it their duty to say something, even when there is hardly anything to be
said, and, in order to encourage this delightful art of brilliant
chatter, he has published a social guide without which no debutante or
dandy should ever dream of going out to dine. Not that Mr. Mahaffy's
book can be said to be, in any sense of the word, popular. In discussing
this important subject of conversation, he has not merely followed the
scientific method of Aristotle which is, perhaps, excusable, but he has
adopted the literary style of Aristotle for which no excuse is possible.
There is, also, hardly a single anecdote, hardly a single illustration,
and the reader is left to put the Professor's abstract rules into
practice, without either the examples or the warnings of history to
encourage or to dissuade him in his reckless career. Still, the book can
be warmly recommended to all who propose to substitute the vice of
verbosity for the stupidity of silence. It fascinates in spite of its
form and pleases in spite of its pedantry, and is the nearest approach,
that we know of, in modern literature to meeting Aristotle at an
afternoon tea.
As regards physical conditions, the only one that is considered by Mr.
Mahaffy as being absolutely essential to a good conversationalist, is the
possession of a musical voice. Some learned writers have been of opinion
that a slight stammer often gives peculiar zest to conversation, but Mr.
Mahaffy rejects this view and is extremely severe on every eccentricity
from a native brogue to an artificial catchword. With his remarks on the
latter point, the meaningless repetition of phrases, we entirely agree.
Nothing can be more irritating than the scientific person who is always
saying '_Exactly_ so,' or the commonplace person who ends every sentence
with '_Don't you know_?' or the pseudo-artistic person who murmurs
'_Charming, charming_,' on the smallest provocation. It is, however,
with the mental and moral qualifications for conversation that Mr.
Mahaffy specially deals. Knowledge he, naturally, regards as an absolute
essential, for, as he most justly observes, 'an ignorant man is seldom
agreeable, except as a butt.' Upon the other hand, strict accuracy
should be avoided. 'Even a consummate liar,' says Mr. Mahaffy, is a
better ingredient in a company than 'the scrupulously truthful man, who
weighs every statement, questions every fact, and corrects every
inaccuracy.' The liar at any rate recognises that recreation, not
instruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilised
being than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story
which is told simply for the amusement of the company. Mr. Mahaffy,
however, makes an exception in favour of the eminent specialist and tells
us that intelligent questions addressed to an astronomer, or a pure
mathematician, will elicit many curious facts which will pleasantly
beguile the time. Here, in the interest of Society, we feel bound to
enter a formal protest. Nobody, even in the provinces, should ever be
allowed to ask an intelligent question about pure mathematics across a
dinner-table. A question of this kind is quite as bad as inquiring
suddenly about the state of a man's soul, a sort of coup which, as Mr.
Mahaffy remarks elsewhere, 'many pious people have actually thought a
decent introduction to a conversation.'
As for the moral qualifications of a good talker, Mr. Mahaffy, following
the example of his great master, warns us against any disproportionate
excess of virtue. Modesty, for instance, may easily become a social
vice, and to be continually apologising for one's ignorance or stupidity
is a grave injury to conversation, for, 'what we want to learn from each
member is his free opinion on the subject in hand, not his own estimate
of the value of that opinion.' Simplicity, too, is not without its
dangers. The enfant terrible, with his shameless love of truth, the raw
country-bred girl who always says what she means, and the plain, blunt
man who makes a point of speaking his mind on every possible occasion,
without ever considering whether he has a mind at all, are the fatal
examples of what simplicity leads to. Shyness may be a form of vanity,
and reserve a development of pride, and as for sympathy, what can be more
detestable than the man, or woman, who insists on agreeing with
everybody, and so makes 'a discussion, which implies differences in
opinion,' absolutely impossible? Even the unselfish listener is apt to
become a bore. 'These silent people,' says Mr. Mahaffy, 'not only take
all they can get in Society for nothing, but they take it without the
smallest gratitude, and have the audacity afterwards to censure those who
have laboured for their amusement.' Tact, which is an exquisite sense of
the symmetry of things, is, according to Mr. Mahaffy, the highest and
best of all the moral conditions for conversation. The man of tact, he
most wisely remarks, 'will instinctively avoid jokes about Blue Beard' in
the company of a woman who is a man's third wife; he will never be guilty
of talking like a book, but will rather avoid too careful an attention to
grammar and the rounding of periods; he will cultivate the art of
graceful interruption, so as to prevent a subject being worn threadbare
by the aged or the inexperienced; and should he be desirous of telling a
story, he will look round and consider each member of the party, and if
there be a single stranger present will forgo the pleasure of anecdotage
rather than make the social mistake of hurting even one of the guests. As
for prepared or premeditated art, Mr. Mahaffy has a great contempt for it
and tells us of a certain college don (let us hope not at Oxford or
Cambridge) who always carried a jest-book in his pocket and had to refer
to it when he wished to make a repartee. Great wits, too, are often very
cruel, and great humourists often very vulgar, so it will be better to
try and 'make good conversation without any large help from these
brilliant but dangerous gifts.'
