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George Moore and the Amenities HONOR E. WOULFE From the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center IT HAS BEEN the fashion in writing of George Moore to dwell upon the acerbities attributed to him, passing over his genial and tender characteristics. Let a man acquire a reputation for a special kind of wit, and like a flock of sheep the raconteurs play continually on this one stop, never troubling to sound the keys up and down the musical instrument. No better illustration of this method can be quoted than the constant sameness of talks on Whistler, or Oscar Wilde and now of George Moore. A few anecdotes told about a man are not sufficient to give a just estimate of his character or disposition. The human and soft side of George Moore has been overlooked or ignored. The episode of taking off his clothes when a child and running naked before his nurse, seems to be the sum total of illumination on his early behavior. It is a rather silly illustration—for no child exists who has not delighted in this abandon and defiance—speaking both literally and figuratively. Later came the oft repeated bon mot of Susan Mitchell, "Some men kiss and tell—Mr. Moore tells but does not kiss." I first met George Moore in 1907. He was then living at 4 Ely Upper Dublin and I was at the Standard Hotel in Harcourt St. The Abbey theatre was out of its swaddling clothes and enjoying the strength and pride of growing youth. It was beginning to be conscious that the eyes of the world turned its direction. George Moore was no longer actively engaged in the movement, but his mind reverted continually to the drama, for he was laboring to bring Elizabeth Cooper (1913) into being, taking up and putting down the play, which later on became The Coming of Gabrielle." The second act was obstreperous, and knowing my predilection for the theatre and dramatic form he discussed his difficulties with me, hoping that I would find the elucidation for this evasive second act. He railed at Mrs. Craigie for getting him involved in 447 ELT : VOLUME 35:4 1992 this particular play. He would pace the floor in irritable outbursts saying "I wish she had let me alone. I am not a dramatist, I am a novelist. I wish I had never heard of this play—there is no flow to it. What is wrong with it? Can't you tell me what is wrong with it? My brain is weary thinking on it. It has soured on me. It is fresh to you. Give me your opinion. Try at it for me." It was out of this mood and this appeal that I did try. I wrote the second Act—which did not harmonize with his play at all—I could not catch up his characters nor his manner of speech—I never got inside the feeling of the play—and consigned my effort to the flames in the fireplace. We then spent several evenings going thru the play point by point; I reading it aloud and suggesting more action and shorter speeches—for in the first draft the speeches were very long; but no matter what was done with it, it remained artificial and stilted, and yet the theme was good and true theatre; finally it was set aside till the form ripened in his mind and it eventually came forth in the finished acting form of its present perfection. He conquered the difficulties that had caused him so many annoyances and had earned the right to add Dramatist to his profession and support the claim. I often dined with him at Ely Place in a simple and informal manner. After a days work composing and dictating to a secretary he seemed glad of the diversion of such company as I afforded, where there was no matching of wits and no effort to keep the machinery of the brain at the scintillating point where it would emit darts of impressive fire but instead he found relaxation in my company, and no doubt amusement at my naive look at Life. He made excellent coffee and took...

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