not -specifically literary. And, after what you have said, I find that -strange. Take the case of Richard Strauss, all of whose later symphonic -poems have a programme, a literary basis. Do you, for that reason, -declare that Strauss regards music from the literary man’s point of -view—Strauss who, of all living musicians, is the greatest?” - -He paused for a few moments, and it seemed to me that our pace -quickened as we left the bank of the river and made for a pathway -across a meadow. But he would not take up the argument; stammering a -little, he said: - -“Richard Strauss is a very great man—a fine fellow.” - -But as that was not the point under discussion, I felt that either his -mind was wandering or that he could think of no reply to my objection. - -A little later, on our way home, we discussed the younger generation of -composers, and I found him very appreciative of the work done by his -juniors. He particularly mentioned Havergal Brian, a composer who has -more than justified what Elgar prophesied of him, though perhaps not in -the manner Elgar anticipated. - -Apropos of something or other, Elgar said, I think quite needlessly and -a little vainly: - -“You must not, as many people appear to do, imagine that I am a -musician and nothing else. I am many things; I find time for many -things. Do not picture me always bending over manuscript paper and -writing down notes; months pass at frequent intervals when I write -nothing at all. At present I am making a study of chemistry.” - -I think I was expected to look surprised, or to give vent to an -exclamation of surprise, but I did neither, for I also had made a study -of chemistry, and it seemed to me the kind of work that any man of -inquiring mind might take up. I did not for one moment imagine that I -was living in the first half of the nineteenth century when practically -all British musicians were musicians and nothing else and not always -even musicians. - -When we had returned to the house we sat before a large fire and, -under the soothing influence of warmth and semi-darkness, stopped all -argument. In the evening Lady Elgar accompanied me to the station, and -all the way from Hereford to Manchester I turned over in my mind the -strange problem that was presented to me by the fact that, though I was -a passionate, almost fanatical lover of Elgar’s music, the creator of -that music attracted me not at all. I saw in his mind a daintiness that -was irritating, a refinement that was distressingly self-conscious. - -Some years later Sir Edward Elgar moved to London, and when I saw him -in his new home he tried to prove to me that living in London was -cheaper than living in the country. - -His attitude towards me on this occasion was peculiarly strange. I -represented a Labour paper, but Elgar did not know that I was at the -same time writing leading articles for a London Conservative daily. -He treated me with the most careful kindness, a kindness so careful, -indeed, that it might be called patronising. It soon became quite clear -to me that he imagined I myself came from the labouring classes, but -I cannot boast that honour, and as he, the aristocrat, was in contact -with me, the plebeian, it was his manifest duty and his undoubted -pleasure to help me along the upward path. I was advised to read -Shakespeare. - -“Shakespeare,” said he, “frees the mind. You, as a journalist, will -find him useful in so far as a close study of his works will purify -your style and enlarge your vocabulary.” - -“Which of the plays would you advise me to read?” asked I, with -simulated innocence and playing up to him with eyes and voice. - -The astounding man considered a minute and then mentioned half-a-dozen -plays, the titles of which I carefully wrote down in my pocket-book. - -“And Ruskin,” he added as an afterthought. “Oh, yes, and Cardinal -Newman. Newman’s style is perhaps the purest style of any man who wrote -in the nineteenth century.” - -“I do not think so,” said I, thoroughly roused and forgetting to play -my part. “The _Apologia_ is slipshod. My own style, faulty though it -may be, is more correct, more lucid, even more distinguished than -Cardinal Newman’s.” - -He turned away, either angry or amused. - -“It is true,” said I, with warmth. “Anyone who has tried for years, -as I have done, to master the art of writing, and who examines the -_Apologia_ carefully will perceive at once that it is shamefully -badly written. For two generations it has been the fashion to praise -Newman’s style, but those who have done so have never read him in a -critical spirit. I would infinitely prefer to have written a racy book -like—well, like _Moll Flanders_, where the English is beautifully clean -and strong, than the sloppy _Apologia_.” - -“_Moll Flanders_,” he said questioningly; “_Moll Flanders_? I do not -know the book.” - -“It is all about a whore,” said I brutally, “written by one Defoe.” - -And that, of course, put an end to our conversation. I rose to leave. - -The impression left on my mind by my two visits to Elgar is definite -enough, but I am willing to believe that it does not represent the -man as he truly is. He is abnormally sensitive, abnormally observant, -abnormally intuitive. Like almost all men, he is open to flattery, -but the flattery must be applied by means of hints, praise half -veiled, innuendo. If you gush he will freeze; if you praise directly, -he will wince. His mind is essentially narrow, for he shrinks from -the phenomena in life that hurt him and he will not force himself to -understand alien things. His intellect is continually rejecting the -very matters that, in order to gain largeness, tolerance and a full -view of life, it should understand and accept. Yet, within its narrow -confines, his brain functions most rapidly and with a clear light. - -I have been told by members of the various orchestras he has conducted -that when interpreting a work like _The Dream of Gerontius_ his face is -wet with tears. - -He has a proper sense of his own dignity, and it is doubtful if he -exaggerates the importance of his own powers. Many years ago, as I -have related, I employed the word “aristocrat” in describing him, and -to-day I feel that that word must stand. He has all the strength of the -aristocrat and many of the aristocrat’s weaknesses. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -INTELLECTUAL FREAKS - - -In the most tragic and most trying moments of life it is well to turn -aside from one’s sorrows and refresh one’s mind and strengthen one’s -soul by gazing upon the follies of others. Those others gaze on ours. - -In my spiritual adventures I have met many amazingly freakish people. -Ten years ago the Theosophical Society overflowed with them. They were -cultured without being educated, credulous but without faith, bookish -but without learning, argumentative but without logic. The women, -serene and grave, swam about in drawing-rooms, or they would stand -in long, attitudinising ecstasies, their skimpy necks emerging from -strange gowns, their bodies as shoulderless as hock bottles. The men -paddled about in the same rooms, but I found them less amusing than the -women. - -“You were a horse in your last incarnation,” said a fuzzy-haired -giantess to me one evening, two minutes after we had been introduced. - -“Oh, how disappointing!” I exclaimed. “I had always imagined myself -an owl. I often dream I was an owl. I fly about, you know, or sit on -branches with my eyes shut.” - -“No; a horse!” shouted the giantess, with much asperity. “I’m not -arguing with you. I’m merely telling you. And I don’t think you were a -very nice horse either.” - -“No? Did I bite people?” - -“Yes; you bit and kicked. And you did other disagreeable things -besides. Now, _I_ was a swan.” - -I evinced a polite but not enthusiastic interest. - -“You would make an imposing swan,” I observed. - -“Yes. I used to glide about on ponds, like this.” - -She proceeded to “glide” round and round the corner of the room in -which we were sitting. She arched her neck, raised her ponderous legs -laboriously and moved about like a pantechnicon. Her face assumed a -disagreeable expression and I thought of a rather good line in one of -my own poems: - - And swans sulked largely on the yellow mere. - -“And how much of your previous incarnation do you remember?” I asked, -when she had finished sulking largely in the yellow drawing-room. - -“Oh, quite a lot. It comes back to me in flashes. I was very lonely—oh, -_so_ lonely.” - -She gave me a quick look, and I began to talk of William J. Locke, who, -a few days previously, had published a new book. Resenting my change -of subject, she left me and, a few minutes later, as I was eating a -watercress sandwich, I heard her saying to a yellow-haired male: - -“You were a horse in your last incarnation.” - -I met this lady on other occasions, and always she was occupied in -telling men that they had been horses and she a swan—an oh-so-lonely -swan. - -“Why,” said I to my hostess one day, “don’t Madame X.’s friends look -after her? See—she is arching her neck over there in the corner, and I -am perfectly certain she has told the man with her that he has been, -is, or is going to be a horse.” - -For a moment my hostess looked concerned. - -“Look after her? What do you mean?” - -“Well, she is obviously insane.” - -“On the contrary, she is the most subtle exponent we have of Madame -Blavatsky’s _Secret Doctrine_. Eccentric, perhaps, but as lucid a -brain as Mr G. R. S. Mead’s or as Colonel Olcott’s. You should get her -to describe your aura. She is excellent, too, in Plato. She doesn’t -understand a word of Greek, but she gets at his meaning intuitively. -There is something cosmic about her. _You_ know what I mean.” - -“Oh, quite, quite.” (But what _did_ she mean?) - -“Cosmic consciousness is a most enthralling subject,” continued my -hostess, digging the hockey-stick she always carried with her well into -the hearthrug. “Walt Whitman had it, you know.” - -“Badly?” I inquired. - -She appeared puzzled. - -“I don’t quite know what you mean by ‘badly.’ He could identify himself -with anything—the wind, a stone, a jelly-fish, an arm-chair, a ... -a ... oh, everything! They were he and he was they. He _thought_ -cosmically. Fourth dimension, you know. Edward Carpenter and all that.” - -I rather admired this way she had of talking—a little like the Duke in -G. K. Chesterton’s _Magic_. - -“Oh, do go on!” I urged her. - -“What I always say is,” she continued, “why stop at a fourth dimension? -Someone has written a book on the fourth dimension, and some day -perhaps I shall write one on the fifth.” - -“A book? A real book? Do you mean to say you could write a book? How -clever! How romantic!” - -“Well, I have thought about it. One is influenced. One has influences. -The consciousness of the ultimate truth of things, the truth that -suffuses all things, the cosmic nature of—well, the cosmos. Do you see? -Tennyson’s _In Memoriam_.” - -“Yes; Tennyson’s _In Memoriam_ does help, doesn’t it?” - -“Did I say Tennyson’s _In Memoriam_? I really meant Shelley’s _Revolt -of Islam_. The fourth dimension is played out. It’s done with. It was -true so far as it went, but how far did it go?” - -“Only a very little way,” I answered. - -“Yes, but Nietzsche goes much farther. Have you read Nietzsche? No? -I haven’t, either. But I have heard Orage talk about him. Nietzsche -says we can all do what we want. We must dare things. We must be blond -beasts. Mary Wollstonecraft and her set, you know. Godwin and those -people.” - -She waved her hockey-stick recklessly in the air and marched -inconsequently away. Nearly all the Theosophists I met were like -that—inconsequent, bent on writing books they never did write, talkers -of divine flapdoodle, inanely clever, cleverly inane. Dear freaks I -used to meet in days gone by!—where are you now?—where are you now? - - * * * * * - -A freak who ultimately lost all reason and was confined in a private -asylum used to sit at the same desk that I did when, many years ago, -I was a shipping clerk in Manchester. This man, whose name was not, -but should have been, Bundle, had considerable private means, but -some obscure need of his nature drove him to discipline himself by -working eight hours a day for three pounds a week. The three pounds -was nothing to him, but the eight hours a day meant everything. He was -a conscientious worker, but I think I have already indicated that his -intelligence was not robust. He had no delusion; he merely possessed a -misdirected sense of duty. - -One day he left us, and a few months later I met him in Market Street. -He looked prosperous, smart and intensely happy. - -“Are you busy?” he asked. “No? Well, come with me.” - -He slipped his arm in mine, led me into Mosley Street, and stopped in -front of the large, dismal office of the Calico Printers’ Association. - -“That,” said he, “is mine. Now, come into Albert Square.” - -When we had arrived there he pointed to the Town Hall. - -“That also is mine. The Lord Mayor gave it to me with a golden key. -Here is the golden key.” - -Producing an ordinary latchkey from his pocket, he carefully held it in -the palm of his hand for my inspection. - -“It is,” he announced, “studded with diamonds. But you can’t see the -diamonds. Crafty Lord Mayor! You don’t catch him napping. He’s hidden -them deep in the gold....” - -I enjoyed this poor fellow’s company more than I did that of a very old -woman to whom I was introduced in a pauper asylum. She was sitting on a -low stool and, pointing at her head with her skinny forefinger, “It’s -pot! It’s pot!” she said. - -But even she provided me with more exhilaration than do the tens (or -perhaps hundreds) of thousands of real freaks who, I imagine, inhabit -every part of the globe. I allude to the vast throng of people who -arise at eight or thereabouts, go to the City every morning, work all -day and return home at dusk; who perform this routine every day, and -every day of every year; who do it all their lives; who do it without -resentment, without anger, without even a momentary impulse to break -away from their surroundings. Such people amaze and stagger one. To -them life is not an adventure; indeed, I don’t know what they consider -it. They marry and, in their tepid, uxorious way, love. But love to -them is not a mystery, or an adventure, and its consummation is not a -sacrament. They do not travel; they do not want to travel. They do not -even hate anybody. - -All these people are freaks of the wildest description; yet they -imagine themselves to be the backbone of the Empire. Perhaps they -are. Perhaps every nation requires a torpid mass of people to act as a -steadying influence. - -In the suburbs of Manchester these people abound. I know a man still -in his twenties who keeps hens for what he calls “a hobby.” Among his -hens he finds all the excitement his soul needs. The sheds in which -they live form the boundaries of his imagination. I should esteem this -man if he kicked against his destiny; but he loved it, until the Army -conscripted him. God save the world from those who keep hens! - -I know a man who has been to Douglas eighteen times in succession -for his fortnight’s holiday in the summer. Douglas is his heaven; -Manchester and Douglas are his universe. No place so beautiful as -Douglas; no place so familiar; no place so satisfying. After all, -Douglas is always Douglas. Moreover, Douglas is always miraculously -“there.” God save the world from men who go to Douglas eighteen times! - -I know a man who hates his wife and still lives with her. He is -respectable, soulless, saving, a punctual and regular churchgoer, a -hard bargain-driver. He walks with his eyes on the ground. He has -always lived in the same suburb. He will always live in the same -suburb. God save the world from men who always live in the same suburb! - -I know a man ... - -But this is getting very monotonous. Besides, why should I -particularise any more freaks when all of them, perhaps, are as -familiar to you as they are to me? - - * * * * * - -Then there is the literary freak; not the _poseur_, not the man who -wishes to be thought “cultured” and intellectual, but the scholarly man -who, during an industrious life, has amassed a vast amount of literary -knowledge, but whose appreciation of literature is lukewarm and without -zest. Very, very rarely is the great writer a scholar. Dr Johnson was -a scholar, but, divine and adorable creature though he was, he was not -a great writer. None of the great Victorians had true scholarship, and -very few even of the Elizabethans. And to-day? Well, one may consider -Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw, Arnold Bennett -and G. K. Chesterton as great writers; if you do not concede me all -these names, you must either deny that we have any great writers at all -(which is absurd) or produce me the names of six who are greater than -those I have named (and the latter you cannot do). Have any of these -anything approaching scholarship? - -And yet in our universities are scores of men who are regarded as -possessing greater literary gifts than those who actually produce -literature. These learned, owlish creatures pose pontifically. Whenever -a new book comes out they read an old one! The present generation, they -say, is without genius. But they have always said it. They said it -when Dickens, Thackeray and Charlotte Brontë were writing. I have no -doubt they said it in Shakespeare’s time. The present generation teems -with genius, but our “scholarly” mandarins know it not. How barren is -that knowledge which lies heavy in a man’s mind and does not fertilise -there. When one considers the matter, how essentially dull and stupid -and brainless is the man devoid of ideas! - -One of these bald-pated freaks is well known to me. He moves heavily -about in a quadrangle. He delivers lectures. He has written books. He -passes judgment. He annotates. He writes an occasional review. Funny -little freak! Great little freak, who knows so much and understands -so little.... When England wakes (and I do not believe that even yet, -after nearly four years of war, England is really awake) such men will -pass through life unregarded and neglected; they will sit at home in a -back room, and their relatives and friends will love and pity them, -as one loves and pities a poor fellow whose temperament has made him a -wastrel, or as one pities a man who has to be nursed. - - * * * * * - - =People of the Play:= _A handful of literary freaks_. - - =Scene:= _A drawing-room in Tooting, or Acton, or Highgate, or - Ealing, or any funny old place where the middle classes live_. - - =Time:= 8 P.M. _on (generally) Thursday_. - - Mrs ARNOLD. Now that Miss Vera Potting, M.A., has finished - reading her most interesting paper on Mr John Masefield, the - subject is open for discussion. Perhaps you, Mr Mather-Johnstone, - will give us a few thoughts—yes, a few thoughts. (_She smiles - wanly and gazes round the room._) A _most_ interesting paper _I_ - call it. - - Rev. MATHER-JOHNSTONE, M.A. Miss Potting’s most interesting paper - is—well, most interesting. I must confess I have read nothing - of—er—Mr Masefield’s. I prefer the older poets—Cowper, Bowles’ - Sonnets, and the beautifully named Felicia Hemans. Fe-lic-i-a! - To what sweet thoughts does not that name give rise! But it has - been a revelation to me to learn that a popular poet (and Miss - Potting has assured us that Mr Masefield _is_ popular) should so - freely indulge in language that, to say the least, is violent, - and I am glad to say that such language is not to be found in the - improving stanzas of Eliza Cook. - - Mr S. WANLEY. I have read some verses of Mr Masefield’s in a - very—well—advanced paper called, if my memory does not deceive - me, _The English Review_. I did not like those verses. I did - not approve of them. They were bathed in an atmosphere of - discontent—modern discontent. Now, what have people to be - discontented about? Nothing; nothing at all, if they live - rightly. (_He stops, having nothing further to say. For the same - reason, he proceeds._) Nevertheless, I thank Miss Potting, M.A., - very much for her most interesting paper. There is one question - I should like to ask her: is this Mr Masefield read by the right - people? - - Miss VERA POTTING, M.A. Oh no! Oh dear, no! Most certainly not! - Still, it is incontestable that he _is_ read. - - Mr S. WANLEY. Thank you so much. I felt that he could not be read - by the right people. - - Miss GRACELEY (_rather nervously_). I feel that I can say I know - my Lord Lytton, my Edna Lyall, my Charlotte M. Yonge and my - Tennyson. I have always remained content with them, and after - what Miss Vera Potting, M.A., has said about Mr Masefield in her - most interesting paper, I shall _remain_ content with them. - - Mr S. WANLEY. Hear, hear. I always seem to agree with you, Miss - Graceley. - - Mrs ARNOLD (_archly_). What is the saying?—great minds always - jump alike? - - Rev. MATHER-JOHNSTONE (_sotto voce_). _Jump?_ - - Mr PORTEOUS (_with most distinguished amiability_). I really - think that this most interesting paper that Miss Vera - Potting, M.A., has read to us should be published. It is - so—well, so improving, so elevating, so—— - - Miss VERA POTTING, M.A. (_who has already fruitlessly sent the - essay to every magazine in the country_). Oh, Mr Porteous! How - can you? Really, I couldn’t think of such a thing. - - Rev. MATHER-JOHNSTONE, M.A. (_who, being not altogether free - from jealousy, thinks this is really going a bit too far_). - But perhaps we do not all quite approve of women writers—I mean - ladies who write for the wide, rough public. - - Mrs ARNOLD. True! True!... But then, what about Felicia Hemans? - - Rev. MATHER-JOHNSTONE, M.A. Mrs Hemans was Mrs Hemans. Miss Vera - Potting, M.A., is, and I hope will always remain, Miss Vera - Potting, M.A. - - Mr PORTEOUS. Oh, don’t say that! What I mean is—— - - (_This sort of thing goes on for an hour when, very secretly - and as though she were on some nefarious errand, Mrs ARNOLD - disappears from the room. She presently reappears with a maid, - who carries a tray of coffee and sandwiches. The dreadful - Mr Masefield is then forgotten._] - -You think the above sketch is exaggerated? Ah! well, perhaps you have -never lived in Highgate, or in the suburbs of Manchester, Birmingham, -Sheffield or Leeds. I could set down some appalling conversations that -I have heard in suburban “literary” circles. There is a place called -Eccles, where, one evening—— - - * * * * * - -In London Bohemia there are many freakish people, but, for the most -part, they are altogether charming and refreshing. Quite a number of -them have what I am told is, in the Police Courts, termed “no visible -means of subsistence,” but they appear to “carry on” with imperturbable -good humour and borrow money cheerfully and as frequently as their -circle of acquaintances (which is usually very large) will permit. - -Frequenters of the Café Royal in pre-war days will recognise the -following types:— - -Picture to yourself a Polish Jew, young, yellow-skinned, black-haired; -he has luminous eyes, sensuous lips and damp hands, and he dresses -well, but in an extravagant style. He is a megalomaniac, and he has -all the megalomaniac’s consuming anxiety to discover precisely in what -way other people react to his personality. One night my bitterest enemy -brought him to the table at which I was sitting, introduced us to each -other, and walked away. - -“I am told you are a journalist,” my new acquaintance began. “I myself -write poems. I have a theory about poetry, and my theory is this: All -poetry should be subjective.” - -“Why?” - -“Never mind why. I am telling you about my theory. All poetry should be -subjective; as a matter of fact, all the best poetry is. To myself I am -the most interesting phenomenon in the world. To yourself, you are. Is -it not so?” - -“Yes; you have guessed right first time.” - -“Well, I have in this dispatch case eight hundred and seventy-three -poems about myself, telling the world almost all there is to know about -the most interesting phenomenon it contains.” - -He took from his case a great pile of MS. and turned the leaves over in -his hands. - -“Here,” said he, “is a blank-verse poem entitled _How I felt at -8.45 A.M. on June 8, 1909, having partaken of Breakfast_. Would you -like to read it?” - -I assured him I should, though I fully expected it would contain -unmistakable signs of mental disturbance. But it did not. It was -quite respectably written verse, much better than at least half -of Wordsworth’s; it was logical, it had ideas, it showed some -introspective power, and it revealed a mind above the ordinary. - -I told him all this. - -“Then you don’t think I’m a genius? Some people do.” - -“You see, I’m not a very good judge of men—particularly men of genius. -You may be a genius; on the other hand, you may not.” - -“But what exactly do you think of me?” - -“I have already told you.” - -“Yes, but not with sufficient particularity. Now, put away from you all -feeling of nervousness and try to imagine that I have just left you and -that a friend of yours has come in and taken my place. You are alone -together. You would, of course, immediately tell him that you had met -me. You would say: ‘He is a very strange man, eccentric....’ and so on. -You would describe my appearance, my personality, my verses. You, being -a writer, would analyse me to shreds. Now, that is what I want you to -do now. I want you to say all the bad things with the good. And I shall -listen, greedily.” - -“But, really!” I protested. “Really, I can’t do what you ask.” - -Disappointed and vexed, he sat biting his underlip. - -“All right,” he said at length, “we’ll strike a bargain. After you have -analysed me I, in return, will analyse you.” - -“You have quite the most unhealthy mind with which I have ever come in -contact.” - -“You really believe that?” he asked, delighted. “Do go on.” - -“Oh, but I’m sorry I began. This kind of thing is dangerous.” - -“Yes, I know. But I like danger—mental danger especially.” - -“But drink would be better for you. Even drugs. You are asking me to -help to throw you off your mental balance.” - -“I know. I know. But you won’t refuse?” - -“To show you that I will I am leaving you now in this café. I am going. -Good-night.” - -But he met me many times after that, and always pursued me with -ardour. In the end he gained his desire and, having done so, had no -further use for me. - -I call him The Man Who Collects Opinions of Himself. He is still in -London. And he is not yet insane. - -Then there was the lady—since, alas! dead—who used always to appear -in public in a kind of purple shroud, her face and fingers chalked. -She rather stupidly called herself Cheerio Death, and was one of the -jolliest girls I have ever met. She longed and ached for notoriety and -for new sensations: she feasted on them and they nourished and fattened -her. Only very brave or reckless men dared be seen with her in public, -for, though her behaviour was scrupulously correct, her appearance -created either veiled ridicule or consternation wherever she went. Yet -she never lacked companions. - -“Hullo, Gerald!” she used to say to me; “sit down near me. You are so -nice and chubby. I like to have you near me. How am I looking?” - -“More beautiful than ever.” - -“Oh, you _are_ sweet. Isn’t he sweet, Frank?” she would say to one of -her companions. “Order him some champagne. I’m thirsty.” - -And, really, Cheerio Death was very beautiful in a ghastly and terrible -way. By degrees, all the reputable restaurants were closed to her, -and in the late autumn of 1913 she disappeared, to die of consumption -in Soho. Poor girl! Perhaps in Paris, where they love the _outré_ and -the shocking, she would have secured the full, hectic success that in -London was denied her. - - * * * * * - -Are freaks always conscious of their freakishness? I do not think -they are. Not even the man who wilfully cultivates his oddities until -they have become swollen excrescences hanging bulbous-like on his -personality is aware how vastly different, how unreasonably different -he is from his fellows. He is more than reconciled to himself; he -loves himself; he is what other people would be if only they could. -Vanity continually lulls and soothes and rots him. The nature that -craves to be noticed will go to almost any lengths to secure that -notice. - -It has always appeared curious to me that the ambition to become -famous should very generally be regarded as a worthy passion in a -man of genius. It is but natural that a man of genius should desire -his work to reach as many people as possible, but whether or not he -should be known as the author of that work seems to me a matter of no -importance whatever. But to the man himself it is all-important. He has -an instinctive feeling that if, in the public eye, he is separated from -his work, savour will go from what he has created. He and his work must -be closely identified. - -This desire to be widely known, to be talked about everywhere, is in -the man of genius accepted as natural, but it is this very desire that, -in many cases, makes a freak of the ordinary man. Obscurity to him is -death. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -FLEET STREET - - -I don’t know why, but for many years there has been (and I am told -there still is) a kind of silent conspiracy to keep out of Fleet Street -as many aspirants to journalism as possible. They are discouraged by -extravagant stories of the fierce competition that reigns there, by -tragic yarns of men of great gifts who walk about The Street in rags. I -myself was discouraged in this way and I found myself, on the verge of -middle age, still hesitating in Manchester. It is true, I did not enter -journalism until I was in my thirties, and I did not know the ropes. -I did not know London either. Also, I was married and had children to -educate and could not afford to take risks and make of life the grand -adventure I have, in my heart, always known it to be. - -So I hung on in Manchester, writing musical criticism for _The -Manchester Courier_ and contributing occasional articles and verses to -_The Academy_, _The Contemporary Review_, _The Cornhill_, _The English -Review_, _The Musical Times_, and many other magazines, and there is -scarcely a London daily of repute for which at one time or another -I did not write. But still I could find no opening in Fleet Street. -The truth is, there is no regular means of finding openings in Fleet -Street. If an editor is in want of a dramatic critic, a musical critic, -a leader writer, or a descriptive reporter, he never advertises for -one. He always knows someone who knows somebody else who is just the -man for the job. - -So one day I said to myself: “I will go to London at all costs. I will -take a room in Bloomsbury and risk it.” By a happy accident I received, -a few days later, a note from Rutland Boughton, the well-known -composer, telling me that he was relinquishing his post as musical -critic of _The Daily Citizen_, that ill-fated paper so courageously -edited by Frank Dilnot. Boughton suggested I should apply for the -vacancy. I did apply. I wrote to Dilnot and received no answer. I -chafed a fortnight and then telegraphed, prepaying a reply. “No vacancy -at present” was the message I received. So I took the next train to -London and bearded Dilnot in his den. “Yes, I’ll take you,” he said, -“if you’ll come for two pounds a week. But, if you’re the real stuff, -you’ll receive much more.” As I knew that I was, indeed, the real -stuff, “I’ll come,” said I. “When can I start?” - -I went back to Manchester and saw W. A. Ackland, the managing editor of -_The Manchester Courier_ and the kindest of men, expecting to receive -from him a cold douche. But no! To my amazement, he encouraged me most -heartily, and kept me on his staff, bidding me write a weekly article -for him from London. This I did till the outbreak of the war, writing a -lot of material also for his London letter. - -During my first year in London I made six hundred and forty pounds. And -I spent it. I spent it in eager examination of, and participation in, -the many activities that the life of a great metropolis affords. Very -soon—within six months—I found myself in the happy position of being -able to refuse work that was offered me, for I did not wish to work all -my waking hours. I wanted to play. I did play. I made many friendships. -I talked a great deal, played the piano two or three hours a day, -caroused, ragged in Chelsea, and lived every hour of my life. - -It may be thought that six hundred and forty pounds per annum is no -great sum. Nor is it. But does a doctor, a barrister, a solicitor, -or any other professional man earn so much, without capital or -influence, during his first year in London? Or in his second? Or -third? Money-making in Fleet Street up to about seven hundred and fifty -pounds a year is the easiest thing in the world for a man who has any -talent at all for writing, especially if that talent be combined with -versatility. The journalist is rarely intellectual; as a rule, he is -merely ready and glib. I am ready and glib myself. - -So I am not among those who feel inclined to discourage him who hankers -after Fleet Street. No matter if you live in the waste regions of -Sutherland, if you have proved yourself by inducing a number of editors -of repute to take your stuff, go in and win! Really, it is very easy. - - * * * * * - -The men of Fleet Street are the best fellows in the world. Roughly, -they may be divided into two classes: those who “go steady,” with -their eye always on the main chance, with every faculty strained to -enable them to “get on” in the world; and those happy-go-lucky people -who make money easily and spend it recklessly, so excited by life that -they cannot pause to contemplate life, so happy in their labour and -in their play that they cannot conceive a day may come when work will -be irksome and playing a half-forgotten dream. There are, of course, -other divisions into which journalists may be separated. There is, -for example, the devoted band of brilliant young men who work for -Orage in _The New Age_—a paper that cannot, I am sure, pay high rates. -(What those rates are I do not know, for I could never induce Orage to -print a single thing I wrote for him.) Then there are the hangers-on -of journalism: people who review books in the time spared from their -labours as university professors, struggling barristers, parish priests -and so on. Many of these people, led by vanity or some other concealed -motive, offer to work without payment. - -The men who “go steady” are the editors, the leader-writers, the news -editors, the literary editors, etc. For the most part they are men who -have to keep late hours and clear heads, for important news may reach -the office at midnight and instant decisions regarding the policy that -the paper has to assume in regard to that news have to be made. A great -political speech may be made in Edinburgh; a startling murder trial may -close in Liverpool; a famous man may die in Paris; a strike may break -out in the Potteries: in short, anything may happen. What attitude is -the paper going to take up? What precise shade of opinion is going to -be expressed about that political speech? What is to be said about the -degree of justice that the workers in the Potteries can claim for their -action? These matters have to be decided instantly, for they have to be -written about instantly, and perhaps you who read the leading article -next morning rarely stop to consider the conditions—the incredibly -difficult conditions—under which it has been written. For this kind -of work real, genuine ability is required: a very wide and accurate -knowledge of affairs, rapidity of thought, a fluent and eloquent pen -and a mind so sensitive that it can, without effort, reflect to a -nicety the precise policy of the paper upon whose work it is engaged. - -There is a story, and I think the story is true, of a new and -inexperienced reporter who was given a trial on the staff of a very -famous “halfpenny” paper. He was not a success, for he bungled -everything that was given him to do, and he had not an idea in his head -concerning the invention and manufacture of stunts. So he was tried as -a book-reviewer, and again failed miserably. They made a sub-editor of -him, and once more he was slow and inaccurate. Said the news editor -to the editor-in-chief: “I’m afraid I shall have to get rid of Jones; -he’s tried almost everything and failed.” “Oh! has he?” returned the -editor-in-chief. “Well, put him on to writing leaders.” - -But even the halfpenny Press has, in recent years, come to regard its -leader columns as one of the most important parts of its papers. Of -this kind of work I have had little experience. A position as writer of -“leaderettes” was offered me on _The Globe_, but I was not a success, -for I was at the same time writing a great deal of stuff for _The Daily -Citizen_, and, as both papers were equally violent in antagonistic -political and social fields, I soon found myself writing solidly and -regularly against my own convictions. It is true that a journalist, -like a barrister, is generally but a hireling paid to express certain -views, but there are few men so intellectually backboneless and -ethically flabby that they can, day after day, say both yes and no to -the various problems that face them. - - * * * * * - -I suppose there are few professions in which one learns more about -the seamy side of human nature than one does in journalism. The one -appalling vice of eminent men is vanity. Musicians, actors, authors, -politicians—even judges and preachers—appear to be so constituted that -they cannot live and be happy without publicity. From what source, do -you think, originate those chatty little paragraphs concerning famous -men and women that you find in every evening newspaper and in many -weeklies? They originate from the fountain-head. If the novelist does -not himself send the paragraph to the paper, his publisher does; if -the actor has not written that “snappy” par., he has given his manager -the material for it. At one time I wrote a weekly column of theatrical -gossip for a well-known daily, and I can, without exaggeration, say -that most of our famous actors and actresses did my work for me. I used -scissors and paste, corrected their grammatical errors (and mistakes in -spelling!), coloured the whole with my personality—and there the column -was ready for the printer! Sometimes I would receive letters from -notorious mimes expostulating with me because I had not mentioned their -names for a month or two. Others wrote and thanked me for praising -them. One lady whom I have never seen, either on the stage or off, -sent me a silver pencil-case, with a letter containing the material for -a very personal sketch. I put the pencil in my pocket and the sketch in -the newspaper. Quite recently I was shown an article signed by a famous -lady, containing a bogus account of how she had received a strange -proposal of marriage. The article had been invented and written by an -acquaintance of mine, but the signature was the lady’s. - -But more egregious than the vanity of actors is the vanity of -fashionable preachers. To them notoriety is the very breath of their -nostrils. They have no “agents,” so they are compelled to advertise -themselves without camouflage. And they do it shamelessly. I will not -mention names, but at least half the fashionable preachers in London, -no matter what their denomination, are guilty of constant and most -resourceful self-advertisement. A little, a very little, jesuitical -reasoning is sufficient to satisfy their consciences that this is -done, not out of vanity, but from a desire to bring a still larger -congregation to the fount of wisdom itself.... They are the fount of -wisdom. - -On only two occasions have I approached an author with a request for -an interview and been refused. But I have taken care never to approach -such men as Thomas Hardy, John Galsworthy and a few others who regard -their profession with too much respect to lend themselves to a practice -which, at its best, is undignified, and which, at its worst, is a -method of mean self-glorification. - - * * * * * - -Of “ghosting” I have done a little and seen much. I know well a -very prosperous musical composer of talent who has paid me to write -many articles that he has signed with his own name. You call me an -accomplice? But then it was nothing to me what he did with my articles -when I had written them. Believe me, the practice is very common. -The man who signs the articles furnishes the ideas: the ghost merely -expresses them. - -The same musical composer was commissioned a few years ago to write an -orchestral work for an important musical festival. We will call him -Birket. Either Birket was too busy to write the work or he felt he had -not the ability to do it; whatever the reason, he went to a friend -of mine—a man of far superior gifts to his more famous colleague—and -offered him a certain sum to do the work for him. My friend—Foster -will do for his name—consented, and the work was duly performed at the -festival, conducted by Birket, and I attended in my capacity as musical -critic. - -How eminent men who are not writers do itch to see themselves in print! -It is not enough that their speeches are reported, their paintings and -musical compositions criticised, their sentences recorded by every -daily newspaper, their acting, singing and what not lauded to the -skies: they must themselves write: or, if they cannot write, it must -appear to the public that they have written. Why? Just vanity. That -word “vanity” will explain nine-tenths of the seemingly inexplicable -things in the conduct of most of our public men. A man accepts a -knighthood because, as a rule, he is vain; he refuses it for the same -reason; he advertises that he has refused it because he is vain; and, -because he is vain, he refuses to advertise that he has refused it. - - * * * * * - -A great deal has been written about the romance of Fleet Street. -But romance is in a man’s mind and heart, and it is true that many -romantically minded men go to Fleet Street. Fleet Street gives us a -sense of importance, a sense of too much importance. We like to feel -that we are powerful, but only a mere handful of men in The Street -have power that is worth while. What we of the rank and file write is -soon forgotten, for newspaper readers are, for the most part, people -who devour print greedily, neither masticating nor assimilating the -things they devour. Newspapers confuse the mind and bring it to a -state of drugged apathy. Did you ever meet a really voracious reader -of newspapers who possessed the gift of sifting and weighing evidence, -or one who had an accurate memory, or one who could think clearly and -logically, or one who was not bewildered and befogged by mere words? - -But even if we men in Fleet Street have no real power, we have what -is much the same thing: we have the illusion of power. We come into -close contact with people much more important than ourselves, and some -of these people fawn on us, for we are the necessary intermediaries -between themselves and the public. - -But romance? Why is Fleet Street romantic? Well, as I have already -said, it is because so many journalists themselves are romantic.... -But I wonder if that really _is_ the reason, and as I wonder I begin -to think that though it is true one meets adventurous, talented and -original people by the score in newspaper offices, yet, after all, it -is not they who make journalism seem full of savour, of rich delight, -of unexpectedness and excitement, of high romance. No; it is writing -itself that is romantic: mere words and the colour and music of words; -the smell of printers’ ink; the wet feel of a paper fresh from the -press; the sounds of telephone bells and of machinery; the joy of -expressing oneself; the lovely, great joy of signing one’s name to -an article and knowing that in twenty-four hours it will have been -read or glanced at by perhaps half-a-million people.... But it seems -to me as I write that I am utterly failing to communicate to you -who read the romantic nature of journalism. To you it is, perhaps, -merely a slipshod profession, a profession in which there is something -sordid and vulgar and as unromantic as Monday morning. To me a man -who writes with distinction is the most interesting creature in the -world: I cannot know too much about him; I can never tire of his -talk. Actors bore me. So do politicians, lawyers, men of science, -those who are professionally religious, doctors, musicians. But -writers and financiers—especially Jewish financiers—are to me full of -subtlety; their souls are elusive, and their minds are cunning past all -reckoning. It is frequently said that the art of writing is possessed -by most people. The art of writing correctly may be, but the “correct” -writer is frequently not a writer at all, for he cannot compel people -to read him. A writer without readers is not a writer; he is simply a -man who murmurs to himself very laboriously. But the writer who can -claim thousands of readers—I mean even such writers as Mr Charles -Garvice and the lady who invented _The Rosary_—are in essentials more -highly endowed with the true writer’s gifts than many mandarins who -live cloistered in Oxford and Cambridge. And I say this in spite of -the fact that I have never been able to read more than ten consecutive -pages of any book of Mr Garvice’s that I have picked up, and that _The -Rosary_ seems to me a story of such amazing flapdoodleism that—— - - * * * * * - -Arnold Bennett says somewhere that living in the theatrical world is -like living a story out of _The Arabian Nights_. To me Fleet Street -is more amazing than the bazaars of Cairo, more mysterious than the -hermaphroditic Sphinx. And perhaps one of the most amazing things about -Fleet Street is the easy way in which many men earn money. - -Some years ago I was on the staff of a paper where I had for a -colleague a dark blue-eyed young man who was our crime specialist. -He had just come from the provinces, and had not even a rudimentary -notion of how to write. He knew he couldn’t write; he boasted of it. -And he cared nothing for newspapers or books or anything even remotely -connected with literature. But he had an amazing talent for sniffing -out crime. I remember a great jewel robbery which he got wind of -half-a-day before anyone else, and, in a way known only to himself, he -obtained full particulars of the affair, writing a half-column “story” -before any other paper in the kingdom even knew there was a story to -write. He entertained me vastly, and I used to go with him sometimes -at night when he called at Scotland Yard for news. Scotland Yard never -gives away news unless it is in its own interest to do so. But I am -very much inclined to believe that it was somewhere in Scotland Yard -that he obtained his most valuable information. We would walk down wide -corridors there together, sit ten minutes in a waiting-room, interview -an official who invariably said: “Nothing doing to-night,” and come -away. But that was quite enough for my friend. “I must go to Poplar -straight away,” he would say, as we came away; or perhaps: “I can just -catch the last train to Guildford”; or “There is nothing at all in the -rumour of that murder in Battersea.” I used to look at him in amazement -and exclaim: “But how do you _know_?” “Ah!” he would reply; “they say -that walls have ears. But much more frequently they have tongues.” - -This man was paid three pounds a week by our editor. Three times out -of four he was ahead of every other paper in his news, and I was not -in the least surprised when one day, after he had been in London only -two months, he came to me and said: “Next week I am leaving you. I am -going to _The Morning Trumpet_; they’re giving me five hundred pounds a -year.” Five months later he was getting a thousand pounds a year from a -paper that never hesitates to pay handsomely for “stunts.” - -I caught fire from my friend’s enthusiasm, and late one night, just -when I had finished a long notice of a new play, I overheard the night -editor regretting to one of the sub-editors that news of a particularly -horrible murder in Stepney had just reached the office when all the -reporters were out on duty. “Let me go!” I urged. “But you are in -evening dress,” he objected. “Never mind; send me off.” And ten minutes -later I was being rushed in a taxi-cab at full speed to Stepney. I -found the scene of the murder—a mean little house in a mean little -street. Outside the house was a crowd of eager loafers, a score of -reporters, and as many policemen, who, refusing to be bribed, kept us -all in the street without news. However, such was my enthusiasm that I -alone of all the reporters got into the house and into the cellar where -the wretched woman had been butchered to death three hours earlier. I -drew a hasty plan of the underground floor, interviewed a sister of the -murdered woman, obtained full particulars, and then jumped into the -taxi-cab to return to the office. Within an hour of leaving my desk I -was back again, and in another twenty minutes I had ready as vivid and -thrilling a “story” as ever I hope to write. Knowing that the paper -was on the point of going to press, I did not, as I ought to have -done, hand my copy to one of the sub-editors, but took it straight to -the machines. Whilst I was waiting for a proof, I was summoned to my -editor’s room. He was frowning, and he looked very much perturbed. - -“By the merest chance, Cumberland,” he said, sternly, “I have been the -means of saving the paper from heavy penalties for contempt of court.” -He paused and bit his lip. “I suppose you think your murder story a -most brilliant piece of work.” - -“Well, I certainly was under that impression, sir,” I began, “but it -would seem——” - -“_Seem!_” he thundered. “You’ve got the facts, it’s true, but then all -my reporters have to get the facts. The gross blunder you’ve made is, -first of all, in saying that the suspected man has spent practically -all his life in prison—contempt of court of the vilest description. -Secondly, you’ve said——” He enumerated no fewer than five blunders I -had made. “But, worst of all,” he concluded, “you took it upon yourself -to give your copy direct to the printers after midnight, thus breaking -the strictest rule of this office.” - -It was true. In my exciting enthusiasm I had forgotten this Persian -rule. - -“Fortunately, I came in just in time to stop your stuff. You’d better, -I think, confine yourself exclusively to your dramatic criticism.” - -Nevertheless, he offered me, two days later, ten pounds a week to give -up my dramatic criticism and general articles (for which I was at that -time getting only five pounds) and devote myself to reporting—an offer -which I refused, as the work would have exhausted all my time. - - * * * * * - -It was at about this time that the idea occurred to me that a certain -monthly magazine for which I had been writing regularly might, if -asked, pay me at a higher rate than that which, till then, they had -been giving me. So I dressed myself very carefully (clothes _do_ help, -don’t they?) and drove up to the office in a smart hansom. - -“I have called about my articles,” I began, rather brusquely, to the -editor, a scholarly man who knew far more about Elizabethan literature -than he did about human nature. “I have found just lately that I am so -busy that I have resolved to give up some of my work. Your magazine is -one of those with which I am anxious to retain my connection, partly -because my relationship with you has always been so pleasant.” - -And I stopped. It is not everyone who knows the right place at which -to stop in conversations of this kind. “My relationship with you has -always been so pleasant” was, most indubitably, the right place. - -He tried to force me into further talk by remaining silent himself. A -clock ticked: a clock always does tick on these occasions. He coughed. -I looked steadily towards the window. For a full minute there must have -been silence: to me it seemed an hour; to him I have no doubt it seemed -eternity. - -“I think, Mr Cumberland, we shall be able to come to a satisfactory -arrangement,” he said, when eternity had passed. “What do you say to -such-and-such an amount?” - -And he staggered me by mentioning a sum exactly treble the amount I had -been receiving for the last two years. - -As I walked into the Strand, I felt a mean and disagreeable -bargain-driver, but after I had lunched at Simpson’s, I said to myself: -“What a fool you were not to go to see him twelve months ago!” - -But though many people equally as obscure as myself earn a thousand -pounds a year by their pens, you must not imagine that all the men who -are famous writers do likewise. By no means always does it happen that -a man combines literary genius and the power of earning money, and -there are many men rightly honoured in our own day whose earnings do -not involve them in the payment of income tax. The faculty of making -money, no matter whether it is made out of the sale of pills or poems, -tripe or tragedies, is innate. No man by taking thought can add a -thousand pounds a year to his income, for money is not made by thought -but by intuition. - -I know a man in Chelsea who earns fifteen hundred pounds a year by -writing what, in my schoolboy days, we called (and perhaps they are -still called) “bloods.” He knocks off a cool five thousand words a -day every day for three weeks, and then takes a week’s holiday—boys’ -“bloods,” servant-girls’ novelettes, children’s fairy tales and -newspaper serials. He is a cheerful, energetic man, whose hobbies are -bull-dogs and Shakespeare, and he has five different pen-names. For -the matter of that, I use three different pseudonyms, my reason for -doing this being that the editor of _The Spectator_, say, might not -accept my work if he knew I was writing at the same time for _The -English Review_ (I have written for both publications), and I am -doubtful if _The Morning Post_ would have printed a single word of -mine if the editor had been aware that I was having a thousand words a -day printed in _The Daily Citizen_. Some editors like what they call -“versatility of thought,” others (I think rightly) distrust it. - -But I can very well believe that this gossip about money appears to you -very sordid. Well, so it is. My final paragraph shall not be permitted -to mention, or even hint at, hard cash. - - * * * * * - -Once again I return to my statement that Fleet Street is romantic -because many of the people in it are romantic. But what is a romantic -person? Alas! I cannot define one. Perhaps a romantic person is he -whose soul is mysterious and elusive and whose mind is perturbed and -exalted by a poetic vision of life. He must care little for the things -that Mr Samuel Smiles and the “get on or get out” school value so -much.... No. That will not do at all, for a great many men and women -who have cared a great deal for money and worldly power were romantic. -Nero, for example, and Cleopatra, and Shakespeare, and Queen Elizabeth, -and Lord Verulam—— - -But though a romantic man may be difficult to define, he is very easy -to recognise. Ivan Heald was incorrigibly romantic. But perhaps the -most romantically minded man I met in Fleet Street was the journalist -who went with me to Athens in the very early spring of 1914. He had -no right in Fleet Street, for he was essentially a man who preferred -to do things rather than write about them. But half the men in London -journalism have drifted there not so much because they have a natural -aptitude for the work but because they are born adventurers, and the -great adventure of Fleet Street is bound to cross the path of most -roving men one day or another. - -Years ago there lived in London a man who wrote books and magazine -stories under the name of Julian Croskey. He had been in the Civil -Service in Shanghai, had helped to finance and organise a rebellion, -and had been turned out of China, whence he came to England to write. -In 1901 I began a correspondence with Croskey, who, in the meantime, -had gone to Canada and was living alone on a river island. Though we -corresponded for years, we never met, and after a time his letters -began to show signs of megalomania. But there was such genius in his -letters, such brooding energy, such hate of life, and, at times, such -an uncanny suggestion of terrific power, that I treasured every word -he wrote to me, and, when his letters ceased, something vital and -something almost necessary to me passed out of my life. I do not like -to believe that he ceased writing to me because I no longer interested -him. I hope he still lives. I hope he will read this book. Some day his -letters must be published, for they constitute a problem in psychology -at once fascinating, mysterious and demonic. And this man whom I never -met remains to me the most romantic of all men I have met in the spirit. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -HALL CAINE - - -My acquaintance with Hall Caine began in a semi-professional way. -Whilst still a schoolboy, I was commissioned by _Tit-Bits_ to write -a three-column interview with him. I wrote to the novelist for an -interview. Perhaps the rawness of my letter aroused the suspicion that -I was too young to write adequately about him even in a paper of the -standing of _Tit-Bits_; at all events he refused the interview, but -very kindly said that, if I was contemplating a visit to the Isle of -Man, he would be pleased if I would call on and lunch with him as an -unprofessional visitor. At that time, being young and ardent, I was -a young and ardent admirer of his, and I believe I told him so in my -letter that requested the interview. - -If I went to him as an admirer I came away from that first visit to -Greeba Castle a worshipper. In those days he was (but he still is!) -an astounding personality. He came into the room quietly and, having -shaken hands and sat down by my side, said: “An exquisite day for your -walk from St John’s.” So impressively was this spoken, and there was -such a fire in his eyes as he said it, such a weight of meaning in his -manner, that I felt as though something secret and wonderful had been -revealed to me. I wanted to say: “How true!” What I did say was: “Yes; -isn’t it?” He asked me a few questions about myself and then spoke -about general matters. He probably said quite trivial, kindly things, -but at the time they were uttered, and for a little while afterwards, -they seemed rich and full of wisdom. - -After lunch he showed me the MSS. of some of his books. I remember the -MS. of _The Bondman_. It was written in a small, curiously artistic -handwriting on half sheets of notepaper, which had been pasted on to -much larger sheets handsomely bound. I handled the book as reverently -as the young ladies of early days caressed the pages of the great -Martin Tupper. There were many “blots” in the MS.—many alterations, -excisions and additions, and it was clear, even from a cursory -examination, that Mr Hall Caine was a hard and conscientious worker. -Upon this and other books he left me to browse for an hour whilst he -went to receive other callers—all of them strangers to him—who were -just arriving. - -Some of those visitors, as I discovered later, were a rather -extraordinary crew: men and women from Lancashire and Yorkshire: I -mean _absolutely_ from Lancashire and Yorkshire: men and women who had -made a little money and who had unbounded respect for people who had -made a little more: men and women who were sound and good, but not -quite educated and who were either like fish out of water, gasping and -floundering spasmodically, or positively frightfully at their ease. I -recollect a tall and handsome lady who prodded everything with a green -parasol, and two men who, not too furtively, made elaborate efforts to -estimate the amount of the author’s income. - -We had tea on a terrace in the grounds and in the evening I was driven -back to St John’s, all the other callers returning to Douglas. - -The impression left by Mr Hall Caine’s personality on my mind by that -and many subsequent visits was overwhelming. He was vivid, alive, and -full of smouldering fires; short and vehement; his eyes were large and -bright; his voice beautiful and capable of a thousand inflections—an -actor’s voice; his temperament also an actor’s; his point of view an -actor’s. But he never did act; invariably he was tragically (and, I -must add, sometimes pathetically) sincere. He had humour, but he could -not laugh at himself. His dress was eccentric; he wore a flapping hat, -breeches and a jacket made of thick, everlasting, hand-made cloth. A -big tie bulged and billowed somewhere about his neck. He told me on one -occasion that chars-à-bancs full of trippers from Douglas continually -passed along the Douglas-Peel road and that when the trippers caught a -sight of him they would sometimes hail him with cries of derision and -shouts of laughter. - -“At those moments,” he said, “I am always most dignified. I raise my -hat to them and bow and their laughter immediately ceases.” - -That I could well believe, for there is something commanding in his -personality, something well calculated to quell insolence. - -A desultory correspondence and a few casual visits followed during the -next three or four years, and when I was in my very early twenties I -persuaded Messrs Greening & Company to invite me to write a book on -Hall Caine for a popular series (_English Writers of To-day_, it was -called) they were at that time issuing. Mr Caine, upon being approached -by me, put no hindrance in my way, but, on the contrary, consented to -give me some assistance in the way of providing me with information -and a few letters received by him from eminent men. I spent several -week-ends at Greeba Castle and found in Mrs Caine, always charming and -ideally gifted with tact, a delightful hostess. My book was quickly -written. It was a feeble, bombastic and ridiculous performance. A -friend of mine (I thought he was an enemy) called it “a prolonged -diarrhœa of the emotions.” In this book Hall Caine took a very kindly -interest, and he provided me with autograph letters written by Ruskin, -Blackmore, T. E. Brown and Gladstone to insert in my book. But I was, -of course, the sole author of the work, and Mr Caine had nothing to -do with it save to put me right on matters of fact and to tone down -some of my exuberant and sentimental praise. The silly volume, because -of its subject, attracted a good deal of attention, both in this -country and in America, though it was not published in the States. -_The Philadelphia Daily Eagle_, for example, on the day the book was -published, printed a eulogistic cablegram review of it from London. -But, for the most part, my monograph was mercilessly slated. Hall -Caine, in addition, was abused for consenting to be the subject of it, -and I was abused for having chosen him for my subject. One paper headed -its review “Raising Caine.” - -The truth is, at this time (1901) Mr Hall Caine, though extraordinarily -popular with the public, was not much liked by a certain section of the -Press. His success was envied by some, perhaps; his recognition of his -own worth was fiercely and almost universally resented; and his almost -unconscious habit of advertising himself—though he did not indulge this -habit more than most popular novelists—could not be tolerated. Mr Caine -used frequently to deplore his only too palpable unpopularity with the -Press, and once or twice he asked me to explain it. His own theory was -that he had a few powerful enemies who took advantage of every occasion -to disseminate lies about him, but who these enemies were he never -stated. As a matter of fact, he occasionally said injudicious things -to reporters which, in cold print, appeared not only self-satisfied -but vainglorious. A long and very well written article by Mr Robert -H. Sherard, in (I believe) _The Daily Telegraph_ caused him a good deal -of anxiety. - -Not often does one find a man of Hall Caine’s very special gifts -endowed with the abilities of a financier. He is as quick and as clever -at driving a bargain as a Lancashire or Yorkshire mill-owner. There -have always been and, I suppose, always will be a large percentage -of writers who are constitutionally incapable of looking after their -own affairs; they can produce, but they cannot sell. Mr Hall Caine -does not belong to these. He, more than any man, contributed to the -breakdown of the three-volume novel system. It was he who helped to -formulate the Canadian Copyright Laws. With the assistance of Major -Pond (who in these days remembers the great Major Pond?) he made -tens of thousands of dollars by lecturing to the Americans. He had -the acumen and the courage to issue one of his longest novels in two -volumes at two shillings net each. He was the first eminent novelist -to make a practice of publishing his works in the middle of the -August holidays—the supposed “dead” season in the publishing world. -He has bought farms in the Isle of Man and made them pay. He has had -commercial interests in seaside boarding-houses and has shown a bold -but wise enterprise in many of his investments. In other words he has, -to his honour, continually exhibited abilities that not one artist in a -hundred possesses. - - * * * * * - -I have rarely seen Hall Caine in a light-hearted mood, but I have been -with him in more than one hour of black depression. - -Vividly do I remember spending a few days at Greeba Castle shortly -after the time when the publication of a story of his, that was running -serially in a ladies’ paper, was suddenly and dramatically stopped -by the editor of that paper on the score of its alleged immorality. -The story was about to be produced in book form and, of course, the -editor’s action had provided a fine advertisement; this fact, however, -did not appear to console the novelist in the least. The most sensitive -of men, he was crushed by this very public charge of writing immoral -literature. - -For myself, when he told me all the circumstances, I merely laughed. He -glanced at me sideways. - -“You are amused?” he asked. “I wonder why.” - -“Because you are allowing yourself to be made miserable by a most -trivial event.” - -“You call it trivial that the whole world should think me a man of -immoral mind?” - -“The whole world? Why, the world doesn’t trouble itself about the -matter in the least. Only one man accuses you of immoral writings; that -man is the editor of the paper. What on earth does his opinion matter -to you?” - -“But his opinion will be widely read and will be widely believed.” - -“Will be believed, you should have added, by people who allow another -man to form their opinions for them. What do _they_ matter?” - -He sighed. - -“But they _do_ matter,” said he, rather forlornly. “I hate to think of -people out there”—he waved a vague arm in the direction of the kitchen -garden—“thinking evil thoughts and saying evil things of me.” - -“‘They say. What do they say? Let them say,’” I quoted. - -We paced up and down the terrace, his eyes fixed on the ground. At -length: - -“I wonder what you would think of the chapter in question,” he said -musingly. “You have read the story as far as it has been printed. Well, -I will give you the final chapters to read.” - -We went to his room and he handed me a few pages of printed copy. I -read them. - -“Well?” inquired he, when I had finished. - -“It is passionate, it is sexual,” said I, “but to call it immoral is to -call black white.” - -“You really believe that?” he asked, a little anxiously. - -“I do. I assure you I do.” - -But the black cloud of self-distrust and misery would not be -dissipated, and that night, after dinner, we sat over a slow fire, -though it was early in August, and talked long and rather sadly of -Rossetti, of T. E. Brown and of things that had been said by Peel -fishermen. - - * * * * * - -Another occasion, when I was with the novelist on a day of some -anxiety, is equally clear in my memory. I may say at this point that -Hall Caine was invariably in a condition of some mental strain a few -days before and after the publication of one of his stories. He was a -little apprehensive of the reviewers, and he was always afraid lest the -public should not remain faithful to him. In this connection I remember -him saying to me once: “I can imagine no fate more tragic than for a -novelist at middle age, when he believes his powers to be at their -highest, to lose his hold upon his public.” - -He would, I think, deny that he cares what the reviewers may say; -nevertheless, my experience of him tells me that he does care. In his -early life as a novelist he was, perhaps, overpraised; certainly he -but very rarely felt the lash of the critic’s whip. So that when the -critics began to condemn the work of the man they had once praised, he -was not disciplined to bear their condemnation philosophically. Every -taunt wounded him, every thrust went home, every sneer was a stab. - -But on the occasion about which I am now writing he was not depressed -so much in anticipation of what the reviewers might say as on account -of the competition of another novel which had been issued a few days -previous to the date fixed for the publication of a new book of his -own. That novel was Lucas Malet’s _The History of Sir Richard Calmady_, -published, if my memory does not betray me, by Messrs Methuen. - -The first question he asked me one morning before breakfast was: - -“Have you read _Sir Richard Calmady_?” - -“Yes,” I answered. - -“Well?” exclaimed he, a little impatiently, “well, what do you think of -it?” - -“An amazingly clever performance, but very horrible.” - -“Yes, isn’t it?” he cried eagerly. “Horrible! Ghastly! And yet, they -tell me, people are reading it.” - -“Partly for that reason, no doubt.” - -“But the public, the people, the great reading public—surely they will -not respond to the appeal of a book of that nature?” - -“The public, you must remember, has many hearts; it may well give one -to Sir Richard Calmady.” - -“But _my_ public?” - -“Yes; even your public.” - -He brooded a little. - -“I am told that Lucas Malet’s publishers believe in the book,” he said, -after a longish pause, “and are prepared to spend a small fortune in -pushing it. And that, of course, means that it will interfere with, and -perhaps seriously injure, the sales of my own story. But it seems to me -that the public—the _real_ public—will never read a novel that has for -its chief attraction a man with no legs.” - -I suggested that he should postpone the publication of his book until -the rage for _Sir Richard Calmady_ had died down. But no! This would -not suit him. He must catch the real holiday season at its full tide. -August was the best month in the year, and the first week the best week -in the month, and the fifth day the best day of the week. - -Hall Caine always shows great perspicacity in selecting the date of -publication for his books; he will never allow it to synchronise with -any other big event. Moreover, his book must be born to an expectant -world; it must be well advertised beforehand. Unlike other writers, -he does not work hard at a book, finish it and then hand it over to a -publisher to deal with more or less as he thinks fit. In a sense, he is -his own publisher, and as a rule he interests himself in the sale of -a new work of his own, in its distribution, its printing and binding, -etc., as much as the actual publisher himself. - - * * * * * - -It used to be a popular belief—but Arnold Bennett has done much to -kill it—that an author laughs and cries with the creatures of his -imagination, that he lives and dreams with them, and that when his book -is finished, and the time comes for him to part from them, he does so -with pain that is little short of anguish. So far as most authors are -concerned, this is exactly opposite to the real facts. Before an author -is half-way through his novel he is heartily sick of his characters; -his beautiful heroine is an unmitigated nuisance and his hero an -incredible bore. He is only too thankful to reach the end of the last -chapter and leave his puppets for ever. - -But this is not so with Hall Caine. His novels, as you know, do not -err on the side of brevity, and though it is possible you may tire -of his heroine, you may be absolutely certain that her creator never -does. To this novelist the creatures of his imagination are, in one -sense, more real than the material beings around him. He is wholly -dominated by his imagination. His brain is peopled by creatures of his -own fancy. His emotions are engaged on behalf of people who do not -exist. His consciousness is confined to the little world he has created -for himself and he is saturated with and submerged by fancies that his -imagination has bred. - -I shall never forget coming across him early one morning in the little -shaded footway that winds among trees in the castle grounds to the main -drive. His eyes were dim, and he had not perfect control of his voice. - -“I have been finishing my book,” he said, referring to _The Eternal -City_, “and I wept as I wrote.” - -I have been with him on several occasions when he has been finishing -his books, and I have always found him in alternating moods of -exhaustion and emotional excitement. Whatever else may be charged -against him, it cannot with truth be said that he does not put his -whole soul into his work. - - * * * * * - -As a man he is the most loyal of friends and the most loyal of enemies. -He can hate bitterly. I have heard him eloquent in his hate. I have -heard him hate W. T. Stead and Frank Harris, and nothing could have -exceeded his bitterness. But he does not nurse his hatred, and he is a -man quick to forgive. - -I cannot close this chapter without a word concerning his generosity. -By “generosity” I do not mean only that he is free with money, but -that he will give his time, the work of his brain, his advice and even -himself for any good cause and for any man in need. To struggling -authors he is the very soul of generosity. He struggled himself. Born -on a coal barge in Runcorn, largely self-educated, having experienced -the anxiety of straitened means and hope deferred, he has known -intimately the hardships of life, and will do all in his power to -shield others from them. On several occasions I have met people—mostly -young men—who have come to him for help and advice in beginning a -literary career. He is never extravagant in his praise of their work, -but if he finds merit in it he is always warmly encouraging. Years -before I met him face to face, when I was a boy of fourteen, I sent -him a long poem I had written in the Spenserian stanza, and the first -letters I received from him were careful and most helpful criticisms -of this juvenile literary effort. I had written to him as an entire -stranger and without any introduction whatever. In my youth and -egotism I had taken his replies as a matter of course; it was only -later that I recognised the most kindly spirit that prompted a busy and -often harassed man to give his time and energy to a boy whose work can -have had very little to recommend it. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -MORE WRITERS - - Rev. T. E. Brown—A. R. Orage—Norman Angell—St John Ervine—Charles - Marriott—Max Beerbohm—Israel Zangwill—Alphonse Courlander—Ivan - Heald—Dixon Scott—Barry Pain—Cunninghame Graham - - -I wonder how many readers turn nowadays to the poetical works of Thomas -Edward Brown, the Manx poet. Not a great number, I think. Indeed, I -doubt if he ever had a large audience, though he had the power of -exciting almost unlimited enthusiasm in the breasts of those whom he -did attract. He was praised whole-heartedly by George Eliot, George -Meredith, W. E. Henley and other famous writers, and the publication of -his Letters a year or two after his death made a great stir. - -In my boyhood’s days I was one of Brown’s most devoted disciples. He -had a charming trick of infusing scholarship with the real “stuff” of -humanity, that appealed to me irresistibly, and I liked the honest -sensuality of his _Roman Women_ and the pathos of such poems as _Aber -Stations_ and _Epistola ad Dakyns_. Perhaps I could not read his poems -now, for, truth to tell, they “gush” almost indecently. However, he -remains the most distinguished literary figure that the little Isle of -Man has produced, and two or three of his lyrics will persist far into -the future. - -I met him at Greeba Castle, Mr Hall Caine’s Manx residence, when I was -still a schoolboy. It was just a few months before Brown’s death, and a -rather sad incident marked his visit to Hall Caine. - -We were at lunch when he arrived: a rather solemn lunch: a lunch at -which the guests were ill assorted. A ponderous scholar from Scotland -insisted upon discussing the authorship of Homer—a subject about which -our host evidently knew little and cared less. In the middle of a -rather painful silence, Brown was ushered into the dining-room; he -was carrying a little book of Laurence Binyon’s that had just been -published. His burly figure, his genial face, his ready tongue soon -lifted us out of the atmosphere of black boredom that had settled upon -us. In five minutes he had disposed of the Scottish scholar, had drunk -a whisky and soda, and had combated Hall Caine’s opinion that Binyon -“had entirely missed the point” in one of the poems he (Binyon) had -written. - -All afternoon we talked. Brown had come all the way from Ramsey (some -twenty-four miles, four of which had to be walked) to spend a few hours -with his friend, and, as he was a man greedy of enjoyment, not a single -moment was wasted. It soon appeared that Brown was a great admirer of -Hall Caine’s—it should be mentioned that Mr Caine had not then written -_The Prodigal Son_ or _The Eternal City_—and the novelist basked in the -tactful praise that was bestowed upon him. - -As we were talking, a servant came with the news that eleven Americans -had arrived and had been shown into the library. Hall Caine left the -room to give them tea. An hour later, he came back, exhausted but not -displeased. - -“One of the penalties of fame,” he said, with a sigh. - -“But you are not the only one who suffers from your own fame,” observed -Brown. “I am constantly besieged by American journalists, who come -to me for private information about yourself. A very persistent lady -from New York came only the other day and wished to know if you were -educated.” - -Hall Caine laughed. - -“What did you say?” he asked. - -“Well, I asked her what she meant by ‘education,’ and she replied: ‘Is -he at all like Matthew Arnold?’” - -Towards evening, Brown departed. - -Next morning, a note arrived from him, evidently written immediately on -his return home the previous evening. The note expressed the writer’s -regret that he had been unable to visit Greeba Castle that day; he had -fully intended coming, but had been prevented at the last moment. This -letter disturbed Hall Caine enormously. - -“His mind is going,” he said; “I have noticed several other signs -of vanishing memory, if not of something worse, during the last few -months.” - -There was, indeed, I have always thought, a streak of morbid -eccentricity in Brown’s intellectual make-up. A careful reader of his -letters will notice many moods of fierce exaltation engendered by -wholly inadequate and inexplicable causes. His sudden death was perhaps -a blessing in disguise. - - * * * * * - -There are in London two or three men, not known to the general public, -whose influence on modern thought is most profound and most disturbing. -Of these men A. R. Orage, the editor of _The New Age_, is quite the -most distinguished. What circulation his paper enjoys, I do not know; -it cannot be large; probably it is not more than two or three thousand; -perhaps it is not even so much as that. But the men and women who read -it are men and women who count—people who welcome daring and original -thought, who hold important positions in the civic, social, political -and artistic worlds, and who eagerly disseminate the seeds of thought -they pick up from the study of _The New Age_. Tens of thousands of -people have been influenced by this paper who have never even heard its -name. It does not educate the masses directly: it reaches them through -the medium of its few but exceedingly able readers. - -_The New Age_ is professedly a Socialist organ, but the promulgation -of socialistic doctrines is only a part of its policy and work. Its -literary, artistic and musical criticism is the sanest, the bravest -and the most brilliant that can be read in England. It reverences -neither power nor reputation; it is subtle and unsparing; and, if it -is sometimes cruel, it is cruel with a purpose. All sleek money-makers -in Art have reason to fear Orage, for his rapier wit may at any moment -glance and slide between their ribs and release the hot air that is at -once the inspiration and the material of all their works. - -Orage has more than a touch of genius. It was Baudelaire (wasn’t it?) -who said that genius was the power to look upon the world with the eyes -of a child. Well, Orage has the all-seeing, non-rejecting eyes of a -child. He has also the eternal spirit of youth. One cannot imagine him -growing old. Perhaps his most interesting characteristic is his power -of attracting and holding friends; he is the most hero-worshipped of -men. Having once given his friendship, however, he exacts the utmost -loyalty; treachery is the one sin that can never be forgiven. - -I knew Orage years ago, when he was still in Leeds teaching the young -idea how to shoot. He was then a prominent member of the Theosophical -Society and lectured a good deal—and rather dangerously, I think—on -Nietzsche. His gospel, always preached with his tongue in his cheek, -that every man and woman should do precisely what he or she desires, -acted like heady wine on the gasping and enthusiastic young ladies -who used to sit in rows worshipping him. They wanted to do all kinds -of terrible things, and as Orage, backed by “that great German,” -Nietzsche, had sanctioned their most secret desires, they were resolved -to begin at once their career of licence. They used to “stay behind” -when the lectures were over, and question Orage with their lips and -invite him with their eyes, and it used to be most amusing and a little -pathetic to listen to the gay and half-veiled insults with which Orage -at once thwarted and bewildered his silly devotees. - -He had in those days a wonderful gift of talking a most divine -nonsense—a spurious wisdom that ran closely along the border-line of -rank absurdity. The “cosmic consciousness” of Walt Whitman was a great -theme of his, and Orage, in his subtle, devilishly clever way, would -lead his listeners on to the very threshold of occult knowledge—and -leave them there, wide-eyed and wonder-struck. - -I have never known an editor more jealous of the reputation of his -paper than Orage is of _The New Age_. No consideration of friendship -would induce him to print a dull article, however sound, and when one -of his contributors becomes sententious, or slack, or banal—out he -goes, neck and crop. Among the contributors to _The New Age_ I remember -writers as different in mental calibre as John Davidson and Edward -Carpenter, Frank Harris and Cecil Chesterton, Arnold Bennett and Janet -Achurch. These and scores of equally distinguished people have written -for Orage. Why? For money? Well, scarcely; _The New Age’s_ rates of pay -must be very modest. For what, then? They have written because in _The -New Age_ they can tell the unadulterated truth and because they are -proud to see their work in that paper. - - * * * * * - -To many people Norman Angell is a rather sinister figure, and the -people who attack him most violently to-day are precisely those who -praised him most when he wrote his first book. He has been overpraised -and spoilt. His intellectual attainments are not greatly above the -average, and his thinking is not always honest. In the early days of -the war it used to be amusing to see him working among his spectacled -and yellow-skinned assistants; he was small but magisterial, and he -was always tucking sheets of foolscap into long envelopes and looking -very important as he did so. I really believe that in those days of -August, 1914, he had a vague idea that he and his helpers could stop -the war at any moment they chose. Certainly, he was very cross with the -war. Europe was behaving in her old, mad way without having previously -consulted him. - -“But it will soon be over,” he assured me. “You see——” - -He stopped and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of a typewriter, -smothered in documents. - -“Quite,” said I uncomprehendingly. “You mean——?” - -“Yes; that’s it. Exhaustion. It can’t go on for ever. It must stop some -time.” - -A smile that came from nowhere straggled into his face. I felt vaguely -discomfited. - -“You see, we are hard at it,” he said, and, as he spoke, be indicated -a pale, ill-shaven youth who was wandering aimlessly about the office, -his hands full of papers. - -A queer little chap, Angell. Very much in earnest, of course, very sure -of himself, very pushing, very “idealistic.” - - * * * * * - -St John Ervine is a writer who already counts for much but who, a few -years hence, will count for a good deal more. He is by way of being a -protégé of Bernard Shaw, and earnest young Fabians have already learned -to reverence him. - -We worked together on _The Daily Citizen_, he being dramatic critic. -He was not enormously popular with the rest of the staff, for he was -very “high-brow”; his face was smooth, sleek and superior, and he had -a habit of being friendly with a man one day and scarcely recognising -him the next. My own relations with him were of the most disagreeable. -A play of his was given at the Court Theatre, and I was sent to -criticise it. I did criticise it: the play was ugly, clever and sordid. - -“But,” protested Ervine, pale with vexation, the next time he met me, -“but you have entirely misunderstood my play. You can’t have stayed -till the end.” - -“It was very painful for me, Ervine,” said I, “but I really did stick -it out to the finish. Why do you young fellows write so depressingly? -You look happy enough, Ervine——” - -“The close of my play is the part that matters. Bernard Shaw said -so....” - -We parted: he, with a look of successful hauteur; I, broken and crushed. - -A week or so later I met him at one of Herbert Hughes’s jolly Sunday -evenings in Chelsea. - -“You know Gerald Cumberland, of course,” said someone who was -introducing him to people. - -He drew himself up with great dignity and stared at me through his -pince-nez. - -“I think,” said he, “yes, I believe we _have_ met before somewhere. -Where was it, Mr ... er ... Cumberland?” - -Shortly after, he left _The Daily Citizen_, and I was given the -position which he had occupied with so much conscious distinction. I -somehow think that when the war is over and we meet, he will not know -me. Ervine is very much like that. - - * * * * * - -Fifteen years is a long time in the literary world, and Charles -Marriott’s _The Column_, which threw everybody into fever-heat -somewhere about 1902, is, I suppose, forgotten. It was a “first” novel. -Uncritical Ouida loved it; W. E. Henley unbent and wrote a Meredithian -letter to its author; W. L. Courtney seized some of his short stories -for _The Fortnightly Review_; and I suppose (though I really don’t -know this) _The Spectator_ wrote five lines of disapproval. It was a -brilliant book; fresh, original, provocative. It promised a lot: it -promised too much; the author has since written many distinguished -books, but none of them is as good as _The Column_ said they would be. - -Marriott was living at Lamorna, a tiny cove in Cornwall, when I first -knew him. He was tall, lantern-jawed and spectacled. He was interested -in everything, but it appeared to me even then that he was a little -inhuman. He lacked vulgarity; rude things repelled him enormously, -unnaturally; he had no literary delight—or else his delight was too -literary: I don’t know—in coarseness. Fastidious to the finger-tips, -he would rather go without dinner than split an infinitive. Since -those days Marriott has gone on refining himself until there is very -little Marriott left. Even the longest and the thickest pencil may be -sharpened too frequently. - -Many years after I met him at an exhibition of pictures in Bond Street. -He was then almost old, tired, preoccupied. He is quite the last man -to be a journalist; his art criticism is wonderfully fine, but a life -standing on the polished floors of galleries between Bond Street and -Leicester Square is soul-corroding and heart-breaking. Marriott’s mind -no longer darts and leaps. It moves gently, very gently. - - * * * * * - -Max Beerbohm is not so witty in conversation as one might expect. On -the spur of the moment he has little verbal readiness; his mind is -purely literary. He bears no resemblance to his late brother, Sir -Herbert Beerbohm Tree, one of the cleverest conversationalists I have -ever met. - -A short, mild and debonair figure received me one May afternoon in -a house which, if not in Cavendish Square, was somewhere in its -neighbourhood. In my later schoolboy days Max was very much cultivated -by those of the younger generation who liked to think themselves -enormously in the swim. We used to “collect” Max Beerbohm’s—not his -caricatures, for they were far and away beyond our means; but his -articles. I remember a rather startling article of his in _The Yellow -Book_ which I had bound in lizard-skin, and a friend of mine had all -Max’s _Saturday Review_ articles beautifully typewritten on thick -yellow paper and bound in scarlet cardboard. Max was precious, Max was -deliciously impertinent, Max was too frightfully clever for words. - -When I called upon him four or five years ago I had, I need scarcely -say, long outgrown my early infatuation, for he had begun to “date,” -and was safely in his niche among the men of the nineties. But -half-an-hour’s talk with him revived some of the old fascination. He -had “atmosphere”; his personality created an environment; he brought -a flavour of far-off days. We talked quite pleasantly of his art, but -he said nothing that has stuck in my memory, and my questions seemed -to amuse rather than interest him. His small dapper figure gave one -the impression of a schoolboy who had grown a little tired, who had -prematurely developed his talents, and who had just fallen short of -winning a big prize. - -He led the way to the front door, shook me by the hand, looked at me -meditatively for a moment, smiled faintly, and ... vanished. - - * * * * * - -Of Israel Zangwill I can give only an impression. I see him now as I -saw him one hot afternoon at his rooms in the Temple. A dark man, a -spare man, a man very much in earnest and anxious to be just. He was -perspiring slightly, I remember, and he bent forward a little so as -to hear and understand every word I said. I had a request to make: -a favour to ask. He listened patiently, gave me a cup of tea, and -stirred his own. For a little he ruminated. Then he turned to me and -lifted his eyebrows—lifted his eyebrows rather high. I repeated my -request, giving further details. I was a little confused. He studied my -confusion, not cruelly, but in the way that a trained observer studies -everything that comes under his notice. Then: “Ye-es,” he said; “I see. -I see.” And then there was a minute’s silence. - -“I will do what you want,” he remarked, at length. “I will do it -willingly—most willingly.” - -And he did. Our little business entailed some subsequent -correspondence, and some work on Zangwill’s part. The work was done -promptly; his letters answered mine by return of post. He gained -nothing by his work, whereas the paper I represented gained a great -deal. - - * * * * * - -Alphonse Courlander was one of the many young and promising writers -whom the war has killed. He was one of the most hard-working -journalists in Fleet Street, and if he was not precisely brilliant, he -had unusual gifts and used them to good purpose. I could never read his -novels, but I understand they met with a certain success, and people -whose opinion I respect have spoken highly of them. - -He represented _The Daily Express_ in Paris at the time the war broke -out. He was the most conscientious of men, and he grappled with the -extra work that grew up with the war with a fierce and fanatical -energy. He overworked himself, and the horror of the war appears -to have got on his nerves. He disappeared from Paris and was found -wandering alone in London, neurasthenic, beaten, purposeless. A week or -two later he died. - -Courlander was a good example of a not unusual type of man one -frequently meets in Fleet Street—a type that, in the end, is bound -to meet either failure or tragedy. He was too highly strung for the -rigours of the game: too sensitive; too ambitious for his weak frame. -The type either takes to drink or wears itself out long before middle -age. Courlander was an abstemious man; perhaps if he had “let himself -go” occasionally, he would have stood the strain of his work better. -When I saw him, he was always busy, always up to date, always writing -or going to write a novel in his spare time. He had very little -inventive faculty and used to worry over his plots and worry his -friends over them. “Plots! ... as if plots matter if you have anything -to say!” I used to urge. And then he would look at me, mystified. - -“But, Cumberland, what can you know about it? You have never written a -novel.” - -“Oh, but I have,” I would reply, “but no one will publish them.” - -“Ah! that’s the reason.” - -And he really believed that that _was_ the reason. - - * * * * * - -Ivan Heald was a colleague of Courlander—a colleague any man in Fleet -Street would have been glad to possess. Heald was original, and he -created a record in so far as he was the first and, so far as I know, -the only man to be employed by a British daily paper to write a “funny -story” each day. He made a wide reputation, a reputation that, no -doubt, pleased him, but he had no real ambition. People who “got on” -rather amused him—that is to say, if their success was won at the -expense of experience of life. I never met a man more full of zest for -life, a man more eager for experience, a man who retained his youth so -successfully. He was vivid, careless, tolerant and, in spite of every -appearance to the contrary, essentially serious-minded. It was the -simple pleasures of life that attracted him. - -He had no scholarship, but his mind was well ordered, and his -appreciation of natural and artistic beauty was of the keenest. - -I remember that when we were holidaying together at Oxford he would -become almost angry with me because I could not immediately perceive -the beauty of certain lines—the outlines of trees, the curve of a -table-napkin, the pattern made by the ropes of a tent, and so on. - -“You should get Eddie or Norman Morrow to go a walk with you,” he said. -“_They_ would make you see things.” - -He loved folk-songs, Irish peasants, the plays of Synge, the Russian -Ballet, the Thames, the homely comfort of a country inn. His feeling -for family life was strong, and Friday evenings at the Healds’, where -one met his mother and sisters, as clever if not so vivid as he -himself, were one of the great recurring pleasures of many men’s lives. - -He was wounded in Gallipoli, nursed back to health, transferred to the -R.F.C., and died (in all probability, for the exact manner of his death -is not certainly known) in the air. A death he would have desired. But -Ivan Heald should not have died, and sometimes I am tempted to think -that he still lives, that something in him still lives—something that -was rich and strange and beautiful. The other day I came across one of -the little notes he used to scribble to me. It is written from Ireland, -and because it is so like him I give it here: - - Dear Gerald,—If only I had the nice stiff paper and the delicate - pen nib, I would try to write a letter to you like the ones you - send me. There came a thrill yesterday. As I sat in my little - parlour toying with my last month’s _Ulster Guardian_, there - leapt out of the page your poem, _Fashioned of Dreams You Are_ - [reprinted from a magazine]. It was as though the sea between us - had suddenly shrunk to a couple of glasses of whisky. I shall - never pass a Poet’s Corner again without looking for you. There - are poets here, too. An old-age pensioner describing a wonderful - fish he had seen told me that it was “a gay and antic fish, fresh - and smart and soople.” I shall leave for home to-morrow evening - and see you on Sunday night, and if there is one bottle of red - wine left in the world, you and I will surely drag it out of the - dust. How the bottles must wonder under their cobwebs at this - strange turn of fate—that the Master Butler may either transform - them into sparkling phrases and beautiful thoughts through rare - fellows like us, or send them to dreary death in the paunch of - fools like —— - Ivan. - - * * * * * - -Dixon Scott used to throw me into little ecstasies by his reviews in -_The Manchester Guardian_, and I often used to wonder if I should -meet him. Our paths crossed for a brief minute not long before we -left England—he to meet his death in France, and I to sit and wait in -Serbia. It was at the end of one of my evenings in the Café Royal, -where one used to sip absinthe, smoke a cigar, and listen to Orage. -It was “Time, gentlemen, please”: 12-30 A.M.: in Army parlance, 0030 -hours. We were all very merry as we crowded into Regent Street, and I -heard a voice behind me say: “Dixon Scott.” - -I turned round immediately. - -“Are you Dixon Scott?” I asked a man—a man who looked as unlike my -preconceived picture of him as possible. - -“Yes, and someone has just told me you are Gerald Cumberland.” - -“How awfully jolly,” said I, “for now I have the opportunity of telling -you how much I admire your wonderful genius.” - -“Tophole!” said he. “I love praise, don’t you?” - -“Ra-_ther_!” said I. - -And then I fought for a taxi and saw Scott no more. - - * * * * * - -Barry Pain, like the gentleman who used to be known as Adrian Ross, -leads a double intellectual life. He earns his bread by writing -humorous literature; he is the king of modern jesters; but secretly -(and perhaps in shame) he studies philosophy and metaphysics and is -known to have written a big two-volume work dealing with the furtive -processes of the human mind. He is a scholar, but Fate has made of him -a manufacturer of jokes. While his tougher intellectual faculties are -wrestling with the basic problems of the universe—the whence, whither -and why of things—his observing eye is noting the little discrepancies -of life, the jolly frailties of human nature, the absurdities of our -everyday existence. - -He revealed little of his capacity for humour when he entertained me to -whisky and soda at his club. I found a big, bearded and rather fleshy -man rolling about in a very easy chair. I had been sent to interview -him by one of those very pushing newspapers that, in the Silly Season -especially, run absurd “stories.” I have not the slightest recollection -of the particular story that took me to Barry Pain, but I am perfectly -certain that it was preposterous, and I am perfectly certain that -my news editor—he was Stanley Bishop, of blessed memory—expected me -to bring back to the office several gems of humour tempted from the -brain and stolen from the lips of the famous writer. But Pain was coy. -Perhaps he does not believe in giving away jokes for which coin of the -realm is usually paid. - -I presented my “story” to him and tried to make him talk about it, but -he looked glum and stared stonily into the empty fire-grate. - -“Really,” he began, at length, “I can’t think of anything to say. Can -you? If you can think of something very clever, put it in your article -and say I said it. Yes, do say I said it. But, of course, it must be -very clever.” - -And he lapsed into a long, depressed silence. I was very glad when a -friend of his popped his head into the room and shouted: “What about -that game of bridge?” I rose hastily and escaped. - - * * * * * - -It would be difficult to find a more picturesque figure than R. B. -Cunninghame Graham. I always picture him sitting on a bare-backed -Mexican steed, his shirt open at the throat, a long whip in one hand, -a lasso in the other, his eyes, like Blake’s tiger, burning bright, -his boots fantastically spurred, his hat flapping in the wind, and -his steed galloping _ventre à terre_. In South and Central America, -no doubt, he does run wild, but in London of late years he has always -been most respectable. And yet even West End respectability cannot kill -his picturesqueness. He has a shining mind, and everything he says is -youthful and spirited. - -Most of his literary enthusiasms are for the younger—the -youngest—generation, but as his mind is essentially uncritical and -impulsive, his judgments are not very trustworthy. I remember his -praising unreservedly a young alleged poet who in recent years has made -himself known by his scholarship and impudence, and, as far as I could -gather, it was chiefly his impudence that had attracted Cunninghame -Graham. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MUSICAL CRITICS - - -Not until quite recently has musical criticism been taken seriously -either by the London or provincial Press. In the old days of the -sixties, when Wagner came to London (I am writing many miles away from -books, but surely it was in the sixties that Wagner visited us?), there -was not a single open-minded musical critic on the British Press. J. W. -Davison, the very powerful _Times_ critic, was not only a fool, but, -what is much more dangerous, he was a learned fool. He treated Wagner -shamefully, and he did more than his share to bring our country into -musical disrepute among the cultured men of other nations. Joseph -Bennett, of _The Daily Telegraph_, was a fluent writer who contrived -to say less in a full column than a man like Ernest Newman or R. A. -Streatfeild or Samuel Langford can say in a couple of lines. He footled -gaily for many years, wielded enormous power, and did nothing whatever -to advance the cause of music in England. - -As a commercial asset, Joseph Bennett must have been invaluable to the -proprietors of _The Daily Telegraph_. For, like Davison, he had great -influence. People read him. Even in my own time, when an important -new work was produced, we used to question each other: “What does -Old Joe say?” And, most unfortunately, it mattered a great deal what -Old Joe did say, though anyone who knew much about music was very -well aware that nine times out of ten Bennett would be wrong. If he -damned a work—well, that work _was_ damned. No musical critic to-day -wields such power as his, though there are at least a score of writers -on music who have ten times his gifts. His present successor, for -example, Mr Robin Legge, is incomparably a finer musician, a much -more open-minded man, and a student of infinitely more culture, than -Bennett. Yet his influence, I imagine, is not so great as that of his -predecessor. One cannot say that Bennett stooped to his public, for -Bennett could not stoop; if he _had_ stooped, he would have disappeared -altogether. No: he _was_ the public: the people: the common people. He -had the point of view of the man in the back street. - -But to-day things are changed. The musical critic is no longer -primarily a raconteur, a gossiper, a chatterer. As a rule, he is a -man of culture, of experience, of solid musical attainments. He earns -little—anything from one hundred and fifty pounds to five hundred -pounds a year, though, no doubt, in very rare instances, he may be -paid more than the latter figure. Musical criticism, therefore, is not -a profession that seduces the ambitious man, for the ambitious man of -materialistic views may more easily earn three times what the Press -has to offer him by selling imitation jewellery or doing anything else -that money-making people do. When E. A. Baughan, now dramatic critic -of _The Daily News_, was editing _The Musical Standard_ more than -twenty years ago, he wrote me a very earnest letter beseeching me not -to become a musical critic on account of the payment being so meagre. -“If you have a desk, stick to it; if you are a commercial traveller, -remain a commercial traveller” was his advice in essence. But I would -rather be a musical critic on one hundred and fifty pounds a year than -a stockbroker earning fifteen hundred pounds. I love money, but I love -music and journalism more, and the three years I spent in Manchester -with an income of three hundred pounds were full of happiness, brimful -of great days when I felt my mind growing and my spirit taking unto -itself wings. - -E. A. Baughan is not, I think, a musician in the true sense of the -word, nor does he claim to be, but I imagine that, being musical and -having the itch for writing, he took the first journalistic work that -offered itself. That work was the editing of _The Musical Standard_. -Subsequently he went to _The Morning Leader_ as musical critic, and -then to _The Daily News_ as dramatic critic. He is sane, level-headed, -honest, but not conspicuously brilliant. His musical work, judged by a -high standard, was poor. He had not sufficient knowledge to guide him -to a right judgment when faced by a new problem. Hugo Wolf was such a -problem, and if ever Baughan reads now what he wrote about Hugo Wolf -some fifteen years ago, he must, I imagine, tingle with shame to the -tips of his toes. - -As a dramatic critic he has secured an honourable and enviable -position. I used to meet him very frequently at first nights, and -always thought him a trifle _blasé_ and almost wholly devoid of -imagination, subtlety and true artistic feeling. He has not the -artist’s attitude towards life, and he would probably bring an action -for slander against you if you said he had. - - * * * * * - -I was never introduced to C. L. Graves, the musical critic of _The -Spectator_ and the well-known humorous writer, but on one occasion I -sat next to him at a very important concert, and in conversation found -him an extremely courteous but rather baffled man. His knowledge of -music is that of the cultured amateur. His mind but grudgingly admits -“advanced” work, and I, as a modern, regret that an intellect so -charming, so gracious, so able, should be even occasionally occupied in -passing judgment on work that has its being entirely outside his mental -horizon. But I doubt very much if _The Spectator_ has any influence on -the musical life of London, though I imagine that Dr Brewer, Mr T. H. -Noble, Sir Hubert Parry, Sir Charles V. Stanford and Sir Alexander -Mackenzie read Mr Graves with regularity and approval. - - * * * * * - -But the man whom all of us who write about music honour most of all -is Ernest Newman, of _The Birmingham Daily Post_. Here we have a -first-rate intellect functioning with absolute sureness and with -almost fierce rapidity. As a scholar, no man is better equipped; as -a writer, he ranks with the highest; for fearlessness and inflexible -intellectual honesty, he has no equal. His books on Wagner and Hugo -Wolf and the volume entitled _Musical Studies_ are head and shoulders -above any volumes of musical criticism ever published in our language. -But though his knowledge of music is encyclopædic, music is but one -of many subjects upon which he is an authority. Under another name -he has published a volume on philosophy which, on its appearance, -created something like a sensation; unfortunately, this book ceased to -be procurable within a few weeks of its publication. Poetry, French -and German literature, sociology and psychology are but a few of the -subjects upon which he is as well qualified to write as he is on music. - -Why does he hide himself in Birmingham? Well, if you are a musical -critic in London, it is impossible to do any solid work. All day and -almost every day you are at concerts and operas, and you are sadly in -danger of becoming a mere reporter. Newman’s post in Birmingham leaves -him some leisure in which to write more important work. - -I never think of Newman without wondering if ever he will be given the -chance to achieve the work that is nearest his heart. That work is a -full and complete history of music. For this task he is intellectually -well equipped, but the labour in which it would involve him calls for -years of leisure. Time and again he has planned work—notably, a book -on Montaigne—which, for lack of leisure, he has been compelled to -abandon. He was made for finer things than newspaper work, and though -he has made an indelible impression on musical thought in this and -other countries, his life will be largely wasted if the latter half of -it has to be spent in writing daily criticism and occasional articles. - -Newman’s psychology is peculiarly complex. Though there is a vein of -cruelty in him, he is yet sensitive to the suffering of other people. I -was with him on one occasion when Bantock told him that a certain enemy -of his (Newman’s) had just died. The effect of this news on Newman was -to me most unexpected. He started a little. “Good God!” he said; “poor, -poor devil.” And for the rest of the evening he sat gloomy and silent. -The thought of death is intolerable to him. His repulsion from it is as -much physical as nervous. Though, on occasion, a stern and relentless -critic, he reacts morbidly to criticism of himself. He is highly -strung, imaginative, rationalistic; he believes little and trusts not -at all, loves intensely and hates bitterly. Vain he is, also, and he -clings almost despairingly to what remains of his youth. - -It is some few years since I saw Newman in close intimacy, but when -he was on the staff of _The Manchester Guardian_ and, later on, when -he removed to Birmingham, I was at his house very frequently, and a -very small circle of friends used to pass long evenings in delicious -fooling. In those days Newman could throw off twenty-five years of -his age and become a high-spirited and impish boy. I remember one -night when, a _macabre_ mood or, rather, a mood of extravagantly high -spirits having descended upon us, one of our company, a lady, simulated -sudden illness and death. We dressed her in a shroud, placed pennies -on her eyes and candles at her head and feet. But in the middle of -this foolery, Newman disappeared, and when it was all over and he had -returned, he was in a sombre mood. It was not because we had trifled -with a terrible fact in life that he was disturbed and distrait, but -because we had unwittingly cut into his shrinking mind and hurt it by -reminding him of something he would fain forget. Insanity repelled him -in the same violent manner, and all who knew him intimately when he -was writing his book on Hugo Wolf will remember that Wolf’s warped and -poisoned psychology obsessed and dominated him. - -But often Newman would spend an evening in playing modern songs to -us—Bantock’s _Ferishtah’s Fancies_, Wolf’s _Mörike Lieder_, and so on. -I can see him now as, his clever, rather saturnine face abundantly -alive, he described Richard Strauss’s _Ein Heldenleben_, telling us how -the music of the harps stained the texture of the music in a magical -way, like one flinging wine on some secretly coloured fabric. Those -evenings are to me among the most valued of my life. I remember how my -wife and I used to walk home under a long avenue of trees very late in -the spring nights, the gummy smell of buds in our nostrils, Newman’s -voice still in our ears, and our minds fermenting deliciously with a -kind of happiness we had not experienced before. - -Those days are gone for ever: days of a recovered youth; evenings that -were romantic just because they were evenings; nights when, in silence, -one dreamed long and long, the body sunk deep in unconsciousness, the -soul ranging and mounting and, in the morning, returning to its home -subtly changed and infinitely refreshed.... Newman opened for me a -world which, but for him, I do not think I ever should have beheld; -nor, indeed, should I ever have been aware of that world’s existence. - - * * * * * - -I have written of Samuel Langford elsewhere in this book, and I have -little to add here. He succeeded Newman on _The Manchester Guardian_, -and I recall the curiosity with which many of us read his first -articles, fearing that anything he might write must of necessity fall -so far below Newman’s high standard as to be unreadable. We were soon -reassured. Langford and Newman have little in common, and there is no -basis upon which one can compare them. And, at first, Langford had to -feel his way, to master his _métier_, to acquire some of his literary -technique.... - -Our respective newspaper offices were situated near each other, and on -our way from the Free Trade Hall he used often to persuade me to drink -with him before we began our work. “We shall do each other good,” he -would say. And his short, ungainly figure, with its thick neck carrying -a nobly-shaped head, would make its way to the bar where, placing a -pile of music on the counter, he would turn to me and talk, both of -us forgetting to order our drinks, and neither of us caring for the -lateness of the hour.... Next morning, he would frequently come round -to my house immediately after breakfast, look in at the window of my -study, and wave a newspaper in the air. I was always deep in work, for -at that time I reviewed eight or ten books every week, but I remember -no occasion on which I did not welcome him most gladly. And sometimes -I would spend an afternoon in his great garden, worshipping flowers, -and watch him as, with fumbling hands, he turned the face of a blossom -to the sky and looked at it with I know not what thoughts. I know -nothing of horticulture, but Langford knows everything, and often he -would talk, more to himself than to me, about the deep mysteries of his -science. And, saying farewell at the little gate, he would sometimes -crush into my arms a large sheaf of coloured leaves and flowers, wave -an awkward hand, and shamble back to his low-built, picturesque house -set deep in blooms. Though twenty years my senior, neither he nor I -felt the long spell of years lying between us. And sometimes I am -tempted to go back to Manchester to renew a friendship for the loss of -which all the great happiness that London has brought me has, it seems -at times, been but inadequate compensation. - - * * * * * - -During my three years as musical critic on _The Manchester Courier_ I -had some curious experiences, and to me the most curious of them all -was the persistent manner in which attempts were made by people in -Berlin to enlist my sympathies on behalf of an extremely able musician, -Oskar Fried. It almost seemed to me that a secret society existed in -Germany for the sole purpose of getting Oskar Fried a job in England. -Letters written in English came to me from total strangers, informing -me at great length and with stupid tautology that Fried was the one -hope of musical Young Germany. He had Ideals; he was a Leader; he had -the Prophetic Vision; he was the man who was going to promote and lead -a new Romantic Movement. “Very good,” said I to myself, “but what on -earth has all this to do with me?” - -I was not long in finding out. A young Englishman resident in Berlin, -and obviously deeply saturated with the German spirit, wrote to me to -say that, in his opinion, Fried was the only man in Europe to fill the -post that Dr Richter had vacated as conductor of the Hallé Concerts -Society in Manchester. The letter arrived at a time when various -musicians were being, as it were, “tried” as conductors of the Hallé -Concerts, and my unknown correspondent was anxious that Fried should be -invited to conduct one or two concerts. To this letter I sent a polite -but non-committal reply. I knew Oskar Fried’s name just as I knew the -names of a dozen pushing German conductors; but I knew no more. My -persistent correspondent, to whom I will give the name of Purvis, wrote -again, sending me a typewritten copy of a book he had written on his -friend. It was a highfalutin document of idolatry. Fried was his idol, -and Purvis gushed and gushed and gushed again. But the whole thing was -done with truly Germanic thoroughness. I felt that I was being “got -at,” and though I resented it, I was greatly amused. I led him on. I -was anxious to see this gushing disciple, this seeming advertising -agent, this, as it appeared to me, wholly Germanised Englishman. So I -replied to him a second time, and one evening he called upon me. He -was a boy of twenty-one with a beard, a manner that was intended to be -ingratiating but was intolerably insolent, and a self-assurance truly -Napoleonic. He tickled me hugely and, as I have more than a grain of -malice in me, I opened out to him, flattered him heavily, and talked -music with him. But, though he loved the flattery, he was level-headed -enough to stick to his point—that I should do all in my power to secure -for Oskar Fried the Hallé conductorship. And he ended the interview -with the astonishing announcement that Fried had already been engaged -by the Hallé Concerts Society to conduct two of their concerts. - -By what devious and subterranean ways this was achieved, I do not know, -but I have no doubt that scores of influential Germans in Manchester -were approached in a similar way to what I was. - -Oskar Fried, with his idolatrous lackey, came uninvited to my house. -They arrived at ten and left at six. I found Fried a very remarkable -man—magnetic, of forceful personality, but with the manners and point -of view of a gutter-snipe. He asked me point-blank what I could do for -him. - -“In what way?” I asked him, through Purvis, our interpreter. - -“It is obvious in what way,” returned Purvis, without passing on the -question to Fried. - -“Well,” said I, “I have already written about Fried in the papers. -And, really, I have no influence. I am not very popular with the Hallé -Concerts Society people, and if I were to begin to recommend Fried.... -But, in any case, I have not yet heard your friend conduct. It is -impossible for me to recommend a man of whose talents I know nothing -save by hearsay. You see that, don’t you?” - -“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Purvis. “You are a musical critic in -Manchester, whilst I am a musical critic in Berlin, and I tell you that -Fried is the man you want here. Surely that is enough? You must take it -from me. _I_ say it.” - -I smiled and, glancing at Fried, watched his thin, eager face, with its -peering eyes which looked inquiringly first at Purvis and then at me. - -Purvis came next day and the day after that, and I began to wonder -in precisely what relation he stood to Fried. When together, they -seemed to be just business friends, and it occurred to me that the -long typewritten _Life of Fried_ that Purvis had written was merely -a gigantic piece of bluff. Finally, I decided to cut both men adrift -altogether, and the next time Purvis called I was out. - -When I heard Fried conduct, I at once recognised his great powers: he -had undoubted genius. But he was never invited to become the permanent -conductor of the Hallé Concerts Society. Perchance his table manners -were adversely reported upon by Dr Brodsky, or Mr Gustave Behrens, or -the discreet and reserved Mr Forsyth. