Plot, action, character, dialogue! But there is yet another subject for

a platitude. Flavour! An impalpable quality, less easily captured than

the scent of a flower, the peculiar and most essential attribute of any

work of art! It is the thin, poignant spirit which hovers up out of a

play, and is as much its differentiating essence as is caffeine of

coffee. Flavour, in fine, is the spirit of the dramatist projected into

his work in a state of volatility, so that no one can exactly lay hands

on it, here, there, or anywhere. This distinctive essence of a play,

marking its brand, is the one thing at which the dramatist cannot work,

for it is outside his consciousness. A man may have many moods, he has

but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle,

unconscious way to all his work. It waxes and wanes with the currents of

his vitality, but no more alters than a chestnut changes into an oak.

For, in truth, dramas are very like unto trees, springing from seedlings,

shaping themselves inevitably in accordance with the laws fast hidden

within themselves, drinking sustenance from the earth and air, and in

conflict with the natural forces round them. So they slowly come to full

growth, until warped, stunted, or risen to fair and gracious height, they

stand open to all the winds. And the trees that spring from each

dramatist are of different race; he is the spirit of his own sacred

grove, into which no stray tree can by any chance enter.

One more platitude. It is not unfashionable to pit one form of drama

against another--holding up the naturalistic to the disadvantage of the

epic; the epic to the belittlement of the fantastic; the fantastic to the

detriment of the naturalistic. Little purpose is thus served. The

essential meaning, truth, beauty, and irony of things may be revealed

under all these forms. Vision over life and human nature can be as keen

and just, the revelation as true, inspiring, delight-giving, and

thought-provoking, whatever fashion be employed--it is simply a question

of doing it well enough to uncover the kernel of the nut. Whether the

violet come from Russia, from Parma, or from England, matters little.

Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem redder,

and sweeter, than any ever seen--as though they have sprung up out of the

footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April sun, in a

Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless violets capture every bit as

much of the spring. And so it is with drama--no matter what its form it

need only be the "real thing," need only have caught some of the precious

fluids, revelation, or delight, and imprisoned them within a chalice to

which we may put our lips and continually drink.

And yet, starting from this last platitude, one may perhaps be suffered

to speculate as to the particular forms that our renascent drama is

likely to assume. For our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its

growth. It is not renascent because this or that man is writing, but

because of a new spirit. A spirit that is no doubt in part the gradual

outcome of the impact on our home-grown art, of Russian, French, and

Scandinavian influences, but which in the main rises from an awakened

humanity in the conscience of our time.

What, then, are to be the main channels down which the renascent English

drama will float in the coming years? It is more than possible that

these main channels will come to be two in number and situate far apart.

The one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, down which

will course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high intention,

but faithful to the seething and multiple life around us, drama such as

some are inclined to term photographic, deceived by a seeming simplicity

into forgetfulness of the old proverb, "Ars est celare artem," and

oblivious of the fact that, to be vital, to grip, such drama is in every

respect as dependent on imagination, construction, selection, and

elimination--the main laws of artistry--as ever was the romantic or

rhapsodic play: The question of naturalistic technique will bear, indeed,

much more study than has yet been given to it. The aim of the dramatist

employing it is obviously to create such an illusion of actual life

passing on the stage as to compel the spectator to pass through an

experience of his own, to think, and talk, and move with the people he

sees thinking, talking, and moving in front of him. A false phrase, a

single word out of tune or time, will destroy that illusion and spoil the

surface as surely as a stone heaved into a still pool shatters the image

seen there. But this is only the beginning of the reason why the

naturalistic is the most exacting and difficult of all techniques. It is

easy enough to reproduce the exact conversation and movements of persons

in a room; it is desperately hard to produce the perfectly natural

conversation and movements of those persons, when each natural phrase

spoken and each natural movement made has not only to contribute toward

the growth and perfection of a drama's soul, but also to be a revelation,

phrase by phrase, movement by movement, of essential traits of character.

To put it another way, naturalistic art, when alive, indeed to be alive

at all, is simply the art of manipulating a procession of most delicate

symbols. Its service is the swaying and focussing of men's feelings and

thoughts in the various departments of human life. It will be like a

steady lamp, held up from time to time, in whose light things will be

seen for a space clearly and in due proportion, freed from the mists of

prejudice and partisanship. And the other of these two main channels

will, I think, be a twisting and delicious stream, which will bear on its

breast new barques of poetry, shaped, it may be, like prose, but a prose

incarnating through its fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations,

yearning, doubts, and mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic

prose-drama, emotionalising us by its diversity and purity of form and

invention, and whose province will be to disclose the elemental soul of

man and the forces of Nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed

them, not necessarily in the epic mood, but always with beauty and in the

spirit of discovery.

Such will, I think, be the two vital forms of our drama in the coming

generation. And between these two forms there must be no crude unions;

they are too far apart, the cross is too violent. For, where there is a

seeming blend of lyricism and naturalism, it will on examination be

found, I think, to exist only in plays whose subjects or settings--as in

Synge's "Playboy of the Western World," or in Mr. Masefield's "Nan"--are

so removed from our ken that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not

care, whether an absolute illusion is maintained. The poetry which may

and should exist in naturalistic drama, can only be that of perfect

rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape--the poetry, in fact, that lies in

all vital things. It is the ill-mating of forms that has killed a

thousand plays. We want no more bastard drama; no more attempts to dress

out the simple dignity of everyday life in the peacock's feathers of

false lyricism; no more straw-stuffed heroes or heroines; no more rabbits

and goldfish from the conjurer's pockets, nor any limelight. Let us have

starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and the light of our own self-respects.

1909.

MEDITATION ON FINALITY

In the Grand Canyon of Arizona, that most exhilarating of all natural

phenomena, Nature has for once so focussed her effects, that the result

is a framed and final work of Art. For there, between two high lines of

plateau, level as the sea, are sunk the wrought thrones of the

innumerable gods, couchant, and for ever revering, in their million moods

of light and colour, the Master Mystery.

Having seen this culmination, I realize why many people either recoil

before it, and take the first train home, or speak of it as a "remarkable

formation." For, though mankind at large craves finality, it does not

crave the sort that bends the knee to Mystery. In Nature, in Religion, in

Art, in Life, the common cry is: "Tell me precisely where I am, what

doing, and where going! Let me be free of this fearful untidiness of not

knowing all about it!" The favoured religions are always those whose

message is most finite. The fashionable professions--they that end us in

assured positions. The most popular works of fiction, such as leave

nothing to our imagination. And to this craving after prose, who would

not be lenient, that has at all known life, with its usual predominance

of our lower and less courageous selves, our constant hankering after the

cosey closed door and line of least resistance? We are continually

begging to be allowed to know for certain; though, if our prayer were

granted, and Mystery no longer hovered, made blue the hills, and turned

day into night, we should, as surely, wail at once to be delivered of

that ghastliness of knowing things for certain!

Now, in Art, I would never quarrel with a certain living writer who

demands of it the kind of finality implied in what he calls a "moral

discovery"--using, no doubt, the words in their widest sense. I would

maintain, however, that such finality is not confined to positively

discovering the true conclusion of premises laid down; but that it may

also distil gradually, negatively from the whole work, in a moral

discovery, as it were, of Author. In other words, that, permeation by an

essential point of view, by emanation of author, may so unify and

vitalize a work, as to give it all the finality that need be required of

Art. For the finality that is requisite to Art, be it positive or

negative, is not the finality of dogma, nor the finality of fact, it is

ever the finality of feeling--of a spiritual light, subtly gleaned by the

spectator out of that queer luminous haze which one man's nature must

ever be to others. And herein, incidentally, it is that Art acquires

also that quality of mystery, more needful to it even than finality, for

the mystery that wraps a work of Art is the mystery of its maker, and the

mystery of its maker is the difference between that maker's soul and

every other soul.

But let me take an illustration of what I mean by these two kinds of

finality that Art may have, and show that in essence they are but two

halves of the same thing. The term "a work of Art" will not be denied, I

think, to that early novel of M. Anatole France, "Le Lys Rouge." Now,

that novel has positive finality, since the spiritual conclusion from its

premises strikes one as true. But neither will the term "a work of Art"

be denied to the same writer's four "Bergeret" volumes, whose negative

finality consists only in the temperamental atmosphere wherein they are

soaked. Now, if the theme of "Le Lys Rouge" had been treated by Tolstoy,

Meredith, or Turgenev, we should have had spiritual conclusions from the

same factual premises so different from M. France's as prunes from

prisms, and yet, being the work of equally great artists, they would,

doubtless, have struck us as equally true. Is not, then, the positive

finality of "Le Lys Rouge," though expressed in terms of a different

craftsmanship, the same, in essence, as the negative finality of the

"Bergeret" volumes? Are not both, in fact, merely flower of author true

to himself? So long as the scent, colour, form of that flower is strong

and fine enough to affect the senses of our spirit, then all the rest,

surely, is academic--I would say, immaterial.

But here, in regard to Art, is where mankind at large comes on the field.

"'Flower of author,'" it says, "'Senses of the spirit!' Phew! Give me

something I can understand! Let me know where I am getting to!" In a

word, it wants a finality different from that which Art can give. It

will ask the artist, with irritation, what his solution, or his lesson,

or his meaning, really is, having omitted to notice that the poor

creature has been giving all the meaning that he can, in every sentence.

It will demand to know why it was not told definitely what became of

Charles or Mary in whom it had grown so interested; and will be almost

frightened to learn that the artist knows no more than itself. And if by

any chance it be required to dip its mind into a philosophy that does not

promise it a defined position both in this world and the next, it will

assuredly recoil, and with a certain contempt say: "No, sir! This means

nothing to me; and if it means anything to you--which I very much

doubt--I am sorry for you!"

It must have facts, and again facts, not only in the present and the

past, but in the future. And it demands facts of that, which alone

cannot glibly give it facts. It goes on asking facts of Art, or, rather,

such facts as Art cannot give--for, after all, even "flower of author" is

fact in a sort of way.

Consider, for instance, Synge's masterpiece, "The Playboy of the Western

World!" There is flower of author! What is it for mankind at large? An

attack on the Irish character! A pretty piece of writing! An amusing

farce! Enigmatic cynicism leading nowhere! A puzzling fellow wrote it!

Mankind at large has little patience with puzzling fellows.

Few, in fact, want flower of author. Moreover, it is a quality that may

well be looked for where it does not exist. To say that the finality

which Art requires is merely an enwrapping mood, or flower of author, is

not by any means to say that any robust fellow, slamming his notions down

in ink, can give us these. Indeed, no! So long as we see the author's

proper person in his work, we do not see the flower of him. Let him

retreat himself, if he pretend to be an artist. There is no less of

subtle skill, no less impersonality, in the "Bergeret" volumes than in

"Le Lys Rouge." No less labour and mental torturing went to their

making, page by page, in order that they might exhale their perfume of

mysterious finality, their withdrawn but implicit judgment. Flower of

author is not quite so common as the buttercup, the Californian poppy, or

the gay Texan gaillardia, and for that very reason the finality it gives

off will never be robust enough for a mankind at large that would have

things cut and dried, and labelled in thick letters. For, consider--to

take one phase alone of this demand for factual finality--how continual

and insistent is the cry for characters that can be worshipped; how

intense and persistent the desire to be told that Charles was a real

hero; and how bitter the regret that Mary was no better than she should

be! Mankind at large wants heroes that are heroes, and heroines that are

heroines--and nothing so inappropriate to them as unhappy endings.

Travelling away, I remember, from that Grand Canyon of Arizona were a

young man and a young woman, evidently in love. He was sitting very

close to her, and reading aloud for her pleasure, from a paper-covered

novel, heroically oblivious of us all:

"'Sir Robert,' she murmured, lifting her beauteous eyes, 'I may not tempt

you, for you are too dear to me!' Sir Robert held her lovely face between

his two strong hands. 'Farewell!' he said, and went out into the night.

But something told them both that, when he had fulfilled his duty, Sir

Robert would return . . . ." He had not returned before we reached

the Junction, but there was finality about that baronet, and we well knew

that he ultimately would. And, long after the sound of that young man's

faithful reading had died out of our ears, we meditated on Sir Robert,

and compared him with the famous characters of fiction, slowly perceiving

that they were none of them so final in their heroism as he. No, none of

them reached that apex. For Hamlet was a most unfinished fellow, and

Lear extremely violent. Pickwick addicted to punch, and Sam Weller to

lying; Bazarof actually a Nihilist, and Irina----! Levin and Anna,

Pierre and Natasha, all of them stormy and unsatisfactory at times. "Un

Coeur Simple" nothing but a servant, and an old maid at that; "Saint

Julien l'Hospitalier" a sheer fanatic. Colonel Newcome too irritable and

too simple altogether. Don Quixote certified insane. Hilda Wangel, Nora,

Hedda--Sir Robert would never even have spoken to such baggages! Mon

sieur Bergeret--an amiable weak thing! D'Artagnan--a true swashbuckler!

Tom Jones, Faust, Don Juan--we might not even think of them: And those

poor Greeks: Prometheus--shocking rebel. OEdipus for a long time

banished by the Censor. Phaedra and Elektra, not even so virtuous as

Mary, who failed of being what she should be! And coming to more

familiar persons Joseph and Moses, David and Elijah, all of them lacked

his finality of true heroism--none could quite pass muster beside Sir

Robert . . . . Long we meditated, and, reflecting that an author must

ever be superior to the creatures of his brain, were refreshed to think

that there were so many living authors capable of giving birth to Sir

Robert; for indeed, Sir Robert and finality like his--no doubtful heroes,

no flower of author, and no mystery is what mankind at large has always

wanted from Letters, and will always want.

As truly as that oil and water do not mix, there are two kinds of men.

The main cleavage in the whole tale of life is this subtle, all pervading

division of mankind into the man of facts and the man of feeling. And

not by what they are or do can they be told one from the other, but just

by their attitude toward finality. Fortunately most of us are neither

quite the one nor quite the other. But between the pure-blooded of each

kind there is real antipathy, far deeper than the antipathies of race,

politics, or religion--an antipathy that not circumstance, love,

goodwill, or necessity will ever quite get rid of. Sooner shall the

panther agree with the bull than that other one with the man of facts.

There is no bridging the gorge that divides these worlds.

Nor is it so easy to tell, of each, to which world he belongs, as it was

to place the lady, who held out her finger over that gorge called Grand

Canyon, and said:

"It doesn't look thirteen miles; but they measured it just there! Excuse

my pointing!"

1912.

WANTED-SCHOOLING

"Et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!". . . Useless

jugglers, frivolous players on the lute! Must we so describe ourselves,

we, the producers, season by season, of so many hundreds of "remarkable"

works of fiction?--for though, when we take up the remarkable works of

our fellows, we "really cannot read them!" the Press and the

advertisements of our publishers tell us that they are "remarkable."

A story goes that once in the twilight undergrowth of a forest of

nut-bearing trees a number of little purblind creatures wandered, singing

for nuts. On some of these purblind creatures the nuts fell heavy and

full, extremely indigestible, and were quickly swallowed; on others they

fell light, and contained nothing, because the kernel had already been

eaten up above, and these light and kernel-less nuts were accompanied by

sibilations or laughter. On others again no nuts at all, empty or full,

came down. But nuts or no nuts, full nuts or empty nuts, the purblind

creatures below went on wandering and singing. A traveller one day

stopped one of these creatures whose voice was peculiarly disagreeable,

and asked "Why do you sing like this? Is it for pleasure that you do it,

or for pain? What do you get out of it? Is it for the sake of those up

there? Is it for your own sake--for the sake of your family--for whose

sake? Do you think your songs worth listening to? Answer!"

The creature scratched itself, and sang the louder.

"Ah! Cacoethes! I pity, but do not blame you," said the traveller.

He left the creature, and presently came to another which sang a squeaky

treble song. It wandered round in a ring under a grove of stunted trees,

and the traveller noticed that it never went out of that grove.

"Is it really necessary," he said, "for you to express yourself thus?"

And as he spoke showers of tiny hard nuts came down on the little

creature, who ate them greedily. The traveller opened one; it was

extremely small and tasted of dry rot.

"Why, at all events," he said, "need you stay under these trees? the nuts

are not good here."

But for answer the little creature ran round and round, and round and

round.

"I suppose," said the traveller, "small bad nuts are better than no

bread; if you went out of this grove you would starve?"

