Partners of the Imagination: The Lives,

Art and Struggles of John Arden and

Margaretta D’Arcy Robert Leach
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Partners of the Imagination

Partners of the Imagination is the first in-depth study of the work of John Arden
and Margaretta D’Arcy, partners in writing and cultural and political campaigns.
Beginning in the 1950s, Arden and D’Arcy created a series of hugely admired
plays performed at Britain’s major theatres. Political activists, they worked tire-
lessly in the peace movement and the Northern Ireland ‘Troubles’, during which
D’Arcy was gaoled. She is also a veteran of the Greenham Common Women’s
Peace camp. Their later work included Booker-listed novels, prize-winning sto-
ries, essays and radio plays, and D’Arcy founded and ran a Woman’s Pirate Radio
station. Raymond Williams described Arden as ‘the most genuinely innovative’
of the playwrights of his generation, and Chambers and Prior claimed that ‘The
Non-Stop Connolly Show’, D’Arcy and Arden’s six-play epic, ‘has fair claim to
being one of the finest pieces of post-war drama in the English language’.
This study explores the connections between art and life, and between the
responsibilities of the writer and the citizen. Importantly, it also evaluates the
range of literary works (plays, poetry, novels, essays, polemics) created by these
writers, both as literature and drama, and as controversialist activity in its own
right.
This work is a landmark examination of two hugely respected radical writers.

Robert Leach is a theatre director as well as an academic. Educated at Pembroke

College, Cambridge, he has taught at Birmingham and Edinburgh Universities.
He has published many books on theatre-related subjects, most recently from
­Routledge the two-volume Illustrated History of British Theatre and Performance.
Partners of the Imagination
The Lives, Art and Struggles of John Arden
and Margaretta D’Arcy

Robert Leach
First published 2021
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2021 Robert Leach
The right of Robert Leach to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by
him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in
any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
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Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to
infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Leach, Robert, 1942- author.
Title: Partners of the imagination : the lives, art and struggles of John
Arden and Margaretta D'Arcy / Robert Leach.
Description: London ; New York : Routledge, 2020. | Includes
bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2020029117 |
ISBN 9780367489144 (hardback) | ISBN
9781003043515 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Arden, John–Criticism and interpretation. | D'Arcy,
Margaretta–Criticism and interpretation. | English drama–20th
century–History and criticism.
Classification: LCC PR6051.R3 Z775 2020 | DDC 822/.91409–dc20
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020029117
ISBN: 978-0-367-48914-4 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-04351-5 (ebk)
Typeset in Times
by SPi Global, India
Contents

List of figures vii

Introduction ix
Acknowledgements xii
Prologue xiii

1 A Yorkshire boyhood 1

2 Stirrings 9

3 An Irish girlhood 16

4 The aspiring actress 24

5 At the Royal Court Theatre 31

6 Towards collaboration 43

7 Festivals of anarchy 54

8 A playwright without his breeches 63

9 Alternatives 74

10 Cartoons, archetypes, slogans, theatre 84

11 Looking and seeing 96

12 An activist theatre 107

13 A mighty bust-up 118

vi Contents
14 Ireland once again 134

15 Non-stop 141

16 Pinpricks and follies 155

17 Unperson – New person 168

18 ‘If you are beaten down, you just rise again!’ 176

19 Artists for freedom 186

20 Pirate woman 196

21 Undeviating paths 203

22 The ink horn not yet dry 213

23 Loose theatre 219

24 ‘This was not history. It has not passed’ 230

Bibliography 238
Index 243
Figures

1.1 Ten of John Arden’s aunts. 1

1.2 John Arden’s mother, Nancy Arden. 4
1.3 The Arden family, c.1935. John stands in front of his father and
mother, right; his grandparents are seated in the centre
of the front row. 4
3.1 Joseph D’Arcy, c.1945. 17
3.2 The D’Arcys, c.1940: Margaretta, Rosemary, Judith, mother,
with Claire kneeling behind. 19
4.1 Margaretta D’Arcy, c.1950. 25
4.2 Margaretta D’Arcy, the aspiring actress. 28
5.1 Live Like Pigs at the Royal Court Theatre, 1958. 39
7.1 John Arden, Margaretta D’Arcy and Arnold Wesker
at Kirbymoorside. 58
9.1 Ars Longa, Vita Brevis directed by Albert Hunt, 1965. 76
9.2 The Royal Pardon directed by Robert Leach, 1968. 79
10.1 John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy, c.1967. 84
11.1 John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy in India, 1970, with Jacob,
Adam, Neuss and Finn. 104
14.1 Margaretta D’Arcy, c.1973. 136
15.1 Woodcut of James Connolly used on the cover of the first edition
of the published text of The Non-Stop Connolly Show. 143
19.1 Margaretta D’Arcy outside the offices of Aosdana, May 1986. 188
20.1 Pirate woman with the actress Sabina Higgins,
wife of Michael Higgins, later president of Ireland. 198
21.1 John Arden reads from his work. 205
23.1 Margaretta D’Arcy with her film camera. 220
23.2 Launch of John Arden’s collection of stories, Gallows,
with (left to right) Margaretta D’Arcy, John Arden, Finn Arden. 223
23.3 Ben Jonson becomes aware that his passage of love
with Mrs Townsend is spied upon by Mr Townsend. 224
23.4 Margaretta D’Arcy reading in an informal presentation
of The Non-Stop Connolly Show. 226
viii Figures
23.5 John Arden reading in an informal presentation
of The Non-Stop Connolly Show. 226
24.1 Arden and D’Arcy in their later years: such apparent
peacefulness was not characteristic. 231
24.2 Margaretta D’Arcy plays her pipe. 236
Introduction

This book is a revised, shortened and updated version of that published in 2012
by Indigo Dreams Publishing. I am extremely grateful to Ronnie Goodyer and
Dawn Bauling, the original publishers, for allowing this reworking of that book
to appear.
John Arden dedicated his Two Autobiographical Plays to

... all those nosey-parkers who prefer

To know the poet’s life and what he does
Rather than read his words upon the page
Or listen to them spoken on the stage.

This is a salutary warning. Nevertheless, I trust the following pages do not reveal
me as one of those ‘nosey-parkers’ whom he castigates. My hope is that I will
stimulate the reader into reading some of the work of my subjects, or watching a
play by them. This at any rate is my aim.
This book attempts to plot the development of a political, philosophical, social
and artistic stance. And how the discovering of that stance took a long time, and
many twists and turns, before some sort of a solution was found. That solution
was what Margaretta D’Arcy was to call ‘loose theatre’. The book therefore fol-
lows the search for what this formulation might mean, artistically, socially and
politically.
In the quest for ‘loose theatre’, Arden and D’Arcy moved away from what
was easily accessible to the critics, both physically accessible in terms of venue
(no more West End of London premieres with special seats reserved for critics
with mighty and fearful pens) and intellectually accessible in terms of form and
content (no more conventional ‘challenges’ to flatter the critics’ self-serving spe-
cialisms). Consequently their work became less known than it should have been.
This is acknowledged by all who have studied that work. Jonathan Wike, in his
Introduction to John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy: A Casebook notes ‘the need
for more study of their work at this time’,1 and in his appraisal of Arden’s work,
Javed Malick begins by explaining that his book ‘is partly an attempt to correct
the critical neglect of John Arden’s work’.2 Yet Arden’s, and D’Arcy and Arden’s,
genius is widely agreed. One example will be sufficient here, since there are
x Introduction
many more later in these pages: the radical publisher, John Calder, says, almost
offhandedly, ‘Of that generation of playwrights (Arden) was the most talented.
He is a British Brecht’.3
Part of the difficulty seems to have sprung from a writing career which began as
Arden’s, became Arden and D’Arcy’s, then D’Arcy and Arden’s, then dissolved
into both individual and collaborative works, which were more or less compre-
hensible as literary work, but which seemed to move increasingly into political
or social dimensions. And no sooner had Arden become Arden and D’Arcy or
D’Arcy and Arden, than the critics seemed lost. For some reason, in this case, the
collaboration of two artists seemed baffling; yet there are far too many pairs of
writers and artists who have worked together for there to be any excuse for those
who couldn’t cope with Arden and D’Arcy: Keith Waterhouse and Willis Hall;
Rodgers and Hammerstein; Beaumont and Fletcher; Gilbert and George; Charles
Rennie Mackintosh and Margaret Macdonald. Arden himself refers to Robert
Graves and Laura Riding. This is the merest tip of the iceberg.
One reason why the Arden-D’Arcy partnership may have discomforted critics
and observers is that Arden tended to be the bookish partner and D’Arcy the
more outspoken and even aggressive. This is not how male-female partnerships
are supposed to work. Arden’s natural caution is illustrated by a story D’Arcy
tells: ‘John is the only child of elderly parents ... His mother put him into a play-
pen. When the playpen was removed, John was still there on the spot’.4 D’Arcy
seemed much more forceful and even impetuous. One University professor tells
of how he invited them to do some work on the campus of the University where he
taught. He was only able to obtain from his Finance Office a single cheque, made
out to ‘John Arden’, in payment for their work. D’Arcy immediately marched
into the Finance Office and demanded a cheque for herself, which the officer
was soon cowed into providing. She achieved, in other words, what the highly
regarded professor had been quite unable to achieve. Bureaucrats, entrepreneurs,
managers, critics – none cares to be browbeaten by a woman.
This book concentrates on the public lives of John Arden and Margaretta
D’Arcy: their private lives are only mentioned when it seems relevant to their
work. They were unusual for their generation in that they stayed together for well
over 50 years and they continued writing, collaborating and performing together
until Arden’s death in 2012. And they brought up four children, if unconvention-
ally, at least comparatively successfully.
In earlier ages, Arden, and Arden and D’Arcy, and D’Arcy and Arden, and
D’Arcy herself, would have been supported by a thoughtful publisher, one con-
cerned about our culture and heritage, who would have published these authors’
‘Complete Works’ in a series of uniform volumes. This seems to be impossible
in today’s over-hyped and over-accelerated world. But such a ‘Complete Works’
would enable us to read and study at our leisure not simply those plays, novels
and other writings which have been published, but also the unpublished work,
including the radio plays, which contain some of the authors’ finest writing. I
hope I have managed to do some justice to these barely known works. Even
today, one might hope that someone somewhere will bring out, say, Three Radio
Plays by John Arden: Garland for a Hoar Head, Woe, Alas, the Fatal Cash Box
 Introduction xi
and Poor Tom, Thy Horn Is Dry. This would make a more satisfying book than
many play collections by lesser authors which are currently in print.
As it is, the influence of Arden and D’Arcy remains pervasive. We see it in
unexpected places, perhaps subliminally, but still clearly, as in some of the finest
twenty-first-century drama, such as Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem, or Lee Hall’s
The Pitmen Painters. And Martin Lynch has recorded how the moment he real-
ized theatre was for him was when
I was sitting in the audience at Turf Lodge Social Club in 1975 watching
a play called The Non-Stop Connolly Show by John Arden and Margaretta
D’Arcy. A character from the play – an English yeoman with a gun – was
chasing an outlaw from the Land League around the main body of the hall
and the crowd was loving it, roaring and cheering on the outlaw. It was that
moment when I saw an audience not only captivated but involved.5
It is easy to argue, therefore, as I do, that we need to know more about the work
of John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy, and we need to acknowledge their signif-
icance more generously.

