III
Mr. Galsworthy can create people and he can write natural dialogue. "The Silver Box" is a testimony of his power to do so. But in his later plays he has not always allowed his creatures to behave in a creditable fashion, nor has he always written dialogue that exactly fits their tongues. One suspects, too, that he is losing his sense of proportion, that he is not so capable now as he was earlier in his career of distinguishing between things which are important and things which are not. He has developed an interest in trivial questions of sex and has become so absorbed in dilemmas of colliding characters that he has lost sight of the nature of his characters. He has been called a Determinist because he shows his people as the creature of circumstances, but in his later work, particularly in his play "The Fugitive," his Determinism has become wilful: he seems to have made up his mind that his characters shall become the victims of circumstances in defiance of facts and the natures with which he has created them. He deliberately ties their hands behind their backs and then exclaims: "These are the victims of adverse circumstances!" And indeed they are, but the circumstances have been artificially created by Mr. Galsworthy and not by any force that governs the universe. He is so eager to bring Clare Dedmond, in "The Fugitive," to her death in a restaurant frequented by prostitutes that he totally neglects to consider the fact that with the nature he gives her she is the last person on earth likely to end that way.
It is not in ideas that Mr. Galsworthy fails, so far as his later work is concerned—it is in execution. The idea of "The Fugitive" is a notable one. The play, which in its faults is significant of all Mr. Galsworthy's later plays, deals with the tragic failure of a sensitive woman to adjust her life to that of a dull, unimaginative man in whom, although the conventions and traditions of his class have schooled him into a certain decency of form, there is a very large measure of coarseness. The collision is between the finely-perceptive and the totally-imperceptive, and the theme is similar, in one respect, to that of "The Doll's House," and in another to that of "The Shadow of the Glen." But the treatment of it is very inferior to the treatment of it by Ibsen and Synge. Ibsen plainly showed how impossible it was for Nora to continue to live with her husband after she had suffered her disillusionment. He showed with equal clarity how natural it was that she should marry and love her husband, and yet in the end, turn away from him. Mr. Galsworthy takes Clare Dedmond beyond the stage to which Ibsen took Nora. Ibsen was content to end his play with Nora's exit from her husband's home: he did not follow her from it nor show what became of her thereafter. Mr. Galsworthy is concerned less with the act of separation and more with the consequences of it. He is not so interested in her flight from her husband as he is in what happens to her after she has flown from him. He has taken a longer stretch of Clare's life than Ibsen took of Nora's, but he has contrived to make it smaller than Nora's. One derives an extraordinary sense of completeness and space from "The Doll's House," but does not derive a similar sense from "The Fugitive." Ibsen gives one a sense of familiarity with his people, but Mr. Galsworthy hardly makes one more familiar with Clare Dedmond and her husband than a reader of a newspaper is with the principal parties to a divorce suit.
Clare Dedmond, like Nora Burke in Synge's "The Shadow of the Glen," is suffering from starved emotions, but Synge in his one-act play has created the atmosphere of starved emotions far more successfully than Mr. Galsworthy has done in his four acts. The antagonism between Nora and Daniel Burke is instantly understood by the reader, who, however, cannot immediately understand why it is that Clare and George Dedmond do not "get on" together. The reader knows why Nora married Daniel. "And how would I live and I an old woman if I hadn't a bit of a farm with cows on it and sheep on the blackhills?" The sense of desolation in this woman's life is so powerfully expressed that the reader of the play does not ask questions. He does not stop to inquire why Nora married her husband: he knows why she married him, and this knowledge is derived, not from the author's assertions, but from the woman's behaviour. A sense of desolation is not created when the author says that there is desolation, nor is it created when a character says: "I am miserable!" It is created when the speech and behaviour of the characters are such as one hears and sees when people are unhappy. It would be absurd for a writer to make a character say: "I have a very kindly disposition," and then show him in the normal habit of beating his wife, kicking his grandmother, and ill-treating animals ... unless he were trying to be funny or were portraying a madman. There must be consistency between character and conduct, and the measure of a writer's artistry is the degree to which he succeeds in reconciling the one with the other.