The purblind little creature shrieked. The traveller took the sound for

affirmation, and passed on. He came to a third little creature who,

under a tall tree, was singing very loudly indeed, while all around was a

great silence, broken only by sounds like the snuffling of small noses.

The creature stopped singing as the traveller came up, and at once a

storm of huge nuts came down; the traveller found them sweetish and very

oily.

"Why," he said to the creature, "did you sing so loud? You cannot eat

all these nuts. You really do sing louder than seems necessary; come,

answer me!"

But the purblind little creature began to sing again at the top of its

voice, and the noise of the snuffling of small noses became so great that

the traveller hastened away. He passed many other purblind little

creatures in the twilight of this forest, till at last he came to one

that looked even blinder than the rest, but whose song was sweet and low

and clear, breaking a perfect stillness; and the traveller sat down to

listen. For a long time he listened to that song without noticing that

not a nut was falling. But suddenly he heard a faint rustle and three

little oval nuts lay on the ground.

The traveller cracked one of them. It was of delicate flavour. He

looked at the little creature standing with its face raised, and said:

"Tell me, little blind creature, whose song is so charming, where did you

learn to sing?"

The little creature turned its head a trifle to one side as though

listening for the fall of nuts.

"Ah, indeed!" said the traveller: "You, whose voice is so clear, is this

all you get to eat?"

The little blind creature smiled . . . .

It is a twilight forest in which we writers of fiction wander, and once

in a way, though all this has been said before, we may as well remind

ourselves and others why the light is so dim; why there is so much bad

and false fiction; why the demand for it is so great. Living in a world

where demand creates supply, we writers of fiction furnish the exception

to this rule. For, consider how, as a class, we come into existence.

Unlike the followers of any other occupation, nothing whatever compels

any one of us to serve an apprenticeship. We go to no school, have to

pass no examination, attain no standard, receive no diploma. We need not

study that which should be studied; we are at liberty to flood our minds

with all that should not be studied. Like mushrooms, in a single sight

we spring up--a pen in our hands, very little in our brains, and

who-knows-what in our hearts!

Few of us sit down in cold blood to write our first stories; we have

something in us that we feel we must express. This is the beginning of

the vicious circle. Our first books often have some thing in them. We

are sincere in trying to express that something. It is true we cannot

express it, not having learnt how, but its ghost haunts the pages the

ghost of real experience and real life--just enough to attract the

untrained intelligence, just enough to make a generous Press remark:

"This shows promise." We have tasted blood, we pant for more. Those of

us who had a carking occupation hasten to throw it aside, those who had

no occupation have now found one; some few of us keep both the old

occupation and the new. Whichever of these courses we pursue, the hurry

with which we pursue it undoes us. For, often we have only that one book

in us, which we did not know how to write, and having expressed that

which we have felt, we are driven in our second, our third, our fourth,

to warm up variations, like those dressed remains of last night's dinner

which are served for lunch; or to spin from our usually commonplace

imaginations thin extravagances which those who do not try to think for

themselves are ever ready to accept as full of inspiration and vitality.

Anything for a book, we say--anything for a book!

From time immemorial we have acted in this immoral manner, till we have

accustomed the Press and Public to expect it. From time immemorial we

have allowed ourselves to be driven by those powerful drivers, Bread, and

Praise, and cared little for the quality of either. Sensibly, or

insensibly, we tune our songs to earn the nuts of our twilight forest.

We tune them, not to the key of: "Is it good?" but to the key of: "Will

it pay?" and at each tuning the nuts fall fast! It is all so natural.

How can we help it, seeing that we are undisciplined and standardless,

seeing that we started without the backbone that schooling gives? Here

and there among us is a genius, here and there a man of exceptional

stability who trains himself in spite of all the forces working for his

destruction. But those who do not publish until they can express, and do

not express until they have something worth expressing, are so rare that

they can be counted on the fingers of three or perhaps four hands;

mercifully, we all--or nearly all believe ourselves of that company.

It is the fashion to say that the public will have what it wants.

Certainly the Public will have what it wants if what it wants is given to

the Public. If what it now wants were suddenly withdrawn, the Public,

the big Public, would by an obvious natural law take the lowest of what

remained; if that again were withdrawn, it would take the next lowest,

until by degrees it took a relatively good article. The Public, the big

Public, is a mechanical and helpless consumer at the mercy of what is

supplied to it, and this must ever be so. The Public then is not to

blame for the supply of bad, false fiction. The Press is not to blame,

for the Press, like the Public, must take what is set before it; their

Critics, for the most part, like ourselves have been to no school, passed

no test of fitness, received no certificate; they cannot lead us, it is

we who lead them, for without the Critics we could live but without us

the Critics would die. We cannot, therefore, blame the Press. Nor is

the Publisher to blame; for the Publisher will publish what is set before

him. It is true that if he published no books on commission he would

deserve the praise of the State, but it is quite unreasonable for us to

expect him to deserve the praise of the State, since it is we who supply

him with these books and incite him to publish them. We cannot,

therefore, lay the blame on the Publisher.

We must lay the blame where it clearly should be laid, on ourselves. We

ourselves create the demand for bad and false fiction. Very many of us

have private means; for such there is no excuse. Very many of us have

none; for such, once started on this journey of fiction, there is much,

often tragic, excuse--the less reason then for not having trained

ourselves before setting out on our way. There is no getting out of it;

the fault is ours. If we will not put ourselves to school when we are

young; if we must rush into print before we can spell; if we will not

repress our natural desires and walk before we run; if we will not learn

at least what not to do--we shall go on wandering through the forest,

singing our foolish songs.

And since we cannot train ourselves except by writing, let us write, and

burn what we write; then shall we soon stop writing, or produce what we

need not burn!

For, as things are now, without compass, without map, we set out into the

twilight forest of fiction; without path, without track--and we never

emerge.

Yes, with the French writer, we must say:

"Et nous jongleurs inutiles, frivoles joueurs de luth!" . . .

1906.

REFLECTIONS ON OUR DISLIKE OF THINGS AS THEY ARE

Yes! Why is this the chief characteristic of our art? What secret

instincts are responsible for this inveterate distaste? But, first, is

it true that we have it?

To stand still and look at a thing for the joy of looking, without

reference to any material advantage, and personal benefit, either to

ourselves or our neighbours, just simply to indulge our curiosity! Is

that a British habit? I think not.

If, on some November afternoon, we walk into Kensington Gardens, where

they join the Park on the Bayswater side, and, crossing in front of the

ornamental fountain, glance at the semicircular seat let into a dismal

little Temple of the Sun, we shall see a half-moon of apathetic figures.

There, enjoying a moment of lugubrious idleness, may be sitting an old

countrywoman with steady eyes in a lean, dusty-black dress and an old

poke-bonnet; by her side, some gin-faced creature of the town, all blousy

and draggled; a hollow-eyed foreigner, far gone in consumption; a bronzed

young navvy, asleep, with his muddy boots jutting straight out; a

bearded, dreary being, chin on chest; and more consumptives, and more

vagabonds, and more people dead-tired, speechless, and staring before

them from that crescent-shaped haven where there is no draught at their

backs, and the sun occasionally shines. And as we look at them,

according to the state of our temper, we think: Poor creatures, I wish I

could do something for them! or: Revolting! They oughtn't to allow it!

But do we feel any pleasure in just watching them; any of that intimate

sensation a cat entertains when its back is being rubbed; are we

curiously enjoying the sight of these people, simply as manifestations of

life, as objects fashioned by the ebb and flow of its tides? Again, I

think, not. And why? Either, because we have instantly felt that we

ought to do something; that here is a danger in our midst, which one day

might affect our own security; and at all events, a sight revolting to us

who came out to look at this remarkably fine fountain. Or, because we

are too humane! Though very possibly that frequent murmuring of ours:

Ah! It's too sad! is but another way of putting the words: Stand aside,

please, you're too depressing! Or, again, is it that we avoid the sight

of things as they are, avoid the unedifying, because of what may be

called "the uncreative instinct," that safeguard and concomitant of a

civilisation which demands of us complete efficiency, practical and

thorough employment of every second of our time and every inch of our

space? We know, of course, that out of nothing nothing can be made, that

to "create" anything a man must first receive impressions, and that to

receive impressions requires an apparatus of nerves and feelers, exposed

and quivering to every vibration round it, an apparatus so entirely

opposed to our national spirit and traditions that the bare thought of it

causes us to blush. A robust recognition of this, a steadfast resolve

not to be forced out of the current of strenuous civilisation into the

sleepy backwater of pure impression ism, makes us distrustful of attempts

to foster in ourselves that receptivity and subsequent creativeness, the

microbes of which exist in every man: To watch a thing simply because it

is a thing, entirely without considering how it can affect us, and

without even seeing at the moment how we are to get anything out of it,

jars our consciences, jars that inner feeling which keeps secure and

makes harmonious the whole concert of our lives, for we feel it to be a

waste of time, dangerous to the community, contributing neither to our

meat and drink, our clothes and comfort, nor to the stability and order

of our lives.

Of these three possible reasons for our dislike of things as they are,

the first two are perhaps contained within the third. But, to whatever

our dislike is due, we have it--Oh! we have it! With the possible

exception of Hogarth in his non-preaching pictures, and Constable in his

sketches of the sky,--I speak of dead men only,--have we produced any

painter of reality like Manet or Millet, any writer like Flaubert or

Maupassant, like Turgenev, or Tchekov. We are, I think, too deeply

civilised, so deeply civilised that we have come to look on Nature as

indecent. The acts and emotions of life undraped with ethics seem to us

anathema. It has long been, and still is, the fashion among the

intellectuals of the Continent to regard us as barbarians in most

aesthetic matters. Ah! If they only knew how infinitely barbarous they

seem to us in their naive contempt of our barbarism, and in what we

regard as their infantine concern with things as they are. How far have

we not gone past all that--we of the oldest settled Western country, who

have so veneered our lives that we no longer know of what wood they are

made! Whom generations have so soaked with the preserve "good form" that

we are impervious to the claims and clamour of that ill-bred

creature--life! Who think it either dreadful, or 'vieux jeu', that such

things as the crude emotions and the raw struggles of Fate should be even

mentioned, much less presented in terms of art! For whom an artist is

'suspect' if he is not, in his work, a sportsman and a gentleman? Who

shake a solemn head over writers who will treat of sex; and, with the

remark: "Worst of it is, there's so much truth in those fellows!" close

the book.

Ah! well! I suppose we have been too long familiar with the

unprofitableness of speculation, have surrendered too definitely to

action--to the material side of things, retaining for what relaxation our

spirits may require, a habit of sentimental aspiration, carefully

divorced from things as they are. We seem to have decided that things

are not, or, if they are, ought not to be--and what is the good of

thinking of things like that? In fact, our national ideal has become the

Will to Health, to Material Efficiency, and to it we have sacrificed the

Will to Sensibility. It is a point of view. And yet--to the philosophy

that craves Perfection, to the spirit that desires the golden mean, and

hankers for the serene and balanced seat in the centre of the see-saw, it

seems a little pitiful, and constricted; a confession of defeat, a

hedging and limitation of the soul. Need we put up with this, must we

for ever turn our eyes away from things as they are, stifle our

imaginations and our sensibilities, for fear that they should become our

masters, and destroy our sanity? This is the eternal question that

confronts the artist and the thinker. Because of the inevitable decline

after full flowering-point is reached, the inevitable fading of the fire

that follows the full flame and glow, are we to recoil from striving to

reach the perfect and harmonious climacteric? Better to have loved and

lost, I think, than never to have loved at all; better to reach out and

grasp the fullest expression of the individual and the national soul,

than to keep for ever under the shelter of the wall. I would even think

it possible to be sensitive without neurasthenia, to be sympathetic

without insanity, to be alive to all the winds that blow without getting

influenza. God forbid that our Letters and our Arts should decade into

Beardsleyism; but between that and their present "health" there lies full

flowering-point, not yet, by a long way, reached.

To flower like that, I suspect, we must see things just a little more--as

they are!

1905-1912.

THE WINDLESTRAW

A certain writer, returning one afternoon from rehearsal of his play, sat

down in the hall of the hotel where he was staying. "No," he reflected,

"this play of mine will not please the Public; it is gloomy, almost

terrible. This very day I read these words in my morning paper: 'No

artist can afford to despise his Public, for, whether he confesses it or

not, the artist exists to give the Public what it wants.' I have, then,

not only done what I cannot afford to do, but I have been false to the

reason of my existence."

The hall was full of people, for it was the hour of tea; and looking

round him, the writer thought "And this is the Public--the Public that my

play is destined not to please!" And for several minutes he looked at

them as if he had been hypnotised. Presently, between two tables he

noticed a waiter standing, lost in his thoughts. The mask of the man's

professional civility had come awry, and the expression of his face and

figure was curiously remote from the faces and forms of those from whom

he had been taking orders; he seemed like a bird discovered in its own

haunts, all unconscious as yet of human eyes. And the writer thought:

"But if those people at the tables are the Public, what is that waiter?

How if I was mistaken, and not they, but he were the real Public?" And

testing this thought, his mind began at once to range over all the people

he had lately seen. He thought of the Founder's Day dinner of a great

School, which he had attended the night before. "No," he mused, "I see

very little resemblance between the men at that dinner and the men in

this hall; still less between them and the waiter. How if they were the

real Public, and neither the waiter, nor these people here!" But no

sooner had he made this reflection, than he bethought him of a gathering

of workers whom he had watched two days ago. "Again," he mused, "I do

not recollect any resemblance at all between those workers and the men at

the dinner, and certainly they are not like any one here. What if those

workers are the real Public, not the men at the dinner, nor the waiter,

nor the people in this hall!" And thereupon his mind flew off again, and

this time rested on the figures of his own immediate circle of friends.

They seemed very different from the four real Publics whom he had as yet

discovered. "Yes," he considered, "when I come to think of it, my

associates painters, and writers, and critics, and all that kind of

person--do not seem to have anything to speak of in common with any of

these people. Perhaps my own associates, then, are the real Public, and

not these others!" Perceiving that this would be the fifth real Public,

he felt discouraged. But presently he began to think: "The past is the

past and cannot be undone, and with this play of mine I shall not please

the Public; but there is always the future! Now, I do not wish to do

what the artist cannot afford to do, I earnestly desire to be true to the

reason of my existence; and since the reason of that existence is to give

the Public what it wants, it is really vital to discover who and what the

Public is!" And he began to look very closely at the faces around him,

hoping to find out from types what he had failed to ascertain from

classes. Two men were sitting near, one on each side of a woman. The

first, who was all crumpled in his arm-chair, had curly lips and wrinkles

round the eyes, cheeks at once rather fat and rather shadowy, and a

dimple in his chin. It seemed certain that he was humourous, and kind,

sympathetic, rather diffident, speculative, moderately intelligent, with

the rudiments perhaps of an imagination. And he looked at the second

man, who was sitting very upright, as if he had a particularly fine

backbone, of which he was not a little proud. He was extremely big and

handsome, with pronounced and regular nose and chin, firm, well-cut lips

beneath a smooth moustache, direct and rather insolent eyes, a some what

receding forehead, and an air of mastery over all around. It was obvious

that he possessed a complete knowledge of his own mind, some brutality,

much practical intelligence, great resolution, no imagination, and plenty

of conceit. And he looked at the woman. She was pretty, but her face was

vapid, and seemed to have no character at all. And from one to the other

he looked, and the more he looked the less resemblance he saw between

them, till the objects of his scrutiny grew restive.... Then, ceasing to

examine them, an idea came to him. "No! The Public is not this or that

class, this or that type; the Public is an hypothetical average human

being, endowed with average human qualities--a distillation, in fact, of

all the people in this hall, the people in the street outside, the people

of this country everywhere." And for a moment he was pleased; but soon

he began again to feel uneasy. "Since," he reflected, "it is necessary

for me to supply this hypothetical average human being with what he

wants, I shall have to find out how to distil him from all the

ingredients around me. Now how am I to do that? It will certainly take

me more than all my life to collect and boil the souls of all of them,

which is necessary if I am to extract the genuine article, and I should

then apparently have no time left to supply the precipitated spirit, when

I had obtained it, with what it wanted! Yet this hypothetical average

human being must be found, or I must stay for ever haunted by the thought

that I am not supplying him with what he wants!" And the writer became

more and more discouraged, for to arrogate to himself knowledge of all

the heights and depths, and even of all the virtues and vices, tastes and

dislikes of all the people of the country, without having first obtained

it, seemed to him to savour of insolence. And still more did it appear

impertinent, having taken this mass of knowledge which he had not got, to

extract from it a golden mean man, in order to supply him with what he

wanted. And yet this was what every artist did who justified his

existence--or it would not have been so stated in a newspaper. And he

gaped up at the lofty ceiling, as if he might perchance see the Public

flying up there in the faint bluish mist of smoke. And suddenly he

thought: "Suppose, by some miracle, my golden-mean bird came flying to me

with its beak open for the food with which it is my duty to supply

it--would it after all be such a very strange-looking creature; would it

not be extremely like my normal self? Am I not, in fact, myself the

Public? For, without the strongest and most reprehensible conceit, can I

claim for my normal self a single attribute or quality not possessed by

an hypothetical average human being? Yes, I am myself the Public; or at

all events all that my consciousness can ever know of it for certain."

