OUR STAGE AND ITS CRITICS
BY
"E.F.S."
OF "THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE"
_1910_
PREFACE
Whilst reading the proof-sheets of these articles I have been oppressed
by the thought that they give a gloomy idea about the state of our
Stage. Yet I am naturally sanguine. Indeed, no one taking a deep
interest in our drama could have written for a score or so of years
about it unless of a naturally sanguine temperament. There has been
great progress during my time, yet we still are far from possessing a
modern national drama creditable to us. Some imagine that the British
have no inborn genius for writing drama, or acting it, and look upon
those dramatists and players whose greatness cannot be denied as mere
exceptions to a rule. Without alleging that at the moment we have a
Shakespeare, a Garrick or a Siddons, I assert confidently that we own
dramatists and players able, if rightly used, to make our theatre worthy
of our country and also that the misuse of them is appalling. For very
many years the history of the English stage has been chiefly a record of
waste, of gross commercialism and of honest efforts ruined by adherence
to mischievous traditions: the Scottish and Irish stage have been mere
reflections of our own.
At the moment Ireland is making a brave and remarkably successful
effort at emancipation, and during the last few years has laid the
foundations of a National Theatre and built a good deal upon them.
Scotland lags a little, yet the energy and enthusiasm of Mr Alfred
Wareing and the citizens of Glasgow have enabled them to create an
institution not unlikely to serve as the home of a real Scots drama.
They offer to the native playwright an opportunity of showing that a
national drama--not a drama merely echoing the drama of other
lands--lies inherent in the race. Who knows that they may not induce
that wayward man of genius, J.M. Barrie, to become the parent of Scots
drama by honestly and sincerely using his rare gifts as dramatist in an
effort to express the pathos and the humour, the courage and the
shyness, the shrewdness and the imagination, and also the less agreeable
qualities and characteristics of our brothers across the border.
And England? I have little first-hand knowledge of the provinces, but
with such as I possess, and the aid of the _Era Annual_ and the _Stage
Year Book_, can state unhesitatingly that the position is very
unsatisfactory. Admirable, valuable work is being done bravely by Miss
Horniman at Manchester; Mr F.R. Benson and his company devotedly carry
the banner of Shakespeare through the land; but in the main the
playhouses of the provinces and great cities of England offer little
more than echoes of the London theatres, and such original works as are
produced in them generally are mere experiments made on the dog before a
piece is presented in London. In this respect, the suburbs resemble the
provinces, although Mr J.B. Mulholland courageously makes efforts to
give Hammersmith something new and good. The Coronet has seen some
valuable ventures--perhaps Notting Hill is not a suburb--and at the
moment is devoted to the production of real novelties.
In the West End theatres of London the position at first sight seems
desperate. During the last twenty years, in consequence of the
intervention of middlemen, rents have risen 100 per cent.; owing to the
folly of managers the salaries of the company have increased to a
similar extent; whilst the cost of scenery, costumes and the like also
has grown enormously. Indeed, it is probably an under-statement to
allege that the money spent in running a theatre on the customary
commercial lines is twice as great as it was in 1890. Yet the price of
seats has not been raised. Consequently theatre management has become a
huge gamble, in which there are few prizes, and the amount of money lost
annually is great. Naturally, under such circumstances the principal,
almost the only, aim of the ordinary manager is to please the masses.
Many concessions are made to the wishes of the crowd, and by way of
excuse the phrase "the drama's laws the drama's patrons give" is
quoted. It is painful to think that people can quote Johnson's line
without a feeling of scorn, yet it necessarily contains an awful amount
of truth when theatres are managed under the present mad conditions.
What art has ever made progress under laws dictated by the great
half-washed?
Half-a-dozen of the West End theatres are devoted to musico-dramatic
works which, whatever their merits in other respects, have none as
drama, and certainly have done little for the development of English
music. As a rule several houses are under the management of American
managers and they, putting Mr Frohman aside, rarely prove anything but
the sterility of America drama or their contempt for the taste of our
playgoers who, however, as a rule prefer native to imported
rubbish--hence grumbles in the United States about prejudice and unfair
play. Mr Frohman, as part of his repertory scheme, and otherwise as
well, has done something to help the modern English dramatist. Putting
Shakespeare out of the question, for of course he has nothing to do with
English modern drama, we have little in the ordinary London theatre that
is not the natural result of bad traditions, and the only progress made
is in the direction of increased dexterity in playwriting--unfortunately
increased dexterity as a rule in handling old subjects according to the
old traditions, which leave the stage curiously outside the world of
literature and also of ordinary human life.
On the other hand, thanks to the efforts of many enthusiasts working by
means of societies and clubs, such as the Independent Theatre--the first
of all--the Century Theatre, the (Incorporated) Stage Society, the
Pioneers, the Play Actors and others, and the Play-goers' Club, the O.P.
Club and the Gallery First Nighters, and also thanks to the efforts of
Messrs Vedrenne and Barker, at the Court Theatre, real progress has been
made in London towards the creation of an English modern theatre, and we
now possess a valuable body of dramatists, some to a great extent,
others altogether, neglected by the ordinary theatre. Speaking of these
dramatists collectively, it may fairly be said that their gifts are
greater, their ambitions higher and their theories of drama sounder than
those of their rivals who work for the ordinary theatre; and I should
add that the ordinary theatre is far richer in dramatists of quality
than it was twenty years ago. So we have the playwrights.
Also we have the plays. The publication in book form of the best native
pieces presented by the enthusiasts of whom I have spoken, but not
offered to the general public for a run, would satisfy any critic that
the English modern drama exists although we are still waiting for the
English modern theatre.
Moreover, we have the players. Some, though not many, of the
fashionable stars would serve, whilst there are numbers of really able
actresses and actors who have proved their ability to represent modern
comedy, but owing to the strange policy of managers are rarely employed
by the ordinary theatre--in London. In several cases the policy may be
sound, since the regular fare of the fashionable houses as a rule
demands a showy, but insincere, style out of the range, or at least the
demonstrated range, of the neglected players.