In a tete-a-tete one should talk about persons, and in general Society
about things. The state of the weather is always an excusable exordium,
but it is convenient to have a paradox or heresy on the subject always
ready so as to direct the conversation into other channels. Really
domestic people are almost invariably bad talkers as their very virtues
in home life have dulled their interest in outer things. The very best
mothers will insist on chattering of their babies and prattling about
infant education. In fact, most women do not take sufficient interest in
politics, just as most men are deficient in general reading. Still,
anybody can be made to talk, except the very obstinate, and even a
commercial traveller may be drawn out and become quite interesting. As
for Society small talk, it is impossible, Mr. Mahaffy tells us, for any
sound theory of conversation to depreciate gossip, 'which is perhaps the
main factor in agreeable talk throughout Society.' The retailing of
small personal points about great people always gives pleasure, and if
one is not fortunate enough to be an Arctic traveller or an escaped
Nihilist, the best thing one can do is to relate some anecdote of 'Prince
Bismarck, or King Victor Emmanuel, or Mr. Gladstone.' In the case of
meeting a genius and a Duke at dinner, the good talker will try to raise
himself to the level of the former and to bring the latter down to his
own level. To succeed among one's social superiors one must have no
hesitation in contradicting them. Indeed, one should make bold
criticisms and introduce a bright and free tone into a Society whose
grandeur and extreme respectability make it, Mr. Mahaffy remarks, as
pathetically as inaccurately, 'perhaps somewhat dull.' The best
conversationalists are those whose ancestors have been bilingual, like
the French and Irish, but the art of conversation is really within the
reach of almost every one, except those who are morbidly truthful, or
whose high moral worth requires to be sustained by a permanent gravity of
demeanour and a general dulness of mind.
These are the broad principles contained in Mr. Mahaffy's clever little
book, and many of them will, no doubt, commend themselves to our readers.
The maxim, 'If you find the company dull, blame yourself,' seems to us
somewhat optimistic, and we have no sympathy at all with the professional
story-teller who is really a great bore at a dinner-table; but Mr.
Mahaffy is quite right in insisting that no bright social intercourse is
possible without equality, and it is no objection to his book to say that
it will not teach people how to talk cleverly. It is not logic that
makes men reasonable, nor the science of ethics that makes men good, but
it is always useful to analyse, to formularise and to investigate. The
only thing to be regretted in the volume is the arid and jejune character
of the style. If Mr. Mahaffy would only write as he talks, his book
would be much pleasanter reading.
The Principles of the Art of Conversation: A Social Essay. By J. P.
Mahaffy. (Macmillan and Co.)
EARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND
(Pall Mall Gazette, December 17, 1887.)
The want of a good series of popular handbooks on Irish art has long been
felt, the works of Sir William Wilde, Petrie and others being somewhat
too elaborate for the ordinary student; so we are glad to notice the
appearance, under the auspices of the Committee of Council on Education,
of Miss Margaret Stokes's useful little volume on the early Christian art
of her country. There is, of course, nothing particularly original in
Miss Stokes's book, nor can she be said to be a very attractive or
pleasing writer, but it is unfair to look for originality in primers, and
the charm of the illustrations fully atones for the somewhat heavy and
pedantic character of the style.
