It was from their balcony, too, that I saw Mr. Graham White, when he flew right down the racecourse in his aeroplane, dipping and touching the water like a swallow, to the alarm of the crowds in their boats on either side of the course—a never-to-be-forgotten sight.
Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W. To face p. [142]
Harry as Major-General Sir R. Chichele
“The Princess and the Butterfly”
CHAPTER XI
ROUND AND ABOUT
“We’ve been to a good many places in the last few months, but we’ve had a very pleasant time.”
—Grierson’s Way.
When we first went out to America together, Harry and I, in 1914, it was my first visit, though not his; he had been over before to produce several of his own plays. We took with us The Dear Fool, which was played in this country in 1914, and Eliza Comes to Stay. Personally, I did not enjoy the visit very much; and, to be quite candid, it was not the success we could have wished. The critics were not too kind, and, though American theatrical criticism may have changed since then, I found their articles such an extraordinary mixture of journalese, slang, and poker terms as to be almost unintelligible—at all events to my British intelligence. These articles may have been very amusing; perhaps if I could have read them “on this side”, I might have found them so, but in New York I admit the kind of writing—of which I give an example here—merely irritated me, as I imagine it must have irritated many other English artists: “After the first act there was a universal call for the water-boy, yet we all stayed; nobody raised the ante, so we all cheerfully drew cards for the second act. Alas, when it was too late, we discovered it was a bum deck. I don’t believe there was anything higher than a seven spot.” That may be very clever. I can almost believe it is very witty; but I still hold that it is not “criticism”.
I give one more example, and also the comment of another American newspaper upon the extract from the first journal. The extract concerns The Dear Fool, and is as follows:—“A pretty severe strain on one’s critical hospitality. Betty at best a cackling marionette made of sawdust. It is but a meaningless jumble of stock phrases and stock situations. Anything more feeble it would be hard to imagine. The ‘Dear Fool’ is one of the worst.” Now mark the pæan of thanksgiving which this criticism calls forth from another New York journal:—“Not only is this (referring to the extract given above) an accurate and intelligent account of last night’s play—healthy fearlessness which rarely gets into the New York criticisms. Let us have more of this honest and straightforward writing about the current drama.”
That is only the worst—may I say “the worst”, not only from “our” point of view, but also from the point of view of “criticism”—which I still maintain it was not, in any sense of the word. Some weeks ago I read a very admirable series of essays by Mr. Agate, and in writing of critics he says (and he is one of them) that every critic should be a “Jim Hawkins”, looking for treasure. Too often, I can believe, it is a weary search; but surely in every play there is something which calls for approbation, and which may point to possibilities in the author’s work. To find that streak of gold, to incite the author to follow it, and to perhaps point out in what manner he may best do so, coupled with a fair review of his play as a whole, giving faults as they appear and merits where they can be found—that seems to me the justification of criticism.
Another critic wrote with perhaps a less racy pen, but with more understanding:—“There was a literary quality in the writing and a neatness in the construction which were inviting, and there was a mellowness to the story of its middle-aged lovers which had real appeal. Over it all was the unmistakable atmosphere of English life. All these qualities and the fact that the play was extremely well acted, counted strongly in its favour.”