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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..72b67c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68853 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68853) diff --git a/old/68853-0.txt b/old/68853-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 895bc64..0000000 --- a/old/68853-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6956 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pastiche and prejudice, by A. B. -Walkley - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Pastiche and prejudice - -Author: A. B. Walkley - -Release Date: August 27, 2022 [eBook #68853] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE *** - - - - - - -PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE - - - - - PASTICHE - AND - PREJUDICE - - BY - A. B. WALKLEY - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - ALFRED A. KNOPF MCMXXI - - _Reprinted, by the courtesy of the Proprietors, - from THE TIMES._ - - _Printed in Great Britain._ - - - - -PASTICHE - - -Writing of Lamennais, Renan says: “Il créa avec des réminiscences de -la Bible et du langage ecclésiastique cette manière harmonieuse et -grandiose qui réalise le phénomène unique dans l’histoire littéraire d’un -pastiche de génie.” Renan was nothing if not fastidious, and “unique” is -a hard word, for which I should like to substitute the milder “rare.” -_Pastiches_ “of genius” are rare because genius is rare in any kind, and -more than ever rare in that kind wherein the writer deliberately forgoes -his own natural, instinctive form of expression for an alien form. But -even fairly plausible _pastiches_ are rare, for the simple reason that -though, with taste and application, and above all an anxious care for -style, you may succeed in mimicking the literary form of another author -or another age, it is impossible for you to reproduce their spirit—since -no two human beings in this world are identical. Perhaps the easiest -of all kinds is the theatrical “imitation,” because all that is to be -imitated is voice, tone, gesture—an actor’s words not being his own—yet I -have never seen one that got beyond parody. The sense of an audience is -not fine enough to appreciate exact imitation; it demands exaggeration, -caricature. - -Parody, indeed, is the pitfall of all _pastiche_. Even Mr. Max Beerbohm, -extraordinarily susceptible and responsive to style as he is, did not -escape it in that delightful little book of his wherein, some years -ago, he imitated many of our contemporary authors. I can think of but a -single instance which faithfully reproduces not only the language but -almost the spirit of the authors imitated—M. Marcel Proust’s volume -of “Pastiches et Mélanges.” The only stricture one can pass on it, if -stricture it be, is that M. Proust’s Balzac and St. Simon and the rest -are a little “more Royalist than the King,” a little more like Balzac and -St. Simon than the originals themselves; I mean, a little too intensely, -too concentratedly, Balzac and St. Simon. But Marcel Proust is one of -my prejudices. To say that his first two books, “Swann” and “Les Jeunes -Filles,” have given me more exquisite pleasure than anything in modern -French literature would not be enough—I should have to say, in all modern -literature. Mrs. Wharton, I see from the “Letters,” sent Henry James a -copy of “Swann” when it first came out (1918): I wish we could have had -his views of it. It offers another kind of psychology from Henry James’s, -and he would probably have said, as he was fond of saying, that it had -more “saturation” than “form.” But I am wandering from my subject of -_pastiche_. - -I was present one afternoon at a curious experiment in theatrical -_pastiche_. This was a rehearsal _of_ a rehearsal of the screen scene -from _The School for Scandal_, which was supposed to be directed by -Sheridan himself. Rather a complicated affair, because Miss Lilian -Braithwaite was supposed to be playing not Lady Teazle but Mrs. Abington -playing Lady Teazle, Mr. Gilbert Hare had to play Mr. Parsons playing -Sir Peter, and so forth—histrionics, so to speak, raised to the second -power. To tell the truth, I think the middle term tended to fall out. -It was easy enough for the players to make themselves up after the -originals in the Garrick Club picture of the screen scene, but how these -originals spoke or what their personal peculiarities were, on or off -the stage, who shall now say? There you have the difference between -fact and fiction. Lady Teazle and Sir Peter, having no existence save -in the book of the play, are producible from it at any time, as “real” -as they ever were, but Mrs. Abington and Mr. Parsons are not fixed in -a book, and their reality died with them. Naturally enough the actual -scene written by Sheridan “went” with very much greater force than the -setting of conversations, interruptions, etc., in which it was embedded, -for the simple reason that the one part had had the luck to be imagined -by Sheridan and the other had not. But as a _pastiche_ this new part, -written round the old, seemed to me on the whole very well done; there -was hardly a word that Sheridan and his friends _might_ not have said. -Just one, however, there noticeably was. Mr. Gerald du Maurier (as -Sheridan) was made to tell Mr. Leon Quartermaine (as Charles) that, in -his laughter at the discovery of Lady Teazle, he was not to expect the -“sympathy of the audience.” _That_, I feel sure, was an anachronism, a -bit of quite modern theatrical lingo. I should guess that it came to us -from the French, who are fond of talking of a _rôle sympathique_. Mr. -du Maurier, if any one, must remember his father’s delightful sketch -of English people shopping in Normandy, when the artful shopwoman is -cajoling a foolish-faced Englishman with “le visage de monsieur m’est -si sympathique.” The Italian _simpatico_ is, of course, even more -hard-worked. I felt sure, then, as I say, about the anachronism; but -I am quite aware that it is never safe to trust to one’s instinct -in these matters. It is by no means impossible that some one may -triumphantly produce against me a newspaper or book of 1775 which speaks -of “the sympathy of the audience.” The unexpected in these cases does -occasionally happen. - -And certainly any one who has tried his hand at a _pastiche_ of a -dead and gone author will have frequently been astonished, not at -the antiquity but at the modernity of the style. Language changes -less rapidly than we are apt to suppose. The bad writers seem to get -old-fashioned earliest—because, I suppose, they yield most easily to -ephemeral tricks of speech. For example, Fanny Burney, who, I cannot but -think, wrote a bad style, and in her later books (as Macaulay pointed -out) a kind of debased Johnsonese, is now decidedly old-fashioned. But -Jane Austen, whose style, though scarcely brilliant, was never bad, is -not. A modern Mr. Collins would not talk of “elegant females”—but even -then he was put forward as ridiculous for doing so. Jane was fond of -“the chief of the day” and “the harp was bringing.” These phrases are -_passées_, but I doubt if you will find many others. - -Our sense of the past, in fact, may illude us. And that reminds me of -Henry James’s solitary _pastiche_, his posthumous (and fragmentary) -“Sense of the Past.” The “past” he deals with is, roughly, the Jane -Austen period, and I think his language would very much have astonished -Jane Austen. For one thing, they didn’t colloquially emphasize in her day -as Henry James makes them do. I take a page at random:—“He mustn’t be -_too_ terribly clever for us, certainly! We enjoy immensely your being -so extraordinary; but I’m sure you’ll take it in good part if I remind -you that there _is_ a limit.” Is this our ultra-modern Mrs. Brookenham -speaking? No, it is Mrs. Midmore, somewhere about 1820. To be more -exact, it is Henry James speaking with the emphasis that always abounded -in his novels and his letters and his talk. Again: “I can’t keep off -that strangeness of my momentary lapse.” That doesn’t sound to my ear -a bit like 1820. Again: “It must have been one of your pale passions, -as you call ’em, truly—so that even if her ghost does hover I shan’t be -afraid of so very thin a shade.” Note the “’em,” the author’s timid -little speck of antique colour, but note also how the speaker carries -on the “ghost” figure—in a way that is signed “Henry James, 19—” all -over. The fact is, Henry James, with his marked, individual, curiously -“modern” style, was the last man to express himself in an alien style, -particularly the more simple style of an earlier age. To write a pure -_pastiche_ you must begin by surrendering, putting clean away your own -personality—how otherwise are you to take on another’s? - -I have no illusions about the essays in _pastiche_ to be found in the -earlier of the following papers. If they do not always fall below parody, -they never rise above it. Occasional fragments of authentic text will be -recognized at a glance. “These Things are but Toyes.” - - - - -AN ARISTOTELIAN FRAGMENT - - -In the neighbourhood of Wardour Street, where the princes of the film -hold their Court, a legislative code for film-making, a “Poetics” of the -film, by some _maestro di color che sanno_, has long been yearned for. If -only, they say, if only the _maestro_ himself, the great Aristotle, had -been alive to write it! After all, kinematograph is Greek, isn’t it? It -seems to cry aloud, somehow, for its code by the great Greek authority. -Well, they little knew what luck was in store for them! - -To-day comes a startling piece of news from the East. A certain Major -Ferdinand M. Pinto, O.B.E., R.E., whether on military duty or on -furlough the report does not say, has been sojourning with the monks -of Mount Porthos, and, in the most singular manner, has discovered in -the possession of his hosts a precious treasure of which they were -entirely ignorant. It was a Greek manuscript, and, as the Reverend Prior -laughingly observed, it was Greek to them. It seems that—such is the -licence of modern manners even in monasteries—the monks have lately taken -to smoking, and to using what in lay circles are called “spills.” Now -on the spill which the Major was lighting for his cigar there suddenly -stared him in the face the words - - ὥσπερ Ἀγάθων λέγει - -and the name Agathon thrilled him with memories of a certain Oxford quad, -with dear “old Strachan” annoying the Master by wondering why Agathon -should have said anything so obvious as that “it is probable that many -things should happen contrary to probability.” To examine the spill, -all the spills collected, was the work of a moment. They proved, at a -glance, to be an entirely unknown MS. of the “Poetics,” more complete -even than the Parisian, and with new readings transcending even the -acutest conjectures of Vahlen. But, greatest find of all, there was -disclosed—though with unfortunate _lacunæ_ caused by the monks’ cigars—an -entirely new chapter inquiring into the structure of the Moving Picture -Drama. Through the courtesy of the Pseudo-Hellenic Society I am favoured -with a translation of this chapter, and a few passages, which seemed of -more general interest, are here extracted. - -“As we have said,” the MS. begins, “it is a question whether tragedy is -to be judged in itself or in relation also to the audience. But it is -another story (ἄλλος λόγος) with the moving pictures. For it is not clear -whether they have an ‘itself’ at all, or, if they have, where this self -is to be found, whether on the screen, or in the lens of the camera, or -in the head of the photographic artist. Whereas there is no doubt (save -in very inclement weather) about the audience. They are to be judged, -then, solely in relation to the audience. And, for this reason, they do -not resemble tragedy, whose action, we said, must be whole, consisting -of a beginning, a middle, and an end. For the audience may arrive at -the end of a picture play, and though, in due time, the beginning will -come round again, the audience may not have the patience to wait for it. -Some audiences prefer to arrive in the middle and to proceed to the end, -and then to end with the beginning. By this means the general sense of -confusion in human affairs is confirmed in the picture theatre, and in -this sense, but only in this sense, the picture drama may be said to be, -like tragedy, an imitation of life. - -“Nor can it be said of picture drama, as it was of tragedy, that the -element of plot is more important than the element of character. For -here neither element is important. The important element now is motion. -Any plot will serve the picture poet’s purpose (indeed most of them take -them ready-made from those prose epics known as ‘shockers’), and any -characters likewise (it will suffice if these be simplified types or -‘masks’). The essence of the matter is that all should be kept moving. -And as moving objects are best seen to be moving when they are moving -quickly, the picture poet will contrive that his horses shall always, as -Homer says, devour the ground and his motor cars be ‘all out.’... Unity -of plot—when there is a plot—does not, as some persons think, consist -in the unity of the hero. It consists in the final dwelling together in -unity of the hero and his bride. Final must be understood as posterior to -the pursuit of the bride by other men, who may be either white or red. -Red men are better, as more unbridled in their passions than white. As -Æschylus first introduced a second actor in tragedy, so an American poet, -whose name is too barbarous to be written in Greek, introduced the red -man in picture drama.... - -“With regard to the hero and his bride, though their characters should, -as in tragedy, be morally good (χρηστά), it is chiefly necessary that -their persons should be kinematographically good or good on the film. -For at every peripety of the action they must become suddenly enlarged -by the device of the photographer, so that every furrow of the knitted -brow and every twitch of the agitated mouth is shown as large as life, -if not larger. It is, in fact, by this photographic enlargement that the -critical turns of the action are marked and distinguished, in the absence -of the tragic element of diction. Where the tragic actor talks big, the -picture player looks big. Nevertheless, the element of diction is not -entirely wanting. Sentences (which should comprise as many solecisms as -possible) may be shown on the screen, descriptive of what the players are -doing or saying. But the more skilful players habitually say something -else than what is thus imputed to them, thereby giving the audience the -additional interest of conjecturing what they actually do say in place of -what they ought to have said. - -... “Picture poetry is a more philosophical and liberal thing than -history; for history expresses the particular, but picture poetry the not -too particular. The particular is, for example, what Alcibiades did or -suffered. The not too particular is what Charlie Chaplin did or suffered. -But the moving pictures do to some extent show actual happenings, in -order to reassure people by nature incredulous. For what has not happened -we do not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has happened is -manifestly possible; otherwise it would not have happened. On the whole, -however, as the tragic poet should prefer probable impossibilities to -improbable possibilities, the picture poet should go, as Agathon says, -one better, and aim at improbable impossibilities.”... - - - - -MR. SHAKESPEARE DISORDERLY - - -At the meeting preliminary to “Warriors’ Day” I was wending my way along -the corridor of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, when I encountered an -amphibious-looking figure with the mien of one of Mr. W. W. Jacobs’s -people, but attired in the classic tunic and sandals of a Greek of -the best period. Knowing that the meeting was to include all sorts -and conditions of theatrical men, I taxed him with being somebody out -of _Orphée aux Enfers_ or _La Belle Hélène_. He said it was not a bad -shot, but, as a matter of fact, he was a ferryman, “saving your honour’s -reverence, name o’ Charon.” “A ferryman?” said I; “then you must be from -the Upper River, Godstow way.” “No, sir,” he answered, “I ply my trade -on the Styx, and I’ve brought over a boatful of our tip-toppers—our -intelli-gents-you-are they calls ’em in the Elysian Fields—to this ’ere -meetin’. Precious dry work it is, too, sir,” he added, wiping his mouth -with the back of his hand. “Where are they?” I asked in high excitement. -“In this ’ere box, sir, where the management have allowed them to sit -incog.” “And who, my good fellow, are they?” “Well, sir, let me see; -there’s Mr. William Shakespeare, one of the most pop’lar of our gents -and the neatest hand at nectar punch with a toast in it. Then there’s -Mr. David Garrick, little Davy, as they calls ’im (though the other one, -’im who’s always a-slingin’ stones at the giants, isn’t no great size, -neither), and there’s ’is friend Dr. Samuel Johnson, a werry harbitrary -cove, and there’s Mrs. Siddons, an ’oly terror of a woman, sir, as you -might say. Likewise, there’s Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Edmund Kean, both on -’em gents with a powerful thirst—just like mine this blessed mornin’, -sir.” At this second reminder I gave him wherewithal to slake his thirst, -directed him to the bar, and, as soon as he was out of sight, slipped -noiselessly into the back of the box, where I hid behind the overcoats. - -Mr. Shakespeare was beckoning Mrs. Siddons to his side. “Come hither, -good mistress Sal” (this to the majestic Sarah, the Tragic Muse!), “and -prythee, dearest chuck, sit close, for ’tis a nipping and an eager air, -and poor Will’s a-cold.” - -MRS. S.—Sir, you are vastly obleeging, but where’s the chair? - -DR. JOHNSON.—Madam, you who have so often occasioned a want of seats to -other people, will the more easily excuse the want of one yourself. - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Marry come up! Wouldst not sit in my lap, Sal? ’Tis not -so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve. - -MRS. S. (_scandalized but dignified_).—Sir, I am sensible of the honour, -but fear my train would incommode the Immortal Bard. - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Oh, Immortal Bard be—— - -MR. GARRICK (_hastily_).—I perceive, sir, a stir among the company. The -gentleman who is taking the chair has notable eyebrows; he must be—— - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Master George Robey. I’ve heard of him and his eyebrows. - -MR. G.—No, no, ’tis Sir Arthur Pinero, an actor-dramatist like yourself, -sir. - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Beshrew me, but I would hear the chimes at midnight with -him and drink a health unto his knighthood. (_Sings._) “And let me the -canakin clink, clink, and——” - -THE HOUSE (_indignantly_).—Sh-h-h! - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—A murrain on these gallants! They have no ear for a -catch and should get them to a monastery. But I’ll sit like my grandsire, -carved in alabaster. Who’s the young spark, now speaking? - -DR. J. (_shocked_).—The young spark, sir, is His Royal Highness the -Prince of Wales. - -MR. SHERIDAN.—Egad! This reminds me of old times, but the young man is -not a bit like my friend Prinny. And though _I_ managed Drury Lane, I -never got Prinny on _my_ stage. - -DR. J.—Sir, your Prinny never had so good a cause to be there. He only -_thought_ he fought in the wars; but this Prince is a real ex-Service -man, pleading for the ex-Service men, his comrades in arms. He has been -a soldier, and not a man of us in this box but wishes he could say as -much for himself. Every man thinks meanly of himself for not having been -a soldier; but he will think less meanly if he can help those who have. -That is the very purpose of this numerous assembly. - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Oh, most learned doctor, a Daniel come to judgment! I’ -faith I am most heartily of thy mind, and would drink a loving toast to -the young Prince and another to the ex-Service fellows, and eke a third -to this—how runs it?—this numerous assembly. (_Sings._) “And let me the -canakin clink, clink, and——” - -THE HOUSE (_in a frenzy of indignation_).—Sh-h-h! Turn him out! -(_Hisses._) - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—What! the “bird”! Well-a-day, this isn’t the first time -they’ve hissed my Ghost. - -MR. KEAN.—Sir, they’ve hissed _me_! - -MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Ha! say’st thou, honest Ned! But thou wast a jackanapes -to let thyself be caught with the Alderman’s wife and—— - -Mrs. S. (_icily_).—Mr. Shakespeare, there are ladies present. - -MR. SHERIDAN (_whispering to Dr. J._).—But what does little Davy here, -doctor? He has always been represented as very saving. - -DR. J.—No, sir. Davy is a liberal man. He has given away more money than -any man in England. There may be a little vanity mixed, but he has shown -that money is not his first object. - -At this moment Charon popped his head in at the door, pulling his -forelock, and said, “Time, gen’lemen, time!” The house was rising and I -took the opportunity to step back, unperceived, into the corridor. Mr. -Shakespeare led the procession out, declaring that, as he had come in -a galliard, he must return in a coranto, and offering to dance it with -Mrs. Siddons, who, however, excused herself, saying that she knew no -touch of it, though she had of old taken great strides in her profession. -Dr. Johnson turned back, when half way out, to touch the doorpost. -Mr. Garrick sallied forth arm-in-arm with Mr. Kean and Mr. Sheridan. -“Egad!” chuckled Mr. Sheridan, “Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy,” and -subsequently caused some confusion by tumbling down the stairs and lying -helpless at the bottom. When the attendants ran to his assistance and -asked his name, he said he was Mr. Wilberforce. As they emerged under -the portico the crowd outside raised a loud cheer, and Mr. Shakespeare -doffed his plumed cap and bowed graciously to right and left until they -told him that the crowd were cheering the Prince of Wales, when he looked -crestfallen and called those within earshot “groundlings” and “lousy -knaves.” As he jumped into a taxi, I heard him direct the driver to the -“Mermaid,” when Dr. Johnson, running up and puffing loudly, cried, “A -tavern chair is the throne of human felicity. But the ‘Mitre’ is the -nearer. Let us go there, and I’ll have a frisk with you.” And as the taxi -disappeared down Catherine Street, my ear caught the distant strain, “And -let me the canakin clink, clink.” - - - - -SIR ROGER AT THE RUSSIAN BALLET - -NO. 1000. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29TH, 19—. - - _Saltare elegantius quam necesse est probæ._ - SALLUST. - - -My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together at the club, -told me that he had a great mind to see the Muscovite dancers with me, -assuring me at the same time that he had not been at a playhouse these -twenty years. When he learnt from me that these dancers were to be sought -in Leicester Fields, he asked me if there would not be some danger in -coming home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. “However,” says -the knight, “if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, I -will have my own coach in readiness to attend you; for John tells me he -has got the fore-wheels mended.” Thinking to smoak him, I whispered, “You -must have a care, for all the streets in the West are now up,” but he was -not to be daunted, saying he minded well when all the West Country was up -with Monmouth; and the Captain bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he -had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk. - -When we had convoyed him in safety to Leicester Fields, and he had -descended from his coach at the door, he straightway engaged in a -conference with the door-keeper, who is a notable prating gossip, and -stroak’d the page-boy upon the head, bidding him be a good child and mind -his book. As soon as we were in our places my old friend stood up and -looked about him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned with humanity -naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of people who seem -pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment. -He seemed to be no less pleased with the gay silks and satins and -sarsenets and brocades of the ladies, but pish’d at the strange sight of -their bare backs. “Not so bare, neither,” I whispered to him, “for if -you look at them through your spy-glass you will see they wear a little -coat of paint, which particularity has gained them the name of Picts.” “I -warrant you,” he answered, with a more than ordinary vehemence, “these -naked ones are widows—widows, Sir, are the most perverse creatures in the -world.” Thinking to humour him, I said most like they were war widows, -whereon the good knight lifted his hat to our brave fellows who fought in -the Low Countries, and offered several reflections on the greatness of -the British land and sea forces, with many other honest prejudices which -naturally cleave to the heart of a true Englishman. - -Luckily, the Muscovites then began dancing and posturing in their -pantomime which they call _Petrouchka_ and the old gentleman was -wonderfully attentive to the antics of the three live _fantoccini_. When -the black fellow, as he called the Moor, clove the head of his rival with -the scimitar, the knight said he had never looked for such barbarity from -a fellow who, but a moment ago, was innocently playing a game of ball, -like a child. What strange disorders, he added, are bred in the minds -of men whose passions are not regulated by virtue, and disciplined by -reason. “But pray, you that are a critic, is this in accordance with your -rules, as you call them? Did your Aristotle allow pity and terror to be -moved by such means as dancing?” I answered that the Greek philosopher -had never seen the Muscovites and that, in any case, we had the authority -of Shakespeare for expecting murder from any jealous Moor. “Moreover, -these Muscovites dance murder as they dance everything. I love to shelter -myself under the examples of great men, and let me put you in mind of -Hesiod, who says, ‘The gods have bestowed fortitude on some men, and on -others a disposition for dancing.’ Fortunately the Muscovites have the -more amiable gift.” The knight, with the proper respect of a country -gentleman for classick authority, was struck dumb by Hesiod. - -He remained silent during the earlier part of _Schéhérazade_ until -Karsavina, as the favourite of the Sultan’s harem, persuaded the Chief -Eunuch to release her orange-tawny favourite, Monsieur Massine, at which -the knight exclaimed, “On my word, a notable young baggage!” I refrained -from telling my innocent friend that in the old Arabian tale these -tawny creatures were apes. He mightily liked the Sultan’s long beard. -“When I am walking in my gallery in the country,” says he, “and see the -beards of my ancestors, I cannot forbear regarding them as so many old -patriarchs, and myself as an idle smock-faced young fellow. I love to see -your Abrahams and Isaacs, as we have them in old pieces of tapestry with -beards below their girdles. I suppose this fellow, with all these wives, -must be Solomon.” And, his thoughts running upon that King, he said he -kept his Book of Wisdom by his bedside in the country and found it, -though Apocryphal, more conducive to virtue than the writings of Monsieur -La Rochefoucauld or, indeed, of Socrates himself, whose life he had -read at the end of the Dictionary. Captain Sentry, seeing two or three -wags who sat near us lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and -fearing lest they should smoak the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and -whispered something in his ear that lasted until the Sultan returned to -the harem and put the ladies and their tawny companions to the sword. The -favourite’s plunging the dagger into her heart moved him to tears, but he -dried them hastily on bethinking him she was a Mahometan, and asked of -us, on our way home, whether there was no playhouse in London where they -danced true Church of England pantomimes. - - - - -PARTRIDGE AT “JULIUS CÆSAR” - - -Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing Sophia’s -letter, and being at last in a state of good spirits, he agreed to carry -an appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to -attend Mrs. Miller and her youngest daughter into the gallery at the St. -James’s playhouse, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company. For, -as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he expected -to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge; from whom he -expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise -unadulterated by art. - -In the first row, then, of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, -her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. Partridge -immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When -the first music was played he said it was a wonder how so many fiddlers -could play at one time without putting one another out. - -As soon as the play, which was Shakespeare’s _Julius Cæsar_, began, -Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the scene -in Brutus’s orchard, when he asked Jones, “What season of the year is -it, Sir?” Jones answered, “Wait but a moment and you shall hear the boy -Lucius say it is the 14th of March.” To which Partridge replied with a -smile, “Ay, then I understand why the boy was asleep. Had it been in -apple-harvesting time I warrant you he would have been awake and busy as -soon as what’s-his-name, Squire Brutus, had turned his back.” And upon -the entreaties of Portia to share Brutus’s confidence he inquired if she -was not a Somersetshire wench. “For Madam,” said he, “is mighty like the -housewives in our county, who will plague their husbands to death rather -than let ’em keep a secret.” Nor was he satisfied with Cæsar’s yielding -to Calphurnia’s objections against his going to the Capitol. “Ay, -anything to please your wife, you old dotard,” said he; “you might have -known better than to give heed to a silly woman’s nightmares.” - -When they came to the Forum scene and the speeches of Brutus and Antony, -Partridge sat with his eyes fixed on the orators and with his mouth open. -The same passions which succeeded each other in the crowd of citizens -succeeded likewise in him. He was at first all for Brutus and then all -for Antony, until he learnt that Cæsar had left 75 drachmas to every -Roman citizen. “How much is that in our English money?” he asked Jones, -who answered that it was about two guineas. At that he looked chapfallen, -bethinking him that, though a round sum, it was not enough to warrant -the crowd in such extravagant rejoicing. - -“I begin to suspect, Sir,” said he to Jones, “this Squire Antony hath not -been above hoodwinking us, but he seemed so much more concerned about -the matter than the other speaker, Brutus, that I for one couldn’t help -believing every word he said. Yet I believed the other one, too, when he -was talking, and I was mightily pleased with what he said about liberty -and Britons never being slaves.” “You mean Romans,” answered Jones, “not -Britons.” “Well, well,” said Partridge, “I know it is only a play, but if -I thought they were merely Romans, and not Britons at heart, I should not -care a hang about ’em or what became of ’em.” - -To say the truth, I believe honest Partridge, though a raw country fellow -and ignorant of those dramatic rules which learned critics from the -Temple and the other Inns of Court have introduced, along with improved -catcalls, into our playhouses, was here uttering the sentiments of -nature. Should we be concerned about the fortunes of those ancient Romans -were they utter strangers to us and did we not put ourselves in their -places, which is as much as to turn them all from Romans into Britons? -To be sure, while our imagination is thus turning them, it will not -forbear a few necessary amendments for the sake of verisimilitude. For, -to name only one particular, no free and independent Briton could imagine -himself bribed by so paltry a legacy as a couple of guineas; but he -can multiply that sum in his mind until it shall have reached the much -more considerable amount which he will consent to take for his vote at a -Westminster election; and thus honour will be satisfied. And the critics -aforesaid will then be able to point out to us the advantages of British -over Roman liberty, being attended not only with the proud privileges of -our great and glorious Constitution, but also with a higher emolument. - -Mr. Jones would doubtless have made these reflections to himself had -he not, while Partridge was still speaking, been distracted by the -sudden appearance in an opposite box of Lady Bellaston and Sophia. As -he had only left her ladyship that very afternoon, after a conversation -of so private a nature that it must on no account be communicated to -the reader, he would have disregarded the imperious signals which she -forthwith began making to him with her fan; but the truth is, whatever -reluctance he may have felt to rejoin her ladyship at that moment was -overborne by his eagerness to approach the amiable Sophia, though he -turned pale and his knees trembled at the risk of that approach in -circumstances so dangerous. As soon as he had recovered his composure he -hastened to obey her ladyship’s commands, but on his entry into the box -his spirits were again confounded by the evident agitation of Sophia, -and, seizing her hand, he stammered, “Madam, I——.” “Hoity, toity! Mr. -Jones,” cried Lady Bellaston; “do you salute a chit of a girl before -you take notice of a dowager? Are these the new manners among people of -fashion? It is lucky for my heart that I can call myself a dowager, for -I vow to-night you look like a veritable Adonis, and,” she added in a -whisper too low to be heard by Sophia, “your Venus adores you more madly -than ever, you wicked wretch.” - -Jones was ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with -his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a -young booby squire when he is at first introduced into a polite assembly. -He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the -behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who, he saw, did not intend openly to claim -any close acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the -stranger on his part. Accordingly, he leaned over to Sophia, who was -staring hard at the stage, and asked her if she enjoyed the performance. -“Pray, don’t tease Miss Western with your civilities,” interrupted Lady -Bellaston, “for you must know the child hath lost her heart this night to -that ravishing fellow Ainley, though I tell her to my certain knowledge -he is a husband already, and, what is more, a father. These country -girls have nothing but sweethearts in their heads.” “Upon my honour, -madam,” cried Sophia, “your ladyship injures me.” “Not I, miss, indeed,” -replied her ladyship tartly, “and if you want a sweetheart, have you not -one of the most gallant young fellows about town ready to your hand in -Lord Fellamar? You must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him.” Sophia -was visibly too much confounded to make any observations, and again -turned towards the stage, Lady Bellaston taking the opportunity to dart -languishing glances at Jones behind her back and to squeeze his hand; -in short, to practise the behaviour customary with women of fashion who -desire to signify their sentiments for a gentleman without expressing -them in actual speech; when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia’s -mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by -retiring. This he did, as Brutus was rushing upon his own sword; and -poor Jones almost wished the sword might spit him, too, in his rage and -despair at what her ladyship had maliciously insinuated about Sophia and -Mr. Ainley. - - - - -DR. JOHNSON AT THE STADIUM - - -I am now to record a curious incident in Dr. Johnson’s life, which fell -under my own observation; of which _pars magna fui_, and which I am -persuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be in no way to his discredit. - -When I was a boy in the year 1745 I wore a white cockade and prayed for -King James, till one of my uncles gave me a shilling on condition that -I should pray for King George, which I accordingly did. This uncle was -General Cochran; and it was with natural gratification that I received -from another member of that family, Mr. Charles Cochran, a more valuable -present than a shilling, that is to say, an invitation to witness the -Great Fight at the Stadium and to bring with me a friend. “Pray,” said I, -“let us have Dr. Johnson.” Mr. Cochran, who is much more modest than our -other great theatre-manager, Mr. Garrick, feared that Dr. Johnson could -hardly be prevailed upon to condescend. “Come,” said I, “if you’ll let me -negotiate for you, I will be answerable that all shall go well.” - -I had not forgotten Mrs. Thrale’s relation (which she afterwards printed -in her “Anecdotes”) that “Mr. Johnson was very conversant in the art -of attack and defence by boxing, which science he had learned from his -uncle Andrew, I believe; and I have heard him discourse upon the age -when people were received, and when rejected, in the schools once held -for that brutal amusement, much to the admiration of those who had no -expectation of his skill in such matters, from the sight of a figure -which precluded all possibility of personal prowess.” This lively lady -was, however, too ready to deviate from exact authenticity of narration; -and, further, I reflected that, whatever the propensities of his youth, -he who had now risen to be called by Dr. Smollett the Great Cham of -literature might well be affronted if asked to countenance a prize-fight. - -Notwithstanding the high veneration which I entertained for him, I -was sensible that he was sometimes a little actuated by the spirit of -contradiction, and by means of that I hoped I should gain my point. -I therefore, while we were sitting quietly by ourselves at his house -in an evening, took occasion to open my plan thus:—“Mr. Cochran, sir, -sends his respectful compliments to you, and would be happy if you -would do him the honour to visit his entertainment at the Stadium on -Thursday next?” JOHNSON.—“Sir, I am obliged to Mr. Cochran. I will go——” -BOSWELL.—“Provided, sir, I suppose, that the entertainment is of a kind -agreeable to you?” JOHNSON.—“What do you mean, sir? What do you take me -for? Do you think I am so ignorant of the world as to imagine that I am -to prescribe to a gentleman what kind of entertainment he is to offer his -friends?” BOSWELL.—“But if it were a prize-fight?” JOHNSON.—“Well, sir, -and what then?” BOSWELL.—“It might bring queer company.” JOHNSON.—“My -dear friend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to be angry with -you; but really it is treating me strangely to talk to me as if I could -not meet any company whatever occasionally.” Thus I secured him. - -As it proved, however, whether by good luck or by the forethought of -the ingenious Mr. Cochran, Dr. Johnson could not have found himself in -better company than that gathered round him in Block H at the Stadium. -There were many members of the Literary Club, among them Mr. Beauclerk, -Mr. Burke, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Gibbon, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mr. R. -B. Sheridan. A gentleman present, who had been dining at the Duke of -Montrose’s, where the bottle had been circulated pretty freely, was -rash enough to rally Dr. Johnson about his Uncle Andrew, suggesting -that his uncle’s nephew might now take the opportunity of exhibiting -his prowess in the ring. JOHNSON.—“Sir, to be facetious, it is not -necessary to be indecent. I am not for tapping any man’s claret, but -we see that _thou_ hast already tapped his Grace’s.” BURKE.—“It is -remarkable how little gore is ever shed in these contests. Here have we -been for half an hour watching—let me see, what are their names?—Eddie -Feathers and Gus Platts—and not even a bleeding nose between them.” -REYNOLDS.—“In a previous contest one boxer knocked the other’s teeth -out.” SHERIDAN.—“Yes, but they were false teeth.” - -At this moment the talk was interrupted by the arrival of the Prince. -As His Highness passed Dr. Johnson, my revered friend made an obeisance -which was an even more studied act of homage than his famous bow to the -Archbishop of York; and he subsequently joined in singing “For he’s a -jolly good fellow” with the most loyal enthusiasm, repeating the word -“fe-ellow” over and over again, doubtless because it was the only one he -knew. (“Like a word in a catch,” Beauclerk whispered.) I am sorry that -I did not take note of an eloquent argument in which he proceeded to -maintain that the situation of Prince of Wales was the happiest of any -person’s in the kingdom, even beyond that of the Sovereign. - -But there was still no sign of Beckett and Carpentier, the heroes of -the evening, and the company became a little weary of the preliminary -contests. A hush fell upon the assembly, and many glanced furtively -towards the alley down which the champions were to approach. GIBBON.—“We -are unhappy because we are kept waiting. ‘Man never is, but always to -be, blest.’” JOHNSON.—“And we are awaiting we know not what. To the -impatience of expectation is added the disquiet of the unknown.” GARRICK -(_playing round his old friend with a fond vivacity_).—“My dear sir, -men are naturally a little restless, when they have backed Beckett at -70 to 40.” REYNOLDS.—“But, see, the lights of the kinematographers” (we -were all abashed by the word in the presence of the Great Lexicographer) -“are brighter than ever. I observe all the contestants take care to -smile under them.” SHERIDAN.—“When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is -wonderful.” JOHNSON.—“Among the anfractuosities of the human mind, I know -not if it may not be one, that there is a morbid longing to attitudinize -in the ‘moving pictures.’” - -But at length Beckett and Carpentier made their triumphal entry. Beckett -first, quietly smiling, with eyes cast down, Carpentier debonair and -lightly saluting the crowd with an elegant wave of the hand. After the -pair had stripped and Dr. Johnson had pointed out that “the tenuity, -the thin part” in Carpentier’s frame indicated greater lightness, if -Beckett’s girth promised more solid resistance, Mr. Angle invited the -company to preserve silence during the rounds and to abstain from -smoking. To add a last touch to the solemnity of the moment, Carpentier’s -supernumerary henchmen (some six or eight, over and above his trainer and -seconds) came and knelt by us, in single file, in the alley between Block -H and Block E, as though at worship. - -What then happened, in the twinkling of an eye, all the world now knows, -and knows rather better than I knew myself at the moment, for I saw -Beckett lying on his face in the ring without clearly distinguishing -the decisive blow. While Carpentier was being carried round the ring -on the shoulders of his friends, being kissed first by his trainer -and then by ladies obligingly held up to the ring for the amiable -purpose, I confess that I watched Beckett, and was pleased to see he had -successfully resumed his quiet smile. As I carried my revered friend -home to Bolt Court in a taximetric cabriolet, I remarked to him that -Beckett’s defeat was a blow to our patriotic pride, whereupon he suddenly -uttered, in a strong, determined tone, an apophthegm at which many will -start:—“Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel!” “And yet,” said -Beauclerk, when I told him of this later, “he had not been kissed by -Carpentier.” - - - - -MY UNCLE TOBY PUZZLED - - -“’Tis a pity,” cried my father, one winter’s night, after reading the -account of the Shakespeare Memorial meeting—“’tis a pity,” cried my -father, putting my mother’s thread-paper into the newspaper for a mark -as he spoke,—“that truth, brother Toby, should shut herself up in such -impregnable fastnesses, and be so obstinate as to surrender herself up -sometimes only upon the closest siege.” - -The word siege, like a talismanic power, in my father’s metaphor, wafting -back my uncle Toby’s fancy, quick as a note could follow the touch, he -opened his ears. - -“And there was nothing to shame them in the truth, neither,” said my -father, “seeing that they had many thousands of pounds to their credit. -How could a bishop think there was danger in telling it?” - -“Lord bless us! Mr. Shandy,” cried my mother, “what is all this story -about?” - -“About Shakespeare, my dear,” said my father. - -“He has been dead a hundred years ago,” replied my mother. - -My uncle Toby, who was no chronologer, whistled “Lillibullero.” - -“By all that’s good and great! ma’am,” cried my father, taking the oath -out of Ernulphus’s digest, “of course. If it was not for the aids of -philosophy, which befriend one so much as they do, you would put a man -beside all temper. He is as dead as a doornail, and they are thinking of -building a theatre to honour his memory.” - -“And why should they not, Mr. Shandy?” said my mother. - -“To be sure, there’s no reason why,” replied my father, “save that they -haven’t enough money left over after buying a plot of land in Gower -Street to build upon.” - -Corporal Trim touched his Montero-cap and looked hard at my uncle Toby. -“If I durst presume,” said he, “to give your honour my advice, and -speak my opinion in this matter.” “Thou art welcome, Trim,” said my -uncle Toby. “Why then,” replied Trim, “I think, with humble submission -to your honour’s better judgment, I think that had we but a rood or a -rood and a half of this ground to do what we pleased with, I would make -fortifications for you something like a tansy, with all their batteries, -saps, ditches, and palisadoes, that it should be worth all the world’s -riding twenty miles to go and see it.” - -“Then thou wouldst have, Trim,” said my father, “to palisado the Y.M.C.A.” - -“I never understood rightly the meaning of that word,” said my Uncle -Toby, “and I am sure nothing of that name was known to our armies in -Flanders.” - -“’Tis an association of Christian young men,” replied my father, “who for -the present hold the Shakespeare Memorialists’ ground in Gower Street.” -’Twas no inconsistent part of my uncle Toby’s character that he feared -God and reverenced religion. So the moment my father finished his remark -my uncle Toby fell a-whistling “Lillibullero” with more zeal (though more -out of tune) than usual. - -“And the money these Christian youths pay for rents,” continued my -father, “is to be used to maintain a company of strolling players” [Here -my uncle Toby, throwing back his head, gave a monstrous, long, loud -whew-w-w.], “who are to go up and down the country showing the plays of -Shakespeare. Up and down, and that, by the way, is how their curtain went -on twenty-two occasions in _Romeo and Juliet_.” - -“Who says so?” asked my uncle Toby. - -“A parson,” replied my father. - -“Had he been a soldier,” said my uncle, “he would never have told such a -taradiddle. He would have known that the curtain is that part of the wall -or rampart which lies between the two bastions, and joins them.” - -“By the mother who bore us! brother Toby,” quoth my father, “you would -provoke a saint. Here have you got us, I know not how, souse into the -middle of the old subject again. We are speaking of Shakespeare and not -of fortifications.” - -“Was Shakespeare a soldier, Mr. Shandy, or a young men’s Christian?” said -my mother, who had lost her way in the argument. - -“Neither one nor t’other, my dear,” replied my father (my uncle Toby -softly whistled “Lillibullero”); “he was a writer of plays.” - -“They are foolish things,” said my mother. - -“Sometimes,” replied my father, “but you have not seen Shakespeare’s, -Mrs. Shandy. And it is for the like of you, I tell you point-blank——” - -As my father pronounced the word point-blank my uncle Toby rose up to say -something upon projectiles, but my father continued:— - -“It is for the like of you that these Shakespeare Memorialists are -sending their strolling players around the country, to set the goodwives -wondering about Shakespeare, as they wondered about Diego’s nose in the -tale of the learned Hafen Slawkenbergius.” - -“Surely the wonderful nose was Cyrano’s?” said my mother. “Cyrano’s or -Diego’s, ’tis all one,” cried my father in a passion. “Zooks! Cannot a -man use a plain analogy but his wife must interrupt him with her foolish -questions about it? May the eternal curse of all the devils in——” - -“Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried my uncle Toby, “but -nothing to this.” - -“As you please, Mr. Shandy,” said my mother. - -“Where was I?” said my father, in some confusion, and letting his hand -fall upon my uncle Toby’s shoulder in sign of repentance for his violent -cursing. - -“You was at Slawkenbergius,” replied my uncle Toby. - -“No, no, brother, Shakespeare, I was speaking of Shakespeare, and how -they were going to carry him round the country because they had not money -enough to build a theatre for him in London.” - -“But could they not hire one?” said my uncle Toby. - -“No, for my Lord Lytton said that would be too speculative a venture.” - -“’Tis a mighty strange business,” said my uncle, in much perplexity. -“They buy their land, as I understand it, brother, to build a house for -Shakespeare in London, but lease it for a house for young Christians -instead, and spend their money on sending Shakespeare packing out of -London.” - -“’Tis all the fault of the Londoners,” replied my father. “They have no -soul for Shakespeare, and for that matter, as I believe, no soul at all.” - -“A Londoner has no soul, an’ please your honour,” whispered Corporal Trim -doubtingly, and touching his Montero-cap to my uncle. - -“I am not much versed, Corporal,” quoth my uncle Toby, “in things of that -kind; but I suppose God would not leave him without one, any more than -thee or me.” - - - - -LADY CATHERINE AND MR. COLLINS - - -Elizabeth and Charlotte were seated one morning in the parlour at -Hunsford parsonage, enjoying the prospect of Rosings from the front -window, and Mr. Collins was working in his garden, which was one of his -most respectable pleasures, when the peace of the household was suspended -by the arrival of a letter from London:— - - “THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, - - “LONDON, _December, 19—_. - - “DEAR COUSIN WILLIAM,—We have long neglected to maintain a - commerce of letters, but I have learned through the public - prints of your recent union with an elegant female from - Hertfordshire and desire to tender you and your lady my - respects in what I trust will prove an agreeable form. I am - directing an entertainment at this theatre, which is designed - to be in harmony with the general Christmas rejoicings, and, - you may rest assured, in no way offends the principles of the - Church which you adorn. Will you not honour it by your presence - and thus confer an innocent enjoyment upon your lady? In that - hope, I enclose a box ticket for the pantomime on Monday - se’nnight and remain your well-wisher and cousin, - - “ARTHUR COLLINS.” - -Smiling to herself, Elizabeth reflected that the two Messrs. Collins -might certainly call cousins in epistolary composition, while Charlotte -anxiously inquired if the proposal had her William’s approval. - -“I am by no means of opinion,” said he, “that an entertainment of this -kind, given by a man of character, who is also my own second cousin, to -respectable people, can have any evil tendency; but, before accepting the -invitation, it is, of course, proper that I should seek the countenance -of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” Accordingly, he lost no time in making his -way to Rosings. - -Lady Catherine, who chanced to be meditating that very morning on a -visit to London for the purchase of a new bonnet and _pèlerine_, was all -affability and condescension. - -“To be sure, you will go, Mr. Collins,” said her ladyship. “I advise you -to accept the invitation without delay. It is the duty of a clergyman of -your station to refine and improve such entertainments by his presence. -Nay,” she added, “Sir Lewis highly approved them and _I_ myself will -go with you.” Mr. Collins was overwhelmed by civility far beyond his -expectations, and hurried away to prepare Charlotte and Elizabeth for -this splendid addition to their party. - -Early on the Monday se’nnight they set out for London in one of her -ladyship’s carriages, for, as Mr. Collins took the opportunity of -remarking, she had several, drawn by four post-horses, which they changed -at the “Bell” at Bromley. On the way her ladyship examined the young -ladies’ knotting-work and advised them to do it differently, instructed -Elizabeth in the humility of deportment appropriate to the front seat of -a carriage, and determined what the weather was to be to-morrow. - -When they were at last arrived and seated in their box Lady Catherine -approved the spacious dignity of the baronial hall, which, she said, -reminded her of the great gallery at Pemberley, but was shocked at the -familiarities which passed between the Baron and Baroness Beauxchamps -and their page-boy. “These foreign nobles,” she exclaimed, “adventurers, -I daresay! It was Sir Lewis’s opinion that _all_ foreigners were -adventurers. No English baron, it is certain, would talk so familiarly -to a common domestic, a person of inferior birth, and of no importance -in the world. Honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. With -such manners, I do not wonder that the domestic arrangements are in -disorder, the very stair-carpet unfastened, and a machine for cleaning -knives actually brought into a reception room! See, they cannot even lay -a table-cloth!” And her ladyship advised Charlotte on the proper way of -laying table-cloths, especially in clergymen’s families. - -After a song of Miss Florence Smithson’s Charlotte talked in a low tone -with Elizabeth, and her ladyship called out:—“What is that you are -saying, Mrs. Collins? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling -Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” - -“We are speaking of music, madam,” said Charlotte. - -“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I -must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. -There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment -of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I -should have been a great proficient.” - -When Cinderella set out for the ball in her coach-and-six with a whole -train of running-footmen Lady Catherine signified her approbation. “Young -women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to -their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last -summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her. I am -excessively attentive to all those things.” - -But now they were at the ball, and the box party was all attention. The -Prince, dignified and a little stiff, reminded Elizabeth of Mr. Darcy. -But guests so strange as Mutt and Jeff, she thought, would never be -allowed to pollute the shades of Pemberley. Mr. Collins’s usually cold -composure forsook him at the sight of the Baroness playing cards with -the Baron on one of her _paniers_ as a table, and felt it his duty to -apologize to Lady Catherine for the unseemly incident. “If your ladyship -will warrant me,” he began, “I will point out to my cousin that neither -a person of your high station nor a clergyman of the Church of England -ought to be asked to witness this licentiousness of behaviour.” “And -advise him,” said her ladyship, “on the authority of Lady Catherine de -Bourgh, that _paniers_ were never used for this disgraceful purpose. -There is no one in England who knows more about _paniers_ than myself, -for my grandmother, Lady Anne, wore them, and some day Mrs. Jennings, the -housekeeper, shall show them to Miss Bennet,” for Elizabeth could not -forbear a smile, “at Rosings.” - -The party retired early, for Elizabeth had to be conveyed to her uncle’s -as far as Gracechurch Street, and Lady Catherine desired the interval of -a long night before choosing her new bonnet. It was not until Mr. Collins -was once more in his parsonage that he sent his cousin an acknowledgment -of the entertainment afforded at Drury Lane, as follows:— - - “HUNSFORD, _near_ WESTERHAM, KENT, - - “_January, 19—_. - - “DEAR SIR,—We withdrew from your Christmas entertainment - on Monday last with mingled feelings of gratification and - reprobation. When I say ‘we’ I should tell you that my - Charlotte and I not only brought with us a Miss Elizabeth - Bennet, one of the friends of her maiden state, but were - honoured by the company of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine - de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and - beneficence have, as you know, preferred me to the valuable - rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour - to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, - and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which - are instituted by the Church of England. It is as a clergyman - that I feel it my duty to warn you against the sinful game of - cards exhibited in the scene of the Prince’s ball. If it had - been family whist, I could have excused it, for there can be - little harm in whist, at least among players who are not in - such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. But - the Baroness Beauxchamps is manifestly engaged in a game of - sheer chance, if not of downright cheating. The admission of - this incident to your stage cannot but have proceeded, you must - allow me to tell you, from a faulty degree of indulgence. And - I am to add, on the high authority of Lady Catherine, probably - the highest on this as on many other subjects, that there is no - instance on record of the _paniers_ once worn by ladies being - used as card-tables. With respectful compliments to your lady - and family, - - “I remain, dear sir, your cousin, - - “WILLIAM COLLINS.” - - - - -MR. PICKWICK AT THE PLAY - - -“And now,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round on his friends with a -good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the eye which no spectacles could -dim or conceal, “the question is, Where shall we go to-night?” - -With the faithful Sam in attendance behind his chair, he was seated at -the head of his own table, with Mr. Snodgrass on his left and Mr. Winkle -on his right and Mr. Alfred Jingle opposite him; his face was rosy with -jollity, for they had just dispatched a hearty meal of chops and tomato -sauce, with bottled ale and Madeira, and a special allowance of milk -punch for the host. - -Mr. Jingle proposed Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Pickwick proposed Mr. Jingle. -Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Winkle; and Mr. Winkle proposed Mr. Snodgrass; -while Sam, taking a deep pull at the stone bottle of milk punch behind -his master’s chair, silently proposed himself. - -“And where,” said Mr. Pickwick, “shall we go to-night?” Mr. Snodgrass, -as modest as all great geniuses are, was silent. Mr. Winkle, who had -been thinking of Arabella, started violently, looked knowing, and was -beginning to stammer something, when he was interrupted by Mr. Jingle—“A -musical comedy, old boy—no plot—fine women—gags—go by-by—wake up for -chorus—entertaining, very.” - -“And lyrics,” said Mr. Snodgrass, with poetic rapture. - -“I was just going to suggest it,” said Mr. Winkle, “when this individual” -(scowling at Mr. Jingle, who laid his hand on his heart, with a derisive -smile), “when, I repeat, this individual interrupted me.” - -“A musical comedy, with all my heart,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Sam, give me -the paper. H’m, h’m, what’s this? _The Eclipse_, a farce with songs—will -that do?” - -“But is a farce with songs a musical comedy?” objected Mr. Winkle. - -“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Pickwick, “this is very puzzling.” - -“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Sam, touching his forelock, “it’s a -distinction without a difference—as the pork pieman remarked when they -asked him if his pork wasn’t kittens.” - -“Then,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a benevolent twinkle, “by all means let -us go to _The Eclipse_.” - -“Beg pardon, sir,” said Sam again, doubtfully, “there ain’t no -astrongomies in it, is there?” Sam had not forgotten his adventure with -the scientific gentleman at Clifton. But, as nobody knew, they set off -for the Garrick Theatre, and were soon ensconced in a box. - -They found the stage occupied by a waiter, who was the very image of the -waiter Mr. Pickwick had seen at the Old Royal Hotel at Birmingham, except -that he didn’t imperceptibly melt away. Waiters, in general, never walk -or run; they have a peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of -rooms which other mortals possess not. But this waiter, unlike his kind, -couldn’t “get off” anyhow. He explained that it was because the composer -had given him no music to “get off” with. - -“Poor fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, greatly distressed; “will he have to -stop there all night?” - -“Not,” muttered Sam to himself, “if I wos behind ’im with a bradawl.” - -However, the waiter did at last get off, and then came on again and sang -another verse, amid loud hoorays, until Mr. Pickwick’s eyes were wet with -gratification at the universal jollity. - -“Fine fellow, fine fellow,” cried Mr. Pickwick; “what is his name?” - -“Hush-h-h, my dear sir,” whispered a charming young man of not much more -than fifty in the next box, in whom Mr. Pickwick, abashed, recognized Mr. -Angelo Cyrus Bantam, “_that_ is Mr. Alfred Lester.” - -“A born waiter,” interjected Mr. Jingle, “once a waiter always -a waiter—stage custom—Medes and Persians—wears his napkin for a -nightcap—droll fellow, very.” - -By and by there was much talk of a mysterious Tubby Haig, and they even -sang a song about him; but he did not appear on the stage, and Mr. -Pickwick, whose curiosity was excited, asked who this Tubby Haig was. - -Sam guessed he might be own brother to Mr. Wardle’s Fat Boy, Joe, or -perhaps “the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t -caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year,” but Mr. -Bantam again leaned over from his box and whispered:— - -“Hush-h-h, my dear sir, nobody is fat or old in Ba-a——I mean in literary -circles. Mr. Tubby Haig is a popular author of detective stories, much -prized, along with alleytors and commoneys, by the youth of this town.” - -But a sudden start of Mr. Winkle’s and a rapturous exclamation from Mr. -Snodgrass again directed Mr. Pickwick’s attention to the scene. He almost -fainted with dismay. Standing in the middle of the stage, in the full -glare of the lights, was a lady with her shoulders and back (which she -kept turning to the lights) bare to the waist! - -“Bless my soul,” cried Mr. Pickwick, shrinking behind the curtain of the -box, “what a dreadful thing!” - -He mustered up courage, and looked out again. The lady was still there, -not a bit discomposed. - -“Most extraordinary female, this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in -again. - -She still remained, however, and even threw an arch glance in Mr. -Pickwick’s direction, as much as to say, “You old dear.” - -“But—but—” cried Mr. Pickwick, in an agony, “won’t she catch cold?” - -“Bless your heart, no, sir,” said Sam, “she’s quite used to it, and it’s -done with the very best intentions, as the gen’l’man said ven he run away -from his wife, ’cos she seemed unhappy with him.” - -If Mr. Pickwick was distressed, very different was the effect of the -lovely vision upon Mr. Winkle. Alas for the weakness of human nature! -he forgot for the moment all about Arabella. Suddenly grasping his hat, -he rose from his seat, said “Good-night, my dear sir,” to Mr. Pickwick -between his set teeth, added brokenly, “My friend, my benefactor, my -honoured companion, do not judge me harshly”—and dashed out of the box. - -“Very extraordinary,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, “what _can_ that -young man be going to do?” - -Meanwhile, for Mr. Winkle to rush downstairs, into the street, round -the corner, as far as the stage-door, was the work of a moment. Taking -out a card engraved “NATHANIEL WINKLE, M.P.C.,” he hastily pencilled a -few fervent words on it and handed it to the door-keeper, requiring him -instantly to convey it to Miss Teddie Gerard. - -“What now, imperence,” said the man, roughly pushing him from the door -and knocking his hat over his eyes. - -At the same moment Mr. Winkle found his arms pinioned from behind by Sam -Weller, who led him, crestfallen, back into the street and his senses. -The public were now leaving the theatre, and Mr. Pickwick, beckoning Mr. -Winkle to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a -low, but distinct and emphatic, tone these remarkable words:— - -“You’re a humbug, sir.” - -“A what!” said Mr. Winkle, starting. - -“A humbug, sir.” - -With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined -his friends. - - - - -MR. CRICHTON AND MR. LITTIMER - - -They were seated together, Mr. and Mrs. Crichton in the bar-parlour of -their little public-house in the Harrow Road, at the more fashionable -end, for which Mr. Crichton had himself invented the sign (in memory of -his past experiences) of “The Case is Altered.” Mr. Crichton, too, was -altered and yet the same. He wore one of the Earl’s old smoking-jackets, -with a coronet still embroidered on the breast pocket—not, he said, out -of anything so vulgar as ostentation, but as a sort of last link with -the Upper House—but his patent leather boots had given place to carpet -slippers, and his trousers, once so impeccable, were now baggy at the -knees. Altogether he was an easier, more relaxed Crichton, freed as he -was from the restraining, if respectful, criticism of the servants’ hall. -Indeed, Miss Fisher, who had always hated him, hinted that he had become -slightly Rabelaisian—a reference which she owed to mademoiselle—though -she would not have dared to repeat the hint to Mrs. Crichton (_née_ -Tweeny). For marriage had in no degree abated Tweeny’s reverence for her -Crichton, or rather, as old habit still impelled her to call him, her -Guv. - -The Guv. was at this moment comforting himself with a glass of port -(from the wood) and thinking of that bin of ’47 he had helped the Earl -to finish in past days. And now he was inhabiting a road where (at least -at the other, the unfashionable, end) port was invariably “port wine.” -Such are the vicissitudes of human affairs. Tweeny herself was guilty -of the solecism, as was perhaps to be expected from a lady who, for her -own drinking, preferred swipes. Though she had made great strides in her -education under the Guv.’s guidance (she was now nearly into quadratic -equations, and could say the dates of accession of the kings of England -down to James II.), she still made sad havoc of her nominatives and verbs -in the heat of conversation. - -“A gent as wants to see the Guv.,” said the potboy, popping his head in -at the bar-parlour door—the potboy, for Tweeny knew better than to have a -barmaid about the place for the Guv. to cast a favourable eye on. - -A not very clean card was handed in, inscribed:— - - “MR. LITTIMER,” - -and the owner walked in after it. Or, rather, glided softly in, shutting -the door after entry as delicately as though the inmates had just fallen -into a sweet sleep on which their life depended. Mr. Littimer was an -old-fashioned looking man, with mutton-chop whiskers, a “stock,” tied in -a large bow, a long frock-coat, and tight trousers—the whole suggesting -nothing of recent or even modern date, but, say, 1850. It was an -appearance of intense respectability, of super-respectability, of that -1850 respectability which was so infinitely more respectable than any -respectability of our own day. Mr. Crichton stared, as well he might, and -washed his hands with invisible soap. Though, in fact, now middle-aged, -he felt in this man’s presence extremely young. He clean forgot that he -had been a King in Babylon. Indeed, for the first time in his life he, -the consummate, the magisterial, the admirable Crichton, felt almost -green. - -“Mr. Crichton, sir,” said the visitor, with an apologetic inclination -of the head, “I have ventured to take the great liberty of calling upon -you, if you please, sir, and,” he added with another inclination of -the head to Mrs. Crichton (who felt what she would herself have called -flabbergasted), “if _you_ please, ma’am, as an old friend of your worthy -father. He was butler at Mrs. Steerforth’s when I valeted poor Mr. -James.” His eye fell, respectably, on Mr. Crichton’s port. “Ah!” he said, -“_his_ wine was Madeira, but——” A second glass of port was thereupon -placed on the table, and he sipped it respectably. - -Mr. Crichton could only stare, speechless. All his _aplomb_ had gone. He -gazed at a ship’s bucket, his most cherished island relic, which hung -from the ceiling (as a shade for the electric light—one of his little -mechanical ingenuities), and wondered whether he ever _could_ have put -anybody’s head in it. His philosophy was, for once, at fault. He knew, -none better, that “nature” had made us all unequal, dividing us up into -earls and butlers and tweenies, but now for the first time it dawned upon -him that “nature” had made us unequally respectable. Here was something -more respectable, vastly more respectable, than himself; respectable not -in the grand but in the sublime manner. - -He could not guess his visitor’s thoughts, and it was well for his peace -of mind that he could not. For Mr. Littimer’s thoughts were, respectably, -paternal. He thought of Mr. Crichton, sen., and still more of the senior -Mrs. Crichton, once “own woman” to Mrs. Steerforth. Ah! those old days -and those old loves! How sad and bad and mad it was—for Mr. Littimer’s -poet was Browning, as his host’s was Henley, as suited the difference -in their dates—and how they had deceived old Crichton between them! So -this was _his_ boy, his, Littimer’s, though no one knew it save himself -and the dead woman! And as he gazed, with respectable fondness, at this -image, modernized, modified, subdued, of his own respectability, he -reflected that there was something in heredity, after all. And he smiled, -respectably, as he remembered his boy’s opinion that the union of butler -and lady’s maid was perhaps the happiest of all combinations. Perhaps, -yes; but without any perhaps, if the combination included the valet. - -Unhappy, on the other hand, were those combinations from which valets -were pointedly excluded. There was that outrageous young person whom Mr. -James left behind at Naples and who turned upon him, the respectable -Littimer, like a fury, when he was prepared to overlook her past in -honourable marriage. - -His meditations were interrupted by Mrs. Crichton, who had been mentally -piecing together her recollections of “David Copperfield”—her Guv. had -given her a Dickens course—and had now arrived at a conclusion. “Axin’ -yer pardon, mister,” she said (being still, as we have stated, a little -vulgar when excited), “but if you was valet to Mr. James Steerforth, -you’re the man as ’elped ’im to ruin that pore gal, and as afterwards -went to quod for stealin’. I blushes”—here her eye fell on the Guv., who -quietly dropped the correction “blush”—“I _blush_ for yer, Mr. Littimer.” -“Ah, ma’am,” Mr. Littimer respectably apologized, “I attribute my past -follies entirely to having lived a thoughtless life in the service -of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led by them into -weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist.” - -“And that, I venture to suggest, ma’am,” he respectably continued, “is -why your worthy husband has been so much more fortunate in the world -than myself. We are both respectable, if I may say so, patterns of -respectability” (Crichton coloured with gratification at this compliment -from the Master), “and yet our respectability has brought us very -different fates. And why, if you please, ma’am? Because I have served the -young, while he has served the old—for I believe, ma’am, the most noble -the Earl of Loam is long past the meridian. Besides, ma’am, we Early -Victorians had not your husband’s educational advantages. There were no -Board schools for me. Not that I’m complaining, ma’am. We could still -teach the young ’uns a thing or two about respectability.” And so with -a proud humility (and an intuition that there was to be no more port) -he took his leave, again shutting the door with the utmost delicacy. He -was, in truth, well content. He had seen his boy. The sacred lamp of -respectability was not out. - -But Mr. Crichton sat in a maze, still washing his hands with invisible -soap. - - - - -HENRY JAMES REPUDIATES “THE REPROBATE” - - -He had dropped, a little wearily, the poor dear man, into a seat at the -shady end of the terrace, whither he had wended or, it came over him -with a sense of the blest “irony” of vulgar misinterpretation, almost -zig-zagged his way after lunch. For he had permitted himself the merest -sip of the ducal Yquem or Brane Cantenac, or whatever—he knew too well, -oh, _didn’t_ he? after all these years of Scratchem house-parties, -the dangerous convivialities one had better show for beautifully -appreciating than freely partake of—but he had been unable, in his -exposure as the author of established reputation, the celebrity of the -hour, the “master,” as chattering Lady Jemima _would_ call him between -the omelette and the chaudfroid, to “take cover” from the ducal dates. -Well, the “All clear” was now sounded, but his head was still dizzy -with the reverberating ’87’s and ’90’s and ’96’s and other such bombs -of chronological precision that the host had dropped upon the guests as -the butler filled their glasses. His subsequent consciousness was quite -to cherish the view that dates which went thus distressingly to one’s -head must somehow not be allowed to slip out of it again, but be turned -into “copy” for readers who innocently look to their favourite romancers -for connoisseurship in wines. What Lady Jemima had flung out at lunch -was true, readers _are_ a “rum lot,” and, hang it all, who says art says -sacrifice, readers were a necessary evil, the many-headed monster must -be fed, and he’d be blest if he wouldn’t feed it with dates, and show -himself for, indulgently, richly, chronologically, “rum.” - -It marked, however, the feeling of the hour with him that this vision of -future “bluffing” about vintages interfered not at all with the measure -of his actual _malaise_. He still nervously fingered the telegram handed -to him at lunch, and, when read, furtively crumpled into his pocket -under Lady Jemima’s celebrated nose. It was entirely odious to him, the -crude purport of the message, as well as the hideous yellow ochre of -its envelope. “Confidently expect you,” the horrid thing ran, “to come -and see your own play.” This Stage Society, if that was its confounded -name, was indeed of a confidence! Yes, and of the last vulgarity! -His conscience was not void, but, on the contrary, quite charged and -brimming with remembered lapses from the ideal life of letters—it was -the hair-shirt he secretly wore even in the Scratchem world under the -conventional garment which the Lady Jemimas of that world teased him by -calling a “boiled rag”—but the “expected,” _that_, thank goodness, he -had never been guilty of. Nay, was it not his “note,” as the reviewers -said, blithely and persistently to balk “expectation”? Had he not in -every book of his successfully hugged his own mystery? Had not these same -reviewers always missed his little point with a perfection exactly as -admirable when they patted him on the back as when they kicked him on the -shins? Did a single one of them ever discover “the figure in the carpet”? -How many baffled readers hadn’t written to him imploring him to divulge -what _really_ happened between Milly and Densher in that last meeting -at Venice? Certainly he was in no chuckling mood under the smart of the -telegram, but it seemed to him that he could almost have chuckled at the -thought that he beautifully didn’t know what happened in that Venetian -meeting himself! And this impossible Stage Society, with that collective -fatuity which seems always so much more gross than any individual sort, -“confidently expected” him to come! - -What was it, please, he put the question to himself with a heat which -seemed to give even the shady end of the terrace the inconvenience of an -exposure to full sun, they expected him to come _to_, or, still worse, -for having probed the wound he must not flinch with the scalpel, to come -_for_? Oh, no, he had not forgotten _The Reprobate_, and what angered -him was that _they_ hadn’t, either. He had not forgotten a blessed one -of the plays he had written for the country towns a score of years ago, -when he had been bitten by the tarantula of the theatre, and, remembering -them, he felt now viciously capable of biting the tarantula back. He had -written them, God forgive him, for country towns. He positively shuddered -when he found himself in a country town, to this day. The terrace at -Scratchem notoriously commanded a distant prospect of at least three, -in as many counties, with cathedrals, famous inns, theatres—the whole -orthodox equipment, he summed it up vindictively in cheap journalese, of -country towns. Vindictive, too, was his reflection that these objects -of his old crazy solicitude must have been revolutionized in twenty -years, their cathedrals “restored,” their inns (the “A.B.C.” vouched -for it) “entirely refitted with electric light,” their theatres turned -into picture palaces. All the old associations of _The Reprobate_ were -extinct. It was monstrous that it should be entirely refitted with -electric light. - -And in the crude glare of that powerful illuminant, with every switch -or whatever mercilessly turned—didn’t they call it?—“on,” he seemed to -see the wretched thing, bare and hideous, with no cheap artifice of -“make-up,” no dab of rouge or streak of burnt cork, spared the dishonour -of exposure. The crack in the golden bowl would be revealed, his awkward -age would be brought up against him, what Maisie knew would be nothing -to what everybody would now know. His agony was not long purely mental; -it suddenly became intercostal. A sharp point had dug him in the ribs. -It was Lady Jemima’s, it couldn’t _not_ be Lady Jemima’s, pink parasol. -Aware of the really great ease of really great ladies he forced a smile, -as he rubbed his side. Ah, Olympians were unconventional indeed—that was -a part of their high bravery and privilege. - -“Dear Master,” she began, and the phrase hurt him even more than the -parasol, “won’t you take poor little _me_?” - -The great lady had read his telegram! Olympian unconventionality was of a -licence! - -“Yes,” she archly beamed, “I looked over your shoulder at lunch, and——” - -“And,” he interruptingly wailed, “you know all.” - -“All,” she nodded, “_tout le tremblement_, the whole caboodle. Now be an -angel and take me.” - -“But, dear lady,” he gloomed at her, “that’s just it. The blest play is -so naïvely, so vulgarly, beyond all redemption though not, thank Heaven, -beyond my repudiation, caboodle.” - -“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she playfully rejoined, and the artist in him -registered for future use her rich Olympian vocabulary, “you _wrote_ it, -Master, anyhow. We’ve all been young once. Take me, and we’ll both be -young again,” she gave it him straight, “together.” - -Ah, then the woman _was_ dangerous. Scratchem gossip had, for once, not -overshot the mark. He would show her, all Olympian though she was, that -giving it straight was a game two could play at. - -“Dear lady,” he said, “you’re wonderful. But I won’t take you. What’s -more, I’m not”—and he had it to himself surprisingly ready—“taking -_any_.” - - - - -M. BERGERET ON FILM CENSORING - - -A late October sun of unusual splendour lit up the windows of M. -Paillot’s bookshop, at the corner of the Place Saint-Exupère and the -Rue des Tintelleries. But it was sombre in the back region of the shop -where the second-hand book shelves were and M. Mazure, the departmental -archivist, adjusted his spectacles to read his copy of _Le Phare_, with -one eye on the newspaper and the other on M. Paillot and his customers. -For M. Mazure wished not so much to read as to be seen reading, in order -that he might be asked what the leading article was and reply, “Oh, a -little thing of my own.” But the question was not asked, for the only -other _habitué_ present was the Lecturer in Latin at the Faculty of -Letters, who was sad and silent. M. Bergeret was turning over the new -books and the old with a friendly hand, and though he never bought a -book for fear of the outcries of his wife and three daughters he was on -the best of terms with M. Paillot, who held him in high esteem as the -reservoir and alembic of those humaner letters that are the livelihood -and profit of booksellers. He took up Vol. XXXVIII. of “L’Histoire -Générale des Voyages,” which always opened at the same place, p. 212, -and he read:— - - “ver un passage au nord. ‘C’est à cet échec, dit-il, que nous - devons n’avoir pu visiter les îles Sandwich et enrichir notre - voyage d’une découverte qui....’” - -For six years past the same page had presented itself to M. Bergeret, -as an example of the monotony of life, as a symbol of the uniformity of -daily tasks, and it saddened him. - -At that moment M. de Terremondre, president of the Society of Agriculture -and Archæology, entered the shop and greeted his friends with the slight -air of superiority of a traveller over stay-at-homes. “I’ve just got back -from England,” he said, “and here, if either of you have enough English -to read it, is to-day’s _Times_.” - -M. Mazure hastily thrust _Le Phare_ into his pocket and looked askance at -the voluminous foreign journal, wherein he could claim no little thing of -his own. M. Bergeret accepted it and applied himself as conscientiously -to construing the text as though it were one of those books of the Æneid -from which he was compiling his “Virgilius Nauticus.” “The manners of -our neighbours,” he presently said, “are as usual more interesting to -a student of human nature than their politics. I read that they are -seriously concerned about the ethical teaching of their kinematography, -and they have appointed a film censor, the deputy T. P. O’Connor.” - -“I think I have heard speak of him over there,” interrupted M. de -Terremondre; “they call him, familiarly, Tépé.” - -“A mysterious name,” said M. Bergeret, “but manifestly not abusive, and -that of itself is a high honour. History records few nicknames that -do not revile. And if the deputy O’Connor, or Tépé, can successfully -acquit himself of his present functions he will be indeed an ornament -to history, a saint of the Positivist Calendar, which is no doubt less -glorious than the Roman, but more exclusive.” - -“Talking of Roman saints,” broke in M. Mazure, “the Abbé Lantaigne has -been spreading it abroad that you called Joan of Arc a mascot.” - -“By way of argument merely,” said M. Bergeret, “not of epigram. The Abbé -and I were discussing theology, about which I never permit myself to be -facetious.” - -“But what of Tépé and his censorial functions?” asked M. de Terremondre. - -“They are extremely delicate,” replied M. Bergeret, “and offer pitfalls -to a censor with a velleity for nice distinctions. Thus I read that -this one has already distinguished, and distinguished _con allegrezza_, -between romantic crime and realistic crime, between murder in Mexico -and murder in Mile End (which I take to be a suburb of London). He has -distinguished between ‘guilty love’ and ‘the pursuit of lust.’ He has -distinguished between a lightly-clad lady swimming and the same lady at -rest. Surely a man gifted with so exquisite a discrimination is wasted -in rude practical life. He should have been a metaphysician.” - -“Well, I,” confessed M. de Terremondre, “am no metaphysician, and it -seems to me murder is murder all the world over.” - -“Pardon me,” said M. Bergeret, “but there, I think, your Tépé is quite -right. Murder is murder all the world over if you are on the spot. But -if you are at a sufficient distance from it in space or time, it may -present itself as a thrilling adventure. Thus the Mexican film censor -will be right in prohibiting films of murder in Mexico, and not wrong in -admitting those of murder in Mile End. Where would tragedy be without -murder? We enjoy the murders of Julius Cæsar or of Duncan because -they are remote; they gratify the primeval passion for blood in us -without a sense of risk. But we could not tolerate a play or a picture -of yesterday’s murder next door, because we think it might happen to -ourselves. Remember that murder was long esteemed in our human societies -as an energetic action, and in our manners and in our institutions there -still subsist traces of this antique esteem. And that is why I approve -the English film censor for treating with a wise indulgence one of the -most venerable of our human admirations. He gratifies it under conditions -of remoteness that deprive bloodshed of its reality while conserving its -artistic verisimilitude.” - -“But, bless my soul,” said M. de Terremondre “how does the man -distinguish between guilty love and lust?” - -“It is a fine point,” said M. Bergeret. “The Fathers of the Church, the -schoolmen, the Renaissance humanists, Descartes and Locke, Kant, Hegel, -and Schopenhauer, have all failed to make the distinction, and some of -them have even confounded with the two what men to-day agree in calling -innocent love. But is love ever innocent—unless it be that love Professor -Bellac in Pailleron’s play described as _l’amour psychique_, the love -that Petrarch bore to Laura?” - -“If I remember aright,” interposed M. Mazure, “someone else in the play -remarked that Laura had eleven children.” - -Just then Mme. de Gromance passed across the Place. The conversation was -suspended while all three men watched her into the patissier’s opposite, -elegantly hovering over the plates of cakes, and finally settling on a -_baba au rhum_. - -“Sapristi!” exclaimed M. de Terremondre, “she’s the prettiest woman in -the whole place.” - -M. Bergeret mentally went over several passages in Æneid, Book IV., -looked ruefully at his frayed shirt cuffs, and regretted the narrow life -of a provincial university lecturer that reduced him to insignificance in -the eyes of the prettiest woman in the place. - -“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “it is a very fine point. I wonder how on -earth Tépé manages to settle it?” - - - - -THE CHOCOLATE DRAMA - - -Civilization is a failure. That we all knew, even before the war, and -indeed ever since the world first began to suffer from the intolerable -nuisance of disobedient parents. But the latest and most fatal sign of -decadence is the advent of a paradoxical Lord Chancellor. I read in a -_Times_ leader:—“When the Lord Chancellor ponderously observes in the -House of Lords that the primary business of theatres ‘is not to sell -chocolates but to present the drama,’ he is making a statement which is -too absurd to analyse.” _The Times_, I rejoice to see, is living up to -its high traditions of intrepid and incisive utterance. I should not -myself complain if the Lord Chancellor was merely ponderous. As the -dying Heine observed, when someone wondered if Providence would pardon -him, _c’est son métier_. What is so flagrant is the Lord Chancellor’s -ignorance of the commanding position acquired by chocolate in relation to -the modern drama. - -Let me not be misunderstood. I am not a _chocolatier_. I have no vested -interest in either Menier or Marquis. But I am a frequenter of the -playhouse, and live, therefore, in the odour of chocolate. I know that -without chocolates our womenkind could not endure our modern drama; -and without womenkind the drama would cease to exist. The question is, -therefore, of the deepest theatrical importance. I feel sure the British -Drama League must have had a meeting about it. The advocates of a -national theatre have probably considered it in committee. The two bodies -(if they are not one and the same) should arrange an early deputation to -the Food Controller. - -Meanwhile the Lord Chancellor wantonly paradoxes. Evidently he is no -playgoer. That is a trifle, and since the production of _Iolanthe_ -perhaps even (in the phrase of a famous criminal lawyer) “a amiable -weakness.” But, evidently also, he is not a chocolate eater, and that -is serious. I suppose, after all, you are not allowed to eat chocolates -on the Woolsack. But there is the Petty Bag. It would hold at least 2 -lb. of best mixed. Why not turn it to a grateful and comforting purpose? -The Great Seal, too, might be done in chocolate, and as I understand -the Lord Chancellor must never part with it, day or night, he would -have a perpetual source of nourishment. It is time that the symbols of -office ceased to be useless ornaments. Stay! I believe I have stumbled -incidentally on the secret of Lord Halsbury’s splendid longevity. Ask -Menier or Marquis. - -But the present Chancellor has, clearly, missed his opportunities. -Let him visit our theatres and there recognize the futility of his -pretence that their primary business is to present drama. He will see -at once that what he put forward as a main business is in reality a -mere parergon. Drama is presented, but only as an agreeable, not too -obtrusive, accompaniment to the eating of chocolate. The curtain goes -up, and the ladies in the audience, _distraites_, and manifestly feeling -with Mrs. Gamp (or was it Betsy Prig?) a sort of sinking, yawn through -the first scene or two. Then there is a rustle of paper wrappings, little -white cardboard boxes are brought out and passed from hand to hand, there -is a dainty picking and choosing of round and square and triangular, with -a knowing rejection of the hard-toffee-filled ones, and now the fair -faces are all set in a fixed smile of contentment and the fair jaws are -steadily, rhythmically at work. To an unprepared observer it cannot be -a pretty sight. Fair Americans chewing gum are nothing to it. There are -superfine male voluptuaries who do not much care to see women eat, even -at the festive board. But to see scores of women simultaneously eating -chocolates at the theatre is an uncanny thing. They do it in unison, -and they do it with an air of furtive enjoyment, as though it were some -secret vice and all the better for being sinful. The act-drop goes up and -down, actors are heard talking or the orchestra playing, men pass out for -a cigarette and repass, but the fair jaws never cease working. The habit -of needlework, lace-making, and perhaps war knitting has given lovely -woman that form of genius which has been defined as a long patience. -They eat chocolates with the monotonous regularity with which they -hemstitch linen or darn socks. It has been said that women go to church -for the sake of the _hims_, but they go to the theatre for the sake of -chocolates. And the Lord Chancellor, good, easy man, says the primary -business of the theatre is to present drama! - -No, its primary business is to provide comfortable and amusing -surroundings for fair chocolate-eaters. The play is there for the same -reason the coon band is at a restaurant, to assist mastication. That is -the real explanation of recent vicissitudes in the dramatic _genres_. -Why has tragedy virtually disappeared from the stage? Because it will go -with neither _fondants_ nor _pralinés_. Why the enormous vogue of revues? -Because they suit every kind of chocolate from 4_s_. to 6_s_. per lb. -Why is Mr. George Robey so universal a favourite? Because he creates the -kind of laughter which never interferes with your munching. The true, if -hitherto secret, history of the drama is a history of theatrical dietary. -Why is the Restoration drama so widely different from the Victorian? -Because the first was an accompaniment to oranges and the second to -pork-pies. We live now in a more refined age, the age of chocolate, and -enjoy the drama that chocolate deserves. There has been what the vulgar -call a “slump” in the theatrical world, and all sorts of far-fetched -explanations have been offered, such as the dearth of good plays and -the dismissal of the “temporary” ladies from Government offices, with -consequent loss of pocket-money for playgoing. The real cause is quite -simple, as real causes always are. Chocolate has “gone up.” - -And that is the secret of all the agitation about the 8 o’clock rule. The -purveyors know that, once in the theatre, ladies _must_ eat chocolate, -whatever its price. It is a necessity for them there, not a luxury, -and after 8 p.m., when the imported supplies are running low, almost -any price might be obtained for the staple article of food on the -spot. But why, it may be asked, are the imported supplies, in present -circumstances, insufficient for the whole evening’s consumption? Simply -because the chocolates eaten by women are purchased by men, and men are -_so_ forgetful. Besides they have an absurd prejudice against bulging -pockets. Clearly “Dora” ought gracefully to withdraw the 8 o’clock -prohibition. It would not only be a kindness to those meritorious -public servants, the chocolate vendors, but be also a great lift to the -languishing drama. Ladies who have emptied their chocolate boxes are -apt to become peevish—and then woe to the last act. With still another -smooth round tablet to turn over on the tongue (especially if it is the -delightful sort that has peppermint cream inside) the play might be -followed to the very end with satisfaction, and even enthusiasm. The -Lord Chancellor may ignore these facts, but they are well known to every -serious student of the chocolate drama. - - - - -GROCK - - -There must be a philosophy of clowns. I would rather find it than look -up their history, which is “older than any history that is written in -any book,” though the respectable compilers of Encyclopædias (I feel -sure without looking) must often have written it in their books. I -have, however, been reading Croce’s history of Pulcinella, because that -is history written by a philosopher. It is also a work of formidable -erudition, disproving, among other things, the theory of the learned -Dieterich that he was a survival from the stage of ancient Rome. No, he -seems to have been invented by one Silvio Fiorillo, a Neapolitan actor -who flourished “negli ultimi decenni del Cinquecento e nei primi del -Seicento”—in fact, was a contemporary of an English actor, one William -Shakespeare. Pulcinella, you know (transmogrified, and spoiled, for us -as Punch), was a sort of clown, and it is interesting to learn that he -was invented by an actor all out of his own head. But I for one should be -vastly more interested to know who invented Grock. For Grock also is a -sort of clown. Yet no; one must distinguish. There are clowns and there -is Grock. For Grock happens to be an artist, and the artist is always -an individual. After all, as an individual artist, he must have invented -himself. - -It was a remarkably happy invention. You may see that for yourselves -at the Coliseum, generally, though true clown-lovers follow it about -all over the map wherever it is to be seen. Victor Hugo (and the theme -would not have been unworthy of that lyre) would have described it in -a series of antitheses. It is genial and _macabre_, owlishly stupid -and Macchiavellianly astute, platypode and feather-light, cacophonous -and divinely musical. Grock’s first act is a practical antithesis. A -strange creature with a very high and very bald cranium (you think of -what Fitzgerald said of James Spedding’s: “No wonder no hair can grow -at such an altitude”) and in very baggy breeches waddles in with an -enormous portmanteau—which proves to contain a fiddle no larger than -your hand. The creature looks more simian than human, but is graciously -affable—another Sir Oran Haut-ton, in fact, with fiddle substituted for -Sir Oran’s flute and French horn. - -But Sir Oran was dumb, whereas Grock has a voice which reverberates -along the orchestra and seems almost to lift the roof. He uses it to -counterfeit the deep notes of an imaginary double bass, which he balances -himself on a chair to play, and he uses it to roar with contemptuous -surprise at being asked if he can play the piano. But it is good-humoured -contempt. Grock is an accommodating monster, and at a mere hint from -the violinist waddles off to change into evening clothes. In them he -looks like a grotesque beetle. Then his antics at the piano! His chair -being too far from the keyboard he makes great efforts to push the piano -nearer. When it is pointed out that it would be easier to move the chair -he beams with delight at the cleverness of the idea and expresses it in -a peculiarly bland roar. Then he slides, in apparent absence of mind, -all over the piano-case and, on finally deciding to play a tune, does it -with his feet. Thereafter he thrusts his feet through the seat of the -chair and proceeds to give a performance of extraordinary brilliance on -the concertina.... But I am in despair, because I see that these tricks, -which in action send one into convulsions of laughter, are not ludicrous, -are not to be realized at all in narrative. It is the old difficulty -of transposing the comic from three dimensions into two—and when the -comic becomes the grotesque, and that extreme form of the grotesque -which constitutes the clownesque, then the difficulty becomes sheer -impossibility. - -Why does this queer combination of anthropoid appearance, unearthly -noises, physical agility, and musical talent—so flat in description—make -one laugh so immoderately in actual presentation? Well, there is, first, -the old idea of the parturient mountains and the ridiculous mouse. Of -the many theories of the comic (all, according to Jean Paul Richter, -themselves comic) the best known perhaps is the theory of suddenly -relaxed strain. Your psychic energies have been strained (say by Grock’s -huge portmanteau), and are suddenly in excess and let loose by an -inadequate sequel (the tiny fiddle). Then there is the old theory of -Aristotle, that the comic is ugliness without pain. That will account -for your laughter at Grock’s grotesque appearance, his baggy breeches, -his beetle-like dress clothes, his hideous mouth giving utterance to -harmless sentiments. Again, there is the pleasure arising from the -discovery that an apparent idiot has wholly unexpected superiorities, -acrobatic skill, and virtuosity in musical execution. But “not such a -fool as he looks” is the class-badge of clowns in general. There is -something still unexplained in the attraction of Grock. One can only call -it his individuality—his benign, bland outlook on a cosmos of which he -seems modestly to possess the secret hidden from ourselves. One comes in -the end to the old helpless explanation of any individual artist. Grock -pleases because he is Grock. - -And now I think one can begin to see why literature (or if you think -that too pretentious a word, say letterpress) fails to do justice to -clowns. Other comic personages have their verbal jokes, which can be -quoted in evidence, but the clown (certainly the clown of the Grock -type) is a joke confined to appearance and action. His effects, too, -are all of the simplest and broadest—the obvious things (obvious when -he has invented them) which are the most difficult of all to translate -into prose. You see, I have been driven to depend on general epithets -like grotesque, bland, _macabre_, which fit the man too loosely (like -ready-made clothes cut to fit innumerable men) to give you his exact -measure. My only consolation is that I have failed with the best. Grock, -with all his erudition, all his nicety of analysis, has failed to realize -Pulcinella for me. And that is where clowns may enjoy a secret, malign -pleasure; they proudly confront a universe which delights in them but -cannot describe them. A critic may say to an acrobat, for instance:—“I -cannot swing on your trapeze, but I can understand you, while you cannot -understand me.” But Grock seems to understand everything (he could do no -less, with that noble forehead), probably even critics, while they, poor -souls, can only struggle helplessly with their inadequate adjectives, and -give him up. But if he condescended to criticism, be sure he would not -struggle helplessly. He would blandly thrust his feet through the seat -of his chair, and then write his criticism with them. And (Grock is a -Frenchman) it would be better than Sainte-Beuve. - - - - -THE FUNCTION OF CRITICISM - - -Every critic or would-be critic has his own little theory of criticism, -as every baby in _Utopia Limited_ had its own ickle prospectus. This -makes him an avid, but generally a recalcitrant, student of other -people’s theories. He is naturally anxious, that is, to learn what -the other people think about what inevitably occupies so much of his -own thoughts; at the same time, as he cannot but have formed his -own theory after his own temperament, consciously or not, he must -experience a certain discomfort when he encounters other theories based -on temperaments alien from his own. You have, in fact, the converse -of Stendhal’s statement that every commendation from _confrère_ to -_confrère_ is a certificate of resemblance; every sign of unlikeness -provokes the opposite of commendation. So I took up with somewhat mixed -feelings an important leading article in the _Literary Supplement_ on -“The Function of Criticism.” Important because its subject is, as Henry -James said once in a letter to Mrs. Humphry Ward, among “the highest -speculations that can engage the human mind.” (Oho! I should like to hear -Mr. Bottles or any other _homme sensuel moyen_ on _that_!) Well, after -reading the article, I have the profoundest respect for the writer, -whoever he may be; he knows what he is talking about _au fond_, and can -talk admirably about it. But then comes in that inevitable recalcitrancy. -It seems to me that if the writer is right, then most art and criticism -are on the wrong tack. Maybe they are—the writer evidently thinks they -are—but one cannot accept that uncomfortable conclusion offhand, and so -one cannot but ask oneself whether the writer _is_ right, after all. - -He is certainly wrong about Croce. The ideal critic, he says, “will -not accept from Croce the thesis that all expression is art; for he -knows that if expression means anything it is by no means all art.” Now -the very foundation-stone of the Crocean æsthetic is that art is the -expression of intuitions; when you come to concepts, or the relations of -intuitions, though the expression of them is art, the concepts themselves -(what “expression means”) are not; you will have passed out of the region -of art. Thus your historian, logician, or zoologist, say, has a style of -his own; that side of him is art. But historical judgments, logic, or -zoology are not. Croce discusses this distinction exhaustively, and, I -should have thought, clearly. Yet here our leader-writer puts forward as -a refutation of Croce a statement carefully made by Croce himself. But -this is a detail which does not affect the writer’s main position. I only -mention it as one of the many misrepresentations of Croce which students -of that philosopher are, by this time, used to accepting as, apparently, -inevitable. - -Now, says the writer, the critic must have a philosophy and, what -is more, a philosophy of a certain sort. That the critic must have -a philosophy we should, I suppose, all agree; for the critic is a -historian, and a historian without a theory of realities, a system of -values, _i.e._, a philosophy, has no basis for his judgments—he is merely -a chronicler. (And a chronicler, let me say in passing, is precisely what -I should call the writer’s “historical critic”—who “essentially has no -concern with the greater or less literary excellence of the objects whose -history he traces—their existence is alone sufficient for him.”) But what -particular philosophy must the critic have? It must be, says the writer, -“a humanistic philosophy. His inquiries must be modulated, and subject to -an intimate, organic governance by an ideal of the good life.” Beware of -confusing this ideal of good life with mere conventional morality. Art -is autonomous and therefore independent of that. No; “an ideal of the -good life, if it is to have the internal coherence and the organic force -of a true ideal, _must inevitably_ be æsthetic. There is no other power -than our æsthetic intuition by which we can imagine or conceive it; we -can express it only in æsthetic terms.” And so we get back to Plato and -the Platonic ideas and, generally, to “the Greeks for the principles of -art and criticism.” “The secret” of the humanistic philosophy “lies in -Aristotle.” - -But is not this attempt to distinguish between conventional morality and -an ideal of the good life, æsthetically formed, rather specious? At any -rate, the world at large, for a good many centuries, has applauded, or -discountenanced, Greek criticism as essentially moralistic—as importing -into the region of æsthetics the standards of ordinary, conventional -morality. That is, surely, a commonplace about Aristotle. His ideal -tragic hero is to be neither saint nor utter villain, but a character -between these two extremes. Further, he must be illustrious, like Œdipus -or Thyestes (Poetics, ed. Butcher, XIII. 3). Again, tragedy is an -imitation of persons who are above the common level (XV. 8). It seems -to me that the standards applied here are those of our ordinary, or -conventional, morality, and I am only confused by the introduction of -the mysterious “ideal of the good life.” It seems to me—that may be my -stupidity—but it seemed so, also, to our forefathers, for it was this -very moralism of Greek criticism that led men for so many centuries to -demand “instruction” from art. And that is why it was such a feather in -Dryden’s cap (Dryden, of whom our leader-writer has a poor opinion, as -a critic without a philosophy) to have said the memorable and decisive -thing: “delight is the chief if not the only end of poesy; instruction -can be admitted but in the second place, for poesy only instructs as it -delights.” - -This “ideal of good life” leads our leader-writer far—away up into the -clouds. Among the activities of the human spirit art takes “the place -of sovereignty.” It “is the manifestation of the ideal in human life.” -This attitude, of course, will not be altogether unfamiliar to students -of æsthetics. Something not unlike it has been heard before from the -“mystic” æstheticians of a century ago. It leaves me unconvinced. I -cannot but think that that philosophy makes out a better case which -assigns to art, as intuition-expression, not the “place of sovereignty” -but the place of foundation in the human spirit; for which it is not -flower nor fruit, but root. You see, Croce, like “cheerfulness” in -Boswell’s story of the other philosopher, will come “breaking in.” - - - - -COTERIE CRITICISM - - -A young critic was recently so obliging as to send me the proof of an -article in the hope that I might find something in it to interest me. -I did, but not, I imagine, what was expected. The article discussed a -modern author of European reputation, and incidentally compared his mind -and his style with that of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. These three, -it appeared, were contemporary English novelists, and—here was the -interesting thing to me in our young critic’s article—I had never heard -of one of them. They were evidently “intellectuals”—the whole tenor of -the article showed that—the idols of some young and naturally solemn -critical “school,” familiar classics, I dare say, in Chelsea studios -and Girton or Newnham rooms. One often wonders what these serious young -people are reading, and here, it seemed, was a valuable light. They must -be reading, at all events, Mr. X., and Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. Otherwise, -our young critic would never have referred to them with such gravity -and with so confident an assumption that his particular set of readers -would know all about them. And yet the collocation of these three names, -these coterie classics, with that of the great European author, famous -throughout the whole world of polite letters, struck one as infinitely -grotesque. It showed so naïve a confusion of literary “values,” so queer -a sense of proportion and congruity. It was, in short, coterie criticism. - -There seems to be a good deal of that about just now. One sees -innumerable reviews of innumerable poets, which one supposes to be -written by other poets, so solemnly do the writers take their topic and -their author and themselves. And for the most part this writing bears the -mark of “green, unknowing youth”—the bland assumption that literature -was invented yesterday, and that, since the Armistice, we cannot but -require a brand-new set of literary canons, estimates, and evaluations. -Evidently our young warriors have come back from the front with their -spirit of _camaraderie_ still glowing within them. Well, youth will be -served, and we must resign ourselves, with a helpless shrug, to a deluge -of crude over-estimates, enthusiastic magnifications of the ephemeral, -and solemn examinations of the novels of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. And -we must be prepared to see the old reputations going down like a row of -ninepins. We shall have to make a polite affectation of listening to the -young gentlemen who dismiss Meredith as “pretentious” and tell us that -Hardy “can’t write” and that Anatole France is _vieux jeu_. For if you -are always adoring the new because it is new, then you may as well make -a complete thing of it by decrying the old because it is old. The breath -you can spare from puffing the “Georgians” up you may as well use for -puffing the “Victorians” out. And thus the world wags. - -What is more, it is thus that the history of literature gets itself -evolved. For it is time that I tried to see what good can be said of -the coteries, as well as what ill, and this, I think, can be said for -them—that they keep the ball rolling. It is they, with their foolish face -of praise, who discover the new talents and begin the new movements. -If you are always on the pounce for novelties you must occasionally -“spot a winner” and find a novelty that the outer world ratifies into a -permanency. The minor Elizabethan dramatists were once the darlings of -a coterie, but Webster and one or two others still survive. The Lakists -were once coterie poets, and, if Southey has petered out, Wordsworth -remains. Of course they make awful “howlers.” A coterie started the -vogue of that terribly tiresome “Jean Christophe,” of Romain Rolland, -and where is it now? On the other hand, a coterie “discovered” Pater, -and it was a real find; the world will not willingly let die “Marius” or -the “Renaissance.” Henry James began as the idol of a coterie, and “The -Golden Bowl” is not yet broken. It may be—who knows?