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -MANCHESTER PEOPLE - - -If there is one thing more than another that the ordinary person cannot -endure, it is to hear a man from Manchester praising his own city. -Somebody from Leeds may tell him how beautiful a town Leeds is, and -he will not turn a hair; he will listen unruffled to a Liverpudlian -discoursing on the peculiar glories of the great city on the Mersey; -but if the man from Manchester wishes to be tolerated, he must never -let fall a word in praise of the place that witnessed his astounding -birth. Why this is so, I cannot explain. I merely record the fact. - -So, for the moment, I will not praise Manchester. I will go even -farther than that. I will agree with you that it rains there every -day, that it is the ugliest city in Britain, that it is cocksure -and conceited, that its politics are damnable, that its free trade -principles are loathsome, and that its public men are aitchless -and gross. I will, I say, agree to all this. You may say anything -disagreeable you like about Manchester, and I shall not care. -Nevertheless, if I could not live in London, Manchester is the city to -which I would go. I have stayed in Athens, and Athens is a marvellous -city; I know my Paris, and Paris is not without fascination; I have -been to Cairo, and the bazaars of Cairo seemed to me so wonderful that -I held my breath as I passed through them; I know Antwerp and some of -the half-dead cities of Belgium, and in Bruges I have felt as decadent -as any nasty Belgian poet. But these places are not Manchester. They -are not so glorious as Manchester, not so vital, not so romantic, not -so adventurous.... But already I have broken my word: I have begun to -praise Manchester in my second paragraph. Let me begin a third. - -It might be thought that the centre of Manchester’s intellectual life -is the University, but this is not so. Nor is it the Cathedral, nor -the big technical schools, nor yet the Gaiety Theatre. These things -count, but none of them precisely radiates intellectual energy. You do -not (unless you wish to be disappointed) go to the Bishop for ideas, -or to the man of business for culture, nor to Miss Horniman for a wide -and generous view of life. For these things, and for many other things -besides, you go to _The Manchester Guardian_. In _The Daily Mail Year -Book_, against the entry _Manchester Guardian_, you will find these -words: “The best newspaper in the world.” Now, you would imagine that -if _The Daily Mail_ really believed that, _The Daily Mail_ would strain -every nerve to be as like _The Manchester Guardian_ as possible. But -Lord Northcliffe knows better than that. He knows, we all know, that -the best newspaper in the world is not going to be the best seller -in the world. The word “best,” when applied to a newspaper, does not -signify a newspaper that shrieks louder than any other newspaper, that -has the greatest number of “stunts,” that lays reputations low in -the dust, that holds Cabinet Ministers in the hollow of its hand. It -signifies, among other things, a paper whose editor will not sacrifice -a single ideal in order to increase his circulation, who has the power -of infusing his staff with his own enthusiasms, and who regards the -arts as a necessary part of a decent human existence. - -_The Daily Mail_ once upon a time compelled the whole of the British -Isles to start growing sweet-peas. That is one kind of power. That is -the kind of power that _The Manchester Guardian_ does _not_ possess. - -Yet, I ask you, is there a more irritating newspaper in the whole of -Christendom than _The Manchester Guardian_? How many times have we -not all thrown it down in disgust and vowed never to read it again, -only to buy it faithfully next morning? It would sometimes appear that -every crank in England is busily engaged in airing his crazy views in -its correspondence columns. It would sometimes appear that the three -greatest highbrows in the country had laid their heads together to -write the leading article. It would sometimes appear that conscientious -objectors were really the only generous, manly and heroic people left -in this mad world. - - * * * * * - -Let me tell you a true story of a man who for years has been, and -still is, on the staff of _The Manchester Guardian_. I tell this -strange story, partly because it _is_ strange, and partly because it -illustrates so finely the kind of reverence that so many citizens of -Manchester have for the best paper in the world. - -Some thirty years ago a male child was born to a worthy and not -unprosperous man in Manchester. Now this man had one faith, one -gospel, one ambition. His faith was of the Liberal persuasion. (Why, -may I ask in passing, do people refer to Jews as men and women of the -Jewish “persuasion”? Can a man, indeed, be persuaded to Jewry?) But to -resume. His faith, as I said, was Liberal, his gospel _The Manchester -Guardian_, his ambition to have some close connection with that paper. -Being unfitted by the nature of his own talents to join the staff, he -resolved that in the fullness of time that distinction should belong to -his son. So he wrote to the editor, thus: - - Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that last night my wife - gave birth to a son. It is my ambition that, when his intellect - is ripe and his powers mature, he shall be chosen by you as a - member of your staff. His education, his whole upbringing, shall - be directed to that end. I shall report to you his progress from - time to time. - - I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, - - —— ——. - -I have not this letter before me; indeed, I have never seen it. But I -am assured it was couched in those or similar terms. - -Years passed. Harry—we will call him Harry—survived the perils of -babyhood and was sent to a school for the sons of gentlemen, and the -editor was duly apprised of the fact. Harry studied hard, for his -ambition was even that of his father. Harry took scholarships, Harry -had a private tutor, and, eventually, Harry went to the ’varsity. In -the meantime, reports passed at regular intervals from Harry’s father -to the editor of _The Manchester Guardian_, who now, as nurses say, -began to sit up and take notice. He desired to meet Harry. He did meet -him. Harry took an honours degree, came back to Manchester, and was -duly installed among the blessed, where he still is. Harry’s dream, -Harry’s father’s dream, is fulfilled. But are those reports, I wonder, -still being written. As, for example: - - Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that my son, Harold, - contemplates marriage. It has always appeared to me that the - married state is peculiarly useful in developing.... - - * * * * * - -But not all the members of _The Manchester Guardian_ staff are ’varsity -men: for which, indeed, one may be thankful. The men of letters whom -they admire most—Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Joseph Conrad and Arnold -Bennett—never even dimly espied the towers and spires of Oxford and -Cambridge. But the paper has the manner of Oxford, though not Oxford’s -intellectual outlook. - -For myself, I have never been on the staff of this paper, though I have -written scores of articles for its commercial pages. Some of the most -distinguished intellects in the country write for it regularly—Allan -Monkhouse, whose play, _Mary Broome_, has not been and scarcely can be -sufficiently praised; C. E. Montague, now in the Army; Professor C. H. -Herford, whose scholarship is in excess of his human feeling; Samuel -Langford, whom I have dealt with elsewhere in this book; J. E. Agate, -whose fastidious style is a pure delight. Indeed, nearly every man who -can write and who has something definitely new to say will find the -columns of this paper open to him. - - * * * * * - -The drawback to social life in Manchester is that there is no central -meeting-place where kindred spirits can foregather. It is true, there is -the Arts Club, but when you have said the Arts Club is there, you have -said all that it is necessary to say about the Arts Club. It is true, -also, that if you stroll into the American bar of the Midland Hotel -at almost any hour of the day, you are pretty sure to meet someone -amusing; but you really can’t make music, or rehearse plays, or play -the fool (at least, not to any great extent) in an American bar. The -consequence of this lack of a good democratic club is that all kinds -of little coteries are formed, and it is about one of these little -coteries that I wish to tell you. - -Of course, Manchester is not London. You know that. In London, if you -don’t like one play, you can go to another. If the music that Sir Henry -J. Wood gives you is not to your taste, you can go to hear Mr Landon -Ronald, or (if truly desperate) join the Philharmonic Society. But in -Manchester this is not so. You have either to like the music or do -without it. Well, some years ago we didn’t like it, and Jack Kahane, -talking to me one day in a mood of disgust, casually remarked: - -“I’m going to kick Richter out of Manchester. We’ve had enough of him.” - -With Kahane, to think is to act, and within a week he had formed the -Manchester Musical Society and begun a Press campaign against the -famous old conductor. This Society was Kahane’s new toy, and he played -with it to some purpose. We talked a great deal, gave innumerable -concerts, hired lecturers, wrote articles, and held enormously -thrilling committee meetings. Our programmes consisted almost -exclusively of new and very “modern” music, just the kind of music that -the guarantors of the Hallé Concerts Society detested. We were all -for the new spirit in music, and some of us in our enthusiasm liked -new music just because it _was_ new. In three months Richter began to -totter on his throne and, later on, he resigned his post, and now Sir -Thomas Beecham most fitly reigns in his stead. - -This little Society was extremely typical of Manchester. It was typical -because it was enthusiastic, because every member of it worked hard -for no monetary reward, and because it had a definite object in view -and achieved that object. Above all, it was young; the spirit of it -was young. I have never found in London a band of young men and women -putting their noses to the grindstone for months on end with the sole -object of achieving an artistic ideal. People in London exploit art, -but they do not work at art for art’s sake. Manchester is England’s -musical metropolis. Elgar said so ten years ago; Beecham echoed his -words the other day. I claim for Manchester also that the level of -culture is much higher than it is in London. In proportion to its -size Manchester has during the last fifty years given to England more -writers, musicians, politicians, actors, business men, reformers and -social workers of distinction than any other city.... But all this, I -think, is a little offensive—— - -And yet how difficult it is for the stranger to understand -Manchester!—and difficult in spite of the fact that Manchester loves -being understood. - -Mr J. Nicol Dunn, who, as editor of _The Morning Post_ and, later, -of _The Johannesburg Star_, did most brilliant work, utterly failed -to understand Lancashire people when he came to edit _The Manchester -Courier_. I think he regarded them as a peculiar race of savages. “A -wealthy Lancashire manufacturer,” he said to me once, “will ask you to -dinner and will order a bumper of champagne. But if you ask him for a -half-guinea subscription for a political society, he will give you a -curt refusal. What is to be done with such folk?” Dunn thought us hard -and unimaginative, incapable of seeing in what direction lay our best -interests, and utterly childish in our notions of political economy. - -“Cumberland,” he said, unexpectedly, one evening, “is your father a -Conservative?” - -“He is,” said I. - -“What paper does he take?” - -“_The Manchester Guardian._” - -“I _knew_ he did! Of course he would take _The Manchester Guardian_! -Good Lord! To what a strange set of people have I come!” - -And he grunted and went on with his work. - -My native town is young and strenuous and guileless. Its vanity is the -vanity of the clever youngster who loves “showing off” in his exuberant -way. So young and guileless is it that it is the easiest thing in -the world to deceive it. How easy it is to deceive Manchester is -illustrated by the case of Captain Schlagintweit, the German consul for -some years in that city. - -Schlagintweit was an enormous German whose mission in life it was to -induce Manchester to believe that Germany was our bosom friend, that -Germany’s first thought was to help Great Britain, and that the two -peoples were so closely akin in their spiritual aims that a quarrel -between them, even a temporary misunderstanding, was utterly and for -ever impossible. As I have said, he was enormous: a great man with a -fair round belly: a man who talked a lot and ate a lot, and who, when -he talked even with a solitary companion, spoke as though he were -addressing a huge audience. He “bounded” beautifully and with so much -aplomb and zest that it seemed right he should bound and do nothing -else. - -I met him everywhere—in the Press Club, at concerts, at the Schiller -Anstalt, in restaurants; and nine times out of ten he was in the -company either of a journalist, a member of the City Council, or a -Member of Parliament. I never knew any man who worked so hard for his -country as he did. He distilled sweet poison into our ears and we -believed him every time. - -I must confess I felt rather flattered by the way in which he -constantly sought my company. I thought for a long time that he -loved me for my own sweet sake, and it was not until the, for him, -tragic _dénouement_ came that I realised that it was because I was a -journalist, and for that reason alone, he dined and wined me and talked -discreetly of Germany’s heartache for Great Britain. As I very rarely -wrote on international politics, I do not think his evil counsel had -any appreciable effect on my work, but it is impossible to imagine that -his overflowing bonhomie, his cleverness, his subtle scheming did not -greatly influence the thought of Manchester. He was made much of by -more than one member of _The Manchester Guardian_ staff. - -His daughter came to sing at a concert I organised, and it was after -this concert that he so overwhelmed me with flattery that I looked at -him in amazement. I said to myself: “You are a humbug.” But on looking -at him again, I said: “No; you’re not a humbug: you’re a fool.” A third -scrutiny, however, left me in doubt, and I said: “I’m damned if I know -what you are.” Certainly I never suspected he was first cousin to a -spy, that he was paid handsomely by his Government for his propaganda -work in Manchester, and that he secretly despised and hated us. - -Shortly after war broke out, many things were discovered about -Schlagintweit that had hitherto been unknown, and he was led, -handcuffed, to Knutsford gaol, but not before he had broken through the -five-mile radius to which, as a German, he was confined, and not before -he had motored through a far-off district where tens of thousands of -our soldiers were encamped. - -I do not believe London would have been deceived by him, and I am sure -that Ecclefechan wouldn’t. Yet Manchester was. - -Manchester is young, ingenuous, trusting, guileless. - - * * * * * - -Have you ever noticed (but you must have done!) that the self-made -man—and half the prosperous men in Manchester are self-made—will -frequently part with a ten-pound note much more readily than he will -with a few pence? The economical habits of his youth still cling to and -dominate him, and he counts the halfpence and is careless of the pounds. - -One Saturday night in the summer, I was taking a walk with a friend in -the country ten or twelve miles from Manchester. Our talk was of County -cricket, in which my companion—a most magnificent person, with ships -sailing on half the oceans of the world—was greatly interested. For -three days Lancashire had been playing Yorkshire a very close match, -and we knew that by now the game would be over. - -“We sha’n’t know the result till we get _The Sunday Chronicle_ -to-morrow,” said X. regretfully. - -But, five minutes later, we met, most miraculously, a newsboy with a -bundle of papers under his arm. - -X. took a penny from his pocket, handed it to the boy, and received -_The Evening News_ in exchange. - -“Very sorry, sir,” said the boy, “but I’ve got no change. I’ve got no -halfpennies.” - -X. turned to me. - -“Oh, I’ve no change either,” said I, amused. - -With an exclamation of annoyance, X. handed the paper back to the boy -and pocketed his penny. - -After we had proceeded a few paces: - -“Lancashire has won by two wickets,” he said. “I saw it in the corner -in the Stop Press news.” - -Now, X. had great riches. - -An incredible story, isn’t it? But it is true, and it gives you the -self-made Manchester man—at least, one side of him—in a nutshell. - - * * * * * - -It used to be a great delight to me to see Dr J. Kendrick Pyne walking -near the Cathedral or in Albert Square, for he used to suggest to me -a bygone age and a remote place. His short, thick-set figure used to -move with the utmost precision, unhurried, unperturbed. His plump, -clean-shaven face, his well-shaped head, surmounted by a new silk hat -of old-fashioned shape, his gold-rimmed spectacles with the peering -eyes behind them, his inevitable umbrella, and his correct dress—all -these conspired to make a figure of great dignity, a figure that always -seemed to carry about with it the atmosphere of the Cathedral whose -organ he played for so many smooth years. There hung about him the -tradition of the famous Dr Wesley. - -In character and disposition also he belonged to a different era. He -never underestimated the importance of the position he held in the city -as Cathedral organist, City organist, and Professor at the Manchester -Royal College of Music, and wherever he went and in the execution of -whatever work to which he set his mind, his word was law. A very fine -type of Englishman. He would brook no interference from Bishop or -Dean, and his combative, upright spirit fought unceasingly to uphold -the dignity of his art. - -His childlike vanity was most alluring, and I used to love him for it -and respect him for the way he clung to his belief in himself. - -One day he took me to the town hall to look once more at the wonderful -series of frescoes that Ford Madox Brown painted in the great hall. -When he came to the fresco picturing the Duke of Bridgewater at the -ceremonial “opening” of the Bridgewater Canal, he pointed to the -features of the Duke, and inquired: - -“Whom do you think he resembles?” - -There was just a note of anxiety in his voice as though he were afraid -I should not be able to answer his question. For the life of me I could -not think of anyone who resembled Madox Brown’s Duke, and I stood -silent. Pyne then turned his face full upon me, and again inquired, -somewhat imperiously: - -“Whom do you think he resembles?” - -“Why,” exclaimed I, guessing wildly, “it is a portrait of you!” - -“Yes,” said he, with naïve satisfaction, “it is. I sat to Madox Brown -for the great Duke. The portrait is immortal.” - -But whether the portrait was immortal because Kendrick Pyne had sat for -it, or Madox Brown had painted it, I did not gather. - -On another occasion he again used the word “immortal,” but this time it -was in reference to one of his own works. - -“You know,” said he, apropos of something I have forgotten, “I should -have made a name as a writer if I had gone in for literature, but I -felt that music had stronger claims upon me. My organ-playing will not, -so to speak, live, because the art of the executant necessarily dies -with him. But my Mass in A flat is, in itself, enough to keep my name -immortal.” - -There was such innocent satisfaction in his tone, such a bland look -upon his face, that he seemed to me like a delicious grown-up child. - -But have not all men of genius this superb confidence in themselves? I -am convinced they have. Could they possibly “carry on” without it? But -only a few men of genius have the courage, or the artlessness, to speak -what is really in their hearts. - - * * * * * - -One of the “characters” of Manchester, a man who loves being a -character, is Mr Charles Rowley, who for an unconscionable number -of years has been doing splendid educational and recreative work -in Ancoats, a congeries of slums, a district of appalling poverty. -Here, in the Islington Hall, on most Sunday afternoons, one can hear -first-rate chamber music and, as a rule, a lecture delivered by some -local or London celebrity. I myself have heard Bernard Shaw and Hilaire -Belloc lecture there and, after the lectures, I have gone to the clean -little cottage where Mr Rowley occasionally entertains a few chosen -friends to tea and talk. - -I do not know if Mr Rowley is a Manchester man, but he is of a type -that I have found only in that city. He is combative and energetic; -he is a little red flame of enthusiasm. Though, no doubt, interested -in and pleased with himself, he is equally interested in local public -affairs and equally pleased with the people for whom he works. His -broad and pungent humour is just the kind of humour the so-called -lower classes understand, and his energy of mind and readiness of wit -are remarkable. I have seen him on several occasions talking to—or, -perhaps, talking _with_ is what I really mean—a huge audience in order -to keep them in good humour until the arrival of the lecturer of the -afternoon. He bandies jokes with anybody who cares to shout to him, and -he has the true democrat’s gift—he never by a look, a word or a gesture -implies that he is in any way superior to the meanest member of his -audience. These rough people love him, admire him and laugh at him. -And, of course, he is able to laugh at himself. Perhaps, all things -considered, he is the most human man I have met, and I like to think -that in him the spirit of Manchester is embodied. I do not mean you to -infer that I think the spirit of Manchester is the finest spirit in the -world, but I do believe that it is a spirit that might well be emulated -by many other towns. - -What is that spirit? Well, Manchester has a sincere and very proper -respect for success, and particularly for success that has been won -in the face of great difficulties. Manchester loves education and -knowledge, not only because these things are useful in achieving -success, but also for their own sake. Manchester is public-spirited, -proud of its traditions, loyal to its principles. It is cultured—not in -the super-refined, lily-fingered sense, but in the sense that it loves -literature, music, art. It is enthusiastic about these things; it works -hard to come by them and treasures them when they are obtained. - -One could, of course, say many disagreeable and true things about -Manchester, but as these have been said frequently by other people, I -refrain from repeating what is already known. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -CHELSEA AND AUGUSTUS JOHN - - -There is a prevalent opinion that Chelsea is the British counterpart of -the Quartier Latin, but the resemblance each bears to the other is only -superficial. The Quartier Latin and respectability are poles asunder; -its population does not only never think of respectability, but it does -not know what it is. Parisian Bohemians have no use for it. They do not -condemn it, for it may suit others; for themselves, it is as useless as -yesterday’s dinner. - -Chelsea is not in revolt against morals or anything else; for the -most part, it is quiet, law-abiding and hard-working. Very little is -demanded of new-comers; in order to obtain entrance to that magic land, -you must be a “good fellow,” you must have personality and a real love -of the arts, and you must be a democrat through and through. One thing -is never forgiven—a reference, however remote, to your own success. You -may be as successful as you like without creating the slightest envy, -but you must not thrust your success down other people’s throats. - -My own introduction to Chelsea was rather of a wholesale kind; indeed, -it would be truer to say that Chelsea was introduced to me. One evening -Ivan Heald and I finished a rather strenuous day’s work at the same -time. I had just finished my daily column of chat for _The Daily -Citizen_ when the telephone rang. “Is that you, Gerald? ... Yes, Ivan -speaking.... Finished? ... Cheshire Cheese? Right-o! It’s now thirteen -minutes past seven; we’ll meet at sixteen minutes past.” So while he -ran down Shoe Lane, I ran up Bouverie Street and we met at the door -of that caravanserai where, sooner or later, one comes across all the -bright spirits of Fleet Street and every American sightseer who sets -his foot on our shores. We feasted and, replete, adjourned to the bar -for gossip. But there was no one there to gossip with and, presently, -Ivan said: - -“Come to my flat and play Irish songs.” - -“But your piano’s such a poor one. Much better come to my place and -listen to Wagner.” - -So we jumped into a taxi and were soon racing through Sloane Square -for Chelsea Bridge on the way to my flat in Prince of Wales’s Road, -opposite Battersea Park. At the Bridge Heald tapped the window, and, -the taxi having stopped, he jumped out on to the pathway and promptly -closed the door upon me inside. - -“And now,” said Ivan, “do you know what you are going to do?” - -“Whatever you tell me, I suppose. What is it?” - -“You’re going home in this cab to prepare your wife for a lot of -visitors. Tell her there will be ten or maybe twenty. We sha’n’t want -any food; we’ll bring that with us. All we shall want is coffee. Ask -her if she’ll make gallons of coffee, Gerald. For the women, you know. -There’ll be whisky for us, won’t there?” he added rather wistfully. -“Now trot along. I sha’n’t be a quarter of an hour behind you.” - -“But, Ivan——” - -“But me not a single but,” he said, grinning, and turned away. - -Half-an-hour later a taxi-cab full of strangers carrying parcels -arrived at my flat. Heald was not with them. In answer to their ring, -my wife and I went to open the door to welcome them. - -“Come right in,” we said. And then they told us who they were and we -told them who we were. A couple of minutes later another taxi full of -strangers arrived. Still no Ivan Heald. It was now about ten o’clock, -and during the following hour Chelsea people still kept arriving, -some in cabs, some on foot. It appeared that Heald had routed up half -the people he knew in Chelsea and told them that he had found someone -“new,” that we were just “it,” and that the sooner we all got to know -each other the better. - -This “surprise party”—so dear to Americans—turned out a complete -success, though half the people had to sit on the floor. Norman Morrow, -away in a corner behind a pile of books, sang Irish songs, Herbert -Hughes played the piano in his brilliant way, and Harry Low and Eddie -Morrow, with two clever girl-models, acted plays that they invented on -the spur of the moment. Heald came in late, armed with loaves, butter, -cakes and fruit. Not until dawn (the month was June) did we separate. -I was to meet these delightful people many, many times later, but so -casual yet intimate was our relationship that I never heard—or, if I -heard, I soon forgot—the surnames of a few of them. We called each -other by our Christian names or by nicknames. - -Perhaps of all the Chelsea people Augustus John is the most -interesting. We became acquainted at the Six Bells, the famous King’s -Road hostelry, and he took me to his studio near at hand. It was a big -barn-like place with a ridiculous little stove that burned fussily -somewhere near the entrance and from which you never felt any heat -unless, absent-mindedly, you sat on the stove itself. The studio was -crowded with work of all kinds, the most conspicuous canvas being -a huge crayon drawing of a group of gipsies. Augustus John planted -me in a chair in front of this, seated himself on another chair and -stared—not at the picture, but—at me! Now, I had been told that John -does not suffer fools gladly, and I suspected from his inquisitorial -glance that he was waiting to see if I was of the detested brood. -Sooner or later I should have to speak, and I groped despairingly in -my mind for something sensible yet not obvious to say about his bold, -vivid and arresting picture. Through sheer apprehensiveness I found -nothing, so, after gazing at the canvas for a few minutes, I rose and -passed on to the next picture. John’s large, luminous eyes followed me. - -“You don’t like it,” he said, softly but decisively. - -“Oh yes, I do,” I answered, “or, rather—what I mean is that ‘like’ is -not the right word. It attracts me and repels me at the same time. It -makes me curious—curious about the gipsies themselves, but more curious -still about the man who has drawn them. But you didn’t make it for -anyone to ‘like,’ did you?” - -“No; I don’t suppose I thought of anyone at all. There the thing is, to -be taken or left, to be accepted by the onlooker or rejected.” - -“Quite. But to me it is not a passive kind of picture at all. It -thrusts itself on to you very violently, I think, and it rather demands -to be ‘taken,’ as you put it. It is not like your _Smiling Woman_, -for instance, who mysteriously glides into one’s mind, wheedling her -way as she goes. Your gipsies assault the mind. Your picture is quite -contemptuous of opinion.” - -He appeared to be satisfied, for he smiled; if I had proved myself a -fool, it was clear I was not the kind of fool he detested. - -We met often after that. I would see him two or three times a week in -the Six Bells. He used to drink beer, and he would talk in his slow -way, or listen to me, nodding occasionally and saying just a word now -and again. But John is the least loquacious of men. His presence makes -you feel comfortable, not only because his personality is tolerant -and roomy, but because you know that if you are boring him he will -not think twice about edging away to the billiard-room or telling you -abruptly that he must be “off.” Like so many very hard workers, he -appears to be an accomplished loafer. I have never seen him at work; I -don’t know anybody who has. I have never heard anybody say: “John can’t -come to-night because he’s busy.” I expect that when the fever is on -him, he keeps at his easel night and day. - -But perhaps you are wondering what Augustus John looks like? Have -you seen Epstein’s bust of him? Wonderfully good, of course; -extraordinarily good; but it is rather solemn—heavy, I mean. John is -not ponderous, and he does not wear the air of a prophet, and I have -never seen him look precisely like _that_. His hair is long.... Of -course, most of you will feel disposed to sneer at that; so should -I if it were anybody but John.... But he carries it off splendidly. -You know, even Liszt (at all events in his photographs) looked -frightfully conscious of his locks, but though John’s hair makes him -conspicuous, he does not appear conscious of his conspicuousness. He is -tall, deliberate in his movements, deep-voiced, very self-contained. -His shortish beard is red, and he has large eyes that, in some -extraordinary way, seem separate from his face; I mean, they belie it. -His features are so composed that one might think them expressionless; -but his eyes are brooding and deep and quiet. He has not the noisy, -fussy little eyes of the “trained observer,” the man who notices -everything and remembers nothing; he notices only what is essential to -him, the things that are necessary for him to notice.... Of course, I -haven’t described him in the least; I might have known I could not when -I began to try.... But it seems to me that the essential thing about -Augustus John is the quiet, lazy exterior which, in some peculiar way, -contrives to suggest hidden fires and volcanic energies. A Celt, of -course, and the mystery of the Celt hangs about him. - -I think John loves few things so much as simply sitting back in a chair -and looking at people: ruminating upon them, as it were; chewing the -cud of his thoughts. I remember his coming to my flat on one occasion -at one o’clock in the morning when he knew there was a party there. -His eyes were very bright and he came in rather eagerly, and rather -eagerly also he sat and watched us, sipping cold coffee as he did so -and occasionally raising his voice into a half-shout when something -happened that amused him. But though he sat until nearly all our guests -had departed, he scarcely spoke at all. - -And yet another evening I remember very vividly, an evening at Herbert -Hughes’s studio where, by candle-light, we used to have music every -Sunday evening and where, in the half darkness at the far end of that -long room, one could, if one wished, just sit and look on and perhaps -talk a little to one’s neighbour. There John sat in the dark, like a -Velasquez painting, his limbs thrown carelessly about, his head turned -gently towards a sparkling Irish girl who seemed to be teasing him. - -It is only now, when I have set myself to write about him, that I -realise how little, after all, I know about Augustus John, though I -have met him so often. He reveals himself most generously in his work, -though even there he keeps back more than he discloses. But I think -that even to his closest friends he reveals very little, and that -perhaps is why so many legendary stories about him are afloat. He has -the mystery of Leonardo. One feels that his personality hides a great -and important secret, but one feels also that that secret will remain -hidden for ever. Sombre he is, sombre yet vital, sombre and full of -humour. - - * * * * * - -Allusion to the impression that Augustus John gives of habitually -loafing reminds me that this characteristic is typical of Chelsea. They -are the most casual people in the world, and it is their casualness -that the worker-by-rote cannot understand. I know a score of studios -where one could walk in at any time of the day and be welcomed or, if -not welcomed, treated with most disarming frankness. If the owner of -the studio were busy on some work that had to be finished, he would -say: “There’s a drink there on the table and a smoke. Do what you like -but, for God’s sake, don’t talk!” Or: “Go round to the Bells, Old -Thing. I like you very much and all that sort of nonsense, but even you -can be a bit of a nuisance at ten in the morning. It’s like drinking -Benedictine before breakfast.” But receptions such as this latter are -very rare, and most artists—because they _are_ artists, I suppose—are -ready enough to throw down their work and play for half-an-hour. - -I always think of Norman and Edwin Morrow as typical artists. Norman, -who died almost in harness a short time ago, was absolutely disdainful -of success, or perhaps it would be truer to say that he was disdainful -of the means by which success is usually won. I imagine him looking -upon certain successful men and their work and saying to himself: “Only -the distinguished nowadays are unknown.” But he would say this with his -tongue in his cheek, laughing at himself, and knowing that the dictum -is only half true. He liked admiration—what artist does not?—but people -who liked things of his that he himself did not approve of made him -“tired.” - -Of course, those people who worship success—or, at all events, admire -it—are very difficult to bring to the belief that many artists are -almost indifferent to it. “Artists may _pretend_ to care nothing for -success, especially those who have failed to achieve it,” they say, -“but surely it is a case of sour grapes?” No man except a fool, it is -true, is wholly indifferent to money, but the type of artist of whom I -am now writing is tremendously casual about it. If money comes his way, -as it has in John’s case, well and good; if not, it can very well be -done without. The artist lives almost entirely for the moment, for the -moment is the only thing of which he is certain. Yesterday has gone and -has melted into yesterday’s Seven Thousand Years; to-morrow is not yet -here and may never arrive; therefore, _carpe diem_. - -Norman Morrow had the kind of subtlety and refinement that one finds -in the work of Henry James. I very rarely came away from his studio -without feeling that I had given myself “away,” that he had seen -through all my insincerities, that he was aware of the precise motives -of my acts even when I was not aware of them myself. But, being a swift -analyst of his own emotions and a constant diver after the real motive -in himself, he was tolerant of others and very slow to condemn. - - * * * * * - -It is incorrect to assume, as many people do, that there is in Chelsea -anything of the atmosphere of Henri Murger’s Bohemia. Nowadays, in -London artistic and literary circles, only the idle and incompetent -starve. Murger’s young artists, moreover, are absurdly self-conscious -and flabby and childish. Chelsea men and women are keen-witted, -level-headed, and experienced people of the world. - - * * * * * - -All the faddists, of course, go to live at Letchworth, but there are -in Chelsea a few groups of young “intellectuals” who are good enough -to supply comic relief in the “between” days when one is bored. One -Saturday evening, having been to the Chelsea Palace of Varieties and -feeling restless and disinclined for bed, I remembered that I had a -standing invitation to go to a certain studio where, I was told, I -should be welcomed whenever I cared to go. I went and discovered a -handful of young men sitting round the fire and directing the affairs -of the Empire. - -The little group of intellectuals (all from Cambridge—or was it -Oxford?) hailed me and fell to talking about politics, socialism, -Fabianism, Sidney Webbism, and so forth. All very bright and clever, -and all very promising, but the wonderful conceit of it all! Some of -them were men with brilliant university honours, but they had not even -the wisdom, the sense of proportion, of children. They idolised Bernard -Shaw and spoke of H. G. Wells in terms of contempt. They really thought -that the destinies of our Empire were directed by the universities, and -their priggish little minds were eager to “control” the poor, to direct -their work, even to fix the size of their families.... - -I sat silent, wondering if these men represented the best—or even the -average—that our universities produced in immediately pre-war days. I -looked at their long, white fingers, their longish hair, their long -noses, and I listened to their drawl which was not quite a drawl, and -I thought that their conversation was, what Keats would have called -it, “a little noiseless noise.” They had brains, of course; they were -smartish and “clever.” But what are brains without experience and what -is cleverness without judgment? These men, I felt, would never gain -experience, for they saw in life only what they wished to see, denying -the rest. Life to them was a vast disorder which Oxford and Cambridge, -as represented by them, was about to put right. I imagine Mrs Sidney -Webb and Mr Beatrice Webb (as _The New Age_ once so happily called -them) walking over from Grosvenor Road to Chelsea and smiling blandly, -and with huge satisfaction, at their ridiculous disciples. - -I have described these people because, though they do not represent -Chelsea, they are to be met with there in considerable numbers. They -have flats and studios full of knick-knacks, flats in which you will -find art curtains, studios in which there is ascetic severity and where -one has triscuits for breakfast. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -MISCELLANEOUS - - Arthur Henderson, M.P.—Lord Derby—Miss Elizabeth Robins—Frank - Mullings—Harold Bauer—Emil Sauer—Vladimir de Pachmann - - -I quite forget what particular concatenation of circumstances brought -me into personal touch with Mr Arthur Henderson, M.P., but I rather -think that when I waited for him at Waterloo Station I was acting -the part of messenger-boy. Perhaps I delivered a letter or telegram -to him, or I may have given him a verbal message. All I remember is, -that something very important had happened, and it was necessary -that Mr Arthur Henderson should be apprised of this happening at the -earliest possible moment. So I volunteered to meet him at Waterloo. - -We walked across the station together, and I was depressingly aware of -a rather bulky form with a Manchester kind of face. He spoke heavily -and uttered commonplaces that fell dead on his very lips. I could feel -his self-importance radiating from him, and I gathered that I was -supposed to be in the presence of a very exceptional person indeed. But -I did not feel that he was exceptional. There has never been a moment -since I reached manhood that I haven’t known that my intellect is of -finer texture than that of the five thousand who elbow each other on -the Manchester Exchange, and it seemed to me that night at Waterloo -Station that Mr Henderson would be very much at home on the Manchester -Exchange. I recollect most vividly that he bored me very much and -that, offering him some plausible excuse, I parted from him before we -had crossed the river, and darted away to more congenial people. - -A few weeks previous to this encounter I had heard Mr Henderson give -an “address” in a Nonconformist chapel. An “address,” I am given to -understand, is a kind of homely sermon in which the speaker talks to -his audience in a friendly and distinctly unbending manner. He seeks to -improve them, to lead them to higher and better things: in a word, to -make them more like himself.... I have not the faintest recollection of -what drove me inside this Nonconformist chapel, but I cannot conceive -I went there of my own free will. I suppose that someone paid me to go -there. But my mind retains a very clear picture of a pulpit containing -a man with a face so like other faces that, sometimes, when I examine -it, it seems to belong to Mr Jackson of Messrs Jackson & Lemon, the -famous auctioneers of Boodlestown, and at other times it is owned -by Mr Brownjonesrobinson who, I need scarcely point out, is known -everywhere.... Really, I have no intention of being violently rude. -This question of faces is important. A face should express a soul. No -great man whose portrait I have seen possessed a commonplace face. - -The address was heavy, obvious and dull. I was taken back twenty years -to my boyhood when stern parents compelled me to go to a Wesleyan -chapel one hundred and three times a year (twice every Sunday and once -on Christmas Day); on most of those hundred and three occasions I used -to hear exhortations to be “good,” not, so to speak, for the love of -the thing, but because being “good” paid. Mr Arthur Henderson, Samuel -Smiles _redivivus_, proved that it paid. He didn’t say: “Look at me!” -but, all the same, we did look at him. The spectacle to most of his -congregation was, I suppose, encouraging; me, it didn’t excite. I can -well believe that, as I stepped out of the building, I said to myself: -“No, Gerald. We will remain as we are. The penalties of virtue are much -too heavy for us to pay.” - - * * * * * - -One Saturday evening I journeyed to Liverpool with twenty or thirty -other newspaper men to dine with Lord Derby. Pressmen are accustomed to -this kind of entertainment from public men, and their host generally -contrives to be exceptionally agreeable. It would be putting it very -crudely to state that these dinners are intended as a bribe: let me -therefore say that they serve the purpose of smoothing the way for -the dissemination of some propaganda or other. To the best of my -recollection, Lord Derby had no other purpose in view than the laudable -and kindly intention of making the journalists of Manchester and -Liverpool better acquainted with one another. - -After dinner, various ladies and gentlemen from the neighbouring music -halls provided us with an excellent entertainment, and I can now see -Lord Derby smilingly and courteously receiving these artists and -making them feel that they, like ourselves, were honoured guests, and -not merely paid mimes. He seemed to me then, as he has always seemed -to me, our dearly loved, bluff but unfailingly courteous national -John Bull. He is, I think, the most British man with whom I have ever -spoken—honest, brave, resourceful, self-sacrificing, fond of good -company and good cheer, hail-fellow-well-met yet a trifle reserved and -not a little cautious, blunt but considerate of others’ feelings. Some -of us collected signatures on the backs of our menus, but when Lord -Derby had written his name on the top of mine I left it there alone, -not caring to see other names mingling with his: perhaps feeling that -no other name of those present was worthy to stand beneath his name. - -He spoke to us, but his speech had nothing in it save welcome. - - * * * * * - -When I see, as I frequently do, the newspapers and reviews praising -the works of Mrs Humphry Ward and describing her as the greatest of -living British female writers, I rub my eyes in astonishment and wonder -why Miss Elizabeth Robins is overlooked. Mrs Humphry Ward can, it -is true, tell a story: she knows well much of the behind-the-scenes -life of modern politics: moreover, she is a woman of the world with a -highly cultivated mind and a varied experience of life. But if ever -there was a woman without genius, without, indeed, the true literary -gift, she is that woman. She cannot fire the imagination, quicken the -pulse, or stir the heart. She plays with puppets and never reveals -life. Miss Robins, on the contrary, strikes deep into life—cleaves it -asunder, disrupts it, opens it out to our gaze. She has the gift of -tragedy.... When I think concentratedly of Mrs Humphry Ward’s books, I -remember atmospheres, social environments, a few incidents, and I see -dimly about half-a-dozen pictures. But when my mind dwells on _The Open -Question_ and _The Magnetic North_, I see and hear and touch live men -and women. - -I know nothing of Miss Elizabeth Robins’ private affairs, but if my -intuition guides me rightly, she has had a tragic life and her life -is still and always will be tragic. Her temperament is not dissimilar -to Charlotte Brontë’s, that great little woman whose sense of the -ridiculous was so great but whose power of expressing it was so small. - -Miss Robins, as you all know, entered the ranks of the militant -suffragettes, and it was at a meeting of the W.S.P.U. that I met her -and heard her speak. In the real sense, she has no gift of speech. When -she has to address an audience, she prepares her words beforehand, -memorises them, and then delivers them with the lucidity, the passion -and the eloquence of a great actress. I think I have heard all the -best-known women speakers from Lady Henry Somerset up to Mrs Pankhurst, -but though my admiration of Mrs Pankhurst’s brave and proud gifts -scarcely knows a limit, I consider that Miss Robins surpasses her in -her power of sweeping an audience along with her and in her great gift -of quickening the spirit and urging it upwards to the heights of an -enthusiasm that does not quickly die.... - -Perhaps in reading this book you have not gathered the impression -that I am afflicted by a devastating bashfulness that, always at the -wrong moments, robs me of speech and makes me appear an imbecile. -Nevertheless that affliction is mine. The more I like and reverence -people, the more bereft of speech I become in their presence. It is so -when I am with Orage, though we have been intimate enough for him to -address me in letters as “My dear Gerald”; it is so with Frank Harris -(but perhaps you think I ought not to “reverence” him—yet his genius -compels me to); and it is so with Ernest Newman and Granville Bantock. -And when Miss Elizabeth Robins’ hand met mine in a firm clasp and she -spoke some words of greeting, I had not a word to say. Like an ashamed -schoolboy, I walked, speechless and fuming, from the room and kicked -myself in the passage outside.... I know this shyness has its origin -in vanity, but then I _am_ vain. But I am a fool to allow my vanity to -gain the upper hand of my speech. - - * * * * * - -Frank Mullings!... Well, I have more than once said that singers bore -me, but if a man is bored by Mullings, he is worse than a fool. One -always has a special kind of affection for men whom one has known in -obscurity and of whom one’s prophecies of great things has come true. -Mullings has, indeed, travelled far since those jolly days when we used -to meet in Sydney Grew’s little flat in Birmingham and make music -with Grieg, Bantock and Wolf for company. A great “lad,” as we say in -Lancashire: a great fat boy without affectation, without jealousy, -without even the pride that all great artists should possess: a -generous, simple-hearted man who is capable of travelling a couple of -hundred miles to sing, without fee, the songs of Bantock, just because -he loved those songs and wanted others to love them. - -He was always untidy, short-sighted, and either very depressed or very -jolly. His moods were thorough, and they infected you. In Birmingham, -in days when only a few, and those few powerless to help, were aware -of his astonishing gifts, he was serene and happy. I remember him, -Sydney Grew and myself sitting on the floor of Grew’s very narrow -drawing-room, our backs to the wall, and talking of our future. I was -the oldest of the three, and for that reason spoke with simulated -wisdom. - -“Only one of us is marked down for real success, and you, Mullings, are -the man,” I said. “You have the successful temperament. Sydney here -will do valuable work, but he hasn’t the gifts that shine and blind. As -for me, I shall make the most of my small but, I really think, engaging -talent and swank about in a little circle of appreciators.” - -Mullings laughed. - -“Do you really think I shall?” he asked. “Have another whisky, -Cumberland, and go on talking; you give me confidence. And confidence -is half the battle, isn’t it?” - -“So they say. But haven’t you confidence already?” - -“Well, it ebbs and it flows.” - -“Oh, _he’s_ all right,” said Sydney Grew. “Don’t worry about Mullings. -But what do you mean when you say that I shall do valuable work?” - -“You’re an artist, and you’ve got personality and ideas. Haven’t you -often reproached me on the score that you meet me for an hour and, a -month later, see all that you have told me in two or three articles -that in the meantime I have written for the papers?” - -“Well, you do pick my brains, Gerald. You know you do.” - -“Simply because they are worth picking. And if I didn’t, they would be -lost to the world. Why don’t you yourself write? You must write more -and talk less.” - -He took my advice, and began a career that promised much until the war -interrupted it. - -In the meantime, Mullings has “arrived” and I am longing to meet him -again, for I know very well he will be still fat and jolly, that he -will still allow me to play accompaniments for him on any old piano -that is handy, and that we shall talk excitedly of Bantock and Julius -Harrison, of the Manchester Musical Society and Phyllis Lett, of -“Colonel” Anderton and Ernest Newman, and of everything and everybody -that made those far-off days so full of interest and so sweet to -remember. - - * * * * * - -Harold Bauer set out to conquer the world, and has done nothing more -than arouse the interest of one or two countries. Yet he is a great -pianist. But I am told that his personality stands between him and the -real thing in the way of success. I have sat next to critics at his -recitals who have squirmed in their stalls as he played. - -“What is the matter?” I have asked. - -“I don’t quite know. But don’t you feel it yourself?” - -“Feel what?” - -“Something. I don’t quite know what. Something indefinable. His playing -is too greasy. Did you ever hear Brahms played like that before?” - -“No. I wish I had. I think his Brahms wonderfully fine.” - -Certainly, his temperament is not magnetic like the personality -of Paderewski, of Kubelik, of Yvette Guilbert, and the public is a -connoisseur of temperaments. I think I have elsewhere observed in this -book that the public collects temperaments just as a few people collect -china or autographs. Perhaps Bauer is not exotic or orchidaceous -enough. He is too “straight,” too downright. - -“What are they like, these Manchester people?” Bauer asked me one -afternoon before he was to play in England’s musical metropolis. - -“Well, they’re ‘difficult,’ I think. They know something about music -here. You are not in London now, you know. You have reached the centre -of things.” - -“Seriously?” - -“Quite. I mean it. These people really do know. You see, for the last -fifty years they have had nothing but the best. They have a tradition -and stick to it.” - -“The Clara Schumann tradition? Joachim and Brahms and Hallé and all -that?” - -“No, no! That is on its last legs, on its knees even. The tradition, -I admit, is hard to define, but it’s there all the same. If you get a -couple of encores here, you may well consider that a success.” - -“Funny thing, the public,” he muttered. “You never know where you have -it. But, of course, there is no such entity as ‘the public.’ There are -thousands of publics and they are all different.” - - * * * * * - -Emil Sauer has a glittering style and had, fifteen years ago, a -technique that no word but rapacious accurately describes. The piano -recital he gave in Manchester nearly two decades ago was the first -recital I ever attended, though I was a lad in my late teens; the -occasion then seemed, and still seems, most romantic. It is true -that, on the nursery piano at home, one of my elder brothers used to -give recitals with me as sole auditor, and that I used to return the -compliment the following evening, but though we took these affairs very -seriously and even wrote lengthy criticisms of each other’s playing, -our performances were not of a high order. But one evening, defying -parental authority and risking paternal anger, we slipped unseen from -home and went to hear Sauer. - -I think we must both have been much younger than our years—certainly -we were much younger than the average educated boy of eighteen or -nineteen to-day—and we were in a very high state of nervous excitement -as we sat in the gallery of the Free Trade Hall waiting for the great -man’s appearance. His slim and, as it seemed at the time, spirit-like -figure passed across the platform to the piano, and two hours of pure -trance-like joy began for at least a couple of his listeners. My -brother and I knew all there was to know about the great pianists of -the past, and often we had tried to imagine what their playing was -like; but neither he nor I had conceived that anything could be so -gorgeous as what we now heard. For once, realisation was many more -times finer than anticipation. Only one thing disturbed my complete -happiness—and that was the notion that the pianist might possibly be -disappointed with the amount of applause he was receiving, though, of a -truth, he was receiving a great deal of applause. So I clapped my hands -and stamped my feet as hard and as long as possible. The Appassionata -Sonata almost frenzied me and a Liszt Rhapsody was like heady wine. - -But all beautiful things come to a close, and towards ten o’clock my -brother and I found ourselves on the wet pavement outside, feeling very -exalted but at the same time uncertain whether we had done our utmost -to make Sauer’s welcome all that we thought it should have been. - -“Let’s wait for him outside the platform entrance and cheer him when he -comes out,” suggested my brother. - -Very strange must that two-voiced cheer have sounded to Sauer as, in -the dark side street, he stepped quickly into his cab, which began -immediately to move away. As our voices died, he opened the window and -leaned out, holding out to us his long-fingered hand. Running eagerly -to him, we clasped his hand in turn and, amazed, listened to the few -words of thanks he shouted to us. - -For long after that, Sauer was one of our major gods, and we followed -his triumphs both in England and on the Continent with the utmost -interest and excitement. When we boasted to our friends that we had -shaken hands with the great pianist, they evinced little interest -in the matter. “Why, that’s nothing!” exclaimed a Philistine; “last -Saturday afternoon I touched the sleeve of Jim Valentine’s coat!” Now, -Jim Valentine was a great rugger player. - - * * * * * - -Perhaps the most exquisite and the most fragile thing in the world at -present is the Chopin playing of Vladimir de Pachmann. For more than -a quarter of a century writers have been attempting to reproduce his -coloured music in coloured words: they have all failed. De Pachmann -is an exotic, a hothouse plant. Not a hothouse plant among many -other plants, but a plant living luxuriously and solitarily and with -exaggerated self-consciousness in its own hothouse. - -In thinking of him, one feels that he belongs to the very last minute -of civilisation’s progress. All the civilisations of the past have -come and gone and returned; they have worked age-long with tireless -industry; mankind has struggled upwards and rushed precipitately -downwards through thousands of years; cities have been sacked and -countries ravaged; Babylon, Nineveh, Athens and Rome have bloomed -flauntingly and wilted most tragically: and the most exquisite thing -that has been produced by all this suffering, all this unimaginable -labour, is the Chopin playing of de Pachmann. The world has toiled for -thousands of years and has at last given us this thing more delicate -than lace, more brittle than porcelain, more shining than gold.... - -There is the rather painful question of this pianist’s eccentricities. -One can discuss them publicly for de Pachmann himself continually -thrusts them on the public. You know to what I refer: the running -commentary of words, gestures, nods, smiles and leers which he -almost invariably passes not only on the music he plays, but also -on his manner of playing it. I refuse to believe that this most -extraordinary behaviour is mere affectation: it seems to me a direct -and irrepressible expression of the man’s very soul. It is not -ridiculous, because it is so serious and so natural. Nevertheless, it -is entirely ineffective. It does not help in the least. Rather does it -mar. To see the performer winking slyly at you when he has, as it were, -“pulled off” a particularly delicate nuance does not give that nuance -a more subtle flavour: it merely distracts the attention and sets one -conjecturing what really _is_ going on in the performer’s mind. It has -appeared to me that the pianist has been saying: “You noticed that, -didn’t you? Well, _you_ couldn’t do it if you spent a whole lifetime -trying; yet how easily _I_ achieved it!” - -The large, smooth face, with its loose mouth and dizzied eyes, is the -face of a magician out of a story book. It is not a real face. It has -only one of the attributes of power—egotism. Egotism has furrowed every -line on that countenance; it dilates the eyes. Egotism runs through the -sensitive fingers. I have stood by his side and wilfully shut my ears -on the music and fastened my eyes on his face; but I learned nothing. -I do not know if his mind dwells aloof from all emotion, his intellect -functioning automatically—as would seem to be the case; or if, -experienced and cynical, he has the power of pouring the very essence -of his spirit into sound, laughing at himself and us as he does so—but -laughing more at us than at himself, for we are deceived whilst he is -not. - -It is strange that so exotic a personality should have a firm and -unrelaxing hold on the public. He is not caviare to the general. -Villiers de l’Isle Adam is worshipped by the few; Walter Pater cannot -have more than a thousand sincere disciples, but de Pachmann is adored -by millions. “Millions” is no exaggeration. People are taken out of -themselves whilst he plays. You remember, don’t you? the Paderewski -craze in America fifteen years ago, when the platform was stormed and -taken by assault night after night by society ladies. I witnessed -pretty much the same kind of thing at a de Pachmann recital in a -Lancashire town; but the latter pianist was stormed, not by society -ladies, but by unemotional bank clerks, stockbrokers, merchants, -working men and women. At the end of the concert, they flowed on to -the platform in hundreds, and surrounded the pianist whilst he played -encore after encore, smiling vacantly the while and enjoying himself -immensely, pausing between each piece only to motion his ring of -worshippers a little farther from the piano. - -An enigmatic creature, this; a creature who will never give up his -secret; perhaps, even, a creature who is not aware that he possesses a -secret. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -CATHEDRAL MUSICAL FESTIVALS - - -No; I’m not going to be a chronicler in this chapter. It sounds a dull -subject, I know, but many things happened in Gloucester, Hereford and -Worcester in mellow September days that were vastly amusing and which -were not reported in the papers, and it is about these I am going to -tell you. - -It used to be very charming to go to one of these cathedrals early -each autumn, drink cider, listen to music six hours a day, walk by -the river, have jolly “rags” in the hotel at night, and come home -again at the end of a week or ten days. September is a tired month, -I always think ... if not tired, a little languorous.... It has many -days in which one wants to walk about just quietly, enjoying being -alive. It would be wrong to fuss and work really hard. I suppose that -in all those wonderful places in which I have spent so many happy -weeks—Worcester, Lincoln, Gloucester, Hereford, Norwich—people ruminate -and browse at all times. Certainly I have seen them browsing in herds -in September days. I once watched the Bishop of Hereford browsing. He -stood perfectly still and seemed to be contemplating and measuring and -gently wondering about the growth of a healthy nasturtium. - -Everybody used to migrate to these festivals. Well, not quite everybody -... but you know what I mean; just the very people you most awfully -wanted to meet again and talk to and hear music with: people like -Granville Bantock, Ernest Newman, Samuel Langford, John Coates, -Dr McNaught, Frederic Austin, Herbert Hughes. London used to send -thirty or forty critics, and the provinces about the same number. And -from the surrounding towns would pour in county families, middle-class -families anxious (poor deluded ones!) to keep abreast of the musical -times (or do I mean _The Musical Times_?), maiden ladies still and -for ever ecstatic over Mendelssohn’s poor old _Elijah_, fierce -choir-masters with ideas on choral singing, village organists who -really believed that Dr Brewer was the Last Word, immaculate young men -with æsthetic fever and a decided leaning towards Elgar’s _The Dream of -Gerontius_ (always alluded to by them as _The Dream_), very “nee-ice” -young ladies who when at home played the violin, and, last of all, -deans (oh yes, lots of deans), minor canons, slim curates, parsons of -all kinds, squires without money, squarsons. - -It was hard for us musical critics to take these festivals quite as -seriously as the festivals expected us to do, for it always seemed -incredible to us that London or Birmingham or Glasgow should have the -least desire to know how the choruses of Handel’s _The Messiah_ were -sung in a little town like Gloucester. Moreover, many of us were amused -at the tragic seriousness of these age-old festivals—festivals at -which, as a rule, only two new works of any importance were produced -and over which old oratorios—an impossible form of art—hung like a -heavy cloud. So we used to amuse ourselves in our different ways, and -the ringleaders in our occasional rags were generally Granville Bantock -and Ernest Newman. - -Almost every detail of one of these joyous occasions lingers in my -memory. Dr McNaught, the doyen of us all, an experienced critic, a -witty speaker, and a most profound musician, was the not unwilling -victim. Bantock or, to give him his full title, Professor Granville -Bantock, M.A., had brought from Birmingham two live eels in a tank. -When he bought these sturdy creatures, he must have had in his mind -some jollification or other, and when I met him in the streets of -Hereford (I think it was Hereford) during the morning of the Festival’s -first day, he asked me what was the most amusing thing I could think of -that could be done with two live eels. - -“Eels!” exclaimed I, in amazement. “Do you mean to tell me that you -really possess two live eels?” - -“Yes, here in Hereford. One gets a little dull here after a couple -of hours, and, after all, eels are very lively fry. They break the -monotony of life.” He paused a moment. “And,” he added rather dreamily, -“they swish their tails so busily. I suppose an eel’s tail is the -busiest thing in the world. Come and have a look; they’re in my room at -the hotel.” - -And there they were in a tank: dark objects in dark water, swirling -about with enormous enthusiasm. - -The day passed and no amusing idea occurred to me. Bantock conducted -one of his works in the cathedral that evening—a very important and -solemn occasion, and when we critics had left our “copy” at the -post-office for telegraphic transmission to our respective newspapers, -we foregathered in the hotel. - -Now Dr McNaught had gone to spend the late hours with a friend and was -not expected back till nearly midnight; it became obvious, therefore, -both to Bantock and myself, that the eels must, in some way, be made to -surprise him on his return. We placed the slimy creatures in a washhand -basin in his bedroom, poured water upon them, and gazed down upon them -with knitted brows. - -“It is enough,” said Bantock; “there is no need to think of anything -else. Listen.” - -And, truly, there was a most stealthy and uncouth sort of noise. Eels -may have soft skins, but their muscles are hard and, as they careered -round the basin, one heard a continuous smooth sound as of people -going about some nefarious business in the dark, and now and again, -at unexpected moments, a loud thwack would be heard as one of the fish -threw his tail upon the side of the basin. - -Newman and Frederic Austin and one or two others collaborated in -preparing our scheme. A female figure was made, carefully placed on the -middle of Dr McNaught’s pillow, and gently covered to the neck with the -bedclothes. - -These elaborate arrangements for Dr McNaught’s entertainment were only -just completed when the doctor himself returned. We waited in dark -corners of the corridor for the result. - -After an interval of a few minutes, a bell rang and a chambermaid -appeared. - -“There is some mistake, I think,” said Dr McNaught genially. “Either -this room is a bedroom, a larder, or an aquarium; it would be most good -of you if you would decide as soon as possible which it really is.” - -The chambermaid entered the bedroom and we could just hear her quiet -voice as, a moment later, she half whispered: - -“But, sir, the room is already occupied. There is a lady in your bed.” - -Of course, the psychological moment had arrived, and we strolled -casually into the bedroom to become witnesses of Dr McNaught’s -embarrassment. The jape was continued. McNaught was taken to the -smoke-room, solemnly tried by judge and jury for having murdered -a woman and concealed her body (it was at the time of the Crippen -affair), and sentenced to death. Newman brought a hatchet from the -cellar and, not long before dawn, the mock sentence was carried out -with elaborate pantomime.... - -“Very childish—just like schoolboys!” I hear a reader (not you, of -course) say, rather contemptuously. Yes, it was like schoolboys, and -substitute “-like” for “-ish” in “childish” and I agree with you most -heartily. - - * * * * * - -But not all our time was spent in this uproarious way. There were long -hours of talk, great talk from Langford of _The Manchester Guardian_, -a man of mature years whom to meet is a privilege and whom to know -intimately is a blessing; witty, rather cruel, but vastly entertaining -talk from Newman; pungent talk from Bantock; and general gossip from -all kinds of people. - -I do remember so regretfully—regretfully, because I do not think a -like occasion can happen again—an afternoon that Langford and I spent -sitting at a little rustic table under a just yellowing grove of -poplars. Langford’s mind is spacious, most richly stored. Nothing can -happen that does not at once and without effort fit into his philosophy -of life, and though his talk is profound it is so greatly human -that, in listening to him, one feels completely at rest. He accepts -everything.... I daresay you have noticed that many people have tried -to describe the effect Walt Whitman’s personality has had on them, and -you will have observed how they have all failed. It is an impossible -task.... And I feel that in writing about Langford it is impossible to -convey to you what he stands for to his friends. I recollect Captain -J. E. Agate once saying to me: “I never come away from speaking to -Langford without feeling what an empty fool I am.” Yes, that is true; -yet, at the same time, you feel reconciled to your own empty folly; -besides, you know well enough that if you were a fool Langford would -not talk to you; he would just ask you to have a drink and then he -would fumble clumsily in his waistcoat pocket to find you a cigarette. - -Langford will never be “successful” in the worldly sense. Perhaps he -looks with suspicion on success; certainly he has never attempted to -achieve it. I imagine that his nature is very like that of Æ, and if -what everyone says of Æ is true, one cannot conceive that anything -finer could be said of anyone than that he resembles the great Irish -poet. - -It was these refreshing talks with various people that did something -to mitigate the severity of the atmosphere of conventionality, of -“respectability” in its worst sense, that made it rather difficult to -breathe freely in these cathedral cities. Everyone wore new clothes; -men perspired in kid gloves; girls carried prayer-books and copies -of _Elijah_; deans were dapper; ostlers were clean and profoundly -polite; and, wherever you went, you heard people saying that they had -seen Lord Bertie and Lady Jane, and had you noticed that the dear -Bishop had looked a little tired last evening? There was, too, about -these festivals an air as of a society function. Music, an unwilling -handmaid of charity, was “indulged” in. One did not have music every -day, for that would have been frivolous; but one had it in great lumps -every twelve months, and had it, not because one cannot live fully and -vividly without art, but because it made a good excuse for a social -“occasion.” The music itself was excused—for in the minds of these -people it required an excuse—by the fact that the entire festival was -organised for charity, that vice which causes so many sins. - -I myself came into rather violent conflict with the Norfolk and Norwich -Musical Festival authorities on a question of artistic morality. Ten -or eleven years ago they offered a prize of twenty-five guineas for a -poem, and another prize of fifty guineas for the best musical setting -of the poem. I entered the former competition and secured the prize. -My “poem” was in blank verse and lyrics, its subject Cleopatra, and it -contained the following passage: - - _Iris._ And when with regal, arrogant step she passed - Across the portico, her white breasts gleamed; - Her neck seemed conscious of its loveliness; - Her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with - The expectancy of proud assault; she was - As one who lives for a last carnival - Of love, in which she may be stabbed and torn - By large excess of passion. - - _Charmion._ Oh! Our Queen - Has wine for blood; her tears are heavy drops - Of water stolen from some brackish sea - Or murderous waves; her heart now leaps with life - And now lies sleeping like a coilèd snake. - But in to-night’s cold moon she burns and glows; - Her heart is housing many a mad desire, - And she is sick for Antony. - - _Iris._ The day - Has gone, and soon they’ll drink the heady wine - That sparkles in each other’s eyes. Once more - Venus and Bacchus meet, and all the world - Stands still to watch the bliss of living gods. - -There was a little more to the same effect, and when I wrote the stuff -I thought it very fine and still think it rather pretty. But a section -of the musical Press attacked it violently, and for a couple of months -I was quite a notorious person. I gathered from the articles and -letters that appeared that my dramatic poem was not likely to engender -music that would carry on the tradition of Mendelssohn’s _Elijah_. -That had been my object in writing it. I was sick of that tradition. I -wished to help to break it. - -One day, while the little storm was still raging, I received a letter -from Sir Henry J. Wood, who was to conduct the Festival at Norwich -at which my work was to be given. (Mr Julius Harrison, who has since -become prominent as one of Sir Thomas Beecham’s assistant conductors, -had gained the prize for the musical setting of my poem.) In his letter -Sir Henry wrote: “Very much against my will, I am writing to ask you -on behalf of the Committee of the Norfolk and Norwich Festival if -it is possible for you to make any alternative version of the ‘two -objectionable lines’ (I fail to find them myself) in your libretto, -_Cleopatra_.... From my point of view, the whole thing is absurd and -ridiculous.” - -I could not find the objectionable lines. I showed the poem to a most -maiden aunt and watched her as she read it, hoping to tell by her -sudden blush when her eyes had reached the evil place. She did not -blush; she simply read the thing and said: “Oh, Gerald, how nice! I do -think you have such pretty thoughts.” So did I. - -A few days later Mr Julius Harrison came to my aid. The committee, it -appeared, objected to “her white breasts gleamed” and also to: - - Her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with - The expectancy of proud assault.... - -I changed those lines, and the work in due course was performed at -Norwich, and in Queen’s Hall, London. Later on, when my little poem was -sung in Southport in its original form, with Mr Havergal Brian’s music -(for he also had honoured me), Mr Landon Ronald conducting, the members -of the audience did not leave their seats when the “objectionable” -lines occurred; rather did they seem to lean forward a little and -listen more intently. - -I have mentioned this incident, not because in itself it is important, -but because it so beautifully illustrates the point of view of our -Cathedral Festivals. Their “secular” concerts are echoes of the -concerts given in the Cathedral. They hate (or else they are afraid -of?) every emotion that is not a religious emotion. They think that God -made our souls and the devil our bodies. They may be right; if they -are, it is clear the devil is not lacking in consideration. - - * * * * * - -There is no doubt that our most ecstatic moments at the Cathedral -Festivals were supplied by Wagner’s _Parsifal_, which Mr J. F. -Runciman, in his little book on this composer, describes as “this -disastrous and evil opera.” Only excerpts from it, of course, were -given; all “objectionable lines” were cut out. If _Parsifal_ is to -be given on the platform at all—and, in view of the fact that we -seldom have it on the stage, why not?—then it had better be given on a -platform that has been erected in a spacious and beautiful cathedral. -I remember those white voices floating down from a place out of sight -near the roof, away above the clerestory. I always used to try to -obtain a seat near some dimly stained window so that it might for -me blot out the rather bewildered or consciously “rapt” faces of my -fellow-creatures, for, in listening to noble music, I invariably feel -much greater than, and curiously irritated by the presence of, other -people. - -And it used to be so fine to come forth from the Cathedral at noon, -step into that mellow September English sunshine which I have not seen -for nearly three years, and walk by the river ... walk perhaps a mile -or so and come back to the hotel to eat cool meats and cool salads and -drink cool wine. It was at these times I used to sigh and long for -Bayreuth and wonder if I should ever see the grave of Wagner in the -garden of Villa Wahnfried in that little Bavarian town. - -It was at Gloucester, I think, that one year I was pursued by a certain -hard-working, but not very talented, composer who, having gained a -most extensive “popular” public for his work, was now anxious to win -the suffrage of more cultivated people. Most unhappily for me, he took -it into his head that my musical criticism had some influence in the -north, and though he was quite wrong in this assumption, I was never -able to convince him of his error. Wherever I went, lo! he was there -with me. And always under his arm was a musical score, a score of his -own composition. Something new, he assured me; something really quite -modern. Would I look at it? I did. It was feeble, paltry and bombastic, -but I did not like to tell him so. But when he pressed me for an -opinion I said, what was near enough to the truth, that it was a great -advance on his previous work. This seemed to please him, and he took -to inviting me out to lunch. If ever I went into the hotel smoke-room -for a quiet pipe, I would invariably notice a vague but self-important -figure in the doorway, and presently would hear the unmistakable pop -that a champagne bottle so deliciously makes when it is opened. A -bubbling glass would be placed at my side. - -“Now, Richard Strauss in his _Ein Heldenleben_ ...” his voice would -begin. And he would proceed to tell me all about _Ein Heldenleben_ and -its beauties. To bewilder him, I used to assert that _Carmen_ seemed to -me a much finer work than Strauss’s _Elektra_, and, because he was very -ignorant and because he had not the slightest appreciation of Strauss, -he used to look at me rather pitifully, and would eventually confess -that he too liked Bizet more than he liked Strauss and that, indeed, it -appeared to him that Arthur Sullivan.... - -One day, when we were alone, he asked me if I would write a series of -articles on his works. It was my turn to be bewildered. - -“A series?” I asked, utterly stunned. - -“Yes,” answered he, “a series. First of all, there are my part-songs. -Then there are my instrumental pieces. Last of all, my Cantatas.” He -pronounced cantatas with a capital C. “Just a short series: three -articles in all.” - -I hesitated, but he looked at me most pleadingly. I tried a little -sarcasm, but that made him more pertinacious than ever. So then I -flatly refused, and kept on refusing, and did not stop refusing. - -“Well, then,” said he at length, “will you put in writing and sign what -you said to me the other day about my new work? You will remember that -you said it was the best thing I had ever done, that it was original, -full of vigour, astonishingly fresh, subtle in harmony....” - -“Oh, really,” I protested, “did I say all that?” - -“Yes, indeed, you did.” - -And then I became very, very rude indeed, and, after that, whenever we -met, we used to bow to each other most politely and say never a word. - -This kind of man, and there is quite a handful of them, haunts the -more important Festivals, but it must be very rarely that one of them -obtains what he desires. - - * * * * * - -Can you recall the most curious and most unlikely sight you have -ever witnessed? Most of us, even in the course of a few years of a -very ordinary existence, witness many strange things, but of all the -strange things I have stumbled across nothing has been so wayward, so -_outré_, so fundamentally silly, as the forty organists I saw sitting -in one room at Worcester. One can imagine two, or even three, organists -sitting talking together, but forty, and fifteen of the forty Cathedral -organists, seems incredible. - -Now, you have only to be fond of modern music to feel instinctively -that a man who is an organist and nothing else is sitting on the wrong -side of the fence. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred he is helping -to hold things back; he hates the rapid progress which music is making, -and he has as much imagination as the _vox humana_ stop. - -Well, the forty organists were sitting and talking and smoking, and as -I looked at them and at their mild, but worried, faces, it seemed to me -and my companion that, in the interests of art, morality and ordinary -decency, some protest should be made. And we decided that we were just -the people to make it. We could have forgiven them if they had met -together to discuss some professional question—_e.g._ how to get their -salaries raised, how to get the better of their respective vicars, -or how they could expand their minds so as to be able to appreciate -Debussy or Ravel or even Max Reger. But they were gathered together -merely because they liked it, just for the sake of enjoying each -other’s society. Monstrous absurdity! Could they not see how ridiculous -they were? Forty organists in one room!—why, there ought not to be -forty organists in the whole world. - -Fortunately the room was on the ground floor and the hour late. My -companion and I stepped outside the hotel, waited till the street was -quiet, and then rapped a series of three tattoos upon the window-pane -to secure silence within. We then sang in two parts, I in a high -falsetto and my friend in a lugubrious bass, the “Baal” Chorus from -_Elijah_. “Baal, we cry to thee! Baal, we cry to thee!” - -We had not proceeded very far in this beautiful music—intended by the -dear, delicious Mendelssohn for a shout of savagery, but really a quite -charming cradle song—when a cry of delighted laughter came from the -room, and two or three of the organists, hatless and earnest, rushed -out into the street. - -“Come inside!” they said; “come and join us. You belong to _us_!” - -Too utterly flabbergasted at this invitation to make any reply, we -turned and fled, rushed back to our hotel, and ordered whisky-and-sodas. - -The great musician to whom we told the story next day said: - -“Well, once more, you see, the biters were bit.” - -But my friend and I did not think so. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -PEOPLE OF THE THEATRE - - Sir Herbert Tree—Gordon Craig—Henry Arthur Jones—Temple - Thurston—Miss Janet Achurch—Miss Horniman - - -Sir Herbert Tree never met a stranger without trying to impress him. He -always succeeded. He would take the utmost pains about it: go to any -lengths: use his last resource.... I am not now, of course, dealing -with him as an actor. We all have our varying opinions of him as an -actor. Some think he could; some think he couldn’t.... But I am writing -of him at the present moment as a man. A showman, if you like. As a -man, as a man who “showed off” either as a wit, a mimic, a man of the -world, a superman, or what not, he was supreme. - -I met him in his private office at His Majesty’s in the middle of the -run of _Joseph and his Brethren_. He had invited me there in order to -dictate an article to me, but, as he told me over the ’phone, he hadn’t -the remotest notion what the subject of the article was going to be. -Could I help him with any ideas? His article was for a Labour paper. -Did I know anything about Labour? If I didn’t, did I know anybody who -did? - -In speaking to me over the ’phone, he appeared so anxious that I began -to rack my brains for a subject. In the recesses of my meagre intellect -I found the remnants of two or three subjects, and at nine o’clock that -evening I presented myself at His Majesty’s Theatre with them on the -tip of my tongue. - -His room was empty as I entered it. Opposite the door was a fireplace -and above the fireplace a mirror; on the left of the door as you -entered it was Sir Herbert’s large desk. By the side of this, seated on -a low chair, I waited. I had not to wait long, for presently I heard a -soft, rather pulpy kind of sound coming down the passage and, a moment -later, Sir Herbert entered, wearing a long white beard and the garments -of a gentleman of the East. The play was still in the first act, and he -had that minute come off the stage. - -“Got a subject?” he asked, shaking hands. “So have I. The Influence of -the Stage on the Masses! What do you think of it? Very trite, I know, -but there are a few important things I want to say. Sit here, will you? -Here you are—ink and paper.” - -And, sitting down, he began immediately to dictate the article. He -got along swimmingly, and about a third of the article must have been -down on paper when I heard a squeaky voice outside the door. It was -the call-boy. Sir Herbert rose, stroked his beard, adjusted his gown, -and walked outside; as he did these things he continued dictating, his -voice stopping in the middle of a rather involved sentence when he was -out in the passage. - -After five or six minutes, I heard the same soft, pulpy sound -approaching and, while yet outside the door, he began dictating at -the precise point where he had left off, rounding off the sentence -most beautifully. It was a remarkable feat of memory. After a very -short period, we heard the high-pitched voice a second time, and -once more he moved dreamily away, still dictating. Again he stopped, -purposely as it seemed to me, in the middle of a sentence, and again, -when he reappeared, he spoke the waiting word. Marvellous! He gave me -a cautious, inquiring look, as if to discover if I had noticed his -cleverness. I smiled back reassuringly. In a few minutes the article -was finished. - -“Do you like it?” he asked. - -“Exactly the thing. _The Daily Citizen_ readers will be delighted. But -what an extraordinary memory you have!” - -“Ah! You noticed that?” he said, seemingly well pleased. - -He began to talk of _Joseph and his Brethren_ and, in the middle of our -conversation, Mr Temple Thurston, looking rather nervous, was shown in. -I knew that, at that time, Thurston was writing for Tree a play on the -subject of the Wandering Jew, and as I guessed they had business to -transact, I withdrew as quickly as possible. - -I saw Sir Herbert on another occasion, but whether it was soon before, -or soon after, the incident I have just related I cannot recollect. - -He was conducting a rehearsal on the stage of His Majesty’s, and I -stood in the wings, watching him. He had recently produced a play -called, I think, _The Island_, by a Spanish or a Brazilian writer. It -was a dead failure and was withdrawn after three or four nights. It was -to talk of this play that I had come, and as he advanced to the wings I -noticed that he looked rather worried. - -“What _was_ wrong with the play?” he asked. “All you critics have -tried to tell me, but I’m blessed if I can understand what you are all -talking about.” - -“To me the fault of the play was quite obvious. The author had got hold -of a good idea and the drama had several fine situations; but, whereas -the idea was poetical and mysterious and the situations tense and -dramatic, the author or the translator had employed the most stilted -kind of dialogue, and language as commonplace as that which I am now -using. The play should have been translated or rewritten by a poet.” - -“Ah! It’s very strange you should say that, for I myself had felt -strongly disposed to ask John Masefield to prepare the thing for the -stage. I wish I had done; but, of course, it’s too late now. But a -manager can never tell beforehand what play will be a success and what -won’t.” - -“Pardon me. That is often said, but I don’t believe it’s true. Some -people really _do_ know what the public wants. Arnold Bennett, for -example, and Hall Caine, not to mention others. Do _they_ ever make -mistakes? Has Arnold Bennett ever been guilty of a failure?” - -“No, perhaps not. But I can’t engage Bennett as a reader. Even if he -would consent to do the work, I should not be able to afford his fee.” - -“Yes, I know. But my contention is that there are people who can and do -gauge to a nicety the taste of the public.” And I mentioned the names -of two critics who had, on many occasions, foretold most accurately the -exact length of time new pieces would run. - -Tree was called back to the rehearsal, and he glided away for a few -moments, fluttering a handful of loose papers as he went. He soon -returned, and this time he was cheerfulness itself. - -“It’s going very well,” he said, referring to the rehearsal. “It’s only -a stop-gap, of course, but it’ll make a little money. I must write to -those critics you mentioned,” he added musingly; “or perhaps it would -be better if I seemed to run across them accidentally?” - -But whether or not he did run across either of the critics -accidentally, I do not know, for the war broke out soon after and -disrupted everything. - - * * * * * - -It was when I was staying in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, six or seven -years ago, in a house opposite the Foundlings’ Hospital, that, one -morning, Gordon Craig came into the room. He was, I think, in search of -Ernest Marriott, a most ingenious and original artist, who at that time -and for long after was doing some sort of work for Craig. Marriott and -I were staying at the same boarding-house. - -When Craig’s bulky form filled the doorway I recognised at once, from -Marriott’s description of him, who he was, and I introduced myself to -him, telling him Marriott was out. - -“Yes, I know he is,” said Craig; “but I have often wanted to look at -one of these fine old houses.” - -And he walked round and round the room, with his eyes on the cornice, -telling me all sorts of things, which I have long forgotten, that I had -never heard before. He seemed to have made a special study of English -architecture of the early nineteenth century, and whilst he was in the -house talked of nothing else, though I tried to lure him into gossip of -the theatre. - -He gave me the impression of a large, white man with hair which, if not -entirely grey, was very fair. He had, I remember, hands much plumper -than one would expect an artist to possess; his face also was rather -plump. He seemed to fill the large room and radiate vitality. He left -as suddenly and as inconsequently as he had come. - -“How like he is to Miss Ellen Terry!” remarked my landlord, not knowing -the identity of his visitor. - -“Yes,” said I, “now you mention it, I notice the extraordinary -resemblance. But, after all, the resemblance is not so remarkable, for -you see, he is her son.” - - * * * * * - -On one occasion I was sent to interview Mr Henry Arthur Jones. Over -the telephone I made an appointment with him for the morrow, and when -I arrived at his house I found rather elaborate preparations had been -made for the occasion. Mr H. A. Jones was standing in the middle of the -drawing-room with outstretched hand, on a table near the open window -(it was July, I think) was a tray with what one calls tea-things, a -lady shorthand typist (specially engaged for the occasion) was waiting -with notebook and pencil, and a maid was carrying into the room a -teapot, and cress sandwiches. - -The presence of the lady typist embarrassed me. She took down in -shorthand my questions and Mr Jones’ replies. Thinking it would be -foolish to waste any time on preliminary politenesses, I plunged -straight into the middle of my subject. The lady typist sipped her tea -in the awkward little pauses that came from time to time. It was not -an interview; it was a kind of official statement. It was like the -proceedings at a police court. I felt I should be held responsible to a -higher authority for every word I spoke. - -However, at the end of an hour a good deal of excellent matter had -been taken down, probably enough for a two-column article. But my news -editor did not want a two-column article. He wanted a scrappy little -paragraph or, at most, two scrappy little paragraphs. Now, in view of -the fact that Mr Jones had gone to the trouble and expense of getting a -shorthand typist specially from town, and, more particularly, in view -of the fact that it was perfectly clear that he had not contemplated -the possibility of an interview with him being used merely and solely -for a snappy little paragraph, I felt it incumbent upon me to tell him -just how matters stood. But how could I? Could you have told him? Well, -_I_ couldn’t, though I tried and tried hard. - -When the interview was over, he arranged that the shorthand typist -should return to her office, type out her shorthand, and send the -result to me in Fleet Street early that evening. In due course, ten -foolscap sheets of valuable and most interesting matter came along, and -I handed it in to the night-editor just as it stood. - -Next morning, only two snippety paragraphs appeared in the paper, and I -have often thought since that Mr H. A. Jones must have felt disgusted -with the paper, a little more disgusted with himself, but most of all -disgusted with me. After all, it was not entirely my fault, was it?... -I mean, he should not have taken himself _quite_ so importantly, should -he? - -I retain a very clear impression of his personality. He was short, -rather dapper, and very deliberate. He always thought briefly before -he answered a question, but when he did answer it he did so without -hesitation, going straight into the middle of the matter. He struck me, -as he sat on a rather low chair opposite the window, as essentially -earnest, essentially honest-minded, essentially clear-headed. His -manner was a little important. He may be said to have “pronounced” -things rather than to have spoken them. He was formally courteous. I do -not think one could justly say that he has the “artistic” temperament, -and I imagine he possesses no particularly acute perception of beauty. -There is no emotional enthusiasm about him; he has no unreliable -“moods”; he does not think or feel one thing to-day and another -to-morrow. By no means typically a man of this generation, and yet not -a man who has outlived his own time. It appeared to me that he had -little intuition; his very considerable knowledge of human nature is -probably based on close observation and most careful deduction. - -When we parted he gave me copies of two of his plays. - -He was a man of considerable personal charm and no little intellectual -weight: a man both kindly and stern: a man who could at all times be -trusted to see the humour of things and who, on occasion, could be -cruel to be kind. - - * * * * * - -Not so very long before the war, my journalistic duties took me to the -first night of Mr Temple Thurston’s _The Greatest Wish in the World_, -a rather weak but quite innocuous play given by Mr Bourchier. If the -play “succeeded,” the audience assuredly didn’t. When the curtain went -down on the last act, there was a good deal of applause, chiefly from -the gallery, and we who were seated in the stalls waited a moment to -discover what the verdict of the house was going to be. - -Now, every close observer of theatre audiences knows well enough that -among the many different kinds of applause there is one kind that is -very sinister: it is a kind difficult to describe, but unmistakable -enough when heard: to the uninterested listener it sounds sincere -and hearty, but if you listen carefully you will catch, beneath the -heartiness, a derisive note—something viciously eager in the shouts, -something malicious in the whistles. There was this sinister sound, a -kind of ground-bass, in the applause that followed the last fall of -the curtain at the first production of Mr Temple Thurston’s play. The -mimes had walked on and bowed their acknowledgments when, suddenly, -there arose loud cries of “Author! Author!” Well did I know what those -cries meant, and I told myself that the play had failed pitifully. I -was edging my way out of the stalls when, to my amazement, I saw the -curtain rise once more and disclose the nervous figure of Mr Temple -Thurston. Instantly there went up from a section of the audience -hisses and boos and cries of half-angry disappointment. Mr Thurston -shrank and winced as though he had been struck in the face, and his -exit was confused and awkward. It was as wanton an act of cruelty as -I have ever witnessed: deliberate, heartless, stupid. This is not the -place to discuss the propriety or otherwise of an audience insulting a -writer who has failed to please it, but it is certain that in no other -profession, in no other walk of life, do such savage traditions prevail -as in the enticing and intoxicating world of the theatre. - -Not long after this incident I was received by Mr Temple Thurston at -his flat. I found him writing, and almost at once he began to talk most -intimately about himself. - -“Never again,” said he, apropos of the episode I have just related, -“shall I ‘take a call.’ I cannot even now think of those awful few -moments on the stage without a shudder. It is distressing enough for an -author to fail—distressing: not only because of his own disappointment, -but chiefly because of the disappointment he brings to the actors who -have done their best for his play—without having his failure hurled -in his face, so to speak. But though I shall never again take a call, -I shall continue writing plays. I have never yet written a really -successful play, and no work of mine has had a longer run than sixty -performances. I have had many chances, of course, but I shall have -more.” - -He then told me of his early attempts to win fame. Like many other -successful writers, he began in Fleet Street. The work there did not -suit him, and he soon abandoned it. He married early, lived with his -wife in a couple of rooms in Chancery Lane, and for a little time -picked up a living as best he could. The story of his first wife’s -extraordinary success with _John Chilcote, M.P._, is common knowledge. -That success preceded his own by two or three years, but he had not -long to wait before his own work found and pleased the public. - -I saw Thurston on two or three other occasions, and found him a man -avid of enjoyment, frank, a little bitter, combative, kindly, strong, -sensitive, independent. He has a nature at once contradictory and -baffling. - - * * * * * - -Twenty years must have passed since Miss Janet Achurch gave her -astounding performance in Manchester of Cleopatra in Shakespeare’s -_Antony and Cleopatra_. It was a performance so remarkable, so -electrifying, that the old Queen’s Theatre in Quay Street became, for -a time, the centre of theatrical interest for the whole of England. -What London critic nowadays goes to Manchester, or anywhere else more -than five miles from home, to witness a Shakespeare play? Yet they all -went to see Miss Achurch. I remember a cheeky and brilliant article -by Bernard Shaw in _The Saturday Review_ on Miss Achurch, another by -Clement Scott in _The Daily Telegraph_, a third by William Archer in (I -think) _The World_. - -For myself, I saw the play seventeen times, and though I have seen -many other actresses interpret Cleopatra, I have not known one whose -performance could rank with the gorgeous presentation by Miss Achurch. - -All my visits to the Queen’s were surreptitious, for I was brought up -in a family that not only hated the theatre as an evil place but feared -it also. Though I was but a boy I had a certain amount of freedom, for -I was studying medicine at the Victoria University, and many afternoons -that should have been spent in dissecting human feet and eyes were -passed in the gallery of Flanagan’s theatre. - -I suppose I must have been in love with Miss Achurch, though the kind -of feeling that a boy sometimes has for a great emotional actress is -more akin to worship than love. I longed to approach my divinity, but -feared to do so. I wrote about her in local papers, and I remember a -curious weekly called _Northern Finance_ which, for some dark reason -or other, printed, among its news of stocks and shares, a crude, -bubbling article of mine on Miss Achurch. I sent all my articles to her -and, with the colossal impudence of youth, and driven by a schoolboy -curiosity, asked for an interview. - -She wrote to me. Reader, are you young enough to remember how you felt -when you first saw Miss Ellen Terry? Can you recall your adoration, -your devotion?... Those days of young worship, how fine they are! -Novelists always laugh at calf love because they cannot write about -it and make it as beautiful as it really is. Like many other things -that are human, calf love is absurd and beautiful, noble and silly, -profound and superficial. But, unlike so many things that are human, -there is nothing about it that is mean and selfish, nothing that is not -proud and good. - -Yes, she wrote to me and invited me to visit her. She was kind and -gracious.... Amused? Oh, I have no doubt she was amused, but she never -betrayed it. - -I used to hang about the stage door in the dark to watch her go into -the theatre or come out of it. I scraped up an acquaintance with -several members of the orchestra, for I thought I saw in them a kind of -magic borrowed from her. Her hotel was a castle. - -Those of my readers who never saw Miss Achurch in what theatrical -writers call her “palmy” days can have only a very faint conception of -her genius. She became ill: her beauty faded. Only rarely did one see -her on the stage. - -Years later I saw her in Ibsen’s _Ghosts_ and, again much later, in a -small part in Masefield’s adaptation of Wiers-Jennsen’s _The Witch_. -She was wonderful in both plays, but the grandeur had departed, the -glory almost gone. - -It is most sadly true that actors live only in their own generation. -Janet Achurch ought to have lived for ever. She will not be forgotten -while we who saw her live; but we cannot communicate to others the -genius we witnessed and worshipped. - - * * * * * - -Miss Horniman is one of the many people I have never met. “Then why -write about her?” you ask. I really don’t know, except that I want to. -She was (and, for all I know to the contrary, still is) something of a -personality in Manchester, and she was so for a considerable period, -she producing quite a few plays at the Gaiety Theatre that were well -worth seeing. - -But she was ridiculously overpraised. She was petted and spoiled -by _The Manchester Guardian_, the Victoria University gave her an -honorary Master of Art’s degree, many literary and dramatic societies -went down on their knees to her and implored her to come and speak to -them, and she was regarded by the entire community as a woman of daring -originality, great wisdom and vast experience. She could do nothing -wrong. No play she produced, no matter how sour and Mancunian, was ever -condemned by the local Press. Miss Horniman had given it, therefore it -was “the right stuff.” She knew about it all: _she knew_: SHE KNEW. -Many Manchester dramatic critics were themselves writing plays, and -Miss Horniman smiled upon them. She smiled upon Stanley Houghton, -Harold Brighouse, Allan Monkhouse, all critics of _The Manchester -Guardian_. She would have smiled upon the plays of J. E. Agate and -C. E. Montague if they had written any. She was our benefactress, and -we used to sit and watch her in her embroidered gown as she rather -self-consciously queened it in a box at her own theatre. - -Yet, after all, she had a rather depressing effect upon the city. -She gave no new play that was perfectly beautiful. She appeared to -detest romance and had little understanding of blank verse. Starting -her public life as a patron of Bernard Shaw, she declined upon Shaw’s -fevered disciples. She spoke in public very frequently, and always said -the same things. She had all the enthusiasm of a clever business woman. -Wishing very much to make money (so she told us), she understood all -the arts of self-advertisement. But, really, Manchester was not the -place for her; it was sufficiently hard and provincial before she came—— - -But perhaps I am allowing myself to run away with myself in writing -down all these disagreeable things. Yet I believe them to be true, and -they must stand. Her plays gave me several enjoyable evenings which, -but for her, I should never have had, and I can never be too grateful -to her for restoring to the Gaiety Theatre the drink licence that the -Watch Committee had taken away some years before she came. That act, -at all events, did in some degree help to make the Manchester plays a -little less like Manchester plays. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -BERLIN AND SOME OF ITS PEOPLE - - -One winter, about ten years ago, I went to Berlin in the company of -Mr Frederick Dawson, the famous English pianist, who had planned to -give two recitals there. We stayed at the Fürstenhof, a luxurious and -enervating hotel where we had a suite of rooms facing the front. In the -large drawing-room that Karl Klindworth had engaged for Dawson was a -good piano. - -Now, music in Berlin is just a trade. Everyone plays or sings and -everybody teaches somebody or other to play and sing. Unless you are -an artist of colossal merit (and sometimes even if you are), you will -find it practically impossible to persuade anybody to listen to you if -you are not prepared to “square” the critics. In the season, twenty, -thirty, forty concerts are given nightly, and by far the greater number -of them are given to empty stalls. That does not matter: no artist of -any European experience expects anything else. A musician does not go -to Berlin to get money: he goes to get a reputation. Berlin’s cachet -is (or, most decidedly, I should say _was_) absolutely indispensable -for any pianist, violinist or singer who wishes to make a permanent -and wide reputation. Before the war, Mr Snooks could play as hard and -as fiercely and as long in London as he liked, but unless he was known -in Berlin, and unless it was known that he was known in Berlin, he -was everywhere considered but as a second-rate kind of person, a mere -talented outsider. So that it is quite within the facts to say that -few artists have gone to sing or play in Berlin except for the purpose -of obtaining Press notices, favourable Press notices, Press notices -that glow with praise and reek of backstairs influence. An American, -a French or a Danish artist will go to Berlin with a few years’ -savings, give a short series of recitals, cut his Press notices from -the papers, go back to his native land, and then advertise freely—his -advertisements, of course, consisting of judicious excerpts (not always -very literally translated) from his Berlin notices. This visit to -Berlin, with the hire of a concert hall, etc., may cost a couple of -hundred pounds, but it is counted money well spent, well invested. - -Frederick Dawson had already paid several visits to Berlin and Vienna, -and was so well known in both cities that his appearance in either -always attracted large and enthusiastic audiences; but, apart from -Dawson himself, d’Albert and Lamond, no other British artist or -semi-British artist had, I imagine, the power to do so. - -I was introduced to many critics and many artists. The critic was -almost invariably a Herr Doktor and the Herr Doktor was almost -invariably a Herr Professor: they all had degrees and they all taught. -They were overworked, “doing” five or six concerts a night and -receiving very little pay. They would dash about from one concert hall -to another in taxi-cabs, jot down a few notes, and look down their -noses; when they wished to leave a particular hall, they would look -round furtively, gather their coat-tails together, and sidle slimly or -roll fatly to the door. - -Some of these gentlemen, I heard, were very shady in their dealings -with young and inexperienced artists. They plied a trade of gentle -blackmail, kid-gloved blackmail, of course, but the kid gloves -contained the claws of a hungry eagle. The following describes one of -their pretty little customs. - -Hearing of the arrival in Berlin of a singer or pianist whose agent had -been advertising the fact that his client would shortly give a series -of three recitals, the critic would call upon him, express interest -in his work, and ask to have the pleasure of hearing the artist sing -or play. The artist, flattered and already sure of one good “notice” -at least, would immediately accede; having done his best or worst, -something like the following conversation would take place:— - -=Critic.= Quite good. But that A-minor study of Chopin’s is, of course, -rather hackneyed; you are not, I presume, including it in any of your -programmes? - -=Artist= (_rather taken aback_). I must confess I had intended doing -so. But if you think.... - -=Critic.= I do. Most decidedly I do. There are in Berlin at least ten -thousand people who play it; why should you be the ten thousand and -first? Debussy, now. Why not Debussy? Or even Busoni. Busoni can write, -you know. - -=Artist= (_eagerly_). Yes, yes; I’m playing some Debussy: _Les Poissons -d’Or_ and _Clair de Lune_. - -=Critic.= _Clair de Lune_ is a little _vieux jeu_, don’t you think? -However, play it. Play it now, I mean. - -The artist, half angry, but tremulously anxious to please, does as he -is told. - -=Critic.= Oh yes; you have talent. I think, yes, I rather think I shall -be able to praise you in my paper. However, we shall see. But there -is something, just a little of something, lacking in your style. Your -rhythm is not sufficiently fluid. It should, if I may say so, _sway_ -more. And your use of _tempo rubato_.... Well, now, I could show you. -You see, I have heard Debussy himself play that, and I know pre-cise-ly -how it should go. - -=Artist= (_absolutely staggered_). Oh ... er ... yes. Quite. - -=Critic= (_having allowed time for his remarks to sink in_). Now what -would you say if I were to suggest that I give you a few lessons—say -a couple. I would charge you a guinea and a half each: lessons of -half-an-hour, you know. - -=Artist= (_looking wildly round_). If you were to suggest such a -thing—of course, you haven’t done so yet—but if you _were_ to suggest -it.... - -=Critic= (_with most un-German suavity_). Of course, when I said -“lessons,” I used entirely the wrong word. What I meant was hints and -suggestions. Mere indications. A passing on of a tradition—passing it -on, you understand, from Debussy to yourself. Not everyone, I need -scarcely say, has heard Debussy play. If you were to play Debussy as -I know he should be played, you would be one of the first to do so in -Berlin, and I in my paper should record the fact. - -=Artist.= I see. Yes, I do see. I think that perhaps you are right. You -believe I could—I am rather at a loss for a word—you believe I could, -shall we say “absorb,” the tradition in a couple of lessons? - -=Critic.= I don’t see why you shouldn’t, though, of course, I may -decide—I mean, we may agree—that a third lesson is necessary. Shall we -have our first lesson now? - -=Artist= (_now quite at his ease, slyly_). Lesson? You mean my first -“hint,” “suggestion,” “indication.” Right-o.... Let’s get along with it. - -They are friends: they understand each other. Within twenty-four hours -three guineas pass from the pocket of the artist to the pocket of the -critic, and, in due time, half-a-dozen lines of praise, golden-guinea -praise, appear in the critic’s paper. - -After all, how simple, how friendly, how altogether right and jovial! - -You may think the artist a fool to pay so much for so little, but, -really, you are quite wrong. It isn’t “so little.” It is a good deal. -Those half-dozen lines, in the old pre-war days, would help to secure -valuable engagements not only in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, -Chicago, and the scores of large towns that lie in between, but also -in London, Manchester, Bradford, Leeds; in Paris, Lyons, Rouen, -Marseilles, Bordeaux, Brussels, Ghent, Antwerp. But not in Germany. -Germany knows better. Not in Mannheim, Cologne, Hanover, Dresden. The -secrets of Berlin were known in all the cities and towns of Germany -some years before the war, and the playful little habits of the critics -of that most wonderful city were looked at askance ... were looked at -askance ... were looked at askance _and imitated_. And the imitators -had for their secret motto: _Honi soit._ - - * * * * * - -A beastly city was Berlin. And yet not all of Berlin was beastly. But -the artistic, the musical, part of it was “low, very low,” as Chawnley -Montague said, on an historic occasion, of the slums of Sierra Leone. - -But Karl Klindworth had nothing of beastliness in him. In writing about -Klindworth I shall, I am convinced, feel rather old, and you, when -reading about him, will, I greatly fear, also feel rather old. You see -Klindworth belongs so awfully to the past. Yet he was a very great man -in his day, and there must be still in London many people who knew him -in those silly, savage days when stupid people (and they were brutally -stupid) thought of Wagner what brutally stupid people think to-day of -Richard Strauss. - -Klindworth was not only a disciple of Wagner’s but he was also -one of Wagner’s prophets: a forerunner. A great pianist, also: a -great conductor: a great man. Frederick Dawson, one of the most -generous-hearted of men, took me to Klindworth’s, and said some jolly, -flattering things about me to the great musician. Klindworth was very -old, about eighty years, and, when he spoke, it was like listening -to the voice of a man who had just got beyond the grave and was not -unhappy there. - -I egged him on to speak of Wagner. - -“What can I say?” he mused. “Nothing. Wagner was from God.” - -His large eyes, two great ponds of colour in a face not white but -stained with ivory, smouldered and suddenly burst into flame. His -hands, always trembling a little, now shook rather violently. I could -not help feeling, as I gazed upon this old man, that Wagner lived in -him as strongly as he lives in the mighty scores of _Die Meistersinger_ -and _Tristan und Isolde_. - -We sat silent. Frau Klindworth, an Englishwoman speaking English most -charmingly with a foreign accent, folded her hands and gave a little -sigh. Dawson shot me a significant look which meant: “Keep quiet; if -you do, he will begin to talk.” - -And for a little while he did. Without a gesture, without a movement, -Klindworth, looking with unfocussed eyes into space, began to talk. (He -spoke in English, for he knew that I knew very little German.) - -“No one,” said he, “who was a gentleman, I mean no one who had ordinary -feelings of chivalry, could meet Wagner without feeling that he was -in the presence of one of the Kings of our world. Certain people, -both in England and Germany, have written stupid things of him; they -have pointed fingers at his faults, banged their fists upon his sins. -I hate those people. Faults and sins? Who has not faults? Who has -not committed sins? You English have a word ‘uncanny.’ Or is it you -Scottish people? Wagner was uncanny. He dived into things. Yes, he -dived. And every time he lost his body in the blue sea, he brought back -a pearl. A pearl? No: pearls have no mystery. He brought back, each -time, a hitherto undiscovered gem.... ‘Gem’! What silly sounds you -have in English.... Jem.... Djem!” - -His old mind, outworn and very weary, appeared to cease its -functioning. He sat with no sign of life in him. It was as though a -clock had stopped, as though a light had gone out. And then, without -any apparent cause, he came to life again. - -“Let us go to the piano,” he said, rising. - -So we left the little room in which we were sitting and moved to the -large music-room at the far end of which was a grand piano. Frau -Klindworth, Dawson and I sat in the semi-darkness near the door; -Klindworth’s tall but rather shrunken figure moved down the room to -the little light that hung above the keyboard. He played some almost -unknown pieces of Liszt, interpreting them in a style at once noble and -half-ruined. The excitement of playing seemed to increase rather than -add strength to his physical weakness, and many wrong notes were struck. - -It was very pathetic to see this old man trying to revive the fires -within him, trying and failing; and I felt that if, by some miraculous -effort, he had succeeded, if the ashes of long-spent fires had indeed -broken into hot flame, his frail body would have been consumed. - -He gave me his photograph and wrote on the back some message, and -when I left him I thought I should never see him again. But, a few -days later, I saw him in the front row of one of Frederick Dawson’s -recitals, and I occasionally heard from him a deep-noted “Bravo!” as -Dawson electrified us with one of his stupendous performances. - -Klindworth lingered on for some years later and, when I was in -Macedonia last year, I saw in some newspaper a few lines recording -his death. In the seventies he was a great figure in London, and -Wagner-worshippers of those days worshipped Klindworth also, not only -for his genius, but also for his loyalty, his noble-mindedness, his -devotion to his art. - - * * * * * - -Out of curiosity on the last day of my stay in Berlin, I went to -a famous concert agent’s office, ostensibly to make some business -inquiries, but, in reality, to have a look at the underworld of art; -for the business side of all art has almost invariably an underworld of -its own in which there is much irony and in which dwells a spirit of -strangely sardonic humour. - -The office was crowded with artists, most of them prosperous, all of -them of recognised position. Though they were clients of the agent—that -is to say, people able and eager to engage his services and pay -handsomely for them—they were kept waiting an unconscionable time, as -though they had come to beg favours. As, indeed, they had. For Herr -Otto Zuggstein always made it perfectly clear by his manner that the -favour was his to confer, the honour yours to accept. He had a hot, -eager brain, cunning hands and hairy wrists. - -And his work, his object in life? Well, he was the connecting-link -between the artist and the public, just as a publisher is the -connecting-link between authors and those who read. Otto Zuggstein -“published” pianists, singers, violinists. He engaged concert halls -for them, sold their tickets and collected the money, printed their -programmes, distributed tickets to the Press, advertised their -recitals, and so on. There are, of course, many such men, men engaged -honourably in an honourable profession, in all the big cities of -Europe; but Zuggstein was steeped in dishonour. It was freely said -of him that he had all the powerful music critics of Berlin in the -hollow of his hand. Instead of working for their respective editors -they really worked for him. He could command a long and enthusiastic -“notice” about almost any artist in almost any paper; he could also -secure the publication of the most damning criticisms. If you were -a really great artist desiring to “succeed” in Berlin and he, or his -friends, considered it against his own and his friends’ interest for -you to succeed, he could and would prevent you doing so. - -He occasionally emerged from the inner room in which he sat, moved -among us for a minute or so, exchanging handshakes, smiles and other -insincerities, and, singling out a man or a woman with special business -claims upon him, returned with his companion to his private office. As -he disappeared, some of those who waited smiled significantly at each -other. - -Zuggstein, as one used to write three or four years ago, “intrigued” -me. He was such an efficient rogue: a rogue working, as it appeared, -most openly, most flagrantly, but in reality working with an abundance -of prepared camouflage. - -I waited most patiently and, in the course of time, when he again -issued from his private sanctum, he queried me with his right eyebrow, -beckoned me almost imperceptibly with his left elbow and, preceding me, -made a gangway to his room. I followed him with an air, recognising, as -I did so, that I was in for a bit of an adventure, and resolved to lie -like poor Beelzebub himself. - -“Good-morning,” said he in English when the door was closed upon us. -“Will you take a chair and also a cigar?” Mysteriously, he produced a -box from the region of his knees and looked hard at me. “And a whisky?” -he added, with a smile. “I never drink myself,” he apologised, “but you -English!” - -I accepted all three invitations. - -“I have come,” said I, when I had lit my cigar and savoured it, “I have -come to see you about half-a-dozen recitals, piano recitals, that a -Norwegian friend of mine wishes to give here in Berlin next January.” - -“To whom,” asked he—and a little chill descended upon him as he asked -the question—“to whom have I the honour of speaking?” - -I smiled deprecatingly, and produced from my card-case a card bearing -the name “Gerald Cumberland.” - -“I am staying at the Fürstenhof. Room 4001.” - -Disarmed, but still cautious, he wrote the number of my room on the -pasteboard. - -“I am, I think it is obvious, from England. This is my first visit to -your great city. I am interested in art, in music.” I used a careless, -all-embracing gesture. “And my Norwegian friend, Mr Sigurd Falk, -knowing that I was about to set out for Berlin, asked me to try to -arrange certain matters with you. He got your name from a compatriot of -his.” - -By this time he had poured out, and I had drunk most of, the whisky. A -peculiar thing happened: whilst it was I who drank the whisky, it was -he who became genial—more than genial: almost friendly. - -“What,” he inquired, “does your friend wish to do in Berlin?” - -“Play the piano and make a little money.” - -He grunted sympathetically, if a man may ever be said to grunt -sympathetically. - -“Money is difficult to make in Berlin,” he said, looking at me keenly, -“but I will do my best for him. Six recitals, you say?” - -“Six. And at this, our first interview, I wished to have just a rough -estimate of what those six recitals are likely to cost.” - -“Why, it all depends.... Another whisky?... No?... It all depends. -Depends on all kinds of things. What hall do you want? I ought, -perhaps, to tell you, first of all, what hall you can _have_: you see, -you come rather late, very late, in the day. It is now November, and -your friend wishes to play in January. All the halls are usually booked -months in advance.” - -We went into particulars of halls, dates, etc. And then he began to -scribble figures on a sheet of paper. - -“Press?” he queried. - -“I _beg_ your pardon?” - -“You would, I mean your friend would, I imagine, like a favourable -Press?” - -“Why, yes.” - -“Audience?” - -“Do you mean _any_ kind of audience?” - -“I am afraid they will be mostly women, though, of course, I can get -you a certain number of male students. But the audience, I can promise -you, will be well disposed. Three or four encores at least.” - -“Yes, then, both Press _and_ audience.” - -He scribbled a little more. - -“An inclusive estimate?” he asked. - -“Please. You mean by inclusive...?” - -“Everything,” he said impressively; “the hall, the printing, the -advertisements, a few invitations, the preliminary paragraphs, the -audience, the critics’ articles. And not only the critics’ notices, but -the presence of the critics themselves,” he added. - -He worked hard for five minutes, looked up data in books, and at length -very gently pushed over to me, across the shining top of the table, -a properly written out estimate for the recitals my imaginary friend -intended to give. The total amount, as represented by English money, -was £325. - -“Thank you so much,” said I; “I will call to see you to-morrow perhaps. -But I must first of all get an estimate from Herr Dorn.” - -“Who is Herr Dorn?” he asked, in surprise. - -I did not know: his name had slid into my mind that very moment, and I -was not quite sure whether, in the whole world, there was such a name. -Then, greatly daring, I greatly lied. - -“He is a cousin of Sigurd Falk,” said I. - -As I left, he gave me another cigar, shook my hand most warmly, and -looked me in the eyes very keenly. - - * * * * * - -Every night Dawson and I used to go either to the opera or to some -concert, and, when the music was finished, which was generally very -late, we would perhaps go to some supper-party or other. - -I have a good appetite myself, but really some of the German ladies’ -gastronomic feats were superb. I remember myself one night sitting -fascinated and awestruck as I saw a Wagner-heroine type of woman, -full-breasted, high-browed and majestic, eat plateful after plateful of -oysters, until I began to wonder how it was so many oysters came to be -in Berlin at one and the same time. - - * * * * * - -Elena Gerhardt, in those days, was large, white and serene. She was a -little bitter, perhaps, and certainly greatly disappointed. I met her -in Manchester shortly after my return to England, and found her mind -insipid, her soul tepid. - - * * * * * - -Egon Petri had phlegm almost British: a real slogger: most uninspired: -the possessor of faultless technique: the possessor of a brain that -retained everything but expounded nothing. He had business ability and -pushed ahead all the time: pushed ahead all the time, but never arrived -anywhere. Never will arrive anywhere in particular, except at his own -well-cleaned doorstep, where the polished knocker will respond to his -carefully gloved hand. - - * * * * * - -Richard Strauss I also met in Manchester at about the same time. I have -always maintained that, in at least one case out of three, it is unwise -to judge a man by his face. - -But I must for a moment digress. This question of faces is most -interesting. Every man, of course, makes his own face: even the most -ugly of us will concede that much, for, if we are, and know we are, -ugly, we always console ourselves with the thought: “Yes, but it is a -special kind of ugliness. There is strength in my ugliness. There is -character; there is soul. My ugliness is original. There is no ugliness -_quite_ like my ugliness.” For, so long as we are different from other -people, that is all that matters. Now, in making our faces—a process -that is always continuous from the time we are born to the moment of -death—some of us are full of anxiety to make, not a face, but a mask. -Our faces do not express our souls: they hide them. The consequence -of this is that you will sometimes, though not often, meet a man with -a mean, insignificant face who is, in reality, the possessor of a -first-rate brain. But it is difficult to repress some facial hint of -intellect; try how one may, one can do little to modify the shape of -one’s brow or give the eye a sodden and unintelligent look. - -Richard Strauss has disguised himself. At close quarters one sees at -once that his head is both shapely and well poised: one notices the -exceptionally high forehead, the firm rounded lips, the determined -chin. “A financier,” you say to yourself; “at all events, if not a -financier, a man of affairs, a man accustomed to deal with and order -facts. Certainly not a dreamer—not a poet or a musician or an artist of -any kind.” - -He exhibits no emotion. Self-restrained, he speaks little but very much -to the point. Even in moments of great success, he is reserved and -businesslike. You can never take him unawares. He is guarded, on the -alert, watchful. “All mind but no heart,” you say; at least, you say -that if you are a careless observer. - -His tastes are of the simplest and though, for a composer, he has -amassed a large amount of money, he is absurdly economical. He -rather likes abuse, and when a critic makes a fool of himself he is -inordinately amused. The spectacle of human vanity and human folly -excites him. His handshake is firm, his regard direct. - -His piano-playing is beautifully neat and polished, but he is not a -virtuoso on the instrument. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -SOME MUSICIANS - - Edvard Grieg—Sir Frederick H. Cowen—Dr Hans Richter—Sir Thomas - Beecham—Sir Charles Santley—Landon Ronald—Frederic Austin - - -Very many years have passed since, one cold winter’s afternoon, I met -Edvard Grieg on Adolph Brodsky’s doorstep. A little figure buried, -very deeply buried, in an overcoat at least six inches thick, came -down the damp street, paused a minute at the gate, and then, rather -hesitatingly, walked up the pathway. He saluted me as he reached the -door and we waited together until my summons to those within was -answered. - -I found him very homely, completely without affectation, childlike, and -a little melancholy. He was at that time in indifferent health, and -it was at once made evident to me that both Grieg himself and those -around him—especially Mrs Brodsky—were very anxious that he should -be restored to complete fitness. He said nothing in the least degree -noteworthy, but when he did speak he had such a gentle air, a manner so -ingratiating and simple, that one found his conversation most unusually -pleasant. - -Ernest Newman once called Grieg “Griegkin,” a most admirable name for -this quite first-rate of third-rate composers. His music is diminutive. -He could not think largely. He loved country dances, country scenes, -the rhythm of homely life, the bounded horizon. Even so extended a -work as his Pianoforte Concerto is a series of miniatures. And Grieg -the man was precisely like Grieg the artist. He was Griegkin in his -appearance, his manner, his way of speaking: a little man: a gracious -little man. His attitude towards his host and hostess was that of an -affectionate child. Such dear simplicity is, I think, in the artist -found only among men of northern races. - -Some years later, in an intimate little circle, I was to hear his -widow sing and play many of her husband’s songs. She was the feminine -counterpart of himself—spirited, a little sad, simple yet wise, frank, -and an artist through and through. - - * * * * * - -A great deal of comedy is lost to the world through lack of historians. -It is almost impossible to conceive that Sir F. H. Cowen should ever -have been in serious competition with Hans Richter: impossible to -conceive that half the musical inhabitants of a large city should have -been ranged fiercely on Sir Frederick’s side, and the other half ranged -on the side of Richter: impossible to conceive that both Cowen and -Richter were candidates for the same post. Yet so it was. - -Sir Charles Hallé, who had founded and conducted for about -half-a-century the famous orchestral concerts in Manchester still known -by his name, died and left no successor. Literally, there was no one -to appoint in his place, no one quite good enough. Month after month -went by, a good many distinguished and semi-distinguished musicians -came to Manchester and conducted an odd concert or two, but it was very -widely felt that no British musician would do. Sir Frederick Cowen, -always an earnest and accomplished composer, came for a season or two -and did some admirable work, but Cowen was not Hallé. Then the German -element in Manchester discovered that Richter would come, if invited. -The salary was large, the work not heavy, the climate awful, the people -devoted, the position unusually powerful. All things considered, it -was one of the few really good vacant musical posts in Europe. - -All this is ancient history now, and I will record only briefly that -ultimately Sir Frederick Cowen was, in effect, told (what, no doubt, he -already knew) that Richter was the better man and that he (Cowen) must -go. But before this decision was made a most severe fight was waged in -the city. Cowen conducted, and thousands of partisans came and cheered -him to the echo. Richter conducted, and thousands of partisans came and -cheered him to the echo. People wrote to the newspapers. Leader writers -solemnly summed up the situation from day to day. Protests were made, -meetings were organised and held, votes of confidence were passed. -London caught the infection, and passed its opinion, its opinions.... - -Sir F. H. Cowen (he was “Mr” then) received me in his rooms at the -Manchester Grand Hotel. It was impossible not to like him, for, if -he had no great positive qualities that seized upon you at once, he -had a good many negative ones. He had no “side,” no self-importance, -no eccentricities. He had neither long hair nor a foreign accent. He -did not use a cigarette-holder. He did not loll when he sat down, or -posture when he stood up. And he had not just discovered a new composer -of Dutch extraction.... These are small things, you say. But are -they?... - -I remember looking at him and wondering if he really _had_ written _The -Better Land_. It seemed so unlikely. Faultlessly dressed, immaculately -groomed, how _could_ he have written _The Better Land_—that luteous -land that is so sloppy, so thickly covered with untidy debris? - -He would not talk of the musical situation in Manchester, and I could -see that he was very sensitive about his uncomfortable position. - -“If I am wanted, I shall stay,” was all he would give me. - -“And are you going to write about me in the paper?” asked he, at the -end of our interview; “how interesting that will be!” And he smiled -with gentle satire. - -“I shall make it as interesting as I can,” I assured him, “but, you -see, you have said so little.” - -“Does that matter?” he returned. “I have always heard that you -gentlemen of the Press can at least—shall we say embroider?” - -“But may I?” I asked. - -“How can I prevent you? Do tell me how I can, and I will.” - -“Well, you can insist upon seeing the article before it appears in -print.” - -“Oh, ‘insist’ is not a nice word, is it? But if you would be kind -enough to send me the article before your Editor has it....” - - * * * * * - -Hans Richter was an autocrat, a tyrant. During the years he conducted -in Manchester, he did much splendid work, but it may well be questioned -if, on the whole, his influence was beneficial to Manchester citizens. -He was so tremendously German! So tremendously German indeed, that he -refused to recognise that there was any other than Teutonic music in -the world. His intellect had stopped at Wagner. At middle age his mind -had suddenly become set, and he looked with contempt at all Italian and -French music, refusing also to see any merit in most of the very fine -music that, during the last twenty years, has been written by British -composers. - -He irked the younger and more turbulent spirits in Manchester, and we -were constantly attacking him in the Press. But with no effect. Richter -was like that. He ignored attacks. He was arrogant and spoiled and -bad-tempered. - -“Why don’t you occasionally give us some French music at your -concerts?” he was asked. - -“French music?” he roared; “there _is_ no French music.” - -And, certainly, whenever he tried to play even Berlioz one could see -that he did not regard his work as music. And he conducted Debussy, so -to speak, with his fists. And as for Dukas...! - -Young British musicians used to send him their compositions to read, -but the parcels would come back, weeks later, unread and unopened. -His mind never inquired. His intellect lay indolent and half-asleep -on a bed of spiritual down. And the thousands of musical Germans in -Manchester treated him so like a god that in course of time he came to -believe he was a god. His manners were execrable. On one occasion, he -bore down upon me in a corridor at the back of the platform in the Free -Trade Hall. I stood on one side to allow him to pass, but Richter was -very wide and the corridor very narrow. Breathing heavily, he kept his -place in the middle of the passage.... I felt the impact of a mountain -of fat and heard a snort as he brushed past me. - -Everyone was afraid of him. Even famous musicians trembled in his -presence. I remember dining with one of the most eminent of living -pianists at a restaurant where, at a table close at hand, Richter also -was dining. The previous evening Richter had conducted at a concert at -which the pianist had played, and the great conductor had praised my -friend in enthusiastic terms; moreover, they had met before on several -occasions. - -“I’ll go and have a word with the Old Man, if you’ll excuse me,” said -my friend. - -I watched him go. Smiling a little, ingratiatingly, he bowed to -Richter, and then bent slightly over the table at which the famous -musician was dining alone. Richter took not the slightest notice. My -friend, embarrassed, waited a minute or so, and I saw him speaking. -But the diner continued dining. Again my friend spoke, and at -length Richter looked up and barked three times. Hastily the pianist -retreated, and when he had rejoined me I noticed that he was a little -pale and breathless. - -“The old pig!” he exclaimed. - -“Why, what happened?” - -“Didn’t you see? First of all, he wouldn’t take the slightest notice of -me or even acknowledge my existence. I spoke to him in English three -times before he would answer, and then, like the mannerless brute he -is, he replied in German.” - -“What did he say?” - -“How do I know? I don’t speak his rotten language. But it sounded like: -‘Zuzu westeben hab! Zuzu westeben hab! Zuzu westeben hab!’ I only know -that he was very angry. He was eating slabs of liver sausage. And he -spoke right down in his chest.” - -He was, indeed, unapproachable. - -Of course, he was a marvellous conductor, a conductor of genius; but -long before he left Manchester his powers had begun to fail. - -For two or three years I made a practice of attending his rehearsals. -Nothing will persuade me that in the whole world there is a more -depressing spot than the Manchester Free Trade Hall on a winter’s -morning. I used to sit shivering with my overcoat collar buttoned -up. Richter always wore a round black-silk cap, which made him look -like a Greek priest. He would walk ponderously to the conductor’s -desk, seize his baton, rattle it against the desk, and begin without -a moment’s loss of time. Perhaps it was an innocent work like Weber’s -_Der Freischütz_ Overture. This would proceed swimmingly enough for -a minute or so, when suddenly one would hear a bark and the music -would stop. One could not say that Richter spoke or shouted: he merely -made a disagreeable noise. Then, in English most broken, in English -utterly smashed, he would correct the mistake that had been made, and -recommence conducting without loss of a second. - -He had no “secret.” Great conductors never do have “secrets.” Only -charlatans “mesmerise” their orchestras. Simply, he knew his job, he -was a great economiser of time, and he was a stern disciplinarian. - -He could lose his temper easily. He hated those of us who were -privileged to attend his rehearsals. He declared, quite unwarrantably, -that we talked and disturbed him. But he never appeared to be in the -least disturbed by the handful of weary women who, with long brushes, -swept the seats and the floor of the hall, raising whirlpools of dust -fantastically here and there, and banging doors in beautiful disregard -of the Venusberg music and in protest against the exquisite Allegretto -from the Seventh Symphony. - - * * * * * - -Sir Thomas Beecham (he was then plain “Mr”) brought a tin of tobacco to -the restaurant, placed it on the table, and proceeded to fill his pipe. -He was not communicative. He simply sat back in his chair, smoking -quietly, and behaving precisely as though he were alone, though, as -a matter of fact, there were four or five people in his company. He -was not shy: he was simply indifferent to us. If you spoke to him, he -merely said “no” or “yes” and looked bored. He _was_ bored. - -And so he sat for ten minutes; then, with a little sigh, he rose and -departed from among us, without a word, without a look. He just melted -away and never returned. - - * * * * * - -I rather dreaded meeting Sir Charles Santley, and when I rang at his -door-bell, I remember devoutly wishing that in a moment I should -hear that he was out, or that he had changed his mind and no longer -desired to see me. I dreaded meeting him because I realised that, -temperamentally, we were opposed. I had read his reminiscences -and disliked him intensely for the things he had said of Rossetti. -Instinctively, I drew away from his robust, tough-fibred mind. - -But he was in, and in half-a-minute I was talking to an old, but still -vigorous, gentleman whose one desire appeared to be to put me at my -ease. I do not think I ever met a man so honest, so blunt. I felt that -his mind was direct and his judgment decisive, but I found him lacking -in subtlety, unable to respond to the mystical in art, and wholly -deficient in true imaginative qualities. He was Victorian. - -Now, I don’t suppose any of us who are living to-day (and when I say -“living” I mean anyone whose mind is still developing—most people, say, -under the age of forty-five) will be able to understand the point of -view of the Victorian musician. It appears to me monstrous that anyone -should still love Mendelssohn and hate Wagner, that anyone should sing -J. L. Hatton in preference to Hugo Wolf, that anyone should still -delight in Donizetti and Bellini. Those Victorian days were days when -the singer wished that his own notions of the limitations of the human -voice should control the free development of music. They loved _bel -canto_ and nothing else; they averred, indeed, that there was nothing -else to love. They were admirable musicians from the technical point of -view, and they had honest hearts and by no means feeble intellects. But -they could never be brought to believe that music was a reflection of -life, that there were in the human heart a thousand shades of feeling -that not even Handel had expressed, that sound is capable of a million -subtleties, that the ear of man is an organ that is, so to speak, only -in its infancy. - -It was a little pathetic, I thought, when speaking to Santley, that -this very great singer had been living for at least thirty years -entirely untouched by many of the finest compositions that had been -written in that period. - -And he declared, quite frankly, that “modern” music had no interest -for him. When I mentioned Richard Strauss, he smiled. At the name of -Debussy, he looked bewildered, and about Max Reger, Scriabin, Granville -Bantock, Sibelius and Delius, he had not a word to say. - -But soon we got on to his own subject—singing—and here again we were at -cross-purposes. Singers who to me seem supreme artists he had either -not heard of or had not heard. - -“There is only one British singer to-day who carries on the old -tradition,” said he; “I mean Madame Kirkby Lunn. She has technique, -style, personality. The others, compared with her, are nowhere.” - -Some general talk followed, and I soon discovered, beyond the -possibility of doubt, that, like all great Victorians who have had -their day, he was living in the past—in that particular past whose -artistic spirit is embodied in the Albert Memorial, in the musical -criticism of J. W. Davidson, in the pianoforte playing of Arabella -Godard, in the poetry of Lord Tennyson, in the pictures of Lord -Leighton, in the prose of Ruskin. - -What had Santley to say to me, or I to him? Nothing, and less than -nothing. We were from different worlds, different planets, for -half-a-century divided us. In years, he was nearer to the Elizabethan -age than I ... and yet how much farther away was he? - - * * * * * - -Perhaps Mr Landon Ronald will not be angry with me if I call him the -most accomplished of British musicians. He would have every right to be -angry if I said he was accomplished and nothing else.... How far back -that word “accomplished” takes us, doesn’t it? Twenty years, at least. -For aught I know to the contrary, it may still be employed in Putney. -I observe that Chambers defines “accomplishment” as an “ornamental -acquirement,” and, in my boyhood, that was precisely what it meant. -Young ladies “acquired” the art of playing the piano, the art of -painting, the art of recitation. Their skill in any art was not the -result of developing a talent that was already there, but it was the -result of a pertinacity that should have been spent on other things. -But one no longer uses “accomplished” in that precise sense. - -Landon Ronald has more than a streak of genius in his nature, and his -cleverness is so abnormal as to be almost absurd. His genius and his -cleverness are evident even in a few minutes’ conversation. He radiates -cleverness, and he is so splendidly alive that as soon as he enters a -room you feel that something quick and electric has been added to your -environment. - -When I first met him—ten years ago, was it?—his one ambition was to be -recognised throughout Europe as a great conductor. He was acknowledged -as such in England, of course, and a visit to Rome had fired both the -Italian public and critics with enthusiasm. But London and Rome are not -Europe, whilst in those days Berlin most distinctly was. He was most -charmingly frank about himself, full of enthusiasm for himself, full of -delight in all life’s adventures. - -“Of course, I know my songs aren’t _real_ songs,” he said. “I can write -tunes and I’m a musician, and I’m just clever enough to be cleverer -than most people at that sort of work. But you must not imagine I take -my compositions seriously. I think they’re rather nice—‘nice’ _is_ the -word, isn’t it?—and I enjoy inventing them—and ‘inventing’ is also the -word, don’t you think? Besides, they make money; they help to boil the -pot for me while I go on with my more serious work—that is to say, -conducting.” - -Havergal Brian was in the room—we were in that fulsome and blowzy town, -Blackpool—and he remarked, as so many extraordinarily able composers -have from time to time remarked, that he found it impossible to write -music that the public really liked. - -“Nearly all my stuff,” said he, “is on a big scale for the orchestra. I -am always trying to do something new—something out of the common rut.” - -“Ah, but then,” exclaimed Ronald, quite sincerely, “you are a composer, -and I am not.” - -Brian was appeased, and I looked at Ronald with admiration for his -tact. But he went even a little farther. - -“I sometimes feel rather a pig,” he continued, “making money by my -trifles when so many men with much greater gifts can only rarely get -their work performed and still more rarely get it published. You told -us just now,” said he, turning to Brian, “that you would like to make -money by your compositions. Who wouldn’t? Well, it would be foolish of -me to advise you to try to write more simply, with less originality, -and on a smaller scale. It would be foolish, because you simply -couldn’t do it. No; you must work out your own salvation: it is only a -matter of waiting: success will come.” - -A month or two later, we met at Southport, I in the meantime having -written an article on Ronald for a musical magazine. With this article -he professed himself charmed. He was as jolly about it as a schoolboy, -and expressed surprise that I could honestly say such nice things about -him. - -“It _is_ good to be praised,” said he, laughing; “I could live on -praise for ever.” And then, lighting a cigarette, he added: “Perhaps -the reason why I like it so much is that I feel I really deserve it.” - -It was my turn to laugh. - -“But I do feel that!” he protested; “if I didn’t, I should hate you or -anyone else to say such frightfully kind things about me and my work.” - -A month or two later he wrote me a long letter full of enthusiasm -for some work of mine he had seen somewhere, and when I saw him the -following week in London I protested against his undiluted praise. - -“I believe you think I am a bit of a humbug,” said he. - -“I’m afraid I do,” I replied. (For, really, I think almost all subtle -and clever artists are bits of humbugs.) - -“Very good, then!” exclaimed he, ridiculously hurt. - -“What I mean is, that if you like anyone, your judgment is immediately -prejudiced in their favour.” - -“So you think I like you?” - -“I am sure of it.” - -“Well, you’re quite right. But, really and truly, you mustn’t call -me, or even think me, the slightest bit of a humbug. You can call -me impulsive, superficial, or anything horrid of that kind ... but -insincere! Why, sincerity is the only real virtue I’ve got.” - -And I believe he believed himself. But who is sincere?—at least, who is -sincere except at the moment? Are not all of us who are artists swayed -hither and thither, from hour to hour, by the emotion of the moment? Do -we not say one thing now, and an hour later mean exactly the opposite? -Are we not driven by our enthusiasms to false positions, and do not -glib, untrue words spring to our lips because the moment’s mood forces -them there? - -I have not met Landon Ronald for four years, but the other day I heard -him conduct, and I recognised in his interpretations the supreme -qualities I have so often observed before. He himself is like his -work—polished, highly strung, emotional, fluid, intense. His mind works -with lightning-like quickness; he knows what you are going to say just -a second before you have said it. And over his personality hangs the -glamour that we call genius. - - * * * * * - -Many well-known singers have I met, but very few of them inspire me to -burst into song. They are a dull, vain crew. Among the few most notable -exceptions is Frederic Austin, a man with a temperament so refined, -with a nature so retiring, that it is a constant source of wonder to me -that he should be where he now is—in the front rank of vocalists. - -Years ago Ernest Newman said to me: - -“Frederic Austin has become a fine singer through sheer brain-work. He -always had temperament, but his voice was never in the least remarkable -until by ingenious training, by constant thought, and by the most -arduous labour he developed it until it became an organ of sufficient -strength and richness to enable him to interpret anything that appeals -to him.” - -He is, I think, the only eminent singer in this country who is a -distinguished composer. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about him -is that you might very easily pass days in his company without guessing -that he is a famous singer, for his personality suggests qualities that -famous singers seldom possess. He is _distingué_, austere, and devoted -to his art. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -TWO CHELSEA “RAGS,” 1914 AND 1918 - - -1914 - -It used to begin as a rumour, a faint stirring and excitement in King’s -Road, Chelsea. The artist on the top floor of Joubert Studios—an artist -who had a private income and a gently nursed hypochondria—received -a parcel from home: a couple of cooked chickens, perhaps, a tongue, -cakes, crystallised fruits, three bottles of wine and so on. The lady -who occupied the studio below, and the musical critic who lived in the -third studio from the top, were duly apprised of the fact, and Norman -and Eddie Morrow were called in from near by for a consultation. - -“Clearly,” the lady remarked, “a rag is indicated. A rag must always -have a beginning, and this undoubtedly is a most excellent beginning. -Ring up Susie, somebody, and fetch Hearn over and Ivan and let the -Cumberlands know; and, oh! Hughes, dear little Herbert, lend me your -pots and pans and things. And, Warlow, just run round everywhere and -tell all the people you meet. Don’t forget John, and I think that Deane -would like that girl with fuzzy hair. We’ll begin at seven. No, we -won’t: we’ll begin now.” - -And Warlow, nursing his hypochondria and being very biddable, sighed -and moved away, saying beseechingly as he went: - -“You _will_ leave me a wing, won’t you? I’ve had no breakfast yet.” - -But neither had the rest, and by the time Warlow, suffering in a -resigned and patient kind of way from paleness and breathlessness, -returned, one of the chickens had vanished, and the long table with its -litter of paper, cardboard, pencils and paint, was now littered also -with plates and knives and forks and breadcrumbs. The rag had begun. - -The month was May, a true May with a warm wind, a warmer sun, and -fluttering green leaves. The little party—the nucleus of the much -larger party that was to meet there in the evening—drifted downstairs -to Hughes’s studio where there was a grand piano and a portable -harmonium which appeared to belong to no one in particular. Hughes, -looking a little ruefully at the MS. upon which he was engaged, put it -away on a shelf, opened his wide windows and began to play. Harry Lowe, -with his magnificent but untrained voice, appeared dramatically in the -doorway and sang: - - _Largo {For he’s a Scotsman, a bonny Scotsman, - grandioso_ { His feyther and his mither, - { His sister and his brither— - (_Forte_) They are _all_ Scotch, from the land of Roderick Dhu; - (_Vivace_) And the whitewash brush in the middle of his kilt - (_Piano_) Is all Sco-otch too. - -This went to a great tune devised, invented, composed and arranged -by Hughes and Lowe. The great air, heard with its cunning chatter of -an accompaniment from the piano, put everyone in the right mood, and -Norman Morrow, whose head was always full of ideas, began to prepare -“stunts” for the evening, whilst Warlow, having nothing better to do, -attired himself as an Italian Count, sat at the open window, and smiled -sadly at all the girls whose attention he could attract in the street -below. - -Norman’s idea was a revue—a revue of Any Old Thing: Mona Lisa, the -sale of beautiful slaves, the Salome Dance by six-foot-two Harry Lowe, -the Innocent Wench who took the Wrong Turning, etc., etc. He wanted -to prepare the groundwork for the evening’s performance; the details -could be filled in on the spur of the moment. But, in the afternoon -rehearsal, several scenes, exciting the actors, were studied carefully -to the most minute particular. Kitty, in the meantime, was upstairs -preparing food, her dainty hands fluttering over salads and sandwiches. -At six, jolly, lovable little Susie rushed from her work, revitalised -everybody, and sang in her funny little voice, holding a cigarette in -one hand and a saucepan in the other. - -But before the Rag Proper began, many charming idiocies were enacted. -Warlow and Eddie Morrow walked to Sloane Square (it is conceivable -that they called at the Six Bells on the way) for the sole purpose of -riding back again in a taxi-cab, Warlow in a great Russian overcoat -smothered in fur, Eddie a little unkempt and looking as though he had -just stepped out of one of J. M. Synge’s plays. Harry Lowe telephoned -a number of telegrams to a far-off post office where it was supposed -there was a lady who owned his heart and sold postage stamps. Norman -Morrow sat in a corner daubing pieces of brown paper with yellow paint -and chuckling inconsequently to himself. All three studios, one above -the other, appeared to be in glorious disorder, but, as a matter of -fact, nearly every brain was busy with preparations, and by seven -o’clock everything was ready for the great rag.... - -I cannot re-create the scene for you. I do not know quite how it is, -but the gaiety, the light-heartedness of that most jolly evening -ooze from my heart as I write. I am not sufficient of an artist to -sweep from my heart all the sad, irrecoverable things that my heart -remembers. Especially, I cannot forget Ivan Heald, who now lies dead. -(A year later he was to say to me, in that same studio: “This is a real -good-bye, Gerald. It is not possible that both of us will survive -this.”... And, of course, it is he who has gone. One feels mean in -surviving, in enjoying the savour of life, when one’s best friends have -departed.) ... - -The artistic Irishman is a perfect actor, an inimitable mimic, and the -two Morrows surpassed everyone. If ever you have seen Eddie Morrow, it -will appear to you inconceivable that he could ever make a good Mona -Lisa. Yet his Mona Lisa was perfect. He smiled so mysteriously, so -faintly, so imaginatively, that Walter Pater, had he seen him, would -have rewritten that swooning chapter which contains so much of art’s -opiate.... I remember Edith Heald who, unexpectedly to me, revealed -consummate art as a nigger-boy, her eyes rolling in rapt wonderment. -I remember Hearn’s eyeglasses, and the smiling eyes behind them, and -the little scurry of words that occasionally came from his lips when -something magical touched his spirit. And I can hear Herbert Hughes’ -contented voice saying: “Well, this is rather splendid, don’t you know.” - -Hughes was awfully good to me on these occasions, for he would allow me -to improvise the music for the dumb charades, though as an extempore -player—and, indeed, as a player of any kind—he is worlds above me. -And I used to love to invent Eastern Dances à la Bantock to fit the -gyrations of Harry Lowe, or Debussy chords for anything shadowy and -sentimental, or chromatic melodies—prolonged and melting things in the -“O Star of Eve” manner—for luscious love scenes, or fat, bulgy discords -when some real tomfoolery was afoot. - -You must imagine everybody gay and, occasionally, just a little -riotous; in remembrance, it seems to me very beautiful because so happy -and childlike. And you must imagine everybody very friendly, even to -complete strangers. There was a carnival atmosphere. Clever people were -there with their brains burning bright. There were wit, music, wine, -pretty women, courtesy, infinite good-will. - -Perhaps, towards midnight, we would seek change in quietness, and, -lying on rugs spread on the waxed floor, would listen to Norman -singing, unaccompanied, an Irish Rebel song, and something a little -hard would come into Irish Susie’s eyes for a moment or two, and I -remember with regret how, some months after war had broken out, I said -after Norman had been singing that it was no longer pleasant to me to -hear Rebel songs. Regret? Yes; for when I said that I was a prig and -was imagining myself as something of a soldier-hero. If only Norman -were alive now to sing whatsoever songs he liked! - -Well, the evening lapsed into night and the night into morn, and again -we became boisterous and new ideas were put into shape and little -tragedies were given in the burlesque manner. The resourcefulness of -the mimes! The devilishly clever satire! The good spirits that never -failed!... - - * * * * * - -It is no use. I cannot describe for you one of those great nights, for -the mood will not come. And one of the reasons why I cannot recapture -the spirit of a Chelsea Rag as it was in the old days, is because -whilst I am writing I have in my mind a picture of a very different -kind. - - * * * * * - - -1918 - -Early in 1918 I was in London for a brief period after an absence from -England of more than two years spent in France, Egypt, Greece and -Serbia. My health was broken, my spirits were low. The Chelsea people -were dispersed; only Hearn, with his lame foot, was left of the men, -but several of the women were to be found. Herbert Hughes, by some -miracle, was on leave, and he turned up unexpectedly one night at my -flat. We talked quietly, laughed a little, had some music, and fell -into silence. - -“Those great days!” said I, apropos of nothing. - -“Yes. Nothing like them will come again. But all of us who remain alive -and are still in England must meet. What about next Sunday? We’ll meet -at Madame’s.” - -And so it was arranged. Next Sunday there were seven of us to make -merry, whereas in former days there were forty or fifty. But we seven -were together once more: we who, as it were, had been saved—saved -perhaps only temporarily. - -It is a long studio in which we sit, but screens enclose a piano, the -fireplace, a few rugs and chairs, and a table. Madame is tall and quiet -and distinguished; her light soprano voice conveys an impression of -wistfulness, and her personality, full of charm and a sadness that does -not conceal her courage, diffuses itself throughout the room. We have -met together for a rag, but no one evinces the least desire to indulge -in any violent jollity. - -Hughes goes to the piano, for a piano always draws him as a magnet -draws steel, and sometimes, half-consciously, he feels the pull of -one before he has seen it. He goes to the piano and, perking his -nose at an angle of about forty degrees with the horizontal, plays -French songs very quietly, whilst we sit gazing into the heart of -the fire, each with his own thoughts, and probably each with the -same thoughts—thoughts of Harry Lowe in Greece, of Gordon Warlow in -Mesopotamia, of those who lie dead, though but two years before they -were more alive than we ourselves, of those who have gone to France and -never returned.... - -And Madame, moving with our thoughts, gently rises and joins Hughes and -begins, her hands clasped on her breast, to sing with most alluring -grace things by Hahn, Debussy and Duparc. The music lulls us into a -very luxury of sadness, into a mood in which grief loses its edge and -sorrow its poignancy. To me, who have heard no music for two years, -her singing is mercilessly beautiful, so beautiful, indeed, that my -breathing becomes uneven and my eyes wet. And once again I feel that -spinal shiver which, as a little boy, I used to experience when I heard -an anthem by Gounod or just caught the sound of a military band as it -marched down another road.... I never used to run from the house to see -the band, for even in those early days I had an intuitive knowledge -that beauty is mystery, and that to probe mysteries is to mar, if not -altogether to kill, beauty.... And to-night, when Madame comes to the -end of each song, I do not speak, I scarcely breathe, so fearful am I -that the spell may be broken. But something of the spell lasts even -when she ceases singing altogether and, looking at my wife, I know -that she feels it too—that, indeed, all in our little company are more -quietly happy, more reconciled to all the brutality and ugliness over -the sea, than we have been for a long age. - -We talk in quiet tones about the past, the present and the future, each -contributing something to the common stock of conversation. Madame -brings us tea and cakes, and we listen to the dim rumour of traffic in -King’s Road. And then, not very late, moved by a common impulse, we -rise to leave, and talking softly as we go, make our way outside where, -as we did in that spot three years ago, we say farewell, wondering as -we do so what Fate has in store for each of us and whether for one or -more of us this is the end of our life in Chelsea—a life in which we -have worked hard and played hard, enjoying both work and play, and in -which we have been carelessly unmindful of the danger lying in wait for -our country. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -SOME MORE MUSICIANS - - Professor Granville Bantock—Frederick Delius—Joseph - Holbrooke—Dr Walford Davies—Dr Vaughan Williams—Dr W. G. - M‘Naught—Julius Harrison—Rutland Boughton—John Coates—Cyril Scott - - -At the present moment there are only two names that are of -vital importance in British creative music—Sir Edward Elgar and -Granville Bantock. No two men could be in more violent contrast: -Elgar, conservative, soured with the aristocratic point of view, -super-refined, deeply religious; Bantock, democratic, Rabelaisian, -free-thinking, gorgeously human. - -Of the two, Bantock is the more original, the deeper thinker, the more -broadly sympathetic. - -It must be about ten years ago that, staying a week-end with Ernest -Newman, I was taken by my host one evening to Bantock’s house in -Moseley. I remember Bantock’s bulky form rising from the table at -which he was scoring the first part of his setting of _Omar Khayyám_, -and I recollect that, as soon as we had shaken hands, he took from -his pocket an enormous cigar-case of many compartments that shut in -upon themselves concertina-fashion. From another pocket he produced a -huge match-box containing matches almost as large as the chips of wood -commonly used for lighting fires. Having carefully selected a cigar for -me, he struck a match that, spluttering like a firework, calmed down -into a huge blaze. He gazed upon me very solemnly and rather critically -all the time I was lighting up, but his face relaxed into a smile -when, having plunged my cigar into the middle of the flame, I left it -there for many seconds and did not withdraw it until the cigar itself -had momentarily flamed and until it glowed like a miniature furnace. - -I was destined to smoke very many of Bantock’s cigars, and I hope that -when the war is over I shall smoke many more; but I never lit a cigar -he handed me without noticing that he invariably observed me very -closely and a trifle anxiously, as though afraid I should fail in some -detail of the holy rite. I do not think I ever did fail, for he never -met me without offering me a cheroot, which he certainly would never -have done if I had omitted any necessary observance of the lighting -ceremonial. - -That first evening we talked a good deal—at least, Newman and a few -other friends did; but Bantock, never a very loquacious man, committed -himself to nothing save a few generalities. By no means a cautious -man in his mode of life, he is nevertheless cautious in his choice of -friends, and no man can freeze more quickly than he when uncongenial -company is thrust upon him. There were several strangers in our little -circle, and Bantock was content for the most part to sit back in his -easy-chair and listen. - -The following night we met again at the Midland Institute, Birmingham, -where Ernest Newman was giving one of his witty and brilliant lectures. -Bantock insisted upon my sitting on the platform, though for what -reason I do not know, unless it was to satisfy his impish instinct for -putting shy and self-conscious people into prominent positions. At -that time he and Newman were the closest of friends, and as Newman and -I were on very friendly terms, Bantock was disposed to regard me very -favourably; at all events, before we parted that evening, he showed me -clearly enough that he did not actually dislike me, for he invited me -to visit him for a week-end whenever I saw my way clear to do so. From -that time onward I met him frequently in his own house, in Manchester, -London, Wrexham, Gloucester, Liverpool, Birmingham and elsewhere. - -Soon it became a regular practice of mine to run over from Manchester -to Liverpool every alternate Saturday to attend the afternoon rehearsal -and the evening concert of the Philharmonic Society, the orchestra of -which Bantock conducted. These were very pleasant meetings, for a party -of us used to stay at the London and North Western Hotel and we would -sit until the small hours of Sunday morning talking music, returning to -our respective homes on Sunday afternoon. At these times Bantock was at -his best, and Bantock’s best makes the finest company in the world. In -his presence one always feels warm and deeply comfortable, and yet very -much alive; he made a glow; he reconciled one to oneself. I would not -call him a brilliant, or even a good, talker, but I can with truth call -him a very wise one; and in argument he is unassailable. - - * * * * * - -Though I used frequently to go to Liverpool to hear Bantock conduct, I -did not do so because I regarded him as a great artist with the baton. -Of his ability in this direction, there is no doubt; but that he is an -interpretative genius no qualified critic would assert. No: it was the -personality of the man himself, and the new, modern works he used to -include in his programmes that drew me to Liverpool. Bantock, at that -period, was almost passionately modern. I remember with amusement how -pettish he used sometimes to pretend to be when, perhaps in deference -to public opinion (but perhaps he was overruled by a Committee?), he -felt compelled to include a Beethoven symphony in one of his concerts. - -On one occasion I met him at Lime Street Station, Liverpool, when he -emerged from the train carrying a bundle of loose scores under his arm. - -“Let me carry your books for you,” said I. - -He selected the least bulky and lightest of the scores he was carrying, -and handed it to me. - -“You are always a good chap, Cumberland,” he remarked. “Do take -this; it’s the heaviest of the lot: Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So -very heavy.” He sighed. “And so dry that merely to carry it makes me -thirsty. How many times have you heard it?” - -But he was poking a cigar into my mouth, and I could not answer until -it was well alight. - -“At least fifty or sixty. Oh, more than that! Eight times, say, every -year for the last fifteen years—one hundred and twenty.” - -“Yes, always a good chap, and so very patient,” he murmured to himself. -“Do you know, Cumberland, I had to work—yes, to _work_—at that Symphony -in the train. And I define work as doing something that gives you no -pleasure. Talking about work, I must post these before I forget.” - -He took from his pocket a number of post cards all addressed to Ernest -Newman. These post cards appeared to amuse him immensely, and he handed -them to me with a smile. There were about a dozen of them, and each -bore an anagram of the word “work”—KROW, WROK, ROWK, RWKO, etc. - -“He’ll receive these by the first post in the morning,” Bantock -explained, “and if they don’t succeed in making him jump out of bed -and finish his analysis of my _Omar Khayyám_ for Breitkopf and Härtel, -nothing will.” - -Point was added to the jest by the fact that Newman has always been a -particularly hard, and generally very heavily pressed worker. - - * * * * * - -In his early manhood Bantock travelled a good deal in the East, not -so much by choice, but because circumstances drove him thither. Yet I -often feel that the East is his natural home. Whether or not he has -any close acquaintance with Eastern languages, I do not know, but he -certainly likes his friends to think he has, and many of the letters -he has sent me contain quotations and odd words written in what I take -to be Persian and Chinese characters. I should not, however, be in the -least surprised to learn that these are “faked,” for Bantock loves -nothing so much as gently pulling the legs of his friends. - -He has not, however, the foresight of Eastern people. His enthusiasms -drive him into extremes and into monetary extravagances. When he lived -at Broadmeadow, with its extensive wooded grounds, outside Birmingham, -he had a mania for bulbs, and I remember his showing me a stable the -floor of which was covered with crocus, daffodil, jonquil and narcissus -bulbs. - -“But,” protested I, “these ought to have been planted months ago.” - -“I know, I know,” he said sadly. “But the gardener is so busy. Still, -there they are.” - -His philosophic outlook has been largely directed by Eastern -philosophy. He admires cunning and takes a beautiful and childlike -delight in believing that he possesses that quality in abundance. But -in reality, he cannot deceive. Even his card tricks are amateurish, and -his chess-playing is only just good. - -Apropos of his chess-playing, I remember that some years ago a chess -enthusiast—a bore of the vilest description—used to visit him regularly -and stay to a very late hour for the purpose of playing a game. These -visits soon became intolerable, and, one evening, as Bantock, irritated -and petulant, sat opposite his opponent, he resolved to put an end to -the nuisance. - -“Excuse me a moment,” said he; “I have left my cigar-box upstairs, and -I really can’t do without a smoke.” - -He left the room, and went straight to bed and to sleep. Next time he -met his visitor, they merely bowed. - -Bantock used to relate this story with the greatest glee, and in the -course of time the yarn grew to colossal dimensions. It became epical. -One was told how his visitor was heard calling: “Bantock! Bantock! I’ve -taken your Queen,” how strange noises proceeded from dark rooms, and -how, next morning, his visitor, having sat up all night, was found wide -awake trying the effect of certain combinations of moves on the board. -When a thing is said three times, it is, of course, true, but Bantock -never told exactly the same story three times. He believes, I think, -that consistency is the refuge and the consolation of the dull-witted. - - * * * * * - -Frederick Delius, a Yorkshireman, has chosen to live most of his -artistic life abroad, and for this reason is not familiarly known to -his countrymen, though he is a great personage in European music. A -pale man, ascetic, monkish; a man with a waspish wit; a man who allows -his wit to run away with him so far that he is tempted to express -opinions he does not really hold. - -I met him for a short hour in Liverpool, where, over food and -drink snatched between a rehearsal and a concert, he showed a keen -intellect and a fine strain of malice. Like most men of genius, he is -curiously self-centred, and I gathered from his remarks that he is not -particularly interested in any music except his own. He is (or was) -greatly esteemed in Germany, and if in his own country he has not a -large following, he alone is to blame. - -He is a man who pursues a path of his own, indifferent to criticism, -and perhaps indifferent to indifference. Decidedly a man of most -distinguished intellect and a quick, eager but not responsive -personality, but not a musician who marks an epoch as does Richard -Strauss, and not a man who has formed a school, as Debussy has done. - - * * * * * - -Joseph Holbrooke, for sheer cleverness, for capacity for hard work, -and for intellectual energy, has no equal among our composers. It was -Newman who first spoke to me about him, and it was Newman who made me -curious to meet this extraordinary genius. - -Holbrooke’s weakness—but I do not consider it a weakness—is his -pugnacity. He has fought the critics times without number and, in many -cases, with excellent results for British music, though Holbrooke must -know much better than I do that in fighting for his colleagues he has -incidentally injured himself. A chastised critic is the last person in -the world likely to write a fair and unbiassed article on a new work -produced by the hand that chastised him. But not only the critics have -felt the lash of Holbrooke’s scorn: conductors, musical institutions, -some very prosperous so-called composers, committees, publishers and, -indeed, almost every kind of man who has power in the musical world, -have felt his sting. - -But if he is clever and witty in his writing, he is much cleverer and -wittier in his talk. I do not suppose I shall ever forget one Sunday I -spent with him, for by midday he had reduced my mind to chaos and my -body to limpness by his consuming energy. When he was not playing, he -was talking, and he did both as though the day were the last he was -going to spend on earth, so eager and convulsive was his speech, so -vehement his playing. - -Perhaps his most remarkable quality is his power of concentration. I -remember his telling me that when he was yachting with Lord Howard -de Walden in the Mediterranean, he was engaged on the composition of -_Dylan_, an opera containing some of the most gorgeous and weirdly -uncanny music that has been written in our generation. At this opera -he worked, not in hours of inspiration (for, like Arnold Bennett, he -does not believe in inspiration), but when he had nothing more exciting -or more necessary to do. For example, he would begin work in the -morning, cheerfully and without regret lay down his pen at lunch-time, -return to his music immediately lunch was finished, and unhesitatingly -recommence writing at the point at which he had left off. Interruptions -that arouse the anger of the ordinary creative artist do not disturb -him in the least. He can work just as composedly and as fluently when a -heated argument is being conducted in the room as he can in a room that -is absolutely quiet. Music, indeed, flows from him, and if moods come -to him which render his brain numb and his soul barren, I doubt if they -last more than a day or two. - -Of the truly vast quantity of music he has written, I, to my regret, -know only a portion, and that belongs chiefly to his very early -period, when he was under the influence of Edgar Allan Poe. Poe is his -spiritual affinity, and Holbrooke’s setting of _Annabel Lee_—a work -which I can play backwards from memory—is more beautiful and haunting -than the beautiful and haunting poem itself. - -I have called Holbrooke pugnacious and, some years ago, much to his -amusement and, I think, gratification, I called him the stormy petrel -of music. But what makes him stormy? What are the defects in our -musical life that he so persistently attacks? First of all, he hates -incompetence, especially official incompetence, and the incompetence -that makes vast sums of money. He hates commercialism in art, and by -that phrase I mean the various enterprises that exploit art for the -sole purpose of making money. He hates publishers who issue trash; -he hates critics who write rubbish. He hates the obscurity in which -so many of his gifted colleagues live, and he hates the love of the -British public for foreign music inferior to that which is being -written at home. And I believe he hates the system that presents -editors of newspapers with free concert tickets for the use of their -critics. - -But, in dwelling at such length on Holbrooke’s combativeness, I feel -I am giving a rather one-sided view of his true character. For he is -not all hate. Indeed, it is true to state that no composer has written -more in appreciation of men who may be considered his rivals. He is -anxious and quick to study the work of men of the younger generation, -and whenever any of that work appeals to him he either performs it in -public or writes to the papers about it. - -I have heard him called perverse, unreliable, injudicious, and many -other disagreeable things. He may be. But Holbrooke is not an angel. He -is simply a composer of genius working under conditions that tend to -thwart and paralyse genius. - - * * * * * - -Dr Walford Davies!... Well, what can I say about Dr Walford Davies -except that he represents all the things in which I have no deep -faith?—asceticism, fine-fingeredism, religiosity, “mutual improvement,” -narrowness of intellect, physical coldness. I love some of his -songs—simple things of exquisite tenderness, but it would be futile to -regard him as anything more than a cultured gentleman with considerable -musical gifts. - -On two or three occasions I have been thrown into his company, but I -have never been able to decide whether he is ignorant of my existence -or whether he dislikes me so intensely that he cannot bring himself to -recognise my existence. - -He is terribly in earnest—in earnest about Brahms and perhaps about -Frau Schumann also. He wrinkles his forehead about Brahms and poises -a white hand in the air.... Please do not imagine that I do not love -Brahms: I adore him. But Brahms was not God. He was not even a god. -Whereas Wagner.... It was in 1911, I think, that I heard Dr Walford -Davies preaching about Brahms. Now, if you preach about Brahms, you are -eternally lost, for you exclude both Wagner and Hugo Wolf. - -How exasperating it must be to possess a temperament that can accept -only part of what is admirable! It seems to me that Walford Davies -distrusts his intellect: in estimating the worth of music, he seems to -say, intellectual standards, artistic standards, are of no value. To -him the only sure test is temperamental affinity. And he wishes all -temperaments to conform to his own limitations. - -I have seen Dr Davies near Temple Gardens with choir-boys hanging on -his arm, with choir-boys prancing before him and following faithfully -behind him. A shepherd with his sheep! I am sure he exerts upon them -what is known as a “good influence.” But in matters of art how bad that -good influence may be! Did ever a worshipper of Wagner walk the rooms -of the Y.M.C.A.? - - * * * * * - -I have a very bad memory for the names of public-houses and hotels -(though I love these places dearly), and I regret that I am unable to -recall the name of that very attractive hotel in Birmingham where, -early one evening, Dr Vaughan Williams, travel-stained and brown with -the sun, walked into the lounge and began a conversation with me. He -had walked an incredible distance, and though, physically, he was -very tired, his mind was most alert, and we fell to talking about -music. He told me that he had studied with Ravel, and when he told me -this I reviewed in my mind in rapid succession all Vaughan Williams’ -compositions I could remember, trying to detect in any of them traces -of Ravel’s influence. But I was unsuccessful. To me he, with his -essential British downrightness, his love of space, his freedom from -all mannerisms and tricks of style, seemed Ravel’s very antithesis. - -Like myself, he had come to Birmingham to listen to music, and the -following evening, after we had heard a long choral work of Bantock’s, -we had what might have developed into a very hot argument. With him was -Dr Cyril Rootham, a very charming and cultivated musician, and both -these composers were amazed and amused when, having asked my opinion of -Bantock’s work, I became dithyrambic in its praise. - -“But I thought you were modern?” asked Williams. - -“I am anything you please,” said I; “when I hear Richard Strauss I am -modern, and when I listen to Bach I am prehistoric. But why do you ask?” - -“Moody and Sankey,” murmured Rootham. - -Williams laughed. - -“Good! damned good!” he exclaimed, turning to his companion. “You’ve -got it. Hasn’t he, Cumberland?” - -“Got what?” - -“It. Him. Bantock, I mean. Now, don’t you think—concede us this one -little point—don’t you think that this thirty-two-part choral work of -Bantock’s is just Moody and Sankey over again? Glorified, of course: -gilt-edged, tooled, diamond-studded, bound in lizard-skin, if you like: -but still Moody and still Sankey.” - -I clutched the sleeve of a passing waiter and ordered a double whisky. - -“One can only drink,” said I. “And when people disagree so -fundamentally as we do, whisky is the only tipple that makes one -forget.” - -But, either late that night or late the following night, we found music -in which we could both take keen pleasure. Herbert Hughes played us -some of his songs, and I remember Samuel Langford, breathing rather -heavily behind me, becoming more and more enthusiastic as the night -wore on. Williams, to whom also the songs were new, took a vivid -interest in them. - -“I like your Herbert Hughes,” said Langford. - -“_My_ Herbert Hughes?” - -“Well, you do rather monopolise him. And I don’t wonder. He’s what one -calls the ... the ...” - -“The goods?” - -Langford laughed in his beard and his eyes disappeared. - -The last glimpse I had of Vaughan Williams was two or three years -later, outside Hughes’ studio in Chelsea. We stood for a minute in the -darkened street. - -“Going to see Hughes?” I asked. - -But he was busy with preparations for enlisting, and a few weeks later -he, Hughes and myself and nearly all our Chelsea circle were swept into -the army. - -In June or July, 1917, I missed Vaughan Williams at Summerhill, near -Salonica, by a day. But perhaps when the war is finished...? - - * * * * * - -Dr W. G. McNaught, though a musician of the older school, is one of the -youngest, most up-to-date and most powerful of our musical scholars. By -one means or another, the influence of his personality is felt in every -town and village in the British Isles. He is the editor of the best -of our musical papers, a faultless and ubiquitous adjudicator at our -great musical festivals, a witty and most reliable writer, a profound -scholar, and a man of such natural geniality and spontaneity that he is -liked by everyone. As a rule, I detest men who are liked on all hands, -but I could never detest Dr McNaught even if he were to detest me and -tell me so. - -I do not remember when I first met him, and I do not think I have any -special anecdotes to relate about him. But, in thinking of him now, and -reviewing our friendly acquaintanceship of eight or ten years, I recall -that I have never been able to persuade him to take me seriously. -He has printed all the articles I have sent him, but he has always -laughed indulgently at both them and me. I cannot help wondering why. -Perhaps his exasperatingly clever son has betrayed the secrets I -have entrusted to him: the facts that my piano-playing is amateurish, -my scholarship nil, and my ear fatally defective. And I think I once -showed McNaught, jun., some of my compositions. One should never show -(but of course I mean “show off”) one’s compositions when one cannot -compose. - - * * * * * - -Unless you are something of a musician yourself, you will probably -never have heard the name of Julius Harrison, for though he has fame -of a kind, and of the best kind, he is scarcely known to the man in -the street. Just as Rossetti is primarily a poet for poets, so is -Julius Harrison a musician for musicians. Only one word describes -him: distinguished. Very distinguished he is, with the refinement -and sensitiveness of a poet, the intuition of a novelist, and the -waywardness of all men who allow themselves to be governed by impulse. - -When I first met him he was little more than a brilliant boy full of -rich promise. He lived at Stourport, where I used to go occasionally -and pass a few days with him on the river. I knew of nothing against -him save that he was an organist, and I feared that he might be tempted -to remain an organist and build up a teaching “practice,” just as a -doctor builds up a practice. But I was mistaken. He ventured on London, -suffered obscurity for a year or two, worked like a fiery little devil, -and at length threw up the hack-work that kept him alive. Then he -emerged, very engaging and very likeable, into the real musical world -of London. Sir Thomas Beecham gave him _Tristan und Isolde_ and other -operas to conduct, the London Philharmonic Society invited him to -interpret to it one of his own works, and concerts devoted entirely to -his compositions were given in several provincial towns. In five years -he will be recognised as the greatest conductor England has yet given -us; in ten years he will have a European reputation as a composer. - -What is he like? He is mercurial, passionate, loyal, snobbish, -charming, outspoken, very open to his friends. - -“I _am_ snobbish, Gerald; we have agreed about that, so you won’t -quarrel with me, will you?” he has asked several times. - -“Apropos?” I have answered. - -“Well, I really can’t stick your pal, So-and-so. An out-and-out -bounder.” - -“Yes, Julius. But he bounds so beautifully. Besides, he has real -talent.” - -“But you’ll never ask me to meet him, will you?” - -“When I’m rich, Julius, I shall have two flats—one where you and -your friends can come, and another where my bounderish friends may -foregather. But I’m afraid I shall be oftener at the flat you visit -than at the other. You _are_ a beast—what makes you so snobbish? And -why do you continue to like me, who am not ‘quite’ a gentleman in your -eyes?” - -“Oh, but you are, Gerald. Well, perhaps you’re not. Only in your case -it doesn’t seem to matter. You are so full of affectations—jolly little -affectations, I admit, but still....” - -I don’t think anything will break our friendship, for Julius is good -and generous enough to allow me to say the rudest things in the world -to him. He only laughs. For my part, I can forgive him anything, for -he admires my poems. And I suppose he will always forgive me much for -I admire without stint his genius as a conductor and his genius as a -composer. I think that at heart he will always remain a boy, a boy full -of passionate dignity, of untarnished ideals, of frequent impulses. - - * * * * * - -Of all unhappy artists the most unhappy are those who are impelled -by temperament to mingle social propaganda with their artistic work. -Rutland Boughton has the soul of the artist-preacher. He has persuaded -me to many things: he almost persuaded me to “try” vegetarianism, and -I remember one morning very well when, sitting on the end of my bed, -he pointed a finger at me and enumerated all the evils that infallibly -follow on the immoderate drinking of whisky. - -I regret this tendency in him: it does not strengthen his art, and it -exhausts a good deal of his energy and time. A practical mystic, a -man of intense and sometimes difficult moods, a man so honest himself -that he is incapable of suspecting dishonesty in others, a man who is -always poor, for he loves his art better than riches: he is all these -things. Now, a man who endures poverty as cheerfully as he may, who -is continually bashing his head against the brick-wall indifference -of others, and who at the same time is extraordinarily sensitive, may -seek happiness, but, if he does, it will always elude him. Boughton, -of course, would deny this. I can hear him saying: “But of course I’m -happy!” At times, Rutland, you are happy. You are happy when you are -immersed in a new composition, when you are playing Beethoven (do you -remember that evening when, on a poorish piano, you played so bravely -a couple of sonatas for Edward Carpenter and me?), when you are -lecturing, when you have made a convert. But when you believe, as you -do, that the world is awry, has always been awry, and shows every sign -of continuing indefinitely to be awry, how can you, with your ardour -for rightness, for justice, for goodness, be happy? - -For years Boughton has done very special Festival work at Glastonbury -where, when the war has spent itself, I hope to go for a week’s music, -for at Glastonbury strange things are being done—things that are -destined, perhaps, to divert in some measure the stream of our native -music. - -In the early days of August, 1914, Boughton burst into my flat. I was -still in civilian clothes and was reading Ernest Dowson to discover -how he stood the war atmosphere: I thought he stood it very well. - -“What, Gerald!” Boughton exclaimed; “not enlisted yet?” - -“My _dear_ chap,” I protested, “I am old and married and have a family. -Besides, I don’t like killing people: I’ve tried it. And I strongly -object to being killed.” - -“Oh, you can help without killing people. There’s the A.S.C., for -example.” - -“A.S.C.? What’s that?” - -“I’m going to enlist as a cook. Come along with me.” - -But I told him that I was reading Dowson, that I was presently going -to read a volume of Æ, and after that I had the fullest intention of -strangling Debussy on the piano. - -So he went away to enlist as a cook. I heard, however, that when he -was told that, in addition to his duties as an army cook, he might be -called upon to slaughter animals, he came away sad and dejected, and, I -think, turned his mind to other things. - -Where he is now, I do not know. The war has blotted most of us out, -and few men know whether their best friends are at the other end of -the world or fighting in the trenches in the very next sector on their -right or left. - - * * * * * - -I have said somewhere that singers do not interest me. Nor do they. But -John Coates is something more than a singer—superb artist, generous -friend, unflagging enthusiast, maker of reputations. He is at once a -grown-up boy full of high spirits and a profound mystic. There are -many men who have seen him on the stage in some light opera who have -never guessed that his buoyant spirits are the outcome of a soul that -is content with its own destiny. To me, his interpretation of Elgar’s -_Gerontius_ is one of the great things of modern times—as great as -Ackté’s _Salome_, as great as Kreisler’s violin-playing, as wonderful -as the genius of Augustus John. “Honest John Coates!” is his title: I -have heard him so described many times in London and the provinces. -A man you can trust with anything: a very fine and noble gentleman, -humble yet proud. - -His reverence for Elgar is extraordinary. I have been told that, on one -occasion, after being in the company of the distinguished composer for -an hour or so, he joined a few friends who were sitting in another room. - -“I have just been talking to the greatest man living,” said he, with -deep impressiveness and in the manner of one who has been in the -presence of someone holy. - -I love such hero-worship. The man who can feel as Coates does about -Elgar is himself noble and not far removed from greatness. - - * * * * * - -Cyril Scott possesses a mind of such exquisite refinement that it can -react only to the most delicate of appeals. He is perhaps a little -exotic, like his swaying and deliciously scented _Lotus Flower_. Many -years ago I was introduced to his music, and in pre-war days I very -rarely let a week go by without playing something of his. On only one -occasion was I thrown into his company, and even then I was not aware -of the identity of the somewhat excited and, to me, extraordinarily -interesting man who sat restlessly in his chair and spoke a little -vehemently. He struck me as a man easily carried away by his ideals, -carried away into a world where logic is useless and facts are worse -than dust. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -PEOPLE I WOULD LIKE TO MEET - - -I suppose that even the most outrageously sincere of men are to some -extent _poseurs_, if not to themselves, then to other people. The -artistic temperament must either attitudinise or die. Posturing is the -most delicate, the most dangerous, of all the arts. To pose before -others is risky, but to pose before oneself is most hazardous, for no -one in the world is so easy to deceive, and so ready to be deceived, -as oneself, and to be deluded by a fancy picture that one has drawn -and painted in hectic moments is to appear to the world as a fantastic -clown. - -Deluded thus, it appears to me, is W. B. Yeats. He is, of course, a -fine though not a great poet: no reasonable man can question that. And -there are lines and verses of his that have become woven into the very -texture of my mind. Moreover, I recognise that it is futile to quarrel -with a man because he is not other than he is. Yet I do quarrel with -him. I remember a photograph of Yeats, a photograph I have not seen -for ten or twelve years, wherein he appears conscious of nothing in -the world but himself, conscious of nothing but his hair, his eyes, -his hands—especially his hands. His fingers are so long that one is -surprised that, his palm resting on his knee, they do not reach to -the floor. It is, I concede, a human weakness for a man whom Nature -has gifted (or do I mean cursed?) with the appearance of a poet, to -play up to Nature and help her by delicate titivations. But to do this -successfully, one must have an overwhelming personality—a personality -like that of Shelley, of Byron, of Swinburne. It is a simple matter to -look like a poet, but to impose that look on mankind is given to few. -It is not given to W. B. Yeats. - -How is it, I wonder, that one rather admires Æ for believing in the -objective existence of strange gods and spirits, and yet despises Yeats -for sharing this belief? It is, I think, because one feels that Æ has a -solid, even massive, intellect controlling his fantasy, whereas Yeats’ -intellect is not distinguished either by subtlety or massiveness. Yeats -believes what he wishes to believe; Æ believes only what he must. Yeats -has an incurable aching for the picturesque, and whilst he believes -that he is “helped” by the supernatural, I think that this help is -derived from his own imaginings, if indeed the question of “help” comes -in at all. - -Why, then, should I wish to meet this man whom, it is clear, I regard -as self-deluded and for whom my respect is mingled with a feeling -that is not very far removed from dislike? Really, I do not know. His -attitude of mind is not uncommon, and I have met many men and women his -equal in intellectual force. I think that perhaps I wish to study at -first hand a mind that is so exquisite in its refinement, so sensitive -in its moods, so invariably right in its choice of words. From all the -tens of thousands of words that exist, how difficult it is to select -the one word that is inevitable! And how slender and fragile a man’s -work becomes when his mind must perforce invariably pounce upon the -one only word! The great writers were not so fastidious. Scott, Byron, -Shelley, Keats, Balzac and a hundred others: take, if you wish, any -half-dozen words from almost any page of their writings and substitute -six others, and what will be lost thereby? Scott and Byron and Balzac, -and even Shelley and Keats, have, I think, not more than a hundred or -so pages that could not with safety be tampered with in this manner. - -There is something lily-fingered and, to me, something disagreeable -and effeminate in a writer who, at all times and seasons, searches -and burrows for the _mot juste_. I am curious about such writers, -curious though I know instinctively that they love letters more than -they love life. To me such men are incomprehensible, and in them, -somewhere, something is wrong. Men who do not feel lust for life have -thin necks, or shallow pates, or neurasthenia.... Perhaps, after all, I -am something of a student of nerve trouble, and wish to meet Yeats in -order to satisfy myself what precisely is lacking in him. - - * * * * * - -It is a popular fallacy that versatility is invariably accompanied by -shallowness, whereas, of course, almost all men of great genius have -been peculiarly and even marvellously versatile. For me, versatility -has most powerful attraction. The man with only one talent is as -uninteresting as the man with no talent at all. Perhaps Hilaire Belloc -has retained his hold on me because he is continually surprising me. -He has done so many different and opposed things so admirably, that it -seems impossible he should strike out in yet another line; but I know -very well that before twelve months have gone he will have turned his -amazing powers in still another direction, and will accomplish his task -better than any other living man can do it. - -Nearly twenty years have gone since early one spring I walked alone -across Devon from Ilfracombe to Exeter and from Exeter to Land’s End. -Now, I went alone simply because Belloc had walked alone across much of -France and Italy, and the spirit of imitation was then, as it is now, -very strong within me. I had just read his glorious _Path to Rome_, -and I carried a copy of the first edition in my haversack, reading -it by the wayside and forgetting my loneliness (for I was many times -pathetically lonely) in Belloc’s most excellent company. I pondered -over the nature of this man for many hours, envying him, and thinking -that a man with such great and diverse gifts must be reckoned among the -happiest people alive. I remember that during the weeks I walked in -Devon and Cornwall I copied him as far as I could in the most minute -particular, and at Clovelly, one golden evening as I stood talking with -some tall, Spanish-looking fishermen, I suddenly made up my mind that -I would write to him. I do not know what I wrote, but a couple of days -later a reply came from him telling me that my letter had given him -more pleasure than any of the enthusiastic reviews in the papers. This -letter I pasted in my copy of _The Path to Rome_, and in 1915 a friend -begged me to allow him to take it with him to France. He had a copy of -his own, but he wished to take mine. That friend (our worship of Belloc -was one of the many things we had in common) now lies dead, and I like -to think that his comrades buried my precious book with him. - -My imitation of, and devotion to, Belloc led me into several amusing -scrapes, and I recollect arriving ruefully at Helston one wet afternoon -and seeking shelter at an inn called, I think, The Angel. Having -arranged to proceed to Penzance by train early in the evening, I went -to bed whilst they dried my clothes. Whilst in bed, I recalled that -Belloc had often praised Beaune and that I had never tasted it. So I -ordered a bottle, drank it at about 4 P.M.—and promptly went to sleep -for twelve hours! - -Even now, on the borderland of middle age, I cannot pick up a new -book of Belloc’s without a little thrill: he is so clean, so bravely -prejudiced, so courageous. He is a lover of wine and beer, of -literature, of the Sussex downs, of the great small things of life: a -mystic, a man of affairs, a poet. What, indeed, is he not that is fine -and noble and free? - - * * * * * - -In the musical world one is accustomed to infant prodigies; very -rarely do they develop their powers. But in the literary world infant -prodigies are rare, and at the moment I can recall among writers of -the past the boy Chatterton and that not quite so remarkable but, -nevertheless, very distinguished youth, Oliver Madox Brown. In our own -days we have had two or three men of letters whose first work, written -in their late teens or early twenties, promised more, I think, than -their later books have fulfilled. I am thinking more particularly of -Edwin Pugh and William Romaine Paterson, the latter of whom usually -writes under the pseudonym of “Benjamin Swift.” - -Many of us must remember Benjamin Swift’s _Nancy Noon_, a strange novel -that jerked the literary world into excitement two decades ago. The -writer of it was but a boy, and though a few critics declared that he -“derived” from Meredith, it was almost universally acknowledged that, -for sheer originality both in style and in its general outlook upon -the world, the novel was head and shoulders above any contemporary -literature. So we all kept a close watch upon Benjamin Swift, reading -each fresh work (and there were many fresh works, for the new-comer -was very productive) with an eager anticipation which, alas! was -foiled again and again. I remember six or eight of his books, each lit -with genius, but all a little crude and violent and not one of them -indicating that the writer’s mind was becoming more mature. It was a -vigorous, eruptive mind with which one was in contact, but it was also -a mind in such incessant turmoil that one searched in vain in each of -its products for that “point of rest” which Coventry Patmore maintains -is a _sine qua non_ of all fine works of art. - -In some way that I forget Benjamin Swift and I got into correspondence, -and I still possess a bundle of his letters, mostly about his work. -I remember that in one of my letters I ventured to indicate what I -thought were some of his faults: I called in question his knowledge of -music, I expressed disapproval of his violence, and I told him I feared -that he was in danger of settling down to being a mere “eccentric” -writer. My letter, as might have been expected, produced no effect, -and though I have not read his latest works (in dug-outs and trenches -one reads everything that comes to hand, but Benjamin Swift has to be -sought), I am given to understand that they are in many ways like his -first efforts—_outré_, violent, eruptive, yet distinguished and glowing -here and there with a genius that is always hectic. - -Years ago, Swift invited me to call on him whenever I should happen -to be in town, and though I should very much like to meet him, I have -never accepted his invitation. One is like that. One shrinks from -satisfying one’s curiosity. I picture Benjamin Swift as bearing a -resemblance to Strindberg, but in my mind’s eye his lips are thinner -and straighter than Strindberg’s, and his eyes are more vehement. - -What is it, I wonder, that prevents this writer from ranking among the -great? His intellect is wide and deep enough, his literary talent is -very considerable, and his experience of life has been exceptionally -varied. There is a twist in his genius, a maggot in his brain. He sees -life grotesquely; some of the people he creates are like the men and -women one meets in nightmares. - - * * * * * - -Sometimes I amuse myself by inventing conversations between people -opposed in temperament—_e.g._ Sir Owen Seaman and Mr Hall Caine, -Mr John Galsworthy and “Marmaduke,” Little Tich and Lord Morley, and -I often wish a brain much brighter than my own (Mr Max Beerbohm’s, -for example) would occupy its idle hours in writing a book of such -conversations. I commend the idea to Mr E. V. Lucas, also, and to -Messrs A. A. Milne and Bernard Shaw (only Shaw’s fun is apt to be so -distressingly emphatic and double-fisted). - -Among the dead, I make Sir Richard Burton meet and talk with Herbert -Spencer, and I always call this conversation _The Man and the Mummy_. -It is strange, but we have not, so far as I am aware, any record of -Burton’s rich and provocative conversation, though I have been assured -by men who knew him well that his talk was the best they had heard. -Sir Richard Burton is one of the men whom I most wish to meet, and -perhaps when my happy sojourn on this planet comes to a close, I shall -be allowed to serve him in some humble capacity. To me he has always -seemed to belong to Elizabethan times, and I think that he must often -have cursed at Fate for placing him in the middle of a century that -could not fully understand or appreciate him. - -In our own days we have many young men of a spirit akin to that of -Burton, though not one of them may possess a tithe of his genius -or of his colossal intellect. I refer, of course, to our numerous -soldier-poets—gallant young men of thought and action, of quick and -generous sympathy, of noble aspiration. Most of you who read what I -am now writing must know at least one man belonging to this type, -for there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them—men who, but for -the war, would probably never have written a line of poetry, but -whose souls have been stirred and whose hearts have been fired by the -grandest emotion that can urge mankind to self-sacrifice: I mean the -never-dying emotion of patriotism—that emotion at which the sexless -sneer, which the “cosmopolitan” regards with amusement, and for which -men of imagination and grit gladly die. - -One soldier of this type I knew intimately, and I would gladly know -many of those others who have thrilled us with their poems. Let me -describe my friend to you. He is no longer young: his precise age is -thirty-five: but he was among those who, early in August, 1914, after -first putting his small affairs in order, enlisted in Lord Kitchener’s -Army. He made no fuss about it, and told none but his most intimate -friends what he had done. I met him a few months after he had joined -up; he was then a Corporal, and seemed to me the happiest man I had -met for many a day. He told me that he had begun to write “seriously,” -for hitherto his scribbling had been of a cursory and trivial nature. -But he showed me none of his work, and it was not until he had been -in France some little time that his verses began to appear in one or -two reviews. Having been granted a commission, he quickly rose to the -rank of Captain. He was mentioned in dispatches twice and, having led -a particularly successful bombing raid on the enemy’s trenches, was -awarded the Military Cross. - -There is, I know, nothing very unusual in this bare record as I have -set it down; the unusual, indeed extraordinary, nature of this case is -that before the war my friend had been a reserved, unadventurous but -very capable bank clerk, quite undistinguished and apparently without -ambition. But hidden fires must from his youth have been smouldering -in his heart, and it required the war’s disturbance and excitement to -blow these ashes into flame, and the war’s opportunity was needed to -disclose of what fine material he was made. I flatter myself that I -had always known his nature was fine and distinguished, for though he -was a bank clerk one would never have guessed it from his conversation -and demeanour. I also know that, generations ago, his forbears played -a by-no-means ignoble part in our country’s history, and for that -reason alone I felt that, though concealed, there were imagination and -aspiration abiding in his soul. - - * * * * * - -One of my friends, Anna Wickham, knows D. H. Lawrence very well, and -one day I asked her if she would arrange for me to meet him at her -house. But she brushed aside the suggestion with the few words that she -was not particularly interested in Lawrence and that my time might be -wasted if spent with him. Such a suggestion amazed, and still amazes -me, and I cannot but think that Anna Wickham had never troubled to read -any of D. H. Lawrence’s writings, for it often happens among literary -people that close friends do not look at each other’s work. - -To me D. H. Lawrence is perhaps the most peculiarly original English -writer living. In his poems he is so egoistic as almost to seem like -an egomaniac, and in two or three of his novels he is obsessed and -overwhelmed by the passion of sex. Yet in _Sons and Lovers_, and in -that wonderful first book of his called, I think, _The Red Peacock_, he -gets clean away from himself, and is as objective as all great creative -artists are and should be. Every writer must, of course, portray life -in terms of himself, but only small men continually thrust themselves -and themselves only on to an embarrassed public. But Lawrence has an -insatiable curiosity about himself, and it seems at times as though he -is not anxious to discover or uncover life, but to penetrate to the -deeps of his own nature and shout out at the top of his voice what he -has found there. In such egoism, there is, of course, strength as well -as weakness, and the very fault, so grave and so calamitous, that bars -him from achieving great work is, nevertheless, an attraction to those -who are much intrigued by psychology. - -There are, are there not? two kinds of imaginative literature: the -kind we read without more than a passing thought for the man or woman -who has written it; and the kind we read primarily because we are -enormously interested in the personality and temperament of the man -or woman from whom that literature comes. In removing himself to -Italy instead of throwing himself heart and soul into the ugly but -extraordinary life that these years are giving us, D. H. Lawrence is, -I believe, evading his destiny and is thereby weakening the gifts and -tampering with the intellect of a man whose name should stand near the -head of all contemporary writers. - -If Mr Lawrence should by chance read these pages, he will acquit me -of impertinence if he remembers that he has taken the public into his -confidence, and that he must expect the public to make some comment -upon what he, uninvited, has told us. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -NIGHT CLUBS - - -After what I have written you may find it difficult, if not altogether -impossible, to regard me as a guileless youth. Yet I ask you so -to regard me. For, if I be not guileless, how can one explain the -whole-hearted enjoyment I used to derive from my occasional visits -to the Crab Tree Club in Soho, and the Cabaret Club in Heddon Street -during the twelve months before the war? - -I had been a considerable time in London before it occurred to me that -there was any other way of spending the night except in bed. Evenings, -of course, were spent either at home, the theatre, the Café Royal, -a concert hall, a music hall, or at friends’ flats and studios, and -though it is true that sometimes friends induced you to stay, or you -induced friends to stay, until dawn, yet these long hours were never -deliberately planned beforehand. - -But I had the Café Royal habit, and the Café Royal, in a sort of way, -used to be an ante-chamber to various night clubs. At midnight, or -shortly after, when I left the Café with my friends, I used to find -that, instead of proceeding to their respective homes, they went to -one place or another where you made revelry and talked nonsense and, -perchance, drank what proved at eight o’clock next morning to have been -a little more than was good for you. - -“Come with us to the Crab Tree,” said two or three friends on one of -these occasions. - -And go I did. It was my very first visit to a night club, and I -expected to find I know not what scenes of dissipation and naughtiness. -I imagined that I should meet women even more strange than some of the -strange women of the Café Royal, that I should behold dresses so daring -that they could no longer be called dresses at all, that the music -would be ravishing, the conversation sparkling, the men distinguished, -the food delicate beyond words, the wine of a perfect bouquet. Instead, -after walking up a flight of stairs, I found a large bare room with -five men in it, one of them being the bar-tender who, behind rows of -bottles of whisky and stout, was polishing glasses. Of the other men, -three were members who had just arrived, and the fourth was the pianist -who, later on, was to play rag-time for the dancers. - -I stood for a moment on the threshold of this empty room, feeling -rather exasperated that I had come hither. - -“It’s all right,” said one of my friends, a little pugnacious Scotsman -with a nose and chin like Wagner’s; “wait a bit. Things will soon -brighten up.” - -So we stepped to the bar and engaged the pianist in conversation. -He was something of a scholar and had made a study of rag-time from -the historical point of view. He played me two or three examples of -rag-time which he declared occurred in Bach, and I accepted his word, -though I looked at him incredulously. - -The note of that night was youth. There was no hectic excitement, no -Bacchic frenzy: everybody was jolly glad to be alive. Somebody has -defined happiness as conscious pleasure. If that definition holds good, -then I was happy that night, for I remember saying to myself: “I am -coming here again.” I loved the feeling of life the place gave me; the -exhilaration of it seemed to pierce into my marrow. I did not want to -talk to anybody. I merely wanted to sit back and watch everything: the -furtive smiles of half-shy women who, happy in the arms of those they -loved, were afraid to reveal too much of their happiness; the most -delicate ankles of a slim girl I knew, but whose name (was it Kitty -or Mimi?) I only half remembered; the kaleidoscope of colour on the -platform where the dancers were. The women were like flowers—orchids -suddenly endowed with movement.... I compared the scene with the -spectacle afforded me by Murray’s Club a few nights previously, when -Ivan Heald and I were taken there for an hour or two. Some ladies at -Murray’s had had green hair, but only a poet like Baudelaire can wear -green hair with success. But at Murray’s the people were all old. Young -girls of twenty were old. Everybody was old except the aged, and they -pranced and frisked to prove their unconquerable youth.... But at this -jolly Crab Tree youth was in the air, in the music, in the laughter. - -And, feeling a little intoxicated with happiness, I allowed a gentle -melancholy to steal over me, as one sometimes does in certain moods. I -thought of Paris, for this scene reminded me of Paris: I was full of -longing for Paris, and I remembered how in the spring of 1912 I used to -sit in an attic in the Quartier Latin wondering and wondering. By that -curious power that the mind, when a little excited, seems to possess—I -mean the power of transferring one from a scene where one is happy to a -scene where one would be still happier—I saw myself aimlessly strolling -beneath the plane-trees on the banks of the Seine. I took out a pencil -and wrote: - - PARIS DAYS - - These days, the bright days and white days, - These nights of blue between the days, - These streets a-glimmer in the haze: - These are for you, but you come not these ways: - Paris is empty in the light days. - - These songs, the glad songs and sad songs, - This amber wine between the songs, - This scented laughter from dim throngs: - These are for you, Paris to you belongs: - Paris is mournful with her mad songs. - - These breezes, the high breezes and dry breezes, - These stillnesses between the breezes, - These purple clouds the sunset seizes: - These are for you, but underneath the trees is - Paris a-sighing with her shy breezes. - - These days, these breezes and these nights, - These streets, this wine, these songs, these sighs; - Paris with all her myriad lights, - Paris so careless yet so wise: - All in the black sea would I spew - If I could win an hour of you. - -These verses (though you would hardly think so) cost me infinite -trouble, and when I had finished them I looked up from my scrawl and -saw that the room was half-empty. - -“Is it so late then?” I asked a man sitting next to me. I saw it was -Aleister Crowley, and he looked at me rather balefully. - -“No: so early. Six o’clock, to be precise.” - -And he turned his back on me and gazed at a wall on which no pictures -hung. - -So I picked up my straw hat and tried to find my Scots friend. He was -sitting behind the piano, talking very earnestly to a man I did not -know. - -“Oh, Nicol Bain,” said I, “I _am_ so hungry.” - -The streets were strewn with sunshine, and Bain took off his hat and -looked long and long at the blue sky. - -“How damned fine to be alive!” he exclaimed. - -“How long have you been alive?” I asked. - -“Only since I came to London.” - -“I was alive for three years in Manchester, but during all those years -I sat at a desk pretending to be a clerk, I was dead, quite dead. So, -you see, we really _are_ young. You are about five, and I am nearly -seven.” - -He steered me into a restaurant which appeared to cater specially for -night-birds, and Bain ate bacon and eggs, whilst I feasted on a dish of -strawberries, brown bread and coffee. - -“I would,” said I, “much prefer to have bacon and eggs, but -strawberries seem to be more in the picture, don’t you think? I am sure -I am behaving very nobly to fit into the picture at the expense of my -yearning inside.... And now, where can we get a bath?” - - * * * * * - -After that first visit I went frequently to the Crab Tree Club. There -I met many poets and journalists and artists, and there, one night, a -poet—a great strapping fellow, all bone and sinew and muscle—loudly -challenged me to fight him. He is a man of some genius, well known both -here and in America. The exact cause of his quarrel with me I have -forgotten, but it appeared that, unwittingly, I had done him some real -injury—or he thought I had. He spoke heatedly to me and I replied still -more heatedly. Suddenly, he rose, faced me menacingly, and shouted: - -“All right, then. Come and fight it out. Come and fight it out -downstairs.” - -He looked at me with loathing. - -I must have paled, I think, for I know that his terrific anger was like -an onslaught. But I realised that I must accept his challenge. I hated -the thought of what was before me, and hoped it would soon be over. - -“Very good. We’ll go downstairs.” - -I felt a hand tighten approvingly on my arm and, looking round, saw -Ivan Heald. He came with me. - -“Slog him, Gerald,” he said earnestly. - -But I felt most unheroic, and I know that as I made my way to the door -I was trembling a little. - -The whole room was interested now, and I realised that we were going to -have spectators. And then the unexpected happened. The Club Secretary -and a few committee men rushed between us, dragging my sudden enemy -away. I was glad to be separated, for I was afraid of him.... Is it -possible that he was afraid of me? - - * * * * * - -Augustus John used to come sometimes, and I remember chatting with -P. G. Konody about Byzantine architecture, about which I think I -know something. But one did not go to the Crab Tree for serious -conversation. It was the diversion of excitement we all sought.... - -I think that for some weeks in the spring of 1914 I felt like a -character in a rather second-rate novel. Literally, I was intoxicated -with life. And so full of vitality did I feel that I scarcely found -time for sleep. I remember walking with my wife from Soho to Battersea -Park in the early hours of a June or July morning after being up all -night. Several friends accompanied us, and though we ought to have -felt extremely jaded, we were as fresh as paint at our seven o’clock -breakfast of cherries and coffee and honey. I tried to feel like -George Meredith as I ate, for I had read somewhere that he frequently -breakfasted on honey and coffee and fruit.... The imitative instincts -that we little artists have! How strange it is! We can never be -ourselves for long. We are always imagining ourselves to be someone -else more distinguished, or more interesting. We are always insatiably -curious about the feelings and thoughts of others. Pale imitators we -are. And when we snatch at our personalities, how feeble they seem ... -how feeble they are. - - * * * * * - -One frightfully busy week an invitation came to us from Madame -Strindberg to sup with her at the Sign of the Golden Calf, popularly -known as The Cabaret. We did not particularly want to go, but I had -been deeply interested in August Strindberg ever since I had read Max -Nordau’s _Degeneration_ (that, I think, is not the title, but you know -the book I mean) and I had wished to learn more about this strange -vitriolic personality, and since Strindberg himself was dead, Madame -Strindberg seemed to be the best person to whom to go for information. - -The Cabaret was in a large cellar at the end of Heddon Street, and the -narrow way was blocked up with taxis as our own cab sped round the -corner from Regent Street. The place was nearly full, and a Frenchman -with a little waxed moustache was singing _Two Eyes of Grey_, with -his eyes glued to the ceiling in a stupidly sentimental manner, and I -recollect that our first impulse was to turn and flee. One hears such -songs, I am told, in Bolton and Oldham, and, I dare say, in the London -suburbs, but that Madame Strindberg should come all the way from Sweden -and bring a man all the way from France to sing the latest inanity was -incredible. But my eye caught some fantastically carved figures that -leered and leaned from the great, thick posts supporting the roof. -These painted creatures were attractive and promising and futuristic, -and: - -“At all events, we’ll drink a bottle of champagne before we go,” said -I, as a waiter drew us to a table and announced that supper was about -to be served. “For champagne always helps,” I added. - -And, really, for an hour or two I required a little artificial stimulus -in order to survive the dullness of the musical programme. - -“Whoever the people are who run this place,” I said to a pale, elderly -man who sat opposite to me, “they are extraordinarily stupid. They get -Frank Harris to lecture one evening and give us inane music the next. -One doesn’t come to a night club to be flapdoodled.” - -“Flap——?” he queried. - -“Flapdoodled. Yes. I mean these people who sing and recite like -a Penny Reading. They do these things in Higher Wycombe and -Bluzzerby-on-Stream. They should not be done here.” - -The pale man did not understand. He coughed behind a very white hand -and delicately selected a nut. - - * * * * * - -And then Madame Strindberg approached our table. She had been pointed -out to me half-an-hour previously and I had noted a pale little woman -who appeared to examine her guests rather nervously. She looked cold -and careworn. She was very silent, and her black clothing and white -face struck a sombre note in all the moving light and colour of the -large, warm room. - -She came to the table and introduced herself to us, sitting down and -placing a nervous little hand in mine. I soon discovered she had no -conversation, for, try how she might, she could not say anything that -mattered in the least. She chattered a little, made a few exclamations, -and then sat silent. To me she seemed full of negations, denials. -Personality she had, I daresay, but it did not arouse my interest -in the least, and after I had paid her a few insincere compliments -concerning the Club, I also sat silent. After a while, she was taken -away to another table by some friends. - -On subsequent occasions I saw her, but I do not remember that I had -further communication with her except when I was made an honorary -member of the Club, when I wrote to her a short note of thanks. She was -no key to Strindberg: at all events, no key I could use. - - * * * * * - -Later on that night, the room roused itself from its semi-lethargy, and -golden confetti and balls of coloured paper were thrown about by ladies -and gentlemen who, not knowing each other, desired an acquaintanceship. -The balls of paper unrolled themselves into long ribbons which, -catching on to projections from the supporting pillars, hung in long -loops and festoons which, thickening, soon began to resemble a gigantic -spider’s web. Silly musical toys were given us, and men and women—but -especially women—made silly noises on them and giggled, or else -shrieked uproariously.... Except for the supper, which was excellent, -the evening was not a success, and I do not suppose I should have gone -there again if I had not been in search of Frank Harris, or if Jack -Kahane had not insisted upon my accompanying him. - - * * * * * - -I made a fairly extensive examination of London night clubs during -the ensuing few months. One, near Blackfriars, admitted me to full -membership on the payment of the sum of one shilling, and I used to go -there—why, I know not—and throw darts at a board and drink beer. If I -did not throw darts, I found I was deemed eccentric. So I threw darts. - -Murray’s was beyond my means, and I found the people there untalented -and plethoric. They ate too much. And another club devoted to “the” -profession was full of trifling women and jaunty men. Actresses are -dear children, but at night they become tiresome. And actors always -want me to praise them. They always pretended to be quite familiar with -my name, and invariably invited me to “have one.” Quite nice people, -though, I assure you. - - * * * * * - -A night club is never for the old. Grey-haired people should always be -at home after midnight. And there should be no card-playing. Dancing -one would have of course, and music of the finest. And wine, and many -pretty women, and a certain quietness, and invisible waiters, and -a perfume of roses.... As I write, I ask myself: “Why should I not -establish a night-club different from all the others?” It would be -so easy to be different; it would be so difficult for me not to be -different.... One wants space, of course: I hate being crushed against -very full-bosomed ladies.... Oh, and above all, I would have a big room -set apart for the hour that comes after dawn. Empty bottles, spilt -wine, stale tobacco-smoke, cigarette ends, all kinds of untidiness: how -horrible these are in the sun of a May or June morning! Yes, we would -all go at dawn into another room, a room coloured green, with narcissi, -and jonquils and hyacinths on the tables: a room with open windows: -a room with fruit spread invitingly: a room where one could still be -gay and in which one need not feel sordid and spiritually jaded and -spiritually unclean.... If you have the right mental outlook, you will -never feel spiritually unclean after a night of riot, but all our -London night clubs in pre-war days seemed to conspire together to make -enjoyment unhealthy, gaiety a matter for after-regret, and exaltation a -little disgraceful.... If someone will lend me a lot of money (or give -it me—why shouldn’t he?) I will found a night club that will knock all -the others into a cocked hat.... - - - - -INDEX - - - A - - Abercrombie, Charles, 56 - Abercrombie, Lascelles, 73–74 - Achurch, Janet, 15, 132, 207–209 - Ackland, W. A., 103 - Ackté, Aïno, 53, 68, 261 - Adcock, St John, 64 - Æ, 191, 261, 264 - Agate, J. E., 66, 157, 191, 210 - Angell, Norman, 132 - Archer, William, 208 - Arnold, Matthew, 130 - Austen, Jane, 47 - Austin, Frederic, 187, 190, 238 - - - B - - Bach, J. S., 45, 256 - Bain, Nicol, 276–277 - Balzac, H. de, 71, 79, 264–265 - Bantock, Granville, 148, 179–180, 181, 187, 188–191, 234, 242, - 246–251, 256 - Barker, Granville, 15 - Baudelaire, 275 - Bauer, Harold, 181–182 - Baughan, E. A., 144–145 - Beecham, Thomas, 158, 193, 232, 258 - Beerbohm, Max, 135–136, 268 - Beethoven, L. van, 45, 79, 249 - Behn, Aphra, 47 - Behrens, Gustave, 152 - Bellini, 233 - Belloc, Hilaire, 73, 265 - Bennett, Arnold, 33, 43, 62, 68–71, 79, 94, 110, 125, 132, 156, - 202, 253 - Bennett, Joseph, 143 - Berlioz, H., 79, 230 - Besant, Annie, 15, 22–25 - Binyon, L., 129 - Bishop, Stanley, 141 - Bizet, 196 - Bjornson, B., 33 - Blackmore, R. D., 119 - Blavatsky, Madame, 23–24, 89 - Boughton, Rutland, 103, 259–261 - Bourchier, Arthur, 205 - Bradlaugh, Charles, 22 - Brahms, J., 181–182, 254–255 - Brewer, Herbert, 188 - Brian, Havergal, 68, 85, 194, 235–236 - Brieux, E., 33 - Brighouse, Harold, 33, 55–67, 210 - Brodsky, A., 152, 226 - Brontë, Charlotte, 47, 94, 178 - Brown, F. Madox, 163 - Brown, Oliver Madox, 267 - Brown, T. E., 119, 123, 128–130 - Browning, Robert, 33 - Burton, Richard, 269 - Busoni, F., 214 - Butt, Clara, 48 - Byron, H. J., 62 - Byron, Lord, 264 - - - C - - Caine, Hall, 13, 14, 117–127, 128–130, 202, 268 - Carpenter, Edward, 90, 132, 260 - Chatterton, 267 - Chesterton, Cecil, 72, 132 - Chesterton, G. K., 71–73, 90, 94 - Chopin, F., 185 - Cleopatra, 115 - Coates, John, 187, 261–262 - Congreve, 62–63 - Conrad, J., 94, 156 - Coulomb, Madame, 24 - Courlander, A., 137–138 - Courtney, W. L., 134 - Cowen, F. H., 227–229 - Craig, Gordon, 202–203 - Croskey, Julian, 116 - Crowley, Aleister, 276 - - - D - - Davidson, J., 132, 234 - Davies, Walford, 28–31, 254–255 - Davison, J. W., 143 - Dawson, Frederick, 212–213, 216, 218, 223 - Debussy, Claude, 197, 214, 215, 230, 234, 242, 244, 252, 261 - Defoe, D., 87 - De Goncourt _frères_, 40 - De l’Isle Adam, Villiers, 186 - Delius, F., 234, 251–252 - De Maupassant, Guy, 55 - De Pachmann, Vladimir, 184–186 - Derby, Lord, 177 - De Walden, Lord Howard, 252 - Dickens, C., 79, 94 - Dilnot, F., 103 - Donizetti, 233 - Douglas, Lord Alfred, 32 - Dowson, E., 261 - Dukas, P., 230 - Dunn, J. Nicol, 159 - Duparc, 244 - - - E - - Elgar, Edward, 79–87, 188, 246, 261–262 - Eliot, George, 128 - Epstein, J., 52–53, 170 - Ervine, St John, 133 - “Eve” of _The Tatler_, 31 - - - F - - Forrest, Charles, 66 - Fried, Oskar, 150–152 - - - G - - Galsworthy, J., 63, 107, 268 - Garvice, C., 110 - Garvin, J. L., 41 - George, Lloyd, 26–28 - Gerhardt, Elena, 223 - Gilbert, W. S., 78 - Gladstone, W. E., 120 - Godard, Arabella, 234 - Gorton, Canon, 31 - Gounod, C., 245 - Graham, R. B. Cunninghame, 142 - Graves, C. L., 145 - Grieg, E., 180, 226–227 - Grew, Sydney, 179–181 - Guilbert, Yvette, 47–49, 54, 182 - - - H - - Hahn, Reynaldo, 244 - Hallé, Charles, 182, 227 - Handel, G. F., 188, 233 - Hardy, T., 94, 107 - Harris, Frank, 14, 32–46, 126, 132, 179, 279, 281 - Harrison, Austin, 32, 37 - Harrison, Julius, 181, 193, 194, 258–259 - Hauptmann, 33 - Hatton, J. L., 233 - Heald, Edith, 242 - Heald, Ivan, 115, 138–139, 166–168, 241, 275, 277 - Hemans, F., 95, 97 - Henderson, Arthur, 175–176 - Henley, W. E., 128, 134 - Herford, C. H., 34, 38, 157 - Hobbes, John Oliver, 30 - Holbrooke, J., 252–254 - Horniman, A., 33, 55, 58, 63, 73, 154, 209–211 - Horsley, Victor, 49–50 - Houghton, Stanley, 33, 55–67, 69, 210 - Housman, Laurence, 33 - Hueffer, F. M., 32 - Hughes, Herbert, 134, 168, 171, 187 - - - I - - Ibsen, H., 11, 33, 209 - Irving, H. B., 66 - - - J - - James, Henry, 173 - Jerome, J. K., 77–78 - Joachim, 182 - John, Augustus, 52–53, 168–171, 239, 278 - Jones, Henry Arthur, 203–205 - Joubert, 46 - - - K - - Kahane, Jack, 33–35, 55–57, 157–158, 281 - Keats, J., 174, 264 - Klindworth, Karl, 212, 216–219 - Konody, P. G., 278 - Kreisler, F., 261 - Kubelik, 182 - - - L - - Langford, S., 143, 148–150, 157, 187, 191, 256 - Lawrence, D. H., 270–272 - Leighton, Lord, 234 - Leonardo da Vinci, 171 - Lett, Phyllis, 181 - Liszt, F., 170, 218 - “Little Tich,” 268 - Locke, W. J., 89 - Lowe, Harry, 168, 240–242, 244 - Lucas, E. V., 268 - Lunn, Kirkby, 234 - Lyall, E., 96 - Lytton, Bulwer, 96 - - - M - - McNaught, W. G., 187–190, 257–258 - Mair, G. H., 62, 69, 70 - Malet, Lucas, 123 - _Manchester Guardian_, 11, 34, 38, 48, 58, 65–66, 75, 154–160, - 191, 209–210 - Marchesi, Blanche, 48 - “Marmaduke,” 268 - Marriott, Charles, 134–135 - Marriott, Ernest, 56, 202–203 - Marx, Karl, 15 - Masefield, John, 73–76, 95–97, 201, 209 - Maude, Cyril, 60 - Mead, G. R. S., 90 - Mendelssohn, F., 198, 233 - Meredith, George, 38, 128, 267, 268 - Middleton, Richard, 40 - Milne, A. A., 77, 268 - Monkhouse, Allan, 33, 65, 157, 210 - Monro, Harold, 73–74 - Montague, C. E., 63, 157, 210 - Moore, George, 13, 17, 20–21 - Morley, Lord, 268 - Morris, William, 18 - Morrow, Edwin, 139, 168, 172, 239, 241–242 - Morrow, Norman, 139, 168, 172–173, 239–243 - Mudie, W. H., 56, 65 - Mullings, Frank, 179–181 - Murger, H., 173 - - - N - - Napoleon, 44, 50 - Newman, Ernest, 48, 81–84, 143, 148, 179, 181, 187–188, 190, - 226, 234, 246–247, 249, 252 - Newman, J. H., 86 - Nicoll, W. R., 64 - Nietzsche, F., 45, 91, 131 - Nordau, Max, 279 - Northcliffe, Lord, 39, 41–44, 154 - - - O - - Olcott, Colonel, 90 - Orage, A. R., 22, 43, 91, 104, 130–132, 179 - Ouida, 134 - - - P - - Paderewski, I., 182–186 - Pain, Barry, 140 - Pankhurst, Emmeline, 50–51, 179 - Pater, Walter, 186, 242 - Paterson, W. R., 267–268 - Patmore, Coventry, 267 - Patti, Adelina, 53 - Petri, Egon, 223 - Plato, 90 - Poe, E. A., 79, 253 - Pond, Major, 120 - Price-Heywood, W. P., 56, 80 - Pugh, Edwin, 267 - _Punch_, 25, 77 - Pyne, Kendrick, 28, 162–164 - - - R - - Ravel, 197, 255 - Reger, Max, 197, 234 - Richardson, Frank, 14 - Richter, Hans, 150, 158, 227–228, 229–232 - Robins, Elizabeth, 178–179 - Ronald, Landon, 157, 194, 234–237 - Rootham, Cyril, 256 - Ross, Adrian, 140 - Rossetti, D. G., 46, 223, 258 - Rowley, Charles, 164 - Runciman, J. F., 194 - Ruskin, John, 46, 86, 119, 234 - - - S - - Santley, Charles, 232–234 - Sauer, Emil, 182–184 - Schlagintweit, Capt., 159–161 - Schumann, Clara, 182, 254 - Scott, Clement, 208 - Scott, Cyril, 262 - Scott, Dixon, 140 - Scott, Walter, 264 - Scriabin, 234 - Seaman, Owen, 77, 268 - Shakespeare, Wm., 15, 33, 36, 44, 86, 94, 115, 207 - Shaw, G. B., 11–21, 44, 94, 133, 156, 174, 208, 210, 269 - Shelley, P. B., 79, 91, 264 - Sherard, R. H., 120 - Sibelius, 234 - Smiles, Samuel, 115, 176 - Somerset, Lady Henry, 179 - Spencer, Herbert, 269 - Stead, W. T., 120 - Stone, Marcus, 25 - Strauss, Richard, 53, 68, 84, 148, 196, 216, 223–225, 234, - 251, 256 - Streatfeild, R. A., 143 - Strindberg, August, 33, 268, 279 - Strindberg, Madame, 43, 278–280 - Sullivan, A. S., 78, 196 - “Swift, Benjamin,” 267–268 - Swinburne, A. C., 264 - Synge, J. M., 60–62, 75, 241 - - - T - - Tennyson, A., 90 - Terry, Ellen, 203, 208 - Tetrazzini, 53 - Thackeray, Wm., 94, 234 - Thurston, Temple, 201, 205–207 - Tree, Beerbohm, 135, 199–202 - Trollope, Anthony, 25–69 - Tupper, Martin, 118 - - - V - - Valentine, Jim, 185 - Velasquez, 171 - Verulam, Lord, 115 - - - W - - Wagner, Richard, 15–16, 29, 45, 143, 167, 195, 216, 217, 229, - 233, 254–255, 274 - Ward, Humphry, Mrs, 178 - Warlow, Gordon, 239–241, 244 - Watts, G. F., 17–18 - Webb, Beatrice, 174 - Webb, Sidney, 15–16, 21, 174 - Weber, 231 - Welldon, Bishop, 28–31 - Wells, H. G., (“Mr Kipps”), 15, 16–17, 44, 94, 154, 174 - Wesley, S. S., 162 - Whistler, J. M., 45 - Whitman, Walt, 90, 132, 191 - Wickham, Anna, 270–271 - Wiers-Jennsen, 209 - Williams, Vaughan, 255–257 - Wilson, P. W., 25–28 - Wolf, Hugo, 79, 145, 148, 180, 233 - Wollstonecraft, Mary, 91 - Wood, Henry J., 157, 193 - - - Y - - Yeats, W. B., 62, 263–265 - Yonge, C. M., 96 - - - Z - - Zangwill, Israel, 136–137 - - - - -Transcriber’s Note - - -A small number of clear typographic errors have been corrected, along -with a handful of punctuation clarifications. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Set Down in Malice, by Gerald Cumberland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SET DOWN IN MALICE *** - -***** This file should be named 61437-0.txt or 61437-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/3/61437/ - -Produced by ellinora, David Wilson and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Set Down in Malice - A Book of Reminiscences - -Author: Gerald Cumberland - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61437] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SET DOWN IN MALICE *** - - - - -Produced by ellinora, David Wilson and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - - - -<hr class="ww" /> - - - -<div class="halftitle"> -<big><a name="png.001" id="png.001" href="#png.001"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>1<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a> -SET DOWN IN MALICE</big> -</div> - - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1 title="Set Down in Malice"><a name="png.003" id="png.003" href="#png.003"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>3<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>SET DOWN IN MALICE<br - /><small><small>A BOOK OF REMINISCENCES</small></small></h1> - -<p class="author"><small><small>BY</small></small><br - /><big>GERALD CUMBERLAND</big></p> - - -<p class="deco"><big>❦</big></p> - - -<p class="epigraph"><small>“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself.”