Judgments in Vacation

by Sir Edward Abbott Parry

As an instance of dramatic justice it is interesting to know that the production of this play costs its authors money. Incidentally it made money for others, actors, actresses, scene-shifters, proprietors of theatres, dramatic critics and the like, to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds. Some day when I publish the play, as I hope to do, I will set out in detail its financial side, which is quite as amusing as the play itself. But the main point, which from a socialist point of view is so entirely satisfactory, is that the brain-workers who wrote it, and the capitalist who produced it lost over it; but that it provided work and bread and cheese for a large number of people who might otherwise have filled the ranks of the unemployed. It is a fitting termination to the work of an author whose motive power is greed. The only fear is that if this were always to happen, there might come a time when there would be a shortage of authors ready to supply food and wages for others at a cost to themselves. Personally, I do not think this is all likely to occur, for authors seem to me a class of persons who will always be actuated by vanity, and a greed of so unintelligent and unbusinesslike a character that they will go on writing for others, rather than themselves to the end of time. I in no way regret the results of “What the Butler Saw.” I fear my greed is of a very poor commercial standard. I had plenty of fun for my money. It is something to have written a masterpiece, and it is something better to have seen it beautifully acted. I am very poor at taking the amusements of life seriously, and even when playing golf I often find myself looking at the scenery instead of at the ball. Indeed, I am not sure that I did write “What the Butler Saw,” from any really high sense of greed, and that may account for its having turned on me and bitten me financially. I have more than a half belief that I wrote it for the fun of the thing.

And this brings me to my third motive of authorship, writing for the fun of the things. All the best writing in the world—short of the very highest and most sacred work—is done for the fun of the thing. Some people prefer the phrase the love of the thing, and say it is the love of the beautiful, or the love of mischief, or the love of romance that moves them to writing. But I prefer to call it writing for the fun of the thing, because that describes to me exactly what I mean. All games should be played in this spirit, and writing is a far less serious game with most of us than games like bridge or chess or golf or cricket.

Charles Marriott—not the national novelist of our high seas, but Marriott the modern—who has a gracious gift of hinting great ideas in simple phrases and never shouts them at you, so that if you are a deaf reader you do not always get the best out of him—Marriott says in “The Remnant”: “Quite in the beginning, when men went out to kill their enemies or their dinner, there was always one man who wanted to stay, at home and talk to the women, and make rhymes and scratch pictures on bones.” There are two great truths in this. One is that the first author was an artist. He scratched pictures on bones long before he made rhymes. Of course he did it for the fun of the thing. There could be no other reason, the motives of vanity and greed were not open to him. There was no publisher in the cave-dwellers’ days to seize his bones, and pay him a royalty on them, and build a big cave for himself out of the proceeds of the speculation, whilst the bone-scratcher slept in the open. I think a cave-artist had a good time. He enjoyed his life in his own way, and I believe got better food for his work than many an artist of to-day. But modern artists have forgotten the great truth that to paint well you must paint for the fun of the thing, as the cave-man scratched his bones, and as children draw to-day if you give them paper and pencil, and don’t look on and worry them. Few artists now paint for the fun of the thing without vanity or greed, but when they do they sometimes find an echo in the shape of a patron as mad as themselves, who buys pictures for the fun of the thing, and not because the critics tell him that this or that is good. The recent McCullough collection at Burlington House was worth showing despite the sneers of the superior persons, because it was an honest collection of what one man had really liked. What annoyed the critics was that a man had bought the pictures because he loved them, and not because he had been told he ought to love them.

And then there is another great truth in what Marriott says. The cave-artist stayed at home to make rhymes and pictures for the women whilst the men went out to get the dinner. How few writers remember that the real judges of literature are and must be the women of the country. Women necessarily fill the churches and lecture halls, and the lending libraries, and the theatres, and the picture galleries—only in music halls do men predominate. It is for women primarily that all literature and art are made to-day, just as they were in the cave-dweller’s time. To follow out this interesting theme and account scientifically for the phenomenon would take a longer essay than this. Moreover, one would run up against the problem of the women who want to vote and many other dangerous questions. The cave-dwellers really knew all about it. The men went out to get the dinner in those days merely because there were no shops in Cave Street—but the researches of all professors show that even in those days the women ordered the dinner. And the voice that orders the dinner, and the hand that rocks the cradle will always rule the world.

If you want to test the value of writing for the fun of the thing in relation to the work produced take the case of Southey. Southey was, among the many mansions of literature of his day, the most eligible mansion of all. He was a most erudite and superior literary man. But though what he wrote was important and well paid for when he wrote it, to-day the world has no use for it. But once in a way Southey wrote a story for the fun of the thing and it will live for ever. I refer of course to “The Three Bears.” Southey, strange to say, wrote that wonderful story. He invented the immortal three, the Great Huge Bear with his great rough gruff voice, and the Middle Bear with his middle voice, and the Little Small Wee Bear with his little small wee voice. And such a work of genius is it that already it is stolen and altered and the name of the author is almost unknown. And just because he wrote it for the fun of the thing it will go on living as long as there are children in the world to tell it to. Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, Dumas’ three musketeers, may vanish into oblivion, but the three bears will be a folk-lore story when the affairs of this century are a prehistoric myth.

