Part 2

JONES. 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. 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 what young Barthwick is; he brought ’ome that purse 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. 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_.]

JONES. 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...._]

In _The Eldest Son_ we have the same idea not quite so effectively handled—the contrast between the codes of ethics required from the poor and from the rich. There are some good scenes in the play, notably that between Bill and Freda in the first act, and that towards the end, when the whole Cheshire family is brought into action against Freda and her sturdy old father, who at last suddenly solves the difficulty by saying: “I’ll have no charity marriage in my family,” and leading his daughter away. Also the characters of Sir William Cheshire and of his wife are great achievements, both strong and delicate. But the play has not the grip or the reality of _The Silver Box_.

The failure lies in a certain lack of cohesion and inevitableness in the whole. The rehearsal of _Caste_, which is introduced in the second act, points the moral rather too obviously. Also the central idea is hampered by the fact that the two illustrative cases are not really parallel. In _The Silver Box_ the theft by young Barthwick is just as blameworthy as that by Jones. Their positions are quite the same, except that, indeed, it is the man of wealth who is the more despicable and deserving of punishment. But no one can say that Bill Cheshire and Freda Studdenham are in the same position as the gamekeeper and the village girl. There are objections to the marriage of Bill and Freda which do not exist in the other case. Certainly there are objections to that too, but the fact remains that the two examples are not parallel.

THE PLAYS II

There are social and economic ideas at the bottom of _The Fugitive_, which is to a certain extent symbolical—a study of woman’s position when, for any reason, she is separated from the herd. But in this, as in other of his later plays, Galsworthy’s command of his art is not equal to his enthusiasm for his subject. Moving and forcible as it all is, it has not the balance, the inevitableness, of _Strife_ or _The Silver Box_. We feel that events are being arranged to suit the basic theory. The career of Clare Dedmond, from her revolt to her downfall, is not a thing foreseen, a thing of fate. We feel somehow that her end is arbitrary—at all events we are not shown the steps that lead to it. The actual catastrophes we witness do not demand it.

None the less the study of Clare is arresting—the woman who is “fine, but not fine enough.” She alienates our sympathies a little in the first act; there is no denying that she behaves childishly, and her husband, uncongenial as he may be, is not quite such a bounder as Malise, in whom, apparently, she finds satisfaction. But somehow that whole first act has an air of unreality about it, a remoteness from life, and a staginess we do not expect from Galsworthy. Later on the movement becomes swifter, and we have the sense of impending tragedy, which is realised in the scene where Clare leaves Malise, though she loves him and he is her only protector, because she discovers that she has become a drag on him and is spoiling his career.

The scene at the Restaurant, too, has its fine points, though it is spoilt by a riot of symbolism and a tendency towards false sentiment. The continuous singing of “This Day a Stag must die” by the revellers at another table is rather an obvious and cheap effect, so too the courtesan’s kiss as the curtain falls. On the whole one feels that _The Fugitive_ is a play in which the author’s plan has been better conceived than carried out.

The central situations of _Joy_ and of _The Mob_ have nothing to do with any social or economic problem, even in a narrowed, personal sense. They deal with conduct, and special cases of conduct. _Joy_ and _The Mob_, with _A Bit o’ Love_, stand at the bottom of the scale at the top of which are _Justice_ and _Strife_. The interest of the two latter is centred in the social and industrial problems they are built on; then come _The Silver Box_, _The Eldest Son_, and _The Fugitive_, in which the social problem undoubtedly exists, but which depend for interest on its personal variations; then come _Joy_, _The Mob_, and _A Bit o’ Love_, in which the interest is purely personal and unconnected with any social idea.

_Joy_ is a play built round an attitude rather than a problem. “A Play on the Letter I” is the sub-title, and from first to last we see how the consideration of self is the governing motive of widely different characters. We see it working openly, in characters that are frankly and aggressively egotistic; we see it acting more subtly in characters of a different stamp. The one person who is free from it is the old governess, Miss Beech, who lives only in her interest in those around her. Somehow, as is often the case with characters purposely in contrast with his general scheme, Galsworthy is occasionally artificial in dealing with Miss Beech. Her “devilishness” is more than once a trifle forced—the author so obviously wants her to be original, unlike both the conventional stage governess, and the conventionally selfless person. She fills to a certain extent the position of Chorus, and her vocation takes from her humanity. She becomes, as the play goes on, more and more of a Voice.

On the other hand, there is a great deal of humanity about Joy herself and her mother. Mrs Gwyn’s lover, Maurice Lever, is also real enough, though the same cannot always be said of Joy’s Dick. The scenes between the young people ring true, but the boy loses reality when away from Joy; he becomes more a part of stage machinery.

