I do not propose to make any history of events, or to say how, within a
very short time, I fell into the life of the place. I will only say what
were the features of the scheme, and how the rule, such as it was, worked
out.
First of all, and above all, came the personality of Father Payne, which
permeated and sustained the whole affair. It was not that he made it his
business to drive us along. It was not a case of "the guiding hand in front
and the propelling foot behind." He seldom interfered, and sometimes for a
considerable space one would have no very direct contact with him. He was a
man who was always intent, but by no means always intent on shepherding. I
should find it hard to say how he spent his time. He was sometimes to all
appearances entirely indolent and good-natured, when he would stroll about,
talk to the people in the village, and look after the little farm which he
kept in his own hands under a bailiff. At another time he would be for long
together in an abstracted mood, silent, absent-minded, pursuing some train
of thought. At another time he would be very busy with what we were doing,
and hold long interviews with us, making us read our work to him and giving
us detailed criticisms. On these occasions he was extremely stimulating,
for the simple reason that he always seemed to grasp what it was that one
was aiming at, and his criticisms were all directed to the question of how
far the original conception was being worked out. He did not, as a rule,
point out a different conception, or indicate how the work could be done on
other lines. He always grasped the plan and intention, and really seemed to
be inside the mind of the contriver. He would say; "I think the theme is
weak here--and you can't make a weak place strong by filling it with
details, however good in themselves. That is like trying to mend the Slough
of Despond with cartloads of texts. The thing is not to fall in, or, if you
fall in, to get out." His three divisions of a subject were "what you say,
what you wanted to say, what you ought to have wanted to say." Sometimes he
would listen in silence, and then say: "I can't criticise that--it is all
off the lines. You had better destroy it and begin again," Or he would say:
"You had better revise that and polish it up. It won't be any good when it
is done--these patched-up things never are; but it will be good practice,"
He was encouraging, because he never overlooked the good points of any
piece of writing. He would say: "The detail is good, but it is all too big
for its place, quite out of scale; it is like a huge ear on a small head,"
Or he would say: "Those are all things worth saying and well said, but they
are much too diffuse." He used to tell me that I was apt to stop the
carriage when I was bound on a rapid transit, and go for a saunter among
fields. "I don't object to your sauntering, but you must _intend_ to
saunter--you must not be attracted by a pleasant footpath." Sometimes he
could be severe, "That's vulgar," he once said to me, "and you can't make
it attractive by throwing scent about," Or he would say: "That's a
platitude--which means that it may be worth thinking and feeling, but not
worth saying. You can depend upon your reader feeling it without your
help," Or he would say: "You don't understand that point. It is a case of
the blind leading the blind. Cut the whole passage, and think it out
again," Or he would say: "That is all too compressed. You began by walking,
and now you are jumping." Or he would say: "There is a note of personal
irritation about that; it sounds as if you had been reading an unpleasant
review. It is like the complaint of the nightingale leaning her breast
against a thorn in order to get the sensation of pain. You seem to be
wiping your eyes all through--you have not got far enough away from your
vexation. Your attempt to give it a humorous turn reminds me of Miss
Squeers' titter--you must never titter!" Once or twice in early times I
used to ask him how _he_ would do it. "Don't ask me!" he said. "I
haven't got to do it--that's your business; it's no use your doing it in
_my_ way; all I know is that you are not doing it in _your_ way."
He was very quick at noticing any mannerisms or favourite words. "All good
writers have mannerisms, of course," he would say, "but the moment that the
reader sees that it is a mannerism the charm is gone." His praise was
rarely given, and when it came it was generous and rich. "That is
excellent," I can hear him say, "You have filled your space exactly, and
filled it well. There is not a word to add or to take away." He was always
prepared to listen to argument or defence. "Very well--read it again."
Then, at the end, he would say: "Yes, there is something in that. You meant
to anticipate? I don't mind that! But you have anticipated too much, made
it too clear; it should just be a hint, no more, which will be explained
later. Don't blurt! You have taken the wind out of your sails by explaining
it too fully."
Sometimes he would leave us alone for two or three weeks together, and then
say frankly that one had been wasting time, or the reverse. "You must not
depend upon me too much; you must learn to walk alone."
Every week we had a meeting, at which some one read a fragment aloud. At
these meetings he criticised little himself, but devoted his attention to
our criticisms. He would not allow harshness or abruptness in what we said.
"We don't want your conclusions or your impressions--we want your reasons."
Or he would say: "That is a fair criticism, but unsympathetic. It is in the
spirit of a reviewer who wants to smash a man. We don't want Stephen to be
stoned here, we want him confuted." I remember once how he said with
indignation: "That is simply throwing a rotten egg! And its maturity shows
that it was kept for that purpose! You are not criticising, you are only
paying off an old score!"
