JOHN GALSWORTHY

Dominion, Volume 21, Issue 130, 1 March 1928, Page 16

JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE NOVELIST AT HOME MEMORIES OF NEW ZEALAND HOW AND WHY HE WRITES

(By

Nellie M. Scanlan.)

London, January 11. Yesterday I had tea with John Galsworthy. "Grove Lodge, Hampstead,” is not easy to find. It is tucked in a niche of the Grove, and the taxi drove in circles for titteen minutes —fifteen wet and dusky minutes—beguiled by policemen and postmen down circuitous bypaths, ■which always led the wrong way. I'ivo o’clock on a wet, wintry afternoon, with London’s low visibility, reduced the chance of correctly reading the names upon the gates or above the doors. It was a white house, Grove Lodge, and in the dusk ono suspected it of having green doors and green shutters. It felt that kind of house. Air. Galsworthy had assured me by letter that he very rarely gave an interview, and before acceding to my request he extracted a promise that 1 would submit my copy for his approval, "in order to check my own utterances, ho said. He was under the impression that 1 was a man, and his letter to me boro “Esq.” upon the envelope. When I sent in my card at the appointed hour, I was shown into a room of gentle atmosphere, and cheerful; soft harmonies that left one conscious ot them without one arresting detail to obtrude. 1 remember them only as a background. At a tea table beside the fire sai a gracious lady, tall, with silvered hair, softly dressed, and a velvet coat that gleamed with copper; tones in the firelight. It was Mrs. Galsworthy.Standing on the hearthrug, slim, erect, white-haired, and smiling, was John Galsworthy, my card still in his hand. "1 thought you were a man, ho said. “Yes, I know, and I had not the courage to tell you I was not,” I replied. “I hope you are not disappointed.” "I think you are more likely to keep your promise." hew people seem to realise that thirtyfive years ago John Galsworthy visited Australia and New Zealand. “Why did you go out?" I asked him. "Was it a holiday voyage?” “No; it was to make myself familiar with navigation and nautical terms, in preparation for the Admiralty ' Bar.” he told me. “I had not begun tn wiite then.” And, smiling at the recollection: “I used to take the ship's position with the captain every day, though that was really no use to me,” he added with a deprecatory gesture. The route he travelled was out to Sydney, then on through th* South Seas, to Fiji and Samoa, from Auckland right through New Zealand to Dunedin, then back to Melbourne, Sydney, and last of all Adelaide, where he shipped on a sailing vessel, the Torrens, for the Gape. Thirty-five years is a long time, and vague memories and faded scraps of once bright pictures were conjured up, as the now famous novelist and dramatist travelled again, in retrospect, through those far-off lands. Behind those eyes, clear and penetrating eyes with thick-lensed glasses, one could see each picture being called up from a long-closed recess of that busy brain. Some were a little hazy, others fragmentary, a few clear-cut and vivid. Sydney had etched its lasting beauty. *‘l 'remember a dinner one night at a big house on a hill, with a wonderful view of the harbour But it would bo all changed now. There were about 200,000 people then, and to-day there are what?—a million!” Auckland seemed a little blurred in outline, but Rotorua and the long coach drive to Napier were more vividly recalled. “Wellington, yes, I remember Wellington! I stayed at the club on The Terrace. It was very windy and I was lonely. My travelling companion had gone south to fish, and Mr. Feathersi ouhaugh, who had been a delightful companion on my coachjng trip, had left me. He was an Englishman who lived in Australia was a great authority on horses. Yes. I was lonely in Wellington. I didn’t know anyone. and after three days I went on to Christchurch.” Should he ever return, Mr. Galsworthv would probably find Wellington still windy, but certainly he would not find it lonely. Having no love of long sea voyages, however, his return is most ■unlikely. , , , “I liked Christchurch; I went to a big cattle show there, and then I went on to Lake Wanganui." “Lake Wanganui?” I queried. “Isn’t it Wanganui? Wait till I get. my book of photos,” and he vanished through the door, to return . in a few minutes without it. “I can’t find it.” "Of course you can’t; why you know you never can.” said Mrs. Galsworthy, smiling, and putting down her brown heather knitting, she went in search of the album, which she promptly found. “Oh! I looked at that one, too,” said Mr. Galsworthy, taking the book from her and turning the pages. One could feel a mutual dependence, an extraordinary bond of sympathy between this man and woman. One is hesitant to speak of such intimate things, but the soft harmonies of, colour had their spiritual counterpart in that silent interchange. “Ah! Lake Wakatipu, that was it. said Mr. Galsworthy, as he came to a beautiful photo of the lake, now slightly yellow with age. • “Then, finally, Dunedin; very Scotch I remember it was, and we sailed from here to Melbourne.” , , , Of Melbourne Mr. Galsworthy had nothing particular to say, but Adelaide will always remain memorable. It was here, when he was arranging tor his voyage to the Cape, that he met the first mate of the sailing ship Torrens. The first mate was Joseph ConIn a faded group, taken on board the Torrens, a picture of women with waists and little straw bats, and men with bushy whiskers, he pointed out the man, a Cambridge graduate called Jonques, who first discovered Conrad’s ability as a writer. He had the manuscript of his first novel on board at the time. When the Torrens sailed out of Adelaide Harbour that day, she carried on board two men, one the mate, and one a nautical student, who were destined to take a high place among the English writers of to-day. During those early wanderings, John Galsworthy had no intention of becoming a writer, ’ nor is there any suggestion of those lands or peoples in any of his books or plays. But that brief, early touch with Colonial life has made it easier to understand our problems, in many of which he is interested. Immigration and the White Australia policy v'cre two about which he spoke. Ho did not propound any definite theory for their solution, but with a close-up picture in the past, now rather blurred, and a long range view in the present, he felt along the subject, as ono on unfamiliar ground, eagerly seeking a pathway. And be asked many questions. , ~ Was it not possible to have a yellow belt in Northern Australia, where the yellow man might work under conditions which were impossible to the white man. as they did in other tropical territory? Could they hold Australia practically empty of population, against the need for expansion in the overcrowded countries in such close proximity in tho north? Was it not rather a gambler’s risk? Could not the Government open up lands and take nut more young immigrants from England to work under properly organised schemes? What was the origin of the word “Pommy,” so much used to designate the immigrant, and mostly in derision? Mr. Galsworthy recognised that much,

