Front matter (continued 8)

The rich man thus, in torment and despair, Prefer’d his vain, but charitable prayer. The fool, his own soul lost, wou’d fain be wise For others good; but Heaven his suit denies. By laws and means well known we stand or fall, And one eternal rule remains for all.

The End of the Third Act.14

Have you noticed that people under stress of strong emotion stop to depict their emotional condition, to analyze it, or neatly to apostrophize fate or Providence? The more real the emotion the more compact and connotative, usually, is its expression. People under high emotional strain who can tell you just what they ought to feel, or who describe elaborately what they are feeling are usually “indeed exceeding calm.” Dryden’s Lyndaraxa builded better than she knew when she said:

By my own experience I can tell Those who love truly do not argue well.

Bulwer-Lytton was thinking of the weakness of self-descriptive woe when he wrote Macready, while composing Richelieu, “In Act 4—in my last alteration, when Richelieu, pitying Julie, says, ‘I could weep to see her thus—But’—the effect would I think be better if he felt the tears with indignation at his own weakness—thus:

‘Are these tears? O, shame, shame, Dotage’—”

Emotion, if given free way, finds the right words by which to express itself. When a character stands outside itself, describing what it feels, the speaker is really the author in disguise, describing what he is incompetent, from lack of sympathetic power, to phrase with simple, moving accuracy. M. de Curel has described perfectly the right relation of author to character and dialogue.

During the first days of work I have a very distinct feeling of creation. Later I move on instinctively and that is much better. When the sentiments of my characters are in question I am absolutely in their skins, for my own part indifferent as to their griefs or joys. I can be moved only later in re-reading, and then this emotion seems to arise from the fact that I have to do with characters absolutely strange to me. I experience sometimes, and then personally, a feeling of irony, of flippancy, in regard to my characters who tangle themselves up and get themselves into difficulties. That transpires sometimes in the language of some other character who, at the moment, ceases to speak correctly because he speaks as I should. As a result, corrections later. At the end of a year, my play, when I re-read it, seems something completely apart from me, written by another.15

Allowing a character to express itself exactly raises inevitably the question of dialect. On the one hand it must be admitted that nothing more quickly characterizes a figure, as far as type is concerned, than to let him speak like a Yankee, a Scotchman, a Negro, etc. If the character utters phrases which an audience recognizes instantly as characteristic of his supposed type, there is special satisfaction to the audience in such recognition. On the other hand, very few audiences know any dialect thoroughly enough to permit a writer to use it with absolute accuracy. The moment dialect begins to show the need of a glossary, it is defeating its own ends. As a result a compromise has arisen, dating from the very early days of the drama—stage dialects. A character made up to represent Scotchman, Welshman, Frenchman, Negro, or Indian, speaks in a way that has become time-honored on the stage as representing this or that figure among these types. Till recently most dialect on the stage has been at best a mere popular approximation to real usage. Until within a few years the peasant dialogue of Gammer Gurton’s Needle, the famous sixteenth-century Interlude, was supposed to represent dialect of its time in the neighborhood of Cambridge, England. Recently philologists have shown that the speech of these peasants is unlike any dialect of the period of the play, and was obviously a stage convention of the time. Study the Welshmen and other dialect parts in Shakespeare, and you will reach approximately the same conclusion. With our developing sense of historical truth and of realism, we have, in recent years, been trying to make our characters speak exactly as they would in real life. The plays of the Abbey Theatre are in large part a revolt from the Irish dialogue which the plays of Dion Boucicault had practically established as true to life. Today we try not only phonetically to represent the ways in which words are spoken by the people of a particular locality, but by the use of words and phrases heard among such people to make the characterization vivid and convincing. Here, in Mr. Sheldon’s play, The Nigger, is care to reproduce phonetically the speech of negroes:

Jinny. (Wearily.) I speck yo’ right. Hev yo’ got suthin’ fo’ me t’night? Seems lak I might take it down wif me t’ de cabin.

Simms. (Grumbling.) Fo’ dat young good-fo’-nuffin hawg-grubbah t’ swallow w’en he done come home? Laws me, w’y Marse Phil ’lows his fried chicken en’ co’n-braid t’ feed dat wo’thles rap-scallion, I jes’ cain’t see! Clar out o’ heah, yo’ ern’ry yallah gal!

Jinny. (Crushingly.) Yallah gal—! Sho’! I was livin’ heah fo’ yo’ was bawn! Don’ fo’get dat, yo’ imperent, low-down li’tle niggah yo’!

Simms. (Pacifically.) Hol’ on, Jinny! I ain’t said nuffin’. Dat I ain’t! Yo’ g’ long now en’ I’ll sen’ down a gal t’ yo’ cabin wif a basket.

Jinny. (Turning away.) Yo’ sho’ will—er Marse Phil’d—

Simms. (As he goes up the steps.) En’ keep yo’ gran’chillun out dat saloom, Jinny, ef yo’ don’ want t’ see ’em cross de Jo’dan ahead o’ yo’! Dat Joe! Lawd-a-massy! De white in him ain’t done nobody no good’s fah’s dis—’Scuse me, sah!

