Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance by Ulick O’Connor (1984)

We will show that Ireland is not the home of buffoonery and easy sentiment, as it has been represented, but the home of ancient idealism.
(Prospectus for the Irish Literary Theatre drafted by Lady Gregory, 1897; page 188)

This is a much more substantial work than O’Connor’s 1975 history of the Easter Rising. That was a slender pocket-sized 180 pages, this is a bigger format 416-page book complete with hefty index, 17-page bibliography and all. But like the earlier book, it’s still very much a personal account, and based on biography and anecdote rather than more scholarly history.

O’Connor (1928 to 2019) wrote a lot but he was neither a professional historian nor literary critic. He was more an erudite and impassioned amateur. And so this isn’t a scholarly or historically profound account, more an attempt, in his own words, ‘to convey the energy and elation of an era on Europe’s last island, perhaps the last in a series of renaissances which flourished in different countries since the Italian one in the fourteenth century’.

As with the earlier book, O’Connor is not shy about describing his own connections with the various settings and people involved, which makes for sweet anecdotes which, however, tend to bring out its rather home-made feel.

I was led to believe it’s a group biography of the key figures of the Celtic renaissance but, as you can see from my summary (below), it’s more like an interlocking series of biographies of all the Irish writers of the time, plus a fair few political figures.

One by one O’Connor introduces them to us and gives pen portraits. (I double checked I was using this phrase correctly. A pen portrait is ‘a brief, vivid and written description of a person, providing a “snapshot” of their character, lifestyle, and key traits, rather than just objective data’, which seems accurate enough.)

First of all we’re introduced to the key figures in chronological order and then, as they begin to work together, write for each other’s magazines or theatres, introduce each other to new ideas etc, the stories overlap and intertwine to build up a mosaic portrait of a major literary movement. At key moments when the central players, Griffiths, Yeats, Lady Gregory, AE, Edward Martyn, see their vision for a mature national Irish literature come to fruition, it can be very moving. And the figure of George Moore, the mocking dandy novelist, weaves in and out of the story like Puck, helping, mocking and memoiring.

The key players are:

Standish O’Grady (1846 to 1928)

Son of a Church of Ireland minister, O’Grady retained his aristocratic Unionist beliefs till the end of his life, but he played a pivotal role in the Celtic Renaissance by researching, writing, publishing and publicising the ancient legends of Ireland. His academic works – ‘History of Ireland: Heroic Period’ (1878–81) and ‘Early Bardic Literature of Ireland’ (1879) – didn’t sell so he realised he needed to dramatise them and romanticise Irish legends in a series of historical novels including ‘Finn and his Companions’ (1891), ‘The Coming of Cuculain’ (1894), ‘The Chain of Gold’ (1895), ‘Ulrick the Ready’ (1896) and ‘The Flight of the Eagle’ (1897). His insistence that the ancient Irish legends ranked with the tales of Homer inspired Yeats and others, leading to the title ‘Father of the Celtic Revival’. A lot later Yeats wrote: ‘whatever is Irish in me he kindled to life’ (p.25).

Douglas Hyde (1860 to 1949)

Son of a Church of Ireland rector, Hyde was home schooled among gillies and labourers, where he heard Gaelic spoken and started to study it. He began transcribing folk songs and discovered the people of Connacht remembered courtly songs and poems, which he translated and published. It was his poems published between 1890 and 1894 that inspired Yeats and Lady Gregory to realise the folk culture could be the basis for a national revival.

Around 1880 Hyde joined the Society for the Preservation of the Irish Language. Between 1879 and 1884 he published more than a hundred pieces of Irish verse under the pen name An Craoibhín Aoibhinn.

In 1886 Hyde met and became close friends with W.B. Yeats (then 21). They often met and discussed each other’s poetry.

In 1892 Hyde helped establish the Gaelic Journal, and wrote a manifesto called ‘The necessity for de-anglicising the Irish nation’ arguing that Ireland should follow its own traditions in language, literature, and dress. O’Connor sees it as a pivotal moment (p.165) because it led to…

In 1893 he helped found Conradh na Gaeilge (the Gaelic League) to encourage the preservation of Irish culture, music, dance and language. Ten years later there were 600 branches with a membership of 50,000. The next generation of Irish republicans (including Pádraig Pearse, Éamon de Valera, Michael Collins) became politicised through their involvement in Conradh na Gaeilge.

In the same year he published ‘Love Songs of Connacht’. The book had Gaelic poems on one page and prose and verse translations on the other. O’Connor thinks it ‘set the style of the literary renaissance’ (p.170).

Charles Stewart Parnell (1846 to 1891)

1875: Charles Stewart Parnell elected MP for Meath. O’Connor thinks the crucial fact of his life was that his other was American, from a family of heroes who fought against the British. By 1880 Parnell had succeeded Isaac Butt as leader of the Irish Party. In 1888 he was vindicated by an enquiry into his role in the Phoenix Park Murders (which Skin-the-Goat in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ was meant to be the getaway driver for). Here and in his Easter Rising book, O’Connor thinks Parnell’s achievement was to bring together land reformers, constitutionalists and physical force advocates into one party to win the electoral success which gave them 70 or so seats in the London House of Commons and so made them the decisive force in British politics during the 1880s.

Parnell generated an energy which fuelled the elation unleashed in the national being.

Parnell had been having an affair with Katherine ‘Kitty’ O’Shea, a married woman, lived with her and fathered two children by her, when her husband, Captain O’Shea, brought a divorce suit against her, citing Parnell as co-respondent. The case came to court in November 1890 causing a scandal. The Catholic hierarchy turned against him, Gladstone was forced to criticise him. His closest associates in his own party deserted him to form the Irish National federation. The alliance of nationalist forces he had carefully assembled fragmented, and Irish nationalism was set back by a generation.

The following year he died of tuberculosis in Hove, aged just 45. His body was brought back to Dublin and given the biggest funeral procession ever seen. Yeats wrote several poems about it. So did the 9-year-old James Joyce, who went on to dramatise the bitterness surrounding his fall in the famous Christmas dinner scene in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’.

O’Connor thinks Parnell united the Anglo-Irish and the Gaelic Irish into the new identity of the nationalist Irish. (O’Connor nowhere really tackles the more obvious divide between Protestant and Catholic.)

Yeats believed part of the inspiration for the Irish Literary Renaissance was that the people’s creative energies were turned away from politics by Parnell’s fall and sought alternative outlets: folk stories, pagan religion, poetry and drama.

Lady Gregory (1852 to 1932)

Isabelle Augusta Persse, Lady Gregory was the 14th of 18 children! From a Protestant low church background but had a Catholic nanny who told her rebel stories. Met and married Sir William Gregory, recently retired as governor of Ceylon, 62 to her 28. Engaged in political campaigns. Affair with Wilfrid Blunt, the explorer, adventurer, poet and anti-imperialist. Jailed for chairing an anti-eviction meeting in Galway. Husband Sir William died in 1892 aged 74, leaving Augusta aged 40, mistress of Coole Park. She needed income so set about writing, and turning the Park into a venue for Irish nationalist writers. Her momentous meeting with 31 year-old Years was in 1896.

Agreed to create an Irish Literary Theatre for him, to be funded by Edward Martyn.

Studied Gaelic and collected folktales in west of Ireland, heading towards ‘Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland’, published in 1920 with notes and two essays by W.B. Yeats.

Memorably wrote: ‘I defy anyone to study Irish history without getting a dislike and distrust of England’ (p.201).

By the later 1890s Coole Park was recognised as a meeting place for writers, with Yeats often there, and AE, Douglas Hyde, Martin. George Bernard Shaw visited and John Masefield. When she heard Irish literature being condemned by Trinity College academics it inspired her to devote two years to retelling the stories from O’Grady’s History of Ireland but in her own style which she had developed over years of translating. The result was ‘Cuchulainn of Muirthemne: The Story Of The Men of the Red Branch Of Ulster arranged and put into English by Lady Gregory, with a preface by W. B. Yeats’, published in 1902. The book is a centrepiece of the literary renaissance. It was well reviewed, and Yeats later used stories in it as the basis for no fewer than five plays, and Synge based his last play, Deirdre, on it.

George Moore (1852 to 1933)

Irish novelist, short-story writer, poet, art critic, memoirist and dramatist. Moore came from a landed family of Catholics who lived at Moore Hall in Carra, County Mayo. The estate had 12,000 acres and his father had not only a stables but a full scale racecourse built on the model of Aintree racecourse in Liverpool.

Moore’s father wanted him to go into the Army but young George wanted to be a painter and so went to Paris in 1873 to study art. There, he befriended many of the leading French artists such as Manet (who painted his portrait) and Degas, and writers such as Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and Mallarmé. Failing as a painter he had a go at poetry but was bad at that, too. At which point he commenced writing prose fiction which turned out to be his metier. He wrote in the naturalist style pioneered by Émile Zola. According to Richard Ellmann, his writings influenced the early James Joyce.

In 1880 he heard his estate was in trouble and so returned. The 1879 harvest had been as bad as the potato famine years and tenants were refusing to pay rents. Moore toured the estate and was shocked at their abject poverty. Having sorted out new, lower rents in order to maintain the estate, he moved to London and started writing at a prodigious rate:

  • A Modern Lover, 1883
  • A Mummer’s Wife, 1885 – Kate Ede, bored housewife in the Potteries, runs away to join a troupe of travelling actors
  • A Drama in Muslin, 1886 – satire on the annual season at Dublin Castle
  • A Mere Accident, 1887
  • Parnell and His Island, 1887 – factual often scathing essays and portraits
  • Confessions of a Young Man, 1888
  • Modern Painting, 1893 – factual book introducing the French Impressionists
  • Esther Waters, 1894 – portrait of a serving girl
  • Celibates, 1895 – three characters explore love, sex and social conventions
  • Evelyn Innes, 1898

He had a love-hate relationship with his country, writing in the factual book ‘Parnell and His People‘ that Ireland was ‘a primitive country and barbarous people’, and:

Ireland is a bog, and the aborigines are a degenerate race — short, squat little men — with low foreheads and wide jaws.

Fifteen years later he would write about the British Empire and its administrators in much the same terms. O’Connor quotes Martyn saying Moore observed himself, his actions and beliefs with the detached attitude of a scientist.

Edward Martyn (1859 to 1923)

Another landlord of a large estate and urban property except that Martyn’s family was Catholic. He was cousin and boyhood friend with George Moore: George the sensualist and Edward the ascetic. They visited Bayreuth together.

Tulira Castle Martyn was eccentric. He comprehensively renovated the family property, the Gothic Tulira Castle, but chose to live in a spartan bedroom. He was a connoisseur of church music. Tulira was and is only 4 or so miles from Coole Park, home of Lady Gregory.

Music He was a fine musician in his own right, giving memorable performances for guests on an organ he had installed at Tullira.

Cultural sponsor Martyn used his wealth to benefit Irish culture. His activities and sponsorships included:

  • 1897: co-founder and endowing of the Feis Ceoil
  • 1903: foundation of the Palestrina Choir (the resident choir at the St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral, Dublin)
  • funding and direction of St. Brendan’s Cathedral, Loughrea
  • president of Na hAisteoirí, the Irish-language drama group
  • sponsored and guided An Túr Gloine, Ireland’s first stained-glass workshop
  • sponsored the Irish Theatre

Martyn was reportedly pivotal in introducing William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory to each other in 1896. The three founded the Irish Literary Theatre, for whom Martyn wrote his best and most popular plays ‘The Heather Field’ and ‘A Tale of a Town’. He covered the costs of the company’s first three seasons, which proved crucial to establishing the company and the future of the Abbey Theatre.

Irish republicanism He became involved with the political work of Maud Gonne and Arthur Griffith. He was a vocal opponent of the visit of Queen Victoria to Ireland in 1897 and of Edward VII in 1903, this time as chairman of the People’s Protection Committee.

He became close friends with Griffith and funded the publication of his tract ‘The Resurrection of Hungary in 1904’ which publicised Griffith’s abstentionist strategy i.e. non-cooperation with every aspect of the British administration.

From 1905 to 1908 he was the first president of Sinn Féin (the party only taking that name in the latter year). In 1908, he resigned from the party and politics in general to concentrate on writing and his other activities.

He was on close personal terms with Thomas MacDonagh, Joseph Mary Plunkett and Patrick Pearse and mourned their executions in the aftermath of the Easter Rising. A parish hall and church that he founded at Labane, near Tullira, were burned by the Black and Tans. In ‘A Terrible Beauty’ O’Connor quotes the letter Yeats wrote to the Times protesting this.

John Butler Yeats (1839 to 1922)

From an Anglo-Irish = Protestant family, he studied at Trinity College, briefly pursued the law before switching to painting. He became a prolific portrait painter but was not a good businessman, so he and his family were always hard up and regularly moved. ‘In a material sense he had been a hopeless parent’ (p.110).

In 1863 he married Susan Pollexfen (1841 to 1900) daughter of a Sligo merchant and shipowner. She was dismayed when he abandoned the law. They had six children: three sons and three daughters, the oldest son being the Nobel Prize winning poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats. The two daughters most mentioned are Lily and Elizabeth, known as Lolly. Apparently, Susan went slowly mad.

Surprisingly, in 1907 at the age of 68, he travelled to New York aboard the RMS Campania with his daughter Lily and never returned to Ireland, dying in a boarding house in New York.

William Butler (W.B.) Yeats

J.B. was an atheist materialist, a follower of Comte and Darwin. His son, Willie, reacted against this into his Celtic Dawn love of fairies and spiritualism, describing himself as ‘a voice of the revolt of the soul against the intellect’ (p.150). In reaction against his Victorian materialist father, from his teenage years onwards Yeats subscribed to every spiritualist fad available, setting up the Hermetic Society with a friend, meeting Madame Blavatsky and getting into Theosophy, studying ancient Indian texts etc.

In the 1880s father John moved the family to London, to Bedford Park, introducing young Willie to Oscar Wilde among others. One day in June 1889, Maud Gonne turned up on their doorstep. She was already a legend and said to be the most beautiful women in Europe.

Yeats joined the Order of the Golden Dawn led by Mcgregor Mathers. He took to Rosicrucianism as an ideal synthesis of Christianity and paganism. In 1889 he had published his first book of poems, ‘The Wanderings of Oisin and other poems’, supported by the Fenian John O’Leary.

In 1890 Yeats along with Welsh poet Ernest Rhys founded The Rhymers’ Club which met at the London pub ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese’ in Fleet Street.

Later Yeats and others glamorised members of the club as the ‘doomed generation’ because so many died of poverty, alcoholism or disease. Hmm. This is a typical example of literary types’ self-mythologisation. Compare the peace and plenty they enjoyed with the experience of the generation who reached manhood as the First World War broke out; who were the real doomed generation?

The most notable of the Rhymesters was Arthur Symons who wrote an excellent book ‘The Symbolist Movement in Literature’; read to Yeats from French and Latin poetry; and gave Yeats introductions to key literary figures in Paris (Verlaine, d’Adam) when he went to visit the French capital.

1894 production of his first play, ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’ in London. In it a young woman about to be married is lured into the otherworld by a fairy. George Moore attended and was put off Yeats by his posing in a big black cloak and walking up and down the back of the dress circle wearing a ridiculous sombrero. He had a pathological dislike of Ibsen and issue-led theatre, thus profoundly disliked Shaw’s plays.

Hard up, in autumn 1894 Yeats went to stay out in Sligo with his uncle George Pollexfen. Although a successful merchant, George was also into mysticism and a member of the Hermetic Dawn. He was single, living alone apart from a serving girl he was convinced had second sight.

In 1896 Yeats, aged 30, moved to rented rooms at 18 Woburn Buildings in London where he would live for the next 15 years.

In August the same year, Edward Martyn invited Yeats and Arthur Symons to visit him at Tulira. The visitors asked if they could take a boat to the Isles of Aran, the most remote and unspoiled part of Ireland, which they did for five days. During the visit Lady Gregory invited them to nearby Coole Park. This was the decisive visit which began their collaboration. Amusingly, Symons witnessed their conversation and instantly realised that she would seduce Yeats away from lyric poetry. He ever afterwards referred to her as ‘the witch’ (p.182).

In 1897 Yeats went for another stay with Martyn. While Martyn was elsewhere Yeats was left with Lady Gregory, lamenting that there was nowhere for him to get his plays produced in a Dublin dominated by plays and entertainments imported from England. Within an hour she had mapped out a scheme to set up an Irish national theatre. She would call on her connections via her dead husband with establishment figures and ask them all to cough up £25 for three years to fund the thing. When Martyn rejoined them and heard the plan, he immediately signed up.

In 1898 Yeats, exhausted by his unrequited love for Gonne, came back to Coole. Lady Gregory let him rest in bed, created a daily timetable, had his food sent up, let him walk through the grounds and round the lake where he got to know the wild swans. For the next 20 years she was to be his rock and support until he married in 1917, and she had a hand in arranging that.

George Russell (A.E.) (1867 to 1935)

Met Yeats at art school. The Russell and Yeats families lived near each other. Professional seer of visions which he depicted in his drawings, sacred mountains, druids, the Hindu and Irish gods were related. He did a painting of a divine being and, wondering what to call it, heard the word ‘aeon’ being whispered to him, a few weeks later opening a book about the Gnostics and discovering ‘aeon’ was the name they gave to the first order of beings created by the Divine Mind. From that moment till his dying day he signed his works AE and the brand stuck. He used to go to the esplanade at Bray and hold forth to passersby about the glories of the ancient religion of mankind. Standish O’Grady heard him and was impressed.

In the late 1880s he gave up painting and got a job as a draper’s assistant during the day, so as to be free to practice mystical mind exercises at night.

Despite all this he had a practical side: at Yeats’s suggestion, Horace Plunkett appointed Russell assistant secretary of the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS), an agricultural co-operative society Plunkett founded in 1894. He was responsible for developing the credit societies and establishing Co-operative Banks in the south and west of the country.

From 1905 to 1923 he was editor of the influential Irish Homestead, the journal of the IAOS.

O’Connor quotes a good thing A.E. said to a Catholic friend who was twitting him about his mystical beliefs: ‘Like all Irish Catholics you are an atheist at heart’ (quoted page 157).

Sir William Wilde (1815 to 1876)

From a Protestant family, Wilde was an ophthalmologic surgeon and the author of significant works on medicine, archaeology and folklore, particularly concerning his native Ireland. Also, the father of Oscar Wilde.

Wilde was a founder member of the Irish nationalist Home Government Association, established by his Trinity College Dublin colleague Isaac Butt as the precursor to the Irish Parliamentary Party.

In 1851 Wilde married the poet Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee, who wrote and published under the name of Speranza. The couple had two sons, William (Willie) and Oscar, and a daughter, Isola Francesca, who died in childhood.

He was knighted in 1864, mostly for his help conducting a census in Ireland.

Wilde was promiscuous (‘Sir William had a name as a lecher’, p.101). He fathered three children by two women before he married Jane. In 1864 his reputation was damaged by the Travers libel trial. There’s a good summary in the Irish Times:

Wilde is important for O’Connor because he a) spoke Irish like a native and b) collected folklore from his estate in the west of Ireland.

Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee Wilde (Speranza) (1821 to 1896)

From a prosperous Protestant family in Dublin. The plaque on the grave of her husband describes her as ‘Speranza of The Nation, writer, translator, poet and nationalist, author of works on Irish folklore, early advocate of equality for women, and founder of a leading literary salon’.

Speranza As a young woman in the 1840s, Elgee wrote for the Young Ireland movement, publishing patriotic ballads in The Nation under the pseudonym of Speranza, calling for Irish independence and anti-British. Charles Gavan Duffy was the editor when ‘Speranza’ wrote commentary calling for armed revolution in Ireland as a result of which the authorities at Dublin Castle shut down the paper and brought Charles Duffy to court but he refused to name the person who had written the offending article.

Marriage In 1851 Elgee married the successful society doctor and ophthalmologist, William Wilde, thus becoming Jane Wilde. When he was knighted in 1864, she became Lady Wilde.

Folklore When Wilde died in 1876, the family discovered that he was virtually bankrupt. Lady Wilde joined her sons in London in 1879, living with Willie in poverty, supplementing their meagre income by writing for fashionable magazines. She wrote several books based on the research of her late husband into Irish folklore, notably ‘Ancient legends, mystic charms, and superstitions of Ireland’ (1887). O’Connor thinks it ‘contains some of the most beautiful folk tales in existence’ (p.100), although he tells us that the expert, Douglas Hyde, was sceptical about them, given that Jane didn’t actually speak Gaelic. Yeats on the other hand thought they were so good he didn’t care if Lady Jane had embellished them or not (p.115). There’s an obvious study to be done comparing Jane’s folk stories and her son Oscar’s fairy stories…

Feminist Jane was an early advocate of women’s rights, and campaigned for better education for women. She invited the suffragist Millicent Fawcett to her home to speak on female liberty. She praised the passing of the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882, which prevented a woman from having to enter marriage ‘as a bond slave, disenfranchised of all rights over her fortune’.

Oscar Wilde (1854 to 1900)

Yeats’s father moved the family to London and introduced young Willie to Oscar, who he knew through his parents. Wilde was ten years older than Willie and tried to help the young poet. Willie was impressed by Oscar’s attempt to make every aspect of his life beautiful but he deprecated the older man’s sloth. O’Connor points out that when Oscar toured the USA for almost the whole of 1882, he was feted among Irish audiences as much for being the son of the nationalist Speranza as for being a London aesthete. George Bernard Shaw, 2 years older than Oscar, thought him ‘a very Irish Irishman’.

John O’Leary (1830 to 1907)

An Irish separatist and a leading Fenian. He studied both law and medicine but did not take a degree. For his involvement in the Irish Republican Brotherhood, he was imprisoned for five years in England. He spent time in Paris among other political exiles and developed a strong sense of the importance of having a national culture in order to promote independence. He’s important to this narrative because he got to see W.B. Yeats debate and orate and came to believe he was the national poet Ireland was waiting for.

O’Leary was on the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and inducted Yeats into it. Yeats was to remain involved for the rest of his life. The IRB would regard Yeats as ‘their man’ in the literary movement. Later Yeats would say ‘to him I owe everything I set my hand to’. O’Leary arranged for the publication of Yeats’s first volume, and introduced him to folklorists who supplied the material for his books ‘

Maud Gonne MacBride (1866 to 1953)

Born of an English mother and father in the army, brought up in the barracks, lived with the family in Austria and the south of France, attended the 1886 season at Dublin Castle, attended balls and was presented to the Prince of Wales. But Maud rebelled against her upbringing to become a firebrand Irish nationalist and suffragette.

In 1889 she was introduced to W.B. Yeats who was driven mad with love for her, but she refused to become his lover a) because she was already having an affair with a Frenchman Lucien Millevoye, later b) because she later fell in love with and married (in 1903) the nationalist activist John MacBride (one of the leaders of the Easter Rising, executed by the British in 1916).

William Morris (1834 to 1896)

English textile designer, poet, artist, writer, and socialist activist associated with the British Arts and Crafts movement. In the late 1880s and 90s he was for a while an idol of Yeats’s (‘one of the few men he ever really worshipped’, p.138), who visited him at Kelmscott House and attended meetings of his Socialist League. When Yeats’s collection of essays, ‘the Celtic Twilight’ was published in 1893, the Morris group hailed it as the Irish equivalent of their own pre-Raphaelite movement. What they had in common was a rejection of Victorian pragmatism, mercantilism and science in favour of romantic worlds of faerie. But O’Connor suggests the difference was that the pre-Raphaelites were nostalgic for a vanished English past whereas Yeats was trying to instil the folk culture of Ireland in the here and now.

Eventually they split after Yeats sat through a socialist meeting consisting of attacks on religion before getting to his feet and insisting that only through religion and imagination could the revolution come, before being told to desist and sit down. He never attended another meeting.

George Bernard Shaw (1856 to 1950)

Of Protestant Anglo-Irish descent, Bernard Shaw was a playwright, critic, polemicist and political activist. His father was an alcoholic corn merchant, but his mother, Lucinda, was a noted opera singer, she sang at the Castle and was congratulated by the Lord Lieutenant. Shaw grew up in a household saturated with classical music which is why he was able to become a music critic when he moved to London in 1876. This was encouraged by the mentorship of George Lee who formed a sort of menage with the Shaw household and organised classical concerts. He was also a Catholic who introduced young George to Irish nationalism.

He wrote more than sixty plays, including major works such as Man and Superman (1902), Pygmalion (1913) and Saint Joan (1923). He worshipped Ibsen for confronting the middle classes with truths they’d prefer to ignore.

His first success was Arms and The Man, first staged in 1894. It was funded by Shaw’s lover, Florence Farr and staged alongside Yeats’s first play ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’. Wilde wrote to congratulate Shaw.

John Millington Synge (1871 to 1909)

Another protestant, from a wealthy Anglo-Irish background, Synge went to Paris to study music. Realising he was not going to become a composer, he met Yeats on a visit to the capital, who advised him to go to the Aran Islands (which Yeats had visited only months before) to learn from the peasants. Two years later, in May 1898, Synge did just that. He made five visits over the next few years. By the end he was fluent in Gaelic. It helped that he was a fine violinist and picked up many airs and tunes which he played for the locals.

(In between these trips he spent five successive summers at Coole Park, collecting stories and folklore, perfecting his Irish, but living in Paris for most of the rest of each year.)

Then he set about writing the half a dozen plays that he is remembered as a key figure of the Irish Literary Revival.

Horace Plunkett (1854 to 1932)

Phenomenally posh, Plunkett was born in Sherborne, Gloucestershire, the third son of Admiral Edward Plunkett, the 16th Baron of Dunsany, of Dunsany Castle, Dunsany, near Dunshaughlin, County Meath, and the Honourable Anne Constance Dutton (daughter of John Dutton, 2nd Baron Sherborne).

Raised in County Meath, Plunkett was Anglo-Irish, raised in the Church of Ireland, educated at Eton College and University College, Oxford.

However, he appears in this story because he went to Wyoming in America to try and cure his incipient tuberculosis, spending ten years there and turning out to have a talent for running ranches at a profit. And when he returned to Ireland, in 1891, he ended up, through a series of initiatives, becoming a pioneer of agricultural cooperatives. In 1894 he set up the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS).

Among many other appointments, he heard about Lady Gregory’s good works in Galway and went down to visit. Here he met Yeats who he initially thought an ass until he heard him address a meeting of local farmers and realised there was more to him than first appeared. Plunkett needed an organiser to tour the west of Ireland. Yeats recommended his friend AE who had developed practical experience working for his draper’s company. After years on the road, in 1901 he became editor of the co-op’s magazine, The Irish Homestead.

Irish Literary Theatre

The first plays staged in the theatre’s first season, in 1899, were:

  1. Yeats’s The Countess Cathleen, first published in 1892: is set during a famine in Ireland, where the noblewoman Countess Cathleen sells her soul to demons to save the starving peasantry.
  2. Edward Martyn’s The Heather Field: Carden Tyrrell, a visionary landowner, becomes obsessed with reclaiming a barren, heather-covered field and transforming it into fertile pasture, mortgaging his estate and ignoring his family’s needs, causing conflict with his practical wife, Grace; as the project fails, Tyrrell withdraws into madness.

O’Connor gives a humorous account of the runup to the productions, which Yeats got George Moore to help with, and he was a tyrant who enraged everyone, writing a letter to Martyn so offensive that the latter threatened to withdraw his play.

The famous thing is that the Catholic hierarchy and traditional nationalists got wind of the plot and decided it was a libel on Irish peasantry and Irish womanhood etc. A claque of students attended the first night to yell abuse and boo, but they were combated with cheers. George Moore had played a vital role in securing appropriate actors and directing them. He now sent London critics over to Dublin who loved it. So he had a big hand in launching the theatre.

A celebration dinner was held for all involved at the Shelborne Hotel. Moore described it in his Autobiography:

Yeats rose, and a beautiful commanding figure he seemed at the end of the table, pale and in profile, with long nervous hands and a voice resonant and clear as a silver trumpet. He drew himself up and spoke against Trinity College, saying that it had always taught the ideas of the stranger, and the songs of the stranger, and the literature of the stranger, and that was why Ireland had never listened and Trinity College had been a sterile influence. The influences that had moved Ireland deeply were the old influences that had come down from generation to generation, handed on by the story-tellers that collected in the evenings round the fire, creating for learned and unlearned a communion of heroes.

The second season was staged in 1900 at the Gaiety Theatre and featured two plays by Edward Martyn – Maeve, The Tale of a Town – and The Last of the Fianna by Alice Milligan. The mere fact that these were successfully staged at the 1,200 seat Gaiety and not the 500-seat Antient Common Rooms, showed how the theatre was becoming a commercial as well as cultural success.

Arthur Griffith (1871 to 1922)

Griffith was a key but complicated figure. He was an Irish writer, newspaper editor and politician who founded the political party Sinn Féin. He led the Irish delegation at the negotiations that produced the 1921 Anglo-Irish Treaty, and served as the president of Dáil Éireann from January 1922 until his death that August.

But back in the period O’Connor is covering Griffith is important because he articulated an entirely new strategy for achieving independence. Parnell thought he could do it in the English Parliament; physical force revolutionaries thought they could do it through targeted assassinations and taking on the British Army of occupation. Griffith suggested a third way which was for the Irish to retire entirely from British politics – the policy of ‘abstentionism’ – and instead set up their own administration entirely separate from the British: for the MPs elected in the (British defined) constituencies to not only not go to London, but to set up their own Parliament (the Dail), giving everything Irish Gaelic names, to create their own laws, their own budget, their own courts and system of justice, to create a parallel and independently Irish administration at all levels. Hence the name of his organisation, Sinn Fein which means ‘ourselves alone’.

This was a compelling new idea which caught everyone’s imagination (it’s even mentioned several times in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’).

Yeats’s anti-Britishness

1898 – elected president of the committee to celebrate the centenary of the 1798 uprising.

1899 – October, second Boer War broke out and Yeats, Gonne and Martyn became members of the Transvaal Committee protesting Britain’s treatment of the Boers.

1900 – April, the same group plus others formed a committee to protest a planned visit of Queen Victoria to Dublin. (The old queen was 81). (Here as in his Easter rising book, O’Connor tells us that Maud Gonne’s future husband, John Macbride, was in South Africa leading a brigade of Boers against the British.)

