Candida & Selected Correspondence Relating to the Play. Bernard Shaw
his own family, and this, Charrington says, was not Thorpe’s fault, but Aberdeen’s [theatregoers]. He says nothing about himself.
They are to play the piece at Eastbourne & Bournemouth. See it if you can, & tell me about it; probably I shant see it at all, though there is some question of my going over to Leamington with Miss P. T. [Charlotte Frances Payne-Townshend later Mrs Bernard Shaw] What are you wondering about us? She is getting used to me now, I think. Down at Dorking there was a sort of earthquake, because she had been cherishing a charming project of at last making me a very generous & romantic proposal—saving it up as a sort of climax to the proofs she was giving me every day of her regard for me. When I received that golden moment with shuddering horror & wildly asked the fare to Australia, she was inexpressibly taken aback, and her pride, which is considerable, was much startled—Excuse me one moment: she is calling me from her window. Tableau.
* * * * *
Now I am all right. She threw me out two waterproof packets, looking like Army Stores. I found a hammock in each; and I have actually suspended them both from this tree, taking care to put one so high that nobody but myself will be able to get into it. And now I swinging in that hammock, with your letter to answer, and “Arm & The Man” to prepare for the printer as soon as I feel disposed to work.
The tiredness, by the way, is maladie du pays: it is wearing off; and in a day or two I shall be sublime.
Well, as I was saying, that revelation of my self centredness as a mere artistic machine was a shock; but now she says “What a curious person you are!” or “What an utter brute you are!” as the humor takes her; and we live an irreproachable life in the bosom of the Bo family [Sidney and Beatrice Webb]. By the way we have had one desertion—Graham Wallas has suddenly got engaged to a Miss [Ada] Radford. They all succumb sooner or later: I alone remain (and will die) faithful to myself and Ellen.
Just imagine this fifty pound business [Janet Achurch had loaned out £50 from Charlotte]. Can you imagine a more morally thriftless thing to do than to take advantage of a rich woman being fond of me and of a play of mine being in the repertory to extract money, knowing all the time what she must think of the transaction and what I must feel about it. We had a council of the family over it here when the fatal telegram arrived, Mrs Webb being absent (she has not come down yet). [Sidney] Webb was goodnatured & sensible—said “Yes: that’s about what it was bound to cost you if you wish to be friendly. I’d give a fiver myself under the circumstances, which is about the equivalent out of my income of £50 out of yours.” But I obstinately refused to consent not to withdraw “Candida” unless she [Charlotte] pledged herself to accept repayment from me out of my future profits (if any) as dramatic author; and I wrote to Janet to explain to her that she had sold her monopoly for £50 [£6,645.98 in 2020 according to Bank of England’s inflation calculator], as I should now have no right to allow any personal considerations to stand between that debt & its repayment, and will accept the first good offer I get for its production in London whether she is in the cast or not. On receiving this terrible intimation, Janet will weep, attempt suicide, write me an abusive letter, declare herself a wretch unworthy to live, and telegraph for £10 more to meet a pressing engagement. Is it not amazing—that histrionic character (or want of character) that appreciates every sort of heroism and nobility in the most exalted and affectionate spirit, and that cannot in its own proper person resist a five pound note any more than a cat can resist a penn’orth of fried fish.
Oh, I must do some work this morning. I have the proofs of “Mrs Warren” all but the last few pages. When they come I’ll send you a spare set; & you must tell me what you think of it. By the way, that stupid old “Widowers’ Houses” is not so bad as I thought: Ive made it quite presentable with a little touching up. Did you see Archer’s column of weary & disgusted vituperation of “The Man of Destiny” in “St Paul’s.” I intended to send it to you; but I find Ive left it in the pocket of a London coat. No news from Forbes [Johnston Forbes-Robertson]: he’ll never touch “The D.’s D.” unless he is driven to it by flat play-bankruptcy. Mustn’t begin another sheet—
ever—
GBS
63/ To Janet Achurch
19th August 1897
I had my doubts about the susceptibility of Leamington [Spa]; but the reason I didn’t go is that the labor of preparing the plays for the press has assumed unexpected and colossal dimensions. I have worked without intermission ever since I came here; and the result is, “Arms & The Man” and one act of “Candida” ready for the printer—not a line more, as I live by vegetables! Can you tell me roughly where the play wants mending; for I am now at work on it, and must make the alterations this month or never. I enclose you a memorandum of the changes I have made in the first act. The first one is to meet the objection that has always been made—that the children are sprung on the audience to their utter surprise in the last scene for the first time. The others speak for themselves. The rest of the work I have been doing consists in replacing the scenic specifications and stage directions by descriptions for the benefit of the general reader. For instance the beginning of the act is an elaborate description of the whole Hackney district; then a description of Victoria Park; and finally a description of the parsonage and the room. The passages of description which are meant to replace the effect of the acting will be most illuminating to theatrical posterity.
As to [Courtenay] Thorpe, there is nothing for it but to let him sow his wild oats in the part. Who else can you get? [Henry] Esmond wouldn’t go on tour with you: he will stick to London authorially and actorially. Lawrence Irving would hardly fit into your company either; and it is of the company you must think. You will find it hard to get a young leading man whose connexion with you will present so good a balance of advantage (over all the plays) for both sides. However, if you can better him, better him by all means. Only don’t throw him over for the sake of adding twopennorth to the effect of Candida; for he makes a good deal of difference in the other plays. . . .
There was a champion criticism of “Candida” in the Northern Figaro, so sincerely stupid that I have a mind to reprint it in my preface. Did you see it?
GBS
64/ To an actress, theatre director, producer and costume designer Edith Craig
20th August 1897
My dear Miss Craig
Will you send me a line to remind me of the business in the scene with Eugene at the place where you say “Pray are you flattering me or flattering yourself.” Do you go back to the typewriter at the end of that speech or at “I’ll leave the room, Mr Mb [Marchbanks]: I really will. It’s not proper.” I want to get it right for the printer.
Also, if you have accumulated any effective gags, you might let me have them for inclusion in the volume.
All the accounts I have received agree that you and Burgess saved the piece from utter ruin, and that Prossy (as [Charles] Wyndham foresaw) was the popular favorite.
Please make your mother [Ellen Terry] tell me what you thought of the performance; and then bring her to Eastbourne [to see it] so that she can tell me what she thinks herself.
yours sincerely
G.Bernard Shaw
65/ Ellen Terry to Bernard Shaw
30th August 1897
That work of art, [Courtenay] Thorpe, haunts me! He does every part so cleverly. Helmer [in A Doll House] or Eugene, the more difficult the thing to be done the better he does it. But I cant think it right to show as clever as that. Must one show all “the tricks of the trade” to be understood by an audience?
Well, I’ve seen Candida, and it comes out on the stage even better than when one reads it. It is absorbingly interesting every second, and I long for it to be done in London. Even the audience understood it all. I dont see how anything so simple and direct could fail to be understood by the dullest. Only one thing struck