(He stops suddenly and turns aside, bowing, on seeing Noyes and Georgie, who have opened the door and come out.)

Here is equal care to represent the speech of Southerners.

Noyes. My fathah? Yes, he gave way t’ his Comme’cial ambition by sellin’ powda an’ bullets t’ the Union—way back in ’62. That got him into a bunch o’ trouble, but it wasn’t what sta’ted the—slight fam’ly coolness!

Georgie. Wasn’t it? Why, I always hea’d—

Noyes. No, it came befo’ that. My gran’fathah an’ Phil’s—they were brothahs-in-law, you know—they began it in the fo’ties.

Georgie. Why?

Noyes. (Grimly.) I reckon the Morrows are tryin’ now t’ keep it da’k. But Lawd!—I don’t mind tellin’. It’s the old thing—both losin’ theah heads ovah the same woman.

Georgie. (Innocently.) How romantic! Phil’s gran’mothah?

Noyes. (After a pause.) No—niggah woman.

Georgie. (In a low voice, turning away.) Oh—I didn’t—realize—

Noyes. (Clearing his throat.) Phil’s gran’fathah—he won out. An’ that’s the kick that sta’ted the Noyes fam’ly a-rollin’ t’ pe’dition.

Georgie. (With difficulty.) But mos’ people are willin’ to fo’get—at least they ought to be.

Noyes. (Dryly.) Some ain’t killed ‘emselves tryin’. Howevah, on lookin’ ahead I saw Phil an’ I might be in a position t’ help each othah, so we agreed t’ sink it. I—I wish yo’ mothah would follow Phil, Miss Byrd. I ce’tainly do wish that!

Georgie. She’s old-fashioned—oh, hopelessly so!—in things the world now considers—trivial.

Noyes. (Looking at his hands.) Such as—trade?

Georgie. (Gently.) That’s one of them.16

Lady Gregory, after writing a rough draft of one of her plays, goes among the people of her community and sets them talking of the subject she is treating. Noting their racy, apt, and highly individualized phrases, she gives them to her characters in the play as she re-writes. Such intimate, loving study of dialect as Lady Gregory, Mr. Yeats, and Synge have shown has given us an accurate representation of the Irish peasant, and may ultimately drive from the English stage the conventional absurdities of the past. Dialect, then, if carefully studied, is highly desirable if two or three facts are borne in mind. First of all, it should be accurate; but secondly it must be clear or must be made clear for any audience. Unquestionably, Mr. Stanley Houghton’s memorable play Hindle Wakes had a bad title away from its birthplace,—Manchester, England. In the United States, this title is perfectly meaningless. How many in any audience in this country could be expected to know that the title means certain “autumn week-end holidays in the town of Hindle.” There could be no harm in using a different title away from the birthplace of the play. Recently, in a manuscript play, appeared a figure speaking a strange mixture of Negro and Irish dialects. He seemed to all readers a clumsy attempt by the author at a dialect part. Really, the figure was a portrait of a small political boss who, from boyhood on, had acquired in the saloons and purlieus of his district words and phrases of both the Negroes and the Irish. A little preliminary exposition at the right place cleared up this difficulty and turned what seemed inept characterization into a particularly individual figure of richly characterizing phrase. Obviously, then, dialect should, first, be written accurately. Then it should be gone over to see what in it may not be clear to most auditors. These words or phrases should be made clear because they are translated by other people on the stage or by the speaker, who himself sees or is told that some stage listener does not understand him. Only a little ingenuity is needed to do away with such vaguenesses. To substitute for such words and phrases others which, though incorrect, would be instantly understood by the audience is to botch the dialect and produce what is, after all, not different from the conventional stage dialect of the past. This raises a third point in regard to dialect, and one very frequently disregarded. Over and over again in plays using dialect certain speeches are passed over by the author in his final revision which neither phonetically nor in the words and phrases chosen comport with the context. Instantly the mood and the color of the scene are lost unless the actor supplies what the author failed to give. That is, dialect, if used, should be used steadily and consistently. The desiderata are, then, accuracy, persistent use, and clearness for the general public. Thus used, dialect is one of the chief aids to characterization.

If, in writing dialogue, a dramatist must not speak as himself but in character, must not be consciously or unconsciously literary if not in character, how may one surely choose the right words? Perhaps one or two illustrations will help here. The citation in the left-hand column from the first quarto Hamlet states the facts clearly enough, but wholly uncolored by the emotion of the speaker. In the right-hand column the passionate sympathy of Shakespeare has given him perfect understanding of Hamlet’s feeling.

Hamlet. O fie Horatio, and if thou shouldst die, What a scandale wouldst thou leave behinde? What tongue should tell the story of our deaths, If not from thee? O my heart sinckes Horatio, Mine eyes have lost their sight, my tongue his use: Farewell Horatio, heaven receive my soule. Hamlet.. O good Horatio, what a wounded name Things standing thus unknowne, shall I leave behind me? If thou did’st ever hold me in thy hart, Absent thee from felicity a while And in this harsh world drawe thy breath in paine To tell my story; What warlike noise is this?

