This letter interests me for many reasons; the writer herself had an arresting personality, and this letter, with its clarity of style, its beautifully clear and artistic writing, writing which never ceases for a single word to depict character and sensitive feeling, the sentiment bravely speaking what the writer felt, and yet never deteriorating into nothing but carping criticism; all these things go to give a very true idea of the writer:
Dear Mr. Esmond,
I followed every word and scene of your play with the deepest interest. I found it quite terrible. It would be absurd to say that such stories ought not to receive illustration on the stage. But I do say that, when they are presented, they should be told in the Shakespearean and not in the Ibsen manner. One requires poetry and music and every softening aid for tragedies so dismal, otherwise the whole thing is a nightmare. I am not older than you are, but I have had a great deal of sorrow, and I have been forced to see the squalid side of every ideal. Yet I thought you were unjust even to the worst in human nature. I know you won’t mind my saying this, because I have such an admiration for your great talents. There are so few dramatists in Europe that, where one recognises unusual ability, one may be pardoned for wishing to see it displayed to the highest advantage. Life, as it is, is quite “strong” enough; if you show it as it is not, it becomes inartistically weak from excess of horrors.—Then follows some criticism of the acting, ending with the words, “Its (the play’s) balance was so good, and it never halted or drooped. You have got the real gift.” The letter is signed “Yours sincerely, Pearl Mary-Teresa Craigie” (whom the world knew better as “John Oliver Hobbes”).
On a large sheet of very excellent paper, and somewhere near the bottom of the sheet, is written:
Dear Esmond,
Thanks very much for Grierson. I am devouring him—gloom and all—with great gusto.
Sincerely yours,
Max Beerbohm.
This next letter must have been written concerning Grierson’s Way, and is in the queer irregular handwriting of William Archer, the great critic. He says: “Of course Messieurs of the Old Guard in criticism die, but never surrender. Never mind! You have scored a big victory, and I congratulate you with all my heart. The mantle of ‘Clemmy’ (Clement Scott) has certainly descended upon the Telegraph gentleman.”
The next item in my bundle is a photograph of the “Weekly Box Office Statement” of the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, and at the bottom is printed “This theatre’s largest week’s business at regular prices”. The “attraction” was “Mr. N. C. Goodwin and Miss Maxine Elliott”, and the play was When We Were Twenty-One.