—that the novels of -Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. will by and by range themselves proudly on -our shelves alongside Fielding and Jane and Meredith and Hardy. - -But while these young reputations are still to make in the great world, -let us not, as Mrs. Gamp says, proticipate; let us keep our high estimate -of them modestly to ourselves, and not stick them up on the classic shelf -among the best bindings before their time. What makes it worse is that -the coteries are apt to have no classic shelf. Their walls are lined and -their boudoir tables littered with new books, and nothing but new books. -Women are great offenders in this way, especially the women whom American -journals call “Society Ladies”—who are accustomed, in the absence of -contradiction and criticism and other correctives (tabooed as “bad -form”), to mistake their wayward fancies for considered judgments. We -want a modern Molière to write us another _Femmes Savantes_. (I present -the idea to Mr. Bernard Shaw. They have dubbed him “the English Molière.” -Well, here’s a chance for him to make good.) There is Lady Dulcibella. -She is always recommending you a new book that nobody else has ever heard -of. “Oh, how perfectly sweet of you to call on this horrid wet afternoon! -_Have_ you read ‘Mes Larmes’? It’s written by a Russian actress with such -wonderful red hair, you can’t think, and they say she was a princess, -until those dreadful Bolshevists, you know. We met her at Florence in -the winter, and everybody said she was just like one of the Botticellis -in the Accademia. They _do_ say that Guido da Verona—or D’Annunzio, or -somebody (don’t you think that horrid little D’Annunzio is just like a -frog?)—was quite mad about her. But ‘Mes Larmes’ is perfectly _sweet_, -and don’t forget to order it. Two lumps or three?” And listen to the -chatter of some of those wonderfully bedizened ladies who variegate, if -they don’t exactly decorate, the stalls of one of our Sunday coterie -theatres. The queer books they rave about! The odd Moldo-Wallachian or -Syro-Phœnician dramatists they have discovered! - -All this, it is only fair to remember, may leave our young critic -inviolate. After all, he may belong to no coterie, or only to a coterie -of one; he may have sound critical reasons for the faith that is in him -about Mr. X., and Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. And even if he does represent a -coterie, he might, I suppose, find a fairly effective retort to some -of my observations. “You talk of our love of novelties for novelty’s -sake. But you have admitted that, if we always go for the new, we must -sometimes light on the true. What we really go for is life. The new is -more lively than the old. The actual, the present, the world we are at -this moment living in, has more to say to us in literature than the old -dead world, the ‘sixty years since’ of your classic Scott. The classic, -as Stendhal said, is what pleased our grandfathers; but I am out to -please my grandfather’s grandson. And our coteries, I dare say, are often -kept together by the mere docility of mind, the imitative instinct, of -their members. But is there not a good deal of mere docility among the -old fogey party, the people who reject the new because it is new and -admire the old because it is old? Is not this mere imitative instinct at -work also among the upholders of literary traditions and the approved -classics? Absurdity for absurdity, the youthful coterie is no worse than -the old fogey crowd.” To put all straight I will now go and read the -novels of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. - - - - -CRITICISM AND CREATION - - -A play of Dryden’s has been successfully revived by the Phœnix Society. -One or two others might be tried, but not many. For most of Dryden’s -plays, as the curious may satisfy themselves by reading them, are as -dead as a doornail. They bore us in the reading, and would simply drive -us out of the theatre. Some of Dryden’s non-dramatic poems still permit -themselves to be read, but the permission is rarely sought by modern -readers, apart from candidates for some academic examination in English -literature, who have no choice. Yet we all render him lip service as -a great poet. How many are there to pay him proper homage as a great -critic? For a great critic he was, and, moreover, our first dramatic -critic in time as well as in importance. He discussed not the details of -this or that play, but the fundamental principles of drama. He abounded -in ideas, and expressed them with a conversational ease which, in his -time, was an entirely new thing. But it would be impertinent to praise -Dryden’s prose style after Johnson’s exhaustive eulogy and the delicate -appreciations of Professor Ker. What I would point out is that all -Dryden’s critical work can still be read with pleasure, while most of -his dramatic work cannot be read at all. And the humour of it is that -I shall at once be told the dramatic work was “creative,” while the -critical was not. - -This distinction, an essentially false one, as I shall hope to show, is -still a great favourite with our authors of fiction; they “create,” their -critics do not. Authors who write, in Flaubert’s phrase, like _cochers -de fiacre_, and who are particularly given to this contrast, it would -be cruel to deprive of a comforting illusion; but authors of merit and -repute also share it, and to them I would urge my modest plea for a -reconsideration of the matter. - -What does the dramatist, or writer of fiction in general, create? -Actions and characters? Not so, for these are only created in real life, -by the contending volitions of real men and the impact between their -volitions and external reality. The author creates images of actions and -characters, or, in other words, expresses his intuitions of life. When -the intuition is vivid, when the image is a Falstaff, a Baron Hulot, -a Don Quixote, a Colonel Newcome, we are apt to think of it as a real -person. And they are, in truth, as real to us as anybody in the actual -world whom we have never met but only know of. For the historic person, -unmet, is, just like the imaginary person, only a bundle for us of our -intuitions. Julius Cæsar was a real person, but we can only know of him, -as we know of Mr. Pickwick, by hearsay. These vivid intuitions are what -your author likes to call “creations.” So they are. That is the magic of -art. - -And because, to the vast majority of men, their intuitions (in the case -of actual reality encountered, their perceptions) of other men and their -actions are their most interesting experience, art is allowed without -challenge to arrogate to itself this quality of “creation.” There is a -biographical dictionary of Balzac’s personages—some 2,000, if I remember -rightly—of whom a few are actual historical people. But, in fact, you -make no distinction. The one set are as real to you as the others. In -this way the _Comédie Humaine_ does, as its author said, compete with the -_État Civil_. There are few ideas, speculations, judgments in Balzac that -are worth a rap; when he tried abstract thought he was apt to achieve -nonsense. But very few readers want abstract thought. They want “to know -people,” “to see people.” Balzac makes “people,” tells you all about -their families, their incomes, their loves and hates, “splendours and -miseries,” their struggles, their orgies, their squalor, their death. -That is “creative” art. Let us admire it. Let us revel in it. Let us be -profoundly thankful for it. - -But when, as so frequently happens, one hears some fourteenth-rate -yarn-spinner, who also makes “people,” but people who were not worth -making, people who are puppets or the mere phantoms of a greensick -brain—when one hears this gentleman claiming kinship with Balzac or with -my friend the distinguished novelist and real artist already mentioned, -as a “creator” one is inclined to smile. “Creation” is a blessed word. -But the thing created may be quite valueless. - -And so it is, precisely, with criticism. For criticism is also -“creative.” But it does not create images of people or their lives; it -creates thought, ideas, concepts. That is, it builds up something new -out of the artist’s intuitions and exhibits the relations between them. -Here, in the conceptual world, we are in a different region from the -intuitional world of the artist. Those who care to enter it, who feel at -home in it, are comparatively few; the absence of personal interest, of -“people,” makes it seem cold to the average, gregarious man. “People” -are a natural, ideas an acquired, taste. But the one set are just as -much a “creation” as the other. And in the one set just as in the -other the thing created may not be worth creating. Ideas, expositions, -illustrations in criticism have a distressing habit of being as poor -and conventional and mechanical as many a novelist’s or playwright’s -characters and life histories. There is not a pin to choose between them. -For as the one thing that matters in art is the artist behind it, so the -critic behind it is the one thing that matters in criticism. - -These are elementary commonplaces. But they need restating from time -to time. For the average man, with all his interest in life fixed -on “people,” is always falling into the error that the novelist or -playwright makes something, while the critic makes nothing. And your -fourteenth-rate author, sharing the temperament of the average man, falls -into the same error and seems, indeed, inordinately proud of it. He seems -to say: “Why, you, good master critic, couldn’t even begin to do what -_I_, the ‘creative’ artist, do”; and he would probably be surprised by -the answer that it is the critic’s very critical faculty, his endowment -of judgment and taste, which makes the writing of bad plays or novels -impossible, because repugnant to him. It is precisely because the -critical faculty is so rare a thing that so many bad novels and plays get -themselves written. - -But enough of these sharp distinctions between the “creation” of images -and the “creation” of concepts! Is not a union of the two, like the union -of butler and lady’s-maid, as described by Mr. Crichton, “the happiest of -all combinations”? Who does not feel how immensely the mere story part -of “Tom Jones” gains by the critical chapter introductions? And, on the -other hand, how the mere critical part of Dryden’s “Essay of Dramatic -Poesy” gains by the little touches of story, from the opening moment when -“they ordered the watermen to let fall their oars more gently” to the -close at Somerset Stairs, where “they went up through a crowd of French -people, who were merrily dancing in the open air”? - - - - -ACTING AND CRITICISM - - -A veteran who has been regaling the readers of _The Times_ with his -recollections of the London stage has dropped by the way a remark on -modern theatrical criticism. For it, he says, “the play is everything, -and the leading actor or actress has often to be content with a few -lines.” Dean Gaisford began a sermon, “Saint Paul says, and I partly -agree with him.” I partly agree with the veteran. Criticism has -occasionally to deal with plays that cannot be “everything” for it. -There are new plays that are merely a vehicle for the art of the actor, -who must then get more than a few lines. There are old plays revived to -show a new actor in a classic part, and the part is then greater than -the whole. This, I think, accounts for “the space devoted to the acting -in London criticisms at the time Henry Irving rose to fame.” Either he -appeared in new plays of little intrinsic merit, like _The Bells_, or -else in classic parts of melodrama (made classic by Frédéric Lemaître) -or of Shakespeare. In these conditions criticism must always gravitate -towards the acting. It did so, long before Irving’s time, with Hazlitt -over Edmund Kean. It has done so, since Irving’s time, over Sarah and -Duse, and must do so again over every new Shylock or Millamant or Sir -Peter. - -But these conditions are exceptional, and it is well for the drama that -they are. For the vitality of the drama primarily depends not upon the -talent of its interpreters but on that of its creators, and a new image -or new transposition of life in a form appropriate to the theatre is more -important than the perfection of the human instrument by which it is -“made flesh.” If criticism, then, has of late years and on the whole been -able to devote more attention to the play than to the playing, I suggest -to our veteran that the fact is a healthy sign for our drama. It shows -that there have been plays to criticise and that criticism has done its -duty. - -But that, I hasten to add, is its luck rather than its merit. One must -not ride the high ethical horse, and I should be sorry to suggest that -good criticism is ever written from a sense of duty, any more than a -good play or any other piece of good literature. Good criticism is -written just because the critic feels like that—and bad, it may be -added, generally because the critic has been trying to write something -which he supposes other people will feel like. The good critic writes -with his temperament—and here is a reason why, in the long run, plays -will interest him more than players. For are we not all agreed about the -first principle of criticism? Is it not to put yourself in the place of -the artist criticized, to adopt his point of view, to recreate his work -within yourself? Well, the critic can put himself in the place of the -playwright much more readily than into that of the actor. The playwright -and he are working in different ways, with much the same material, ideas, -and images, or, if you like, concepts and intuitions mainly expressed -in words—which is only a long way of saying that they are both authors. -And they have in common the literary temperament. Now the literary -temperament and the histrionic are two very different things. - -The actor, as his very name imports, is an active man, a man of action. -At his quietest, he perambulates the stage. But violent physical exercise -is a part of his trade. He fights single combats, jumps into open graves, -plunges into lakes, is swallowed down in quicksands, sharpens knives on -the sole of his boot, deftly catches jewel caskets thrown from upper -windows, wrestles with heavy-weight champions, knouts or is knouted, -stabs or is stabbed, rolls headlong down staircases, writhes in the -agonies of poison, and is (or at any rate in the good old days was) -kicked, pinched, and pummelled out of the limelight by the “star.” And -all this under the handicap of grease-paint and a wig! It must be very -fatiguing. But then he enjoys the physical advantages of an active life. -He has Sir Willoughby Patterne’s leg (under trousers that never bag at -the knee, and terminating in boots of the shiniest patent leather), and -all the rest to match. As becomes a man of action, he is no reader. I -have heard the late Mr. Henry Neville declare that an actor should never -be allowed to look at a book. This may seem to the rest of us a sad fate -for him, but look at his compensations! He spends much, if not most, of -his stage-life making love to pretty women, wives, widows, or _ingénues_. -Frequently he kisses them, or seems to—for he will tell you, the rogue, -that stage-kisses are always delivered in the air. Let us say then that -he is often within an inch of kissing a pretty woman—which is already a -considerable privilege. When he is not kissing her (or the air, as the -case may be), he is sentimentally bidding her to a nunnery go or dying in -picturesque agonies at her feet. Anyhow he goes through his work in the -society and with the active co-operation of pretty women. And note, for -it is an enormous advantage to him, that that work is a fixed, settled -thing. His words have been invented for him and written out in advance. -He has rehearsed his actions. He knows precisely what he is going to do. - -Contrast with this alluring picture the temperament and working habits -of the critic. He is a man, not of action, but of contemplation. His -pursuit is sedentary, and with his life of forced inaction he risks -becoming as fat as Mr. Gibbon, without the alleviation of the Gibbonian -style. Personal advantages are not aids to composition, and he may be -the ugliest man in London, like G. H. Lewes, whose dramatic criticisms, -nevertheless, may still be read with pleasure. His fingers are inky. His -face is not “made up,” but sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. -No pretty women help him to write his criticisms. Indeed, if Helen of -Troy herself, or Aphrodite new-risen from the sea came into his study he -would cry out with writer’s petulance (a far more prevalent and insidious -disease than writer’s cramp), “Oh, do please go away! Can’t you see I’m -not yet through my second slip?” (She will return when he is out, and -“tidy up” his desk for him—a really fiendish revenge). Books, forbidden -to the actor, are the critic’s solace—and also his despair, because they -have said all the good things and taken the bread out of his mouth. And, -unlike the actor, he is working in the unknown. His head is filled with -a chaos of half-formed ideas and the transient embarrassed phantoms of -logical developments. Will he ever be able to sort them out and to give -them at any rate a specious appearance of continuity? Nay, can he foresee -the beginning of his next sentence, or even finish this one? Thus he is -perpetually on the rack. “Luke’s iron crown and Damien’s bed of steel” -are nothing to it. It is true that his criticism does, mysteriously, get -itself completed—mysteriously, because he seems to have been no active -agent in it, but a mere looker-on while it somehow wrote itself. - -Is it surprising that it should generally write itself about the play -(which, I daresay, writes itself, too, and with the same tormenting -anxiety) rather than about the playing, which proceeds from so different -a temperament from the critic’s and operates in conditions so alien from -his? But, let me add for the comfort of our veteran, there are critics -and critics. If some of us displease him by too often sparing only a few -lines for the leading actor or actress, there will always be plenty of -others who are more interested in persons than in ideas and images, who -care less for transpositions of life than for Sarah’s golden voice and -Duse’s limp, and “Quin’s high plume and Oldfield’s petticoat.” These will -redress the balance. - - - - -ACTING AS ART - - -Nothing could be more characteristically English than the circumstances -which gave rise the other day to the singular question, “Is acting an -art?” There was a practical issue, whether the Royal Academy of Dramatic -Art was or was not entitled to exemption under an Act of 1843 from the -payment of rates. Sir John Simon argued it, of course, as a practical -question. He dealt with custom and precedent and authority, dictionary -definitions and judicial decisions. He had to keep one eye on æsthetics -and the other on the rates. This is our traditional English way. We -“drive at practice.” Nevertheless, this question whether acting is an -art is really one of pure æsthetics, and is in no way affected by any -decision of the Appeal Committee of the London County Council. - -You cannot answer it until you have made up your mind what you mean -by art. Sir John Simon seems to have suggested that art was something -“primarily directed to the satisfaction of the æsthetic sense.” But is -there any such thing as a special “æsthetic sense”? Is it anything more -than a name for our spiritual reaction to a work of art, our response -to it in mind and feeling? And are we not arguing in a circle when we -say that art is what provokes the response to art? Perhaps it might -amuse, perhaps it might irritate, perhaps it might simply bewilder the -Appeal Committee of the London County Council to tell them that art -is the expression of intuitions. They might reply that they cannot -find intuitions in the rate-book, and that the Act of 1843 is silent -about them. Yet this is what art is, and you have to bear it in mind -when you ask, “Is the actor an artist?” Art is a spiritual activity, -and the artist’s expression of his intuitions (the painter’s “vision,” -the actor’s “conception” of his part) is internal; when he wishes to -externalize his expression, to communicate it to others, he has to use -certain media—paint and canvas, marble and brick, musical notes, words -and gestures. But it is the spiritual activity, the intuition-expression, -that makes the artist. The medium is no part of his definition. - -And yet, I suggest, it is the peculiarity of the actor’s medium that has -often withheld from him, at any rate with unthinking people, his title to -rank as an artist. He is his own medium, his own paint and canvas, his -own brick and marble. The works of other artists, the picture, the poem, -the sonata, have an independent life, they survive their authors; the -actor’s works are inseparable from his actual presence, and die with him. -Hence a certain difficulty for the unsophisticated in distinguishing -the artist from what the philosophers call the empirical man; the Edmund -Kean whose genius is illuminating and revitalizing Shylock from the -Edmund Kean who is notoriously fond of the bottle and who has lately got -into trouble with an alderman’s wife. The physique, the temperament, of -the empirical man furnish the medium for the artist. He arrives at the -theatre in a taxi, or his own Rolls-Royce, smoking a big cigar, every -inch of him a man of to-day; the next moment he is pretending to be an -old mad King of Britain. This confusion is behind Johnson’s “fellow who -claps a hump on his back and calls himself Richard the Third.” It leaves -out of account the imaginative side of him, the artist. Johnson might -just as well have dismissed Shakespeare as a “fellow who supposed a hump -clapped on the back of one of his fancies, which he calls Richard the -Third.” Lamb raised another objection, that the bodily presence of the -actor materialized, coarsened, the finer elements of the part—hid from -sight “the lofty genius, the man of vast capacity, the profound, the -witty, accomplished Richard.” The medium, in other words, is a hindrance -to the art, not so much a medium as a nuisance. - -These are the objections of ignorance or of whim. Certainly the -peculiarity of his medium imposes peculiar restrictions on the actor. If -the painter lacks a certain pigment he can get it at the colour-man’s. -If the composer needs a certain _timbre_ he can add the necessary -instrument to his orchestra. All the quarries are open to the architect. -But no “make up” box will furnish a resonant voice to a shrill-piped -actor or make Garrick six feet high. An actress may be at the height -of her powers, and yet too old to play Juliet. Sir Henry Irving’s -physical oddities went far to ruin some of his impersonations. But these -limitations of the medium do not affect the actor’s status as an artist. -They only restrict the range in which he may exercise his art. - -And can it be gainsaid that what he exercises is true art, a spiritual -activity, the expression of his intuitions? People, comparing his work -with the “creations” of the playwright, are apt to speak of him as -a mere “interpreter.” He has his words given him, they say, and his -significant acts prescribed for him in advance. The truth is, “creation” -and “interpretation” are figurative terms; it would be quite reasonable -to interchange them. Shakespeare “interprets” life by giving form to it, -by piecing together, say, certain scraps of actual observation along with -the image of his fancy into the character of Falstaff. With the printed -words and stage-directions as data, the actor re-imagines Falstaff, -brings his own temperament and feelings and sympathetic vision to the -service of Shakespeare’s indications, and “creates” the living, moving -man. True, the processes are at different stages, and may be of different -importance. Shakespeare has intuited and expressed life, the actor has -intuited and expressed Shakespeare. But both expressions are art. - -And note that while Shakespeare “created” Falstaff, no playgoer has -ever seen or ever will see Shakespeare’s Falstaff. For the image formed -in Shakespeare’s mind has always on the stage to be translated for us -in terms of other minds which can never be identical with his—is, in -fact, “re-created” by each actor in turn. It is the actor who converts -the “cold print” of the text into vivid, concrete life. Life! that is -the secret of the actor’s “following,” a much more notable fact in the -world of the theatre than the “following” of this or that playwright. -The actor, like all who, in Buffon’s phrase, “_parlent au corps par -le corps_,” expresses a temperament, a personality, himself; imposes -himself on his part and on us. People “follow” a favourite actor in all -his impersonations because his art gives them more pleasure than the -playwright’s, or because his art must be added to the playwright’s before -they will care about that. - -When I say “people” I don’t mean “littery gents.” The typical playgoer -prefers life to literature. He is as a rule no great reader. Nor are -the actors. There has always been a certain coolness between the men -of letters and the actors—their temperaments are so opposed. I have -quoted from Lamb. Anatole France said much the same thing of the Comédie -Française— “_Leur personne efface l’œuvre qu’ils représentent._” Views -like these merely express a preference for one art over another. They -do not contest the actor’s right to rank as an artist. That, to speak -rigorously, is a rank held by many people “for the duration”—_i.e._, -while and whenever they express their intuitions. But it would be -impolitic to insist on this strict view. The rate-payers’ list might be -seriously affected and much uneasiness occasioned to the Appeal Committee -of the London County Council. - - - - -AUDIENCES - - -Audiences may be divided into first-nighters, second-nighters, and -general playgoers. All audiences are important, but first-nighters -most of all. Without them the acted drama would not begin to exist. -For obvious reasons, I have nothing but good to say of them. I wish to -live at peace with my neighbours. And I do not believe the malicious -story told about a manager, now dead, that he liked to fill the second -row of his stalls on first-nights with his superannuated sweethearts. -Nobody is fat or old in Ba-ath, and there are no superannuitants among -first-nighters. - -I find, from Mr. Max Beerbohm’s entirely delightful book “Seven Men,” -that it is possible to get tired of first-nighters. I should never have -guessed it myself. But this is what he says:—“I was dramatic critic for -the _Saturday Review_, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over -and over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the -managers, asking that I might have seats for second nights instead.” But -mark what follows:—“I found that there existed as distinct and invariable -a lot of second-nighters as of first-nighters. The second-nighters -were less ‘showy’; but then, they came more to see than to be seen, and -there was an air that I liked of earnestness and hopefulness about them. -I used to write a good deal about the future of the British drama, and -they, for their part, used to think and talk a great deal about it. -Though second-nighters do come to see, they remain rather to hope and -pray.” Because I have quoted I must not be understood as accepting Mr. -Beerbohm’s implied aspersion on first-nighters. It is all very well for -him. He has retired (the more’s the pity) from dramatic criticism. But I -take his account of second-nighters on trust, because the exigencies of -a daily newspaper prevent me from observing them for myself. Evidently -they, no more than first-nighters, are average playgoers. - -Not that I would disparage the general playgoer. Indeed, I am not sure -that he is not, in another sense than Labiche’s, _le plus heureux des -trois_. I can speak for myself. Mind, I am saying nothing against -first-nighters. They are entirely admirable persons—I could never bring -myself, like Mr. Beerbohm, to call them a lot. But oh! the joy of being, -on holiday occasions, a general playgoer, of throwing one’s considering -cap over the mills, of garnering no impressions for future “copy,” of -blithely ignoring one’s better judgment, of going comfortably home from -the play, like everybody else, instead of dashing madly into a taxi for -the newspaper office! The play will be well on in its run, the comedian -will have polished up his jokes, the superfluities will have been cut -out, the programme girls will long since have given up leading the -applause, you won’t know a soul, and you won’t even bother to look at -the author’s name. You surrender your individuality and drift with the -crowd, or, in more pretentious language, merge yourself in the collective -consciousness. - -Which reminds me. The general playgoer just because he is general, is -what Henry James called George Sand: remarkably accessible. Everybody -knows him. He is a public theme. Theorists won’t leave him alone. In -particular, the collective psychologists have marked him for their -prey. For them he typifies the theatrical “crowd,” with the peculiar -crowd characteristics these theorists profess to have scientifically -classified. Sarcey began it. Lemaître followed. And comparatively obscure -scribes have devoted attention to the general playgoer. They have said -that he is no philosopher; he cannot adopt a detached, impersonal, -disinterested view of life; he must take sides. Hence the convention of -the “sympathetic personage.” He has not the judicial faculty, is not -accustomed to sift evidence or to estimate probabilities. Hence the -convention of the “long arm of coincidence” and the convention that the -wildest improbability may be taken as the starting-point of a play. The -general playgoer, as such, is virtuous and generous; for we are all on -our best behaviour in public. And he insists upon a strict separation of -virtue and vice. He wants his personages all of a piece. The composite -characters, blends of good and evil, he refuses to recognize. Hence the -conventions of “hero” and “villain,” of “poetic justice” and of “living -happy ever afterwards.” Further, it has been suggested that a crowd of -general playgoers, having an individuality of its own, cannot but be -interested in that individuality, apart from all reference to the cause -which brought it together. Once assembled, it becomes self-conscious, -self-assertive. It finds itself an interesting spectacle. And the general -playgoer is not of the cloistered but of the gregarious type of mankind; -he must have bustle, the sense of human kinship brought home to him by -sitting elbow by elbow with his neighbours. The faculty of intellectual -attention is seldom high in such a temperament as this. Hence the -playwright has to _force_ the attention of a temperamentally inattentive -audience. Mark, once more, that I am not speaking of first-nighters. -Their individuality is too strong to be crowd-immersed. I would not -for worlds speak of them as a crowd at all. They are an assemblage, a -constellation, a galaxy. Admirable persons! - -But there is one thing for which I envy the general playgoer above -all. I mean his freedom and pungency of criticism. Anonymity gives him -irresponsibility, and, his resentment at being bored not being subject -to the cooling process of literary composition, his language is apt to -be really terrible. Talk of printed criticism! Actors and authors do -talk of it often enough, and on the whole don’t seem to like it; but let -them mingle with the general playgoer and keep their ears open! Who was -the man in Balzac who said that it was absurd to speak of the danger of -certain books when we all had the corrupt book of the world open before -us, and beyond that another book a thousand times more dangerous—all that -is whispered by one man to another or discussed behind ladies’ fans at -balls? So the general playgoer is the great purveyor of secret criticism. -Disraeli, or another, said that the secret history of the world, which -never got into the history books, was the only true history. Let us hope -that secret criticism is not the only true sort, but it is certainly the -most live. It is free from the literary bias, the cant of criticism, the -smell of the lamp. And it is the most potent of persuasives. Published -criticism is powerless against it. The fate of a play is not decided by -newspaper criticisms (thank goodness! I should be miserable if it were), -but by what the general playgoers say to one another and pass on to their -friends. How many plays with “record” runs have been dismissed by the -newspapers on the morrow of the first night with faint praise or positive -dispraise? The general playgoer has said his say, and what he says -“goes.” I know he is giving many worthy people just now much uneasiness. -They form little theatrical societies _à côté_ to keep him out. They -deplore his taste and organize leagues for his education and improvement. -I rather fancy he is like the young lady in the play who “didn’t want -to have her mind improved.” But that is another story. What I have -been envying him for is not his taste but the heartiness with which he -“abounds in his own sense” and his freedom in expressing it. After all, -perhaps criticism that is so free and so pervasive and so potent is not -exactly to be called “secret.” I seek the _mot juste_. Or I would if that -were not a back-number. Has not Mr. Beerbohm finally put it in its place -as the Holy Grail of the nineties? - - - - -FIRST NIGHTS - - -There is a movement, I am told, in certain critical circles in favour -of the system which obtains in Parisian theatres of the _répétition -générale_. This, as most playgoers know, is a final “dress rehearsal” -held on the evening (at the Français, where evening performances must -be continuous, on the afternoon) of the day before the actual “first -night” production, or _première_, of the play. The seats, including the -exceptionally large number allotted in Paris to the Press, are filled by -invitation. It is the real “first night”; only there is no “money” in the -house. Notoriously, there is a formidable cohort of Parisians who regard -their seat at a _répétition générale_ as a kind of vested interest, and -who would be affronted by having to put up with the _première_. A very -remarkable public this is, the public of the _répétition générale_, with -its members virtually all known to one another, filling the _foyer_ with -chatter and much scent, and patiently sitting through a performance -which is apt to begin a good half-hour after the advertised time, and to -end in the small hours of the morning. The inter-acts are of inordinate -length, perhaps in the interests of the buffet, more likely because of -the inveterate leisureliness of the Parisians. The whole thing, at any -rate as I have found it, is a weariness to English flesh. But then the -gentlemen (and ladies) of the Press have the advantage of being able to -go home straight to bed, and of having all next day to think over their -“notices.” - -That is the reason, I suppose, why some critics would like to see the -system introduced in London. They want more time. They want to sleep on -it. They would write, they think, better in the morning. Let me leave -that point, however, for the moment to turn to what an incorrigibly -commercial world will probably think a more important one, the question -of finance. To the theatrical manager the introduction of this system -would mean the loss of a whole night’s receipts. With theatre rents -and expenses at their present height, could they possibly contemplate -so heavy a sacrifice? They are already complaining that theatre seats -at their present prices do not pay—and here they would be giving away, -for one night, the whole house. Further, however they might gratify the -friends whom they invited, nothing could save them from the wrath of -those who were left over. Some of these, perhaps, might be mollified by -a subsequent invitation—for the “deadhead” habit becomes an insidious -disease, and, I am told, the Paris theatres groan under the hordes of -playgoers who consider themselves entitled to gratuitous admission. On -the whole, I think our managers would be ill-advised to countenance the -suggested change. - -Another thing. The _répétition générale_ is a trial performance. Effects -which don’t “tell,” incidents which shock or provoke ridicule, are -often cut out next morning, so that the play actually presented at -the _première_ differs, sometimes vitally, from that presented to the -critics, so that the “notice” not seldom describes and criticizes various -matters which the public are never shown. If the English manager imitated -this example—and as a practical man of business he would be sure to -imitate it—the unhappy critic after writing his notice would have to go -to the play again, before printing it, in order to assure himself that it -still represented the facts. It would have to be two bites at a cherry. -Now, new plays are often produced on two nights running, in which case -two bites at the same cherry would be impossible. In the most favourable -case, two successive visits to a play would be a heavy addition to the -burden of life. - -But would criticism benefit in quality? I venture to doubt that, too. I -think that theatrical “notices” are all the better for being piping hot. -One’s impressions of the play are stronger, more definite in outline, -richer in colour, when one leaves the theatre than next morning, when -they have had time to cool and to fade into “second thoughts,” which in -criticism are far from being always the best. When Jules Lemaître went -from the _Débats_ to the _Deux Mondes_ he found that his thoughts about -the play, instead of maturing with the longer interval for writing, were -apt to become simply vague and general. If the play happened to be one -“of ideas,” not so much harm was done, because ideas stick in the mind, -and are revolved there. But a play of emotion or a play dependent on -fine shades of acting is bound to suffer by the gradual waning of the -first impression. And my own experience is that in writing about a play -of which one has lost the first hot impression, and which one has to -recall by an effort of memory, the proportions get altered, so that the -criticism is thrown out of gear. Some point, a mere minor point, perhaps, -that attracted one’s attention, remains in the mind and assumes an undue -importance in relation to other details that have faded. I went to see -_Grierson’s Way_ revived the other night after a quarter of a century. -When I asked myself beforehand what I remembered of it, I could only -answer that I had been originally much struck by its merits, but that -the only one of these merits that remained in my mind was a conversation -wherein, under a surface of small talk, two people were revealing depths -of tragic emotion. I had forgotten the characters, the _motif_, the very -story. And when my conversation turned up (in Act III.), though I was as -delighted as ever, I saw, of course, that it was only an item, not the -sole memorable thing in the play. - -An interval of a quarter of a century is rather different from one -of four-and-twenty hours? Undoubtedly; but my point is that one’s -impressions begin to wane and to alter in “values” from the very outset. -After all it is the business of critics not merely to criticize, analyse, -and judge a play, to try and “place” it in the realm of art; they have -also the perhaps minor but still important duty of acting as public -“tasters.” They have to represent facts, to give the public a reasonably -accurate notion of what they are likely to see. And they are in a much -better position for doing this if they set down their facts and their -views of the facts at once, while they are still quivering with the -excitement (or yawning with the boredom) of them. - - - - -PLAYS WITHIN PLAYS - - -Representative arts will represent everything they can, including -themselves. The theatre likes to show an image of its own life, life -behind the scenes, actors acting on the stage, audiences listening, -applauding, or interrupting in front. Hence the plays within plays which -Shakespeare found so alluring. It was a comparatively simple problem of -technique in his time because of the simplicity of the “platform” stage -and of the Elizabethan playhouse. - -A standing audience, as his for the most part was, is obviously easier to -represent than a seated audience; it is just a crowd of “citizens” like -any other stage crowd. The only important question for the stage-manager -was the relative position of the mimic players and the mimic public. -Clearly your mimic players must be seen by the real public, or what -becomes of your play within a play? The position of your mimic public -must have been more or less dependent on their importance in the action. -But, I take it, the Elizabethan arrangement, in any case, must have been -of a pre-Raphaelite symmetry. I presume the play scene in _Hamlet_ must -have taken place in the lower part of the permanent erection at the back -of the stage and that the mimic public was ranged down each side of the -stage. The old arrangement has remained essentially unaltered. The mimic -players are generally shown in some raised, arcaded terrace at the back -of the stage; the King and Queen face Hamlet and Ophelia (in profile -with respect to the real public) in front. It would obviously never do -to let Hamlet and the King face the performers in the rear and so turn -their backs on the real public, for the whole point of the scene is the -effect of the mimic play on the King and on Hamlet watching the King. -But I do not, for my part, see why more might not be made out of this -“psychologic” effect by an arrangement which placed the mimic players -nearer the front of the actual stage, on one side, so that the King might -be turned full-face towards us as he watched them. If the King were -played by an actor of the first importance (which he seldom or never is), -with a gift of facial play, we may be sure that this would be done. - -There is a somewhat similar scene in the first act of _Cyrano de -Bergerac_. The chief centre of attraction here is not the mimic play -itself, but the behaviour of the audience, disturbed by Cyrano’s -interruption of the players. That is why I think that Coquelin’s -arrangement with the players on one side and the audience in profile -was better than Mr. Loraine’s, with the players in the rear and the -mimic audience turning its back to the real one. But it is a point of -comparative insignificance. As it was the old playhouse and the old -standing audience that was being represented, the stage-management was -essentially as simple as that of the play-scene in _Hamlet_. - -So soon, however, as you come to represent the very different modern -“picture” stage and the modern seated audience you see at once that -the problem becomes immensely more difficult. Accordingly you find a -revolution in the method of treating a play within a play. I do not know -whether the Guitrys invented it or Reinhardt or whoever, but certainly -the most conspicuous illustration we have had of it has been presented by -the Guitrys. It is something much more than a mechanical change; it is -psychological as well. The mimic stage, the stage of the play within the -play, now occupies the whole of the actual stage, and the mimic audience -is identified with the real audience. - -We saw this startling innovation first in _Pasteur_. Pasteur is supposed -to be addressing a meeting of the French Academy of Medicine. His rostrum -is at the footlights, and he addresses _us_, the real audience. _We_ have -to suppose ourselves the Academy of Medicine. To help us to this illusion -one or two actors are scattered about the house, who interrupt, argue -with Pasteur, and are personally answered by him. We find ourselves, -in fact, at once listening to a debate, as real audience, and, in the -thick of it, taking part in it, as supposed audience. There is a French -proverb which says you cannot both join in a procession and look out -of the window; but this experience upsets it. The result is a curious -blend of sensations; you feel yourself both spectator and actor, _at_ a -play and _in_ a play. But there is no doubt that the effect is much more -vivid and exciting than that which would have attended the mere spectacle -of Pasteur addressing a crowd upon the stage itself. You have, by the -way, exactly the same effect in Mr. Galsworthy’s _Skin Game_, where an -auctioneer addresses us, the public, who are supposed to represent the -competing purchasers. - -A still more striking instance has been seen in _L’Illusioniste_. Here -the first act shows the stage of a music-hall and presents three actual -“turns.” We, the actual audience, become the music-hall audience, and -again there are actors scattered among us to help the illusion. They are -addressed by the conjurer and answer him; a lady in a box throws him -ardent glances which are returned with interest. But one of the “turns,” -an act by acrobatic clowns, has absolutely nothing to do with the play; -it is there purely for its own interest, a substantive performance. -This shows, what we knew before, that revolutions run to excess. We are -so engrossed by the clowns that we are tempted to forget what we are -there for, to see a play. Anyhow, it is a most amusing innovation, this -conversion of the actual stage into an imaginary stage within the play, -and of the actual public into an imaginary public taking part in the -play. It is a real enrichment of stage resources. - -But there are obvious dangers. One I have just pointed out, the danger of -introducing irrelevancies for their own intrinsic interest, which tend to -impair the artistic unity of the play. Another is the danger of applying -this method to cases (as in _Hamlet_ and _Cyrano_) where the real centre -of interest is not the mimic play but the mimic audience. Imagine the -whole stage given up to the _Mouse Trap_, with the front row of stalls -occupied by the courtiers, and Hamlet and Ophelia in one box watching the -King and Gertrude in the opposite box! That is an extreme instance, which -traditional respect for Shakespeare will probably save us from; but some -ambitious producer will probably try this game with some modern play, and -then I predict disaster. - - - - -PLAYS OF TALK - - -The production on two successive nights of two plays so violently -contrasted in method as Mr. Harwood’s _Grain of Mustard Seed_ and Mr. -Galsworthy’s _Skin Game_—the first a play mainly of talk, the second a -play entirely of action—sets one thinking. According to the orthodox -canons, the second is the right, nay, the only method. Drama, we are -told, is a conflict of wills and all the interest is in the action, the -external manifestation of the conflict. There should be just enough talk -to carry that on and not an idle word should be spoken. Diderot, indeed, -professed to think that words were almost superfluous, and went to the -play with cotton-wool in his ears in order to judge its merits on the -dumb show; yet he wrote the most wordy and tedious plays. And there is, -or was, a certain school of theatrical criticism which forever quotes -the old Astley maxim, “Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses”—which was -no doubt a most appropriate maxim, for quadrupeds. Others have mistaken -action for physical, preferably violent action—Maldonado sweeping the -crockery off the chimney-piece or Lady Audley pushing her husband down -the well—and have ignored the fact that talk also may be action, “and -much the noblest,” as Dryden says. “Every alteration or crossing of -a design, every new-sprung passion, and turn of it, is a part of the -action, and much the noblest, except we perceive nothing to be action, -till they come to blows; as if the painting of the hero’s mind were -not more properly the poet’s work than the strength of his body.” How -often we were told in the old days that Dumas _fils_ and Ibsen were too -“talky,” when their talk was mainly psychological action. - -But this demand for action and nothing but action, so persistently -uttered of late years, would deprive the world of much of its best -entertainment. Apply it to Congreve, “cut the cackle” of his plays, and -you come to the ’osses, spavined hacks, of plots childishly complicated -and perfunctorily wound up. Would any one of taste suppress the “cackle” -of Sheridan’s scandalous college? Is not, in short, much of the pleasure -of comedy in resting from the action, in getting away from it, in the -relief of good talk? Yes, and often enough the pleasure of tragedy, too. -There is a bustling, melodramatic action in _Hamlet_. But with what -relief Hamlet gets away from his revenge “mission” at every moment, puts -it out of sight, forgets it! His interview with the players and advice to -them on histrionics, his chat with the gravedigger, what else are these -but the sheer delight of good talk? For him the joy of living is the joy -of talking, and with the chance of these before him his revenge-mission -may go hang! - -Obviously we never get so near Shakespeare and Shakespeare’s natural -temperament, as in these moments of talk for its own sake, talk -unfettered by the exigencies of the plot. For that talk wells up -spontaneously and is not turned on to order; the poet has something -interesting in his mind which he is bursting to say, and if to say it -will keep the plot waiting, why, so much the worse for the plot. And -here is a reason, I think, in favour of plays of talk. We get nearer -the author in them; in good talk the author is expressing a pleasure so -strong as to override the objection of irrelevance, and in sharing that -pleasure we get the best of him, the spontaneous element in him, the man -himself. On the other hand, mere yarn-spinning, mere plot-weaving, may -be an almost mechanical exercise. Not necessarily, of course. I should -be sorry to call Mr. Galsworthy’s _Skin Game_ a mechanical bit of work. -The will-conflict there has an intense reality and is fought tooth and -nail. Irrelevant talk in such a white-hot play would obviously be fatal. -Everybody speaks briefly, plainly, and to the point. Artistic work of -any kind gives pleasure, and it is possible to be as delighted with Mr. -Galsworthy’s kind as with Mr. Harwood’s. I am not comparing two artists -of two different kinds, which would be absurd. I am only pleading for a -kind which is not what a vain people supposeth, and which is apt to be -stupidly condemned. - -Not that it would be fair, either, to call Mr. Harwood’s brilliant task -irrelevant. It helps to paint character. Thus, parents expect their -son to have returned from the war a compound of Sir Galahad and Mr. -Bottomley, and instead of that he is only a good bridge-player, after -four hours’ bridge a day for four years. These witticisms help to tell -you something about the young man whose family reputation gives rise -to them in the family circle. When the old Parliamentary hand compares -government to ’bus-driving, seeking to get through the traffic with the -minimum of accident, or remarks on the reputation Canute would have -made had he only waited for high tide, he is telling us something about -himself and his political principles. But primarily these things are -enjoyable for their wit and not for their relevance. In a play of fierce -will-conflict they would have been impossible. These plays of brilliant -talk belong to the quiet _genre_, and quiet in the theatre, as in art -generally, is perhaps an acquired taste. “Punch,” we are constantly being -told by the natural unsophisticated man, is what is wanted—the word -itself is the invention of an unquiet people. Well, give me wit, and let -who will have the “punch.” - -The occasional tendency in the theatre to revolt against the restraint of -the action and to play lightly round it has its counterpart in criticism. -What is it gives so peculiar a charm to the criticism of Dryden? Is it -not his discursiveness, his little descriptive embellishments—as, for -example, in the “Essay of Dramatic Poesy,” the river trip, the listening -for the distant thunder of the Dutch guns “on that memorable day,” the -moonlight on the water, the landing at Somerset Stairs among the crowd of -French dancers? I have elsewhere said how Hazlitt’s theatrical criticisms -lose in readableness by their strict attention to business, compared -with his miscellaneous essays, where he permits himself to wander “all -over the place.” George Henry Lewes’s theatrical criticisms can still be -read with pleasure for the very reason that they were diversified with -deliberate, almost frivolous irrelevancies. And then there was Jules -Lemaître with his perpetual “moi,” which provoked the austere Brunetière -to quote Pascal’s “_le moi est haïssable_.” Yet where will you find more -enjoyable criticism than Lemaître’s? But I must keep off Lemaître and the -charm of him, or I shall become, what he never was, tiresome. Even as it -is, I may resemble the parson who said he had aimed at brevity in order -to avoid tediousness, and was answered, “You _were_ brief, and you _were_ -tedious.” - - - - -“THE BEGGAR’S OPERA” - - -One of Boswell’s projected works was a history of the controversy over -_The Beggar’s Opera_. The best known of the works he actually did -write contains several references to this controversy. Reynolds said -it afforded a proof how strangely people will differ in opinion about -a literary performance. Burke thought it had no merit. Johnson thought -very much the opposite, but said characteristically, “There is in it -such a labefactation of all principles as may be injurious to morality.” -Gibbon suggested that it might refine the manners of highwaymen, “making -them less ferocious, more polite—in short, more like gentlemen.” It is -noteworthy that the work was half a century old when these observations -were made about it. It had become a classic. And later generations -treated it as a classic—that is to say, kept on refashioning it to the -taste of their own time. The version, for instance, that Hazlitt was so -fond of writing about (in the second decade of the last century) was a -sad mangling of the original. Even so, it represented for Hazlitt the -high-water mark of theatrical enjoyment, just as the original did for -Boswell, who said, “No performance which the theatre exhibits delights -me more.” You cannot take up a volume of Swift’s correspondence, or -Horace Walpole’s or Arbuthnot’s, without mention of _The Beggar’s Opera_. -It even got into Grimm. It was the _H.M.S. Pinafore_ of the time. - -And that reminds me. As I sat at the Hammersmith Lyric listening to the -dialogue between Peachum and Mrs. Peachum on the question whether Polly -was Macheath’s wife or his mistress, the thing seemed strangely modern, -and not only modern, but Gilbertian. (I am speaking, of course, of the -tone, not of the sentiment—Gilbert was a very Victorian of propriety.) -Peachum is Gilbertian. “Do you think your mother and I should have liv’d -comfortably so long together if ever we had been married? Baggage!” Mrs. -Peachum is Gilbertian. “If you must be married, could you introduce -nobody into our family but a highwayman? Why, thou foolish jade, thou -wilt be as ill-used and as much neglected as if thou hadst married a -lord!” Again, “If she had only an intrigue with the fellow, why the -very best families have excus’d and huddled up a frailty of that sort. -’Tis marriage, husband, that makes it a blemish.” Once more. “Love him! -Worse and worse! I thought the girl had been better bred.” Polly herself -is Gilbertian. “Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and -more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling -his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from -the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to -disgrace! I see him at the tree! The whole circle are in tears! Even -butchers weep!” Lucy is Gilbertian. When Macheath is at the “tree,” -her comment is, “There is nothing moves one so much as a great man in -distress.” And not only the tone, but the very principle of the play is -Gilbertian. Gilbert took some typical figure of the social hierarchy—a -Lord Chancellor, a First Lord of the Admiralty—and set the Chancellor -capering and the First Lord singing about the handle of the big front -door. He put a familiar figure in unfamiliar postures. Gay took a typical -figure of his own time—the highwayman—and showed him, not at work on the -highway, but enjoying an elegant leisure, behaving like a Chesterfield or -one of Congreve’s fine gentlemen. It was the realism, the actuality of -the subject, combined with the burlesque of the treatment, that delighted -the London of 1728 as it delighted the London of a century and a half -later. At each date it was a new experiment in opera libretto. Boswell -specified the attraction of Gay’s realism—“the real pictures of London -life.” Johnson singles out the “novelty” of the treatment. - -But it is time that I said something about Mr. Nigel Playfair’s revival. -This is a remarkable success, from every point of view. For the original -attraction of realism is, of course, no longer there. We have to take -it all historically. And the revival has been particularly careful -of historical accuracy. Just as Gay’s dialogue prompts you to say -“Gilbert,” so Mr. Lovat Fraser’s scenery and costumes prompt you to -exclaim “Hogarth!” By the way, on one of Hazlitt’s visits he records the -exclamation of an old gentleman in the pit, after the scuffle between -Peachum and Lockit, “Hogarth, by G—d!” This was, no doubt, a tribute to -the grim, ugly squalor of that particular scene. But the whole _décor_ -and atmosphere of the present affair are Hogarthian—the stiff, flattened -hoops of the women, the tatterdemalion aspect of Macheath’s rabble, -Peachum’s dressing-gown (which I suppose is “documentary”), Macheath’s -scarlet coat and flowing wig. And the dresses are accurately simple. The -women wear plain stuffs; Polly alone is allowed a little finery. Indeed, -there is an almost austere simplicity about the whole affair. One scene, -with just the alteration of a few accessories, serves for Peachum’s -house, for a tavern, and for Newgate. There is an orchestra of five -strings, a flute, an oboe, and a harpsichord. It seems to me that their -playing has the delicate charm of chamber music rather than the power and -colour of orchestral—but I must not stray out of my province. - -Hazlitt indulged in raptures over Miss Stephens, the first Polly -he heard, and never failed to contrast with her her less pleasing -successors. He had evidently lost his heart to her—a somewhat susceptible -heart, if you think of the “Liber Amoris.” I have no Miss Stephens to -compare Miss Arkandy with, and can only say the songstress is quite -sweet enough for my taste and the actress a charming little doll. Miss -Marquesita, the Lucy, is a good contrast, a voluptuous termagant. Boswell -says of Walker, the original Macheath, that he “acquired great celebrity -by his grave yet animated performance of it.” Mr. Ranalow’s Macheath -is decidedly more grave than animated, is in fact a little solemn—long -before he gets to the Condemn’d Hold. There is an almost Oriental -impassiveness about him, something of the jaded sultan—which, after all, -is not an inappropriate suggestion, surrounded as the poor man is by his -seraglio of town-ladies. Miss Elsie French bravely makes a thorough hag -of Mrs. Peachum; the Peachum and Lockit of Mr. Wynne and Mr. Rawson are -properly, Hogarthianly, crapulous; and Mr. Scott Russell makes a good, -vociferous Filch, leading with a will the fine drinking-song “Woman -and Wine” and the still finer “Let us take the Road” (to the tune of -Handel’s march in _Rinaldo_). Altogether a delicious entertainment: gay, -despite the solemn deportment of Macheath, and dainty, despite the sordid -_crapule_ of Newgate. Yes, my final impression of the affair is one of -daintiness. Even the women of the town are dainty. They might almost be -Dresden china shepherdesses (which would be bearing out the original -suggestion of a Newgate “pastoral” very literally). For the sordid -_milieu_ is so remote from us as to have become fantastically unreal; -the Peachums and the Lockits are no longer ugly men, but have been -turned into grotesque gargoyles; the rabble round Tyburn Tree has lived -to see a Russian ballet and learnt to move in its elegant arabesques. It -is a Hogarth retouched by a Shepperson—or rather, to speak by the card, -by a Lovat Fraser. - - - - -GRAND GUIGNOLISM - - -Dandin, the judge in Racine’s comedy of _Les Plaideurs_, offers to -amuse Isabelle by the spectacle of a little torturing. “Eh! Monsieur,” -exclaims Isabelle, “eh, Monsieur, peut on voir souffrir des malheureux?” -and Dandin, in his reply, speaks for a by no means negligible proportion -of the human race: “Bon! cela fait toujours passer une heure ou deux.” -Dandin was a Guignolite. - -We all have our Guignolite moments, moments of Taine’s “ferocious -gorilla” surviving in civilized man, when we seek the spectacle of -torture or physical suffering or violent death; but we are careful to -æsthetize them, refine them into moments of poetry or art. The pleasure -of tragedy is æsthetic. Nevertheless, tragedy involves violent death, -and without that would be an idle tale. So Rousseau was not altogether -wrong when he said we go to a tragedy for the pleasure of seeing others -suffer, without suffering ourselves. Your true Guignolite simply prefers -his tragedy “neat,” without æsthetic dilution. But I think it is unfair -to charge him, as he is so often charged, with a love of the horrible for -its own sake. I think, rather, that he is moved, a little more actively -than the rest of the world, by curiosity. - -It is customary to talk of curiosity as though it were essentially -ignoble. Children, women, and savages are said to have most of it. It -accounts for “fortune-telling,” prophetic almanacs, spiritualistic -_séances_ and other forms of alleged communication with the dead. But -the truth is, curiosity, the desire to enlarge experience, is a highly -valuable, or, rather, indispensable, human attribute. Without it there -could be no science, no progress, and finally no human life at all. And -you cannot restrict it. It must crave for all forms of experience. Some -of us will be sweeping the heavens for new stars, and others will want to -peep into Bluebeard’s cupboard. More particularly we are curious to know -what is already known to others. We desire to see with our own eyes what -others have seen and reported to us. That is why so many people have gone -to _Chu Chin Chow_. We wish to realize for ourselves, by the direct aid -of our own senses, “What it’s like.” And the more difficult it is to see, -the greater the secrecy, the intimacy, of its actual happening in life, -the greater our curiosity to see a picture or other representation of -it. Hence the vogue of stage bedroom scenes, newspaper portraits of “the -victim” and “the place of the crime,” and Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. - -I believe that is why “cela”—the horrible, the dreadful, the -gruesome—“fait toujours passer une heure ou deux” for your Guignolite. -It satisfies his curiosity about an experience which in real life it is -rare or difficult to obtain. For instance, they have been showing at the -London Grand Guignol a representation of a criminal’s last half-hour -before execution. Time was when you could see that for yourself, follow -the prisoner in the cart to Tyburn, and offer him nosegays or pots -of beer. In that time, enjoying the real thing, you wanted no mimic -representation of it. For stage purposes you only cared to have it -fantasticated—as in _The Beggar’s Opera_. To-day you cannot (unless you -are a prison official or the hangman himself) enjoy the real thing; the -Press is excluded; so you seek the next best thing, a realistic stage -picture of it. “Realistic,” I say. That is the merit of Mr. Reginald -Berkeley’s _Eight o’Clock_, wherein there is not a trace of staginess or -imported sentiment. He gives you what you are looking for, the nearest -substitute for the real thing. You are shown, as accurately as possible, -“what it’s like.” You see how the warders behave, and how the chaplain -and how the prisoner—with the result that you feel as though, for that -terrible half-hour, you had been in Newgate yourself. You have gone -through an experience which in actual life (let us hope) you will never -have. Your curiosity has been satisfied. - -And I think realism will have to be the mainstay of the Grand Guignol -programmes. There is another “shocker” in the bill, _Private Room No. 6_, -by a French author, M. de Lorde, which seemed to me not half so effective -as the other because it was largely tinged with romance. Here again was -an attempt to gratify curiosity about an unusual experience. The incident -was distinctly “private and confidential.” How many of us have had the -chance of seeing a fiercely-whiskered Muscovite kissing and biting a -(conveniently _décolletée_) lady on the shoulder, subsequently swallowing -a tumblerful of kummel at a draught, and presently being strangled by -the lady’s glove? This, you may say, was realistic enough, but what made -it romantic, theatrical, was the obviously artificial arrangement of the -story, the “preparations,” the conventional types. You knew at once you -were in the theatre and being served with carefully calculated “thrills.” -That is to say, your curiosity was solely about what was going to happen -next in the playwright’s scheme—the common interest of every stage -plot—which is a very different thing from curiosity about strange, rare, -experiences in actual life. You felt that Mr. Berkeley had really shown -you “what it’s like.” You felt that M. de Lorde had only shown you what -his skill in theatrical invention was like. - -And there, I suspect, we reach a limitation of Grand Guignolism. The -art of drama at its best—shall we call it grand art, as distinguished -from Grand Guignol art?—does not exist to gratify curiosity. The best -drama does not provoke the spectator’s curiosity about what is going -to happen so much as excite in him a keen desire that a certain thing -shall happen and then satisfy that desire to the full. The Greek -tragedians did not scruple to announce their plot in advance. Lessing, -in his “Hamburg Dramaturgy,” maintains that “the dramatic interest is -all the stronger and keener the longer and more certainly we have been -allowed to foresee everything,” and adds, “So far am I from holding -that the end ought to be hidden from the spectator that I don’t think -the enterprise would be a task beyond my strength were I to undertake -a play of which the end should be announced in advance, from the very -first scene.” The truth is, in the fine art of drama we are seeking -what we seek in every fine art—beauty, a new form and colouring to be -given to the actions and emotions of the real world by the artist’s -imagination. But even on the lower plane of realism Grand Guignolism has -ample scope. The one-act formula has a clear technical advantage in the -single scene and strict coincidence of supposed with actual time, great -helps both to unity of impression. (One counted the minutes in _Eight -o’Clock_ almost as anxiously as the condemned man did.) And it has the -immense fun of theatrical experiment, of seeing how far you can go, what -shocks the public can stand and what it can’t, the joy of adventurously -exploring the unknown and the _inédit_. Above all, if it is wise it -will remember that (as I believe at any rate) its public does not yearn -for the “shocking” incident merely as such, but as representing a rare -experience, and it will look for some rarities that are not shocking. - - - - -A THEATRICAL FORECAST - - -Newspapers periodically publish their review of the past theatrical year. -But it is always a sad thing to recall the past, especially the immediate -past, which is too recent to be history and only old enough to be stale. -Why not, then, let bygones be bygones and turn to the future, about which -hope springs eternal, and which gives free scope to the imagination -instead of imposing the tedious labour of research? What are our leading -dramatists going to give us next year? The question might be treated in a -matter-of-fact way by just going and asking them—and perhaps getting very -disappointing answers. It seems more sportsmanlike to guess; besides, it -leaves room for some piquant surprises when one is by and by confronted -with the actual. These, then, are one or two guesses for next season. - -It is long, too long, since London had a play from Sir Arthur Pinero. -When he writes a play he gives you a play, not a symposium or a sermon -or a piece of propagandism, but a dramatic action which interests you in -its story, makes you wonder what is going to happen next, and takes care -that something does happen, striking at the moment and worth thinking -about afterwards. His characters are presented in strong relief, there -is always a dramatic conflict of wills, his women are never insipid, are -sometimes deliciously perverse, and, if not past redemption (in which -case they commit suicide), are “saved” by the nearest Anglican bishop -or dean. His forthcoming play will ignore the Church and will deal with -a household divided on the “spiritualistic” question. The husband, who -suffers from mild shell-shock and saw the “angels of Mons,” will have -come back from the war a devoted follower of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir -Conan Doyle. The wife (Miss Irene Vanbrugh) will be a pretty sceptic, -adoring her husband, but impatient of his credulity and determined to -“laugh him out” of it. An opportunity occurs. The young pair have been -having a sarcastic scene (a fine opportunity for Miss Irene’s merry -ringing laugh) about the husband’s bosom-friend Jack, whom he had left -for dead on the field at Mons. The husband eagerly hopes to get into -communication with Jack “on the other side.” The wife only remembers, -with twinges of conscience, certain love passages she had, before her -marriage, with the said Jack, of which she has never told her husband. -Now Jack is not dead, but on his way to his bosom-friend, when the wife -meets him. She sees at once a chance of opening her husband’s eyes. -“We’ll have a _séance_,” she says to Jack; “you shall pretend to be your -own spirit, and then suddenly reveal yourself as flesh and blood—and -Tom will be for ever cured of his foolishness.” Jack agrees, but he -also is suffering from shell-shock (two in one play! you can imagine -how clever the critics will be over this—it will have to be made clear -that it was the same shell), forgets himself at the _séance_, and at -sight of his old lady-love cries “Darling!”; then, horrified at his own -misbehaviour, disappears, and the same night is either run over by a -motor-car or tumbles into a canal. The wife’s reputation is saved by -another lady present, who takes the “darling!” to herself. It is not yet -settled whether this shall be a comic amorous dame, really self-deceived -(say, Miss Lottie Venne), or a shrewd, kindly woman of the world (Miss -Compton, for choice), who promptly sees how the land lies and sacrifices -herself for her little married friend. In either case, the wife has to -keep up the illusion that the voice came from “the other side,” while -the husband, though confirmed in his spiritualism, is secretly disgusted -to discover that the spirits can be such “bad form.” Thus the final -situation is an ironic transmutation of the first. The divided pair are -now united, the merry sceptic being frightened into simulating belief, -while the believer ruefully finds belief without zest. Much will depend -on the acting of this final situation. Miss Irene may safely be trusted -to transfer her laugh adroitly to the wrong side of her mouth, but great -subtlety will be required from the actor who has to convey the mixed joy -and pain of a belief proved at once true and not worth having. It may, -perhaps, count among Mr. Henry Ainley’s triumphs. Mr. Gerald du Maurier -will play Jack the friend—another triumph, for even in his moment of -breakdown he will still keep the sympathy of the audience. - -Sir James Barrie has not yet exhausted the variations on his -“enchantment” theme. After the enchanted wood of _Dear Brutus_, where -people get a second chance in life, and the enchanted island of _Mary -Rose_, where time stands still with you, he will with his next play -sound enchanted bagpipes. These will be heard as a weird _obbligato_, -whenever any one of the characters falls into insincerity, from _pp_ -(amiable taradiddle) to _ff_ (thumping lie), and, while they are playing, -the character will talk broad Scotch and sketch the postures of or, in -extreme cases, wildly dance a Highland Reel. As the characters will be -drawn exclusively from the Holland House set (the scene throughout will -be one of the famous breakfasts), the extravagance of the compulsory fits -of Caledonianism can be seen a mile off. The dismay of the poet Rogers -(Mr. George Robey, specially engaged) at finding his best _méchancetés_, -in his notoriously low voice, unexpectedly uttered in the broadest Scotch -will only be equalled by the surprise of Sydney Smith at hearing his -choicest witticisms in the same lingo. At one supreme moment the whole -party will be joining in a Reel, led recalcitrantly but majestically by -Lady H. Fashionable dames (a great opportunity for the costumier, and -fabulous sums will be spent on the wardrobe) will suddenly change from -lisping “vastly amusing I declare!” and rolled-collared _beaux_ from -murmuring “monstrous fine women, egad!” to “aiblins,” “hoots, mon,” -“hech, sirs,” etc. The situation will ultimately be saved by a little -Scottish maiden, in a plaid (Miss Hilda Trevelyan), who, being sincerity -itself, will never speak anything but the purest English, and a baby in a -box nailed against the wall, who will not speak at all. For the enchanted -bagpipes a squad of pipe-majors of the Black Watch, splendid fellows in -review order, will be kindly lent from the Edinburgh garrison. - -Mr. Maugham has been to China, and has brought back a play which will -aim at being as unlike _Mr. Wu_ as possible. In fact, no Chinaman will -figure in it—Mr. Maugham would never do anything so artistically vulgar -as that—nor anything Chinese except a little porcelain curio of the best -period. This will be sold by auction in a scene (it will be the talk -of London) faithfully reproducing a celebrated establishment in King -Street, St. James’s, with Mr. Hawtrey and Miss Gladys Cooper as the rival -bidders. It will serve, later, for chief _pièce justificative_ in a -divorce case between the same parties (with a really witty judge—for he -will have the wit of Mr. Maugham—who will make a certain actual humorist -on the Bench green with envy), and in the end will be broken by an -excited counsel (played by the famous crockery-smashing artist from the -music-halls). - -Mr. Shaw—but no, it is impossible for Mr. Shaw himself, let alone any -one else, to guess beforehand what Mr. Shaw will do. Finally, it may be -conjectured that the rank and file of our playwrights will write for us -precisely the same plays they have written before, under new titles. It -would be an agreeable innovation if they would keep the old titles and -write new plays for them. - - - - -A THEORY OF BRUNETIÈRE - - -There is a theory of the late Ferdinand Brunetière about the periods of -dramatic activity which the time we are now passing through ought to put -to the test. Brunetière was an incorrigible generalizer, first because -he was a Frenchman, and next because he was a born critic. Criticism -without general ideas, without a substructure of principle and theory to -build upon, is an idle thing, the mere expression of likes and dislikes, -or else sheer verbiage. This French critic was always throwing theories -at the drama, and some of them have stuck. Perhaps the soundest of them -and the most lasting was his theory of the drama as the spectacle of the -struggle of will against obstacles. There has been much controversy about -it, there has been no difficulty in instancing cases which it fails to -cover, but I venture to think that as a rough generalization it still -holds good. I am not, however, concerned with that famous theory for the -moment. I am thinking of another theory—a historical one. Brunetière -asserted that every outburst of dramatic activity in a nation will be -found to have followed close upon a great manifestation of national -energy—Greek tragedy, for instance, after the Persian War, Calderon and -de Vega after the Spanish conquests in the New World, Shakespeare after -the Armada, the French romantic drama after the Napoleonic campaigns. -He might have added that the war of 1870 was followed by the best work -of Dumas fils, by the Théâtre Libre, by Ibsen and Björnson, Hauptmann -and Sudermann, and the Russo-Japanese War by the Moscow Art Theatre and -Tchekhov. - -I confess, then, my doubts about the soundness of this theory. Throughout -the past history of any nation wars have been of so constant occurrence -that it would be difficult not to find one preceding, by a fairly short -term, any particular outburst of dramatic activity you like to fix -upon. One is always _post_ the other; it is not necessarily _propter_. -And instances to the contrary will readily occur: periods of dramatic -activity that were not immediately preceded by, but rather synchronized -with, great manifestations of national energy; for instance, the period -of Corneille, Racine, and Molière. And sometimes, when you look for your -dramatic sequel to your national energizing, you only draw a blank. Did -any outburst of dramatic production follow the American Civil War? The -theory, in short, is “an easy one,” relying on lucky coincidence and -ignoring inconvenient exceptions. - -In any case, we ought to be able now, if ever, to put it to the “acid -test.” The leading nations of the world have just fought the biggest of -all their wars. Has the promised sequel followed? Is there any sign -at home or abroad of a fresh outburst of dramatic energy? In Germany -they seem to be merely “carrying on,” or tending to be a little more -pornographic than usual. In Vienna they are still translating Mr. Shaw. -No new dramatic masterpiece is reported from Italy, D’Annunzio being -“otherwise engaged,” Mr. Boffin. Paris is still producing its favourite -little “spicinesses” or, for the high brows, translating Strindberg. -(Outside the theatre the effect of the war on Paris seems not merely -negative but stupefying. They have achieved Dadaism and, so I read in -a recent _Literary Supplement_, a distaste for the works of M. Anatole -France!) In America the drama is in no better case than before the war. - -And what about London? An absolutely unprecedented dearth of not merely -good but of actable plays. People will give you other causes, mainly -economic, for the theatrical “slump.” They will tell you, truly enough, -that playgoers have less money to spend, and that the cheaper “cinema” -is diverting more and more money from the theatre. And yet, whenever the -managers produce anything really worth seeing there is no lack of people -to see it. - -There is nothing, then, to discourage the aspiring dramatist. Only he -won’t aspire! Or his aspiration is not backed by talent! It seems as -though the war, instead of stimulating dramatic energy, had repressed and -chilled it. What on earth (if I may use a colloquialism condemned by Dr. -Johnson) would poor M. Brunetière have said if he had lived to see his -pet theory thus falsified? Probably he would have invented a new one. He -would have said that wars mustn’t be _too_ big to fit into a law devised -only for usual sizes. Also he might have said, wait and see. The war -is only just over; give your young dramatists a little breathing time. -Shakespeare’s plays didn’t immediately follow the Armada. The French -Romantic Drama didn’t begin till a good dozen years after Waterloo. - -Well, we can’t afford to wait. While we playgoers are waiting for -good plays, our young men are all frittering away their talent in -minor poetry, which war seems to bring as relentlessly in its train as -shell-shock. But the victims of both maladies ought by now to be on -the high-road to recovery, and it is time that the young minor poets -turned their attention to something useful, _e.g._, the reintroduction -of the British drama. They have a capital opportunity, since most of -our old stalwarts seem to have left the field. Sir Arthur Pinero gives -us nothing. Mr. Arthur Henry Jones gives us nothing. Mr. Maugham is, -I am told, far away in Borneo, so now is the chance for the young -aspirants; the world is all before them where to choose. Of course it is -understood that they will drop their verse. That used to be the natural -form for plays over two centuries ago. It may come into fashion again, -you never can tell, but, quite clearly, the time is not yet. I have -heard people ask, “What are the chances for a revival of poetic drama?” -They really mean verse-drama, but the answer is, that the essence of -poetry is not verse, which is merely ornament, but the expression of -a certain spiritual state, a certain _état d’âme_, and that there is -always room for poetic plays. _Dear Brutus_ contained much of the poetic -essence; so does _Mary Rose_. But their language is prose, and our -young aspirants may be recommended to write in prose, for which their -previous verse-exercises will have been a useful preparation. Only let -them hurry up! Let their hearts swell with the proud hope of creating -that magnificent affair, which demands capital letters, the Drama of the -Future. Mr. Bergson told us at Oxford that when an interviewer invited -him to forecast the drama of the future he answered, “If I could do that -I’d write it.” So we can only wonder what it will be like. “Sir,” said -Dr. Johnson to Boswell who was “wondering,” “you _may_ wonder.” - - - - -DISRAELI AND THE PLAY - - -We have all been reading Mr. Buckle’s concluding volumes, and when we -have recovered from the fascination of the great man and the splendid -historical pageant they present to us, we dip into them again in search -of trifles agreeable to our own individual taste. And I shall make no -apology for turning for a moment from Disraeli in robes of ceremony, the -friend of Sovereigns, the hero of Congresses, the great statesman and -great Parliament man, to Disraeli the playgoer. That dazzling figure is -not readily thought of as a unit in the common playhouse crowd. Yet it -is with a feeling of relief from the imposing spectacle of great mundane -affairs that you find Disraeli, after receiving in the afternoon the -“awful news” of the Russian ultimatum to Turkey (October, 1876), going -in the evening with his Stafford House hosts to see _Peril_ at the -Haymarket, and pleased with the acting of Mrs. Kendal. The play, he tells -his correspondent, Lady Bradford, is— - -“An adaptation from the French _Nos Intimes_—not over-moral, but fairly -transmogrified from the original, and cleverly acted in the chief part—a -woman whom, I doubt not, you, an _habituée_ of the drama, know very -well, but quite new to me. Now she is married, but she was a sister -of Robertson, the playwright. She had evidently studied in the French -school. The whole was good and the theatre was ventilated; so I did not -feel exhausted, and was rather amused, and shd. rather have enjoyed -myself had not the bad news thrown its dark shadow over one’s haunted -consciousness....” - -Mrs. Kendal’s training was, I fancy, entirely English, but her acting -was on a level with the best of “the French school.” Disraeli was an old -admirer of French acting, as we know from “Coningsby,” and I think it is -pretty clear from the same source that he particularly liked Déjazet. For -he had Déjazet in mind, I guess, in the member of Villebecque’s troop of -French comedians engaged for the delectation of Lord Monmouth, “a lady -of maturer years who performed the heroines, gay and graceful as May.” -This was the lady, it will be remembered, who saved the situation when -Mlle. Flora broke down. “The failure of Flora had given fresh animation -to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed the very soul of elegant frolic. -In the last scene she figured in male attire; and in air, fashion, -and youth beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked younger than -Coningsby when he went up to his grandpapa.” This is Déjazet to the life. -The whole episode of the French players in “Coningsby” shows Disraeli -as not only an experienced playgoer but a connoisseur of the theatre. -His description of the company is deliciously knowing—from the young -lady who played old woman’s parts, “nothing could be more garrulous and -venerable,” and the old man who “was rather hard, but handy; could take -anything either in the high serious or the low droll,” to the sentimental -lover who “was rather too much bewigged, and spoke too much to the -audience, a fault rare with the French; but this hero had a vague idea -that he was ultimately destined to run off with a princess.” - -In “Tancred” there is another, and an entirely charming, glimpse of -French strolling players or strollers who played in French, the Baroni -family—“Baroni; that is, the son of Aaron; the name of old clothesmen in -London, and of Caliphs in Baghdad.” There is no more engaging incident -in the romantic career of Sidonia than his encounter with this family -in a little Flanders town. They played in a barn, to which Sidonia had -taken care that all the little boys should be admitted free, and Mlle. -Josephine advanced warmly cheered by the spectators, “who thought they -were going to have some more tumbling.” It was Racine’s “Andromaque,” -however, that she presented, and “it seemed to Sidonia that he had never -listened to a voice more rich and passionate, to an elocution more -complete; he gazed with admiration on her lightning glance and all the -tumult of her noble brow.” Sidonia played fairy godmother to the whole -family, and “Mlle. Josephine is at this moment [1849] the glory of the -French stage; without any question the most admirable tragic actress -since Clairon, and inferior not even to her.” If for Josephine we read -Rachel, we shall not be far wrong. - -Anyhow, it is evident that, when Disraeli thought Mrs. Kendal must have -studied in the French school, he was paying her the highest compliment -at his disposal. It is disappointing that we have no criticism from -Disraeli of Sarah Bernhardt. Matthew Arnold said that Sarah left off -where Rachel began. Disraeli says nothing, which is perhaps significant, -for he did see Sarah. He was first asked to see her play at a party at -Lord Dudley’s, but declined, as he “could not forgo country air.” A -few weeks later, however, he was at the Wiltons’, where “the principal -saloon, turned into a charming theatre, received the world to witness -the heroine of the hour, Sarah Bernhardt.” And that is all. A playgoer -of seventy-five is hardly disposed to take up with new favourites—which -accounts, perhaps, for Disraeli’s verdict on Irving. “I liked the -_Corsican Brothers_ as a melodrama,” he writes to Lady Bradford -(November, 1880), “and never saw anything put cleverer on the stage. -Irving whom I saw for the first time, is third-rate, and never will -improve, but good eno’ for the part he played, tho’ he continually -reminded me of Lord Dudley....” Why “though”? - -On another popular favourite he was even harder. Writing again to -Lady Bradford, he says:—“Except at Wycombe Fair, in my youth, I have -never seen anything so bad as _Pinafore_. It was not even a burlesque, -a sort of provincial _Black-eyed Susan_. Princess Mary’s face spoke -volumes of disgust and disappointment, but who cd. have told her to -go there?” Staying later at Hatfield, however, he found all the Cecil -youngsters singing the _Pinafore_ music. A few years earlier he tells -Lady Bradford a story he had just heard from a friend of a visit paid -by a distinguished Opposition party to _The Heir at Law_ at the old -Haymarket. “Into one of the stalls came Ld. Granville; then in a little -time, Gladstone; then, at last, Harty-Tarty! Gladstone laughed very -much at the performance; H.-T. never even smiled. 3 conspirators....” -Another remarkable trio figures in another story. Disraeli had been to -the Aquarium to see a famous ape and the lady who used to be shot out -of a cannon. “Chaffed” (if the word is not improper) about this by the -Queen at the Royal dinner table, Disraeli said, “There were three sights, -madam; Zazel, Pongo, and myself.” - -It will be seen that there are few records of Disraeli’s playgoing or -show-going in his old age. Gladstone, we know, was to the last a frequent -playgoer—and, I believe, an enthusiastic admirer of Irving. Disraeli, I -take it, had become rather the book-lover than the playgoer. The humblest -of us may share that taste with the great man, and even take refuge -in his illustrious example for the habit, denounced by the austere, of -reading over solitary meals. Mr. Buckle tells us that “over his solitary -and simple dinner he would read one of his favourite authors, mostly -classics of either Latin, Italian Renaissance, or English eighteenth -century literature, pausing for ten minutes between each course.” That -passage will endear Disraeli to many of us, simple, home-keeping people, -unacquainted with Courts and Parliaments, who feel, perhaps, a little -bewildered amid the processional “drums and tramplings” and the gorgeous -triumphs of his public career. - - - - -HENRY JAMES AND THE THEATRE - - -Are not the friends of Henry James inclined to be a little too solemn -when they write about him, perhaps feeling that they must rise to the -occasion and put on their best style, as though he had his eye on them -and would be “down” on any lapses? An admirable reviewer of the Letters -in the _Literary Supplement_ seemed, indeed, so overcome by his subject -as to have fallen into one of Henry James’s least amiable mannerisms—his -introduction of elaborate “figures,” relentlessly worked out and at last -lagging superfluous. And the editor of the Letters, admirably, too, as -he has done his work, is just a little bleak, isn’t he?—wearing the -grave face of the historian and mindful never to become familiar. “Thank -Heaven!” one seems to hear these writers saying to themselves; “even _he_ -could never have called this vulgar.” Such is the posthumous influence -of the fastidious “master”! I daresay I am captious. One is never quite -satisfied with what one sees in print about people one loved. One always -thinks—it is, at any rate, a pleasing illusion—that one has one’s own key -to that particular cipher, and to see the thing not merely given away -but authoritatively expounded in print is rather a nuisance. Look at the -number of fair ladies to whom Henry James wrote letters rich in intimate -charm (oh! and, as he would have said, of a decorum!)—perhaps each of -them thought she had the best corner of his heart. The most immaculate of -women, young and old, matrons and maidens, _will_ sentimentalize their -men friends in this way. How could Henry James have escaped? Well, if any -one of these ladies had edited the Letters or reviewed them, wouldn’t -each of the others have said: “No, that isn’t _my_ Henry James—_she_ -never understood him, poor dear”? I apologize for this flippant way of -putting it to the two refined writers I began by mentioning. But, as the -lady says in _The Spoils of Poynton_, “I’m quite coarse, thank God!” - -Henry James, unfortunately for his theatrical ambitions, never was. You -must not only be coarse in grain, but tough in hide, for success in the -theatre. Everybody knows that Henry James achieved only failure there, -either crushing failure amid hootings and yells, as with _Guy Domville_, -or that very significant failure which is called a success of “esteem,” -as with his stage versions of _The American_ and _Covering End_. But not -everybody knows how he positively yearned for the big popular success, -and for that biggest, loudest, most brazen-trumpeted of successes, -success in the theatre. He talks in his letters as though he actually -needed the money, but it was really not so. He looked round the world -and found it teeming with “best sellers,” idols of the multitude, who -by any standards of his simply couldn’t “write,” didn’t artistically -“exist.” And the most pathetic thing in his letters is their evidence -that he began, aye! and went on, with the illusion that he, such as he -was, the absolute artist, might some day become a “best seller.” Even so -late as the days of his Collected Edition it came as a shock to him that -the great public wouldn’t buy. - -It is evident that he had good hopes, beforehand, of _Guy Domville_. And -yet he hated the actual process of production. The rehearsal, he says, -is “as amazing as anything can be, for a man of taste and sensibility, -in the odious process of practical dramatic production. I may have -been meant for the Drama—God knows!