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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Flame Into Being: The Life and Work of D.H. Lawrence by Anthony Burgess (1985)

Man belonged to the cosmos and was fulfilled through his natural instincts, of which love was the greatest.
(Burgess’s summary of Lawrence’s credo, page 62)

Anthony Burgess (1917 to 1993) was a composer, poet, novelist, essayist, librettist, screenwriter, critic, provocateur and media personality. In the 1980s I watched him appear on TV arts programmes and read his numerous book reviews, essays and novels (notably ‘Earthly Powers’, 1980, and ‘The End of the World News’, 1982). He was great fun, an unashamed entertainer. This book is a classic example of his work: opinionated, interesting, drily amusing, sensible, packed with ideas and insights.

Preface

Part of this is because Burgess, like Lawrence, was an outsider. Most 20th century English authors went to private school and Oxbridge and so, whether they were radicals or conservatives, maintained the same kind of tone and worldview, the same manners, the same limited, privileged experience of life in their works. Burgess, as he explains in his preface, grew up in the pub and shop culture of working class Manchester, with little cultural capital and, like Lawrence, largely had to teach himself about literature. And they both married foreign wives and left England to live abroad, Lawrence in his pilgrimage round the world, Burgess to live in Monte Carlo.

That said, Burgess says there are also big differences. Burgess came of an Irish family and was raised a Catholic. This explains his attraction to James Joyce. But also puts him in a different tradition from Lawrence who came from non-conformist stock, proud of his puritanism, attracted to the old pagan gods, son of a miner.

Burgess admires Lawrence’s intransigence and sympathises with his sufferings on behalf of free expression. Lawrence stands for:

that fighting element in the practice of literature without which books are a mere decor or confirmation of the beliefs and prejudices of the ruling class. (p.x)

‘Literature is essentially subversive’ and Lawrence was a leading practitioner of that subversion.

Chapter 1. Lawrence and Myself When Young

Burgess quotes Lawrence’s biographer and critic Richard Aldington saying Joyce and Lawrence are diametrically opposed: Joyce is about being and Lawrence is about becoming.

Stylistically Joyce is drawn to economy and exactness, Lawrence to a diffuseness which looks for what he is trying to say while he is saying it. (p.4)

This strikes me as the single most important aspect of Lawrence’s style as a writer of prose and poetry. His paragraphs feel like they’re being shaped and formed, often reusing the same words and phrases, as you watch. It’s a unique experience of being involved in the writing, as it happens.

His writing does not seem to have emerged, lathed and polished, from the workshop: when we read him we are in that workshop, witnessing a hit-and-miss process of creation in which orthodox faults – prolixity, repetition, apparent absurdity – are idiosyncratic virtues. (p.9)

He is a writer taking chances and trusting that he will be taken seriously.

In the 1910s literature was influenced by the serious scientific predictions of H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw with their promotion of Scientific, Rational solutions to society’s ills. Lawrence reacted against all this, despised all politics – maybe all rationality – and spoke for the Natural Man.

The purest exponent of the Natural Man after the Great War was Ernest Hemingway who saw that the complex sentences of Edwardian literature reflected a society and values which had all been exploded. He developed a stripped back, simple and repetitive style which promoted a simplistic code of honour. I like where Burgess says:

It may be that Hemingway’s prose is the biggest stylistic innovation of the century… Hemingway genuinely starts again from scratch. (p.8)

When I was a schoolboy and student, that was my view. From E.M. Forster to Ernest Hemingway was a leap from the 19th into the 20th century and, reading literary books today, they almost all still copy the Hemingway formula: short sentences, simple vocabulary, delete all adjectives and adverbs.

The pre-scientific or irrational in Lawrence made him a genuine primitive man, a pagan. He has a profound feeling for the pagan gods. Even the books set in England contain characters who talk like pagan deities. His people aspire to be naked, and their dialogue is voices from the unconscious, from another realm of experience.

Chapter 2. Beginnings

Lawrence’s father was a miner who worked at Brinsley Colliery, Eastwood, so you might have expected Lawrence’s subject to be squalor, dirt and struggle, for him to have become a proletarian writer. But Eastwood, ten miles north-east of Nottingham, in his day looked out over countryside, and Lawrence chose instead to become a writer of the countryside, flowers and animals.

Lawrence’s parents’ marriage was a warzone. His father was a miner, technically a ‘butty’ or supervisor of a gang of other miners. He was almost illiterate, spelling out the newspaper a word at a time, whereas Lawrence’s mother had been a teacher and clung to the idea that she came of gentle stock. Lawrence was unusually close to his mother – she is the central figure in his first major novel Sons and Lovers, and he was devastated when she died – but, by the same token, he was impressed by his father’s big beefy masculinity and the sodality of the miners.

Lawrence was an amateur painter till he was 20. His surviving paintings are vivid but demonstrate his complete lack of training in perspective or anatomy. Words were different. Poems and prose bent to the force of his imagination with little or no training.

At 17 he went as a pupil-teacher to Ilkeston training centre. At 21 he went to Nottingham University. Aged 23 he went to teach in Croydon. He discovered the ‘English Review’, edited by Ford Madox Hueffer, who ‘had the greatest editorial flair of his time, if not of the century’ and sent in some poems (p.20). Hueffer recognised the boy’s genius, invited him up to tea, introduced him to Ezra Pound. Lawrence showed Hueffer his first novel, ‘The White Peacock’.

Burgess makes a characteristically sweeping statement:

One of the uses of fiction is to affirm the values of the bourgeoisie. (p.24)

Lawrence is ‘this most visual of novelists’. Burgess emphasises the brilliant physical details in so many scenes.

Joyce, by contrast, was an urban man and knew nothing of flowers. Lawrence is the great novelist of flowers.

Snobbishness Lawrence’s mother felt she married down when she married his father. She aspired for her boys, wanted them to climb the social ladder. This is reflected from as early as ‘The Peacock’, with characters saying ‘awfully’ and ‘frightfully’, words never used in the Lawrence household. He was aping his social superiors, he was pitching the narrative at a higher social level.

Chapter 3. The Denial of Life

Lawrence’s second novel, ‘The Trespasser’, was published in 1912. It’s set on the Isle of Wight which was as far abroad as he’d managed to get by that point. The lead character Siegmund, hangs himself. The is the only suicide in Lawrence’s oeuvre.

In 1912 Lawrence eloped with Frieda Richtofen, the wife of his French tutor at Nottingham University, philologist and professor of modern languages, Ernest Weekley. She describes how they fell in love in her memoir, Not I, but the Wind…, how she was forced to abandon her three children when they eloped abroad, ending up in a rented house on Lake Garda in north Italy.

Mr Noon: Lawrence drafted the first part of this novel before the war. It was published as a fragment in 1934. Only 50 years later, in 1984, was the second part, which existed in papers belonging to a friend of Lawrence’s, published. The two halves or parts were first published together in 1984. The second half is quite different from the first. It appears to be a factually accurate and barely fictionalized account of Lawrence and Frieda’s early sexual relations. Burgess makes the point that:

It was common practice for Lawrence to write half a novel, abandon it, and then pick it up again with no great concern for plausible continuity; when in doubt, change your main character’s character, though retaining the name, and make him or her start a new life somewhere, preferably in Italy. (p.33)

This happens in ‘Mr Noon’, ‘The Lost Girl’ and ‘Aaron’s Rod’.

Marriage It is amusing that Lawrence was very fierce for marital fidelity, had a pagan reverence for the union of one man and one woman and yet the partner of his life was secured by wrecking her marriage to Professor Weekley. Also ironic that Frieda was (allegedly) unfaithful to him.

Anywhere Lawrence was one of those rare writers who could write anywhere, even amid noise and distractions. He never had a permanent home and so no book-lined study, was able to be interrupted mid-sentence to meet people or go and do some chore, come back hours later and pick up where he left off. In the relationship with Frieda, he did all the household chores while she lay in bed smoking. He reflected this aspect of himself in the character of Rawdon Lilly in ‘Aaron’s Rod’:

He put on the kettle, and quietly set cups and plates on a tray. The room was clean and cosy and pleasant. He did the cleaning himself, and was as efficient and inobtrusive a housewife as any woman. While the kettle boiled, he sat darning the socks which he had taken off Aaron’s feet when the flautist arrived, and which he had washed. He preferred that no outsider should see him doing these things. Yet he preferred also to do them himself, so that he should be independent of outside aid. (Aaron’s Rod, p.121)

England, My England Soon after eloping, Burgess quotes letters in which Lawrence lambasted the English and England in extreme terms. And yet he remained an Englishman through and through. Richard Aldington amusingly said Lawrence was as English as a wet Sunday in Hull.

Son and Lovers Another joke: given the theme of this novel is a young man’s struggle to break free from the smothering influence of his mother, Frieda playfully suggested it should be titled ‘Sons and Lovers: Or, His Mother’s Darling’. Lawrence was not amused.

Chapter 4. Son and Lover

David Herbert Lawrence was called Bert in the family home. He disliked his first name. After he eloped and became more cosmopolitan he liked his female admirers, starting with Frieda, to call him Lorenzo.

‘Sons and Lovers’ was published in May 1913. Giving its protagonist the French surname Morel is symptomatic of Lawrence’s aspiring cosmopolitanism. Burgess describes it as a ‘florescent, leafy, pullulent’ book (p.50).

Lawrence’s modernism lies not in the formal technique of his novels: they display none of the agonising over technique obvious in Conrad, Ford Madox Ford, James or Joyce. The modernism is in the content for two reasons to do with the characters.

1) His characters’ identities are extraordinarily labile: they change all the time. Not just that, but sometimes they disappear altogether, subsumed into the weather, the moonlight or other settings or environments.

2) All Lawrence’s characters point away from the conventions of normal social life towards primeval depths. They repeatedly sink to, or strip back layers to reveal, the elemental layer of human existence. This is deeper than anything in the history of the novel, deeper even than the Greeks in their tragedies.

Symptomatic that, ‘no strong believer in the solidity of human identities’ Lawrence had a lifelong fondness for charades (p.54). This spilled over into the best poems where he mimics or inhabits a bird, beast or flower to an extraordinary degree.

Masculinity All his life Lawrence kept a reverence for beautiful men, for the beauty of the male body, linking back to the strong nudity of his coal-miner father (stripped to the waist and washing in a tin bath every evening) and the community of tough men he managed.

Chapter 5. Coming Through

Lawrence was ‘arrogant, dogmatic, messianic, inconsistent’ but also loveable. He wasn’t troubled by his own faults or the impression they gave in society because society was a spume, a phantom: reality lay much, much deeper, and chasing, revealing and describing the depths of human experience was his challenge.

Reason Lawrence never understood rational argument, which was a kind of giving-in to the surface, the superficial, instead of seeking the core.

Friendship pattern The success of ‘Sons and Lovers’ introduced him to the upper echelons of English culture and society and inaugurated the rhythm he enacted with almost everyone he met: 1) ingratiating charm; 2) lecturing about eternal depths which they barely understood; 3) bitter rejection and immortalisation as satirised characters in whichever novel he was working on; 4) with the frequent threat of libel action (p.55).

‘Love Poems and Others’ published February 1913. In the summer Lawrence and Frieda returned from Germany to England principally because Frieda wanted to see her three children by Weekley.

In the autumn of 1913 he wrote a good deal of The Rainbow, provisionally titled ‘The Sisters’. In July 1914 Frieda’s divorce came through and the couple came to London to sign the papers, then get married. A few weeks later the Great War erupted and they were trapped in England for four long bitter years.

Chapter 6. Dementia

The Lawrences didn’t have money to pay the lawyers’ fees for the divorce so he was declared bankrupt. In December The Prussian Officer and Other Stories was published. In 1915 the odd story England, My England‘. Lawrence is always unsettling because he says the uncomfortable, inconvenient thing.

In 1915 Lawrence worked on ‘The Sisters’ and decided to divide it in two. He developed the notion of setting up a commune of like-minded artistic people in Cornwall. He tried to recruit Lady Ottoline Morrell for this. He wrote long letters raving about the collapse of British society to poor Bertrand Russell, with whom he was initially very taken before they had a huge falling out. Russell accused him (after his death) of being a proto-fascist.

Lawrence said he rewrote ‘The Rainbow’ about seven times. It was published on 30 September 1915. Just a week later, a negative review in the Daily News triggered outcry at the book’s supposed obscenity. The book was taken to court for breaching obscenity laws. Many witnesses for the prosecution and none for the defence. Lawrence wasn’t called. His publisher, Methuen, meekly apologised, withdrew the book, pulped the remaining copies and paid a fine of ten guineas. Britain’s writers did nothing. The Society of Authors did nothing. That maligned figure, Arnold Bennett, was the sole author to publicly protest (he had already sent the impoverished author a gift of £40).

The impact was to ruin Lawrence’s reputation, livelihood and career. It delayed publication of the second half of the novel, Women In Love, by five years, giving the misleading impression that it is a book of the 1920s, which it very much isn’t.

Burgess, of course, defends ‘The Rainbow’ but even he, in his summary, zeroes in and quotes some of the passages describing sex (in extremely vague and gaseous way). He himself doesn’t convey how much of the novel isn’t about sex at all, but about the tempestuous and primeval emotions of the characters, described in an amazingly impassioned prose.

In my review of The Rainbow I point out that with the arrival of Ursula to young womanhood the novel drastically changes tone, moving out of its kind of primitive pagan rural background and arriving in the modern world of schools and trams. Burgess makes the nice point that this is the ‘Wellsian mode’, the tone of Ann Veronica and Wells’s Edwardian social novels.

Chapter 7. Westward

Lawrence fantasised about setting up a colony of like-minded artists in America, maybe Florida, until the authorities made it clear he couldn’t leave the country. So he settled on Cornwall where he founded an artistic community. Two leading figures were the gifted editor John Middleton Murry and the brilliant New Zealand short story writer, Katherine Mansfield.

Lawrence was at one point so close to Murry that he suggested becoming blood brothers. The quartet shared a cottage for a while but inevitably fell out. Nearly 20 years later Murray was cruelly satirised as the slimy seducer Denis Burlap in Aldous Huxley’s novel ‘Point Counter Point’.

In Cornwall Lawrence revised part two of The Sisters, which came to be titled Women in Love. He finished in November 1916 but could find no publisher. July 1916, his travel book about his time in Italy, Twilight in Italy, was published.

During this period he was summoned to several Army medicals in Bodmin. He was always rejected but found the poking and prodding of his body deeply humiliating. His horrible wartime experiences are dramatised in the long, brilliantly vivid ‘Nightmare’ chapter in ‘Kangaroo’.

Lawrence spoke openly against the madness of the war. His wife was German. On 12 October 1917 local police raided his home and ransacked it for evidence they were spies, signalling to German U-boats with their washing or their late-night lights. No evidence was found but Lawrence was ordered to leave Cornwall.

Lawrence and Frieda went to stay with H.D. in London. He started writing Aaron’s Rod. In November 1917 the poetry collection ‘Look! We Have Come Through’ was published. In 1918 they went to live in Derbyshire. In October ‘New Poems’ came out. As soon as the war finished (November 1918) they set about leaving England but it took a year, until October 1919, before they could get passports.

During this period Lawrence did the reading for his book of criticism, Studies in Classic American Literature, which was eventually published by Thomas Seltzer in the United States in August 1923. It contains essays on Benjamin Franklin, Hector St. John de Crevecoeur, James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana Jr., Herman Melville and Walt Whitman. It contributed to establishing Herman Melville as a seminal figure in American literature.

Some critics criticise it for being a rushed, superficial and highly impressionistic study; Burgess calls it ‘a series of jolts and lunges… meant to jolt Americans’ into reading their great authors. He claims it is one of the few books which created an entire new discipline, as it apparently helped jolt Americans into creating course of America literature at their universities.

Chapter 8. Nakedness

Burgess devotes an entire chapter to ‘Women in Love‘ which Burgess considers one of the ten great novels of the century. The central point of the novel is the way the characters are stripped down to their essentials, stripped to their primitive emotional cores which are depicted as bubbling over with extreme emotions, continually changing.

They are not human beings as we expect to meet them either in real life or in fiction. They are close to animals in the discontinuousness of their emotions, with unpredictable shifts of feeling which are always intense… they are capable of great emotional and even physical violence; they seem to have a skin missing. This is the peculiar quality of Women in Love which could as well be called Women in Hate. (p.89)

He outlines the main characters, identifies some of their real-life bases (Rupert Birkin is Lawrence, Hermione Roddice was partly based on Ottoline Morrell, Gudrun bears many of the traits of Katherine Mansfield).

Burgess singles out three big scenes: 1) how the violence of the big half-wild rabbit scene, in which it scratches and draws blood from both Gudrun and Gerald, anticipates the violence of their relationship and his final attempt to murder her.

2) When Ursula comes across Rupert throwing stones at the reflection of the moon in the millpond to try and abolish the power of the feminine moon over him.

3) The naked wrestling scene between Birkin and the mine owner Gerald Crich, which is deeper than homoerotic, far more primal, and its sad incompletion, the way Gerald can’t rise to Birkin’s wishes.

If we are startled by this scene we are merely experiencing the shock that it was Lawrence’s lifelong mission to impart – the shock of meeting [elemental] truths which logic and science… have tried to drive out. (p.96)

Burgess thinks it is a great novel because it is completely new: the novel, as a form, is mostly concerned with people in a social context, it is the quintessentially bourgeois art form, hedged round by manners and etiquette. From Samuel Richardson through Jane Austen to Henry James and E.M. Forster, the most earnest novels had always been about social convention and good manners. Lawrence tears the face off all this and shows his characters as madly irrational complexes of blood and nerves; primal, pagan wild animals: they have a social face (they have jobs and responsibilities) but their private lives are thronged with out-of-control primeval forces, ‘naked primitives’.

He makes the further point that the novel, up to that point, existed to convey a plot, a story. In their different ways Joyce, Lawrence, Hemingway and Ford Madox Ford showed that you could achieve new literary heights by jettisoning the straitjacket of a logical plot and instead showing human reality in a heightened form.

Chapter 9. A Snake and Sardinia

Burgess is dismissive of ‘Aaron’s Rod’, the novel Lawrence began in 1918, set aside, then completed in the spring of 1921. ‘It is a loose improvisation of which not much need be said’ (p.101).

More interesting is The Lost Girl, which he had also abandoned, and now took up and completed. It is a hokey tale in the popular style of Arnold Bennett with lots of authorial buttonholing – ‘Now fancy our two young heroes walking up the steps to the hotel…’ and, being absolutely unthreatening, won a literary prize and £100.

Lawrence and Frieda visited Florence, which he liked. He fancied it a place of manliness and virile statues, now gone to seed and packed with a large expatriate British community of ‘aesthetes’. Some of these are portrayed pretty blatantly in ‘Aaron’s Rod’ leading to accusations of bad manners and caddishness.

They moved on to Sardinia, then to Sicily where they found a cottage where they lived, off and on, for two years. The stay in Sardinia inspired Sea and Sardinia the most charming book Lawrence ever wrote and, in Burgess’s opinion, the best single introduction to his oeuvre.

Chapter 10. The Prophecy is in the Poetry

This chapter covers:

  1. Lawrence’s best book of poems, Birds, Beasts and Flowers
  2. his two works triggered by Freud, Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious and Fantasia of the Unconscious
  3. his final, posthumous work, Apocalypse

Chapter 11. Eastward

1921, year of The Captain’s Doll, in which the captain and his German paramour turn into Lawrence and Frieda, endlessly bickering, with their famously arduous trek up a glacier during which they bickered and argued every inch of the way there and back.

In October 1921 ‘Sea and Sardinia’ was serialised in The Dial magazine and was read by the American socialite Mrs Mabel Dodge Luhan. She was starting an artists’ community in Taos, New Mexico, with the aim of preserving the arts and crafts of the local Indians. She fancied having a writer-in-residence to record the way of life and ‘Sea and Sardinia’ convinced her that D.H. was the man. She wrote offering him free board and lodging and Lawrence bit.

He and Frieda decided to visit America not by crossing the Atlantic but by heading East. They took ship from Naples in February 1922, passed through the Suez Canal arriving at Ceylon in March. He discovered he really hated tropical jungles.

They sailed on to Australia, arriving at Perth at the start of May 1922 and stayed with friends for a fortnight. Staying in a town outside Perth they met Maria Louisa Skinner, a minor writer who was emboldened to show Lawrence her manuscript of a novel. For reasons that puzzle Lawrence scholars to this day, he was inspired to take it up as a collaboration and rewrite it the Lawrence way. It was eventually published as The Boy in the Bush with Skinner credited as co-author. Burgess thinks Lawrence collaborated because Australia made a big impact on him but he simply wasn’t there long enough to pick up the local lore. This manuscript was packed with local lore and just needed the psychological depth which he tried to add.

After just two weeks, they took ship to Sydney. He only stayed here two days (too expensive) before heading to a house 50 kilometres south.

Chapter 12. A Comical-Looking Bloke

Here Lawrence wrote Kangaroo which Burgess calls ‘the strangest but in some ways most satisfying novel of his entire career’ (p.135). It was an improvisation i.e. he set off without having a plot or characters but the book’s slapdash unevenness of tone 1) allows for all kinds of elements, including extended lyrical descriptions of the Australian landscape and 2) creates an overall sense of spontaneity and immediacy which is very appealing.

Kangaroo’s main characters are transparently based on Lawrence and Frieda, being Richard Lovat Somers, an English writer, and his wife Harriet, who has a foreign look. They arrive in Sydney, find a house to rent. The neighbours are a childless couple and the husband, Jack Callcott, explains he’s a member of a secretive authoritarian political movement, the Diggers, who are seeking to overthrow democracy. He introduces Lovat to their leader, a charismatic Jewish lawyer named Ben Cooley and codenamed ‘Kangaroo’.

Burgess points out that the novel is about types of power:

  • there is an entire chapter devoted to the dynamic of Frieda and Lawrence’s marriage, and Lawrence’s preposterous efforts to convince her that she should submit to him as lord and master, which she robustly ridicules
  • the political plot, sort of, about the Diggers and Cooley, although his so-called ideology is disappointingly wishy-washy, all about love of your fellow men, and Colley asks Somers (in several embarrassingly bad scenes) to love him

The plot, such as it is, leads up to a riot at a meeting of the Australian Socialist Party, which is attacked by a phalanx of pseudo-fascist Diggers, complete with gunshots, a bomb being thrown, and Kangaroo being mortally wounded. Burgess points out how all this is prefaced by an extended passage about the nature of the ‘mob’, reminiscent of Freud’s work ‘Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego’ which had just come out (in 1921), which Burgess says ‘shows an acuteness worthy of Adolf Hitler’ (p.142). I found it, like most of Lawrence’s attempts to tackle serious political or sociological issues, so wordy, so convoluted, and so embroiled with his personal mythology around the sexes and the deep gods, as to be almost unreadable.

Burgess briskly summarises that Lovat cannot give his allegiance to Kangaroo because the latter’s philosophy of brotherly love is shallow piffle beside Lovat’s deep feeling for the dark gods lying behind everything, deeper than humanity.

In a side note, Burgess picks out one of the final scenes of Lovat walking by moonlight by the seashore as being as magical and symbolic as Burkin throwing stones in the millpond to break the image of the moon in ‘Women in Love’. Lawrence’s novels overflow with wonderful, wonderful nature descriptions.

Chapter 12. Quetzalcoatl

After their Australian sojourn Lawrence and Frieda continued their odyssey east, arrived in San Francisco and took train to the artists’ community at the pueblo town of Taos, New Mexico, in the south-west USA. They had, as you recall, been invited by its owner Mabel Dodge Luhan, the American socialite, who had read Lawrence’s poetry and thought he’d be a perfect fit.

They were found a ranch fifteen or so miles from the town and endured a tough and demanding winter in its very primitive conditions, helped by a couple of Danish artists they sub-let some outhouses to.

By spring 1923 they needed a break and Lawrence took Frieda to Mexico. After some weeks in Mexico City, they headed south west and settled in a house on Lake Chapala. Over the next few years they made three trips in all. Out of them came a long novel, The Plumed Serpent (1926), an epic 462 pages in the Penguin edition, and the travel book, Mornings in Mexico (1927).

Burgess gives a workmanlike summary of ‘The Plumed Serpent’ but doesn’t do this vast, complex, brilliant and ridiculous book justice. He calls it ‘the least liked of Lawrence’s novels and one can see why’. It is humourless, and pontificates, at length, on a subject of little interest to most English readers (a couple of Mexicans leading the rise of the new religion of the old Aztec god Quetzalcoatl ).

One key point I nearly forgot by the time I’d staggered to the end of it, is that it, also, was very obviously written at two different times. The opening chapters are written in a surprisingly pared-back prose, lacking the usual Lawrentian guff, repetition and rhetoric. Almost as if he’d been reading Hemingway (who, however, hadn’t published much yet). Whereas the second half, describing the proponents of the new religion of the old Aztec god Quetzalcoatl is an orgy of half-baked mysticism, pseudo-psychology and tedious ‘hymns’.

Burgess suggests the difference in style is explained by facts on the ground. After 6 months Frieda was fed up of Mexico’s searing heat and (probably) Lawrence’s insistence on her submission to his religious fantasies. So she booked a berth on a ship from New York back to Britain (as the novel’s protagonist Kate Leslie, also does). On the New York quayside they had such an intense argument that they for a while thought the marriage was over.

He travelled west across America, stopping in the young Hollywood, before making it back to Mexico City. Here he completed the novel unrestrained by Frieda’s presence and influence. So you could argue that the first, very restrained and unLawrentian half, with its sensible characters doing believable things, was written under Frieda’s influence; and that the wildly self-indulgent second half, a fantasia of the new religion, accompanied by long poem-hymns he attributes to the new religionists, is Lawrence unleashed.

In real life Lawrence for a while felt he had lost Frieda and that, in her insistence on being free, independent and going her own way (home), she had ‘won’ their endless battle; whereas in the novel, Lawrence has the very strong character Kate Leslie in the end bow and submit to the male principle of her dark native husband. I.e. in the novel Lawrence faked that he’d won. In reality he swallowed his pride, and also took ship to Britain, ending in London where he realised just how much he disliked the English.

In his brisk summary of ‘The Plumed Serpent’ Burgess doesn’t mention the book’s countless breath-takingly beautiful prose descriptions of the Mexican landscape and mood. Equivalents to the wonderful evocation of the Australian landscape in ‘Kangaroo’. In both these novels, for my money, the ‘plot’ is dubious but the sense of place is astonishing.

Burgess thinks ‘there is no less convincing ending in the Lawrence oeuvre’ (p.157) but I found the ending of ‘The Plumed Serpent’ appropriately ambiguous and uncertain. It just stops in mid-conversation as the protagonist, Kate Leslie, rather hopelessly asks the Mexican general she’s married and who wants her to join their religious movement, Cipriano Viedma, to make her stay with him – despite the fact that we’ve seen her pining for Britain and booking a berth on a ship home. It ends on a note of irresolution and ambiguity which, I thought, accurately sums up the Lawrentian protagonist, endlessly conflicted and contradictory and changeable.

Chapter 13. A Spot of Red

In London Frieda and Lawrence became close to the artist (the Right Honourable) Dorothy Brett, and she accompanied them when they sailed back across the Atlantic in March 1924. They travelled from New York to Chicago and then back to Taos. Here Mable Luhan gave the Lawrences 170 acres of land and Lawrence, always surprisingly practical, threw himself (alongside native labourers) into rebuilding the adobe shacks, clearing the irrigation ditches, planting a flower garden.

In this period Lawrence wrote St Mawr. Like so many of Lawrence’s fictions it splits into two distinct parts (England and America), maybe three (London, Shropshire, Texas). The first, longer part portrays the posh, upper-middle-class world Lawrence was now moving in (the miner’s son had come a long, long way in a little over 10 years), set in London mews cottages and posh grand houses.

St Mawr is the name of a horse, a stallion, bought by Mrs Witt, a redoubtable American widow of independent means, for her son-in-law Henry Carrington, so he can join her and her daughter, Louise (Lou), as they go riding in Rotten Row (in Hyde Park) and mingle with London’s elite. Here the nervy, uncontrollable horse causes a scene and is banned as a danger to the public.

The scene then shifts to the West Midlands on the Welsh border, where a posse of posh people go for an extended break and where St Mawr is startled by a snake in the heather and rears backwards, kicking one of the men in the party in the face then rolling onto Henry and crushing his foot.

In part two, the leading figure, Mrs Witt, takes daughter, son-in-law and difficult horse by ship back to America, to the ranch where she grew up and whose profits pay for her pampered lifestyle travelling round Europe (and which explains why she and her daughter like horses).

But they don’t stop here. Lou looks for somewhere isolated where she can be herself and discovers a half-abandoned old ranch in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and buys it, and persuades her mother to join her and the family retainer, a native American named Phoenix, in rebuilding and furbishing it.

Burgess makes the obvious point that the entire narrative arc of the story follows Lawrence’s recent life, from posh nobs in London, via an excursion into the English countryside, then back to the States, to the dusty desert reminiscent of Taos, and then the final 20 pages are a pretty literal description of the ranch which Mabel Luhan, with great generosity, gave to Lawrence.

Burgess goes on to make the fairly obvious point which I’d completely missed that St Mawr is Lawrence: wounded, angry, liable to lash out. When the horse kicks a nice posh chap in the face up in the Shropshire hills it is Lawrence spitting in the face of the posh people he met in London and claimed to love his work and who he loathed. In fact St Mawr overflows with hatred of just about everyone, as I itemise in my review of it.

According to Burgess, right at the end of 1924 Lawrence travelled with Frieda and Brett back to Mexico. The British vice-consul found them a cottage in Oaxaca and it was here that he completed ‘The Plumed Serpent’, in all its madness.

He also completed the odd book of travel sketches combined with anthropological reportage, ‘Mornings in Mexico’. The book starts out as restrained and observant sketches of his hacienda, his servant, a long walk to a remote village and a description of a market day; but then the second half and the last three or four chapters become more anthropological, describing trips to observe traditional Indian music and dances, and taking it on himself to explain the Indians’ entire animistic worldview. Several of these chapters do not take place in Mexico at all, but in the United States, so the title of the book is pretty misleading.

Here in Oaxaca, in early 1925, Lawrence fell very ill. He went down with malaria but also food poisoning causing diarrhoea. To compound his misery, the region was hit by an earthquake. He was moved to the one decent hotel in Oaxaca. He was left weak and ill. All the old fight went out of him. For years he had written fantasies of subjecting Frieda to his imperious male will. Now he could barely walk and realised how utterly dependent on her he had become.

A doctor in Mexico City diagnosed tuberculosis and told Frieda that Lawrence only had a year or two left to live. When they tried to return to Taos the US immigration officials prevented him, until overridden by a kindly official in the embassy in Mexico City. But only with a 6-month visa.

In the event Lawrence recovered back on the ranch and was fit enough to get involved in all manner of outdoor chores and work. Burgess dwells on his finding a porcupine with cactus needles in its nose and carefully extracting them, which led to one of his many essays about man’s place in nature.

In September 1925 his US visa expired, he travelled to Washington with Frieda, then they caught a liner back across the Atlantic. He kidded himself he’d come back but, of course, he never did. His ranch is now a museum dedicated to him, the D.H. Lawrence ranch.

Lawrence disapproved of the Atlantic – ‘a dismal kind of ocean; it always affects me as the grave of Atlantis’ – although not as much as he disapproved of England.

Chapter 14. Life in Death

Lawrence passed through England en route for the continent. Burgess thinks Italy was Lawrence’s true home and the Mediterranean his proper sea. By the autumn of 1925 they had settled at a place called Spotorno, on the coast just over the border from France. Here he turned 40.

Burgess summarises Lawrence’s life to date: he had travelled right around the world looking for a race unspoiled by western materialism but hadn’t found it. He had hated the tropics (Ceylon), ignored the native people of Australia, seen the corruption and lassitude of the Mexicans, hated America’s Fordist culture, loathed England’s imperial snobbery.

Etruscan Places Now, back in Italy, he persuaded himself he’d found it in the long-extinct and legendary race of the Etruscans. Hence his book Etruscan Places. The Etruscans created a civilisation in west and north-west Italy which reached its height around 500 BC. To Lawrence’s mind they were an example of a primitive people in touch with their sensual pagan selves who were crushed out of existence by the cerebral, law-obsessed, imperialistic Romans.

This is obviously a grotesque distortion of the historical facts since 1) if crushed they were, it was by the Roman Republic, centuries before there was a Roman Empire (see Roman–Etruscan Wars), 2) the Romans were indeed an obsessively militaristic culture but at the same time they also practiced a florid variety of blood-thirsty cults, traditions and ceremonies which you’d have thought Lawrence would have had sympathy for.

