CHESTERTON'S only play, _Magic_, was written at the suggestion of Mr.
Kenelm Foss and produced by him in November, 1913, at the Little
Theatre, where it enjoyed a run of more than one hundred performances.
This charming thing does not make one wish that Chesterton was an
habitual playwright, for one feels that _Magic_ was a sort of tank into
which its author's dramatic talents had been draining for many
years--although, in actual fact, Chesterton allowed newspaper
interviewers to learn that the play had been written in a very short
space of time. His religious ideas were expressed in _Magic_ with great
neatness. Most perhaps of all his works this is a quotable production.
Patricia Carleon, a niece of the Duke, her guardian, is in the habit of
wandering about his grounds seeing fairies. On the night when her
brother Morris is expected to return from America she is having a
solitary moonlight stroll when she sees a Stranger, "a cloaked figure
with a pointed hood," which last almost covers his face. She naturally
asks him what he is doing there. He replies, mapping out the ground with
his staff:
I have a hat, but not to wear;
I have a sword, but not to slay;
And ever in my bag I bear
A pack of cards, but not to play.
This, he tells her, is the language of fairies. He tells her that
fairies are not small things, but quite the reverse. After a few
sentences have been spoken the prologue comes to an end, and the curtain
rises upon the scene of the play, the drawing-room of the Duke. Here is
seated the Rev. Cyril Smith, a young clergyman, "an honest man and not
an ass." To him enters the Duke's Secretary, to tell him the Duke is
engaged at the moment, but will be down shortly. He is followed by Dr.
Grimthorpe, an elderly agnostic, the red lamp of whose house can be seen
through the open French windows. Smith is erecting a model public-house
in the village, and has come to ask the Duke for a contribution towards
the cost. Grimthorpe is getting up a league for opposing the erection of
the new public-house, and has also come to the Duke for help. They
discover the nature of each other's errand. Smith's case is, "How can
the Church have a right to make men fast if she does not allow them to
feast?"; Grimthorpe's, that alcohol is not a food. The Duke's Secretary
enters and gives Smith a cheque for L50, then he gives the Doctor
another--also for L50. This is the first glimpse we have of the Duke's
eccentricity, an excessive impartiality based on the theory that
everybody "does a great deal of good in his own way," and on sheer
absence of mind--an absence which sometimes is absolutely literal. The
Doctor explains in confidence to the Clergyman that there is something
wrong about the family of Patricia and Morris, who are of Irish
origin. . . . "They saw fairies and things of that sort."
SMITH. And I suppose, to the medical mind, seeing
fairies means much the same as seeing snakes?
DOCTOR. [_With a sour smile._] Well, they saw them
in Ireland. I suppose it's quite correct to see
fairies in Ireland. It's like gambling at Monte
Carlo. It's quite respectable. But I do draw the
line at their seeing fairies in England. I do
object to their bringing their ghosts and goblins
and witches into the poor Duke's own back garden
and within a yard of my own red lamp. It shows a
lack of tact.
Patricia, moreover, wanders about the park and the woods in the
evenings. "Damp evenings for choice. She calls it the Celtic twilight.
I've no use for the Celtic twilight myself. It has a tendency to get on
the chest." The Duke, annoyed by this love of fairies, has blundered, in
his usual way, on an absurd compromise between the real and the ideal. A
conjuror is to come that very night. When explanations have gone so far,
the Duke at last makes his entry. The stage directions tell us that "in
the present state of the peerage it is necessary to explain that the
Duke, though an ass, is a gentleman." His thoughts are the most casual
on earth. He is always being reminded of something or somebody which has
nothing to do with the case. As for instance, "I saw the place you're
putting up . . . Mr. Smith. Very good work. Very good work, indeed. Art
for the people, eh? I particularly liked that woodwork over the west
door--I'm glad to see you're using the new sort of graining . . . why,
it all reminds one of the French Revolution." After one or two
dissociations of this sort, the expected Morris Carleon enters through
the French window; he is rather young and excitable, and America has
overlaid the original Irishman. Morris immediately asks for Patricia and
is told that she is wandering in the garden. The Duke lets out that she
sees fairies; Morris raves a bit about his sister being allowed out
alone with anything in the nature of a man, when Patricia herself
enters. She is in a slightly exalted state; she has just seen her fairy,
him of the pointed hood. Morris, of course, is furious, not to say
suspicious.
DOCTOR. [_Putting his hand on_ MORRIS'S
_shoulder._] Come, you must allow a little more
for poetry. We can't all feed on nothing but
petrol.
DUKE. Quite right, quite right. And being Irish,
don't you know, Celtic, as old Buffle used to say,
charming songs, you know, about the Irish girl who
has a plaid shawl--and a Banshee. [_Sighs
profoundly._] Poor old Gladstone! [_Silence._]
SMITH. [_Speaking to_ DOCTOR.] I thought you
yourself considered the family superstition bad
for the health?