Does the public for such a theatre exist? I think so. The number of
playgoers is very large, and although only a comparatively small
proportion goes out of its way to patronise the non-commercial drama a
very large proportion has grown weary of the ordinary drama--a fact
shown by the recent failure of plays which not many years ago would have
been successful.
Do the critics exist? They are an important element in the matter. The
question is a delicate one for me to answer. Certainly some of our
dramatic critics are men of culture and courage, able to appreciate new
ideas. The difficulty is more with the newspapers than their
representatives. For a sad aspect of the present state of affairs lies
in the fact that the desire to obtain tittle-tattle and gossip
concerning the players often outweighs the desire to obtain sincere,
intelligent criticism, and the result is obvious. There is ten times
more "copy" published about the persons and personal affairs of the
author of a play and of its players than concerning its merits and
faults.
However, after taking all the elements into account, it may confidently
be asserted that within the lifetime of the present generation of
playgoers radical changes will have taken place, and even if we may not
possess tragedy of the highest quality we shall have a theatre of modern
English drama--serious comedy and also light comedy and farce--really
expressive of current life and thought and fine enough in style to
render the most critical Englishman proud of his country's drama.
E.F.S.
_October 1910_
The thanks of the author are due to the Proprietors and the Editor of
_The Westminster Gazette_ for kindly consenting to the republication of
articles which have already appeared in that journal.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE DRAMATIC CRITIC
His Qualifications--His Knowledge of Fashionable Society--His
Duties and Difficulties--His Stock Phrases--The
Circumstances under which he writes--His Fear of Libel
Actions 1
CHAPTER II
THE DRAMATIC CRITIC
His Duty to be tolerant--His Sympathies when young--The
Jaded Critic--His Unpaid Labours and his Letter
Bag 28
CHAPTER III
THE DRAMATIC CRITIC
An Attack upon him--Why he is disliked--His Honesty--His
Abolition--The Threatened Theatrical Trust 49
CHAPTER IV
PLAYS OF PARTICULAR TYPES
The Pseudo-Historical--The Horrible in Drama--The
Immorality Play--Scripture Plays--Anecdotal Plays--The
Supernatural 72
CHAPTER V
PLAYS OF PARTICULAR TYPES
Unsentimental Drama--The Second-hand Drama--Plays
with a Purpose--Drama and Social Reform 99
CHAPTER VI
THE PHENOMENA OF THE STAGE
The Optics--Make-up--Gesture--Scenery at the French
Plays--Stage Costumes--Colour--Stage Meals 118
CHAPTER VII
THE MORALITY OF OUR DRAMA
Mr Harry Lauder on the Morals of Our Drama--Double
Entente--Moral Effect on Audience--An Advantage of
French Dramatists 149
CHAPTER VIII
CASUAL NOTES ON ACTING
Mr H.B. Irving on his Art--Mr Bourchier and "Max"
on English Acting--The Sicilian Players--Alleged Dearth
of Great Actresses--Character Actresses--Stage Misfits--Stars 167
CHAPTER IX
STAGE DANCING
The Skirts of the Drama--Isadora Duncan 195
CHAPTER X
THINGS IN THE THEATRE
A Defence of the Matinée Hat--A Justification of certain
Deadheads--Theatrical Advertisements--Music 205
CHAPTER XI
IN THE PLAYHOUSE
Laughter--Smoking in the Auditorium--Conduct of the
Audience--Concerning the Pit--Why do we go to the
Theatre? 229
CHAPTER XII
MISCELLANEOUS
Signor Borsa on the English Theatre--G.B.S. and the
Amateurs--Cant about Shakespeare--Yvette Guilbert
on Dramatists 252
CHAPTER XIII
MISCELLANEOUS
Finance in Plays--Some Unsuccessful Dramatists--The
Ending of the Play--Preposterous Stage Types--The
Professions of the Dramatis Personae 271
CHAPTER I
THE DRAMATIC CRITIC
His Qualifications
The production of a play in the Russian tongue renders topical a phrase
once used, not unhappily, by Mr Cecil Raleigh concerning the
qualifications of the dramatic critic. After listening to a somewhat
extravagant speech about the duties of the critic, he said that the
dramatic critic ought, apparently, to be a "polyglot archangel." During
the last few years we have had plays in Russian, Japanese, Bavarian
_patois_, Dutch, German, French and Italian, to say nothing of East End
performances in Hebrew and Yiddish, which we neglect. Latin drama we
hear at Westminster; a Greek company came to the Court but did not act.
A Chinese has been promised, and a Turkish drama threatened; Danish has
been given; there are awful hopes of Gaelic and Erse; and goodness knows
why we have escaped Echegaray, Lope di Vega and Calderon in the
original. A Mezzofanti would be at a premium in the craft if knowledge
of languages alone were sufficient; but one may know many tongues and
possess no judgment.
We have to accept great responsibilities. Some people measure the
greatness of the responsibilities by the amount of money involved in
theatrical enterprises; it is hardly necessary to discuss seriously this
point of view. Nevertheless the fact remains that the voice of the
critics has some effect upon the fortunes of ventures involving large
sums of money and the employment of many people. It is rather curious to
see how lightly as a rule the influence of the critics is regarded; for
instance, from some remarks uttered by Sir John Hare it appears that he
thinks they are not influential. Here are his words taken from an
interview published in a newspaper.
_The Interviewer_: "How is public taste formed? Do newspaper criticisms
affect it?"
_Mr Hare_: "Very little."
This view is rarely pressed upon a jury by the plaintiff in a libel
action, and it may be remarked that although, when a play is running
well, some managers almost ignore us, as soon as business drops they
become delightfully amiable and long for our presence. Moreover, at
considerable expense, they quote our opinions if favourable--even with
judicious modifications when unfavourable.