But really what Lawrence does is reshape the Etruscans into his own image, as embattled outsiders fighting several types of ‘establishment’. This is why the book opens with an attack on all historians of the ancient world who Lawrence accuses of being in thrall to the glamour of Greece and Rome and downplaying all other cultures.

And, as Burgess points out, when Lawrence was anathematising an empire which crushed scores of native peoples in the name of ‘freedom’ he was also obviously referring to the British Empire, whose subjugation of native peoples around the world Lawrence deplored.

The Man Who Died Burgess devotes 4 pages to a summary of this vivid short story depicting Jesus waking from the dead in his tomb. In the story Jesus stumbles out and takes shelter with a peasant before the several encounters with disciples described in the New Testament.

These encounters are given according to the Biblical sources but we see that the resurrected man who lived them is radically different from the Jesus of the Bible account. For he has thrown off his mission to convert the world to love. He now sees all that as a form of narcissism. Now he will live for the instinctive life within him i.e. become Lawrentian man.

And so in the second half of the story (and, as Burgess points out, so many of Lawrence’s stories and novels fall into two distinct halves) he travels south along the coast. Here he comes to a small domestic temple to the goddess Isis and falls under the spell of its priestess, culminating in their having sex at the pagan altar.

Burgess doesn’t quite bring out how brilliantly vivid and imaginative this story is, with scores of moments of insight, starting with the searing description of what it feels like to rise from the dead – but he correctly points out the other striking thing about it which is – why wasn’t it banned? Why wasn’t Lawrence prosecuted for blasphemy? What kind of story could possibly be more blasphemous? Instead, as we know, the Establishment reserved its fury for his next novel, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s always sex with the philistine, guttersnipe British, who are too thick to notice transgressive ideas.

Chapter 15. A Woman’s Love

‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ is a book about fidelity. Lady Constance Chatterley and the gamekeeper Oliver Mellors must be true to each other and what they awaken in each other – a true awakening of their bodies’ sensual and sexual identities – despite the full panoply of opposition society can throw at them: gossip and rumour, social disapproval, censure from her father and sister, the howling anger of his shrewish wife, the cold anger of her husband, and the minefields of the law.

He began it at Scandicci in Italy in October 1926 and over the next two years wrote three versions. Many critics think the shorter first version is best, but it was the longest version which he chose to have privately printed in 1928.

Burgess correctly points out that for a book which supposedly champions free and ecstatic sex, ‘Chatterley’ is embarrassingly limited and ignorant. Lawrence is embarrassingly fixated on the penis, the phallus, on Mellors’s erect penis, and the sex is entirely orientated around his quick phallic penetration of Lady C. There is little or no foreplay and no attention whatsoever is given to Connie’s pleasure or orgasm. She is condemned to find all her pleasure in response to his quick thrusting cock.

As Burgess says, not just any modern westerner with an interest in the subject, but any literate member of the world’s other cultures, readers of Japanese, Chinese or India erotica, would know vastly more than Lawrence describes. Lawrence’s supposed sex set-pieces make us look like an embarrassment on the world stage. ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ only counts as a ‘sexy’ book when set against the narrow, blinkered, strangled, philistine background of early 20th century Anglo-Saxon culture. Compared with the erotic writings of virtually any other tradition, it is pitifully inadequate.

Burgess is critical of it. He thinks Connie isn’t as interesting a female figure as Ursula, Gudrun (who is?) or Kate Leslie, while her desertion of a crippled husband subverts her moral standing. Mellors is less attractive than the gamekeeper in The White Peacock. In my reading, I didn’t like Mellors. He is unnecessarily chippy and shirty with Clifford and, especially with the painter Duncan Forbes who offers to help them out and Mellors rudely dismisses. By the end I didn’t like either of the lovers. My sympathy went out to Mrs Bolton, a battling single mum from the village who comes to be Clifford’s housekeeper and manages to stay sympathetic to all three parties in the love triangle.

Both Lawrence’s US and British publishers refused to publish it. Lawrence had a full version privately printed in Italy and distributed 2,000 copies. Wikipedia describes the fate of various expurgated and pirated editions. Burgess summarises Lawrence’s own account of printing a private edition, as given in ‘A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover’.

The famous 1960 trial came about because Penguin decided to use the text as a test of the recent Obscene Publications Act 1959.

When the jury found against the prosecution i.e. that paperback publication could go ahead, Burgess and other critics like him were relieved because now they were free to discuss the book on its merits and admit the fact that it’s a flawed novel.

Official persecution continued. When he sent the manuscript of his poetry collection ‘Pansies’ to his London publisher, it was intercepted, opened, and alleged ‘obscenities’ cut.

In 1919 the Warren Gallery held an exhibition of Lawrence’s paintings. A surprising 12,000 people paid to see them. They yellow press got wind of the nudity and egged on the police to raid the gallery and confiscate 14 of the pictures. The authorities proposed to destroy the paintings and the book of the exhibition though the gallery owners rounded up some contemporary artists to defend him.

Burgess doesn’t think much of the paintings, says the paintings ascribed to Mark Rampion, the character based on Lawrence in Huxley’s novel Point Counter Point, are better.

Chapter 17. Death in Vence

Burgess dwells on the friendship between Aldous Huxley and Lawrence and he quotes a nice section from an interview given late in life where Huxley says that Lawrence was, above all, happy. Burgess thinks Huxley absorbed enough of the scientific worldview ‘to bring a new intellectual rigour to the novel’. Having just read a load of Huxley’s novels I think this is rubbish. There’s nothing intellectually rigorous about them, my abiding impression is of the endless vapouring gaseous trip about Love and Art gassed by preposterous pseudo-intellectual rentiers. And his later writings about drugs and religion dress up in scientific terminology but are basically spiritualist nonsense.

What comes over from Lawrence’s last months spent dying from tuberculosis was his own foolish denialism, and the complete wretched inadequacy of contemporary medicine. Only antibiotics can treat TB and they hadn’t been discovered/invented yet.

Testimony from various sources suggest that Frieda was worse than useless at looking after Lawrence. She couldn’t cook, turned the kitchen of the villa where he spent his last weeks into a slum. Everything had to be cleaned and tidied by Aldous and especially Maria Huxley who worshipped Lawrence like a god.

We have it on the testimony of Aldous Huxley that, a day or two before he died, Lawrence said of his wife: ‘Frieda, you have killed me.’ The best source for his final days is from the English poet Robert Nichol. He wrote:

Aldous would not repeat such a terrible saying unless he felt it to be true. And he said, ‘I like Frieda in many ways but she is incurably and incredibly stupid – the most maddening woman I think I ever came across. Nevertheless she was the only sort of woman with whom D.H.L. could live. (quoted p.196)

Burgess makes the point that if Lawrence had married little Maria Huxley, she would have been a faithful, efficient, kind wife, creating order and tidiness everywhere, as she did for Huxley – but Lawrence needed chaos. He thrived on the battle of wills, the clash between his domesticity and Frieda’s slovenliness, between his working class background and her aristocratic hauteur, between his English puritanism and her continental sensuality, on her willingness to fight back.

Mind you, these comments shed light on Frieda’s own memoirs, one of the most salient parts of which, for me, was the way she doesn’t actually comment on any of the numerous books he wrote during their 18-year marriage. I thought it was tact. Maybe she was just too stupid, and didn’t try.

He died peacefully in his sleep and was buried at Vence. A year later he was exhumed and shipped over to Taos where Fried built a shrine for him at the ranch.

Burgess calls him ‘the most English of our writers’, is that true? More English than Chaucer, Shakespeare or Dickens? He’s nearer the mark when he says:

The British expect comfort from their writers, and Lawrence offers very little. (p.197)

The tenor of the text and endings of most of his stories offer very little comfort, from the bleak endings of ‘Women in Love’ and ‘The Fox’, to the uncertain ending of ‘The Plumed Serpent’ or the hanging ending of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ – you go through these great emotional rollercoaster rides reading his stories but then, at the end… what?

Chapter 18. On The Side of Life

Burgess has a half-hearted go at speculating what might have happened if Lawrence had lived longer. Would he have come over to Huxley’s way of seeing i.e. combining all the blood and dark gods stuff with a more rational point of view? Unlikely.

Like most critics, Burgess thinks Lawrence had, in fact, done his best work. Some people think Sons and Lovers is his masterpiece; Burgess thinks it’s Women In Love. But after that it was all slowly downhill, there is a steady diminution in force, he is never so wildly radical again.

Then Burgess adds his own interpretation which is that Lawrence was a professional writer. He could sit down anywhere and bang out letters, stories, essays, poems or continue with a novel. More than most we have to take his oeuvre, across its many genres, as one thing.

Was he a prophet? Burgess acknowledges Lawrence’s writings about power, his dislike of Italian fascism, but his own flirting with power and submission in ‘Kangaroo’ and ‘The Plumed Serpent’. But he doesn’t mention what I think is stronger, which is the sense of doom which dogs Mellors in ‘Lady Chatterley’. Mellor’s conviction that a great crash was coming and the future was going to be very dark proved to be right.

Lawrence would have been dismayed to learn his name is associated in the common culture with sex, with the scandal surrounding Lady Chatterley, with the soft porn movie versions, as a prophet of soft-porn sensuality. There’s nothing soft porn about Lawrence: his writings are hard and rebarbative, they are not relaxing or lulling.

This is Burgess at his weakest. He wanders off into a lengthy consideration of Henry James and his criticism of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky as he tries to define what ‘life’ means in the context of a novel. But he’s over-thinking it. Think back to reading ‘The Rainbow’: it is the most fantastic depiction of the complexity of human existence, of being a person plonked down amid families, in settlements and cultures, in the natural and man-made worlds, and the endless fizzing popping confusing experience of being alive to all these endless inputs and experiences. Comparisons with Henry James or James Joyce or any other writers are beside the point. Lawrence was the poet laureate of the teeming richness of Life and delves so deep, drilling beneath all conventional notions of identity, taking his characters to primeval, archetypal depths. And his novels inhabit the animals they describe and bring to life the myriads of flowers quite as fully as his human characters, maybe more so.

It seems overblown when Lawrence writes about the ‘cosmos’ but surely Lawrence, more than any other writer, had the right to do so, because he deliberately moved out of all his comfort zones, left England behind, and wrote dazzling evocations of the landscapes, flora and fauna of the Mediterranean, Australia, and the American and Mexican desert. Who cares what Henry James wrote about ‘form’ or why James Joyce deployed such complex symbolical structures – you only have to read any of Lawrence’s descriptions of the Australian outback, of the silver fish in the cold Pacific, of the thunderhead clouds massing over the distant mountains in Mexico, and you realise you are in the presence of a great, great writer, who owned and described more of the world than most of his contemporaries even saw.

Burgessian vocabulary

  • allumeuse = French for ‘tease’
  • hypergamy = the action of marrying or forming a sexual relationship with a person of a superior sociological or educational background (as working class men do with upper class women, as Lawrence men do in a number of his stories: Virgin and Gypsy, Lady Chatterley)
  • prevernal = relating to the early stages of spring, or the end of winter

Credit

Flame Into Being: The Life and Work of D.H. Lawrence by Anthony Burgess was published by William Heinemann in 1985. Page references are to the 1986 Abacus paperback version.

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Ann Veronica: A Modern Love Story by H.G. Wells (1909)

‘Cooped up!’ he cried. ‘Did I stand in the way of your going to college? Have I ever prevented you going about at any reasonable hour? You’ve got a bicycle!’
(Ann Veronica’s father explaining how liberal he’s been with her, page 22)

‘Ann Veronica’ is not, alas, an out-and-out comedy like ‘Mr Polly’. It is one of Wells’s first novels of ideas, the idea in this case being The New Woman, an ‘issue’ which is explored via a number of characters and situations.

The basic premise is simple enough. Ann Veronica Stanley is 21-and-a-half, the clever daughter of an upper middle-class widower. Her four older siblings have all left home and so she lives alone with her father and his sister, Aunt Mollie (aka Miss Stanley), in Morningside Park, an outlying suburb of London, something like New Malden, on the Wimbledon railway line.

Ann has had all the advantages in life that the protagonists of the social comedies (Mr Lewisham, Kipps, Mr Polly) distinctly lacked. She did excellently at school and wanted to study at Cambridge but her father refused to let her, claiming advanced study ‘unsexed’ a woman. After a lot of arguing she got a place at Tredgold Women’s College studying Biology. Understandably, she chafes against the restrictions put on her life by her father and Aunt Mollie, who both agree that Ann is too young, naive and inexperienced to be given greater freedoms.

The narrative opens when she has been invited to a fancy dress ball and to stay overnight in a hotel in London with student friends, and her father categorically forbids her to do so.

Wells sympathetically if critically depicts the characters of this father and the even more straitlaced aunt, he still hurting from the death of his beloved wife when Ann was just thirteen, the aunt engaged to a curate who died before they married – so both of them damaged by life and aware of the pain and unhappiness it can bring, something Ann has almost no idea of. By their own lights they’re trying to protect her.

The characters could be laid out in a mind map with Ann at the centre.

Peter Stanley – ‘a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head’.

Aunt Mollie – Peter’s sister, at one stage engaged to a curate who died, so when Peter’s wife died, she came to live with him and look after the children.

Ann’s two sisters: the eldest, Alice, married a doctor, removed to Scotland, had lots of children and became a boring adult. Wells gives us an extended description of her wedding and wedding breakfast as seen through the child Ann’s eyes (having just read the wedding scene in Mr Polly made me think Wells has a thing for weddings).

The other sister, Gwen, ran off and married an actor, Mr Fortescue, such a shameful act that Father disowned her and when, in a few years, they started to receive letters asking for a reconciliation and then begging for money, refused to answer.

Attached to her father is a handful of business acquaintances of other male professional occupants of the snooty Avenue they live in and who he has nodding acquaintance with on the daily train up to London: Mr Ramage who Ann chats to on the train and finds her grown-up and intelligent, later revealed to be a sensualist and a libertine (p.58) and then a virtual rapist (pages 143 to 151); and Ogilvy who he lunches with at the Legal Club. Both echo and reinforce father’s fulminations about ‘young people today’, and listen to his (comic) hobby horse that it’s all the fault of modern novelists.

Attached to Aunt Mollie are two grand lady neighbours in the Avenue:

Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. She was the social leader of Morningside Park, and in her superficial and euphuistic way an extremely kind and pleasant woman. With her lived a Mrs Pramlay, a sister of the Morningside Park doctor, and a very active and useful member of the Committee of the Impoverished Gentlewomen’s Aid Society.

Connected to these ladies is a Mr Hubert Manning, a 35-year-old civil servant and poet who keeps buttonholing Ann at the ladies’ garden parties. Ann can see the other guests looking at them and gossiping and realises that many consider him a very eligible catch, a pressganging she resents. With his minor poet hat on, Manning also represents another type which is the sexist man who insists on placing women on a pedestal, making them goddesses who should never descend into the sordid worlds of work or politics i.e. trapping them in a gilded cage.

In another direction, Ann is good friends with the Widgett family:

Mr. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and ‘art’ brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. He occupied one of the smaller houses near the station. He had one son, who had been co-educated, and three daughters with peculiarly jolly red hair that Ann Veronica found adorable. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School…

It’s these two girls, Hetty and Constance who attend the Fadden Art School where the annual party is going to be, and who’ve invited Ann to go with them and stay overnight at the hotel with. Coming from an arty family, they hold ‘advanced’ views, i.e. are schoolgirl bohemians. They have a brother, Teddy, raised in a household of sisters and so ‘broken in to feminine society’, who nurses a puppy-like infatuation with Ann.

In an early chapter, when Ann goes round to complain about her father’s unreasonable attitude, in Hetty Widgett’s bedroom, there is also present slim, 30-year-old Miss Miniver who wears a lapel button reading VOTES FOR WOMEN and is given hard core feminist speeches which almost feel like they’ve been copied out of actual suffragette tracts:

Mrs Miniver’s beliefs

According to Miss Miniver, Women are victims of a patriarchy which runs everything and controls every aspect of their lives. The professions are all closed to women who have almost no employment opportunities (except being typists, teachers or writers) and so are trapped at home with their families, languishing until they can be married off to a suitable man. So millions of women rush rashly into marriage only to discover they have swapped prison for slavery. The only real way to get on in life is by ‘pleasing men’ who are brought up to regard women as a kind of expensive toy. ‘Women have no economic freedom because they have no political freedom.’ Hence her impassioned belief that nothing will change until women get the vote and therefore almost any crime is worth committing in order to liberate half the human race.

A final thought is that ancient society was a matriarchy, in fact going back into the animal forebears of humanity the female of the species plays the fundamental role of reproducing and males had to compete for the privilege of mating with them.

‘Among human beings, too, women to begin with were the rulers and leaders; they owned all the property, they invented all the arts. The primitive government was the Matriarchate. The Matriarchate! The Lords of Creation just ran about and did what they were told.’

Somehow, somewhere along the line, however, the female of Homo sapiens has been conned and hoodwinked into oppression…

‘Only in man is the male made the most important. And that happens through our maternity; it’s our very importance that degrades us.’

My beliefs

As you know, I’m a Darwinian materialist, unimpressed by most of humanity’s claims to superiority, astonished at fatuous conversations about ‘morality’, more impressed by our ability to enslave and kill each other and our current efforts to destroy the planet we live on.

Seen from this unsentimental perspective the truest thing Miss Miniver says is that ‘Maternity has been our undoing.’ Yes. Women are designed to bear and raise children and a certain proportion of women, throughout history, have apparently hated this plight. Men are designed to fight for territory, resources, kudos, and secure a safe habitat in which their woman or women can raise their children, and so many men have been killed in humanity’s endless wars. As far as we can tell, from all the historical records we have, this appears to have been the practice of humanity certainly since the birth of agriculture and cities, some 10,000 years ago. Miss Miniver acknowledges it without accepting that it might be the fundamental bedrock explanation for the situation she deplores and, if so, very difficult to budge. Instead she turns it into a cartoon, a theatrical stunt.

‘While we were minding the children they stole our rights and liberties. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it.’

In fact the central focus of the entire novel is yet another proof of the centrality of reproduction in human affairs: Amazing how central the ‘love story’ is to the novel and to popular entertainment generally, in our day dominating pop music, movies, TV dramas and adverts. From my heavily biological point of view, this is simply explainable because the search for a mate with whom to make a nest and raise young is the prime aim of humans’ existence as of every other animals’. It is entirely predictable that these biological drives will be the central theme of virtually our entire ‘culture’. They’re certainly the central theme of all the ‘literature’ I’ve been reading. The struggle to find a mate, and the multiple mishaps and occasional disasters it triggers, is central to the Edwardian fiction I’ve been reading, to Wells’s social novels, to all E.M. Forster and to D.H. Lawrence. The struggle for money i.e. security, is central to the Agatha Christie novel I just read. It’s hard to find a TV show or movie in which the there isn’t a male and female lead who, the audience know right from the start, are destined to ‘fall in love’ i.e. pair off and mate. All of pop music is about it. Once you think clearly about this motif you realise it’s everywhere and underpins a vast amount of our contemporary and past culture.

Which is why Mrs Miniver simply wishing it wasn’t so, or her specific belief that passing this or that law in Parliament will somehow change the fundamental constitution of the human race works in the fiction, was probably admirable at the time, but looks like a tiny wave lapping against the Antarctic ice shelf in the perspective of biology and deep history.

Miss Garvice’s beliefs

Incidentally, Miss Miniver has an opposite in the novel, a Miss Garvice, ‘a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed’. She’s one of the nine students at Imperial College who Ann meets when she returns to study there in the second half of the novel and she is against the suffragettes. She believes that ‘women lost something infinitely precious by mingling in the conflicts of life’ and:

Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life—their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. ‘Women should understand men’s affairs, perhaps,’ said Miss Garvice, ‘but to mingle in them is just to sacrifice that power of influencing they can exercise now.’ (p.155)

Regardless of this as an opinion, the real point is the care with which Wells creates characters to cover off all points of view in this novel of ideas.

The plot

As you can maybe see from this summary of the dramatis personae, Ann Veronica is less a novel than a mechanism for the bringing together of a number of points of view dressed up as characters. It is designed to bring onto the stage a series of issues, and subsidiary topics, which Wells wishes to investigate, describe or discuss.

So Ann’s argument with her father about whether she can go to a fancy dress ball escalates to her being dressed up and ready to go but them actually fighting at the front door to open it. Dad wins and sends her back to her room in a rage. There’s a comic scene where she tries to climb down the drainpipe but discovers it’s not as easy to do that as a grown woman wearing fancy dress and a big cloak as it was when she was a little girl of 6 and she’s forced to spend the night in her room fuming. (It’s the kind of small psychological detail Wells captures so well, when he has her do a little dance of rage and frustration.)

Ann runs away to London

Next day, with the help of the Widgett friends, she packs a bag, smuggles it out of the house, strolls along to the station, and runs away to London. She takes a room in a cheap hotel and writes a letter to her father explaining that she’s stifling to death and needs to start a new life.

London disillusion

However, London is not all she expects. Wells writes a tour de force passage describing one long day in London, which starts with Ann arriving at Waterloo station early in the morning and experiencing a great feeling of light and space and freedom, but as the day progresses and she trudges the streets and stumbles into dirty slums thronging with very dodgy looking people, her mood drops and then, as dusk falls, she becomes aware of the sexual menace on the streets: she realises a lot of the women she’s walked past are prostitutes but, much worse, she herself is propositioned in a furtive way, by fairly decent looking men, in Piccadilly, in Mayfair, and then she’s pursued by, in effect a stalker (pages 69 to 75).

This is a) vividly and powerfully written b) fascinating because being followed, harassed and propositioned (‘the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male’) is still a highly publicised problem for women in public places today, 115 years later…

(The lost wandering through a world of vice reminded me of Dorian’s wanderings in the East End in chapter 7 of The Picture of Dorian Gray.)

People try to persuade her to return

Eventually she makes it safe and sound back to her lodgings where, over the following days, she receives a series of deputations – her father, her aunt, her brother Roddy, Mr Manning – all, in their different ways, arguing that she should go home and place herself back under her father’s supervision, a recurring theme being the social shame and stigma she’ll bring down on the family:

‘Think of what people will say!’ That became a refrain. ‘Think of what Lady Palsworthy will say! Think of what’ – So-and-so – ‘will say! What are we to tell people?… And what will Mr. Manning think?’

But she rejects them all:

‘I don’t care what any one thinks,’ said Ann Veronica. (p.83)

She is determined to start a new life. After a climactic confrontation, her father disowns her just as he disowned her disgraced sister Gwen, and exits the drawing room in the dingy hotel where she’s staying.

Mr Manning turns up and spouts his patronising view about women being Angels and Queens who the likes of him want to serve (he has, I forgot to mention, written her a long letter proposing marriage, which Ann spent a lot of time composing a calm negative reply to). She gives this Victorian bunkum short shrift.

Satire on the Fabians and ‘advanced thought’

Ann’s feminist contact, Miss Miniver, takes her to various meetings of progressives groups and societies. First a small tea party for eccentric followers of the Fabian Society:

Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. Miss Miniver said that if once she lost her faith in Tolstoy’s sincerity, nothing she felt would really matter much any more. (p.100)

Then onto an actual grand meeting featuring the leading Fabians themselves. Now Wells was himself a prominent member of the Fabians alongside George Bernard Shaw, Sidney and Beatrice Webb and many more. He refers to the others by name but gives himself the alias of ‘Mr Wilkins’. They are portrayed as fussy, high-minded, unfocused and utterly impractical. But the same goes for all the other progressive societies Miss Miniver takes Ann to, the Dress Reform Association and the Food Reform Exhibition, the Socialists and, of course, the Suffragettes. Everywhere she goes she finds high-minded people making grand speeches about how The Great Change is just around the corner, even if they all appear to want subtly different things and no-one gives any details about how the great change is going to come about. What emerges from the confusion of high-minded rhetoric is the notion that somehow, progressive or ‘advanced’ people will change the world by setting an example which all the rest of the population will be inspired to follow because of its rectitude and purity.

This implication, not only that the world was in some stupid and even obvious way WRONG, with which indeed she was quite prepared to agree, but that it needed only a few pioneers to behave as such and be thoroughly and indiscriminately ‘advanced,’ for the new order to achieve itself.

An immense emphasis on thorough-going purity of mind and body, which explains why so many were vegetarians or even vegans, and also why, although there was a ‘free love’ wing of ‘advanced’ thought, there were also many who were more strict in their morals than the Victorians, rejecting Victorian sexual hypocrisy (i.e. men could do anything as long as respectable appearances were maintained).

The more she enters into Miss Miniver’s world, the more Ann can see how all these groups feel they are trembling on the brink of some great change and yet, the more futile she realises their efforts are.

It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. It did affect the business that they all argued badly and were egotistical in their manners and inconsistent in their phrases. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertion.

Ann ran away from her father to gain independence, agency and self respect,

but when she heard Miss Miniver discoursing on the next step in the suffrage campaign, or read of women badgering Cabinet Ministers, padlocked to railings, or getting up in a public meeting to pipe out a demand for votes and be carried out kicking and screaming, her soul revolted. She could not part with dignity. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs.

Ann takes a loan from Ramage

Meanwhile reality bites. Funds are running low and she discovers how little you get by pawning belongings. She goes to see nice Mr Ramage, who she met out walking and seemed so supportive, at his office. Ramage is solicitousness itself. His clerks smirk and nod when he escorts her past them out to lunch. We are left in no doubt that he is a predatory lecher and, behind his oily sympathy, he considers Ann a fine young woman to add to his list of conquests. Here, as elsewhere in the book, Wells tries to describe that odd aspect of female psychology which is that Ann senses she is being sized up but refuses to acknowledge or accept it. The result is she goes along with his invitations and plans and he, as a predator, knows exactly how to manage this kind of feminine self deception.

Anyway he runs down her employment prospects, which are very limited – does she want to become a typist? – and in the meantime offers a loan of £40 which, after some hesitation, she accepts. This, the reader understands, is all part of his powerplay but it suits her, too.

Ann resumes her study of biology

In contrast to the confused demands of suffragettes, vegetarians, socialists and the rest of them, is the calm cool biology rooms at the Central Imperial College where Ann resumes her study thanks to Ramage’s loan. Here every single element is subsumed to one purpose, to investigate the forms and structures of organic life. The leading figure in the place is a Mr Russell, a transparent pseudonym for Thomas Henry Huxley, who Wells studied under for a year in the 1890s. We don’t meet him just hear references.

The great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. (p.116)

Who the narrative does introduce us to is ‘Capes’, 32 or 3 years old, the fair-haired dissection demonstrator, who puts into practice the lessons of Russell’s daily lecture.

More advanced thought

Ann has been thrust into a world of ideas and movements. Among the many ideas she entertains the notion that the centre of a woman’s life is the problem of ‘love’ in a way it isn’t for men. She runs this by Miss Miniver who is disgusted and revolted, she espouses the high-minded puritanism of the movement, thinks men are disgusting beasts, thinks above all that sex is revolting disgusting filthy. That’s why she believes she and her people are ‘souls’, we are the pure, we are ‘advanced’ and ‘progressive’ precisely because they have left the sordid realities of the body behind. If she ever falls in love it will be utterly Platonic love.

‘Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. Love lives on a higher plane. We are not animals. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him’ — her voice dropped again — ‘platonically.’ She made her glasses glint. ‘Absolutely platonically,’ she said.

(It’s the glinting glasses which make this so delicious, with its associations with hardness and inflexibility, dryness and sterility and, indeed, Miss Miniver is thin and wizened, not plump and procreative (unlike Flo in Mr Polly).)

The centrality of the reproductive function is forced on Ann because of her studies in biology, and the daily lectures from Darwin disciple Russel-Huxley, which harp on the central mechanism of evolution, namelyf reproduction with variation, combined with the constant battle for resources, territory and mates.

A debate about beauty

In this context Ann is puzzled by the human sense of Beauty (the obsession of late-generation Arts and Crafts puritans like Miss Miniver). This highlights a central problem with the worldview of the ‘advanced’ thinkers portrayed in novels like this, which is its lack of thought: surely a sense of Beauty can be explained in hundreds of ways and in no sense contradicts evolutionary materialism.

1) Breeding Beauty in people is obviously based on the fundamentals of breeding and fitness: Beauty is obviously culturally determined but some things seem common, in people we look for height and symmetry, not fat, old or wrinkled, a certain smooth sheen – these are obviously all based on good breeding criteria.

2) Beauty products now, in 2024, more than ever before, emphasise people’s, generally women’s, secondary sexual characteristics, high heels to create a sense of long legs and push out the buttocks (fertility), lipstick and eyeliner (to mimic sexual arousal i.e. slightly swollen lips and enlarged pupils). Our liberated times have seen a steady increase in the amount of cosmetic surgery people of both sexes are prepared to pay for.

3) The beautiful game I’ve heard plenty of sports fans talk about a ‘beautiful’ goal, a ‘beautiful’ tackle, a ‘beautiful’ game and so on, obviously in a way which isn’t directly about art and aesthetics but an appreciation of grace and proficiency and accomplishment, and anyone can see the Darwinian reasoning behind us punters being attracted towards the tallest, most handsome, most agile or skilful members of the tribe. Towards winners in every sphere.

4) Art Only a small proportion of the population spend their time discussing beauty in the sense of art and aesthetics. In 1910 I wonder if you could quantify the percentage, 10%, 5%, 1%? of the population. Certainly all the characters in E.M. Forster’s novels, which I’ve just finished reading, but how many others? I think it’s safe to say they’re not subjects which interest most people.

5) Class It’s a class thing. For most of human history art has been associated with the ruling class and great wealth. Poorer people may have made and crafted beautiful things for themselves but in the galleries and museums of the world, most of the objects were created for the rich and for rich connoisseurs, for emperors and monarchs and their courtiers. Appreciation of, let alone possession of, works of art has only percolated down to the new middle classes in, when would you say, during the nineteenth century with its newly rich industrialists? So that by the later century colonies of artists living bohemian lives could be set up and copied across (northern) Europe, groups like the pre-Raphaelites could make more affordable art for each other, and by the 1900s a group like the Bloomsburies could make and promote each other’s relatively affordable art.

But my point is snobbery. Art has always been connected with snobbery. Rich people have known they ought to appreciate art even when they have no real feel for it and art appreciation has always mixed genuine understanding with raw aristocratic aloofness. Art has always been a way for people to show off and assert their wealth or, by extension their intellectual or spiritual ‘wealth’. Witness the competitive art snobbery skewered in novels like ‘A Room with A View’ or ‘Those Barren Leaves’, or the Biggleswick section of John Buchan’s novel Mr Standfast.

In a snobbish society like England, in a society where people still quietly show off their actual wealth, or their lovely homes or second homes, their Range Rover Discoveries, their lovely little place in the country – discussing art is just another way of showing off your class, your aboveness, your specialness..

6) Art for failures. Then we descend to the social status of people like Miss Miniver and the social ‘failures’ who throng meetings of the Fabians and vegetarian societies, who’ve failed in the various obvious markers of social success (money, breeding, good family, big houses etc) but salvage their self respect with the delusory thought that they are:

a) more ‘advanced’ in their thinking about society, and thus helping to bring about the New World
b) have failed in conventional terms because they have devoted themselves to Art and the finer things in life

Thus endless, witless talk about Art and Beauty can be entirely empty of content but serve the main purpose of making the talkers feel better and giving them a spurious sense of superiority in a relentlessly competitive acquisitive society. (Compare and contrast Mrs Miniver with the character Aunt Juley in E.M. Forster’s Howards End, who is a leading figure in the Art and Literature societies of Swanage.)

Off the top of my head, those are just six ways the notion of ‘Beauty’ can be reconciled with an entirely Darwinian, materialist, sociological view of human beings and (western) society.

Ann falls in love with Capes

Anyway, thoughts of biology, burgeoning thoughts of love, exploring new ideas new freedoms, all these new sensations (unfortunately) become tangled up in Ann realising that she is falling in love with Capes the demonstrator in the lab. He is older and taller than her (tick), experienced and knowledgeable (tick), a deft demonstrator and patient explainer (tick), a good writer in the articles he’s published (tick), an all-round firm, fit love-object for a young, inexperienced, rather scared and insolvent women like Ann.

It’s disappointing. I was hoping Ann’s rebellion against the patriarchy, her exposure to all kinds of movements for social change, these would lead up to something interesting. Instead…she falls in love with an older man.

Back to discussions of ‘Beauty’ because Wells has Ann directly associate ‘beauty’ with sexual desirability which is, in my view, based on the primal need to mate.

She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. The perception of him flooded her being. (p.130)

There now follow pages of her worries and anxieties and thoughts and lying awake at night while various bits of her mind try to reconcile themselves to the extremely situation which is that she wants Cape to make her his mate. Obviously she doesn’t put it like that because people don’t, people conceal the facts, the blunt facts of life behind thousands of years of guff about ‘love’.

