“O limèd soul that struggling to be free
Art more engaged!”
Charles Stephen Dale, the subject of my study, was a dramatist and, indeed, something of a celebrity1 in the early years of the twentieth century. That he should be already completely forgotten is by no means astonishing in an age that elects its great men with a charming indecision of touch. The general prejudice against the granting of freeholds has spread to the desired lands of fame; and where our profligate2 ancestors were willing to call a man great in perpetuity, we, with more shrewdness, prefer to name him a genius for seven years. We know that before that period may have expired fate will have granted us a sea-serpent with yet more coils, with a yet more bewildering arrangement of marine3 and sunset tints4, and the conclusion of previous leases will enable us to grant him undisputed possession of Parnassus. If our ancestors were more generous they were certainly less discriminate5; and it cannot be doubted that many of them went to their graves under the impression that it is possible for there to be more than one great man at a time! We have altered all that.
For two years Dale was a great man, or rather the great man, and it is probable that if he had not died he would have held his position for a longer period. When his death was announced, although the notices of his life and work were of a flattering length, the leaderwriters were not unnaturally6 aggrieved7 that he should have resigned his post before the popular interest in his personality was exhausted8. The Censor9 might do his best by prohibiting the performance of all the plays that the dead man had left behind him; but, as the author neglected to express his views in their columns, and the common sense of their readers forbade the publication of interviews with him, the journals could draw but a poor satisfaction from condemning10 or upholding the official action. Dale’s regrettable absence reduced what might have been an agreeable clash of personalities12 to an arid13 discussion on art. The consequence was obvious. The end of the week saw the elevation14 of James Macintosh, the great Scotch15 comedian16, to the vacant post, and Dale was completely forgotten. That this oblivion is merited in terms of his work I am not prepared to admit; that it is merited in terms of his personality I indignantly wish to deny. Whatever Dale may have been as an artist, he was, perhaps in spite of himself, a man, and a man, moreover, possessed17 of many striking and unusual traits of character. It is to the man Dale that I offer this tribute.
Sprung from an old Yorkshire family, Charles Stephen Dale was yet sufficient of a Cockney to justify18 both his friends and his enemies in crediting him with the Celtic temperament19. Nevertheless, he was essentially20 a modern, insomuch that his contempt for the writings of dead men surpassed his dislike of living authors. To these two central influences we may trace most of the peculiarities21 that rendered him notorious and ultimately great. Thus, while his Celtic ?stheticism permitted him to eat nothing but raw meat, because he mistrusted alike “the reeking22 products of the manure-heap and the barbaric fingers of cooks,” it was surely his modernity that made him an agnostic, because bishops23 sat in the House of Lords. Smaller men might dislike vegetables and bishops without allowing it to affect their conduct; but Dale was careful to observe that every slightest conviction should have its place in the formation of his character. Conversely, he was nothing without a reason.
These may seem small things to which to trace the motive24 forces of a man’s life; but if we add to them a third, found where the truth about a man not infrequently lies, in the rag-bag of his enemies, our materials will be nearly complete. “Dale hates his fellow-human — beings,” wrote some anonymous25 scribbler, and, even expressed thus baldly, the statement is not wholly false. But he hated them because of their imperfections, and it would be truer to say that his love of humanity amounted to a positive hatred26 of individuals, and, pace the critics, the love was no less sincere than the hatred. He had drawn27 from the mental confusion of the darker German philosophers an image of the perfect man — an image differing only in inessentials from the idol28 worshipped by the Imperialists as “efficiency.” He did not find — it was hardly likely that he would find — that his contemporaries fulfilled this perfect conception, and he therefore felt it necessary to condemn11 them for the possession of those weaknesses, or as some would prefer to say, qualities, of which the sum is human nature.
I now approach a quality, or rather the lack of a quality, that is in itself of so debatable a character, that were it not of the utmost importance in considering the life of Charles Stephen Dale I should prefer not to mention it. I refer to his complete lack of a sense of humour, the consciousness of which deficiency went so far to detract from his importance as an artist and a man. The difficulty which I mentioned above lies in the fact that, while every one has a clear conception of what they mean by the phrase, no one has yet succeeded in defining it satisfactorily. Here I would venture to suggest that it is a kind of magnificent sense of proportion, a sense that relates the infinite greatness of the universe to the finite smallness of man, and draws the inevitable29 conclusion as to the importance of our joys and sorrows and labours. I am aware that this definition errs30 on the side of vagueness; but possibly it may be found to include the truth. Obviously, the natures of those who possess this sense will tend to be static rather than dynamic, and it is therefore against the limits imposed by this sense that intellectual anarchists31, among whom I would number Dale, and poets, primarily rebel. But — and it is this rather than his undoubted intellectual gifts or his dogmatic definitions of good and evil that definitely separated Dale from the normal men — there can be no doubt that he felt his lack of a sense of humour bitterly. In every word he ever said, in every line he ever wrote, I detect a painful striving after this mysterious sense, that enabled his neighbours, fools as he undoubtedly32 thought them, to laugh and weep and follow the faith of their hearts without conscious realisation of their own existence and the problems it induced. By dint33 of study and strenuous34 observation he achieved, as any man may achieve, a considerable degree of wit, though to the last his ignorance of the audience whom he served and despised, prevented him from judging the effect of his sallies without experiment. But try as he might the finer jewel lay far beyond his reach. Strong men fight themselves when they can find no fitter adversary35; but in all the history of literature there is no stranger spectacle than this lifelong contest between Dale, the intellectual anarch and pioneer of supermen, and Dale, the poor lonely devil who wondered what made people happy.
