LITERATURE AND FREEDOM--THE PROPAGANDIST PLAYWRIGHT
I
A nation's literature is an index to its mind. If the nation has its
freedom to win, from its literature may we learn if it is passionately
in earnest in the fight, or if it is half-hearted, or if it cares not at
all. Whatever state prevails, passionate men can pour their passion
through literature to the nation's soul and make it burn and move and
fight. For this reason it is of transcendent importance to the Cause.
Literature is the Shrine of Freedom, its fortress, its banner, its
charter. In its great temple patriots worship; from it soldiers go
forth, wave its challenge, and fight, and conquering, write the charter
of their country. Its great power is contested by none; rather, all
recognise it, and many and violent are the disputes as to its right use
and purpose. I propose to consider two of the disputants--the
propagandist playwright and the art-for-art's-sake artist, since they
raise issues that are our concern. It is curious that two so violently
opposed should be so nearly alike in error: they are both afraid of
life. The propagandist is all for one side; the artist afraid of every
side. The one lacks imagination; the other lacks heart; they are both
wide of the truth. The service of the truth requires them to pursue one
course; in their dispute they swerve from that course, one to right, one
to left. Because they leave the path on opposite sides, they do not see
how much alike is their error; but that they do both leave the path is
my point, and it is well we should consider it. It would be difficult to
deal with both sides at once; so I will consider the propagandist first.
What I have to charge against him is that his work is insincere, that he
is afraid to do justice to the other side, that he makes ridicule of our
exemplars, that he helps to keep the _poseur_ in being; and to conclude,
that only by a saving sense of humour can we find our way back to the
truth.
II
When we judge literature we do so by reference to the eternal truth, not
by what the writer considers the present phase of truth; and if
literature so tested is found guilty of suppression, evasion or
misinterpretation, we call the work insincere, though the author may
have written in perfect good faith. That is a necessary distinction to
keep in mind. If you call a man's work insincere, the superficial critic
will take it as calling the man himself insincere; but the two are
distinct, and it needs to be emphasised, for sincere men are making
these propagandist plays, of which the manifest and glaring untruth is
working mischief to the national mind. A type of such a play is familiar
enough in these days when we like to ridicule the West Briton. We are
served up puppets representing the shoneen with a lisp set over against
the patriot who says all the proper things suitable to the occasion.
Now, such a play serves no good purpose, but it has a certain bad
effect. It does not give a true interpretation of life; it enlightens no
one; but it flatters the prejudices of people who profess things for
which they have no zeal. That is the root of the mischief. Many of us
will readily profess a principle for which we will not as readily
suffer, but when the pinch comes and we are asked to do service for the
flag, we cover our unwillingness by calling the man on the other side
names. Where such a spirit prevails there can be no national awakening.
If we put a play before the people, it must be with a hope of arresting
attention, striking their imagination, giving them a grip of reality,
and filling them with a joy in life. Now, the propagandist play does
none of these things; it has neither joy nor reality; its characters are
puppets and ridiculous; they are essentially caricatures. This is
supposed to convert the unbeliever; but the intelligent unbeliever
coming to it is either bored or irritated by its extravagant absurdity,
and if he admits our sincerity, it is only at the expense of our
intelligence.
III
A propagandist play for a political end is even more mischievous--at
least lovers of freedom have more cause for protest. It makes our heroes
ridiculous. No man of imagination can stand these impossible persons of
the play who "walk on" eternally talking of Ireland. Our heroes were
men; these are _poseurs_. Get to understand Davis, Tone, or any of our
great ones, and you will find them human, gay, and lovable. "Were you
ever in love, Davis?" asked one of his wondering admirers, and prompt
and natural came the reply: "I'm never out of it." We swear by Tone for
his manly virtues; we love him because we say to ourselves: "What a fine
fellow for a holiday." A friend of Mitchel's travelling with him once
through a storm, was astonished to find him suddenly burst out into a
fine recitation, which he delivered with fine effect. He was joyous in
spirit. For their buoyancy we love them all, and because of it we
emulate them. We are influenced, not by the man who always wants to
preach a sermon at us, but by the one with whom we go for a holiday. Our
history-makers were great, joyous men, of fine spirit, fine imagination,
fine sensibility, and fine humour. They loved life; they loved their
fellow man; they loved all the beautiful, brave things of earth. When
you know them you can picture them scaling high mountains and singing
from the summits, or boating on fine rivers in the sunlight, or walking
about in the dawn, to the music of Creation, evolving the philosophy of
revolutions and building beautiful worlds. You get no hint of this from
the absurd propagandist play, yet this is what the heart of man craves.