(Hamlet dies.) (A march a farre off.)17

Speaking, not as the historian, not as the observer, but as Hamlet himself, Shakespeare by his quickened feeling finds a phrasing of which we may say what Swinburne said of some of the lines of John Webster: that the character says, not what he might have said, not what we are satisfied to have him say, but what seems absolutely the only thing he could have said.

When a dramatist works as he should, the emotion of his characters gives him the right words for carrying their feelings to the audience, and every word counts. Writing to Macready of Money, Bulwer-Lytton said of his play, “At the end of Act in your closing speech, will you remember to say, you ‘would’ refuse me ten pounds to spend on benevolence. Not you refuse me. The would is important.” 18

In the left-hand column the complete sympathy of Heywood with his characters makes them speak simply, out of the fullness of their emotion. In the right-hand column, Heywood’s collaborator, Rowley, lacking complete understanding of his characters, is thinking more of phrase for its own sake.

ACT I. SCENE 4. The street ACT II. SCENE 1. Hounslow

Enter Rainsford and Young Forrest, meeting Enter Rainsford and Young Forrest

Young Forrest. Pray let me speak with you. Rainsford. With me, sir? Young For. With you. Rains. Say on. Young For. Do you not know me? Rains. Keep off, upon the peril of thy life. Come not within my sword's length, lest this arm Prove fatal to thee and bereave thy life, As it hath done thy brother's. Young For. Why now thou know'st me truly, by that token, That thou hast slain my brother. Put up, put up! So great a quarrel as a brother's life Must not be made a street-brawl;'tis not fit That every prentice should, with his shop club, Betwixt us play the sticklers. Sheathe thy sword. Rains. Swear thou wilt act no sudden violence, Or this sharp sword shall still be interposed 'Twixt me and thy own hatred. Young For. Sheathe thy sword. By my religion and that interest I have in gentry I will not be guilty Of any base revenge. Rains. Say on. Young For. Let's walk. Trust me. Let not thy guilty soul Be jealous of my fury. This my hand Is curbed and govern'd by an honest heart, Not by just anger. I'll not touch thee foully For all the world. Let's walk. Rains. Proceed. Young For. Sir, you did kill my brother. Had it been In fair and even encounter, tho' a child, His death I had not question'd. Rains. Is this all? Young For. He's gone. The law is past. Your life is clear'd; For none of all our kindred laid against You evidence to hang you. You're a gentleman; And pity 'twere a man of your descent Should die a felon's death. See, sir, thus far We have demeaned fairly, like ourselves. But, think you, though we wink at base revenge, A brother's death can be so soon forgot? Our gentry baffled, and our name disgraced? No: 'tmust not be; I am a gentleman Well known; and my demeanor hitherto Hath promis'd somewhat. Should I swallow this, The scandal would outlive me. Briefly then, I'll fight with you. Rains. I am loath. Young For. Answer directly, Whether you dare to meet me on even terms; Or mark how I'll proceed. Rains. Say, I deny it. Young For. Then I say thou'rt a villain, and I challenge thee, Where'er I meet thee next, in field or town, The father's manors, or thy tenants' grange, Saving the church, there is no privilege In all this land for thy despised life. (Fortune by Land and Sea, Act I, Scene 4.)19 Rainsford. Your resolution holds, then? Young Forrest. Men that are easily mov'd are soon remov'd From resolution; but when, with advice And with foresight we purpose, our intents Are not without considerate reasons alter'd. Rains. Thou art resolv'd, and I prepar'd for thee. Yet thus much know, thy state is desperate, And thou art now in danger's throat already Ev'n half devour'd. If I subdue thee, know Thou art a dead man; for this fatal steel, That search'd thy brother's entrails is prepar'd To do as much to thee. If thou survivest, And I be slain, th'art dead too, my alliance And greatness in the world will not endure My slaughter unavenged. Come, I am for thee. Young For. I would my brother liv'd, that this our diff'rence Might end in an embrace of folded love; But 'twas Heaven's will that for some guilt of his He should be scourged by thee; and for the guilt In scourging him, thou by my vengeance punish'd. Come; I am both ways arm'd, against thy steel If I be pierc'd by it, or 'gainst thy greatness If mine pierce thee. Rains. Have at thee. (They fight and pause.) Young For. I will not bid thee hold; but if thy breath Be as much short as mine, look to thy weakness. Rains. The breath thou draw'st but weakly, Thou now shalt draw no more. (They fight. Forrest loseth his weapon.) Young For. That Heaven knows. He guard my body that my spirit owes! (Guards himself, and puts by with his hat—slips—the other, running, falls over him, and Forrest kills him.) Good. My cousin's fall'n—pursue the murderer. Foster. But not too near, I pray; you see he's armed, And in this deep amazement may commit Some desperate outrage. Young For. Had I but known the terror of this deed, I would have left it done imperfectly, Rather than in this guilt of conscience Labour'd so far. But I forget my safety. The gentleman is dead. My desp'rate life Will be o'erswayed by his allies and friends, And I have now no safety but my flight. And see where my pursuers come. Away! Certain destruction hovers o'er my stay. (Exit.) (Fortune by Land and Sea, Act II, Scene 1.)19

Two sets of extracts from the first and final versions of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House show the way in which perfected understanding of a character reveals the apt phrase.