<br - /><span class="signature">Walt Whitman.</span></small></p> - - -<p class="publisher"><big>BRENTANO’S</big><br - />NEW YORK<br - /><small>MDCCCCXIX</small></p> -</div> - - - -<div class="verso"> -<a name="png.004" id="png.004" href="#png.004"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>4<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a><small><small - class="allsc">PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED<br - />EDINBURGH</small></small> -</div> - -<div class="colophon"> -<a name="png.005" id="png.005" href="#png.005"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>5<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">UXORI HORAS AMISSAS REDDO</span> -</div> - - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Prefatory Note"><a name="png.007" id="png.007" href="#png.007"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>7<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>PREFATORY NOTE</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Very</span> many of the following pages were written in -the trenches and dug-outs of Greece and Serbia. -I added a chapter or two in Port Said, Alexandria -and Marseilles. That is to say, I wrote far away -from books and without reference to documents, and I -wrote to refresh a mind dulled by the conditions of Active -Service in the Near East. A few chapters were written -in London and a few in Winchester.</p> - -<p>Here and there may be found factual inaccuracies, -though if these exist I am not aware of them. But -the spirit of the book is as near the truth as I can -bring it.</p> - -<p><span class="signature">Gerald Cumberland</span></p> - -<p class="address"><small><span class="smc">Winchester</span><br - /><span class="in2">2<i>nd June</i> 1918</span></small></p> - -</div> - - - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Contents"><a name="png.009" id="png.009" href="#png.009"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>9<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CONTENTS</h2> - - -<table summary="Table of Contents"> -<tr><th class="num"> </th><th class="dots"> </th><th class="pg"> </th></tr> -<tr><td colspan="2"><small><small class="allsc"> CHAPTER</small></small></td><td class="pg"><small><small class="allsc">PAGE</small></small></td></tr> -<tr><td class="num">I.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.011">Mr George Bernard Shaw</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.011">11</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">II.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.022">Miscellaneous</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.022">22</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Mrs Annie Besant—Mr Marcus Stone—Mr Lloyd -George—Bishop Welldon—Dr Walford Davies</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">III.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.032">Mr Frank Harris</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.032">32</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">IV.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.047">Miscellaneous</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.047">47</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Madame Yvette Guilbert—Sir Victor Horsley—Mrs Pankhurst—Mr Jacob Epstein—Madame Aïno Ackté</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">V.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.055">Mr Stanley Houghton and Mr Harold Brighouse</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.055">55</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">VI.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.068">Some Writers</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.068">68</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Mr Arnold Bennett—Mr G. K. Chesterton—Mr Lascelles Abercrombie—Mr Harold Monro—Mr John -Masefield—Mr Jerome K. Jerome—Sir Owen Seaman—Mr A. A. Milne</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">VII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.079">Sir Edward Elgar</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.079">79</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">VIII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.088">Intellectual Freaks</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.088">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">IX.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.102">Fleet Street</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.102">102</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">X.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.117">Mr Hall Caine</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XI.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.128">More Writers</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.128">128</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Rev. T. E. Brown—Mr A. R. Orage—Mr Norman -Angell—Mr St John Ervine—Mr Charles Marriott—Mr Max Beerbohm—Mr Israel Zangwill—Mr Alphonse -Courlander—Mr Ivan Heald—Mr Dixon Scott—Mr Barry Pain—Mr Cunninghame Graham</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num"><a name="png.010" id="png.010" href="#png.010"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>10<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>XII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.143">Musical Critics</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.143">143</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XIII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.153">Manchester People</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.153">153</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XIV.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.166">Chelsea and Mr Augustus John</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.166">166</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XV.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.175">Miscellaneous</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.175">175</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Mr Arthur Henderson, M.P.—Lord Derby—Miss -Elizabeth Robins—Mr Frank Mullings—Mr Harold -Bauer—Mr Emil Sauer—Mr Vladimir de Pachmann</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XVI.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.187">Cathedral Musical Festivals</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XVII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.199">People of the Theatre</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.199">199</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Sir Herbert Tree—Mr Gordon Craig—Mr Henry -Arthur Jones—Mr Temple Thurston—Miss Janet -Achurch—Miss Horniman.</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XVIII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.212">Berlin and Some of its People</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.212">212</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XIX.<!-- TN: period invisible --></td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.226">Some Musicians</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.226">226</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Edvard Grieg—Sir Frederick H. Cowen—Dr Hans -Richter—Sir Thomas Beecham—Sir Charles Santley—Mr Landon Ronald—Mr Frederic Austin</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XX.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.239">Two Chelsea Rags, 1914 and 1918</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.239">239</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XXI.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.246">More Musicians</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.246">246</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td><p class="contents"><small>Professor Granville Bantock—Mr Frederick Delius—Mr Joseph -Holbrooke—Dr Walford Davies—Dr Vaughan Williams—Dr W. G. McNaught—Mr Julius -Harrison—Mr Rutland Boughton—Mr John Coates—Mr Cyril Scott</small></p></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XXII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.263">People I would like to meet</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.263">263</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num">XXIII.</td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.273">Night Clubs</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.273">273</a></td></tr> - -<tr class="chap"><td class="num"> </td><td class="dots"><p class="dotz"><span class="text"><a href="#png.283">Index</a></span></p></td><td class="pg"><a href="#png.283">283</a></td></tr> -</table> - -</div> - - - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter I: George Bernard Shaw"><a name="png.011" id="png.011" href="#png.011"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>11<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER I<br - />GEORGE BERNARD SHAW</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">It</span> was when I was a very young man indeed that I -caught and succumbed to my first attack of Shaw-fever. -I do not remember how I caught it; something -in the Manchester air, no doubt, was responsible for -my malady, for a handful of “intellectual” Manchester -people had most daringly produced a complete Shaw play, -and, though I had not witnessed the play, I had read -it, and it was with delight that I saw <cite>The Manchester -Guardian</cite> saying about <cite>You Never Can Tell</cite> just the very -things I had myself already thought. I found that in my -suburban circle of friends I was regarded as harbouring -“advanced” ideas. Shaw, I was told, was “dangerous.” -This bucked me up enormously, and I thereupon wrote a -long essay on Ibsen’s <cite>A Doll’s House</cite> and, desiring further -to astonish and bewilder my friends, got into communication -with Bernard Shaw with a view to having the -essay published in pamphlet form. When it was known in -Manchester suburbia that Shaw had written to me, a boy -still at school, my friends could not decide whether I was -cleverer than they had hitherto supposed or Mr Bernard -Shaw more foolish than seemed possible.</p> - -<p>I have never completely recovered from that first -attack of Shaw-fever; like ague, it sleeps in my bones -and, from time to time, makes its presence known by -little convulsions that are disturbing enough while they -last, but which generally die pretty quickly.</p> - -<p>It was in the middle of 1901 that I wrote to Mr Shaw -about the particular brand of socialism from which at -<a name="png.012" id="png.012" href="#png.012"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>12<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>that time I was suffering. It must have been a very raw -and crude brand, and my letter to Bernard Shaw must -have amused him considerably. Certainly his reply was -most diverting. Here it is:</p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace">“By all means give ‘every penny you can spare to -those who are most in need of monetary help.’ If you -will be kind enough to send it to the Treasurer of the -Fabian Society, 3 Clement’s Inn, London, W.C., you may -depend upon its being wanted and well used. If you prefer -relieving needy persons, I can give you the names and -addresses of several fathers of families who can be depended -on to absorb all your superfluous resources, however -vast they may be. By making yourself poor for -their sakes you will have the satisfaction of adding one -more poor family to the existing mass of poverty and contributing -your utmost to the ransom which perpetuates -the existing social system. You will go through life consoled -by an inexhaustible sense of moral superiority to -bishops and other inconsistent Christians. And you will -never be at a loss for friends. Where the carcass is there -will the eagles be gathered.</p> - -<p>“A world of beggars and almsgivers—beautiful -Christian ideal.</p> - -<p>“You are not a prig—only a damned fool. A month’s -experience will cure you.”</p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<p class="extraspace">But though I think this letter amusing now, I am convinced -I did not think so at the time I received it. I know -not in what terms of pained surprise and hurt vanity I -replied to it, but a few days later I received the following -short <span class="nw">note:—</span></p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace">“Yes: you are an ass; and nothing will help you until -you get over that.</p> - -<p>“‘A has money, B is without. If A doesn’t share with -<a name="png.013" id="png.013" href="#png.013"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>13<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>B he is—well, I call him a thief.’ Just what an ass would -do. Pray what do you call B if he accepts A’s bounty?</p> - -<p>“I strongly recommend you to become a stockbroker. -You believe that doing good means giving money; and -you fancy yourself in the character of Lord Bountiful -with a touch of St Francis.</p> - -<p>“Yes, a hopeless ass. No matter; embrace your -destiny and become a philanthropist. It is not a bad life -for people who are built that way.”</p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<p class="extraspace">That, I think, most effectively closed the correspondence, -as, I have little doubt, it was intended to do.</p> - -<p>During the next few months, having approached Messrs -Greening & Co., the publishers, I was commissioned by -them to write a book on Mr Hall Caine for their <cite>Eminent -Writers of To-day</cite> series. The book being completed and -published before the end of the year, I conceived the idea -of writing another about Mr Bernard Shaw, and communicated -with the dramatist, informing him of my intention -and asking him if he would provide me with -biographical details. This he consented to do, and on -19th December 1901 wrote to me from Piccard’s Cottage, -Guildford, saying: “If you will let me know when you -are coming to London, I will make an appointment with -pleasure and give you what help I can.”</p> - -<p>A few weeks later I went to Guildford, but I went there -with a guilty secret hidden in my breast. The secret was -this. My publishers did not care about issuing a complete -book devoted to Bernard Shaw and all his works. I -gathered, much to my amazement, that they did not think -him of sufficient importance. The astounding idea was -then suggested that half my book should be concerned -with Bernard Shaw and the other half with Mr George -Moore. Now, at the time of my visit to Guildford, I had -not imparted this information to Mr Shaw. I did not -anticipate that he would like the suggestion and I thought -<a name="png.014" id="png.014" href="#png.014"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>14<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>it wiser to disclose it to him by word of mouth rather than -by letter.</p> - -<p>I came upon Mr Shaw taking photographs in the little -front garden of Piccard’s Cottage. It was a winter’s day -and an inch of snow lay upon the ground; yet he wore no -overcoat. He insisted upon taking my photograph. He -took me sitting. He took me standing. And when he -had grown tired of playing with his new toy, he suggested -that we should go into the house.</p> - -<p>There a hideous surprise awaited me. Lying upon the -sofa of the study was an open copy of the current week’s -<cite>Candid Friend</cite>, a most brilliant and most ruthless paper -edited by Mr Frank Harris.</p> - -<p>“There is something there,” said Shaw, nodding in the -direction of the sofa, “that should interest you, I think.”</p> - -<p>I sat down, took up the paper and looked at the open -pages. To my horror I saw a most brutal, murderously -clever full-page caricature of Mr Hall Caine on one side, -and on the other a long and most hostile review of my -stupid little book on the famous novelist.... Shaw, -tall and erect, stood looking at me a little malignantly, -and, on the instant, I was on my guard.</p> - -<p>I read the review word by word and examined the caricature -very closely. The article was amazingly good, -but, as I read it, I did so wish it had been written about a -book by somebody else. Frank Harris himself, I think, -had written the article and Frank Richardson had drawn -the caricature. I looked up at Shaw and smiled.</p> - -<p>“Awfully good, don’t you think?” I said.</p> - -<p>He nodded, and by his manner seemed to express -approval of the way in which I had come through the -ordeal. He showed me some photographs he had taken—not -very good photographs. One, taken by his wife, I -think, showed Bernard Shaw with his arm round a female -scarecrow; leaning slightly forward, he was leering at it -with narrowed eyes.</p> - -<p><a name="png.015" id="png.015" href="#png.015"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>15<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>During lunch Shaw devoured a large number of vegetarian -dishes and drank water, whilst Mrs Shaw and I ate -meat and drank wine. It was, I think, the mellowing -influence of a basin of raisins that loosed his tongue and -set him talking without cessation. He spoke of Karl -Marx and Granville Barker, of Mrs Annie Besant and -Janet Achurch, of Mr Sidney Webb and the Fabian -Society, of Morocco and Ancoats, of Shorthand and -Wagner, of <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite> and H. G. Wells ... -in a word, of Shakespeare and the musical glasses.</p> - -<p>I rather gathered that he had “got over” Karl Marx -years ago, and I inferred that he considered the work of -this writer indispensable for young cubs to sharpen their -teeth upon, but that he was by no means the last word in -socialism. I think he thought that Bernard Shaw was -the last word. For Granville Barker he had even then a -great regard, and, speaking of him, he offered me some -cider, a bottle of which Barker had drunk some days -previously; as he offered the cider he said that Barker -had “ridden over”—whence, I know not—on his bicycle -and that the cider had made him half tipsy.... The -thought of Mrs Annie Besant appeared to afford him vast -amusement, but he spoke in terms of high regard of Janet -Achurch.</p> - -<p>“But she uses her voice wrongly. It is quite the finest -voice on the stage and, perhaps because she knows it is so -fine, she is always trying experiments with it. For a -Shakespeare passage, for example, she will plan out what -I may call a scheme of sound; sound that will rise and fall -with the passion and decline of the words, that will intensify -and grow dim as the mood waxes and wanes. But -the scheme, the design—for it <em>is</em> a kind of design—is -nearly always too elaborate, too involved. It is full of -detail, and the detail is apt to become more prominent -than the general outline. She will start off most magnificently, -lose herself a little, recover herself, lose herself -<a name="png.016" id="png.016" href="#png.016"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>16<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>again, and then abruptly strike a woefully wrong note. -Perhaps her ear is wrong; perhaps excitement betrays -her. But, with all her faults—and even her faults are -more interesting than other people’s excellencies—she -remains a superb actress.”</p> - -<p>Of Mr Sidney Webb I remember nothing that he said, -nor have any of the loving words he spoke of the Fabian -Society remained in my memory. He spoke of it a great -deal, both at lunch and during our subsequent walk, but -somehow or other the Fabian Society has always seemed -to me a bloodless and dull sort of institution, and while he -talked about it my thoughts wandered, and I mused rather -sadly over the psychology of this man whose moral -earnestness was so much greater than my own.</p> - -<p>But I pricked up my ears when the word “Morocco” -fell from his lips, though in the event he said very little -about it. I found he had no great belief in the value of -travel as a means of education, an expander of the mind. -He himself had never travelled; places and countries so -precisely fulfilled all your expectations that, really, what -was the use of going to see them? Facts, people and -ideas: nothing else aroused his curiosity.</p> - -<p>Of shorthand he said ... well, you don’t particularly -want to know what he said of shorthand, do you? And -in <cite>The Perfect Wagnerite</cite> he has said all that it is necessary -for him to say about Wagner. Last of all comes H. G. -Wells.</p> - -<p>Now, I have not the remotest idea what Shaw thinks of -Wells in these days, yet I would give a good deal to know. -But sixteen years ago the older man had for the younger -an almost reverential admiration. At the time of my -visit to Shaw one of Wells’ books was appearing serially in, -I think, <cite>The Fortnightly Review</cite>. Wells was busy looking -into the future, and the future that he saw seemed, in -some respects, so disagreeable yet so likely that Shaw -was dismayed at the prospect. -<a name="png.017" id="png.017" href="#png.017"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>17<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>“A great man, Wells,” said Shaw; “do you know -anything about him?”</p> - -<p>I told him the little I knew and, as we had finished -lunch, I asked Mrs Shaw’s permission to light a -cigarette.</p> - -<p>Almost immediately after, we started on our walk.</p> - -<p>Never shall I forget that terrible walk. I believed then, -as I believe now, that Shaw was deliberately pitting his -powers of endurance against my own—the powers of endurance -of a middle-aged vegetarian against those of a -young meat-eater. He walked with a long, easy stride, -swinging his arms, breathing deeply through his wide -nostrils. His pace, which never for a moment did he -attempt to accommodate to mine, was at least five miles -an hour. He forgot, or he did not choose to remember, -that I had that morning travelled by the slow midnight -train from Manchester, that I had crossed London, that I -had reached Guildford by a weary Sunday train from -Waterloo, and that I had just eaten an enormous lunch. -I panted and struggled half a pace behind him. I became -stupendously hot. I made unexpected and unathletic -sounds, like a man who is being smothered. Blissfully -unconscious of all this was Shaw.... I wonder?... -No; blissfully conscious of all this was Shaw.</p> - -<p>He talked steadily the whole time, but I was suffering -from an inhibition of all my mental faculties. Yet, at the -back of my mind, I kept saying to myself: “You know, -you have not yet told him that he is to share your book -with George Moore.” And each time I told myself that, -I shuddered somewhat.</p> - -<p>It was not until we had neared Mr G. F. Watts’ house -that Shaw moderated his pace a little.</p> - -<p>“That,” said he, in a curiously low voice—the kind of -voice one uses in churches—“that is where G. F. Watts -lives.”</p> - -<p>And he pointed to some high chimneys that overtopped -<a name="png.018" id="png.018" href="#png.018"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>18<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>a belt of trees, and stopped and gazed. But I was in no -mood of reverence and, though I have frequently struggled -to induce a feeling of rapture when gazing upon the large -canvases of Watts, I have never been able to do so. So -I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my perspiring -forehead.</p> - -<p>“Hot?” asked Shaw grimly.</p> - -<p>“Of course I’m hot. Aren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Warm. Just nicely warm.”</p> - -<p>Presently we came to a tall tower of terra-cotta bricks -which, Shaw told me, had been erected by the villagers -under the direction and at the instigation of Watts himself. -We stopped in front of this and, as it was one of the -“sights” of the district, I felt that I was expected to say -something wise or, at all events, something complimentary -about it. I could say neither.</p> - -<p>“Which do people imagine it to be—useful or ornamental?” -I asked.</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said he.</p> - -<p>“For it is neither,” I ventured.</p> - -<p>But his thoughts were otherwhere, for he began a long, -technical exposition on the art of making bricks and tiles. -His talk became art-and-crafty. I was carried back to -my childhood days, my kindergarten days. I heard the -name of William Morris and I sighed most profoundly.</p> - -<p>Shaw won that walk by a neck. Having reached -Piccard’s Cottage, he put me in a kind of conservatory, -gave me a blanket and a deck chair and told me to go -to sleep. But already I <em>was</em> <span class="nw">asleep....</span></p> - -<p>When I awoke it was quite dark, and, feeling rather -miserable, I groped my way back to the house. There I -found Mr and Mrs Shaw in the study, she frowning at her -desk, he standing on the hearthrug and looking at her -most quizzically.</p> - -<p>“Well, how much is it?” she asked. “Four times -into two hundred. The cheque <em>must</em> go by to-night’s -<a name="png.019" id="png.019" href="#png.019"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>19<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>post. I’ve done the sum three times, and on each occasion -I’ve got a different answer.”</p> - -<p>“Is it two hundred pence or two hundred pounds?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd, George. Even you know that you -can’t get a furnished house like this for two hundred pence -a year.”</p> - -<p>“Four times into two hundred—let me see—fifty. -Yes, fifty. You can safely write down fifty pounds.”</p> - -<p>That little incident safely over, we turned to tea.</p> - -<p>I induced Shaw to talk about his own work, and I -quickly discovered that, unlike most authors, he had no -feeling of bitterness that he had had to spend years in hard -work before he won public recognition.</p> - -<p>“A writer of originality must expect to have to wait. -If a writer is acclaimed immediately—I mean a writer on -social and artistic subjects—he may be pretty sure that -he is saying things that have been said before. He may -be saying them better than anybody else; nevertheless, -they are the same things. My own success has been -gained, and is very largely maintained, by the force of -my personality and by the tradition about myself that -has gradually grown up in the mind of the public. For -example, if I were to write an article and give it to you to -copy out and offer to editors in your own name, you being -the professional author, I doubt very much if a single -editor would look at it twice. A good deal, you see, <em>is</em> in -a name.”</p> - -<p>It was when Mrs Shaw, having sipped her tea, had left -the room, that I broached the subject of my book.</p> - -<p>“Publishers are curious people,” I remarked meditatively.</p> - -<p>He sat silent.</p> - -<p>“My own publishers in particular. They are now -fighting shy of a book solely about you.”</p> - -<p>I paused and glanced at him. But he was gazing at me -with eyes of a mild malice and he was very silent.</p> - -<p><a name="png.020" id="png.020" href="#png.020"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>20<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Yes,” I continued. “To put it bluntly, they think -that a book solely about you would not be a success. So -that they propose the first half of the book should be -concerned with you and the second half with George -Moore.”</p> - -<p>“And the title?” he asked gently.</p> - -<p>“Why? What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Well, don’t you think <cite>The Two Mad Irishmen</cite> would -go rather well?”</p> - -<p>I floundered. If he was going to be witty or sarcastic, -or anything horrid of that kind, I should be nowhere at -all. To cover my confusion—and, as it chanced, to make -that confusion worse—I began to talk very rapidly.</p> - -<p>“I know their suggestion is awfully stupid, but then -publishers do make stupid suggestions. That, I suppose, -is why they are so successful. Of course, George Moore -and <span class="nw">yourself——”</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, George has worked awfully hard,” said Shaw -reasonably. “I don’t suppose there is a more conscientious -artist living. He has dug out of himself everything -there was to be got. No one could have tried more. As -a worker, George is magnificent. But, really, when you -suggest a <span class="nw">book——”</span></p> - -<p>“No! No! I don’t suggest it for one moment,” I -interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Then what are we discussing?”</p> - -<p>“Well, in the first instance, my publishers <span class="nw">suggested——”</span></p> - -<p>“Ha! ‘In the first instance!’ No; it really cannot -be done. If you wish to write the book nobody, of -course, can stop you, but if you do you must not expect -me to countenance it. I shall wash my hands of the -whole business.”</p> - -<p>And, in spite of some further conversation, that remained -his unshakable attitude.</p> - -<p>An hour later he walked with me down to the station, -<a name="png.021" id="png.021" href="#png.021"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>21<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I resolving all the way that I would persuade my publisher -to accept two books. Shaw droned on about Sidney Webb -and the Fabian Society.... So many people have -talked to me of Sidney Webb. I wonder why. I have -heard Sidney Webb speak; he knows all about figures -and dates and money and wages, and so on.... But of -human nature he knows nothing; he knows less than a -child, for a child has at least intuition. Figures don’t go -very far, do they? Of course, by manipulation, you can -make them go all the <span class="nw">way....</span></p> - -<p>But, as I was saying, Shaw talked about Fabianism and -Webbism all the way to the station.</p> - -<p>He was good enough to wait till the train started, and -the last I saw of him as I leant through the window was a -long, lean figure standing under a lamp. The figure wore -no overcoat, but I noticed, even when a hundred yards -separated us, a pair of thick, home-knitted woollen -<span class="nw">gloves....</span></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p><i>P.S.</i>—The book was never written, for my publishers -could not be persuaded to take G.B.S. at his own or my -estimate.</p> - -<p>Mr George Moore, on being approached, wrote me from -Dublin, saying, inconsequently enough, that he had never -asked anybody to write about him nor had he ever asked -anybody to refrain from doing so. On the whole, he -thought it better that if A (myself) wished to write about -B (Mr George Moore), it would be an excellent arrangement, -provided that:</p> - -<p>(1) A was an intimate friend of B’s, or</p> - -<p>(2) A was a complete stranger to B.</p> - -<p>I was left, most courteously, to infer that I (A), being a -complete stranger, had better remain so.</p> - -<p>I did.</p> - -<p>I have done.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter II: Miscellaneous"><a name="png.022" id="png.022" href="#png.022"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>22<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER II<br - />MISCELLANEOUS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Mrs Annie Besant—Marcus Stone—Lloyd George—Bishop -Welldon—Dr Walford Davies</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Mrs Annie Besant</span>, like her Himalayan -Mahatmas, is lofty, remote, and difficult of -access. Only once was I admitted to The -Presence. What drove me there was, first of all, curiosity, -and, secondly, a feeling of great respect for her which I -had retained from boyhood. I admired her courage, her -independence, her friendship with and loyalty to Bradlaugh; -moreover, I have always held in high regard those -who, from temperamental or spiritual discord with their -fellows, have kicked over the intellectual traces and run -a race of their own. Annie Besant, whatever else she -may be, is a woman of courage, of vast resource and of -indomitable will.</p> - -<p>But alas! my hour’s interview with her did much to -sap and destroy my devotion. First of all, I must say -that, previous to meeting her, I had been for a short time -an Associate of the Theosophical Society. I was never -admitted to membership of that body because I never -claimed the privilege; my associateship originated in my -desire to hear Orage lecture and in my anxiety to study -some curious and not unintelligent people at first hand. -Nothing is at once more distressing and more repellent to -me than affectation, and the affectation of most members -of the Theosophical Society whom I met was really appalling. -The people were also grotesque. The men had -dyspepsia<!-- TN: original reads "dyspepia" --> and bald heads, and the women wore djibbahs -<a name="png.023" id="png.023" href="#png.023"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>23<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and a look of condescending benevolence. They read -Madame Blavatsky assiduously and gabbled nonsense to -each other.</p> - -<p>Mrs Besant made an appointment for me one Saturday -afternoon at the Midland Hotel, Manchester. I was -shown into a private sitting-room which, upon entering, I -took to be empty. But, after a few moments had passed, -I observed a snake-like movement in a corner of the room, -and a thin, pale lady advanced languidly towards me, -holding out a lifeless hand which hung nervelessly at her -wrist. I glanced at her in surprise and noticed that she -wore a djibbah, a long necklace of yellow stones, a most -insincere smile, and vegetarian boots.</p> - -<p>“Mrs Besant will be with you shortly,” she said, -scrutinising me carefully. Having, as it appeared to me, -taken a mental inventory of my clothing, she glided to the -door and, smiling at me once more, disappeared. I took -her to be a sort of bodyguard.</p> - -<p>The entrance of Mrs Besant was brisk and businesslike. -She had a firm handshake; she looked a capable -business woman—a woman accustomed to issuing commands -and having them implicitly obeyed. Of medium -height, she was plump and heavily built; her pale face, -surmounted by perfectly white hair, was of an intensely -serious cast, and I saw no humour in her eye.</p> - -<p>Our conversation, a little halting at first, began to flow -quite easily when I mentioned her Autobiography and -asked her why she had not issued a second volume.</p> - -<p>“You see,” I said, “it stops just at the most interesting -period of your life. You have never stated fully how you -became convinced of the truth of theosophical doctrines. -I, for one, cannot understand your position.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t very necessary that you should,” she observed -calmly.</p> - -<p>“Who am I, you mean, that I should presume to -understand you?”</p> - -<p><a name="png.024" id="png.024" href="#png.024"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>24<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Yes; perhaps I meant something like that. People -who are intended to understand me will understand me. -The rest don’t matter. In any case, this is not a subject -that has much interest for me.”</p> - -<p>“But, surely, if you think you have discovered the -truth, you are anxious to spread it? As a matter of fact, -I know, of course, that you are anxious on this point, or -you would not lecture and write.”</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” she said, leaning forward a -little. “I spread the truth, but, then, the truth is not -for everybody. Much of it falls on stony ground.”</p> - -<p>“And it will continue to do so,” I half interrupted, -“until you have proved that the alleged miracles of -Madame Blavatsky are really true. Was Madame -Blavatsky a charlatan or was she not?—on the answer -to that question all modern theosophy stands or -falls.”</p> - -<p>She smiled at this attack of mine and at the violence -of it.</p> - -<p>“It <em>is</em> proved,” she answered; “it is proved up to the -hilt. I and thousands of others are entirely satisfied.”</p> - -<p>“And Madame Coulomb?—was she a mountebank? -And were the mysteries of Adyar frauds?”</p> - -<p>“Everyone is entitled to his own opinion about those -matters. I have my own view; you, no doubt, have -yours. And now,” she added, a little wearily, “let us -have tea and talk about the weather.”</p> - -<p>Such was the substance of our talk. I gathered the -impression, right or wrong, that Mrs Besant had brought -herself to a state of mind when no evidence, however -strong, that was opposed to her beliefs would shake her -faith for a moment. She desired most fervently to believe -in the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">bona fides</i> of Madame Blavatsky, and believe -she did. The Theosophical Society does not—or it did -not in those days—demand from its members the acceptance -of any particular doctrine; you could accept as -<a name="png.025" id="png.025" href="#png.025"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>25<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>little or as much as you wanted and still remain one of the -faithful. But Mrs Besant went the whole hog.</p> - -<p>Bernard Shaw once told me that, meeting Mrs Besant -years after the Bradlaugh days, he said to her, half -jokingly:</p> - -<p>“You surely don’t believe one quarter of the rubbish -you write and talk, do you?”</p> - -<p>Her answer was to look at him coldly and turn on her -heel. Which, after all, was perhaps the wisest answer -she could give.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A kindly old man took me to his studio and began to -talk of Dickens. He spoke of those Victorian days as -though they were the greatest that have ever been. He -knew Anthony Trollope and all his works and looked -askance at me because <cite>Barchester Towers</cite> was the only -Trollope book I had read.</p> - -<p>And then he took me to an easel and showed me his -latest work—a “pretty-pretty” picture of a girl in a -garden; the sort of picture that, according to my mood, -either excites my laughter or throws me into a fury of rage.</p> - -<p>But Marcus Stone was very old, and his ideals, being -those of yesteryear, left me untouched. The young can -never understand the old and, as I listened to him talking -of art and literature and life, I told myself that we to-day -are centuries away from the mid-Victorian days. If he had -not been so old and kindly I should have wished to say:</p> - -<p>“Do you want to know what all you people were like -fifty years ago?—well, read <cite>Punch</cite> for, say, the year -1870.”</p> - -<p>But though my friends tell me that I am brutal, and I -know I am ill-mannered, I could not find it in my heart to -speak those words.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>The amiable but rather weak Mr P. W. Wilson, who -used to do “Lobby” work for <cite>The Daily News</cite>, having -<a name="png.026" id="png.026" href="#png.026"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>26<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>declined a whisky, entered into conversation with me at -the hotel at Criccieth. He told me that till that morning -he had been staying with Mr Lloyd George, but that, Mr Masterman, Sir Rufus Isaacs and other people of importance -having turned up, he himself had had to seek refuge -in the hotel.</p> - -<p>The occasion of the assembly of these wits was the -opening of an institute at Llanystumdwy, the little village -near Criccieth, where the Prime Minister spent his childhood -days. Mr Lloyd George had given the institute to -the inhabitants of the village and was himself to open it -publicly the following day.</p> - -<p>Mr Wilson’s amiability and his self-satisfaction at -enjoying the friendship of Mr Lloyd George rather put -me out, and I felt a strong desire to disturb his sleek -smoothness.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” said I, “that the suffragettes will not be -brutally treated to-morrow, but I am very much afraid -they will.”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” observed P. W. W., between draws at his -pipe, “if they create a disturbance here, in the very midst -of Lloyd George’s worshippers, they must expect a stiff -time of it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and they will get it. The organised gang of -roughs from Portmadoc who are coming here to-morrow -armed with clubs will see to that. The uneducated Welsh, -their passions once aroused, are little better than -savages....” I hesitated a moment. Then, as impressively -as I could, I added: “We must prepare ourselves -for dreadful sights to-morrow. I should not be -very surprised if one or two women are not torn limb from -limb. And if they are, the responsibility will, in my -opinion, rest mainly with Mr Lloyd George himself.”</p> - -<p>P. W. Wilson took his pipe from his mouth and looked -at me with some concern.</p> - -<p>“How do you make that out?” he asked.</p> - -<p><a name="png.027" id="png.027" href="#png.027"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>27<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Well, hitherto he has not done very much to soothe -the irritation of meetings he has addressed which have -been interrupted by suffragettes. Lloyd George has not -very much magnanimity. Moreover, in this particular -matter, he evinces but a shallow knowledge of human -nature. He would win the approval of all men of generous -and chivalrous natures <span class="nw">if——”</span></p> - -<p>I allowed my voice to die away to nothing.</p> - -<p>Wilson, really disturbed, moved a little uneasily on his -chair, rose, scratched his head, sat down again and sighed.</p> - -<p>“I must tell him,” said he. “I must warn him that, -at the very beginning of his speech, he must appeal to the -audience to deal gently with any interrupters.... Torn -limb from limb.... You really think that?”</p> - -<p>I felt a little sorry to have disturbed him so much, -and yet I knew that I very much preferred an anxious, -harassed Wilson to a Wilson who was smooth and sleek.</p> - -<p>Next morning at breakfast he was again smooth and -self-satisfied.</p> - -<p>“I have seen him,” he whispered, like a conspirator; -“I have seen him. It is arranged. Everything is all -right.”</p> - -<p>Later on that morning I was myself received by Mr Lloyd George in his house. I went prejudiced against -him and determined at all hazards not to allow myself to -be won over by that charm of manner of which I had -heard so much.</p> - -<p>But in five minutes I had succumbed. He has a -wonderful gift of making you feel that he thinks you are -the most interesting and most intelligent person he has -ever met. What he really does think, I suppose, is that -you (of course, I don’t mean you; I mean myself) are an -unmitigated bore, and while his eyes are smiling at you he -is really saying to himself: “Why doesn’t the fellow -go?...” Yes, he has charm. He does not fuss and he -is not over-emphatic in his manner. And he is a most -<a name="png.028" id="png.028" href="#png.028"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>28<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>deferential listener. He will even ask you your opinion -about matters of which he knows ten times more than -yourself, and he will do you the honour of arguing with -you.</p> - -<p>That afternoon, at the formal ceremony of “opening” -the institute, my warning concerning the suffragettes was -nearly prophetic. Mr Lloyd George, of course, did all in -his power to quell the mob’s anger, but the women were -violently assaulted, their breasts beaten, their clothes -ripped from their backs, their hair torn by the roots from -their heads.... On the edge of the mêlée I saw P. W. -Wilson standing deploring it.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It has always seemed to me an extraordinary thing -that, in company with Dr Walford Davies, I should have -been asked some years ago to be a guest at the annual -dinner of the Church Diocesan Music Society. I am -always ready for adventure, of however hazardous a -nature, so I accepted the invitation even after I had been -told that a speech was expected from me.</p> - -<p>Bishop Welldon, arriving late—in fact, I believe he had -dined elsewhere—plumped himself on a chair next to me, -and immediately began to dominate everything and everybody -within a radius of twenty yards. He is one of those -distressing people who <em>will</em> be jocular. And his jocularity -is rather noisy. He laughed a great deal and rubbed his -hands together. And he asked me a question and then -asked me another before I had had time to answer the -first. And, really, he did talk so awfully loudly.... I -had come across him before in trams and shops and -places of that kind, and it was always the same; he -invariably talked <em>at</em> you.... Even in the Manchester -Cathedral, where Dr Kendrick Pyne introduced me to -him, he shouted at me and never allowed me to finish a -sentence.</p> - -<p>But I perceive that I am becoming petulant, and I -<a name="png.029" id="png.029" href="#png.029"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>29<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>ought not to do so for, as a matter of fact, the dinner was -a screamingly funny affair. I had prepared a fierce and -warlike speech, a speech attacking the Society whose -food I had just eaten and whose wine was still warm in my -veins. I am, I suppose, quite the worst speaker in the -world; so I had memorised my speech and, so good I -thought it that I had vastly enjoyed doing so. But -alas! when the minute drew near for me to deliver it, I -found myself in an atmosphere of such conviviality, such -kindness, such flattering attention, that I could not find -it in my heart to deliver the words I had prepared and -memorised. Yet an impromptu speech of a different -tenor was impossible. I simply hadn’t the talent to do it. -My name was called and I rose to my feet.</p> - -<p>My speech was offensive: it was meant to be. But -offensive though I knew it to be, I did not know how offensive -it really was. I mentioned the name of Wagner -and, as I did so, I saw Dr Walford Davies shudder -most violently. Though I attacked the Church for her -unimaginative attitude to music, though I stamped on -hymns and hymn tunes, though I slanged the microscopic -brains of many organists, though I said that nearly -all Cathedral music was to me anathema maranatha, -nobody except Bishop Welldon appeared to care in the -least, and he did not care half so much as poor, virginal -Walford Davies, who, at the name of Wagner, shuddered -and put his glass aside.</p> - -<p>Davies spoke: earnestly, like St Francis; frenziedly, -like Savonarola; passionately, like Venus ... no! no! -no! ... passionately, like St Paul. Eschew Wagner! -That’s what it all came to.... “Eschew....” Hate -the sin, love the sinner, but most certainly “eschew” -both. His cheeks were very white, his lips pale. He -trembled a little. Wagner, it appeared, was one of the -devils. Ab-so-lute-ly pernicious.... Have you ever -noticed how accurately you can estimate a man by his -<a name="png.030" id="png.030" href="#png.030"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>30<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>adjectives? Dr Walford Davies used “pernicious” -eleven times, “poisonous” twice, “very-much-to-be-distrusted” -once, “naughty” once (“this naughty man!” -was the phrase), “unlicensed” thrice, and “immoral” -fifteen times.... I must say, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en passant</i>, that I am writing -from memory and that my memory for figures is -atrocious; still, these adjectives, collectively represent -the impression his speech left on my mind.</p> - -<p>After dinner (well, neither after nor before dinner) one -does not ardently desire a speech of that kind. It fell -flat. A fat organist from Bolton (or was it Bacup?) -winked me a fat wink. The man on my left—a young -musical doctor from Cambridge—dug his elbow into my -ribs.</p> - -<p>And then came Bishop Welldon’s speech. He was -extraordinarily clever. He said some of the most cutting -things imaginable. He was scathing. He hurt me. -Reaching for my glass, I hastily swallowed the large -brandy I had been careful to ask for beforehand. He -made epigrams, epigrams adapted most skilfully from the -writings of his friend, John Oliver Hobbes. And he spoke -so well; he had presence; he had a manner; he, like Sir -Willoughby Patterne, had a leg ... and a leg that was -gaitered. Perhaps it was the gaiters that did it. One -has heard a good deal lately about the Hidden Hand, but -what about the influence of the Hidden Leg? The leg -hidden under the table? The gaitered leg hidden under -the table? Most of the diners, remembering that Bishop -Welldon was indeed a bishop—though, truly, only, so to -speak, an ex-bishop, and an ex-bishop only of Calcutta, -and now possessing only the powers of a dean (whatever -those powers may be!)—most of the diners, I say, recollecting -that Bishop Welldon was indeed a bishop, looked at -me with eyes of faint hostility or did not look at me -at all.</p> - -<p>I was very young, said Bishop Welldon. I was -<a name="png.031" id="png.031" href="#png.031"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>31<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>enthusiastic; I was inexperienced; I was “artistic”; I -was a jumper-at-conclusions.</p> - -<p>When he finished and, with one of his good-natured -smiles, turned and looked at me, I was crumbling bread -very rapidly, rolling the bread into soiled little pills, -putting the little pills all in a row.</p> - -<p>Later on in the evening Bishop Welldon, a little group -of jolly people and I myself sat and smoked and drank -very inferior coffee. Dr Walford Davies did not join us. -He shot little pointed darts at me from his eyes, but -(as, of course, you must have anticipated) when he and I -parted he was most studiously polite.</p> - -<p>And, on my way to my tram, I hummed Davies’ -<i>Hame! Hame! Hame!</i> to myself and pondered over -the mystery that enables a man to write such a wonderful, -soul-searching melody and yet possess an intellect of -quality only ... well, so-so.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div>Here a little child I stand,</div> -<div>Heaving up my either <span class="nw">hand ...</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Do you know Walford Davies’ setting of that Grace, the -setting he made some years ago for one of the daughters of -the late Canon Gorton? If you do, if, as I do, you adore -its Blake-like simplicity, its Ariel freshness, you will not -mind his hatred of Wagner. Only, it is rather strange, -don’t you think, that we outsiders who love Wagner (and -I believe, don’t you, that all intense lovers of Wagner -must be rather outsiderish?) should be able to love -Walford Davies also, though he (most unhappy!) can’t or -won’t love us?</p> - -<p>But it is being borne in upon me that for the last five -minutes I have been writing like the adorable Eve in <cite>The -Tatler</cite>. Let me, for her sake, begin another chapter.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter III: Frank Harris"><a name="png.032" id="png.032" href="#png.032"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>32<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER III<br - />FRANK HARRIS</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">It</span> must have been five or six years ago that a friend -came to me with the news that Frank Harris had -expressed a desire to see some of my verse. Precisely -what my friend had told Harris about me, I do -not know; something very exaggerated, perhaps; something -complimentary, doubtless; something that piqued -Harris’s curiosity, it was evident. As Harris is one of the -few modern writers for whom my boyish admiration has -survived manhood, I felt subtly gratified that he should -take even a fleeting interest in me, and I sat down at once -and copied out various poems that had already appeared -in <cite>The Academy</cite>, under Lord Alfred Douglas’s editorship, -and in <cite>The English Review</cite> in the days of Ford Madox -Hueffer, and, more recently, when edited by Austin -Harrison. With my verses I sent a letter, hypocritically -modest as regards myself, honestly full of admiration as -regards Harris. He replied from his villa in Nice, sending -me a long letter in which he did me the honour to enter -fully into the supposed merits and demerits of my work. -Of one poem he said that it was not sufficiently sensual, -and I have never been able quite to understand what he -meant, for I had, with some particularity, described seven -naked ladies swimming in a pool, and I had felt that my -verses had obviously enough expressed my feelings.</p> - -<p>The correspondence continued until, one day, Harris -wrote to tell me he was returning to London and to invite -me to visit him there. In the event, however, my first -meeting with Harris was in Manchester, whither he came -<a name="png.033" id="png.033" href="#png.033"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>33<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>to lecture on Shakespeare to the local dramatic society. -Jack Kahane (a great friend of mine) and I met him at -the Midland Hotel upon his arrival, and from the very -first moment he intoxicated me. Whilst he changed -from his travelling clothes to evening dress he talked -and ejaculated, beseeching us to remain with him as -he had had “a rotten journey from London and felt -unutterably bored.” I remember very little of what he -said except that, with some venom, he called Browning -“a not unprosperous gentleman.” He refused to eat or -drink before his lecture and, presently, we went down to -the large room in the hotel where he was to speak.</p> - -<p>We found there a mixed assembly. Everybody in -Manchester, it should be explained, writes plays; at -least, I never yet met a man in that delectable city who -does not. Moreover, they “study” them. They weigh -and compare the merits of Stanley Houghton and Ibsen, -Harold Brighouse and Strindberg, Allan Monkhouse and -Bjornson, Arnold Bennett and Hauptmann, Laurence -Housman and Brieux, and so forth. They search for -“inner meanings”; the more earnest of them hunt for -“messages”; the more delicate seek to perceive Fine -Shades. They are veritable disciples of Miss Horniman—priggishly -intellectual, self-consciously superior. And, -of course, the rock of their salvation is St Bernard. -Innocuous people enough, but impossible to live in the -same city with.</p> - -<p>To this assembly of earnest, pale men and spectacled -women Harris was to lecture, and I looked from them to -Harris and from Harris to them with joyful expectations. -From the very first sentence he was fiery and provocative, -throwing out daring theories, anathematising all forms of -respectability, upholding with unparalleled fierceness a -wonderful ideal of chivalry and nobility and condemning, -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en bloc</i>, the whole human race, and particularly that portion -of it seated before him. Ladies rustled; men stirred -<a name="png.034" id="png.034" href="#png.034"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>34<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>uneasily. Then, having delivered himself of a passage of -hot eloquence, he paused. A clock ticked. He looked -defiantly at us and still paused. A fat lady in the front -row, palpably embarrassed by the long silence and, no -doubt, feeling that she had reached one of the most -dramatic moments of her existence, banged her plump -hands together and ejaculated: “Bravo!” A few other -ladies of both sexes joined her, but Harris was not to be -placated. Thrusting out his chin, he began again. And -this time he attacked the Mancunian literary idol, Professor -C. H. Herford, a great scholar, but a more than suitable -object for Harris’s ridicule. Herford is a man who -has not lived fully: a semi-invalid, asthmatic, bloodless -and spectacled; a man of books and rather dusty books; -in effect, a professor. He had recently reviewed Harris’s -book, <cite>The Man Shakespeare</cite>, in <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, -and had called it “a disgrace to British scholarship.” -Why this should have annoyed the author I cannot tell, -but Harris is at times a little unreasonable. Indeed, -“annoyance” but feebly describes the feeling that spent -itself in scalding invective and the most terrible irony. -Each sentence he spoke appeared to be the last word in -bitterness; but each succeeding sentence leaped above -and beyond its predecessor, until at length the speaker had -lashed himself into a state of feeling to express which -words were useless. He stopped magnificently, and this -time the room rang with applause. It is probable that -not half-a-dozen people present believed his attack on -Professor Herford was justified; indeed, it is probable that -not half-a-dozen were qualified to form any opinion of -value on the matter. Nevertheless, they applauded him -with enthusiasm, and they did so because they had been -deeply stirred by eloquence that can only be described as -superb and by anger that was lava hot in its sincerity. -Briefly, the lecture was an overwhelming success.</p> - -<p>I was soon to discover that Harris, like all the men of -<a name="png.035" id="png.035" href="#png.035"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>35<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>genius I have met, is vain. I do not mean that he overrates -his gifts: he does not; nor that his recognition of -his own genius is offensively insistent: such is very far -from being the case. I mean that he is inordinately -proud, innocently and childlikely proud, of things that are -not of the least consequence. At supper in the French -Restaurant the head waiter slipped noiselessly across to -the table at which Harris, Kahane and I were sitting. -(Harris is the kind of man who acts as a magnet to all -head waiters—a high tribute to his dominating personality.) -When our orders had been given the waiter, -turning to go, said: “Very good, Mr Harris.” On the -instant Harris looked up. “So you know me?” he -asked. “Yes, sir. I have had the pleasure of waiting -on you in Monte Carlo and, if I am not mistaken, in -New York as well.” It is difficult to describe the naïve -pleasure Harris took in this: it stamped him at once as a -man of the world—he who, of all people, required, in our -opinion, no such stamp.</p> - -<p>For six hours we talked—talked long after every other -visitor in the hotel had retired, and we were left alone in -the Octagon Court in a pool of dim light. Harris is the only -brilliant talker I have met who has not made me feel an -abject idiot. To begin with, though he has a pronounced -strain of violence, almost of brutality, in his nature, he is -always infinitely courteous. He will listen to your (I -mean my) feeble contributions to a discussion with interest -which, if feigned, is so admirably feigned that you are -completely deceived. And he can keep this sort of thing -up indefinitely. Moreover, though his mind is agile -enough, his speech is rarely quick; it is slow and deliberate, -but without hesitation, without a single word -of tautology.</p> - -<p>I cannot hope, after so long a lapse of time, to reproduce, -however faintly, the true quality of Harris’s conversation, -but I remember the substance of it most -<a name="png.036" id="png.036" href="#png.036"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>36<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>vividly. In his lecture earlier in the evening he had -mentioned Jesus Christ, and the reference to our Saviour -had been so original in its implication, yet so reverent in -its manner, that I felt he must have much that is new to -say on a subject that has aroused more discussion than any -other during the last two thousand years. So I broached -it tentatively. He was aroused immediately, and skilfully -drew me out to discover if I had anything new to say. I -had not. I merely voiced what must be an age-long -regret, that only one side of Christ’s nature has been presented -to us in the Gospels; that the feasting, joyous -Christ has been only faintly indicated; and that His -tolerance towards the weaknesses of the body’s passions -had always been shirked by those of the priestly craft. I -thought it possible that at some future crisis in the world’s -history Christ might come again and, on His second -coming, present to the world a more complete embodiment -of all the potentialities inherent in human nature.</p> - -<p>With much of this Harris agreed, though I soon perceived -that his mind had for long been intuitively building -up, and giving true proportion to, those elements in -Christ’s nature that are only hinted at in the Gospels. -He was all for a full-blooded, passionate Jesus, for a Jesus -who had tested the body’s powers, for a Jesus who was -crucified by passion before He was crucified by Pilate. -In a word, he applied to Jesus the same intuitive method -that he had already applied to Shakespeare. The danger -of this method, of course, is that one is tempted (and it is -almost impossible not to succumb to the temptation) to -project one’s own personality into that of the man one is -studying.</p> - -<p>“My next book shall be about Jesus Christ,” said -Harris. “No man in these days has written honestly -about Him.”</p> - -<p>“Shall you write as a believer?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Most assuredly,” he replied.</p> - -<p><a name="png.037" id="png.037" href="#png.037"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>37<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Then Harris told us some stories—stories he had -written, stories he had yet to write. I remember Austin -Harrison once saying to me: “Frank Harris is the most -astounding creature! He will tell you a story and tell it -so marvellously that, when he has finished, you say to -yourself: ‘That is the most wonderful thing I have ever -heard.’ And you say to him: ‘Why, in God’s name, -don’t you write that?’ Well, he does write it, and when -you read it you see that, after all, it is by no means so -wonderful a thing as you had thought it.” But this is only -half true. The story that is told is a very different thing -from the story that is written: so different, indeed, that -one cannot find any basis for comparison. In telling a -story Harris is elliptical; a faint gesture serves for a -sentence; a momentary silence is an innuendo; a lifting -of the eyebrows, a look, a dropping of the voice, a slowness -in his speech—all these take the place of words. He is an -exquisite actor and he is at his best when he is sinister and -menacing. One need scarcely say that the effect of one -of Harris’s stories, told in private, with only one or two -listeners, is extremely powerful, for his personality, so -quick to melt and suffuse his speech—colouring it and -vitalising it—is strong and strange and full of tropical -<span class="nw">richness....</span></p> - -<p>But the actor’s gift is not rare, whereas that combination -of talents that makes a great short-story writer is met -with only once or twice in a generation. Harris’s claims -to greatness in this direction cannot justly be denied, -though of late years there has been a noticeable tendency -to treat his work as though it were not of first-rate importance. -His choice of subject, the violence of his -thought, his strict honesty of mind, his open contempt -for many of his contemporaries—these have brought him -enemies whose only method of retaliation is to decry work -they will not understand.</p> - -<p>But Harris could not be happy without hostility. -<a name="png.038" id="png.038" href="#png.038"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>38<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>There is something of the jaguar in his nature; he must, -for his soul’s peace, have his teeth in the flesh of an enemy. -And, if he is not fighting an individual, he is offending -society at large. Years ago, so Harris told me, when he -was editing <cite>The Fortnightly Review</cite> with such distinction, -he printed one of his own short stories in that magazine—a -story that, for one reason or another, gave great offence -to a large section of readers. Within twenty-four hours -he had a hornet’s nest about his ears, and the directors -of the firm, Messrs Chapman & Hall, who published the -<cite>Fortnightly</cite>, met in solemn conclave to discuss what should -be done with so injudicious and reckless an editor. Needless -to say, Harris stood by his guns, and one can imagine -the splendidly arrogant way in which he would uphold his -right to insert anything he chose in a magazine edited by -himself. But discussion made matters only more critical, -and Harris told me he would have been compelled to -hand in his resignation if an unforeseen event had not -occurred. That event was the entrance of George Meredith, -who, at that time, was a reader for Messrs Chapman -& Hall. As soon as his eyes lit on Harris he held out his -hand, and walked quickly up to him, saying: “My warmest -congratulations! Your story in the new number is -quite the finest thing you have done—an honour to yourself -and the <cite>Fortnightly</cite>!” That left no further room -for discussion and, needless to say, Harris retained his -editorship of the great magazine.</p> - -<p>My first meeting with Harris was of the friendliest -nature, and on his return to London he wrote to me -thanking me for something I had written about him in -<cite>The Manchester Courier</cite>. (I noticed with amusement -that <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, unable, no doubt, to forgive -Harris for attacking Professor Herford, had absolutely -ignored the Shakespeare lecture, except to announce -baldly that it had been given.)</p> - -<p>Very soon after this meeting in Manchester I went to -<a name="png.039" id="png.039" href="#png.039"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>39<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>live in London, and called on Harris in Chancery Lane. -He was running a curious illustrated weekly, entitled -<cite>Hearth and Home</cite>, and I remember sitting in a little back -room in his office turning over the files<!-- TN: "e" invisible --> of his magazine -and wondering what on earth he hoped to do with such a -production. It was tame; it was watery; it was feeble. -I looked at him quizzically.</p> - -<p>“What do you think of it?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, don’t you see?...” I began hesitatingly; -“don’t you see that ... well, now, look at the <em>title</em>!”</p> - -<p>“Title’s good enough, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, good enough ... good enough for Fleetway -House. Why not sell it to Northcliffe? But you’ve got -no Aunt Maggie’s column, and no Beauty Hints, and no -Cupid’s Corner! Oh, Harris!”</p> - -<p>He laughed, and invited me out to lunch.</p> - -<p>I never discovered what strange circumstances had conspired -to make him the possessor of this extraordinary -production. No doubt he bought it for nothing, with the -intention of rapidly improving it and selling it for something -substantial later on. But I believe it died soon -after—perhaps urged on to its grave by some verses of -mine which were printed close to an advertisement of -ladies’ ——.</p> - -<p>On our way out of the office we were joined by a very -beautiful lady who, it soon transpired, shared my admiration -for Harris’s genius. We jumped on to a bus running -at full speed and alighted, a couple of minutes later, at -Simpson’s.</p> - -<p>Harris should write a book on cookery. Perhaps he -will. Harris should run a hotel. But he has already done -so. Harris should be induced to print all the indiscreet -things he says over coffee and <span class="nw">liqueurs....</span></p> - -<p>It was a close study of Simpson’s menu that started the -cookery discussion. The Beautiful Lady and I were told -what was wrong and what was right with the menu. And -<a name="png.040" id="png.040" href="#png.040"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>40<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>then there began a discourse, profound, full of strange -knowledge and recondite wisdom, a discourse that Balzac -should have heard, that the de Goncourts would have -envied. We listened, amazed. And a waiter, having -rushed to our table in the stress of his work, stood -anchored, his mouth slightly open, his whole attention -riveted on the Master from whom no gastronomic secrets -were hid. Truly, Harris was amazing!</p> - -<p>After a considerable time his enthusiasm evaporated -and we began to eat. And then ensued a long talk, full of -indiscretions, of most enjoyable malice. Harris told us -many things that, perhaps, it would have been wiser if he -had kept to himself. But, in spite of his venom, his real -hatred of certain individuals, he never for a moment permits -himself to be blinded to the quality of a man’s work.</p> - -<p>“So-and-so is the most detestable person,” he said, -speaking of a well-known writer, “but he is one of the few -real poets alive.” Again: “X is the most generous-hearted -man I have ever met; it’s a pity he can’t learn to -write.”</p> - -<p>Mention of Richard Middleton, who had only recently -died by his own hand in Brussels, troubled him, and it was -clear that he had not yet recovered from the shock of this -tragedy.</p> - -<p>“He killed himself in a mood of sheer disgust—disgust -at his lack of success. True, he was still young, and was -becoming more widely known month by month; also, he -had many friends. Nevertheless, life did not give him -what he asked and, tired of asking, he ended life. I -remember him coming to me just before he left England. -He wanted to get away. Some mood of loathing had -come to him; he was fretful, yet determined. I offered -him my villa at Nice; it was empty, the caretaker would -attend to his wants and he would have ample leisure for -his work. He hesitated, stayed in London a day or two -longer and then disappeared to Brussels.... I know the -<a name="png.041" id="png.041" href="#png.041"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>41<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>poison he used, and a score of times I have gone over in my -mind the tortures he must have endured.”</p> - -<p>Harris paled; his face twitched and, involuntarily, as -it seemed, his shoulders twisted themselves. Brooding, -he was silent for a few minutes, and then, collecting himself -with a little shudder, began to speak of other things.</p> - -<p>A little later the Beautiful Lady departed and we were -left alone.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Harris, “tell me about yourself. -What are you doing? Why have you left Manchester?—but -there is no reason to ask that. Tell me this—are you -making enough money for yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve lived in London just one week,” said I, -“and my tastes are rather expensive. Just before I left -Manchester a very experienced journalist told me I should -be making a thousand pounds a year at the end of eighteen -months; another, equally experienced, declared I should -never make more than six pounds a week. I hope the -second one won’t prove correct.”</p> - -<p>He mused for a few moments.</p> - -<p>“You ought to make a thousand pounds a year pretty -easily, I should think,” he said at length. “Whom do -you know?”</p> - -<p>I knew nobody, and said so. He thereupon took a -piece of paper from his pocket and wrote a list of names; -at the top of the list stood J. L. Garvin; at the bottom, -Lord Northcliffe.</p> - -<p>“Northcliffe’s away,” he said, “buying forests in Newfoundland -to make paper with. However, he’ll be back -in a week or two, and in the meantime I’ll write you a -letter to give to him. And now we’ll take a taxi and see -people.”</p> - -<p>Harris gave up the whole of that day to me and, largely -owing to him, I had within the next few days more work -offered to me than I could possibly get through. From -time to time, months later, good things would come my -<a name="png.042" id="png.042" href="#png.042"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>42<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>way, and nearly always I could trace them to something -generous and fine that Harris had said of me.</p> - -<p>It was chiefly because he was so generous with his time -that I so rarely called upon him. Often I would curb a -strong desire to see him, feeling that however embarrassing -my visit might be, he would, out of a quixotic kindness, -throw up his work and come with me to talk. For -this reason I had not seen him for some little time, when, -one morning, I received a letter from him reproaching me -for my absence. “Why have you hidden yourself for so -long?” he asked. “I go to the Café every night; come, -you will find me there.”</p> - -<p>“The Café,” of course, was the Café Royal. It so -chanced that, that very afternoon, my duties took me to -a symphony concert in the Queen’s Hall; the concert -over, I found myself passing the Café Royal on my way -from the Queen’s Hall to Piccadilly Circus, and turned in -on the remote chance of finding Harris.</p> - -<p>At the end of the passage, near the windows where -French papers are displayed, I found a crowd of a dozen -excited men, all talking and gesticulating. The rest of -the Café was empty, as one would expect at that time of -the day. In the middle of the small crowd was Harris, -who caught my eye almost at once. He came to me, and -I saw that he was rather agitated.</p> - -<p>“Come and sit over here, Cumberland,” he said. -“I’ve just been through a beastly quarter of an hour.”</p> - -<p>It appeared that a well-known and very distinguished -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">littérateur</i> had quarrelled with him in the Café.... -Blows had been <span class="nw">exchanged....</span></p> - -<p>We talked of money—an ever-absorbing topic both to -Harris and to me. He told me his books had brought -him practically nothing. For <cite>The Bomb</cite>, if I remember -correctly, he received fifty pounds—certainly not more -than one hundred pounds.</p> - -<p>“If I had been compelled to live by what my books -<a name="png.043" id="png.043" href="#png.043"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>43<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>have brought me,” he said, “I should have starved. Yet -it is not long ago that Arnold Bennett assured me that I -should be able to earn five thousand pounds a year if -I gave my whole time to fiction. But Bennett is wrong. -My books, ever since <cite>Elder Conklin</cite> was published, have -been enthusiastically praised, but they have not had large -sales. Most authors must find book-writing the most -unremunerative work in the world. I put an enormous -amount of labour into <cite>The Bomb</cite>, as I do into all my -books, and the labour was not made any the less from -the fact that much of the earliest part of the book -is autobiographical. In my young manhood I worked -as a labourer, deep under water, at the foundations of -Brooklyn Bridge; it is all described in my book.”</p> - -<p>Though I went to the Café Royal at frequent intervals -after that I very rarely saw Harris there. He had -abandoned <cite>Hearth and Home</cite>, or it had abandoned him, and -he was now throwing away his brilliant gifts on <cite>Modern -Society</cite>. I was elected an honorary member of the -Cabaret Club, run by Madame Strindberg, the widow of -the great Swedish writer, and I used to look in there -occasionally in the early hours of the morning, expecting -to run across Harris, who, I heard, also visited that exotic, -underground and rather riotous place. But I never -chanced to see him, and two or three months must have -passed without my hearing of him.</p> - -<p>In March, 1914, I went to Athens for a holiday. Something -brave and wonderful in that city, some ancient -Bacchic madness, some fierce exaltation of soul took hold -of me, and I remember sitting down one night, after a -visit to fever-stricken Eleusis, to write to Harris, feeling -the necessity of expressing myself to one who would understand. -The reader may be amused that I should think -Harris akin to ancient Greece, but if the reader is amused -he does not know Harris. Only A. R. Orage is more -Greek in spirit than he is. In reply Harris wrote at great -<a name="png.044" id="png.044" href="#png.044"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>44<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>length, full of the fervour of a young student. He told me -that in his young manhood he had spent a year of study -in that wonderful city, and urged me to visit him on my -return to England.</p> - -<p>But I was destined not to see him again. Very soon -after my return to England he got into trouble with reference -to something libellous that he had published in -<cite>Modern Society</cite>. He was kept in prison, if I remember -rightly, for about a month. I sought permission to visit -him there, but was refused, and I was staying in Oxford -when he was released.</p> - -<p>Soon after the war broke out he wrote me the following -letter from <span class="nw">Paris:—</span></p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace2"><span class="address"><span class="smc">23, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, Paris</span>,<br - />29<i>th Aug.</i> ’14.</span></p> - -<p><span class="smc">My dear Cumberland</span>,—I’m just back from the -frontier.... This war of nations is going to test every -man as by fire before it’s over. It will be long in spite of -Mr Kipps and Bernard Shaw. The Russian masses will -hardly come decisively into action (they have scarcely any -railways and no good roads) till next May or June, and -long before then, or rather in a couple of months from now, -the French will be pressed back to within twenty miles of -besieged Paris, when I hope the English forces on the -flank will stop the German advance. Then will begin the -slow process of driving the Germans home, which will be -quickened by the Russian weight behind Cossack pricks. -Fancy one <em>man</em> having the power to set 400 millions of -men fighting for their lives. And then they talk of man -as a rational animal!!</p> - -<p>Don’t say you like what I wrote in <cite>The Daily Sketch</cite>; -all my best things were carefully cut out and filled up with -drivel, till my cheeks burned.</p> - -<p>Your sketch of me is very kindly; the fault you find in -me is not a fault. Jesus, Shakespeare, Napoleon—all the -<a name="png.045" id="png.045" href="#png.045"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>45<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>greatest men have known their own value and insisted on -it—perhaps because they have all <cite>come to their own and -their own received them not</cite>. When you have done great -work you feel it is not yours, but given to you; you are -only a reed shaken in the wind; you can judge it as if it -had nothing to do with you. Moreover, you see that this -failure to recognise greatness is the capital sin of all time, -the sin against the Holy Ghost which He said could never -be forgiven. Modesty is the fig-leaf of mediocrity—don’t -let us talk of it. Remember how Whistler scourged it.</p> - -<p>I’m writing now on <cite>Natural Religion</cite>—my best thing -yet: I’ve done more than Nietzsche: don’t think I’m -bragging. I am the Reconciler; though my cocked nose -and keen eyes may make you think me a combatant. -Twenty years hence, Cumberland, if your eyes keep their -promise, you’ll think differently of me. I remember as a -young man getting Wagner to praise himself and saying to -myself that no man was ever so conceited as the little -hawk-faced fellow with the ploughshare chin. Did he not -say that the step from Bach to Beethoven was not so -great as that from Beethoven to Wagner! And yet for -these fifteen years past I have agreed with him and find -nothing conceited in the declaration. Only weak men are -hurt by another man’s conceit; are we not gods also to be -spoken of with reverence?</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div>To see the world in a grain of sand</div> -<div class="i1"><span class="ns"> </span>And Heaven in a wild flower,</div> -<div>To hold Infinity in your hand</div> -<div class="i1"><span class="ns"> </span>And Eternity in an hour.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The question for you is, have I quickened you? Encouraged -you to be a brave soldier in the Liberation -War of Humanity? Did virtue come out of me? or -discouragement? Now at nearly sixty I am about to -rebuild my life: my own people have stoned and imprisoned -and exiled me. Well—the world’s wide. In -<a name="png.046" id="png.046" href="#png.046"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>46<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>October I shall be in New York, ready for another round -with Fate. Meanwhile, all luck to you and all good will -from your friend, -<span class="signature">Frank Harris.</span></p> - - -<p class="extraspace">Remember this word of Joubert: there is no such -sure sign of mediocrity as constant moderation in praise. -Ha! Ha! Ha! Yours ever, - -<span class="signature">F. H.</span></p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<p class="extraspace">There is not in this letter a single word to indicate that -he was not, heart and soul, in sympathy with the Allied -Cause. Late in September, 1914, I was myself in Paris, -having visited Amiens and the Marne. I took the earliest -opportunity of calling upon Harris, but discovered that -he had left his rooms a few days earlier, leaving no indication -of his next resting-place. On calling upon the -American Consul I discovered that my friend had already -sailed for the States.</p> - -<p>Subsequently he wrote bitterly about England in an -American paper. I never had an opportunity of reading -his articles, but I read various extracts from them in -British newspapers, and was astounded both by the views -they contained and by the manner in which those views -were expressed.</p> - -<p>Years ago Ruskin wrote Rossetti a curious letter: he -said he could regard no man as friend who did not value -his (Ruskin’s) gifts as highly as he (Ruskin) did. Harris, -no doubt, adopted the same kind of attitude towards -England. England refused to accept him at his own -estimate and, at length, in fierce disgust, Harris turned his -back on a country which he deemed unworthy of him.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter IV: Miscellaneous"><a name="png.047" id="png.047" href="#png.047"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>47<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER IV<br - />MISCELLANEOUS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Madame Yvette Guilbert—Sir Victor Horsley—Mrs Pankhurst—Jacob -Epstein—Madame Aïno Ackté</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Yvette Guilbert</span>!... Yvette Guilbert! I -suppose that only a writer who really can write -can say anything useful or dignified about this -most wonderful woman.... And yet I must try. Do -you remember that extraordinary breath-catching passage -in <cite>Villette</cite> where Charlotte Brontë describes the acting -of Vashti—Vashti who was Rachel—Vashti who went -to London when Charlotte loved Héger?... That, I -always think, was a great event. Little Currer Bell, with -her most modest mind and her most proud heart, sitting, -so breathlessly, on one side of the footlights, and Rachel -walking from the wings, beyond the footlights, and, like -an empress, speaking, thinking like an empress, and, like -a veritable woman, loving and hating.... Do you remember -that passage? If you do, perhaps you will -think, as I do, that, after all, only women can write of -women. Did not Jane Austen create Elizabeth Bennet? -And who was it who wrote the <cite>Sonnets from the Portuguese</cite>? -And even, after all, Aphra Behn ... well, <em>she</em> -knew something about women, didn’t she?</p> - -<p>So that I feel only a woman can write at all convincingly -of Yvette Guilbert. I must just gossip and prattle a -little while.</p> - -<p>I must have heard Yvette Guilbert a score of times. -The first occasion was in the Midland Hall, Manchester, -eight or ten years ago, when she sang to an audience of -<a name="png.048" id="png.048" href="#png.048"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>48<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>about two hundred frigid people who, apparently, knew -as much French as I know of the language of the Serbs, -and as much about Art as the pencil with which I write -knows about the thoughts it records. Ernest Newman -was there and, that night, wrote an article for <cite>The Manchester -Guardian</cite> that must have more than compensated -Guilbert for the smallness of the audience. For she loves -praise, even the praise she gives herself, as the following -letter addressed to myself will testify:</p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Je reçois votre aimable lettre et votre <em>admirable -article</em>!! Je ne peux pas vous dire toute <em>la joie</em> que je -ressens<!-- TN: original reads "resseus" --> en lisant que vous comprenez <em>si bien</em> mes efforts! -Je n’ai jamais <em>su être hypocrite</em> et j’ai toujours manqué de -diplomatie dans la vie à<!-- TN: original reads "a" --> cause de cela; aussi, je n’hésite<!-- TN: original reads "n’hesite" --> -pas à<!-- TN: original reads "a" --> vous dire que je <em>crois</em> sincèrement mériter vos bonnes -paroles parce que je passe <em>ma vie entière<!-- TN: original reads "entiere" --></em> à<!-- TN: original reads "a" --> <em>me dévouer</em> à<!-- TN: original reads "a" --> -mon art sans jamais de vacances. Mon amour pour le -travail et la Beauté et tout ce qui est <i>pure</i> en art est tout -le “mateur” de mes forces intellectuelles. Merci d’avoir -deviné<!-- TN: original reads "devine" --> ce que<!-- TN: original reads "qui" --> le public ne voit<!-- TN: original reads "vois" --> pas toujours. Mes mains -dans les vôtres<!-- TN: original reads "votres" -->. - -<span class="signature">Yvette Guilbert.</span></p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<p class="extraspace">Guilbert has no singing voice, and yet she sings. Her -singing voice is small ... ever so small. Yet clear, distinct, -expressive and, in the lowest register, most deep and -thrilling. How little mere “voice” matters! Only consider. -Here, on one hand, we have Madame Clara Butt -with, I suppose, one of the most wonderful organs that -this world, or any other world, has ever listened to. But -would you walk five miles to hear her sing? I wouldn’t. -You, I hope and believe, wouldn’t either. Would you -walk five miles to hear Blanche Marchesi sing—Blanche -Marchesi, whose voice, as mere voice, is like a hundred -other voices? Of course you would. Voice matters -little. It is the temperament, the intellect, behind the -<a name="png.049" id="png.049" href="#png.049"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>49<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>voice that counts. And the eternal struggle that Yvette -Guilbert has had to undergo has been the struggle to make -her comparatively small voice express the wonderful -things of her imagination.</p> - -<p>A gesture. A look. An inflection. Two paces on the -platform. A little cry ... a little cry of dismay. A -superb and beautiful signal that tells us the Mother of God -is big with a Child. A tiny silence. A moment of jauntiness. -Something arch and irresistible. Something tragic -that makes you clench your <span class="nw">fists....</span></p> - -<p>One day Yvette Guilbert wrote to ask me to call on her. -I did not go. One feels so foolish in the presence of genius. -One’s vanity is hurt. One is afraid of being found out.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>In the early days of the war I visited Sir Victor Horsley -several times at his home. I was interested in shell -shock, in the influence that the horror of war has on -certain types of human nature, and he was good enough -to supply me with a great deal of information. Quiet -and undemonstrative, he used always to stand, or move -slowly up and down the room; in the long talks we had -together, I do not remember his sitting down once.</p> - -<p>I don’t think I ever met a man more careful to express -his exact meaning; he appeared to have a horror of -exaggeration and he qualified nearly every statement he -made. In discussing scientific subjects such scrupulous -carefulness is, of course, not only wise but necessary, and -when, later on, I wrote a newspaper article on the effect -that the strain and horror of war have on the human -brain, Sir Victor showed himself very anxious that, in -quoting his views, I should do so in language that could -not possibly be interpreted in two different senses.</p> - -<p>He told me what my own experience in France and -Salonica in 1915–1917 confirmed later on, that it is frequently -the neurotic, the artistic, the excitable man who -most quickly adapts himself to, and is least disturbed by, -<a name="png.050" id="png.050" href="#png.050"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>50<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>the incredible cruelties of warfare, whilst the phlegmatic -type of man is more liable to be broken by those cruelties. -Sir Victor Horsley suggested that this was, in some -measure, due to the fact that the neurotic man has, in -imagination, tasted the terror of war before he has actually -experienced it; that he has, as it were, prepared his mind -for the shock it is to receive. The unimaginative man -cannot do this, so that when his turn comes to go to the -trenches and witness stark horrors, his nervous system -reacts most violently.</p> - -<p>Sir Victor spoke a good deal to me about the evil -influence of drink, and continually regretted that rum was -served out to our soldiers. On this subject, of course, -though I disagreed with him profoundly, I did not attempt -to argue, though I pointed out that Napoleon had won -many of his campaigns by almost drugging his men with -spirits. To this he made no reply, though he shook his -head gravely and seemed to ponder a little.</p> - -<p>My last interview with him was in his long, bare dining-room, -where, as we stood before the fire, he described to -me in a low, serious voice two or three war cases of mental -trouble (functional, of course, not organic), and I could -see that the war was, so to speak, closing in around him and -enveloping him with its violent appeals, its tragic interests.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Mrs Pankhurst I met only once, but the impression she -has left on my mind is that of a most vivid personality. I -saw her in many ridiculous situations that would have -made almost any other person look positively foolish; -but Mrs Pankhurst’s sense of personal dignity is so strong, -her personality is so imperious, and, above all, she -possesses so much humour and good sense, that it is impossible -to imagine any situation, however grotesque, -that would render her ridiculous.</p> - -<p>My interview with her was at the close of a day during -which she had worked incessantly. She was tired, and -<a name="png.051" id="png.051" href="#png.051"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>51<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>her face was lined and rather dim. An hour earlier I had -seen her in Oxford Street, Manchester, seated in an open, -horseless carriage, a dozen enthusiastic girls pulling at the -shafts, a few ribald boys following and shouting small -obscenities. I admired the perfect way she carried off -the trying situation. She sat perfectly calmly, as though -nothing in the least unusual were happening, as though, -indeed, it were her daily custom, and the daily custom of -all women, to be dragged through the public streets by a -band of young ladies.</p> - -<p>We sat under a lamp at a large table. The things we -discussed are now of no consequence, for the need for their -discussion no longer exists. I can only give my impression -of her.</p> - -<p>She struck me as being unutterably weary, weary -bodily and perhaps mentally. Her personality suggested -a body and a spirit being driven by an implacable will, a -will that had no mercy for herself or for others, a will that -no power could break. I could not help wondering, as I -looked at her, whether she had not her moments of doubt, -of self-distrust. She must have had, for all men and -women have. But those moments would be few and -short. Though she spoke to me very quietly, without a -gesture, with one rather tightly clenched hand on the -table, I felt the sheer <em>power</em> of her, the power that a -quenchless spirit always gives to its owner.</p> - -<p>Fanatic? Well, yes, if to be indifferent to the opinion -of other people and to be absolutely sure of yourself is to -be fanatical. Certainly, she was strange and grim and -relentless. And yet one could not doubt her tenderness, -her deep sympathy, her devotion to humanity. Yes, a -strange woman, but perhaps not so very strange. The -qualities I saw in her are common qualities; the difference -between her and others was simply that she possessed -those qualities in an unusual degree.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p><a name="png.052" id="png.052" href="#png.052"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>52<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Jacob Epstein, after flouting the artistic conventions -for at least ten years, is being taken to the heart of the -public. The impossible is happening, and it is happening -because of the war. The war has forced reality upon us; -it has made us love beauty rather than prettiness, truth -rather than make-believe, the soul of things rather than -their appearances.</p> - -<p>Epstein, I think, could never be said to be in revolt -against any of the artistic tendencies of the time. He -simply did not follow those tendencies or permit them to -influence him. But three or four years ago, when I first -met him, he had the appearance, the manner, and even the -thoughts of one who is in revolt.</p> - -<p>I remember discussing with him some very curious and, -indeed, rather alarming designs of his which were being -exhibited at a little gallery whose name I have forgotten. -The designs were openly and widely described as “indecent”; -to me they were not indecent: they were merely -meaningless. I could see no idea behind them.</p> - -<p>“They are not designs,” said Epstein, a little petulantly, -I thought.</p> - -<p>“Then what <em>are</em> they?” I asked. “What do <em>you</em> call -them?”</p> - -<p>“I am not aware that I call them anything.”</p> - -<p>“But what do they <em>mean</em>?”</p> - -<p>He smiled curiously and (we were sitting in the Café -Royal) lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“Ah! That is for you to find out. Surely you don’t -expect an artist to explain himself?”</p> - -<p>Of course he was perfectly right, and I was more -than foolish to ask him these questions. But I flogged -at it.</p> - -<p>“Now, your busts! Especially that wonderful head -of Augustus John’s son!—beautiful, marvellous! But -those extraordinary red drawings.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot explain them,” said he, “but I would -<a name="png.053" id="png.053" href="#png.053"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>53<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>certainly like you to understand them, for it seems to me -that you are not unintelligent.”</p> - -<p>He gave me a quick, sly look, and we began to talk of -John. I am afraid that Epstein must have qualified his -opinion of my intelligence, for he asserted, in contradiction -to what I was saying, that John was on the wrong tack, -and we failed to come to any agreement about this most -wonderful of living painters.</p> - -<p>Like most artists, Epstein is pronouncedly inarticulate. -He is, I suppose, as much a mystery to himself as he is to -others. But his work is, of course, a hundred times more -interesting than himself.</p> - -<p>I used to see him often, but we rarely did more than -acknowledge each other’s existence, and when I saw him -the other week in khaki, sitting in the Café Royal, it was -clear to me that, though he said he remembered me, he -had only a vague recollection of my personality and had -completely forgotten my name.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have often thought it strange that while singers like -Madame Patti and Madame Tetrazzini should conquer the -world—and by the world I mean every section of the -musical public, vulgar and fastidious alike—another and, -to my mind, a very much finer artiste, Madame Ackté, -should be regarded with delight only by those whose -musical experience is wide and whose minds have been -tutored by comprehensive study. Personality, after all, -is almost everything in Art, and Madame Ackté has -a personality that dwarfs into insignificance nearly all -singers who are her equal in technical attainments and in -musical subtlety.</p> - -<p>Her great part is Salomé, in Richard Strauss’s opera of -that name. With the wonderful intuition of a healthy, -robust mind she has divined all the perverted wickedness -of that most tortured woman. Her acting is among -the finest things of our day.</p> - -<p><a name="png.054" id="png.054" href="#png.054"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>54<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>No one could guess, in talking to this quiet, almost -demure woman, that she has in her such fires of passion, -such powers of portraying devastating wickedness. She -has charm, graciousness<!-- TN: original reads "graciousnness" -->, simplicity. Like Yvette Guilbert, -she has worked hard almost every day of her life. -Her talk is all of music and acting. She seems most unmodern. -Her ingenuous love of praise is delightful, and -if you notice the little subtleties in her singing and acting -that most people do not notice, she is your friend for ever.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter V: Stanley Houghton and Harold Brighouse"><a name="png.055" id="png.055" href="#png.055"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>55<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER V<br - />STANLEY HOUGHTON AND HAROLD -BRIGHOUSE</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcapB">But</span> perhaps you have forgotten who Stanley -Houghton was? Well, not so long before the -Great War he was famous, both in England and -America, as the author of <cite>Hindle Wakes</cite>, he was universally -alluded to as a charming personality, and he promised -to become one of the most prosperous playwrights in -England. Then, while still young and not yet accustomed -to his fame, he died in Italy. Thereupon some thousand -newspaper-writers recorded his death and wrote about -him some of the most lamentable nonsense it has ever been -my misfortune to read.</p> - -<p>Let me tell you all about it.</p> - -<p>I was introduced to Stanley Houghton in Manchester -by Jack Kahane—the latter a most brilliant and engaging -personality who knew everybody: or, rather, everybody -knew him.</p> - -<p>“This,” said Kahane, indicating Houghton, “is one of -Miss Horniman’s pets. She is doing a play of his this -week at the Gaiety. Now, let me see, Stanley, what is -the name of your little play?”</p> - -<p>Houghton laughed deprecatingly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I saw it last night,” said I, “and jolly good it -was. But I’ve seen another play of yours besides <cite>The -Younger Generation</cite>; it was founded on a story by Guy -de Maupassant. That, also, was tremendously amusing.”</p> - -<p>He frowned, and I understood from the way that he -<a name="png.056" id="png.056" href="#png.056"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>56<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>looked over my head that I had displeased him. For a -moment he was silent, then:</p> - -<p>“I’ve just been reading some of your verses in <cite>The -English Review</cite>,” said he; “quite nice, quite nice.”</p> - -<p>So then I examined him closely and saw a tall, fair -youth, with plenty of straw-coloured hair, a prominent, -rather crooked nose, and a manner of painful self-consciousness. -I believe that, from that moment, we -distrusted each other most heartily. We parted a few -minutes later and I think Houghton must have shared -my suspicion and regret that we should often have to -meet after that date. Kahane was and is (though he -has been in France these three years and I in Macedonia) -my most intimate friend, and had lately “taken up” -Houghton, and whenever Kahane did a thing he did it -pretty thoroughly. And friends of a friend are bound to -tumble across each other continually.</p> - -<p>Later in the day I protested to Kahane.</p> - -<p>“What on earth has induced you to take up this man -Houghton?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“He amuses me,” said Jack. “And, really, you -know, one or two of his little things are quite promising. -When he bores me I rag him. And then he loses -his temper. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il m’amuse</i>, and that’s all I require from -him.”</p> - -<p>Shortly after I was elected a member of a funny little -coterie in Manchester, called the Swan Club. Kahane -had founded it. There were twelve of us altogether: -Kahane; Stanley Houghton; Harold Brighouse (whose -play, <cite>Hobson’s Choice</cite>, is making “big money” in London -at the moment of writing); Charles Abercrombie (now a -Lt.-Colonel and a C.B.); Walter Mudie, the best of good -fellows; Ernest Marriott, artist; W. Price-Heywood, -accountant and leader-writer; myself and a few hangers-on -of the Arts. We used to meet for lunch at a shabby -little restaurant in Peter Street, Manchester, opposite the -<a name="png.057" id="png.057" href="#png.057"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>57<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Theatre Royal, and we did our utmost to induce each -other to talk about ourselves.</p> - -<p>In this little coterie Houghton was a veritable whale -among the minnows. He was also a fish out of water. -From the very first his success spoiled him. He would -take himself ponderously. Brighouse worshipped success, -so he worshipped Houghton. The rest of us, if we worshipped -anything at all, worshipped genius, and as Kahane -was the only one among us who had a touch of that divine -quality, we rather tended to worship him. But Kahane -frittered away his gifts; he made a lot of money by dint -of working about an hour a day and by the sheer force of -his personality. For the rest he played and played hard. -He talked; he ragged; he listened to music and saw -plays; he fell in love; he indulged harmless vices; and -he wrote two wonderful plays, full of faults, but streaked -with originality, with fire and with colour. In effect, he -could beat both Houghton and Brighouse at their own -game, and they knew it. But, at that time, playwriting -with Kahane was only a game; with the other two it was -deadly earnest.</p> - -<p>Houghton and Brighouse were something (and, I -gathered, something not very brilliant) in the city. -Quite what that something was I do not know, though I -remember seeking out Brighouse once in a dark warehouse -smelling of damp cloth. Every afternoon Houghton and -Brighouse would close their ledgers, or petty-cash books, -or whatever it was they did close, and rush off home—Brighouse -to catch, perhaps, his six-five <span class="allsc">P.M.</span> train to Eccles, -and Houghton to jump gymnastically (he played hockey, -I believe) on to a passing tram bound for Alexandra Park. -After a hurried meal, out with the MSS., the notebooks, -the typescript and to work! And how hard they <em>did</em> -work!</p> - -<p>I remember Brighouse telling me some years ago that -he had written more than thirty plays, but I cannot -<a name="png.058" id="png.058" href="#png.058"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>58<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>conceive that anybody but himself has read them all. -Brighouse slogged, and he beat so long at the door of -success that at last it opened to him. Houghton also -slogged, but in a dandified way. He was clever, he was -cute, and he played his cards well.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Houghton was, not without full justice, called the leader -of the Manchester School of dramatists. He was hard; -he was unimaginative; he was unromantic. But he was -extraordinarily apt, and he had a neat and tidy brain. -Close must have been that union of souls that bound his -soul to the soul of Miss Horniman. Miss Horniman never -(well, hardly ever) produced a romantic play, and Stanley -Houghton never wrote one. He was out to “make -good,” and Miss Horniman helped him to go one -better.</p> - -<p>I need scarcely say that Houghton was, so far as his -plays were concerned, an industrious man of business. -When the real artist has finished a work, he ceases to -take interest in it; but, with Houghton, when a play was -completed his interest in it immediately intensified. He -sent his plays everywhere: to the provinces, to London, -to America, to agents. As soon as a play came back, -“returned with thanks,” out it went again by the next -post. And he pulled strings—oh! ever so gently, but he -pulled them.</p> - -<p>Though quite a few of his plays had been produced -in the north, and though he had written some clever -dramatic criticism for <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, he was -unknown in London till the Stage Society produced <cite>Hindle -Wakes</cite>. Then Fame came to him and knocked him off his -feet. It is impossible to imagine a man more conscious of -his success. His consciousness of it made him, on occasion, -tongue-tied. In conversation he could be ready, -and his repartee was frequently brilliant, but during the -years I knew him his attitude always suggested that he -<a name="png.059" id="png.059" href="#png.059"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>59<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>anticipated and feared attack. I saw him once at the bar -of the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, in the midst of a group -of friends. I was not of their company, but I noticed that -he stood silent, erect and strained, his head a little thrown -back, his face set. Then, and on many other occasions, -it seemed to me that he longed to break down the feeling -of awkwardness—to throw off the obsession of self-consciousness—that -overcame him.</p> - -<p>But I must confess that I rarely saw him in company -in which there were not two or three who were hostile to -him; therefore I saw him but seldom at his best. Not -infrequently, there was a “dead set” against him, and if -the banter were edged with malice (as it not infrequently -was) he withered like a lily under the grip of a frost. The -truth is, he was not modest and he could not feign -modesty. His vanity was neither charming nor aggressive; -it was cold and distant, without geniality, without -humour. Genius is one of the wombs of vanity, but -Houghton had no genius; there was not a trace of magic -in him; he was merely extraordinarily clever, closely -observant and possessed of an instinctive sense of form -and of literary values.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>There came a day when it entered my head to interview -him for <cite>The Manchester Courier</cite>, a paper for which I wrote -musical criticism. He accepted my proposal with alacrity, -invited me to the Winter Garden of the Midland Hotel, -and provided me with coffee, liqueurs and cigars.</p> - -<p>He began by telling me that this was the first time he -had been interviewed for the Press.</p> - -<p>“An uncomfortable half-hour awaits you, then,” said -I, and, on the instant, he began to fidget.</p> - -<p>I noticed that he was dressed for the occasion; he -looked prosperous and literary and there hung about him -just a suspicion of cosmopolitanism. Not only sartorially -was he prepared; his mind was in tune to the occasion -<a name="png.060" id="png.060" href="#png.060"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>60<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and the right pose was donned. That is to say, he was -determined not to appear conceited or self-satisfied; but -he did not succeed. He made light of his success in a -heavy, emphatic way. He praised <cite>Hindle Wakes</cite> with -faint damns, and suggested that this play would soon -cease its successful run in London. He was careful not -to evince any pleasure in his success, any natural buoyancy -of spirit, any momentary delight. In a word, he was dull, -tactless and insincere. There was nothing boyish or -charming or graceful in his words; he had on all -his heavy armour and it banged and clanged as he -moved.</p> - -<p>When the interview was over he invited me to his -father’s house for the evening meal. I went. I went out -of curiosity. He did not amuse me, but most certainly -he did interest me.</p> - -<p>When we had finished our meal he took me to his study. -Near the window was a typewriter; in the typewriter -was a sheet of paper half covered with script. There -were very few erasures.</p> - -<p>“I always compose straight on to the machine,” said -Houghton.</p> - -<p>“Ah yes,” said I, “and so did J. M. Synge. It has -always seemed to me remarkable that Synge should do -that; in your own case, of course, it is not quite so -remarkable.”</p> - -<p>“It is a comedy for Cyril Maude” (I think he said -Cyril Maude). “He wired to me the other day to go up -to London to see him. Yes; he wanted a comedy, and he -wanted me to write it. That was about a fortnight ago. -Well, the thing’s nearly finished; in another week it will -be on its way to London. Rather quick work, don’t you -think?”</p> - -<p>“Quite. But all that you have told me I know already, -and, really, you must know that I know. You see, Brighouse -comes to the Swan Club day by day, drinks his -<a name="png.061" id="png.061" href="#png.061"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>61<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>beer—you know, the conventionally British pint he <em>will</em> have -in a pewter <span class="nw">mug——”</span></p> - -<p>“Yes; Harold is very British,” interrupted Houghton.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t he? Well, as I was saying, Brighouse drinks -his beer, fixes his eyes on his plate, and then spasmodically -tells us all the news about you. He told us, for example, -about Cyril Maude giving you a hundred (or was it a -thousand?) guineas for the sight of a new comedy; he -told us about <cite>The Daily Mail</cite> wanting articles from you at -some colossal figure; he told us about the host of people -who send you wires every day; he told us about——”<!-- TN: original has extraneous closing single quote --></p> - -<p>Houghton stirred uneasily, but he looked intensely -gratified.</p> - -<p>“He told us about everything,” I added, after a slight -pause. “What you tell him he tells us. But why don’t -you come and tell us yourself, Houghton? We never see -you at the Swan Club nowadays. It must not be said of -you that you desert old friends, that success has made you -careless of those you once liked.”</p> - -<p>He darted a glance at me and decided, as was indeed -the case, that I was attempting to be ironical.</p> - -<p>“The truth is,” said he, “that the company I find at -the Swan Club is not always very congenial. One or two -new men have been lately <span class="nw">introduced——”</span></p> - -<p>He looked away from me meaningly.</p> - -<p>“Quite,” said I, unperturbed; “oh, quite.”</p> - -<p>“And,” he continued, “I am kept very busy with one -thing and another. It is true that I have given up my -business and now intend devoting all my energy to literary -work, but just at the present moment I am kept at it -from dawn to dusk.”</p> - -<p>Silence fell upon us, a rather oppressive silence, I think, -for I remember hunting about in my mind for something -to say. I noticed a copy of <cite>The Playboy of the Western -World</cite> on the little table before us.</p> - -<p>“Still reading Synge?” I asked.</p> - -<p><a name="png.062" id="png.062" href="#png.062"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>62<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Yes; still reading Synge,” he replied. Then, after a -pause: “A great man, Synge.”</p> - -<p>“An interesting man, a curious man,” said I, “but -great? Only G. H. Mair, Willie Yeats and high school -girls think Synge great, Houghton.”</p> - -<p>“Is that so?” asked he languidly.</p> - -<p>I invited him to have a cigarette, but he refused. In -truth, we were both very uncomfortable and, by the -subtle understanding and inverted sympathy that hearty -dislike engenders, we rose simultaneously to our feet, -rather hurriedly left the room, and soon found ourselves -in the hall downstairs. He opened the front door and we -stood for a moment, looking around us.</p> - -<p>Next day my interview with Houghton appeared in -<cite>The Manchester Courier</cite>, with a portrait of the young -dramatist. I do not remember a word of that article, -but I am quite sure it was insincere, without distinction, -and full of inanities; indeed, I would bet at least ten -drachmæ that there occur in it such expressions as -“inherent modesty,” “charming personality,” “interesting -outlook on life,” and so on. A journalist (must I say -it?) is like a barrister: he is fee’d to say what is required -to be said. At all events, the interview pleased Houghton, -for he sent me a copy of <cite>Hindle Wakes</cite> with a jocular -inscription on its title-page.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>The friendship between Brighouse and Houghton increased -in intensity, and when Arnold Bennett publicly -referred to Brighouse in terms of no small admiration -Houghton decided that his eager disciple could be received -into the inner sanctum of his coldly fraternal -breast. And Brighouse, grateful to Bennett, loudly -proclaimed that <cite>Milestones</cite> was “the greatest play since -Congreve.”</p> - -<p>“But why Congreve, Brighouse?” I asked. “Surely -you mean H. J. Byron?”</p> - -<p><a name="png.063" id="png.063" href="#png.063"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>63<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>But no! He said he meant Congreve.</p> - -<p>“I do not,” I said, considerably perturbed, “I do not -like to think, Brighouse, that you have stained your -virgin mind with Congreve.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve looked at him,” said he icily. “He wrote -comedies. <cite>Milestones</cite> is a comedy.”</p> - -<p>Now, I was used to Brighouse for, from the age of -eleven to thirteen I had been at the same school with him, -and I remembered how enormously sensitive and how self-contained -and how stubborn he was. I also remembered -that Rabelaisianism, or Congrevism, or, indeed, any ism -that denoted the real philosophic vulgarity of the human -mind, or any jolly indecent wit, was repellent to him.</p> - -<p>“There are, I suppose, expurgated editions of Congreve, -Brighouse. I imagine you as a collector of expurgated -editions.”</p> - -<p>But he buried his nose in his pint of beer and refused -further converse.</p> - -<p>Now, such are the influences that one man may have -upon another, it came about that the more successful -Houghton became, the harder worked Brighouse. Said -Brighouse to himself, I imagine: “If Stanley can do all -this, why not I?” So he worked desperately, sloggingly, -overwhelmingly. Yet, in spite of all his hard work, he -kept a most watchful and jealous eye on his contemporaries, -and I remember meeting him at one of Miss -Horniman’s orgies at the Gaiety Theatre when a new play -of Galsworthy’s was given. It was a beautiful play -(Galsworthy has not written many beautiful plays), but I -regret to say I do not remember its name. At the end -of the first act Brighouse was disgustingly “superior,” -and at the end of the second he was contemptuous. So -I sought a quarrel with him. There are, I think, few -emotions so devastating, and so difficult to control, as -the anger that surges upon one when one hears a beautiful -work of art, noble, subtle and full of humanity, treated -<a name="png.064" id="png.064" href="#png.064"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>64<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>with contempt by a man whose vanity has blinded the -eyes of his soul. But I do not remember making any -attempt to control my anger at Brighouse; rather did -I nurse and nourish it, and, when the proper time came, I -poured it upon him with generosity. Harold—or “Brig,” -as we used to call him—is too much a man of the world -not to know how to deal with an excitable man in a -temper, and I remember coming away from our quarrel -feeling rather foolish and having a disturbing admiration -for Brighouse’s dignity. After this little episode, we -were always very polite to each other, and, later on, when -we met in London, our meeting was not without some -cordiality.</p> - -<p>Since these days Brighouse has scored a big success -with <cite>Hobson’s Choice</cite>. He will score other successes. He -will die reputed and rich. He will live, some day, in a -West End flat and have a cottage in the country from -which he will issue at regular intervals and take long walks -in muddy lanes. I believe he will sedulously cultivate -the friendship of those who may be of service to him, and -he will drink his pint of beer every day of his life. He will -be praised twice a year by Sir William Robertson Nicoll. -Yes, he will be praised twice a year by Sir William -Robertson Nicoll. And when Sir William dies, Mr St John Adcock will take up the cry. And, when the war is -over, our successful young dramatist will go to America, -where the money comes from.... I should like to see -Harold in America.