Notes
1 Wike, Jonathan (ed), John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy: a Casebook, London:
Garland, 1995, p.ix.
2 Malick, Javed, Toward a Theater of the Oppressed, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1995, p.1.
3 The Guardian, 3 January 2004.
4 Writing Ulster, No 2/3, 1991–1992, p.87.
5 http//www.culturenorthernireland/article/2257/my-cultural-life-martin-lynch
(accessed 12 October 2011)
Acknowledgements

A work of this nature puts the author in debt to many people. I gladly offer my
sincere thanks to all those actors, students or professionals, as well as stage
crews, front-of-house staff and others, who have worked with me on plays by
John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy: Live Like Pigs, The Business of Good Gov-
ernment, Ars Longa, Vita Brevis, The Royal Pardon, The Hero Rises Up, The
Non-Stop Connolly Show and The Little Gray Home in the West.
Thanks, too, to the always-helpful staff at the National Library of Scotland
and to the staff at the British Library in London, especially Ike Egbetola, Yadley
Day and Rod Hamilton of the British Library Listening Service. Others to whom
I am indebted, and to whom I owe thanks, are Mr M.J. Glen, Headmaster, Ter-
rington Hall Preparatory School; Mr C.H. Hirst, Headmaster, and Ms Katy Iliffe,
archivist, Sedburgh School; Clare Poyner, Peace News; Nancy Coughlan, Emma
Campbell and Noëlle O’Hanlon; Albert Hunt; Tamara Hinchco; Kika Markham;
Finn Arden; Professor Peter Thomson; Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling.
Several people read this book, or parts of it, while it was in draft form, and
made comments, criticisms and suggestions. I thank them sincerely for their help:
Angela Bull, Tamara Hinchco, Albert Hunt, Nicholas Leach, Joy Parker, Olga
Taxidou and John Topping.
For the photographs, I am entirely indebted to Finn Arden, who spent hours
searching through family (and other) archives. Their inclusion undoubtedly
enhances this book: my gratitude to him for this work and for his friendship is
incalculable.
My final thanks go to the late John Arden and Margaretta D’Arcy, who not only
allowed me to poke about in the dusty corners of their lives, but barely ever lost
patience with me. I know that many biographers fall out with the subjects of their
studies, but this was not the case here. I hope, and think, they both perceived my
intention: to present their ideas and achievements in the clearest possible light.
Robert Leach
Prologue

One evening in early November 1956, a young would-be playwright and an aspir-
ing actress sat together under a mulberry tree in Earls Court garden. It was moist
and warm, and there was the sweet smell of rotting leaves. They talked energet-
ically of poetry, the theatre, a new beginning. And they made a promise to each
other. They would change the world of the theatre so that all the old lumber of
decades, the stuffy escapism and the timid placating of ‘Aunt Edna’, the rigid
conventions of theatre-as-an-after-dinner entertainment, and the smug self-satis-
faction which settled like dust on virtually every Green Room in the country – all
this they would overturn. They would find a form of drama which would answer
to the cry of the imagination and which would loosen up the tight little, shallow
little world of British theatre in the middle 1950s. They would find ways to make
a theatre big enough, and welcoming enough, to accommodate what they wanted
to achieve.
And that this could be something that they so exactly agreed upon, that they
both could so ardently desire, was in itself remarkable. For he was a staid and
respectable Yorkshireman, public school and Cambridge University educated,
while she was the daughter of a Russian Jewess and an Irish freedom fighter.
Their paths to that garden in Earls Court could hardly have been more different.
But from 1955 they were to stand and fight shoulder to shoulder to liberate British
theatre, to take it beyond its shallow parochialism and to open it up to the dan-
gerous winds blown in by hard political struggle and by the joyous, noisy, poetic,
inconvenient and audacious theatrical ways which Britain had largely lost.
He was the poet and playwright, John Arden, and she the actress and idealist,
Margaretta D’Arcy. And their story is an extraordinary, instructive and at times
almost unbelievable peregrination through the art, culture and politics of Britain
and Ireland in the second half of the twentieth century.
1 A Yorkshire boyhood

John Arden was born on 26 October 1930, of traditional English yeoman stock.
His ancestors may be traceable to the Norman Conquest or even earlier, and there
is some evidence that he was related to the family of Shakespeare’s mother. His
nearer ancestors came from Beverley in Yorkshire, and the nineteenth-century
Ardens were pillars of the Conservative Party. His father, Charles Alwyn Arden,
born in 1891 in Beverley, was the only boy among eleven children. He worked
for the East Riding of Yorkshire County Council, fought in the First World War,
ending as a Sergeant Major, and, after the war, joined the firm of Wood Brothers,
makers of bottles, tumblers and other glass products in Sheffield.
He also joined the local tennis club, where he met Annie Elizabeth Layland
(known as Nancy), a Primary School teacher who was five years his junior. In
1924, they were married. The Laylands were a reasonably well-to-do Methodist
family from Otley in Wharfedale, consisting of five girls and three boys. Arden
therefore grew up with well over a dozen aunts (including the ten Arden women),
nearly all of them spinsters. And as he himself wrote, both his parents came from
‘awe-inspiring lower-middle-bourgeois matriarchal establishments’.1

Figure 1.1 Ten of John Arden’s aunts.

2 A Yorkshire boyhood
The Ardens lived in a neat terraced house in Guest Road, Barnsley. John was
the only child. The petit bourgeois outlook of those in the neighbourhood, shared
at least to some extent by the Ardens, cast as the ‘prime social crime’ ‘brawling
on the doorstep’,2 while making any sort of ‘personal’ comment was also thor-
oughly unacceptable.3 Of John, his mother was extremely possessive, taking care
to organize him at all points. Thus, when he went to school at the age of four,
she had already taught him to read, write and even do simple arithmetic. She did
not return to work till John was well settled at school. Hers was a thoroughly
respectable household, one which asserted its values through the family christen-
ing mugs, the ‘best’ knives and forks (which were only brought out to be polished
and then were put carefully away again) and the portraits of Arden and Layland
forebears and worthies. Conversation at meals was literate and polite, and con-
cerned politics or – more usually – church affairs. For a small boy, it was clearly
supportive, perhaps protective, possibly even repressive.
But Arden was a child with a powerful imagination. The grotesque medieval
church carvings in Beverley Minster transfixed him when he was very small.
Once when out shopping with his mother, he saw a group of discontented men
with banners. He was alarmed, though he did not know who they were. We may
speculate: was it a political demonstration or perhaps they were hunger march-
ers? The fact of them was what was disturbing to the young Arden. He listened
to Children’s Hour on BBC radio where he first encountered the stories of King
Arthur when the programme broadcast an adaptation of Sir Thomas Malory’s La
Morte d’Arthur around 1938: ‘I found it all rather strange, but quite haunting’, he
remembered.4 He also owned a children’s book of tales of King Arthur, perhaps
given to him by an aunt – aunts from both sides of the family gave him books
from an early age. His father also possessed a set of a magazine issued in parts
before the First World War, History of the Nations, which attempted to provide
sympathetic illustrated histories of every country in the world, aiming to avoid
the easy clichés of British imperialism.
His parents, like many of their social class at the time, belonged to societies
and other local organizations. While his mother was active in church affairs, his
father was a Major in the Home Guard during the Second World War, and offered
secretarial assistance to the local Boy Scouts. They were also members of a Play-
goers Society, which visited theatres in Sheffield or Leeds from time to time, but
also read aloud plays by authors such as Galsworthy and Shaw at society meet-
ings. The Arden parents took their young son to the pantomime and once to Alice
in Wonderland, which he hated. The fact that the characters kept spilling the tea
at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party upset his notions of propriety, and the descending
curtain terrified him. ‘Don’t like that curtain!’ he bawled, and his parents were
forced to take him home. He also disliked Peter Pan, unhappily identifying the
downtrodden Mr Darling with his own father. The Yorkshire Post, conservative
but decidedly anti-Fascist, was Charles Arden’s preferred newspaper, and his son
was early aware that Hitler was ‘a bad man’ – though Dr Goebbels (despite his
pretty daughter) was worse. Arden also knew that the Italians were being bad in
Ethiopia, as were the Japanese in China.
 A Yorkshire boyhood 3
When young Arden was four, a friend of his mother named Mrs Dobson opened
a kindergarten nearby, and he was in the initial intake of eight or nine children.
After Arden left, the school built up to be quite sizeable and was obviously suc-
cessful. In the late 1950s, Arden was surprised to receive several hundred pounds,
which Mrs Dobson had left to him, along with similar amounts for the other
original pupils, when she died.
When he was six, Arden was transferred to St Mary’s Church of England Ele-
mentary School, an altogether tougher proposition for the bespectacled, book-
ish and somewhat mollycoddled little boy. The other pupils all seemed bigger
and they also seemed ‘rough’: the playground was fraught with unpleasantness.
Though some of the teachers were sympathetic enough, others were not. After a
year or two, Arden, clearly intelligent, was promoted to a class with a teacher who
enjoyed practising his sarcasm – as well as his cane – on his charges. He decided
that Arden was not careful enough with his pen, and made him come to the front
of the class and hold up his inky fingers. ‘Professor Inkblot!’ he called him glee-
fully, an epithet he continued to use. ‘Have you solved this problem yet, Professor
Inkblot?’ he would scowl, or ‘Professor Inkblot knows, don’t you, professor?’
thereby upsetting his pupil and at the same time retarding his learning. We may
perhaps discern something of him behind Mr Miltiades in Ars Longa, Vita Brevis.
Arden’s class background did not help, and matters were exacerbated for him
by the existence of a Catholic school down the road, where the boys, many of
whom were of Irish origin, seemed even rougher and more frightening than those
at St Mary’s. They had a practice of waylaying boys from St Mary’s on their way
home, and fighting them. Arden was a particular target for these ambushes, since
he had to walk home alone without the company of his friends who lived in other
districts. His cause was not helped either by the way his mother, pampering him
as always, dressed him: for instance, in rainy weather, she insisted on his wearing
a sou’wester, which was the cause of much hilarity among the tougher sort of his
contemporaries.
When war was declared in 1939, his parents, fearing that Barnsley might be a
target for German bombers, decided to take him away from St Mary’s and send
him to a boarding school. Arden was extremely happy. The school they settled
on was Terrington Hall Preparatory School, fifteen miles north of York. It had
65 boys and one girl, the daughter of the recently widowed matron. Arden was
only able to attend because his godfather, an uncle married to one of the Arden
sisters and living in the south of England, offered to help to pay the school fees.
Arden, who appreciated the fact that the teachers were young and interested,
was made a prefect in his final year. He discovered Shakespeare here, as well as
a perhaps more practical form of playmaking: puppetry. The school magazine
records him as one of a group who successfully presented a puppet show to the
school at Christmas in 1943. He also recalled watching some other boys present
a short play called The Late Orlando Madden, when he discovered that the word
‘late’ had more than one meaning. And he found his own talent as a teller of tales,
making up adventures of German servicemen and other villains,
4 A Yorkshire boyhood

Figure 1.2 John Arden’s mother, Nancy Arden.