DOCTOR. I consider a family superstition is better
for the health than a family quarrel.
A figure is seen to stand in front of the red lamp, blotting it out for
a moment. Patricia calls to it, and the cloaked Stranger with the
pointed hood enters. Morris at once calls him a fraud.
SMITH. [_Quickly._] Pardon me, I do not fancy that
we know that. . . .
MORRIS. I didn't know you parsons stuck up for any
fables but your own.
SMITH. I stick up for the thing every man has a
right to. Perhaps the only thing every man has a
right to.
MORRIS. And what is that?
SMITH. The benefit of the doubt.
Morris returns to the attack. The Stranger throws off his hood and
reveals himself to the Duke. He is the Conjuror, ready for the evening's
performance. All laugh at this _denouement_, except Patricia, between
whom and the Conjuror this bit of dialogue ensues:
STRANGER. [_Very sadly._] I am very sorry I am not
a wizard.
PATRICIA. I wish you were a thief instead.
STRANGER. Have I committed a worse crime than
thieving?
PATRICIA. You have committed the cruellest crime,
I think, that there is.
STRANGER. And what is the cruellest crime?
PATRICIA. Stealing a child's toy.
STRANGER. And what have I stolen?
PATRICIA. A fairy tale.
And the curtain falls upon the First Act.
An hour later the room is being prepared for the performance. The
Conjuror is setting out his tricks, and the Duke is entangling him and
the Secretary in his peculiar conversation. The following is
characteristic:
THE SECRETARY. . . . The only other thing at all
urgent is the Militant Vegetarians.
DUKE. Ah! The Militant Vegetarians! You've heard
of them, I'm sure. Won't obey the law [_to the_
CONJUROR] so long as the Government serves out
meat.
CONJUROR. Let them be comforted. There are a good
many people who don't get much meat.
DUKE. Well, well, I'm bound to say they're very
enthusiastic. Advanced, too--oh, certainly
advanced. Like Joan of Arc.
[_Short silence, in which the_ CONJUROR _stares at
him._]
CONJUROR. _Was_ Joan of Arc a Vegetarian?
DUKE. Oh, well, it's a very high ideal, after all.
The Sacredness of Life, you know--the Sacredness
of Life. [_Shakes his head._] But they carry it
too far. They killed a policeman down in Kent.
This conversation goes on for some time, while nothing in particular
happens, except that the audience feels very happy. The Duke asks the
Conjuror several questions, receiving thoroughly Chestertonian answers.
["Are you interested in modern progress?" "Yes. We are interested in all
tricks done by illusion."] At last the Conjuror is left alone. Patricia
enters. He attempts to excuse himself for the theft of the fairy tale.
He has had a troublesome life, and has never enjoyed "a holiday in
Fairyland." So, when he, with his hood up, because of the slight rain,
was surprised by Patricia, as he was rehearsing his patter, and taken
for a fairy, he played up to her. Patricia is inclined to forgive him,
but the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Morris, in a
mood to be offensive. He examines the apparatus, proclaims the way it is
worked, and after a while breaks out into a frenzy of free thought,
asking the universe in general and the Conjuror in particular for "that
old apparatus that turned rods into snakes." The Clergyman and the
Doctor enter, and the conversation turns on religion, and then goes back
to the tricks. Morris is still extremely quarrelsome, and for the second
time has to be quieted down. The Conjuror is dignified, but cutting. The
whole scene has been, so far, a discussion on Do Miracles Happen? Smith
makes out a case in the affirmative, arguing from the false to the true.
Suppose, as Morris claims, the "modern conjuring tricks are simply the
old miracles when they have once been found out. . . . When we speak of
things being sham, we generally mean that they are imitations of things
that are genuine." Morris gets more and more excited, and continues to
insult the Conjuror. At last he shouts . . . "You'll no more raise your
Saints and Prophets from the dead than you'll raise the Duke's
great-grandfather to dance on that wall." At which the Reynolds portrait
in question sways slightly from side to side. Morris turns furiously to
the Conjuror, accusing him of trickery. A chair falls over, for no
apparent cause, still further exciting the youth. At last he blurts out
a challenge. The Doctor's red lamp is the lamp of science. No power on
earth could change its colour. And the red light turns blue, for a
minute. Morris, absolutely puzzled, comes literally to his wits' end,
and rushes out, followed shortly afterwards by his sister and the
Doctor. The youth is put to bed, and left in the care of Patricia, while
the Doctor and the Clergyman return to their argument. Smith makes out a
strong case for belief, for simple faith, a case which sounds strangely,
coming from the lips of a clergyman of the Church of England.
DOCTOR. Weren't there as many who believed
passionately in Apollo?
SMITH. And what harm came of believing in Apollo?