The realization that she was in love flooded Ann Veronica’s mind, and altered the quality of all its topics…

We’re half way through the novel and we now enter the fuzzy world of love thought. It’s a moot point how much of this has ever been believed by any woman or is male projection or is Wells’s idea of what a young woman thinks.

She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. He would require things of her, and she would be passionately concerned to meet his requirements.

Ramage assaults Ann

But then Ramage takes her out for an expensive dinner and on to the opera. Is it a form of sexism or misogyny or projection, or is it a plausible bit of novel writing, that Wells portrays Ann as being in radical denial of her relationship with Ramage, brushing under the carpet and repressing and ignoring every hint of a suggestion that he is seducing her and softening her up to become his mistress. She is depicted as knowing it but refusing to know it. Anyway the reader knows it so Wells is peering over the head of his characters and winking at us.

Ramage takes Ann to dinner with champagne and then onto the opera which is Tristan and Isolde, one of the great love operas, and when she comes back to her senses from being whirled away by the music, she discovers Ramage has his hand round her waist. All through dinner they discussed love and Ann thought she was having an abstract discussion and was also trying to conceal her love for Capes. She didn’t realise Ramage was making an increasingly obvious play for her.

When he finally bursts out that he loves her, worships the ground she walks on, will do anything for her, needs her, wants her etc etc, and she tries to tug her hand away and says in an urgent whisper, ‘Not here, not now, please stop talking like this’, I felt embarrassed, for them, for Wells, for the millions of men and women who have acted out the same pathetic scene, and for myself for reading this tripe. How many novels have been written about ‘love’, God help us.

The only flicker of interest is that Wells shows us just as much of Ramage, and his dialogue, to grasp what kind of man he is, but mostly the interior of Ann’s head with its immense capacity for repression (of what men are like) and self-deception (about what Ramage wants) and refuge in the threadbare phrases of the reluctant woman in this situation (‘Please. No. Not here’ etc).

Despite all this, the very next night when he begs to see her, Ann foolishly agrees. Ramage takes her to a secluded restaurant where he’s arranged a private room, with a sofa, and after dinner chatting about Wagner, closes and locks the door. It is obviously a seduction in the French manner but Ann, all unwary, doesn’t realise it, at least she doesn’t acknowledge to herself what might be happening. At least Wells tells us she isn’t acknowledging it.

At least when Ramage makes his move, grabs her and starts kissing her, Ann has had the benefit of a good education, including hockey and (Wells must have chuckled) ju-jitsu, so that she is able to punch Ramage very hard under the chin and he lets her go and staggers back. Good for her! Creepy old geezer.

Ramage’s theory of male entitlement

Ramage staggers back, they both regroup, and then he makes his position unmistakably clear. He regards the £40 he gave her not as a loan between friends but a payment upon which she became his mistress.

‘You’re mine. I’ve paid for you and helped you, and I’m going to conquer you somehow—if I have to break you to do it.’ (p.148)

When he took her for expensive meals, to the opera and then to a private room in a hotel, did she not realise these are the accepted and conventional steps towards her becoming his mistress? Of course, Ann doesn’t, because nobody has told her about this. Endless books and poems and vapid discussions of ‘Beauty’ and ‘Love’ – not one word from anyone in her life about how to handle a middle-aged man who wants to make her his mistress.

After more in the same vein, Ramage finally unlocks the door and lets her leave, and she staggers back to her lodgings, stunned. Wells is novelist enough to give Ann mixed and confused feelings about all this. She is a clever, curious if naive young woman with a scientific bent and so at first she is interested in what has taken place, it stirs up not only feelings but thoughts. Only as the evening wears on does she have an emotional reaction and start to feel disgusted and defiled, furiously trying to wipe away the feel of Ramage’s lips on hers. Nobody has ever kissed her on the lips before.

Ann’s rage against a man’s world

And she processes this into sweeping realisations about the position of women in a man’s world:

Ramage made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. (p.150)

And:

For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world — the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labour for even a foothold in the world. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. And here she was — in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. (p.153)

Ann sends Ramage’s money back

Anne goes to the post office and discovers she’s spent nearly £20 of the £40 loan. She scrapes together all the cash she can and posts it to Ramage with a promise to repay the rest. A day or so later she receives a letter back and she barely even reads the first sentence from Ramage before, in disgust, throwing it into the fire. Unfortunately it contains the £20 and before she can get it out again, the money has been burned. Well, that was stupid.

Married

From one of her fellow students at the college she receives the devastating news that Capes is married. Separated now but not actually divorced. This staggers her plans for love. (p.158)

Joining the suffragettes

The more she thinks about it the more infuriated Ann is at being trapped and cabined in a man’s world (‘savage wrath’). Also she needs a job. So she plucks up the courage to visit the suffragettes recruiting office, where she asks the usual starter questions and is shown the usual replies. Her main one is that women are economically subservient to and dependent on men, how will getting the vote change that. It’ll be a decisive start, is the reply (p.165).

There was something holding women down, holding women back, and if it wasn’t exactly man-made law, man-made law was an aspect of it.

The woman interviewing her, Miss Brett, is given quite an effective speech:

‘Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask me to tell you all that women can do, all that women can be. There is a new life, different from the old life of dependence, possible. If only we are not divided. If only we work together. This is the one movement that brings women of different classes together for a common purpose. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity….’

The attack on Westminster

She is recruited into a squad which is sent that evening to be smuggled into Old Palace Yard from where they are to make a dash into the Palace of Westminster and try to make it through to the chamber of the House of Commons, yelling Votes for Women all the way. She is quickly intercepted, as are her comrades, by burly policemen who initially try to shoo her away but when she persists, and repeatedly strikes a copper, an inspector on horseback says she’ll have to be arrested.

According to Sylvia Hardy’s notes in the 1993 Everyman paperback edition I read, this attack on the Palace of Westminster was closely modelled on an attack carried out by the Women’s Suffrage and Political Union (WSPU) on 11 February 1908.

Ann in prison (for one month)

Wells describes the process of being held pending trial, then hustled in front of an exasperated judge who delivers the same speech as he’s given the other women before giving her a choice between being bound over to keep the peace for £40 or going to prison for a month. Since she doesn’t have any money she doesn’t have much choice.

She had vague visions of prisons as sterile houses of reform. This one is filthy. Her clothes are taken away, she’s washed in dirty water then made to put on dirty clothes reeking of their previous owner. Prison wears her down. The other inmates are scary, the food is dire, there is no privacy.

She tries to pray but knows she doesn’t have a religious bone in her body. She fantasises about Capes. She begins to repent. It dawns on her that all her behaviour has been privileged and self centred. She has made her father, aunt, brother, Teddy, Mr Manning, and Ramage unhappy and her, is she any happier? Has she discovered freedom?

She writes a letter to father asking to be forbidden and allowed to come home.

Ann returns home

Daddy relents. Aunt Mollie meets her as she leaves Canongate prison (though there is farcical comedy as both get caught up in other suffragettes being released and find themselves being hustled along to a vegetarian restaurant to take part in celebrations. It is 6 months since she ran away, 5 + 1 in prison.

The welcome home interview with her father is very frosty. She apologises. She admits to having debts but can only bring herself to mention £15 and says she borrowed from the Widgetts – telling the truth about Ramage would lead to terrible revelations.

Father even lets her resume her studies at Imperial, so no conflict there. If that had been chosen as the battleground, it would have been a bigger, more serious novel. As it was, making the trigger for her running away attendance at a fancy dress party a) makes it seem trivial and b) easy for all sides to forgive and forget.

Back at the lab

She returns to the college to find herself a heroine. Miss Klegg embraces her and shares her own determination to go to prison soon. (There’s a hint, I think, that Miss Klegg is a lesbian with a pash for Ann, p.196). Even the sceptical Miss Garvice is swayed. But most important of all is lovely Mr Capes who apologises for mocking her beliefs slightly at the last afternoon tea they all had before she went off. Everything is settled everything is happy – except she still owes Ramage and has no way of paying.

Ann gets engaged to Manning

Inexplicably – she gets engaged to her tall, mild, well-meaning fan Mr Manning. This is because, in a twisted way, she knows she loves Capes and wants to remain friends with him. When she shows Capes her engagement ring he is understandably thunderstruck.

This seems like a ludicrous development, conjured up solely to keep the plot going for another 60 pages. It doesn’t seem very like Ann though admittedly she has a wilful side. In fact what it reminds me of is of Mr Polly making his panic-stricken choice of the Larkins sisters to marry in The History of Mr Polly, the exact same sense of the character looking over the brink and diving in anyway.

Anyway, after a few pages of Mr Manning being wonderfully charming and chivalrous and promising to dedicate his life to her happiness and so on she realises he’s not listening to a word she says and she’s just a mannequin for him to hang his fine sentiments on and so she nerves herself, after a few weeks, to tell him flat, over strawberries and cream, that not only does she not love him, but that she loves another.

Manning takes this like he takes everything else about her with dramatic chivalrous sentiments, and refuses to stop adoring her, but in Ann’s mind it’s over. It’s not mentioned that she gave him his engagement ring back, presumably.

Ann declares to Capes

Having rolled back on her huge blunder of accepting Manning, Ann now has to negotiate declaring her feelings for Capes. This is more complicated and frustrating than you or I would imagine because of the Edwardian sensibilities around his marriage. After much stumbling she manages to spit it out one day in the lab and then they go for a long walk (he walks her to Waterloo station) to discuss.

Capes’s sexless marriage and affair

Capes tells Ann the story of his marriage which is that the beautiful wife he married young was (I think he’s saying) sexually reluctant or frigid, so that he had to discipline himself to a life of abnegation. Which explains why he fell in love with the wife of a good friend, who reciprocated his (sexual) passion. Here’s the passage in full so you can see how heavily it is censored and blunted, the characters themselves unable to be explicit. It’s a fascinating indication of how even two people in love, trying to be absolutely honest with each other, could not (apparently) bring themselves to be completely clear and explicit on these matters. (Or, is it an indication of the censorship applying to novels, and so an indication of the crippling constrictions placed on fiction?)

‘I married pretty young,’ said Capes. ‘I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of—never. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. I loved her and made love to her, and I don’t think she quite loved me back in the same way.’
He paused for a time. Ann Veronica said nothing.
‘These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. She despises me, I suppose…. We married, and for a time we were happy. She was fine and tender. I worshipped her and subdued myself.’
He left off abruptly. ‘Do you understand what I am talking about? It’s no good if you don’t.’
‘I think so,’ said Ann Veronica, and coloured. ‘In fact, yes, I do.’
‘Do you think of these things—these matters—as belonging to our Higher Nature or our Lower?’
‘I don’t deal in Higher Things, I tell you,’ said Ann Veronica, ‘or Lower, for the matter of that. I don’t classify.’ She hesitated. ‘Flesh and flowers are all alike to me.’
‘That’s the comfort of you. Well, after a time there came a fever in my blood. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. It wasn’t. Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself…. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. Like stealing. We dressed it in a little music…. I want you to understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways. I was mean to him…. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. We were two people with a craving. We felt like thieves. We WERE thieves…’ (p.218)

It was this inability of fiction and its characters to spit it out, to say what they meant, that it’s my understanding that D.H. Lawrence set out to address, in the process breaking the obscenity laws and eventually going into exile from a country so determined to censor the simple facts of sex and desire.

Back to the plot: they were found out and his wife demanded a separation but refused (as punishment?) to divorce him.

This explains why, although Wells shows us at least one scene which makes it perfectly clear that Capes is himself very much in love with Ann, he has, in the laboratory, been deliberately cool and standoffish toward her – because he knows that if she gets involved with him it will be difficult. So his coolness stems from chivalry and consideration for her. And this goes so far that he is cross with her for telling him she loves him. If she hadn’t, they could have gone on being good friends indefinitely. But now they have to do something about it.

He wants her to be quite clear that they won’t be allowed to be lovers in their society, in London. She can’t become the mistress of a married man. They’ll have to go away. He’ll have to chuck his job at the laboratory. She’ll have to pack in her studies. They’ll be poor. To which Ann says:

‘I want you. I want you to be my lover. I want to give myself to you. I want to be whatever I can to you.’ (p.220)

Again and again she reiterates that she places herself entirely in his hands. A week later he comes to her in the laboratory and says Now, Let’s go now, Let’s run away together. I’ve always fancies myself as a writer. I’ll chuck being a lab demonstrator and you’ll chuck being a student and we’ll run away together.’

They plan it for the end of that session or term. There’s lots of detail but the long and short of it is that they elope to Switzerland and spend the last 20 pages of the book climbing amid the beautiful scenery, telling each other how wonderful they are.

It’s a bitter disappointment that this book about a headstrong young woman who is continually infuriated at the man’s world which traps and limits her, in the end finds fulfilment in ‘a woman’s crowning experience’ of running off with the man of her dreams:

  • on a cultural level, falling back on the terrible tired old trap of defining herself by her relationship with a man
  • in their speech, falling back on terrible clichés about love beauty
  • on the biological level which I’m interested in, relapsing into being just another female animal finding its mate, looking up into his masterful face with lovelorn eyes, and talking about all the children she’s going to have (p.247)

What a letdown.

Capes delivers a manifesto on human nature, morality etc

Wells’s normal publisher turned the book down citing its immorality and it was damned by contemporary reviewers for the same reason. This was not only because of the immorality of the ending (young girl runs off with married man) but because the last 20 pages or so consist of them pondering and discussing their actions. And the point is that although they know what they’re doing is ‘wrong’, by the lights of social convention and morality and decency etc etc, nonetheless Capes, in particular, sets out to undermine all those conventions in a piece of sustained philosophising. It turns into a collection of anti-conventional or anti-social arguments:

– He claims there is an ‘instinct of rebellion’ which makes young people rebel against their parents – also thought of as a ‘home-leaving instinct’

– He doesn’t believe there’s a strong natural affection between parents and children; on the contrary, there is a ‘child -expelling instinct’, and he goes full throttle:

‘There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience which hold families together after adolescence. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. Always! I don’t believe there is any strong natural affection at all between parents and growing-up children. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. I didn’t allow myself to see things as they were in those days; now I do. I bored him. I hated him…There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal—and they’re no good. No good at all. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing.’

Capes continues, hoping for a time when the world faces the facts of human behaviour and doesn’t repress it, when the young won’t need to rebel ‘against customs and laws’, when both young and old generation are honest about their feelings, face the facts and so liberate themselves.

– And then he has a go at God and the notion of a supervising power or destiny:

It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. There isn’t… It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves. (p.238)

– And then proceeds to give a biological or scientific justification for people doing as they please:

‘Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. Every human being is a new thing, exists to do new things. Find the thing you want to do most intensely, make sure that’s it, and do it with all your might. If you live, well and good; if you die, well and good. Your purpose is done…’

No God. No morality. No family love. Instead, children in eternal rebellion against their parents. Individuals rebelling against society. People acting on impulse just as it pleases them. Anarchy!

– That’s not all. Capes goes on to speculate that human life is made up of two opposing elements, morality and adventure. Morality tells you what is right but it’s the spirit of adventure which moves people to action. Society requires morality but the individual longs for adventure. It’s a permanent opposition. Morality only makes sense insofar as it has to restrain people who want the opposite. Which leads him to a stylish paradox which would also have enraged Edwardian moralists:

‘There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.’

Reaction

Forget any problems with the ‘free love’ plot. Surely it was this manifesto against all their social conventions which offended the central pieties of Victorian and Edwardian morality.

Now I realise why Wells gave Ann’s father, Mr Peters, several opinions. He is made to virulently dislike the Russell character (based, as I mentioned, on T.H. Huxley) for his impious atheistical beliefs and here, in Cape’s manifesto, you can easily see why. Capes attacks absolutely everything Ann’s father believes in and stands for.

Secondly, and more humorously, Wells gives Mr Peters an obsessive dislike of modern novels, modern novels precisely like this one, full of subversive opinions and rebellious characters. So the narrative internalised its critics by attributing to one of its characters the criticisms Well knew they’d make of it.

Mr Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by ‘vicious, corrupting stuff’ that ‘left a bad taste in the mouth.’ (p.253)

But Wells couldn’t control his real-life critics and they uniformly castigated the book for its ‘immorality’.

Thoughts

I found it hard to read, probably out of boredom. It is a half-good novel on its chosen subject. Leaving to one side the imponderable question of whether Ann is or isn’t a believable portrait of a young Edwardian woman (how on earth would you judge or assess this?) it presents some very powerful spoken arguments against the terrible confinement and cramping of women during this period and dramatises these with enjoyable craft (I mean novelist’s skill) in the characters of the various men, from her controlling father to the weedy suitor Teddy, the outrageous semi-rapist Ramage who regards women as sex toys to the equally as controlling Tennysonian poet Manning who refuses to let a woman be anything but a mannequin on a pedestal.

But oh the falling-off of the ending. If he’d had the courage of his convictions, Wells would have had Ann say, ‘Blast all men’, realise her lesbian side and become an unapologetic devotee of not only suffagettism but other, maybe more important, women’s causes (changing women’s economic and legal positions etc).

Instead, he makes his heroine melt into ‘the strong embracing arms’ of her hero (p.226), ‘Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire’ (p.233) like the feeblest Victorian heroine. More than that, Wells paints her as becoming extremely, exaggeratedly submissive, with strong overtones of BDSM:

One of the things that most surprised him in her was her capacity for blind obedience. She loved to be told to do things… ‘I say,’ she reflected, ‘you are rather the master, you know.’ (p.242)

This feels completely out of kilter with everything we’ve learned about Ann in the preceding 240 pages and, what’s more, seems unpleasantly redolent of the master-servant flavour which Wells – according to his many lovers and biographers – deployed in his many real-life philandering relationships.

Lastly, the climax of the book is devoted to a collection of contemporary blasphemies and defiant beliefs, but they are all attributed to the male protagonist while Ann just sits and looks at her hero with lovestruck eyes.

What a dismal failure to carry through on the book’s initial premise and purpose.


Credit

Ann Veronica by H.G. Wells was published in 1909. References are to the 1993 Everyman paperback edition.

Related links

H.G. Wells reviews

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley (2004)

Executive summary

Half-way through this hefty 600-page popular history, author Roy Hattersley gives a handy little summary of the era under discussion. Most historians agree that:

  • ‘the Edwardian period’ stretches from the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 to the outbreak of the First World War in 1914
  • it was named and typified by its obese jolly king, a sociable hunting, shooting and cigar-smoking man known for his numerous affairs and mistresses, ‘Edward the Caresser’ as Henry James nicknamed him
  • its dominant political figures were:
    • Arthur Balfour (Conservative Prime Minister 1902 to 1905)
    • Herbert Asquith (Liberal Prime Minister 1908 to 1916)
    • young radical firebrand David Lloyd George (driving force behind the People’s Budget, the Parliament Act and the National Insurance Act which laid the foundations for the welfare state)
    • Winston Churchill was on his way up
    • while Joe Chamberlain, associated with jingoism, the Boer War and protectionism (‘imperial preference’), was on the way out
  • it was a decade troubled by explosive social issues such as women’s suffrage, Irish independence, trade union rights and the arrival of the Labour Party as a political force, destined to supersede the Liberals after the war
  • society was transformed by scientific and technological inventions, on the theoretical level the discover of atomic and subatomic particles and Einstein’s theory of relativity, on the technology level, the rise of the motor car, the telephone and wireless, and the first manned airplane flights

There you have it, in a snapshot.

Dating the Edwardian era

Strictly speaking the Edwardian period refers to the reign of King Edward VII, king from the day his mother, Queen Victoria, died (22 January 1901) to the day he passed away (6 May 1910) to be replaced by his son, King George V (reigned 6 May 1910 to 20 January 1936).

However, like pretty much all historians of the period Hattersley stretches the definition of ‘Edwardian’ forwards to include the four years leading up to the Great War (commenced August 1914). And also, because he feels obliged to explain the origins and course of the Boer War (11 October 1899 to 31 May 1902), which was still ongoing when Edward came to the throne and which requires a description of the Jameson Raid (December 1895), Hattersley at various points goes back before his theoretical starting date to explain the deeper origins of this or that issue.

In other words, the dating is quite fluid, not only when it comes to politics but to social history as well, Hattersley reaching, in his chapter on poverty, back to the many reports on the subject published during the 1890s (for example, Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of the People of London 1889 to 1903); or going back to early roots of the suffragette movement which can said to have started in the 1880s; or of the Labour movement, which can be dated all the way back to Henry Hyndman founding Britain’s first left-wing political party, the Democratic Federation, in 1881; or, regarding the Irish Question, having to dig back into the 1880s to describe the secession of the Liberal Unionists who disagreed with Gladstone’s ill-fated policy of Home Rule for Ireland. And so on.

Subverting a straw man

On the cover, on the back, in the blurb and repeatedly within the text, Hattersley and his publishers say this book tackles and refutes the notion that Edwardian England was one long summer of boaters, bathers and village pubs, attacking the notion that the period ‘is often seen as a golden sunlit afternoon, personified by its genial and self-indulgent king’, before the Armageddon of the First World War.

The trouble is that this is what absolutely every book about the Edwardian era claims to do, using the same straw man to assert its novelty and originality. In fact not just histories but anyone who’s read the introduction to novels by H.G. Wells or Arnold Bennett or E.M. Foster reads the same ‘golden summer’ straw man being knocked down in the same way as the author sets out to correct our misconceptions to tell us that the period 1901 to 1914 was in fact crammed with scientific, technological and consumer product innovations and packed with fraught social and political issues, some of which I’ve listed above. It’s the standard trope invoked by all historians of the period.

The book announces its tone of superior gossip with a gorgeous description of Queen Victoria’s funeral (Saturday, 2 February 1901) and then a gossipy portrait of King Edward, his biography, personality and the courtiers and advisers who surrounded him. Initially, I thought maybe the whole thing was going to be a gossipy survey of Edwardian people. It was only on reading further that I realised that each of the 20 chapters, despite their vague and sometimes misleading titles (I’ve added clearer indications of their subject matter in brackets), is devoted to a specific social and political issue and examines each one in some detail.

It’s a romp, it’s a guilty pleasure, it’s good popular history packed to the gills with fascinating factoids – but still, coming to this book from the works of professional historians like Richard Shannon or Eric Hobsbawm is like falling off a cliff in terms of intellectual substance, historical authority and serious analysis.

1. A Cloud Across The Sun (Victoria’s funeral)

Detailed description of the immense and impressive procession of the body of Queen Victoria through London en route to her final resting place in Windsor. The total number of soldiers involved in taking part in or policing the procession was larger than the British Expeditionary Force sent to France at the start of the Great War. Most people were stunned for nobody knew any other monarch than Victoria who had reigned for 63 years. Generations had been brought up to associate the very word ‘Victorian’ with Britain’s world leading position. Her death triggered much soul searching. Educated commentators were uneasily aware that Britain was slipping. America and Germany were overtaking her in terms of industrial output (p.67, 467) and Germany’s Navy Law of 1898 set it on a course to match or exceed the Royal Navy’s firepower (p.15). Imperial anxiety as the old era ended.

2. The Spirit of the Age (Edward’s character)

Edward was 60 when he came to the throne and was (surprisingly) badly prepared for the job. Successive prime ministers (Gladstone, Disraeli) tried to suggest useful jobs and opinions where he could get a feel for the nation he was set to rule but either Victoria or the Prince himself vetoed them.

He had a state income of £100,000. The whole country knew about Edward’s louche reputation. He had been named in a number of scandalous court cases and was well known to enjoy gambling, the horses, yachting and the high life. He was addicted to baccarat. The serious and high-minded (the kind of people who leave written texts such as sermons, newspaper articles, writers’ diaries etc) deplored his character and worried about the moral falling off which his rule would bring. The Marlborough House set.

But the thing about the written records is they tend to preserve the opinions of the worthy, high-minded, literate and concerned and ignore or neglect the opinions of the vast mass of the population who left few if any records. And in this respect, I think a key thing to grasp about the English is that they welcomed Charles II with open arms, and that well-known womaniser, gambler, horse and yacht-racing addict has gone down as arguably the most popular British king ever. So, away from the hand-wringing editorials, there might have been a great portion of the fun-loving proletariat who admired a merry monarch. (Compare and contrast the ongoing popularity of Boris Johnson – inexplicable to liberals and worthy Tories – an adulterer, drinker and shambling liar, but still admired by many for being a bloke you could go down the pub and have a laugh with).

And indeed Hattersley goes on to say that Edward’s much higher profile than his reclusive mother – photos in the press and reports of him opening Parliament or at racing meetings or holidaying in the South of France – associated him with the new taste for leisure and relaxation. Edward epitomised a new age of leisure.

Edward was very fat due to overeating. His chest and waist measured 48 inches. Hattersley gives mind boggling details of a typical royal meal, which usually had at least 14 courses. His coronation had to be postponed to a sudden flaring up of appendicitis and the consequent operation and was eventually held on 9 August 1902.

Edward hated to be alone and was an insatiable socialiser. He was liable to descend on the grand country houses of the aristocracy with little warning, an event which entailed huge disruption. After a string of extra-marital liaisons in 1892 he met Alice Keppel, the daughter of an admiral, and she became his official mistress for the rest of his life.

He was a menace in foreign affairs, acting tactlessly with the touchy Kaiser, but was personally involved in the great diplomatic triumph of his reign, the Entente Cordiale with France, which he did a lot to cement by a personal visit to Paris during which he undertook a lot of engagements with great enthusiasm and was eventually cheered by the French crowds.

Edward revived the state opening of Parliament in all its meretricious pomp and hollow ceremonial, which had been allowed to lapse by his reclusive mother, and which continues to this day, televised to the simpering tones of royal commentators.

3. The Powers Behind the Throne (Edward’s advisers)

When Edward came to the throne Britain was an imperial oligarchy, ruled by groups of aristocratic or mercantile families. Hattersley gives an entertaining tour of the political class, starting with the lingering influence of the Liberal ‘Grand Old Man’ Gladstone who had died in 1898, and the Conservative Lord Salisbury, Prime Minister when Edward acceded, who resigned a year later in July 1902, to be succeeded by his nephew, Arthur Balfour.

The Edwardian Prime Ministers

  • Lord Salisbury (Conservative) 1895 to 1902
  • Arthur James Balfour (Conservative) 1902 to 1905
  • Henry Campbell-Bannerman (Liberal) 1905 to 1908
  • Herbert Henry Asquith (Liberal) 1908 to 1916

(See section on ‘Politicians’, below.) This fusty world of faineant plutocrats was to be shaken up by the two firebrands, Winston Churchill and David Lloyd George.

The chapter morphs into a consideration of Edward’s closest personal advisers, being: Arthur Hardinge, Francis Knollys, Reginald Brett, military adviser Admiral Fisher.

4. The Condition of England

Named after the bestselling analysis of British society published in 1909 by Liberal politician and cabinet minister Charles Masterman.

Masterman copied the method of Matthew Arnold’s Victorian tract, ‘Culture and Anarchy’, by assigning the classes and groups of people in Edwardian England new generic names:

  • the Conquerors (the old aristocracy)
  • the Suburbans (the middle middle-class)
  • the Multitude (the masses)

In the event Hattersley doesn’t dwell on Masterman’s analysis but uses it as a jumping off point for statistics about Britain’s economic decline, her stalling industrial growth, the shrinking of productive agriculture, the reliance on the informal economics of empire. He then goes on to summarise a bevy of reports and surveys which came out during the decade giving hard evidence of the dire poverty of about half the population, especially agricultural workers (‘Social surveys proliferated in Edwardian Britain’, p.74).

Lots of detail about the pay and wages of workers in different sectors, in different parts of the country with special attention to women.

5. Unfinished Business (the Boer War)

Hattersley’s account of the Boer War, with as much or more about its impact on domestic politics i.e. its fractious impact on an already split Liberal Party (because some Liberals were imperialists and some were anti-imperial Radicals). Milner’s miscalculation in thinking the Boers could be intimidated into submitting to Britain. The reasonableness of Paul Kruger’s position in not wanting his small culturally homogeneous country swamped by outsiders who, if given the vote, would support Britain’s policies. The chaotic conduct of the war. The concentration camp policy: in the 13 months between January 1901 and February 1902, to Britain’s eternal shame, 20,000 internees died, mostly women and children. Lloyd George was a rare voice fiercely denouncing the war, while the imperialist Liberals set up something called the Liberal Imperial Council.

6. A Preference for Empire (the tariff campaign)

‘Victory’ in the Boer War cost the British Exchequer some £222 million. This money had to be recouped. Of all UK politicians Joseph Chamberlain was most associated with the war, ‘Joe’s War’. Massively popular after the victory, he now launched a campaign for imperial protectionism i.e. to create a free trade zone between Britain and the white dominions (Canada, Australia, New Zealand, post-Boer War South Africa) and impose tariffs on imports from all other countries.

Hattersley gives his interpretation of the wild enthusiasm which greeted Joe’s campaign: it was widely seen as a cure for what an increasing number of people were realising was Britain’s industrial eclipse.

Manufacture was in decline. The Industrial Revolution had, in reality, ended more than half a century earlier. The consequences of failure to innovate and invest were just working their way through into the economy. Declining industries longed to be protected by a tariff. (p.109)

In 1903 Chamberlain made a big speech for ‘imperial preference’ which was seen as a proclamation that ‘the British Empire must stand together against the world’ (p.109). The government of the day was Conservative, led by Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, but it only had a majority because of its coalition with the Liberal Unionist defectors from the Liberal party. Now the core principle of old school liberalism was the free trade which had made Britain great in the mid-Victorian period.

In fact Hattersley neglects the detail and implications of protectionism to focus on giving an intricate and quite confusing account of the problems Balfour faced keeping his cabinet and his government together, which boiled down to the timing and way of announcing the resignation of various dissidents. Chamberlain resigned because protectionism wasn’t being implemented fast enough but Tory free traders also resigned in opposition to the policy and detestation of the former Liberal Chamberlain’s influence. Balfour dealt with the ongoing crisis with silky subtlety from 1902 to 1905 and then resigned government at the end of 1905. A general election was held in January 1906 and the Liberals stormed home in a landslide. The Liberals were, in fact, deeply divided over various issues, centrally the question of Irish Home Rule, but managed to unite around their anti-protectionism and ran a campaign highlighting the fact that tariffs would raise the cost of food.

Hattersley skimps on this, a key fact brought out in other accounts I’ve read. Instead he is obsessed with the minutiae of what Balfour promised the Duke of Devonshire who upset a trio of colleagues by not resigning alongside them, with details of meetings and dinners and promises and pledges among the Tory elite. No doubt that’s how politics actually works, but this aspect of Hattersley’s account is for politics addicts.

7. Uniting the Nation (social reforms)

Having painted in the background, this is the chapter in which Hattersley gets round to explaining the changes which he’s been claiming were so central to the Edwardian decade. At their core is one thing, a revolution in the political culture of the nation. Victoria’s entire reign was dominated by a laisser-faire philosophy of free trade and unfettered competition and the devil take the hindmost. Classical liberalism thought the state ought to be small and had just two duties, to uphold the law at home and protect from foreign enemies. When it came to the vast majority of the British population which were either poor or very poor or utterly destitute, the almost universal assumption was that their poverty was their own responsibility. Victorian moralists blamed the plight of the poor on their own indigence, immorality, laziness and so on. The only recourse for the poor and unemployed was the workhouse which, since the Poor Law of 1832, was purposely designed to be as inhumane as possible in order to act as a deterrent, and a spur to the indigent poor to try harder.

During the Edwardian decade this political philosophy underwent a swift and amazing revolution. A series of reports by charities and investigators during the 1890s revealed depths of poverty and squalor in all Britain’s cities but also in the countryside that had never been appreciated before. These findings were incorporated into a series of royal commissions which in turn led to a flurry of acts which fundamentally altered the attitude of the state to the poor from judgemental vengeance to support and responsibility.

  • 1902 registration of midwives
  • 1906 Education Act stipulating the supply of school meals
  • a system of medical inspection of schools
  • 1907 borstals were established for young offenders
  • 1908 act made neglect a criminal offence for the first time

Why? The pop history answer is that the Boer War revealed the shocking health of the stunted wretches conscripted from Britain’s slums. Also, the influence of the growing number of Labour MPs, in the 1906 election Labour won 53 seats.

But what really comes over in this chapter is that we were copying Germany which was already decades ahead of us. This was especially true in the area of supporting the unemployed, creating a national insurance tax to pay the unemployed a minimum dole, and creating labour exchanges to help people back into work. Conservatives were persuaded of these lefty measures because they improved the efficiency of the economy as a whole. And far from being radical experiments, Britain copied the tried and tested methods which were already propelling Germany’s economy ahead of ours on every measure. To compete against its rivals, Britain needed a better educated, better fed workforce that wasn’t allowed to rot and lose its skills when laid off by capitalism’s regular slumps. Hence the unemployed workmen’s act and powers to set up labour exchanges (p.130).

