John Galsworthy calls this play a fantasy. To me it seems cruelly real:
it demonstrates that the best human material is crushed in the fatal
mechanism of our life. "The Pigeon" also discloses to us the inadequacy
of charity, individual and organized, to cope with poverty, as well as
the absurdity of reformers and experimenters who attempt to patch up
effects while they ignore the causes.
_Christopher Wellwyn_, an artist, a man deeply in sympathy with all
human sorrow and failings, generously shares his meager means with
everyone who applies to him for help.
His daughter _Ann_ is of a more practical turn of mind. She cannot
understand that giving is as natural and necessary to her father as
light and air; indeed, the greatest joy in life.
Perhaps _Ann_ is actuated by anxiety for her father who is so utterly
"hopeless" that he would give away his "last pair of trousers." From her
point of view "people who beg are rotters": decent folk would not stoop
to begging. But _Christopher Wellwyn's_ heart is too full of humanity to
admit of such a straight-laced attitude. "We're not all the same....
One likes to be friendly. What's the use of being alive if one isn't?"
Unfortunately most people are not alive to the tragedies around them.
They are often unthinking mechanisms, mere tabulating machines, like
_Alfred Calway_, the Professor, who believes that "we're to give the
State all we can spare, to make the undeserving deserving." Or as _Sir
Hoxton_, the Justice of the Peace, who insists that "we ought to support
private organizations for helping the deserving, and damn the
undeserving." Finally there is the _Canon_ who religiously seeks the
middle road and "wants a little of both."
When _Ann_ concludes that her father is the despair of all social
reformers, she is but expressing a great truism; namely, that social
reform is a cold and bloodless thing that can find no place in the
glowing humanity of _Christopher Wellwyn_.
* * * * *
It is Christmas Eve, the birth of Him who came to proclaim "Peace on
earth, good will to all." _Christopher Wellwyn_ is about to retire when
he is disturbed by a knock on the door.
The snow-covered, frost-pinched figure of _Guinevere Megan_ appears. She
is a flower-seller to whom _Wellwyn_ had once given his card that she
might find him in case of need. She comes to him when the rest of the
world has passed her by, forlorn and almost as dead as her violets
which no one cares to buy.
At sight of her misery _Wellwyn_ forgets his daughter's practical
admonition and his promise to her not to be "a fool." He treats the
flower-seller tenderly, makes her warm and comfortable. He has barely
time to show _Guinevere_ into his model's room, when another knock is
heard. This time it is _Ferrand_, "an alien," a globe trotter without
means,--a tramp whom _Wellwyn_ had once met in the Champs-Elysées.
Without food for days and unable to endure the cold, _Ferrand_ too comes
to the artist.
_Ferrand._ If I had not found you, Monsieur--I would have been a
little hole in the river to-night--I was so discouraged.... And to
think that in a few minutes He will be born!... The world would
reproach you for your goodness to me. Monsieur, if He himself were
on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to
the journals every day to call him sloppee sentimentalist! And what
is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong
Christians. But that will not trouble you. Monsieur; I saw well from
the first that you are no Christian. You have so kind a face.
_Ferrand_ has deeper insight into the character of _Christopher Wellwyn_
than his daughter. He knows that the artist would not judge nor could
he refuse one whom misery stares in the face. Even the third visitor of
_Wellwyn_, the old cabman _Timson_, with more whisky than bread in his
stomach, receives the same generous reception as the other two.
The next day _Ann_ calls a council of war. The learned Professor,
_Alfred Calway_; the wise judge, _Sir Thomas Hoxton_; and the
professional Christian, _Edward Bertley_--the Canon--are summoned to
decide the fate of the three outcasts.
There are few scenes in dramatic literature so rich in satire, so deep
in the power of analysis as the one in which these eminent gentlemen
discuss human destiny. _Canon Bertley_ is emphatic that it is necessary
to "remove the temptation and reform the husband of the flower-seller."
_Bertley._ Now, what is to be done?
_Mrs. Megan._ I could get an unfurnished room, if I'd the money to
furnish it.
_Bertley._ Never mind the money. What I want to find in you is
repentance.
Those who are engaged in saving souls cannot be interested in such
trifles as money matters, nor to understand the simple truth that if the
Megans did not have to bother with making a "livin'," repentance would
take care of itself.
The other two gentlemen are more worldly, since law and science cannot
experiment with such elusive things as the soul. _Professor Calway_
opines that _Timson_ is a congenital case, to be put under observation,
while _Judge Hoxton_ decides that he must be sent to prison.
_Calway._ Is it, do you think, chronic unemployment with a vagrant
tendency? Or would it be nearer the mark to say: Vagrancy-- ...
Dipsomaniac?... By the look of his face, as far as one can see it, I
should say there was a leaning towards mania. I know the treatment.
_Hoxton._ Hundreds of these fellows before me in my time. The only
thing is a sharp lesson!
_Calway._ I disagree. I've seen the man; what he requires is steady
control, and the Dobbins treatment.
_Hoxton._ Not a bit of it! He wants one for his knob! Bracing him
up! It's the only thing!
_Calway._ You're moving backwards, Sir Thomas. I've told you before,
convinced reactionaryism, in these days--The merest sense of
continuity--a simple instinct for order--
_Hoxton._ The only way to get order, sir, is to bring the disorderly
up with a round turn. You people without practical experience--
_Calway._ The question is a much wider one, Sir Thomas.
_Hoxton._ No, sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to
your views of reform, it's as good as doomed.
_Calway._ I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas. And let me
say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks régime--
_Hoxton._ Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grandmotherly
methods. What the old fellow wants is a shock! With all this
socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual.
_Calway._ You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost," have never
seen him.