—but I certainly wasn’t meant for -the Theatre.” And when dire failure came, it wasn’t, he says, from any -defect of technique. “I have worked like a horse—far harder than any -one will ever know—over the whole stiff mystery of ‘technique’—I have -run it to earth, and I don’t in the least hesitate to say that, for -the comparatively poor and meagre, the piteously simplified purposes -of the English stage, I have made it absolutely my own, put it into my -pocket.” No, the fault must be in his choice of subject. “The question -of realizing how different is the attitude of the theatre-goer toward -the quality of things which might be a story in a book from his attitude -toward the quality of thing that is given to him as a story in a play -is another matter altogether. _That_ difficulty is portentous, for any -writer who doesn’t approach it naïvely, as only a very limited and -simple-minded writer can. One has to _make_ oneself so limited and simple -to conceive a subject, see a subject, simply enough, and that, in a -nutshell, is where I have stumbled.” “And yet,” he adds, pathetically -enough (writing to his brother), “if you were to have seen my play!” He -knew he had done good work, in his own way, and the plain fact that his -way was a way which the gross theatre public would not understand or -sympathize with was a terrible blow to him. - -The process of turning himself into a simple-minded writer—that is, of -making a sow’s ear out of a silk purse, was, of course, impossible. -One doesn’t want to wallow in the obvious. But doesn’t it leap at the -eyes that an artist who seeks to abandon his own temperament and point -of view for another’s will forfeit all chance of that spontaneous -joy without which there is no artistic creation? Fortunately, this -theatrical malady of Henry James’s (though he had one or two recurrent -twinges of it) never became chronic. The history of his real work is a -history not of self-renunciation, but of self-development, of abounding, -as the French say, in his own sense. As to the theatrical technique -which he had put into his pocket he certainly kept it there. Like most -laboriously acquired, alien techniques it was too technical, too -“architectooralooral”—as any one can see who dips into his two forgotten -volumes of “Theatricals.” His own proper technique was a very different -thing, an entirely individual thing, and no reader of his books can have -failed to notice how he gradually perfected it as he went along. It -reached its highest point, to my thinking, in _The Ambassadors_, surely -the greatest of his books (though over this question the fierce tribe of -Jacobites will fight to their last gasp), when everything, absolutely -everything, is shown as seen through the eyes of Strether. To see a thing -so “done” as he would have said, an artistic difficulty so triumphantly -mastered, is among the rarest and most exquisite pleasures of life. That -was Henry James’s function, to give us rare and exquisite pleasures, of a -quality never to be had in the modern theatre. He was no theatrical man, -but he could, when he chose, be the most delicate of dramatic critics. -Read what he says in these Letters about Rostand’s _L’Aiglon_ (“the -man really has talent like an attack of small-pox”), about Bernstein’s -_Le Secret_ as a “case,” about Ibsen, “bottomlessly bourgeois ... and -yet of his art he’s a master—and I feel in him, to the pitch of almost -intolerable boredom, the presence and the insistence of life.” - - - - -THEATRICAL AMORISM - - -“The stage is more beholding to love than the life of man. For as to the -stage, love is ever matter of comedies, and now and then of tragedies; -but in life, it doth much mischief; sometimes like a siren; sometimes -like a fury.” It is one of the few things the general reader is able to -quote from Bacon, who goes on to make some pointed remarks about love in -life, but drops all reference to love on the stage, which he would hardly -have done had he been Shakespeare. - -But the converse question, how far love is “beholding” to the stage—what -treatment it has received there, what justice the stage has done to it—is -certainly not without interest. Life is not long enough to deal with -the whole question, ranging through the ages, but it may be worth while -to consider for a moment what our contemporary English stage is doing -with the theme. Are our playwrights addressing themselves to it with -sincerity, with veracity, with real insight? Or are they just “muddling -through” with it, repeating familiar commonplaces about it, not troubling -themselves “to see the thing as it really is”? These questions have -occurred to me in thinking over Mr. Arnold Bennett’s _Sacred and Profane -Love_. Thinking it over! interrupts the ingenuous reader; but have you -not already reviewed it? So it may be well to explain that one “notices” -a play and then thinks it over. True, one’s “notice”—the virtually -instantaneous record of one’s first impressions—sometimes wears a -specious appearance of thought. But that is one of the wicked deceptions -of journalism, mainly designed to appease eager people of the sort who -rush up to you the moment the curtain is down on the First Act to ask: -“Well, what do you think of it?” In reality, as the wily reader knows, it -is at best only thought in the making, a casting about for thought. Not -until you have read it yourself next morning can you begin (if you ever -do begin) to think. So, as I say, I have been thinking over Mr. Bennett’s -_Sacred and Profane Love_. - -It is not what used to be called a “well-made” play. Its main interest -is not cumulative, but is suspended for a whole act and, at its most -critical point, relegated to an inter-act. In Act I. the young Carlotta -gives herself to Diaz. In Act II. (seven years later) Diaz has dropped -clean out. Carlotta, now a famous novelist, is in love with somebody -else and shows herself strong enough to renounce her love. Act III. -resumes the Carlotta-Diaz story. He has become an abject morphinomaniac; -she heroically devotes herself, body and soul, to the terrible task of -reclaiming him. _Between_ Acts III. and IV. (fourteen months) this -terrible task is accomplished. We have to take it on trust, a rather -“large order.” Act IV. ends the Carlotta-Diaz story in marriage. -Obviously it is not a well-told story. It has a long digression, and the -spectator’s attention is misled; it assumes a miracle behind the scenes, -and the spectator’s credulity is over-taxed. Act II. is a play within a -play; how Carlotta nearly ran away with her publisher. In Act IV. you -cannot accept the alleged recovery of the morphinomaniac, you expect -him to “break out” again at any moment. Of course, the story being what -it is, there was no help for it. Years of rising to fame as a novelist, -months of struggling with a drug victim, cannot be shown on the stage. -Only, writers of well-made plays do not choose such stories. - -But is this treating the play fairly? Is it just a story, the story of -Carlotta and Diaz? Suppose we look at it in another way, suppose we -consider it as a study of modern love, or, more particularly, of the -modern woman in love. Then the play at once looks much more shipshape. -It is the _éducation sentimentale_ of Carlotta. The second act ceases -to be episodical; it is one of the stages in Carlotta’s “love-life” -(as Ibsen’s Ella Rentheim calls it). The miracle of Diaz’s reclamation -between the acts ceases to worry us; it only prepares another stage in -Carlotta’s love-life. And, from this point of view, I think Mr. Bennett -has achieved something much better than the construction of a well-made -play. He has given us, in his downright matter-of-fact way, a close -study of modern love in the case of a woman made for love, living for -it, able to dominate it and to turn it to heroic purpose. She starts her -career of love by “giving herself” to a man who is almost a stranger. I -suppose this is considered a “bold” scene. But it is, evidently, there -from no cheap purpose of “audacity,” it is no calculated fling at the -proprieties. Mr. Bennett—it is his way—indifferently depicts human nature -as he sees it, and the girl’s “fall” is natural enough. In a _milieu_ of -prosaic provincialism (if one may venture so to qualify the Five Towns) -she is thrown into contact with a romantic figure from the great world, a -famous pianist who has just enraptured her with his music, the embodiment -of all her artistic ideals. She is of an amorous temperament (and since -Mr. Bennett is undertaking a study of love, it would be no use choosing -an ascetic heroine). The inevitable happens. When next seen, she has not -seen or heard of the man for years since their one meeting. They have -been years of strenuous labour, and she is a successful novelist. But she -has not parted with her temperament, and she falls in love with, so to -speak, the nearest man. He seems a poor creature for so superior a woman -to choose—but such a choice is one of the commonplaces of life. When -she realizes the misery she is causing to the man’s wife she promptly -renounces him. (The wife has a little past love-history of her own—Mr. -Bennett neglects no facet of his subject.) Then Carlotta hears of -Diaz and his morphinomania, conceives forthwith her heroic project of -rescuing him, takes up her lot with him again, and pulls him through. -When he is himself again, he reveals the egoism of the absolute artist. -Carlotta must not accompany him to the concert, because she would make -him nervous. She obeys, and is left in an agony of suspense at home. When -the concert has ended in triumph, he must be off (without his wife) to an -influential patron’s party. She acquiesces again, not without tears. The -men she loves are not worthy of her; but she must love them, she was made -for love. There is talk of marriage at the end. It seems an anti-climax. - -I find that I have been discussing Mr. Bennett’s play instead of the -general question into which I proposed to inquire—the treatment of love -by our dramatists of to-day. It looks, I fear, like the familiar device -of a reviewer for running away from his subject—“unfortunately, our space -will not permit, &c.”—always very useful when the subject is getting -ticklish. But the fact that I have had to dwell on Mr. Bennett’s case -rather shows how rare that case is with us. The general treatment of -love on our stage is, it seems to me, inadequate. Either it is a mere -_ficelle_, an expedient for a plot, or it is apt to be conventional, -second-hand, unobserved. We want fresh, patient, and fearless studies of -it on our stage. I am not asking for calculated “audacity” or salacity -(there has never been any dearth of that), but for veracity. Though the -subject is the oldest in the world, it is always becoming new. There are -subtleties, fine shades, in our modern love that cannot have been known -to the Victorians; yet most of our stage-love to-day remains placidly -Victorian. Was it Rochefoucauld or Chamfort who spoke of the many people -who would never fall in love if they hadn’t heard it talked about? But -think how we of to-day have all heard it talked about, what books we have -read about it! The old passion has put on a new consciousness, and calls -for a new stage-treatment. Where is our Donnay or our Porto-Riche? They, -perhaps, pursue their inquiries a little farther than would suit our -British delicacy; but our playwrights might at least take a leaf out of -their book in the matter of veracity, instead of mechanically repeating -the old commonplaces. - - - - -H. B. IRVING - - -There is a commonplace about the evanescent glory of actors that will -hardly bear close scrutiny. It is said that, as they live more intensely -than other men, enjoying their reward on the spot, so they die more -completely, and leave behind nothing but a name. Even so, are they worse -off than the famous authors whom nobody ever reads? Or than the famous -painters whose works have disappeared? Which is the more live figure -for us to-day, John Kemble, who played in the _Iron Chest_, or William -Godwin, who wrote the original story? Is Zeuxis or Apelles anything more -than a name? It is said that whereas other artists survive in their work, -the actor’s dies with him. But we make of every work of art a palimpsest, -and it is for us what we ourselves have written over its original text—so -that the artist only lives vicariously, through our own life—while the -dead actor’s work stands inviolate, out of our reach, a final thing. Lamb -says of Dodd’s Aguecheek, “a part of his forehead would catch a little -intelligence, and be a long time in communicating it to the remainder.” -Nothing can alter that forehead now; but if Dodd could have left it -behind him, we should be all agog to revise the verdict. So Mrs. Siddons -was famous for her graceful manner of dismissing the guests at Macbeth’s -banquet. Nothing can impair that grace now; could it have been handed -down, we should be having two opinions about it. Dead actors, then, live -again in the pages that commemorate them, and they live more securely -than the artists whose works survive. They are no longer the sport of -opinion. - -But this is only casuistry, the vain effort to seek consolation for -the death of a friend. I am not speaking of a boon companion, but -of something much better, of that ideal, disinterested friend which -every actor is for us on the stage, giving us his mind and heart and -temperament and physical being, immolating his very self for us, and at -the end (I can see Henry Irving the elder standing before the curtain as -he uttered the words) our “obliged, respectful, loving servant.” This is -pure friendship, purer than any private intimacy, with its inevitable -contacts and reserves of different egoisms. Why does my mind go back to -the elder Irving? Because I am thinking of his son Harry, who was so -like him (too like him, it was a perpetual handicap), and never more -like him than in that pride which does not ape humility but feels it—the -pride of the artist in his art and the humility of the devotee in the -temple of art. Indeed, I think Harry Irving had an almost superstitious -reverence for his profession. He had it perhaps not merely because he -was his father’s son, but also because he was his father’s son with -a difference, an academic difference; he was one of a little band of -Oxford men whose adoption of the stage was, in those days, a breach -with orthodox Oxford tradition. All that, I daresay, is altered now. -In an Oxford which has widened Magdalen Bridge and built itself new -Schools anything is possible. But in those days undergraduates were not -habitually qualifying for the stage; indeed, the old “Vic” in term-time -was out of bounds. The old “Vic” had only just disappeared when I went -up to see young Irving as Decius Brutus in _Julius Cæsar_, and H. B. was -still very much an undergraduate. Heavens! the pink and green sweets we -ate at supper not far from Tom Tower after the show—the sweets that only -undergraduates can eat! If I remember the sweets better than the Decius -Brutus, it will be indulgent to infer that Harry Irving’s _début_ was -not of the most remarkable. But his reverence for the histrionic art -was, even then. I teazed him (youthful critics have a crude appetite -for controversy) by starting an assault, entirely theoretical and -Pickwickian, on that reverential attitude; we beat over the ground from -Plato to Bossuet; and I think it took him some time to forgive me. - -In his earlier years on the stage he was a little stiff and -formal—characteristics which were not at all to his disadvantage in the -young prig of _The Princess and the Butterfly_ and the solemn young -man-about-town of _Letty_ (though the smart Bond Street suit and patent -leather shoes of the man-about-town were obviously a sore trial to a boy -who, from his earliest years, dressed after his father). I imagine his -Crichton (1902) was his first real success in London, and an admirable -Crichton it was, standing out, as the play demanded, with that vigour -and stamp of personal domination which he had inherited from his father. -His Hamlet, though his most important, was hardly his best part. It was -too cerebral. But is not Hamlet, some one will ask, the very prince -of cerebrals? Yes, but Hamlet has grace as well as thought, sweetness -as well as light. Harry Irving’s Hamlet (of 1905, he softened much in -the later revival) was a little didactic, almost donnish. He hardened -the hardness of Hamlet—particularly his hardness to women, Ophelia and -Gertrude, which we need not be sickly sentimentalists to dislike seeing -emphasized. In a word he was impressive rather than charming—was perhaps -almost harsh after the conspicuously charming Hamlet of Forbes-Robertson. -Nevertheless, if Harry Irving’s Hamlet was second to Forbes-Robertson’s, -it was a very good second. - -He had his father’s rather Mephistophelean humour—but I am annoyed to -find myself always harping on his father. It is a tiresome obsession. -None suffered from it more than the son himself, at once hero and martyr -of filial piety. He invited comparison, playing as many as possible of -his father’s old parts, all ragged and threadbare as they had become. -But he lacked the quality which originally saved them, the romantic -flamboyant _baroque_ quality of his father’s genius. Sir Henry impressed -himself upon his time by sheer force of individuality and by what Byron -calls “magnoperation.” He was a great manager as well as a great actor, -doing everything on a gigantic scale and in the grand style. He was a -splendid figure of romance, off as well as on the stage. It was hopeless -to provoke comparison with such a being as this. Though the son showed -the family likeness he was naturally a reasonable man, a scholar, a man -of discursive analytic mind rather than of the instinctive perfervid -histrionic temperament. It was always a pleasure to swop ideas with him, -to talk to him about the principles of his art, the great criminals of -history, or the latest murder trial he had been attending at the Old -Bailey; but I suspect (I never tried) conversation with his father, in -Boswell’s phrase, a “tremendous companion,” must have been a rather -overwhelming experience.... And, after all, the wonderful thing is that -the son stood the comparison so well, that he was not utterly crushed -by it—that the successor of so exorbitant an artist could maintain -any orbit of his own. That is a curious corner of our contemporary -society the corner of the second generation, where the son mentions “my -father” quickly, with a slight drop of the voice, out of a courteous -disinclination to let filial respect become a bore to third parties. -There is an academician of the second generation in Pailleron’s play who -is always alluding to _mon illustre père_, and as the ill-natured say -_joue du cadavre_. In our little English corner there is never any such -lapse from good taste, Harry Irving was greatly loved there; and will be -sadly missed. - - - - -THE PUPPETS - - -At the corner of a Bloomsbury square I found my path blocked by a little -crowd of children who were watching a puppet show of an unusual kind. -The usual kind, of course, is _Punch and Judy_, which has become a -degenerate thing, with its puppets grasped in the operator’s hand; these -puppets were wired, in the grand manner of the art, and had a horse and -cart, no less, for their transport. The show, though lamentably poor in -itself—the puppets merely danced solemnly round and round without any -attempt at dramatic action—was rich in suggestion. Do we not all keep a -warm corner of our hearts for the puppets, if only for their venerable -antiquity and their choice literary associations? Why, in the grave -pages of the _Literary Supplement_ learned archæologists have lately -been corresponding about the Elizabethan “motions,” and Sir William -Ridgeway has traced the puppets back to the Syracuse of Xenophon’s day, -and told us how that author in his “Symposium” makes a famous Syracusan -puppet player say that he esteems fools above other men because they are -those who go to see his puppets (νευρόσπαστα). My own recollections -connect Xenophon with parasangs rather than puppets, but I am glad to -be made aware of this honourable pedigree, though I strongly resent the -Syracusan’s remark about the amateurs of puppets. I share the taste of -Partridge, who “loved a puppet show of all the pastimes upon earth,” -and I sympathize with the showman in “Tom Jones” who could tolerate all -religions save that of the Presbyterians, “because they were enemies to -puppet shows.” And so I lingered with the children at the corner of the -Bloomsbury square. - -Puppets, someone has said, have this advantage over actors: they are made -for what they do, their nature conforms exactly to their destiny. I have -seen them in Italy performing romantic drama with a dash and a _panache_ -that no English actor in my recollection (save, perhaps, the late Mr. -Lewis Waller) could rival. Actors, being men as well as actors, and -therefore condemned to effort in acting, if only the effort of keeping -down their consciousness of their real, total self, cannot attain to this -clear-cut definiteness and purity of performance. But the wire-puller -must be a true artist, his finger-tips responsive to every emotional -thrill of the character and every _nuance_ of the drama; indeed, the -ideal wire-puller is the poet himself, expressing himself through the -motions of his puppets and declaiming his own words for them. - -It was with this thought in my mind that I ventured, when Mr. Hardy first -published _The Dynasts_, to suggest that the perfect performance of that -work would be as a puppet show, with Mr. Hardy reading out his own blank -verse. I pointed out the suggestive reference to puppets in the text. One -of the Spirits describes the human protagonists as “mere marionettes,” -and elsewhere you read:— - - Forgetting the Prime Mover of the gear - As puppet-watchers him who moves the strings. - -Further, at the very core of Mr. Hardy’s drama is the idea that these -Napoleons and Pitts and Nelsons are puppets of the Immanent Will. If -ever there was a case for raising a puppet show to the highest literary -dignity, this was one. - -But it was all in vain. Either Mr. Hardy was too modest to declaim his -own verse in public, or else the actors pushed in, as they will wherever -they can, and laid hands on as much of his work as they could manage. And -so we had Mr. Granville Barker’s version early in the war and only the -other day the performance at Oxford, and I have nothing to say against -either, save that they were, and could only be, extracts, episodes, -fragments, instead of the great epic-drama in its panoramic entirety. -A puppet show could embrace the whole, and one voice declaiming the -poem would to be sure not give the necessary unity of impression—that -singleness must be first of all in the work itself—but would incidentally -emphasize it. - -The puppet presentation would, however, do much more than this. It would -clarify, simplify, attenuate the medium through which the poem reaches -the audience. The poet and his public would be in close contact. It is, -of course, for many minds, especially for those peculiarly susceptible -to poetry, a perpetual grievance against the actors that these living, -bustling, solid people get between them and the poet and substitute fact, -realism, flesh-and-blood for what these minds prefer to embody only in -their imagination. There is the notorious instance of Charles Lamb, with -his objection to seeing Shakespeare’s tragedies acted. He complained that -the gay and witty Richard III. was inevitably materialized and vulgarized -by the actor. Lamb, as we all know, was capricious, and indeed made a -virtue of caprice, but what do you say to so serious and weighty a critic -as Professor Raleigh? Talking about the Shakespearean boy-actors of -women, he commits himself to this:—“It may be doubted whether Shakespeare -has not suffered more than he has gained by the genius of later-day -actresses, who bring into the plays a realism and a robust emotion which -sometimes obscure the sheer poetic value of the author’s conception. The -boys were no doubt very highly trained, and amenable to instruction; so -that the parts of Rosalind and Desdemona may well have been rendered with -a clarity and simplicity which served as a transparent medium for the -author’s wit and pathos. Poetry, like religion, is outraged when it is -made a platform for the exhibition of their own talent and passions by -those who are its ministers. With the disappearance of the boy-players -the poetic drama died in England, and it has had no second life.” - -A little “steep,” is it not? Logically it is an objection to all acting -of poetic drama. Boy-players of girls are only a half-way house. The -transparent medium for the author’s wit and pathos would be still more -transparent if it were merely the medium of the printed page. Now this -much is certain. Shakespeare conceived his plays, whatever poetry or wit -or pathos he put into them, in terms of men and women (not boy-women). -The ideal performance of Shakespeare would be by the men and women who -grew in Shakespeare’s imagination. But they, unfortunately, do not exist -in flesh and blood, but only in that imagination, and, to bring them -on the stage, you have to employ ready-made men and women, who at the -very best can only be rough approximations to the imaginary figures. -In this sense it is not a paradox but a simple commonplace to say that -no one has ever seen Shakespeare’s Hamlet on the stage, or ever will -see. And the greater the “genius” of the actor, the more potent his -personality—though he will be the darling of the majority, thirsting for -realism, the immediate sense of life—the more will he get between the -poet and imaginative students like Lamb and Professor Raleigh, who want -their poetry inviolate. - -This seems like a digression, but is really to my purpose. -Flesh-and-blood actors we shall always have with us; they will take -good care of that themselves. But for the imaginative souls who are for -compromise, who are for half-way houses and look back fondly to the -boy-players, I would say: Why not try the puppets? These also present -a “transparent medium” for the author’s expression. And, further, the -purely “lyrical” passages in which Shakespeare abounds and which seem so -odd in the realism of the human actors (_e.g._, the Queen’s description -of Ophelia’s death) would gain immensely by being recited by the poet (or -wire-puller). A puppet-show _Hamlet_ might be an exquisite experiment in -that highest art whose secret is suggestion. - - - - -VICISSITUDES OF CLASSICS - - -Of Webster’s _Duchess of Malfi_, revived by the Phœnix Society, I said -that it was a live classic no longer, but a museum-classic, a curio -for connoisseurs. Its multiplication of violent deaths in the last act -(four men stabbed and one courtesan poisoned) could no longer be taken -seriously, and, in fact, provoked a titter in the audience. This sudden -change of tragic into comic effect was fatal to that unity of impression -without which not merely a tragedy but any work of art ceases to be an -organic whole. The change was less the fault of Webster than of the Time -Spirit. Apparently the early Jacobeans could accept a piled heap of -corpses at the end of a play without a smile, as “all werry capital.” -Violent death was not so exceptional a thing in their own experience as -it is in ours. They had more simplicity of mind than we have, a more -childlike docility in swallowing whole what the playwright offered them. -But Webster was not without fault. One assassination treads so hastily -upon the heels of the other, the slaughter is so wholesale. _Hamlet_ -closes with several violent deaths, yet Shakespeare managed to avoid this -pell-mell wholesale effect. - -But there is another element in Webster’s workmanship which, I think, has -helped to deprive the play of life. I mean his obtrusive ingenuity. I am -not referring to the ingenuity of the tortures practised upon the unhappy -Duchess—the severed hand thrust into hers, the wax figure purporting to -be her slain husband, and so forth. This fiendish ingenuity is proper -to the character of the tyrant Ferdinand, and its exercise does add a -grisly horror to the play. I mean the ingenuity of Webster himself, a -perverted, wasted ingenuity, in his play-construction. He seems to have -ransacked his fancy in devising scenic experiments. There is the “echo” -scene. It is theatrically ineffective. It gives you no tragic emotion, -but only a sense of amused interest in the author’s ingenuity, and you -say, “How quaint!” Then there is the little device for giving a touch -of irony to the Cardinal’s murder. He has warned the courtiers, for -purposes of his own, that if they hear him cry for help in the night -they are to take no notice; he will be only pretending. And so, when he -cries for help in real earnest, he is hoist with his own petard, and the -courtiers only cry, “Fie upon his counterfeiting.” Again the theatrical -effect is small; you are merely distracted from the tragic business in -hand by the author’s curious ingenuity. For any one interested in the -theatrical _cuisine_ these experiments, of course, have their piquancy. -Webster seems to have been perpetually seeking for “new thrills”—like the -Grand Guignol people in our own day. He had some lucky finds. The masque -of madmen, for instance, is a tremendous thrill, one of the biggest, -I daresay, in the history of tragedy. But there were experiments that -didn’t come off. - -At any rate they fail with us. Webster, no doubt, had his true -“posterity” (was it perchance contemporary with Pepys?), but we are -his post-posterity. In a sense every masterpiece is in advance of its -time. “The reason,” says Marcel Proust (“A l’ombre des jeunes filles en -fleurs”)— - -“The reason why a work of genius is admired with difficulty at once is -that the author is extraordinary, that few people resemble him. It is his -work itself that in fertilizing the rare minds capable of comprehending -it makes them grow and multiply. Beethoven’s quartets (XII., XIII., XIV., -and XV.) have taken fifty years to give birth and growth to the Beethoven -quartet public, thus realizing like every masterpiece a progress in the -society of minds, largely composed to-day of what was not to be found -when the masterpiece appeared, that is to say, of beings capable of -loving it. What we call posterity is the posterity of the work itself. -The work must create its own posterity.” - -Assuredly we of to-day can see more in _Hamlet_ than its first audience -could. But the curve of “posterity” is really a zig-zag. Each generation -selects from a classic what suits it. Few of the original colours are -“fast”; some fade, others grow more vivid and then fade in their turn. -The Jacobean playgoer was impressed by Webster’s heaped corpses, and -we titter. He probably revelled in the mad scene of the “lycanthropic” -Ferdinand, where we are bored. (The taste for mad scenes was long -lived; it lasted from the Elizabethans, on through Betterton’s time—see -Valentine in _Love for Love_—and Garrick’s time, as we know from -Boswell’s anecdote about _Irene_, down to the moment when Tilburina went -mad in white satin.) On the other hand, a scene which has possibly gained -in piquancy for us of to-day, the proud contemporaries of Mr. Shaw, is -that wherein the Duchess woos the coy Antonio and weds him out of hand. -When we chance upon a thing like this in a classic we are apt, fatuously -enough, to exclaim. “How modern!” - -No one is likely to make that exclamation over another classic of -momentary revival, _Le Malade Imaginaire_. There is not a vestige of -“modernity” in Molière’s play. It is absolutely primitive. Or rather -it seems, in all essentials, to stand outside time, to exhibit nothing -of any consequence that “dates.” It has suffered no such mishap as has -befallen Webster’s tragedy—a change of mental attitude in the audience -which has turned the author’s desired effect upside down. At no point at -which Molière made a bid for our laughter are we provoked, contrariwise, -to frown. You cannot, by the way, say this about all Molière. Much, -_e.g._, of the fun in _George Dandin_ strikes a modern audience as merely -cruel. Both in Alceste and Tartuffe there has been a certain alteration -of “values” in the progress of the centuries. But _Le Malade Imaginaire_ -is untouched. We can enjoy it, I imagine, with precisely the same -delight as its first audience felt. Some items of it, to be sure, were -actual facts for them which are only history for us; the subservience -of children to parents, for instance, and (though Mr. Shaw will not -agree) the pedantic humbug of the faculty. But the point is, that the -things laughed at, though they may have ceased to exist in fact, are as -ridiculous as ever. And note that our laughter is not a whit affected by -childish absurdities in the plot. Argan’s little girl shams dead and he -immediately assumes she is dead. Argan shams dead and neither his wife -nor his elder daughter for a moment questions the reality of his death. -His own serving-wench puts on a doctor’s gown and he is at once deceived -by the disguise. These little things do not matter in the least. We are -willing to go all lengths in make-believe so long as we get our laughter. - -Here, then, is a classic which seems to be outside the general rule. -It has not had to make, in M. Proust’s phrase, its own posterity. It -has escaped those vicissitudes of appreciation which classics are apt -to suffer from changes in the general condition of the public mind.... -But stay! If it has always been greeted with the same abundance of -laughter, has the quality of that laughter been invariable? Clearly not, -for Molière is at pains to apologize in his play for seeming to laugh -at the faculty, whereas, he says, he has only in view “le ridicule de -la médecine.” Between half-resentful, half-fearful laughter at a Purgon -or Diafoirus who may be at your bedside next week and light-hearted -laughter at figures that have become merely fantastic pantaloons there is -considerable difference. And so we re-establish our general rule. - - - - -PERVERTED REPUTATIONS - - -Sir Henry Irving used to tell how he and Toole had gone together to -Stratford, and fallen into talk with one of its inhabitants about his -great townsman. After many cross-questions and crooked answers, they -arrived at the fact that the man knew that Shakespeare had “written for -summat.” “For what?” they enquired. “Well,” replied the man, “I do think -he wrote for the Bible.” - -This story illustrates a general law which one might, perhaps, if one -were inclined to pseudo-scientific categories, call the law of perverted -reputations. I am thinking more particularly of literary reputations, -which are those I happen chiefly to care about. And literary reputations -probably get perverted more frequently than others, for the simple -reason that literature always has been and (despite the cheap manuals, -Board schools, and the modern improvements) still is an unfathomable -mystery to the outer busy world. But, to get perverted, the reputations -must be big enough to have reached the ears of that outer world. What -happens, thereafter, seems to be something like this. The man in the -back street understands vaguely that so-and-so is esteemed a great man. -Temperamentally and culturally incapable of appreciating the works of -literary art, for which so-and-so is esteemed great, the back-streeter -is driven to account for his greatness to himself on grounds suitable -to his own comprehension, which grounds in the nature of the case have -nothing to do with the fine art of literature. The general tendency is to -place these grounds in the region of the marvellous. For the capacity for -wonder is as universal as the capacity for literature is strictly limited. - -Thus you have the notorious instance of Virgil figuring to the majority -of men in the middle ages not as a poet but as a magician. Appreciation -of his poetry was for the “happy few”; by the rest his reputation was -too great to be ignored, so they gave it a twist to accommodate it to -the nature of their own imaginations. In more recent times, indeed in -our own day, there is the equally notorious instance of Shakespeare. The -Stratford rustic knew nothing of Shakespeare’s plays, but did know (1) -that there was a great man called Shakespeare, and (2) that there was -a great book called the Bible. He concluded that Shakespeare must have -written for the Bible. But I am thinking of a very different perversion -of Shakespeare’s reputation. I am thinking of the strange people, -exponents of the back-street mind, who, being incapable of appreciating -Shakespeare’s poetry and dramatic genius—having in fact no taste for -literature as such—have assigned his greatness to something compatible -with their own prosaic pedestrian taste and turned him into a contriver -of cryptograms. Again you see the old appetite for wonder reappearing. -The imputed reputation, as in Virgil’s case, is for something _abscons_, -as Rabelais would have said, something occult. - -It is the old story. Superstition comes easier to the human mind than -artistic appreciation. But superstition has played an odd freak in the -case of Shakespeare. It is actually found side by side with artistic -appreciation, of which it presents itself as the superlative, or -ecstatic, degree. There is, for instance, an Oxford professor to whom -the world is indebted for the most delicate, the most sympathetic, as -well as the most scholarly appreciation of Shakespeare in existence. Yet -this professor is so affronted by the flesh-and-blood domination of the -actresses who play Shakespeare’s heroines, the dangerous competition of -their personal charm with the glamour of the text, that he has committed -himself to the startling proposition that poetic drama perished with -Shakespeare’s boy actors! Jealousy for Shakespeare’s individual supremacy -in artistic creation, which must “brook no rival near the throne,” -has turned the professor into a misogynist. This I venture to call -Shakespearian superstition. And there is another Oxford professor (oh, -home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs!) who assures us that we can -unravel all Shakespearian problems by a careful study of the text alone. -Don’t trouble your minds about the actual facts in view of which the -text had been written and in which it was to be spoken. Don’t ask where -Shakespeare’s theatres were and what the audiences were like and what -kind of shows they were used to and continued to expect. Don’t bother -about the shape of the stage or its position in regard to the public. -Stick to the text, and nothing but the text, and all shall be made plain -unto you. It is this same professor who occasionally treats Shakespeare’s -imaginary characters as though they were real persons, with independent -biographies of their own. He obliges us with conjectural fragments of -their biographies. “Doubtless in happier days he (Hamlet) was a close -and constant observer of men and manners.” “All his life he had believed -in her (Gertrude), we may be sure, as such a son would.” Shakespearian -superstition again, you see, not merely alongside but actually growing -out of artistic appreciation. - -Literary critics, as a rule, have suffered less than so-called literary -“creators” from perverted reputations. The reason is plain. The man in -the back street has never heard of criticism. But what, it will be asked, -about the strange case of Aristotle? Well, I submit that in his case the -perversion arose from the second cause I have indicated—not from the -ignorance of the multitude but from the superstitious veneration of the -few. Who was it who began the game by calling Aristotle “the master of -those who know”? A poet who was also a scholar. Who declared Aristotle’s -authority in philosophy to equal St. Paul’s in theology? Roger Bacon -(they say; I have not myself asked for this author at Mudie’s or _The -Times_ Book Club). Who said there could be no possible contradiction -between the Poetics and Holy Writ? Dacier, an eminent Hellenist. Who -declared the rules of Aristotle to have the same certainty for him as the -axioms of Euclid? Lessing, an esteemed “highbrow.” The gradual process, -then, by which the real Aristotle, pure thinker, critic investigating and -co-ordinating the facts of the actual drama of his time, was perverted -into the spurious Aristotle, Mumbo Jumbo of criticism, mysteriarch, -depositary of the Tables of the Law, was the same process that we have -seen at work in the case of Shakespeare—enthusiastic appreciation -toppling over into superstition. - -But none of us can afford to put on airs about it. _Mutato nomine de te._ -For, after all, what are these various cases but extreme instances of the -“personal equation” that enters into every, even the sanest opinion? Can -any one of us do anything else towards appreciating a work of art than -remake it within himself? So, if we are to avoid these absurd extremes, -let us look to ourselves, do our best to get ourselves into harmony with -the artist, and “clear our minds of cant.” - - - - -THE SECRET OF GREEK ART - - -Mathematics may be great fun. Even simple arithmetic is not without its -comic side, as when it enables you to find, with a little management, -the Number of the Beast in the name of any one you dislike. Then there -is “the low cunning of algebra.” It became low cunning indeed when Euler -drove (so the anecdotist relates) Diderot out of Russia with a sham -algebraical formula. “Monsieur,” said Euler gravely, “_(a + bⁿ)/n = x, -donc Dieu existe; répondez_.” Diderot, no algebraist, could not answer, -and left. - -But geometry furnishes the best sport. Here is a learned American -archæologist, Mr. Jay Hambidge, lecturing to that august body the -Hellenic Society and revealing to them his discovery that the secret -of classic Greek art (of the best period) is a matter of two magic -rectangles. I understand that the learned gentleman himself did not make -this extreme claim about the “secret” of “Art,” but it was at any rate -so described in the report on which my remarks are based. Mr. Hambidge -appears to have devoted years of labour and ingenuity to his researches. -The result is in any case of curious interest. But how that result can -be said to be “the secret of Greek art revealed” I wholly fail to see. - -Let us look first at his rectangles. His first is 2 × √5. It is said that -these figures represent the ratio of a man’s height to the full span of -his outstretched fingers. But what man? Of what race and age? Well, let -us say an average Greek of the best period, and pass on. Mr. Hambidge has -found this rectangle over and over again in the design of the Parthenon. -“Closely akin” to it, says the report, is another fundamental rectangle, -of which the two dimensions are in the ratio of Leonardo’s famous “golden -section.” That ratio is obtained by dividing a straight line so that its -greater is to its lesser part as the whole is to the greater. Let us give -a mathematical meaning to the “closely akin.” Calling the lesser part 1 -and the greater _x_, then— - - _x_/1 = (_x_ + 1)/_x_ or _x_² - _x_ - 1 = 0 - -which gives you - - _x_ = (√5 + 1)/2. - -The square roots will not trouble you when you come to constructing your -rectangles, for the diagonal of the first is √(5 + 4), or 3. If AB is -your side 2, draw a perpendicular to it through B, and with A as centre -describe the arc of a circle of radius 3; the point of intersection will -give C, the other end of the diagonal. The second rectangle maintains AB, -and simply prolongs BC by half of AB or 1. Just as the dimensions of -the first rectangle are related to those of (selected) man, and to the -plan of the Parthenon, so those of the second are related, it seems, to -the arrangement of seeds in the sunflower and to the plan of some of the -Pyramids. Sir Theodore Cook writes to _The Times_ to say that both the -sunflower and the Pyramid discoveries are by no means new. - -The fact is the theory of “beautiful” rectangles is not new. The classic -exponent of it is Fechner, who essayed to base it on actual experiment. -He placed a number of rectangular cards of various dimensions before his -friends, and asked them to select the one they thought most beautiful. -Apparently the “golden section” rectangle got most votes. But “most of -the persons began by saying that it all depended on the application to -be made of the figure, and on being told to disregard this, showed much -hesitation in choosing.” (Bosanquet: “History of Æsthetic,” p. 382.) If -they had been Greeks of the best period, they would have all gone with -one accord for the “golden section” rectangle. - -Nor have the geometers of beauty restricted their favours to the -rectangle. Some have favoured the circle, some the square, others the -ellipse. And what about Hogarth’s “line of beauty”? I last saw it -affectionately alluded to in the advertisement of a corset manufacturer. -So, evidently, Hogarth’s idea has not been wasted. - -One sympathizes with Fechner’s friends who said it all depended upon the -application to be made of the figure. The “art” in a picture is generally -to be looked for inside the frame. The Parthenon may have been planned -on the √5/2 rectangle, but you cannot evolve the Parthenon itself out of -that vulgar fraction. Fechner proceeded on the assumption that art is a -physical fact and that its “secret” could be wrung out of it, as in any -other physical inquiry, by observation and experiment, by induction from -a sufficient number of facts. But when he came to have a theory of it he -found, like anybody else, that introspection was the only way. - -And whatever rectangles Mr. Hambidge may discover in Greek works of -art, he will not thereby have revealed the secret of Greek art. For -rectangles are physical facts (when they are not mere abstractions), -and art is not a physical fact, but a spiritual activity. It is in the -mind of the artist, it is his vision, the expression of his intuition, -and beauty is only another name for perfect expression. That, at any -rate, is the famous “intuition-expression” theory of Benedetto Croce, -which at present holds the field. It is a theory which, of course, -presents many difficulties to the popular mind—what æsthetic theory does -not?—but it covers the ground, as none other does, and comprehends all -arts, painting, poetry, music, sculpture, and the rest, in one. Its main -difficulty is its distinction between the æsthetic fact, the artist’s -expression, and the physical fact, the externalization of the artist’s -expression, the so-called “work” of art. Dr. Bosanquet has objected -that this seems to leave out of account the influence on the artist’s -expression of his material, his medium, but Croce, I think, has not -overlooked that objection (“Estetica,” Ch. XIII., end), though many of -us would be glad if he could devote some future paper in the _Critica_ -to meeting it fairly and squarely. Anyhow, æsthetics is not a branch -of physics, and the “secret” of art is not to be “revealed” by a whole -Euclidful of rectangles. - -But it is, of course, an interesting fact that certain Greeks, and before -them certain Egyptians, took certain rectangles as the basis of their -designs—rectangles which are also related to the average proportions of -the human body and to certain botanical types. If Mr. Hambidge—or his -predecessors, of whom Sir Theodore Cook speaks—have established this they -have certainly put their fingers on an engaging convention. Who would -have thought that the “golden section” that very ugly-looking (√5 + 1)/2 -could have had so much in it? The builder of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh -knew all about it in 4700 B.C. and the Greeks of the age of Pericles, and -then Leonardo da Vinci toyed with it—“_que de choses dans un menuet!_” It -is really rather cavalier of Croce to dismiss this golden section along -with Michael Angelo’s serpentine lines of beauty as the astrology of -Æsthetic. - - - - -A POINT OF CROCE’S - - -Adverting to Mr. Jay Hambidge’s rectangles of beauty I had occasion to -cite Croce and his distinction between the æsthetic fact of expression -and the practical fact of externalization, to which distinction, I -said, Dr. Bosanquet had objected that it ignored the influence upon the -artist of his medium. Dr. Bosanquet has courteously sent me a copy of -a communication, “Croce’s Æsthetic,” which he has made to the British -Academy, and which deals not only with this point, but with his general -objections to the Crocean philosophy of art. It is not all objection, -far from it; much of it is highly laudatory, and all of it is manifestly -written in a spirit of candour and simple desire to arrive at the truth. -But I have neither the space nor the competence to review the whole -pamphlet, and I will confine myself to the particular point with which -I began. While suggesting, however, some criticisms of Dr. Bosanquet’s -contentions, I admit the suspicion that I may resemble one of those -disputants who, as Renan once said, at the bottom of their minds are a -little of the opinion of the other side. That, indeed, was why I said -that many of us would be glad to hear further on the point from Croce -himself. But with Dr. Bosanquet’s pamphlet before me I cannot afford to -“wait and see.” I must say, with all diffidence, what I can. - -Dr. Bosanquet describes the Crocean view quite fairly. “The ‘work of -art,’ then, picture, statue, musical performance, printed or spoken -poem, is called so only by a metaphor. It belongs to the practical -(economic) and not to the æsthetic phase of the spirit, and consists -merely of expedients adopted by the artist as a practical man, to -ensure preservation and a permanent possibility of reproduction for -his imaginative intuition. The art and beauty lie primarily in his -imagination, and secondarily in the imagination of those to whom his -own may communicate its experience. The picture and the music are by -themselves neither art nor beauty nor intuition-expression.” - -But when Dr. Bosanquet goes on to make his inferences, I suggest that -he infers too much. “Thus,” he says, “all embodiment in special kinds -of physical objects by help of special media and special processes is -wholly foreign to the nature of art and beauty.... There is nothing to be -learned from the practical means by help of which intuitions of beauty -receive permanence and communicability.” “Wholly foreign” and “nothing -to be learned” are, I think, too strong. Though the practical means are -distinct from art, they are part of the artist’s experience. The artist -is not working _in vacuo_. He is a certain man, with a certain nature -and experience, at a certain moment of time. His joy, say, in handling -and modelling clay (I take this example from an old lecture of Dr. -Bosanquet’s) will be one of the factors in his experience. In that sense -it will not be “wholly foreign” to his art, and he will have “learned” -something from it. It is not itself the art-impulse, the expressive -activity, but it is, what Croce calls it, a _point d’appui_ for a new one. - -For let us hear what Croce himself says on this point (“Estetica,” Ch. -XIII.). “To the explanation of physical beauty as a mere aid for the -reproduction of internal beauty, or expression, it might be objected, -that the artist creates his expressions in the act of painting or -carving, writing or composing; and that therefore physical beauty, -instead of following, sometimes precedes æsthetic beauty. This would be -a very superficial way of understanding the procedure of the artist, -who, in reality, makes no stroke of the brush without having first seen -it in his imagination; and, if he has not yet seen it, will make it, not -to externalize his expression (which at that moment does not exist), -but as it were on trial and to have a mere _point d’appui_ for further -meditation and internal concentration. The physical _point d’appui_ is -not physical beauty, instrument of reproduction, but a means that might -be called _pedagogic_, like retiring to solitude or the many other -expedients, often queer enough, adopted by artists and men of science -and varying according to their various idiosyncrasies.” Can we not -put it more generally and say that the artist’s historic situation is -changing at every moment and his experience with his medium is part of -that situation (just as is the date of his birth, his country, or the -state of his digestion), or in other words, one of the influences that -make him what he is and not some one else? But to admit that, it seems -to me, is not at all to deny the independence of his spiritual activity -in expression any more than the freedom of the will is denied by the -admission that will must always be exercised in a definite historical -situation. - -What Dr. Bosanquet cannot abide is Croce’s great principle that in -æsthetic philosophy there are no arts but only art. He says this “offers -to destroy our medium of intercourse through the body and through natural -objects.” Why “destroy”? Surely it is not a case of destruction but of -removal; removal from the philosophy of art to that of practice. Croce is -not quite so foolish as to offer to destroy things indestructible; he is -only trying to put them in their place. - -“The truth is, surely, that different inclinations of the spirit have -affinities with different qualities and actions of body—meaning by body -that which a sane philosophy accepts as concretely and completely actual -in the world of sense-perception. The imagination of the particular -artist is - - like the dyer’s hand, - Subdued to what it works in, - -and its intuition and expression assume a special type in accordance -with the medium it delights in, and necessarily develop certain -capacities and acknowledge, however tacitly, certain limitations.” Who -denies anything so obvious? Certainly not Croce. What he denies, I -take it, is that these considerations, however valuable in their right -place, are proper to a philosophy of art. They are classifications and -generalizations, he would say, and philosophy deals not with _generalia_ -but with universals. To say that art is one is not to say that Raphael -and Mozart are one. There are no duplicates in human life and no two -artists have the same activity of intuition-expression. You may classify -them in all sorts of ways; those who express themselves in paint, those -who express themselves in sounds, and so forth; or sub-classify them -into landscapists, portraitists, etc., etc.; or sub-sub-classify them -into “school” of Constable, “school” of Reynolds, etc., etc. But you are -only getting further and further away from anything like a philosophy of -art, and will have achieved at best a manual or history of technique. -In a philosophic theory Dr. Bosanquet’s “affinities of the spirit” are -a will-o’-the-wisp. Thereupon he says, crushingly, “if you insist on -neglecting these affinities of the spirit, your theory remains abstract, -and has no illuminating power.” Well, Croce’s theory is certainly “up -there,” it inhabits the cold air of pure ideas; it will not be of the -least practical use at the Academy Schools or the Royal College of -Music; but when a philosopher like Dr. Bosanquet finds no illumination -in a theory which unifies the arts, gives a comprehensible definition of -beauty and, incidentally, constructs, to say the least of it, a plausible -“cycle of reality,” I can but respectfully wonder. - - - - -WILLIAM HAZLITT - - -I was, perhaps rather naïvely, surprised the other day to hear an actor -asking for Hazlitt’s “View of the English Stage.” Actors in general, -whether correctly or incorrectly I cannot say, are reputed to be not -enthusiastically given to reading. On the face of it, the thing seems -likely enough. Their business is to be men of action and talk and the -busy world—not sedentary contemplative, cloistered students. Your -bookworm is as a rule a shy, retiring solitary; the very opposite of your -actor who must not only boldly show himself but take a pride in being -stared at. Logically, then, I ought not to have been as shocked as I was -when the late Henry Neville some years ago roundly declared to me that an -actor “should never read.” Yet the thought of a life without literature -seemed so appalling! It is possible, however, to be a reader, and a -voracious reader, yet not to read Hazlitt’s stage criticisms. The epoch -is gone. Kean is long since dead. Our theatrical interests to-day are -widely different from those of our ancestors a century ago. And Hazlitt’s -criticisms have not the loose, discursive, impressionistic, personal, -intimate charm of his other essays, his “Table Talk,” his “Round Table,” -or his “Plain Speaker.” They simply show him in the “dry light” of the -specialist, the closet-student turned playgoer, but these give a warm, -coloured, speaking likeness of the whole man. I was surprised, then, to -hear my friend the actor asking for Hazlitt’s stage criticisms. I venture -to inquire what, particularly, he wanted them for. “Oh,” he said, “I like -to read about Kean.” - -And certainly if you want to read about Kean, Hazlitt is your man. It has -been said, over and over again, that it was good luck for both actor and -critic that Hazlitt had just begun his theatrical work on the _Morning -Chronicle_ when Kean made his first appearance as Shylock at Drury -Lane. Hazlitt helped to make Kean’s reputation and Kean’s acting was an -invaluable stimulant to Hazlitt’s critical faculties. It is said, by the -way, that Kean was originally recommended to Hazlitt’s notice by his -editor, Perry. Things of this sort may have happened in that weird time -of a century ago, but the age of miracles is passed. Editors of daily -newspapers in our time are not on the look-out for unrevealed histrionic -genius. They have other fish to fry. But Perry seems to have been a -most interfering editor. He plagued his critic with his own critical -opinions. Hazlitt’s first “notice” in the _Chronicle_ was about Miss -Stephens as Polly in _The Beggar’s Opera_. “When I got back, after the -play” (note that he had meditated in advance his “next day’s criticism, -trying to do all the justice I could to so interesting a subject. I -was not a little proud of it by anticipation”—happy Hazlitt!) “Perry -called out, with his cordial, grating voice, ‘Well, how did she do?’ and -on my speaking in high terms, answered that ‘he had been to dine with -his friend the Duke, that some conversation had passed on the subject, -he was afraid it was not the thing, it was not the true _sostenuto_ -style; but as I had written the article’ (holding my peroration on _The -Beggar’s Opera_ carelessly in his hand), ‘it might pass.’... I had -the satisfaction the next day to meet Miss Stephens coming out of the -Editor’s room, who had been to thank him for his very flattering account -of her.” That “carelessly” is a delicious touch, which will come home to -every scribbler. But Perry and his friend the Duke and that glimpse of a -petticoat whisking out of the editor’s room! What a queer, delightful, -vanished newspaper-world! There were, however, even in those days, -editors who did not interfere. Hazlitt was, for a brief period, dramatic -critic of _The Times_ (his most notable contribution was his notice of -Kemble’s retirement in _Coriolanus_, June 25th, 1817), and was evidently -well treated, for in his preface to the “View” (1818) he advises “any one -who has an ambition to write, and to write _his best_ in the periodical -Press, to get, if he can, a position in _The Times_ newspaper, the editor -of which is a man of business and not a man of letters. He may write -there as long and as good articles as he can, without being turned out -for it.” One can only account for Hazlitt’s singular ideal of an editor -as Johnson accounted for an obscure passage in Pope, “Depend upon it, -Sir, he wished to vex somebody.” Hazlitt only wanted to be disagreeable -to Perry. - -Nevertheless, the _Chronicle_ had had the best of Hazlitt’s stage -criticisms, his papers on Kean. Kean’s acting, as I have said, was -invaluable to Hazlitt as a stimulus. It stimulated him to a sort of -rivalry in Shakespearian interpretation, the actor fairly setting his -own conception of the part against the actor’s rendering of it, giving -him magnificent praise when the two agreed, and often finding carefully -pondered reasons for disagreement. Hazlitt might have said of Kean what -Johnson said of Burke: “This fellow calls forth all my powers.” The -result is twofold. You get vivid descriptions of Kean’s acting, his -voice, his figure, his gestures, his perpetual passionateness, in season -and out of season (misrepresenting—_e.g._, Shakespeare’s Richard II., -as Hazlitt said, as a character of passion instead of as a character of -pathos). And at the same time you get the “psychology” (an inevitable -_cliché_, cast since Hazlitt’s day) of the chief Shakespearian tragic -characters, carefully “documented” by the text and elaborated and -coloured by Hazlitt’s sympathetic vision. You see the same process at -work in the criticisms of Kemble and Mrs. Siddons and Macready, but -(remember the great Sarah had had her day before Hazlitt began to write) -with a milder stimulant there was a milder response. In any case it was -a gallery of portraits—a series of full-length figures partly from life -and partly from the Shakespearean text. There was little background or -atmosphere. - -That is what makes Hazlitt’s criticism so unlike any modern sort. He -wrote in an age of great histrionics, great interpretative art, but no -drama, no creative art. His elaborate studies of dead-and-gone players -have (except as illustrating Shakespeare) often a merely antiquarian -interest. It is a curious detail that Kean’s Richard III. in early -performances “stood with his hands stretched out, after his sword was -taken from him,” and later “actually fought with his doubled fists like -some helpless infant.” So it is a curious detail that Napoleon I. wore -a green coat and clasped his hands behind his back. But compare this -dwelling on the _minutiæ_ of an actor’s business or, to take a fairer -example, compare Hazlitt’s analysis of the character of Iago (as a test -of Kean’s presentation)—one of his acutest things—with the range and -variety and philosophic depth of a criticism by Jules Lemaître. You -are in a different world. Instead of the niggling details of how this -man raised his arm at a given moment or delivered a classic speech in -a certain way you get a criticism of life, all life, _quicquid agunt -homines_. It is interesting, mildly interesting, to know that Kean’s -Richard was (for Hazlitt) too grave and his Iago too gay, but after all -we cannot be perpetually contemplating these particular personages of -Shakespeare. We need fresh ideas, fresh creations, new views of society, -anything for a change, so long as it is a thing “to break our minds -upon,” We have no “great” Shakespearean actors now, but even if we had, -should we care to devote to them the minute, elaborate attention paid -by Hazlitt? One thinks of that time, a hundred years ago, of the great -tragedy kings and queens as rather a stuffy world. Playgoing must have -been a formidable enterprise ... but yet, you never can tell. There were -frolicsome compensations. You might come back from the play to the office -to learn your editor had been dining with a duke. And with luck next -morning you might find a pretty actress at his door. - - - - -TALK AT THE MARTELLO TOWER - - -Our boatman with blue eyes and red cheeks is not more skilful with the -oar than any of his fellows or more ready to give you change out of a -shilling when he has rowed you across the harbour, though the notice -board says the fare is twopence. But the ladies love primary colours, -and we had to have him. We all three had our novels, and the blue eyes -glanced at them, especially the yellow-back, with disfavour. He is a -Swedenborgian—our little port, like most, is rich in out-of-the-way -religions—and presumably regards all modern literature as on the wrong -tack. It was not until we had parted with him at the Martello tower that -we dared open our books. - -Selina had grabbed Patty’s, the yellow-back, but she soon laid it down, -and made a face. “My dear Patty,” she said wearily, “how _can_ you go on -reading Gyp? Don’t you see that the silly woman doesn’t even know how to -tell her own silly stories?” - -Patty slightly flushed. She knew Gyp was a countess and -great-granddaughter of Mirabeau-Tonneau, and felt it was almost -Bolshevist manners to call so well-born a woman silly. Nothing could have -been more frigid than her “What on earth do you mean, Selina?” - -“I mean,” said Selina, “that the poor woman is dreadfully _vieux jeu_. -I’m not thinking of her social puppets, her vicious clubmen, her languid -swells, her anti-Semite Hebrews, her fashionable ladies who are no better -than they should be though, goodness knows, these are old-fashioned -enough. She began making them before I was born.” (Selina is no chicken, -but it was horrid of Patty to raise her eyebrows.) “What I mean is, that -she is at the old worn-out game of playing the omniscient author. Here -she is telling you not only what Josette said and did when La Réole -attacked her, but what La Réole said and did when Josette had left -him, and so on. She ‘goes behind’ everybody, tells you what is inside -everybody’s head. Why can’t she take her point of view, and stick to it? -Wasn’t her obvious point of view Josette’s? Then she should have told -us nothing about the other people but what Josette could know or divine -about them.” - -“Ah, Selina,” I interrupted, “your ‘goes behind’ gives you away. You’ve -been reading Henry James’s letters.” - -“Like everybody else,” she snapped. - -“Why, to be sure, oh Jacobite Selina, but one may read them without -taking their æsthetics for law and gospel. I know that the dear man -lectured Mrs. Humphry Ward about the ‘point of view,’ when she was -writing ‘Elinor,’ and got, I fancy, rather a tart answer for his pains. -But you are more intransigent than the master. For he admitted that -the point of view was all according to circumstances, and that some -circumstances—for instance, a big canvas—made ‘omniscience’ inevitable. -What about Balzac and Tolstoy? Both took the omniscient line, and, as -novelists, are not exactly to be sneezed at.” - -“Yes, but Gyp’s isn’t a big canvas,” said Selina, “and it seems to me -_n’en déplaise à votre seigneurie_, that this precious story of hers -called aloud for Josette’s point of view, and nothing but Josette’s. She -is the one decent woman in the book, according to Gyp’s queer standards -of decency” (Patty sniffed), “and the whole point, so far as I can make -out, is the contrast of her decent mind with the highly indecent people -round her. She is as innocent as Maisie, but a Maisie grown up and -married. What a chance for another ‘What Maisie knew’!” - -“I only wish _I_ knew what you two are talking about,” pouted Patty. - -“That is not necessary, dear child,” I said, in my best avuncular manner. -“You are a Maisie yourself—a Maisie who reads French novels. But, Selina, -dear, look at your own Henry James’s own practice. He didn’t always -choose his point of view and stick to it. He chose two in ‘The Golden -Bowl,’ and three in ‘The Wings of the Dove,’ and I’m hanged if I know -whether he took several, or none at all, in ‘The Awkward Age.’” - -“Well,” rejoined Selina, “and isn’t that just why those books don’t quite -come off? Don’t you feel that ‘The Golden Bowl’ is not one book but two, -and that ‘The Wings’ is almost as kaleidoscopic” (Patty gasped) “as ‘The -Ring and the Book’? I mentioned ‘Maisie,’ but after all that was a _tour -de force_, it seemed to have been done for a wager. If you challenge me -to give you real perfection, why, take ‘The Ambassadors’ and ‘The Spoils -of Poynton.’ Was ever the point of view held more tight? Everything seen -through Strether’s eyes, everything through Fleda’s!” - -“Oh, I grant you the success of the method there, but, dear Selina” (I -had lit my pipe and felt equal to out-arguing a non-smoker in the long -run), “let us distinguish.” (Patty strolled away with her Gyp while we -distinguished.) “The method of Henry James was good for Henry James. -What was the ruling motive of his people? Curiosity about one another’s -minds. Now, if he had just told us their minds, straightway, by ‘getting -behind’ each of them in turn, in the ‘omniscient’ style, there would -have been no play of curiosity, no chance for it even to begin, the cat -would have been out of the bag. By putting his point of view inside one -of his people and steadily keeping it fixed there, he turns all the other -people into mere appearances—just as other people are for each one of us -in real life. We have to guess and to infer what is in their minds, we -make mistakes and correct them; sometimes they purposely mislead us. This -is rather a nuisance, perhaps, in the real world of action, where our -curiosity must have a ‘business end’ to it; but it is (for those who like -it, as you and I do, Selina) immense fun in the world of fiction.” - -“Now,” interjected Selina, “you are talking! That is precisely my case.” - -“Stop a minute, Selina. I said the method was good for the writer whose -temperament it suited. But so are other methods for other temperaments. -You may tell your story all in letters, if you are a Richardson, or -with perpetual digressions and statements that you are telling a story, -if you are a Fielding or a Thackeray, or autobiographically, if your -autobiography is a ‘Copperfield’ or a ‘Kidnapped.’ Every author, I -suggest, is a law to himself. And I see no reason why we should bar -‘omniscience,’ as you apparently want to. Why forbid the novelist the -historian’s privilege? Why rule out the novel which is a history of -imaginary facts?” - -“I can’t quite see Gyp as a historian,” said Selina. - -“No more can I, thank goodness,” said Patty. - -And so we were rowed back to the jetty, and the blue eyes didn’t blink -over half-a-crown under the very notice board. - - - - -AGAIN AT THE MARTELLO TOWER - - -Now that regattas are over and oysters have come in again, our little -port has returned to its normal or W. W. Jacobs demeanour. The bathers -on the sand-spit have struck their tents. The Salvation Army band is -practising its winter repertory. When our blue-eyed boatman rowed us over -to the Martello tower again the other day, he almost looked as though -he expected little more than his legal fare. Selina, who has the gift -of management, suggested that Patty should try it on with him, on the -ground, first, that women always do these things better than men, and, -second, that Patty was blue-eyes’ favourite. I acquiesced, and Patty -borrowed half-a-crown of me, so as to be prepared when the time came. - -Meanwhile Selina began to read us extracts from Professor Henri Bergson -on “Laughter.” Selina is a serious person without, so far as I have ever -discovered, a grain of humour in her composition. These are just the -people who read theories of laughter. It is a mystery to them, and they -desire to have it explained. “A laughable expression of the face,” began -Selina, “is one that will make us think of something rigid and, so to -speak, coagulated, in the wonted mobility of the face. What we shall see -will be an ingrained twitching or a fixed grimace. One would say that -the person’s whole moral life has crystallized into this particular cast -of features.” - -“I wonder whether Mr. George Robey’s whole moral life has,” dropped -Patty, innocently. - -“And who, pray,” said Selina, with her heavy eyebrows making semi-circles -of indignant surprise, “is Mr. George Robey?” - -I sat silent. I had just brought my niece back from a short but -variegated stay in town. I knew, but I would not tell. - -“Why, Selina, dear,” answered Patty, “you are the very image of him with -your eyebrows rounded like that. He is always glaring at the audience -that way.” - -“_Will_ you, Patty,” said Selina, now thoroughly roused, “be good enough -to tell me who he _is_?” - -“Well, he’s an actor, who makes the very faces your Bergson describes. -Uncle took me to see him in a” (catching my warning eye)—“in a sort of -historical play. He was Louis XV., at Versailles, you know.” - -“H’m,” said Selina, “it’s rather a doubtful period; and the very best -historical plays do make such a hash of history. Was it in blank verse? -Blank verse will do much to mitigate the worst period.” - -“N-no,” answered Patty, “I don’t think it was in blank verse. I didn’t -notice; did you, Uncle?” - -I tried to prevaricate. “Well, you never know about blank verse on the -stage nowadays, nearly all the actors turn it into prose. Mr. Robey may -have been speaking blank verse, as though it were prose. The best artists -cannot escape the fashion of the moment, you know.” - -“But what did he do?” insisted Selina, “What was the action of the play?” - -Patty considered. “I don’t remember his doing anything, Selina, dear, but -chuck the ladies of the Court under the chin. Oh, yes, and he made eyes -at them affectionately.” - -“A pretty sort of historical play, on my word!” exclaimed Selina. - -“Oh, it wasn’t _all_ historical, Selina, dear,” said Patty, sweetly. “A -lot of it was thoroughly modern, and Mr. Robey wore a frock coat, and -such a funny little bowler hat, and another time he was a street musician -in Venice with a stuffed monkey pinned to his coat-tails.” - -Selina looked at me. There was a silent pause that would have made -anybody else feel uncomfortable, but I was equal to the occasion. I -snatched Selina’s book out of her hand, and said, cheerfully, “You see, -Selina, it’s all explained here. Wonderful fellow, Bergson. ‘Something -mechanical encrusted upon the living,’ that’s the secret of the comic. -Depend upon it, he had seen George Robey and the stuffed monkey. And if -Bergson, who’s a tremendous swell, member of the institute, and all that, -why not Patty and I?” - -“And where,” asked Selina, with a rueful glance at the Bergson book, -as though she began to distrust theories of the comic, “where was this -precious performance?” - -“At the Alhambra,” answered Patty, simply. - -“The Alhambra! I remember Chateaubriand once visited it,” said Selina, -who is nothing if not literary, “but I didn’t know it was the haunt of -philosophers.” - -I looked as though it was, but Patty tactlessly broke in, “Oh, I wish -you two wouldn’t talk about philosophers. Can’t one laugh at Mr. Robey -without having him explained by Bergson? Anyhow, I don’t believe he can -explain Mr. Nelson Keys.” - -“Another of your historical actors?” inquired Selina with some bitterness. - -“Yes, Selina, dear, and much more historical than Mr. Robey. He played -Beau Brummell and they were all there, Fox and Sheridan and the Prince of -Wales, you know, all out of your favourite Creevey, and they said ‘egad’ -and ‘la’ and ‘monstrous fine,’ and bowed and congee’d like anything—oh, -it was awfully historical.” - -Selina, a great reader of memoirs, was a little mollified. “Come,” she -said, “this is better—though the Regency is another dangerous period. I’m -glad, however, that Londoners seem to be looking to the theatre for a -little historical instruction.” - -“Yes, Selina,” I said, feeling that it would be dangerous to let Patty -speak just at that moment, “and there is a certain type of contemporary -play, called _revue_, which recognizes that demand and seldom, if -ever, fails to cater for it. In _revues_ I have renewed acquaintance -with the heroes of classical antiquity, with prominent crusaders, with -Queen Elizabeth, with the Grand Monarque—a whole course of history, in -fact. Let Bergson explain that, if he can. And, what is more wonderful -still, our _revue_ artists, whose talent is usually devoted to provoking -laughter, seem willingly to forgo it for the honour of appearing as an -historical personage. Mr. Robey and Mr. Keys, I should tell you, are -both professional laughter-provokers, indeed are the heads of their -profession, yet one is content to posture as Louis Quinze and the other -as Beau Brummell without any real chance of being funny. So the past ever -exerts its prestige over us. So the muse of history still weaves her -spell.” - -“Which was the muse of history, Patty, dear?” said Selina, whose -equanimity was now happily restored. - -“Oh, bother, I forget,” said Patty, “and, anyhow, I don’t think she has -as much to do with _revues_ as uncle pretends. Give me the real muse of -_revue_ who inspired Mr. Keys with his German waiter and his Spanish -mandolinist and his Japanese juggler and——” - -“This,” I said, to put an end to Patty’s indiscreet prattle, “must be the -muse of geography.” - -Patty gave me no change out of my half-crown. The boatman said he didn’t -happen to have any. So much for Selina’s management! - - - - -THE SILENT STAGE - - -The spoken drama and the silent stage. I came across this dichotomy in -_The Times_ the other day, not without a pang, for it was a day too late. -It is not a true dichotomy. It does not distinguish accurately between -the story told by living actors to our faces and the story told by -successive photographs of such actors. For the “silent stage” would cover -pantomime, a form of drama, and a very ancient form, acted by living -actors. It is not true, but it is for practical uses true enough. In life -we have to make the best of rough approximations. I would have used this -one gratefully had it occurred to me in my moment of need. But it did not. - -Let me explain. One of our more notable comedians (I purposely put it -thus vaguely, partly out of discretion, partly with a bid for that -interest which the mystery of anonymity is apt to confer upon an -otherwise matter-of-fact narrative, as George Borrow well knew)—one of -our most notable comedians, then, had asked me to accompany him to a -“cinema” rehearsal wherein he was cast for the principal part. I eagerly -accepted, because the art of the “cinema” is becoming so important in -our daily life that one really ought to learn something about it, -and, moreover, because the _cuisine_ of any art (see the Diary of the -De Goncourts _passim_) is a fascinating thing in itself. Our rehearsal -was to be miles away, in the far East of London, and the mere journey -was a geographical adventure. The scene was a disused factory, and a -disused factory has something of the romantic melancholy of a disaffected -cathedral—not the romance of ruins, but the romance of a fabric still -standing and valid, but converted to alien uses. - -Our first question on arrival was, were we late? This question seems to -be a common form of politeness with notable comedians, and is probably -designed to take the wind out of the sails of possible criticism. No, we -were not late—though everybody seemed to be suspiciously ready and, one -feared, waiting. They were a crowd of ladies and gentlemen in elaborate -evening dress, all with faces painted a rich _café au lait_ or else -salmon-colour, and very odd such a crowd looked against the whitewashed -walls and bare beams of the disused factory. The scenery looked even -more odd. It presented the middle fragments of everything without any -edges. There was a vast baronial hall, decorated with suits of armour and -the heaviest furniture, but without either ceiling or walls. There was -a staircase hung, so to speak, in the air, leading to a doorway, which -was just the framework of a door, standing alone, let into nothing. It -seemed uncanny, until you remembered the simple fact that the camera -can cover just as much, or as little, of a scene as it chooses. Great -glaring “cinema” lights—I had not seen them since the Beckett-Carpentier -flight—cast an unearthly pallor upon the few unpainted faces. The crowd -of painted ladies and gentlemen hung about, waiting for their scene with -what seemed to me astonishing patience. But patience, I suspect, is a -necessary virtue at all rehearsals, whether “spoken” or “silent.” - -And that distinction brings me to the producer. It was for him that I -should have liked to have thought of it. For he fell to talking to me -about his art, the art of production, and of cinematography in general, -and I found myself forced to make some comparisons with what I had, up -to that moment, always thought of as the “regular” stage. But evidently, -as Jeffery said of Wordsworth’s poem, this would never do. The producer -might have thought I was reflecting upon his art, about which he was -so enthusiastic, as something “irregular.” At last, after deplorable -hesitation, I found my phrase—the “other” stage. Dreadfully tame, I -admit, but safe; it hurt nobody. Even now, however, I have an uneasy -feeling that the producer was not quite satisfied with it. I ought -perhaps to have accompanied it with a shrug, some sign of apology for so -much as recognizing the existence of “other” stages of anything else, in -short, than what was, at that moment and on that spot, _the_ stage, the -“silent” stage, the stage of moving pictures. It was like speaking of -Frith’s “Derby Day” in the presence of a Cubist. Artistic enthusiasts -must be allowed their little exclusions. - -If the producer was an enthusiast, there was certainly a method in his -enthusiasm. His table was covered with elaborate geometrical drawings, -which, I was told, were first sketches for successive scenes. On pegs -hung little schedules of the artists required for each scene, and of -the scenes wherein each of the principals was concerned. Innumerable -photographs, of course—photographs of scenes actually represented on -the “film,” and of others not represented, experiments for the actual, -final thing. For it is to be remembered that the producer of a “film” is -relatively more important than the producer of a “spoken drama.” He is -always part, and sometimes whole, author of the play. He has to conceive -the successive phases of the action in detail, and to conceive them in -terms of photography. Even with some one else’s play as a datum he has, -I take it, to invent a good deal. For while the “spoken drama” can only -show selected, critical moments of life, the “silent stage” aims at -continuity and gives you the intervening moments. On the one stage, when -a lady makes an afternoon call, you see her hostess’s drawing-room, and -she walks in; on the other stage you see her starting from home, jumping -into her Rolls-Royce, dashing through the crowded streets, knocking at -the front door, being relieved of her cloak by the flunkey, mounting the -stairs to the drawing-room, etc., etc. Indeed, this mania for continuity -is a besetting sin of the “silent stage”; it leads to sheer irrelevance -and the ruin of all proportion. My enthusiastic producer, it is only fair -to say, was far too good an artist to approve it. - -“At the first whistle, get ready,” shouted the producer, “at the second, -slow waltz, please.” And then the baronial hall was filled by the crowd -of exemplary patience and they danced with unaffected enjoyment, these -gay people, just as though no camera were directed on them. The heroine -appeared (she was the daughter of the house, and this was her first -ball—indicated by a stray curl down her back), and her ravishing pink -gown, evidently a choice product of the West-end, looked strange in -a disused East-end factory. Of course she had adopted the inexorable -“cinema” convention of a “Cupid’s bow” mouth. Here is the youngest of -the arts already fast breeding its own conventions. Surely the variety -of female lips might be recognized! Women’s own mouths are generally -prettier, and certainly more suitable to their faces, than some rigidly -fixed type. It would be ungallant to say that the leading lady’s “Cupid’s -bow” did not become her, but the shape of her own mouth, I venture to -suggest, would have been better still. And where was my friend the -notable comedian all this time? Rigging himself out in evening clerical -dress for the ball (he was the vicar of the parish), and evidently -regarding his momentary deviation into “film” work (for the benefit of a -theatrical charity) as great fun. Will the heroes of the “silent stage,” -I wonder, ever deviate into “spoken drama”? It would be startling to hear -Charlie Chaplin speak. - - - - -THE MOVIES - - -All is dark and an excellent orchestra is playing a Beethoven symphony. -The attendant flashes you to your seat with her torch, you tumble over -a subaltern, and murmur to yourself, with Musset’s Fantasio, “Quelles -solitudes que tous ces corps humains!” For that is the first odd thing -that strikes you about the movies; the psychology of the audience is not -collective, but individual. You are not aware of your neighbour, who is -shrouded from your gaze, and you take your pleasure alone. Thus you are -rid of the “contagion of the crowd,” the claims of human sympathy, the -imitative impulse, and thrown in upon yourself, a hermit at the mercy of -the hallucinations that beset the solitary. You never applaud, for that -is a collective action. What with the soothing flow of the music, the -darkness, and the fact that your eye is fixed on one bright spot, you -are in the ideal condition for hypnotism. But the suspected presence of -others, vague shadows hovering near you, give your mood the last touch of -the uncanny. You are a prisoner in Plato’s cave or in some crepuscular -solitude of Maeterlinck. Anything might happen. - -According to the programme what happens is called _The Prodigal Wife_. -Her husband is a doctor and she pines for gaiety while he is busy at -the hospital. It is her birthday and he has forgotten to bring her her -favourite roses, which are in fact offered to her by another gentleman -with more leisure and a better memory. Our own grievance against the -husband, perhaps capricious, is his appalling straw hat—but then we -equally dislike the lovers tail-coat, so matters are even, and the lady’s -preference of No. 2 to No. 1 seems merely arbitrary. Anyhow, she goes -off with No. 2 in a motor-car, “all out,” leaving the usual explanatory -letter behind her, which is thrown on the screen for all of us to gloat -over. - -Here let me say that this profuse exhibition on the screen of all the -correspondence in the case, letters, telegrams, copies of verses, last -wills and testaments, the whole _dossier_, strikes me as a mistake. It -under-values the intelligence of the audience, which is quite capable -of guessing what people are likely to write in the given circumstances -without being put to the indelicacy of reading it. As it is, you no -sooner see some one handling a scrap of paper than you know you are going -to have the wretched scrawl thrust under your nose. As if we didn’t know -all about these things! As if it wouldn’t be pleasanter to leave the -actual text to conjecture! I remember in _Rebellious Susan_ there is a -packet of compromising letters shown to interested parties, whose vague -comments, “Well, after _that_,” etc., sufficiently enlighten us without -anything further. But now, when Lady Macbeth reads her lord’s letter, up -it goes on the screen, blots and all. This is an abuse of the film, which -finds it easier to exhibit a letter than to explain why it came to be -written. As things are, the lady seems to have eloped in a hurry without -sufficient grounds. No. 2 presents his roses, and, hey presto! the car -is round the corner. No. 1 takes it very nobly, hugs his abandoned babe -to his bosom, and pulls long faces (obligingly brought nearer the camera -to show the furrows). The mother’s sin shall ever be hidden from the -innocent child, and to see the innocent child innocently asking, “Where’s -muvver?” and being answered with sad headshakes from the bereaved parent -(now bang against the camera) is to bathe in sentimental photography up -to the neck. - -Thereafter the innocent child grows like (and actually inside) a rosebud -till, as the petals fall off, she is revealed as a buxom young woman—the -familiar photographic trick of showing one thing _through_ another being -here turned to something like poetic advantage. But then the film again -bolts with the theme. There is running water and a boat, things which -no film can resist. Away go the girl and her sweetheart on a river -excursion, loosening the painter, jumping in, shoving off, performing, -in short, every antic which in photography can be compassed with a -stream and a boat. We have forgotten all about the prodigal wife. But -here she is again, her hair in grey _bandeaux_ and her lips, as the -relentless camera shows you at short range, rouged with a hard outline. -She has returned to her old home as the family nurse. For there is now -another innocent babe, the doctor’s grandchild, to wax and wane with -the advancing and receding camera, and to have its little “nightie” -blown realistically by the usual wind as it stands on the stair-head. -The doctor himself is as busy as ever, making wonderful pharmacological -discoveries (newspaper extracts exhibited on the screen) in a laboratory -blouse and dictating the results (notes shown on the screen) to an -enterprising reporter. - -And here there is another “rushed” elopement. “The art of drama,” -said Dumas, “is the art of preparations.” But nothing has prepared us -(save, perhaps, heredity) for the sudden freak of the prodigal wife’s -daughter in running away with a lover so vague that you see only his -hat (another hideous straw—_il ne manquait que ca_!) and the glow of -his cigarette-end. Family nurse to the rescue! Tender expostulations, -reminders about the innocent babe, and nick-of-time salvation of the -“intending” runaway. Ultimate meeting of nurse and doctor; he is all -forgiveness, but prodigal wives are not to be forgiven like that. No, she -must go out into the snow, and you see her walking down the long path, -dwindling, dwindling, from a full-sized nurse into a Euclidean point. - -To sum up. The camera would do better if it would learn self-denial and -observe the law of artistic economy, keep its people consistently in one -plane and out of boats and motor cars, _soigner_ its crises a little -more, and avoid publishing correspondence. And it should slacken its pace -a bit. You may take the Heraclitean philosophy—πάντα χωρεῖ—a little too -literally. The movies would be all the more moving for moving slower. - -For the real fun of rapid motion, appropriately used, give me _Mutt -and Jeff_. Mutt, buried in the sand, with a head like an egg, prompts -an ostrich to lay another egg, from which emerges a brood of little -ostriches. Jeff goes out to shoot them, but his shots glance off in -harmless wreaths of smoke. When Mutt and Jeff exchange ideas you see them -actually travelling like an electric spark along the wire, from brain to -brain. The ostrich hoists Mutt out of the sand by the breeches. Collapse -of Jeff. It suggests a drawing by Caran d’Ache in epileptic jerks. The -natural history pictures, too, the deer and the birds, strike one as -admirable examples of what animated photography can do for us in the -way of instruction as well as amusement.... And the orchestra has been -playing all this time, Beethoven and Mozart, a “separate ecstasy.” And -again I stumble over the subaltern, and wonder to find people moving so -slowly in Piccadilly Circus. - - - - -TIME AND THE FILM - - -There was a gentleman in Molière, frequently mentioned since and now -for my need to be unblushingly mentioned again, who said to another -gentleman, about never mind what, that _le temps ne fait rien à -l’affaire_. But Molière belonged to that effete art the “spoken -drama,” which we learn, from America, has sunk to be used mainly as -an advertisement of the play which is subsequently to be filmed out -of it. He wrote in the dark or pre-film ages, and could not know what -an all-important part _le temps_ was to play in _l’affaire_ of the -film. Among its innumerable and magnificent activities the film is an -instructor of youth, and it seems, from a letter which the Rev. Dr. -Lyttelton has written to _The Times_, it instructs at a pace which -is a little too quick for the soaring human boy. “Elephants,” the -reverend Doctor pathetically complains, “are shown scuttling about like -antelopes,” and so the poor boy mixes up antelopes and elephants and gets -his zoology all wrong. I should myself have innocently supposed that this -magical acceleration of pace is one of the great charms of the film for -the boy. It not only provides him with half-a-dozen pictures in the time -it would have taken him to read one of them in print (to say nothing of -his being saved the trouble of reading, learning the alphabet, and other -pedagogic nuisances altogether), but it offers him something much more -exciting and romantic than his ordinary experience. He knows that at the -Zoo elephants move slowly, but here on the film they are taught, in the -American phrase, to “step lively,” and are shown scuttling about like -antelopes. A world wherein the ponderous and slow elephant is suddenly -endowed by the magician’s wand with the lightness and rapidity of the -antelope—what enhancement for boys, aye, and for grown-ups too! - -Indeed, it seems to me that the greatest achievement of the film is its -triumph over time. Some amateurs may find its chief charm in the perfect -“Cupid’s bow” of its heroines’ mouths; others in the remarkable English -prose of its explanatory accompaniments; others, again, in its exquisite -humour of protagonists smothered in flour or soap-lather or flattened -under runaway motor-cars. I admit the irresistible fascination of these -delights and can quite understand how they come to be preferred to the -high-class opera company which has been introduced at the Capitol, New -York, to entertain “between pictures.” But I still think the prime merit -of the film—the real reason for which last year more than enough picture -films to encircle the earth at the Equator left the United States of -America for foreign countries—lies in its ability to play as it will -with time. The mere acceleration of pace (which is the ordinary game it -plays)—the fierce galloping of horses across prairies, the miraculous -speed of motor-cars, elephants scuttling about like antelopes—gives a -sharp sense of exhilaration, of victory over sluggish nature. And even -here there is an educational result that ought to console Dr. Lyttelton. -The rate of plant growth is multiplied thousands of times so that we are -enabled actually to see the plants growing, expanding from bud to flower -under our eyes. But there is also the retardation of pace, which is even -more wonderful. A diver is shown plunging into the water and swimming at -a rate which allows the minutest movement of the smallest muscle to be -clearly seen. This is an entirely beautiful thing; but I should suppose -that the film, by its power of exhibiting movements naturally too quick -for the eye at whatever slower rate is desired, must have extraordinary -use for scientific investigations. This, at any rate, is a better use for -the film than that sometimes claimed for it in the field of morality. -I look with suspicion on those films, as I do on those “spoken” plays, -that propose to do us good by exhibiting the details of this or that -“social evil.” Some philanthropic societies, I believe, have introduced -such pictures in all good faith. But many of their producers are, like -the others, merely out to make money, and in every case I imagine their -patrons to be drawn to them not by any moral impulse, but by a prurient -curiosity—the desire to have a peep into the forbidden. - -But to return to the question of time. It has its importance, too, in -the “spoken drama,” but it ceases to be a question of visible pace. You -cannot make real men and women scuttle about like antelopes. You can only -play tricks with the clock. The act-drop is invaluable for getting your -imaginary time outstripping your real time:— - - jumping o’er times, - Turning the accomplishment of many years - Into an hour-glass. - -In a moment it bridges over for you the gap between youth and age, as -in _Sweethearts_. But there is another way of playing tricks with the -clock, by making it stand still for some of your personages, while it -ticks regularly for the rest. A. E. W. Mason, in one of his stories, gave -an extra quarter of an hour now and then to one of the characters—that -is to say, the clock stopped for them during that period, but not for -him—and while _outside_ time, so to speak, he could do all sorts of -things (if I remember rightly he committed a murder) without risk of -detection. But the great magician of this kind is Barrie. The heroine -of his _Truth about the Russian Dancers_ had a sudden desire for an -infant, and within a half-hour was delivered of one; a remarkably rapid -case of _parthenogenesis_. The infant was carried out and returned the -next moment a child of ten. “He grows apace,” said somebody. These -were cases of the clock galloping. With the heroine of _Mary Rose_ on -the island it stands still, so that she returns twenty-five years later -to her family precisely the same girl as she left them. We all know -what pathetic effects Barrie gets out of this trick with the clock. -But he has, of course, to assume supernatural intervention to warrant -them. And there you have the contrast with the film. In the “spoken -drama,” poor, decrepit old thing, they appeal to that silly faculty, -the human imagination; whereas the film has only to turn some wheels -quicker or slower and it is all done for you, under your nose, without -any imagination at all. Elephants are scuttling about like antelopes -and divers plunging into the water at a snail’s pace. No wonder that, -according to our New York advices, “film magnates have made so much -money that they have been able to buy chains of theatres throughout the -country,” and that “everybody talks films in the United States.” - - - - -FUTURIST DANCING - - -That amazing propagandist, Signor Marinetti, of Milan, who favours me -from time to time with his manifestos, now sends “La Danse Futuriste.” -I confess that I have not a ha’porth of Futurism in my composition. -I am what Signor Marinetti would himself call a Passéiste, a mere -Pastist. Hence I have generally failed to discover any meaning in these -manifestos, and have thrown them into the waste-paper basket. But as -the present one happens to arrive at the same time as another Futurist -tract—Signor Ardengo Soffici’s “Estetica Futurista”—I have read the two -together, to see if one throws any light on the other. It is right to -say that “the” Soffici (to adopt an Italianism) disclaims any connexion -with “the” Marinetti, explaining that he puts forward a doctrine, whereas -official Futurism has no doctrine, but only manifestos. It couldn’t have, -he rather unkindly adds, seeing that its very nature is “anticultural and -instinctolatrous.” (Rather jolly, don’t you think, the rich and varied -vocabulary of these Italian gentlemen?) Nevertheless, I have ventured -to study one document by the light of the other; and, if the result is -only to make darkness visible, it is a certain gain, after all, to get -anything visible in such a matter. - -And first for the Marinetti. His manifesto begins by taking an historical -survey of dancing through the ages. The earliest dances, he points out, -reflected the terror of humanity at the unknown and the incomprehensible -in the Cosmos. Thus round dances were rhythmical pantomimes reproducing -the rotatory movement of the stars. The gestures of the Catholic -priest in the celebration of Mass imitate these early dances and -contain the same astronomical symbol—a statement calculated to provoke -devout Catholics to fury. (I should like to hear the learned author of -“The Golden Bough” on the anthropological side of it.) Then came the -lascivious dances of the East, and their modern Parisian counterpart—or -sham imitation. For this he gives a quasi-mathematical formula in the -familiar Futurist style. “Parisian red pepper + buckler + lance + ecstasy -before idols signifying nothing + nothing + undulation of Montmartre hips -= erotic Pastist anachronism for tourists.” Golly, what a formula! - -Before the war Paris went crazy over dances from South America: the -Argentine _tango_, the Chilean _zamacueca_, the Brazilian _maxixe_, the -Paraguayan _santafé_. Compliments to Diaghileff, Nijinsky (“the pure -geometry” of dancing), and Isadora Duncan, “whose art has many points -of contact with impressionism in painting, just as Nijinsky’s has -with the forms and masses of Cézanne.” Under the influence of Cubist -experiments, and particularly under the influence of Picasso, dancing -became an autonomous art. It was no longer subject to music, but took -its place. Kind words for Dalcroze; but “we Futurists prefer Loie Fuller -and the nigger cake-walk (utilization of electric light and machinery).” -Machinery’s the thing! “We must have gestures imitating the movements -of motors, pay assiduous court to wings, wheels, pistons, prepare the -fusion of man and machine, and so arrive at the metallism of Futurist -dancing. Music is fundamentally nostalgic, and on that account rarely -of any use in Futurist dancing. Noise, caused by friction and shock of -solid bodies, liquids, or high-pressure gases, has become one of the -most dynamic elements of Futurist poesy. Noise is the language of the -new human-mechanical life.” So Futurist dancing will be accompanied by -“organized noises” and the orchestra of “noise-makers” invented by Luigi -Russolo. Finally, Futurist dancing will be:— - - Inharmonious—Ungraceful—Asymmetrical—Dynamic—_Motlibriste_. - -All this, of course, is as plain as a pikestaff. The Futurist aim is -simply to run counter to tradition, to go by rule of contrary, to say -No when everybody for centuries has been saying Yes, and Yes when -everybody has been saying No. But when it comes to putting this principle -into practice we see at once there are limitations. Thus, take the -Marinetti’s first example, the “Aviation” dance. The dancer will dance on -a big map (which would have pleased the late Lord Salisbury). She must -be a continual palpitation of azure veils. On her breast she will wear -a (celluloid) screw, and for her hat a model monoplane. She will dance -before a succession of screens, bearing the announcements 800 metres, -500 metres, etc. She will leap over a heap of green stuffs (indicating a -mountain). “Organized noises” will imitate rain and wind and continual -interruptions of the electric light will simulate lightning, while the -dancer will jump through hoops of pink paper (sunset) and blue paper -(night). And so forth. - -Was there ever such a lame and impotent conclusion? The new dancing, -so pompously announced, proves to be nothing but the crude symbolism -to be seen already in every Christmas pantomime—nay, in every village -entertainment or “vicar’s treat.” And we never guessed, when our aunts -took us to see the good old fun, that we were witnessing something -dynamic and _motlibriste!