Figure 1.3 T
 he Arden family, c.1935. John stands in front of his father and mother, right;
his grandparents are seated in the centre of the front row.
 A Yorkshire boyhood 5
discovering the excitement, the exploration, the unbelievable personal exten-
sion of making up stories in all sorts of different voices, telling them to my
friends, receiving attention and response and laughter and sometimes flat dis-
sent as rude as it could come (‘Oh no I don’t believe that, Arden, far-fetched,
Arden’s far-fetched, tell him to shut up, put the cork in, fizzle! – whoever’s
in the next bed, tell him! nobody believes that!’); all this in the dormitory,
after lights out, and very strictly out, the blackout pulled back from the win-
dows to give us air, so that any light shown would immediately signal the
Luftwaffe as well as the school staff. Talking itself was anyway forbidden.
Telling stories with any sort of dramatic climax – shouts, screams, cackles of
laughter, volleys of what we presumed to be oaths, associated vocal sound
effects of blood, bombs and burst – was very highly dangerous. Has it ever
been so dangerous since? If we were heard the headmaster would flagellate
our bare behinds with a flat-backed varnished wooden hairbrush, or a stick
like a Regency buck’s walking-cane. Voluptuous peril gladly risked for the
sake of nightly narrative-drama; indeed almost welcomed.5

Arden was also by now an avid reader: Dr Doolittle, Biggles, Arthur Ransome
and Percy F. Westerman, as well as ‘the savage’ Struwwelpeter, with its relent-
less stories of punishing naughty children, such as Little Johnny Head-in-the-Air,
whom his aunts identified with him, who fell into the water because he never
looked where he was going.6 There were also myths and legends, for which his
imagination always had a particular affinity. At the age of eight he was given a
book of Irish legends, stories of Cuchulainn and the Red Branch heroes, the spirit
of which he entered into energetically, triggering a lifelong fascination with Irish
myth and culture.
The world of myth seemed to surround him even more closely when he went
on to Sedbergh School when he was nearly fourteen in the autumn of 1944. He
had gained an exhibition (less than full scholarship, but a useful reduction in
the school fees demanded), which made his attendance possible. In many ways,
Sedbergh, founded in 1525, was typical of the British boys’ public school of the
time. It maintained a heavy emphasis on games in general, rugby and running in
particular, mixed with a strong dose of muscular Christianity.
Arden later claimed that he was ‘no rebel’ against the regime, and indeed
asserted, ‘I personally think it is a very good school’.7 But some of his contem-
poraries remember him typically clad in what they took to be a duffle coat, which
was actually a long purplish overcoat, worn in all weathers – a strong sign of dis-
sidence! He also stood in Hart House’s mock election as the socialist candidate.
The school magazine’s report after the poll begins baldly enough: ‘The House is
solidly Conservative’. But in its comments it notes that ‘the socialist candidate,
J. Arden, had the hardest job of all for he had to atone for the sins of the present
Government at a job which, together with persistent well-aimed heckling, was
eventually his undoing’. The ‘heckling’ was in fact the beating of a Cadet Corps
drum by some cheerfully mischievous saboteur. In the event, Arden came last in
the ballot, with just three votes.
6 A Yorkshire boyhood
The mythic world he found attractive and absorbing, and which he related
to the Arthurian romances, began at the school gates. During afternoons off, he
explored a landscape which somehow conjured the untamed ruggedness of the
medieval tales:

barren benty heathery hills (which) crowded in over narrow valleys which
were filled with tangled woods and noisy with the roar of brown rivers among
boulders and fallen tree trunks. It rained nearly every day. When it did not
rain the hills could be seen extending for miles in a precise clear blue air,
greeny-brown with black patches, dotted here and there with white sheep.
Curlews called continuously above the mosses. Huddled in some of the river
valleys were small stone chapels, overshadowed by thick hawthorn trees and
often close to the narrow high-arched bridges that intermittently carried the
winding valley roads from one bank of the stream to the other. The place-
names were in themselves suggestive of the wildness of the locality – Black
Force, Cautley Spout, Baugh Fell, Briggflats, Winder Fell …

Arden also noted how ‘the grim abrupt manners of the north Yorkshire dalesmen
seemed also in keeping with the murderous courtliness of the characters of the
(Arthurian) romance’.8 These ‘manners’ were revealed on those same walks, for
the boys often stayed out for tea at a country farmhouse or local pub.
His academic career at Sedbergh began somewhat problematically. He started
an option of Ancient Greek, but was unable to respond to the teacher, Rev J.P.
Newell, who seemed to him to assume that anyone who had difficulties with
Greek was either lazy or stupid. Arden changed to German, and found the teacher
here, Mr A.E. Hammer, much more enlightened. In his Introduction to Ironhand,
his adaptation of Goethe’s Goetz von Berlichingen, Arden pays a notably warm
tribute to Mr Hammer, ‘under whose supervision I first read the original … and
who managed to preserve interest and enthusiasm for it throughout the protracted
routine of studying it as an examination “set book”’.9 As he progressed up the
school, and gained in confidence, he was excited by courses on Roman history
and art which he pursued in the year after his School Certificate. He became Head
of his House and an assistant librarian, and his final Higher School Certificate
(‘A’ Level) success was in English, French and German. He gained an Exhibition
to King’s College, Cambridge.
By the time he reached the sixth form, he seemed to know his future path.
The work in the Art Room, according to the school magazine for March 1948,
included ‘a project for a village with designs for its principal buildings by Arden’.
Architecture was beginning to fascinate and attract him, and he was determined
to go further in the subject. It was what he would study at Cambridge and later
become fully qualified in.
But he also discovered that he had a talent not just for telling stories as in the
dormitory at Terrington Hall but for the sterner discipline of writing. He won not
only the Sixth Form English Prize and the Rankin Shakespeare Prize but also the
Sterling English Verse Prize. He was the only boy during his years at the school
to have a poem published in the official school magazine, The Sedberghian, and
 A Yorkshire boyhood 7
in his House magazine, The Jay, of which he became editor in his last year, he
published other poems. One was a mock Chaucerian description, The Preyfecte,
and others included an account of the Junior Training Corps’s rainy ‘field day’ in
June 1947, with some rather banal imitations of Wilfred Owen mixed with some
vigorous description; a short, almost Tennysonian reflection on Robin Hood’s
Bay and a would-be humorous sonnet. In these pieces, we can see, if only perhaps
in embryonic form, Arden’s command of sprung rhythm, his typically energetic
syntax and vocabulary, as well as both a sense of his subjects’ social reality and
a glimmer of ironic humour.
His intellectual fare varied between his favourite reading – Malory, the tradi-
tional ballads, Shakespeare and more – and the films shown in school, such as
Lady Hamilton, A Yank at Oxford and The Prisoner of Zenda. Sometimes visiting
theatre companies appeared, such as the Adelphi Players who presented Ibsen’s
An Enemy of the People in 1946. Perhaps these helped to inspire Arden to try
writing plays for himself. His early efforts, he said, tended to be unfinished: he
used to ‘fill up a couple of exercise books, then it would get left’. ‘The Middle
Ages had a fascination for me in those days’, he remembered. ‘I was always writ-
ing plays about the Crusades and things’.10
Dramatically, though, the high point of his school career came in his final year
when he acted the part of Hamlet in his House play. He attacked the part with vig-
our and imagination, and created a performance which made a strong impression.
In The Sedberghian, we are told that

Hart House aimed high in their choice of play, but fortunately knew just
where to limit their aspirations. They were content with making it a really
enjoyable and exciting performance without delving into the depths of psy-
chological analysis – an excellent decision, in view of the pitfalls which
await overambitious amateur, and especially schoolboy, productions … If
the reflective Hamlet tended to disappear amid the bustle he was no great
loss … Arden took the part with great energy and made light of the countless
difficulties. He displayed at times a flair for comedy which destroyed any
dignity which the Prince might have possessed, but his performance was
none the less impressive.

Here, we have in little some of Arden’s theatrical trademarks: speed of perfor-

mance at the expense of over-subtle psychology, energy and a flair for comedy.
Further evidence of the deep impression the production made on its audience
came decades later: in the 1970s, Arden had occasion to write to a contemporary
from Sedbergh, Robert Rhodes James, by then a historian of some note and a
Conservative MP, about British policy in the six counties of Northern Ireland.
James mentioned in his reply how he clearly remembered Arden as Hamlet.
So, a multiple prize winner, a school prefect, who performed Hamlet memora-
bly, and a promising writer with his eye fixed on a career in architecture, Arden
should have left school in Caesar-like triumph. In fact, the final episode of his
school career was not so happy. As noted, he was the editor of his House maga-
zine, The Jay, for which boys paid a small subscription. Arden was in charge of
8 A Yorkshire boyhood
this money, which was kept in a special cash box. One morning, he left the cash
box with perhaps twenty pounds in it in his study room. When he returned, it was
gone. Rev Newell, the teacher with whom Arden had clashed over Greek lessons
years earlier in his school career, seized on this to accuse Arden of embezzlement.
He threatened to bring his parents to the school and somehow denounce him.
Arden, sensitive at any time, was in despair, terrified. He even seriously consid-
ered suicide. It was only when his housemaster – and the headmaster – agreed
that Newell had gone too far, that there was in fact no evidence of Arden’s guilt,
that the matter was allowed to die away, and Arden was able to put it behind him.
But not entirely. Decades later, when he was in hospital in 1996 following a
heart attack, his mind, muzzy with anaesthetic or illness or perhaps just over-
wrought by his condition, Arden dreamed, or re-lived, half conscious, half asleep,
the episode of the stolen cash box – an experience he was later able to make into
a particularly brilliant radio play, Woe, Alas, The Fatal Cash Box.

Notes
1 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, Awkward Corners, London: Methuen, 1988,
p.58.
2 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, The Hero Rises Up, London: Methuen, 1969,
p.6.
3 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, Awkward Corners, London: Methuen, 1988,
p.60.
4 http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/INTRVWS/arden.htm (accessed 3 June 2010).
5 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, Plays: One, London: Methuen, 1991, p.xiii.
6 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, Awkward Corners, London: Methuen, 1988,
p.67.
7 Marowitz, Charles, and Trussler, Simon (eds), Theatre at Work: Playwrights and
Productions in the Modern British Theatre, London: Methuen, 1967, p.36.
8 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, The Island of the Mighty, London: Eyre
Methuen, 1974, p.10.
9 Arden, John, Ironhand, London: Methuen, 1965, p.9.
10 Marowitz, Charles, and Trussler, Simon (eds), op. cit., p.36.
2 Stirrings

Within two weeks of leaving school, John Arden was conscripted into the British
Army to do his ‘National Service’. Despite his determined cheeriness when he
arrived at Oswestry Barracks, he was passed fit only for ‘lines-of-communication’
duties, not service on the front line. Consequently, he was recommended for a
desk job and did not receive the commission his mother had hoped for. He was
put into a ‘holding troop’ in Oswestry, which felt to him like being little better
than a slave, and he spent uncounted hours on jobs such as cleaning obscene
graffiti from latrine walls. ‘I never at any other time felt quite so forgotten, quite
so useless, quite so cut off from all normal human intercourse’, he recorded later.1
After some months, however, he was transferred to the Intelligence Corps at
Uckfield in Sussex. Towards the end of his training here, he went on a route
march with his unit to Pevensey Beach in hot sunshine and was knocked out by
sunstroke. He fainted on parade and was hospitalized for three days. While thus
incapacitated, he missed the final elements of the training, and consequently his
army career took another turn and he was posted to Edinburgh Castle where he
remained until he was demobbed in the summer of 1950. He obviously did well
enough here, since he was promoted to Lance Corporal after some months. And
clerking for the Army in Edinburgh Castle provided a comparatively easy – if
somewhat tedious – life: it only involved one hour per week drill with a Sergeant
Major who knew his men were never likely to be ‘real’ soldiers and therefore
never made unrealistic demands on them. Once a week he had to spend the night
in a bunk in the key room, next door to the cleaners’ cupboard, where every
morning at about five o’clock the cleaning women would arrive. Their animated
conversations, carried on while they drank their morning cup of tea, were loud,
convivial and good-tempered, until suddenly truncated when it was time for the
women to gather up their mops and buckets and make off to their respective
places of work. Privately, remembering Chaucer, he thought of this as ‘the Parlia-
ment of Fowls’! Arden was also somewhat shocked by his older colleagues from
some of the Scottish regiments, ‘veterans’, who talked knowingly of pillage and
even rape in the ravaged Germany of 1945. They told disturbing stories, too, of
small colonial wars.
Nevertheless, on Saturdays the office staff were permitted to come to work
in ‘civvies’, because in the afternoon they were free to enjoy themselves. For
Arden, this meant indulging in the theatres, concerts, cinemas and public libraries
10 Stirrings
of Scotland’s capital city. At the ‘art’ cinemas he saw classic as well as foreign
films. The main Edinburgh theatre, the Lyceum, provided a comparatively pro-
gressive repertoire, with plays by dramatists such as Christopher Fry and T.S.
Eliot. The Lyceum was also the Edinburgh home of the Wilson Barrett Com-
pany with its solid repertoire of strong but conventional drama. Other theatres
presented contemporary Scottish plays, and Arden also caught a production of
Eugene O’Neill’s Mourning Becomes Electra. And at the Assembly Rooms at the
two Edinburgh Festivals held while he was in post at the Castle he saw, in 1949,
Tyrone Guthrie’s version of David Lindsay’s Ane Satire of the Thrie Estaitis, and
the following year George Devine’s production of Bartholomew Fair by Ben
Jonson, about which he was later to write. These both hugely impressed him,
partly because of the use of the open stage: he was at the time trying to write a
play about Guy Fawkes and wondered how he could use what he learned from
these productions in his work.
In 1950, the Korean War broke out, and Arden’s notification of demobilization
failed to arrive. With Korea looming, there was a minor panic, but his father con-
tacted Frank Collindridge, the M.P. for Barnsley, who was able to track down the
paperwork – mislaid by an incompetent bureaucrat – and Arden was discharged.
Arden’s attitude to soldiering and war seems to have been consistent for the
rest of his life, though it was to cause some drama critics problems which did
not help in the reception of his plays. In a sentence, Arden was anti-war but not
anti-soldier. And he was always fascinated by the highly theatrical rituals of mil-
itary life, such as that for receiving pay:

