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Magic: A Fantastic Comedy

G. K. Chesterton

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    This is a very short little play, so it will be an uncommonly short little review. I have read lots and lots of Chesterton's works, including all of his novels, most of his story collections, some of his Father Brown mysteries, although I have the complete collection, some of his essays, none of his poetry except what has been included in other works, and only one play, which is this work. Chesterton was also a journalist, and altogether, he wrote a massive body of work, including theological works. He converted to the Catholic faith later in his life. Chesterton lived from 1874 to 1936. You may read all my Chesterton reviews on his Index Page.
    Being a journalist, Chesterton always had a heads up on the latest political activity in England. I always say that for much of his satire, you really had to be there, or else be extremely well-educated on the political history of England. He had a unique way of looking at life, which he usually turned upside down and inside out in order to force people to see things from many different perspectives, and he did that very well, although after a while it gets annoying and often just plain goofy. But if you can weed through the silliness, there is most of the time a message, usually one we had not thought about, that causes us to rethink old values and opinions, and that's always a good thing. He usually got his jabs toward the status quo at the time and found ways to humorously bring attention to hypocrisy.
    This play takes place in the Duke's drawing room. Hastings is his secretary, plus there is Doctor Grimthorpe, The Reverend Cyril Smith, Patricia, the Duke's niece from Ireland and her brother, Morris, from America, and last, the Stranger, who turns out to be the Conjurer. The Prelude begins in the "Celtic Twilight" as Patricia encounters what she believes to be a Fairy, but she's from Ireland, so she's allowed to believe in fairies. She tells him he is too big to be a fairy. He replies,

Daughter of men, if you would see a fairy as he truly is, look for his head above all the stars and his feet amid the floors of the sea. Old women have taught you that the fairies are too small to be seen. But I tell you the fairies are too mighty to be seen. For they are the elder gods before whom the giants were like pigmies. They are the Elemental Spirits, and any one of them is larger than the world. And you look for them in acorns and on toadstools and wonder that you never see them.

Inside, both the Doctor and the Rector are waiting to see the Duke. They are both there for the same purpose, but on opposite sides.

Smith. Oh, there's no disguise as far as I'm concerned. I've joined this league for starting a model public-house in the parish; and in plain words, I've come to ask his Grace for a subscription to it.

Doctor. [Grimly.] And, as it happens, I have joined in the petition against the erection of a model public-house in this parish. The similarity of our position grows with every instant.

When Hastings re-enters the room, he has a check for 50 pounds to support both the doctor and the rector, as he always does. He tries to please everyone and ends up pleasing no one. (Goodness, I know LOTS of people like that!) Hastings calls him liberal minded. Smith calls him absent-minded and the doctor agrees. The Duke is an ass, and nothing he says makes sense. Every time he speaks there is a pause in silence because no one either understands what he means or knows how to reply. I would imagine on stage that would have been quite funny. The rector and doctor agree that the whole family is "odd," and they get to talking about fairies, which are acceptable in Ireland, but not England or America.

Doctor. Oh, she wanders about the park and the woods in the evenings. Damp evenings for choice. She calls it the Celtic twilight. I've no use for the Celtic twilight myself. It has a tendency to get on the chest. But what is worse, she is always talking about meeting somebody, some elf or wizard or something. I don't like it at all.

(The result is that the Duke has invited a Conjurer, and it turns out that the "fairy' Patricia thought she had seen is nothing but a man. Meanwhile, he enters the room because Patricia's brother should be arriving soon.)

Duke. Oh, come, come! Progress, you know, progress! Of course I know how busy you are; you mustn't overwork yourself, you know. Hastings was telling me you laughed over those subscriptions of mine. Well, well, I believe in looking at both sides of a question, you know. Aspects, as old Buffle called them. Aspects. [With an all-embracing gesture of the arm.] You represent the tendency to drink in moderation, and you do good in your way. The Doctor represents the tendency not to drink at all; and he does good in his way. We can't be Ancient Britons, you know.

[A prolonged and puzzled silence, such as always follows the more abrupt of the Duke's associations or disassociations of thought.]

Smith. [At last, faintly.] Ancient Britons . . . .

Doctor. [To Smith in a low voice.] Don't bother. It's only his broad-mindedness.

Finally Morris Carleon enters. He is "a very young man: hardly more than a boy, but with very grown-up American dress and manners. He is dark, smallish, and active; and the racial type under his Americanism is Irish." He speaks in American slang as he tells them he manages his boss's mines out in Arizona. He wants to know how his sister is, and where she is. When he is told she wanders around the grounds in the evening, he thinks it's "might chilly" and is concerned. She is heard singing, then happily enters, telling her brother she's been in "Fairyland." He asks where that is.