It’s startling to learn that a young William Beveridge went to study Germany’s welfare provision in 1905 and was so impressed by what he saw that he brought back to Britain a version of the Bismarckian system which was to form the basis of the hugely influential report published during the war and which, famously, formed the basis of the Welfare State created by the Labour government under Clement Attlee (p.465).

Some of the child and family laws were passed under the Conservatives before 1905, but the working men’s legislation was driven forward by Winston Churchill during his so-called New Liberal phase. Churchill drove forward prison reform, a bill improving conditions in coal mines, a bill limiting the number of hours people could work in shops,

8. Who Shall Rule?

The clash between the old ruling class and the new liberals came to a head in the great constitutional crisis triggered by Lloyd George’s 1909 budget which imposed new taxes on the rich in order to fund old age pensions and welfare policies and which the House of Lords, dominated by rich landowners, promptly rejected. The Liberal government led by Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, First Earl of Oxford, threatened to flood with Lords with Liberal peers while radical firebrand David Lloyd George toured the country giving rabble rousing speeches, backed up by Winston Churchill, still in his fierce new Liberal phase.

Hattersley gives a fairly detailed account of the political machinations, in the middle of which King Edward died (6 May 1910) and was replaced by his son, George V. The Liberals proceeded to win two general elections (in January and December 1910) (admittedly with Labour and Irish Nationalist support) which persuaded the new sovereign, very reluctantly, to accede to Asquith’s threat, which in turn led the Lords to back down and pass Lloyd George’s Budget and the National Insurance Bill.

Hattersley delivers one of those pithy summaries which I remember my history teachers at school used to extract and turn into an essay question, namely: Victoria handed over to her successor the poisoned chalice of the Boer War, and Edward VII handed over to his successor the Peers-versus-the-People crisis.

9. Ourselves Alone (Irish Home Rule)

After decades of frustration among Irish nationalists, the question of Irish Home Rule returned to the agenda in Westminster because, in the 1910 general election called by the Liberal Party to prove their mandate for Lloyd George’s inflammatory budget of 1909, Conservatives and Liberals both won about 270 seats and so the balance of power was held by the Irish Nationalists with their 82 MPs.

It took the sclerotic process of Whitehall to get it together, but the 1912 Home Rule Bill was the price the British Liberals paid the Irish Nationalists for their support in getting the Budget and the act to reform the House of Lords through (p.187).

Hattersley goes back to recap the background. After the fall of its charismatic leader Charles Stewart Parnell 1890, named in a divorce case as an adulterer, the struggle for Irish independence went into abeyance.

‘The era of constitutional possibilities for Irish nationality ended on the day that Charles Stewart Parnell died.’ (Arthur Griffith, quoted on page 182)

Hattersley namechecks the key players and the numerous organisations set up to campaign for home rule, including Michael Davitt and Arthur Griffith (founder of Sinn Fein and editor of The United Irishman), John MacBride and James Connolly, Roger Casement (revealer of the horrors of Belgium’s colony in the Congo and later gun-runner for the IRA), James Larkin (leader of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union), John Redmond (leader of the Nationalist Party in Parliament), Michael Collins, along with the upper class women, Maud Gonne and Constance Gore-Booth, memorialised by the great poet W.B. Yeats.

Ireland was wretchedly badly run by the British, with rural and urban poverty even worse than on the mainland. The nationalist cause was boosted by Britain’s appalling handling of the Boer War, in which another small people was bullied and butchered by an overweening empire.

I read a lot of this stuff as an undergraduate as background to Yeats’s poetry, and periodically over the following years. Rereading it all in detail, I was struck not by the Irish fight for independence which, in a sense, that is simple and logical, like any other colonial struggle against imperial masters. What always impresses me is the strength of the opposing force, the rise of Unionism in Ulster, led by the brilliant and charismatic lawyer, Sir Edward Carson, the hundreds of thousands of northern Protestants who signed petitions, the 100,000 men who joined the proto Ulster army, the mass smuggling in of guns and ammunition, and the acquiescence of senior officers in the British Army in what Churchill bluntly called treason i.e. actions against the express wish of the elected British government and the King (p.188 ff.).

Hattersley shows how the partition of Ireland between an Irish nationalist south and west and a different entity in the Protestant north was originally one of many solutions proposed in the 1910s but slowly became the most favoured, how it was defined in different ways by different factions among the Unionists but within a few years had gained traction as the least bad option.

10. Votes for Women!

Female England awoke during the Edwardian era. (p.81)

Like the Ireland chapter this one goes back a few decades to background events, for example when Millicent Fawcett founded the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in 1887. But the story comes to life when Hattersley gives us biographies of the leading campaigner Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel (nicknamed by some papers ‘the Queen of the Mob’).

I knew the suffragettes were violent hooligans who used terrorist techniques (for example, sending letter bombs to leading politicians, p.220) but Hattersley’s account brings out how wilfully violent and destructive they were. Not only throwing bricks and tiles at the Prime Minister and other cabinet members, smashing their windows, vandalising their cars or trying to burn their houses down, slashing paintings in galleries, setting fire to postboxes, rampaging along Oxford Street and Regent Street smashing every shop window with hammers (p.219), spitting at and slapping policemen (p.207), but, when it was discovered some were practicing shooting, it was feared there would be active assassination attempts a la JFK (p.216). They also damaged quite a few works of art.

It was interesting to learn how many of them were lesbians or lived in unorthodox relationships (p.217). It is typical of Hattersley’s enjoyably gossipy approach to learn that the redoubtable Edwardian composer, Ethel Smyth (1858 to 1944), not only went to prison (2 months in Holloway) for smashing the Colonial Secretary’s windows, not only wrote the stirring suffragette anthem, ‘The March of the Women’, but fell passionately in love with (the married) Emmeline P, writing: ‘I knew that before long I would be her slave’ (p.217).

Did you know it was the Daily Mail which coined the word ‘suffragette’ as a term of mockery and abuse but which the activists then adopted with pride and we have used ever since? (p.209)

But the biggest thing that struck me was the reason many Liberal and Labour politicians opposed women’s suffrage wasn’t the principle of the thing, which most approved of – it was fear of its practical consequences.

It had taken decades of fraught negotiation for the existing male electorate to come into being and it still excluded some 5 million men from the vote (always forgotten in this context). Some Labour and Liberals were against women’s suffrage because they knew that the vote would probably, at least at first, only be extended to better-off women who would promptly vote Conservative.

In other words, giving middle-class women the vote (the most feasible strategy) risked destroying radical and progressive politics in Britain for a generation (p.218). It was a cogent and powerful argument, even if making it earned you a slap in the face from Christabel Pankhurst.

In 1912 and ’13 and ’14 bills were drafted to extend the franchise, to which greater or lesser measures of female suffrage were added, and which variously passed or failed in the Commons or in Committee stage but everyone accepted that suffrage was going to happen sooner or later. And then the Great War broke out, putting any further development on the women question – as with Irish independence – on hold but making some sort of solution inevitable once the fighting had finished.

In fact it was before the war ended (in November 1918) that, in January 1918, the Representation of the People Act was passed, giving the vote to men aged over 21, whether or not they owned property, and to women aged over 30 who occupied land or premises with a rateable value above £5, or whose husbands did, thus extending the local government franchise to include women aged over 21 on the same terms as men. As a result of the Act, the male electorate was extended by 5.2 million to 12.9 million and the female electorate went from 0 to 8.5 million, or 2 in 5 adult women.

(It was not until the Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act 1928 that women gained full electoral equality with men, the act giving the vote to all women aged over 21, regardless of any property qualification, adding another five million women to the electorate.)

Since 1928 there have been 24 general elections, of which Labour have won 10. From the little research I’ve done, until recently women voters on the whole voted Conservative although that has changed recently (see article on gender divide in general election voting).

11. United We Stand (the trade unions)

The complicated history of trade unions in the Edwardian era. The Taff Vale train dispute case of 1901 recognised trade unions as legal entities but this was the opposite of a Good Thing for it meant that employers could now take trade unions to court if it could be proved that strikes or picketing had adversely affected their business. And not just claim compensation from union funds but sue individual union officials into the bargain (pp.222 to 224).

Hattersley explains that the Trade Union Congress and most unions had regarded politics as peripheral to their core activities of protecting members and campaigning for better pay and conditions, But the potentially crippling implications of the Taff Vale case made them all realise they needed representation in Parliament to defend their interests.

So this chapter traces the earliest history of the Independent Labour Party (founded 1893), the Labour Representation Committee (founded 1900) and its early luminaries, particularly the two key figures of Keir Hardie and Ramsay MacDonald. This leads up to the foundation of the Labour Party proper in 1906, which broke through in that year’s January general election to win 29 seats on 4.8% of the vote (p.234).

Of course Hattersley’s lifelong involvement with the Labour Party, most notably as deputy leader under Neil Kinnock from 1983 to 1992, gives him unprecedented insight into Labour’s traditions and contemporary working. As such it is more than ordinarily interesting when he writes that the party – ‘then, as now, despised theory’, ‘more interested in practice than theory’ – has always been a very soft-left party with little or no theoretical underpinning (p.237).

In fact, the book is sprinkled with asides which sound like the wisdom of practical experience in the field, wry familiarity with the quirks and foibles of Parliamentary politics:

  • [Balfour] took refuge in the expedient employed by uncertain prime ministers down the ages… (p.131)
  • The TUC, always happy to accept half a loaf, was delighted… (p.152)
  • It was a tactic the Tory party was to employ time and time again in an attempt to obstruct the work of elected governments. (p.158)
  • General elections are rarely fought on issues of the parties’ choice… (p.167)
  • Speakers’ judgements on such matters are rarely challenged with success… (p.220)
  • Like so many private members bills it was then buried at the Committee stage and forgotten. (p.231)
  • The new Labour members, euphoric as new members always are… (p.234)
  • The Select Committee Inquiry endorsed the status quo as Select Committee Inquiries often do. (p.282)
  • Select Committees of the House of Commons usually contain one or two Members whose enthusiasm outruns their discretion. (p.457)

Back to the Labour party, it was somehow symbolic that the party’s first leader and Moses, the illegitimate, poorly educated Scotsman, Keir Hardie, made powerful speeches about injustice but knew nothing about economics and had very few practical policies for bringing about the ideal world he depicted in his rousing speeches. Plus ça change…

The detailed series of legal cases which hampered then liberated the Edwardian trade unions, with the explanation of Liberal party support, the advent of the new Labour Party MPs, and the trend for the sometimes very small unions to amalgamate into huge mega-unions based on a specific trade (mining, railwaymen etc) all give a strong sense of a social movement emerging from legal, political and financial weakness, to staking its claim to become a major component of British domestic history for the rest of the century.

12. Useful Members of the Community (education)

It was quite an eye-opener to learn that the central issue in trying to improve education in this country, from 1870s till the 1900s, was religion. To be precise, the majority of schools were run by the Church of England so when any government tried to set up a state-run, nationwide system of primary schools, it had to address two massive problems: 1) the Church of England’s powerful concerns that reforms would mean it losing its influence over the nation’s youth; and 2) the vehement opposition of non-conformists, who strongly objected to Anglican schools being subsidised by their local taxes.

Some non-conformists refused to pay their local taxes under the new system introduced in 1902 and were prepared to go to prison to defend the principle. In fact, the provisions for local authority funding of schools antagonised the large non-conformist community so much that this issue alone goes a long way to explaining why the Tories, who’d brought the Act in, were slaughtered in the 1906 election.

Everyone knew that Britain needed to bring its education system up to the standards of Germany (many British educationists had toured Germany and had realised the German system was way better than ours – just like their industries, businesses, health and welfare systems were streets ahead of ours, p.465). This chapter is a good example of the yawning gulf between political theory and practice; of the way a really simple aim and intention which most of the political class agreed on, could end up requiring endless, torturous negotiations, drafts and redrafts, defeats in the House of Commons and Lords, and so on, before a half-workable compromise finally gets passed.

Just working through the battle of vested interests and the hangover of historic structures and organisations in this one area, education, helps you understand why so many aspects of Britain’s social and economic structure are so compromised, messy, half-cocked and inefficient.

It was also the era when the Workers Education Association was founded (1908), the northern universities received their charters (Birmingham 1900, Manchester and Liverpool 1903, Leeds 1904, Sheffield 1905).

In a parallel stream, the wildly successful Boy Scout movement was founded by General Robert Baden-Powell, hero of the siege of Mafeking, the first camp being on Brownsea Island in 1907. One of the small group of men who founded a movement which they lived to see sweep the world.

13. Ideas Enter the Drawing Room (theatre)

Drawing room drama replaced by theatre of ideas, copying abroad (as usual), in this case Ibsen, and our own provocateur George Bernard Shaw (‘the most famous iconoclast and atheist of his age’, p.370). But first Hattersley conscientiously gives us the owners of London theatres, the price of tickets in London and the provinces, the lives of the great actor managers (Irving) and leading ladies (Ellen Terry, Mrs Patrick Campbell), the quality of middle-brown ‘respectable’ drawing room drama, the advent of musical comedy epitomised by the success of The Merry Widow.

And then the fight against the state censor of plays, the Lord Chamberlain, led by John Galsworthy who, according to Wikipedia:

became known for plays with a social message, reflecting, among other themes, the struggle of workers against exploitation, the use of solitary confinement in prisons, the repression of women, jingoism and the politics and morality of war.

With mention of the plays of Harley Granville-Barker, The Voysey Inheritance and Waste. Throw in the works of George Bernard Shaw and that’s quite a lot of plays about contemporary issues.

But the decade contained the seeds of change. The 1900s saw the first displays of moving pictures and by 1910 buildings had opened devoted to the showing of moving pictures, much more immediate and much cheaper than even the cheapest musical comedy and variety.

14. Literature Comes Home (Edwardian literature)

With the death of Aubrey Beardsley and the imprisonment of Oscar Wilde the Aesthetic Movement petered out. Hattersley quotes Yeats, pre-eminent poet of the Celtic Twilight and then Irish nationalist movement, remarking that around 1900 ‘Everyone got down off their stilts’. The trouble with overviews of the literature by historians or politicians is that they are not professional literary experts, and so they tend to make the obvious points in the obvious ways, writing the same opinions as a thousand other ‘histories of literature’. So: with the end of the Boer War Kipling moved to Britain, settled in Sussex and radically changed his subject matter from tales of the dry and dusty hills of India to stories about England, Puck of Pook’s Hill and the like. The Poet Laureate Alfred Austin and Sir Henry Newbolt supplied a continuation of Kiplingesque patriotic poems but without the subtlety.

If you’re looking for a common thread among the poets it is probably different flavours of patriotism, from Newbolt at the jingo end, through Robert Bridges, GK Chesterton, young Rupert Brooke, and then a flotilla of minor figures, each with one or two anthology poems – Walter de la Mare, John Masefield, poets who would be gathered together in the Georgian anthologies of 1912 and subsequent years.

Hattersley makes the dubiously journalistic claim that one ‘great’ novel was published each year:

1900 – The Way of All Flesh by Butler, Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad

1901 – Kim by Rudyard Kipling

1902 – The Wings of the Dove by Henry James

1903 – The Ambassadors by Henry James

1904 – The Golden Bowl by Henry James, Nostromo by Joseph Conrad

1905 – Where Angels Fear to Tread by EM Foster, Kipps by H.G. Wells

1906 – The Man of Property by John Galsworthy

1907 – The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

1908 – The Old Wives Tale by Arnold Bennett, A Room with a View by E.M. Foster

1909 – Tono-Bungay and Ann Veronica by H.G. Wells

1910 – Howard’s End by EM Foster, The History of Mr Polly by H.G. Wells, Clayhanger by Arnold Bennett

The New Woman was a recurring theme in fiction and a flurry of woman writers, admittedly popular writers, such as Maria Corelli, Baroness Orczy, Ethel M Dell, Elinor Glyn, children’s writers Frances Hodgson Burnett, E. Nesbit and Beatrix Potter.

What emerges from Hattersley’s brisk review is a sense of an emerging, educated, intelligent middle class, of the rise and rise of the New Woman, of the lives of working people described with a new seriousness, in Wells and Bennett up to a point, but with sensitivity and insight of genius in the novels of DH Lawrence who emerged just at the end of the period (Sons and Lovers, 1913).

15. The End of Innocence (sport)

With increased leisure time, caused in part by government legislation limiting working hours, went the growth of sport: football, cricket, tennis, athletics, rugby league and union, were all put on a more professional basis, paid, and new stadiums and halls built to accommodate growing crowds. Sport became business. London hosted the 1908 Olympic games. The conflict between gentlemen and players, based on snobbery and a wish to keep the classes distinct i.e. gentlemen unsullied by commerce. The first celebrity sportsmen such as Bob Crompton of Blackburn Rovers and W.G. Grace. The aim of gentlemen, in sport as in every other aspect of life, was to demonstrate ‘effortless superiority’. Contemporary commentary is littered with words like ‘chivalry’ and ‘honour’, words associated with the medieval ruling class. The MCC and other sporting bodies, like the House of Lords, could be relied on to resist the encroachment of commercialisation i.e. working class players being paid, for as long as possible.

Meanwhile in other nations, such as America, sportsmen specialised in one game and practiced intensively, sometimes with the support of a ‘coach’ (p.323). Or the advent of American jockeys who used a new posture, ‘the forward seat’, to win (p.331). In sport, as in industry and commerce Britain’s addiction to amateurism, hobbled by class war, condemned it to long-term mediocrity.

Horse racing has always relied on gambling. In 1906 the government tried to regulate it. In 1908 the sport established a new definition of ‘thoroughbred’, mainly with a view to excluding the threat from American-bred winners.

Surprisingly, given the general chauvinism, women progressed in two sports, gold and tennis, although these remained robustly middle class (as they are to this day). Popular men’s sports, on the other hand, steadily became more working class, football and rugby union being two examples, and boxing, the longest establishment popular sport.

Hunting, of course, remained the preserve of the aristocratic elite, surrounded by all manner of preposterous traditions, like chivalry ultimately dating back to the Norman conquest and subjugation of Saxon serfs. As a Saxon serf I have all my life cordially despised the aristocrats who subtly or not so subtly have asserted their superiority over me, John Buchan’s Lord Leithen, Siegfried Sassoon in his memoirs. No surprise that the resistance to Asquith and Lloyd George’s People’s Budget in the House of Lords was led by fox-hunting aristocrats like Willoughby de Broke (with his floridly Norman name). They were, and are, the class enemy.

So many of these social aspects remind me of what H.G. Wells in Tono-Bungay calls the Bladesover system, the way English society was structured around the grand houses of the landed aristocracy in the 17th and 18th centuries, with a constellation of professions (lawyers, doctors, bankers and brokers) servicing them, and had provided the social, cultural, mental and even geographic structure of Britain up till his own time, the only change being the stepping of new businessmen or financiers into various places as the actual aristocracy became defunct, but everyone working to keeping these archaic structures of thought and ceremonial in place. ‘The new middle class hunters wanted to conform…’ (p.337)

I was forced to play lots of sports at school: I disliked cricket because of the boredom and snobbery, really disliked rugby because of the sadistic pleasure big boys took in stomping everyone else, quite liked hockey because there was little physical contact and some skill, really liked rowing especially sculling because you could disappear down the river on your own; and in breaks played football on the tarmac playground, often with small tennis-sized balls.

16. Gerontius Awakes (art, architecture, music)

Another portmanteau chapter, which is interesting enough but feels like a dutiful ticking of obvious boxes. In 1901 commenced the redesign of the Mall from the statue of Victoria (1901) to Admiralty Arch (1911).

John Singer Sargent was friends with Monet but eschewed foreign experimentalism and made himself the Reynolds (i.e. the highly paid portrait painter of the rich) of his day. Hattersley quotes the avant-garde art critic Roger Fry describing Sargent as: ‘as gentle as a man as he was striking and undistinguished as an illustrator and non-existent as an artist’ (p.358), one of the few moments which ruffles the stolid flow of Hattersley’s dutiful nods to all the obvious greats.

The great composer of the day was Edward Elgar, condemned for ever to be remembered for his Pomp and Circumstance marches, written 1901 to 1907. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ took music from one of the marches and incorporated words by A. C. Benson in 1902. Notes on Delius, Holst (lots of folk songs, St Paul’s suite 1912), Percy Grainger and the young Vaughan Williams (The Lark Ascending 1914). A little later, in 1916, Hubert Parry would set Jerusalem to music. Celebrations of Englishness comparable to the very English settings of Foster, Wells, Saki, Kipling in Pook’s Hill mode and all those Georgian poets.

Architecture characterised by the Edwardian Baroque. Edwin Lutyens, Giles Gilbert Scott and, in Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. The influence of Alfred Waterhouse on commissions of large public buildings. The Ritz Hotel. The RAC club in Pall Mall. Royal London House, Finsbury Square. Westminster Cathedral (John F. Bentley).

The garden suburb movement, Ebenezer Howard. Letchworth. Hampstead. the prophets thought it would appeal to all classes but like all high-minded movements it attracted the professional middle classes.

The Camden Town school of art, correlative of Zola’s naturalism. Yuk.

In 1910 Grafton art gallery hosted an exhibition of recent French painting (Gauguin, Matisse) which caused a scandal. The critic Roger Fry could only think to label them all post-impressionists, an unsatisfactory label which has stuck (p.356). It highlighted the philistinism of the ruling class and the sensationalising vulgar sensationalising of the press, led by the Times.

The first Futurist manifesto 1909, the second one 1910. Committed to replicating the machine energy of the age.

17. Would You Believe It? (philosophy and religion)

Summary of G.E. Moore’s Principia Ethica which had such a dynamite impact on the Bloomsbury Group. Hattersley summarises it as claiming that morality is relative, changes according to time and place. This was perceived by the Bloomsburies as a huge liberation from Christian morality which insists that moral values are universal and (incidentally), strict and repressive. Moore gave them a theory which underpinned their already existing practice of passionate friendships and cliques. And non-traditional sexual relations i.e. gays and lesbians and other genders in between. Hattersley tags on a brisk explanation of Bertrand Russell’s work on sets and categories, explaining that both Moore and Russell were anti-Christian. From the heights of academia came an attack on the ideology Oxbridge was invented to guard. Backtracking a bit to The Golden Bough, the pioneering work of anthropology which theorised that all human societies progress from pagan polytheism through monotheism and finally achieve the objective rational thought of science.

The life and extraordinary discoveries of New Zealander Ernest Rutherford i.e. discovering that the atom is not the smallest unit of matter but is itself made up of component parts.

Second half of the chapter is about the Christian churches: the part erection of the Catholic Westminster Cathedral; the divisions in the Church of England between High Church at one end and Modernists seeking to reconcile the creed with all the discoveries of science, at the other; the Methodists and other nonconformists. No mention of Jews, Muslims etc…

18. Hardihood, Endurance and Courage

There were four Polar expeditions during the Edwardian decade. Hattersley describes in detail all four of them: Scott’s first 1902-3, Shackleton’s in 1907-8, Scott’s second in 1910-12, Shackleton’s second 1914.

Scott’s diary and the example of Oates are routinely trotted out as examples of British pluck, but reading any account impresses you more with the bad decisions, bad planning, lack of resources and shambolic amateurishness of the attempt. When you read that some of Scott’s companions questioned the quality of the horses and provisions before they even set sail but decided to defer to their captain and social superiority’s judgement (p.406), you hear the genuine voice of deference to idiots which led Britain to near disaster in the Boer War and to catastrophe in the First World War.

Plus the amazing adventures in Central Asia of Marc Aurel Stein, archaeologist of Buddhism (pages 396 to 397), and Colonel Sir Francis Younghusband’s expedition up from British India to Tibet (394 and 5).

19. Halfpenny Dreadful (newspapers)

Riveting chapter about the explosion of newspapers, magazines and journals at the end of the nineteenth century, and the creation of a particular type of populist paper at the turn of the century, focusing on the career of Alfred Harmsworth, later made 1st Viscount Northcliffe (1865 to 1922), creator of the Daily Mail (in 1896) and the Daily Mirror. His career is set against George Newnes’s creation of Tit-Bits magazine in 1881. Newnes mentored and trained a generation of journalists in what came to be called The New Journalism. Harmsworth was one, another was Cyril Arthur Pearson, who founded the Daily Express in 1900.

Hattersley says there were two types of New Journalism, one which aimed to report politics and the news but in a much more accessible format than the solid wall of prose of The Times; and the other sort which didn’t care about serious news at all and was packed with trivia and celebrities.

How with the outbreak of the Boer War, Harmsworth deliberately made the Daily Mail the newspaper of empire, the jingo paper, taking an attitude of unremitting criticism of the (Conservative) government for its comprehensive mismanagement of the war, thus letting our boys down.

Between 1866 when the Companies Act eased the rules of limited liability and 1914 4,000 newspaper companies were formed in London and the provinces. Between 1900 and 1914 ten evening newspapers tried their luck in London.

I didn’t know the Daily Mirror was set up in 1903 to target women readers, had an all-women staff and a woman editor. It only lasted a year. In the end the chapter is all about Harmsworth and ends with his mounting campaign to warn the government about the dire military and naval threat from Germany. Interestingly, he became obsessed with German interest in the very new technology of flying, which he thought the British Army was ignoring.

20. The Shape of Things To Come (new technologies)

Britain pioneered the canal and the steam railway but was badly behind by the time the two next transport innovations came long, electric trams and motor cars. The Americans and Germans pioneered electric tram cars in the 1850s. It took 50 years for them to appear on British streets. And the Germans, French and Italians were all ahead of us in car design. Where had all the engineers gone? And the investors willing to take a punt?

The 1900 Century Road Race to publicise cars (whose diminished legacy is the annual London to Brighton race). Henry Royce the engineer and Charles Rolls the salesman, a partnership made in heaven. the company went from strength to strength, but Rolls used his share of the profits to invest in airplanes. Lord Northcliffe took up the cause of air flight in The Daily Mail and offered prizes for manned flights across the Channel and from London to Manchester. He was taken for a flight by Orville Wright.

Senior politicians became interested. Louis Bleriot won the prize for crossing the Channel in 1909. Northcliffe arranged a reception at the Savoy and Bleriot’s plane was exhibited at Selfridge’s.

The great race from London to Manchester between plucky Brit Claude Graham-White who, of course, lost to his French rival Louis Paulhan. More competitions followed. Charles Rolls was killed in one (12 July 1910).

Ships: a thorough look at Royal Navy shipbuilding, first the companies and yards around Britain, then the revolutionary introduction of turbine-driven ships in the early 1900s. Commercial liners and the construction of the two huge ships the Mauretania and Lusitania. The Blue Riband competition for crossing the Atlantic fastest. The White Star Line commissions two huge superliners to be named the Olympic and the Titanic. On 14 April 1912 on her maiden voyage the Titanic hit an iceberg in mid-Atlantic and sank, drowning 1,515 people.

The chapter begins to free associate because as it sank, the Titanic sent desperate SOSs out by the newish technology of radio, being picked up by the Carpathia which steamed to the rescue, arriving 80 minutes after Titanic sank and rescuing 700 souls. Impressive technology.

And it leads Hattersley into an account of the scandal of government officials trading in shares on Marconi’s Wireless company as other members of the government were awarding the company the contract to build the Imperial Wireless Chain agreed by the 1911 Imperial Conference. Muck-raking scandal. Accusations of libel. Court cases. Commission of inquiry etc.

Epilogue: The Summer Ends in August

A recap of the very bad personal relationship between Edward VII and his sister’s son (i.e. nephew) Kaiser Wilhelm II, starting with the latter gatecrashing the elaborate ceremonial surrounding the funeral of Victoria. Wilhelm comes over as a tactless idiot, for example the interview insulting Britain he gave to the ‘New York World’ while he was a guest in Britain.

It broadens out to become quite a detailed account of the political, diplomatic and military build up to the outbreak of the Great War, seen exclusively through the prism of British-German relations, and more narrowly still, the erratic, angry, aggrieved behaviour of Wilhelm. It’s a sequence of events, featuring the Entente Cordiale, the naval arms race, the building of the Dreadnoughts, the Agadir and Fashoda crises, and the two Balkan wars, which was drummed into me at school for my history GCSE.

As to one of the most over-determined events in global history, Hattersley’s take is that Germany was determined on war by 1913 i.e. none of it was accidental. Germany had collected almost all her foreign debts while leaving her creditors waiting so that the Bundesbank held record gold reserves. Woodrow Wilson’s emissary to Europe, Colonel House, toured the capitals and reported back that the German Army was determined to attack and conquer France according to the Schlieffen Plan before turning on Russia. According to Hattersley Germany was just waiting for a pretext and the Serbian terrorists supplied it.


Politicians

Tory Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, ‘the most influential Tory in Edwardian England’, was languid and ineffectual, ‘personified the dedicated dilettante’ (p.84).

Joseph Chamberlain was a Unitarian by birth and a troublemaker by nature. (p.255)

Radical Joe Chamberlain banged the drum for a more imperialist foreign policy. He was one of the loudest supporters for the catastrophically mismanaged Boer War (1899 to 1902) in which some 20,000 women and children died in Britain’s concentration camps (p.99; described at length in chapter 5; incompetence p.90).

Chamberlain went on to aggressively support the idea of an imperial customs union, more to bind the empire together than for the economics. The widely reported fact that such a union would almost certainly increase the cost of foodstuffs helped the Conservatives lose the 1906 general election by a landslide (chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’).

Two new young stars lead the Liberal government, pro-Boer, anti-imperial, anti-establishment David Lloyd George, and temporary radical Liberal, Winston Churchill.

I was surprised at just how radical Lloyd George was: he told suffragettes that if women had the vote there’d be none of these stupid wars; he declared India would never be properly governed till it was given its independence (p.102).

Issues

Edwardian society was riven by disputes about: the Boer War; imperial tariff reform; the controversial 1902 Education Act; votes for women; Irish Home Rule. The 1906 Liberal government went on, in 1909, to propose a Budget designed to raise taxes on the rich and landowners in order to fund radical social reform, namely the provision of old age pensions, national insurance and unemployment benefit. When the bastion of privilege, the House of Lords, rejected the bill, it led to a constitutional crisis in which the Liberals called and won two elections in 1910, and persuaded King Edward to threaten the Lords with creating hundreds of Liberal peers who would flood the Lords and ensure the budget went through (570, to be precise, p.168) . In order to avoid this outcome the Lords voted reluctantly to pass the budget.

Poverty

If you like social history and poverty porn, chapter 4: ‘The Condition of England’ is entirely devoted to the appalling poverty revealed by the many reports, studies and surveys published during the 1890s and 1900s, which lay behind Lloyd George’s righteous anger and his and Churchill’s radical proposals to improve the lives of the poor. Millions of Britons lived in squalid one-room shacks or tenements, slept in the same beds, didn’t have enough money to feed or clothe themselves. A 1904 report concluded that about a third of all British children went hungry every day.

The theme is renewed in chapter 7: ‘Uniting the nation’, a thorough description of the 1906 Liberal government’s attempts to develop social policies, and includes the fascinating factoid that William Beveridge, the young Oxford social scientist, was sent to Germany to learn what he could about their system of national insurance, unemployment benefit, labour exchanges and so on. Here, as in so many other things, we copied the more advanced Europeans (p.465).

International rivalry

One of the leading anxieties of the age was fear of international competition, economic and military. As anyone with a passing interest in history knows, the Edwardian period was obviously one of increasing rivalry and tension between the great powers of Europe, who developed a network of alliances and pacts which, when triggered by the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914, fell like dominoes to trigger the First World War.

Whether this sequence of events was ‘inevitable’, whether the war was the inevitable result of commercial and imperial rivalries, or of the alliance system, or of the creation of a large ambitious German state in the centre of Europe, or, on the contrary, was the result of a handful of miscalculations and misunderstandings, the kind of spats which had been defused and managed in the past and could easily have been defused and resolved in this instance, are issues which have kept, and will keep, historians happily occupied till the end of civilisation.

As to the commercial rivalries, it is probably a little less known among the general population than the First World War but, again, anyone with an interest in modern history knows that by around 1900 Britain had been definitively overtaken in terms of production and gross domestic product by its main rivals, Germany and America (pages 67, 109, 465). Only Britain’s ‘invisible’ exports of financial and banking services, largely to the colonies, kept Britain’s balance of payments from being in the red, based on the fact that the pound sterling was the global currency of choice (p.68). That and the large amount of goods we were able to sell to protected colonial markets, the most important of which was India.

