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Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
This is the story of how William Mackay, then studying for the law, wrote his first published piece, leading to his career in newspapers. The letters that occasioned the piece and a criticism of Mr. Robertson’s play are given first for context, followed by Mackay’s account and then his first published piece.—DP.
Sir,—It may be of some interest to you or your readers to learn that the comedy School now performed at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre is a play which was performed with great success at the principal theatres in Germany last year, and that Mr. Robertson has only the merit of translation. I myself have seen it acted in Hamburg and Cologne. I do not think Mr. Robertson will deny this fact.
I enclose my card, and beg to subscribe myself
VERITAS.
Jan. 18.
*** Why does not “Veritas” give the name of the German play?
Sir,—I am thankful to you for reminding me that I had forgotten to give the name of the German play acted in the Prince of Wales’s Theatre under the name School. It is called there Aschenbrödel, and the author is Mr. Robert Benedix, a well-known theatrical author.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
VERITAS.
January 20.
Sir,—Is Mr. Robertson going to contradict or explain the allegation made in your columns on the 20th and 21st inst., that his so-called new play is, in fact, a German play, Aschenbrödel, by Robert Benedix? The public have a right to be informed on this point, as School was put forward and accepted as an original work. If the charge is true, it becomes difficult to understand the morality of those concerned. If your correspondent’s statement be incorrect, Mr. Robertson and Miss Wilton owe it to themselves to say so.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
R. S. E.
Jan. 32.
With the new year has come new luck to the theatres. Covent Garden, and Drury Lane, with their pantomimes, are doing wonderfully well; the new Gaiety, with its brilliant extravaganza un-dresses, and Mr. Alfred Wigan’s admirable acting in the second piece, is, and has been, drawing crowded houses. The Strand, with its old burlesque, The Field of the Cloth of Gold, is taking its share of the luck, and the little Royalty’s novel style of burlesque-drama, Claude du Val, is in for as prosperous if not as lengthy a career as fell to the lot of Black-eyed Susan. The sensation drama is for a time in abeyance until Mr. Watts Phillips produces his next at the Queen’s, and its startling companion at the Holborn. The Princess’s coquetting with Mr. Boucicault, takes up with Mr. Palgrave Simpson, and plays his Marie Antoinette.
Two theatres are playing comedy, pure and simple; rather pure, and peculiarly simple. At the Haymarket, Mr. Buckstone now plays a comedy by T. W. Robertson, entitled Home; and at the Prince of Wales’s Miss Marie Wilton has produced a comedy by the same author, called School. Both are successful, on both a vast amount of praise has been lavished, and about both a great deal of nonsense has been written.
Home is an adaptation of L’Aventurière; and School, is an adaptation of a German piece; a fact of which but for the letters of Veritas, to the Times, most of us would have remained in blissful ignorance.
It matters not one atom to the public whether these plays are in every sense original (as we suppose the author’s Caste was—his third, and, to our mind his best) or are translated literally, or adapted ingeniously from the French, German, Sanskrit, or Hindu. The public, in general, goes to the theatre to be amused, and so long as this end is attained, cares nothing for details, however interesting they may be from a literary or artistic point of view. School and Home satisfy the public, which passes a very pleasant evening in seeing each piece—so far so good. With whom, then, and with what do we find fault? Assuredly with Mr. Robertson, if he has tacitly taken to himself and the praise which generous admiring critics have publicly given him. For what has been specially praised? what has specially attracted their notice in School? Why, the author’s originality of invention and graceful fancies, as displayed in (1) the choice of the old fairy story Cinderella on which to base an idyllic story; (2) the carrying out this idea at the end in fitting the slipper on the girl’s foot; (3) the love-making in the moonlight, when Lord Beaufoy and Bella talk in spooney tones about their shadows. Now it appears that not only has the Cinderella idea not originated in Mr. Robertson’s inner consciousness, but, beside the incident underlying the whole plot, the very name Cinderella was that of the original German play. We regret that facts like these have not been either acknowledged or contradicted by the author. For we are, and have been, glad, in the true interests of English dramatic art, to point to the author of Caste, Ours, and Society, as an original writer whose successful career is a sufficient answer to the taunts of the French dramatists and their admirers amongst ourselves.