_ - -I turn to the Soffici. He finds the philosophy of Futurism in the clown, -because the clown’s supreme wisdom is to run counter to common sense. -“The universe has no meaning outside the fireworks of phenomena—say the -tricks and acts and jokes of the clown. Your problems, your systems, are -absurd, dear sirs; all’s one and nothing counts save the sport of the -imagination. Let us away with our ergotism, with the lure of reason, let -us abandon ourselves entirely to the frenzy of innovations that provoke -wonder.” It is this emancipation, adds the Soffici, this artificial -creation of a lyric reality independent of the _nexus_ of natural -manifestations and appearances, this gay symbolism, that our æsthetic -puts forward as the aim for the new artist. - -Well, we have seen how gay was the symbolism devised by the Marinetti. -And how inadequate, how poor in invention. Dancing that has to be eked -out by labelled screens and paper hoops and pyramids of stuffs! That is -what we get from the new artist. The old artists had a different way; -when they had to symbolize, they did it by _dancing_, without extraneous -aid. When Karsavina symbolized golf, she required no “property” but -a golf-ball. All the rest was the light fantastic toe. When Genée -symbolized Cinderella’s kitchen drudgery, she just seized a broom and -danced, divinely, with it. But that was before the Marinetti made his -grand discovery that music is too nostalgic for dancing purposes and -that the one thing needful is organized noise—as organized by Luigi -Russolo.... No, it is no use trying; I remain an incorrigible Pastist. - - - - -HROSWITHA - - -Writing about Hroswitha’s _Callimachus_, as performed by the Art Theatre, -I touched upon the unintentionally comic aspect of a tenth-century -miracle play to a twentieth-century audience. Naturally this is not an -aspect of the matter which recommends itself to a lady who is about to -publish a translation of Hroswitha’s plays with a preface by a cardinal, -and in a published letter she protests that the fun which the Art Theatre -got out of _Callimachus_ was not justified by the text. Let me hasten -to acquit the Art Theatre of the misdemeanour attributed to it by Miss -Christopher St. John. There was nothing intentionally funny in its -performance. The players acted their parts with all possible simplicity -and sincerity. The smiling was all on our side of the footlights. But I -said that the smile was “reverent,” because of the sacred nature of the -subject-matter. - -This opens up the question of the frame of mind in which we moderns ought -to approach works of “early” art. The first effort of a critic—we must -all be agreed about that—should be to put himself, imaginatively, in the -artist’s place. He has to try to think himself back into the time, the -place, the circumstances of the work, and into the artist’s temperament, -intentions, and means of execution. We look at the Madonna of Cimabue -in the church of Santa Maria Novella, and our first impulse is to find -her ungainly, uncouth, without spiritual significance. It is only by -thinking ourselves back among the Florentines of the thirteenth century -that we can understand and appreciate Cimabue’s appeal. But consider how -difficult—or, rather, impossible—that thinking-back process is. Consider -what we have to unlearn. We have to make ourselves as though we had -never seen the Sistine Madonna of Raphael; much more than that, we have -mentally to wipe out six centuries of human history. Manifestly it cannot -be done; we can never see the Cimabue picture as Cimabue himself saw it -or as his Florentine contemporaries saw it. We have to try; but what we -shall at best succeed in attaining is a palimpsest, the superimposition -of new artistic interpretation on the old. And when we say that classics -are immortal, we only mean that they are capable of yielding a perpetual -series of fresh palimpsests, of being perpetually “hatched again and -hatched different.” We cannot see Dante’s _Commedia_ as Dante or Dante’s -first readers saw it. For us its politics are dead and its theology -grotesque; it lives for us now by its spirituality, its majesty, and the -beauty of its form. But with works that are not classics, works that -are not susceptible of a perpetual rebirth, the case is even harder. -They are inscriptions that we can no longer decipher; we cannot think -ourselves, for a moment, back in the mind of the author. They have become -for us curios. - -And that is what Hroswitha’s _Callimachus_ has become: a curio. How can -we put ourselves back in the mind of a nun in the Convent of Gandersheim -in the age of Otho the Great? I say “we.” For nuns perhaps (having, I -assume, a mentality nearer the tenth century than the rest of us) may -take a fair shot at it. So, too, may cardinals, whose august mentality I -do not presume to fathom. But it is certain that common worldly men, mere -average playgoers, cannot do it. - -But, it will be objected, are we not, or most of us, still Christians? -Are we not still capable of understanding prayers, miracles, saintliness, -raising from the dead, “conversion,” and all the other subject-matter -of _Callimachus_? To be sure we are; hence my “reverent” smile. If -Christianity were dead (or, as in Swift’s ironical pamphlet, abolished by -Act of Parliament) _Callimachus_ would be simply meaningless for us, a -nothing, mere mummery. It is not the matter of the play that provokes our -smile; but its form. The “fun,” says Miss St. John, is “not justified by -the text.” She is thinking of the matter, abounding in piety and tending -to edification; but in point of fact the language, the “text”—at any -rate in theatrical representation (far be it from me to prejudice her -forthcoming book)—has its comic side. Callimachus’s abrupt declaration -of his passion to Drusiana and the terms of her rejection of him are -both, to a modern audience, irresistibly comic. They are not meaningless, -but they are delightfully impossible: they are love-making as imagined -by a nun, the very person who _ex hypothesi_ knows nothing about it. You -have, in fact, precisely the same delicious absurdity, proceeding from -an imagination necessarily uninstructed by experience, as you get in -Miss Daisy Ashford’s book. (Several critics have made this comparison. -I am really chagrined not to have thought of it myself. But it should -show Miss St. John that I am, at any rate, not the only one who found -_Callimachus_ comic.) - -Further, and quite apart from the exquisite naïveties of its text, -the form of the play is so childlike and bland as to be really funny. -The players, when not engaged in the action, stand motionless in a -semi-circle. Changes of scene are indicated by two performers crossing -the stage in opposite directions—a genuine cricket “over.” Characters -are understood to be stricken with death when they composedly lie -down on their backs. Others trot in pairs round Drusiana’s prostrate -form and you understand they are journeying to her tomb. All this, of -course, is merely primitive “convention.” Could we put ourselves back -into Hroswitha’s time, it would pass unnoticed. In our own time, with a -different set of “conventions,” that make some attempt at imitation of -reality, we naturally laugh at these old conventions. We laugh, but we -are interested; our curiosity is being catered for, we like to see what -the old conventions were. The curio, in short, is amusing in the fullest -sense of the term. - -And it leaves us with a desire to know more about Hroswitha, the “white -rose” of the tenth century (if that be really the meaning of her name). -Perhaps the Cardinal’s preface will tell us more. One remark occurs. -It seems a little significant that a nun should have written all her -plays on the one theme of chastity. It must have been an obsession with -her, this virtue to which, as Renan said, nature attaches so little -importance. And, in hunting her theme, this nun does not scruple to -pursue it to the strangest places. She even puts courtesans upon the -stage and houses of ill-fame. How on earth did the good lady imagine -these unconventual topics? The question suggests some puzzles about -the psychology of nuns. But one only has to see _Callimachus_ to know -that Hroswitha must have been as pure as snow, or as a white rose, as -innocently ignorant, in fact, of what she was writing about as Miss Daisy -Ashford when she described an elopement. - - - - -PAGELLO - - -Long before _Madame Sand_ was produced at the Duke of York’s Theatre more -had been written all the world over about the trip of George Sand and -Alfred de Musset to Venice in 1833-4 than about the decline and fall of -the Roman Empire or the campaigns of the Great War. A heavy fine should -be imposed on any one who needlessly adds a drop of ink to the vast mass -of controversy that has raged round that subject, and I promise to leave -the main story, which must be known to every adult man and woman in the -two hemispheres, severely alone. But there is a subordinate actor in -the story, to whom injustice, I think, has been done on all hands, and -whose case it would be an act of the merest decency to reconsider. I mean -Pietro Pagello. - -His case was prejudiced from the first by the dissemination of an -atrocious libel. When a patient alleges scandalous behaviour between -doctor and nurse, it is well to be sure of the witness’s mental -condition. Now Musset was suffering, not, as Pagello politely put it, -from typhoid fever, but from _delirium tremens_. This would at once -disqualify him as an eye-witness. But the fact is Musset himself never -made the allegation; the story was spread about by brother Paul, a -terrible liar. Pagello had been called in first to attend not Alfred, but -George herself, for severe headache. Half a century later he remembered -that her lips were thick and ugly, and her teeth discoloured by the -cigarettes she was perpetually smoking; but she charmed him by her -wonderful eyes: _per gli occhi stupendi_. After they had both nursed -Alfred to convalescence the _occhi stupendi_ made short work with the -young doctor. In the common phrase, George threw herself at him. People -who don’t study the facts talk of the new arrangement as though it were -a betrayal; but observe that it was of the highest convenience not only -to George, but to Alfred. It enabled the poet to get away alone to -Paris with an easier conscience; it provided George, compelled to stay -on in Venice to complete her tale of “copy,” with a protector. But we -are in 1834, with romanticism at its most ecstatic and “sublime.” So -the convenience of the situation is draped in phrases and bedewed with -tears. Alfred shed them with enthusiasm, while Pagello swore to him -to look after the happiness of George. “Il nostro amore per Alfredo” -was Pagello’s delightful way of putting it. A singular trio! Evidently -poor Pagello was George’s slave. What was a poor young Venetian medical -gentleman to do? A foreign lady with _occhi stupendi_ (and a habit of -writing eight or nine hours a day on end) handed over to him, with -tears of enthusiasm, by a grateful patient! Anyhow, Pagello showed his -sense by removing the lady to cheaper lodgings. When Venice grew a -little too hot he escorted her on a trip to Tirol, taking her on the way -(such were the pleasing manners of the time) to see his father! He was -a little short with me, says the son, but he received her with _cortesi -ospitalita_, and the pair discussed French literature. Mr. Max Beerbohm -should draw the picture. - -It has been the fashion to dismiss Pagello as a mere nincompoop. But -if he had been that, a George Sand would not have cared a rap for him, -and he would have been terrified by George. As it was, when she asked -him to take her back to Paris he “chucked” his practice and cheerfully -parted with his pictures and plate to provide funds for the journey. He -was, at any rate, a disinterested lover; but the truth seems to be he -was not passionate enough for George. “Pagello is an angel of virtue,” -she writes to Musset, “he is so full of sensibility and so good ... -he surrounds me with care and attention.... For the first time in my -life I love without passion.... Well, for my part, I feel the need to -suffer for some one. Oh! why couldn’t I live between the two of you and -make you happy without belonging to either?” But by the time she had -reached Paris she was already thinking of belonging to Alfred again, and -“door-stepped” Pagello. Her Parisian set, of course, made fun of him. -The poor gentleman’s situation was, indeed, sufficiently awkward. But it -is not true, as it is the fashion to say, that he was “sent straight -back.” George, who had retreated to Nohant, invited him there, but he had -the good sense to decline. She was afraid he might be in want of money, -and wrote to a friend, “he will never take it from a woman, even as a -loan.” She, at any rate, knew he was a gentleman. But the Italians, with -all their romantic traditions, are a practical people. Finding himself -adrift in Paris, Pagello remembered his profession, and stayed on as -long as he could to study surgery, with such substantial result that he -subsequently became one of the chief surgeons in Italy, and gained a -special reputation, it is said, in lithotomy. Thus may a fantastic love -adventure be turned to good account. - -I take my facts about Pagello from Mme. Wladimir Karénine’s “George Sand” -(1899-1912), the one authentic and exhaustive work on the subject. He -died, over 90 years of age, after the first two of her three volumes were -published, and what one likes most of all about him is that, till very -near the end of his life, he kept his mouth tight shut about the great -adventure of his youth. A mere nincompoop could not have done that. In -1881 the Italian Press happened to be reviving the story of the Venetian -amour, and they succeeded in getting from Pagello a few of George’s -letters and some modest, manly reminiscences. He had no piquant scandals -to disclose, and merely showed, quite unconsciously, that he was far the -most decent of the strange three involved in the Venetian adventure. - -As for the Pagello of the new play, the American dramatist has made him -just a tame, hopelessly bewildered donkey. He is provided with a fierce -Italian sweetheart, to bring him back safe, if scolded, from Paris to -Italy. He lives freely on other people’s money, George’s—when it isn’t -Alfred’s. After all, it doesn’t matter, for all the people of the play -are mere travesties of the originals, turned (in the published book -of the play, though not at the Duke of York’s) into modern American -citizens. Buloz talks of “boosting” his subscriptions. Alfred says George -is “like a noisy old clock that won’t stop ticking.” Oh dear! - - - - -STENDHAL - - -In reviewing the performance by the New Shakespeare Company of _King -Henry V._ I was reminded by one of Henry’s lines at Agincourt, - - We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, - -to speak, it may have seemed a trifle incongruously, of Stendhal. But -it was Stendhal who said, “je n’écris que pour les _happy few_.” No -quotation could have been more appropriate. Stendhal’s readers have -always been few, but they have been enthusiastic. In his lifetime he -was hardly read at all, though Balzac gave him a magnificent “puff”—so -magnificent that even Stendhal himself was taken aback by it and infused -a little irony into his thanks. He supposed himself to be ahead of his -time, and in 1840 said he would be understood somewhere about 1880. It -was rather a good shot, for somewhere about that date there came into -being the fierce tribe of Stendhalians, who founded the “Stendhal Club” -and included in their number no less a man than M. Paul Bourget. But the -vicissitudes of literary reputations are as uncertain as anything in -this world, and M. Bourget wondered what would be thought of Stendhal in -another forty years—namely, in 1920. Well, 1920 has arrived, as the years -have the habit of doing with abominable rapidity, and any one who likes -can seek for an answer to M. Bourget’s question. I will hazard a guess. -I doubt if in the interval there has been very much change in Stendhal’s -position. Now, as in 1880, Stendhal is read, and immoderately loved, by -the “happy few,” and ignored or detested by the rest. But, in enjoying -him, the happy few contrive to take him a little less seriously than did -the Stendhal Club. That process goes on with even greater reputations. -Croce, we are told, takes Dante more lightly than has been the habit -of Italian critics in the last half-century. We English are gradually -learning to discuss Shakespeare as a human being. And here, pat to the -occasion, is a paper on Stendhal in the _Revue de Paris_ by M. Anatole -France, which handles its subject with the easy Anatolian grace we all -know and does, perhaps, at the same time indicate what the readers of -1920 think of Stendhal, though none of them would express their thought -of him with the same charm. - -It would probably occur to none of them, for instance, as it does to -Anatole France, to begin an appreciation of Stendhal with the statement -that he “had a leg.” Modern costume has abolished this advantage, -but Stendhal lived, at any rate for the greater part of his life, in -the knee-breeches period, when calves were on exhibition. Unluckily, -Stendhal’s calves do not appear in the portrait prefixed to the -Correspondence, but only the head, which is rather quaintly ugly. -Quaint ugliness in men is not displeasing to women (or where would most -of us be?), but what ne’er won fair lady is faint heart, and Stendhal -was timid. Thus, as a young man Stendhal is said to have loved Mlle. -Victorine Monnier for five years before he spoke to her. He was not sure -that even then she knew who he was. And this was the man who wrote a -treatise “De l’Amour” (a delightful book to skim through, nevertheless), -and preaches that every woman can be captured by direct assault! I -remember once talking to the wife of a popular novelist, a great -enthusiast for love, about her husband’s variety and virtuosity on this -subject. She replied without enthusiasm: “Yes, in his books.” On the same -point, M. France reports a capital _sub rosâ_ saying of Renan’s:—“Les -Européens font preuve d’une déplorable indécision en tout ce qui concerne -la conjonction des sexes.” - -As might have been expected from a writer for the “happy few,” Stendhal -did not suffer fools gladly. A man must have the social, the gregarious -spirit for that, and Stendhal lived much to himself. That being so, he -could not hope to escape boredom. An incurable _ennui_ lurks behind many -of his pages; his enemies would say _in_ them. He even got bored with -Italy, as so many others of a century ago, who began as enthusiastic -lovers, got bored. Byron went to Greece—and Shelley took to yachting with -the fatal result we know—because each was bored with Italy. But Stendhal -in his later years had to put up with it at Civita Vecchia—which, for -a “littery gent” must have been a deadly dull place in 1840, and would -not, I imagine, be very lively even now. Indeed, his existence (after -his early experiences with the Grand Army) seems to have been quiet, -solitary, and slow. Perhaps that is why his books, his MSS., his letters, -are so full of mysterious disguises, initials, pseudonyms, codes, -erasures, as though he were being watched by censors and hunted by spies. -It was a way of creating for himself an imaginary atmosphere of adventure. - -M. France has some good things to say about Stendhal’s style. M. Bourget -calls his prose algebraic, which is rather hard. But there are many ways -of writing, says M. France, and one can succeed at it perfectly without -any art, just as one can be a great writer without correctness, as Henri -IV. was in his letters and Saint-Simon in his memoirs. No one would read -“Le Rouge et le Noir” or “La Chartreuse de Parme,” as the Duchess in a -Pinero play said she read her French novel, for the style. Anatole France -commits himself to a very definite statement. No Frenchman, he says, in -Stendhal’s time wrote well, the French language was altogether lost, and -every author at the beginning of the nineteenth century wrote ill, with -the sole exception of Paul Louis Courier. “The disaster to the language, -begun in the youth of Mirabeau, increased under the Revolution, despite -those giants of the tribune, Vergniaud, Saint-Just, Robespierre, compared -with whom our orators of to-day seem noisy children, despite Camille -Desmoulins, author of the last well-written pamphlet France was to read; -the evil was aggravated under the Empire and the Restoration; it became -a frightful thing in the works of Thiers and of Guizot.” This, from the -greatest living master of French, is not without its interest. No one -could say the same thing of our English prose in the same period—a period -that gave us, to take a few instances at random, Cowper’s letters and -Byron’s, and the Essays of Elia. - -Stendhal, then, was not remarkable for style. But one gathers that, in -the rare occurrence of congenial society, he was a good talker. One -would give something to have been a third in the box at La Scala when -Stendhal, a young officer of Napoleon, met an old, lanky, melancholy -general of artillery—no other than Choderlos de Laclos, author, before -the Revolution, of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” Stendhal, as a child, had -known the original of Laclos’s infamous Mme. de Merteuil, an original who -appears to have been even worse than the copy. Some years later George -Sand, on her way to Italy with Musset, met Stendhal on a Rhone steamer, -and he told her a story which, she said, shocked her. She does not repeat -it. One would really rather like to hear a story which could shock George -Sand. - - - - -JULES LEMAÎTRE - - -It was in the first week of August, 1914. The crowd on the seafront was -outwardly as gay as ever, only buying up the evening papers with a little -more eagerness than usual to read the exciting news from Belgium. We had -not had time to realize what war meant. Some one held out a paper to me -and said, quite casually, “I see Lemaître’s dead.” This event seemed -to me for the moment bigger than the war itself. At any rate it came -more intimately home to me. The world in an uproar, nations toppling to -ruin, millions of men in arms—these are only vague mental pictures. They -disquiet the imagination, but are not to be realized by it. The death -of your favourite author, the spiritual companion and solace of half a -lifetime, is of an infinitely sharper reality, and you feel it as though -it were a physical pang. - -Lemaître died where, whenever he could, he had lived, at Tavers in the -Loiret, the heart of France. He was always writing about Tavers, though -he never named it by its name. In describing the far-off cruises of Loti -and the indefatigable touristry of Bourget he says:—“There is somewhere -a big orchard that goes down to a brook edged with willows and poplars. -It is for me the most beautiful landscape in the world, for I love -it, and it knows me.” To understand Lemaître you must keep that little -_vignette_ affectionately in your mind, as he did. M. Henry Bordeaux, -in his charming little monograph “Jules Lemaître,” rightly insists upon -Lemaître’s passionate love for his native countryside. But you never -can tell; his insistence seems only to have bored a recent reviewer of -the book. “The insistence on Lemaître’s patriotism and on his being -‘l’homme de sa terre’ is a little wearying; of course he was ‘l’homme de -sa terre,’ but he was many other things, or we should never have heard -of him.” As who should say, of course Cyrano had a nose, but he had many -other things, or we should never have heard of him. But Cyrano’s nose was -a conspicuous feature, and, if we are not told of it, we shall not fully -understand Cyrano. So with Lemaître’s love of his countryside by the -Loire. - -It made him, to begin with, an incorrigible stay-at-home. In this, as -in so many other things, he was a typical Frenchman. We English, born -roamers as we are, take for granted the educative influence of travel. -Places and people, we know by elementary experience, are only to be -realized by being seen on the spot. Lemaître thought otherwise. Why, he -asked, need I go to England? I can get all England out of Dickens and -George Eliot and my friend Bourget’s “Impressions de Voyage.” And then he -drew a picture of England, as he confidently believed it to be, that is -about as “like it” as, say, the average untravelled Englishman’s notion -of Tavers. He was never tired of quoting a passage of the “Imitation” -about the variety of changing sky and scene. But a cloistered monk is not -exactly an authority on this subject. - -Again, the fact that Lemaître was “l’homme de sa terre” is of vital -literary importance; it affected not only the spirit, but the actual -direction of his criticism. It inclined him to ignore or to misapprehend -those features in a foreign author that precisely marked how he also, -in his turn, was the man of his countryside, and that very different -from the banks of the Loire. Some of his comments on Shakespeare, for -instance, are of a Gallicism almost Voltairean. And it fostered illusions -like that which possessed him about the “Northern literatures”—Ibsen, -Hauptmann, Strindberg, and so forth—that they were mere belated imitators -of the French romantics. The fact that Lemaître was essentially a man of -his province involved the fact that his criticism now and then was also -provincial. - -Indeed, his very provincialism heightened his enjoyment of Paris and -sharpened his sense of Parisianism. Things which the born Parisian takes -for granted were delightful novelties for him, challenging observation -and analysis. “Il est,” said Degas, “toujours bien content d’être à -Paris.” He was “bien content” because he was “the young man from the -country,” the man from Tavers. The phenomenon is familiar all the world -over. - -Further, the fact that Lemaître remained “l’homme de sa terre,” still -getting his clothes from the village tailor, never so much at home as -among the farmers, country schoolmasters, and peasants he had known -from his infancy, gives a quite peculiar savour to his remarks on “le -monde”—the great fashionable scene, which he describes and analyses, to -be sure, as a philosopher, but as a philosopher who is, consciously and -indeed defiantly, an “outsider.” - -These are all integral parts of Lemaître’s critical individuality. -Without them he would have been another man altogether—a point so -obvious to all lovers of Lemaître that it would never have occurred to -me to mention it, had it not been for our reviewer’s weariness of being -reminded that he was “l’homme de sa terre.” Evidently the reviewer -cannot forgive Lemaître for his treatment of the “décadents” and the -“symbolistes,” and other cranks. “Think of the people Lemaître missed.” -The people include, it seems, Moréas, Laforgue, Samain, and Rimbaud. -Well, after thinking of these people, many of us will be resigned to -“missing” them with Lemaître. - -It is odd that the reviewer, while hunting for objections to Lemaître’s -criticism, as criticism, should have “missed” the really valid one—that -it is often not so much critical as “high fantastical.” Lemaître was -apt to be carried away by his imagination, and to run through a varied -assortment of comparisons, associations, and parallels that coloured -rather than cleared the issue. The rigorist Croce has, in passing, -laid his finger upon this. He quotes Lemaître on Corneille. Polyeucte, -says the critic, recalls at once “St. Paul, Huss, Calvin, and Prince -Kropotkine,” and awakes “the same curiosity as a Russian Nihilist, of the -kind to be seen in Paris in bygone years, in some _brasserie_ ... of whom -the whisper went round that at St. Petersburg he had killed a general or -a prefect of police.” Croce dismisses this sort of thing as _ricami di -fantasia_, and certainly, from the point of view of strict criticism, it -is a weakness of Lemaître’s. - -After all, however (as the counsel in “Pickwick” pleaded about something -else), it is an amiable weakness; it makes him such incomparably good -reading! Heaven forbid that I should reopen the old stupid, stale -controversy about “impressionist” and “judicial” criticism; but it is -obvious that the one sort does explicitly acknowledge and glory in -what is implicit in the other—the individual temperament and talent of -the critic himself. If the “impressionist” who gives free play to his -temperament is apt sometimes to get out of bounds—to be substituting -_ricami di fantasia_ for strict analysis—he may be all the more -stimulating to the reader. He may be giving the reader not scrupulous -criticism, but something better. It all depends, of course, on the -temperament and the talent. Lemaître’s _ricami di fantasia_ are part, if -not the best part, of his charm. - - - - -JANE AUSTEN - - -The amusing parlour-game of Jane Austen topography is always being -played somewhere. A few years ago there was a correspondence in the -_Literary Supplement_ about the precise position of Emma’s Highbury on -the map. Some Austenites voted for Esher, others for Cobham, others -again for Bookham. There has been another correspondence about Mansfield -Park. Lady Vaux of Harrowden “identifies” it with Easton Neston, near -Towcester. Sir Francis Darwin and the Master of Downing are for Easton -in Huntingdonshire. People have consulted Paterson’s Roads about it. Mr. -Mackinnon, K.C., points out that it must have been about four miles north -of Northampton. But I like him best when he says, “I do not suppose any -actual park was in Jane Austen’s mind.” _Brigadier, vous avez raison!_ -I do not suppose any actual place was in Jane Austen’s mind when she -assigned her personages a home or a lodging. You might as well try to fix -the number of the house in Gracechurch Street where Elizabeth’s uncle -lived. Are we not shown the “real” Old Curiosity Shop? And the “real” -Bleak House? And Juliet’s tomb at Verona? And the exact point of the -Cobb where Louisa Musgrove fell? - -It is easy to see why Jane Austen lends herself more readily than most -writers to this topographical game. She was very fond of topographical -_colour_, giving not only real place-names to the neighbourhood of the -fictitious homes, but exact distances in miles. It was so many miles -from Highbury to Kingston market-place, and so many to Box Hill. Yet she -was always vague about the exact spot from which these distances were -calculated. For there her imagination had its home, it was her private -Paradise of Dainty Devices; she wanted a free hand there, unhampered by -maps, road books, and other intrusions from the actual world. In fact, -she did with real places just what Scott, say, did with historical -people, kept them to surround the imaginary centre of the tale. You -can “identify” Charles Edward, but not Waverley. You can “identify” -Nottingham, but not Mansfield Park. - -It is a mercy that Jane Austen never describes houses—never describes -them, I mean, with the minute (and tedious) particularity of a Balzac—or -the topographical game would have been supplemented by an architectural -one, and we should have had the “real” Mansfield Park pointed out to us -from its description, like Hawthorne’s House of the Seven Gables. Indeed, -she never, in the modern sense, describes anything, never indulges in -description for its own sake. She never even expatiated on the beauties -of nature, taking them for granted and, indeed, on at least one famous -occasion—when strawberries were being picked while the apple trees were -still in bloom at Donwell Abbey—rather mixing them up. Her descriptions -always had a practical purpose. If it rained in Bath, it was in order -that Anne might, or might not, meet Captain Wentworth. We know that Sir -Thomas’s “own dear room” at Mansfield Park was next to the billiard-room, -because the novelist wanted us to know how he came plump upon the ranting -Mr. Yates. But that detail, thank goodness, won’t enable us to “identify” -Mansfield Park. - -Doesn’t it argue a rather matter-of-fact frame of mind—I say it with -all respect to the correspondents of the _Literary Supplement_—this -persistent tendency to “identify” the imaginary with the actual, the -geographical, the historical? There is a notable instance of it in the -Letters of Henry James. The novelist had described in “The Bostonians” -a certain veteran philanthropist, “Miss Birdseye.” Forthwith all Boston -identified the imaginary Miss Birdseye with a real Miss Peabody. “I am -quite appalled,” writes Henry James to his brother William, “by your note -in which you assault me on the subject of my having painted a ‘portrait -from life’ of Miss Peabody! I was in some measure prepared for it by -Lowell’s (as I found the other day) taking it for granted that she had -been my model, and an allusion to the same effect in a note from aunt -Kate. Still, I didn’t expect the charge to come from you. I hold that I -have done nothing to deserve it.... Miss Birdseye was conceived entirely -from my moral consciousness, like every other person I have ever drawn.” -It is odd that a man like William James, a professed student of the -human mind and its workings, should have made such a mistake. I remember -a saying attributed, years ago, to Jowett about the two brothers: one, -he remarked, was a writer of fiction and the other a psychologist, and -the fiction was all psychology and the psychology all fiction. Anyhow, -I think if any one had written to Jane Austen to tax her with Highbury -being Esher or Mansfield Park Easton Neston, she would have been able to -reply that they were conceived entirely from her moral consciousness. -And I fancy she would have smiled at her little trick of giving the -exact mileage from her imaginary centre to real places having “sold” so -many worthy people. Very likely she would have brought the topographical -game into the Hartfield family circle, as a suitable alternative for Mr. -Elton’s enigmas, charades, conundrums, and polite puzzles, or for Mr. -Woodhouse’s “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,” which made him think of -poor Isabella—who was very near being christened Catherine, after her -grandmamma. - -The truth, surely, is that this place-hunting, this seeking to “identify” -the imaginary with the actual map-marked spot, is only a part of the -larger misconception of imaginative work—the misconception which leads -to a perpetual search for the “originals” of an author’s personages, -especially when these personages have a full, vivid life of their -own. Jane Austen has often been compared to Shakespeare, ever since -Macaulay set the fashion. Well, it is naturally upon Shakespeare that -this misconception has wreaked its worst. Commentators have gravely -presented us with the “original” of Falstaff, of Sir Toby Belch, of -Dogberry—nay, of Iago. Surely, the only “originals” of these people were -Shakespeare himself? What were they but certain Shakespearean moods, -humours, intimate experiences, temptations felt, but resisted, impulses -controlled in actual life but allowed free play in imaginative reverie? -No one that I know of has been foolish enough to charge Jane Austen with -“copying” any of her characters from actual individuals, but, if you are -in quest of “identifications,” is it not possible to “identify” many of -them, the women at any rate—for, of course, her women bear the stamp -of authentic reality much more plainly than her men—is it not possible -to identify them with sides, tendencies, moods of Jane Austen herself? -Here, I know, I am at variance with a distinguished authority, from whom -it is always rash to differ. Professor Raleigh says:—“Sympathy with her -characters she frequently has, identity never. Not in the high-spirited -Elizabeth Bennet, not in that sturdy young patrician Emma, not even in -Anne Elliot of ‘Persuasion,’ is the real Jane Austen to be found. She -stands for ever aloof.” Pass, for Emma and Elizabeth! But the “even” in -the case of Anne gives me courage. We are not, of course, talking of -identity in regard to external circumstances. Jane Austen was not the -daughter of a Somersetshire baronet and did not marry a captain in the -navy. But that Jane only “sympathized” with the heart and mind of Anne -Elliot is to my thinking absurdly short of the truth. That the adventures -of Anne’s soul, her heart-beatings, misgivings and intimate reassurances -about Wentworth’s feeling for her had been Jane Austen’s own is to me as -certain as though we had the confession under her own hand and seal. The -woman who drew Anne’s timid, doubting, wondering love must have been in -love herself and in that way. One short sentence settles that for me. -The consciousness of love disposes Anne “to pity every one, as being -less happy than herself.” What lover does not know that secret feeling? -And if he had never loved, would he have guessed it by “sympathy”? (You -will find, by the way, the very same secret divulged by Balzac in one -of his love-letters to Mme. Hanska—among the feelings she inspires him -with is “I know not what disdain in contemplating other men.”) In the -face of this, what need to go ransacking Jane Austen’s Letters or Memoir -for evidence that she had a love affair? No, it is because there is most -of Jane Austen’s spiritual “identity” in Anne that “Persuasion” is the -sweetest, tenderest, and truest of her books. I apologize for having -wandered from Mansfield Park and Easton Neston and the other engaging -futilities of the parlour game. - - - - -T. W. ROBERTSON - - -Fifty years ago to-morrow (February 3rd, 1871) died Thomas William -Robertson, a great reformer of the English drama in his day, but now, -like so many other reformers, little more than a name. His plays have -ceased to hold the stage. Very few of them still allow themselves to be -read. To-day their matter seems, for the most part, poor, thin, trivial, -and their form somewhat naïve. “Robertsonian” has become for the present -generation a meaningless epithet, and “teacup and saucer school” an -empty gibe. Even within a few years of Robertson’s death George Meredith -could only say of him: “In a review of our modern comedies, those of the -late Mr. Robertson would deserve honourable mention.” As the old tag -says, times change and we in them. Robertson is now a “back number.” His -comedies are not classics, for classics are live things; they are merely -historical documents. Yet you have only to turn to such a record as “The -Bancrofts’ Recollections” to see how live these comedies once were, how -stimulating to their time, how enthusiastically they were hailed as a new -birth, a new portent, a new art. Indeed, for my part, when I read the -glowing eulogies of John Oxenford and Tom Taylor and the other critics -of that time I am filled with something like dismay. All that warm (and -rather wordy—it was the way of the ’sixties) appreciation gone dead and -cold! I wonder how many of our own judgments will stand the test of fifty -years. Br—r—r! - -Well, to understand Robertson’s success, we have to think ourselves back -into his time. We have to ignore what followed him and to see what he -displaced. Up to his date the theatre, under the great French influence -of the ’thirties, still remained romantic. But that influence was -wearing out. A new influence was making itself felt in France, through -the dialectics of Dumas _fils_ and Augier’s commonsense, though the new -influence still bore trace of the old romanticism, as we can see at -least to-day. _La Dame aux Camélias_, so romantic to-day, was greeted in -1855 as a masterpiece of realism! And it _was_ comparatively realistic, -realistic for its time. But the English theatre, a second-hand theatre, -still stuck to the old French romantic tradition. It lived largely on -adaptations from Scribe. Robertson himself adapted a Scribe play (and not -a bad one), _Bataille de Dames_. He had, however, come under the newer, -the realistic, or romantico-realistic influence. He adapted Augier’s -_L’Aventurière_. Tom Stylus’s pipe in the ballroom (in _Society_) had -previously been dropped by Giboyer in _Les Effrontés_. I cannot help -thinking that the new French reaction had a good deal to do with the -Robertsonian reaction, certainly as much as the influence of Thackeray to -which Sir Arthur Pinero traces it. - -But I must let Sir Arthur speak for himself. In a letter in which he has -been so good as to remind me of to-morrow’s date he says:— - -“I look upon Robertson as a genius. Not that he wrote anything very -profound, or anything very witty, but because, at a time when the -English stage had sunk to even a lower ebb than it is usually credited -with reaching; when the theatres stank of stale gas and orange-peel and -the higher drama was represented mainly by adaptations from Scribe by -Leicester Buckingham; he had the vision to see that a new public could -be created, and an old and jaded one refreshed, by invoking for dramatic -purposes the spirit, and using some part of the method, of Thackeray.” - -This is admirable, and I only wish our dramatists would more often be -tempted into the region of dramatic criticism. All the same I confess -that (after going through all Robertson’s plays) it seems to me to -overrate the Thackerayan influence. There is a little sentimental -cynicism in Robertson and there is much in Thackeray. There is a tipsy -old reprobate in _Pendennis_ and there is another in _Caste_. Tom Stylus -helped to found a newspaper and so did George Warrington. Esther D’Alroy -tried vainly to buckle on her husband’s sword-belt when he was ordered on -service, and Amelia Osborne hovered helplessly about her husband with -his red sash on the eve of Waterloo. But such matters as these are common -property, _communia_, and the artist’s business, which Horace said was -so difficult, is _proprie communia dicere_, to give them an individual -turn. Drunkenness apart I don’t think Eccles is a bit like Costigan. As -to the Thackerayan spirit, would that Robertson had “invoked” it! His -plays might then be classics still, as Thackeray is, instead of merely -documents. - -If we are to connect Robertson with some typical Victorian novelist, I -would myself, with all deference to Sir Arthur, suggest Trollope. His -young women, his Naomi Tighes and Bellas, his Polly and Esther Eccles, -strike me as eminently Trollopean. There are traces of Mrs. Proudie in -both Mrs. Sutcliffe and Lady Ptarmigant. But, probably, these also are -only instances of _communia_. Probably the young ladies (and, for all I -know, the old ones, too) were real types of the ’sixties, as we see them -in Leech’s drawings. Bless their sweet baby-faces and their simple hearts -and their pork-pie hats! - -The Robertsonian way is often spoken of as a “return to nature.” It is, -in fact, a common eulogy of most reactions in art. “Don Quixote” was a -return to nature, compared with the romances of chivalry, and “Tom Jones” -was a return to nature, compared with “Don Quixote.” The world gradually -changes its point of view and sees the facts of life in a new light. -Artists change with the rest of the world, and give expression to the -new vision. They are hailed as reformers until the next reformation; -they seem to have returned to nature, until the world’s view of “nature” -again changes. I think, as I have said, that Robertson’s work is to be -related to the general anti-romantic reaction that started in France in -mid-nineteenth century. But all reactions keep something of what they -react against, and Robertson’s reaction retains a good deal of romance. -_School_ is as romantic as the German Cinderella-story, on which it was -founded. The central situation of _Caste_—the return home of the husband -given up for dead—is essentially romantic, not a jot less romantic than -in _La joie fait peur_. The scenes at the “Owl’s Roost” in _Society_, -applauded for their daring realism, are realistic presentations of the -last stronghold of the romantic Murger tradition, literary “Bohemia.” -Robertson’s dialogue was often the high-flown lingo of the old romance. -(In dialogue we have “returned to nature” several times over since -his day.) But more often it was not. He astonished and delighted his -contemporaries by making many of his people speak in the theatre as they -spoke out of it. He invented sentimental situations that were charming -then and would be charming now—love-passages in London squares and over -milk-jugs in the moonlight. He had been an actor and a stage manager -and knew how to make the very most of stage resources. Take the scene -of George’s return in _Caste_. There is a cry of “milkaow” and a knock -at the door. “Come in,” cries Polly to the milkman—and in walks with -the milk-can one risen from the dead! This thrilling _coup de théâtre_ -is followed, however, by something much better, the pathetic scenes of -Polly’s hysterical joy and her tender artifice in breaking the news to -Esther. I confess that I cannot read these scenes without tears. There -was a quality of freshness and delicate simplicity in Robertson’s work at -its best that was a true “return to nature.” No need, is there? to speak -of the luck his work had in finding such interpreters as the Bancrofts -and their company or of the luck the actors had in finding the work to -interpret—the Bancrofts themselves have already told that tale. But it -all happened half a century ago and I suppose we are not to expect a -future Robertson revival. The past is past. Life is perpetual change. The -more reason for not neglecting occasions of pious commemoration. Let us, -then, give a friendly thought to “Tom” Robertson to-morrow. - - - - -VERSATILITY - - -Now that the _Literary Supplement_ costs 6_d._, one feels entitled to -examine one’s relation to it with a certain sense of solemnity. But I -well know what mine is, before examination. Even when it cost 3_d._, my -relation to it was always one of weekly disconcertment. It revealed to me -so many things I didn’t know and never should know, yet known presumably -to some other reader. Now omniscience is derided as a “foible,” but why -should one be ashamed to confess it as an ideal? Frankly, I envy the -man who was so various that he seemed to be not one but all mankind’s -epitome. He must have got more fun out of life than your profound -specialist. It is to give this various reader this variety of fun that (I -surmise, but the editor will know for certain) the _Supplement_ exists. -But for me, imperfectly various, it means something bordering on despair. -I suppose other readers are more sensible, and just take what suits -them, leaving the rest. But I simply hate leaving anything. Take the ten -columns modestly headed “New Books and Reprints.” What a world of unknown -topics and alien ideas and unfathomable theories about everything this -simple title covers! Is there any reader whose intellectual equipment -includes at once the biography of Absalom Watkin, of Manchester, the -Indian Trade Inquiry Reports on Hides and Skins, an elementary knowledge -of the Bengali language, and the particular philosophy of mysticism -entertained by Mr. Watkin (not Absalom, but another)? Mine doesn’t—and -there’s the pang, for each and all these subjects, simply because they -are there, staring me in the face, the face of an absolutely blank mind -about them, excite my intellectual curiosity. I should like to know all -about ergatocracy—merely on the strength of its alluring name—and the -true story, from the Franciscan point of view, of the Franciscans and -the Protestant Revolution in England, and Lord Grey’s reminiscences of -intercourse with Mr. Roosevelt, and the history of the Assyrian “millet” -in the great war, and what is meant by the “Free Catholic” tendency in -the Nonconformist Churches. Yet it is fairly certain that I shall have -to do without any knowledge of most, if not all, of these matters which -presumably engage the enlightened interest of some other readers. - -That is why I say the _Supplement_ disconcerts me every week. It makes -me feel ignorant and, what is worse, lonely, cut off from so many human -sympathies, cold to enthusiasms that are agitating other breasts, -isolated in a crowd who, for all I know, may be banding themselves -against me with the secret password “ergatocracy,” an uninitiated -stranger among the friends of Mr. Absalom Watkin of Manchester. Indeed, -unlike “the master of this college,” I am so far from feeling that “what -I don’t know isn’t knowledge” as to find it the one sort of knowledge I -itch to possess and suppose myself to have lost a golden opportunity in -missing. There are strong men about, I am aware, who say they don’t care. -They profess themselves content with knowing a few things thoroughly, -with their own little set of enthusiasms, and repeat proverbs about jacks -of all trades. I respect these sturdy men, but all the time my heart -goes out to the other kind, the men of versatility, the men whose aim -is to understand everything, to sympathize with every human emotion, to -leave no corner of experience unexplored. And some such aim as this is -indispensable for the critic, whose business is primarily to understand. -To understand what he criticizes he has to begin by putting himself in -its author’s place and standing at his point of view—to take on, in -short, in turn, innumerable other personalities, temperaments, and tastes -than his own. Other men may, but a critic must, be versatile. He must -have the faculty of lending himself, with profusion, to other minds and -other experiences—lending himself, but not giving, reserving the right of -resuming his own individuality and of applying his own standards. - -That resumption of self is easy enough. The true difficulty is in -surrendering it, even for a while. One finds the task particularly hard, -I think, in lending oneself to tastes one has outgrown. Remember your -schoolboy enthusiasm over Macaulay’s style. You have lost that long ago, -and are now, perhaps, a little ashamed of it. Yet you must recapture -it, if only for a moment; that is to say, you must try to reflect in -yourself the joy that Macaulay felt in writing as he did, if you are -sitting down to try to criticize him adequately. This is difficult, this -momentary renunciation of your present taste in favour of the taste you -have outgrown. Remember your schoolboy attitude to Scott; how you read -feverishly for the story and nothing but the story, and simply skipped -the long prefaces and introductions and copious historical notes? To-day -your taste has matured, and you see the prefaces and notes as a welcome -setting for the story, as completing for you the picture of the author’s -mind in the act of composition. But you will have to go back to your -discarded taste and think only of the story if you are recommending Scott -to your youngsters. - -This difficulty is perpetually confronting one in the theatre. I confess, -I find the theatre almost as disconcerting as the _Literary Supplement_ -for an analogous, though not identical, reason. In that case you have the -bewildering spectacle of things unknown; in this, of tastes outgrown. -One afternoon I saw a little play translated from the French, limpid in -expression, simplicity itself in form, spare almost to austerity in its -use of theatrical means. Not a word, not a situation, was emphasized. -This or that point was neatly, briefly indicated, offered just as a -germ which might be safely left to your own intelligence to develop. -The action was pure acted irony, but not an ironical word was uttered. -This, of course, is the sort of play that refreshes the jaded critic, -and he has to resist the temptation to over-praise it. The next evening -I saw a play diligently crammed with everything that the other had -carefully left out—emphasis, repetition, six words where one would have -sufficed, “dramatic” situations and suspenses, the gentle humours of -life concentrated into eccentricities of stage “character.” There is a -numerous, and entirely respectable, public with a taste in this stage; it -likes dots on its _i_’s, things thrust under its nose, so that it can see -them, and repeated over and over again, so that it can understand them. -That is a taste which the jaded critic cannot but have outgrown. Yet the -play was good, sound work of its kind, and the critic’s first duty was -to force himself back into his outgrown taste and see the play with the -spirit with which the author wrote it and its proper public received it. -I say his first duty; it was open to him afterwards to recover his own -personality and make his distinctions. But this first duty was hard. -It is an ever-recurring trial of critical conscience. “These are our -troubles, Mr. Wesley,” as the peevish gentleman said when the footman put -too much coal on the fire. - - - - -WOMEN’S JOURNALS - - -Who was the wit who, to the usual misquotation from Buffon, _le style -c’est l’homme_, rejoined _mais ce n’est pas la femme_? The statement -has perhaps as much truth as is required from a witticism; it is half -true. Woman, unlike man, does not express all of herself. She has her -reticences, her euphemisms, and her asterisks. She will on no account -name all things by their names. It is one of the childish weaknesses -of men, she holds, to practise veracity to excess. Like children, they -cannot help blurting out the truth. But she, from diligent experiments -on her own person, has learnt that truth looks all the better for -having its nose powdered and its cheeks discreetly rouged. Readers of -George Sand’s “Histoire de ma Vie” are often baffled in tracing the -fine distinction between the woman and the make-up. Therein the work -is typical, illustrating as it does the general desire of women in -literature to look pretty—to look pretty in their mirror, for themselves, -for their own pleasure. Not, as is sometimes erroneously asserted, to -look pretty in the eyes of men or of a particular man. So one is amused -but scarcely convinced by Heine’s well-known remark that every woman who -writes has one eye on her paper and the other on some man—except the -Countess Hahn-Hahn, who had only one eye. Evidently the generalization -was invented just to spite the countess. Mme. de Sévigné’s letters to -her daughter are far better than those to Bussy-Rabutin. George Eliot -may have had one eye on Lewes when she did her best to spoil her novels -by scientific pedantry—which was sheer waste (let alone the damage to -the novels), as Lewes was, by all accounts, the ugliest man in London. -But on what man had Jane Austen an eye? One might ask the question about -our thousands of women novelists to-day, and at once see the refutation -of Heine in simple arithmetic; there would not be enough men to go -round. There is clearly no rule. Heine may have been thinking of George -Sand, already mentioned, whose eye—her “glad eye,” I fear it must be -called—revolved as she wrote upon a round dozen of men in turn. - -But there is one department of women’s literature wherein the element -of doubt altogether vanishes. I mean the journals they publish, or get -published, for themselves. They cannot write here with their eye on some -man. Indeed, men, nice men (“nice” in the strict sense, approved in a -certain talk between Catherine Morland and Henry Tilney), are rather -chary of even approaching such journals. They exhibit advertisements -of “undies,” corsets, and other things that used to be called feminine -mysteries, but are now entitled perhaps to the rank of notorieties which -make one instinctively stammer, “Oh, I beg your pardon,” and beat a -hasty retreat. So, it will at once be said, do all newspapers nowadays, -and that is true. Yet, somehow, one feels more indiscreet in lighting -upon them in the women’s journals than in the others. For one thing, -they seem to be more dainty and alluring by reason of more artistic -execution and glazed paper, so that they may satisfy the critical -eye of their proper wearers. And, for another, there is a difference -between the high-road of the newspaper, whereon a man willy-nilly must -travel, and the by-path of the women’s journal, where he is at best a -privileged intruder. If you ask, “Goosey, goosey, gander, whither shall I -wander?” there is a distinct difference between answering, “Upstairs and -downstairs,” and “in my lady’s chamber.” - -All this, of course, as the judicious will have perceived, really means -that I am as interested as, I suppose, are most of my fellow-men in -all these curiously dainty and elegant ingenuities of women’s apparel, -and that I am only pretending to be shocked. (After all, in his -pursuit of veracity, even a man may occasionally powder his nose.) The -advertisers, bless them, know all about that. They know that the natural -man shares the naïve admiration which Pepys once expressed on seeing -Lady Castlemaine’s wonderful _lingerie_ and laces hanging out to dry -on a clothes-line in Whitehall. But the natural man generally finds it -convenient to be more reticent about it than Pepys. - -The first number of the _Woman’s Supplement_, which has prompted these -reflections, suggests another: the perpetual wonder and delight of men -at the success with which women accommodate facts to their ideals. -We saw them, just now, doing this with their literature; we saw them -determined that, at all costs, this shall be pleasing and themselves -the most pleasing things in it; we saw the notable success of George -Sand in accommodating her historical to her ideal self. But they are as -successful with nature as with history. Just now, for example, sloping -shoulders are manifestly the ideal—sloping shoulders with the obviously -appropriate balloon sleeves, as in Mr. Bernard Lintott’s lady, or else -with no sleeves at all, as in M. Jean Doumergue’s. And part of the same -ideal is that the “figure” shall be anything but “full.” Now are women’s -shoulders naturally more sloping or their figures less full than they -used to be? These are puzzling questions, but not beyond conjecture, and, -for my part, I guess that the answer is No. Yet our women have easily -triumphed over nature and slope their shoulders with the uniformity of a -regiment sloping arms, while every woman with a full figure has quietly -become a _fausse maigre_. - -While I am about it, let me echo the usual male protest. As the -_Supplement_ shows, women have not yet persuaded themselves to abandon -their detestable high heels. The consequence is that there threatens to -be no longer any such thing as a graceful gait. _Incessu patuit dea_ -will soon have become an incomprehensible allusion. And that hideous -square patch which too often peeps above the back of the shoe? I suppose -it is just a practical device to strengthen the stocking in a part of -stress; but I hardly think really “nice” women can abide it. On the -whole, however, I subscribe cheerfully to the current opinion that -woman’s dress was never so charming as it is at present. That is probably -an illusion. The mysterious laws that regulate fashion mercifully -regulate also the capacity for enjoying it. And it is a mercy, too, that -the beauty of woman can triumph even over “old-fashioned” things. To our -modern eyes the fashions of the ’70’s and ’80’s were far from beautiful -in themselves—bunchy, humpy, without “line.” Yet, when they were playing -_Peter Ibbetson_, one saw some fair women in them—and was at once -reconciled, able in fact to see them with the eye of their period. - - - - -PRACTICAL LITERATURE - - -“Pray, Sir,” a leader-writer is said to have asked Delane, “how do you -say ‘good fellow’ in print?” and to have been answered, “Sir, you should -not say it at all.” There are thousands of ambitious young people to-day -who want to know how you say good fellow, or awful snipe, or old bean, -or whatever, in print, and that is why there are Schools of Journalism. -A paper of instructions from one of these excellent institutions has -lately fallen into my hands, and there seems no reason for withholding -it from publication. It appears to be in the nature of a preliminary -introduction to what a distinguished journalist has well called -“practical literature.” For Journalists, in Matthew Arnold’s quotation, -drive at practice, and to be practical you must begin by learning the -shibboleths—that is to say, the turns of phrase and modes of treatment -that long experience has approved and constant readers are accustomed to -expect. There is no mystery about it; they are much more simple than a -vain people supposeth. But it is all-important to get them right at the -outset—or, as is said in practical literature, from the word “go”—and -the advice the paper has to give about them is as follows:— - -_Descriptive Articles on Great Occasions._—The beginner will probably -find there is very little to describe. He must learn to invent. Street -crowds have a pestilent habit of not cheering at the appropriate moment; -your first business will be to make them. Celebrities flash by in closed -carriages, totally hidden by the police; you will ruthlessly expose them, -bowing to the storm of applause which sweeps across the multitude filling -the square and lining the classic steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. If -the Royal Family is present you will need especial tact. Find the golden -mean between the familiar and the abject. Be human, like Euripides. Above -all, the homely “note” is recommended. You cannot say too often that the -King “looked bronzed.” Thousands of pallid readers who go to Margate for -a week in order to come back looking bronzed will appreciate that. It is -loyal, it attests that robust health that we all desire for his Majesty, -and at the same time it is homely. “I, too, have been bronzed,” the -reader says, as the barber at Byron’s funeral said, “I, too, have been -unhappy.” Whatever is offered the Queen, a bouquet, a trowel, a sample -of the local product the Queen will “smilingly accept.” If she tastes -the men’s (or boy scouts’ or factory girls’) soup, she will “pronounce -it excellent.” Preserve a cheerful tone, especially with _contretemps_. -If Gold Stick in Waiting drops his gold stick, you will note that “the -Royal party were highly amused” and that “the little Princess laughed -heartily.” - -_Politics and International Affairs._—Here practical literature takes -a hint from the other sort. Be historical. Be reminded of the great -Westminster Election and the Duchess of Devonshire. Remember Speaker -Onslow. Compare whatever you dislike to the Rump. Magna Charta and Habeas -Corpus must now be allowed a rest, but you may still allude to Thermidor -and Brumaire, the Mountain and the Cordeliers Club. “Mr.” Pitt sounds -well. Open your leader with “Nothing in the annals of diplomacy since -the Treaty of Utrecht (or the Treaty of Vienna, or whatever other treaty -you can think of) has so disgraced,” &c. The second paragraph should -begin “Nor is that all.” Be slightly archaistic. Words like “caitiff” -and “poltroon” may be discreetly used. Books recommended for the course: -Gibbon, Junius, early volumes of Punch, Mahan’s “Sea Power,” and (for -quotations) R. L. Stevenson’s “Wrong Box.” - -_Foreign Correspondence._—Remember that the particular capital you -happen to be posted at is the real hub of your newspaper, and wonder -every morning “what those fellows at the London office can be about” to -print so much stuff about their silly local affairs. Practise political -divination from the minutest data. If some little actress at the Marigny, -or Belasco’s, makes you a _pied de nez_ you will say that “the Gallic -temper (or public opinion in the Eastern States) is showing signs of -dangerous exasperation.” If you find a junior Attaché lunching at the -golf club on Sunday, you will say “the political tension is now at any -rate momentarily relaxed.” If they charge you a few centimes or cents -more for your box of chocolates you will say “the population is now -groaning under famine prices, and State intervention cannot be much -longer delayed.” - -_Criticism of the Arts and the Theatre._—As criticism is not practical, -it hardly comes within the scope of instructions on practical literature. -But newspapers, after all, must be filled, and, if the advertisements -permit, room may be found even for criticism. Fortunately, it requires -little if any instruction. The office boy, if he is not proud, may be -turned on to it at a pinch. The charwomen, when they can be spared from -their more useful work, often prove neat hands at it. Ideas are to be -discouraged; a few catchwords are all that is necessary, with one decent -hat for Private Views and one ditto dress suit for First Nights. The -art critic will do well to find a new and unknown artist and track him -down from show to show, comparing him in turn to Tintoretto, the lesser -Umbrians, and the Giottos at Padua. (See Vasari _passim_, a repertory -of delightful names.) The theatrical critic will make it his chief -care to construct a striking sentence which the managers can quote, -without excessive garbling, in their advertisements. It can end with -“rapturously applauded,” with “rocked with laughter,” or with “for many -a night to come.” - -_N.B._—Personally conducted parties of students taken to the theatre to -see leading actresses “making great strides in their art” and “having -the ball at their feet” and to watch Mr. Collins “surpassing himself.” -They will afterwards be shown cases of type and instructed in the -thermometrical test of the temperature at which it becomes “cold print.” - -... The paper does not end here. In a special section on the language of -the poster, it offers a prize for any hitherto undiscovered application -of the word “amazing.” It goes on to give instructions to writers on -cricket, golf, and sport, with a stock selection of anecdotes about -“W.G.” and “E.M.,” and a plan to scale of the Dormy House and Mr. Harry -Tate’s moustache when he addresses the ball and the audience. But these -are awful mysteries which I dare not follow the paper in profaning. - - - - -NINETEENTH-CENTURY WOMAN - - -The serious research that some contemporary French students are devoting -to our English literature is one of the most valuable by-products of -the Entente. We have had of recent years remarkable French monographs -on Wordsworth, on Cowper, on Crabbe, on Hazlitt, which are fully as -authoritative as any of our native commentaries. And, turning over -the new volumes at a French bookseller’s the other day, I came across -another Gallic tribute of this kind, with a rather lengthy title, “La -Femme Anglaise au XIXᵉ siècle et son évolution d’après le roman anglais -contemporain,” by Mme. Léonie Villard. Mme. Villard seems to have read -all our modern English novels, from Richardson’s “Pamela” down to the -latest piece of propagandism of Mr. H. G. Wells. Of course mere literary -curiosity could never have carried any human being through all that; -Mme. Villard is an ardent “feminist,” and, like her sisters, capable of -miraculous physical endurance for the “cause.” A mere man may “devour -whole libraries,” but it takes a fair feminist to swallow the huge mass -of English fiction. - -Reading exclusively from a single point of view, Mme. Villard seems to -have sometimes sacrificed her critical sense to her principles. Thus, as -a type of the nineteenth-century “old maid,” so neglected, so ill-used by -society, she selects Miss Rachel Wardle! Dickens, generally “so pitiful -to the weak, so generous to the oppressed and the conquered,” had no -pity for her. But upon us it is incumbent to pity and understand and -find excuses for her. “At any rate, her desire to be loved and, above -all, to experience in other surroundings a freer and less humiliating -life should have nothing surprising for us.” Isn’t this rather a solemn -way of describing the lady’s amours with Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle? Is -it really the fault of society if an amorous old dame will be silly? And -is she not to be laughed at if she happen to fall into the category “old -maid”? Mrs. Bardell was amorous too. So was Mr. Tupman. Dickens laughs -at these also—but then they were not old maids, they didn’t illustrate a -“feminine case.” Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She reminded some people of -Harriet Martineau. But Dickens had deformed the type (who was intelligent -and was not the mother of a family) so as to present the “new woman” in -the least favourable light. He “has fixed for half a century the type -of the intellectual or enfranchised woman, as conceived by those who -trust the judgment of others rather than their own direct observation.” -The question, surely, is not whether Mrs. Jellyby was unlike Harriet -Martineau, but whether in herself she was a sufficiently comic -personage. Most readers of Dickens find her so. What injustice is there -in this to the real “new woman,” whom, as Mme. Villard has shown, she -did _not_ resemble? As a matter of fact, when Dickens had a mind to draw -a real “strong-minded” woman he drew her most sympathetically. Is there -any of his women more delightful than Miss Trotwood? “To-day,” says Mme. -Villard, “she appears to us an unconscious feminist whose feminism misses -its mark, since it can find no field of action amid narrow, provincial, -routine surroundings.” Poor Miss Trotwood! - -We are to understand that it was the domination and the selfishness of -man that created the lamentable type of nineteenth-century “old maid.” -But who were unkindest to Miss Wardle? Her nieces, members of her own -sex. Who created the typical “old maid” and terrible bore, Miss Bates? -Another “old maid,” Jane Austen. The fact is, old maids like other -human beings have their foibles. Are these never to be put into a book? -Feminism seems to make its disciples terribly serious. Miss La Creevy -is Dickens’s example of the _femme artiste_. See, says Mme. Villard, -how types of “independent women” are caricatured! She cannot laugh at -Sairey Gamp and Betsy Prig, because they testify to the social contempt -attaching to the nursing profession at their date! Has it never occurred -to her that novels are sometimes written merely as novels and not as -_dossiers_ in a “case” for the “evolution” of woman? - -After all, however, there are plenty of serious novelists who do supply -good evidence—more particularly the quasi-propagandists like Mrs. -Gaskell (when she chose) and Mrs. Humphry Ward (sometimes), and (nearly -always) Mr. Galsworthy and Mr. Wells. Mme. Villard makes effective play -with these. She has no difficulty, for instance, in showing the immense -economic advance of the woman-worker during the last century, though even -here her eye seems too exclusively fixed on her own sex. True, women -were the chief victims of the old “factory” and “sweating” systems, but -the amelioration of their condition, if I am not mistaken, came only as -part of the general amelioration in the condition of “labour,” without -sex-distinction. - -It is when she comes to the sentimental side of her subject, the -relation of woman to man whether in marriage or “free love,” that Mme. -Villard finds her material a little too much for her. Naturally, for -our novelists and playwrights can never let the too fascinating subject -alone and seem to go on saying the same things about it over and over -again—_con variazioni_. You have, for example, Mrs. Gaskell, so far back -as 1850, dealing with the same theme as Mr. Stanley Houghton dealt with -in “Hindle Wakes” (1910)—the refusal of the seduced woman to accept -the regularization of her position by marriage. Then there are the -free-lovers “on principle,” who end by conceding marriage to social -prejudice—like Mr. Wells’s Ann Veronica. There must be English novels -where the “free lovers” maintain their principle triumphantly to the end, -though I haven’t read them; but I seem to remember several in the French -language. It is all very confusing. Perhaps—I only say perhaps—those are -wisest who leave “principle” in these matters to the heroes and heroines -of the novelists and are content to live ordinary lives in an ordinary -jog-trot way, without too much thinking about it. There is this comfort -for the old-fashioned commonplace people among us, at any rate, that -whatever “evolution” of woman there may have been in the nineteenth -century, she remains in all essentials very much what she used to be. -I can find it as easy to-day to be in love with Emma and Elizabeth and -Anne—I needn’t mention their surnames—who are more than a century old, -bless them, as with (not to compromise myself with any contemporary -English heroine) M. Barrès’s Bérénice, or with one of M. Marcel Proust’s -“Jeunes filles en Fleurs.” - - - - -PICKLES AND PICARDS - - -A writer in the _Nouvelle Revue Française_ drops a remark which it does -one good to read. He says that in the old French villages on the Picardy -front all that the English have taught the countryfolk in five years of -cohabitation is to eat pickles with their boiled beef. Very likely this -is a humorous perversion of the truth; but I should like to believe it. -Not from any personal interest in pickles, though that will seem odd, and -perhaps incredible, to my French friends, who seem to think that every -Englishman must be a pickle-eater—just as we English used to think every -Frenchman ate frogs. No doubt, however, this French generalization is -fairly accurate; we are a nation of pickle-eaters, and if any one asks -why, I guess the answer is cold beef. Anyhow, the idea has fascinated the -French mind. Among the English characteristics of which Jules Lemaître -once gave a list (from hearsay, which he thought, good, easy man, as -authentic evidence as coming to see England for himself) I remember he -mentions “Les _pickles_.” And it is the one English characteristic that -has infected the Picards! - -My reason for rejoicing is that they have not been infected by more -than one, that in spite of all temptations, etc., they remain -(pickles excepted) true Picards. There have been times (particularly -in mid-eighteenth century) when the French have shown a tendency to -Anglomania. Let us be glad that these are over. Probably the French -Revolution settled that point, as it settled so many others, by isolating -France for the time being, and making her the common enemy. More than -one of the Terrorists were Picards by race, but you may be sure they -never ate pickles. But cohabitation may bring about the same result as -isolation, in a different way. Our armies have lived for five years with -the French; both natives and visitors have had ample opportunities for -observing each other’s characteristics; and I like to think that both -have parted with the profound conviction that, on either side, these -are inimitable. Condiments, of course, excepted. They have adopted our -pickles, and we have taken their _sauce bigarade_, which is excellent -with wild duck. Condiments, by the way, include the linguistic sort. -We have seen the delight with which Lemaître wrote down that strange, -abrupt, tart English word “pickles” in his French text. So some of our -own scribblers wantonly and wickedly flavour their writings with an -occasional French phrase, because it seems to them to give a piquancy, -a zest. These apart, let us by all means admire one another’s qualities -without seeking to interchange them. Let us jealously preserve our own -characteristics, our own type, like the Picardy villagers. National -peculiarities are the perpetual joy of travel (except when one side wants -the window down and the other up), the _bouquet_ of literature, the salt -of life. - -Talking of travel, we have been having a correspondence in _The Times_ -on the lavatories and the closed windows on the P.L.M. I am not using -that railway myself just now, and I confess I like to see that here again -the French remain obstinately French. France is endeared to us, like -any other friend, by its weaknesses as well as its virtues; it would, -for many of us, not be the old friend that we know and love without its -occasional stuffiness and its occasional smells. Louis Veuillot once -wrote a book called “Les Odeurs de Paris.” We have all smelt them, and -should hardly recognize our Paris without them—though they must have -had more pungency, a more racy, romantic flavour in Balzac’s Paris, the -Paris of our dreams. Nowadays for the rich Balzacian smells you will -have to visit some of the provincial towns of his novels, and so your -pilgrimage will combine a literary with all factory interest. I know -of one old Burgundian town—I will not name it, for obvious reasons—not -mentioned, I fancy, by Balzac, quite untouched by time, with pepper-pot -towers, a river in a deep ravine, and well worth a literary pilgrimage -if only for its associations with Mme. de Sévigné and the Président de -Brosses, where you have the added delight of the richest medieval odours -powerfully assisted by a tannery—an unrivalled combination! Why do so -many Englishmen grumble at these things instead of appreciating them -æsthetically, as accompaniments of the French scene, as part of that -varied experience which we call “abroad”? Or why do they explain them -on the illiberal assumption of some inherent inferiority in the French -character? - -I find a typical specimen of this kind of explanation in Hazlitt’s -“Notes of a Journey through France and Italy,” made about a century ago, -when France was the very France (think of it!) that was being observed, -and about to be described, by Balzac. One would have thought that the -Londoner of 1824 (who must have been pretty well used to smells at home) -would have found some other explanation than the physiological and -psychological inferiority of the French. But hear him. “A Frenchman’s -senses and understanding are alike insensible to pain—he recognizes -(happily for himself) the existence only of that which adds to his -importance or his satisfaction. He is delighted with perfumes, but passes -over the most offensive smells and will not lift up his little finger to -remove a general nuisance, for it is none to him.” To which he appends -a note:—“One would think that a people so devoted to perfumes, who deal -in essences and scents, and have fifty different sorts of snuffs, would -be equally nice, and offended at the approach of every disagreeable -odour. Not so. They seem to have no sense of the disagreeable in smells -or tastes, as if their heads were stuffed with a cold, and hang over a -dunghill, as if it were a bed of roses, or swallow the most detestable -dishes with the greatest relish. The nerve of their sensibility is bound -up at the point of pain.... They make the best of everything (which is -a virtue)—and treat the worst with levity or complaisance (which is a -vice).” - -Well, well. When this was written French and English had not long ceased -to be at war, and Hazlitt was never a sweet-tempered man. But you can -still find the censorious Englishman who is ready decisively to mark -off French characteristics into “virtues” and “vices,” according to his -own English standard. There may, for all I know, be some Frenchman who -gives us tit for tat. This type of critic is tiresome enough; but there -is another that seems to me quite intolerable, the critic who detests -all national peculiarities as such, and would level down all humanity to -one monotonous level of sameness. As though uniformity were not already -the plague of the modern world! We men all wear the same hat (despite -the efforts of the _Daily Mail_), women all powder their noses in the -same way, and the “cinema palaces” all show the same films, with the -same “Mary” and the same “Dug.” For heaven’s sake, let us cling to our -national peculiarities! - -And that is why I welcome the intelligence that the Picards have taken -over nothing from us but our pickles, and that the French travellers on -the P.L.M. still insist on keeping the window up. Let our enthusiasts -for a uniform world ponder these facts. And it is a relief to think that -they can never unify national landscapes. The village green, the cottage -gardens, the chalk downs, the chines, the red coombs will always be -English. The long straight _route nationale_ and the skinny fowls that -are always straying across it, the poplar-bordered streams, the trim -vines ranked along the hill-side, the heavily-accoutred gendarme and the -fat farmer in the stiff indigo blouse hobnobbing at the _estaminet_, -these will always be French. Oh, but I would give something to see that -indigo blouse again, and have a morning chat with the farmer! “Hé! père -Martin, ça va toujours bien? Pas mal, m’sieu. Et la récolte? Dame! je ne -m’en plains pas ... à la votre, m’sieu!” They may take our pickles, if -they will, but let them remain themselves, our old French friends. - - - - -THE BUSINESS MAN - - -It is not easy for the slave of “copy,” sedentary and shy, to know that -triumphant figure of the active, bustling world, the business man. The -business man is too busy, and can only be seen in office hours, when the -scribe is correcting proofs or, perhaps, not yet up. Nevertheless, I once -nearly saw the Governor of the Bank of England. I hold the Governor to be -the archetype of the business man. In my green unknowing youth I used to -take the gentleman in cocked hat and picturesque robe at the Threadneedle -Street entrance for the Governor, but now know better. Well, I once -nearly saw the Governor. It was on the stage. Mr. Gerald du Maurier was -in the bank-parlour when a servant entered and said: “The Governor of the -Bank of England to call on you, sir.” “Show him in,” said Mr. du Maurier -with the easy _nonchalance_ of which only actors have the secret. It was -a tremendous moment. I seemed to hear harps in the air. And just then, -down came the curtain! It was felt, no doubt, that the Governor of the -Bank of England ought not to be made a motley to the view. But I was -inconsolable. I had been robbed of my one chance of seeing the supreme -business man. - -Of late, however, the veil that shrouds the business man from the -non-business eye has been partly lifted. The pictorial advertisement -people have got hold of him and give brief, tantalizing glimpses of his -daily life. Maeterlinck speaks of “l’auguste vie quotidienne” of Hamlet. -That only shows that Hamlet (it is indeed his prime characteristic) -was not a business man. For the business man’s daily life, if the -advertisements are to be trusted, is not so much august as alert, -strenuous, and, above all, devoted to the pleasures of the toilet. And -his toilet seems, for the most part, to centre in or near his chin. -Indeed, it is by his chin that you identify the business man. You know -what Pascal said of Cleopatra’s nose: how, if it had been an inch -shorter, the whole history of the world would have been different. Much -the same thing may be said about the business man’s chin. Had it been -receding or pointed or dimpled or double, there would have been no -business man and consequently no business. But things, as Bishop Butler -said, are what they are and their consequences will be what they will be. -The business man’s chin is prominent, square, firm, and (unless he deals -in rubber tires—the sole exception to the rule) smooth. It is as smooth -as Spedding’s forehead, celebrated by Thackeray and Edward Fitzgerald. It -is, indeed, like that forehead, a kind of landmark, a public monument. -Even the rich, velvety lather, which does not dry on the face and leaves -behind a feeling of complete comfort and well-grooming, cannot disguise -it. No wonder the business man is so particular about shaving it! It is a -kind of religious rite, an Early Matins, with him. - -Outside the bank-parlour, the mart and the exchange the business man -takes no risks, and at his toilet-table he prefers safety razors. Indeed, -he collects them. Sometimes he favours the sort that can be stropped in -a moment with one turn of the wrist; sometimes the sort that needs no -stropping at all. But, like all collectors, he is never so happy as when -handling, or rather caressing the objects of his collection. Mark how his -eyes dance with delight and his smile sweetens as the razor courses over -his chin. Evidently life at this moment is burning for him with a hard -gem-like flame. Call it not shaving! Say, rather, he is ministering to -the symbolic element in him, daintily smoothing the proud emblem of his -power—to which he will add the finishing touch of pearl-powder, whose -constant use produces a delicate bloom, tones up the complexion, and -protects the skin against the ravages of time. - -When the chin has been prepared for the business day he tries and -contrasts the several effects of it over a variety of collars. For the -business man collects collars, too. His chin protrudes with quiet but -firm insistence over some of them, nestles coyly in others, or it may -be emerges with ease from the sort designed to give ample throat room -and especially favoured by men who seek considerable freedom but at the -same time a collar of character and distinction. Nor has he any false -shame about being seen in his shirt-sleeves. In fact, he seems to be in -the habit, when half-dressed, of calling in his friends (evidently, from -their chins, fellow business men) to see how perfectly his shirt fits at -the neck and how its thoroughly shrunk material is none the worse for -repeated visits to the laundry. - -Once dressed—and I pass over his interviews with his tailor (he collects -overcoats), because that would lead us far and might land us, unawares, -among sportsmen, or airmen, or other non-business men—once dressed, he -is to be seen at his office. That does not mean that he is to be seen -at work. No, it is a somewhat sinister fact that the advertisements -hardly ever show the business man engaged in business. You may find -him at an enormous desk bristling with patent devices and honeycombed -with pigeon-holes, where he sees himself invested with perfect control -and rid of all petty routine anomalies, with a mind free to consider -questions of policy and the higher aspirations of his house. But not, -in blunt English, working, oh dear no! He is pleasantly gossiping with -another business man, who is lolling over the edge of the desk smoking a -cigarette. Now and then, it is true, you may get a glimpse of him at the -telephone. But then his tender smile gives him away. It is obviously no -business conversation but an appointment for lunch with his _fiancée_. - -Only one advertisement artist has ever “spotted” him at work. He -was addressing the board. The board all wore white waistcoats, the -same business chin, and the same dry smile as the orator, who with -clenched fist and flashing eye assured them of his conviction that -increased production results from the bond of mutual goodwill created -between employer and employee by the board’s system of life assurance. -Altogether, a very jolly party. But outside the world of business men -it wouldn’t be considered work. Really, for work it looks as though you -would have to go to the non-business man. Think of Balzac’s eighteen -hours a day! - -But the business man, I daresay, will reply, as they said to the -sonneteer in Molière, that “Le temps ne fait rien à l’affaire.” -Certainly, the business man’s time doesn’t—for you next find him, in -spick and span evening dress, at the dinner-table, beaming at the waiter -who has brought him his favourite sauce. The business man collects -sauces, but prefers the sauce that goes with everything. After dinner you -may see him, before a roaring fire, holding up his glass of port to the -light and telling another business man who the shipper is. Last scene -of all, a night-piece, you have a glimpse of him in his pyjamas merrily -discoursing with several other business men (in different patterns of the -same unshrinkable fabric) all sitting cross-legged and smoking enormous -cigars. This is the end of a perfect business day. And you conclude that -business men sleep in dormitories. - - THE END. - - THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE *** - -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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B. Walkley. - </title> - - <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover" /> - - <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ - -a { - text-decoration: none; -} - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1,h2 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -h2.nobreak { - page-break-before: avoid; -} - -hr.chap { - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - clear: both; - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -img.w100 { - width: 100%; -} - -div.chapter { - page-break-before: always; -} - -p { - margin-top: 0.5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 10%; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.hanging { - padding-left: 2em; - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.noindent { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.nowrap { - white-space: nowrap; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: 1em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .stanza { - margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; -} - -.poetry .verse { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.poetry .indent0 { - text-indent: -3em; -} - -.poetry .indent8 { - text-indent: 1em; -} - -.poetry .indent20 { - text-indent: 7em; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.allsmcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; - text-transform: lowercase; -} - -.titlepage { - text-align: center; - margin-top: 3em; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 5%; -} -.illowp100 {width: 100%;} - - /* ]]> */ </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pastiche and prejudice, by A. B. Walkley</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Pastiche and prejudice</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: A. B. Walkley</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 27, 2022 [eBook #68853]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE ***</div> - -<h1>PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p class="titlepage larger">PASTICHE<br /> -<span class="smaller">AND</span><br /> -PREJUDICE</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -A. B. WALKLEY</p> - -<div class="figcenter titlepage illowp100" id="titlepage" style="max-width: 9.375em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="titlepage">NEW YORK<br /> -ALFRED A. KNOPF MCMXXI</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>Reprinted, by the courtesy of the Proprietors,<br /> -from <span class="smcap">The Times</span>.</i></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>Printed in Great Britain.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PASTICHE">PASTICHE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Writing of Lamennais, Renan says: “Il créa -avec des réminiscences de la Bible et du langage -ecclésiastique cette manière harmonieuse et grandiose -qui réalise le phénomène unique dans l’histoire -littéraire d’un pastiche de génie.” Renan was -nothing if not fastidious, and “unique” is a hard -word, for which I should like to substitute the -milder “rare.” <i>Pastiches</i> “of genius” are rare -because genius is rare in any kind, and more than -ever rare in that kind wherein the writer deliberately -forgoes his own natural, instinctive form of expression -for an alien form. But even fairly plausible <i>pastiches</i> -are rare, for the simple reason that though, with taste -and application, and above all an anxious care for -style, you may succeed in mimicking the literary -form of another author or another age, it is impossible -for you to reproduce their spirit—since no two human -beings in this world are identical. Perhaps the -easiest of all kinds is the theatrical “imitation,” -because all that is to be imitated is voice, tone, -gesture—an actor’s words not being his own—yet I -have never seen one that got beyond parody. The -sense of an audience is not fine enough to appreciate -exact imitation; it demands exaggeration, caricature.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p> - -<p>Parody, indeed, is the pitfall of all <i>pastiche</i>. -Even Mr. Max Beerbohm, extraordinarily susceptible -and responsive to style as he is, did not -escape it in that delightful little book of his wherein, -some years ago, he imitated many of our contemporary -authors. I can think of but a single instance -which faithfully reproduces not only the language -but almost the spirit of the authors imitated—M. -Marcel Proust’s volume of “Pastiches et Mélanges.” -The only stricture one can pass on it, if -stricture it be, is that M. Proust’s Balzac and -St. Simon and the rest are a little “more Royalist -than the King,” a little more like Balzac and St. -Simon than the originals themselves; I mean, a -little too intensely, too concentratedly, Balzac and -St. Simon. But Marcel Proust is one of my prejudices. -To say that his first two books, “Swann” -and “Les Jeunes Filles,” have given me more -exquisite pleasure than anything in modern French -literature would not be enough—I should have to -say, in all modern literature. Mrs. Wharton, I see -from the “Letters,” sent Henry James a copy of -“Swann” when it first came out (1918): I wish we -could have had his views of it. It offers another -kind of psychology from Henry James’s, and he -would probably have said, as he was fond of saying, -that it had more “saturation” than “form.” But -I am wandering from my subject of <i>pastiche</i>.</p> - -<p>I was present one afternoon at a curious experiment -in theatrical <i>pastiche</i>. This was a rehearsal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> -<i>of</i> a rehearsal of the screen scene from <i>The School for -Scandal</i>, which was supposed to be directed by -Sheridan himself. Rather a complicated affair, -because Miss Lilian Braithwaite was supposed to be -playing not Lady Teazle but Mrs. Abington playing -Lady Teazle, Mr. Gilbert Hare had to play Mr. -Parsons playing Sir Peter, and so forth—histrionics, -so to speak, raised to the second power. To tell the -truth, I think the middle term tended to fall out. -It was easy enough for the players to make themselves -up after the originals in the Garrick Club -picture of the screen scene, but how these originals -spoke or what their personal peculiarities were, on -or off the stage, who shall now say? There you have -the difference between fact and fiction. Lady -Teazle and Sir Peter, having no existence save in the -book of the play, are producible from it at any time, -as “real” as they ever were, but Mrs. Abington -and Mr. Parsons are not fixed in a book, and their -reality died with them. Naturally enough the actual -scene written by Sheridan “went” with very much -greater force than the setting of conversations, -interruptions, etc., in which it was embedded, for -the simple reason that the one part had had the luck -to be imagined by Sheridan and the other had not. -But as a <i>pastiche</i> this new part, written round the -old, seemed to me on the whole very well done; -there was hardly a word that Sheridan and his -friends <i>might</i> not have said. Just one, however, -there noticeably was. Mr. Gerald du Maurier (as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -Sheridan) was made to tell Mr. Leon Quartermaine -(as Charles) that, in his laughter at the discovery of -Lady Teazle, he was not to expect the “sympathy -of the audience.” <i>That</i>, I feel sure, was an anachronism, -a bit of quite modern theatrical lingo. -I should guess that it came to us from the French, -who are fond of talking of a <i>rôle sympathique</i>. Mr. -du Maurier, if any one, must remember his father’s -delightful sketch of English people shopping in -Normandy, when the artful shopwoman is cajoling -a foolish-faced Englishman with “le visage de -monsieur m’est si sympathique.” The Italian -<i>simpatico</i> is, of course, even more hard-worked. I -felt sure, then, as I say, about the anachronism; but -I am quite aware that it is never safe to trust to -one’s instinct in these matters. It is by no means -impossible that some one may triumphantly produce -against me a newspaper or book of 1775 which speaks -of “the sympathy of the audience.” The unexpected -in these cases does occasionally happen.</p> - -<p>And certainly any one who has tried his hand at -a <i>pastiche</i> of a dead and gone author will have -frequently been astonished, not at the antiquity but -at the modernity of the style. Language changes -less rapidly than we are apt to suppose. The bad -writers seem to get old-fashioned earliest—because, -I suppose, they yield most easily to ephemeral tricks -of speech. For example, Fanny Burney, who, I -cannot but think, wrote a bad style, and in her later -books (as Macaulay pointed out) a kind of debased<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -Johnsonese, is now decidedly old-fashioned. But -Jane Austen, whose style, though scarcely brilliant, -was never bad, is not. A modern Mr. Collins would -not talk of “elegant females”—but even then he -was put forward as ridiculous for doing so. Jane -was fond of “the chief of the day” and “the harp -was bringing.” These phrases are <i>passées</i>, but I -doubt if you will find many others.</p> - -<p>Our sense of the past, in fact, may illude us. -And that reminds me of Henry James’s solitary -<i>pastiche</i>, his posthumous (and fragmentary) “Sense -of the Past.” The “past” he deals with is, roughly, -the Jane Austen period, and I think his language -would very much have astonished Jane Austen. -For one thing, they didn’t colloquially emphasize -in her day as Henry James makes them do. I take -a page at random:—“He mustn’t be <i>too</i> terribly -clever for us, certainly! We enjoy immensely your -being so extraordinary; but I’m sure you’ll take it -in good part if I remind you that there <i>is</i> a limit.” -Is this our ultra-modern Mrs. Brookenham speaking? -No, it is Mrs. Midmore, somewhere about 1820. -To be more exact, it is Henry James speaking with -the emphasis that always abounded in his novels and -his letters and his talk. Again: “I can’t keep off -that strangeness of my momentary lapse.” That -doesn’t sound to my ear a bit like 1820. Again: -“It must have been one of your pale passions, as -you call ’em, truly—so that even if her ghost does -hover I shan’t be afraid of so very thin a shade.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> -Note the “’em,” the author’s timid little speck of -antique colour, but note also how the speaker carries -on the “ghost” figure—in a way that is signed -“Henry James, 19—” all over. The fact is, Henry -James, with his marked, individual, curiously -“modern” style, was the last man to express himself -in an alien style, particularly the more simple style -of an earlier age. To write a pure <i>pastiche</i> you must -begin by surrendering, putting clean away your -own personality—how otherwise are you to take on -another’s?</p> - -<p>I have no illusions about the essays in <i>pastiche</i> -to be found in the earlier of the following papers. If -they do not always fall below parody, they never -rise above it. Occasional fragments of authentic -text will be recognized at a glance. “These Things -are but Toyes.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="AN_ARISTOTELIAN_FRAGMENT">AN ARISTOTELIAN FRAGMENT</h2> - -</div> - -<p>In the neighbourhood of Wardour Street, where -the princes of the film hold their Court, a legislative -code for film-making, a “Poetics” of the film, by -some <i>maestro di color che sanno</i>, has long been -yearned for. If only, they say, if only the <i>maestro</i> -himself, the great Aristotle, had been alive to write -it! After all, kinematograph is Greek, isn’t it? It -seems to cry aloud, somehow, for its code by the -great Greek authority. Well, they little knew what -luck was in store for them!</p> - -<p>To-day comes a startling piece of news from the -East. A certain Major Ferdinand M. Pinto, O.B.E., -R.E., whether on military duty or on furlough the -report does not say, has been sojourning with the -monks of Mount Porthos, and, in the most singular -manner, has discovered in the possession of his -hosts a precious treasure of which they were entirely -ignorant. It was a Greek manuscript, and, as the -Reverend Prior laughingly observed, it was Greek -to them. It seems that—such is the licence of -modern manners even in monasteries—the monks -have lately taken to smoking, and to using what in -lay circles are called “spills.” Now on the spill<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> -which the Major was lighting for his cigar there -suddenly stared him in the face the words</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">ὥσπερ Ἀγάθων λέγει</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and the name Agathon thrilled him with memories -of a certain Oxford quad, with dear “old Strachan” -annoying the Master by wondering why Agathon -should have said anything so obvious as that “it -is probable that many things should happen contrary -to probability.” To examine the spill, all the -spills collected, was the work of a moment. They -proved, at a glance, to be an entirely unknown MS. -of the “Poetics,” more complete even than the -Parisian, and with new readings transcending even -the acutest conjectures of Vahlen. But, greatest -find of all, there was disclosed—though with unfortunate -<i>lacunæ</i> caused by the monks’ cigars—an -entirely new chapter inquiring into the structure of -the Moving Picture Drama. Through the courtesy -of the Pseudo-Hellenic Society I am favoured with -a translation of this chapter, and a few passages, -which seemed of more general interest, are here -extracted.</p> - -<p>“As we have said,” the MS. begins, “it is a -question whether tragedy is to be judged in itself -or in relation also to the audience. But it is another -story (ἄλλος λόγος) with the moving pictures. For -it is not clear whether they have an ‘itself’ at -all, or, if they have, where this self is to be found, -whether on the screen, or in the lens of the camera,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -or in the head of the photographic artist. Whereas -there is no doubt (save in very inclement weather) -about the audience. They are to be judged, then, -solely in relation to the audience. And, for this -reason, they do not resemble tragedy, whose action, -we said, must be whole, consisting of a beginning, a -middle, and an end. For the audience may arrive -at the end of a picture play, and though, in due -time, the beginning will come round again, the -audience may not have the patience to wait for it. -Some audiences prefer to arrive in the middle and -to proceed to the end, and then to end with the -beginning. By this means the general sense of confusion -in human affairs is confirmed in the picture -theatre, and in this sense, but only in this sense, the -picture drama may be said to be, like tragedy, an -imitation of life.</p> - -<p>“Nor can it be said of picture drama, as it was of -tragedy, that the element of plot is more important -than the element of character. For here neither -element is important. The important element now -is motion. Any plot will serve the picture poet’s -purpose (indeed most of them take them ready-made -from those prose epics known as ‘shockers’), -and any characters likewise (it will suffice if these be -simplified types or ‘masks’). The essence of the -matter is that all should be kept moving. And as -moving objects are best seen to be moving when -they are moving quickly, the picture poet will contrive -that his horses shall always, as Homer says,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -devour the ground and his motor cars be ‘all out.’