Perhaps the matter of languages is not of very great importance, seeing
that most of the critic's work concerns English Drama, or drama in what
is supposed to be English, which, too often, is quite a different thing.
What, then, are the necessary qualifications of the critic who takes his
work and himself seriously?
He should have some knowledge of music--enough, at least, to know
whether incidental or "melodrama" music is congruous with the time,
place and occasion of the play, and to be able to identify well-known
works. At a time when money is spent very lavishly upon scenery and
costumes, he ought to possess some theories, or at least ideas,
concerning pictorial art, the history of modern painting and the like,
and be capable of guessing what a daring experimentalist like Mr Gordon
Craig is aiming at and what relation his scene-pictures bear to the
current cant of the art critic. It is deplorable when one finds serious
critics gushing about the beauty of costly stage effects belonging to
the standard of taste exhibited by wedding-cakes, Christmas crackers,
old-fashioned valentines and Royal Academicians. Dancing must mean
something more to him than a whirling and twirling of human beings--he
should at the least know the distinctive styles and figures of different
countries, and not confuse an _entrechat_ with a _pirouette_, should be
aware of the meaning of the terms _arabesque_ and _rond de jambe_, and
understand to some extent the conventional language and history of grand
ballet. No one will deny that his study of history must be substantial
and, to put the matter compendiously, he must have a good general
education, which, however, will not carry him very far, since he must
own a special knowledge of the history of drama and of literature and
modern literary movements.
Then comes the question of theories of criticism--can he do with less
than, say, an acquaintance with Aristotle, and Lessing's "Laocoon," or
even with so little? With Shakespeare and some of his commentators he
ought to be at home; the "Paradoxe sur le Comédien" he can hardly
escape, and the works of some of the modern English and latest French
critics may not be overlooked. Of course he must have read and
considered a large number of plays, and the theories on which they are
based. Politics he may almost neglect unless there be successors to
_John Bull's Other Island_, though he will have to keep abreast of the
facts and fancies of modern life, including, to some extent, political
matters. How he is to study the customs, usage and manners of polite
society among the upper ten thousand it is hard to say. Not a few of us
are weak on this point, and feel ill at ease when dealing with the
_nuances_ of the customs of Mayfair. The study of books on _Savoir
Faire_ and the Manners of Polite Society certainly will give very little
assistance.
Lastly, in this catalogue, which is far from exhaustive, he must study
the art of writing, so that he may at least be able to keep clear of the
vulgar faults. No one expects him to show any absolute merit in
style--space and circumstances of time and place are against him, and to
accomplish the negative is quite a positive triumph. Correct grammar,
avoidance of hackneyed _clichés_, clearness of phrase, reasonably
scholar-like use of words, abstinence from alliteration unless there be
due cause, and escape from uncouthness of expression and monotony of
sound are all he can hope to exhibit in the way of virtue. Of course a
little wit or humour does no harm, provided that no sacrifice of truth
is made for the sake of it. Of the moral qualities nothing need be said;
he will be exposed to a few great temptations and many little ones: to
some of the latter he is certain to yield.
If and when he has acquired all this knowledge, it will be his duty
almost to conceal it. It is to be employed as apparatus for the
formation of judgments rather than the embellishment of them, though, of
course, it may be used reticently by way of illustration, explanation
and the like. Yet it may be useful and not illegitimate for him
sometimes to try to convince the reader that his criticism is from the
pen of one who knows more about the subject than lies within the range
of the Man in the Street.
The critic is not superior to the amateur judge by reason of a greater
natural aptitude for judging, but because he has a larger stock of
knowledge on which to base his judgments, possesses a wider basis for
comparison--the foundation of all opinion--and has trained his natural
aptitudes; consequently, whilst his criticism necessarily, like that of
the Man in the Street, is relative, not absolute, is after all merely an
_ipse dixit_, it is the personal view of the better-trained person.
The pessimist may suggest that it is hardly worth while to endeavour to
become such an Admirable Crichton, that the labour will not be
sufficiently remunerated, that the existing British Drama does not
demand or deserve criticism by such cultured experts.
There are few of us fully qualified, according to the standard put
forward in these lines, and it may be added, without anything in the
nature of mock-modesty, that the author is well aware of the fact that
he cannot be reckoned among the few.
His Knowledge of Fashionable Society
A passage in _Lady Huntworth's Experiment_ did not earn the laugh
deserved by it. Captain Dorvaston was supposed to read a passage from
_The Special Monthly Journal_, to this effect: "The shield bore for
device a bar sinister, with _fleur-de-lys rampant_"; then he said, "That
ain't heraldry." Lady Huntworth replied, "Yes, it is; Family Heraldry,"
and he laughed. The passage in the play brought forward vividly the
thought that those who really live in the aristocratic world may smile
at our high-life dramas just as they do at the stories that appear
concerning the nobility in obscure "family" papers. There is, and during
a long time has been, a mania among playwrights for putting aristocratic
characters upon the stage. It may be that this is due to the
snobbishness of players, who, in comedy, love to represent a lord: they
can be kings and queens only in tragedies; or to that of the audience,
which likes to see the representation of the nobility; or, again, it may
be caused by the snobbishness of the dramatist and his wish to suggest
that he knows all about the "upper succles."
It need not be assumed that we are much worse in this respect than our
neighbours across that Channel which some desire to have destroyed and
so nullify the famous John of Gaunt speech. In books and plays the
Gallic writers are almost as fond of presenting the French aristocracy
as are our dramatists and novelists of writing works concerning the
British Peerage. Even putting the actual peerage aside, the question is
important, whether the pictures in fiction--particularly in drama--of
what one may call Belgravia or Mayfair are correct. We critics hardly
know; and it may be a solecism to suggest that the same applies to the
studies of the Faubourg St Germain. Perhaps that famous faubourg has
lost its distinction.