(Nora stands motionless. He goes to the door and opens it.) (Nora stands motionless. Helmer goes to the door and opens it.)

The Maid. (In the Hall.) Here is a letter for you, ma’am. Ellen. (Half-dressed in the Hall.) Here is a letter for you, ma’am.

Helmer. Give it here. (He seizes the letter and shuts the door.) Yes, from him. Look here. Helmer. Give it to me. (Seizes letter and shuts the door.) Yes, from him. You shall not have it. I shall read it.

Nora. Read it. Nora. Read it.

Helmer. I have hardly the courage. I fear the worst. We may both be lost, both you and I. Ah! I must know. (Hastily tears the letter open; reads a few lines with a cry of joy.) Nora! Helmer. (By the lamp.) I have hardly the courage to. We may both be lost, both you and I. Ah! I must know. (Hastily tears the letter open; reads a few few lines, looks at an enclosure; a cry of joy.) Nora!

(Nora looks inquiringly at him.) (Nora looks inquiringly at him.)

Helmer. Nora!—Oh, I must read it again. Yes, yes, it is so. You are saved, Nora, you are saved. Helmer. Nora! Oh, I must read it again. Yes, yes, it is so. I are saved, Nora, I am saved.

Nora. How, saved? Nora. And I?

Helmer. Look here. He sends you back your promissory note. He writes that he regrets and apologises, that a happy turn in his life—Oh, what matter what he writes. We are saved, Nora! There is nothing to witness against you. Oh, Nora, Nora.20 Helmer. You too, of course; we are both saved, both of us. Look here, he sends you back your promissory note. He writes that he regrets and appologises; that a happy turn in his life—Oh, matter what he writes. We are saved, Nora! No one can harm you. Oh, Nora, Nora.21

The text of the right-hand column brings out more clearly than the original the complete but unconscious selfishness of Helmer. Ibsen, understanding that character more fully than in his first draft, makes not only the change from “You are saved, Nora” to the self-revelatory “I am saved!” but also the change to that infinitely more dramatic “And I?” which replaces Nora’s “How, saved?”

In a second set of extracts from the same scene, a firmer grasp of the characters has permitted Ibsen to replace the general and conventional in the last two speeches of the left-hand column with the more specific and characterizing lines of Helmer and the lines of Nora that are an inspiration.

Nora.... It never for a moment occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man’s conditions, that you would agree to direct your actions by the will of another. I was convinced that you would say to him, “Make it known to the whole world”; and that then— Nora.... When Krogstad’s letter lay in the box, it never occurred to me that you would think of submitting to that man’s conditions. I was convinced that you would say to him, “Make it known to all the world”; and that then—

Helmer. Well? I should give you up to punishment and disgrace. Helmer. Well? When I had given my own wife’s name up to disgrace and shame—?

Nora. No; then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one”— Nora. Then I firmly believed that you would come forward, take everything upon yourself, and say, “I am the guilty one.”

Helmer. Nora! Helmer. Nora!

Nora. You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, of course not. But what would my word have been in opposition to yours? I so firmly believed that you would sacrifice yourself for me—“don’t listen to her,” you would say—“she is not responsible; she is out of her senses”—you would say that it was love of you—you would move heaven and earth. I thought you would get Dr. Rank to witness that I was mad, unhinged, distracted. I so firmly believed that you would ruin yourself to save me. That is what I dreaded, and therefore I wanted to die. Nora. You mean I would never have accepted such a sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to yours? That was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder that that I wanted to die.

Helmer. Oh, Nora, Nora! Helmer. I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora—bear sorrow and want for your sake—but no man sacrifices his honour, even for one he loves.

Nora. And how did it turn out? No thanks, no outburst of affection, not a shred of a thought of saving me.22 Nora. Millions of women have done so.23

Perfect phrasing rests, then, on character thoroughly understood and complete emotional accord with the character. Short of that in dialogue, one stops at the commonplace and colorless, the personal, or the literary.