O’Connor quotes a letter by Yeats to the Daily Express on 3 April 1900 which gives you a real feeling of his anti-British republicanism. Speaking of Victoria, he writes:

She is the official head and symbol of an empire that is robbing the South African republics of their liberty, as it robbed Ireland of hers. Whoever stands by the roadway cheering for Queen Victoria cheers for that empire, dishonours Ireland, and condones a crime. But whoever goes tomorrow night to the meeting of the people and protests within the law against the welcome of that Unionists and time-servers will have given this English Queen, honours Ireland and condemns a crime.

Moore moves back to Dublin

The Boer War prompted George Moore to revise his opinions of England and Ireland. He began to hate the former and romanticise the latter, forgetting all about his amusingly insulting opinions of 15 years earlier. Strikingly, he is quoted saying he has come to hate the English language and wants to flee the English country and English people (p.282).

He moved back to Dublin in 1901. He’s in this account a) because he was an important novelist in his own right but b) because of his close relationship with the founders of the Literary Theatre, which extended, as O’Connor shows, to a major rewrite of one of Edward Martyn’s plays, which infuriated his old friend. It must be said, his droll insouciance and wit make him one of the most attractive characters in the book. O’Connor devotes quite a few pages to just comic anecdotes from his own autobiography and other people’s reminiscences.

O’Connor gives a comic account of Moore and Yeats struggling to collaborate on a play based on the legend of Diarmuid and Grania, Moore’s attitude is priceless. He was then chosen to direct a production of Douglas Hyde’s play ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ but resigns after 3 weeks. Hyde himself played the lead role of Hanrahan the poet and turned out to be sprightly and antic onstage, completely the opposite of his sober, scholarly everyday persona. The two plays were performed in October 1901. Grania wasn’t a success whereas ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ was the first play to be performed in Irish and was joyously received by nationalists. The audience sang patriotic songs. The audience mobbed Yeats at the stage door. In the audience was John Millington Synge, who saw the language and imagery he had been collecting on the Aran Isles come to life onstage. Within a few months he’d written his first play and within a year the first of his five masterpieces.

Joyce

Joyce loathed these productions and wrote a savage indictment of their success titled ‘The Day of the Rabblement’. He thought Yeats and Co were catering to the low, debased tastes of the Irish people by sinking themselves deeper into the mire of illiterate peasant superstition, whereas Joyce wanted to join and become a star in the great European tradition. Which is why he had to leave Ireland altogether.

Joyce walked across Dublin one night to AE’s house and waited till the established writer returned at midnight. They talked till 4 in the morning. Easy-going AE was impressed and wrote to Lady Gregory warning him about this ‘spectre of fastidiousness’ (p.296). When Joyce left Ireland for Paris in 1904, Lady Gregory gave him money.

The Fays and the Abbey Theatre

The origins of the famous Abbey Theatre in the work of two brothers, William and Frank Fay. In the 1890s, William had worked with a touring company in Ireland, Scotland and Wales while Frank was heavily involved in amateur dramatics in Dublin. After William returned, the brothers began to stage productions in halls around the city. O’Connor gives his usual pen portrait and explains how Frank asked AE permission to use a play which he, AE, had written solely for literary interest, ‘Deirdre’. Discovering it wouldn’t fill a whole evening they approached Yeats for a short filler and he gave them ‘Cathleen Ni Houlihan’ and suggested Maud Gonne play the lead role. Amazingly, she agreed. The brothers hired the cramped St Theresa’s Hall on Clarendon Street for the production. Opening night was 2 April 1902. Deirdre was well received but the Yeats play is about the allegorical figure of Ireland depicted as a long-suffering old crone, who is transformed into a beautiful queen by the sacrifice of a young man. There were cheers throughout and, at the end, a standing ovation. Partisans like Arthur Griffith saw it as the start of a national revival. I’ll now quote from Wikipedia because the events surrounding the foundation of the Abbey Theatre are a bit convoluted and not fully explained by O’Connor:

Encouraged by the St Theresa’s Hall success, Yeats, Lady Gregory, Æ, Martyn, and John Millington Synge founded the Irish National Theatre Society in 1903 with funding from Annie Horniman. Horniman was a middle-class Englishwoman with previous experience in theatre production, having been involved in the presentation of George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man in London in 1894. An acquaintance of Yeats from London circles, including the Order of the Golden Dawn, she came to Dublin in 1903 to act as Yeats’ unpaid secretary and to make costumes for a production of his play ‘The King’s Threshold’. They were joined by actors and playwrights from Fay’s company.

At first, they staged performances in the Molesworth Hall. When the Mechanics’ Theatre in Lower Abbey Street and an adjacent building in Marlborough Street became available after fire safety authorities closed it, Horniman and William Fay agreed to buy and refit the space to meet the society’s needs.

On 11 May 1904, the Society formally accepted Horniman’s offer of the use of the building. As Horniman did not usually reside in Ireland, the royal letters patent required were granted in the name of Lady Gregory, although paid for by Horniman. The founders appointed William Fay theatre manager, responsible for training the actors in the newly established repertory company. They commissioned Yeats’ brother Jack to paint portraits of all the leading figures in the society for the foyer, and hired Sarah Purser to design stained glass for the same space.

On 27 December 1904, the curtains went up on opening night. The bill consisted of three one-act plays, ‘On Baile’s Strand’ and ‘Cathleen Ní Houlihan’ by Yeats, and ‘Spreading the News’ by Lady Gregory. On the second night, ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’ by Synge replaced the second Yeats play. These two bills alternated over a five-night run.

In addition to providing funding, Horniman’s chief role with the Abbey over the coming years was to organise publicity and bookings for their touring productions in London and provincial England.

‘The Shadow of the Glen’ caused a furor. I have written a separate blog post about it.

Codas

Towards the end of the book, O’Connor deals increasingly briskly with his charges.

Joyce He portrays Joyce leaving for the continent, helped with cash from Lady Gregory, and even Yeats who met him at Euston station, bought him breakfast and helped him catch the boat train to Paris. In O’Connor’s portrait Joyce comes over as fiercely arrogant, angry, bitter and determined. In Paris he met Synge but the two didn’t get on at all. He’d only been there a few months when his father telegraphed him to return to Dublin because his mother was dying. It was then that occurred the famous occasion when Joyce refused to kneel and pray for his mother, letting her die distraught that her son was an atheist, leaving him gnawed with guilt which provides a central thread to ‘Ulysses’, where he grandly renames it ‘agenbite of inwit’. It was on 16 June 1904 that he had a second date with an uninhibited Galway girl who kissed him and touched his willy through his trousers, thus persuading the highly sexed Joyce that she was the girl for him, and indeed they spent the rest of their lives together, and she was the rock which enabled him to write his masterpieces.

Lady Gregory Having been midwife to numerous plays, Lady Gregory now started writing her own. Amazingly, she ended up writing about 100, and many were very popular. Her best works are probably ‘The Rising of the Moon’ and ‘The Workhouse Ward’. It was seeing plays like these on the Abbey Theatre’s first tour of America, which apparently inspired American playwright Eugene O’Neill to write his first plays. In the 1920s, when finances were tight, she persuaded the new Free State government to give the Abbey Theatre a stipend, making it the first state-sponsored theatre in the world.

Climax and aftermath

It turns out that those 1904 productions are the climax of O’Connor’s book. The precursor to the Abbey Theatre had been created and Yeats, Gregory, AE had seen their vision of a native Irish theatre based on native Irish legends and themes come true. From left-field came J.M. Synge whose Aran Island-inspired plays would expand and consolidate the genre.

So instead of continuing to take things forward at the slow incremental pace he’d used up till now, rather surprisingly O’Connor leaps forward to the first night of Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in 1926. After a vivid description of the protests and catcalling which forced Yeats to call in the police, again, O’Connor relaxes on the final pages of his book and turns into lists. The renaissance was underway and he lists the next generation of playwrights which came through along with a sudden interest in painting, which had until these last few pages only received passing mention in reference to John Yeats. Now there’s a sudden list of Irish painters who flourished in the 00s, 10s and 20s. The outstanding art collector Hugh Lane left his collection to the Dublin Art Gallery. In less than a page he skips over the East Rising and civil war to the creation of the Irish Free State, and then the last 3 or 4 pages concern the afterlives of his central characters.

Edward Martyn broke with the Abbey Theatre founders, founded his own rival theatre, died in 1924.

George Moore argued with everyone in the movement and, in 1912, left Ireland a second time, reverting to his initial contempt for his homeland. He died in 1933. He always felt James Joyce had plagiarised his ‘Confessions of a Young Man’ in his ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, and stole his famous short story ‘The Dead’ from the end of his novel ‘Vain Fortune’. But the pair met in Paris in 1929 when Joyce was eager to conciliate the older man and they got on surprisingly well.

Lady Gregory stopped writing plays in the 1920s, negotiated a government subsidy for the Abbey Theatre in 1925. Her son Robert was killed serving in the air force in 1918. Coole Park had to be sold off, along with its wild swans and the tree she had her famous writers carve their names into. She died in 1932.

W.B. Yeats came to be recognised as one of the greatest poets of the age, receiving the Nobel Prize in 1924. He was made a senator in the new Free State. In 1928 he entered a late flowering period of creativity with ‘The Tower’. He died in the south of France in 1939.

Douglas Hyde was installed as president of Ireland in 1938. He had faded out of public life after refusing to let his Gaelic League get involved in politics. The decision to bring him out of retirement paid homage to his work as a young man in rescuing the Celtic language and its stories.

O’Connor ends with a charming story, of how the following year, when war broke out, coal became scarce, so Hyde opened the coal cellars of the Viceregal Lodge to the population of Dublin. Instead he had turf brought from the countryside so that the grand dinning, ball and state rooms of the palace, which had echoed to the social life of the conqueror for so many years, were now filled with the aromatic smoke betokening authentic Irish peasant life.

Firesides

O’Connor is a romantic, sometimes sentimental author. Peasants are noble. Aristocrats are noble. All his upper class characters are fine riders and excellent shots. He takes a heroic view of Irish patriots. One aspect of this is his fondness for ‘firesides’ as a symbol of authenticity, especially, of course, the firesides of the people and peasants.

[Henry Grattan]’s speech at the inauguration [of the 1782 parliament] would become a hymn of nationalism recited around the firesides of nationalist Ireland in the nineteenth century. (p.15)

Under the name of Speranza [Francesca Elgee] wrote patriotic ballads about the Fenians and English misrule, like ‘The Famine Year’ which was recited around firesides throughout the country. (p.100)

Soon [Synge] had mastered the Irish jigs and reels and slow airs, and he would sit at night near the firelight in the cottages and play his airs for the dancing boys and girls. (p.191)

This [lines from a Yeats poem] could be from the court of Aquitaine; or that its sentiment is a trifle extravagant, the address of a Cavalier. Least of all does one think of it as a poet’s address to his country in one of the traditional names which were used for Ireland in the seventeenth century, and that this was perfectly understood by the people when it was sung for them round their firesides or in the fields. (p.214)

[Of ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’] It was, after all, a daring theme for those days to depict a wife leaving a husband, however aged, for a tramp travelling the roads. The fact that it was based on an Irish folk tale told around the firesides of the west would not make it any more palatable when it would be acted out in front of urban audiences who would lack the Rabelaisian acceptance of farmyard life. (p.333)

The story of how Cuchulain inadvertently kills his own son whom he had had (unknown to him) by a Scottish princess, Aoife, was still told around the country firesides in the west. (p.352)

Documentary

There are many documentaries on the subject. This one is an easy-going complexity-free example, bolstered by extensive interviews with the eminent academic Fintan O’Toole. Most interesting for me was the section about Patrick Pearse’s objections to the movement which he said ought to be ‘strangled at birth’. He thought Yeats and Lady Gregory, Protestants both, were denying the Catholic faith of the peasants they depicted, and Ireland as a whole, in order to promote their own personal vision of a pagan Ireland, the Ireland of the myths and legends they collected and they promoted.

There was also a class aspect, because the revivalists’ plays focused on peasants or aristocrats, itself an ancient binary, with no space for the majority population of working and middle class. In this sense, their vision was utterly unrepresentative of Ireland’s realities. (Just one reason for James Joyce’s complete rejection of their vision and aesthetic, although the movement was, eventually, to be large enough for the working class dramas of Sean O’Casey.)


Credit

‘Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance’ by Ulick O’Connor was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1984.

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Ulysses by James Joyce: Stephen’s theories

One of the thousands of factors which make both ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ and ‘Ulysses’ complicated reads is that in both of them the protagonist – the over-educated literature student Stephen Dedalus – expounds a detailed aesthetic theory. What complicates things further is that 1) the theories don’t really match the novels they’re embedded in, and 2) the two theories contradict each other. What are these theories and which, if either, reflects Joyce’s own position?

Theory 1: Aristotle and Aquinas

In Chapter 5 of ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ Stephen Dedalus, now a student at the university, expounds his aesthetic theory during the course of a long walk round central Dublin with his friend Lynch. Stephen’s theory distinguishes between impure kinetic art – art which arouses emotions of desire or repulsion, movement towards or away from the artwork – and pure art which, in his opinion, creates a mood of aesthetic stasis.

In my review of ‘Portrait’ I say that I’m not particularly convinced by this because The Novel is not at all a ‘static’ art form unlike, say, a painting or a statue. The opposite: a novel is a dynamic art form because 1) as you read through it your understanding of everything – plot, characters, themes etc – is continually changing. And 2) because this dynamic process continues even after you’ve finished reading, as you reflect on the novel or maybe read reviews or essays or the Wikipedia article about it or any other random comments you happen to come across online. Or maybe 3) go on to read another book by the same author which radically influences your opinion of the first book. And so on.

Reading a novel is, in other words, a never-ending and dynamic process. Even if Stephen only meant to draw a distinction between 1) works which create a strong sense of attraction or repulsion (such as, for example, pornography at one end of the spectrum and horror stories at the other) and 2) the kind of work he has in mind which leaves an impression of clarity and detachment, with no emotions of any kind triggered – even this kind of model doesn’t really apply to novels, which people tend to either like or dislike for hundreds of highly personal reasons which could never be fully tabulated.

Theory 2: Shakespeare

So much for Stephen’s first theory as expounded in ‘A Portrait’. As to theory two, in chapter 9 (the ‘Scylla and Charybdis’ chapter) of ‘Ulysses’, the very same Stephen Dedalus, now a few years older and having left university, expounds a drastically different theory, using the works of Shakespeare as his test bed.

There are some key facts to get clear about this. For a start, the Shakespeare theory isn’t abstract like theory 1. Theory 1 relies on Stephen’s clever redefinition of concepts first propounded in the aesthetic theories of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas – in other words, its comes directly out of his scholastic learning. Theory 2, on the contrary, is practical, in the sense that it arises not from the abstract aesthetic theories of ancient philosophers, but derives from Stephen’s own personal reading of the plays of Shakespeare. So straightaway the two theories inhabit a spectrum between abstract and applied.

But the content of the theories is also diametrically opposed. Theory 1 famously leads up to the conclusion that, if the ideal work of art creates a sense of stasis, then the ideal work of literature should strive to be as objective as possible, should be a work in which the personality of the author disappears. This theory posits that the highest genre of literature is drama because in drama (I’ve put in bold the really famous part of this speech, which is quoted in all discussion of the subject):

The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood [in lyric poetry] and then a fluid and lambent narrative [in epic poetry], finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises itself, so to speak. The aesthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of aesthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

Theory 2, by contrast, is an elaborate statement of the exact opposite proposition, which is that all the key figures and all the key relationships in Shakespeare’s plays, derive from his own family, are fundamentally autobiographical. Far from being refined out of existence, Stephen now argues that Shakespeare’s personal biography is now everywhere present in his plays.

Stephen focuses on ‘Hamlet’ which he tries to persuade us is Shakespeare’s most autobiographical play. He says one driver for the play was Shakespeare’s trauma at learning about the infidelity of his (older) wife, Anne Hathaway. Many readers think of Hamlet the prince as somehow expressing Shakespeare’s own opinions about life (the powerful speeches about the meaning of life, suicide and so on) but Stephen says the real avatar of the middle-aged, successful playwright stricken with grief at the infidelity of his wife is not the young student prince, but the ghost of Hamlet’s murdered father.

To put it in the rather convoluted language of the book, the idea is that Shakespeare was, like King Hamlet, cuckolded by his brother, Richard. Betrayed by his wife (Ann Hathaway/Gertrude) and betrayed by his brother (Richard Shakespeare/Claudius) Shakespeare is embodied in King Hamlet, the murdered father who returns as a ghost, and we know that Shakespeare played the role of the ghost in the first productions of the play, opposite a much younger actor playing the prince.

Far from refining himself out of existence, the author – in this theory – makes art out of the sordid mess and messy emotions of his own life.

Adding further evidence to the betrayal theme, in a passage about uncles, Stephen name-checks Shakespeare’s brothers Richard and Edmund, describes his assumed rivalry with them, and then goes on to point out how many wicked uncles (and wicked Richards and Edmunds) there are in his plays, notably Richard III and scheming Edmund in King Lear. Surely more evidence for his adulterous betrayal theory?

Having established his approach using ‘Hamlet’, Stephen goes on to talk about other Shakespeare plays, namely the so-called Romances written at the end of his career, which all feature the reconciliation of a father with his daughter (Prospero and Miranda (The Tempest), Leontes and Perdita (The Winter’s Tale), Pericles and Marina (Pericles). There must, Stephen insists, also be a biographical basis to this trope in Shakespeare, so long away in London, being reconciled with his alienated daughter (or grand-daughter?).

Disappointment

I remember being bitterly disappointed when I read this passage as a student. I was hoping one genius would have dazzling insights into another genius but it turns out Joyce had nothing of the sort. The idea that a writer uses his own experiences of his own family relationships in his works is so obvious as to be bathetic.

Far from giving new and unexpected insight into the creative process, the chapter suggests that all literature is autobiographical, is a projection of the artist’s (fractured) self and that the creator (Shakespeare / Joyce) is always present in his creations (Hamlet / Stephen-Bloom). This is not only not very interesting but, taken at face value, it diminishes both Shakespeare and Joyce.

In a dramatic context

To try and read Stephen’s presentation as a lecture or essay is to be disappointed so maybe a more profitable way to think about it is as part of the dramatic content of the novel. In other words, it is not interesting for what it tells us about Shakespeare (next to nothing, apart from a few details Stephen throws into his descriptions, for example of William’s daily walk to work along the Thames to the Globe theatre) so much as for 1) what it tells us about Stephen the fictional character, 2) the light it sheds on the themes of ‘Ulysses’, and 3) the broader artistic world of the day.

Fathers and sons

1. Regarding what the theory tells us about Stephen the fictional character, this is easy. It reveals that Stephen is obsessed with father-son relations, circling round and round the troubled relationship between Hamlet and his dead father, and the sad experience of Shakespeare and his dead son, Hamnet (who died aged 11 in 1596, as depicted in the current movie of the subject). Grandfathers, fathers and sons.

2. And this itself is, of course, entirely fitting in a novel which strongly features themes of fathers and sons: Stephen is anxious throughout the book that, instead of becoming the Great Writer he wants to be, he might instead be turning into a witty, garrulous drinker and failure like his father, Simon.

3. The novel also, of course, features Leopold Bloom who throughout Bloomsday repeatedly thinks about his own son, Rudy, who died when he was just 11 days old (Rudy 11 days, Hamnet 11 years – there are always patterns in Joyce). Bloom also resurrects his own father, Rudolf Virág, in one of the many ‘hallucinations’ in the delirious ‘Circe’ chapter.

4. And, of course, The Odyssey which ‘Ulysses’ is to some extent ‘based on’ (or aligned with or riffs off), is in part a poem about a young son (Telemachus) looking for his long-lost father (Odysseus).

5. Which is itself (sort of) echoed in the overall narrative arc whereby, in the final chapters of the book, young Stephen encounters Bloom in the role of father figure, and Bloom for a while takes a fatherly concern for Stephen (although, as is well known, the analogy doesn’t really hold because Stephen isn’t Bloom’s son and so, far from forging some kind of father and son relationship, Stephen in the end stumbles off into the night probably never to see Bloom again).

In other words, Stephen’s elaborate and contrived theory of Shakespeare not only need not be ‘true’ about Shakespeare, but doesn’t even need to be believable, because it’s not a public lecture or critical essay, it’s the speech of a character in a novel, and so only needs to 1) reflect the personality of the character (as it does) and 2) reflect or refer to some of the wider issues raised in the novel (as it does).

Performance, first aspect

Two more things undermine Stephen’s Shakespeare presentation as a theory. Most obviously, it is a performance. Stephen has arrived at Dublin’s National Library, in the head librarian’s office where are assembled some heavy hitters from the Dublin literary scene, the key figure being the poet A.E. (George Russell), an exponent of mysticism, Platonism, and emotive Irish nationalism. Also in the room are Mr Best (librarian, ‘tall, young, mild, light’) and John Eglinton (a pseudonym for real-life essayist William Kirkpatrick Magee, a literary figure and librarian).

These men know Stephen’s father, Simon Dedalus, and have heard tell of, but never yet met, his super-clever son (also promoted, among others, by his buddy Malachi Mulligan, as Eglinton attests: ‘—I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told us…’).

And so the whole situation is by way of Stephen’s opportunity to impress (some of) his elders and betters from the (small) Dublin literary scene. This situation explains why Stephen is so nervous, why he rambles on, and why he overstates and muddles his case (as my rather muddled summary of it indicates) and so is not really believable. It is a dramatic situation in which our hero has to continually gee himself up and keep at it:

Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.

And, as his theory unfurls with increasing improbability, he comes to doubt it himself:

What the hell are you driving at? I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.

A clash of worldviews

One of the reasons for his nervousness is because Stephen isn’t just confronting eminent figures but eminent figures with a completely opposed aesthetic worldview. It is easy to forget that the whole episode is set in a particular time and place, namely Dublin 1904. Now as I’ve emphasised previously, this means it is describing a society, culture and characters which are in almost every aspect still late Victorian. And one of these aspects is that many of the leading literary figures of the time were still in thrall to fin-de-siecle aestheticism, art for arts sake, and continental Symbolism, all flavoured with the high-minded nobility of the Celtic Revival.

Which means that buried beneath the maze of banter and learnèd references which all the characters in this scene throw around, there is a pretty straightforward clash going on, between the old world of mazy Celtic twilights and high aesthetic values, and Stephen’s aggressively rude insistence on the thumpingly material facts of life, on eating, drinking, peeing, pooing, sex and masturbation.

The elder statesman and poet A.E. represents the school which believes art to be intensely spiritual and to inhabit a realm of neo-platonic forms and perfections. For him and his ilk art must be uplifting and inspiring to take us out of the deadening quotidian world and raise us to the spiritual uplands. In this view, Shakespeare is a genius and genius has access to insights and worlds deprived us ordinary mortals. A.E. says:

—Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato’s world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.

(Gustave Moreau, here, being used as the epitome of Symbolist painting.)

From my summary, above, you can see how Stephen (and by implication his creator) is against all this. For Stephen great art begins not in a realm of ‘formless spiritual essences’ but in the muck and mess of human existence. This is why Joyce venerated the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen, and wrote a long critical essay about his plays, even writing the man himself a fan letter. It’s because Ibsen represented a complete departure from late-romanticism with its fairies and legends, and instead portrayed messy real modern life, complicated relationships driven by his characters’ fierce internal psychological battles.

But Stephen goes further than this. Ibsen never portrayed someone having a poo or masturbating or farting or having a pee in the garden (all of which happen in ‘Ulysses’). In his own way, Ibsen still respected Victorian manners and conventions. Not so Joyce. Along with all the other achievements of ‘Ulysses’, it brought the crudest physical bodily activities within the realm of artistic discourse. The book sets out to cover all of human life and so how could he leave out the basics?

Ezra Pound wasn’t wrong to see ‘Ulysses’ as a continuation of the meticulous realism of Flaubert, the taking of that kind of realism and accuracy to the limit and then beyond, exploding the bounds of the late-nineteenth century realist novel and going on to invent something completely new.

Back to the theory: hopefully you can now see that it is less valuable as an interpretation of Shakespeare (as which, it is pretty worthless) than as a dramatisation of Stephen (and Joyce’s) fierce punk opposition to the nose-holding high-mindedness of the older, Victorian generation.

Performance, second aspect

OK, so when Stephen presents his theory, he is doing it to not just a sceptical older generation but a generation with fundamentally different ideas about art than he holds and who he is, to some extent, baiting with his transgressive ideas.

But then something else happens to make it even more complicated. This is the arrival half way through Stephen’s nervous presentation of his frenemy and contemporary, the young wit Malachi ‘Buck’ Mulligan, who we saw teasing and antagonising Stephen in the very first scene in the opening chapter.

Half way through Stephen’s presentation shallow Buck arrives in the room and joins in the chorus of witty banter which accompanies every one of Stephen’s propositions, often with barely concealed mockery, for example when he gives his own not inaccurate parody of Stephen’s idea:

—It is quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.

In this respect the whole thing, although radically different in content, echoes in structure the presentation of theory 1 in ‘Portrait’. In that book, although Stephen’s theory is often quoted out of context as a standalone statement, it is actually delivered in a dynamic context, expounded during a long walk with a fellow student Lynch, who continually intervenes with deflating mockery of Stephen’s highfalutin theories.

Same here, only instead of just one set of interlocutors Stephen was already struggling to cope with – AE, Best, Eglinton, the occasional interventions of the chief librarian who pops in and out of the room – the arrival of Mulligan adds a whole new layer of mockery and chaffing to the mix.

So setting aside the radical dissimilarities of content, both theories have this in common, that they are delivered in the course of embattled dialogue with others.

Scylla and Charybdis

I’m aware I haven’t presented all these ideas in a perfect order. It’s quite difficult to do so when everything in the text is connected to everything else. But one last point. As I’ve reread it I’ve come to realise that the A.E. and John Eglinton’s traditional romantic neo-platonic theory is so clearly indicated or defended in its own right, that the chapter in effect contains not one but two aesthetic theories And when you come to think about it, this maybe sheds light on the Homeric parallel.

Scylla and Charybdis – who Joyce’s schemas tell us preside over this chapter – are famous sea monsters from Greek mythology, who lived on opposite sides of the narrow Strait of Messina. Scylla was a six-headed monster living on a cliff, who snatched sailors from passing ships, while Charybdis was a massive whirlpool that swallowed ships whole. Which is why they came to be used as a proverb symbolizing an inescapable dilemma, where avoiding one peril means falling victim to the other.

So: are these two aesthetic theories, the extreme of spiritual neoplatonism facing off against a theory of authorial autobiography, are these the Scylla and Charybdis of the title? In the Homer story, Odysseus’s ship has to sail a perfect middle course between the two perils. Does this suggest that Joyce does not stand behind Stephen’s theory, but somewhere between the two positions?

We know that Stephen has rejected his schoolboy theory of high aesthetic stasis and gone right over to the other end of the spectrum, deliberately shocking his fusty listeners with his insistence on the origins of Shakespeare’s works in the messy biographical details of sex and infidelity, jealousy and death.

But maybe this theory, theory 2, is also only dramatically appropriate to the character of Stephen Dedalus and didn’t represent Joyce’s own final view.

This interpretation is supported when, at the conclusion of his presentation, one of the auditors, John Eglinton, asks Stephen whether he believes his own theory and Stephen immediately (and with uncharacteristically blunt clarity) says No.

—You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?
—No, Stephen said promptly.

(The French triangle is Eglinton’s way of saying Stephen’s theory reduces the genesis of one of the masterpieces of European literature, ‘Hamlet’, to the author’s involvement in a sordid little affair of adultery and his wife’s infidelity, a ‘French triangle’.)

But the point of the exchange is obviously Stephen’s immediate ‘No’. Now on one level this reflects the witty tone of banter in which the whole thing takes place, in which everyone is hyper-aware of all the literary references they’re making, distorting and parodying for comic purposes, in which everyone is showing off. To spend an hour delivering a convoluted theory and then reply so bluntly that he doesn’t even believe it himself, is a stylish and witty manoeuvre – its Wildean brashness makes Stephen more worthy to be a member of this caste of witty litterateurs than the original theory.

But it also gestures towards the solution of the puzzle. When faced with a rock and a hard place the solution is neither. Or both. Or parts of both. Maybe the theory is included not just to further delineate Stephen’s character, or because Joyce identifies with it, but because it requires the worldview it’s opposing. Stephen can only express his debunking theory if he has something to debunk and so he needs A.E. and Eglinton and (appearing half-way through, Mulligan) to argue back or mock his theories because the real world is made out of precisely such conflicts and antitheses.

Maybe the point isn’t Stephen’s first theory or second theory or A.E.s platonic theory but a dynamic interplay between all three.

A ghostly answer

In his 1982 book about ‘Ulysses’, Canadian critic Hugh Kenner suggests a typically playful solution. Maybe Joyce’s aesthetic approach can be likened to the figure of Hamlet’s ghost who wanders through Stephen’s exposition of the play, as he, indeed, wafts in and out of the Shakespeare play itself. Like old King Hamlet’s ghost, maybe Joyce’s own autobiography moves in and out of the text, putting in appearances, disappearing but, like the ghost, dominating the entire action even in its absence. Which makes theory 2, instead of a rejection of theory 1 whereby the artist:

remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails

More like a subtle extension of it. Maybe the ghost author can drift in and out of the narrative at whim, trailing elements of autobiography like a ghostly cloak, at moments coming powerfully into focus, at others disappearing altogether and so allowing Joyce to believe in both his theories and neither. After all, as Richard Ellmann jokes in his 1972 book, ‘Ulysses on the Liffey’:

Whenever confronted by a choice between two possible things to include, Joyce chose both. (p.34)

So maybe that’s what he’s craftily doing here.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

Related links

Joyce reviews

Ulysses by James Joyce: Circe

BLOOM: It has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents.
(A reasonable summary)

THE BAWD: Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence.
(A mild example of the chapter’s studied obscenity)

In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily.
(A more typical example)

Cunty Kate
(Name of one of the characters and a full-on example of the chapter’s deliberate obscenity)

BLOOM: I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.
(In the courtroom sequence, Bloom defends his fondness for BDSM)

VIRAG (He chases his tail.) Piffpaff! Popo! (He stops, sneezes.) Pchp! (He worries his butt.) Prrrrrht!
(Example of the chapter’s many sound effects)

(Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm.)
VIRAG’S HEAD: Quack!
(Example of the chapter’s Dada absurdism)

STEPHEN: (Looks up to the sky.) How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of selfpretence.
(Typical cleverclogs punning from the master refuser, just after he’s been knocked to the ground by an angry squaddie)

The ‘Circe’ chapter of James Joyce’s novel ‘Ulysses’ is by far the longest, the strangest and the most outrageous of Ulysses’ 18 chapters. If you thought Bloom masturbating in chapter 13 was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet. The chapter is packed with countless examples of bluntly crude and transgressive sexuality, but that’s only the one aspect of what amounts to one long, vast, often completely demented, hallucination.

