Galsworthy takes his place in modern literature chiefly by virtue of his plays. Criticism may to a certain extent damage him as a novelist, but the most searching critics cannot leave him anything less than a great playwright. His talents are specially adapted to the dramatic form, which at the same time does much to veil his weak points. His mastery of technique nowhere shows to greater advantage than on the stage, nor has he better scope for his true sense of situation; on the other hand, the stage is a legitimate field for propaganda, and the occasional failure of the human interest in his work can be made good by the ability of the actor.

For Galsworthy’s plays have the advantage of acting well—unlike much literary drama, they are as effective on the stage as in the study; in fact, they gain by acting, because, as I said, he has a tendency now and then to subordinate the human interest to the moral, and this the actor can make good.

He stands midway between the purely literary and the purely popular playwright, and he also occupies middle ground between drama which is entirely for instruction and that which is for amusement only. Poles apart on one hand from the light comedies of H. H. Davies and Somerset Maugham, he has very little in common with stage preachers such as Shaw and Barker. More polished and more subtle than Houghton, he is less clear-eyed and heroic than Masefield. Undoubtedly his most striking quality as a dramatist is his sense of form and craft, but he is far removed from that school of playwrights, of which Pinero and H. A. Jones are leaders, whose technique amounts to little more than a working knowledge of the stage.

Galsworthy loves, in his novels as well as his plays, to deal with situations. This is to a certain extent detrimental to the novelist, as it hampers development, and a novel which does not develop along some line or other has a tendency to stale or solidify. But it is obvious that a sense of situation is one of the first essentials of a dramatist, and Galsworthy has it in full measure. It shows pre-eminently in his central ideas, and subordinately in his apt management of his curtains, which in his best plays are situations in themselves, epitomising the chief issues of the act or scene.

His central situation is the moral or social problem at the bottom of the play. He carries on his propaganda almost entirely by situation, and this is what lifts his art above that of Shaw and other missionary dramatists. He practically never relies on dialogue for introducing his theories, except so far as dialogue develops and explains the situation. He depends on his characters and their actions to enforce his moral, and it is to this he owes his artistic salvation.

Having chosen his situation, he proceeds to balance it with two contrasting groups, one on either side. Each group consists of various types, embodying various points of view, which, while differing to a slight extent, are yet subordinate to the Point of View of the group. The fact that his characters are types rather than individuals is all to his good as a dramatist, though we shall see later that it is a drawback in the novels. Types are always more convincing on the stage than individuals, the necessary personal touch being given by the actor. There is no use criticising a play apart from the acting—the two are inextricably bound together, so that the author is in a sense only the collaborator; a play which was not written to be acted can scarcely be called a play—it is a novel in dialogue.

Perhaps the best example of Galsworthy’s technique, and at the same time his finest achievement as a playwright, is Strife. Here we have the central situation, the contrasting of groups, the combination of types—the whole so perfectly balanced, and so smooth-working, that it does not creak once. The central idea is the dispute between the directors of the Works and their employees, but it is impossible to consider this in itself, apart from the attitude of the two parties towards it. Indeed we are given a very vague idea of the nature of the difference; all we know is that it has reduced many of the workers to starvation, while the directors have to face angry shareholders and failing dividends. Harness, the trades-union delegate, acts as a go-between, and gradually both groups begin to see the allurements of compromise. Various circumstances drive them towards it, with the exception of their respective leaders, Roberts, and old Anthony. The end is pitiful—for the two sides surrender to each other simultaneously, breaking their leaders’ hearts. These men are of extraordinary character and ability, and of the most splendid courage, but they are betrayed by their cowardly followers, who have not grit or faith enough to see that their only chance lies in “no compromise.” There is a powerful scene between Roberts, the men’s leader, and Anthony, chairman of the directors, when they have both been abandoned by their supporters:

Roberts [to Anthony]. But ye have not signed them terms! They can’t make terms without their chairman! Ye would never sign them terms! [Anthony looks at him without speaking.] Don’t tell me ye have! for the love o’ God [with passionate appeal] I reckoned on ye!

Harness [holding out the Directors’ copy of the terms]. The Board has signed.

Roberts. Then you’re no longer Chairman of this Company! [Breaking into half-mad laughter.] Ah, ha—Ah, ha, ha! They’ve thrown ye over—thrown over their Chairman: ah—ha—ha! [With a sudden dreadful calm.] So—they’ve done us both down, Mr Anthony.

There is also a social problem at the bottom of Justice, but this time it is in connection with the English law. In Justice we have a bitter, tragic indictment of the penal system. We are given the psychology of a crime, but not so much of its committal as of its expiation. We are shown the effect of prison life on the clerk Falder, and of its consequences following him after his release, and driving him at last to suicide. It is a wonderfully temperate statement of cruel facts. Throughout it Galsworthy retains a perfect command of his art; above all he avoids any cheap identification of the ministers of a system with the system itself. The officials of the court and of the prison are all shown as wise and humane men; they do their best, according to their powers, for those wretches whose lives are harassed by the system they administrate. It is the system alone which is in fault.