One pace forward, two-three, salute, two-three, take-pay-and-paybook-in-

right-hand: open-left-top-pocket with left hand, say ‘Pay and Paybook Cor-
rect, SIR!’, place-pay-and-paybook-in-left-top-pocket, two-three, salute,
two-three, about turn, left right left right left right, LEFT …2

The works of Arden contain a small battalion of soldiers, none of them wholly
bad, and all of them conceived with a sympathy and understanding presumably
derived from this two-year experience of living in khaki. There is the fanatical
Serjeant Musgrave, and the charismatic hero of Soldier, Soldier; then there are the
automata-like Territorials in Ars Longa Vita Brevis, the merry, competent, capa-
ble, home-returning Luke in The Royal Pardon, the Roman soldiers in Whose Is
the Kingdom? chanting ‘Mars, Mars rules the wars’ and of course James Con-
nolly himself, who ‘joins the army and is sent to Ireland’, there to discover his
destiny and its relation – and the Army’s relation – to the intractable question of
colonialism.
Arden went up to King’s College, Cambridge University, in the autumn of
1950 to read architecture. His progress through his three years as an undergrad-
uate in Cambridge to obtain his B.A. seemed to be tranquil enough. Perhaps its
high point came when he submitted designs for an Italian Garden for the pres-
tigious Tite Prize, for which he was shortlisted, but he did not win the prize. He
would like to have entered the University’s sometimes self-regarding but always
high-powered theatre world, but when he auditioned for the Amateur Dramatic
 Stirrings 11
Society (A.D.C.), the University’s main student theatre, he was rejected. How-
ever, he was able to see plenty of interesting drama, often in original or idiosyn-
cratic productions at the A.D.C. and elsewhere in Cambridge, such as a highly
charged production of John Whiting’s Saint’s Day, which he remembered vividly.
He also continued writing while at Cambridge, including his first ‘soldier’ play,
about military life in Edinburgh. This he entered into a competition sponsored by
the A.D.C., and although it failed to gain the first prize, it was commended. He
was also encouraged by a complimentary reference made to it in Varsity, the
University newspaper. Writing occupied much of his time away from academic
study: he belonged to his college’s literary society, in which the students read and
discussed their own poetry and plays, and to a similar University-wide society
which operated out of Trinity College, and these seem to have given him support
as well as ideas.
Probably the most significant discovery for Arden during his years at Cam-
bridge was The White Goddess by Robert Graves, published in 1948. Arden
described this book as ‘intricate, enormous and (to me at that time) extremely
disorienting’.3 In 2009 Arden said he still believed The White Goddess as ‘abso-
lutely basic for western culture’.
The central argument in The White Goddess concerns the cultural subjugation
of the primordial ‘white goddess’ to the fierce power lust of the forces of aggres-
sive patriarchy. In prehistoric times, Graves attempts to demonstrate, Europe
and the Middle East were the seat of matriarchal cultures, which worshipped a
supreme goddess. In this culture, the male’s significance was merely as her con-
sort, or son, or victim. But at the dawn of recorded history, this system was in the
process of being overthrown, and the male consort was being elevated culturally
to a position of supremacy. From here, male domination was able to modify and
reconstruct the ancient myths so as to deny that the goddess had ever held the
supreme place which Graves asserts was once hers. The argument then extends to
the realm of poetry: Graves believed that the goddess, whose symbol is the moon,
remains the true inspiration for poetry. The secret world which poetry can open up
was sometimes, in some places, and over varying stretches of time, protected and
enhanced by schools of poets, sort of secret societies, led by bards, who guarded
their own mysteries. Even today, Graves suggests, poets intuitively reassert the
goddess in often unacknowledged (because unsuspected) ways. Finally, and per-
haps most significantly, according to Graves, this matriarchal culture, which is
embodied in poetry, offers better, more fluid, more humanly rewarding life pos-
sibilities than the aggressively rigid patriarchal society in which we actually live.
Graves also propounds an English poetic tradition far other than that taught
by the Cambridge English school, as typified in the dominant liberal human-
ist tradition of F.R. Leavis: ‘The only two English poets’, Graves wrote, ‘who
had the necessary learning, poetic talent, humanity, dignity and independence of
mind to be Chief Poets were John Skelton and Ben Jonson’. Furthermore, Graves
continues, ‘the only poet as far as I know, who ever tried to institute bardism in
England was William Blake’.4 The effects of all this on Arden were far-reaching
and affected virtually everything that he wrote thereafter, even if in obscure and
almost invisible ways. One obvious sign of the long-lasting influence of Graves’s
12 Stirrings
work (among other influences, of course, and other purposes) was his fiercely
powerful radio play, Garland for a Hoar Head, an exploration of the life and
ideas of John Skelton. More certainly, it was under the influence of The White
Goddess that Arden began, as an undergraduate, to write a play on Arthurian
themes, which he wrestled with for another two decades until it emerged as The
Island of the Mighty, co-authored with Margaretta D’Arcy.
For an aspiring writer, Graves’s book is studded with provocative possibili-
ties. Thus, when he discusses the ancient Welsh bard, Gwion, whom he calls ‘no
irresponsible rhapsodist, but a true poet’, he notes that his verse hides ‘an ancient
religious mystery … under the cloak of buffoonery’.5 The conjunction was to
be significant in Arden’s work and is more clearly set out in another critical
approach subversive of that usually associated with liberal humanism. This was
S.L. Bethell’s Shakespeare and the Popular Dramatic Tradition. Bethell takes Sir
Philip Sidney’s ‘What child is there coming to a play, and seeing Thebes written
in great letters upon an old door doth believe that it is Thebes?’ and Samuel John-
son’s reply, ‘The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, and know,
from the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, that the players are only
players’ as his starting point.6 He then develops the theory that theatre audiences,
especially popular theatre audiences, have a dual awareness of the play world and
the real world at all times, and that they are able to respond to whatever is put
before them on the stage on more than one plane of attention spontaneously and
unconsciously at the same time. He suggests that a sequence in a Harold Lloyd
movie, for instance, is appreciated on at least three different levels simultane-
ously: we admire Lloyd as an equilibrist; we chuckle at the scene as farce; and
we link the action to the character’s romance in the story. This theory was to be
tested to the limit in Arden’s own later plays.
Arden enjoyed life in Cambridge, yet the experience of being a student was
not one which he chose to explore imaginatively in his later writing, unlike his
experience as a conscripted soldier. There are virtually no memorable students in
his later work, though there are a few scenes early in the novel Jack Juggler and
the Emperor’s Whore which have something to say about student life. Despite
this, his next move was back to Edinburgh as a postgraduate student, to complete
his training as an architect at Edinburgh College of Art.
He arrived here in autumn 1953, but found the going hard. What he did was not
particularly well received by his teachers and he became somewhat depressed.
However, his final design was a bold idea to put a theatre on Edinburgh’s land-
mark Calton Hill. Partly using his recollections of the Festival productions he had
seen at the Assembly Rooms, he created a large, open stage theatre, which even
contrived to incorporate the famous monumental porticoes in its frontage. The
boldness of the conception and the finesse with which it was carried out clearly
impressed the examiners and Arden passed the course to qualify as an architect.
Perhaps Arden’s unhappiness in this second stint in Edinburgh was com-
pounded by his unsuccessful love affair with ‘a large blonde beautiful’ Scottish
woman. There is not much detail available on this romance, but Arden tells us
that he wrote a number of poems for her, and that she was not displeased with
them. He showed her some of his other writing, too, about which she was less
 Stirrings 13
complimentary: ‘Oh dear … you really mean all this, don’t you?’ he reports her
as saying. The affair proceeded until Arden asked her to marry him, when she
rejected his offer. Why? ‘Because you are a poet’, she said, simply enough. The
fact that much of his recent verse had been, as it were, in her honour apparently
made no difference, and when he asked her if she expected him to become a
staid business type, with a steady income and a respectable job, she told him,
perhaps a little ruefully, that this was indeed what fate had in store for him. The
affair cooled, and the young woman finally became engaged to an older man who
seemed to the young Arden ‘sinister’, but whose charm was undeniable.7
Meanwhile, and perhaps more significantly for his future, Arden became more
involved in student theatre here than he had at Cambridge. For the Art College
theatre club he played Old Capulet in Romeo and Juliet, and the next year, 1955,
the group presented All Fall Down, his first performed play. This he had begun to
write while still at Cambridge, and he was inspired to finish it for this performance
in Edinburgh. It was a somewhat stylized Romantic Victorian comedy ‘very much
in the style of John Whiting’s A Penny for a Song’ though ‘there was no connec-
tion between the two – it was just the zeitgeist’.8 The action was set around the
building of a railway and was populated by architects and railway engineers. The
central relationship concerned a somewhat gauche navvy and an unscrupulous
though well-born young lady. The production was a success. Arden himself acted
in it, and the railway navvy was played by Donald Douglas, later a prominent
Scottish actor on television and film, as well as at the Glasgow Citizens Theatre.
Once qualified as an architect, Arden found work with Ronald Ward and Part-
ners, architects, in Belgravia. Later he tended to downgrade the firm’s importance –
‘a large private office which was putting up a lot of these nasty office blocks that
one sees: not a very ethical office’, he said. But in fact Ward and Partners, though
they may have built ‘nasty office blocks’, were also responsible for the Millbank
Tower, the Nestlé Tower in Croydon and the Marine Engineers Memorial Build-
ing, and they had recently completed the commercial premises at 219 Oxford
Street with its unique Festival of Britain friezes. Arden, acknowledging that it
was ‘a pleasant place to work’ and that he ‘liked the people’, completed his full
qualification as an architect after one year there, and soon the whole experience
was providing material for plays, including The Waters of Babylon and Wet Fish.
These were still a little way into the future. For now he completed and sent off a
new script, The Life of Man, to the BBC’s north region’s New Play competition. It
won the prize and was scheduled for broadcast the following spring.
Arden was allowed a day off from the office to go to Manchester to collect his
prize (though he had to make up the time the following weekend). Just before the
prize-giving, he was taken aside and informed that parts of the play, though no
doubt dramatically telling, could not be broadcast as written: there was a scene,
for instance, between a sailor and a prostitute in which the dialogue was distinctly
vulgar and this would have to be rewritten. Annoyed though he was, Arden imme-
diately volunteered to do the revisions himself to prevent ‘them’ doing them, but
he could not help feeling that this somehow downgraded his prize.
The play itself was a brilliant debut. Set in the Victorian period, it retells the
experiences of the crazed sailor, Bones, on a packet ship, perhaps too symbolically
14 Stirrings
named The Life of Man. During the voyage out of Liverpool, the ship’s Cap-
tain Anthract, a sort of precursor to Black Jack Musgrave, victimizes a wretched
Welsh member of his crew, a former shepherd who is in fact a sort of Dionysus
figure. But as in the myth, the sailors do not recognize this manifest god, and
they hang him from the yardarm. Inadvertently, Anthract then manages to set the
ship on fire: only Bones lives to tell the tale. The main action – Anthract’s feud
with the poor Welsh shepherd – is thus ‘distanced’ by being told by Bones to his
female auditor. Such a summary of course does little justice to the living excite-
ment of the piece as it unfolds (despite Arden’s later comment that ‘it had a little
too much of Moby Dick in it’.9) Francis Dillon, listening to a repeat broadcast
fifteen years later, wrote:

