ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

BUCHANAN AND THE LAW (3)

“Sophia”

The Evening News (3 December, 1887 - p.1)

THE STAGE AS SEEN BY A NOVELIST.
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PART I.

(BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MUMMER’S WIFE.”)

     When the Press declares a play to be illiterate the public understands that it is badly written, for it has grown customary to admit that if a play be elegantly phrased it is literary. But it seems to me that literary nobility or illiterate naturalness begins in the first conception of the work, and I do not think that any quantity of bad writing would degrade a work imagined by an artist beyond recognition, or that any quantity of elegant phrasing would make a work invented by a clod acceptable. Were any one of my many friends who at the corners of streets between twelve and one in the morning favour me with accounts of plays they are or contemplate writing, to tell me a play as graceful and rhythmical in outline as Mr. Swinburne’s “Chastelard,” I feel sure I should at once draw near to the conviction that my midnight friend was a genius. On the other hand, I am convinced that if my friends Messrs. Sims and Pettitt were to tell me the plot of their next success my estimate of their talent, as derived from study of “In the Ranks” and “Harbour Lights,” would be in no way changed; and I am sure that the embryo horror they carry about in their mutual bosom would not be relieved of its original deformities by being passed over to Mr. Swinburne for literary attire. It is, however, certain that if this step were taken the pockets of Messrs. Gatti would be appreciably lightened. The English play has been bred in and in for the last three hundred years, it has been crossed with the French, it has been bred back again and crossed again. But within the last thirty years a new enemy to stage literature has arisen, an enemy which, in my opinion, has rendered it for ever impossible for us to possess a dramatic literature again—this enemy is the 300-night run. The 300-night run dams the stream and prevents a fluent current; secondly, and the second reason is the graver, because it forbids novelty and subtlety either in situation or delineation of character. Now, any one who will try to think this subject out—and the subject is an interesting one and worth thinking out—will see that to please simultaneously and instantly these different classes, to please half a million people, drawn from all ranks of society, can only be accomplished by the most complete submission to the common-place—common-place in sentiment, common-place in situation, by the most gross contrasts, by the most vulgar display, compromise and nothing but compromise—there must be comic business, sentimental business, tragic business, scenical business. How can such a hodge-podge be of literary interest? There is no hope. For should the author yearn for something better than the old castle where the miser lives, should he grow madly sick of the hero kept out of his property by villains, the manager will very soon bring him back to his senses and common-place. Nothing new must be attempted; the risk is too great.
     The theatre is now a family amusement, the hearth and home is triumphant, so—and, indeed, this is what is actually taking place—each new melodrama will contain more situations than its predecessor, crammed into it anyhow, regardless of sense or the rhythm of sequence. There must be scenes of comedy in every drama; there must be dramatic scenes in every comedy; not even opera-bouffe, nor even burlesque, has escaped “dramatisation.” We have drifted very far from the much-abused unities; but, for my part, I would willingly go back to them, preferring art in the strictest forms than art in solution. Now there is neither patience nor peace, only riot and blows. In old days the dramatist conducted us “homeward o’er the lea”; now the dramatists collect three and four together like herdsmen, and strive to beat us into the fair; so little reliance have they in themselves or in their audience that it has become customary to place a murder in the first act, and I shall not be surprised if, before long, we see a play with a murder in the first scene. Then we have plays made up of a series of scenes invented for the exhibition of a leading actress, or some one who thinks she is a leading actress; she is shown as a would-be murderess, as a Messaline, as a penitent. I believe it is to M. Sardou that we owe this abominable and bastard form. The three-act farce came to us from France, adultery was removed and flirtation substituted; there was a good deal of cross breeding with the German, and the mixture is now ladled out in well-defined doses. Then for the cultured ones there is the Lyceum; there you get a fricasse of Faust, prepared by a tenth-rate poet, garnished with blue flame, hags and demons. I don’t think there is anything else. Mr. Gilbert I pass over for separate and complete classification in another article.
     English dramatic writing is, therefore, an art in the last period of decadence; it is rotten at the root, and it must fall of its own rottenness, and a primitive art grow up in its place before literature will be heard again in a London theatre. For a man of letters there is no audience; we feel this, and this is why we abstain. It is true that we all hanker after the stage now and then, but as a rule we abstain; if we don’t we suffer. No man is greater than the age he lives in; no man can break away and create at once a thing complete and perfect, everything must have a root. So when a novelist or poet, inspired by the utter abjectness of modern plays, attempts to write in dramatic form, the result is at best a foolish compromise between the old, and what he hopes will be the new, abortive velleties containing all the errors which in theory the reformer so earnestly deprecates, but which in practice he is forced to repeat. And then is heard “What you do differs nowise from that which you condemn, except in being less successful—it is no whit better invented, and it is, if anything, worse written.” There is no doubt that such is generally the case. It would seem that setting a litterateur to write for the stage is like emptying a bottle of eau de Cologne into a sink.