In spite of some languors, the play is quick-moving and closely knit, and the author keeps the central situation well in hand. There are one or two haunting scenes—the scenes of young love between Joy and Dick, the scenes of older, sadder love, more passionate and more disillusioned, between Mrs Gwyn and Lever—and one particularly good scene between Mrs Gwyn and Joy, after the girl has discovered her mother’s secret.

JOY [_covering her face_]. I’m—I’m ashamed.

MRS GWYN. I brought you into the world; and you say that to me? Have I been a bad mother to you?

JOY. Oh, mother!

MRS GWYN. Ashamed? Am _I_ to live all my life like a dead woman because you’re ashamed? Am I to live like the dead because you’re a child that knows nothing of life?... D’you think—because I suffered when you were born and because I’ve suffered since with every ache you ever had, that gives you the right to dictate to me now? I’ve been unhappy enough, and I shall be unhappy enough in the time to come. Oh, you untouched things, you’re as hard and cold as iron.

JOY. I would do anything for _you_, mother.

MRS GWYN. Except—let me live, Joy. That’s the only thing you won’t do for me, I quite understand.

JOY [_in a despairing whisper_]. But it’s wrong of you—it’s wicked.

MRS GWYN. If it’s wicked, _I_ shall pay for it, not _you_.

JOY. But I want to save you, mother!

MRS GWYN. Save me? [_Breaking into laughter._]

JOY. I can’t bear it that _you_—if you’ll only—I’ll never leave you ... oh, mother! I feel—I feel _so awful_—as if everybody knew.

MRS GWYN. You think I’m a monster to hurt you. Ah! yes! You’ll understand better some day.

JOY [_in a sudden burst of excited fear_]. I won’t believe it—I—I—can’t—_you’re deserting me_, mother.

MRS GWYN. Oh, you untouched things! You—--

[JOY _looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her knees_.]

JOY. Mother—it’s for _me_!

MRS GWYN. Ask for my life, Joy—don’t be afraid!

[JOY _turns her face away_. MRS GWYN _bends suddenly and touches her daughter’s hair_; JOY _shrinks from that touch, recoiling as if she had been stung_.]

MRS GWYN. I forgot—I’m deserting you.

[_And swiftly without looking back she goes away._ JOY _left alone under the hollow tree crouches lower, and her shoulders shake_.]

_The Mob_ is rather an irritating, unsatisfactory play. It is meant to be a study in ideals, but it is astonishing how blunderingly and at the same time how coldly Galsworthy puts these ideals before us. The title is also a mistake. The attitude of the mob towards Stephen More is merely of secondary and artificial importance. He meets his death at its hands, it is true, but it plays little part in the spiritual fight he wages. The exhibition, in a final tableau, of its changing fancy—in the statue it erects to his memory—is dangerously near anti-climax, and no integral part of the whole. One cannot see that the mob is anywhere a dominant force—it is an incident, far less important here than in _Strife_, though there is one scene in which Galsworthy shows again, as he showed in _Strife_, his power of dealing with stage crowds:

[MORE _turns and mounts the steps_.]

TALL YOUTH. You blasted traitor.

[MORE _faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they realised that they were spoiling their own sport_.]

A ROUGH GIRL. Don’t frighten the poor feller.

[_A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh._]

MORE. Well, what do you want?

VOICE. A speech.

MORE. Indeed! That’s new.

ROUGH VOICE. Look at his white liver. You can see it in his face.

A BIG NAVVY. Shut it. Give ’im a chanst.

TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor?

[_A youth plays on the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt silence._]

... and so on.

The whole of this scene is vigorous and convincing, so too the scene of More’s death; but again and again we are irritated by the way Galsworthy misses his chances. Take, for instance, the scene in which Katherine uses her beauty and his love for her to tempt More from his ideal—it is full of magnificent opportunities, and there is some fine stuff in it, but somehow it misses fire. This may be partly due to the fact that in his later plays Galsworthy’s restraint occasionally seems to lose its force. Economy of words and emotion is effective only when used to control the riches of both.

_A Bit O’ Love_ is in a sense the most personal of all the plays—I say in a sense, because, for the first time, we find Galsworthy definitely exploiting Place. The importance of Place in literature is a comparatively new discovery, for we must not count the descriptive and local novels which have been with us more or less from the first. Studies in Place, which set out deliberately to bring forward the personality—if I may use the term—of Place, are only just beginning, and Galsworthy, with _A Bit O’ Love_, comes among the pioneers. It is his latest play, and it will be interesting to watch if he chooses to develop along this line.

