A DRAMATIC POET.°

MAIIGHAm's name is quite new to us, and we hope that we may talk with reason about the promise of his work. There is a great deal of fine thought, a great deal of good writing, and a great deal of poetry scattered about in the five plays which make up this large volume. But there is very little drama. The worst of the five is the first, Sir Paul Pindar, which is quite incoherent in plot, and hinges upon a ludicrously improbable incident. Moreover, the speeches, which are everywhere too long in this prose play, run to a length which would occupy half of this column; Sir Paul, the successful merchant under James I., is a terribly long-winded old gentleman. But for all that he makes an excellent retort to Gondomar, the Spanish Ambassador. After a passage at arms, from which Sir Paul emerges triumphant, Gondomar says : "Sir Paul, if I were not a Spaniard I should wish to be an Englishman." And Sir Paul answers : "If I were not an Englishman, I should wish to be one." The Landslip, another exercise in prose dialogue, is a puerile composition, though it contains a con- siderable deal of finely expressed thought. Mr. Maugham lacks the gift of condensation essential to this way of writing. The Old and the New entitled "A Sketch for a Comedy," is the third of the prose plays, and, unlike the others, deals with the present day. We have only to say that it convinces us of Mr. Maugham's entire inability to write a comedy, but disposes us to think that he might compass a very good novel. His method is rambling, and in a discursive way he hits off character. Old Mr. Brereton is a capital study ; his pride in his son, mixed with a distaste for the son's new-fangled ideas, is perfectly natural; and his relations with his neigh- bour the M.P., once his fag at Eton, whom he persists in calling Tommy and still genially orders about, are quite pretty to hear of. The young doctor, too, is well drawn; but as for the plot, it does not exist. Herbert's misunder- standings with Eleanor and the laboured analysis of his feelings towards the youth who proves to be his natural brother are quite uninteresting, and only give the impression that Mr. brougham is determined to be modern at all costs.

The truth is that whatever Mr. Maugham is worth, he is worth as a poet. The best qualities in his prose are those of a poet,—sometimes a piece of imaginative eloquence, some- times a pleasant conceit. His two dramas in verse deserve very much more careful consideration than the other three. The Mastery of Men takes its subject from Egyptian history.

Helm, the man-minded Queen, stabs her husband, and, causing it to be announced that he has died by some sudden fever, rules in his stead, sending into a kind of imprisonment his brother Tehntimes. This passes in the prologue; the true action begins twelve years later, when Tehntimes returns a grown man with fame won in war, and is received with favour by Hatasa ; but she refuses to grant his request that his brother should have what he had never received, a King's funeral. In the second act Tehutimes goes secretly with his friends to visit the place where his brother lies, and

• Sir Paul Pindar, and other Plays. By Harry Neville Nfaugham. London: Grant Richards. (58-]

to test for himself his suspicions. The wounds on the embalmed corpse tell their story, but Hate.sn's spies have kept watch and soldiers rush in ; Tehutimes escapes by a chance helped by the devotion of a comrade who disguises him- self in the Prince's cloak. So we pass to the night of }lateen's triumpb, when, having trampled her enemies underfoot, as she thinks, she puts off the kingly insignia that she has worn, and appears, dressed as a woman, at a feast to Hathor. But Tehutimes, rallying his force, comes in upon them and makes himself master. The last scene of all is that in which he con- fronts the terrible Queen and overbears her ; and she, proud to

be mastered, owns that for the first time she loves,—she loves her conquerer. Tehutimee, though recognising in this fierce imperial nature his true mate, dooms her to death, and speaks the last word over her dead body :— "Dead, art thou P Do I live ? And am I king P And have I lost thee, lost thee, lost thee ? 'Twill be a weary world. This is man's life— To win the highest bound, the utmost wish, And find his only happiness foregone."

