The Irish Literary Theatre.

It is now nearly three years since Mr. Yeats and Mr. Martyn explained to me their project of The Irish Literary Theatre. I imagine that they were moved by a disinterested love of Ireland; by a desire to create a sort of rallying point for the many literary enthusiasms and aspirations they saw beginning in Ireland. I was moved to join them because I had come to know the hopelessness of all artistic effort in England. I discovered the English decadence before I discovered my conscience; at that time I merely despaired of any new literary movement ever rising in England. I saw nothing about me but intellectual decay and moral degradation, so I said: “Well, my friends, let us try.” I knew Mr. Edward Martyn’s play, The Heather Field, and his Maive, and I knew Mr. Yeats’ Countess Cathleen; “these,” I said, “will do for a start, but what have we got to follow them?” They answered. “You will write us a play, and somebody else will write after you. One must not look too far ahead.”

And then began the most disagreeable part of the adventure: excursions to theatrical clubs in the Strand and in the streets leading from the Strand; the long drives to ladies who lived in flats in picturesque neighbourhoods, and arranging for these men and women to come to Dublin. I took upon myself the greater part of these petty annoyances—Mr. Martyn taking upon himself, perhaps, the greatest annoyance, distributing of tickets, and keeping the accounts. I think that this kind of theatrical management must be very like the endeavour of kind-hearted ladies to bring some fifty and odd children into the country for a holiday. In both, there is a great deal of “Has Johnny lost his cap?” and “Will Jimmy arrive in time?”

During the rehearsal, I often asked myself why I had consented to waste my time in this fashion; the reason was hidden from me; even now I know, only through faith, that I acted rightly and that if the collecting of the actors and the rehearsals of the plays had proved ten times more troublesome, it would still have been worth the trouble. And this, for some reason that is still hidden from me, and not altogether because The Heather Field has been admitted to be the most thoughtful of modern prose plays written in English, the best constructed, the most endurable to a thoughtful audience. It was played in a hall, on a platform amid ludicrous scenery. But, being a prose play, it did not suffer so much from 12want of space as The Countess Cathleen, and it was the better acted play, for it is always easier to find actors who can act plays of modern life than it is to find actors who can speak verse and embody vast sentiments. For the adequate representation of such a play, something like a gulf should separate the actors from the audience, and there should be a large, deep stage full of vague shadows. Green landscapes are not required in Rembrandt’s portraits, and I have often wondered why they are used as a background for actors. The more elaborate the scenery, the worse it is for the purpose of the poet and the actor; and new scenery, harsh as a newly-painted signboard, like that amid which The Countess Cathleen was played, is the worst scenery of all. The Countess Cathleen met with every disadvantage. Here is a list which must not, however, be considered exhaustive:—First, the author’s theory that verse should be chanted^[1] and not spoken; second, the low platform insufficiently separated from the audience; third, a set of actors and actresses unaccustomed to speak verse; fourth, harsh, ridiculous scenery; fifth, absurd costumes.

The theories of the author regarding the speaking of verse I hold to be mistaken; I do not think they are capable to realization even by trained actors and actresses, but the attempt of our “poor mummers of a time-worn spring,” was, indeed, lamentable. Many times I prayed during the last act that the curtain might come down at once. Nevertheless, the performance of The Countess Cathleen was not in vain. The beauty of the play was so intense that it was seen through the ridiculous representation as the outline of a Greek statue through the earth it is being dug out of. The Countess Cathleen awakened in all who saw it a sense of beauty. I think a sense of beauty once awakened is immortal. I do not think anyone who ponders over a piece of antique sculpture, shall we say a broken bas-relief from Pompeii, ever forgets that keen sense of beauty which arises in his heart, and the imperfect and broken representations of The Countess Cathleen awakened in me just such a sense of beauty as I have experienced in dim museums, looking at some worn and broken bas-relief.

The performances of our plays were so successful that the managers of the Gaiety Theatre asked us to produce our next plays in their theatre, and so confident were they of the ultimate success of our enterprise that they offered us their theatre on the same terms they gave to an ordinary troop of mummers. It is more difficult for me to speak of the second performances than of the first, because I undertook to re-write Mr. Martyn’s play, A Tale of a Town, a play which the Irish Literary Theatre did not think advisable to produce. The public will soon have an opportunity of judging our judgment, for Mr. Martyn has decided to 13publish the original text of his play. So much of the character of his play was lost in my rewriting that the two plays have very little in common, except the names of the personages and the number of acts. The Comedy, entitled, The Bending of the Bough, was written in two months, and two months are really not sufficient time to write a five act comedy in; and, at Mr. Martyn’s request, my name alone was put on the title page. Mr. Martyn’s Maive did not gain by representation, it was inadequately acted, and the idea of the play is clearer in the printed text than it was on the stage. But all who saw the play will remember it; it will flash across their minds, and will become more and more realizable with time.

This year Diarmuid and Grania will be given, and though it is longer by two acts than Dr. Hyde’s play, it is not so important, for the three act play is written in English, and the one act play is written in Irish. Dr. Hyde’s play will be the first Irish play produced in a Dublin theatre: I thought till the other day that it would be the first Irish play produced in Dublin, but now I hear that the organization called Inghean na h-Eireann has produced at the Antient Concert Rooms (it was in this room that The Countess Cathleen and The Heather Field were performed), a play in Irish. In a way it would have pleased our vanity to have been the first in Dublin with an Irish play, but this would have been a base vanity, and unworthy a Gaelic Leaguer. There has been no more disinterested movement than the Gaelic League. It has worked for the sake of the language without hope of reward or praise; and if I were asked why I put my faith in the movement I would answer that to believe that a movement distinguished by so much self sacrifice could fail, would be like believing in the failure of goodness itself.

Since we began our work plays have been written, some in Irish and some in English, and we shall be forgiven if we take a little credit for having helped to awaken intellectual life in Ireland. Many will think I am guilty of exaggeration when I say that The Irish Literary Theatre has done more to awaken intellectual life in Ireland than Trinity College. The Irish Literary Theatre is the centre of a literary movement, and our three years have shown that an endowed theatre may be of more intellectual service to a community than a university or a public library.

George Moore.

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