James Bridie: Clown and Philosopher 1512804126, 9781512804126

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James Bridie: Clown and Philosopher

Jam es Bridie: Clown and Philosopher By Helen L. Lu yben

Ph i l ade l ph i a

Un iversity of Pen sylvan ia Press

© 1965 by the Trustees of the University of Pennsylvania Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number : 64-24508

Published in Great Britain, India and Pakistan by the Oxford University Press, London, Bombay and Karachi

7476 Printed in the United States of America

For my Mother and Father

Contents

Introduction I

9

The Dramatic Method

15

Ambiguity in The Switchback

35

III

Sengs of Innocence

51

IV

The Clown Despairs

97

V

Songs of Experience

129

Notes

167

Chronology

173

Bibliography

177

Index

179

II

Introduction define truth by deciding what it is not, or so the hero of James Bridie's last play, The Baikie Charivari, seems to say when he kills the soothsayers clamoring around him. So this study can be defined, to begin with, in terms of what it is not. It is not a biographical study. The only remotely relevant biographical facts are that Osbome Henry Mavor, whose pen name was James Bridie, was born on January 3, 1888, and died on January 29, 1951; he was a Scotsman and a physician. (For the curious, however, a chronology is supplied as an appendix.) Nor is this a summary description of Bridie's complete works—forty-odd plays—or an attempt to relate the dramatist to the narrow scope of the Scottish theater. These three objectives already have been attained by Winifred Bannister in her book James Bridie and His Theatre. No attempt at mere inclusiveness has been made here; rather, the analysis is selective, with the intention of illustrating in representative plays a philosophical continuity which, when recognized, goes far toward defining the total genius of Bridie. This continuity is traced through three stages of moral awareness, which might be labeled innocence, disillusionment, and resolution, corresponding to three chronological periods, the early plays (19281937), the middle plays (1938-1947), and the late plays (1948-1951). To be positive, then, this study attempts to show that Bridie is a moralist and that his plays are, in a special 9 O N E M U S T BE G I N T O

10

JA M E S

BR I D I E 1 C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

sen se, m o r a lit y p la y s ; t h u s h is o r ig in a l u se of r elig iou s m y t h is exp lo r ed , p r im a r ily h is u se of t h e m y t h of t h e fall fr o m in n o ce n ce (w h ich in clu d es th e m y t h of t e m p t a t io n ). M o r e o v e r , t h e stu d y d efen d s Br id ie as a cr a ft s m a n , in a n a t t e m p t to co r r ect t h e m isco n cep t io n

t h a t h e is a b u n g le r .

M is in t e r p r e t a t io n

t h e p la y s h a s led

of h is in t en t io n

in

to

cr it icism of t h eir s t r u ct u r e , w h ich is n o t d iffu se, u n m e d it a t e d , o r sla p d a sh , b u t in st ea d ca r efu lly p lo t t ed . Ev id e n ce fo r th is v iew is fo u n d p r im a r ily in t h e co n scio u s u se of m y t h su p p o r t ed b y a m e t a p h y s ica l u se of la n g u a g e , b u t a lso in t h e u se of co m m o n st r u ct u r a l t e ch n iq u e s (fo r e x a m p le , d r a m a t ic

fo r e-

sh a d o w in g ). As Br id ie 's m o r a lit y goes b e y o n d t h e lim its of lo g ic, so h is st r u ct u r e d isr eg a r d s t h e lim it a t io n s of r ea list ic d r a m a , d e m a n d in g d r a m a t ic fo r m s —fa r ce a n d fa n t a s y —w h i ch

w ill

e n co m p a s s t h e illog ica l a n d p o r t r a y a h ig h e r r ea lit y t h a n t h e r ea list ic; so h is la n g u a g e o p er a t es on t w o p la n es, liter a l a n d p o et ic. Fin a lly , Br id ie 's

m o r a l a ffin ity w it h

Sh a w

and

Ib sen

is

e xp lo r e d , n ot w it h t h e in t en t io n of t r a cin g lit er a l b o r r o w in g b u t t o cla r ify Br id ie 's p h ilo so p h ica l a n d d r a m a t ic in t e n t io n . T h e ju st ifica t io n fo r su ch co m p a r is o n s is o b v io u s : Br id ie w r o t e cr it ica lly of Sh a w

a s a p la y w r ig h t

and

ad ap ted

sev er a l of

Ib s e n 's p lays. F r o m t h e t w o, h e a d o p t e d a d r a m a t ic m e t h o d w h ich ca p it a liz es on t h e u se of w h a t h e ca lled a ju d icia l a t t it u d e (a n d w h a t I r efer t o as ju d icia l a m b ig u it y ) a n d a co r r esp o n d in g p h ilo so p h ica l r ela t iv ism , b o t h of w h ich a llow t h e a p p a r e n t ly ir r e co n cila b le co n flict s in h is p la y b e t w e e n o r d e r a n d d isor d er , h u m ilit y a n d p r id e, r esp on sib ility a n d ir r esp o n sib ilit y , selflessness a n d selfish n ess, sa lv a t io n a n d d a m n a t i o n . Sh a w ' s in flu en ce is stressed in t h e e a r lie r p la y s, Ib s e n 's in t h e la t e r p la y s, w h e n a g r e a t e r m o r a l a w a r en es s in Br id ie 's p r o t a g o n ist s su ggests t h e ir u n d e r s t a n d in g of t h e r ela tiv it y of h u m a n v a lu es as d istin g u ish ed fr o m t h e a m b ig u it y of d iv in e.

INTRODUCTION

11

Chapter I of this study appeared in a slightly altered version in the Educational Theatre Journal (December 1963), and my analyses of The Black Eye and The Baikie Charivari were first printed, again slightly altered, in Modern Drama (February 1963 and May 1964). I am grateful to Jonathan Curvin and A. C. Edwards, who gave their permission to reprint this material; to Constable and Co., who gave their permission to quote from Bridie's works; to Bridie's widow and son and to Winifred Bannister, who helped me with the chronology; and to Patricia Martin, who caught some of my glaring errors. Finally, I am deeply indebted to Gerald Weales, whose chapter on Shaw and Bridie in Religion in Modern English Drama suggested my interpretation of the use of daemonic temptation in Bridie's general use of the myth of man's temptation and fall, and whose daemonic inspiration and pervading influence on this study could never be acknowledged in footnotes. H.L.L.

James Bridie: Clown and Philosopher

I The Dramatic Method deeply and selflessly devoted Dr. Osborne Henry Mavor, consulting physician to (and later governor of) the Victoria Infirmary of Glasgow, became, J . B. Priestley says, the victim of his persona, James Bridie, the defiant, wilful, impudent, brilliant amateur playwright: the drama critics were deceived into finding what Bridie only pretended to be and seldom discovered what he was trying to do. What Bridie pretended to be was a middle-aged doctor who sat up at night to dash off play after play just for a lark. "Because he started late, out of a very different profession in which he had won decent recognition," Priestley writes, "because he was at heart both proud (in the best sense) and shy, and dramatic criticism is more ruthless and damaging than any other sort, he made use of this appearance to cover certain defects while trying hard to remedy them. . . . he worked harder and longer, and revised more often, than he pretended to do.'" The same pride and modesty were responsible for the pen name, James Bridie (a combination of the names of Osborne THE

MODEST,

SERIOUS,

15

16

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

H en r y M a v or 's p a tem a l gran d p aren ts, Ja m e s M a v o r an d M a r y An n Brid ie), beh in d w h ich th e Glasgow p hysician sou ght an on ym ity w hen at th e age of forty he began to send ou t his p lays. U n til then Brid ie h ad p rod u ced only u n d er gr ad u ate far e at Glasgow Un iversity, w hile sim u ltan eou sly (an d for a w hile u nsu ccessfu lly) tryin g to p ass th e an atom y finals so as to becom e th e p h ysician his en gin eer fath er h ad him self w an ted to be. H is caricatu res an d h u m orou s verse an d p rose, in clu d in g d r am atic criticism , h ad been p u blished in th e Glasgow Un iversity M a g a zin e, of w h ich he had been an ed itor, an d p lays w ith titles to rival Oh Dad, Poor Dad, M omma' s Hung Y ou in the Closet and I' m Feelin' So Sad h ad occasion ally been p erform ed for u n d ergrad u ate au d ien ces : The Son who was considerate of his Father' s Prejudices, N o W edding Cake for Her, The Duke who could sometimes hardly keep from Smiling, The Baron who would not be convinced that His W ay of Living was anything out of the Ordinary. (In one sense, of cou rse, th e m ed ical stu d ent w as th e victim of th e college bu ffoon in his battered bow ler h at w ith a hole in th e crow n , his red n ecktie, tom ato-colored ja ck et , m agen ta trou sers strip ed w ith m au v e, blu e socks w ith h orizon tal black strip es, brow n brogu es, an d m on ocle.) Bu t th ere is still an oth er sense in w h ich Brid ie is th e victim of th e persona Priestley sp eaks of. H e is th e victim of his ow n criticism , in w h ich he is too often cockin g a sn ook. In th e essay "T h e Th e a t r e ," for in stan ce, after h e stu d ies th e Greek origins of th e w ord s com ed y, traged y, an d fa r ce, he com es u p w ith these d efin ition s: Com ed y "is a com p osition in ten d ed to be p art an d p arcel of a b in g e," traged y is a "g o a t son g ," w h ich is "a s p lain a p iece of d escrip tion as a 'sw an son g.' It is a song, d elivered w ith a p ecu liar bleatin g in ton ation , abou t a certain h u m an qu ality sh ared by m an kin d w ith th e g o a t —t h a t of bu ttin g fu riou sly an d hop elessly against th e facts of life." Fa r ce,

TH E

D RA M A TIC

M ETH O D

m ean in g a h aggis (from th e Italian farcio,

17

I stu ff), is "a n h ou r

or tw o filled w ith an yth in g th at com es in to th e h ead s of the au th or or th e a ct o r s." N ext he insists th at "t h e etern al fu n ction of th e Th e a t r e is to en t er t a in ," th at "t h e Th ea t r e is a PassTim e " : I have rep eated ly heard persons com ing ou t of a th eatre say to each oth er that such and such a piece of work is very am u sing, but it is not a p lay. A play is a m ethod of passing an interval of tim e. A stage play is a m ethod of passing an interval of tim e by p u tting an actor or actors on a p latform and cau sing them to say or d o certain things. If it is am u sing, th at is to say if it su cceed s in m aking the sp ectators unconsciou s of the passage of tim e, it fu lfils its fu nction and has m erit. If, on the other hand , the sp ectators are consciou s of the passage of tim e, of the d read ful p rogress of the Universe tow ard s d estru ction and nothingness, the p lay has failed and has no m erit, or, at least, no m erit as a p lay. . . . T o p rod u ce belief is the p rincip al trick in this p articu lar d evice for passing Tim e. . . . passing Tim e is no m ean or frivolou s activity. Th e consciousness of Tim e is a very terrible thing . . . A p lay m akes us believe that we are taking p art in a fu ller kind of life th an th at in w hich we live w ith its long, u nbearably flat passages and longueurs. Th ese longueurs are absent in d ream s, and to ind u ce a sort of d ream state is p art of the trick.1 Passin g t im e is n o m ean or frivolou s activity, esp ecially in a Un iv erse p rogressing tow ard s d estru ction an d n oth in gn ess, bu t toe often , as in th e Pr eface t o Colonel W otherspoon and Other Plays, Br id ie tries to d eny th a t his p lays ar e an yth in g bu t en terta in m en t by d ism issing th eir m oral p u rp ose : H e is aw ar e, h e says, of bein g called "a n am ateu rish bu t ed ifyin g d r a m a t ist ," th e secon d of w h ich ad jectiv es invests h im w ith a "sa cr ed d u t y ." Bu t in stead of d efen d in g th e ed ification of th e p lays, h e chooses th e com p a n y of Sir Ja m e s Ba r r ie, w h o, h e says, "d oesn 't both er h im self m u ch w ith m orals or gr eatn ess" : "I d o not clin g to his m a n tle, bu t I stan d , for on ce in a w ay, a cabin boy in his

18

JA M E S BRI D I E : C LO W N AND

P H I LO SO P H E R

gal l e y a n d I e ch o h i m in th e s e n tim e n t . 'Wh a t 's all this a d o ab o u t e d i fi cat i o n ? Are yo u ple as e d o r are yo u no t ?' " In th e s am e p re fa c e , h e trie s to

ridicule t e ch n i qu e p e r se ( "I t is a

te rrible t h i n g t o fa c e th e p u b l i c h a n d i c a p p e d b y an in s u fficie n cy of w h a t is calle d t e c h n i q u e ; fo r, yo u m u s t k n o w , if the w ri t e r of w o rd s i n t e n d e d t o be spo ke n o n th e s t age h as th e gi ft of p ro p h e c y a n d u n d e rs t an d s all k n o wl e d g e a n d all m ys te rie s a n d t h o u g h h e h as all fai t h so th at h e co u ld re m o ve m o u n t ai n s a n d h as n o t t e ch n i q u e , h e is n o t h i n g ") w h e n h e is c ap ab l e of th e m o re val i d criticis m th at t e ch n i q u e "h a s n o t h i n g to d o w i t h th e blin d ad h e re n ce to a f e w arb i t rary ru l e s "—ru l e s

wh ich

are "a p p l i e d like p o s t age s t am p s o n c i rc u l a rs . '" Th i s p as s age , to o , fro m his a u t o b i o g ra p h y, One

W ay

of Living,

re ve als bo th

s e lf-rid icu le an d a c a p a c i t y fo r se rio us s e l f-an al ys i s ; in it he i m agi n e s a co n ve rs at io n

b e t we e n

th e Re c o rd i n g An g e l

an d

h i m s e l f: ". . . I m ake patterns. I'm a carpet playwright. I weave. If you cannot follow the lines of m y design; if you cannot read the Great Nam es of Allah woven am ong olive trees and the scorpions and the stags, at least I hope you will like the gaiety of the colours and the variety of the shapes. Tread lightly on m y Berlin Persians, on m y quaint linoleum s, for you tread on m y dream s." "That is all very well," said the Recording Angel when he had read m y plays, "but . . ." "Just a m inute," I said. "Listen to this. 'She cam e downstairs. She went to an office and sat there all day. She went back to her divan room at six-thirty and stayed there reading library novels. She had no friends and no m oney to spend.' . . . If I m ake her alive then I have told a story, a story out of which you can take your own m eaning, a story you can round off with your own m oral. If I put in a m urder in the next flat, a love affair with her em ployer or any such m iserable incident I put it in becam e otherwise no one would buy this story. But they are not the story. The story is the girl herself, com ing to life, reaching to you over the footlights and telling you that you are not alone in the world; that other hum an beings live, suffer, rejoice and play the fool

T H E D RAM ATI C

19

M ETH O D

w it hin t he same limit at ions t hat bind y ou. And all t his nonsense about last act s. O nly God can w rit e last act s, and He seldom does. You should go out of t he t heat re w it h y our heard w hirling w it h speculat ions. You should be lov ingly select ing infinit e possibilit ies for t he charact ers y ou hav e seen on t he st age. W hat furt her int erest for y ou hav e t hey , if t hey are neat ly w rapped up and bedded or coffined? . .

Cer t a in ly th at Br id ie is th e v ictim of h is cr itics ca n b e d ocu m en t ed . Th e y h av e relen tlessly an d severely a t t a ck ed h im as a cr a ft sm a n , at tim es t o th e exclu sion of a n y con sid er a tion of th e th em e bein g d evelop ed in a p lay a n d th e p ossible a p p r op r iaten ess of th e str u ctu r e, h ow ev er d iffu se, t o t h a t t h em e. Th u s G eo r g e Je a n N a t h a n cou ld w r ite of Daphne

Laureola

(1949),

a p lay w h ich becau se of th e p er fo r m a n ce of D a m e £d it h Ev a n s h a s r eceiv ed m or e cr itica l a tten tion b oth in En g la n d a n d in th e U n it e d St a t es t h a n h av e Br id ie's best p la y s : [Brid ie's] p lays are fu rth er as u nsatisfyin g as a d in n er, even w hen p resid ed over by an exp ert w aiter, w h ich skips from th e cocktail to th e d essert and fails to p rovid e an en tree. Th e y h ave a begin n in g and an end , som etim es fair en ou gh , bu t no m id d le. Th is Brid ie . . . seem ed to w rite a p lay alm ost every oth er d ay. . . . ju d gin g from the n atu re of a large n u m ber of th em , I d on 't see w hy he cou ld not toss off tw ice as m an y as h e d id . . . . It is evid ent th at . . . he was a m an of id eas and talen t bu t his assem bly line activity d id n ot allow h im to d o ju stice to th em . Th er e is abou t m ost of his w ork an u n m ed itated air an d slap d ash p rep aration th at give it the sense of a first d raft. All th rou gh this D a p h n e La u r eola one feels it, togeth er w ith its lap ses an d confu sions. Sh red s of th e fan tastic an d w him sical m ix aw kw ard ly w ith p atch es of con ven tion al p olite com ed y an d th e p seu d o-p hilosop hical. Th e recogn izable and believable collid e w ith the far -fetch ed and silly.' Ye t th e ju xta p osition of op p osites, of th e con v en tion a l w ith th e fa n t a st ic, th e believ a ble w ith t h e silly, is in teg r a l t o th e

20

JAMES

BRIDIF. : C L O W S

AND

PHILOSOPHER

play whose t h e m e — t h e degradatio n of civilization—contrasts the civilized with the uncivilized a n d is reinforced by the alternating a n d apparentl y incongruous tones. But defense of Bridie, as when he is called "the savior of British comedy," coming to rescue English theater when n o one was left after Shaw to write polished a n d witty conversation, fares no better. Usually it praises the obviously good or the wrong thing—the polished and witty dialogue a n d the "wee dose of idiosyncrasy" for example, which supports his reputation as a creator of odd, vividly alive characters but does nothing to disprove the theory that as a c r a f t s m a n he was a bungler. "Yet Bridie's wind-bags are still actor's d r e a m s , " one critic writes to excuse dialogue which he finds prolix.' Another criticism admirable for its avoidance of the issue is William Jeffrey's in The Oxford Companion to the Theatre: His technique has not always been equal to his ambition. An overfacile pen has been his bugbear, and he is wilful and wasteful in his use of excellent material. But on the whole his influence in the theatre has been salutary. When it seemed as if modern comedy was about to commit hari-kiri by reducing speech to a minimum, along came Bridie with a train of characters, every one of whom will talk twenty to the dozen and deave the welkin. All in all, Bridie has devised plays rich in entertainment and generous in their number of good parts for players.' In other words, the wilful a n d wasteful use of excellent material is easily ignored in following the a m a z i n g flow of rhetoric; all the clever talk hides the decline a n d demise of the play in the second a n d third acts. W h e n a critic faces the issue of the structure of a Bridie play, generally he judges it by some preconceived idea of "the structure of a play," as opposed to " t h e structure of a novel." T h u s Joseph W o o d K r u t c h , writing about A Sleeping Clergyman (1933), criticizes its action for being " a bit diffuse" :

T H E DRAMATIC

METHOD

21

Some of the scenes seem to be tangential to the main business in a manner proper enough in a novel but tending in drama to destroy that effect of rapid movement in a single direction which is almost necessary if a play is not to give the impression that it halts when it should go forward. . . . Moreover, many individual scenes are written with the finest dramatic instinct, so that whatever has been said about a certain cumbersomeness in the organization of the whole does not apply to the movement of most of the parts taken by themselves." Thus Margaret Marshall, writing about Daphne Laureola, criticizes the play for being all "third act and epilogue" like A Streetcar Named Desire. The play explores the consequences of a choice, she says: Now the consequences of such choices are interesting enough. The trouble is that, in the theater, they constitute third act and epilogue—the real drama, the dynamic development, has gone before. The incidents illustrating the consequences may be fascinating, and some are dramatic in themselves, but all are part of a situation which is an ending, not a beginning or a middle, and therefore basically static. . . . What has gone before must somehow be made clear—which makes for long stretches of analysis and reporting that may, again, be interesting but are not intrinsically dramatic.9 Miss Marshall probably is in error about the plot of Daphne Laureola (in one sense a choice is revealed in the last act of the play). But this is not an argument about interpretation; nor is it a defense of A Sleeping Clergyman. The point is that when Krutch and Miss Marshall do not find what they are looking for, they do not look at what they find. Both recognize, of course, the importance of substance in a play and that Bridie has this, even though he "may not have mastered the art of compact dramatic construction," as Krutch puts it. "If the piece falls short," Miss Marshall writes of Daphne Laureola, "it is at least of a quality to engage the intelligence." Krutch is

22

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

more effusive: "But in a theater where nothing is more c o m m o n than plays well m a d e out of nothing, substance is precious enough to be more than welcome even if its organization is a little uncertain. And M r . Bridie has substance." Eric Bentley, like K r u t c h , prefers Bridie's substance to wellm a d e plays; unlike K r u t c h a n d Miss Marshall, he comes to Bridie with n o preconceived idea of form a n d is willing to look for the playwright's intention in each play. Calling Bridie's 1948 play Gog and Magog a better piece t h a n " a less imperfect play," Indictment ("Plainte contre I'inconnu") by Georges Neveux, he explains his judgment this way : T h e French well-made play is exasperatingly well made. Here's the machine, as it were, and look, there's your sausage. Bridie's piay, everyone agrees, doesn't quite come off. T h e sausage isn't there because Bridie doesn't believe in machine manufacture. If he can't quite make his wild tale a symbol of human fate—as is, say, Synge's Playboy—it's not for lack of trying. And by trying, I don't mean having highminded intentions outside the play, but seeking after the right theatrical form for the intentions in the play. At those happy moments when Bridie's farce begins to mesh with his idea one glimpsed a bigger sort of drama than Neveux's play. . . . if Bridie isn't a very great playwright, he is a genuine one, and the best, apparently, that the British can offer today." If, in the u n h a p p y moments, Bridie's plays are imperfect, they are imperfect not because they are m a d e on the assembly line but because they are not. This is, at least, a step nearer the truth than is N a t h a n ' s criticism. Some of the confusion of opinion about Bridie's intention and the success with which he accomplishes it is due to his apparent simplicity but actual complexity. Admittedly, he is sometimes too explicit (in bad plays) a n d criticism which censures him for being explanatory where he should be suggestive is then justified. Jonah and the Whale, The Last Trump, It Depends What You Mean, a n d Dr. Angelus deserve

THE

DRAMATIC

METHOD

23

to be criticized for, respectively, their prolixity, acres of talk, unabashed garrulity, and longwindedness." But some criticism is complacent and superficial when a play is difficult and complex. T h e critic for The Times Literary Supplement was correct in finding an unwillingness to make things easy for the audience in Bridie's best plays.12 There is an ambiguity in these, an ambiguity inherent in their structure and in characterizations within the structure. Moreover, the ambiguity is intentional, as this comment by Bridie on Shaw suggests: The most disturbing feature of Widower's Houses was the judicial attitude of its author. H e repeatedly stepped over from the prosecutor's desk to that of the Devil's advocate. We are still disturbed by this attitude. We like our author to take sides. We like to know what he is getting at and to see him continually getting at it. This juggling with right and wrong destroys the opportunity delighted in by critics of a philosophic bent of taking sides against the author. How can a critic attack an author if he is for ever stating the converse to his own thesis in a much more brilliant fashion than the critic can achieve? How can any one be expected to die for a cause of which its chief protagonist cannot resist pointing otit the feeble and ridiculous features?" Sewell Stokes suggests a recognition of Bridie's intention in Dr. Angelus (1947). O n e does not know whether to take the villain seriously or not, he writes: "Bridie's trouble—an old one with him—is that he has not m a d e u p his mind what kind of play he is writing; or would it be fairer perhaps to say that he h a s — a nd that to confuse us is a part of his intention?"" Most critics seem not to suspect that Bridie is copying Shaw's judicial attitude. Peter Fleming praises in an early (1930) play, The Anatomist, the "interplay of contrasts" which produces a flavor "at once w a r m and dry, like the flavour of a good sherry," but admits that the characterization of Dr. Knox leaves him "with a slight, a very slight, feeling of inconclusiveness." At the end of the play, Dr. Knox, he writes, "so imperious and

24

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

sultanic, is reduced to the dimensions of a small boy of feminine p e r c e p t i o n . " " Inconclusiveness bothers Robert Speaight in his appraisal of Bridie; its absence in The Dragon and the Dove (1942) leads him to praise a m i n o r play as one "of real i m p o r t a n c e " : "[Bridie's] chief f a i l i n g — a n inability to bring his best ideas to a satisfactory conclusion—is not evident, since legend has already provided him with a last a c t . " " Inconclusiveness, or ambiguity , is inherent in the structure of a Bridie play because the plays are a r g u m e n t s in which the balance of thesis a n d antithesis is m a i n t a i n e d a n d of which the conclusion is never a resolution. T h e y are a r g u m e n t s about, or searches for, t r u t h, a n d about t r u t h there is n o finality. Even Bridie's fantasies—althoug h he would pass them off as pure e n t e r t a i n m e n t — m u s t be construed as arguments. Eric: Linklater writes in The Art of Adventure : " I t is, I believe, his conception of d r a m a - a s - a r g u m e n t t h a t has led to a loosethinking but c o m m o n complaint against M r . Bridie." T h e complaint is the old o n e — t h a t Bridie loses interest in the conclusions of his plays, ending t h e m before his story is ended. Linklater c o n t i n u e s : ". . . this c o m p l a i n t comes f r o m critics who, because they are looking for a purely d r a m a t i c denouement, have lost sight of the a r g u m e n t . T h e play finishes when the a r g u m e n t is finished."" T h a t Bridie conceived of d r a m a as a r g u m e n t , that he believed in a n d d e m o n s t r a t e d the "theatrical value of discussion"—the exploitation of which he believed was Shaw's invention in the art of e n t e r t a i n m e n t — w i l l be shown in each analysis that follows. Describing S h a w ' s "invention," Bridie wrote : It is a common matter of observation that when two men in a railway carriage begin to discuss any general topic the other occupants put down the most enthralling of books and newspapers and listen. In the theatre today, if two duelists were to put down their rapiers and daggers to elaborate a casual remark

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25

b y o n e o f t h e m ab o u t, s ay , th e e ra d i c a t i o n o f m u s k rats , be as s u re d th at th e a u d i e n c e w o u l d l e an f o rw a rd in its s e ats a n d listen w i th b re ath l e s s a t t e n t i o n . "

Th is is w hat Brid ie d oes. Th e d u elists put d ow n th eir rap iers an d d iscu ss the m orality of m u skrat er ad ication . An d the con clu sion of th eir argu m en t is n ever a r esolu tion : this is im p or tan t. For , as M or a y M cLa r e n p u ts it, " T o us in Irelan d an d Scotlan d an argu m en t th at reach es a con clu sion h as fa iled ." A p lay is a "flow of sou l" r ath er th an a "feast of r ea so n ."" Th e d u elists w ou ld not agree, in th e argu m en t abou t m u skrats, to erad icate or sp are th e an im als, bu t th ey w ou ld d iscover in th e d iscu ssion th at th ey an d the m u skrats h av e sou ls. Brid ie, again w riting abou t Sh a w , says of th e m essage of his p lays, "I n its essentials it is a religiou s m essage, for M r . Sh a w is a d eep ly religiou s m a n ."" Br id ie, too, is a d eep ly religiou s m a n , an d the m essage of his p lays is a religiou s m essage. Th e Scots' p reoccu p ation w ith th e soul p robably is n o gr eater th an th at of the Irish , or th e En glish , an d th e stru ggle betw een God an d the Devil p robably is rooted n o d eep er in th e consciou sness of the Scots th an of th e Irish , or th e En glish , d esp ite w h at Iain Craw ford says to th e con tr a r y ; bu t Craw ford is right th at the th em e w h ich exercises Brid ie's m in d "m ost strenu ou sly an d w h ich calls forth his best w o r k " is th e stru ggle betw een God an d the Dev il, an d h e is right, too, th at "t h er e is n oth in g sen ten tiou s or ev a n g elica l" abou t Brid ie's ap p roach .21 Brid ie's best p lays are n ot obviou sly religiou s p lays at all, ju st as The Devil' s Disciple an d The Doctor' s Dilemma are n ot obviou sly religiou s d ram as. Th u s, The Switchback, Brid ie's first p lay (1929), is less obviou sly a religiou s p lay th an is th e in ferior M r. Bolfry (1943). In M r. Bolfry, th e Ch ristian m in ister M cC r im m o n an d th e p agan d evil Bolfr y, raised (accord in g to th e m eth od d escribed by Reg in a ld Scot in The Discoverie of W itchcraft) by M cC r im m o n 's n iece Je a n an d tw o sold iers

26

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND P H I L O S O P H E R

billeted at the manse during the war, form an alliance against the agnostics—Jean and the soldiers Cully and Cohen. As Bolfry puts it, " M r . McCrimmon, it seems to me we cannot begin our battle for the souls of these persons until they realise that they have souls to battle for."" This is Bridie being clear and explicit. Bolfry continues: "But I am also, like yourself, a servant of One whom I need not name. . . . I a m the same Instrument of Providence as he who smote Job's body with boils for the good of his soul." T o Cully, who has laughed at his suggestion that this world can be a Paradise if one chooses the w a y of William Blake and proclaims that "Now is the dominion of Edom and the return of Adam to Paradise," Bolfry s a y s : The real War is . . . The War between Good and Evil. Th e Holy War. It is a War not to destroy but to create. It is like the war between man and woman. If there were no war, God would go to sleep. . . . Death would conquer both Good and Evil and there would be Nothing. . . . M y Führer fights for the New Disorder; for disorder is perpetual movement and movement is Life. The Eneiny has stated his Ten Points, from Mount Sinai in a thunder storm. . . . Disorder may win the day. . . . Then Man's genius will burst its bonds and leap to meet the sun. The living, glorious animal in you will riot in the fields, and the soul will laugh for joy, naked but not ashamed. Your Self will be triumphant. When I win, Man will be an individual. You may love your neighbour if you like, but all that is highest in you tells him to keep his distance. . . . There is no Hope in my country. No man hopes for what he has. What are the virtues that keep you going? Courage? Honesty? Charity? I have them too. Courage is the reaction to Fear. You are more afraid than I am. Honesty is the reaction to lies. Charity is the reaction to hate and suspicion. M y honesty spurns your superstitions. My charity embraces both the sheep and the goats. M y flags are the Pride of the Eye and the Lust of the Flesh. Their other names are Art and Poetry . . . I tell you that all you have and all you know is your Self. Honour your Self and set him free; for the Soul and the Body are one,

THE

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27

and their only h o m e is the World, and their only life is the Flesh and their only friend is the Devil. L e t the wild horses loose!

This "Rhetoric" McCrimmon recognizes as "the voice of my own heart speaking evil," and he determines—honoring his Self and setting it free—to tear Bolfry from his breast if he dies for it; his inclination after this midnight debate, during which Bolfry has consumed quantities of medicinal whisky, is to chase the Devil across the moor and force him at knifepoint over a cliff and into the sea. The young people's assurance is thus knocked out of them (Cully says, "I'm not sure of anything in the whole Universe"); McCrimmon, who returns from the chase to drink the heel of Bolfry's whisky bottle neat, will not admit and yet will not deny that his temptation by the devil has been more supernatural than that represented by a bottle of whisky. Mrs. McCrimmon, who, Bolfry admits, "is probably the key to the whole business," keeps her mind on such things as being properly shod to go chasing devils in thunderstorms and can't be bothered to scream when, next morning, the umbrella Bolfry left behind gets up and walks by itself out of the room, because, as McCrimmon says, nowhere is there greater faith than hers. Admittedly, this is explicit religion and explicit drama. Mr. Bolfry received a West End production and was greeted with "a paean of praise."" A similar theme treated with greater subtlety in The Sivitchback was not detected and the play has been virtually ignored. In the latter, the Christian Sir Anthony Craye, who tries to persuade Mallaby to live under the Order of the Ten Commandments by continuing to serve the medical profession and mankind, is at once in conflict and cahoots with the pagan Aunt Dinah, who encourages Mallaby to know, honor, and set free his Self to be an archeologist. Mallaby, after a major wrestling match, is "realizing" his soul in the third act. But another act would be needed to discover

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w hether his self-know led ge, like McCrim m on 's, would ad m it that "W e'v e got the qu eer, d ark corners in ou r m ind and strange beasts in them that com e out ranging in the n igh t," would ad m it, that is, that the Self has two p otentialities. Becau se Brid ie is the kind of religious d ram atist that Shaw is, it is impossible to label these p otentialities "a p otentiality for good " and "a p otentiality for evil." Mallaby's choice in The Switchback m ight better be characterized as the choice of ap p arent Disord er over ap p arent Ord er. Th e w ord s must be qu alified in Brid ie's plays becau se finally his attitu d e is am bigu ou s. Th ere is, first of all, the suggestion that the way of Ord er and logic is superseded by the way of Disord er w hich represents, u ltim ately, a higher ord er and logic. (Brid ie, w riting in an entirely d ifferent context, expresses a general philosophy w hich should be rem em bered in interp reting his p lays: "A mod ern state is best if it is a m akeshift . . . It should look with suspicion on all logical processes w ithin itself an d ou tsid e itself. Logical processes d o not apply to the hu m an sou l. It should find its inw ard fire in institu tions of im m ortality—in the work of its artists, its poets and its m u sician s."") If th is first w ere the only suggestion, a "reason able" reaction to ch aracters like Mallaby would be w r on g: u nam bigu ou sly, the d octor would leave the stage a cru sad ing hero. Bu t there is also the suggestion in Brid ie's plays that the w ay of Disord er is d estru ctive, that McCrim m on has chosen wisely to d enou nce the d ru nken d ays of his Divinity School years. To com p licate m atters still m ore, som etim es, as in M r. Bolfry, the way of Disord er is presented in an argu m ent of irrefu table logic, and the reaction of the rep resentative of the way of Ord er takes a most irrational and d isord erly form . Som etim es the way of Disord er is an extrem ely "reason ed " choice, as are the choices of Dr. Kn ox, in The A natomist (a play based on the life of Robert Kn ox, the fam ed nineteenth-

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M ETH O D

cen t u r y a n a t o m is t w h o n a r r o w ly esca p ed im p r iso n m en t

fo r

h is su sp ected in v olv em en t in th e b o d y -sn a t ch in g bu sin ess of Bu r k e a n d H a r e ) a n d of D r . A n g elu s in th e p lay by t h a t n a m e . Th u s D r . K n o x , fo r w h ose a n a t o m y classes cor p ses a r e su p p lied by Bu r k e a n d H a r e (w h o t r a p a n d m u r d e r th e u n su sp ectin g ), h a s r a t io n a lly ch osen to ca r r y t h e d ea t h s of p oor w r etch es a r o u n d h is n eck u n til h e d ies b eca u se h e believ es it is h is d u ty to p ass a lo n g t h e k n ow led g e h e h as a cq u ir e d . T h e ca u se, h e says, "i s b et w ee n Ro b e r t K n o x a n d A lm ig h t y G o d . I sh all a n sw er t o n o o n e else. As fo r th e w or ld , I sh all fa ce it. . . . D o you k n o w t h a t I a m t h e a p ost olic su ccessor of C u v ier , t h e g r ea t n a t u r a list ? D o you kn ow t h a t , a lt h o u g h I a m a co m p a r a t iv ely y o u n g m a n , m u ch of m y w or k is a lr ea d y i m m o r t a l ?' " 1

To

A m e lia , t h e w o m a n h e loves, h e a d m it s t h a t h e is a "lit t le p in k sh iv er in g b o y cr o u ch in g w it h in th is g r o t esq u e, th is grisly sh ell of a b o d y ." In t h e ligh t of h e r p r esen ce h e sees h is b a t t le a g a in st t h e p eo p le w h o ca ll h im a m u r d e r e r a s "s o m u ch

foolish

b o m b a s t a n d v a n i t y ," as a "s q u a lid , t o r t u r in g fa r ce ." H e stru ts a n d r a n t s a n d p u ts o n a b old fa ce b u t h is sou l is sick w ith in h im a t t h e h o r r o r of w h a t h e h a s d o n e. W a lt e r A n d er so n , D r . K n o x ' s y o u n g d e m o n s t r a t o r , w h o is co m p let ely d isillu sion ed w h en h e d iscov er s t h a t h is id ol co n d o n es m u r d e r , r ep r esen ts t h e w a y of O r d e r in th is p la y , yet h e scr ea m s, r u sh es a b o u t w h it e a n d s h a k in g , a n d n ea r ly collap ses u p o n r eco g n iz in g in t h e sch oo l m o r t u a r y a gir l w h o b efr ien d ed h im in a b a r ; D r . K n o x a n sw er s h is h y ster ia w it h , It w ill be p er h ap s a satisfaction to you to kn ow th at you r frien d w ill b e im p r ov in g th e m ind s of th e you th of th e tow n in p lace of co r r u p t in g th eir m orals. . . . Co m e, m y d ea r lad , I p erceive you h ave h ad a sh ock. Yo u m u st n ot m in d m y rou gh ton gu e. It is a d efect in m e as sen tim en tality is in you . T h e life of this p oor w r etch is en d ed . It is su rely a b et t er th in g th a t h er bea u ty of for m sh ou ld be at th e service of d ivin e scien ce th an at th e service of

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any d ru nken bu ck w ith a crow n in his p ocket. O u r em otions, Walter, are for ever tu gging at ou r coat-tails lest at any tim e we shou ld look th e Tr u th in th e face. W a lt er , d eclar in g th at "T h e tru th is she w as m u r d er ed . . . . Yo u are a cow ar d an d a m u r d e r e r ," strikes at Kn o x, w h o ca tch es his w rist an d rep lies, "M r . An d er son , I shall n ot requ ire you r services th is for en oon . In th e a fter n oon you w ill p resent you rself at m y p riv ate room a n d ap ologise to m e. In th e m ean tim e you w ill go t o bed . In th e fu tu re I ad vise you to abstain fr om a lco h o l." Br id ie, in a p r eface to The A natomist, states, "N o solu tion t o th e m ystery of Kn o x' s attitu d e in 1828 is su ggested . Per h a p s M a r y ' s (in A ct I I I ) is n earest th e tr u th , th ou gh she on ly says it to h u r t h im .'"* W a lt er 's fiancee, w h o is jea lou s of his d evotion to Kn o x an d begs h im to leave th e an atom ist t o take u p p r iv a te p r a ctice, says, " I th in k you are a v ain , h ysterical, talen ted , stu p id m a n . I th in k th at you are w icked ly blin d a n d careless w h en you r m in d is fixed on som eth in g. Bu t all m en are like t h a t . Th e r e is n oth in g very u n com m on a bou t you , D r . K n o x . " Th is is perhaps n earest th e tr u th . T h e w ay of Disor d er is syn on ym ou s w ith selfishness or in tegrity, th e w ay of O r d e r w ith selflessness or com p r om ise; th e r ea d er m u st ch oose. O r h e m a y ch oose to let Brid ie's am bigu ity stan d u n m olested in th e belief th a t tru th abou t su ch th in gs is u n kn ow able becau se a Kn o x w ill an sw er to n o on e bu t A lm ig h ty God . D r . Kn o x is lectu r in g in A m elia 's d raw in g room w h en th e cu r tain fa lls—a b o u t th e h ear t of th e r h in o cer o s: "Th i s m igh ty or g a n , gen tlem en , w eigh s fu ll tw en ty-five p ou n d s, a fitting fou n ta in h ea d for th e tu m u ltu ou s stream th a t su rges th r ou gh th e arteries of th at p rod igiou s m on ster. Cla d in p roof, gen tlem en , an d terribly a r m ed as to his sn ou t, th e rh in oceros bu ffets h is w ay th r ou gh th e tan gled verd u re en gird lin g his

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trop ical h abitat." Th e read er is read y to grant that the d octor is a "little pink shivering b oy " arm ed against the w orld , forced to do the evil of m u rd er. Th en Kn ox ad d s, "Su ch d read fu l vigou r, gentlem en, such in elu ctable energy requ ires to be sustained by no ord inary forces of nu trition . . ,"11 H e seems to be talking abou t him self. H is energy must be su stained by n o ord inary force. Kn ox, M cCr im m on , Dr. Angelu s, and Mallaby—all of Brid ie's rhinoceroses—are su stained by extraord inary forces, forces w hich represent p otentialities outsid e themselves. In each case they are trying to realize selves outside or beyond themselves, to be som ething beyond blu shing boys. Th ey meet w ith varying success becau se the forces nou rishing them "are not all equ ally exp ert and con scien tiou s," as th e Archangel Rap h ael exp lains it in Tobias and the A ngel, Brid ie's p op u lar biblical p lay, and becau se as m aterial for nou rishm ent they have not been "in variably w ell ch osen ." Th e Arch an gel, w ho has guid ed Tobias on his jou rn ey, is exp lainin g to Sar a that she cannot love him bu t m u st love Tobias, her hu sband . Rap h ael is Tobias' d aem on , he says: "A d aem on , spelt w ith an 'a ,' is a creatu re by w hose agency you w rite im m ortal verse, go great jou rneys, leap in to bottom less chasm s, fight d ragons, starve in a gar r et." Sar a ad d s, "Str an gle ou r h u sban d s"; Rap h ael ad m its this, continu ing, "It is p erhap s fortu n ate that d aem ons are m u ch too occu p ied to visit, or to concern them selves w ith, the bu lk of m an kin d . . . . Wh en it is necessary to Jah v eh 's purpose they m ake con tact, often w ith extrem ely d istu rbing resu lts; for d aem on s are not all equ ally exp ert an d conscientiou s, and their m aterial is not invariably well ch osen ." Sa r a can love Tobias' d aem on only "in a Pickw ickian sen se"; w hen she sees Rap h ael looking ou t of Tobias' eyes, she must im itate Mrs. McCr im m on , look the other w ay and bu sy herself w ith household tasks, for she can n ot love w h at she can n ot u nd erstand . "Lov e w hat you u n d erstan d ," Rap h ael tells h e r —

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that is, "Tobia s, and Tobias alon e," "h is little od d ities, his little bursts of friend liness, his gentleness, his follies," and "h is little round fat b od y "—"a n d you will u nd erstand more and more till your life is so full that there will be n o room for anything else, tortu rings and itchings and am bitions and sham es."1* H ere would be a cond em nation by Brid ie of the tortu red and am bitiou s were it not that Rap h ael says, "W h en it is necessary to Jah veh 's purpose . . ." Th e am bitiou s cannot be cond em ned if their am bition is necessary to Jah v eh 's pu rpose. Brid ie's heroes, then, are inspired , exp ertly or inexp ertly, by representatives of a suprem e force w hich is in Tobias and the A ngel called Jah veh but w hich has other nam es in other plays. Th e force is served by a necessary com bination of d aem ons of Ord er and Disord er, or in other term inology angelic and d iabolic d aem ons. If there is alw ays a com bination of opposing forces at w ork, inspired men must necessarily be in conflict with a m ajor elem ent in their environm ent. Som etim es their liberalism is in revolt against convention an d trad ition , as is the case w ith Dr. Kn o x; som etim es, like McCr im m on , they stand for convention and trad ition against m od ern relativism — against those whose mind s are open becau se they are em p ty. In all cases they d efend egoism against altru ism , or prid e against hu m ility, in the sense that their inner faith in them selves, when they becom e m aterial for d ivine or su p ernatu ral insp iration, is firm . Th eir insp iration is interp reted by the u ninspired as im p ractical or literal m ad ness, selfishness, irresponsibility, u nreasonableness, w ilfulness, or im p iety. Th e fate of Brid ie's rhinoceroses reflects the illogical or exotic values of this Jah v eh , or World Morality, a m orality w hich can best be d escribed as that found in the story of the p rod igal son. Th e m orality of a Brid ie play kills the fatted calf in com p assion and love for the son who has wasted his su bstance w ith riotou s living, p roclaim s, "Fo r this my son was d ead , and is alive again ;

THE DRAMATIC M E T H O D

33

he was lost, and is found." It is a morality hard for logical elder brothers—Cully, Cohen, and Jean in Mr. Bolfry, Walter and Mary in The Anatomist—to understand. It requires generosity and compassion of them, which is its justification. Not every reader is a logical elder brother. For the prodigal sons of the world, the exotic values being championed are initially acceptable. But Bridie's ambiguity forces them to look at the ways they are wasting their substance and to decide if they might not better waste it in some other way. They, the illogical and disorderly, are asked to look logically and unemotionally at themselves. Bridie's use of symbolism and Christian myth, then, is like Shaw's, rather than like Eliot's. He does not believe in Archangels and Devils but in forces—but there is not much difference, he would say. Thus, in a play like Tobias and the Angel, which is a dramatic transcription of a tale told in the Book of Tobit in the Apocrypha and in which the Archangel Raphael and the daemon Asmoday appear, Raphael and Asmoday are symbols of forces, as are humans like Craye and Aunt Dinah in The Switchback. Bridie's use of the Adam myth—which is the subject of the analysis of The Switchback in the next chapter—is like Shaw's use of the concept of Christian sacrifice in The Devil's DiscipleWhen Bridie wrote Tobias and the Angel, The Black Eye, and Marriage Is No Joke, he was not literally writing religious plays about the fate of the prodigal son. And when he wrote The Baikie Charivari he was not literally writing about the temptation and crucifixion of Christ. Perhaps more important than that Bridie is a religious dramatist is that he is a comedian; his piety will not be solemn. James R. Carlson draws the comparison with Shaw in a review of Tobias and the Angel: " A t its best the religious theater has played variations on tragedy, and at its worst it

34

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h a s b a t h e d itself in sen t im en t a lit y . Seld o m h as it seen t h a t co m ed y a w a k en s a kin d of resp on se n ev er t a p p ed b y so lem n ity o r lim p id e m o t io n . Th o u g h t fu ln e s s a n d la u g h t er tr a v el t o g et h er in t h e a t e r a n d in life a n d th ey p lay t o g et h er in t h e 'r eligiou s d r a m a ' of Ja m e s Br id ie (as th ey d o in th e 'r elig iou s d r a m a ' of h is fellow ico n o cla st Be r n a r d Sh a w )."3 " Br id ie w r o t e "b i n g e s " a n d "h a g g is e s " r a t h e r t h a n "g o a t so n g s," b u t h e w r o t e t h e m in t h e fu ll k n ow led g e t h a t m a n k in d , like th e g o a t , b u t t s fu r iou sly a n d h op elessly a g a in st t h e fa ct s of life. T h i s is a n a ch ie v e m e n t b ey o n d t h e r ea ch of th e a m a t e u r .