The ‘Circe’ chapter is huge. At 150 pages in the average paperback edition it’s as long as the first 8 chapters of ‘Ulysses’ put together. When it has been dramatised on the radio, it takes at least 4 hours to perform. Perform? Yes, because the entire chapter is cast in the format of a play, it is a play script.

There are several ways of thinking about all this which are best laid out here before we get lost in the tsunami of grotesque incidents.

1. A ghost play

After long difficult days, both the novel’s main protagonists, Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, need purging. According to Joyce’s hero, Aristotle, the literary form designed to purge dangerous human emotions is the drama, the play. A play is needed to purge his characters. Moreover, Stephen has banged on about ghosts in Hamlet and both men need to confront their ghosts, so these problems combine to ensure it will be a ghost play, a play wherein Stephen will confront the accusing ghost of his mother and Bloom will see the ghost of his dead baby, now grown to be an 11-year-old boy.

(Hugh Kenner throws in a historical point that the Celtic Revival of the late nineteenth century had centred on a series of plays staged at the new Abbey Theatre and so ‘Circe’ represents Joyce tackling the sentimental Oirish mythologising of his Celtic revivalist opponents in their own genre, Kenner p.118.)

So Circe is written as a play, in the form of a script, with names of characters appearing in CAPITALS followed by their speech, with actions described in italics in brackets, exactly as in a script.

2. The climax of the accretive method

By accretive method all I mean is Joyce’s obsession with continually adding to his texts.

Joyce’s letters, essays, conversations with friends and testimony from his publishers all agree that Joyce’s method was accretive (meaning ‘a gradual increase, growth or the addition of new layers‘). In other words, once the basic structure of the narrative was created, Joyce went carefully back over the whole thing and added detail everywhere, and couldn’t stop adding more.

This explains why the text of ‘Ulysses’ is such a mess, because at every stage of the publication process, first as instalments in The Little Review, and then as it was readied for publication in Paris, Joyce compulsively more and more details to the printer’s proofs, adding words, phrases, paragraphs, sections, continually spotting new opportunities to add symbolism, quotes, references, filling the interstices of the narrative to amplify its encyclopedic networks of references and symbols.

Some chapters were set up in proof as many as ten times. (It didn’t help that all the print-setters and publishers were foreign, non-English speakers who couldn’t read Joyce’s crabbed handwriting and so introduced thousands of textual errors which textual scholars have made entire careers out of trying to fix.)

As the Ulysses Guide puts it:

Joyce estimated that he wrote a third of Ulysses at the proof stage of the revision process (Beach 58), arranging co-dependent details all over the novel and weaving a web of intratextual puzzles.

a) Sentence level

Joyce’s accretive method contributes to making the text so hard to read, because individual sentences would have new phrases or words added, some would cut in half or cut off in mid-sentence. Loads of passages became more ‘bittified’, adding to the never-ending Tower of Babel scale of the text’s internal references and correspondences but also the challenge of making sense of so many individual sentences or paragraphs.

b) Section level

He made significant changes on a macro level, too. For example, it was only late in the composition, after the book had been serialised in The Little Review, in summer 1921, that it crossed Joyce’s mind to punctuate the entire ‘Aeolus’ chapter with parody newspaper headlines, 62 of them.

c) The evolution of ‘Circe’

The accretive method reaches a kind of climax with ‘Circe’ which kept on growing, to its current monstrous proportions. The commentaries tell us that 1) Joyce had had the brainwave of setting his modernisation of the Circe legend – the legend of the woman who used her magic to enchant Odysseus and change his men into swine – in a contemporary Dublin brothel with the brothelkeeping madam as Circe. Good. A clever joke and in line with the trend of the novel to reincarnate classical legends as debased and degraded modern equivalents.

Then 2) we are told that he had the inspiration to cast it in the form of a play script – taking further the imposition of formats and styles on his subject matter which we had seen applied more and more thoroughly in the preceding chapters, Aeolus, Cyclops and Oxen of the Sun. Good. With you so far. Apparently, with this clear plan in mind, Joyce thought it would only take two or three months to write but it ended up taking six months and ging through at least eight drafts, swelling and bombasting with each iteration. Why?

Because it dawned on him that the chapter would act not only to purge his two central figures of their demons, it would purge the entire book too. It would purge the entire book of its ghosts and nightmares. And so to achieve this would require walk-on appearances by every character who had appeared in the novel so far, whether as a talking character or even the briefest of passing references. Everyone would appear, everyone would have a place in this grand finale. Here comes everyone! And not just characters but ideas, too, and topics from the novel’s many conversations. As the Ulysses Guide puts it:

As David Hayman puts it, Joyce seems to have taken the whole book, jumbled it together in a giant mixer and then rearranged its elements in a monster pantomime’ (Hayman 102).

This is what I mean by the climax of the accretive method. Whenever he thought he’d finished, he remembered someone else who could be made to appear in a further scene or vignette. And so the thing grew to its current gargantuan and exhausting size, with a bewildering number of characters appear in a bewildering variety of gross and grotesque scenes.

3. What is real any more?

‘Ulysses’ opens by describing the real world and real characters more or less realistically – admittedly in a mannered style but you more or less understand what is going on, you can decipher the ‘reality’ behind the style.

But as the work proceeds the events being described become increasingly hard to make out through the din of Joyce’s free indirect style before the entire approach arguably falls to pieces in the ‘Sirens’ episode.

Then, with ‘Aeolus’, something entirely new enters the picture because the 62 newspaper headlines the text is punctuated with are obviously a) not spoken or thought by any of the characters but b) don’t read as traditional authorial narration either. So who put them there?

Hence critic David Hayman’s invention of the figure he calls The Arranger. The Arranger it is who creates the newspaper headlines in ‘Aeolus’ and goes on to place the passages of mock heroic prose in ‘Cyclops’ which satirise the Citizen; and then arranges for the entire text of ‘Oxen of the Sun’ to consist of a series of extended pastiches of English as it evolved from Anglo-Saxon prose to Cardinal Newman. Note the steady increase in the ambition of the Arranger’s interventions:

  • Aeolus: limited to one-phrase headlines, albeit 62 of them
  • Cyclops: extended to create occasional blocks of parody
  • Oxen of the Sun: The Arranger takes over the entire text which consists of a series of historical pastiches

OK, so we understand the steady growth of The Arranger’s control. But despite it, all three chapters nevertheless retain the sense that, beneath or behind the interventions, something real is still happening, that, for example, behind the series of elaborate pastiches in ‘Oxen’ it’s still fairly obvious that there is a ‘real’ scene – half a dozen medical students and drifters getting drunk and bantering.

In ‘Circe’, by contrast, this sense of a reality lying behind the extravagant stylisations of the Arranger disappears. The incidents of ‘Circe’ are so extravagant, so demented, so hallucinatory, that there has ceased to be a behind, ceased to be a ‘reality’ which the reader can decipher their way back to. What you see is what you get. It is all on the surface.

The critic Hugh Kenner summarises attempts by various commentators to distinguish different levels of reality in the chapter:

  • The opening scene as Stephen and Bloom enter nighttown, some of the dialogue with the prostitutes, and Stephen getting into a fight with a squaddy right at the end, these can be said to be ‘real’ i.e. correlate with real life as we know it.
  • At the next level you have hallucinations of ‘real’ people i.e. when Stephen hallucinates his dead mother or Bloom hallucinates a sequence of women he’s sexually assaulted or sent rude letters to, these might be said to be based on real-world events.
  • And thirdly there are the out-and-out fantastical hallucinations such as the central event where Bloom turns into a woman and the brothelkeeper, Bella Cohen, turns into a man, along with countless other incidents where inanimate objects or animals talk, human beings appear in fancy dress or in changed shape, and so on.

This sounds plausible enough but in my view is a big mistake. In my opinion we have to accept the fact that The Arranger has taken over. Or to put it in different but equally hyperbolic terms: it is the book itself speaking. There is no longer any reality it relates to; the chapter is a festival of itself and its own imaginative possibilities, which are unlimited.

Kenner goes on to concede as much when he makes the one big Killer Fact about the chapter which is this: in the two chapters featuring Stephen and Bloom which follow ‘Circe’, neither of the characters refer to any of its central contents.

A visit to a brothel where Stephen smashes the chandelier, then a fight with a squaddie in the street, Yes. This handful of external events are referred back to but believe me these only occupy ten or less pages of the 150 and as to the other 140 pages of delirious hallucination, No, no later reference is made. It is as if they never happened because, in my view, it never did happen. Or, to put it better: it all did happen but we are now on a different plane of fiction. We are no longer in anything like a realist mode of fiction or reading. The book has moved way beyond the boring old reaching after factual verification. Kenner seems to lament this:

Deprived of reliable criteria for ‘reality’, we have no recourse but to read the text as though everything in it were equally real. (Kenner, p.126)

This sentence is immensely revealing. ‘No recourse’ Kenner says he has, but why does he need recourse? Why this obsession with seeking for a ‘reality’, for trying to distinguish the ‘real’ from the fantastical in the chapter. It’s all made up, Hugh! It’s all a book. It’s a novel. None of it happened. When I read a James Bond novel I don’t think: well that bit sounds plausible but that bit, no that’s obviously made up. The whole thing’s made up. Stop shackling yourself to this model of Realism or plausibility: the whole thing is a mad farrago, give in to it.

Kenner mentions The Temptation of Saint Anthony by Flaubert which had also crossed my mind as a forebear of ‘Circe’. Surely no critic reads the ‘Temptation’ carefully weighing up which bits are true and which are false: the whole thing is a mad hallucination. Same here. When insulted Kitty eggs the soldier on to punch Stephen why is that any more ‘real’ than the octopus which represents the end of the world or the talking belt buckles or the singing moth or Bloom turning into a woman and Bella into a dominating man? They all exist on the plane of the text and the text is a fiction, a fabrication, in all its elements.

The novel finally forces its reader to read and understand and live on its own terms and I don’t experience this as a cause for regret, reluctantly admitting I have ‘having no recourse’ but to accept this option. I accept it as a liberation. Relax and enjoy this mad fantasia.

4. The urge to offend

Reading through it slowly and carefully it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that Joyce set out to offend everyone he could think of. The Catholic Church, the British state, the British King, the Celtic revival, all believers in sexual norms or morality, all believers in sense and meaning, everyone is offended and here again, unlike the prissy self-conscious moralising of Hugh Kenner or Richard Ellman, as a child of the punk years, I found it hilarious from start to finish. Just the existence of the character Cunty Kate was going to offend church, state, censors, bourgeois moralists, feminists and that’s a fraction of its offensive material.

Example: The Croppy Boy

As a teeny tiny example, take The Croppy Boy. This is a sentimental Irish nationalist ballad commemorating the 1798 Rebellion, representing the tragic, betrayed and often anonymous sacrifice of young Irish rebels (‘croppies’) fighting against British rule. It has been performed millions of times by pious tearful nationalists lamenting Ireland’s subjugation to the brutal British etc.

But here’s how Joyce deals with it here. First he has the Croppy Boy appear in one of the countless visions or hallucinations standing on a scaffold with a rope around his neck and reciting the most famous lines from the ballad, pious nationalist sentiments:

I bear no hate to a living thing,
But I love my country beyond the king.

At which point the hangman jerks the rope and:

(The assistants leap at the victim’s legs and drag him downward, grunting: the croppy boy’s tongue protrudes violently.)
THE CROPPY BOY:
Horhot ho hray hor hother’s hest.

Which is offensive and funny in a disrespectful Monty Python kind of way. But it gets a lot worse, because as the assistants tug him down to asphyxiate him, the Croppy Boy gets a spontaneous erection and ejaculates, spraying semen on the ground below. OK, that’s very bad but then… a handful of posh ladies we’ve been introduced to earlier in the play, scramble to mop up his semen in their handkerchiefs.

(He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs Bellingham, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.)

Worse still, the hangman admits that hanging the boy has given him an erection too, so that he also is close to coming. And all the while the figure of King Edward VII dances round the scene rattling a bucket.

Who has this little scene not offended? And there are hundreds more like it. In a moderately offensive passage, in the brothel, after scores more hallucinations, Bloom gets into a long rambling argument with his long-dead grandfather, which rotates around sex and Bloom’s fetishes, with Bloom at one point observing of female genitals.

BLOOM: (Absently.) Ocularly woman’s bivalve case is worse. Always open sesame. The cloven sex. Why they fear vermin, creeping things.

Women fearing creepy crawlies that might creep up inside their vulvas! Talking of vulvas, at another point when Bloom has transformed into a woman and Bella into a man, he (Bello) shoves his fist deep into she-Bloom’s vulva then waves his smelly fist round at potential customers.

BELLO: Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. (He bares his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom’s vulva.) There’s fine depth for you! What, boys? That give you a hardon? (He shoves his arm in a bidder’s face.) Here wet the deck and wipe it round!

Offended yet? Disgusted yet? That appears to be Joyce’s aim.

5. The Homeric parallel

In The Odyssey Odysseus and his crew land on the island of Aeaea and a team of scouts discover the palace of Circe, a witch goddess. Circe invites Odysseus’s men inside for a drink and then magically turns them into pigs. One man escapes to tell Odysseus about their comrades’ fate and Circe’s trickery. Odysseus plans to rescue his men from Circe’s enchantment and receives help from Hermes who equips him with moly, a magical herb that will protect him from Circe’s witchcraft. The plan works: the moly counters Circe’s magic, she falls in love with wily Odysseus and agrees to change his crew from pigs back into men. In return Odysseus pledges to stay with her for a year, fathering two children on her during that time. Finally, some of Odysseus’s crew talk him out of his long entrancement and make him resume the journey home to Ithaca.

‘Circe’ synopsis

Here’s my summary of ‘Circe’ which doesn’t begin to do justice to the madness of actually reading it. This summary makes it sound rational and lucid, which it emphatically isn’t.

Into Nighttown Stephen and his friend Lynch, both plastered after a night drinking at the maternity hospital, walk into Nighttown, Dublin’s red-light district which is like a nightmare Hieronymus Bosch landscape.

(A pigmy woman swings on a rope slung between two railings, counting. A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and snores again. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for her lair, swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat on the doorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, scrambles up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings of an area, lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails.)

Stephen tells Lynch he’s heading for the brothel of Georgina Johnson. Bloom enters flushed and panting from hurrying, running across a street where he is nearly hit by two cyclists and then run down by a tram. He sees an orange glow to the south and wonders whether Dublin is burning which triggers a chorus of children singing the nursery rhyme. The bicycle bells and motorman’s footgong have speaking parts and are among the 40 or so inanimate objects which get to speak.

THE BICYCLE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.

THE TRAM GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

Or Vince Lynch’s cap which has a speaking part and expresses surprisingly profound opinions, for a cap:

THE CAP: (With saturnine spleen.) Bah! It is because it is. Woman’s reason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Bah!

I like the Kisses which fly about him like birds and then settle on his clothes like sequins.

Bloom’s father Bloom hallucinates his father, Rudolph, come back to life to tick him off for his imprudence with money, for being in Nighttown, for leaving Judaism.

(A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn face.)

Mum and Molly Swiftly followed by his mother (In pantomime dame’s stringed mobcap, widow Twankey’s crinoline and bust) and then by Molly, wearing the sexy Turkish outfit he fantasises about her in, accompanied by a camel which peels her a mango. She accuses him of being a stick in the mud, the joke phrase from Nausicaa. The bar of soap in his pocket starts to sing.

THE SOAP:
We’re a capital couple are Bloom and I.
He brightens the earth. I polish the sky.

He is accused in turn by his old flame Mrs Breen and Gerty before a pair of black and white minstrels dance onto the stage and sing to a banjo.

Costume changes It’s important to note that Bloom keeps changing costume, wearing in quick succession:

  • a dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings
  • a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon
  • an oatmeal sporting suit
  • a red fez when he is transformed into a Turkish dentist
  • a lascar’s vest and trousers
  • court dress
  • a caubeen with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues, an emigrant’s red handkerchief bundle in his hand
  • becomes a baby wearing ‘babylinen and pelisse’
  • and many others

And that most of the other characters appear in non-naturalistic, absurdist outfits too. Myles Crawford appears as a chicken.

Hellscape Descriptions of the surrounding persistently link it with Dante’s hell and Bosch’s nightmareworld.

(Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight.)

The Trial Bloom is put in the dock to answer charges by a variety of women including the scullerymaid Mary Driscoll, Mrs Yelverton Barry, Mrs Bellingham and the Hon Mrs Mervyn Talboys. J.J. O’Molloy defends him.

Bloomusalem Bloom is exonerated in the trial which turns into a grand eulogy to him in which he King of his own city named Bloomusalem. Bloom imagines himself being loved and admired by Bloomusalem’s citizens.

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted emperor-president and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First!

Coronation In which Bloom is wearing yet another costume, a dalmatic and purple mantle. He is crowned in a grand ceremony, fireworks go off, he holds a sceptre and orb, a vast palace is built for him etc.

Bloom’s downfall But as quickly as he was raised, he falls, with religious leaders denouncing him and a crowd more characters joining in.

THE MOB: Lynch him! Roast him! He’s as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!
(Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom.)

Bloom gives birth All the medical students from ‘Oxen of the Sun’ line up to accuse Bloom of being sexually abnormal. (They will reappear later as the Eight Beatitudes.) Bloom announces that he has become a woman and is pregnant and then: Bloom embraces Mrs Thornton the nurse tightly and bears eight male yellow and white children before an Italian Papal Nuncio gives an absurdist list of his ancestry.

Bloom is stoned and set on fire ‘All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and defile him’ presumably that last phrase means piss on him. Then the head of the Dublin Fire Brigade sets him on fire.

At Bella’s After a lot, lot, lot more of this, Bloom eventually tracks Stephen and Lynch to Bella Cohen’s brothel (at 82 Tyrone street, lower). The prostitute Zoe Higgins greets him at the door and takes him onto the building where he meets Florry Talbot and Kitty Ricketts and encounters Stephen drunk at a piano and Lynch sprawled on a sofa. Here the hallucinations of other characters and situations continue, I liked the newsboys outside shouting about the safe arrival of the Antichrist, and reeled at the Hobgoblin who speaks in French (as hobgoblins obviously do, while appearing to destroy the solar system.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (His jaws chattering, capers to and fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, then all at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork of his thighs.) Il vient! C’est moi! L’homme qui rit! L’homme primigène! (He whirls round and round with dervish howls.) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! (He crouches juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands.) Les jeux sont faits! (The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks.) Rien va plus! (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away. He springs off into vacuum.)

Which is the cue for another favourite, the End of the World, who turns out to be an octopus which speaks with a Scottish accent.

(Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie’s kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the Three Legs of Man.)
THE END OF THE WORLD: (With a Scotch accent.) Wha’ll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel row?

(This is actually a nightmare reworking of a bizarre snippet Bloom overheard the mystic A.E. discussing with an acolyte in the street back in the ‘Lestrygonians’ chapter.)

Do you see why I think that trying to find a ‘rational’ or ‘realistic’ interpretation of all this is a fool’s errand. You should enjoy the show.

Enter Bella Cohen At the end of the hallucinations, Bloom is talking to Zoe-Kitty-Florry when he hears a sound coming from downstairs. He hears heels clacking on the staircase and observes what appears to be a male form passing down the staircase. He speaks with Zoe and Kitty for a moment, and then sees Bella Cohen come into the brothel. He observes her appearance and talks with her for a little while.

Bella and Bloom change gender But this conversation morphs into another hallucination, in which Bella becomes a man named Mr Bello and Bloom imagines himself to be a woman. New female Bloom willingly imagines herself being dominated by Bello, who both sexually and verbally humiliates Bloom. Bloom interacts with other imaginary characters in this scene before the hallucination ends.

A lucid moment When this hallucination ends, Bloom sees Stephen overpay Bella and suggests that he holds onto the drunk young man’s money safekeeping.

Stephen’s mother’s ghost Stephen hallucinates that his mother’s rotting cadaver has risen up from the floor to confront him. He cries Non serviam! and uses his ashplant walking stick to smash a chandelier before running out the room. The shattering of the chandelier deliberately repeats a phrase first occurring in Stephen’s thoughts in chapter 2, an image of the apocalypse, ironically repeated here in bathetic circumstances.

Time’s livid final flame leaps and, in the following darkness, ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.

Payment Bella insists that Bloom pays for the damage, demanding 10 shillings but Bloom only throws a shilling on the table before himself running out the house in pursuit of Stephen.

Argument with a soldier A few streets away (in Beaver Street) Bloom finds Stephen engaged in an argument with an English soldier, Private Carr. This scene drags on surprisingly long with Carr claiming to be angry not just because Stephen, in a throwaway remark ‘insulted’ the King but also one of the prostitutes he, Carr, is chatting to. After a prolonged confused argument, Carr finally punches Stephen in the face, knocking him backwards and down onto his back.

Threat of arrest Two officers of the watch (the same pair we met at the start of the chapter) arrive and threaten to arrest Stephen but at this point another Dublin character arrives, Corny Kelleher. He alights from a horse-drawn carriage which, since he is an assistant at H.J. O’Neill’s funeral parlour, I took to be a funeral carriage. But Corny also (seems to) work as a police informant on the side and he manages to smooth things over with both the soldiers and the cops, who tell the excited crowd which has assembled to disperse. Bloom is very grateful, and so with much thanks and handshaking, Corny departs leaving Bloom alone with Stephen who’s still lying prone on the street.

Rudy’s ghost Bloom is pondering what to do with Stephen and just realising that he’s going to have to heave him up and take him somewhere safe to recuperate, when he is transfixed with the last thing which happens in this long, mad chapter – a sudden vision of his deceased son, Rudy, as an 11-year-old.

Cast

As a gesture towards the madness and to give you a sense of the scale of the thing, here is a full cast list of every person and object which speaks or appears, in order of appearance:

  • Children
  • The Idiot
  • A Crone
  • A Gnome
  • Cissy Caffrey
  • The Virago
  • Private Compton
  • Private Carr
  • Stephen Dedalus
  • Vincent Lynch – ‘his jockeycap low on his brow, attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face’
  • The Bawd
  • Edy Boardman
  • Leopold Bloom
  • The urchins
  • The motorman
  • Rudolph Bloom – Poldy’s father
  • Ellen Bloom – Poldy’s mother
  • Molly Bloom – Poldy’s wife
  • The lemon soap
  • Sweny – the chemist
  • Bridie Kelly – who Bloom lost his virginity to
  • Gerty MacDowell – who Bloom masturbated to in Nausicaa
  • Mrs Breen – former girlfriend of Bloom’s
  • Dennis Breen – her mad husband
  • Wisdom Hely’s sandwichboards
  • Tom and Sam Bohee – ‘coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes’
  • Alf Bergan
  • Richie Goulding – ‘three ladies’ hats pinned on his head’
  • Pat the waiter
  • The Gaffer (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout)
  • The Loiterers (Guffaw with cleft palates)
  • The whores – shawled, dishevelled
  • The Navvy
  • The Shebeenkeeper
  • The wreaths
  • First watch
  • Second watch
  • The gulls
  • Bob Doran
  • Towser – bulldog
  • Signor Maffei – ‘passionpale, in liontamer’s costume with diamond studs in his shirtfront, steps forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a curling carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the gorging boarhound’
  • The Dark Mercury
  • Martha – (Thickveiled, a crimson halter round her neck) ‘My real name is Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable.’
  • Myles Crawford – as a chicken
  • Mr Philip Beaufoy – ‘palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots’
  • A voice from the gallery
  • First Cryer
  • Mary Driscoll – scullerymaid Bloom assaulted – ‘a slipshod servant girl, approaches. She has a bucket on the crook of her arm and a scouringbrush in her hand’
  • George Fottrell – Clerk of the crown and peace
  • Longhand
  • Shorthand
  • Professor MacHugh
  • J. J. O’Molloy – in barrister’s grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a voice of pained protest
  • Moses Dlugacz – ferreteyed albino in blue dungarees
  • Mrs Yelverton Barry – in lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hair – claims Bloom wrote her a rude anonymous letter
  • Mrs Bellingham – in cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the nose, steps out of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff – ditto
  • The Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys – in amazon costume, hard hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and hunting crop with which she strikes her welt constantly – ditto
  • Sluts and Ragamuffins
  • Davy Stephens – Messenger of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph, with the Saint Patrick’s Day supplement
  • The very reverend Canon O’Hanlon in cloth of gold cope
  • Father Conroy
  • The reverend John Hughes S. J.
  • Clock/Timepiece
  • The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle
  • The Nameless One
  • The Jurors, namely: Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton, Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M’Coy and the featureless face of a Nameless One
  • The Crier
  • His Honour, Sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded
  • Long John Fanning
  • H. Rumbold, master barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner’s apron, a rope coiled over his shoulder
  • The bells of George’s church
  • Hynes
  • Paddy Dignam – dead, dog-eaten face
  • John O’Connell – caretaker, stands forth, holding a bunch of keys tied with crape
  • Father Coffey – chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff of twisted poppies
  • Tom Rochford
  • The Kisses
  • Zoe Higgins – a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a slim black velvet fillet round her throat
  • Midnight chimes
  • An elector
  • The Torchbearers
  • Late Lord Mayor Harrington – in scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and large white silk scarf
  • Councillor Lorcan Sherlock
  • A Blacksmith
  • A Paviour and Flagger
  • A Millionairess
  • A Noblewoman
  • A Feminist
  • A Bellhanger
  • The Bishop of Down and Connor
  • William, Archbishop of Armagh – in purple stock and shovel hat
  • Michael, Archbishop of Armagh
  • The Peers
  • John Howard Parnell
  • Tom Kernan
  • The Chapel of Freeman Typesetters
  • John Wyse Nolan
  • A Bluecoast Schoolboy
  • An Old Resident
  • An Applewoman
  • Thirtytwo workmen representing all the counties of Ireland
  • The Sightseers
  • The Man in the Mackintosh
  • The Women
  • The Babes and Sucklings
  • Baby Boardman – Edy Boardman’s baby, met in Nausicaa
  • The Citizen
  • Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk
  • Paddy Leonard
  • Nosey Flynn
  • J.J. O’Molloy
  • Pisser Burke
  • Chris Callinan
  • Joe Hynes
  • Ben Dollard – rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fatpapped
  • Larry O’Rourke
  • Crofton
  • Alexander Keyes
  • O’Madden Burke
  • Davy Byrne
  • Lenehan
  • Father Farley
  • Mrs Riordan
  • Mother Grogan
  • Hoppy Holohan
  • The Veiled Sibyl
  • Theodore Purefoy
  • Alexander J. Dowie
  • The Mob
  • Dr Mulligan – ‘In motor jerkin, green motorgoggles on his brow’
  • Dr Madden
  • Dr Crotthers
  • Dr Punch Costello
  • Dr Dixon
  • Mrs Thornton
  • Brother Buzz
  • Bantam Lyons
  • Brini – Papal Nuncio
  • A Deadhand writes on the wall
  • Crab – in bushranger’s kit
  • A Female Infant – shakes a rattle
  • A Hollybush
  • The Irish Evicted Tenants – ‘in bodycoats, kneebreeches, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs’
  • The Artane Orphans
  • The Prison Gate Girls
  • Hornblower – ‘in ephod and huntingcap’
  • Mastiansky and Citron
  • George R Mesias, Bloom’s tailor, appears, a tailor’s goose under his arm,
  • Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded Iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his son,
  • The Fire Brigade
  • Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin Fire Brigade
  • The Daughters of Erin – ‘in black garments, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their hands’
  • A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O’Brien, sings the chorus from Handel’s Messiah Alleluia for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn
  • The Male Brutes
  • Kitty Ricketts – young prostitute working in Bella Cohen’s brothel
  • Zoe Higgins – ‘a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in her hand’, also working in Bella Cohen’s brothel
  • Florry Talbot – ‘a blond feeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry’, also working in Bella Cohen’s brothel
  • Lynch’s cap has a speaking part
  • Reuben J. Antichrist – phantasm
  • The Hobgoblin
  • The Gramophone
  • The End of the World – a twoheaded octopus in gillie’s kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the Three Legs of Man (with a Scotch accent)
  • Elijah
  • The Beatitudes (Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch in white surgical students’ gowns)
  • Lyster
  • Best (from the National Library)
  • John Eglinton – literary man from the National Library
  • Mananaun MacLir – broods
  • The Gasjet speaks
  • Lipoti Virag – Bloom’s grandfather
  • The moth – performs a little moth song
  • Henry Flower – ‘He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob’s pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female head. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He has the romantic Saviour’s face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.’ Bear in mind that Henry doesn’t exist.
  • Almidano Artifoni – ‘holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework’
  • Siamese twins
  • Philip Drunk and Philip Sober – two Oxford dons with lawnmowers
  • Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley aka the Virgins
  • The Virgins
  • The Flybill
  • His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus – phantasmal Primate of all Ireland
  • The Doorhandle
  • Bella Cohen – a massive whoremistress: she is dressed in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen. On her left hand are wedding and keeper rings. Her eyes are deeply carboned. She has a sprouting moustache. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. She has large pendant beryl eardrops. Bloom says:

Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your domination.