This early Christian art of Ireland is full of interest to the artist,
the archaeologist and the historian. In its rudest forms, such as the
little iron hand-bell, the plain stone chalice and the rough wooden
staff, it brings us back to the simplicity of the primitive Christian
Church, while to the period of its highest development we owe the great
masterpieces of Celtic metal-work. The stone chalice is now replaced by
the chalice of silver and gold; the iron bell has its jewel-studded
shrine, and the rough staff its gorgeous casing; rich caskets and
splendid bindings preserve the holy books of the Saints and, instead of
the rudely carved symbol of the early missionaries, we have such
beautiful works of art as the processional cross of Cong Abbey. Beautiful
this cross certainly is with its delicate intricacy of ornamentation, its
grace of proportion and its marvel of mere workmanship, nor is there any
doubt about its history. From the inscriptions on it, which are
corroborated by the annals of Innisfallen and the book of Clonmacnoise,
we learn that it was made for King Turlough O'Connor by a native artist
under the superintendence of Bishop O'Duffy, its primary object being to
enshrine a portion of the true cross that was sent to the king in 1123.
Brought to Cong some years afterwards, probably by the archbishop, who
died there in 1150, it was concealed at the time of the Reformation, but
at the beginning of the present century was still in the possession of
the last abbot, and at his death it was purchased by professor MacCullagh
and presented by him to the museum of the Royal Irish Academy. This
wonderful work is alone well worth a visit to Dublin, but not less lovely
is the chalice of Ardagh, a two-handled silver cup, absolutely classical
in its perfect purity of form, and decorated with gold and amber and
crystal and with varieties of cloisonne and champleve enamel. There is
no mention of this cup, or of the so-called Tara brooch, in ancient Irish
history. All that we know of them is that they were found accidentally,
the former by a boy who was digging potatoes near the old Rath of Ardagh,
the latter by a poor child who picked it up near the seashore. They
both, however, belong probably to the tenth century.
Of all these works, as well as of the bell shrines, book-covers,
sculptured crosses and illuminated designs in manuscripts, excellent
pictures are given in Miss Stokes's handbook. The extremely interesting
Fiachal Phadrig, or shrine of St. Patrick's tooth, might have been
figured and noted as an interesting example of the survival of ornament,
and one of the old miniatures of the scribe or Evangelist writing would
have given an additional interest to the chapter on Irish MSS. On the
whole, however, the book is wonderfully well illustrated, and the
ordinary art student will be able to get some useful suggestions from it.
Indeed, Miss Stokes, echoing the aspirations of many of the great Irish
archaeologists, looks forward to the revival of a native Irish school in
architecture, sculpture, metal-work and painting. Such an aspiration is,
of course, very laudable, but there is always a danger of these revivals
being merely artificial reproductions, and it may be questioned whether
the peculiar forms of Irish ornamentation could be made at all expressive
of the modern spirit. A recent writer on house decoration has gravely
suggested that the British householder should take his meals in a Celtic
dining-room adorned with a dado of Ogham inscriptions, and such wicked
proposals may serve as a warning to all who fancy that the reproduction
of a form necessarily implies a revival of the spirit that gave the form
life and meaning, and who fail to recognise the difference between art
and anachronisms. Miss Stokes's proposal for an ark-shaped church in
which the mural painter is to repeat the arcades and 'follow the
architectural compositions of the grand pages of the Eusebian canons in
the Book of Kells,' has, of course, nothing grotesque about it, but it is
not probable that the artistic genius of the Irish people will, even when
'the land has rest,' find in such interesting imitations its healthiest
or best expression. Still, there are certain elements of beauty in
ancient Irish art that the modern artist would do well to study. The
value of the intricate illuminations in the Book of Kells, as far as
their adaptability to modern designs and modern material goes, has been
very much overrated, but in the ancient Irish torques, brooches, pins,
clasps and the like, the modern goldsmith will find a rich and,
comparatively speaking, an untouched field; and now that the Celtic
spirit has become the leaven of our politics, there is no reason why it
should not contribute something to our decorative art. This result,
however, will not be obtained by a patriotic misuse of old designs, and
even the most enthusiastic Home Ruler must not be allowed to decorate his
dining-room with a dado of Oghams.
Early Christian Art in Ireland. By Margaret Stokes. (Published for the
Committee of Council on Education by Chapman and Hall.)
LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES--III
(Woman's World, January 1888.)
