itself all license, grudging every sentence devoted to the mere
machinery of the play, suppressing all jokes and epigrams severed from
character, relying for fun and pathos on the fun and tears of life. From
start to finish good dialogue is hand-made, like good lace; clear, of
fine texture, furthering with each thread the harmony and strength of a
design to which all must be subordinated.
But good dialogue is also spiritual action. In so far as the dramatist
divorces his dialogue from spiritual action—that is to say, from
progress of events, or toward events which are significant of
character—he is stultifying the thing done; he may make pleasing
disquisitions, he is not making drama. And in so far as he twists
character to suit his moral or his plot, he is neglecting a first
principle, that truth to Nature which alone invests art with handmade
quality.
The dramatist's license, in fact, ends with his design. In conception
alone he is free. He may take what character or group of characters he
chooses, see them with what eyes, knit them with what idea, within the
limits of his temperament; but once taken, seen, and knitted, he is
bound to treat them like a gentleman, with the tenderest consideration
of their mainsprings. Take care of character; action and dialogue will
take care of themselves! The true dramatist gives full rein to his
temperament in the scope and nature of his subject; having once
selected subject and characters, he is just, gentle, restrained, neither
gratifying his lust for praise at the expense of his offspring, nor
using them as puppets to flout his audience. Being himself the nature
that brought them forth, he guides them in the course predestined at
their conception. So only have they a chance of defying Time, which
is always lying in wait to destroy the false, topical, or fashionable,
all—in a word —that is not based on the permanent elements of human
nature. The perfect dramatist rounds up his characters and facts within
the ring-fence of a dominant idea which fulfils the craving of his
spirit; having got them there, he suffers them to live their own lives.
Plot, action, character, dialogue! But there is yet another subject for
a platitude. Flavour! An impalpable quality, less easily captured than
the scent of a flower, the peculiar and most essential attribute of any
work of art! It is the thin, poignant spirit which hovers up out of
a play, and is as much its differentiating essence as is caffeine of
coffee. Flavour, in fine, is the spirit of the dramatist projected into
his work in a state of volatility, so that no one can exactly lay hands
on it, here, there, or anywhere. This distinctive essence of a play,
marking its brand, is the one thing at which the dramatist cannot work,
for it is outside his consciousness. A man may have many moods, he
has but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle,
unconscious way to all his work. It waxes and wanes with the currents of
his vitality, but no more alters than a chestnut changes into an oak.
For, in truth, dramas are very like unto trees, springing from
seedlings, shaping themselves inevitably in accordance with the laws
fast hidden within themselves, drinking sustenance from the earth and
air, and in conflict with the natural forces round them. So they
slowly come to full growth, until warped, stunted, or risen to fair and
gracious height, they stand open to all the winds. And the trees that
spring from each dramatist are of different race; he is the spirit of
his own sacred grove, into which no stray tree can by any chance enter.
One more platitude. It is not unfashionable to pit one form of drama
against another—holding up the naturalistic to the disadvantage of the
epic; the epic to the belittlement of the fantastic; the fantastic to
the detriment of the naturalistic. Little purpose is thus served. The
essential meaning, truth, beauty, and irony of things may be revealed
under all these forms. Vision over life and human nature can be as
keen and just, the revelation as true, inspiring, delight-giving, and
thought-provoking, whatever fashion be employed—it is simply a question
of doing it well enough to uncover the kernel of the nut. Whether the
violet come from Russia, from Parma, or from England, matters little.
Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem
redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen—as though they have sprung up
out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April
sun, in a Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture
every bit as much of the spring. And so it is with drama—no matter what
its form it need only be the “real thing,” need only have caught some of
the precious fluids, revelation, or delight, and imprisoned them within
a chalice to which we may put our lips and continually drink.