Perhaps Galsworthy has made a mistake in choosing Falder as his victim. The man is of a type which would go under with a very slight push, weak and changeable, an extreme case. On the other hand, he shows the effect of Law on the poor and weak it is ostensibly there to protect. He is one of those for whom Justice, as understood in this country, and indeed most countries, makes no provision. He is a special case, and it is characteristic of systems and institutions that they ignore—are to a certain extent forced to ignore—the special case, which is almost always better worth considering than the general mass to which the system is adapted. Galsworthy suggests no remedy, no alternative. He does not hint anywhere that Falder has been badly treated. He has been treated as well as Justice will allow; as many men are the victims of injustice, so is he the victim of justice itself.

The play is not quite so well constructed as Strife. The first and second acts cover mostly the same ground, and the action is not so compact or the climax so inevitable. On the other hand, there are some fine scenes, and some particularly arresting characters. Cokeson, the little kind-hearted, humble-minded clerk, is a lovable person, and the relations between Falder and Ruth Honeywill are studied with exquisite delicacy and pathos. The scene of Falder’s arrest, of his trial, and that terrible silent scene, in which not a word is spoken, but in which we are shown far more powerfully than by any words, the horror, the misery, the madness, of solitary confinement—are all memorable, and make us forgive a certain scrappiness in their succession. The play ends on a fine note of tragedy, when Falder, re-arrested for obtaining employment by a forged character, throws himself downstairs rather than go back to gaol:

Ruth [in a whisper]. What is it? He’s not breathing. [She crouches over him.] My dear! my pretty!.... [Leaping to her feet.] No, no! No, no! He’s dead.

Cokeson [stealing forward, in a hoarse voice]. There, there, poor dear woman.

Cokeson. No one’ll touch him now! Never again! He’s safe with gentle Jesus.

[Ruth stands as though turned to stone in the doorway, staring at Cokeson, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog.]

Justice and Strife both deal with social and economic questions in the larger sense, but in the majority of the plays the issues are more personal. The Silver Box and The Eldest Son, for instance, both show the different standards of morality expected from the poor and from the rich. The Fugitive is a study of the helplessness of a beautiful woman, not specially trained, when she is driven to make her own way in life. Joy shows the essential selfishness which we all bring into our relations both with one another and with problems of conduct.

The Silver Box runs Strife close as Galsworthy’s masterpiece. There is a strong resemblance between its central idea and that of The Eldest Son, a far inferior play. In The Silver Box the charwoman’s husband is sent to gaol for stealing, whereas the M.P.’s son, who has also committed a theft, under far more unforgivable circumstances, escapes because of his superior position and wealth.... In The Eldest Son, the poor gamekeeper is threatened with dismissal if he will not marry the girl he has betrayed, while the eldest son of the house brings his father’s wrath upon his head for standing by the lady’s maid he has put in the same position.

The Silver Box is much the clearer-sighted of the two plays; in the second the issues are occasionally confused, and both the construction and dramatic effect are inferior. The Silver Box is practically flawless. The two contrasting groups, the rich and important Barthwicks, and the poor, good-for-nothing Joneses, are perfectly balanced. There is no crude over-emphasis of the situation, nor inopportune enforcement of the moral, though perhaps in the trial scene Galsworthy is a little too anxious to point out the similarity of the positions of Jack Barthwick and Jem Jones, and the difference of their treatment: “Dad! that’s what you said to me!” says young Barthwick, more pointedly than naturally, when the magistrate tells Jones he is “a nuisance to the community.”

The characters are drawn with great vividness and restraint. Mrs Jones is particularly successful—pale, quiet, down-trodden, she has about her a certain dignified pathos which is perfectly human and natural. She does not pose as a martyr, she does not pretend that she would not leave her husband if she could and dared; the fact is not hidden from us that her sad-eyed silences must be particularly irritating to him. She does not complain over much, but she has nothing of stoical endurance—she endures rather because she has been battered into submission and sees the uselessness of revolt. She would revolt if she could.

One of the most direct and convincing scenes in the play is that between these two, in their home, when Mrs Jones discovers that her husband has stolen the silver box.

Jones. I’ve had a bit of luck. Picked up a purse—seven pound and more.

Mrs Jones. Oh, James!

Jones. Oh, James! What about oh, James! I picked it up, I tell you. This is lost property, this is.

Mrs Jones. But isn’t there a name in it or something?

Jones. Name! No, there ain’t no name. This don’t belong to such as ’ave visitin’ cards. This belongs to a perfec’ lidy. Tike an’ smell it. Now, you tell me what I ought to have done. You tell me that. You can always tell me what I ought to ha’ done.