... -Unity of plot—when there is a plot—does not, -as some persons think, consist in the unity of the -hero. It consists in the final dwelling together in -unity of the hero and his bride. Final must be -understood as posterior to the pursuit of the bride -by other men, who may be either white or red. Red -men are better, as more unbridled in their passions -than white. As Æschylus first introduced a second -actor in tragedy, so an American poet, whose name -is too barbarous to be written in Greek, introduced -the red man in picture drama....</p> - -<p>“With regard to the hero and his bride, though -their characters should, as in tragedy, be morally -good (χρηστά), it is chiefly necessary that their -persons should be kinematographically good or -good on the film. For at every peripety of the action -they must become suddenly enlarged by the device -of the photographer, so that every furrow of the -knitted brow and every twitch of the agitated -mouth is shown as large as life, if not larger. It is, -in fact, by this photographic enlargement that the -critical turns of the action are marked and distinguished, -in the absence of the tragic element of -diction. Where the tragic actor talks big, the picture -player looks big. Nevertheless, the element of -diction is not entirely wanting. Sentences (which -should comprise as many solecisms as possible) may -be shown on the screen, descriptive of what the -players are doing or saying. But the more skilful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -players habitually say something else than what is -thus imputed to them, thereby giving the audience -the additional interest of conjecturing what they -actually do say in place of what they ought to have -said.</p> - -<p>... “Picture poetry is a more philosophical and -liberal thing than history; for history expresses the -particular, but picture poetry the not too particular. -The particular is, for example, what Alcibiades -did or suffered. The not too particular is -what Charlie Chaplin did or suffered. But the -moving pictures do to some extent show actual -happenings, in order to reassure people by nature -incredulous. For what has not happened we do -not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has -happened is manifestly possible; otherwise it would -not have happened. On the whole, however, as the -tragic poet should prefer probable impossibilities to -improbable possibilities, the picture poet should go, -as Agathon says, one better, and aim at improbable -impossibilities.”...</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MR_SHAKESPEARE_DISORDERLY">MR. SHAKESPEARE DISORDERLY</h2> - -</div> - -<p>At the meeting preliminary to “Warriors’ Day” -I was wending my way along the corridor of the -Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, when I encountered an -amphibious-looking figure with the mien of one of -Mr. W. W. Jacobs’s people, but attired in the classic -tunic and sandals of a Greek of the best period. -Knowing that the meeting was to include all sorts -and conditions of theatrical men, I taxed him with -being somebody out of <i>Orphée aux Enfers</i> or <i>La Belle -Hélène</i>. He said it was not a bad shot, but, as a -matter of fact, he was a ferryman, “saving your -honour’s reverence, name o’ Charon.” “A -ferryman?” said I; “then you must be from the -Upper River, Godstow way.” “No, sir,” he -answered, “I ply my trade on the Styx, and I’ve -brought over a boatful of our tip-toppers—our -intelli-gents-you-are they calls ’em in the Elysian -Fields—to this ’ere meetin’. Precious dry work it -is, too, sir,” he added, wiping his mouth with the -back of his hand. “Where are they?” I asked in -high excitement. “In this ’ere box, sir, where the -management have allowed them to sit incog.” -“And who, my good fellow, are they?” “Well,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -sir, let me see; there’s Mr. William Shakespeare, -one of the most pop’lar of our gents and the neatest -hand at nectar punch with a toast in it. Then -there’s Mr. David Garrick, little Davy, as they calls -’im (though the other one, ’im who’s always a-slingin’ -stones at the giants, isn’t no great size, neither), and -there’s ’is friend Dr. Samuel Johnson, a werry -harbitrary cove, and there’s Mrs. Siddons, an ’oly -terror of a woman, sir, as you might say. Likewise, -there’s Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Edmund Kean, both -on ’em gents with a powerful thirst—just like mine -this blessed mornin’, sir.” At this second reminder -I gave him wherewithal to slake his thirst, directed -him to the bar, and, as soon as he was out of sight, -slipped noiselessly into the back of the box, where I -hid behind the overcoats.</p> - -<p>Mr. Shakespeare was beckoning Mrs. Siddons to -his side. “Come hither, good mistress Sal” (this -to the majestic Sarah, the Tragic Muse!), “and -prythee, dearest chuck, sit close, for ’tis a nipping -and an eager air, and poor Will’s a-cold.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span>—Sir, you are vastly obleeging, but where’s -the chair?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dr. Johnson.</span>—Madam, you who have so often -occasioned a want of seats to other people, will the -more easily excuse the want of one yourself.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Marry come up! Wouldst -not sit in my lap, Sal? ’Tis not so deep as a well -nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. S.</span> (<i>scandalized but dignified</i>).—Sir, I am<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -sensible of the honour, but fear my train would -incommode the Immortal Bard.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Oh, Immortal Bard be——</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Garrick</span> (<i>hastily</i>).—I perceive, sir, a stir -among the company. The gentleman who is -taking the chair has notable eyebrows; he must -be——</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Master George Robey. I’ve -heard of him and his eyebrows.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. G.</span>—No, no, ’tis Sir Arthur Pinero, an actor-dramatist -like yourself, sir.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Beshrew me, but I would -hear the chimes at midnight with him and drink a -health unto his knighthood. (<i>Sings.</i>) “And let me -the canakin clink, clink, and——”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The House</span> (<i>indignantly</i>).—Sh-h-h!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—A murrain on these gallants! -They have no ear for a catch and should get them to -a monastery. But I’ll sit like my grandsire, carved -in alabaster. Who’s the young spark, now speaking?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dr. J.</span> (<i>shocked</i>).—The young spark, sir, is His -Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sheridan.</span>—Egad! This reminds me of old -times, but the young man is not a bit like my friend -Prinny. And though <i>I</i> managed Drury Lane, I -never got Prinny on <i>my</i> stage.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dr. J.</span>—Sir, your Prinny never had so good a -cause to be there. He only <i>thought</i> he fought in -the wars; but this Prince is a real ex-Service man,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -pleading for the ex-Service men, his comrades in -arms. He has been a soldier, and not a man of us -in this box but wishes he could say as much for -himself. Every man thinks meanly of himself for -not having been a soldier; but he will think less -meanly if he can help those who have. That is the -very purpose of this numerous assembly.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Oh, most learned doctor, a -Daniel come to judgment! I’ faith I am most -heartily of thy mind, and would drink a loving toast -to the young Prince and another to the ex-Service -fellows, and eke a third to this—how runs it?—this -numerous assembly. (<i>Sings.</i>) “And let me the -canakin clink, clink, and——”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The House</span> (<i>in a frenzy of indignation</i>).—Sh-h-h! -Turn him out! (<i>Hisses.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—What! the “bird”! Well-a-day, -this isn’t the first time they’ve hissed my -Ghost.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Kean.</span>—Sir, they’ve hissed <i>me</i>!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Shakespeare.</span>—Ha! say’st thou, honest -Ned! But thou wast a jackanapes to let thyself -be caught with the Alderman’s wife and——</p> - -<p>Mrs. S. (<i>icily</i>).—Mr. Shakespeare, there are ladies -present.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Sheridan</span> (<i>whispering to Dr. J.</i>).—But what -does little Davy here, doctor? He has always been -represented as very saving.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dr. J.</span>—No, sir. Davy is a liberal man. He has -given away more money than any man in England.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -There may be a little vanity mixed, but he has -shown that money is not his first object.</p> - -<p>At this moment Charon popped his head in -at the door, pulling his forelock, and said, “Time, -gen’lemen, time!” The house was rising and I -took the opportunity to step back, unperceived, into -the corridor. Mr. Shakespeare led the procession -out, declaring that, as he had come in a galliard, -he must return in a coranto, and offering to dance -it with Mrs. Siddons, who, however, excused herself, -saying that she knew no touch of it, though she had -of old taken great strides in her profession. Dr. -Johnson turned back, when half way out, to touch -the doorpost. Mr. Garrick sallied forth arm-in-arm -with Mr. Kean and Mr. Sheridan. “Egad!” -chuckled Mr. Sheridan, “Garrick between Tragedy -and Comedy,” and subsequently caused some confusion -by tumbling down the stairs and lying helpless -at the bottom. When the attendants ran to his -assistance and asked his name, he said he was Mr. -Wilberforce. As they emerged under the portico -the crowd outside raised a loud cheer, and Mr. -Shakespeare doffed his plumed cap and bowed -graciously to right and left until they told him that -the crowd were cheering the Prince of Wales, when -he looked crestfallen and called those within earshot -“groundlings” and “lousy knaves.” As he jumped -into a taxi, I heard him direct the driver to the -“Mermaid,” when Dr. Johnson, running up and -puffing loudly, cried, “A tavern chair is the throne<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -of human felicity. But the ‘Mitre’ is the nearer. -Let us go there, and I’ll have a frisk with you.” -And as the taxi disappeared down Catherine Street, -my ear caught the distant strain, “And let me the -canakin clink, clink.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SIR_ROGER_AT_THE_RUSSIAN_BALLET">SIR ROGER AT THE RUSSIAN BALLET</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">No. 1000. Wednesday, October 29th, 19—.</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Saltare elegantius quam necesse est probæ.</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Sallust.</span></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last -met together at the club, told me that he had a -great mind to see the Muscovite dancers with me, -assuring me at the same time that he had not been -at a playhouse these twenty years. When he learnt -from me that these dancers were to be sought in -Leicester Fields, he asked me if there would not be -some danger in coming home late, in case the -Mohocks should be abroad. “However,” says the -knight, “if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow -night, I will have my own coach in readiness -to attend you; for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels -mended.” Thinking to smoak him, I whispered, -“You must have a care, for all the streets in the West -are now up,” but he was not to be daunted, saying he -minded well when all the West Country was up with -Monmouth; and the Captain bid Sir Roger fear -nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which -he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk.</p> - -<p>When we had convoyed him in safety to Leicester<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> -Fields, and he had descended from his coach at the -door, he straightway engaged in a conference with -the door-keeper, who is a notable prating gossip, -and stroak’d the page-boy upon the head, bidding -him be a good child and mind his book. As soon as -we were in our places my old friend stood up and -looked about him with that pleasure which a mind -seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself, at -the sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased -with one another, and partake of the same common -entertainment. He seemed to be no less pleased -with the gay silks and satins and sarsenets and -brocades of the ladies, but pish’d at the strange -sight of their bare backs. “Not so bare, neither,” I -whispered to him, “for if you look at them through -your spy-glass you will see they wear a little coat of -paint, which particularity has gained them the name -of Picts.” “I warrant you,” he answered, with a more -than ordinary vehemence, “these naked ones are -widows—widows, Sir, are the most perverse creatures -in the world.” Thinking to humour him, I said -most like they were war widows, whereon the good -knight lifted his hat to our brave fellows who fought -in the Low Countries, and offered several reflections -on the greatness of the British land and sea forces, -with many other honest prejudices which naturally -cleave to the heart of a true Englishman.</p> - -<p>Luckily, the Muscovites then began dancing and -posturing in their pantomime which they call -<i>Petrouchka</i> and the old gentleman was wonderfully<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> -attentive to the antics of the three live <i>fantoccini</i>. -When the black fellow, as he called the Moor, clove -the head of his rival with the scimitar, the knight -said he had never looked for such barbarity from a -fellow who, but a moment ago, was innocently playing -a game of ball, like a child. What strange disorders, -he added, are bred in the minds of men -whose passions are not regulated by virtue, and disciplined -by reason. “But pray, you that are a -critic, is this in accordance with your rules, as you -call them? Did your Aristotle allow pity and -terror to be moved by such means as dancing?” I -answered that the Greek philosopher had never seen -the Muscovites and that, in any case, we had the -authority of Shakespeare for expecting murder -from any jealous Moor. “Moreover, these Muscovites -dance murder as they dance everything. I -love to shelter myself under the examples of great -men, and let me put you in mind of Hesiod, who -says, ‘The gods have bestowed fortitude on some -men, and on others a disposition for dancing.’ Fortunately -the Muscovites have the more amiable -gift.” The knight, with the proper respect of a -country gentleman for classick authority, was struck -dumb by Hesiod.</p> - -<p>He remained silent during the earlier part of -<i>Schéhérazade</i> until Karsavina, as the favourite of the -Sultan’s harem, persuaded the Chief Eunuch to -release her orange-tawny favourite, Monsieur Massine, -at which the knight exclaimed, “On my word,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -a notable young baggage!” I refrained from telling -my innocent friend that in the old Arabian tale -these tawny creatures were apes. He mightily liked -the Sultan’s long beard. “When I am walking in -my gallery in the country,” says he, “and see the -beards of my ancestors, I cannot forbear regarding -them as so many old patriarchs, and myself as an -idle smock-faced young fellow. I love to see your -Abrahams and Isaacs, as we have them in old pieces -of tapestry with beards below their girdles. I suppose -this fellow, with all these wives, must be Solomon.” -And, his thoughts running upon that King, -he said he kept his Book of Wisdom by his bedside -in the country and found it, though Apocryphal, -more conducive to virtue than the writings of Monsieur -La Rochefoucauld or, indeed, of Socrates himself, -whose life he had read at the end of the Dictionary. -Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags -who sat near us lean with an attentive ear towards -Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoak the -knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered -something in his ear that lasted until the Sultan -returned to the harem and put the ladies and their -tawny companions to the sword. The favourite’s -plunging the dagger into her heart moved him to -tears, but he dried them hastily on bethinking him -she was a Mahometan, and asked of us, on our way -home, whether there was no playhouse in London -where they danced true Church of England pantomimes.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PARTRIDGE_AT_JULIUS_C_SAR">PARTRIDGE AT “JULIUS CÆSAR”</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading -and kissing Sophia’s letter, and being at last in a -state of good spirits, he agreed to carry an appointment, -which he had before made, into execution. -This was, to attend Mrs. Miller and her youngest -daughter into the gallery at the St. James’s playhouse, -and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the -company. For, as Jones had really that taste for -humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy -much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge; -from whom he expected the simple dictates of -nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated -by art.</p> - -<p>In the first row, then, of the first gallery did Mr. -Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge -take their places. Partridge immediately -declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. -When the first music was played he said it was a -wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time -without putting one another out.</p> - -<p>As soon as the play, which was Shakespeare’s -<i>Julius Cæsar</i>, began, Partridge was all attention, -nor did he break silence till the scene in Brutus’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> -orchard, when he asked Jones, “What season of the -year is it, Sir?” Jones answered, “Wait but a -moment and you shall hear the boy Lucius say it is -the 14th of March.” To which Partridge replied -with a smile, “Ay, then I understand why the boy -was asleep. Had it been in apple-harvesting time I -warrant you he would have been awake and busy -as soon as what’s-his-name, Squire Brutus, had -turned his back.” And upon the entreaties of -Portia to share Brutus’s confidence he inquired if -she was not a Somersetshire wench. “For Madam,” -said he, “is mighty like the housewives in our -county, who will plague their husbands to death -rather than let ’em keep a secret.” Nor was he -satisfied with Cæsar’s yielding to Calphurnia’s -objections against his going to the Capitol. “Ay, -anything to please your wife, you old dotard,” said -he; “you might have known better than to give -heed to a silly woman’s nightmares.”</p> - -<p>When they came to the Forum scene and the -speeches of Brutus and Antony, Partridge sat with -his eyes fixed on the orators and with his mouth -open. The same passions which succeeded each -other in the crowd of citizens succeeded likewise in -him. He was at first all for Brutus and then all for -Antony, until he learnt that Cæsar had left 75 -drachmas to every Roman citizen. “How much is -that in our English money?” he asked Jones, who -answered that it was about two guineas. At that he -looked chapfallen, bethinking him that, though a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> -round sum, it was not enough to warrant the crowd -in such extravagant rejoicing.</p> - -<p>“I begin to suspect, Sir,” said he to Jones, “this -Squire Antony hath not been above hoodwinking -us, but he seemed so much more concerned about -the matter than the other speaker, Brutus, that I -for one couldn’t help believing every word he said. -Yet I believed the other one, too, when he was talking, -and I was mightily pleased with what he said -about liberty and Britons never being slaves.” -“You mean Romans,” answered Jones, “not -Britons.” “Well, well,” said Partridge, “I know -it is only a play, but if I thought they were merely -Romans, and not Britons at heart, I should not care -a hang about ’em or what became of ’em.”</p> - -<p>To say the truth, I believe honest Partridge, -though a raw country fellow and ignorant of those -dramatic rules which learned critics from the Temple -and the other Inns of Court have introduced, along -with improved catcalls, into our playhouses, was -here uttering the sentiments of nature. Should we -be concerned about the fortunes of those ancient -Romans were they utter strangers to us and did we -not put ourselves in their places, which is as much -as to turn them all from Romans into Britons? To -be sure, while our imagination is thus turning them, -it will not forbear a few necessary amendments for -the sake of verisimilitude. For, to name only one -particular, no free and independent Briton could -imagine himself bribed by so paltry a legacy as a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -couple of guineas; but he can multiply that sum in -his mind until it shall have reached the much more -considerable amount which he will consent to take -for his vote at a Westminster election; and thus -honour will be satisfied. And the critics aforesaid -will then be able to point out to us the advantages -of British over Roman liberty, being attended not -only with the proud privileges of our great and -glorious Constitution, but also with a higher emolument.</p> - -<p>Mr. Jones would doubtless have made these -reflections to himself had he not, while Partridge -was still speaking, been distracted by the sudden -appearance in an opposite box of Lady Bellaston -and Sophia. As he had only left her ladyship that -very afternoon, after a conversation of so private a -nature that it must on no account be communicated -to the reader, he would have disregarded the -imperious signals which she forthwith began making -to him with her fan; but the truth is, whatever -reluctance he may have felt to rejoin her ladyship -at that moment was overborne by his eagerness to -approach the amiable Sophia, though he turned pale -and his knees trembled at the risk of that approach -in circumstances so dangerous. As soon as he had -recovered his composure he hastened to obey her -ladyship’s commands, but on his entry into the box -his spirits were again confounded by the evident -agitation of Sophia, and, seizing her hand, he stammered, -“Madam, I——.” “Hoity, toity! Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> -Jones,” cried Lady Bellaston; “do you salute a -chit of a girl before you take notice of a dowager? -Are these the new manners among people of fashion? -It is lucky for my heart that I can call myself a -dowager, for I vow to-night you look like a veritable -Adonis, and,” she added in a whisper too low to be -heard by Sophia, “your Venus adores you more -madly than ever, you wicked wretch.”</p> - -<p>Jones was ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking -his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking -more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby -squire when he is at first introduced into a polite -assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; -and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady -Bellaston, who, he saw, did not intend openly to -claim any close acquaintance with him, he resolved -as entirely to affect the stranger on his part. Accordingly, -he leaned over to Sophia, who was staring -hard at the stage, and asked her if she enjoyed the -performance. “Pray, don’t tease Miss Western -with your civilities,” interrupted Lady Bellaston, -“for you must know the child hath lost her heart -this night to that ravishing fellow Ainley, though I -tell her to my certain knowledge he is a husband -already, and, what is more, a father. These country -girls have nothing but sweethearts in their heads.” -“Upon my honour, madam,” cried Sophia, “your -ladyship injures me.” “Not I, miss, indeed,” -replied her ladyship tartly, “and if you want a -sweetheart, have you not one of the most gallant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -young fellows about town ready to your hand in -Lord Fellamar? You must be an arrant mad -woman to refuse him.” Sophia was visibly too much -confounded to make any observations, and again -turned towards the stage, Lady Bellaston taking the -opportunity to dart languishing glances at Jones -behind her back and to squeeze his hand; in short, -to practise the behaviour customary with women of -fashion who desire to signify their sentiments for a -gentleman without expressing them in actual -speech; when Jones, who saw the agitation of -Sophia’s mind, resolved to take the only method of -relieving her, which was by retiring. This he did, as -Brutus was rushing upon his own sword; and poor -Jones almost wished the sword might spit him, too, -in his rage and despair at what her ladyship had -maliciously insinuated about Sophia and Mr. -Ainley.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DR_JOHNSON_AT_THE_STADIUM">DR. JOHNSON AT THE STADIUM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>I am now to record a curious incident in Dr. -Johnson’s life, which fell under my own observation; -of which <i>pars magna fui</i>, and which I am persuaded -will, with the liberal-minded, be in no way to his -discredit.</p> - -<p>When I was a boy in the year 1745 I wore a white -cockade and prayed for King James, till one of my -uncles gave me a shilling on condition that I should -pray for King George, which I accordingly did. -This uncle was General Cochran; and it was with -natural gratification that I received from another -member of that family, Mr. Charles Cochran, a -more valuable present than a shilling, that is to -say, an invitation to witness the Great Fight at the -Stadium and to bring with me a friend. “Pray,” -said I, “let us have Dr. Johnson.” Mr. Cochran, -who is much more modest than our other great -theatre-manager, Mr. Garrick, feared that Dr. -Johnson could hardly be prevailed upon to condescend. -“Come,” said I, “if you’ll let me negotiate -for you, I will be answerable that all shall go well.”</p> - -<p>I had not forgotten Mrs. Thrale’s relation (which -she afterwards printed in her “Anecdotes”) that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> -“Mr. Johnson was very conversant in the art of -attack and defence by boxing, which science he had -learned from his uncle Andrew, I believe; and I -have heard him discourse upon the age when people -were received, and when rejected, in the schools -once held for that brutal amusement, much to the -admiration of those who had no expectation of his -skill in such matters, from the sight of a figure which -precluded all possibility of personal prowess.” This -lively lady was, however, too ready to deviate from -exact authenticity of narration; and, further, I -reflected that, whatever the propensities of his youth, -he who had now risen to be called by Dr. Smollett -the Great Cham of literature might well be affronted -if asked to countenance a prize-fight.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding the high veneration which I -entertained for him, I was sensible that he was -sometimes a little actuated by the spirit of contradiction, -and by means of that I hoped I should gain -my point. I therefore, while we were sitting quietly -by ourselves at his house in an evening, took occasion -to open my plan thus:—“Mr. Cochran, sir, sends -his respectful compliments to you, and would be -happy if you would do him the honour to visit his -entertainment at the Stadium on Thursday next?” -<span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“Sir, I am obliged to Mr. Cochran. -I will go——” <span class="smcap">Boswell.</span>—“Provided, sir, I suppose, -that the entertainment is of a kind agreeable -to you?” <span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“What do you mean, sir? -What do you take me for? Do you think I am so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -ignorant of the world as to imagine that I am to -prescribe to a gentleman what kind of entertainment -he is to offer his friends?” <span class="smcap">Boswell.</span>—“But if it -were a prize-fight?” <span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“Well, sir, and -what then?” <span class="smcap">Boswell.</span>—“It might bring queer -company.” <span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“My dear friend, let us -have no more of this. I am sorry to be angry with -you; but really it is treating me strangely to talk to -me as if I could not meet any company whatever -occasionally.” Thus I secured him.</p> - -<p>As it proved, however, whether by good luck -or by the forethought of the ingenious Mr. Cochran, -Dr. Johnson could not have found himself in better -company than that gathered round him in Block H -at the Stadium. There were many members of the -Literary Club, among them Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. -Burke, Mr. Garrick, Mr. Gibbon, Sir Joshua Reynolds, -and Mr. R. B. Sheridan. A gentleman -present, who had been dining at the Duke of -Montrose’s, where the bottle had been circulated -pretty freely, was rash enough to rally Dr. Johnson -about his Uncle Andrew, suggesting that his uncle’s -nephew might now take the opportunity of exhibiting -his prowess in the ring. <span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“Sir, to be -facetious, it is not necessary to be indecent. I am -not for tapping any man’s claret, but we see that <i>thou</i> -hast already tapped his Grace’s.” <span class="smcap">Burke.</span>—“It is -remarkable how little gore is ever shed in these -contests. Here have we been for half an hour -watching—let me see, what are their names?—Eddie<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> -Feathers and Gus Platts—and not even a -bleeding nose between them.” <span class="smcap">Reynolds.</span>—“In a -previous contest one boxer knocked the other’s -teeth out.” <span class="smcap">Sheridan.</span>—“Yes, but they were false -teeth.”</p> - -<p>At this moment the talk was interrupted by the -arrival of the Prince. As His Highness passed Dr. -Johnson, my revered friend made an obeisance -which was an even more studied act of homage than -his famous bow to the Archbishop of York; and he -subsequently joined in singing “For he’s a jolly -good fellow” with the most loyal enthusiasm, -repeating the word “fe-ellow” over and over again, -doubtless because it was the only one he knew. -(“Like a word in a catch,” Beauclerk whispered.) -I am sorry that I did not take note of an eloquent -argument in which he proceeded to maintain that the -situation of Prince of Wales was the happiest of any -person’s in the kingdom, even beyond that of the -Sovereign.</p> - -<p>But there was still no sign of Beckett and Carpentier, -the heroes of the evening, and the company -became a little weary of the preliminary contests. -A hush fell upon the assembly, and many glanced -furtively towards the alley down which the champions -were to approach. <span class="smcap">Gibbon.</span>—“We are unhappy -because we are kept waiting. ‘Man never is, -but always to be, blest.’” <span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“And we -are awaiting we know not what. To the impatience -of expectation is added the disquiet of the unknown.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -<span class="smcap">Garrick</span> (<i>playing round his old friend with a fond -vivacity</i>).—“My dear sir, men are naturally a little -restless, when they have backed Beckett at 70 to -40.” <span class="smcap">Reynolds.</span>—“But, see, the lights of the -kinematographers” (we were all abashed by the -word in the presence of the Great Lexicographer) -“are brighter than ever. I observe all the contestants -take care to smile under them.” <span class="smcap">Sheridan.</span>—“When -they <i>do</i> agree, their unanimity is wonderful.” -<span class="smcap">Johnson.</span>—“Among the anfractuosities of -the human mind, I know not if it may not be one, -that there is a morbid longing to attitudinize in the -‘moving pictures.’”</p> - -<p>But at length Beckett and Carpentier made their -triumphal entry. Beckett first, quietly smiling, -with eyes cast down, Carpentier debonair and lightly -saluting the crowd with an elegant wave of the hand. -After the pair had stripped and Dr. Johnson had -pointed out that “the tenuity, the thin part” in -Carpentier’s frame indicated greater lightness, if -Beckett’s girth promised more solid resistance, -Mr. Angle invited the company to preserve silence -during the rounds and to abstain from smoking. -To add a last touch to the solemnity of the moment, -Carpentier’s supernumerary henchmen (some six or -eight, over and above his trainer and seconds) came -and knelt by us, in single file, in the alley between -Block H and Block E, as though at worship.</p> - -<p>What then happened, in the twinkling of an eye, -all the world now knows, and knows rather better<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> -than I knew myself at the moment, for I saw -Beckett lying on his face in the ring without clearly -distinguishing the decisive blow. While Carpentier -was being carried round the ring on the shoulders -of his friends, being kissed first by his trainer and -then by ladies obligingly held up to the ring for the -amiable purpose, I confess that I watched Beckett, -and was pleased to see he had successfully resumed -his quiet smile. As I carried my revered friend -home to Bolt Court in a taximetric cabriolet, I -remarked to him that Beckett’s defeat was a blow -to our patriotic pride, whereupon he suddenly -uttered, in a strong, determined tone, an apophthegm -at which many will start:—“Patriotism is the last -refuge of a scoundrel!” “And yet,” said Beauclerk, -when I told him of this later, “he had not been -kissed by Carpentier.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MY_UNCLE_TOBY_PUZZLED">MY UNCLE TOBY PUZZLED</h2> - -</div> - -<p>“’Tis a pity,” cried my father, one winter’s night, -after reading the account of the Shakespeare -Memorial meeting—“’tis a pity,” cried my father, -putting my mother’s thread-paper into the newspaper -for a mark as he spoke,—“that truth, brother -Toby, should shut herself up in such impregnable -fastnesses, and be so obstinate as to surrender herself -up sometimes only upon the closest siege.”</p> - -<p>The word siege, like a talismanic power, in my -father’s metaphor, wafting back my uncle Toby’s -fancy, quick as a note could follow the touch, he -opened his ears.</p> - -<p>“And there was nothing to shame them in the -truth, neither,” said my father, “seeing that they -had many thousands of pounds to their credit. -How could a bishop think there was danger in -telling it?”</p> - -<p>“Lord bless us! Mr. Shandy,” cried my mother, -“what is all this story about?”</p> - -<p>“About Shakespeare, my dear,” said my father.</p> - -<p>“He has been dead a hundred years ago,” replied -my mother.</p> - -<p>My uncle Toby, who was no chronologer, whistled -“Lillibullero.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span></p> - -<p>“By all that’s good and great! ma’am,” cried my -father, taking the oath out of Ernulphus’s digest, -“of course. If it was not for the aids of philosophy, -which befriend one so much as they do, you would -put a man beside all temper. He is as dead as a -doornail, and they are thinking of building a theatre -to honour his memory.”</p> - -<p>“And why should they not, Mr. Shandy?” said -my mother.</p> - -<p>“To be sure, there’s no reason why,” replied my -father, “save that they haven’t enough money left -over after buying a plot of land in Gower Street to -build upon.”</p> - -<p>Corporal Trim touched his Montero-cap and -looked hard at my uncle Toby. “If I durst presume,” -said he, “to give your honour my advice, -and speak my opinion in this matter.” “Thou art -welcome, Trim,” said my uncle Toby. “Why then,” -replied Trim, “I think, with humble submission to -your honour’s better judgment, I think that had we -but a rood or a rood and a half of this ground to do -what we pleased with, I would make fortifications -for you something like a tansy, with all their batteries, -saps, ditches, and palisadoes, that it should -be worth all the world’s riding twenty miles to go -and see it.”</p> - -<p>“Then thou wouldst have, Trim,” said my father, -“to palisado the Y.M.C.A.”</p> - -<p>“I never understood rightly the meaning of -that word,” said my Uncle Toby, “and I am sure<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -nothing of that name was known to our armies in -Flanders.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis an association of Christian young men,” -replied my father, “who for the present hold the -Shakespeare Memorialists’ ground in Gower Street.” -’Twas no inconsistent part of my uncle Toby’s -character that he feared God and reverenced -religion. So the moment my father finished his -remark my uncle Toby fell a-whistling “Lillibullero” -with more zeal (though more out of tune) -than usual.</p> - -<p>“And the money these Christian youths pay for -rents,” continued my father, “is to be used to maintain -a company of strolling players” [Here my -uncle Toby, throwing back his head, gave a monstrous, -long, loud whew-w-w.], “who are to go up -and down the country showing the plays of Shakespeare. -Up and down, and that, by the way, is how -their curtain went on twenty-two occasions in <i>Romeo -and Juliet</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Who says so?” asked my uncle Toby.</p> - -<p>“A parson,” replied my father.</p> - -<p>“Had he been a soldier,” said my uncle, “he -would never have told such a taradiddle. He would -have known that the curtain is that part of the wall -or rampart which lies between the two bastions, and -joins them.”</p> - -<p>“By the mother who bore us! brother Toby,” -quoth my father, “you would provoke a saint. -Here have you got us, I know not how, souse into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -the middle of the old subject again. We are speaking -of Shakespeare and not of fortifications.”</p> - -<p>“Was Shakespeare a soldier, Mr. Shandy, or a -young men’s Christian?” said my mother, who had -lost her way in the argument.</p> - -<p>“Neither one nor t’other, my dear,” replied my -father (my uncle Toby softly whistled “Lillibullero”); -“he was a writer of plays.”</p> - -<p>“They are foolish things,” said my mother.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” replied my father, “but you have -not seen Shakespeare’s, Mrs. Shandy. And it is -for the like of you, I tell you point-blank——”</p> - -<p>As my father pronounced the word point-blank -my uncle Toby rose up to say something upon projectiles, -but my father continued:—</p> - -<p>“It is for the like of you that these Shakespeare -Memorialists are sending their strolling players -around the country, to set the goodwives wondering -about Shakespeare, as they wondered about Diego’s -nose in the tale of the learned Hafen Slawkenbergius.”</p> - -<p>“Surely the wonderful nose was Cyrano’s?” -said my mother. “Cyrano’s or Diego’s, ’tis all one,” -cried my father in a passion. “Zooks! Cannot a -man use a plain analogy but his wife must interrupt -him with her foolish questions about it? May the -eternal curse of all the devils in——”</p> - -<p>“Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried -my uncle Toby, “but nothing to this.”</p> - -<p>“As you please, Mr. Shandy,” said my mother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span></p> - -<p>“Where was I?” said my father, in some confusion, -and letting his hand fall upon my uncle -Toby’s shoulder in sign of repentance for his violent -cursing.</p> - -<p>“You was at Slawkenbergius,” replied my uncle -Toby.</p> - -<p>“No, no, brother, Shakespeare, I was speaking -of Shakespeare, and how they were going to carry -him round the country because they had not money -enough to build a theatre for him in London.”</p> - -<p>“But could they not hire one?” said my uncle -Toby.</p> - -<p>“No, for my Lord Lytton said that would be too -speculative a venture.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis a mighty strange business,” said my uncle, -in much perplexity. “They buy their land, as I -understand it, brother, to build a house for Shakespeare -in London, but lease it for a house for young -Christians instead, and spend their money on sending -Shakespeare packing out of London.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis all the fault of the Londoners,” replied my -father. “They have no soul for Shakespeare, and -for that matter, as I believe, no soul at all.”</p> - -<p>“A Londoner has no soul, an’ please your honour,” -whispered Corporal Trim doubtingly, and touching -his Montero-cap to my uncle.</p> - -<p>“I am not much versed, Corporal,” quoth my -uncle Toby, “in things of that kind; but I suppose -God would not leave him without one, any more -than thee or me.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LADY_CATHERINE_AND_MR_COLLINS">LADY CATHERINE AND MR. COLLINS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Elizabeth and Charlotte were seated one morning -in the parlour at Hunsford parsonage, enjoying the -prospect of Rosings from the front window, and -Mr. Collins was working in his garden, which was -one of his most respectable pleasures, when the -peace of the household was suspended by the arrival -of a letter from London:—</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Theatre Royal, Drury Lane</span>,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">London</span>, <i>December, 19—</i>.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Cousin William</span>,—We have long neglected -to maintain a commerce of letters, but I have -learned through the public prints of your recent -union with an elegant female from Hertfordshire -and desire to tender you and your lady my respects -in what I trust will prove an agreeable form. I am -directing an entertainment at this theatre, which -is designed to be in harmony with the general -Christmas rejoicings, and, you may rest assured, -in no way offends the principles of the Church -which you adorn. Will you not honour it by your -presence and thus confer an innocent enjoyment -upon your lady? In that hope, I enclose a box<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> -ticket for the pantomime on Monday se’nnight -and remain your well-wisher and cousin,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Arthur Collins</span>.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>Smiling to herself, Elizabeth reflected that the -two Messrs. Collins might certainly call cousins in -epistolary composition, while Charlotte anxiously -inquired if the proposal had her William’s approval.</p> - -<p>“I am by no means of opinion,” said he, “that -an entertainment of this kind, given by a man of -character, who is also my own second cousin, to -respectable people, can have any evil tendency; -but, before accepting the invitation, it is, of course, -proper that I should seek the countenance of Lady -Catherine de Bourgh.” Accordingly, he lost no -time in making his way to Rosings.</p> - -<p>Lady Catherine, who chanced to be meditating -that very morning on a visit to London for the -purchase of a new bonnet and <i>pèlerine</i>, was all -affability and condescension.</p> - -<p>“To be sure, you will go, Mr. Collins,” said her -ladyship. “I advise you to accept the invitation -without delay. It is the duty of a clergyman of your -station to refine and improve such entertainments by -his presence. Nay,” she added, “Sir Lewis highly -approved them and <i>I</i> myself will go with you.” Mr. -Collins was overwhelmed by civility far beyond his -expectations, and hurried away to prepare Charlotte -and Elizabeth for this splendid addition to their -party.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span></p> - -<p>Early on the Monday se’nnight they set out for -London in one of her ladyship’s carriages, for, as -Mr. Collins took the opportunity of remarking, she -had several, drawn by four post-horses, which they -changed at the “Bell” at Bromley. On the way -her ladyship examined the young ladies’ knotting-work -and advised them to do it differently, instructed -Elizabeth in the humility of deportment appropriate -to the front seat of a carriage, and determined what -the weather was to be to-morrow.</p> - -<p>When they were at last arrived and seated in -their box Lady Catherine approved the spacious -dignity of the baronial hall, which, she said, reminded -her of the great gallery at Pemberley, but was -shocked at the familiarities which passed between -the Baron and Baroness Beauxchamps and their -page-boy. “These foreign nobles,” she exclaimed, -“adventurers, I daresay! It was Sir Lewis’s -opinion that <i>all</i> foreigners were adventurers. No -English baron, it is certain, would talk so familiarly -to a common domestic, a person of inferior birth, -and of no importance in the world. Honour, -decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. With -such manners, I do not wonder that the domestic -arrangements are in disorder, the very stair-carpet -unfastened, and a machine for cleaning knives -actually brought into a reception room! See, they -cannot even lay a table-cloth!” And her ladyship -advised Charlotte on the proper way of laying table-cloths, -especially in clergymen’s families.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span></p> - -<p>After a song of Miss Florence Smithson’s Charlotte -talked in a low tone with Elizabeth, and her ladyship -called out:—“What is that you are saying, Mrs. -Collins? What is it you are talking of? What are -you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”</p> - -<p>“We are speaking of music, madam,” said -Charlotte.</p> - -<p>“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of -all subjects my delight. I must have my share in -the conversation, if you are speaking of music. -There are few people in England, I suppose, who have -more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a -better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should -have been a great proficient.”</p> - -<p>When Cinderella set out for the ball in her coach-and-six -with a whole train of running-footmen Lady -Catherine signified her approbation. “Young women -should always be properly guarded and attended, -according to their situation in life. When my -niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I -made a point of her having two men-servants go -with her. I am excessively attentive to all those -things.”</p> - -<p>But now they were at the ball, and the box party -was all attention. The Prince, dignified and a little -stiff, reminded Elizabeth of Mr. Darcy. But guests -so strange as Mutt and Jeff, she thought, would -never be allowed to pollute the shades of Pemberley. -Mr. Collins’s usually cold composure forsook him -at the sight of the Baroness playing cards with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> -Baron on one of her <i>paniers</i> as a table, and felt it -his duty to apologize to Lady Catherine for the -unseemly incident. “If your ladyship will warrant -me,” he began, “I will point out to my cousin that -neither a person of your high station nor a clergyman -of the Church of England ought to be asked to witness -this licentiousness of behaviour.” “And advise -him,” said her ladyship, “on the authority of Lady -Catherine de Bourgh, that <i>paniers</i> were never used -for this disgraceful purpose. There is no one in -England who knows more about <i>paniers</i> than myself, -for my grandmother, Lady Anne, wore them, and -some day Mrs. Jennings, the housekeeper, shall -show them to Miss Bennet,” for Elizabeth could not -forbear a smile, “at Rosings.”</p> - -<p>The party retired early, for Elizabeth had to be -conveyed to her uncle’s as far as Gracechurch Street, -and Lady Catherine desired the interval of a long -night before choosing her new bonnet. It was not -until Mr. Collins was once more in his parsonage -that he sent his cousin an acknowledgment of the -entertainment afforded at Drury Lane, as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Hunsford</span>, <i>near</i> <span class="smcap">Westerham, Kent</span>,</p> - -<p class="right">“<i>January, 19—</i>.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—We withdrew from your Christmas -entertainment on Monday last with mingled feelings -of gratification and reprobation. When I say ‘we’ -I should tell you that my Charlotte and I not only -brought with us a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, one of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> -the friends of her maiden state, but were honoured -by the company of the Right Honourable Lady -Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, -whose bounty and beneficence have, as you know, -preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, -where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean -myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, -and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies -which are instituted by the Church of -England. It is as a clergyman that I feel it my duty -to warn you against the sinful game of cards -exhibited in the scene of the Prince’s ball. If it -had been family whist, I could have excused it, for -there can be little harm in whist, at least among -players who are not in such circumstances as to -make five shillings any object. But the Baroness -Beauxchamps is manifestly engaged in a game of -sheer chance, if not of downright cheating. The -admission of this incident to your stage cannot but -have proceeded, you must allow me to tell you, -from a faulty degree of indulgence. And I am to -add, on the high authority of Lady Catherine, -probably the highest on this as on many other -subjects, that there is no instance on record of the -<i>paniers</i> once worn by ladies being used as card-tables. -With respectful compliments to your lady -and family,</p> - -<p class="center">“I remain, dear sir, your cousin,</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">William Collins</span>.”</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MR_PICKWICK_AT_THE_PLAY">MR. PICKWICK AT THE PLAY</h2> - -</div> - -<p>“And now,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round -on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a -sparkle in the eye which no spectacles could dim -or conceal, “the question is, Where shall we go to-night?”</p> - -<p>With the faithful Sam in attendance behind his -chair, he was seated at the head of his own table, -with Mr. Snodgrass on his left and Mr. Winkle on -his right and Mr. Alfred Jingle opposite him; his -face was rosy with jollity, for they had just dispatched -a hearty meal of chops and tomato sauce, -with bottled ale and Madeira, and a special allowance -of milk punch for the host.</p> - -<p>Mr. Jingle proposed Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Pickwick -proposed Mr. Jingle. Mr. Snodgrass proposed -Mr. Winkle; and Mr. Winkle proposed Mr. Snodgrass; -while Sam, taking a deep pull at the stone -bottle of milk punch behind his master’s chair, -silently proposed himself.</p> - -<p>“And where,” said Mr. Pickwick, “shall we go -to-night?” Mr. Snodgrass, as modest as all great -geniuses are, was silent. Mr. Winkle, who had been -thinking of Arabella, started violently, looked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span> -knowing, and was beginning to stammer something, -when he was interrupted by Mr. Jingle—“A -musical comedy, old boy—no plot—fine women—gags—go -by-by—wake up for chorus—entertaining, -very.”</p> - -<p>“And lyrics,” said Mr. Snodgrass, with poetic -rapture.</p> - -<p>“I was just going to suggest it,” said Mr. Winkle, -“when this individual” (scowling at Mr. Jingle, -who laid his hand on his heart, with a derisive -smile), “when, I repeat, this individual interrupted -me.”</p> - -<p>“A musical comedy, with all my heart,” said Mr. -Pickwick. “Sam, give me the paper. H’m, h’m, -what’s this? <i>The Eclipse</i>, a farce with songs—will -that do?”</p> - -<p>“But is a farce with songs a musical comedy?” -objected Mr. Winkle.</p> - -<p>“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Pickwick, “this is very -puzzling.”</p> - -<p>“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Sam, touching -his forelock, “it’s a distinction without a difference—as -the pork pieman remarked when they asked -him if his pork wasn’t kittens.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a benevolent -twinkle, “by all means let us go to <i>The Eclipse</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Beg pardon, sir,” said Sam again, doubtfully, -“there ain’t no astrongomies in it, is there?” Sam -had not forgotten his adventure with the scientific -gentleman at Clifton. But, as nobody knew, they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> -set off for the Garrick Theatre, and were soon ensconced -in a box.</p> - -<p>They found the stage occupied by a waiter, who -was the very image of the waiter Mr. Pickwick had -seen at the Old Royal Hotel at Birmingham, except -that he didn’t imperceptibly melt away. Waiters, -in general, never walk or run; they have a peculiar -and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms -which other mortals possess not. But this waiter, -unlike his kind, couldn’t “get off” anyhow. He -explained that it was because the composer had -given him no music to “get off” with.</p> - -<p>“Poor fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, greatly distressed; -“will he have to stop there all night?”</p> - -<p>“Not,” muttered Sam to himself, “if I wos -behind ’im with a bradawl.”</p> - -<p>However, the waiter did at last get off, and then -came on again and sang another verse, amid loud -hoorays, until Mr. Pickwick’s eyes were wet with -gratification at the universal jollity.</p> - -<p>“Fine fellow, fine fellow,” cried Mr. Pickwick; -“what is his name?”</p> - -<p>“Hush-h-h, my dear sir,” whispered a charming -young man of not much more than fifty in the next -box, in whom Mr. Pickwick, abashed, recognized Mr. -Angelo Cyrus Bantam, “<i>that</i> is Mr. Alfred Lester.”</p> - -<p>“A born waiter,” interjected Mr. Jingle, “once -a waiter always a waiter—stage custom—Medes and -Persians—wears his napkin for a nightcap—droll -fellow, very.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span></p> - -<p>By and by there was much talk of a mysterious -Tubby Haig, and they even sang a song about him; -but he did not appear on the stage, and Mr. Pickwick, -whose curiosity was excited, asked who this -Tubby Haig was.</p> - -<p>Sam guessed he might be own brother to Mr. -Wardle’s Fat Boy, Joe, or perhaps “the old -gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail—reg’lar fat man, as -hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty -year,” but Mr. Bantam again leaned over -from his box and whispered:—</p> - -<p>“Hush-h-h, my dear sir, nobody is fat or old in -Ba-a——I mean in literary circles. Mr. Tubby Haig -is a popular author of detective stories, much prized, -along with alleytors and commoneys, by the youth -of this town.”</p> - -<p>But a sudden start of Mr. Winkle’s and a rapturous -exclamation from Mr. Snodgrass again directed Mr. -Pickwick’s attention to the scene. He almost fainted -with dismay. Standing in the middle of the stage, in -the full glare of the lights, was a lady with her -shoulders and back (which she kept turning to the -lights) bare to the waist!</p> - -<p>“Bless my soul,” cried Mr. Pickwick, shrinking -behind the curtain of the box, “what a dreadful -thing!”</p> - -<p>He mustered up courage, and looked out again. -The lady was still there, not a bit discomposed.</p> - -<p>“Most extraordinary female, this,” thought Mr. -Pickwick, popping in again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span></p> - -<p>She still remained, however, and even threw an -arch glance in Mr. Pickwick’s direction, as much as -to say, “You old dear.”</p> - -<p>“But—but—” cried Mr. Pickwick, in an agony, -“won’t she catch cold?”</p> - -<p>“Bless your heart, no, sir,” said Sam, “she’s -quite used to it, and it’s done with the very best -intentions, as the gen’l’man said ven he run away -from his wife, ’cos she seemed unhappy with him.”</p> - -<p>If Mr. Pickwick was distressed, very different was -the effect of the lovely vision upon Mr. Winkle. Alas -for the weakness of human nature! he forgot for -the moment all about Arabella. Suddenly grasping -his hat, he rose from his seat, said “Good-night, my -dear sir,” to Mr. Pickwick between his set teeth, -added brokenly, “My friend, my benefactor, my -honoured companion, do not judge me harshly”—and -dashed out of the box.</p> - -<p>“Very extraordinary,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, -“what <i>can</i> that young man be going to do?”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, for Mr. Winkle to rush downstairs, -into the street, round the corner, as far as the stage-door, -was the work of a moment. Taking out a card -engraved “<span class="smcap">Nathaniel Winkle</span>, M.P.C.,” he hastily -pencilled a few fervent words on it and handed it to -the door-keeper, requiring him instantly to convey it -to Miss Teddie Gerard.</p> - -<p>“What now, imperence,” said the man, roughly -pushing him from the door and knocking his hat -over his eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span></p> - -<p>At the same moment Mr. Winkle found his arms -pinioned from behind by Sam Weller, who led him, -crestfallen, back into the street and his senses. The -public were now leaving the theatre, and Mr. Pickwick, -beckoning Mr. Winkle to approach, fixed a -searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but -distinct and emphatic, tone these remarkable -words:—</p> - -<p>“You’re a humbug, sir.”</p> - -<p>“A what!” said Mr. Winkle, starting.</p> - -<p>“A humbug, sir.”</p> - -<p>With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on -his heel, and rejoined his friends.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MR_CRICHTON_AND_MR_LITTIMER">MR. CRICHTON AND MR. LITTIMER</h2> - -</div> - -<p>They were seated together, Mr. and Mrs. Crichton -in the bar-parlour of their little public-house in the -Harrow Road, at the more fashionable end, for -which Mr. Crichton had himself invented the sign -(in memory of his past experiences) of “The Case -is Altered.” Mr. Crichton, too, was altered and yet -the same. He wore one of the Earl’s old smoking-jackets, -with a coronet still embroidered on the -breast pocket—not, he said, out of anything so -vulgar as ostentation, but as a sort of last link with -the Upper House—but his patent leather boots -had given place to carpet slippers, and his trousers, -once so impeccable, were now baggy at the knees. -Altogether he was an easier, more relaxed Crichton, -freed as he was from the restraining, if respectful, -criticism of the servants’ hall. Indeed, Miss Fisher, -who had always hated him, hinted that he had -become slightly Rabelaisian—a reference which she -owed to mademoiselle—though she would not have -dared to repeat the hint to Mrs. Crichton (<i>née</i> Tweeny). -For marriage had in no degree abated Tweeny’s -reverence for her Crichton, or rather, as old habit -still impelled her to call him, her Guv.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p> - -<p>The Guv. was at this moment comforting himself -with a glass of port (from the wood) and thinking of -that bin of ’47 he had helped the Earl to finish in past -days. And now he was inhabiting a road where (at -least at the other, the unfashionable, end) port was -invariably “port wine.” Such are the vicissitudes -of human affairs. Tweeny herself was guilty of the -solecism, as was perhaps to be expected from a lady -who, for her own drinking, preferred swipes. Though -she had made great strides in her education under -the Guv.’s guidance (she was now nearly into -quadratic equations, and could say the dates of -accession of the kings of England down to James II.), -she still made sad havoc of her nominatives and verbs -in the heat of conversation.</p> - -<p>“A gent as wants to see the Guv.,” said the potboy, -popping his head in at the bar-parlour door—the -potboy, for Tweeny knew better than to have -a barmaid about the place for the Guv. to cast a -favourable eye on.</p> - -<p>A not very clean card was handed in, inscribed:—</p> - -<p class="center">“<span class="smcap">Mr. Littimer</span>,”</p> - -<p class="noindent">and the owner walked in after it. Or, rather, -glided softly in, shutting the door after entry as -delicately as though the inmates had just fallen -into a sweet sleep on which their life depended. -Mr. Littimer was an old-fashioned looking man, -with mutton-chop whiskers, a “stock,” tied in a -large bow, a long frock-coat, and tight trousers—the -whole suggesting nothing of recent or even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> -modern date, but, say, 1850. It was an appearance -of intense respectability, of super-respectability, of -that 1850 respectability which was so infinitely more -respectable than any respectability of our own day. -Mr. Crichton stared, as well he might, and washed -his hands with invisible soap. Though, in fact, -now middle-aged, he felt in this man’s presence -extremely young. He clean forgot that he had been -a King in Babylon. Indeed, for the first time in -his life he, the consummate, the magisterial, the -admirable Crichton, felt almost green.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Crichton, sir,” said the visitor, with an -apologetic inclination of the head, “I have ventured -to take the great liberty of calling upon you, if you -please, sir, and,” he added with another inclination -of the head to Mrs. Crichton (who felt what she -would herself have called flabbergasted), “if <i>you</i> -please, ma’am, as an old friend of your worthy father. -He was butler at Mrs. Steerforth’s when I valeted -poor Mr. James.” His eye fell, respectably, on Mr. -Crichton’s port. “Ah!” he said, “<i>his</i> wine was -Madeira, but——” A second glass of port was -thereupon placed on the table, and he sipped it -respectably.</p> - -<p>Mr. Crichton could only stare, speechless. All his -<i>aplomb</i> had gone. He gazed at a ship’s bucket, his -most cherished island relic, which hung from the -ceiling (as a shade for the electric light—one of his -little mechanical ingenuities), and wondered whether -he ever <i>could</i> have put anybody’s head in it. His<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -philosophy was, for once, at fault. He knew, none -better, that “nature” had made us all unequal, -dividing us up into earls and butlers and tweenies, -but now for the first time it dawned upon him that -“nature” had made us unequally respectable. -Here was something more respectable, vastly more -respectable, than himself; respectable not in the -grand but in the sublime manner.</p> - -<p>He could not guess his visitor’s thoughts, and it -was well for his peace of mind that he could not. -For Mr. Littimer’s thoughts were, respectably, -paternal. He thought of Mr. Crichton, sen., and -still more of the senior Mrs. Crichton, once “own -woman” to Mrs. Steerforth. Ah! those old days -and those old loves! How sad and bad and mad -it was—for Mr. Littimer’s poet was Browning, as his -host’s was Henley, as suited the difference in their -dates—and how they had deceived old Crichton -between them! So this was <i>his</i> boy, his, Littimer’s, -though no one knew it save himself and the dead -woman! And as he gazed, with respectable fondness, -at this image, modernized, modified, subdued, -of his own respectability, he reflected that there was -something in heredity, after all. And he smiled, -respectably, as he remembered his boy’s opinion -that the union of butler and lady’s maid was perhaps -the happiest of all combinations. Perhaps, yes; but -without any perhaps, if the combination included the -valet.</p> - -<p>Unhappy, on the other hand, were those combinations<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> -from which valets were pointedly excluded. -There was that outrageous young person whom Mr. -James left behind at Naples and who turned upon -him, the respectable Littimer, like a fury, when he -was prepared to overlook her past in honourable -marriage.</p> - -<p>His meditations were interrupted by Mrs. Crichton, -who had been mentally piecing together her recollections -of “David Copperfield”—her Guv. had -given her a Dickens course—and had now arrived at -a conclusion. “Axin’ yer pardon, mister,” she said -(being still, as we have stated, a little vulgar when -excited), “but if you was valet to Mr. James -Steerforth, you’re the man as ’elped ’im to ruin -that pore gal, and as afterwards went to quod for -stealin’. I blushes”—here her eye fell on the Guv., -who quietly dropped the correction “blush”—“I -<i>blush</i> for yer, Mr. Littimer.” “Ah, ma’am,” Mr. -Littimer respectably apologized, “I attribute my -past follies entirely to having lived a thoughtless life -in the service of young men; and to having allowed -myself to be led by them into weaknesses, which I -had not the strength to resist.”</p> - -<p>“And that, I venture to suggest, ma’am,” he -respectably continued, “is why your worthy husband -has been so much more fortunate in the world than -myself. We are both respectable, if I may say so, -patterns of respectability” (Crichton coloured with -gratification at this compliment from the Master), -“and yet our respectability has brought us very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span> -different fates. And why, if you please, ma’am? -Because I have served the young, while he has served -the old—for I believe, ma’am, the most noble the -Earl of Loam is long past the meridian. Besides, -ma’am, we Early Victorians had not your husband’s -educational advantages. There were no Board -schools for me. Not that I’m complaining, ma’am. -We could still teach the young ’uns a thing or two -about respectability.” And so with a proud humility -(and an intuition that there was to be no more port) -he took his leave, again shutting the door with the -utmost delicacy. He was, in truth, well content. -He had seen his boy. The sacred lamp of respectability -was not out.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Crichton sat in a maze, still washing his -hands with invisible soap.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HENRY_JAMES_REPUDIATES_THE_REPROBATE">HENRY JAMES REPUDIATES “THE REPROBATE”</h2> - -</div> - -<p>He had dropped, a little wearily, the poor dear -man, into a seat at the shady end of the terrace, -whither he had wended or, it came over him with -a sense of the blest “irony” of vulgar misinterpretation, -almost zig-zagged his way after lunch. For -he had permitted himself the merest sip of the -ducal Yquem or Brane Cantenac, or whatever—he -knew too well, oh, <i>didn’t</i> he? after all these years -of Scratchem house-parties, the dangerous convivialities -one had better show for beautifully -appreciating than freely partake of—but he had -been unable, in his exposure as the author of -established reputation, the celebrity of the hour, the -“master,” as chattering Lady Jemima <i>would</i> call -him between the omelette and the chaudfroid, to -“take cover” from the ducal dates. Well, the -“All clear” was now sounded, but his head was -still dizzy with the reverberating ’87’s and ’90’s -and ’96’s and other such bombs of chronological -precision that the host had dropped upon the guests -as the butler filled their glasses. His subsequent -consciousness was quite to cherish the view that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> -dates which went thus distressingly to one’s head -must somehow not be allowed to slip out of it again, -but be turned into “copy” for readers who innocently -look to their favourite romancers for connoisseurship -in wines. What Lady Jemima had -flung out at lunch was true, readers <i>are</i> a “rum lot,” -and, hang it all, who says art says sacrifice, readers -were a necessary evil, the many-headed monster -must be fed, and he’d be blest if he wouldn’t feed -it with dates, and show himself for, indulgently, -richly, chronologically, “rum.”</p> - -<p>It marked, however, the feeling of the hour with -him that this vision of future “bluffing” about -vintages interfered not at all with the measure -of his actual <i>malaise</i>. He still nervously fingered -the telegram handed to him at lunch, and, when -read, furtively crumpled into his pocket under -Lady Jemima’s celebrated nose. It was entirely -odious to him, the crude purport of the message, as -well as the hideous yellow ochre of its envelope. -“Confidently expect you,” the horrid thing ran, -“to come and see your own play.” This Stage -Society, if that was its confounded name, was indeed -of a confidence! Yes, and of the last vulgarity! -His conscience was not void, but, on the contrary, -quite charged and brimming with remembered -lapses from the ideal life of letters—it was the hair-shirt -he secretly wore even in the Scratchem world -under the conventional garment which the Lady -Jemimas of that world teased him by calling a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -“boiled rag”—but the “expected,” <i>that</i>, thank -goodness, he had never been guilty of. Nay, was -it not his “note,” as the reviewers said, blithely and -persistently to balk “expectation”? Had he not -in every book of his successfully hugged his own -mystery? Had not these same reviewers always -missed his little point with a perfection exactly as -admirable when they patted him on the back as -when they kicked him on the shins? Did a single -one of them ever discover “the figure in the carpet”? -How many baffled readers hadn’t written to him -imploring him to divulge what <i>really</i> happened -between Milly and Densher in that last meeting at -Venice? Certainly he was in no chuckling mood -under the smart of the telegram, but it seemed to -him that he could almost have chuckled at the -thought that he beautifully didn’t know what -happened in that Venetian meeting himself! And -this impossible Stage Society, with that collective -fatuity which seems always so much more gross -than any individual sort, “confidently expected” -him to come!</p> - -<p>What was it, please, he put the question to himself -with a heat which seemed to give even the -shady end of the terrace the inconvenience of an -exposure to full sun, they expected him to come <i>to</i>, -or, still worse, for having probed the wound he must -not flinch with the scalpel, to come <i>for</i>? Oh, no, -he had not forgotten <i>The Reprobate</i>, and what angered -him was that <i>they</i> hadn’t, either. He had not forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> -a blessed one of the plays he had written for -the country towns a score of years ago, when he had -been bitten by the tarantula of the theatre, and, -remembering them, he felt now viciously capable of -biting the tarantula back. He had written them, -God forgive him, for country towns. He positively -shuddered when he found himself in a country town, -to this day. The terrace at Scratchem notoriously -commanded a distant prospect of at least three, in -as many counties, with cathedrals, famous inns, -theatres—the whole orthodox equipment, he summed -it up vindictively in cheap journalese, of country -towns. Vindictive, too, was his reflection that these -objects of his old crazy solicitude must have been -revolutionized in twenty years, their cathedrals -“restored,” their inns (the “A.B.C.” vouched for -it) “entirely refitted with electric light,” their -theatres turned into picture palaces. All the old -associations of <i>The Reprobate</i> were extinct. It was -monstrous that it should be entirely refitted with -electric light.</p> - -<p>And in the crude glare of that powerful illuminant, -with every switch or whatever mercilessly turned—didn’t -they call it?—“on,” he seemed to see the -wretched thing, bare and hideous, with no cheap -artifice of “make-up,” no dab of rouge or streak of -burnt cork, spared the dishonour of exposure. The -crack in the golden bowl would be revealed, his -awkward age would be brought up against him, -what Maisie knew would be nothing to what everybody<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span> -would now know. His agony was not long -purely mental; it suddenly became intercostal. A -sharp point had dug him in the ribs. It was Lady -Jemima’s, it couldn’t <i>not</i> be Lady Jemima’s, pink -parasol. Aware of the really great ease of really -great ladies he forced a smile, as he rubbed his side. -Ah, Olympians were unconventional indeed—that -was a part of their high bravery and privilege.</p> - -<p>“Dear Master,” she began, and the phrase hurt -him even more than the parasol, “won’t you take -poor little <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>The great lady had read his telegram! Olympian -unconventionality was of a licence!</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she archly beamed, “I looked over your -shoulder at lunch, and——”</p> - -<p>“And,” he interruptingly wailed, “you know -all.”</p> - -<p>“All,” she nodded, “<i>tout le tremblement</i>, the whole -caboodle. Now be an angel and take me.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear lady,” he gloomed at her, “that’s just -it. The blest play is so naïvely, so vulgarly, beyond -all redemption though not, thank Heaven, beyond -my repudiation, caboodle.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she playfully rejoined, and -the artist in him registered for future use her rich -Olympian vocabulary, “you <i>wrote</i> it, Master, anyhow. -We’ve all been young once. Take me, and -we’ll both be young again,” she gave it him straight, -“together.”</p> - -<p>Ah, then the woman <i>was</i> dangerous. Scratchem<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -gossip had, for once, not overshot the mark. He -would show her, all Olympian though she was, that -giving it straight was a game two could play at.</p> - -<p>“Dear lady,” he said, “you’re wonderful. But -I won’t take you. What’s more, I’m not”—and -he had it to himself surprisingly ready—“taking -<i>any</i>.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="M_BERGERET_ON_FILM_CENSORING">M. BERGERET ON FILM CENSORING</h2> - -</div> - -<p>A late October sun of unusual splendour lit up -the windows of M. Paillot’s bookshop, at the corner -of the Place Saint-Exupère and the Rue des Tintelleries. -But it was sombre in the back region of the -shop where the second-hand book shelves were and -M. Mazure, the departmental archivist, adjusted -his spectacles to read his copy of <i>Le Phare</i>, with one -eye on the newspaper and the other on M. Paillot -and his customers. For M. Mazure wished not so -much to read as to be seen reading, in order that he -might be asked what the leading article was and -reply, “Oh, a little thing of my own.” But the -question was not asked, for the only other <i>habitué</i> -present was the Lecturer in Latin at the Faculty of -Letters, who was sad and silent. M. Bergeret was -turning over the new books and the old with a -friendly hand, and though he never bought a book -for fear of the outcries of his wife and three daughters -he was on the best of terms with M. Paillot, who -held him in high esteem as the reservoir and alembic -of those humaner letters that are the livelihood and -profit of booksellers. He took up Vol. XXXVIII. -of “L’Histoire Générale des Voyages,” which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span> -always opened at the same place, p. 212, and he -read:—</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="noindent">“ver un passage au nord. ‘C’est à cet échec, dit-il, -que nous devons n’avoir pu visiter les îles Sandwich -et enrichir notre voyage d’une découverte qui....’”</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent">For six years past the same page had presented -itself to M. Bergeret, as an example of the monotony -of life, as a symbol of the uniformity of daily tasks, -and it saddened him.</p> - -<p>At that moment M. de Terremondre, president of -the Society of Agriculture and Archæology, entered -the shop and greeted his friends with the slight air -of superiority of a traveller over stay-at-homes. -“I’ve just got back from England,” he said, “and -here, if either of you have enough English to read it, -is to-day’s <i>Times</i>.”</p> - -<p>M. Mazure hastily thrust <i>Le Phare</i> into his pocket -and looked askance at the voluminous foreign -journal, wherein he could claim no little thing of -his own. M. Bergeret accepted it and applied himself -as conscientiously to construing the text as -though it were one of those books of the Æneid from -which he was compiling his “Virgilius Nauticus.” -“The manners of our neighbours,” he presently -said, “are as usual more interesting to a student of -human nature than their politics. I read that they -are seriously concerned about the ethical teaching -of their kinematography, and they have appointed -a film censor, the deputy T. P. O’Connor.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span></p> - -<p>“I think I have heard speak of him over there,” -interrupted M. de Terremondre; “they call him, -familiarly, Tépé.”</p> - -<p>“A mysterious name,” said M. Bergeret, “but -manifestly not abusive, and that of itself is a high -honour. History records few nicknames that do not -revile. And if the deputy O’Connor, or Tépé, can -successfully acquit himself of his present functions -he will be indeed an ornament to history, a saint of -the Positivist Calendar, which is no doubt less -glorious than the Roman, but more exclusive.”</p> - -<p>“Talking of Roman saints,” broke in M. Mazure, -“the Abbé Lantaigne has been spreading it abroad -that you called Joan of Arc a mascot.”</p> - -<p>“By way of argument merely,” said M. Bergeret, -“not of epigram. The Abbé and I were discussing -theology, about which I never permit myself to be -facetious.”</p> - -<p>“But what of Tépé and his censorial functions?” -asked M. de Terremondre.</p> - -<p>“They are extremely delicate,” replied M. Bergeret, -“and offer pitfalls to a censor with a velleity -for nice distinctions. Thus I read that this one has -already distinguished, and distinguished <i>con allegrezza</i>, -between romantic crime and realistic crime, -between murder in Mexico and murder in Mile End -(which I take to be a suburb of London). He has -distinguished between ‘guilty love’ and ‘the pursuit -of lust.’ He has distinguished between a lightly-clad -lady swimming and the same lady at rest.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -Surely a man gifted with so exquisite a discrimination -is wasted in rude practical life. He should have -been a metaphysician.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I,” confessed M. de Terremondre, “am no -metaphysician, and it seems to me murder is murder -all the world over.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” said M. Bergeret, “but there, I -think, your Tépé is quite right. Murder is murder -all the world over if you are on the spot. But if you -are at a sufficient distance from it in space or time, -it may present itself as a thrilling adventure. Thus -the Mexican film censor will be right in prohibiting -films of murder in Mexico, and not wrong in admitting -those of murder in Mile End. Where would -tragedy be without murder? We enjoy the murders -of Julius Cæsar or of Duncan because they are remote; -they gratify the primeval passion for blood -in us without a sense of risk. But we could not -tolerate a play or a picture of yesterday’s murder -next door, because we think it might happen to ourselves. -Remember that murder was long esteemed -in our human societies as an energetic action, and -in our manners and in our institutions there still -subsist traces of this antique esteem. And that is -why I approve the English film censor for treating -with a wise indulgence one of the most venerable of -our human admirations. He gratifies it under conditions -of remoteness that deprive bloodshed of its -reality while conserving its artistic verisimilitude.”</p> - -<p>“But, bless my soul,” said M. de Terremondre<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -“how does the man distinguish between guilty love -and lust?”</p> - -<p>“It is a fine point,” said M. Bergeret. “The -Fathers of the Church, the schoolmen, the Renaissance -humanists, Descartes and Locke, Kant, Hegel, -and Schopenhauer, have all failed to make the distinction, -and some of them have even confounded -with the two what men to-day agree in calling innocent -love. But is love ever innocent—unless it be -that love Professor Bellac in Pailleron’s play described -as <i>l’amour psychique</i>, the love that Petrarch -bore to Laura?”</p> - -<p>“If I remember aright,” interposed M. Mazure, -“someone else in the play remarked that Laura had -eleven children.”</p> - -<p>Just then Mme. de Gromance passed across the -Place. The conversation was suspended while all -three men watched her into the patissier’s opposite, -elegantly hovering over the plates of cakes, and -finally settling on a <i>baba au rhum</i>.</p> - -<p>“Sapristi!” exclaimed M. de Terremondre, “she’s -the prettiest woman in the whole place.”</p> - -<p>M. Bergeret mentally went over several passages -in Æneid, Book IV., looked ruefully at his frayed -shirt cuffs, and regretted the narrow life of a provincial -university lecturer that reduced him to insignificance -in the eyes of the prettiest woman in -the place.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said with a sigh, “it is a very fine point. -I wonder how on earth Tépé manages to settle it?”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CHOCOLATE_DRAMA">THE CHOCOLATE DRAMA</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Civilization is a failure. That we all knew, even -before the war, and indeed ever since the world -first began to suffer from the intolerable nuisance -of disobedient parents. But the latest and most -fatal sign of decadence is the advent of a paradoxical -Lord Chancellor. I read in a <i>Times</i> leader:—“When -the Lord Chancellor ponderously observes -in the House of Lords that the primary business of -theatres ‘is not to sell chocolates but to present the -drama,’ he is making a statement which is too absurd -to analyse.” <i>The Times</i>, I rejoice to see, is living -up to its high traditions of intrepid and incisive -utterance. I should not myself complain if the -Lord Chancellor was merely ponderous. As the -dying Heine observed, when someone wondered if -Providence would pardon him, <i>c’est son métier</i>. -What is so flagrant is the Lord Chancellor’s ignorance -of the commanding position acquired by chocolate -in relation to the modern drama.</p> - -<p>Let me not be misunderstood. I am not a -<i>chocolatier</i>. I have no vested interest in either -Menier or Marquis. But I am a frequenter of -the playhouse, and live, therefore, in the odour -of chocolate. I know that without chocolates our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> -womenkind could not endure our modern drama; -and without womenkind the drama would cease to -exist. The question is, therefore, of the deepest -theatrical importance. I feel sure the British -Drama League must have had a meeting about it. -The advocates of a national theatre have probably -considered it in committee. The two bodies (if they -are not one and the same) should arrange an early -deputation to the Food Controller.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the Lord Chancellor wantonly paradoxes. -Evidently he is no playgoer. That is a -trifle, and since the production of <i>Iolanthe</i> perhaps -even (in the phrase of a famous criminal lawyer) “a -amiable weakness.” But, evidently also, he is not -a chocolate eater, and that is serious. I suppose, -after all, you are not allowed to eat chocolates on the -Woolsack. But there is the Petty Bag. It would -hold at least 2 lb. of best mixed. Why not turn it -to a grateful and comforting purpose? The Great -Seal, too, might be done in chocolate, and as I understand -the Lord Chancellor must never part with it, -day or night, he would have a perpetual source of -nourishment. It is time that the symbols of office -ceased to be useless ornaments. Stay! I believe I have -stumbled incidentally on the secret of Lord Halsbury’s -splendid longevity. Ask Menier or Marquis.</p> - -<p>But the present Chancellor has, clearly, missed -his opportunities. Let him visit our theatres and -there recognize the futility of his pretence that their -primary business is to present drama. He will see<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> -at once that what he put forward as a main business -is in reality a mere parergon. Drama is presented, -but only as an agreeable, not too obtrusive, accompaniment -to the eating of chocolate. The curtain -goes up, and the ladies in the audience, <i>distraites</i>, -and manifestly feeling with Mrs. Gamp (or was it -Betsy Prig?) a sort of sinking, yawn through the -first scene or two. Then there is a rustle of paper -wrappings, little white cardboard boxes are brought -out and passed from hand to hand, there is a dainty -picking and choosing of round and square and -triangular, with a knowing rejection of the hard-toffee-filled -ones, and now the fair faces are all set -in a fixed smile of contentment and the fair jaws -are steadily, rhythmically at work. To an unprepared -observer it cannot be a pretty sight. -Fair Americans chewing gum are nothing to it. -There are superfine male voluptuaries who do not -much care to see women eat, even at the festive -board. But to see scores of women simultaneously -eating chocolates at the theatre is an uncanny thing. -They do it in unison, and they do it with an air of -furtive enjoyment, as though it were some secret -vice and all the better for being sinful. The act-drop -goes up and down, actors are heard talking or -the orchestra playing, men pass out for a cigarette -and repass, but the fair jaws never cease working. -The habit of needlework, lace-making, and perhaps -war knitting has given lovely woman that form of -genius which has been defined as a long patience.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> -They eat chocolates with the monotonous regularity -with which they hemstitch linen or darn socks. It -has been said that women go to church for the sake -of the <i>hims</i>, but they go to the theatre for the sake -of chocolates. And the Lord Chancellor, good, easy -man, says the primary business of the theatre is to -present drama!</p> - -<p>No, its primary business is to provide comfortable -and amusing surroundings for fair chocolate-eaters. -The play is there for the same reason the coon band -is at a restaurant, to assist mastication. That is -the real explanation of recent vicissitudes in the -dramatic <i>genres</i>. Why has tragedy virtually disappeared -from the stage? Because it will go with -neither <i>fondants</i> nor <i>pralinés</i>. Why the enormous -vogue of revues? Because they suit every kind of -chocolate from 4<i>s</i>. to 6<i>s</i>. per lb. Why is Mr. George -Robey so universal a favourite? Because he creates -the kind of laughter which never interferes with -your munching. The true, if hitherto secret, -history of the drama is a history of theatrical -dietary. Why is the Restoration drama so widely -different from the Victorian? Because the first -was an accompaniment to oranges and the second -to pork-pies. We live now in a more refined age, -the age of chocolate, and enjoy the drama that -chocolate deserves. There has been what the -vulgar call a “slump” in the theatrical world, and -all sorts of far-fetched explanations have been -offered, such as the dearth of good plays and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -dismissal of the “temporary” ladies from Government -offices, with consequent loss of pocket-money -for playgoing. The real cause is quite simple, as real -causes always are. Chocolate has “gone up.”</p> - -<p>And that is the secret of all the agitation about -the 8 o’clock rule. The purveyors know that, -once in the theatre, ladies <i>must</i> eat chocolate, -whatever its price. It is a necessity for them there, -not a luxury, and after 8 p.m., when the imported -supplies are running low, almost any price might -be obtained for the staple article of food on the spot. -But why, it may be asked, are the imported supplies, -in present circumstances, insufficient for the whole -evening’s consumption? Simply because the chocolates -eaten by women are purchased by men, and -men are <i>so</i> forgetful. Besides they have an absurd -prejudice against bulging pockets. Clearly “Dora” -ought gracefully to withdraw the 8 o’clock prohibition. -It would not only be a kindness to those -meritorious public servants, the chocolate vendors, -but be also a great lift to the languishing drama. -Ladies who have emptied their chocolate boxes are -apt to become peevish—and then woe to the last -act. With still another smooth round tablet to -turn over on the tongue (especially if it is the -delightful sort that has peppermint cream inside) the -play might be followed to the very end with satisfaction, -and even enthusiasm. The Lord Chancellor -may ignore these facts, but they are well known to -every serious student of the chocolate drama.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="GROCK">GROCK</h2> - -</div> - -<p>There must be a philosophy of clowns. I would -rather find it than look up their history, which is -“older than any history that is written in any book,” -though the respectable compilers of Encyclopædias -(I feel sure without looking) must often have written -it in their books. I have, however, been reading -Croce’s history of Pulcinella, because that is history -written by a philosopher. It is also a work of formidable -erudition, disproving, among other things, -the theory of the learned Dieterich that he was a -survival from the stage of ancient Rome. No, he -seems to have been invented by one Silvio Fiorillo, a -Neapolitan actor who flourished “negli ultimi -decenni del Cinquecento e nei primi del Seicento”—in -fact, was a contemporary of an English actor, one -William Shakespeare. Pulcinella, you know (transmogrified, -and spoiled, for us as Punch), was a sort -of clown, and it is interesting to learn that he was -invented by an actor all out of his own head. But I -for one should be vastly more interested to know who -invented Grock. For Grock also is a sort of clown. -Yet no; one must distinguish. There are clowns -and there is Grock. For Grock happens to be an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> -artist, and the artist is always an individual. After -all, as an individual artist, he must have invented -himself.</p> - -<p>It was a remarkably happy invention. You may -see that for yourselves at the Coliseum, generally, -though true clown-lovers follow it about all over the -map wherever it is to be seen. Victor Hugo (and the -theme would not have been unworthy of that lyre) -would have described it in a series of antitheses. It -is genial and <i>macabre</i>, owlishly stupid and Macchiavellianly -astute, platypode and feather-light, cacophonous -and divinely musical. Grock’s first act is a -practical antithesis. A strange creature with a very -high and very bald cranium (you think of what Fitzgerald -said of James Spedding’s: “No wonder no -hair can grow at such an altitude”) and in very -baggy breeches waddles in with an enormous portmanteau—which -proves to contain a fiddle no larger -than your hand. The creature looks more simian -than human, but is graciously affable—another Sir -Oran Haut-ton, in fact, with fiddle substituted for -Sir Oran’s flute and French horn.</p> - -<p>But Sir Oran was dumb, whereas Grock has a -voice which reverberates along the orchestra and -seems almost to lift the roof. He uses it to counterfeit -the deep notes of an imaginary double bass, -which he balances himself on a chair to play, and he uses -it to roar with contemptuous surprise at being -asked if he can play the piano. But it is good-humoured -contempt. Grock is an accommodating<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> -monster, and at a mere hint from the violinist -waddles off to change into evening clothes. In -them he looks like a grotesque beetle. Then his -antics at the piano! His chair being too far from -the keyboard he makes great efforts to push the -piano nearer. When it is pointed out that it would -be easier to move the chair he beams with delight at -the cleverness of the idea and expresses it in a peculiarly -bland roar. Then he slides, in apparent -absence of mind, all over the piano-case and, on -finally deciding to play a tune, does it with his feet. -Thereafter he thrusts his feet through the seat of the -chair and proceeds to give a performance of extraordinary -brilliance on the concertina.... But I -am in despair, because I see that these tricks, which -in action send one into convulsions of laughter, are -not ludicrous, are not to be realized at all in narrative. -It is the old difficulty of transposing the comic -from three dimensions into two—and when the -comic becomes the grotesque, and that extreme form -of the grotesque which constitutes the clownesque, -then the difficulty becomes sheer impossibility.</p> - -<p>Why does this queer combination of anthropoid -appearance, unearthly noises, physical agility, and -musical talent—so flat in description—make one -laugh so immoderately in actual presentation? Well, -there is, first, the old idea of the parturient mountains -and the ridiculous mouse. Of the many -theories of the comic (all, according to Jean Paul -Richter, themselves comic) the best known perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span> -is the theory of suddenly relaxed strain. Your -psychic energies have been strained (say by Grock’s -huge portmanteau), and are suddenly in excess and -let loose by an inadequate sequel (the tiny fiddle). -Then there is the old theory of Aristotle, that the -comic is ugliness without pain. That will account -for your laughter at Grock’s grotesque appearance, -his baggy breeches, his beetle-like dress clothes, his -hideous mouth giving utterance to harmless sentiments. -Again, there is the pleasure arising from -the discovery that an apparent idiot has wholly -unexpected superiorities, acrobatic skill, and virtuosity -in musical execution. But “not such a fool -as he looks” is the class-badge of clowns in general. -There is something still unexplained in the attraction -of Grock. One can only call it his individuality—his -benign, bland outlook on a cosmos of which he -seems modestly to possess the secret hidden from ourselves. -One comes in the end to the old helpless -explanation of any individual artist. Grock pleases -because he is Grock.</p> - -<p>And now I think one can begin to see why literature -(or if you think that too pretentious a word, say -letterpress) fails to do justice to clowns. Other -comic personages have their verbal jokes, which can -be quoted in evidence, but the clown (certainly the -clown of the Grock type) is a joke confined to appearance -and action. His effects, too, are all of the -simplest and broadest—the obvious things (obvious -when he has invented them) which are the most<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> -difficult of all to translate into prose. You see, I -have been driven to depend on general epithets like -grotesque, bland, <i>macabre</i>, which fit the man too -loosely (like ready-made clothes cut to fit innumerable -men) to give you his exact measure. My only -consolation is that I have failed with the best. -Grock, with all his erudition, all his nicety of analysis, -has failed to realize Pulcinella for me. And that is -where clowns may enjoy a secret, malign pleasure; -they proudly confront a universe which delights in -them but cannot describe them. A critic may say -to an acrobat, for instance:—“I cannot swing on -your trapeze, but I can understand you, while you -cannot understand me.” But Grock seems to understand -everything (he could do no less, with that -noble forehead), probably even critics, while they, -poor souls, can only struggle helplessly with their -inadequate adjectives, and give him up. But if he -condescended to criticism, be sure he would not -struggle helplessly. He would blandly thrust his -feet through the seat of his chair, and then write his -criticism with them. And (Grock is a Frenchman) -it would be better than Sainte-Beuve.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_FUNCTION_OF_CRITICISM">THE FUNCTION OF CRITICISM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Every critic or would-be critic has his own little -theory of criticism, as every baby in <i>Utopia Limited</i> -had its own ickle prospectus. This makes him an -avid, but generally a recalcitrant, student of other -people’s theories. He is naturally anxious, that is, -to learn what the other people think about what -inevitably occupies so much of his own thoughts; -at the same time, as he cannot but have formed his -own theory after his own temperament, consciously -or not, he must experience a certain discomfort when -he encounters other theories based on temperaments -alien from his own. You have, in fact, the converse -of Stendhal’s statement that every commendation -from <i>confrère</i> to <i>confrère</i> is a certificate of resemblance; -every sign of unlikeness provokes the opposite of -commendation. So I took up with somewhat mixed -feelings an important leading article in the <i>Literary -Supplement</i> on “The Function of Criticism.” -Important because its subject is, as Henry James -said once in a letter to Mrs. Humphry Ward, -among “the highest speculations that can engage -the human mind.” (Oho! I should like to hear -Mr. Bottles or any other <i>homme sensuel moyen</i> on -<i>that</i>!) Well, after reading the article, I have the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -profoundest respect for the writer, whoever he may -be; he knows what he is talking about <i>au fond</i>, -and can talk admirably about it. But then comes -in that inevitable recalcitrancy. It seems to me -that if the writer is right, then most art and criticism -are on the wrong tack. Maybe they are—the writer -evidently thinks they are—but one cannot accept -that uncomfortable conclusion offhand, and so one -cannot but ask oneself whether the writer <i>is</i> right, -after all.</p> - -<p>He is certainly wrong about Croce. The ideal -critic, he says, “will not accept from Croce the thesis -that all expression is art; for he knows that if -expression means anything it is by no means all art.” -Now the very foundation-stone of the Crocean -æsthetic is that art is the expression of intuitions; -when you come to concepts, or the relations of -intuitions, though the expression of them is art, the -concepts themselves (what “expression means”) -are not; you will have passed out of the region of -art. Thus your historian, logician, or zoologist, -say, has a style of his own; that side of him is art. -But historical judgments, logic, or zoology are not. -Croce discusses this distinction exhaustively, and, I -should have thought, clearly. Yet here our leader-writer -puts forward as a refutation of Croce a statement -carefully made by Croce himself. But this -is a detail which does not affect the writer’s main -position. I only mention it as one of the many -misrepresentations of Croce which students of that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -philosopher are, by this time, used to accepting as, -apparently, inevitable.</p> - -<p>Now, says the writer, the critic must have a -philosophy and, what is more, a philosophy of a -certain sort. That the critic must have a philosophy -we should, I suppose, all agree; for the critic is a -historian, and a historian without a theory of -realities, a system of values, <i>i.e.</i>, a philosophy, has no -basis for his judgments—he is merely a chronicler. -(And a chronicler, let me say in passing, is precisely -what I should call the writer’s “historical critic”—who -“essentially has no concern with the greater -or less literary excellence of the objects whose history -he traces—their existence is alone sufficient for him.”) -But what particular philosophy must the critic -have? It must be, says the writer, “a humanistic -philosophy. His inquiries must be modulated, and -subject to an intimate, organic governance by an -ideal of the good life.” Beware of confusing this -ideal of good life with mere conventional morality. -Art is autonomous and therefore independent of that. -No; “an ideal of the good life, if it is to have the -internal coherence and the organic force of a true -ideal, <i>must inevitably</i> be æsthetic. There is no other -power than our æsthetic intuition by which we can -imagine or conceive it; we can express it only in -æsthetic terms.” And so we get back to Plato and -the Platonic ideas and, generally, to “the Greeks for -the principles of art and criticism.” “The secret” -of the humanistic philosophy “lies in Aristotle.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p> - -<p>But is not this attempt to distinguish between -conventional morality and an ideal of the good life, -æsthetically formed, rather specious? At any rate, -the world at large, for a good many centuries, has -applauded, or discountenanced, Greek criticism as -essentially moralistic—as importing into the region -of æsthetics the standards of ordinary, conventional -morality. That is, surely, a commonplace about -Aristotle. His ideal tragic hero is to be neither -saint nor utter villain, but a character between these -two extremes. Further, he must be illustrious, like -Œdipus or Thyestes (Poetics, ed. Butcher, XIII. 3). -Again, tragedy is an imitation of persons who are -above the common level (XV. 8). It seems to me -that the standards applied here are those of our -ordinary, or conventional, morality, and I am only -confused by the introduction of the mysterious -“ideal of the good life.” It seems to me—that may -be my stupidity—but it seemed so, also, to our forefathers, -for it was this very moralism of Greek -criticism that led men for so many centuries to -demand “instruction” from art. And that is why -it was such a feather in Dryden’s cap (Dryden, of -whom our leader-writer has a poor opinion, as a -critic without a philosophy) to have said the -memorable and decisive thing: “delight is the -chief if not the only end of poesy; instruction can -be admitted but in the second place, for poesy only -instructs as it delights.”