Morris. [Sharply.] Has it any inhabitants?

Patricia. Generally only two. Oneself and one's shadow. But whether he is my shadow or I am his shadow is never found out.

But it is at that point that questions of the metaphysical and spiritual begin to emerge.

Doctor. The difference between the things that are beautiful and the things that are there. That red lamp over my door isn't beautiful; but it's there. You might even come to be glad it is there, when the stars of gold and silver have faded. I am an old man now, but some men are still glad to find my red star. I do not say they are the wise men.

Patricia. [Somewhat affected.] Yes, I know you are good to everybody. But don't you think there may be floating and spiritual stars which will last longer than the red lamps?

Anyways, the "Fairy" enters, and turns out to be a man, the one hired by the Duke. He is considered a Conjurer—a fraud—who plays tricks on people.

Doctor. [To the Stranger.] Do you say you can make stones disappear?

Stranger. Yes. I can make stones disappear.

Morris. [Roughly.] I reckon you're the kind of tough who knows how to make a watch and chain disappear.

Stranger. Yes; I know how to make a watch and chain disappear.

Morris. And I should think you were pretty good at disappearing yourself.

Patricia is crushed and says he has stolen something from her.

Stranger. And what have I stolen?

Patricia. A fairy tale.

Act II begins later, and room is more brightly lit. The Conjurer is setting up his props.

Hastings. I have to go down the village about the wire to Stratford. The only other thing at all urgent is the Militant Vegetarians.

Duke. Ah! The Militant Vegetarians! You've heard of them, I'm sure. Won't obey the law [to the Conjurer] so long as the Government serves out meat.

Conjurer. Let them be comforted. There are a good many people who don't get much meat.

Duke. Well, well, I'm bound to say they're very enthusiastic. Advanced, too—oh, certainly advanced. Like Joan of Arc.

[Short silence, in which the Conjurer stares at him.]

Conjurer. Was Joan of Arc a Vegetarian?

Meanwhile, the Duke asks the Conjurer is he's heard any news, like in a newspaper—the Daily Sword-Swallower, perhaps. He replies that he had also been a journalist.

Conjurer. I only mean that the two trades rest on opposite principles. The whole point of being a conjurer is that you won't explain a thing that has happened.

Duke. Well, and the journalist?

Conjurer. Well, the whole point of being a journalist is that you do explain a thing that hasn't happened.

Anyways, eventually, it is Morris and the Conjurer who come close to a brawl. Morris doesn't believe in magic, and says he knows how every trick is done. Then they get to talking about "miracles" in the Bible. But the Conjurer himself worries that he has become something else "worse than a conjurer." The question looms as to whether there is really such a thing as "magic." Are modern conjuring tricks simply the old miracles when they have once been found out?
Smith points out the picture on the wall and, as an example, says, "what if it were a copy?"

Smith. Well, suppose I did say so, you wouldn't take it as meaning that Sir Joshua Reynolds never lived. Why should sham miracles prove to us that real Saints and Prophets never lived. There may be sham magic and real magic also.

[The Conjurer raises his head and listens with a strange air of intentness.}

Smith. There may be turnip ghosts precisely because there are real ghosts. There may be theatrical fairies precisely because there are real fairies. You do not abolish the Bank of England by pointing to a forged bank-note.

After a while, Morris joins the conversation.

Morris. You say old man Reynolds lived; and Science don't say no. [He turns excitedly to the picture.] But I guess he's dead now; and you'll no more raise your Saints and Prophets from the dead than you'll raise the Duke's great-grandfather to dance on that wall.

[The picture begins to sway slightly to and fro on the wall.}

    And then, other things begin to happen that cannot be explained. Morris becomes distraught, then delirious because he cannot cope with not knowing how something works, scientifically. Act III begins with the Doctor trying to help Morris recuperate.
    Yeah, it's an incredibly silly play, and Wikipedia has only two sentence about it, plus some references. However, it became the model for the much more successful 1958 Swedish film, The Face, directed by Ingmar Bergman. It is also known as The Magician.
    But having said that, there are also lots of points with which I can agree—right up my alley, actually. From what I've read of Chesterton, he seemed to look upon life itself as magical, and believed it could be even more magical when one does not set limitations upon it. I agree and take it much further to the point that we can create "magic" and everything else with our minds, if we just believe and trust our creativity. Anyways, this play is a short read, and entertaining. Given a talented director, it could probably be quite funny on stage.