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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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