It was this commercial anxiety which explains the appeal to many businessmen, politicians and commentators of Joseph Chamberlain’s impassioned campaign for an imperial customs union from 1903 (described at inordinate length in chapter 6: ‘A preference for Empire’). Joe wanted:

to make the empire a worldwide customs union which was held together by bonds of trade as well as the ties of history. (p.111)

Hattersley gives us an eventually mind-numblingly detailed account, not of the policy itself, but of the extraordinarily complicated political manoeuvring it triggered within the Conservative cabinet, 1902 to 1905. All of which proved pretty pointless because tariff reform, like everything else the Tories stood for, was swept away in the Liberal landslide election of January 1906, and soon afterwards Chamberlain himself suffered a crippling stroke (July 1906) and was forced to withdraw from public life.

Speed of change

Like so many historians of this era, Hattersley lists the dramatic advances made in practical technology (electric lights, the early telephone, bicycles, the swift spread of the motor car), in science (X-rays, radioactivity) and theoretical physics (no history of the period is complete without perfunctory reference to the world-shaking theories of Einstein and Freud) without really conveying their social impact. They are listed but not really assessed…

The endurance of deep structural issues

As regular readers of this blog know, one of the things which strikes me most about reading history or old novels is the continual reminder that problems, issues or ideas which we like to think of as new and exciting but have in fact been around for over a century. And the fact that they’ve been around for so long strongly suggests they are somehow hard-wired into the human condition or into the societies we inhabit.

Thus when you read about politicians’ and businessmen’s and commentators’ anxiety about Britain’s technological and industrial failings, and about the poor shape of British education compared to leading rivals on the continent (Germany, the Scandinavian countries) being expressed in 1901, and realise exactly the same sentiments are common now, one hundred and twenty years later, it can’t help but make you wonder whether these kind of issues are too deeply engrained in British society ever to be changed.

This came over when reading the chapter about the challenge facing Edwardian politicians of trying to solve the very widespread and horrifying poverty, ill health and pitiful life expectancy of the poor of their time. The debate about the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor, about whether the poor bear any responsibility for their poverty or are victims of a system which chews them up and spits them out as it requires, about how much financial help the state should give the unemployed, destitute and long-term, sick, what kind of support the unemployed need to get into work, debates about trying to improve basic wages – all these are debates we are still having today. And that, in my opinion, is because we still live under the kind of laissez fair (nowadays called neo-liberal) capitalist economic system that the Edwardians lived under.

This really came into focus when I searched the internet to find out more about ‘The Condition of England’, a searing indictment of Edwardian Britain published in 1909, by Charles Masterman, radical Liberal Party politician and intellectual (discussed by Hattersley on pages 65 and 66).

On the internet I came across an article about it written in 2009 by David Selbourne, ‘political philosopher, social commentator and historian of ideas’, in the New Statesman. Selbourne highlights the issues raised in Masterman’s book solely to reflect on how little has changed in the subsequent 100 years, these issues being:

  • the Edwardian period was one of astonishing technological change (telegraphs, telephones, electricity, bombs and aeroplanes)
  • yet ‘moral progress’ had not kept up with material growth, and the ever-growing wealth of some, their ‘vulgarised plutocracy’, ‘extravagance’ and ‘ostentation’ went hand in hand with gross poverty and ‘monstrous inequality’
  • between the super-rich and the immiserated poor lie what Masterman termed the ‘suburbans’, members of the commercial and business classes, respectable but ‘lacking in ideas’, comfortable in villas with ‘well-trimmed gardens’, perpetually complaining about being ‘over-taxed’, hostile to the Labour Party, objecting to welfare for ‘loafers’ – what Disraeli in the 1870s called ‘villa Toryism’, the basis of the Daily Mail reading class which is still so powerful today
  • Masterman complains that he lived in a society dominated by money, ‘organised on a money basis, with everything else a side-show’; ‘the people in England and America’ are ‘writhing in the grasp of a money power more and more in the hands of enormous corporations’, a complaint you read every day in 2024
  • Masterman sees religion as becoming ‘irrelevant to the business of the day’ which has, probably, been true for decades
  • Masterman sees the institution of the Family ‘breaking in pieces’ under the strain of daily existence
  • Masterman complains about the ‘vacuous vulgarity’ of the ‘cheap and sensational press’ which actively deceives and excites their mass readership, betraying its duty to the truth
  • as for ‘socialism’, Masterman claims there is little real interest in it; whereas the rich may ‘lie awake at night listening fearfully to the tramp of the rising host’, then as now, the ‘people’ has far more pressing issues on its mind: ‘how to get steady work, the iniquities of the “foreigner” and… which football eleven will attain supremacy in some particular league’
  • and the Labour Party? ‘They may perhaps stand for the working man in opinion’, says Masterman, but ‘the majority of them are certainly remote from him in characteristic’, while ‘a Labour leader, if successful, tends to become conservative’
  • Masterman even complains about the ‘strange mediocrity’, the poor quality of British leaders in ‘high positions in church and state’, something I read about in the press almost every day

In other words, Masterman’s analysis of Britain 1909 can appear, at first glance, like an astonishing anticipation of Britain 2021, except that… it isn’t, as I so often insist, an anticipation: It is an indication of how much hasn’t changed in a century and surely a demonstration of the deep economic and social structures which make up England, which are not somehow extraneous to English society, which are not additional extras which can be easily tweaked if only we elected the right politicians – but which make up the fundamental essence of English society and the English character.

Errors

A couple of errors leaped out at me. George Eliot’s novel ‘Middlemarch’ was not published in 1891-2 (p.308) but 1871-2, and General Gordon was not killed in Khartoum in 1865 (p.341) but 1885. The Russian Revolution did not take place in 1916 (p.359). The Christian states of the Balkans did not form a secret alliance in 1914 (p.475) but in 1912 on the eve of the First Balkan War.

Maybe the proofreader had become as overwhelmed with factoids as I felt.

Conclusion

Most of this is familiar – not necessarily a lot of the details, but certainly the general shape of all the issues. The book is packed with information but the reader gets to the very end and discovers that they really haven’t learned that much. The Edwardian decade was an era of rapid social, cultural and technological change and fraught with a number of political crises? Well, which decade of the twentieth century wasn’t?

Gaps

Having made it to the end of this 480-page marathon one glaring omission stood out – the British Empire. There should have been a chapter about the empire, probably divided into white and non-white i.e. a summary of political and economic developments in Canada-Australia-New Zealand; and then ditto for the non-white colonies starting with India (the partition of Bengal, the founding of the Muslim League) and then Africa (for example, the amalgamation of various colonies into Nigeria), maybe others in the Caribbean or elsewhere. The book was only published 20 years ago but already, with our greater than ever awareness of imperial sins, and the relentless multiculturalisation of Britain, this feels like a glaring absence.


Credit

The Edwardians by Roy Hattersley was published by Little Brown in 2004. All references are to the 2007 Abacus paperback edition.

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Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw (1913)

LIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly]: He’s off his chump, he is. I don’t want no balmies teaching me.
(Eliza Doolittle’s very reasonable reaction to Henry Higgins’s impulsive suggestion that he become her tutor, Pygmalion, Act 2)

Pygmalion is by far George Bernard Shaw’s most famous play, turned into a British film in 1938, into the Broadway musical ‘My Fair Lady’ in 1956, and then into the multi-Oscar winning movie of the musical, starring Audrey Hepburn, in 1964.

It exists in two versions, the original 1914 version and a 1941 version to which Shaw added several sequences in light of helping write the screenplay for the 1938 movie. Having ground my way through his earlier plays, I hadn’t expected it to be quite so brilliantly funny as it is. It’s a comic masterpiece and I was surprised how little needed to be changed to turn it into the musical.

Act 1. The portico of St Paul’s church, Covent Garden

A random cross-section of Londoners take shelter from a sudden downpour of rain. It starts out with dialogue between a middle-class mother and her disapproving daughter, Clara, who demand that their wet harassed son, Freddy, finds them a cab. There arrives a Cockney flower seller who tries to hawk her flowers to all the shelterers-from-the-rain.

One of the crowd points out that there’s a bloke here taking notes of everything in a notebook, maybe he’s a copper’s nark. The flowerseller becomes alarmed and protests she wasn’t doing anything wrong in strident Cockney tones. Once drawn to everyone’s attention the note taker, obviously a man of education, amuses himself and entertains the crowd by saying precisely whereabouts in London the flowerseller, the mother and daughter, and other members of the crowd are from.

There’s another gentleman among the crowd, and he politely asks the note taker how he is able to locate people so accurately.

THE NOTE TAKER: Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That’s my profession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living by his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in London. Sometimes within two streets.

He goes on to explain to the Gentleman that he makes quite a good living giving elocution lessons. And while the flowerseller moans that he’s out to get her, the note taker makes the bet which is the core of the story:

THE NOTE TAKER: You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an ambassador’s garden party. I could even get her a place as lady’s maid or shop assistant, which requires better English. That’s the sort of thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do genuine scientific work in phonetics…

At which point the two posh men introduce themselves. The note taker introduces himself as Henry Higgins, author of Higgins’s Universal Alphabet, and the gentleman is none other than Colonel Pickering, author of Spoken Sanscrit, who’s come all the way from India to meet Higgins. They agree to go off to Pickering’s hotel, the Carlton, for dinner and further conversation.

All through this the flowergirl has continued to pester them, although Pickering insists he really has no change to give her. Higgins is just as dismissive, so dismissive that in a strop, the flowergirl flings her entire basket of flowers at his feet. The church bell chimes and, realising how uncharitable he’s being, Higgins tosses into it all the change he had in his pocket, before the two gentlemen exit to dinner.

The 1941 version adds a scene where we follow the flowergirl getting a cab to Angel Court, Drury Lane, and follow her up to her squalid room, an epitome of real poverty, where she counts the money Higgins tossed her with glee, before getting into bed.

Act 2. Higgins’s laboratory in his flat in Wimpole Street

Higgins has just finished giving Colonel Pickering a comprehensive tour of his recording and transcription devices, when his housekeeper, Mrs Pearce, announces the arrival of the flowerseller. She enters dressed up to the nines and announces she heard Higgins talking about elocution lessons the night before, and she wants some. For the first time she tells us her name, Eliza Dolittle.

Amid four-way banter between resentful Eliza, scornful Mrs Pearce, brutal Higgins and courteous Colonel, the latter says he’ll pay the costs of all her lessons if Higgins can train her so well that she passes for a lady at the ambassador’s forthcoming party and Higgins accepts the bet:

HIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him]: What is life but a series of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never lose a chance: it doesn’t come every day. I shall make a duchess of this draggletailed guttersnipe.

So Higgins says he’ll start the experiment straightaway and orders Mrs Pearce to take Eliza to the bathroom, strip her, throw away her filthy clothes, give her a thorough wash and order some proper clothes from Whiteleys, despite Eliza’s protestations at being treated like an object. Most of the comedy derives from how brutally direct Higgins is.

PICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance]: Does it occur to you, Higgins, that the girl has some feelings?
HIGGINS [looking critically at her]: Oh no, I don’t think so. Not any feelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza?

Or his wonderful devil-may-care insouciance.

PICKERING: Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearce is quite right. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for six months for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughly what she’s doing.
HIGGINS: How can she? She’s incapable of understanding anything. Besides, do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?

So the plan is agreed that Eliza will come and live with Higgins, be supervised by Mrs Pearce and taught not only how to speak, but how to behave, like a gentlewoman.

The bathroom scene (added in 1941) where Mrs Pearce takes Eliza up to the spare room which will be hers and introduces her to a bath, which she has never seen before. ‘I dursn’t. It’s not natural; it would kill me. I’ve never had a bath in my life.’

Meanwhile, Pickering is seriously asking whether Higgins is a gentleman when it comes to women. Higgins boisterously assures him that he detests women and the undermining influence they have. He is a confirmed old bachelor.

Mrs Pearce enters (with Eliza’s lice-infested hat) and sternly asks Professor Higgins not to swear in front of Eliza. He loftily insists that he never swears but Mrs Pearce is not to be brow-beaten. She goes on to ask him to mind his manners more, particularly his table manners, to which Higgins reacts with angry scorn until she lists his bad table manners. Pickering is greatly tickled by all this and it is all quite brilliant comedy.

An extra layer of comedy comes from the way Higgins, with his excitable enthusiasms and blunt rude manner, sees himself as the soul of amiability and politeness; from his lack of self awareness.

No sooner is this scene concluded than Mrs Pearce re-enters to announce the arrival of Eliza’s father, Alfred Doolittle. This also is brilliantly comedic because, rather than waiting to hear what Alfred has to say, Higgins launches straight in on a ferocious attack, accusing Alfred of a plan and ruse to send his daughter to his house then accuse him of abducting her. It is nothing short of blackmail, he says he’s going to phone the police, goes to the table and picks up the telephone receiver.

As you can imagine, Alfred Doolittle loses all the self righteousness he came with and is thrown on the defensive, explaining that he hadn’t heard from Eliza for two months till he bumped into a ‘boy’ Eliza took in the cab to Higgins’s house for a jaunt. When she learned she was going to stay, she sent the boy back to fetch her stuff from her rooms. Alfred bumped into this boy in the pub and learned about his daughter moving in with a gentleman and he’s come to see what it’s all about.

Higgins, in his aggressive style, tells Alfred he can take Eliza back, now, right now, and rings for Mrs Pearce and tells her to hand the girl over to her father. Mrs Pearce protests she has no clothes since she burned the old ones as requested. In his usual style, Higgins doesn’t care, her father can carry her naked through the streets of London for all he cares.

Alfred protests and asks to talk man to man (so Mrs Pearce discreetly leaves). Alfred tells Higgins he can have his daughter for £5. When Pickering delicately points out that Higgins is not installing Eliza as a mistress, Alfred righteously says of course not; if he thought that was the case, he’d ask for £50! Which made me laugh out loud.

When Pickering and Higgins are revolted by this venality Doolittle gives a droll speech about being one of the ‘undeserving poor’:

DOOLITTLE: Undeserving poverty is my line…I’m undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that’s the truth.

And humorously explains he has just as much right to the basics of life and a bit of a laugh as what the (hypocritical) middle classes call the ‘deserving’ poor.

DOOLITTLE: What is middle class morality? Just an excuse for never giving me anything.

Higgins is so impressed by the man’s blarney that he gives him a fiver. As he opens the door to leave he nearly bumps into a vision of beauty dressed in a kimono. He doesn’t recognise his own daughter, and Higgins and Pickering are just as astounded. They have a bit of repartee, then he leaves.

Eliza gives her impressions of having a bath, and putting on clean clothes, expresses her horror at seeing a mirror, then it’s announced that the new clothes have been delivered and she and Mrs Pearce exit. This really ought to be the end of this long act but Shaw, prolix as ever, added a further scene as an example of the kind of lessons Higgins set about giving Eliza.

Which allows Shaw to jump past months and months of similarly painful elocution lessons, to the eve of her first presentation in polite society.

Act 3. The drawing room of Henry’s mother, Mrs Higgins

Which Shaw, as usual, describes in pedantic detail, describing the William Morris furniture and curtains and the precise style of the paintings on the walls. There is absolutely nothing over which Shaw is not a finicky precisionist.

Enter Higgins in a flushed hurry as always. Mrs H is horrified and tells him to go home, reminding him that he offends all her friends but Henry refuses to take no for an answer. He’s invited Eliza to the ‘at home’ and is nervous how she’ll perform.

By one of those wild coincidences which is allowed in comic novels or plays (in fact adds to the comic mood) Mrs Higgins’s guests are the very same family we met fussing about getting a cab in the rain in Act 1, namely Mrs Eynsford Hill, her son Frederick and daughter Clara.

Enter a transformed Eliza who looks and speaks brilliantly in front of pukka guests who, however, all have a nagging feeling that they’ve met her before though they can’t remember where (which plays up the irony of Eliza being the common flower girl they were all trying to avoid in the first act).

Eliza impresses until, that is, she starts telling a long story about her aunt who she thinks was ‘done in’ and Henry’s work quickly unravels, very amusingly. But not before the posh daughter of the guests (Clara) is delighted by what she takes to be the latest racy slang and the posh son (Frederick) falls in love at first sight.

Higgins signals to Eliza that it’s time for her to leave and the Eynsford Hills get up to leave, also. Once alone with her son, Mrs Higgins is cross with him and Pickering for not having considered what will happen to Eliza after their experiment is concluded. She will have become too highfalutin’ to return to her career as a flower seller but have no money to support the position in society her new accent requires. Neither Pickering or Higgins had given this a second’s thought which is why she calls them ‘a pretty pair of babies, playing with your live doll’ and ‘ two infinitely stupid male creatures’.

Act 4. Higgins’s rooms

A few months later Pickering and Higgins return late at night from a series of special engagements where Eliza passed herself as an upper class woman. Pickering congratulates Higgins and agrees to pay the wager (the cost of Eliza’s course of elocution lessons, and her outfits). Neither of them pay any attention to Eliza who has a fit and throws his slippers at self-obsessed, rude, bullying Higgins.

LIZA: I’d like to kill you, you selfish brute. Why didn’t you leave me where you picked me out of – in the gutter? You thank God it’s all over, and that now you can throw me back again there, do you?… What am I fit for? What have you left me fit for? Where am I to go? What am I to do? What’s to become of me?… Now you’ve made a lady of me I’m not fit to sell anything else. I wish you’d left me where you found me.

She takes off the fine jewellery she’s wearing and shoves it at him, and takes off the ring she’s wearing and flings it at him and tauntingly asks how much of what she’s wearing is hers since they burned all her clothes when she arrived. Higgins is furious at her attitude and says she can take the whole houseful of clothes for all he cares, tells her to give instructions to Mrs Pearce for his breakfast and exist. Later that night Eliza packs her things and does a bunk.

Act 5. Mrs Higgins’s house

At Mrs Higgins’s house again where Henry and Pickering come to tell her that Eliza’s done a bunk. Mrs H has to explain to her son that neither of them treated Eliza with any respect or gave her any credit for her achievements.

Alfred Doolittle arrives wearing super smart wedding dress due to a wildly improbable sub-plot. Turns out Henry, in correspondence with an American millionaire about devising a universal language, mentioned in passing that Alfred was one of the most remarkable moral philosophers in England today, and so this millionaire left Alfred in his will ‘a share in his Pre-digested Cheese Trust worth three thousand a year on condition that I lecture for his Wannafeller Moral Reform World League as often as they ask me up to six times a year.’

Doolittle laments that the money is going to ruin him – it’s going to make an honest man of him and force him to live by middle-class morality. As an example of middle-class morality he wails that all his relatives, with whom he previously had very little contact, are now getting in touch to sponge off him. He’s dressed up like this because the first requirement of middle-class morality is to get married and so he’s feeling compelled to marry his latest lover, much against both of their wishes.

In the middle of all this Mrs Higgins staggers Henry by revealing that Eliza is upstairs. She came seeking refuge the night before and Mrs Higgins graciously took her in. Mrs Higgins proceeds to lecture Pickering and Henry on how abominably they’ve treated the girl. Henry whines that Eliza threw his slippers at him but Mrs Higgins replied that, if it had been her, she’d have thrown her fire tongs!

Eliza enters acting very self possessed and quite beautiful. She and Mrs Higgins tell Henry a few home truths, starting with how he treated her like an object in an experiment. By contrast her real education in how to be a lady she attributes to Colonel Pickering who treated her with kindness and respect.

Pickering is genuinely fond of Eliza and repeatedly begs her to come back and live with them. Then he, Alfred and Mrs Higgins all go off to the wedding, leaving Eliza and Henry to have a long final scene between them. This is one long argument in which Eliza wails that all she wants is a little respect:

LIZA [much troubled] I want a little kindness. I know I’m a common ignorant girl, and you a book-learned gentleman; but I’m not dirt under your feet.

Henry softens a little, saying he’d quite like her to come back as he’s grown accustomed to her face. But they quickly fall to quarreling and he’s back to calling her an ungrateful idiot and she calling him a cruel tyrant etc.

This could go on all day but is drawn to a conclusion by two things. First, Eliza tells Henry that Freddy Eynsford Hill is in love with her and wants to marry her, which makes Henry burst out in contemptuous laughter.

But what finally breaks the deadlock is when Eliza has a brainwave and declares she could become a teacher of phonetics, just like Henry. In fact Henry had often commented that she had a better ear than him. Yes, she could earn a pretty living. This infuriates Henry who accuses her of ripping off everything he’s taught her but she is delighted that she’s cut through his hard skin and bluster and genuinely scored a point.

LIZA: What a fool I was not to think of it before! You can’t take away the knowledge you gave me. You said I had a finer ear than you. And I can be civil and kind to people, which is more than you can. Aha! That’s done you, Henry Higgins, it has. Now I don’t care that [snapping her fingers] for your bullying and your big talk. I’ll advertise it in the papers that your duchess is only a flower girl that you taught, and that she’ll teach anybody to be a duchess just the same in six months for a thousand guineas. Oh, when I think of myself crawling under your feet and being trampled on and called names, when all the time I had only to lift up my finger to be as good as you, I could just kick myself.

To his own surprise, Henry admits that it is a good idea. Above all it will make her independent instead of a millstone round his neck. Yes, he rather likes her like this, strong and independent. She can come and live with him and Pickering and they can be three bachelors together.

But at this moment Mrs Higgins re-enters to say the carriage has arrived to take them all to Alfred’s wedding and Eliza says, Yes, she’s ready. Patronising to the end, Henry asks Eliza to convey a message to Mrs Pearce about the shopping but Eliza simply replies that she’s passed all this information along already and can’t imagine how he’s going to manage when she leaves, and exits.

Mrs Higgins lingers long enough to tell her son that he has quite literally spoiled the girl but Henry humorously replies that she’s not to worry. Eliza is going to marry dim lovestruck Freddy and at the thought he bursts into hysterical laughter.

THE END.

Shaw’s controlling stage directions

As usual, I am a bit staggered by the minute control Shaw exercises over every aspect of the play. There is no detail of the sets, the costumes of the characters, their every gesture and line of dialogue, which Shaw doesn’t fuss over and dictate. There are the long, detailed and often very opinionated descriptions of each set which open each act. Then there are the countless pieces of dialogue are heavily directed by the stage directions in the text:

HIGGINS [revolted]
DOOLITTLE [unabashed]
HIGGINS [troubled]
DOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride]
MRS. PEARCE [blandly]
HIGGINS [impressively]
DOOLITTLE [evasively]

And so on and so on and so on. And then the notes in the New Mermaid edition by Shaw scholar L.W. Conolly bring this out even more, citing the refinements and additions Shaw made in the 1941 version, as well as countless notes for actors and directors he scribbled in the playbooks used to direct actual productions.

For example, when Higgins threatens Eliza that Mrs Pearce will thrash her with a broomstick, Shaw specifies that at this line, Eliza should grasp the back of a chair in fear (p.40); or correcting the actress playing Mrs Pearce who spoke the line ‘I won’t allow it, It’s you that are wicked’ with anger that, on the contrary, it should be spoken ‘steadily and quietly’ (p.36); or specifying that Eliza should throw the slippers at Higgins with real violence (p.93).

Summary

Act 1: Introducing Henry Higgins the phonologist, Colonel Pickering his fan and Eliza Doolittle the Cockney flower seller, taking shelter from the rain in the portico of St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden, with a few other Londoners and a middle-class mother and daughter nagging their (grown-up) son to get them a cab. In explaining who he is, Higgins says he offers lessons in elocution which the stubbornly persistent flower girl overhears.

Act 2: Eliza calls at Higgins’ apartment for lessons and Pickering and Higgins make a bet whether the latter can improve her elocution and manners so completely in 6 months that Eliza can pass for a duchess. To this end she will move in with Higgins and Pickering (and their housekeeper Mrs Pearce), be taught manners and elocution.

Eliza’s father, Alfred Doolittle, a navvy and dustman, turns up expecting some kind of recompense for having his daughter abducted. Higgins is so ferociously aggressive, accusing Alfred of planning to blackmail the two bachelors, that Alfred is thrown right back on the defensive, but leaves with £5 which is just enough for him and his fancy woman to go on a spree.

Act 3: A few months later Henry brings a transformed Eliza to one of his mother’s ‘at homes’ where she looks and speaks brilliantly in front of pukka guests. Until, that is, she starts telling a long story about her aunt who she thinks was ‘done in’ and Henry’s work quickly unravels. But not before the posh daughter of the guests (Clara) is delighted by what she takes to be the latest racy slang and the posh son (Frederick) falls in love at first sight.

Act 4: A few months later Pickering and Higgins return late at night from a series of special engagements where Eliza passed herself as an upper class woman. Pickering congratulates Higgins and pays up the wager. Neither of them pay any attention to Eliza who has a fit and throws his slippers at self-obsessed, rude, bullying Higgins. Later that night she packs her things and does a bunk.

Act 5: At Mrs Higgins’s house again where Henry and Pickering come to tell her that Eliza’s done a bunk. Mrs H has to explain to her son that neither of them treated Eliza with any respect or gave her any credit for her achievements. Alfred Doolittle arrives wearing smart wedding dress due to the legacy from the American millionaire. Eliza enters and declares she won’t return to their flat and complains about Henry’s bullying insensitive behaviour. A very long argument between the pair ends with Eliza having the brainwave that she could become a teacher of elocution and marry lovestruck Freddy Eynsford Hill and she exits, along with Mrs Higgins, Colonel Pickering and Alfred for the latter’s weeding, leaving Henry helpless with mirth at the thought of his transformed flower seller marrying an upper-class twit.

The preface and sequel

The play has both a preface (5 pages) and what Shaw describes as a ‘Sequel’ (11 pages).

Preface

This is the usual inconsequential ramble. Shaw claims the notation of the English language is a shambles and requires an energetic phonetic expert to revise it. He names various phonetics experts from the 1870s and ’80s before alighting on the figure of English philologist, phonetician and grammarian Henry Sweet. Shaw devotes a page to this stubborn, contrarian character, and the difficulties of the form of shorthand he created which fell victim to the superior marketing strategy of the Pitman system. This is what I mean by ‘rambling’. He claims the University of Oxford never gave Sweet the credit he deserved, then goes on:

I do not blame Oxford, because I think Oxford is quite right in demanding a certain social amenity from its nurslings (heaven knows it is not exorbitant in its requirements!); for although I well know how hard it is for a man of genius with a seriously underrated subject to maintain serene and kindly relations with the men who underrate it, and who keep all the best places for less important subjects which they profess without originality and sometimes without much capacity for them, still, if he overwhelms them with wrath and disdain, he cannot expect them to heap honours on him.

See how difficult it is to make out what Shaw is on about half the time? Anyway, the point of this windy preface is apparently to point out that Sweet (1845 to 1912) was not Shaw’s model for Henry Higgins, which all seems excessive for an audience who have never heard of Henry Sweet and never thought he was the model for Henry Higgins.

At the end of the preface, with uncharacteristic brevity, Shaw says the play had one simple aim:

If the play makes the public aware that there are such people as phoneticians, and that they are among the most important people in England at present, it will serve its turn.

The play’s politics

It is worth stopping to consider this statement for a moment. Shaw was a member of the Fabian Society which believed sweeping reform of British society was necessary to achieve greater equality, but that it should be constitutional, parliamentary reform, not violent revolution.

Because of ‘My Fair Lady’ it’s tempting to see the play as simply a brilliant entertainment. But seen through Shaw’s Fabian prism, he is attacking, not the economic basis of British class structure but one of its most powerful symptoms or markers, snobbery about speech. All the modern debates about whether Eliza and Henry love each other, whether Higgins is a closet gay, whether Eliza becomes a strong independent feminist or remains the doll of two old misogynists – it is easy to forget the genuinely revolutionary intent of the play’s thesis: how we speak determines how we are perceived in society, society’s revolting inequalities are there for everyone to see in Britain’s howling snobbery about our accents and dialects, and it’s from this socialist perspective that Shaw says the phoneticians ‘are among the most important people in England at present’. So Pygmalion is very much an issue play but it’s worth trying to get back behind the feminist interpretations which now dominate discussion of the play, closer to Shaw’s original intent of attacking one of the bastions of Britain’s radically unequal and repressive society.

On a practical front, do you think anyone who saw the musical or watches the movie ‘My Fair Lady’ has ever been educated into realising there was a caste of men called the phoneticians and that they were ‘among the most important people in England at present’? No. Me neither. Authors, like artists, often have a grossly exaggerated sense of their impact on society which, by and large, is pretty close to zero.

The sequel (1916)

Shaw was furious when the actors in the British premiere of the play changed the scene to imply that Higgins and Eliza were on the verge of falling in love. Indeed this wish to have the lead protagonists end their bickering with a lovely romance has plagued interpretations and is the ending enshrined in the 1938 movie, the Broadway musical and Hollywood movie versions.

Shaw bitterly regretted describing the play as ‘A romance in five acts’ and ended up writing this ‘Sequel’ to try and clarify matters. For a start he says he called it a romance not in the sense that the hero and heroine get married at the end (they don’t) but simply because the transfiguration in Eliza seems fantastical, like something from an ancient myth of medieval legend.

You’d have thought this would be a simple point to make but somehow Shaw launches into a farrago of twaddle about why some men and women marry and others remain unmarried, a windy discourse unenlightened by any contact with Freud or any form of psychology, sociology, feminism or any school of thought except Shaw’s egregious satisfaction with his own genius and intolerable fondness for the sound of his own voice. If you think I’m being unfair, here’s an example:

When we look round and see that hardly anyone is too ugly or disagreeable to find a wife or a husband if he or she wants one, whilst many old maids and bachelors are above the average in quality and culture, we cannot help suspecting that the disentanglement of sex from the associations with which it is so commonly confused, a disentanglement which persons of genius achieve by sheer intellectual analysis, is sometimes produced or aided by parental fascination.

As with the preface, this is 1) quite hard to understand – taking several readings to comprehend its full intent – at which point 2) you realise it’s useless.

But after a few pages like this Shaw gets round to the point he wants to make which is that: Henry Higgins for not, repeat not marry Eliza. Eliza marries Freddy. That’s the point the Sequel exists to make, emphasise and ram home, contrary to all producers, adapters and screenwriters who wanted Higgins and Eliza to end up an item.

Shaw goes on to elaborate on the young couple’s fortunes. They are poor because Freddy has no education and no prospects. The Colonel gives them £500 but this eventually runs out. Alfred refuses to subsidise his daughter because he has become a social success in the highest circles (dining with dukes) and this turns out to be very expensive, soaking up his £4,000 a year.

So Eliza asks if she can move in with the Wimpole Street bachelors and they agree, bringing Freddy, too. Henry objects to her teaching phonetics so she gives that up. Instead she recurs to the suggestion that she’d floated during the play of opening a flowershop and this is exactly what she and Freddy do, at South Kensington tube station. I go through there regularly to exhibitions at the Victoria and Albert Museum. This fictional nugget has changed my view of that busy tube station forever; I’ll imagine Eliza there bustling over her buttonholes.

For some reason the Sequel contains a lengthy digression about the fate of Clara Eynsford Hill, Freddy’s sister, who Shaw seems much more concerned with than Eliza. She is a snobbish failure whose eyes are opened by the novels of H.G. Wells (who was, of course, a friend of Shaw’s). These (I think) make her see her life and values are all wrong but also make her determined to meet her hero which she finally does, for half an hour at a garden party, remaining dazzled for weeks afterwards. She happens to mention all this to the owner of a furniture shop who is also a ‘Wellsian’ who promptly hires Clara in the hope that she will attract Wells to the shop and effect a meeting. It is on this whimsical basis that Clara gets a job. It causes an almighty row with her mother who hoped her children would be above ‘trade’ but it means that the battle of trade has already been fought when a few weeks later Freddy shows up to tell mother he’s opening a flower shop with Eliza, and Mrs Eynsford Hill just gives up. The real puzzle about all this rambling digression is why on earth Shaw felt it necessary to drag his friend Wells into this farrago and include a physical description of him at the garden party where Clara meets him?

She had made up her mind that, cost what it might, she would see Mr. Wells in the flesh; and she had achieved her end at a garden party. She had better luck than so rash an enterprise deserved. Mr. Wells came up to her expectations. Age had not withered him, nor could custom stale his infinite variety in half an hour. His pleasant neatness and compactness, his small hands and feet, his teeming ready brain, his unaffected accessibility, and a certain fine apprehensiveness which stamped him as susceptible from his topmost hair to his tipmost toe, proved irresistible.

Is this a description written by a friend or an enemy? Either way, why on earth does Shaw give such prominence to his frenemy, placing him at the centre of this odd story?

Anyway, the flower business almost fails, repeatedly bailed out by the Colonel, much to Henry’s howling amusement, until Pickering insists they learn book-keeping to run it properly. This involves a course at the London School of Economics and Eliza begging Henry to show her how to write which turned into an intensive course in fine calligraphy, which led to them spending a fortune on unnecessarily high quality paper.