It is when Mr. Galsworthy's later work is tested in this manner that one realizes how lamentably he has failed to create the illusion of life. One goes through the pages of "The Fugitive" making notes of interrogation! One does not ask: "Why did Ibsen's Nora marry her husband?" "Why did Synge's Nora marry her husband?" because one knows the answer to these questions from the beginning of the plays, and it is not necessary to ask them. But why did Clare Dedmond marry her husband? Because she loved him? Because she wished to be married and no one else had asked her? For money? To escape from her parents? It is impossible to say. Most of the faults which I find in Mr. Galsworthy's work are to be found in this play and so I propose to examine it here in detail.
The story of "The Fugitive" is summarily this:—
Clare Huntington, the daughter of a poor parson, is married to George Dedmond, a man of wealth and social position. When the play begins these two have reached that point in their marital relationship when their unhappiness is plain to their acquaintances. The husband, irritated and puzzled, is eager to make a compromise which will not involve legal separation and "talk."
Clare (softly). I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice.
George. Pish!
Clare. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better together—if I went away.
George. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some primitive sense of honour.
While travelling abroad the Dedmonds make the acquaintance of a journalist named Kenneth Malise who is employed on a weekly review. He and Clare become very friendly with each other, but George, who declares that Malise is a bounder, does not share the friendship. Malise knows that Clare is unhappy in her marriage and he incites her to "spread your wings." He does not appear to have thought of what is to become of her when she spreads her wings, nor does he manifest any concern about her ability to remain in flight. His attitude towards her may roughly be said to be: "It doesn't matter what happens to you so long as you run away from your husband!" Clare eventually leaves her husband, and in the second act she goes to Malise's rooms to ask for his advice. She has taken his advice to spread her wings. What is she to do?
Mr. Malise very clearly does not know what she is to do. While he and she are debating about her future his rooms are invaded by Dedmond's parents, his solicitor, and, subsequently, by Dedmond himself. They endeavour to persuade Clare to return to her husband, which she refuses to do, and there is a scene in which George Dedmond, having offered to take Clare back to his home, goes away threatening to divorce her and cite Malise as co-respondent. After this scene Clare, in obedience to her queer sense of honour, which impels her to make hateful returns for favours received, offers herself in physical submission to Malise, without, however, being able to conceal the fact that such submission is loathsome to her. It is necessary, in studying this play, to take considerable notice of Clare's attitude towards physical relationships. Sexual submission is repulsive to her, not only in relation to her husband, whom she dislikes, but also in relation to Malise, for whom she has so much liking that eventually she falls in love with him. At the moment at which the offer is first made, however, she is not in love with Malise: she offers herself to him because she feels that, having brought trouble upon him, she ought to make reparation for her conduct!
Clare. If I must bring you harm—let me pay you back. I can't bear it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind!
Malise. My God!
She puts her face up to be kissed, shutting her eyes.
Malise. You poor——
He clasps and kisses her; then, drawing back, looks in her face. She has not moved; her eyes are still closed. But she is shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together, her hands twitching.
Malise (very quietly). No, no! This is not the house of a "gentleman."
Clare (letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper). I'm sorry—
Malise. I understand.
Clare. I don't feel. And without—I can't, can't.
Malise (bitterly). Quite right. You've had enough of that.
She puts her face up to be kissed, shutting her eyes.
He clasps and kisses her; then, drawing back, looks in her face. She has not moved; her eyes are still closed. But she is shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together, her hands twitching.
That speech—"I don't feel. And without—I can't, can't"—is the key-speech of Clare Dedmond's nature, and, in view of the end of the play, must be remembered.
Malise, recognizing that Clare cannot happily be his mistress otherwise than in name, will not accept her offer of physical submission merely as a return for what he may have to bear in her behalf, and so she leaves his flat. She obtains employment as a shop-assistant, and is not seen again, by her family or by Malise, for three months. Then, after she has encountered a relative, she bolts in a panic from the shop and returns to Malise's flat. She proposes to do typewriting and asks him to find employment for her. He gives her some of his own MSS. to type, and while they are discussing her prospects of employment she reveals the fact that she now loves him.