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>There came a day when a new one-act play by Houghton -was given at the Manchester Gaiety—a play I subsequently -saw at a London music hall, its fit home; but I remember -neither the play’s title nor its plot. I recollect, however, -that three or four men and women met in the corridor of -a London hotel and talked or suggested risky things. -Rather stupid, I thought it, and it certainly never occurred -<a name="png.065" id="png.065" href="#png.065"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>65<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>to me that it was immoral or nasty; it was merely a -dramatic experiment that did not quite come off. But the -dramatic critic of <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>—either Mr A. N. Monkhouse or Mr C. E. Montague (I think the -former)—“went for” it tooth and nail on the score of -its alleged immorality. The criticism was scathing: it -made a wound and then poured acid into the wound. -Houghton must have felt the criticism sorely, but when -I met him next day he pluckily treated it as a matter of -no consequence whatever.</p> - -<p>“A reasonable man cannot expect always to be understood,” -said he, “and I suppose <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, -which has always been very good to me in the past, has -a right to scold me if it thinks fit.”</p> - -<p>“A <em>scolding</em>, Houghton? Why, you were thrashed.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I s’pose I was. But I can stand it.”</p> - -<p>Vain men are invariably supersensitive, and for that -reason I think Houghton felt every word and act of -hostility; but he never showed weakness under opposition, -and he could hit back when he thought it worth -while.</p> - -<p>I once witnessed a physical assault upon him after a -rather rowdy dinner, when we all took to ragging each -other. There was no excuse for the assault, except what -excuse may be found in bitter feeling and enmity, but -Houghton received the blow without a word, and we who -witnessed it neither expostulated with his assailant nor -expressed sympathy with his victim. Houghton paled -and his large eyes gleamed, and I have no doubt that on -a subsequent occasion he settled the matter with the man -who was responsible for his humiliation.</p> - -<p>Only a very few men really understood Houghton, and -those were men who, like Walter Mudie, had known him -intimately in boyhood. Mudie swore by him and would -hear no word against him. But there was something forbidding -in Houghton’s nature—a barricade of reserve that -<a name="png.066" id="png.066" href="#png.066"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>66<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>he himself had not wilfully erected, but which had been -placed there by Nature. It was impossible for people -who met him casually a few times to form a high opinion -either of his intellect or of his personality. I remember -Captain James E. Agate, a most original and brilliant -colleague of Houghton’s on <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, -once saying to a group of people: “Don’t you make any -mistake about Houghton. He’s not such a fool as he -appears.” But it is a very incomplete man who requires -such a double-edged defence as that.</p> - -<p>Though the contrary has often been stated, Houghton -did not, I believe, take much interest in anybody’s work -except his own. He patronised a young bank clerk, -Charles Forrest, who had written a promising little play -that was subsequently, by Houghton’s recommendation, -I believe, given in Manchester and Liverpool; but when -he came in contact with work that was, in many respects, -superior to his own, he was airily superior and supercilious. -He once asked to see a blank-verse play of my own that -was given at the Manchester Gaiety, but as I was aware -that he knew as much of blank verse as I do of conic sections—which -is nothing at all—I refrained from passing -on my MS. to him. In other men’s work he looked for -faults; in his own he found perfection.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I need scarcely say that when I went to London I did -not seek out Houghton, who had settled down in the -Metropolis some months before me. But we met in the -Strand, he wearing a fur-lined overcoat and looking a -trifle like H. B. Irving, and I carrying a load of review -books under my arm. We looked at each other; we -hesitated; we stopped. Stanley was a trifle languid and, -after a few inconsequent remarks, he began telling me the -history of his fur overcoat. He had, he said, bought it -for five pounds or seven pounds, or some such ridiculously -low price, and he had bought it second-hand.</p> - -<p><a name="png.067" id="png.067" href="#png.067"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>67<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>And (Fate wills these things) whenever I hear the name -Stanley Houghton I think of that rather tall, rather -aristocratic, figure in the Strand wearing its second-hand -fur-lined overcoat and talking, with embarrassment, -about nothing in particular, standing first on one foot and -then on the other.</p> - -<p>It is, of course, impossible to predict with certainty -what further successes Houghton would have achieved -had he lived, but there can be little doubt that his sharp -and lively talents would have produced plays even more -noticeable than <cite>Hindle Wakes</cite>. A little more experience of -life would probably have shown him the futility and the -destructive effects of his intellectual snobbery. He was -raw and crude, and success did not mellow or enlarge him.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter VI: Some Writers"><a name="png.068" id="png.068" href="#png.068"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>68<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VI<br - />SOME WRITERS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Arnold Bennett—G. K. Chesterton—Lascelles Abercrombie—Harold -Monro—John Masefield—Jerome K. Jerome—Sir -Owen Seaman—A. A. Milne</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Of</span> all the famous writers I have met, I have found -Arnold Bennett the most surprising. I do not -know what kind of man I expected to see when -it was arranged that I should meet him, but I certainly -had not anticipated beholding the curiously, wrongly -dressed figure that, one spring afternoon some few years -ago, walked up the steps leading from the floor of Queen’s -Hall to the foyer of the gallery. I was there by appointment. -I was a friend of a friend of his—Havergal Brian, -a young fire-eating genius from the Potteries, and Brian -had planned this curious meeting. It was during the -interval of an afternoon concert of a Richard Strauss -Festival, and Ackté was singing.</p> - -<p>Bennett was rather short, thin, hollow-eyed, prominent-toothed. -He wore a white waistcoat and a billycock hat -very much awry, and he had a manner of complete self-assurance. -I cannot say that I was unimpressed. We -were introduced, and he looked at me drowsily, indifferently, -insultingly indifferently. He did not speak and I, -nervous, and a little bewildered by the colour of his socks, -which I at that moment noticed for the first time, blundered -into some futility.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why,” said Bennett, in response.</p> - -<p>I didn’t either, so far as that went. Desperately -uncomfortable, I looked round for Brian, and saw -<a name="png.069" id="png.069" href="#png.069"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>69<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>him standing fifteen yards or so away, grinning -malignantly.</p> - -<p>So I plunged into a new topic—with even more disastrous -results.</p> - -<p>“I notice,” said I, “that you continue writing for <cite>The -New Age</cite> in spite of their violent attacks on you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered laconically, and he looked dizzily -over my left shoulder.</p> - -<p>Then and there I decided that I would not speak again -until he had spoken. I had not sought the interview any -more than he had. Presently:</p> - -<p>“I have been working very hard lately,” I heard. I -turned quickly to him; he had spoken into space. I -showed a polite interest and he thawed a little. He told -me something of the number of words and hours he -wrote a day, of the work he had planned for the next two -years, of the regularity of his methods, of his disbelief -in the value of “inspiration.” I seemed to have heard it -all before about Anthony Trollope. He was not exactly -loquacious, but he communicated a great deal in spite of -a rather unpleasant impediment in his <span class="nw">speech....</span></p> - -<p>Soon our interview was over, for we heard the orchestra -tuning up, and we left each other with just a word of -farewell and without a sigh of regret.</p> - -<p>His conversational powers never, I believe, reach the -point of eloquence. I remember G. H. Mair giving me an -amusing description of a breakfast he gave to Arnold -Bennett and Stanley Houghton in his lodgings in Manchester. -Bennett and Houghton had not previously met, -and the latter was young and inexperienced enough to -nurse the expectation that the personality of the famous -writer would be as impressive as his work, and impressive -in the same way. It is true that very extraordinary circumstances -would be necessary to make breakfast in -Manchester free from dullness, but Houghton no doubt -thought that his meeting with Bennett <em>was</em> an -<a name="png.070" id="png.070" href="#png.070"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>70<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>extraordinary circumstance. In the event, however, he was -disillusioned.</p> - -<p>They went in to breakfast, and Bennett sat moody and -silent, crumbling a piece of bread. It chanced that on -being admitted to the house Bennett had caught sight -of a cabman carrying a particularly large trunk downstairs, -and he began to question Mair closely about -the incident, Mair explaining that a fellow-lodger was -removing that morning and taking all his luggage -with him.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Bennett, a little impatiently, “but -why should he have such a large trunk? It was enormous. -I don’t think I have ever seen so large a trunk -before. It was at least twice the usual size.”</p> - -<p>He took a mouthful of bacon and spent a minute in -mastication. Having swallowed:</p> - -<p>“Absurdly large,” he said challengingly. “I can’t -think why anyone should wish to own it. Besides, it’s -not right to ask any man to carry such an enormous -weight. That’s how strangulated hernia is caused. Yes, -strangulated hernia.”</p> - -<p>The topic did not prove fruitful, and I can imagine -Houghton cudgelling his brains to discover what strangulated -hernia really was, and Mair saying something -witty about it. But with his second cup of coffee and -his marmalade and toast Bennett once more talked of -the cabman, the impossible trunk, and the cabman’s -hypothetical hernia.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” he remarked meditatively, “the man -must have <em>some</em> reason for owning such an incredibly large -trunk, but I confess I can’t guess the reason. And, in any -case, it is bound to be a selfish one. Now, strangulated -<span class="nw">hernia——”</span></p> - -<p>And that was all that issued during a whole hour from -one of the cleverest brains in England.</p> - -<p>That Arnold Bennett is almost painfully conscious of -<a name="png.071" id="png.071" href="#png.071"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>71<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>his own cleverness there is no manner of doubt. He is -stupendously aware of the figure he cuts in contemporary -literature. He is for ever standing outside himself and -enjoying the spectacle of his own greatness, and he whispers -ten times a day: “Oh, what a great boy am I!” I -was once shown a series of privately printed booklets -written by Bennett—booklets that he sent to his intimates -at Christmas time. They consisted of extracts from his -diary—a diary that, one feels, would never have been -written if the de Goncourts had not lived. One self-conscious -extract lingers in the mind; the spirit of it, -though not the words (and perhaps not the facts) is -embodied in the following:—“It is 3 <span class="allsc">A.M.</span> I have -been working fourteen hours at a stretch. In these -fourteen hours I have written ten thousand words. My -book is finished—finished in excitement, in exaltation. -Surely not even Balzac went one better than this!”</p> - -<p>A great writer: no doubt, a very great writer: but -you might gaze at him across a railway carriage for hours -at a time and never suspect it.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>But if Arnold Bennett is the least picturesque and -literary of figures, G. K. Chesterton is the most picturesque -and literary. His mere bulk is impressive. On one -occasion I saw him emerge from Shoe Lane, hurry into the -middle of Fleet Street, and abruptly come to a standstill -in the centre of the traffic. He stood there for some time, -wrapped in thought, while buses, taxis and lorries eddied -about him in a whirlpool and while drivers exercised to -the full their gentle art of expostulation. Having come -to the end of his meditations he held up his hand, turned -round, cleared a passage through the horses and vehicles -and returned up Shoe Lane. It was just as though he had -deliberately chosen the middle of Fleet Street as the most -fruitful place for thought. Nobody else in London could -have done it with his air of absolute unconsciousness, of -<a name="png.072" id="png.072" href="#png.072"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>72<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>absent-mindedness. And not even the most stalwart -policeman, vested with full authority, could have dammed -up London’s stream of traffic more effectively.</p> - -<p>The more one sees of Chesterton the more difficult it is to -discover when he is asleep and when he is awake. He may -be talking to you most vivaciously one moment, and the -next he will have disappeared: his body will be there, of -course, but his mind, his soul, the living spirit within him, -will have sunk out of sight.</p> - -<p>One Friday afternoon I went to <cite>The Daily Herald</cite> office -to call on a friend. As I entered the building a taxi -stopped at the door and I found G. K. C. by my side.</p> - -<p>“I have half-an-hour for my article,” said he, rather -breathlessly. “Wait here till I come back.”</p> - -<p>The first sentence was addressed to himself, the second -to the taxi-driver, but as we were by now in the office the -driver heard nothing. Chesterton called for a back file of -<cite>The Daily Herald</cite>, sat down, lit a cigar and began to read -some of his old articles. I watched him. Presently, he -smiled. Then he laughed. Then he leaned back in his -chair and roared. “Good—oh, damned good!” exclaimed -he. He turned to another article and frowned a -little, but a third pleased him better. After a while he -pushed the papers from him and sat a while in thought. -“And as in uffish thought he” sat, he wrote his article, -rapidly, calmly, drowsily. Save that his hand moved, -he might have been asleep. Nothing disturbed him—neither -the noise of the office nor the faint throb of his -taxi-cab rapidly ticking off twopences in the street below.... -He finished his article and rolled dreamily away.</p> - -<p>His brother Cecil has the same gift of detachment. He -can write anywhere and under any conditions. I have -seen him order a mixed grill at the Gambrinus in Regent -Street, begin an article before his food was served, and continue -writing for an hour while the dishes were placed -before him and allowed to go stone cold. Like most men -<a name="png.073" id="png.073" href="#png.073"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>73<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>in Fleet Street who do a tremendous amount of work, he -has always plenty of time for play, and I do not remember -ever to have come across him when he was not ready and -willing to spend a half-hour in chat in one of the thousand -and one little caravanserai that lurk so handily in the -Strand and Fleet Street.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Of poets of the younger generation I have met only -three—Lascelles Abercrombie, Harold Monro, and John -Masefield. Abercrombie I remember as a lean, spectacled -man, who used to come to Manchester occasionally to hear -music and, I think, to converse intellectually with Miss -Horniman. Of music he had a sane and temperate -appreciation, but was too prone to condemn modern -work, of which, by the way, he knew nothing and which -by temperament he was incapable of understanding. He -struck me as cold and daring—cold, daring and a little -calculating. He appeared unexpectedly one day at my -house, stayed for lunch, talked all afternoon, and went -away in the evening, leaving me a little bewildered by the -things he had refrained from saying. Really, we had -nothing in common. My personality could not touch his -genius at any point, and the things he wished to discuss—the -technicalities of his craft, philosophy, æsthetics and -so on—have no interest for me. If I had not studied his -work and admired it whole-heartedly<!-- TN: hyphen added for consistency -->, I should have come -to the conclusion that he had written poetry through sheer -cleverness and brightness of brain. No man was less of a -poet in appearance and conversation. He professed at all -times a huge liking for beer, but I never saw him drink -more than a modest pint, and his pose of “muscular -poet” (a school founded and fed by Hilaire Belloc) -deceived few.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Harold Monro I used to see occasionally in the Café -Royal, and I met him a few times at the Crab Tree Club. -<a name="png.074" id="png.074" href="#png.074"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>74<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I remember going with him, early one morning in June, -1914, after sitting up all night, to the Turkish baths in -Jermyn Street. We swam a little in a tank and were then -conducted to a cubicle, where I wished to talk, but Monro -was heavy with sleep and soon began to breathe stertorously. -A few days later he received me rather heavily -at his office at The Poetry Bookshop, read some of my -verses, and told me quite frankly that he did not consider -me much of a poet. A sound, solid man, Monro, -and he has written at least one poem—<cite>Trees</cite>—as -delicate and as beautiful as anything done in our time.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>But neither Monro nor Abercrombie, greatly gifted and -earnest in their work though they be, fulfils one’s conception -of a poetic personality. There is no mystery about -them, no glamour; they do not arouse wonder or surprise. -John Masefield, on the other hand, has an invincible -picturesqueness—a picturesqueness that stamps him at -once as different from his fellows. He is tall, straight -and blue-eyed, with a complexion as clear as a child’s. -His eyes are amazingly shy, almost furtive. His manner -is shy, almost furtive. He speaks to you as though he -suspected you of hostility, as though you had the power -to injure him and were on the point of using that power. -You feel his sensitiveness and you admire the dignity that -is at once its outcome and its protection.</p> - -<p>There are many legends about Masefield; he is the -kind of figure that gives rise to legends. And, as he is -curiously reticent about his early life, some of the most -extravagant of these legends have persisted and have, for -many people, become true. But the bare facts of his life -are interesting enough. As a young man he grew sick of -life, of the kind of life he was living, and went to sea as -a sailor before the mast. He had neither money nor -friends; or, if he had, he relinquished both. The necessity -to earn a living drove him into many adventures, and -<a name="png.075" id="png.075" href="#png.075"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>75<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I am told that for a time he was pot-boy in a New York -drink-den. Here his work must have been utterly distasteful, -but the observing eye and the impressionable -brain of the poet were at work the whole time, and one -can see clearly in some of Masefield’s long narrative -poems many evidences of those bitter New York days. -How Masefield came to London and settled in Bloomsbury, -becoming the friend of J. M. Synge, I do not know. -For six months he was in Manchester, editing the column -entitled Miscellany in <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, and -writing occasional theatrical notices. I have been told -by several of his colleagues on that paper that Masefield’s -reserve was invulnerable; he quickly secured the respect -of his fellow-workers, but not one of them became intimate -with him. He lived in dingy lodgings, he worked hard and, -at the end of six months, withdrew to London on the plea -that he found it impossible to do literary work at night.</p> - -<p>But if the circumstances of Masefield’s life are little -known, his spiritual history is more than indicated in his -work. Here one sees a stricken soul; a nature wounded -and a little poisoned; a nervous system agitated and -apprehensive. His mind is cast in a tragic mould and -his soul takes delight in the contemplation of physical -violence. His personality, as I have said, is furtive. He -shrinks. His intimate friends may have heard him -laugh. I have not.</p> - -<p>It must be nearly six years since I visited him at his -house in Well Walk, Hampstead. It was a miserably -cold afternoon in February, and though it was not yet -twilight the blinds of the drawing-room were drawn and -the lights already lit. Masefield’s conversation was intolerably -cautious, intolerably shy. In a rather academic -way he deplored the lack of literary critics in England; -the art of criticism was dead; the essay was moribund. -He expanded this theme perfunctorily, walking up and -down the room slowly and never looking me in the eyes -<a name="png.076" id="png.076" href="#png.076"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>76<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>once. It was only when, at length, he had sat down—not -opposite me, but with the side of his face towards me—that, -very occasionally, his eyes would seek mine with a -rapid dart and turn away instantly, and at such moments -it seemed as though he almost winced. Such shrinking, -such excessive timidity, whilst arousing my curiosity, also -made me feel no little discomfort, and I was glad when a -spirit kettle was brought in, with cups and saucers, and -Masefield began to make tea.</p> - -<p>This making of tea, a most solemn business, reminded -me of <cite>Cranford</cite>. The poet walked to a corner of the room, -took therefrom a long narrow box divided into a number -of compartments and proceeded, most delicately, to -measure out and mix two or three different kinds of tea. -The teapot was next heated, the blended tea thrown in, -and boiling water immediately poured on it. And then -the tea was timed, Masefield holding his watch in his hand -and pouring out the fluid into the cups at the psychological -second.... He ought, I think, to have taken a little -silver key from his waistcoat pocket and locked up the tea-box. -He ought to have taken his knitting from a work-box. -He ought to have asked me if I had yet spoken to -the new curate. But he did none of these <span class="nw">things....</span></p> - -<p>Though for an hour he continued talking, he said -nothing—at least, he said nothing I have remembered. -The extraordinary thing about him was that, in spite of -his timidity, his seeming apprehensiveness, he left on my -mind a deep impression of adventure—not of a man who -sought physical, but spiritual, risks. I think he is a poet -who cannot refrain from exacerbating his own soul, who -must at all costs place his mind in danger and escape only -at the last moment. I believe he is intensely morbid, -delighting to brood over dark things, seeing no humour -in life, but full of a baffled chivalry, a nobility thwarted at -every turn.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p><a name="png.077" id="png.077" href="#png.077"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>77<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>A man of a very different type is Jerome K. Jerome, -whom I met at the National Liberal Club and elsewhere -in the early days of the war. Like all humorists, he is -an inveterate sentimentalist; his belief in human nature -is as wide-eyed and innocent as that of a child. He is an -untidy, prosperous, middle-aged man—very kindly, but -a little intolerant. His mental attitude is that of a man -sitting a little apart from life, alternately amused and -saddened by the things he sees. In the drawing-room of -his flat at Chelsea he seemed a little out of place; he did -not harmonise with his surroundings. But in the Club he -was easy, natural, at home. More than twenty years ago -I heard him lecture in Manchester; the Jerome of to-day -is the Jerome of those far-off years, a little mellower -perhaps, a little quieter, a little more sentimental, but -essentially the same in appearance, in manner and in his -attitude towards life.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have met other humorists, but of a type very different -from that represented by Jerome. Sir Owen Seaman -I met at a little dinner given by the Critics’ Circle at -Gatti’s to a colleague of ours who was on the point of -leaving for the Front, and who, alas! is now no more. -Sir Owen was made both by nature and training for a -squarson—that useful but fast-dying gentleman who combines -the duties and responsibilities of squire and parson. -His personality, rather beefy and John Bullish, confirms -one’s expectations. He made an excellent chairman at -this particular dinner.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>His very brilliant assistant, A. A. Milne, I once interviewed -for a now defunct Labour paper. I was invited -to the office of <cite>Punch</cite>, and met a tall, slim, yellow-haired -and blue-eyed youth, who was so inordinately shy that, -after half-an-hour’s perfunctory conversation, I discovered -that I had not sufficient material for a paragraph, -<a name="png.078" id="png.078" href="#png.078"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>78<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>whereas I had orders to make a column article of the interview. -I knew instinctively that Milne must find, as I do, -a good deal in W. S. Gilbert’s writings that is in deplorable -taste, and I did my utmost to induce him to say something -very rude about Sullivan’s collaborator. But he would -not “bite.” He nodded and smiled at, and appeared to -agree with, all the savage things I said of Gilbert, but he -would say very little—and certainly not enough for my -purpose—on his own account. I tried other subjects, -but without success; finally, I got up in despair, thanked -him for the time he had given me and prepared to depart.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Milne, eyeing me, a little distrustfully, “I -must see a copy of your article before it is printed.”</p> - -<p>“Why, certainly,” said I, and that evening posted it -to him, expecting to see it back with perhaps one or two -minor alterations.</p> - -<p>But when my poor article arrived back (really, I thought -it an excellent piece of work) I could scarcely recognise it, -so heavily was it scored out, so numerous were the alterations. -And Milne’s accompanying letter was scathing. -I remember one or two sentences. “I cannot tell you -how thankful I am,” he wrote, “that I insisted on seeing -your article before it was printed. It does not represent -my views in the least; your talent for misrepresentation -is remarkably resourceful.”</p> - -<p>When the article was finally passed for publication at -least seventy-five per cent. of it was from Milne’s pen. -He wrote one or two other stabbing sentences to me, from -which it appeared that, however numerous his virtues may -be, he is unable to suffer fools gladly.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter VII: Sir Edward Elgar"><a name="png.079" id="png.079" href="#png.079"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>79<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VII<br - />SIR EDWARD ELGAR</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">The</span> weaknesses that seem to be inseparable from -genius—and, most particularly, from artistic -genius—are precisely those one would not expect -to discover associated with greatness of mind. It would -appear that few men are so great as their work, or, if they -are, their greatness is spasmodic and evanescent. Works -of genius, it is sometimes stated, are created in moods of -exaltation, when the spirit is in turmoil, when the mind is -lit and the nerves are tense. In some cases it may be so. -It was so, I believe, in the case of Wagner, who had long -spells, measured by years, of unproductiveness, when his -creative powers lay fallow; and it was so in the case of -Hugo Wolf, Beethoven, Shelley, Poe, Berlioz and many -other men whose names spring to the mind. But it -certainly was not so with Balzac and Dickens, any more -than it is to-day with Arnold Bennett.</p> - -<p>There is in Sir Edward Elgar’s work a strange contradiction: -great depth of understanding combined with a -curious fastidiousness of style that is almost finicking. -Many aspects of life appeal to his sympathies and to his -imagination, but an innate and exaggerated delicacy, an -almost feminine shrinking, is noticeable in even his strongest -and most outspoken work.... It is this delicacy, this -shrinking, that to the casual acquaintance is at once his -most conspicuous and most teasing characteristic.</p> - -<p>My first meeting with Elgar was ten years ago, when, -being commissioned to interview him for a monthly -musical magazine, I called on him at the Midland Hotel, -<a name="png.080" id="png.080" href="#png.080"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>80<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Manchester, where he was staying for a night. On my -way to his room I met him in the corridor, where he -carefully explained that he had made it a strict rule never -to be interviewed for the Press and that under no circumstances -could that rule be broken. His firm words were -spoken with hesitation, and it was quite obvious to me -that he was feeling more than a trifle nervous. I have -little doubt that this nervousness was due to the fact that -in an hour’s time he was to conduct a concert at the Free -Trade Hall. However, he was kind enough to loiter for -some minutes and talk, but he took care, when I left him, -to remind me that nothing of what he had said to me must -appear in print.</p> - -<p>I, of course, obeyed him, but, in place of an interview, -I wrote an impressionistic sketch of the man as I had -seen him during my few minutes’ conversation at the -Midland Hotel. Of this impressionistic sketch I remember -nothing except that, in describing his general bearing and -manner, I used the word “aristocratic.” At this word -Elgar rose like a fat trout eager to swallow a floating fly. -It confirmed his own hopes. And I who had perceived this -quality so speedily, so unerringly, and who had proclaimed -it to the world, was worthy of reward. Yes; he would -consent to be interviewed. The ban should be lifted; for -once the rule should be broken. A letter came inviting -me to Plas Gwyn, Hereford—a letter written by his wife -and full of charming compliments about my article.</p> - -<p>So to Hereford I went and talked music and chemistry. -It was Christmas week, and within ten minutes of my -arrival Lady Elgar was giving me hot dishes, wine and her -views on the political situation. The country was in the -throes of a General Election, and while I ate and drank I -heard how the Empire was, as Dr Kendrick Pyne used to -say, “rushing headlong to the bow-wows.” Lady Elgar -did not seem to wish to know to what particular party (if -any) I belonged, but I quickly discovered that to confess -<a name="png.081" id="png.081" href="#png.081"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>81<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>myself a Radical would be to arouse feelings of hostility -in her bosom. Radicals were the Unspeakable People. -There was not one, I gathered, in Hereford. They -appeared to infest Lancashire, and some had been heard -of in Wales. Also, there were people called Nonconformists. -Many persons were Radicals, many -Nonconformists; but some were both. The Radicals -had won several seats. What was the country coming -to? Where was the country going?</p> - -<p>Where, indeed? I did not allow Lady Elgar’s rather -violent political prejudices to interfere with my appetite, -and she appeared to be perfectly satisfied with an occasional -sudden lift of my eyebrows, and such ejaculations -as: “Oh, quite! Quite!” “Most assuredly!” and -“Incredible!” If she thought about me at all—and I -am persuaded she did not—she must have believed me -also to be a Tory. After all, had not I called her husband -“aristocratic,” and is that the sort of word used by a -Radical save in contempt?</p> - -<p>After lunch Elgar took me a quick walk along the river-bank. -For the first half-hour I found him rather reserved -and non-committal, and I soon recognised that if I were to -succeed in obtaining his views on any matter of interest -I must rigidly abstain from direct questions. But when -he did commit himself to any opinion, he did so in the -manner of one who is sure of his own ground and cannot -consider, even temporarily, any change in the attitude he -has already assumed.</p> - -<p>I found his views on musical critics amusing, but before -proceeding to set them down I must make some reference -to his relations with Ernest Newman. Newman, it is -generally agreed, is unquestionably the most brilliant, -the fairest-minded and the most courageous writer on -music in England. His power is very great, and he has -done more to educate public opinion on musical matters -in England than any other man. For some little period -<a name="png.082" id="png.082" href="#png.082"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>82<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>previous to the time of which I am writing he and Elgar -had been close friends, and their friendship was all the -stronger because it rested on the attraction of opposites. -Elgar was an ardent Catholic, a Conservative; Newman -was an uncompromising free-thinker and a Radical. Elgar -was a pet of society, a man careful and even snobbish in -his choice of his friends, whilst Newman cared nothing for -society and would be friendly with any man who interested -or amused him.</p> - -<p>Up to the time Elgar composed <cite>The Apostles</cite> he had no -more whole-hearted admirer than Newman, but this work -was to sever their friendship and, for a time, to bring -bitterness where before there had been esteem and even -affection. Newman was invited by a New York paper—I -think <cite>The Musical Courier</cite>—to write at considerable length -on <cite>The Apostles</cite>. As his opinion of this work was, on the -whole, unfavourable, he may possibly have hesitated to -consider an invitation the acceptance of which would lead -to his giving pain to a friend. But probably Newman -thought, as most inflexibly honest men would think, -that, on a matter of public concern, silence would be -cowardly. In the event, he wrote his article and sent it to -America, also forwarding a copy to Elgar himself, telling -him that, though it went against his feelings of friendship -to condemn the work, he thought it a matter of duty to -speak what was in his mind. That letter and that -article severed their friendship, and the severance lasted -for some considerable time.</p> - -<p>My visit to Elgar took place during his estrangement -from Newman, and when I mentioned the subject of -musical criticism to him it was, I imagine, with the hope -that the name of the famous critic would crop up. It did.</p> - -<p>“The worst of musical criticism in this country,” said -Elgar, “is that there is so much of it and so little that is -serviceable. Most of those who are skilled musicians -either have not the gift of criticism or they cannot express -<a name="png.083" id="png.083" href="#png.083"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>83<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>their ideas in writing, and most of those who can write -are deplorably deficient in their knowledge of music. For -myself I never read criticism of my own work; it simply -does not interest me. When I have composed or published -a work, my interest in it wanes and dies; it belongs -to the public. What the professional critics think of it -does not concern me in the least.”</p> - -<p>Though I knew that Elgar had on previous occasions -given expression to similar views, his statement amazed -me. So I pressed him a little.</p> - -<p>“But suppose,” I urged, “a new work of yours were so -universally condemned by the critics that performances -of it ceased to take place. Would you not then read their -criticisms in order to discover if there was not some truth -in their statements?”</p> - -<p>“It is possible, but I do not think I should. But your -supposition is an inconceivable one: there is never -universal agreement among musical critics. I think you -will notice that many of them are, from the æsthetic point -of view, absolutely devoid of principle; I mean, they are -victims of their own temperaments. They, as the schoolgirl -says, ‘know what they like.’ The music they condemn -is either the music that does not appeal to their -particular kind of nervous system or it is the music they -do not understand. They have no standard, no norm, no -historical sense, <span class="nw">no——”</span></p> - -<p>He stammered a little and waved a vague arm in the air.</p> - -<p>“There are exceptions, of course,” I ventured. “Newman, -for example.”</p> - -<p>“No; Ernest Newman is not altogether an exception. -He is an unbeliever, and therefore cannot understand -religious music—music that is at once reverential, mystical -and devout.”</p> - -<p>“‘Devout’?” whispered I to myself. Aloud I said:</p> - -<p>“A man’s reason, I think, may reject a religion, though -his emotional nature may be susceptible to its slightest -<a name="png.084" id="png.084" href="#png.084"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>84<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>appeal. Besides, Newman has a most profound admiration -for your <cite>The Dream of Gerontius</cite>.”</p> - -<p>Elgar was silent for a few minutes. Then, with an -air of detachment and with great inconsequence, he -said:</p> - -<p>“Baughan, of <cite>The Daily News</cite>, cannot hum a melody -correctly in tune. He looks at music from the point of -view of a man of letters. So does Newman, fine musician -though he is. Newman advocates programme music. -Now, I do not say that programme music should not be -written, for I have composed programme music myself. -But I do maintain that it is a lower form of art than -absolute music. Newman, I believe, refuses to acknowledge -that either kind is necessarily higher or lower than -the other. He has, as I have said, the literary man’s -point of view about music. So have many musical -critics.”</p> - -<p>“And so,” I interpolated, “if one has to accept what -you say as correct, have many composers, and composers -also who are not specifically literary. And, after what you -have said, I find that strange. Take the case of Richard -Strauss, all of whose later symphonic poems have a programme, -a literary basis. Do you, for that reason, declare -that Strauss regards music from the literary man’s point -of view—Strauss who, of all living musicians, is the -greatest?”</p> - -<p>He paused for a few moments, and it seemed to me that -our pace quickened as we left the bank of the river and -made for a pathway across a meadow. But he would not -take up the argument; stammering a little, he said:</p> - -<p>“Richard Strauss is a very great man—a fine fellow.”</p> - -<p>But as that was not the point under discussion, I felt -that either his mind was wandering or that he could think -of no reply to my objection.</p> - -<p>A little later, on our way home, we discussed the -younger generation of composers, and I found him very -<a name="png.085" id="png.085" href="#png.085"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>85<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>appreciative of the work done by his juniors. He particularly -mentioned Havergal Brian, a composer who has -more than justified what Elgar prophesied of him, though -perhaps not in the manner Elgar anticipated.</p> - -<p>Apropos of something or other, Elgar said, I think quite -needlessly and a little vainly:</p> - -<p>“You must not, as many people appear to do, imagine -that I am a musician and nothing else. I am many things; -I find time for many things. Do not picture me always -bending over manuscript paper and writing down notes; -months pass at frequent intervals when I write nothing at -all. At present I am making a study of chemistry.”</p> - -<p>I think I was expected to look surprised, or to give vent -to an exclamation of surprise, but I did neither, for I also -had made a study of chemistry, and it seemed to me the -kind of work that any man of inquiring mind might take -up. I did not for one moment imagine that I was living -in the first half of the nineteenth century when practically -all British musicians were musicians and nothing else and -not always even musicians.</p> - -<p>When we had returned to the house we sat before a -large fire and, under the soothing influence of warmth and -semi-darkness, stopped all argument. In the evening -Lady Elgar accompanied me to the station, and all the -way from Hereford to Manchester I turned over in my -mind the strange problem that was presented to me by the -fact that, though I was a passionate, almost fanatical -lover of Elgar’s music, the creator of that music attracted -me not at all. I saw in his mind a daintiness that was -irritating, a refinement that was distressingly self-conscious.</p> - -<p>Some years later Sir Edward Elgar moved to London, -and when I saw him in his new home he tried to prove to -me that living in London was cheaper than living in the -country.</p> - -<p>His attitude towards me on this occasion was peculiarly -<a name="png.086" id="png.086" href="#png.086"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>86<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>strange. I represented a Labour paper, but Elgar did not -know that I was at the same time writing leading articles -for a London Conservative daily. He treated me with -the most careful kindness, a kindness so careful, indeed, -that it might be called patronising. It soon became quite -clear to me that he imagined I myself came from the -labouring classes, but I cannot boast that honour, and as -he, the aristocrat, was in contact with me, the plebeian, -it was his manifest duty and his undoubted pleasure to -help me along the upward path. I was advised to read -Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>“Shakespeare,” said he, “frees the mind. You, as -a journalist, will find him useful in so far as a close study -of his works will purify your style and enlarge your -vocabulary.”</p> - -<p>“Which of the plays would you advise me to read?” -asked I, with simulated innocence and playing up to him -with eyes and voice.</p> - -<p>The astounding man considered a minute and then -mentioned half-a-dozen plays, the titles of which I carefully -wrote down in my pocket-book.</p> - -<p>“And Ruskin,” he added as an afterthought. “Oh, -yes, and Cardinal Newman. Newman’s style is perhaps -the purest style of any man who wrote in the nineteenth -century.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think so,” said I, thoroughly roused and forgetting -to play my part. “The <cite>Apologia</cite> is slipshod. My -own style, faulty though it may be, is more correct, more -lucid, even more distinguished than Cardinal Newman’s.”</p> - -<p>He turned away, either angry or amused.</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said I, with warmth. “Anyone who has -tried for years, as I have done, to master the art of writing, -and who examines the <cite>Apologia</cite> carefully will perceive at -once that it is shamefully badly written. For two generations -it has been the fashion to praise Newman’s style, but -those who have done so have never read him in a critical -<a name="png.087" id="png.087" href="#png.087"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>87<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>spirit. I would infinitely prefer to have written a racy -book like—well, like <cite>Moll Flanders</cite>, where the English is -beautifully clean and strong, than the sloppy <cite>Apologia</cite>.”</p> - -<p>“<cite>Moll Flanders</cite>,” he said questioningly; “<cite>Moll -Flanders</cite>? I do not know the book.”</p> - -<p>“It is all about a whore,” said I brutally, “written by -one Defoe.”</p> - -<p>And that, of course, put an end to our conversation. I -rose to leave.</p> - -<p>The impression left on my mind by my two visits to -Elgar is definite enough, but I am willing to believe -that it does not represent the man as he truly is. He is -abnormally sensitive, abnormally observant, abnormally -intuitive. Like almost all men, he is open to flattery, but -the flattery must be applied by means of hints, praise -half veiled, innuendo. If you gush he will freeze; if you -praise directly, he will wince. His mind is essentially -narrow, for he shrinks from the phenomena in life that -hurt him and he will not force himself to understand -alien things. His intellect is continually rejecting the -very matters that, in order to gain largeness, tolerance -and a full view of life, it should understand and accept. -Yet, within its narrow confines, his brain functions most -rapidly and with a clear light.</p> - -<p>I have been told by members of the various orchestras -he has conducted that when interpreting a work like <cite>The -Dream of Gerontius</cite> his face is wet with tears.</p> - -<p>He has a proper sense of his own dignity, and it is -doubtful if he exaggerates the importance of his own -powers. Many years ago, as I have related, I employed -the word “aristocrat” in describing him, and to-day I -feel that that word must stand. He has all the strength -of the aristocrat and many of the aristocrat’s weaknesses.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter VIII: Intellectual Freaks"><a name="png.088" id="png.088" href="#png.088"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>88<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VIII<br - />INTELLECTUAL FREAKS</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">In</span> the most tragic and most trying moments of life it -is well to turn aside from one’s sorrows and refresh -one’s mind and strengthen one’s soul by gazing upon -the follies of others. Those others gaze on ours.</p> - -<p>In my spiritual adventures I have met many amazingly -freakish people. Ten years ago the Theosophical Society -overflowed with them. They were cultured without -being educated, credulous but without faith, bookish but -without learning, argumentative but without logic. The -women, serene and grave, swam about in drawing-rooms, -or they would stand in long, attitudinising ecstasies, their -skimpy necks emerging from strange gowns, their bodies -as shoulderless as hock bottles. The men paddled about -in the same rooms, but I found them less amusing than the -women.</p> - -<p>“You were a horse in your last incarnation,” said a -fuzzy-haired giantess to me one evening, two minutes after -we had been introduced.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how disappointing!” I exclaimed. “I had -always imagined myself an owl. I often dream I was an -owl. I fly about, you know, or sit on branches with my -eyes shut.”</p> - -<p>“No; a horse!” shouted the giantess, with much asperity. -“I’m not arguing with you. I’m merely telling you. -And I don’t think you were a very nice horse either.”</p> - -<p>“No? Did I bite people?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; you bit and kicked. And you did other disagreeable -things besides. Now, <em>I</em> was a swan.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.089" id="png.089" href="#png.089"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>89<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>I evinced a polite but not enthusiastic interest.</p> - -<p>“You would make an imposing swan,” I observed.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I used to glide about on ponds, like this.”</p> - -<p>She proceeded to “glide” round and round the corner -of the room in which we were sitting. She arched her -neck, raised her ponderous legs laboriously and moved -about like a pantechnicon. Her face assumed a disagreeable -expression and I thought of a rather good line in one -of my own poems:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div>And swans sulked largely on the yellow mere.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“And how much of your previous incarnation do you -remember?” I asked, when she had finished sulking -largely in the yellow drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite a lot. It comes back to me in flashes. I -was very lonely—oh, <em>so</em> lonely.”</p> - -<p>She gave me a quick look, and I began to talk of William -J. Locke, who, a few days previously, had published a -new book. Resenting my change of subject, she left -me and, a few minutes later, as I was eating a watercress -sandwich, I heard her saying to a yellow-haired -male:</p> - -<p>“You were a horse in your last incarnation.”</p> - -<p>I met this lady on other occasions, and always she was -occupied in telling men that they had been horses and she -a swan—an oh-so-lonely swan.</p> - -<p>“Why,” said I to my hostess one day, “don’t Madame -X.’s friends look after her? See—she is arching her neck -over there in the corner, and I am perfectly certain she has -told the man with her that he has been, is, or is going to be -a horse.”</p> - -<p>For a moment my hostess looked concerned.</p> - -<p>“Look after her? What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Well, she is obviously insane.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, she is the most subtle exponent we -have of Madame Blavatsky’s <cite>Secret Doctrine</cite>. Eccentric, -<a name="png.090" id="png.090" href="#png.090"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>90<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>perhaps, but as lucid a brain as Mr G. R. S. Mead’s or as -Colonel Olcott’s. You should get her to describe your -aura. She is excellent, too, in Plato. She doesn’t understand -a word of Greek, but she gets at his meaning -intuitively. There is something cosmic about her. <em>You</em> -know what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite, quite.” (But what <em>did</em> she mean?)</p> - -<p>“Cosmic consciousness is a most enthralling subject,” -continued my hostess, digging the hockey-stick she always -carried with her well into the hearthrug. “Walt Whitman -had it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Badly?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>She appeared puzzled.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite know what you mean by ‘badly.’ He -could identify himself with anything—the wind, a stone, -a jelly-fish, an arm-chair, a ... a ... oh, everything! -They were he and he was they. He <em>thought</em> cosmically. -Fourth dimension, you know. Edward Carpenter and all -that.”</p> - -<p>I rather admired this way she had of talking—a little -like the Duke in G. K. Chesterton’s <cite>Magic</cite>.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do go on!” I urged her.</p> - -<p>“What I always say is,” she continued, “why stop at -a fourth dimension? Someone has written a book on the -fourth dimension, and some day perhaps I shall write one -on the fifth.”</p> - -<p>“A book? A real book? Do you mean to say you -could write a book? How clever! How romantic!”</p> - -<p>“Well, I have thought about it. One is influenced. -One has influences. The consciousness of the ultimate -truth of things, the truth that suffuses all things, the -cosmic nature of—well, the cosmos. Do you see? -Tennyson’s <cite>In Memoriam</cite>.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; Tennyson’s <cite>In Memoriam</cite> does help, doesn’t -it?”</p> - -<p>“Did I say Tennyson’s <cite>In Memoriam</cite>? I really meant -<a name="png.091" id="png.091" href="#png.091"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>91<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Shelley’s <cite>Revolt of Islam</cite>. The fourth dimension is played -out. It’s done with. It was true so far as it went, but -how far did it go?”</p> - -<p>“Only a very little way,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but Nietzsche goes much farther. Have you -read Nietzsche? No? I haven’t, either. But I have -heard Orage talk about him. Nietzsche says we can all -do what we want. We must dare things. We must be -blond beasts. Mary Wollstonecraft and her set, you know. -Godwin and those people.”</p> - -<p>She waved her hockey-stick recklessly in the air and -marched inconsequently away. Nearly all the Theosophists -I met were like that—inconsequent, bent on writing -books they never did write, talkers of divine flapdoodle, -inanely clever, cleverly inane. Dear freaks I used to meet -in days gone by!—where are you now?—where are you -now?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A freak who ultimately lost all reason and was confined -in a private asylum used to sit at the same desk that I did -when, many years ago, I was a shipping clerk in Manchester. -This man, whose name was not, but should have -been, Bundle, had considerable private means, but some -obscure need of his nature drove him to discipline himself -by working eight hours a day for three pounds a week. -The three pounds was nothing to him, but the eight hours -a day meant everything. He was a conscientious worker, -but I think I have already indicated that his intelligence -was not robust. He had no delusion; he merely possessed -a misdirected sense of duty.</p> - -<p>One day he left us, and a few months later I met him -in Market Street. He looked prosperous, smart and -intensely happy.</p> - -<p>“Are you busy?” he asked. “No? Well, come with -me.”</p> - -<p>He slipped his arm in mine, led me into Mosley Street, -<a name="png.092" id="png.092" href="#png.092"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>92<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and stopped in front of the large, dismal office of the Calico -Printers’ Association.</p> - -<p>“That,” said he, “is mine. Now, come into Albert -Square.”</p> - -<p>When we had arrived there he pointed to the Town Hall.</p> - -<p>“That also is mine. The Lord Mayor gave it to me -with a golden key. Here is the golden key.”</p> - -<p>Producing an ordinary latchkey from his pocket, he -carefully held it in the palm of his hand for my inspection.</p> - -<p>“It is,” he announced, “studded with diamonds. But -you can’t see the diamonds. Crafty Lord Mayor! You -don’t catch him napping. He’s hidden them deep in the -<span class="nw">gold....”</span></p> - -<p>I enjoyed this poor fellow’s company more than I did -that of a very old woman to whom I was introduced in a -pauper asylum. She was sitting on a low stool and, -pointing at her head with her skinny forefinger, “It’s -pot! It’s pot!” she said.</p> - -<p>But even she provided me with more exhilaration than -do the tens (or perhaps hundreds) of thousands of real -freaks who, I imagine, inhabit every part of the globe. I -allude to the vast throng of people who arise at eight or -thereabouts, go to the City every morning, work all day -and return home at dusk; who perform this routine every -day, and every day of every year; who do it all their lives; -who do it without resentment, without anger, without even -a momentary impulse to break away from their surroundings. -Such people amaze and stagger one. To them life -is not an adventure; indeed, I don’t know what they consider -it. They marry and, in their tepid, uxorious way, -love. But love to them is not a mystery, or an adventure, -and its consummation is not a sacrament. They do not -travel; they do not want to travel. They do not even -hate anybody.</p> - -<p>All these people are freaks of the wildest description; -yet they imagine themselves to be the backbone of the -<a name="png.093" id="png.093" href="#png.093"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>93<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Empire. Perhaps they are. Perhaps every nation requires -a torpid mass of people to act as a steadying influence.</p> - -<p>In the suburbs of Manchester these people abound. I -know a man still in his twenties who keeps hens for what -he calls “a hobby.” Among his hens he finds all the -excitement his soul needs. The sheds in which they live -form the boundaries of his imagination. I should esteem -this man if he kicked against his destiny; but he loved -it, until the Army conscripted him. God save the world -from those who keep hens!</p> - -<p>I know a man who has been to Douglas eighteen times -in succession for his fortnight’s holiday in the summer. -Douglas is his heaven; Manchester and Douglas are his -universe. No place so beautiful as Douglas; no place so -familiar; no place so satisfying. After all, Douglas is -always Douglas. Moreover, Douglas is always miraculously -“there.” God save the world from men who go -to Douglas eighteen times!</p> - -<p>I know a man who hates his wife and still lives with her. -He is respectable, soulless, saving, a punctual and regular -churchgoer, a hard bargain-driver. He walks with his -eyes on the ground. He has always lived in the same -suburb. He will always live in the same suburb. God -save the world from men who always live in the same -suburb!</p> - -<p>I know a <span class="nw">man ...</span></p> - -<p>But this is getting very monotonous. Besides, why -should I particularise any more freaks when all of them, -perhaps, are as familiar to you as they are to me?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Then there is the literary freak; not the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">poseur</i>, not the -man who wishes to be thought “cultured” and intellectual, -but the scholarly man who, during an industrious life, has -amassed a vast amount of literary knowledge, but whose -appreciation of literature is lukewarm and without zest. -Very, very rarely is the great writer a scholar. Dr Johnson -<a name="png.094" id="png.094" href="#png.094"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>94<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>was a scholar, but, divine and adorable creature though -he was, he was not a great writer. None of the great -Victorians had true scholarship, and very few even of the -Elizabethans. And to-day? Well, one may consider -Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, H. G. Wells, Bernard -Shaw, Arnold Bennett and G. K. Chesterton as great -writers; if you do not concede me all these names, you -must either deny that we have any great writers at all -(which is absurd) or produce me the names of six who are -greater than those I have named (and the latter you -cannot do). Have any of these anything approaching -scholarship?</p> - -<p>And yet in our universities are scores of men who are -regarded as possessing greater literary gifts than those -who actually produce literature. These learned, owlish -creatures pose pontifically. Whenever a new book comes -out they read an old one! The present generation, they -say, is without genius. But they have always said it. -They said it when Dickens, Thackeray and Charlotte -Brontë were writing. I have no doubt they said it in -Shakespeare’s time. The present generation teems with -genius, but our “scholarly” mandarins know it not. -How barren is that knowledge which lies heavy in a man’s -mind and does not fertilise there. When one considers -the matter, how essentially dull and stupid and brainless -is the man devoid of ideas!</p> - -<p>One of these bald-pated freaks is well known to me. -He moves heavily about in a quadrangle. He delivers -lectures. He has written books. He passes judgment. -He annotates. He writes an occasional review. Funny -little freak! Great little freak, who knows so much and -understands so little.... When England wakes (and I -do not believe that even yet, after nearly four years of -war, England is really awake) such men will pass through -life unregarded and neglected; they will sit at home in a -back room, and their relatives and friends will love and -<a name="png.095" id="png.095" href="#png.095"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>95<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>pity them, as one loves and pities a poor fellow whose -temperament has made him a wastrel, or as one pities a -man who has to be nursed.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<div class="sketch"> -<p><span class="smc">People of the Play</span>: <i>A handful of literary freaks</i>.</p> - -<p class="extraspace"><span class="smc">Scene</span>: <i>A drawing-room in Tooting, or Acton, or Highgate, -or Ealing, or any funny old place where the middle -classes live</i>.</p> - -<p class="extraspace"><span class="smc">Time</span>: 8 <span class="allsc">P.M.</span> <i>on (generally) Thursday</i>.</p> - -<p class="extraspace">Mrs <span class="smc">Arnold</span>. Now that Miss Vera Potting, M.A., has -finished reading her most interesting paper on Mr John Masefield, the subject is open for discussion. -Perhaps you, Mr Mather-Johnstone, will give us a -few thoughts—yes, a few thoughts. (<i>She smiles -wanly and gazes round the room.</i>) A <em>most</em> interesting -paper <em>I</em> call it.</p> - -<p>Rev. <span class="smc">Mather-Johnstone</span>, M.A. Miss Potting’s most -interesting paper is—well, most interesting. I must -confess I have read nothing of—er—Mr Masefield’s. -I prefer the older poets—Cowper, Bowles’ Sonnets, -and the beautifully named Felicia Hemans. -Fe-lic-i-a! To what sweet thoughts does not that -name give rise! But it has been a revelation to me -to learn that a popular poet (and Miss Potting has -assured us that Mr Masefield <em>is</em> popular) should so -freely indulge in language that, to say the least, is -violent, and I am glad to say that such language is -not to be found in the improving stanzas of Eliza -Cook.</p> - -<p>Mr <span class="smc">S. Wanley</span>. I have read some verses of Mr Masefield’s -in a very—well—advanced paper called, if my -memory does not deceive me, <cite>The English Review</cite>. -I did not like those verses. I did not approve of -<a name="png.096" id="png.096" href="#png.096"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>96<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>them. They were bathed in an atmosphere of discontent—modern -discontent. Now, what have -people to be discontented about? Nothing; nothing -at all, if they live rightly. (<i>He stops, having nothing -further to say. For the same reason, he proceeds.</i>) -Nevertheless, I thank Miss Potting, M.A., very much -for her most interesting paper. There is one question -I should like to ask her: is this Mr Masefield read by -the right people?</p> - -<p>Miss <span class="smc">Vera Potting</span>, M.A. Oh no! Oh dear, no! -Most certainly not! Still, it is incontestable that he -<em>is</em> read.</p> - -<p>Mr <span class="smc">S. Wanley</span>. Thank you so much. I felt that he -could not be read by the right people.</p> - -<p>Miss <span class="smc">Graceley</span> (<i>rather nervously</i>). I feel that I can say I -know my Lord Lytton, my Edna Lyall, my Charlotte -M. Yonge and my Tennyson. I have always remained -content with them, and after what Miss Vera -Potting, M.A., has said about Mr Masefield in her -most interesting paper, I shall <em>remain</em> content with -them.</p> - -<p>Mr <span class="smc">S. Wanley</span>. Hear, hear. I always seem to agree -with you, Miss Graceley.</p> - -<p>Mrs <span class="smc">Arnold</span> (<i>archly</i>). What is the saying?—great minds -always jump alike?</p> - -<p>Rev. <span class="smc">Mather-Johnstone</span> (<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sotto voce</i>). <em>Jump?</em></p> - -<p>Mr <span class="smc">Porteous</span> (<i>with most distinguished amiability</i>). I really -think that this most interesting paper that Miss Vera -Potting, M.A., has read to us should be published. It -is so—well, so improving, so elevating, <span class="nw">so——</span></p> - -<p>Miss <span class="smc">Vera Potting</span>, M.A. (<i>who has already fruitlessly sent -the essay to every magazine in the country</i>). Oh, Mr Porteous! How can you? Really, I couldn’t think -of such a thing.</p> - -<p>Rev. <span class="smc">Mather-Johnstone</span>, M.A. (<i>who, being not altogether -free from jealousy, thinks this is really going a bit too -<a name="png.097" id="png.097" href="#png.097"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>97<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>far</i>). But perhaps we do not all quite approve of -women writers—I mean ladies who write for the -wide, rough public.</p> - -<p>Mrs <span class="smc">Arnold</span>. True! True!... But then, what about -Felicia Hemans?</p> - -<p>Rev. <span class="smc">Mather-Johnstone</span>, M.A. Mrs Hemans was Mrs Hemans. Miss Vera Potting, M.A., is, and I hope -will always remain, Miss Vera Potting, M.A.</p> - -<p>Mr <span class="smc">Porteous</span>. Oh, don’t say that! What I mean <span class="nw">is——</span></p> - -<p class="comment">(<i>This sort of thing goes on for an hour when, very -secretly and as though she were on some nefarious -errand</i>, Mrs <span class="smc">Arnold</span> <i>disappears from the room. She -presently reappears with a maid, who carries a tray -of coffee and sandwiches. The dreadful Mr Masefield -is then forgotten.</i>]</p> -</div> - -<p>You think the above sketch is exaggerated? Ah! well, -perhaps you have never lived in Highgate, or in the -suburbs of Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield or Leeds. -I could set down some appalling conversations that I have -heard in suburban “literary” circles. There is a place -called Eccles, where, one <span class="nw">evening——</span></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>In London Bohemia there are many freakish people, -but, for the most part, they are altogether charming and -refreshing. Quite a number of them have what I am -told is, in the Police Courts, termed “no visible means of -subsistence,” but they appear to “carry on” with imperturbable -good humour and borrow money cheerfully and -as frequently as their circle of acquaintances (which is -usually very large) will permit.</p> - -<p>Frequenters of the Café Royal in pre-war days will -recognise the following <span class="nw">types:—</span></p> - -<p>Picture to yourself a Polish Jew, young, yellow-skinned, -black-haired; he has luminous eyes, sensuous lips and -damp hands, and he dresses well, but in an extravagant -<a name="png.098" id="png.098" href="#png.098"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>98<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>style. He is a megalomaniac, and he has all the megalomaniac’s -consuming anxiety to discover precisely in what -way other people react to his personality. One night -my bitterest enemy brought him to the table at which -I was sitting, introduced us to each other, and walked -away.</p> - -<p>“I am told you are a journalist,” my new acquaintance -began. “I myself write poems. I have a theory about -poetry, and my theory is this: All poetry should be -subjective.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“Never mind why. I am telling you about my theory. -All poetry should be subjective; as a matter of fact, all -the best poetry is. To myself I am the most interesting -phenomenon in the world. To yourself, you are. Is it -not so?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; you have guessed right first time.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I have in this dispatch case eight hundred and -seventy-three poems about myself, telling the world -almost all there is to know about the most interesting -phenomenon it contains.”</p> - -<p>He took from his case a great pile of MS. and turned the -leaves over in his hands.</p> - -<p>“Here,” said he, “is a blank-verse poem entitled <cite>How -I felt at <span class="rom">8.45 <span class="allsc">A.M.</span></span> on June <span class="rom">8, 1909,</span> having partaken of -Breakfast</cite>. Would you like to read it?”</p> - -<p>I assured him I should, though I fully expected it -would contain unmistakable signs of mental disturbance. -But it did not. It was quite respectably written verse, -much better than at least half of Wordsworth’s; it was -logical, it had ideas, it showed some introspective power, -and it revealed a mind above the ordinary.</p> - -<p>I told him all this.</p> - -<p>“Then you don’t think I’m a genius? Some people -do.”</p> - -<p>“You see, I’m not a very good judge of men—particularly -<a name="png.099" id="png.099" href="#png.099"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>99<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>men of genius. You may be a genius; on the -other hand, you may not.”</p> - -<p>“But what exactly do you think of me?”</p> - -<p>“I have already told you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but not with sufficient particularity. Now, put -away from you all feeling of nervousness and try to -imagine that I have just left you and that a friend of yours -has come in and taken my place. You are alone together. -You would, of course, immediately tell him that you had -met me. You would say: ‘He is a very strange man, -eccentric....’ and so on. You would describe my appearance, -my personality, my verses. You, being a writer, -would analyse me to shreds. Now, that is what I want -you to do now. I want you to say all the bad things with -the good. And I shall listen, greedily.”</p> - -<p>“But, really!” I protested. “Really, I can’t do what -you ask.”</p> - -<p>Disappointed and vexed, he sat biting his underlip.</p> - -<p>“All right,” he said at length, “we’ll strike a bargain. -After you have analysed me I, in return, will analyse -you.”</p> - -<p>“You have quite the most unhealthy mind with which -I have ever come in contact.”</p> - -<p>“You really believe that?” he asked, delighted. “Do -go on.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I’m sorry I began. This kind of thing is -dangerous.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. But I like danger—mental danger -especially.”</p> - -<p>“But drink would be better for you. Even drugs. -You are asking me to help to throw you off your mental -balance.”</p> - -<p>“I know.<!-- TN period invisible --> I know. But you won’t refuse?”</p> - -<p>“To show you that I will I am leaving you now in this -café. I am going. Good-night.”</p> - -<p>But he met me many times after that, and always -<a name="png.100" id="png.100" href="#png.100"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>100<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>pursued me with ardour. In the end he gained his desire -and, having done so, had no further use for me.</p> - -<p>I call him The Man Who Collects Opinions of Himself. -He is still in London. And he is not yet insane.</p> - -<p>Then there was the lady—since, alas! dead—who used -always to appear in public in a kind of purple shroud, her -face and fingers chalked. She rather stupidly called herself -Cheerio Death, and was one of the jolliest girls I have -ever met. She longed and ached for notoriety and for -new sensations: she feasted on them and they nourished -and fattened her. Only very brave or reckless men dared -be seen with her in public, for, though her behaviour was -scrupulously correct, her appearance created either veiled -ridicule or consternation wherever she went. Yet she -never lacked companions.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Gerald!” she used to say to me; “sit down -near me. You are so nice and chubby. I like to have you -near me. How am I looking?”</p> - -<p>“More beautiful than ever.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you <em>are</em> sweet. Isn’t he sweet, Frank?” she -would say to one of her companions. “Order him some -champagne. I’m thirsty.”</p> - -<p>And, really, Cheerio Death was very beautiful in a -ghastly and terrible way. By degrees, all the reputable -restaurants were closed to her, and in the late autumn of -1913 she disappeared, to die of consumption in Soho. -Poor girl! Perhaps in Paris, where they love the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outré</i> -and the shocking, she would have secured the full, hectic -success that in London was denied her.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Are freaks always conscious of their freakishness? I -do not think they are. Not even the man who wilfully -cultivates his oddities until they have become swollen -excrescences hanging bulbous-like on his personality is -aware how vastly different, how unreasonably different -he is from his fellows. He is more than reconciled to -<a name="png.101" id="png.101" href="#png.101"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>101<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>himself; he loves himself; he is what other people would -be if only they could. Vanity continually lulls and soothes -and rots him. The nature that craves to be noticed will -go to almost any lengths to secure that notice.</p> - -<p>It has always appeared curious to me that the ambition -to become famous should very generally be regarded as a -worthy passion in a man of genius. It is but natural that -a man of genius should desire his work to reach as many -people as possible, but whether or not he should be known -as the author of that work seems to me a matter of no -importance whatever. But to the man himself it is all-important. -He has an instinctive feeling that if, in the -public eye, he is separated from his work, savour will go -from what he has created. He and his work must be -closely identified.</p> - -<p>This desire to be widely known, to be talked about -everywhere, is in the man of genius accepted as natural, -but it is this very desire that, in many cases, makes a -freak of the ordinary man. Obscurity to him is death.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter IX: Fleet Street"><a name="png.102" id="png.102" href="#png.102"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>102<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER IX<br - />FLEET STREET</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">I don’t</span> know why, but for many years there has -been (and I am told there still is) a kind of silent conspiracy -to keep out of Fleet Street as many aspirants -to journalism as possible. They are discouraged by -extravagant stories of the fierce competition that reigns -there, by tragic yarns of men of great gifts who walk -about The Street in rags. I myself was discouraged in this -way and I found myself, on the verge of middle age, still -hesitating in Manchester. It is true, I did not enter -journalism until I was in my thirties, and I did not know -the ropes. I did not know London either. Also, I was -married and had children to educate and could not afford -to take risks and make of life the grand adventure I have, -in my heart, always known it to be.</p> - -<p>So I hung on in Manchester, writing musical criticism -for <cite>The Manchester Courier</cite> and contributing occasional -articles and verses to <cite>The Academy</cite>, <cite>The Contemporary -Review</cite>, <cite>The Cornhill</cite>, <cite>The English Review</cite>, <cite>The Musical -Times</cite>, and many other magazines, and there is scarcely a -London daily of repute for which at one time or another I -did not write. But still I could find no opening in Fleet -Street. The truth is, there is no regular means of finding -openings in Fleet Street<!-- TN: original reads "Strreet" -->. If an editor is in want of a -dramatic critic, a musical critic, a leader writer, or a descriptive -reporter, he never advertises for one. He always -knows someone who knows somebody else who is just the -man for the job.</p> - -<p>So one day I said to myself: “I will go to London at all -<a name="png.103" id="png.103" href="#png.103"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>103<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>costs. I will take a room in Bloomsbury and risk it.” -By a happy accident I received, a few days later, a note -from Rutland Boughton, the well-known composer, telling -me that he was relinquishing his post as musical critic of -<cite>The Daily Citizen</cite>, that ill-fated paper so courageously -edited by Frank Dilnot. Boughton suggested I should -apply for the vacancy. I did apply. I wrote to Dilnot -and received no answer. I chafed a fortnight and then -telegraphed, prepaying a reply. “No vacancy at -present” was the message I received. So I took the next -train to London and bearded Dilnot in his den. “Yes, -I’ll take you,” he said, “if you’ll come for two pounds a -week. But, if you’re the real stuff, you’ll receive much -more.” As I knew that I was, indeed, the real stuff, “I’ll -come,” said I. “When can I start?”</p> - -<p>I went back to Manchester and saw W. A. Ackland, the -managing editor of <cite>The Manchester Courier</cite> and the kindest -of men, expecting to receive from him a cold douche. But -no! To my amazement, he encouraged me most heartily, -and kept me on his staff, bidding me write a weekly article -for him from London. This I did till the outbreak of the -war, writing a lot of material also for his London letter.</p> - -<p>During my first year in London I made six hundred -and forty pounds. And I spent it. I spent it in eager -examination of, and participation in, the many activities -that the life of a great metropolis affords. Very soon—within -six months—I found myself in the happy position -of being able to refuse work that was offered me, for I did -not wish to work all my waking hours. I wanted to play. -I did play. I made many friendships. I talked a great -deal, played the piano two or three hours a day, caroused, -ragged in Chelsea, and lived every hour of my life.</p> - -<p>It may be thought that six hundred and forty pounds -per annum is no great sum. Nor is it. But does a doctor, -a barrister, a solicitor, or any other professional man earn -so much, without capital or influence, during his first year -<a name="png.104" id="png.104" href="#png.104"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>104<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>in London? Or in his second? Or third? Money-making -in Fleet Street up to about seven hundred and -fifty pounds a year is the easiest thing in the world for a -man who has any talent at all for writing, especially if that -talent be combined with versatility. The journalist is -rarely intellectual; as a rule, he is merely ready and glib. -I am ready and glib myself.</p> - -<p>So I am not among those who feel inclined to discourage -him who hankers after Fleet Street. No matter if you -live in the waste regions of Sutherland, if you have proved -yourself by inducing a number of editors of repute to take -your stuff, go in and win! Really, it is very easy.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>The men of Fleet Street are the best fellows in the world. -Roughly, they may be divided into two classes: those -who “go steady,” with their eye always on the main -chance, with every faculty strained to enable them to -“get on” in the world; and those happy-go-lucky people -who make money easily and spend it recklessly, so excited -by life that they cannot pause to contemplate life, so -happy in their labour and in their play that they cannot -conceive a day may come when work will be irksome and -playing a half-forgotten dream. There are, of course, -other divisions into which journalists may be separated. -There is, for example, the devoted band of brilliant young -men who work for Orage in <cite>The New Age</cite>—a paper that -cannot, I am sure, pay high rates. (What those rates are -I do not know, for I could never induce Orage to print a -single thing I wrote for him.) Then there are the hangers-on -of journalism: people who review books in the time -spared from their labours as university professors, -struggling barristers, parish priests and so on. Many of -these people, led by vanity or some other concealed -motive, offer to work without payment.</p> - -<p>The men who “go steady” are the editors, the leader-writers, -the news editors, the literary editors, etc. For -<a name="png.105" id="png.105" href="#png.105"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>105<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>the most part they are men who have to keep late hours -and clear heads, for important news may reach the office -at midnight and instant decisions regarding the policy -that the paper has to assume in regard to that news have -to be made. A great political speech may be made in -Edinburgh; a startling murder trial may close in Liverpool; -a famous man may die in Paris; a strike may -break out in the Potteries: in short, anything may -happen. What attitude is the paper going to take up? -What precise shade of opinion is going to be expressed -about that political speech? What is to be said about -the degree of justice that the workers in the Potteries can -claim for their action? These matters have to be decided -instantly, for they have to be written about instantly, and -perhaps you who read the leading article next morning -rarely stop to consider the conditions—the incredibly -difficult conditions—under which it has been written. -For this kind of work real, genuine ability is required: a -very wide and accurate knowledge of affairs, rapidity of -thought, a fluent and eloquent pen and a mind so sensitive -that it can, without effort, reflect to a nicety the precise -policy of the paper upon whose work it is engaged.</p> - -<p>There is a story, and I think the story is true, of a new -and inexperienced reporter who was given a trial on the -staff of a very famous “halfpenny” paper. He was not -a success, for he bungled everything that was given him -to do, and he had not an idea in his head concerning the -invention and manufacture of stunts. So he was tried as -a book-reviewer, and again failed miserably. They made -a sub-editor of him, and once more he was slow and inaccurate. -Said the news editor to the editor-in-chief: “I’m -afraid I shall have to get rid of Jones; he’s tried almost -everything and failed.” “Oh! has he?” returned the -editor-in-chief. “Well, put him on to writing leaders.”</p> - -<p>But even the halfpenny Press has, in recent years, come -to regard its leader columns as one of the most important -<a name="png.106" id="png.106" href="#png.106"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>106<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>parts of its papers. Of this kind of work I have had little -experience. A position as writer of “leaderettes” was -offered me on <cite>The Globe</cite>, but I was not a success, for I was -at the same time writing a great deal of stuff for <cite>The -Daily Citizen</cite>, and, as both papers were equally violent -in antagonistic political and social fields, I soon found -myself writing solidly and regularly against my own convictions. -It is true that a journalist, like a barrister, is -generally but a hireling paid to express certain views, -but there are few men so intellectually backboneless and -ethically flabby that they can, day after day, say both -yes and no to the various problems that face them.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I suppose there are few professions in which one learns -more about the seamy side of human nature than one does -in journalism. The one appalling vice of eminent men -is vanity. Musicians, actors, authors, politicians—even -judges and preachers—appear to be so constituted that -they cannot live and be happy without publicity. From -what source, do you think, originate those chatty little -paragraphs concerning famous men and women that you -find in every evening newspaper and in many weeklies? -They originate from the fountain-head. If the novelist -does not himself send the paragraph to the paper, his -publisher does; if the actor has not written that “snappy” -par., he has given his manager the material for it. At -one time I wrote a weekly column of theatrical gossip -for a well-known daily, and I can, without exaggeration, -say that most of our famous actors and actresses did my -work for me. I used scissors and paste, corrected their -grammatical errors (and mistakes in spelling!), coloured -the whole with my personality—and there the column was -ready for the printer! Sometimes I would receive letters -from notorious mimes expostulating with me because I -had not mentioned their names for a month or two. -Others wrote and thanked me for praising them. One -<a name="png.107" id="png.107" href="#png.107"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>107<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>lady whom I have never seen, either on the stage or off, -sent me a silver pencil-case, with a letter containing the -material for a very personal sketch. I put the pencil -in my pocket and the sketch in the newspaper. Quite -recently I was shown an article signed by a famous lady, -containing a bogus account of how she had received a -strange proposal of marriage. The article had been invented -and written by an acquaintance of mine, but the -signature was the lady’s.</p> - -<p>But more egregious than the vanity of actors is the -vanity of fashionable preachers. To them notoriety is -the very breath of their nostrils. They have no “agents,” -so they are compelled to advertise themselves without -camouflage. And they do it shamelessly. I will not -mention names, but at least half the fashionable preachers -in London, no matter what their denomination, are guilty -of constant and most resourceful self-advertisement. A -little, a very little, jesuitical reasoning is sufficient to satisfy -their consciences that this is done, not out of vanity, but -from a desire to bring a still larger congregation to -the fount of wisdom itself.... They are the fount of -wisdom.</p> - -<p>On only two occasions have I approached an author -with a request for an interview and been refused. But I -have taken care never to approach such men as Thomas -Hardy, John Galsworthy and a few others who regard -their profession with too much respect to lend themselves -to a practice which, at its best, is undignified, and which, -at its worst, is a method of mean self-glorification.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Of “ghosting” I have done a little and seen much. -I know well a very prosperous musical composer of talent -who has paid me to write many articles that he has signed -with his own name. You call me an accomplice? But -then it was nothing to me what he did with my articles -when I had written them. Believe me, the practice is -<a name="png.108" id="png.108" href="#png.108"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>108<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>very common. The man who signs the articles furnishes -the ideas: the ghost merely expresses them.</p> - -<p>The same musical composer was commissioned a few -years ago to write an orchestral work for an important -musical festival. We will call him Birket. Either Birket -was too busy to write the work or he felt he had not the -ability to do it; whatever the reason, he went to a friend -of mine—a man of far superior gifts to his more famous -colleague—and offered him a certain sum to do the work -for him. My friend—Foster will do for his name—consented, -and the work was duly performed at the festival, -conducted by Birket, and I attended in my capacity as -musical critic.</p> - -<p>How eminent men who are not writers do itch to see -themselves in print! It is not enough that their speeches -are reported, their paintings and musical compositions -criticised, their sentences recorded by every daily newspaper, -their acting, singing and what not lauded to the -skies: they must themselves write: or, if they cannot -write, it must appear to the public that they have written. -Why? Just vanity. That word “vanity” will explain -nine-tenths of the seemingly inexplicable things in the -conduct of most of our public men. A man accepts a -knighthood because, as a rule, he is vain; he refuses it -for the same reason; he advertises that he has refused -it because he is vain; and, because he is vain, he refuses -to advertise that he has refused it.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A great deal has been written about the romance of -Fleet Street. But romance is in a man’s mind and heart, -and it is true that many romantically minded men go to -Fleet Street. Fleet Street gives us a sense of importance, -a sense of too much importance. We like to feel that we -are powerful, but only a mere handful of men in The Street -have power that is worth while. What we of the rank and -file write is soon forgotten, for newspaper readers are, for -<a name="png.109" id="png.109" href="#png.109"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>109<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>the most part, people who devour print greedily, neither -masticating nor assimilating the things they devour. -Newspapers confuse the mind and bring it to a state of -drugged apathy. Did you ever meet a really voracious -reader of newspapers who possessed the gift of sifting and -weighing evidence, or one who had an accurate memory, -or one who could think clearly and logically, or one who -was not bewildered and befogged by mere words?</p> - -<p>But even if we men in Fleet Street have no real power, -we have what is much the same thing: we have the -illusion of power. We come into close contact with people -much more important than ourselves, and some of these -people fawn on us, for we are the necessary intermediaries -between themselves and the public.</p> - -<p>But romance? Why is Fleet Street romantic? Well, -as I have already said, it is because so many journalists -themselves are romantic.... But I wonder if that really -<em>is</em> the reason, and as I wonder I begin to think that though -it is true one meets adventurous, talented and original -people by the score in newspaper offices, yet, after all, -it is not they who make journalism seem full of savour, -of rich delight, of unexpectedness and excitement, of high -romance. No; it is writing itself that is romantic: mere -words and the colour and music of words; the smell of -printers’ ink; the wet feel of a paper fresh from the press; -the sounds of telephone bells and of machinery; the joy -of expressing oneself; the lovely, great joy of signing one’s -name to an article and knowing that in twenty-four hours -it will have been read or glanced at by perhaps half-a-million -people.... But it seems to me as I write that I -am utterly failing to communicate to you who read the -romantic nature of journalism. To you it is, perhaps, -merely a slipshod profession, a profession in which there -is something sordid and vulgar and as unromantic as -Monday morning. To me a man who writes with distinction -is the most interesting creature in the world: I -<a name="png.110" id="png.110" href="#png.110"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>110<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>cannot know too much about him; I can never tire -of his talk. Actors bore me. So do politicians, lawyers, -men of science, those who are professionally religious, -doctors, musicians. But writers and financiers—especially -Jewish financiers—are to me full of subtlety; their -souls are elusive, and their minds are cunning past all -reckoning. It is frequently said that the art of writing -is possessed by most people. The art of writing correctly -may be, but the “correct” writer is frequently not a -writer at all, for he cannot compel people to read him. A -writer without readers is not a writer; he is simply a man -who murmurs to himself very laboriously. But the writer -who can claim thousands of readers—I mean even such -writers as Mr Charles Garvice and the lady who invented -<cite>The Rosary</cite>—are in essentials more highly endowed with -the true writer’s gifts than many mandarins who live -cloistered in Oxford and Cambridge. And I say this in -spite of the fact that I have never been able to read more -than ten consecutive pages of any book of Mr Garvice’s -that I have picked up, and that <cite>The Rosary</cite> seems to me -a story of such amazing flapdoodleism <span class="nw">that——</span></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Arnold Bennett says somewhere that living in the -theatrical world is like living a story out of <cite>The Arabian -Nights</cite>. To me Fleet Street is more amazing than the -bazaars of Cairo, more mysterious than the hermaphroditic -Sphinx. And perhaps one of the most amazing -things about Fleet Street is the easy way in which many -men earn money.</p> - -<p>Some years ago I was on the staff of a paper where I -had for a colleague a dark blue-eyed young man who -was our crime specialist. He had just come from the -provinces, and had not even a rudimentary notion of how -to write. He knew he couldn’t write; he boasted of it. -And he cared nothing for newspapers or books or anything -even remotely connected with literature. But he had an -<a name="png.111" id="png.111" href="#png.111"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>111<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>amazing talent for sniffing out crime. I remember a -great jewel robbery which he got wind of half-a-day before -anyone else, and, in a way known only to himself, he -obtained full particulars of the affair, writing a half-column -“story” before any other paper in the kingdom -even knew there was a story to write. He entertained me -vastly, and I used to go with him sometimes at night -when he called at Scotland Yard for news. Scotland Yard -never gives away news unless it is in its own interest to do -so. But I am very much inclined to believe that it was -somewhere in Scotland Yard that he obtained his most -valuable information. We would walk down wide -corridors there together, sit ten minutes in a waiting-room, -interview an official who invariably said: “Nothing -doing to-night,” and come away. But that was quite -enough for my friend. “I must go to Poplar straight -away,” he would say, as we came away; or perhaps: “I -can just catch the last train to Guildford”; or “There is -nothing at all in the rumour of that murder in Battersea.” -I used to look at him in amazement and exclaim: “But -how do you <em>know</em>?” “Ah!” he would reply; “they -say that walls have ears. But much more frequently -they have tongues.”</p> - -<p>This man was paid three pounds a week by our editor. -Three times out of four he was ahead of every other paper -in his news, and I was not in the least surprised when one -day, after he had been in London only two months, he -came to me and said: “Next week I am leaving you. I -am going to <cite>The Morning Trumpet</cite>; they’re giving me -five hundred pounds a year.” Five months later he was -getting a thousand pounds a year from a paper that never -hesitates to pay handsomely for “stunts.”</p> - -<p>I caught fire from my friend’s enthusiasm, and late one -night, just when I had finished a long notice of a new play, -I overheard the night editor regretting to one of the sub-editors -that news of a particularly horrible murder in -<a name="png.112" id="png.112" href="#png.112"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>112<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Stepney had just reached the office when all the reporters -were out on duty. “Let me go!” I urged. “But you -are in evening dress,” he objected. “Never mind; send -me off.” And ten minutes later I was being rushed in a -taxi-cab at full speed to Stepney. I found the scene of -the murder—a mean little house in a mean little street. -Outside the house was a crowd of eager loafers, a score -of reporters, and as many policemen, who, refusing to be -bribed, kept us all in the street without news. However, -such was my enthusiasm that I alone of all the reporters -got into the house and into the cellar where the wretched -woman had been butchered to death three hours earlier. -I drew a hasty plan of the underground floor, interviewed -a sister of the murdered woman, obtained full particulars, -and then jumped into the taxi-cab to return to the office. -Within an hour of leaving my desk I was back again, and -in another twenty minutes I had ready as vivid and -thrilling a “story” as ever I hope to write. Knowing that -the paper was on the point of going to press, I did not, as -I ought to have done, hand my copy to one of the sub-editors, -but took it straight to the machines. Whilst -I was waiting for a proof, I was summoned to my editor’s -room. He was frowning, and he looked very much -perturbed.</p> - -<p>“By the merest chance, Cumberland,” he said, sternly, -“I have been the means of saving the paper from heavy -penalties for contempt of court.” He paused and bit his -lip. “I suppose you think your murder story a most -brilliant piece of work.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I certainly was under that impression, sir,” I -began, “but it would <span class="nw">seem——”</span></p> - -<p>“<em>Seem!</em>” he thundered. “You’ve got the facts, it’s -true, but then all my reporters have to get the facts. The -gross blunder you’ve made is, first of all, in saying that the -suspected man has spent practically all his life in prison—contempt -of court of the vilest description. Secondly, -<a name="png.113" id="png.113" href="#png.113"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>113<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>you’ve said——” He enumerated no fewer than five -blunders I had made. “But, worst of all,” he concluded, -“you took it upon yourself to give your copy direct to the -printers after midnight, thus breaking the strictest rule -of this office.”</p> - -<p>It was true. In my exciting enthusiasm I had forgotten -this Persian rule.</p> - -<p>“Fortunately, I came in just in time to stop your stuff. -You’d better, I think, confine yourself exclusively to -your dramatic criticism.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he offered me, two days later, ten pounds -a week to give up my dramatic criticism and general -articles (for which I was at that time getting only five -pounds) and devote myself to reporting—an offer which -I refused, as the work would have exhausted all my -time.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It was at about this time that the idea occurred to me -that a certain monthly magazine for which I had been -writing regularly might, if asked, pay me at a higher rate -than that which, till then, they had been giving me. So I -dressed myself very carefully (clothes <em>do</em> help, don’t they?) -and drove up to the office in a smart hansom.</p> - -<p>“I have called about my articles,” I began, rather -brusquely, to the editor, a scholarly man who knew far -more about Elizabethan literature than he did about -human nature. “I have found just lately that I am so -busy that I have resolved to give up some of my work. -Your magazine is one of those with which I am anxious -to retain my connection, partly because my relationship -with you has always been so pleasant.”</p> - -<p>And I stopped. It is not everyone who knows the -right place at which to stop in conversations of this kind. -“My relationship with you has always been so pleasant” -was, most indubitably, the right place.</p> - -<p>He tried to force me into further talk by remaining -<a name="png.114" id="png.114" href="#png.114"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>114<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>silent himself. A clock ticked: a clock always does -tick on these occasions. He coughed. I looked steadily -towards the window. For a full minute there must have -been silence: to me it seemed an hour; to him I have -no doubt it seemed eternity.</p> - -<p>“I think, Mr Cumberland, we shall be able to come -to a satisfactory arrangement,” he said, when eternity -had passed. “What do you say to such-and-such an -amount?”</p> - -<p>And he staggered me by mentioning a sum exactly -treble the amount I had been receiving for the last two -years.</p> - -<p>As I walked into the Strand, I felt a mean and disagreeable -bargain-driver, but after I had lunched at -Simpson’s, I said to myself: “What a fool you were not -to go to see him twelve months ago!”</p> - -<p>But though many people equally as obscure as myself -earn a thousand pounds a year by their pens, you must -not imagine that all the men who are famous writers do -likewise. By no means always does it happen that a man -combines literary genius and the power of earning money, -and there are many men rightly honoured in our own day -whose earnings do not involve them in the payment of -income tax. The faculty of making money, no matter -whether it is made out of the sale of pills or poems, tripe -or tragedies, is innate. No man by taking thought can -add a thousand pounds a year to his income, for money -is not made by thought but by intuition.</p> - -<p>I know a man in Chelsea who earns fifteen hundred -pounds a year by writing what, in my schoolboy days, -we called (and perhaps they are still called) “bloods.” -He knocks off a cool five thousand words a day every day -for three weeks, and then takes a week’s holiday—boys’ -“bloods,” servant-girls’ novelettes, children’s fairy tales -and newspaper serials. He is a cheerful, energetic man, -whose hobbies are bull-dogs and Shakespeare, and he has -<a name="png.115" id="png.115" href="#png.115"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>115<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>five different pen-names. For the matter of that, I use -three different pseudonyms, my reason for doing this being -that the editor of <cite>The Spectator</cite>, say, might not accept my -work if he knew I was writing at the same time for <cite>The -English Review</cite> (I have written for both publications), -and I am doubtful if <cite>The Morning Post</cite> would have printed -a single word of mine if the editor had been aware that I -was having a thousand words a day printed in <cite>The Daily -Citizen</cite>. Some editors like what they call “versatility -of thought,” others (I think rightly) distrust it.</p> - -<p>But I can very well believe that this gossip about money -appears to you very sordid. Well, so it is. My final -paragraph shall not be permitted to mention, or even hint -at, hard cash.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Once again I return to my statement that Fleet Street -is romantic because many of the people in it are romantic. -But what is a romantic person? Alas! I cannot define -one. Perhaps a romantic person is he whose soul is -mysterious and elusive and whose mind is perturbed and -exalted by a poetic vision of life. He must care little for -the things that Mr Samuel Smiles and the “get on or -get out” school value so much.... No. That will not -do at all, for a great many men and women who have -cared a great deal for money and worldly power were -romantic. Nero, for example, and Cleopatra, and Shakespeare, -and Queen Elizabeth, and Lord <span class="nw">Verulam——</span></p> - -<p>But though a romantic man may be difficult to define, -he is very easy to recognise. Ivan Heald was incorrigibly -romantic. But perhaps the most romantically minded -man I met in Fleet Street was the journalist who went with -me to Athens in the very early spring of 1914. He had -no right in Fleet Street, for he was essentially a man who -preferred to do things rather than write about them. But -half the men in London journalism have drifted there -not so much because they have a natural aptitude for the -<a name="png.116" id="png.116" href="#png.116"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>116<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>work but because they are born adventurers, and the -great adventure of Fleet Street is bound to cross the path -of most roving men one day or another.</p> - -<p>Years ago there lived in London a man who wrote books -and magazine stories under the name of Julian Croskey. -He had been in the Civil Service in Shanghai, had helped -to finance and organise a rebellion, and had been turned -out of China, whence he came to England to write. In -1901 I began a correspondence with Croskey, who, in the -meantime, had gone to Canada and was living alone on a -river island. Though we corresponded for years, we never -met, and after a time his letters began to show signs of -megalomania. But there was such genius in his letters, -such brooding energy, such hate of life, and, at times, such -an uncanny suggestion of terrific power, that I treasured -every word he wrote to me, and, when his letters ceased, -something vital and something almost necessary to me -passed out of my life. I do not like to believe that he -ceased writing to me because I no longer interested him. -I hope he still lives. I hope he will read this book. Some -day his letters must be published, for they constitute a -problem in psychology at once fascinating, mysterious and -demonic. And this man whom I never met remains to -me the most romantic of all men I have met in the spirit.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter X: Hall Caine"><a name="png.117" id="png.117" href="#png.117"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>117<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER X<br - />HALL CAINE</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">My</span> acquaintance with Hall Caine began in a semi-professional -way. Whilst still a schoolboy, I -was commissioned by <cite>Tit-Bits</cite> to write a three-column -interview with him. I wrote to the novelist for -an interview. Perhaps the rawness of my letter aroused -the suspicion that I was too young to write adequately -about him even in a paper of the standing of <cite>Tit-Bits</cite>; -at all events he refused the interview, but very kindly said -that, if I was contemplating a visit to the Isle of Man, he -would be pleased if I would call on and lunch with him as -an unprofessional visitor. At that time, being young and -ardent, I was a young and ardent admirer of his, and I -believe I told him so in my letter that requested the -interview.</p> - -<p>If I went to him as an admirer I came away from that -first visit to Greeba Castle a worshipper. In those days -he was (but he still is!) an astounding personality. He -came into the room quietly and, having shaken hands and -sat down by my side, said: “An exquisite day for your -walk from St John’s.” So impressively was this spoken, -and there was such a fire in his eyes as he said it, such a -weight of meaning in his manner, that I felt as though -something secret and wonderful had been revealed to me. -I wanted to say: “How true!” What I did say was: -“Yes; isn’t it?” He asked me a few questions about -myself and then spoke about general matters. He probably -said quite trivial, kindly things, but at the time they -<a name="png.118" id="png.118" href="#png.118"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>118<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>were uttered, and for a little while afterwards, they -seemed rich and full of wisdom.</p> - -<p>After lunch he showed me the MSS. of some of his books. -I remember the MS. of <cite>The Bondman</cite>. It was written in -a small, curiously artistic handwriting on half sheets of -notepaper, which had been pasted on to much larger -sheets handsomely bound. I handled the book as reverently -as the young ladies of early days caressed the pages -of the great Martin Tupper. There were many “blots” -in the MS.—many alterations, excisions and additions, -and it was clear, even from a cursory examination, that -Mr Hall Caine was a hard and conscientious worker. -Upon this and other books he left me to browse for an -hour whilst he went to receive other callers—all of them -strangers to him—who were just arriving.</p> - -<p>Some of those visitors, as I discovered later, were a -rather extraordinary crew: men and women from Lancashire -and Yorkshire: I mean <em>absolutely</em> from Lancashire -and Yorkshire: men and women who had made a little -money and who had unbounded respect for people who -had made a little more: men and women who were sound -and good, but not quite educated and who were either like -fish out of water, gasping and floundering spasmodically, -or positively frightfully at their ease. I recollect a tall -and handsome lady who prodded everything with a green -parasol, and two men who, not too furtively, made -elaborate efforts to estimate the amount of the author’s -income.</p> - -<p>We had tea on a terrace in the grounds and in the -evening I was driven back to St John’s, all the other callers -returning to Douglas.</p> - -<p>The impression left by Mr Hall Caine’s personality on -my mind by that and many subsequent visits was overwhelming. -He was vivid, alive, and full of smouldering -fires; short and vehement; his eyes were large and -bright; his voice beautiful and capable of a thousand -<a name="png.119" id="png.119" href="#png.119"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>119<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>inflections—an actor’s voice; his temperament also an -actor’s; his point of view an actor’s. But he never did -act; invariably he was tragically (and, I must add, sometimes -pathetically) sincere. He had humour, but he -could not laugh at himself. His dress was eccentric; he -wore a flapping hat, breeches and a jacket made of thick, -everlasting, hand-made cloth. A big tie bulged and -billowed somewhere about his neck. He told me on one -occasion that chars-à-bancs full of trippers from Douglas -continually passed along the Douglas-Peel road and that -when the trippers caught a sight of him they would sometimes -hail him with cries of derision and shouts of laughter.</p> - -<p>“At those moments,” he said, “I am always most -dignified. I raise my hat to them and bow and their -laughter immediately ceases.”</p> - -<p>That I could well believe, for there is something commanding -in his personality, something well calculated to -quell insolence.</p> - -<p>A desultory correspondence and a few casual visits -followed during the next three or four years, and when I -was in my very early twenties I persuaded Messrs Greening -& Company to invite me to write a book on Hall Caine for -a popular series (<cite>English Writers of To-day</cite>, it was called) -they were at that time issuing. Mr Caine, upon being -approached by me, put no hindrance in my way, but, on -the contrary, consented to give me some assistance in the -way of providing me with information and a few letters -received by him from eminent men. I spent several -week-ends at Greeba Castle and found in Mrs Caine, -always charming and ideally gifted with tact, a delightful -hostess. My book was quickly written. It was a feeble, -bombastic and ridiculous performance. A friend of mine -(I thought he was an enemy) called it “a prolonged -diarrhœa of the emotions.” In this book Hall Caine took -a very kindly interest, and he provided me with autograph -letters written by Ruskin, Blackmore, T. E. Brown and -<a name="png.120" id="png.120" href="#png.120"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>120<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Gladstone to insert in my book. But I was, of course, -the sole author of the work, and Mr Caine had nothing to -do with it save to put me right on matters of fact and to -tone down some of my exuberant and sentimental praise. -The silly volume, because of its subject, attracted a good -deal of attention, both in this country and in America, -though it was not published in the States. <cite>The Philadelphia -Daily Eagle</cite>, for example, on the day the book was -published, printed a eulogistic cablegram review of it -from London. But, for the most part, my monograph -was mercilessly slated. Hall Caine, in addition, was -abused for consenting to be the subject of it, and I was -abused for having chosen him for my subject. One paper -headed its review “Raising Caine.”</p> - -<p>The truth is, at this time (1901) Mr Hall Caine, though -extraordinarily popular with the public, was not much -liked by a certain section of the Press. His success was -envied by some, perhaps; his recognition of his own worth -was fiercely and almost universally resented; and his -almost unconscious habit of advertising himself—though -he did not indulge this habit more than most popular -novelists—could not be tolerated. Mr Caine used frequently -to deplore his only too palpable unpopularity -with the Press, and once or twice he asked me to explain -it. His own theory was that he had a few powerful -enemies who took advantage of every occasion to disseminate -lies about him, but who these enemies were he -never stated. As a matter of fact, he occasionally said -injudicious things to reporters which, in cold print, -appeared not only self-satisfied but vainglorious. A -long and very well written article by Mr Robert H. Sherard, in (I believe) <cite>The Daily Telegraph</cite> caused him a -good deal of anxiety.</p> - -<p>Not often does one find a man of Hall Caine’s very -special gifts endowed with the abilities of a financier. He -is as quick and as clever at driving a bargain as a -<a name="png.121" id="png.121" href="#png.121"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>121<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Lancashire or Yorkshire mill-owner. There have always been -and, I suppose, always will be a large percentage of writers -who are constitutionally incapable of looking after their -own affairs; they can produce, but they cannot sell. -Mr Hall Caine does not belong to these. He, more than -any man, contributed to the breakdown of the three-volume -novel system. It was he who helped to formulate -the Canadian Copyright Laws. With the assistance of -Major Pond (who in these days remembers the great Major -Pond?) he made tens of thousands of dollars by lecturing -to the Americans. He had the acumen and the courage to -issue one of his longest novels in two volumes at two -shillings net each. He was the first eminent novelist to -make a practice of publishing his works in the middle -of the August holidays—the supposed “dead” season in -the publishing world. He has bought farms in the Isle -of Man and made them pay. He has had commercial -interests in seaside boarding-houses and has shown a bold -but wise enterprise in many of his investments. In other -words he has, to his honour, continually exhibited abilities -that not one artist in a hundred possesses.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have rarely seen Hall Caine in a light-hearted mood, -but I have been with him in more than one hour of black -depression.</p> - -<p>Vividly do I remember spending a few days at Greeba -Castle shortly after the time when the publication of a -story of his, that was running serially in a ladies’ paper, -was suddenly and dramatically stopped by the editor of -that paper on the score of its alleged immorality. The -story was about to be produced in book form and, of -course, the editor’s action had provided a fine advertisement; -this fact, however, did not appear to console the -novelist in the least. The most sensitive of men, he was -crushed by this very public charge of writing immoral -literature.</p> - -<p><a name="png.122" id="png.122" href="#png.122"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>122<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>For myself, when he told me all the circumstances, I -merely laughed. He glanced at me sideways.</p> - -<p>“You are amused?” he asked. “I wonder why.”</p> - -<p>“Because you are allowing yourself to be made miserable -by a most trivial event.”</p> - -<p>“You call it trivial that the whole world should think -me a man of immoral mind?”</p> - -<p>“The whole world? Why, the world doesn’t trouble -itself about the matter in the least. Only one man accuses -you of immoral writings; that man is the editor of the -paper. What on earth does his opinion matter to -you?”</p> - -<p>“But his opinion will be widely read and will be widely -believed.”</p> - -<p>“Will be believed, you should have added, by people -who allow another man to form their opinions for them. -What do <em>they</em> matter?”</p> - -<p>He sighed.</p> - -<p>“But they <em>do</em> matter,” said he, rather forlornly. “I -hate to think of people out there”—he waved a vague -arm in the direction of the kitchen garden—“thinking -evil thoughts and saying evil things of me.”</p> - -<p>“‘They say. What do they say? Let them say,’” -I quoted.</p> - -<p>We paced up and down the terrace, his eyes fixed on the -ground. At length:</p> - -<p>“I wonder what you would think of the chapter in -question,” he said musingly. “You have read the story -as far as it has been printed. Well, I will give you the -final chapters to read.”</p> - -<p>We went to his room and he handed me a few pages of -printed copy. I read them.</p> - -<p>“Well?” inquired he, when I had finished.</p> - -<p>“It is passionate, it is sexual,” said I, “but to call it -immoral is to call black white.”</p> - -<p>“You really believe that?” he asked, a little anxiously.</p> - -<p><a name="png.123" id="png.123" href="#png.123"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>123<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“I do. I assure you I do.”</p> - -<p>But the black cloud of self-distrust and misery -would not be dissipated, and that night, after dinner, -we sat over a slow fire, though it was early in -August, and talked long and rather sadly of Rossetti, -of T. E. Brown and of things that had been said by -Peel fishermen.