Let me tell you all about it.
I was introduced to Stanley Houghton in Manchester by Jack5 Kahane—the latter a most brilliant and engaging personality who knew everybody: or, rather, everybody knew him.
“This,” said Kahane, indicating Houghton, “is one of Miss Horniman’s pets. She is doing a play of his this week at the Gaiety. Now, let me see, Stanley, what is the name of your little play?”
Houghton laughed deprecatingly.
“Oh, I saw it last night,” said I, “and jolly good it was. But I’ve seen another play of yours besides The Younger Generation; it was founded on a story by Guy de Maupassant. That, also, was tremendously amusing.”
He frowned, and I understood from the way that he 56looked over my head that I had displeased6 him. For a moment he was silent, then:
“I’ve just been reading some of your verses in The English Review,” said he; “quite nice, quite nice.”
So then I examined him closely and saw a tall, fair youth, with plenty of straw-coloured hair, a prominent, rather crooked7 nose, and a manner of painful self-consciousness. I believe that, from that moment, we distrusted each other most heartily8. We parted a few minutes later and I think Houghton must have shared my suspicion and regret that we should often have to meet after that date. Kahane was and is (though he has been in France these three years and I in Macedonia) my most intimate friend, and had lately “taken up” Houghton, and whenever Kahane did a thing he did it pretty thoroughly9. And friends of a friend are bound to tumble across each other continually.
Later in the day I protested to Kahane.
“What on earth has induced you to take up this man Houghton?” I asked.
“He amuses me,” said Jack. “And, really, you know, one or two of his little things are quite promising10. When he bores me I rag him. And then he loses his temper. Il m’amuse, and that’s all I require from him.”
Shortly after I was elected a member of a funny little coterie11 in Manchester, called the Swan Club. Kahane had founded it. There were twelve of us altogether: Kahane; Stanley Houghton; Harold Brighouse (whose play, Hobson’s Choice, is making “big money” in London at the moment of writing); Charles Abercrombie (now a Lt.-Colonel and a C.B.); Walter Mudie, the best of good fellows; Ernest Marriott, artist; W. Price-Heywood, accountant and leader-writer; myself and a few hangers-on of the Arts. We used to meet for lunch at a shabby little restaurant in Peter Street, Manchester, opposite the 57Theatre Royal, and we did our utmost to induce each other to talk about ourselves.
In this little coterie Houghton was a veritable whale among the minnows. He was also a fish out of water. From the very first his success spoiled him. He would take himself ponderously12. Brighouse worshipped success, so he worshipped Houghton. The rest of us, if we worshipped anything at all, worshipped genius, and as Kahane was the only one among us who had a touch of that divine quality, we rather tended to worship him. But Kahane frittered away his gifts; he made a lot of money by dint13 of working about an hour a day and by the sheer force of his personality. For the rest he played and played hard. He talked; he ragged14; he listened to music and saw plays; he fell in love; he indulged harmless vices15; and he wrote two wonderful plays, full of faults, but streaked16 with originality17, with fire and with colour. In effect, he could beat both Houghton and Brighouse at their own game, and they knew it. But, at that time, playwriting with Kahane was only a game; with the other two it was deadly earnest.
Houghton and Brighouse were something (and, I gathered, something not very brilliant) in the city. Quite what that something was I do not know, though I remember seeking out Brighouse once in a dark warehouse18 smelling of damp cloth. Every afternoon Houghton and Brighouse would close their ledgers19, or petty-cash books, or whatever it was they did close, and rush off home—Brighouse to catch, perhaps, his six-five P.M. train to Eccles, and Houghton to jump gymnastically (he played hockey, I believe) on to a passing tram bound for Alexandra Park. After a hurried meal, out with the MSS., the notebooks, the typescript and to work! And how hard they did work!
I remember Brighouse telling me some years ago that he had written more than thirty plays, but I cannot 58conceive that anybody but himself has read them all. Brighouse slogged, and he beat so long at the door of success that at last it opened to him. Houghton also slogged, but in a dandified way. He was clever, he was cute, and he played his cards well.
. . . . . . . .
Houghton was, not without full justice, called the leader of the Manchester School of dramatists. He was hard; he was unimaginative; he was unromantic. But he was extraordinarily20 apt, and he had a neat and tidy brain. Close must have been that union of souls that bound his soul to the soul of Miss Horniman. Miss Horniman never (well, hardly ever) produced a romantic play, and Stanley Houghton never wrote one. He was out to “make good,” and Miss Horniman helped him to go one better.