  • The Fan
  • The Hoof (Bella has grown hooves)
  • Bello – Bella transformed into a man
  • Mrs Keogh – the brothel cook, wrinkled, greybearded, in a greasy bib, men’s grey and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand
  • BLOOM-as-a-woman – a charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands and nose, leering mouth (It was Gerald converted me to be a true corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High School play Vice Versa. It was dear Gerald. He got that kink, fascinated by sister’s stays. Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids. Cult of the beautiful.’)
  • The Sins of the Past:
    • he went through a form of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the shadow of the Black church
    • unspeakable messages he telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn at an address in D’Olier street while he presented himself indecently to the instrument in the callbox
    • by word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises
    • in five public conveniences he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to all strongmembered males
    • and by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see?
    • did he not lie in bed, the gross boar, gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot?
  • (Bello bares his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom’s vulva.) There’s fine depth for you! What, boys? That give you a hardon? (He shoves his arm in a bidder’s face.) Here wet the deck and wipe it round!
  • A bidder
  • The Lacquey (from outside Dillon’s auction house, chapter 10)
  • Charles Alberta Marsh
  • A darkvisaged man
  • Sleepy Hollow
  • Milly Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her blue scarf in the seawind simply swirling,
  • The Circumsised (M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen)
  • The Yews
  • The Nymph
  • The Waterfall
  • John Wyse Nolan – in the background, in Irish National Forester’s uniform
  • The Echo
  • The Halcyon Days (Master Donald Turnbull, Master Abraham Chatterton, Master Owen Goldberg, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn)
  • Staggering Bob
  • A Nannygoat – ‘plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants’ – (Bleats.) Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny!
  • The DummyMummy
  • Councillor Nannetti – alone on deck, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his hand in his waistcoat opening
  • Bloom’s back trouserbutton
  • the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan – who pandybatted Stephen at Clogowes School in ‘Portrait’
  • Don John Conmee – mild, benign, rectorial, reproving
  • Black Liz – a huge rooster hatching in a chalked circle
  • The Boots
  • Blazes Boylan
  • Shakespeare
  • Mrs Dignam and her children:
    • Freddy Dignam whimpering
    • Susy Dignam with a crying cod’s mouth
    • Alice Dignam struggling with the baby
  • Martin Cunningham
  • Mrs Cunningham – in Merry Widow hat and kimono gown
  • Simon Dedalus
  • The Crowd watching a foxhunt
  • The Orange Lodges
  • Garrett Deasy
  • The Green Lodges
  • Professor Goodwin – in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room
  • Professor Maginni – inserts a leg on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat. With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in. He wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a gorget of cream tulle, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia
  • The Pianola
  • The morning hours – run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled, in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with innocent hands. Nimbly they dance, twirling their skipping ropes
  • The noon hours follow in amber gold, laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing
  • Cavaliers
  • The Twilight Hours
  • The Night Hours
  • The Bracelets
  • The Choir
  • Stephen’s Mother, May Goulding
  • Buck Mulligan
  • The Hue and Cry
  • Lord Tennyson – gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded
  • Dolly Gray
  • Biddy the Clap
  • Cunty Kate
  • King Edward the Seventh
  • Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o’-day boy’s hat
  • Patrice Egan
  • Don Emile Patrizio Franz Rupert Pope Hennessy – in medieval hauberk, two wild geese volant on his helm,
  • The Croppy Boy
  • Rumbold, Demon Barber – accompanied by two blackmasked assistants,
  • Old Gummy Granny in a sugarloaf hat
  • Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals
  • Father Malachi O’Flynn
  • The Reverend Mr Haines Love
  • The Voice of all the Damned
  • Adonai
  • The Voice of all the Blessed
  • The Retriever
  • A Hag
  • The Horse
  • Rudy

Inanimate objects speak

I particularly enjoyed the inanimate objects which have speaking roles. Back in ‘Aeolus’ Bloom remarked in his inner monologue that ‘everything speaks in its own way’ and here that rule is wonderfully brought to life.

THE FAN: (Flirting quickly, then slowly.) Married, I see.

(The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.)
THE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag.

(The bells of George’s church toll slowly, loud dark iron.)
THE BELLS: Heigho! Heigho!

There are nearly 40 of these speaking objects and all very entertaining exercises of Joyce’s ingenuity. Here’s an old-style gramophone where the needle has played the whole record and gone to that bit in the centre.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (Drowning his voice.) Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh… (The disc rasps gratingly against the needle.)

THE GASJET: Pooah! Pfuiiiiiii!

Stephen can’t stop making grand declarations

In ‘Portrait’, remember how Joyce has Stephen make a series of grand declarations: ‘Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow’; that the artist is like God ‘invisible, refined out of existence’; that he will go into exile and express himself as freely as he can ‘using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use — silence, exile and cunning’ etc etc.

Stephen carries on making the same kind of declarations throughout ‘Ulysses’. In fact sometimes it seems like whenever Stephen Dedalus opens his mouth, he makes another grand statement. He is a grand statement machine. Here in the ‘Circe’ chapter many of these become garbled and incoherent although he still manages to make manifesto pledges which are routinely cited by the commentators as indicators of his and Joyce’s intentions.

STEPHEN: (Laughs emptily.) My centre of gravity is displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the king of England, have invented arbitration. (He taps his brow.) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.

You die for your country. Suppose. (He places his arm on Private Carr’s sleeve.) Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me.

My point is that Joyce critics tend to take these ringing declarations at face value, and also equate them with Joyce’s own views. Whereas, reading ‘Portrait’ and ‘Ulysses’ together, situating Stephen among the wider Dublin society portrayed in the latter book, and also comparing him with the easy-going and genuinely kind figure of Bloom, has steadily put me off Stephen. In my opinion, as the book progresses, Stephen comes to appear smaller, more bitter, more self-centred and selfish, and his grand statements ring increasingly hollow.

He is a legend in his own mind. He goes ‘to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race’ and yet when he bumps into his impoverished little sister, with pounds in his pocket, he doesn’t even give her a penny because he is saving all his money to squander it on booze and prostitutes. There’s a name for that kind of brother and it isn’t ‘hero’.

Cuckolding

It seems pointless zeroing on any particular set of sexual references since the whole thing overflows with obscenity. But the soft porn references to Boylan shafting his wife are particularly germane to the ‘plot’ and Bloom can’t stop thinking and fantasising about it.

BOYLAN: (To Bloom, over his shoulder.) You can apply your eye to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few times.
BLOOM: Thank you, sir. I will, sir. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot? (He holds out an ointment jar.) Vaseline, sir? Orangeflower…? Lukewarm water…?

LYDIA DOUCE: (Her mouth opening.) Yumyum. O, he’s carrying her round the room doing it! Ride a cockhorse. You could hear them in Paris and New York. Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.

BLOOM: (His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself.) Show! Hide! Show! Plough her! More! Shoot!

Later on, Bella-turned-into-Bello fondles Bloom’s limp little willy, then describes Blazes tupping Molly:

BELLO: What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? (He stoops and, peering, pokes with his fan rudely under the fat suet folds of Bloom’s haunches.) Up! Up! Manx cat! What have we here? Where’s your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly? Sing, birdy, sing. It’s as limp as a boy of six’s doing his pooly behind a cart. Buy a bucket or sell your pump. (Loudly.) Can you do a man’s job?
BLOOM: Eccles street…
BELLO: (Sarcastically.) I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world but there’s a man of brawn in possession there. The tables are turned, my gay young fellow! He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Well for you, you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it. He shot his bolt, I can tell you! Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! He’s no eunuch. A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him behind like a furzebush! Wait for nine months, my lad! Holy ginger, it’s kicking and coughing up and down in her guts already! That makes you wild, don’t it? Touches the spot? (He spits in contempt.) Spittoon!

And much more in the same vein. The theme bleeds through into the next chapter where Bloom and Stephen blunder off to a late-night café and find themselves in an argument about the great Lost Leader of Irish nationalism, Charles Stewart Parnell who fell from power after being named as the third party in a divorce case. The point is that Bloom sticks up for Parnell as being a Real Man, a proper stud, who stepped in to swive horny Kitty O’Shea when her husband (Captain O’Shea) was unable to do the deed. So a situation very like Bloom’s only with Bloom rooting (sic) for the cuckolder, rather than being the cuckoldee.

Stephen’s broken glasses

Hugh Kenner points out a key fact which is only now revealed but impacts our entire reading of the book. We knew that Stephen, like his creator, was short-sighted. But only here, late in the novel, do we discover that he broke his glasses the day before. In other words he’s been barely able to see for the entire novel!

STEPHEN: (Brings the match near his eye.) Lynx eye. Must get glasses. Broke them yesterday. Sixteen years ago. Distance. The eye sees all flat. (He draws the match away. It goes out.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable modality of the visible.

What does that say, how does that qualify his repeated insistence on the importance of the appearance of things, the fact that he can barely see the appearance of anything!

Facts

Despite the delirious nature of most of the content, Joyce still chose to secrete a number of key facts about the entire novel into this chapter, for example, our heroes’ ages:

BLOOM: (Points to his hand.) That weal there is an accident. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. I was sixteen.

So Bloom is 38.

STEPHEN: See? Moves to one great goal. I am twentytwo. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled. Twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. (He winces.) Hurt my hand somewhere.

So Stephen is 22.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

Related links

Related reviews

Present Laughter: A Light Comedy in Three Acts by Noel Coward (1939)

Executive summary

This is a very entertaining portrait of a successful comedy actor, Garry Essendine, and the comic interplay among his coterie of servants, secretaries and sycophants (‘a tightly knit group like us’, as his wife puts it), plus a succession of outsiders whose arrivals are timed to create the maximum of comic confusion. This is the first Coward comedy that I found genuinely funny.

Background

Noel Coward wrote ‘Present Laughter’ in 1939. The title comes from a song sung by Feste the fool in Shakespeare’s comedy ‘Twelfth Night’. The song is on the age-old subject of taking pleasure while you can, the so-called carpe diem topos which we’ve seen mentioned in several other Coward plays (for example, ‘Design for Living’).

O Mistress mine where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further pretty sweeting.
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.

What is love, ’tis not hereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What’s to come, is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty:
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

This struck me as the funniest Coward play I’ve read and watched so far. It’s the only one I didn’t want to fast forward to get to the end of. I’ve been watching the highest quality productions available on the internet, in this case the 1981 Donald Sinden production.

Obviously Sinden was a notorious old ham but that means he was perfect to play the part of a notorious old ham, turning every possible moment into a Grand Scene which allows him to declaim and grandstand, the comedy sometimes deriving from the way he is sublimely indifferent to the reactions and feelings of all around him, sometimes from the way he artfully or cynically manipulates those around him.

Watching it also made me realise that although a lot of Coward’s lines are humdrum on the page, if they are delivered with the right emphasis and timing, apparently flat lines can be very funny. This makes me think badly of all the productions of the other plays I’ve watched which, by comparison, throw away or mute or lose the kinds of lines which here, in Sinden’s magniloquent performance, become comic gems.

Anyway, the plot such as it is, is that the comedy actor, Garry Essendine is in a more than usual tizzy because he is on the eve of a tour of Africa.

Built onto the premise of his outrageous self-absorption and the sycophancy of all who surround him, are piled events such as: having to deal with two women who want to seduce him, to placate both his long-suffering secretary and his worldly wise wife, cope with an infatuated young playwright, and overcome his impending mid-life crisis (he has recently turned forty).

Coward freely admitted that the character is a caricature of his real-life persona and he himself starred as Garry in the play’s original run. Because the part is such an obvious star vehicle, it has been performed onstage by a who’s who of British actors, including Albert Finney, Peter O’Toole, Donald Sinden, Ian McKellen, Simon Callow and, most recently, the hot priest from Fleabag, Andrew Scott.

It’s obviously based on a lifetime as a professional actor and he had been mulling it over for years, but the actual writing of ‘Present Laughter’ took him just six days. Fans of Coward cite this kind of thing as proof of The Master’s genius but critics might point out that it also explains the sustained thinness of the characters’ interplay and dialogue. Maybe if he’d spent a few days more working on it, the comic effects might be sharper and more effective.

Cast

  • Daphne Stillington – shallow young woman Garry invited to ‘spend the night’ and soon leaves
  • Miss Erikson – Swedish housekeeper with comic attitude and phlegmatic attitude
  • Fred – breezy, whistling servant
  • Monica Reed – Garry’s humorous and businesslike secretary
  • Garry Essendine – ageing, larger-than-life comic actor
  • Liz Essendine – Garry’s former wife, now separated
  • Roland Maule – over-excited young playwright who switches from damning Garry’s lack of interest in politics and ‘commitment’ to revealing a worrying obsession with him
  • Henry Lyppiatt – Garry’s agent
  • Morris Dixon – Garry’s producer
  • Joanna Lyppiatt – Henry’s wife who, it turns out, for seven long years has been secretly in love with Garry
  • Lady Saltburn – ‘a majestic but rather effusive society woman’

Plot

All three acts of the play are set in Garry Essendine’s London flat. He is a successful West End actor who has just turned forty and dominates every scene with his grand gestures and star quality.

Act 1

Daphne Stillington, 24, a young admirer of Garry’s, has inveigled herself into the flat and has spent the night there although, as she emphasises, in the spare room.

Garry is still asleep, and while waiting for him to wake, Daphne encounters in turn three of his employees: the housekeeper (Miss Erikson), valet (Fred) and his secretary (Monica). None of them display any surprise at her presence.

Garry finally wakes and plays the lead in a very funny scene, coping with Daphne’s slavish adulation while all the time looking at his watch and rushing her out. The housekeeper comes in leading to a characteristic joke.

MISS ERIKSON: Fred said I was to go and speak to the young lady.
GARRY: Very well, Miss Erikson.
MISS ERIKSON: What shall I say to her?
GARRY: I really don’t know.
MISS ERIKSON: I have been to the grocer’s and–
GARRY: That’s as good an opening gambit as any.

His secretary presents him with various letters, the phone keeps ringing (as it kept ringing in ‘Design for Living’) and people keep arriving. Piccadilly Circus.

Garry’s ex-wife, Liz Essendine, arrives, which leads to an embarrassing meeting between Daphne, emerging from having a bath and dressing, with her. But Liz is all suave urbanity and offers Daphne the use of her (chauffeur-driven) car.

Once the young woman has left we settle down to enjoy the interplay between Garry’s coterie – his ex-wife, his secretary, his servant, Fred, breezing around, whistling and dispensing coffee.

You know the difference between this and his 1920s comedies? It’s good humoured, it is good-humoured and comic throughout, in fact its high spirited mood highlights the genuine bitterness, anger and abuse which fill ‘Hay Fever’, ‘Private Lives’ and ‘Design for Living’ and make them very mixed amusements.

I’d just written that when there was an extended argument between Garry and Liz. I can’t help thinking irritable bad temper is the central Coward quality.

Anyway, Liz tells Garry that she thinks his manager, Morris Dixon, is having an affair with Joanna, the glamorous wife of his producer, Henry. The point is this intrigue might be picked up by the press and damage Garry’s reputation, so can he find out more and do something about it? Garry is having lunch with Morris, so Liz tells him to phone her and indicate whether the affair is or is not true by using a codeword.

Miss Erikson comes onstage to announce there is a lady at the back door with ‘a tiny baby’. Flummoxed, Garry tells his secretary to go and find out who on earth she is. Liz, too, is intrigued. She stays long enough for the arrival of a young man from Uckfield (!), Roland Maule, an earnest young playwright who’s sent Garry a copy of his play to read. Liz has time to say hello to this young chap and then leave. Comic dialogue with this young man:

GARRY: So you’ve come all the way from Uckfield?
ROLAND: It isn’t very far.
GARRY: Well, it sort of sounds far, doesn’t it?
ROLAND [defensively]: It’s quite near Lewes.
GARRY: Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?

Monica enters to say the woman with the baby knocked at the wrong door, she was looking for her sister who lives further down the mews. Garry introduces her to Roland. She leaves to get the manuscript of his play. In ‘Design for Living’ Coward included newspaper reviews of one of the characters’ plays, as a way of satirising his critics. As far as I can see this Roland Moule character is a satire on the earnest and politically committed writers who scorn Coward for producing shallow entertainment just for money, instead of making his audiences think!

ROLAND: Every play you appear in is exactly the same, superficial, frivolous and without the slightest intellectual significance. You have a great following and a strong personality, and all you do is prostitute yourself every night of your life. All you do with your talent is to wear dressing-gowns and make witty remarks when you might be really helping people, making them think!

This, as you can imagine, does not delight Garry but it provides Coward with the opportunity to reply with a prolonged broadside, telling the young man that his play is rubbish, a farrago of adolescent pseudo-intellectual poppycock, then tells him to join a repertory theatre, and play numerous parts until he understands how plays work.

To his and our surprise this blunt attack makes Roland announce that he loves Garry. He is obsessed with him. He’s his number one fan. He even offers to come to Africa with him. Garry manages to talk him down and then usher him out, spilling his gratitude at giving him new insight into his life etc.

He’s barely updated Monica (the secretary) before the front doorbell rings and it is Henry his producer and (‘rather dapper and neat’, about 40) and Morris his agent (‘a trifle younger, tall and good-looking and a little grey at the temples).

There’s a gag that on the way in they found a young man sitting on his steps, crying. Garry says it’s a young playwright and he’s just given him his opinion about his play. Henry laughs that he’s glad to see he hasn’t lost his touch.

The big news they’ve arrived with is that the leading lady in the troupe going to Africa, Nora Fenwick, has tripped and broken her leg! Now they’ll have to find a replacement though Garry takes violently against their proposed substitution of the old stager Beryl Willard.

Henry exists, leaving Morris with Garry. Garry asks him whether he’s having an affair with Joanna and explains why it’s important, namely the closeness of their little gang.

GARRY: Here we are, five people closely woven together by affection and work and intimate knowledge of each other. It’s too important a ‘set up’ to risk breaking for any outside emotional reason whatsoever.

Funny how this echoes comparable speeches by Leo and Otto in ‘Design for Living’, the sense of a tiny cohort of extremely close friends against the world. Anyway, Morris assures him he’s not having an affair with Joanna and the act ends with Garry telephoning Liz and using their much made-of code-word to assure her (Liz) everything is all round.

Act 2

Scene 1. Three days later, at midnight

A bit of preliminary business between Garry and his man Fred, who’s dressed up to go to a nightclub where his girlfriend, Doris, sings and does a turn with a skipping rope. When Garry says he knows Fred has been having relations with Doris, Fred says: ‘ Why not? She likes it, I like it and a good time’s ‘ad by all’ – a repetition of the carpe diem argument which echoes through Coward’s works and, more specifically, the idea that traditional conventional morality can simply be ignored if those involved agree and it hurts no-one else (see ‘Private Lives’ and ‘Design for Living’).

Anyway Garry is just preparing to go to bed when the front doorbell rings and it is… Joanna, who, the stage directions tell us: ‘ is an exquisitely gowned woman in the early thirties. She has a great deal of assurance and considerable charm.’

In the kind of echo/symmetry/repetition which Coward delights in, Joanna tells him she’s forgotten her latchkey which was, of course, the excuse Daphne gave for having to stay overnight in Act 1.

The comedy of this scene is that they are both artificial over-actors, triggering one among several gags at Garry’s expense:

JOANNA: I know that voice, Garry, you’ve used it in every play you’ve ever been in.
GARRY: Complete naturalness on the stage is my strong suit.

Garry has a barely concealed hostility towards her. She married Henry five years ago and swears she has done her best to stay outside their precious charmed circle. He sees that she has an ulterior motive – I thought it might be something cunning and complex but it turns out, a bit disappointingly, that she has been in love with him for seven years and just wants to seduce him. So he lets her.

But not before she delivers a little speech which is briefly earnest, and reminiscent of the serious and bitter speeches about emotional pain found in ‘Private Lives’ and ‘Design for Living’. Then it’s back to banter and a memorable exchange about which is better, the Queen’s Hall or the Albert Hall, as they move in for their first Big Kiss.

Scene 2. Garry’s flat, next morning

In a further example of Coward’s love of parallelism, Joanna emerges from the spare room wearing Garry’s pyjamas just as Daphne did in Act 1. She too encounters Miss Erikson, Fred and then Monica, who is horrified at her presence in such compromising circumstances.

Liz arrives, is taken aback by Joanna’s presence and threatens to tell Henry that she has had affairs with Morris and now Garry. Liz, again, paints the picture of a small, tight-knit group she is threatening to disrupt. Their exchange teeters on the real angry bitterness we know to be Coward’s core mode.

The doorbell rings and Liz takes advantage of it to say he knows it’s Morris, and this throws Joanna into a panic, she says she can’t face him and her temporary confusion allows Liz to extract from her a promise that she won’t see Garry again before he goes to Africa, and shoves Joanna back into the spare room where she slept.

The caller isn’t Morris but Roland Maule who says he has an appointment with Garry. Monica takes him into another room to wait for him.

The pace picks up as more people arrive. First Morris who virtually bumps into Garry coming out of his room. When Garry makes a casual reference to a lady in the spare room, Morris demands to know who it is and knocks but it is Liz who emerges, to Morris’s surprise and Garry’s astonishment.

Things become farcical. Morris melodramatically announces that he’s madly in love with Joanna (married to Henry, remember), has promised to keep it a secret, told Joanna how she feels, but she left and he hasn’t seen her for days. We are teetering on the brink of revealing that Joanna has had a fling with Garry when Liz lies that Joanna spent the night with her, well aware that she is saving Garry’s bacon and he will owe her one.

Ripe comedy when Liz calls the phone in the spare room, gets Joanna to answer it, and hands the phone to Morris, having persuaded him Joanna is at her place. He wails down the phone how much he loves her but she slams the phone down.

Garry takes this as an opportunity to complain to everyone how he is pushed from pillar to post and everyone exploits him. In the middle of which Roland Maul emerges from the other spare room, to Garry’s horror.

He’s in the middle of coping with this mad fan when the doorbell rings and Henry comes in. He, too, wants to know where Joanna is, saying she’s disappeared, she hasn’t been home all night. Garry looks panic-stricken but Liz repeats her lie that Joanna spent the night with her. They do the phone trick again, ringing through to the spare room as if it’s Liz’s flat, so that Joanna can answer and reassure Henry.

Henry doesn’t understand when Joanna says she feels like she’s in a French farce but it makes the entire audience realise that she is, and how close Coward is to straight farce, stripped of the supposed elegance and wit his fans insist on.

The doorbell rings yet again and Fred the butler announces Lady Saltburn and Miss Daphne Stillburn i.e. the young lady the play started with. Lady S is polite but Daphne is, of course, very enthusiastic. They remind him that Garry promised to give her an audition, which is what triggered her seduction of a few nights before.

Morris and Henry make their excuses and leave, though irritating Mr Maule insists on remaining. Rather inconsequentially Daphne insists on reciting a poem, ‘We Meet Not as We Parted’ by Shelley, the very same one Garry used to paint his passion and then get rid of her at the start of the play – another example of Coward’s penchant for repetition and echoing.

She’s only just finished when Joanna storms out of the spare room where she’s been stuck for most of this scene. Liz suavely tells her she can borrow her car and Daphne – to big laughs – repeats what Liz told her in that first scene, describing the appearance and name of the chauffeur.

Joanna delivers a biting accusation of Garry and mocks his loyal band of satellites, then storms out. Daphne faints.

In the production I watched his secretary, Monica, rushes to get a glass of water to revive Daphne but as she reaches it past Garry, who’s kneeling beside the fainted young lady, he grabs it and drinks it himself. This isn’t in the original script. If only there were a few more comic touches in the original… but maybe that’s always the point of comic plays, that the script leaves it open for actors and director to come up with comic business…

Act 3

It’s a week later and the act opens with Monica reading out some of his mail, generally from people he has no memory of ever meeting. After this preliminary, Monica asks Garry why he won’t go and see Liz. He says she knows Liz is in a rage, he hasn’t seen her for a week, since the Joanna incident.

As she puts on her hat to depart the dialogue becomes charged with poignancy. We are allowed to see how much he means to her and how much she relies on him. They have a moment when she could kiss him but then it passes. She knows she’d be a fool to join his list of conquests.

Left to himself for a few minutes we realise he is bored and lonely. Mrs Eriksen emerges. She is dressed to go out. Garry rather desperately asks her to stay and have a cigarette, and tell him about her life. There’s some comic banter about a friend of hers who lives in Hammersmith and is a medium. It’s not actually very funny, more sad.

The front doorbell rings and he leaps up, obviously relieved, but then dismayed when Daphne walks in in travelling outfit carrying a suitcase. She announces she’s bought a ticket and is going to accompany him to Africa. She explains that she’s realised the truth: that he is desperately lonely and needs someone to look after him, realising this when she saw that dreadful prostitute come out of the spare room. She is, of course, referring to Joanna and he is appalled.

She is in the middle of explaining that she has True Love for him when the doorbell rings again. Daphne refuses to be bundled into the spare room and so he bundles her into the office instead.

The new caller is Roland. He is worryingly demented. He announces that he too has a ticket for the voyage to Africa. Garry tries to get him to leave, but the doorbell rings a third time and Roland bolts into the spare room and locks the door.

The third caller is Joanna, who has also bought a ticket for the Africa voyage. She explains that she needs him and he needs her and they are fated to be together. Determined to do something about all this Garry phones Liz and delivers the code-word from the first scene, triggering her to pop round.

She is just explaining that she’s written a letter to Henry and Morris telling them everything when the doorbell rings again. It is Liz, come at the bidding of his code-word to save the day.

Confronting Joanna, Liz announces that she too is travelling to Africa. In her urbane way she thinks it will be most amusing for them all to be together, dining at the same table and sharing so many stories.

Moments later the doorbell rings again and Henry and Morris enter. Morris demands to know whether the contents of Joanna’s letter are true and whether Garry has been Joanna’s love. He immediately admits it. But he deflects it by saying that the person who minds the situation the most is Morris, who has also been Joanna’s lover and genuinely loves her.

Shocked, Henry asks them if it’s true. But Garry counter-attacks by telling everyone about Morris’s affair with Elvira Radcliffe for over a year.

He accuses them all of hypocrisy and then delivers the Author’s Message:

GARRY: I believe now and I always have believed that there’s far too much nonsense talked about sex. You, Morris, happen to like taking your paltry attachments seriously. You like suffering and plunging into orgies of jealousy and torturing yourself and everyone else. That’s your way of enjoying yourself. Henry’s technique is a little different, he plumps for the domestic blend. That’s why he got tired of Joanna so quickly. Anyhow, he’s beautifully suited with poor Elvira. She’s been knee-deep in pasture ever since she left Roedean! Joanna’s different again. She devotes a great deal of time to sex but not for any of the intrinsic pleasures of it, merely as a means to an end. She’s a collector. A go-getter and attractive, unscrupulous pirate. I personally am none of these things. To me the whole business is yastly over-rated. I enioy it for what it’s worth and fully intend to go on doing so for as long as anybody’s interested and when the time comes that they’re not I shall be perfectly content to settle down with an apple and a good book!

Relax. It’s only sex. It was to be another half century or more before the great British public accepted this simple philosophy without offence or horror, if it actually yet has.

Joanna angrily slaps Garry’s face and stomps out but her departure goes unnoticed because Morris let slip that they’ve booked the Forum theatre for his next production despite his expressly saying he didn’t want it. This triggers a far more important argument between Garry, Henry and Morris than all the sex and infidelity in the world.

In fact it triggers a bravura last few minutes as Garry goes into theatrical overdrive, delivering a grand histrionic speech accusing everyone of being vultures that eat his life’s blood before melodramatically sinking to the floor. Completely unimpressed, Morris and Henry depart in good humour.

MORRIS: That performance wouldn’t deceive a kitten.

You can see how Coward has dodged all the logical or psychological problems of these revelations of infidelity and betrayal with this one piece of theatrical legerdemain.

Melodramatically gasping, Garry begs Liz to fetch him a brandy to revive him but spits it out when she announces that she’s not only genuinely coming with him to Africa, but is coming back to good. She’s going to move back in. Not because she loves him especially, she’s thinking of the good of ‘the firm’. Without someone to chaperone him he goes off the rails at the slightest opportunity. He needs a minder and it’s going to be her.

At which point he remembers Daphne and Roland hidden in the adjoining rooms and tells Liz, ‘You’re not coming back to me… I’m coming back to you’ and – repeating the ending of ‘Hay Fever’ and ‘Private Lives’ – they quietly tiptoe out.

THE END

Donald Sinden production

1981 theatre production at the Vaudeville Theatre, filmed by the BBC, directed by Alan Strachan, and starring Donald Sinden as Garry, Dinah Sheridan as Liz, Gwen Watford as Monica, Elizabeth Counsell as Joanna and Julian Fellowes as Maule.

Part 1

Part 2


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Tonight at 8.30 by Noel Coward (1936) – 3

‘Tonight at 8.30’ is a cycle of ten one-act plays by Noël Coward. It was first staged in London in 1936 with Coward himself and Gertrude Lawrence in the leading roles.

The plays are mostly comedies but three – ‘The Astonished Heart’, ‘Shadow Play’ and ‘Still Life’ – are serious. Four of the comedies include songs, with words and music by Coward.

One play, ‘Star Chamber’, was dropped after a single performance. The other nine plays were presented in three programmes of three plays each. There have been numerous revivals of many of the individual plays, but revivals of the complete cycle have been much less frequent. Several of the plays have been adapted for the cinema and television.

Background

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Coward wrote a succession of hits, ranging from the intimate comedies ‘Private Lives’ (in which Coward also starred alongside Gertrude Lawrence) and ‘Design for Living’, to the operetta ‘Bitter Sweet’ (1929) and the historical extravaganza ‘Cavalcade’ (1931).

After performing in ‘Private Lives’, Coward felt that the public enjoyed seeing him and Lawrence together on stage, and so he wrote the play cycle ‘Tonight at 8.30’ expressly as ‘acting, singing, and dancing vehicles for Gertrude Lawrence and myself’. But he also had the conscious motive of reviving the moribund form of the one-act play. As he wrote in the Preface to the printed plays:

A short play, having a great advantage over a long one in that it can sustain a mood without technical creaking or over padding, deserves a better fate, and if, by careful writing, acting and producing I can do a little towards reinstating it in its rightful pride, I shall have achieved one of my more sentimental ambitions.

Ten plays

The cycle consists of ten plays. In order of first production they are:

  1. We Were Dancing: A comedy in two scenes
  2. The Astonished Heart: A play in six scenes
  3. Red Peppers: An interlude with music
  4. Hands Across the Sea: A light comedy in one scene
  5. Fumed Oak: An unpleasant comedy in two scenes
  6. Shadow Play: A play with music
  7. Family Album: A Victorian comedy with music
  8. Star Chamber: A light comedy in one act
  9. Ways and Means: A comedy in three scenes
  10. Still Life: A play in five scenes

This blog post summarises and comments on numbers 7, 8, 9 and 10.