The first act of School contains the gem of the piece in the way of dialogue, which rises here to true comedy standard. We allude to the luncheon in the wood, where Lord Beaufoy the beau, and Jack Poyntz converse together. Suggested by the original German or not, it is excellent. The scene is pretty, nothing remarkable; the schoolgirls sing with a unanimity perfectly astonishing, except, perhaps, to German schoolgirls out for a holiday after the foreign-peasant fashion.
The second act is a farce, and a stupid farce, too. Mr. Hare’s performance of the old beau is good, though not up to his previous delineations of character.
The third act is notable for its moonlight love-making scene. The dialogue runs somewhat in this fashion,—
Lord Beaufoy (to Bella), My shadow is taller than yours.
Bella (to Lord B.). Your shadow is shorter than mine.
Lord B. Now we’re together.
Bella. Now we’re apart.
Lord B. Now we’re together again.
Bella. Yes. The jug (a milk jug in her hand) joins us.
Lord B. (with pathos). Yes. But only for a time.
[Exeunt to get the milk.
And, we are told, that Mr. Robertson is a second Douglas Jerrold! No, this is certainly not the parallel. Mr. Robertson, in a way, may be the Antony Trollope of the drama; not as Jerrold, a writer of epigrams, repartees, and sparkling witticisms, but a very lively recorder of such natural conversation as would pass between two ordinary people, in an ordinary situation.
We should be inclined to say that it is upon this absence of style, polish, and turn, that Mr. Robertson especially prides himself. For ourselves we would rather have a comedy be the concentrated essence of conversation, trimmed, pruned, and polished, up to the School for Scandal smoothness and brilliancy.
As for Home, the first act is a prologue, the second is the play, the third is the epilogue. The three chief characters are more or less unprincipled, one of them (played by Mr. Sothern) justifying the end by the means; and the sympathy of the audience is, at the conclusion, entirely with the designing woman whose schemes have been foiled by the aforesaid unprincipled son. Much has been said in praise of the business of the love-making at the piano. There is nothing new under the sun or behind the foot-lights, and the details of this, the diffidence, the short sentences, the shyness, the nervousness, are as old as stage-courtship itself. Mr. Sothern gets some laughs out of misplacing words, by a sort of Dundreary habit, and obtains one roar by upsetting a music-stand when he is talking to the young lady at the piano. He makes false love, with affected earnestness, as he did in A Lesson for Life, and his stage business is all good and careful. By the way, there is a too brilliant screen in the corner, which distracts the attention of the audience. It is never used during the play, nothing is done with it, and, unless it be used to conceal some one who plays the piano, (something of the sort was done in Golden Daggers, at the Princess’s) while Miss Hill is pretending to perform a brilliant waltz, the screen is useless—is worse, being an eye-sore.
In fine, we shall be glad to see another piece of Mr. Robertson’s, but he owes it to his friends and the public, to inform us of its originality: and we heartily advise him to work his own ground, and to leave the French, German, and Italian fields to those who have no fertile soil of their own.
