# Letters from England/A Few Faces

​A Few Faces
BUT now I have a few faces which I must exhibit and describe.
Here is Mr. Seton Watson, or Scotus Viator. You all know him, for he fought in our cause like the archangel Gabriel. He has a house in the Isle of Skye, is writing the history of the Serbs, and in the evening plays the pianola by a blazing peat fire. He has a tall and beautiful wife, two waterproof sons and a blue-eyed baby, windows looking out on to the sea and the islands, a child-like mouth and rooms full of ancestors and pictures from the Czech lands: a refined ​and hesitant man of a more subtle countenance than you would expect from this severe and righteous Scottish pilgrim.
This is Mr. Nigel Playfair, a man of the theatre; he is the gentleman who brought my plays to England; but he does even better things than that; he is placid, artistic, enterprising, and one of the few really modern producers in England.
This is Mr. John Galsworthy, firstly as a dramatist, and secondly as a novelist, for, mark you, it is your duty to make his acquain tance in both these capacities. He is a very tranquil, refined and perfect man, with the L.F.E. 177 M ​face of a priest or a judge, slender and sinewy, made up of tact, reserve and reflective shyness, exceedingly serious; only round his eyes there is a smile in the kindly wrinkles with the intentness of their foldings. He has a wife who is very similar to him, and his books are the perfect and wise works of a sensitive and somewhat sad observer.
This is Mr. G . K. Chesterton; I have drawn him flying, partly because I was able to have only a rather fugitive impression of him, and then because of his celestial exuber ance. Unhappily at that particular moment he was perhaps a trifle subdued by a situation ​of a slightly official character; all he could do was to smile, but his smile is enough for three. If I could write about his books, his poetical democracy, his genial optimism, it would be the merriest of my letters; but as I have taken it into my head to write only about what I have seen with my own eyes, I will describe to you a capacious gentleman, whose ample structure recalls Viktor Dyk; he has a musketeer moustache and modest, shrewd eyes beneath pince-nez, hands which are embraces, as the hands of stout people ​are wont to be, and a flowing necktie. He is at once a child, a giant, a curly-haired lamb and an aurochs. He has a large, russet head, a reflective and whimsical expression, and at first sight he aroused in me bashfulness and a strong feeling of attachment: I did not see him many times.
And this is Mr. H . G. Wells, firstly as he appears in company, and secondly as he appears at home; a massive head, strong, ample shoulders, strong and warm hands; he resembles a farmer, a worker, a father and everything in the world. He has the thin and clouded voice of a man who is no orator, ​a face inscribed with thought and labour, a harmonious home, a pretty, petite wife as active as a linnet, two tall playful sons, eyes as if half-closed and veiled beneath the thick English brows. Unassuming and wise, healthy, strong, very well-informed and very matter-of-fact in all the good and vital implications of this phrase. You forget that you are talking to a great author, because you are talking to a thoughtful and all-round man. Long may you flourish. Mr. Wells.
This is an almost super natural personality. Mr. Bernard Shaw; I could not make a better drawing of him, because he keeps moving about and talking. He is immensely tall, thin and straight; he looks half like God and half like a very malicious satyr, who, however, by a process of sublimation extending over thousands of years, has lost all that is too closely akin to nature. He has white ​hair, a white beard and a very rosy skin, inhumanly clear eyes, a prominent and pug nacious nose, something about him of Don Quixote, something apostolic, and something ​that makes fun of everything in the world, including himself. Never in my life have I seen so unusual a being; to tell the truth I was afraid of him. I thought it was some spirit who was only pretending to be the famous Bernard Shaw. He is a vegetarian, I do not know whether on principle or from gourmandise; one never knows whether people have principles on principle or for their personal gratification. He has a pensive wife, a soft-toned harpsichord, and windows looking on to the Thames; he sparkles with life and has heaps of interesting things to say about himself, about Strindberg, about Rodin, and other famous things; to listen to him is a delight coupled with awe.
I should like to draw many more remarkable and fine heads which I met; they included men, women, and pretty girls, writers, journalists, students, Indians, savants, club men, Americans, and all that there is in the world; but now I must take my leave, friends; I am unwilling to believe that I have seen you for the last time.