7. Family Album: A Victorian comedy with music

It is the evening of an autumn day in 1860. The entire 20-page play takes place in the same setting, the drawing room of a house in Kent belonging to the Featherways family. The play depicts this prosperous middle-class Victorian family, all wearing mourning and gathered after the funeral of their father. The group comprises his five children (in bold) and their spouses, if they have them:

  • Jasper Featherways, the facile flippant one, played by Coward
  • Jane, married to Jasper
  • Harriet Featherways now married to…
  • Charles Winter
  • Emily Featherways, now married to…
  • Edward Valance
  • Richard Featherways, unmarried
  • Lavinia Featherways, unmarried

They reminisce and call for madeira wine to drink a toast in. This is brought in by the ancient butler, Burrow, who is very hard of hearing which leads to utterly predictable and very enjoyable misunderstandings.

Jasper takes the lead in proposing toasts and is given a stream of comic and flippant remarks throughout. Lavinia is the most stern and Victorian of them all, strongly objecting to drinking after a funeral, and to many of the jokes and flippant remarks – ‘This is so wrong, so dreadfully wrong.’ As he proposes the toasts, Jasper breaks into song, the first of four songs in the piece:

At which point Jasper suggests it’s time to get the big old family trunk down from the attic. Jasper asks Burrows to fetch the box, to which Burrows comically replies that, yes, he’s wound them all up, to which Jasper says significantly louder, The box not the clocks.

So Jasper and Richard go up into the attic and fetch down a bog old dusty box. But when he goes to unlock it, discovers it’s already open and then realises it’s an old box full of their toys and dressing-up costumes. The Featherways offspring get these all out and start playing an old favourite game of theirs, Princes and Princesses which, again, triggers a song, ‘Princes and Princesses’, which I can’t find on the internet.

Incidentally, they have all continued drinking the madeira very liberally and have now finished the first bottle so ring for Burrows to bring another one which they pour out with gusto. This strikes me as not very 1860s behaviour, much more the drunken behaviour of Leo and Otto in ‘Design for Living’ or Elyot and Amanda in ‘Private Lives’.

They drink a toast to Burrows, who was so sweet and kind to them when they were all children. Any the next thing they find in the old trunk is a musical box which they wind up and which, of course, provides music for more songs, which they sing, amid more drinking. Here’s a medley of two of the songs, ‘Hearts and Flowers’ and ‘Music Box’.

The others are continuing uttering pious sentiments about their dead father when Lavinia amazes them and the audience by declaring she hated him.

LAVINIA: I hated Papa, so did you … He was cruel to Mama, he was unkind to us, he was profligate and pompous and worse still, he was mean.

Worst of all, he kept her at home as if imprisoned in the dark old Victorian home, counting his bills and sorting his linen and putting up with his silence or his insults. She hated him and she’s glad he’s dead.

(All this resonated with me much more since I read Virginia Woolf’s searing feminist polemic Three Guineas which, among other things, gives a horrible sense of how the Victorian home was a prison and a tomb for countless million unmarried middle class women, a plight dramatised by the case of Eleanor Pargiter in her novel, The Years.)

She then astonishes the others by telling them that the will read out to them that morning, the one which distributed family fortune equally among the five children, was not the old man’s final will. Just a week before he died he had made a new one, leaving the children nothing but dividing his fortune among his three mistresses and the rest to pay for a new church containing a grandiose memorial to himself in black marble.

This will was witnessed by Lavinia and Burrows, but now, she tells the flabbergasted family, precisely seven minutes after the old man expired, they burned it! Flabbergasted Jasper calls Burrows in to ask if all this is true but the deaf old retainer wisely and diplomatically states that his deafness is getting worse so that he will never be able to hear questions about the will.

They all realise what an excellent chap he is and invite him to join them for a (yet another) glass of madeira although it is Burrows himself who has the last toast, drinking to the whole family as, to the tune of the musical box, they dance round him hand in hand.

Comment

Immensely enjoyable because it’s one of the few Coward plays where the characters don’t spend a lot of the time shouting at each other or feeling miserable. It is wonderfully warm and happy and the plot, too, is simple but charming.

8. Star Chamber: A light comedy in one act

This is the one play in the set which was quickly dropped only being performed once. Maybe this was because it had by far the largest cast, with ten named parts.

It’s set on a West End stage around noon i.e. no question of a performance taking place. Instead one by one the ten or so characters arrive and we learn that they are all members of a ‘committee’ including its secretary. It takes a while to learn it’s the committee of the ‘Garrick Haven Fund’. The characters are:

  • Jimmie Horlick, stage manager
  • J. M. Farmer, secretary of the Garrick Haven Fund, amiable looking man between 30 and 40 carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers
  • Hester More, a vague, absent-minded and fanciful actress, ‘vague to the point of lunacy’
  • Johnny Bolton, a star comedian, middle aged, of working class origin, outlandishly dressed in ‘plus fours, a camel-hair coat, a check cap and a very bright scarf’
  • Julian Breed, the leading young actor in London
  • Violet Vibart, an elderly actress of considerable reputation
  • Maurice Searle, an exceedingly handsome virile young actor, mortally embarrassed because he’s had to grow long hair for a film role
  • Dame Rose Maitland, a grande dame of the theatre, majestic and autocratic, a vice president of the committee
  • Elise Brodie, an actress, pretty and respectable, another vice president of the committee
  • Xenia James, an actress, president of the Fund

I loved all these caricatures, very enjoyable. I loved Hester’s wild flights of fantasy (flights which I’ve noted running like a thread through so many of his plays), I loved the way the Johnnie character sticks out a mile because of his Cockney accent and the way he keeps trying to tell people long boring scenarios which everyone drifts off and ignores and so which are never finished.

I love the lofty way the grande dame ignores everyone and fails to hear anything she doesn’t want to. It takes a while for all these thespians to arrive and settle down and it’s funny how they’ve just agreed that, in the absence of the chair, Xenia James, Dame Rose will chair the meeting when the very same Xenia James makes a grand entrance dragged along by a vast great Dane, who she’s named after a fellow actor who passed away, Atherton.

Synopsis

Anyway, on the bare stage of a West End theatre the stage manager, Jimmie Horlick, is arranging chairs round a large table in preparation for a meeting of the committee of the Garrick Haven Fund. The committee members arrive in dribs and drabs.

First, Mr Farmer, Secretary of the Fund, briefcase packed with papers, methodical and harassed. Next Hester More, a dizzy young actress; Johnny Bolton, ‘a star comedian of middle age but perennial youthfulness’; Violet Vibart, an elderly actress of great distinction; Julian Breed, a popular juvenile lead; Maurice Searle, a character actor who has grown his hair to shoulder length for an historical role and feels self-conscious about it; the majestic Dame Rose Maitland; the preoccupied Elise Brodie; and finally, and very late, Xenia James, chairman of the committee, with her dog, Atherton.

The whole thing from start to finish is characterised by all the characters’ complete inability to concentrate, focus or obey rules. Instead the continually gossip, talk over each other, interrupt whoever else is speaking, undermine the chair and ignore Farmer’s long boring presentation.

In a nutshell, this is a meeting of the Garrick Haven fund, established in 1902 to provide a home for destitute actresses. The fund is well off, with a balance of £58,000, largely generated by the annual fun fair. Mention of this characteristically triggers all present to wander off into memories of the fair and complaints about all aspects of its management.

With difficulty, Farmer tries to quieten them down and get their attention back onto the issue the meeting’s been called for which is to give formal consent for much-needed structural alterations to the retirement house (notably an extra bathroom and inside toilet).

At this point Atherton starts farting and Xenia gets nice Mr Horlick to take him (very gingerly) off to the props room. Farmer reads a letter from the residents politely asking for the extra loo and bathroom and then proceeds to read out, at very great length, the precise and exact quote for the building works which he’s received from the builders (Messrs Joyce and Spence) and the committee has to sign off on, amounting to £3,082, 17 shillings and fourpence.

The comedy derives from the way it’s like herding cats: the actors are completely incapable of concentrating on anything without wandering off into digressions and lots of private conversations, in one instance a suggestion that the new buildings be decorated with framed posters from old play productions.

Xenia sneaks off to check on Atherton and finds her darling fast asleep and twitching as though chasing rabbits in a dream.

Farmer attempts to read out a further quote for the plumbing work but by now the actors have had it. A press photographer arrives and they are all instantly distracted by this, As Farmer drones valiantly on all the others arrange themselves with much fussing for a group photo.

The actors start to leave in ones and twos as they arrived, Julian and Maurice leaving with the photographer. Xenia makes a speech appealing for donations and promises to give £100 to set the ball rolling not having really grasped that donations are not at all needed, what was needed was attention and responsibility. Then, without formally closing the meeting, she too dashes off, forgetting her dog.

Johnny gets to his feet to second Xenia’s fine sentiments and is droning on about what a worthy cause it is, and how we may all suffer poverty one day etc but he is drowned out by the sound of the remaining thespians all saying goodbye to each other, giving air kisses, promising to meet again soon etc until he becomes utterly demoralised and gives up.

Only valiant Mr Farmer is left to Johnny, with no-one else to snare, invites him to lunch at his club and Farmer is incautious enough to accept. As they walk off he tells Jimmie to turn off the lights, thus providing a mirror of the opening of the play (lights on, enter Jimmie, then Johnny, then Farmer).

And, in a last gag, after everyone has exited the bare stage and the lights have gone off, we hear the mournful howling of the dog Atherton, locked up and abandoned in the props room.

Maybe I’m in a relaxed mood today, but I found this as entertaining and funny as Victorian Album.

9. Ways and Means: A Light Comedy in Three Scenes

We are in the South of France, on the fashionable Cote d’Azur. We are in the house of the very well-off Mrs Lloyd-Ransome. The curtain opens to reveal a bedroom and in the bed, having breakfast off a tray, are the unhappy married couple Toby and Stella Cartwright.

Briefly: he has gambled away all their money. They’re in debt to their banks and everyone they know including their hostess in this house. The dialogue mostly consists of despair at being so broke, alternately flippant / humorous and genuinely despairing.

Toby tells their Nanny (‘a capable looking, middle-aged woman’) to pawn Stella’s jewellery and the gold buttons off his waistcoat. They then go back to the casino to gamble with the cash but in the second scene we find them a few hours later, back in the bed, and utterly despairing, since they have lost everything they got from the pawnbrokers in four minutes flat. Toby had got a place at the big table and was feeling lucky when he was asked to give up his place by an American lady, Mrs Irving Brandt. Ever the gentleman, he gave up his place when a lady requested it and Mrs Irving Brandt went on to ‘run the bank’ 17 times and win 175,000 francs. When she had utterly cleaned up she graciously let Toby have the seat and he promptly lost everything.

Angry, he goes into the bathroom where he manages to bang his head on the mirror and cut himself. There’s a big song and dance while Stella tells him not to be such a baby and gets some iodine to dress the wound.

After much more fuss and flippancy and lamenting, they go to bed and put the lights out. This sets the scene for the third and final scene in which they’re awakened by a burglar. When they call out and put the lights on he pulls a gun on them. However, he’s not a very good burglar and they first demoralise him by telling him they have no money and then manage to disarm him, seize the gun and turn the tables.

When they take his mask off they discover it’s the chauffeur of posh people in their circle, a man named Stevens. Now we understand why there’d been some chat in the first scene, among their posh friends, about some scandal involving this chauffeur. He had been dismissed for having a fling with his employer (Mrs Bainbridge)’s daughter, May. Now he explains that, thus thrown out of work, he decided to try his hand at crime.

So, as in these posh comedies, as for example in P.G. Wodehouse, the posh protagonists turn out to be on good terms with their would-be burglar, and have a civilised chat and a drink. Suddenly a plan occurs to Toby. Remember the 175,000 francs won by Mrs Irving Brandt? Toby suggests Stevens sneaks down the hall and into her room and steals that 175,000 francs.

Despite Stevens’ and Stella’s initial objections, this is what he ends up doing, returning five minutes later not only with all the cash but with some diamonds he pinched as well. They secrete the money in their clothes to look like it’s theirs, then get Stevens to tie them up.

The plan is to look like he broke into their room, tied them up, burgled them, then onto Mrs Brandt, before returning to their room and escaping. So this is what he does, ties them to their chairs and finally ties gags over their mouths. Up to that point they’d been conducting a comic Wodehouse-style conversation in which they promised to help him out with his choice of a new career and he answered all their requests with yes sir, yes ma’am.

He bows politely and leaves them tied to their chairs, gagged, and laughing hysterically.

The way the whole thing is a kind of conspiracy or scam which leaves the actors hooting with laughter is identical with the end of ‘Design for Living’ where the more the outraged husband preaches old-fashioned morality, the more Leo, Otto and Gilda fall about laughing.

In one sense his plays are a kind of conspiracy by imaginative tricksters against the conventional values and morality of the older generation and the poor saps among the current generation who still believe them.

Thoughts

His fans and blurb writers endlessly praise Coward for the wit and stylishness of his writing and dialogue. The plays certainly are almost entirely about posh upper-middle-class people, and they contain much 1) posing and prancing and characters drawing attention to their own poshness with their drawling flippancy and ‘wit’. But this summary or cliché ignores two other major elements of his approach or style or schtick, which are 2) arguments and abuse and 3) flights of fantasy.

1. Wit

STELLA: You seem to forget that one a certain bleak day in 1928 I gave my life into your keeping.
TOBY: Marriage is a sacrament, a mystic rite, and you persist in regarding it as a sort of plumber’s estimate.

TOBY: You play bridge too merrily, Stella.
STELLA: My merriment is entirely a social gesture. I loathe bridge.
TOBY: That is no excuse for playing it as if it were lacrosse.

TOBY: From now onwards I intend to live in the past – the present is too unbearable. I intend to go back to the happy scenes of my boyhood.
STELLA: I’m sorry I’m not a rocking horse.
TOBY: You underrate yourself, darling.

2. Abuse

It had previously been axiomatic that a gentleman never lost his temper and was chivalrous and respectful to woman. The Coward male is neither of these things. The Coward male loses his temper all the time, every few minutes flies into a frothing spitting rage, see ‘Private Lives’ or ‘Design for Living’ or Toby, here.

The furious Coward male also doesn’t mince his words, hurling the most astonishing abuse, insults and threats at his woman. The level of hatred, cursing and threats in ‘Private Lives’ staggered me.

The couple at various moments say:

STELLA: Be quiet… Oh shut up!.. Don’t be so idiotic… Don’t be so silly… Don’t be so childish… Shut up… Toby, don’t be such a fool…

TOBY: Shut up!.. Be quiet, Stella… Don’t be an idiot Stella…

A bit more elaborately:

STELLA: You have the moral values of a warthog… You have a disgusting mind, Toby…

3. Fantasy

The really characteristic thing about Coward, I think, is when his lead characters go off on wild imaginative flights of fancy. Mad frivolous fantasies were Elyot’s distinguishing feature in ‘Private Lives’ and all three protagonists in ‘Design for Living’ cook up fantastical scenarios, and it crops up again here, as Toby in particular expresses his unhappiness in terms of far-fetched similes and scenarios.

TOBY: It is possible, in my present state of splendid detachment, that I might go off into a yogi trance and stay upside down for several days.

Or ridiculous plans:

TOBY: Let’s go quietly but firmly along the passage and murder Pearl Brandt.

Stella’s suggestion that maybe she could do a little light prostitution to earn the money they need. Or her absurd exaggeration:

STELLA: We’ll deliver ourselves over to Olive bound and gagged in the morning.

Coward’s imaginative characters are always overflowing with absurd and fantastical scenarios. It’s this, I think, the vein of fantasy which pops up, a smaller or larger ingredient of each play, much more than the alleged ‘wit’, which makes his plays so entertaining. (Cf ‘Shadow Play’ which is one big fantasy.)

10. Still Life: A play in five scenes

Executive summary

The play portrays the chance meeting at a suburban railway station, the subsequent love affair and eventual parting of a married woman, Laura Jesson, and a doctor, Alec Harvey. The sadness of their secretive affair is contrasted throughout the play with the boisterous life of the tea shop and station staff. ‘Still Life’ differs from most of the plays in the ‘Tonight at 8.30’ cycle by having an unhappy ending. It was also, of course, the basis of the 1945 film, ‘Brief Encounter’, directed by David Lean and starring Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson, which is regularly cited as one of the top ten British films of all time.

Synopsis

The five scenes are set in the same location, namely the tea room at Milford Junction railway station, which is dominated by the elaborate refreshments counter / station buffet, overseen by the strict Myrtle Bagot who bosses around her downtrodden assistant Beryl Waters, and flirts in an imperious dismissive way with Albert the ticket inspector. The action takes place in five scenes across the span of a single year, from April to March.

Scene 1 5.30 on an April afternoon. Myrtle’s character is established as she bosses around her assistant Beryl and rebuffs the attempts of Albert, the ticket-inspector, to flirt with her. Laura is waiting for her train home after shopping. She goes out onto the platform as an express races by with an enormous noise and re-enters moments later complaining of having a smut of grit in her eye. Myrtle gets some water and Albert offers advice but it’s the handsome young Alec introduces himself as a doctor and uses his hankie to remove it for her. She thanks him and goes to catch her train, he goes back to his cup of tea.

Scene 2 Three months later, in July. The ‘rude mechanicals’ i.e. the working class characters provide a foil or backdrop for the main love story. (The phrase ‘rude mechanical’ comes from Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ where it refers to the working class artisans who have their own farcical love story which parallels the love story of the main protagonists who are lords and ladies. Three hundred and forty years later Coward is still using much the same device.)

And so the scene opens with Myrtle telling Beryl about a fortune teller who told her love life accurately before Albert breezes in wanting tea and cakes for some travellers on the platform. Against this bright and breezy background, enter Alec and Lara together. He buys two teas and two bath buns.

It becomes clear that after their first meeting they encountered each other a second time by chance and like each other’s company and have had lunch and gone to the pictures together. He took an afternoon off work. Now he’s praising her as ‘awfully nice’, but she feels guilty. When she was a girl living in Cornwall, she and her sister used to sneak out the house at night to go swim in the sea but always felt guilty. Now she feels the same. She’s ‘a respectable married woman with a husband and a home and three children.’

They ask each other to describe their spouses, as people having affairs often do, out of guilt and also to make it seem more homely, more real. She gets him to talk about his work and he explains his passionate interest in preventive medicine, and then goes into more detail about his interest in lung diseases. She sits entranced until it’s time for his train. Suddenly he wants more than to bump into each other by accident but begs that she’ll meet him the following Thursday, in a week’s time, and after initial reluctance, as he takes his hand and prepares to run for his train, she agrees.

Scene 3 Another three months have passed so it’s October. As usual the scene opens with the proles, Albert and Myrtle, flirting. They seem to have reached a new level of intimacy, as he asks her for a kiss over the counter and, on entering, slaps her behind as she’s bent over. She scolds him but permits it. In his tussle to get a kiss they know some cakes on the floor and are picking them up when Alec and Laura come in.

As usual, Alec buys two teas and takes them to their usual table. From their conversation it becomes clear that they have seen a good deal more of each other and have fallen in love. He accepts it and wants her to but Laura is fighting against it, says it’s wrong, ‘dreadfully wrong’. He wants to arrange an afternoon at a friend, Stephen’s, house, presumably to have sex. She, of course, thinks it’s horrible and squalid and will be spoiled by the fear hanging over them. He tells her they’ve both been in love before but neither of them have known this ‘something lovely and strange and desperately difficult’ and, as usual, when she listens to him she is entranced.

As with so many of these Coward plays it’s a question of hermeneutics, of clashing and competing interpretations. They both feel a tremendous attraction to each other but whereas Alec argues strongly for giving into it, Laura bridles and argues against it. She vividly describes going home after their Thursday meetings, and feeling adrift and alien in her house, weirdly detached from all the humdrum objects of her normal domestic life. He becomes more ardent and passionate, holding her hand, saying how he counts the hours till Thursday comes round again.

This intense conversation is completely overshadowed by two loud soldiers entering the room and asking Myrtle for some alcohol. She can’t serve it because it’s out of hours and this develops into an extended argument with them making all kinds of reasons why they need a nice drop, why can’t she put it in the tea etc, while she absolutely refuses to break the law. Eventually she tells Beryl to fetch Norman who takes charge of the situation and tells the two squaddies to ‘op it, before saying he has to return to his gate. Myrtle asks Beryl to get her a glass of brandy for her nerves and tells Beryl that Norman Godby may be on the short side ‘but ‘e’s a gentleman.’

After this extended interruption we return to Alec and Laura at their table. He delivers a speech about how they have to be strong enough to live up to their love, ‘clean and untouched’ by other people’s knowledge, ‘something of our own forever’.

He scribbles the address of his colleague’s flat on a piece of paper for her, says he’s going to miss his train and go to the flat and he’ll be waiting for her and leaves. Laura stares at the paper, then we hear a train steaming in and Myrtle comments on the time, making it quite clear that it’s Laura’s train. Laura gets up, goes to the platform door, pauses, the whistle blows and the train starts to puff out, while she slowly exits the tea room.

I.e. she is going to keep her rendezvous with Alec at his friend’s flat. Presumably to have sex and thereby break her fidelity to her husband, and also the law.

Scene 4 It’s December. As usual the scene opens with comic business among the working classes. If tea room boss Myrtle is carrying on with Norman the ticket collector, Beryl is continuing to be wooed by the man who carries a tray of refreshments round the platforms, Stanley. He asks if he can walk Beryl home, asks her to lock up early, so they can have an extra five minutes, presumably for snogging. Thus the mating game, played at every level of society. In all three relationships, it’s the men who are constantly pushing for more, and the women who, in their various ways, are reluctant or refuse. Is that true of ‘real life’? Or just the convention of the time, and of many times, but not of our modern liberated age?

Laura comes in looking pale and anxious, asks for a brandy, and a pen and paper, which Beryl reluctantly gives her, then sits down to write – presumably an important message to Alec – but breaks down in tears and then Alec comes in anyway. We quickly learn that they were together (presumably for the umpteenth time) at this friend of Alec’s flat, when he came home unexpectedly early and caught them. At least, Alec darted out to chat to the fellow while Laura had to get dressed in a hurry and nip out the back, feeling like a prostitute. She bets they chatted and had a good laugh about her, like men of the world.

He apologises then we get to the heart of the matter, the clash of worldviews or values. Because Alec claims that nothing else matters except their love, except their knowledge that they love each other. But Laura says that other things matter too, such as self respect and decency. So he is the voice of unbridled passion, she, as so often, embodies the weight of social convention, conventional morality etc.

Alec walks over and faces a picture on the wall because he can’t face her as he agrees that this thing will have to end: not their love, he will go on loving her to the end of his life; but their being together. He returns to the table and tells her he is going away. He’s been offered a post at a hospital in Johannesburg, South Africa. It’s a golden opportunity. He’s been agonising for weeks but now he can see this thing is ending and so… Should he go or should he turn it down? This, of course, is cruel of him, handing the whole responsibility of ending the affair to her, specially as she’s shown how vulnerable and conflicted she is. Of course she tells him to go.

He asks her to meet him one last time. Not at the flat, that’s now out of bounds, but at a café in town and they’ll go for a drive in the country. His train chuffs in and he has to go. He apologises for ever meeting her, falling in love with her, for causing her so much misery and she apologises back.

Even this scene, obviously designed to be heart-wringing, is interwoven with comedy from the proles because, before the moments, Alec has to bribe stroppy surly Beryl not to close the café at 10pm as she ought to do, but leave it open for just a few minutes more, so that he can have these final words with Laura.

In other words, this device, of paralleling the main love affair with the shenanigans of the rude mechanicals does a number of things: it provides comic relief for the high emotion of the central couple; but it also sets off and heightens their emotional moments; and it creates a vivid sense of the pressure and constraints under which an affair is carried out. The mechanicals are emblematic not only of society’s moral constraints but of the busyness of life, all the timetables of work and spouses and children and responsibilities and duties which any affair has to find time amid, stolen moments, always limited, which eventually come to seem sordid and sneaky, and make the protagonists, like Laura, feel cheap and miserable.

Scene 5 The fifth and final scene is set in March. Albert is more cocky and confident with Myrtle and sends Beryl into the back room ready to steal a kiss, when Alec and Laura enter. It’s a lovely touch that the station staff have, of course, noticed their romantic trysts, and have taken to calling them Romeo and Juliet. To ourselves, in our own minds, we live intense and tragic lives. To other people, we barely register or only as comic figures of fun.

Obviously this is the last scene between Alec and Laura and meant to be intensely moving but it is typical of the play that almost half of it is taken up with a great palaver among the proles. Mildred, who keeps the newspaper and bookstall comes running in to bring the message that Beryl’s mum’s been taken ill again and they’ve rushed her off to hospital. This leads to a cascade of consequences as Beryl is told, gets in a fret, Myrtle says she’d better go to the hospital straightaway, Mildred better go with her for moral support, she (Myrtle) will stay till locking up time (10pm). Which irritates Albert because he’d bought them tickets to see a show, Broadway Melody of 1936, and he slams his teacup down in exasperation.

Only after this extended palaver do we get to Alec and Laura. This is the last time they’ll meet before he leaves for South Africa and she has come to see him off. He asks if he may write but she says no, better not.

He tells her he loves her with all his heart and she quietly whispers that she wants to die. God. Tortured illicit love.

It is their last few minutes together and they are utterly ruined by the entrance of a friend of Laura’s, the fussy and talkative Dolly, who is overjoyed to bump into her old friend, joins them at their table, and sets about telling her all about her day’s doings, while Laura and Alec can only stare into each other’s eyes.

With the result that their last few minutes together before his train arrives are completely swamped and their goodbye is cruelly limited to a formal handshake. And so Alec goes out while Laura remains, trapped listening to prattling Dolly, who now whitters on about a couple they know who are getting divorced because he had a mistress up in town, the wife spotted it then it all came out etc.

You can imagine how this is daggers to the heart of Laura who has always been more conscious of how society sees these things i.e. crudely, dismissively, heartlessly.

They all hear the express through train approaching and Dolly goes to the counter to buy some chocolate for her son, when Laura suddenly snaps and rushes out onto the platform. Dolly turns and notices her missing and Myrtle says she didn’t see her go.

For a moment there is the strong implication that Laura has run out onto the platform to kill herself by throwing herself in front of the train. For a minute. But then the café door opens and she comes back in, looking ‘very white and shaky’.

Solid practical Dolly asks if she’s alright and when Laura says she feels a bit sick, persuades Myrtle to pour some brandy for Laura (tenpence). They hear the sound of their train, the stopping suburban train coming, Dolly gathers up her parcels and accompanies Laura out as the curtain falls. Masterpiece.

Brief Encounter

Various of the plays were adapted for TV or cinema. Coward himself adapted ‘Still Life’ for the screen as ‘Brief Encounter’, one of the most famous British films of all time.


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Tonight at 8.30 by Noel Coward (1936) – 2

‘Tonight at 8.30’ is a cycle of ten one-act plays by Noël Coward. It was first staged in London in 1936 with Coward himself and Gertrude Lawrence in the leading roles.

The plays are mostly comedies but three – ‘The Astonished Heart’, ‘Shadow Play’ and ‘Still Life’ – are serious. Four of the comedies include songs, with words and music by Coward.

One play, ‘Star Chamber’, was dropped after a single performance, although I rather liked it. The other nine plays were presented in three programmes of three plays each. There have been numerous revivals of many of the individual plays, but revivals of the complete cycle have been much less frequent. Several of the plays have been adapted for the cinema and television.

Background

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Coward wrote a succession of hits, ranging from the intimate comedies ‘Private Lives’ (in which Coward also starred alongside Gertrude Lawrence) and ‘Design for Living’, to the operetta ‘Bitter Sweet’ (1929) and the historical extravaganza ‘Cavalcade’ (1931).

After performing in ‘Private Lives’, Coward felt that the public enjoyed seeing him and Lawrence together on stage, and so he wrote the play cycle ‘Tonight at 8.30’ expressly as ‘acting, singing, and dancing vehicles for Gertrude Lawrence and myself’. But he also had the motive of reviving the moribund form of the one-act play. As he wrote in the Preface to the printed plays:

A short play, having a great advantage over a long one in that it can sustain a mood without technical creaking or over padding, deserves a better fate, and if, by careful writing, acting and producing I can do a little towards reinstating it in its rightful pride, I shall have achieved one of my more sentimental ambitions.

Ten plays

The cycle consists of ten plays. In order of first production they are:

  1. We Were Dancing: A comedy in two scenes
  2. The Astonished Heart: A play in six scenes
  3. Red Peppers: An interlude with music
  4. Hands Across the Sea – A light comedy in one scene
  5. Fumed Oak – An unpleasant comedy in two scenes
  6. Shadow Play – A play with music
  7. Family Album – A Victorian comedy with music
  8. Star Chamber – A light comedy in one act
  9. Ways and Means: A comedy in three scenes
  10. Still Life – A play in five scenes

This blog post summarises and comments on numbers 4, 5 and 6.

4. Hands Across the Sea: A light comedy in one scene

Maureen ‘Piggie’ Gilpin, wife of Commander Peter Gilpin, RN, is a society hostess who is notoriously forgetful and slapdash, living in a chaotic social whirl, continually inviting people dinner, tea and parties, then forgetting about them.

When Piggie is out of the room, her and Peter’s maid, Walters, takes a phone call that the Rawlinsons are in town and, having hosted Piggie and a friend out in the Pacific, on the (fictional) island of Samolo, are taking up the invitation she made then to look them up if they’re ever in London. Moments later Piggie returns, sees the message and panics, feeling obliged to lay on a good show for the Rawlinsons. So she sets about a series of panicky phone calls to friends to try and persuade them to come round and help her entertain the Rawlingsons. She prevails on Peter to persuade a naval colleague (Major Gosling) to take the Rawlinsons on a tour of the naval dockyard at Portsmouth during their stay.