But meanwhile the business actually began to prosper, especially when they branched out into vegetables (asparagus being particularly profitable). She is a regular at Wimpole Street where she considers the Colonel the father she never had, but she has ferocious fights with Henry, and more than stands her own ground. In fact sometimes the Colonel asks her to be kind to poor Higgins. Sometimes she has fantasies about whisking him away to a desert island and using her wiles to force him to make love to her. But in real life, she likes the Colonel and sturdily dislikes Henry Higgins and that’s how it remains.

Henry Higgins in modern London

Although the play still has currency among the white middle classes who go to the theatre, and the movie appeals to all soft-hearted fans of the radiant Audrey Hepburn, its subject is receding into a historical past, into an ended era.

There are still plenty of chavs and proles who speak as roughly as Eliza but London, where the play is set, is now a staggeringly multicultural city. Higgins prides himself on being able to place a Londoner’s birthplace to within a few miles based on their accents. But most Londoners now weren’t born in London, many of them weren’t even born in England, and English isn’t their first language. According to the most recent data, the percentage of Londoners born in London may now be as low as 25%, and as many as 41% of current Londoners were not born in the UK.

In West London out towards Heathrow, a modern-day Higgins would have more grist detecting which part of India a person came from; in south London where I live, he would be challenged to decide which Caribbean island his random Londoners came from. But these are only two groups among the hundreds of nationalities and ethnicities which throng contemporary London. A modern-day Higgins would be just as challenged to determine which bit of Poland or Albania or Somalia or Ukraine or China a modern Londoner originated from.

The play and the movie feel nostalgic because they refer to a London, and an England, which have been abolished.


Credit

‘Pygmalion’ by George Bernard Shaw was first published in 1914. I read it in the 2008 New Mermaid paperback edition, edited with an introduction by L.W. Conolly who is extremely knowledgeable but, alas, American.

Related link

Bernard Shaw reviews

The Doctor’s Dilemma by George Bernard Shaw (1906)

RIDGEON: We’re not a profession: we’re a conspiracy.
SIR PATRICK: All professions are conspiracies against the laity.

‘The Doctor’s Dilemma’ is a play by George Bernard Shaw, first staged in 1906 and published in 1909. It’s usually described as a ‘problem play’ but in fact it tackles two distinct dilemmas related to medical practice:

  1. the moral dilemmas created by limited medical resources i.e. who do you treat and who do you leave to be sick or die?
  2. the conflict between medicine as a vocation (to heal the sick) and a business (to make a packet)

Cast

  • Sir Colenso Ridgeon (‘Colly’) – just been knighted for his work in vaccination for tuberculosis and typhoid and plague, specifically for discovering the role of opsonin in maximising the effect of vaccination
  • Redpenny – his assistant
  • Emmy – his housekeeper

The doctors

  • Leo Schutzmacher – a Jewish physician recently retired from a modest practice in the Midlands
  • Sir Patrick Cullen (‘Paddy’) – 20 years older than Ridgeon, a bluff, gruff dismisser of all inventions and innovations
  • Mr Cutler Walpole – an energetic, confident surgeon, convinced every ailment is caused by blood-poisoning and can be cured by cutting out the ‘nuciform sac’ which all his colleagues think doesn’t even exist
  • Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington (B.B.) – thinks the cure for everything is to ‘stimulate the phagocytes’
  • Dr. Blenkinsop – a shabby unsuccessful doctor, cheaply fed and cheaply clothed

The Dubedats

  • Jennifer Dubedat – ‘an arrestingly good-looking young woman’, wife of…
  • Louis Dubedat – the artist, a slim young dazzlingly amoral man of 23
  • Minnie Tinwell – forlorn waitress at the Star and Garter who claims to be Louis’s real wife

Act 1. Dr Ridgeon’s consulting room

Act 1 is in three parts or scenes:

Scene 1

In the consulting room of Dr Colenso Ridgeon, his ancient housekeeper, Emmy, informs his keen young assistant, Redpenny, that Ridgeon has just been awarded a knighthood.

Scene 2

A succession of fellow doctors call by to congratulate their friend and provide a gallery of ages and types of physician, each with their perspective, views and hobby horses about the profession. They are, in order of appearance:

1. Leo Schutzmacher who they used to call ‘Loony’ Schutzmacher. Shaw singles out his Jewishness in a manner which I think is not malicious but makes us uncomfortable today.

His combination of soft manners and responsive kindliness, with a certain unseizable reserve and a familiar yet foreign chiselling of feature, reveal the Jew: in this instance the handsome gentlemanly Jew, gone a little pigeon-breasted and stale after thirty, as handsome young Jews often do, but still decidedly good-looking.

Shaw makes the same kind of ‘racial’ generalisations about Sir Patrick Cullen being Irish.

Schutmacher has recently retired after working a very modest practice in the Midlands for decades. For all that time his business success rested on a sign in the shop window reading ‘Cure Guaranteed’. That a giving more or less everyone the same patent medicine:

SCHUTZMACHER: You see, most people get well all right if they are careful and you give them a little sensible advice. And the medicine really did them good. Parrish’s Chemical Food: phosphates, you know. One tablespoonful to a twelve-ounce bottle of water: nothing better, no matter what the case is.

2. Sir Patrick Cullen is a big, bluff, no-nonsense man, twenty years older than Ridgeon, gruff common sense, communicates mostly in grunts. Insists there’s nothing new under the sun and that all these inventions were first made 50 years ago.

SIR PATRICK: Look at your great discovery! Look at all the great discoveries! Where are they leading to? Why, right back to my poor dear old father’s ideas and discoveries.

a) It’s during their conversation that we discover precisely what Ridgeon’s knighthood is for, the discovery of a way to boost the effects of vaccination, namely accompany it with an injection of the substance he’s discovered and named opsonin.

RIDGEON: Opsonin is what you butter the disease germs with to make your white blood corpuscles eat them… [But] the phagocytes wont eat the microbes unless the microbes are nicely buttered for them. Well, the patient manufactures the butter for himself all right; but my discovery is that the manufacture of that butter, which I call opsonin, goes on in the system by ups and downs – Nature being always rhythmical, you know – and that what the inoculation does is to stimulate the ups or downs, as the case may be… I call the up-grade the positive phase and the down-grade the negative phase. Everything depends on your inoculating at the right moment. Inoculate when the patient is in the negative phase and you kill: inoculate when the patient is in the positive phase and you cure.

Sir Patrick refuses to be impressed or think any of this is new. b) Their conversation is also notable because Ridgeon tells him he’s been feeling unwell:

RIDGEON. There’s nothing wrong with any of the organs: nothing special, anyhow. But I have a curious aching: I don’t know where: I can’t localize it. Sometimes I think it’s my heart: sometimes I suspect my spine. It doesn’t exactly hurt me; but it unsettles me completely. I feel that something is going to happen. And there are other symptoms. Scraps of tunes come into my head that seem to me very pretty, though they’re quite commonplace.

He doesn’t hear voices, so he’s not going mad and Sir Patrick, true to form, dismisses it as nothing. They are interrupted by the arrival of:

3. Mr Cutler Walpole, an energetic, unhesitating surgeon of forty with ‘a general air of the well-to-do sportsman about him’, never at a loss, never in doubt. Walpole’s idée fixe is that almost all medical cases are caused by blood-poisoning and the knife is the only effective remedy.

Sir Patrick makes a general comment about Walpole’s family

SIR PATRICK. I know your Cutler Walpoles and their like. They’ve found out that a man’s body’s full of bits and scraps of old organs he has no mortal use for. Thanks to chloroform, you can cut half a dozen of them out without leaving him any the worse, except for the illness and the guineas it costs him. I knew the Walpoles well fifteen years ago. The father used to snip off the ends of people’s uvulas for fifty guineas, and paint throats with caustic every day for a year at two guineas a time. His brother-in-law extirpated tonsils for two hundred guineas until he took up women’s cases at double the fees. Cutler himself worked hard at anatomy to find something fresh to operate on; and at last he got hold of something he calls the nuciform sac, which he’s made quite the fashion. People pay him five hundred guineas to cut it out. They might as well get their hair cut for all the difference it makes; but I suppose they feel important after it. You can’t go out to dinner now without your neighbour bragging to you of some useless operation or other.

4. Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington (B.B.) – a tall man, with a head like a tall and slender egg and a marvellously healing voice. His obsession is the belief that the cure for everything is stimulating the phagocytes. He deprecates chemists and pharmacists, believing all drugs are the same.

BB: Believe me, Paddy, the world would be healthier if every chemist’s shop in England were demolished. Look at the papers! full of scandalous advertisements of patent medicines! a huge commercial system of quackery and poison.

5. Dr. Blenkinsop – a poor doctor, unsuccessful, cheaply fed and cheaply clothed.

After all these doctors have aired their views and effectively trashed their own profession, they congratulate Ridgeon one more time and leave.

Scene 3

All this time the serving woman, Emmy, has been nagging Ridgeon that a woman is waiting for him in the waiting room, who is everso worried about her husband who has tuberculosis. Finally, after all the doctors have left, this woman, Mrs Dubedat, forces her way into the see the doctor.

She explains that her husband is ill with tuberculosis but is a great artist and must be saved. Ridgeon predictably poo-poos this until Mrs D shows him some pieces from her husband’s portfolio, at which point he is very impressed. But all this leads up to formulations of the Doctor’s Dilemma. His hospital TB ward is already full with ten patients. As it is, he’s had to turn 30 others away to select these ten. Now she’s asking him to turf one of these ten out to make way for her husband.

RIDGEON: The dilemma: In every single one of those ten cases I have had to consider, not only whether the man could be saved, but whether he was worth saving. There were fifty cases to choose from; and forty had to be condemned to death. Some of the forty had young wives and helpless children. If the hardness of their cases could have saved them they would have been saved ten times over.
MRS DUBEDAT: I am asking you to save the life of a great man.
RIDGEON: You are asking me to kill another man for his sake; for as surely as I undertake another case, I shall have to hand back one of the old ones to the ordinary treatment. Well, I don’t shrink from that. I have had to do it before; and I will do it again if you can convince me that his life is more important than the worst life I am now saving. But you must convince me first.

The husband’s drawings are outstanding and Ridgeon, a bachelor, is not immune to Mrs Dubedat’s striking beauty. And so all this resolves itself into Ridgeon’s suggestion that she brings her husband along to a dinner to celebrate his knighthood to which he’s invited all the doctors we’ve seen earlier in the act. She and her husband can discuss his case with all of them.

(Small note: we learn that the wife’s name is Jennifer, which Ridgeon takes to be an unusual name, one he’s never heard before. Mrs D explains it’s a Cornish version of Guinevere.)

Act 2. The terrace of the Star and Garter, Richmond

The dinner is over and the doctors are scattered about the table or standing on the terrace admiring the view. The husband (whose name is Louis) is off showing Blenkinsop how to use a telephone so Jennifer is able to canvas the other doctors’ opinions of him. They think he’s a fine chap and his drawings are outstanding. But the key point is Ridgeon agrees to bump one of his other patents out the ward and take on Louis, to Jennifer’s immense relief.

When Louis reappears they all praise him, though it is now late in the evening so they recommend he should go home before the damp air exacerbates his TB. Then there is comedy. One by one the doctors admit that Louis touched them for a loan, and they were all so sympathetic to the charming chap that they coughed up like lambs.

  • Walpole – £20
  • BB – £10
  • Blenkinsop – half a crown (2 shillings and sixpence)

Only Schutzmacher didn’t lend him anything, despite Louis going out of his way to flatter Jews and their knowledge of art i.e. buttering him up, before asking him for a £50 loan. For some reason this leads into another extended passage about Jews, this time Schutzmacher speaking, which made me uncomfortable:

SCHUTZMACHER: Personally, I like Englishmen better than Jews, and always associate with them. That’s only natural, because, as I am a Jew, there’s nothing interesting in a Jew to me, whereas there is always something interesting and foreign in an Englishman. But in money matters it’s quite different. You see, when an Englishman borrows, all he knows or cares is that he wants money and he’ll sign anything to get it, without in the least understanding it, or intending to carry out the agreement if it turns out badly for him. In fact, he thinks you a cad if you ask him to carry it out under such circumstances. Just like the Merchant of Venice, you know. But if a Jew makes an agreement, he means to keep it and expects you to keep it. If he wants money for a time, he borrows it and knows he must pay it at the end of the time. If he knows he can’t pay, he begs it as a gift.
RIDGEON: Come, Loony! do you mean to say that Jews are never rogues and thieves?
SCHUTZMACHER: Oh, not at all. But I was not talking of criminals. I was comparing honest Englishmen with honest Jews.

At which point this puzzling disquisition is cut off because one of the hotel’s maids approaches. Without much ado she drops the bombshell that she is Louis’s real wife. Her name is Minnie Tinwell and she tells them she and Louis got married, burned through the little money they had, Louis went off to London to try and further his career, and that’s the last she heard of him till she saw him this evening.

The doctors all hear this amazing revelation and are astounded but also interested and amused. It’s at this point that Walpole remembers he lent his gold cigarette case to Louis and the blighter never returned it. The common view starts to be that Louis is a bigamist and a thief.

Now the doctors make a great fuss of all saying good night to each other, but it’s during this that Blenkinsop, the poor failure among them, reveals that he is a bit touched with tuberculosis, in one lung. the others are all the picture of concern and Walpole says he’ll drive him home.

Leaving Ridgeon and old Sir Patrick. I thought the doctor’s dilemma was whether Ridgeon should take Louis and kick one of his current ten patients out of hospital. Now, with the news that Blenkinsop has TB as well, the dilemma has come much closer. It is: Louis the artistic crook or Blenkinsop the not very productive or effective good man.

SIR PATRICK. Well, Mr Saviour of Lives: which is it to be? that honest decent man Blenkinsop, or that rotten blackguard of an artist, eh?… It would be simpler still if Dubedat had some of Blenkinsop’s honesty. The world isn’t going to be made simple for you, my lad: you must take it as it is. You’ve to hold the scales between Blenkinsop and Dubedat.
RIDGEON: It’s not an easy case to judge, is it? Blenkinsop’s an honest decent man; but is he any use? Dubedat’s a rotten blackguard; but he’s a genuine source of pretty and pleasant and good things.

They discuss the relative merits of a good man against good pictures for a while, before Ridgeon says there’s an extra aspect which is that if he doesn’t treat Dubedat and he dies, Ridgeon intends to set his cap at winning the lovely Jennifer i.e. people might think he did it deliberately.

The obvious thing to me is that the whole thing is predicated on the notion that Ridgeon possesses a uniquely effective cure for tuberculosis which he of course didn’t. And it is (deliberately) melodramatic to say that if he doesn’t take Louis as a patient he is killing him. Of course he isn’t killing him. He would just be handing him over to one of the other eminent quacks we’ve been introduced to.

Act 3. Louis Dubedat’s studio

Louis is painting Jennifer. In their dialogue we quickly learn that he is not consciously a con-man, he just doesn’t like touching Jennifer for money and hates the whole sordid subject. In particular he rebels against patrons who hassle him for the portraits they’ve paid for, and dislikes the ones who’ve insisted they’ll only pay on delivery. Obviously his reputation has got around.

Then we learn that all the doctors have invited themselves round. Louis and Jennifer innocently think it’s to hold a joint consultation, not realising how much Louis’ borrowing and stealing has set them against him.

Ridgeon is first to arrive and Jennifer goes into another room, leaving Louis to embarrassedly apologise for the state of the place, explain that he doesn’t like to sponge off Jennifer and then ask Ridgeon for the loan of £150, going on to propose a complicated scam including post-dated checks which Ridgeon indignantly refuses, before asking Ridgeon if he will promote him (Louis) to his patients.

The other doctors arrive. Walpole discovers Louis has pawned the gold cigarette case he took from him. He is quite hopeless at money but charmingly heedless of any criticism, deploying his ‘dazzling cheek’.

When they confront him with Minnie’s story he freely says she was just a little serving girl at a seaside hotel. He seduced her, they got married and ran through her life savings, plus what else he could cadge and borrow, in three short weeks, at which point he kissed her, said I’ve given you unforgettable memories and left. The doctors are staggered by his lack of remorse or what they think of as morality.

Louis – and Shaw – baits them with all being narrow conventional moralists, all too ready to jump to moralising conclusions about bigamy, and next thought about the police.

LOUIS. Oh bigamy! bigamy! bigamy! What a fascination anything connected with the police has for you all, you moralists!

Louis scandalises them even more by telling them that Jennifer is already married. She married the steward on a liner who cleared out and left her. She thinks that 3 years of no contact with a spouse makes you divorced, and so was happy to marry Louis. So Louis is immensely pleased to tell the stuff doctors that they’re both bigamists.

When they ask why he didn’t tell Jennifer he was married, he says he wanted to spare her feelings, plus make her feel respectable, as any gentleman would. The entire scene, in fact the whole character of Louis is the latest version of Shaw twitting his bourgeois Edwardian audience for their narrow morality.

LOUIS: Oh, go and do whatever the devil you please. Put Minnie in prison. Put me in prison. Kill Jennifer with the disgrace of it all. And then, when you’ve done all the mischief you can, go to church and feel good about it.

When one of them suggests turning them over to the police, Shaw has gruff old Sir Patrick deliver one of Shaw’s favourite hobby horses, which is the immorality and uselessness of prison.

SIR PATRICK. The criminal law is no use to decent people. It only helps blackguards to blackmail their families. It’ll punish not only him but everybody connected with him, innocent and guilty alike. It’ll throw his board and lodging on our rates and taxes for a couple of years, and then turn him loose on us a more dangerous blackguard than ever. It’ll put the girl in prison and ruin her: It’ll lay his wife’s life waste. You may put the criminal law out of your head once for all: it’s only fit for fools and savages.

All their threats Louis turns back on his accusers with almost Wildean delight in paradox:

LOUIS. Well, I didn’t begin it: you chaps did. It’s always the way with the inartistic professions: when they’re beaten in argument they fall back on intimidation. I never knew a lawyer who didn’t threaten to put me in prison sooner or later. I never knew a parson who didn’t threaten me with damnation. And now you threaten me with death. With all your talk you’ve only one real trump in your hand, and that’s Intimidation. Well, I’m not a coward; so it’s no use with me.

Before Louis makes the extraordinary declaration that he is a disciple of none other than George Bernard Shaw.

LOUIS: Well, you’re on the wrong tack altogether. I’m not a criminal. All your moralisings have no value for me. I don’t believe in morality. I’m a disciple of Bernard Shaw.
SIR PATRICK [puzzled]: Eh?
B.B. [waving his hand as if the subject was now disposed of]: That’s enough, I wish to hear no more.
LOUIS: Of course I haven’t the ridiculous vanity to set up to be exactly a Superman; but still, it’s an ideal that I strive towards just as any other man strives towards his ideal.
B. B. [intolerant]: Don’t trouble to explain. I now understand you perfectly. Say no more, please. When a man pretends to discuss science, morals, and religion, and then avows himself a follower of a notorious and avowed anti-vaccinationist, there is nothing more to be said…
SIR PATRICK: Bernard Shaw? I never heard of him. He’s a Methodist preacher, I suppose.
LOUIS [scandalized]: No, no. He’s the most advanced man now living…

Presumably the theatre audience of the day would have found this self-referentiality amusing and we post-moderns are impressed by the narrative’s meta-something-ness, but my main impression is of Shaw’s amazing arrogance and self-centredness. It’s not enough that his plays overflow with his obsessions and spill over into long rambling prefaces, but he has to appear in his own plays as well!

But the practical upshot of all this is that Ridgeon washes his hands of Louis and refuses to treat him. He hands Louis over to Walpole who, predictably enough, decides that Louis is suffering from blood-poisoning which will require the removal of his nuciform sac. But he is dumbfounded when Louis, counter-intuitively, asks how much Walpole will pay him for the fun of cutting him open.

LOUIS: Well, you don’t expect me to let you cut me up for nothing, do you?

which has the flavour of counter-intuitive Wildean paradox. If Walpole rejects him there’s only one doctor left, Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington. BB now makes a contribution to the debate which is thin and silly. The best he can come up with is that, when you consider many of his patients, no matter how much they pay in fees, frankly a lot of them would be better off dead. This isn’t a position of moral philosophy or practical guidance, more after-dinner gossip. Instead he says he’ll treat Louis simply because he made a promise to his wife to do so, even though he thinks he’s ‘a vicious and ignorant young man’.

The joke is that through all these pompous speeches Louis has been doing a sketch of Sir Patrick and triggers the doctors into a bidding war for it. He manages to get the bidding up to twelve guineas, for which price BB buys it and presents it as a gift to Sir Patrick.

At this point Louis proposes to invite Jennifer back into the room and asks the doctors to behave like gentlemen. This leads to a lot of comic irony because, as gentlemen, they cannot speak openly about that they’ve learned of the couple’s bigamy, nor their low opinion of Louis, so are limited to conventional compliments and vagueness, leaving Jennifer quite puzzled.

Still, she is puzzled when Sir Patrick and Walpole hasten to leave and then appalled when BB says he will be taking on the case. She had hoped Sir Colenso… but BB is so vainly full of himself that he takes her dismay for embarrassment at securing such a magnificent physician. Maybe pomposity, and puncturing it, are the most enduring subjects of comedy. BB exits.

This leaves Ridgeon alone with Jennifer and coping with her real upset that he’s abandoned her. he tactfully says the place he had assigned to Louis must be taken by his colleague Blenkinsop.

The dialogue takes a turn when Jennifer angrily blames him. She says people are always turning against Louis and it can only be because he is so superior to them, he is an artist etc. Ridgeon has to tactfully agree because, as a gentleman, he cannot reveal what a low ‘reptile’ he and the doctors have come to think Louis. So there is comic irony in the audience knowing what a plight Ridgeon is in.

She asks him to sit by her and launches into a great speech about what a good man Louis is: oh, sometimes he’s forgetful about money but he’s promised her he will never again borrow any; and his wild talk about morality makes the narrow-minded think he is wicked; and he is a little susceptible to women but only because they throw themselves at him so – piling on multiple layers of irony because Ridgeon and the audience know how comprehensively Louis is deceiving her, and breaking all his promises.

Things take a more pathetic turn when she goes on to describe her childhood in Cornwall, an only child with very little contact with other people (which explains, to Ridgeon, he naivety and gullibility). And take a potentially tragic turn, when Jennifer explains that she has devoted her life to his career and so, if she ever lost faith in him, she would ‘it would mean the wreck and failure of my life’. She would go back to Cornwall and throw herself off a cliff. She assures him she could show him the very cliff she has in mind.

So this is the real doctor’s dilemma: should Ridgeon tell Jennifer the truth about her husband, destroy her image of him, and trigger her suicide? or should he break his own moral rules and blatantly and massively lie about her husband’s character?

Once again Jennifer begs him to take Louis on but Ridgeon replies with the deepest sincerity that the only way to preserve her hero, in her eyes, is to let Sir Ralph (BB) treat him.

RIDGEON: You must believe me when I tell you that the one chance of preserving the hero lies in Louis being in the care of Sir Ralph.

On this promise the act ends and I was initially puzzled. Did he want to hand Louis over to BB because having BB treat him means Ridgeon will avoid in future excruciating tests like this, where he was tested within an inch to spilling the beans and telling her what her husband is really like? But when I read the opening of Act 4 I realised it’s because Ridgeon knows for a certainty that BB’s quack mistreatment will quickly kill off Louis, preserve Jennifer’s illusions, and so stop her committing suicide.

The choice is not between Louis and poor Blenkinsop, it is between Louis and his wife, and the wife wins. You can rationalise Ridgeon’s decision because he has seen how Louis, despite the superficial attractiveness of his devil-may-care attitude, has actually used and exploited a naive gullible young woman. He deserves what he’s going to get.

Act 4. Louis Dubedat’s studio, three day later

Louis is ill. The doctors arrive, Ridgeon last of all. Sir Patrick tells him that Louis is at death’s door. He’s gone through three months of galloping consumption in just three days. Sir Patrick thinks he won’t last the afternoon. The doctors squabble among themselves, BB wondering if he over-stimulated the phagocytes, Walpole accuses him of killing the patient by ignoring the obvious diagnosis of blood poisoning.

Through their bickering we realise an unpleasant fact. BB administered Ridgeon’s discovery, opsonin but without taking notice of whether the patient was in an up phase or down phase. Remember Ridgeon explaining that the timing was crucial: administer it in an up phase and the patient will recover, but in a down phase and the patient will die. Ridgeon handed Louis over to BB in a down phase, more or less certain the injection of his vaccine would kill him.

Jennifer is wearing a nurse’s apron and distraught. Into this difficult scene comes a journalist who has asked to interview the artist. Shaw gives his opinion of journalists in no uncertain terms:

a cheerful, affable young man who is disabled for ordinary business pursuits by a congenital erroneousness which renders him incapable of describing accurately anything he sees, or understanding or reporting accurately anything he hears. As the only employment in which these defects do not matter is journalism (for a newspaper, not having to act on its description and reports, but only to sell them to idly curious people, has nothing but honour to lose by inaccuracy and unveracity), he has perforce become a journalist, and has to keep up an air of high spirits through a daily struggle with his own illiteracy and the precariousness of his employment.

And Walpole is wonderfully abusive and condescending towards him, too. Louis is wheeled into the studio in an invalid’s chair. There follows a long colloquy between the dying man and Jennifer in which he makes her promise to wear lovely clothes and marry again and preserve his memory. Ridgeon cynically observes that Louis is playing the part of The Dying Man but that doesn’t stop him giving a command performance, including a great hymn to art. It’s hard to know how seriously this is intended but it’s not particularly enjoyable.

Eventually he dies, the doctors feel his pulse etc. Jennifer exists the room. Ridgeon adjusts the bed and says some harsh words. He was not at all reconciled to Louis. The newspaperman asks a few impertinent questions but is quickly turned out by BB. it’s difficult to see why he was ever there. The doctors make fools of themselves waxing painfully lyrical about death. BB is given a comic moment where he ridiculously misquotes Shakespeare to his fellow docs but a) you’d have to know a bit of Shakespeare to realise that’s what he’s doing and b) it isn’t really very funny.

Mrs Dubedat returns dressed up to the nines and dazzles them. She grandly announces they have all been witnesses to a great man i.e. she has preserved her illusion to the end, and Ridgeon has solved his dilemma. So what is left for the fifth act, I wondered.

Act 5. A Bond Street art gallery

It is an exhibition of Louis’s work. The scene opens with some business between Jennifer and the secretary of the gallery, Mr Danby, regarding the catalogues and some advance press reviews, Shaw throwing a few satirical barbs about art critics only attending launches if there’s a free lunch etc. There are also copies of the biography of her husband which Jennifer’s written. Jennifer pops out to chivvy the printers about the catalogues.

The point is that Ridgeon arrives, has a word with the secretary, then has a look at the pictures very carefully, using a magnifying glass. The secretary himself pops out, leaving Ridgeon the only person. Jennifer walks back in not realising Ridgeon has arrived. He backs away from a picture muttering the telling comment, ‘Clever brute!’ which Jennifer overhears and flinches. They come face to face.

Jennifer is aloofly angry. She says she bumped into Dr Blenkinsop and saw that he had made a complete recovery… unlike her husband. Ridgeon tells her to spit it out so she does. She accuses him of being cruel and callous. All patients are just brutes to him, he cannot appreciate sensitivity etc etc.

Ridgeon asks he if she realises that he killed Louis but she takes him to mean, inadvertently, and softens a little, since this amounts to a confession or admission of guilt. But Ridgeon has committed to being utterly truthful and now explains that when he uses his medicine, correctly, it cures, as with Blenkinsop. But he deliberately gave it to BB knowing he would use it incorrectly and it would kill Louis.

Ridgeon makes the extraordinary admission that he did so because he was in love with her. She thinks this is ridiculous because he’s an old man at least 20 years older than her, and this deflates Ridgeon who slumps on a sofa and loses his elan.

But Jennifer asks if he deliberately murdered her husband and he admits it. She is scornful that he murdered someone in the ludicrous belief that she could ever be his. But Ridgeon goes on to explain that he also did it to protect her. Her besotted devotion to her hero eventually exasperates Ridgeon and he breaks his own promise and bluntly tells her what all the doctors thought of her husband:

RIDGEON. What truth! Why, that Louis Dubedat, King of Men, was the most entire and perfect scoundrel, the most miraculously mean rascal, the most callously selfish blackguard that ever made a wife miserable.

Which is, of course, pointless, because she refuses to believe it. That is not the man she knew and loved. The more Ridgeon tries to indict Louis, the more she pities Ridgeon for not being able to see the truth. But it’s then that she drops the bombshell. Louis (in his long speech) said he disliked widows, and she has married again! Staggered, Ridgeon makes his farewell and walks out.

Medical knowledge

Among other things, the play points at the immense ignorance of doctors for most of human history and the utter uselessness of almost all their treatments – but comically dramatises how their ignorance about disease or most illnesses didn’t stop doctors making sweeping, ignorant generalisations and charging their parents a fortune for completely worthless treatments.

All the hundreds of nostrums recommended for tuberculosis or ‘consumption’ as it was called in the nineteenth century, were worthless compared to antibiotics which only began to be prescribed for it at the end of the Second World War.

Tuberculosis (TB) is an infectious disease that most often affects the lungs and is caused by a type of bacteria. It spreads through the air when infected people cough, sneeze or spit… Tuberculosis disease is treated with antibiotics. (WHO website)

A series of dilemmas

Initially, I thought the play was about the strictly medical dilemma of deciding whether a man should be given priority treatment because he’s a good artist, condemning one of the other patients in the hospital to being kicked out of the war. But it ends up not being at all the play I was expecting, as it moves through a whole series of problems.

Then, when Blenkinsop reveals that he too has TB, the dilemma becomes a much more acute decision about whether to treat Dubedat or Blenkinsop.

But then it becomes something a lot less interesting, which is the choice between telling the truth and wrecking a woman’s illusions, or letting a bad man die and preserving them?

And then, right at the end, it turns out to have been a sort of twisted love affair all along, one that feels hurried and contrived at the end, with the last-line-of-the-play revelation that Ridgeon’s agonised decision was all for nothing.

As to the first, more medical versions of the dilemma, the trouble with the play, as with many Shaw plays, is that it raises an interesting subject but then deals with it in such a superficial way. The passages where the doctors discuss the morality of preferring this patient over another, or how you value someone’s life, are surprisingly thin and boring. Shaw has a feel for the drama of ideas without any depth of actual thought. This is what makes so many of the plays feel entertaining but thin.

As to the second theme, the choice between exposing Louis or preserving Jennifer’s illusions, this is much more familiar territory and feels like the kind of choice which goes back to ancient Greek theatre and resonates through all literature. Close to Shaw’s time it is the same dilemma which confronts Marlow at the end of Heart of Darkness between telling a devastating truth or a saving lie.

And then, right at the end, at the last minute, it turns into a frustrated love story with Jennifer’s studied rejection of Ridgeon’s pitiful declaration of love, and the whole thing feels like it’s moved into completely new territory, utterly unconnected with the moral and ethical problems stated at the start.

Movie version

The play was turned into a 1958 movie directed by Anthony Asquith and starring Leslie Caron, Dirk Bogarde, Alastair Sim, and Robert Morley. I love all those old actors but it looks dire, doesn’t it?

Thoughts

It has its moments and you can admire the structural ideas such as the parade of obsessive doctors, or the portrait of a genuinely amoral artist – but somehow it doesn’t hang together. Despite some funny ideas, ‘The Doctor’s Dilemma’ is, in the end, boring, for a number of reasons:

1) The portrayal of the medical profession as a collection of cranks is moderately funny but also very wordy. Morley’s speech in the trailer, above, demonstrates how wordy and clotted the subject quickly becomes.

2) As discussed above, the play can’t make up its mind what it’s about. The initial dilemma only emerges slowly and I wasn’t completely sure it was the central dilemma till half way through at which point it morphs into the ‘save Jennifer’ theme, and then, at the end, turns into a quite bitter story of frustrated love and delusion. Each new manifestation of the central theme eclipses the one before until the bitter end which leaves you puzzling what it was all about.

3) Crucially, there is no one sympathetic character. Pygmalion was and is a hit because the two central leads are so strong and distinctive. No-one here has the same depth of character, least of all Sir Colenso who the play opens with and is the doctor with the supposed dilemma, but who remains a pale shadow all the way through and certainly nowhere nearly strong enough to carry the kind of emotional weight which Shaw very abruptly gives him in the short last act where he painfully reveals that he loves Jennifer only to be comprehensively rejected. The transformation from the cool, calculating medic of most of the play to the pathetic failure-in-love of the last few pages doesn’t work at all, for me.

Similarly, Jennifer never really engages our sympathy: her threat of suicide feels stagy and forced and her last-page revelation that she’s got married feels stupefyingly forced.