And yet, starting from this last platitude, one may perhaps be suffered
to speculate as to the particular forms that our renascent drama is
likely to assume. For our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its
growth. It is not renascent because this or that man is writing, but
because of a new spirit. A spirit that is no doubt in part the gradual
outcome of the impact on our home-grown art, of Russian, French, and
Scandinavian influences, but which in the main rises from an awakened
humanity in the conscience of our time.
What, then, are to be the main channels down which the renascent English
drama will float in the coming years? It is more than possible that
these main channels will come to be two in number and situate far apart.
The one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, down
which will course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high
intention, but faithful to the seething and multiple life around us,
drama such as some are inclined to term photographic, deceived by a
seeming simplicity into forgetfulness of the old proverb, “Ars est
celare artem,” and oblivious of the fact that, to be vital, to
grip, such drama is in every respect as dependent on imagination,
construction, selection, and elimination—the main laws of artistry —as
ever was the romantic or rhapsodic play: The question of naturalistic
technique will bear, indeed, much more study than has yet been given to
it. The aim of the dramatist employing it is obviously to create such an
illusion of actual life passing on the stage as to compel the spectator
to pass through an experience of his own, to think, and talk, and move
with the people he sees thinking, talking, and moving in front of him.
A false phrase, a single word out of tune or time, will destroy that
illusion and spoil the surface as surely as a stone heaved into a still
pool shatters the image seen there. But this is only the beginning of
the reason why the naturalistic is the most exacting and difficult of
all techniques. It is easy enough to reproduce the exact conversation
and movements of persons in a room; it is desperately hard to produce
the perfectly natural conversation and movements of those persons, when
each natural phrase spoken and each natural movement made has not only
to contribute toward the growth and perfection of a drama's soul, but
also to be a revelation, phrase by phrase, movement by movement, of
essential traits of character. To put it another way, naturalistic art,
when alive, indeed to be alive at all, is simply the art of manipulating
a procession of most delicate symbols. Its service is the swaying and
focussing of men's feelings and thoughts in the various departments of
human life. It will be like a steady lamp, held up from time to time,
in whose light things will be seen for a space clearly and in due
proportion, freed from the mists of prejudice and partisanship. And
the other of these two main channels will, I think, be a twisting and
delicious stream, which will bear on its breast new barques of poetry,
shaped, it may be, like prose, but a prose incarnating through its
fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations, yearning, doubts,
and mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic prose-drama,
emotionalising us by its diversity and purity of form and invention,
and whose province will be to disclose the elemental soul of man and the
forces of Nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed them, not
necessarily in the epic mood, but always with beauty and in the spirit
of discovery.
Such will, I think, be the two vital forms of our drama in the coming
generation. And between these two forms there must be no crude unions;
they are too far apart, the cross is too violent. For, where there is
a seeming blend of lyricism and naturalism, it will on examination be
found, I think, to exist only in plays whose subjects or settings—as in
Synge's “Playboy of the Western World,” or in Mr. Masefield's “Nan”—are
so removed from our ken that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not
care, whether an absolute illusion is maintained. The poetry which may
and should exist in naturalistic drama, can only be that of perfect
rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape—the poetry, in fact, that lies
in all vital things. It is the ill-mating of forms that has killed a
thousand plays. We want no more bastard drama; no more attempts to dress
out the simple dignity of everyday life in the peacock's feathers
of false lyricism; no more straw-stuffed heroes or heroines; no more
rabbits and goldfish from the conjurer's pockets, nor any limelight.
Let us have starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and the light of our own
self-respects.
1909.
MEDITATION ON FINALITY
In the Grand Canyon of Arizona, that most exhilarating of all natural
phenomena, Nature has for once so focussed her effects, that the result
is a framed and final work of Art. For there, between two high lines
of plateau, level as the sea, are sunk the wrought thrones of the
innumerable gods, couchant, and for ever revering, in their million
moods of light and colour, the Master Mystery.