Piggie and Peter dash out to change to receive guests and Walters ushers in Mr and Mrs Wadhurst, a couple whom Piggie and Maud met in Malaya. As with the Rawlingsons, Piggie has invited them to tea and then forgotten about the appointment. Another visitor is shown in: Mr Burnham, a young employee of a company that is designing a speed boat for Peter. He and the Wadhursts make polite, slightly stiff conversation. While they wait for the Gilpins to appear, Clare Wedderburn and Bogey Gosling, close friends of the Gilpins, arrive. Clare and Bogey make themselves loudly at home and liberally hand round cocktails.

Piggie enters, greets her old friends and welcomes the Wadhursts, whom she mistakes for the Rawlingsons. Conversation is continually interrupted by the telephone on which Piggie and later Peter and Clare are called to talk to other friends, which they do uninhibitedly, to the confusion of the Wadhursts. At one point, Burnham rises and tries to give Peter a long roll of cardboard, but is thwarted when Peter is again called to the telephone. The conversation is interrupted again when Piggie takes a call from Mrs Rawlingson, who apologises that she and her husband cannot come after all. Piggie, realising her error, tries to discover tactfully who the Wadhursts actually are. Just as they are about to leave to go to the theatre, Mrs Wadhurst mentions Pendarla, where she and Wadhurst live. This finally jogs Piggie’s memory, and she bids them an effusive farewell, inviting them to dine one evening and go to the theatre. She and the Wadhursts leave the room.

Clare, like Piggie, has assumed that Burnham is the Wadhursts’ son. She is puzzled when he does not leave with them. He explains who he is, and that he has brought the designs for Peter’s new boat. Piggie, meanwhile, takes another telephone call and apologises to her caller for forgetting their engagement that afternoon. As Burnham creeps out, she, still unaware that he is not the Wadhursts’ son, bids him goodbye: “It’s been absolutely lovely, you’re the sweetest family I’ve ever met in my life.”

There’s a mild bit of biographical interest in that Peter and Piggie were widely recognised as caricatures of Coward’s friends Lord Louis Mountbatten and his wife Edwina. Coward is quoted as saying the couple ‘used to give cocktail parties and people used to arrive that nobody had ever heard of and sit about and go away again; somebody Dickie had met somewhere, or somebody Edwina had met – and nobody knew who they were. We all talked among ourselves, and it was really a very very good basis for a light comedy.’

Light is the word. This doesn’t read at all funny. The trick must be in the performance and, in particular, the brio and comic timing of the actress playing Piggie.

In a reading the most convincing character is the telephone, which doesn’t stop ringing, or which Piggie is never off.

5. Fumed Oak: An unpleasant comedy in two scenes

Another play based around bitter arguments, but in an unusual setting for Coward i.e. not the posh pukka upper middle classes in Mayfair (‘Hands Across The Sea’) but a pinched and narrow, lower middle class household in Clapham.

It opens with a grim portrait of breakfast time with three generations of women – Mrs Rockett, her daughter Mrs Doris Gow, and her daughter, Elsie, all arguing, dominated by narrow-minded Doris, ‘mean and cold and respectable’, bossing and nagging everyone:

DORIS: Never you mind… Get on with your breakfast… Stop sniffling… Don’t start that again… You’ll do no such thing… Do as I tell you… I wish you’d be quiet…Don’t untidy everything… Oh do shut up mother…

Doris tells her daughter, Elsie, she can’t put her hair up like a friend at school. Tells her she can’t have an extra slice of toast. When her mother gives Elsie twopence to buy a bit of cake they argue about that. Mrs Rockett complains about the gurgling of the pipes in her bedroom, complains about the baby next door who cries and wails at the slightest provocation. When the daughter finally leaves, Mrs Rockett complains about Doris’s husband, Elsie’s father, Henry, getting home late and banging about the place keeping her awake. When Doris says at least he’s not a drunk like her father, Mrs Rockett’s deceased husband, was, they flare up into a real argument.

The point is that throughout most of this, Doris’s husband, meek Henry, has been sitting silently eating his breakfast, not saying a word. How could he get a word in edgeways and what would be the point? Mrs Rockett complaining about him getting home late is done after he’s left the room to dress for work. He re-enters, interrupts another flaring row between mother and daughter, then quietly exists. End of scene 1.

The second and final scene is in the same setting but 7.30 that evening. Henry’s come home late from work again, to find cold ham for supper and Doris and Elsie dressed up to go to the cinema.

He’s had a couple of drinks (whiskey and soda) on the way home and is going to give Doris a piece of his mind. He tells her her hat looks awful. He says he’s celebrating the first time they had sex. Doris is shocked and tells Elsie to go upstairs but Henry insists she stays. Remember how I’ve noticed that Coward plays are all about control, about who controls the narrative, about clashes of interpretation.

DORIS: Go upstairs Elsie.
HENRY: Stay here, Elsie.
DORIS: Do as I tell you.

Henry angrily tells Doris to stop nagging him, and explains that he works hard all day to earn the money that keeps them all but all he gets is endless nagging and cold dinner, and to demonstrate his anger he throws the plate of food onto the carpet, and then the butter dish, to Doris’s horror.

When Doris tries to exit Henry nips to the door and locks it. he orders Elsie, who’s crying by now, to bring out the bottle of port and pour him one. More nakedly than usual, this Coward play is about giving orders. Everything is in the imperative mood i.e. a command.

HENRY: Stop working yourself up into a state…
DORIS: Look here…
HENRY: Sit down…
DORIS: Elsie, come with me..
HENRY: You’ll stay where you are…
DORIS: Keep away…
HENRY: Drink it…

When Mrs Rockett darts to the window and opens it as if to escape, Henry grabs her, she starts screaming for the police, he drags her away, lightly smacks her and locks the window as she faints against the piano. As you can imagine the womenfolk are all in tears by this time.

And then it’s simple: Henry announces that he’s had enough and is leaving. He reminds her that sixteen years ago they had sex in her parents’ house which was empty for the night, how she’d set her cap at him months before, how she was anxious to get married seeing as her two older sisters were married, how a few months later she lied and told Henry she was pregnant and so how he chucked in all his plans to become a steward and see the world and took up a crappy job at Ferguson’s Hosiery and has been a wage slave ever since.

Now he announces that he’s leaving, for good. He’s been salting away a little of his pay every year and now has £572 saved up. He’s giving her £50 and the freehold of the house, so she’ll have a roof over head and can make money by taking in lodgers (‘though God help the poor bastards if you do’). And now he’s leaving. He’s got his ship’s ticket and a passport in a new name in his pocket.

Henry has a page-long speech fantasising about what life will be like in the South Seas or New Zealand or Australia, and rhapsodically describing the warm seas with their typhoons and flying fish not the cold little waves at Worthing. After subjugating himself to this cold bitch Doris for 15 long years he’s going to break free and live a little. Think of Elsie, says Doris. Why, replies Henry, Elsie’s awful, a horrible selfish snivelling little kid. She’ll be able to earn her keep in a year.

And he throws down the envelope with the £50, delivers a final speech and leaves. Arguably the main thrust of the speech is that they’re not the only family like this, but there are millions like them, living in very English misery.

HENRY: Three generations. Grandmother, Mother and Kid. Made of the same bones and sinews and muscles and glands, millions of you, millions just like you.

After a few final barbs, he leaves them for good with a cheery: ‘Good-bye one and all! Nice to have known you’ slamming the door behind him.

Slamming

This isn’t the only pointedly slammed door in Coward.

  • Hay Fever: towards the end of the play, the ignored guests of the Bliss family slam the door after they’ve sneaked out
  • Design for Living: at the finale of the play, outraged Ernest slams the door shut as he leaves the three protagonists collapsing in giggles

Fumed oak

The title ‘Fumed Oak’ refers to a wood finishing process that treats the oak with ammonia fumes to darken it and emphasise its rough grain. The finish is matt and dull rather than glossy. I assume this style of wood is associated with the dark heavy ‘respectable’ furniture associated with the kind of narrow, shabby-genteel, lower middle-class household Coward is portraying.

But it is maybe also a metaphorical reference to Henry, the idea that he is the good old English oak which has been subjected to 15 years of the ammonia of the horrible women in his life, ammonia being a sour poisonous gas, who have ‘fumed’ him i.e. made him dull and dark and ‘respectable’ and nearly killed him in the process.

6. Shadow Play: A musical fantasy

Executive summary

‘Shadow Play’ depicts a husband and wife, Simon and Victoria ‘Vicky’ Gayforth, whose marriage is on the brink of collapse. Under the influence of an unwisely large dose of sleeping pills, the wife has a dream that retells their story in hallucinatory form. Musical intervals weave in and out of the dream. The husband is so concerned for his wife’s condition that his love is rekindled, and when she comes round they are reconciled.

Synopsis

It’s about midnight in the Gayforths’ flat in Mayfair, to be precise, the setting is Vicky’s bedroom.

Enter Vicky and her friend, Martha Cunningham. They’ve been to the theatre together but Vicky refuses to accompany Martha to ‘Alice’s party’ because she knows her husband will be there making up to Sybil Heston who she thinks he’s having an affair with. She asks the maid for three sleeping pills, which Martha thinks excessive. While Vicky’s in the adjoining bathroom, the phone rings and Martha answers it. It’s Michael who is clearly an admirer of Vicky’s first in line to replace Simon if the couple split up. Vicky re-enters and takes the phone and tells Michael she can’t come out, she’s taken sleeping pills and is about ‘to go into a coma’.

As usual, there’s lots of characteristic Coward bossiness, and the usual conflict about who gets to talk, with characters telling each other to shut up.

VICKY: Don’t be idiotic… Be quiet, darling… Will you kindly shut up… Stop it, I tell you…

Which gives way to what I’ve noticed is the characters’ tendency to give in to futility, at some point wondering what the bloody point is:

VICKY: What does it matter…?

Unexpectedly Simon enters and after a little banter, Martha leaves the unhappy couple alone. from the get-go they have displayed the characteristic Coward mode of arguing and bickering.

VICKY: Are going to bicker? There’s nothing like a nice bicker to round off a jolly evening.

Simon has not gone to the party because he wants to have a serious talk, despite all Vicky’s frivolous attempts to deflect the subject. He wants her to divorce him. She asks distracting questions about the details: should she cite Sibyl as correspondent, will he go to the South of France or just Brighton (in those days, in order to get a divorce one of the party had to be found guilty of adultery, and often hired a stooge of the opposite sex and checked into a hotel in Brighton, and made sure all this was witnessed by a private detective who then gave evidence at the divorce proceedings – the partner they spent the night with was hired as a freelance and no sex was involved, it was purely a performance for the courts).

Vicky asks whether he really loves Sibyl and he refuses to answer but as their conversation continues the effects of the three sleeping pills start to kick in and they both… start to hear music! And Simon bursts into song and Vicky joins him, and they launch into ‘Then’. Here are Coward and Lawrence speaking the dialogue which leads into the song, a bit more dialogue, and then the play’s main song ‘Play, Orchestra, Play’:

So, presumably we are in her consciousness as she drifts into a drugged state, or it is just a stage fantasia beyond explaining, but the set disappears, spotlights come up, a dresser brings them evening dress and they burst into song. In some way they are going back to and reviving the initial happiness they felt at the start of their relationship and Simon delivers a variation on the carpe diem trope which we’ve seen echoing through Coward’s play:

SIMON: Don’t be such a fool – grab it while you can – grab every scrap of happiness while you can.

The scenery has disappeared, there are just spotlights on an apparently empty stage and on this appear the three figures, Simon, Sibyl and Michael. First Sibyl is egging Simon on to tell the truth about them. Then Michael enters and tells Simon to hurry up and leave Vicky so she can be his, but this is all clearly a hallucination because Sibyl starts repeating word for word a speech Vicky made earlier, when she asked Simon what made him fall out of love with her, was it a dress she wore, or did she become dull etc, and all this leads into a reprise of ‘Play, Orchestra Play’.

Cut to a scene in a moonlit garden where Vicky is sitting with a young man who’s awfully keen on her but their dialogue is dreamlike in that he repeats her phrases, out of synch and muddled up, while she claims to be waiting for someone, and then Simon enters through trees.

Now they re-enact their first meeting when they made pleasant conversation and fell in love, except that they are aware it is a re-enactment with Vicky scolding Simon for forgetting his lines or skipping important bits. Simon tells her to stick to the script but Vicky delivers a line which could be a kind of motto, applied to lots of Coward’s work.

VICKY: Small talk – a lot of small talk with quite different thoughts going on behind it.

They banter about gardens (because they’re in a garden; maybe this really was the setting of their first meeting), then break into another song, ‘You Were There’:

At the end of which a spotlight reveals the servant, Lena, entering with a glass of water and the tablets and reprising the last lines from ‘Then’ which describe the pair having to face the future apart and alone.

Fade out and then lights up on a new scene, Vicky’s friend Martha with her husband George Cunningham in the back of a limousine. He’s complaining about the tense evening they just spent with the Gayforths.

GEORGE: The atmosphere reeked with conjugal infelicity…

Which could also be extracted and made into the motto of so many of his plays. Anyway George asks why the Gayforths are so unhappy so Martha explains that Simon is falling in love with Sibyl Heston – to which George bluntly says that such women should be shot – while Vicky is mildly encouraging Michael Doyle to woo her, though she isn’t serious.

This appears ‘realistic’ until Vicky runs onstage and tells them they’re ruining everything. So is this in her drug-fuelled dream or not? Simon appears and behaves as if they’re in a railway carriage and tells them they’ve reserved this compartment and mimes helping them get their luggage down from the overhead rack. The train is heading to Venice. Vicky explains that they’re on their honeymoon and Martha repeats the carpe diem theme:

MARTHA: Grab every scrap of happiness while you can.

The train compartment turns into a tax and Simon and Vicky are in it after their wedding, excited and recalling the events such as her mother’s terrible hat and his uncle slapping him on the back but their conversation keeps referencing rhymes from the play they saw that evening, or words from earlier scenes such as someone dressed in pink, and Simon keeps warning her she’s about to wake up again, for some reason she must go, and steps out of the car/compartment, leaving Simon alone and he reprises singing ‘You Were There’.

Cut to the pair sitting at a little table, on their honeymoon in Venice. The conversation is even more mixed up with Simon saying he wants to tell her something (as he did at the start, when he told her he wanted a divorce) but as she trembles with dear, he instead declares that he loves her. Fantastical mixed references:

VICKY: You mustn’t make people cry on their honeymoon, it’s not cricket.
SIMON: Dearest, everything’s cricket if you only have faith.

They spin into repeating the words of ‘You Were There’ before Vicky shakes herself free and asks him to repeat his big love speech, which is really a warning that they can’t stay in their love bubble forever, other people will come along and spoil things because people are like that, everyone following their own agenda, but he tells her to hang on to memories of this moment of complete togetherness, like the White Cliffs of Dover.

The lights fade, music plays and Sibyl and Michael dance onto the stage, representing those ‘other people’ who come between couples. Vicky and Simon rise and dance together then they all swap partners as the music gets faster and they call out the names of fashionable nightclubs, representing the fashionable world, London high society, which comes between the pair.

Onto the stage at opposite sides come Lena and Martha each holding phones. Lena is phoning Martha and asking if she can leave the party and come at once back to Vicky’s house, she’s ill, something’s wrong, it was that extra sleeping pill.

In the darkness Vicky’s voice, confused, as she tells Simon she’s trying to hold onto the White Cliffs of Dover, while Simon’s voice reprises his speech from the start, where he says he has something important to tell her…

The lights come up to reveal Vicky sitting on the edge of her bed, Simon by her side, and Martha who’s arrived from Alice’s party, all encouraging Vicky to drink more coffee and be sick if she has to. Everything is back to normality and reality. Vicky asks for a cigarette which Lena provides and Simon lights.

Vicky wonders what happened and Simon explains that she was raving, the sleeping pills, hallucinations. Seeing she’s now restored Martha says she’ll leave and exists, leaving the couple alone together. When Vicky says can’t we talk about the divorce in the morning Simon claims not to know what she’s talking about. When she asks Simon if he really loves her (Sibyl Heston) he also claims not to know what she’s talking about.

Is he lying to be sweet to her? Or was that entire scene where he said he wanted to divorce her part of the hallucination?

The music starts again, softly, but as he leans Vicky gently back into the bed, takes the cigarette from her fingers, tiptoes across the room and turns out the light, it rises to a sentimental climax.

Thoughts

Some critics and online commenters claim the ‘Tonight at 8.30’ plays are slight and second rate, but I’m thoroughly enjoying them, in many ways more than the full-length plays which often feel strained and contrived. Here everything is quick and to the point and also, he can try out a greater variety of ideas and scenarios.


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Tonight at 8.30 by Noel Coward (1936) – 1

‘Tonight at 8.30’ is a cycle of ten one-act plays by Noël Coward. It was first staged in London in 1936 with Coward himself and Gertrude Lawrence in the leading roles.

The plays are mostly comedies but three – ‘The Astonished Heart’, ‘Shadow Play’ and ‘Still Life’ – are serious. Four of the comedies include songs, with words and music by Coward.

One play, ‘Star Chamber’, was dropped after a single performance. The other nine plays were presented in three programmes of three plays each. There have been numerous revivals of many of the individual plays, but revivals of the complete cycle have been much less frequent. Several of the plays have been adapted for the cinema and television.

Background

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Coward wrote a succession of hits, ranging from the intimate comedies ‘Private Lives’ (in which Coward also starred alongside Gertrude Lawrence) and ‘Design for Living’, to the operetta ‘Bitter Sweet’ (1929) and the historical extravaganza ‘Cavalcade’ (1931).

After performing in ‘Private Lives’, Coward felt that the public enjoyed seeing him and Lawrence together on stage, and so he wrote the play cycle ‘Tonight at 8.30’ expressly as ‘acting, singing, and dancing vehicles for Gertrude Lawrence and myself’. But he also had the conscious motive of reviving the moribund form of the one-act play. As he wrote in the Preface to the printed plays:

A short play, having a great advantage over a long one in that it can sustain a mood without technical creaking or over padding, deserves a better fate, and if, by careful writing, acting and producing I can do a little towards reinstating it in its rightful pride, I shall have achieved one of my more sentimental ambitions.

Ten plays

The cycle consists of ten plays. In order of first production they are:

  1. We Were Dancing: A comedy in two scenes
  2. The Astonished Heart: A play in six scenes
  3. Red Peppers: An interlude with music
  4. Hands Across the Sea: A light comedy in one scene
  5. Fumed Oak: An unpleasant comedy in two scenes
  6. Shadow Play: A play with music
  7. Family Album: A Victorian comedy with music
  8. Star Chamber: A light comedy in one act
  9. Ways and Means: A comedy in three scenes
  10. Still Life: A play in five scenes

This blog post summarises and comments on the first three.

Songs

Four of the plays in the cycle are musical. The songs from ‘Tonight at 8.30’ are:

  • We Were Dancing – ‘We Were Dancing’
  • Red Peppers – ‘Has Anybody Seen our Ship?’ and ‘Men About Town’
  • Shadow Play – ‘Then’, ‘Play, Orchestra, Play’ and ‘You Were There’
  • Family Album – ‘Drinking Song’, ‘Princes and Princesses’, ‘Music Box’ and ‘Hearts and Flowers’

1. We Were Dancing: A Comedy in Two Scenes

Set in Samolo, Coward’s fictitious country in the South Pacific, which also appears in his play ‘South Sea Bubble’ and is the setting of his 1960 novel, ‘Pomp and Circumstance’.

Hubert and Louise Charteris are at a dance. They have been married 14 years. The plot or premise of this slender 20-page ‘play’ is so bizarrely unrealistic as to be surreal but what happens is that Louise dances with a complete stranger, Karl Sandys, and just on the strength of this one dance, having never met before, they both fall deeply and hopelessly in love with each other. By the end of the dance they are kissing passionately. Several other dancers see them kissing on the club veranda and go off to gossip about it, before Louise’s husband, Hubert, appears, accompanied by his married sister, Clara Bethel.

And from that point onwards most of the play consists of Hubert telling Louise to come along and stop being so silly, and Louise insisting that she has fallen head over heels in love, has been swept away on a great wave of passion. What helps to make it so surreal is she doesn’t even know the man’s name, she has to ask him. It’s nothing to do with their names or histories or even personalities – some force has descended on both of them and transformed their lives.

If you regard this from the strictly realistic standpoint of most of Coward’s works, which is epitomised in the conventional and scandalised husband, Hubert, then the whole thing is preposterous nonsense. But I think that’s the wrong way to see it. It’s better to approach from the other end and see it as more like a symbolist play, or the descent of God’s grace in a religious novel. The advent into a pair of ordinary lives of a force much larger than them. From this perspective its very silliness made it, for me, rather wonderful.

Slowly, by their persistence, the lovers persuade Hubert that they’re really sincere, though his sister, Clara, never stops being outraged and scene 1 ends.

The second scene opens with the same four characters who’ve stayed up till dawn the next morning, are very tired and pecking at some sandwiches. The idea is that, in the cold light of day, Louise and Karl’s wonderful love evaporates. Karl announces that he has to leave for Australia for his work and Louise tells him she can’t go with him (because a couple they know are leaving on the same boat and she doesn’t want to be seen ‘living in sin’) and so, as casually and inconsequentially as they fell in love, they sober up, become sensible again, and she kisses him goodbye. And so, after some regretful chat, in the same unreal dreamlike way that they fell in love, he simply walks out of her life.

I think it was intended to be a realistic vignette and so was criticised for being thin and silly. the introduction says it’s the slightest of the set and quotes Gertrude Lawrence as agreeing. But as I’ve explained, the basic idea is so unrealistic and preposterous as to transport us to an altogether different dimension of fantasy. Which I liked.

It contains one of the set’s most popular songs, ‘We Were Dancing’. This recording of it opens with Coward himself reciting the passage describing how his character has been overcome by love. Hearing him is a reminder of how rapidly he declaimed his lines. Must have been quite hard to follow in the theatre.

‘Shut up, Clara!’

Something occurred as I read this short play. I’ve mentioned in other reviews how Coward is famous for or often credited with writing ‘witty’ and ‘sophisticated’ dialogue but how, when you actually pay attention to it, you realise that a lot of his dialogue actually consists of shrill argument, often descending to vitriolic abuse.

The supposedly dapper, sophisticated and witty ‘Private Lives’ actually consists of a couple who spend over half their time shouting poisonous insults at each other, slapping and then assaulting each other, and that’s when they’re not having furious rows with their new spouses, and those spouses aren’t themselves having a furious row with each other. Change the clothes and accents and it could be ‘Eastenders’.

Well, something similar happens here but in a slightly different way which I found thought provoking. This is the extent to which the characters tell each other to shut up:

CLARA: Please be quiet and let me speak.
LOUISE: Hubert, do make Clara shut up.
CLARA: You must be insane.
HUBER: Shut up, Clara.

Not that witty, is it? Or even entry-level polite. And they do it a lot, tell each other to shut up.

LOUISE: Oh my darling–
KARL: Don’t, don’t speak

KARL: What’s the use of arguing.
LOUISE: Answer me.

HUBERT: Will everybody please be quiet for a moment.

HUBERT: Don’t talk like that…

What all this began to convey was a sense of these four characters clamouring for their version to be heard. It began to feel like the text is a kind of battlefield. I know they say the heart of good drama is conflict but in these Coward plays, quite regularly, this is reduced right down to who has the right to speak. The phrase ‘Shut up’ recurs in so many of these plays that the plays themselves can be seen as created in large part out of the conflict of who will get to speak; a little more widely, the conflict of whose interpretation will prevail. It is a battle of hermeneutics.

CLARA: Rubbish!
LOUISE: It’s not rubbish!… Be quiet!

One a slightly wider level, the plays overflow with orders. The ‘shut ups’ and ‘Be quiets’ are accompanied by plenty of ‘Tell me’s’, ‘Answer me’, ‘Tell him’, do this, that or the other.

LOUISE: Don’t go on evading…

KARL: Don’t, don’t speak

The characters are like so many automata programmed to say ‘Shut up and do what I say’ and the reason they arguments quickly become so toxic is because they refuse to shut up or listen to each other and so are in almost permanent conflict.

Servants

Most of Coward’s plays feature servants who the posh characters, appropriately enough, order around. Do this, don’t do that. Yes Furby, no Saunders.

I suppose you could see the inability of the posh characters to get along at all without endless bickering and squabbling, as a kind of category error: as characters brought up to have instant and complete control over their servants, mistakenly trying to apply the same spoilt privileged control over people of their own class.

2. The Astonished Heart: A Play in Six Scenes

Concerning a married couple Christian and Barbara Faber. The first scene opens a bit obscurely but slowly you realise that Christian is a distinguished psychiatrist (‘one of the most celebrated psychiatrists in the world’) but is lying very ill in the bedroom, attended by his secretary Susan Birch, his assistant Tim Verney, and his wife Barbara (35).

We learn that Barbara is his devoted wife of many years, but that there has been a rupture in the relationship because Christian, on what we begin to realise is his death bed, has called for another woman to be with him and during this first scene she arrives. She is Mrs Leonora Vail and we realise she has been having an affair with Christian.

Having established that the play very cleverly flashes back to exactly a year ago, when Barbara is meeting an old school friend Leonora Vail née Ames (‘Leonora Ames, terrible at games’ they used to chant at school). After a few pages of reminiscence, which includes reference to Leonora casually divorcing her (much older, rich) husband, Barbara introduces her to her husband, Christian.

Christian, as always in a tearing hurry, is not impressed by her preening personality and passes out of the room again. Leonora jokes that that foils her cunning plan for seducing him before having an ‘old friends’ reunion where everyone behaves jolly decently. But that’s what happens.

Because in scene 3 we discover Chris and Leonora in the same living room, after midnight and they’ve been out together, having a big snog, after which they talk about how quickly they’ve fallen in love etc, filling the space, as lovers in this kind of play do, with chatter about Barbara (she will be terribly hurt, won’t she) and previous lovers etc, all designed to give these mannequins the illusion of depth.

In scene 4 it is three months later, 6am and Chris is sneaking quietly into the house but is confronted by Barbara who has stayed up all night to wait for him. With stiff upper lip restraint she doesn’t scream or shout but just wants to confirm that The Other Woman is Leonora and whether he really loves her, whether he wants to marry her, which leads to an over-civilised exchange about just exactly how Chris has been overcome by passion and yet it doesn’t affect his love for Barbara. She tells him to go away with Leonora for two or three months to get her out of his system. After more chat she says he better get some sleep and he thanks her and exits – all frightfully civilised.

Scene 5 is in the same location seven months later, the night before the opening scene when Chris was lying seriously ill in bed. So we know something bad is going to happen. What it turns out to be is that Chris and Leonora have reached the bickering squabbling stage which is all Coward characters’ habitual state, and are seeking to stop and control each other’s actions and utterances:

CHRIS: For the love of God, stop crying.

LEONORA: Don’t, don’t come near me.

LEONORA: Don’t be such a fool.

CHRIS: Stay still.

Possibly the sense of thinness in Coward derives from the way he conceives of ‘drama’ as simply negation and contradiction. One character wants to do something and the other one tries to stop them. At bottom, that’s it.

Anyway Leonora tries to leave but Chris grabs her arms to stop her, then tells her how she twists and torments him etc, the exact same kind of accusations as in ‘Private Lives’ but played for tears and not for lolz.

CHRIS: Stay still.
LEONORA: You’re mad.

He accuses her of falling in love with – and spending the night with – another man and keeps on badgering her until she finally admits that she doesn’t love him any more, not in the same way as at the beginning etc.

Infuriated he kisses her one last time against her will then shoves her away and she falls to the floor as he delivers a long speech about how it’s all over and he used to have a vocation but now he’s burned out etc. She gets up and exits while Chris goes over to the big window, looks out for a bit, then steps over the ledge i.e. throw himself out the window in a suicide bid.

Ah. Now we understand how the situation in scene 1 came about. And with that we are onto the sixth and final scene, exactly as scene 1 ended, but now Leonora – who Chris has been calling for on his deathbed and Barbara, Susan and Tom have been waiting for – arrives and, after some strained pleasantries, is taken by the butler into Chris’s bedroom.

Now that I’m reading Coward’s plays in terms of characters battling to force each other to their wills, I see added significance in the way Barbara, apparently from good manners, offers Leonora a cocktail, Leonora refuses, but Barbara insists. On the surface all politeness, Coward dramas are in fact a constant battle of wills.

The last twist of the knife comes in the last few seconds, as Leonora emerges to say Chris has died but tells the others that he didn’t recognise her, thought she was Barbara and her last word was ‘Baba’ (Barbara’s nickname). You can see how this is intended to wring the last drop of melodrama from the situation. But well before then, I have been reading it in a different way, non-naturalistically.

‘Shut up, Clara’

As usual, the play resounds with the kinds of orders and attempts to shut down the other characters, which I’ve highlighted above:

TIM: Shut up, Susan.

BARBARA: Don’t be unkind.

CHRIS: Stop being quarrelsome, Leonora.

LEONORA: Don’t – please, Chris – don’t.

BARBARA: Don’t be silly… Don’t worry about me…

BARBARA: That’s idiotic, unreasonable and idiotic.

It’s striking how regularly Coward characters tell each other to stop:

BARBARA: Stop trying to balance yourself… Do stop whirling about among fictions…

BARBARA: Stop struggling.

And yet they can’t because they can’t because they are trapped in play where they are doomed to play the same roles and act out the same scenes again and again. Beneath the posh accents and civilised dialogue are creatures tormented in hell. Coward and Jean-Paul Sartre have a surprising amount in common. And this, maybe, explains why so many of the characters express an explicit sense of futility:

KARL: What’s the use of arguing?

LEONORA: Oh what’s the use, what’s the use?

LEONORA: It isn’t any use, you know it isn’t.

3. Red Peppers: An interlude with music

Just 20 pages long in two scenes: in parts one and two we see a second-rate music hall double act, a husband and wife team, George and Lily Pepper, going through their act, combining ‘I say I say I say’ type jokes with musical numbers. In the first scene they are dressed as naval ratings and sing ‘Has Anybody Seen our Ship?’

In the third scene they go back on dressed in white ties and tails. But in between, when we see them in their dressing room, there is – as I’m now expecting of all Coward characters – a great deal of bickering and arguing, both between themselves and with the manager of the theatre.

LILY: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
GEORGE: Oh you don’t, don’t you?
LILY: No I don’t, so shut up.