The question may seem a little difficult yet must be asked: How do our
dramatists and the French manage to get a first-hand study of the real
aristocracy? Of course, nowadays, there are a large number of houses
owned by people with titles, and sometimes very noble titles, which can
easily be penetrated. Speaking quite apart from politics, one may say
that the British aristocracy year by year makes itself cheaper and
cheaper, losing thereby its title to existence. The city clerk can do
better than Dick Swiveller, and decorate his bed-sitting room with a
photographic gallery of _décolletées_ duchesses, and bare-legged ladies
of noble family, and he is able to obtain a vast amount of information,
part of it quite accurate, concerning their doings.
Yet, even when we get far higher than the city clerk, and reach the
fashionable playwright, to say nothing of the dramatic critic, there are
mysteries unexplorable. There is a Lhassa in Mayfair, our efforts to
attain which are Burked.
A big Bohemian, sporting "smart-set," Anglo-American, South African
millionaire society exists which has in it a good many people
acknowledged by Debrett, and this it is quite easy to enter. There are a
score or so of peers, and twice the number of peeresses, as well as
smaller fry, possessing titles by birth or marriage, with whom it is not
difficult, and not always desirable, to become acquainted. The real
aristocracy looks askance at them. When we see pictures of these, or
studies on the French stage of the titled _faiseurs_, or
_rastaquouères_, we know that they may be correct, and indeed the
figures in them have become to such an extent despecialised that we can
judge of the truthfulness of the study by the simple process of assuming
that they do not possess any titles at all.
Still, there remains a world beyond, where, to some extent at least,
manners and ideas are different from those of the upper-middle-class, or
the middle-middle-class, to whichever it may be that our craft belongs.
People will recollect Thackeray's remarks concerning the impossibility
of getting to know the real domestic life of your French friends;
whether his words are well founded or not, they illustrate the essential
unknowability to the outsider of some of the great noble and even
untitled county families of the land. It is said that there still exist
some great ladies who have not cheapened themselves by allowing their
photographs to be published in the sixpenny papers. Yet our dramatists,
or some at least, seem to think that a play is vulgar unless amongst the
_dramatis personae_ one can find a lord or two.
Perhaps indolence is their excuse. You call a character the Duke of
Smithfield, and thereby save yourself much trouble; you need not explain
that he is rich, or how he came to be rich, or why he has no work to do.
You have ready-made for you the supposition of a mass of details as to
manner and prejudices. If the heroine's father is an earl and the hero a
commoner, such as a barrister or a doctor, the mere statement of these
facts is useful matter for your story. If the dramatist writes about the
kind of earl who belongs to that inner set of the aristocracy, in the
existence of which some of us innocently believe, how does he set about
his task?
Even when the ordinary playwright handles the ruck-and-run of the
"nobs," his acquaintance with them can hardly justify him in regarding
his studies as founded upon observation. To see people in the stalls and
meet them at public "functions," or the large entertainments of a
semi-private character which it is easy to penetrate, gives poor
opportunity for close scrutiny. Is there amongst the dramatists--and
novelists too--something akin to the system of the islanders who earned
a living by taking in one another's washing? Is there a vicious circle,
in which each and all accept as true what others have written? Do they
merely help themselves out of the common fund of ignorance?
Possibly this is based upon a delusion. The whole aristocracy may have
become so democratic that it is quite easy to study the most exclusive
at first hand, if you happen to be a successful dramatist, but very few
of the dramatic critics are successful dramatists.
The opportunities for the critic are limited except when a peeress
happens to have written a play, and even then a candid critic does not
get very far. Perhaps, too, if some inner circle exists there is no need
to study it; for a knowledge of the titled folk floating in the great
three-quarter world that is taking the place of Society may suffice, and
to have met a countess at a musical reception, of five hundred or so,
given by some millionaire amateur, or to have been on the board of a
catchpenny company with a baron, or to have suffered long at a charity
ball and obtained introductions from a ducal steward, or to have bought
a cup of bad tea at an Albert Hall bazaar from a marchioness whose
manners would shock a cook, is a sufficient acquaintance with the
customs, thoughts and ideals of all the inhabitants of Debrett, and
entitles one to present or to criticize the shyest member of the august
House that is now beginning to wonder what is going to happen next.
His Duty and Difficulties
The title is the Duty--not the duties--of a dramatic critic--the latter
would be too large a subject. Obviously his duty is to tell the truth.
How easy it sounds! How difficult it is to tell even the relative truth;
the absolute is out of the question. Suppose that the critic has come to
the conclusion that he knows the truth about a play, with what is he to
tell it? With language, of course--an appallingly bad piece of
machinery, which grows worse and worse every day. When a number of
critics have formed the same opinion about a piece, and all wish to say
that it is good--a very bad term to employ--one will call it good,
another very good; a third, exceedingly good; a fourth, great; a fifth,
splendid, a sixth, superb; and so on till some reckless language-monger
uses the state-occasion term--a "work of genius." How is the reader to
guess that they all mean the same thing? Moreover, if they were to use
identical words every reader would put a somewhat different meaning upon
them.
"One of my greatest difficulties," a famous physician once said, "lies
in the fact that to a great extent I have to rely upon a patient's
description of the nature and quantity of pain he or she has suffered
from. One will speak of pain where another employs the word agony; the
third complains of intense torture; a fourth describes it as intolerable
anguish; and a fifth says it hurts a little. Yet they all refer to the
same thing. No wonder we are often at sea."
The difficulty increases. Many new words are coined, but old ones are
rarely demonetised; they remain in circulation, defaced and worn, till
the precise image and superscription are barely recognizable. We
multiply negatives in order to get fine shades. If, then, the critic
knows the truth he is aware that he has no means of conveying it to the
reader. Wherefore some make little effort and indulge merely in fine
writing. Hence, too, some excuse for the common incivility of our
friends when they say to us, "Well, old man, I read your notice on the
----; tell me, is it worth going to see?"