And what a mass of harm may have come of not
believing in Apollo? Does it never strike you that
doubt can be a madness, as well be faith? That
asking questions may be a disease, as well as
proclaiming doctrines? You talk of religious
mania! Is there no such thing as irreligious
mania? Is there no such thing in the house at this
moment?
DOCTOR. Then you think no one should question at
all?
SMITH. [_With passion, pointing to the next
room._] I think that is what comes of questioning!
Why can't you leave the universe alone and let it
mean what it likes? Why shouldn't the thunder be
Jupiter? More men have made themselves silly by
wondering what the devil it was if it wasn't
Jupiter.
DOCTOR. [_Looking at him._] Do you believe in your
own religion?
SMITH. [_Returning the look equally steadily._]
Suppose I don't: I should still be a fool to
question it. The child who doubts about Santa
Claus has insomnia. The child who believes has a
good night's rest.
DOCTOR. You are a Pragmatist.
SMITH. That is what the lawyers call vulgar abuse.
But I do appeal to practice. Here is a family over
which you tell me a mental calamity hovers. Here
is the boy who questions everything and a girl who
can believe anything. Upon whom has the curse
fallen?
At this point the curtain was made to fall on the Second Act. The Third
and last Act takes place in the same room a few hours later. The
Conjuror has packed his bag, and is going. The Doctor has been sitting
up with the patient. Morris is in a more or less delirious state, and is
continually asking how the trick was done. The Doctor believes that the
explanation would satisfy the patient and would probably help him to
turn the corner. But the Conjuror will not provide an explanation. He
has many reasons, the most practical of which is that he would not be
believed. The Duke comes in and tries to make a business matter of the
secret, even to the extent of paying L2000 for it. Suddenly the Conjuror
changes his mind. He will tell them how the trick was done, it was all
very simple. "It is the simplest thing in the world. That is why you
will not laugh. . . . I did it by magic." The Doctor and the Duke are
dumbfounded. Smith intervenes; he cannot accept the explanation. The
Conjuror lets himself go, now he is voicing Chesterton's views. The
clergyman who merely believes in belief, as Smith does, will not do. He
must believe in a fact, which is far more difficult.
CONJUROR. I say these things are supernatural. I
say this is done by a spirit. The doctor does not
believe me. He is an agnostic; and he knows
everything. The Duke does not believe me; he
cannot believe anything so plain as a miracle. But
what the devil are you for, if you don't believe
in a miracle? What does your coat mean if it
doesn't mean that there is such a thing as the
supernatural? What does your cursed collar mean if
it doesn't mean that there is such a thing as a
spirit? [_Exasperated._] Why the devil do you
dress up like that if you don't believe in it?
[_With violence._] Or perhaps you don't believe in
devils?
SMITH. I believe . . . [_After a pause._] I wish
I could believe.
CONJUROR. Yes. I wish I could disbelieve.
Here Patricia enters. She wants to speak to the Conjuror, with whom she
is left alone. A little love scene takes place: rather the result of two
slightly sentimental and rather tired persons of different sexes being
left alone than anything else. But they return to realities, with an
effort. Patricia, too, wants to know how the trick was done, in order to
tell her brother. He tells her, but she is of the world which cannot
believe in devils, even although it may manage to accept fairies as an
inevitable adjunct to landscape scenery by moonlight. In order to
convince her the Conjuror tells her how he fell, how after dabbling in
spiritualism he found he had lost control over himself. But he had
resisted the temptation to make the devils his servants, until the
impudence of Morris had made him lose his temper. Then he goes out into
the garden to see if he can find some explanation to give Morris. The
Duke, Smith, the Doctor, and the Secretary drift into the room, which is
now tenanted by something impalpable but horrible. The Conjuror returns
and clears the air with an exorcism. He has invented an explanation,
which he goes out to give to Morris. Patricia announces that her brother
immediately took a turn for the better. The Conjuror refuses to repeat
the explanation he gave Morris, because if he did, "Half an hour after
I have left this house you will all be saying how it was done." He turns
to go.
PATRICIA. Our fairy tale has come to an end in the
only way a fairy tale can come to an end. The only
way a fairy tale can leave off being a fairy tale.
CONJUROR. I don't understand you.
PATRICIA. It has come true.
And the curtain falls for the last time.
No doubt _Magic_ owed a great deal of its success to the admirable
production of Mr. Kenelm Foss and the excellence of the cast. Miss Grace
Croft was surely the true Patricia. Of the Duke of Mr. Fred Lewis it is
difficult to speak in terms other than superlative. Those of my readers
who have suffered the misfortune of not having seen him, may gain some
idea of his execution of the part from the illustrations to Mr. Belloc's
novels. The Duke was an extraordinarily good likeness of the Duke of
Battersea, as portrayed by Chesterton, with rather more than a touch of
Mr. Asquith superadded. Mr. Fred Lewis, it may be stated, gagged freely,
introducing topical lines until the play became a revue in little--but
without injustice to the original. Several of those who saw _Magic_ came
for a third, a fourth, even a tenth time.