Even, however, when dialogue expounds properly and is thoroughly in character, it will fail if not fitted for the stage. John Oliver Hobbes stated a truth, if somewhat exaggeratedly, in these lines of her preface to The Ambassador:

Once I found a speech in prose—prose so subtly balanced, harmonious, and interesting that it seemed, on paper, a song: But no actor or actress, though they spoke with the voice of angels, could make it, on the stage, even tolerable.... Yet the speech is nevertheless fine stuff: it is nevertheless interesting in substance: it has imagination: it has charm. What, then, was lacking? Emotion in the tone and, on the part of the writer, consideration for the speaking voice. Stage dialogue may have or may not have many qualities, but it must be emotional. It rests primarily on feeling. Wit, philosophy, moral truths, poetic language— all these count as nothing unless there is feeling of an obvious, ordinary kind.24

When reading a play aloud, do we give all the stage directions, or, cutting out those which state how certain speeches should be read, try to give these as directed? Even when reading some story aloud, do we not often find troublesome full directions as to just how the speakers delivered their lines? If given by us, they provide an awkward standard by which to judge our reading. If we wish to suppress them, they are not, in rapid reading, always seen in time. As was pointed out very early in this book, gesture, facial expression, movement about the stage, and above all, the voice, aid the dramatist as they cannot aid the novelist. These aids and the time limits of a play have, as we shall see, very great effect on dialogue. Note in the opening of The Case of Rebellious Susan, by Henry Arthur Jones, the effects demanded from the aids just named.

ACT I. SCENE. Drawing-room at Mr. Harabin’s; an elegantly furnished room in Mayfair. At back, in centre, fireplace, with fire burning. To right of fireplace a door leading to lady Susan’s sitting-room. A door down stage left.

Enter footman left showing in Lady Darby

Lady Darby. (A lady of about fifty.) Where is Lady Susan now?

Footman. Upstairs in her sitting-room, my lady.

(Indicating the door right.)

Lady D. Where is Mr. Harabin?

Footman. Downstairs in the library, my lady.

Enter Second Footman showing in Inez, a widow of about thirty, fascinating, inscrutable

Lady D. (To First Footman.) Tell Lady Susan I wish to see her at once.

Inez. And will you say that I am here too?

(Exit First Footman at door right. Exit Second Footman at door left.)

Lady D. (Going affectionately to Inez, shaking hands very sympathetically.) My dear Mrs. Quesnel, you know?

Inez. Sue wrote me a short note saying that she had discovered that Mr. Harabin had—and that she had made up her mind to leave him.

Lady D. Yes, that’s what she wrote me. Now, my dear, you’re her oldest friend. You’ll help me to persuade her to—to look over it and hush it up.

Inez. Oh, certainly. It’s the advice everybody gives in such cases, so I suppose it must be right. What are the particulars?

Lady D. I don’t know. But with a man like Harabin—a gentleman in every sense of the word—it can’t be a very bad case.

Enter Lady Susan.25

If the voice does not deftly stress “now” in Lady Darby’s first speech, and the “upstairs” and the “downstairs” of the footman, this opening will fail of its desired effect. Everything in this well-written beginning of an interesting play depends on bringing to the delivery of the lines right use of the dramatist’s greatest aids: gesture, facial expression, pantomime, and above all the exquisite intonations of which the human voice is capable. Write this scene as a novelist would handle it, and see to what different proportions it will swell. Note in the final result how much less connotative, how much more commonplace the dialogue probably is. Contrasting two passages—one from a novel, the other in a play drawn from it—will perhaps best illustrate that the dialogue of the novel and of the play treating the same story usually differ greatly.

And when it became clear that somebody, good or bad, was without, Patty, having regard to the lateness of the hour and the probability of supernatural visitations, was much disposed to make as though the knocking were unheard, and to creep quietly off to bed. But Mistress Beatrice prevailed upon her to depart from this prudent course; and the two peered from an upper window to see who stood before the door.

At first they could see no one; but presently a little figure stepped back from the shadow, looking up to the window above, and Beatrice Cope, although she discerned not the face, felt more than ever certain that this summons was for her.

“’Tis but a child there without, Patty,” she said. “Maybe ’tis some poor little creature that has lost its way, and come here for help and shelter. Heaven forbid that we should leave it to wander about, all the dreary night through!”

Patty’s fears were not much calmed by the sight of this lonely child. “’Twas the Phantom Child,” she murmured, “who comes wailing piteously to honest folks’ doors o’ nights; and if they take it in and cherish it, it works them grievous woe.”

Mistress Beatrice, however, tried to hear as little as she might of what Patty was saying; and she went downstairs and undid the heavy bar very cautiously. Then she opened the door a little space; and Patty Joyce stood by her staunchly, although disapproving of what she did.

And when the door was opened, this persevering applicant proved to be only the boy Bill Lampeter, who was known at White-oaks as at Crowe Hall, and a score of country Granges beside. He did but crave a drink of milk and a bit to eat, he said. He had been a-foot all day, and had had nought to eat; and seeing a light burning in the houseplace, he made bold to knock and ask for what he needed.

The boy’s breath was short and hurried, and his grimy face was pale and damp with toil of hard running. He did not seek to enter, but kept glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind him.

Beatrice sent Patty for food and drink, standing still herself in the doorway; and the maid was no sooner gone than the boy drew nearer and spoke.