II Am bigu ity in The Sw it chback

the Ad am m yth was never again as specific as it was in his first p lay, The Switchback. Usu ally he was simply d escribing a tem p tation and loss of in n ocen ce—a tem p tation by d aem ons to leave a state of innocence (the pink shivering boy or naked Ad am state) in ord er to realize a p otentiality beyond innocence. Th e New Ad am s have tw o choices after their fall. Th ey can attem p t to regain their lost innocence, that is they can d eny all d aem ons, can look the other w ay and go abou t their household tasks, as Rap h ael suggests Sara should d o. O r they can walk bold ly tow ard a New Ed en , to live inspired by their ruling d aem on in a land beyond the fu rther tem p tation of the rou ted d aem on. Mallaby says in the last act of The Switchback, "Man kin d has m any inventions, bu t only three ways of hap p iness—Make-believe, Curiosity and Iron y. Th e first tw o ways I have travelled hopefully on aching feet. Th ey are finished . I'll see w hat is in the th ird .'" H aving lived in a state of innocence th at was only m ake-believe, Mallaby "fa lls" u nd er the tem p tation of d aem ons representing opposite forces—in a m om ent of insp iration or cu riosity—and

BRI D I E'S U S E O F

35

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J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

chooses to be led by the victorious daemon into the Land of Irony, beyond further temptation. This is the most general application of the Adam myth, corresponding to its treatment in other plays. But the myth can be applied more specifically in The Switchback, for here is an Eve, a serpent, and an order from God which is disobeyed (and in the revised edition of the play quotations from Genens and Paradise Lost). The play is about Mallaby, a country doctor, whose experiments toward a cure for tuberculosis are discovered by three London gentlemen stranded in his house because of motor trouble. Two of the gentlemen, Pascal (a newspaper man) and Burmeister (a financier), with the help of Mrs. Mallaby and against the advice of Sir Anthony Craye (head of the Royal Academy of Medicine), persuade Mallaby to take the cure to London where it is publicized before being approved by the Academy; an error is discovered in the experiments and Mallably is struck from the medical register. When Mrs. Mallaby goes off with Burmeister, Mallaby goes home to drink, until he is inspired to go off to the Near East to be an archeologist. All of this, Bridie says, "is intended to demonstrate the Vanity of Human Wishes, the Importance of Being Earnest, the Inevitability of Fate, the Economic Law, the Immortality of the Soul and the Pleasures of Hope."' The surprising thing is that the play manages to do all this and more. Indeed it is almost impossible to believe that it is a first play, so mature is its conception and so controlled the writing. But it was written—and rejected by Alfred Wareing of the Glasgow Repertory Theatre—in 1922. It did not receive a production until 1929, a year after young Tyrone Guthrie chose for his first production a much lesser play, The Sunlight Sonata. Winifred Bannister's reaction to The Switchback stop» at an acceptance of the values championed in Mallaby. The theme of the play, she says, is the seduction of altruism by the shoddy

A M BI GU I T Y IN T H E

SW I T C H BA C K

37

artifices of civilization; "an innocent selfless student in the cause of h umanity" is seduced by "individuals who represent the expedient state of our civilisation."3 Th is can be restated in the metaphor of the Adam myt h : Adam is tempted by Eve, who h as been tempted by the serpent (a combination of Burmeister, representing financial gain, and Pascal, representing fame and reputation), to eat of the fruits of materialism. Awakened from his innocence to the materialism of his Eden, he rejects the latter and goes off to regain the former'by digging among the ruins of an old world. In other words, he denies the daemon representing the shoddy artifices of civilization. But this criticism errs in bringing the argument of the play to a conclusion; it forgets McLaren 's warning that an argument that reaches a conclusion has failed, at least in Scotland. It decides—and the play does not—that Mallaby is a great and noble soul, a "selfless student in the cause of h umanity," and not simply a cranky child. It decides that Craye is a representative of expediency, and not an "archangel unawares" as Mallaby facetiously calls him in Act I. It decides that Aunt Dinah, who encourages Mallaby to go to Palmyra to regain his soul, is his "true ally" and "loyal protector" and not a devil quoting scripture. Certainly the ambiguity of the play—an ambiguity which accounts for most of its brilliance—provides support for this interpretation. Yet to say that "Bridie loses some sympathy for his central ch aracter" by making his indictment of society in Act I I I sound like drunken hysteria is to underestimate the playwright. If Mallaby has lost the audience's sympathy, it is because Bridie intended this. To imply that Bridie has lost control in the third act is to fall into the same error of subjectivity that traps other critics. Part of Bridie's intention in the play is to make his audience look critically and reasonably—as elder brothers—rather than simply emotionally, at its central character, who is, if not

38

J A M E S BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

child ish in his in n ocen ce, som eth in g a little less th an ch ild like. It is not only in th e final act th at Brid ie show s M a lla b y 's "m a d n ess" or "fr ea k ish n ess"; his ch aracterization com es to its logical clim a x h ere. It is not d ifficu lt to pu t p eop le in th e p rop er cam p s in a p lay like The Sunlight Sonata, w h ere Beelzebu b and his seven h en ch m en are on stage, tu gging one w ay on th e ch aracters, and th e Misses Fa it h , H op e, an d Ch ar ity p u llin g th e oth er ; bu t it is d ifficu lt to d ecid e, for exam p le, w h eth er Sir An th on y Craye is a d evil or an an gel. Altru ism m ay h ave been sed u ced by th e shod d y artifices of civilization , an d th e cu re for d isillu sionm ent w ith th is w orld ("th is p estilen tial d itch of a w or ld ," M a lla b y calls it in Act I I I ) m ay be d iggin g for an oth er Ed en in th e Ea st, bu t th e converse of th is thesis is com p eten tly if not brillian tly stated by Cr a y e. Th r ou g h ou t th e p lay, he can be cou n ted on for th e san e, d ignified resp onse to M a lla by 's u n reason ed im p etu osity. In Act I, scen e ii, w h en , com in g on stage to find his w ife in tears an d m istaken ly su sp ecting Cr aye of som e in fam ou s ad v an ce, M a lla b y rails, "D o es he th in k I'm afr aid of him becau se h e is Lor d H igh Pim p of H arley Street ? W h a t is it, you in fern al, in com p eten t p lu m b er ? W h a t d id you say, you d am n ed old cad ?" Sir An th on y answ ers, "Lo o k h ere, D r . M a lla b y , you forget you rself. Ta k e you r h an d off m y coat, sir. Ah ! I w ish you a very good m o r n in g ." Cr ay e goes for his coa t, p u ts it on w ith ou t assistan ce, an d goes ou t, Brid ie w rites, "lik e Coriolan u s or som ebod y ." M a lla b y is im m ed iately p eniten t : "I a m a little qu ick-tem p ered . D ea r m e, w h at a d read fu l scen e! I' m sorry, d ear. I' m frigh tfu lly sor r y." In the th ird act, w h en Cr aye brin gs M r s. M a lla b y h om e an d attem p ts to p iece togeth er th e lives sm ash ed by th e oth ers' carelessness, thesis an d an tith esis are stated like t h is : M allaby. You have evid ently com e to stam m er and bleth er and be pompous and sententiou s and impressive as usual. You are

A M B I G U I T Y IN T H E

SWITCHBACK

39

wasting your time on me. I am not a public meeting. I'm not even a man. You and your gang have done for me. Utterly. Sir Anthony. You are making things impossible for me by your rudeness. Mallaby. Then get to hell out of here. Sir Anthony. Look here, Mallaby, sit down in that chair and don't be a fool. I am not going to get angry with you—I never get angry with sick men, and you are obviously ill. Sit down at once when I tell you. Bridie's stage direction is "MALLABY sits down. He is very weak, and S I R A N T H O N Y is used to obedience." (Archangels are, perhaps?) Mallaby gains strength and sobriety of a kind with the intensity of his emotion, stating the play's thesis variously: Ο cities, I'll go to you. I'll fill my soul with you! You know, you cities, how soon, in how little time our little, shoddy, concrete and stucco world will be bitten to death by bacteria, shrouded in jungle and burnt there by the sun. . . . Where will be then Sir Anthony Craye and his doom-dealing Academy and his epochmaking book on the Mesenteries? A broken bit of delft from a Harley Street lavatory. "By George, they had sanitation of a sort then, too?" . . . I'm being practical. Is it being practical to lock a chain round my leg and limp up old Craye's treadmill? What for? To grind out a few false proofs to bolster up the ephemeral superstitions of these pundits, his friends? I'm damned if it is. I'm damned if I will. The only practical things are life and eternity. I'll go where they've written their message on the old grey face of the world. I'm free, I tell you. Free. The bonds of my captivity are broken. I'll go now. As fast as I can. . . . You're a tame elephant, proud of its little procession. I know what you want. Honour and glory, the consciousness of work well done, respect—"to give your little senate laws and stand attentive to your own applause"—all that. I don't. Pascal wants brute power. I don't. Your friend, what's-his-name—Burmeister, wants money and all the piggish pleasure it can bring. I don't. I'm an altruist. I only want the kingdom of heaven. It is within me, and, by heaven, I'll be king of it!

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Th e n com es th e a n t it h esis: "I qu ite u n d er sta n d ," says Sir A n t h o n y . "Yo u are excited . If you sh ou ld er you r resp on sibilities . . . Th is is h ysteria. . . . Yo u h ad am bition on ce. You still h av e, I' m su re. Yo u h a v e th e stu ff in you . W e ar e givin g you th e ch a n ce to com e b a ck —p er h a p s even tu ally (w h o k n ow s?) to take you r p lace alon gsid e Lister , Je n n e r , H u n ter , H a r v e y ." It is clea r fr om th e begin n in g of th e p lay th at Brid ie in ten d s to con trast tw o attitu d es tow ard life—C r a y e's sobriety, an d th e variou s m ad n esses d isp layed by M a lla b y an d th e oth er ch a r a cter s. Sir A n th on y is im m ed iately cau tiou s abou t a ccep tin g a n oth er tu bercu losis cu r e, d ou btin g th e you n ger d octor's ju d g m en t , p er h ap s a ft er observin g h is beh a v ior at his first en t r a n ce. (H e h as w a tch ed M a lla b y m a k e an u n for tu n ate refer en ce to "t h ose d a m n ed Je w s " in th e p resen ce of Bu rm eister , th en recover aw kw ard ly, on ly t o tell Lor d Pa sca l th at "t h e life of a bu sy G .P . leaves very little tim e to w a st e" read in g his p ap er.) "Bu t th ere's n o jo b at w h ich a m a n 's ju d g m en t is so likely to p lay h im false as in th is research bu sin ess," Cr aye tells Bu r m eister an d Pa sca l. H e con d em n s th eir m otives in h elp in g M a lla b y : "Yo u ' r e a fter h is livelih ood an d his p rofession al h on ou r a n d h is im m or ta l sou l. I say n oth in g of h is d om estic h a p p in ess." T h a t h e is a n "a r ch a n g e l u n a w a r es" can be su p p orted by situ ation , ch a r a cter iz a tion , an d lan gu age in th e p lay, begin n in g w ith th e m en tion of M a lla b y 's im m ortal sou l in th e sp eech ju st q u oted . Sir A n th on y rep eated ly attem p ts g u id a n ce, ad visin g again st ad vertisin g M a lla b y 's research befor e it h as been p assed on by th e A ca d em y , w arn in g M r s. M a lla b y again st Pa sca l's an d Bu r m eister 's "ir r esp on sibility," tryin g to save M a lla b y 's p rofession al stan d in g by ad visin g th e p u blication of a d isclaim er of Pa sca l's n ew sp ap er rep ort, brin gin g b a ck M r s. M a lla b y in Act I I I an d askin g th at M a lla b y forgive h er, find ing th e p lace in H or r ock s' labor ator y for h im .

A M B I G U I T Y IN T H E

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41

Cr aye's sp eeches ca n n ot , of cou rse, be read con sisten tly on a sym bolic level. Th is is n ot Br id ie's m eth od . Bu t aw aren ess of his in ten tion to m ake Sir A n th on y som e kind of d ivin e agen cy m akes certain of th e d ialogu e m ean in gfu l on tw o levels. Fo r exam p le, in th e first act C r a y e is tryin g to w arn Bu r m eister an d Pascal against a ccep tin g M a lla b y 's cu re for tu bercu losis too read ily : Burmeister. . . . If you d on 't know th e fellow , he ca n 't be an y good , becau se if he'd been any good you 'd have know n him , Toa d y , w ou ld n't you ? Sir A nthony. You know p erfectly well th at I keep an u nu su ally open m ind on everything con n ected w ith m y p rofession. Bu t . . . Burmeister. . . . Wh at a typ e you are, To a d y ! Sir A nthony. I am nothing of the kind . I'm an ord in ary honest m an . I'm not surprised you can 't recognise one w hen you see h im . All I said was . . . Pascal. All you said was th at you 've no interest in any bit of work th at isn't tu rned ou t by you r ow n little ring. Ju s t w h o is in Cr a y e's "r i n g " is u n cer ta in . M r s. M a lla b y d islikes h im becau se he a p p ea r s as a r oad block betw een h er a n d th e "life an d shop s an d th ea tr es an d d resses a n d d a n ces" in Lo n d o n . An Ev e, tem p ted by serp en ts an d h erself tem p tin g M a lla b y , she is at least n ot at first in Sir A n th on y 's rin g. Au n t D in a h ap p roves of Cr a y e w h ile she con d em n s Pa scal a n d Bu r m eister : "H e w as th e on ly d ecen t on e, th ou gh . Th o se oth er tw o ar e r a sca ls." Yet if th e w ay of m ad n ess, as op p osed to C r a y e's clear sobriety, is th e w ay of th e d evil, she m u st be in a n o t h er ca m p , qu otin g scrip tu re. T h e an sw er is th at Cr a y e an d Au n t D in a h are coh or ts; like Bolfr y an d M cC r im m o n , an d Ra p h a e l an d Asm od ay, th ey w ork tow ard one en d , an en d larger th an eith er an d en com p assin g b oth . Th e th eory th at a su p er n atu r al agen cy is at w ork in The Switchback can be su p p orted by situ ation an d lan gu age.

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J A M E S BRI D I E : C LO W N AND

P H I L O SO P H E R

W eat h er is on e of its in st r u m en t s : Fo g br in gs t h e th ree Lon d on gen t lem en t o M al l ab y ' s st udy (Bu r m eist er says ab ou t his h ost, "H e n ever h ad a luckier st r oke in h is life t h an at t h e m om en t t h e fog t h r ew us u p on h is d oor st ep "). M al l ab y , n ot icin g t h at t h e fo g h as lift ed in Act I, says, "Ye s, Go d rolled u p th e fog as I cam e d ow n th e valley. It w as a ver y sin gu lar sigh t . W e h ave m an y fogs h er e, an d th ey roll aw ay like gr eat m ap s. It uplift s th e spirit , don ' t you t h in k ? P h ar aoh an d h is ch ar iot s beh in d you , an d n o h ope an yw h er e, an d su dden ly t h e sea t h rows u p its ar m s an d lets you pass . . . " Th u s, t o in spir e Mallab y ' s revolt , th e for ce at w or k rolls out a t h u n der st or m in Act I I I , an d t h e r evelat ion is p u n ct u at ed by t h u n d er clap s an d ligh tn in g, th e lat t er illu m in at in g P alm y r a, M al l ab y ' s n ew Ed en , on a wall m a p . W eat h er is bot h an gelic an d d aem on ic, th e t h u n der st or m allied t o Au n t Di n ah (M allab y says, "I ' m as m a d as a t h u n d er st or m ") an d th e fog as sober as Sir An t h on y. T h e t w o at t it u des ar e blen ded in t h e agen cy at w or k. M r s. M al l ab y is an Eve, an d P alm y r a is M allab y ' s new Ed en . M al l ab y , at t h e en d of t h e play, is a fallen Ad am , t em pt ed by Eve an d a pack of ser pen t s out of h is in n ocen ce, an d off t o a n ew Ed e n in t h e pur suit of kn ow ledge. Again on e can look t o sit u at ion , ch ar act er izat ion , an d lan gu age t o pr ove Br idie' s in t en t ion . (Br idie h as t ipped off th e r eader at th e begin n in g of th e play, of cou r se; P ascal finds Milt on on th e m an t lepiece in th e doct or ' s st u dy an d r ead s off th e t h eme of t h e p l a y : "O f m an ' s first disobedien ce an d t h e fr u it . . .") Fir st of all, M allab y ' s ch ar act er izat ion h as th e in n ocen ce of A d a m — a ch ild-like in n ocen ce w h ich reveals itself in em ot ion al in st abilit y, egot ism , st u bbor n n ess, tactlessn ess, an d gullibility. M al l ab y h ar dly n eeds alcoh ol t o m ak e h im lose h is in h ibition s. H e is led by h is u n st able em ot ion s fr om h is first en t r an ce, wh en h is in n ocen t depr ecat ion of Bu r m eist er u pset s h im , t h r ou gh th e fr acas with Cr ay e over Mr s. M al l ab y ' s t ear s, to h is own t ear s

A M B I G U I T Y IN T H E

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43

at Cr a y e's scold in g for his d ru n ken n ess : in A ct I I I C r a y e says, "Yo u ' r e a cow ard becau se you try to d ru g you rself ou t of you r resp on sibilities, an d you 're a fool becau se you th in k vou ca n ," to w h ich M a lla b y ch ild ish ly rep lies, "D o n ' t scold m e. I d on 't th in k I ca n bear it. I d on 't kn ow w h eth er to lau gh or cry. I'll cry, I t h in k ," an d h e d oes so. H e is m isled in to releasin g his exp er im en ts to Pa sca l's p ap er by Bu r m e is t e r — th e con v en tion al serp en t in th e G a r d e n —w h o p lays on his an ger at Sir An th on y for m a k in g M r s. M a lla b y cr y. W h a t is m ore, h e is u n aw ar e th a t h e is bein g p u sh ed a r ou n d . "I ' m n ot an easy m an to d r iv e," h e says im m ed iately a fter agreein g to go to Lon d on w ith his cu r e. H is egotism takes th e for m of straigh tforw ard statem en t, as in "D a m n it, D or ot h y , an y m a n of com m on in telligen ce ca n tw ist th ose big bu siness m en rou n d his little finger if h e takes th e n ecessary tr ou ble. . . . D o r o t h y , if I h ad an y tim e for su ch folly I cou ld be a m illion air e in a y e a r ," an d in "I' v e h ear d old Cr a y e sp eak at th e Con gress a n d I'v e read his stu ff, an d th e m a n 's a p om p ou s ass, d ear y. H e cou ld n 't p ossibly u n d erstan d w h at I' m d rivin g a t . . . . M y w ork is big w ork. I feel it. I kn ow it. Let it stan d by itself w ith ou t assistan ce fr om d istin gu ish ed an d ben ev olen t b o o b s ." T h e egotism is revealed , too, in a kind of false h u m ility : W h en h e realizes th at he h as sp oken of "d a m n e d Je w s " in th e p resen ce of Bu r m eister , h e says, "I t ' s like m e. It 's very like m e ." A n d th e false h u m ility is cou p led w ith a severity of self-ju d g m en t, a n o t h er for m of egotism ; h e d oes n ot "g iv e a d a m n ," h e says, w h eth er Cr a y e is his en em y or n ot, bu t h e ob ject s to losin g his tem p er . In cid en ta lly, M a lla b y h as a stran ge d islike of bein g tou ch ed , a sym bol of th e evasiveness th a t Bu r m eister find s in h is p erson ality. (Th e evasiveness itself is p er h ap s sym bolic of an Ad am -like seclu sion in a Ga r d en of In n o cen ce, a w ith d r aw al fr om th e h arsh realities.) "D o n ' t p aw m e, s ir ! I ca n 't stan d b ein g p aw ed !" M a lla b y says w h en Bu r m eister tou ch es his a r m ,

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a n d M r s . M a l l a b y ru sh es in w ith th e t a ct sorely n eed ed : "H e ' s su ch a b a b y in m a n y t h in g s ." H is stu b b or n n ess m a k es h im u n co m p r o m is in g in h is refu sal of th e co n v en t io n a l a n d t r a d it io n a l. H e glor ies in h a v in g u p set, h e believ es, Ta r a n t a n o v ' s Th e o r e m , a n d th e w or ld sh all know a b o u t it even t h o u g h "t h e Ro y a l A ca d e m y of M e d icin e a n d all th e coh or t s of H ell try t o s t o p " h im . " I ' m th e m ost or ig in a l w o r k er sin ce P a s t e u r ," h e co n t in u es. "Bu t m ed ica l e t i q u e t t e —" th e ser p en t su ggests. "C u r s e m ed ica l e t i q u e t t e !" sh ou ts th e in n o cen t

Ad am .

Th i s em o t io n a lism a n d egotism (or p rid e) is fu r t h e r su p p or ted b y th e r o m a n t icis m of h is la n g u a g e. In A ct I h e is D a n ie l a g a in st th e lion s ("So m e h o w , I ca n ' t h elp feelin g as if th e lion s h a d co m e to D a n ie l's d e n ") a n d C a e s a r m a r ch in g on R o m e ("W e l l , I su p p ose I h a v e crossed t h e R u b i c o n ") .

In

A ct I I h e is a n elep h a n t h u n t er w it h o u t a gu n ( "Bu t [P a s ca l a n d Bu r m eist er ] a r e like r ogu e elep h a n t s in a ju n g le so m eh o w . A n d I ca n ' t fin d m y g u n "). As A ct I I co m es to a b la z in g close, h e is t h e r o m a n t icist a n d in d iv id u alist fighting t h e m a ch i n e ; th e follow in g sp eech es a r g u e str on gly a g a in st th e t h eo r y t h a t D r . M a l l a b y is a selfless stu d en t in th e ca u se of h u m a n it y a n d a r e sig n ifica n t , in cid en t a lly , r ea d in th e ligh t of w h a t h a s b een su ggested is t h e role of C r a y e a n d of th e su p er n a t u r a l fo r ce h e u lt im a t ely s e r v e s : Sir A nthony. . . . W e m u st keep the p rofession clea n . It is ou r d u ty to it an d to h u m a n ity. M allaby. I, too, h ave a d u ty to m y p rofession an d to h u m a n ity an d to m yself. Sir A nthony. A d u ty you d elegate to th e ch ea p p ress. M allaby. W h a t h ave th ey got to d o w ith it ? Th e y ar e n oth in g . Ev en h u m an ity isn 't so m u ch in fa ce of . . . I tell you I w ill n ot h ave th e m otion s an d creation s of m y m in d cr a m p ed , con d ition ed an d stereotyp ed by you an d you r d am n ed m a ch in e. I tell you . . .

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SW I T C H BA C K

Sir A nthony. H ave it as you w ish. Bu t if you m ed d le w ith the m ach in e you w ill be sm ashed . M allaby. Ver y w ell. th en . I shall be sm ashed . In Act I I I , M a lla b y soliloqu izes a fter th e m a id gives n otice ( "T o act w ith a h ea r t m a d d en ed w ith s o r r o w "); w h en h e h a s m a d e th e d ecision to leave on e life for th e n ext , h e sp eaks of h im self as a slave w h ose bon d s of cap tiv ity a r e b r o k en , a n d in h is last sp eech h e is—o f all p e o p le —A d a m , as h e q u otes to M r s. M a lla b y fr o m Paradise

Lost:

"T h e w orld w as all befor e t h em

w h ere to ch oose th eir p la ce of rest, a n d , Pr ov id en ce th eir gu id e, th ey h a n d -in -h a n d w ith w a n d er in g step s a n d slow th r ou g h Ed e n took th eir solitary w a y ." Br id ie w rites th at

M a lla b y

looks a t t h e w r eck of th e r o o m , ch u ckles, a n d r ep eats "E d e n . " In d erision or good h u m o r ? A g a in th e a m b ig u it y . If M al l ab y is the traditional A d am , forced to leave Ed e n because of a first disobedience (eating the fruit of the Tre e of Know ledge), and if Cray e is an archang e l delivering God's orders, M al l ab y sins in putting his responsibility to himself above his responsibility to his profession. Th e fall, then, comes at the end of A ct II, w hen he refuses to publish a disclaimer, having

completely

submitted

to the

temptations

of

M rs .

M al l ab y an d Burmeister. Symbolically, this triumph of self o v e r social responsibility can be construed as tasting of the fruit of

self-know ledge,

or leaving

a

period

of

self-ignorance

(innocence) to enter a period of self-know ledge (experience). (Th e fall, f o rtu n ate or unfortunate, can also b e understood as a d e ath an d rebirth. Th at there is something of this in Bridie's intention can be seen in the speech M al l ab y makes w hen he first glimpses the future before h i m : "Is n 't it ro t to say a m an 's only g o t one life? Fu n n y fate th at I should be fixed as a d o cto r. U p here in the rain and clouds an d snow . Well, I'v e g o t unfixed ag ai n and no mistake.") Th e play does no t answ er

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w h eth er M a lla b y w ill find self-know led ge in Pa lm y r a , w h eth er his d igging w ill raise Tr u t h or Cain (M a lla b y says w h en h e d ecid es to go to Lon d on to p rom ote his cu re, "I' ll com e u p m yself tom orrow an d raise Cain all over th e sh op "), bu t th ere is a su ggestion at th e end of th e p lay th at th e lear n in g p rocess has begu n an d M a lla b y w ill n o lon ger b e—lik e C a in —a tool of his em otion s an d thu s everyon e's tool. "I w on 't be m ad e a tool by an y m a n ," M a lla b y d eclares in Act II, as his w ife an d Bu rm eister m an eu v er h im in to d efyin g Cr aye an d th e Roy a l Acad em y. Th e Fa t e of w h ich h e is a tool, com bin in g th e tw o attitu d es of sobriety an d m ad n ess, is, sign ifican tly, called "D u m m y " in th e p lay. "D u m m y p lays," says M a lla b y in th e card gam e w ith Au n t Din a h at the begin n in g of Act I I I . Th is su ggests a w ilfu lness at w ork, a Fa t e or God like th e Ju p it er ch aracterized in on e of Br id ie's last p lays, The Queen' s Comedy—w ho created th e u niverse d u rin g a m ood w h ich he d escribes as "a qu eru lou s, restless state in w h ich I qu ested aim lessly for som e ill-d efined satisfaction of w hose n atu re I w as (an d a m ) u n a w a r e," w h o h as n ot n early finished his w ork an d m u st be excu sed abru p tly to go back to w ork becau se h e h as "ju st th ou gh t of som eth in g else.'" Per h a p s th is is not so m u ch w ilfu lness as im p rovisation . If th ere is a logic t o th e system it is a h igh er logic th an th e h u m an m in d can con ceive, an d Brid ie chooses to look on it as illogical an d th erefore p layfu l. M r s. M a lla b y is a relatively colorless Ev e, bu t Ev e she is, bored w ith life in th e Ga r d en , p erh ap s sin cerely w an tin g som eth in g better for h er h u sban d , a m aterialist n everth eless, an d , accord in g to h er, realistic an d extrem ely p r actical. As a tem p tress she uses th e sam e ap p eals th at Ev e u sed : "Th e r e ' s life an d shop s an d th eatres an d d resses an d d an ces for m e, an d glory everlasting for you lying on th at d esk, an d you kn ow it, an d you 're not m an enou gh to lift a finger to get m e ou t of this

AMBIGUITY IN T H E S W I T C H B A C K

47

horrible, horrible p l a c e ! " She urges practicality: "Work's a thing that does something." T o which A d a m replies, " D o you think I've never wanted t o — t o get a w a y ? Very well, then. I may not know much about this great world on which you a p p e a r to be such an expert . . ." W h e n the experiments have been publicized a n d Mallaby begins to doubt the wisdom of the move, Eve again appeals to his m a n h o o d and his love for h e r : "But you stuck out the war, dearest," she says. "Please. For my sake." Finally, like Eve she has second thoughts a n d regrets. Immediately after persuading Mallaby tQ go to London she says, "George, we've been rather h a p p y here, haven't we ? . . . Won't you be sorry to leave this little room and the hollyhocks and the hills? . . . D o n ' t you think perhaps it's rather a daring step ?" She presents all the arguments against going that he has just unsuccessfully put to her, but the temptation has worked a n d he is swollen with pride a n d arrogance, or inner faith a n d courage. After her fall—to the temptations of Burmeister—when she returns to Mallaby, she cannot understan d the necessity to leave the G a r d e n ; she does not u n d e r s t a n d , that is, that she has got Mallab y expelled. N o w her urgings of practicality d o not work. N o temptation works on a new A d a m , a n d w o m a n , the temptress, is truly irrelevant east of Eden, in the L a n d of I r o n y — a s M a l l a b y makes brutally clear to h e r : Ί don't know w h y it is, b u t just at the m o m e n t you seem to m e so . . . so d a m n e d irrevelant [sic]." In Act I I Mallaby quotes the biblical version of the A d a m a n d Eve s t o r y : Mallaby. "She took the fruit thereof and did eat, and gave also to her husband." Mrs. Mallaby. Oh, I see. You think old Burmeister's the serpent? Mallaby. He's a subtle brute.

48

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Bu r m eister , clearly, is th e trad ition al serp en t, n o m a tter how m an y oth er d evils ar e d rivin g M a lla b y . H e w orks th rou gh M r s. M a lla b y , sw eet-talkin g h er as M ilt o n 's serp en t sw eettalked Ev e. H e sh ares a little of M a lla b y 's r o m a n t icism — alth ou gh on e su sp ects, n otin g his su ccess in th e p ractical w orld , t h a t it is a con triv ed r om a n ticism . H is com p lim en ts begin im m ed ia tely . "H e r e w e ar e, th ree low -brow ed cu tth roats a p p ea r in g ou t of th e th ick an d m u r ky n igh t at th e d oor of a lon ely a n d lovely fairy p rin cess w h o d oes not even ask ou r bu sin ess," h e says to M r s. M a lla b y on m eetin g h er. O n ce in Lo n d o n , his ca m p a ig n in ten sifies, h e is sayin g th in gs like "[Lo n d o n ] sh all stan d or fall by you r o p in io n ," an d it is not lon g befor e h e lead s M r s. M a lla b y in to th e Bla ck Forest. Yet he d oes n ot w ork on ly on M r s. M a lla b y (bein g u n able to d ep en d on h er in telligen ce, it seem s). H e en cou r ages M a lla b y 's an ger at Cr a y e to en cou r a g e, in tu r n , th e d octor 's d eter m in ation to take his tu bercu losis cu re to Lo n d o n . W h en M a lla b y d iscovers th e d istorted rep ort of his exp er im en ts in Pascal's n ew sp ap er, Bu r m eister is th ere to flatter h im in to d efian ce of th e Ro y a l A ca d em y , w h ich gets h im stru ck fr om th e register. "D r . M a lla b y ," h e says, "y o u are like all really gr eat m e n — in ar ticu late. A n d you h av e a n ot h er ch a r a cter istic of g r ea tn ess: you d o good by stealth an d blu sh to find it fa m e ." An d by the tim e Cr a y e arrives to ask M a lla b y to w rite a d isclaim er to th e article, p rou d A d a m is read y to be cru sh ed by an y d am n ed m ach in e. It is as d ifficu lt to p u t Au n t D in a h in to th e A d a m an d Ev e story as it w as for Br id ie to label h er in th e "A r g u m e n t " of the p la y : she acts, he w rites, as "ch or u s, fa m ilia r sp irit, deus ex machina a n d w h at n o t ."5 Fo r tw o acts she seem s irrelevan t. Sh e falls off a lad d er tackin g u p a p lu m t r ee; w h en she com es on stage she is revealed as an ou tsp oken bu sybod y w ith a fond ness for rim ing an d skip p in g. Bu t in Act I I I she takes a

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m ajor role, and the reason for her flights on to an d off the stage for tw o acts is evid ent : She has been a d evice of d ram atic foreshad ow ing. Pascal and Bu rm eister have proved them selves rascals and the "Je w gen tlem an " has really sold Mrs. Mallaby som ething, as Au nt Din ah p rop hesied . Th e tone of the play changes w ith the op ening sp eeches of Act I I I , but Aunt Din ah 's langu age previously has p rovid ed ad equ ate p rep aration. She and Mallaby realize th at they are talking on two levels now , abou t a card gam e an d abou t Mallaby. "Du m m y's Kin g of Diam on d s took my Q u een ," Mallaby says. Bu rm eister, the financier, is the Kin g of Diam on d s, Mrs. Mallaby the Qu een , and Du m m y is the Fate at work in the p lay—a Fate with whose freakish side Au nt Din ah seems allied . "W ell, Du m m y will p lay. Yes, yes, ind eed he w ill. And Du m m y could play you ou t of you r five w its, Geor ge," Au nt Din ah answ ers. "You w ill learn you r fate soon en ou gh ." By this tim e one listens carefu lly to the old w om an , and w hen she says, "I ' m a little bit d aft, bu t . . . I'll h elp ," on e suspects th at she brew s u p the thu nd erstorm and brings in Craye to interru p t Mallaby's "sp lend id realisations" and thu s annoy him in to a d eterm ination to escap e. "I'll see th at he goes," she says and skips ou t, and one no longer d ou bts th at Mallaby w ill go. Mech an ically, Au nt Din ah is necessary to the play to give Mallaby an au d ience in Act I I I , and fu nctionally she encou rages his "m ad n ess." Sh e serves the fu rth er purpose of p rep aring the read er, d u ring w hat is otherw ise a natu ralistic p lay, for th e farce that d om inates Act I I I . (For a good p art of the act Mallaby spend s his tim e em p tying off glasses of whisky, chasing abou t half-shaved in a brilliant d ressing gow n, reciting nu rsery rim es, and tickling Au nt Din ah , w ho in tu rn skips abou t or chases aw ay his p atients w ith a fire p oker.) And this farce is an integral p art of The Switchback, becau se Mallaby's revolt in the p lay is, in one sense, the revolt of flam boyance

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a n d m a d n es s a g a in st so b r iet y a n d co n v e n t io n a l r esp on sib ilit y . If A u n t D i n a h ' s m a d n e s s is "t h e m a d n ess of t r u t h ,"* t h en M a l l a b y ' s sea r ch is a sea r ch fo r t r u t h , a n d t r u t h is t o b e fo u n d w h en o n e r elea ses on eself fr o m slav er y "t o t h e sick a n d s illy " a n d serv es on ly h is ow n sou l. " O r is it ? " Br id ie in effect asks w ith h is p la y .