When “School” had been running for some little time, a letter appeared in the Times, conceived in that spirit of dignified rebuke which, in its correspondents, seems to have appealed to successive editors of that great newspaper. In this communication Robertson was crudely accused of having stolen the play, lock, stock, and barrel, from a play then (or recently) running in Germany. I had no acquaintance with the German language and no time (so insistent on protest was my indignation) to inquire into the facts. But I felt that from the internal evidence afforded by “School” I would be able to make a good case. Even in those remote days many of our most admired articles of so-called British manufacture were “made in Germany,” and most of them bore about with them the ineffaceable signs of their origin. I strongly felt that on internal evidence I should have little difficulty, in that “School” was “quite English, you know,” and that, above all, there was no trace whatever of anything German in the conception or the treatment. I had already seen the play a second time when the Times letter made its appearance. On the night of the day on which it was published I paid a third visit to the pit of the Tottenham Street playhouse. When I got back to my “diggings,” I sat down and commenced to write what I intended to be a letter to Jupiter Tonans of Printing House Square, but what turned out to be my first professional contribution to the London Press. Next day I abandoned my more legitimate studies, and rewrote and polished—as well as I knew how—the essay over which I had burned my first sacrifice of midnight oil. The result was in no way suitable as a letter in the correspondence column of a newspaper. My own poor outlook assured me of that. Where to send the essay? A copy of a weekly magazine called Once a Week lay on a chair in the room. I caught it up, looked for the editorial address, wrote a brief note to the editor apprising him of the drift of my contribution, addressed an envelope, and posted my “stuff,” as I subsequently learned to call my articles in manuscript.
Had a mentor, skilled to advise, been available at that moment, he would no doubt have advised me to send my essay to any other publication, but not to Once a Week, because the paper in question was then under the editorial control of a member of the staff of the Times. So that—a circumstance of which I was happily ignorant—the organ selected haphazard for my venture was the very last that should be likely to serve my purpose. Four days after its despatch I received a proof of the article with a request that it should be “returned immediately” to the printer. A delightful sensation—that of correcting one’s first galleys of matter moist from the press! The following week the article appeared in all the pride of print, though I confess that the pride of print (a mere figurative locution) was as nothing to the pride of the author who already saw himself on the high-road to fame and fortune. Alas! it is a highroad which, while the gayest and cheeriest to travel, rarely leads to fame, and never to fortune. . . . I have no doubt that this first published composition of mine was a tremendously faulty piece of work—immature and pretentious. But the appearance of no subsequent production of mine has afforded me a tithe of the pleasure. And, incidentally, it was the means of my making the acquaintance of “Tom” Robertson.
When in these days a dramatic author achieves undoubted success, without having recourse to sensational incident, to intricacies of plot, and to impossible situations, something has occurred to arrest the attention of those who are eternally bemoaning the degraded position of the modern stage. There is a play being performed in London at present which has ensnared the public into admiration; which fills a theatre night after night with pleased audiences; and in which, strange to say, there is introduced no railway train, no hansom cab, no real pump. The title of the play is School. The object of this article is to discover, if possible, the secret of the author’s success.
We take it for granted that the cloud of accusation which, erewhile, hung over Mr. Robertson’s head has been dissipated. Lord Macaulay informs us in his essay on Byron, that the British public is subject to periodical fits of morality. When School was produced at the Prince of Wales’ Theatre, the town was suffering from one of these attacks. Almost every event became a text. But it so happened that anent public exhibitions the Briton was especially asserting himself. The State was interfering in the matter of stage petticoats, and various journals were waxing eloquent over the degrading and demoralising spectacle of the Siamese Twins. It was impossible that School should escape. True there are no legs displayed in Tottenham Street,—nothing there to offend a correct taste. In a happy moment, however, it was discovered that Mr. Robertson had translated his comedy from the German. Here, indeed, was a charge of immorality compared with which an accusation of legs would be less than trivial. What Goldsmith once called “the busy disposition of some correspondents,” went to work with a will. Printing House Square helped it to utterance, and in a day or two the town rang with the echoes of it. Those who have read the German play about which the correspondents wrote, have been able to convince themselves, and those who have not, will have by this time been convinced by the Times article on the question that School is not a translation. Mr. Robertson has indeed borrowed the idea of a play, in which a boarding-school should afford some of the characters, and the legend of Cinderella a background. Further than this, the author of School is not indebted to his continental contemporary. If there be criminality in so borrowing we should at once commence to measure modern authors with a standard higher than that which we apply to the great masters of the dramatic art.
But, after all, the most convincing refutation of the charge of translation is afforded by the comedy itself. With one exception (that of Krux the tutor) can anything be more thoroughly, more peculiarly English than the delineation of the dramatis personæ of School—than the dialogue, the channels in which it runs, and the allusions with which it is studded?