And he began to consider deeply. For sitting there in cold blood, with

his nerves at rest, and his brain and senses normal, the play he had

written did seem to him to put an unnecessary strain upon the faculties.

"Ah!" he thought, "in future I must take good care never to write

anything except in cold blood, with my nerves well clothed, and my brain

and senses quiet. I ought only to write when I feel as normal as I do

now." And for some minutes he remained motionless, looking at his boots.

Then there crept into his mind an uncomfortable thought. "But have I

ever written anything without feeling a little-abnormal, at the time?

Have I ever even felt inclined to write anything, until my emotions had

been unduly excited, my brain immoderately stirred, my senses unusually

quickened, or my spirit extravagantly roused? Never! Alas, never! I am

then a miserable renegade, false to the whole purpose of my being--nor do

I see the slightest hope of becoming a better man, a less unworthy

artist! For I literally cannot write without the stimulus of some

feeling exaggerated at the expense of other feelings. What has been in

the past will be in the future: I shall never be taking up my pen when I

feel my comfortable and normal self never be satisfying that self which

is the Public!" And he thought: "I am lost. For, to satisfy that normal

self, to give the Public what it wants, is, I am told, and therefore must

believe, what all artists exist for. AEschylus in his 'Choephorae' and

his 'Prometheus'; Sophocles in his 'OEdipus Tyrannus'; Euripides when he

wrote 'The Trojan Women,' 'Medea,'--and 'Hippolytus'; Shakespeare in his

'Leer'; Goethe in his 'Faust'; Ibsen in his 'Ghosts' and his 'Peer Gynt';

Tolstoy in 'The Powers of Darkness'; all--all in those great works, must

have satisfied their most comfortable and normal selves; all--all must

have given to the average human being, to the Public, what it wants; for

to do that, we know, was the reason of their existence, and who shall say

those noble artists were not true to it? That is surely unthinkable.

And yet--and yet--we are assured, and, indeed, it is true, that there is

no real Public in this country for just those plays! Therefore

AEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen, Tolstoy, in

their greatest works did not give the Public what it wants, did not

satisfy the average human being, their more comfortable and normal

selves, and as artists were not true to the reason of their existence.

Therefore they were not artists, which is unthinkable; therefore I have

not yet found the Public!"

And perceiving that in this impasse his last hope of discovery had

foundered, the writer let his head fall on his chest.

But even as he did so a gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out

into the garden of his despair. "Is it possible," he thought, "that, by

a writer, until his play has been performed (when, alas! it is too late),

'the Public' is inconceivable--in fact that for him there is no such

thing? But if there be no such thing, I cannot exist to give it what it

wants. What then is the reason of my existence? Am I but a

windlestraw?" And wearied out with his perplexity, he fell into a doze.

And while he dozed he dreamed that he saw the figure of a woman standing

in darkness, from whose face and form came a misty refulgence, such as

steals out into the dusk from white campion flowers along summer

hedgerows. She was holding her pale hands before her, wide apart, with

the palms turned down, quivering as might doves about to settle; and for

all it was so dark, her grey eyes were visible-full of light, with black

rims round the irises. To gaze at those eyes was almost painful; for

though they were beautiful, they seemed to see right through his soul, to

pass him by, as though on a far discovering voyage, and forbidden to

rest.

The dreamer spoke to her: "Who are you, standing there in the darkness

with those eyes that I can hardly bear to look at? Who are you?"

And the woman answered: "Friend, I am your Conscience; I am the Truth as

best it may be seen by you. I am she whom you exist to serve." With

those words she vanished, and the writer woke. A boy was standing before

him with the evening papers.

To cover his confusion at being caught asleep he purchased one and began

to read a leading article. It commenced with these words: "There are

certain playwrights taking themselves very seriously; might we suggest to

them that they are in danger of becoming ridiculous . . . ."

The writer let fall his hand, and the paper fluttered to the ground. "The

Public," he thought, "I am not able to take seriously, because I cannot

conceive what it may be; myself, my conscience, I am told I must not take

seriously, or I become ridiculous. Yes, I am indeed lost!"

And with a feeling of elation, as of a straw blown on every wind, he

arose.

1910.

STUDIES AND ESSAYS

By John Galsworthy

"Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal."

--ANATOLE FRANCE

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

ABOUT CENSORSHIP

VAGUE THOUGHTS ON ART

ABOUT CENSORSHIP

Since, time and again, it has been proved, in this country of free

institutions, that the great majority of our fellow-countrymen consider

the only Censorship that now obtains amongst us, namely the Censorship of

Plays, a bulwark for the preservation of their comfort and sensibility

against the spiritual researches and speculations of bolder and too

active spirits--it has become time to consider whether we should not

seriously extend a principle, so grateful to the majority, to all our

institutions.

For no one can deny that in practice the Censorship of Drama works with a

smooth swiftness--a lack of delay and friction unexampled in any public

office. No troublesome publicity and tedious postponement for the

purpose of appeal mar its efficiency. It is neither hampered by the Law

nor by the slow process of popular election. Welcomed by the

overwhelming majority of the public; objected to only by such persons as

suffer from it, and a negligible faction, who, wedded pedantically to

liberty of the subject, are resentful of summary powers vested in a

single person responsible only to his own 'conscience'--it is amazingly,

triumphantly, successful.

Why, then, in a democratic State, is so valuable a protector of the will,

the interests, and pleasure of the majority not bestowed on other

branches of the public being? Opponents of the Censorship of Plays have

been led by the absence of such other Censorships to conclude that this

Office is an archaic survival, persisting into times that have outgrown

it. They have been known to allege that the reason of its survival is

simply the fact that Dramatic Authors, whose reputation and means of

livelihood it threatens, have ever been few in number and poorly

organised--that the reason, in short, is the helplessness and weakness of

the interests concerned. We must all combat with force such an aspersion

on our Legislature. Can it even for a second be supposed that a State

which gives trial by Jury to the meanest, poorest, most helpless of its

citizens, and concedes to the greatest criminals the right of appeal,

could have debarred a body of reputable men from the ordinary rights of

citizenship for so cynical a reason as that their numbers were small,

their interests unjoined, their protests feeble? Such a supposition were

intolerable! We do not in this country deprive a class of citizens of

their ordinary rights, we do not place their produce under the

irresponsible control of one not amenable to Law, by any sort of

political accident! That would indeed be to laugh at Justice in this

Kingdom! That would indeed be cynical and unsound! We must never admit

that there is no basic Justice controlling the edifice of our Civic

Rights. We do, we must, conclude that a just and well-considered

principle underlies this despotic Institution; for surely, else, it would

not be suffered to survive for a single moment! Pom! Pom!

If, then, the Censorship of Plays be just, beneficent, and based on a

well-considered principle, we must rightly inquire what good and logical

reason there is for the absence of Censorship in other departments of the

national life. If Censorship of the Drama be in the real interests of

the people, or at all events in what the Censor for the time being

conceives to be their interest--then Censorships of Art, Literature,

Religion, Science, and Politics are in the interests of the people,

unless it can be proved that there exists essential difference between

the Drama and these other branches of the public being. Let us consider

whether there is any such essential difference.

It is fact, beyond dispute, that every year numbers of books appear which

strain the average reader's intelligence and sensibilities to an

unendurable extent; books whose speculations are totally unsuited to

normal thinking powers; books which contain views of morality divergent

from the customary, and discussions of themes unsuited to the young

person; books which, in fine, provide the greater Public with no pleasure

whatsoever, and, either by harrowing their feelings or offending their

good taste, cause them real pain.

It is true that, precisely as in the case of Plays, the Public are

protected by a vigilant and critical Press from works of this

description; that, further, they are protected by the commercial instinct

of the Libraries, who will not stock an article which may offend their

customers--just as, in the case of Plays, the Public are protected by the

common-sense of theatrical Managers; that, finally, they are protected by

the Police and the Common Law of the land. But despite all these

protections, it is no uncommon thing for an average citizen to purchase

one of these disturbing or dubious books. Has he, on discovering its

true nature, the right to call on the bookseller to refund its value? He

has not. And thus he runs a danger obviated in the case of the Drama

which has the protection of a prudential Censorship. For this reason

alone, how much better, then, that there should exist a paternal

authority (some, no doubt, will call it grand-maternal--but sneers must

not be confounded with argument) to suppress these books before

appearance, and safeguard us from the danger of buying and possibly

reading undesirable or painful literature!

A specious reason, however, is advanced for exempting Literature from the

Censorship accorded to Plays. He--it is said--who attends the

performance of a play, attends it in public, where his feelings may be

harrowed and his taste offended, cheek by jowl with boys, or women of all

ages; it may even chance that he has taken to this entertainment his

wife, or the young persons of his household. He--on the other hand--who

reads a book, reads it in privacy. True; but the wielder of this

argument has clasped his fingers round a two-edged blade. The very fact

that the book has no mixed audience removes from Literature an element

which is ever the greatest check on licentiousness in Drama. No manager

of a theatre,--a man of the world engaged in the acquisition of his

livelihood, unless guaranteed by the license of the Censor, dare risk the

presentment before a mixed audience of that which might cause an 'emeute'

among his clients. It has, indeed, always been observed that the

theatrical manager, almost without exception, thoughtfully recoils from

the responsibility that would be thrust on him by the abolition of the

Censorship. The fear of the mixed audience is ever suspended above his

head. No such fear threatens the publisher, who displays his wares to

one man at a time. And for this very reason of the mixed audience;

perpetually and perversely cited to the contrary by such as have no firm

grasp of this matter, there is a greater necessity for a Censorship on

Literature than for one on Plays.

Further, if there were but a Censorship of Literature, no matter how

dubious the books that were allowed to pass, the conscience of no reader

need ever be troubled. For, that the perfect rest of the public

conscience is the first result of Censorship, is proved to certainty by

the protected Drama, since many dubious plays are yearly put before the

play-going Public without tending in any way to disturb a complacency

engendered by the security from harm guaranteed by this beneficent, if

despotic, Institution. Pundits who, to the discomfort of the populace,

foster this exemption of Literature from discipline, cling to the

old-fashioned notion that ulcers should be encouraged to discharge

themselves upon the surface, instead of being quietly and decently driven

into the system and allowed to fester there.

The remaining plea for exempting Literature from Censorship, put forward

by unreflecting persons: That it would require too many Censors--besides

being unworthy, is, on the face of it, erroneous. Special tests have

never been thought necessary in appointing Examiners of Plays. They

would, indeed, not only be unnecessary, but positively dangerous, seeing

that the essential function of Censorship is protection of the ordinary

prejudices and forms of thought. There would, then, be no difficulty in

securing tomorrow as many Censors of Literature as might be necessary

(say twenty or thirty); since all that would be required of each one of

them would be that he should secretly exercise, in his uncontrolled

discretion, his individual taste. In a word, this Free Literature of

ours protects advancing thought and speculation; and those who believe in

civic freedom subject only to Common Law, and espouse the cause of free

literature, are championing a system which is essentially undemocratic,

essentially inimical to the will of the majority, who have certainly no

desire for any such things as advancing thought and speculation. Such

persons, indeed, merely hold the faith that the People, as a whole,

unprotected by the despotic judgments of single persons, have enough

strength and wisdom to know what is and what is not harmful to

themselves. They put their trust in a Public Press and a Common Law,

which deriving from the Conscience of the Country, is openly administered

and within the reach of all. How absurd, how inadequate this all is we

see from the existence of the Censorship on Drama.

Having observed that there is no reason whatever for the exemption of

Literature, let us now turn to the case of Art. Every picture hung in a

gallery, every statue placed on a pedestal, is exposed to the public

stare of a mixed company. Why, then, have we no Censorship to protect us

from the possibility of encountering works that bring blushes to the

cheek of the young person? The reason cannot be that the proprietors of

Galleries are more worthy of trust than the managers of Theatres; this

would be to make an odious distinction which those very Managers who

uphold the Censorship of Plays would be the first to resent. It is true

that Societies of artists and the proprietors of Galleries are subject to

the prosecution of the Law if they offend against the ordinary standards

of public decency; but precisely the same liability attaches to

theatrical managers and proprietors of Theatres, in whose case it has

been found necessary and beneficial to add the Censorship. And in this

connection let it once more be noted how much more easily the ordinary

standards of public decency can be assessed by a single person

responsible to no one, than by the clumsy (if more open) process of

public protest. What, then, in the light of the proved justice and

efficiency of the Censorship of Drama, is the reason for the absence of

the Censorship of Art? The more closely the matter is regarded, the more

plain it is, that there is none! At any moment we may have to look upon

some painting, or contemplate some statue, as tragic, heart-rending, and

dubiously delicate in theme as that censured play "The Cenci," by one

Shelley; as dangerous to prejudice, and suggestive of new thought as the

censured "Ghosts," by one Ibsen. Let us protest against this peril

suspended over our heads, and demand the immediate appointment of a

single person not selected for any pretentiously artistic feelings, but

endowed with summary powers of prohibiting the exhibition, in public

galleries or places, of such works as he shall deem, in his uncontrolled

discretion, unsuited to average intelligence or sensibility. Let us

demand it in the interest, not only of the young person, but of those

whole sections of the community which cannot be expected to take an

interest in Art, and to whom the purpose, speculations, and achievements

of great artists, working not only for to-day but for to-morrow, must

naturally be dark riddles. Let us even require that this official should

be empowered to order the destruction of the works which he has deemed

unsuited to average intelligence and sensibility, lest their creators

should, by private sale, make a profit out of them, such as, in the

nature of the case, Dramatic Authors are debarred from making out of

plays which, having been censured, cannot be played for money. Let us

ask this with confidence; for it is not compatible with common justice

that there should be any favouring of Painter over Playwright. They are

both artists--let them both be measured by the same last!

But let us now consider the case of Science. It will not, indeed cannot,

be contended that the investigations of scientific men, whether committed

to writing or to speech, are always suited to the taste and capacities of

our general public. There was, for example, the well-known doctrine of

Evolution, the teachings of Charles Darwin and Alfred Russet Wallace, who

gathered up certain facts, hitherto but vaguely known, into presentments,

irreverent and startling, which, at the time, profoundly disturbed every

normal mind. Not only did religion, as then accepted, suffer in this

cataclysm, but our taste and feeling were inexpressibly shocked by the

discovery, so emphasised by Thomas Henry Huxley, of Man's descent from

Apes. It was felt, and is felt by many to this day, that the advancement

of that theory grossly and dangerously violated every canon of decency.

What pain, then, might have been averted, what far-reaching consequences

and incalculable subversion of primitive faiths checked, if some

judicious Censor of scientific thought had existed in those days to

demand, in accordance with his private estimate of the will and temper of

the majority, the suppression of the doctrine of Evolution.

Innumerable investigations of scientists on subjects such as the date of

the world's creation, have from time to time been summarised and

inconsiderately sprung on a Public shocked and startled by the revelation

that facts which they were accustomed to revere were conspicuously at

fault. So, too, in the range of medicine, it would be difficult to cite

any radical discovery (such as the preventive power of vaccination),

whose unchecked publication has not violated the prejudices and disturbed

the immediate comfort of the common mind. Had these discoveries been

judiciously suppressed, or pared away to suit what a Censorship conceived

to be the popular palate of the time, all this disturbance and discomfort

might have been avoided.