III Songs of Innocence

of the third-act drunken horseplay, remains well within the naturalistic form. This is not true of the plays to be discussed here—Tobias and the Angel (1930), The Girl Who Did Not Want to Go to Kuala Lumpur (1930), Marriage Is No Joke (1934), and The Black Eye (1935). In Tobias and the Angel, Bridie uses an episodic plot for the first time, changing the scene from a Nineveh slum, to the banks of the Tigris, to a walled garden in Persia, to a gateway near Kifri, and back to Nineveh. He puts a real angel and devil on the stage and sends his leading character on adventures so fantastic that the spirit of the play created is defined by one critic as that of the Arabian Nights Entertainments.1 Tobias and the Angel is, of course, based on the Book of Tobit in the Apocrypha; it is a "plain-sailing dramatic transcription of the charming old tale," Bridie writes in the "Author's Note" to the play.2 It is a religious play, but a religious play whose ritual, one critic notes, is "the sensual song-and-dance of the Eastern beauties," a religious play, another critic writes, which "is at the same time as sophisticated 51 " T H E S W I T C H B A C K , " FOR A L L

52

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND P H I L O S O P H E R

as the New Yorker."' On the secular level, it is a fairy tale; it is every pink shivering boy's wildest dreams come true: The timid Tobias, son of Tobit, a good-natured old Jew who, although he once had great wealth, is now penniless and sightless, goes on a journey to reclaim an old debt owed his father; the Archangel Raphael, disguised as a porter named Azarias, accompanies him. Through Raphael's intervention, Tobias kills a wild fish, terrifies a bandit, risks strangulation to marry a beautiful, wild princess (Sara), scares away the fiend who has bewitched his bride, drives a hard bargain with his father's old debtor, returns with camels and talents, and finishes off by curing his father's blindness. The plots of the other plays mentioned above are as fantastic, sometimes more fantastic; they are not all as successful as Tobias and the Angel, but they are, like it, cut from rich brocade, as J . B. Priestley would say. Priestley writes in a preface to Meeting at Night, one of Bridie's last plays (with a fantastic plot of its own): But Bridie was like a tailor cutting awkwardly because he is using a rich brocade and not grey flannel. He was trying to cram a large loose mind and a large loose play into the narrow space of our convention. . . . he nearly always wanted to tell much more of a story than most contemporary playwrights try to handle. . . . when he found both a theme and a manner that allowed him to work with some ease within the limitations imposed by the conventional form, ranging from A Sleeping Clergyman to Tobias and the Angel, we are compelled at once to recognise his size and weight and originality.' Bridie was aware that he was cramming a large, loose play into a narrow space and that critical reaction to the result was sometimes wide of the mark, as he indicates in a play written during this period, Colonel Wotherspoon (1934). Bridie clearly is satirizing himself here—he once used the pseudonym of the

SO N G S

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53

p lay's best-selling first novelist, Archibald Kellock—as well as satirizing his critics. At one p oint, Archie su m m arizes the plot of his n ov el: This fellow, you see, lives in the country with his widowed mother in an old sort of tumbledown house, because they're not so well off as they once were and there's a sort of mystery about his father. And he makes up his mind when he is qu ite a kid that he'll go and find his father somewhere. And he's out rid ing one day and he meets this girl who lives in the village and there's a sort of mystery about her too, so they are sort of drawn together by that in a way. . . . And a fellow and other four fellows come down and kidnap her, and this fellow, Toby, kills one of the fellows. And then there's a trial and he gets ten years for ju stifiable homicide, and in the m eantim e these other fellows have got clean away with the girl. And she's been taken off to Buenos Aires and knocks about the world a bit, and gets a bit hard and bitter. And this fellow meets a gipsy called One-Eyed Mo' in p rison— he's rather a fine character, a sort of lovable rascal. And they escape and fetch up in Chicago and join a gang. Th ey're forced to, against their will, you see. And there's a vend etta between the two gangs, and . . .* Th is is not m u ch of an exaggeration of th e p lot of Tobias and the A ngel and p erhap s not as fan tastic as that of M arriage Is N o Joke. Arch ie's book is discussed as the Book of the Week on th e N ational Program m e from Lon d on by M r . Derek Pu tn ey and M r . Regin ald Devereu x, w ho agree th at it is a most rem arkable book bu t cannot agree on w hy it is. M r . Pu tney sounds a bit like Priestley : "I should say for its vitality. . . . On e had read so m an y books recently by you ng people w ho take an alm ost corp se-like view of life th at one feels—how can one express it ?—as if one w ere strolling in the catacom bs an d as if sud d enly a large an d healthy and Lid o-bronzed M r . Kellock had burst his cerem ents and asked one to have a d r in k ." Wh en the transm ission breaks d ow n, Pu tney is sound ing m ore and m ore like a Brid ie cr it ic:

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Mr. Kellock's work has that indefinable something which one can only describe as Quality. This is particularly well seen in the almost brutal certainty with which he hurls situation upon situation, climax upon climax, till one holds one's very breath at the prospect of the almost inevitable collapse of the—(his voice begins to fade)—whole massively conceived, almost chaotically constructed . . . In Colonel Wotherspoon Archie states his intention in his novel, which, carrying this analogy farther, is Bridie's intention in all his plays: "You see the object of the story—it's a kind of parable—the object is to show that whatever happens to you externally, if you see what I mean, your soul may keep all right through it all; I mean it's, well, it's sort of integrity, if you understand." Bridie's concern for the integrity, or commitment, of the soul is everywhere manifest. In The Switchback, the important thing is Mallaby's consciously assumed commitment to a way of life. Dr. Knox, Mr. McCrimmon, and Mr. Bolfry are men with the courage of their convictions. Tobias' soul is uncommitted, without courage because without conviction, a soul living in the state of make-believe innocence until it is superhumanly inspired. Tobit states the problem in reaction to Raphael's refusal of a glass of wine on the grounds that he is a teetotaler: "As you wish. Far from me be it to force any man to drink against his convictions. It is rare to find any convictions at all these days." If in his commitment man must fulfil superhuman potentialities in himself, the drama of this fulfilment must escape the bounds of naturalism. If man's inspiration is extraordinary, the events which chronicle this experience must be extraordinary, in order to be faithful to the inner experience. In the drama, the external representation of a miraculous inner experience takes, according to Eric Bentley, the form of farce or melodrama. Bentley writes in " T h e Psychology of Farce" : " I f art

SONGS

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55

imitates life, it should be added that while naturalistic art imitates the surfaces, 'melodramatic' art imitates what is beneath the surface." Melodrama, he explains, is the counterpart of farce on the tragic side, its "absurd" plots representing "the refusal of tragic man to limit himself to naturalism," representing, that is, "the real absurdity of life." T h e implication is that the plots of farce represent the same thing but from a comic viewpoint. Bentley continues about non-naturalistic art : It is a matter, then, of finding external representation—symbol— for what cannot be photographed or described. . . . It may be that the principle of the primacy of plot holds for all drama. It certainly holds for melodrama and farce. Here in the action lies that subtlety which is sometimes and notoriously absent from dialogue and even character. The enacted story is itself a language. And this is to say that it is symbolic. . . . it is important to see what is exaggerated in farce and what is not. While, certainly, the external facts are distorted, the inner experience is so wild and preposterous that it would probably be impossible to exaggerate it. To the inner experience, the farceur tries to be utterly faithful.' T o the wild inner experience of a boy's introduction to the miracle in life Bridie has tried to be utterly faithful in Tobias and the Angel. Priestley linked A Sleeping Clergyman with Tobias and the A ngel as examples of plays in which Bridie found both a theme and a manner that allowed him to work with some ease within the limitations imposed by the conventional form. In quality, the range is wide between these two plays, although they are both non-naturalistic; a comparison of the two will account for the superiority of the latter, despite Bridie's judgment in One Way of Living that A Sleeping Clergyman was "the nearest thing to a masterpiece" he would probably ever write.' A Sleeping Clergyman (1933) is also episodic, having nine

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d ifferen t scenes an d sp an n in g som e sixty-five years (eigh ty-five d ays elap se d u rin g Tobias and the A ngel). It is a m elo d r a m a ; Tobias and the A ngel is a far ce, as th e term has been d efin ed . Bu t w hile there is su ggestiveness arisin g from am bigu ity in th e la tter , A Sleeping Clergyman lacks th e su btlety of action requ ired , accord in g to Ben tley, of su ccessfu l m elod r am a. It is too obviou sly an d u n con vin cin gly sp ecial p lead in g again st eu gen ics, p erh ap s becau se Brid ie w as too close to th e p r oblem of th e p lay : h e w as w ritin g an article again st sterilization of th e u nfit at th e sam e tim e.' A Sleeping Clergyman is a sym bol of th e in scru tability yet om n ip resen ce an d om n ip oten ce of Ja h v e h 's p u rp ose, bu t it is not a su btle sym bol. Th e m elod r a m a —in w h ich th e "a b su r d it y ," rep resen tin g th e seem in g ch aos of existen ce, ran ges from m u rd er by p oisoning to illegitim ate b ir th —is p u t in to th e n atu ralistic fram ew ork of a story told by one d octor to an oth er in a Glasgow Clu b , in th e p resen ce of a clergym an w ho con tin u es to sleep th rou gh ou t it. Th e clergym an , alth ou gh m ystifyin g n early all th e first-night critics," obviou sly rep resents an en igm atic God , d istan t an d im p erson al. Brid ie id en tified h im in One W ay of Living : "G o d , w h o h ad set it all goin g, took his ease in an a r m ch a ir th rou gh ou t th e p la y .'"0 Wh ile th e clergym an sleeps, th e life of D r . Marsh all is en acted : Th e long-lived d octor sees his gen iu s frien d , Ca m er on , d ie of tu bercu losis before com p letin g his scien tific exp erim en ts bu t a fter fath erin g th e illegitim ate ch ild of H a n n a h M a r sh a ll, th e d octor's sister. H e lives to see th e ch ild , his n iece w h om h e h as raised , m u rd er the fa th er of h er u n born an d , again , illegitim ate tw ins, th en com m it su icid e a fter th eir bir th . Fin ally, he sees th e tw ins, Ch arles an d H op e Ca m er on , w h om he also raises, su rvive in h erited ten d en cies tow ard self-d estru ction to save others from d isaster, Ch ar les h altin g a w orld ep id em ic by d iscovering a m iracu lou s cu r e, an d H op e salvagin g (tem p orarily) the Leagu e of N ation s. Brid ie

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is obviou sly sayin g th at it is not for m an to d ecid e w h o is to be allow ed d escen d an ts; h e h as stacked his card s, leavin g n o d ou bt th at good has triu m p h ed in the en d . H e has d rop p ed his ju d icial attitu d e. Th e ju d icial attitu d e p revails in Tobias and the A ngel, a su p rem e "ext er n a l r ep r esen tation " or "sy m b o l," u sing Ben tley's term s, of com ic m a n 's refu sal to lim it him self to n atu r alism . To b it is obviou sly, by h im self, su ch a sym bol. "To t t e r in g abou t like a stu rd ied sh eep ," blin d ed , an d p enniless, h e refu ses to lose faith in lu ck an d m iracles. H is rew ard , becau se Br id ie is w ritin g fa r ce an d n ot m elod r am a , is restoration of his sight an d of a loan (w ith con sid erable in terest), an d a rich d au gh ter -in -law . To b it is so obviou sly a sym bol of virtu e th at Jo sep h W o o d Kr u t ch forgets th e oth er sym bols in th e p lay an d d ecid es th at Br id ie's story is "t h e story of virtu e rew ard ed , w h ich is p r obably th e m ost th orou gh ly en gagin g story in th e w or ld ."11 Kr u t ch assu m es, th at is, th at th e Arch an gel Ra p h a el h as been sent by Ja h v eh only to rew ard To b it 's fa ith , th at Ra p h a e l's con cern is not to m ake a m an of th e less virtu ou s To b ia s or to free th e even less virtu ou s Sa r a from th e d aem on A sm o d a y ; these th in gs h ap p en alon g th e w ay, h e w ou ld say, bu t on ly becau se th ey are rew ard s to To b it . Certain ly To b ia s' su ccess is a rew ard to his fa t h er ; To b it 's w ishes h av e been g r a n t ed w h en h e can say abou t his son, "H o w stron g you 've g r o w n ! W h a t m u scles! Yo u great ox of a b o y !" Bu t is Sa r a really a rew ard ? Th e know led ge of h er bew itch m en t certain ly w ou ld u n settle h er fa th er -in -la w ; even in safe ign or an ce To b it su ggests slight d isap p roval of Sa r a 's w a y s : "I t is a stran ge t h in g ," h e says, w h en she ap p ear s at th e en d of th e p lay, "fo r a n ew d au gh ter to arrive w ith n on e of th e u su al p relim in aries, b u t you are very w elcom e." Th er efor e, it is at least p ossible th at t h e fa t e in th e p lay has not been exclu sively con cern ed w ith r ew a r d in g To b it .

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Lar gely becau se of Br id ie's ju d icia l a ttitu d e, Ja h v e h ' s p u rp ose m u st r em ain u n kn ow n . Bu t th at it is to rew ard To b ia s ' v ir t u e—a m o n g all kin d s of v irtu e d isp layed in th e p l a y — cou ld n ot be su p p orted by a close exa m in a t ion of To b ia s' ch a r a ct er iz a t io n ; alth ou gh

Ra p h a e l d efen d s To b ia s again st

Sa r a , his final ju d g m en t of th e boy is th a t h e is a "soft sort of h a lf-w it ." Ja h v e h ' s p u rp ose m igh t even be to effect th e d efeat of his d ia bolic d a em on by his a n g elic d a em o n , th at is, to liber ate Sa r a fr om h er d issatisfaction w ith th e co m m o n p la ce. H is p u rp ose, th en , w ou ld be to effect th e m a r r ia g e betw een To b ia s an d Sa r a , an in ter p r etation w h ich gain s su p p ort w hen Br id ie, in th e "A u t h o r 's N o t e " to th e p lay, calls Ra p h a e l a "su p er n a tu r a l Tr is t a n ," as if to stress th a t Ra p h a e l brin gs To b ia s to Sa r a as Tr ist a n brou gh t Isold e to M a r k . It cou ld as w ell be th a t To b ia s is to be liber ated fr om th e com m on p la ce by his m a r r ia g e. Fin a lly , Ja h v e h ' s p u rp ose cou ld h av e n oth in g to d o w ith To b it , To b ia s , or Sa r a ; it cou ld be as sim p le as th e d esire to br in g n igh tin gales an d larks b a ck to Per sia, for in forty years only on e n igh tin gale an d on e lark h ad been h eard th ere : on th e n igh t a n d m or n in g of To b ia s a n d Sa r a 's w ed d in g, th e n igh tin gales a n d larks r etu r n . Ra p h a e l' s last sp eech d iscou n ts n on e of th ese in ter p r etation s : "I t is good to p raise Ja h v e h an d to exalt H is n a m e ./ w ith

alm s an d

righteou sness

. . . To b it , a few p rayers

are b etter

th an

m any

w ith

u n righ teou sn ess an d a v a r ice ./ Ja h v e h h as h ea r d you r p rayers an d h as seen you r d eed s th at w ere th em selves p r a y er s./ . . . Fea r n ot, To b it an d To b ia s , for it shall go w ell w ith y ou ; p raise God t h er efo r e." It shall go w ell w ith To b it

and

To b ia s,

alth ou gh Ja h v e h h as h ear d only To b it 's p rayers an d seen only To b it 's d eed s. Su rely Br id ie's th em e is th at all m en serve Ja h v e h 's in scru table p u rp ose, sons w h o are alw ays w ith H im , like To b it , an d p rod igal sons, like To b ia s. T h e son 's role is

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servitor to th e fa th er , bu t w h eth er th e service is selfish or u nselfish, con sciou s or u n con sciou s is, finally, irrelev an t. N or d o th e ch a r a cter istic resp onses of To b ia s , Sa r a , an d Tob it w hen Ra p h a el reveals h im self as th e A r ch a n g el clea r u p the am bigu ity of Ja h v e h 's p u rp ose. To b ia s , w h o h as n ot in eigh t-five d ays becom e con sciou s of th e m ir acu lou s ar ou n d h im , rem em bers a realistic d e t a il: "N o w on d er To b y w as fr igh ten ed . D o you r em em ber , fa th er , [th e d og] w as fr igh ten ed to com e in w hen th e An gel w as in th e hou se ?" To b it , alm ost overw h elm ed by th e m ir acle of Ra p h a el's visitation , becau se his a ccep t a n ce of m ir acle is so u n reserved , barely m a n a g es t o say, "W e h av e been v isited ." Sa r a 's am bigu ou s sp eech cou ld su p p ort th e in ter p r etation th at Ja h v e h ' s p u rp ose w as to m a r r y h er to To b ia s in ord er to m a k e h im a w a r e of m ir a cle an d w on d er, to in sp ire h im w ith h er r om an ticism to be m or e th a n a little b o y ; alth ou gh Ra p h a e l rep orts th a t Asm od ay is "b o u n d a n d in Eg y p t ," on e w on d ers a b ou t th e stren gth of th e rop e w h en she id en tifies Ra p h a e l w ith To b ia s . Sh e says of Ra p h a e l, "Bu t I grew less an d less a fr a id of h im , an d h e seem ed to d w in d le an d fa d e till I cou ld h ard ly be su re h e w as th er e at all. D o you r em em b er at th e gate of th e Kh a n a t Kifr i ? I saw h im p ale, like a gh ost, a n d w h en h e w alked in fr on t of you [To b ia s] I saw you th rou gh his bod y. To d a y I saw h im like a d riftin g m is t ." To b ia s h as b ecom e his d a em on in h er eyes. Th e r e is at least th e su ggestion th at sh e w ill n ot look th e oth er w ay bu t en cou r a g e its exp ression . If Br id ie's th em e is th at m a n is fu lfilled in servin g God 's p u rp ose, h e h as a n eat sym bol in th e action of his p la y —t h a t is, in th e son To b ia s ' jou r n ey in service of th e fa th er To b it . Bu t To b it h im self is su ch a sy m b ol; his life is a son 's service, an d its even ts, gifts fr om a fa th er . T h e d in n er Ra p h a el brin gs w ith h im in A ct I is a g i ft : Ra p h a e l, w h o m u st keep h is id en tity a secr et, tells To b it to "p r e t e n d " th e d in n er is a gift fr om Ja h v e h ,

60

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to w h ich To b it an sw ers, "Ye s . Ca p it a l. Let us. It m akes it all m or e excitin g an d it h as th e m erit of bein g t r u e." H is blin d ness is "a n act of G o d ," alth ou gh To b ia s, th e realist, believes t h a t if Ra sik , his fa th er 's v alet, h ad ch ased aw ay th e sp arrow s fr om To b it 's bed in th e cou r ty a r d , To b it w ou ld n ever h ave ca t a r a ct s. T h e restoration of his sigh t, th e safe retu rn of his son ar e gifts, for w h ich To b it 's first resp onse is gratitu d e. Th is a ttitu d e m akes th e co m m o n p la ce a su rp rise, good lu ck, a m ir a cle, th e "sp len d o u r " of w h ich it som etim es takes w eeks to r ealize; "Ja h v e h is fu ll of u n exp ected m om en ts," h e says. It is lu cky to be p oor w h en on e is blin d , h e r ea son s: "I n early kn ocked d ow n th e sev en -br an ch ed can d lestick. W h a t d o you th in k of t h a t ? Isn 't it lu cky w e ar en 't still in ou r fine hou se in Lev ia t h a n Aven u e ? I'd h av e broken th e Ch ald ean vases an d tu m bled d ow n th e m a r b le stairs, an d bu m p ed m yself all over in th e cor r id or s." To b ia s an sw ers realistically : "W e cou ld h ave afford ed a cou p le of slaves to lead you a b o u t ." W h en To b ia s regrets n ot h av in g ca u g h t a fish for d in n er, To b it says, "I t is th e h a p p ier for th e fish th at you h a v e n 't ." Th e h u m iliation his w ife A n n a bear s in scr u bbin g office floors is "a sp lend id t o n ic." To b it is a sym bol of th e w ay of O r d er , a ration al an d reason a ble m an w h o a ccep ts m ir acles becau se they have th e m erit of bein g t r u e; h e is "a m ost resp ectable old g en t lem a n ," Ra p h a el says. H e is sorry h e ca n n ot go to Jer u sa lem for Pen tecost. Alth ou gh Br id ie uses th e Ch ristian n a m e, To b it is a Je w an d th e h olid ay w ou ld be called Sh av u oth an d w ou ld celebr ate th e revelation of th e La w at M ou n t Sin a i; To b it is clearly in w h at M r . Bolfr y w ou ld term "t h e En em y's ca m p ." It is his "p la in d u t y " to bu ry th e stran gled Je w w h om To b ia s h as fou n d on th e road alth ou gh h e is th e first to ad m it th at p erfor m in g th is selfless d u ty for his Fa t h e r is "a kind of selfish n ess," if n ot th e "self-r igh teou sn ess" th a t his w ife labels it in a bu rst of an ger. Fin a lly , th ere is th e su ggestion th at To b it is an in n ocen t

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61

Adam, living in childlike rather than childish innocence, able to wonder and marvel. Tobit has never been tempted to disobey his Father, because he knows how to avoid daemons, as he tells Tobias. Obedience to the Ten Commandments has always satisfied him, and his advice to Tobias, as the latter begins his journey, is simply a garrulous translation of the commandments : "Sonny, when I am dead, bury me . . . and look after your mother always. . . . Don't forget the God, sonny, and he will do fairly by you as he does to all good men. If he gives you any money, let the poor have some of it." Tobit goes on, including rules like "Don't waste your time with girls, pay your employees well, and drink only enough wine to make you happy," and concluding, "Go with God, my son, and steer cautiously the ship of piety in a sea of passions." Tobias, trying to account for his own great timidity ("We of the new generation are all much more temperamental and highly strung"), suggests that Tobit is not afraid of anything because he belongs to "a generation that had no nerves." "It is true of all new generations," Tobit says, that they are more temperamental and highly strung than older generations; "Our father Adam must have been a very tough gentleman indeed, I often think." Tobias probably did not see the point of his father's joke, but Bridie's point could be that it is not "nervelessness" that accounts for Tobit's strength but unshaken faith. Not that Tobias, a member of "the new generation," is in any sense an experienced Adam at the end of the play. It is true that, through the intervention of Raphael, he has been able to realize potentialities far beyond himself. He frightens away a Kurdish bandit armed to the teeth, not with a gun but with rhetoric: And the first thing I met was a huge and scaly monster which thought, as you think, you ignorant dog, that I was a little no-account. And it barked and roared and bit at me. So I killed

62

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PHILOSOPHER

it and tore out its liver, and there it is, wrapped up in a cloth. And what I did to that atrocious, fire-breathing river demon I shall do to you, you hairy-toed polecat, you son of a burnt father, for I am only beginning the carnage I feel I must make before sunset. . . . May your blood turn to dog's blood, you father of sixty dogs! Did you hear me tell you to go in peace? Your liver is too white to put beside that of a river dragon, for it is the colour of the dark flames of hell. You are safe from me, pitiful and hideous ape. Only take your ugliness from my pure sight before I repent my mercy. When R a p h a e l is present T o b i a s is inspired to poetry which wins him his "glorious bride," although he believes that it is Sara who is the "Angel of the L o r d " inspiring him. When R a p h a e l comments that he has " b e c o m e quite the poet, " he says, " I ' m inspired. I ' m inspired. An Angel of the Lord has visited me. I'll write a song for her and you will set it to music." T h i s complete oblivion so irritates Raphael that a few speeches later he says, " Y o u are a tiresome little fellow, Tobias, and I have a good mind to leave you altogether." Essentially, Tobias is still innocent of his potentialities; it is still true of him that he is not, as Tobit told R a p h a e l in Act I, " a n experienced man of the world." O n the realistic level of-the play, R a p h a e l is responsible for Tobias' luck, but symbolically, of course, Tobias is responsible for his heroic deeds : H e has been able to j u m p over crevasses, climb cliffs, and walk distances he never though he could walk by fulfilling a potentiality for heroism within himself. But his faith in himself is not strong enough to allow him to claim the deeds for his own, despite an effort to persuade S a r a to the contrary. Describing his journey to his father in Act I I I , he gives R a p h a e l full credit, and in one sense this humility is more becoming the son who is servitor to the Fathe r than is Tobias' bragging to Sara in Act I I : " D i d Azarias run the risk of being strangled by Asmoday ? N o ! Did Azarias terrify the bandit

SO N G S

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63

w ho attacked us on th e road n ea r A ssh u r ? N o ! Did Azarias fight th e d evil-fish ? N o ! W h o d id ? I d id . Azar ias sat in p erfect safety an d gave good a d v ice." Th is is th e sp eech of a rh in oceros, a ch a m p ion of egotism , a m a n w h o feels th at w id e crevasses m u st be ju m p ed an d h igh cliffs clim b ed —in service to a Fa t h er w hose scale of valu es show s, p a r a d oxica lly , p rid e on th e sam e level w ith h u m ility. To b it p rays to su ch a Fa t h e r : "Fo r h e d oth scou rge an d h as m er cy , h e lead eth d ow n to hell an d brin geth u p a g a in ." To b ia s recogn izes H im too, as this sp eech to Sa r a r ev ea ls: " I p r oba bly sh ou ld h ave b ecom e very, very ill if I h ad gon e on t o Ra g es an d left you . If I h ad only seen you r eyes lookin g ov er you r y a sh m a k I sh ou ld h ave rem em bered th em for ever a n d p in ed a w a y w ith lon gin g. An d Ja h v e h w as kin d er an d m ore cru el to m e th a n t h a t ." T h e Fa t h e r of To b ia s an d To b it for som e in scr u table reason rew ard s th em eq u ally. Th e eld er son , To b it , w h o h as served H im faith fu lly all his life is r ew ar d ed , b u t so is th e p rod igal son . To b ia s h as u rged retaliation again st servan ts w h o a r e b u llies— w h en To b it u rged p atien ce a n d in d u lgen ce. H e h as lied a b ou t his id en tity to fr igh ten a b a n d it , a n d a b ou t h is p overty to im p ress a w om a n . M o r e im p or ta n t, his tru st in oth er p eop le, even in his w ife, is n ever great en ou gh , b eca u se it is n ot stron g in h im self : In A ct I I h e com p lain s to Ra g u el of Ra p h a e l, "A n d h e h as p layed m e a n ice trick. It m igh t h ave cost m e m y life. Yo u r ^Eth iop ian m igh t h av e sh ot m e, a n d I m igh t h av e fallen , a n d lots of th in gs m igh t h av e h a p p e n e d "; in A ct I I I , even th ou gh Ra p h a e l h as assu red h im th a t h e ca n restore To b it 's sigh t by strikin g th e gall fr om th e g a ll-b la d d er of th e d evilfish in to t h e old m a n 's eyes, h e d istru sts t h e A r ch a n g e l: "Fa t h e r , w h at h a v e I d on e ? It w as A z a r ia s : h e gav e m e som e . . . A z a r ia s! W h a t h av e you d o n e ?" Ye t th e son w h o h as th u s sin n ed again st th e law s of h is fa t h er is rew ard ed w ith th e fa tted ca lf, his w ishes fu lfilled , h is d esires g r a n ted . H e w ished

64

fo r

J A M E S BR I D I E : C L O W N

th e

co u r a g e

to

fish

am ong

AN D

th e

P H ILO SO P H ER

Assyr ian

loa fer s

and

a p p r o a ch w o m en w ith ou t t er r o r in h is h ea r t a n d find s h im self fa cin g b a n d it s, d evils, a n d b u sin essm en , as w ell as m a r r ied to a b ea u t ifu l p r in cess. O n t h e r ea listic level of th e p la y , To b i a s h a s b eg u n t o find fu lfilm en t in p e r fo r m in g th is first ser v ice fo r h is fa t h e r ; on th e sy m b o lic lev el, h is jo u r n e y is ev er y p in k sh iv er in g b o y 's jo u r n e y t h r o u g h life a n d h is fa t e ev er y b o y 's fa t e —a lt h o u g h ev er y b o y 's fa t e is n ot so a p p a r e n t ly glor iou s. To b i a s ' d est in a t io n , Ra g e s , is a "fo r t y d a y s' m a r c h , " T o b i t says in A ct I. Sy m b o lica lly , life is a fo r t y d a y s' m a r ch , o r a fo r t y d a y s' t e m p t a t io n , fo r in o n e sen se T o b i a s is t em p t ed fo r fo r t y d a y s a n d d oes n ot fa ll. H e is t e m p t e d , t h a t is, t o p u t fa it h in h im self, t o r ea lize t h e Ra p h a e l w it h in h im , b u t h e w ill on ly a d m it t h a t h is in sp ir a t ion h a s co m e fr o m w it h o u t h i m s e l f— fr o m Sa r a , a n A n g el fr o m H e a v e n . H e h a s, h o w ev er , a d m it t e d "in s p ir a t io n ," w h ich is t h e first st ep in b e co m in g a r h in o cer o s. In A ct I I T o b i a s says t o Sa r a , " O f cou r se I ' m n ot a h er o , b u t a m a n likes a little cr ed it fo r w h a t h e h a s d o n e. . . .

I

sh ou ld like you t o b e p r o u d of m e , Sa r a . I find it very d ifficu lt t o b e p r ou d of m y self. I h a v e t o k e e p la sh in g m y self u p t o it . If y ou 'll h elp m e it w ill be q u it e easy t o b e p r ou d of m y s e lf." T h a t Sa r a co u ld b e To b i a s ' sa lv a tion a n d t h a t Ja h v e h ' s p u r p ose h a s b een t o lib er a t e To b i a s r a t h e r t h a n

Sa r a ca n

be

su p p or ted b y t h e text of t h e p la y . Sa r a is as obv iou sly on t h e sid e of D iso r d er as To b i t is a d iscip le of O r d e r . T h a t sh e is in t en t io n a lly th is is sh ow n b y t h e ch a n g e Br id ie m a d e in t h e ch a r a ct e r iz a t io n

h e fo u n d in t h e Bo o k of To b i t , a ch a n g e

r efer r ed t o in t h e "A u t h o r ' s N o t e ." Br id ie w rites, " T h e o p in io n s of th e ch a r a ct e r s a r e su b st a n t ia lly u n a lt er ed , excep t th ose of Sa r a . It seem ed n a t u r a l t h a t sh e sh ou ld fa ll in love w ith h er su p er n a t u r a l Tr is t a n , a n d eq u a lly n a t u r a l t h a t , like a sen sible gir l, sh e sh ou ld a cce p t t h e in e v it a b le ." H is a lt er a t io n

both

p leased a n d d isp leased t h e cr itics. D er ek Ve r s ch o y le , w h o m it

SONGS

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65

displeased, implies in criticizing Sara's characterization a criticism of the structure of the play as well; Bridie's treatment of Sara, he says, is "one of the chief factors which prevent Tobias and the Angel from being a very memorable play." The play's second act, he continues, "is but uneasily the consort either of history or the rest of the play. . . . Sara, belying the scriptural chronicle of her modest virtues, suggests by her demeanor and deportment that the circumstances which had disposed of her previous seven husbands had not been wholly fortuitous. . . . The third act recovers the mood of the first scene."" Gilbert Wakefield, who dissents "most emphatically" from the opinion that Sara should be the wise young woman of the Book of Tobit, says that she provides half the Arabian-Nights spirit of the play." This suggests that he perceives the fantastic, the romantic in Sara's characterization—perceives, that is, that Bridie intends to contrast the disorder of her life with the order Tobias has been taught. When a stranger arrives at Sara's garden, she is ready to call the guard and have him strangled and thrown to the foxes, and her father tells his servant to "put an arrow into him." When a stranger arrives at Tobit's door, he is wished peace on all his travels and invited to come in. Sara has inherited her father's violence, but none of his practical realism (Raguel is so certain that Sara will strangle her eighth husband that he digs a grave prematurely and has to fill it up again). But there is much of his mother in Tobias—much of the tendency to look downward to one's work instead of up to see angels. It seems "natural," as Bridie says, that Sara should fall in love with Raphael because she is the kind of woman who automatically disobeys orders and "arrives with none of the usual preliminaries." She revolts against custom and the commonplace, which permits her to fall in love with a servant and strangle seven husbands, all of them, her father says, "Most

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rep u table, d ecen t you n g fellow s." Sh e is, like the w om an in th e song h er servan t sings to h er, ch ain ed to th e com m on p la ce w orld bu t free to r oa m , in h er im agin ation , "like a ja g u a r ," "sp or t like a k it t en ," an d "h ow l like a ja ck a l." Sh e allow s herself to yield com p letely to th e tem p tation of d a em o n s— Asm od ay an d Ra p h a e l : "If—w h e n I like a t h in g —o r a p erson , I ju st let go an d go d ow n th e w in d . Th e r e is n o oth er w ay of likin g. . . . Ta k e m e to th e hills, A z a r ia s—a w ay fr om h ere. I w ill be you r slave. M y h eart stop p ed beatin g long ago w h en I saw you first in th e g a r d en ." (In this story, too, tem p tation takes p lace in a gard en .) Bu t th ere is a d ifferen ce in th e tem p tation s of Asm od ay an d Ra p h a e l; as th e latter says, ". . . d aem on s are n ot all equ ally exp ert an d con scien tiou s." Asm od ay has m ad e h ap p in ess im p ossible for Sa r a , becau se h e h as tau gh t h er d issatisfaction w ith th e com m on p la ce; he h as tem p ted h er to th in k th at she is "d iffer en t from oth er g ir ls." H ers is a rom an ticism m or e fan tastic th an M a lla b y 's : Sh e can n ot d ie bu t m u st live in "sorrow co n t in u a l" an d "u n d y in g p a in ." H er lover m u st fa ce d eath for h er ; h e can n ot be m ean abou t little things an d snore in his sleep . Bu t Ra p h a el's tem p ta tion , w h ich began in h er fath er 's gard en w hen a look from th e Arch an gel m ad e h er obey an ord er she h ad refu sed to obey m om en ts before (she con sen ts to p u t on a cloak h er fath er h as sent ou t t o keep h er w arm ), hold s ou t con ten tm en t like a n ap p le : "Lo v e w h at you u n d erstan d an d you w ill u n d erstan d m ore an d m ore till you r life is so fu ll th at th ere w ill be n o room for an yth in g else—tortu rin gs an d itch in gs an d am bition s an d sh a m es." Brid ie says th at it is en tirely n atu ral th at Sa r a , like a sensible girl, shou ld accep t th e in evitable. H is am bigu ity allow s at least tw o in ter p r eta tion s: Sa r a accep ts th e fact th a t she ca n n ot love Ra p h a el, not even in To b ia s, bu t m u st love To b ia s a lon e—h is little rou nd fat bod y, h u m ble, gu ileless eyes, an d ch u bby ch eeks. Bu t th e "in ev it a b le" m igh t also be con -

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tinued submission to the temptation to romanticize life, for as soon as Raphael leaves her alone with Tobias, Sara is saying, "It runs in my memory that a certain little fat man rescued me from Asmoday," and to Tobias' protest that it was Raphael who rescued her, she answers, "It was not Azarias. It was you. Look up. Don't be a fool." In this case, at the end of the play her identification of Tobias with Raphael is complete; she has made herself a new Tobias, and the old one need fear strangulation no longer. If Raphael has failed to sway Sara in the garden, both he and she have, at the end of the play, failed in their temptation of Tobias, who alternates between submission and defiance. Finding himself committed to marry Sara, even if it means strangulation by Asmoday, he catches himself, realizes he is being led on, and balks: " W h at have I been saying? This is what comes of boasting and blowing and bluffing. And I can't get out of this infernal garden." Raphael forces him onward, the marriage contract is signed, and Sara begins her part of the temptation. She will turn him by his own admission into a man worthy of her love. With a childlike innocence of her motives, Tobias begs her not to cry at the prospect of his death : "Sara, don't cry. It is pleasant here in the garden. The past and the future are outside high walls. We needn't look over the walls— even if we could. Don't cry, Sara." T o which Eve replies, "You must love me very much to face death for me." But A d a m will not yield to the temptation to declare again what he declared to her father : " W h at do I care for devils? I have one fear only—that I shall die away from your daughter, as I shall die if you will not give her to me. I will die with her gladly." H e stands firm: "I love you very much, of course. But as for facing death . . . I am perfectly certain I shouldn't have done that if Azarias hadn't put me u p to it. . . . I ' m only a poor little worm, really. I like to think I could die for

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you ." Bu t he is not firm for long. Eve says, "Tobias. You are a brave little m an . You are m u ch braver than you think you a r e," and in his ecstacy Tobias must p roclaim , "O h my beau tifu l! Wh at d o I care w hether I die or not ?" Sar a an d Rap h ael seem to be w orking together to m ake a m an ou t of Tobias, yet Sara's m otivation is in Asm od ay, Rap h ael's op p onent, who is one of Jah v eh 's fallen angels. Th e tw o are like Aunt Dinah and Sir Anthony Craye in The Switchback, each em ploying very d ifferent m ethod s from the other. Rap h ael's is the rational ap p roach , even when the heroism to w hich he is insp iring Tobias is fan tastic. It is necessary for Tobias to kill the d evil-fish, bu t he must not swim out too far becau se "Th er e are nasty cu rrents in the fairw ay." It is necessary for him to frighten aw ay th e band it who threatens his life, bu t he does not have to lie abou t w ho he is in d oing it. H e must m eet Sara, bu t he does not have to misuse Rap h ael's head in stand ing on it to see over the gard en w all (Rap h ael says, "You w ere using my head for a d ancing floor on w hich you w ere p erform ing the horrid d ances of ^Ethiop ia. It w as tim e you had a lesson"). Tobias must frighten aw ay the d aem on Asm od ay, risking strangu lation, but he d oes not have to let his d og know that he is afraid : "Tr y to pretend to be a m a n ," Rap h ael says. "Th e dog is lau ghing at you. . . . Wh at a way to behave before your d og ! You are a god to your d og. Wh at must he think of you ? You will m ake an atheist of h im ." Bu t Sara's is the irrational ap p roach. To m ake Tobias bold , and to get him to praise her arm s and legs, she must accu se h im : "Th e n you despise m e becau se you saw my arm s and legs, and n o young m an has any right to see a person's arm s and legs." H e must be an articu late h ero in risking d eath for h er; he must say, "O h , my beau tifu l! Wh at d o I care w hether I die or n o t ?" H e must even be jealou s of Rap h ael in the passion of his love for her.

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In Tobias and the A ngel An n a, with ch aracteristic obtuseness, recognizes her new d au ghter-in-law as "a d ear, sensible girl," "ju st the girl for Tob ia s" who "is even more u np ractical than his poor silly old fath er." Althou gh she has th e roles of Tobias and Sara reversed , she is correct in seeing th e m arriage as a fusion of opposite extrem es, th e p ractical w ith the u n p ractical, Ord er with Disord er. Marriage as a stabilizing influ ence is again Brid ie's concern in M arriage Is N o Joke. Joh n M a cGregor, a H ighland d ivinity stu d ent, is represented (as Brid ie d escribes the p lay in a p reface, "Th e Anatom y of Failu r e") as "m akin g a beast of himself with r u m ; entering, u nd er a clou d of alcoholic verbiage, into a frivolously u nd ertaken m arriage con tract; stu pefying himself with d rink on his w ed d ing n igh t; com m itting a d angerous and bru tal assault u p on a servan t; an d , later, hand ing over the entire control of his d estiny to a half-ed u cated , u nd erbred , little hussy of a w ife."" Priscilla, th e little hussy, is the barkeep er's d au ghter, rem iniscent in her ill-tem p ered bored om of Sara in her fath er's gard en. MacGregor's heroism in rescuing her from certain d eath at the hand s of a d runken patron recalls the heroism of Tobias, and one begins to look for the Angel Rap h ael in this p lay, only to d iscover that MacGregor's insp iration com es from alcohol and th e m ystic fervor it is able to arou se in him . For it is u nd er the influ ence of ru m or cold arrack p u nch th at MacGregor becom es intensely aw are of d ivine gu id an ce; then it is that he p roclaim s, Do you know what my religion is? It can be told in five words. "We do because we m u st." Th at's a hell of a thing, eh ? . . . Well, I hate my blasted religion. . . . I hate it from the bottom of my soul. Bu t you canna escape it. You can't get away from your religion once you know. It's a part of you till you die, and then on, on through Heaven or H ell.