The crimp gang, the god, the devil or saint shanghaied aboard a cruel coffin-ship,
tarts, witches, mermaids, a roaring Bible-hard captain, a bunch of fables and
parables – perhaps one found more than had been written in – were all woven
into an exhilarating radio play, radio of a quality we get very rarely these days.
Where the story went by dialogue, the talk was taut and authentic; where it
broke into verse, it flung itself into the magic winds. The elements of black
superstition, a ship sailing on a Friday, whistling on deck and so on were only an
evocative frame: the power came from the fine writing.10

John Russell Taylor identified several features of the piece which were to become
hallmarks of Arden’s later dramatic work, including ‘the unpredictable alternation
of racy, idiomatic prose and quite highly wrought formal verse, the extensive use of
traditional song and ballad, and in the Welsh sailor Jones’s evocation of his roam-
ing shepherd life an interest in the bold, free, nomadic life of the “sturdy beggar”’.11
The play was directed by Vivian Daniels, later better known for his television
work. Arden was not present during either the rehearsals or the recording. When
it was broadcast on 16 April 1956, he felt that the casting had been somewhat
unsatisfactory and that the sound effects were sometimes so loud they obscured
the dialogue. The chief lesson learned from this experience was that he needed to
be present himself when a radio play was being recorded. It was the same lesson
which had to be learned later, and in harder ways, in both the television studio
and the theatre. For a satisfactory performance, Arden discovered, and thereafter
passionately believed, it was necessary for the author to be present throughout
the process.
For now, however, it was clear that the drama was taking over from architec-
ture as the central focus of John Arden’s life.

Notes
1 Johnson, B.S. (ed), All Bull: the National Servicemen, London: Allison and Busby,
1973, p.234.
2 Ibid., p.233.
3 Arden, John, and D’Arcy, Margaretta, The Island of the Mighty, London: Eyre
Methuen, 1974, p.10.
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supporter la honte de visiter des rues, des galeries et des églises entre deux
soldats, point de mire d’une foule curieuse et malveillante; non, il
s’enfermerait pour attendre le courrier de Berlin, qui devait fixer son destin.
Donc, tout le long du jour, le major se tint galamment près de lui, dans sa
chambre, tandis que l’un des soldats se tenait raide et immobile contre la
porte, l’arme au bras, et que l’autre se reposait nonchalamment sur une
chaise, à l’extérieur. Et tout le long du jour l’aimable et fidèle vétéran débita
de formidables blagues militaires, décrivit des batailles, inventa
d’ingénieuses anecdotes, avec un enthousiasme, une énergie, une ardeur
invincible et conquérante pour maintenir un peu de vie au pauvre petit
étudiant, et empêcher son pouls de s’arrêter.
La longue journée tirait à sa fin, et les deux compagnons, suivis de leurs
gardes, descendirent pour prendre place dans la grande salle à manger.
—Cette pénible attente sera bientôt finie, maintenant, soupira le pauvre
Alfred.
Au même instant deux Anglais passèrent auprès d’eux et l’un s’écria:
—Quel ennui que nous ne puissions avoir notre courrier de Berlin ce
soir!
Parrish commença à blêmir. Mais les Anglais s’installèrent à une table
voisine, et l’autre répondit:
—Non, la nouvelle est moins mauvaise (Parrish se sentit un peu mieux).
On a reçu d’autres informations télégraphiques. L’accident a occasionné un
grand retard au train, mais voilà tout. Il arrivera ce soir avec trois heures de
retard.
Parrish n’atteignit pas tout à fait le plancher, cette fois, car le major se
précipita vers lui juste à temps. Car il avait écouté et prévu ce qui arriverait.
Il caressa Parrish dans le dos, le hissa sur une chaise, et s’écria gaîment:
—Ah ça, mon ami, qu’est-ce qui vous prend? Voyons, il n’y a pas de
quoi se mettre le cœur à l’envers! Je connais une issue, un dénouement
heureux. Le diable emporte le passeport, qu’il reste huit jours en route, s’il
lui plaît! nous nous en passerons!
Parrish était trop malade pour l’entendre. L’espoir était loin et la Sibérie,
avec ses horreurs, était présente. Il se traîna sur des jambes de plomb,
soutenu par le major, qui se dirigeait vers l’ambassade américaine,
l’encourageant en chemin par de véhémentes assurances que le ministre
n’hésiterait pas un seul instant à lui accorder un nouveau passeport.
 —Je tenais cette carte dans ma manche, tout le long, dit-il. Le ministre
me connaît—me connaît familièrement—nous avons été amis et
compagnons pendant de longues heures sous une pile d’autres blessés à
Cold Harbor; et nous avons toujours été compagnons depuis lors, en esprit
et en vérité, bien que nos corps ne se soient pas souvent rencontrés. En
avant, mon petit bonhomme, l’avenir est splendide! Je me sens guilleret
comme un poisson dans l’eau! Voilà tous nos malheurs finis... Si, du moins,
l’on peut dire que nous en ayons jamais eus.
Devant eux, s’élevait l’enseigne et l’emblème de la plus riche, la plus
libre et la plus puissante république de tous les âges. Un grand bouclier de
bois où était plaqué un aigle de grande envergure, la tête et les épaules
parmi les étoiles et les griffes pleines d’armes guerrières anciennes et
surannées; et, à cette vue, les yeux d’Alfred se remplirent de larmes, le
patriotisme lui gonfla le cœur, «Hail Columbia!» le remplit d’un grand
transport, et toutes les frayeurs, toutes ses tristesses s’évanouirent; car là, du
moins, il serait sain et sauf; libre! aucune puissance de ce monde n’oserait
franchir le seuil de cette porte pour mettre la main sur lui.
Par raisons d’économie, l’ambassade européenne de la plus puissante
des républiques consistait en une chambre et demie au neuvième étage,
lorsque le dixième était occupé. Le personnel et l’ameublement de
l’ambassade étaient ainsi conditionnés: un ministre ou un ambassadeur
pourvu d’un salaire de mécanicien, un secrétaire d’ambassade qui vendait
des allumettes et raccommodait de la porcelaine pour gagner sa vie, une
jeune fille employée comme interprète et pour utilité générale; des gravures
de grands paquebots américains, un chromo du Président régnant, une table
à écrire, trois chaises, une lampe à pétrole, un chat, une pendule et une
banderole avec la devise: In God we trust.
Les compagnons grimpèrent là-haut, suivis de leur escorte. Un homme
était assis à la table, faisant ses écritures officielles sur du papier
d’emballage, avec un clou. Il se leva d’un air surpris; le chat dégringola et
courut se cacher sous le bureau; la jeune employée se serra dans le coin de
la pendule, pour faire place. Les soldats se serrèrent contre le mur, à côté
d’elle, baïonnette au canon. Alfred était tout radieux de joie et du
soulagement infini de se sentir sauvé. Le major serra cordialement la main
du représentant officiel et, avec sa volubilité ordinaire, lui soumit le cas,
dans un style aisé et coulant, pour lui demander le passeport nécessaire.
 Le représentant fit asseoir ses hôtes, puis il dit:
—Oui, mais je ne suis que le secrétaire d’ambassade, voyez-vous, et je
ne pourrai pas accorder un passeport du moment que le ministre lui-même
est sur le territoire russe. Ce serait prendre sur moi une responsabilité
beaucoup trop grande.
—Très bien, alors envoyez-le chercher.
Le secrétaire sourit.
—Voilà qui est bien plus facile à dire qu’à faire. Il est parti dans les
forêts je ne sais où, en vacances.
—Gre... Grand Dieu! s’écria le major.
Alfred gémit. Les couleurs s’effacèrent de ses joues et il se sentit pris
d’une grande faiblesse.
Le secrétaire dit, tout étonné:
—Pourquoi donc jurez-vous ainsi, major? Le prince vous a donné vingt-
quatre heures. Regardez la pendule. Qu’avez-vous à craindre? Vous avez
encore une demi-heure. Il est juste l’heure du train; le passeport arrivera
sûrement à temps.
—Monsieur, il y a une affreuse nouvelle! Le train a trois heures de
retard! La vie et la liberté de ce garçon s’écoulent, minute par minute. Il ne
lui en reste plus que trente! Dans une demi-heure il sera comme perdu et
damné à toute éternité! Dieu tout-puissant! Il faut que nous ayons un
passeport!
—Oh! je meurs, je sens que je meurs! gémit le pauvre enfant, et sa tête
retomba...
Un changement rapide se fit dans l’expression du secrétaire; sa placidité
ordinaire fit place à une vive excitation qui remplit ses yeux de flammes. Il
s’écria:
—Je vois et je comprends toute l’horreur de la situation, mais... que Dieu
nous aide! que puis-je faire, moi? Que proposez-vous que je fasse?
—Mais, sapristi, donnez-lui son passeport!
—Impossible! Totalement impossible! Vous ne le connaissez pas vous-
même. Il n’y a aucun moyen au monde de l’identifier. Il est perdu... perdu!
Il ne reste aucune possibilité de le sauver!
Le pauvre garçon gémit encore et sanglota:
 —Le Seigneur ait pitié de moi, c’est bien le dernier jour d’Alfred
Parrish!
L’expression du secrétaire changea encore. Au milieu d’une explosion de
pitié, de colère, de désespoir, il s’arrêta court, son ton s’apaisa et il demanda
avec la voix indifférente que l’on a en parlant du temps qu’il fait, à défaut
d’autre sujet de conversation:
—C’est là votre nom?
Le jeune homme dit oui, entre deux sanglots.
—D’où êtes-vous?
—Bridgeport.
Le secrétaire secoua la tête... la secoua encore et marmotta quelque
chose entre ses dents.
Après un instant, il demanda:
—Vous y êtes né?
—Non; à New-Haven.
—Ah! ah!
—Le secrétaire jeta un coup d’œil au major qui écoutait avidement, mais
d’un air vide et étonné, et indiqua plutôt qu’il ne dit:
—Il y a de la bière là-bas, au cas où les soldats auraient soif.
Le major se leva d’un bond, leur versa à boire et reçut leur
remerciement.
L’interrogatoire continua:
—Combien de temps avez-vous vécu à New-Haven?
—Jusqu’à l’âge de quatorze ans. J’en suis revenu il y a deux ans pour
entrer à Yale.
—Lorsque vous y viviez, dans quelle rue était votre maison?
—Parher Street.
Avec une vague lueur de compréhension illuminant ses yeux, le major
jeta un coup d’œil inquisiteur au secrétaire. Le secrétaire lui fit un signe de
tête. Le major servit encore de la bière...
—Quel numéro?
—Il n’y en avait pas.
 Le pauvre garçon releva la tête et jeta au secrétaire un regard pathétique
qui disait assez clairement: «Pourquoi me tourmentez-vous de toutes ces
bêtises?... je suis bien assez malheureux sans cela!»
Mais le secrétaire continua, sans sourciller:
—Quelle espèce de maison était-ce?
—En briques, deux étages.
—De plain pied avec le trottoir?
—Non, petite cour devant.
—Portail en fer?
—Non.
Le major versa encore de la bière, sans demander la permission... et à
pleins verres. Sa figure s’était éclaircie, il était tout vibrant, maintenant.
—Que voyait-on en entrant?
—Un couloir étroit, avec une porte au bout, et une autre porte à droite.
—Rien de plus?
—Un porte-manteaux.
—Chambre à droite?
—Salon.
—Tapis?
—Oui.
—Quelle espèce de tapis?
—Wilson, démodé.
—Sujet?
—Chasse au faucon. A cheval.
Le major regarda la pendule, avec inquiétude. Plus que six minutes! Il
saisit la cruche, et tout en versant, regarda le secrétaire... puis l’horloge,
d’un air interrogateur. Le secrétaire fit un signe de tête. Le major se plaça
bien devant la pendule, pour la cacher, et, furtivement, recula les aiguilles
d’une demi-heure. Puis, il servit des rafraîchissements aux hommes en
doubles rations.
—Quelle chambre derrière le vestibule et à côté du porte-manteaux?
—Salle à manger.
—Poêle?
 —Grille dans la cheminée.
—Vos parents avaient-ils acheté la maison?
—Oui.
—L’ont-ils encore?
—Non. Ils l’ont vendue lorsque nous avons déménagé à Bridgeport.
Le secrétaire s’arrêta un instant, puis il demanda:
—Aviez-vous un sobriquet parmi vos camarades?
Une rougeur monta lentement dans les joues pâles du jeune homme. Il
parut lutter un moment contre lui-même, il dit plaintivement:
—Ils m’appelaient: Mademoiselle Amélie...
Le secrétaire réfléchit profondément, et trouva une autre question à
poser:
—Y avait-il des ornements à la salle à manger?
—Ah!... oui... non.
—Aucun? Point du tout?
—Non.
—Que diable! N’est-ce pas un peu étrange? Réfléchissez.
Le jeune homme réfléchit, médita, se recueillit; le secrétaire attendit,
haletant d’impatience. Enfin le malheureux enfant leva les yeux et secoua
tristement la tête.
—Réfléchissez! Réfléchissez donc! s’écria le major, plein de sollicitude
inquiète.
—Allons, dit le secrétaire, pas même un tableau?
—Oh! certainement, mais vous avez dit un ornement.
—Ah! et qu’en pensait votre père?
Les couleurs reparurent sur ses joues. Il demeura silencieux.
—Parlez, dit le secrétaire.
—Parlez, tonna le major, tandis que sa main tremblante versait beaucoup
plus de bière à l’extérieur des verres qu’à l’intérieur.
—Je... je... ne peux pas vous dire ce que mon père en disait, murmura le
jeune homme.
—Vite, vite, dit le secrétaire. Dites-le! Il n’y a pas de temps à perdre. La
patrie et la liberté, ou la Sibérie et la mort, dépendent de votre réponse.
 —Oh! ayez pitié! C’est un pasteur, et...
—N’importe, dites-le, ou...
—Il disait que c’était... «un sacré barbouillage le plus cochonné» qu’il
eût jamais vu!
—Sauvé! s’écria le secrétaire en saisissant le clou qui lui servait de
plume et un passeport vierge. Moi, je puis vous identifier; j’ai vécu dans
cette maison, et j’ai peint ce tableau moi-même!
—Oh! venez dans mes bras, mon pauvre enfant sauvé! s’écria le major.
Nous serons toujours reconnaissants envers Dieu d’avoir fait cet artiste... si
c’est bien Lui qui l’a fait!
 MÉMOIRES D’UNE CHIENNE

