Six years ago I was staying in a students' hotel in the Latin Quarter,
and somebody, whose name I cannot recollect, introduced me to an
Irishman, who, even poorer than myself, had taken a room at the top of
the house. It was J. M. Synge, and I, who thought I knew the name of
every Irishman who was working at literature, had never heard of him. He
was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, too, and Trinity College does
not, as a rule, produce artistic minds. He told me that he had been
living in France and Germany, reading French and German Literature, and
that he wished to become a writer. He had, however, nothing to show but
one or two poems and impressionistic essays, full of that kind of
morbidity that has its root in too much brooding over methods of
expression, and ways of looking upon life, which come, not out of life,
but out of literature, images reflected from mirror to mirror. He had
wandered among people whose life is as picturesque as the middle ages,
playing his fiddle to Italian sailors, and listening to stories in
Bavarian woods, but life had cast no light into his writings. He had
learned Irish years ago, but had begun to forget it, for the only
language that interested him was that conventional language of modern
poetry which has begun to make us all weary. I was very weary of it, for
I had finished _The Secret Rose_, and felt how it had separated my
imagination from life, sending my Red Hanrahan, who should have trodden
the same roads with myself, into some undiscoverable country. I said,
'Give up Paris, you will never create anything by reading Racine, and
Arthur Symons will always be a better critic of French literature. Go to
the Arran Islands. Live there as if you were one of the people
themselves; express a life that has never found expression.' I had just
come from Arran, and my imagination was full of those grey islands
where men must reap with knives because of the stones.
He went to Arran and became a part of its life, living upon salt fish
and eggs, talking Irish for the most part, but listening also to the
beautiful English which has grown up in Irish-speaking districts, and
takes its vocabulary from the time of Malory and of the translators of
the Bible, but its idiom and its vivid metaphor from Irish. When Mr.
Synge began to write in this language, Lady Gregory had already used it
finely in her translations of Dr. Hyde's lyrics and plays, or of old
Irish literature, but she had listened with different ears. He made his
own selection of word and phrase, choosing what would express his own
personality. Above all, he made word and phrase dance to a very strange
rhythm, which will always, till his plays have created their own
tradition, be difficult to actors who have not learned it from his lips.
It is essential, for it perfectly fits the drifting emotion, the
dreaminess, the vague yet measureless desire, for which he would create
a dramatic form. It blurs definition, clear edges, everything that
comes from the will, it turns imagination from all that is of the
present, like a gold background in a religious picture, and it
strengthens in every emotion whatever comes to it from far off, from
brooding memory and dangerous hope. When he brought _The Shadow of the
Glen_, his first play, to the Irish National Theatre Society, the
players were puzzled by the rhythm, but gradually they became certain
that his woman of the glens, as melancholy as a curlew, driven to
distraction by her own sensitiveness, her own fineness, could not speak
with any other tongue, that all his people would change their life if
the rhythm changed. Perhaps no Irish countryman had ever that exact
rhythm in his voice, but certainly if Mr. Synge had been born a
countryman, he would have spoken like that. It makes the people of his
imagination a little disembodied; it gives them a kind of innocence even
in their anger and their cursing. It is part of its maker's attitude
towards the world, for while it makes the clash of wills among his
persons indirect and dreamy, it helps him to see the subject-matter of
his art with wise, clear-seeing, unreflecting eyes; to preserve the
innocence of good art in an age of reasons and purposes. Whether he
write of old beggars by the roadside, lamenting over the misery and
ugliness of life, or of an old Arran woman mourning her drowned sons, or
of a young wife married to an old husband, he has no wish to change
anything, to reform anything; all these people pass by as before an open
window, murmuring strange, exciting words.
If one has not fine construction, one has not drama, but if one has not
beautiful or powerful and individual speech, one has not literature, or,
at any rate, one has not great literature. Rabelais, Villon,
Shakespeare, William Blake, would have known one another by their
speech. Some of them knew how to construct a story, but all of them had
abundant, resonant, beautiful, laughing, living speech. It is only the
writers of our modern dramatic movement, our scientific dramatists, our
naturalists of the stage, who have thought it possible to be like the
greatest, and yet to cast aside even the poor persiflage of the
comedians, and to write in the impersonal language that has come, not
out of individual life, nor out of life at all, but out of necessities
of commerce, of parliament, of board schools, of hurried journeys by
rail.