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But, as Bridie says, MacGregor hands over the entire control of his destiny to his wife, Priscilla; she must, then, be one of Jahveh's agencies, an interpretation that can be supported by her characterization. Clearly Priscilla, speaking common sense and "managing," represents the forces of Order; her dream of Heaven is "Fine hard work and no lady visitors." After their marriage, she forces MacGregor to sign the pledge (although he is afterwards unfaithful to it). She cannot keep him home from the war, which lands him in North Persia and involves him with the mistress of the Shah of Jangalistan, Nastasya, known to the Cossacks (who have murdered the Shah before he can claim his kingdom) as "Tigritza." She cannot, then, restrain him from rescuing Nastasya from the murdering Cossacks (he is filled with arrack punch) and agreeing to become the Shah of Jangalistan. For MacGregor is also filled with a sense of his potentialities to be something more than a shy Highlands divinity student among the glib tongues at Glasgow University. As he says, There are whiles I think if I had been born into another age I would have been a king myself. . . . Those old kings [of Babylon] knew their jobs. There's no right kings, nowadays. Even old Kaiser Bill now. There's no real magnificence about yon wee sergeant-major of a fellow. These old chaps . . . like their own great man-headed bulls they were . . . the equals of Lucifer, Son of the Morning. . . . Superb. The Lord has forgotten how to make kings in His own image. Jahveh's agency of Disorder, Nastasya, flatters him with the title of Samson, pours arrack down his throat, adding the titles of General Arrack and Shah Alcohol, and mothers him with "Ah, bebe. You must have your milk. Come, maman will give you your nice milk. . . . It is the blood-royal for the veins of my little hero. Are you brave, now, a g a i n ? " She also tempts

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him with her m ajesty and mystery : "W e sit in the dark and I whisper strange things to you ," she says. "You are afraid of the d ark? . . . You are afraid of m e." MacGregor answers, "N o. Maybe I'm a little afraid of myself. . . . I never saw the like of you before. You 're m ajestic." She even tries to persuade him that d eserting the British army to becom e Shah of Jangalistan is a rational a ct : "O h , my love, you are so shrewd and sensible. You give us ou r most need . We are impulsive orientals, nous au tres." Bu t Priscilla's hold on MacGregor is strong, strong enough to keep his relationship with Nastasya Platonic d uring his short reign as Sh ah . More im p ortant, he begins to echo his w ife's values. When he virtu ally proposed m arriage only minutes after m eeting her in her father's public-house, Priscilla said , "It 's all very fu nny for you easy-going, happy-go-luckies with no responsibilities; bu t m arriage isn't a thing to m ake a joke of. . . . It's a con tr act." Th u s, when Nastasya asks him (on the day his reign comes to an end) w hy he has not kissed her since the d ay they m et, he says, "Well, a Kin g's oath is bind ing, and I'v e passed my oath to my w ife." At another p oint, he says, "It 's a sane m an you w ant to rule this cou ntry, and fighting's a mad ness and d rink's a madness, but love's the wildest mad ness of them a ll." N astasya's passion has so crazed her that m en must kill each other for h er; MacGregor, she says, must kill Baliarski, w ho will kiss her, or be assassinated by him . Bu t MacGregor only laughs at her, and she is forced to draw a d agger on h im ." Th e last two scenes of the play take p lace twelve years later; MacGregor has returned to Priscilla and a parish in a Lond on suburb and is engaged in attacking slum land lord s instead of Tu rks, when Nastasya turns up am ong the m em bers of a troupe of Singing Cossacks at one of the local theaters and offers him the same tem p tation, a princed om in Petersbu rg, if he will go with her to Paris to

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organize the counter-revolt against the Bolsheviks. But Priscilla's power is indomitable now, and MacGregor says, "I trusted you, Tigritza. . . . If you had had an ounce of morality or self-control or common honesty . . . if you weren't daft you would see I was a different man altogether from the one you knew . . . It's no use talking. These days are done. There are no kingdoms to conquer. Not any more for me." Priscilla, already the victor, need not interrupt MacGregor's meeting with Nastasya at the theater to counter his "We do because we must" with "Well, I'll tell you what you 'must,' my mannie. You must come straight away home with me." For this is precisely the destiny involved in MacGregor's commitment to something outside himself. "Coward ! You run away from me. You are afraid. You are afraid of life," Nastasya screams as the play ends, but MacGregor puts his arm around Priscilla's shoulders, says, "What do you know about life? Here is life," and leaves to be king of his own castle and his own church henceforth. In a moment of inspiration (he and his father-in-law have shared a bottle of whisky earlier) MacGregor for the first time senses the reality of what he had thought was only an illusory conquest and glory. For the first time he senses the truth of his statement early in the play that "drunk or sober we're always our real self." For MacGregor the choice is always between illusion and reality, between the heroic and the commonplace. "I need my bit of illusion," he says to Priscilla's father in the first scene. "I drink and I'm a king, a damned pagan demigod. I feel my heart beat as no other man's heart beats, and I feel magnificence in every muscle and wild daft vapours in my head. . . . And yet I look back the day after and I see that there's predestination even in illusion." Heroism, he believes, is the escape from responsibility, from a predestined commitment. He drinks and he is no longer "a poor weeshy softy of a fellow . . . no

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fit company for a girl with a spark of fire in her." But Priscilla wants his real responsible self and throughout the play forces him, sometimes reluctantly, to accept it. He talks and rages in his sleep, she tells her father, and she has to wake him up. She sits down and looks into the fire, Bridie writes, repeating, "And I have to wake him up." In Nastasya's dressing room, when MacGregor accuses her of s p y i n g on him, she says, "Funny life these theatricals lead. You're never yourself right. . . . Nice, in a way, too. I used to fancy myself at it, once. . . . You grow out of it." "Yes. You grow out of it," MacGregor replies, an admission of acceptance, not a grudging admission like those he felt he must make to Priscilla on the first morning of their marriage: But this marriage business. It's a gey queer affair. Like going to your own funeral. . . . Don't mistake me. It's not a bad thing a funeral, and it's not a bad thing a marriage. It's just that they're very important, both of them. A wee bittie too important for human understanding. All the cleverness and the games and the diversions we used to think so grand fade to nothing in the face of them. We maybe don't realise it at the time, but it's true that marriage is a sacrament. It's a dedication to a new kind of life— the real life that came to the world, they say, millions of years before . . . Priscilla interrupts MacGregor here with an "Amen," the commonsense reaction to a hangover mysticism, and he is forced to look for sympathy from the hotel valet, the victim of his heroic, or drunken, attack the night before, but now a confessed admirer of his pugilistic artistry. They discuss the sobering effect of marriage : the giving up of visits to the gymnasium to box with the fellows and of old-fashioned straight razors, the sad longings to hit some big fellow in the eye. Marriage is like every other experience in life, MacGregor says, a beginning anew; and, like any beginning, if it is not "what we thought it

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AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

w ou ld be, w hat w as it p rom ised us an yth in g d ifferent bu t ou r ow n d aft w him sy-w ham sies an d im agin ation an d n on sen se?" Reality is com m on p lace, not h eroic. M a cGr eg or d eterm ines to p u t all nonsense an d story-book fan cies ou t of his head and "liv e stead fastly and calm ly th e new life to w hich it has pleased God to . . ." Bu t here the m arch of th e n aval reservists d istracts h im ; w ar w ill p rovid e an op p ortu n ity for heroism . W h a t it does p rovid e is d isillu sionm ent w ith heroism . H e d iscovers d u rin g his brief reign as Sh ah not only th at sold iering involves p ap erw ork bu t th at it shou ld involve resp on sibility: I thou ght once I was born to be a great general. . . . I've no serious objection, look you, to blow ing the insides ou t of a man if he's trying to do the same by me, and good luck to both of u s; but that's ju st a wee bit of making w ar. When you 're a king and a general, your job is to rot and break and ruin the im m ortal spirit of a people to the third and fou rth generation. And it runs in my mind that the Lord 'll forgive you for being a hu nting beast, but not for being a Devil. Th is sort of th in kin g send s him back to En glan d to hu nt out irresp onsible d evils like Moth erw ell, the land lord w hom he w ou ld like to see jailed for keep ing ten an ts in a cond ition that shou ld not p revail in a p ig sty. Bu t M a cGr eg or hesitates w hen Moth erw ell th reaten s to sue him for libel an d to w ithd raw his m oney from the ch u rch , an d it is Priscilla w h o forces h im to face the reality of the situ ation w hen he w ou ld like to retreat to an illu sory heroism in aid ing N astasya. H e h as been p reach in g against the irresp onsibility of cap italism w hile keep ing his own real (resp onsible) an d illusory w orld s qu ite sep arate. It is an illu sion, he believes, to think th at one can put in to action w hat he p reach es. H e objects to Priscilla's suggestion th at he con tin u e to fight Moth erw ell, alth ou gh he com p lain s th at there is n o ch an ce for heroism in a com m on p lace p arish . "I ' m sick to d eath of this. War 's an

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a bom in a tion , bu t I w as a m a n , in th e w ar. An d h ere I am like a h em m ed bu llock easin g m y soul w ith bellow in g an d roarin g I know not w h at. I'll th row it all u p an d be a m an a g a in ." It is th en th at Priscilla says, "A g a in ? You 'v e n ever been an yth in g bu t a big b a b y ." Dr u n k or sober, th e baby in M a cG r eg o r tries to escap e th e reality of resp onsibility, yet resp onsibility p lagu es h im . H e m ay say, " I h ave n o real w ish to go fighting an d r oa m in g, n ot at all an y m or e. . . . I' m ch a n g ed ," bu t it is not tru e. Life is for h im "begin n in gs an d begin n in gs an d begin n in gs," "a d ozen lives," an d each begin n in g is "a n o t h er verse of an old so n g ." H e tru ly d oes becau se he m u st, in blin d allegian ce to som eth in g ou tsid e h im self, only p artly p ersonified in his w ife, on ly p artly p articu larized in th eir m a r r ia g e; h is allegian ce is p erh ap s best d escribed as a son's service. At th e end of th e p lay, w hen Moth erw ell con ven ien tly ap p ears at N astasya's d ressin g-room d oor to be greeted by h er as "d a d d y ," M a cGr eg or ca n say to h im , H ere's m e, all these m onths, been soaring in the air like a d aft old crow letting ou t squawks ou t of myself abou t econom ics and arm am en ts and cap italism and com m u nism , instead of beginning at th e beginning. See you , all of you , he told m e I should have begu n at the beginning, and it's there I w ill begin. And th e first th in g I'll do is to tell a blackm ailing, bu llying, thieving, rand y old hyp ocrite of a slum land lord to take him self and his d irty m oney ou t of my sight and ou t of m y ch u rch . H e is back at th e begin n in g again , in th e sense th a t th e baby in h im h as a n ew gam e to p lay, th e h ero in h im a new kin gd om to co n q u er ; bu t to th e exten t th at h e h as accep ted th e reality of h eroic action in th e real (resp onsible) w orld , h e is at a new begin n in g. H e is h elp ed by Priscilla, w h o is th ere to "m a n a g e " h im , an d by th eir m ar r iage, p roved h oly in its stren gth u n d er a t t a ck by th e forces of Disord er. M a r r ia g e, th en , can be a sym bol of m a n 's resp onsibility to

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som ething outsid e him self; in m arriage he can d iscover and fulfil his su p erhu m an p otentialities. Priscilla receives the entire control of MacGregor's destiny insofar as she is his p artner in m arriage; it is the m arriage itself that exercises the mystic control, w here Priscilla's com m on sense, especially w hen MacGregor has a hangover, m ight only succeed in alienating him , in the w ay he alienated N astasya by lau ghing at her passion. Eve is the agent, not of Ad am 's salvation (or ruin) bu t of th e salvation (or ruin) of the institu tion of m arriage. Ord er is not to d om inate Disord er (or Disord er, Ord er); the tw o are to be preserved in eternal tension. Ad am 's role has been red uced to that of a passive p artner, the fate, it has been suggested , that is in store for Tobias. MacGregor rem ains as innocent of his m otivations as does Tobias; he rescues women from d ru nken tram p s and assassinators, and tenants from m ean land lord s, by accid ent as it w ere, for he is an u nreasoning an im al, driven by outsid e forces. As Brid ie says in "Th e Anatom y of Failu r e," he is like all "bu ll-head ed fighting men from H ercu les to Joh n L. Su llivan ," a "bom bastic bru te of a h ero," whose "savage instincts" are given "a grotesqu e sort of w orld " (in the second half of th e p lay) in w hich they can "follow their b en t ."" Pred om inantly, he is another Sara—an oth er Mallaby—d issatisfied w ith the com m onp lace and d esiring the excitem ent of the ad ventu rou s and fantastic. "You m istake m e," he protests. "You think I'm a blood -thirsty sort of devil becau se I've taken kind ly to scrap p ing. Bu t if there w ere any other kind of a gam e . . ." Life cannot be qu ietly stand ing u p to Moth erw ell; one must tell a hyp ocrite to take his d irty m oney out of one's chu rch, and tell him as loudly as possible. Joh n Stew art, the hero of The Girl W ho Did N ot W ant to Go to Kuala Lumpur, althou gh he does not share MacGregor's am bigu ity of ch aracter, does share his great physical strength,

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lyricism , and religious m ysticism. Th e resem blance betw een the tw o is not accid en tal; Brid ie writes in the p reface to the collected volume in w hich The Girl appears that the play "is almost u nintelligible to anyone u nfam iliar with H ighland d ram a and rom ance. It is a burlesque foreru nner of my equ ally u nintelligible M arriage is no Joke."" The Girl carries the story of M arriage Is N o Joke as far as the rescue of the dissatisfied heroine from her loneliness; in this case the interested friend s of Margaret Un th an k bring a p ostm an, Joh n Stew art—w h o is really a d ivinity stu d ent—in off the street to propose m arriage to her in ord er to save her from the fate of a "M issy -Ba ba" in Ku ala Lu m p u r, the d estiny her rep robate u ncle has in m ind for her. MacGregor's great strength in saving Priscilla from the d runken tram p in her fath er's pu blic-hou se (after he has carried "th e cru m p led bu nd le that was his ad versary to the w in d ow " and d ropped him ou t, he tells Priscilla, w ho is w orried th at he has killed the tram p , "I could have taken on five of his brothers for a d iversion") is p aralleled by Stew art's agility in d efend ing Margaret against her u ncle's tyranny : When M a jo r Un th an k confronts the elop ing p air with a revolver, Stew art, w ho is also the Am ateu r Cru iser Weight Cham p ion of Scotlan d , p roclaim s, "I f you had a battery of how itzers and a regim ent of cavalry at you r back I would kill you w ith m y tw o hand s rather than you should keep M a r g a r et," and then hits Un th an k with a vase, "makes a Douglas Fairbanks leap at him, turns him over and puts on a half-N elson."" MacGregor, with enou gh rum in him , is lyrical in com p lim enting Priscilla : Ach, there's no roughness in you at all, just a kind o' salt tang about you like a wee fir wood in Marayshire. Ju st a sensation enough to make you no' like other girls. . . . It's a way of speaking a Highlandman has when he comes at last after all his jou rneyings to the girl he could be doing with.

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Her hair is "like the wee waves that play love-games with the shingle on the beaches of Iona," he says; "Give me another sensation of rum and you'll have the door open and all the riches of no' such a bad brain poured out in you lap, mo chridhe." John Stewart, who is also a poet (his verses have won a first prize), describes a portrait of M a r g a r e t : Her hair is like the golden web that is the canopy of a fairy's barge; and her eyes are like two of the Pleiades reflected in the dark waters. Her little mouth is full of loving. To look on her makes me think of my own glen in a day of sunshine with a far-off piper on the sea-shore playing faint songs of loves long ago. Bridie is fooling here, of course (Stewart adds, when his listeners have complimented his description, "It is quite good. But I could do better before I became a teetotaler"), as he is fooling throughout the play, and much of the comedy comes from the juxtaposition of Stewart's mock heroic and matter-offact speeches. After this— Miss Unthank, I have the greatest pleasure in asking you to accept the hospitality of my auntie. . . . You will follow, if you please, your own judgments and desires. . . . If after you have left this house of captivity, you wish that you should never see me again, you will never see me again—either you nor the Postmaster nor nobody else. That is all I have to say. —he must supply his name to Margaret when she attempts to thank him for his offer. Or he rushes into the room to rescue Margaret from some dire evil, crying, "What is it now, then, what is it, my lovely?" to receive the answer "I couldn't sleep," which forces his next speech to be "Have you tried a hot mustard foot-bath?" Indeed, Bridie seems to be burlesquing Synge or Yeats in passages like this :

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St ew art . Wh e re w e re you going, so early in the m o rn i n g ? Margaret . We re you s tan d i n g o u t th e re all n i g h t? St ew art . I w as. Wh e re w e re you going so e arl y in the m o rn i n g ? Margaret . O h , w hy did you s tan d there all n i g h t? St ew art . Be cau s e my h e art is full of y o u . Wh e re w e re you going so e arl y in th e m o rn i n g ? Margaret . I d o n 't know . O v e r the edg e of th e w orld, I think. St ew art . It is dark an d lonely o v e r th e e d g e of the w o rl d . Margaret . Is i t? O h , is i t? St ew art . Ye s . . . . Wh at do you see in m y eyes n o w ? Margaret . I d o n 't know . St ew art . D oes it m ak e you f e are d o r g l ad ? Margaret . Bo th f e are d an d g lad.

N evertheless, the p ostm an, like MacGregor, is insp ired —a fairy, the old wives say. "Bu t they say," Stew art tells Margaret, "on e au tu m n night the wee folk w alked round and rou nd my fath er's croft, w id d ershins, crying like grasshoppers, and in the m orning there was a bairn that was the im age of the b a im that was there before; bu t it was not the bairn . Th er e was som ething qu eer and clever in its eyes." H is role is that of the fairy p rince (his entrance is annou nced by the speech "Perh ap s it's the Fairy Prin ce"). And in a real sense this is also the role of Joh n MacGregor and of Tobias : MacGregor, in inspired states, feels d ivine blood w ithin himself and then it is that he rescues his princesses. M arriage Is N o Joke and especially The Girl are m inor plays, of cou rse, p erhap s because they are both , as M . Willson Disher said of the form er, am ong those of Brid ie's plays w hich are "so com p letely over the first-night au d ience's head s that they rank as failu res."" Both are interesting for their ch aracterization s— M a jo r Un th an k from The Girl, w ho tu rns u p later in the ch aracter of George Trip le in M eeting at N ight, is especially m em orable—bu t, more im p ortant, for their use of farce. Althou gh Brid ie labels M arriage Is N o Joke a m elod ram a, it

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seems obvious that he is being satirical. He writes about the play in "The Anatomy of Failure" : The audience . . . took the squalid scene in the public-house and the debasing and sordid scene in the bridal chamber as pieces of entertaining, naturalistic, sentimental comedy . . . If the play had all been in this vein of pleasantry it might have succeeded. . . . The first part . . . was written in a fantastic, deliberately unreal manner, otherwise it would have been quite unbearable. In Part Two . . . I presented [the] incidents with the utmost restraint. Lest the chief protagonist, a woman, should appear incredible, I drew her straight from life. I was accused of stealing her from a melodrama. Part Two was regarded as a wild, unbridled dash into impossible theatricality Obviously the play is non-naturalistic, imitating what is beneath the surface of life rather than the surface itself. Insofar as the play is the distorted external representation of John MacGregor's inner experience—his "game," which is so wild and preposterous that it would probably be impossible to exaggerate it—it parallels the farce of Tobias and the Angel. But insofar as it aims merely at eliciting fitful laughter and remains unconcerned with the "delineation of the play of character upon character" or the treatment of any moral problem, it approaches the kind of farce defined by Leo Hughes in A Century of English Farce : If the essence of farce is its dependence upon mere laughter, as opposed to comedy and its treatment of moral problems, that dependence will be seen to have a profound effect upon the structure of farce. Laughter is by its very nature transient, even fitful. The hearty, unreflective variety is especially dependent upon surprise and cannot therefore be long sustained. Correspondingly, the kind of drama which has as its chief aim the eliciting of this sort of laughter must itself be fitful, full of shifts and surprises, in terms of structure, episodic." The Girl is safely within the tradition outlined by Hughes;

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its " f r a m e w o r k " is the rescue of the fairy princess by the fairy prince, a n d the "separate beads" strung on the " t h r e a d " are attempts to elicit

unsustained

laughter. 15

One

of

Bridie's

repeatedly successful beads, or devices, is the conversation which degenerates f r o m a point of high tension. T h u s , in The Girl, M a r g a r e t shoots into the room after striking her a u n t to escape, and

Mrs. U n t h a n k

follows, shouting,

"Margaret!

R i c h a r d , she struck me !" Unthank. Oh, shut u p ! Margaret. W h a t d o you w a n t ? Tom. Calm yourself, Miss Margaret. It's all right now. It's all right now. Margaret. Please don't say "It's all right," as if I had had a fit in a tram-car. Mary, tell me. What are you doing here? Mary. My mother used to say . . . Margaret. I never knew you had a mother. Mary. Oh, yes, I had. Margaret. How funny ! I didn't know. Mary. Well, you might have known. But that isn't the point. You see, dear, we've come to rescue you. Again, when M a r g a r e t learns that Stewart is studying to be a minister a n d cannot then understand why he is a postman, the conversation degenerates rapidly f r o m a discussion of the gentleness of postmen, to the pride of post-office girls, t o the relative worth of m e n a n d w o m e n in every profession. O t h e r devices are a character's continual but inconsistent mispronunciation of the n a m e of another character, a n d a confusion arising f r o m the ambiguity of the language used. Early in the play M a r g a r e t faces a friend of her f a t h e r : Margaret. Oh, M r . Smellie, I must have the money! I don't want to go to Kuala Lumpur. Smellie. Who's he? Margaret. It isn't a he. It's a place

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When Smellie returns in the final act to offer to marry Margaret, there is more confusion : Smellie. I have come to rescue this decent young girl from worse than death. Margaret. But nobody said Kuala Lumpur was worse than death, Mr. . Smellie. Smellie. Margaret. Mr. Smellie. Smellie. I was not referring to Kuala Lumpur. As a matter of fact, I think Kuala Lumpur was a plant. Tom. It's a place. Smellie. Damn it, I know that. Another variation is found in the use of language in Is No Joke.

Μarriage

Josef, an Armenian interpreter with the British

army in Persia, elicits most of the fitful laughter in the scenes in which he appears by just opening his mouth and releasing fantastic combinations of Moslem and Christian oaths and British slang; similarly Nastasya jumbles Russian, French, and English. But these devices are in addition and subordinate to the farcical, or episodic, action in each of the plays. With The Black Eye, which is a major play, Bridie seems to be sticking pins into the institution of marriage, deliberately puncturing the mysticism which brings John MacGregor home, like the other foot of Donne's twin compasses, to end where he began. T h e last line in the play is " I wonder if people who get married do live happy ever a f t e r ? " Bridie writes in " T h e Anatomy of Failure" about the hero of the play, George Windlestraw : Love itself did not prevent George from following his ruinous career of folly, gambling, philosophizing and alcoholism. What right had he to live happy ever after? The soft answer that he had no right cannot turn away wrath of this calibre [the wrath of

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the woman playgoer who is, Bridie says, the patron and dictator of the theater].13 The Black Eye might be called George and the Angel, for it parallels closely the theme of Tobias and the Angel. Again a pink shivering boy succeeds beyond his wildest dreams—in literal and symbolic service of his father. Again the fulfilment takes place under a kind of daemonic inspiration, called in this play a "sort of stable combination between" reason and instinct, or "a sort of two-sparrows-for-a-farthing feeling," "a sort of sixth sense." George Windlestraw, the Tobias of the play, is the younger son, apparently a disappointment to his father because he has failed the chartered accountant examinations four times and has not settled into his niche in the business world as his older brother Johnnie has. When Angus Windlestraw is struck by a post-office van and consequently hospitalized, George, who is on the verge of bolting because Johnnie's girl friend has fallen in lcve with him, is forced to step into his father's shoes at the factory. He discovers there gross negligence on the part of his brother, quarrels with Johnnie over this and over the girl, and finally does walk out on the family with the intent of earning a fortune to save his father's business. The next day he wins £8,250 gambling and betting on the horses and returns to save his father from bankruptcy. The girl, Elspeth, annoyed with the entire family for its failure to help her straighten out George, throws over both brothers, denouncing the Windlestraws as "a pack of damned savages" and calling forth Johnnie's line, "I wonder if people who get married do live happy ever a f t e r ? " Bridie is explicit about his intentions in the p l a y : "George" in The Black Eye was all the younger sons and Idle Jacks out of Grimm, and his story was their story. . . . Its moral is that of The Prodigal Son and of The Labourers in the Vine-

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yard and of half the fairy tales in the world. It is that we are not justified by a catalogued series of sensible, social acts but by something very much more extraord inary." In the final scene, Brid ie has Mrs. Wind lestraw , George's m other, say upon George's en tran ce, "O h , here's the Prod igal Son at last." Th e prod igal son —th e straw in the w in d —w h o has wasted his su bstance w ith riotou s living, is w elcom ed in to the arm s of an extraord inary fa te; as in Tobias and the A ngel, Brid ie's d ram a is tru e to th e m arvelou s inner exp erience of a boy's d iscovery of his su p erhu m an or d ivine p otentialities. Critics like Derek Verschoyle seem aw are that they are not d ealing in The Black Eye w ith natu ralistic d ram a : In its plot, its wholesale reversal of the laws of probability, and the exotic sense of values which it expresses, it is the exact d ram atic equivalent to the serial story which provides the "fem inine depressed classes" of today with a means of imaginative escape from the tedium of ordinary life. But unlike the authors of the serial stories who regard their fantasies merely with the cynical d etachment of the purely commercial producer, Mr. Bridie insists that his story should be taken seriously, its moral mastered and follow ed ." Yet Verschoyle d oes not, he says, believe "fo r an in stan t" in George. Wh at he does not believe in, p robably, is Brid ie's hyp othetical universe. Brid ie stressed the "iron y of the realisation of the hypothetical universe [George] so cau tiou sly and reasonably build s u p ."" Th a t George is essentially as cau tiou s and reasonable as, for instance, Tobias, that he tries to look the other way when tem p ted by th e forces of Disord er, can be illu strated by an exam ination of his characterization . It is a com bination of illusion and responsibility, a m ystic accep tan ce of d u ty, that brings MacGregor back to the sam e beginning, and it is a

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combination of illusion and responsibility, though of other types, that brings George back home. " W e can't live for ourselves," he says. " I t would be quite easy if we did, wouldn't it ? " Near the end of the play, he says, I've got to go home; and that's probably a very good thing. I can't expect to make a fortune, backing outsiders and playing roulette with convicts all the time. I don't think I quite grasped what a very valuable fighting base the family is. Living one's own life is all very well when one knows exactly the sort of life one would like. But who does? . . . Of course, it could never happen again. It was sheer impossibility as it was. The illusion here—and certainly George is suggesting that "we are . . . justified by a catalogued series of sensible, social acts"—keeps Bridie's hero an innocent Adam, which becomes most apparent when he is contrasted with the old Adam in the play, the convict Samuel Samuels, the agency of his good fortune or his Angel. George may preach the philosophy of Disorder, he may think that he is a balloon rather than a caterpillar but his actions betray his words. He tells Elspeth about the caterpillar whose father told it to put its best foot foremost : George. . . . it began wondering which foot was its best. Elspeth. And what happened? George. Nothing. Elspeth. Of course, yes. . . . Are you a caterpillar? George. No. I'm a balloon. . . . Elspeth. Still. . . . You're ballooning about and you don't see where you're going to land? George. No. While it is true that circumstances beyond George's control do blow him about like a balloon, he continually attempts to control his destiny and, in fact, spends the entire play

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tr yin g to d eter m in e w h ich is his best foot. Th u s, th e fatalist p h ilosop h izes: Isn 't it a w aste of tim e? I m ean p lan n in g the fu tu re and all th at. . . . Becau se you can 't p lan things ou t beforeh an d . I m ean, you can , bu t it's no use. You ca n 't be p rep ared for every ev en t— even tu ality. And if you cou ld be p rep ared —I m ean really th orou gh ly—you 'd only be cu ttin g ou t th e good lu ck. You can 't cu t ou t bad . . . . Most things w ork ou t themselves if you leave them to d o it. N early every kind of th in g. You shou ld n't interfere w ith th e w orking of things you d on 't u nd erstand . An a r g u m en t w ith his b r ot h er is n eith er Jo h n n ie's n or his fa u lt : "I t w as th e w ay th in gs w orked o u t ." Dr u n ken su ccess at u n tyin g a kn ot in a sh oelace is p r o v id en t ia l: I cou ld n 't have u nd one th at kn ot if I'd been sober. Provid ence looks after th e d ru nk. Profou n d tru th , th at. If you cou ld always be d ru nk, Pr ov id en ce'd alw ays look after you . N ow , if you cou ld alw ays be d ru nk w ithou t p oisoning you rself and looking silly and d isgu sting. . . . Bu t a reason able m a n ca n n o t alw ays be d ru n k, an d George ch ooses t o act r eason ably r a t h er th a n tru st in Pr ov id en ce. H e h as been th in kin g a good d eal abou t w h at his "lin e " is, h e tells his fa t h er . H e q u ite r ation ally d ecid es to bolt w h en h e fears ca p tu r e at th e h a n d s of Els p e t h —a r a b b it in th e h an d s of a ca v ew om a n , his sister sa y s—a n d in ju r y at th e h an d s of Jo h n n ie ; w h en th e sister calls his d ecision cow ard ly, h e rep lies, "W e ll, a livin g cow a r d gets m or e fu n th a n a d ead h ero. An d I d on 't w an t t o fight Jo h n n ie . I d on 't w a n t to be a ch ar ter ed a cco u n t a n t . A n d I ' m n ot su re t h a t I w an t to be Elsp eth 's h u sb a n d ." T h e sister, Con n ie, w h o is th e em otion al on e for all h er p sych ological kn ow led ge, says, " I th ou gh t you loved h e r ," w h ich p r om p ts th is clea r -h ea d ed n ess: " I d o, bu t I'v e a very w a r m regard fo r m yself. I'v e kn ow n m yself lon ger , an d I'd

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still rather be bossed by myself than by anybody else [including Providence ?] . . . at least until I've knocked about a bit and got enough character to answer back, now and again." Until he accomplishes the escape, he anxiously switches from foot to foot: Reason's against me and instinct's against me; but a man has something else besides reason and instinct if he's any good at all. A sort of stable combination between the two. I'm going to follow that. I promise you it'll make me do something definite very soon indeed.

But he is interrupted at this point by his mother, who offers consolation about "those beastly exams," and, consciencestricken, he switches feet: "No, I didn't do my best. But it was like a nightmare. I was going back five feet for every three I went forward. But I should have stuck it out for your sake. I'm a selfish brute." Having argued—providentially—with Johnnie and left the business to make a "roaring great fortune," he begins to shake himself free from Providence : I'll have to go and walk about a bit. I'll have to shake myself free from these blasted circumstances. Napoleon said he made circumstances, and he was a common little crook. I'll have to see whether I can't manipulate them a bit better than I've been doing. Oh, I know, I know. I look as if I were letting my father down and the family down and Elspeth down, but I won't let them down. I've got to pull out for a better jump.

This is not mere airy utterance. Nor is George's reaction to Mr. Samuels, whose room he shares at Mrs. Scoullar's boarding house, the reaction of a balloon. On the other hand, Mr. Samuels is truly a balloon. "He bounces to his feet and on to the bed, almost in one movement," Bridie writes; he changes, conversationally, on a dime :

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Samuels. A h u m orou s a u th or , I g a th er from you r m an u scr ip ts. W ell, it is a great g ift —a g r ea t gift. It m u st be p leasan t to be able to let a little su n sh in e in to a d r a b w orld . An exqu isite th in g, a sense of h u m ou r . A great h a n d ica p in th e affairs of life, bu t an exqu isite q u ality. George. I d on 't kn ow . I h a v en 't got on e. Samuels. N o ? W ell, I d on 't su p p ose you ever m iss it. An d talkin g of m issin g th in gs . . . M r . Sa m u e ls su ggests a g a m e of r ou let t e w h en h e lea r n s t h a t G e o r g e is "r a t h e r u p a g a in st i t " a n d h a s t o "g e t som e m o n e y so m eh o w as q u ick ly a s p o ssib le." Bu t G e o r g e h a s w o r k t o d o . A n n o y e d a t th is r ea ct io n , Sa m u e ls , w h o sou n d s v er y m u ch like t h e v o ice of G e o r g e 's o w n h ea r t (as Bo lfr y w a s t h e v o ice of M c C r i m m o n ' s h ea r t ), r ep lies, If you 're goin g to m ake a for tu n e you m u sn 't w ork. Yo u m u st cer eb r a te. An d if you ca n 't cer eb r a t e you m u st p ick th e brain s of th e old , w ise an d exp er ien ced . An d you m u st also fam iliar ise you rself w ith gam es of ch a n ce. . . . D o you believe th a t th ere's som eth in g in sid e of u s lookin g a fter u s? . . . D o you believe th a t if w e tru st it an d say, "C a r r y o n ," it'll d o its best for us ? . . . D o you believ e th at if w e shy an d flinch a n d look rou n d an d m easu re th e d istan ce an d cou n t th e cost it'll say, " T o H ell w ith y o u ," an d go an d look a fter som eon e else? . . . Th e n faites votre jeu. G o in w h ere glory w aits. G e o r g e 's p r otests d o n ot cea se : N o, I' m sorry, bu t I ca n 't . I' m broke. I'v e got no m on ey. . . . N o. H on estly. It 's n ot th at I d on 't th in k it's all righ t, an d I'v e n o p r eju d ice again st gam blin g w ith in reason , bu t th er e are cer ta in cir cu m stan ces. . . . It's r a th er a lon g story, you see. I'v e got a sort of obligation of h on ou r. Fin a lly , h e r ea son s o u t h is ch o ice of th e n u m b e r on w h ich h e b r ea k s t h e b a n k : Be ca u s e t h e d a y of t h e m o n t h is th e sev en t een t h , h e b et s all h is w in n in g s on sev en t een . T h a t th e d a y

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IN N O C EN C E

h a p p en s t o b e th e eig h t een t h sh ou ld t ea ch h im a lesson w h ich Sa m u e ls d oes n ot d efin e b u t w h ich is t h a t if it w er e n ot fo r h u m a n ig n o r a n ce P r o v id en ce w ou ld n ot sta n d a ch a n ce . A s cer t a in ly as To b i a s is v isited , G eo r g e W in d lest r a w

is

v isited b y an a n g el of Ja h v e h . Br id ie's la n g u a g e is t o o su ggestive fo r t h e in t er p r et a t io n to b e a v o id ed . A d d t o th e d ia lo g u e q u o t ed a b o v e th is e xch a n g e , in w h ich th e ir o n y of Sa m u e ls ' r efer en ce to

"a

fa t h e r "—s u r e l y

th e

sy m b o lic

fa t h e r

w h ich

George

ser v es—is lost on t h e son : Samuels. St a k e it as bold ly, every w h it, as if it w ere stam p ed w ith th e very Gu elp h . George. I d id n 't qu ite ca t ch th a t. Samuels. It's Ro b er t Br ow n in g. George. O h , yes. So it is. M y fa th er u sed to read h im to us on Su n d ays. Samuels. O h , you 've got a fa th er , h ave y o u ? C o m e alon g, w e'll b e late. M o r e o v e r , Sa m u e ls h a s t h e d ig n it y a n d p e d a n t r y of Ra p h a e l , a s w ell as th e A r ch a n g e l's p a t ie n ce w ith foolish y o u n g A d a m s . H e is su p er b ly if d r u n k en ly eleg a n t in t h e t h ir d scen e of A ct I I , in w h ich h e fa ces r em o v a l fr o m t h e h otel in w h ich G e o r g e a n d h e a r e celeb r a t in g t h eir g ood lu ck a t th e r a ces : I h a v e stayed in every large ca r a v a n ser a i in Gr ea t Br it a in , Eu r op e, an d th e U n it ed States. I m igh t ad d Asia, A fr ica an d In d ia . An d n ever h ave I h ad an exp er ien ce like this befor e. Sen d for th e M a n a g e r . . . . I' m n ot accu stom ed to im p u d en ce a n d I d on 't like it, an d I w on 't h av e it, as you w ill very soon find . . . . Gross im p er tin en ce. Th a t ' s a n oth er th in g you 've learn ed , Geo r g e m y b oy —n ot to su bm it to an y d am n ed nonsense from th ese h ou n d s. M a k e you rself resp ected . I f o n e p r efer s, t h e m e t a p h o r of t h e old A d a m m a y b e su bstit u t ed fo r t h a t of t h e a n g elic v isitor . Sa m u e ls is a k n o w led g ea b le a n d ir on ic A d a m , a w a r e of a t r a n scen d en t a n d glor iou s gift

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which he chooses to call the technique of dishonesty. He explains to George, The technique of dishonesty, my dear young friend, is a very complicated matter. The troublesome part of it is that persons with a natural bent towards roguery are apt to put too much confidence in that transcendent and glorious gift. They neglect to study the law. . . . Apart from bets I pay nothing that I can avoid paying. But there is a mystical, holy quality about a bet. If I went back on a bet I know I should go mad. It is by a superhuman agency that one avoids the law of the commonplace and wins a bet, and when one loses there is a mystical obligation to pay Providence's debts. Aligned with Samuels is Elspeth who, although she believes herself to be a manager of affairs (that is, in the camp of Order), floats about like a balloon caught by every breeze. She echoes Samuels in her advice to George : " W h a t ' s wrong with you, George, is that you don't respect yourself enough. That's the beginning of doing . . . well . . . great things." Although she preaches a philosophy alien to Samuels (she tells George that he must "take a grip o f " himself and a job in her father's office), she alternately advances and retreats in her love affair with George, rushing in on the family at ten o'clock in the morning to find out why George has failed to show up for an interview with her father, bolting when he tells her he has fallen in love with her, telephoning him minutes later from a pay-station to invite him to lunch. She acts, she admits, under "the illusion that I know what I'm after. And I don't. . . . I can't keep off the telephone," which is never more evident than in the final scene when she calls the Windlestraws "savages" and bolts again. Yet a more reasonable and civilized family than the Windlestraws—with the exception of Connie—could not be imagined; it is because Elspeth and Connie are alike that they clash so

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violently. The symbol of the Windlestraws' civility is their respect for each other's privacy. And again Connie is the exception : It is not "normal" not to want to talk about other people's business, she says; if she had been born in a maternity hospital she would think there had been a mistake. Clearly she and Elspeth stand with Samuels as the "naturals" or "primitives" who are annoying to Mrs. Windlestraw. "It's quite natural," Mrs. Windlestraw says of Elspeth's inconsiderate visit at ten o'clock in the morning, when the sweeps are in the drawing-room and she is sorting the laundry, "but it's very annoying, like most natural things." Mrs. Windlestraw is annoyed with Connie for worrying about George : "My dearest, you are really hardly old enough to form a really valuable opinion as to what the mother of a grown-up family or an intelligent young man of twenty-two ought to think or say or do. Anyhow, if you like being worried to death, I don't, and I've had some experience of it." Connie quite "naturally" cries her eyes out when her father is hurt, but still her behavior leaves something to be desired; says her mother, "Dear, dear, it doesn't seem to be worth while being clever when anything terrible happens." And Connie is especially annoying when in the final scene she tells Elspeth the primitive truth—that the latter is in love with George and is stringing Johnnie along; she must leave the room, Mrs. Windlestraw decides. Mrs. Windlestraw's characterization is central to the meaning of the play, for it is in her—and in George insofar as he is able to attain her level—that the morality of Bridie's hypothetical universe finds its expression. Why, if the themes of The Black Eye and Tobias and the Angel are alike and if the natures of George and Elspeth closely parallel those of Tobias and Sara, is a marriage of Order and Disorder not the ending of this play? The answer lies in the ambiguity of George's characterization, which is partly the judicial ambiguity with

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w h ich Br id ie tr ea ts m ost of th e ch a r a ct e r s in th is p la y , bu t w h ich also su ggests t h a t th e fu sion of co n t r a d ict o r y fo r ce s —t h e m a r r ia g e —co u ld ta k e p la ce w ith in G eo r g e , in th e sa m e w a y t h a t a m a r r ia g e h a s t a k en p la ce w it h in M r s . W in d le s t r a w . T h e r ea so n a b le G e o r g e h as a lr ea d y b een a m p ly d e lin e a t e d ; t h e u n r ea so n in g o r em o t io n a l G e o r g e , w h o find s a n a ffin ity w ith Els p e t h , C o n n ie , a n d Sa m u e ls , a p p ea r s in th ese p a s s a g e s : Els pet h. Are you fon d of m u sic? George. I d on 't kn ow . Are you fon d of ch ild r en or trees or hills o r hou ses or p eop le ? I ca n 't an sw er qu estion s like th a t. Elspeth. Th e n how cou ld you forget a th in g like th a t [his ap p oin tm en t w ith h er fa t h er ]? D o n 't you see w h at an insu lt it w as to m e ? George. It w asn 't an in su lt. It w as a sort of a com p lim en t. Elspeth. W h a t d o you m e a n ? George. If it is an y com p lim en t th a t a u seless p oor cr ea tu r e like m e sh ou ld be p r ecip itated in to a state w hen he ca n 't r em em ber his ow n n a m e. If a rh in oceros h a d com e ch a r g in g in to m y bed room I'd h ave ch u ckled at it th rou gh th e rosy m ist. I ca n on ly gabble like a fool to you n ow . . . . Th u s , co m b in e d w ith th e civ ility of M r s . W in d le s t r a w

is

h er u n r ea so n ed belief in th e old w iv es' cu r e fo r n ose-b leed : "A n d Jo h n n i e , if y ou r n ose sta r ts to bleed a g a in , p u t th e fr o n t d o o r key d ow n y ou r b a c k — a f t e r y o u 'v e lock ed u p . " T h e co m b in a t io n , w h ich p r od u ces t r a n s ce n d e n t r e a s o n —it is, a ft er a ll, w ise to lock u p at n i g h t —ca n b e fu r t h er illu str a ted .

Wh en

G e o r g e tells h er of h is p la n to g o t o Lo n d o n a n d C o n n ie co m m en t s t h a t h e h a s n o m o n e y a n d m a y h a v e t o sleep on t h e Em b a n k m e n t , M r s . W in d le s t r a w rep lies, "H o w m u ch d o you t h in k h e'll n e e d ? Lo n d o n ' s v er y exp en siv e. T h e seats in a t h e a t r e cost at least tw elv e a n d sixp en ce . . . " A n d of cou r se o n e sh ou ld g o t o t h e t h e a t e r w h en on e goes t o Lo n d o n . Sh e m u st ch a n g e h er d ress b efo r e g o in g to t h e h osp ita l to con sole

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her injured husband; one should think of one's appearance. This comment is rather more endearing: "The Matron at the Nursing Home told me that all the doctors are expecting another epidemic of influenza. So nice for them, don't you think?" Yet Mrs. Windlestraw's morality is more than a combination of reason and emotion, reaching at last a transcendent reason; it is a combination of justice and mercy, reaching, finally, superhuman or transcendent justice. She approximates the Biblical father who cries, "For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found." She does not judge first, then try; she first accepts. And her influence seems to be the strongest operating on her son George, who complains of Elspeth, when she accuses him of cowardice in running away from his job at his father's factory, "That's like you. You jump to conclusions, and you don't give me a chance. Verdict first, trial afterwards." Thus, it is Johnnie's suspicion, first that George has more than figuratively seduced Elspeth and second that his brother is lying when he reports that the telephone is not Elspeth but a wrong number, that enrages the younger son and finally makes him desert the family business. Bridie's variations on the theme—illustrating, incidentally, careful structure—come with the hotel waiter's unfortunate assumption that George and Samuels are not residents of the hotel and thus not privileged to drink in the private lounge, and with George's landlady's immediate assumption that his sister is not his sister but a woman who has come to conduct some "funny business" in her decent lodgings. In contrast, Mrs. Windlestraw assumes that George has tried his best to get through his examinations, that he is not leaving home for selfish motives, and that he is both wise (in deciding to go away when he discovers that he is in love with Elspeth) and not wise (in the sense of that word Elspeth understands).