Having seen this culmination, I realize why many people either
recoil before it, and take the first train home, or speak of it as a
“remarkable formation.” For, though mankind at large craves finality,
it does not crave the sort that bends the knee to Mystery. In Nature, in
Religion, in Art, in Life, the common cry is: “Tell me precisely where
I am, what doing, and where going! Let me be free of this fearful
untidiness of not knowing all about it!” The favoured religions
are always those whose message is most finite. The fashionable
professions—they that end us in assured positions. The most popular
works of fiction, such as leave nothing to our imagination. And to this
craving after prose, who would not be lenient, that has at all known
life, with its usual predominance of our lower and less courageous
selves, our constant hankering after the cosey closed door and line of
least resistance? We are continually begging to be allowed to know
for certain; though, if our prayer were granted, and Mystery no longer
hovered, made blue the hills, and turned day into night, we should,
as surely, wail at once to be delivered of that ghastliness of knowing
things for certain!
Now, in Art, I would never quarrel with a certain living writer who
demands of it the kind of finality implied in what he calls a “moral
discovery”—using, no doubt, the words in their widest sense. I would
maintain, however, that such finality is not confined to positively
discovering the true conclusion of premises laid down; but that it
may also distil gradually, negatively from the whole work, in a moral
discovery, as it were, of Author. In other words, that, permeation by
an essential point of view, by emanation of author, may so unify and
vitalize a work, as to give it all the finality that need be required
of Art. For the finality that is requisite to Art, be it positive or
negative, is not the finality of dogma, nor the finality of fact, it is
ever the finality of feeling—of a spiritual light, subtly gleaned by the
spectator out of that queer luminous haze which one man's nature must
ever be to others. And herein, incidentally, it is that Art acquires
also that quality of mystery, more needful to it even than finality, for
the mystery that wraps a work of Art is the mystery of its maker, and
the mystery of its maker is the difference between that maker's soul and
every other soul.
But let me take an illustration of what I mean by these two kinds of
finality that Art may have, and show that in essence they are but two
halves of the same thing. The term “a work of Art” will not be denied,
I think, to that early novel of M. Anatole France, “Le Lys Rouge.” Now,
that novel has positive finality, since the spiritual conclusion from
its premises strikes one as true. But neither will the term “a work
of Art” be denied to the same writer's four “Bergeret” volumes, whose
negative finality consists only in the temperamental atmosphere wherein
they are soaked. Now, if the theme of “Le Lys Rouge” had been treated by
Tolstoy, Meredith, or Turgenev, we should have had spiritual conclusions
from the same factual premises so different from M. France's as prunes
from prisms, and yet, being the work of equally great artists, they
would, doubtless, have struck us as equally true. Is not, then, the
positive finality of “Le Lys Rouge,” though expressed in terms of a
different craftsmanship, the same, in essence, as the negative finality
of the “Bergeret” volumes? Are not both, in fact, merely flower of
author true to himself? So long as the scent, colour, form of that
flower is strong and fine enough to affect the senses of our spirit,
then all the rest, surely, is academic—I would say, immaterial.
But here, in regard to Art, is where mankind at large comes on the
field. “'Flower of author,'” it says, “'Senses of the spirit!' Phew!
Give me something I can understand! Let me know where I am getting to!”
In a word, it wants a finality different from that which Art can give.
It will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his
lesson, or his meaning, really is, having omitted to notice that the
poor creature has been giving all the meaning that he can, in every
sentence. It will demand to know why it was not told definitely what
became of Charles or Mary in whom it had grown so interested; and will
be almost frightened to learn that the artist knows no more than itself.
And if by any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy
that does not promise it a defined position both in this world and the
next, it will assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt say: “No,
sir! This means nothing to me; and if it means anything to you—which I
very much doubt—I am sorry for you!”
It must have facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the
past, but in the future. And it demands facts of that, which alone
cannot glibly give it facts. It goes on asking facts of Art, or, rather,
such facts as Art cannot give—for, after all, even “flower of author” is
fact in a sort of way.