     In the great periods of dramatic generation plays were thrown as it were to popular judgment rapidly, without being submitted to any very detailed criticism by the manager; a novelty was wanted, it was put up, if it pleased it held the stage for a few nights, if it didn’t it was heard of no more. It was so in France till forty years ago, and since then France has not produced a dramatic writer. This is a fact, and a significant one. France is to-day living on her dramatists of 1850, and things are not there nearly so bad as here where no one national and subventioned theatre exists. But it is unnecessary to adduce facts, for it must strike every one as a very plain truth indeed that no one will wait three or four years, even if he has the means of waiting, running all the thousand risks that four years inevitably bring, for the production of a play if his literary faculty is capable of being turned to account in the novel, the poem, or the magazine article. The stage must remain, therefore, in the hands of men of inferior literary ability.
     There it a possibility of doing artistic work in the novel, none on the stage. This is my profound conviction, and this is why I do not seek recognition as a writer for the stage; the plums are tempting; I should make more out of an unsuccessful play than a successful novel. But I shrink from the prostitution that Mr. Buchanan has descended to, and I doubt if anything conceived in a spirit totally antagonistic to the spirit of the age could be anything but a sterile eccentricity, so like all who are not literary strumpets I dream of the stage at odd moments, play with the dream for a while, and put it aside, recognising the fact firmly that that dream may never become a reality. And this is how I dream. Last summer a story presented itself to my mind very persistently, and not in narrative, but in dramatic form. At last yielding to the obsession of the idea I shaped it out into acts and scenes. Now, shall I write it; thought I; shall I risk the worry and torment of seeking actors and managers, and exposing myself to the odium of what they are pleased to term their suggestions. No, I will consult a practical playwright; I will write to Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones sent me a wire to say he would meet me at the Metropole. We sought and found an obscure corner, and I proceeded to unbosom myself. 1 do not know if Mr. Jones liked or disliked the subject, nor does it much matter, but he objected to every point that endeared me to it. Loathing the great acts, full of furniture and people, that have come to us from France, acts through which people walk as they walk through the Burlington Arcade. I had desired with my whole heart to return to the old English comedy, divided into numberless little scenes, three or four in each act, and some consisting only of a little dialogue. Mr. Jones at once—and this is stage craft—suggested that these scenes should be changed into public drawing-rooms and market-places, where every one could enter and exit. If Mr. Jones did not understand, how could I expect the manager to understand, and then the inevitable explanations with mummers who are no longer varlets, but “gentlemen,” who talk and write of their social status. The prospect was too unclean, and so ended my dramatic aspirations of 1887, and so has ended the dramatic aspirations of many another novelist. English dramatic writing being, as I hope I have shown, in an advanced stage of decadence, we must look down, not up, for regeneration.
     Any aspiration towards ancient ideals must result in a still deeper plunge into the mire of decay. In the Latin decadence the monks who looked to Virgil wrote worse than those who wrote rhymed hymns and so created, as it were, a new Latin. To my mind, “Claudian” is worse than “The Silver King,” and I know of no more miserable spectacle than Mr. Wilson Barrett strutting about in a toga. I know of nothing more lamentable than the adaptation of a French play at the St. James’, or anything more ludicrous or further from artistic instinct than Mrs. Kendal when out of the mouth of a French cocotte she endeavours to impress her audience with a sense of her social position. Arthur Roberts is infinitely more artistic than Wilson Barrett. Bessie Bellwood is infinitely more artistic than Mrs. Kendal. In a period of decadence, when the tradition is lost, when all is out of touch, we must look down, not up; and those who depart most from the tradition are greater than those who strive to hold on. We must look, therefore, rather towards the music-hall than to the theatre for regeneration. The oak is withered; it is rotten; the acorn must be planted again. It was out of similar beginnings—the Rhapsodists—that Greek drama was evolved. It was out of similar beginnings—the miracle plays—that the Shakesperian drama was evolved.
     In the course of this article I have laid some stress on the importance of the audience in fashioning the writer. Now, a music-hall audience is identical with the Elizabethan audience, an ideal audience, an audience composed of courtiers, courtesans, and costers. But this for Monday.