“Oh, mistress,” he said, hoarsely, “I have been beat to-night—but I told ’em nought. The corporal he raddled my bones terrible—but I set my teeth, and I told ’un nought. I bit him when he took they shining white things o’ yourn, wi’ the writing; them as I could not give to Mr. Cope, the day I warned the porter at Goodrest that the red-coats was upon ’em. I had the white things safe, mistress, hid in my smock”—(he put his hand to his breast, where the rough garment he wore was heavily quilted and closely drawn).—“And I would ha’ giv’ them to Mr. Cope, the first chance I got—I would, honest and true. But the scouting party caught me; and they says, ’Thee be allays running from one Grange to another, thee little ne’er-do-weel; thee can tell us what we wants to know about Goodrest in the hills’—And I was telling of ’em just what tales comed into my head, for fear of unpleasantness, mistress, when the corporal, a great rough chap, seizes hold of me, and says, says he, ‘’Tis all a pack o’ lies, this here. Search him,’ he says, ‘and see if he carries messages or tokens.’ And then I fought and bit, for I know’d they’d find your bright things in my smock; and I bit his hand nigh upon through, that I did,” said Bill, with grim satisfaction, and an oath at which poor Beatrice shuddered.

“Oh, hush!” she said. “There is no help in swearing, boy.”

“He swore,” Bill replied. “But when he got the tablets, he were fine and pleased. And he said, ‘This is a stag of ten, my boys; and should he snuff the breeze too soon we have means to keep him where he is till morning. Hold that little viper fast,’ says he,’and for your lives don’t let him give us the slip.’—So one of the troopers took me behind him on his horse, with a rope round my body, drawn cruel tight at first. And I panted and groaned, and made as though he were killing of me; and after a bit he slacked the rope a little, so as I could put my head down and gnaw it through in the dark. And at the dip of a valley, where the shadow was deep under the trees, I slipped off quiet-like into the long grass. He knew the rope was loose in a minute, and he snapped his pistol; but the covert was good, and I crope into the heart of a holler tree covered o’er wi’ ivy. I bided there, till they was tired o’ hunting round.—But oh, mistress, the poor gentleman at Goodrest is undone!—They talked together while the trooper was making me fast upon his horse; and I heard a word now and again, for I listened with all my might. There were but four of ’em; and they said they weren’t strong enough to surprise Goodrest, but must ride back to quarters for help. And as we went past Grantford Farm, the corporal called a halt; and one held his horse while he went in and spoke with the farmer. And, mistress, Hugh Stone of Grantford is known for a bitter Whig. ...And presently Hugh of Grantford comes out, and his little brother with him; and the boy had that as you wrote upon—that as they took from me—in his hand. And the corporal says, looking over his shoulder quick and short, ‘Does he understand?’ says he. ‘Oh, aye,’ says Hugh of Grantford, ‘he understands fine.’ And I could see wee Jock did not like the job he were put upon; and I made a face at him from ahint the trooper’s back, and he liked it less nor ever then.”

“What job, Bill?”

Bill Lampeter looked in amazement at this beautiful, terrified lady, who did not understand.

“Don’t ’ee see?” he said. “Jock o’ Grantford were to take your writing to Goodrest, and play upon the gentleman there, to keep him biding till the red-coats come. What were it as you wrote down that day, mistress?”

As in a flash of painful memory Beatrice saw the dainty tablets once more, with words traced upon them in a hand rendered somewhat unsteady by the slow pace of the sorrel horse—a hand unmistakable, however, to the eyes of Charlie Cope.

I pray you, do not stir far from home. There is risk abroad.

B. C.

She understood then; and she turned quickly to Patty Joyce, who had come back bringing bread and milk ere Bill’s tale was half done. Bill, even in the eagerness of his disclosure, had clutched the bread and cheese; and now he drained the mug of milk, while the good-natured maid stood open-mouthed, her eyes fixed upon Mistress Beatrice.

“Patty,” the young lady whispered, “I think you are faithful and true.... I must trust you with a perilous secret. This gentleman whom they seek at Goodrest is my only brother; he has papers of importance in his keeping, and a warrant is out for his arrest. They will lure him to his destruction by means of me, his sister; he knows my handwriting and will trust to my warning. He will lie close at Goodrest, as a hare upon her form; and they will take him—oh! they will take him prisoner!—ere morning dawns. I must to Goodrest now, in the dark night.—Boy! is there time? is there time?”

Bill Lampeter nodded, munching his bread.

“They’ll not be back afore the dawning, them troopers,” he said. “They’ve limed the twig, ye see; the bird is made fast. If Mr. Cope do hear the country’s up, he’ll bide where he be there at Goodrest, reckoning ’tis safest to keep still. Between now and the first streak as shows over the Black Scaur, mistress, you can do as you will.”

“Eh, Mistress Beatrice, you can’t never go,” said Patty, trembling. “You couldn’t dare to do it. And this here boy,” she whispered, standing close to Mistress Beatrice, “is a very proverb for wicked story-telling. ’Tis a naughty little varlet; who knows that he has not been set on to bring this tale?”