The difficulty of expressing an opinion is hardly less than that of
forming it; assume that the critic possesses all the qualifications, so
far as knowledge and the natural gift for criticising are
concerned--and, alas! knowledge and the gift are very often far
apart--and then think of the obstacles to the proper employment of them.
The play may belong to a class which the critic does not like, although
it is legitimate; he may not flout it on that account. You should not
blame a bream because it is not a barbel, or a chub for not being a
trout, yet the angler grumbles if he catches the humbler fish when
aiming at the noble; we are all agreed that the gardener was not
justified in "larning" with a spade the squalid batrachians to be toads;
even musical comedies ought not to be criticized with spade strokes,
although in connection with them it is a pity that a spade so rarely has
been called by its proper name. Moreover, one may have an entirely
unreasonable prejudice against the works of the particular dramatist. We
all suffer from strange aversions in literary matters. There are readers
of culture who find no pleasure in Borrow, and some nearly shriek at the
mere name of Peacock and so on. In fact we have dislikes founded, or
rather unfounded, upon the basis of Bussy Rabutin's lines:
"Je ne vous aime point, Hylas;
Je n'en saurois dire la cause.
Je sais seulement une chose.
C'est que je ne vous aime pas."
Next comes an even more intimate personal element--the critic's
condition. The day may have been vexing. The present indecent haste of
the income-tax collector may have worried him. His dinner may have been
bad. Perhaps he had to rush off without his coffee; new boots are a
conceivable element; a bad seat in the theatre may annoy him; many
managers give better places to their friends in the profession than to
the critics. Before now critics have sat out a boisterous farce when
suffering from an excruciating tooth-ache.
Moreover, some of the principal players may not be to his taste. There
are artists of indisputable merit who are no more palatable to some of
us than an untravelled cigar or wines from across the ocean. Think,
then, of the unfortunate critic honestly endeavouring to make reasonable
allowances for all the matters which may have affected him when forming
his judgment.
Such elements are wickedly insidious; it is difficult to believe when
one is bored that one would not be bored but for some such adventitious
matter. The conscientious critic makes a great effort to be just under
such circumstances, and there is great danger that he may out-Brutus
Brutus--in the opposite direction. It is very galling, after writing a
favourable notice on what seemed to be a tedious play, to have your
fellow-workers ask why on earth you treated it so favourably.
Consequently, it will be seen that is it often difficult even for the
qualified to form a true judgment.
Assuming that the critic has formed what he considers a true judgment,
and flatters himself that he is able to find language in which to
express it accurately, the question arises how far he ought to tell the
whole truth and nothing but the truth. "Praise, praise, praise," said Mr
Pinero; and there is a fine maxim of Vauvenargues--"C'est un grand signe
de médiocrité de louer toujours modérément."
However, the question whether we are or, worse still, seem mere
mediocrities does not greatly trouble most of us poor "brushers of
noblemen's clothes"; by-the-by the expression quoted by Bacon might
serve as an argument in a certain great controversy, if it be assumed
that it was applied to the dramatic critics of his day. Yet unmerited
praise on the whole does more harm than undeserved blame.
On the other hand, truth is wisely kept at the bottom of a well, for the
world cannot stand much of it. Perhaps it is judicious in the critic
sometimes to be a little more amiable than the truth, in order to
encourage the beginner and the manager who has given him a chance, and
also sometimes to insist disproportionately upon defects, so as to stir
up a too complacent dramatist of reputation. Moreover, whilst the point
is immaterial to the audience, the critic's expression of a judgment
upon a particular piece must vary with the author, since, for instance,
to censure without allowances the work of the tyro for faults of
inexperience is obviously unreasonable, whilst one may easily praise
with excess the mere dexterities of the trained pack. Taking all these
matters into account, it will be seen that it is very difficult for the
critic to do his duty, and yet truth will out sometimes in a criticism.
His Stock Phrases
There are moments when the critics think that it might almost be wise to
begin their notices on a new play by dealing with the acting. For the
criticism of the acting is the most trying part of our work, and though,
as a rule, it does not occupy more than say a fourth of the article--if
so much--it often takes as long to write as the rest. Indeed, the
shorter it is the longer it takes, for the difficulty of nice employment
of language is in direct ratio to the brevity of matter. With
half-a-column in which to move about there is no trouble in finding
finely contrasted adjectives and avoiding repetition of epithets.
We all feel--and correctly--that when the play is new our greatest
energy should be devoted to it. Indeed, there is a strong tendency to
adopt the idea contained in a phrase of Mr Gordon Craig's to the effect
that the players are "performers in an orchestra," and since a play is
not like a piece of chamber-music, where the performers are treated
individually, but rather resembles a work performed by a full band,
there is an almost valid excuse for paying comparatively little
attention to the acting. Sometimes one makes desperate endeavours to
avoid dealing with the company in a lump at the end by referring in the
descriptive account (which is the journalistic contribution to the
criticism) to the individual performers; but it is not easy to do so
without interfering with the course of the description.
There are many difficulties in treating the work of the actors and
actresses briefly, but to handle it at length and in proportion would
require a space which editors are unable to give. No doubt the first of
the difficulties is the one already indicated. Wrongly or rightly, it is
felt (even by journalists who do not accept the traditions of _The Daily
Telegraph_) that there is a poverty-stricken air about the use of the
same adjective in consecutive sentences, and though we try to be honest
in opinion, we have a workman's vanity in our efforts which asserts
itself strongly and causes us, at some sacrifice of accuracy, to vary
the epithets.
Moreover, single adjectives tell very little.