Consider, for instance, Synge's masterpiece, “The Playboy of the Western
World!” There is flower of author! What is it for mankind at large? An
attack on the Irish character! A pretty piece of writing! An amusing
farce! Enigmatic cynicism leading nowhere! A puzzling fellow wrote it!
Mankind at large has little patience with puzzling fellows.
Few, in fact, want flower of author. Moreover, it is a quality that may
well be looked for where it does not exist. To say that the finality
which Art requires is merely an enwrapping mood, or flower of author,
is not by any means to say that any robust fellow, slamming his notions
down in ink, can give us these. Indeed, no! So long as we see the
author's proper person in his work, we do not see the flower of him. Let
him retreat himself, if he pretend to be an artist. There is no less of
subtle skill, no less impersonality, in the “Bergeret” volumes than
in “Le Lys Rouge.” No less labour and mental torturing went to their
making, page by page, in order that they might exhale their perfume of
mysterious finality, their withdrawn but implicit judgment. Flower of
author is not quite so common as the buttercup, the Californian poppy,
or the gay Texan gaillardia, and for that very reason the finality it
gives off will never be robust enough for a mankind at large that
would have things cut and dried, and labelled in thick letters. For,
consider—to take one phase alone of this demand for factual finality—how
continual and insistent is the cry for characters that can be
worshipped; how intense and persistent the desire to be told that
Charles was a real hero; and how bitter the regret that Mary was no
better than she should be! Mankind at large wants heroes that are
heroes, and heroines that are heroines—and nothing so inappropriate to
them as unhappy endings.
Travelling away, I remember, from that Grand Canyon of Arizona were
a young man and a young woman, evidently in love. He was sitting very
close to her, and reading aloud for her pleasure, from a paper-covered
novel, heroically oblivious of us all:
“'Sir Robert,' she murmured, lifting her beauteous eyes, 'I may not
tempt you, for you are too dear to me!' Sir Robert held her lovely face
between his two strong hands. 'Farewell!' he said, and went out into
the night. But something told them both that, when he had fulfilled his
duty, Sir Robert would return . . . .” He had not returned before we
reached the Junction, but there was finality about that baronet, and we
well knew that he ultimately would. And, long after the sound of that
young man's faithful reading had died out of our ears, we meditated
on Sir Robert, and compared him with the famous characters of fiction,
slowly perceiving that they were none of them so final in their heroism
as he. No, none of them reached that apex. For Hamlet was a most
unfinished fellow, and Lear extremely violent. Pickwick addicted
to punch, and Sam Weller to lying; Bazarof actually a Nihilist, and
Irina——! Levin and Anna, Pierre and Natasha, all of them stormy and
unsatisfactory at times. “Un Coeur Simple” nothing but a servant, and an
old maid at that; “Saint Julien l'Hospitalier” a sheer fanatic. Colonel
Newcome too irritable and too simple altogether. Don Quixote certified
insane. Hilda Wangel, Nora, Hedda—Sir Robert would never even have
spoken to such baggages! Mon sieur Bergeret—an amiable weak thing!
D'Artagnan—a true swashbuckler! Tom Jones, Faust, Don Juan—we might not
even think of them: And those poor Greeks: Prometheus —shocking rebel.
OEdipus for a long time banished by the Censor. Phaedra and Elektra, not
even so virtuous as Mary, who failed of being what she should be! And
coming to more familiar persons Joseph and Moses, David and Elijah, all
of them lacked his finality of true heroism—none could quite pass muster
beside Sir Robert . . . . Long we meditated, and, reflecting that
an author must ever be superior to the creatures of his brain, were
refreshed to think that there were so many living authors capable of
giving birth to Sir Robert; for indeed, Sir Robert and finality like
his—no doubtful heroes, no flower of author, and no mystery is what
mankind at large has always wanted from Letters, and will always want.