It is an interesting scheme of a play, but at every point one feels the lack of concentration ; the speeches are too long, the action sprawls out like an ill-driven team of horses; and in the end, for some reason which we cannot fathom, Mr. Maugham needlessly introduces the supernatural ; Hatasu brings her black spells to bear, omnigenumgue drum monstra et latrator Anubis ; Tehutimes invokes the white magic of Osiris to bring the Queen to death. But these criticisms do

not touch the fact that there is a great i!rofusion of real poetry in the work. Hatasu, this creature half Cleopatra, half Semiramis, is strongly portrayed. Her opening speech reads, perhaps, too like a woman's-rights oration, but eloquent it is :— "There's woman of all kinds, and the she-lion

Is worthier than the jackass; we are beasts

As for our bodies, and I kinship hold, Though feminine, to some more royal breed, The leopard or the eagle, while he is kin Unto the meaner sort. Women and men Are spoused against their natures, and the strong Would have assertion, save that among mortals There is repression that the forest-free And generous brutes would scorn."

And here is a speech that surely has much of Cleopatra in it, and of the Russian Catherine. Hatasu in the vault explains to the bound prisoners how they were tracked, how she herself had spied upon them, acting the courtesan, the-

" Well-made wench that danced As wildly as the winds on stormy days."

They answer her with taunts, but she outfaces them :—

"lam a law

Unto myself ; what reason has our doing Save the desire that prompts it ? I would live A thousand lives as does the mutable, The eager thrill and stir of rich red blood Empassion me; for I am all I know. I am man, woman, beast, reptile, flower, I am the fire, I am the limpid wave, I am the breath of spring and morning dew.

But while I can be virginal and sweet, Yet there are pulses in me that declare

A kinship with the vile and low that is

Beauty in making

I am the human flower that has its roots In the disdained earth of vulgar lives, But from that rank luxuriance I draw The sap which I transmute to vermeil hues, And the fair miracle of flesh and blood Which leans to ravishment of every wind."

And the last scene with Tehutimes is fine throughout, though redundant ; it seldom attains to such condensation as in these lines :—

" Tehutimes. Thy life was as a challenge unto men.

Bateau. Must women ever be caressed as slaves ? Tshutintes. If women came to rule, yet wise were they To shame the men to rise to be their masters.

Hatasu. The mastery of men rings true in thee."

There are many other things in this play that we would confidently cite to support our opinion that Mr. Mangham is

at least a poet in the making. But something must be said of his drama upon the subject of Francis of Assisi, The Husband of Poverty. And first a quotation from the first act may illustrate the remarkable lyrical gift which is suffi- ciently proved by many interspersed songs and chants. Francis, just after his conversion, comes in rags through the

streets, followed by children who hoot, crying "Madman" after him, and ask him for a song. So he sings to them :—

"There was a knight of Bethlehem, Whose wealth was tears and sorrows,

Elia men-at-arms were little lambs, His trumpeters were sparrows His castle was a wooden cross Whereon he hung so high ; His helmet was a crown of thorns Whose crest did touch the sky."

This is followed a little farther on by a prose speech, admirable in its ingenuous pathos, where the father of Francis begs the Bishop to make his son come home. But the whole scene is excellent, and concerning the strange, half-metrical rhapsody in which Francis tells of his conversion one can only say that Mr. Maugham is justified in a very bold experiment. Here is a part of it :— " You all remember how I proved a coward.

'Twas'when I went to fight With Gauthier de Brienne.

All that day I sang of feats of arms ; 'When the night came I could not sleep For thinking of this Gauthier de Brienne, Hoping that I should die for him In some terrific fight.

As I fought and fell for him

Smiling with dying lips to have his praise.

Another knight came to me : In the dim early hours I saw him stand by ray bed.

About his gentle face a coif de milks

Such as no earthly armourer Has for mightiest Prince devised.

I felt this knight did love me well, and said, What can I do for thee ? '

He looked intent into my eyes and said, ' Thou must be of my troop.'

'Kind knight,' I said, I serve

With Gauthier de Brienne, If I desert this gallant cause A coward I shall prove.'

The knight looked again on me, Then be my coward,' he replied."

We have not space to analyse the development of the drama, which is the story of an earthly love between two of God's saints. We can only commend those who care for poetry to read it and judge Mr. Mangliam for themselves.