To say that Mr X. acted admirably, Miss Y. gave a capital performance,
Mr Z. played in excellent style, gives little information, and when
there are half-a-dozen to be named it is almost impossible to ring the
changes. Furthermore, perhaps unconsciously, we are moved, fatuously no
doubt, by the feeling that the earlier part of the article is intensely
interesting to all the world, but that no one save the players and their
personal friends and enemies will even glance at these concluding
sentences. Yet one knows that they are of serious importance to the
persons actually concerned, though some of them say that they never read
them.
The fact that so many theatres are in the hands of actor-managers is one
reason why these phrases are important, for the actor-manager is
compelled very often to choose or refuse a player on the strength of
hearsay testimony: ours is hearsay evidence in the most accessible form,
and even the managers have some belief in the soundness of the judgment
of several of us. They all recognise the fact that we tend to create
public opinion, and that an actor or actress much spoken of admiringly
in the papers excites the curiosity of playgoers, and is a useful
addition to a cast. Consequently we feel that in speaking of or ignoring
individual performers we are affecting them to some extent in earning
their livelihood.
There is a story concerning a critic upon whose death half the stage
went into quarter-mourning. If it be true, it showed that he was very
short-sighted in his amiability, for when dealing with an overcrowded
profession one must remember that ill-earned praise of A may keep B, who
is more worthy, from getting A's place, to which, of course, he has a
better title. It is very hard to act upon this proposition, although it
involves a duty, for it is much easier to imagine the positive hurt to A
than the negative injury to B; the critic in question probably shut his
eyes to this, if he ever thought of it, and died comfortably unaware of
the fact that his indiscriminating praise had kept many meritorious
people out of their rights.
Even supposing one masters the illogical feeling of the lamented critic,
difficulties arise. We have grown very velvet-tongued in these days.
There was no nonsense about our predecessors; if the leading lady was
plain, they said so, whilst if one of us were to suggest that the
heroine, whose beauty is talked of tiresomely during the play, in real
life might sit in unflattering safety under mistletoe till the berries
shrivelled he would be regarded as an ungentle manlike brute. This is
rather awkward.
There is an injustice in being forced into a conspiracy of silence about
the figure or face of a lady who would catch cold at kiss-in-the-ring,
yet is supposed at first sight to set Romeo's pulses throbbing madly,
and when the dear creatures whom we loved a quarter of a century ago
appear to us unsuitable for _ingenue_ parts we feel that it is a
terrible breach of duty not to say so, yet it is painful to be candid.
Now and again the matter becomes ridiculous, and we venture to make
oblique suggestions; but even this is a poor accomplishment of our task.
Yet it seems appallingly rude and direct to say that Miss X. showed
intelligence and technical skill, but is too old or too fat or too ugly
for her part; and managers rely upon our reticence and upon pictures in
which the sun helps photographers in a game of deception--perhaps that
unfortunate victim of the November fogs may resent the suggestion of
conspiracy, and complain of fraudulent tricks with negatives--and so the
public is deceived. Also, undated photographs are used--fraudulently.
This is a very irksome matter, for our friends are candid about our
backwardness, and ask indignantly why we fail to mention that Miss ----
is ugly enough to stop a clock, or that it is a long day's walk round
the _jeune premier_ at the Footlights Theatre.
Something at least might be done by the managers to help us. They ought
to cut the references to the heroine's beauty when it is obvious that
she has none. It may be suggested that is this hard upon the plain women
who possess the mysterious gift of charm. The answer is that no charming
woman is ever plain, even if someone--Voltaire, perhaps--spoke of "_les
laides charmeuses_."
The list of difficult points is not exhausted. For the question arises
whether one ought to mention at all any acting that is not
extraordinarily good or bad. As a rule, mediocrity has to pass unnoticed
in this world; in most professions the person whose worth is not above
or below the average is rarely mentioned. Why should an exception be
made in case of a player? If we know that the performance of Miss X. is
no better or worse than would have been that of the average actress, why
should we torture our brains to find adjectives concerning her?
Perhaps in dealing with this, attention ought to be drawn to the fact
that the point really relates almost exclusively to criticisms of new
plays. When _Hamlet_ is given, or any other classic drama, by a queer
twist one finds in fact that from a journalistic point of view the
performance is of more importance than the piece. We are not expected to
add to the intolerable mass of matter already written about the Prince;
nobody cares twopence what we write concerning the play, since we have
nothing to say that has not been said already, and by more important
people; and the curiosity of the public in this case relates only to the
acting and the setting.
The Circumstances under which he Writes
A little while ago the critic of an evening paper received a letter
partly in the following words:--"I am deeply grateful to you, but for
you, I should not have known that Réjane made a speech at the end of _La
Souris_. Such morning papers as I saw said nothing about it. Things have
changed sadly, you see. I write slowly, and I hate last acts; they
always spoil a play. I noticed that a little while ago you suggested
that it might be a good idea to begin a play with the last act; the idea
is a mere _hysteron-proteron_, absolutely preposterous,
prae-post-erous." This sounds as if the writer were the ghost of De
Quincey.
"In the past I got my morning paper early enough to be able to send down
to the office a correction of any error in my conjectural notice of the
last act, and reception of the play, or even a report of the speech at
the end; and if the theatre had been burnt down, or the leading player
had fallen in a fit, I would have sent an account of it, so as not to
lose my berth for apparent inattention to business. There are editors
who think that they can get critics strong enough to sit out the whole
of a play. Now, alas! the morning papers do not help me."
Certainly there was a curious and pathetic humour about his position,
for one of the features of the modern journal is that the more
"up-to-date" the paper the staler the news. Once upon a time the
ordinary daily went to press at about half-past one; but now the
printer's devil is at rest after midnight in some of these offices, and
several terrifically modern morning papers, a copy of which you can read
with your breakfast at Timbuctoo, are completely printed before the
extra-special edition of the evening paper of the (nominal) day before
is sold out. The last statement may only be applicable to the country
editions, by which the yokels are deceived.