“’Tis true enough, though I be a story-teller,” said Bill, whose ears were sharp. “Yon gentleman at Goodrest has need of thee the night, mistress. And now let me lie down on the straw in the big barn, for my bones do ache, and I be dizzy wi’ running.”

He caught at the doorpost as he spoke; and Patty Joyce’s suspicion vanished in pity for the worn-out creature. She kindled a flame to light the lanthorn which hung in the houseplace; and herself crossed the wide courtyard to make Bill a comfortable resting-place in the soft hay and clean straw which filled the great barn.26

This is the same scene in the play:

(Louder rapping. Trembling with rage and disappointment, Sandiland disappears down the path. Beatrice stands a moment, looking as if waking from a nightmare.)

Patty. (Outside, rapping more.) Miss Beatrice, Miss Beatrice! Quick!

Beatrice. (Crossing dazedly to door. By it, dully.) Who?

Patty. Open quick. Me and Bill.

Beat. (Recovering.) Bill!

(Quickly she unbolts the door. Patty enters, half supporting Bill. She looks about as if surprised at not seeing any one beside Beatrice. Bill’s clothes are torn and he is covered with dirt. There is blood on his hands where cords have torn the flesh. He looks white and wretched and breathes hard as if from recent running. He should play the whole scene with nervous excitement that suggests a collapse at the end of it.)

Bill. (Apologetically, as he stumbles toward Beatrice.) I’ve had a bit of a scrap. (Aside to Beatrice.) Get rid o’ ’er.

Beat. You can trust her. What has happened?

Bill. Scoutin’ party got me. Corporal raddled my bones terrible when I fought and bit, fearin’ they’d find your message hid in my smock. They near tore it off, damn ’em.

Beat. You have the tablets?

Bill. No.

Beat. They have them? (With relief.) Then they haven’t reached James!

Bill. The gentleman? Oh, ay. When we come to Grantford Farm—I were trussed up be’ind a trooper—Corporal called out little Jock o’ Grantford—his fayther’s a bitter Whig—and bade ’im take your message to Goodrest, to keep the gentleman waitin’ till the red coats be come.

Beat. (To Patty.) Where’s Grizel?

Patty. In the paddock’m. But—

Beat. Saddle her at once. I must to Goodrest.

(Patty hesitates.)

Bill. (Menacingly as he reaches for a candle-stick.) She said—To once.

(Unwillingly but quickly, Patty goes out centre.)

Bill. (Pointing to the door where the full moon shines in clearly.) Ay, but that ain’t ’id yet.

Beat. (As if struck by a sudden idea.) How did you get free?

Bill. Gnawed the ropes; slipped off in the long grass. Trooper’s pistol missed me. Stayed in a holler oak I knows till they was tired ’untin’.

Beat. Knowing you are loose, they will start at once.

Bill. If they ain’t fools. But most folks be. Risk somethin’ on that. (Beatrice is busy with her dress and cloak. He starts to help her but has to support himself by table.) Don’t go through Whitecross Village. There the soldiers be. Take the footpath by Guiting; the bridge be shaky but ’twill hold.

(Enter Patty, centre.)

Patty. Grizel’s ready’m.

Beat. (Nodding her understanding to Bill—to Patty.) Close up here. Look after Bill. Be ready to let me in when the first cock crows. My stirrup! (Goes out swiftly, followed protestingly by Patty. Bill drags himself to right of door watching, and says after a minute.) She’s up!

Patty. (Rushing in as there is the sound of swift hoof beats.) She’s gone! (She falls sobbing hysterically by the left side of door.)

Bill. (As he holds himself up at right.) The damned brave lady!

Curtain.

First of all, the novelist permits himself an amount of detail which the dramatist must forego because of his more limited space. Interesting details which do not forward the purpose of the scene or act the wise dramatist denies himself—note in Ibsen’s revision of certain lines in A Doll’s House (p. 350) the cutting, between the first and final versions, of what concerns Dr. Rank. It was in part unnecessary detail which made the dialogue of the play on John Brown (pp. 309-313) so ineffective. In what follows immediately, a skilful hand seems in column one to have cut details of column two which, though interesting in themselves, delay the essential movement of the scene and help to swell the whole play to undue proportions.