</p> - -<p>This “ideal of good life” leads our leader-writer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -far—away up into the clouds. Among the activities -of the human spirit art takes “the place of sovereignty.” -It “is the manifestation of the ideal in -human life.” This attitude, of course, will not be -altogether unfamiliar to students of æsthetics. -Something not unlike it has been heard before from -the “mystic” æstheticians of a century ago. It -leaves me unconvinced. I cannot but think that -that philosophy makes out a better case which assigns -to art, as intuition-expression, not the “place of -sovereignty” but the place of foundation in the -human spirit; for which it is not flower nor fruit, -but root. You see, Croce, like “cheerfulness” in -Boswell’s story of the other philosopher, will come -“breaking in.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="COTERIE_CRITICISM">COTERIE CRITICISM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>A young critic was recently so obliging as to send -me the proof of an article in the hope that I might -find something in it to interest me. I did, but not, -I imagine, what was expected. The article discussed -a modern author of European reputation, and incidentally -compared his mind and his style with that -of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. These three, it -appeared, were contemporary English novelists, and—here -was the interesting thing to me in our young -critic’s article—I had never heard of one of them. -They were evidently “intellectuals”—the whole -tenor of the article showed that—the idols of some -young and naturally solemn critical “school,” -familiar classics, I dare say, in Chelsea studios and -Girton or Newnham rooms. One often wonders -what these serious young people are reading, and -here, it seemed, was a valuable light. They must be -reading, at all events, Mr. X., and Mrs. Y., and -Miss Z. Otherwise, our young critic would never -have referred to them with such gravity and with -so confident an assumption that his particular set -of readers would know all about them. And yet the -collocation of these three names, these coterie<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> -classics, with that of the great European author, -famous throughout the whole world of polite letters, -struck one as infinitely grotesque. It showed so -naïve a confusion of literary “values,” so queer a -sense of proportion and congruity. It was, in short, -coterie criticism.</p> - -<p>There seems to be a good deal of that about just -now. One sees innumerable reviews of innumerable -poets, which one supposes to be written by other -poets, so solemnly do the writers take their topic -and their author and themselves. And for the -most part this writing bears the mark of “green, -unknowing youth”—the bland assumption that -literature was invented yesterday, and that, since -the Armistice, we cannot but require a brand-new -set of literary canons, estimates, and evaluations. -Evidently our young warriors have come back from -the front with their spirit of <i>camaraderie</i> still glowing -within them. Well, youth will be served, and -we must resign ourselves, with a helpless shrug, to a -deluge of crude over-estimates, enthusiastic magnifications -of the ephemeral, and solemn examinations -of the novels of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. And -we must be prepared to see the old reputations -going down like a row of ninepins. We shall have -to make a polite affectation of listening to the young -gentlemen who dismiss Meredith as “pretentious” -and tell us that Hardy “can’t write” and that -Anatole France is <i>vieux jeu</i>. For if you are always -adoring the new because it is new, then you may as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -well make a complete thing of it by decrying the old -because it is old. The breath you can spare from -puffing the “Georgians” up you may as well use -for puffing the “Victorians” out. And thus the -world wags.</p> - -<p>What is more, it is thus that the history of literature -gets itself evolved. For it is time that I tried -to see what good can be said of the coteries, as well -as what ill, and this, I think, can be said for them—that -they keep the ball rolling. It is they, with -their foolish face of praise, who discover the new -talents and begin the new movements. If you are -always on the pounce for novelties you must occasionally -“spot a winner” and find a novelty that the -outer world ratifies into a permanency. The minor -Elizabethan dramatists were once the darlings of a -coterie, but Webster and one or two others still survive. -The Lakists were once coterie poets, and, if -Southey has petered out, Wordsworth remains. Of -course they make awful “howlers.” A coterie -started the vogue of that terribly tiresome “Jean -Christophe,” of Romain Rolland, and where is it now? -On the other hand, a coterie “discovered” Pater, and -it was a real find; the world will not willingly let die -“Marius” or the “Renaissance.” Henry James began -as the idol of a coterie, and “The Golden Bowl” is -not yet broken. It may be—who knows?—that the -novels of Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. will by and -by range themselves proudly on our shelves alongside -Fielding and Jane and Meredith and Hardy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span></p> - -<p>But while these young reputations are still to -make in the great world, let us not, as Mrs. Gamp -says, proticipate; let us keep our high estimate of -them modestly to ourselves, and not stick them up -on the classic shelf among the best bindings before -their time. What makes it worse is that the coteries -are apt to have no classic shelf. Their walls are lined -and their boudoir tables littered with new books, -and nothing but new books. Women are great -offenders in this way, especially the women whom -American journals call “Society Ladies”—who are -accustomed, in the absence of contradiction and -criticism and other correctives (tabooed as “bad -form”), to mistake their wayward fancies for considered -judgments. We want a modern Molière to -write us another <i>Femmes Savantes</i>. (I present the -idea to Mr. Bernard Shaw. They have dubbed him -“the English Molière.” Well, here’s a chance for -him to make good.) There is Lady Dulcibella. She -is always recommending you a new book that nobody -else has ever heard of. “Oh, how perfectly sweet -of you to call on this horrid wet afternoon! <i>Have</i> -you read ‘Mes Larmes’? It’s written by a Russian -actress with such wonderful red hair, you can’t -think, and they say she was a princess, until those -dreadful Bolshevists, you know. We met her at -Florence in the winter, and everybody said she was -just like one of the Botticellis in the Accademia. -They <i>do</i> say that Guido da Verona—or D’Annunzio, -or somebody (don’t you think that horrid little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> -D’Annunzio is just like a frog?)—was quite mad -about her. But ‘Mes Larmes’ is perfectly <i>sweet</i>, and -don’t forget to order it. Two lumps or three?” -And listen to the chatter of some of those wonderfully -bedizened ladies who variegate, if they don’t -exactly decorate, the stalls of one of our Sunday -coterie theatres. The queer books they rave about! -The odd Moldo-Wallachian or Syro-Phœnician dramatists -they have discovered!</p> - -<p>All this, it is only fair to remember, may leave -our young critic inviolate. After all, he may belong -to no coterie, or only to a coterie of one; he may -have sound critical reasons for the faith that is in -him about Mr. X., and Mrs. Y., and Miss Z. And -even if he does represent a coterie, he might, I suppose, -find a fairly effective retort to some of my -observations. “You talk of our love of novelties -for novelty’s sake. But you have admitted that, if -we always go for the new, we must sometimes light -on the true. What we really go for is life. The new -is more lively than the old. The actual, the present, -the world we are at this moment living in, has more -to say to us in literature than the old dead world, -the ‘sixty years since’ of your classic Scott. The -classic, as Stendhal said, is what pleased our grandfathers; -but I am out to please my grandfather’s -grandson. And our coteries, I dare say, are often -kept together by the mere docility of mind, the -imitative instinct, of their members. But is there -not a good deal of mere docility among the old fogey<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> -party, the people who reject the new because it is -new and admire the old because it is old? Is not -this mere imitative instinct at work also among the -upholders of literary traditions and the approved -classics? Absurdity for absurdity, the youthful -coterie is no worse than the old fogey crowd.” To -put all straight I will now go and read the novels of -Mr. X., Mrs. Y., and Miss Z.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CRITICISM_AND_CREATION">CRITICISM AND CREATION</h2> - -</div> - -<p>A play of Dryden’s has been successfully revived -by the Phœnix Society. One or two others might -be tried, but not many. For most of Dryden’s plays, -as the curious may satisfy themselves by reading -them, are as dead as a doornail. They bore us in the -reading, and would simply drive us out of the theatre. -Some of Dryden’s non-dramatic poems still permit -themselves to be read, but the permission is rarely -sought by modern readers, apart from candidates -for some academic examination in English literature, -who have no choice. Yet we all render him lip -service as a great poet. How many are there to -pay him proper homage as a great critic? For a -great critic he was, and, moreover, our first dramatic -critic in time as well as in importance. He discussed -not the details of this or that play, but the fundamental -principles of drama. He abounded in ideas, -and expressed them with a conversational ease -which, in his time, was an entirely new thing. But -it would be impertinent to praise Dryden’s prose -style after Johnson’s exhaustive eulogy and the -delicate appreciations of Professor Ker. What I -would point out is that all Dryden’s critical work<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span> -can still be read with pleasure, while most of his -dramatic work cannot be read at all. And the -humour of it is that I shall at once be told the -dramatic work was “creative,” while the critical -was not.</p> - -<p>This distinction, an essentially false one, as I shall -hope to show, is still a great favourite with our -authors of fiction; they “create,” their critics do -not. Authors who write, in Flaubert’s phrase, like -<i>cochers de fiacre</i>, and who are particularly given to -this contrast, it would be cruel to deprive of a -comforting illusion; but authors of merit and repute -also share it, and to them I would urge my modest -plea for a reconsideration of the matter.</p> - -<p>What does the dramatist, or writer of fiction in -general, create? Actions and characters? Not so, -for these are only created in real life, by the contending -volitions of real men and the impact between -their volitions and external reality. The author -creates images of actions and characters, or, in other -words, expresses his intuitions of life. When the -intuition is vivid, when the image is a Falstaff, a -Baron Hulot, a Don Quixote, a Colonel Newcome, -we are apt to think of it as a real person. And they -are, in truth, as real to us as anybody in the actual -world whom we have never met but only know of. -For the historic person, unmet, is, just like the -imaginary person, only a bundle for us of our -intuitions. Julius Cæsar was a real person, but we -can only know of him, as we know of Mr. Pickwick,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span> -by hearsay. These vivid intuitions are what your -author likes to call “creations.” So they are. -That is the magic of art.</p> - -<p>And because, to the vast majority of men, their -intuitions (in the case of actual reality encountered, -their perceptions) of other men and their actions -are their most interesting experience, art is allowed -without challenge to arrogate to itself this quality -of “creation.” There is a biographical dictionary -of Balzac’s personages—some 2,000, if I remember -rightly—of whom a few are actual historical people. -But, in fact, you make no distinction. The one -set are as real to you as the others. In this way the -<i>Comédie Humaine</i> does, as its author said, compete -with the <i>État Civil</i>. There are few ideas, speculations, -judgments in Balzac that are worth a rap; -when he tried abstract thought he was apt to -achieve nonsense. But very few readers want -abstract thought. They want “to know people,” -“to see people.” Balzac makes “people,” tells you -all about their families, their incomes, their loves and -hates, “splendours and miseries,” their struggles, -their orgies, their squalor, their death. That is -“creative” art. Let us admire it. Let us revel -in it. Let us be profoundly thankful for it.</p> - -<p>But when, as so frequently happens, one hears -some fourteenth-rate yarn-spinner, who also makes -“people,” but people who were not worth making, -people who are puppets or the mere phantoms of -a greensick brain—when one hears this gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> -claiming kinship with Balzac or with my friend the -distinguished novelist and real artist already -mentioned, as a “creator” one is inclined to smile. -“Creation” is a blessed word. But the thing -created may be quite valueless.</p> - -<p>And so it is, precisely, with criticism. For -criticism is also “creative.” But it does not create -images of people or their lives; it creates thought, -ideas, concepts. That is, it builds up something -new out of the artist’s intuitions and exhibits the -relations between them. Here, in the conceptual -world, we are in a different region from the intuitional -world of the artist. Those who care to enter it, who -feel at home in it, are comparatively few; the -absence of personal interest, of “people,” makes it -seem cold to the average, gregarious man. “People” -are a natural, ideas an acquired, taste. But the -one set are just as much a “creation” as the other. -And in the one set just as in the other the thing -created may not be worth creating. Ideas, expositions, -illustrations in criticism have a distressing -habit of being as poor and conventional and mechanical -as many a novelist’s or playwright’s characters -and life histories. There is not a pin to choose -between them. For as the one thing that matters -in art is the artist behind it, so the critic behind it -is the one thing that matters in criticism.</p> - -<p>These are elementary commonplaces. But they -need restating from time to time. For the average -man, with all his interest in life fixed on “people,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> -is always falling into the error that the novelist or -playwright makes something, while the critic makes -nothing. And your fourteenth-rate author, sharing -the temperament of the average man, falls into the -same error and seems, indeed, inordinately proud -of it. He seems to say: “Why, you, good master -critic, couldn’t even begin to do what <i>I</i>, the -‘creative’ artist, do”; and he would probably be -surprised by the answer that it is the critic’s very -critical faculty, his endowment of judgment and -taste, which makes the writing of bad plays or -novels impossible, because repugnant to him. It is -precisely because the critical faculty is so rare a -thing that so many bad novels and plays get themselves -written.</p> - -<p>But enough of these sharp distinctions between -the “creation” of images and the “creation” of -concepts! Is not a union of the two, like the union -of butler and lady’s-maid, as described by Mr. -Crichton, “the happiest of all combinations”? -Who does not feel how immensely the mere story -part of “Tom Jones” gains by the critical chapter -introductions? And, on the other hand, how the -mere critical part of Dryden’s “Essay of Dramatic -Poesy” gains by the little touches of story, from -the opening moment when “they ordered the -watermen to let fall their oars more gently” to the -close at Somerset Stairs, where “they went up -through a crowd of French people, who were merrily -dancing in the open air”?</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ACTING_AND_CRITICISM">ACTING AND CRITICISM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>A veteran who has been regaling the readers of -<i>The Times</i> with his recollections of the London stage -has dropped by the way a remark on modern -theatrical criticism. For it, he says, “the play is -everything, and the leading actor or actress has -often to be content with a few lines.” Dean -Gaisford began a sermon, “Saint Paul says, and I -partly agree with him.” I partly agree with the -veteran. Criticism has occasionally to deal with -plays that cannot be “everything” for it. There -are new plays that are merely a vehicle for the art -of the actor, who must then get more than a few lines. -There are old plays revived to show a new actor in a -classic part, and the part is then greater than the -whole. This, I think, accounts for “the space -devoted to the acting in London criticisms at the -time Henry Irving rose to fame.” Either he -appeared in new plays of little intrinsic merit, like -<i>The Bells</i>, or else in classic parts of melodrama -(made classic by Frédéric Lemaître) or of Shakespeare. -In these conditions criticism must always -gravitate towards the acting. It did so, long before -Irving’s time, with Hazlitt over Edmund Kean. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span> -has done so, since Irving’s time, over Sarah and -Duse, and must do so again over every new Shylock -or Millamant or Sir Peter.</p> - -<p>But these conditions are exceptional, and it is -well for the drama that they are. For the vitality -of the drama primarily depends not upon the talent -of its interpreters but on that of its creators, and a -new image or new transposition of life in a form -appropriate to the theatre is more important than -the perfection of the human instrument by which it -is “made flesh.” If criticism, then, has of late years -and on the whole been able to devote more attention -to the play than to the playing, I suggest to our -veteran that the fact is a healthy sign for our drama. -It shows that there have been plays to criticise and -that criticism has done its duty.</p> - -<p>But that, I hasten to add, is its luck rather than -its merit. One must not ride the high ethical horse, -and I should be sorry to suggest that good criticism -is ever written from a sense of duty, any more than a -good play or any other piece of good literature. -Good criticism is written just because the critic feels -like that—and bad, it may be added, generally because -the critic has been trying to write something -which he supposes other people will feel like. The -good critic writes with his temperament—and here -is a reason why, in the long run, plays will interest -him more than players. For are we not all agreed -about the first principle of criticism? Is it not to -put yourself in the place of the artist criticized, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span> -adopt his point of view, to recreate his work within -yourself? Well, the critic can put himself in the -place of the playwright much more readily than into -that of the actor. The playwright and he are working -in different ways, with much the same material, -ideas, and images, or, if you like, concepts and intuitions -mainly expressed in words—which is only a -long way of saying that they are both authors. And -they have in common the literary temperament. -Now the literary temperament and the histrionic are -two very different things.</p> - -<p>The actor, as his very name imports, is an active -man, a man of action. At his quietest, he perambulates -the stage. But violent physical exercise is a -part of his trade. He fights single combats, jumps -into open graves, plunges into lakes, is swallowed -down in quicksands, sharpens knives on the sole of -his boot, deftly catches jewel caskets thrown from -upper windows, wrestles with heavy-weight champions, -knouts or is knouted, stabs or is stabbed, rolls -headlong down staircases, writhes in the agonies of -poison, and is (or at any rate in the good old days -was) kicked, pinched, and pummelled out of the -limelight by the “star.” And all this under the -handicap of grease-paint and a wig! It must be -very fatiguing. But then he enjoys the physical -advantages of an active life. He has Sir Willoughby -Patterne’s leg (under trousers that never bag at the -knee, and terminating in boots of the shiniest patent -leather), and all the rest to match. As becomes a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span> -man of action, he is no reader. I have heard the -late Mr. Henry Neville declare that an actor should -never be allowed to look at a book. This may seem -to the rest of us a sad fate for him, but look at his -compensations! He spends much, if not most, of -his stage-life making love to pretty women, wives, -widows, or <i>ingénues</i>. Frequently he kisses them, or -seems to—for he will tell you, the rogue, that stage-kisses -are always delivered in the air. Let us say -then that he is often within an inch of kissing a -pretty woman—which is already a considerable -privilege. When he is not kissing her (or the air, as -the case may be), he is sentimentally bidding her to a -nunnery go or dying in picturesque agonies at her -feet. Anyhow he goes through his work in the -society and with the active co-operation of pretty -women. And note, for it is an enormous advantage -to him, that that work is a fixed, settled thing. His -words have been invented for him and written out -in advance. He has rehearsed his actions. He -knows precisely what he is going to do.</p> - -<p>Contrast with this alluring picture the temperament -and working habits of the critic. He is a man, -not of action, but of contemplation. His pursuit is -sedentary, and with his life of forced inaction he -risks becoming as fat as Mr. Gibbon, without the -alleviation of the Gibbonian style. Personal advantages -are not aids to composition, and he may be the -ugliest man in London, like G. H. Lewes, whose -dramatic criticisms, nevertheless, may still be read<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> -with pleasure. His fingers are inky. His face is -not “made up,” but sicklied o’er with the pale cast -of thought. No pretty women help him to write his -criticisms. Indeed, if Helen of Troy herself, or -Aphrodite new-risen from the sea came into his study -he would cry out with writer’s petulance (a far more -prevalent and insidious disease than writer’s cramp), -“Oh, do please go away! Can’t you see I’m not -yet through my second slip?” (She will return -when he is out, and “tidy up” his desk for him—a -really fiendish revenge). Books, forbidden to the -actor, are the critic’s solace—and also his despair, -because they have said all the good things and taken -the bread out of his mouth. And, unlike the actor, -he is working in the unknown. His head is filled -with a chaos of half-formed ideas and the transient -embarrassed phantoms of logical developments. -Will he ever be able to sort them out and to give -them at any rate a specious appearance of continuity? -Nay, can he foresee the beginning of his -next sentence, or even finish this one? Thus he is -perpetually on the rack. “Luke’s iron crown and -Damien’s bed of steel” are nothing to it. It is -true that his criticism does, mysteriously, get itself -completed—mysteriously, because he seems to have -been no active agent in it, but a mere looker-on -while it somehow wrote itself.</p> - -<p>Is it surprising that it should generally write itself -about the play (which, I daresay, writes itself, too, -and with the same tormenting anxiety) rather than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span> -about the playing, which proceeds from so different -a temperament from the critic’s and operates in -conditions so alien from his? But, let me add for -the comfort of our veteran, there are critics and -critics. If some of us displease him by too often -sparing only a few lines for the leading actor or -actress, there will always be plenty of others who are -more interested in persons than in ideas and images, -who care less for transpositions of life than for Sarah’s -golden voice and Duse’s limp, and “Quin’s high -plume and Oldfield’s petticoat.” These will redress -the balance.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ACTING_AS_ART">ACTING AS ART</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Nothing could be more characteristically English -than the circumstances which gave rise the other day -to the singular question, “Is acting an art?” -There was a practical issue, whether the Royal -Academy of Dramatic Art was or was not entitled -to exemption under an Act of 1843 from the payment -of rates. Sir John Simon argued it, of course, as a -practical question. He dealt with custom and -precedent and authority, dictionary definitions and -judicial decisions. He had to keep one eye on -æsthetics and the other on the rates. This is our -traditional English way. We “drive at practice.” -Nevertheless, this question whether acting is an art -is really one of pure æsthetics, and is in no way -affected by any decision of the Appeal Committee -of the London County Council.</p> - -<p>You cannot answer it until you have made up -your mind what you mean by art. Sir John Simon -seems to have suggested that art was something -“primarily directed to the satisfaction of the -æsthetic sense.” But is there any such thing as a -special “æsthetic sense”? Is it anything more -than a name for our spiritual reaction to a work of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -art, our response to it in mind and feeling? And -are we not arguing in a circle when we say that art -is what provokes the response to art? Perhaps it -might amuse, perhaps it might irritate, perhaps it -might simply bewilder the Appeal Committee of the -London County Council to tell them that art is the -expression of intuitions. They might reply that -they cannot find intuitions in the rate-book, and that -the Act of 1843 is silent about them. Yet this is -what art is, and you have to bear it in mind when -you ask, “Is the actor an artist?” Art is a spiritual -activity, and the artist’s expression of his intuitions -(the painter’s “vision,” the actor’s “conception” -of his part) is internal; when he wishes to externalize -his expression, to communicate it to others, -he has to use certain media—paint and canvas, -marble and brick, musical notes, words and gestures. -But it is the spiritual activity, the intuition-expression, -that makes the artist. The medium is no part -of his definition.</p> - -<p>And yet, I suggest, it is the peculiarity of the -actor’s medium that has often withheld from -him, at any rate with unthinking people, his title -to rank as an artist. He is his own medium, -his own paint and canvas, his own brick and -marble. The works of other artists, the picture, -the poem, the sonata, have an independent life, they -survive their authors; the actor’s works are inseparable -from his actual presence, and die with him. -Hence a certain difficulty for the unsophisticated in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> -distinguishing the artist from what the philosophers -call the empirical man; the Edmund Kean whose -genius is illuminating and revitalizing Shylock from -the Edmund Kean who is notoriously fond of the -bottle and who has lately got into trouble with an -alderman’s wife. The physique, the temperament, -of the empirical man furnish the medium for the -artist. He arrives at the theatre in a taxi, or his -own Rolls-Royce, smoking a big cigar, every inch -of him a man of to-day; the next moment he is -pretending to be an old mad King of Britain. This -confusion is behind Johnson’s “fellow who claps a -hump on his back and calls himself Richard the -Third.” It leaves out of account the imaginative -side of him, the artist. Johnson might just as well -have dismissed Shakespeare as a “fellow who -supposed a hump clapped on the back of one of his -fancies, which he calls Richard the Third.” Lamb -raised another objection, that the bodily presence -of the actor materialized, coarsened, the finer -elements of the part—hid from sight “the lofty -genius, the man of vast capacity, the profound, the -witty, accomplished Richard.” The medium, in -other words, is a hindrance to the art, not so much -a medium as a nuisance.</p> - -<p>These are the objections of ignorance or of whim. -Certainly the peculiarity of his medium imposes -peculiar restrictions on the actor. If the painter -lacks a certain pigment he can get it at the colour-man’s. -If the composer needs a certain <i>timbre</i> he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -can add the necessary instrument to his orchestra. -All the quarries are open to the architect. But no -“make up” box will furnish a resonant voice to a -shrill-piped actor or make Garrick six feet high. An -actress may be at the height of her powers, and yet -too old to play Juliet. Sir Henry Irving’s physical -oddities went far to ruin some of his impersonations. -But these limitations of the medium do not affect -the actor’s status as an artist. They only restrict -the range in which he may exercise his art.</p> - -<p>And can it be gainsaid that what he exercises is -true art, a spiritual activity, the expression of his -intuitions? People, comparing his work with the -“creations” of the playwright, are apt to speak of -him as a mere “interpreter.” He has his words -given him, they say, and his significant acts prescribed -for him in advance. The truth is, “creation” -and “interpretation” are figurative terms; it would -be quite reasonable to interchange them. Shakespeare -“interprets” life by giving form to it, by -piecing together, say, certain scraps of actual observation -along with the image of his fancy into the -character of Falstaff. With the printed words and -stage-directions as data, the actor re-imagines -Falstaff, brings his own temperament and feelings -and sympathetic vision to the service of Shakespeare’s -indications, and “creates” the living, -moving man. True, the processes are at different -stages, and may be of different importance. Shakespeare -has intuited and expressed life, the actor has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -intuited and expressed Shakespeare. But both -expressions are art.</p> - -<p>And note that while Shakespeare “created” -Falstaff, no playgoer has ever seen or ever will see -Shakespeare’s Falstaff. For the image formed in -Shakespeare’s mind has always on the stage to be -translated for us in terms of other minds which can -never be identical with his—is, in fact, “re-created” -by each actor in turn. It is the actor who converts -the “cold print” of the text into vivid, concrete -life. Life! that is the secret of the actor’s -“following,” a much more notable fact in the -world of the theatre than the “following” of this -or that playwright. The actor, like all who, in -Buffon’s phrase, “<i>parlent au corps par le corps</i>,” -expresses a temperament, a personality, himself; -imposes himself on his part and on us. People -“follow” a favourite actor in all his impersonations -because his art gives them more pleasure than the -playwright’s, or because his art must be added to -the playwright’s before they will care about that.</p> - -<p>When I say “people” I don’t mean “littery -gents.” The typical playgoer prefers life to literature. -He is as a rule no great reader. Nor are the -actors. There has always been a certain coolness -between the men of letters and the actors—their -temperaments are so opposed. I have quoted from -Lamb. Anatole France said much the same thing -of the Comédie Française— “<i>Leur personne efface -l’œuvre qu’ils représentent.</i>” Views like these merely<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> -express a preference for one art over another. They -do not contest the actor’s right to rank as an artist. -That, to speak rigorously, is a rank held by many -people “for the duration”—<i>i.e.</i>, while and whenever -they express their intuitions. But it would be -impolitic to insist on this strict view. The rate-payers’ -list might be seriously affected and much -uneasiness occasioned to the Appeal Committee of -the London County Council.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="AUDIENCES">AUDIENCES</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Audiences may be divided into first-nighters, -second-nighters, and general playgoers. All audiences -are important, but first-nighters most of all. -Without them the acted drama would not begin to -exist. For obvious reasons, I have nothing but good -to say of them. I wish to live at peace with my -neighbours. And I do not believe the malicious -story told about a manager, now dead, that he liked -to fill the second row of his stalls on first-nights with -his superannuated sweethearts. Nobody is fat or -old in Ba-ath, and there are no superannuitants -among first-nighters.</p> - -<p>I find, from Mr. Max Beerbohm’s entirely delightful -book “Seven Men,” that it is possible to get -tired of first-nighters. I should never have guessed -it myself. But this is what he says:—“I was dramatic -critic for the <i>Saturday Review</i>, and, weary of -meeting the same lot of people over and over again -at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the -managers, asking that I might have seats for second -nights instead.” But mark what follows:—“I -found that there existed as distinct and invariable -a lot of second-nighters as of first-nighters. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> -second-nighters were less ‘showy’; but then, they -came more to see than to be seen, and there was an -air that I liked of earnestness and hopefulness about -them. I used to write a good deal about the future -of the British drama, and they, for their part, used -to think and talk a great deal about it. Though -second-nighters do come to see, they remain rather -to hope and pray.” Because I have quoted I must -not be understood as accepting Mr. Beerbohm’s -implied aspersion on first-nighters. It is all very -well for him. He has retired (the more’s the pity) -from dramatic criticism. But I take his account of -second-nighters on trust, because the exigencies of a -daily newspaper prevent me from observing them -for myself. Evidently they, no more than first-nighters, -are average playgoers.</p> - -<p>Not that I would disparage the general playgoer. -Indeed, I am not sure that he is not, in another -sense than Labiche’s, <i>le plus heureux des trois</i>. I -can speak for myself. Mind, I am saying nothing -against first-nighters. They are entirely admirable -persons—I could never bring myself, like Mr. Beerbohm, -to call them a lot. But oh! the joy of being, -on holiday occasions, a general playgoer, of throwing -one’s considering cap over the mills, of garnering no -impressions for future “copy,” of blithely ignoring -one’s better judgment, of going comfortably home -from the play, like everybody else, instead of dashing -madly into a taxi for the newspaper office! The -play will be well on in its run, the comedian will have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span> -polished up his jokes, the superfluities will have been -cut out, the programme girls will long since have -given up leading the applause, you won’t know a -soul, and you won’t even bother to look at the -author’s name. You surrender your individuality -and drift with the crowd, or, in more pretentious -language, merge yourself in the collective consciousness.</p> - -<p>Which reminds me. The general playgoer just -because he is general, is what Henry James called -George Sand: remarkably accessible. Everybody -knows him. He is a public theme. Theorists won’t -leave him alone. In particular, the collective psychologists -have marked him for their prey. For -them he typifies the theatrical “crowd,” with the -peculiar crowd characteristics these theorists profess -to have scientifically classified. Sarcey began -it. Lemaître followed. And comparatively obscure -scribes have devoted attention to the general playgoer. -They have said that he is no philosopher; he -cannot adopt a detached, impersonal, disinterested -view of life; he must take sides. Hence the convention -of the “sympathetic personage.” He has not -the judicial faculty, is not accustomed to sift evidence -or to estimate probabilities. Hence the convention -of the “long arm of coincidence” and the -convention that the wildest improbability may be -taken as the starting-point of a play. The general -playgoer, as such, is virtuous and generous; for we -are all on our best behaviour in public. And he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -insists upon a strict separation of virtue and vice. -He wants his personages all of a piece. The composite -characters, blends of good and evil, he refuses -to recognize. Hence the conventions of “hero” -and “villain,” of “poetic justice” and of “living -happy ever afterwards.” Further, it has been suggested -that a crowd of general playgoers, having an -individuality of its own, cannot but be interested in -that individuality, apart from all reference to the -cause which brought it together. Once assembled, -it becomes self-conscious, self-assertive. It finds -itself an interesting spectacle. And the general -playgoer is not of the cloistered but of the gregarious -type of mankind; he must have bustle, the sense of -human kinship brought home to him by sitting -elbow by elbow with his neighbours. The faculty -of intellectual attention is seldom high in such a -temperament as this. Hence the playwright has to -<i>force</i> the attention of a temperamentally inattentive -audience. Mark, once more, that I am not -speaking of first-nighters. Their individuality is -too strong to be crowd-immersed. I would not for -worlds speak of them as a crowd at all. They are -an assemblage, a constellation, a galaxy. Admirable -persons!</p> - -<p>But there is one thing for which I envy the -general playgoer above all. I mean his freedom -and pungency of criticism. Anonymity gives him -irresponsibility, and, his resentment at being bored -not being subject to the cooling process of literary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> -composition, his language is apt to be really terrible. -Talk of printed criticism! Actors and authors do -talk of it often enough, and on the whole don’t seem -to like it; but let them mingle with the general -playgoer and keep their ears open! Who was the -man in Balzac who said that it was absurd to speak -of the danger of certain books when we all had the -corrupt book of the world open before us, and -beyond that another book a thousand times more -dangerous—all that is whispered by one man to -another or discussed behind ladies’ fans at balls? -So the general playgoer is the great purveyor of -secret criticism. Disraeli, or another, said that the -secret history of the world, which never got into the -history books, was the only true history. Let us -hope that secret criticism is not the only true sort, -but it is certainly the most live. It is free from the -literary bias, the cant of criticism, the smell of the -lamp. And it is the most potent of persuasives. -Published criticism is powerless against it. The fate -of a play is not decided by newspaper criticisms -(thank goodness! I should be miserable if it were), -but by what the general playgoers say to one another -and pass on to their friends. How many plays with -“record” runs have been dismissed by the newspapers -on the morrow of the first night with faint -praise or positive dispraise? The general playgoer -has said his say, and what he says “goes.” I know -he is giving many worthy people just now much -uneasiness. They form little theatrical societies <i>à<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> -côté</i> to keep him out. They deplore his taste and -organize leagues for his education and improvement. -I rather fancy he is like the young lady in -the play who “didn’t want to have her mind improved.” -But that is another story. What I have -been envying him for is not his taste but the heartiness -with which he “abounds in his own sense” and -his freedom in expressing it. After all, perhaps criticism -that is so free and so pervasive and so potent -is not exactly to be called “secret.” I seek the <i>mot -juste</i>. Or I would if that were not a back-number. -Has not Mr. Beerbohm finally put it in its place as -the Holy Grail of the nineties?</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FIRST_NIGHTS">FIRST NIGHTS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>There is a movement, I am told, in certain -critical circles in favour of the system which obtains -in Parisian theatres of the <i>répétition générale</i>. This, -as most playgoers know, is a final “dress rehearsal” -held on the evening (at the Français, where evening -performances must be continuous, on the afternoon) -of the day before the actual “first night” production, -or <i>première</i>, of the play. The seats, -including the exceptionally large number allotted -in Paris to the Press, are filled by invitation. It is -the real “first night”; only there is no “money” -in the house. Notoriously, there is a formidable -cohort of Parisians who regard their seat at a -<i>répétition générale</i> as a kind of vested interest, and -who would be affronted by having to put up with -the <i>première</i>. A very remarkable public this is, the -public of the <i>répétition générale</i>, with its members -virtually all known to one another, filling the <i>foyer</i> -with chatter and much scent, and patiently sitting -through a performance which is apt to begin a -good half-hour after the advertised time, and to end -in the small hours of the morning. The inter-acts -are of inordinate length, perhaps in the interests of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> -the buffet, more likely because of the inveterate -leisureliness of the Parisians. The whole thing, at -any rate as I have found it, is a weariness to English -flesh. But then the gentlemen (and ladies) of the -Press have the advantage of being able to go home -straight to bed, and of having all next day to think -over their “notices.”</p> - -<p>That is the reason, I suppose, why some critics -would like to see the system introduced in London. -They want more time. They want to sleep on it. -They would write, they think, better in the morning. -Let me leave that point, however, for the moment -to turn to what an incorrigibly commercial world -will probably think a more important one, the -question of finance. To the theatrical manager the -introduction of this system would mean the loss of a -whole night’s receipts. With theatre rents and -expenses at their present height, could they possibly -contemplate so heavy a sacrifice? They are already -complaining that theatre seats at their present prices -do not pay—and here they would be giving away, -for one night, the whole house. Further, however -they might gratify the friends whom they invited, -nothing could save them from the wrath of those -who were left over. Some of these, perhaps, might -be mollified by a subsequent invitation—for the -“deadhead” habit becomes an insidious disease, -and, I am told, the Paris theatres groan under the -hordes of playgoers who consider themselves entitled -to gratuitous admission. On the whole, I think our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> -managers would be ill-advised to countenance the -suggested change.</p> - -<p>Another thing. The <i>répétition générale</i> is a trial -performance. Effects which don’t “tell,” incidents -which shock or provoke ridicule, are often cut out -next morning, so that the play actually presented at -the <i>première</i> differs, sometimes vitally, from that -presented to the critics, so that the “notice” not -seldom describes and criticizes various matters -which the public are never shown. If the English -manager imitated this example—and as a practical -man of business he would be sure to imitate it—the -unhappy critic after writing his notice would -have to go to the play again, before printing it, in -order to assure himself that it still represented the -facts. It would have to be two bites at a cherry. -Now, new plays are often produced on two nights -running, in which case two bites at the same cherry -would be impossible. In the most favourable case, -two successive visits to a play would be a heavy -addition to the burden of life.</p> - -<p>But would criticism benefit in quality? I venture -to doubt that, too. I think that theatrical -“notices” are all the better for being piping hot. -One’s impressions of the play are stronger, more -definite in outline, richer in colour, when one leaves -the theatre than next morning, when they have -had time to cool and to fade into “second thoughts,” -which in criticism are far from being always the best. -When Jules Lemaître went from the <i>Débats</i> to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -<i>Deux Mondes</i> he found that his thoughts about the -play, instead of maturing with the longer interval -for writing, were apt to become simply vague and -general. If the play happened to be one “of ideas,” -not so much harm was done, because ideas stick in -the mind, and are revolved there. But a play of -emotion or a play dependent on fine shades of acting -is bound to suffer by the gradual waning of the first -impression. And my own experience is that in -writing about a play of which one has lost the first -hot impression, and which one has to recall by an -effort of memory, the proportions get altered, so that -the criticism is thrown out of gear. Some point, a -mere minor point, perhaps, that attracted one’s -attention, remains in the mind and assumes an undue -importance in relation to other details that have -faded. I went to see <i>Grierson’s Way</i> revived the -other night after a quarter of a century. When I -asked myself beforehand what I remembered of it, -I could only answer that I had been originally much -struck by its merits, but that the only one of these -merits that remained in my mind was a conversation -wherein, under a surface of small talk, two people -were revealing depths of tragic emotion. I had -forgotten the characters, the <i>motif</i>, the very story. -And when my conversation turned up (in Act III.), -though I was as delighted as ever, I saw, of course, -that it was only an item, not the sole memorable -thing in the play.</p> - -<p>An interval of a quarter of a century is rather<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> -different from one of four-and-twenty hours? Undoubtedly; -but my point is that one’s impressions -begin to wane and to alter in “values” from the -very outset. After all it is the business of critics -not merely to criticize, analyse, and judge a play, to -try and “place” it in the realm of art; they have -also the perhaps minor but still important duty of -acting as public “tasters.” They have to represent -facts, to give the public a reasonably accurate -notion of what they are likely to see. And they -are in a much better position for doing this if they -set down their facts and their views of the facts at -once, while they are still quivering with the excitement -(or yawning with the boredom) of them.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PLAYS_WITHIN_PLAYS">PLAYS WITHIN PLAYS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Representative arts will represent everything -they can, including themselves. The theatre likes -to show an image of its own life, life behind the -scenes, actors acting on the stage, audiences listening, -applauding, or interrupting in front. Hence the -plays within plays which Shakespeare found so -alluring. It was a comparatively simple problem of -technique in his time because of the simplicity of -the “platform” stage and of the Elizabethan -playhouse.</p> - -<p>A standing audience, as his for the most part was, -is obviously easier to represent than a seated audience; -it is just a crowd of “citizens” like any other -stage crowd. The only important question for the -stage-manager was the relative position of the -mimic players and the mimic public. Clearly your -mimic players must be seen by the real public, or -what becomes of your play within a play? The -position of your mimic public must have been more -or less dependent on their importance in the action. -But, I take it, the Elizabethan arrangement, in any -case, must have been of a pre-Raphaelite symmetry. -I presume the play scene in <i>Hamlet</i> must have taken<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> -place in the lower part of the permanent erection at -the back of the stage and that the mimic public was -ranged down each side of the stage. The old -arrangement has remained essentially unaltered. -The mimic players are generally shown in some -raised, arcaded terrace at the back of the stage; the -King and Queen face Hamlet and Ophelia (in profile -with respect to the real public) in front. It would -obviously never do to let Hamlet and the King face -the performers in the rear and so turn their backs on -the real public, for the whole point of the scene is the -effect of the mimic play on the King and on Hamlet -watching the King. But I do not, for my part, see -why more might not be made out of this “psychologic” -effect by an arrangement which placed the -mimic players nearer the front of the actual stage, -on one side, so that the King might be turned full-face -towards us as he watched them. If the King -were played by an actor of the first importance -(which he seldom or never is), with a gift of facial -play, we may be sure that this would be done.</p> - -<p>There is a somewhat similar scene in the first act -of <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>. The chief centre of attraction -here is not the mimic play itself, but the behaviour -of the audience, disturbed by Cyrano’s interruption -of the players. That is why I think that -Coquelin’s arrangement with the players on one side -and the audience in profile was better than Mr. -Loraine’s, with the players in the rear and the mimic -audience turning its back to the real one. But it is a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> -point of comparative insignificance. As it was the -old playhouse and the old standing audience that -was being represented, the stage-management was -essentially as simple as that of the play-scene in -<i>Hamlet</i>.</p> - -<p>So soon, however, as you come to represent the -very different modern “picture” stage and the -modern seated audience you see at once that the -problem becomes immensely more difficult. Accordingly -you find a revolution in the method of treating -a play within a play. I do not know whether the -Guitrys invented it or Reinhardt or whoever, but -certainly the most conspicuous illustration we have -had of it has been presented by the Guitrys. It is -something much more than a mechanical change; it -is psychological as well. The mimic stage, the stage -of the play within the play, now occupies the whole -of the actual stage, and the mimic audience is identified -with the real audience.</p> - -<p>We saw this startling innovation first in <i>Pasteur</i>. -Pasteur is supposed to be addressing a meeting of -the French Academy of Medicine. His rostrum is -at the footlights, and he addresses <i>us</i>, the real -audience. <i>We</i> have to suppose ourselves the -Academy of Medicine. To help us to this illusion -one or two actors are scattered about the house, who -interrupt, argue with Pasteur, and are personally -answered by him. We find ourselves, in fact, at -once listening to a debate, as real audience, and, in -the thick of it, taking part in it, as supposed audience.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -There is a French proverb which says you cannot -both join in a procession and look out of the window; -but this experience upsets it. The result is a curious -blend of sensations; you feel yourself both spectator -and actor, <i>at</i> a play and <i>in</i> a play. But there is no -doubt that the effect is much more vivid and exciting -than that which would have attended the mere -spectacle of Pasteur addressing a crowd upon the -stage itself. You have, by the way, exactly the -same effect in Mr. Galsworthy’s <i>Skin Game</i>, where -an auctioneer addresses us, the public, who are supposed -to represent the competing purchasers.</p> - -<p>A still more striking instance has been seen in -<i>L’Illusioniste</i>. Here the first act shows the stage of -a music-hall and presents three actual “turns.” -We, the actual audience, become the music-hall -audience, and again there are actors scattered among -us to help the illusion. They are addressed by the -conjurer and answer him; a lady in a box throws -him ardent glances which are returned with interest. -But one of the “turns,” an act by acrobatic clowns, -has absolutely nothing to do with the play; it is -there purely for its own interest, a substantive performance. -This shows, what we knew before, that -revolutions run to excess. We are so engrossed by -the clowns that we are tempted to forget what we -are there for, to see a play. Anyhow, it is a most -amusing innovation, this conversion of the actual -stage into an imaginary stage within the play, and -of the actual public into an imaginary public taking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span> -part in the play. It is a real enrichment of stage -resources.</p> - -<p>But there are obvious dangers. One I have just -pointed out, the danger of introducing irrelevancies -for their own intrinsic interest, which tend to impair -the artistic unity of the play. Another is the danger -of applying this method to cases (as in <i>Hamlet</i> and -<i>Cyrano</i>) where the real centre of interest is not the -mimic play but the mimic audience. Imagine the -whole stage given up to the <i>Mouse Trap</i>, with the -front row of stalls occupied by the courtiers, and -Hamlet and Ophelia in one box watching the King -and Gertrude in the opposite box! That is an -extreme instance, which traditional respect for -Shakespeare will probably save us from; but some -ambitious producer will probably try this game with -some modern play, and then I predict disaster.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PLAYS_OF_TALK">PLAYS OF TALK</h2> - -</div> - -<p>The production on two successive nights of two -plays so violently contrasted in method as Mr. Harwood’s -<i>Grain of Mustard Seed</i> and Mr. Galsworthy’s -<i>Skin Game</i>—the first a play mainly of talk, the second -a play entirely of action—sets one thinking. -According to the orthodox canons, the second is -the right, nay, the only method. Drama, we are -told, is a conflict of wills and all the interest is in the -action, the external manifestation of the conflict. -There should be just enough talk to carry that on -and not an idle word should be spoken. Diderot, -indeed, professed to think that words were almost -superfluous, and went to the play with cotton-wool -in his ears in order to judge its merits on the dumb -show; yet he wrote the most wordy and tedious -plays. And there is, or was, a certain school of -theatrical criticism which forever quotes the old -Astley maxim, “Cut the cackle and come to the -’osses”—which was no doubt a most appropriate -maxim, for quadrupeds. Others have mistaken -action for physical, preferably violent action—Maldonado -sweeping the crockery off the chimney-piece -or Lady Audley pushing her husband down<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span> -the well—and have ignored the fact that talk also -may be action, “and much the noblest,” as Dryden -says. “Every alteration or crossing of a design, -every new-sprung passion, and turn of it, is a part -of the action, and much the noblest, except we -perceive nothing to be action, till they come to -blows; as if the painting of the hero’s mind were -not more properly the poet’s work than the strength -of his body.” How often we were told in the -old days that Dumas <i>fils</i> and Ibsen were too -“talky,” when their talk was mainly psychological -action.</p> - -<p>But this demand for action and nothing but -action, so persistently uttered of late years, would -deprive the world of much of its best entertainment. -Apply it to Congreve, “cut the cackle” of his plays, -and you come to the ’osses, spavined hacks, of plots -childishly complicated and perfunctorily wound up. -Would any one of taste suppress the “cackle” of -Sheridan’s scandalous college? Is not, in short, -much of the pleasure of comedy in resting from the -action, in getting away from it, in the relief of good -talk? Yes, and often enough the pleasure of -tragedy, too. There is a bustling, melodramatic -action in <i>Hamlet</i>. But with what relief Hamlet gets -away from his revenge “mission” at every moment, -puts it out of sight, forgets it! His interview with -the players and advice to them on histrionics, his -chat with the gravedigger, what else are these but -the sheer delight of good talk? For him the joy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> -of living is the joy of talking, and with the chance -of these before him his revenge-mission may go -hang!</p> - -<p>Obviously we never get so near Shakespeare and -Shakespeare’s natural temperament, as in these -moments of talk for its own sake, talk unfettered -by the exigencies of the plot. For that talk wells -up spontaneously and is not turned on to order; -the poet has something interesting in his mind which -he is bursting to say, and if to say it will keep the -plot waiting, why, so much the worse for the plot. -And here is a reason, I think, in favour of plays of -talk. We get nearer the author in them; in good -talk the author is expressing a pleasure so strong as -to override the objection of irrelevance, and in -sharing that pleasure we get the best of him, the -spontaneous element in him, the man himself. On -the other hand, mere yarn-spinning, mere plot-weaving, -may be an almost mechanical exercise. -Not necessarily, of course. I should be sorry to call -Mr. Galsworthy’s <i>Skin Game</i> a mechanical bit of -work. The will-conflict there has an intense reality -and is fought tooth and nail. Irrelevant talk in -such a white-hot play would obviously be fatal. -Everybody speaks briefly, plainly, and to the point. -Artistic work of any kind gives pleasure, and it is -possible to be as delighted with Mr. Galsworthy’s -kind as with Mr. Harwood’s. I am not comparing -two artists of two different kinds, which would be -absurd. I am only pleading for a kind which is not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span> -what a vain people supposeth, and which is apt to -be stupidly condemned.</p> - -<p>Not that it would be fair, either, to call Mr. Harwood’s -brilliant task irrelevant. It helps to paint -character. Thus, parents expect their son to have -returned from the war a compound of Sir Galahad -and Mr. Bottomley, and instead of that he is only a -good bridge-player, after four hours’ bridge a day -for four years. These witticisms help to tell you -something about the young man whose family -reputation gives rise to them in the family circle. -When the old Parliamentary hand compares government -to ’bus-driving, seeking to get through the -traffic with the minimum of accident, or remarks on -the reputation Canute would have made had he only -waited for high tide, he is telling us something about -himself and his political principles. But primarily -these things are enjoyable for their wit and not for -their relevance. In a play of fierce will-conflict they -would have been impossible. These plays of brilliant -talk belong to the quiet <i>genre</i>, and quiet in the theatre, -as in art generally, is perhaps an acquired taste. -“Punch,” we are constantly being told by the -natural unsophisticated man, is what is wanted—the -word itself is the invention of an unquiet people. -Well, give me wit, and let who will have the “punch.”</p> - -<p>The occasional tendency in the theatre to revolt -against the restraint of the action and to play lightly -round it has its counterpart in criticism. What is -it gives so peculiar a charm to the criticism of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> -Dryden? Is it not his discursiveness, his little -descriptive embellishments—as, for example, in the -“Essay of Dramatic Poesy,” the river trip, the -listening for the distant thunder of the Dutch guns -“on that memorable day,” the moonlight on the water, -the landing at Somerset Stairs among the crowd of -French dancers? I have elsewhere said how Hazlitt’s -theatrical criticisms lose in readableness by their -strict attention to business, compared with his -miscellaneous essays, where he permits himself to -wander “all over the place.” George Henry Lewes’s -theatrical criticisms can still be read with pleasure -for the very reason that they were diversified with -deliberate, almost frivolous irrelevancies. And then -there was Jules Lemaître with his perpetual “moi,” -which provoked the austere Brunetière to quote -Pascal’s “<i>le moi est haïssable</i>.” Yet where will you -find more enjoyable criticism than Lemaître’s? -But I must keep off Lemaître and the charm of him, -or I shall become, what he never was, tiresome. -Even as it is, I may resemble the parson who said he -had aimed at brevity in order to avoid tediousness, -and was answered, “You <i>were</i> brief, and you <i>were</i> -tedious.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BEGGARS_OPERA">“THE BEGGAR’S OPERA”</h2> - -</div> - -<p>One of Boswell’s projected works was a history -of the controversy over <i>The Beggar’s Opera</i>. The -best known of the works he actually did write contains -several references to this controversy. Reynolds -said it afforded a proof how strangely people -will differ in opinion about a literary performance. -Burke thought it had no merit. Johnson thought -very much the opposite, but said characteristically, -“There is in it such a labefactation of all principles -as may be injurious to morality.” Gibbon suggested -that it might refine the manners of highwaymen, -“making them less ferocious, more polite—in short, -more like gentlemen.” It is noteworthy that the -work was half a century old when these observations -were made about it. It had become a classic. And -later generations treated it as a classic—that is to -say, kept on refashioning it to the taste of their own -time. The version, for instance, that Hazlitt was -so fond of writing about (in the second decade of the -last century) was a sad mangling of the original. -Even so, it represented for Hazlitt the high-water -mark of theatrical enjoyment, just as the original -did for Boswell, who said, “No performance which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> -the theatre exhibits delights me more.” You -cannot take up a volume of Swift’s correspondence, -or Horace Walpole’s or Arbuthnot’s, without mention -of <i>The Beggar’s Opera</i>. It even got into Grimm. -It was the <i>H.M.S. Pinafore</i> of the time.</p> - -<p>And that reminds me. As I sat at the Hammersmith -Lyric listening to the dialogue between -Peachum and Mrs. Peachum on the question whether -Polly was Macheath’s wife or his mistress, the thing -seemed strangely modern, and not only modern, but -Gilbertian. (I am speaking, of course, of the tone, -not of the sentiment—Gilbert was a very Victorian -of propriety.) Peachum is Gilbertian. “Do you -think your mother and I should have liv’d comfortably -so long together if ever we had been -married? Baggage!” Mrs. Peachum is Gilbertian. -“If you must be married, could you introduce -nobody into our family but a highwayman? Why, -thou foolish jade, thou wilt be as ill-used and as -much neglected as if thou hadst married a lord!” -Again, “If she had only an intrigue with the fellow, -why the very best families have excus’d and huddled -up a frailty of that sort. ’Tis marriage, husband, -that makes it a blemish.” Once more. “Love -him! Worse and worse! I thought the girl had -been better bred.” Polly herself is Gilbertian. -“Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and -more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear -the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! -What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought -to disgrace! I see him at the tree! The whole -circle are in tears! Even butchers weep!” Lucy -is Gilbertian. When Macheath is at the “tree,” her -comment is, “There is nothing moves one so much -as a great man in distress.” And not only the tone, -but the very principle of the play is Gilbertian. -Gilbert took some typical figure of the social hierarchy—a -Lord Chancellor, a First Lord of the -Admiralty—and set the Chancellor capering and -the First Lord singing about the handle of the big -front door. He put a familiar figure in unfamiliar -postures. Gay took a typical figure of his own -time—the highwayman—and showed him, not at -work on the highway, but enjoying an elegant -leisure, behaving like a Chesterfield or one of Congreve’s -fine gentlemen. It was the realism, the -actuality of the subject, combined with the burlesque -of the treatment, that delighted the London of 1728 -as it delighted the London of a century and a half -later. At each date it was a new experiment in -opera libretto. Boswell specified the attraction of -Gay’s realism—“the real pictures of London life.” -Johnson singles out the “novelty” of the treatment.</p> - -<p>But it is time that I said something about Mr. -Nigel Playfair’s revival. This is a remarkable -success, from every point of view. For the original -attraction of realism is, of course, no longer there. -We have to take it all historically. And the revival -has been particularly careful of historical accuracy.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> -Just as Gay’s dialogue prompts you to say “Gilbert,” -so Mr. Lovat Fraser’s scenery and costumes prompt -you to exclaim “Hogarth!” By the way, on one -of Hazlitt’s visits he records the exclamation of an -old gentleman in the pit, after the scuffle between -Peachum and Lockit, “Hogarth, by G—d!” This -was, no doubt, a tribute to the grim, ugly squalor -of that particular scene. But the whole <i>décor</i> and -atmosphere of the present affair are Hogarthian—the -stiff, flattened hoops of the women, the tatterdemalion -aspect of Macheath’s rabble, Peachum’s -dressing-gown (which I suppose is “documentary”), -Macheath’s scarlet coat and flowing wig. And the -dresses are accurately simple. The women wear -plain stuffs; Polly alone is allowed a little finery. -Indeed, there is an almost austere simplicity about -the whole affair. One scene, with just the alteration -of a few accessories, serves for Peachum’s house, -for a tavern, and for Newgate. There is an orchestra -of five strings, a flute, an oboe, and a harpsichord. -It seems to me that their playing has the delicate -charm of chamber music rather than the power and -colour of orchestral—but I must not stray out of my -province.</p> - -<p>Hazlitt indulged in raptures over Miss Stephens, -the first Polly he heard, and never failed to contrast -with her her less pleasing successors. He had -evidently lost his heart to her—a somewhat susceptible -heart, if you think of the “Liber Amoris.” -I have no Miss Stephens to compare Miss Arkandy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> -with, and can only say the songstress is quite sweet -enough for my taste and the actress a charming -little doll. Miss Marquesita, the Lucy, is a good -contrast, a voluptuous termagant. Boswell says of -Walker, the original Macheath, that he “acquired -great celebrity by his grave yet animated performance -of it.” Mr. Ranalow’s Macheath is decidedly -more grave than animated, is in fact a little solemn—long -before he gets to the Condemn’d Hold. -There is an almost Oriental impassiveness about him, -something of the jaded sultan—which, after all, is -not an inappropriate suggestion, surrounded as the -poor man is by his seraglio of town-ladies. Miss -Elsie French bravely makes a thorough hag of Mrs. -Peachum; the Peachum and Lockit of Mr. Wynne -and Mr. Rawson are properly, Hogarthianly, -crapulous; and Mr. Scott Russell makes a good, -vociferous Filch, leading with a will the fine drinking-song -“Woman and Wine” and the still finer “Let -us take the Road” (to the tune of Handel’s march -in <i>Rinaldo</i>). Altogether a delicious entertainment: -gay, despite the solemn deportment of Macheath, -and dainty, despite the sordid <i>crapule</i> of Newgate. -Yes, my final impression of the affair is one of -daintiness. Even the women of the town are -dainty. They might almost be Dresden china -shepherdesses (which would be bearing out the -original suggestion of a Newgate “pastoral” very -literally). For the sordid <i>milieu</i> is so remote from -us as to have become fantastically unreal; the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span> -Peachums and the Lockits are no longer ugly men, -but have been turned into grotesque gargoyles; -the rabble round Tyburn Tree has lived to see a -Russian ballet and learnt to move in its elegant -arabesques. It is a Hogarth retouched by a -Shepperson—or rather, to speak by the card, by a -Lovat Fraser.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="GRAND_GUIGNOLISM">GRAND GUIGNOLISM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Dandin, the judge in Racine’s comedy of <i>Les -Plaideurs</i>, offers to amuse Isabelle by the spectacle -of a little torturing. “Eh! Monsieur,” exclaims -Isabelle, “eh, Monsieur, peut on voir souffrir des -malheureux?” and Dandin, in his reply, speaks for -a by no means negligible proportion of the human -race: “Bon! cela fait toujours passer une heure -ou deux.” Dandin was a Guignolite.</p> - -<p>We all have our Guignolite moments, moments of -Taine’s “ferocious gorilla” surviving in civilized -man, when we seek the spectacle of torture or physical -suffering or violent death; but we are careful -to æsthetize them, refine them into moments of -poetry or art. The pleasure of tragedy is æsthetic. -Nevertheless, tragedy involves violent death, and -without that would be an idle tale. So Rousseau -was not altogether wrong when he said we go to a -tragedy for the pleasure of seeing others suffer, without -suffering ourselves. Your true Guignolite -simply prefers his tragedy “neat,” without æsthetic -dilution. But I think it is unfair to charge him, as he -is so often charged, with a love of the horrible for its -own sake. I think, rather, that he is moved, a little -more actively than the rest of the world, by curiosity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span></p> - -<p>It is customary to talk of curiosity as though it -were essentially ignoble. Children, women, and -savages are said to have most of it. It accounts for -“fortune-telling,” prophetic almanacs, spiritualistic -<i>séances</i> and other forms of alleged communication -with the dead. But the truth is, curiosity, the desire -to enlarge experience, is a highly valuable, or, rather, -indispensable, human attribute. Without it there -could be no science, no progress, and finally no -human life at all. And you cannot restrict it. It -must crave for all forms of experience. Some of us -will be sweeping the heavens for new stars, and -others will want to peep into Bluebeard’s cupboard. -More particularly we are curious to know what is -already known to others. We desire to see with -our own eyes what others have seen and reported to -us. That is why so many people have gone to <i>Chu -Chin Chow</i>. We wish to realize for ourselves, by the -direct aid of our own senses, “What it’s like.” And -the more difficult it is to see, the greater the secrecy, -the intimacy, of its actual happening in life, the -greater our curiosity to see a picture or other representation -of it. Hence the vogue of stage bedroom -scenes, newspaper portraits of “the victim” and -“the place of the crime,” and Tussaud’s Chamber -of Horrors.</p> - -<p>I believe that is why “cela”—the horrible, the -dreadful, the gruesome—“fait toujours passer une -heure ou deux” for your Guignolite. It satisfies his -curiosity about an experience which in real life it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> -rare or difficult to obtain. For instance, they have -been showing at the London Grand Guignol a representation -of a criminal’s last half-hour before execution. -Time was when you could see that for yourself, -follow the prisoner in the cart to Tyburn, and -offer him nosegays or pots of beer. In that time, -enjoying the real thing, you wanted no mimic representation -of it. For stage purposes you only cared -to have it fantasticated—as in <i>The Beggar’s Opera</i>. -To-day you cannot (unless you are a prison official -or the hangman himself) enjoy the real thing; the -Press is excluded; so you seek the next best thing, -a realistic stage picture of it. “Realistic,” I say. -That is the merit of Mr. Reginald Berkeley’s <i>Eight -o’Clock</i>, wherein there is not a trace of staginess or -imported sentiment. He gives you what you are -looking for, the nearest substitute for the real thing. -You are shown, as accurately as possible, “what -it’s like.” You see how the warders behave, and -how the chaplain and how the prisoner—with the -result that you feel as though, for that terrible half-hour, -you had been in Newgate yourself. You have -gone through an experience which in actual life (let -us hope) you will never have. Your curiosity has -been satisfied.</p> - -<p>And I think realism will have to be the mainstay -of the Grand Guignol programmes. There is another -“shocker” in the bill, <i>Private Room No. 6</i>, by -a French author, M. de Lorde, which seemed to me -not half so effective as the other because it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span> -largely tinged with romance. Here again was an -attempt to gratify curiosity about an unusual experience. -The incident was distinctly “private and -confidential.” How many of us have had the chance -of seeing a fiercely-whiskered Muscovite kissing and -biting a (conveniently <i>décolletée</i>) lady on the shoulder, -subsequently swallowing a tumblerful of kummel at -a draught, and presently being strangled by the -lady’s glove? This, you may say, was realistic -enough, but what made it romantic, theatrical, was -the obviously artificial arrangement of the story, -the “preparations,” the conventional types. You -knew at once you were in the theatre and being -served with carefully calculated “thrills.” That is -to say, your curiosity was solely about what was -going to happen next in the playwright’s scheme—the -common interest of every stage plot—which is a -very different thing from curiosity about strange, -rare, experiences in actual life. You felt that Mr. -Berkeley had really shown you “what it’s like.” -You felt that M. de Lorde had only shown you what -his skill in theatrical invention was like.</p> - -<p>And there, I suspect, we reach a limitation of -Grand Guignolism. The art of drama at its best—shall -we call it grand art, as distinguished from -Grand Guignol art?—does not exist to gratify curiosity. -The best drama does not provoke the spectator’s -curiosity about what is going to happen so much as -excite in him a keen desire that a certain thing shall -happen and then satisfy that desire to the full. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> -Greek tragedians did not scruple to announce their -plot in advance. Lessing, in his “Hamburg Dramaturgy,” -maintains that “the dramatic interest is all -the stronger and keener the longer and more certainly -we have been allowed to foresee everything,” -and adds, “So far am I from holding that the end -ought to be hidden from the spectator that I don’t -think the enterprise would be a task beyond my -strength were I to undertake a play of which the end -should be announced in advance, from the very first -scene.” The truth is, in the fine art of drama we are -seeking what we seek in every fine art—beauty, a -new form and colouring to be given to the actions -and emotions of the real world by the artist’s imagination. -But even on the lower plane of realism -Grand Guignolism has ample scope. The one-act -formula has a clear technical advantage in the single -scene and strict coincidence of supposed with actual -time, great helps both to unity of impression. (One -counted the minutes in <i>Eight o’Clock</i> almost as anxiously -as the condemned man did.) And it has the -immense fun of theatrical experiment, of seeing how -far you can go, what shocks the public can stand -and what it can’t, the joy of adventurously exploring -the unknown and the <i>inédit</i>. Above all, if it is -wise it will remember that (as I believe at any rate) -its public does not yearn for the “shocking” incident -merely as such, but as representing a rare -experience, and it will look for some rarities that -are not shocking.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_THEATRICAL_FORECAST">A THEATRICAL FORECAST</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Newspapers periodically publish their review of -the past theatrical year. But it is always a sad -thing to recall the past, especially the immediate -past, which is too recent to be history and only old -enough to be stale. Why not, then, let bygones be -bygones and turn to the future, about which hope -springs eternal, and which gives free scope to the -imagination instead of imposing the tedious labour -of research? What are our leading dramatists going -to give us next year? The question might be -treated in a matter-of-fact way by just going and -asking them—and perhaps getting very disappointing -answers. It seems more sportsmanlike to guess; -besides, it leaves room for some piquant surprises -when one is by and by confronted with the actual. -These, then, are one or two guesses for next season.</p> - -<p>It is long, too long, since London had a play from -Sir Arthur Pinero. When he writes a play he gives -you a play, not a symposium or a sermon or a piece -of propagandism, but a dramatic action which -interests you in its story, makes you wonder what is -going to happen next, and takes care that something -does happen, striking at the moment and worth<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> -thinking about afterwards. His characters are -presented in strong relief, there is always a dramatic -conflict of wills, his women are never insipid, are -sometimes deliciously perverse, and, if not past -redemption (in which case they commit suicide), are -“saved” by the nearest Anglican bishop or dean. -His forthcoming play will ignore the Church and will -deal with a household divided on the “spiritualistic” -question. The husband, who suffers from mild shell-shock -and saw the “angels of Mons,” will have come -back from the war a devoted follower of Sir Oliver -Lodge and Sir Conan Doyle. The wife (Miss Irene -Vanbrugh) will be a pretty sceptic, adoring her -husband, but impatient of his credulity and determined -to “laugh him out” of it. An opportunity -occurs. The young pair have been having a sarcastic -scene (a fine opportunity for Miss Irene’s -merry ringing laugh) about the husband’s bosom-friend -Jack, whom he had left for dead on the field -at Mons. The husband eagerly hopes to get into -communication with Jack “on the other side.” -The wife only remembers, with twinges of conscience, -certain love passages she had, before her marriage, -with the said Jack, of which she has never told her -husband. Now Jack is not dead, but on his way to -his bosom-friend, when the wife meets him. She -sees at once a chance of opening her husband’s eyes. -“We’ll have a <i>séance</i>,” she says to Jack; “you -shall pretend to be your own spirit, and then suddenly -reveal yourself as flesh and blood—and Tom will be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -for ever cured of his foolishness.” Jack agrees, but -he also is suffering from shell-shock (two in one play! -you can imagine how clever the critics will be over -this—it will have to be made clear that it was the -same shell), forgets himself at the <i>séance</i>, and at -sight of his old lady-love cries “Darling!”; then, -horrified at his own misbehaviour, disappears, and -the same night is either run over by a motor-car or -tumbles into a canal. The wife’s reputation is saved -by another lady present, who takes the “darling!” -to herself. It is not yet settled whether this shall -be a comic amorous dame, really self-deceived (say, -Miss Lottie Venne), or a shrewd, kindly woman of the -world (Miss Compton, for choice), who promptly sees -how the land lies and sacrifices herself for her little -married friend. In either case, the wife has to keep -up the illusion that the voice came from “the other -side,” while the husband, though confirmed in his -spiritualism, is secretly disgusted to discover that the -spirits can be such “bad form.” Thus the final -situation is an ironic transmutation of the first. The -divided pair are now united, the merry sceptic being -frightened into simulating belief, while the believer -ruefully finds belief without zest. Much will depend -on the acting of this final situation. Miss Irene may -safely be trusted to transfer her laugh adroitly to the -wrong side of her mouth, but great subtlety will be -required from the actor who has to convey the mixed -joy and pain of a belief proved at once true and not -worth having. It may, perhaps, count among Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> -Henry Ainley’s triumphs. Mr. Gerald du Maurier -will play Jack the friend—another triumph, for even -in his moment of breakdown he will still keep the -sympathy of the audience.</p> - -<p>Sir James Barrie has not yet exhausted the variations -on his “enchantment” theme. After the -enchanted wood of <i>Dear Brutus</i>, where people get a -second chance in life, and the enchanted island of -<i>Mary Rose</i>, where time stands still with you, he will -with his next play sound enchanted bagpipes. -These will be heard as a weird <i>obbligato</i>, whenever -any one of the characters falls into insincerity, from -<i>pp</i> (amiable taradiddle) to <i>ff</i> (thumping lie), and, -while they are playing, the character will talk broad -Scotch and sketch the postures of or, in extreme -cases, wildly dance a Highland Reel. As the -characters will be drawn exclusively from the Holland -House set (the scene throughout will be one of the -famous breakfasts), the extravagance of the compulsory -fits of Caledonianism can be seen a mile off. -The dismay of the poet Rogers (Mr. George Robey, -specially engaged) at finding his best <i>méchancetés</i>, -in his notoriously low voice, unexpectedly uttered -in the broadest Scotch will only be equalled by the -surprise of Sydney Smith at hearing his choicest -witticisms in the same lingo. At one supreme -moment the whole party will be joining in a Reel, led -recalcitrantly but majestically by Lady H. Fashionable -dames (a great opportunity for the costumier, -and fabulous sums will be spent on the wardrobe)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span> -will suddenly change from lisping “vastly amusing -I declare!” and rolled-collared <i>beaux</i> from murmuring -“monstrous fine women, egad!” to “aiblins,” -“hoots, mon,” “hech, sirs,” etc. The situation will -ultimately be saved by a little Scottish maiden, in a -plaid (Miss Hilda Trevelyan), who, being sincerity -itself, will never speak anything but the purest -English, and a baby in a box nailed against the wall, -who will not speak at all. For the enchanted bagpipes -a squad of pipe-majors of the Black Watch, -splendid fellows in review order, will be kindly lent -from the Edinburgh garrison.</p> - -<p>Mr. Maugham has been to China, and has brought -back a play which will aim at being as unlike <i>Mr. Wu</i> -as possible. In fact, no Chinaman will figure in it—Mr. -Maugham would never do anything so artistically -vulgar as that—nor anything Chinese except a little -porcelain curio of the best period. This will be sold -by auction in a scene (it will be the talk of London) -faithfully reproducing a celebrated establishment in -King Street, St. James’s, with Mr. Hawtrey and Miss -Gladys Cooper as the rival bidders. It will serve, -later, for chief <i>pièce justificative</i> in a divorce case -between the same parties (with a really witty judge—for -he will have the wit of Mr. Maugham—who will -make a certain actual humorist on the Bench green -with envy), and in the end will be broken by an -excited counsel (played by the famous crockery-smashing -artist from the music-halls).</p> - -<p>Mr. Shaw—but no, it is impossible for Mr. Shaw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> -himself, let alone any one else, to guess beforehand -what Mr. Shaw will do. Finally, it may be conjectured -that the rank and file of our playwrights will -write for us precisely the same plays they have -written before, under new titles. It would be an -agreeable innovation if they would keep the old titles -and write new plays for them.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_THEORY_OF_BRUNETIERE">A THEORY OF BRUNETIÈRE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>There is a theory of the late Ferdinand Brunetière -about the periods of dramatic activity which the -time we are now passing through ought to put to the -test. Brunetière was an incorrigible generalizer, -first because he was a Frenchman, and next because -he was a born critic. Criticism without general -ideas, without a substructure of principle and theory -to build upon, is an idle thing, the mere expression -of likes and dislikes, or else sheer verbiage. This -French critic was always throwing theories at the -drama, and some of them have stuck. Perhaps the -soundest of them and the most lasting was his -theory of the drama as the spectacle of the struggle -of will against obstacles. There has been much -controversy about it, there has been no difficulty -in instancing cases which it fails to cover, but I -venture to think that as a rough generalization it -still holds good. I am not, however, concerned with -that famous theory for the moment. I am thinking -of another theory—a historical one. Brunetière -asserted that every outburst of dramatic activity -in a nation will be found to have followed close upon -a great manifestation of national energy—Greek<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -tragedy, for instance, after the Persian War, Calderon -and de Vega after the Spanish conquests in the -New World, Shakespeare after the Armada, the -French romantic drama after the Napoleonic campaigns. -He might have added that the war of 1870 -was followed by the best work of Dumas fils, by the -Théâtre Libre, by Ibsen and Björnson, Hauptmann -and Sudermann, and the Russo-Japanese War by -the Moscow Art Theatre and Tchekhov.</p> - -<p>I confess, then, my doubts about the soundness -of this theory. Throughout the past history of any -nation wars have been of so constant occurrence that -it would be difficult not to find one preceding, by a -fairly short term, any particular outburst of dramatic -activity you like to fix upon. One is always <i>post</i> the -other; it is not necessarily <i>propter</i>. And instances -to the contrary will readily occur: periods of dramatic -activity that were not immediately preceded -by, but rather synchronized with, great manifestations -of national energy; for instance, the period of -Corneille, Racine, and Molière. And sometimes, -when you look for your dramatic sequel to your -national energizing, you only draw a blank. Did -any outburst of dramatic production follow the -American Civil War? The theory, in short, is “an -easy one,” relying on lucky coincidence and ignoring -inconvenient exceptions.</p> - -<p>In any case, we ought to be able now, if ever, to -put it to the “acid test.” The leading nations of the -world have just fought the biggest of all their wars.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> -Has the promised sequel followed? Is there any sign -at home or abroad of a fresh outburst of dramatic -energy? In Germany they seem to be merely -“carrying on,” or tending to be a little more pornographic -than usual. In Vienna they are still translating -Mr. Shaw. No new dramatic masterpiece is -reported from Italy, D’Annunzio being “otherwise -engaged,” Mr. Boffin. Paris is still producing its -favourite little “spicinesses” or, for the high brows, -translating Strindberg. (Outside the theatre the effect -of the war on Paris seems not merely negative but -stupefying. They have achieved Dadaism and, so I -read in a recent <i>Literary Supplement</i>, a distaste for -the works of M. Anatole France!) In America the -drama is in no better case than before the war.</p> - -<p>And what about London? An absolutely unprecedented -dearth of not merely good but of actable -plays. People will give you other causes, mainly -economic, for the theatrical “slump.” They will -tell you, truly enough, that playgoers have less -money to spend, and that the cheaper “cinema” is -diverting more and more money from the theatre. -And yet, whenever the managers produce anything -really worth seeing there is no lack of people to see it.</p> - -<p>There is nothing, then, to discourage the aspiring -dramatist. Only he won’t aspire! Or his aspiration -is not backed by talent! It seems as though the -war, instead of stimulating dramatic energy, had -repressed and chilled it. What on earth (if I may use -a colloquialism condemned by Dr. Johnson) would<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span> -poor M. Brunetière have said if he had lived to see -his pet theory thus falsified? Probably he would -have invented a new one. He would have said that -wars mustn’t be <i>too</i> big to fit into a law devised only -for usual sizes. Also he might have said, wait and -see. The war is only just over; give your young -dramatists a little breathing time. Shakespeare’s -plays didn’t immediately follow the Armada. The -French Romantic Drama didn’t begin till a good -dozen years after Waterloo.</p> - -<p>Well, we can’t afford to wait. While we playgoers -are waiting for good plays, our young men are all -frittering away their talent in minor poetry, which -war seems to bring as relentlessly in its train as shell-shock. -But the victims of both maladies ought by -now to be on the high-road to recovery, and it is -time that the young minor poets turned their attention -to something useful, <i>e.g.</i>, the reintroduction of -the British drama. They have a capital opportunity, -since most of our old stalwarts seem to have left the -field. Sir Arthur Pinero gives us nothing. Mr. -Arthur Henry Jones gives us nothing. Mr. Maugham -is, I am told, far away in Borneo, so now is the chance -for the young aspirants; the world is all before them -where to choose. Of course it is understood that they -will drop their verse. That used to be the natural -form for plays over two centuries ago. It may come -into fashion again, you never can tell, but, quite -clearly, the time is not yet. I have heard people ask, -“What are the chances for a revival of poetic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -drama?” They really mean verse-drama, but the -answer is, that the essence of poetry is not verse, -which is merely ornament, but the expression of a -certain spiritual state, a certain <i>état d’âme</i>, and that -there is always room for poetic plays. <i>Dear Brutus</i> -contained much of the poetic essence; so does <i>Mary -Rose</i>. But their language is prose, and our young -aspirants may be recommended to write in prose, for -which their previous verse-exercises will have been -a useful preparation. Only let them hurry up! Let -their hearts swell with the proud hope of creating -that magnificent affair, which demands capital -letters, the Drama of the Future. Mr. Bergson told -us at Oxford that when an interviewer invited him -to forecast the drama of the future he answered, -“If I could do that I’d write it.” So we can only -wonder what it will be like. “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson -to Boswell who was “wondering,” “you <i>may</i> -wonder.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DISRAELI_AND_THE_PLAY">DISRAELI AND THE PLAY</h2> - -</div> - -<p>We have all been reading Mr. Buckle’s concluding -volumes, and when we have recovered from the -fascination of the great man and the splendid -historical pageant they present to us, we dip into -them again in search of trifles agreeable to our own -individual taste. And I shall make no apology for -turning for a moment from Disraeli in robes of -ceremony, the friend of Sovereigns, the hero of -Congresses, the great statesman and great Parliament -man, to Disraeli the playgoer. That dazzling figure -is not readily thought of as a unit in the common -playhouse crowd. Yet it is with a feeling of relief -from the imposing spectacle of great mundane -affairs that you find Disraeli, after receiving in the -afternoon the “awful news” of the Russian ultimatum -to Turkey (October, 1876), going in the evening -with his Stafford House hosts to see <i>Peril</i> at the -Haymarket, and pleased with the acting of Mrs. -Kendal. The play, he tells his correspondent, Lady -Bradford, is—</p> - -<p>“An adaptation from the French <i>Nos Intimes</i>—not -over-moral, but fairly transmogrified from the -original, and cleverly acted in the chief part—a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> -woman whom, I doubt not, you, an <i>habituée</i> of the -drama, know very well, but quite new to me. Now -she is married, but she was a sister of Robertson, the -playwright. She had evidently studied in the French -school. The whole was good and the theatre was -ventilated; so I did not feel exhausted, and was -rather amused, and shd. rather have enjoyed myself -had not the bad news thrown its dark shadow over -one’s haunted consciousness....”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal’s training was, I fancy, entirely -English, but her acting was on a level with the best -of “the French school.” Disraeli was an old -admirer of French acting, as we know from -“Coningsby,” and I think it is pretty clear from -the same source that he particularly liked Déjazet. -For he had Déjazet in mind, I guess, in the member -of Villebecque’s troop of French comedians engaged -for the delectation of Lord Monmouth, “a lady of -maturer years who performed the heroines, gay and -graceful as May.” This was the lady, it will be -remembered, who saved the situation when Mlle. -Flora broke down. “The failure of Flora had given -fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She -seemed the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last -scene she figured in male attire; and in air, fashion, -and youth beat Villebecque out of the field. She -looked younger than Coningsby when he went up -to his grandpapa.” This is Déjazet to the life. -The whole episode of the French players in “Coningsby” -shows Disraeli as not only an experienced<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span> -playgoer but a connoisseur of the theatre. His description -of the company is deliciously knowing—from -the young lady who played old woman’s parts, -“nothing could be more garrulous and venerable,” -and the old man who “was rather hard, but handy; -could take anything either in the high serious or the -low droll,” to the sentimental lover who “was -rather too much bewigged, and spoke too much to -the audience, a fault rare with the French; but this -hero had a vague idea that he was ultimately -destined to run off with a princess.”</p> - -<p>In “Tancred” there is another, and an entirely -charming, glimpse of French strolling players or -strollers who played in French, the Baroni family—“Baroni; -that is, the son of Aaron; the name of -old clothesmen in London, and of Caliphs in Baghdad.” -There is no more engaging incident in the -romantic career of Sidonia than his encounter with -this family in a little Flanders town. They played -in a barn, to which Sidonia had taken care that all -the little boys should be admitted free, and Mlle. -Josephine advanced warmly cheered by the spectators, -“who thought they were going to have some -more tumbling.” It was Racine’s “Andromaque,” -however, that she presented, and “it seemed to -Sidonia that he had never listened to a voice more -rich and passionate, to an elocution more complete; -he gazed with admiration on her lightning glance -and all the tumult of her noble brow.” Sidonia -played fairy godmother to the whole family, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -“Mlle. Josephine is at this moment [1849] the glory -of the French stage; without any question the most -admirable tragic actress since Clairon, and inferior -not even to her.” If for Josephine we read Rachel, -we shall not be far wrong.</p> - -<p>Anyhow, it is evident that, when Disraeli thought -Mrs. Kendal must have studied in the French school, -he was paying her the highest compliment at his -disposal. It is disappointing that we have no -criticism from Disraeli of Sarah Bernhardt. Matthew -Arnold said that Sarah left off where Rachel began. -Disraeli says nothing, which is perhaps significant, -for he did see Sarah. He was first asked to see her -play at a party at Lord Dudley’s, but declined, as -he “could not forgo country air.” A few weeks -later, however, he was at the Wiltons’, where “the -principal saloon, turned into a charming theatre, -received the world to witness the heroine of the hour, -Sarah Bernhardt.” And that is all. A playgoer -of seventy-five is hardly disposed to take up with -new favourites—which accounts, perhaps, for Disraeli’s -verdict on Irving. “I liked the <i>Corsican -Brothers</i> as a melodrama,” he writes to Lady Bradford -(November, 1880), “and never saw anything -put cleverer on the stage. Irving whom I saw for -the first time, is third-rate, and never will improve, -but good eno’ for the part he played, tho’ he continually -reminded me of Lord Dudley....” Why -“though”?</p> - -<p>On another popular favourite he was even harder.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> -Writing again to Lady Bradford, he says:—“Except -at Wycombe Fair, in my youth, I have never seen -anything so bad as <i>Pinafore</i>. It was not even a -burlesque, a sort of provincial <i>Black-eyed Susan</i>. -Princess Mary’s face spoke volumes of disgust and -disappointment, but who cd. have told her to go -there?” Staying later at Hatfield, however, he -found all the Cecil youngsters singing the <i>Pinafore</i> -music. A few years earlier he tells Lady Bradford -a story he had just heard from a friend of a visit -paid by a distinguished Opposition party to <i>The -Heir at Law</i> at the old Haymarket. “Into one of -the stalls came Ld. Granville; then in a little time, -Gladstone; then, at last, Harty-Tarty! Gladstone -laughed very much at the performance; H.-T. never -even smiled. 3 conspirators....” Another -remarkable trio figures in another story. Disraeli -had been to the Aquarium to see a famous ape and -the lady who used to be shot out of a cannon. -“Chaffed” (if the word is not improper) about this -by the Queen at the Royal dinner table, Disraeli -said, “There were three sights, madam; Zazel, -Pongo, and myself.”</p> - -<p>It will be seen that there are few records of Disraeli’s -playgoing or show-going in his old age. -Gladstone, we know, was to the last a frequent -playgoer—and, I believe, an enthusiastic admirer -of Irving. Disraeli, I take it, had become rather -the book-lover than the playgoer. The humblest -of us may share that taste with the great man, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> -even take refuge in his illustrious example for the -habit, denounced by the austere, of reading over -solitary meals. Mr. Buckle tells us that “over his -solitary and simple dinner he would read one of his -favourite authors, mostly classics of either Latin, -Italian Renaissance, or English eighteenth century -literature, pausing for ten minutes between each -course.” That passage will endear Disraeli to many -of us, simple, home-keeping people, unacquainted -with Courts and Parliaments, who feel, perhaps, a -little bewildered amid the processional “drums and -tramplings” and the gorgeous triumphs of his public -career.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HENRY_JAMES_AND_THE_THEATRE">HENRY JAMES AND THE THEATRE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Are not the friends of Henry James inclined to -be a little too solemn when they write about him, -perhaps feeling that they must rise to the occasion -and put on their best style, as though he had his -eye on them and would be “down” on any lapses? -An admirable reviewer of the Letters in the <i>Literary -Supplement</i> seemed, indeed, so overcome by his -subject as to have fallen into one of Henry James’s -least amiable mannerisms—his introduction of -elaborate “figures,” relentlessly worked out and -at last lagging superfluous. And the editor of the -Letters, admirably, too, as he has done his work, -is just a little bleak, isn’t he?—wearing the grave -face of the historian and mindful never to become -familiar. “Thank Heaven!” one seems to hear -these writers saying to themselves; “even <i>he</i> could -never have called this vulgar.” Such is the posthumous -influence of the fastidious “master”! -I daresay I am captious. One is never quite -satisfied with what one sees in print about people -one loved. One always thinks—it is, at any rate, a -pleasing illusion—that one has one’s own key to that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span> -particular cipher, and to see the thing not merely -given away but authoritatively expounded in print -is rather a nuisance. Look at the number of fair -ladies to whom Henry James wrote letters rich in intimate -charm (oh! and, as he would have said, of a -decorum!)—perhaps each of them thought she had -the best corner of his heart. The most immaculate -of women, young and old, matrons and maidens, <i>will</i> -sentimentalize their men friends in this way. How -could Henry James have escaped? Well, if any one -of these ladies had edited the Letters or reviewed -them, wouldn’t each of the others have said: “No, -that isn’t <i>my</i> Henry James—<i>she</i> never understood -him, poor dear”? I apologize for this flippant way -of putting it to the two refined writers I began by -mentioning. But, as the lady says in <i>The Spoils of -Poynton</i>, “I’m quite coarse, thank God!”