The amoral Louis has a bravura scene at the start of Act 3 where he dominates the stage with his devil-may-care rejection of conventional morality but he isn’t given the prominence that his character requires, he feels like a bit player in his own story, and then I couldn’t get the measure of his death scene at all, was it intended that there shouldn’t be a dry eye in the house, because he is made to be far too arch and knowing for that to work?

It’s full of juicy moments, but the Doctor’s Dilemma feels like a failure to me.


Related links

Bernard Shaw reviews

Preface to Major Barbara by George Bernard Shaw (1905)

I, the dramatist, whose business it is to show the connection between things that seem apart and unrelated in the haphazard order of events in real life…
(Shaw describes his role in the Preface to Major Barbara)

George Bernard Shaw became notorious for the long prefaces he attached to his many plays. The preface to Major Barbara is one of the longest, at 40 pages long! So long it is divided into sections with their own headings. I’d heard so much about Shaw’s prefaces that I was really looking forward to their wit and wisdom, to learning something but this one felt like 40 pages of often dazzling, sometimes incomprehensible, but ultimately pointless rhetoric.

First aid to critics

Shaw has a very poor opinion of British critics and so explains that his preface is so long because he is going to explain the major themes of his play to them and how to think and write about it.

For starters, as a prologue, Shaw takes critics to task who, whenever he tackles a serious subject, accuse him of being influenced by Ibsen or Nietzsche or Schopenhauer or some fancy Continental thinker. Shaw irritably declares that he was much more influenced by little-known British writers such as:

  • the Irish novelist Charles Lever, whose novel ‘A Day’s Ride: A Life’s Romance’ contains the theme of the clash between romantic ideals and harsh reality
  • the amoral antinomianism of Ernest Belfort Bax who defended the positive value of crime
  • Captain Wilson who criticised Christianity for its slave morality who criticised the Sermon on the Mount as a justification of cowardice and servility
  • or the historian Stuart-Glennie who argued that Christianity was invented by white races to subjugate all the other races of the world

The Gospel of Andrew Undershaft

Here beginneth Shaw’s explanation of his play. He tells us that he conceived the character of Andrew Undershaft as a man who has grasped that the greatest human value is to avoid being poor. He picks up the typical middle-class comment ‘Let him [the working man] be poor’ and asks what it means in practice:

It means let him be weak. Let him be ignorant. Let him become a nucleus of disease. Let him be a standing exhibition and example of ugliness and dirt. Let him have rickety children. Let him be cheap and let him drag his fellows down to his price by selling himself to do their work. Let his habitations turn our cities into poisonous congeries of slums. Let his daughters infect our young men with the diseases of the streets and his sons revenge him by turning the nation’s manhood into scrofula, cowardice, cruelty, hypocrisy, political imbecility, and all the other fruits of oppression and malnutrition.

Shaw turns to the play and says he conceived of Undershaft, ‘resolute and clearsighted’, as a man who has grasped the great truth that you ought to do anything, anything at all, to avoid being poor. Against him is contrasted Peter Shirley, a feeble specimen of the weak-willed ‘deserving poor’ who is incapable of bettering himself and always complaining about his lot.

Shaw lambasts high-minded do-gooders like William Morris with his fancy arts and crafts for not grasping the basic fact that most people do not want hand-designed wallpaper or expensive editions of Chaucer, they want more money.

Money is the most important thing in the world. It represents health, strength, honour, generosity and beauty as conspicuously and undeniably as the want of it represents illness, weakness, disgrace, meanness and ugliness.

Thus:

The crying need of the nation is not for better morals, cheaper bread, temperance, liberty, culture, redemption of fallen sisters and erring brothers, nor the grace, love and fellowship of the Trinity, but simply for enough money. And the evil to be attacked is not sin, suffering, greed, priestcraft, kingcraft, demagogy, monopoly, ignorance, drink, war, pestilence, nor any other of the scapegoats which reformers sacrifice, but simply poverty.

The Salvation Army

Critics thought he was mocking the Salvation Army or took Barbara’s view that it should never accept tainted money, but Shaw spends several pages explaining that all money is tainted, none of us can stand all of from the exploitation inherent in our society, and the real life Salvation Army officer who exclaimed that of course they’d accept the donations of a distiller and an arms manufacturer, ‘they would take money from the devil himself and be only too glad to get it out of his hands and into God’s.’ Army officers he quizzed questioned the plausibility of the play not because Mrs Baines accepted the tainted money but because Barbara refused it. The fact that so many playgoers and critics saw her gesture as noble and good indicates how out of touch with ‘the life of the nation’ so many playgoers and critics are.

Barbara’s Return to the Colours

Shaw makes the simple but striking point that fine writing changes nothing, only physical force changes society. It is a truism to claim that Voltaire, Rousseau and the Encyclopedists caused the French Revolution but it’s also wrong. When Voltaire was at the peak of his career, French society only became more repressive and barbaric. The simple truth is that only physical force changes things. Likewise the nineteenth century in Britain had the high-minded writings of its Utilitarians, its Christian Socialists, its Fabians, of Bentham, Mill, Dickens, Ruskin, Carlyle, Butler, Henry George and Morris but they changed nothing. Only strikes and illegal organisation among working men changed anything.

Which is why Shaw finds it extremely significant that the Salvation Army is named and organised as an army, and that its chief campaign is for money. Both of these aspects denote a realism about how society needs to be changed.

Weaknesses of the Salvation Army

That said, he bemoans its Christianity, its ties to arch conservatives and old-school evangelists. This section disappears into squabbles about whether Salvationists do or don’t believe in an afterlife, what kind of afterlife, whether belief in an afterlife robs death of its sting etc, all of which feels like dancing on a pinhead which has been stomped into the ground millions of times over the past two thousand years.

He disapproves their habit of sinners making a grand confession of their previous sinful lives before they saw the light, as this just encourages exaggeration or downright lies. He goes on to attack Christianity (as far as I can make out) claiming that:

the Salvation Army instinctively grasps the central truth of Christianity and discards its central superstition: that central truth being the vanity of revenge and punishment, and that central superstition the salvation of the world by the gibbet.

Who cares. Christianity has no place in modern public life which is, as I write in 2024, more dogged by worries about Judaism and Islam. But it was 120 years ago and the play is about the Salvation Army so Shaw continues with his paradoxical and provocative views:

Forgiveness, absolution, atonement, are figments: punishment is only a pretence of cancelling one crime by another; and you can no more have forgiveness without vindictiveness than you can have a cure without a disease.

You can see how this chimes with his view that imprisoning people for crime is barbaric, simply returning one crime for another. the trouble with all Shaw’s clever demolitions of contemporary social values is it’s hard to make out what he would put in their place. If we don’t lock up rapists and murderers, what should we do with them?

It gets, in my opinion, worse, as Shaw rambles on to talk about super successful millionaire businessmen.

Our commercial millionaires to-day, they begin as brigands: merciless, unscrupulous, dealing out ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and employees, and facing desperately the worst that their competitors can do to them. The history of the English factories, the American trusts, the exploitation of African gold, diamonds, ivory and rubber, outdoes in villainy the worst that has ever been imagined of the buccaneers of the Spanish Main.

We might all agree about the exploitation of Africa, but did English factory owners, mine owners, big businessmen deal out ‘ruin and death and slavery to their competitors and employees’? No, not really. And the unreliable exaggeration of this renders everything which follows flaky and invalid. For he goes on to describe the type of the successful tycoon who believes his own propaganda, writes books of advice, sponsors charitable foundations etc. I guess he’s describing the John D Rockefellers of his age. Would the same apply to our modern leading charitable millionaires, Elton John, David Sainsbury, Dame Janet de Botton, Sigrid Rausing?

Anyway, all this degenerates into the kind of wordy gibberish Shaw is so prone to:

just as our persistent attempts to found political institutions on a basis of social inequality have always produced long periods of destructive friction relieved from time to time by violent explosions of revolution; so the attempt – will Americans please note — to found moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality can lead to nothing but unnatural Reigns of the Saints relieved by licentious Restorations; to Americans who have made divorce a public institution turning the face of Europe into one huge sardonic smile by refusing to stay in the same hotel with a Russian man of genius who has changed wives without the sanction of South Dakota; to grotesque hypocrisy, cruel persecution, and final utter confusion of conventions and compliances with benevolence and respectability.

‘To found moral institutions on a basis of moral inequality’ 1) I don’t quite understand what ‘moral institutions’ are or what ‘moral inequality’ means so 2) I can’t see any way it applies to anything in the real world.

Shaw comes out with sweeping but schoolboy criticisms of society:

Churches are suffered to exist only on condition that they preach submission to the State as at present capitalistically organized.

The police and the military are the instruments by which the rich rob and oppress the poor (on legal and moral principles made for the purpose)…

These sound like the childish nostrums of 1960s radicals who all grew up and went into advertising, silly on so many levels. Would you expect the state religion to preach violent overthrow of the status quo? How would that work? And as we discovered during the Thatcher years, sometimes the greatest opposition to the government’s policy came from senior figures in the Church of England.

As to the police, it is another old chestnut that they oppress the poor but 1) what happens if you defund the police and withdraw any force of law and order from inner cities? Do they become paradises of ‘moral equality’? Nope. Surely the police are the least worst option in terms of trying to curb the evil instincts of so many men. And 2) it is 40 years of neo-liberal economics, with its casualisation of millions of low-paid jobs, the lack of social housing and the demonisation of benefits scroungers which oppress the poor, not cops whizzing round in fancy cars.

Christianity and Anarchism

Thus, according to Shaw, the Salvation Army and all organised religions are placed in a false position until society is comprehensibly restructured. Shaw refers to the Morral Affair without (as is the habit of him and so many of the authors of his age) giving the necessary names or details. The reader has to turn to Wikipedia to find out what he’s on about.

On May 31, 1906, Mateu Morral threw a bomb at King Alfonso XIII’ of Spains car as he returned with Victoria Eugenie from their wedding in Madrid. It was a year to the date following a similar attack on his carriage. The bomb was concealed in a bouquet of flowers. While the King and Queen emerged unscathed, 24 bystanders and soldiers were killed and over 100 more wounded. A British colonel observing the scene compared it to one of war. The bride’s wedding gown was splattered with horse blood.

But Shaw seems to imply that the attack was justified.

The horses alone are innocent of the guilt he is avenging: had he blown all Madrid to atoms with every adult person in it, not one could have escaped the charge of being an accessory, before, at, and after the fact, to poverty and prostitution, to such wholesale massacre of infants as Herod never dreamt of, to plague, pestilence and famine, battle, murder and lingering death – perhaps not one who had not helped, through example, precept, connivance, and even clamour, to teach the dynamiter his well-learnt gospel of hatred and vengeance, by approving every day of sentences of years of imprisonment so infernal in its unnatural stupidity and panic-stricken cruelty, that their advocates can disavow neither the dagger nor the bomb without stripping the mask of justice and humanity from themselves also.

So do I deserve to be blown up by a terrorist bomb because I acquiesce in all the poverty and exploitation to be found in contemporary London? As he continues his narrative, Shaw seems to sympathise with the Madrid newspaper editor who helped the assassin escape, at least temporarily, from the Spanish police, while his bile is especially reserved for public opinion across Europe – ‘the raging fire of malice’ – which was horrified at the mass murder of the bombing.

Maybe Shaw would have approved of 9/11 on the basis of his claim that none of us are innocent? Or, closer to home, of the 7 July 2005 London bombings? That seems to be the logical consequence of his claim that no one who lives in a capitalist society is innocent of the exploitation inherent in capitalism. We all deserve to be blown up.

Sane Conclusions

Shaw continues with his hobbyhorse against the police and against any form of judicial punishment, especially the ‘barbarity’ of imprisonment. Instead he suggests every man is an anarchist when it comes to laws which are against their consciences. At times of great social change, institutions and laws need to change with them but rarely do, end up being 50 years or more out of date with the result that most sane men break them with a clean conscience.

As so many writers of this ilk do, he appeals not to data or facts, but to his own personality:

Here am I, for instance, by class a respectable man, by common sense a hater of waste and disorder, by intellectual constitution legally minded to the verge of pedantry, and by temperament apprehensive and economically disposed to the limit of old-maidishness; yet I am, and have always been, and shall now always be, a revolutionary writer, because our laws make law impossible; our liberties destroy all freedom; our property is organized robbery; our morality is an impudent hypocrisy; our wisdom is administered by inexperienced or malexperienced dupes, our power wielded by cowards and weaklings, and our honor false in all its points. I am an enemy of the existing order for good reasons; but that does not make my attacks any less encouraging or helpful to people who are its enemies for bad reasons. The existing order may shriek that if I tell the truth about it, some foolish person may drive it to become still worse by trying to assassinate it but I cannot help that…

Schoolboy rubbish. Do our ‘liberties destroy all freedom’? No, rubbish. Is property organised robbery? No. Is our morality an impudent hypocrisy? Well, take the general moral agreement that murder is bad, is that some kind of hypocrisy?

It feels intolerably weak, lame and inadequate that all the preceding bombast of this 40-page effusion ends up with this combination of crass exaggeration and egotistical self obsession.

Shaw’s solutions

And his two solutions for all this? Are close to incomprehensible.

First, the daily ceremony of dividing the wealth of the country among its inhabitants shall be so conducted that no crumb shall go to any able-bodied adults who are not producing by their personal exertions not only a full equivalent for what they take, but a surplus sufficient to provide for their superannuation and pay back the debt due for their nurture.

This is nonsense. Nearly half the adult population of Britain is incapable of productive work due to long-term sickness, mental illness, addiction or caring responsibilities for children or others. Next?

The second is that the deliberate infliction of malicious injuries which now goes on under the name of punishment be abandoned; so that the thief, the ruffian, the gambler, and the beggar, may without inhumanity be handed over to the law, and made to understand that a State which is too humane to punish will also be too thrifty to waste the life of honest men in watching or restraining dishonest ones. That is why we do not imprison dogs. We even take our chance of their first bite. But if a dog delights to bark and bite, it goes to the lethal chamber. That seems to me sensible.

To be absolutely clear:

It would be far more sensible to put up with their vices, as we put up with their illnesses, until they give more trouble than they are worth, at which point we should, with many apologies and expressions of sympathy, and some generosity in complying with their last wishes, then, place them in the lethal chamber and get rid of them.

So there are Shaw’s solutions to Britain’s social problems: everyone must be forced to work; any criminal will be tolerated until their behaviour becomes completely unacceptable at which point they will be liquidated. Any goodwill Shaw generated earlier in this grotesque essay surely evaporates at this point. On the last page he explains at length that the churches and Christianity, by offering unlimited redemption, only encourage lowlife criminals or criminal capitalists like Bodger to carry on with their crime indefinitely. The only way to stop it is not endless fol-de-rol of atonement and forgiveness but the iron law of annihilation. To ensure there’s no doubt he repeats his two key points:

We shall never have real moral responsibility until everyone knows 1) that his deeds are irrevocable, and 2) that his life depends on his usefulness.

Is this Swiftian satire or does he mean it? In which case, surely he was a proto-Nazi?


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Bernard Shaw reviews

Major Barbara by George Bernard Shaw (1905)

‘What is all human conduct but the daily and hourly sale of our souls for trifles?’
(Canny professor of Greek Adolphus Cusins justifying his decision to join her father’s arms company to his fiancée, Barbara, in Major Barbara, Act 3)

‘Arms and The Man’ and ‘Candida’ were disappointing. ‘Major Barbara’ is the first Bernard Shaw play I’ve read that feels really worth reading and staging. Despite its obvious shortcomings, it feels like a major work, if in a slightly idiosyncratic way.

Act 1. Lady Britomart Undershaft’s library

There are three acts. In act 1 we learn that the redoubtable Lady Britomart Undershaft is separated from her husband, the world famous arms manufacturer, Andrew Undershaft. Lady B has three grown-up children:

  • Sarah, ‘slender, bored, and mundane’, is engaged to the silly Bertie Wooster type, Charles Lomax, nicknamed Cholly
  • Barbara, ‘robuster, jollier, much more energetic’, is a Major in the Salvation Army and going out with Adolphus Cusins, nicknamed Dolly, not quite as posh dim as Cholly; he is a Professor of ancient Greek
  • and Stephen

Critics always talk about Shaw’s ‘wit’ but this play is genuinely funny. Not for its wit, though. I’ve just read Oscar Wilde’s plays and Shaw isn’t in the same league. Occasionally a character says something which might be witty if Shaw had taken a few more weeks to hone it. No, what’s funny is the characterisation. Lady Britomart is a very amusing battleaxe who treats Stephen like a poodle which needs training and he jumps at her every command.

The first half or so of the act consists of her telling him the realities of their situation. These comprise two facts. Although she’s separated from Undershaft, the entire household still lives off his money. But now that both Barbara and Sarah look like getting married to unreliable and not-very-wealthy spouses, they will need more money settled on them.

That’s why she’s invited Undershaft to the house this evening. He hasn’t seen his three children for many years and pathetic Stephen is terrified at being confronted by the Great Man after so many years, but Lady B insists the meeting must take place because he and his two sisters are going to need the money.

The second, very odd fact which Lady B reveals to Stephen is that the Undershafts have been running arms factories since the times of King James I (reigned 1603 to 1625) and that each successful Undershaft has adopted a son to succeed him. He might have any number of biological children but the torch can only be passed to an adopted one.

And with this fact – which feels like it’s out of a fairy tale – Lady B calls Stephen’s sisters and their wet boyfriends down from the drawing room and warns them all of Undershaft’s impending arrival. There is a good deal of character comedy regarding Charles Lomax, but it isn’t ‘wit’, it’s crude sitcom-level gags based on the simple notion that Lomax is an upper-class twit who speaks entirely in the slang of an Edwardian Bertie Wooster: ‘Ripping! Oh I say! But really, don’t you know! Must be a regular corker!’

Similarly, when Undershaft arrives, promptly at 9pm, there is some broad humour which has nothing much to do with ‘wit’ because it is farce. This is that Undershaft is so indifferent to his children that he’s forgotten how many he has and initially thinks the two fiancés are his as well. Thus he addresses the other two men as his son, Stephen, before he gets it right third time. He then mixes up Sarah and Barbara. Not much ‘wit’ but it is genuinely funny.

Then there’s a bit of moral lecturing which was boring, with Undershaft shamelessly defending his making money by being an arms manufacturer while Stephen and Barbara mount an attack on his position based on Christianity and morality. They think there is only One Truth, Undershaft thinks there are many ‘truths’. That’s it, really. Not very deep.

But for the sake of having a play at all, Barbara dares Undershaft to come visit her Salvation Army shelter in the East End and Undershaft agrees, on condition that she will visit his munitions factory at Perivale St Andrews. So there you have acts 2 and 3 set up.

Act 2. The yard of the West Ham Salvation Army shelter

Is long and exhausting. It’s set in the yard of the Salvation Army’s Mile End shelter.

First we are introduced to half a dozen working class types down on their luck, being a layabout painter and con artist (Bronterre O’Brien ‘Snobby’ Price), a poor housewife feigning to be a fallen woman (Romola ‘Rummy’ Mitchens), an older labourer fired for being too old (Peter Shirley), and a bully (Bill Walker). Walker has come to find his partner who’s run away from his abusive behaviour. He threatens the others, then pulls the hair and punches the face of one of the working class staff at the shelter, Jenny Hill, who runs inside sobbing.

The striking feature of this scene is that the accents of all the working class characters are depicted using phonetic spelling.

PRICE: Ere, buck up, daddy! She’s fetchin y’a thick slice o breadn treacle, an a mug o skyblue.

Not only that but, on closer inspection, Shaw distinguishes between their Cockney accents. The first 3 or 4 characters are depicted in such a way that most of their words can be spelled conventionally. This is less true of the disruptive figure, the wife beater and violent sceptic, Bill Walker whose speech is that bit rougher:

BILL: If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I’d give you suthink you’d feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you’ll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you’ll be: wore aht.

Major Barbara emerges and we get an extended and vivid portrait of her ability to upbraid Walker without actually telling him off. Instead he shames him with his actions, adamantly insisting that it is not for her to convert him, it is his own conscience which will convert him. Which makes him wriggle with shame and embarrassment. The older man who’s been let go tells him he’s not so hard, he knows a man could take him on:

SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him.

And angry at this insult to his manhood, but also embarrassed by Barbara’s shaming of him, Bill swaggers out of the Army yard to find this Todger Fairmile.

Mr Undershaft arrives and is impressed by Barbara’s handling of these difficult situations. Barbara’s fiancé Cusins is there, helping out, literally banging a big drum as a part of the Army band.

When the others go inside for a moment, Undershaft tells Cusins he knows the latter doesn’t believe any of this stuff, is not a true believer. Cusins readily admits it but says he is interested in all religions. Undershaft tells him about his religion which has two central beliefs: Money and Gunpowder. To be precise:

UNDERSHAFT: There are two things necessary to salvation.
CUSINS [disappointed, but polite]: Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church…
UNDERSHAFT: The two things are –
CUSINS: Baptism and –
UNDERSHAFT: No. Money and gunpowder.
CUSINS [surprised, but interested]: That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it.
UNDERSHAFT: Just so.
CUSINS: Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth?
UNDERSHAFT: Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life.
CUSINS: Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder?
UNDERSHAFT: Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others.
CUSINS: That is your religion?
UNDERSHAFT: Yes.

Can’t be much clearer than that.

The act reaches its climax when Mrs Baines, head of the Army’s local branch, comes out of the shelter to tell Jenny and Barbara the wonderful news that Lord Saxmundham has agreed to make a generous donation to the Army of £5,000. This will keep the shelters open right across London and allow the Army to continue doing its good work. However, there’s a catch. He’ll only give the money on condition they can find five other donors to give £1,000 each, making up £10,000.

Hearing all this, Undershaft sits down to write a check out on the spot. However, some of the others point out that Lord Saxmumdham is the knighted name of Sir Horace Bodger the distiller, whose mass production of alcoholic beverages contributes to the ruin of England’s working classes. And Undershaft, of course, owes his fortune to instruments of death and destruction. This rather inevitably leads to a set-piece debate between Mrs Baines, who says Think of all the good we can do with this money, and Barbara, who says they shouldn’t take it because it is tainted.

One by one all the others come down on the side of taking the money, even her boyfriend Cusins, who is well aware of the multiple ironies or moral dilemmas involved, but jokily calls for a big celebration.

The net effect of all this is devastating on Barbara. During the course of the debate she loses her faith. She ends up taking the Salvation Army lapel badge off her coat and pinning it on her father. The others join the band which is waiting to go marching through the streets to a revivalist meeting, playing Christian hymns, but Barbara is weak with disillusionment and says she won’t be coming.

None of which is helped by thuggish Bill (who’s returned from Canning Town after receiving a beating from Todger) mocking her:

BILL: It’s nao good: you cawnt get rahnd me nah. Aw downt blieve in it; and Awve seen tody that Aw was right… [Turning at the gate] Wot prawce selvytion nah? Ha! Ha!

This is the deciding factor. In Act 3 Barbara spells out what the loss of Bill, who was so close to coming over to her side – to converting – really meant to her:

BARBARA: Do you understand what you have done to me? Yesterday I had a man’s soul in my hand. I set him in the way of life with his face to salvation. But when we took your money he turned back to drunkenness and derision. [With intense conviction] I will never forgive you that. If I had a child, and you destroyed its body with your explosives – if you murdered Dolly with your horrible guns – I could forgive you if my forgiveness would open the gates of heaven to you. But to take a human soul from me, and turn it into the soul of a wolf! that is worse than any murder.

Act 3

Scene 1. Lady Britomart’s library

Lady B and her daughters are present. First dim Lomx then smarter Cusins enter and are both startled that Barbara is, for the first time since they’ve known her, not wearing the uniform of the Salvation Army but the outfit of a conventional Edwardian lady.

Turns out Cusins attended the Salvation Army rally the night before, which was a howling triumph with no fewer than 117 conversions, then went back to Undershaft’s place and got heroically drunk on brandy, all the time delving deeper into Undershaft’s glamorous amorality.

When the servant Morrison announces that Mr Undershaft has arrived, Lady B sends all the young people to get dressed for going out (to the arms factory). This means she is alone when Undershaft enters and enables them to discuss the future. First she makes explicit demands for money for Sarah and Barbara which Undershaft immediately agrees to.

This clears the way to the heart of their conversation which is about Stephen. Lady B insists Undershaft makes Stephen his successor at the arms company but Undershaft refuses, saying 1) Stephen is completely unsuitable 2) anyway, the fairy tale tradition requires that he can only pass on chairmanship in the company to a foundling. At this point Stephen enters and disappoints his mother but delights Undershaft by saying he doesn’t want to run the company or go into business; he wants to be a politician. When Stephen claims that, unlike his father, he has a firm grasp of right and wrong, Undershaft has some fun at his expense.

UNDERSHAFT [hugely tickled]: You don’t say so! What! no capacity for business, no knowledge of law, no sympathy with art, no pretension to philosophy; only a simple knowledge of the secret that has puzzled all the philosophers, baffled all the lawyers, muddled all the men of business, and ruined most of the artists: the secret of right and wrong. Why, man, you’re a genius, master of masters, a god! At twenty-four, too!

And then a satirical dig at politicians such as the English have been making for centuries:

LADY BRITOMART [uneasily]: What do you think he had better do, Andrew?
UNDERSHAFT: Oh, just what he wants to do. He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career.

When Stephen claims to be angered by Undershaft’s insult to ‘the government of this country’, Undershaft is given a commanding speech:

UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality]: The government of your country! I am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn’t. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. I am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune.

Again we may ask whether very much has changed, especially the reference to the right-wing newspapers which are little more than fronts for the interests of big corporations and the super rich. In fact after Stephen delivers another speech full of canting clichés Undershaft satirically claims he knows just the right career for a pontificating know-nothing – journalism!

All the other characters enter and variously moan and complain about being forced to go on this day outing to a factory. When Cusins asks Undershaft if he is a brutal boss, if he maintains rigorous discipline, Undershaft delivers another long set-piece speech which is an interesting piece of social history, because it describes the role of snobbery in keeping the English working classes in line. The truth is that they repress themselves with little or no help required from their exploiters:

CUSINS: But Jones has to be kept in order. How do you maintain discipline among your men?
UNDERSHAFT: I don’t. They do. You see, the one thing Jones won’t stand is any rebellion from the man under him, or any assertion of social equality between the wife of the man with 4 shillings a week less than himself and Mrs Jones! Of course they all rebel against me, theoretically. Practically, every man of them keeps the man just below him in his place. I never meddle with them. I never bully them. I don’t even bully Lazarus. I say that certain things are to be done; but I don’t order anybody to do them. I don’t say, mind you, that there is no ordering about and snubbing and even bullying. The men snub the boys and order them about; the carmen snub the sweepers; the artisans snub the unskilled laborers; the foremen drive and bully both the laborers and artisans; the assistant engineers find fault with the foremen; the chief engineers drop on the assistants; the departmental managers worry the chiefs; and the clerks have tall hats and hymnbooks and keep up the social tone by refusing to associate on equal terms with anybody. The result is a colossal profit, which comes to me.

Scene 2. Among the high explosive shed at the arsenal of Messrs Undershaft and Lazarus near the model town of Perivale St Andrews

Barbara is on the firestep beside an enormous cannon in a set strewn with munitions and some of the dummies they use for target practice. The other characters enter one by one and share their amazement at what a model town it is, with wonderful amenities for the workers, who all love working here and are proud of their master, Undershaft, being such a cunning old rascal.

There is some ripe comedy when it turns out that dim Lomax lit a cigarette and carelessly threw away the match while in the high explosive shed. And again when Lady B says she was presented with a bouquet in the William Morris Labour Church, which contains a quote from the great communist about no man being good enough to be another man’s master.

UNDERSHAFT: It shocked the men at first, I am afraid. But now they take no more notice of it than of the ten commandments in church.

In fact this scene is packed with incident. The major one is that the Greek professor, Cusins, the one who got plastered with Undershaft the night before, and has been ribbing him and calling him Machiavelli, well he reveals – to everyone’s amazement – that he is, technically, legally, a foundling, as his Australian parents aren’t legally married. This leads to an extended scene where he and Undershaft haggle about the terms on which he, Cusins, will join the firm, Cusins driving a surprisingly hard bargain which Undershaft is forced, reluctantly, to accept.

But when this is all done it turns out to be just the prelude to a massive set piece exposition of his beliefs by Undershaft. The main thrust of this appears to be Shaw’s own belief, because it is anticipated in the long preface. It is the idea that the greatest crime of our age is poverty, far worse, more degrading, more blighting of society than ‘crime’, afflicting entire cities, stunting the lives of millions.

This turns into a set piece argument with Barbara because she begins to explain the benefits of her charitable work but Undershaft brutally cuts over her, saying that centuries of religious cant have done nothing to end poverty. What ends poverty is giving people a decent job and decent homes.

UNDERSHAFT: Not by words and dreams; but by thirty-eight shillings a week, a sound house in a handsome street, and a permanent job. In three weeks he will have a fancy waistcoat; in three months a tall hat and a chapel sitting; before the end of the year he will shake hands with a duchess at a Primrose League meeting, and join the Conservative Party.
BARBARA: And will he be the better for that?
UNDERSHAFT: You know he will. Don’t be a hypocrite, Barbara. He will be better fed, better housed, better clothed, better behaved; and his children will be pounds heavier and bigger. That will be better than an American cloth mattress in a shelter, chopping firewood, eating bread and treacle, and being forced to kneel down from time to time to thank heaven for it.

All good knockabout stuff but at the same time, much the same issue is central to our politics 120 years later as both Labour and Conservatives promise to get more people into work and raise productivity etc etc. Which suggests the weakness of Undershaft’s position which is that it is applicable to some workers, who manage to get into regular well-paid work but simply untrue of a large number of workers who either can’t get regular work, can only get part-time or zero hours jobs, or are too sick and ill to hold down a job. These categories of people are still with us, 120 years later, and still triggering all kinds of useless projects and comments from hapless politicians and windy commentators. But it never changes.

Meanwhile, back in the play, Undershaft continues his rant, moving beyond his point about poverty (which is incontestably true) to assert that sermons and leading articles and even voting never changed anything. Only guns change things.

UNDERSHAFT: Vote! Bah! When you vote, you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new.

The play was set less than a year after the 1905 Russian revolution, a people’s uprising which forced the Tsar to establish the State Duma, the multi-party system, and the Russian Constitution of 1906 so Undershaft is speaking with the force of recent and momentous events behind his arguments.

Anyway, Shaw shapes the narrative so that it comes down to Cusin having to make a choice between Undershaft and Barbara, choose business or the business of souls. After a lot of flannel he throws in his lot with Undershaft, mournfully thinking he has lost his true love.

But the last pages of the play are intended as a surprise because it turns out Barbara approves of his choice. She has seen through the narrowness of the Salvation Army mission just to feed the poor and realises there are men’s souls to save here, in this modern new town, the souls of the well-fed and snobbish and sanctimonious. She will marry Cusins and live here and make a difference of a different sort.

And with her ringing and inspirational declaration of intent, the play ends.

Wit versus humour

As mentioned, most of the comic moments are (in my opinion) broad and farcical in nature (Lomax’s dimwittedness) but it would be inaccurate to deny that there are also some moments of snappy repartee or one liners, epigrams and bons mots. Take this exchange which I suppose an Edwardian audience would have found funny because a bit risqué.

LOMAX: Now the claims of the Church of England –
LADY BRITOMART: That’s enough, Charles. Speak of something suited to your mental capacity.
LOMAX: But surely the Church of England is suited to all our capacities.

Would the implication that the Church of England is a rather dumb form of religion and/or Lomax’s dimness have got a laugh?

The following is a kind of ghostly echo of Wildean wit. When Cusins explains that Undershaft didn’t let it be announced at the revivalist meeting that it was he who had donated £5,000 to the cause dim Lomax says what a noble thing to do but clever Cusins says, No, Undershaft explained to him that if word got out then every charity in England would come down on him ‘like kites in a battlefield’. All of which leads up to Lady Britomart rounding off the passage with a mot:

LADY BRITOMART: That’s Andrew all over. He never does a proper thing without giving an improper reason for it.

Later on, Undershaft is given a good one-liner:

UNDERSHAFT: My dear, you are the incarnation of morality. Your conscience is clear and your duty done when you have called everybody names.

Lady B is given a Wildean speech which contains a kind of panoramic critique of the superficiality of upper class English culture. After she has criticised Lomax for talking drivel she goes on:

LADY BRITOMART: In good society in England, Charles, men drivel at all ages by repeating silly formulas with an air of wisdom. Schoolboys make their own formulas out of slang, like you. When they reach your age, and get political private secretaryships and things of that sort, they drop slang and get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times. You had better confine yourself to The Times. You will find that there is a certain amount of tosh about The Times; but at least its language is reputable.