Madame Ristori's Etudes et Souvenirs is one of the most delightful books
on the stage that has appeared since Lady Martin's charming volume on the
Shakespearian heroines. It is often said that actors leave nothing
behind them but a barren name and a withered wreath; that they subsist
simply upon the applause of the moment; that they are ultimately doomed
to the oblivion of old play-bills; and that their art, in a word, dies
with them, and shares their own mortality. 'Chippendale, the cabinet-
maker,' says the clever author of Obiter Dicta, 'is more potent than
Garrick the actor. The vivacity of the latter no longer charms (save in
Boswell); the chairs of the former still render rest impossible in a
hundred homes.' This view, however, seems to me to be exaggerated. It
rests on the assumption that acting is simply a mimetic art, and takes no
account of its imaginative and intellectual basis. It is quite true, of
course, that the personality of the player passes away, and with it that
pleasure-giving power by virtue of which the arts exist. Yet the
artistic method of a great actor survives. It lives on in tradition, and
becomes part of the science of a school. It has all the intellectual
life of a principle. In England, at the present moment, the influence of
Garrick on our actors is far stronger than that of Reynolds on our
painters of portraits, and if we turn to France it is easy to discern the
tradition of Talma, but where is the tradition of David?
Madame Ristori's memoirs, then, have not merely the charm that always
attaches to the autobiography of a brilliant and beautiful woman, but
have also a definite and distinct artistic value. Her analysis of the
character of Lady Macbeth, for instance, is full of psychological
interest, and shows us that the subtleties of Shakespearian criticism are
not necessarily confined to those who have views on weak endings and
rhyming tags, but may also be suggested by the art of acting itself. The
author of Obiter Dicta seeks to deny to actors all critical insight and
all literary appreciation. The actor, he tells us, is art's slave, not
her child, and lives entirely outside literature, 'with its words for
ever on his lips, and none of its truths engraven on his heart.' But
this seems to me to be a harsh and reckless generalisation. Indeed, so
far from agreeing with it, I would be inclined to say that the mere
artistic process of acting, the translation of literature back again into
life, and the presentation of thought under the conditions of action, is
in itself a critical method of a very high order; nor do I think that a
study of the careers of our great English actors will really sustain the
charge of want of literary appreciation. It may be true that actors pass
too quickly away from the form, in order to get at the feeling that gives
the form beauty and colour, and that, where the literary critic studies
the language, the actor looks simply for the life; and yet, how well the
great actors have appreciated that marvellous music of words which in
Shakespeare, at any rate, is so vital an element of poetic power, if,
indeed, it be not equally so in the case of all who have any claim to be
regarded as true poets. 'The sensual life of verse,' says Keats, in a
dramatic criticism published in the Champion, 'springs warm from the lips
of Kean, and to one learned in Shakespearian hieroglyphics, learned in
the spiritual portion of those lines to which Kean adds a sensual
grandeur, his tongue must seem to have robbed the Hybla bees and left
them honeyless.' This particular feeling, of which Keats speaks, is
familiar to all who have heard Salvini, Sarah Bernhardt, Ristori, or any
of the great artists of our day, and it is a feeling that one cannot, I
think, gain merely by reading the passage to oneself. For my own part, I
must confess that it was not until I heard Sarah Bernhardt in Phedre that
I absolutely realised the sweetness of the music of Racine. As for Mr.
Birrell's statement that actors have the words of literature for ever on
their lips, but none of its truths engraved on their hearts, all that one
can say is that, if it be true, it is a defect which actors share with
the majority of literary critics.
The account Madame Ristori gives of her own struggles, voyages and
adventures, is very pleasant reading indeed. The child of poor actors,
she made her first appearance when she was three months old, being
brought on in a hamper as a New Year's gift to a selfish old gentleman
who would not forgive his daughter for having married for love. As,
however, she began to cry long before the hamper was opened, the comedy
became a farce, to the immense amusement of the public. She next
appeared in a mediaeval melodrama, being then three years of age, and was
so terrified at the machinations of the villain that she ran away at the
most critical moment. However, her stage-fright seems to have
disappeared, and we find her playing Silvio Pellico's Francesco, da
Rimini at fifteen, and at eighteen making her debut as Marie Stuart. At
this time the naturalism of the French method was gradually displacing
the artificial elocution and academic poses of the Italian school of
acting. Madame Ristori seems to have tried to combine simplicity with
style, and the passion of nature with the self-restraint of the artist.