What triggers it is that as they were trooping neatly offstage at the end of the sailor number Lily dropped the telescope they both had tucked under their arms and had to go back to fetch it, ruining the effect. In their dressing room George is furious and this little mistake triggers all kinds of simmering resentments, the kind Coward is expert at depicting. Lily says the orchestra conductor, Bert Bentley, took it too fast and that made her stumble. George leaps to Bert’s defence but Lily says that’s just because they’re drinking buddies.

LILY: Oh shut up, you make me tired.

Their break is provided by another act, a faded West End actress, Mabel Grace, doing a piece. When Alf the call-boy comes in to provide the costumes for their next number, Lily is tactless enough to criticise Mabel as way over the hill in front of him, while George immediately defends her.

LILY: You make me sick, sucking up to the topliners.
GEORGE: Oh shut up nagging.

And when Lily is caustic about the age of the material and criticises George’s dear old granny:

GEORGE: You shut your mouth…

A knock on the door and enters the theatre’s musical director, Bert Bentley, ‘a flashy little man wearing a tail suit’. He also is pretty dismissive of the serious actress, Mabel Grace – ‘the old cow’s tearing herself to shreds’. When Lily demurs:

GEORGE: Oh dry up, Lil, for heaven’s sake.

When they start arguing about the speed of the music, Lily comes over all sarcastic and George, predictably:

GEORGE: Oh dry up.

But when Bentley is rude to Lily, George comes to his defence and Bentley ends up calling them ‘a cheap little comedy act’ which ends up incensing both of them, and George calls him ‘a twopenny halfpenny little squirt’ while Lily accuses him of drinking i.e. being drunk when her conducts.

They might have come to blows except Alf comes in with the Peppers’ steak and chips and tells Bentley he’s needed back in the orchestra pit. The argument with Bentley has drawn the couple together. They tuck into their steak and pour the Guinness that came with it in a friendly way. Lights down, end of scene 2.

The third scene opens in the dressing room as they’ve finished their dinners and are now getting dressed for their item in the second half of the show. Enter Mr Edwards the theatre manager. He runs everything and is well-dressed and smoking a big cigar. He says he saw their first half performance and was not impressed. They blame Bentley and the conversation takes the same kind of turn as virtually all Coward conversations i.e. turns into a row. Lily is needlessly sarcastic to Edwards so George tells her to cool it.

GEORGE: Shut up, Lil, leave this to me.

Edwards threatens to kick them off the bill but they retort that the theatre’s getting a bad reputation anyway. They’re now shouting at each other so loudly that the faded West End actress Mabel Grace comes in from the dressing room next door to tell them to be quiet.

At the height of the argument Alf pops his head in to say they’re on in three minutes. Sudden panic! and they push Edwards and Miss Grace out and hurriedly finish dressing.

Cut to them onstage performing the second number, Men About Town. Taking his revenge, Bentley the conductor plays faster and faster, until George slips over and Lily furiously throws her hat at Bentley in the orchestra stall, screaming ‘You drunken fool’.

I enjoyed this very much. It has unusual depth and saltiness to the characters and dialogue, unlike most of the Coward plays I’ve read.


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Design for Living: A Comedy in Three Acts by Noel Coward (1932)

LEO: It should be easy, you know. The actual facts are so simple. I love you. You love me. You love Otto. I love Otto. Otto loves you. Otto loves me. There now!

GILDA: Ernest, if you only realized what was going on inside you, you’d be bitterly offended!

‘Design for Living’ is a comedy play written by Noël Coward in 1932. It concerns a trio of artistic characters, Gilda, Otto and Leo, and their complicated three-way relationship. Originally written to star Lynn Fontanne, Alfred Lunt and Coward, it was premiered on Broadway, partly because its risqué subject matter was thought unacceptable to the official censor in London. It was not until 1939 that a London production was presented.

‘Design for Living’ was a success on Broadway in 1933, but it has been revived less often than Coward’s other major comedies. Coward said:

‘It was liked and disliked, and hated and admired, but never, I think, sufficiently loved by any but its three leading actors.’

The play was adapted into a film in 1933, directed by Ernst Lubitsch, with a screenplay by Ben Hecht, and starring Fredric March, Gary Cooper, and Miriam Hopkins.

Background

In the second half the 1920s Coward became one of the world’s most famous playwrights, with a succession of popular hits ranging from the operetta Bitter Sweet (1929) and the extravaganza Cavalcade (1931), to the intimate comedies Hay Fever (1924) and Private Lives (1930). Back when he was penniless Coward had met Lunt and Fontanne Lunt on his first trip to new York and had promised he’d write a play to showcase them as an ensemble. By the early 1930s the time was right for Coward to write their star vehicle.

The play was based on the Lunts’ own marriage. They were a devoted couple but had an open relationship with ‘triangular relationships in their private lives’. Coward wrote:

‘These glib, over-articulate and amoral creatures force their lives into fantastic shapes and problems because they cannot help themselves. Impelled chiefly by the impact of their personalities each upon the other, they are like moths in a pool of light, unable to tolerate the lonely outer darkness but equally unable to share the light without colliding constantly and bruising each other’s wings…. The ending of the play is equivocal. The three of them… are left together as the curtain falls, laughing…. Some saw it as the lascivious anticipation of a sort of a carnal frolic. Others with less ribald imaginations regarded it as a meaningless and slightly inept excuse to bring the curtain down. I as author, however, prefer to think that Gilda and Otto and Leo were laughing at themselves.’

‘Design for Living’ opened in New York on 24 January 1933, at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre on Broadway. It was such a success that Coward was persuaded to relax his usual rule against appearing in any production for more than three months, and he allowed the play to run for a total of five months. So great were the crowds of fans in the street that special police had to be called in during the last week of the run.

Ménage à trois

A ménage à trois is a domestic arrangement or committed relationship consisting of three people in polyamorous romantic or sexual relations with each other, and often dwelling together.

Cast

  • Gilda – ‘a good-looking woman of about thirty’, ‘a permanent spectator’
  • Ernest Friedman – ‘any age between forty and fifty, rather precise in manner’
  • Otto Sylvus – ‘tall and good-looking’
  • Leo Mercuré – ‘thin and nervous’
  • Miss Hodge
  • Photographer
  • Mr Birbeck
  • Grace Torrence
  • Helen Carver
  • Henry Carver
  • Matthew

Plot

Act 1. Otto’s studio in Paris, 1932

Gilda is an interior designer who lives with the painter Otto, who was previously attached to Leo, an author. Ernest Friedman arrives, an art dealer and friend of all three. He is excited about his newly acquired Matisse and wants to show it to Otto. Gilda says that Otto is in bed, ill, has had neuralgia and absolutely cannot be disturbed.

Their conversation consists of classily phrased arguments and insults. ‘Private Lives’ taught me that a good deal of Coward dialogue consists of bad-tempered arguing.

ERNEST: If, in my dotage, I become a bore to you, you won’t scruple to let me know, will you?
GILDA: Don’t be an idiot!

He wonders why she doesn’t marry Otto and she replies because he loves her too much. To be tied legally to him would kill the love. She tells him to mind his own business.

ERNEST: I cannot, for the life of me, imagine why I’m so fond of you. You have such abominable manners.

Ernest tells her that Leo is back in Paris after making a success in New York. They both find it hilarious that he’s staying at the Georges V hotel.

Gilda’s discourse is all on stilts, on a high register of shrill self-awareness occasionally tipping over into hysteria, so much so that Earnest confesses she scares him.

GILDA: I’m yelling! Can’t you hear me yelling like mad?
OTTO: What on earth are you talking about?
GILDA: A bad joke, and very difficult to explain.

For example, she delivers a little speech about how she hates her own femininity, hates being trapped in a woman’s body.

There’s nothing funny in the scenario and few comic lines or jokes. It’s just listening to a posh man being mildly abused by this wilful neurotic. Everything is overdramatised. When Ernest makes the slightest of comments on her claiming to be in love with both Otto and Leo at the same time, she flies into a wild dramatisation of the threesome.

GILDA: Look at the whole thing as a side show. People pay to see freaks. Walk up! Walk up and see the Fat Lady and the Monkey Man and the Living.

To the audience and Earnest’s surprise, Otto – not at all in bed and suffering from neuralgia as Gilda claimed – enters from the street carrying luggage. Gilda lied fluently as so many Coward characters do cf Elyot and Amanda in ‘Private Lives’. In fact Otto’s just returned from a trip to Bordeaux where he was doing a portrait for an unknown client who he insulted by telling her she was fat, and got thrown out.

When Ernest tells Otto that Leo’s back from America, Otto insists that they go and see him straightaway and Gild eggs them on so they both depart.

Then Leo stumbles in from the bedroom and we realise why Gilda lied to Ernest about Otto being in bed with neuralgia and he couldn’t go into the bedroom even to whisper hello. It’s because it wasn’t Otto in the bedroom it was Leo. When he says ‘What we did was inevitable. It’s been inevitable for years’ it makes it sound like they’ve had sex for the first time after fancying each other for years. In other words, that the ménage à trois I’ve read about in all the blurbs and summaries of the play isn’t as established as I thought.

Anyway, he’s racked with guilt about it and they spend some time discussing what it means to have betrayed their best friend etc. As usual with Coward this takes the form of an argument or a squabble. His character suffer from an over-articulacy, they are far too fluent and articulate for their own good – which almost guarantees that they pick up on stray words here and there and magnify them into huge arguments. This was Elyot and Amanda’s way in ‘Private Lives’ and the same here. Leo says something sweet and reassuring which Gilda takes to be an appalling cliché and explodes:

GILDA [viciously]: Let’s have some more! ‘Passion’s only transitory’, isn’t it? ‘Love is ever fleeting!’ ‘Time is a great healer’. Trot them all out, dear.
LEO: Don’t try to quarrel with me.
GILDA: Don’t be so wise and assured and knowing, then. It’s infuriating.

The key word here is ‘viciously’. All Coward characters flip from civilised banter to vicious recriminations and insults in a second, and then back again. It makes them all dislikeable. And it gives the plays a constant sense of walking on eggshells, anxiously waiting for the next character to explode. It’s more like living with a wife beater than attending a sophisticated ‘comedy’.

At the height of their discussion-squabble-argument, Otto walks in and discovers them. Ah. He and Ernest got to the Hotel Georges V only to discover Leo wasn’t staying there at all, so he’s come back to his apartment and found…

They come out and tell him that they slept together in his absence. With crushing inevitability they start arguing and finding articulate fluent ways to describe how miserable they are and to accuse each other. Posh people fighting in a Noel Coward play! Yes.

LEO: What right have you to be hurt and grieved, any more than Gilda and me? We’re having just as bad a time as you are, probably worse.

Much like the audience. Coward’s alleged ‘wit’ is only intermittently apparent. Much, much more present in all these plays is the bad-tempered arguing and insults.

OTTO: I’ve seen something in you that I’ve never seen before; in all these years I’ve never noticed it—I never realized that, deep down underneath your superficial charm and wit, you’re nothing but a cheap, second-rate little opportunist, ready to sacrifice anything, however sacred, to the excitement of the moment.

Not that funny. Otto is violently unpleasant and Gilda collapses in tears.

GILDA (collapsing at the table): Stop it! Stop it! How can you be so cruel! How can you say such vile things?

Otto makes clear his contempt and hatred for both of them, wishes they were dead and in hell, and storms out.

Act 2

Scene 1. Leo’s Flat in London, 18 months later

Most of Coward’s plays take place over a few days. A gap of 18 months is a big thing, more like a novel.

Leo and Gilda are now living together and he is writing plays which are being produced and are tremendously successful. The scene opens with Leo reading out the reviews of his latest play, ‘Change and Decay’, to Gilda,

A playwright nervous about his reviews writing a play about a playwright nervously reading his reviews – you could consider this delightfully meta and cleverly postmodern – or tiresomely self-obsessed and narcissistic, according to taste.

Coward does that thing which numerous modern-ish authors do, which is have a character in one of their novels or plays repeat the popular criticism of them: in this case he has Leo read out the Daily Mirror‘s criticism that his latest play is ‘thin’. This exasperates him and stings him to tell Gilda that in future he will write fat plays about fat characters. This is, of course, to ignore the substance of the criticism: Coward’s plays are thin. The basic scenarios are often quite winning, but the characterisation is generally shallow as a puddle and the dialogue is astonishingly lacking in the wit and humour I have for decades associated with Coward until I actually came to read and watch his plays, and be rather disappointed. Instead of genuine wit or comedy you have exchanges like this.

GILDA: Anyhow, you can’t expect a paper like the Times to be really interested in your petty little excursions in the theatre. After all, it is the organ of the nation.
LEO: That sounds vaguely pornographic to me.

Schoolboy humour. Here’s another example of Coward’s shimmering wit, Gilda pretending to be a brainless newspaper interviewer:

Gilda [conversationally]: Tell me, Mr Mercure, what do you think of the modern girl?
LEO: [politely]: A silly bitch.

Not scintillating repartee, is it?

A phone call from some aristocratic inviting them to dinner prompts Leo to say these social situations are awkward when they’re obviously a couple but not married. So he proposes to her but she sagely turns him down and even says it would be against her moral code.

Presumably this kind of suave, sophisticated exchange was designed to shock and outrage the older, Edwardian generation with their Victorian morals.

The phone rings incessantly, a symptom of the modern world. Leo calls their maid or servant, Miss Hodge, in and tells her to answer the phone for him. Next time the phone rings working class Miss Hodge answers the phone with comic ineptness. The working classes, eh, ha ha ha.

What’s obvious is how bored they are. Gilda is bored to death.

GILDA: Perhaps you’re wise about our marrying; perhaps it would be a good thing. I’m developing into one of those tedious unoccupied women, who batten on men and spoil everything for them. I’m spoiling the excitement of your success for you now by being tiresome and gloomy.

Watching posh bored people torment each other, throwing ‘cheap gibes’ at each other, that’s entertainment. ‘Tiresome’ – that’s the key word. And Leo is as irritated and frustrated.

LEO: This looks like a row but it hasn’t even the virtue of being a new row. We’ve had it before several times, and just lately more than ever.

A journalist, Mr Birbeck, and press photographer from the Evening Standard arrive to do a feature on him. After arguing with Gilda Leo is in a bad mood and gives sharp replies to all the questions. Here is an example of his authorly wit:

MR BIRBECK: Do you believe the talkies will kill the theatre?
LEO: No. I think they’ll kill the talkies.
MR BIRBECK (laughing): That’s very good, that is! It really is.

It isn’t though, is it? It’s not in the slightest bit funny. It’s flippant and cynical and sounds like it ought to be a joke, but it isn’t. Leo gives up answering questions and tells him he’s tired and doesn’t he find asking all these stupid questions ‘grotesque?’ and tells him to come back dome other time when he’s less… tired.

Nonetheless he lets the photographer take some snaps and the scene ends with Mr Birbeck tentatively asking whether Leo could, just maybe, possibly, give them a teeny weeny smile? This is one of the few things I’ve found funny so far, these poor professionals trying to do their job in the face of Leo’s self-important moodiness.

Scene 2. Leo’s London flat, a few days later

A few days later Leo is away. After some comic business with the working class character, the maid Miss Hodge (Gilda asks if she minds that she and Leo are not married; Miss Hodge says she doesn’t mind, having herself been twice married and not thinking much of the institution) departs and Otto turns up.

He too is now successful, as an artist. He’s just back from staging an exhibition in New York.

There’s a joke, a joke with a punchline, such a rarity in Coward it’s worth recording.

OTTO: This seems a very nice flat.
GILDA: It is. You can see right across to the other side of the square on a clear day.

Ooh, immediately followed by another one. Otto says he bumped into a woman just leaving. Gilda explains that that was the maid, Mrs Hodge.

GILDA: That was Miss Hodge. She’s had two husbands.
OTTO: I once met a woman who’d had four husbands.

And a little later, after Otto explains that he went away for a while, on a Norwegian freighter:

OTTO: I can say, ‘How do you do?’ in Norwegian.
GILDA: We must get to know some Norwegian people immediately, so that you can say ‘How do you do? to them.—

Noel’s on fire! Maybe you can see what I mean when I say that this kind of thing isn’t really funny in itself. These aren’t really jokes, or barely. What makes them funny (if it does) is how they exemplify the attitude of these posh, superior, self-absorbed arty types. It’s so exactly the kind of flippant throwaway remark that a posh character in a Coward play ought to say.

Anyway, she asks why he’s avoided them for so frightfully long and he says yes, it has been frightfully long, hasn’t it. Did you miss me, darling etc.

Remember I commented on a playwright having a character in his latest play commenting on newspaper reviews of the character’s previous plays which sound very like the reviews and criticism Coward got for his plays? Happens again here. Otto asks what Gilda thinks of Leo’s latest play, prompting quite a serious reply:

GILDA: Three scenes are first rate, especially the last act. The beginning of the second act drags a bit, and most of the first act’s too facile—you know what I mean—he flips along with easy swift dialogue, but doesn’t go deep enough. It’s all very well played.

‘Doesn’t go deep enough’. Well, there’s no point criticising Coward for what he isn’t. No Ibsen or Strindberg, he. He concocted effective and extremely popular entertainments over a career spanning decades. An awesome achievement.

Back in this play, Otto and Gilda have a picnic dinner together: cold ham, salad, cold rice pudding, and slowly revive their friendship turning back into love. Or whatever it is they have. Maybe just opportunity.

Otto jokes about what would happen if they ended up fighting over Gilda, reminiscent of the fight scene between Elyot and Victor which fizzles out in ‘Private Lives’.

The conversation is frequently difficult to distinguish from an argument or row.

OTTO: Shut up! Don’t talk like that…
GILDA [breaking down]: Don’t—don’t laugh at me.

Author’s message

Remember how I’ve pointed out that the fundamental dichotomy in Coward isn’t between the straight and the gay, it’s between what my son calls ‘the normies’ – the normal, everyday people with their conventional beliefs and lives and morality and behaviour – and the Coward characters who proclaim that they are special, different, exceptional, Well, the same sentiment is expressed here in a pat little speech by Otto. For when Gilda has a moment of ‘normality’ and says that their falling in love is sordid and gross, Otto suavely replies that this is only so if measured by other people’s standards. I might as well give the whole speech, as it amounts to a manifesto of sorts.

GILDA: Why should we flatter ourselves that we’re so tremendously different?
OTTO: Flattery doesn’t enter into it. We are different. Our lives are diametrically opposed to ordinary social conventions; and it’s no use grabbing at those conventions to hold us up when we find we’re in deep water. We’ve jilted them and eliminated them, and we’ve got to find our own solutions for our own peculiar moral problems.
GILDA: Very glib, very glib indeed, and very plausible.
OTTO: It’s true. There’s no sense in stamping about and saying how degrading it all is. Of course it’s degrading; according to a certain code, the whole situation’s degrading and always has been. The Methodists wouldn’t approve of us, and the Catholics wouldn’t either; and the Evangelists and the Episcopalians and the Anglicans and the Christian Scientists—I don’t suppose even the Polynesian Islanders would think very highly of us, but they wouldn’t mind quite so much, being so far away. They could all club together—the whole lot of them—and say with perfect truth, according to their lights, that we were loose-living, irreligious, unmoral degenerates, couldn’t they?
GILDA [meekly]: Yes, Otto, I expect so.
OTTO: But the whole point is, it’s none of their business. We’re not doing any harm to anyone else. We’re not peppering the world with illegitimate children. The only people we could possibly mess up are ourselves, and that’s our lookout. It’s no use you trying to decide which you love best, Leo or me, because you don’t know! At the moment, it’s me, because you’ve been living with Leo for a long time and I’ve been away. A gay, ironic chance threw the three of us together and tied our lives into a tight knot at the outset. To deny it would be ridiculous, and to unravel it impossible. Therefore, the only thing left is to enjoy it thoroughly, every rich moment of it, every thrilling second.

This is no different from the ancient trope of carpe diem, Latin for ‘seize the day’, which is a literary phrase for the pretty obvious idea that you should enjoy life while you can. (The original Latin phrase comes from Horace’s Odes, which I’ve reviewed for this blog.)

The banter goes on for page after page until they realise they need to go to bed together. They embrace passionately. So it’s partner swapping again, as in ‘Private Lives’.

Scene 3. The same, the next morning

10.30 the next morning. Otto is still asleep when Ernest calls on Gilda. He asks to see Leo but Gilda lies, saying he’s not very well and can’t be disturbed. In reality, as we know, Leo is away at a weekend house party and it’s Otto asleep in the next room. This is quite funny because it mirrors the situation in the first scene, where Ernest arrived wanting to see Otto and Gilda lied, saying he was in bed with neuralgia when it was, of course, Leo who she’d illicitly slept with, who was in the bedroom.

This explains why Gilda is, once again, as in the first scene, slightly hysterical. And in this hysteria liable to sound off and make sweeping statements. For a start she says humanity is a great disappointment, has barely risen above the primeval slime. But this leads onto a more revealing statement.

GILDA: The human race is a let-down, Ernest; a bad, bad let-down! I’m disgusted with it. It thinks it’s progressed but it hasn’t; it thinks it’s risen above the primeval slime but it hasn’t—it’s still wallowing in it! It’s still clinging to us, clinging to our hair and our eyes and our souls. We’ve invented a few small things that make noises, but we haven’t invented one big thing that creates quiet, endless peaceful quiet—something to pull over us like a gigantic eiderdown; something to deaden the sound of our emotional yellings and screechings and suffocate our psychological confusions—

Coward hated critical analysis of his plays, so I’m going to do something he would have loathed and subject this little speech to tuppeny-ha’penny analyses according to several classical schools of literary criticism.

A Marxist interpretation

Most of Coward’s characters come from the parasite rentier class which doesn’t work for a living. Thus, lacking the purpose given to existence by the need to work, they are often bored to death, as Gilda is. In this particular play, the two male leads do in fact work for a living, after a fashion, as a playwright and an artist.

But the real point is that none of them are aligned with the forces of History, specifically the Proletariat which is, in late capitalism, the embodiment of the spirit of History and which must, as Marx proved with his scientific socialism, soon overthrow the exploitative capitalist system and its imperial extensions, and usher in the triumph of the working class.

So on the Marxist view of his day, it is only by throwing in their lot with people with a cause, committed to the liberation of humanity, that Coward’s characters can discover meaning and purpose to life and stop indulging in their squalid, petty bourgeois intrigues.

Thus Gilda’s wish for ‘something to pull over us like a gigantic eiderdown; something to deaden the sound of our emotional yellings and screechings and suffocate our psychological confusions—’ is the cry of the rootless, aimless, cosmopolitan bourgeoisie adrift from the unstoppable march of History, and for which there is only one cure or solution. Align with the class of the future, the proletariat. See the plays of Jean-Paul Sartre which dramatise just this issue.

A Freudian interpretation

Freud’s first, pre-war model of the mind, developed between about 1895 and 1918, attributed the central driving force of the unconscious to Sex, broadly speaking the Darwinian drive of the human organism to reproduce which, more narrowly, creates erotic drives which had to be channelled ‘correctly’ in order to be socially acceptable. Freud was among the first to discover how easily these drives get blocked and misdirected in childhood and adolescence to turn into the florid array of sexual ‘perversions’, or be stifled and emerge was a wide variety of neurotic and obsessive symptoms, which his patients described when they presented to him.

However, the colossal slaughter and destruction of the First World War persuaded him that his theory was inadequate. Nothing about sex could explain the hecatombs of corpses and entire empires brought to their knees.

Thus in the 1920s he developed his second model of the mind and this time posited that alongside the positive Life Force or Eros, of which reproduction and sex are merely subsets, an equal and opposite drive in all humans, indeed (he speculates) in all organisms, which he called the Death Drive or Thanatos: the widespread wish that the whole wretched business of life, all the anxieties and worries and responsibilities, not to mention illnesses and accidents, would all cease once and for all.

Thus Gilda’s wish for ‘something to pull over us like a gigantic eiderdown; something to deaden the sound of our emotional yellings and screechings and suffocate our psychological confusions’ is a textbook expression of the deep wish, a key component of all human minds – sometimes buried deep, sometimes (as here) freely acknowledged – for the whole stressful business just to end.

Anyway, this big speech is all preparatory to Gilda telling Ernest she is leaving. Leaving Leo and Otto. Running away. She feels stifled. She wants to be free. She wants to be her ‘unadulterated self’. She’s going to run away, stay in a hotel, go to Paris, no, Berlin. Explaining all this makes her feel very tender towards Ernest and she throws her arms round his neck. She leaves two letters on the desk and then leaves with Ernest.

The phone rings, Miss Hodge answers it and this prompts Otto to slouch out of his bedroom in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Miss Hodge lets him know she disapproves, and he tells her to go away and mind her own business.

Leo sneaks in through the front door, and for a moment mistakes the back of the head on the sofa and the cigarette smoke rising to be Gilda and shouts Hi honey, I’m home. So is appalled when it’s Otto who turns to greet him.

This turns into a row, with Leo telling him how vile he is, just as Otto told him how vile he was in the earlier scene. As with so much Coward, this is studiedly symmetrical and patterned.

OTTO: I said all that to you in Paris. Do you remember? I thought it was true then, just as you think it’s true now.

They have a long conversation about how they’re doomed to repeat the same situation (infidelity with Gilda). Leo says he needs to be tolerant which Otto, understandably, finds hard.

Then they notice the letters, reading them and concluding that Gilda has escaped. So, rather pathetically, they decide to get completely pissed on brandy and then sherry. Difficult for actors portraying steady descent into quite wild and then tearful drunkenness. Otto delivers a semi-drunken rant:

OTTO (with sudden fury): So many words! That’s what’s wrong with us! So many words—too many words, masses and masses of words, spewed about until we’re choked with them. We’ve argued and probed and dragged our entrails out in front of one another for years! We’ve explained away the sea and the stars and life and death and our own peace of mind! I’m sick of this endless game of three-handed, spiritual ping-pong—this battling of our little egos in one another’s faces! Sick to death of it! Gilda’s made a supreme gesture and got out. Good luck to her, I say!

Apart from the detail of it being a trio, the basic idea of being sick to death of choking themselves with words and dragging their entrails out, this could come from one of Elyot or Amanda’s rants in ‘Private Lives’.

Coward drags out this scene to inordinate length with Leo and Otto arguing at length, though it’s dressed up with fancy ideas, for example:

LEO: Science is our only hope, the only hope for humanity! We’ve wallowed in false mysticism for centuries; we’ve fought and suffered and died for foolish beliefs, which science has proved to be as ephemeral as smoke. Now is the moment to open our eyes fearlessly and look at the truth!

Which might mean something in a more serious play but, spoken by one of Coward’s superficial mannequins, comes over as flippant and inconsequential as everything else they say. For example, increasingly fanciful digressions, for example about the absurdity of the words ‘macaroni’ and ‘wimple’. Eventually they get so drunk that they embrace, sobbing helplessly.

So the act ends with two old friends having got hopelessly drunk and feeling hopelessly lonely and sad. Not immediately comic, in fact quite sad for us…

Act 3

Scene 1. Ernest’s apartment in New York, two years later

Like the gap of 18 months before Acts 1 and 2, two whole years is another long period of time to jump. So we find ourselves in Ernest’s New York apartment. Gilda has married Ernest and become a commercially successful designer. Ernest is away and, on this fine summer’s evening, Gilda is giving a reception for some important clients, namely: Henry and Helen Carver, ‘a comparatively young married couple, wealthy and well dressed’, and Grace Torrence, ‘slightly older, a typical Europeanized New York matron’.

Gilda has grown up. She is elaborately and beautifully gowned. Her manner has changed a good deal. She is much more still and sure than before. A certain amount of vitality has gone from her, but, in its place, there is an aloof poise quite in keeping with her dress and surroundings.

Gilda takes Grace off to show her something and Henry and Helen have an extended argument about the merit of interior decorators, Henry thinking it’s all a racket, Helen defending her. Couples fiercely arguing, it’s Coward’s basic situation.

Doorbell rings and Henry lets in… Otto and Leo, both in fine fantastical moods. They come over as very camp i.e. over self-consciously mocking everything everyone says.

OTTO: There’s something strangely and deeply moving about young love, Mr. and Mrs. Carver.
LEO: Youth at the helm.
OTTO: Guiding the little fragile barque of happiness down the river of life. Unthinking, unknowing, unaware of the perils that lie in wait for you, the sudden tempests, the sharp jagged rocks beneath the surface. Are you never afraid?
HENRY I don’t see anything to be afraid of.
LEO (fondly): Foolish headstrong boy.

This is deliberately aggressively offensive but cast in such suave politeness as to be hard to talk back to. Part of the purpose of camp which is a power play.

Otto and Leo’s fast-talking sophisticated banter startles and puzzles Henry and Helen. This is also a classic scenario – clever, fast-talking smartarses bewildering the normies. Which conceals, not very well, their anger. They are cattily, bitchily angry with Gilda and their anger quickly comes out, constantly teetering on the brink of… yet another argument, a fight, a flaring row. The basic Coward content.

Gilda responds to their aggressive flippancy with bitterness of their own and barely controlled fury. On a general point, lots of twentieth century drama seems to be about people behaving badly on stage. Drunken angry bitterness being the speciality of, for example, Tennessee Williams a generation later.

Their intense, recriminatory conversation drives Helen, Henry and Grace away. Grace recognises boorish behaviour when she sees it. Gilda insists Leo and Otto leave as well but secretly gives them a key and tells them to come back.

After they’ve all gone she compulsively finished one of the other’s drink, with tears in her eyes.

Scene 2. The same, the next morning

Ernest returns the next morning and is greeted by his Black servant who makes him a coffee, he puts down his luggage etc and then… Otto and Leo come down the stairs wearing his pyjamas and dressing gowns.

He is completely flabbergasted and triggers their ‘brazen impertinence’ i.e. more camp flippancy. They tell him they gatecrashed Gilda’s little party the night before, she gave them a key, but when they came back she had gone.

They call him ludicrous for claiming that Gilda is his wife, but they dismiss this as nonsense, claiming she belongs to them just as much as to him (Ernest).

Cue Gilda walking in and explaining that she spent the night at a hotel. Ernest explodes in anger but once again, as in the previous scene, it’s a case of the two tricksters, jokers, sparky and flippant and imaginative people, against the ‘normie’, Ernest, who can’t keep up with their smooth repartee. Just as straight-laced Victor couldn’t keep up with Elyot’s smart repartee in ‘Private Lives’. So:

ERNEST: I think your arrogance is insufferable. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’m very, very angry.