The farce ends by each one insisting on the superiority of his own pet
theory, while misery continues to stalk white-faced through the streets.
Three months later _Ann_ determines to rescue her father from his
disreputable proclivities by removing with him to a part of the city
where their address will remain unknown to his beggar friends and
acquaintances.
While their belongings are being removed, _Canon Bertley_ relates the
trouble he had with _Mrs. Megan_.
_Bertley._ I consulted with Calway and he advised me to try a
certain institution. We got her safely in--excellent place; but,
d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. And since--I've
heard--hopeless, I'm afraid--quite!... I'm sometimes tempted to
believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for
death.
_Wellwyn._ The Professor said he felt there was nothing for some of
these poor devils but a lethal chamber.
What is science for if not to advise a lethal chamber? It's the easiest
way to dispose of "the unfit" and to supply learned professors with the
means of comfortable livelihood.
Yet there is _Ferrand_, the vagabond, the social outcast who has never
seen the inside of a university, propounding a philosophy which very few
professors even dream of:
_Ferrand._ While I was on the road this time I fell ill of a fever.
It seemed to me in my illness that I saw the truth--how I was
wasting in this world--I would never be good for anyone--nor anyone
for me--all would go by, and I never of it--fame, and fortune, and
peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me. And I saw, so
plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short; I
dying in the end the death of a dog. I saw it all in my fever--clear
as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb of
death. And so I wished to die. I told no one of my fever. I lay out
on the ground--it was verree cold. But they would not let me die on
the roads of their parishes--They took me to an Institution. I
looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more clear than
the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should die,
although they would not let me. Then naturally my spirit rose, and I
said: "So much the worse for you. I will live a little more." One is
made like that! Life is sweet. That little girl you had here,
Monsieur--in her too there is something of wild savage. She must
have joy of life. I have seen her since I came back. She has
embraced the life of joy. It is not quite the same thing. She is
lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. I can see, if she
cannot.... For the great part of mankind, to see anything--is fatal.
No, Monsieur. To be so near to death has done me good; I shall not
lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave. Since I saw
you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions. They are
palaces.... One little thing they lack--those palaces. It is
understanding of the 'uman heart. In them tame birds pluck wild
birds naked. Ah! Monsieur, I am loafer, waster--what you like--for
all that, poverty is my only crime. If I were rich, should I not be
simply verree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above commerce,
traveling to see the world? And that young girl, would she not be
"that charming ladee," "veree chic, you know!" And the old
Tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well. Eh!
bien--what are we now? Dark beasts, despised by all. That is life,
Monsieur. Monsieur, it is just that. You understand. When we are
with you we feel something--here--[he touches his heart] If I had
one prayer to make, it would be, "Good God, give me to understand!"
Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain
our 'abits--that soothes for them the æsthetic sense; it gives them
too their good little importance. But our spirits they cannot touch,
for they nevare understand. Without that, Monsieur, all is dry as a
parched skin of orange. Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing.
They do a good work while they attend with their theories to the
sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving. Above all
to the little children. But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are
always us hopeless ones. What can they do with me, Monsieur, with
that girl, or with that old man? Ah! Monsieur, we too, 'ave our
qualities, we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career
like mine, or like that young girl's. We wild ones--we know a
thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs. They waste
their time trying to make rooks white. Be kind to us if you will, or
let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.
Leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air.
If you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and your
doors--we shall die the faster.... If you cannot, how is it our
fault? The harm we do to others--is it so much? If I am criminal,
dangerous--shut me up! I would not pity myself--nevare. But we in
whom something moves--like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep
still--we others--we are not many--that must have motion in our
lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories,
because we are not like them--it is life itself they would
enclose!... The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
making round business on an office stool! It is not to my advantage.
I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you have? It is
stronger than me. Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
Monsieur! Are you really English? The English are so civilized.
Truly the English are highly "civilized"; else it would be impossible to
explain why of all the nations on earth, the Anglo-Saxons should be the
only ones to punish attempts at suicide.
Society makes no provision whatever for the Timsons, the Ferrands and
Mrs. Megans. It has closed the door in their face, denying them a seat
at the table of life. Yet when _Guinevere Megan_ attempts to drown
herself, a benevolent constable drags her out and a Christian Judge
sends her to the workhouse.
_Constable._ Well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we?... You
know what soocide amounts to--it's an awkward job.
_Wellwyn._ But look here, Constable, as a reasonable man--This poor
wretched little girl--_you_ know what that life means better than
anyone! Why! It's to her credit to try and jump out of it!
_Constable._ Can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible.
_Wellwyn._ Of all the d----d topsy-turvy--! Not a soul in the world
wants her alive--and now she is to be prosecuted for trying to go
where everyone wishes her.
Is it necessary to dwell on the revolutionary significance of this cruel
reality? It is so all-embracing in its sweep, so penetrating of the
topsy-turviness of our civilization, with all its cant and artifice, so
powerful in its condemnation of our cheap theories and cold
institutionalism which freezes the soul and destroys the best and finest
in our being. The Wellwyns, Ferrands, and Megans are the stuff out of
which a real humanity might be fashioned. They feel the needs of their
fellows, and whatever is in their power to give, they give as nature
does, unreservedly. But the Hoxtons, Calways and Bertleys have turned
the world into a dismal prison and mankind into monotonous, gray, dull
shadows.
The professors, judges, and preachers cannot meet the situation. Neither
can _Wellwyn_, to be sure. And yet his very understanding of the
differentiation of human nature, and his sympathy with the inevitable
reaction of conditions upon it, bring the Wellwyns much closer to the
solution of our evils than all the Hoxtons, Calways and Bertleys put
together. This deep conception of social factors is in itself perhaps
the most significant lesson taught in "The Pigeon."