It will doubtless be contended (for there are no such violent opponents

of Censorship as those who are threatened with the same) that to compare

a momentous disclosure, such as the doctrine of Evolution, to a mere

drama, were unprofitable. The answer to this ungenerous contention is

fortunately plain. Had a judicious Censorship existed over our

scientific matters, such as for two hundred years has existed over our

Drama, scientific discoveries would have been no more disturbing and

momentous than those which we are accustomed to see made on our nicely

pruned and tutored stage. For not only would the more dangerous and

penetrating scientific truths have been carefully destroyed at birth, but

scientists, aware that the results of investigations offensive to

accepted notions would be suppressed, would long have ceased to waste

their time in search of a knowledge repugnant to average intelligence,

and thus foredoomed, and have occupied themselves with services more

agreeable to the public taste, such as the rediscovery of truths already

known and published.

Indissolubly connected with the desirability of a Censorship of Science,

is the need for Religious Censorship. For in this, assuredly not the

least important department of the nation's life, we are witnessing week

by week and year by year, what in the light of the security guaranteed by

the Censorship of Drama, we are justified in terming an alarming

spectacle. Thousands of men are licensed to proclaim from their pulpits,

Sunday after Sunday, their individual beliefs, quite regardless of the

settled convictions of the masses of their congregations. It is true,

indeed, that the vast majority of sermons (like the vast majority of

plays) are, and will always be, harmonious with the feelings--of the

average citizen; for neither priest nor playwright have customarily any

such peculiar gift of spiritual daring as might render them unsafe

mentors of their fellows; and there is not wanting the deterrent of

common-sense to keep them in bounds. Yet it can hardly be denied that

there spring up at times men--like John Wesley or General Booth--of such

incurable temperament as to be capable of abusing their freedom by the

promulgation of doctrine or procedure, divergent from the current

traditions of religion. Nor must it be forgotten that sermons, like

plays, are addressed to a mixed audience of families, and that the

spiritual teachings of a lifetime may be destroyed by ten minutes of

uncensored pronouncement from a pulpit, the while parents are sitting,

not, as in a theatre vested with the right of protest, but dumb and

excoriated to the soul, watching their children, perhaps of tender age,

eagerly drinking in words at variance with that which they themselves

have been at such pains to instil.

If a set of Censors--for it would, as in the case of Literature,

indubitably require more than one (perhaps one hundred and eighty, but,

for reasons already given, there should be no difficulty whatever in

procuring them) endowed with the swift powers conferred by freedom from

the dull tedium of responsibility, and not remarkable for religious

temperament, were appointed, to whom all sermons and public addresses on

religious subjects must be submitted before delivery, and whose duty

after perusal should be to excise all portions not conformable to their

private ideas of what was at the moment suitable to the Public's ears, we

should be far on the road toward that proper preservation of the status

quo so desirable if the faiths and ethical standards of the less

exuberantly spiritual masses are to be maintained in their full bloom.

As things now stand, the nation has absolutely nothing to safeguard it

against religious progress.

We have seen, then, that Censorship is at least as necessary over

Literature, Art, Science, and Religion as it is over our Drama. We have

now to call attention to the crowning need--the want of a Censorship in

Politics.

If Censorship be based on justice, if it be proved to serve the Public

and to be successful in its lonely vigil over Drama, it should, and

logically must be, extended to all parallel cases; it cannot, it dare

not, stop short at--Politics. For, precisely in this supreme branch of

the public life are we most menaced by the rule and license of the

leading spirit. To appreciate this fact, we need only examine the

Constitution of the House of Commons. Six hundred and seventy persons

chosen from a population numbering four and forty millions, must

necessarily, whatever their individual defects, be citizens of more than

average enterprise, resource, and resolution. They are elected for a

period that may last five years. Many of them are ambitious; some

uncompromising; not a few enthusiastically eager to do something for

their country; filled with designs and aspirations for national or social

betterment, with which the masses, sunk in the immediate pursuits of

life, can in the nature of things have little sympathy. And yet we find

these men licensed to pour forth at pleasure, before mixed audiences,

checked only by Common Law and Common Sense political utterances which

may have the gravest, the most terrific consequences; utterances which

may at any moment let loose revolution, or plunge the country into war;

which often, as a fact, excite an utter detestation, terror, and

mistrust; or shock the most sacred domestic and proprietary convictions

in the breasts of vast majorities of their fellow-countrymen! And we

incur this appalling risk for the want of a single, or at the most, a

handful of Censors, invested with a simple but limitless discretion to

excise or to suppress entirely such political utterances as may seem to

their private judgments calculated to cause pain or moral disturbance in

the average man. The masses, it is true, have their protection and

remedy against injudicious or inflammatory politicians in the Law and the

so-called democratic process of election; but we have seen that theatre

audiences have also the protection of the Law, and the remedy of boycott,

and that in their case, this protection and this remedy are not deemed

enough. What, then, shall we say of the case of Politics, where the

dangers attending inflammatory or subversive utterance are greater a

million fold, and the remedy a thousand times less expeditious?

Our Legislators have laid down Censorship as the basic principle of

Justice underlying the civic rights of dramatists. Then, let "Censorship

for all" be their motto, and this country no longer be ridden and

destroyed by free Institutions! Let them not only establish forthwith

Censorships of Literature, Art, Science, and Religion, but also place

themselves beneath the regimen with which they have calmly fettered

Dramatic Authors. They cannot deem it becoming to their regard for

justice, to their honour; to their sense of humour, to recoil from a

restriction which, in a parallel case they have imposed on others. It is

an old and homely saying that good officers never place their men in

positions they would not themselves be willing to fill. And we are not

entitled to believe that our Legislators, having set Dramatic Authors

where they have been set, will--now that their duty is made plain--for a

moment hesitate to step down and stand alongside.

But if by any chance they should recoil, and thus make answer: "We are

ready at all times to submit to the Law and the People's will, and to bow

to their demands, but we cannot and must not be asked to place our

calling, our duty, and our honour beneath the irresponsible rule of an

arbitrary autocrat, however sympathetic with the generality he may chance

to be!" Then, we would ask: "Sirs, did you ever hear of that great

saying: 'Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you!'" For it is

but fair presumption that the Dramatists, whom our Legislators have

placed in bondage to a despot, are, no less than those Legislators, proud

of their calling, conscious of their duty, and jealous of their honour.

1909.

VAGUE THOUGHTS ON ART

It was on a day of rare beauty that I went out into the fields to try and

gather these few thoughts. So golden and sweetly hot it was, that they

came lazily, and with a flight no more coherent or responsible than the

swoop of the very swallows; and, as in a play or poem, the result is

conditioned by the conceiving mood, so I knew would be the nature of my

diving, dipping, pale-throated, fork-tailed words. But, after all--I

thought, sitting there--I need not take my critical pronouncements

seriously. I have not the firm soul of the critic. It is not my

profession to know 'things for certain, and to make others feel that

certainty. On the contrary, I am often wrong--a luxury no critic can

afford. And so, invading as I was the realm of others, I advanced with a

light pen, feeling that none, and least of all myself, need expect me to

be right.

What then--I thought--is Art? For I perceived that to think about it I

must first define it; and I almost stopped thinking at all before the

fearsome nature of that task. Then slowly in my mind gathered this group

of words:

Art is that imaginative expression of human energy, which, through

technical concretion of feeling and perception, tends to reconcile the

individual with the universal, by exciting in him impersonal emotion.

And the greatest Art is that which excites the greatest impersonal

emotion in an hypothecated perfect human being.

Impersonal emotion! And what--I thought do I mean by that? Surely I

mean: That is not Art, which, while I, am contemplating it, inspires me

with any active or directive impulse; that is Art, when, for however

brief a moment, it replaces within me interest in myself by interest in

itself. For, let me suppose myself in the presence of a carved marble

bath. If my thoughts be "What could I buy that for?" Impulse of

acquisition; or: "From what quarry did it come?" Impulse of inquiry; or:

"Which would be the right end for my head?" Mixed impulse of inquiry and

acquisition--I am at that moment insensible to it as a work of Art. But,

if I stand before it vibrating at sight of its colour and forms, if ever

so little and for ever so short a time, unhaunted by any definite

practical thought or impulse--to that extent and for that moment it has

stolen me away out of myself and put itself there instead; has linked me

to the universal by making me forget the individual in me. And for that

moment, and only while that moment lasts, it is to me a work of Art. The

word "impersonal," then, is but used in this my definition to signify

momentary forgetfulness of one's own personality and its active wants.

So Art--I thought--is that which, heard, read, or looked on, while

producing no directive impulse, warms one with unconscious vibration. Nor

can I imagine any means of defining what is the greatest Art, without

hypothecating a perfect human being. But since we shall never see, or

know if we do see, that desirable creature--dogmatism is banished,

"Academy" is dead to the discussion, deader than even Tolstoy left it

after his famous treatise "What is Art?" For, having destroyed all the

old Judges and Academies, Tolstoy, by saying that the greatest Art was

that which appealed to the greatest number of living human beings, raised

up the masses of mankind to be a definite new Judge or Academy, as

tyrannical and narrow as ever were those whom he had destroyed.

This, at all events--I thought is as far as I dare go in defining what

Art is. But let me try to make plain to myself what is the essential

quality that gives to Art the power of exciting this unconscious

vibration, this impersonal emotion. It has been called Beauty! An

awkward word--a perpetual begging of the question; too current in use,

too ambiguous altogether; now too narrow, now too wide--a word, in fact,

too glib to know at all what it means. And how dangerous a word--often

misleading us into slabbing with extraneous floridities what would

otherwise, on its own plane, be Art! To be decorative where decoration

is not suitable, to be lyrical where lyricism is out of place, is

assuredly to spoil Art, not to achieve it. But this essential quality of

Art has also, and more happily, been called Rhythm. And, what is Rhythm

if not that mysterious harmony between part and part, and part and whole,

which gives what is called life; that exact proportion, the mystery of

which is best grasped in observing how life leaves an animate creature

when the essential relation of part to whole has been sufficiently

disturbed. And I agree that this rhythmic relation of part to part, and

part to whole--in short, vitality--is the one quality inseparable from a

work of Art. For nothing which does not seem to a man possessed of this

rhythmic vitality, can ever steal him out of himself.

And having got thus far in my thoughts, I paused, watching the swallows;

for they seemed to me the symbol, in their swift, sure curvetting, all

daring and balance and surprise, of the delicate poise and motion of Art,

that visits no two men alike, in a world where no two things of all the

things there be, are quite the same.

Yes--I thought--and this Art is the one form of human energy in the whole

world, which really works for union, and destroys the barriers between

man and man. It is the continual, unconscious replacement, however

fleeting, of oneself by another; the real cement of human life; the

everlasting refreshment and renewal. For, what is grievous, dompting,

grim, about our lives is that we are shut up within ourselves, with an

itch to get outside ourselves. And to be stolen away from ourselves by

Art is a momentary relaxation from that itching, a minute's profound, and

as it were secret, enfranchisement. The active amusements and relaxations

of life can only rest certain of our faculties, by indulging others; the

whole self is never rested save through that unconsciousness of self,

which comes through rapt contemplation of Nature or of Art.

And suddenly I remembered that some believe that Art does not produce

unconsciousness of self, but rather very vivid self-realisation.

Ah! but--I though--that is not the first and instant effect of Art; the

new impetus is the after effect of that momentary replacement of oneself

by the self of the work before us; it is surely the result of that brief

span of enlargement, enfranchisement, and rest.

Yes, Art is the great and universal refreshment. For Art is never

dogmatic; holds no brief for itself you may take it or you may leave it.

It does not force itself rudely where it is not wanted. It is reverent

to all tempers, to all points of view. But it is wilful--the very wind

in the comings and goings of its influence, an uncapturable fugitive,

visiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we often stand even

before the greatest works of Art without being able quite to lose

ourselves! That restful oblivion comes, we never quite know when--and it

is gone! But when it comes, it is a spirit hovering with cool wings,

blessing us from least to greatest, according to our powers; a spirit

deathless and varied as human life itself.

And in what sort of age--I thought--are artists living now? Are

conditions favourable? Life is very multiple; full of "movements,"

"facts," and "news"; with the limelight terribly turned on--and all this

is adverse to the artist. Yet, leisure is abundant; the facilities for

study great; Liberty is respected--more or less. But, there is one great

reason why, in this age of ours, Art, it seems, must flourish. For, just

as cross-breeding in Nature--if it be not too violent--often gives an

extra vitality to the offspring, so does cross-breeding of philosophies

make for vitality in Art. I cannot help thinking that historians,

looking back from the far future, will record this age as the Third

Renaissance. We who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither

tell what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing,

that, just as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan orthodoxy was

penetrated by new philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan

philosophy, reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred

Christian creed; so now Orthodoxy fertilised by Science is producing a

fresh and fuller conception of life--a, love of Perfection, not for hope

of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake. Slowly,

under our feet, beneath our consciousness, is forming that new

philosophy, and it is in times of new philosophies that Art, itself in

essence always a discovery, must flourish. Those whose sacred suns and

moons are ever in the past, tell us that our Art is going to the dogs;

and it is, indeed, true that we are in confusion! The waters are broken,

and every nerve and sinew of the artist is strained to discover his own

safety. It is an age of stir and change, a season of new wine and old

bottles. Yet, assuredly, in spite of breakages and waste, a wine worth

the drinking is all the time being made.

I ceased again to think, for the sun had dipped low, and the midges were

biting me; and the sounds of evening had begun, those innumerable

far-travelling sounds of man and bird and beast--so clear and

intimate--of remote countrysides at sunset. And for long I listened, too

vague to move my pen.

New philosophy--a vigorous Art! Are there not all the signs of it? In

music, sculpture, painting; in fiction--and drama; in dancing; in

criticism itself, if criticism be an Art. Yes, we are reaching out to a

new faith not yet crystallised, to a new Art not yet perfected; the forms

still to find-the flowers still to fashion!

And how has it come, this slowly growing faith in Perfection for

Perfection's sake? Surely like this: The Western world awoke one day to

find that it no longer believed corporately and for certain in future

life for the individual consciousness. It began to feel: I cannot say

more than that there may be--Death may be the end of man, or Death may be

nothing. And it began to ask itself in this uncertainty: Do I then

desire to go on living? Now, since it found that it desired to go on

living at least as earnestly as ever it did before, it began to inquire

why. And slowly it perceived that there was, inborn within it, a

passionate instinct of which it had hardly till then been conscious--a

sacred instinct to perfect itself, now, as well as in a possible

hereafter; to perfect itself because Perfection was desirable, a vision

to be adored, and striven for; a dream motive fastened within the

Universe; the very essential Cause of everything. And it began to see

that this Perfection, cosmically, was nothing but perfect Equanimity and

Harmony; and in human relations, nothing but perfect Love and Justice.

And Perfection began to glow before the eyes of the Western world like a

new star, whose light touched with glamour all things as they came forth

from Mystery, till to Mystery they were ready to return.

This--I thought is surely what the Western world has dimly been

rediscovering. There has crept into our minds once more the feeling that

the Universe is all of a piece, Equipoise supreme; and all things equally

wonderful, and mysterious, and valuable. We have begun, in fact, to have

a glimmering of the artist's creed, that nothing may we despise or

neglect--that everything is worth the doing well, the making fair--that

our God, Perfection, is implicit everywhere, and the revelation of Him

the business of our Art.

And as I jotted down these words I noticed that some real stars had crept

up into the sky, so gradually darkening above the pollard lime-trees;

cuckoos, who had been calling on the thorn-trees all the afternoon, were

silent; the swallows no longer flirted past, but a bat was already in

career over the holly hedge; and round me the buttercups were closing.

The whole form and feeling of the world had changed, so that I seemed to

have before me a new picture hanging.

Ah! I thought Art must indeed be priest of this new faith in Perfection,

whose motto is: "Harmony, Proportion, Balance." For by Art alone can

true harmony in human affairs be fostered, true Proportion revealed, and

true Equipoise preserved. Is not the training of an artist a training in

the due relation of one thing with another, and in the faculty of

expressing that relation clearly; and, even more, a training in the

faculty of disengaging from self the very essence of self--and passing

that essence into other selves by so delicate means that none shall see

how it is done, yet be insensibly unified? Is not the artist, of all

men, foe and nullifier of partisanship and parochialism, of distortions

and extravagance, the discoverer of that jack-o'-lantern--Truth; for, if

Truth be not Spiritual Proportion I know not what it is. Truth it seems

to me--is no absolute thing, but always relative, the essential symmetry

in the varying relationships of life; and the most perfect truth is but

the concrete expression of the most penetrating vision. Life seen

throughout as a countless show of the finest works of Art; Life shaped,

and purged of the irrelevant, the gross, and the extravagant; Life, as it

were, spiritually selected--that is Truth; a thing as multiple, and

changing, as subtle, and strange, as Life itself, and as little to be

bound by dogma. Truth admits but the one rule: No deficiency, and no

excess! Disobedient to that rule--nothing attains full vitality. And

secretly fettered by that rule is Art, whose business is the creation of

vital things.