But I think that the two ways in which he most impressed himself were by
his conversation, when we were all together, and by his _tête-à-tête_
talks, if one happened to be his companion. When we were all together he
was humorous, ironical, frank. He did not mind what was said to him, so
long as it was courteously phrased; but I have heard him say: "We must
remember we are fencing--we must not use bludgeons." Or: "You must not talk
as if you were scaring birds away--we are all equal here." He was very
unguarded himself in what he said, and always maintained that talkers ought
to contribute their own impressions freely and easily. He used to quote
with much approval Dr. Johnson's remark about his garrulous old
school-fellow, Edwards. Boswell said, when Edwards had gone, that he
thought him a weak man. "Why, yes, sir," said Johnson. "Here is a man who
has passed through life without experiences; yet I would rather have him
with me than a more sensible man who will not talk readily. This man is
always willing to say what he has to say." Father Payne used to add: "The
point is to talk; you must not consider your reputation; say whatever comes
into your head, and when you have learnt to talk, you can begin to select."
I have heard him say; "Go on, some one! It is everybody's business here to
avoid a pause. Don't be sticky! Pauses are for a _tête-à-tête_." Or,
again, I have heard him say: "You mustn't examine witnesses here! You
should never ask more than three questions running." He did not by any
means keep his own rules; but he would apologise sometimes for his
shortcomings. "I'm hopeless to-day. I can't attend, I can't think of
anything in particular. I'm diluted, I'm weltering--I'm coming down like a
shower."
The result of this certainly was that we most of us did learn to talk. He
liked to thrash a subject out, but he hated too protracted a discussion.
"Here, we've had enough of this. It's very important, but I'm getting
bored. I feel priggish. Help, help!"
On the other hand, he was even more delightful in a _tête-à-tête_. He
would say profound and tender things, let his emotions escape him. He had
with me, and I expect with others, a sort of indulgent and paternal way
with him. He never forgot a confidence, and he used to listen delightedly
to stories of one's home circle. "Tell me some stories about Aunt Jane," he
would say to me. "There is something impotently fiery about that good lady
that I like. Tell me again what she said when she found cousin Frank in a
smoking-cap reading Thomas-à-Kempis." He had a way of quoting one's own
stories which was subtly flattering, and he liked sidelights of a
good-natured kind on the character of other members. "Why won't he say such
things to me?" he used to say. "He thinks I should respect him less, when
really I should admire him more. He won't let me see when his box is empty!
I suspect him of reading Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_ before he
goes a walk with me!" Or he would say: "In a general talk you must think
about your companions; in a _tête-à-tête_ you must only feel him."
But the most striking thing about Father Payne was this. Though we were all
very conscious of his influence, and indeed of his authority; though we
knew that he meant to have his own way, and was quite prepared to speak
frankly and act decisively, we were never conscious of being watched or
censured or interfered with. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it was a
pure pleasure to meet him and to be with him, and many a time have I seen
him, in a moment of leisure, strolling in the garden, and hurried out just
on the chance of getting a word or a smile, or, if he was in an expansive
mood, having my arm taken by him for a little turn. In the hundredth case,
it happened that one might have said or done something which one knew that
he would disapprove. But, as he never stored things up or kept you waiting,
you could be sure he would speak soon or not at all. Often, too, he would
just say: "I don't think that your remark to Kaye gave a fair impression of
yourself," or, "Why waste your powder as you did to-night?" I was only once
or twice directly rebuked by him, and that was for a prolonged neglect.
"You don't _care_," he once said to me emphatically. "I can't do
anything for you if you don't care!" But he was the most entirely placable
of men. A word of regret or apology, and he would say: "Don't give it
another thought, my boy," or, "That's all right, then."
The real secret of his influence was that he took not a critical or even a
dispassionate view of each of us, but an enthusiastic view. He took no
pleasure in our shortcomings; they were rather of the nature of an active
personal disappointment. The result was simply that you were natural with
him, but natural with the added sense that he liked you and thought well of
you, and expected friendship and even brilliance from you. You felt that he
knew you well, and recognised your faults and weaknesses, but that he knew
your best side even better, and enjoyed the presence of it. I never knew
anyone who was so appreciative, and though I said foolish things to him
sometimes, I felt that he was glad that I should be my undisguised self. It
was thus delicately flattering to be with him, and it gave confidence and
self-respect. That was the basis of our whole life, the goodwill and
affection of Father Payne, and the desire to please him.