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Another occasion, when I was with the novelist on a -day of some anxiety, is equally clear in my memory. I -may say at this point that Hall Caine was invariably in a -condition of some mental strain a few days before and -after the publication of one of his stories. He was a little -apprehensive of the reviewers, and he was always afraid -lest the public should not remain faithful to him. In this -connection I remember him saying to me once: “I can -imagine no fate more tragic than for a novelist at middle -age, when he believes his powers to be at their highest, -to lose his hold upon his public.”</p> - -<p>He would, I think, deny that he cares what the reviewers -may say; nevertheless, my experience of him tells me -that he does care. In his early life as a novelist he was, -perhaps, overpraised; certainly he but very rarely felt -the lash of the critic’s whip. So that when the critics -began to condemn the work of the man they had once -praised, he was not disciplined to bear their condemnation -philosophically. Every taunt wounded him, every thrust -went home, every sneer was a stab.</p> - -<p>But on the occasion about which I am now writing he -was not depressed so much in anticipation of what the -reviewers might say as on account of the competition of -another novel which had been issued a few days previous -to the date fixed for the publication of a new book of his -own. That novel was Lucas Malet’s <cite>The History of Sir -Richard Calmady</cite>, published, if my memory does not -betray me, by Messrs Methuen.</p> - -<p><a name="png.124" id="png.124" href="#png.124"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>124<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>The first question he asked me one morning before -breakfast was:</p> - -<p>“Have you read <cite>Sir Richard Calmady</cite>?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Well?” exclaimed he, a little impatiently, “well, -what do you think of it?”</p> - -<p>“An amazingly clever performance, but very horrible.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it?” he cried eagerly. “Horrible! -Ghastly! And yet, they tell me, people are reading it.”</p> - -<p>“Partly for that reason, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“But the public, the people, the great reading public—surely -they will not respond to the appeal of a book of that -nature?”</p> - -<p>“The public, you must remember, has many hearts; -it may well give one to Sir Richard Calmady.”</p> - -<p>“But <em>my</em> public?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; even your public.”</p> - -<p>He brooded a little.</p> - -<p>“I am told that Lucas Malet’s publishers believe in the -book,” he said, after a longish pause, “and are prepared -to spend a small fortune in pushing it. And that, of -course, means that it will interfere with, and perhaps -seriously injure, the sales of my own story. But it seems -to me that the public—the <em>real</em> public—will never read a -novel that has for its chief attraction a man with no legs.”</p> - -<p>I suggested that he should postpone the publication of -his book until the rage for <cite>Sir Richard Calmady</cite> had died -down. But no! This would not suit him. He must -catch the real holiday season at its full tide. August was -the best month in the year, and the first week the best -week in the month, and the fifth day the best day of the -week.</p> - -<p>Hall Caine always shows great perspicacity in selecting -the date of publication for his books; he will never allow -it to synchronise with any other big event. Moreover, his -book must be born to an expectant world; it must be well -<a name="png.125" id="png.125" href="#png.125"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>125<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>advertised beforehand. Unlike other writers, he does not -work hard at a book, finish it and then hand it over to a -publisher to deal with more or less as he thinks fit. In a -sense, he is his own publisher, and as a rule he interests -himself in the sale of a new work of his own, in its distribution, -its printing and binding, etc., as much as the -actual publisher himself.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It used to be a popular belief—but Arnold Bennett has -done much to kill it—that an author laughs and cries with -the creatures of his imagination, that he lives and dreams -with them, and that when his book is finished, and the time -comes for him to part from them, he does so with pain that -is little short of anguish. So far as most authors are concerned, -this is exactly opposite to the real facts. Before -an author is half-way through his novel he is heartily sick -of his characters; his beautiful heroine is an unmitigated -nuisance and his hero an incredible bore. He is only too -thankful to reach the end of the last chapter and leave his -puppets for ever.</p> - -<p>But this is not so with Hall Caine. His novels, as you -know, do not err on the side of brevity, and though it is -possible you may tire of his heroine, you may be absolutely -certain that her creator never does. To this novelist the -creatures of his imagination are, in one sense, more real -than the material beings around him. He is wholly -dominated by his imagination. His brain is peopled by -creatures of his own fancy. His emotions are engaged on -behalf of people who do not exist. His consciousness is -confined to the little world he has created for himself and -he is saturated with and submerged by fancies that his -imagination has bred.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget coming across him early one morning -in the little shaded footway that winds among trees in the -castle grounds to the main drive. His eyes were dim, and -he had not perfect control of his voice.</p> - -<p><a name="png.126" id="png.126" href="#png.126"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>126<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“I have been finishing my book,” he said, referring to -<cite>The Eternal City</cite>, “and I wept as I wrote.”</p> - -<p>I have been with him on several occasions when he has -been finishing his books, and I have always found him in -alternating moods of exhaustion and emotional excitement. -Whatever else may be charged against him, it -cannot with truth be said that he does not put his whole -soul into his work.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>As a man he is the most loyal of friends and the most -loyal of enemies. He can hate bitterly. I have heard him -eloquent in his hate. I have heard him hate W. T. Stead -and Frank Harris, and nothing could have exceeded his -bitterness. But he does not nurse his hatred, and he is a -man quick to forgive.</p> - -<p>I cannot close this chapter without a word concerning -his generosity. By “generosity” I do not mean only -that he is free with money, but that he will give his time, -the work of his brain, his advice and even himself for any -good cause and for any man in need. To struggling -authors he is the very soul of generosity. He struggled -himself. Born on a coal barge in Runcorn, largely self-educated, -having experienced the anxiety of straitened -means and hope deferred, he has known intimately the -hardships of life, and will do all in his power to shield others -from them. On several occasions I have met people—mostly -young men—who have come to him for help and -advice in beginning a literary career. He is never -extravagant in his praise of their work, but if he finds -merit in it he is always warmly encouraging. Years -before I met him face to face, when I was a boy of fourteen, -I sent him a long poem I had written in the Spenserian stanza, -and the first letters I received from him -were careful and most helpful criticisms of this juvenile -literary effort. I had written to him as an entire stranger -and without any introduction whatever. In my youth -<a name="png.127" id="png.127" href="#png.127"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>127<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and egotism I had taken his replies as a matter of course; -it was only later that I recognised the most kindly spirit -that prompted a busy and often harassed man to give his -time and energy to a boy whose work can have had very -little to recommend it.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XI: More Writers"><a name="png.128" id="png.128" href="#png.128"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>128<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XI<br - />MORE WRITERS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Rev. T. E. Brown—A. R. Orage—Norman Angell—St John Ervine—Charles -Marriott—Max Beerbohm—Israel Zangwill—Alphonse -Courlander—Ivan Heald—Dixon Scott—Barry -Pain—Cunninghame Graham</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">I wonder</span> how many readers turn nowadays to -the poetical works of Thomas Edward Brown, the -Manx poet. Not a great number, I think. Indeed, -I doubt if he ever had a large audience, though he had the -power of exciting almost unlimited enthusiasm in the -breasts of those whom he did attract. He was praised -whole-heartedly by George Eliot, George Meredith, -W. E. Henley and other famous writers, and the publication -of his Letters a year or two after his death made a -great stir.</p> - -<p>In my boyhood’s days I was one of Brown’s most -devoted disciples. He had a charming trick of infusing -scholarship with the real “stuff” of humanity, that appealed -to me irresistibly, and I liked the honest sensuality -of his <cite>Roman Women</cite> and the pathos of such poems as -<cite>Aber Stations</cite> and <cite>Epistola ad Dakyns</cite>. Perhaps I could -not read his poems now, for, truth to tell, they “gush” -almost indecently. However, he remains the most -distinguished literary figure that the little Isle of Man -has produced, and two or three of his lyrics will persist -far into the future.</p> - -<p>I met him at Greeba Castle, Mr Hall Caine’s Manx -residence, when I was still a schoolboy. It was just a -few months before Brown’s death, and a rather sad -incident marked his visit to Hall Caine.</p> - -<p><a name="png.129" id="png.129" href="#png.129"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>129<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>We were at lunch when he arrived: a rather solemn -lunch: a lunch at which the guests were ill assorted. A -ponderous scholar from Scotland insisted upon discussing -the authorship of Homer—a subject about which our -host evidently knew little and cared less. In the middle -of a rather painful silence, Brown was ushered into the -dining-room; he was carrying a little book of Laurence -Binyon’s that had just been published. His burly figure, -his genial face, his ready tongue soon lifted us out of the -atmosphere of black boredom that had settled upon us. -In five minutes he had disposed of the Scottish scholar, -had drunk a whisky and soda, and had combated Hall -Caine’s opinion that Binyon “had entirely missed the -point” in one of the poems he (Binyon) had written.</p> - -<p>All afternoon we talked. Brown had come all the way -from Ramsey (some twenty-four miles, four of which had -to be walked) to spend a few hours with his friend, and, -as he was a man greedy of enjoyment, not a single moment -was wasted. It soon appeared that Brown was a great -admirer of Hall Caine’s—it should be mentioned that Mr Caine had not then written <cite>The Prodigal Son</cite> or <cite>The -Eternal City</cite>—and the novelist basked in the tactful praise -that was bestowed upon him.</p> - -<p>As we were talking, a servant came with the news that -eleven Americans had arrived and had been shown into -the library. Hall Caine left the room to give them tea. -An hour later, he came back, exhausted but not displeased.</p> - -<p>“One of the penalties of fame,” he said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“But you are not the only one who suffers from your -own fame,” observed Brown. “I am constantly besieged -by American journalists, who come to me for private -information about yourself. A very persistent lady from -New York came only the other day and wished to know -if you were educated.”</p> - -<p>Hall Caine laughed.</p> - -<p>“What did you say?” he asked.</p> - -<p><a name="png.130" id="png.130" href="#png.130"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>130<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Well, I asked her what she meant by ‘education,’ -and she replied: ‘Is he at all like Matthew Arnold?’”</p> - -<p>Towards evening, Brown departed.</p> - -<p>Next morning, a note arrived from him, evidently -written immediately on his return home the previous -evening. The note expressed the writer’s regret that he -had been unable to visit Greeba Castle that day; he had -fully intended coming, but had been prevented at the -last moment. This letter disturbed Hall Caine enormously.</p> - -<p>“His mind is going,” he said; “I have noticed several -other signs of vanishing memory, if not of something worse, -during the last few months.”</p> - -<p>There was, indeed, I have always thought, a streak of -morbid eccentricity in Brown’s intellectual make-up. A -careful reader of his letters will notice many moods of -fierce exaltation engendered by wholly inadequate and -inexplicable causes. His sudden death was perhaps a -blessing in disguise.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>There are in London two or three men, not known -to the general public, whose influence on modern thought -is most profound and most disturbing. Of these men -A. R. Orage, the editor of <cite>The New Age</cite>, is quite the most -distinguished. What circulation his paper enjoys, I do -not know; it cannot be large; probably it is not more -than two or three thousand; perhaps it is not even so -much as that. But the men and women who read it are -men and women who count—people who welcome daring -and original thought, who hold important positions in the -civic, social, political and artistic worlds, and who eagerly -disseminate the seeds of thought they pick up from the -study of <cite>The New Age</cite>. Tens of thousands of people have -been influenced by this paper who have never even -heard its name. It does not educate the masses directly: -it reaches them through the medium of its few but -exceedingly able readers.</p> - -<p><a name="png.131" id="png.131" href="#png.131"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>131<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a><cite>The New Age</cite> is professedly a Socialist organ, but the -promulgation of socialistic doctrines is only a part of -its policy and work. Its literary, artistic and musical -criticism is the sanest, the bravest and the most brilliant -that can be read in England. It reverences neither power -nor reputation; it is subtle and unsparing; and, if it is -sometimes cruel, it is cruel with a purpose. All sleek -money-makers in Art have reason to fear Orage, for his -rapier wit may at any moment glance and slide between -their ribs and release the hot air that is at once the -inspiration and the material of all their works.</p> - -<p>Orage has more than a touch of genius. It was -Baudelaire (wasn’t it?) who said that genius was the -power to look upon the world with the eyes of a child. -Well, Orage has the all-seeing, non-rejecting eyes of -a child. He has also the eternal spirit of youth. One -cannot imagine him growing old. Perhaps his most -interesting characteristic is his power of attracting and -holding friends; he is the most hero-worshipped of men. -Having once given his friendship, however, he exacts -the utmost loyalty; treachery is the one sin that can -never be forgiven.</p> - -<p>I knew Orage years ago, when he was still in Leeds -teaching the young idea how to shoot. He was then a -prominent member of the Theosophical Society and -lectured a good deal—and rather dangerously, I think—on -Nietzsche. His gospel, always preached with his -tongue in his cheek, that every man and woman should -do precisely what he or she desires, acted like heady wine -on the gasping and enthusiastic young ladies who used to -sit in rows worshipping him. They wanted to do all -kinds of terrible things, and as Orage, backed by “that -great German,” Nietzsche, had sanctioned their most -secret desires, they were resolved to begin at once their -career of licence. They used to “stay behind” when the -lectures were over, and question Orage with their lips and -<a name="png.132" id="png.132" href="#png.132"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>132<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>invite him with their eyes, and it used to be most amusing -and a little pathetic to listen to the gay and half-veiled -insults with which Orage at once thwarted and bewildered -his silly devotees.</p> - -<p>He had in those days a wonderful gift of talking a -most divine nonsense—a spurious wisdom that ran closely -along the border-line of rank absurdity. The “cosmic -consciousness” of Walt Whitman was a great theme of -his, and Orage, in his subtle, devilishly clever way, would -lead his listeners on to the very threshold of occult -knowledge—and leave them there, wide-eyed and wonder-struck.</p> - -<p>I have never known an editor more jealous of the reputation -of his paper than Orage is of <cite>The New Age</cite>. No consideration -of friendship would induce him to print a dull -article, however sound, and when one of his contributors -becomes sententious, or slack, or banal—out he goes, -neck and crop. Among the contributors to <cite>The New Age</cite> -I remember writers as different in mental calibre as John -Davidson and Edward Carpenter, Frank Harris and Cecil -Chesterton, Arnold Bennett and Janet Achurch. These -and scores of equally distinguished people have written for -Orage. Why? For money? Well, scarcely; <cite>The New -Age’s</cite> rates of pay must be very modest. For what, then? -They have written because in <cite>The New Age</cite> they can tell -the unadulterated truth and because they are proud to -see their work in that paper.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>To many people Norman Angell is a rather sinister -figure, and the people who attack him most violently -to-day are precisely those who praised him most when he -wrote his first book. He has been overpraised and spoilt. -His intellectual attainments are not greatly above the -average, and his thinking is not always honest. In the -early days of the war it used to be amusing to see -him working among his spectacled and yellow-skinned -<a name="png.133" id="png.133" href="#png.133"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>133<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>assistants; he was small but magisterial, and he was -always tucking sheets of foolscap into long envelopes -and looking very important as he did so. I really believe -that in those days of August, 1914, he had a vague idea -that he and his helpers could stop the war at any moment -they chose. Certainly, he was very cross with the war. -Europe was behaving in her old, mad way without having -previously consulted him.</p> - -<p>“But it will soon be over,” he assured me. “You -<span class="nw">see——”</span></p> - -<p>He stopped and waved his hand vaguely in the direction -of a typewriter, smothered in documents.</p> - -<p>“Quite,” said I uncomprehendingly. “You mean——?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; that’s it. Exhaustion. It can’t go on for ever. -It must stop some time.”</p> - -<p>A smile that came from nowhere straggled into his face. -I felt vaguely discomfited.</p> - -<p>“You see, we are hard at it,” he said, and, as he -spoke, be indicated a pale, ill-shaven youth who was -wandering aimlessly about the office, his hands full of -papers.</p> - -<p>A queer little chap, Angell. Very much in earnest, of -course, very sure of himself, very pushing, very “idealistic.”</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>St John Ervine is a writer who already counts for much -but who, a few years hence, will count for a good deal -more. He is by way of being a protégé of Bernard Shaw, -and earnest young Fabians have already learned to -reverence him.</p> - -<p>We worked together on <cite>The Daily Citizen</cite>, he being -dramatic critic. He was not enormously popular with -the rest of the staff, for he was very “high-brow”; his -face was smooth, sleek and superior, and he had a habit of -being friendly with a man one day and scarcely recognising -him the next. My own relations with him were of the -most disagreeable. A play of his was given at the Court -<a name="png.134" id="png.134" href="#png.134"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>134<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Theatre, and I was sent to criticise it. I did criticise it: -the play was ugly, clever and sordid.</p> - -<p>“But,” protested Ervine, pale with vexation, the next -time he met me, “but you have entirely misunderstood -my play. You can’t have stayed till the end.”</p> - -<p>“It was very painful for me, Ervine,” said I, “but I -really did stick it out to the finish. Why do you young -fellows write so depressingly? You look happy enough, -<span class="nw">Ervine——”</span></p> - -<p>“The close of my play is the part that matters. Bernard -Shaw said <span class="nw">so....”</span></p> - -<p>We parted: he, with a look of successful hauteur; I, -broken and crushed.</p> - -<p>A week or so later I met him at one of Herbert Hughes’s -jolly Sunday evenings in Chelsea.</p> - -<p>“You know Gerald Cumberland, of course,” said someone -who was introducing him to people.</p> - -<p>He drew himself up with great dignity and stared at me -through his pince-nez.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said he, “yes, I believe we <em>have</em> met before -somewhere. Where was it, Mr ... er ... Cumberland?”</p> - -<p>Shortly after, he left <cite>The Daily Citizen</cite>, and I was given -the position which he had occupied with so much conscious -distinction. I somehow think that when the war is over -and we meet, he will not know me. Ervine is very much -like that.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Fifteen years is a long time in the literary world, and -Charles Marriott’s <cite>The Column</cite>, which threw everybody -into fever-heat somewhere about 1902, is, I suppose, -forgotten. It was a “first” novel. Uncritical Ouida -loved it; W. E. Henley unbent and wrote a Meredithian -letter to its author; W. L. Courtney seized some of his -short stories for <cite>The Fortnightly Review</cite>; and I suppose -(though I really don’t know this) <cite>The Spectator</cite> wrote five -lines of disapproval. It was a brilliant book; fresh, -<a name="png.135" id="png.135" href="#png.135"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>135<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>original, provocative. It promised a lot: it promised too -much; the author has since written many distinguished -books, but none of them is as good as <cite>The Column</cite> said -they would be.</p> - -<p>Marriott was living at Lamorna, a tiny cove in Cornwall, -when I first knew him. He was tall, lantern-jawed and -spectacled. He was interested in everything, but it -appeared to me even then that he was a little inhuman. -He lacked vulgarity; rude things repelled him enormously, -unnaturally; he had no literary delight—or else his -delight was too literary: I don’t know—in coarseness. -Fastidious to the finger-tips, he would rather go without -dinner than split an infinitive. Since those days Marriott -has gone on refining himself until there is very little -Marriott left. Even the longest and the thickest pencil -may be sharpened too frequently.</p> - -<p>Many years after I met him at an exhibition of pictures -in Bond Street. He was then almost old, tired, preoccupied. -He is quite the last man to be a journalist; -his art criticism is wonderfully fine, but a life standing on -the polished floors of galleries between Bond Street and -Leicester Square is soul-corroding and heart-breaking. -Marriott’s mind no longer darts and leaps. It moves -gently, very gently.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Max Beerbohm is not so witty in conversation as one -might expect. On the spur of the moment he has little -verbal readiness; his mind is purely literary. He bears -no resemblance to his late brother, Sir Herbert Beerbohm -Tree, one of the cleverest conversationalists I have ever -met.</p> - -<p>A short, mild and debonair figure received me one May -afternoon in a house which, if not in Cavendish Square, -was somewhere in its neighbourhood. In my later -schoolboy days Max was very much cultivated by those -of the younger generation who liked to think themselves -<a name="png.136" id="png.136" href="#png.136"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>136<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>enormously in the swim. We used to “collect” Max -Beerbohm’s—not his caricatures, for they were far and -away beyond our means; but his articles. I remember -a rather startling article of his in <cite>The Yellow Book</cite> which -I had bound in lizard-skin, and a friend of mine had all -Max’s <cite>Saturday Review</cite> articles beautifully typewritten -on thick yellow paper and bound in scarlet cardboard. -Max was precious, Max was deliciously impertinent, Max -was too frightfully clever for words.</p> - -<p>When I called upon him four or five years ago I had, -I need scarcely say, long outgrown my early infatuation, -for he had begun to “date,” and was safely in his niche -among the men of the nineties. But half-an-hour’s talk -with him revived some of the old fascination. He had -“atmosphere”; his personality created an environment; -he brought a flavour of far-off days. We talked quite -pleasantly of his art, but he said nothing that has stuck -in my memory, and my questions seemed to amuse rather -than interest him. His small dapper figure gave one the -impression of a schoolboy who had grown a little tired, -who had prematurely developed his talents, and who had -just fallen short of winning a big prize.</p> - -<p>He led the way to the front door, shook me by the hand, -looked at me meditatively for a moment, smiled faintly, -and ... vanished.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Of Israel Zangwill I can give only an impression. I -see him now as I saw him one hot afternoon at his rooms -in the Temple. A dark man, a spare man, a man very -much in earnest and anxious to be just. He was perspiring -slightly, I remember, and he bent forward a little so -as to hear and understand every word I said. I had a -request to make: a favour to ask. He listened patiently, -gave me a cup of tea, and stirred his own. For a little -he ruminated. Then he turned to me and lifted his eyebrows—lifted -his eyebrows rather high. I repeated my -<a name="png.137" id="png.137" href="#png.137"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>137<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>request, giving further details. I was a little confused. -He studied my confusion, not cruelly, but in the way that -a trained observer studies everything that comes under -his notice. Then: “Ye-es,” he said; “I see. I see.” -And then there was a minute’s silence.</p> - -<p>“I will do what you want,” he remarked, at length. -“I will do it willingly—most willingly.”</p> - -<p>And he did. Our little business entailed some subsequent -correspondence, and some work on Zangwill’s -part. The work was done promptly; his letters answered -mine by return of post. He gained nothing by -his work, whereas the paper I represented gained a great -deal.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Alphonse Courlander was one of the many young and -promising writers whom the war has killed. He was one -of the most hard-working journalists in Fleet Street, and -if he was not precisely brilliant, he had unusual gifts and -used them to good purpose. I could never read his novels, -but I understand they met with a certain success, and -people whose opinion I respect have spoken highly of -them.</p> - -<p>He represented <cite>The Daily Express</cite> in Paris at the time -the war broke out. He was the most conscientious of -men, and he grappled with the extra work that grew up -with the war with a fierce and fanatical energy. He -overworked himself, and the horror of the war appears to -have got on his nerves. He disappeared from Paris and -was found wandering alone in London, neurasthenic, -beaten, purposeless. A week or two later he died.</p> - -<p>Courlander was a good example of a not unusual type -of man one frequently meets in Fleet Street—a type that, -in the end, is bound to meet either failure or tragedy. -He was too highly strung for the rigours of the game: -too sensitive; too ambitious for his weak frame. The -type either takes to drink or wears itself out long before -<a name="png.138" id="png.138" href="#png.138"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>138<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>middle age. Courlander was an abstemious man; perhaps -if he had “let himself go” occasionally, he would have -stood the strain of his work better. When I saw him, -he was always busy, always up to date, always writing -or going to write a novel in his spare time. He had very -little inventive faculty and used to worry over his plots -and worry his friends over them. “Plots! ... as if -plots matter if you have anything to say!” I used to -urge. And then he would look at me, mystified.</p> - -<p>“But, Cumberland, what can you know about it? -You have never written a novel.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I have,” I would reply, “but no one will -publish them.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that’s the reason.”</p> - -<p>And he really believed that that <em>was</em> the reason.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Ivan Heald was a colleague of Courlander—a colleague -any man in Fleet Street would have been glad to possess. -Heald was original, and he created a record in so far as he -was the first and, so far as I know, the only man to be -employed by a British daily paper to write a “funny -story” each day. He made a wide reputation, a reputation -that, no doubt, pleased him, but he had no real -ambition. People who “got on” rather amused him—that -is to say, if their success was won at the expense of -experience of life. I never met a man more full of zest -for life, a man more eager for experience, a man who -retained his youth so successfully. He was vivid, careless, -tolerant and, in spite of every appearance to the -contrary, essentially serious-minded. It was the simple -pleasures of life that attracted him.</p> - -<p>He had no scholarship, but his mind was well ordered, -and his appreciation of natural and artistic beauty was -of the keenest.</p> - -<p>I remember that when we were holidaying together at -Oxford he would become almost angry with me because I -<a name="png.139" id="png.139" href="#png.139"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>139<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>could not immediately perceive the beauty of certain -lines—the outlines of trees, the curve of a table-napkin, -the pattern made by the ropes of a tent, and so on.</p> - -<p>“You should get Eddie or Norman Morrow to go a -walk with you,” he said. “<em>They</em> would make you see -things.”</p> - -<p>He loved folk-songs, Irish peasants, the plays of Synge, -the Russian Ballet, the Thames, the homely comfort of -a country inn. His feeling for family life was strong, -and Friday evenings at the Healds’, where one met his -mother and sisters, as clever if not so vivid as he himself, -were one of the great recurring pleasures of many men’s -lives.</p> - -<p>He was wounded in Gallipoli, nursed back to health, -transferred to the R.F.C., and died (in all probability, for -the exact manner of his death is not certainly known) in -the air. A death he would have desired. But Ivan -Heald should not have died, and sometimes I am tempted -to think that he still lives, that something in him still -lives—something that was rich and strange and beautiful. -The other day I came across one of the little notes he used -to scribble to me. It is written from Ireland, and because -it is so like him I give it here:</p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace"><span class="smc">Dear Gerald</span>,—If only I had the nice stiff paper and -the delicate pen nib, I would try to write a letter to you -like the ones you send me. There came a thrill yesterday. -As I sat in my little parlour toying with my last month’s -<cite>Ulster Guardian</cite>, there leapt out of the page your poem, -<cite>Fashioned of Dreams You Are</cite> [reprinted from a magazine]. -It was as though the sea between us had suddenly shrunk -to a couple of glasses of whisky. I shall never pass a -Poet’s Corner again without looking for you. There are -poets here, too. An old-age pensioner describing a -wonderful fish he had seen told me that it was “a gay and -antic fish, fresh and smart and soople.” I shall leave for -<a name="png.140" id="png.140" href="#png.140"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>140<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>home to-morrow evening and see you on Sunday night, -and if there is one bottle of red wine left in the world, -you and I will surely drag it out of the dust. How the -bottles must wonder under their cobwebs at this strange -turn of fate—that the Master Butler may either transform -them into sparkling phrases and beautiful thoughts through -rare fellows like us, or send them to dreary death in the -paunch of fools <span class="nw">like ——</span><br -/> - -<span class="signature">Ivan.</span></p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Dixon Scott used to throw me into little ecstasies by -his reviews in <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, and I often used -to wonder if I should meet him. Our paths crossed for a -brief minute not long before we left England—he to meet -his death in France, and I to sit and wait in Serbia. It -was at the end of one of my evenings in the Café Royal, -where one used to sip absinthe, smoke a cigar, and listen -to Orage. It was “Time, gentlemen, please”: 12-30 <span class="allsc">A.M.</span>: -in Army parlance, 0030 hours. We were all very merry as -we crowded into Regent Street, and I heard a voice behind -me say: “Dixon Scott.”</p> - -<p>I turned round immediately.</p> - -<p>“Are you Dixon Scott?” I asked a man—a man -who looked as unlike my preconceived picture of him as -possible.</p> - -<p>“Yes, and someone has just told me you are Gerald -Cumberland.”</p> - -<p>“How awfully jolly,” said I, “for now I have the -opportunity of telling you how much I admire your -wonderful genius.”</p> - -<p>“Tophole!” said he. “I love praise, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Ra-<em>ther</em>!” said I.</p> - -<p>And then I fought for a taxi and saw Scott no more.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Barry Pain, like the gentleman who used to be known -as Adrian Ross, leads a double intellectual life. He earns -<a name="png.141" id="png.141" href="#png.141"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>141<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>his bread by writing humorous literature; he is the king -of modern jesters; but secretly (and perhaps in shame) he -studies philosophy and metaphysics and is known to have -written a big two-volume work dealing with the furtive -processes of the human mind. He is a scholar, but Fate -has made of him a manufacturer of jokes. While his -tougher intellectual faculties are wrestling with the basic -problems of the universe—the whence, whither and why -of things—his observing eye is noting the little discrepancies -of life, the jolly frailties of human nature, the -absurdities of our everyday existence.</p> - -<p>He revealed little of his capacity for humour when he -entertained me to whisky and soda at his club. I found -a big, bearded and rather fleshy man rolling about in a -very easy chair. I had been sent to interview him by one -of those very pushing newspapers that, in the Silly Season -especially, run absurd “stories.” I have not the slightest -recollection of the particular story that took me to Barry -Pain, but I am perfectly certain that it was preposterous, -and I am perfectly certain that my news editor—he was -Stanley Bishop, of blessed memory—expected me to -bring back to the office several gems of humour tempted -from the brain and stolen from the lips of the famous -writer. But Pain was coy. Perhaps he does not believe -in giving away jokes for which coin of the realm is usually -paid.</p> - -<p>I presented my “story” to him and tried to make him -talk about it, but he looked glum and stared stonily into -the empty fire-grate.</p> - -<p>“Really,” he began, at length, “I can’t think of anything -to say. Can you? If you can think of something -very clever, put it in your article and say I said it. -Yes, do say I said it. But, of course, it must be very -clever.”</p> - -<p>And he lapsed into a long, depressed silence. I was -very glad when a friend of his popped his head into the -<a name="png.142" id="png.142" href="#png.142"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>142<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>room and shouted: “What about that game of bridge?” -I rose hastily and escaped.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It would be difficult to find a more picturesque figure -than R. B. Cunninghame Graham. I always picture him -sitting on a bare-backed Mexican steed, his shirt open at -the throat, a long whip in one hand, a lasso in the other, -his eyes, like Blake’s tiger, burning bright, his boots -fantastically spurred, his hat flapping in the wind, and -his steed galloping <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ventre à terre</i>. In South and Central -America, no doubt, he does run wild, but in London of late -years he has always been most respectable. And yet -even West End respectability cannot kill his picturesqueness. -He has a shining mind, and everything he says is -youthful and spirited.</p> - -<p>Most of his literary enthusiasms are for the younger—the -youngest—generation, but as his mind is essentially -uncritical and impulsive, his judgments are not very -trustworthy. I remember his praising unreservedly a -young alleged poet who in recent years has made himself -known by his scholarship and impudence, and, as far as -I could gather, it was chiefly his impudence that had -attracted Cunninghame Graham.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XII: Musical Critics"><a name="png.143" id="png.143" href="#png.143"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>143<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XII<br - />MUSICAL CRITICS</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Not</span> until quite recently has musical criticism been -taken seriously either by the London or provincial -Press. In the old days of the sixties, -when Wagner came to London (I am writing many miles -away from books, but surely it was in the sixties that -Wagner visited us?), there was not a single open-minded -musical critic on the British Press. J. W. Davison, the -very powerful <cite>Times</cite> critic, was not only a fool, but, what -is much more dangerous, he was a learned fool. He -treated Wagner shamefully, and he did more than his -share to bring our country into musical disrepute among -the cultured men of other nations. Joseph Bennett, of -<cite>The Daily Telegraph</cite>, was a fluent writer who contrived to -say less in a full column than a man like Ernest Newman -or R. A. Streatfeild or Samuel Langford can say in a couple -of lines. He footled gaily for many years, wielded -enormous power, and did nothing whatever to advance -the cause of music in England.</p> - -<p>As a commercial asset, Joseph Bennett must have been -invaluable to the proprietors of <cite>The Daily Telegraph</cite>. -For, like Davison, he had great influence. People read -him. Even in my own time, when an important new work -was produced, we used to question each other: “What -does Old Joe say?” And, most unfortunately, it -mattered a great deal what Old Joe did say, though -anyone who knew much about music was very well aware -that nine times out of ten Bennett would be wrong. If -he damned a work—well, that work <em>was</em> damned. No -<a name="png.144" id="png.144" href="#png.144"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>144<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>musical critic to-day wields such power as his, though -there are at least a score of writers on music who have ten -times his gifts. His present successor, for example, Mr Robin Legge, is incomparably a finer musician, a much -more open-minded man, and a student of infinitely more -culture, than Bennett. Yet his influence, I imagine, is -not so great as that of his predecessor. One cannot say -that Bennett stooped to his public, for Bennett could not -stoop; if he <em>had</em> stooped, he would have disappeared -altogether. No: he <em>was</em> the public: the people: the -common people. He had the point of view of the man in -the back street.</p> - -<p>But to-day things are changed. The musical critic is -no longer primarily a raconteur, a gossiper, a chatterer. -As a rule, he is a man of culture, of experience, of solid -musical attainments. He earns little—anything from -one hundred and fifty pounds to five hundred pounds a -year, though, no doubt, in very rare instances, he may be -paid more than the latter figure. Musical criticism, therefore, -is not a profession that seduces the ambitious man, -for the ambitious man of materialistic views may more -easily earn three times what the Press has to offer him -by selling imitation jewellery or doing anything else that -money-making people do. When E. A. Baughan, now -dramatic critic of <cite>The Daily News</cite>, was editing <cite>The Musical -Standard</cite> more than twenty years ago, he wrote me a very -earnest letter beseeching me not to become a musical -critic on account of the payment being so meagre. “If -you have a desk, stick to it; if you are a commercial -traveller, remain a commercial traveller” was his advice -in essence. But I would rather be a musical critic on one -hundred and fifty pounds a year than a stockbroker earning -fifteen hundred pounds. I love money, but I love -music and journalism more, and the three years I spent in -Manchester with an income of three hundred pounds -were full of happiness, brimful of great days when I -<a name="png.145" id="png.145" href="#png.145"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>145<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>felt my mind growing and my spirit taking unto itself -wings.</p> - -<p>E. A. Baughan is not, I think, a musician in the true -sense of the word, nor does he claim to be, but I imagine -that, being musical and having the itch for writing, he -took the first journalistic work that offered itself. That -work was the editing of <cite>The Musical Standard</cite>. Subsequently -he went to <cite>The Morning Leader</cite> as musical critic, -and then to <cite>The Daily News</cite> as dramatic critic. He is sane, -level-headed, honest, but not conspicuously brilliant. His -musical work, judged by a high standard, was poor. He -had not sufficient knowledge to guide him to a right -judgment when faced by a new problem. Hugo Wolf was -such a problem, and if ever Baughan reads now what he -wrote about Hugo Wolf some fifteen years ago, he must, -I imagine, tingle with shame to the tips of his toes.</p> - -<p>As a dramatic critic he has secured an honourable and -enviable position. I used to meet him very frequently at -first nights, and always thought him a trifle <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">blasé</i> and -almost wholly devoid of imagination, subtlety and true -artistic feeling. He has not the artist’s attitude towards -life, and he would probably bring an action for slander -against you if you said he had.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I was never introduced to C. L. Graves, the musical -critic of <cite>The Spectator</cite> and the well-known humorous -writer, but on one occasion I sat next to him at a very -important concert, and in conversation found him an -extremely courteous but rather baffled man. His knowledge -of music is that of the cultured amateur. His mind -but grudgingly admits “advanced” work, and I, as a -modern, regret that an intellect so charming, so gracious, -so able, should be even occasionally occupied in passing -judgment on work that has its being entirely outside his -mental horizon. But I doubt very much if <cite>The Spectator</cite> -has any influence on the musical life of London, though I -<a name="png.146" id="png.146" href="#png.146"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>146<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>imagine that Dr Brewer, Mr T. H. Noble, Sir Hubert -Parry, Sir Charles V. Stanford and Sir Alexander -Mackenzie read Mr Graves with regularity and approval.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>But the man whom all of us who write about music -honour most of all is Ernest Newman, of <cite>The Birmingham -Daily Post</cite>. Here we have a first-rate intellect functioning -with absolute sureness and with almost fierce rapidity. -As a scholar, no man is better equipped; as a writer, he -ranks with the highest; for fearlessness and inflexible -intellectual honesty, he has no equal. His books on -Wagner and Hugo Wolf and the volume entitled <cite>Musical -Studies</cite> are head and shoulders above any volumes of -musical criticism ever published in our language. But -though his knowledge of music is encyclopædic, music is -but one of many subjects upon which he is an authority. -Under<!-- TN: original reads "Uuder" --> another name he has published a volume on philosophy -which, on its appearance, created something like -a sensation; unfortunately, this book ceased to be procurable -within a few weeks of its publication. Poetry, -French and German literature, sociology and psychology -are but a few of the subjects upon which he is as well -qualified to write as he is on music.</p> - -<p>Why does he hide himself in Birmingham? Well, if -you are a musical critic in London, it is impossible to do -any solid work. All day and almost every day you are at -concerts and operas, and you are sadly in danger of becoming -a mere reporter. Newman’s post in Birmingham -leaves him some leisure in which to write more important -work.</p> - -<p>I never think of Newman without wondering if ever he -will be given the chance to achieve the work that is nearest -his heart. That work is a full and complete history of -music. For this task he is intellectually well equipped, -but the labour in which it would involve him calls for -years of leisure. Time and again he has planned -<a name="png.147" id="png.147" href="#png.147"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>147<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>work—notably, a book on Montaigne—which, for lack of leisure, -he has been compelled to abandon. He was made for -finer things than newspaper work, and though he has made -an indelible impression on musical thought in this and -other countries, his life will be largely wasted if the latter -half of it has to be spent in writing daily criticism and -occasional articles.</p> - -<p>Newman’s psychology is peculiarly complex. Though -there is a vein of cruelty in him, he is yet sensitive to the -suffering of other people. I was with him on one occasion -when Bantock told him that a certain enemy of his (Newman’s) -had just died. The effect of this news on Newman -was to me most unexpected. He started a little. “Good -God!” he said; “poor, poor devil.” And for the rest -of the evening he sat gloomy and silent. The thought of -death is intolerable to him. His repulsion from it is as -much physical as nervous. Though, on occasion, a stern -and relentless critic, he reacts morbidly to criticism of -himself. He is highly strung, imaginative, rationalistic; -he believes little and trusts not at all, loves intensely and -hates bitterly. Vain he is, also, and he clings almost -despairingly to what remains of his youth.</p> - -<p>It is some few years since I saw Newman in close -intimacy, but when he was on the staff of <cite>The Manchester -Guardian</cite> and, later on, when he removed to Birmingham, -I was at his house very frequently, and a very small circle -of friends used to pass long evenings in delicious fooling. -In those days Newman could throw off twenty-five years -of his age and become a high-spirited and impish boy. I -remember one night when, a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">macabre</i> mood or, rather, -a mood of extravagantly high spirits having descended -upon us, one of our company, a lady, simulated sudden -illness and death. We dressed her in a shroud, placed -pennies on her eyes and candles at her head and feet. -But in the middle of this foolery, Newman disappeared, -and when it was all over and he had returned, he was in a -<a name="png.148" id="png.148" href="#png.148"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>148<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>sombre mood. It was not because we had trifled with a -terrible fact in life that he was disturbed and distrait, but -because we had unwittingly cut into his shrinking mind -and hurt it by reminding him of something he would fain -forget. Insanity repelled him in the same violent manner, -and all who knew him intimately when he was writing his -book on Hugo Wolf will remember that Wolf’s warped -and poisoned psychology obsessed and dominated him.</p> - -<p>But often Newman would spend an evening in playing -modern songs to us—Bantock’s <cite>Ferishtah’s Fancies</cite>, -Wolf’s <cite>Mörike Lieder</cite>, and so on. I can see him now as, -his clever, rather saturnine face abundantly alive, he -described Richard Strauss’s <cite>Ein Heldenleben</cite>, telling us -how the music of the harps stained the texture of the music -in a magical way, like one flinging wine on some secretly -coloured fabric. Those evenings are to me among the -most valued of my life. I remember how my wife and I -used to walk home under a long avenue of trees very late -in the spring nights, the gummy smell of buds in our -nostrils, Newman’s voice still in our ears, and our minds -fermenting deliciously with a kind of happiness we had -not experienced before.</p> - -<p>Those days are gone for ever: days of a recovered -youth; evenings that were romantic just because they -were evenings; nights when, in silence, one dreamed long -and long, the body sunk deep in unconsciousness, the soul -ranging and mounting and, in the morning, returning to -its home subtly changed and infinitely refreshed.... -Newman opened for me a world which, but for him, I -do not think I ever should have beheld; nor, indeed, -should I ever have been aware of that world’s existence.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have written of Samuel Langford elsewhere in this -book, and I have little to add here. He succeeded Newman -on <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, and I recall the curiosity -with which many of us read his first articles, fearing that -<a name="png.149" id="png.149" href="#png.149"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>149<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>anything he might write must of necessity fall so far below -Newman’s high standard as to be unreadable. We were -soon reassured. Langford and Newman have little in -common, and there is no basis upon which one can -compare them. And, at first, Langford had to feel his -way, to master his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">métier</i>, to acquire some of his literary -<span class="nw">technique....</span></p> - -<p>Our respective newspaper offices were situated near -each other, and on our way from the Free Trade Hall he -used often to persuade me to drink with him before we -began our work. “We shall do each other good,” he -would say. And his short, ungainly figure, with its thick -neck carrying a nobly-shaped head, would make its way to -the bar where, placing a pile of music on the counter, he -would turn to me and talk, both of us forgetting to order -our drinks, and neither of us caring for the lateness of the -hour.... Next morning, he would frequently come -round to my house immediately after breakfast, look in -at the window of my study, and wave a newspaper in the -air. I was always deep in work, for at that time I reviewed -eight or ten books every week, but I remember no -occasion on which I did not welcome him most gladly. -And sometimes I would spend an afternoon in his great -garden, worshipping flowers, and watch him as, with -fumbling hands, he turned the face of a blossom to the sky -and looked at it with I know not what thoughts. I know -nothing of horticulture, but Langford knows everything, -and often he would talk, more to himself than to me, about -the deep mysteries of his science. And, saying farewell at -the little gate, he would sometimes crush into my arms -a large sheaf of coloured leaves and flowers, wave an -awkward hand, and shamble back to his low-built, -picturesque house set deep in blooms. Though twenty -years my senior, neither he nor I felt the long spell of -years lying between us. And sometimes I am tempted -to go back to Manchester to renew a friendship for the -<a name="png.150" id="png.150" href="#png.150"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>150<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>loss of which all the great happiness that London has -brought me has, it seems at times, been but inadequate -compensation.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>During my three years as musical critic on <cite>The Manchester -Courier</cite> I had some curious experiences, and to me -the most curious of them all was the persistent manner in -which attempts were made by people in Berlin to enlist -my sympathies on behalf of an extremely able musician, -Oskar Fried. It almost seemed to me that a secret society -existed in Germany for the sole purpose of getting Oskar -Fried a job in England. Letters written in English came -to me from total strangers, informing me at great length -and with stupid tautology that Fried was the one hope of -musical Young Germany. He had Ideals; he was a -Leader; he had the Prophetic Vision; he was the man -who was going to promote and lead a new Romantic -Movement. “Very good,” said I to myself, “but what -on earth has all this to do with me?”</p> - -<p>I was not long in finding out. A young Englishman -resident in Berlin, and obviously deeply saturated with -the German spirit, wrote to me to say that, in his opinion, -Fried was the only man in Europe to fill the post that -Dr Richter had vacated as conductor of the Hallé Concerts -Society in Manchester. The letter arrived at a time when -various musicians were being, as it were, “tried” as conductors -of the Hallé Concerts, and my unknown correspondent -was anxious that Fried should be invited to -conduct one or two concerts. To this letter I sent a polite -but non-committal reply. I knew Oskar Fried’s name -just as I knew the names of a dozen pushing German -conductors; but I knew no more. My persistent correspondent, -to whom I will give the name of Purvis, wrote -again, sending me a typewritten copy of a book he had -written on his friend. It was a highfalutin document of -idolatry. Fried was his idol, and Purvis gushed and gushed -<a name="png.151" id="png.151" href="#png.151"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>151<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and gushed again. But the whole thing was done with -truly Germanic thoroughness. I felt that I was being -“got at,” and though I resented it, I was greatly amused. -I led him on. I was anxious to see this gushing disciple, -this seeming advertising agent, this, as it appeared to me, -wholly Germanised Englishman. So I replied to him a -second time, and one evening he called upon me. He -was a boy of twenty-one with a beard, a manner that was -intended to be ingratiating but was intolerably insolent, -and a self-assurance truly Napoleonic. He tickled me -hugely and, as I have more than a grain of malice in me, I -opened out to him, flattered him heavily, and talked music -with him. But, though he loved the flattery, he was level-headed -enough to stick to his point—that I should do all -in my power to secure for Oskar Fried the Hallé conductorship. -And he ended the interview with the astonishing -announcement that Fried had already been engaged by -the Hallé Concerts Society to conduct two of their concerts.</p> - -<p>By what devious and subterranean ways this was -achieved, I do not know, but I have no doubt that scores -of influential Germans in Manchester were approached in -a similar way to what I was.</p> - -<p>Oskar Fried, with his idolatrous lackey, came uninvited -to my house. They arrived at ten and left at six. I found -Fried a very remarkable man—magnetic, of forceful -personality, but with the manners and point of view of a -gutter-snipe. He asked me point-blank what I could do -for him.</p> - -<p>“In what way?” I asked him, through Purvis, our -interpreter.</p> - -<p>“It is obvious in what way,” returned Purvis, without -passing on the question to Fried.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said I, “I have already written about Fried in -the papers. And, really, I have no influence. I am not -very popular with the Hallé Concerts Society people, and -if I were to begin to recommend Fried.... But, in any -<a name="png.152" id="png.152" href="#png.152"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>152<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>case, I have not yet heard your friend conduct. It is -impossible for me to recommend a man of whose talents -I know nothing save by hearsay. You see that, don’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Purvis. “You are a musical -critic in Manchester, whilst I am a musical critic in Berlin, -and I tell you that Fried is the man you want here. -Surely that is enough? You must take it from me. <em>I</em> -say it.”</p> - -<p>I smiled and, glancing at Fried, watched his thin, eager -face, with its peering eyes which looked inquiringly first at -Purvis and then at me.</p> - -<p>Purvis came next day and the day after that, and I -began to wonder in precisely what relation he stood to -Fried. When together, they seemed to be just business -friends, and it occurred to me that the long typewritten -<cite>Life of Fried</cite> that Purvis had written was merely a gigantic -piece of bluff. Finally, I decided to cut both men adrift -altogether, and the next time Purvis called I was out.</p> - -<p>When I heard Fried conduct, I at once recognised his -great powers: he had undoubted genius. But he was -never invited to become the permanent conductor of the -Hallé Concerts Society. Perchance his table manners -were adversely reported upon by Dr Brodsky, or Mr Gustave Behrens, or the discreet and reserved Mr Forsyth.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XIII: Manchester People"><a name="png.153" id="png.153" href="#png.153"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>153<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIII<br - />MANCHESTER PEOPLE</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">If</span> there is one thing more than another that the -ordinary person cannot endure, it is to hear a man -from Manchester praising his own city. Somebody -from Leeds may tell him how beautiful a town Leeds is, -and he will not turn a hair; he will listen unruffled to a -Liverpudlian discoursing on the peculiar glories of the -great city on the Mersey; but if the man from Manchester -wishes to be tolerated, he must never let fall a word in -praise of the place that witnessed his astounding birth. -Why this is so, I cannot explain. I merely record the -fact.</p> - -<p>So, for the moment, I will not praise Manchester. I -will go even farther than that. I will agree with you that -it rains there every day, that it is the ugliest city in -Britain, that it is cocksure and conceited, that its politics -are damnable, that its free trade principles are loathsome, -and that its public men are aitchless and gross. I will, -I say, agree to all this. You may say anything disagreeable -you like about Manchester, and I shall not care. -Nevertheless, if I could not live in London, Manchester -is the city to which I would go. I have stayed in Athens, -and Athens is a marvellous city; I know my Paris, and -Paris is not without fascination; I have been to Cairo, -and the bazaars of Cairo seemed to me so wonderful that -I held my breath as I passed through them; I know -Antwerp and some of the half-dead cities of Belgium, and -in Bruges I have felt as decadent as any nasty Belgian -poet. But these places are not Manchester. They are -<a name="png.154" id="png.154" href="#png.154"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>154<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>not so glorious as Manchester, not so vital, not so romantic, -not so adventurous.... But already I have broken my -word: I have begun to praise Manchester in my second -paragraph. Let me begin a third.</p> - -<p>It might be thought that the centre of Manchester’s -intellectual life is the University, but this is not so. Nor -is it the Cathedral, nor the big technical schools, nor yet -the Gaiety Theatre. These things count, but none of -them precisely radiates intellectual energy. You do not -(unless you wish to be disappointed) go to the Bishop for -ideas, or to the man of business for culture, nor to Miss -Horniman for a wide and generous view of life. For -these things, and for many other things besides, you go -to <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>. In <cite>The Daily Mail Year -Book</cite>, against the entry <cite>Manchester Guardian</cite>, you will -find these words: “The best newspaper in the world.” -Now, you would imagine that if <cite>The Daily Mail</cite> really -believed that, <cite>The Daily Mail</cite> would strain every nerve -to be as like <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite> as possible. But -Lord Northcliffe knows better than that. He knows, we -all know, that the best newspaper in the world is not -going to be the best seller in the world. The word “best,” -when applied to a newspaper, does not signify a newspaper -that shrieks louder than any other newspaper, that has -the greatest number of “stunts,” that lays reputations -low in the dust, that holds Cabinet Ministers in the hollow -of its hand. It signifies, among other things, a paper -whose editor will not sacrifice a single ideal in order to -increase his circulation, who has the power of infusing his -staff with his own enthusiasms, and who regards the arts -as a necessary part of a decent human existence.</p> - -<p><cite>The Daily Mail</cite> once upon a time compelled the whole -of the British Isles to start growing sweet-peas. That -is one kind of power. That is the kind of power that <cite>The -Manchester Guardian</cite> does <em>not</em> possess.</p> - -<p>Yet, I ask you, is there a more irritating newspaper -<a name="png.155" id="png.155" href="#png.155"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>155<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>in the whole of Christendom than <cite>The Manchester -Guardian</cite>? How many times have we not all thrown it -down in disgust and vowed never to read it again, only -to buy it faithfully next morning? It would sometimes -appear that every crank in England is busily engaged in -airing his crazy views in its correspondence columns. -It would sometimes appear that the three greatest highbrows -in the country had laid their heads together to -write the leading article. It would sometimes appear -that conscientious objectors were really the only generous, -manly and heroic people left in this mad world.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Let me tell you a true story of a man who for years has -been, and still is, on the staff of <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>. -I tell this strange story, partly because it <em>is</em> strange, -and partly because it illustrates so finely the kind of -reverence that so many citizens of Manchester have for -the best paper in the world.</p> - -<p>Some thirty years ago a male child was born to a worthy -and not unprosperous man in Manchester. Now this man -had one faith, one gospel, one ambition. His faith was -of the Liberal persuasion. (Why, may I ask in passing, -do people refer to Jews as men and women of the Jewish -“persuasion”? Can a man, indeed, be persuaded to -Jewry?) But to resume. His faith, as I said, was -Liberal, his gospel <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, his ambition -to have some close connection with that paper. -Being unfitted by the nature of his own talents to join -the staff, he resolved that in the fullness of time that -distinction should belong to his son. So he wrote to -the editor, thus:</p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace"><span class="smc">Sir</span>,—I have the honour to inform you that last night -my wife gave birth to a son. It is my ambition that, when -his intellect is ripe and his powers mature, he shall be -chosen by you as a member of your staff. His education, -<a name="png.156" id="png.156" href="#png.156"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>156<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>his whole upbringing, shall be directed to that end. I -shall report to you his progress from time to time.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant,<br -/> - -<span class="signature">—— ——.</span></p> -<!-- end blockquote --> - -<p class="extraspace">I have not this letter before me; indeed, I have never -seen it. But I am assured it was couched in those or -similar terms.</p> - -<p>Years passed. Harry—we will call him Harry—survived -the perils of babyhood and was sent to a school for -the sons of gentlemen, and the editor was duly apprised -of the fact. Harry studied hard, for his ambition was -even that of his father. Harry took scholarships, Harry -had a private tutor, and, eventually, Harry went to the -’varsity. In the meantime, reports passed at regular -intervals from Harry’s father to the editor of <cite>The -Manchester Guardian</cite>, who now, as nurses say, began to -sit up and take notice. He desired to meet Harry. He -did meet him. Harry took an honours degree, came back -to Manchester, and was duly installed among the blessed, -where he still is. Harry’s dream, Harry’s father’s dream, -is fulfilled. But are those reports, I wonder, still being -written. As, for example:</p> - -<!-- blockquote --> -<p class="extraspace"><span class="smc">Sir</span>,—I have the honour to inform you that my son, -Harold, contemplates marriage. It has always appeared -to me that the married state is peculiarly useful in -<span class="nw">developing....</span></p> -<!-- endblockquote --> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>But not all the members of <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite> -staff are ’varsity men: for which, indeed, one may be -thankful. The men of letters whom they admire most—Bernard -Shaw, H. G. Wells, Joseph Conrad and Arnold -Bennett—never even dimly espied the towers and spires -of Oxford and Cambridge. But the paper has the manner -of Oxford, though not Oxford’s intellectual outlook.</p> - -<p><a name="png.157" id="png.157" href="#png.157"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>157<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>For myself, I have never been on the staff of this paper, -though I have written scores of articles for its commercial -pages. Some of the most distinguished intellects -in the country write for it regularly—Allan Monkhouse, -whose play, <cite>Mary Broome</cite>, has not been and scarcely can -be sufficiently praised; C. E. Montague, now in the Army; -Professor C. H. Herford, whose scholarship is in excess -of his human feeling; Samuel Langford, whom I have -dealt with elsewhere in this book; J. E. Agate, whose -fastidious style is a pure delight. Indeed, nearly every -man who can write and who has something definitely -new to say will find the columns of this paper open to -him.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>The drawback to social life in Manchester is that there -is no central meeting-place where kindred spirits can foregather<!-- TN: original reads "for-gather" (linebreak hyphen); chamged for consistency -->. -It is true, there is the Arts Club, but when you -have said the Arts Club is there, you have said all that it is -necessary to say about the Arts Club. It is true, also, -that if you stroll into the American bar of the Midland -Hotel at almost any hour of the day, you are pretty sure -to meet someone amusing; but you really can’t make -music, or rehearse plays, or play the fool (at least, not to -any great extent) in an American bar. The consequence -of this lack of a good democratic club is that all kinds -of little coteries are formed, and it is about one of these -little coteries that I wish to tell you.</p> - -<p>Of course, Manchester is not London. You know that. -In London, if you don’t like one play, you can go to -another. If the music that Sir Henry J. Wood gives you -is not to your taste, you can go to hear Mr Landon Ronald, -or (if truly desperate) join the Philharmonic Society. -But in Manchester this is not so. You have either to like -the music or do without it. Well, some years ago we -didn’t like it, and Jack Kahane, talking to me one day in -a mood of disgust, casually remarked:</p> - -<p><a name="png.158" id="png.158" href="#png.158"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>158<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“I’m going to kick Richter out of Manchester. We’ve -had enough of him.”</p> - -<p>With Kahane, to think is to act, and within a week he -had formed the Manchester Musical Society and begun a -Press campaign against the famous old conductor. This -Society was Kahane’s new toy, and he played with it to -some purpose. We talked a great deal, gave innumerable -concerts, hired lecturers, wrote articles, and held enormously -thrilling committee meetings. Our programmes -consisted almost exclusively of new and very “modern” -music, just the kind of music that the guarantors of the -Hallé Concerts Society detested. We were all for the -new spirit in music, and some of us in our enthusiasm -liked new music just because it <em>was</em> new. In three -months Richter began to totter on his throne and, later -on, he resigned his post, and now Sir Thomas Beecham -most fitly reigns in his stead.</p> - -<p>This little Society was extremely typical of Manchester. -It was typical because it was enthusiastic, because every -member of it worked hard for no monetary reward, and -because it had a definite object in view and achieved that -object. Above all, it was young; the spirit of it was -young. I have never found in London a band of young -men and women putting their noses to the grindstone -for months on end with the sole object of achieving an -artistic ideal. People in London exploit art, but they do -not work at art for art’s sake. Manchester is England’s -musical metropolis. Elgar said so ten years ago; -Beecham echoed his words the other day. I claim for -Manchester also that the level of culture is much higher -than it is in London. In proportion to its size Manchester -has during the last fifty years given to England more -writers, musicians, politicians, actors, business men, -reformers and social workers of distinction than any other -city.... But all this, I think, is a little <span class="nw">offensive——</span></p> - -<p>And yet how difficult it is for the stranger to understand -<a name="png.159" id="png.159" href="#png.159"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>159<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Manchester!—and difficult in spite of the fact that -Manchester loves being understood.</p> - -<p>Mr J. Nicol Dunn, who, as editor of <cite>The Morning Post</cite> -and, later, of <cite>The Johannesburg Star</cite>, did most brilliant -work, utterly failed to understand Lancashire people -when he came to edit <cite>The Manchester Courier</cite>. I think he -regarded them as a peculiar race of savages. “A wealthy -Lancashire manufacturer,” he said to me once, “will ask -you to dinner and will order a bumper of champagne. -But if you ask him for a half-guinea subscription for a -political society, he will give you a curt refusal. What -is to be done with such folk?” Dunn thought us hard -and unimaginative, incapable of seeing in what direction -lay our best interests, and utterly childish in our notions -of political economy.</p> - -<p>“Cumberland,” he said, unexpectedly, one evening, “is -your father a Conservative?”</p> - -<p>“He is,” said I.</p> - -<p>“What paper does he take?”</p> - -<p>“<cite>The Manchester Guardian.</cite>”</p> - -<p>“I <em>knew</em> he did! Of course he would take <cite>The -Manchester Guardian</cite>! Good Lord! To what a strange -set of people have I come!”</p> - -<p>And he grunted and went on with his work.</p> - -<p>My native town is young and strenuous and guileless. -Its vanity is the vanity of the clever youngster who loves -“showing off” in his exuberant way. So young and -guileless is it that it is the easiest thing in the world to -deceive it. How easy it is to deceive Manchester is -illustrated by the case of Captain Schlagintweit, the -German consul for some years in that city.</p> - -<p>Schlagintweit was an enormous German whose mission -in life it was to induce Manchester to believe that Germany -was our bosom friend, that Germany’s first thought was -to help Great Britain, and that the two peoples were so -closely akin in their spiritual aims that a quarrel between -<a name="png.160" id="png.160" href="#png.160"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>160<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>them, even a temporary misunderstanding, was utterly and -for ever impossible. As I have said, he was enormous: -a great man with a fair round belly: a man who talked a -lot and ate a lot, and who, when he talked even with a -solitary companion, spoke as though he were addressing -a huge audience. He “bounded” beautifully and with -so much aplomb and zest that it seemed right he should -bound and do nothing else.</p> - -<p>I met him everywhere—in the Press Club, at concerts, -at the Schiller Anstalt, in restaurants; and nine times out -of ten he was in the company either of a journalist, a -member of the City Council, or a Member of Parliament. -I never knew any man who worked so hard for his country -as he did. He distilled sweet poison into our ears and we -believed him every time.</p> - -<p>I must confess I felt rather flattered by the way in -which he constantly sought my company. I thought -for a long time that he loved me for my own sweet sake, -and it was not until the, for him, tragic <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">dénouement</i> came -that I realised that it was because I was a journalist, and -for that reason alone, he dined and wined me and talked -discreetly of Germany’s heartache for Great Britain. As -I very rarely wrote on international politics, I do not -think his evil counsel had any appreciable effect on my -work, but it is impossible to imagine that his overflowing -bonhomie, his cleverness, his subtle scheming did not -greatly influence the thought of Manchester. He was -made much of by more than one member of <cite>The -Manchester Guardian</cite> staff.</p> - -<p>His daughter came to sing at a concert I organised, and -it was after this concert that he so overwhelmed me with -flattery that I looked at him in amazement. I said to -myself: “You are a humbug.” But on looking at him -again, I said: “No; you’re not a humbug: you’re a fool.” -A third scrutiny, however, left me in doubt, and I said: -“I’m damned if I know what you are.” Certainly I never -<a name="png.161" id="png.161" href="#png.161"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>161<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>suspected he was first cousin to a spy, that he was paid -handsomely by his Government for his propaganda work -in Manchester, and that he secretly despised and hated us.</p> - -<p>Shortly after war broke out, many things were discovered -about Schlagintweit that had hitherto been -unknown, and he was led, handcuffed, to Knutsford gaol, -but not before he had broken through the five-mile radius -to which, as a German, he was confined, and not before -he had motored through a far-off district where tens of -thousands of our soldiers were encamped.</p> - -<p>I do not believe London would have been deceived by -him, and I am sure that Ecclefechan wouldn’t. Yet -Manchester was.</p> - -<p>Manchester is young, ingenuous, trusting, guileless.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Have you ever noticed (but you must have done!) -that the self-made man—and half the prosperous men in -Manchester are self-made—will frequently part with a -ten-pound note much more readily than he will with a -few pence? The economical habits of his youth still -cling to and dominate him, and he counts the halfpence -and is careless of the pounds.</p> - -<p>One Saturday night in the summer, I was taking a walk -with a friend in the country ten or twelve miles from -Manchester. Our talk was of County cricket, in which -my companion—a most magnificent person, with ships -sailing on half the oceans of the world—was greatly -interested. For three days Lancashire had been playing -Yorkshire a very close match, and we knew that by now -the game would be over.</p> - -<p>“We sha’n’t know the result till we get <cite>The Sunday -Chronicle</cite> to-morrow,” said X. regretfully.</p> - -<p>But, five minutes later, we met, most miraculously, a -newsboy with a bundle of papers under his arm.</p> - -<p>X. took a penny from his pocket, handed it to the boy, -and received <cite>The Evening News</cite> in exchange.</p> - -<p><a name="png.162" id="png.162" href="#png.162"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>162<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Very sorry, sir,” said the boy, “but I’ve got no -change. I’ve got no halfpennies.”</p> - -<p>X. turned to me.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve no change either,” said I, amused.</p> - -<p>With an exclamation of annoyance, X. handed the paper -back to the boy and pocketed his penny.</p> - -<p>After we had proceeded a few paces:</p> - -<p>“Lancashire has won by two wickets,” he said. “I -saw it in the corner in the Stop Press news.”</p> - -<p>Now, X. had great riches.</p> - -<p>An incredible story, isn’t it? But it is true, and it gives -you the self-made Manchester man—at least, one side of -him—in a nutshell.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It used to be a great delight to me to see Dr J. Kendrick -Pyne walking near the Cathedral or in Albert Square, for -he used to suggest to me a bygone age and a remote place. -His short, thick-set figure used to move with the utmost -precision, unhurried, unperturbed. His plump, clean-shaven -face, his well-shaped head, surmounted by a -new silk hat of old-fashioned shape, his gold-rimmed -spectacles with the peering eyes behind them, his inevitable -umbrella, and his correct dress—all these conspired -to make a figure of great dignity, a figure that always -seemed to carry about with it the atmosphere of the -Cathedral whose organ he played for so many smooth -years. There hung about him the tradition of the famous -Dr Wesley.</p> - -<p>In character and disposition also he belonged to a -different era. He never underestimated the importance -of the position he held in the city as Cathedral organist, -City organist, and Professor at the Manchester Royal -College of Music, and wherever he went and in the -execution of whatever work to which he set his mind, -his word was law. A very fine type of Englishman. -He would brook no interference from Bishop or Dean, -<a name="png.163" id="png.163" href="#png.163"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>163<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and his combative, upright spirit fought unceasingly -to uphold the dignity of his art.</p> - -<p>His childlike vanity was most alluring, and I used to -love him for it and respect him for the way he clung to -his belief in himself.</p> - -<p>One day he took me to the town hall to look once more -at the wonderful series of frescoes that Ford Madox -Brown painted in the great hall. When he came to the -fresco picturing the Duke of Bridgewater at the ceremonial -“opening” of the Bridgewater Canal, he pointed -to the features of the Duke, and inquired:</p> - -<p>“Whom do you think he resembles?”</p> - -<p>There was just a note of anxiety in his voice as though -he were afraid I should not be able to answer his question. -For the life of me I could not think of anyone who resembled -Madox Brown’s Duke, and I stood silent. Pyne -then turned his face full upon me, and again inquired, -somewhat imperiously:</p> - -<p>“Whom do you think he resembles?”</p> - -<p>“Why,” exclaimed I, guessing wildly, “it is a portrait -of you!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said he, with naïve satisfaction, “it is. I sat -to Madox Brown for the great Duke. The portrait is -immortal.”</p> - -<p>But whether the portrait was immortal because -Kendrick Pyne had sat for it, or Madox Brown had -painted it, I did not gather.</p> - -<p>On another occasion he again used the word “immortal,” -but this time it was in reference to one of his own works.</p> - -<p>“You know,” said he, apropos of something I have -forgotten, “I should have made a name as a writer if -I had gone in for literature, but I felt that music had -stronger claims upon me. My organ-playing will not, -so to speak, live, because the art of the executant necessarily -dies with him. But my Mass in A flat is, in itself, -enough to keep my name immortal.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.164" id="png.164" href="#png.164"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>164<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>There was such innocent satisfaction in his tone, such -a bland look upon his face, that he seemed to me like a -delicious grown-up child.</p> - -<p>But have not all men of genius this superb confidence -in themselves? I am convinced they have. Could they -possibly “carry on” without it? But only a few men -of genius have the courage, or the artlessness, to speak -what is really in their hearts.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>One of the “characters” of Manchester, a man who -loves being a character, is Mr Charles Rowley, who for -an unconscionable number of years has been doing -splendid educational and recreative work in Ancoats, a -congeries of slums, a district of appalling poverty. Here, -in the Islington Hall, on most Sunday afternoons, one can -hear first-rate chamber music and, as a rule, a lecture -delivered by some local or London celebrity. I myself -have heard Bernard Shaw and Hilaire Belloc lecture -there and, after the lectures, I have gone to the clean -little cottage where Mr Rowley occasionally entertains a -few chosen friends to tea and talk.</p> - -<p>I do not know if Mr Rowley is a Manchester man, but -he is of a type that I have found only in that city. He is -combative and energetic; he is a little red flame of -enthusiasm. Though, no doubt, interested in and pleased -with himself, he is equally interested in local public affairs -and equally pleased with the people for whom he works. -His broad and pungent humour is just the kind of humour -the so-called lower classes understand, and his energy -of mind and readiness of wit are remarkable. I have seen -him on several occasions talking to—or, perhaps, talking -<em>with</em> is what I really mean—a huge audience in order to -keep them in good humour until the arrival of the lecturer -of the afternoon. He bandies jokes with anybody who -cares to shout to him, and he has the true democrat’s -gift—he never by a look, a word or a gesture implies that -<a name="png.165" id="png.165" href="#png.165"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>165<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>he is in any way superior to the meanest member of his -audience. These rough people love him, admire him and -laugh at him. And, of course, he is able to laugh at -himself. Perhaps, all things considered, he is the most -human man I have met, and I like to think that in him -the spirit of Manchester is embodied. I do not mean -you to infer that I think the spirit of Manchester is the -finest spirit in the world, but I do believe that it is a spirit -that might well be emulated by many other towns.</p> - -<p>What is that spirit? Well, Manchester has a sincere -and very proper respect for success, and particularly for -success that has been won in the face of great difficulties. -Manchester loves education and knowledge, not only -because these things are useful in achieving success, but -also for their own sake. Manchester is public-spirited, -proud of its traditions, loyal to its principles. It is -cultured—not in the super-refined, lily-fingered sense, but -in the sense that it loves literature, music, art. It is -enthusiastic about these things; it works hard to come by -them and treasures them when they are obtained.</p> - -<p>One could, of course, say many disagreeable and true -things about Manchester, but as these have been said -frequently by other people, I refrain from repeating what -is already known.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XIV: Chelsea and Augustus John"><a name="png.166" id="png.166" href="#png.166"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>166<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIV<br - />CHELSEA AND AUGUSTUS JOHN</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">There</span> is a prevalent opinion that Chelsea is the -British counterpart of the Quartier Latin, but the -resemblance each bears to the other is only superficial. -The Quartier Latin and respectability are poles -asunder; its population does not only never think of -respectability, but it does not know what it is. Parisian -Bohemians have no use for it. They do not condemn it, -for it may suit others; for themselves, it is as useless as -yesterday’s dinner.</p> - -<p>Chelsea is not in revolt against morals or anything -else; for the most part, it is quiet, law-abiding and hard-working. -Very little is demanded of new-comers; in order -to obtain entrance to that magic land, you must be a “good -fellow,” you must have personality and a real love of the -arts, and you must be a democrat through and through. -One thing is never forgiven—a reference, however remote, -to your own success. You may be as successful as you -like without creating the slightest envy, but you must not -thrust your success down other people’s throats.</p> - -<p>My own introduction to Chelsea was rather of a wholesale -kind; indeed, it would be truer to say that Chelsea -was introduced to me. One evening Ivan Heald and I -finished a rather strenuous day’s work at the same time. -I had just finished my daily column of chat for <cite>The Daily -Citizen</cite> when the telephone rang. “Is that you, Gerald? -... Yes, Ivan speaking.... Finished? ... Cheshire -Cheese? Right-o! It’s now thirteen minutes past seven; -we’ll meet at sixteen minutes past.” So while he ran -<a name="png.167" id="png.167" href="#png.167"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>167<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>down Shoe Lane, I ran up Bouverie Street and we met at -the door of that caravanserai where, sooner or later, one -comes across all the bright spirits of Fleet Street and every -American sightseer who sets his foot on our shores. We -feasted and, replete, adjourned to the bar for gossip. But -there was no one there to gossip with and, presently, Ivan -said:</p> - -<p>“Come to my flat and play Irish songs.”</p> - -<p>“But your piano’s such a poor one. Much better come -to my place and listen to Wagner.”</p> - -<p>So we jumped into a taxi and were soon racing through -Sloane Square for Chelsea Bridge on the way to my flat -in Prince of Wales’s Road, opposite Battersea Park. At -the Bridge Heald tapped the window, and, the taxi having -stopped, he jumped out on to the pathway and promptly -closed the door upon me inside.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Ivan, “do you know what you are -going to do?”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you tell me, I suppose. What is it?”</p> - -<p>“You’re going home in this cab to prepare your wife -for a lot of visitors. Tell her there will be ten or maybe -twenty. We sha’n’t want any food; we’ll bring that with -us. All we shall want is coffee. Ask her if she’ll make -gallons of coffee, Gerald. For the women, you know. -There’ll be whisky for us, won’t there?” he added rather -wistfully. “Now trot along. I sha’n’t be a quarter of an -hour behind you.”</p> - -<p>“But, <span class="nw">Ivan——”</span></p> - -<p>“But me not a single but,” he said, grinning, and -turned away.</p> - -<p>Half-an-hour later a taxi-cab full of strangers carrying -parcels arrived at my flat. Heald was not with them. -In answer to their ring, my wife and I went to open the -door to welcome them.</p> - -<p>“Come right in,” we said. And then they told us who -they were and we told them who we were. A couple of -<a name="png.168" id="png.168" href="#png.168"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>168<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>minutes later another taxi full of strangers arrived. Still -no Ivan Heald. It was now about ten o’clock, and during -the following hour Chelsea people still kept arriving, some -in cabs, some on foot. It appeared that Heald had -routed up half the people he knew in Chelsea and told them -that he had found someone “new,” that we were just -“it,” and that the sooner we all got to know each other -the better.</p> - -<p>This “surprise party”—so dear to Americans—turned -out a complete success, though half the people had to sit -on the floor. Norman Morrow, away in a corner behind a -pile of books, sang Irish songs, Herbert Hughes played the -piano in his brilliant way, and Harry Low and Eddie -Morrow, with two clever girl-models, acted plays that they -invented on the spur of the moment. Heald came in late, -armed with loaves, butter, cakes and fruit. Not until -dawn (the month was June) did we separate. I was to -meet these delightful people many, many times later, but -so casual yet intimate was our relationship that I never -heard—or, if I heard, I soon forgot—the surnames of a -few of them. We called each other by our Christian -names or by nicknames.</p> - -<p>Perhaps of all the Chelsea people Augustus John is the -most interesting. We became acquainted at the Six Bells, -the famous King’s Road hostelry, and he took me to his -studio near at hand. It was a big barn-like place with a -ridiculous little stove that burned fussily somewhere near -the entrance and from which you never felt any heat unless, -absent-mindedly, you sat on the stove itself. The -studio was crowded with work of all kinds, the most conspicuous -canvas being a huge crayon drawing of a group -of gipsies. Augustus John planted me in a chair in -front of this, seated himself on another chair and stared—not -at the picture, but—at me! Now, I had been told -that John does not suffer fools gladly, and I suspected -from his inquisitorial glance that he was waiting to see if I -<a name="png.169" id="png.169" href="#png.169"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>169<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>was of the detested brood. Sooner or later I should have -to speak, and I groped despairingly in my mind for something -sensible yet not obvious to say about his bold, vivid -and arresting picture. Through sheer apprehensiveness -I found nothing, so, after gazing at the canvas for a few -minutes, I rose and passed on to the next picture. John’s -large, luminous eyes followed me.</p> - -<p>“You don’t like it,” he said, softly but decisively.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I do,” I answered, “or, rather—what I -mean is that ‘like’ is not the right word. It attracts me -and repels me at the same time. It makes me curious—curious -about the gipsies themselves, but more curious -still about the man who has drawn them. But you didn’t -make it for anyone to ‘like,’ did you?”</p> - -<p>“No; I don’t suppose I thought of anyone at all. -There the thing is, to be taken or left, to be accepted by -the onlooker or rejected.”</p> - -<p>“Quite. But to me it is not a passive kind of picture -at all. It thrusts itself on to you very violently, I think, -and it rather demands to be ‘taken,’ as you put it. It is -not like your <cite>Smiling Woman</cite>, for instance, who mysteriously -glides into one’s mind, wheedling her way as she -goes. Your gipsies assault the mind. Your picture is -quite contemptuous of opinion.”</p> - -<p>He appeared to be satisfied, for he smiled; if I had -proved myself a fool, it was clear I was not the kind of fool -he detested.</p> - -<p>We met often after that. I would see him two or three -times a week in the Six Bells. He used to drink beer, and -he would talk in his slow way, or listen to me, nodding -occasionally and saying just a word now and again. But -John is the least loquacious of men. His presence makes -you feel comfortable, not only because his personality is -tolerant and roomy, but because you know that if you are -boring him he will not think twice about edging away to -the billiard-room or telling you abruptly that he must be -<a name="png.170" id="png.170" href="#png.170"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>170<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>“off.” Like so many very hard workers, he appears to -be an accomplished loafer. I have never seen him at -work; I don’t know anybody who has. I have never -heard anybody say: “John can’t come to-night because -he’s busy.” I expect that when the fever is on him, he -keeps at his easel night and day.</p> - -<p>But perhaps you are wondering what Augustus John -looks like? Have you seen Epstein’s bust of him? -Wonderfully good, of course; extraordinarily good; but -it is rather solemn—heavy, I mean. John is not ponderous, -and he does not wear the air of a prophet, and I have -never seen him look precisely like <em>that</em>. His hair is long.... -Of course, most of you will feel disposed to sneer at -that; so should I if it were anybody but John.... But -he carries it off splendidly. You know, even Liszt (at all -events in his photographs) looked frightfully conscious of -his locks, but though John’s hair makes him conspicuous, -he does not appear conscious of his conspicuousness. He -is tall, deliberate in his movements, deep-voiced, very self-contained. -His shortish beard is red, and he has large eyes -that, in some extraordinary way, seem separate from his -face; I mean, they belie it. His features are so composed -that one might think them expressionless; but his eyes -are brooding and deep and quiet. He has not the noisy, -fussy little eyes of the “trained observer,” the man who -notices everything and remembers nothing; he notices -only what is essential to him, the things that are necessary -for him to notice.... Of course, I haven’t described him -in the least; I might have known I could not when I -began to try.... But it seems to me that the essential -thing about Augustus John is the quiet, lazy exterior -which, in some peculiar way, contrives to suggest hidden -fires and volcanic energies. A Celt, of course, and the -mystery of the Celt hangs about him.</p> - -<p>I think John loves few things so much as simply sitting -back in a chair and looking at people: ruminating upon -<a name="png.171" id="png.171" href="#png.171"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>171<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>them, as it were; chewing the cud of his thoughts. I -remember his coming to my flat on one occasion at one -o’clock in the morning when he knew there was a party -there. His eyes were very bright and he came in rather -eagerly, and rather eagerly also he sat and watched us, -sipping cold coffee as he did so and occasionally raising his -voice into a half-shout when something happened that -amused him. But though he sat until nearly all our -guests had departed, he scarcely spoke at all.</p> - -<p>And yet another evening I remember very vividly, an -evening at Herbert Hughes’s studio where, by candle-light, -we used to have music every Sunday evening and -where, in the half darkness at the far end of that long -room, one could, if one wished, just sit and look on -and perhaps talk a little to one’s neighbour. There -John sat in the dark, like a Velasquez painting, his -limbs thrown carelessly about, his head turned gently -towards a sparkling Irish girl who seemed to be teasing -him.</p> - -<p>It is only now, when I have set myself to write about -him, that I realise how little, after all, I know about -Augustus John, though I have met him so often. He -reveals himself most generously in his work, though even -there he keeps back more than he discloses. But I think -that even to his closest friends he reveals very little, and -that perhaps is why so many legendary stories about him -are afloat. He has the mystery of Leonardo. One feels -that his personality hides a great and important secret, -but one feels also that that secret will remain hidden for -ever. Sombre he is, sombre yet vital, sombre and full of -humour.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Allusion to the impression that Augustus John gives of -habitually loafing reminds me that this characteristic is -typical of Chelsea. They are the most casual people in -the world, and it is their casualness that the worker-by-rote -<a name="png.172" id="png.172" href="#png.172"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>172<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>cannot understand. I know a score of studios where -one could walk in at any time of the day and be welcomed -or, if not welcomed, treated with most disarming frankness. -If the owner of the studio were busy on some work -that had to be finished, he would say: “There’s a drink -there on the table and a smoke. Do what you like but, -for God’s sake, don’t talk!” Or: “Go round to the -Bells, Old Thing. I like you very much and all that sort -of nonsense, but even you can be a bit of a nuisance at -ten in the morning. It’s like drinking Benedictine before -breakfast.” But receptions such as this latter are very -rare, and most artists—because they <em>are</em> artists, I suppose—are -ready enough to throw down their work and play for -half-an-hour.</p> - -<p>I always think of Norman and Edwin Morrow as typical -artists. Norman, who died almost in harness a short time -ago, was absolutely disdainful of success, or perhaps it -would be truer to say that he was disdainful of the means -by which success is usually won. I imagine him looking -upon certain successful men and their work and saying -to himself: “Only the distinguished nowadays are unknown.” -But he would say this with his tongue in his -cheek, laughing at himself, and knowing that the dictum -is only half true. He liked admiration—what artist does -not?—but people who liked things of his that he himself -did not approve of made him “tired.”</p> - -<p>Of course, those people who worship success—or, at all -events, admire it—are very difficult to bring to the belief -that many artists are almost indifferent to it. “Artists -may <em>pretend</em> to care nothing for success, especially those -who have failed to achieve it,” they say, “but surely it is -a case of sour grapes?” No man except a fool, it is true, -is wholly indifferent to money, but the type of artist of -whom I am now writing is tremendously casual about it. -If money comes his way, as it has in John’s case, well and -good; if not, it can very well be done without. The artist -<a name="png.173" id="png.173" href="#png.173"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>173<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>lives almost entirely for the moment, for the moment is -the only thing of which he is certain. Yesterday has gone -and has melted into yesterday’s Seven Thousand Years; -to-morrow is not yet here and may never arrive; therefore, -<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">carpe diem</i>.</p> - -<p>Norman Morrow had the kind of subtlety and refinement -that one finds in the work of Henry James. I very -rarely came away from his studio without feeling that I -had given myself “away,” that he had seen through all -my insincerities, that he was aware of the precise motives -of my acts even when I was not aware of them myself. -But, being a swift analyst of his own emotions and a -constant diver after the real motive in himself, he was -tolerant of others and very slow to condemn.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It is incorrect to assume, as many people do, that there -is in Chelsea anything of the atmosphere of Henri Murger’s -Bohemia. Nowadays, in London artistic and literary -circles, only the idle and incompetent starve. Murger’s -young artists, moreover, are absurdly self-conscious and -flabby and childish. Chelsea men and women are keen-witted, -level-headed, and experienced people of the world.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>All the faddists, of course, go to live at Letchworth, but -there are in Chelsea a few groups of young “intellectuals” -who are good enough to supply comic relief in the “between” -days when one is bored. One Saturday evening, -having been to the Chelsea Palace of Varieties and feeling -restless and disinclined for bed, I remembered that I had a -standing invitation to go to a certain studio where, I was -told, I should be welcomed whenever I cared to go. I -went and discovered a handful of young men sitting round -the fire and directing the affairs of the Empire.</p> - -<p>The little group of intellectuals (all from Cambridge—or -was it Oxford?) hailed me and fell to talking about -politics, socialism, Fabianism, Sidney Webbism, and so -<a name="png.174" id="png.174" href="#png.174"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>174<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>forth. All very bright and clever, and all very promising, -but the wonderful conceit of it all! Some of them were -men with brilliant university honours, but they had not -even the wisdom, the sense of proportion, of children. -They idolised Bernard Shaw and spoke of H. G. Wells in -terms of contempt. They really thought that the destinies -of our Empire were directed by the universities, and their -priggish little minds were eager to “control” the poor, to -direct their work, even to fix the size of their <span class="nw">families....</span></p> - -<p>I sat silent, wondering if these men represented the best—or -even the average—that our universities produced in -immediately pre-war days. I looked at their long, white -fingers, their longish hair, their long noses, and I listened -to their drawl which was not quite a drawl, and I thought -that their conversation was, what Keats would have called -it, “a little noiseless noise.” They had brains, of course; -they were smartish and “clever.” But what are brains -without experience and what is cleverness without judgment? -These men, I felt, would never gain experience, -for they saw in life only what they wished to see, denying -the rest. Life to them was a vast disorder which Oxford -and Cambridge, as represented by them, was about to put -right. I imagine Mrs Sidney Webb and Mr Beatrice Webb -(as <cite>The New Age</cite> once so happily called them) walking over -from Grosvenor Road to Chelsea and smiling blandly, and -with huge satisfaction, at their ridiculous disciples.</p> - -<p>I have described these people because, though they do -not represent Chelsea, they are to be met with there in -considerable numbers. They have flats and studios full -of knick-knacks, flats in which you will find art curtains, -studios in which there is ascetic severity and where one -has triscuits for breakfast.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XV: Miscellaneous"><a name="png.175" id="png.175" href="#png.175"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>175<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XV<br - />MISCELLANEOUS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Arthur Henderson, M.P.—Lord Derby—Miss Elizabeth Robins—Frank -Mullings—Harold Bauer—Emil Sauer—Vladimir -de Pachmann</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">I quite</span> forget what particular concatenation of -circumstances brought me into personal touch with -Mr Arthur Henderson, M.P., but I rather think that -when I waited for him at Waterloo Station I was acting -the part of messenger-boy. Perhaps I delivered a letter -or telegram to him, or I may have given him a verbal -message. All I remember is, that something very important -had happened, and it was necessary that Mr Arthur Henderson should be apprised of this happening -at the earliest possible moment. So I volunteered to meet -him at Waterloo.</p> - -<p>We walked across the station together, and I was -depressingly aware of a rather bulky form with a -Manchester kind of face. He spoke heavily and uttered -commonplaces that fell dead on his very lips. I could -feel his self-importance radiating from him, and I gathered -that I was supposed to be in the presence of a very exceptional -person indeed. But I did not feel that he was -exceptional. There has never been a moment since I -reached manhood that I haven’t known that my intellect -is of finer texture than that of the five thousand who elbow -each other on the Manchester Exchange, and it seemed to -me that night at Waterloo Station that Mr<!-- TN: original reads "Hr" --> Henderson -would be very much at home on the Manchester Exchange. -I recollect most vividly that he bored me very much and -<a name="png.176" id="png.176" href="#png.176"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>176<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>that, offering him some plausible excuse, I parted from -him before we had crossed the river, and darted away to -more congenial people.</p> - -<p>A few weeks previous to this encounter I had heard -Mr Henderson give an “address” in a Nonconformist -chapel. An “address,” I am given to understand, is a -kind of homely sermon in which the speaker talks to his -audience in a friendly and distinctly unbending manner. -He seeks to improve them, to lead them to higher and -better things: in a word, to make them more like himself.... -I have not the faintest recollection of what drove -me inside this Nonconformist chapel, but I cannot conceive -I went there of my own free will. I suppose that -someone paid me to go there. But my mind retains a -very clear picture of a pulpit containing a man with a -face so like other faces that, sometimes, when I examine -it, it seems to belong to Mr Jackson of Messrs Jackson -& Lemon, the famous auctioneers of Boodlestown, and -at other times it is owned by Mr Brownjonesrobinson who, -I need scarcely point out, is known everywhere.... -Really, I have no intention of being violently rude. This -question of faces is important. A face should express -a soul. No great man whose portrait I have seen possessed -a commonplace face.</p> - -<p>The address was heavy, obvious and dull. I was taken -back twenty years to my boyhood when stern parents -compelled me to go to a Wesleyan chapel one hundred and -three times a year (twice every Sunday and once on -Christmas Day); on most of those hundred and three -occasions I used to hear exhortations to be “good,” not, -so to speak, for the love of the thing, but because being -“good” paid. Mr Arthur Henderson, Samuel Smiles -<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">redivivus</i>, proved that it paid. He didn’t say: “Look -at me!” but, all the same, we did look at him. The -spectacle to most of his congregation was, I suppose, -encouraging; me, it didn’t excite. I can well believe -<a name="png.177" id="png.177" href="#png.177"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>177<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>that, as I stepped out of the building, I said to myself: -“No, Gerald. We will remain as we are. The penalties -of virtue are much too heavy for us to pay.”</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>One Saturday evening I journeyed to Liverpool with -twenty or thirty other newspaper men to dine with Lord -Derby. Pressmen are accustomed to this kind of entertainment -from public men, and their host generally contrives -to be exceptionally agreeable. It would be putting it very -crudely to state that these dinners are intended as a -bribe: let me therefore say that they serve the purpose -of smoothing the way for the dissemination of some propaganda -or other. To the best of my recollection, Lord -Derby had no other purpose in view than the laudable -and kindly intention of making the journalists of -Manchester and Liverpool better acquainted with one -another.</p> - -<p>After dinner, various ladies and gentlemen from the -neighbouring music halls provided us with an excellent -entertainment, and I can now see Lord Derby smilingly -and courteously receiving these artists and making them -feel that they, like ourselves, were honoured guests, and -not merely paid mimes. He seemed to me then, as he -has always seemed to me, our dearly loved, bluff but -unfailingly courteous national John Bull. He is, I think, -the most British man with whom I have ever spoken—honest, -brave, resourceful, self-sacrificing, fond of good -company and good cheer, hail-fellow-well-met yet a -trifle reserved and not a little cautious, blunt but -considerate of others’ feelings. Some of us collected -signatures on the backs of our menus, but when -Lord Derby had written his name on the top of -mine I left it there alone, not caring to see other -names mingling with his: perhaps feeling that no other -name of those present was worthy to stand beneath -his name.</p> - -<p><a name="png.178" id="png.178" href="#png.178"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>178<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>He spoke to us, but his speech had nothing in it save -welcome.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>When I see, as I frequently do, the newspapers and -reviews praising the works of Mrs Humphry Ward and -describing her as the greatest of living British female -writers, I rub my eyes in astonishment and wonder why -Miss Elizabeth Robins is overlooked. Mrs Humphry -Ward can, it is true, tell a story: she knows well much -of the behind-the-scenes life of modern politics: moreover, -she is a woman of the world with a highly cultivated -mind and a varied experience of life. But if ever there -was a woman without genius, without, indeed, the true -literary gift, she is that woman. She cannot fire the -imagination, quicken the pulse, or stir the heart. She -plays with puppets and never reveals life. Miss Robins, -on the contrary, strikes deep into life—cleaves it asunder, -disrupts it, opens it out to our gaze. She has the gift -of tragedy.... When I think concentratedly of Mrs Humphry Ward’s books, I remember atmospheres, social -environments, a few incidents, and I see dimly about -half-a-dozen pictures. But when my mind dwells on -<cite>The Open Question</cite> and <cite>The Magnetic North</cite>, I see and hear -and touch live men and women.</p> - -<p>I know nothing of Miss Elizabeth Robins’ private -affairs, but if my intuition guides me rightly, she has had -a tragic life and her life is still and always will be tragic. -Her temperament is not dissimilar to Charlotte Brontë’s, -that great little woman whose sense of the ridiculous -was so great but whose power of expressing it was so small.</p> - -<p>Miss Robins, as you all know, entered the ranks of -the militant suffragettes, and it was at a meeting of the -W.S.P.U. that I met her and heard her speak. In the -real sense, she has no gift of speech. When she has to -address an audience, she prepares her words beforehand, -memorises them, and then delivers them with the lucidity, -<a name="png.179" id="png.179" href="#png.179"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>179<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>the passion and the eloquence of a great actress. I think -I have heard all the best-known women speakers from -Lady Henry Somerset up to Mrs Pankhurst, but though -my admiration of Mrs Pankhurst’s brave and proud gifts -scarcely knows a limit, I consider that Miss Robins -surpasses her in her power of sweeping an audience along -with her and in her great gift of quickening the spirit -and urging it upwards to the heights of an enthusiasm -that does not quickly <span class="nw">die....</span></p> - -<p>Perhaps in reading this book you have not gathered -the impression that I am afflicted by a devastating bashfulness -that, always at the wrong moments, robs me of -speech and makes me appear an imbecile. Nevertheless -that affliction is mine. The more I like and reverence -people, the more bereft of speech I become in their presence. -It is so when I am with Orage, though we have -been intimate enough for him to address me in letters -as “My dear Gerald”; it is so with Frank Harris (but -perhaps you think I ought not to “reverence” him—yet -his genius compels me to); and it is so with Ernest -Newman and Granville Bantock. And when Miss -Elizabeth Robins’ hand met mine in a firm clasp and she -spoke some words of greeting, I had not a word to say. -Like an ashamed schoolboy, I walked, speechless and -fuming, from the room and kicked myself in the passage -outside.... I know this shyness has its origin in vanity, -but then I <em>am</em> vain. But I am a fool to allow my vanity -to gain the upper hand of my speech.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Frank Mullings!... Well, I have more than once -said that singers bore me, but if a man is bored by Mullings, -he is worse than a fool. One always has a special kind of -affection for men whom one has known in obscurity and -of whom one’s prophecies of great things has come true. -Mullings has, indeed, travelled far since those jolly days -when we used to meet in Sydney Grew’s little flat in -<a name="png.180" id="png.180" href="#png.180"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>180<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Birmingham and make music with Grieg, Bantock and -Wolf for company. A great “lad,” as we say in Lancashire: -a great fat boy without affectation, without -jealousy, without even the pride that all great -artists should possess: a generous, simple-hearted -man who is capable of travelling a couple of hundred -miles to sing, without fee, the songs of Bantock, -just because he loved those songs and wanted others -to love them.</p> - -<p>He was always untidy, short-sighted, and either very -depressed or very jolly. His moods were thorough, and -they infected you. In Birmingham, in days when only -a few, and those few powerless to help, were aware of his -astonishing gifts, he was serene and happy. I remember -him, Sydney Grew and myself sitting on the floor of Grew’s -very narrow drawing-room, our backs to the wall, and -talking of our future. I was the oldest of the three, -and for that reason spoke with simulated wisdom.</p> - -<p>“Only one of us is marked down for real success, and -you, Mullings, are the man,” I said. “You have the -successful temperament. Sydney here will do valuable -work, but he hasn’t the gifts that shine and blind. As for -me, I shall make the most of my small but, I really think, -engaging talent and swank about in a little circle of -appreciators.”</p> - -<p>Mullings laughed.</p> - -<p>“Do you really think I shall?” he asked. “Have -another whisky, Cumberland, and go on talking; you -give me confidence. And confidence is half the battle, -isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“So they say. But haven’t you confidence already?”</p> - -<p>“Well, it ebbs and it flows.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <em>he’s</em> all right,” said Sydney Grew. “Don’t -worry about Mullings. But what do you mean when you -say that I shall do valuable work?”</p> - -<p>“You’re an artist, and you’ve got personality and -<a name="png.181" id="png.181" href="#png.181"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>181<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>ideas. Haven’t you often reproached me on the score -that you meet me for an hour and, a month later, see all -that you have told me in two or three articles that in the -meantime I have written for the papers?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you do pick my brains, Gerald. You know -you do.”</p> - -<p>“Simply because they are worth picking. And if I -didn’t, they would be lost to the world. Why don’t you -yourself write? You must write more and talk less.”</p> - -<p>He took my advice, and began a career that promised -much until the war interrupted it.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Mullings has “arrived” and I am -longing to meet him again, for I know very well he will -be still fat and jolly, that he will still allow me to play -accompaniments for him on any old piano that is handy, -and that we shall talk excitedly of Bantock and Julius -Harrison, of the Manchester Musical Society and Phyllis -Lett, of “Colonel” Anderton and Ernest Newman, and -of everything and everybody that made those far-off days -so full of interest and so sweet to remember.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Harold Bauer set out to conquer the world, and has -done nothing more than arouse the interest of one or two -countries. Yet he is a great pianist. But I am told that -his personality stands between him and the real thing in -the way of success. I have sat next to critics at his -recitals who have squirmed in their stalls as he played.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” I have asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite know. But don’t you feel it yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Feel what?”</p> - -<p>“Something. I don’t quite know what. Something -indefinable. His playing is too greasy. Did you ever -hear Brahms played like that before?”