For Galsworthy’s plays have the advantage of acting well—unlike much literary drama, they are as effective on the stage as in the study; in fact, they gain by acting, because, as I said, he has a tendency now and then to subordinate the human interest to the moral, and this the actor can make good.
He stands midway between the purely literary and the purely popular playwright, and he also occupies middle ground between drama which is entirely for instruction and that which is for amusement only. Poles apart on one hand from the light comedies of H. H. Davies and Somerset Maugham, he has very little in common with stage preachers such as Shaw and Barker. More polished and more subtle than Houghton, he is less clear-eyed and heroic than Masefield. Undoubtedly his most striking quality as a dramatist is his sense of form and craft, but he is far removed from that school of playwrights, of which Pinero and H. A. Jones are leaders, whose technique amounts to little more than a working knowledge of the stage.
Galsworthy loves, in his novels as well as his plays, to deal with situations. This is to a certain extent detrimental to the novelist, as it hampers development, and a novel which does not develop along some line or other has a tendency to stale or solidify. But it is obvious that a sense of situation is one of the first essentials of a dramatist, and Galsworthy has it in full measure. It shows pre-eminently in his central ideas, and subordinately in his apt management of his curtains, which in his best plays are situations in themselves, epitomising the chief issues of the act or scene.
His central situation is the moral or social problem at the bottom of the play. He carries on his propaganda almost entirely by situation, and this is what lifts his art above that of Shaw and other missionary dramatists. He practically never relies on dialogue for introducing his theories, except so far as dialogue develops and explains the situation. He depends on his characters and their actions to enforce his moral, and it is to this he owes his artistic salvation.
Having chosen his situation, he proceeds to balance it with two contrasting groups, one on either side. Each group consists of various types, embodying various points of view, which, while differing to a slight extent, are yet subordinate to the Point of View of the group. The fact that his characters are types rather than individuals is all to his good as a dramatist, though we shall see later that it is a drawback in the novels. Types are always more convincing on the stage than individuals, the necessary personal touch being given by the actor. There is no use criticising a play apart from the acting—the two are inextricably bound together, so that the author is in a sense only the collaborator; a play which was not written to be acted can scarcely be called a play—it is a novel in dialogue.
Perhaps the best example of Galsworthy’s technique, and at the same time his finest achievement as a playwright, is Strife. Here we have the central situation, the contrasting of groups, the combination of types—the whole so perfectly balanced, and so smooth-working, that it does not creak once. The central idea is the dispute between the directors of the Works and their employees, but it is impossible to consider this in itself, apart from the attitude of the two parties towards it. Indeed we are given a very vague idea of the nature of the difference; all we know is that it has reduced many of the workers to starvation, while the directors have to face angry shareholders and failing dividends. Harness, the trades-union delegate, acts as a go-between, and gradually both groups begin to see the allurements of compromise. Various circumstances drive them towards it, with the exception of their respective leaders, Roberts, and old Anthony. The end is pitiful—for the two sides surrender to each other simultaneously, breaking their leaders’ hearts. These men are of extraordinary character and ability, and of the most splendid courage, but they are betrayed by their cowardly followers, who have not grit or faith enough to see that their only chance lies in “no compromise.” There is a powerful scene between Roberts, the men’s leader, and Anthony, chairman of the directors, when they have both been abandoned by their supporters:
Roberts [to Anthony]. But ye have not signed them terms! They can’t make terms without their chairman! Ye would never sign them terms! [Anthony looks at him without speaking.] Don’t tell me ye have! for the love o’ God [with passionate appeal] I reckoned on ye!
Harness [holding out the Directors’ copy of the terms]. The Board has signed.
Roberts. Then you’re no longer Chairman of this Company! [Breaking into half-mad laughter.] Ah, ha—Ah, ha, ha! They’ve thrown ye over—thrown over their Chairman: ah—ha—ha! [With a sudden dreadful calm.] So—they’ve done us both down, Mr Anthony.
There is also a social problem at the bottom of Justice, but this time it is in connection with the English law. In Justice we have a bitter, tragic indictment of the penal system. We are given the psychology of a crime, but not so much of its committal as of its expiation. We are shown the effect of prison life on the clerk Falder, and of its consequences following him after his release, and driving him at last to suicide. It is a wonderfully temperate statement of cruel facts. Throughout it Galsworthy retains a perfect command of his art; above all he avoids any cheap identification of the ministers of a system with the system itself. The officials of the court and of the prison are all shown as wise and humane men; they do their best, according to their powers, for those wretches whose lives are harassed by the system they administrate. It is the system alone which is in fault.