That aesthete, to be sure, was right, when he said: "It is Style that

makes one believe in a thing; nothing but Style." For, what is Style in

its true and broadest sense save fidelity to idea and mood, and perfect

balance in the clothing of them? And I thought: Can one believe in the

decadence of Art in an age which, however unconsciously as yet, is

beginning to worship that which Art worships--Perfection-Style?

The faults of our Arts to-day are the faults of zeal and of adventure,

the faults and crudities of pioneers, the errors and mishaps of the

explorer. They must pass through many fevers, and many times lose their

way; but at all events they shall not go dying in their beds, and be

buried at Kensal Green. And, here and there, amid the disasters and

wreckage of their voyages of discovery, they will find something new,

some fresh way of embellishing life, or of revealing the heart of things.

That characteristic of to-day's Art--the striving of each branch of Art

to burst its own boundaries--which to many spells destruction, is surely

of happy omen. The novel straining to become the play, the play the

novel, both trying to paint; music striving to become story; poetry

gasping to be music; painting panting to be philosophy; forms, canons,

rules, all melting in the pot; stagnation broken up! In all this havoc

there is much to shock and jar even the most eager and adventurous. We

cannot stand these new-fangled fellows! They have no form! They rush in

where angels fear to tread. They have lost all the good of the old, and

given us nothing in its place! And yet--only out of stir and change is

born new salvation. To deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our

backs on courage! It is well, indeed, that some should live in closed

studies with the paintings and the books of yesterday--such devoted

students serve Art in their own way. But the fresh-air world will ever

want new forms. We shall not get them without faith enough to risk the

old! The good will live, the bad will die; and tomorrow only can tell us

which is which!

Yes--I thought--we naturally take a too impatient view of the Art of our

own time, since we can neither see the ends toward which it is almost

blindly groping, nor the few perfected creations that will be left

standing amidst the rubble of abortive effort. An age must always decry

itself and extol its forbears. The unwritten history of every Art will

show us that. Consider the novel--that most recent form of Art! Did not

the age which followed Fielding lament the treachery of authors to the

Picaresque tradition, complaining that they were not as Fielding and

Smollett were? Be sure they did. Very slowly and in spite of opposition

did the novel attain in this country the fulness of that biographical

form achieved under Thackeray. Very slowly, and in face of condemnation,

it has been losing that form in favour of a greater vividness which

places before the reader's brain, not historical statements, as it were,

of motives and of facts, but word-paintings of things and persons, so

chosen and arranged that the reader may see, as if at first hand, the

spirit of Life at work before him. The new novel has as many bemoaners

as the old novel had when it was new. It is no question of better or

worse, but of differing forms--of change dictated by gradual suitability

to the changing conditions of our social life, and to the ever fresh

discoveries of craftsmen, in the intoxication of which, old and equally

worthy craftsmanship is--by the way--too often for the moment mislaid.

The vested interests of life favour the line of least

resistance--disliking and revolting against disturbance; but one must

always remember that a spurious glamour is inclined to gather around what

is new. And, because of these two deflecting factors, those who break

through old forms must well expect to be dead before the new forms they

have unconsciously created have found their true level, high or low, in

the world of Art. When a thing is new how shall it be judged? In the

fluster of meeting novelty, we have even seen coherence attempting to

bind together two personalities so fundamentally opposed as those of

Ibsen and Bernard Shaw dramatists with hardly a quality in common; no

identity of tradition, or belief; not the faintest resemblance in methods

of construction or technique. Yet contemporary; estimate talks of them

often in the same breath. They are new! It is enough. And others, as

utterly unlike them both. They too are new. They have as yet no label

of their own then put on some one else's!

And so--I thought it must always be; for Time is essential to the proper

placing and estimate of all Art. And is it not this feeling, that

contemporary judgments are apt to turn out a little ludicrous, which has

converted much criticism of late from judgment pronounced into impression

recorded--recreative statement--a kind, in fact, of expression of the

critic's self, elicited through contemplation of a book, a play, a

symphony, a picture? For this kind of criticism there has even recently

been claimed an actual identity with creation. Esthetic judgment and

creative power identical! That is a hard saying. For, however

sympathetic one may feel toward this new criticism, however one may

recognise that the recording of impression has a wider, more elastic, and

more lasting value than the delivery of arbitrary judgment based on rigid

laws of taste; however one may admit that it approaches the creative gift

in so far as it demands the qualities of receptivity and reproduction--is

there not still lacking to this "new" critic something of that thirsting

spirit of discovery, which precedes the creation--hitherto so-called--of

anything? Criticism, taste, aesthetic judgment, by the very nature of

their task, wait till life has been focussed by the artists before they

attempt to reproduce the image which that imprisoned fragment of life

makes on the mirror of their minds. But a thing created springs from a

germ unconsciously implanted by the direct impact of unfettered life on

the whole range, of the creator's temperament; and round the germ thus

engendered, the creative artist--ever penetrating, discovering,

selecting--goes on building cell on cell, gathered from a million little

fresh impacts and visions. And to say that this is also exactly what the

recreative critic does, is to say that the interpretative musician is

creator in the same sense as is the composer of the music that he

interprets. If, indeed, these processes be the same in kind, they are in

degree so far apart that one would think the word creative unfortunately

used of both....

But this speculation--I thought--is going beyond the bounds of vagueness.

Let there be some thread of coherence in your thoughts, as there is in

the progress of this evening, fast fading into night. Return to the

consideration of the nature and purposes of Art! And recognize that much

of what you have thought will seem on the face of it heresy to the school

whose doctrine was incarnated by Oscar Wilde in that admirable apotheosis

of half-truths: "The Decay of the Art of Lying." For therein he said:

"No great artist ever sees things as they really are." Yet, that

half-truth might also be put thus: The seeing of things as they really

are--the seeing of a proportion veiled from other eyes (together with the

power of expression), is what makes a man an artist. What makes him a

great artist is a high fervour of spirit, which produces a superlative,

instead of a comparative, clarity of vision.

Close to my house there is a group of pines with gnarled red limbs

flanked by beech-trees. And there is often a very deep blue sky behind.

Generally, that is all I see. But, once in a way, in those trees against

that sky I seem to see all the passionate life and glow that Titian

painted into his pagan pictures. I have a vision of mysterious meaning,

of a mysterious relation between that sky and those trees with their

gnarled red limbs and Life as I know it. And when I have had that vision

I always feel, this is reality, and all those other times, when I have no

such vision, simple unreality. If I were a painter, it is for such

fervent vision I should wait, before moving brush: This, so intimate,

inner vision of reality, indeed, seems in duller moments well-nigh

grotesque; and hence that other glib half-truth: "Art is greater than

Life itself." Art is, indeed, greater than Life in the sense that the

power of Art is the disengagement from Life of its real spirit and

significance. But in any other sense, to say that Art is greater than

Life from which it emerges, and into which it must remerge, can but

suspend the artist over Life, with his feet in the air and his head in

the clouds--Prig masquerading as Demi-god. "Nature is no great Mother

who has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she

quickens to life." Such is the highest hyperbole of the aesthetic creed.

But what is creative instinct, if not an incessant living sympathy with

Nature, a constant craving like that of Nature's own, to fashion

something new out of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties

with which Nature has endowed us? The qualities of vision, of fancy, and

of imaginative power, are no more divorced from Nature, than are the

qualities of common-sense and courage. They are rarer, that is all. But

in truth, no one holds such views. Not even those who utter them. They

are the rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such as wish to

condemn what they call "Realism," without being temperamentally capable

of understanding what "Realism" really is.

And what--I thought--is Realism? What is the meaning of that word so

wildly used? Is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the

spirit of the artist; or both, or neither? Was Turgenev a realist? No

greater poet ever wrote in prose, nor any one who more closely brought

the actual shapes of men and things before us. No more fervent idealists

than Ibsen and Tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their

people real. Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic writer can I

conceive than Dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations

more vividly. Was he a realist? The late Stephen Crane was called a

realist. Than whom no more impressionistic writer ever painted with

words. What then is the heart of this term still often used as an

expression almost of abuse? To me, at all events--I thought--the words

realism, realistic, have no longer reference to technique, for which the

words naturalism, naturalistic, serve far better. Nor have they to do

with the question of imaginative power--as much demanded by realism as by

romanticism. For me, a realist is by no means tied to naturalistic

technique--he may be poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic,

anything but--romantic; that, in so far as he is a realist, he cannot be.

The word, in fact, characterises that artist whose temperamental

preoccupation is with revelation of the actual inter-relating spirit of

life, character, and thought, with a view to enlighten himself and

others; as distinguished from that artist whom I call romantic--whose

tempera mental purpose is invention of tale or design with a view to

delight himself and others. It is a question of temperamental antecedent

motive in the artist, and nothing more.

Realist--Romanticist! Enlightenment--Delight! That is the true

apposition. To make a revelation--to tell a fairy-tale! And either of

these artists may use what form he likes--naturalistic, fantastic,

poetic, impressionistic. For it is not by the form, but by the purpose

and mood of his art that he shall be known, as one or as the other.

Realists indeed--including the half of Shakespeare that was realist not

being primarily concerned to amuse their audience, are still

comparatively unpopular in a world made up for the greater part of men of

action, who instinctively reject all art that does not distract them

without causing them to think. For thought makes demands on an energy

already in full use; thought causes introspection; and introspection

causes discomfort, and disturbs the grooves of action. To say that the

object of the realist is to enlighten rather than to delight, is not to

say that in his art the realist is not amusing himself as much as ever is

the teller of a fairy-tale, though he does not deliberately start out to

do so; he is amusing, too, a large part of mankind. For, admitted that

the abject, and the test of Art, is always the awakening of vibration, of

impersonal emotion, it is still usually forgotten that men fall, roughly

speaking, into two flocks: Those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the

face of Art, and does not demand to be appeased before their emotions can

be stirred; and those who, having a speculative bent of mind, must first

be satisfied by an enlightening quality in a work of Art, before that

work of Art can awaken in them feeling. The audience of the realist is

drawn from this latter type of man; the much larger audience of the

romantic artist from the former; together with, in both cases, those

fastidious few for whom all Art is style and only style, and who welcome

either kind, so long as it is good enough.

To me, then--I thought--this division into Realism and Romance, so

understood, is the main cleavage in all the Arts; but it is hard to find

pure examples of either kind. For even the most determined realist has

more than a streak in him of the romanticist, and the most resolute

romanticist finds it impossible at times to be quite unreal. Guido Reni,

Watteau, Leighton were they not perhaps somewhat pure romanticists;

Rembrandt, Hogarth, Manet mainly realists; Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, a

blend. Dumas pere, and Scott, surely romantic; Flaubert and Tolstoy as

surely realists; Dickens and Cervantes, blended. Keats and Swinburne

romantic; Browning and Whitman--realistic; Shakespeare and Goethe, both.

The Greek dramatists--realists. The Arabian Nights and Malory romantic.

The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Old Testament, both realism and romance.

And if in the vagueness of my thoughts I were to seek for illustration

less general and vague to show the essence of this temperamental cleavage

in all Art, I would take the two novelists Turgenev and Stevenson. For

Turgenev expressed himself in stories that must be called romances, and

Stevenson employed almost always a naturalistic technique. Yet no one

would ever call Turgenev a romanticist, or Stevenson a realist. The

spirit of the first brooded over life, found in it a perpetual voyage of

spiritual adventure, was set on discovering and making clear to himself

and all, the varying traits and emotions of human character--the varying

moods of Nature; and though he couched all this discovery in caskets of

engaging story, it was always clear as day what mood it was that drove

him to dip pen in ink. The spirit of the second, I think, almost dreaded

to discover; he felt life, I believe, too keenly to want to probe into

it; he spun his gossamer to lure himself and all away from life. That was

his driving mood; but the craftsman in him, longing to be clear and

poignant, made him more natural, more actual than most realists.

So, how thin often is the hedge! And how poor a business the partisan

abuse of either kind of art in a world where each sort of mind has full

right to its own due expression, and grumbling lawful only when due

expression is not attained. One may not care for a Rembrandt portrait of

a plain old woman; a graceful Watteau decoration may leave another cold

but foolish will he be who denies that both are faithful to their

conceiving moods, and so proportioned part to part, and part to whole, as

to have, each in its own way, that inherent rhythm or vitality which is

the hall-mark of Art. He is but a poor philosopher who holds a view so

narrow as to exclude forms not to his personal taste. No realist can

love romantic Art so much as he loves his own, but when that Art fulfils

the laws of its peculiar being, if he would be no blind partisan, he must

admit it. The romanticist will never be amused by realism, but let him

not for that reason be so parochial as to think that realism, when it

achieves vitality, is not Art. For what is Art but the perfected

expression of self in contact with the world; and whether that self be of

enlightening, or of fairy-telling temperament, is of no moment

whatsoever. The tossing of abuse from realist to romanticist and back is

but the sword-play of two one-eyed men with their blind side turned

toward each other. Shall not each attempt be judged on its own merits?

If found not shoddy, faked, or forced, but true to itself, true to its

conceiving mood, and fair-proportioned part to whole; so that it

lives--then, realistic or romantic, in the name of Fairness let it pass!

Of all kinds of human energy, Art is surely the most free, the least

parochial; and demands of us an essential tolerance of all its forms.

Shall we waste breath and ink in condemnation of artists, because their

temperaments are not our own?

But the shapes and colours of the day were now all blurred; every tree

and stone entangled in the dusk. How different the world seemed from

that in which I had first sat down, with the swallows flirting past. And

my mood was different; for each of those worlds had brought to my heart

its proper feeling--painted on my eyes the just picture. And Night, that

was coming, would bring me yet another mood that would frame itself with

consciousness at its own fair moment, and hang before me. A quiet owl

stole by in the geld below, and vanished into the heart of a tree. And

suddenly above the moor-line I saw the large moon rising.

Cinnamon-coloured, it made all things swim, made me uncertain of my

thoughts, vague with mazy feeling. Shapes seemed but drifts of moon-dust,

and true reality nothing save a sort of still listening to the wind. And

for long I sat, just watching the moon creep up, and hearing the thin,

dry rustle of the leaves along the holly hedge. And there came to me

this thought: What is this Universe--that never had beginning and will

never have an end--but a myriad striving to perfect pictures never the

same, so blending and fading one into another, that all form one great

perfected picture? And what are we--ripples on the tides of a birthless,

deathless, equipoised Creative-Purpose--but little works of Art?

Trying to record that thought, I noticed that my note-book was damp with

dew. The cattle were lying down. It was too dark to see.

1911

THE END.

THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY

CONTENTS:

First Series:

The Silver Box

Joy

Strife

Second Series:

The Eldest Son

The Little Dream

Justice

Third Series:

The Fugitive

The Pigeon

The Mob

Fourth Series:

A Bit O' Love

The Foundations

The Skin Game

Six Short Plays:

The First and The Last

The Little Man

Hall-marked

Defeat

The Sun

Punch and Go

Fifth Series:

A Family Man

Loyalties

Windows

FIRST SERIES:

THE SILVER BOX

JOY

STRIFE

THE SILVER BOX

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

JOHN BARTHWICK, M.P., a wealthy Liberal

MRS. BARTHWICK, his wife

JACK BARTHWICK, their son

ROPER, their solicitor

MRS. JONES, their charwoman

MARLOW, their manservant

WHEELER, their maidservant

JONES, the stranger within their gates

MRS. SEDDON, a landlady

SNOW, a detective

A POLICE MAGISTRATE

AN UNKNOWN LADY, from beyond

TWO LITTLE GIRLS, homeless

LIVENS, their father

A RELIEVING OFFICER

A MAGISTRATE'S CLERK

AN USHER

POLICEMEN, CLERKS, AND OTHERS

TIME: The present. The action of the first two Acts takes place on

Easter Tuesday; the action of the third on Easter Wednesday week.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Rockingham Gate. John Barthwick's dining-room.

SCENE II. The same.

SCENE III. The same.

ACT II.

SCENE I. The Jones's lodgings, Merthyr Street.

SCENE II. John Barthwick's dining-room.

ACT III. A London police court.

ACT I

SCENE I

The curtain rises on the BARTHWICK'S dining-room, large,

modern, and well furnished; the window curtains drawn.