We have the Devonshire village as a central character in the piece—the various types which compose it are just so many parts of the whole, and it would be a mistake to treat them as separate persons. The village is at once sturdy and sweet and foolish, it is curious, it is pig-headed—it is built of the wisps of moon-and-dew cobwebs, and of the sty-door stakes from which they float. It is the common life of the village which is dealt with here, rather than subtleties of atmosphere—the actual locality has no definite existence apart from its inhabitants, which is a milder practice of the art of Place. But the central idea is the same as in all Place studies—the effect of the Place on the Man.

The man here is Michael Strangway, curate of the village, “a gentle creature burnt within,” who plays the flute, and loves dumb animals, and acts St Francis without the adorable Franciscan coarseness. His wife pleads with him not to ruin her lover’s career by bringing a divorce, and for love of her he promises. Unfortunately the interview is overheard by a little gossiping village girl who has a grudge against him because he had set free her imprisoned skylark. The news is spread, and the village is righteously indignant, wrath culminating when the curate crowns his impious toleration by falling upon the man who has used a few plain words about his wife in a public-house. Attacked and shunned on all sides for his attempt at a literal gospel, and betrayed within by the ache and emptiness of his heart, the curate resolves on suicide, but is rather tritely saved at the last moment by the little che-ild of such occasions, who offers him “a bit o’ love.”

There is some good work in the play, an atmosphere of beautiful wistfulness, tenderly combined with the bumpkin clump and flit. The dance in the big barn has its full effect of mystic and rustic beauty; there is infinite pathos in Strangway and Cremer setting out for a long tramp together in the link of their bruised hearts—and Galsworthy has done nothing more kindly-humorous than the meeting at the village inn, with Sol Potter uneasily in the chair.

The play is beautifully written, but it would seem as if the author had scarcely a clear idea himself of Strangway, and a little more planning might have saved him from one or two banalities. The extreme individuality, so to speak, of the curate’s problem—for no one can deny that his was an exceptional case—is a bit in the way of a writer whose chief concern is the social and general. But we must give a particular welcome to _A Bit o’ Love_, because it is Galsworthy’s first real experiment in Place, and one has a feeling that here is a grand new road for him to tread.

There remain two plays, which are called respectively “A Fantasy” and “An Allegory”—_The Pigeon_ and _The Little Dream_.

The first is a fantasy based on sober facts. Indeed it would be rightly called a satire. It is a study—carried through in a spirit of comedy, in spite of drunkenness, vice, poverty, and suicide—of three irreclaimables, and of those who would reclaim them. Old Timson, the drunkard; Mrs Megan, born light of love, who even while drowning thinks of dancing; Ferrand, the vagabond, the wanderer of quaint philosophy—they are a fantastic trio, because the sorrow and sordidness of their lives is all hazed over by this half-comic, half-satiric glow in which their creator chooses to see them. In themselves more hopeless and tragic than any of the characters in _Strife_ or _Justice_, they raise smiles instead of tears. It would seem almost as if the tragedy of the outcast had stirred in Galsworthy those depths beyond sorrow, which can find no expression save in laughter.

Various theorists argue about these three outcasts, and one good-natured man befriends them. Wellwyn is a kindly study, and his easy methods, however much his practical little daughter may blame him, do more to humanise the poor wretches than the sterner tactics of Professor Calway or Sir Thomas Huxton. But as a matter of fact no generosity will meet the case, no theory. We can only laugh, and through laughter learn a little more of pity.

There is some delightful humour in _The Pigeon_. As a rule Galsworthy’s humour is too deeply tinged with bitterness to ring true; when it is not embittered it is often ineffective or trivial, as in _Joy_ or _The Eldest Son_. In _The Pigeon_, however, there are scenes of genuine humour and fine satire, both in situation and in dialogue. The various conceptions of character too are essentially humorous, which is seldom, if ever, the case in the other plays. It is a sharp stroke which right at the end of the play avenges the kindly Pigeon whom everyone has plucked.

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN [_in an attitude of expectation_]. This is the larst of it, sir.

WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes!

[_He gives them money; then something seems to strike him and he exhibits certain signs of vexation. Suddenly he recovers, looks from one to the other, and then at the tea-things. A faint smile comes on his face._]

WELLWYN. You can finish the decanter.

[_He goes out in haste._]

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN [_clinking the coins_]. Third time of arskin’! April fool! Not ’arf. Good old Pigeon!

SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. ’Uman being, _I_ call ’im.