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George, too, can assu m e th at his fa th er d oes n ot really w ish th at h e h ad beaten th e in itiative ou t of his son , th at An gu s Win d lestraw only hits p eop le of his ow n size, an d th at accord ing to th e fath er 's lights h e h as given his son th e best p ossible ch an ces. (Th a t An gu s Win d lestr aw shares som e of his w ife's im p u lse to op en his ar m s to th e p rod igal son is a p p a r e n t : "G e o r g e ," h e says, "I' l l tell you som eth in g. Yo u 'r e a p oor enou gh fish, bu t I aye likit you better n or Jo h n n ie . . . . Keep you r t h u m b on th a t, m in d .") Geor ge can a ccep t Sam u els' d ru n ken d row siness an d b e kin d t o h im in th e em barrassin g scen e in th e h o t e l: "It ' s all right. It 's all a m isu n d erstan d in g. Sa m , p u t on you r coa t, old boy. It 's ju st a m istake. See, I'll h elp you . Th e r e , n o w ." O n th e oth er h a n d , Elsp eth cu ts Sam u els w ith "I f w e m eet a g a in —a n d I h op e w e w o n 't —w e can d iscu ss th at. Ta k e you rself off, w ill you ?" Again , as M r s. Win d lestraw accep ts th e fact th at h er sons h av e "b a d b lo o d " to get ou t of th eir system s by p eriod ically fighting, George accep ts, w ith his black eye fr om his br oth er , Jo h n n ie's su sp iciou s, cau tiou s, bu llyin g, stu p id d u llness. (Brid ie's ju d icia l attitu d e w ill not p ain t an old er broth er in solid colors, an d Jo h n n ie is som ew h at red eem ed after his callou s tr eatm en t of George. Wh ile George is still recoverin g fr om th e sh ock of his fa th er 's accid en t, Jo h n n ie says, "By God , you selfish little r a t, you a r e ! I know w h at you w an t. You w an t to roam w id e an d free an d find som eth in g w ith a kick in it th at d oesn 't en tail h ar d w ork. Yo u h av en 't th e gu ts to enlist or go to sea . . . You 'v e got to tu rn to an d d o som eth in g for M o t h er an d th e gir ls." Bu t Jo h n n ie d raw s sym p ath y in th e agon izin g scen e in w h ich he p rop oses m arriage to Elsp eth , if not in w h a t ap p ears to be a sin cere statem en t abou t his br oth er : "H e ' s a fine ch ap , George, really. A bit qu eer, in som e w ays, bu t h e's got m agn ificen t stu ff in h im . H e's th e best of th e bu n ch of u s, really. . . . I' m n ot very good at bein g p u t righ t. Esp ecially by a . . . you n ger broth er . . .")

SONGS

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95

Finally, there is in Mrs. Windlestraw's transcendence some of the daftness and some of the prophecy of Aunt Dinah in The

Switchback.

Indeed, the language of the opening of the

final scene, in which she is seen playing Patience, recalls the card game played by Aunt Dinah and Mallaby in Act I I I of that play; it is obviously symbolic : " O h , there's a Queen of Diamonds for that King of Spades. It's going to come out all right.

I hope Johnnie fixes things up with Elspeth tonight.

She'd suit him, I think." Her daughter, who is watching the game, says, "There's a J a c k of Clubs underneath all that pile of things. You can move him to the Queen of Diamonds." Although Mrs. Windlestraw says, "Should I ? Well, perhaps. . . . I wonder what George is doing to-night," probably she does not move George to Elspeth before she must interrupt her game, gather up the cards, and prophesy, "Such a pity! It looked as if it were going to come out." T h e play does not come out, in the conventional sense, yet its hero, Bridie says, is to "live happy ever after," even without the "right." The question which, in the end, suggests itself is whether or not George is a hero. T o the extent that Providence works for his good fortune, he is not heroic. In fact, when he attempts to interfere in his destiny he appears a little foolish. This seems to be Bridie's judgment of man, in 1935 at least. Bridie labels The Black Eye a comedy. Certainly the play is concerned with the delineation of character and with the treatment of a moral problem. His insistence that it is not a farce' 1 suggests that here there is no external exaggeration or distortion of internal experience—suggests, that is, that the hypothetical universe which George constructs is real both in and out of the play. In any event, the world of the play is as carefully as it is ingeniously constructed. In the first scene, George comes upon " A Serious Person" in an aged bowler hat (his own is new), whom he has just seen climbing over a

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cem etery w all. Th e Seriou s Person is solem nly singing a H ym n to th e D a w n , his own com p osition : Th e Moon has gone Th e early tram cars herald in the Daw n. I love the railings in ou r street, I grasp them with my hands and feet; I care not for the leap ing stars. I clu tch the cold , triu m p hant bars, For, one by one in regu lar row, Th ey lead me w here I w ant to go. Th e Milk . . . Th e nale sublucent Milk . . . brings all things, all things H om e. Th e Seriou s Person has sp ent the night in th e cem etery becau se his Au n tie, "I n exch an ge for certain con ven ien ces in th e shap e of food , shelter an d so fo r t h ," h as the righ t, he believes, to exp ect th at he con form to the regu lation s governin g h er hou seh old , in clu d ing the ru le th at he be in by eleven o'clock ; she is u n reason able, yes, bu t she is ninety-five years of age. H e find s, he says, h er w ays convenien t on m ost occasion s; w hen he fails to con form he takes th e consequ ences. H e n eith er know s n or exp erim en ts to d iscover his own w ays. "M y p rogram m e is rath er exp licit," he says. "I m ust go now an d face my Au n tie's w rath as a p relim in ary to her infinitely p referable h am an d eggs." Brid ie has w ritten a p arable for his p lay, giving his au d ien ce the key to his m oral, as he gave them the key to The Switchback by p u ttin g Milton in M allaby's stu d y. H ere is George, clu tch in g for the cold bars of reason yet actu ally bein g led hom e by som ethin g m u ch m ore extraord in ary, som eth in g u n reason able bu t seem ingly etern al, som eth ing w hose tran scen d en t ju stice serves h am an d eggs w ith its w rath . Th e irony is th at he does not recognize him self.

IV The Clown Despairs

It Depends What You Mean (1944) James Redfem wrote, "It is this dramatic and almost Ibsenish development from somewhat farcical comedy to vivid reality which gives this play its distinction, for it turns out to be a serious searching treatment of the problem of marriage.'" Redfem's criticism illustrates a recognition of, but unsuccessful attempt to define, the influence of Ibsen on Bridie; it incompletely judges both Ibsen and Bridie, for it suggests that Bridie's concern in this play is social which in turn assumes that Ibsenism can be defined as social drama. Nor is Winifred Bannister's attempt to describe Ibsen's influence on Bridie successful. She notes that Bridie adapted several of Ibsen's plays, then concentrates on biographical parallels between the two playwrights, finding the influence "absorbed at the root" and thus impossible to define clearly; when she is specific, she cites a common "loathing of hypocrisy and humbug" and a common "will to satire in dramatic form.'" The nature of Ibsen's influence is to be defined by exploring his and Bridie's moral affinity in the light of Joseph Wood Krutch's evaluation of 97 I N HIS REVIEW OF

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Ibsen in "Modernism" in Modern Drama. The tendency of d r a m a since Ibsen has been, according to Krutch, "to undermine the foundations of Post-Renaissance civilization," that civilization which rests on the premises that "man is a creature capable of dignity," that "life led in this world . . . is worth living," and that "the realm of human rationality is the realm in which man may most fruitfully live." Ibsen, in denying that any truth is permanent or absolute (Krutch cites Dr. Stockmann's statement in An Enemy of the People that truths die), began the assault; although he did not himself reject the three premises, remaining a moralist who, despite all that he discarded, held fast to the belief in rationality and free will, he made possible their rejection by his followers.' There is a parallel between Ibsen's and Bridie's philosophical relativism, a parallel which will be developed in this and the last chapter but which can immediately be strengthened, using the play that Krutch cites, by drawing the analogy between Dr. Stockmann (who is in some ways a comic character) and Bridie's often ridiculously self-important yet earnest heroes. As Ibsen will not judge Dr. Stockmann by painting him black or white, Bridie will not judge Mallaby. In one sense, of course, Bridie's increasing philosophical relativism cannot be distinguished from his early adoption of Shaw's judicially ambiguous dramatic method, probably because Shaw's method has roots in philosophical relativism : If finality is an illusion, a play's meaning should be ambiguous, and Dr. Mallaby's and Sir Anthony Craye's truths should exist side by side. Bridie's plays in the period 1938-1948 seem increasingly concerned with the conflict between absolute and relative values (Mr. Bolfry, in which the Reverend McCrimmon struggles against the relativism of his niece and of the soldiers Cully and Cohen, was written in 1943) and with the difficult distinction between illusion and reality. The equivocal title It

T H E C LO W N

D E SP A I R S

99

Depends W hat Y ou M ean sets the tone of the p eriod ; the p ersonification of equ ivocation com es in Professor M u tch of th at p lay w hose m ore intelligible sp eech sou nd s like this : Well, now, perhaps it is qu ite true that I have a sort of a tend ency to sublim ate emotions and impulses into some sort of rationalised and connected intellectu al system. Bu t why n ot? I m ean to say, we have developed ratiocinating facu lties no d oubt for some sort of coherent purpose—or at least as p art of a more or less intelligible process. And after all there's a certain satisfaction in the exercise of one's more highly developed facu lties.' Bu t ad d ed to th e feelin g of inconclu siveness, w h ich , after all, is not new , is the n ote of d esp air w hich h au n ts these p la y s— Babes in the W ood (1938), The King of N owhere (1938), It Depends W hat Y ou M ean, an d Dr. A ngelus (1947). Both The King of N owhere an d Babes in the W ood are abou t "v an ity an d d ecad en ce," Win ifred Ban n ister w rites; both "reflected the con tem p orary ind ivid u al's p assionate d evotion to itself.'" O f cou rse Brid ie h ad been con cern ed since The Switchback w ith the ind ivid u al's p assionate d evotion to h im self, bu t to consid er these m id d le p lays as treatm en ts of th at d evotion 's tend ency to d istort both the self an d the w orld ou tsid e the self w ill be clarifyin g. In Vivald i, in The King of N owhere, there is none of Mallaby's in n ocen ce of m otive; there is a carelessness, an irresp onsibility—in contrast to M a lla by 's sense of d u ty—w h ich is the u ltim ate resu lt of a d istortion or d isin tegration of self. It is Vivald i's traged y th at he can n ot, finally, be him self. A su ccessfu l Lon d on actor, Vivald i is com m itted by his w ife to a m en tal hom e w hen for the first tim e a p lay of his fails an d he d evelop« a p ersecu tion com p lex. H e escap es from the hom e an d is sheltered by a reclu se, a fortyfou r-year-old sp inster, w h o h as conceived a fan tastic p lan to save th e w orld an d w ho w an ts a lead er. Viv ald i, w hose extern al gr ace has ch arm ed fou r w om en in to becom in g his w ife, does

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not fail to attr act th e sp in ster, an d it is n o tim e before she is tellin g h im th at he is "t h e Deliv er er ," "T h e H e r o ," "T h e M a n sent fr om G o d ." H e p lays an d believes in th e p ar t, as he has p layed an d believed in th e p arts of H a m let an d Lea r . Bu t D r . M cG ilp , w h o is in ch ar ge of th e m en tal h om e, w ill n ot let h im con tin u e to act su ch a d an gerou s role. M cG ilp m akes h im con fron t his ow n self, an d th e v acu u m h e d iscovers send s him to th e safety of M cG ilp 's in stitu tion w h ere h e can su ccessfu lly avoid th e reality w h ich frigh ten s h im . Th e last scen e of th e p lay find s h im in com for table an d p er m an en t illu sion , p resid ing as Ch ief of th e in m ates in th e h o m e; h e has consciou sly assu m ed th e role of a m a d m a n , not only to con v in ce th e sp inster th at he is not yet w ell en ou gh to bu ild u p w ith h er the ru in of th eir em p ire bu t to retain som e id en tity, even th ou gh it be an illu sory id en tity. Alth ou gh in on e sense The King of N owhere

is a stu d y of

th e p erson ality of th e a ctor , of th e m an w h o consciou sly assu m es selves d ifferen t fr om his ow n , an d alth ou gh at the tim e of its p rod u ction critics fou n d p olitical overtones in th e p lay, its th em e, w h ich is not sim p ly "t h e van ity of m a n ,"' has u niversal ap p lication . Th is criticism

exp lores th e

p olitical

im p lica tion s: A m e n t a l p a t ie n t as p r o sp ect iv e d i ct a t o r —t h e r e is n o h elp for it, th e d r a m a t is t m u st ju s t ify th is n o t v er y su b t le e p ig r a m on life a n d p olitics b y ca r r y in g it off in b r illia n t sa t ir ica l sty le. Bu t in sp ite o f t h e liv eliest fa cilit y in m a k in g h is a u d ie n ce l a u g h — o n e lin e in t h r ee is e le ct r ica l—[Br id ie ] r e m a in s a lm o st in C a lv in istic ea r n est w h er e h is m a in t h e m e is co n ce r n e d . T h e p la y h a s w it w it h o u t h u m o r . O liv ie r h a s a b ig s h a m a ct in g p a r t w h ich lea d s h im n o w h er e. A n d if a n y o n e t h in k s t h a t su ch p la y s d o g ood in th is w or ld o r ser v e as w a r n in g s, I a m sor r y t o r eca ll t h a t sev er a l o f t h e m w er e t o b e seen in Ber lin t h e a t r e s a y e a r o r tw o b e fo r e H it le r ca m e to p o w er .'

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There is a Calvinistic earnestness; there is wit without humor. Bridie has, in other words, dropped Shaw's judicial attitude. Still his epigram on life is more subtle than this criticism suggests. In answer to the spinster's accusation " I thought you were burnt up body and soul with our great idea, and you were only acting," Vivaldi says, "Only acting? Only acting? Great Heavens, woman, to act is to create the perfect union between body, mind and spirit.'" To Dr. McGilp he says, "It's the make-up that saves me in the theatre. I'm all right so long as I'm somebody else." For Vivaldi, character, or morality, is a conscious assumption; because he has no sense of self, he can have no self-knowledge or conviction. And because he has no self-knowledge, he has no knowledge of others. In ignorance, he sees woman as an enemy, a crowd as a mob whose "poor, muddled, clouded minds" are to be played upon. His speech is a potpourri of lines from roles, as he assumes the character and emotion appropriate to the situation—the self-pity of Lear, a Wildean rapture at the appearance of the ladies dressed for dinner ("Oh, my darlings, you look divine! I shan't be able to eat a bite"); yet often his is the stock and inappropriate response to the situation, as when, called upon to speak of love to the spinster, he quotes from St. Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians, and, when insulted by Dr. McGilp, he responds automatically, "You have come here to insult me in my own house." Corrected by his wife, he must speak dull, common lines, but he has soon dismissed reality: Mrs. Vivaldi. But it isn't your house, Frank . Vivaldi. What's that got to do with it? Mrs. Vivaldi. Well, you said it was your own house, and it's Miss Rimmer's house, really. Vivaldi. Whose house it is is beside the point. In this house or any house I will not be badgered, bullied and insulted.

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Viv ald i in his gran d est style can h u m bly d eclare, "I ' m not fit to tou ch th e h em of you r g a r m e n t ," or bold ly assert, Practical d ifficu lties! Th e Alps were a p ractical d ifficu lty to H an n ibal. Wh at thing th at was w orth d oing since the beginning of tim e was not confronted and beset and almost overborn e by p ractical d ifficu lties? Th er e is no d ifficu lty too great for hu m an ingenu ity and energy and m an h ood to conqu er and d estroy. Th e qu estion is not, "Is it d ifficu lt?"; the qu estion is, "Is it w orth d oin g ?" If the answ er is "Yes," w hy, then, in God 's n am e, let us set abou t it. T h e clich es in d icate th e in sin cerity. Viv ald i is an a u tom a ton , sayin g w ord s th at are not his an d p er for m in g action s accor d in g to d irection s. H is relation sh ip s w ith oth ers are cop ied : Miss Rim m e r , t h e sp in ster, is his sain t, th e Vir gin M a r y , an d h e is h er kn igh t w ith sw ord an d w h ite h or se; M r s. Viv ald i is Delilah to his Sa m so n ; th e sp in ster's little secretary, w h o m akes th e m istake of th in kin g he is in love w ith h er , is his qu een w h o w ill rid e w ith h im in his tr iu m p h , d ressed in a great gold en b a n n er ; M cG ilp is "T h e Beloved P h y sicia n ," Bu ller , th e sp inster's cou sin an d in ch ar ge of h er m ilitia, "M on brave." Viv a ld i is con cern ed exclu sively w ith th e effect he h as u p on o t h er s: W h en he ap p ears in th e first scen e "wearing the white make-up and the twisted black mouth of a pierrot" an d D r . M cG ilp m akes n o com m en t , h e says, "W h y h av en 't you m en tion ed m y fa ce ? Are you tryin g to h u m o u r m e ?" Com in g in from ad d ressin g a rally of th e p arty m em ber s, he says, "D a r lin g , th ey ate it u p ! " Th is is v an ity, as is h is d escrip tion of th e th eater au d ien ce ("Lo u sy . Pa ck ed like sard in es in a tin , of cou rse. An d oily like sard in es, an d sm elly like sard in es; an d n o h ead s, like sard in es. . . . Bu t I n eed som eth in g to w ork on . A little in telligen ce. O n ly a little"), an d by exten sion th e th em e of th e p lay shou ld be th e v an ity of m a n . Bu t th is fails to take in to con sid eration th e aw fu l m ech an ism of Viv a ld i's

TH E

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103

behavior. Mrs. Vivald i says, "You see, he isn't strictly speaking a m an at a ll." Vivald i is non-hu m an, a m achine, a tool of others; w ithou t protest he becom es H enry Gau n t, the creation of Miss Rim m e r : "I th in k," he tells her, "th at you are the kind of w om an I could trust with my life." Miss Rim m er has as little regard for the self as does he : "I d on't care who you a r e," she says. "I' m going to m ake you som ething entirely d ifferen t." H e has no know led ge, but he will buy the people w ho have the know led ge "for half a crow n and a kind w ord ." H e does not have, his accu sers say, conscience, loyalty, or com m on d ecen cy—in a w ord , ch aracter. Vivald i is a symbol of m od ern m echanistic m an w ho, althou gh he m ay speak of his im m ortal soul (he says to Miss Rim m er, "D o you think every p art and corner of my im m ortal soul is you r own p rivate p rop erty?"), has n o acqu ain tan ce with it. H e is a brother to Cu lly, Coh en , and Jea n , w ho need to be tau ght by M r . Bolfry and the Reveren d McCrim m on that they have souls. Vivald i, th en , is an u ncom m itted m an , sensing his cap acity for insp iration bu t finally incap able of fu lfilling himself becau se of m oral lassitu d e. H e says : But there is something—something that is not vanity and selfishness and the tricks of the trad e. In my profession I am at the top of the tree. It is a canvas tree, but I d id n't get there without working and starving and fighting with despair. Th ere was no need for that. I could have sold carpets and curtains in my father's warehouse. But I had a passion in me that drove me on. You despise me because I am a despicable lover. But the passion of men and women is childishness to my passion. In another age I might have been a saint and m artyr. Vivald i is p lay-acting again, this tim e to cu re a lead ing lad y's first night jitters, as he ad m its in p ractically the next breath (by this sp eech he restores Miss Rim m er's faith in him ). Bu t the sp eech is interesting for its assumption th at th e age and

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not Vivald i is at fau lt, still another evid ence of his failu re to assume responsibility, his au tom atism . Vivald i's d isintegration of personality is a professional hazard , bu t if this d isin tegration is sym bolic, the play is m ore than a Calvinistic cond em nation of m an 's van ity; it is a cond em nation of m an's sp iritu al arid ity. Th e spiritu al d isintegration w hich characterizes Vivald i ap p ears again in the pu blisher Ja m es Brew er, his m other, and his English house-guests in Babes in the W ood, w hich was p erform ed in Lond on three m onths after the op ening of The King of N owhere. Th is play is abou t Robert Gillet, a Scottish schoolm aster w ho, w hen he learns that his book on higher m athem atics is suddenly a great success, d ecid es to give up the teaching profession. H is first ventu re into the world is a w eekend holid ay, w ith his w ife Margaret, in the hom e of his p u blisher, Brew er, at Mich in g Mallecow , Sussex. Brew er first ap p ears to th e Gillets w earing a scarlet w rap over a scarlet bathing-su it, his wet hair, "twisted to give the appearance of a couple of little horns" and looking, therefore, Brid ie w rites, "terribly like M ephistopheles.' " H is m other, Dian a H angingshaw , is an old w om an in a w heeled ch air w ho w ears a cap "representing a bird of Paradise in a nest of old lace" and spends her tim e knitting "something that looks like an enormous scarf" in a wild design of a great variety of colors (she rem ind s Margaret of "on e of those old women at the gu illotine in the Fren ch Revolu tion "), scream ing at the bu tler for whisky and sod a, and stupefying people with her odd responses. Th e English house-guests are Su san Cop ernicu s, the beau tifu l w ife of a nitrite m an u factu rer (she im m ed iately professes great interest in Gillet's book and in tw o d ays has him begging to kiss her), and Gerald "Lo o p y " Stru tt, a beard ed architect w ith w hom Su san is living briefly. Togeth er w ith a fat, diseased looking bu tler whose nam e is Ru p tu re, these people com pose

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Bridie's waste land, or in the metaphor of the play, the wood into which the babes, Robert and Margaret, are loosed. There is still another metaphor employed in the play, that of the Faust legend. Brewer is not only described as a devil, he is called one by his mother, and he frequently speaks like one, particularly in this speech—a reaction to Mrs. Gillet's statement that she and her husband plan to return to Edinburgh rather than make their home in London: "Oh, he mustn't do that. He mustn't do that. He mustn't forget that I am his publisher. I have his mortal body and immortal soul under contract. I shall not permit it." He conspires with his mother against the Gillets: Brewer. Well? Mrs. Hangingshaw. Well? Brewer. I think this is going to be quite charming. Mrs. Hangingshaw. You always were a mischievous lad. Brewer. It is hereditary. His home has the fascination of evil and the heat and heavy mists of hell. There is a spider on the ceiling of the black and silver striped guest-room in which Robert and Margaret sleep, and a devil-moth under the lampshade. Bathing in his pool gives one the illusion of bathing in boiling oil. A striped stable houses zebras in the garden; the dinner bells are flat. Brewer alternates between Berlioz' and Gounod's Fausts on the piano. His mother, who will not fit into the Faust story but may be the witch out of Hansel and Gretel (she tells Loopy, " . . . if you do not instantly obey me, I shall put a curse in your joints and your liver and your lungs . . ."), warns Gillet that "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do," but Mrs. Hangingshaw sometimes gives such valuable pieces of advice knowing that she will be disobeyed; Gillet is thus encouraged to get his idle hands on Susan.

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Bu t Rober t Gillet, a Fau stian p hilosop her, is p revented from selling ou t to the d evil by a legend ary Margaret w ho, u n exp ected ly ignoring Mr s. H an gin gsh aw 's ad vice to let Rober t ru n off w ith Su san , follow s the exam p le of Pap agen o Cop ern icu s an d uses p hysical violence in the sp iritu al w ar for h er h u sban d 's sou l. "P u p p y ," Su san 's h u sban d , w ith w hose m en tality Mr s. H an gin gsh aw equ ated Mar gar et's, h as h ad to learn not to follow the old w om an 's ad vice. Tr y in g "sym p ath y an d t a ct " as she ad vised failed ; now Pu p p y tries m ethod s learn ed "in the Salon ika g u tter " w here he sp ent his ch ild h ood . H e arrives to in terru p t Rober t an d Su san 's little id yl, ord ering Su san to accom p an y h im on a trip to th e Un ited States to bu y a film com p a n y ; w hen Su san hesitates, Pu p p y hits h er and she follow s h im m eekly to catch the boat at Sou th am p ton , bu t not before u rging Rober t to follow h er —on a lectu re tou r of the States. Rober t's sp iritu al gu id e hits him at the first m en tion of p assp orts, im p ressing u p on h im "t h e fu ll im p lication s of the m arried sta te," an d the tw o leave the stage "at a run," h an d in h an d , like ch ild ren . Before they go, M a r g a r et says to Ru p tu r e, "G et the car. O r a taxi. O r a train . O r a bu s. . . . Unless you 'd like to be a robin an d cover us w ith leaves," to w hich Ru p tu r e rep lies, "N ow d id p eop le like th at ou ght to be tru sted w ith m o n e y ?" In n ocen ce h as been th reaten ed bu t is finally p reserved by a m ystical resp onsibility sym bolized , as in the earlier M arriage Is N o Joke, by the holy estate of m atrim on y. Babes in the W ood is a m in or p lay, like The King of N owhere, bu t u nlike the latter it m an ages lighthearted ness and ach ieves a m easu re of am bigu ity. Th er e is a glam or in Brew er's evil, a suggestion of tru th in his response to Mar gar et's triu m p h in saving Rober t from Su san : "I shou ld have loved to m ake m y ow n H ell for M r . Gillet. H e w ould have en joyed it. Bu t I bow to you r su p erior exp ertise in H ell-m akin g. Far ew ell."

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107

Brid ie is on both sides again , on Mar gar et's and on Brew er's. Th e op p osition betw een these tw o is clear cu t, Mar gar et intu itively d isliking Brew er even before m eetin g him becau se his letters sound "flip p a n t," "im p ish and u n ear th ly," an d becau se they in d icate that "h e lives for the fu n of the t h in g ." Brid ie m akes Mar gar et ju st em barrassin g enou gh to take the ed ge off the victory of O r d er in the p lay. At tim es she is servile ("H e is very p atien t, M r . Brew er. A sch oolm aster h as to be. I think Bob has had m ore irritatin g things to p u t u p w ith th an most m en . . . . Bu t you know you are p atien t, Bob. Au n t Eth el said on ce . . ."), or irritatingly tim id ("I' m not sure th at I'm going to like this visit. . . . Everybod y's su re to be frigh tfu lly clever. . . . Bu t I feel so ign or an t"), bu t w ith al w arm and u nselfish. Rem in d in g Brew er of a clergym an ("G illet ," Brew er says w hen Mar gar et leaves the room , "I am tortu red by a m ad an d hopeless ad oration for you r w ife; bu t I can n ot h elp feeling as if a clergym an h ad ju st got out of a th ird -class sm okingcarriage. Will you tell us a fu n n y story, G er a ld ?"), she takes everyone to her bosom , w orrying abou t th eir souls. Wh en Su san neglects Loop y, Mar gar et takes him in alth ou gh she d oes n ot like him : "O h , no. Poor little sou l! N o. I'm sorry for him of cou rse." Th er e is n o trace of self-im p ortan ce in h er d ed ication to saving Rober t. T o Mrs. H an gin gsh aw she says, "W ell, I m ean , it d oesn't m ean m u ch to that sort of w om an , bu t it m ean s a lot to Bob, I'm afraid . H e takes things so seriou sly." Th er e is such fervor in the sp eech in w hich she an n ou n ces h erself as Rober t's savior th at Brew er, w ho has entered the room u nnoticed an d seated him self at the p ian o, p lays an d sings "An ges purs, anges r ad ieu x" from Gou n od , begin n in g "to improvise like a maniac shouting with mirthless M ephistophelean laughter." Th is is the end of the sp eech : I've stuck by you all these years, Bob Gillet, and kept the whole clu tching, claw ing world off you. I'm not going to stand by now

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and see you dragged through the mud. A pitiful, bedraggled object you are already. It's got to stop. It's got to stop now, do you hear? I'm going to save your self-respect. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to save you ! You are not going to America. Margaret's phrase "save your self-respect" suggests the kind of knowledge for which Robert Gillet has been tempted to sell his soul-—the knowledge of evil denied a Calvinist pedagogue. Gillet is ready to sell his soul, and his school as well, for adventure, for the release from dullness and responsibility— in the word he uses, from Calvinism. Gillet explains his decision to leave the school to one of the students, Mackintosh : I'm a dull, middle-aged man leaving a rather tedious and harassing job for a little leisure and—and inviting of my soul. You don't understand these things yet, and I hope you never will. I hope you go peacocking round the world meeting adventure at every corner and changing your life as often as you change your shirt. Never let your mind get heavy, Mackintosh. Keep the spirit of High Emprise alive in your soul . . . Don't grow old. It's an abominable state. T o Susan Copernicus, later, he says about his book—the work of his responsible years : . . . it all appears to me a little trivial. . . . This week-end has been a very important week-end in my life, Susan. . . . I've always been a conventional sort of chap. My parents were rather strict. Calvinist. You know. And I've always had to work hard. I haven't had the time to . . . to "invite my soul" as some other chaps have. . . . I didn't ask to be understood. It never occurred to me that it would do me any good to be understood. Inviting one's soul takes on the connotation of sowing one's wild oats, and Gillet's quest seems to be a search for T h e Facts of Life. In an amusing scene at the beginning of the play, Gillet attempts to explain the facts of life to Mackintosh; this

THE

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109

ritual the schoolmaster always performs on a student's fourteenth birthday. T h a t Mackintosh is better adjusted to the facts of life than is Gillet soon becomes c l e a r : One must remember that there is nothing essentially—ah— squalid about these matters unless the—ah—method of approach makes them so. . . . On the other hand, they may quite easily become an obsession. One's mind is apt to dwell unduly on—on these matters, unless one keeps a very careful watch upon oneself. T h e scene takes on significance when later Gillet feigns tolerance of Susan's rather complicated sexual life and of his own illicit desire for her. As is so often the case, Bridie gives his reader the theme of the play in the first scene, carefully structuring the play to develop it and carefully using language to support it. S o Gillet says before Mackintosh's arrival, " T h e Facts of Life ! W h a t are the facts of life, anyhow? Nobody knows," and this exchange follows: Margaret. No. I don't suppose they do. Gillet. All this fuss about natural physiological processes! We're like a lot of Australian bushmen, with our outrageous solemnities and our indecent tabus. Margaret. Yes, dear. Gillet. And we can't even agree about first principles. Margaret. No. Except that there has to be some sort of law and order about it all, dear, hasn't there? Margaret's "Yes, d e a r " says paragraphs; it says that Gillet is a pedant, entertaining concepts alien to his moral consciousness within the safety of his library. It is Spring and Gillet is fortyfive, a dangerous age the psychologists say : What a disgusting time of year Spring is ! . . . M y very conversation is rotting away into pedagogese. I can't even talk like a

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J A M E S BRIDIE : CLOWN AND PHILOSOPHER

human being. Let alone think. I am only forty-five, and here I am. An imbecile. A prig. A pedant. A dotard. My mind has gone.

T h e success of the book liberates him : "I shall begin to live !" Margaret would spend the money for a new bathroom, but Gillet prepares to escape—the daily routine ("You've been used to a daily routine for so many years," Margaret protests), drudgery ("Is there any sense in drudgery? Drudgery for its own sake?" he asks). With an innocence Margaret never allows him to lose, he says, "We'll lead exactly the same kind of life. Except that there will be no intolerable urchins with adenoids and no examination papers and no parents. No parents! It never occurred to me until this moment what lucky devils Adam and Eve w e r e ! " Adam and Eve, having no parents, inherited no original sin and were therefore able to enjoy, temporarily at least, a state of innocence; it is some such glorious idyl that Gillet anticipates as he deserts the northern camp of O r d e r : " I shall be all right in the South. . . . It will be good for my immortal soul!" If Gillet's weekend at Brewer's is to be good for his immortal soul, the experience must be meaningful; yet Margaret's slap in the final scene seems to be that of a doctor, bringing a patient back to consciousness. Gillet recovers, as if from delirium : "I feel just like . . . it's just like when I had a temperature of 105. Do you remember? . . . I must get my bearings. I must think." The experience of temptation occurred in a dream from which he awakes into an original pristine innocence. The play ends before Gillet can be haunted, as McCrimmon was haunted, by his dream; but like Mr. Botfry, the play has developed the struggle between the two natures of Robert Gillet. "But these people haven't got the parish-pump inhibitions you and I are used to in our neighbours," Gillet says to Margaret about Brewer and company. "They're free from the stupid

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111

m id d le-cla ss sa n ct io n s w e p o o r u sh ers h a v e im p osed on u s a n d m u st im p ose on o u r w r et ch ed p u p ils." La t e r Br e w e r , t h e v oice of h is secret h e a r t , t em p t s h im : We h ave cast aw ay th e bon d s of rep ression . W e h ave tam ed th e cr ou ch in g beast. W e lead h im by a p ink ribbon to feed u p on th e lilies. W e h ave su blim ated ou r in d ivid u al con sciou sn ess. W e h ave au th or ity to d o exactly as th e sp irit m oves u s. At t h e b eg in n in g of th e p lay Gillet says, Ο Lor d ! Ο Lor d ! Ο Lor d ! Ο Lor d ! . . . All life is fru stration an d d evilry. . . . M y d ear , d o you th in k it's p ossible t h a t th e Lor d has p u n ish ed m e for lookin g too closely in to th e secrets of H is u n iverse? . . . T o for ce an in telligen t bein g to b e a sch oolm a st er ! Su rely su ch a refin em en t of tortu re m u st h ave been d evised by som e su p ern atu ral agen cy. Ev e n t h en th e d evil is at w or k , t e m p t in g t h e p h ilo so p h er t o d eg r a d e h is d ev otion to "t id y in g t h e U n iv e r s e ." A s Bo lfr y sp oke t h e secr ets of M c C r i m m o n ' s h e a r t , Br e w e r r ep ea ts G illet 's d o u b t s, sp ea k in g in fr o n t of h im t o M a r g a r e t : H is life's w ork, if w e ar e to regard his book, is d evoted to tid yin g u p th e Un iv erse. A n eat, in telligible, tid y Un iv er se. Th a t is y ou r id eal, G illet ; or d o I m istake y ou ? . . . I envy you . I like to d en y an d to d isin tegrate. It is a n asty, fid gety v ice w ith m e. I often w ish t h a t I w ere virtu ou s. An d yet . . . Yo u w ere talkin g abou t th e "Fa u s t " legen d , M a r g a r et . Yo u p h ilosop h ers, G i l l e t : are you really w ise ? Yo u p assion ately tid y u p an d tid y u p in th e h op e th at on e d ay everyth in g w ill be in its p lace. Bu t w ill th ere be a p lace to p u t it ? You sell you r sou l to fin d w h a t is m issing . . . . th e Tr u t h , th e Tr u t h , th e Tr u t h . . . w h en it m ay w ell be th a t th e tr u th is th at th ere is n o Tr u t h . T h e p h ilosop h er s a n d scien tists ca n n o t ev en a g r ee on

first

p r in cip les, G ille t co m p la in s ea r ly in t h e p la y , a n d la t er Br e w e r h elp s h im d eg r a d e h is p r o fe s s io n :

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Tell ine, Gillet, when will scientists begin to wear dog-collars? . . . And Cassocks and albs and dalmatics and gaiters and mitres? They already hunt heretics. They already pronounce ex cathedra on this thing and that thing and the next thing. They are already the guardians and inspectors of human conduct. But M a r g a r e t slaps her husband back into an inherent reserve ( " M y good fellow," Gillet says to Mackintosh when the boy expresses his admiration for his schoolmaster, "you mustn't go all little Paul Dombey. It isn't decent. It isn't respectable"); she slaps him back into an inherent devotion to O r d e r ("There's n o use having a system if you don't stick to it," he says at one point). Immediately Brewer's living-room, whose " f o r m u l a " h a d only been " s t r a n g e " in the sense of " f o r e i g n " before, becomes "beastly." Gillet runs with his savior f r o m the h e a t a n d the mist of hell—with his physician f r o m the fever of illness. A judicial ambiguity allows the reader to decide for himself whether a soul has really been saved, and his decision reduces itself to a preference either for dodos or for birds of paradise. T o Brewer M a r g a r e t is an " a n a c h r o n i s m " : ". . . in the midst of all our free-winging birds of paradise, our dear M a r g a r e t is a D o d o . " T o M a r g a r e t , keeping zebras a n d liking flat dinner chimes is beastly : "What a silly a s s ! " she says of Brewer. It is a measure of Bridie's success that both Brewer and M a r g a r e t are appealing, that the w a r m t h of this comedy, for example, holds its own against the glamor of evil: Gillet. To force an intelligent being to be a schoolmaster ! Surely such a refinement of torture must have been devised by some supernatural agency. . . . Oh, L o r d ! Did vou hear that? .Margaret. No, dear. Mice? Gillet. No, that sentence. T h a t sentence I said just now. . . . At one point in Babes in the Wood, have this exchange :

M a r g a r e t a n d Robert

TH E

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Gillet . T h e s e i m m o ra l l i ttl e rats are f o re v e r w h i n i n g w h e n th e y 're h u rt. U p o n m v soul, M a rg a re t , I c a n 't u n d e rs tan d th e s e e m a n c i p a t e d p e o p l e at all. T h e y v a t t e r ab o u t re p re s s i o n an d th e m i s e ry it cau s e s . T h e y cl ai m th e ri g h t to let th e i r b l o o m i n g l i b i d o s ri p . T h e y p re te n d th e y 're b u i l d i n g A rc a d i a in En g l an d 's g re e n an d p l e as an t l an d . A n d y e t th e y 're th e m o s t m e l an ch o l y g a n g I e v e r s aw . T h e y 're al w ay s in s o m e s o rt o f e m o ti o n al tro u b l e . G i v e m e a b u n c h o f jo l l y , te e to tal , b e e f - a n d - c a b b a g e e ati n g Pu ri tan s e v e ry ti m e . T h e y g e t f ar m o re f u n o u t o f lif e. Margaret . i n te l l e ctu al .

I th i n k

it's b e i n g

i n te l l e ctu al .

I 'm

g l ad

I 'm

not

Gillet . It h as n o th i n g to d o w i th b e i n g i n te l l e ctu al . It h as to d o w i th b e i n g idle an d h al f -b ak e d an d s e l f -i n d u l g e n t.

And w hen, after Brew er has d eclared that the bond s of repression have been cast aw ay by the new era, the pu blisher is challenged by Loop y's "W h o says so ?" he replies, in the accents of Mep histop heles, "I say so. And it is the glory of ou r tim e that I have as m u ch right to say so as anybod y else." Th e irony w hich saves Gillet's long speech is that he is as m u ch am ong those w ho would d efend the d evil's right to speak as he is am ong the Pu ritan s; he is am ong the m elancholy and selfind u lgent, forcing his w ife into the role of a m artyr to his w ellbein g. Margaret is, in this role, sister to Mrs. McCrim m on and to th e tw o wives finally to be discussed, Angela Prou t in It Depends W hat Y ou M ean and Margaret Angelus in Dr. A ngelus. Both of these plays are m inor, too, bu t both d evelop fu rth er the them e of self-d istortion or, in the words of the Calvinist, self-ind u lgence. In the form er, the wife w illingly assumes the role of hand -m aid en in the house of God , that is in th e house of George Prou t, Artist; in the second , Margaret Angelus is literally m artyred —th at is, m u rd ered —for w hat is to be the salvation of her hu sband 's soul. Both George Prou t an d Dr. Angelus ind ulge themselves, Angelu s more literally th an Prou t. Ind eed , Angelus is an extrem e case of self-

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d evotion ; at the end of the p lay he u nd ergoes a sp iritu al d isintegration like th at of Viv ald i, begin n in g, as he is arrested , w ith p rayers to "Jesu s tend er Sh ep h er d " and end ing "howling like a dog." In short, in these tw o p lays the holy estate of m arriage h as d isintegrated in to slavery or a con ven ien ce. In It Depends W hat Y ou M ean, George and An gela Prou t, a p ain ter an d a p oet, d iscover the exten t to w h ich th eir m arriage h as d isintegrated w hen they are called u p on to p articip ate in a "Br a in s Tr u s t ," a p anel d iscu ssion d u rin g w hich p rom in ent m em bers of the com m u n ity an sw er qu estions su bm itted to th em , for the am u sem ent of the local arm y cam p . A com p ou n d qu estion su bm itted by a silly p rivate of the w om en 's corp s ("Is m arriage a good id ea ? And if it is w h at's the best w ay to choose a p a r t n er ?") con fron ts An gela as she is on th e verge of an affair w ith her h u sban d 's ch ild h ood frien d , M u t ch , the equ ivocatin g p rofessor of m etap h ysics, becau se, as she exp lain s, People who are in love get to be in love with love. And in the long, long times when George was somewhere else, or w ith his head all muffled in the cloud s, absorbed in his p ainting, I felt restless and silly and hungry. I thought it was sympathy I w anted , but it was love I w anted . M u tch is p articip atin g on the p anel w ith the Prou ts an d , am on g others, a d octor w ho believes th at no sane p eop le m arry, and Lad y Dod d , w ho has long since learned to b ea r h er hu sban d 's infirm ities, equ atin g as she d oes m arriage w ith kind ness to an im als. Du rin g the d iscussion of the qu estion , w hen George tries to su m m arize his and An gela's m arriage as "a d arn ed good a r r a n g em en t," w ith each of th em giving an d taking a bit, M u tch is forced to propose him self as An gela's lover an d p rotector. Like Gillet w ho belittled passion w ith , ap p aren tly, n o exp erien ce of it, Mu tch d en ou n ces m arriage, as sym bolized by the Prou t's m arriage, as the best w ay of living :

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It's all right for George. He's got somebody to look after his laundry and cook his meals and fight with the tradesmen and listen to his ravings and tell him he's wonderful. But where in the name of all the suffering saints does Angela come in? She's got a far better brain than he has. She's got all the qualities to make her name in the world, and she's got what he hasn't got— decent manners and the capacity for hard work. And she's got to stand like a conjuror's assistant flourishing a handkerchief and shouting "Voila" whenever he takes a mangy rabbit out of the hat. T h e Brains Trus t disintegrates into chaos, with people shouting and crying, George walks out a b r u p t l y — t o take rat poison, Angela f e a r s — t h e curtain is run g down, a n d the others hurriedly follow George; back at the Prouts' studio, George and Angela allow themselves to be talked into putting u p with each other for a n indefinite period, a n d M u t c h , w h o has backed out of a n a r r a n g e m e n t to go away with Angela because his housekeeper would be inconvenienced, is taken off by L a dy D o d d . T h e play ends very m u c h as it began, the Prouts' conversation paralleling their conversation at the beginning of the play w h e n the Reverend Paris called on t h e m to ask t h e m to entertain the troops. T h e n they sounded like t h i s : Angela. T h e lucky fellows! Prout. What do you mean by "lucky"? I had a year of the army before they chucked me out and I never went through such indiluted hell since I was at school. Angela. I often think— Prout. Nonsense. Angela. My dear George, I am accustomed to the peculiar Chesterfieldian grace of your interjections, but I wonder what Mr. Paris will think of us. N o w they sound like t h i s : Prout. I don't think you ought to have talked to Jimmy like that. Angela. I nearly threw the bag at him.