The result is strange so far as the theatre is concerned, for on an
important occasion even a writer with such a rapid pen as that of
Clement Scott needed the full time-allowance of the old system. The
consequence is seen in two sets of announcements. According to one,
there is to be a _répétition générale_ of several forthcoming plays,
which, in plain English, means an anticipatory performance to a private
audience, given in order to assist the critics--or some of them--in
carrying out their duties and fighting the clock, and perhaps also for
the purpose of giving seats to some of the swagger "deadheads" who crowd
the stalls on a first night.
The other announcement was by Sir Herbert Tree, that his coming first
night was to begin at seven o'clock, in order that we might have leisure
on the same evening for the performance of our tasks. The
representatives of the morning papers have a melancholy choice between
having no time to dine and no time to write.
Perhaps the _répétition générale_ system will come into vogue, but it
has disadvantages. For years it was worked at the Savoy during the days
of that theatre's vitality; but the public rehearsal was a real
rehearsal, with three rows of stalls left empty for the to-and-fro of
people directing the performance, and scenes were acted over again and
songs resung. A procession in _Utopia Limited_ was sent back
half-a-dozen times because it did not reach a particular position on
the stage at the right moment.
_Répétitions_ of this character--and, it may be, of any character--are
not wholly satisfactory to the critic. There is a sham-fight air about
them--a good many of the players cannot work themselves up to the full
fury of real combat; they are affected by the fact that the affair is
not exactly genuine. One can even imagine that some of them say to
themselves, "It will be all right on the night," and justice is by no
means restored even if the critic afterwards sees the first public
performance. The dress rehearsal has left him somewhat unfairly cold,
because the circumstances were hostile, and in most cases a second dose
of the affair within twenty-four hours makes him colder still, since,
unless the work is the rare masterpiece, he does not wish to see it
twice within a space of less than forty-eight hours, or years. No doubt
the public will get the benefit of the critic's views as to the nature
of the reception, since, having already written his notice, which he is
not likely to alter in the least degree so far as impressions of the
piece and acting are concerned, he will have plenty of time for a last
paragraph about the "boos" or cheers and the non-appearance of the
author or the speech.
There was even a third announcement, for the critic of the paper
lovingly called _The Tizer_ by the members of the industry whose
interests it protects with the utmost vehemence of laborious
alliteration stated that in the future his first-night notices would
only contain an account of the plot and reception, to which presumably
were to be added the words _Cur adv. vult_--let us hope there was no
misunderstanding as to the middle word--whilst a day later his
considered judgment was to be given.
Certainly this method is not quite a novelty, and has often been
recommended. Probably the reason why it has not hitherto been adopted
has been the repugnance to it of the critics, based on a sneaking belief
that the public does not take enough interest in criticism of the drama
to read the second notice, on which, of course, the writer would have
bestowed the greater labour.
There is something very human in the belief; few of us have sufficient
self-confidence to fancy that the public does more than glance at a
notice to discover what sort of piece it deals with, and whether it was
well received, and is the sort of thing the reader wants to see; and we
fear there is only a very small percentage that pays any attention to
our finest phrases, aptest quotations, and subtlest evidence of
acquaintance with the easy aids to universal knowledge.
Indeed, we have a humiliating certainty that our friends would never get
beyond the account of the plot and the reception and remarks about
individual performers in whom they happen to take particular interest,
friendly or otherwise. Moreover, it is to be noted that the public has
come to doubt the value of the first-night receptions which we record,
the fact being incontestable that a good deal of the applause is quite
unreal.
Perhaps an advantage of the _répétition générale_ system will be that if
the managements can only persuade their friends that it is more _chic_
to be at the _répétition_ than the first performance we shall have
genuine audiences at _premières_, whose verdict will be of real weight.
There are certain difficulties about the new system. The invitation
performance is an admirable means for the manufacture of enmities: to
classify one's friends into boxes, stalls, dress circle, etc., is no
doubt to have a delightful opportunity of snubbing people, but it is
sure to breed bitter quarrels; whilst on the other hand, to let the
guests shift for themselves creates no little trouble and imposes a very
difficult task upon the attendants. It sounds easy under such
circumstances to reserve places for the critics, but unless they come a
long time in advance they are not likely to get them.
His Fear of Libel Actions
Some while ago--it was in 1902-1903--the critics were aghast--editors,
too, perhaps. Mr Justice Ridley had permitted a jury to give £100 as
damages for libel in respect of a dramatic criticism less severe than
dozens that most of us have written: it was said that some critics
consulted their solicitors as to the best means of rendering their
property "judgment proof"--a picturesque term that comes from America.
Later on the Court of Appeal interfered effectively, though possibly
many actions were begun and settled before the appeal was heard; and it
was held that in a libel action founded upon a criticism written
concerning a work of art, unless there is some evidence of malice it is
the judge's duty to consider whether the criticism can fairly be
construed as being outside the range of fair comment, and if he thinks
that the comments lie within the range of criticism he should decide the
case in favour of the defendant, and not let it go to the jury. Then the
critics breathed again, and the story goes that Fleet Street laid in a
large stock of vitriol.
The next, and at present last, act in the matter was the recovery by Mr
Frederick Moy Thomas of £300 damages for a libel which appeared in
_Punch_ upon his book called "Fifty Years of Fleet Street." Although the
matter related to a book, and not to a play, the dramatic critics felt
anxious again, because no distinction could be drawn between criticisms
upon the two kinds of work. The case was peculiarly interesting to the
dramatic critics because the plaintiff, who had been one of our craft
for some length of time, enjoyed the reputation of being very learned in
matters connected with the drama, as well as sound and conscientious.