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN [_taking three glasses from the last packing-case, and pouring very equally into them_]. That’s right. Tell you wot, I’d never ’a’ touched this unless ’e’d told me, I wouldn’t—not with ’im.

SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. Ditto to that! This is a bit of orl right! [_Raising his glass._] Good luck!

THIRD HUMBLE-MAN. Same ’ere!

[_Simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor, and at once let fall their faces and their glasses._]

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN [_with great solemnity_]. Crikey! Bill! _Tea!_... E’s got us!

[_The stage is blotted dark._]

_The Little Dream_ is rather a bitter allegory of the adventures of the soul in search of life and happiness. Seelchen, the little mountain girl, hears the call of the Wine Horn, typifying the delights of the town and the world, and the Cow Horn, typifying the pleasures of her mountain home, but there is a strange resemblance in the hard disillusions they are bound to offer after their gifts, and only the lonely Great Horn behind points to something finer and higher. There is really not much interest, or indeed, much originality in the little sketch, but there is some beautiful language, and Galsworthy is able to give free rein to his sense of words and poetic faculty. There is real poetry in some of the lyrics, and by them, rather than by his published volume of verse, one judges him poet as well as playwright.

“O flame that treads the marsh of time, Flitting for ever low, Where, through the black enchanted slime, We, desperate, following go— Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! Into dark air above, The golden gipsy thins away— So has it been with love.”

THE NOVELS I

Though undoubtedly Galsworthy owes his position as an artist and as a thinking force to his plays, he still carries considerable weight as both in his novels. That his novels have not the value, whether social or literary, of his plays—that indeed his position as a novelist is largely due to his fame as a playwright—does not make away with the fact that he has given us some half-dozen novels of standing, which are worth consideration in themselves, apart from anything their author may have done in other fields.

His lack of complete success as a novelist is partly due to those characteristics which have made him so successful as a playwright. The drama is a lawful means of propaganda, the novel is not—Galsworthy’s plays gain enormously from the social or moral problems at their base, while the same problems have a tendency to constrict or impede the development of his novels. A play is dependent mainly on its craft, for this is a point which lies solely with the author, in which no actor, however skilful, can help him; on the other hand, a novel depends chiefly on its human interest, and this the author must supply himself, since he has no intermediaries to make good where he fails. There is little doubt that abstract ideas do not help the human interest of a novel. It is remarkable how small a part the abstract plays in the lives of even the most thoughtful of us, and anything in the nature of a problem or an idea, of anything belonging to the brain rather than to the heart, has a tendency to destroy the illusion of real life which it is the chief object of a novelist to create.

Another reason why Galsworthy is more successful in his plays than in his novels is that most good plays are founded on a situation, most good novels on the development of a situation, and development is not a characteristic of Galsworthy’s art. He likes to take a situation, examine it from characteristic and conflicting points of view, and show the effect it has on different lives, but he never attempts to develop it, to start a chain of events from it, mould characters by it. Practically every character in a Galsworthy novel, with the possible exception of _The Dark Flower_, is the same at the end as at the beginning. This means that in his novels he is still a playwright as far as both situation and character are concerned. He develops neither, he never goes forward, he goes round. The result is that his novels are mostly plays in novel form, and they suffer in consequence.

In fact all the drawbacks of the novels may be said to arise from defects in the human interest so essential to a novelist. It is not that Galsworthy does not feel, and most passionately, for his characters, neither is it that they are not flesh and blood, nor that their stories are not real and moving. It is rather because they are types, not individuals, and types chosen to fit some particular situation which has been already selected. They are never mere pegs or mere puppets, but somehow there is nothing creative about them; they lack the individual touch which the actor can impart to a character in a play, but which the author alone can give in a novel. Also they repeat themselves, there is not enough diversity; the same groups arrange themselves in different novels. Of course there are exceptions—Lord Miltoun in _The Patrician_, Mr Stone in _Fraternity_—but these, on examination, prove to be only a fining down of the type till it is almost an individual; there is no definite creation.

However, against this defect, which is due to the intrusion of the playwright into the novelist’s sphere, we must set a wonderful and seldom-failing craft, which goes far to justify that intrusion. There are few novelists with a finer sense of form than Galsworthy, few with a finer sense of style—the conciseness of the dramatist teaches him the need of arrangement and the full value to be wrung out of a word. In one point only does the dramatist fail the novelist, and that, strange to say, is in dialogue. Again and again the dialogue in the novels falls flat, or is stilted, or irrelevant—and it is curious, when we remember how strong the plays are in this respect.