If there are such things as decaying art and decaying institutions,
their decay must begin when the element they receive into their care
from the life of every man in the world, begins to rot. Literature
decays when it no longer makes more beautiful, or more vivid, the
language which unites it to all life, and when one finds the criticism
of the student, and the purpose of the reformer, and the logic of the
man of science, where there should have been the reveries of the common
heart, ennobled into some raving Lear or unabashed Don Quixote. One must
not forget that the death of language, the substitution of phrases as
nearly impersonal as algebra for words and rhythms varying from man to
man, is but a part of the tyranny of impersonal things. I have been
reading through a bundle of German plays, and have found everywhere a
desire not to express hopes and alarms common to every man that ever
came into the world, but politics or social passion, a veiled or open
propaganda. Now it is duelling that has need of reproof; now it is the
ideas of an actress, returning from the free life of the stage, that
must be contrasted with the prejudice of an old-fashioned town; now it
is the hostility of Christianity and Paganism in our own day that is to
find an obscure symbol in a bell thrown from its tower by spirits of the
wood. I compare the work of these dramatists with the greater plays of
their Scandinavian master, and remember that even he, who has made so
many clear-drawn characters, has made us no abundant character, no man
of genius in whom we could believe, and that in him also, even when it
is Emperor and Galilean that are face to face, even the most momentous
figures are subordinate to some tendency, to some movement, to some
inanimate energy, or to some process of thought whose very logic has
changed it into mechanism--always to something other than human life.
We must not measure a young talent, whether we praise or blame, with
that of men who are among the greatest of our time, but we may say of
any talent, following out a definition, that it takes up the tradition
of great drama as it came from the hands of the masters who are
acknowledged by all time, and turns away from a dramatic movement,
which, though it has been served by fine talent, has been imposed upon
us by science, by artificial life, by a passing order.
When the individual life no longer delights in its own energy, when the
body is not made strong and beautiful by the activities of daily life,
when men have no delight in decorating the body, one may be certain that
one lives in a passing order, amid the inventions of a fading vitality.
If Homer were alive to-day, he would only resist, after a deliberate
struggle, the temptation to find his subject not in Helen's beauty,
that every man has desired, nor in the wisdom and endurance of Odysseus
that has been the desire of every woman that has come into the world,
but in what somebody would describe, perhaps, as 'the inevitable
contest,' arising out of economic causes, between the country-places and
small towns on the one hand, and, upon the other, the great city of
Troy, representing one knows not what 'tendency to centralisation.'
Mr. Synge has in common with the great theatre of the world, with that
of Greece and that of India, with the creator of Falstaff, with Racine,
a delight in language, a preoccupation with individual life. He
resembles them also by a preoccupation with what is lasting and noble,
that came to him, not as I think from books, but while he listened to
old stories in the cottages, and contrasted what they remembered with
reality. The only literature of the Irish country-people is their songs,
full often of extravagant love, and their stories of kings and of kings'
children. 'I will cry my fill, but not for God, but because Finn and
the Fianna are not living,' says Oisin in the story. Every writer, even
every small writer, who has belonged to the great tradition, has had his
dream of an impossibly noble life, and the greater he is, the more does
it seem to plunge him into some beautiful or bitter reverie. Some, and
of these are all the earliest poets of the world, gave it direct
expression; others mingle it so subtly with reality, that it is a day's
work to disentangle it; others bring it near by showing one whatever is
most its contrary. Mr. Synge, indeed, sets before us ugly, deformed or
sinful people, but his people, moved by no practical ambition, are
driven by a dream of that impossible life. That we may feel how
intensely his woman of the glen dreams of days that shall be entirely
alive, she that is 'a hard woman to please' must spend her days between
a sour-faced old husband, a man who goes mad upon the hills, a craven
lad and a drunken tramp; and those two blind people of _The Well of the
Saints_ are so transformed by the dream, that they choose blindness
rather than reality. He tells us of realities, but he knows that art has
never taken more than its symbols from anything that the eye can see or
the hand measure.
It is the preoccupation of his characters with their dream that gives
his plays their drifting movement, their emotional subtlety. In most of
the dramatic writing of our time, and this is one of the reasons why our
dramatists do not find the need for a better speech, one finds a simple
motive lifted, as it were, into the full light of the stage. The
ordinary student of drama will not find anywhere in _The Well of the
Saints_ that excitement of the will in the presence of attainable
advantages, which he is accustomed to think the natural stuff of drama,
and if he see it played he will wonder why act is knitted to act so
loosely, why it is all, as it were, flat, why there is so much leisure
in the dialogue, even in the midst of passion. If he see the _Shadow of
the Glen_, he will ask, why does this woman go out of her house? Is it
because she cannot help herself, or is she content to go? Why is it not
all made clearer? And yet, like everybody when caught up into great
events, she does many things without being quite certain why she does
them. She hardly understands at moments why her action has a certain
form, more clearly than why her body is tall or short, fair or brown.
She feels an emotion that she does not understand. She is driven by
desires that need for their expression, not 'I admire this man,' or 'I
must go, whether I will or no,' but words full of suggestion, rhythms of
voice, movements that escape analysis. In addition to all this, she has
something that she shares with none but the children of one man's
imagination. She is intoxicated by a dream which is hardly understood by
herself, but possesses her like something half remembered on a sudden
wakening.
While I write, we are rehearsing _The Well of the Saints_, and are
painting for it decorative scenery, mountains in one or two flat colours
and without detail, ash trees and red salleys with something of
recurring pattern in their woven boughs. For though the people of the
play use no phrase they could not use in daily life, we know that we are
seeking to express what no eye has ever seen.
ABBEY THEATRE, January 27, 1905.