Electric light is burning. On the large round dining-table is

set out a tray with whisky, a syphon, and a silver

cigarette-box. It is past midnight.

A fumbling is heard outside the door. It is opened suddenly;

JACK BARTHWICK seems to fall into the room. He stands holding

by the door knob, staring before him, with a beatific smile.

He is in evening dress and opera hat, and carries in his hand a

sky-blue velvet lady's reticule. His boyish face is freshly

coloured and clean-shaven. An overcoat is hanging on his arm.

JACK. Hello! I've got home all ri----[Defiantly.] Who says I

sh'd never 've opened th' door without 'sistance. [He staggers in,

fumbling with the reticule. A lady's handkerchief and purse of

crimson silk fall out.] Serve her joll' well right--everything

droppin' out. Th' cat. I 've scored her off--I 've got her bag.

[He swings the reticule.] Serves her joly' well right. [He takes a

cigarette out of the silver box and puts it in his mouth.] Never

gave tha' fellow anything! [He hunts through all his pockets and

pulls a shilling out; it drops and rolls away. He looks for it.]

Beastly shilling! [He looks again.] Base ingratitude! Absolutely

nothing. [He laughs.] Mus' tell him I've got absolutely nothing.

[He lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently

returns, followed by JONES, who is advanced in liquor. JONES,

about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles

round his eyes, and rusty clothes: He looks as though he might

be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.]

JACK. Sh! sh! sh! Don't you make a noise, whatever you do. Shu'

the door, an' have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open

the door--I 've got nothin, for you. This is my house. My father's

name's Barthwick; he's Member of Parliament--Liberal Member of

Parliament: I've told you that before. Have a drink! [He pours out

whisky and drinks it up.] I'm not drunk [Subsiding on a sofa.]

Tha's all right. Wha's your name? My name's Barthwick, so's my

father's; I'm a Liberal too--wha're you?

JONES. [In a thick, sardonic voice.] I'm a bloomin' Conservative.

My name's Jones! My wife works 'ere; she's the char; she works

'ere.

JACK. Jones? [He laughs.] There's 'nother Jones at College with

me. I'm not a Socialist myself; I'm a Liberal--there's ve--lill

difference, because of the principles of the Lib--Liberal Party.

We're all equal before the law--tha's rot, tha's silly. [Laughs.]

Wha' was I about to say? Give me some whisky.

[JONES gives him the whisky he desires, together with a squirt

of syphon.]

Wha' I was goin' tell you was--I 've had a row with her. [He waves

the reticule.] Have a drink, Jonessh 'd never have got in without

you--tha 's why I 'm giving you a drink. Don' care who knows I've

scored her off. Th' cat! [He throws his feet up on the sofa.]

Don' you make a noise, whatever you do. You pour out a drink--you

make yourself good long, long drink--you take cigarette--you take

anything you like. Sh'd never have got in without you. [Closing

his eyes.] You're a Tory--you're a Tory Socialist. I'm Liberal

myself--have a drink--I 'm an excel'nt chap.

[His head drops back. He, smiling, falls asleep, and JONES

stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK's glass, he

drinks it off. He picks the reticule from off JACK'S

shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.]

JONES. Been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur.

[He stuffs it into JACK's breast pocket.]

JACK. [Murmuring.] I 've scored you off! You cat!

[JONES looks around him furtively; he pours out whisky and

drinks it. From the silver box he takes a cigarette, puffs at

it, and drinks more whisky. There is no sobriety left in him.]

JONES. Fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [He sees the crimson

purse lying on the floor.] More cat's fur. Puss, puss! [He

fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at JACK.] Calf! Fat

calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror. Lifting his hands,

with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at JACK,

clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face.

Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks

it. With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets

them.] I 'll score you off too, that 's wot I 'll do!

[He gives a little snarling laugh and lurches to the door. His

shoulder rubs against the switch; the light goes out. There is

a sound as of a closing outer door.]

The curtain falls.

The curtain rises again at once.

SCENE II

In the BARTHWICK'S dining-room. JACK is still asleep; the

morning light is coming through the curtains. The time is

half-past eight. WHEELER, brisk person enters with a dust-pan,

and MRS. JONES more slowly with a scuttle.

WHEELER. [Drawing the curtains.] That precious husband of yours

was round for you after you'd gone yesterday, Mrs. Jones. Wanted

your money for drink, I suppose. He hangs about the corner here

half the time. I saw him outside the "Goat and Bells" when I went

to the post last night. If I were you I would n't live with him. I

would n't live with a man that raised his hand to me. I wouldn't

put up with it. Why don't you take your children and leave him? If

you put up with 'im it'll only make him worse. I never can see why,

because a man's married you, he should knock you about.

MRS. JONES. [Slim, dark-eyed, and dark-haired; oval-faced, and with

a smooth, soft, even voice; her manner patient, her way of talking

quite impersonal; she wears a blue linen dress, and boots with

holes.] It was nearly two last night before he come home, and he

wasn't himself. He made me get up, and he knocked me about; he

didn't seem to know what he was saying or doing. Of course I would

leave him, but I'm really afraid of what he'd do to me. He 's such

a violent man when he's not himself.

WHEELER. Why don't you get him locked up? You'll never have any

peace until you get him locked up. If I were you I'd go to the

police court tomorrow. That's what I would do.

MRS. JONES. Of course I ought to go, because he does treat me so

badly when he's not himself. But you see, Bettina, he has a very

hard time--he 's been out of work two months, and it preys upon his

mind. When he's in work he behaves himself much better. It's when

he's out of work that he's so violent.

WHEELER. Well, if you won't take any steps you 'll never get rid of

him.

MRS. JONES. Of course it's very wearing to me; I don't get my sleep

at nights. And it 's not as if I were getting help from him,

because I have to do for the children and all of us. And he throws

such dreadful things up at me, talks of my having men to follow me

about. Such a thing never happens; no man ever speaks to me. And

of course, it's just the other way. It's what he does that's wrong

and makes me so unhappy. And then he 's always threatenin' to cut

my throat if I leave him. It's all the drink, and things preying on

his mind; he 's not a bad man really. Sometimes he'll speak quite

kind to me, but I've stood so much from him, I don't feel it in me

to speak kind back, but just keep myself to myself. And he's all

right with the children too, except when he's not himself.

WHEELER. You mean when he's drunk, the beauty.

MRS. JONES. Yes. [Without change of voice] There's the young

gentleman asleep on the sofa.

[They both look silently at Jack.]

MRS. JONES. [At last, in her soft voice.] He does n't look quite

himself.

WHEELER. He's a young limb, that's what he is. It 's my belief he

was tipsy last night, like your husband. It 's another kind of

bein' out of work that sets him to drink. I 'll go and tell Marlow.

This is his job.

[She goes.]

[Mrs. Jones, upon her knees, begins a gentle sweeping.]

JACK. [Waking.] Who's there? What is it?

MRS. JONES. It's me, sir, Mrs. Jones.

JACK. [Sitting up and looking round.] Where is it--what--what time

is it?

MRS. JONES. It's getting on for nine o'clock, sir.

JACK. For nine! Why--what! [Rising, and loosening his tongue;

putting hands to his head, and staring hard at Mrs. Jones.] Look

here, you, Mrs.----Mrs. Jones--don't you say you caught me asleep

here.

MRS. JONES. No, sir, of course I won't sir.

JACK. It's quite an accident; I don't know how it happened. I must

have forgotten to go to bed. It's a queer thing. I 've got a most

beastly headache. Mind you don't say anything, Mrs. Jones.

[Goes out and passes MARLOW in the doorway. MARLOW is young

and quiet; he is cleanshaven, and his hair is brushed high from

his forehead in a coxcomb. Incidentally a butler, he is first

a man. He looks at MRS. JONES, and smiles a private smile.]

MARLOW. Not the first time, and won't be the last. Looked a bit

dicky, eh, Mrs. Jones?

MRS. JONES. He did n't look quite himself. Of course I did n't

take notice.

MARLOW. You're used to them. How's your old man?

MRS. JONES. [Softly as throughout.] Well, he was very bad last

night; he did n't seem to know what he was about. He was very late,

and he was most abusive. But now, of course, he's asleep.

MARLOW. That's his way of finding a job, eh?

MRS. JONES. As a rule, Mr. Marlow, he goes out early every morning

looking for work, and sometimes he comes in fit to drop--and of

course I can't say he does n't try to get it, because he does.

Trade's very bad. [She stands quite still, her fan and brush before

her, at the beginning and the end of long vistas of experience,

traversing them with her impersonal eye.] But he's not a good

husband to me--last night he hit me, and he was so dreadfully

abusive.

MARLOW. Bank 'oliday, eh! He 's too fond of the "Goat and Bells,"

that's what's the matter with him. I see him at the corner late

every night. He hangs about.

MRS. JONES. He gets to feeling very low walking about all day after

work, and being refused so often, and then when he gets a drop in

him it goes to his head. But he shouldn't treat his wife as he

treats me. Sometimes I 've had to go and walk about at night, when

he wouldn't let me stay in the room; but he's sorry for it

afterwards. And he hangs about after me, he waits for me in the

street; and I don't think he ought to, because I 've always been a

good wife to him. And I tell him Mrs. Barthwick wouldn't like him

coming about the place. But that only makes him angry, and he says

dreadful things about the gentry. Of course it was through me that

he first lost his place, through his not treating me right; and

that's made him bitter against the gentry. He had a very good place

as groom in the country; but it made such a stir, because of course

he did n't treat me right.

MARLOW. Got the sack?

MRS. JONES. Yes; his employer said he couldn't keep him, because

there was a great deal of talk; and he said it was such a bad

example. But it's very important for me to keep my work here; I

have the three children, and I don't want him to come about after me

in the streets, and make a disturbance as he sometimes does.

MARLOW. [Holding up the empty decanter.] Not a drain! Next time

he hits you get a witness and go down to the court----

MRS. JONES. Yes, I think I 've made up my mind. I think I ought

to.

MARLOW. That's right. Where's the ciga----?

[He searches for the silver box; he looks at MRS. JONES, who is

sweeping on her hands and knees; he checks himself and stands

reflecting. From the tray he picks two half-smoked cigarettes,

and reads the name on them.]

Nestor--where the deuce----?

[With a meditative air he looks again at MRS. JONES, and,

taking up JACK'S overcoat, he searches in the pockets.

WHEELER, with a tray of breakfast things, comes in.]

MARLOW. [Aside to WHEELER.] Have you seen the cigarette-box?

WHEELER. No.

MARLOW. Well, it's gone. I put it on the tray last night. And

he's been smoking. [Showing her the ends of cigarettes.] It's not

in these pockets. He can't have taken it upstairs this morning!

Have a good look in his room when he comes down. Who's been in

here?

WHEELER. Only me and Mrs. Jones.

MRS. JONES. I 've finished here; shall I do the drawing-room now?

WHEELER. [Looking at her doubtfully.] Have you seen----Better do

the boudwower first.

[MRS. JONES goes out with pan and brush. MARLOW and WHEELER

look each other in the face.]

MARLOW. It'll turn up.

WHEELER. [Hesitating.] You don't think she----

[Nodding at the door.]

MARLOW. [Stoutly.] I don't----I never believes anything of

anybody.

WHEELER. But the master'll have to be told.

MARLOW. You wait a bit, and see if it don't turn up. Suspicion's

no business of ours. I set my mind against it.

The curtain falls.

The curtain rises again at once.

SCENE III

BARTHWICK and MRS. BARTHWICK are seated at the breakfast table.

He is a man between fifty and sixty; quietly important, with a

bald forehead, and pince-nez, and the "Times" in his hand. She

is a lady of nearly fifty, well dressed, with greyish hair,

good features, and a decided manner. They face each other.

BARTHWICK. [From behind his paper.] The Labour man has got in at

the by-election for Barnside, my dear.

MRS. BARTHWICK. Another Labour? I can't think what on earth the

country is about.

BARTHWICK. I predicted it. It's not a matter of vast importance.

MRS. BARTHWICK. Not? How can you take it so calmly, John? To me

it's simply outrageous. And there you sit, you Liberals, and

pretend to encourage these people!

BARTHWICK. [Frowning.] The representation of all parties is

necessary for any proper reform, for any proper social policy.

MRS. BARTHWICK. I've no patience with your talk of reform--all that

nonsense about social policy. We know perfectly well what it is

they want; they want things for themselves. Those Socialists and

Labour men are an absolutely selfish set of people. They have no

sense of patriotism, like the upper classes; they simply want what

we've got.

BARTHWICK. Want what we've got! [He stares into space.] My dear,

what are you talking about? [With a contortion.] I 'm no alarmist.

MRS. BARTHWICK. Cream? Quite uneducated men! Wait until they

begin to tax our investments. I 'm convinced that when they once

get a chance they will tax everything--they 've no feeling for the

country. You Liberals and Conservatives, you 're all alike; you

don't see an inch before your noses. You've no imagination, not a

scrap of imagination between you. You ought to join hands and nip

it in the bud.

BARTHWICK. You 're talking nonsense! How is it possible for

Liberals and Conservatives to join hands, as you call it? That

shows how absurd it is for women----Why, the very essence of a

Liberal is to trust in the people!

MRS. BARTHWICK. Now, John, eat your breakfast. As if there were

any real difference between you and the Conservatives. All the

upper classes have the same interests to protect, and the same

principles. [Calmly.] Oh! you're sitting upon a volcano, John.

BARTHWICK. What!

MRS. BARTHWICK. I read a letter in the paper yesterday. I forget

the man's name, but it made the whole thing perfectly clear. You

don't look things in the face.

BARTHWICK. Indeed! [Heavily.] I am a Liberal! Drop the subject,

please!

MRS. BARTHWICK. Toast? I quite agree with what this man says:

Education is simply ruining the lower classes. It unsettles them,

and that's the worst thing for us all. I see an enormous difference

in the manner of servants.

BARTHWICK, [With suspicious emphasis.] I welcome any change that

will lead to something better. [He opens a letter.] H'm! This is

that affair of Master Jack's again. "High Street, Oxford. Sir, We

have received Mr. John Barthwick, Senior's, draft for forty pounds!"

Oh! the letter's to him! "We now enclose the cheque you cashed with

us, which, as we stated in our previous letter, was not met on

presentation at your bank. We are, Sir, yours obediently, Moss and

Sons, Tailors." H 'm! [Staring at the cheque.] A pretty business

altogether! The boy might have been prosecuted.

MRS. BARTHWICK. Come, John, you know Jack did n't mean anything; he

only thought he was overdrawing. I still think his bank ought to

have cashed that cheque. They must know your position.

BARTHWICK. [Replacing in the envelope the letter and the cheque.]

Much good that would have done him in a court of law.

[He stops as JACK comes in, fastening his waistcoat and

staunching a razor cut upon his chin.]

JACK. [Sitting down between them, and speaking with an artificial

joviality.] Sorry I 'm late. [He looks lugubriously at the

dishes.] Tea, please, mother. Any letters for me? [BARTHWICK

hands the letter to him.] But look here, I say, this has been

opened! I do wish you would n't----

BARTHWICK. [Touching the envelope.] I suppose I 'm entitled to

this name.

JACK. [Sulkily.] Well, I can't help having your name, father! [He

reads the letter, and mutters.] Brutes!

BARTHWICK. [Eyeing him.] You don't deserve to be so well out of

that.

JACK. Haven't you ragged me enough, dad?

MRS. BARTHWICK. Yes, John, let Jack have his breakfast.

BARTHWICK. If you hadn't had me to come to, where would you have

been? It's the merest accident--suppose you had been the son of a

poor man or a clerk. Obtaining money with a cheque you knew your

bank could not meet. It might have ruined you for life. I can't

see what's to become of you if these are your principles. I never

did anything of the sort myself.

JACK. I expect you always had lots of money. If you've got plenty

of money, of course----

BARTHWICK. On the contrary, I had not your advantages. My father

kept me very short of money.

JACK. How much had you, dad?

BARTHWICK. It's not material. The question is, do you feel the

gravity of what you did?

JACK. I don't know about the gravity. Of course, I 'm very sorry

if you think it was wrong. Have n't I said so! I should never have

done it at all if I had n't been so jolly hard up.

BARTHWICK. How much of that forty pounds have you got left, Jack?

JACK. [Hesitating.] I don't know--not much.

BARTHWICK. How much?

JACK. [Desperately.] I have n't got any.

BARTHWICK. What?

