Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Stopping suddenly, he told me that T. P. Gill, the editor of the Daily Express, expected me to lunch, and he was anxious I should meet him, for he was one of the leaders of the movement; an excellent journalist, he said, who had been editing the paper with great brilliancy ever since he and Horace Plunkett had changed it from an organ of mouldering Unionism into one interested in the new Ireland.

  Somebody — Gill, perhaps — had been kind enough to send me the Express during the winter, and I used to read it, thinking it even more unworldly than any of the little reviews of my youth edited by Parnassians and Realists. All the winter I had read in it stories of the Celtic Gods — Angus, Dana, and Lir, intermingled with controversies between Yeats and John Eglinton regarding the literary value of national legend in modern literature; and when the Irish Literary Theatre was spoken of, the Express seemed to have discovered its mission — the advancement of Celtic drama. Angus and Lir were lifted out of, and Yeats and Edward lifted into their thrones; and on the Saturday before the arrival of the company in Dublin the Express had printed short but succinct biographies of the actors and actresses whom I had picked up in the casual Strand. If the entire Comédie Française had come over with plays by Racine and Victor Hugo, not the old plays, but new ones lately discovered, which had not yet been acted, the Express could not have displayed more literary enthusiasm. A newspaper so confused and disparate that I had never been able to imagine what manner of man its editor might be. A tall, dark, and thin man with feverish, restless hands and exalted diction whenever he spoke, was dismissed for a short, square, and thick-set man like a bull-dog, with great melancholy eyes, and he in turn was dismissed for a stout, elderly man with spectacles, very commonplace and polite, speaking little, and not interested at all in literature or in theosophy, but in something quite different, and I had often sat thinking what this might be, without being able to satisfy myself, getting up from my chair at last, saying that only Balzac could solve the problem; only he could imagine the inevitable personality of the editor of the Daily Express.

  He would have foreseen that the editor of this extraordinary sheet wore a Henri Quatre beard; whereas the beard, the smile, the courtesy, the flow of affable conversation, were a surprise to me. Balzac would have foreseen the wife and children, and their different appearances and personalities; whereas I had always imagined the editor of the Express a bachelor. Balzac would have divined the family man in his every instinct, despite the round white brows shaded by light hair, curling prettily; despite the eyes — the word that comes to the pen is furtive, but for some reason, perhaps from repetition, the expression furtive eyes has come to mean very little. Gill’s eyes seem to follow a dream and then they suddenly return, and he watches his listener, evidently curious to know what effect he is producing upon him, and then the eyes wander away again in pursuit of the dream. The coming and going of his eyes interested me until the nose caught my attention — a large one with a high bridge, and with those clean-cut nostrils without which every nose is ugly. But the nose is said to be an index of character, telling of resolution; and the hand, too, is said to be a tell-tale feature: I noticed that Gill’s hands were small and white, with somewhat crooked and ill-shapen nails. A hand of languid movement — one that went to the beard, caressing it constantly, reminding one of a cat licking its fur, with this difference, however, that a cat is silent while it licks itself, whereas Gill could talk while he dallied with his beard. It has been said, too, that a man’s character transpires in his dress, and Gill was carefully dressed. His shirt-collar looked more like London than Dublin washing, and I asked myself if his washing went to London while I admired the carefully chosen necktie and the pin. The grey suit fitted his shoulders so well that I decided he must have gone back and forwards a good many times to try on, and then that he did not give his tailor much trouble, for his figure was well knit, square shoulders, clean-cut flanks. A delicate man withal, said the hollow chest, and I remembered that Yeats had told me that last winter Gill had been obliged to go abroad in search of health.

  We were not altogether strangers, as he reminded me — he had had the pleasure of meeting me in London. We had been fellow-workers on the Speaker, and so it gave him much pleasure to see me in Ireland. I’m afraid that Ireland doesn’t want either Yeats or me, I growled out; and this remark carried us right into the middle of the controversy regarding The Countess Cathleen. When he was in London Martyn had spoken to him on the subject, and had told him that a learned theologian had been consulted and that the incident of the crucifix kicked about the stage by the starving peasantry had been cut out.

