JOHN GALSWORTHY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXX, Issue 21414, 11 February 1933, Page 1 (Supplement)

JOHN GALSWORTHY

BY MONA GORDON

A PERSONAL MEMORY

On, a bright, crisp day of May, 1931, the twenty-first of the month, the late John. Galsworthy came to Oxford to deliver the. Romanes lecture. Oxford was familiar to him; he knew her well, for New College formed the background of his student days—New College with its glorious, remains of the ancient city wall, its sleepy cloisters and famous chapel, rich with the amber stains of a Burne Jones window. The atmosphere of the old town and its peaceful country surroundings was certainly absorbed by him very deeply, finding expression in such novels as " The Dark Flower" and " The Island Pharisees"; two of his lovers stand on Folly Bridge which crosses the Isis on the main road to Abingdon; he gives us " the scent of limes" in the park; but perhaps the simple things of the Oxfordshire country appealed to him most. On this day of May, a cold and unsummery one, Galsworthy returned to the hauntingly beautiful city and entered the Sheldonian Theatre. The latter was built by the famous Wren in the shape of a horseshoe, and in it degree ceremonies and special lectures take place. There was a hush of expectancy all round the rows and rows of seats —everyone waited in a sort of tense eagerness fat the creator of " The Forsyte Saga." He was sixty-four, but gave rather the impression of the early fifties, so brisk ,his walk, alert, almost youthful. He wore university robes; taking off his mortar-board he bowed to the Chancellor, and standing at a reading-desk, his back to the great organ, began to speak on " The Creation of Character in Literature."

There was something most vividly alive about him; here stood the creator of the Forsytes—Jon and old Jolyon, of Uncle James, Soames and Fleur. Who, in the whole field of contemporary literature, could have been better qualified to talk on the subject of his choice ? Here -was a vivid personality who for a-quarter of a century had been engaged in the art of creating character, and such characters, from the Victorian middle class to the present-day middle class—living epitomes of their times and seasons, who are with us for all time in the ranks of literature. Lovable Personality John Galsworthy once refused a knighthood ; face to face with him one did not wonder why. His was a simple, lovable personality; he was J.G.—what did he want with titles ? He was almost bald except for a little silver hair round the back and over the ears; his hands were small and white, his eyes—light eyes—lowered. He had no mannerisms; simplicity, directness, characterised his whole attitude, with nothing of the Oxford superiority about him. He gave the impression of a man easy to live with; his wife did all his typing for him—a labour of love. Just to sit there and listen to the intonations of his voice, to study the man, was to become absorbed. He spoke quickly, every now and then turning the pages of the pamphlet before him wit& a delicacy of movement, a gentleness of touch, that the scholar in general applies to the leaves of books. I shall quote only one paragraph, the most personal touch, and therefore, to us in this sad aftermath of his death, the most important one. " The vitality and freedom of character creation derives as a rule from the subconscious mind," he said. "In attempting an illustration of that process you must forgive my being personal for a moment " —(forgive him—one hangs on the words!) —"I sink into my morning chair, a blotter on my knee, the last words or deed of some character in ink before my eyes, a pen in my hand, a pipe in my mouth, and nothing in my head. I sit. I don't intend; I don't expect; I don't even hope. I read over the last pages. Gradually my mind seems to leave the chair and be where my character is acting or speaking, leg raised, waiting to come down, lips opened, ready to say something. Suddenly my pen jots down a movement or remark, another, another, another, and goes on doing this, haltingly perhaps, for an hour or two. When the result is read through it surprises one by seeming to come out of what went before, and by ministering to some sort of possible future. . . . The creation of character . . . thus has ever the guidance of what, perhaps, may best be called the homing instinct." Traveller and Poet It was a long lecture, lasting over two hours. Outside, the May sun shone and a cold wind wandered down Broad Street, waving the bunches of royal purple violas and scented lilies-of-the-valley a flowerseller was hoping to dispose of when the crowd came out. Inside you could have heard a pin drop; no one coughed or spoke. It was intensely interesting, a memorable experience. It was over; the slight, spare figure with that direct voice and simple manner had gone—doubtless to some special afternoon tea in his honour. The crowd filed out—no one noticed the flower-seller; his little purple and white bunches were in vain. People trooped past by companies talking of J.G. and the way he had held his audience' by personal magnetism, not by the fame of his achievement in fiction and drama but by something that was very evidently the man himself. . . . The famous author who lived to receive the gratification of the Nobel prize was a great traveller, though nothing in his books' leaves the faintest impress of his ever having left his homeland. He visited many -countries but his heart was in England; much of his work was done in South Africa. Sussex and Hampstead he made in turn his headquarters. His poetry reveals a mind, as is the habit of poetry in showing us intimate things—different from what one would expect from the creator of " The Forsyte Saga." Quite definitely he was no agnostic nor searcher—he had faith. Peeling ior Nature Galsworthy's feeling for Nature etched delicately, faintly, in the novels, was • nevertheless a very real one. Many of his poems are gems of lovely imageiy, slender and fairy-like as gossamer— I've seen the moon with lifted wing— A white hawk over a cypress tree. Perhaps 41 The Downs" expresses as well as anything else what he felt about the country: O, the Downs high to the cool sky; And the feel of the etm-warmed moss; And each cardoon, like a full moon, Fairy-spun of the thistle floss; And the beech grove, and a wood-dove, And the trail where the shepherds pass; And the lark Si song, and the wind's song, And the scent of the parching grnss! In "The Flower" you find the perfection of ap innate, a beautiful simplicity, but surely his very self: I etroll forth this flowery day Of " print froajes " and buds of may. And speedwells of tender blue Whom no sky can match for hue. I love well my English home: Yet far thoughts do stealing come To throng me like honey-bees. Till far flowers my fancy sees. 'Tis almond against the snows. And gentian and mountain rose. And iris in purple bright— The France flower, the flower of light. Just before Christmas he was reported to be a little better, undergoing special 1 ' treatment in London. He knew only a bare month of the New Year.