One hundred and twenty years later, right-wing dimwits still get their formulas out of The Spectator or The Times, the only change is that neither is now reputable.

It’s not so much that the play is full of witty moments like this because it isn’t. The humour is displayed more in the underlying ironies of the situations, of the juxtapositions of people with such clashing opinions and characters. The set-piece speeches by Lady B, Barbara or Undershaft, especially in the latter part of Act 3, are quite thrilling but the humour underlying them derives from the sly ironies, the undercutting of people’s speeches by other characters with satire or drollery, in which the play abounds. It is very cleverly done, often very funny, and leaves an impression of warmth and humour.

Thoughts

Theatre critics are paid to say things like ‘as relevant now as it was in Shaw’s own day’ but this is just boilerplate truism. Any play about war is always relevant because war is always with us. Ukraine, Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Libya, all round the Middle East and North Africa men are firing devastating weapons which are assembled in factories by people working for capitalists making a killing.

In fact not just the central subject of the play, war, but the closely related topics of poverty, hunger, the blight of alcoholism, domestic violence and toxic masculinity, they’re all still with us aren’t they, and always will be.

On the one hand it was maybe brave or striking or notable that Shaw wrote a play about a cynical arms’ manufacturer clashing with his principled Christian daughter, especially in a theatrical culture dominated by drawing room dramas about fallen women and shameful secrets etc. Maybe it was, at the time, radically provocative and controversial. And, the more you read through it, the richer and more complex the interplay of character and the multiple ironies becomes.

But on the other hand, it feels hopelessly cartoony and there’s something relentlessly simplistic about the whole thing. Take the painting-by-numbers confrontation at the end of Act 2 where Mrs Baines, Jenny and the rest are happy to take Undershaft’s money for their charity work and only Barbara sees how immoral it is. Take the comic book counter-intuitive fact that the factory Barbara thought would be strangled by smoke and peopled by demons turns out to be a model town with outstanding amenities, no poverty and a grateful populace. Not to mention that the central plotline is based on the fairy tale theme of the rich man who must pass on his fortune to a foundling.

Some of the speeches and some of the issues raised ‘cut through’ to the modern reader but they are embedded in a work which, at the same time, feels strangely childish. The scene where Barbara deprecates her father signing the check to the Salvation Army feels far too pat and simplistic. The whole situation comes from a children’s book, you expect it to have Dickens-style illustrations.

You only have to compare Shaw’s high-spirited simplifications with the role of a modern British arms company in the present context, now, in 2024, supplying weapons and munitions to Israel or Ukraine to feel the shock of the real world.

I suppose Shaw is to be praised for raising all manner of political and social issues in his plays but the ones I’ve read feel like toytown entertainments: clever up to a point, funny and well-shaped, twinkling with sly ironies, but ultimately useless for thinking about the issues he raises, as they exist in the modern world, because they’re too simple-minded.

P.S.

Compare Shaw’s light entertainment with the contemporary and unrelenting anti-war art of Peter Kennard.


Related links

Bernard Shaw reviews

Candida by George Bernard Shaw

George Bernard Shaw’s early works are problem or issue plays, the trouble being that the problems or issues seem so silly and shallow to us, 130 years later, that it’s hard to care about them very much. Also Shaw just doesn’t have the giant depth of Ibsen or the fierce intensity of Strindberg, the dazzling wit of Wilde or the humanity of Chekhov – so his plays feel, to me, like moderately attractive, wordy rambles.

This one is on that perennial subject, which goes back to the Greeks and still fuels countless soaps and novels today, the Love Triangle. This one is between:

  1. James Morell, a 40-something vicar who works in the East End (his house overlooks Victoria Park)
  2. his wife, 33-year-old Candida
  3. and a pathetic drip of a pimply poet, 18-year-old Eugene Marchbanks, who mistakes teenage ineptitude and shyness for finer feelings, and is convinced that Candida really loves him

As with ‘Arms and the Man’ the supposed narrative, let alone the ‘issues’ the play ‘deals with’ (what does a woman want? what is marriage for? yadda yadda yadda) scarcely ruffled my mind. The most interesting thing about ‘Candida’ is the astonishing detail of Shaw’s set descriptions and stage descriptions.

The play opens with three very densely packed pages, comprising 1,200 words, describing the vicinity and contents of Victoria Park in East London, before zooming in to describe the exterior of Morell’s dwelling place, St. Dominic’s Parsonage. He gives us a minute description of the drawing room which is the set for most of the play before finally alighting, like the camera in an old-fashioned movie, on the male protagonist himself and proceeding to summarise the man Morell, his character and appearance, his career and attitudes, in prose which reads just like a novel. This is just part of this long description:

The Reverend James Mavor Morell is a Christian Socialist clergyman of the Church of England, and an active member of the Guild of St. Matthew and the Christian Social Union. A vigorous, genial, popular man of forty, robust and goodlooking, full of energy, with pleasant, hearty, considerate manners, and a sound, unaffected voice, which he uses with the clean, athletic articulation of a practised orator, and with a wide range and perfect command of expression. He is a first rate clergyman, able to say what he likes to whom he likes, to lecture people without setting himself up against them, to impose his authority on them without humiliating them, and to interfere in their business without impertinence. His well-spring of spiritual enthusiasm and sympathetic emotion has never run dry for a moment: he still eats and sleeps heartily enough to win the daily battle between exhaustion and recuperation triumphantly. Withal, a great baby, pardonably vain of his powers and unconsciously pleased with himself. He has a healthy complexion, a good forehead, with the brows somewhat blunt, and the eyes bright and eager, a mouth resolute, but not particularly well cut, and a substantial nose, with the mobile, spreading nostrils of the dramatic orator, but, like all his features, void of subtlety.

On their first appearances the text stops to give equally as detailed descriptions of the two other main characters, as well as ancillaries such as Morell’s snippy secretary, Miss Proserpine Garnett, and Candida’s comically Cockney father, Mr Burgess.

Mr. Burgess enters unannounced. He is a man of sixty, made coarse and sordid by the compulsory selfishness of petty commerce, and later on softened into sluggish bumptiousness by overfeeding and commercial success. A vulgar, ignorant, guzzling man, offensive and contemptuous to people whose labour is cheap, respectful to wealth and rank, and quite sincere and without rancour or envy in both attitudes. Finding him without talent, the world has offered him no decently paid work except ignoble work, and he has become in consequence, somewhat hoggish. But he has no suspicion of this himself, and honestly regards his commercial prosperity as the inevitable and socially wholesome triumph of the ability, industry, shrewdness and experience in business of a man who in private is easygoing, affectionate and humorously convivial to a fault. Corporeally, he is a podgy man, with a square, clean shaven face and a square beard under his chin; dust coloured, with a patch of grey in the centre, and small watery blue eyes with a plaintively sentimental expression, which he transfers easily to his voice by his habit of pompously intoning his sentences.

What these enormous descriptions convey, I think, is Shaw’s lofty superiority to his own characters. His brisk businesslike dismissal of them then carries in into the stage directions which often subtly mock and undermine them.

And it’s this (on the admittedly slender basis of having read just two of his plays) which gives Shaw’s plays their superficiality. He himself undermines their seriousness at every turn, not with comedy – as in Wilde – but with a kind of robust good-humoured mockery which is rarely actually funny but is facetious and unserious enough to prevent his characters acquiring real gravitas.

Act 1

We are introduced to the reverend Morell and his secretary, Proserpine, also to a young Oxford clergyman Morell has picked up, the Reverend Alexander Mill.

Then his father-in-law Mr Burgess arrives to make it up after they had an argument. Morell lost his temper with Burgess for winning a contract with the council by dint of paying his employees starvation wages. As a result Morell shamed the Guardians out of accepting Burgess’s bid and Burgess was miffed. Now Burgess announces that he’s got most of the work automated and raised the pay of the remaining workers. Morell is briefly overjoyed before Burgess explains that he only did it to win the contract i.e. not out of the kindness of his heart.

Onto this scene enters Morell’s wife Candida, aged 33, who’s arrived home from a trip somewhere. She’s arrived back along with Eugene Marchbanks, a slight, weedy, effeminate, shy, nervous scribbledehoy.

After a bit of politeness, Burgess and Candida exit leaving Morell and Marchbanks by themselves. Dialogue in which Marchbanks manages to massively insult Morell, by telling him all his ideas about life are wrong and that his wife doesn’t love him. Marchbanks is, we are told, a poet who believes all kinds of poetical things about love are true. He phrases them quite persuasively but the nub of the scene is he manages to anger even the kind-hearted tolerant Morell who eventually grabs him by the lapels and shouts at him to leave his house. Comically, it’s at this precise moment that Candida enters and insists that Eugene simply must stay for lunch, mustn’t he, John?

So that’s Act 1 but what impressed me, as usual, was the detail of the dialogue instructions.

(Eugene chafes intolerantly, repudiating the worth of his happiness. Morell, deeply insulted, controls himself with fine forbearance, and continues steadily, with great artistic beauty of delivery.)

MARCHBANKS: (unimpressed and remorseless, his boyish crudity of assertion telling sharply against Morell’s oratory)

MORELL: (redoubling his force of style under the stimulus of his genuine feeling and Eugene’s obduracy).

I’m fascinated by Shaw’s obsessive detailing of every aspect of his characters’ personality, history, gestures and tones of voice, which leaves almost nothing to the interpreter of the actor of the character, the director of the play or the reader.

Act 2

Same scene, later the same day, Eugene and Miss Proserpine. Eugene spills his naive thoughts about love:

MARCHBANKS: All the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy, shy, shy. That is the world’s tragedy.

Eugene keeps plugging away at Proserpine until he gets her to admit that she has feelings for Morell and loses her temper with his childish persistence. Which is just the moment when bluff old Mr Burgess enters. He, also, has an argument with Miss P who calls him a fat head – then realises she’s gone too far and repents when the bell goes and she exits.

Burgess tells Eugene he thinks Morell is mad because earlier this morning he called him a ‘scoundrel’. This obviously plays to Eugene’s recent argument with Morell.

Morell enters and Burgess complains that Proserpina called him a fat head. Morell laughs and tells him to forget it. Burgess says (aside) to Eugene, Told you so – mad! The scene is all about manual labour. When Morell says that Candida is filling the lamps both Burgess and Eugene are outraged, Eugene in particular can’t bear to think of her sullying her pretty white hands etc.

In the event Candida enters carrying one of the lamps she just filled which leads to melodramatic wailing from Eugene who says he has the horrors. Burgess comically thinks he’s talking about delirium tremens till Candida clarifies that Eugene is talking about the poetic horrors. Candida drags Eugene off to chop onions, leaving time for Burgess and Proserpine to spat a bit more. P wins and Burgess goes into the garden in a huff.

When Candida returns she makes Morell stop writing and come and sit and talk with her. She tells him the obvious fact that Prosperine is in love with her, just like all his previous secretaries – and the congregations at his church only come because he’s such a damn good sermon giver, a great performer, that it’s better than a play. But none of them believe in God or practice what he tells them.

This all leads to the notion that Morell receives love and adulation from his secretaries and flocks and yet love is desperately wanting for the one person who needs it, Eugene! She goes even further by revealing she knows that Eugene is ready to fall in love with her. Morell is shocked and upset that his wife is attracted to the young man he laid hands on for saying he loved her. Some kind of power is taking Candida away from him.

She goes even further in saying she hopes Eugene finds out about love from a good (kind, noble) woman and doesn’t degrade himself by finding out from a bad, fallen woman. And now she horrifies Morell by saying she would sacrifice her purity and duty for Eugene.

CANDIDA: Ah, James, how little you understand me, to talk of your confidence in my goodness and purity! I would give them both to poor Eugene as willingly as I would give my shawl to a beggar dying of cold, if there were nothing else to restrain me.

Candida’s mockery, and even her phraseology, directly echo Eugene’s, and when she clinches her speech by giving him a mocking kiss, it breaks Morell’s heart. He angrily pushes her away just as Eugene and Burgess re-enter, to be amazed by the couple arguing.

Marchbanks sits on the sofa and Candida goes to cheerily sit next to him but he is scandalised. His says he is upset because he can see how much Candida has hurt Morell.

MARCHBANKS (aside to her). It is your cruelty. I hate cruelty. It is a horrible thing to see one person make another suffer.

Burgess and Marchbanks are remonstrating with Candida when Lexy, Morell’s young assistant enters. He has a message from the Guild of St. Matthew. They have booked a hall and put up posters advertising that Morell will speak to them, but now…he has sent a telegram saying he won’t go and won’t speak.

I didn’t understand the timing of this. If Morell is meant to have had some change of heart because of his argument with Candida, that’s only just happened, and there’s been no time for him to send anyone a telegram. So it must have been a result of his earlier conversation with Eugene, where Eugene attacked his superficial speechifying and said he knew nothing of love.

All the other characters are disconcerted and amazed. Morell always keeps his speaking engagements. And letting a group down on the very evening of his talk is unprecedented. Candida tells him they’ll all come along to support him, they’ll sit on the stage and everything.

At which point Morell calls Miss Prosperine in and tells her to telegraph the Guild of St. Matthew to tell them that he will speak after all. Burgess is reluctant to attend until Morell tells him the chairman is on the Works Committee of the County Council and has some influence in the matter of contracts at which point, with comic effect, he reverses his decision. He’ll require Miss P and Lexy, as well.

But when Candida renews her offer to attend, Morell tells her no: she must stay at home and entertain Eugene. He goes so far as to say he is afraid of Eugene’s criticism and won’t be able to express himself, won’t speak freely if Eugene is watching.

MORELL: I should be afraid to let myself go before Eugene: he is so critical of sermons. (Looking at him.) He knows I am afraid of him: he told me as much this morning. Well, I shall show him how much afraid I am by leaving him here in your custody, Candida.
MARCHBANKS (to himself, with vivid feeling): That’s brave. That’s beautiful.

So…so he’s leaving Candida and Marchbanks alone together as a kind of test… This along with the characterisation of Candida, in fact the central triangle between Morell, Marchbanks and Candida is comprehensible just deeply improbable.

Act 3

Same scene past ten that evening. Eugene has been reading Candida poetry for two hours, ever since Morell left the house. With the result that Candida is slumped in an armchair gazing hypnotised at the tip of a poker she’s holding. Eugene stops reading and asks her what she thinks and has to ask several times to wake her from her trance. He is a bit hurt that she’s hasn’t been listening, she is remorseful.

She asks him to come closer. She is in an armchair and he lies on the hearthrug with his head on her lap. He says he has only one thing to say and repeats her name in an impassioned poetic way, says that repeating her name is like praying. She is kindly but also shrewd and sensible at the same time, asks if praying this prayer makes him happy and he says yes.

I’d have thought all this was advanced flirting and this is just the moment when when Morell comes in and sees them together. When Morell says the others have gone to dine somewhere Candida goes out to tell the maid she can go to bed, leaving Morell alone with Marchbanks.

Morell interrogates Eugene, in effect asking him whether he has seduced his wife, though it’s all expressed more obtusely than that. Eugene says his wife maintained a ‘flaming sword’ between them. The conflict between them is populated by subtle sentiments, clever turns of debate and conflicting interpretations of phrases, but the entire situation seems preposterous. This clergyman is allowing his young guest to see whether he can tempt and seduce his wife away from him…

To put it another way, both of these men dress up the process of falling in love, being in love, being married, maintaining a relationship, in a bluster of metaphors and allusions which are presented as sophisticated dialogue but feel really tiresome. The general idea is Marchbanks speaks in absurdly naive, over-the-top poetic flights of fancy while Morell is the straight man, providing the thumping bathos of reality.

MARCHBANKS (Dreamily): A woman like that has divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in. (He reflects on this for an instant; then turns intently to question Morell.) What I want to know is how you got past the flaming sword that stopped me.
MORELL (meaningly): Perhaps because I was not interrupted at the end of ten minutes.
MARCHBANKS (taken aback): What!
MORELL: Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long.
MARCHBANKS: It’s false: there can he dwell for ever and there only. It’s in the other moments that he can find no rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits?

There’s an interlude of broad comedy when Burgess, Lexy and Proserpine stumble into the living room having come from a champagne dinner bought by Burgess, each one a bit tipsy which exaggerates their basic characters.

Anyway, this larking about is a comic interlude before the climax of the play, arrived at in a roundabout, laboured way. This Great Climax is that Morell and Marchbanks both ask Candida to choose between them. Shaw makes a sort of feminist point that Candida finds both of them absurd, finding Marchbanks a pathetic child (sat on the sofa ‘like a guilty schoolboy on his best behaviour’) but just as disappointed by her husband who hesitates to assert that he is ‘master’ of the house.

Both men make set-piece speeches bidding for her love before Candida announces her decision. She says she gives herself to ‘the weaker of the two’. Morell, in his convention, literal way interprets this to mean Marchbanks who throughout the play and in his arguments with Morell has painted himself as a feeble weakling up against strong determined Morell, and I think the audience is intended to go along with this interpretation, too.

However, it is a conceit or gag or ploy. Marchbanks grasps it immediately but Candida has to spell it out to Morell that by this phrase she in fact means him. Then she delivers the Author’s Message which is that Morell only appears strong because all his life he has had other people (mostly women) to support him.

CANDIDA: Ask James’s mother and his three sisters what it cost to save James the trouble of doing anything but be strong and clever and happy. Ask ME what it costs to be James’s mother and three sisters and wife and mother to his children all in one. Ask Prossy and Maria how troublesome the house is even when we have no visitors to help us to slice the onions. Ask the tradesmen who want to worry James and spoil his beautiful sermons who it is that puts them off … I build a castle of comfort and indulgence and love for him, and stand sentinel always to keep little vulgar cares out. I make him master here, though he does not know it…

And once it’s pointed out to him, Morell instantly agrees, with rather sickening Victorian sentimentality.

MORELL (quite overcome, kneeling beside her chair and embracing her with boyish ingenuousness): It’s all true, every word. What I am you have made me with the labour of your hands and the love of your heart! You are my wife, my mother, my sisters: you are the sum of all loving care to me.

Somehow, by some alchemy which might work in the theatre but rings very hollow on the page, Candida’s choice and her explanation transform Marchbanks. Instead of the pathetic weed he’s been for all the play up to now, he is at a stroke transformed into a man. He even sounds like a man:

MARCHBANKS (with the ring of a man’s voice—no longer a boy’s—in the words). I know the hour when it strikes. I am impatient to do what must be done.

He declares that this morning he was 18 whereas now, having gone through whatever process Shaw has in mind, he feels ‘as old as the world’, and the play closes in some kind of climax of Victorian high-mindedness which I’ll quote in full to give you the preposterous pompous flavour:

CANDIDA (going to him, and standing behind him with one hand caressingly on his shoulder): Eighteen! Will you, for my sake, make a little poem out of the two sentences I am going to say to you? And will you promise to repeat it to yourself whenever you think of me?
MARCHBANKS (without moving): Say the sentences.
CANDIDA: When I am thirty, she will be forty-five. When I am sixty, she will be seventy-five.
MARCHBANKS (turning to her): In a hundred years, we shall be the same age. But I have a better secret than that in my heart. Let me go now. The night outside grows impatient.

‘The night outside grows impatient,’ yes.

Thoughts

An Ibsen play moves through a carefully structured series of revelations which shake the audience and the characters’ sense of themselves. Strindberg’s characters torment each other with an intensity which bites the imagination. But Shaw describes his characters in such excruciating detail on their first appearance that he destroys any sense of mystery or surprise as he puts his totally-explained mannequins through the motions.

Long before the end I was exasperated with the footling histrionic Marchbanks, but also immensely frustrated with Morell’s inability to simply kick the cuckoo out of his nest. I think we’re intended to sympathise with Candida, I think she’s meant to be a Modern Woman and a variation on Ibsen’s great Nora Helmer. But she, and the play in general, have absolutely none of Ibsen’s depth. Instead, her insistence on playing up to Marchbanks, her insistence at the end of Act 1 that he stays for lunch even though he and her husband have just come to blows; her toying with him at the start of Act 3, all this just seems wilful and silly and superficial, especially when it becomes plain how much it’s hurting the husband she claims to care for.

All three of them seem to hurt each other but not for the deep reasons of Ibsen or Strindberg but just because Shaw wills it so for our entertainment. The reversal on the penultimate page where Candida proves that Morell is the weaker of the two doesn’t feel like the revelation of a great truth, the solution of an issue we can all relate to, but a cheap gag at the end of a rather tiresome entertainment.


Credit

‘Candida’ by George Bernard Shaw was first staged in 1894 and published in 1898 as part of Shaw’s ‘Plays Pleasant’ volume, which also included ‘Arms and the Man’, ‘You Never Can Tell’, and ‘The Man of Destiny’. I read the 1946 Penguin paperback edition, 1964 reprint.

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Arms and the Man by George Bernard Shaw (1894)

The comic play ‘Arms and The Man’ by George Bernard Shaw was first staged in 1894. It was published in 1898 as part of Shaw’s ‘Plays Pleasant’ volume which also included ‘Candida’, ‘You Never Can Tell’, and ‘The Man of Destiny’.

I’ve been reading about Shaw’s plays for decades but have never actually managed to read any. This one has a strikingly heroic title, the first words of John Dryden’s translation of Virgil’s Aeneid, so I was surprised to discover that it is a light and rather silly social comedy.

Act 1. A lady’s bedchamber in Bulgaria

The play is set during the Serbo-Bulgarian War, a comically short conflict that lasted from 14 to 28 November 1885.

We are in the bedroom of Raina Petkoff, a young Bulgarian woman, daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the land and a high-minded naive romantic. Her grand and domineering mother, Catherine, tells her that the Bulgarian cavalry have won the Battle of Slivnitza against the Serbs and that Sergius Saranoff, Raina’s fiancé, was at the head of the charge. Raina keeps a picture of Sergius in her bedroom and is girlishly thrilled that he is as heroic in real life as in his picture.

Louka, their attractive and sometimes impudent young servant, comes in to warn the ladies that escaped Serbs fleeing the battlefield might be in the area, seeking refuge in the houses of Bulgarian families, and they are promptly terrified to hear firing and shots in the streets.

Raina refuses to be scared and defiantly keeps her window unlocked but this turns out to be unwise because during the night an unknown man climbs up the drainpipe, onto the balcony and into her room. When terrified Raina calls out to ask who it is, he says he will kill Raina if she makes a noise and gives him away.

Overcoming her initial terror, Raina gets talking to the (unnamed) man who turns out to be very calm and reasonable and not at all a threat. He tells her he is not himself a Serb but a Swiss mercenary fighting for the Serbs.

The point of the scene and of the whole play is that this (still unnamed) soldier mocks soldiers and warfare. He tells her that ‘nine soldiers out of ten are born fools’. Nonetheless, Raina warms to him so that when there’s a knock at the door, Raina helps him hide behind a curtain just as Catherine, Louka, and a Bulgarian officer enter to search the room for any Serbs. Raina convinces them that no one is in her room, and they leave.

Raina gives the man chocolate creams, which she keeps in a box in her room, and is shocked to hear that the man has no ammunition for his pistol, as he normally uses his holster to store chocolate. The man argues that Sergius’s cavalry charge against the Serbs was foolish, and succeeded only by sheer luck. The Serbs had machine guns but were given the wrong ammunition by accident, and therefore could not mow down Sergius and his men.

Raina agrees to help the man escape later that night, though she rebukes him for making fun of her fiancé Sergius. The man goes to sleep and Raina goes to see her mother to ask for her help. When Raina and Catherine return, they allow the man to rest since he has not slept for days. A little later Raina and Catherine sneak the still unnamed enemy soldier out of the house, disguised in one of Raina’s father’s old coats.

Act 2. The garden of Major Petkoff’s house

The second act begins in the garden of the same house, though it is now the spring of 1886. The war is over and the Bulgarians and Serbians have signed a peace treaty. The pretty servant girl Louka is engaged to the house’s head male servant, Nicola. Louka tells Nicola that he will never be more than a servant, and that she has higher aspirations. Louka tells him she knows many secrets about the Petkoff family, and Nicola says that he does, too, but would never blackmail his masters.

Major Petkoff, the head of the family, returns from the war. He reports to Catherine that Sergius will never receive the military promotion he craves because he has no command of military strategy. Sergius enters and is greeted warmly by the family, and especially by Raina, who still considers him a hero. Sergius says he has abandoned his commission in the army out of anger that he will never move up in the ranks.

Sergius and Petkoff tell a story they heard about this Swiss soldier being hidden by two Bulgarian women during the soldier’s retreat. Catherine and Raina realize the story is about them, but do not say anything.

Rain and Catherine go indoors and the second her back is turned Sergius reveals what a creep he is by trying to chat up the pretty Louka. To his surprise, Louka warns Sergius that Raina might not remain faithful to him Sergius before they exit.

Into the civilised peaceful garden of the Petkoff family comes a Serbian soldier named Bluntschli. The serving girl Louka brings him to Catherine. Catherine realizes that he is the man that hid in Raina’s room, the same man that she and Raina helped escape.

Catherine worries that Sergius and Petkoff, who are conferring over military plans in the library, might meet Bluntschli and learn that the story about the two Bulgarian women who helped an enemy soldier refers to them!

On questioning Bluntschli tells her he has come to return Major Petkoff’s coat that Catherine and Raina lent him to escape. Raina walks in and is so happy to see him that she blurts out ‘the chocolate cream soldier!’ only to try and recover herself and blame her outburst, implausibly, on Nicola.

But it turns out that Petkoff and Sergius already know Bluntschli, they met him during the war. Now they ask him to stay for lunch and help them solve a tricky military problem which is how to send the troops home now the war is over.

Act 3. In library of major Petkoff’s house after lunch

In the final act all the different strands unravel, are reconnected and happily tied up.

Left alone with Bluntschli, Raina realizes that he sees through her romantic posturing but that he respects her as a woman in a way her formal fiancé, Sergius, does not. She reveals that she put a photograph of herself in the pocket of the greatcoat they lent him, inscribed ‘To my chocolate-cream soldier’. Bluntschli tells her he never found it and that it must still be in the coat pocket.

Meanwhile Sergius has a second crack at seducing the serving girl, Louka, who maliciously tells him that Raina is not in love with him (Sergius) but with Bluntschli. She reveals that Raina and Catherine are the two women in the story of the Bulgarian women who helped a Serb officer and that Bluntschli is that officer. As a result Sergius challenges Bluntschli to a duel but the non-aggressive Bluntschli manages to talk his way out of it.

It’s at this point that the picture of herself which Raina slipped into her father’s coat for Bluntschli to find is discovered, proving that Raina has not been entirely truthful to Sergius and Raina admits that she has had feelings for Bluntschli since they first met. Sergius and Raina break off their engagement, with some relief on both sides.

Major Petkoff is aghast. When Bluntschli acknowledges that he loves Raina, Sergius and Louka reveal that they, too, have been having a secret affair at Sergius’ instigation, with the result that Nicola graciously releases Louka from their engagement.

During all this Bluntschli had received a telegram informing him of his father’s death and that he has inherited the family business, several luxury hotels in Switzerland. Now, recognising Nicola’s dedication and ability, he offers him a job as hotel manager.

For some reason Bluntschli had been labouring under the misapprehension that Raina was just 17. Now she declares she is in fact 23 there is nothing to stop Bluntschli asking for her hand in marriage. The revelation of Bluntschli’s newfound wealth and good prospects mean that Raina’s parents are glad to marry her off to him.

Hankering after her former simplicity, Raina says that she would prefer her poor ‘chocolate-cream soldier’ to the man who is now revealed to be a wealthy businessman but Bluntschli insists he is still the same person, and the play ends with Raina growing up a bit and proclaiming her love for him.

As to the logistical problem which Sergius and Petkoff were fretting about, Bluntschli, with Swiss precision, solves the problem of the major’s troop movements (‘Send them home by way of Lom Palanka!’) then goes on to inform everyone that he will return to be married to Raina exactly two weeks from that day. The play ends with Sergius exclaiming, of Bluntschli, ‘What a man!’

What a load of twaddle.

Verbosity

Isn’t Shaw verbose? Some playwrights leave the actors and director to deduce the characters from their behaviour and dialogue but not Shaw. He can’t stop himself giving immense long prose descriptions of each of the characters. Here’s just one sentence from his page-long description of Sergius:

By his brooding on the perpetual failure, not only of others, but of himself, to live up to his imaginative ideals, his consequent cynical scorn for humanity, the jejune credulity as to the absolute validity of his ideals and the unworthiness of the world in disregarding them, his wincings and mockeries under the sting of the petty disillusions which every hour spent among men brings to his infallibly quick observation, he has acquired the half tragic, half ironic air, the mysterious moodiness, the suggestion of a strange and terrible history, that has left him nothing but undying remorse, by which Childe Harold fascinated the grandmothers of his English contemporaries.

This more like a novelist than a playwright, or the notes a novelist might make about a character. However you approach it is, above all, very wordy. Coming to Shaw after reading Wilde, Ibsen and Strindberg, the most obviously distinctive thing about Shaw is the fantastic, obsessive detail of his stage and dialogue descriptions. He thinks like a novelist, pointing out exactly how each gesture should be made and each phrase spoken. He has none of a playwright’s tact and restraint, no ability to let go and trust the director and actors. Take this little comic moment:

NICOLA: (after a moment’s bewilderment, picking up the bag as he addresses Bluntschli with the very perfection of servile discretion). I beg your pardon, sir, I am sure.

Note how the stage direction is longer than the dialogue. Another playwright would rely on the dialogue to convey the tone of voice, and/or trust the director and actor to deduce it from the words. Shaw is incapable of doing this. He has to explain exactly how every single utterance should be delivered.

  • BLUNTSCHLI (confidentially)
  • PETKOFF (officiously)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (deeply concerned and half incredulous)
  • RAINA (full of reproach for his levity)

After a while I began to wonder if Shaw was doing this partly to guy directors and actors, aiming not to help but to mock theatre’s unavoidable staginess.

  • BLUNTSCHLI (sceptically)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (dubiously)
  • RAINA (superbly)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (promptly)
  • RAINA (wonderingly)

All these ‘-lys’. I began to suspect Shaw was having a private joke to see just how many adverbs he could attach to the dialogue without repeating himself.

  • RAINA (quickly)
  • SERGIUS (cordially)
  • RAINA (indignantly)
  • SERGIUS (tormentedly)
  • PETKOFF (heartily)
  • SERGIUS (commandingly)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (warmly)
  • SERGIUS (cynically)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (goodhumoredly)
  • RAINA (sarcastically)
  • BLUNTSCHLI (apologetically)

But Shaw not only explains his characters but goes on to give opinions about them. Shaw overflowed with opinions about everything and so do his stage directions. Take the start of Act 3:

In the library after lunch. It is not much of a library, its literary equipment consisting of a single fixed shelf stocked with old paper-covered novels, broken backed, coffee stained, torn and thumbed, and a couple of little hanging shelves with a few gift books on them, the rest of the wall space being occupied by trophies of war and the chase…

The same quality of verbosity which makes his notorious prefaces such a trial to read also informs the long-winded directions.

At the head of [the table] sits Sergius, who is also supposed to be at work, but who is actually gnawing the feather of a pen, and contemplating Bluntschli’s quick, sure, businesslike progress with a mixture of envious irritation at his own incapacity, and awestruck wonder at an ability which seems to him almost miraculous, though its prosaic character forbids him to esteem it.

I suppose Shaw’s plays had ‘subjects’ and dealt with ‘issues’ but a) in such a journalistic, superficial way as to make them, nowadays, appear almost ridiculously superficial; and b) his thoughts and conclusions, at the time of their staging provocative and controversial (war isn’t as glorious as people think it is), now seem so prehistorically dated that they made no impression on me at all.

To put it mildly, as an anti-war play ‘Arms and The Man’ was to be swept away in the deluge of writing which followed the First World War, vastly eclipsed and outclassed. Then again, maybe I’m taking far too seriously a play which was designed to be a light and frivolous comic entertainment, a charming evening out at a London theatre, with only the hint of a ‘serious’ subject underlying it. Yes, maybe that’s the way to think about it, a frivolous and funny comic play with as much serious content as Anthony Hope’s exactly contemporary novel, The Prisoner of Zenda.

Completely ignoring whatever ‘message’ there’s meant to be, I found myself fascinated by the way that Shaw’s plays are so obviously really novels manqués, comic novels cut and spliced into the two-hour traffic of the stage with the severe constriction of the limitations of a fixed location, but overflowing with a novelist’s unstoppable impulse to describe every aspect of their characters.


Credit

‘Arms and The Man’ by George Bernard Shaw was first staged in 1894 and published in 1898 as part of Shaw’s ‘Plays Pleasant’ volume which also included ‘Candida’, ‘You Never Can Tell’, and ‘The Man of Destiny’. I read this in the 1946 Penguin paperback edition, 1964 reprint.

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