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Prout. N o d ou bt. Bu t h e's a sensitive sort of fellow an d you w ere d am n ed ru d e. A ngela. M y God ! . . . O h , w h at's th e u se? Geor ge, w hy m u st you leave braces lyin g abou t all over th e p la ce? You know you n ever w ear th em . Prout. I h ard ly th in k this is a tim e to be talkin g abou t braces. A ngela. N o, p erh ap s n ot. . . . Prout. O h , Lor d , this p lace is a p ositive d og's br eakfast. A ngela. I th ou gh t you liked it th a t w ay. Prout. Yes, I d o. An d som eh ow w e alw ays seem to be able to find th in gs. Th e r e 's on e th in g I w an t, th ou gh . A ngela. Th e r e isn 't a d rop in th e h ou se. Prout. W h a t abou t a cu p of t e a ? A ngela. I'll p u t th e kettle on . Prout. N o ; I'll p u t th e kettle on . H E E X I T S . A s this is the first time for years that he has ever done a spontaneously civil action A N G E L A registers first astonishment, then delight, and darns the socks with fresh gusto. G e o r g e 's sp on t a n eou sly civil a ct io n

a n d A n g e la 's d eligh t

a r e th e p r om ise of t h e p la y , yet t h e d esp a ir of A n g ela 's " I felt restless a n d silly a n d h u n g r y " h a n g s in

th e a ir —w it h

th e

d esp a ir of th is sp eech fr o m G e o r g e : I said th at w h en I m arried I w ou ld m ar r y th e p er fect w om an or d ie a ba ch elor . I w as u gly. I w as p oor, bu t an artist can m arry an ybod y h e likes. A w ise m an told m e th at an d I believed h im . I w as d eterm in ed to m ar r y a w om an w h o w as gr acefu l an d beau tifu l, w ith ou t blem ish , bu t cu riou sly tou ch ed by h u m an ity th at she m igh t escap e th e h or r or of p er fection . I cou ld h ea r on ly h er voice. It w ou ld sou n d , I th ou gh t, like bees on th e clover, like qu ick accid en tal w aterfalls, like th e low er n otes of th e skylark, like th e song of th e th ru sh . A voice fu ll of sym p ath y, bu t not im p er tin en t sym p ath y. An d talkin g good sense. An d talkin g good En glish . An d not tryin g to be clever. T h e w om an w ou ld h ave a p erson ality stron g an d in d ivid u al bu t read y to blen d w ith oth er p erson alities, to w a n n an d illu m in ate th em . I kn ew h er. I cou ld h ea r h er. Bu t I cou ld n ot see h er. All I kn ew w as th at she w ou ld

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be a surprise. Dark? Fair? It was nothing to me. Height? As high as my heart. But beautiful she must be, and honest and gentle and strong. And look what I married ! T h a t ! Angela, George says at another point, "insistfs] on being treated like a rational being and at the same time claim[s] the right to behave like a spoilt child"; "I forgot your birthday three weeks ago," he says, "and you sulked for ten days. How can I make a comrade and friend and partner out of a creature like t h a t ? " It is to Bridie's credit that is is impossible to decide whether Angela or George is more self-indulgent and so to place the blame. Even Mutch, who has extreme difficulty expressing the idea, agrees that Angela is not free from t a i n t : ". . . though it's partly her fault of course. I mean, after all, she's got a personality of her own, and what the hell . . ." M u t c h is attempting to say that Angela chooses servility and encourages George's t y r a n n y ; indeed, she seems to luxuriate in martyrdom. George is describing Mutch to L a d y Dodd, but actually he not only reveals his own situation, he accurately describes the form of his wife's indulgence : Jimmy's a stray dog. If anybody's kind to him and gives him a bone and a cookhouse fire to sit at, he goes all maudlin. He goes off his head. He can bark and snarl all the way down the street. He can bite the children who try to tie tin cans to his tail . . . The trouble is that no woman can be trusted with a dog. . . . They're not content with taking the brute for a run and feeding it and throwing sticks for it, and teaching it a few self-respecting tricks. They set to work and steadily undermine its morale until it's a cringing nervous little horror. It's not the dog's fault. They talk baby talk to it. They let it slobber all over their faces. They take it to bed with them at night. George, the stray dog, afraid to go all maudlin, barks and snarls instead; Angela is not afraid of him, babies him, and takes

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him to bed with her when he will cooperate. T h u s is the illusion of a m a r r i a g e preserved. In an a t t e m pt

to answer

the w o m a n

private's

question,

G e o r g e and A n g e l a e n a c t their first meeting, using scenery left over from the p a n t o m i m e that entertained the troops the night before. G e o r g e , strangely excited, forgets his emotional reserve; he is not speaking as a young love-sick boy, but acting, with the release of a m a n w h o fears passion, as a h u s b a nd whose inherent reserve—despite his public barkin g a n d

snarling—

prevents him from expressing s y m p a t hy a n d gratitude : Prout. Nasty things, these colds. Hadn't you better stay in bed? Angela. O h , no. I'm not encouraged to go to bed when I have a cold. I've never learned the habit. Prout. T h e n I think it's a damned shame. Y o u spend all your life thinking for others and working for others and you'll never get any thanks for it. Angela. But I'm not that sort of person at all, M r . Prout. Prout. I don't think you know what sort of person you are. Perhaps it's as well. Angela. W h y ? Prout. Because that curious shy grace you've got might be lost. You're like a wild creature conscious of every leaf that stirs, but unconscious of yourself. I think it's the most important part of vour charm. Y o u see, you're not classically beautiful, though you've got interesting features and rather beautiful eyes. ( T a k e s her hand.) And your hands are lovely. . . . Angela. But you can't see me. It's too dark. Prout. I see you all the time. I can't get you out of iny head. I never in my life met a human being who interested me so much. And yet I'm afraid of you. Angela. Afraid of ine? W h y ? Prout. I wish I knew. When a woman attracts me, I'm not usually afraid. Angela. You are often attracted by women? Prout. M y God, yes ! But you're a different kettle of fish. I told you why.

THE

CLOWN

119

DESPAIRS

They embrace and the scene is over; Bridie writes that Prout, "in some

embarrassment,"

sits down. With his next speech

Prout has recovered his public self and is barking again : " M y wife and I behaved in that idiotic way because . . . " He is so enslaved, he is so much Angela's dog, that barking is his only defense. With more wisdom—or more pity—his master would not feel the need to look around for other stray dogs. If Babes the Wood What

You

is about selling one's soul to the devil, It Mean

in

Depends

is about selling one's soul to his wife, a

superior expert in Hell-making as Brewer said. T h e case for Order is tritely presented by the Reverend Paris, assisted by Lady Dodd, and incidentally by the silly private, her boyfriend Walter, and the doctor whose opinion is, to state it more fully, "Anyone can get on with anybody else if he tries hard enough. If I went blindfolded to any cinema queue and picked out a female, she and I could live happily enough ever after if we had to. And that's how it's done, I solemnly assure you." Paris summarizes the situation, interestingly not blaming P r o u t : We all have absurd inclinations and we don't always behave very wisely, but there's one thing we owe to our self-respect and that is to play the game. . . . We must have some kind of standards, and I don't know of any better than the good old sporting standards of the New Testament. . . . [Family life] is based on a solemn contract between a man and a woman. If you break the contract the whole system falls down. . . . Professor Mutch has behaved very badly, and Mrs. Prout has exercised very little self-control. . . . If Mr. and Mrs. Prout have stuck it for fifteen years they can stick it for another twenty-five, and they've just jolly well got to. The Professor ought to go and get married and settle down. It would do him a world of good. Lady Dodd confirms that the three "have alLbeen very naughty indeed"; the private who started everything has learned that

120

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

sh e sh ou ld "m a r r y so m eo n e p r a ct ica l," a n d th is seem s to be W a lt e r , w h o d oes n ot h esita te t o lect u r e t ot a l st r a n g er s t h a t " I f you look at it r ea so n a b le, ju d ies is th in g s t h a t m ost blokes ca n d o w ith in m o d e r a t io n . Th e r e ' s t h in g s y o u 'v e got to d o. Yo u ' v e got t o e a t a n d y o u 'v e got to sleep , b u t you a in ' t got to g o r u n n in g a ft e r o t h e r b lok es' ju d ie s ." En o u g h h a s b een q u o t ed t o in d ica t e t h a t Br id ie in t en d s t o satir ize b y its p r esen t a t ion th is co n v en t io n a l m o r a lit y . Bu t th e a m b ig u it y of h is a t t it u d e is su fficien t to allow Re d fe r n ' s ju d g m e n t t h a t t h e d ia log u e is so m et im es "sen t en t io u s a n d co m m o n p la ce ." 1 0 A lt h o u g h H u n t e r D ia ck seem s u n a w a r e of it, h e is su ggestin g th e w a y in w h ich Dr. A ngelus

m ig h t seem "I b s e n i s h " in its

p h ilo so p h ica l r ela tiv ism . H e w r it e s : Th e r e is a cu riou s m etap h ysical qu ality abou t M r . Brid ie's new p lay. Th e illu sion lies n ot in con v in cin g us th a t th e events before us are a p r ojection of th e real w orld , bu t in p ersu ad in g us th at th e u n r eal w orld of D r . An gelu s's br a in is for th e tim e bein g m ore w orth atten tion th an an y p a r t of reality w e h ave kn ow n . Dr. A ngelus, th en , is "o f th e t h e a t r e " in th e fu llest m ea n in g of th at p h rase. . . . M r . Brid ie's p roblem has often been to con fin e the rich flow of his id eas w ith in th e lim its of p lot an d ch a r a ct e r ; bu t in D r . An gelu s h e has cr ea ted a m in d easily ca p a b le of h an d lin g th e flood of id eas an d of r etain in g its p ecu liar in tegrity th rou gh ou t all th e qu ick ch an ges of m ood . . . .[Dr. An gelu s'] m oon stru ck bleth ers ar e often sou nd sense p ecu liar ly stru n g togeth er. . . . [H is m in d d om in ates th e p lay] so th orou gh ly th at w e take sid es w ith this larger lu n acy again st th e callow or m oron ic cr eatu r es w ho p eop le th e or d in ar y w or ld ." Sew ell Stok es, w h ose con clu sion t h a t Br id ie m a y h a v e in t en d ed t o con fu se u s in Dr. A ngelus

w a s q u o t ed in C h a p t e r I, is less

co m p let ely ca u g h t u p in th e "l u n a c y " : D r . A n g elu s is at first on ly co m ic, a n d at th is t im e th e n o r m a l co n d u ct of th e o t h er ch a r a ct e r s "m a k e s o n e w o n d er if, a ft e r a ll, m u r d e r is a su ita b le

TH E

CLO W N

D ESP A IRS

121

su bject for co m e d y "; th en in the final scene Alastair Sim p lays th e d octor "w ith alm ost em barrassin g realism . . . so th a t we can n ot help asking w hy we w ere not led to take this villain seriou sly b efo r e."" T o th e exten t th at th e ch ar acter ization of Dr . An gelu s allow s for this con fu sion , Brid ie ap p ears to su p p ort th e relative tru th w h ich Kr u t ch find s in Ibsen . Dr. A ngelus, w h ich is based on an actu al Glasgow m u rd er ca se," con trasts th e ch a r a cter of D r . An gelu s, w h o p oisons his m oth er-in -law an d w ife for th e release th e in su ran ce m on ey w ill brin g h im , w ith th a t of D r . Jo h n so n , his you n g p a r tn er w h o, alth ou gh h e becom es in creasin gly aw are th at th e d eath certificates w h ich An gelu s p ersu ad es h im to sign are false, ca n n ot brin g him self to accep t th e old er d octor's gu ilt. Joh n so n ration alizes D r . An gelu s' beh avior , cred itin g his in sin u ation s, forgivin g his h u m an frailties, d iscred itin g w arn in gs fr om others as m aliciou s gossip . An gelu s often h in ted , Joh n son exp lain s, th at his m oth er-in -law , M r s. Ta y lo r , "w a s too fon d of th e b o t t le," an d at th e w om a n 's d eath th e you n g d octor d id not th in k he shou ld qu estion too closely th e d iagnosis of his p ar tn er . W h en Joh n son d iscovered th at An gelu s "w a s in som e sort of tan gle w ith th e servan t g ir l" (th e girl, Je a n ie , is p regn an t an d u n d er th e im p ression th at An gelu s is d ivorcin g his w ife to m ar r y h er), he w orried bu t th ou gh t th at "a ft e r all, h e's only h u m a n . Th er e's often a sid e to th e best of us w e ca n 't co n t r o l."" Jo h n so n is esp ecially w illin g to overlook An gelu s' p layfu l sm acks to Jea n ie's bottom becau se he believes him self to h ave com p rom ised a w om an p a t ie n t : th e w om an , M r s. Cor cor a n , w h o is th irty to his tw en ty-fou r y ea r s—a n d u n h ap p ily m arried —fin d s Joh n son 's p om p ou s seriou sness so en gagin g th at she d eclares herself in love w ith h im w h ile she is on ly half-d ressed at th e end of an exa m in a t io n ; as she th row s h er arm s arou n d his n eck, Mr s. Angelu s in terru p ts th em . Jo h n so n d oes not need An gelu s' w arn in gs again st in volvem en t w ith M r s. Cor cor a n ,

122

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

for he has adopted the Hippocratic Oath as his moral code and has thus agreed to hold "aloof from all voluntary wrong and corruption, including the seduction of females and males, of freemen and slaves." Mrs. Angelus is taken ill, the woman suggests that Angelus murdered Mrs. Taylor for her £10,000 insurance policy, but still to doubt the integrity of Angelus is, for Johnson, to play the role of Judas Iscariot. It is Mrs. Corcoran who goes to the police in order to release Johnson from this idolatry. Maclvor, the police inspector, arrives on the morning of Mrs. Angelus' death, too late to save that victim of Angelus but in time to save Johnson. Mrs. Angelus' death has convinced the young doctor that his idol is a murderer, but he is physically prevented by Angelus from going to the police to give himself up as an accessory to the crime. After Maclvor's men take the howling Angelus into custody, Johnson continues his self-flagellation, heedless of Maclvor's consolation that "if the Procurator Fiscal and the Criminal Investigation Department couldna get off the mark quick enough to save Mrs. Angelus there's nobody going to blame you, and you little better than a bairn." Inspector Maclvor makes two points in his final speech to Johnson. He says, first, "You've taken a kind of tumble to your self respect, but that's no harm, no harm at all. You did your best and it wasna very good and that's a fair epitaph for most of us," and, second, "You young ones don't know the difference between good and evil." Either Maclvor is to be regarded as "moronic," much as the Reverend Paris would have to be regarded as moronic for suggesting that the Prouts put up with each other in the future, or Johnson has been deceived about what is truth. That the latter is the case can be substantiated by an examination of Bridie's characterizations of Angelus and Johnson. It seems clear that Johnson has created Angelus in his own image, and the measure of his pride

THE CLOWN

DESPAIRS

123

is that he has made Angelus a Christ, to betray whom would make him Judas. The line between pride and humility is fine, but behind this statement from Johnson, "Here am I a stranger in the big city and not much more than a kid after all and you take me into partnership," is the pride of being taken in at twenty-four as a partner rather than as an assistant. The pride is more obvious in this exchange between the young doctor and Mrs. Corcoran : Mrs. Corcoran. . . . But I shouldn't be saying that to his assistant, should I ? Johnson. Partner. Mrs. Corcoran. What did you say? Johnson. Dr. Angelus and I are partners. Μrs. Corcoran. Of course you are. I saw at once you were far too clever to be an assistant. . . . Johnson is otherwise free from taint, a Parsifal on a holy quest; against him the degradation of Angelus is measured. Johnson describes the profession to which he and Dr. Angelus, presumably, have dedicated themselves: It was a sort of a—a holy quest. Like the Holy Grail. I mean, you were after something. It might even be a way of saving mankind. And although you didn't believe in God or any of that sort of rot, you were really a kind of priest; with High standards and self-discipline and fine, simple rules and so on. Did you ever hear the Hippocratic Oath . . . Johnson repeats part of the oath that Dr. Angelus swore: "So far as power and discernment shall be mine, I will carry out regimen for the benefit of the sick and will keep them from harm and wrong. To none will I give a deadly drug nor offer counsel to such an end; but guiltless and hallowed will I keep my life and my art. . . ." In Angelus Bridie has created another Vivaldi, an actor

124

JA M E S BRID IE : C LO W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

a ssu m in g a n d t h r o w in g off m o r a lit y a s h e w ou ld a m a sk , h is sp eech es of tr ite sen t im en t a lit y d eliv er ed d isp a ssion a tely . N o n e of h is p er son a lities is t o b e t r u st ed ; n o t h in g h e says is to b e b eliev ed . H e ca n b e ju d g e d on ly b y h is a ct io n s, as Viv a ld i cou ld b e ju d g e d on ly b y h is a ct io n s. A s M r s . T a y l o r lies d y in g , A n g elu s asks Jo h n s o n t o look at h e r in t h e m o r n in g , fo r w h ich h e w ill p a y a t w o -g u in ea co n su lt a n t fe e ; b u t Jo h n s o n o b je c t s : Johnson. I th ou gh t it w as th e cu st o m —I m ean et iq u et t e—fo r on e d octor to see a n oth er d octor's d ep en d en ts for n oth in g . A ngelus. W e sh all sn ap ou r fingers at etiq u ette in this case. It is a sw eet sensation to get a new kin d of fee. T h e w in d on th e h ea th , br oth er , is n oth in g to it. You sh all h ave you r fee. Johnson. It's very kind of you , D oct or . I d on 't like takin g it. A ngelus. Th e n cu ltiv a te th e p rin cip le of th e M o r a l H olid a y . It stren gth en s on e's m or al con stitu tion for th e oth er d ays of th e year. An d it is very agreeable. T h e sp eech is ir o n ic, of cou r se, b eca u se A n g elu s d oes n ot exp ect t o h a v e t o p a y th e t w o g u in ea s, b u t it also illu str a tes t h e d r a m a t ic q u a lit y of A n g elu s' m o r a lit y . In A ct I I , A n g elu s rev iew s fo r Jo h n s o n

Fr a n cis

Ba co n ' s

cla ssifica tion of t h e id ols t h a t beset m e n 's m in d s, p a u sin g a t t h e la st : It is of th e Id ols of th e Th e a t r e th at I am m ost a fr a id . . . . T o Ba con 's m in d , th e Id ols of t h e Th e a t r e ar e th ose system s of p h ilosop h y th at cr ea te for th eir d evotees an u n r eal w orld , in w h ich p eop le a ct artificially, a ccor d in g to a p r ed eter m in ed book of w ord s, as th ey d o in Sta g e Plays. Yo u m u st be on you r gu ar d again st su ch id ols, m y d ear lad . You m u st not be ru led by system s. T h e system by w h ich A n g elu s believ es h im self en sla v ed a n d fr o m w h ich h e a t t e m p t s t o esca p e is d escr ib ed in th is sp eech : Su p p ose this m an to h ave m ad e an u n for tu n a te m a r r ia g e. Su p p ose h im to be su bjected to th e in cessan t attem p ts of tw o ign or an t

THE C L O W N

DESPAIRS

125

and narrow-minded women to mould him to their miserable conception of what a right-thinking domestic animal ought to be. . . . Suppose this man to have passionate physical longings. Unless they are satisfied he cannot plan, he cannot think, he cannot invite his soul, he cannot rise above the earth. Angelus, too, wants to invite his soul, take a permanent moral holiday from the artificiality of expressing concern for his wife ("This is very trying for all of us. V e r y discomposing and upsetting. I can get nothing done. Poor Margaret occupies m y entire field of consciousness"), from the artificiality of expressing grief at her death ("Poor Margaret is at peace. Her weary journey is ended. She is in Abraham's bosom. A n d we can only hope that she's comfortable. H er story is told. T o me, at least, it will always be an inspiration"). But that system of philosophy which actually rules him is something quite different. After he has knocked

Johnson

unconscious to prevent his going to the police, Angelus settles himself and delivers a long monologue to his victim; he says in part: This realisation of oneself is the aim and object of existence. . . . Can we now imagine a man who holds this firm conviction being placed in a situation in which what is called murder would be a perfectly logical and reasonable solution of his difficulties? . . . Y o u may answer to this that the world is wide. He can leave those creatures [who tie him down] and seek other fields. But that is not the solution of a man of courage, to run like the wandering Jew from city to city seeking rest and finding none. He must stand and fight. . . . It is the only thing he can do consistent with his self respect. It is the passionate devotion to self, then, which tyrannizes Angelus w h o has, in fact, throughout his life chosen "to run like the wandering J e w , " instead of to stand and fight; he has run from the navy and the mercantile marine, to the Green

126

JA M E S BRID IE : C LO W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

R o o m , t o m ed ica l sch ool, a n d t o th e a lt a r w ith t h e d a u g h t e r of a w ea lt h y Ed in b u r g h fa m ily , fr o m t h e So lo m o n

Isla n d s t o

In d ia , C h in a , a n d Ea st A fr ica , co llect in g cu r ios, h a v in g h is p ict u r e t a k en , a n d killin g h ip p o p o t a m u ses. Ye t a ft er all th is in v it in g o f h is sou l, h e is n o closer t o it, p er h a p s b e ca u s e , like Viv a ld i, in t h e a ssu m p tion of so m a n y false roles h e h a s lost sig h t of it. T h e r ole t h e d o ct o r is p la y in g at t h e m o m e n t , w h ich gives h im a r e a d y -m a d e b o o k of w or d s to sp ea k , is t h a t of t h e old sch ool, p iou s C h r ist ia n b eliev er . T h e d escr ip t ion of p o o r M a r g a r et a t p ea ce in A b r a h a m ' s b o so m , h e r w ea r y jo u r n e y en d ed , is on ly a sa m p le fr o m h is clich e-r id d led sp eech , w h ich clu d es su ch g em s a s " T h e Lo r d g a v e a n d t h e Lo r d

in -

t a k et h

a w a y ," "D e a t h is t h e co m m o n l o t ," a n d " W e a r e b lin d lea d er s of t h e b lin d , a n d t h e d it ch g a p es fo r u s on eit h er s id e ." T h e r e a r e lo n g er p assages w h er e Br id ie 's sa tir e is su sta in ed : I h ave lost all th at is d earest to m e in life. It w ill take m e m a n y m on th s to gird u p m y loins an d on ce again m a r ch breast for w ar d . T h e m ar r ied state is a blessed on e, Geor g e. It w ill be th e h ap p iest d ay of m y life w hen I see you stan d in g at God 's altar takin g th ose solem n vow s w h ich ca n on ly be d issolved by d eath . Alas, d eath has d issolved m y vows an d th ere rem ain s an em p tin ess th at can n ever be filled . A great void , Geor g e. T h e h y p ocr isy of t h e m a n is so a p p a r e n t t h a t it is h a r d

to

con ceiv e of D ia ck ' s b ein g w o n , even t em p o r a r ily , to h is sid e. It m a y g o u n n o t iced in th e o p e n in g e xch a n g e of t h e p la y : A ngelus. H a v e you h ad a h ar d d a y ? Johnson. Pr etty stiff, D oct or . Tw en ty-sev en visits an d tw o su rgeries of abou t th r ee h ou rs ea ch . A ngelus. W e m u st d o w h at w e can for su fferin g h u m a n ity. W e m u st d o w h at w e ca n . I am sorry th a t you h av e been kep t so late. Yo u m igh t h ave join ed us in fam ily p rayers. Johnson. I' m afr aid th at's n ot m u ch in m y lin e.

THE CLOWN

DESPAIRS

127

Angelus, A pity. A pity. In a world like this it ought to be a case of all hands to the pumps. . . . But later, when Angelus tells the servant-girl, "But I know that your heart is not so hard as that. It is not conceivable that there should be that amount of evil in human nature. I trust human nature. I reverence it," or when he reminds Johnson, " I t is an Age of Unbelief. You young fellows never experience the sublime satisfaction of becoming even for an hour or two, as a little child. I find public worship a purifying experience," hypocrisy screams at the reader. Becoming as a little child is, for Angelus, synonymous with taking a moral holiday, this corruption of Christianity serving as a symbol of the spiritual disintegration of the man. The disintegration is complete at the end of the play, when Angelus is reduced to a hysterical, howling animal. T h e play is a bitter judgment of man, as are, in varying degrees, the other plays discussed in this chapter; Mr. Bolfry is as severe in its way. Although The King of Nowhere and Dr. Angelus are, by implication at least, defenses of traditional values—honesty, generosity, and responsibility—their tone is often shrill, suggesting that the defense is unsure. In the better plays, Babes in the Wood and It Depends What You Mean, Bridie manages an ambiguity which supports Ibsen's relativism. Margaret's truth has as much validity for Faust as Mephistopheles'. James Mutch is as right as the Reverend Paris. It depends what one means by truth, validity, and right. Still, interrupting the acceptance of this ambiguity, especially in It Depends What You Mean, is the new note of despair—a fertile despair, for it bred Bridie's fine last plays, Mr. Gillie and The Baikie Charivari. Robert Gillet escapes the abominable state of old age by running off the stage hand in hand with his wife; Brewer, his publisher, teasingly suggests that "it may well be

128

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

th a t th e tru th is th at th ere is n o T r u t h . " W h en th e d esp air is gon e, Br id ie, in M r. Gillie, allow s his sch oolm aster n o su ch easy escap e a n d , in The Baikie Charivari, p u ts th e qu estion of final tr u th , n ot in th e d evil's m ou th bu t in th e m ou th of m a n .

ν Songs of Experience

of Scotland ," Walter Elliot writes to introduce Brid ie's last play, The Baikie Charivari, published two years after the playwright's death in 1951. Sir Jam es MacArthur Pounce-Pellott, Knight Commander of the Ind ian Em pire, who has retired as District Commissioner of Junglipore to Baikie, Scotland , where he is tempted by the De'il, is, Elliot believes, like Ibsen's hero, who is visited by another devil, the Button-Mould er.1 Looking at The Baikie Charivari in the light of Peer Gynt will further clarify the nature of Ibsen's influence on Brid ie, not only in this last play but in two other late plays, Daphne Laureola (1949) and M r. Gillie (1950). " H E R E I S P E E R G YN T ,

Tw o general parallels can be drawn : first, both Bridie and Ibsen are concerned, in The Baikie Charivari and Peer Gynt, with the problem of knowing the self, of committing it to some purposive action—ad mitted ly not a new theme for Brid ie. In Peer Gynt, man is given two alternatives, being himself (which means "to slay oneself . . . to stand forth everywhere/ With Master's intention displayed like a signboard ") or being to himself enough.' In the three plays to be examined in this 129

130

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

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ch ap ter Brid ie's p rotagon ists choose betw een these altern atives. Secon d , Ibsen 's h ero p rogresses rap id ly from in n ocen ce to exp erien ce, su rviving th e exp erien ce by ad op tin g iron ic poses. If th e h eroes of Brid ie's early p la y s—M a lla b y , To b ia s, an d George W in d lestr a w —a r e in n ocen t Ad am s, certain ly Pou n cePellott an d all the heroes of th e later p lays are old or exp erien ced Ad am s, resid ents n ot of th e m ake-believe Gar d en of Ed en bu t of the La n d of Ir on y . Th e best of th em sp eak w ith a god like d istan ce or iron y, in im itation of th e voice of th e m orality op eratin g in all of Brid ie's p lays an d on ce p u t on th e stage in th e ch a r a cter of Ju p it er in The Queen' s ComedyThey sp eak, as Elliot n otes th at Brid ie's "U n k n o w n G o d " sp eaks, "n eit h er in w rath n or, cer tain ly, in p ity; bu t in som e stran ge for m of kin sh ip , th ou gh rem ote an d salt as th e sea .'" Am on g Brid ie's early iron ic Ad am s, w h ich all ar e m in or ch ar acter s, M r . Sam u els, George's savior in The Black Eye, is m ost m em or able (th e d ivin e Ra p h a el in Tobias and the A ngel, w hose iron y is n atu ral an d not cu ltu red , ca n n ot be con sid ered in this classification ). O f th e heroes in th e m id d le p lays, only George Prou t in It Depends W hat Y ou M ean su ggests th is kind of d istan ce w h en he faces th e reality th at his w ife d oes n ot sp end h er life th in kin g of oth ers (as he believed she d id w h en th ey m et) bu t is cap able of su lking for ten d ays if he forgets h er birth d ay. Th e ch an ge betw een M r . Sam u els, a m in or , eccen tric ch a r a cter , an d Pou n ce-Pellott, a m a jo r ch a r a ct er of tragic statu re, w as takin g p lace in Pr ou t. W h en Brid ie, abou t th e tim e th at he w rote The Baikie Charivari, attem p ted to use an iron ic Ad am in th e role of a com ic eccen tr ic, a m isfit—th e ch a r a cter of George Tr ip le in M eeting at N ight—m ost of th e fu n h ad gon e ou t. George Tr ip le is M a jo r U n t h a n k of The Girl W ho Did N ot W ant to Go to Kuala Lumpur exp licated . In volved in all sorts of shad y d eals (he is u su ally saying som eth in g like "N o w , if you care to ask n o qu estion s an d let m e have you r

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cheque for four or five hundred now, I think I can promise you a pleasant surprise by next autumn"), Triple has been in prison twice and, in spite of this, is loved by his daughter, Cornelia. Cornelia is loved by Hector Maclachlan, another serious Scotsman (like John Stewart), who rescues her from a tipsy gentleman in the fog near Charing Cross Station and would rescue her from her father. "It was quite like the Arabian Nights," Triple's daughter tells him when she brings back her savior. But Triple, as he says, "has lived through a thousand and one of his own," and has suffered for daring rather than judicious business operations. There is ironic wit in his speeches but little originality : Money, my dear young friend, is a commodity, but not a commodity of equal value for everybody. You might as well give whisky and cigars to an infant as give money to a person who does not know how to use it. The elephant has a dignity as striking as that of the mahout—but we do not dress it in a loin cloth and a turban. . . . A man who does not get enough to eat is a born fool. . . . A child either has parents, or he has no parents. If he has no parents, I am quite prepared to feed him myself. If he has parents and they do not feed him, he is born of fools and will probably grow up into a fool and spend his money on racing dogs and patent medicines and subscriptions to the Socialist Party. Why should you take money from sensible people and give it to fools ? You find the question absurd. Yet it expresses in a nutshell the whole trend of modern political theory. . . . I have, from time to time, taken money from fools and spent it wisely.5 Triple's fate—he marries Hector's mother and gains a half share in her inn—is unimportant; he is characterized as a man who enjoys outsmarting the born fools, has a degree of selfknowledge ("I may be a bit of a moral cripple, but wouldn't you say I had a touch of genius somewhere?"), and is clearly to himself enough. His role has no symbolic import and his language is literal even when it is ironic.

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Th e d ifferen ce betw een a George Trip le and Lad y Kath er ine Pitts of Daphne Laureola is th at the latter is sym bolic of som ethin g m u ch larger an d m ore significant th an a titled Lon d on m atron misused by th e u ncivilized persons arou nd h er. Sh e seem s a sym bol of d isillu sioned in n ocen ce, a sym bol of En glan d after the Secon d World W a r , an d by exten sion , of Western civilization . Yet she is only p artly su ccessfu l as such a sym bol, is a m u ch lesser Pou n ce-Pellott. Sh e is a tran sition al ch a r a cter betw een George Prou t an d M r . Gillie, her d isillu sionm en t rend ering h er in effectu al like Pr ou t; the tw o of th em , Prou t an d Lad y Pitts, are as in effectu al in th eir exp erien ce as Rober t Gillet of Babes in the W ood is in his in n ocen ce. Daphne Laureola is tran sition al in still an oth er sense : It suggests the consciou s p oetic m eth od w hich Brid ie w as to use in his last p lay. In it Brid ie is u sing the m yth of Dap h n e, w hom Ed ith H am ilton d escribes as "a n oth er of those in d ep en d en t, love-an d -m arriage-h atin g you ng hu ntresses" w ho esp ecially d id n ot w ant to becom e en tan gled w ith a god , becau se, as the ocean nym p hs told Prom eth eu s, " T o w ar w ith a god -lover is n ot w a r ,/ It is d esp air." Ap ollo, Miss H am ilton w rites, cam e u p on D a p h n e h u n tin g in a short d ress w ith h er h air "in w ild d isar r ay," an d he th ou gh t, "W h a t w ou ld she not look like p rop erly dressed an d w ith h er h air nicely arran ged ?" H e p u rsued h er, bu t she called to h er fath er for help an d w as ch an ged in to a lau rel tree, thu s escap ing violation . Miss H am ilton con clu d es : Ap ollo w atched the transform ation with dismay and grief. "O fairest of maid ens, you are lost to m e," he m ou rned . "Bu t at least you shall be my tree. With your leaves my victors shall w reathe their brows. You shall have your p art in all my triumphs. Apollo and his lau rel shall be joined together w herever songs are sung and stories told ." Th e beau tifu l shining-leaved tree seemed to nod its w aving head as if in happy consent.'

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The working out of this symbolism in the play is not entirely successful, according to the critics looking for allegory. The Spectator's reviewer commented that "Neither the title nor the irrelevant introduction of a pot of laurel can raise Daphne Laureola into the realms of symbolism." When Dame Edith Evans played to New York audiences, Walter Kerr found the symbolism "fuzzy and unnecessary"; John Lardner found it "muddy," and the reviewer for Theatre Arts labeled it "elephantine." The latter wrote, "The frail plot is so overburdened with mythological allusions, elephantine symbolism and quasi-poetical declamations that it cannot bear the weight, and by the third act has ignominiously and abjectly collapsed," which fairly well summarizes the critical opinions mentioned.7 The frail plot is this: Lady Pitts sits drinking double brandies and staring gloomily in front of her in a Soho restaurant that is undergoing repairs. Around her other diners, including a young Polish refugee, talk desultorily and attempt to keep from staring at her. Finally she begins to talk, inviting everyone present to tea in her beautiful garden before her chauffeur, Vincent, appears to conduct her out of the restaurant and home. When she protests, the young Pole comes to her defense against Vincent and ends up unconscious on the floor. Home is, it is discovered in Act II, the home of Sir Joseph Pitts, Baronet, eighty-seven years old. The Pole, Ernest Piaste, and the others arrive for a rather uncomfortable tea party, and before he leaves Ernest declares his love for Lady Pitts; while he is kissing her, they are interrupted by Sir Joseph. In Act III, a week later, Ernest, who has been hiding in the garden on the chance of seeing Lady Pitts, confronts Sir Joseph. Sir Joseph describes his fifty-year-old wife's past: daughter of a parson, she won scholarships and first class honors in economics and modern languages yet could only

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find work as a governess; she married a schoolteacher who soon left her a poor widow, whereupon she took a job as "secretary to a biscuit factory in Birmingham," and "ran a shelter for prostitutes at night" until Sir Joseph rescued her by marrying her. He explains her behavior at the restaurant: She has outbreaks. One can't really be surprised. It's all this emancipation of women. They think they can do what they like but it's not in their nature to do what they like. They just wallop about with the tide until they're caught in some new form of slavery. I found her plenty to do to keep her mind occupied but there's more than the mind has to be kept occupied . . . I wouldn't mind her amusing herself with young men, but the trouble is she doesn't know how. She has the misfortune to be a dyed-in-the-wool Puritan.' Ernest agrees to worship Lady Pitts from a f a r : "She will be to me as Beatrice was to Dante Alighieri when she had gone to Heaven"; she will be the laurel tree, who "eternally spreads her leaves," and he will be the Sun-god, who though far away "still warms and comforts her and endows her with life." Ernest leaves, and Lady Pitts arrives in time to watch Sir Joseph die. In the last act, which takes place six months later, the same people are dining in the same Soho restaurant, saying much the same things. Ernest, who does not read the newspapers, learns for the first time of Sir Joseph's death, falls to the floor in a dead faint, and is kindly revived by the others in time to see Lady Pitts enter the restaurant with Vincent, who is now her husband. Ernest reproaches her with his disillusionment and despair: I so desperately mind that I feel as if ten thousand mad rats were tearing my heart to pieces with red hot teeth. I do not understand why you do this. You knew what you were to me. . . . It is a very old story. Has nobody told you the story of the poor peasant who worshipped a goddess? And then he found

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th e re w e re no gods an d goddesses, only an e m p ty sky. H as nobody told you ab o u t th e god w ho loved a m o rtal girl, thinking she w as as he w as, an d found th at she w as a n o -g o o d s l u t? . . . Yo u can h av e it both w ays, if you know w h at it is to love. . . . Yo u h av e p l u n g e d m y light in darkness to e n jo y the e m b race s of th at evil d o g .