</p> - -<p>Henry James, unfortunately for his theatrical -ambitions, never was. You must not only be coarse -in grain, but tough in hide, for success in the theatre. -Everybody knows that Henry James achieved only -failure there, either crushing failure amid hootings -and yells, as with <i>Guy Domville</i>, or that very significant -failure which is called a success of “esteem,” -as with his stage versions of <i>The American</i> and -<i>Covering End</i>. But not everybody knows how he -positively yearned for the big popular success, and -for that biggest, loudest, most brazen-trumpeted of -successes, success in the theatre. He talks in his -letters as though he actually needed the money,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> -but it was really not so. He looked round the world -and found it teeming with “best sellers,” idols of -the multitude, who by any standards of his simply -couldn’t “write,” didn’t artistically “exist.” And -the most pathetic thing in his letters is their evidence -that he began, aye! and went on, with the illusion -that he, such as he was, the absolute artist, might -some day become a “best seller.” Even so late as -the days of his Collected Edition it came as a shock -to him that the great public wouldn’t buy.</p> - -<p>It is evident that he had good hopes, beforehand, -of <i>Guy Domville</i>. And yet he hated the actual -process of production. The rehearsal, he says, is -“as amazing as anything can be, for a man of -taste and sensibility, in the odious process of practical -dramatic production. I may have been meant for -the Drama—God knows!—but I certainly wasn’t -meant for the Theatre.” And when dire failure -came, it wasn’t, he says, from any defect of technique. -“I have worked like a horse—far harder -than any one will ever know—over the whole stiff -mystery of ‘technique’—I have run it to earth, and -I don’t in the least hesitate to say that, for the -comparatively poor and meagre, the piteously -simplified purposes of the English stage, I have made -it absolutely my own, put it into my pocket.” No, -the fault must be in his choice of subject. “The -question of realizing how different is the attitude of -the theatre-goer toward the quality of things which -might be a story in a book from his attitude toward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -the quality of thing that is given to him as a story -in a play is another matter altogether. <i>That</i> -difficulty is portentous, for any writer who doesn’t -approach it naïvely, as only a very limited and -simple-minded writer can. One has to <i>make</i> -oneself so limited and simple to conceive a subject, -see a subject, simply enough, and that, in a nutshell, -is where I have stumbled.” “And yet,” he adds, -pathetically enough (writing to his brother), “if -you were to have seen my play!” He knew he had -done good work, in his own way, and the plain fact -that his way was a way which the gross theatre -public would not understand or sympathize with -was a terrible blow to him.</p> - -<p>The process of turning himself into a simple-minded -writer—that is, of making a sow’s ear out -of a silk purse, was, of course, impossible. One -doesn’t want to wallow in the obvious. But doesn’t -it leap at the eyes that an artist who seeks to abandon -his own temperament and point of view for another’s -will forfeit all chance of that spontaneous joy without -which there is no artistic creation? Fortunately, -this theatrical malady of Henry James’s (though he -had one or two recurrent twinges of it) never became -chronic. The history of his real work is a history -not of self-renunciation, but of self-development, of -abounding, as the French say, in his own sense. -As to the theatrical technique which he had put into -his pocket he certainly kept it there. Like most -laboriously acquired, alien techniques it was too<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> -technical, too “architectooralooral”—as any one -can see who dips into his two forgotten volumes of -“Theatricals.” His own proper technique was a -very different thing, an entirely individual thing, -and no reader of his books can have failed to notice -how he gradually perfected it as he went along. It -reached its highest point, to my thinking, in <i>The -Ambassadors</i>, surely the greatest of his books -(though over this question the fierce tribe of Jacobites -will fight to their last gasp), when everything, -absolutely everything, is shown as seen through the -eyes of Strether. To see a thing so “done” as he -would have said, an artistic difficulty so triumphantly -mastered, is among the rarest and most exquisite -pleasures of life. That was Henry James’s function, -to give us rare and exquisite pleasures, of a quality -never to be had in the modern theatre. He was no -theatrical man, but he could, when he chose, be the -most delicate of dramatic critics. Read what he -says in these Letters about Rostand’s <i>L’Aiglon</i> -(“the man really has talent like an attack of small-pox”), -about Bernstein’s <i>Le Secret</i> as a “case,” -about Ibsen, “bottomlessly bourgeois ... and yet -of his art he’s a master—and I feel in him, to the -pitch of almost intolerable boredom, the presence -and the insistence of life.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THEATRICAL_AMORISM">THEATRICAL AMORISM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>“The stage is more beholding to love than the -life of man. For as to the stage, love is ever matter -of comedies, and now and then of tragedies; but in -life, it doth much mischief; sometimes like a siren; -sometimes like a fury.” It is one of the few things -the general reader is able to quote from Bacon, who -goes on to make some pointed remarks about love -in life, but drops all reference to love on the stage, -which he would hardly have done had he been -Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>But the converse question, how far love is “beholding” -to the stage—what treatment it has -received there, what justice the stage has done to -it—is certainly not without interest. Life is not -long enough to deal with the whole question, ranging -through the ages, but it may be worth while to -consider for a moment what our contemporary English -stage is doing with the theme. Are our playwrights -addressing themselves to it with sincerity, -with veracity, with real insight? Or are they just -“muddling through” with it, repeating familiar -commonplaces about it, not troubling themselves -“to see the thing as it really is”? These questions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> -have occurred to me in thinking over Mr. Arnold -Bennett’s <i>Sacred and Profane Love</i>. Thinking it -over! interrupts the ingenuous reader; but have -you not already reviewed it? So it may be well to -explain that one “notices” a play and then thinks -it over. True, one’s “notice”—the virtually instantaneous -record of one’s first impressions—sometimes -wears a specious appearance of thought. But that -is one of the wicked deceptions of journalism, -mainly designed to appease eager people of the sort -who rush up to you the moment the curtain is down -on the First Act to ask: “Well, what do you think -of it?” In reality, as the wily reader knows, it is -at best only thought in the making, a casting about -for thought. Not until you have read it yourself -next morning can you begin (if you ever do begin) -to think. So, as I say, I have been thinking over -Mr. Bennett’s <i>Sacred and Profane Love</i>.</p> - -<p>It is not what used to be called a “well-made” -play. Its main interest is not cumulative, but is -suspended for a whole act and, at its most critical -point, relegated to an inter-act. In Act I. the young -Carlotta gives herself to Diaz. In Act II. (seven -years later) Diaz has dropped clean out. Carlotta, -now a famous novelist, is in love with somebody else -and shows herself strong enough to renounce her -love. Act III. resumes the Carlotta-Diaz story. He -has become an abject morphinomaniac; she heroically -devotes herself, body and soul, to the terrible -task of reclaiming him. <i>Between</i> Acts III. and IV.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -(fourteen months) this terrible task is accomplished. -We have to take it on trust, a rather “large order.” -Act IV. ends the Carlotta-Diaz story in marriage. -Obviously it is not a well-told story. It has a long -digression, and the spectator’s attention is misled; -it assumes a miracle behind the scenes, and the -spectator’s credulity is over-taxed. Act II. is a play -within a play; how Carlotta nearly ran away with -her publisher. In Act IV. you cannot accept the -alleged recovery of the morphinomaniac, you expect -him to “break out” again at any moment. Of -course, the story being what it is, there was no help -for it. Years of rising to fame as a novelist, months -of struggling with a drug victim, cannot be shown -on the stage. Only, writers of well-made plays do -not choose such stories.</p> - -<p>But is this treating the play fairly? Is it just a -story, the story of Carlotta and Diaz? Suppose we -look at it in another way, suppose we consider it as -a study of modern love, or, more particularly, of the -modern woman in love. Then the play at once -looks much more shipshape. It is the <i>éducation -sentimentale</i> of Carlotta. The second act ceases to -be episodical; it is one of the stages in Carlotta’s -“love-life” (as Ibsen’s Ella Rentheim calls it). The -miracle of Diaz’s reclamation between the acts -ceases to worry us; it only prepares another stage in -Carlotta’s love-life. And, from this point of view, -I think Mr. Bennett has achieved something much -better than the construction of a well-made play.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -He has given us, in his downright matter-of-fact -way, a close study of modern love in the case of a -woman made for love, living for it, able to dominate -it and to turn it to heroic purpose. She starts her -career of love by “giving herself” to a man who is -almost a stranger. I suppose this is considered a -“bold” scene. But it is, evidently, there from no -cheap purpose of “audacity,” it is no calculated -fling at the proprieties. Mr. Bennett—it is his way—indifferently -depicts human nature as he sees it, -and the girl’s “fall” is natural enough. In a <i>milieu</i> -of prosaic provincialism (if one may venture so to -qualify the Five Towns) she is thrown into contact -with a romantic figure from the great world, a -famous pianist who has just enraptured her with -his music, the embodiment of all her artistic ideals. -She is of an amorous temperament (and since Mr. -Bennett is undertaking a study of love, it would be -no use choosing an ascetic heroine). The inevitable -happens. When next seen, she has not seen or heard -of the man for years since their one meeting. They -have been years of strenuous labour, and she is a -successful novelist. But she has not parted with -her temperament, and she falls in love with, so to -speak, the nearest man. He seems a poor creature -for so superior a woman to choose—but such a choice -is one of the commonplaces of life. When she -realizes the misery she is causing to the man’s wife -she promptly renounces him. (The wife has a little -past love-history of her own—Mr. Bennett neglects<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> -no facet of his subject.) Then Carlotta hears of Diaz -and his morphinomania, conceives forthwith her -heroic project of rescuing him, takes up her lot with -him again, and pulls him through. When he is himself -again, he reveals the egoism of the absolute -artist. Carlotta must not accompany him to the -concert, because she would make him nervous. She -obeys, and is left in an agony of suspense at home. -When the concert has ended in triumph, he must be -off (without his wife) to an influential patron’s -party. She acquiesces again, not without tears. -The men she loves are not worthy of her; but she -must love them, she was made for love. There is -talk of marriage at the end. It seems an anti-climax.</p> - -<p>I find that I have been discussing Mr. Bennett’s -play instead of the general question into which I -proposed to inquire—the treatment of love by our -dramatists of to-day. It looks, I fear, like the familiar -device of a reviewer for running away from his -subject—“unfortunately, our space will not permit, -&c.”—always very useful when the subject is getting -ticklish. But the fact that I have had to dwell on -Mr. Bennett’s case rather shows how rare that case -is with us. The general treatment of love on our -stage is, it seems to me, inadequate. Either it is a -mere <i>ficelle</i>, an expedient for a plot, or it is apt to be -conventional, second-hand, unobserved. We want -fresh, patient, and fearless studies of it on our stage. -I am not asking for calculated “audacity” or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -salacity (there has never been any dearth of that), -but for veracity. Though the subject is the oldest -in the world, it is always becoming new. There are -subtleties, fine shades, in our modern love that cannot -have been known to the Victorians; yet most -of our stage-love to-day remains placidly Victorian. -Was it Rochefoucauld or Chamfort who spoke of the -many people who would never fall in love if they -hadn’t heard it talked about? But think how we -of to-day have all heard it talked about, what books -we have read about it! The old passion has put on -a new consciousness, and calls for a new stage-treatment. -Where is our Donnay or our Porto-Riche? -They, perhaps, pursue their inquiries a little farther -than would suit our British delicacy; but our playwrights -might at least take a leaf out of their book -in the matter of veracity, instead of mechanically -repeating the old commonplaces.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="H_B_IRVING">H. B. IRVING</h2> - -</div> - -<p>There is a commonplace about the evanescent -glory of actors that will hardly bear close scrutiny. -It is said that, as they live more intensely than other -men, enjoying their reward on the spot, so they die -more completely, and leave behind nothing but a -name. Even so, are they worse off than the famous -authors whom nobody ever reads? Or than the -famous painters whose works have disappeared? -Which is the more live figure for us to-day, John -Kemble, who played in the <i>Iron Chest</i>, or William -Godwin, who wrote the original story? Is Zeuxis -or Apelles anything more than a name? It is said -that whereas other artists survive in their work, the -actor’s dies with him. But we make of every work -of art a palimpsest, and it is for us what we ourselves -have written over its original text—so that the artist -only lives vicariously, through our own life—while -the dead actor’s work stands inviolate, out of our -reach, a final thing. Lamb says of Dodd’s Aguecheek, -“a part of his forehead would catch a little -intelligence, and be a long time in communicating -it to the remainder.” Nothing can alter that -forehead now; but if Dodd could have left it behind<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> -him, we should be all agog to revise the verdict. So -Mrs. Siddons was famous for her graceful manner -of dismissing the guests at Macbeth’s banquet. -Nothing can impair that grace now; could it have -been handed down, we should be having two opinions -about it. Dead actors, then, live again in the pages -that commemorate them, and they live more securely -than the artists whose works survive. They are no -longer the sport of opinion.</p> - -<p>But this is only casuistry, the vain effort to seek -consolation for the death of a friend. I am not -speaking of a boon companion, but of something -much better, of that ideal, disinterested friend which -every actor is for us on the stage, giving us his mind -and heart and temperament and physical being, -immolating his very self for us, and at the end (I -can see Henry Irving the elder standing before the -curtain as he uttered the words) our “obliged, -respectful, loving servant.” This is pure friendship, -purer than any private intimacy, with its inevitable -contacts and reserves of different egoisms. Why does -my mind go back to the elder Irving? Because I -am thinking of his son Harry, who was so like him -(too like him, it was a perpetual handicap), and -never more like him than in that pride which does -not ape humility but feels it—the pride of the artist -in his art and the humility of the devotee in the -temple of art. Indeed, I think Harry Irving had an -almost superstitious reverence for his profession. He -had it perhaps not merely because he was his father’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span> -son, but also because he was his father’s son with a -difference, an academic difference; he was one of a -little band of Oxford men whose adoption of the -stage was, in those days, a breach with orthodox -Oxford tradition. All that, I daresay, is altered now. -In an Oxford which has widened Magdalen Bridge -and built itself new Schools anything is possible. -But in those days undergraduates were not habitually -qualifying for the stage; indeed, the old “Vic” in -term-time was out of bounds. The old “Vic” had -only just disappeared when I went up to see young -Irving as Decius Brutus in <i>Julius Cæsar</i>, and H. B. -was still very much an undergraduate. Heavens! -the pink and green sweets we ate at supper not far -from Tom Tower after the show—the sweets that -only undergraduates can eat! If I remember the -sweets better than the Decius Brutus, it will be -indulgent to infer that Harry Irving’s <i>début</i> was not -of the most remarkable. But his reverence for the -histrionic art was, even then. I teazed him (youthful -critics have a crude appetite for controversy) by -starting an assault, entirely theoretical and Pickwickian, -on that reverential attitude; we beat over -the ground from Plato to Bossuet; and I think it -took him some time to forgive me.</p> - -<p>In his earlier years on the stage he was a little stiff -and formal—characteristics which were not at all -to his disadvantage in the young prig of <i>The Princess -and the Butterfly</i> and the solemn young man-about-town -of <i>Letty</i> (though the smart Bond Street suit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span> -and patent leather shoes of the man-about-town -were obviously a sore trial to a boy who, from his -earliest years, dressed after his father). I imagine -his Crichton (1902) was his first real success in London, -and an admirable Crichton it was, standing out, -as the play demanded, with that vigour and stamp of -personal domination which he had inherited from -his father. His Hamlet, though his most important, -was hardly his best part. It was too cerebral. But -is not Hamlet, some one will ask, the very prince of -cerebrals? Yes, but Hamlet has grace as well as -thought, sweetness as well as light. Harry Irving’s -Hamlet (of 1905, he softened much in the later -revival) was a little didactic, almost donnish. He -hardened the hardness of Hamlet—particularly his -hardness to women, Ophelia and Gertrude, which -we need not be sickly sentimentalists to dislike seeing -emphasized. In a word he was impressive rather -than charming—was perhaps almost harsh after the -conspicuously charming Hamlet of Forbes-Robertson. -Nevertheless, if Harry Irving’s Hamlet was -second to Forbes-Robertson’s, it was a very good -second.</p> - -<p>He had his father’s rather Mephistophelean -humour—but I am annoyed to find myself always -harping on his father. It is a tiresome obsession. -None suffered from it more than the son himself, at -once hero and martyr of filial piety. He invited -comparison, playing as many as possible of his -father’s old parts, all ragged and threadbare as they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> -had become. But he lacked the quality which -originally saved them, the romantic flamboyant -<i>baroque</i> quality of his father’s genius. Sir Henry -impressed himself upon his time by sheer force of -individuality and by what Byron calls “magnoperation.” -He was a great manager as well as a great -actor, doing everything on a gigantic scale and in the -grand style. He was a splendid figure of romance, -off as well as on the stage. It was hopeless to provoke -comparison with such a being as this. Though -the son showed the family likeness he was naturally -a reasonable man, a scholar, a man of discursive -analytic mind rather than of the instinctive perfervid -histrionic temperament. It was always a pleasure -to swop ideas with him, to talk to him about the -principles of his art, the great criminals of history, -or the latest murder trial he had been attending at -the Old Bailey; but I suspect (I never tried) conversation -with his father, in Boswell’s phrase, a -“tremendous companion,” must have been a rather -overwhelming experience.... And, after all, the -wonderful thing is that the son stood the comparison -so well, that he was not utterly crushed by it—that -the successor of so exorbitant an artist could maintain -any orbit of his own. That is a curious corner -of our contemporary society the corner of the second -generation, where the son mentions “my father” -quickly, with a slight drop of the voice, out of a -courteous disinclination to let filial respect become a -bore to third parties. There is an academician of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span> -the second generation in Pailleron’s play who is -always alluding to <i>mon illustre père</i>, and as the ill-natured -say <i>joue du cadavre</i>. In our little English -corner there is never any such lapse from good taste, -Harry Irving was greatly loved there; and will be -sadly missed.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_PUPPETS">THE PUPPETS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>At the corner of a Bloomsbury square I found -my path blocked by a little crowd of children who -were watching a puppet show of an unusual kind. -The usual kind, of course, is <i>Punch and Judy</i>, which -has become a degenerate thing, with its puppets -grasped in the operator’s hand; these puppets were -wired, in the grand manner of the art, and had a -horse and cart, no less, for their transport. The -show, though lamentably poor in itself—the puppets -merely danced solemnly round and round without -any attempt at dramatic action—was rich in -suggestion. Do we not all keep a warm corner of -our hearts for the puppets, if only for their venerable -antiquity and their choice literary associations? -Why, in the grave pages of the <i>Literary Supplement</i> -learned archæologists have lately been corresponding -about the Elizabethan “motions,” and Sir William -Ridgeway has traced the puppets back to the -Syracuse of Xenophon’s day, and told us how that -author in his “Symposium” makes a famous -Syracusan puppet player say that he esteems fools -above other men because they are those who go -to see his puppets (νευρόσπαστα). My own recollections<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> -connect Xenophon with parasangs rather than -puppets, but I am glad to be made aware of this -honourable pedigree, though I strongly resent the -Syracusan’s remark about the amateurs of puppets. -I share the taste of Partridge, who “loved a puppet -show of all the pastimes upon earth,” and I sympathize -with the showman in “Tom Jones” who could -tolerate all religions save that of the Presbyterians, -“because they were enemies to puppet shows.” And -so I lingered with the children at the corner of the -Bloomsbury square.</p> - -<p>Puppets, someone has said, have this advantage -over actors: they are made for what they do, their -nature conforms exactly to their destiny. I have -seen them in Italy performing romantic drama with -a dash and a <i>panache</i> that no English actor in my -recollection (save, perhaps, the late Mr. Lewis -Waller) could rival. Actors, being men as well as -actors, and therefore condemned to effort in acting, -if only the effort of keeping down their consciousness -of their real, total self, cannot attain to this clear-cut -definiteness and purity of performance. But the -wire-puller must be a true artist, his finger-tips -responsive to every emotional thrill of the character -and every <i>nuance</i> of the drama; indeed, the ideal -wire-puller is the poet himself, expressing himself -through the motions of his puppets and declaiming -his own words for them.</p> - -<p>It was with this thought in my mind that I -ventured, when Mr. Hardy first published <i>The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> -Dynasts</i>, to suggest that the perfect performance of -that work would be as a puppet show, with Mr. -Hardy reading out his own blank verse. I pointed -out the suggestive reference to puppets in the text. -One of the Spirits describes the human protagonists -as “mere marionettes,” and elsewhere you read:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Forgetting the Prime Mover of the gear</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As puppet-watchers him who moves the strings.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Further, at the very core of Mr. Hardy’s drama is -the idea that these Napoleons and Pitts and Nelsons -are puppets of the Immanent Will. If ever there -was a case for raising a puppet show to the highest -literary dignity, this was one.</p> - -<p>But it was all in vain. Either Mr. Hardy was -too modest to declaim his own verse in public, or -else the actors pushed in, as they will wherever they -can, and laid hands on as much of his work as they -could manage. And so we had Mr. Granville -Barker’s version early in the war and only the other -day the performance at Oxford, and I have nothing -to say against either, save that they were, and could -only be, extracts, episodes, fragments, instead of the -great epic-drama in its panoramic entirety. A -puppet show could embrace the whole, and one voice -declaiming the poem would to be sure not give the -necessary unity of impression—that singleness must -be first of all in the work itself—but would -incidentally emphasize it.</p> - -<p>The puppet presentation would, however, do -much more than this. It would clarify, simplify,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span> -attenuate the medium through which the poem -reaches the audience. The poet and his public -would be in close contact. It is, of course, for many -minds, especially for those peculiarly susceptible to -poetry, a perpetual grievance against the actors that -these living, bustling, solid people get between them -and the poet and substitute fact, realism, flesh-and-blood -for what these minds prefer to embody only -in their imagination. There is the notorious instance -of Charles Lamb, with his objection to seeing -Shakespeare’s tragedies acted. He complained that -the gay and witty Richard III. was inevitably -materialized and vulgarized by the actor. Lamb, as -we all know, was capricious, and indeed made a -virtue of caprice, but what do you say to so serious -and weighty a critic as Professor Raleigh? Talking -about the Shakespearean boy-actors of women, he -commits himself to this:—“It may be doubted -whether Shakespeare has not suffered more than he -has gained by the genius of later-day actresses, who -bring into the plays a realism and a robust emotion -which sometimes obscure the sheer poetic value of -the author’s conception. The boys were no doubt -very highly trained, and amenable to instruction; -so that the parts of Rosalind and Desdemona may -well have been rendered with a clarity and simplicity -which served as a transparent medium for the -author’s wit and pathos. Poetry, like religion, is -outraged when it is made a platform for the exhibition -of their own talent and passions by those who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> -are its ministers. With the disappearance of the -boy-players the poetic drama died in England, and -it has had no second life.”</p> - -<p>A little “steep,” is it not? Logically it is an -objection to all acting of poetic drama. Boy-players -of girls are only a half-way house. The -transparent medium for the author’s wit and pathos -would be still more transparent if it were merely the -medium of the printed page. Now this much is -certain. Shakespeare conceived his plays, whatever -poetry or wit or pathos he put into them, in terms -of men and women (not boy-women). The ideal -performance of Shakespeare would be by the men -and women who grew in Shakespeare’s imagination. -But they, unfortunately, do not exist in flesh and -blood, but only in that imagination, and, to bring -them on the stage, you have to employ ready-made -men and women, who at the very best can only be -rough approximations to the imaginary figures. In -this sense it is not a paradox but a simple commonplace -to say that no one has ever seen Shakespeare’s -Hamlet on the stage, or ever will see. And the -greater the “genius” of the actor, the more potent -his personality—though he will be the darling of -the majority, thirsting for realism, the immediate -sense of life—the more will he get between the poet -and imaginative students like Lamb and Professor -Raleigh, who want their poetry inviolate.</p> - -<p>This seems like a digression, but is really to my -purpose. Flesh-and-blood actors we shall always<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> -have with us; they will take good care of that -themselves. But for the imaginative souls who are -for compromise, who are for half-way houses and -look back fondly to the boy-players, I would say: -Why not try the puppets? These also present a -“transparent medium” for the author’s expression. -And, further, the purely “lyrical” passages in which -Shakespeare abounds and which seem so odd in the -realism of the human actors (<i>e.g.</i>, the Queen’s -description of Ophelia’s death) would gain immensely -by being recited by the poet (or wire-puller). A -puppet-show <i>Hamlet</i> might be an exquisite experiment -in that highest art whose secret is suggestion.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VICISSITUDES_OF_CLASSICS">VICISSITUDES OF CLASSICS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Of Webster’s <i>Duchess of Malfi</i>, revived by the -Phœnix Society, I said that it was a live classic no -longer, but a museum-classic, a curio for connoisseurs. -Its multiplication of violent deaths in the -last act (four men stabbed and one courtesan -poisoned) could no longer be taken seriously, and, in -fact, provoked a titter in the audience. This sudden -change of tragic into comic effect was fatal to that -unity of impression without which not merely a -tragedy but any work of art ceases to be an organic -whole. The change was less the fault of Webster -than of the Time Spirit. Apparently the early -Jacobeans could accept a piled heap of corpses at the -end of a play without a smile, as “all werry capital.” -Violent death was not so exceptional a thing in their -own experience as it is in ours. They had more -simplicity of mind than we have, a more childlike -docility in swallowing whole what the playwright -offered them. But Webster was not without fault. -One assassination treads so hastily upon the heels of -the other, the slaughter is so wholesale. <i>Hamlet</i> -closes with several violent deaths, yet Shakespeare -managed to avoid this pell-mell wholesale effect.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span></p> - -<p>But there is another element in Webster’s workmanship -which, I think, has helped to deprive the -play of life. I mean his obtrusive ingenuity. I am -not referring to the ingenuity of the tortures practised -upon the unhappy Duchess—the severed hand -thrust into hers, the wax figure purporting to be her -slain husband, and so forth. This fiendish ingenuity -is proper to the character of the tyrant Ferdinand, -and its exercise does add a grisly horror to the play. -I mean the ingenuity of Webster himself, a perverted, -wasted ingenuity, in his play-construction. -He seems to have ransacked his fancy in devising -scenic experiments. There is the “echo” scene. It -is theatrically ineffective. It gives you no tragic -emotion, but only a sense of amused interest in the -author’s ingenuity, and you say, “How quaint!” -Then there is the little device for giving a touch of -irony to the Cardinal’s murder. He has warned the -courtiers, for purposes of his own, that if they hear -him cry for help in the night they are to take no -notice; he will be only pretending. And so, when -he cries for help in real earnest, he is hoist with his -own petard, and the courtiers only cry, “Fie upon his -counterfeiting.” Again the theatrical effect is small; -you are merely distracted from the tragic business in -hand by the author’s curious ingenuity. For any one -interested in the theatrical <i>cuisine</i> these experiments, -of course, have their piquancy. Webster seems to -have been perpetually seeking for “new thrills”—like -the Grand Guignol people in our own day. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> -had some lucky finds. The masque of madmen, for -instance, is a tremendous thrill, one of the biggest, I -daresay, in the history of tragedy. But there were -experiments that didn’t come off.</p> - -<p>At any rate they fail with us. Webster, no doubt, -had his true “posterity” (was it perchance contemporary -with Pepys?), but we are his post-posterity. -In a sense every masterpiece is in advance of its -time. “The reason,” says Marcel Proust (“A -l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs”)—</p> - -<p>“The reason why a work of genius is admired -with difficulty at once is that the author is extraordinary, -that few people resemble him. It is his -work itself that in fertilizing the rare minds capable -of comprehending it makes them grow and multiply. -Beethoven’s quartets (XII., XIII., XIV., and XV.) -have taken fifty years to give birth and growth to the -Beethoven quartet public, thus realizing like every -masterpiece a progress in the society of minds, -largely composed to-day of what was not to be found -when the masterpiece appeared, that is to say, of -beings capable of loving it. What we call posterity -is the posterity of the work itself. The work must -create its own posterity.”</p> - -<p>Assuredly we of to-day can see more in <i>Hamlet</i> -than its first audience could. But the curve of -“posterity” is really a zig-zag. Each generation -selects from a classic what suits it. Few of the -original colours are “fast”; some fade, others grow -more vivid and then fade in their turn. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span> -Jacobean playgoer was impressed by Webster’s -heaped corpses, and we titter. He probably revelled -in the mad scene of the “lycanthropic” Ferdinand, -where we are bored. (The taste for mad scenes was -long lived; it lasted from the Elizabethans, on -through Betterton’s time—see Valentine in <i>Love for -Love</i>—and Garrick’s time, as we know from Boswell’s -anecdote about <i>Irene</i>, down to the moment -when Tilburina went mad in white satin.) On the -other hand, a scene which has possibly gained in -piquancy for us of to-day, the proud contemporaries -of Mr. Shaw, is that wherein the Duchess woos the -coy Antonio and weds him out of hand. When we -chance upon a thing like this in a classic we are apt, -fatuously enough, to exclaim. “How modern!”</p> - -<p>No one is likely to make that exclamation over -another classic of momentary revival, <i>Le Malade -Imaginaire</i>. There is not a vestige of “modernity” -in Molière’s play. It is absolutely primitive. Or -rather it seems, in all essentials, to stand outside time, -to exhibit nothing of any consequence that “dates.” -It has suffered no such mishap as has befallen -Webster’s tragedy—a change of mental attitude in -the audience which has turned the author’s desired -effect upside down. At no point at which Molière -made a bid for our laughter are we provoked, contrariwise, -to frown. You cannot, by the way, say -this about all Molière. Much, <i>e.g.</i>, of the fun in -<i>George Dandin</i> strikes a modern audience as merely -cruel. Both in Alceste and Tartuffe there has been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> -a certain alteration of “values” in the progress of -the centuries. But <i>Le Malade Imaginaire</i> is untouched. -We can enjoy it, I imagine, with precisely -the same delight as its first audience felt. Some -items of it, to be sure, were actual facts for them -which are only history for us; the subservience of -children to parents, for instance, and (though Mr. -Shaw will not agree) the pedantic humbug of the -faculty. But the point is, that the things laughed -at, though they may have ceased to exist in fact, -are as ridiculous as ever. And note that our -laughter is not a whit affected by childish absurdities -in the plot. Argan’s little girl shams dead and he -immediately assumes she is dead. Argan shams -dead and neither his wife nor his elder daughter for -a moment questions the reality of his death. His -own serving-wench puts on a doctor’s gown and he -is at once deceived by the disguise. These little -things do not matter in the least. We are willing -to go all lengths in make-believe so long as we get our -laughter.</p> - -<p>Here, then, is a classic which seems to be outside -the general rule. It has not had to make, in M. -Proust’s phrase, its own posterity. It has escaped -those vicissitudes of appreciation which classics are -apt to suffer from changes in the general condition of -the public mind.... But stay! If it has always -been greeted with the same abundance of laughter, -has the quality of that laughter been invariable? -Clearly not, for Molière is at pains to apologize in his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> -play for seeming to laugh at the faculty, whereas, he -says, he has only in view “le ridicule de la médecine.” -Between half-resentful, half-fearful laughter at a -Purgon or Diafoirus who may be at your bedside next -week and light-hearted laughter at figures that have -become merely fantastic pantaloons there is considerable -difference. And so we re-establish our general -rule.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PERVERTED_REPUTATIONS">PERVERTED REPUTATIONS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Sir Henry Irving used to tell how he and Toole -had gone together to Stratford, and fallen into talk -with one of its inhabitants about his great townsman. -After many cross-questions and crooked -answers, they arrived at the fact that the man knew -that Shakespeare had “written for summat.” “For -what?” they enquired. “Well,” replied the man, -“I do think he wrote for the Bible.”</p> - -<p>This story illustrates a general law which one -might, perhaps, if one were inclined to pseudo-scientific -categories, call the law of perverted reputations. -I am thinking more particularly of literary -reputations, which are those I happen chiefly to -care about. And literary reputations probably get -perverted more frequently than others, for the simple -reason that literature always has been and (despite -the cheap manuals, Board schools, and the modern -improvements) still is an unfathomable mystery to -the outer busy world. But, to get perverted, the -reputations must be big enough to have reached the -ears of that outer world. What happens, thereafter, -seems to be something like this. The man in the -back street understands vaguely that so-and-so is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span> -esteemed a great man. Temperamentally and culturally -incapable of appreciating the works of -literary art, for which so-and-so is esteemed great, -the back-streeter is driven to account for his greatness -to himself on grounds suitable to his own comprehension, -which grounds in the nature of the case -have nothing to do with the fine art of literature. -The general tendency is to place these grounds in -the region of the marvellous. For the capacity for -wonder is as universal as the capacity for literature -is strictly limited.</p> - -<p>Thus you have the notorious instance of Virgil -figuring to the majority of men in the middle ages -not as a poet but as a magician. Appreciation of -his poetry was for the “happy few”; by the rest -his reputation was too great to be ignored, so they -gave it a twist to accommodate it to the nature of -their own imaginations. In more recent times, -indeed in our own day, there is the equally notorious -instance of Shakespeare. The Stratford rustic knew -nothing of Shakespeare’s plays, but did know (1) that -there was a great man called Shakespeare, and (2) -that there was a great book called the Bible. He -concluded that Shakespeare must have written for the -Bible. But I am thinking of a very different perversion -of Shakespeare’s reputation. I am thinking of -the strange people, exponents of the back-street mind, -who, being incapable of appreciating Shakespeare’s -poetry and dramatic genius—having in fact no taste -for literature as such—have assigned his greatness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span> -to something compatible with their own prosaic -pedestrian taste and turned him into a contriver of -cryptograms. Again you see the old appetite for -wonder reappearing. The imputed reputation, as -in Virgil’s case, is for something <i>abscons</i>, as Rabelais -would have said, something occult.</p> - -<p>It is the old story. Superstition comes easier -to the human mind than artistic appreciation. But -superstition has played an odd freak in the case -of Shakespeare. It is actually found side by side -with artistic appreciation, of which it presents itself -as the superlative, or ecstatic, degree. There is, for -instance, an Oxford professor to whom the world is -indebted for the most delicate, the most sympathetic, -as well as the most scholarly appreciation of -Shakespeare in existence. Yet this professor is so -affronted by the flesh-and-blood domination of the -actresses who play Shakespeare’s heroines, the dangerous -competition of their personal charm with the -glamour of the text, that he has committed himself -to the startling proposition that poetic drama -perished with Shakespeare’s boy actors! Jealousy -for Shakespeare’s individual supremacy in artistic -creation, which must “brook no rival near the -throne,” has turned the professor into a misogynist. -This I venture to call Shakespearian superstition. -And there is another Oxford professor (oh, home of -lost causes and forsaken beliefs!) who assures us -that we can unravel all Shakespearian problems by -a careful study of the text alone. Don’t trouble<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span> -your minds about the actual facts in view of which -the text had been written and in which it was to be -spoken. Don’t ask where Shakespeare’s theatres -were and what the audiences were like and what -kind of shows they were used to and continued to -expect. Don’t bother about the shape of the stage -or its position in regard to the public. Stick to the -text, and nothing but the text, and all shall be made -plain unto you. It is this same professor who occasionally -treats Shakespeare’s imaginary characters -as though they were real persons, with independent -biographies of their own. He obliges us with conjectural -fragments of their biographies. “Doubtless -in happier days he (Hamlet) was a close and -constant observer of men and manners.” “All his -life he had believed in her (Gertrude), we may be -sure, as such a son would.” Shakespearian superstition -again, you see, not merely alongside but actually -growing out of artistic appreciation.</p> - -<p>Literary critics, as a rule, have suffered less than -so-called literary “creators” from perverted reputations. -The reason is plain. The man in the back -street has never heard of criticism. But what, it will -be asked, about the strange case of Aristotle? Well, -I submit that in his case the perversion arose from -the second cause I have indicated—not from the -ignorance of the multitude but from the superstitious -veneration of the few. Who was it who began -the game by calling Aristotle “the master of those -who know”? A poet who was also a scholar. Who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span> -declared Aristotle’s authority in philosophy to equal -St. Paul’s in theology? Roger Bacon (they say; I -have not myself asked for this author at Mudie’s or -<i>The Times</i> Book Club). Who said there could be no -possible contradiction between the Poetics and Holy -Writ? Dacier, an eminent Hellenist. Who declared -the rules of Aristotle to have the same certainty for -him as the axioms of Euclid? Lessing, an esteemed -“highbrow.” The gradual process, then, by which -the real Aristotle, pure thinker, critic investigating -and co-ordinating the facts of the actual drama of -his time, was perverted into the spurious Aristotle, -Mumbo Jumbo of criticism, mysteriarch, depositary -of the Tables of the Law, was the same process -that we have seen at work in the case of Shakespeare—enthusiastic -appreciation toppling over into -superstition.</p> - -<p>But none of us can afford to put on airs about it. -<i>Mutato nomine de te.</i> For, after all, what are these -various cases but extreme instances of the “personal -equation” that enters into every, even the -sanest opinion? Can any one of us do anything else -towards appreciating a work of art than remake it -within himself? So, if we are to avoid these -absurd extremes, let us look to ourselves, do our -best to get ourselves into harmony with the artist, -and “clear our minds of cant.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SECRET_OF_GREEK_ART">THE SECRET OF GREEK ART</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Mathematics may be great fun. Even simple -arithmetic is not without its comic side, as when it -enables you to find, with a little management, the -Number of the Beast in the name of any one you -dislike. Then there is “the low cunning of algebra.” -It became low cunning indeed when Euler drove -(so the anecdotist relates) Diderot out of Russia with -a sham algebraical formula. “Monsieur,” said -Euler gravely, “<i><span class="nowrap">(a + bⁿ)/n = x</span>, donc Dieu existe; -répondez</i>.” Diderot, no algebraist, could not answer, -and left.</p> - -<p>But geometry furnishes the best sport. Here is a -learned American archæologist, Mr. Jay Hambidge, -lecturing to that august body the Hellenic Society -and revealing to them his discovery that the secret -of classic Greek art (of the best period) is a matter -of two magic rectangles. I understand that the -learned gentleman himself did not make this extreme -claim about the “secret” of “Art,” but it was at any -rate so described in the report on which my remarks -are based. Mr. Hambidge appears to have devoted -years of labour and ingenuity to his researches. -The result is in any case of curious interest. But<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> -how that result can be said to be “the secret of -Greek art revealed” I wholly fail to see.</p> - -<p>Let us look first at his rectangles. His first is -<span class="nowrap">2 × √5</span>. It is said that these figures represent the -ratio of a man’s height to the full span of his outstretched -fingers. But what man? Of what race -and age? Well, let us say an average Greek of the -best period, and pass on. Mr. Hambidge has found -this rectangle over and over again in the design of -the Parthenon. “Closely akin” to it, says the -report, is another fundamental rectangle, of which -the two dimensions are in the ratio of Leonardo’s -famous “golden section.” That ratio is obtained -by dividing a straight line so that its greater is to -its lesser part as the whole is to the greater. Let us -give a mathematical meaning to the “closely akin.” -Calling the lesser part 1 and the greater <i>x</i>, then—</p> - -<p class="center nowrap"><i>x</i>/1 = (<i>x</i> + 1)/<i>x</i> or <i>x</i>² - <i>x</i> - 1 = 0</p> - -<p class="noindent">which gives you</p> - -<p class="center nowrap"><i>x</i> = (√5 + 1)/2.</p> - -<p class="noindent">The square roots will not trouble you when you -come to constructing your rectangles, for the -diagonal of the first is <span class="nowrap">√(5 + 4)</span>, or 3. If AB is -your side 2, draw a perpendicular to it through B, -and with A as centre describe the arc of a circle of -radius 3; the point of intersection will give C, the -other end of the diagonal. The second rectangle -maintains AB, and simply prolongs BC by half of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> -AB or 1. Just as the dimensions of the first rectangle -are related to those of (selected) man, and to -the plan of the Parthenon, so those of the second are -related, it seems, to the arrangement of seeds in the -sunflower and to the plan of some of the Pyramids. -Sir Theodore Cook writes to <i>The Times</i> to say that -both the sunflower and the Pyramid discoveries are -by no means new.</p> - -<p>The fact is the theory of “beautiful” rectangles -is not new. The classic exponent of it is Fechner, -who essayed to base it on actual experiment. He -placed a number of rectangular cards of various -dimensions before his friends, and asked them to -select the one they thought most beautiful. Apparently -the “golden section” rectangle got most -votes. But “most of the persons began by saying -that it all depended on the application to be made -of the figure, and on being told to disregard this, -showed much hesitation in choosing.” (Bosanquet: -“History of Æsthetic,” p. 382.) If they had been -Greeks of the best period, they would have all gone -with one accord for the “golden section” rectangle.</p> - -<p>Nor have the geometers of beauty restricted their -favours to the rectangle. Some have favoured the -circle, some the square, others the ellipse. And -what about Hogarth’s “line of beauty”? I last -saw it affectionately alluded to in the advertisement -of a corset manufacturer. So, evidently, Hogarth’s -idea has not been wasted.</p> - -<p>One sympathizes with Fechner’s friends who said<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> -it all depended upon the application to be made of -the figure. The “art” in a picture is generally to -be looked for inside the frame. The Parthenon may -have been planned on the <span class="nowrap">√5/2</span> rectangle, but you -cannot evolve the Parthenon itself out of that vulgar -fraction. Fechner proceeded on the assumption -that art is a physical fact and that its “secret” -could be wrung out of it, as in any other physical -inquiry, by observation and experiment, by induction -from a sufficient number of facts. But when -he came to have a theory of it he found, like anybody -else, that introspection was the only way.</p> - -<p>And whatever rectangles Mr. Hambidge may -discover in Greek works of art, he will not thereby -have revealed the secret of Greek art. For rectangles -are physical facts (when they are not mere abstractions), -and art is not a physical fact, but a spiritual -activity. It is in the mind of the artist, it is his -vision, the expression of his intuition, and beauty -is only another name for perfect expression. That, -at any rate, is the famous “intuition-expression” -theory of Benedetto Croce, which at present holds -the field. It is a theory which, of course, presents -many difficulties to the popular mind—what æsthetic -theory does not?—but it covers the ground, as none -other does, and comprehends all arts, painting, -poetry, music, sculpture, and the rest, in one. Its -main difficulty is its distinction between the æsthetic -fact, the artist’s expression, and the physical fact, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> -externalization of the artist’s expression, the so-called -“work” of art. Dr. Bosanquet has objected -that this seems to leave out of account the influence -on the artist’s expression of his material, his medium, -but Croce, I think, has not overlooked that objection -(“Estetica,” Ch. XIII., end), though many of us would -be glad if he could devote some future paper in the -<i>Critica</i> to meeting it fairly and squarely. Anyhow, -æsthetics is not a branch of physics, and the “secret” -of art is not to be “revealed” by a whole Euclidful -of rectangles.</p> - -<p>But it is, of course, an interesting fact that -certain Greeks, and before them certain Egyptians, -took certain rectangles as the basis of their designs—rectangles -which are also related to the average -proportions of the human body and to certain -botanical types. If Mr. Hambidge—or his predecessors, -of whom Sir Theodore Cook speaks—have -established this they have certainly put their fingers -on an engaging convention. Who would have -thought that the “golden section” that very ugly-looking -<span class="nowrap">(√5 + 1)/2</span> could have had so much in it? The -builder of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh knew all -about it in 4700 <span class="allsmcap">B.C.</span> and the Greeks of the age of -Pericles, and then Leonardo da Vinci toyed with it—“<i>que -de choses dans un menuet!</i>” It is really -rather cavalier of Croce to dismiss this golden section -along with Michael Angelo’s serpentine lines of -beauty as the astrology of Æsthetic.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_POINT_OF_CROCES">A POINT OF CROCE’S</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Adverting to Mr. Jay Hambidge’s rectangles of -beauty I had occasion to cite Croce and his distinction -between the æsthetic fact of expression and the -practical fact of externalization, to which distinction, -I said, Dr. Bosanquet had objected that it ignored -the influence upon the artist of his medium. Dr. -Bosanquet has courteously sent me a copy of a -communication, “Croce’s Æsthetic,” which he has -made to the British Academy, and which deals not -only with this point, but with his general objections -to the Crocean philosophy of art. It is not all objection, -far from it; much of it is highly laudatory, and -all of it is manifestly written in a spirit of candour -and simple desire to arrive at the truth. But I have -neither the space nor the competence to review the -whole pamphlet, and I will confine myself to the -particular point with which I began. While suggesting, -however, some criticisms of Dr. Bosanquet’s -contentions, I admit the suspicion that I may -resemble one of those disputants who, as Renan once -said, at the bottom of their minds are a little of the -opinion of the other side. That, indeed, was why I -said that many of us would be glad to hear further on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span> -the point from Croce himself. But with Dr. Bosanquet’s -pamphlet before me I cannot afford to “wait -and see.” I must say, with all diffidence, what I -can.</p> - -<p>Dr. Bosanquet describes the Crocean view quite -fairly. “The ‘work of art,’ then, picture, statue, -musical performance, printed or spoken poem, is -called so only by a metaphor. It belongs to the -practical (economic) and not to the æsthetic phase -of the spirit, and consists merely of expedients -adopted by the artist as a practical man, to ensure -preservation and a permanent possibility of reproduction -for his imaginative intuition. The art and -beauty lie primarily in his imagination, and secondarily -in the imagination of those to whom his own -may communicate its experience. The picture and -the music are by themselves neither art nor beauty -nor intuition-expression.”</p> - -<p>But when Dr. Bosanquet goes on to make his -inferences, I suggest that he infers too much. -“Thus,” he says, “all embodiment in special kinds -of physical objects by help of special media and -special processes is wholly foreign to the nature of -art and beauty.... There is nothing to be learned -from the practical means by help of which intuitions -of beauty receive permanence and communicability.” -“Wholly foreign” and “nothing to be learned” -are, I think, too strong. Though the practical means -are distinct from art, they are part of the artist’s -experience. The artist is not working <i>in vacuo</i>. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span> -is a certain man, with a certain nature and experience, -at a certain moment of time. His joy, say, in -handling and modelling clay (I take this example -from an old lecture of Dr. Bosanquet’s) will be one -of the factors in his experience. In that sense it will -not be “wholly foreign” to his art, and he will have -“learned” something from it. It is not itself the -art-impulse, the expressive activity, but it is, what -Croce calls it, a <i>point d’appui</i> for a new one.</p> - -<p>For let us hear what Croce himself says on this -point (“Estetica,” Ch. XIII.). “To the explanation -of physical beauty as a mere aid for the reproduction -of internal beauty, or expression, it might be -objected, that the artist creates his expressions in the -act of painting or carving, writing or composing; -and that therefore physical beauty, instead of -following, sometimes precedes æsthetic beauty. This -would be a very superficial way of understanding the -procedure of the artist, who, in reality, makes no -stroke of the brush without having first seen it in his -imagination; and, if he has not yet seen it, will make -it, not to externalize his expression (which at that -moment does not exist), but as it were on trial and to -have a mere <i>point d’appui</i> for further meditation and -internal concentration. The physical <i>point d’appui</i> -is not physical beauty, instrument of reproduction, -but a means that might be called <i>pedagogic</i>, like -retiring to solitude or the many other expedients, -often queer enough, adopted by artists and men of -science and varying according to their various<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span> -idiosyncrasies.” Can we not put it more generally -and say that the artist’s historic situation is changing -at every moment and his experience with his medium -is part of that situation (just as is the date of his -birth, his country, or the state of his digestion), or in -other words, one of the influences that make him -what he is and not some one else? But to admit -that, it seems to me, is not at all to deny the independence -of his spiritual activity in expression any -more than the freedom of the will is denied by the -admission that will must always be exercised in a -definite historical situation.</p> - -<p>What Dr. Bosanquet cannot abide is Croce’s great -principle that in æsthetic philosophy there are no arts -but only art. He says this “offers to destroy our -medium of intercourse through the body and through -natural objects.” Why “destroy”? Surely it is -not a case of destruction but of removal; removal -from the philosophy of art to that of practice. Croce -is not quite so foolish as to offer to destroy things -indestructible; he is only trying to put them in -their place.</p> - -<p>“The truth is, surely, that different inclinations -of the spirit have affinities with different qualities -and actions of body—meaning by body that which a -sane philosophy accepts as concretely and completely -actual in the world of sense-perception. The -imagination of the particular artist is</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">like the dyer’s hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Subdued to what it works in,</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span></p> - -<p class="noindent">and its intuition and expression assume a special -type in accordance with the medium it delights -in, and necessarily develop certain capacities and -acknowledge, however tacitly, certain limitations.” -Who denies anything so obvious? Certainly not -Croce. What he denies, I take it, is that these -considerations, however valuable in their right -place, are proper to a philosophy of art. They are -classifications and generalizations, he would say, and -philosophy deals not with <i>generalia</i> but with universals. -To say that art is one is not to say that Raphael -and Mozart are one. There are no duplicates in -human life and no two artists have the same activity -of intuition-expression. You may classify them in -all sorts of ways; those who express themselves in -paint, those who express themselves in sounds, and -so forth; or sub-classify them into landscapists, -portraitists, etc., etc.; or sub-sub-classify them into -“school” of Constable, “school” of Reynolds, -etc., etc. But you are only getting further and -further away from anything like a philosophy of art, -and will have achieved at best a manual or history of -technique. In a philosophic theory Dr. Bosanquet’s -“affinities of the spirit” are a will-o’-the-wisp. -Thereupon he says, crushingly, “if you insist on -neglecting these affinities of the spirit, your theory -remains abstract, and has no illuminating power.” -Well, Croce’s theory is certainly “up there,” it -inhabits the cold air of pure ideas; it will not be of -the least practical use at the Academy Schools or the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> -Royal College of Music; but when a philosopher like -Dr. Bosanquet finds no illumination in a theory which -unifies the arts, gives a comprehensible definition of -beauty and, incidentally, constructs, to say the least -of it, a plausible “cycle of reality,” I can but -respectfully wonder.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WILLIAM_HAZLITT">WILLIAM HAZLITT</h2> - -</div> - -<p>I was, perhaps rather naïvely, surprised the other -day to hear an actor asking for Hazlitt’s “View of -the English Stage.” Actors in general, whether -correctly or incorrectly I cannot say, are reputed -to be not enthusiastically given to reading. On the -face of it, the thing seems likely enough. Their business -is to be men of action and talk and the busy -world—not sedentary contemplative, cloistered students. -Your bookworm is as a rule a shy, retiring -solitary; the very opposite of your actor who must -not only boldly show himself but take a pride in -being stared at. Logically, then, I ought not to -have been as shocked as I was when the late Henry -Neville some years ago roundly declared to me that -an actor “should never read.” Yet the thought of -a life without literature seemed so appalling! It is -possible, however, to be a reader, and a voracious -reader, yet not to read Hazlitt’s stage criticisms. -The epoch is gone. Kean is long since dead. Our -theatrical interests to-day are widely different from -those of our ancestors a century ago. And Hazlitt’s -criticisms have not the loose, discursive, impressionistic, -personal, intimate charm of his other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> -essays, his “Table Talk,” his “Round Table,” or -his “Plain Speaker.” They simply show him in the -“dry light” of the specialist, the closet-student -turned playgoer, but these give a warm, coloured, -speaking likeness of the whole man. I was surprised, -then, to hear my friend the actor asking for Hazlitt’s -stage criticisms. I venture to inquire what, particularly, -he wanted them for. “Oh,” he said, “I like -to read about Kean.”</p> - -<p>And certainly if you want to read about Kean, -Hazlitt is your man. It has been said, over and -over again, that it was good luck for both actor and -critic that Hazlitt had just begun his theatrical work -on the <i>Morning Chronicle</i> when Kean made his first -appearance as Shylock at Drury Lane. Hazlitt -helped to make Kean’s reputation and Kean’s -acting was an invaluable stimulant to Hazlitt’s -critical faculties. It is said, by the way, that Kean -was originally recommended to Hazlitt’s notice by -his editor, Perry. Things of this sort may have -happened in that weird time of a century ago, but -the age of miracles is passed. Editors of daily newspapers -in our time are not on the look-out for unrevealed -histrionic genius. They have other fish to -fry. But Perry seems to have been a most interfering -editor. He plagued his critic with his own -critical opinions. Hazlitt’s first “notice” in the -<i>Chronicle</i> was about Miss Stephens as Polly in <i>The -Beggar’s Opera</i>. “When I got back, after the play” -(note that he had meditated in advance his “next<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span> -day’s criticism, trying to do all the justice I could -to so interesting a subject. I was not a little proud -of it by anticipation”—happy Hazlitt!) “Perry -called out, with his cordial, grating voice, ‘Well, -how did she do?’ and on my speaking in high -terms, answered that ‘he had been to dine with his -friend the Duke, that some conversation had passed -on the subject, he was afraid it was not the thing, -it was not the true <i>sostenuto</i> style; but as I had -written the article’ (holding my peroration on <i>The -Beggar’s Opera</i> carelessly in his hand), ‘it might -pass.’... I had the satisfaction the next day to -meet Miss Stephens coming out of the Editor’s -room, who had been to thank him for his very -flattering account of her.” That “carelessly” is a -delicious touch, which will come home to every -scribbler. But Perry and his friend the Duke and -that glimpse of a petticoat whisking out of the -editor’s room! What a queer, delightful, vanished -newspaper-world! There were, however, even in -those days, editors who did not interfere. Hazlitt -was, for a brief period, dramatic critic of <i>The Times</i> -(his most notable contribution was his notice of -Kemble’s retirement in <i>Coriolanus</i>, June 25th, 1817), -and was evidently well treated, for in his preface to -the “View” (1818) he advises “any one who has -an ambition to write, and to write <i>his best</i> in the -periodical Press, to get, if he can, a position in <i>The -Times</i> newspaper, the editor of which is a man of -business and not a man of letters. He may write<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> -there as long and as good articles as he can, without -being turned out for it.” One can only account for -Hazlitt’s singular ideal of an editor as Johnson -accounted for an obscure passage in Pope, “Depend -upon it, Sir, he wished to vex somebody.” Hazlitt -only wanted to be disagreeable to Perry.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, the <i>Chronicle</i> had had the best of -Hazlitt’s stage criticisms, his papers on Kean. -Kean’s acting, as I have said, was invaluable to -Hazlitt as a stimulus. It stimulated him to a sort -of rivalry in Shakespearian interpretation, the actor -fairly setting his own conception of the part against -the actor’s rendering of it, giving him magnificent -praise when the two agreed, and often finding carefully -pondered reasons for disagreement. Hazlitt -might have said of Kean what Johnson said of -Burke: “This fellow calls forth all my powers.” -The result is twofold. You get vivid descriptions -of Kean’s acting, his voice, his figure, his gestures, -his perpetual passionateness, in season and out of -season (misrepresenting—<i>e.g.</i>, Shakespeare’s Richard -II., as Hazlitt said, as a character of passion instead -of as a character of pathos). And at the same time -you get the “psychology” (an inevitable <i>cliché</i>, -cast since Hazlitt’s day) of the chief Shakespearian -tragic characters, carefully “documented” by the -text and elaborated and coloured by Hazlitt’s sympathetic -vision. You see the same process at work -in the criticisms of Kemble and Mrs. Siddons and -Macready, but (remember the great Sarah had had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span> -her day before Hazlitt began to write) with a milder -stimulant there was a milder response. In any case -it was a gallery of portraits—a series of full-length -figures partly from life and partly from the Shakespearean -text. There was little background or -atmosphere.</p> - -<p>That is what makes Hazlitt’s criticism so unlike -any modern sort. He wrote in an age of great histrionics, -great interpretative art, but no drama, no -creative art. His elaborate studies of dead-and-gone -players have (except as illustrating Shakespeare) -often a merely antiquarian interest. It is a -curious detail that Kean’s Richard III. in early performances -“stood with his hands stretched out, -after his sword was taken from him,” and later -“actually fought with his doubled fists like some -helpless infant.” So it is a curious detail that Napoleon -I. wore a green coat and clasped his hands -behind his back. But compare this dwelling on the -<i>minutiæ</i> of an actor’s business or, to take a fairer -example, compare Hazlitt’s analysis of the character -of Iago (as a test of Kean’s presentation)—one of -his acutest things—with the range and variety and -philosophic depth of a criticism by Jules Lemaître. -You are in a different world. Instead of the niggling -details of how this man raised his arm at a given -moment or delivered a classic speech in a certain -way you get a criticism of life, all life, <i>quicquid agunt -homines</i>. It is interesting, mildly interesting, to -know that Kean’s Richard was (for Hazlitt) too<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> -grave and his Iago too gay, but after all we cannot -be perpetually contemplating these particular personages -of Shakespeare. We need fresh ideas, fresh -creations, new views of society, anything for a -change, so long as it is a thing “to break our minds -upon,” We have no “great” Shakespearean actors -now, but even if we had, should we care to devote -to them the minute, elaborate attention paid by -Hazlitt? One thinks of that time, a hundred years -ago, of the great tragedy kings and queens as rather -a stuffy world. Playgoing must have been a formidable -enterprise ... but yet, you never can tell. -There were frolicsome compensations. You might -come back from the play to the office to learn your -editor had been dining with a duke. And with luck -next morning you might find a pretty actress at his -door.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TALK_AT_THE_MARTELLO_TOWER">TALK AT THE MARTELLO TOWER</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Our boatman with blue eyes and red cheeks is not -more skilful with the oar than any of his fellows or -more ready to give you change out of a shilling when -he has rowed you across the harbour, though the -notice board says the fare is twopence. But the -ladies love primary colours, and we had to have him. -We all three had our novels, and the blue eyes glanced -at them, especially the yellow-back, with disfavour. -He is a Swedenborgian—our little port, like most, is -rich in out-of-the-way religions—and presumably -regards all modern literature as on the wrong tack. -It was not until we had parted with him at the -Martello tower that we dared open our books.</p> - -<p>Selina had grabbed Patty’s, the yellow-back, but -she soon laid it down, and made a face. “My dear -Patty,” she said wearily, “how <i>can</i> you go on reading -Gyp? Don’t you see that the silly woman doesn’t -even know how to tell her own silly stories?”</p> - -<p>Patty slightly flushed. She knew Gyp was a -countess and great-granddaughter of Mirabeau-Tonneau, -and felt it was almost Bolshevist manners -to call so well-born a woman silly. Nothing could -have been more frigid than her “What on earth do -you mean, Selina?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span></p> - -<p>“I mean,” said Selina, “that the poor woman is -dreadfully <i>vieux jeu</i>. I’m not thinking of her social -puppets, her vicious clubmen, her languid swells, -her anti-Semite Hebrews, her fashionable ladies who -are no better than they should be though, goodness -knows, these are old-fashioned enough. She began -making them before I was born.” (Selina is no -chicken, but it was horrid of Patty to raise her -eyebrows.) “What I mean is, that she is at the -old worn-out game of playing the omniscient author. -Here she is telling you not only what Josette said and -did when La Réole attacked her, but what La Réole -said and did when Josette had left him, and so on. -She ‘goes behind’ everybody, tells you what is -inside everybody’s head. Why can’t she take her -point of view, and stick to it? Wasn’t her obvious -point of view Josette’s? Then she should have told -us nothing about the other people but what Josette -could know or divine about them.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Selina,” I interrupted, “your ‘goes behind’ -gives you away. You’ve been reading Henry -James’s letters.”</p> - -<p>“Like everybody else,” she snapped.</p> - -<p>“Why, to be sure, oh Jacobite Selina, but one may -read them without taking their æsthetics for law -and gospel. I know that the dear man lectured -Mrs. Humphry Ward about the ‘point of view,’ -when she was writing ‘Elinor,’ and got, I fancy, -rather a tart answer for his pains. But you are -more intransigent than the master. For he admitted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> -that the point of view was all according to circumstances, -and that some circumstances—for -instance, a big canvas—made ‘omniscience’ inevitable. -What about Balzac and Tolstoy? Both -took the omniscient line, and, as novelists, are not -exactly to be sneezed at.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but Gyp’s isn’t a big canvas,” said Selina, -“and it seems to me <i>n’en déplaise à votre seigneurie</i>, -that this precious story of hers called aloud for -Josette’s point of view, and nothing but Josette’s. -She is the one decent woman in the book, according -to Gyp’s queer standards of decency” (Patty -sniffed), “and the whole point, so far as I can make -out, is the contrast of her decent mind with the -highly indecent people round her. She is as innocent -as Maisie, but a Maisie grown up and married. What -a chance for another ‘What Maisie knew’!”</p> - -<p>“I only wish <i>I</i> knew what you two are talking -about,” pouted Patty.</p> - -<p>“That is not necessary, dear child,” I said, in my -best avuncular manner. “You are a Maisie yourself—a -Maisie who reads French novels. But, -Selina, dear, look at your own Henry James’s own -practice. He didn’t always choose his point of view -and stick to it. He chose two in ‘The Golden -Bowl,’ and three in ‘The Wings of the Dove,’ and -I’m hanged if I know whether he took several, or -none at all, in ‘The Awkward Age.’”</p> - -<p>“Well,” rejoined Selina, “and isn’t that just why -those books don’t quite come off? Don’t you feel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> -that ‘The Golden Bowl’ is not one book but two, -and that ‘The Wings’ is almost as kaleidoscopic” -(Patty gasped) “as ‘The Ring and the Book’? I -mentioned ‘Maisie,’ but after all that was a <i>tour de -force</i>, it seemed to have been done for a wager. -If you challenge me to give you real perfection, -why, take ‘The Ambassadors’ and ‘The Spoils of -Poynton.’ Was ever the point of view held more -tight? Everything seen through Strether’s eyes, -everything through Fleda’s!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I grant you the success of the method there, -but, dear Selina” (I had lit my pipe and felt equal to -out-arguing a non-smoker in the long run), “let us -distinguish.” (Patty strolled away with her Gyp -while we distinguished.) “The method of Henry -James was good for Henry James. What was the -ruling motive of his people? Curiosity about one -another’s minds. Now, if he had just told us their -minds, straightway, by ‘getting behind’ each of -them in turn, in the ‘omniscient’ style, there -would have been no play of curiosity, no chance for -it even to begin, the cat would have been out of the -bag. By putting his point of view inside one of his -people and steadily keeping it fixed there, he turns -all the other people into mere appearances—just as -other people are for each one of us in real life. We -have to guess and to infer what is in their minds, we -make mistakes and correct them; sometimes they -purposely mislead us. This is rather a nuisance, -perhaps, in the real world of action, where our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> -curiosity must have a ‘business end’ to it; but it -is (for those who like it, as you and I do, Selina) -immense fun in the world of fiction.”</p> - -<p>“Now,” interjected Selina, “you are talking! -That is precisely my case.”</p> - -<p>“Stop a minute, Selina. I said the method was -good for the writer whose temperament it suited. -But so are other methods for other temperaments. -You may tell your story all in letters, if you are a -Richardson, or with perpetual digressions and statements -that you are telling a story, if you are a -Fielding or a Thackeray, or autobiographically, if -your autobiography is a ‘Copperfield’ or a ‘Kidnapped.’ -Every author, I suggest, is a law to himself. -And I see no reason why we should bar -‘omniscience,’ as you apparently want to. Why -forbid the novelist the historian’s privilege? Why -rule out the novel which is a history of imaginary -facts?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t quite see Gyp as a historian,” said -Selina.</p> - -<p>“No more can I, thank goodness,” said Patty.</p> - -<p>And so we were rowed back to the jetty, and the -blue eyes didn’t blink over half-a-crown under the -very notice board.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="AGAIN_AT_THE_MARTELLO_TOWER">AGAIN AT THE MARTELLO TOWER</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Now that regattas are over and oysters have come -in again, our little port has returned to its normal -or W. W. Jacobs demeanour. The bathers on the -sand-spit have struck their tents. The Salvation -Army band is practising its winter repertory. When -our blue-eyed boatman rowed us over to the Martello -tower again the other day, he almost looked as -though he expected little more than his legal fare. -Selina, who has the gift of management, suggested -that Patty should try it on with him, on the ground, -first, that women always do these things better than -men, and, second, that Patty was blue-eyes’ favourite. -I acquiesced, and Patty borrowed half-a-crown of me, -so as to be prepared when the time came.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Selina began to read us extracts from -Professor Henri Bergson on “Laughter.” Selina is -a serious person without, so far as I have ever discovered, -a grain of humour in her composition. -These are just the people who read theories of laughter. -It is a mystery to them, and they desire to have -it explained. “A laughable expression of the face,” -began Selina, “is one that will make us think of -something rigid and, so to speak, coagulated, in the -wonted mobility of the face. What we shall see will -be an ingrained twitching or a fixed grimace. One<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> -would say that the person’s whole moral life has -crystallized into this particular cast of features.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether Mr. George Robey’s whole -moral life has,” dropped Patty, innocently.</p> - -<p>“And who, pray,” said Selina, with her heavy -eyebrows making semi-circles of indignant surprise, -“is Mr. George Robey?”</p> - -<p>I sat silent. I had just brought my niece back -from a short but variegated stay in town. I knew, -but I would not tell.</p> - -<p>“Why, Selina, dear,” answered Patty, “you are -the very image of him with your eyebrows rounded -like that. He is always glaring at the audience that -way.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Will</i> you, Patty,” said Selina, now thoroughly -roused, “be good enough to tell me who he <i>is</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Well, he’s an actor, who makes the very faces -your Bergson describes. Uncle took me to see him -in a” (catching my warning eye)—“in a sort of -historical play. He was Louis XV., at Versailles, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“H’m,” said Selina, “it’s rather a doubtful -period; and the very best historical plays do make -such a hash of history. Was it in blank verse? -Blank verse will do much to mitigate the worst -period.”</p> - -<p>“N-no,” answered Patty, “I don’t think it was -in blank verse. I didn’t notice; did you, Uncle?”</p> - -<p>I tried to prevaricate. “Well, you never know -about blank verse on the stage nowadays, nearly all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span> -the actors turn it into prose. Mr. Robey may have -been speaking blank verse, as though it were prose. -The best artists cannot escape the fashion of the -moment, you know.”</p> - -<p>“But what did he do?” insisted Selina, “What -was the action of the play?”</p> - -<p>Patty considered. “I don’t remember his doing -anything, Selina, dear, but chuck the ladies of the -Court under the chin. Oh, yes, and he made eyes at -them affectionately.”</p> - -<p>“A pretty sort of historical play, on my word!” -exclaimed Selina.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it wasn’t <i>all</i> historical, Selina, dear,” said -Patty, sweetly. “A lot of it was thoroughly modern, -and Mr. Robey wore a frock coat, and such a funny -little bowler hat, and another time he was a street -musician in Venice with a stuffed monkey pinned to -his coat-tails.”</p> - -<p>Selina looked at me. There was a silent pause that -would have made anybody else feel uncomfortable, -but I was equal to the occasion. I snatched Selina’s -book out of her hand, and said, cheerfully, “You see, -Selina, it’s all explained here. Wonderful fellow, -Bergson. ‘Something mechanical encrusted upon -the living,’ that’s the secret of the comic. Depend -upon it, he had seen George Robey and the stuffed -monkey. And if Bergson, who’s a tremendous swell, -member of the institute, and all that, why not Patty -and I?”</p> - -<p>“And where,” asked Selina, with a rueful glance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> -at the Bergson book, as though she began to distrust -theories of the comic, “where was this precious performance?”</p> - -<p>“At the Alhambra,” answered Patty, simply.</p> - -<p>“The Alhambra! I remember Chateaubriand -once visited it,” said Selina, who is nothing if not -literary, “but I didn’t know it was the haunt of -philosophers.”</p> - -<p>I looked as though it was, but Patty tactlessly -broke in, “Oh, I wish you two wouldn’t talk about -philosophers. Can’t one laugh at Mr. Robey without -having him explained by Bergson? Anyhow, I -don’t believe he can explain Mr. Nelson Keys.”</p> - -<p>“Another of your historical actors?” inquired -Selina with some bitterness.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Selina, dear, and much more historical than -Mr. Robey. He played Beau Brummell and they -were all there, Fox and Sheridan and the Prince of -Wales, you know, all out of your favourite Creevey, -and they said ‘egad’ and ‘la’ and ‘monstrous fine,’ -and bowed and congee’d like anything—oh, it was -awfully historical.”</p> - -<p>Selina, a great reader of memoirs, was a little mollified. -“Come,” she said, “this is better—though the -Regency is another dangerous period. I’m glad, -however, that Londoners seem to be looking to the -theatre for a little historical instruction.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Selina,” I said, feeling that it would be -dangerous to let Patty speak just at that moment, -“and there is a certain type of contemporary play,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span> -called <i>revue</i>, which recognizes that demand and -seldom, if ever, fails to cater for it. In <i>revues</i> I have -renewed acquaintance with the heroes of classical -antiquity, with prominent crusaders, with Queen -Elizabeth, with the Grand Monarque—a whole -course of history, in fact. Let Bergson explain that, -if he can. And, what is more wonderful still, our -<i>revue</i> artists, whose talent is usually devoted to provoking -laughter, seem willingly to forgo it for the -honour of appearing as an historical personage. Mr. -Robey and Mr. Keys, I should tell you, are both -professional laughter-provokers, indeed are the heads -of their profession, yet one is content to posture as -Louis Quinze and the other as Beau Brummell without -any real chance of being funny. So the past ever -exerts its prestige over us. So the muse of history -still weaves her spell.”</p> - -<p>“Which was the muse of history, Patty, dear?” said -Selina, whose equanimity was now happily restored.</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother, I forget,” said Patty, “and, anyhow, -I don’t think she has as much to do with <i>revues</i> as -uncle pretends. Give me the real muse of <i>revue</i> who -inspired Mr. Keys with his German waiter and his -Spanish mandolinist and his Japanese juggler -and——”</p> - -<p>“This,” I said, to put an end to Patty’s indiscreet -prattle, “must be the muse of geography.”</p> - -<p>Patty gave me no change out of my half-crown. -The boatman said he didn’t happen to have any. -So much for Selina’s management!</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SILENT_STAGE">THE SILENT STAGE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>The spoken drama and the silent stage. I came -across this dichotomy in <i>The Times</i> the other day, -not without a pang, for it was a day too late. It is -not a true dichotomy. It does not distinguish -accurately between the story told by living actors -to our faces and the story told by successive photographs -of such actors. For the “silent stage” -would cover pantomime, a form of drama, and a very -ancient form, acted by living actors. It is not true, -but it is for practical uses true enough. In life we -have to make the best of rough approximations. I -would have used this one gratefully had it occurred -to me in my moment of need. But it did not.</p> - -<p>Let me explain. One of our more notable comedians -(I purposely put it thus vaguely, partly out of -discretion, partly with a bid for that interest which -the mystery of anonymity is apt to confer upon an -otherwise matter-of-fact narrative, as George Borrow -well knew)—one of our most notable comedians, -then, had asked me to accompany him to a -“cinema” rehearsal wherein he was cast for the -principal part. I eagerly accepted, because the art -of the “cinema” is becoming so important in our -daily life that one really ought to learn something<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> -about it, and, moreover, because the <i>cuisine</i> of any -art (see the Diary of the De Goncourts <i>passim</i>) is a -fascinating thing in itself. Our rehearsal was to be -miles away, in the far East of London, and the mere -journey was a geographical adventure. The scene -was a disused factory, and a disused factory has -something of the romantic melancholy of a disaffected -cathedral—not the romance of ruins, but the -romance of a fabric still standing and valid, but -converted to alien uses.</p> - -<p>Our first question on arrival was, were we late? -This question seems to be a common form of politeness -with notable comedians, and is probably -designed to take the wind out of the sails of possible -criticism. No, we were not late—though everybody -seemed to be suspiciously ready and, one feared, -waiting. They were a crowd of ladies and gentlemen -in elaborate evening dress, all with faces painted -a rich <i>café au lait</i> or else salmon-colour, and very odd -such a crowd looked against the whitewashed walls -and bare beams of the disused factory. The -scenery looked even more odd. It presented the -middle fragments of everything without any edges. -There was a vast baronial hall, decorated with suits -of armour and the heaviest furniture, but without -either ceiling or walls. There was a staircase hung, -so to speak, in the air, leading to a doorway, which -was just the framework of a door, standing alone, -let into nothing. It seemed uncanny, until you -remembered the simple fact that the camera can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span> -cover just as much, or as little, of a scene as it -chooses. Great glaring “cinema” lights—I had not -seen them since the Beckett-Carpentier flight—cast -an unearthly pallor upon the few unpainted faces. -The crowd of painted ladies and gentlemen hung -about, waiting for their scene with what seemed to -me astonishing patience. But patience, I suspect, is -a necessary virtue at all rehearsals, whether -“spoken” or “silent.”</p> - -<p>And that distinction brings me to the producer. -It was for him that I should have liked to have -thought of it. For he fell to talking to me about his -art, the art of production, and of cinematography in -general, and I found myself forced to make some -comparisons with what I had, up to that moment, -always thought of as the “regular” stage. But -evidently, as Jeffery said of Wordsworth’s poem, -this would never do. The producer might have -thought I was reflecting upon his art, about which he -was so enthusiastic, as something “irregular.” At -last, after deplorable hesitation, I found my phrase—the -“other” stage. Dreadfully tame, I admit, but -safe; it hurt nobody. Even now, however, I have -an uneasy feeling that the producer was not quite -satisfied with it. I ought perhaps to have accompanied -it with a shrug, some sign of apology for so -much as recognizing the existence of “other” stages -of anything else, in short, than what was, at that -moment and on that spot, <i>the</i> stage, the “silent” -stage, the stage of moving pictures. It was like<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span> -speaking of Frith’s “Derby Day” in the presence -of a Cubist. Artistic enthusiasts must be allowed -their little exclusions.</p> - -<p>If the producer was an enthusiast, there was -certainly a method in his enthusiasm. His table was -covered with elaborate geometrical drawings, which, -I was told, were first sketches for successive scenes. -On pegs hung little schedules of the artists required -for each scene, and of the scenes wherein each of -the principals was concerned. Innumerable photographs, -of course—photographs of scenes actually -represented on the “film,” and of others not represented, -experiments for the actual, final thing. For -it is to be remembered that the producer of a “film” -is relatively more important than the producer of a -“spoken drama.” He is always part, and sometimes -whole, author of the play. He has to conceive the -successive phases of the action in detail, and to conceive -them in terms of photography. Even with -some one else’s play as a datum he has, I take it, to -invent a good deal. For while the “spoken drama” -can only show selected, critical moments of life, the -“silent stage” aims at continuity and gives you the -intervening moments. On the one stage, when a -lady makes an afternoon call, you see her hostess’s -drawing-room, and she walks in; on the other stage -you see her starting from home, jumping into her -Rolls-Royce, dashing through the crowded streets, -knocking at the front door, being relieved of her -cloak by the flunkey, mounting the stairs to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> -drawing-room, etc., etc. Indeed, this mania for -continuity is a besetting sin of the “silent stage”; -it leads to sheer irrelevance and the ruin of all -proportion. My enthusiastic producer, it is only -fair to say, was far too good an artist to approve -it.</p> - -<p>“At the first whistle, get ready,” shouted the -producer, “at the second, slow waltz, please.” And -then the baronial hall was filled by the crowd of -exemplary patience and they danced with unaffected -enjoyment, these gay people, just as though no -camera were directed on them. The heroine -appeared (she was the daughter of the house, and this -was her first ball—indicated by a stray curl down her -back), and her ravishing pink gown, evidently a -choice product of the West-end, looked strange in a -disused East-end factory. Of course she had -adopted the inexorable “cinema” convention of a -“Cupid’s bow” mouth. Here is the youngest of the -arts already fast breeding its own conventions. -Surely the variety of female lips might be recognized! -Women’s own mouths are generally prettier, and -certainly more suitable to their faces, than some -rigidly fixed type. It would be ungallant to say -that the leading lady’s “Cupid’s bow” did not -become her, but the shape of her own mouth, I -venture to suggest, would have been better still. -And where was my friend the notable comedian all -this time? Rigging himself out in evening clerical -dress for the ball (he was the vicar of the parish), and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> -evidently regarding his momentary deviation into -“film” work (for the benefit of a theatrical charity) -as great fun. Will the heroes of the “silent stage,” -I wonder, ever deviate into “spoken drama”? It -would be startling to hear Charlie Chaplin speak.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MOVIES">THE MOVIES</h2> - -</div> - -<p>All is dark and an excellent orchestra is playing -a Beethoven symphony. The attendant flashes you -to your seat with her torch, you tumble over a -subaltern, and murmur to yourself, with Musset’s -Fantasio, “Quelles solitudes que tous ces corps -humains!” For that is the first odd thing that -strikes you about the movies; the psychology of -the audience is not collective, but individual. You -are not aware of your neighbour, who is shrouded -from your gaze, and you take your pleasure alone. -Thus you are rid of the “contagion of the crowd,” -the claims of human sympathy, the imitative -impulse, and thrown in upon yourself, a hermit at -the mercy of the hallucinations that beset the solitary. -You never applaud, for that is a collective -action. What with the soothing flow of the music, -the darkness, and the fact that your eye is fixed on -one bright spot, you are in the ideal condition for -hypnotism. But the suspected presence of others, -vague shadows hovering near you, give your mood -the last touch of the uncanny. You are a prisoner -in Plato’s cave or in some crepuscular solitude of -Maeterlinck. Anything might happen.</p> - -<p>According to the programme what happens is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> -called <i>The Prodigal Wife</i>. Her husband is a doctor -and she pines for gaiety while he is busy at the -hospital. It is her birthday and he has forgotten -to bring her her favourite roses, which are in fact -offered to her by another gentleman with more -leisure and a better memory. Our own grievance -against the husband, perhaps capricious, is his -appalling straw hat—but then we equally dislike -the lovers tail-coat, so matters are even, and the -lady’s preference of No. 2 to No. 1 seems merely -arbitrary. Anyhow, she goes off with No. 2 in a -motor-car, “all out,” leaving the usual explanatory -letter behind her, which is thrown on the screen for -all of us to gloat over.</p> - -<p>Here let me say that this profuse exhibition -on the screen of all the correspondence in the case, -letters, telegrams, copies of verses, last wills and -testaments, the whole <i>dossier</i>, strikes me as a mistake. -It under-values the intelligence of the audience, -which is quite capable of guessing what people are -likely to write in the given circumstances without -being put to the indelicacy of reading it. As it is, -you no sooner see some one handling a scrap of paper -than you know you are going to have the wretched -scrawl thrust under your nose. As if we didn’t -know all about these things! As if it wouldn’t be -pleasanter to leave the actual text to conjecture! I -remember in <i>Rebellious Susan</i> there is a packet of -compromising letters shown to interested parties, -whose vague comments, “Well, after <i>that</i>,” etc.,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> -sufficiently enlighten us without anything further. -But now, when Lady Macbeth reads her lord’s letter, -up it goes on the screen, blots and all. This is an -abuse of the film, which finds it easier to exhibit a -letter than to explain why it came to be written. -As things are, the lady seems to have eloped in a -hurry without sufficient grounds. No. 2 presents -his roses, and, hey presto! the car is round the -corner. No. 1 takes it very nobly, hugs his abandoned -babe to his bosom, and pulls long faces -(obligingly brought nearer the camera to show the -furrows). The mother’s sin shall ever be hidden -from the innocent child, and to see the innocent -child innocently asking, “Where’s muvver?” and -being answered with sad headshakes from the -bereaved parent (now bang against the camera) is -to bathe in sentimental photography up to the neck.</p> - -<p>Thereafter the innocent child grows like (and -actually inside) a rosebud till, as the petals fall off, -she is revealed as a buxom young woman—the -familiar photographic trick of showing one thing -<i>through</i> another being here turned to something like -poetic advantage. But then the film again bolts -with the theme. There is running water and a boat, -things which no film can resist. Away go the girl -and her sweetheart on a river excursion, loosening -the painter, jumping in, shoving off, performing, in -short, every antic which in photography can be -compassed with a stream and a boat. We have -forgotten all about the prodigal wife. But here she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span> -is again, her hair in grey <i>bandeaux</i> and her lips, as -the relentless camera shows you at short range, -rouged with a hard outline. She has returned to -her old home as the family nurse. For there is now -another innocent babe, the doctor’s grandchild, to -wax and wane with the advancing and receding -camera, and to have its little “nightie” blown -realistically by the usual wind as it stands on the -stair-head. The doctor himself is as busy as ever, -making wonderful pharmacological discoveries (newspaper -extracts exhibited on the screen) in a laboratory -blouse and dictating the results (notes shown -on the screen) to an enterprising reporter.</p> - -<p>And here there is another “rushed” elopement. -“The art of drama,” said Dumas, “is the art of -preparations.” But nothing has prepared us (save, -perhaps, heredity) for the sudden freak of the -prodigal wife’s daughter in running away with a -lover so vague that you see only his hat (another -hideous straw—<i>il ne manquait que ca</i>!) and the glow -of his cigarette-end. Family nurse to the rescue! -Tender expostulations, reminders about the innocent -babe, and nick-of-time salvation of the “intending” -runaway. Ultimate meeting of nurse and doctor; -he is all forgiveness, but prodigal wives are not to be -forgiven like that. No, she must go out into the -snow, and you see her walking down the long path, -dwindling, dwindling, from a full-sized nurse into a -Euclidean point.</p> - -<p>To sum up. The camera would do better if it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> -would learn self-denial and observe the law of -artistic economy, keep its people consistently in one -plane and out of boats and motor cars, <i>soigner</i> its -crises a little more, and avoid publishing correspondence. -And it should slacken its pace a bit. You -may take the Heraclitean philosophy—πάντα χωρεῖ—a -little too literally. The movies would be all -the more moving for moving slower.</p> - -<p>For the real fun of rapid motion, appropriately -used, give me <i>Mutt and Jeff</i>. Mutt, buried in the -sand, with a head like an egg, prompts an ostrich -to lay another egg, from which emerges a brood of -little ostriches. Jeff goes out to shoot them, but -his shots glance off in harmless wreaths of smoke. -When Mutt and Jeff exchange ideas you see them -actually travelling like an electric spark along the -wire, from brain to brain. The ostrich hoists Mutt -out of the sand by the breeches. Collapse of Jeff. -It suggests a drawing by Caran d’Ache in epileptic -jerks. The natural history pictures, too, the deer -and the birds, strike one as admirable examples of -what animated photography can do for us in the -way of instruction as well as amusement.... And -the orchestra has been playing all this time, -Beethoven and Mozart, a “separate ecstasy.” And -again I stumble over the subaltern, and wonder to -find people moving so slowly in Piccadilly Circus.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TIME_AND_THE_FILM">TIME AND THE FILM</h2> - -</div> - -<p>There was a gentleman in Molière, frequently -mentioned since and now for my need to be unblushingly -mentioned again, who said to another -gentleman, about never mind what, that <i>le temps ne -fait rien à l’affaire</i>. But Molière belonged to that -effete art the “spoken drama,” which we learn, -from America, has sunk to be used mainly as an -advertisement of the play which is subsequently to -be filmed out of it. He wrote in the dark or pre-film -ages, and could not know what an all-important -part <i>le temps</i> was to play in <i>l’affaire</i> of the film. -Among its innumerable and magnificent activities -the film is an instructor of youth, and it seems, from -a letter which the Rev. Dr. Lyttelton has written to -<i>The Times</i>, it instructs at a pace which is a little -too quick for the soaring human boy. “Elephants,” -the reverend Doctor pathetically complains, “are -shown scuttling about like antelopes,” and so the -poor boy mixes up antelopes and elephants and gets -his zoology all wrong. I should myself have innocently -supposed that this magical acceleration of -pace is one of the great charms of the film for the -boy. It not only provides him with half-a-dozen -pictures in the time it would have taken him to read<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span> -one of them in print (to say nothing of his being -saved the trouble of reading, learning the alphabet, -and other pedagogic nuisances altogether), but it -offers him something much more exciting and -romantic than his ordinary experience. He knows -that at the Zoo elephants move slowly, but here on -the film they are taught, in the American phrase, -to “step lively,” and are shown scuttling about like -antelopes. A world wherein the ponderous and slow -elephant is suddenly endowed by the magician’s -wand with the lightness and rapidity of the antelope—what -enhancement for boys, aye, and for grown-ups -too!