Mrs Jones. I can’t say what you ought to have done, James. Of course the money wasn’t yours; you’ve taken somebody else’s money.

Jones. Finding’s keeping. I’ll take it as wages for the time I’ve gone about the streets asking for what’s my rights. I’ll take it for what’s overdue, d’ye hear? I’ve got money in my pocket, my girl. Money in my pocket! And I’m not going to waste it. With this ’ere money I’m going to Canada. I’ll let you have a pound. You’ve often talked of leavin’ me. You’ve often told me I treat you badly—well I ’ope you’ll be glad when I’m gone.

Mrs Jones. You have treated me very badly, James, and of course I can’t prevent your going; but I can’t tell whether I shall be glad when you’re gone.

Jones. It’ll change my luck. I’ve ’ad nothing but bad luck since I took up with you. And you’ve ’ad no bloomin’ picnic.

Mrs Jones. Of course it would have been better for us if we had never met. We weren’t meant for each other. But you’re set against me, that’s what you are, and you have been for a long time. And you treat me so badly, James, going after that Rosie and all. You don’t ever seem to think of the children that I’ve had to bring into the world, and of all the trouble I’ve had to keep them, and what’ll become of them when you’re gone.

Jones. If you think I want to leave the little beggars you’re bloomin’ well mistaken.

Mrs Jones. Of course I know you’re fond of them.

Jones. Well then, you stow it, old girl. The kids’ll get along better with you than when I’m here. If I’d ha’ known as much as I do now, I’d never ha’ had one o’ them. What’s the use o’ bringin’ ’em into a state o’ things like this? It’s a crime, that’s what it is; but you find it out too late; that’s what’s the matter with this ’ere world.

Mrs Jones. Of course it would have been better for them, poor little things; but they’re your own children, and I wonder at you talkin’ like that. I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose them.

Jones. And you ain’t the only one. If I make money out there—--[Looking up he sees her shaking out his coat—in a changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!

[The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the cigarettes upon the bed. Taking up the box, she stares at it; he rushes at her, and snatches the box away.]

Mrs Jones. Oh, Jem! Oh, Jem!

Jones. You mind what you’re sayin’! When I go out I’ll take and chuck it in the water along with that there purse. I ’ad it when I was in liquor, and for what you do when you’re in liquor you’re not responsible—and that’s Gawd’s truth as you ought to know. I don’t want the thing—I won’t have it. I took it out o’ spite. I’m no thief, I tell you; and don’t you call me one, or it’ll be the worse for you.

Mrs Jones. It’s Mr Barthwick’s! You’ve taken away my reputation. Oh, Jem, whatever made you?

Jones. What d’you mean?

Mrs Jones. It’s been missed; they think it’s me. Oh, whatever made you do it, Jem?

Jones. I tell you I was in liquor. I don’t want it; what’s the good of it to me? If I were to pawn it they’d only nab me. I’m no thief. I’m no worse than what young Barthwick is; he brought ’ome that purse I picked up—a lady’s purse—’ad it off ’er in a row, kept sayin’ e’d scored ’er off. Well I scored ’im off. Tight as an owl ’e was! And d’you think anything’ll happen to him?

Mrs Jones. Oh, Jem! It’s the bread out of our mouths.

Jones. Is it, then? I’ll make it hot for ’em yet. What about that purse. What about young Barthwick.

[Mrs Jones comes forward to the table, and tries to take the box; Jones prevents her.]

Jones. What do you want with that. You drop it, I say!

Mrs Jones. I’ll take it back, and tell them all about it. [She attempts to wrest the box from him.]

Jones. Ah, would yer?

[He drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. She slips back past the bed. He follows; a chair is overturned....]

In The Eldest Son we have the same idea not quite so effectively handled—the contrast between the codes of ethics required from the poor and from the rich. There are some good scenes in the play, notably that between Bill and Freda in the first act, and that towards the end, when the whole Cheshire family is brought into action against Freda and her sturdy old father, who at last suddenly solves the difficulty by saying: “I’ll have no charity marriage in my family,” and leading his daughter away. Also the characters of Sir William Cheshire and of his wife are great achievements, both strong and delicate. But the play has not the grip or the reality of The Silver Box.

The failure lies in a certain lack of cohesion and inevitableness in the whole. The rehearsal of Caste, which is introduced in the second act, points the moral rather too obviously. Also the central idea is hampered by the fact that the two illustrative cases are not really parallel. In The Silver Box the theft by young Barthwick is just as blameworthy as that by Jones. Their positions are quite the same, except that, indeed, it is the man of wealth who is the more despicable and deserving of punishment. But no one can say that Bill Cheshire and Freda Studdenham are in the same position as the gamekeeper and the village girl. There are objections to the marriage of Bill and Freda which do not exist in the other case. Certainly there are objections to that too, but the fact remains that the two examples are not parallel.