JOHN M. SYNGE
A FEW PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
BY JOHN MASEFIELD
JOHN M. SYNGE
I first met John M. Synge at the room of a common friend, up twopairs of stairs, in an old house in Bloomsbury, on a Monday nightof January, 1903. When I entered the room, he was sitting in arush-bottomed chair, talking to a young man just down from Oxford.My host introduced me, with the remark that he wanted us to knoweach other.
Synge stood up to shake hands with me. He was of the middleheight, about five feet eight or nine. My first impression of himwas of a dark, grave face, with a great deal in it, changing fromthe liveliness of conversation to a gravity of scrutiny. After wehad shaken hands, I passed to the other end of the room to greetother friends. We did not speak to each other again that night.
When I sat at the other end of the room my chair was oppositeSynge's chair. Whenever I raised my eyes I saw him, and wonderedwho he could be. Disordered people look disordered, unusual peoplelook unusual. A youth with long hair, a velvet coat, extravagantmanners, and the other effeminacies of emptiness looks thecharlatan he is. Synge gave one from the first the impression of astrange personality. He was of a dark type of Irishman, though notblack-haired. Something in his air gave one the fancy that hisface was dark from gravity. Gravity filled the face and hauntedit, as though the man behind were forever listening to life's casebefore passing judgment. It was "a dark, grave face, with a greatdeal in it." The hair was worn neither short nor long. Themoustache was rather thick and heavy. The lower jaw, otherwiseclean-shaven, was made remarkable by a tuft of hair, too small tobe called a goatee, upon the lower lip. The head was of a goodsize. There was nothing niggardly, nothing abundant about it. Theface was pale, the cheeks were rather drawn. In my memory theywere rather seamed and old-looking. The eyes were at once smokyand kindling. The mouth, not well seen below the moustache, had agreat play of humour on it. But for this humorous mouth, thekindling in the eyes, and something not robust in his build, hewould have been more like a Scotchman than an Irishman.
I remember wondering if he were Irish. His voice, very gutturaland quick, with a kind of lively bitterness in it, was of a kindof Irish voice new to me at that time. I had known a good manyIrish people; but they had all been vivacious and picturesque,rapid in intellectual argument, and vague about life. There wasnothing vivacious, picturesque, rapid or vague about Synge. Therush-bottomed chair next to him was filled by talker after talker,but Synge was not talking, he was answering. When someone spoke tohim he answered with the grave Irish courtesy. He offered nothingof his own. When the talk became general he was silent. Sometimeshe went to a reddish earthenware pot upon the table, took out acigarette and lit it at a candle. Then he sat smoking, pushed backa little from the circle, gravely watching. Sometimes I heard hisdeep, grave voice assenting 'Ye-es, ye-es,' with meditativeboredom. Sometimes his little finger flicked off the ash on to thefloor. His manner was that of a man too much interested in thelife about him to wish to be more than a spectator. His interestwas in life, not in ideas. He was new to that particular kind oflife. Afterwards, when I had come to know him, I heard him sum upevery person there with extraordinary point and sparkle. Oftensince then, eager to hear more of my friend, I have asked men whomet him casually for a report of him. So often they have said, "Hewas a looker-on at life. He came in and sat down and looked on. Hegave nothing in return. He never talk