I need scarcely say that Houghton was, so far as his plays were concerned, an industrious21 man of business. When the real artist has finished a work, he ceases to take interest in it; but, with Houghton, when a play was completed his interest in it immediately intensified22. He sent his plays everywhere: to the provinces, to London, to America, to agents. As soon as a play came back, “returned with thanks,” out it went again by the next post. And he pulled strings—oh! ever so gently, but he pulled them.
Though quite a few of his plays had been produced in the north, and though he had written some clever dramatic criticism for The Manchester Guardian23, he was unknown in London till the Stage Society produced Hindle Wakes. Then Fame came to him and knocked him off his feet. It is impossible to imagine a man more conscious of his success. His consciousness of it made him, on occasion, tongue-tied. In conversation he could be ready, and his repartee24 was frequently brilliant, but during the years I knew him his attitude always suggested that he 59anticipated and feared attack. I saw him once at the bar of the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, in the midst of a group of friends. I was not of their company, but I noticed that he stood silent, erect25 and strained, his head a little thrown back, his face set. Then, and on many other occasions, it seemed to me that he longed to break down the feeling of awkwardness—to throw off the obsession26 of self-consciousness—that overcame him.
But I must confess that I rarely saw him in company in which there were not two or three who were hostile to him; therefore I saw him but seldom at his best. Not infrequently, there was a “dead set” against him, and if the banter27 were edged with malice28 (as it not infrequently was) he withered29 like a lily under the grip of a frost. The truth is, he was not modest and he could not feign30 modesty31. His vanity was neither charming nor aggressive; it was cold and distant, without geniality32, without humour. Genius is one of the wombs of vanity, but Houghton had no genius; there was not a trace of magic in him; he was merely extraordinarily clever, closely observant and possessed33 of an instinctive34 sense of form and of literary values.
. . . . . . . .
There came a day when it entered my head to interview him for The Manchester Courier, a paper for which I wrote musical criticism. He accepted my proposal with alacrity35, invited me to the Winter Garden of the Midland Hotel, and provided me with coffee, liqueurs and cigars.
He began by telling me that this was the first time he had been interviewed for the Press.
“An uncomfortable half-hour awaits you, then,” said I, and, on the instant, he began to fidget.
I noticed that he was dressed for the occasion; he looked prosperous and literary and there hung about him just a suspicion of cosmopolitanism36. Not only sartorially37 was he prepared; his mind was in tune4 to the occasion 60and the right pose was donned. That is to say, he was determined38 not to appear conceited39 or self-satisfied; but he did not succeed. He made light of his success in a heavy, emphatic40 way. He praised Hindle Wakes with faint damns, and suggested that this play would soon cease its successful run in London. He was careful not to evince any pleasure in his success, any natural buoyancy of spirit, any momentary41 delight. In a word, he was dull, tactless and insincere. There was nothing boyish or charming or graceful42 in his words; he had on all his heavy armour43 and it banged and clanged as he moved.
When the interview was over he invited me to his father’s house for the evening meal. I went. I went out of curiosity. He did not amuse me, but most certainly he did interest me.
When we had finished our meal he took me to his study. Near the window was a typewriter; in the typewriter was a sheet of paper half covered with script. There were very few erasures.
“I always compose straight on to the machine,” said Houghton.
“Ah yes,” said I, “and so did J. M. Synge. It has always seemed to me remarkable44 that Synge should do that; in your own case, of course, it is not quite so remarkable.”
“It is a comedy for Cyril Maude” (I think he said Cyril Maude). “He wired to me the other day to go up to London to see him. Yes; he wanted a comedy, and he wanted me to write it. That was about a fortnight ago. Well, the thing’s nearly finished; in another week it will be on its way to London. Rather quick work, don’t you think?”
“Quite. But all that you have told me I know already, and, really, you must know that I know. You see, Brighouse comes to the Swan Club day by day, drinks his 61beer—you know, the conventionally British pint45 he will have in a pewter mug——”
“Yes; Harold is very British,” interrupted Houghton.
“Isn’t he? Well, as I was saying, Brighouse drinks his beer, fixes his eyes on his plate, and then spasmodically tells us all the news about you. He told us, for example, about Cyril Maude giving you a hundred (or was it a thousand?) guineas for the sight of a new comedy; he told us about The Daily Mail wanting articles from you at some colossal46 figure; he told us about the host of people who send you wires every day; he told us about——”
Houghton stirred uneasily, but he looked intensely gratified.
“He told us about everything,” I added, after a slight pause. “What you tell him he tells us. But why don’t you come and tell us yourself, Houghton? We never see you at the Swan Club nowadays. It must not be said of you that you desert old friends, that success has made you careless of those you once liked.”
He darted47 a glance at me and decided48, as was indeed the case, that I was attempting to be ironical49.