Of course he doesn’t know what to do. He’s the normie in a play about tricksters.

Now it turns out that Gilda has realised she is bored with her life with Ernest and so she’s going to leave him. She reveals that being her wife has no value to her, it’s been very convenient and comfortable but now she realises she has to go back to the tricksters.

Ernest tries to argue that Gilda knows too much to be taken back by them but she denies it. He thinks she’s gone mad but she declares they are all of a piece, they all share the same ‘difference’ from normal society which I commented on earlier.

GILDA: It’s silly to go on saying to yourself that I’m different from Otto. and Leo just because you want to believe it. I’m not different from them. We’re all of a piece, the three of us. Those early years made us so. From now on we shall have to live and die our own way. No one else’s way is any good, we don’t fit.

‘We don’t fit’, cry of the alienated teenager for at least the last 70 years. And more manifesto:

ERNEST: Your values are false and distorted.
GILDA: Only from your point of view.
ERNEST: From the point of view of anyone who has the slightest sense of decency.
LEO: We have our own decencies. We have our own ethics. Our lives are a different shape from yours. Wave us good-bye, Little Ernest, we’re together again.

Ernest accuses them of wallowing in a ‘disgusting three-sided erotic hotch-potch’. But the more angry he gets – the more he invokes conventional morality – the more flippantly amused the naughty threesome become and, as Ernest stomps to the apartment door, leaves and slams it shut, the threesome collapse into hilarious laughter.

Thoughts

I’ve made my main comments: not many comic lines; thin characters; the whole effect achieved almost entirely by the posh self-centred self-satisfied smug superiority of the characters, which the audience is invited to alternately identify with and/or laugh at.

What impresses, maybe, is the professionalism with which the initial premise or scenario is worked through, with clever structural echoes and parallelism. But it gets pretty monotonous at moments, since the audience quickly develops a strong idea of what’s going to happen.

Is it even a real ménage à trois?

Short answer, no. It isn’t. Our three heroes do not live in a relaxed happy ménage, so they? The opposite. What really happens is Gilda sleeps around, betraying first Leo, then Otto and then, a year or so later, her husband Ernest. It is not a ménage at all but the story of a serial adulteress or promiscuous woman. The idea that the three of them can somehow happily co-exist only really comes at the end, in the Betraying Ernest scene.

But again, as with The Vortex, there’s little point judging the scenario by our own modern standards: in its day, the play’s timid hints at a genuine ménage were enough to cause shock and scandal among the bourgeois newspapers, critics and staid theatre goers.

Mocking the provinces

I wonder how long the English upper classes have been mocking the provinces. Maybe since the Norman Conquest. One of Coward’s other plays mocks Newcastle, and there’s a slight dig here.

GILDA: Have you been married much, then?
MISS HODGE: Twice, all told.
GILDA: Where are your husbands now?
MISS HODGE: One’s dead, and the other’s in Newcastle.
GILDA (smiling): Oh.

More sustained metropolitan snobbery is dispensed by Otto in Act 2.

OTTO [drawing up a chair]: What delicious-looking ham! Where did you get it?
GILDA: I have it specially sent from Scotland.
OTTO: Why Scotland?
GILDA: It lives there when it’s alive.
OTTO: A bonny country, Scotland, if all I’ve heard is correct, what with the banshees wailing and the four-leaved shamrock.
GILDA: That’s Ireland, dear.
OTTO: Never mind. The same wistful dampness distinguishes them both.

A post-colonial interpretation

Hilarious (that’s sarcasm). But if you were an Irish nationalist, an Indian nationalist, any educated inhabitant of one of Britain’s 57 colonies, dominions, territories, or protectorates, you might have read this kind of thing as precisely the kind of ignorant, self-centred, privileged, smug indifference that you had to shoot your way through in order to gain independence.


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Cavalcade by Noel Coward (1930)

New Year’s Eve: our London family, sheltered through two generations of Victorian prosperity, awaits the headlong cavalcade of the Twentieth Century…’
(First caption of the 1933 movie version)

Introduction

Copied from the Wikipedia article (why reinvent the wheel?) with my own adaptations:

‘Cavalcade’ is a play by Noël Coward with songs by Coward and others. It covers three decades in the life of the Marryots, an upper-middle-class British family, and their servants, beginning in 1900 and ending in 1930, a year before the premiere.

Its 22 scenes each focus on a major historical event of the period, including the Relief of Mafeking (17 May 17 1900), the death of Queen Victoria (22 January 1901), the sinking of the RMS Titanic (12 April 1912), scenes from World War I and so on. Popular songs from each period are woven into the score.

The play was premiered in 1931 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, directed by Coward himself. It took advantage of the large stage of Drury Lane with its hydraulics and moving components to stage a spectacular pageant.

Presented by the impresario Charles B. Cochran, the spectacular production involved a huge cast and massive sets. The first night was met with a standing ovation and it proved a hugely popular play, running for almost a year.

Background and production

During the run of his successful comedy ‘Private Lives’ in London in 1930, Coward discussed with the impresario C. B. Cochran the idea of a big spectacular production to follow the intimate small scale of ‘Private Lives’.

Coward considered the idea of an epic set during the French Revolution, but when he saw a photograph of a troopship leaving for the Boer War in an old copy of the Illustrated London News the germ of the new play came to him.

He outlined his scenario to Cochran and asked him to secure the Coliseum, London’s largest theatre. Cochran was unable to do so but was able to book the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which was not much smaller, provided Coward could guarantee an approximate opening date.

Coward and his designer Gladys Calthrop inspected Drury Lane and found it adequate in terms of the size of its stage and its technical facilities, although two extra hydraulic lifts had to be installed for quick changes of scenery, and unlike the Coliseum it lacked the revolving stage Coward wanted. While Calthrop began designing hundreds of costumes and twenty-two sets, Coward worked on the script, which he completed in August 1931.

‘Cavalcade’ premiered on 13 October 1931, starring Mary Clare and Edward Sinclair as the Marryot parents and featuring John Mills, Binnie Barnes, Una O’Connor, Moya Nugent, Arthur Macrae, Irene Browne and Maidie Andrews in supporting roles. The performance was a big success and the play went on to become one of the year’s biggest West End hits, running for 405 performances. It closed in September 1932.

Photos

The printed text of the play contains 22 photos from the production. In the online version I read these are all of shockingly poor quality so I wasn’t tempted to include any here.

The working classes

The play is immediately different in feel from anything else by Coward I’ve read because it features working class characters, in fact it opens with working class people, instantly differentiating it from the posh people dressing for dinner ambience of all the other plays.

Somewhere I’ve read a quote from Coward saying he was born into the middle class and so felt close to, or detached from, all the others. How working class characters here strike me as every bit as stereotypical as his upper middle class characters.

Synopsis

Part 1

Scene 1: Sunday 31 December 1899. The drawing-room of a London House

It is nearly midnight on New Year’s Eve 1899. The whole vast production opens in the kitchen of the posh Marryot family where we find the married parlourmaid Ellen and the butler, Bridges, fretting about preparing supper for their lords and masters, but also about the fact that Bridges has been called up to go and fight in the Boer War.

Cut to ‘above stairs’ where the master class, Robert (35) and Jane (31) Marryot, are seeing in the New Year quietly together. Jane’s brother is besieged in Mafeking, and Robert himself will shortly be going off to serve.

Robert and Jane invite their Bridges and Ellen toast the new year. Bells, shouting, and sirens outside usher in the New Year, and Robert proposes a toast to 1900.

Hearing her two boys stirring upstairs, Jane runs up to see after them, and her husband calls to her to bring them down to join the adults. He has some droll lines:

ROBERT: How very impolite of the twentieth century to waken the children.

Scene 2: Saturday 27 January 1900. A dockside

A month later, a contingent of volunteers are leaving for the war. On the dockside Jane and Ellen have parallel parting scenes with their men, Robert and Bridges. the basic dichotomy between the master class and the rude mechanicals reminds me of Shakespeare, goes back at least 300 years…

As the men go aboard Jane comforts Ellen, who is crying and a band strikes up ‘Soldiers of the Queen’. The volunteers wave their farewells to the cheering crowd.

Scene 3: Friday 8 March 1900. The drawing-room of the Marryots’ house

The Marryot boys – Edward (aged 12) and Joe (8) – are playing soldiers with a young friend, Edith Harris. She objects to being made to play the Boers, and they begin to quarrel. The noise brings in their mothers. Joe throws a toy at Edith, and is sharply slapped by Jane, whose nerves are on edge with anxiety about her brother and her husband.

Her state of mind is not helped by a barrel-organ outside, playing ‘Soldiers of the Queen’ under the window. Ellen the maid brings tea and the women commiserate about their menfolk in danger. Margaret, friend of Jane’s and mother of young Edith, sends the organ-grinder away then suggests taking Jane out tonight, to dinner at the Cafe Royal then on to the theatre to take her mind off her worry.

But left alone, Jane is tormented by the sound of the wretched barrel organ and collapses into hysterical tears.

Scene 4: Friday 8 May 1900. A theatre

Jane and Margaret are in a stage-box watching chorus girls performing ‘The Girls of the C.I.V’. The performance of the then popular musical comedy ‘Mirabelle’ continues but the performance is interrupted when the theatre manager comes onstage to announce that Mafeking has been relieved, triggering joyous uproar breaks out, the audience clapping, cheering and singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Scene 5: Monday 21 January 1901. The kitchen of the Marryots’ house

The cook, Annie the parlour maid, and Ellen’s mother Mrs Snapper are preparing a special tea to greet Bridges on his return from the war. He comes in with Ellen, looking well, and kisses his little baby, Fanny. He tells them that he has bought a public house off a chap he met in Africa and is staying out there. So he and Ellen can work for themselves in future.

The celebratory mood is dampened when Annie brings in a newspaper reporting that Queen Victoria is ‘sinking’.

Scene 6: Sunday 27 January 1901. Kensington Gardens

This scene is all in mime. Robert and Jane are walking in Kensington Gardens with their children when they meet Margaret and Edith Harris. Everyone is in black, solemn and silent, following the Queen’s death.

Made me think of the death of our Queen Elizabeth II, who had reigned as long as anyone could remember, and the deep sense of loss many many people felt.

Scene 7: Saturday 2 February 1901. The Marryots’ drawing-room

On the balcony, Jane, Margaret, their children and the servants are watching Queen Victoria’s funeral procession. Robert, who was awarded the Victoria Cross is walking in the procession. Jane tells her children to stand respectfully as the coffin passes, especially after one of the boys drops a piece of cake onto the hat of a woman in the crowd. As the lights fade, Joe comments, ‘She must have been a very little lady’.

Scene 8: Thursday 14 May 1903. The grand staircase of a London house

Jane and Robert are attending a grand ball given by the Duchess of Churt. The Major-domo announces, ‘Sir Robert and Lady Marryot’.

Part II

Scene I: Saturday 16 June 1906. The bar parlour of a London public house

Jane has brought her eldest son Edward, now 18, to see Ellen and her mother, Mrs Snapper, in the flat above the public house. They are just having tea, together with Flo who is over-dressed and embarrassingly pretentious and George, who is a greengrocer. Alf and Ellen’s daughter Fanny is now seven-years-old and has been dancing to entertain them.

Ellen and her mother make excuses for Alf’s absence, lying that he is upstairs in bed after hurting his leg in a bicycling accident.

Alf Bridges enters, clearly drunk. Jane, dismayed, makes a tactful departure. Bridges starts to bully Fanny. He sees that Fanny has a nice new doll, just given her by Jane. Furious, he snatches it from the child and throws it into the fire, shouting that he can buy his own child a doll if he wants, he doesn’t need no bloomin’ charity. Ellen goes for Alf who punches her and is grabbed and thrown out the room by George.

Scene 2: Saturday 16 June 1906. A London street (exterior of the public house)

Alf emerges from the pub into a wonderful street scene with scores of Cockneys dancing and drinking and partying to the sound of a penny-in-the-slot piano, with much singing and laughter, costermongers hawking their wares, and a Salvation Army band performing. Fanny is happily dancing with some adults. Alf sees her and makes a grab at her but the men push him away, over offstage. Moments later there’s a screaming. Flo and Ellen had emerged from the pub to look for Fanny and, hearing the shouting, Flo runs offstage to see the scene, the re-enters to tell Ellen her husband has been run over and killed.

Scene 3: Wednesday 10 March 1909. The private room of a London restaurant

The Marryots’ eldest son, Edward Marryot, is holding his twenty-first birthday party, with many smart young guests. Rose, an actress from the old Mirabelle production, proposes his health and sings the big waltz number from the show.

Scene 4: Monday 25 July 1910. The beach of a popular seaside resort

On the beach crowds of holidaymakers are listening to Uncle George’s Concert Party performing from a bandstand. Ellen and her family are there and Fanny wins a prize for a song and dance competition.

Promenading are the posh people – Jane and Margaret, and their children, Edward, Joe and Edith. Edward and Edith are now young adults and sweet for each other. They unexpectedly bump into the roles – Ellen, little Fanny, George the greengrocer and Flo.

Ellen tells them that she has kept on the pub since her husband’s death and that Fanny is now at a dancing-school and determined to go on the stage.

A couple of unknown women walk by talking about the Crippen murder and how he was spotted and caught trying to escape on a liner, July 1910.

There’s a roll of thunder and it starts to rain. The beach becomes a sea of umbrellas (must have been impressive to see) and everyone walks or runs offstage leaving ‘One fat old woman is left asleep in a deck chair.’

A tremendous roll of thunder wakes her abruptly and she struggles to get up, and falls back into the chair, which collapses.

We are in the era of the Keystone cops.

Scene 5: Sunday 14 April 1912. The deck of an Atlantic liner

Edward has married Edith Harris, and they are on their honeymoon. They speculate blithely how long the initial bliss of marriage will last.

EDWARD: How long do you give us?
EDITH: I don’t know—and Edward—(she turns to him) I don’t care. This is our moment—complete and heavenly. I’m not afraid of anything. This is our own, for ever.

As they walk off, she lifts her cloak from where it has been draped over the ship’s rail, revealing the name Titanic on a lifebelt. The lights fade into complete darkness and the orchestra plays ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ very quietly.

Scene 6: Tuesday 4 August 1914. The Marryots’ drawing-room

Joe asks his father if he will fight (probably) and then is frightfully keen to sign up himself. Father urges caution. A newspaper seller in the street outside shouts that war has been declared, and Robert, Joe and Margaret join a toast to victory, but Jane – who I’ve realised is the ‘moral core’ of the text – delivers an impassioned diatribe against the stupidity of war before running out.

JANE: Drink to die war, then, if you want to. I’m not going to. I can’d Rule Britannia! Send us victorious, happy and glorious! Drink, Joey, you’re only a baby, still, but you’re old enough for war. Drink like the Germans are drinking, to Victory and Defeat, and stupid, tragic sorrow. But leave me out of it, please!

Scene 7: 1914–1915–1916–1917–1918. Marching

Above the proscenium 1914 glows in lights. It changes to 1915-1916, 1917 and 1918. Meanwhile, soldiers march uphill endlessly. Out of darkness into darkness. Sometimes they sing gay songs, sometimes they whistle, sometimes they march silently, but the sound of their tramping feet is unceasing. Below, the vision of them brightly-dressed, energetic women appear in pools of light, singing stirring recruiting songs.

Scene 8: Tuesday 22 October 1918. A restaurant

Joe and Fanny – now a rising young singer and dancer – are dining in a West End restaurant. Jane is now nineteen and extremely attractive. Joe is in army officer’s uniform. He is on leave but is about to return to the Front. They discuss marriage but she imagines his family would object. She gives him a locket with her picture in.

Scene 9: Tuesday 22 October 1918. A railway station

Jane sees Joe off at the railway station. Like many of the women on the platform she is distressed. This is conveyed by a simple but effective piece of stage business: as stretchers bearing wounded men are carried past her, she lights a match to light her cigarette but is so distracted by the sight of the wounded that she lets the match burn out.

Scene 10: Monday 11 November 1918. The Marryots’ drawing-room

Ellen, now very swankily dressed, comes to visit Jane. She announces that Joe is emotionally involved with her daughter. The two mothers fall out: Ellen thinks Jane regards Fanny as beneath Joe socially.

As Ellen says a pointed goodbye they hear the guns going off outside to signal the Armistice. At that exact moment the maid brings in a telegram. Jane opens it and tells Ellen, ‘You needn’t worry about Fanny and Joe any more, Ellen. He won’t be able to come back at all, because he’s dead.’ And she faints.

Scene 11: Monday 11 November 1918. Trafalgar Square

Surrounded by the frantic revelry of Armistice Night, Jane is walking, dazed, through Trafalgar Square. With tears streaming down her face, she cheers wildly and waves a rattle, while the band plays ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

Part III

Scene 1: Tuesday 31 December 1929. The Marryot’s drawing room

Margaret and Jane, both now elderly, are sitting by the fire. Margaret leaves, after wishing a happy New Year to Jane and Robert, who has come in to drink a New Year toast with his wife. Jane drinks first to him and then to England: ‘The hope that one day this country of ours, which we love so much, will find dignity and greatness, and peace again’.

Scene 2: Evening, 1930. A night club

Robert, Jane, Margaret, Ellen and the full company are in a night club. At the piano, Fanny sings Coward’s song ‘Twentieth Century Blues’.

Scene 3: Chaos

When the song is finished, people rise from table and dance without apparently any particular enjoyment; it is the dull dancing of habit. The lights fade away from everything but the dancers, who appear to be rising in the air. They disappear and down stage left six ‘incurables’ in blue hospital uniform are sitting making baskets. They disappear and Fanny is seen singing her song for a moment, then far away up stage a band is seen playing wildly. Then down stage Jane and Robert standing with glasses of champagne held aloft, then Ellen sitting in front of a Radio loud speaker; then Margaret dancing with a young man. The visions are repealed quicker and quicker, while across the darkness runs a Riley light sign spelling out news. Noise grows louder and louder. Steam rivets, loud speakers, jazz bands, aeroplane propellers etc until the general effect is complete chaos.

Then it all fades into darkness and silence and away at the back a Union Jack glows through the blackness. The lights come up on the massed company singing ‘God Save the King’.

Music

In addition to compositions by Coward, more than fifty popular songs, national anthems, hymns, ballads, and topical tunes relevant to the years portrayed were used in the film. Wikipedia lists just some of them. There have been numerous recordings, of all the songs, or just Coward’s songs, and a Cavalcade Suite developed from them. Here’s a record made of music from the show, with a spoken introduction by Coward himself.

The fantastical

The absurdist surreal fantasies, the mad spur-of-the-moment imaginings of Elyot and Amanda in ‘Private Lives’ has alerted me to the vein of fantasy, or flights of fancy, which pop up at unexpected moments in Coward’s plays.

Thus Edward and Edith’s moment on the Titanic is intensified by Edith’s strange flight of fantasy:

EDITH: Wouldn’t it be awful if a magician came to us and said: ‘Unless you count accurately every single fish in the Atlantic you die to-night?’

How strange but how strangely effective it is in accentuating that short scene, in giving it an extra dimension of tragedy: the idea that not just people were drowned but that the priceless gift of fantasy and imagination was drowned with them.

A few scenes later the family arrive back in the house which has been locked up for a while and has no food in. Jane asks where her husband is, and her son Joe says:

JOE: Groping about in the wine cellar like an angry old beetle. He says strong drink is essential in a crisis.
JANE: We must have something to eat, too. I wonder if there is anything.
JOE: There’s a strong bit of cold tongue in the larder. I just put my head in and it sang the Marseillaise.

!

Different histories

History in an absolute sense is the record of everything that’s ever happened i.e. is an incomprehensibly vast amount of material which is being continually added to.

History is also an academic subject with its own sub-divisions and specialities, all subject to the changes in academic and social fashion. When I was a student Marxist history was still a going concern with notables such as Christopher Hill, Eric Hobsbawm and E.P. Thompson at their peak in the post-1960s radical ’70s and ’80s. But even at the time friends who actually studied history told me they were old hat and the new fashion was for social history from the bottom up, along with a new interest in regional history. I saw all this for myself in the eclipse of Christopher Hill’s Marxist accounts of the English Revolution by the regionalist approach of John Morell and the constitutional analysis of Conrad Russell.

Since then the study of British history has been shaken by at least three newer schools of thought or interpretation. The most obvious one is feminist history, which simply wants to redress centuries of dominance by men and reclaim the history of women, showing that women had more agency and influence than previously admitted, plus simply telling the stories of women from the well-known queens to the humblest working girls.

Alongside this has gone an equal surge in interest in Black history. In a sense the core of this is a proliferation of histories of the slave trade accompanied by the contentious claim that most of Britain’s eminence and the origin of the industrial revolution ultimately stemmed from the profits from the slave trade (see Industry and Empire: From 1750 to the Present Day by Eric Hobsbawm for a classic statement). But around this central core are new works emphasising the role of Black people from across the Empire, from Africa and the Caribbean, in fighting in the two world wars, and providing manpower in less well-known places such as in the merchant navy.

Thirdly there is the rise and rise of postcolonial studies, an interdisciplinary field of academic inquiry which includes history, literature, film etc to examines the cultural, political and economic effects of colonialism and imperialism with a special emphasis on the colonised, on the victims of imperialism.

Fourthly, over the same timescale, the rise and rise of Queer studies: an interdisciplinary academic field that examines gender and sexuality, challenging traditional notions and exploring the social construction of these identities.

By now you can see where I’m going with this. It is to state the obvious fact that the political, social and cultural world in which Coward wrote this work, and the historical narrative of unquestioned, unified, white, imperial British supremacy which it unashamedly promotes, has been smashed to pieces over the last 50 years or so. That the play, the script and the movie made from it are not just a little dated, but come from a different world, far closer to the values of Queen Victoria than to us (it was only 30 years  from Victoria’s reign but is 90 years distant from us).

I feel like I just about have a vestigial contact with that world and its values, through the books and TV and films I consumed as a boy just 40 years after the play was premiered. But to my kids, the entire thing comes from another planet.

The Woolf connection

I learn from Philip Hoare’s wonderful 1995 biography of Coward that in 1928 he met and became friends with Virginia Woolf who, for a period, was awed and impressed by him, while he did everything he could to butter up to this scion of England’s intellectual set, extravagantly praising her most recent production, Orlando.

The idea of following an upper-middle-class family across several generations and dotted with key historic incidents from the period is also the plot of Virginia Wool’s 1937 novel, The Years. I wonder what she made of Coward producing something so similar in subject matter and scale while she was struggling so hard to create her book.

Upstairs, Downstairs

Interesting to learn that the 1970s television series, ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’, was to some extent based on ‘Cavalcade’.

As Karl Marx famously remarked, history repeats itself: first as tragedy, then as ITV costume drama.

The 1933 movie

‘Cavalcade’ was quickly snapped up by Hollywood which released a movie version in 1933. Directed by Frank Lloyd, the film version is an epic two hours long and won three Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Coward was still only 34. The scale of his success is breathtaking.

Philip Hoare

Cavalcade unashamedly reaffirms stereotypes: the characters seem almost Dickensian as Coward mixes comedy and tragedy… The overwhelming impression of the production was of nostalgic national introspection and sentimentality, somewhat redeemed by Coward’s handling of his material, technical skill and sense of spectacle. The result was a triumph of style over content.’ (Noel Coward: A Biography by Philip Haore, page 234)


Related reviews

Noel Coward and imagination

Reflections on Noel Coward’s plays ‘Hay Fever’, ‘Private Lives’ and ‘Easy Virtue’.

We live in an age obsessed with gender, vide the ongoing furore about trans women, the ubiquity of feminist discourse, the prominence of LGBTQ+ activism, Pride Week etc etc. It floods the zone.

Much of this has been developed in academia over the past 50 years or slow and slowly spread outwards as graduates in various branches of critical theory progress to become artists, novelists, film-makers or take control of artistic institutions and media channels.

Queer theory

One sub-set of this has been the rise of Queer Studies as a degree subject in academia. According to Google AI:

Queer Studies is an interdisciplinary academic field that examines the social construction of gender and sexuality, challenging traditional and normative categories. It explores the diverse experiences of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer individuals, as well as exploring how gender and sexuality intersect with other social categories like race, class, and ability.

This has led over the last few decades to the application of Queer Theory, with is basic attitude of ‘challenging traditional and normative categories’, to all and every conceivable work of art or literature. Even if the author, artist or the subject aren’t explicitly queer, queer theory (like feminist theory, like structuralist and post-structuralist and semiotic and deconstructionist theory, like all the other critical theories) will find a way.

Coward was gay and since most of his work is about the troubled relations between the sexes, it is relatively easy to apply Queer Theory to all and everything he wrote, deconstructing and rewriting the overt characters and plots in his plays to accommodate the notion that they ‘challenge traditional and normative categories’. Predictably enough, the Wikipedia article on Private Lives feels obliged to include queer theory interpretations of the play:

In a 2005 article, Penny Farfan analyses the play from the point of view of queer theory, arguing that ‘the subversiveness of [Coward’s] sexual identity is reflected in his work’, and that Private Lives questions ‘the conventional gender norms on which compulsory heterosexuality depends’. Positing that the leading characters’ portrayal as equals is evidence in support of this theory, Farfan instances the famous image of [Noel] Coward and [Gertrude] Lawrence as Elyot and Amanda smoking and ‘posing as mirror opposites’… John Lahr in a 1982 study of Coward’s plays writes, ‘Elyot and Amanda’s outrageousness is used to propound the aesthetics of high camp – an essentially homosexual view of the world that justifies detachment.’

So far, so obvious and inevitable, and dated. Note how Lahr’s not very interesting suggestion that the two protagonists dramatise a form of high camp is over 40 years old, and Farfan’s flagging of its ‘subversiveness’ is 20 years old. These are old ideas.

The imaginative versus the dull

For the sake of argument, though, I am positing that the chief binary in his work was not between straight and gay; that Coward was not concerned with ‘questioning conventional gender norms’. That aim, as anyone who reads my art reviews knows, is pretty much the stock, standard and utterly predictable interpretation imposed by all art curators, and countless literary critics, on any artwork which deals even remotely with gender or in any way includes women.

Instead my reading of Coward prioritises what I see as the far more central and fundamental binary in his work, which is that between the Imaginative and the Dull.

Easy Virtue

‘Easy Virtue’ may well subvert this or that gender stereotype (yawn), interrogate this or that patriarchal trope (snore) but what on my reading, what it’s really about is the confrontation between a funny, confident, imaginative woman (Larita) and the appallingly slow, dull, dense and conventional Whittaker family. The play leads up to Larita’s extraordinarily fierce and sustained denunciation of the Whittakers for their narrow-minded, blinkered bigotry and prurient hypocrisy.

Hay Fever

In the same way, in ‘Hay Fever’, the four members of the Bliss family, despite their appalling behaviour, are each dominated by their penchant for imaginative fancies, the son and daughter and husband just as much as the obvious dominating figure, the melodramatic actress Judith. And their actorish imaginativeness, their exaggeration, speaking for effect, and liability to drop into actually acting out scenes from a play, remains almost incomprehensible to their guests (apart, admittedly, for the savvy Myra Arundel, who has their number).

Private Lives

And the same in ‘Private Lives’. A structuralist critic may point to the very neat structuring and mirroring of the plot, whereby the two couples act out almost the same scenes. A queer critic may point to the subversion of heteronormative conventions, or the way the play undermines (indeed blows apart) conventional notions of married fidelity.

But to me the leading binary is between Elyot and Amanda’s imaginative playfulness and the stiff, dim, unimaginativeness of their two new spouses. In fact the two main poles of the play are not so much Elyot and his former spouse, Amanda – but Elyot, given to free-associating whimsy at the drop of a hat, and Victor, who literally doesn’t understand what he’s talking about.

Elyot has a big stand-off scene criticising Victor’s obtuseness, but it’s more effectively left to the secondary figure of Sibyl to pinpoint Victor’s weakness:

VICTOR: Making stupid rotten jokes!
SIBYL: I thought what Elyot said was funny!
VICTOR: Well, all I can think is, is that you must have a very warped sense of humour!
SIBYL: That’s better than having none at all!
VICTOR: I fail to see what humour there is in incessant trivial flippancy!
SIBYL: You couldn’t be flippant if you tried until you were blue in the face!~
VICTOR: I shouldn’t dream of trying!
SIBYL: You must be awfully sad, not to be able to see any fun in anything!

‘It must be awfully sad not to be able to see the fun in anything.’ I take this to be Coward’s central position. He, in his glory years egged on by his collaborator and conspirator Gertrude Lawrence, wanted to have fun, let his imagination run riot, in frolics and fantasies, comic songs, revues and sketches, plays which didn’t care about realism or plausibility in their desire to make an impact and have an effect.

The queer sub-texts are there, often in plain sight. And no doubt he was subverting umpteen different conventions, we know he was because contemporary critics pointed it out: it’s obvious that showing women on the stage smoking, talking smut and getting drunk (‘Fallen Angels’) did breach contemporary conventions; that showing an unnaturally close mother and son (‘The Vortex’) did make a lot of contemporary audiences feel uncomfortable, that revealing a leading character to be a cocaine addict (‘The Vortex’ again) did shock audiences.

Yet to my mind, the fundamental position which underpins these individual assaults on the conventions of his day, was that of the Imaginative against the dull and narrow and conventional and conservative and conformist. On my reading ‘Easy Virtue’, although not one of the most popular and not often revived, is the central play, because all the other subversions the critics list (gender, queer, etc) are subsumed by or encompassed by the much bigger, more fundamental issue of the eternal struggle of the clever and sophisticated and imaginative against all the forces in society which try to keep them down. As Amanda says in ‘Private Lives’:

AMANDA: It wasn’t an innocent girlish heart, it was jagged with sophistication. I’ve always been sophisticated, far too knowing.

That is the problem Coward’s lead characters face: not that they’re straight or gay, but they’re just too damned clever, imaginative and sophisticated for the dull, narrow, hidebound society which surrounds them, is scared of them, and wants to stifle them.

So my contention boils down to this: the gay issue may for all I know have been very big, very important to Coward, and doubtless the plays abound in queer sub-texts often bubbling very close to the surface. But much bigger, much more obvious, much more defining, was his repeated depiction of the triumph of the liberated, unconventional imagination and the defeat of society’s stupid, unimaginative conventions.


Noel Coward reviews