Mr. Robertson’s comedy, then, is not a translation. And in crossing the channel to search for the author’s model, critics have put themselves to unnecessary trouble. A great deal of the press praise lavished on our author has been excessive. And probably no one feels this more than the author himself. Mr. Robertson does not write for immortality. His plays will never be read; after a few years, probably, will cease to be acted even. He is not a Sheridan, any more than Sheridan was a Shakspeare. But he is a dramatic author, capable of portraying a character with ability and finish, and of writing dialogue which is sometimes sparkling, often charming, and always clever. And much of his success in these respects is attributable, as we think, to his having studied earnestly the writings of Thackeray. This idea has not suddenly and only now occurred to us. When we first saw it, we thought that Society was not altogether uninfluenced by Vanity Fair. And although in Caste and Ours the genius of the master was not so observable, it reasserted itself in Play, and in the author’s latest production it is more than ever felt. In endeavouring to show the extent of Thackeray’s influence on Mr. Robertson’s work, we purpose confining ourselves to that latest production.
Glancing over the bill we meet with one or two of Thackeray’s names. We have Farintosh, we have Poyntz. Mere indications these. But useful, nevertheless, as evidence in confirmation of our theory—straws indicating from what quarter the wind of inspiration blows. When the curtain rises we meet with something more convincing than indications.
We meet, for example, with Beau Farintosh. It would be silliness to attempt to identify Mr. Robertson’s Beau Farintosh with any of Thackeray’s characters. The points of dissimilarity are almost as numerous as the points of similarity to that character which he most resembles. But what reader of the History of Pendennis, having seen School, was not constantly reminded by Beau Farintosh of that delightful but godless old dandy Major Pendennis, who, as we all know, “could not have faced the day without his two hours’ toilet.” Major Pendennis had a nephew; so has Beau Farintosh. The name of the Pendennis nephew was Arthur; Beau Farintosh’s nephew is an Arthur too. But the resemblance does not confine itself to names. Before Farintosh has been ten minutes on the stage he gives his nephew sundry sage but dreadfully worldly counsels on the subject of marriage, which set us thinking of very similar advices confided years ago by Major Pendennis to his nephew. In manner also the Beau possesses a strong family likeness to the Major. There are little peculiarities of thought and expression common to both. Major Pendennis especially, when conversing with an author, was wont to adorn his conversation with little allusions and quotations, just as samples of what he could do were he so intended, “Tempora mutantur, egad. And whatever is, is right, as Shakspeare says,” said the Major one afternoon in Pall Mall. The Beau is equally happy in his allusions. “Arthur, Arthur, this is blasphemy—atheism—reminds me of Burke and Hare—and, and, Voltaire.” Perhaps on scientific matters the Beau surpasses the Major. In act ii. of School one of the young ladies has given an answer displaying a more than ordinary amount of stupidity, upon which the Beau expresses his delight by declaring that “She’s a remarkable girl; a perfect Sir Humphrey Davy, begad.” How the Beau’s studied compliments to the young ladies, of whom he “can’t distinguish a feature,” seem familiar to us. And as to his “God bless you, Arthur,” Pendennis senior has said it to Pendennis junior a hundred times. The two characters most resemble each other (I should rather say, remind us most of each other; for, in good sooth, the characters differ most at this point, though the resemblance of manner is strongest) towards the close of the comedy, and towards the close of the novel. I Beau Farintosh’s interview with his nephew in the last act of the play will bear a not unfavourable comparison with those passages in chapter seventy of Pendennis, in which the Major beseeches Arthur to marry Blanche Amory, “Arthur,” says Major Pendennis, “for the sake of a poor broken-down old fellow who has always been dev’lish fond of you, don’t fling this chance away—I pray you—I beg you . . . dammy, on my knees, there, I beg of you don’t do this.” Then when Arthur’s resolution shatters the fond hopes of the old soldier, he goes on, “I’ve done my best, and said my say; and I’m a dev’lish old fellow. And—and—it don’t matter. And—and Shakspeare was right—and Cardinal Wolsey, begad—and had I but served my God as I have served you—yes, on my knees by Jove, to my own nephew—I mightn’t have been— Good night, sir, you needn’t trouble yourself to call again.” This is, of course, inimitable. The master-hand is there. But the later author has put a pathos into the Beau’s confession of old age—confession after so many years of hair from Truefitts, and bloom from Bond Street, too forceful to be ludicrous. And the tears which he makes the repentant old sinner shed are too genuine to be thought other than natural.