The Editor of The Dublin Review had the happy idea of asking Chesterton
to review _Magic_. The result is too long to quote in full, but it
makes two important points which may be extracted.
I will glide mercifully over the more glaring
errors, which the critics have overlooked--as that
no Irishman could become so complete a cad merely
by going to America--that no young lady would walk
about in the rain so soon before it was necessary
to dress for dinner--that no young man, however
American, could run round a Duke's grounds in the
time between one bad epigram and another--that
Dukes never allow the middle classes to encroach
on their gardens so as to permit a doctor's lamp
to be seen there--that no sister, however
eccentric, could conduct a slightly frivolous
love-scene with a brother going mad in the next
room--that the Secretary disappears half-way
through the play without explaining himself; and
the conjuror disappears at the end, with almost
equal dignity. . . .
By the exercise of that knowledge of all human
hearts which descends on any man (however
unworthy) the moment he is a dramatic critic, I
perceive that the author of _Magic_ originally
wrote it as a short story. It is a bad play,
because it was a good short story. In a short
story of mystery, as in a Sherlock Holmes story,
the author and the hero (or villain) keep the
reader out of the secret. . . . But the drama is
built on that grander secrecy which was called the
Greek irony. In the drama, the audience must know
the truth when the actors do not know it. That is
where the drama is truly democratic: not because
the audience shouts, but because it knows--and is
silent. Now I do quite seriously think it is a
weakness in a play like _Magic_ that the audience
is not in the central secret from the start. Mr.
G. S. Street put the point with his usual unerring
simplicity by saying that he could not help
feeling disappointed with the Conjuror because he
had hoped he would turn into the Devil.
A few additions may easily be made to the first batch of criticisms.
Patricia's welcome to her brother is not what a long-lost brother might
expect. There is really no satisfactory reason for the Doctor's
continued presence. Patricia and Morris can only be half Irish by blood,
unless it is possible to become Irish by residence. Why should the
Conjuror rehearse his patter out in the wet? Surely the Duke's house
would contain a spare room? Where did the Conjuror go, at the end of the
Third Act, in the small hours of the morning? And so on.
But these are little things that do not matter in an allegory. For in
_Magic_ "things are not what they seem." The Duke is a modern man. He is
also the world, the flesh, and the devil. He has no opinions, no
positive religion, no brain. He believes in his own tolerance, which is
merely his fatuousness. He follows the line of least resistance, and
makes a virtue of it. He sits on the fence, but he will never come off.
The Clergyman is the church of to-day, preaching the supernatural, but
unwilling to recognize its existence at close quarters. As somebody says
somewhere in _The Wisdom of Father Brown_, "If a miracle happened in
your office, you'd have to hush it up, now so many bishops are
atheists." The Doctor is a less typical figure. He is the
inconsistencies of science, kindly but with little joy of life, and
extremely Chestertonian, which is to say unscientific. Morris is the
younger generation, obsessed with business and getting on, and
intellectually incapable of facing a religious fact. Patricia is the
Chestertonian good woman, too essentially domestic to be ever
fundamentally disturbed. The Conjuror, if not the Devil, is at any rate
that inexplicable element in all life which most people do not see.
Nevertheless there is a flaw in _Magic_ which really is serious. If I
were to see, let us say, a sheet of newspaper flying down the road
against the wind, and a friend of mine, who happened to be a gifted
liar, told me that he was directing the paper by means of spirits, I
should still be justified in believing that another explanation could be
possible. I should say, "My dear friend, your explanation is romantic; I
believe in spirits but I do not believe in you. I prefer to think that
there is an air-current going the wrong way." That is the matter with
the Conjuror's explanation. Why should the Clergyman or the
Doctor--professional sceptics, both of them, which is to say seekers
after truth--take the word of a professional deceiver as necessarily
true?
There are two works which the critic of Chesterton must take into
special consideration. They are _Magic_ and _Orthodoxy_; and it may be
said that the former is a dramatized version of the latter. The two
together are a great work, striking at the very roots of disbelief. In a
sense Chesterton pays the atheist a very high compliment. He does what
the atheist is generally too lazy to do for himself; he takes his
substitute for religion and systematizes it into something like a
philosophy. Then he examines it as a whole. And he finds that atheism is
dogma in its extremist form, that it embodies a multitude of
superstitions, and that it is actually continually adding to their
number. Such are the reasons of the greatness of _Magic_. The play, one
feels, must remain unique, for the prolegomenon cannot be rewritten
while the philosophy is unchanged. And Chesterton has deliberately
chosen the word orthodox to apply to himself, and he has not limited its
meaning.