I
Mon père était un Saint-Bernard et ma mère une chienne de berger; moi,
je suis une protestante, c’est ma mère qui me l’a dit, car, pour moi, je
n’entends rien à ces délicates distinctions... Ce ne sont que de grands mots
qui ne veulent rien dire. Ma mère avait une passion pour ça: rien ne lui était
plus agréable que de répéter ces longs mots aux autres chiens, qui la
regardaient alors avec surprise et envie et se demandaient comment elle
avait acquis tant d’instruction. A vrai dire, ce n’était pas de l’instruction
véritable, c’était de la parade. Ma mère attrapait ces mots en écoutant les
conversations à la salle à manger ou à la salle d’étude, ou encore en
accompagnant les enfants au catéchisme... Alors, quand elle avait bien
entendu le mot, elle se le répétait à elle-même plusieurs fois et ainsi pouvait
s’en souvenir jusqu’à la suivante réunion de chiens du voisinage. C’était
extraordinaire de voir la surprise et le désespoir qu’elle leur causait à tous
depuis le roquet de poche jusqu’au bouffi chien de garde. Cela la
récompensait bien de toute sa peine.
Quand un étranger assistait à la réunion, il commençait toujours à faire le
soupçonneux, et lorsqu’il avait pu rattraper son souffle après la première
surprise, il ne manquait pas de demander ce que le mot voulait dire... Et elle
le lui disait! L’étranger s’y attendait si peu qu’il se croyait absolument
certain de la confondre; aussi, quand elle lui avait répondu, l’interlocuteur
malencontreux se trouvait couvert d’une honte encore bien plus grande que
celle dont il comptait accabler ma mère.
Le plus amusant, c’était l’air que prenaient nos compagnons habituels en
entendant ce colloque: ils savaient tout suite comment cela tournerait et il
fallait voir combien ils étaient contents et fiers de ma mère! Quand elle
avait dit la signification d’un de ces grands mots, tout le monde était si
pénétré d’admiration qu’il n’arriva jamais à aucun de nous d’en mettre en
doute l’absolue justesse. Et c’était parfaitement naturel, parce qu’elle
répondait si promptement et avec tant d’assurance qu’elle semblait être un
dictionnaire vivant et, d’autre part, quel chien aurait pu dire si elle se
trompait ou non? Elle était la seule personne cultivée parmi la société.
Une fois, elle décrocha quelque part le mot «intellectualité»; elle le
répéta plusieurs fois dans la semaine en plusieurs occasions, et en faisant,
comme d’habitude, beaucoup d’envieux et d’admirateurs. Ce fut cette fois-
là que je remarquai qu’à chaque demande de signification qui lui fut
adressée durant toute la semaine, elle ne donna jamais deux fois la même!
Cela témoignait de plus de présence d’esprit que de culture...
Naturellement, je n’en marquai rien... c’est élémentaire.
Elle avait toujours un terme tout prêt sous la main, une espèce de bouée
de sauvetage à sa portée pour le cas où une curiosité inattendue lui ferait
perdre ses esprits, c’était le mot «synonyme». Quand il lui arrivait de
retrouver et de répéter un grand mot qui avait eu ses beaux jours plusieurs
semaines auparavant et dont les explications étaient toutes oubliées et mises
au rebut, les étrangers présents étaient—comme toujours—fortement ahuris
pendant une minute ou deux, puis, comme les idées de ma mère avaient
déjà changé de direction et qu’elle ne s’attendait plus à rien, les voilà qui
s’arrêtaient et lui demandaient une explication... Alors, les chiens présents
pouvaient voir sa peau tressaillir une seconde—rien qu’une toute petite
seconde—puis elle reprenait un ventre ferme et luisant et sortait avec
conviction (et avec une sérénité digne d’un jour d’été): «C’est synonyme de
surérogation», ou: «C’est synonyme de...» Suivait quelque autre grand
diable de mot d’une longueur et d’un entortillement de reptile... Ensuite,
très à l’aise, elle passait à un autre sujet, laissant les étrangers parfaitement
affalés et honteux, tandis que les initiés applaudissaient ensemble de leur
queue sur la terre, le visage transfiguré d’une radieuse joie.
Il en était exactement de même pour les longues phrases. Ma mère
recueillait parfois et rapportait à la maison une belle longue phrase qui avait
beau son et grande envergure, elle la remaniait cinq ou six nuits et deux
matinées et l’expliquait à chaque occasion d’une façon différente, car, après
tout, elle ne se souciait que de la phrase et fort peu de sa signification. Elle
savait bien que jamais les chiens n’auraient assez d’esprit pour la mettre en
défaut.
Oh! oui, c’était une perle! Elle n’avait pas la moindre crainte d’être
attrapée, tant elle avait confiance en l’ignorance de ses semblables. Elle
rapportait même parfois des anecdotes au sujet desquelles elle avait entendu
toute la famille et les invités rire au dîner, et régulièrement elle accrochait le
«mot» d’un calembour à un autre calembour... et quand elle expliquait ce
mot, elle se jetait par terre et se roulait sur le plancher en riant et en aboyant
de la façon la plus folle... Mais je pouvais voir qu’elle s’étonnait de ce que
cela parût si peu risible aux autres. Il n’y avait pas de mal; les autres se
roulaient et aboyaient aussi, tout honteux à part eux de ne pas voir le mot du
calembour et incapables de soupçonner que ce n’était pas tout à fait leur
faute.
Vous pouvez voir par là que ma mère était douée d’un caractère un peu
vain et frivole, mais elle avait assez de vertus pour compenser. Elle avait un
bon cœur et d’aimables manières.
Elle ne garda jamais de ressentiments pour ce qu’on lui avait fait, mais
elle mettait de côté toute injure ou impolitesse et les oubliait. Elle élevait
parfaitement ses enfants et c’est par elle que nous avons appris à être braves
et prompts devant le danger, à ne pas nous sauver, mais à faire face au péril
qui menaçait un ami ou même un étranger, à l’aider ou à le secourir de notre
mieux sans réfléchir à ce que cela pourrait nous coûter à nous. Et elle faisait
notre éducation non seulement par des mots, mais par l’exemple, ce qui
était la méthode la meilleure, la plus sûre et la plus durable. Oh! les belles,
les bonnes, les splendides choses qu’elle accomplit! C’était un vrai soldat,
et modeste avec cela! Si modeste que vous n’auriez pu vous empêcher de
l’admirer. Elle aurait réussi à faire paraître à son avantage un épagneul lui-
même... Ainsi, vous le voyez, elle avait autre chose pour elle que sa science.

Une fois grande, je fus vendue et emmenée au loin... Je n’ai plus jamais
revu ma mère. Cela lui brisa le cœur et à moi aussi et nous pleurâmes
beaucoup. Mais elle me consola de son mieux et me dit que nous étions mis
dans ce monde pour une raison sage et bonne, que nous devions faire notre
devoir sans nous plaindre, accepter notre destin avec résignation, vivre
notre vie pour le bien et le bonheur des autres et ne pas nous soucier des
résultats, qui ne nous regardaient pas. Elle dit encore que les hommes qui
suivaient cette ligne de conduite auraient une magnifique récompense dans
un autre monde, et quoique nous autres animaux ne dussions pas y aller, nos
actions bonnes et justes accomplies sans espoir de récompense donneraient
à notre vie brève une valeur et une dignité qui constitueraient par elles-
mêmes une récompense. Elle avait cueilli ces pensées par fragments
lorsqu’elle accompagnait les enfants au catéchisme et elle les avait gardées
dans sa mémoire avec beaucoup plus de soin que tout autre mot bizarre ou
phrase à effet. Elle les avait profondément étudiées pour son plus grand
bien et pour le nôtre. On peut voir ainsi qu’il y avait beaucoup de sagesse et
de réflexion en elle, à côté de toute sa légèreté un peu vaine.
Ainsi, nous nous dîmes adieu en nous regardant une dernière fois à
travers nos larmes. Elle me dit encore une chose qu’elle avait gardée pour le
dernier moment, afin que je m’en souvienne mieux, je pense, ce fut ceci:
«Lorsque tu verras quelqu’un en danger, je te prie, en mémoire de moi, de
ne pas penser à toi-même, mais de penser à ta mère et d’agir comme je
l’aurais fait.»
Pouvais-je oublier cela? Non, bien sûr.