'J'ai voulu fondre les deux manieres,' she tells us, 'car je sentais que
toutes choses etant susceptibles de progres, l'art dramatique aussi etait
appele a subir des transformations.' The natural development, however,
of the Italian drama was almost arrested by the ridiculous censorship of
plays then existing in each town under Austrian or Papal rule. The
slightest allusion to the sentiment of nationality or the spirit of
freedom was prohibited. Even the word patria was regarded as
treasonable, and Madame Ristori tells us an amusing story of the
indignation of a censor who was asked to license a play, in which a dumb
man returns home after an absence of many years, and on his entrance upon
the stage makes gestures expressive of his joy in seeing his native land
once more. 'Gestures of this kind,' said the censor, 'are obviously of a
very revolutionary tendency, and cannot possibly be allowed. The only
gestures that I could think of permitting would be gestures expressive of
a dumb man's delight in scenery generally.'
The stage directions were accordingly altered, and the word 'landscape'
substituted for 'native land'! Another censor was extremely severe on an
unfortunate poet who had used the expression 'the beautiful Italian sky,'
and explained to him that 'the beautiful Lombardo-Venetian sky' was the
proper official expression to use. Poor Gregory in Romeo and Juliet had
to be rechristened, because Gregory is a name dear to the Popes; and the
Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wrecked as homeward he did come,
of the first witch in Macbeth was ruthlessly struck out as containing an
obvious allusion to the steersman of St. Peter's bark. Finally, bored
and bothered by the political and theological Dogberrys of the day, with
their inane prejudices, their solemn stupidity, and their entire
ignorance of the conditions necessary for the growth of sane and healthy
art, Madame Ristori made up her mind to leave the stage. She, however,
was extremely anxious to appear once before a Parisian audience, Paris
being at that time the centre of dramatic activity, and after some
consideration left Italy for France in the year 1855. There she seems to
have been a great success, particularly in the part of Myrrha; classical
without being cold, artistic without being academic, she brought to the
interpretation of the character of Alfieri's great heroine the colour-
element of passion, the form-element of style. Jules Janin was loud in
his praises, the Emperor begged Ristori to join the troupe of the Comedie
Francaise, and Rachel, with the strange narrow jealousy of her nature,
trembled for her laurels. Myrrha was followed by Marie Stuart, and Marie
Stuart by Medea. In the latter part Madame Ristori excited the greatest
enthusiasm. Ary Scheffer designed her costumes for her; and the Niobe
that stands in the Uffizzi Gallery at Florence, suggested to Madame
Ristori her famous pose in the scene with the children. She would not
consent, however, to remain in France, and we find her subsequently
playing in almost every country in the world from Egypt to Mexico, from
Denmark to Honolulu. Her representations of classical plays seem to have
been always immensely admired. When she played at Athens, the King
offered to arrange for a performance in the beautiful old theatre of
Dionysos, and during her tour in Portugal she produced Medea before the
University of Coimbra. Her description of the latter engagement is
extremely interesting. On her arrival at the University, she was
received by the entire body of the undergraduates, who still wear a
costume almost mediaeval in character. Some of them came on the stage in
the course of the play as the handmaidens of Creusa, hiding their black
beards beneath heavy veils, and as soon as they had finished their parts
they took their places gravely among the audience, to Madame Ristori's
horror, still in their Greek dress, but with their veils thrown back, and
smoking long cigars. 'Ce n'est pas la premiere fois,' she says, 'que
j'ai du empecher, par un effort de volonte, la tragedie de se terminer en
farce.' Very interesting, also, is her account of the production of
Montanelli's Camma, and she tells an amusing story of the arrest of the
author by the French police on the charge of murder, in consequence of a
telegram she sent to him in which the words 'body of the victim'
occurred. Indeed, the whole book is full of cleverly written stories,
and admirable criticisms on dramatic art. I have quoted from the French
version, which happens to be the one that lies before me, but whether in
French or Italian the book is one of the most fascinating autobiographies
that has appeared for some time, even in an age like ours when literary
egotism has been brought to such an exquisite pitch of perfection.
* * * * *