La d y Pitts d eclares th at she w ill not be blam ed becau se Ern est ch ose to m ake h er a god d ess an d is d isillu sioned to d iscover th at she is a h u m an bein g. Th e p lay end s as she leaves th e restau ran t an d Ern est ord ers a d ou ble br a n d y . La d y Pitts is in every sense of th e w ord a fallen w om an , w h ich in n o w ay con trad icts Sir Josep h 's statem en t th at she is "a d yed -in -th e-w ool P u r it a n ." Sh e is bou n d by n o illu sions a bou t h erself or oth er s; she is an ti-r om an tic an d iron ic. Ern est is "a n excitable, crazy, ign oran t, you n g m a n " w h o is in love w ith h im self, w h o is not in terested in her bu t in find ing a Be a t r ice ; an d m en , she says, ar e "a ll th e sam e—u n less th ey're p igs. A n d th e p igs are at least honest w ith th em selves an d w ith u s. I'v e fou n d th at ou t n ow . Th a t ' s w hy I'v e settled d ow n in a n ice clean p ig-sty." Sh e tells Er n est, "Yo u th in k becau se you p layed at bein g a ban d it in th e W a r th at everyth in g is like t h a t . Yo u w an ted to save th e d istressed lad y from th e ogre, d id n 't you ? " H is love for h er is "ca lf lov e" : h e com es "b le a t in g " to h er becau se he h as lost his w ay, bu t she h as lost h er w ay too. Sh e is a b a d w om an , p layin g at resp ectability, "a kep t w o m a n ," she says : Kep t in m ore senses than one. Vin cen t, there, is m y keep er, am ong oth er things. H is job is to keep me ou t of m ischief when I have th e im p u lse to d ash ou t and say to the first beggar in the st r eet : "Fo r God 's sake, speak to m e. Tell me I'm not the only creatu re in this d am nable d ead u niverse." Sh e is kep t by Sir Josep h too, like a jew el in a glass ca se; she allow ed h im to bu y h er ("It ' s th e only w ay I ever h ad of

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gettin g w h at I n eed ed ," h e says) an d to m ake of h er a "co llector's p iece," "P u r e blood y H ep p lew h ite." Ern est w ou ld d o w h at Sir Josep h h as d on e; h e w ou ld m ake an object of Ka t h er in e Pitts in an attem p t to attain som eth in g of in h u m a n p u rity. H e w ou ld m ake h er a lau rel tree, a god d ess. Th a t she h as h ad en ou gh of w orsh ip is revealed in th e final act w hen sh e en ters th e restau ran t w ith Vin cen t , w h o cou ld n ever be accu sed of p u ttin g h er on a p ed estal. Sh e know s th at she h as bou gh t Vin cen t bu t, as she says, at least h e is honest w ith h im self an d w ith h er. M or eov er , La d y Pitts' m ar r iag e reveals to Ern est th at w h at h e h ad th ou gh t w as a sp iritu al affinity is lust for th e old er w om an : " I a m n ot D a n t e ," h e says, realizin g n ow th at she h as n ever been to h im "L a Gloriosa d on n a d ella m ia m en t e." It is becau se of these tw o revelation s th at th e p lay is n ot totally static, n ot all th ird act an d ep ilogu e.' It is as "a n em blem of civ ilization " th at Br id ie in ten d s La d y Pitts, as Rob er t H er r in g su ggested w h en h e w rote th at "D a m e Ed ith uses th e fagad e of th is broken p ath etic creatu re as if she sees h er an em blem of civilization th rou gh w hose cracks she h erself, w ith ease an d au th ority, ca n reveal th e reality ben ea th th e D a p h n e w ith in th e lau rel.""1 Cer tain ly Ka th er in e Pitts sym bolizes in on e sense En g la n d in th e a fter m a th of w ar , reject in g rom an ticism for realism , illu sion for reality. Brid ie con trasts th e Soh o restau ran t, clu ttered w ith lad d ers, ceilin g an d floor sheets, an d only h alf p lastered , w ith Sir Josep h 's seclu d ed g a r d e n : a floor b ea m in th e r estau r an t is w orm -eaten an d is to be rep laced by steel gird ers, bu t u ntil p ost-w ar En g la n d can p rod u ce steel gird ers for restau ran t floors it is safe only arou n d th e w alls. "W e ' r e on th e lip of th e p it, e h ? " one of th e d in ers says. "O n th in ice, you w ere, sir, t h er e," George, th e "m o r ib u n d " w aiter, tells a d in er w h o forgets abou t th e floor an d begin s to cross it ; "I su p p ose w e all are, these d a y s." In Sir Josep h 's su m m erh ou se th e civilized serenity is in vad ed by

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the Soho diners—uncivilized young people whose reaction to the genteel Lady Pitts is that of hypnotized rabbits, and the suspicious businessmen Gooch and Watson who hesitate to give their cards or addresses to strangers because, as Gooch says, "You never know these days," and, as the well-fed Watson says, "What the hell we fought the War for, I don't know. . . . No law and order, these days. Every second type you meet carries a cosh in his hip-pocket and a razor in his waistcoat. Decent people won't be able to cross their doorsteps for a square meal." Among these people, among the spivs and the bored married couple, the spirituality of the gracious Lady Pitts makes her a ghost, able to cross the weak flooring unharmed; "She rose a little from the ground and passed from the room like a ghost," Ernest says when she leaves the restaurant in the first act. In her drunkenness she speaks as though inspired : Everything has happened before. The Dark Ages have happened before. The apes have beaten us before when we thought they were feeding out of our hands. . . . It always happens. "An hundred generations, the leaves of autumn, have dropped into the grave." And again we shiver miserably in the confines of a long winter, as Christendom and the Roman Empire did hundreds of years ago. Again and again and again and again we have covered the face of the earth with order and loveliness and a little justice. But only the face of it. Deep down below the subterranean brutes have bided their time to shake down our churches and palaces and let loose the little rats to sport among the ruins. Her gentility is not superficial, even though in the next breath she addresses one of the rats, Gooch, in this m a n n e r : Then keep your remarks to yourself, you goddamned, greasy toad. . . . I'd be interested to know what you call yourself. I could suggest several names. Oaf, lout, dolt, pig, ass, ape, slubberdegullion, son of a bitch, clown, fool, lickspittle, codface. idiot,

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im becile, stin kard . . . You lou se-bitten tin ker's cu r , how d ar e you sp eak to m e ? . . . Th e n keep you r blasted tr a p sh u t. Sh e tu r n s t h e o t h er ch eek w h en a b lo w is str u ck h e r , is r ea d y t o for g iv e a n y in su lt, h u r r ies t o co r r ect a n y m isu n d er st a n d in g , a s w h en sh e p er su a d es Er n est t o con sid er Vin ce n t ' s a ccu s a t io n of b la ck m a il a s in sa n it y . Sh e is selfless w h er e Er n e s t is selfish ; sh e asks h is for g iv en ess fo r h a v in g sp oiled h is r o m a n t ic d r e a m . Sh e is selfless ev en in t h e a cce p t a n ce of t h e d e g r a d a t io n w h ich h e r m a r r ia g e t o h e r ser v a n t , " a v er y stu p id m a n . . .

a fa it h -

fu l w a t ch d o g , b u t a v er y stu p id m a n , " r ep r esen ts. As if in sy m b o lic a cce p t a n ce of v u lg a r it y , sh e a g r ees t o cir cle r a t h er t h a n cross t h e d a n g er o u s floor w h en sh e leav es t h e r e s t a u r a n t in th e final a ct . Sh e h a s a d m it t e d r u in if sh e h a s n ot q u it e jo in e d t h e r a t s sp or t in g a m o n g t h e r u in s. Ka t h e r i n e P it t s as a sy m b o l of a n exh a u st ed cu lt u r e h a s t h e t r a g ic st a t u r e t h a t Viv a ld i a s t h a t sy m b o l d oes n ot h a v e , fo r , u n lik e Viv a ld i w h o find s r efu g e in illu sion , sh e p ossesses a selfk n ow led g e w h ich m u st d estr oy illu sion . Sh e h a s ch osen t h e w a y of exp er ien ce, t h e n ecessa r y co r r u p t io n of in n o ce n ce , b eca u se t h a t seem ed t o h e r t h e "r e a s o n a b l e " w a y . " I w a n t t o exp er ien ce t h in g s ," sh e tells Er n e s t . " I w a n t d a n g e r . I w a n t t o risk so m et h in g . I w a n t t o risk m y h ea lt h a n d m y r e p u t a t io n , m y liv elih ood , m y life itself. W e ca n on ly a p p r e cia t e w h a t w e h a v e b y risking i t ." In o n e of h er d r u n k en m o n o lo g u e s in A ct I sh e r eca lls h e r ch ild h o o d : W e h ad a labu r n u m tree at th e v icarage. T h e p od s w ere p oison ou s. W e w ere told th at w e m u st n ot on an y a ccou n t eat th e p od s. It w as like th e tree of th e kn ow led ge of good an d evil in th e Ga r d en of Ed en . . . . I ate som e labu r n u m seed s a n d I w as very ill, bu t I lear n ed no m or e abou t good an d no m or e abou t evil by th a t a ct. All th a t ca m e later . Bu t m y fa t h er w as very an gr y. H e w as terrible in his r age. I w ore a w h ite sailor su it w h en I a te the labu r n u m . M y fa t h er th ou gh t I d id it ou t of bad n ess

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or to show off. . . . But he was wrong. Perhaps God was wrong about Adam and Eve. I only wanted to know about good and evil. T h a t was reasonable enough. . . . Even God is often unreasonable.

She has learned tolerance of the good and evil in herself and in others, which prevents her from judging the self-righteous and self-ignorant, which makes hers the role of Cassandra, a prophet rather than judge of mankind. But she has learned despair as well, for tolerance and compromise breed despair in the idealist, and the weight of the future is heavy. Two structural matters should be noted. First, the play approaches poetic drama, not entirely because of the metaphorical nature of its language but because of the symbolism of its action and characterizations. The minor characters are "types," as Margaret Marshall notes, but this is intentional; they are only symbols of humanity." The play has a cyclic structure appropriate to its theme : the same people are present in the restaurant in the first and fourth acts; their conversation is essentially unchanged. Acts II and I I I are the antistrophe, contrasting with strophe both in setting and tone: Lady Pitts in the Soho restaurant—the public self—is invulnerable; the tone she sets is predominantly brittle. Lady Pitts at home reveals a vulnerability which radiates softness. Second, Bridie in Daphne Laureola uses to its maximum effect a device which cannot have escaped the reader's notice in his plays; as early as The Switchback, when Mallaby, fortified by whisky, faced Sir Anthony Craye, Bridie used intoxication not only as a device for character revelation but also to symbolize inspiration, heightened sensibility, possession by daemons or gods. As he wrote in "The Anatomy of Failure," the point of using the "trick" of intoxication is that in my part of the country a man is slow in revealing the

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p ictu resqu e or em otional side of his natu re unless he has blu nted his inhibitions by some artificial m eans. Now, in a stage p lay an au d ience must be enabled to size u p a ch aracter as qu ickly as a boxer sizes u p his enem y in the ring. Th e actor must unbosom him self rapid ly and all of a heap if he is to establish the philosop hy u nd erlying the motives of his two hou rs' traffic. In the old plays a confid ant was used. To a d ru nken m an , all the world is his con fid an t." La d y Pitts' d ru n ken n ess in Act I excu ses (th at is, realistically accou n ts for) h er p oetic lan gu age an d im m ed iately sets th e p lay's ton e, an in con gru ou s com bin ation of th e p oetic an d th e vu lgar. W h a t Brid ie failed to d o d r am atically w ith La d y Pitts h e d id w ith Pou n ce-Pellott in The Baikie Charivari, a p lay sim ilar in th em e, ton e, an d p oetic stru ctu re yet d ifferin g in th e final ch oice it m akes. Bu t th e resu rgen ce of cou rage, th e resolu tion beyon d La d y Pitts' ch oice of d esp air, ca m e first in th e realistic p lay M r. Gillie. Gillie ch ooses as Pou n ce-Pellott d oes; in on e sense th e h eroes are id en tical, ju st as in on e sense Brid ie w rote all his life abou t on e m a n , D r . M a lla b y , an d his ch oice. Th e sim ilarity betw een th e n am es of Gillie an d Gillet seem s to d em an d a com p arison , first, betw een th e tw o sch oolm asters; th e d ifferen ce betw een th e m atu r ity of th e tw o m en p arallels th e d ifferen ce betw een th e tw o p lays an d su ggests th e reason for th e su p eriority of th e later p lay. Gillet, w h o ru n s aw ay fr om evil, rem ain s a b a b e, like To b ia s an d Win d lestr aw ; Gillie, w h o allow s evil to kn ock h im d ow n , th en gets u p an d in vites it to d rin k w ith h im , ach ieves a tragic statu re d en ied to ch ild ren . Gillet is saved fr om th e tem p ters Br ew er an d M r s. H an gin gsh aw by his w ife; Gillie h as n ot been p reven ted by his w ife bu t h as yield ed to tem p tation , gain in g th e stren gth of com m itm en t. Gillet's p assion is tid yin g u p th e u n iverse; Gillie's, u n tid yin g it by "op en in g cages an d lettin g p risoners fly fr e e .""

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The scene of the prologue of Mr. Gillie is a court in heaven; Gillie has been knocked down and killed by the furniture van which was to remove all his earthly possessions to the auction room, and a procurator is presenting him to the judge as a "candidate for immortality." Act I begins Gillie's story on the day that he learns from the Reverend Gibb, chairman of the education committee, that his school is to be closed and that he is to take a subordinate position in another school, under a headmaster whom he does not admire. Gillie immediately resigns and begins a novel, his second in twenty years. An English teacher, Gillie would be an artist himself if he could, he says; "If I can't, I'll help others to be that." His first novel "was published by an Edinburgh firm. It sold four hundred and forty-six copies. It brought me in seven pounds, five and eightpence halfpenny. Since then I have made nearly forty pounds a year by writing science notes for The Boy's Companion." He "might have been headmaster of a big school in Glasgow," his wife says, if he had paid attention to his "cards." Instead he watched his students, waiting for the singers, the violinists, the poets—the few capable of being inspired—and these he filled with enthousiasmos (Thomas Carlyle is a favorite of his). These he unsettled: "Thank the Lord for that. . . . If I've done nothing else in my life, at least I've unsettled one or two people." These he gave "the key to the treasure house and taught . . . the mysteries." On the day that Gillie resigns as headmaster, he learns that his latest protege, a miner's son, has, because of his encouragement, decided to "fly" to London to be a playwright; the boy, Tom Donnelly, has secretly married Gillie's protegee, a violinist. Accused by Mrs. Gillie, by the bride's drunken father (Dr. Watson), and by the Reverend Gibb of encouraging and promoting the marriage of children, Gillie declares,

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We've ju st had an example of guts and d eterm ination; and that's one thing none of us here has shown for many a long day. You ought to be proud of your flock, Mr. Gibb. You ought to be proud too, Watson, if there's a spark of pride in your sodden composition. . . . I feel enormously uplifted. I've just had a glimmer of an intimation that life's worth living. . . . Did you ever know an artist who was any good who wasn't prepared to burn down his house and go out like a man after his Grail? Bu t Gillie's confid ence has been m isp laced . Six m onths later the playw right and violinist retu rn from Lond on for a visit, the playw right a film critic for the W eekly Thespian, the violinist a sort of "com p an ion " for her hu sband 's boss, M r . Kelly. Watson , becau se his son-in-law and d au ghter now can afford first-class sleepers, hired cars, fine clothes, an ap artm en t in "En ch an ter 's N ightshad e" p ink, and d inner p arties at the Girning Arm s (to one of w hich he has been invited ), is read y to accep t To m and apologize to Gillie : "I must say this has left me a wee thing easier in m y m ind . I w ou ld na go so far as to say it, bu t m aybe you had some right on you r side after all, William . God works in a mysteriou s w ay H is w onders to p erform ." Th e Reverend Gibb, w hen he learns th at Tom is rich, also ind irectly apologizes to Gillie. H e says to Tom , "I ad m it I had my d ou bts, at one tim e, of the wisdom of your step . Bu t it is very gratifying that it has all tu rned out so w ell. M r . Gillie must be proud of you ." Th en , striking Gillie another blow , he annou nces that the schoolhouse must be vacated for a new tenant. Th e play end s w ith Gillie rejectin g help from Tom and Gibb, his mind alread y occu p ied w ith a d raw ing he has been show n; it is by a local girl w ho believes that she m ay have to give up her d raw ing lessons becau se she is need ed in her fath er's bakery. "All she need s is a bit of encou ragem en t," Gillie says. "I'll raise the De'il in her tom orrow ." Despite the p rocu rator's plea in the epilogue that Gillie's

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story "is one of misdirected effort," that work "must be judged by the results it produces," that Gillie "has done nothing and whatever influence he has exercised has been dissipated into absurdity or worse," and that therefore he should be consigned to limbo, the judge assigns the schoolmaster "the vacant seat between Lincoln and John Wesley." It is not Gillie's fault that the cat got the prisoners he freed from their cages: . . . the few minutes between the door of the cage and the jaws of the cat make life worth living. . . . Whether this man's endeavours were useful or not is a matter for Whoever gave him his instructions. Victory or defeat have nothing to do with the case. Let us at least be gentlemen. Let us honour the forlorn hope. Bridie still will not pass final judgment; the Instruction-Giver, Jahveh, must finally judge, because only He knows the purpose behind Gillie's life. In choosing the way of forlorn hope rather than of acceptance or compromise, Gillie has literally chosen to slay himself to be himself. In choosing survival and Vincent, Lady Pitts has chosen to be to herself enough—that is, she has refused possession by any master, Apollo or otherwise. While seeming to involve herself with humanity by her marriage to her chauffeur, actually she withdraws. But not Gillie, who chooses slavery, possession, involvement. That his Master is the De'il, as he and Dr. Watson suggest (Dr. Watson says, "You're an interfering auld wife, with the conceit of the Devil"), has nothing to do with the case either. What is important is that Gillie has been mastered by something beyond the self, by literature and art. Yet he is not entirely unlike Lady Pitts, for he also is an ironic Adam, and his muted despair is the most haunting found in all the plays. Because of the paradox involved in slaying oneself to be oneself, Gillie's behavior is inherently ambiguous. He has chosen the way of slavery or dedication, responsibility or commitment,

144

J A M E S BRIDIE : CLOWN AND P H I L O S O P H E R

and selflessness, yet he attacks servility and conventional conceptions of responsibility and is attacked for irresponsibility and selfishness. He is committed to inspiring the human soul and would die rather than fail to perform his duty : " T h e human soul isn't like anything else and anything we do about it isn't like anything else," he tells Mrs. Gillie when she says that encouraging students is like "backing horses." " . . . the qualities were there. If I'd seen those qualities and done less than my damndest to give them a chance, it would have been better for me to put a millstone round my neck and jump in the loch." Yet he is accused of irresponsibility and selfishness: "That's right," his wife says. " G o on reading. That's how you get out of your responsibilities. That's how you get out of listening to plain common sense." "Escape, escape, escape all the time," Gibb chides. "Escape from your duties. Escape from your responsibilities. That was all you cared for. . . . I know that a man of your temperament finds rules and regulations a little trying." "Self, self, self, all through," Mrs. Gillie says, angered that Gillie has encouraged Tom's marriage. "That's you. . . . It was always the fine things you were going to do. It never struck you to do the thing next your hand and make a job of schoolmastering." But Mrs. Gillie's judgment, at least, is not to be trusted, because she alternates between this and statements like "We'd be better off if you could keep your eyes open and think of yourself for a change—not to mention me." Gillie speaks against conventional responsibility: Get this into your head. You owe your father nothing. He's fed you and clothed you—in a sort of way—because he'd have had the police after him if he hadn't. But that doesn't give him the right to make a slave of you for the rest of your life. He fosters self-confidence or pride : You'll take the world by the throat, the two of you. It's the only

S O N G S OF EXPERIENCE

145

way to deal with the old bitch. And in five years you'll be playing violin concertos at the Albert Hall and Tom will be making his bow at the Haymarket, with the audience tearing the stuffing out of their seats. But he depends upon the stabilizing effect of humility in those he tempts; he says to Tom, "You stood out a bit beyond the other dolts and morons because you had a vein of holy humility, I thought. I had hopes that ten years' conscientious application would turn you into something worth while." It is his own strain of holy humility which necessitates Gillie's eloquent and often ironic despair. Like Lady Pitts, he has involved himself enough with humanity to learn his identity with the drunken, self-pitying Watson and the "trace of some kind of architecture among the ruins" that the doctor represents; he sees the truth in Watson's statement " . . . as one failure to another. Chuck i t ! " Caught in his cage, Gillie cries, For the past twenty years I've been a turnkey in a children's prison. . . . I've pumped ditchwater in at one ear and watched it come out at the other. As for myself, I've spent every minute of my spare time groping blindly for a way of escape, like a lavatory attendant filling football coupons. If I hadn't had a decent wife, keeping me fat and fed and comfortable—anaesthetising me—I'd have shot myself long ago. . . . I never took much to teaching. Most of the time it didn't seem to be worth while, to tell you the truth. But ordinarily his speech is guarded by irony, as in these comments on Tom's success and the rejection of his latest novel for its "early-Victorian" women who seem to have no legs: We have to keep up to the minute if we're to survive nowadays. Haven't we, Tom? We savages north of the Tweed can't know anything of the great movements and swelling advances in the modern world. We know nothing about Life, Mr. Gibb. . . . That's it. That's the joke. [Tom's] "made good". I thank thee,

146

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

To m , for teach in g m e th a t w ord . H e's m ad e good an d tru e a n d bea u tifu l—in Lon d on , M r . G ib b . A r en 't you su rp rised ? A r en 't you p leased ? T h u s w h en G i b b ev icts h im a n d T o m offer s to seek Ke lly ' s h elp , th e a g o n y m a k es t h e ir o n y h o r r ib le : " M y d ea r T o m , a n o r t h o d o x Je w m a y b e a p p r e cia t iv e of y ou r h osp ita lity , b u t y ou m u st n ot o ffer h im roast p o r k . N o . I h a v e in flu en ce in ce r t a in q u a r t er s. I m a y g et a jo b a s a la v a t or y a t t e n d a n t . Let u s ch a n g e t h e s u b je ct o n ce m o r e . " H is h u m ility w ill n ot let h im co n v ict W a t s o n , G i b b , or T o m , b u t h e m u st resort t o ir on y in h is d efen se of W a t s o n ' s h y p o cr isy ( "Yo u d id y ou r b e s t ," h e says w h en th e d o ct o r , a g a in p a r t a k in g of th e Gillies' firesid e a n d w h isky, r eca lls t h a t h e w a n t e d t o m u r d e r Gillie w h en h e d iscov er ed

h is d a u g h t e r 's m a r r ia g e ), G ib b ' s servility to t h e

ed u ca t io n co m m it t e e ( "Yo u a r e an id eal h u m a n e k iller "), a n d T o m ' s co m p r o m ise ( "I ' m n ot T o m ' s keep er , h e ca n look a ft e r h im self. H e ' s p r ov ed t h a t , a n y w a y . . . . Th e r e a r e m or e g ood p it b oy s w h er e h e ca m e fr o m "). Gillie's h u m ilit y is ba sed finally u p on h is u n cer t a in t y a b o u t h im self a n d t h e ch o ices h e h a s m a d e (t h a t is, u p o n h is a w a r e n ess of t h e r ela tiv ity of h u m a n v alu es), for h e ca n n o t k n ow b e fo r e h a n d t h a t h e w ill b e a w a r d e d th e seat b et w een Lin co ln a n d W esley . Be h in d h is sp eech es is t h e su ggestion t h a t h e m a y b e a m o n g t h e m a n y d escr ib ed b y C a r ly le w h o "w it h a w h ole im b r o g lio of C a p a b i l i t y " sp en d g r o p in g a b o u t . . .

in ev er -n ew

t h eir en tir e lives

"st u p id ly

e xp e ct a t io n , ev er -n ew

d is-

a p p o in t m e n t ," w h o "sh ift fr o m en ter p r ise t o en ter p r ise, a n d fr o m sid e t o sid e : till at le n g t h , a s exa sp er a t ed strip lin gs of t h r ee-sco r e a n d t en , t h ey sh ift in t o th eir last en ter p r ise, th a t of g et t in g b u r ie d ." Ev e r y o n e , C a r ly le says in th e essay Gillie r ead s t o T o m , m u st sp en d sev er al y ea r s of p r a ct ice in m eet in g d isap p o in t m e n t , t h e o b je ct b ein g t o "a cq u i r e n ot ion s of d ista n ce a n d b e co m e a seein g M a n , " w h ich is a n o t h e r w a y of sayin g t o

SONGS OF

EXPERIENCE

147

become an ironic Adam. There is the suggestion that Gillie's irony is a pose maintained with considerable difficulty; though he may say in Act I, "If you think anything's going to surprise me you don't know me," he cannot at first accept Tom's betrayal with distance. Indeed, Gillie suggests, when he says, "I've spent every minute of my spare time groping blindly for a way of escape," Peer Gynt questioning the Button-Moulder: "But suppose a man never has come to know/ What master meant with him?" MT. Gillie has been interpreted by Gabriel Marcel as an expression of Bridie's personal and artistic credo; the playwright proclaims, Marcel writes, "avec espece d'alacrite joyeuse les droits imprescriptibles de la personne et de Peffort createur."" In addition to Gillie's defense of the artist's moral and intellectual superiority, there is the dialogue that begins the play in which Gillie attempts to define genius—specifically artistic genius—for Tom. "Possession by a god" is a better definition than "an infinite capacity for taking pains," he feels, although, he adds, taking pains is part of it. They say a sonnet takes a year to write. Nobody can get perfection, except once in a way; but he's got to work over and work over until he gets as near it as possible . . . In the Drama, there's all the more need for that meticulous carefulness. Every line must be loaded with significance and pull its weight. Every movement counts. Every article of furniture on the stage must mean something. Bridie is not ridiculing technique here. What Gillie says can be applied to this play, as it can be applied to the great majority of the plays analyzed in this study. While Gillie is talking, he and Tom are playing a game of chess, a game requiring, in a sense, "an infinite capacity for taking pains," a game which he loses because his wife's conversation interferes with his power of concentration. After Mrs. Gillie has chattered

148

JA M E S BR I D I E : C L O W N AN D

P H I L O SO P H E R

at their backs for several p ages, To m says, "C h e ck ," an d Gillie rep lies, "Pr actically a fool's m ate. Well, w ell. Th ou gh how I'm to be exp ected to con cen trate w hen . . ." Bu t there he stops. Th is is m eticu lou s carefu lness. Moreover, this seem ingly irrelevant m ovem ent on the stage—th e gam e of chess w hich Gillie loses—and the cribbage gam e betw een D r . Watson and Gillie w hich op ens Act I I , carry a sym bolic w eight, the su btlety of w hich strengthens the p lay. Gillie loses the chess gam e bu t w ins at cribbage, a gam e of ch a n ce; w inning gam es of ch an ce, as Sam u els told George Wind iest raw , d ep end s u p on possession by the god s. Gillie's life, even m ore th an George Win d lestraw 's, is based u p on th e theory of ch a n ce : ch aracter , h e believes, is tested by ch an ce an d "Th er e's n o w ay of telling a w eak ch aracter till it's u p against life." H e took a ch an ce on To m an d m ad e a m istake; his conclu sion is t h is : " I w as only w rong. Th er e's nothing final abou t m akin g m istakes—if th ere's n o real h arm d on e." Wh en Mrs. Gillie com m en ts, "It ' s a good th in g you take it th at w a y ," he ad d s, "Th er e's n o other w ay to take it ." Possessed by the god s, Gillie finally seems to w in at life, t o o — th e d istance of a seeing M a n , an irony w hich gives h im an infinite cap acity for takin g (th at is, bearing) p ains. Th u s p ervad ing the play is this necessary am bigu ity, for if, as th e ju d ge says, "W h et h er this m an 's end eavou rs w ere u sefu l or n ot is a m atter for Wh oever gave him his in stru ction s," Gillie ca n not finally be ju d ged . Althou gh the action and langu age of M r. Gillie are m ean in gfu l on several levels, the p lay w ithin the fan tastic fram ew ork of the heavenly cou rt rem ains n atu ralistic. Th is is not tru e of The Baikie Charivari, w hich altern ates the realistic w ith th e p oetic m ore consistently th an th e tw o w ere altern ated in Daphne Laureola an d w ithou t, in this p lay, use of the d evice of in toxication to excu se d ialogu e w hich is m eaningless on th e

SONGS OF

EXPERIENCE

149

literal level. The prologue is non-realistic : it begins with "A short Punch and Judy, Anniversaire-du-bebe Overture." The De'il announces from a mask in the moon his intention of chasing Sir James Pounce-Pellott (Punch from the Punch and Judy show) with a pack of hellhounds and, momentarily hiding his face, enlists the aid of one, the Reverend Beadle (the beadle from Punch and Judy), who believes the devil's voice to be the voice of God. Pounce-Pellott appears at the window of one of the cottages beneath the moon, shaving and whistling operatic arias, to introduce himself as a descendant of "Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea, Samaria and I d u m e a " : My predestinate fate has been not unlike his. But they did not allow me to wait for a reply. I did not wash my hands of the Mahatma. He washed his hands of me. So here I am at Baikie in my new little chrysalis bungalow lapped in my little pension, with all my old life behind me, waiting to learn the new life. Who will teach me the ways of the new life? I am eager to learn." There is surface realism in the opening scene of Act I, in which Lady Pounce-Pellott (Judy) reprimands an impertinent electrician who has repaired an electric fire for her (the workman, a Communist, is the hangman character from Punch and Judy) and, with her husband, entertains a procession of people who have called to welcome them into the community. T h e scene following this is fantasy : when Pounce-Pellott drops off to sleep waiting u p for his daughter Cynthia (her nickname is Baby), the house is visited by the De'il, three of the guests of the afternoon—Joey Mascara, an artist (the Punch and Judy clown); Dr. Jean Pothecary, a woman psychologist (the doctor), and Lady Maggie Revenant, the grand-daughter of a Marquis (the ghost)—who are revealed now as hellhounds, and a fourth hellhound—an American publisher, Mrs. Jemima Lee Crowe

150

JA M E S BRID IE : C LO W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

(Jim Crow ), w ho is to ap p ear five d ays later to offer Pou ncePellott $200,000 to w rite his m em oirs. Th e five have com e to initiate Baby into their p ack bu t are interru p ted when Pou ncePellott aw akens. Th e mood of fantasy rem ains even if the scene is construed as Pou nce-Pellott's d ream , a d evice Brid ie used in Act II of Dr. A ngelus w hen Dr. Joh n son 's grow ing suspicions abou t his p artner m ake him d ream of a cou rt trial at w hich he is accu sed of being an accessory to the m u rd er of Mrs. Taylor.1" In the second act, five d ays later, the Am erican p u blisher arrives w ith her offer on the d ay th at the Pou ncePellotts are to entertain their new friend s at d inner. Th is p red om inantly realistic scene of tem p tation is follow ed by the stylized scene of the p arty, w hich takes the form of a symposium organized to teach Pou nce-Pellott "th e w ays of the new life" and ends w ith the d estru ction of the m em bers of the symposium at the hand s of the form er District Com m issioner of Ju n glip ore. In a raised voice Pou n ce-Pellott says, I h a v e w a sh ed m y h a n d s o f m y G o d a n d k illed H i m . I h a v e sold H i m fo r o r d e r . Th e r e fo r e I m u s t b e p u n ish ed . Bu t , b y t h e G o d I sold , I w ill n o t g o q u ie t ly . W h e r e is m y St ick !

Brid ie w rites that "The lights flicker in rainbow colours. Drums. Loud, squeaking, Punch and Judy music plays Ru le Britan n ia in the minor. Judy and Baby run to and fro squealing softly." After Pou nce-Pellott, talking like Pontiu s Pilate and acting like Pu n ch , kills his guests, there is a clash of cym bals and the De'il ap p ears, to ad m it at least tem p orary d efeat. Pou nce-Pellott speaks as the p lay en d s: I' v e k illed all th ose fools w h o p r e t e n d e d to k n o w . A n d so . . . a n d so . . . W it h t h e sooth sa y er s lit t er e d a b o u t t h e st a g e

SO N G S O F

151

EXP ERI EN CE

Th at I slew in my rage , W h o did not know . . . an d no m o re do I I must jest agai n an d aw ai t my reply . . . Go o d- by e .

. . .

The Baikie Charivari, T . C. W orsley wrote aft er seeing its first product ion in Oct ober , 1952, belon gs t o the class of Bridie's "in tellectual fan t asias, a for m wh ich he very much fan cied, t h ough , truth t o tell, he n ever m an aged t o get control of it ." W orsley finds the play "filled with false starts an d dr opped h er r in gs" an d "fin ally u n sat isfyin g"; Bridie is concurrently puttin g over fan cies wh ich ar e n ever successfully in tegrated, which r emain "en t er t ain in g an alogies" th at "t ease more t h an they illu m in at e."" W orsley refers to th e use of the Pun ch an d Ju d y story an d the legen d of Pon tius Pilate, wh ich Bridie ackn owledges in a n ote to th e play. A combin at ion of the ch aract ers of Pun ch an d Pon tius Pilate, Bridie writes, h as created Poun ce- Pellot t : Th ere is a tradition that the celebrated ch aracter of Punch is a projection of Pontius Pilate. Th e connection between the two ch aracters is loose an d fan tastic, an d probably depends on the fact that they are both regarded as important symbolic murderers. It is Pilate w h o is the dom in an t ch ar act er , as Br idie adm it s in sayin g th at he h as per h aps "w h it ew ash ed " Pun ch (that is, dimin ish ed his "h om icidal st at u r e") in h is "n at u r al desire t o pu t a little pun ch in t o Pon t iu s." Pilate, aft er all, did not m u r der the m an w h o tried to tell h im the Tr u t h ; he simply wash ed his h an ds of Ch r ist 's blood an d order w as preserved, with the Jew s givin g Caesar his due. Pilate w as, Bridie writes, "essen tially a 'good' m an , an d in differen t h on est, accor din g t o his ligh ts. Fur t h er , in all th e circumstan ces, he w as pr obably right; an d it was his misfor t un e t h at h e w as cast for th e villain of the piece in a play wh ere vir t ue w as, m ain ly by h is act , triump h an t . ""

152

JA M E S BRID IE : C LO W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

T h e a n a lo g y b e t w e e n P o u n ce -P e llo t t a n d t h is P u n ch -P i l a t e ch a r a ct e r ca n b e sh o w n to b e in t e g r a l t o t h e p l a y ; t h e p la y ca n ca r r y t h e w e ig h t , t o o , of Ellio t ' s a n a lo g y w it h Peer

Cynt—

b e ca u s e t h e ch a r a ct e r o f P o u n ce -P e llo t t is solid a n d s t r o n g in it self, w it h o u t t h ese t r a p p in g s . P o u n ce -P e l l o t t

is a

M a lla by

r e t u r n e d fr o m d ig g in g a m o n g t h e r u in s fo r t h e o ld life a n d co n v in ce d n o w t h a t h e m u st a cce p t t h e n e w life, e v e n if o n ly w it h a je s t in g ir o n y . H e tells t h e Re v e r e n d Be a d l e w h e n t h e la t t e r co m e s t o ca ll, W e ' r e like visitors fr om M a r s. All th is is en t ir ely n e w to m e. I' m b eg in n in g life all ov er a g a in —fr o m t h e st a r t . It 's m ost exh ila r a t in g . . . . I'v e d ecid ed to t h r ow o v er b o a r d ev er y t h in g I ev er lea r n ed o r kn ew . It 's t h e on ly w a y . It 's n o g ood t r y in g to fit r o u n d p egs in to sq u ar e h oles. I' v e g on e all m a lle a b le . I'v e gon e all p lastic. I' m w on d er fu l m a t er ia l for a sp ir itu al a d v iser . W o u ld you like to be m y sp ir itu al a d v iser ? T h a t h e sh o u ld u se t h is t o n e in s p e a k in g t o a m e m b e r o f t h e cle r g y w o u ld b e illu m in a t in g t o a m a n of g r e a t e r in t e llig e n ce t h a n Be a d le . Su ch a m a n is t h e a r t ist , M a s c a r a , w h o ca n tell w h e n a leg is b e in g p u lled , w h o ca n r e co g n iz e , t h a t is, a sp ir it u a l a d v iser w h e n h e sees o n e . M a s c a r a r e m a r k s t o t h e la m p -p o s t , la t e r in t h e p la y , W h e n Pon tiu s P ila t e ca m h a m e fr a e th e Ea st , W h a t d id h e find ? W h a t d id h e find ? Bew ild er m en t , d ou b t a n d a fog o f th e m in d In th e p laces la n g syn e he h ad left b eh in d . A lla h , th e D ish ev eller , h ad been th er e a fo r e h im . T h e p rou d h a d been sca tter ed in th e im a g in a t io n of th eir h ea r ts, A n d th e M ig h t y been cou p it fr om t h eir seats. Fo r th e m a g ist r a t e's d ou p m a u n a y e be on th e seat of ju d g e m e n t ; H e m a y sm ile a n d p lay th e h o st ; b u t th er e's a y e a cau se in his h ied . P ila t e, w i' h in g in g lip a n d sw eet u r b a n it y , H a s co m e a secon d tim e to ju d g e h u m a n it y .

SO N G S O F

153

E XP E R I E N C E

Dod , an d h e'll m ak a bon n y m oagger o't, as he Don e a for e . . . Bu t w hit w as he to d a e? Fo r th e things th at w ere d one in th e green tree Th e y ar e d aein g again in th e d r y; An d w h at can h e say bu t, "See ye to it " ? An d w ash . An d let th em d ie. Po u n ce -Pe l l o tt's role, as w as Pilate's, is that of judge, not only of others but of himself. Moreover, in th at role of judge (in this case D istrict Commissioner) he is, as w as Pilate, a civil servant, an d as M as cara tells the o th e r civil servant, Ro b e rt Co p p e r, Co n tro l l e r for the Ministry of Interference (the policeman f ro m Pu n ch an d Ju d y ), the role of a servant is not to govern : "I 'm saying, w h o g av e th e m permission to govern anything ? Th e y 're supposed to be a Ministry. Th at means a collection of servants. D o cto r Be ad l e here'll tell you th at a servant w hen he ruleth is an ab o m i n ati o n in the sight of the Lo rd ." M as cara, an an archist, w ould h av e neither rulers nor servants. Bu t Po u n ce Pellott w ho, al th o u g h he has been retired as a servant of th e British

Em p i re ,

serves

something

m u ch

larger,

M as cara's tru th , addressing him before killing h i m : And as for you, delightful Joe, M y answ er must again be, no. Th o u g h I should be the last to grudge Yo u r claim to be your only judge, Yo u r notions are confused and muddy; Yo u r unbow ed head is pretty bloody; I find the skipper of your soul A little short of self-control And far too ready to commute And be a playful prostitute. Yo u r hedonism and anarchy, Alas, make no appeal to me. Yo u r harp has made the Halls of Tara An intellectual Saharah. I do not w ant you, Jo e Mascara.

rejects

154

JAMES

B R I D I E : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

J o e , like all the devil's pack, tempts Pounce-Pellott with the illusion of self-sufficiency, but Pounce-Pellott, standing alone on the stage at the end of the play, symbolizes the truth of man's insufficiency and his need for a Master whose intention he may wear like a signboard. As a judge, Pounce-Pellott asks questions, but purposive questions as J o e suggests. " M y husband has no small talk," Lady Pounce-Pellott says. " H e can only ask questions. All sorts of questions. . . .

It was part of his j o b . . . . Gracious ques-

tions." Considering Pounce-Pellott in the light of Mascara's speech—as a judge of humanity

or spiritual

servant—the

choice of the word gracious can only have been intentional : Pounce-Pellott's questions are asked in a search for grace. But it is a jesting search for grace, because Pounce-Pellott, like Gillie and Lady Pitts, is hampered by a self-knowledge complete enough to recognize his own part in the evil of mankind. His idealism makes him a hard judge of himself; when he judges his tempters by slaying them, symbolically he is slaying himself. In rejecting the "easy solutions, the crutches that might protect him without helping h i m , " as Gerald Weales says, he is rejecting self-sufficiency in an act of humiliation." Lady Pounce-Pellott describes her husband's consciousness of the sin of pride, admitting that they attended church regularly in Junglipore to help " P o l l y " with his " e q u i l i b r i u m , " because in India he was a sort of King—Sahib this and Huzoor that. Everybody sort of bathed in his mild and magnificent eye. He thought it wasn't good for him, you see. So he was terribly respectful to God and the Viceroy and all that sort of thing. Though, mind you, he hated it. He's a very proud man. . . . He knew he was building up something terrific. But he knew too that it might all tumble about his ears any day. So he put in a bit of destruction too. T o balance it. So he shot tigers and stuck wild pig, although he hated it.

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155

T o the Reverend Beadle's remark that taking up painting would be an "innocuous occupation" for him in his retirement, Pounce-Pellott says, "I suppose so, if it doesn't go to one's head." The depth of his fall from grace (and, literally, from power) is implied by the disillusionment underlying his irony, beginning with his first speech : "I did not wash my hands of the M a h a t m a . He washed his hands of me. S o here I am at Baikie in my new little chrysalis bungalow lapped in my little pension . . ." Consciousness that he is to be given by his new neighbors only solutions which he must reject makes his compliment to Mascara ironic: Joey, here, is going to coach me in modern aesthetics. There's no such thing as pure chance, is there ? I expect a perfect shower of angels and guides. The Lord threw down Joseph to me outside the municipal convenience, half an hour ago. I took it as a sign that my education was well in hand. But it is Pounce-Pellott w h o is the angel unaware, a kind of spiritual gadfly to his tempters. " W h a t about the immortal soul ?" he asks the psychologist, Dr. Pothecary, w h o has simplified it out of existence and thus forced him to pronounce this judgment on her before killing her : For all that I have known and done You split to one, and one and one . . . I think it is by no means plain That you can put me together again; And, anyhow, I'll eat my hat If I'm so simple as all that. The irony is subtle in this conversation between Pounce-Pellott and the Reverend Beadle, w h o should be a spiritual adviser but in whom religion has been reduced to a dead, flat stone, a piece of machinery which turns out meaningless words (using Pounce-Pellott's metaphors):

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JA M E S BRID IE : C L O W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

P.-P. I gave it a good d eal of thou ght, and it looks as if I w ere right in com ing here. Beadle. I hop e you m ay find it so. P.-P. I d id n't know a soul in Baikie; bu t I thou ght I'd find a p retty good cross-section of th e hu m an race. Beadle. You cou ld d escribe it th at w ay. P. P. I think I need Baikie. Beadle. And Baikie needs you , Sir Jam es. P.-P. O h , does it ? Well . . . I'll have to get m y bearings first, as I told you . I must get my bearings. Bead le, a fter all, sees Pou n ce-Pellott as a p rosp erou s Jo b , as th e p rologu e m akes clea r ; th e m in ister h as n o p ercep tion of th e ju d ge's sp iritu al sickness an d is all too read y to m istake th e voice of th e d evil for God 's v oice in stru ctin g h im to "s h a k e " Pou n ce-Pellott's "Sp ir itu a l P r id e ." Bead le's lan gu age is trite, m ech a n ica l—r ein for cin g his a u t o m a t is m : ". . . th e w ays of Provid en ce . . . are tru ly w on d er fu l." "W e h ave an a n ch or th at keep s th e sou l/ Stead fast an d tru e w hile th e billow s r o ll." In br eakin g th e com m a n d m en ts "y o u r ru in h as b eg u n ," "y ou d ry th e etern al s e a ," "y o u r field s w ill n ever t h r iv e," "y ou shu t th e road to H e a v e n ," "y ou lock th e H eav en ly G a t e ," "y o u toll th e d oom of m e n ," an d th er eafter "t h e sky w ill lose its b lu e," "t h e sun w ill rise n o m o r e ," "t h e stars w ill cease to sh in e." Wh en h e is asked for his tru th he answ ers w ith em p ty ja r g o n : P.-P. . . . H ave you nothing to tell m e? Beadle. Yes. P.-P. Well, then, tell m e. Beadle. I w ill. P.-P. Th en go ahead . Beadle. Wh at w e have heard is the confu sed cry of "Lo , h er e; lo t h e r e !" O f w hich we have inform ation from th e H oly Scrip tu res. . . . Th e Ch u rch has th e answ er to it all. Th a t is all I have to say.