II
Qu’elle était belle, ma nouvelle résidence! Une blanche et grande maison
aux chambres décorées de tableaux, pleines de meubles riches... Aucun
recoin d’ombres, partout le soleil pouvait entrer à flots et se jouer sur les
couleurs éclatantes et variées des tentures et des ornements... Et tout autour,
des parterres et des fleurs à profusion, du feuillage sans fin! Et puis, j’étais
traitée comme un membre de la famille. Tous m’aimaient et me
caressaient... Ils ne me donnèrent pas un nouveau nom, mais me
conservèrent celui que j’avais et qui m’était si cher à cause de ma mère.
Elle m’avait appelée: Élise Machère. Elle avait pris ce nom dans un
cantique; sans doute les Gray, mes nouveaux maîtres, connaissaient ce
cantique et trouvaient que c’était un beau nom.
Mme Gray, d’une trentaine d’années, était aussi belle et douce qu’on
peut imaginer, et Saddie, sa fille, qui avait dix ans, lui ressemblait à la
perfection; c’était son image même, seulement plus frêle et plus petite, avec
des tresses brunes dans le dos et des jupes courtes.
Il y avait encore le baby d’un an, gros et replet qui m’aimait beaucoup et
ne se lassait pas de me tirer la queue, de m’enserrer de ses bras et de rire de
ces innocentes plaisanteries... M. Gray, enfin, était un bel homme, maigre et
grand, un peu chauve, alerte et vif dans tous ses mouvements, décidé, froid,
avec une figure comme taillée au ciseau qui étincelait et brillait comme de
la glace. C’était un savant renommé. Je ne sais pas ce que veut dire ce mot,
mais ma mère s’en serait certainement servie avec adresse; avec ça, elle
aurait su couvrir de confusion un terrier et fait sauver de honte un
bouledogue. Mais ce n’était pas encore là le plus beau mot: le meilleur était
assurément celui de «laboratoire»... Ma mère aurait pu en faire un Trust
avec lequel il lui aurait été facile de rendre malade toute une meute de
chiens courants. Le laboratoire, ce n’était ni un livre, ni un tableau, ni un
long discours, comme affirmait le chien de l’avocat, notre voisin, non, non,
ce n’était pas de «l’art oratoire», c’était tout autre chose; c’était une
chambre remplie de bocaux, de bouteilles, d’ampoules et de bâtons de
verre, de machines de toutes sortes. Chaque semaine, des savants y
venaient, s’asseyaient là, faisaient marcher des machines, discutaient et
faisaient ce qu’ils appelaient des expériences et des découvertes. J’assistais
souvent à ces réunions et je me tenais bien tranquille pour écouter et pour
essayer d’apprendre quelque chose en souvenir de ma mère et par amour
pour elle, quoique ce fût terriblement pénible pour moi... Du reste, je n’y
gagnai rien du tout; malgré mes plus intenses efforts d’attention, je n’arrivai
jamais à démêler de quoi il était question.
D’autres fois, je demeurais couchée et dormais aux pieds de la maîtresse
de maison dans son boudoir; elle se servait de moi comme d’un tabouret et
savait que cela m’était agréable comme une caresse.
A d’autres heures, j’allais passer un moment dans la chambre des
enfants, d’où je sortais bien secouée et heureuse. Je surveillais aussi le
berceau du Baby pendant qu’il dormait et que la nourrice s’absentait une
minute hors de la chambre. Et puis, je courais et galopais à travers les
pelouses et le jardin avec Saddie jusqu’à ce que nous fussions exténuées, et
alors je dormais sur l’herbe à l’ombre d’un arbre pendant qu’elle lisait.
J’avais aussi le plaisir d’aller voir souvent les chiens du voisinage. Il y en
avait plusieurs très gentils tout près de nous, en particulier un setter
irlandais frisé, gracieux, beau et galant qui s’appelait Robin Adair; c’était
un protestant comme moi et il appartenait au pasteur écossais.
Les domestiques de notre maison avaient beaucoup d’égards et
d’affection pour moi; aussi, ne peut-on imaginer une vie plus enchantée que
la mienne. Il ne pouvait pas y avoir au monde une chienne plus heureuse
que moi, ni plus reconnaissante... Je dis ceci pour moi seule, mais c’est
l’exacte vérité. Je tâchais de mon mieux à faire tout ce qui était bien et juste
pour honorer la mémoire de ma mère et ses leçons et aussi pour apprendre à
goûter le bonheur qui m’arrivait.
 Sur ces entrefaites, arriva mon petit chien, et alors mon bonheur dépassa
la mesure...
Ce petit être était bien la plus chère petite chose possible... Il était si fin,
doux, velouté, ses drôles de petites pattes étaient si maladroites, ses yeux si
tendres et sa figure si douce et innocente!!! Et comme je fus fière de voir à
quel point les enfants et leur mère l’aimaient, l’adoraient et s’exclamaient à
toutes les choses merveilleuses qu’il faisait! Oh! la vie était trop, trop
belle!!!
Vint l’hiver. Un jour, j’étais installée dans la chambre des enfants, c’est-
à-dire je dormais sur le lit. Le Baby dormait aussi dans son berceau qui se
trouvait à côté du lit, entre celui-ci et la cheminée. C’était une sorte de
berceau qui était couvert d’une grande tenture faite d’une étoffe
excessivement légère. La nourrice était sortie et nous dormions tous les
deux seuls. Je suppose qu’une étincelle jaillit du feu de la cheminée et
tomba sur ce tissu. Mais tout demeurait parfaitement calme. Soudain, un cri
du Baby m’éveilla et je vis l’étoffe qui brûlait avec de grandes flammes
s’élevant jusqu’au plafond. Avant de penser à rien, dans ma frayeur, je
sautai sur le plancher... et, en une demi-seconde, j’étais près de la porte.
Mais durant l’autre demi-seconde, les dernières paroles de ma mère
m’étaient revenues et je grimpai de nouveau sur le lit. J’avançai la tête à
travers les flammes qui entouraient le berceau et attrapai le Baby par ses
langes avec mes dents; je le soulevai et nous retombâmes tous les deux à
terre au milieu d’un nuage de fumée... Je le saisis de nouveau et traînai la
petite créature gémissante jusqu’à la porte du hall... Je me disposais à aller
encore plus loin, tout excitée, contente et fière, quand la voix du maître
s’éleva:
—Hors d’ici, sale bête!
Je fis un bond pour lui échapper, mais il était terriblement agile et il me
poursuivit furieusement à coups de canne... Je cherchai à m’esquiver de
plusieurs côtés, tout effrayée; mais à la fin sa canne retomba sur ma patte
gauche de devant, je criai et tombai sur le coup... La canne relevée allait
s’abattre encore sur moi, mais elle resta en l’air, car à ce moment la
nourrice criait d’une voix désespérée: «Au feu! Au feu!»
Le maître courut dans la direction de la chambre et je pus sauver mes os.
Ma douleur était cruelle, mais n’importe, il ne me fallait pas perdre de
temps. Aussi marchai-je sur trois jambes jusqu’à l’extrémité du hall où il y
avait un petit escalier noir qui conduisait à un grenier où l’on avait mis
toutes sortes de vieilles caisses, et où l’on allait très rarement. Avec de
grands efforts, j’y grimpai et cherchai mon chemin dans l’obscurité, jusqu’à
l’endroit le plus caché que je pus trouver. C’était stupide d’avoir peur à cet
endroit, mais je ne pouvais m’en empêcher; j’étais encore si effrayée que je
me retenais de toutes mes forces pour ne pas gémir, quoique c’eût été si bon
de pouvoir le faire! Cela soulage tant de se plaindre! Mais je pouvais lécher
ma jambe et cela me fit du bien.
Pendant une demi-heure il y eut du bruit dans les escaliers, des bruits de
pas et des cris, puis tout redevint tranquille. Ce ne fut que pour quelques
minutes, mais mes craintes commençaient à décroître et cela m’était un
grand soulagement, car la peur est bien, bien pire que le mal... Mais, tout à
coup, j’entendis une chose qui me glaça d’épouvante: on m’appelait! On
m’appelait par mon nom! On me cherchait!
La distance étouffait un peu le bruit des voix, mais cela ne diminuait pas
ma terreur... Ce fut bien le plus terrible moment que je passai de ma vie. Les
voix allaient et venaient, en haut, en bas de la maison, le long des corridors,
à travers les chambres, à tous les étages, depuis la cave jusqu’aux
mansardes, partout. Puis je les entendis encore au dehors, de plus en plus
lointaines.. Mais elles revinrent à nouveau et retentirent à travers toute la
maison... et je pensais que jamais, jamais plus elles ne s’arrêteraient. A la
fin, pourtant, elles cessèrent, mais ce fut seulement plusieurs heures après
que le vague crépuscule du grenier eut été remplacé par les ténèbres
profondes.
Alors, dans le silence exquis de l’heure, mes frayeurs commencèrent à
tomber peu à peu et je pus enfin m’endormir en paix. Je pus goûter un bon
repos, mais je m’éveillai avant le retour du jour. Je me sentais beaucoup
mieux et je pus réfléchir à ce qu’il y avait à faire. Je fis un très bon plan qui
consistait à me glisser en bas, descendre les escaliers jusqu’à la porte de la
cave, sortir prestement et m’échapper lorsque le laitier viendrait pour
apporter la provision du jour... Alors je me cacherais toute la journée aux
environs et partirais la nuit suivante... Partir, oui, partir pour n’importe quel
endroit où l’on ne me connaîtrait pas et d’où l’on ne pourrait me renvoyer à
mon maître. Je me sentais déjà plus contente, lorsqu’une soudaine pensée
m’envahit: quoi! que serait la vie sans mon petit!
Ce fut un désespoir infini!
 Il n’y avait plus rien à faire! Je le vis clairement. Il me fallait rester où
j’étais, demeurer et attendre... et accepter ce qui arriverait, tout ce qui
pourrait arriver... ce n’était pas mon affaire. C’était la vie. Ma mère me
l’avait dit...
Alors, oh! alors! les appels recommencèrent! Et toute ma peine revint. Je
ne savais pas ce que j’avais pu faire pour que le maître fût si emporté et
irrité contre moi; aussi jugeai-je que ce devait être une chose
incompréhensible pour un chien, mais épouvantablement claire pour un
homme.
On m’appela et on m’appela, pendant plusieurs jours et plusieurs nuits, il
me sembla du moins. Ce fut si long que la faim et la soif commençaient à
me torturer et à me rendre folle... je me sentais devenir très faible. En ces
occasions, dormir est un grand soulagement; je dormis donc beaucoup. Une
fois, je m’éveillai en proie à une grande frayeur: il me semblait que les voix
qui m’appelaient étaient là toutes proches, dans le grenier même... Et c’était
vrai! C’était la voix de Saddie. Elle pleurait en répétant mon nom, la pauvre
petite, et je pus à peine en croire mes oreilles, ma joie fut trop forte quand je
l’entendis dire: «Reviens, oh! reviens et pardonne-nous. Tout est si triste
sans notre chère...»
Je l’interrompis d’un aboiement plein de reconnaissance et, le moment
d’après, Saddie, tout en trébuchant à travers les vieilleries du grenier,
appelait tout le monde en criant de toutes ses forces:
—Elle est trouvée! Elle est trouvée!
Les jours qui suivirent furent radieux, tout à fait radieux!
Mme Gray et tous les domestiques ne me gâtaient plus, mais
m’adoraient littéralement. Jamais mon lit ne leur paraissait assez moelleux
et ma nourriture assez choisie... Il n’y avait pas de gibier, de délicatesse, de
friandise, de primeur dont on ne voulût que je prenne ma part. Tous les
jours on entretenait les visiteurs et les amis de mon héroïsme—c’était le
nom de ce que j’avais fait et qui doit signifier quelque chose comme
agriculture. Je me souviens que ma mère l’avait sorti un jour devant toute
une meute et l’avait ainsi expliqué, mais elle n’avait pas dit ce que signifiait
agriculture, sauf que c’était synonyme d’incandescence... Ainsi, une
douzaine de fois par jour, Mme Gray et Saddie racontaient aux nouveaux
venus que j’avais risqué ma vie pour sauver le Baby, elles montraient nos
brûlures comme preuves; je passais de main en main et l’on me caressait,
tandis que la fierté brillait dans les yeux de mes maîtresses. Et puis, quand
les visiteurs demandaient pourquoi je boitais, elles paraissaient tout
honteuses et changeaient de sujet, mais lorsqu’on insistait et qu’on posait
d’autres questions, il me semblait voir leurs yeux se voiler, comme si elles
allaient pleurer.
Et tout cela était loin de n’être qu’une vaine gloire; mais lorsque les amis
du maître revinrent, une vingtaine de gens des plus distingués, on m’amena
au laboratoire et ils discutèrent sur moi comme si j’étais une créature
inconnue. Un d’entre eux dit qu’il était merveilleux de voir, en un animal
muet, une telle preuve d’instinct et que c’était presque de l’esprit. Mais le
maître répondit avec véhémence:
«Il s’agit bien d’instinct! Il faut appeler cela de la RAISON. Combien
d’hommes destinés à aller, avec vous et moi, dans un monde meilleur,
montrent moins de véritable intelligence que ces stupides quadrupèdes
destinés à périr!»
Il rit et continua: «Quoi donc! Je suis loin d’être ironique. Regardez-moi:
avec toute mon intelligence, la première chose que j’aie été capable de
supposer fut que la chienne était devenue enragée et allait détruire
l’enfant... Vous parlez de l’intelligence des bêtes? c’est de la raison, vous
dis-je, car savez-vous bien que le Baby serait infailliblement mort?»
Ils discutèrent longtemps, et j’étais le centre et le sujet de tous ces
discours. Ah, comme j’aurais voulu que ma mère pût connaître tous ces
honneurs qui m’advenaient! Qu’elle en aurait été fière!
Ils causèrent ensuite d’optique—comme ils disaient—et discutèrent la
question de savoir si une certaine blessure au cerveau pourrait produire la
cécité ou non, mais ils ne purent s’entendre là-dessus et convinrent qu’il y
avait lieu de faire l’expérience plus tard. Ils parlèrent ensuite des plantes, ce
qui m’intéressait beaucoup, parce que, dans l’été, Saddie et moi avions
semé des graines: je lui avais aidé à creuser de petits trous et, quelques jours
après, une petite pousse verte était apparue à l’endroit des trous. Cela était
tout à fait merveilleux mais c’était parfaitement arrivé, et j’aurais bien
voulu pouvoir parler pour montrer à tous ces gens combien j’en savais long
sur ce sujet et à quel point cela m’intéressait. Par contre, je me souciais fort
peu d’optique. C’était ennuyeux comme la pluie, et quand ils y revinrent et
agitèrent encore la question, je m’en allai et m’endormis.
 Bientôt après, ce fut le printemps tout ensoleillé, tendre et doux. Ma
maîtresse et les enfants après nous avoir caressés mon petit et moi et fait
leurs adieux, allèrent en visite chez un de leurs parents. Le maître ne nous
tenait pas compagnie pendant ce temps-là, mais nous jouions tous les deux,
et les domestiques étaient bons et tendres pour nous, de sorte que nous
étions heureux en comptant les jours qui nous séparaient du retour de nos
maîtresses.
Un de ces jours-là, ces messieurs vinrent encore au laboratoire et dirent
qu’il était temps de faire l’expérience; ils prirent mon petit avec eux. Je les
suivis en trottinant sur mes trois jambes, heureuse et fière, car toute
attention à mon petit était un plaisir pour moi, naturellement. Ils discutèrent
encore et firent des expériences, mais, tout à coup mon petit cria et ils le
laissèrent tomber par terre; il trébucha de tous côtés, la tête ensanglantée,
tandis que le maître tapait des mains en criant:
—J’ai gagné, avouez-le; il est aussi aveugle qu’une chauve-souris.
Et tous dirent:
—Oui, vous avez prouvé la vérité de votre théorie et l’humanité
souffrante a, dès maintenant, contracté envers vous une grande dette.
Ils l’entouraient, lui serraient les mains avec effusion et le félicitaient
chaleureusement.
Mais je ne vis ni n’entendis tout cela qu’à peine, car j’avais couru vers le
cher petit être, je m’étais couchée tout contre lui et léchais son sang... Il mit
sa tête près de la mienne et se mit à gémir doucement, mais je sentis dans
mon cœur que ce lui était un grand soulagement dans sa douleur et son
angoisse de sentir les caresses de sa mère, quoiqu’il ne pût plus me voir.
Puis il s’abattit bientôt, et son petit nez rose resta aplati contre le
plancher, et il resta là, sans plus bouger du tout.
Peu après, le maître s’arrêta de parler, sonna le valet de pied et lui dit:
—Allez l’enterrer dans un coin éloigné du jardin. Et il continua à
discuter.
Je suivis le domestique, heureuse et reconnaissante, car je comprenais
que mon petit ne souffrait plus maintenant parce qu’il était endormi. Le
valet alla jusqu’au bout le plus éloigné du jardin, à l’endroit où les enfants
et la nourrice avaient l’habitude de jouer en été, à l’ombre d’un grand
ormeau... Le valet creusa là un trou profond et je vis qu’il allait planter mon
petit. Je fus très heureuse, parce qu’il viendrait sûrement à cet endroit un
grand et beau chien comme mon ami Robin Adair, et ce serait une très belle
surprise pour le moment où mes maîtresses reviendraient. Aussi, essayai-je
d’aider à l’homme, mais ma pauvre jambe blessée n’était pas bien bonne et
plutôt raide. Quand l’homme eut fini et eut recouvert mon petit Robin, il me
caressa la tête, et il y avait des larmes dans ses yeux quand il me dit:
«Pauvre chienne, toi, tu as sauvé son enfant!»