I have said that the struggle was lifelong, but it must be added that it was always unequal. The knowledge that in his secret heart he desired this quality, the imperfection of imperfections, only served to make Dale’s attack on the complacency of his contemporaries more bitter. He ridiculed36 their achievements, their ambitions, and their love with a fury that awakened37 in them a mild curiosity, but by no means affected38 their comfort. Moreover, the very vehemence39 with which he demanded their contempt deprived him of much of his force as a critic, for they justly wondered why a man should waste his lifetime in attacking them if they were indeed so worthless. Actually, they felt, Dale was a great deal more engaged with his audience than many of the imaginative writers whom he affected to despise for their sycophancy40. And, especially towards the end of his life when his powers perhaps were weakening, the devices which he used to arouse the irritation41 of his contemporaries became more and more childishly artificial, less and less effective. He was like one of those actors who feel that they cannot hold the attention of their audience unless they are always doing something, though nothing is more monotonous42 than mannered vivacity43.
Dale, then, was a man who was very anxious to be modern, but at the same time had not wholly succeeded in conquering his ?esthetic44 sense. He had constituted himself high priest of the most puritanical45 and remote of all creeds47, yet there was that in his blood that rebelled ceaselessly against the intellectual limits he had voluntarily accepted. The result in terms of art was chaos48. Possessed of an intellect of great analytic49 and destructive force, he was almost entirely50 lacking in imagination, and he was therefore unable to raise his work to a plane in which the mutually combative52 elements of his nature might have been reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and vanity passed into the crucible53 to come forth54 unchanged. He lacked the magic wand, and his work never took wings above his conception. It is in vain to seek in any of his plays or novels, tracts55 or prefaces, for the product of inspiration, the divine gift that enables one man to write with the common pen of humanity. He could only employ his curiously56 perfect technique in reproducing the wayward flashes of a mind incapable57 of consecutive58 thought. He never attempted — and this is a hard saying — to produce any work beautiful in itself; while the confusion of his mind, and the vanity that never allowed him to ignore the effect his work might produce on his audience, prevented him from giving clear expression to his creed46. His work will appeal rather to the student of men than to the student of art, and, wantonly incoherent though it often is, must be held to constitute a remarkable59 human document.
It is strange to reflect that among his contemporary admirers Dale was credited with an intellect of unusual clarity, for the examination of any of his plays impresses one with the number and mutual51 destructiveness of his motives60 for artistic61 expression. A noted62 debater, he made frequent use of the device of attacking the weakness of the other man’s speech, rather than the weakness of the other man’s argument. His prose was good, though at its best so impersonal63 that it recalled the manner of an exceptionally well-written leading article. At its worst it was marred64 by numerous vulgarities and errors of taste, not always, it is to be feared, intentional65. His attitude on this point was typical of his strange blindness to the necessity of a pure artistic ideal. He committed these extravagances, he would say, in order to irritate his audience into a condition of mental alertness. As a matter of fact, he generally made his readers more sorry than angry, and he did not realise that even if he had been successful it was but a poor reward for the wanton spoiling of much good work. He proclaimed himself to be above criticism, but he was only too often beneath it. Revolting against the dignity, not infrequently pompous66, of his fellow-men of letters, he played the part of clown with more enthusiasm than skill. It is intellectual arrogance67 in a clever man to believe that he can play the fool with success merely because he wishes it.
There is no need for me to enter into detail with regard to Dale’s personal appearance; the caricaturists did him rather more than justice, the photographers rather less. In his younger days he suggested a gingerbread man that had been left too long in the sun; towards the end he affected a cultured and elaborate ruggedness68 that made him look like a duke or a market gardener. Like most clever men, he had good eyes.
Nor is it my purpose to add more than a word to the published accounts of his death. There is something strangely pitiful in that last desperate effort to achieve humour. We have all read the account of his own death that he dictated69 from the sick-bed — cold, epigrammatic, and, alas70! characteristically lacking in taste. And once more it was his fate to make us rather sorry than angry.
In the third scene of the second act of “Henry V.,” a play written by an author whom Dale pretended to despise, Dame71 Quickly describes the death of Falstaff in words that are too well known to need quotation72. It was thus and no otherwise that Dale died. It is thus that every man dies.
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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errs
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的第三人称单数 ) | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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sycophancy
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| n.拍马屁，奉承，谄媚；吮痈舐痔 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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esthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
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puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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