Moreover, his father, William Moy Thomas, whose name was introduced into
the case, was for many years past one of the most esteemed and admired
of our profession, owing to his knowledge, fairness, judgment and
excellence of style. The Court of Appeal upheld the verdict, and
_Punch's_ record of long existence without a verdict against it for
libel is spoilt. Its licence, the licence of a nation's jester, has been
endorsed.
It may be asked whether this is not a mere matter for the craft: in
reality the public is concerned. The letter written by one friend to
another, gossiping about a play or a book or a picture, exposes the
writer to an action for libel unless it can be protected on the ground
of truth, privilege or fair comment; and casually written remarks
concerning any matter of public interest may result in damages and
costs. Indeed, to put the matter simply, the professional critics have
no greater rights or privileges of criticism than any member of the
public. It is therefore very important to all of us to know how the
matter stands, and since the judgment of the Master of the Rolls is
rather technical, it seems worth while briefly to state the law in
unscientific phrases.
The written opinion upon any matter of public interest--a play, a book,
a piece of music, a picture, the speech of a politician, the sermon of
a parson, the behaviour of a general, the conduct of an admiral, the
methods of a judge, etc.--must fulfil two conditions. It must be honest
and it must be expressed fairly in the point of form. In the "Ridley"
action the honesty of the opinion was admitted, and the question arose
whether the opinion was fair in form. In the famous Whistler _v._ Ruskin
cause there was no doubt about the critic's honesty--fancy doubting
Ruskin's honesty! However, the jury thought that he went too far in his
phrase "nearly approached the aspect of wilful imposture," and probably
the word "coxcomb" was fatal, for it was irrelevant.
It might almost be said that relevancy is the test of fairness in the
form of a criticism. It was irrelevant as well as inaccurate to speak of
a "naughty wife" in a criticism upon _The Whip Hand_, because there was
"no naughty wife" in the play, and therefore the jury gave one shilling
damages and the Court of Appeal upheld the verdict.
In criticism of a book, play, picture, etc., the private life and
character of the author are irrelevant; even his character as author,
except in relation to the particular work or works criticized, is
irrelevant. If you think that a book or play is immoral or indecent, say
so, say so strongly, and if the criticism, though unsound, represents
your honest opinion you will escape; but it is irrelevant to say that
the author caused it to be immoral or indecent in order to obtain a
_succès de scandale_, and you must prove that charge to be true or be
punished. There is a distinction between alleging that Smith's book,
"The Biography of Brown," is dull, and that Smith is a writer of dull
books--_ex pede Herculem_ would not be a valid plea.
If honest and discreet in language you may be abominably incorrect in
opinion. You are at liberty to say that a composition by Strauss is a
mess of hideous sounds, that one of Sargent's pictures is ridiculous,
that a novel by Meredith is tiresome, but you must be very careful, when
criticizing a particular work, if you make general allegations
concerning the author. Nevertheless, it is permissible to criticize the
works of a dramatist generally upon a reasonable opportunity; yet there
is a danger of your getting into trouble on the point of honesty, for it
is not honest to comment upon his works generally unless you are well
acquainted with them.
To sum up: if the opinion expressed is honest and relevant, then mere
unsoundness of judgment will not hurt you. The opinion of the jury, or
even of the judge, is not to be substituted for yours, otherwise we
should have to burn our pens. There is sense in this. The butcher, the
baker, the candlestick-maker, and even the learned judge, may have less
knowledge of art, or less taste in music, than the starving critic of
Fleet Street.
Honesty is the other element. Yet it has been suggested, though
unsuccessfully, that honesty is not a necessary ingredient in the
defence of "fair comment." It was argued that a criticism, defensible if
written by an honest critic, could not be indefensible because written
by one whose motive was malicious--in other words, that the matter was
objective, not subjective. Certainly, at first sight, it seems strange
that A can say with impunity that Smith's book is dull and B may have to
pay damages for saying the same thing in the same words. Clearly the
injury to the author may be the same in each case, might be greater in
A's if he wrote for a paper of larger circulation than the one which
published "B's" criticism.
On the other hand, few acts can be regarded in law from the point of
view of their consequences only. Smith may be killed by "A" or "B," and
the former, on account of the circumstances, may commit non-culpable
homicide, the latter murder.
To eliminate the ingredient of malice or, and it is the same thing, to
say that a criticism need not be honest might lead to shocking
consequences. The skilful craftsman would be able to write a fiendish
criticism with impunity and boast of the gratification of his hatred.
There is no half-way house. A plaintiff must be entitled to offer
evidence to a jury that the so-called critic has stated that, although
he called the plaintiff's book dull and clumsy, he really thought it a
delightful masterpiece; or he must be limited to inviting judge and jury
to study the defendant's article. Who would be satisfied that justice
had not slept if such evidence were excluded?
If, then, you dislike the author, dip your pen in honey rather than in
vinegar or, wiser still, leave his work alone. You must be more than
human not to be biassed and if, to contradict the bias, you praise the
book against your judgment, you act wrongly as a critic. What is
honesty? There is the crux. Courts of law are but man-made machinery and
very imperfect, juries are often very stupid, even judges--but perhaps
we ought to pause here. Consequently, if the author has any grounds for
suggesting that you are ill-disposed towards him, and yet you must act
as critic (amateur or professional), be scrupulously relevant and
decidedly colourless. At present the honesty has not been analysed by
the courts; some day the question will be raised whether competence is
not a necessary ingredient. Could a Gautier who hated music _honestly_
criticize a symphony; could a blind man _honestly_ criticize a picture?
These are extreme cases, and a line must be drawn somewhere. Still, some
day the courts may require the defendant to give evidence of his fitness
to act as a critic if his fitness be challenged. To these remarks one
obvious matter should be added. All statements of fact in a criticism
must be accurate. The line between matters of fact and matters of
opinion is sometimes fine, but the law is clear. An allegation of fact
is not comment, and all such allegations, if injurious, must be
justified--that is--proved to be true, if the defence of fair comment is
pleaded.