When the Ceiling Fell Barrie Bolted!

Sunday Dispatch, 19 October 1930, page 2, 923 words

[Transcribed from a very muddy facsimile provided by Newspapers.com]

George Moore Tells Tales.

Veteran Novelist in an Impish Mood.

“Unfunny” Shaw.

[Illustrated with photos of Sir James Barrie, Mr. Arnold Bennet, and Mr. H.G. Wells. Barrie is not mentioned in the text and the anecdote about a falling ceiling involves Bennett.]

“I am an aesthetic; but I also possess certain qualities of a tradesman — an aesthetic vendor of literary commodities. That is why first editions of my works are sold at two guineas a volume.”

With these words Mr. George Moore, the 78-years old novelist, who has just returned from France, opened a general dissertation to me on men, matters, and manners — modern and otherwise.

Mr. Moore, who was very ill three years ago, has regained his blithe vitality, and still insists on standing or pacing about his [illegible] green room in Ebury-street as he talks incisively.

That his new book, “Aphrodite in Aulis,” to be published next week, is likely to be his last, as has been rumoured, is most emphatically denied by the author.

At the end of this month Mr. Moore’s play, “The Passing of the Essenes,” recently produced at the Arts Theatre, is to be revived.

Mr. Moore said, “The play is what I consider to be my best work, but it is certainly not my last. I am even now preparing a book of short stories. And let me say at once that they will not be of the snappy, vulgar kind of things with a twist at the end which appears to be popular at the moment. But come, let us talk about other things.”

He drew a chair to face a painting by Manet. They were great friends — these two artists, but as Manet rose to fame, Moore gave up painting on canvas and restricted his art to literature.

“It matters not to me what people who read cheap books may think of my work. I know what I have achieved in 45 years of constant labour with never a single hiatus for rest or play, except that imposed by illness.

Harris and Shaw.

For a moment the conversation turned on Frank Harris and his forthcoming biography of Bernard Shaw.

“Frank is a fool to hate or pretend to hate England as he says he does” — with a touch of angry commiseration in his voice as he mentioned the name of one of his greatest early friends, who has since renounced his English citizenship.

Perhaps he thinks he is getting his own back on England by writing a book on Shaw, who, in my mind, is the most unfunny comedian on the English stage. Shaw is the finest friend any man could desire, but oh! how pointless when he writes!

“They tell me that Harris writes quite well at times” — Mr. Moore condescended to release a puckish smirk — ”but I have never got to know him in person as much as I should have liked.

“He once came here to dinner with me, but as he entered the dining-room the ceiling fell down. That’s the last I saw of Harris.

“Commercial” Bennett.

“These other prolific people who write popular fiction mixed with pseudo-philosophy are all quite good fellows to their way — good, that is, as bright, kindly, intelligent men who are all right until they put crude ideas into books of seven hundred pages.

“I look upon Arnold Bennett as the commercial traveller of literature. He is a fine fellow to know, but he writes too much.

“Why should I speak of H.G. Wells? I think he is a very hard worker and thoroughly believes in himself.”

As if tied of the subject of contemporaries, Mr. Moore rose, paced the room a while, and, coming to a standstill before a portrait of a gentleman of the early nineteenth century, exclaimed, “I wonder what he would think about it all.”

“He was my grandfather, a real specimen of the good old English gentleman.”

The talk turned to the world’s political, social, and economic crisis.

“What do I know of a world crisis? Is there one? Why should I be asked to utter any opinion of world crises? I might have done so one day, long ago, but now — now I am too old for polemics. Leave that to those who write cheap pamphlets filled with sagacious platitudes. I have neither time nor inclination.”

About Women.

The Master — in France, since the death of Anatole France, George Moore is known as the grand maître — however found time and inclination to say something about modern women.

“No woman has ever equalled man by achievement in the arts. Painting, literature, music — where are the positive and lasting gifts to the world from women?

“Women should never be allowed to work with their brains. They only spoil their work and their brains, too.

“They should be making beautiful things, as they did when I was a youth.

“That is what women should be doing now — not knocking balls about over a net and competing with burly men in rough positions.

“But there! Perhaps that is the meaning or even the cause of what people call this great world crisis. I don’t know; but I have a vague idea that it is women’s attitude to life that is responsible for what trouble life presents to us to-day.”

This was followed by  another definite opinion on a phase of modern life — the talkies.

“I know nothing about them — or it — except that the boardings surely indicate to a sane man what must be an incipient vulgarity. Further than that I have no interest.”

O.W.M.