When he does not get it, he cannot explain what he wants; but he knows
what he does not want, and he goes away and keeps his distance. The play
has missed fire, and the playwright and his hero are ridiculous. Let us
understand one thing: if we want to make men dutiful we must make them
joyous.
IV
It is because we must talk of grave things that we must preserve our
gaiety; otherwise we could not preserve our balance. By some freak of
nature, the average man strikes attitudes as readily as the average boy
whistles. We know how the _poseur_ works mischief to every cause, and we
can see the _poseur_ on every side. In politics, he has made the
platform contemptible, which is a danger to the nation, needing the
right use of platform; in literature--well, we all know bourgeois, but
who has done justice to the artist who gets on a platform to talk about
the bourgeois?--in religion, the _poseur_ is more likely to make
agnostics than all the Rationalist Press; and the agnostic _poseur_ in
turn is very funny. Now all these are an affliction, a collection of
absurdities of which we must cure the nation. If we cannot cure the
nation of absurdity we cannot set her free. Let it be our rule to
combine gaiety with gravity and we will acquire a saving sense of
proportion. Only the solemn man is dull; the serious man has a natural
fund of gaiety: we need only be natural to bring back joy to serious
endeavour. Then we shall begin to move. Let us remember a revolution
will surely fail when its leaders have no sense of humour.
V
But our humour will not be a saving humour unless it is of high order. A
great humorist is as rare as a great poet or a great philosopher. Though
ours may not be great we must keep it in the line of greatness.
Remember, great humour must be made out of ourselves rather than out of
others. The fine humorist is delightfully courteous; the commonplace
wit, invariably insulting. We must keep two things in mind, that in
laughter at our own folly is the beginning of wisdom; and the keenest
wit is pure fun, never coarse fun. We start a laugh at others by getting
an infallible laugh at ourselves. The commonplace wit arranges incidents
to make someone he dislikes ridiculous; his attitude is the attitude of
the superior person. He is nearly always--often unintentionally--offensive;
he repels the public sometimes in irritation, sometimes in amusement, for
they often see point in his joke, but see a greater joke in him, and they
are often laughing, not at his joke, but at himself. Let us for our
salvation avoid the attitude of the superior person. Don't make sport
of others--make it of yourself. Ridicule of your neighbour must be
largely speculation; of the comedy in yourself there can be no doubt.
When you get the essential humour out of yourself, you get the infallible
touch, and you arrest and attract everyone. You are not the superior
person. In effect, you slap your neighbour on the back and say, "We're
all in the same boat; let us enjoy the joke"; and you find he will come
to you with glistening eye. He may feel a little foolish at first--you
are poking his ribs; but you cannot help it--having given him the way to
poke your own. By your merry honesty he knows you for a safe comrade,
and he comes with relief and confidence--we like to talk about
ourselves. He will be equally frank with yourself; you will tell one
another secrets; you will reach the heart of man. That is what we need.
We must get the heart-beat into literature. Then will it quiver and
dance and weep and sing. Then we are in the line of greatness.
VI
It is because we need the truth that we object to the propagandist
playwright. Only in a rare case does he avoid being partial; and when he
is impartial he is cold and unconvincing. He gives us argument instead
of emotion; but emotion is the language of the heart. He does not touch
the heart; he tries to touch the mind: he is a pamphleteer and out of
place. He fails, and his failure has damaged his cause, for it leaves us
to feel that the cause is as cold as his play; but when the Cause is a
great one it is always vital, warm and passionate. It is for the sake of
the Cause we ask that a play be made by a sincere man-of-letters, who
will give us not propagandist literature nor art-for-art's-sake, but
the throbbing heart of man. The great dramatist will have the great
qualities needed, sensibility, sympathy, insight, imagination, and
courage. The special pleader and the _poseur_ lack all these things, and
they make themselves and their work foolish. Let us stand for the truth,
not pruning it for the occasion. The man who is afraid to face life is
not competent to lead anyone, to speak for anyone, or to interpret
anything: he inspires no confidence. The one to rouse us must be
passionate, and his passion will win us heart and soul. When from some
terribly intense moment, he turns with a merry laugh, only the fool will
take him as laughing at his cause; the general instinct will see him
detecting an attitude, tripping it up, and making us all merry and
natural again. In that moment we shall spring up astonished,
enthusiastic, exultant--here is one inspired; we shall enter a
passionate brotherhood, no cold disputes now--the smouldering fire along
the land shall quicken to a blaze, history shall be again in the making.
We shall be caught in the living flame.