Remember too, Southey’s companion, Wordsworth, the “respectable poet” as De Quincey unkindly called him. Did he ever write anything for the fun of the thing? Had he any fun in him to write with? Wordsworth serves his purpose to-day, no doubt. He is there for professors of English literature to profess. He is there for serious-minded uncles to present as a birthday gift, in one volume bound in whole morocco, floral back and sides, gilt roll, gilt edges, price sixteen shillings and sixpence, to sedate nieces. But do the sedate nieces read his poetry? As Sam Weller says: “I don’t think.” Coleridge again, when you set aside the few poems that he did write for the fun of the thing, presents the somewhat mournful spectacle of a literary man spending a literary life doing literary work. You read of him starting this periodical and that periodical, roaming about England in search of subscribers under the impression that he had a message to deliver; when, sad to say, all the while he was ringing his bell and shouting “Pies to sell” the tray on his head was empty of any useful food for mankind.

Compare these great names with that of their humble companion, Charles Lamb. He never wrote an essay or a letter except for the fun of the thing. He had to go down to an office day by day and do his task. He might have kept pigeons or done a little gardening or played billiards, but he preferred to read books and to go to plays and write about things he loved. Not that his hobby was in its nature a higher thing to him than another man’s, but it was his naturally, and he simply wrote because he enjoyed writing, in the same way that he drank because he enjoyed drinking. And what is the result? Southey has departed into the shadows, when you take Wordsworth off the young lady’s shelves you have to blow the dust off the top of the volume, and Coleridge is only to be found in school poetry books which are carefully compiled by economic editors of poems which are non-copyright. But Charles Lamb has more friends and lovers to-day than he had in his own lifetime. He wrote for the fun of the thing and the fun remains with us to-day, bounteous and joyful, bubbling over with humour and delight, and overflowing with affection and respect for everything that is best in human nature.

And perhaps part of what I mean by writing for the fun of the thing is to be found in a phrase that used to be uttered about writings that they “touch your heart.” It is a curious old-fashioned phrase. It would be interesting to enquire what it is that keeps a book alive through after-generations. I think that this capacity of “touching the heart” has much to do with it. Shakespeare, Dickens and Goldsmith had this quality; so in a different way had Izaak Walton and Samuel Pepys. It may be that this magic power is the salt that keeps a man’s writings sweet among the varied temperatures of thought through which they survive. Qualities of brain and intellect vary century by century, but what we call the heart of man is the same to-day as it was when King David wrote his psalms. Therefore, unless our writings appeal to the heart it is impossible for them to attain everlasting life. Much of the literature of to-day is, I fear, as Touchstone says—“damned like an ill-roasted egg all on one side.” For the fashion of the hour is to despise the heart and to sneer at the simple folk whose hearts still beat in harmony with the silly domestic notions of love and honour and charity and family life. To-day who would be a writer must write for the brains and intellects of the learned—meaning by the learned those who have passed sufficient examinations to render it unnecessary they should ever think for themselves again. And even this is outdone by the new school who pride themselves that the brain is as old-fashioned an audience for the author as the heart, that the proper portion in the twentieth century is the liver. If a book stirs the bile of all decent people it is to-day a popular success. So unintelligent a view do some take of the movement that they try to throw opprobrium upon it by the use of the epithet “yellow” as in the phrase “Yellow Press”: whereas, yellow among the inner brotherhood is the holy colour as typical of the movement as it is of jaundice itself. Personally, I should like to send many of our great novelists and playwrights of to-day to Harrogate for the season. I believe that a course of ten ounce doses of the “strong sulphur,” at that charming watering place would diminish the risk for them of a far longer course of far stronger sulphur in the hereafter. Their writings may have a vogue for a time and after all their position in literature will not be decided by anything I say, or anything their friendly and scholarly critics say, except in so far as we are atoms of the general mob of mankind whose taste is final. For as Newman said: “Scholars are the tribunal of Erudition, but of Taste the educated but unlearned public is the only right judge.”

But before I deal with the last motive of authorship which I suggest, let me say a few words about an entirely different answer to the question I am putting “Why be an Author?” There are wise men who declare that a man is an author from pre-destination; because he cannot help himself, because he is built that way. In other words that to be an author is a habit like drink or gambling. I can see that if this theory gains ground, libraries are going to have a rough time of it in the future. No doubt there are people—like myself—who waste a great deal of time in reading and writing which might be better used by digging in the garden, or cleaning the boots. As education proceeds upon the lines of to-day this bad habit will grow more popular. Young folk will take to spending their evenings, and even their Sundays, in libraries and meeting together over books as they do over football. Older folks will imbibe books much as they imbibe beer. Respectable employers of labour will see the danger of it—indeed, many of them to-day are clamouring against plays and fiction and other literary products as evil in themselves. They will, I think, rightly begin by persuasion. They will form Blue Ribbon Societies and a United Kingdom Alliance for the total suppression of the Book Trade. Then will come, in the natural order of things, a Licensing Bench to license libraries. On this no magistrate will sit who has ever written a book, or been connected with the publishing trade, but magistrates who are total abstainers from reading and writing will properly form a majority of the tribunal. And in the city of Manchester, which is a city of Libraries, which library will they close first? I should say the Ryland’s Library. For there is a seductive beauty about its surroundings, and the books it gives you to drink are of such wondrous flavour and served in such rare goblets, that to the poor erring man, who like myself is not a teetotaler among books, the temptation to leave his worldly duties and forget his tasks among its luxurious pleasures, is one that wise magistrates will not permit. Then, too, the landlord—I mean the librarian—is such a kind-hearted fellow. Always ready to give you another—and nothing to pay. Charles Lamb would never have got to the East India Office if the Ryland’s Library had been in his path. For my part I always used to approach my County Court in Quay Street from the other side, saying to myself as I crossed Deansgate, “Lead us not into temptation.”