But he was a
curious, honest, and original dramatist, with a considerable equipment of
wit and of skill. The unconsciously grotesque condescension which he
received in the criticisms of Mr. William Archer, and the mere insolence
which he had to tolerate in the criticisms of Mr. A.B. Walkley, were
demonstrations of the fact that he was a genuine writer. What he lacked
was creative energy. He could interest but he could not powerfully grip
you. His most precious quality--particularly precious in England--was his
calm intellectual curiosity, his perfect absence of fear at the logical
consequences of an argument. He would follow an argument anywhere. He was
not one, of those wretched poltroons who say: "But if I admit _x_ to be
true, I am doing away with the incentive to righteousness. _Therefore_ I
shall not admit _x_ to be true." There are thousands of these highly
educated poltroons between St. Stephen's, Westminster, and Aberystwith
University, and St. John Hankin was their foe.
* * * * *
The last time I conversed with him was at the dress rehearsal of a comedy.
Between the sloppy sounds of charwomen washing the floor of the pit and
the feverish cries of photographers taking photographs on the stage, we
discussed the plays of Tchehkoff and other things.
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