In the plays of Mr. Robertson it is a general resemblance to the novels of Thackeray which arrests us, and not so much a similarity of particular characters. Ever and anon we happen upon little well-known touches, peculiarities of expression, turns of sentiment, moralisings, teachings, which convince us of the justice of our assumption. They are impressions of “the touch of a vanish’d hand.” They are echoes “of a voice that is still.” Thackeray very largely adopted a strain, half satire, half banter, with regard to certain shams both in high and low places. Some people, who didn’t know the meaning of words, called this strain cynicism. And, at one time, it was considered quite the fashion to dub Thackeray a cynic. People know better now, let us hope. This note, or strain, is easy of detection in School. In act i. it is particularly noticeable.
There is one scene in the play—in the third act—which has been regarded with especial admiration by the public; and concerning which some of the journals have gone into ecstasies. It is a scene, however, concerning the merit of which there is a difference of opinion. When a thing is loudly praised by the Philistines, the children of light turn up their noses. We are referring to the moonlight scene, in which Bella and Lord Beaufoy are the actors. To us the bit of sentiment about the jug is a touch worthy of Sterne. The comparison of the shadows, and the allusions to the distance of the moon, are very susceptible of burlesque. But when in Vanity Fair we read of Miss Sharp’s walk in the moonlight with Captain Osborne, and listen to her as she says, “Who’d think the moon was two hundred and thirty-six thousand eight hundred and forty-seven miles off?” it never occurs to us to burlesque that.
The letter of Jack Poyntz to Naomi Tighe is just such a composition as Thackeray would attribute to a young officer of the Poyntz stamp; even to the bad spelling. “He spells cochineal with two ee’s,” says Naomi on reading the letter; though, we should scarcely imagine, from Naomi’s previous appearances, that she was the most competent to decide on matters of orthography. However, “with two ees” is exactly the way in which Rawdon Crawley would have spelt cochineal, if the ever-watchful Becky were not looking over his shoulder.
The influence of the most popular English novelist has for some years been very potent on the stage. Imitators of Mr. Dickens do alarmingly abound in these days. And so it happens that we can scarcely enter a theatre without a strong foreboding that we are about to be entertained by some thief from Whitechapel, whose highest notion of fun consists in making “v” and “w” interchangeable; or some turfy clerk from the City, who relies for his power of attraction principally upon his “get up.” That this is no fault of the novelist (of whom we can never have too much) we readily admit. The followers of Mr. Thackeray are less numerous, and anything that indicates a spread of his influence on the modern stage is worthy of note. Whatever may he said about Mr. Robertson’s originality, the public is right in applauding his efforts. This applause is at once an unconscious tribute to the genius of Thackeray, and a mark of appreciation of Mr. Robertson’s ability. It will surely be a matter for congratulation when eccentricities, whether from St. Giles’s or St. James’s, are driven from the boards, and when in their place we have put before us the men and women—or something like them—which we meet in real life, and in the pages of Vanity Fair, Pendennis, and The Newcomes.
One does not like to close a notice of this kind without some mention of the actors, on whose efforts much of the success of the piece depends. In having such a company as that of the Prince of Wales’ Theatre to undertake his characters Mr. Robertson is especially fortunate. Miss Wilton is perfection. Mr. Hare has genius, and his acting evinces careful study. The other performers are so excellent, each in his or her own way, that unless we mentioned all of them we dare not mention any; and, indeed, any notice now is somewhat after date, for has not all London seen the play, and all Pressdom said its say anent the same?