[Note: This was the first in a series of articles by George Moore published in The Evening News in December, 1887. In subsequent articles he made several comments about Buchanan’s play, Sophia, which had run from 12th April, 1886 to 9th November, 1887 at the Vaudeville Theatre for a total of 453 performances.]

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Birmingham Daily Post (6 February, 1888 - p.5)

LONDON CORRESPONDENCE.
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                                                                                                                                 LONDON, Sunday Night.

. . .

     Mr. Robert Buchanan, poet, novelist, and dramatist, has commenced proceedings against the Evening News, a London Conservative paper, for what he considers to be a series of libels contained in some articles written by Mr. George Moore, the author of some “realistic” novels. Mr. Buchanan was therein referred to as a “literary prostitute,” and his play “Sophia” was described as his “latest and final outcome of literary uncleanliness.” When the case comes into court one of the plaintiff’s contentions will be that Mr. Moore, having asked for permission to introduce “Sophia” to the French stage, and expressed his admiration for that work, resented a refusal, and brought these charges. Mr. Lockwood, Q.C., will lead for Mr. Buchanan, who, in addition to having a libel case on his hands, and a comedy running at two London theatres, is just completing the new epic poem, “The City of Dream,” which he has had long in preparation, and which will be published immediately by Messrs. Chatto and Windus; and is engaged upon a five-act comedy-drama for the Vaudeville, to be produced when his “Fascination” is withdrawn, in which an attempt will be made to realise the life and fashionable manners of England in 1745.

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The Dundee Courier and Argus (6 February, 1888 - p.3)

     Mr Robert Buchanan is the Scotch gentleman described as of great ability, as a poet, novelist, and dramatist, who is about to prosecute an Irish gentleman for “slating” his works and ridiculing his genius. The offender is Mr George Moore, the novelist, and the paper the Evening News of London.

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The Lancashire Evening Post (7 February, 1888 - p.2)

     It is an open secret that Mr. Robert Buchanan, the poet, novelist, and dramatist, has entered an action against the Evening News for libels alleged to be contained in articles written for that journal by Mr. George Moore, a fictionist of the realistic school. The namesake of the great Irish bard, it appears, described Mr. Buchanan’s version of “Tom Jones” as his “latest and final outcome of literary uncleanliness.” This statement got Robert’s back up pretty considerably, and especially so, because—as he alleges—Moore had asked his permission to adapt “Sophia” for the French stage, and had expressed unbounded admiration of the talented Scotchman’s work. If I am any judge of the two men, and if I know anything about their respective histories and their several temperaments, we shall have some lively, not to say spicy, cross-examination in the course of the case.

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The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser (25 June, 1888 - p.5)

     Additions continue to be made to the series of trials of popular interest which commenced with the Wood case. The curious folk who love to rejoice in revelations made in the courts of justice have been somewhat disappointed with the Wood case so far as it has gone. And to their distress they have to listen to whispers which suggest the possible postponement of the Times trial till November. The action brought by Mr. Robert Buchanan, the poet, against Mr. George Moore, the novelist, for libel, in an article which appeared in an evening paper, cannot now take place till after the long vacation. The proprietors of the paper are in reality the defendants in this action, but the literary world look upon it as a bout between the Scotch author and the Irish author.

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Pall Mall Gazette (11 July, 1888 - p.9)

THE LIBEL ACTION BY MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN.

     The case of Buchanan v. the Conservative Newspaper Company came on before the Lord Chief Justice. Sir C. Russell, Q.C., who represented the defendants, said it was an action for libel brought by Mr. Robert Buchanan, the well-known poet and novelist to recover damages from the proprietors of the Evening News. Having alluded to the reputation of Mr. Buchanan the learned counsel said that the gentleman was the author of a play entitled “Sophia,” and he justly complained of a criticism of it which appeared in the defendants’ paper. He was instructed as representing the defendants to admit that the words complained of exceeded the fair bounds of criticism, and imputations were made which could not fairly and properly be sustained. He was therefore instructed publicly to withdraw any imputations supposed to be made upon Mr. Buchanan, and to express regret that they had used language which could not be justified. He hoped this statement would be received in the same spirit in which it was made, and that they would be allowed to withdraw the record. Mr. Lockwood, on behalf of the plaintiff, accepted the expression of regret which had been tendered and said the criticism was of such a nature that Mr. Buchanan could not allow it to pass without notice. The play in question had been played for 400 nights at one of the principal theatres in London, and Mr. Buchanan had no reason to believe that in any way it was detrimental to his position as a dramatic author, which he had previously maintained. Under the circumstances the case might terminate. The record was accordingly withdrawn.