  I don’t remember the incident you speak of. Martyn insisted on its omission, you say? Without answering me, Gill continued, speaking very slowly, hesitating between his words. He seemed to take pleasure in hearing himself talk, and this was strange to me, for he was saying nothing of importance, merely that the subject of the play was calculated to wound the religious susceptibilities of the Irish people; and while stroking his beard he continued to speak of the famine times and of the proselytising by the Protestants: memories like these were too deep to be washed away by mere poetry, though, indeed, he would yield to nobody in his admiration of Yeats’s poetry; and if Yeats had consulted him regarding the choice of a subject for a play, he certainly would not have advised him to choose The Countess Cathleen. All the same, he had done all that he possibly could do for the Irish Literary Theatre, as I must have seen by his paper. He had even done more than what had appeared in the paper, for he had, himself, sent The Countess Cathleen to two priests, and placing himself in the light of a wise mediator, he told me that both these priests had given their verdict in favour of the play. One of them, a Jesuit of considerable attainments, had pointed out that the language objected to was put into the mouths of demons.

  Who could not be expected to say altogether kind things of their Creator, I interjected. Gill laughed, and his laughter seemed to reveal a temperament that ripples, pleasantly murmuring, over shallows, never sinking into a deep pool or falling from any great height. A pleasant stream, I said to myself, only I wish it would flow a little faster. The opposition to The Countess Cathleen in the Antient Concert Rooms was no doubt regrettable, but I must not judge Ireland too harshly. The famine times were remembered in Ireland; and I had lived too long out of Ireland to sympathise with the people on this point. Yeats had lived more in Ireland; but he, too, was liable to misjudge Ireland, being a Protestant. Gill felt that there was an Ireland in Ireland that Protestants could not understand, and he repeated that if Yeats had come to him in the first instance he certainly would have advised him to choose another subject. When Parnell consulted him at the time of the split — I begin to be interested, I said to myself, and wondering what advice Gill had given to Parnell, all my attention was strained to hear. The fault was mine, no doubt, but at the supreme moment Gill’s words and voice began to ripple vaguely, like the stream, and I heard that if a great Liberal newspaper had existed then (he used the word Liberal in its broadest sense), it would have been possible to arrive at some compromise between Parnell and the party, and himself would have gone to the prelates, and knowing Ireland as well as he did, he thought that the situation might have been saved. The present situation might be saved if somebody came forward and gave Ireland a newspaper, a newspaper bien entendu, that would give expression to all the different minds now working in Ireland. He was doing this in the Express, in a small way, for his enterprise was checked by lack of capital. All the same, he had managed to bring more culture into the Express than had ever entered into it before — John Eglinton, AE, Yeats. Under his direction the Express was the first paper that had attempted to realise that Ireland had an aesthetic spirit of her own.

  This is true, I said to myself, and I lent to Gill an attentive ear, thinking he was interested in art; but he glided away from my questions, passing into an account of the co-operative movement, apparently as much concerned in dairies as in statues; and for an hour I listened to his
slumbrous talk until at last it seemed to me that a firkin rolled out of the door of one of the dairies, and that I could see a dainty little man fixed upon it for ever, a sort of petrifaction having taken place, a statue upon butter or —

  My reverie was broken by Gill, who questioned me regarding my first impressions of Dublin, if I would be kind enough to write them out for him, and if not, he was interested to hear them for his own pleasure. On the subject of Dublin the leader of the Renaissance seemed to hold far-reaching views. He knew Paris well, and feeling that the conversation would be agreeable to me, he spoke of the immense benefit of the work that Baron Haussmann had done there; and then, as if spurred by a sense of rivalry, he described the great boulevards he would cut through Dublin if he were entrusted with the dictatorship of Ireland for fifteen years. Nor was this all. The University question could be dealt with, and the Home Rule question to the satisfaction of all parties. It seemed to me that I had come upon the original fount of all wisdom; it flowed from him in a slow but continual stream, bearing along in its current different schemes; one, I remember, was for the construction of a new bank, for the bankers would have to be housed when they were turned out of the old House of Parliament. Whereas I was thinking whether his father was Balzac or Turgenev, and perhaps this point might never have been decided if he had not suddenly begun to talk about Trinity College, saying there was a wider and more Bohemian culture, one to which he would like to give effect. By means of the newspaper you were speaking of just now? I asked.