“The truth is,” said he, “that the company I find at the Swan Club is not always very congenial. One or two new men have been lately introduced——”
He looked away from me meaningly.
“Quite,” said I, unperturbed; “oh, quite.”
“And,” he continued, “I am kept very busy with one thing and another. It is true that I have given up my business and now intend devoting all my energy to literary work, but just at the present moment I am kept at it from dawn to dusk.”
Silence fell upon us, a rather oppressive silence, I think, for I remember hunting about in my mind for something to say. I noticed a copy of The Playboy of the Western World on the little table before us.
“Still reading Synge?” I asked.
62“Yes; still reading Synge,” he replied. Then, after a pause: “A great man, Synge.”
“An interesting man, a curious man,” said I, “but great? Only G. H. Mair, Willie Yeats and high school girls think Synge great, Houghton.”
“Is that so?” asked he languidly.
I invited him to have a cigarette, but he refused. In truth, we were both very uncomfortable and, by the subtle understanding and inverted52 sympathy that hearty53 dislike engenders54, we rose simultaneously55 to our feet, rather hurriedly left the room, and soon found ourselves in the hall downstairs. He opened the front door and we stood for a moment, looking around us.
Next day my interview with Houghton appeared in The Manchester Courier, with a portrait of the young dramatist. I do not remember a word of that article, but I am quite sure it was insincere, without distinction, and full of inanities56; indeed, I would bet at least ten drachmæ that there occur in it such expressions as “inherent modesty,” “charming personality,” “interesting outlook on life,” and so on. A journalist (must I say it?) is like a barrister: he is fee’d to say what is required to be said. At all events, the interview pleased Houghton, for he sent me a copy of Hindle Wakes with a jocular inscription57 on its title-page.
. . . . . . . .
The friendship between Brighouse and Houghton increased in intensity58, and when Arnold Bennett publicly referred to Brighouse in terms of no small admiration59 Houghton decided that his eager disciple60 could be received into the inner sanctum of his coldly fraternal breast. And Brighouse, grateful to Bennett, loudly proclaimed that Milestones61 was “the greatest play since Congreve.”
“But why Congreve, Brighouse?” I asked. “Surely you mean H. J. Byron?”
63But no! He said he meant Congreve.
“I do not,” I said, considerably62 perturbed50, “I do not like to think, Brighouse, that you have stained your virgin63 mind with Congreve.”
“I’ve looked at him,” said he icily. “He wrote comedies. Milestones is a comedy.”
Now, I was used to Brighouse for, from the age of eleven to thirteen I had been at the same school with him, and I remembered how enormously sensitive and how self-contained and how stubborn he was. I also remembered that Rabelaisianism, or Congrevism, or, indeed, any ism that denoted the real philosophic64 vulgarity of the human mind, or any jolly indecent wit, was repellent to him.
“There are, I suppose, expurgated editions of Congreve, Brighouse. I imagine you as a collector of expurgated editions.”
But he buried his nose in his pint of beer and refused further converse65.
Now, such are the influences that one man may have upon another, it came about that the more successful Houghton became, the harder worked Brighouse. Said Brighouse to himself, I imagine: “If Stanley can do all this, why not I?” So he worked desperately66, sloggingly, overwhelmingly. Yet, in spite of all his hard work, he kept a most watchful67 and jealous eye on his contemporaries, and I remember meeting him at one of Miss Horniman’s orgies at the Gaiety Theatre when a new play of Galsworthy’s was given. It was a beautiful play (Galsworthy has not written many beautiful plays), but I regret to say I do not remember its name. At the end of the first act Brighouse was disgustingly “superior,” and at the end of the second he was contemptuous. So I sought a quarrel with him. There are, I think, few emotions so devastating68, and so difficult to control, as the anger that surges upon one when one hears a beautiful work of art, noble, subtle and full of humanity, treated 64with contempt by a man whose vanity has blinded the eyes of his soul. But I do not remember making any attempt to control my anger at Brighouse; rather did I nurse and nourish it, and, when the proper time came, I poured it upon him with generosity69. Harold—or “Brig,” as we used to call him—is too much a man of the world not to know how to deal with an excitable man in a temper, and I remember coming away from our quarrel feeling rather foolish and having a disturbing admiration for Brighouse’s dignity. After this little episode, we were always very polite to each other, and, later on, when we met in London, our meeting was not without some cordiality.
Since these days Brighouse has scored a big success with Hobson’s Choice. He will score other successes. He will die reputed and rich. He will live, some day, in a West End flat and have a cottage in the country from which he will issue at regular intervals70 and take long walks in muddy lanes. I believe he will sedulously71 cultivate the friendship of those who may be of service to him, and he will drink his pint of beer every day of his life. He will be praised twice a year by Sir William Robertson Nicoll. Yes, he will be praised twice a year by Sir William Robertson Nicoll. And when Sir William dies, Mr St John Adcock will take up the cry. And, when the war is over, our successful young dramatist will go to America, where the money comes from.... I should like to see Harold in America.