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The Times (12 July, 1888 - p.3)

BUCHANAN V. CONSERVATIVE NEWSPAPER COMPANY.

     This was an action by Mr. Robert Buchanan the dramatic author, for libels upon him in his character as an author in the Evening News. The libels appeared in that paper in the form of criticisms on his play entitled Sophia, founded on the well-known novel of “Tom Jones,” on the 3d of December, 1887, and one or two following days. The terms of the criticisms were admitted to be unfitting, and it is not necessary to say more of them than that they included such expressions as “literary uncleanliness,” &c.
     Mr. Lockwood, Q.C., and Mr. Lush appeared for the plaintiff; Sir Charles Russell and Mr. Cluer appeared for the defendants.
     On the case being called on,
     SIR CHARLES RUSSELL rose and said that from the nature of the case he had no doubt his Lordship would be glad to hear that he would not be troubled with the trial of the case. Appearing, as he did, on behalf of the defendants, he desired to say that the plaintiff, Mr. Buchanan, was the well-known author, and had acquired considerable reputation as a playwriter and as a poet, and was, no doubt, a man of considerable ability, and he brought the action for certain critical articles which had appeared in the paper in relation to a play he had recently written, entitled Sophia. He complained, and, as it appeared, with justice, of the tone and character of the criticisms, and the defendants felt that certain imputations were made in them which were not justifiable. The defendants, therefore, had instructed him publicly to say that they withdrew these imputations and desired to express their regret that such articles should have appeared in their paper, and he believed that his learned friend who appeared for the plaintiff was prepared to accept this retractation and to put an end to this action.
     Mr. LOCKWOOD said he, on the part of Mr. Buchanan, accepted the expression of regret proffered by his learned friend. It was impossible for Mr. Buchanan to allow such criticisms to pass without notice. His learned friend had referred in terms not too strong to the reputation of Mr. Buchanan as a dramatic author, and he felt keenly that the criticisms were undeserved, especially with reference to this play, which had been performed, he believed, for 400 nights in one of the principal theatres, and which he had no reason to believe detrimental to his position as a dramatic author. He accepted the expression of regret which had been offered and desired to withdraw the record.
     The record was accordingly withdrawn, and so the action came to an end.

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The Scotsman (12 July, 1888 - p. 3)

     LIBEL ACTION BY MR ROBERT BUCHANAN.—In the Queen’s Bench Division, London, yesterday an action of Mr Robert Buchanan, dramatist, against the Evening News, London, for libel contained in some criticisms on a play called “Tom Jones,” was settled. The defendants now expressed regret for the language used, and Mr Buchanan accepting the apology, the record was by leave withdrawn.

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The Glasgow Herald (13 July, 1888)

OUR LONDON CORRESPONDENCE.
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                                                                                                                     65 FLEET STREET,
                                                                                                                         Thursday Evening.

. . .

     The Royal Academy conversazione last night was a brilliant success, notwithstanding—perhaps, indeed, because of—its postponement from the 28th ult. on account of the general mourning. There were about 4000 guests in all, with certainly two-thirds of whom the unfortunate, though ever complaisant, President must have shaken hands. It would be impossible to enumerate all the notabilities who were present, for the great majority of people of note in the arts were to be seen, or were known to be, in one or other of the rooms. For once Mr Henry Irving failed to attract the usual mobbing, for a greater than he was present shortly before midnight—the charming Sarah Bernhardt, fresh from her harrowing adventures as “La Tosca.” Mr Browning was of course present, and apparently ubiquitous. But, indeed, with the exception of Lord Tennyson, Mr George Meredith, and Mr Ruskin, it would be difficult to say who was not at Burlington House. I noticed Mr Robert Buchanan perambulating gloomily with his sister-in-law, Miss Harriet Jay, all the more noticeable because the poet-novelist-dramatist has grown stout and comfortable-looking, if not poetic, but I suddenly remembered how his libel action against an evening paper had just been concluded—satisfactorily to his credit—hardly remuneratively to his pocket. There was a less striking show in the way of millinery than usual, and I noticed fewer uniforms and decorated coats, though there was a goodly sprinkling withal. For artistic beauty there was no dress superior to the amber-gold cashmere costume of Mrs Graham Tomson, the latest luminary upon the poetic horizon. Lady Randolph Churchill was among the admired, and so I hear, for I did not see her, was the new Duchess of Marlborough.

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[Note: Buchanan’s letters to The Era in November, 1889 on the subject of George Moore add a little more information about the background to this case.]

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