</p> - -<p>Indeed, it seems to me that the greatest achievement -of the film is its triumph over time. Some -amateurs may find its chief charm in the perfect -“Cupid’s bow” of its heroines’ mouths; others in -the remarkable English prose of its explanatory -accompaniments; others, again, in its exquisite -humour of protagonists smothered in flour or soap-lather -or flattened under runaway motor-cars. I -admit the irresistible fascination of these delights -and can quite understand how they come to be preferred -to the high-class opera company which has -been introduced at the Capitol, New York, to entertain -“between pictures.” But I still think the -prime merit of the film—the real reason for which -last year more than enough picture films to encircle -the earth at the Equator left the United States of -America for foreign countries—lies in its ability to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span> -play as it will with time. The mere acceleration of -pace (which is the ordinary game it plays)—the -fierce galloping of horses across prairies, the miraculous -speed of motor-cars, elephants scuttling about -like antelopes—gives a sharp sense of exhilaration, -of victory over sluggish nature. And even here -there is an educational result that ought to console -Dr. Lyttelton. The rate of plant growth is multiplied -thousands of times so that we are enabled -actually to see the plants growing, expanding from -bud to flower under our eyes. But there is also the -retardation of pace, which is even more wonderful. -A diver is shown plunging into the water and -swimming at a rate which allows the minutest movement -of the smallest muscle to be clearly seen. This -is an entirely beautiful thing; but I should suppose -that the film, by its power of exhibiting movements -naturally too quick for the eye at whatever slower -rate is desired, must have extraordinary use for -scientific investigations. This, at any rate, is a -better use for the film than that sometimes claimed -for it in the field of morality. I look with suspicion -on those films, as I do on those “spoken” plays, -that propose to do us good by exhibiting the details -of this or that “social evil.” Some philanthropic -societies, I believe, have introduced such pictures in -all good faith. But many of their producers are, -like the others, merely out to make money, and in -every case I imagine their patrons to be drawn to -them not by any moral impulse, but by a prurient<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> -curiosity—the desire to have a peep into the forbidden.</p> - -<p>But to return to the question of time. It has its -importance, too, in the “spoken drama,” but it -ceases to be a question of visible pace. You cannot -make real men and women scuttle about like antelopes. -You can only play tricks with the clock. The -act-drop is invaluable for getting your imaginary -time outstripping your real time:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent20">jumping o’er times,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Turning the accomplishment of many years</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Into an hour-glass.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">In a moment it bridges over for you the gap between -youth and age, as in <i>Sweethearts</i>. But there is -another way of playing tricks with the clock, by -making it stand still for some of your personages, -while it ticks regularly for the rest. A. E. W. Mason, -in one of his stories, gave an extra quarter of an -hour now and then to one of the characters—that is -to say, the clock stopped for them during that -period, but not for him—and while <i>outside</i> time, so -to speak, he could do all sorts of things (if I remember -rightly he committed a murder) without -risk of detection. But the great magician of this -kind is Barrie. The heroine of his <i>Truth about the -Russian Dancers</i> had a sudden desire for an infant, -and within a half-hour was delivered of one; a remarkably -rapid case of <i>parthenogenesis</i>. The infant -was carried out and returned the next moment a -child of ten. “He grows apace,” said somebody.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> -These were cases of the clock galloping. With the -heroine of <i>Mary Rose</i> on the island it stands still, -so that she returns twenty-five years later to her -family precisely the same girl as she left them. We -all know what pathetic effects Barrie gets out of -this trick with the clock. But he has, of course, to -assume supernatural intervention to warrant them. -And there you have the contrast with the film. In -the “spoken drama,” poor, decrepit old thing, they -appeal to that silly faculty, the human imagination; -whereas the film has only to turn some wheels -quicker or slower and it is all done for you, under -your nose, without any imagination at all. Elephants -are scuttling about like antelopes and divers -plunging into the water at a snail’s pace. No wonder -that, according to our New York advices, “film -magnates have made so much money that they have -been able to buy chains of theatres throughout the -country,” and that “everybody talks films in the -United States.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FUTURIST_DANCING">FUTURIST DANCING</h2> - -</div> - -<p>That amazing propagandist, Signor Marinetti, of -Milan, who favours me from time to time with his -manifestos, now sends “La Danse Futuriste.” I -confess that I have not a ha’porth of Futurism in my -composition. I am what Signor Marinetti would -himself call a Passéiste, a mere Pastist. Hence I -have generally failed to discover any meaning in -these manifestos, and have thrown them into the -waste-paper basket. But as the present one -happens to arrive at the same time as another -Futurist tract—Signor Ardengo Soffici’s “Estetica -Futurista”—I have read the two together, to see -if one throws any light on the other. It is right to -say that “the” Soffici (to adopt an Italianism) -disclaims any connexion with “the” Marinetti, -explaining that he puts forward a doctrine, whereas -official Futurism has no doctrine, but only manifestos. -It couldn’t have, he rather unkindly adds, -seeing that its very nature is “anticultural and -instinctolatrous.” (Rather jolly, don’t you think, -the rich and varied vocabulary of these Italian -gentlemen?) Nevertheless, I have ventured to -study one document by the light of the other; and, -if the result is only to make darkness visible, it is a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span> -certain gain, after all, to get anything visible in such -a matter.</p> - -<p>And first for the Marinetti. His manifesto begins -by taking an historical survey of dancing through -the ages. The earliest dances, he points out, -reflected the terror of humanity at the unknown -and the incomprehensible in the Cosmos. Thus -round dances were rhythmical pantomimes reproducing -the rotatory movement of the stars. The -gestures of the Catholic priest in the celebration of -Mass imitate these early dances and contain the -same astronomical symbol—a statement calculated -to provoke devout Catholics to fury. (I should like -to hear the learned author of “The Golden Bough” -on the anthropological side of it.) Then came the -lascivious dances of the East, and their modern -Parisian counterpart—or sham imitation. For this -he gives a quasi-mathematical formula in the -familiar Futurist style. “Parisian red pepper + -buckler + lance + ecstasy before idols signifying -nothing + nothing + undulation of Montmartre hips -= erotic Pastist anachronism for tourists.” Golly, -what a formula!</p> - -<p>Before the war Paris went crazy over dances from -South America: the Argentine <i>tango</i>, the Chilean -<i>zamacueca</i>, the Brazilian <i>maxixe</i>, the Paraguayan -<i>santafé</i>. Compliments to Diaghileff, Nijinsky (“the -pure geometry” of dancing), and Isadora Duncan, -“whose art has many points of contact with impressionism -in painting, just as Nijinsky’s has with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span> -forms and masses of Cézanne.” Under the influence -of Cubist experiments, and particularly under the -influence of Picasso, dancing became an autonomous -art. It was no longer subject to music, but took its -place. Kind words for Dalcroze; but “we Futurists -prefer Loie Fuller and the nigger cake-walk (utilization -of electric light and machinery).” Machinery’s -the thing! “We must have gestures imitating the -movements of motors, pay assiduous court to wings, -wheels, pistons, prepare the fusion of man and -machine, and so arrive at the metallism of Futurist -dancing. Music is fundamentally nostalgic, and on -that account rarely of any use in Futurist dancing. -Noise, caused by friction and shock of solid bodies, -liquids, or high-pressure gases, has become one of -the most dynamic elements of Futurist poesy. -Noise is the language of the new human-mechanical -life.” So Futurist dancing will be accompanied by -“organized noises” and the orchestra of “noise-makers” -invented by Luigi Russolo. Finally, -Futurist dancing will be:—</p> - -<p class="hanging">Inharmonious—Ungraceful—Asymmetrical—Dynamic—<i>Motlibriste</i>.</p> - -<p>All this, of course, is as plain as a pikestaff. The -Futurist aim is simply to run counter to tradition, -to go by rule of contrary, to say No when everybody -for centuries has been saying Yes, and Yes -when everybody has been saying No. But when it -comes to putting this principle into practice we see -at once there are limitations. Thus, take the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span> -Marinetti’s first example, the “Aviation” dance. -The dancer will dance on a big map (which would -have pleased the late Lord Salisbury). She must -be a continual palpitation of azure veils. On her -breast she will wear a (celluloid) screw, and for her -hat a model monoplane. She will dance before a -succession of screens, bearing the announcements -800 metres, 500 metres, etc. She will leap over a -heap of green stuffs (indicating a mountain). -“Organized noises” will imitate rain and wind and -continual interruptions of the electric light will -simulate lightning, while the dancer will jump -through hoops of pink paper (sunset) and blue paper -(night). And so forth.</p> - -<p>Was there ever such a lame and impotent conclusion? -The new dancing, so pompously announced, -proves to be nothing but the crude symbolism to be -seen already in every Christmas pantomime—nay, -in every village entertainment or “vicar’s treat.” -And we never guessed, when our aunts took us to see -the good old fun, that we were witnessing something -dynamic and <i>motlibriste!</i></p> - -<p>I turn to the Soffici. He finds the philosophy of -Futurism in the clown, because the clown’s supreme -wisdom is to run counter to common sense. “The -universe has no meaning outside the fireworks of -phenomena—say the tricks and acts and jokes of -the clown. Your problems, your systems, are -absurd, dear sirs; all’s one and nothing counts save -the sport of the imagination. Let us away with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> -our ergotism, with the lure of reason, let us abandon -ourselves entirely to the frenzy of innovations that -provoke wonder.” It is this emancipation, adds -the Soffici, this artificial creation of a lyric reality -independent of the <i>nexus</i> of natural manifestations -and appearances, this gay symbolism, that our -æsthetic puts forward as the aim for the new artist.</p> - -<p>Well, we have seen how gay was the symbolism -devised by the Marinetti. And how inadequate, -how poor in invention. Dancing that has to be eked -out by labelled screens and paper hoops and pyramids -of stuffs! That is what we get from the new artist. -The old artists had a different way; when they had -to symbolize, they did it by <i>dancing</i>, without -extraneous aid. When Karsavina symbolized golf, -she required no “property” but a golf-ball. All -the rest was the light fantastic toe. When Genée -symbolized Cinderella’s kitchen drudgery, she just -seized a broom and danced, divinely, with it. But -that was before the Marinetti made his grand -discovery that music is too nostalgic for dancing -purposes and that the one thing needful is organized -noise—as organized by Luigi Russolo.... No, it -is no use trying; I remain an incorrigible Pastist.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HROSWITHA">HROSWITHA</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Writing about Hroswitha’s <i>Callimachus</i>, as -performed by the Art Theatre, I touched upon the -unintentionally comic aspect of a tenth-century -miracle play to a twentieth-century audience. -Naturally this is not an aspect of the matter which -recommends itself to a lady who is about to publish -a translation of Hroswitha’s plays with a preface -by a cardinal, and in a published letter she protests -that the fun which the Art Theatre got out of -<i>Callimachus</i> was not justified by the text. Let me -hasten to acquit the Art Theatre of the misdemeanour -attributed to it by Miss Christopher St. -John. There was nothing intentionally funny in its -performance. The players acted their parts with -all possible simplicity and sincerity. The smiling -was all on our side of the footlights. But I said -that the smile was “reverent,” because of the sacred -nature of the subject-matter.</p> - -<p>This opens up the question of the frame of mind -in which we moderns ought to approach works of -“early” art. The first effort of a critic—we must -all be agreed about that—should be to put himself, -imaginatively, in the artist’s place. He has to try -to think himself back into the time, the place, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span> -circumstances of the work, and into the artist’s -temperament, intentions, and means of execution. -We look at the Madonna of Cimabue in the church -of Santa Maria Novella, and our first impulse is -to find her ungainly, uncouth, without spiritual -significance. It is only by thinking ourselves back -among the Florentines of the thirteenth century -that we can understand and appreciate Cimabue’s -appeal. But consider how difficult—or, rather, -impossible—that thinking-back process is. Consider -what we have to unlearn. We have to make ourselves -as though we had never seen the Sistine -Madonna of Raphael; much more than that, we -have mentally to wipe out six centuries of human -history. Manifestly it cannot be done; we can -never see the Cimabue picture as Cimabue himself -saw it or as his Florentine contemporaries saw it. -We have to try; but what we shall at best succeed -in attaining is a palimpsest, the superimposition of -new artistic interpretation on the old. And when -we say that classics are immortal, we only mean that -they are capable of yielding a perpetual series of -fresh palimpsests, of being perpetually “hatched -again and hatched different.” We cannot see -Dante’s <i>Commedia</i> as Dante or Dante’s first readers -saw it. For us its politics are dead and its theology -grotesque; it lives for us now by its spirituality, its -majesty, and the beauty of its form. But with -works that are not classics, works that are not -susceptible of a perpetual rebirth, the case is even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span> -harder. They are inscriptions that we can no -longer decipher; we cannot think ourselves, for a -moment, back in the mind of the author. They -have become for us curios.</p> - -<p>And that is what Hroswitha’s <i>Callimachus</i> has -become: a curio. How can we put ourselves back -in the mind of a nun in the Convent of Gandersheim -in the age of Otho the Great? I say “we.” For -nuns perhaps (having, I assume, a mentality nearer -the tenth century than the rest of us) may take a -fair shot at it. So, too, may cardinals, whose august -mentality I do not presume to fathom. But it is -certain that common worldly men, mere average -playgoers, cannot do it.</p> - -<p>But, it will be objected, are we not, or most of us, -still Christians? Are we not still capable of understanding -prayers, miracles, saintliness, raising from -the dead, “conversion,” and all the other subject-matter -of <i>Callimachus</i>? To be sure we are; hence -my “reverent” smile. If Christianity were dead -(or, as in Swift’s ironical pamphlet, abolished by Act -of Parliament) <i>Callimachus</i> would be simply meaningless -for us, a nothing, mere mummery. It is -not the matter of the play that provokes our smile; -but its form. The “fun,” says Miss St. John, is -“not justified by the text.” She is thinking of the -matter, abounding in piety and tending to edification; -but in point of fact the language, the “text”—at -any rate in theatrical representation (far be it -from me to prejudice her forthcoming book)—has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span> -its comic side. Callimachus’s abrupt declaration of -his passion to Drusiana and the terms of her rejection -of him are both, to a modern audience, irresistibly -comic. They are not meaningless, but they are -delightfully impossible: they are love-making as -imagined by a nun, the very person who <i>ex hypothesi</i> -knows nothing about it. You have, in fact, precisely -the same delicious absurdity, proceeding from an -imagination necessarily uninstructed by experience, -as you get in Miss Daisy Ashford’s book. (Several -critics have made this comparison. I am really -chagrined not to have thought of it myself. But it -should show Miss St. John that I am, at any rate, -not the only one who found <i>Callimachus</i> comic.)</p> - -<p>Further, and quite apart from the exquisite -naïveties of its text, the form of the play is so -childlike and bland as to be really funny. The -players, when not engaged in the action, stand -motionless in a semi-circle. Changes of scene are -indicated by two performers crossing the stage in -opposite directions—a genuine cricket “over.” -Characters are understood to be stricken with death -when they composedly lie down on their backs. -Others trot in pairs round Drusiana’s prostrate form -and you understand they are journeying to her -tomb. All this, of course, is merely primitive -“convention.” Could we put ourselves back into -Hroswitha’s time, it would pass unnoticed. In our -own time, with a different set of “conventions,” that -make some attempt at imitation of reality, we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span> -naturally laugh at these old conventions. We -laugh, but we are interested; our curiosity is being -catered for, we like to see what the old conventions -were. The curio, in short, is amusing in the fullest -sense of the term.</p> - -<p>And it leaves us with a desire to know more about -Hroswitha, the “white rose” of the tenth century -(if that be really the meaning of her name). Perhaps -the Cardinal’s preface will tell us more. One -remark occurs. It seems a little significant that a -nun should have written all her plays on the one -theme of chastity. It must have been an obsession -with her, this virtue to which, as Renan said, -nature attaches so little importance. And, in -hunting her theme, this nun does not scruple to -pursue it to the strangest places. She even puts -courtesans upon the stage and houses of ill-fame. -How on earth did the good lady imagine these unconventual -topics? The question suggests some -puzzles about the psychology of nuns. But one -only has to see <i>Callimachus</i> to know that Hroswitha -must have been as pure as snow, or as a white rose, -as innocently ignorant, in fact, of what she was -writing about as Miss Daisy Ashford when she -described an elopement.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PAGELLO">PAGELLO</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Long before <i>Madame Sand</i> was produced at the -Duke of York’s Theatre more had been written all -the world over about the trip of George Sand and -Alfred de Musset to Venice in 1833-4 than about -the decline and fall of the Roman Empire or the -campaigns of the Great War. A heavy fine should -be imposed on any one who needlessly adds a drop of -ink to the vast mass of controversy that has raged -round that subject, and I promise to leave the main -story, which must be known to every adult man and -woman in the two hemispheres, severely alone. But -there is a subordinate actor in the story, to whom -injustice, I think, has been done on all hands, and -whose case it would be an act of the merest decency -to reconsider. I mean Pietro Pagello.</p> - -<p>His case was prejudiced from the first by the dissemination -of an atrocious libel. When a patient -alleges scandalous behaviour between doctor and -nurse, it is well to be sure of the witness’s mental -condition. Now Musset was suffering, not, as Pagello -politely put it, from typhoid fever, but from <i>delirium -tremens</i>. This would at once disqualify him as an -eye-witness. But the fact is Musset himself never -made the allegation; the story was spread about by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> -brother Paul, a terrible liar. Pagello had been called -in first to attend not Alfred, but George herself, for -severe headache. Half a century later he remembered -that her lips were thick and ugly, and her teeth -discoloured by the cigarettes she was perpetually -smoking; but she charmed him by her wonderful -eyes: <i>per gli occhi stupendi</i>. After they had both -nursed Alfred to convalescence the <i>occhi stupendi</i> -made short work with the young doctor. In the -common phrase, George threw herself at him. -People who don’t study the facts talk of the new -arrangement as though it were a betrayal; but -observe that it was of the highest convenience not -only to George, but to Alfred. It enabled the poet -to get away alone to Paris with an easier conscience; -it provided George, compelled to stay on in Venice -to complete her tale of “copy,” with a protector. -But we are in 1834, with romanticism at its most -ecstatic and “sublime.” So the convenience of the -situation is draped in phrases and bedewed with -tears. Alfred shed them with enthusiasm, while -Pagello swore to him to look after the happiness of -George. “Il nostro amore per Alfredo” was -Pagello’s delightful way of putting it. A singular -trio! Evidently poor Pagello was George’s slave. -What was a poor young Venetian medical gentleman -to do? A foreign lady with <i>occhi stupendi</i> (and a -habit of writing eight or nine hours a day on end) -handed over to him, with tears of enthusiasm, by a -grateful patient! Anyhow, Pagello showed his sense<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> -by removing the lady to cheaper lodgings. When -Venice grew a little too hot he escorted her on a trip -to Tirol, taking her on the way (such were the pleasing -manners of the time) to see his father! He was a -little short with me, says the son, but he received -her with <i>cortesi ospitalita</i>, and the pair discussed -French literature. Mr. Max Beerbohm should draw -the picture.</p> - -<p>It has been the fashion to dismiss Pagello as a mere -nincompoop. But if he had been that, a George -Sand would not have cared a rap for him, and he -would have been terrified by George. As it was, -when she asked him to take her back to Paris he -“chucked” his practice and cheerfully parted with -his pictures and plate to provide funds for the -journey. He was, at any rate, a disinterested lover; -but the truth seems to be he was not passionate -enough for George. “Pagello is an angel of virtue,” -she writes to Musset, “he is so full of sensibility and -so good ... he surrounds me with care and attention.... For -the first time in my life I love without -passion.... Well, for my part, I feel the need to -suffer for some one. Oh! why couldn’t I live -between the two of you and make you happy without -belonging to either?” But by the time she had -reached Paris she was already thinking of belonging -to Alfred again, and “door-stepped” Pagello. Her -Parisian set, of course, made fun of him. The poor -gentleman’s situation was, indeed, sufficiently awkward. -But it is not true, as it is the fashion to say,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> -that he was “sent straight back.” George, who had -retreated to Nohant, invited him there, but he had -the good sense to decline. She was afraid he might -be in want of money, and wrote to a friend, “he will -never take it from a woman, even as a loan.” She, -at any rate, knew he was a gentleman. But the -Italians, with all their romantic traditions, are a -practical people. Finding himself adrift in Paris, -Pagello remembered his profession, and stayed on as -long as he could to study surgery, with such substantial -result that he subsequently became one of -the chief surgeons in Italy, and gained a special -reputation, it is said, in lithotomy. Thus may a -fantastic love adventure be turned to good account.</p> - -<p>I take my facts about Pagello from Mme. Wladimir -Karénine’s “George Sand” (1899-1912), the one -authentic and exhaustive work on the subject. He -died, over 90 years of age, after the first two of her -three volumes were published, and what one likes -most of all about him is that, till very near the end -of his life, he kept his mouth tight shut about the -great adventure of his youth. A mere nincompoop -could not have done that. In 1881 the Italian Press -happened to be reviving the story of the Venetian -amour, and they succeeded in getting from Pagello -a few of George’s letters and some modest, manly -reminiscences. He had no piquant scandals to disclose, -and merely showed, quite unconsciously, that -he was far the most decent of the strange three -involved in the Venetian adventure.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span></p> - -<p>As for the Pagello of the new play, the American -dramatist has made him just a tame, hopelessly -bewildered donkey. He is provided with a fierce -Italian sweetheart, to bring him back safe, if scolded, -from Paris to Italy. He lives freely on other people’s -money, George’s—when it isn’t Alfred’s. After all, -it doesn’t matter, for all the people of the play are -mere travesties of the originals, turned (in the published -book of the play, though not at the Duke of -York’s) into modern American citizens. Buloz talks -of “boosting” his subscriptions. Alfred says George -is “like a noisy old clock that won’t stop ticking.” -Oh dear!</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="STENDHAL">STENDHAL</h2> - -</div> - -<p>In reviewing the performance by the New Shakespeare -Company of <i>King Henry V.</i> I was reminded -by one of Henry’s lines at Agincourt,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">to speak, it may have seemed a trifle incongruously, -of Stendhal. But it was Stendhal who said, “je -n’écris que pour les <i>happy few</i>.” No quotation could -have been more appropriate. Stendhal’s readers -have always been few, but they have been enthusiastic. -In his lifetime he was hardly read at all, -though Balzac gave him a magnificent “puff”—so -magnificent that even Stendhal himself was taken -aback by it and infused a little irony into his thanks. -He supposed himself to be ahead of his time, and in -1840 said he would be understood somewhere about -1880. It was rather a good shot, for somewhere -about that date there came into being the fierce tribe -of Stendhalians, who founded the “Stendhal Club” -and included in their number no less a man than -M. Paul Bourget. But the vicissitudes of literary -reputations are as uncertain as anything in this -world, and M. Bourget wondered what would be -thought of Stendhal in another forty years—namely, -in 1920. Well, 1920 has arrived, as the years have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span> -the habit of doing with abominable rapidity, and -any one who likes can seek for an answer to M. -Bourget’s question. I will hazard a guess. I doubt -if in the interval there has been very much change in -Stendhal’s position. Now, as in 1880, Stendhal is -read, and immoderately loved, by the “happy few,” -and ignored or detested by the rest. But, in enjoying -him, the happy few contrive to take him a little -less seriously than did the Stendhal Club. That -process goes on with even greater reputations. Croce, -we are told, takes Dante more lightly than has been -the habit of Italian critics in the last half-century. -We English are gradually learning to discuss -Shakespeare as a human being. And here, pat to the -occasion, is a paper on Stendhal in the <i>Revue de Paris</i> -by M. Anatole France, which handles its subject -with the easy Anatolian grace we all know and does, -perhaps, at the same time indicate what the readers -of 1920 think of Stendhal, though none of them -would express their thought of him with the same -charm.</p> - -<p>It would probably occur to none of them, for -instance, as it does to Anatole France, to begin an -appreciation of Stendhal with the statement that he -“had a leg.” Modern costume has abolished this -advantage, but Stendhal lived, at any rate for the -greater part of his life, in the knee-breeches period, -when calves were on exhibition. Unluckily, Stendhal’s -calves do not appear in the portrait prefixed to -the Correspondence, but only the head, which is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span> -rather quaintly ugly. Quaint ugliness in men is not -displeasing to women (or where would most of us -be?), but what ne’er won fair lady is faint heart, and -Stendhal was timid. Thus, as a young man Stendhal -is said to have loved Mlle. Victorine Monnier for five -years before he spoke to her. He was not sure that -even then she knew who he was. And this was the -man who wrote a treatise “De l’Amour” (a delightful -book to skim through, nevertheless), and preaches -that every woman can be captured by direct assault! -I remember once talking to the wife of a popular -novelist, a great enthusiast for love, about her -husband’s variety and virtuosity on this subject. -She replied without enthusiasm: “Yes, in his books.” -On the same point, M. France reports a capital <i>sub -rosâ</i> saying of Renan’s:—“Les Européens font -preuve d’une déplorable indécision en tout ce qui -concerne la conjonction des sexes.”</p> - -<p>As might have been expected from a writer for the -“happy few,” Stendhal did not suffer fools gladly. -A man must have the social, the gregarious spirit for -that, and Stendhal lived much to himself. That -being so, he could not hope to escape boredom. An -incurable <i>ennui</i> lurks behind many of his pages; his -enemies would say <i>in</i> them. He even got bored with -Italy, as so many others of a century ago, who began -as enthusiastic lovers, got bored. Byron went to -Greece—and Shelley took to yachting with the fatal -result we know—because each was bored with Italy. -But Stendhal in his later years had to put up with it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span> -at Civita Vecchia—which, for a “littery gent” must -have been a deadly dull place in 1840, and would not, -I imagine, be very lively even now. Indeed, his -existence (after his early experiences with the Grand -Army) seems to have been quiet, solitary, and slow. -Perhaps that is why his books, his MSS., his letters, -are so full of mysterious disguises, initials, pseudonyms, -codes, erasures, as though he were being -watched by censors and hunted by spies. It was a -way of creating for himself an imaginary atmosphere -of adventure.</p> - -<p>M. France has some good things to say about -Stendhal’s style. M. Bourget calls his prose algebraic, -which is rather hard. But there are many -ways of writing, says M. France, and one can succeed -at it perfectly without any art, just as one can be a -great writer without correctness, as Henri IV. was in -his letters and Saint-Simon in his memoirs. No one -would read “Le Rouge et le Noir” or “La Chartreuse -de Parme,” as the Duchess in a Pinero play said she -read her French novel, for the style. Anatole France -commits himself to a very definite statement. No -Frenchman, he says, in Stendhal’s time wrote well, -the French language was altogether lost, and every -author at the beginning of the nineteenth century -wrote ill, with the sole exception of Paul Louis -Courier. “The disaster to the language, begun in -the youth of Mirabeau, increased under the Revolution, -despite those giants of the tribune, Vergniaud, -Saint-Just, Robespierre, compared with whom our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span> -orators of to-day seem noisy children, despite Camille -Desmoulins, author of the last well-written pamphlet -France was to read; the evil was aggravated under -the Empire and the Restoration; it became a frightful -thing in the works of Thiers and of Guizot.” This, -from the greatest living master of French, is not -without its interest. No one could say the same -thing of our English prose in the same period—a -period that gave us, to take a few instances at random, -Cowper’s letters and Byron’s, and the Essays of Elia.</p> - -<p>Stendhal, then, was not remarkable for style. But -one gathers that, in the rare occurrence of congenial -society, he was a good talker. One would give something -to have been a third in the box at La Scala -when Stendhal, a young officer of Napoleon, met an -old, lanky, melancholy general of artillery—no other -than Choderlos de Laclos, author, before the Revolution, -of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” Stendhal, -as a child, had known the original of Laclos’s -infamous Mme. de Merteuil, an original who appears -to have been even worse than the copy. Some -years later George Sand, on her way to Italy with -Musset, met Stendhal on a Rhone steamer, and he -told her a story which, she said, shocked her. She -does not repeat it. One would really rather like to -hear a story which could shock George Sand.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="JULES_LEMAITRE">JULES LEMAÎTRE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>It was in the first week of August, 1914. The -crowd on the seafront was outwardly as gay as ever, -only buying up the evening papers with a little more -eagerness than usual to read the exciting news from -Belgium. We had not had time to realize what war -meant. Some one held out a paper to me and said, -quite casually, “I see Lemaître’s dead.” This event -seemed to me for the moment bigger than the war -itself. At any rate it came more intimately home to -me. The world in an uproar, nations toppling to -ruin, millions of men in arms—these are only vague -mental pictures. They disquiet the imagination, -but are not to be realized by it. The death of your -favourite author, the spiritual companion and solace -of half a lifetime, is of an infinitely sharper reality, -and you feel it as though it were a physical pang.</p> - -<p>Lemaître died where, whenever he could, he had -lived, at Tavers in the Loiret, the heart of France. -He was always writing about Tavers, though he -never named it by its name. In describing the far-off -cruises of Loti and the indefatigable touristry of -Bourget he says:—“There is somewhere a big -orchard that goes down to a brook edged with -willows and poplars. It is for me the most beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span> -landscape in the world, for I love it, and it knows -me.” To understand Lemaître you must keep that -little <i>vignette</i> affectionately in your mind, as he did. -M. Henry Bordeaux, in his charming little monograph -“Jules Lemaître,” rightly insists upon -Lemaître’s passionate love for his native countryside. -But you never can tell; his insistence seems -only to have bored a recent reviewer of the book. -“The insistence on Lemaître’s patriotism and on -his being ‘l’homme de sa terre’ is a little wearying; -of course he was ‘l’homme de sa terre,’ but he was -many other things, or we should never have heard -of him.” As who should say, of course Cyrano had -a nose, but he had many other things, or we should -never have heard of him. But Cyrano’s nose was -a conspicuous feature, and, if we are not told of it, -we shall not fully understand Cyrano. So with -Lemaître’s love of his countryside by the Loire.</p> - -<p>It made him, to begin with, an incorrigible stay-at-home. -In this, as in so many other things, he -was a typical Frenchman. We English, born -roamers as we are, take for granted the educative -influence of travel. Places and people, we know by -elementary experience, are only to be realized by -being seen on the spot. Lemaître thought otherwise. -Why, he asked, need I go to England? I can get all -England out of Dickens and George Eliot and my -friend Bourget’s “Impressions de Voyage.” And -then he drew a picture of England, as he confidently -believed it to be, that is about as “like it” as, say,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span> -the average untravelled Englishman’s notion of -Tavers. He was never tired of quoting a passage of -the “Imitation” about the variety of changing sky -and scene. But a cloistered monk is not exactly an -authority on this subject.</p> - -<p>Again, the fact that Lemaître was “l’homme de -sa terre” is of vital literary importance; it affected -not only the spirit, but the actual direction of his -criticism. It inclined him to ignore or to misapprehend -those features in a foreign author that precisely -marked how he also, in his turn, was the man -of his countryside, and that very different from the -banks of the Loire. Some of his comments on Shakespeare, -for instance, are of a Gallicism almost Voltairean. -And it fostered illusions like that which -possessed him about the “Northern literatures”—Ibsen, -Hauptmann, Strindberg, and so forth—that -they were mere belated imitators of the French -romantics. The fact that Lemaître was essentially -a man of his province involved the fact that his -criticism now and then was also provincial.</p> - -<p>Indeed, his very provincialism heightened his -enjoyment of Paris and sharpened his sense of -Parisianism. Things which the born Parisian takes -for granted were delightful novelties for him, challenging -observation and analysis. “Il est,” said -Degas, “toujours bien content d’être à Paris.” He -was “bien content” because he was “the young -man from the country,” the man from Tavers. The -phenomenon is familiar all the world over.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span></p> - -<p>Further, the fact that Lemaître remained -“l’homme de sa terre,” still getting his clothes -from the village tailor, never so much at home as -among the farmers, country schoolmasters, and -peasants he had known from his infancy, gives a -quite peculiar savour to his remarks on “le monde”—the -great fashionable scene, which he describes -and analyses, to be sure, as a philosopher, but as a -philosopher who is, consciously and indeed defiantly, -an “outsider.”</p> - -<p>These are all integral parts of Lemaître’s critical -individuality. Without them he would have been -another man altogether—a point so obvious to all -lovers of Lemaître that it would never have occurred -to me to mention it, had it not been for our reviewer’s -weariness of being reminded that he was “l’homme -de sa terre.” Evidently the reviewer cannot forgive -Lemaître for his treatment of the “décadents” -and the “symbolistes,” and other cranks. “Think -of the people Lemaître missed.” The people include, -it seems, Moréas, Laforgue, Samain, and Rimbaud. -Well, after thinking of these people, many of -us will be resigned to “missing” them with Lemaître.</p> - -<p>It is odd that the reviewer, while hunting for -objections to Lemaître’s criticism, as criticism, -should have “missed” the really valid one—that -it is often not so much critical as “high fantastical.” -Lemaître was apt to be carried away by his imagination, -and to run through a varied assortment of -comparisons, associations, and parallels that coloured<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span> -rather than cleared the issue. The rigorist Croce -has, in passing, laid his finger upon this. He quotes -Lemaître on Corneille. Polyeucte, says the critic, -recalls at once “St. Paul, Huss, Calvin, and Prince -Kropotkine,” and awakes “the same curiosity as a -Russian Nihilist, of the kind to be seen in Paris in -bygone years, in some <i>brasserie</i> ... of whom the -whisper went round that at St. Petersburg he had -killed a general or a prefect of police.” Croce dismisses -this sort of thing as <i>ricami di fantasia</i>, and -certainly, from the point of view of strict criticism, -it is a weakness of Lemaître’s.</p> - -<p>After all, however (as the counsel in “Pickwick” -pleaded about something else), it is an amiable -weakness; it makes him such incomparably good -reading! Heaven forbid that I should reopen the -old stupid, stale controversy about “impressionist” -and “judicial” criticism; but it is obvious that the -one sort does explicitly acknowledge and glory in -what is implicit in the other—the individual temperament -and talent of the critic himself. If the -“impressionist” who gives free play to his temperament -is apt sometimes to get out of bounds—to -be substituting <i>ricami di fantasia</i> for strict -analysis—he may be all the more stimulating to the -reader. He may be giving the reader not scrupulous -criticism, but something better. It all depends, -of course, on the temperament and the talent. -Lemaître’s <i>ricami di fantasia</i> are part, if not the -best part, of his charm.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="JANE_AUSTEN">JANE AUSTEN</h2> - -</div> - -<p>The amusing parlour-game of Jane Austen -topography is always being played somewhere. A -few years ago there was a correspondence in the -<i>Literary Supplement</i> about the precise position of -Emma’s Highbury on the map. Some Austenites -voted for Esher, others for Cobham, others again -for Bookham. There has been another correspondence -about Mansfield Park. Lady Vaux of -Harrowden “identifies” it with Easton Neston, -near Towcester. Sir Francis Darwin and the -Master of Downing are for Easton in Huntingdonshire. -People have consulted Paterson’s Roads -about it. Mr. Mackinnon, K.C., points out that it -must have been about four miles north of Northampton. -But I like him best when he says, “I -do not suppose any actual park was in Jane Austen’s -mind.” <i>Brigadier, vous avez raison!</i> I do not -suppose any actual place was in Jane Austen’s mind -when she assigned her personages a home or a -lodging. You might as well try to fix the number -of the house in Gracechurch Street where Elizabeth’s -uncle lived. Are we not shown the “real” Old -Curiosity Shop? And the “real” Bleak House?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span> -And Juliet’s tomb at Verona? And the exact -point of the Cobb where Louisa Musgrove fell?</p> - -<p>It is easy to see why Jane Austen lends herself -more readily than most writers to this topographical -game. She was very fond of topographical <i>colour</i>, -giving not only real place-names to the neighbourhood -of the fictitious homes, but exact distances in -miles. It was so many miles from Highbury to -Kingston market-place, and so many to Box Hill. -Yet she was always vague about the exact spot from -which these distances were calculated. For there -her imagination had its home, it was her private -Paradise of Dainty Devices; she wanted a free hand -there, unhampered by maps, road books, and other -intrusions from the actual world. In fact, she did -with real places just what Scott, say, did with -historical people, kept them to surround the -imaginary centre of the tale. You can “identify” -Charles Edward, but not Waverley. You can -“identify” Nottingham, but not Mansfield Park.</p> - -<p>It is a mercy that Jane Austen never describes -houses—never describes them, I mean, with the -minute (and tedious) particularity of a Balzac—or -the topographical game would have been supplemented -by an architectural one, and we should have -had the “real” Mansfield Park pointed out to us -from its description, like Hawthorne’s House of the -Seven Gables. Indeed, she never, in the modern -sense, describes anything, never indulges in description -for its own sake. She never even expatiated on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span> -the beauties of nature, taking them for granted and, -indeed, on at least one famous occasion—when -strawberries were being picked while the apple trees -were still in bloom at Donwell Abbey—rather mixing -them up. Her descriptions always had a practical -purpose. If it rained in Bath, it was in order that -Anne might, or might not, meet Captain Wentworth. -We know that Sir Thomas’s “own dear room” at -Mansfield Park was next to the billiard-room, -because the novelist wanted us to know how he -came plump upon the ranting Mr. Yates. But that -detail, thank goodness, won’t enable us to “identify” -Mansfield Park.</p> - -<p>Doesn’t it argue a rather matter-of-fact frame of -mind—I say it with all respect to the correspondents -of the <i>Literary Supplement</i>—this persistent tendency -to “identify” the imaginary with the actual, the -geographical, the historical? There is a notable -instance of it in the Letters of Henry James. The -novelist had described in “The Bostonians” a -certain veteran philanthropist, “Miss Birdseye.” -Forthwith all Boston identified the imaginary Miss -Birdseye with a real Miss Peabody. “I am quite -appalled,” writes Henry James to his brother -William, “by your note in which you assault me on -the subject of my having painted a ‘portrait from -life’ of Miss Peabody! I was in some measure -prepared for it by Lowell’s (as I found the other -day) taking it for granted that she had been my -model, and an allusion to the same effect in a note<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span> -from aunt Kate. Still, I didn’t expect the charge -to come from you. I hold that I have done nothing -to deserve it.... Miss Birdseye was conceived -entirely from my moral consciousness, like every -other person I have ever drawn.” It is odd that a -man like William James, a professed student of the -human mind and its workings, should have made -such a mistake. I remember a saying attributed, -years ago, to Jowett about the two brothers: -one, he remarked, was a writer of fiction and the -other a psychologist, and the fiction was all psychology -and the psychology all fiction. Anyhow, I -think if any one had written to Jane Austen to tax -her with Highbury being Esher or Mansfield Park -Easton Neston, she would have been able to reply -that they were conceived entirely from her moral -consciousness. And I fancy she would have smiled -at her little trick of giving the exact mileage from -her imaginary centre to real places having “sold” -so many worthy people. Very likely she would -have brought the topographical game into the -Hartfield family circle, as a suitable alternative for -Mr. Elton’s enigmas, charades, conundrums, and -polite puzzles, or for Mr. Woodhouse’s “Kitty, a -fair but frozen maid,” which made him think of -poor Isabella—who was very near being christened -Catherine, after her grandmamma.</p> - -<p>The truth, surely, is that this place-hunting, this -seeking to “identify” the imaginary with the actual -map-marked spot, is only a part of the larger<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span> -misconception of imaginative work—the misconception -which leads to a perpetual search for the -“originals” of an author’s personages, especially -when these personages have a full, vivid life of their -own. Jane Austen has often been compared to -Shakespeare, ever since Macaulay set the fashion. -Well, it is naturally upon Shakespeare that this -misconception has wreaked its worst. Commentators -have gravely presented us with the “original” -of Falstaff, of Sir Toby Belch, of Dogberry—nay, -of Iago. Surely, the only “originals” of these -people were Shakespeare himself? What were they -but certain Shakespearean moods, humours, intimate -experiences, temptations felt, but resisted, impulses -controlled in actual life but allowed free play in -imaginative reverie? No one that I know of has -been foolish enough to charge Jane Austen with -“copying” any of her characters from actual -individuals, but, if you are in quest of “identifications,” -is it not possible to “identify” many of -them, the women at any rate—for, of course, her -women bear the stamp of authentic reality much -more plainly than her men—is it not possible to -identify them with sides, tendencies, moods of Jane -Austen herself? Here, I know, I am at variance -with a distinguished authority, from whom it is -always rash to differ. Professor Raleigh says:—“Sympathy -with her characters she frequently -has, identity never. Not in the high-spirited Elizabeth -Bennet, not in that sturdy young patrician<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span> -Emma, not even in Anne Elliot of ‘Persuasion,’ is -the real Jane Austen to be found. She stands for -ever aloof.” Pass, for Emma and Elizabeth! But -the “even” in the case of Anne gives me courage. -We are not, of course, talking of identity in regard -to external circumstances. Jane Austen was not -the daughter of a Somersetshire baronet and did not -marry a captain in the navy. But that Jane only -“sympathized” with the heart and mind of Anne -Elliot is to my thinking absurdly short of the truth. -That the adventures of Anne’s soul, her heart-beatings, -misgivings and intimate reassurances about -Wentworth’s feeling for her had been Jane Austen’s -own is to me as certain as though we had the confession -under her own hand and seal. The woman -who drew Anne’s timid, doubting, wondering love -must have been in love herself and in that way. -One short sentence settles that for me. The consciousness -of love disposes Anne “to pity every one, -as being less happy than herself.” What lover does -not know that secret feeling? And if he had never -loved, would he have guessed it by “sympathy”? -(You will find, by the way, the very same secret -divulged by Balzac in one of his love-letters to -Mme. Hanska—among the feelings she inspires him -with is “I know not what disdain in contemplating -other men.”) In the face of this, what need to go -ransacking Jane Austen’s Letters or Memoir for -evidence that she had a love affair? No, it is -because there is most of Jane Austen’s spiritual<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span> -“identity” in Anne that “Persuasion” is the -sweetest, tenderest, and truest of her books. I -apologize for having wandered from Mansfield Park -and Easton Neston and the other engaging futilities -of the parlour game.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="T_W_ROBERTSON">T. W. ROBERTSON</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Fifty years ago to-morrow (February 3rd, 1871) -died Thomas William Robertson, a great reformer of -the English drama in his day, but now, like so many -other reformers, little more than a name. His plays -have ceased to hold the stage. Very few of them -still allow themselves to be read. To-day their matter -seems, for the most part, poor, thin, trivial, and their -form somewhat naïve. “Robertsonian” has become -for the present generation a meaningless epithet, and -“teacup and saucer school” an empty gibe. Even -within a few years of Robertson’s death George -Meredith could only say of him: “In a review of -our modern comedies, those of the late Mr. Robertson -would deserve honourable mention.” As the old -tag says, times change and we in them. Robertson -is now a “back number.” His comedies are not -classics, for classics are live things; they are merely -historical documents. Yet you have only to turn to -such a record as “The Bancrofts’ Recollections” to -see how live these comedies once were, how stimulating -to their time, how enthusiastically they were -hailed as a new birth, a new portent, a new art. -Indeed, for my part, when I read the glowing eulogies<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span> -of John Oxenford and Tom Taylor and the other -critics of that time I am filled with something like -dismay. All that warm (and rather wordy—it was -the way of the ’sixties) appreciation gone dead and -cold! I wonder how many of our own judgments -will stand the test of fifty years. Br—r—r!</p> - -<p>Well, to understand Robertson’s success, we have -to think ourselves back into his time. We have to -ignore what followed him and to see what he displaced. -Up to his date the theatre, under the great -French influence of the ’thirties, still remained -romantic. But that influence was wearing out. A -new influence was making itself felt in France, -through the dialectics of Dumas <i>fils</i> and Augier’s -commonsense, though the new influence still bore -trace of the old romanticism, as we can see at least -to-day. <i>La Dame aux Camélias</i>, so romantic to-day, -was greeted in 1855 as a masterpiece of realism! -And it <i>was</i> comparatively realistic, realistic for its -time. But the English theatre, a second-hand -theatre, still stuck to the old French romantic -tradition. It lived largely on adaptations from -Scribe. Robertson himself adapted a Scribe play -(and not a bad one), <i>Bataille de Dames</i>. He had, -however, come under the newer, the realistic, or -romantico-realistic influence. He adapted Augier’s -<i>L’Aventurière</i>. Tom Stylus’s pipe in the ballroom -(in <i>Society</i>) had previously been dropped by Giboyer -in <i>Les Effrontés</i>. I cannot help thinking that the -new French reaction had a good deal to do with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span> -Robertsonian reaction, certainly as much as the -influence of Thackeray to which Sir Arthur Pinero -traces it.</p> - -<p>But I must let Sir Arthur speak for himself. In -a letter in which he has been so good as to remind -me of to-morrow’s date he says:—</p> - -<p>“I look upon Robertson as a genius. Not that -he wrote anything very profound, or anything very -witty, but because, at a time when the English -stage had sunk to even a lower ebb than it is usually -credited with reaching; when the theatres stank of -stale gas and orange-peel and the higher drama was -represented mainly by adaptations from Scribe by -Leicester Buckingham; he had the vision to see that -a new public could be created, and an old and jaded -one refreshed, by invoking for dramatic purposes the -spirit, and using some part of the method, of -Thackeray.”</p> - -<p>This is admirable, and I only wish our dramatists -would more often be tempted into the region of -dramatic criticism. All the same I confess that -(after going through all Robertson’s plays) it seems -to me to overrate the Thackerayan influence. There -is a little sentimental cynicism in Robertson and -there is much in Thackeray. There is a tipsy old -reprobate in <i>Pendennis</i> and there is another in <i>Caste</i>. -Tom Stylus helped to found a newspaper and so did -George Warrington. Esther D’Alroy tried vainly -to buckle on her husband’s sword-belt when he was -ordered on service, and Amelia Osborne hovered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span> -helplessly about her husband with his red sash on -the eve of Waterloo. But such matters as these -are common property, <i>communia</i>, and the artist’s -business, which Horace said was so difficult, is -<i>proprie communia dicere</i>, to give them an individual -turn. Drunkenness apart I don’t think Eccles is a -bit like Costigan. As to the Thackerayan spirit, -would that Robertson had “invoked” it! His -plays might then be classics still, as Thackeray is, -instead of merely documents.</p> - -<p>If we are to connect Robertson with some typical -Victorian novelist, I would myself, with all deference -to Sir Arthur, suggest Trollope. His young women, -his Naomi Tighes and Bellas, his Polly and Esther -Eccles, strike me as eminently Trollopean. There -are traces of Mrs. Proudie in both Mrs. Sutcliffe and -Lady Ptarmigant. But, probably, these also are -only instances of <i>communia</i>. Probably the young -ladies (and, for all I know, the old ones, too) were -real types of the ’sixties, as we see them in Leech’s -drawings. Bless their sweet baby-faces and their -simple hearts and their pork-pie hats!</p> - -<p>The Robertsonian way is often spoken of as a -“return to nature.” It is, in fact, a common eulogy -of most reactions in art. “Don Quixote” was a -return to nature, compared with the romances of -chivalry, and “Tom Jones” was a return to nature, -compared with “Don Quixote.” The world gradually -changes its point of view and sees the facts of life -in a new light. Artists change with the rest of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span> -world, and give expression to the new vision. They -are hailed as reformers until the next reformation; -they seem to have returned to nature, until the -world’s view of “nature” again changes. I think, -as I have said, that Robertson’s work is to be related -to the general anti-romantic reaction that started -in France in mid-nineteenth century. But all -reactions keep something of what they react against, -and Robertson’s reaction retains a good deal of -romance. <i>School</i> is as romantic as the German -Cinderella-story, on which it was founded. The -central situation of <i>Caste</i>—the return home of the -husband given up for dead—is essentially romantic, -not a jot less romantic than in <i>La joie fait peur</i>. The -scenes at the “Owl’s Roost” in <i>Society</i>, applauded -for their daring realism, are realistic presentations -of the last stronghold of the romantic Murger -tradition, literary “Bohemia.” Robertson’s dialogue -was often the high-flown lingo of the old -romance. (In dialogue we have “returned to -nature” several times over since his day.) But -more often it was not. He astonished and delighted -his contemporaries by making many of his people -speak in the theatre as they spoke out of it. He -invented sentimental situations that were charming -then and would be charming now—love-passages in -London squares and over milk-jugs in the moonlight. -He had been an actor and a stage manager and knew -how to make the very most of stage resources. Take -the scene of George’s return in <i>Caste</i>. There is a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span> -cry of “milkaow” and a knock at the door. “Come -in,” cries Polly to the milkman—and in walks with -the milk-can one risen from the dead! This thrilling -<i>coup de théâtre</i> is followed, however, by something -much better, the pathetic scenes of Polly’s hysterical -joy and her tender artifice in breaking the news to -Esther. I confess that I cannot read these scenes -without tears. There was a quality of freshness and -delicate simplicity in Robertson’s work at its best -that was a true “return to nature.” No need, is -there? to speak of the luck his work had in finding -such interpreters as the Bancrofts and their company -or of the luck the actors had in finding the work to -interpret—the Bancrofts themselves have already -told that tale. But it all happened half a century -ago and I suppose we are not to expect a future -Robertson revival. The past is past. Life is -perpetual change. The more reason for not neglecting -occasions of pious commemoration. Let us, -then, give a friendly thought to “Tom” Robertson -to-morrow.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VERSATILITY">VERSATILITY</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Now that the <i>Literary Supplement</i> costs 6<i>d.</i>, one -feels entitled to examine one’s relation to it with a -certain sense of solemnity. But I well know what -mine is, before examination. Even when it cost 3<i>d.</i>, -my relation to it was always one of weekly disconcertment. -It revealed to me so many things I didn’t -know and never should know, yet known presumably -to some other reader. Now omniscience is derided -as a “foible,” but why should one be ashamed to -confess it as an ideal? Frankly, I envy the man -who was so various that he seemed to be not one but -all mankind’s epitome. He must have got more fun -out of life than your profound specialist. It is to -give this various reader this variety of fun that (I -surmise, but the editor will know for certain) the -<i>Supplement</i> exists. But for me, imperfectly various, -it means something bordering on despair. I suppose -other readers are more sensible, and just take what -suits them, leaving the rest. But I simply hate -leaving anything. Take the ten columns modestly -headed “New Books and Reprints.” What a world -of unknown topics and alien ideas and unfathomable -theories about everything this simple title covers!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span> -Is there any reader whose intellectual equipment -includes at once the biography of Absalom Watkin, -of Manchester, the Indian Trade Inquiry Reports on -Hides and Skins, an elementary knowledge of the -Bengali language, and the particular philosophy of -mysticism entertained by Mr. Watkin (not Absalom, -but another)? Mine doesn’t—and there’s the pang, -for each and all these subjects, simply because they -are there, staring me in the face, the face of an absolutely -blank mind about them, excite my intellectual -curiosity. I should like to know all about ergatocracy—merely -on the strength of its alluring name—and -the true story, from the Franciscan point of -view, of the Franciscans and the Protestant Revolution -in England, and Lord Grey’s reminiscences of -intercourse with Mr. Roosevelt, and the history of -the Assyrian “millet” in the great war, and what is -meant by the “Free Catholic” tendency in the -Nonconformist Churches. Yet it is fairly certain -that I shall have to do without any knowledge of -most, if not all, of these matters which presumably -engage the enlightened interest of some other -readers.</p> - -<p>That is why I say the <i>Supplement</i> disconcerts me -every week. It makes me feel ignorant and, what -is worse, lonely, cut off from so many human -sympathies, cold to enthusiasms that are agitating -other breasts, isolated in a crowd who, for all I know, -may be banding themselves against me with the -secret password “ergatocracy,” an uninitiated<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span> -stranger among the friends of Mr. Absalom Watkin -of Manchester. Indeed, unlike “the master of this -college,” I am so far from feeling that “what I don’t -know isn’t knowledge” as to find it the one sort of -knowledge I itch to possess and suppose myself to -have lost a golden opportunity in missing. There -are strong men about, I am aware, who say they -don’t care. They profess themselves content with -knowing a few things thoroughly, with their own -little set of enthusiasms, and repeat proverbs about -jacks of all trades. I respect these sturdy men, but -all the time my heart goes out to the other kind, the -men of versatility, the men whose aim is to understand -everything, to sympathize with every human -emotion, to leave no corner of experience unexplored. -And some such aim as this is indispensable for the -critic, whose business is primarily to understand. -To understand what he criticizes he has to begin by -putting himself in its author’s place and standing -at his point of view—to take on, in short, in turn, -innumerable other personalities, temperaments, and -tastes than his own. Other men may, but a critic -must, be versatile. He must have the faculty of -lending himself, with profusion, to other minds and -other experiences—lending himself, but not giving, -reserving the right of resuming his own individuality -and of applying his own standards.</p> - -<p>That resumption of self is easy enough. The true -difficulty is in surrendering it, even for a while. One -finds the task particularly hard, I think, in lending<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span> -oneself to tastes one has outgrown. Remember your -schoolboy enthusiasm over Macaulay’s style. You -have lost that long ago, and are now, perhaps, a -little ashamed of it. Yet you must recapture it, if -only for a moment; that is to say, you must try to -reflect in yourself the joy that Macaulay felt in writing -as he did, if you are sitting down to try to criticize -him adequately. This is difficult, this momentary -renunciation of your present taste in favour of the -taste you have outgrown. Remember your schoolboy -attitude to Scott; how you read feverishly for -the story and nothing but the story, and simply -skipped the long prefaces and introductions and -copious historical notes? To-day your taste has -matured, and you see the prefaces and notes as a -welcome setting for the story, as completing for you -the picture of the author’s mind in the act of composition. -But you will have to go back to your discarded -taste and think only of the story if you are -recommending Scott to your youngsters.</p> - -<p>This difficulty is perpetually confronting one in -the theatre. I confess, I find the theatre almost as -disconcerting as the <i>Literary Supplement</i> for an -analogous, though not identical, reason. In that -case you have the bewildering spectacle of things -unknown; in this, of tastes outgrown. One afternoon -I saw a little play translated from the French, -limpid in expression, simplicity itself in form, spare -almost to austerity in its use of theatrical means. -Not a word, not a situation, was emphasized. This<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span> -or that point was neatly, briefly indicated, offered -just as a germ which might be safely left to your own -intelligence to develop. The action was pure acted -irony, but not an ironical word was uttered. This, -of course, is the sort of play that refreshes the jaded -critic, and he has to resist the temptation to over-praise -it. The next evening I saw a play diligently -crammed with everything that the other had carefully -left out—emphasis, repetition, six words where -one would have sufficed, “dramatic” situations and -suspenses, the gentle humours of life concentrated -into eccentricities of stage “character.” There is a -numerous, and entirely respectable, public with a -taste in this stage; it likes dots on its <i>i</i>’s, things -thrust under its nose, so that it can see them, and -repeated over and over again, so that it can understand -them. That is a taste which the jaded critic -cannot but have outgrown. Yet the play was good, -sound work of its kind, and the critic’s first duty was -to force himself back into his outgrown taste and see -the play with the spirit with which the author wrote -it and its proper public received it. I say his first -duty; it was open to him afterwards to recover his -own personality and make his distinctions. But -this first duty was hard. It is an ever-recurring trial -of critical conscience. “These are our troubles, Mr. -Wesley,” as the peevish gentleman said when the -footman put too much coal on the fire.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WOMENS_JOURNALS">WOMEN’S JOURNALS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Who was the wit who, to the usual misquotation -from Buffon, <i>le style c’est l’homme</i>, rejoined <i>mais ce -n’est pas la femme</i>? The statement has perhaps as -much truth as is required from a witticism; it is -half true. Woman, unlike man, does not express all -of herself. She has her reticences, her euphemisms, -and her asterisks. She will on no account name all -things by their names. It is one of the childish weaknesses -of men, she holds, to practise veracity to -excess. Like children, they cannot help blurting out -the truth. But she, from diligent experiments on her -own person, has learnt that truth looks all the better -for having its nose powdered and its cheeks discreetly -rouged. Readers of George Sand’s “Histoire de ma -Vie” are often baffled in tracing the fine distinction -between the woman and the make-up. Therein the -work is typical, illustrating as it does the general -desire of women in literature to look pretty—to look -pretty in their mirror, for themselves, for their own -pleasure. Not, as is sometimes erroneously asserted, -to look pretty in the eyes of men or of a particular -man. So one is amused but scarcely convinced by -Heine’s well-known remark that every woman who -writes has one eye on her paper and the other on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span> -some man—except the Countess Hahn-Hahn, who -had only one eye. Evidently the generalization was -invented just to spite the countess. Mme. de -Sévigné’s letters to her daughter are far better than -those to Bussy-Rabutin. George Eliot may have had -one eye on Lewes when she did her best to spoil her -novels by scientific pedantry—which was sheer -waste (let alone the damage to the novels), as Lewes -was, by all accounts, the ugliest man in London. -But on what man had Jane Austen an eye? One -might ask the question about our thousands of women -novelists to-day, and at once see the refutation of -Heine in simple arithmetic; there would not be -enough men to go round. There is clearly no rule. -Heine may have been thinking of George Sand, -already mentioned, whose eye—her “glad eye,” I -fear it must be called—revolved as she wrote upon a -round dozen of men in turn.</p> - -<p>But there is one department of women’s literature -wherein the element of doubt altogether vanishes. -I mean the journals they publish, or get published, -for themselves. They cannot write here with their -eye on some man. Indeed, men, nice men (“nice” -in the strict sense, approved in a certain talk between -Catherine Morland and Henry Tilney), are rather -chary of even approaching such journals. They -exhibit advertisements of “undies,” corsets, and -other things that used to be called feminine mysteries, -but are now entitled perhaps to the rank of notorieties -which make one instinctively stammer, “Oh, I beg<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span> -your pardon,” and beat a hasty retreat. So, it will -at once be said, do all newspapers nowadays, and -that is true. Yet, somehow, one feels more indiscreet -in lighting upon them in the women’s journals than -in the others. For one thing, they seem to be more -dainty and alluring by reason of more artistic execution -and glazed paper, so that they may satisfy the -critical eye of their proper wearers. And, for -another, there is a difference between the high-road -of the newspaper, whereon a man willy-nilly must -travel, and the by-path of the women’s journal, -where he is at best a privileged intruder. If you -ask, “Goosey, goosey, gander, whither shall I -wander?” there is a distinct difference between -answering, “Upstairs and downstairs,” and “in my -lady’s chamber.”</p> - -<p>All this, of course, as the judicious will have -perceived, really means that I am as interested as, I -suppose, are most of my fellow-men in all these -curiously dainty and elegant ingenuities of women’s -apparel, and that I am only pretending to be shocked. -(After all, in his pursuit of veracity, even a man may -occasionally powder his nose.) The advertisers, -bless them, know all about that. They know that -the natural man shares the naïve admiration which -Pepys once expressed on seeing Lady Castlemaine’s -wonderful <i>lingerie</i> and laces hanging out to dry on a -clothes-line in Whitehall. But the natural man -generally finds it convenient to be more reticent -about it than Pepys.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span></p> - -<p>The first number of the <i>Woman’s Supplement</i>, -which has prompted these reflections, suggests -another: the perpetual wonder and delight of men -at the success with which women accommodate -facts to their ideals. We saw them, just now, doing -this with their literature; we saw them determined -that, at all costs, this shall be pleasing and themselves -the most pleasing things in it; we saw the -notable success of George Sand in accommodating -her historical to her ideal self. But they are as -successful with nature as with history. Just now, -for example, sloping shoulders are manifestly the -ideal—sloping shoulders with the obviously appropriate -balloon sleeves, as in Mr. Bernard Lintott’s -lady, or else with no sleeves at all, as in M. Jean -Doumergue’s. And part of the same ideal is that the -“figure” shall be anything but “full.” Now are -women’s shoulders naturally more sloping or their -figures less full than they used to be? These are -puzzling questions, but not beyond conjecture, and, -for my part, I guess that the answer is No. Yet our -women have easily triumphed over nature and slope -their shoulders with the uniformity of a regiment -sloping arms, while every woman with a full figure -has quietly become a <i>fausse maigre</i>.</p> - -<p>While I am about it, let me echo the usual male -protest. As the <i>Supplement</i> shows, women have not -yet persuaded themselves to abandon their detestable -high heels. The consequence is that there threatens -to be no longer any such thing as a graceful gait.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span> -<i>Incessu patuit dea</i> will soon have become an incomprehensible -allusion. And that hideous square -patch which too often peeps above the back of the -shoe? I suppose it is just a practical device to -strengthen the stocking in a part of stress; but I -hardly think really “nice” women can abide it. -On the whole, however, I subscribe cheerfully to the -current opinion that woman’s dress was never so -charming as it is at present. That is probably an -illusion. The mysterious laws that regulate fashion -mercifully regulate also the capacity for enjoying it. -And it is a mercy, too, that the beauty of woman can -triumph even over “old-fashioned” things. To our -modern eyes the fashions of the ’70’s and ’80’s were -far from beautiful in themselves—bunchy, humpy, -without “line.” Yet, when they were playing <i>Peter -Ibbetson</i>, one saw some fair women in them—and -was at once reconciled, able in fact to see them with -the eye of their period.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRACTICAL_LITERATURE">PRACTICAL LITERATURE</h2> - -</div> - -<p>“Pray, Sir,” a leader-writer is said to have -asked Delane, “how do you say ‘good fellow’ in -print?” and to have been answered, “Sir, you -should not say it at all.” There are thousands of -ambitious young people to-day who want to know -how you say good fellow, or awful snipe, or old -bean, or whatever, in print, and that is why there -are Schools of Journalism. A paper of instructions -from one of these excellent institutions has -lately fallen into my hands, and there seems no -reason for withholding it from publication. It -appears to be in the nature of a preliminary introduction -to what a distinguished journalist has well -called “practical literature.” For Journalists, in -Matthew Arnold’s quotation, drive at practice, and -to be practical you must begin by learning the shibboleths—that -is to say, the turns of phrase and -modes of treatment that long experience has -approved and constant readers are accustomed to -expect. There is no mystery about it; they are -much more simple than a vain people supposeth. -But it is all-important to get them right at the outset—or, -as is said in practical literature, from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span> -word “go”—and the advice the paper has to give -about them is as follows:—</p> - -<p><i>Descriptive Articles on Great Occasions.</i>—The -beginner will probably find there is very little to -describe. He must learn to invent. Street crowds -have a pestilent habit of not cheering at the appropriate -moment; your first business will be to make -them. Celebrities flash by in closed carriages, -totally hidden by the police; you will ruthlessly -expose them, bowing to the storm of applause which -sweeps across the multitude filling the square and -lining the classic steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. -If the Royal Family is present you will need especial -tact. Find the golden mean between the familiar -and the abject. Be human, like Euripides. Above -all, the homely “note” is recommended. You -cannot say too often that the King “looked bronzed.” -Thousands of pallid readers who go to Margate for -a week in order to come back looking bronzed will -appreciate that. It is loyal, it attests that robust -health that we all desire for his Majesty, and at the -same time it is homely. “I, too, have been bronzed,” -the reader says, as the barber at Byron’s funeral -said, “I, too, have been unhappy.” Whatever is -offered the Queen, a bouquet, a trowel, a sample of -the local product the Queen will “smilingly accept.” -If she tastes the men’s (or boy scouts’ or factory -girls’) soup, she will “pronounce it excellent.” -Preserve a cheerful tone, especially with <i>contretemps</i>. -If Gold Stick in Waiting drops his gold<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span> -stick, you will note that “the Royal party were -highly amused” and that “the little Princess -laughed heartily.”</p> - -<p><i>Politics and International Affairs.</i>—Here practical -literature takes a hint from the other sort. Be -historical. Be reminded of the great Westminster -Election and the Duchess of Devonshire. Remember -Speaker Onslow. Compare whatever you dislike -to the Rump. Magna Charta and Habeas -Corpus must now be allowed a rest, but you may -still allude to Thermidor and Brumaire, the Mountain -and the Cordeliers Club. “Mr.” Pitt sounds -well. Open your leader with “Nothing in the annals -of diplomacy since the Treaty of Utrecht (or the -Treaty of Vienna, or whatever other treaty you can -think of) has so disgraced,” &c. The second paragraph -should begin “Nor is that all.” Be slightly -archaistic. Words like “caitiff” and “poltroon” -may be discreetly used. Books recommended for -the course: Gibbon, Junius, early volumes of -Punch, Mahan’s “Sea Power,” and (for quotations) -R. L. Stevenson’s “Wrong Box.”</p> - -<p><i>Foreign Correspondence.</i>—Remember that the -particular capital you happen to be posted at is the -real hub of your newspaper, and wonder every -morning “what those fellows at the London office -can be about” to print so much stuff about their silly -local affairs. Practise political divination from the -minutest data. If some little actress at the Marigny, -or Belasco’s, makes you a <i>pied de nez</i> you will say<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span> -that “the Gallic temper (or public opinion in the -Eastern States) is showing signs of dangerous exasperation.” -If you find a junior Attaché lunching -at the golf club on Sunday, you will say “the political -tension is now at any rate momentarily relaxed.” -If they charge you a few centimes or cents more for -your box of chocolates you will say “the population -is now groaning under famine prices, and State intervention -cannot be much longer delayed.”</p> - -<p><i>Criticism of the Arts and the Theatre.</i>—As criticism -is not practical, it hardly comes within the -scope of instructions on practical literature. But -newspapers, after all, must be filled, and, if the -advertisements permit, room may be found even -for criticism. Fortunately, it requires little if any -instruction. The office boy, if he is not proud, may -be turned on to it at a pinch. The charwomen, when -they can be spared from their more useful work, -often prove neat hands at it. Ideas are to be discouraged; -a few catchwords are all that is necessary, -with one decent hat for Private Views and one ditto -dress suit for First Nights. The art critic will do -well to find a new and unknown artist and track him -down from show to show, comparing him in turn to -Tintoretto, the lesser Umbrians, and the Giottos at -Padua. (See Vasari <i>passim</i>, a repertory of delightful -names.) The theatrical critic will make it his -chief care to construct a striking sentence which the -managers can quote, without excessive garbling, in -their advertisements. It can end with “rapturously<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> -applauded,” with “rocked with laughter,” or with -“for many a night to come.”</p> - -<p><i>N.B.</i>—Personally conducted parties of students -taken to the theatre to see leading actresses “making -great strides in their art” and “having the ball at -their feet” and to watch Mr. Collins “surpassing -himself.” They will afterwards be shown cases of -type and instructed in the thermometrical test of the -temperature at which it becomes “cold print.”</p> - -<p>... The paper does not end here. In a special -section on the language of the poster, it offers a -prize for any hitherto undiscovered application of -the word “amazing.” It goes on to give instructions -to writers on cricket, golf, and sport, with a -stock selection of anecdotes about “W.G.” and -“E.M.,” and a plan to scale of the Dormy House -and Mr. Harry Tate’s moustache when he addresses -the ball and the audience. But these are awful -mysteries which I dare not follow the paper in -profaning.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="NINETEENTH-CENTURY_WOMAN">NINETEENTH-CENTURY WOMAN</h2> - -</div> - -<p>The serious research that some contemporary -French students are devoting to our English literature -is one of the most valuable by-products of the -Entente. We have had of recent years remarkable -French monographs on Wordsworth, on Cowper, on -Crabbe, on Hazlitt, which are fully as authoritative -as any of our native commentaries. And, turning -over the new volumes at a French bookseller’s the -other day, I came across another Gallic tribute of -this kind, with a rather lengthy title, “La Femme -Anglaise au XIXᵉ siècle et son évolution d’après le -roman anglais contemporain,” by Mme. Léonie -Villard. Mme. Villard seems to have read all -our modern English novels, from Richardson’s -“Pamela” down to the latest piece of propagandism -of Mr. H. G. Wells. Of course mere literary -curiosity could never have carried any human being -through all that; Mme. Villard is an ardent -“feminist,” and, like her sisters, capable of miraculous -physical endurance for the “cause.” A mere -man may “devour whole libraries,” but it takes a -fair feminist to swallow the huge mass of English -fiction.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span></p> - -<p>Reading exclusively from a single point of view, -Mme. Villard seems to have sometimes sacrificed her -critical sense to her principles. Thus, as a type of -the nineteenth-century “old maid,” so neglected, so -ill-used by society, she selects Miss Rachel Wardle! -Dickens, generally “so pitiful to the weak, so generous -to the oppressed and the conquered,” had no -pity for her. But upon us it is incumbent to pity -and understand and find excuses for her. “At any -rate, her desire to be loved and, above all, to experience -in other surroundings a freer and less humiliating -life should have nothing surprising for us.” -Isn’t this rather a solemn way of describing the -lady’s amours with Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle? -Is it really the fault of society if an amorous old dame -will be silly? And is she not to be laughed at if she -happen to fall into the category “old maid”? -Mrs. Bardell was amorous too. So was Mr. Tupman. -Dickens laughs at these also—but then they were -not old maids, they didn’t illustrate a “feminine -case.” Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She reminded -some people of Harriet Martineau. But Dickens had -deformed the type (who was intelligent and was not -the mother of a family) so as to present the “new -woman” in the least favourable light. He “has -fixed for half a century the type of the intellectual -or enfranchised woman, as conceived by those who -trust the judgment of others rather than their own -direct observation.” The question, surely, is not -whether Mrs. Jellyby was unlike Harriet Martineau,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span> -but whether in herself she was a sufficiently comic -personage. Most readers of Dickens find her so. -What injustice is there in this to the real “new -woman,” whom, as Mme. Villard has shown, she -did <i>not</i> resemble? As a matter of fact, when -Dickens had a mind to draw a real “strong-minded” -woman he drew her most sympathetically. Is there -any of his women more delightful than Miss Trotwood? -“To-day,” says Mme. Villard, “she appears -to us an unconscious feminist whose feminism misses -its mark, since it can find no field of action amid -narrow, provincial, routine surroundings.” Poor -Miss Trotwood!</p> - -<p>We are to understand that it was the domination -and the selfishness of man that created the lamentable -type of nineteenth-century “old maid.” But -who were unkindest to Miss Wardle? Her nieces, -members of her own sex. Who created the typical -“old maid” and terrible bore, Miss Bates? Another -“old maid,” Jane Austen. The fact is, old maids -like other human beings have their foibles. Are -these never to be put into a book? Feminism -seems to make its disciples terribly serious. Miss -La Creevy is Dickens’s example of the <i>femme artiste</i>. -See, says Mme. Villard, how types of “independent -women” are caricatured! She cannot laugh -at Sairey Gamp and Betsy Prig, because they testify -to the social contempt attaching to the nursing -profession at their date! Has it never occurred to -her that novels are sometimes written merely as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span> -novels and not as <i>dossiers</i> in a “case” for the -“evolution” of woman?</p> - -<p>After all, however, there are plenty of serious -novelists who do supply good evidence—more particularly -the quasi-propagandists like Mrs. Gaskell -(when she chose) and Mrs. Humphry Ward (sometimes), -and (nearly always) Mr. Galsworthy and -Mr. Wells. Mme. Villard makes effective play with -these. She has no difficulty, for instance, in showing -the immense economic advance of the woman-worker -during the last century, though even here her eye -seems too exclusively fixed on her own sex. True, -women were the chief victims of the old “factory” -and “sweating” systems, but the amelioration of -their condition, if I am not mistaken, came only as -part of the general amelioration in the condition of -“labour,” without sex-distinction.</p> - -<p>It is when she comes to the sentimental side of her -subject, the relation of woman to man whether in -marriage or “free love,” that Mme. Villard finds her -material a little too much for her. Naturally, for -our novelists and playwrights can never let the too -fascinating subject alone and seem to go on saying -the same things about it over and over again—<i>con -variazioni</i>. You have, for example, Mrs. Gaskell, -so far back as 1850, dealing with the same theme as -Mr. Stanley Houghton dealt with in “Hindle -Wakes” (1910)—the refusal of the seduced woman -to accept the regularization of her position by -marriage. Then there are the free-lovers “on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> -principle,” who end by conceding marriage to social -prejudice—like Mr. Wells’s Ann Veronica. There -must be English novels where the “free lovers” -maintain their principle triumphantly to the end, -though I haven’t read them; but I seem to remember -several in the French language. It is all very -confusing. Perhaps—I only say perhaps—those are -wisest who leave “principle” in these matters to -the heroes and heroines of the novelists and are -content to live ordinary lives in an ordinary jog-trot -way, without too much thinking about it. There is -this comfort for the old-fashioned commonplace -people among us, at any rate, that whatever “evolution” -of woman there may have been in the nineteenth -century, she remains in all essentials very -much what she used to be. I can find it as easy -to-day to be in love with Emma and Elizabeth and -Anne—I needn’t mention their surnames—who are -more than a century old, bless them, as with (not to -compromise myself with any contemporary English -heroine) M. Barrès’s Bérénice, or with one of -M. Marcel Proust’s “Jeunes filles en Fleurs.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PICKLES_AND_PICARDS">PICKLES AND PICARDS</h2> - -</div> - -<p>A writer in the <i>Nouvelle Revue Française</i> drops a -remark which it does one good to read. He says -that in the old French villages on the Picardy front -all that the English have taught the countryfolk in -five years of cohabitation is to eat pickles with their -boiled beef. Very likely this is a humorous perversion -of the truth; but I should like to believe it. -Not from any personal interest in pickles, though -that will seem odd, and perhaps incredible, to my -French friends, who seem to think that every -Englishman must be a pickle-eater—just as we -English used to think every Frenchman ate frogs. -No doubt, however, this French generalization is -fairly accurate; we are a nation of pickle-eaters, -and if any one asks why, I guess the answer is cold -beef. Anyhow, the idea has fascinated the French -mind. Among the English characteristics of which -Jules Lemaître once gave a list (from hearsay, which -he thought, good, easy man, as authentic evidence -as coming to see England for himself) I remember -he mentions “Les <i>pickles</i>.” And it is the one English -characteristic that has infected the Picards!</p> - -<p>My reason for rejoicing is that they have not been -infected by more than one, that in spite of all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> -temptations, etc., they remain (pickles excepted) -true Picards. There have been times (particularly -in mid-eighteenth century) when the French have -shown a tendency to Anglomania. Let us be glad -that these are over. Probably the French Revolution -settled that point, as it settled so many others, -by isolating France for the time being, and making -her the common enemy. More than one of the -Terrorists were Picards by race, but you may be -sure they never ate pickles. But cohabitation may -bring about the same result as isolation, in a different -way. Our armies have lived for five years with the -French; both natives and visitors have had ample -opportunities for observing each other’s characteristics; -and I like to think that both have -parted with the profound conviction that, on either -side, these are inimitable. Condiments, of course, -excepted. They have adopted our pickles, and we -have taken their <i>sauce bigarade</i>, which is excellent -with wild duck. Condiments, by the way, include -the linguistic sort. We have seen the delight with -which Lemaître wrote down that strange, abrupt, -tart English word “pickles” in his French text. So -some of our own scribblers wantonly and wickedly -flavour their writings with an occasional French -phrase, because it seems to them to give a piquancy, -a zest. These apart, let us by all means admire one -another’s qualities without seeking to interchange -them. Let us jealously preserve our own characteristics, -our own type, like the Picardy villagers.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span> -National peculiarities are the perpetual joy of travel -(except when one side wants the window down and -the other up), the <i>bouquet</i> of literature, the salt of life.</p> - -<p>Talking of travel, we have been having a correspondence -in <i>The Times</i> on the lavatories and the -closed windows on the P.L.M. I am not using that -railway myself just now, and I confess I like to see -that here again the French remain obstinately -French. France is endeared to us, like any other -friend, by its weaknesses as well as its virtues; it -would, for many of us, not be the old friend that we -know and love without its occasional stuffiness and -its occasional smells. Louis Veuillot once wrote a -book called “Les Odeurs de Paris.” We have all -smelt them, and should hardly recognize our Paris -without them—though they must have had more -pungency, a more racy, romantic flavour in Balzac’s -Paris, the Paris of our dreams. Nowadays for the -rich Balzacian smells you will have to visit some of -the provincial towns of his novels, and so your -pilgrimage will combine a literary with all factory -interest. I know of one old Burgundian town—I -will not name it, for obvious reasons—not mentioned, -I fancy, by Balzac, quite untouched by time, -with pepper-pot towers, a river in a deep ravine, and -well worth a literary pilgrimage if only for its associations -with Mme. de Sévigné and the Président de -Brosses, where you have the added delight of the -richest medieval odours powerfully assisted by a -tannery—an unrivalled combination! Why do so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span> -many Englishmen grumble at these things instead of -appreciating them æsthetically, as accompaniments -of the French scene, as part of that varied experience -which we call “abroad”? Or why do they explain -them on the illiberal assumption of some inherent -inferiority in the French character?</p> - -<p>I find a typical specimen of this kind of explanation -in Hazlitt’s “Notes of a Journey through -France and Italy,” made about a century ago, when -France was the very France (think of it!) that was -being observed, and about to be described, by -Balzac. One would have thought that the Londoner -of 1824 (who must have been pretty well used to -smells at home) would have found some other -explanation than the physiological and psychological -inferiority of the French. But hear him. “A -Frenchman’s senses and understanding are alike -insensible to pain—he recognizes (happily for himself) -the existence only of that which adds to his -importance or his satisfaction. He is delighted with -perfumes, but passes over the most offensive smells -and will not lift up his little finger to remove a general -nuisance, for it is none to him.” To which he appends -a note:—“One would think that a people so -devoted to perfumes, who deal in essences and -scents, and have fifty different sorts of snuffs, would -be equally nice, and offended at the approach of -every disagreeable odour. Not so. They seem to -have no sense of the disagreeable in smells or tastes, -as if their heads were stuffed with a cold, and hang<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span> -over a dunghill, as if it were a bed of roses, or swallow -the most detestable dishes with the greatest relish. -The nerve of their sensibility is bound up at the -point of pain.... They make the best of everything -(which is a virtue)—and treat the worst with levity -or complaisance (which is a vice).”</p> - -<p>Well, well. When this was written French and -English had not long ceased to be at war, and Hazlitt -was never a sweet-tempered man. But you can still -find the censorious Englishman who is ready decisively -to mark off French characteristics into -“virtues” and “vices,” according to his own -English standard. There may, for all I know, be -some Frenchman who gives us tit for tat. This type -of critic is tiresome enough; but there is another -that seems to me quite intolerable, the critic who -detests all national peculiarities as such, and would -level down all humanity to one monotonous level of -sameness. As though uniformity were not already -the plague of the modern world! We men all wear -the same hat (despite the efforts of the <i>Daily Mail</i>), -women all powder their noses in the same way, and -the “cinema palaces” all show the same films, with -the same “Mary” and the same “Dug.” For -heaven’s sake, let us cling to our national peculiarities!</p> - -<p>And that is why I welcome the intelligence that -the Picards have taken over nothing from us but our -pickles, and that the French travellers on the P.L.M. -still insist on keeping the window up. Let our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> -enthusiasts for a uniform world ponder these facts. -And it is a relief to think that they can never unify -national landscapes. The village green, the cottage -gardens, the chalk downs, the chines, the red coombs -will always be English. The long straight <i>route -nationale</i> and the skinny fowls that are always straying -across it, the poplar-bordered streams, the trim -vines ranked along the hill-side, the heavily-accoutred -gendarme and the fat farmer in the stiff -indigo blouse hobnobbing at the <i>estaminet</i>, these will -always be French. Oh, but I would give something -to see that indigo blouse again, and have a morning -chat with the farmer! “Hé! père Martin, ça va -toujours bien? Pas mal, m’sieu. Et la récolte? -Dame! je ne m’en plains pas ... à la votre, -m’sieu!” They may take our pickles, if they will, -but let them remain themselves, our old French -friends.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BUSINESS_MAN">THE BUSINESS MAN</h2> - -</div> - -<p>It is not easy for the slave of “copy,” sedentary -and shy, to know that triumphant figure of the active, -bustling world, the business man. The business -man is too busy, and can only be seen in office hours, -when the scribe is correcting proofs or, perhaps, not -yet up. Nevertheless, I once nearly saw the -Governor of the Bank of England. I hold the -Governor to be the archetype of the business man. -In my green unknowing youth I used to take the -gentleman in cocked hat and picturesque robe at -the Threadneedle Street entrance for the Governor, -but now know better. Well, I once nearly saw the -Governor. It was on the stage. Mr. Gerald du -Maurier was in the bank-parlour when a servant -entered and said: “The Governor of the Bank of -England to call on you, sir.” “Show him in,” said -Mr. du Maurier with the easy <i>nonchalance</i> of which -only actors have the secret. It was a tremendous -moment. I seemed to hear harps in the air. And -just then, down came the curtain! It was felt, no -doubt, that the Governor of the Bank of England -ought not to be made a motley to the view. But I -was inconsolable. I had been robbed of my one -chance of seeing the supreme business man.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span></p> - -<p>Of late, however, the veil that shrouds the business -man from the non-business eye has been partly -lifted. The pictorial advertisement people have got -hold of him and give brief, tantalizing glimpses of his -daily life. Maeterlinck speaks of “l’auguste vie -quotidienne” of Hamlet. That only shows that -Hamlet (it is indeed his prime characteristic) was not -a business man. For the business man’s daily life, -if the advertisements are to be trusted, is not so much -august as alert, strenuous, and, above all, devoted to -the pleasures of the toilet. And his toilet seems, for -the most part, to centre in or near his chin. Indeed, -it is by his chin that you identify the business man. -You know what Pascal said of Cleopatra’s nose: -how, if it had been an inch shorter, the whole history -of the world would have been different. Much the -same thing may be said about the business man’s -chin. Had it been receding or pointed or dimpled or -double, there would have been no business man and -consequently no business. But things, as Bishop -Butler said, are what they are and their consequences -will be what they will be. The business man’s chin -is prominent, square, firm, and (unless he deals in -rubber tires—the sole exception to the rule) smooth. -It is as smooth as Spedding’s forehead, celebrated by -Thackeray and Edward Fitzgerald. It is, indeed, -like that forehead, a kind of landmark, a public monument. -Even the rich, velvety lather, which does -not dry on the face and leaves behind a feeling of -complete comfort and well-grooming, cannot disguise<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> -it. No wonder the business man is so particular -about shaving it! It is a kind of religious rite, -an Early Matins, with him.</p> - -<p>Outside the bank-parlour, the mart and the exchange -the business man takes no risks, and at his -toilet-table he prefers safety razors. Indeed, he -collects them. Sometimes he favours the sort that -can be stropped in a moment with one turn of the -wrist; sometimes the sort that needs no stropping -at all. But, like all collectors, he is never so happy as -when handling, or rather caressing the objects of his -collection. Mark how his eyes dance with delight and -his smile sweetens as the razor courses over his chin. -Evidently life at this moment is burning for him -with a hard gem-like flame. Call it not shaving! -Say, rather, he is ministering to the symbolic element -in him, daintily smoothing the proud emblem of his -power—to which he will add the finishing touch of -pearl-powder, whose constant use produces a delicate -bloom, tones up the complexion, and protects the -skin against the ravages of time.</p> - -<p>When the chin has been prepared for the business -day he tries and contrasts the several effects of it -over a variety of collars. For the business man -collects collars, too. His chin protrudes with quiet -but firm insistence over some of them, nestles coyly -in others, or it may be emerges with ease from the -sort designed to give ample throat room and especially -favoured by men who seek considerable freedom -but at the same time a collar of character and distinction.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> -Nor has he any false shame about being -seen in his shirt-sleeves. In fact, he seems to be in -the habit, when half-dressed, of calling in his friends -(evidently, from their chins, fellow business men) to -see how perfectly his shirt fits at the neck and how -its thoroughly shrunk material is none the worse for -repeated visits to the laundry.</p> - -<p>Once dressed—and I pass over his interviews with -his tailor (he collects overcoats), because that would -lead us far and might land us, unawares, among -sportsmen, or airmen, or other non-business men—once -dressed, he is to be seen at his office. That does -not mean that he is to be seen at work. No, it is -a somewhat sinister fact that the advertisements -hardly ever show the business man engaged in business. -You may find him at an enormous desk -bristling with patent devices and honeycombed with -pigeon-holes, where he sees himself invested with -perfect control and rid of all petty routine anomalies, -with a mind free to consider questions of policy -and the higher aspirations of his house. But not, -in blunt English, working, oh dear no! He is -pleasantly gossiping with another business man, who -is lolling over the edge of the desk smoking a cigarette. -Now and then, it is true, you may get a -glimpse of him at the telephone. But then his -tender smile gives him away. It is obviously no -business conversation but an appointment for lunch -with his <i>fiancée</i>.</p> - -<p>Only one advertisement artist has ever “spotted”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span> -him at work. He was addressing the board. The -board all wore white waistcoats, the same business -chin, and the same dry smile as the orator, who with -clenched fist and flashing eye assured them of his -conviction that increased production results from -the bond of mutual goodwill created between -employer and employee by the board’s system of -life assurance. Altogether, a very jolly party. But -outside the world of business men it wouldn’t be -considered work. Really, for work it looks as though -you would have to go to the non-business man. -Think of Balzac’s eighteen hours a day!</p> - -<p>But the business man, I daresay, will reply, as -they said to the sonneteer in Molière, that “Le -temps ne fait rien à l’affaire.” Certainly, the business -man’s time doesn’t—for you next find him, in -spick and span evening dress, at the dinner-table, -beaming at the waiter who has brought him his -favourite sauce. The business man collects sauces, -but prefers the sauce that goes with everything. -After dinner you may see him, before a roaring fire, -holding up his glass of port to the light and telling -another business man who the shipper is. Last -scene of all, a night-piece, you have a glimpse of him -in his pyjamas merrily discoursing with several -other business men (in different patterns of the same -unshrinkable fabric) all sitting cross-legged and -smoking enormous cigars. This is the end of a -perfect business day. And you conclude that business -men sleep in dormitories.</p> - -<p class="titlepage">THE END.</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTICHE AND PREJUDICE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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