  The newspaper would be necessary, but a café was necessary too. A café was Continental, and the new Dublin should model itself more upon Continental than British ideas; and we talked on, discussing the effect of the café on the intellectual life in Dublin. The café would be useless unless it remained open until two in the morning. A short Act of Parliament might easily be introduced, and the best site would be the corner of Grafton Street and the Green. The site, however, had this disadvantage — it would go to make Stephen’s Green the centre of Dublin, and this was not desirable. The old centre of Dublin, which was in the north, should be restored to its former prosperity. Another café might be established on the quays, an excellent site were it not for the Liffey. I mentioned that I had only seen the river when the tide was up, and Gill told me that when it was out the smell was not pleasant. The new drainage, however, would soon be completed, and a café could be opened at the corner of O’Connell Street, but for the moment the corner of Grafton Street seemed the more practicable site.

  A question regarding the probable cost of the café brought a slight cloud into his face, but it vanished quickly as soon as he had stroked his beard, and he spoke to me at great length about a man whom he had met in America, and with whom he had become great friends. This man was a millionaire, and his ambition was to build hotels in Ireland, whether for the sake of adding to his millions, or diminishing them for the sake of Ireland, Gill did not know. Probably his friend was influenced by both reasons, for, of course, to found hotels that did not pay some dividend would be of no benefit to anybody. Gill continued to talk of possible dividends, and I listened to him with difficulty, for my curiosity was now keen to hear from him the reciprocation of the millionaire in the building of hotels and the founding of a real Parisian café at the corner of Stephen’s Green and Grafton Street, and I waited almost breathless for the answer to this conundrum. It was simple enough when it came. After the building of the hotels a great deal of money would remain over, and with this money the millionaire would build the café.

  There isn’t a drop of Balzac blood in him, I said to myself; he is pure Turgenev, and perhaps Ireland is a little Russia in which the longest way round is always the shortest way home, and the means more important than the end.

  Two or three young men who wrote in the Express every night had been invited to come to take coffee with us after lunch, and their arrival was a relief to both Gill and myself. We had been talking of Ireland for several hours, and Gill had begun to speak of the time when he would have to go down to the office. The young men, too, wished to speak to him about what they were to write that evening, for Gill explained that he did not write very much himself in his newspaper; his notion of editing was to pump ideas into people; and after listening for some time I got up to go. It was then that Gill told me that the newspaper of which he was the editor was offering a great dinner at the Shelbourne Hotel to the Irish Literary Theatre, and he hoped that I would be present.

  On this we parted, and a few moments afterwards I found myself lost in Nassau Street, for Nature has denied me all sense of topography, and while looking up and down the street wondering how I should get to Merrion Square, I caught sight of Yeats coming out of a bun-shop. By calling wildly I succeeded in awakening him from his reverie. He stopped, and in answer to my question told me that he had been to Edward’s club; but Edward was not there. With one of his theologians, no doubt, both deep in your heresies, I said, and we walked on in silence until a newsboy posted his placard against some railings, and we read: Letter from Cardinal Logue condemning The Countess Cathleen.