JACK. I know I 've got the most beastly headache.

[He leans his head on his hand.]

MRS. BARTHWICK. Headache? My dear boy! Can't you eat any

breakfast?

JACK. [Drawing in his breath.] Too jolly bad!

MRS. BARTHWICK. I'm so sorry. Come with me; dear; I'll give you

something that will take it away at once.

[They leave the room; and BARTHWICK, tearing up the letter,

goes to the fireplace and puts the pieces in the fire. While

he is doing this MARLOW comes in, and looking round him, is

about quietly to withdraw.]

BARTHWICK. What's that? What d 'you want?

MARLOW. I was looking for Mr. John, sir.

BARTHWICK. What d' you want Mr. John for?

MARLOW. [With hesitation.] I thought I should find him here, sir.

BARTHWICK. [Suspiciously.] Yes, but what do you want him for?

MARLOW. [Offhandedly.] There's a lady called--asked to speak to

him for a minute, sir.

BARTHWICK. A lady, at this time in the morning. What sort of a

lady?

MARLOW. [Without expression in his voice.] I can't tell, sir; no

particular sort. She might be after charity. She might be a Sister

of Mercy, I should think, sir.

BARTHWICK. Is she dressed like one?

MARLOW. No, sir, she's in plain clothes, sir.

BARTHWICK. Did n't she say what she wanted?

MARLOW. No sir.

BARTHWICK. Where did you leave her?

MARLOW. In the hall, sir.

BARTHWICK. In the hall? How do you know she's not a thief--not got

designs on the house?

MARLOW. No, sir, I don't fancy so, sir.

BARTHWICK. Well, show her in here; I'll see her myself.

[MARLOW goes out with a private gesture of dismay. He soon

returns, ushering in a young pale lady with dark eyes and

pretty figure, in a modish, black, but rather shabby dress, a

black and white trimmed hat with a bunch of Parma violets

wrongly placed, and fuzzy-spotted veil. At the Sight of MR.

BARTHWICK she exhibits every sign of nervousness. MARLOW goes

out.]

UNKNOWN LADY. Oh! but--I beg pardon there's some mistake--I [She

turns to fly.]

BARTHWICK. Whom did you want to see, madam?

UNKNOWN. [Stopping and looking back.] It was Mr. John Barthwick I

wanted to see.

BARTHWICK. I am John Barthwick, madam. What can I have the

pleasure of doing for you?

UNKNOWN. Oh! I--I don't [She drops her eyes. BARTHWICK

scrutinises her, and purses his lips.]

BARTHWICK. It was my son, perhaps, you wished to see?

UNKNOWN. [Quickly.] Yes, of course, it's your son.

BARTHWICK. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?

UNKNOWN. [Appeal and hardiness upon her face.] My name is----oh!

it does n't matter--I don't want to make any fuss. I just want to

see your son for a minute. [Boldly.] In fact, I must see him.

BARTHWICK. [Controlling his uneasiness.] My son is not very well.

If necessary, no doubt I could attend to the matter; be so kind as

to let me know----

UNKNOWN. Oh! but I must see him--I 've come on purpose--[She bursts

out nervously.] I don't want to make any fuss, but the fact is,

last--last night your son took away--he took away my [She stops.]

BARTHWICK. [Severely.] Yes, madam, what?

UNKNOWN. He took away my--my reticule.

BARTHWICK. Your reti----?

UNKNOWN. I don't care about the reticule; it's not that I want--I

'm sure I don't want to make any fuss--[her face is quivering]--but

--but--all my money was in it!

BARTHWICK. In what--in what?

UNKNOWN. In my purse, in the reticule. It was a crimson silk

purse. Really, I wouldn't have come--I don't want to make any fuss.

But I must get my money back--mustn't I?

BARTHWICK. Do you tell me that my son----?

UNKNOWN. Oh! well, you see, he was n't quite I mean he was

[She smiles mesmerically.]

BARTHWICK. I beg your pardon.

UNKNOWN. [Stamping her foot.] Oh! don't you see--tipsy! We had a

quarrel.

BARTHWICK. [Scandalised.] How? Where?

UNKNOWN. [Defiantly.] At my place. We'd had supper at the----and

your son----

BARTHWICK. [Pressing the bell.] May I ask how you knew this house?

Did he give you his name and address?

UNKNOWN. [Glancing sidelong.] I got it out of his overcoat.

BARTHWICK. [Sardonically.] Oh! you got it out of his overcoat.

And may I ask if my son will know you by daylight?

UNKNOWN. Know me? I should jolly--I mean, of course he will!

[MARLOW comes in.]

BARTHWICK. Ask Mr. John to come down.

[MARLOW goes out, and BARTHWICK walks uneasily about.]

And how long have you enjoyed his acquaintanceship?

UNKNOWN. Only since--only since Good Friday.

BARTHWICK. I am at a loss--I repeat I am at a----

[He glances at this unknown lady, who stands with eyes cast

down, twisting her hands And suddenly Jack appears. He stops

on seeing who is here, and the unknown lady hysterically

giggles. There is a silence.]

BARTHWICK. [Portentously.] This young--er--lady says that last

night--I think you said last night madam--you took away----

UNKNOWN. [Impulsively.] My reticule, and all my money was in a

crimson silk purse.

JACK. Reticule. [Looking round for any chance to get away.] I

don't know anything about it.

BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] Come, do you deny seeing this young lady

last night?

JACK. Deny? No, of course. [Whispering.] Why did you give me

away like this? What on earth did you come here for?

UNKNOWN. [Tearfully.] I'm sure I didn't want to--it's not likely,

is it? You snatched it out of my hand--you know you did--and the

purse had all my money in it. I did n't follow you last night

because I did n't want to make a fuss and it was so late, and you

were so----

BARTHWICK. Come, sir, don't turn your back on me--explain!

JACK. [Desperately.] I don't remember anything about it. [In a

low voice to his friend.] Why on earth could n't you have written?

UNKNOWN. [Sullenly.] I want it now; I must have, it--I 've got to

pay my rent to-day. [She looks at BARTHWICK.] They're only too glad

to jump on people who are not--not well off.

JACK. I don't remember anything about it, really. I don't remember

anything about last night at all. [He puts his hand up to his

head.] It's all--cloudy, and I 've got such a beastly headache.

UNKNOWN. But you took it; you know you did. You said you'd score

me off.

JACK. Well, then, it must be here. I remember now--I remember

something. Why did I take the beastly thing?

BARTHWICK. Yes, why did you take the beastly----[He turns abruptly

to the window.]

UNKNOWN. [With her mesmeric smile.] You were n't quite were you?

JACK. [Smiling pallidly.] I'm awfully sorry. If there's anything

I can do----

BARTHWICK. Do? You can restore this property, I suppose.

JACK. I'll go and have a look, but I really don't think I 've got

it.

[He goes out hurriedly. And BARTHWICK, placing a chair,

motions to the visitor to sit; then, with pursed lips, he

stands and eyes her fixedly. She sits, and steals a look at

him; then turns away, and, drawing up her veil, stealthily

wipes her eyes. And Jack comes back.]

JACK. [Ruefully holding out the empty reticule.] Is that the

thing? I 've looked all over--I can't find the purse anywhere. Are

you sure it was there?

UNKNOWN. [Tearfully.] Sure? Of course I'm sure. A crimson silk

purse. It was all the money I had.

JACK. I really am awfully sorry--my head's so jolly bad. I 've

asked the butler, but he has n't seen it.

UNKNOWN. I must have my money----

JACK. Oh! Of course--that'll be all right; I'll see that that's

all right. How much?

UNKNOWN. [Sullenly.] Seven pounds-twelve--it's all I 've got in

the world.

JACK. That'll be all right; I'll--send you a cheque.

UNKNOWN. [Eagerly.] No; now, please. Give me what was in my

purse; I've got to pay my rent this morning. They won't' give me

another day; I'm a fortnight behind already.

JACK. [Blankly.] I'm awfully sorry; I really have n't a penny in

my pocket.

[He glances stealthily at BARTHWICK.]

UNKNOWN. [Excitedly.] Come I say you must--it's my money, and you

took it. I 'm not going away without it. They 'll turn me out of

my place.

JACK. [Clasping his head.] But I can't give you what I have n't

got. Don't I tell you I have n't a beastly cent.

UNKNOWN. [Tearing at her handkerchief.] Oh! do give it me! [She

puts her hands together in appeal; then, with sudden fierceness.]

If you don't I'll summons you. It's stealing, that's what it is!

BARTHWICK. [Uneasily.] One moment, please. As a matter of---er

--principle, I shall settle this claim. [He produces money.] Here is

eight pounds; the extra will cover the value of the purse and your

cab fares. I need make no comment--no thanks are necessary.

[Touching the bell, he holds the door ajar in silence. The

unknown lady stores the money in her reticule, she looks from

JACK to BARTHWICK, and her face is quivering faintly with a

smile. She hides it with her hand, and steals away. Behind

her BARTHWICK shuts the door.]

BARTHWICK. [With solemnity.] H'm! This is nice thing to happen!

JACK. [Impersonally.] What awful luck!

BARTHWICK. So this is the way that forty pounds has gone! One

thing after another! Once more I should like to know where you 'd

have been if it had n't been for me! You don't seem to have any

principles. You--you're one of those who are a nuisance to society;

you--you're dangerous! What your mother would say I don't know.

Your conduct, as far as I can see, is absolutely unjustifiable.

It's--it's criminal. Why, a poor man who behaved as you've done

--d' you think he'd have any mercy shown him? What you want is a good

lesson. You and your sort are--[he speaks with feeling]--a nuisance

to the community. Don't ask me to help you next time. You're not

fit to be helped.

JACK. [Turning upon his sire, with unexpected fierceness.] All

right, I won't then, and see how you like it. You would n't have

helped me this time, I know, if you had n't been scared the thing

would get into the papers. Where are the cigarettes?

BARTHWICK. [Regarding him uneasily.] Well I 'll say no more about

it. [He rings the bell.] I 'll pass it over for this once, but----

[MARLOW Comes in.] You can clear away.

[He hides his face behind the "Times."]

JACK. [Brightening.] I say, Marlow, where are the cigarettes?

MARLOW. I put the box out with the whisky last night, sir, but this

morning I can't find it anywhere.

JACK. Did you look in my room?

MARLOW. Yes, sir; I've looked all over the house. I found two

Nestor ends in the tray this morning, so you must have been smokin'

last night, sir. [Hesitating.] I 'm really afraid some one's

purloined the box.

JACK. [Uneasily.] Stolen it!

BARTHWICK. What's that? The cigarette-box! Is anything else

missing?

MARLOW. No, sir; I 've been through the plate.

BARTHWICK. Was the house all right this morning? None of the

windows open?

MARLOW. No, sir. [Quietly to JACK.] You left your latch-key in

the door last night, sir.

[He hands it back, unseen by BARTHWICK]

JACK. Tst!

BARTHWICK. Who's been in the room this morning?

MARLOW. Me and Wheeler, and Mrs. Jones is all, sir, as far as I

know.

BARTHWICK. Have you asked Mrs. Barthwick?

[To JACK.] Go and ask your mother if she's had it; ask her to look

and see if she's missed anything else.

[JACK goes upon this mission.]

Nothing is more disquieting than losing things like this.

MARLOW. No, sir.

BARTHWICK. Have you any suspicions?

MARLOW, No, sir.

BARTHWICK. This Mrs. Jones--how long has she been working here?

MARLOW. Only this last month, sir.

BARTHWICK. What sort of person?

MARLOW. I don't know much about her, sir; seems a very quiet,

respectable woman.

BARTHWICK. Who did the room this morning?

MARLOW. Wheeler and Mrs. Jones, Sir.

BARTHWICK. [With his forefinger upraised.] Now, was this Mrs.

Jones in the room alone at any time?

MARLOW. [Expressionless.] Yes, Sir.

BARTHWICK. How do you know that?

MARLOW. [Reluctantly.] I found her here, sir.

BARTHWICK. And has Wheeler been in the room alone?

MARLOW. No, sir, she's not, sir. I should say, sir, that Mrs.

Jones seems a very honest----

BARTHWICK. [Holding up his hand.] I want to know this: Has this

Mrs. Jones been here the whole morning?

MARLOW. Yes, sir--no, sir--she stepped over to the greengrocer's

for cook.

BARTHWICK. H'm! Is she in the house now?

MARLOW. Yes, Sir.

BARTHWICK. Very good. I shall make a point of clearing this up.

On principle I shall make a point of fixing the responsibility; it

goes to the foundations of security. In all your interests----

MARLOW. Yes, Sir.

BARTHWICK. What sort of circumstances is this Mrs. Jones in? Is

her husband in work?

MARLOW. I believe not, sir.

BARTHWICK. Very well. Say nothing about it to any one. Tell

Wheeler not to speak of it, and ask Mrs. Jones to step up here.

MARLOW. Very good, sir.

[MARLOW goes out, his face concerned; and BARTHWICK stays, his

face judicial and a little pleased, as befits a man conducting

an inquiry. MRS. BARTHWICK and hey son come in.]

BARTHWICK. Well, my dear, you've not seen it, I suppose?

MRS. BARTHWICK. No. But what an extraordinary thing, John!

Marlow, of course, is out of the question. I 'm certain none of the

maids as for cook!

BARTHWICK. Oh, cook!

MRS. BARTHWICK. Of course! It's perfectly detestable to me to

suspect anybody.

BARTHWICK. It is not a question of one's feelings. It's a question

of justice. On principle----

MRS. BARTHWICK. I should n't be a bit surprised if the charwoman

knew something about it. It was Laura who recommended her.

BARTHWICK. [Judicially.] I am going to have Mrs. Jones up. Leave

it to me; and--er--remember that nobody is guilty until they're

proved so. I shall be careful. I have no intention of frightening

her; I shall give her every chance. I hear she's in poor

circumstances. If we are not able to do much for them we are bound

to have the greatest sympathy with the poor. [MRS. JONES comes in.]

[Pleasantly.] Oh! good morning, Mrs. Jones.

MRS. JONES. [Soft, and even, unemphatic.] Good morning, sir! Good

morning, ma'am!

BARTHWICK. About your husband--he's not in work, I hear?

MRS. JONES. No, sir; of course he's not in work just now.

BARTHWICK. Then I suppose he's earning nothing.

MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's not earning anything just now, sir.

BARTHWICK. And how many children have you?

MRS. JONES. Three children; but of course they don't eat very much

sir. [A little silence.]

BARTHWICK. And how old is the eldest?

MRS. JONES. Nine years old, sir.

BARTHWICK. Do they go to school?

MRS. JONES, Yes, sir, they all three go to school every day.

BARTHWICK. [Severely.] And what about their food when you're out

at work?

MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have to give them their dinner to take

with them. Of course I 'm not always able to give them anything;

sometimes I have to send them without; but my husband is very good

about the children when he's in work. But when he's not in work of

course he's a very difficult man.

BARTHWICK. He drinks, I suppose?

MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. Of course I can't say he does n't drink,

because he does.

BARTHWICK. And I suppose he takes all your money?

MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's very good about my money, except when

he's not himself, and then, of course, he treats me very badly.

BARTHWICK. Now what is he--your husband?

MRS. JONES. By profession, sir, of course he's a groom.

BARTHWICK. A groom! How came he to lose his place?

MRS. JONES. He lost his place a long time ago, sir, and he's never

had a very long job since; and now, of course, the motor-cars are

against him.

BARTHWICK. When were you married to him, Mrs. Jones?

MRS. JONES. Eight years ago, sir that was in----

MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] Eight? You said the eldest child was

nine.

MRS. JONES. Yes, ma'am; of course that was why he lost his place.

He did n't treat me rightly, and of course his employer said he

couldn't keep him because of the example.

BARTHWICK. You mean he--ahem----

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir; and of course after he lost his place he

married me.

MRS. BARTHWICK. You actually mean to say you--you were----

BARTHWICK. My dear----

MRS. BARTHWICK. [Indignantly.] How disgraceful!

BARTHWICK. [Hurriedly.] And where are you living now, Mrs. Jones?

MRS. JONES. We've not got a home, sir. Of course we've been

obliged to put away most of our things.

BARTHWICK. Put your things away! You mean to--to--er--to pawn

them?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, to put them away. We're living in Merthyr

Street--that is close by here, sir--at No. 34. We just have the one

room.

BARTHWICK. And what do you pay a week?

MRS. JONES. We pay six shillings a week, sir, for a furnished room.