</p> - -<p>“No. I wish I had. I think his Brahms wonderfully -fine.”</p> - -<p>Certainly, his temperament is not magnetic like the -<a name="png.182" id="png.182" href="#png.182"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>182<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>personality of Paderewski, of Kubelik, of Yvette Guilbert, -and the public is a connoisseur of temperaments. I -think I have elsewhere observed in this book that -the public collects temperaments just as a few people -collect china or autographs. Perhaps Bauer is not exotic -or orchidaceous enough. He is too “straight,” too -downright.</p> - -<p>“What are they like, these Manchester people?” -Bauer asked me one afternoon before he was to play in -England’s musical metropolis.</p> - -<p>“Well, they’re ‘difficult,’ I think. They know something -about music here. You are not in London now, -you know. You have reached the centre of things.”</p> - -<p>“Seriously?”</p> - -<p>“Quite. I mean it. These people really do know. -You see, for the last fifty years they have had nothing -but the best. They have a tradition and stick to it.”</p> - -<p>“The Clara Schumann tradition? Joachim and -Brahms and Hallé and all that?”</p> - -<p>“No, no! That is on its last legs, on its knees even. -The tradition, I admit, is hard to define, but it’s there all -the same. If you get a couple of encores here, you may -well consider that a success.”</p> - -<p>“Funny thing, the public,” he muttered. “You never -know where you have it. But, of course, there is no such -entity as ‘the public.’ There are thousands of publics -and they are all different.”</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Emil Sauer has a glittering style and had, fifteen years -ago, a technique that no word but rapacious accurately -describes. The piano recital he gave in Manchester -nearly two decades ago was the first recital I ever attended, -though I was a lad in my late teens; the occasion then -seemed, and still seems, most romantic. It is true that, -on the nursery piano at home, one of my elder brothers -used to give recitals with me as sole auditor, and that -<a name="png.183" id="png.183" href="#png.183"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>183<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I used to return the compliment the following evening, -but though we took these affairs very seriously and even -wrote lengthy criticisms of each other’s playing, our -performances were not of a high order. But one evening, -defying parental authority and risking paternal anger, -we slipped unseen from home and went to hear Sauer.</p> - -<p>I think we must both have been much younger than our -years—certainly we were much younger than the average -educated boy of eighteen or nineteen to-day—and we were -in a very high state of nervous excitement as we sat in -the gallery of the Free Trade Hall waiting for the great -man’s appearance. His slim and, as it seemed at the time, -spirit-like figure passed across the platform to the piano, -and two hours of pure trance-like joy began for at least -a couple of his listeners. My brother and I knew all there -was to know about the great pianists of the past, and -often we had tried to imagine what their playing was -like; but neither he nor I had conceived that anything -could be so gorgeous as what we now heard. For once, -realisation was many more times finer than anticipation. -Only one thing disturbed my complete happiness—and -that was the notion that the pianist might possibly be -disappointed with the amount of applause he was receiving, -though, of a truth, he was receiving a great deal of -applause. So I clapped my hands and stamped my feet -as hard and as long as possible. The Appassionata Sonata -almost frenzied me and a Liszt Rhapsody was like heady -wine.</p> - -<p>But all beautiful things come to a close, and towards -ten o’clock my brother and I found ourselves on the wet -pavement outside, feeling very exalted but at the same -time uncertain whether we had done our utmost to make -Sauer’s welcome all that we thought it should have -been.</p> - -<p>“Let’s wait for him outside the platform entrance and -cheer him when he comes out,” suggested my brother.</p> - -<p><a name="png.184" id="png.184" href="#png.184"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>184<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Very strange must that two-voiced cheer have sounded -to Sauer as, in the dark side street, he stepped quickly into -his cab, which began immediately to move away. As our -voices died, he opened the window and leaned out, holding -out to us his long-fingered hand. Running eagerly to him, -we clasped his hand in turn and, amazed, listened to the -few words of thanks he shouted to us.</p> - -<p>For long after that, Sauer was one of our major gods, -and we followed his triumphs both in England and on -the Continent with the utmost interest and excitement. -When we boasted to our friends that we had shaken hands -with the great pianist, they evinced little interest in the -matter. “Why, that’s nothing!” exclaimed a Philistine; -“last Saturday afternoon I touched the sleeve of Jim -Valentine’s coat!” Now, Jim Valentine was a great -rugger player.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Perhaps the most exquisite and the most fragile thing -in the world at present is the Chopin playing of Vladimir -de Pachmann. For more than a quarter of a century -writers have been attempting to reproduce his coloured -music in coloured words: they have all failed. De Pachmann is an exotic, a hothouse plant. Not a hothouse -plant among many other plants, but a plant living -luxuriously and solitarily and with exaggerated self-consciousness -in its own hothouse.</p> - -<p>In thinking of him, one feels that he belongs to the very -last minute of civilisation’s progress. All the civilisations -of the past have come and gone and returned; they have -worked age-long with tireless industry; mankind has -struggled upwards and rushed precipitately downwards -through thousands of years; cities have been sacked and -countries ravaged; Babylon, Nineveh, Athens and Rome -have bloomed flauntingly and wilted most tragically: -and the most exquisite thing that has been produced by -all this suffering, all this unimaginable labour, is the -<a name="png.185" id="png.185" href="#png.185"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>185<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Chopin playing of de Pachmann. The world has toiled -for thousands of years and has at last given us this thing -more delicate than lace, more brittle than porcelain, -more shining than <span class="nw">gold....</span></p> - -<p>There is the rather painful question of this pianist’s -eccentricities. One can discuss them publicly for de Pachmann himself continually thrusts them on the public. -You know to what I refer: the running commentary of -words, gestures, nods, smiles and leers which he almost -invariably passes not only on the music he plays, but also -on his manner of playing it. I refuse to believe that this -most extraordinary behaviour is mere affectation: it -seems to me a direct and irrepressible expression of the -man’s very soul. It is not ridiculous, because it is so -serious and so natural. Nevertheless, it is entirely ineffective. -It does not help in the least. Rather does it -mar. To see the performer winking slyly at you when he -has, as it were, “pulled off” a particularly delicate nuance -does not give that nuance a more subtle flavour: it merely -distracts the attention and sets one conjecturing what -really <em>is</em> going on in the performer’s mind. It has appeared -to me that the pianist has been saying: “You noticed -that, didn’t you? Well, <em>you</em> couldn’t do it if you spent -a whole lifetime trying; yet how easily <em>I</em> achieved it!”</p> - -<p>The large, smooth face, with its loose mouth and dizzied -eyes, is the face of a magician out of a story book. It is -not a real face. It has only one of the attributes of power—egotism. -Egotism has furrowed every line on that -countenance; it dilates the eyes. Egotism runs through -the sensitive fingers. I have stood by his side and wilfully -shut my ears on the music and fastened my eyes on his -face; but I learned nothing. I do not know if his mind -dwells aloof from all emotion, his intellect functioning -automatically—as would seem to be the case; or if, -experienced and cynical, he has the power of pouring the -very essence of his spirit into sound, laughing at himself -<a name="png.186" id="png.186" href="#png.186"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>186<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and us as he does so—but laughing more at us than at -himself, for we are deceived whilst he is not.</p> - -<p>It is strange that so exotic a personality should have -a firm and unrelaxing hold on the public. He is not -caviare to the general. Villiers de l’Isle Adam is worshipped -by the few; Walter Pater cannot have more -than a thousand sincere disciples, but de Pachmann is -adored by millions. “Millions” is no exaggeration. -People are taken out of themselves whilst he plays. You -remember, don’t you? the Paderewski craze in America -fifteen years ago, when the platform was stormed and -taken by assault night after night by society ladies. -I witnessed pretty much the same kind of thing at a -de Pachmann recital in a Lancashire town; but the latter -pianist was stormed, not by society ladies, but by unemotional -bank clerks, stockbrokers, merchants, working -men and women. At the end of the concert, they flowed -on to the platform in hundreds, and surrounded the -pianist whilst he played encore after encore, smiling -vacantly the while and enjoying himself immensely, -pausing between each piece only to motion his ring of -worshippers a little farther from the piano.</p> - -<p>An enigmatic creature, this; a creature who will never -give up his secret; perhaps, even, a creature who is not -aware that he possesses a secret.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XVI: Cathedral Music Festivals"><a name="png.187" id="png.187" href="#png.187"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>187<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVI<br - />CATHEDRAL MUSICAL FESTIVALS</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">No</span>; I’m not going to be a chronicler in this -chapter. It sounds a dull subject, I know, but -many things happened in Gloucester, Hereford -and Worcester in mellow September days that were vastly -amusing and which were not reported in the papers, and -it is about these I am going to tell you.</p> - -<p>It used to be very charming to go to one of these -cathedrals early each autumn, drink cider, listen to music -six hours a day, walk by the river, have jolly “rags” in -the hotel at night, and come home again at the end of a -week or ten days. September is a tired month, I always -think ... if not tired, a little languorous.... It has -many days in which one wants to walk about just quietly, -enjoying being alive. It would be wrong to fuss and work -really hard. I suppose that in all those wonderful places -in which I have spent so many happy weeks—Worcester, -Lincoln, Gloucester, Hereford, Norwich—people ruminate -and browse at all times. Certainly I have seen them -browsing in herds in September days. I once watched -the Bishop of Hereford browsing. He stood perfectly -still and seemed to be contemplating and measuring and -gently wondering about the growth of a healthy nasturtium.</p> - -<p>Everybody used to migrate to these festivals. Well, -not quite everybody ... but you know what I mean; -just the very people you most awfully wanted to meet -again and talk to and hear music with: people like Granville -Bantock, Ernest Newman, Samuel Langford, John -Coates, Dr McNaught, Frederic Austin, Herbert Hughes. -<a name="png.188" id="png.188" href="#png.188"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>188<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>London used to send thirty or forty critics, and the -provinces about the same number. And from the surrounding -towns would pour in county families, middle-class -families anxious (poor deluded ones!) to keep abreast -of the musical times (or do I mean <cite>The Musical Times</cite>?), -maiden ladies still and for ever ecstatic over Mendelssohn’s -poor old <cite>Elijah</cite>, fierce choir-masters with ideas on choral -singing, village organists who really believed that Dr Brewer was the Last Word, immaculate young men with -æsthetic fever and a decided leaning towards Elgar’s -<cite>The Dream of Gerontius</cite> (always alluded to by them as <cite>The -Dream</cite>), very “nee-ice” young ladies who when at home -played the violin, and, last of all, deans (oh yes, lots of -deans), minor canons, slim curates, parsons of all kinds, -squires without money, squarsons.</p> - -<p>It was hard for us musical critics to take these festivals -quite as seriously as the festivals expected us to do, for it -always seemed incredible to us that London or Birmingham -or Glasgow should have the least desire to know how the -choruses of Handel’s <cite>The Messiah</cite> were sung in a little town -like Gloucester. Moreover, many of us were amused at -the tragic seriousness of these age-old festivals—festivals -at which, as a rule, only two new works of any importance -were produced and over which old oratorios—an impossible -form of art—hung like a heavy cloud. So we used to -amuse ourselves in our different ways, and the ringleaders -in our occasional rags were generally Granville Bantock -and Ernest Newman.</p> - -<p>Almost every detail of one of these joyous occasions -lingers in my memory. Dr McNaught, the doyen of us -all, an experienced critic, a witty speaker, and a most profound -musician, was the not unwilling victim. Bantock -or, to give him his full title, Professor Granville Bantock, M.A., had brought from Birmingham two live eels in a -tank. When he bought these sturdy creatures, he must -have had in his mind some jollification or other, and when -<a name="png.189" id="png.189" href="#png.189"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>189<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I met him in the streets of Hereford (I think it was Hereford) -during the morning of the Festival’s first day, he -asked me what was the most amusing thing I could think -of that could be done with two live eels.</p> - -<p>“Eels!” exclaimed I, in amazement. “Do you mean -to tell me that you really possess two live eels?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, here in Hereford. One gets a little dull here -after a couple of hours, and, after all, eels are very lively -fry. They break the monotony of life.” He paused a -moment. “And,” he added rather dreamily, “they -swish their tails so busily. I suppose an eel’s tail is the -busiest thing in the world. Come and have a look; -they’re in my room at the hotel.”</p> - -<p>And there they were in a tank: dark objects in dark -water, swirling about with enormous enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>The day passed and no amusing idea occurred to me. -Bantock conducted one of his works in the cathedral that -evening—a very important and solemn occasion, and -when we critics had left our “copy” at the post-office for -telegraphic transmission to our respective newspapers, we -foregathered in the hotel.</p> - -<p>Now Dr McNaught had gone to spend the late hours -with a friend and was not expected back till nearly midnight; -it became obvious, therefore, both to Bantock and -myself, that the eels must, in some way, be made to -surprise him on his return. We placed the slimy creatures -in a washhand basin in his bedroom, poured water -upon them, and gazed down upon them with knitted -brows.</p> - -<p>“It is enough,” said Bantock; “there is no need to -think of anything else. Listen.”</p> - -<p>And, truly, there was a most stealthy and uncouth sort -of noise. Eels may have soft skins, but their muscles are -hard and, as they careered round the basin, one heard -a continuous smooth sound as of people going about -some nefarious business in the dark, and now and again, -<a name="png.190" id="png.190" href="#png.190"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>190<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>at unexpected moments, a loud thwack would be heard -as one of the fish threw his tail upon the side of the basin.</p> - -<p>Newman and Frederic Austin and one or two others -collaborated in preparing our scheme. A female figure -was made, carefully placed on the middle of Dr McNaught’s -pillow, and gently covered to the neck with the bedclothes.</p> - -<p>These elaborate arrangements for Dr McNaught’s entertainment -were only just completed when the doctor himself -returned. We waited in dark corners of the corridor -for the result.</p> - -<p>After an interval of a few minutes, a bell rang and a -chambermaid appeared.</p> - -<p>“There is some mistake, I think,” said Dr McNaught -genially. “Either this room is a bedroom, a larder, or an -aquarium; it would be most good of you if you would -decide as soon as possible which it really is.”</p> - -<p>The chambermaid entered the bedroom and we could -just hear her quiet voice as, a moment later, she half -whispered:</p> - -<p>“But, sir, the room is already occupied. There is a -lady in your bed.”</p> - -<p>Of course, the psychological moment had arrived, and -we strolled casually into the bedroom to become witnesses -of Dr McNaught’s embarrassment. The jape was continued. -McNaught was taken to the smoke-room, -solemnly tried by judge and jury for having murdered -a woman and concealed her body (it was at the time of -the Crippen affair), and sentenced to death. Newman -brought a hatchet from the cellar and, not long before -dawn, the mock sentence was carried out with elaborate -<span class="nw">pantomime....</span></p> - -<p>“Very childish—just like schoolboys!” I hear a reader -(not you, of course) say, rather contemptuously. Yes, it -was like schoolboys, and substitute “-like” for “-ish” -in “childish” and I agree with you most heartily.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p><a name="png.191" id="png.191" href="#png.191"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>191<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>But not all our time was spent in this uproarious way. -There were long hours of talk, great talk from Langford of -<cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, a man of mature years whom to -meet is a privilege and whom to know intimately is a -blessing; witty, rather cruel, but vastly entertaining talk -from Newman; pungent talk from Bantock; and general -gossip from all kinds of people.</p> - -<p>I do remember so regretfully—regretfully, because I do -not think a like occasion can happen again—an afternoon -that Langford and I spent sitting at a little rustic table -under a just yellowing grove of poplars. Langford’s mind -is spacious, most richly stored. Nothing can happen that -does not at once and without effort fit into his philosophy -of life, and though his talk is profound it is so greatly -human that, in listening to him, one feels completely at -rest. He accepts everything.... I daresay you have -noticed that many people have tried to describe the effect -Walt Whitman’s personality has had on them, and you will -have observed how they have all failed. It is an impossible -task.... And I feel that in writing about Langford it is -impossible to convey to you what he stands for to his -friends. I recollect Captain J. E. Agate once saying to -me: “I never come away from speaking to Langford -without feeling what an empty fool I am.” Yes, that is -true; yet, at the same time, you feel reconciled to your -own empty folly; besides, you know well enough that if -you were a fool Langford would not talk to you; he would -just ask you to have a drink and then he would fumble -clumsily in his waistcoat pocket to find you a cigarette.</p> - -<p>Langford will never be “successful” in the worldly -sense. Perhaps he looks with suspicion on success; -certainly he has never attempted to achieve it. I imagine -that his nature is very like that of Æ, and if what everyone -says of Æ is true, one cannot conceive that anything finer -could be said of anyone than that he resembles the great -Irish poet.</p> - -<p><a name="png.192" id="png.192" href="#png.192"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>192<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>It was these refreshing talks with various people that -did something to mitigate the severity of the atmosphere -of conventionality, of “respectability” in its worst sense, -that made it rather difficult to breathe freely in these -cathedral cities. Everyone wore new clothes; men perspired -in kid gloves; girls carried prayer-books and copies -of <cite>Elijah</cite>; deans were dapper; ostlers were clean and -profoundly polite; and, wherever you went, you heard -people saying that they had seen Lord Bertie and Lady -Jane, and had you noticed that the dear Bishop had looked -a little tired last evening? There was, too, about these -festivals an air as of a society function. Music, an unwilling -handmaid of charity, was “indulged” in. One -did not have music every day, for that would have been -frivolous; but one had it in great lumps every twelve -months, and had it, not because one cannot live fully and -vividly without art, but because it made a good excuse -for a social “occasion.” The music itself was excused—for -in the minds of these people it required an excuse—by -the fact that the entire festival was organised for charity, -that vice which causes so many sins.</p> - -<p>I myself came into rather violent conflict with the -Norfolk and Norwich Musical Festival authorities on a -question of artistic morality. Ten or eleven years ago -they offered a prize of twenty-five guineas for a poem, and -another prize of fifty guineas for the best musical setting -of the poem. I entered the former competition and -secured the prize. My “poem” was in blank verse and -lyrics, its subject Cleopatra, and it contained the following -passage:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container" id="cleo"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Iris.</i> And when with regal, arrogant step she passed</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Across the portico, her white breasts gleamed;</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Her neck seemed conscious of its loveliness;</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>The expectancy of proud assault; she was</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>As one who lives for a last carnival</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span><a name="png.193" id="png.193" href="#png.193"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>193<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Of love, in which she may be stabbed and torn</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>By large excess of passion.</div> - -<div><i>Charmion.</i><span class="ns"> </span><span class="charmion">Oh!</span> Our Queen</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Has wine for blood; her tears are heavy drops</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Of water stolen from some brackish sea</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Or murderous waves; her heart now leaps with life</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And now lies sleeping like a coilèd snake.</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>But in to-night’s cold moon she burns and glows;</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Her heart is housing many a mad desire,</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>And she is sick for Antony.</div> - -<div><i>Iris.</i><span class="ns"> </span><span class="iris">The</span> day</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Has gone, and soon they’ll drink the heady wine</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>That sparkles in each other’s eyes. Once more</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Venus and Bacchus meet, and all the world</div> -<div class="i2"><span class="ns"> </span>Stands still to watch the bliss of living gods.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>There was a little more to the same effect, and when I -wrote the stuff I thought it very fine and still think it -rather pretty. But a section of the musical Press attacked -it violently, and for a couple of months I was quite a -notorious person. I gathered from the articles and letters -that appeared that my dramatic poem was not likely -to engender music that would carry on the tradition of -Mendelssohn’s <cite>Elijah</cite>. That had been my object in -writing it. I was sick of that tradition. I wished to help -to break it.</p> - -<p>One day, while the little storm was still raging, I -received a letter from Sir Henry J. Wood, who was to conduct -the Festival at Norwich at which my work was to -be given. (Mr Julius Harrison, who has since become -prominent as one of Sir Thomas Beecham’s assistant conductors, -had gained the prize for the musical setting of -my poem.) In his letter Sir Henry wrote: “Very much -against my will, I am writing to ask you on behalf of the -Committee of the Norfolk and Norwich Festival if it is -possible for you to make any alternative version of the -‘two objectionable lines’ (I fail to find them myself) in -your libretto, <cite>Cleopatra</cite>.... From my point of view, the -whole thing is absurd and ridiculous.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.194" id="png.194" href="#png.194"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>194<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>I could not find the objectionable lines. I showed the -poem to a most maiden aunt and watched her as she read -it, hoping to tell by her sudden blush when her eyes had -reached the evil place. She did not blush; she simply -read the thing and said: “Oh, Gerald, how nice! I do -think you have such pretty thoughts.” So did I.</p> - -<p>A few days later Mr Julius Harrison came to my aid. -The committee, it appeared, objected to “her white -breasts gleamed” and also to:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div>Her lips, tired of tame kisses, parted with</div> -<div>The expectancy of proud <span class="nw">assault....</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">I changed those lines, and the work in due course was performed -at Norwich, and in Queen’s Hall, London. Later -on, when my little poem was sung in Southport in its -original form, with Mr Havergal Brian’s music (for he also -had honoured me), Mr Landon Ronald conducting, the -members of the audience did not leave their seats when -the “objectionable” lines occurred; rather did they -seem to lean forward a little and listen more intently.</p> - -<p>I have mentioned this incident, not because in itself it -is important, but because it so beautifully illustrates the -point of view of our Cathedral Festivals. Their “secular” -concerts are echoes of the concerts given in the Cathedral. -They hate (or else they are afraid of?) every emotion -that is not a religious emotion. They think that God -made our souls and the devil our bodies. They may be -right; if they are, it is clear the devil is not lacking in -consideration.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>There is no doubt that our most ecstatic moments -at the Cathedral Festivals were supplied by Wagner’s -<cite>Parsifal</cite>, which Mr J. F. Runciman, in his little book on -this composer, describes as “this disastrous and evil -opera.” Only excerpts from it, of course, were given; -all “objectionable lines” were cut out. If <cite>Parsifal</cite> is to -<a name="png.195" id="png.195" href="#png.195"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>195<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>be given on the platform at all—and, in view of the fact -that we seldom have it on the stage, why not?—then it -had better be given on a platform that has been erected -in a spacious and beautiful cathedral. I remember those -white voices floating down from a place out of sight near -the roof, away above the clerestory. I always used to try -to obtain a seat near some dimly stained window so that -it might for me blot out the rather bewildered or consciously -“rapt” faces of my fellow-creatures, for, in listening -to noble music, I invariably feel much greater than, -and curiously irritated by the presence of, other people.</p> - -<p>And it used to be so fine to come forth from the -Cathedral at noon, step into that mellow September -English sunshine which I have not seen for nearly three -years, and walk by the river ... walk perhaps a mile -or so and come back to the hotel to eat cool meats and -cool salads and drink cool wine. It was at these times -I used to sigh and long for Bayreuth and wonder if I -should ever see the grave of Wagner in the garden of Villa -Wahnfried in that little Bavarian town.</p> - -<p>It was at Gloucester, I think, that one year I was pursued -by a certain hard-working, but not very talented, -composer who, having gained a most extensive “popular” -public for his work, was now anxious to win the suffrage -of more cultivated people. Most unhappily for me, he -took it into his head that my musical criticism had some -influence in the north, and though he was quite wrong in -this assumption, I was never able to convince him of his -error. Wherever I went, lo! he was there with me. -And always under his arm was a musical score, a score of -his own composition. Something new, he assured me; -something really quite modern. Would I look at it? I -did. It was feeble, paltry and bombastic, but I did not -like to tell him so. But when he pressed me for an opinion -I said, what was near enough to the truth, that it was -a great advance on his previous work. This seemed to -<a name="png.196" id="png.196" href="#png.196"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>196<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>please him, and he took to inviting me out to lunch. If -ever I went into the hotel smoke-room for a quiet pipe, I -would invariably notice a vague but self-important figure -in the doorway, and presently would hear the unmistakable -pop that a champagne bottle so deliciously makes -when it is opened. A bubbling glass would be placed at -my side.</p> - -<p>“Now, Richard Strauss in his <cite>Ein Heldenleben</cite> ...” -his voice would begin. And he would proceed to tell me -all about <cite>Ein Heldenleben</cite> and its beauties. To bewilder -him, I used to assert that <cite>Carmen</cite> seemed to me a much -finer work than Strauss’s <cite>Elektra</cite>, and, because he was very -ignorant and because he had not the slightest appreciation -of Strauss, he used to look at me rather pitifully, and -would eventually confess that he too liked Bizet more -than he liked Strauss and that, indeed, it appeared to him -that Arthur <span class="nw">Sullivan....</span></p> - -<p>One day, when we were alone, he asked me if I would -write a series of articles on his works. It was my turn to -be bewildered.</p> - -<p>“A series?” I asked, utterly stunned.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered he, “a series. First of all, there are -my part-songs. Then there are my instrumental pieces. -Last of all, my Cantatas.” He pronounced cantatas with -a capital C. “Just a short series: three articles in all.”</p> - -<p>I hesitated, but he looked at me most pleadingly. I -tried a little sarcasm, but that made him more pertinacious -than ever. So then I flatly refused, and kept on refusing, -and did not stop refusing.</p> - -<p>“Well, then,” said he at length, “will you put in writing -and sign what you said to me the other day about my -new work? You will remember that you said it was the -best thing I had ever done, that it was original, full of -vigour, astonishingly fresh, subtle in <span class="nw">harmony....”</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, really,” I protested, “did I say all that?”<!-- TN: original has closing single quote --></p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, you did.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.197" id="png.197" href="#png.197"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>197<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>And then I became very, very rude indeed, and, after -that, whenever we met, we used to bow to each other most -politely and say never a word.</p> - -<p>This kind of man, and there is quite a handful of them, -haunts the more important Festivals, but it must be very -rarely that one of them obtains what he desires.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Can you recall the most curious and most unlikely sight -you have ever witnessed? Most of us, even in the course -of a few years of a very ordinary existence, witness many -strange things, but of all the strange things I have -stumbled across nothing has been so wayward, so <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outré</i>, so -fundamentally silly, as the forty organists I saw sitting in -one room at Worcester. One can imagine two, or even -three, organists sitting talking together, but forty, and -fifteen of the forty Cathedral organists, seems incredible.</p> - -<p>Now, you have only to be fond of modern music to feel -instinctively that a man who is an organist and nothing -else is sitting on the wrong side of the fence. In ninety-nine -cases out of a hundred he is helping to hold things -back; he hates the rapid progress which music is making, -and he has as much imagination as the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vox humana</i> stop.</p> - -<p>Well, the forty organists were sitting and talking and -smoking, and as I looked at them and at their mild, but -worried, faces, it seemed to me and my companion that, -in the interests of art, morality and ordinary decency, -some protest should be made. And we decided that we -were just the people to make it. We could have forgiven -them if they had met together to discuss some professional -question—<i>e.g.</i> how to get their salaries raised, how to get -the better of their respective vicars, or how they could -expand their minds so as to be able to appreciate Debussy -or Ravel or even Max Reger. But they were gathered -together merely because they liked it, just for the sake -of enjoying each other’s society. Monstrous absurdity! -Could they not see how ridiculous they were? Forty -<a name="png.198" id="png.198" href="#png.198"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>198<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>organists in one room!—why, there ought not to be forty -organists in the whole world.</p> - -<p>Fortunately the room was on the ground floor and the -hour late. My companion and I stepped outside the hotel, -waited till the street was quiet, and then rapped a series -of three tattoos upon the window-pane to secure silence -within. We then sang in two parts, I in a high falsetto -and my friend in a lugubrious bass, the “Baal” Chorus -from <cite>Elijah</cite>. “Baal, we cry to thee! Baal, we cry to -thee!”</p> - -<p>We had not proceeded very far in this beautiful music—intended -by the dear, delicious Mendelssohn for a shout -of savagery, but really a quite charming cradle song—when -a cry of delighted laughter came from the room, -and two or three of the organists, hatless and earnest, -rushed out into the street.</p> - -<p>“Come inside!” they said; “come and join us. You -belong to <em>us</em>!”</p> - -<p>Too utterly flabbergasted at this invitation to make any -reply, we turned and fled, rushed back to our hotel, and -ordered whisky-and-sodas.</p> - -<p>The great musician to whom we told the story next day -said:</p> - -<p>“Well, once more, you see, the biters were bit.”</p> - -<p>But my friend and I did not think so.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XVII: People of the Theatre"><a name="png.199" id="png.199" href="#png.199"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>199<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVII<br - />PEOPLE OF THE THEATRE</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Sir Herbert Tree—Gordon Craig—Henry Arthur Jones—Temple -Thurston—Miss Janet Achurch—Miss Horniman</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcapB">Sir Herbert Tree</span> never met a stranger without -trying to impress him. He always succeeded. -He would take the utmost pains about it: go to -any lengths: use his last resource.... I am not now, of -course, dealing with him as an actor. We all have our -varying opinions of him as an actor. Some think he -could; some think he couldn’t.... But I am writing -of him at the present moment as a man. A showman, if -you like. As a man, as a man who “showed off” either -as a wit, a mimic, a man of the world, a superman, or what -not, he was supreme.</p> - -<p>I met him in his private office at His Majesty’s in the -middle of the run of <cite>Joseph and his Brethren</cite>. He had -invited me there in order to dictate an article to me, but, -as he told me over the ’phone, he hadn’t the remotest -notion what the subject of the article was going to be. -Could I help him with any ideas? His article was for a -Labour paper. Did I know anything about Labour? -If I didn’t, did I know anybody who did?</p> - -<p>In speaking to me over the ’phone, he appeared so -anxious that I began to rack my brains for a subject. In -the recesses of my meagre intellect I found the remnants -of two or three subjects, and at nine o’clock that evening -I presented myself at His Majesty’s Theatre with them -on the tip of my tongue.</p> - -<p>His room was empty as I entered it. Opposite the door -<a name="png.200" id="png.200" href="#png.200"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>200<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>was a fireplace and above the fireplace a mirror; on the -left of the door as you entered it was Sir Herbert’s large -desk. By the side of this, seated on a low chair, I waited. -I had not to wait long, for presently I heard a soft, rather -pulpy kind of sound coming down the passage and, a -moment later, Sir Herbert entered, wearing a long white -beard and the garments of a gentleman of the East. The -play was still in the first act, and he had that minute come -off the stage.</p> - -<p>“Got a subject?” he asked, shaking hands. “So -have I. The Influence of the Stage on the Masses! -What do you think of it? Very trite, I know, but there -are a few important things I want to say. Sit here, -will you? Here you are—ink and paper.”</p> - -<p>And, sitting down, he began immediately to dictate -the article. He got along swimmingly, and about a -third of the article must have been down on paper when -I heard a squeaky voice outside the door. It was the -call-boy. Sir Herbert rose, stroked his beard, adjusted -his gown, and walked outside; as he did these things -he continued dictating, his voice stopping in the middle -of a rather involved sentence when he was out in the -passage.</p> - -<p>After five or six minutes, I heard the same soft, pulpy -sound approaching and, while yet outside the door, he -began dictating at the precise point where he had left off, -rounding off the sentence most beautifully. It was a -remarkable feat of memory. After a very short period, -we heard the high-pitched voice a second time, and once -more he moved dreamily away, still dictating. Again -he stopped, purposely as it seemed to me, in the middle -of a sentence, and again, when he reappeared, he spoke -the waiting word. Marvellous! He gave me a cautious, -inquiring look, as if to discover if I had noticed his cleverness. -I smiled back reassuringly. In a few minutes the -article was finished.</p> - -<p><a name="png.201" id="png.201" href="#png.201"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>201<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Do you like it?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Exactly the thing. <cite>The Daily Citizen</cite> readers will -be delighted. But what an extraordinary memory you -have!”</p> - -<p>“Ah! You noticed that?” he said, seemingly well -pleased.</p> - -<p>He began to talk of <cite>Joseph and his Brethren</cite> and, in -the middle of our conversation, Mr Temple Thurston, -looking rather nervous, was shown in. I knew that, -at that time, Thurston was writing for Tree a play on -the subject of the Wandering Jew, and as I guessed -they had business to transact, I withdrew as quickly -as possible.</p> - -<p>I saw Sir Herbert on another occasion, but whether it -was soon before, or soon after, the incident I have just -related I cannot recollect.</p> - -<p>He was conducting a rehearsal on the stage of His -Majesty’s, and I stood in the wings, watching him. He -had recently produced a play called, I think, <cite>The Island</cite>, -by a Spanish or a Brazilian writer. It was a dead failure -and was withdrawn after three or four nights. It was to -talk of this play that I had come, and as he advanced to -the wings I noticed that he looked rather worried.</p> - -<p>“What <em>was</em> wrong with the play?” he asked. “All -you critics have tried to tell me, but I’m blessed if I can -understand what you are all talking about.”</p> - -<p>“To me the fault of the play was quite obvious. The -author had got hold of a good idea and the drama had -several fine situations; but, whereas the idea was poetical -and mysterious and the situations tense and dramatic, -the author or the translator had employed the most stilted -kind of dialogue, and language as commonplace as that -which I am now using. The play should have been -translated or rewritten by a poet.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! It’s very strange you should say that, for I -myself had felt strongly disposed to ask John Masefield -<a name="png.202" id="png.202" href="#png.202"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>202<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>to prepare the thing for the stage. I wish I had done; -but, of course, it’s too late now. But a manager can -never tell beforehand what play will be a success and -what won’t.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me. That is often said, but I don’t believe -it’s true. Some people really <em>do</em> know what the public -wants. Arnold Bennett, for example, and Hall Caine, -not to mention others. Do <em>they</em> ever make mistakes? -Has Arnold Bennett ever been guilty of a failure?”</p> - -<p>“No, perhaps not. But I can’t engage Bennett as a -reader. Even if he would consent to do the work, I -should not be able to afford his fee.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. But my contention is that there are -people who can and do gauge to a nicety the taste of the -public.” And I mentioned the names of two critics who -had, on many occasions, foretold most accurately the -exact length of time new pieces would run.</p> - -<p>Tree was called back to the rehearsal, and he glided -away for a few moments, fluttering a handful of loose -papers as he went. He soon returned, and this time he -was cheerfulness itself.</p> - -<p>“It’s going very well,” he said, referring to the rehearsal. -“It’s only a stop-gap, of course, but it’ll make a little -money. I must write to those critics you mentioned,” -he added musingly; “or perhaps it would be better if -I seemed to run across them accidentally?”</p> - -<p>But whether or not he did run across either of the -critics accidentally, I do not know, for the war broke -out soon after and disrupted everything.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It was when I was staying in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, -six or seven years ago, in a house opposite the -Foundlings’ Hospital, that, one morning, Gordon Craig -came into the room. He was, I think, in search of Ernest -Marriott, a most ingenious and original artist, who at that -time and for long after was doing some sort of work for -<a name="png.203" id="png.203" href="#png.203"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>203<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Craig. Marriott and I were staying at the same boarding-house.</p> - -<p>When Craig’s bulky form filled the doorway I recognised -at once, from Marriott’s description of him, who he was, -and I introduced myself to him, telling him Marriott was -out.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know he is,” said Craig; “but I have often -wanted to look at one of these fine old houses.”</p> - -<p>And he walked round and round the room, with his -eyes on the cornice, telling me all sorts of things, which -I have long forgotten, that I had never heard before. He -seemed to have made a special study of English architecture -of the early nineteenth century, and whilst he was -in the house talked of nothing else, though I tried to lure -him into gossip of the theatre.</p> - -<p>He gave me the impression of a large, white man with -hair which, if not entirely grey, was very fair. He had, -I remember, hands much plumper than one would expect -an artist to possess; his face also was rather plump. -He seemed to fill the large room and radiate vitality. He -left as suddenly and as inconsequently as he had come.</p> - -<p>“How like he is to Miss Ellen Terry!” remarked my -landlord, not knowing the identity of his visitor.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, “now you mention it, I notice the -extraordinary resemblance. But, after all, the resemblance -is not so remarkable, for you see, he is her son.”</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>On one occasion I was sent to interview Mr Henry -Arthur Jones. Over the telephone I made an appointment -with him for the morrow, and when I arrived at his -house I found rather elaborate preparations had been -made for the occasion. Mr H. A. Jones was standing -in the middle of the drawing-room with outstretched -hand, on a table near the open window (it was July, I -think) was a tray with what one calls tea-things, a lady -shorthand typist (specially engaged for the occasion) was -<a name="png.204" id="png.204" href="#png.204"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>204<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>waiting with notebook and pencil, and a maid was carrying -into the room a teapot, and cress sandwiches.</p> - -<p>The presence of the lady typist embarrassed me. She -took down in shorthand my questions and Mr Jones’ -replies. Thinking it would be foolish to waste any time -on preliminary politenesses, I plunged straight into the -middle of my subject. The lady typist sipped her tea -in the awkward little pauses that came from time to time. -It was not an interview; it was a kind of official statement. -It was like the proceedings at a police court. I -felt I should be held responsible to a higher authority for -every word I spoke.</p> - -<p>However, at the end of an hour a good deal of excellent -matter had been taken down, probably enough for a two-column -article. But my news editor did not want a two-column -article. He wanted a scrappy little paragraph -or, at most, two scrappy little paragraphs. Now, in -view of the fact that Mr Jones had gone to the trouble -and expense of getting a shorthand typist specially from -town, and, more particularly, in view of the fact that it -was perfectly clear that he had not contemplated the -possibility of an interview with him being used merely -and solely for a snappy little paragraph, I felt it incumbent -upon me to tell him just how matters stood. But how -could I? Could you have told him? Well, <em>I</em> couldn’t, -though I tried and tried hard.</p> - -<p>When the interview was over, he arranged that the -shorthand typist should return to her office, type out her -shorthand, and send the result to me in Fleet Street early -that evening. In due course, ten foolscap sheets of -valuable and most interesting matter came along, and I -handed it in to the night-editor just as it stood.</p> - -<p>Next morning, only two snippety paragraphs appeared -in the paper, and I have often thought since that -Mr H. A. Jones must have felt disgusted with the paper, -a little more disgusted with himself, but most of all -<a name="png.205" id="png.205" href="#png.205"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>205<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>disgusted with me. After all, it was not entirely my -fault, was it?... I mean, he should not have taken -himself <em>quite</em> so importantly, should he?</p> - -<p>I retain a very clear impression of his personality. -He was short, rather dapper, and very deliberate. He -always thought briefly before he answered a question, but -when he did answer it he did so without hesitation, going -straight into the middle of the matter. He struck me, -as he sat on a rather low chair opposite the window, as -essentially earnest, essentially honest-minded, essentially -clear-headed. His manner was a little important. He -may be said to have “pronounced” things rather than -to have spoken them. He was formally courteous. I -do not think one could justly say that he has the -“artistic” temperament, and I imagine he possesses no -particularly acute perception of beauty. There is no -emotional enthusiasm about him; he has no unreliable -“moods”; he does not think or feel one thing to-day -and another to-morrow. By no means typically a man -of this generation, and yet not a man who has outlived -his own time. It appeared to me that he had little -intuition; his very considerable knowledge of human -nature is probably based on close observation and most -careful deduction.</p> - -<p>When we parted he gave me copies of two of his plays.</p> - -<p>He was a man of considerable personal charm and no -little intellectual weight: a man both kindly and stern: -a man who could at all times be trusted to see the humour -of things and who, on occasion, could be cruel to be kind.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Not so very long before the war, my journalistic duties -took me to the first night of Mr Temple Thurston’s <cite>The -Greatest Wish in the World</cite>, a rather weak but quite -innocuous play given by Mr Bourchier. If the play -“succeeded,” the audience assuredly didn’t. When the -curtain went down on the last act, there was a good deal -<a name="png.206" id="png.206" href="#png.206"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>206<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>of applause, chiefly from the gallery, and we who were -seated in the stalls waited a moment to discover what -the verdict of the house was going to be.</p> - -<p>Now, every close observer of theatre audiences knows -well enough that among the many different kinds of -applause there is one kind that is very sinister: it is a -kind difficult to describe, but unmistakable enough when -heard: to the uninterested listener it sounds sincere and -hearty, but if you listen carefully you will catch, beneath -the heartiness, a derisive note—something viciously eager -in the shouts, something malicious in the whistles. There -was this sinister sound, a kind of ground-bass, in the -applause that followed the last fall of the curtain at -the first production of Mr Temple Thurston’s play. The -mimes had walked on and bowed their acknowledgments -when, suddenly, there arose loud cries of “Author! -Author!” Well did I know what those cries meant, and -I told myself that the play had failed pitifully. I was -edging my way out of the stalls when, to my amazement, -I saw the curtain rise once more and disclose the nervous -figure of Mr Temple Thurston. Instantly there went up -from a section of the audience hisses and boos and cries -of half-angry disappointment. Mr Thurston shrank -and winced as though he had been struck in the face, -and his exit was confused and awkward. It was as -wanton an act of cruelty as I have ever witnessed: -deliberate, heartless, stupid. This is not the place to -discuss the propriety or otherwise of an audience insulting -a writer who has failed to please it, but it is certain -that in no other profession, in no other walk of life, do -such savage traditions prevail as in the enticing and -intoxicating world of the theatre.</p> - -<p>Not long after this incident I was received by Mr Temple Thurston at his flat. I found him writing, and -almost at once he began to talk most intimately about -himself.</p> - -<p><a name="png.207" id="png.207" href="#png.207"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>207<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Never again,” said he, apropos of the episode I -have just related, “shall I ‘take a call.’ I cannot even -now think of those awful few moments on the stage -without a shudder. It is distressing enough for an author -to fail—distressing:<!-- TN: original splodgy --> not only because of his own disappointment, -but chiefly because of the disappointment -he brings to the actors who have done their best for his -play—without having his failure hurled in his face, so -to speak. But though I shall never again take a call, I -shall continue writing plays. I have never yet written -a really successful play, and no work of mine has had a -longer run than sixty performances. I have had many -chances, of course, but I shall have more.”</p> - -<p>He then told me of his early attempts to win fame. -Like many other successful writers, he began in Fleet -Street. The work there did not suit him, and he soon -abandoned it. He married early, lived with his wife -in a couple of rooms in Chancery Lane, and for a little -time picked up a living as best he could. The story of his -first wife’s extraordinary success with <cite>John Chilcote, M.P.</cite>, -is common knowledge. That success preceded his own -by two or three years, but he had not long to wait before -his own work found and pleased the public.</p> - -<p>I saw Thurston on two or three other occasions, and -found him a man avid of enjoyment, frank, a little bitter, -combative, kindly, strong, sensitive, independent. He -has a nature at once contradictory and baffling.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Twenty years must have passed since Miss Janet -Achurch gave her astounding performance in Manchester -of Cleopatra in Shakespeare’s <cite>Antony and Cleopatra</cite>. -It was a performance so remarkable, so electrifying, that -the old Queen’s Theatre in Quay Street became, for -a time, the centre of theatrical interest for the whole -of England. What London critic nowadays goes to -Manchester, or anywhere else more than five miles from -<a name="png.208" id="png.208" href="#png.208"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>208<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>home, to witness a Shakespeare play? Yet they all -went to see Miss Achurch. I remember a cheeky and -brilliant article by Bernard Shaw in <cite>The Saturday Review</cite> -on Miss Achurch, another by Clement Scott in <cite>The Daily -Telegraph</cite>, a third by William Archer in (I think) <cite>The -World</cite>.</p> - -<p>For myself, I saw the play seventeen times, and though -I have seen many other actresses interpret Cleopatra, I -have not known one whose performance could rank with -the gorgeous presentation by Miss Achurch.</p> - -<p>All my visits to the Queen’s were surreptitious, for I -was brought up in a family that not only hated the -theatre as an evil place but feared it also. Though I -was but a boy I had a certain amount of freedom, for I -was studying medicine at the Victoria University, and -many afternoons that should have been spent in dissecting -human feet and eyes were passed in the gallery of -Flanagan’s theatre.</p> - -<p>I suppose I must have been in love with Miss Achurch, -though the kind of feeling that a boy sometimes has for a -great emotional actress is more akin to worship than love. -I longed to approach my divinity, but feared to do so. -I wrote about her in local papers, and I remember a -curious weekly called <cite>Northern Finance</cite> which, for some -dark reason or other, printed, among its news of stocks -and shares, a crude, bubbling article of mine on Miss -Achurch. I sent all my articles to her and, with the -colossal impudence of youth, and driven by a schoolboy -curiosity, asked for an interview.</p> - -<p>She wrote to me. Reader, are you young enough to -remember how you felt when you first saw Miss Ellen -Terry? Can you recall your adoration, your devotion?... -Those days of young worship, how fine they are! -Novelists always laugh at calf love because they cannot -write about it and make it as beautiful as it really is. -Like many other things that are human, calf love is -<a name="png.209" id="png.209" href="#png.209"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>209<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>absurd and beautiful, noble and silly, profound and -superficial. But, unlike so many things that are human, -there is nothing about it that is mean and selfish, nothing -that is not proud and good.</p> - -<p>Yes, she wrote to me and invited me to visit her. She -was kind and gracious.... Amused? Oh, I have no -doubt she was amused, but she never betrayed it.</p> - -<p>I used to hang about the stage door in the dark to -watch her go into the theatre or come out of it. I -scraped up an acquaintance with several members of the -orchestra, for I thought I saw in them a kind of magic -borrowed from her. Her hotel was a castle.</p> - -<p>Those of my readers who never saw Miss Achurch in -what theatrical writers call her “palmy” days can have -only a very faint conception of her genius. She became -ill: her beauty faded. Only rarely did one see her on -the stage.</p> - -<p>Years later I saw her in Ibsen’s <cite>Ghosts</cite> and, again much -later, in a small part in Masefield’s adaptation of Wiers-Jennsen’s -<cite>The Witch</cite>. She was wonderful in both plays, -but the grandeur had departed, the glory almost gone.</p> - -<p>It is most sadly true that actors live only in their own -generation. Janet Achurch ought to have lived for ever. -She will not be forgotten while we who saw her live; -but we cannot communicate to others the genius we -witnessed and worshipped.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Miss Horniman is one of the many people I have never -met. “Then why write about her?” you ask. I really -don’t know, except that I want to. She was (and, for -all I know to the contrary, still is) something of a personality -in Manchester, and she was so for a considerable -period, she producing quite a few plays at the Gaiety -Theatre that were well worth seeing.</p> - -<p>But she was ridiculously overpraised. She was petted -and spoiled by <cite>The Manchester Guardian</cite>, the Victoria -<a name="png.210" id="png.210" href="#png.210"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>210<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>University gave her an honorary Master of Art’s degree, -many literary and dramatic societies went down on their -knees to her and implored her to come and speak to them, -and she was regarded by the entire community as a woman -of daring originality, great wisdom and vast experience. -She could do nothing wrong. No play she produced, no -matter how sour and Mancunian, was ever condemned -by the local Press. Miss Horniman had given it, therefore -it was “the right stuff.” She knew about it all: -<em>she knew</em>: <strong class="allsc">SHE KNEW</strong>. Many Manchester dramatic -critics were themselves writing plays, and Miss Horniman -smiled upon them. She smiled upon Stanley Houghton, -Harold Brighouse, Allan Monkhouse, all critics of <cite>The -Manchester Guardian</cite>. She would have smiled upon the -plays of J. E. Agate and C. E. Montague if they had -written any. She was our benefactress, and we used to -sit and watch her in her embroidered gown as she -rather self-consciously queened it in a box at her own -theatre.</p> - -<p>Yet, after all, she had a rather depressing effect upon -the city. She gave no new play that was perfectly -beautiful. She appeared to detest romance and had little -understanding of blank verse. Starting her public life as a -patron of Bernard Shaw, she declined upon Shaw’s fevered -disciples. She spoke in public very frequently, and -always said the same things. She had all the enthusiasm -of a clever business woman. Wishing very much to -make money (so she told us), she understood all the arts -of self-advertisement. But, really, Manchester was not -the place for her; it was sufficiently hard and provincial -before she <span class="nw">came——</span></p> - -<p>But perhaps I am allowing myself to run away with -myself in writing down all these disagreeable things. -Yet I believe them to be true, and they must stand. -Her plays gave me several enjoyable evenings which, -but for her, I should never have had, and I can never be -<a name="png.211" id="png.211" href="#png.211"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>211<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>too grateful to her for restoring to the Gaiety Theatre -the drink licence that the Watch Committee had taken -away some years before she came. That act, at all -events, did in some degree help to make the Manchester -plays a little less like Manchester plays.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XVIII: Berlin and some of its People"><a name="png.212" id="png.212" href="#png.212"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>212<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br - />BERLIN AND SOME OF ITS PEOPLE</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">One</span> winter, about ten years ago, I went to Berlin -in the company of Mr Frederick Dawson, the -famous English pianist, who had planned to -give two recitals there. We stayed at the Fürstenhof, a -luxurious and enervating hotel where we had a suite of -rooms facing the front. In the large drawing-room that -Karl Klindworth had engaged for Dawson was a good -piano.</p> - -<p>Now, music in Berlin is just a trade. Everyone plays -or sings and everybody teaches somebody or other to -play and sing. Unless you are an artist of colossal -merit (and sometimes even if you are), you will find it -practically impossible to persuade anybody to listen -to you if you are not prepared to “square” the -critics. In the season, twenty, thirty, forty concerts -are given nightly, and by far the greater number of them -are given to empty stalls. That does not matter: no -artist of any European experience expects anything else. -A musician does not go to Berlin to get money: he goes -to get a reputation. Berlin’s cachet is (or, most decidedly, -I should say <em>was</em>) absolutely indispensable for any pianist, -violinist or singer who wishes to make a permanent and -wide reputation. Before the war, Mr Snooks could play -as hard and as fiercely and as long in London as he liked, -but unless he was known in Berlin, and unless it was -known that he was known in Berlin, he was everywhere -considered but as a second-rate kind of person, a mere -talented outsider. So that it is quite within the facts -<a name="png.213" id="png.213" href="#png.213"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>213<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>to say that few artists have gone to sing or play in Berlin -except for the purpose of obtaining Press notices, favourable -Press notices, Press notices that glow with praise -and reek of backstairs influence. An American, a French -or a Danish artist will go to Berlin with a few years’ -savings, give a short series of recitals, cut his Press notices -from the papers, go back to his native land, and then -advertise freely—his advertisements, of course, consisting -of judicious excerpts (not always very literally translated) -from his Berlin notices. This visit to Berlin, with the -hire of a concert hall, etc., may cost a couple of -hundred pounds, but it is counted money well spent, well -invested.</p> - -<p>Frederick Dawson had already paid several visits to -Berlin and Vienna, and was so well known in both cities -that his appearance in either always attracted large and -enthusiastic audiences; but, apart from Dawson himself, -d’Albert and Lamond, no other British artist or semi-British -artist had, I imagine, the power to do so.</p> - -<p>I was introduced to many critics and many artists. -The critic was almost invariably a Herr Doktor and the -Herr Doktor was almost invariably a Herr Professor: -they all had degrees and they all taught. They were -overworked, “doing” five or six concerts a night and -receiving very little pay. They would dash about from -one concert hall to another in taxi-cabs, jot down a few -notes, and look down their noses; when they wished to -leave a particular hall, they would look round furtively, -gather their coat-tails together, and sidle slimly or roll -fatly to the door.</p> - -<p>Some of these gentlemen, I heard, were very shady -in their dealings with young and inexperienced artists. -They plied a trade of gentle blackmail, kid-gloved blackmail, -of course, but the kid gloves contained the claws -of a hungry eagle. The following describes one of their -pretty little customs.</p> - -<p><a name="png.214" id="png.214" href="#png.214"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>214<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Hearing of the arrival in Berlin of a singer or pianist -whose agent had been advertising the fact that his client -would shortly give a series of three recitals, the critic -would call upon him, express interest in his work, and -ask to have the pleasure of hearing the artist sing or -play. The artist, flattered and already sure of one good -“notice” at least, would immediately accede; having -done his best or worst, something like the following -conversation would take <span class="nw">place:—</span></p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic.</span> Quite good. But that A-minor study of -Chopin’s is, of course, rather hackneyed; you are not, -I presume, including it in any of your programmes?</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist</span> (<i>rather taken aback</i>). I must confess I had -intended doing so. But if you <span class="nw">think....</span></p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic.</span> I do. Most decidedly I do. There are in -Berlin at least ten thousand people who play it; why -should you be the ten thousand and first? Debussy, -now. Why not Debussy? Or even Busoni. Busoni -can write, you know.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist</span> (<i>eagerly</i>). Yes, yes; I’m playing some Debussy: -<cite>Les Poissons d’Or</cite> and <cite>Clair de Lune</cite>.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic.</span> <cite>Clair de Lune</cite> is a little <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vieux jeu</i>, don’t -you think? However, play it. Play it now, I mean.</p> - -<p>The artist, half angry, but tremulously anxious to -please, does as he is told.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic.</span> Oh yes; you have talent. I think, yes, I -rather think I shall be able to praise you in my paper. -However, we shall see. But there is something, just a -little of something, lacking in your style. Your rhythm -is not sufficiently fluid. It should, if I may say so, <em>sway</em> -more. And your use of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tempo rubato</i>.... Well, now, -I could show you. You see, I have heard Debussy himself -play that, and I know pre-cise-ly how it should go.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist</span> (<i>absolutely staggered</i>). Oh ... er ... yes. -Quite.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic</span> (<i>having allowed time for his remarks to sink in</i>). -<a name="png.215" id="png.215" href="#png.215"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>215<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Now what would you say if I were to suggest that I -give you a few lessons—say a couple. I would charge -you a guinea and a half each: lessons of half-an-hour, -you know.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist</span> (<i>looking wildly round</i>). If you were to -suggest such a thing—of course, you haven’t done so yet—but -if you <em>were</em> to suggest <span class="nw">it....</span></p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic</span> (<i>with most un-German suavity</i>). Of course, -when I said “lessons,” I used entirely the wrong word. -What I meant was hints and suggestions. Mere indications. -A passing on of a tradition—passing it on, you -understand, from Debussy to yourself. Not everyone, -I need scarcely say, has heard Debussy play. If you were -to play Debussy as I know he should be played, you -would be one of the first to do so in Berlin, and I in my -paper should record the fact.</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist.</span> I see. Yes, I do see. I think that perhaps -you are right. You believe I could—I am rather at a -loss for a word—you believe I could, shall we say -“absorb,” the tradition in a couple of lessons?</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Critic.</span> I don’t see why you shouldn’t, though, of -course, I may decide—I mean, we may agree—that a -third lesson is necessary. Shall we have our first lesson -now?</p> - -<p><span class="smc">Artist</span> (<i>now quite at his ease, slyly</i>). Lesson? You -mean my first “hint,” “suggestion,” “indication.” -Right-o.... Let’s get along with it.</p> - -<p>They are friends: they understand each other. Within -twenty-four hours three guineas pass from the pocket of -the artist to the pocket of the critic, and, in due time, -half-a-dozen lines of praise, golden-guinea praise, appear -in the critic’s paper.</p> - -<p>After all, how simple, how friendly, how altogether -right and jovial!</p> - -<p>You may think the artist a fool to pay so much for -so little, but, really, you are quite wrong. It isn’t “so -<a name="png.216" id="png.216" href="#png.216"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>216<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>little.” It is a good deal. Those half-dozen lines, in -the old pre-war days, would help to secure valuable -engagements not only in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, -Chicago, and the scores of large towns that lie in between, -but also in London, Manchester, Bradford, Leeds; -in Paris, Lyons, Rouen, Marseilles, Bordeaux, Brussels, -Ghent, Antwerp. But not in Germany. Germany knows -better. Not in Mannheim, Cologne, Hanover, Dresden. -The secrets of Berlin were known in all the cities and -towns of Germany some years before the war, and the -playful little habits of the critics of that most wonderful -city were looked at askance ... were looked at askance ... were -looked at askance <em>and imitated</em>. And the -imitators had for their secret motto: <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Honi soit.</i></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A beastly city was Berlin. And yet not all of Berlin -was beastly. But the artistic, the musical, part of it was -“low, very low,” as Chawnley Montague said, on an -historic occasion, of the slums of Sierra Leone.</p> - -<p>But Karl Klindworth had nothing of beastliness in him. -In writing about Klindworth I shall, I am convinced, -feel rather old, and you, when reading about him, will, -I greatly fear, also feel rather old. You see Klindworth -belongs so awfully to the past. Yet he was a very great -man in his day, and there must be still in London many -people who knew him in those silly, savage days when -stupid people (and they were brutally stupid) thought -of Wagner what brutally stupid people think to-day of -Richard Strauss.</p> - -<p>Klindworth was not only a disciple of Wagner’s but -he was also one of Wagner’s prophets: a forerunner. -A great pianist, also: a great conductor: a great man. -Frederick Dawson, one of the most generous-hearted of -men, took me to Klindworth’s, and said some jolly, -flattering things about me to the great musician. Klindworth -was very old, about eighty years, and, when he -<a name="png.217" id="png.217" href="#png.217"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>217<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>spoke, it was like listening to the voice of a man who -had just got beyond the grave and was not unhappy -there.</p> - -<p>I egged him on to speak of Wagner.</p> - -<p>“What can I say?” he mused. “Nothing. Wagner -was from God.”</p> - -<p>His large eyes, two great ponds of colour in a face not -white but stained with ivory, smouldered and suddenly -burst into flame. His hands, always trembling a little, -now shook rather violently. I could not help feeling, as -I gazed upon this old man, that Wagner lived in him -as strongly as he lives in the mighty scores of <cite>Die -Meistersinger</cite> and <cite>Tristan und Isolde</cite>.</p> - -<p>We sat silent. Frau Klindworth, an Englishwoman -speaking English most charmingly with a foreign accent, -folded her hands and gave a little sigh. Dawson shot -me a significant look which meant: “Keep quiet; if you -do, he will begin to talk.”</p> - -<p>And for a little while he did. Without a gesture, -without a movement, Klindworth, looking with unfocussed -eyes into space, began to talk. (He spoke in -English, for he knew that I knew very little German.)</p> - -<p>“No one,” said he, “who was a gentleman, I mean -no one who had ordinary feelings of chivalry, could meet -Wagner without feeling that he was in the presence of -one of the Kings of our world. Certain people, both in -England and Germany, have written stupid things of him; -they have pointed fingers at his faults, banged their fists -upon his sins. I hate those people. Faults and sins? -Who has not faults? Who has not committed sins? -You English have a word ‘uncanny.’ Or is it you -Scottish people? Wagner was uncanny. He dived -into things. Yes, he dived. And every time he lost -his body in the blue sea, he brought back a pearl. A -pearl? No: pearls have no mystery. He brought back, -each time, a hitherto undiscovered gem.... ‘Gem’! -<a name="png.218" id="png.218" href="#png.218"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>218<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>What silly sounds you have in English.... Jem.... -Djem!”</p> - -<p>His old mind, outworn and very weary, appeared to -cease its functioning. He sat with no sign of life in him. -It was as though a clock had stopped, as though a light -had gone out. And then, without any apparent cause, -he came to life again.</p> - -<p>“Let us go to the piano,” he said, rising.</p> - -<p>So we left the little room in which we were sitting and -moved to the large music-room at the far end of which was -a grand piano. Frau Klindworth, Dawson and I sat in -the semi-darkness near the door; Klindworth’s tall but -rather shrunken figure moved down the room to the little -light that hung above the keyboard. He played some -almost unknown pieces of Liszt, interpreting them in a -style at once noble and half-ruined. The excitement -of playing seemed to increase rather than add strength -to his physical weakness, and many wrong notes were -struck.</p> - -<p>It was very pathetic to see this old man trying to -revive the fires within him, trying and failing; and I -felt that if, by some miraculous effort, he had succeeded, -if the ashes of long-spent fires had indeed broken into hot -flame, his frail body would have been consumed.</p> - -<p>He gave me his photograph and wrote on the back -some message, and when I left him I thought I should -never see him again. But, a few days later, I saw him in -the front row of one of Frederick Dawson’s recitals, and -I occasionally heard from him a deep-noted “Bravo!” -as Dawson electrified us with one of his stupendous -performances.</p> - -<p>Klindworth lingered on for some years later and, when I -was in Macedonia last year, I saw in some newspaper a few -lines recording his death. In the seventies he was a great -figure in London, and Wagner-worshippers of those days -worshipped Klindworth also, not only for his genius, but -<a name="png.219" id="png.219" href="#png.219"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>219<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>also for his loyalty, his noble-mindedness, his devotion -to his art.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Out of curiosity on the last day of my stay in Berlin, -I went to a famous concert agent’s office, ostensibly to -make some business inquiries, but, in reality, to have a -look at the underworld of art; for the business side of -all art has almost invariably an underworld of its own in -which there is much irony and in which dwells a spirit -of strangely sardonic humour.</p> - -<p>The office was crowded with artists, most of them -prosperous, all of them of recognised position. Though -they were clients of the agent—that is to say, people -able and eager to engage his services and pay handsomely -for them—they were kept waiting an unconscionable time, -as though they had come to beg favours. As, indeed, -they had. For Herr Otto Zuggstein always made it -perfectly clear by his manner that the favour was his to -confer, the honour yours to accept. He had a hot, eager -brain, cunning hands and hairy wrists.</p> - -<p>And his work, his object in life? Well, he was the -connecting-link between the artist and the public, just -as a publisher is the connecting-link between authors and -those who read. Otto Zuggstein “published” pianists, -singers, violinists. He engaged concert halls for them, -sold their tickets and collected the money, printed their -programmes, distributed tickets to the Press, advertised -their recitals, and so on. There are, of course, many such -men, men engaged honourably in an honourable profession, -in all the big cities of Europe; but Zuggstein -was steeped in dishonour. It was freely said of him that -he had all the powerful music critics of Berlin in the -hollow of his hand. Instead of working for their respective -editors they really worked for him. He could command -a long and enthusiastic “notice” about almost any artist -in almost any paper; he could also secure the publication -<a name="png.220" id="png.220" href="#png.220"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>220<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>of the most damning criticisms. If you were a really -great artist desiring to “succeed” in Berlin and he, or -his friends, considered it against his own and his friends’ -interest for you to succeed, he could and would prevent -you doing so.</p> - -<p>He occasionally emerged from the inner room in which -he sat, moved among us for a minute or so, exchanging -handshakes, smiles and other insincerities, and, singling -out a man or a woman with special business claims upon -him, returned with his companion to his private office. -As he disappeared, some of those who waited smiled -significantly at each other.</p> - -<p>Zuggstein, as one used to write three or four years -ago, “intrigued” me. He was such an efficient rogue: -a rogue working, as it appeared, most openly, most -flagrantly, but in reality working with an abundance of -prepared camouflage.</p> - -<p>I waited most patiently and, in the course of time, -when he again issued from his private sanctum, he queried -me with his right eyebrow, beckoned me almost imperceptibly -with his left elbow and, preceding me, made -a gangway to his room. I followed him with an air, -recognising, as I did so, that I was in for a bit of an -adventure, and resolved to lie like poor Beelzebub himself.</p> - -<p>“Good-morning,” said he in English when the door -was closed upon us. “Will you take a chair and also -a cigar?” Mysteriously, he produced a box from the -region of his knees and looked hard at me. “And a -whisky?” he added, with a smile. “I never drink -myself,” he apologised, “but you English!”</p> - -<p>I accepted all three invitations.</p> - -<p>“I have come,” said I, when I had lit my cigar and -savoured it, “I have come to see you about half-a-dozen -recitals, piano recitals, that a Norwegian friend of mine -wishes to give here in Berlin next January.”</p> - -<p>“To whom,” asked he—and a little chill descended -<a name="png.221" id="png.221" href="#png.221"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>221<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>upon him as he asked the question—“to whom have I the -honour of speaking?”</p> - -<p>I smiled deprecatingly, and produced from my card-case -a card bearing the name “Gerald Cumberland.”</p> - -<p>“I am staying at the Fürstenhof. Room 4001.”</p> - -<p>Disarmed, but still cautious, he wrote the number of -my room on the pasteboard.</p> - -<p>“I am, I think it is obvious, from England. This is -my first visit to your great city. I am interested in art, -in music.” I used a careless, all-embracing gesture. -“And my Norwegian friend, Mr Sigurd Falk, knowing -that I was about to set out for Berlin, asked me to try -to arrange certain matters with you. He got your name -from a compatriot of his.”</p> - -<p>By this time he had poured out, and I had drunk most -of, the whisky. A peculiar thing happened: whilst it was -I who drank the whisky, it was he who became genial—more -than genial: almost friendly.</p> - -<p>“What,” he inquired, “does your friend wish to do in -Berlin?”</p> - -<p>“Play the piano and make a little money.”</p> - -<p>He grunted sympathetically, if a man may ever be said -to grunt sympathetically.</p> - -<p>“Money is difficult to make in Berlin,” he said, looking -at me keenly, “but I will do my best for him. Six -recitals, you say?”</p> - -<p>“Six. And at this, our first interview, I wished to -have just a rough estimate of what those six recitals are -likely to cost.”</p> - -<p>“Why, it all depends.... Another whisky?... -No?... It all depends. Depends on all kinds of things. -What hall do you want? I ought, perhaps, to tell you, -first of all, what hall you can <em>have</em>: you see, you come -rather late, very late, in the day. It is now November, -and your friend wishes to play in January. All the halls -are usually booked months in advance.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.222" id="png.222" href="#png.222"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>222<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>We went into particulars of halls, dates, etc. And -then he began to scribble figures on a sheet of paper.</p> - -<p>“Press?” he queried.</p> - -<p>“I <em>beg</em> your pardon?”</p> - -<p>“You would, I mean your friend would, I imagine, like -a favourable Press?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes.”</p> - -<p>“Audience?”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean <em>any</em> kind of audience?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid they will be mostly women, though, of -course, I can get you a certain number of male students. -But the audience, I can promise you, will be well disposed. -Three or four encores at least.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, then, both Press <em>and</em> audience.”</p> - -<p>He scribbled a little more.</p> - -<p>“An inclusive estimate?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Please. You mean by inclusive...?”</p> - -<p>“Everything,” he said impressively; “the hall, the -printing, the advertisements, a few invitations, the -preliminary paragraphs, the audience, the critics’ articles. -And not only the critics’ notices, but the presence of the -critics themselves,” he added.</p> - -<p>He worked hard for five minutes, looked up data in -books, and at length very gently pushed over to me, across -the shining top of the table, a properly written out estimate -for the recitals my imaginary friend intended to give. -The total amount, as represented by English money, was -£325.</p> - -<p>“Thank you so much,” said I; “I will call to see you -to-morrow perhaps. But I must first of all get an estimate -from Herr Dorn.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Herr Dorn?” he asked, in surprise.</p> - -<p>I did not know: his name had slid into my mind that -very moment, and I was not quite sure whether, in the -whole world, there was such a name. Then, greatly -daring, I greatly lied.</p> - -<p><a name="png.223" id="png.223" href="#png.223"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>223<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“He is a cousin of Sigurd Falk,” said I.</p> - -<p>As I left, he gave me another cigar, shook my hand -most warmly, and looked me in the eyes very keenly.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Every night Dawson and I used to go either to the -opera or to some concert, and, when the music was -finished, which was generally very late, we would perhaps -go to some supper-party or other.</p> - -<p>I have a good appetite myself, but really some of the -German ladies’ gastronomic feats were superb. I remember -myself one night sitting fascinated and awestruck as I -saw a Wagner-heroine type of woman, full-breasted, high-browed -and majestic, eat plateful after plateful of oysters, -until I began to wonder how it was so many oysters came -to be in Berlin at one and the same time.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Elena Gerhardt, in those days, was large, white and -serene. She was a little bitter, perhaps, and certainly -greatly disappointed. I met her in Manchester shortly -after my return to England, and found her mind insipid, -her soul tepid.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Egon Petri had phlegm almost British: a real slogger: -most uninspired: the possessor of faultless technique: -the possessor of a brain that retained everything but -expounded nothing. He had business ability and pushed -ahead all the time: pushed ahead all the time, but never -arrived anywhere. Never will arrive anywhere in particular, -except at his own well-cleaned doorstep, where the -polished knocker will respond to his carefully gloved hand.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Richard Strauss I also met in Manchester at about the -same time. I have always maintained that, in at least -one case out of three, it is unwise to judge a man by his -face.</p> - -<p>But I must for a moment digress. This question of -<a name="png.224" id="png.224" href="#png.224"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>224<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>faces is most interesting. Every man, of course, makes -his own face: even the most ugly of us will concede that -much, for, if we are, and know we are, ugly, we always -console ourselves with the thought: “Yes, but it is a -special kind of ugliness. There is strength in my ugliness. -There is character; there is soul. My ugliness is original. -There is no ugliness <em>quite</em> like my ugliness.” For, so long -as we are different from other people, that is all that -matters. Now, in making our faces—a process that is -always continuous from the time we are born to the moment -of death—some of us are full of anxiety to make, not a -face, but a mask. Our faces do not express our souls: -they hide them. The consequence of this is that you will -sometimes, though not often, meet a man with a mean, -insignificant face who is, in reality, the possessor of a -first-rate brain. But it is difficult to repress some facial -hint of intellect; try how one may, one can do little -to modify the shape of one’s brow or give the eye a sodden -and unintelligent look.</p> - -<p>Richard Strauss has disguised himself. At close -quarters one sees at once that his head is both shapely -and well poised: one notices the exceptionally high forehead, -the firm rounded lips, the determined chin. “A -financier,” you say to yourself; “at all events, if not a -financier, a man of affairs, a man accustomed to deal with -and order facts. Certainly not a dreamer—not a poet -or a musician or an artist of any kind.”</p> - -<p>He exhibits no emotion. Self-restrained, he speaks -little but very much to the point. Even in moments of -great success, he is reserved and businesslike. You can -never take him unawares. He is guarded, on the alert, -watchful. “All mind but no heart,” you say; at least, -you say that if you are a careless observer.</p> - -<p>His tastes are of the simplest and though, for a composer, -he has amassed a large amount of money, he is -absurdly economical. He rather likes abuse, and when -<a name="png.225" id="png.225" href="#png.225"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>225<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>a critic makes a fool of himself he is inordinately -amused. The spectacle of human vanity and human folly -excites him. His handshake is firm, his regard direct.</p> - -<p>His piano-playing is beautifully neat and polished, but -he is not a virtuoso on the instrument.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XIX: Some Musicians"><a name="png.226" id="png.226" href="#png.226"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>226<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIX<br - />SOME MUSICIANS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Edvard Grieg—Sir Frederick H. Cowen—Dr Hans Richter—Sir -Thomas Beecham—Sir Charles Santley—Landon Ronald—Frederic -Austin</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">Very</span> many years have passed since, one cold -winter’s afternoon, I met Edvard Grieg on -Adolph Brodsky’s doorstep. A little figure buried, -very deeply buried, in an overcoat at least six inches thick, -came down the damp street, paused a minute at the gate, -and then, rather hesitatingly, walked up the pathway. -He saluted me as he reached the door and we waited -together until my summons to those within was answered.</p> - -<p>I found him very homely, completely without affectation, -childlike, and a little melancholy. He was at that -time in indifferent health, and it was at once made evident -to me that both Grieg himself and those around him—especially -Mrs Brodsky—were very anxious that he -should be restored to complete fitness. He said nothing -in the least degree noteworthy, but when he did speak -he had such a gentle air, a manner so ingratiating and -simple, that one found his conversation most unusually -pleasant.</p> - -<p>Ernest Newman once called Grieg “Griegkin,” a most -admirable name for this quite first-rate of third-rate -composers. His music is diminutive. He could not -think largely. He loved country dances, country scenes, -the rhythm of homely life, the bounded horizon. Even -so extended a work as his Pianoforte Concerto is a series -of miniatures. And Grieg the man was precisely like -<a name="png.227" id="png.227" href="#png.227"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>227<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Grieg the artist. He was Griegkin in his appearance, -his manner, his way of speaking: a little man: a gracious -little man. His attitude towards his host and hostess -was that of an affectionate child. Such dear simplicity -is, I think, in the artist found only among men of northern -races.</p> - -<p>Some years later, in an intimate little circle, I was -to hear his widow sing and play many of her husband’s -songs. She was the feminine counterpart of himself—spirited, -a little sad, simple yet wise, frank, and an artist -through and through.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A great deal of comedy is lost to the world through -lack of historians. It is almost impossible to conceive -that Sir F. H. Cowen should ever have been in serious -competition with Hans Richter: impossible to conceive -that half the musical inhabitants of a large city should -have been ranged fiercely on Sir Frederick’s side, and the -other half ranged on the side of Richter: impossible to -conceive that both Cowen and Richter were candidates -for the same post. Yet so it was.</p> - -<p>Sir Charles Hallé, who had founded and conducted -for about half-a-century the famous orchestral concerts -in Manchester still known by his name, died and left no -successor. Literally, there was no one to appoint in his -place, no one quite good enough. Month after month -went by, a good many distinguished and semi-distinguished -musicians came to Manchester and conducted an odd concert -or two, but it was very widely felt that no British -musician would do. Sir Frederick Cowen, always an -earnest and accomplished composer, came for a season -or two and did some admirable work, but Cowen was -not Hallé. Then the German element in Manchester discovered -that Richter would come, if invited. The salary -was large, the work not heavy, the climate awful, the -people devoted, the position unusually powerful. All -<a name="png.228" id="png.228" href="#png.228"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>228<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>things considered, it was one of the few really good vacant -musical posts in Europe.</p> - -<p>All this is ancient history now, and I will record only -briefly that ultimately Sir Frederick Cowen was, in effect, -told (what, no doubt, he already knew) that Richter was -the better man and that he (Cowen) must go. But before -this decision was made a most severe fight was waged in -the city. Cowen conducted, and thousands of partisans -came and cheered him to the echo. Richter conducted, -and thousands of partisans came and cheered him to the -echo. People wrote to the newspapers. Leader writers -solemnly summed up the situation from day to day. -Protests were made, meetings were organised and held, -votes of confidence were passed. London caught the -infection, and passed its opinion, its <span class="nw">opinions....</span></p> - -<p>Sir F. H. Cowen (he was “Mr” then) received me in -his rooms at the Manchester Grand Hotel. It was impossible -not to like him, for, if he had no great positive -qualities that seized upon you at once, he had a good -many negative ones. He had no “side,” no self-importance, -no eccentricities. He had neither long hair nor a -foreign accent. He did not use a cigarette-holder. He -did not loll when he sat down, or posture when he stood -up. And he had not just discovered a new composer of -Dutch extraction.... These are small things, you say. -But are <span class="nw">they?...</span></p> - -<p>I remember looking at him and wondering if he really -<em>had</em> written <cite>The Better Land</cite>. It seemed so unlikely. -Faultlessly dressed, immaculately groomed, how <em>could</em> -he have written <cite>The Better Land</cite>—that luteous land that -is so sloppy, so thickly covered with untidy debris?</p> - -<p>He would not talk of the musical situation in Manchester, -and I could see that he was very sensitive about his uncomfortable -position.</p> - -<p>“If I am wanted, I shall stay,” was all he would give -me.</p> - -<p><a name="png.229" id="png.229" href="#png.229"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>229<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“And are you going to write about me in the paper?” -asked he, at the end of our interview; “how interesting -that will be!” And he smiled with gentle satire.</p> - -<p>“I shall make it as interesting as I can,” I assured -him, “but, you see, you have said so little.”</p> - -<p>“Does that matter?” he returned. “I have always -heard that you gentlemen of the Press can at least—shall -we say embroider?”</p> - -<p>“But may I?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“How can I prevent you? Do tell me how I can, and -I will.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can insist upon seeing the article before it -appears in print.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ‘insist’ is not a nice word, is it? But if you -would be kind enough to send me the article before your -Editor has <span class="nw">it....”</span></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Hans Richter was an autocrat, a tyrant. During the -years he conducted in Manchester, he did much splendid -work, but it may well be questioned if, on the whole, -his influence was beneficial to Manchester citizens. He -was so tremendously German! So tremendously German -indeed, that he refused to recognise that there was any -other than Teutonic music in the world. His intellect -had stopped at Wagner. At middle age his mind had -suddenly become set, and he looked with contempt at all -Italian and French music, refusing also to see any merit -in most of the very fine music that, during the last twenty -years, has been written by British composers.</p> - -<p>He irked the younger and more turbulent spirits in -Manchester, and we were constantly attacking him in the -Press. But with no effect. Richter was like that. He -ignored attacks. He was arrogant and spoiled and bad-tempered.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you occasionally give us some French -music at your concerts?” he was asked.</p> - -<p><a name="png.230" id="png.230" href="#png.230"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>230<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“French music?” he roared; “there <em>is</em> no French -music.”</p> - -<p>And, certainly, whenever he tried to play even Berlioz -one could see that he did not regard his work as music. -And he conducted Debussy, so to speak, with his fists. -And as for Dukas...!</p> - -<p>Young British musicians used to send him their -compositions to read, but the parcels would come back, -weeks later, unread and unopened. His mind never -inquired. His intellect lay indolent and half-asleep on -a bed of spiritual down. And the thousands of musical -Germans in Manchester treated him so like a god that -in course of time he came to believe he was a god. His -manners were execrable. On one occasion, he bore down -upon me in a corridor at the back of the platform in the -Free Trade Hall. I stood on one side to allow him to pass, -but Richter was very wide and the corridor very narrow. -Breathing heavily, he kept his place in the middle of the -passage.... I felt the impact of a mountain of fat and -heard a snort as he brushed past me.</p> - -<p>Everyone was afraid of him. Even famous musicians -trembled in his presence. I remember dining with one -of the most eminent of living pianists at a restaurant -where, at a table close at hand, Richter also was dining. -The previous evening Richter had conducted at a concert -at which the pianist had played, and the great conductor -had praised my friend in enthusiastic terms; moreover, -they had met before on several occasions.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go and have a word with the Old Man, if you’ll -excuse me,” said my friend.</p> - -<p>I watched him go. Smiling a little, ingratiatingly, -he bowed to Richter, and then bent slightly over the table -at which the famous musician was dining alone. Richter -took not the slightest notice. My friend, embarrassed, -waited a minute or so, and I saw him speaking. But the -diner continued dining. Again my friend spoke, and at -<a name="png.231" id="png.231" href="#png.231"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>231<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>length Richter looked up and barked three times. Hastily -the pianist retreated, and when he had rejoined me I -noticed that he was a little pale and breathless.</p> - -<p>“The old pig!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Why, what happened?”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you see? First of all, he wouldn’t take the -slightest notice of me or even acknowledge my existence. -I spoke to him in English three times before he would -answer, and then, like the mannerless brute he is, he -replied in German.”</p> - -<p>“What did he say?”</p> - -<p>“How do I know? I don’t speak his rotten language. -But it sounded like: ‘Zuzu westeben hab! Zuzu -westeben hab! Zuzu westeben hab!’ I only know -that he was very angry. He was eating slabs of liver -sausage. And he spoke right down in his chest.”</p> - -<p>He was, indeed, unapproachable.</p> - -<p>Of course, he was a marvellous conductor, a conductor -of genius; but long before he left Manchester his powers -had begun to fail.</p> - -<p>For two or three years I made a practice of attending -his rehearsals. Nothing will persuade me that in the -whole world there is a more depressing spot than the -Manchester Free Trade Hall on a winter’s morning. I -used to sit shivering with my overcoat collar buttoned up. -Richter always wore a round black-silk cap, which made -him look like a Greek priest. He would walk ponderously -to the conductor’s desk, seize his baton, rattle it against -the desk, and begin without a moment’s loss of time. -Perhaps it was an innocent work like Weber’s <cite>Der -Freischütz</cite> Overture. This would proceed swimmingly -enough for a minute or so, when suddenly one would -hear a bark and the music would stop. One could not -say that Richter spoke or shouted: he merely made a -disagreeable noise. Then, in English most broken, in -English utterly smashed, he would correct the mistake -<a name="png.232" id="png.232" href="#png.232"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>232<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>that had been made, and recommence conducting without -loss of a second.</p> - -<p>He had no “secret.” Great conductors never do -have “secrets.” Only charlatans “mesmerise” their -orchestras. Simply, he knew his job, he was a great -economiser of time, and he was a stern disciplinarian.</p> - -<p>He could lose his temper easily. He hated those of us -who were privileged to attend his rehearsals. He declared, -quite unwarrantably, that we talked and disturbed him. -But he never appeared to be in the least disturbed by -the handful of weary women who, with long brushes, -swept the seats and the floor of the hall, raising whirlpools -of dust fantastically here and there, and banging doors -in beautiful disregard of the Venusberg music and in -protest against the exquisite Allegretto from the Seventh -Symphony.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Sir Thomas Beecham (he was then plain “Mr”) brought -a tin of tobacco to the restaurant, placed it on the table, -and proceeded to fill his pipe. He was not communicative. -He simply sat back in his chair, smoking quietly, and -behaving precisely as though he were alone, though, as -a matter of fact, there were four or five people in his -company. He was not shy: he was simply indifferent -to us. If you spoke to him, he merely said “no” or -“yes” and looked bored. He <em>was</em> bored.</p> - -<p>And so he sat for ten minutes; then, with a little sigh, -he rose and departed from among us, without a word, -without a look. He just melted away and never returned.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I rather dreaded meeting Sir Charles Santley, and when -I rang at his door-bell, I remember devoutly wishing that -in a moment I should hear that he was out, or that he had -changed his mind and no longer desired to see me. I -dreaded meeting him because I realised that, temperamentally, -we were opposed. I had read his reminiscences -<a name="png.233" id="png.233" href="#png.233"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>233<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and disliked him intensely for the things he had said of -Rossetti. Instinctively, I drew away from his robust, -tough-fibred mind.</p> - -<p>But he was in, and in half-a-minute I was talking to an -old, but still vigorous, gentleman whose one desire appeared -to be to put me at my ease. I do not think I ever met a -man so honest, so blunt. I felt that his mind was direct -and his judgment decisive, but I found him lacking in -subtlety, unable to respond to the mystical in art, and -wholly deficient in true imaginative qualities. He was -Victorian.</p> - -<p>Now, I don’t suppose any of us who are living to-day -(and when I say “living” I mean anyone whose mind is -still developing—most people, say, under the age of forty-five) -will be able to understand the point of view of the -Victorian musician. It appears to me monstrous that -anyone should still love Mendelssohn and hate Wagner, -that anyone should sing J. L. Hatton in preference to -Hugo Wolf, that anyone should still delight in Donizetti -and Bellini. Those Victorian days were days when the -singer wished that his own notions of the limitations of the -human voice should control the free development of music. -They loved <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bel canto</i> and nothing else; they averred, -indeed, that there was nothing else to love. They were -admirable musicians from the technical point of view, -and they had honest hearts and by no means feeble -intellects. But they could never be brought to believe -that music was a reflection of life, that there were in the -human heart a thousand shades of feeling that not even -Handel had expressed, that sound is capable of a million -subtleties, that the ear of man is an organ that is, so to -speak, only in its infancy.</p> - -<p>It was a little pathetic, I thought, when speaking to -Santley, that this very great singer had been living for -at least thirty years entirely untouched by many of the -finest compositions that had been written in that period.</p> - -<p><a name="png.234" id="png.234" href="#png.234"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>234<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>And he declared, quite frankly, that “modern” music -had no interest for him. When I mentioned Richard -Strauss, he smiled. At the name of Debussy, he looked -bewildered, and about Max Reger, Scriabin, Granville -Bantock, Sibelius and Delius, he had not a word to say.</p> - -<p>But soon we got on to his own subject—singing—and -here again we were at cross-purposes. Singers who to me -seem supreme artists he had either not heard of or had not -heard.</p> - -<p>“There is only one British singer to-day who carries -on the old tradition,” said he; “I mean Madame Kirkby -Lunn. She has technique, style, personality. The others, -compared with her, are nowhere.”</p> - -<p>Some general talk followed, and I soon discovered, -beyond the possibility of doubt, that, like all great -Victorians who have had their day, he was living in the -past—in that particular past whose artistic spirit is -embodied in the Albert Memorial, in the musical criticism -of J. W. Davidson, in the pianoforte playing of Arabella -Godard, in the poetry of Lord Tennyson, in the pictures -of Lord Leighton, in the prose of Ruskin.</p> - -<p>What had Santley to say to me, or I to him? Nothing, -and less than nothing. We were from different worlds, -different planets, for half-a-century divided us. In -years, he was nearer to the Elizabethan age than I ... -and yet how much farther away was he?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Perhaps Mr Landon Ronald will not be angry with me -if I call him the most accomplished of British musicians. -He would have every right to be angry if I said he was -accomplished and nothing else.... How far back that -word “accomplished” takes us, doesn’t it? Twenty -years, at least. For aught I know to the contrary, it -may still be employed in Putney. I observe that Chambers -defines “accomplishment” as an “ornamental acquirement,” -and, in my boyhood, that was precisely what it -<a name="png.235" id="png.235" href="#png.235"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>235<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>meant. Young ladies “acquired” the art of playing -the piano, the art of painting, the art of recitation. Their -skill in any art was not the result of developing a talent -that was already there, but it was the result of a pertinacity -that should have been spent on other things. -But one no longer uses “accomplished” in that precise -sense.</p> - -<p>Landon Ronald has more than a streak of genius in his -nature, and his cleverness is so abnormal as to be almost -absurd. His genius and his cleverness are evident even -in a few minutes’ conversation. He radiates cleverness, -and he is so splendidly alive that as soon as he enters -a room you feel that something quick and electric has -been added to your environment.</p> - -<p>When I first met him—ten years ago, was it?—his -one ambition was to be recognised throughout Europe as -a great conductor. He was acknowledged as such in -England, of course, and a visit to Rome had fired both -the Italian public and critics with enthusiasm. But -London and Rome are not Europe, whilst in those days -Berlin most distinctly was. He was most charmingly -frank about himself, full of enthusiasm for himself, full -of delight in all life’s adventures.</p> - -<p>“Of course, I know my songs aren’t <em>real</em> songs,” he said. -“I can write tunes and I’m a musician, and I’m just -clever enough to be cleverer than most people at that -sort of work. But you must not imagine I take my compositions -seriously. I think they’re rather nice—‘nice’ -<em>is</em> the word, isn’t it?—and I enjoy inventing them—and -‘inventing’ is also the word, don’t you think? Besides, -they make money; they help to boil the pot for me -while I go on with my more serious work—that is to say, -conducting.”</p> - -<p>Havergal Brian was in the room—we were in that -fulsome and blowzy town, Blackpool—and he remarked, -as so many extraordinarily able composers have from -<a name="png.236" id="png.236" href="#png.236"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>236<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>time to time remarked, that he found it impossible to -write music that the public really liked.</p> - -<p>“Nearly all my stuff,” said he, “is on a big scale for -the orchestra. I am always trying to do something new—something -out of the common rut.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but then,” exclaimed Ronald, quite sincerely, -“you are a composer, and I am not.”</p> - -<p>Brian was appeased, and I looked at Ronald with admiration -for his tact. But he went even a little farther.</p> - -<p>“I sometimes feel rather a pig,” he continued, “making -money by my trifles when so many men with much greater -gifts can only rarely get their work performed and still -more rarely get it published. You told us just now,” said -he, turning to Brian, “that you would like to make -money by your compositions. Who wouldn’t? Well, -it would be foolish of me to advise you to try to write -more simply, with less originality, and on a smaller scale. -It would be foolish, because you simply couldn’t do it. -No; you must work out your own salvation: it is only a -matter of waiting: success will come.”</p> - -<p>A month or two later, we met at Southport, I in the -meantime having written an article on Ronald for a -musical magazine. With this article he professed himself -charmed. He was as jolly about it as a schoolboy, -and expressed surprise that I could honestly say such -nice things about him.</p> - -<p>“It <em>is</em> good to be praised,” said he, laughing; “I -could live on praise for ever.” And then, lighting a -cigarette, he added: “Perhaps the reason why I like -it so much is that I feel I really deserve it.”</p> - -<p>It was my turn to laugh.</p> - -<p>“But I do feel that!” he protested; “if I didn’t, -I should hate you or anyone else to say such frightfully -kind things about me and my work.”</p> - -<p>A month or two later he wrote me a long letter full of -enthusiasm for some work of mine he had seen -<a name="png.237" id="png.237" href="#png.237"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>237<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>somewhere, and when I saw him the following week in London -I protested against his undiluted praise.</p> - -<p>“I believe you think I am a bit of a humbug,” said he.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I do,” I replied. (For, really, I think -almost all subtle and clever artists are bits of humbugs.)</p> - -<p>“Very good, then!” exclaimed he, ridiculously hurt.</p> - -<p>“What I mean is, that if you like anyone, your judgment -is immediately prejudiced in their favour.”</p> - -<p>“So you think I like you?”</p> - -<p>“I am sure of it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re quite right. But, really and truly, -you mustn’t call me, or even think me, the slightest bit -of a humbug. You can call me impulsive, superficial, -or anything horrid of that kind ... but insincere! -Why, sincerity is the only real virtue I’ve got.”</p> - -<p>And I believe he believed himself. But who is sincere?—at -least, who is sincere except at the moment? Are not -all of us who are artists swayed hither and thither, from -hour to hour, by the emotion of the moment? Do we -not say one thing now, and an hour later mean exactly -the opposite? Are we not driven by our enthusiasms -to false positions, and do not glib, untrue words spring -to our lips because the moment’s mood forces them -there?</p> - -<p>I have not met Landon Ronald for four years, but the -other day I heard him conduct, and I recognised in his -interpretations the supreme qualities I have so often -observed before. He himself is like his work—polished, -highly strung, emotional, fluid, intense. His mind works -with lightning-like quickness; he knows what you are -going to say just a second before you have said it. And -over his personality hangs the glamour that we call genius.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Many well-known singers have I met, but very few of -them inspire me to burst into song. They are a dull, -vain crew. Among the few most notable exceptions is -<a name="png.238" id="png.238" href="#png.238"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>238<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Frederic Austin, a man with a temperament so refined, -with a nature so retiring, that it is a constant source of -wonder to me that he should be where he now is—in -the front rank of vocalists.</p> - -<p>Years ago Ernest Newman said to me:</p> - -<p>“Frederic Austin has become a fine singer through -sheer brain-work. He always had temperament, but his -voice was never in the least remarkable until by ingenious -training, by constant thought, and by the most arduous -labour he developed it until it became an organ of sufficient -strength and richness to enable him to interpret anything -that appeals to him.”</p> - -<p>He is, I think, the only eminent singer in this country -who is a distinguished composer. But perhaps the most -remarkable thing about him is that you might very easily -pass days in his company without guessing that he is a -famous singer, for his personality suggests qualities that -famous singers seldom possess. He is <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">distingué</i>, austere, -and devoted to his art.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XX: Two Chelsea “Rags,” 1914 and 1918"><a name="png.239" id="png.239" href="#png.239"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>239<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XX<br - />TWO CHELSEA “RAGS,” 1914 AND 1918</h2> - - -<h3>1914</h3> - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">It</span> used to begin as a rumour, a faint stirring and -excitement in King’s Road, Chelsea. The artist -on the top floor of Joubert Studios—an artist who -had a private income and a gently nursed hypochondria—received -a parcel from home: a couple of cooked chickens, -perhaps, a tongue, cakes, crystallised fruits, three bottles -of wine and so on. The lady who occupied the studio -below, and the musical critic who lived in the third studio -from the top, were duly apprised of the fact, and Norman -and Eddie Morrow were called in from near by for a -consultation.</p> - -<p>“Clearly,” the lady remarked, “a rag is indicated. A -rag must always have a beginning, and this undoubtedly -is a most excellent beginning. Ring up Susie, somebody, -and fetch Hearn over and Ivan and let the Cumberlands -know; and, oh! Hughes, dear little Herbert, lend me -your pots and pans and things. And, Warlow, just run -round everywhere and tell all the people you meet. -Don’t forget John, and I think that Deane would like -that girl with fuzzy hair. We’ll begin at seven. No, -we won’t: we’ll begin now.”</p> - -<p>And Warlow, nursing his hypochondria and being very -biddable, sighed and moved away, saying beseechingly -as he went:</p> - -<p>“You <em>will</em> leave me a wing, won’t you? I’ve had no -breakfast yet.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.240" id="png.240" href="#png.240"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>240<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>But neither had the rest, and by the time Warlow, -suffering in a resigned and patient kind of way from -paleness and breathlessness, returned, one of the chickens -had vanished, and the long table with its litter of paper, -cardboard, pencils and paint, was now littered also with -plates and knives and forks and breadcrumbs. The rag -had begun.</p> - -<p>The month was May, a true May with a warm wind, -a warmer sun, and fluttering green leaves. The little -party—the nucleus of the much larger party that was to -meet there in the evening—drifted downstairs to Hughes’s -studio where there was a grand piano and a portable -harmonium which appeared to belong to no one in particular. -Hughes, looking a little ruefully at the MS. -upon which he was engaged, put it away on a shelf, -opened his wide windows and began to play. Harry -Lowe, with his magnificent but untrained voice, appeared -dramatically in the doorway and sang:</p> - -<table summary="Song sung by Harry Lowe" id="song"> -<tr><td class="ctr" id="largo"> -<div><i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Largo<br - />grandioso</i></div></td><td class="largo"><div class="stanza"> -<div>For he’s a Scotsman, a bonny Scotsman,</div> -<div class="i3"><span class="ns"> </span>His feyther and his mither,</div> -<div class="i3"><span class="ns"> </span>His sister and his <span class="nw">brither—</span></div></div></td></tr> -<tr><td class="ctr">(<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Forte</i>)</td><td class="l2"><div class="stanza"> -<div>They are <em>all</em> Scotch, from the land of Roderick Dhu;</div></div></td></tr> -<tr><td class="ctr">(<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vivace</i>)</td><td class="l2"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i3"><span class="ns"> </span>And the whitewash brush in the middle of his kilt</div></div></td></tr> -<tr><td class="ctr">(<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Piano</i>)</td><td class="l2"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i3"><span class="ns"> </span>Is all Sco-otch too.