..... J’ai attendu deux semaines entières et il n’a pas poussé!

Ces derniers jours, une crainte m’est venue. Je pense qu’il y a quelque
chose de terrible dans tout cela. Je ne sais pas ce que c’est, mais la frayeur
me rend malade, et je ne puis rien manger, quoique les domestiques
m’apportent tout ce qu’ils ont de meilleur. Ils me caressent et même
viennent le soir auprès de moi, ils pleurent et me disent: «Pauvre chère bête,
abandonne tout cela et viens avec nous à la maison; ne nous brise pas le
cœur!»
Tout cela me terrifie encore davantage et me convainc que quelque chose
a dû arriver.
Je suis très faible. Depuis hier, je ne puis plus me tenir sur mes pieds. Et
maintenant, à l’heure où le soleil disparaît et où la nuit glacée monte, les
domestiques disent entre eux des choses que je ne puis comprendre, mais
qui versent quelque chose de froid en mon cœur:
«Ces pauvres dames! Elles ne se méfient de rien! Elles vont rentrer un
matin, elles demanderont tout de suite la chère créature qui a été si brave et
courageuse... et qui de nous aura la force de leur dire: «L’humble petite bête
s’en est allée où vont les bêtes qui meurent!»
 HOMMES ET PRINCES

I
Le lendemain de l’arrivée du Prince Henri de Prusse aux États-Unis, je
rencontrai un Anglais de mes amis qui se frottait les mains et paraissait fort
joyeux. Il m’aborda d’un air triomphant.
—Eh bien, s’écria-t-il, vous voilà pris et c’est mon tour de rire! Ne vous
ai-je pas entendu dire plus d’une fois que les Anglais avaient une passion
pour les lords, les princes et les nobles? Je ne savais que vous répondre et il
ne semblait pas que j’eusse jamais l’occasion de pouvoir défendre mes
compatriotes... Mais, maintenant, après l’ovation que vous avez faite au
Prince Henri, je crois que je peux redresser la tête... Vous savez aussi être
courtisans, vous autres, Américains!
La rapidité avec laquelle se répand et circule une remarque stupide est
vraiment curieuse. Celui qui la profère le premier croit avoir fait une grande
découverte. Celui à qui il parle le croit aussi. Et chacun la répète vite et
souvent. Elle est reçue partout avec admiration et respect comme un beau
fruit d’observation perspicace et de haute et sage intelligence. Et puis elle
prend place parmi les vérités reconnues et dûment estampillées, sans que
jamais personne ne songe à examiner si après tout elle a un titre quelconque
à ces grands honneurs. Je pourrais citer comme exemples nombre de
proverbes courants et dont l’imbécillité ne le cède en rien à celle de la
remarque faite par mon ami anglais sur l’engouement des Américains pour
les princes. C’est ainsi que l’adoration des Américains pour le dollar, le
désir qu’ont les jeunes millionnaires américaines d’acheter un titre de
noblesse avec un mari, sont vérités banales un peu partout.

Eh bien, ce n’est pas seulement l’Américain qui adore le tout-puissant

dollar, c’est tout le monde. Les hommes ont successivement et toujours
passionnément aimé à posséder un plein chapeau de coquillages, une balle
de coton, un demi-setier d’anneaux de cuivre, une poignée d’hameçons en
acier, une pleine maison de négresses, un enclos plein de bétail, une ou
deux vingtaines de chameaux et ânes, une factorerie, une ferme, une maison
de rapport, une administration de chemins de fer, une direction de banque,
une liasse de solides valeurs... en un mot, toutes les choses qui ont été ou
sont les signes de la richesse, procurent la considération et l’indépendance
et sont de nature à assurer à un homme le bien le plus précieux qui soit, je
veux dire l’envie des autres hommes.

Les riches Américaines achètent des titres de noblesse, oui, mais elles
n’ont pas inventé le procédé dont on usait et abusait déjà bien des siècles
avant la découverte de l’Amérique. Les jeunes filles européennes le
pratiquent de nos jours aussi allégrement que jamais; et, quand elles ne
peuvent pas payer comptant, elles achètent un mari sans titre, car il ne faut
pas une dot en espérance pour cette sorte de commerce. Bien plus, les
mariages d’affaires sont d’une pratique universelle et courante, excepté en
Amérique. Assurément, il y en a chez nous, dans une certaine mesure, mais
pas au point d’être tout à fait passés dans nos mœurs.

II
Je reviens à l’Anglais. «L’Anglais a un culte pour les lords.»
D’où cela vient-il? Je crois d’abord qu’il serait plus correct de dire:
«L’homme envie passionnément les princes.»
C’est-à-dire, il voudrait être à la place des princes. Pourquoi? Pour deux
raisons, je crois: Parce que les princes possèdent Pouvoir et Renommée.
Lorsque la Renommée est accompagnée d’un Pouvoir que nous sommes
capables de mesurer et de jauger à la lumière de notre propre expérience et
de nos observations personnelles, nous l’envions alors, à mon avis, aussi
profondément et aussi passionnément que n’importe quel Européen ou
Asiatique.
Personne se soucie moins d’un prince que le bûcheron qui n’a jamais eu
de contact personnel avec un prince et qui a rarement entendu parler des
nobles lords; mais pour ce qui est d’un Américain qui a vécu plusieurs
années dans une capitale européenne et qui sait quelle est la place qu’un
prince occupe dans le monde, je lui trouve au moins autant d’envie dans le
cœur qu’à n’importe quel Anglais.
Parmi les dix mille et quelques Américains qui se sont bousculés pour
avoir le plaisir d’apercevoir le Prince Henri, il n’y en a pas deux cents qui