was being done in the matter of immigration, but it seemed “only a drop in the bucket,” he said. One could fee the keen, incisive mind, that has served up so many problems in dramatic form, weighing the pros and cons of these Imperial questions, for undoubtedly they affect both the old lands and tho new. And then we spoke of his work, last but not least amongst tho subjects that had been passed in review. It was the real objective. The sixth volume of the “Forsyte Chronicles,” the third book of the second trilogy, was completed in September, but “Swan Song,” as it is called, will not appear until July. “Are tho Forsytes very real people to vou?" I asked. “Very real, indeed,” Im answered, smiling witti something like paternal pride in the creation of this illustrious family. "I don’t know if there will be any more . . . if it is wise to go on and on about the same people. At present I have brought them quite up-to-date, to 1926.” “Are there any plays in tho air?” I enquired. “Not at the moment,” Mr. Galsworthy wiped his thick, lensed glasses, and I also noticed a monocle hanging from a cord, which he soniclimos fingered as he spoke. “It has been rumoured—much too definitely—that 'Escape’ is to be my last play. As a matter of fact, when t have written a play. I generally say it will be the last, and this time some writer overheard me. It may be the last, hut not. from a settled conviction. If the spirit moved me to-morrow, I would start another. At present I am writing some short stories.” he added. Morning is the time when this writer works. “I write between breakfast and lunch. Once I used to write again after tea, but not now. At least, not creative work. I may revise in the afternoon, or write some literary paper, but all creative work is done in the morning. And I prefer to write on a sunny day; Sunshine makes it easier.” Mr. Galsworthy is novelist first, and dramatist second. “I prefer the novel as a medium of expression,” he said. “I was a novelist first —my first, love. The novel is more satisfying. You can give freerer rein; you are not restricted by the necessary limitation of a stage production. And (he characters remain exactly as you create them. A dramatist, one must keep the scene on the stage constantly before him. The characters are drawn with broader strokes, less detail, and even then they are subject to varying interpretations in the hands of different actors. The character in tho novel is absolutely your own creation; the character in the acted play is not.” The technique of the novel and the drama differ considerably, and every novelist cannot write a play—a successful play. There is probably not such a great gap between Galsworthy the novelist ad Galsworthy nt he dramatist, because of the dramatic qualify of bis novels. Each chapter is, in a way, a scene, and there is always the working up to a climax; the crescendo. But in the novel, the embroidery of detail enriches and subtleises character. The novelist, too, turns out his creatures in sealed cartons, you might say, while the dramatist takes the risk of adulteration. When John Galsworthy writes a play, it is not merely wind fried in oil. There is always a serious purpose behind it. "T take a theme and try to show every facet of it,” he said, witli a deft turn of the wrist, as though the problem lay in Hie hollow of his hand, and he was letting in the light. “I show this aspect and that, and that, and- tho audience may philosophise about it when they go home, and come to their own conclusion." 1 referred to “The Forest.” “That was a difficult play to write. It was io illustrate what I call the 'cat-force.’ It was rather intricate in pattern, and I don’t think the audience always understood it. The first Scene was in London, the next in the African jungle, then back to London, with almost an entirely, different set of characters in the London and African scenes. It was not closely knit enough. But I wanted to show the cat-force, stalking for its prey—the wild beast or savage_ in the jungle, and the predatory financier typo in great cities. "It was not an easy play to stage." he added, “and will never be popular.” , „ "And now J must keep my promise. I said, buttoning up my coat, and thinking of rhe freedom I would have had but for the fact that this eminent writer bad appointed himself journalistic "fullback." “The last person who interviewed me made the same uromise,” said Mr. Galsworthy. "She has not yet kept it, but she will." "I will keep mv promise—and promptly." T said, as wo shook hands, and I passed out info what had become a clear and starry night.