  Yeats pointed, saying, There’s Edward, and I saw him in his short black jacket and voluminous grey trousers reading the newspaper at the kerb. There will be no plays tonight! we cried. His glasses dropped from his high nose, but he caught them as they fell. You haven’t seen Logue’s letter, then? He admits that he hasn’t read the play; he has only judged it by extracts. And you can’t judge a work by extracts. Besides, I said, the two priests to whom the play was sent have decided in its favour. Gill told me that he showed you some letters from them. As well as I remember he showed me — But, my dear friend, you must know whether he showed you a letter or not. Yes, I’m practically sure that I saw a letter, but I’m not affected by stray opinions, whether they are in favour of the play or against it. You may not have sent the play to two priests, but you brought it to a theologian. That was in England. Of course you were then in a Protestant country. And did he decide in favour of the play? No, he didn’t. Very much the other way.

  Edward’s sense of humour does not desert him even when he fears that his soul may be grilled; and he entertained us with an account of the evening he had spent with the theologian.

  I had to bite my lips to prevent myself from laughing when he climbed up the steps of a ladder, taking down tomes, and he descended step by step very carefully, for he is an old man, and putting the tome under the lamp —

  He read aloud the best opinions on the subject. It was like going to a lawyer. Blackstone writes according to So-and-so Vic. Who was this theologian? Edward refused to give up his name, and I could not guess it, although he allowed me many guesses. Somebody you never heard of. Then I am to understand the plays will go on as usual? I see no reason why not. The Cardinal hasn’t read the play; he has put himself out of court. But if he had read the play, Edward, and had interdicted it?

  An interdiction would be quite another matter. I’m not obliged to accept stray opinions, but an interdiction would be very serious. It would be a very serious matter for me to persist in supporting a play that the head of the Church in Ireland deemed harmful!

  I suggested that Dr Walshe was a sufficient authority in his own diocese.

  There’s that, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Walshe said some of those sharp things that ecclesiastics can, on occasion, say about each other.

  What enrages me, I said, turning to Yeats, is the insult offered to mankind by this Cardinal. But you don’t seem interested, Yeats. I can’t understand why you are so little interested in the general question, apart from the particular.

  I am interested; but the matter isn’t so serious as you think. I know Ireland better than you, and am more patient.

  Yeats’s words appeased me, and without knowing it my thoughts were drawn away from the peasant Cardinal to the spring weather, and I relinquished myself to the delight of the warm air, to the beauty of the sunlight among the flowering trees, to the sky, so blue, so ecstatic, lift
ing the heart to rapture; and knowing Edward’s love of architecture, and feeling he needed a little compensation for the courage he had shown, I called his attention to a piece of monumented wall, designed to conceal the rear of a gardener’s cottage, but a beautiful thing in itself, and adding to the beauty of the square.

  Two curving wings, an arched recess, vases and terra-cotta plaques — very eighteenth century, a century to which Edward has never been able to extend his sympathy, calling it with some truth a century of boudoirs, and its genius the decoration of an alcove. His sympathies flow out more naturally to the cathedral, to the monastery, and to the palace, never very generously to the dwelling-house.

  You’ve always said, my dear friend, that you understand public life much better than private.

  Edward is always willing to discuss his ideas, but for the moment he was taken with the beauty of the monumented wall.

  As a screen, he said, it is beautiful, but the sixteenth century would have built —

  Built a cottage that would have been beautiful all the way round? No, it wouldn’t. As I have said, you’ve never understood the eighteenth century, Edward, and your misunderstanding is quite natural; a century of feminine intrigue, subtle women devoted to the arts and to the delightful abbes, who visited artists in their studios, drawing attention to the points of their female models. In the sixteenth century Roman priests no longer spoke of their sons as their nephews, and went into the church laughing at the Mass they were going to celebrate. A sixteenth-century Cardinal would have been highly amused at the thought of condemning a beautiful play because the writer spoke of the Almighty smiling as He condemned the lost. He would have said, But if the line is beautiful? and taking Logue by the arm, he would have told him that religion is interesting until we are twenty. After that it becomes a means to an end, and the mission of every Cardinal should be to find a mistress who would respect his nerves, and to collect some passable pictures. My dear friends, how you have duped me! Do you remember what you told me about the Celtic Renaissance? Poets and painters burgeoning on every bush.