Malise. Can you typewrite where you are?
Clare. I have to find a new room, anyway. I'm changing—to be safe. (She takes a luggage ticket from her glove). I took my things to Charing Cross—only a bag and one trunk. (Then, with that queer expression on her face which prefaces her desperations.) You don't want me now, I suppose?
Malise. What?
Clare (hardly above a whisper). Because—if you still wanted me—I do—now.
Malise (staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling). You mean it? You do? You care?
Clare. I've thought of you—so much. But only—if you're sure.
He clasps her, and kisses her closed eyes.
He clasps her, and kisses her closed eyes.
That love declaration is singularly unconvincing, more so to the reader of the play than to the witness of it. It is not unlikely that Clare's liking for Malise increased during the three months of their separation, particularly as she regarded him as a benefactor to whom she had brought trouble, but it seems to me to be improbable that she would declare her love so casually. Mr. Galsworthy's stage directions make the puzzle more involved. If Clare were in love with Malise to the extent of overcoming her hatred of physical contacts, she would hardly have "that queer expression on her face which prefaces her desperations." When a man or woman is desperate he or she is hopeless or almost hopeless, and if Mr. Galsworthy's stage directions are to be taken seriously then they mean that Clare was willing to become the mistress of Malise for much the same reason that a rat will fight in a corner. But if her words mean what they would seem to mean, surely, given her character and remembering what she has endured, her surrender to Malise will not be accompanied by any signs of desperation at all, but in sheer reaction, if nothing else, by every sign of jubilation and relief.
The attitude of Malise towards Clare does not appear to have undergone any change at all; he is not any more in love with her in the third act than he was in the first act, when, indeed, his love had a dubious aspect. There is no warmth in the man, no glow. He is cold, not with the hard, sharp, tingling cold of ice, but with the flabby chill of a dead fish. When George Dedmond institutes divorce proceedings, citing Malise as co-respondent, the fellow goes to pieces, and whines and bleats to his charwoman because the proprietors of the review on which he is employed propose to dismiss him. They have some scruples against writers who become involved in scandals. The charwoman informs Clare of Malise's misery, and she, knowing that her husband will abandon the suit if she leaves Malise, goes quietly from his flat. Her next appearance is in a restaurant, largely patronized by prostitutes. One does not know what has happened to her in the meantime, but it is plain that she must have suffered acutely, for this delicately bred woman, sensitive to the point of morbidity about sexual relationships, has decided to become a prostitute! We see her entering "The Gascony" for the first time when the fourth act begins. A young man, ordinary, decent, and uncommonly lustful, makes overtures to her, treating her with kindliness when he discovers that he is her first customer. His kindliness helps to reconcile her to her position, and she prepares to leave the restaurant with him. While he is paying the bill two coarse men leer at her, and one of them accosts her, making an appointment for the following evening. As she watches his coarse face, inflamed with lust, she realises the horror of the life she is about to lead, and suddenly makes a decision—she takes a bottle of poison from her dress, pours its contents into a wine-glass, and drinks it. She dies while some sportsmen in an adjoining room play "the last notes of an old song 'This Day a Stag Must Die' on a horn." And that is the end of the play.