</div></div></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>This went to a great tune devised, invented, composed -and arranged by Hughes and Lowe. The great air, -heard with its cunning chatter of an accompaniment from -the piano, put everyone in the right mood, and Norman -Morrow, whose head was always full of ideas, began to -prepare “stunts” for the evening, whilst Warlow, having -nothing better to do, attired himself as an Italian Count, -sat at the open window, and smiled sadly at all the girls -whose attention he could attract in the street below.</p> - -<p>Norman’s idea was a revue—a revue of Any Old -Thing: Mona Lisa, the sale of beautiful slaves, the -Salome Dance by six-foot-two Harry Lowe, the Innocent -<a name="png.241" id="png.241" href="#png.241"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>241<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>Wench who took the Wrong Turning, etc., etc. He -wanted to prepare the groundwork for the evening’s -performance; the details could be filled in on the spur -of the moment. But, in the afternoon rehearsal, several -scenes, exciting the actors, were studied carefully to the -most minute particular. Kitty, in the meantime, was -upstairs preparing food, her dainty hands fluttering over -salads and sandwiches. At six, jolly, lovable little -Susie rushed from her work, revitalised everybody, and -sang in her funny little voice, holding a cigarette in one -hand and a saucepan in the other.</p> - -<p>But before the Rag Proper began, many charming -idiocies were enacted. Warlow and Eddie Morrow walked -to Sloane Square (it is conceivable that they called at the -Six Bells on the way) for the sole purpose of riding back -again in a taxi-cab, Warlow in a great Russian overcoat -smothered in fur, Eddie a little unkempt and looking as -though he had just stepped out of one of J. M. Synge’s -plays. Harry Lowe telephoned a number of telegrams -to a far-off post office where it was supposed there was -a lady who owned his heart and sold postage stamps. -Norman Morrow sat in a corner daubing pieces of brown -paper with yellow paint and chuckling inconsequently -to himself. All three studios, one above the other, -appeared to be in glorious disorder, but, as a matter of -fact, nearly every brain was busy with preparations, and -by seven o’clock everything was ready for the great -<span class="nw">rag....</span></p> - -<p>I cannot re-create the scene for you. I do not know -quite how it is, but the gaiety, the light-heartedness of -that most jolly evening ooze from my heart as I write. -I am not sufficient of an artist to sweep from my heart -all the sad, irrecoverable things that my heart remembers. -Especially, I cannot forget Ivan Heald, who now lies dead. -(A year later he was to say to me, in that same studio: -“This is a real good-bye, Gerald. It is not possible that -<a name="png.242" id="png.242" href="#png.242"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>242<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>both of us will survive this.”... And, of course, it is he -who has gone. One feels mean in surviving, in enjoying -the savour of life, when one’s best friends have -<span class="nw">departed.) ...</span></p> - -<p>The artistic Irishman is a perfect actor, an inimitable -mimic, and the two Morrows surpassed everyone. If -ever you have seen Eddie Morrow, it will appear to you -inconceivable that he could ever make a good Mona Lisa. -Yet his Mona Lisa was perfect. He smiled so mysteriously, -so faintly, so imaginatively, that Walter Pater, had he -seen him, would have rewritten that swooning chapter -which contains so much of art’s opiate.... I remember -Edith Heald who, unexpectedly to me, revealed consummate -art as a nigger-boy, her eyes rolling in rapt -wonderment. I remember Hearn’s eyeglasses, and the -smiling eyes behind them, and the little scurry of words -that occasionally came from his lips when something -magical touched his spirit. And I can hear Herbert -Hughes’ contented voice saying: “Well, this is rather -splendid, don’t you know.”</p> - -<p>Hughes was awfully good to me on these occasions, -for he would allow me to improvise the music for the -dumb charades, though as an extempore player—and, -indeed, as a player of any kind—he is worlds above me. -And I used to love to invent Eastern Dances à la Bantock -to fit the gyrations of Harry Lowe, or Debussy chords -for anything shadowy and sentimental, or chromatic -melodies—prolonged and melting things in the “O Star -of Eve” manner—for luscious love scenes, or fat, bulgy -discords when some real tomfoolery was afoot.</p> - -<p>You must imagine everybody gay and, occasionally, -just a little riotous; in remembrance, it seems to me very -beautiful because so happy and childlike. And you must -imagine everybody very friendly, even to complete -strangers. There was a carnival atmosphere. Clever -people were there with their brains burning bright. There -<a name="png.243" id="png.243" href="#png.243"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>243<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>were wit, music, wine, pretty women, courtesy, infinite -good-will.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, towards midnight, we would seek change in -quietness, and, lying on rugs spread on the waxed floor, -would listen to Norman singing, unaccompanied, an Irish -Rebel song, and something a little hard would come into -Irish Susie’s eyes for a moment or two, and I remember -with regret how, some months after war had broken out, -I said after Norman had been singing that it was no longer -pleasant to me to hear Rebel songs. Regret? Yes; -for when I said that I was a prig and was imagining -myself as something of a soldier-hero. If only Norman -were alive now to sing whatsoever songs he liked!</p> - -<p>Well, the evening lapsed into night and the night into -morn, and again we became boisterous and new ideas -were put into shape and little tragedies were given in the -burlesque manner. The resourcefulness of the mimes! -The devilishly clever satire! The good spirits that never -<span class="nw">failed!...</span></p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It is no use. I cannot describe for you one of those -great nights, for the mood will not come. And one of the -reasons why I cannot recapture the spirit of a Chelsea -Rag as it was in the old days, is because whilst I am writing -I have in my mind a picture of a very different kind.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - - -<h3>1918</h3> - -<p>Early in 1918 I was in London for a brief period after -an absence from England of more than two years spent -in France, Egypt, Greece and Serbia. My health was -broken, my spirits were low. The Chelsea people were -dispersed; only Hearn, with his lame foot, was left of the -men, but several of the women were to be found. Herbert -Hughes, by some miracle, was on leave, and he turned up -<a name="png.244" id="png.244" href="#png.244"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>244<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>unexpectedly one night at my flat. We talked quietly, -laughed a little, had some music, and fell into silence.</p> - -<p>“Those great days!” said I, apropos of nothing.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Nothing like them will come again. But all -of us who remain alive and are still in England must meet. -What about next Sunday? We’ll meet at Madame’s.”</p> - -<p>And so it was arranged. Next Sunday there were seven -of us to make merry, whereas in former days there were -forty or fifty. But we seven were together once more: -we who, as it were, had been saved—saved perhaps only -temporarily.</p> - -<p>It is a long studio in which we sit, but screens enclose -a piano, the fireplace, a few rugs and chairs, and a table. -Madame is tall and quiet and distinguished; her light -soprano voice conveys an impression of wistfulness, and -her personality, full of charm and a sadness that does not -conceal her courage, diffuses itself throughout the room. -We have met together for a rag, but no one evinces the -least desire to indulge in any violent jollity.</p> - -<p>Hughes goes to the piano, for a piano always draws -him as a magnet draws steel, and sometimes, half-consciously, -he feels the pull of one before he has seen it. -He goes to the piano and, perking his nose at an angle of -about forty degrees with the horizontal, plays French songs -very quietly, whilst we sit gazing into the heart of the fire, -each with his own thoughts, and probably each with the -same thoughts—thoughts of Harry Lowe in Greece, of -Gordon Warlow in Mesopotamia, of those who lie dead, -though but two years before they were more alive than -we ourselves, of those who have gone to France and -never <span class="nw">returned....</span></p> - -<p>And Madame, moving with our thoughts, gently rises -and joins Hughes and begins, her hands clasped on her -breast, to sing with most alluring grace things by Hahn, -Debussy and Duparc. The music lulls us into a very -luxury of sadness, into a mood in which grief loses its edge -<a name="png.245" id="png.245" href="#png.245"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>245<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and sorrow its poignancy. To me, who have heard no -music for two years, her singing is mercilessly beautiful, -so beautiful, indeed, that my breathing becomes uneven -and my eyes wet. And once again I feel that spinal -shiver which, as a little boy, I used to experience when I -heard an anthem by Gounod or just caught the sound of -a military band as it marched down another road.... -I never used to run from the house to see the band, for -even in those early days I had an intuitive knowledge -that beauty is mystery, and that to probe mysteries is to -mar, if not altogether to kill, beauty.... And to-night, -when Madame comes to the end of each song, I do not -speak, I scarcely breathe, so fearful am I that the spell -may be broken. But something of the spell lasts even -when she ceases singing altogether and, looking at my -wife, I know that she feels it too—that, indeed, all in our -little company are more quietly happy, more reconciled -to all the brutality and ugliness over the sea, than we have -been for a long age.</p> - -<p>We talk in quiet tones about the past, the present and -the future, each contributing something to the common -stock of conversation. Madame brings us tea and cakes, -and we listen to the dim rumour of traffic in King’s -Road. And then, not very late, moved by a common -impulse, we rise to leave, and talking softly as we go, -make our way outside where, as we did in that spot three -years ago, we say farewell, wondering as we do so what -Fate has in store for each of us and whether for one or -more of us this is the end of our life in Chelsea—a life -in which we have worked hard and played hard, enjoying -both work and play, and in which we have been carelessly -unmindful of the danger lying in wait for our country.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XXI: Some More Musicians"><a name="png.246" id="png.246" href="#png.246"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>246<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XXI<br - />SOME MORE MUSICIANS</h2> - -<p class="chapcontents"><small>Professor Granville Bantock—Frederick Delius—Joseph Holbrooke—Dr Walford Davies—Dr Vaughan Williams—Dr W. G. -M‘Naught—Julius Harrison—Rutland Boughton—John -Coates—Cyril Scott</small></p> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcapA">At</span> the present moment there are only two names -that are of vital importance in British creative -music—Sir Edward Elgar and Granville Bantock. -No two men could be in more violent contrast: Elgar, -conservative, soured with the aristocratic point of view, -super-refined, deeply religious; Bantock, democratic, -Rabelaisian, free-thinking, gorgeously human.</p> - -<p>Of the two, Bantock is the more original, the deeper -thinker, the more broadly sympathetic.</p> - -<p>It must be about ten years ago that, staying a week-end -with Ernest Newman, I was taken by my host one -evening to Bantock’s house in Moseley. I remember -Bantock’s bulky form rising from the table at which he -was scoring the first part of his setting of <cite>Omar Khayyám</cite>, -and I recollect that, as soon as we had shaken hands, he -took from his pocket an enormous cigar-case of many -compartments that shut in upon themselves concertina-fashion. -From another pocket he produced a huge -match-box containing matches almost as large as the chips -of wood commonly used for lighting fires. Having -carefully selected a cigar for me, he struck a match that, -spluttering like a firework, calmed down into a huge blaze. -He gazed upon me very solemnly and rather critically -all the time I was lighting up, but his face relaxed into a -<a name="png.247" id="png.247" href="#png.247"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>247<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>smile when, having plunged my cigar into the middle of -the flame, I left it there for many seconds and did not -withdraw it until the cigar itself had momentarily flamed -and until it glowed like a miniature furnace.</p> - -<p>I was destined to smoke very many of Bantock’s -cigars, and I hope that when the war is over I shall smoke -many more; but I never lit a cigar he handed me without -noticing that he invariably observed me very closely and -a trifle anxiously, as though afraid I should fail in some -detail of the holy rite. I do not think I ever did fail, for -he never met me without offering me a cheroot, which he -certainly would never have done if I had omitted any -necessary observance of the lighting ceremonial.</p> - -<p>That first evening we talked a good deal—at least, -Newman and a few other friends did; but Bantock, never -a very loquacious man, committed himself to nothing -save a few generalities. By no means a cautious man in -his mode of life, he is nevertheless cautious in his choice -of friends, and no man can freeze more quickly than he -when uncongenial company is thrust upon him. There -were several strangers in our little circle, and Bantock -was content for the most part to sit back in his easy-chair -and listen.</p> - -<p>The following night we met again at the Midland -Institute, Birmingham, where Ernest Newman was giving -one of his witty and brilliant lectures. Bantock insisted -upon my sitting on the platform, though for what reason -I do not know, unless it was to satisfy his impish instinct -for putting shy and self-conscious people into prominent -positions. At that time he and Newman were the closest -of friends, and as Newman and I were on very friendly -terms, Bantock was disposed to regard me very favourably; -at all events, before we parted that evening, he showed -me clearly enough that he did not actually dislike me, -for he invited me to visit him for a week-end whenever -I saw my way clear to do so. From that time onward -<a name="png.248" id="png.248" href="#png.248"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>248<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I met him frequently in his own house, in Manchester, -London, Wrexham, Gloucester, Liverpool, Birmingham -and elsewhere.</p> - -<p>Soon it became a regular practice of mine to run over -from Manchester to Liverpool every alternate Saturday -to attend the afternoon rehearsal and the evening concert -of the Philharmonic Society, the orchestra of which -Bantock conducted. These were very pleasant meetings, -for a party of us used to stay at the London and North -Western Hotel and we would sit until the small hours -of Sunday morning talking music, returning to our respective -homes on Sunday afternoon. At these times -Bantock was at his best, and Bantock’s best makes the -finest company in the world. In his presence one always -feels warm and deeply comfortable, and yet very much -alive; he made a glow; he reconciled one to oneself. -I would not call him a brilliant, or even a good, talker, -but I can with truth call him a very wise one; and in -argument he is unassailable.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Though I used frequently to go to Liverpool to hear -Bantock conduct, I did not do so because I regarded him -as a great artist with the baton. Of his ability in this -direction, there is no doubt; but that he is an interpretative -genius no qualified critic would assert. No: it was -the personality of the man himself, and the new, modern -works he used to include in his programmes that drew -me to Liverpool. Bantock, at that period, was almost -passionately modern. I remember with amusement how -pettish he used sometimes to pretend to be when, perhaps -in deference to public opinion (but perhaps he was overruled -by a Committee?), he felt compelled to include a -Beethoven symphony in one of his concerts.</p> - -<p>On one occasion I met him at Lime Street Station, -Liverpool, when he emerged from the train carrying a -bundle of loose scores under his arm.</p> - -<p><a name="png.249" id="png.249" href="#png.249"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>249<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Let me carry your books for you,” said I.</p> - -<p>He selected the least bulky and lightest of the scores -he was carrying, and handed it to me.</p> - -<p>“You are always a good chap, Cumberland,” he remarked. -“Do take this; it’s the heaviest of the lot: -Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So very heavy.” He -sighed. “And so dry that merely to carry it makes me -thirsty. How many times have you heard it?”</p> - -<p>But he was poking a cigar into my mouth, and I could -not answer until it was well alight.</p> - -<p>“At least fifty or sixty. Oh, more than that! Eight -times, say, every year for the last fifteen years—one -hundred and twenty.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, always a good chap, and so very patient,” he -murmured to himself. “Do you know, Cumberland, I -had to work—yes, to <em>work</em>—at that Symphony in the train. -And I define work as doing something that gives you no -pleasure. Talking about work, I must post these before -I forget.”</p> - -<p>He took from his pocket a number of post cards all -addressed to Ernest Newman. These post cards appeared -to amuse him immensely, and he handed them to me with -a smile. There were about a dozen of them, and each -bore an anagram of the word “work”—<span class="smc">KROW</span>, <span class="smc">WROK</span>, -<span class="smc">ROWK</span>, <span class="smc">RWKO</span>, etc.</p> - -<p>“He’ll receive these by the first post in the morning,” -Bantock explained, “and if they don’t succeed in making -him jump out of bed and finish his analysis of my <cite>Omar -Khayyám</cite> for Breitkopf and Härtel, nothing will.”</p> - -<p>Point was added to the jest by the fact that Newman -has always been a particularly hard, and generally very -heavily pressed worker.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>In his early manhood Bantock travelled a good deal in -the East, not so much by choice, but because circumstances -drove him thither. Yet I often feel that the -<a name="png.250" id="png.250" href="#png.250"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>250<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>East is his natural home. Whether or not he has any close -acquaintance with Eastern languages, I do not know, -but he certainly likes his friends to think he has, and -many of the letters he has sent me contain quotations -and odd words written in what I take to be Persian and -Chinese characters. I should not, however, be in the -least surprised to learn that these are “faked,” for Bantock -loves nothing so much as gently pulling the legs of his -friends.</p> - -<p>He has not, however, the foresight of Eastern people. -His enthusiasms drive him into extremes and into monetary -extravagances. When he lived at Broadmeadow, -with its extensive wooded grounds, outside Birmingham, -he had a mania for bulbs, and I remember his showing -me a stable the floor of which was covered with crocus, -daffodil, jonquil and narcissus bulbs.</p> - -<p>“But,” protested I, “these ought to have been planted -months ago.”</p> - -<p>“I know, I know,” he said sadly. “But the gardener -is so busy. Still, there they are.”</p> - -<p>His philosophic outlook has been largely directed by -Eastern philosophy. He admires cunning and takes a -beautiful and childlike delight in believing that he possesses -that quality in abundance. But in reality, he cannot -deceive. Even his card tricks are amateurish, and his -chess-playing is only just good.</p> - -<p>Apropos of his chess-playing, I remember that some -years ago a chess enthusiast—a bore of the vilest description—used -to visit him regularly and stay to a very late -hour for the purpose of playing a game. These visits -soon became intolerable, and, one evening, as Bantock, -irritated and petulant, sat opposite his opponent, he -resolved to put an end to the nuisance.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me a moment,” said he; “I have left my -cigar-box upstairs, and I really can’t do without a -smoke.”</p> - -<p><a name="png.251" id="png.251" href="#png.251"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>251<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>He left the room, and went straight to bed and to sleep. -Next time he met his visitor, they merely bowed.</p> - -<p>Bantock used to relate this story with the greatest -glee, and in the course of time the yarn grew to colossal -dimensions. It became epical. One was told how his -visitor was heard calling: “Bantock! Bantock! I’ve -taken your Queen,” how strange noises proceeded from -dark rooms, and how, next morning, his visitor, having -sat up all night, was found wide awake trying the effect -of certain combinations of moves on the board. When a -thing is said three times, it is, of course, true, but Bantock -never told exactly the same story three times. He -believes, I think, that consistency is the refuge and the -consolation of the dull-witted.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Frederick Delius, a Yorkshireman, has chosen to live -most of his artistic life abroad, and for this reason is -not familiarly known to his countrymen, though he is a -great personage in European music. A pale man, ascetic, -monkish; a man with a waspish wit; a man who allows -his wit to run away with him so far that he is tempted to -express opinions he does not really hold.</p> - -<p>I met him for a short hour in Liverpool, where, over -food and drink snatched between a rehearsal and a -concert, he showed a keen intellect and a fine strain of -malice. Like most men of genius, he is curiously self-centred, -and I gathered from his remarks that he is not -particularly interested in any music except his own. He -is (or was) greatly esteemed in Germany, and if in his -own country he has not a large following, he alone is to -blame.</p> - -<p>He is a man who pursues a path of his own, indifferent -to criticism, and perhaps indifferent to indifference. -Decidedly a man of most distinguished intellect and a -quick, eager but not responsive personality, but not a -musician who marks an epoch as does Richard Strauss, -<a name="png.252" id="png.252" href="#png.252"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>252<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and not a man who has formed a school, as Debussy has -done.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Joseph Holbrooke, for sheer cleverness, for capacity -for hard work, and for intellectual energy, has no equal -among our composers. It was Newman who first spoke -to me about him, and it was Newman who made me curious -to meet this extraordinary genius.</p> - -<p>Holbrooke’s weakness—but I do not consider it a -weakness—is his pugnacity. He has fought the critics -times without number and, in many cases, with excellent -results for British music, though Holbrooke must know -much better than I do that in fighting for his colleagues -he has incidentally injured himself. A chastised critic -is the last person in the world likely to write a fair and -unbiassed article on a new work produced by the hand -that chastised him. But not only the critics have felt -the lash of Holbrooke’s scorn: conductors, musical -institutions, some very prosperous so-called composers, -committees, publishers and, indeed, almost every kind -of man who has power in the musical world, have felt his -sting.</p> - -<p>But if he is clever and witty in his writing, he is much -cleverer and wittier in his talk. I do not suppose I -shall ever forget one Sunday I spent with him, for by -midday he had reduced my mind to chaos and my body -to limpness by his consuming energy. When he was not -playing, he was talking, and he did both as though the -day were the last he was going to spend on earth, so eager -and convulsive was his speech, so vehement his playing.</p> - -<p>Perhaps his most remarkable quality is his power -of concentration. I remember his telling me that when -he was yachting with Lord Howard de Walden in the -Mediterranean, he was engaged on the composition of -<cite>Dylan</cite>, an opera containing some of the most gorgeous -and weirdly uncanny music that has been written in our -<a name="png.253" id="png.253" href="#png.253"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>253<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>generation. At this opera he worked, not in hours of -inspiration (for, like Arnold Bennett, he does not believe -in inspiration), but when he had nothing more exciting -or more necessary to do. For example, he would begin -work in the morning, cheerfully and without regret lay -down his pen at lunch-time, return to his music immediately -lunch was finished, and unhesitatingly recommence -writing at the point at which he had left off. Interruptions -that arouse the anger of the ordinary creative artist -do not disturb him in the least. He can work just as -composedly and as fluently when a heated argument is -being conducted in the room as he can in a room that -is absolutely quiet. Music, indeed, flows from him, and if -moods come to him which render his brain numb and his -soul barren, I doubt if they last more than a day or two.</p> - -<p>Of the truly vast quantity of music he has written, I, -to my regret, know only a portion, and that belongs -chiefly to his very early period, when he was under the -influence of Edgar Allan Poe. Poe is his spiritual affinity, -and Holbrooke’s setting of <cite>Annabel Lee</cite>—a work which I -can play backwards from memory—is more beautiful -and haunting than the beautiful and haunting poem itself.</p> - -<p>I have called Holbrooke pugnacious and, some years -ago, much to his amusement and, I think, gratification, -I called him the stormy petrel of music. But what makes -him stormy? What are the defects in our musical life -that he so persistently attacks? First of all, he hates -incompetence, especially official incompetence, and the -incompetence that makes vast sums of money. He hates -commercialism in art, and by that phrase I mean the -various enterprises that exploit art for the sole purpose -of making money. He hates publishers who issue trash; -he hates critics who write rubbish. He hates the obscurity -in which so many of his gifted colleagues live, and he hates -the love of the British public for foreign music inferior -to that which is being written at home. And I believe -<a name="png.254" id="png.254" href="#png.254"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>254<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>he hates the system that presents editors of newspapers -with free concert tickets for the use of their critics.</p> - -<p>But, in dwelling at such length on Holbrooke’s combativeness, -I feel I am giving a rather one-sided view -of his true character. For he is not all hate. Indeed, -it is true to state that no composer has written more in -appreciation of men who may be considered his rivals. -He is anxious and quick to study the work of men of the -younger generation, and whenever any of that work -appeals to him he either performs it in public or writes -to the papers about it.</p> - -<p>I have heard him called perverse, unreliable, injudicious, -and many other disagreeable things. He may be. But -Holbrooke is not an angel. He is simply a composer -of genius working under conditions that tend to thwart -and paralyse genius.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Dr Walford Davies!... Well, what can I say about -Dr Walford Davies except that he represents all the -things in which I have no deep faith?—asceticism, fine-fingeredism, -religiosity, “mutual improvement,” narrowness -of intellect, physical coldness. I love some of his -songs—simple things of exquisite tenderness, but it would -be futile to regard him as anything more than a cultured -gentleman with considerable musical gifts.</p> - -<p>On two or three occasions I have been thrown into his -company, but I have never been able to decide whether -he is ignorant of my existence or whether he dislikes me -so intensely that he cannot bring himself to recognise -my existence.</p> - -<p>He is terribly in earnest—in earnest about Brahms -and perhaps about Frau Schumann also. He wrinkles -his forehead about Brahms and poises a white hand in -the air.... Please do not imagine that I do not love -Brahms: I adore him. But Brahms was not God. -He was not even a god. Whereas Wagner.... It was -<a name="png.255" id="png.255" href="#png.255"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>255<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>in 1911, I think, that I heard Dr Walford Davies preaching -about Brahms. Now, if you preach about Brahms, you -are eternally lost, for you exclude both Wagner and -Hugo Wolf.</p> - -<p>How exasperating it must be to possess a temperament -that can accept only part of what is admirable! It -seems to me that Walford Davies distrusts his intellect: -in estimating the worth of music, he seems to say, intellectual -standards, artistic standards, are of no value. -To him the only sure test is temperamental affinity. And -he wishes all temperaments to conform to his own -limitations.</p> - -<p>I have seen Dr Davies near Temple Gardens with choir-boys -hanging on his arm, with choir-boys prancing before -him and following faithfully behind him. A shepherd -with his sheep! I am sure he exerts upon them what is -known as a “good influence.” But in matters of art how -bad that good influence may be! Did ever a worshipper -of Wagner walk the rooms of the Y.M.C.A.?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have a very bad memory for the names of public-houses -and hotels (though I love these places dearly), and -I regret that I am unable to recall the name of that very -attractive hotel in Birmingham where, early one evening, -Dr Vaughan Williams, travel-stained and brown with the -sun, walked into the lounge and began a conversation -with me. He had walked an incredible distance, and -though, physically, he was very tired, his mind was most -alert, and we fell to talking about music. He told me -that he had studied with Ravel, and when he told me -this I reviewed in my mind in rapid succession all Vaughan -Williams’ compositions I could remember, trying to detect -in any of them traces of Ravel’s influence. But I was -unsuccessful. To me he, with his essential British downrightness, -his love of space, his freedom from all mannerisms -and tricks of style, seemed Ravel’s very antithesis.</p> - -<p><a name="png.256" id="png.256" href="#png.256"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>256<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Like myself, he had come to Birmingham to listen to -music, and the following evening, after we had heard a -long choral work of Bantock’s, we had what might have -developed into a very hot argument. With him was -Dr Cyril Rootham, a very charming and cultivated -musician, and both these composers were amazed and -amused when, having asked my opinion of Bantock’s -work, I became dithyrambic in its praise.</p> - -<p>“But I thought you were modern?” asked Williams.</p> - -<p>“I am anything you please,” said I; “when I hear -Richard Strauss I am modern, and when I listen to Bach -I am prehistoric. But why do you ask?”</p> - -<p>“Moody and Sankey,” murmured Rootham.</p> - -<p>Williams laughed.</p> - -<p>“Good! damned good!” he exclaimed, turning to his -companion. “You’ve got it. Hasn’t he, Cumberland?”<!-- TN: original has closing single quote --></p> - -<p>“Got what?”</p> - -<p>“It. Him. Bantock, I mean. Now, don’t you think—concede -us this one little point—don’t you think that -this thirty-two-part choral work of Bantock’s is just -Moody and Sankey over again? Glorified, of course: -gilt-edged, tooled, diamond-studded, bound in lizard-skin, -if you like: but still Moody and still Sankey.”</p> - -<p>I clutched the sleeve of a passing waiter and ordered -a double whisky.</p> - -<p>“One can only drink,” said I. “And when people -disagree so fundamentally as we do, whisky is the only -tipple that makes one forget.”</p> - -<p>But, either late that night or late the following night, we -found music in which we could both take keen pleasure. -Herbert Hughes played us some of his songs, and I -remember Samuel Langford, breathing rather heavily -behind me, becoming more and more enthusiastic as the -night wore on. Williams, to whom also the songs were -new, took a vivid interest in them.</p> - -<p>“I like your Herbert Hughes,” said Langford.</p> - -<p><a name="png.257" id="png.257" href="#png.257"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>257<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“<em>My</em> Herbert Hughes?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you do rather monopolise him. And I don’t -wonder. He’s what one calls the ... <span class="nw">the ...”</span></p> - -<p>“The goods?”</p> - -<p>Langford laughed in his beard and his eyes disappeared.</p> - -<p>The last glimpse I had of Vaughan Williams was two -or three years later, outside Hughes’ studio in Chelsea. -We stood for a minute in the darkened street.</p> - -<p>“Going to see Hughes?” I asked.</p> - -<p>But he was busy with preparations for enlisting, and -a few weeks later he, Hughes and myself and nearly all -our Chelsea circle were swept into the army.</p> - -<p>In June or July, 1917, I missed Vaughan Williams at -Summerhill, near Salonica, by a day. But perhaps when -the war is finished...?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Dr W. G. McNaught, though a musician of the older -school, is one of the youngest, most up-to-date and most -powerful of our musical scholars. By one means or -another, the influence of his personality is felt in every -town and village in the British Isles. He is the editor of -the best of our musical papers, a faultless and ubiquitous -adjudicator at our great musical festivals, a witty and -most reliable writer, a profound scholar, and a man of -such natural geniality and spontaneity that he is liked by -everyone. As a rule, I detest men who are liked on all -hands, but I could never detest Dr McNaught even if he -were to detest me and tell me so.</p> - -<p>I do not remember when I first met him, and I do not -think I have any special anecdotes to relate about him. -But, in thinking of him now, and reviewing our friendly -acquaintanceship of eight or ten years, I recall that I -have never been able to persuade him to take me seriously. -He has printed all the articles I have sent him, but he has -always laughed indulgently at both them and me. I -cannot help wondering why. Perhaps his exasperatingly -<a name="png.258" id="png.258" href="#png.258"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>258<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>clever son has betrayed the secrets I have entrusted to him: -the facts that my piano-playing is amateurish, my scholarship -nil, and my ear fatally defective. And I think I -once showed McNaught, jun., some of my compositions. -One should never show (but of course I mean “show off”) -one’s compositions when one cannot compose.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Unless you are something of a musician yourself, you -will probably never have heard the name of Julius Harrison, -for though he has fame of a kind, and of the best kind, -he is scarcely known to the man in the street. Just as -Rossetti is primarily a poet for poets, so is Julius Harrison -a musician for musicians. Only one word describes him: -distinguished. Very distinguished he is, with the refinement -and sensitiveness of a poet, the intuition of a novelist, -and the waywardness of all men who allow themselves to -be governed by impulse.</p> - -<p>When I first met him he was little more than a brilliant -boy full of rich promise. He lived at Stourport, where I -used to go occasionally and pass a few days with him -on the river. I knew of nothing against him save that -he was an organist, and I feared that he might be tempted -to remain an organist and build up a teaching “practice,” -just as a doctor builds up a practice. But I was mistaken. -He ventured on London, suffered obscurity for a year or -two, worked like a fiery little devil, and at length threw -up the hack-work that kept him alive. Then he emerged, -very engaging and very likeable, into the real musical -world of London. Sir Thomas Beecham gave him <cite>Tristan -und Isolde</cite> and other operas to conduct, the London -Philharmonic Society invited him to interpret to it one -of his own works, and concerts devoted entirely to his -compositions were given in several provincial towns. In -five years he will be recognised as the greatest conductor -England has yet given us; in ten years he will have a -European reputation as a composer.</p> - -<p><a name="png.259" id="png.259" href="#png.259"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>259<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>What is he like? He is mercurial, passionate, loyal, -snobbish, charming, outspoken, very open to his -friends.</p> - -<p>“I <em>am</em> snobbish, Gerald; we have agreed about that, -so you won’t quarrel with me, will you?” he has asked -several times.</p> - -<p>“Apropos?” I have answered.</p> - -<p>“Well, I really can’t stick your pal, So-and-so. An -out-and-out bounder.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Julius. But he bounds so beautifully. Besides, -he has real talent.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ll never ask me to meet him, will you?”</p> - -<p>“When I’m rich, Julius, I shall have two flats—one -where you and your friends can come, and another where -my bounderish friends may foregather. But I’m afraid -I shall be oftener at the flat you visit than at the other. -You <em>are</em> a beast—what makes you so snobbish? And -why do you continue to like me, who am not ‘quite’ a -gentleman in your eyes?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you are, Gerald. Well, perhaps you’re not. -Only in your case it doesn’t seem to matter. You are -so full of affectations—jolly little affectations, I admit, -but <span class="nw">still....”</span></p> - -<p>I don’t think anything will break our friendship, for -Julius is good and generous enough to allow me to say -the rudest things in the world to him. He only laughs. -For my part, I can forgive him anything, for he admires -my poems. And I suppose he will always forgive me much -for I admire without stint his genius as a conductor and -his genius as a composer. I think that at heart he will -always remain a boy, a boy full of passionate dignity, -of untarnished ideals, of frequent impulses.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Of all unhappy artists the most unhappy are those who -are impelled by temperament to mingle social propaganda -with their artistic work. Rutland Boughton has the soul -<a name="png.260" id="png.260" href="#png.260"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>260<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>of the artist-preacher. He has persuaded me to many -things: he almost persuaded me to “try” vegetarianism, -and I remember one morning very well when, sitting on -the end of my bed, he pointed a finger at me and enumerated -all the evils that infallibly follow on the immoderate -drinking of whisky.</p> - -<p>I regret this tendency in him: it does not strengthen -his art, and it exhausts a good deal of his energy and time. -A practical mystic, a man of intense and sometimes -difficult moods, a man so honest himself that he is incapable -of suspecting dishonesty in others, a man who -is always poor, for he loves his art better than riches: -he is all these things. Now, a man who endures poverty -as cheerfully as he may, who is continually bashing his -head against the brick-wall indifference of others, and who -at the same time is extraordinarily sensitive, may seek -happiness, but, if he does, it will always elude him. -Boughton, of course, would deny this. I can hear him -saying: “But of course I’m happy!” At times, -Rutland, you are happy. You are happy when you are -immersed in a new composition, when you are playing -Beethoven (do you remember that evening when, on a -poorish piano, you played so bravely a couple of sonatas -for Edward Carpenter and me?), when you are lecturing, -when you have made a convert. But when you believe, -as you do, that the world is awry, has always been awry, -and shows every sign of continuing indefinitely to be -awry, how can you, with your ardour for rightness, for -justice, for goodness, be happy?</p> - -<p>For years Boughton has done very special Festival work -at Glastonbury where, when the war has spent itself, I -hope to go for a week’s music, for at Glastonbury strange -things are being done—things that are destined, perhaps, -to divert in some measure the stream of our native music.</p> - -<p>In the early days of August, 1914, Boughton burst -into my flat. I was still in civilian clothes and was -<a name="png.261" id="png.261" href="#png.261"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>261<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>reading Ernest Dowson to discover how he stood the -war atmosphere: I thought he stood it very well.</p> - -<p>“What, Gerald!” Boughton exclaimed; “not enlisted -yet?”</p> - -<p>“My <em>dear</em> chap,” I protested, “I am old and married -and have a family. Besides, I don’t like killing people: -I’ve tried it. And I strongly object to being killed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you can help without killing people. There’s -the A.S.C., for example.”</p> - -<p>“A.S.C.? What’s that?”</p> - -<p>“I’m going to enlist as a cook. Come along with me.”</p> - -<p>But I told him that I was reading Dowson, that I was -presently going to read a volume of Æ, and after that I -had the fullest intention of strangling Debussy on the -piano.</p> - -<p>So he went away to enlist as a cook. I heard, however, -that when he was told that, in addition to his duties as an -army cook, he might be called upon to slaughter animals, -he came away sad and dejected, and, I think, turned his -mind to other things.</p> - -<p>Where he is now, I do not know. The war has blotted -most of us out, and few men know whether their best -friends are at the other end of the world or fighting in the -trenches in the very next sector on their right or left.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I have said somewhere that singers do not interest -me. Nor do they. But John Coates is something more -than a singer—superb artist, generous friend, unflagging -enthusiast, maker of reputations. He is at once a grown-up -boy full of high spirits and a profound mystic. There -are many men who have seen him on the stage in some -light opera who have never guessed that his buoyant -spirits are the outcome of a soul that is content with its -own destiny. To me, his interpretation of Elgar’s -<cite>Gerontius</cite> is one of the great things of modern times—as -great as Ackté’s <cite>Salome</cite>, as great as Kreisler’s -<a name="png.262" id="png.262" href="#png.262"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>262<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>violin-playing, as wonderful as the genius of Augustus John. -“Honest John Coates!” is his title: I have heard him -so described many times in London and the provinces. -A man you can trust with anything: a very fine and noble -gentleman, humble yet proud.</p> - -<p>His reverence for Elgar is extraordinary. I have been -told that, on one occasion, after being in the company -of the distinguished composer for an hour or so, he joined -a few friends who were sitting in another room.</p> - -<p>“I have just been talking to the greatest man living,” -said he, with deep impressiveness and in the manner of one -who has been in the presence of someone holy.</p> - -<p>I love such hero-worship. The man who can feel as -Coates does about Elgar is himself noble and not far -removed from greatness.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Cyril Scott possesses a mind of such exquisite refinement -that it can react only to the most delicate of appeals. He -is perhaps a little exotic, like his swaying and deliciously -scented <cite>Lotus Flower</cite>. Many years ago I was introduced -to his music, and in pre-war days I very rarely let a week -go by without playing something of his. On only one -occasion was I thrown into his company, and even then I -was not aware of the identity of the somewhat excited and, -to me, extraordinarily interesting man who sat restlessly -in his chair and spoke a little vehemently. He struck me -as a man easily carried away by his ideals, carried away -into a world where logic is useless and facts are worse -than dust.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XXII: People I Would Like to Meet"><a name="png.263" id="png.263" href="#png.263"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>263<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XXII<br - />PEOPLE I WOULD LIKE TO MEET</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcap">I suppose</span> that even the most outrageously sincere -of men are to some extent <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">poseurs</i>, if not to themselves, -then to other people. The artistic temperament -must either attitudinise or die. Posturing is the -most delicate, the most dangerous, of all the arts. To -pose before others is risky, but to pose before oneself is -most hazardous, for no one in the world is so easy to -deceive, and so ready to be deceived, as oneself, and to be -deluded by a fancy picture that one has drawn and painted -in hectic moments is to appear to the world as a fantastic -clown.</p> - -<p>Deluded thus, it appears to me, is W. B. Yeats. He is, -of course, a fine though not a great poet: no reasonable -man can question that. And there are lines and verses -of his that have become woven into the very texture of -my mind. Moreover, I recognise that it is futile to quarrel -with a man because he is not other than he is. Yet I -do quarrel with him. I remember a photograph of Yeats, -a photograph I have not seen for ten or twelve years, -wherein he appears conscious of nothing in the world but -himself, conscious of nothing but his hair, his eyes, his -hands—especially his hands. His fingers are so long -that one is surprised that, his palm resting on his knee, -they do not reach to the floor. It is, I concede, a human -weakness for a man whom Nature has gifted (or do I mean -cursed?) with the appearance of a poet, to play up to -Nature and help her by delicate titivations. But to do -this successfully, one must have an overwhelming -<a name="png.264" id="png.264" href="#png.264"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>264<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>personality—a personality like that of Shelley, of Byron, of -Swinburne. It is a simple matter to look like a poet, -but to impose that look on mankind is given to few. It -is not given to W. B. Yeats.</p> - -<p>How is it, I wonder, that one rather admires Æ for -believing in the objective existence of strange gods and -spirits, and yet despises Yeats for sharing this belief? -It is, I think, because one feels that Æ has a solid, -even massive, intellect controlling his fantasy, whereas -Yeats’ intellect is not distinguished either by subtlety or -massiveness. Yeats believes what he wishes to believe; -Æ believes only what he must. Yeats has an incurable -aching for the picturesque, and whilst he believes that he -is “helped” by the supernatural, I think that this help -is derived from his own imaginings, if indeed the question -of “help” comes in at all.</p> - -<p>Why, then, should I wish to meet this man whom, it is -clear, I regard as self-deluded and for whom my respect -is mingled with a feeling that is not very far removed from -dislike? Really, I do not know. His attitude of mind -is not uncommon, and I have met many men and women -his equal in intellectual force. I think that perhaps I -wish to study at first hand a mind that is so exquisite in -its refinement, so sensitive in its moods, so invariably right -in its choice of words. From all the tens of thousands of -words that exist, how difficult it is to select the one word -that is inevitable! And how slender and fragile a man’s -work becomes when his mind must perforce invariably -pounce upon the one only word! The great writers were -not so fastidious. Scott, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Balzac -and a hundred others: take, if you wish, any half-dozen -words from almost any page of their writings and substitute -six others, and what will be lost thereby? Scott and -Byron and Balzac, and even Shelley and Keats, have, I -think, not more than a hundred or so pages that could -not with safety be tampered with in this manner.</p> - -<p><a name="png.265" id="png.265" href="#png.265"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>265<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>There is something lily-fingered and, to me, something -disagreeable and effeminate in a writer who, at all times -and seasons, searches and burrows for the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mot juste</i>. I -am curious about such writers, curious though I know -instinctively that they love letters more than they love -life. To me such men are incomprehensible, and in them, -somewhere, something is wrong. Men who do not feel -lust for life have thin necks, or shallow pates, or neurasthenia.... -Perhaps, after all, I am something of a -student of nerve trouble, and wish to meet Yeats in order -to satisfy myself what precisely is lacking in him.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>It is a popular fallacy that versatility is invariably -accompanied by shallowness, whereas, of course, almost -all men of great genius have been peculiarly and even -marvellously versatile. For me, versatility has most -powerful attraction. The man with only one talent is -as uninteresting as the man with no talent at all. Perhaps -Hilaire Belloc has retained his hold on me because he is -continually surprising me. He has done so many different -and opposed things so admirably, that it seems impossible -he should strike out in yet another line; but I know very -well that before twelve months have gone he will have -turned his amazing powers in still another direction, and -will accomplish his task better than any other living man -can do it.</p> - -<p>Nearly twenty years have gone since early one spring -I walked alone across Devon from Ilfracombe to Exeter -and from Exeter to Land’s End. Now, I went alone -simply because Belloc had walked alone across much of -France and Italy, and the spirit of imitation was then, -as it is now, very strong within me. I had just read his -glorious <cite>Path to Rome</cite>, and I carried a copy of the first -edition in my haversack, reading it by the wayside and -forgetting my loneliness (for I was many times pathetically -lonely) in Belloc’s most excellent company. I pondered -<a name="png.266" id="png.266" href="#png.266"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>266<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>over the nature of this man for many hours, envying him, -and thinking that a man with such great and diverse -gifts must be reckoned among the happiest people alive. -I remember that during the weeks I walked in Devon and -Cornwall I copied him as far as I could in the most minute -particular, and at Clovelly, one golden evening as I stood -talking with some tall, Spanish-looking fishermen, I -suddenly made up my mind that I would write to him. I -do not know what I wrote, but a couple of days later a -reply came from him telling me that my letter had given -him more pleasure than any of the enthusiastic reviews -in the papers. This letter I pasted in my copy of <cite>The -Path to Rome</cite>, and in 1915 a friend begged me to allow him -to take it with him to France. He had a copy of his own, -but he wished to take mine. That friend (our worship -of Belloc was one of the many things we had in common) -now lies dead, and I like to think that his comrades buried -my precious book with him.</p> - -<p>My imitation of, and devotion to, Belloc led me into -several amusing scrapes, and I recollect arriving ruefully -at Helston one wet afternoon and seeking shelter at an -inn called, I think, The Angel. Having arranged to -proceed to Penzance by train early in the evening, I went -to bed whilst they dried my clothes. Whilst in bed, I -recalled that Belloc had often praised Beaune and that I -had never tasted it. So I ordered a bottle, drank it at -about 4 <span class="allsc">P.M.</span>—and promptly went to sleep for twelve -hours!</p> - -<p>Even now, on the borderland of middle age, I cannot -pick up a new book of Belloc’s without a little thrill: -he is so clean, so bravely prejudiced, so courageous. He -is a lover of wine and beer, of literature, of the Sussex -downs, of the great small things of life: a mystic, a man -of affairs, a poet. What, indeed, is he not that is fine and -noble and free?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p><a name="png.267" id="png.267" href="#png.267"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>267<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>In the musical world one is accustomed to infant -prodigies; very rarely do they develop their powers. -But in the literary world infant prodigies are rare, and -at the moment I can recall among writers of the past the -boy Chatterton and that not quite so remarkable but, -nevertheless, very distinguished youth, Oliver Madox -Brown. In our own days we have had two or three men -of letters whose first work, written in their late teens or -early twenties, promised more, I think, than their later -books have fulfilled. I am thinking more particularly -of Edwin Pugh and William Romaine Paterson, the latter -of whom usually writes under the pseudonym of “Benjamin -Swift.”</p> - -<p>Many of us must remember Benjamin Swift’s <cite>Nancy -Noon</cite>, a strange novel that jerked the literary world into -excitement two decades ago. The writer of it was but -a boy, and though a few critics declared that he “derived” -from Meredith, it was almost universally acknowledged -that, for sheer originality both in style and in its general -outlook upon the world, the novel was head and shoulders -above any contemporary literature. So we all kept a -close watch upon Benjamin Swift, reading each fresh work -(and there were many fresh works, for the new-comer was -very productive) with an eager anticipation which, alas! -was foiled again and again. I remember six or eight of -his books, each lit with genius, but all a little crude and -violent and not one of them indicating that the writer’s -mind was becoming more mature. It was a vigorous, -eruptive mind with which one was in contact, but it was -also a mind in such incessant turmoil that one searched -in vain in each of its products for that “point of rest” -which Coventry Patmore maintains is a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sine qua non</i> of -all fine works of art.</p> - -<p>In some way that I forget Benjamin Swift and I got -into correspondence, and I still possess a bundle of his -letters, mostly about his work. I remember that in one -<a name="png.268" id="png.268" href="#png.268"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>268<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>of my letters I ventured to indicate what I thought were -some of his faults: I called in question his knowledge of -music, I expressed disapproval of his violence, and I told -him I feared that he was in danger of settling down to -being a mere “eccentric” writer. My letter, as might -have been expected, produced no effect, and though I -have not read his latest works (in dug-outs and trenches -one reads everything that comes to hand, but Benjamin -Swift has to be sought), I am given to understand that -they are in many ways like his first efforts—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">outré</i>, violent, -eruptive, yet distinguished and glowing here and there -with a genius that is always hectic.</p> - -<p>Years ago, Swift invited me to call on him whenever I -should happen to be in town, and though I should very -much like to meet him, I have never accepted his invitation. -One is like that. One shrinks from satisfying one’s -curiosity. I picture Benjamin Swift as bearing a resemblance -to Strindberg, but in my mind’s eye his lips are -thinner and straighter than Strindberg’s, and his eyes -are more vehement.</p> - -<p>What is it, I wonder, that prevents this writer from -ranking among the great? His intellect is wide and -deep enough, his literary talent is very considerable, and -his experience of life has been exceptionally varied. -There is a twist in his genius, a maggot in his brain. He -sees life grotesquely; some of the people he creates are -like the men and women one meets in nightmares.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Sometimes I amuse myself by inventing conversations -between people opposed in temperament—<i>e.g.</i> Sir Owen -Seaman and Mr Hall Caine, Mr John Galsworthy and -“Marmaduke,” Little Tich and Lord Morley, and I often -wish a brain much brighter than my own (Mr Max -Beerbohm’s, for example) would occupy its idle hours in -writing a book of such conversations. I commend the -idea to Mr E. V. Lucas, also, and to Messrs A. A.<!-- TN: original reads "A. M." --> Milne -<a name="png.269" id="png.269" href="#png.269"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>269<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>and Bernard Shaw (only Shaw’s fun is apt to be so -distressingly emphatic and double-fisted).</p> - -<p>Among the dead, I make Sir Richard Burton meet and -talk with Herbert Spencer, and I always call this conversation -<cite>The Man and the Mummy</cite>. It is strange, but -we have not, so far as I am aware, any record of Burton’s -rich and provocative conversation, though I have been -assured by men who knew him well that his talk was the -best they had heard. Sir Richard Burton is one of the -men whom I most wish to meet, and perhaps when my -happy sojourn on this planet comes to a close, I shall -be allowed to serve him in some humble capacity. To -me he has always seemed to belong to Elizabethan times, -and I think that he must often have cursed at Fate for -placing him in the middle of a century that could not fully -understand or appreciate him.</p> - -<p>In our own days we have many young men of a spirit -akin to that of Burton, though not one of them may -possess a tithe of his genius or of his colossal intellect. -I refer, of course, to our numerous soldier-poets—gallant -young men of thought and action, of quick and generous -sympathy, of noble aspiration. Most of you who read -what I am now writing must know at least one man -belonging to this type, for there are hundreds, perhaps -thousands, of them—men who, but for the war, would -probably never have written a line of poetry, but whose -souls have been stirred and whose hearts have been fired -by the grandest emotion that can urge mankind to self-sacrifice: -I mean the never-dying emotion of patriotism—that -emotion at which the sexless sneer, which the -“cosmopolitan” regards with amusement, and for which -men of imagination and grit gladly die.</p> - -<p>One soldier of this type I knew intimately, and I would -gladly know many of those others who have thrilled us -with their poems. Let me describe my friend to you. -He is no longer young: his precise age is thirty-five: but -<a name="png.270" id="png.270" href="#png.270"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>270<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>he was among those who, early in August, 1914, after -first putting his small affairs in order, enlisted in Lord -Kitchener’s Army. He made no fuss about it, and told -none but his most intimate friends what he had done. -I met him a few months after he had joined up; he was -then a Corporal, and seemed to me the happiest man I -had met for many a day. He told me that he had begun -to write “seriously,” for hitherto his scribbling had been -of a cursory and trivial nature. But he showed me none -of his work, and it was not until he had been in France -some little time that his verses began to appear in one or -two reviews. Having been granted a commission, he -quickly rose to the rank of Captain. He was mentioned -in dispatches twice and, having led a particularly successful -bombing raid on the enemy’s trenches, was awarded the -Military Cross.</p> - -<p>There is, I know, nothing very unusual in this bare record -as I have set it down; the unusual, indeed extraordinary, -nature of this case is that before the war my friend had -been a reserved, unadventurous but very capable bank -clerk, quite undistinguished and apparently without -ambition. But hidden fires must from his youth have -been smouldering in his heart, and it required the war’s -disturbance and excitement to blow these ashes into -flame, and the war’s opportunity was needed to disclose -of what fine material he was made. I flatter myself that -I had always known his nature was fine and distinguished, -for though he was a bank clerk one would never have -guessed it from his conversation and demeanour. I also -know that, generations ago, his forbears played a by-no-means -ignoble part in our country’s history, and for that -reason alone I felt that, though concealed, there were -imagination and aspiration abiding in his soul.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>One of my friends, Anna Wickham, knows D. H. -Lawrence very well, and one day I asked her if she -<a name="png.271" id="png.271" href="#png.271"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>271<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>would arrange for me to meet him at her house. But she -brushed aside the suggestion with the few words that she -was not particularly interested in Lawrence and that my -time might be wasted if spent with him. Such a suggestion -amazed, and still amazes me, and I cannot but think -that Anna Wickham had never troubled to read any of -D. H. Lawrence’s writings, for it often happens among -literary people that close friends do not look at each other’s -work.</p> - -<p>To me D. H. Lawrence is perhaps the most peculiarly -original English writer living. In his poems he is so -egoistic as almost to seem like an egomaniac, and in two -or three of his novels he is obsessed and overwhelmed by -the passion of sex. Yet in <cite>Sons and Lovers</cite>, and in that -wonderful first book of his called, I think, <cite>The Red Peacock</cite>, -he gets clean away from himself, and is as objective as all -great creative artists are and should be. Every writer -must, of course, portray life in terms of himself, but only -small men continually thrust themselves and themselves -only on to an embarrassed public. But Lawrence has an -insatiable curiosity about himself, and it seems at times -as though he is not anxious to discover or uncover life, -but to penetrate to the deeps of his own nature and shout -out at the top of his voice what he has found there. In -such egoism, there is, of course, strength as well as weakness, -and the very fault, so grave and so calamitous, that -bars him from achieving great work is, nevertheless, an -attraction to those who are much intrigued by psychology.</p> - -<p>There are, are there not? two kinds of imaginative -literature: the kind we read without more than a passing -thought for the man or woman who has written it; and -the kind we read primarily because we are enormously -interested in the personality and temperament of the man -or woman from whom that literature comes. In removing -himself to Italy instead of throwing himself heart and soul -into the ugly but extraordinary life that these years are -<a name="png.272" id="png.272" href="#png.272"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>272<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>giving us, D. H. Lawrence is, I believe, evading his destiny -and is thereby weakening the gifts and tampering with -the intellect of a man whose name should stand near the -head of all contemporary writers.</p> - -<p>If Mr Lawrence should by chance read these pages, he -will acquit me of impertinence if he remembers that he -has taken the public into his confidence, and that he must -expect the public to make some comment upon what he, -uninvited, has told us.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Chapter XXIII: Night Clubs"><a name="png.273" id="png.273" href="#png.273"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>273<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br - />NIGHT CLUBS</h2> - - -<p class="dropcap"><span class="dropcapA">After</span> what I have written you may find it difficult, -if not altogether impossible, to regard me as a -guileless youth. Yet I ask you so to regard me. -For, if I be not guileless, how can one explain the whole-hearted -enjoyment I used to derive from my occasional -visits to the Crab Tree Club in Soho, and the Cabaret Club -in Heddon Street during the twelve months before the -war?</p> - -<p>I had been a considerable time in London before it -occurred to me that there was any other way of spending -the night except in bed. Evenings, of course, were spent -either at home, the theatre, the Café Royal, a concert -hall, a music hall, or at friends’ flats and studios, and -though it is true that sometimes friends induced you -to stay, or you induced friends to stay, until dawn, -yet these long hours were never deliberately planned -beforehand.</p> - -<p>But I had the Café Royal habit, and the Café Royal, in -a sort of way, used to be an ante-chamber to various -night clubs. At midnight, or shortly after, when I left -the Café with my friends, I used to find that, instead of -proceeding to their respective homes, they went to one -place or another where you made revelry and talked -nonsense and, perchance, drank what proved at eight -o’clock next morning to have been a little more than was -good for you.</p> - -<p>“Come with us to the Crab Tree,” said two or three -friends on one of these occasions.</p> - -<p><a name="png.274" id="png.274" href="#png.274"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>274<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>And go I did. It was my very first visit to a night club, -and I expected to find I know not what scenes of dissipation -and naughtiness. I imagined that I should meet -women even more strange than some of the strange women -of the Café Royal, that I should behold dresses so daring -that they could no longer be called dresses at all, that the -music would be ravishing, the conversation sparkling, -the men distinguished, the food delicate beyond words, -the wine of a perfect bouquet. Instead, after walking -up a flight of stairs, I found a large bare room with five -men in it, one of them being the bar-tender who, behind -rows of bottles of whisky and stout, was polishing glasses. -Of the other men, three were members who had just -arrived, and the fourth was the pianist who, later on, was -to play rag-time for the dancers.</p> - -<p>I stood for a moment on the threshold of this empty -room, feeling rather exasperated that I had come -hither.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right,” said one of my friends, a little pugnacious -Scotsman with a nose and chin like Wagner’s; -“wait a bit. Things will soon brighten up.”</p> - -<p>So we stepped to the bar and engaged the pianist in -conversation. He was something of a scholar and had -made a study of rag-time from the historical point of view. -He played me two or three examples of rag-time which he -declared occurred in Bach, and I accepted his word, -though I looked at him incredulously.</p> - -<p>The note of that night was youth. There was no hectic -excitement, no Bacchic frenzy: everybody was jolly -glad to be alive. Somebody has defined happiness as -conscious pleasure. If that definition holds good, then I -was happy that night, for I remember saying to myself: -“I am coming here again.” I loved the feeling of life the -place gave me; the exhilaration of it seemed to pierce -into my marrow. I did not want to talk to anybody. -I merely wanted to sit back and watch everything: the -<a name="png.275" id="png.275" href="#png.275"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>275<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>furtive smiles of half-shy women who, happy in the arms -of those they loved, were afraid to reveal too much of -their happiness; the most delicate ankles of a slim girl -I knew, but whose name (was it Kitty or Mimi?) I only -half remembered; the kaleidoscope of colour on the -platform where the dancers were. The women were like -flowers—orchids suddenly endowed with movement.... I -compared the scene with the spectacle afforded me by -Murray’s Club a few nights previously, when Ivan Heald -and I were taken there for an hour or two. Some ladies -at Murray’s had had green hair, but only a poet like -Baudelaire can wear green hair with success. But at -Murray’s the people were all old. Young girls of twenty -were old. Everybody was old except the aged, and they -pranced and frisked to prove their unconquerable youth.... -But at this jolly Crab Tree youth was in the air, -in the music, in the laughter.</p> - -<p>And, feeling a little intoxicated with happiness, I -allowed a gentle melancholy to steal over me, as one -sometimes does in certain moods. I thought of Paris, -for this scene reminded me of Paris: I was full of longing -for Paris, and I remembered how in the spring of 1912 -I used to sit in an attic in the Quartier Latin wondering -and wondering. By that curious power that the mind, -when a little excited, seems to possess—I mean the power -of transferring one from a scene where one is happy to a -scene where one would be still happier—I saw myself -aimlessly strolling beneath the plane-trees on the banks -of the Seine. I took out a pencil and wrote:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container" id="paris"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem-head">PARIS DAYS</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div><span class="smc">These</span> days, the bright days and white days,</div> -<div>These nights of blue between the days,</div> -<div>These streets a-glimmer in the haze:</div> -<div>These are for you, but you come not these ways:</div> -<div>Paris is empty in the light days.</div> -<span class="ns"><br - /></span></div><!-- stanza --> - -<div class="stanza"> -<div><a name="png.276" id="png.276" href="#png.276"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>276<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>These songs, the glad songs and sad songs,</div> -<div>This amber wine between the songs,</div> -<div>This scented laughter from dim throngs:</div> -<div>These are for you, Paris to you belongs:</div> -<div>Paris is mournful with her mad songs.</div> -<span class="ns"><br - /></span></div><!-- stanza --> - -<div class="stanza"> -<div>These breezes, the high breezes and dry breezes,</div> -<div>These stillnesses between the breezes,</div> -<div>These purple clouds the sunset seizes:</div> -<div>These are for you, but underneath the trees is</div> -<div>Paris a-sighing with her shy breezes.</div> -<span class="ns"><br - /></span></div><!-- stanza --> - -<div class="stanza"> -<div>These days, these breezes and these nights,</div> -<div>These streets, this wine, these songs, these sighs;</div> -<div>Paris with all her myriad lights,</div> -<div>Paris so careless yet so wise:</div> -<div>All in the black sea would I spew</div> -<div>If I could win an hour of you.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>These verses (though you would hardly think so) cost -me infinite trouble, and when I had finished them I looked -up from my scrawl and saw that the room was half-empty.</p> - -<p>“Is it so late then?” I asked a man sitting next to me. -I saw it was Aleister Crowley, and he looked at me rather -balefully.</p> - -<p>“No: so early. Six o’clock, to be precise.”</p> - -<p>And he turned his back on me and gazed at a wall on -which no pictures hung.</p> - -<p>So I picked up my straw hat and tried to find my -Scots friend. He was sitting behind the piano, talking -very earnestly to a man I did not know.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Nicol Bain,” said I, “I <em>am</em> so hungry.”</p> - -<p>The streets were strewn with sunshine, and Bain took -off his hat and looked long and long at the blue sky.</p> - -<p>“How damned fine to be alive!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“How long have you been alive?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Only since I came to London.”</p> - -<p>“I was alive for three years in Manchester, but during -all those years I sat at a desk pretending to be a clerk, -<a name="png.277" id="png.277" href="#png.277"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>277<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>I was dead, quite dead. So, you see, we really <em>are</em> young. -You are about five, and I am nearly seven.”</p> - -<p>He steered me into a restaurant which appeared to -cater specially for night-birds, and Bain ate bacon and -eggs, whilst I feasted on a dish of strawberries, brown bread -and coffee.</p> - -<p>“I would,” said I, “much prefer to have bacon and -eggs, but strawberries seem to be more in the picture, -don’t you think? I am sure I am behaving very nobly -to fit into the picture at the expense of my yearning inside.... -And now, where can we get a bath?”</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>After that first visit I went frequently to the Crab -Tree Club. There I met many poets and journalists and -artists, and there, one night, a poet—a great strapping -fellow, all bone and sinew and muscle—loudly challenged -me to fight him. He is a man of some genius, well known -both here and in America. The exact cause of his quarrel -with me I have forgotten, but it appeared that, unwittingly, -I had done him some real injury—or he thought I -had. He spoke heatedly to me and I replied still more -heatedly. Suddenly, he rose, faced me menacingly, and -shouted:</p> - -<p>“All right, then. Come and fight it out. Come and -fight it out downstairs.”</p> - -<p>He looked at me with loathing.</p> - -<p>I must have paled, I think, for I know that his terrific -anger was like an onslaught. But I realised that I must -accept his challenge. I hated the thought of what was -before me, and hoped it would soon be over.</p> - -<p>“Very good. We’ll go downstairs.”</p> - -<p>I felt a hand tighten approvingly on my arm and, -looking round, saw Ivan Heald. He came with me.</p> - -<p>“Slog him, Gerald,” he said earnestly.</p> - -<p>But I felt most unheroic, and I know that as I made -my way to the door I was trembling a little.</p> - -<p><a name="png.278" id="png.278" href="#png.278"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>278<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>The whole room was interested now, and I realised -that we were going to have spectators. And then the -unexpected happened. The Club Secretary and a few -committee men rushed between us, dragging my sudden -enemy away. I was glad to be separated, for I was afraid -of him.... Is it possible that he was afraid of me?</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Augustus John used to come sometimes, and I remember -chatting with P. G. Konody about Byzantine architecture, -about which I think I know something. But one did not -go to the Crab Tree for serious conversation. It was the -diversion of excitement we all <span class="nw">sought....</span></p> - -<p>I think that for some weeks in the spring of 1914 I felt -like a character in a rather second-rate novel. Literally, -I was intoxicated with life. And so full of vitality did I -feel that I scarcely found time for sleep. I remember -walking with my wife from Soho to Battersea Park in -the early hours of a June or July morning after being up -all night. Several friends accompanied us, and though -we ought to have felt extremely jaded, we were as fresh -as paint at our seven o’clock breakfast of cherries and -coffee and honey. I tried to feel like George Meredith -as I ate, for I had read somewhere that he frequently -breakfasted on honey and coffee and fruit.... The -imitative instincts that we little artists have! How -strange it is! We can never be ourselves for long. We -are always imagining ourselves to be someone else more -distinguished, or more interesting. We are always -insatiably curious about the feelings and thoughts of -others. Pale imitators we are. And when we snatch -at our personalities, how feeble they seem ... how -feeble they are.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>One frightfully busy week an invitation came to us -from Madame Strindberg to sup with her at the Sign of -the Golden Calf, popularly known as The Cabaret. We -<a name="png.279" id="png.279" href="#png.279"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>279<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>did not particularly want to go, but I had been deeply -interested in August Strindberg ever since I had read Max -Nordau’s <cite>Degeneration</cite> (that, I think, is not the title, -but you know the book I mean) and I had wished to learn -more about this strange vitriolic personality, and since -Strindberg himself was dead, Madame Strindberg seemed -to be the best person to whom to go for information.</p> - -<p>The Cabaret was in a large cellar at the end of Heddon -Street, and the narrow way was blocked up with taxis -as our own cab sped round the corner from Regent Street. -The place was nearly full, and a Frenchman with a little -waxed moustache was singing <cite>Two Eyes of Grey</cite>, with his -eyes glued to the ceiling in a stupidly sentimental -manner, and I recollect that our first impulse was to -turn and flee. One hears such songs, I am told, in -Bolton and Oldham, and, I dare say, in the London -suburbs, but that Madame Strindberg should come all -the way from Sweden and bring a man all the way -from France to sing the latest inanity was incredible. -But my eye caught some fantastically carved figures -that leered and leaned from the great, thick posts supporting -the roof. These painted creatures were attractive -and promising and futuristic, and:</p> - -<p>“At all events, we’ll drink a bottle of champagne -before we go,” said I, as a waiter drew us to a table and -announced that supper was about to be served. “For -champagne always helps,” I added.</p> - -<p>And, really, for an hour or two I required a little artificial -stimulus in order to survive the dullness of the musical -programme.</p> - -<p>“Whoever the people are who run this place,” I said -to a pale, elderly man who sat opposite to me, “they are -extraordinarily stupid. They get Frank Harris to lecture -one evening and give us inane music the next. One doesn’t -come to a night club to be flapdoodled.”</p> - -<p>“Flap——?” he queried.</p> - -<p><a name="png.280" id="png.280" href="#png.280"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>280<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>“Flapdoodled. Yes. I mean these people who sing -and recite like a Penny Reading. They do these things -in Higher Wycombe and Bluzzerby-on-Stream. They -should not be done here.”</p> - -<p>The pale man did not understand. He coughed behind -a very white hand and delicately selected a nut.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>And then Madame Strindberg approached our table. -She had been pointed out to me half-an-hour previously -and I had noted a pale little woman who appeared to -examine her guests rather nervously. She looked cold -and careworn. She was very silent, and her black -clothing and white face struck a sombre note in all the -moving light and colour of the large, warm room.</p> - -<p>She came to the table and introduced herself to us, -sitting down and placing a nervous little hand in mine. -I soon discovered she had no conversation, for, try how -she might, she could not say anything that mattered in -the least. She chattered a little, made a few exclamations, -and then sat silent. To me she seemed full of negations, -denials. Personality she had, I daresay, but it did not -arouse my interest in the least, and after I had paid her -a few insincere compliments concerning the Club, I also -sat silent. After a while, she was taken away to another -table by some friends.</p> - -<p>On subsequent occasions I saw her, but I do not remember -that I had further communication with her except -when I was made an honorary member of the Club, when -I wrote to her a short note of thanks. She was no key -to Strindberg: at all events, no key I could use.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>Later on that night, the room roused itself from its -semi-lethargy, and golden confetti and balls of coloured -paper were thrown about by ladies and gentlemen who, -not knowing each other, desired an acquaintanceship. -The balls of paper unrolled themselves into long ribbons -<a name="png.281" id="png.281" href="#png.281"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>281<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>which, catching on to projections from the supporting -pillars, hung in long loops and festoons which, thickening, -soon began to resemble a gigantic spider’s web. Silly -musical toys were given us, and men and women—but -especially women—made silly noises on them and giggled, -or else shrieked uproariously.... Except for the supper, -which was excellent, the evening was not a success, and -I do not suppose I should have gone there again if I had -not been in search of Frank Harris, or if Jack Kahane -had not insisted upon my accompanying him.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>I made a fairly extensive examination of London night -clubs during the ensuing few months. One, near Blackfriars, -admitted me to full membership on the payment -of the sum of one shilling, and I used to go there—why, -I know not—and throw darts at a board and drink beer. -If I did not throw darts, I found I was deemed eccentric. -So I threw darts.</p> - -<p>Murray’s was beyond my means, and I found the people -there untalented and plethoric. They ate too much. -And another club devoted to “the” profession was full -of trifling women and jaunty men. Actresses are dear -children, but at night they become tiresome. And actors -always want me to praise them. They always pretended -to be quite familiar with my name, and invariably invited -me to “have one.” Quite nice people, though, I assure -you.</p> - -<div class="tb"><b> . . . . . . . . </b></div> - -<p>A night club is never for the old. Grey-haired people -should always be at home after midnight. And there -should be no card-playing. Dancing one would have -of course, and music of the finest. And wine, and many -pretty women, and a certain quietness, and invisible -waiters, and a perfume of roses.... As I write, I ask -myself: “Why should I not establish a night-club different -from all the others?” It would be so easy to be -<a name="png.282" id="png.282" href="#png.282"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>282<span class="ns">] - </span></span></a>different; it would be so difficult for me not to be different.... -One wants space, of course: I hate being crushed -against very full-bosomed ladies.... Oh, and above all, -I would have a big room set apart for the hour that comes -after dawn. Empty bottles, spilt wine, stale tobacco-smoke, -cigarette ends, all kinds of untidiness: how horrible -these are in the sun of a May or June morning! Yes, -we would all go at dawn into another room, a room -coloured green, with narcissi, and jonquils and hyacinths -on the tables: a room with open windows: a room with -fruit spread invitingly: a room where one could still be -gay and in which one need not feel sordid and spiritually -jaded and spiritually unclean.... If you have the right -mental outlook, you will never feel spiritually unclean -after a night of riot, but all our London night clubs in -pre-war days seemed to conspire together to make enjoyment -unhealthy, gaiety a matter for after-regret, and -exaltation a little disgraceful.... If someone will lend -me a lot of money (or give it me—why shouldn’t he?) -I will found a night club that will knock all the others -into a cocked <span class="nw">hat....</span></p> - -</div> - - -<div class="chap"> -<h2 title="Index"><a name="png.283" id="png.283" href="#png.283"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>283<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>INDEX</h2> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">A</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Abercrombie</span>, Charles, <a href="#png.056">56</a></li> - -<li>Abercrombie, Lascelles, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.073">73</a>–74</span></li> - -<li>Achurch, Janet, <a href="#png.015">15</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.207">207</a>–209</span></li> - -<li>Ackland, W. A., <a href="#png.103">103</a></li> - -<li>Ackté, Aïno, <a href="#png.053">53</a>, <a href="#png.068">68</a>, <a href="#png.261">261</a></li> - -<li>Adcock, St John, <a href="#png.064">64</a></li> - -<li>Æ, <a href="#png.191">191</a>, <a href="#png.261">261</a>, <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> - -<li>Agate, J. E., <a href="#png.066">66</a>, <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.191">191</a>, <a href="#png.210">210</a></li> - -<li>Angell, Norman, <a href="#png.132">132</a></li> - -<li>Archer, William, <a href="#png.208">208</a></li> - -<li>Arnold, Matthew, <a href="#png.130">130</a></li> - -<li>Austen, Jane, <a href="#png.047">47</a></li> - -<li>Austin, Frederic, <a href="#png.187">187</a>, <a href="#png.190">190</a>, <a href="#png.238">238</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">B</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Bach</span>, J. S., <a href="#png.045">45</a>, <a href="#png.256">256</a></li> - -<li>Bain, Nicol, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.276">276</a>–277</span></li> - -<li>Balzac, H. de, <a href="#png.071">71</a>, <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.264">264</a>–265</span></li> - -<li>Bantock, Granville, <a href="#png.148">148</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.179">179</a>–180</span>, <a href="#png.181">181</a>, <a href="#png.187">187</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.188">188</a>–191</span>, <a href="#png.234">234</a>, <a href="#png.242">242</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.246">246</a>–251</span>, <a href="#png.256">256</a></li> - -<li>Barker, Granville, <a href="#png.015">15</a></li> - -<li>Baudelaire, <a href="#png.275">275</a></li> - -<li>Bauer, Harold, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.181">181</a>–182</span></li> - -<li>Baughan, E. A., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.144">144</a>–145</span></li> - -<li>Beecham, Thomas, <a href="#png.158">158</a>, <a href="#png.193">193</a>, <a href="#png.232">232</a>, <a href="#png.258">258</a></li> - -<li>Beerbohm, Max, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.135">135</a>–136</span>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Beethoven, L. van<!-- TN: original reads "von" -->, <a href="#png.045">45</a>, <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.249">249</a></li> - -<li>Behn, Aphra, <a href="#png.047">47</a></li> - -<li>Behrens, Gustave, <a href="#png.152">152</a></li> - -<li>Bellini, <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Belloc, Hilaire, <a href="#png.073">73</a>, <a href="#png.265">265</a></li> - -<li>Bennett, Arnold, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.043">43</a>, <a href="#png.062">62</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.068">68</a>–71</span>, <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.110">110</a>, <a href="#png.125">125</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <a href="#png.156">156</a>, <a href="#png.202">202</a>, <a href="#png.253">253</a></li> - -<li>Bennett, Joseph, <a href="#png.143">143</a></li> - -<li>Berlioz, H., <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.230">230</a></li> - -<li>Besant, Annie, <a href="#png.015">15</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.022">22</a>–25</span></li> - -<li>Binyon, L., <a href="#png.129">129</a></li> - -<li>Bishop, Stanley, <a href="#png.141">141</a></li> - -<li>Bizet, <a href="#png.196">196</a></li> - -<li>Bjornson, B., <a href="#png.033">33</a></li> - -<li>Blackmore, R. D., <a href="#png.119">119</a></li> - -<li>Blavatsky, Madame, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.023">23</a>–24</span>, <a href="#png.089">89</a></li> - -<li>Boughton, Rutland, <a href="#png.103">103</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.259">259</a>–261</span></li> - -<li>Bourchier, Arthur, <a href="#png.205">205</a></li> - -<li>Bradlaugh, Charles, <a href="#png.022">22</a></li> - -<li>Brahms, J., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.181">181</a>–182</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.254">254</a>–255</span></li> - -<li>Brewer, Herbert, <a href="#png.188">188</a></li> - -<li>Brian, Havergal, <a href="#png.068">68</a>, <a href="#png.085">85</a>, <a href="#png.194">194</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.235">235</a>–236</span></li> - -<li>Brieux, E., <a href="#png.033">33</a></li> - -<li>Brighouse, Harold, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.055">55</a>–67</span>, <a href="#png.210">210</a></li> - -<li>Brodsky, A., <a href="#png.152">152</a>, <a href="#png.226">226</a></li> - -<li>Brontë, Charlotte, <a href="#png.047">47</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.178">178</a></li> - -<li>Brown, F. Madox, <a href="#png.163">163</a></li> - -<li>Brown, Oliver Madox, <a href="#png.267">267</a></li> - -<li>Brown, T. E., <a href="#png.119">119</a>, <a href="#png.123">123</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.128">128</a>–130</span></li> - -<li>Browning, Robert, <a href="#png.033">33</a></li> - -<li>Burton, Richard, <a href="#png.269">269</a></li> - -<li>Busoni, F., <a href="#png.214">214</a></li> - -<li>Butt, Clara, <a href="#png.048">48</a></li> - -<li>Byron, H. J., <a href="#png.062">62</a></li> - -<li>Byron, Lord, <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">C</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Caine</span>, Hall, <a href="#png.013">13</a>, <a href="#png.014">14</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.117">117</a>–127</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.128">128</a>–130</span>, <a href="#png.202">202</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Carpenter, Edward, <a href="#png.090">90</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <a href="#png.260">260</a></li> - -<li>Chatterton, <a href="#png.267">267</a></li> - -<li>Chesterton, Cecil, <a href="#png.072">72</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a></li> - -<li>Chesterton, G. K., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.071">71</a>–73</span>, <a href="#png.090">90</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a></li> - -<li>Chopin, F., <a href="#png.185">185</a></li> - -<li>Cleopatra, <a href="#png.115">115</a></li> - -<li>Coates, John, <a href="#png.187">187</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.261">261</a>–262</span></li> - -<li>Congreve, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.062">62</a>–63</span></li> - -<li>Conrad, J., <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.156">156</a></li> - -<li>Coulomb, Madame, <a href="#png.024">24</a></li> - -<li>Courlander, A., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.137">137</a>–138</span></li> - -<li>Courtney, W. L., <a href="#png.134">134</a></li> - -<li>Cowen, F. H., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.227">227</a>–229</span></li> - -<li>Craig, Gordon, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.202">202</a>–203</span></li> - -<li>Croskey, Julian, <a href="#png.116">116</a></li> - -<li>Crowley, Aleister, <a href="#png.276">276</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx" title="D"><a name="png.284" id="png.284" href="#png.284"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>284<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>D</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Davidson</span>, J., <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Davies, Walford, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.028">28</a>–31</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.254">254</a>–255</span></li> - -<li>Davison, J. W., <a href="#png.143">143</a></li> - -<li>Dawson, Frederick, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.212">212</a>–213</span>, <a href="#png.216">216</a>, <a href="#png.218">218</a>, <a href="#png.223">223</a></li> - -<li>Debussy, Claude, <a href="#png.197">197</a>, <a href="#png.214">214</a>, <a href="#png.215">215</a>, <a href="#png.230">230</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a>, <a href="#png.242">242</a>, <a href="#png.244">244</a>, <a href="#png.252">252</a>, <a href="#png.261">261</a></li> - -<li>Defoe, D., <a href="#png.087">87</a></li> - -<li>De Goncourt <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">frères</i>, <a href="#png.040">40</a></li> - -<li>De l’Isle Adam, Villiers, <a href="#png.186">186</a></li> - -<li>Delius, F., <a href="#png.234">234</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.251">251</a>–252</span></li> - -<li>De Maupassant, Guy, <a href="#png.055">55</a></li> - -<li>De Pachmann, Vladimir, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.184">184</a>–186</span></li> - -<li>Derby, Lord, <a href="#png.177">177</a></li> - -<li>De Walden, Lord Howard, <a href="#png.252">252</a></li> - -<li>Dickens, C., <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a></li> - -<li>Dilnot, F., <a href="#png.103">103</a></li> - -<li>Donizetti, <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Douglas, Lord Alfred, <a href="#png.032">32</a></li> - -<li>Dowson, E., <a href="#png.261">261</a></li> - -<li>Dukas, P., <a href="#png.230">230</a></li> - -<li>Dunn, J. Nicol, <a href="#png.159">159</a></li> - -<li>Duparc, <a href="#png.244">244</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">E</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Elgar</span>, Edward, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.079">79</a>–87</span>, <a href="#png.188">188</a>, <a href="#png.246">246</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.261">261</a>–262</span></li> - -<li>Eliot, George, <a href="#png.128">128</a></li> - -<li>Epstein, J., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.052">52</a>–53</span>, <a href="#png.170">170</a></li> - -<li>Ervine, St John, <a href="#png.133">133</a></li> - -<li>“Eve” of <cite>The Tatler</cite>, <a href="#png.031">31</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">F</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Forrest</span>, Charles, <a href="#png.066">66</a></li> - -<li>Fried, Oskar, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.150">150</a>–152</span></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">G</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Galsworthy</span>, J., <a href="#png.063">63</a>, <a href="#png.107">107</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Garvice, C., <a href="#png.110">110</a></li> - -<li>Garvin, J. L., <a href="#png.041">41</a></li> - -<li>George, Lloyd, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.026">26</a>–28</span></li> - -<li>Gerhardt, Elena, <a href="#png.223">223</a></li> - -<li>Gilbert, W. S., <a href="#png.078">78</a></li> - -<li>Gladstone, W. E., <a href="#png.120">120</a></li> - -<li>Godard, Arabella, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Gorton, Canon, <a href="#png.031">31</a></li> - -<li>Gounod, C., <a href="#png.245">245</a></li> - -<li>Graham, R. B. Cunninghame, <a href="#png.142">142</a></li> - -<li>Graves, C. L., <a href="#png.145">145</a></li> - -<li>Grieg<!-- TN: original reads "Greig" -->, E., <a href="#png.180">180</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.226">226</a>–227</span></li> - -<li>Grew, Sydney, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.179">179</a>–181</span></li> - -<li>Guilbert, Yvette, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.047">47</a>–49</span>, <a href="#png.054">54</a>, <a href="#png.182">182</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">H</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Hahn</span>, Reynaldo, <a href="#png.244">244</a></li> - -<li>Hallé, Charles, <a href="#png.182">182</a>, <a href="#png.227">227</a></li> - -<li>Handel, G. F., <a href="#png.188">188</a>, <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Hardy, T., <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.107">107</a></li> - -<li>Harris, Frank, <a href="#png.014">14</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.032">32</a>–46</span>, <a href="#png.126">126</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <a href="#png.179">179</a>, <a href="#png.279">279</a>, <a href="#png.281">281</a></li> - -<li>Harrison, Austin, <a href="#png.032">32</a>, <a href="#png.037">37</a></li> - -<li>Harrison, Julius, <a href="#png.181">181</a>, <a href="#png.193">193</a>, <a href="#png.194">194</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.258">258</a>–259</span></li> - -<li>Hauptmann, <a href="#png.033">33</a></li> - -<li>Hatton, J. L., <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Heald, Edith, <a href="#png.242">242</a></li> - -<li>Heald, Ivan, <a href="#png.115">115</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.138">138</a>–139</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.166">166</a>–168</span>, <a href="#png.241">241</a>, <a href="#png.275">275</a>, <a href="#png.277">277</a></li> - -<li>Hemans, F., <a href="#png.095">95</a>, <a href="#png.097">97</a></li> - -<li>Henderson, Arthur, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.175">175</a>–176</span></li> - -<li>Henley, W. E., <a href="#png.128">128</a>, <a href="#png.134">134</a></li> - -<li>Herford, C. H., <a href="#png.034">34</a>, <a href="#png.038">38</a>, <a href="#png.157">157</a></li> - -<li>Hobbes, John Oliver, <a href="#png.030">30</a></li> - -<li>Holbrooke, J., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.252">252</a>–254</span></li> - -<li>Horniman, A., <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.055">55</a>, <a href="#png.058">58</a>, <a href="#png.063">63</a>, <a href="#png.073">73</a>, <a href="#png.154">154</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.209">209</a>–211</span></li> - -<li>Horsley, Victor, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.049">49</a>–50</span></li> - -<li>Houghton, Stanley, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.055">55</a>–67</span>, <a href="#png.069">69</a>, <a href="#png.210">210</a></li> - -<li>Housman, Laurence, <a href="#png.033">33</a></li> - -<li>Hueffer, F. M., <a href="#png.032">32</a></li> - -<li>Hughes, Herbert, <a href="#png.134">134</a>, <a href="#png.168">168</a>, <a href="#png.171">171</a>, <a href="#png.187">187</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">I</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Ibsen</span>, H., <a href="#png.011">11</a>, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.209">209</a></li> - -<li>Irving, H. B., <a href="#png.066">66</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">J</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">James</span>, Henry, <a href="#png.173">173</a></li> - -<li>Jerome, J. K., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.077">77</a>–78</span></li> - -<li>Joachim, <a href="#png.182">182</a></li> - -<li>John, Augustus, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.052">52</a>–53</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.168">168</a>–171</span>, <a href="#png.239">239</a>, <a href="#png.278">278</a></li> - -<li>Jones, Henry Arthur, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.203">203</a>–205</span></li> - -<li>Joubert, <a href="#png.046">46</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx" title="K"><a name="png.285" id="png.285" href="#png.285"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>285<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>K</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Kahane</span>, Jack, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.033">33</a>–35</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.055">55</a>–57</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.157">157</a>–158</span>, <a href="#png.281">281</a></li> - -<li>Keats, J., <a href="#png.174">174</a>, <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> - -<li>Klindworth, Karl, <a href="#png.212">212</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.216">216</a>–219</span></li> - -<li>Konody, P. G., <a href="#png.278">278</a></li> - -<li>Kreisler, F., <a href="#png.261">261</a></li> - -<li>Kubelik, <a href="#png.182">182</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">L</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Langford</span>, S., <a href="#png.143">143</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.148">148</a>–150</span>, <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.187">187</a>, <a href="#png.191">191</a>, <a href="#png.256">256</a></li> - -<li>Lawrence, D. H., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.270">270</a>–272</span></li> - -<li>Leighton, Lord, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Leonardo da Vinci, <a href="#png.171">171</a></li> - -<li>Lett, Phyllis, <a href="#png.181">181</a></li> - -<li>Liszt, F., <a href="#png.170">170</a>, <a href="#png.218">218</a></li> - -<li>“Little Tich,” <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Locke, W. J., <a href="#png.089">89</a></li> - -<li>Lowe, Harry, <a href="#png.168">168</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.240">240</a>–242</span>, <a href="#png.244">244</a></li> - -<li>Lucas, E. V., <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Lunn, Kirkby, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Lyall, E., <a href="#png.096">96</a></li> - -<li>Lytton, Bulwer, <a href="#png.096">96</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">M</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">McNaught</span>, W. G., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.187">187</a>–190</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.257">257</a>–258</span></li> - -<li>Mair, G. H., <a href="#png.062">62</a>, <a href="#png.069">69</a>, <a href="#png.070">70</a></li> - -<li>Malet, Lucas, <a href="#png.123">123</a></li> - -<li><cite>Manchester Guardian</cite>, <a href="#png.011">11</a>, <a href="#png.034">34</a>, <a href="#png.038">38</a>, <a href="#png.048">48</a>, <a href="#png.058">58</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.065">65</a>–66</span>, <a href="#png.075">75</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.154">154</a>–160</span>, <a href="#png.191">191</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.209">209</a>–210</span></li> - -<li>Marchesi, Blanche, <a href="#png.048">48</a></li> - -<li>“Marmaduke,” <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Marriott, Charles, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.134">134</a>–135</span></li> - -<li>Marriott, Ernest, <a href="#png.056">56</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.202">202</a>–203</span></li> - -<li>Marx, Karl, <a href="#png.015">15</a></li> - -<li>Masefield, John, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.073">73</a>–76</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.095">95</a>–97</span>, <a href="#png.201">201</a>, <a href="#png.209">209</a></li> - -<li>Maude, Cyril, <a href="#png.060">60</a></li> - -<li>Mead, G. R. S., <a href="#png.090">90</a></li> - -<li>Mendelssohn, F., <a href="#png.198">198</a>, <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Meredith, George, <a href="#png.038">38</a>, <a href="#png.128">128</a>, <a href="#png.267">267</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Middleton, Richard, <a href="#png.040">40</a></li> - -<li>Milne, A. A., <a href="#png.077">77</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Monkhouse, Allan, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.065">65</a>, <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.210">210</a></li> - -<li>Monro, Harold, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.073">73</a>–74</span></li> - -<li>Montague, C. E., <a href="#png.063">63</a>, <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.210">210</a></li> - -<li>Moore, George, <a href="#png.013">13</a>, <a href="#png.017">17</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.020">20</a>–21</span></li> - -<li>Morley, Lord, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Morris, William, <a href="#png.018">18</a></li> - -<li>Morrow, Edwin, <a href="#png.139">139</a>, <a href="#png.168">168</a>, <a href="#png.172">172</a>, <a href="#png.239">239</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.241">241</a>–242</span></li> - -<li>Morrow, Norman, <a href="#png.139">139</a>, <a href="#png.168">168</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.172">172</a>–173</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.239">239</a>–243</span></li> - -<li>Mudie, W. H., <a href="#png.056">56</a>, <a href="#png.065">65</a></li> - -<li>Mullings, Frank, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.179">179</a>–181</span></li> - -<li>Murger, H., <a href="#png.173">173</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">N</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Napoleon</span>, <a href="#png.044">44</a>, <a href="#png.050">50</a></li> - -<li>Newman, Ernest, <a href="#png.048">48</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.081">81</a>–84</span>, <a href="#png.143">143</a>, <a href="#png.148">148</a>, <a href="#png.179">179</a>, <a href="#png.181">181</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.187">187</a>–188</span>, <a href="#png.190">190</a>, <a href="#png.226">226</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.246">246</a>–247</span>, <a href="#png.249">249</a>, <a href="#png.252">252</a></li> - -<li>Newman, J. H., <a href="#png.086">86</a></li> - -<li>Nicoll, W. R., <a href="#png.064">64</a></li> - -<li>Nietzsche, F., <a href="#png.045">45</a>, <a href="#png.091">91</a>, <a href="#png.131">131</a></li> - -<li>Nordau, Max, <a href="#png.279">279</a></li> - -<li>Northcliffe, Lord, <a href="#png.039">39</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.041">41</a>–44</span>, <a href="#png.154">154</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">O</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Olcott</span>, Colonel, <a href="#png.090">90</a></li> - -<li>Orage, A. R., <a href="#png.022">22</a>, <a href="#png.043">43</a>, <a href="#png.091">91</a>, <a href="#png.104">104</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.130">130</a>–132</span>, <a href="#png.179">179</a></li> - -<li>Ouida, <a href="#png.134">134</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">P</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Paderewski</span>, I., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.182">182</a>–186</span></li> - -<li>Pain, Barry, <a href="#png.140">140</a></li> - -<li>Pankhurst, Emmeline, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.050">50</a>–51</span>, <a href="#png.179">179</a></li> - -<li>Pater, Walter, <a href="#png.186">186</a>, <a href="#png.242">242</a></li> - -<li>Paterson, W. R., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.267">267</a>–268</span></li> - -<li>Patmore, Coventry, <a href="#png.267">267</a></li> - -<li>Patti, Adelina, <a href="#png.053">53</a></li> - -<li>Petri, Egon, <a href="#png.223">223</a></li> - -<li>Plato, <a href="#png.090">90</a></li> - -<li>Poe, E. A., <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.253">253</a></li> - -<li>Pond, Major, <a href="#png.120">120</a></li> - -<li>Price-Heywood, W. P., <a href="#png.056">56</a>, <a href="#png.080">80</a></li> - -<li>Pugh, Edwin, <a href="#png.267">267</a></li> - -<li><cite>Punch</cite>, <a href="#png.025">25</a>, <a href="#png.077">77</a></li> - -<li>Pyne, Kendrick, <a href="#png.028">28</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.162">162</a>–164</span></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">R</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Ravel</span>, <a href="#png.197">197</a>, <a href="#png.255">255</a></li> - -<li>Reger, Max, <a href="#png.197">197</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Richardson, Frank, <a href="#png.014">14</a></li> - -<li><a name="png.286" id="png.286" href="#png.286"><span class="pagenum"><span - class="ns">[</span>286<span class="ns">]<br - /></span></span></a>Richter, Hans, <a href="#png.150">150</a>, <a href="#png.158">158</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.227">227</a>–228</span>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.229">229</a>–232<!-- TN: original reads "223" --></span></li> - -<li>Robins, Elizabeth, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.178">178</a>–179</span></li> - -<li>Ronald, Landon, <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.194">194</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.234">234</a>–237</span></li> - -<li>Rootham, Cyril, <a href="#png.256">256</a></li> - -<li>Ross, Adrian, <a href="#png.140">140</a></li> - -<li>Rossetti, D. G., <a href="#png.046">46</a>, <a href="#png.223">223</a>, <a href="#png.258">258</a></li> - -<li>Rowley, Charles, <a href="#png.164">164</a></li> - -<li>Runciman, J. F., <a href="#png.194">194</a></li> - -<li>Ruskin, John, <a href="#png.046">46</a>, <a href="#png.086">86</a>, <a href="#png.119">119</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">S</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Santley</span>, Charles, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.232">232</a>–234</span></li> - -<li>Sauer, Emil, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.182">182</a>–184</span></li> - -<li>Schlagintweit, Capt., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.159">159</a>–161</span></li> - -<li>Schumann, Clara, <a href="#png.182">182</a>, <a href="#png.254">254</a></li> - -<li>Scott, Clement, <a href="#png.208">208</a></li> - -<li>Scott, Cyril, <a href="#png.262">262</a></li> - -<li>Scott, Dixon, <a href="#png.140">140</a></li> - -<li>Scott, Walter, <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> - -<li>Scriabin, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Seaman, Owen, <a href="#png.077">77</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a></li> - -<li>Shakespeare, Wm., <a href="#png.015">15</a>, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.036">36</a>, <a href="#png.044">44</a>, <a href="#png.086">86</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.115">115</a>, <a href="#png.207">207</a></li> - -<li>Shaw, G. B., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.011">11</a>–21</span>, <a href="#png.044">44</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.133">133</a>, <a href="#png.156">156</a>, <a href="#png.174">174</a>, <a href="#png.208">208</a>, <a href="#png.210">210</a>, <a href="#png.269">269</a></li> - -<li>Shelley, P. B., <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.091">91</a>, <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> - -<li>Sherard, R. H., <a href="#png.120">120</a></li> - -<li>Sibelius, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Smiles, Samuel, <a href="#png.115">115</a>, <a href="#png.176">176</a></li> - -<li>Somerset, Lady Henry, <a href="#png.179">179</a></li> - -<li>Spencer, Herbert, <a href="#png.269">269</a></li> - -<li>Stead, W. T., <a href="#png.120">120</a></li> - -<li>Stone, Marcus, <a href="#png.025">25</a></li> - -<li>Strauss, Richard, <a href="#png.053">53</a>, <a href="#png.068">68</a>, <a href="#png.084">84</a>, <a href="#png.148">148</a>, <a href="#png.196">196</a>, <a href="#png.216">216</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.223">223</a>–225</span>, <a href="#png.234">234</a>, <a href="#png.251">251</a>, <a href="#png.256">256</a></li> - -<li>Streatfeild, R. A., <a href="#png.143">143</a></li> - -<li>Strindberg, August, <a href="#png.033">33</a>, <a href="#png.268">268</a>, <a href="#png.279">279</a></li> - -<li>Strindberg, Madame, <a href="#png.043">43</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.278">278</a>–280</span></li> - -<li>Sullivan, A. S., <a href="#png.078">78</a>, <a href="#png.196">196</a></li> - -<li>“Swift, Benjamin,” <span class="nw"><a href="#png.267">267</a>–268</span></li> - -<li>Swinburne, A. C., <a href="#png.264">264</a></li> - -<li>Synge, J. M., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.060">60</a>–62</span>, <a href="#png.075">75</a>, <a href="#png.241">241</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">T</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Tennyson</span>, A., <a href="#png.090">90</a></li> - -<li>Terry, Ellen, <a href="#png.203">203</a>, <a href="#png.208">208</a></li> - -<li>Tetrazzini, <a href="#png.053">53</a></li> - -<li>Thackeray, Wm., <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.234">234</a></li> - -<li>Thurston, Temple, <a href="#png.201">201</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.205">205</a>–207</span></li> - -<li>Tree, Beerbohm, <a href="#png.135">135</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.199">199</a>–202</span></li> - -<li>Trollope, Anthony, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.025">25</a>–69</span></li> - -<li>Tupper, Martin, <a href="#png.118">118</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">V</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Valentine</span>, Jim, <a href="#png.185">185</a></li> - -<li>Velasquez, <a href="#png.171">171</a></li> - -<li>Verulam, Lord, <a href="#png.115">115</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">W</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Wagner</span>, Richard, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.015">15</a>–16</span>, <a href="#png.029">29</a>, <a href="#png.045">45</a>, <a href="#png.143">143</a>, <a href="#png.167">167</a>, <a href="#png.195">195</a>, <a href="#png.216">216</a>, <a href="#png.217">217</a>, <a href="#png.229">229</a>, <a href="#png.233">233</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.254">254</a>–255</span>, <a href="#png.274">274</a></li> - -<li>Ward, Humphry, Mrs, <a href="#png.178">178</a></li> - -<li>Warlow, Gordon, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.239">239</a>–241</span>, <a href="#png.244">244</a></li> - -<li>Watts, G. F., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.017">17</a>–18</span></li> - -<li>Webb, Beatrice, <a href="#png.174">174</a></li> - -<li>Webb, Sidney, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.015">15</a>–16</span>, <a href="#png.021">21</a>, <a href="#png.174">174</a></li> - -<li>Weber, <a href="#png.231">231</a></li> - -<li>Welldon, Bishop, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.028">28</a>–31</span></li> - -<li>Wells, H. G., (“Mr Kipps”), <span class="nw"><a href="#png.015">15</a>, <a href="#png.016">16</a>–17</span>, <a href="#png.044">44</a>, <a href="#png.094">94</a>, <a href="#png.154">154</a>, <a href="#png.174">174</a></li> - -<li>Wesley, S. S., <a href="#png.162">162</a></li> - -<li>Whistler, J. M., <a href="#png.045">45</a></li> - -<li>Whitman, Walt, <a href="#png.090">90</a>, <a href="#png.132">132</a>, <a href="#png.191">191</a></li> - -<li>Wickham, Anna, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.270">270</a>–271</span></li> - -<li>Wiers-Jennsen, <a href="#png.209">209</a></li> - -<li>Williams, Vaughan, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.255">255</a>–257</span></li> - -<li>Wilson, P. W., <span class="nw"><a href="#png.025">25</a>–28</span></li> - -<li>Wolf, Hugo, <a href="#png.079">79</a>, <a href="#png.145">145</a>, <a href="#png.148">148</a>, <a href="#png.180">180</a>, <a href="#png.233">233</a></li> - -<li>Wollstonecraft, Mary, <a href="#png.091">91</a></li> - -<li>Wood, Henry J., <a href="#png.157">157</a>, <a href="#png.193">193</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">Y</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Yeats</span>, W. B., <a href="#png.062">62</a>, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.263">263</a>–265</span></li> - -<li>Yonge, C. M., <a href="#png.096">96</a></li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div> -<h3 class="indx">Z</h3> - -<ul> -<li><span class="smc">Zangwill</span>, Israel, <span class="nw"><a href="#png.136">136</a>–137</span></li> -</ul> -</div> -</div> - - -<div class="tnote"> -<h2>Transcriber’s Note</h2> - -<p>A small number of clear typographic errors have been corrected, along with a handful of punctuation clarifications.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="ww" /> - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Set Down in Malice, by Gerald Cumberland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SET DOWN IN MALICE *** - -***** This file should be named 61437-h.htm or 61437-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/3/61437/ - -Produced by ellinora, David Wilson and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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