As truly as that oil and water do not mix, there are two kinds of
men. The main cleavage in the whole tale of life is this subtle, all
pervading division of mankind into the man of facts and the man of
feeling. And not by what they are or do can they be told one from the
other, but just by their attitude toward finality. Fortunately most
of us are neither quite the one nor quite the other. But between the
pure-blooded of each kind there is real antipathy, far deeper than
the antipathies of race, politics, or religion—an antipathy that not
circumstance, love, goodwill, or necessity will ever quite get rid of.
Sooner shall the panther agree with the bull than that other one with
the man of facts. There is no bridging the gorge that divides these
worlds.
Nor is it so easy to tell, of each, to which world he belongs, as it was
to place the lady, who held out her finger over that gorge called Grand
Canyon, and said:
“It doesn't look thirteen miles; but they measured it just there! Excuse
my pointing!”
1912.
WANTED-SCHOOLING
“Et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!”. . . Useless
jugglers, frivolous players on the lute! Must we so describe ourselves,
we, the producers, season by season, of so many hundreds of “remarkable”
works of fiction?—for though, when we take up the remarkable works
of our fellows, we “really cannot read them!” the Press and the
advertisements of our publishers tell us that they are “remarkable.”
A story goes that once in the twilight undergrowth of a forest of
nut-bearing trees a number of little purblind creatures wandered,
singing for nuts. On some of these purblind creatures the nuts fell
heavy and full, extremely indigestible, and were quickly swallowed; on
others they fell light, and contained nothing, because the kernel had
already been eaten up above, and these light and kernel-less nuts were
accompanied by sibilations or laughter. On others again no nuts at all,
empty or full, came down. But nuts or no nuts, full nuts or empty nuts,
the purblind creatures below went on wandering and singing. A traveller
one day stopped one of these creatures whose voice was peculiarly
disagreeable, and asked “Why do you sing like this? Is it for pleasure
that you do it, or for pain? What do you get out of it? Is it for the
sake of those up there? Is it for your own sake—for the sake of your
family—for whose sake? Do you think your songs worth listening to?
Answer!”
The creature scratched itself, and sang the louder.
“Ah! Cacoethes! I pity, but do not blame you,” said the traveller.
He left the creature, and presently came to another which sang a squeaky
treble song. It wandered round in a ring under a grove of stunted trees,
and the traveller noticed that it never went out of that grove.
“Is it really necessary,” he said, “for you to express yourself thus?”
And as he spoke showers of tiny hard nuts came down on the little
creature, who ate them greedily. The traveller opened one; it was
extremely small and tasted of dry rot.
“Why, at all events,” he said, “need you stay under these trees? the
nuts are not good here.”
But for answer the little creature ran round and round, and round and
round.
“I suppose,” said the traveller, “small bad nuts are better than no
bread; if you went out of this grove you would starve?”
The purblind little creature shrieked. The traveller took the sound
for affirmation, and passed on. He came to a third little creature who,
under a tall tree, was singing very loudly indeed, while all around
was a great silence, broken only by sounds like the snuffling of small
noses. The creature stopped singing as the traveller came up, and at
once a storm of huge nuts came down; the traveller found them sweetish
and very oily.
“Why,” he said to the creature, “did you sing so loud? You cannot eat
all these nuts. You really do sing louder than seems necessary; come,
answer me!”
But the purblind little creature began to sing again at the top of its
voice, and the noise of the snuffling of small noses became so great
that the traveller hastened away. He passed many other purblind little
creatures in the twilight of this forest, till at last he came to one
that looked even blinder than the rest, but whose song was sweet and low
and clear, breaking a perfect stillness; and the traveller sat down to
listen. For a long time he listened to that song without noticing that
not a nut was falling. But suddenly he heard a faint rustle and three
little oval nuts lay on the ground.
The traveller cracked one of them. It was of delicate flavour. He looked
at the little creature standing with its face raised, and said:
“Tell me, little blind creature, whose song is so charming, where did
you learn to sing?”
The little creature turned its head a trifle to one side as though
listening for the fall of nuts.
“Ah, indeed!” said the traveller: “You, whose voice is so clear, is this
all you get to eat?”
The little blind creature smiled . . . .