BARTHWICK. And I suppose you're behind in the rent?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, we're a little behind in the rent.

BARTHWICK. But you're in good work, aren't you?

MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have a day in Stamford Place Thursdays.

And Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays I come here. But to-day, of

course, is a half-day, because of yesterday's Bank Holiday.

BARTHWICK. I see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day,

is that it?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half

a day, and that's eighteen pence.

BARTHWICK. And when your husband earns anything he spends it in

drink, I suppose?

MRS. JONES. Sometimes he does, sir, and sometimes he gives it to me

for the children. Of course he would work if he could get it, sir,

but it seems there are a great many people out of work.

BARTHWICK. Ah! Yes. We--er--won't go into that.

[Sympathetically.] And how about your work here? Do you find it

hard?

MRS. JONES. Oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course,

when I don't get my sleep at night.

BARTHWICK. Ah! And you help do all the rooms? And sometimes, I

suppose, you go out for cook?

MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir.

BARTHWICK. And you 've been out this morning?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I had to go to the greengrocer's.

BARTHWICK. Exactly. So your husband earns nothing? And he's a bad

character.

MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I don't say that, sir. I think there's a

great deal of good in him; though he does treat me very bad

sometimes. And of course I don't like to leave him, but I think I

ought to, because really I hardly know how to stay with him. He

often raises his hand to me. Not long ago he gave me a blow here

[touches her breast] and I can feel it now. So I think I ought to

leave him, don't you, sir?

BARTHWICK. Ah! I can't help you there. It's a very serious thing

to leave your husband. Very serious thing.

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I 'm afraid of what he might do to

me if I were to leave him; he can be so very violent.

BARTHWICK. H'm! Well, that I can't pretend to say anything about.

It's the bad principle I'm speaking of----

MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir; I know nobody can help me. I know I must

decide for myself, and of course I know that he has a very hard

life. And he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to

see them going without food.

BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Well--er--thank you, I just wanted to hear

about you. I don't think I need detain you any longer, Mrs. Jones.

MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, sir.

BARTHWICK. Good morning, then.

MRS. JONES. Good morning, sir; good morning, ma'am.

BARTHWICK. [Exchanging glances with his wife.] By the way, Mrs.

Jones--I think it is only fair to tell you, a silver cigarette-box

--er--is missing.

MRS. JONES. [Looking from one face to the other.] I am very sorry,

sir.

BARTHWICK. Yes; you have not seen it, I suppose?

MRS. JONES. [Realising that suspicion is upon her; with an uneasy

movement.] Where was it, sir; if you please, sir?

BARTHWICK. [Evasively.] Where did Marlow say? Er--in this room,

yes, in this room.

MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I have n't seen it--of course if I 'd seen it

I should have noticed it.

BARTHWICK. [Giving hey a rapid glance.] You--you are sure of that?

MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] Yes, Sir. [With a slow nodding of her

head.] I have not seen it, and of course I don't know where it is.

[She turns and goes quietly out.]

BARTHWICK. H'm!

[The three BARTHWICKS avoid each other's glances.]

The curtain falls.

ACT II

SCENE I

The JONES's lodgings, Merthyr Street, at half-past two o'clock.

The bare room, with tattered oilcloth and damp, distempered

walls, has an air of tidy wretchedness. On the bed lies JONES,

half-dressed; his coat is thrown across his feet, and muddy

boots are lying on the floor close by. He is asleep. The door

is opened and MRS. JONES comes in, dressed in a pinched black

jacket and old black sailor hat; she carries a parcel wrapped

up in the "Times." She puts her parcel down, unwraps an apron,

half a loaf, two onions, three potatoes, and a tiny piece of

bacon. Taking a teapot from the cupboard, she rinses it,

shakes into it some powdered tea out of a screw of paper, puts

it on the hearth, and sitting in a wooden chair quietly begins

to cry.

JONES. [Stirring and yawning.] That you? What's the time?

MRS. JONES. [Drying her eyes, and in her usual voice.] Half-past

two.

JONES. What you back so soon for?

MRS. JONES. I only had the half day to-day, Jem.

JONES. [On his back, and in a drowsy voice.] Got anything for

dinner?

MRS. JONES. Mrs. BARTHWICK's cook gave me a little bit of bacon.

I'm going to make a stew. [She prepares for cooking.] There's

fourteen shillings owing for rent, James, and of course I 've only

got two and fourpence. They'll be coming for it to-day.

JONES. [Turning towards her on his elbow.] Let 'em come and find

my surprise packet. I've had enough o' this tryin' for work. Why

should I go round and round after a job like a bloomin' squirrel in

a cage. "Give us a job, sir"--"Take a man on"--"Got a wife and

three children." Sick of it I am! I 'd sooner lie here and rot.

"Jones, you come and join the demonstration; come and 'old a flag,

and listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome as empty as you came."

There's some that seems to like that--the sheep! When I go seekin'

for a job now, and see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, it's like

a thousand serpents in me. I 'm not arskin' for any treat. A man

wants to sweat hisself silly and not allowed that's a rum start,

ain't it? A man wants to sweat his soul out to keep the breath in

him and ain't allowed--that's justice that's freedom and all the

rest of it! [He turns his face towards the wall.] You're so milky

mild; you don't know what goes on inside o' me. I'm done with the

silly game. If they want me, let 'em come for me!

[MRS. JONES stops cooking and stands unmoving at the table.]

I've tried and done with it, I tell you. I've never been afraid of

what 's before me. You mark my words--if you think they've broke my

spirit, you're mistook. I 'll lie and rot sooner than arsk 'em

again. What makes you stand like that--you long-sufferin',

Gawd-forsaken image--that's why I can't keep my hands off you. So

now you know. Work! You can work, but you have n't the spirit of a

louse!

MRS. JONES. [Quietly.] You talk more wild sometimes when you're

yourself, James, than when you 're not. If you don't get work, how

are we to go on? They won't let us stay here; they're looking to

their money to-day, I know.

JONES. I see this BARTHWICK o' yours every day goin' down to

Pawlyment snug and comfortable to talk his silly soul out; an' I see

that young calf, his son, swellin' it about, and goin' on the

razzle-dazzle. Wot 'ave they done that makes 'em any better than

wot I am? They never did a day's work in their lives. I see 'em

day after day.

MRS. JONES. And I wish you wouldn't come after me like that, and

hang about the house. You don't seem able to keep away at all, and

whatever you do it for I can't think, because of course they notice

it.

JONES. I suppose I may go where I like. Where may I go? The other

day I went to a place in the Edgware Road. "Gov'nor," I says to the

boss, "take me on," I says. "I 'aven't done a stroke o' work not

these two months; it takes the heart out of a man," I says; "I 'm

one to work; I 'm not afraid of anything you can give me!" "My good

man," 'e says, "I 've had thirty of you here this morning. I took

the first two," he says, "and that's all I want." "Thank you, then

rot the world!" I says. "Blasphemin'," he says, "is not the way to

get a job. Out you go, my lad!" [He laughs sardonically.] Don't

you raise your voice because you're starvin'; don't yer even think

of it; take it lyin' down! Take it like a sensible man, carn't you?

And a little way down the street a lady says to me: [Pinching his

voice] "D' you want to earn a few pence, my man?" and gives me her

dog to 'old outside a shop-fat as a butler 'e was--tons o' meat had

gone to the makin' of him. It did 'er good, it did, made 'er feel

'erself that charitable, but I see 'er lookin' at the copper

standin' alongside o' me, for fear I should make off with 'er

bloomin' fat dog. [He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot

on. Then looking up.] What's in that head o' yours? [Almost

pathetically.] Carn't you speak for once?

[There is a knock, and MRS. SEDDON, the landlady, appears, an

anxious, harassed, shabby woman in working clothes.]

MRS. SEDDON. I thought I 'eard you come in, Mrs. Jones. I 've

spoke to my 'usband, but he says he really can't afford to wait

another day.

JONES. [With scowling jocularity.] Never you mind what your

'usband says, you go your own way like a proper independent woman.

Here, jenny, chuck her that.

[Producing a sovereign from his trousers pocket, he throws it

to his wife, who catches it in her apron with a gasp. JONES

resumes the lacing of his boots.]

MRS. JONES. [Rubbing the sovereign stealthily.] I'm very sorry

we're so late with it, and of course it's fourteen shillings, so if

you've got six that will be right.

[MRS. SEDDON takes the sovereign and fumbles for the change.]

JONES. [With his eyes fixed on his boots.] Bit of a surprise for

yer, ain't it?

MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She

does indeed appear surprised.] I 'll bring you the change.

JONES. [Mockingly.] Don't mention it.

MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She

slides away.]

[MRS. JONES gazes at JONES who is still lacing up his boots.]

JONES. I 've had a bit of luck. [Pulling out the crimson purse and

some loose coins.] Picked up a purse--seven pound and more.

MRS. JONES. Oh, James!

JONES. Oh, James! What about Oh, James! I picked it up I tell

you. This is lost property, this is!

MRS. JONES. But is n't there a name in it, or something?

JONES. Name? No, there ain't no name. This don't belong to such

as 'ave visitin' cards. This belongs to a perfec' lidy. Tike an'

smell it. [He pitches her the purse, which she puts gently to her

nose.] Now, you tell me what I ought to have done. You tell me

that. You can always tell me what I ought to ha' done, can't yer?

MRS. JONES. [Laying down the purse.] I can't say what you ought to

have done, James. Of course the money was n't yours; you've taken

somebody else's money.

JONES. Finding's keeping. I 'll take it as wages for the time I

've gone about the streets asking for what's my rights. I'll take

it for what's overdue, d' ye hear? [With strange triumph.] I've

got money in my pocket, my girl.

[MRS. JONES goes on again with the preparation of the meal,

JONES looking at her furtively.]

Money in my pocket! And I 'm not goin' to waste it. With this 'ere

money I'm goin' to Canada. I'll let you have a pound.

[A silence.]

You've often talked of leavin' me. You 've often told me I treat

you badly--well I 'ope you 'll be glad when I 'm gone.

MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] You have, treated me very badly, James,

and of course I can't prevent your going; but I can't tell whether I

shall be glad when you're gone.

JONES. It'll change my luck. I 've 'ad nothing but bad luck since

I first took up with you. [More softly.] And you've 'ad no

bloomin' picnic.

MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for us if we had

never met. We were n't meant for each other. But you're set

against me, that's what you are, and you have been for a long time.

And you treat me so badly, James, going after that Rosie and all.

You don't ever seem to think of the children that I 've had to bring

into the world, and of all the trouble I 've had to keep them, and

what 'll become of them when you're gone.

JONES. [Crossing the room gloomily.] If you think I want to leave

the little beggars you're bloomin' well mistaken.

MRS. JONES. Of course I know you're fond of them.

JONES. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow

it, old girl. The kids 'll get along better with you than when I 'm

here. If I 'd ha' known as much as I do now, I 'd never ha' had one

o' them. What's the use o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like

this? It's a crime, that's what it is; but you find it out too late;

that's what's the matter with this 'ere world.

[He puts the purse back in his pocket.]

MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for them, poor

little things; but they're your own children, and I wonder at you

talkin' like that. I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose

them.

JONES. [Sullenly.] An' you ain't the only one. If I make money

out there--[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat--in a

changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!

[The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the

cigarettes upon the bed. Taking up the box she stares at it;

he rushes at her and snatches the box away.]

MRS. JONES. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem!

JONES. [Dropping the box onto the table.] You mind what you're

sayin'! When I go out I 'll take and chuck it in the water along

with that there purse. I 'ad it when I was in liquor, and for what

you do when you 're in liquor you're not responsible-and that's

Gawd's truth as you ought to know. I don't want the thing--I won't

have it. I took it out o' spite. I 'm no thief, I tell you; and

don't you call me one, or it'll be the worse for you.

MRS. JONES. [Twisting her apron strings.] It's Mr. Barthwick's!

You've taken away my reputation. Oh, Jem, whatever made you?

JONES. What d' you mean?

MRS. JONES. It's been missed; they think it's me. Oh! whatever

made you do it, Jem?

JONES. I tell you I was in liquor. I don't want it; what's the

good of it to me? If I were to pawn it they'd only nab me. I 'm no

thief. I 'm no worse than wot that young Barthwick is; he brought

'ome that purse that I picked up--a lady's purse--'ad it off 'er in

a row, kept sayin' 'e 'd scored 'er off. Well, I scored 'im off.

Tight as an owl 'e was! And d' you think anything'll happen to him?

MRS. JONES. [As though speaking to herself.] Oh, Jem! it's the

bread out of our mouths!

JONES. Is it then? I'll make it hot for 'em yet. What about that

purse? What about young BARTHWICK?

[MRS. JONES comes forward to the table and tries to take the box;

JONES prevents her.] What do you want with that? You drop it, I

say!

MRS. JONES. I 'll take it back and tell them all about it. [She

attempts to wrest the box from him.]

JONES. Ah, would yer?

[He drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. She slips

back past the bed. He follows; a chair is overturned. The

door is opened; Snow comes in, a detective in plain clothes and

bowler hat, with clipped moustaches. JONES drops his arms,

MRS. JONES stands by the window gasping; SNOW, advancing

swiftly to the table, puts his hand on the silver box.]

SNOW. Doin' a bit o' skylarkin'? Fancy this is what I 'm after.

J. B., the very same. [He gets back to the door, scrutinising the

crest and cypher on the box. To MRS. JONES.] I'm a police officer.

Are you Mrs. Jones?

MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir.

SNOW. My instructions are to take you on a charge of stealing this

box from J. BARTHWICK, Esquire, M.P., of 6, Rockingham Gate.

Anything you say may be used against you. Well, Missis?

MRS. JONES. [In her quiet voice, still out of breath, her hand

upon her breast.] Of course I did not take it, sir. I never have

taken anything that did n't belong to me; and of course I know

nothing about it.

SNOW. You were at the house this morning; you did the room in which

the box was left; you were alone in the room. I find the box 'ere.

You say you did n't take it?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I say I did not take it, because I

did not.

SNOW. Then how does the box come to be here?

MRS. JONES. I would rather not say anything about it.

SNOW. Is this your husband?

MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, this is my husband, sir.

SNOW. Do you wish to say anything before I take her?

[JONES remains silent, with his head bend down.]

Well then, Missis. I 'll just trouble you to come along with me

quietly.

MRS. JONES. [Twisting her hands.] Of course I would n't say I had

n't taken it if I had--and I did n't take it, indeed I did n't. Of

course I know appearances are against me, and I can't tell you what

really happened: But my children are at school, and they'll be

coming home--and I don't know what they'll do without me.

SNOW. Your 'usband'll see to them, don't you worry. [He takes the

woman gently by the arm.]

JONES. You drop it--she's all right! [Sullenly.] I took the thing

myself.

SNOW. [Eyeing him] There, there, it does you credit. Come along,

Missis.

JONES. [Passionately.] Drop it, I say, you blooming teck. She's

my wife; she 's a respectable woman. Take her if you dare!

SNOW. Now, now. What's the good of this? Keep a civil tongue, and

it'll be the better for all of us.

[He puts his whistle in his mouth and draws the woman to the

door.]

JONES. [With a rush.] Drop her, and put up your 'ands, or I 'll

soon make yer. You leave her alone, will yer! Don't I tell yer, I

took the thing myself.

SNOW. [Blowing his whistle.] Drop your hands, or I 'll take you

too. Ah, would you?

[JONES, closing, deals him a blow. A Policeman in uniform

appears; there is a short struggle and JONES is overpowered.

MRS. JONES raises her hands avid drops her face on them.]

The curtain falls.

SCENE II

The BARTHWICKS' dining-room the same evening. The BARTHWICKS

are seated at dessert.

MRS. BARTHWICK. John! [A silence broken by the cracking of nuts.]

John!

BARTHWICK. I wish you'd speak about the nuts they're uneatable.

[He puts one in his mouth.]

MRS. BARTHWICK. It's not the season for them. I called on the

Holyroods.

[BARTHWICK fills his glass with port.]

JACK. Crackers, please, Dad.

[BARTHWICK passes the crackers. His demeanour is reflective.]

MRS. BARTHWICK. Lady Holyrood has got very stout. I 've noticed it

coming for a long time.

BARTHWICK. [Gloomily.] Stout? [He takes up the crackers--with

transparent airiness.] The Holyroods had some trouble with their

servants, had n't they?

JACK. Crackers, please, Dad.