. . . . . . . .
There came a day when a new one-act play by Houghton was given at the Manchester Gaiety—a play I subsequently saw at a London music hall, its fit home; but I remember neither the play’s title nor its plot. I recollect72, however, that three or four men and women met in the corridor of a London hotel and talked or suggested risky73 things. Rather stupid, I thought it, and it certainly never occurred 65to me that it was immoral74 or nasty; it was merely a dramatic experiment that did not quite come off. But the dramatic critic of The Manchester Guardian—either Mr A. N. Monkhouse or Mr C. E. Montague (I think the former)—“went for” it tooth and nail on the score of its alleged75 immorality76. The criticism was scathing77: it made a wound and then poured acid into the wound. Houghton must have felt the criticism sorely, but when I met him next day he pluckily78 treated it as a matter of no consequence whatever.
“A reasonable man cannot expect always to be understood,” said he, “and I suppose The Manchester Guardian, which has always been very good to me in the past, has a right to scold me if it thinks fit.”
“A scolding, Houghton? Why, you were thrashed.”
“Well, I s’pose I was. But I can stand it.”
Vain men are invariably supersensitive, and for that reason I think Houghton felt every word and act of hostility79; but he never showed weakness under opposition80, and he could hit back when he thought it worth while.
I once witnessed a physical assault upon him after a rather rowdy dinner, when we all took to ragging each other. There was no excuse for the assault, except what excuse may be found in bitter feeling and enmity, but Houghton received the blow without a word, and we who witnessed it neither expostulated with his assailant nor expressed sympathy with his victim. Houghton paled and his large eyes gleamed, and I have no doubt that on a subsequent occasion he settled the matter with the man who was responsible for his humiliation81.
Only a very few men really understood Houghton, and those were men who, like Walter Mudie, had known him intimately in boyhood. Mudie swore by him and would hear no word against him. But there was something forbidding in Houghton’s nature—a barricade82 of reserve that 66he himself had not wilfully83 erected84, but which had been placed there by Nature. It was impossible for people who met him casually85 a few times to form a high opinion either of his intellect or of his personality. I remember Captain James E. Agate86, a most original and brilliant colleague of Houghton’s on The Manchester Guardian, once saying to a group of people: “Don’t you make any mistake about Houghton. He’s not such a fool as he appears.” But it is a very incomplete man who requires such a double-edged defence as that.
Though the contrary has often been stated, Houghton did not, I believe, take much interest in anybody’s work except his own. He patronised a young bank clerk, Charles Forrest, who had written a promising little play that was subsequently, by Houghton’s recommendation, I believe, given in Manchester and Liverpool; but when he came in contact with work that was, in many respects, superior to his own, he was airily superior and supercilious87. He once asked to see a blank-verse play of my own that was given at the Manchester Gaiety, but as I was aware that he knew as much of blank verse as I do of conic sections—which is nothing at all—I refrained from passing on my MS. to him. In other men’s work he looked for faults; in his own he found perfection.
. . . . . . . .
I need scarcely say that when I went to London I did not seek out Houghton, who had settled down in the Metropolis88 some months before me. But we met in the Strand89, he wearing a fur-lined overcoat and looking a trifle like H. B. Irving, and I carrying a load of review books under my arm. We looked at each other; we hesitated; we stopped. Stanley was a trifle languid and, after a few inconsequent remarks, he began telling me the history of his fur overcoat. He had, he said, bought it for five pounds or seven pounds, or some such ridiculously low price, and he had bought it second-hand90.
67And (Fate wills these things) whenever I hear the name Stanley Houghton I think of that rather tall, rather aristocratic, figure in the Strand wearing its second-hand fur-lined overcoat and talking, with embarrassment91, about nothing in particular, standing51 first on one foot and then on the other.
It is, of course, impossible to predict with certainty what further successes Houghton would have achieved had he lived, but there can be little doubt that his sharp and lively talents would have produced plays even more noticeable than Hindle Wakes. A little more experience of life would probably have shown him the futility92 and the destructive effects of his intellectual snobbery93. He was raw and crude, and success did not mellow94 or enlarge him.
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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displeased
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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ponderously
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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warehouse
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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erect
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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banter
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malice
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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possessed
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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alacrity
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cosmopolitanism
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| n. 世界性,世界主义 | |
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sartorially
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determined
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pint
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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engenders
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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pluckily
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| adv.有勇气地，大胆地 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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