It seems to me to be incredible that Clare Dedmond should have gone to that restaurant to sell herself to any casual purchaser. It seems to me, given her nature, incredible that she should even have thought of such a way of life or that, having thought of it, she should not instantly poison herself rather than endure it. Mr. Galsworthy insists throughout the play on her exceptional sensitiveness about sex-relationships. I think that psychologically he has over-stated this sensitiveness, but, assuming that he has not done so, is it conceivable that a woman who shivers and twitches her hands when she is kissed by a man whom she likes will consent to put on fine clothes and go to a notorious restaurant and sit at a table while men inspect her?... (I leave out of consideration such questions as: "Where did she obtain the fine clothes?" "How did she acquire her knowledge of 'The Gascony'?") If she were prepared to endure that last of all defilements, why did she run away from her husband? If she were capable of selling her embraces, why did she shiver and twitch when Malise kissed her? George Dedmond was not a "bad" man. He did not ill-treat her nor was he faithless to her. He insisted, indeed, on sexual submissions, but one has difficulty in believing that her horror of these, "unless I feel," was very strong since she was willing to suffer the casual amours of "The Gascony." There would have been something pitiable in her if, after leaving Malise, she had returned to George. There would have been something tragical in her if, reluctant to return to George, she had killed herself when she found that she could not maintain herself in decency. But there is nothing either pitiable or tragical in the end devised for her by Mr. Galsworthy. It is an arranged and schemed destiny that overwhelms Clare Dedmond, arranged and schemed not by Circumstance but by Mr. Galsworthy, and having no relation whatever to the nature of the woman. Mr. Galsworthy wanted to poison her in "The Gascony," and so he thrust her into the restaurant in plain disregard of her character and of common facts.
There is a phrase in the play which is intended to illuminate Clare's nature. "You're too fine," Mrs. Fullarton says to her, "and you're not fine enough to endure things." How can one be too fine to endure a thing and yet not fine enough to endure it? And, having begun to question in that fashion, one goes on again to wonder why she married her husband. "Five years" (of marriage), she says to her husband, "and four of them like this!" Here is no case of slow transformation of love into dislike or of instant disillusionment. Clare does not suddenly discover or slowly discover that George is not the sort of man she had imagined him to be, for he remains throughout the play exactly the sort of man he was when she was wooed and married by him. He did not become prosaic, unimaginative, and coarse after marriage: he was always like that; and Clare, so sensitive as she was, must have been jarred by him as much before marriage as she was a year after marriage. There is no suggestion in the play that she married for money. Had she done so, surely she would, when we remember the depths to which she was subsequently prepared to descend, have borne his dullness and coarseness, not gladly, perhaps, but with fortitude?
The processes of attraction and repulsion are so complicated that it is difficult to say where one begins and the other ends, but this difficulty is hardly to be experienced in cases where the personalities are so marked and divergent as were the personalities of Clare and George Dedmond. If one were to take a man like Squire Western in "Tom Jones" and marry him to Mélisande in "Pelléas et Mélisande," one could prophesy with some certainty what would be the result of such a marriage. It would be disastrous. Left to the ordinary processes of nature, however, such a marriage would not take place at all.
But the difficulty of fathoming Clare's relationships does not end with her husband. It is equally difficult to understand her attitude towards Malise. What attracted her to this extraordinarily ill-bred man who sneers openly at her relatives and friends, mocking and insulting them to her and to their faces? The Dedmonds, parents and son, are dense, but they are decent. They live by rule because they cannot live by any other means. It is not their fault that they cannot understand Clare's point of view, any more than it is the fault of a blind man that he falls over an obstacle which he cannot see. Malise regards them as malignant people, deliberately imprisoning an aspiring woman. His vision of them is as narrow as is theirs of him, and, since he has not got their breeding or kindliness, his conduct is caddish where theirs is merely stupid. There is no magnitude or charity in this man. He spends his days and nights in writing petulant screeds in the style of Thomas Carlyle: windy stuff, blowing out of a noisome mind; and when he has induced one helpless, incompetent woman to follow his creed he fails her completely.
The last sentences of the play show that Mr. Galsworthy had set his mind on Clare's death in disregard of the probabilities. Clare, having swallowed the poison, is lying back in her chair, presumably dead.
The Young Man has covered his eyes with his hands; Arnaud is crossing himself fervently; the Languid Lord stands gazing with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his fingers; and the woman bending over Clare, kisses her forehead.
That is a piece of theatricality. It has no relationship to real things. Those people, in life, would not have stood about in sentimental attitudes watching a woman die of poison. The young man would have flown for a doctor; the waiter would have rushed off for an emetic; the languid lord would have lost his languid airs in his desire to get away from the restaurant in fear lest he might be summoned as a witness at the inquest; and the woman would promptly have had hysterics.