SO N G S O F

157

E XP E R I E N C E

W h en D r . P ot h eca r y is asked for tr u th , sh e, too, r ep eats ja r g o n ; m or eov er , she r ejects a n y p erson al in terest in th e in d iv id u al Pou n ce-Pellott bu t feels th e sp ecim en P o u n ce-P ello t t , w ith h is "Reg r ession to foetal life " a n d "st r o n g n eg a tiv e t r a n sfer en ce," w ill in terest h er p rofession . P ou n ce-P ellott registers h is d isa p p r ov a l t h u s : Pothecary. . . . You 'r e th e sort of m an w e like to h elp . . . . P.-P. You say "w e ." Is this a sort of collective im p u lse? Pothecary. I'll say " I " if you like. P.-P. Th a t 's m u ch better. I like it better th at w ay. . . . T h e fa ll of a m a n in t o a co m m u n it y of "s o u ls " su ch as th ese, th e d iscovery of "Bew ild er m en t , d ou b t a n d a fo g of th e m in d ," is p a in fu l if th e m a n h a s a n y h u m a n s y m p a t h y ; it is often fa t a l if h e recogn izes h im self in th e bew ild er ed fa ces h e sees. U n t il th e en d of th e p lay w h en h e m a k es a ch o ice, P o u n ce-P ello t t r em a in s

in a ctiv e,

u n co m m it t ed ,

alm ost

con ten t

to

say,

"Ye s . . . you see, it d oesn 't m a t t e r a b o u t m e a n d Ju d y . It 's r a t h er fu n for u s, a n d w e sh all b oth b e ou t of it in a v ery few y ea r s." H e is for ced in t o co m m it m en t to save h is ch ild : "Bu t th er e's n ow h er e t o p u t ou r egg, if you see w h a t I m e a n . . . . th er e seem s t o be n o or d er a n d n o p la ce a n d n ot h in g b u t a m illin g crow d sh ou tin g p a r a n oid d octr in es ou t of a w h ir lp o o l." H is d a u g h t er reflects ev er yth in g th a t h e m u st d estroy t o save h e r : "I t ' s all right b y m e , " sh e says. "I ' l l try a n y t h in g o n ce ." "I ' v e n e fa it h in a ' b o d y ," sh e sw ears in t h e scen e in w h ich , literally, h er fa t h er 's a w a k en in g saves h er fr o m in itia tion in t o t h e d evil's p a ck (th e scen e, th en , is a sym bol fo r t h e fin al a ction of th e p lay). Sh e tells th e sy m p o siu m : I d id n 't w an t to com e in to this blood y w orld . . . . I d on 't know w h at in th e blazes I'm h ere for, bu t th e least I can d o is to m ake it bearable. . . . It takes m e from one em p ty h ou r to th e oth er. . . . I'v e h ad too m u ch of everyth in g. I' m sp iritu ally sick and p erhap s you 'd better w ip e it u p an d say n o m ore abou t it.

158

JA M E S

BR I D I E : C L O W N

AN D

P H ILO SO P H ER

W it h em p ty id eologies th r ea ten in g to d estroy his d a u g h t e r — in clu d in g th e com m u n ist id eology of Jo h n Ke t ch , w h o on ce saved h er life—P o u n ce-P ello t t at last a ccep ts em otion al in v olv em en t an d becom es a m u r d er er . (Ke t ch , th e im p ertin en t electr icia n , w hose id eology Pou n ce-Pellott lin ks w ith th at of Bea d le as "t h e ord er of tw o d ead ston es . . . p ieces of m a ch in e r y " by w h ich h e w ill n ot be cru sh ed , saved Ba b y w h en she fell ou t of h er fa t h er 's a r m s a n d ov er boar d on a very early voyage h om e fr om th e colon ies; n ow h e w ou ld p u t h er in a la b or ca m p : "Sh e 'll n o' get h er lip stick a n d h er b a t h salts an d h er sw elterin g betw een sh eets all d a y in th e la b or ca m p .") Pou n ce-Pellott's im m ed ia te p r ov ocation to m u r d er is M a sca r a 's attem p t to sed u ce Ba b y w h ile th e tw o ar e p u ttin g aw ay th e ch in a a ft er th e d in n er p ar ty . T h e in cid en t serves as a startin g p oin t for th e d iscu ssion w h ich en d s so violen tly : " I t m ay b e th e n ew w ay of liv in g ," Pou n ce-Pellott says, "t o a ccep t a m a n 's h osp itality an d a ttem p t to sed u ce h is d a u g h ter . I d on 't kn ow . Bu t I w a n t to find ou t. I w an t t o fin d ou t a lot of th in g s." Th e fall of a m a n fr om a p osition of secu rity, a forced r etir em en t, p rod u ces a m a n "Bew ild er ed by ch a n g e an d frigh ten ed by th e lin gerin g sh ar p sm ell of a s h e s "—t h e ashes of h is life. W h e n th e m a n , like Pou n ce-Pellott, "h a t e s bein g p u sh ed a b ou t, even b y P r o v id en ce," as La d y Pou n ce-Pellott says, th e fall m u st be cu sh ion ed by ir on y, yet th ere ar e m om en t s—w it h w o m en —w h en th e p rou d m a n allow s th e p ink sh iverin g boy w ith in h im to sp eak. T o D r . P o t h eca r y , Pou n cePellott still sp eaks ir on ically, b u t h e at least sp eaks th e tru th : "N o , I' m a lost ch ild . I ' m a p p ea lin g en tirely to you r m a ter n a l in st in ct ." W h e n she o b ject s th a t a "V . l . P . ca n 't be a lost ch ild ," h e says, "H e ' s n ev er a n y th in g else." W it h h is w ife, th e iron y goes. W h en , early in th e p lay, sh e w orries a bou t Ba b y 's associatin g w ith M a s ca r a , h e tells h er t h a t you n g p eop le are "fa r b etter to find th eir w ay for th em selves. Esp ecially w hen you

SONGS

OF

EXPERIENCE

159

and I don't know our way about." Neither this logic nor the "bloody tenderness" which follows it ("Darling, pull yourself together. I know it's tough for you, getting used to all this. But we've got to take our ups with our downs and I suppose, in the long run, it's good for the soul") works on Lady PouncePellott who stands solidly and unwaveringly for the old life. Pounce-Pellott puts on the mask again in front of Beadle, but his wife is frank : P.-P. But there is no Indian Empire. It would not surprise me in the least to learn that Balliol [his college] has disappeared. I should be delighted to find that it had. We want clear decks. A clean slate. A new start. Judy. I shall never get used to it, I'm afraid. P.-P. But you must. Another Margaret Gillet, Judy senses the presence of the De'il and is wise enough to know that there is nothing new about his interference in man's fate : Judy. Oh, my God ! . . . Did you arrange for those dreadful people to come here? P. P. No, darling. Judy. Somebody or something must have arranged it. It was too malignant not to be done on purpose. P.-P. I liked them. You must remember, it's all bound to be a little strange. We must learn to adapt ourselves. You see, in a way it's a . . . Judy. I know. A new kind of world. There's nothing very new about that lot. P.-P. No. But the point is, they've learned to adapt themselves. We've got to learn that, too, or we'll be blue with bruises. Though Judy's response to experience is emotional, she has chosen to wear the social mask of the gracious, unruffled hostess, and she tries to maintain it even when faced with conversation as unsettling as Lady Maggie's, of which this is typical:

160

JA M E S BRID IE : C L O W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

You 're rather like Lyd ia Sm ith. But she was older. And she had rather a bad-tempered expression, poor thing. H er father was very bad-tempered. He hunted a good d eal. His red face clashed horribly with his pink coat, I remember. But he's dead now. Practically everybody is dead, aren't they? Good-bye. H er tru e natu re is revealed w ith her hu sband , whose "sw eet reasonableness" is sharp ened by contrast. Lad y Pou nce-Pellott and Lad y Maggie stand for absolu te valu es, like the au thority of titles : "Bu t being a Marqu is gave a sort of mystic au thority, d id n't it ?" Ju d y says. Both represent the p ast, w hich, becau se it is ghostly and u nreal, cannot be accep ted or rejected . Bu t Pou nce-Pellott could reject his w ife's em otional involvem ent. It is significant that he does not. Elliot notes in his p reface that in Peer Gynt "Ibsen left the last word to the Bu tton -Mou ld er and to the blind Solveig. Od d thou gh it m ay seem, from Ibsen, Peer Gynt was going to be saved by the love of a good w om an. Brid ie w ill allow n o such refuge to his hero."™ Yet ju st before Pou nce-Pellott tells all his tem p ters that their tru th is nonsense, I^ady Pou nce-Pellott says, " . . . I d on't w ant to be ru d e, bu t I've listened to as m u ch nonsense tonight as I can b ea r ." Polly hap p ens to be her hu sband and she will not have him fou ght over "a s if he were a fish h ead ." She loses her com posure before her guests, betraying, as the lad y pu blisher com m ents, "a most extraord inary attitu d e,"—an attitu d e w hich is im m ed iately copied by her hu sband in his inspired m u rd er sp ree; it is, in other words, Ju d y w ho puts the Pu nch in Pontiu s Pilate. H e d rops the mask of cold , logical, lying irony and speaks im passioned tru th . Wh at he speaks abou t is Ord er. A d rop p ed h errin g? N o. Ord er until this m om ent has been his single god —th e stern bu t hu m an ord er of a ju d ge. Now inhu m an, im personalized ord ers—com m u nism, psychology, religion, econom ics, bu reau cracy, w hich have as their goals and gods the d estru ction of ind ivid u ality—

SONGS OF

EXPERIENCE

161

threaten to squash the individual Pounce-Pellott; his only defense is disorder and destruction : Order I have forever loved and ensued. Here and there I have imposed order upon this eel-pit of a world. I have killed my wife and my child. I have sold their bodies for honour; So I must be punished. I have washed my hands of my God and killed Him. I have sold Him for order. Therefore I must be punished. In the pride of his godlike distance, of his mental superiority over the eel-pit, he allowed his wife's and daughter's spiritual sicknesses, but now he joins the eels to bruise and be bruised. In the pride of self-sufficiency he sold his God, but now he stands humiliated, having slain the devils of pride within himself, "the soothsayers . . . Who did not know." In the pride of his mental superiority over the Jews who clamored for Christ's death—and to preserve order—Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the man whose truth, if admitted, would destroy order. As the play ends, Pounce-Pellott is afraid, expecting punishment from a God of Order, prepared to be taken away by the De'il, even more afraid when the De'il rejects him and he is left alone; he prepares to jest again, as Pilate jested. The debate between Order and Disorder, moreover, has been continuous throughout the play, not restricting itself to the conflict between husband and wife. Mascara's irresponsibility is a variation on the theme. About music the artist says, "Nobody practises nowadays. You've got to express yourself nowadays." "Every artist kens fine there are Laws," he says; he is an A.R.C.M. and an R.S.W.: "But God forgive me if I start laying down the law on the strength of that." Asked on the strength of what he lays down the law—as he obviously

162

JA M E S BRID IE : C LO W N AN D

P H I L O SO P H E R

d oes at th e sym p osiu m —h e d oes n ot kn ow . "T h e w orld itsel's m iracle en o u g h " for h im , bu t in th e n ext br eath h e calls its in h abitan ts "blood th irsty b r u tes." Th is ju d gm en t in trod u ces th e m a jo r con flict betw een O r d er an d Disor d er in th e p lay, Pou n ce-Pellott's p ar t in w h ich sym bolizes Br ita in 's an d , by exten sion , Eu r op e's role. Br id ie w rites in his "N o t e " to th e p lay th at Pilate makes not a bad p rototyp e for the w ell-m eaning, intelligent, d evoted instru m ents of the Pax Britan n ica, w hich is equ ally hated by its enemies and its beneficiaries and seems now to have fad ed ou t. It is to be said , how ever, th at am id all the w elter of sociological theories, m any of us are still u tterly persu ad ed th at Britain rose from th e azure w ave at H eaven's com m an d and th at it still has a sense of its vocation and resp onsibilities—that it invented Dem ocracy (in its n on -p ejorative sense); and th at it is still p rep ared to interp ret Dem ocracy accord in g to the revelation granted only to Br itain ." W h et h er Brid ie w as thu s p ersu ad ed is ir r elev a n t; Pou n cePellott is as he m u rd ers th e th eorists, as h e in terp rets d em ocr a cy w ith his stick. Th e p lay is p olitical an d social; it is abou t th e "sickn ess of Im p er ia lism ," as W in ifr ed Ban n ister w rites." It is a bou t a m an w h o, h avin g im p osed th e ord er of th e West u p on th e Ea st, retu rn s to find th e West in ch aos. In th is ligh t, M r s. Crow e, th e Am er ican p u blish er, is an En glish m an 's criticism of m aterialistic A m er ica , eager to exp loit "T h e Declin e an d Fall of th e British Em p ir e " (M r s. Cr ow e feels th at "t h e u n load in g of th e In d ia n Em p ir e w as a very, very sign ifican t occasion . . . It is th orou gh ly realised h ow th e British Islan d s h ave su ffered by assisting us to salvage civ ilisa tion "); she is a criticism , too, of ign oran tly op tim istic A m er ica ("In th e m ean tim e, govern m en t of th e p eop le for th e p eop le an d by th e p eop le h as n ot yet p erished from th e ea r t h . An d th an k God for it. If it show s signs of d oin g so, th e p eop le can give th eir

SONGS OF

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163

governors the bums' rush. . . . Daddy is sitting on the banks of the Potomac/ Perfectly cosy with a great big gun"). But "the sickness of Imperialism" can be translated

"the

sin of pride," and Mrs. Crowe can symbolize for PouncePellott the compromise of integrity and, on the other hand, innocence before the Fall. T h e play, then, has a transcendent moral or religious theme, and the conflict between West and East, between O r d e r and Disorder, becomes an argument about the nature of man and the purpose, if any, of existence in a territory larger than the British Empire. Pounce-Pellott, speaking as Western man, addresses the symposium : T h e Wisdom of the East is that it is all no good. Mankind are thieves and liars and murderers and oppressors. And disease and famine we have always with us And we must shift as we can till Death comes to take us. The sun sets later in the West And we have not come upon such wisdom. It is ours to seek and to find, T o invent, to manipulate Rocks, rivers, metals, bodies and souls; In our search we found the East And brought with us the will to exist, T h e illusion of continuing existence . . . Pounce-Pellott as a judge of men has innocently denied that they are thieves and liars, upholding the rationality of man and of the universe. In the disillusionment of experience he is tempted to sell his beliefs as "memories" for the "Gilt-edged, golden-bodied Security" offered by Mrs. Crowe; compromise, she says, and admit that "According to your lights, you've done a good deal of good, though it may have been for a mistaken imperialistic policy . . . " But Mrs. Crowe's solution is rejected :

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JA M E S BRID IE : C L O W N AN D P H I L O SO P H E R

I do not w an t y o u , M rs . Cro w e . I hav e the impulse to be free. Yo u cosset m e an d p am p e r m e , M ate rn al l y and tactf u l l y .

Western philosophy, then, d istorted by the prid e of Pou ncePellott's tem p ters, w ho as symbols of tend encies in m ankind are symbols of tend encies w ithin Pou nce-Pellott him self, is rejected in the ju d ge's final ch oice; it is slain in an act of d estru ction and d isord er. "Bu t, by the God I sold, I will not go qu ietly," Pou nce-Pellott says, acknow led ging that he has sold out Disord er to impose Ord er upon his existence. But his act of Disord er represents n o com p rom ise of belief; by it he m anip u lates bod ies, in the fashion of the West, in a continu ing search for wisdom. With the soothsayers d ead , he can aw ait an unrevealed tru th larger than that of the West or the East and encom passing both . Th a t he believes there is such a reply to his qu estioning is suggested by his d ecision to allow an ap p rentice p lu m ber and electrician , Toby Messan, to live and to m arry his d au ghter. It is to a you th who does not know w ho he is becau se he has "n o rieht begu n , yet" that Pou nce-Pellott entru sts Baby's salvation, d eclaring by this act his faith in the unknown bu t also his faith in salvation. H e does not stop at qu estioning the purpose of the god s; by his action he affirms a faith in a final purpose. H is d isord ered and d estructive action testifies to a transcend ent ord er, for he acts as a rational m an d eliberately choosing an irrational act, not as a hypnotized au tom aton (the Reverend Bead le calls Ketch 's conviction "h yp n otic au tom atism "). H e is a testim ony of the possibility of hu m an insp iration as he stand s on the stage "W it h Master's intention d isplayed like a sign board ." H e stand s, finally, a prod igal son, both proud and hu m ble, before a fath er whose presence, althou gh only im p lied , electrifies the air. Wh at is Brid ie's intention in The Baikie Charivari? Stru ctu r-

SO N G S O F E XP E R I E N C E

165

ally he intend s a m iracle play, he says. Th e play is an intellectu al fantasia, as Worsley says, non-natu ralistic, poetic in stru ctu re as well as in langu age because it is p oetic in concep tion ; its action interp rets one sym bol—the internal conflict of a hu m an soul as symbolized by the struggle of Pou nce-Pellott against his tem p ters. Th e control in the use of the symbol of Pontiu s Pilate and the originality in the use of the characters from the Pu nch and Ju d y show have by now been d em onstrated . Th ere rem ains to m ention the use of verse, occasionally rhym ed , w hich achieves, as Weales w rites, "a n intensity that is not so m u ch the result of verbal ingenu ity, as it is of the em otional and intellectu al investm ent of th e h er o ."3 Philosop hically Brid ie is still concerned with the p arad ox involved in the impossibility of arriving at absolu te tru th bu t the necessity—the m oral d u ty—of choosing and d efend ing if necessary tru th and good over evil. In his last story of tem p tation, he is specifically concerned with m an 's tem p tation to be less than him self, to becom e d ehu m anized and im p ersonal, to su bord inate his ind ivid u ality and will to some collective im pulse, in an effort to ad ap t and ad ju st to an im p ersonal environm ent. In Pou nce-Pellott, as in Gillie, he creates a ch aracter whose soul will not ad ap t itself to its environm ent, a ch aracter who resists society w hen it is w rong—not by any absolu te stand ard , bu t accord ing to his lights. The Baikie Charivari suggests a su m m ary of Brid ie's w ork, a last word on the them es w hich teased his m ind d uring the tw enty years that follow ed The Switchback and that carried Mallaby to th e East and back again . A stud y of Brid ie is com p leted , then, w hen the last im p lication of the play has been exp lored . If su ch finality is not entirely possible, it is only fu rther testim ony to Brid ie's geniu s.

Notes CHAPTER I 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16

"Introduction," Meeting at Night, by James Bridie, London, Constable, 1956, pp. viii-x. Tedious and Brief, London, Constable, 1945, pp. 14, 15, 20. London, Constable, 1934, pp. vii, ix-xi. London, Constable, 1939, p. 298. The Theatre Book of the Year, 1950-1951, New York, Knopf, 1951, pp. 31-32. See Frederick Lumley, Trends in 20th Century Drama, rev. ed., London, Rockliff, 1960, pp. 221-223, and a review of "Dr. Angelus," The New Statesman and Nation, n.s. X X X I V (August 9, 1947), 110. Ed. Phyllis Hartnoll, rev. ed., New York, Oxford University Press, 1957, p. 96. "A Fig from Thistles," The Nation, C X X X I X (October 24, 1934), 486—487. "Drama," The Nation, C L X X I (September 30, 1950), 295. In Search of Theater, New York, Knopf, 1953, pp. 42-43. See Derek Verschoyle's criticism of Jonah and the Whale, " T h e Theater," The Spectator, C X L I X (December 16, 1932), 861; " T h e Last T r u m p , " The New Statesman and Nation, n.s. X V I (October 1, 1938), 493; It Depends What You Mean: James Redfern, " T h e Theatre," The Spectator, C L X X I I I (October 20, 1944), 359; "Dr. Angelus," The New Statesman and Nation, X X X I V , 110. "Punch on the Clyde," (July 24, 1953), 474. "George Bernard Shaw," Men of Turmoil, New York, Minton, Balch, 1935, p. 137. "The English Spotlight," Theatre Arts, X X X I (November, 1947), 47. " T h e Theatre," The Spectator, C L X X X I (November 5, 1948), 589. Speaight et al., Since 1939: Drama, The Novel, Poetry, Prose Literature, London, Phoenix House, 1949, p. 38.

167

168 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29

30

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND PHILOSOPHER

London, Macmillan, 1948, pp. 38-39. Men of Turmoil, p. 135. "Edinburgh Festival: Theatre," The Spectator, C L X X X V (August 25, 1950), 241. Men of Turmoil, p. 140. "Auld Nick and Mr. Bridie," Theatre Arts, X X X I V (July, 1950), 25. Plays for Plain People, London, Constable, 1944, p. 197. All quotations from the play are taken from this edition. Winifred Bannister, James Bridie and His Theatre, London, Rockliff, 1955, p. 153. "Equilibrium," The London Mercury, X X X I X (April, 1939), 589. The Anatomist, 2nd rev. ed., London, Constable, 1932, pp. 66-67. All quotations from the play are taken from this edition. Ibid., p. xiii. Bridie's second but no more clarifying ending for the play, to be used "If a more rapid curtain is desired," has Knox lecturing on the human heart: "The Heart of Man, we are told, is deceitful and desperately wicked. However that may be, it consists of four chambers, the right ventricle, the left ventricle, the left auricle, the right auricle. . . ." 2nd rev. ed., London, Constable, 1932, pp. 67-68. Gerald Weales, Religion in Modern English Drama, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1961, p. 62. Weales writes: "In this mock-romantic play, set in the American Revolutionary War, Dick Dudgeon, a declared worshiper of the Devil, habitually displays a gentleness and kindness that becomes, in the scene in which he lets himself be arrested in the place of the Reverend Anthony Anderson, what might be called Christian sacrifice." "Drama, Broadway Off and On," The Christian Century, LXXIV (November 20, 1957), 1385.

CHAPTER II 1 2 3 4 5 6

2nd rev. ed., London, Constable, 1932, p. 74. All further quotations from The Switchback in this chapter are taken from this edition. Ibid., p. xi. Winifred Bannister, James Bridie and His Theatre, London, Rockliff, 1955, pp. 54-55. London, Constable, 1950, pp. 79-80. The Switchback, p. xi. Bannister, p. 55.

NOTES

169

CHAPTER III 1 2

3

4 5

6 7 8 9

10 11 12 13 14

15

16 17 18 19

Gilbert Wakefield, "Theatre," The Saturday Review, C L I I I (March 19, 1932), 297. Tobias and the Angel, 2nd rev. ed., London, Constable, 1932. T h e "Author's Note" precedes the play on an unnumbered page. All quotations from Tobias and the Angel in this chapter are taken from this edition. Ashley Dukes, " T h e English Scene," Theatre Arts Monthly, X X I I I (October, 1939), 708, and Theophilus Lewis, "Theatre," America, X C V I I I (January 25, 1958), 496. London, Constable, 1956, pp. x-xi. Colonel Wotherspoon and Other Plays, London, Constable, 1934, pp. 22-23. All further quotations from the play are taken from this edition. Introduction to Let's Get a Divorce! and Other Plays, New York, Hill and Wang, 1958, pp. ix-x, xv. London, Constable, 1939, p. 278. See James Bridie, "Sterilization of the Unfit," The Spectator, C L I (November 3, 1933), 623. See Derek Verschoyle, " T h e Theatre," The Spectator, CLI (September 29, 1933), 401; "Theatre," The Saturday Review, C L V I (September 30, 1933), 353; Grenville Vernon, " T h e Play," The Commonweal, X X (October 26, 1934), 618; " W h o Is the Sleeping Clergyman?" The Literary Digest, C X V I I I (October 20, 1934), 27, and W. P. Eaton, "Some New Plays in Print," New York Herald Tribune Books, X (May 6, 1934), 15. One Way of Living, p. 278. " T h e Taming of a Shrew," The Nation, C X L I V (May 8, 1937), 544. " T h e Theatre," The Spectator, C X L V I I I (March 19, 1932), 409. The Saturday Review, C L I I I , 297. Moral Plays, London, Constable, 1936, p. viii. All quotations in this chapter from Marriage Is No Joke and The Black Eye are taken from this collected edition. Bridie has written a "riotous" alternative for Act II , scene i, the scene in which MacGregor abdicates his throne, but the first version is used here. Moral Plays, pp. viii-ix. Colonel Wotherspoon, p. x. Ibid., pp. 294-295. All quotations from The Girl are taken from this edition. "James Bridie: An Appreciation," The Spectator, CLXXXVI (February 2, 1951), 145.

170 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND PHILOSOPHER

Moral Plays, pp. viii-ix. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1956, p. 21. Ibid., p. 24. The terminology is Hughes'. Moral Plays, p. xiii. Ibid., p. viii, and "Author's Note," p. ν (immediately The Black Eye). "The Theatre," The Spectator, CLV (October 18, 1935), In a letter to Dr. T. J. Honeyman, quoted in Winifred James Bridie and His Theatre, London, Rockliff, 1955, Letter to Dr. Honeyman, Bannister, p. 126.

preceding 606. Bannister's p. 126.

CHAPTER IV 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

"The Theatre," The Spectator, CLXXIII (October 20, 1944), 359. James Bridie and His Theatre, London, Rockliff, 1955, pp. 8-9. Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1953, pp. 15, 21, 38-41, 130-131. John Knox and Other Plays, London, Constable, 1949, p. 180. Quotations from It Depends What You Mean later in this chapter are taken from this edition. Bannister, p. 137. Α. V. Cookman, "The Theatre," The London Mercury, XXXVIII (May, 1938), 62. Ashley Dukes, "The English Scene," Theatre Arts Monthly, XXII (June, 1938), 410. The King of Nowhere, London, Constable, 1938, p. 83. All further quotations from the play are taken from this edition. Babes in the Wood, London, Constable, 1938, p. 28. The Spectator, CLXXIII, 359. "The Theatre," The Spectator, CLXXIX (August 8, 1947), 173. "The English Spotlight," Theatre Arts, X X X I (November, 1947), 47. Bannister, p. 165. John Knox and Other Plays, p. 145. All further quotations from Dr. Angelus are taken from this edition. CHAPTER V

1 2 3 4

"Bridie's Last Play," The Baikie Charivari, or The Seven Prophets, A Miracle Play, London, Constable, 1953, p. xii. The Collected Works of Henrik Ibsen, IV, trans. William and Charles Archer, New York, Scribner, 1907, pp. 71, 252. Further quotations from Peer Cynt are taken from this edition. See Chapter II, p. 46. "Bridie's Last Play," p. vii.

NOTES

5

6 7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

171

Meeting at Night, London, Constable, 1956, pp. 14—15. All quotations from the play are taken from this edition. (In a note to the play, the collaboration of Archibald Batty is acknowledged by Bridie's trustees.) Mythology, Boston, Little, Brown, 1942, pp. 155-156. James Pope-Hennessy, "The Theatre," The Spectator, CLXXXII (April 1, 1949), 4 3 8 ; Walter Kerr, "The Stage," The Commonweal, LII (October 6, 1950), 630; John Lardner, "Dame Edith's Salvaging Co.," The New Yorker, X X V I (September 30, 1950), 52; "Daphne Laureola," Theatre Arts, X X X I V (November, 1950), 11. Daphne Laureola, London, Constable, 1949, pp. 64—65. All further quotations from the play are taken from this edition. See Chapter I, p. 21, for Margaret Marshall's criticism of Daphne Laureola. "The Theatre," Life and Letters Today, L X I (1949), 169. "Drama," The Nation, C L X X I (September 30, 1950), 295. Moral Plays, London, Constable, 1936, p. vi. Mr. Gillie, London, Constable, 1950, p. 71. All further quotations from the play are from this edition. "Le T h e i t r e de James Bridie," Etudes Anglaises, X (1957), 303. The Baikie Charivari, London, Constable, 1953, p. 5. All further quotations from the play are taken from this edition. See John Knox and Other Plays, London, Constable, 1949, pp. 132— 137 for the scene. "The Last Bridie," The New Statesman and Nation, n.s. X L I V (October 18, 1952), 448. The Baikie Charivari, p. xiii. Religion in Modern English Drama, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1961, p. 90. The Baikie Charivari, p. ix. Ibid., pp. xiii-xiv. James Bridie and His Theatre, London, Rockliff, 1955, p. 183. Weales, p. 88.

Chronology

1888

O sb or n e H e n r y M a v o r b or n Ja n u a r y 3, in Gl a sgo w , Sc o t l a n d , son of H en r y A. a n d Ja n e t (O sb or n e) M a v o r . 1 8 8 8 - 1 8 9 3 Li v e d at East Ki l b r i d e , n e a r Gl a sgo w . 1894 Re t u r n e d t o Gl asgo w , t o at t e n d sch ool (Glasgow H i g h Sch ool, Gl asgo w Ac a d e m y ); su m m e r s sp e n t at Ki l c r e gga n on t h e Fi r t h of Cly d e . 1 9 0 4 - 1 9 1 3 St u d i e d m e d icin e at Gl a sgo w Un iv e r sit y , w h e r e h e w as (in 1 9 0 6 - 1 9 0 9 ) a con t r ib u t in g ed it or of t h e G l a sgo w Un iv e r sit y M agazin e . 1913 Q u a l i fi e d as a d oct or (M .B., C h . B ) ; jo i n e d t h e st aff of t h e Gl asgo w Ro y al I n fir m ar y. 1 9 1 4 - 1 9 1 9 Se r ve d in t h e Ro y a l Ar m y M e d i c a l Co r p s, in Fr a n c e , M e so p o t a m i a, P er sia, I n d i a, a n d T u r k e y . 1919 Bou gh t a m e d ical p r act ice in G l a sgo w ; jo i n e d st aff of Vi c t o r i a I n fir m ar y. 1923 Sold p r act i ce ; b e cam e a con su lt in g p h y sician t o Vi c t o r i a I n fi r m a r y ; ap p oin t e d pr ofessor , An d e r son Co l l e ge of M e d i c i n e ; jo i n e d t h e b oar d of t h e Scot t ish N a t i o n al T h e a t r e So c i e t y ; m a r r i e d R o n a Lo ck e Br e m m e r . 1926 Fir st book , Some Talk of Alexander, p u b lish e d b y M e t h u e n in Lo n d o n . 1928 The Sunlight Sonata first p e r fo r m e d M a r c h 20 at t h e Ly r i c Th e at r e , Gl asgo w , p r o d u c e d by T y r o n e Gu t h r i e . 1929 The Sw itchback first p e r fo r m e d M a r c h 9 a n d W hat It Is to Be Y oung, N o v e m b e r 2, by Ba r r y Ja c k so n ' s Bi r m i n gh a m Re p e r t o r y Th e a t r e . 1930 The Anatomist first p e r fo r m e d Ju l y 6 at t h e Ly c e u m T h e a t r e , Ed i n b u r gh ; Tobias and the Angel first p e r fo r m e d N o v e m b e r 20 at t h e Ca m b r i d ge Fest ival T h e a t r e (st ar r in g T y r o n e Gu t h r i e , An m e r H al l , Fl o r a Ro b so n ) ; The Girl W ho Did Not W ant to Go

173

174

1931

1932

1933 1934

1935 1936 1937

1938

1939

1942

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND

PHILOSOPHER

to Kuala Lumpur first performed in November by the Scottish National Players at the Lyric Theatre. The Dancing Bear first performed in February by the Scottish National Players, Lyric Theatre; a revised version of The Switchback first performed August 8 at the Malvern Festival (starring Ralph Richardson, Cedric Hardwicke); Bridie's first London production, The Anatomist, in October at the Westminster Theatre (starring Henry Ainley, Flora Robson), produced by Tyrone Guthrie. Tobias and the Angel first performed in London, in March at the Westminster; Jonah and the Whale and The Amazed Evangelist first performed December 12 at the Westminster. A Sleeping Clergyman first performed July 29 at the Malvern Festival, moved to the Piccadilly Theatre, London. First Broadway production, A Sleeping Clergyman, in October by the Theatre Guild (starring Ruth Gordon); Marriage Is No Joke first performed February 6 at the Globe Theatre, London (starring Ralph Richardson); Colonel Wotherspoon first performed March 23 by the Scottish National Players, Lyric T h e a t r e ; Mary Read (a collaboration with Claud Gumey) first performed November 21 at His Majesty's Theatre, London, produced by Tyrone Guthrie, with Robert Donat, Flora Robson, W. G. Fay. The Black Eye first performed October 11 at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London. Storm in a Teacup first performed February 5 at the Royalty Theatre, London, produced by W. G. Fay. Storm in a Teacup, retitled Storm Over Patsy, performed in New York in March by the Theater Guild; Tobias and the Angel performed in New York in May at the Provincetown Playhouse; Susannah and the Elders first performed October 31 by the London International Theatre Club at the Duke of York's Theatre. The King of Nowhere first performed March 15 at the Old Vic (starring Laurence Olivier); Babes in the Wood first performed June 13 at the Embassy Theatre, London; The Last Trump first performed at the Malvern Festival, moved to the Duke of York's Theatre. The Golden Legend of Shults first performed July 24 at the Perth Repertory Theatre; What Say They? first performed at the Malvern Festival (starring Alastair Sim); Bridie awarded Doctor of Laws degree by Glasgow University; rejoined R.A.M.C. as major. Joined the Council for the Encouragement of Music and the Arts, of which he became chairman of the Scottish Committee; The

CHRONOLOGY

1943

1944 1945

1946 1947 1948 1949 1950

1951 1952 1954

175

Dragon and the Dove and A Change for the Worse first performed by the Pilgrim Players in August at the Lyric Theatre; Jonah 3 first performed in November at the Theatre of the Unnamed Society, Manchester; Holy Isle first performed in December at the Arts Theatre, London, produced by Alastair Sim. Mr. B o l f r y first performed August 8 at the Westminster (produced by and starring Alastair Sim); the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre, of which Bridie was chairman of the board, founded; its opening production, October 11 at the Athenaeum Theatre, was Holy Isle. It Depends What You Mean first performed October 12 at the Westminster; The Forrigan Reel first performed December 25 by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre at the Athenaeum. Revised version of The Forrigan Reel first performed October 24 at Sadler's Wells; Lancelot first performed October 30 by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre at the Royal Princess's Theatre, afterward the permanent home of the group. Awarded C.B.E. Dr. Angelus first performed July 30 at the Phoenix Theatre, London (produced by and starring Alastair Sim); John Knox first performed August 18 by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre. Gog and Magog first performed December 1 at the Arts TTieatre. Daphne Laureola first performed March 23 at Wyndham's Theatre, London (presented by Laurence Olivier and starring Edith Evans). As governor of Academy, founded the first school of drama in Scotland—the College of Drama of the Royal Scottish Academy of Music; Mr. Gillie first performed February 13 by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre; Mr. Gillie first performed in London March 9 at the Garrick Theatre (with Alastair Sim directing, starring); The Queen's Comedy first performed August 21 for the Edinburgh Festival by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre, directed by Tyrone Guthrie and John Casson; Daphne Laureola performed in New York in September at the Music Box. Died January 29 of a vascular condition at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. The Baikie Charivari first performed October 6 by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre. Meeting at Night (revised by Archibald Batty) first performed by the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre.

Bibliography WORKS OF JAMES BRIDIE Dramatic. (When the plays collected in each volume were earlier published separately, they are listed in chronological order of publication.) The Switchback, The Pardoner's Tale, The Sunlight Sonata. London: Constable and Co., 1930. (The Switchback, 2nd rev. ed., 1932.) A Sleeping Clergyman and Other Plays. London: Constable and Co., 1934. The Anatomist, 1931 (2nd rev. ed., 1932); Tobias and the Angel, 1931 (2nd rev. ed., 1932); The Amazed Evangelist, 1931; Jonah and the Whale, 1932; A Sleeping Clergyman, 1933. Colonel Wotherspoon and Other Plays. London: Constable and Co., 1934. Colonel Wotherspoon, What It Is to Be Young, The Dancing Bear, The Girl Who Did Not Want to Go to Kuala Lumpur. Mrs. Waterbury's Millennium. London: Samuel French, 1935. Moral Plays. London : Constable and Co., 1936. Marriage Is No Joke, 1934 (2nd rev. ed., 1936); Mary Read, 1935; The Black Eye, 1935. Storm in a Teacup. London: Constable and Co., 1936. (Acting Edition: Samuel French, 1937.) The King of Nowhere and Other Plays. London: Constable and Co., 1938. The King of Nowhere, Babes in the Wood, The Last Trump. Susannah and the Elders and Other Plays. London : Constable and Co., 1940. What Say They? 1939; Susannah and the Elders, The Golden Legend of Shults, The Kitchen Comedy. Plays for Plain People. London: Constable and Co., 1944. Mr. Bolfry, Lancelot, Holy Isle, Jonah 3, The Sign of the Prophet Jonah, The Dragon and the Dove. John Knox and Other Plays. London: Constable and Co., 1949. It Depends What You Mean, 1948; John Knox, Dr. Angelus, The Forrigan Reel. Daphne Laureola. London: Constable and Co., 1949. Mr. Gillie. London: Constable and Co., 1950.

177

178

J A M E S BRIDIE : C L O W N AND PHILOSOPHER

The Queen's Comedy. London: Constable and Co., 1952. The Baikie Charivari. London : Constable and Co., 1953. Meeting at Night. London: Constable and Co., 1956. Non-Dramatic. (Miscellaneous periodical articles are not included in this list.) Some Talk of Alexander. London: Methuen and Co., 1926. Autobiography. Mr. Bridie's Alphabet for Little Glasgow Highbrows. London: Constable and Co., 1934. Essays. "George Bernard Shaw," in Great Contemporaries. London: Cassell and Co., 1935 (published as Men of Turmoil, New York : Minton, Balch and Co., 1935). Criticism. One Way of Living. London: Constable and Co., 1939. Autobiography. Tedious and Brief. London: Constable and Co., 1944. Short plays, fragments, essays, poetry, film and radio scripts. The British Drama. Glasgow: Craig and Wilson, 1945. Criticism. A Small Stir: Letters on the English, with Moray McLaren. London : Hollis and Carter, 1949. Essays. SELECTED C R I T I C I S M OF JAMES BRIDIE Brief articles of criticism that have been fully identified in the notes are not repeated in this list. Bannister, Winifred. James Bridie and His Theatre. London: Rockliff, 1955. Gerber, Ursula. James Bridies Dramen. Bern: Francke Verlag, 1961 (Swiss Studies in English). Greene, Anne. "Priestley, Bridie, and F r y : The Mystery of Existence in Their Dramatic Works." Ph. D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1957. Chapter III. Marcel, Gabriel, "Le Thiätre de James Bridie," Etudes Anglcäses, X (1957), 291-303. Weales, Gerald. Religion in Modern English Drama. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1961. Chapter IV.

Index

Bacon, Francis, 124 Bannister, Winifred, 9, 36-37, 97, 99, 162 Barrie, James, 17 Bentley. Eric, 22, 54-55, 56, 57 Blake, William, 26 Bridie, James THE ANATOMIST, 23-24, 28-31, 32, 33, 54 "The Anatomy of Failure," 69, 76, 80, 82, 139 BABES IN THE WOOD, 9 9 , 104—1 1 3 ,

114, 119, 127-128, 132, 140, 159 THE

BAIKIE

CHARIVARI,

9,

33,

IT DEPENDS WHA T YOU MEAN, 2 2 ,

97-99, 113-120, 122, 127, 130, 132 JONAH AND THE W H A L E , 2 2

99-104, 106, 114, 123-124, 126, 127, 138

THE KING OF NOWHERE,

THE L A S T T R U M P ,

22

MARRIAGE IS NO JOKE, 3 3 , 5 1 , 5 3 ,

69-80, 82, 84, 106 MEETING AT NIGHT, 5 2 , 7 9 ,

25-28, 31, 32, 33, 54, 60, 88, 98, 103, 110, 111, 113, 127 MR. GILLIE, 127-128, 129, 132, 140-148, 154, 165 ONE W A Y OF LIVING, 18-19, 55, 56 "Preface," COLONEL WOTHERMR. B O L F R Y,

127-128, 129-130, 132, 140, 148-165 THE BLACK EYE, 33, 51, 82-96, 130, 140, 148 COLONEL WOTHERSPOON, 52-54 DAPHNE LAUREOLA, 19-20, 21, 129, 132-140, 143, 145, 148, 154

THE QUEEN'S COMEDY, 4 6 ,

THE DRAGON AND THE DOVE, 2 4

A SLEEPING

DR.

ANCEI.US,

22,

23,

29,

99,

113-114, 120-127, 150 GO TO KUALA LUMPUR, 5 1 ,

82, 130-131 GOG AND MAGOG,

22

SPOON AND OTHER P L A Y S ,

76-

17-

18, 77 CLERGYMAN,

130

20-21,

52, 55-57 THE SUNLIGHT SONATA, 3 6 ,

THE GIRL WHO DID NOT W A N T TO

130-

132

38

25, 27-28, 31, 33, 35-50, 51, 54, 68, 76, 95, 96, 98, 99, 130, 139, 140, 152, 165

THE S W I T C H B A C K ,

180

J A M E S BRIDIE : CLOWN AND PHILOSOPHER

' T h e T h e a t r e , " 16-17 31-32, 33, 51-69, 76, 79, 80, 83, 84, 89, 91, 130, 140 Browning, Robert, 89 TOBIAS

AND

THE

ANGEL,

Carlson, J a m e s , 33 Carlyle, Thomas, 141, 146 Crawford, Iain, 25 Diack, Hunter, 120, 126 Disher, M . Willson, 79

Lardner, John, 133 Linklater, Eric, 24 Marcel, Gabriel, 147 M a r s h a l l , M a r g a r e t , 21-22, 139 M c L a r e n , M o r a y , 25, 37 Milton, John, 36, 42, 45, 48, 96 Nathan, George J e a n , 19, 22 Neveux, Georges, 22 Olivier, Laurence, 100

Eliot, T . S., 33 Elliot, W a l t e r , 129-130, 152, 160 Evans, Edith, 19, 133, 136

Priestly, J . B., 15, 16, 52, 53, 55

Fleming, Peter, 23

Scot, R e g i n a l d , 25 S h a w , G. B., 10, 23, 24, 25, 28, 33-34, 98, 101 S i m . Alastair, 121 Speaight, Robert, 24 Stokes, Sewell, 23, 120 Synge, J . M „ 22, 78

Guthrie, Tyrone, 36 Hamilton, Edith, 132 Herring, Robert, 136 Hughes, Leo, 80 Ibsen, Henrik, 10, 97-98, 120-121, 127, 129-130, 147, 152, 160 Jeffrey, W i l l i a m , 20 Kerr, Walter, 133 Krutch, Joseph Wood, 20-22, 57, 97-98, 121

Redfern, J a m e s , 97, 120

Verschoyle, Derek, 64-65, 84 Wakefield, Gilbert, 65 Wareing, Alfred, 36 Weales, Gerald, 154, 165 Worsley, T . C., 151, 165 Yeats, W Β , 78