Horatio. Mary that can I, at least the whisper goes so, Our late King, who as you know was by Forten Brasse of Norway. Thereto prickt on by a most emulous cause, dared to The combate, in which our valiant Hamlet, For so this side of our knowne world esteemed him, Did slay this Fortenbrasse, Who by a scale compact well ratified, by law And heraldrie, did forfeit with his life all those His lands which he stoode seazed of by the conqueror, Against the which a moity competent, Was gaged by our King: Now sir, young Fortenbrasse, Of inapproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there, Sharkt up a sight of lawlesse Resolutes For food and diet to some enterprise, That hath a stomacke in't: and this (I take it) is the Chief head and ground of our watch. Horatio. That can I. At least the whisper goes so; our last King, Who[se image even but now appear'd to us,] Was as you knowe by Fortinbrasse of Norway, Thereto prickt on by a most emulate pride Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet, (For so this side of our knowne world esteemd him) Did slay this Fortinbrasse, who by a seald compact Well ratified by lawe and heraldy Did forfait (with his life) all these his lands Which he stood seaz'd of, to the conquerour. Against the which a moitie competent Was gaged by our King, [which had returne To the inheritance of Fortinbrasse, Had he bin vanquisher; as by the same comart, And carriage of the article desseigne, His fell to Hamlet;] now Sir young Fortinbrasse Of unimprooved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway heere and there Sharkt up a list of lawelesse resolutes For foode and diet to some enterprise That hath a stomacke in't [which is no other As it doth well appeare unto our state But to recover of us by strong hand And tearmes compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost;] and this I take it Is [the maine motive of our preparations The source of this our watch, and] the chiefe head Of this post hast and Romadge in the land. [Bar. I thinke it be no other, but enso; Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these warres. Hora. A moth it is to trouble the mindes eye: In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell The graves stood tenantlesse, and the sheeted dead Did squeake and gibber in the Roman streets As starres, with traines of fier, and dewes of blood Disasters in the sunne; and the moist starre, Upon whose influence Neptunes Empier stands, Was sicke almost to doomesday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of feare events As harbindgers preceading still the fates And prologue to the Omen comming on Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our Climatures and countrymen.]

Enter the Ghost. Enter Ghost.

But loe, bemold, see where it comes againe. Ile crosse it, though it blast me: stay illusion, If there be any good thing to be done, That may doe ease to thee, and grace to mee, Speake to mee. But softe, behold, loe where it comes againe It spreads his arms Ile crosse it though it blast mee: stay illusion, [If thou hast any sound or use of voyce Speake to me,] if there be any good thing to be done That may to thee doe ease, and grace to mee, Speake to me.27

Unnecessary detail should, then, be cut from dialogue both because it is usually the chief offender in making the play unduly long, and because it weakens the dialogue of which it is a part. In argument it is a time-honored principle that it is far better not to pile up all the evidence you can on a given point, but by selecting your best argument, or two or three of the better type, to strike hard with the selected material. The same principle underlies writing good dramatic dialogue. Say what you have to say as well as you can, and except for emphasis or when repetition produces some desired effect, don’t repeat. In the speech quoted below it became clear in rehearsal that the bracketed part was not necessary because what preceded showed sufficiently the affection Miss Helen had roused in the faithful old servant, Alec. However characterizing or amusing the remainder might be, it clogged the movement of the scene. Consequently it went out.

Dick. Hello—what’s this Alec?

Alec. A grand pianner, sir.

Dick. Of course, but where did it come from?

Alec. Miss Helen, she gave it to ’em at Christmas.

Dick. She—gave it to—them—?

Alec. Yes.

Dick. (Laughing.) But they don’t play it, do they?

Alec. No, she plays it—. An’ you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin’s after supper when the wind’d howl around the house she’d make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don’t want white angels and gold harps in mine,—I jes’ want Miss Helen an’ a grand pianner. (Dick is very sober. [He doesn’t speak.) An’ she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,—little soft things,—none o’ this screechy stuff. An’ all the old dames sit around—an’ then when my work was done out in the barn I’d come in an’ sit over there in the corner out o’ the way like, an’ listen like a old lady myself—with my Adam’s apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin’ o’ things. I tell you she’s—she’s a regular—humdinger.]

Dick. (Quietly.) What time do you expect her back?

Time forbids any form of fiction to be encyclopædic. The drama is, as we have seen, the most selective of the forms of fiction. Failure to remember this has hurt the chances of many a promising dramatist. Few have such skilled and loyal advisers as Lord Tennyson found in Sir Henry Irving when his over-long Becket must be cut for stage production. How much of the following scene in the original do we think at first sight we can spare? Much which Sir Henry removed we should like to keep, but time-limits forbade and he cut with exceeding skill to the best dramatic phrasing offered of the essentials of the scene.

ACT I. SCENE 1. Becket’s House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.

ORIGINAL REVSION

Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest? Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. Leave me with Herbert, friend. (Exit Servant.) Help me off, Herbert, with this—and this. Herbert. Was not the people's blessing as we past Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood? Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert! Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe? Becket. No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear. Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse? Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship I more than once have gone against the Church. Herbert. To please the King? Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just The Church should pay her scutage like the lords. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, For Henry could not work a miracle— Make an Archbishop of a soldier? Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man. Becket. Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me, Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven Into her bosom. Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd Into thy making. Becket. And when I was a child, The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream, Or prophecy, that? Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy both. Becket. And when I was of Theobald’s household, once— The good old man would sometimes have his jest— He took his mitre off, and set it on me, And said, “My young Archbishop—thou wouldst make A stately Archbishop!” Jest or prophecy there? Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest? Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. Leave me with Herbert, friend. (Exit Servant.) Help me off Herbert, with this—and this. Herbert. Was not the people's blessing as we past Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood? Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert! Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe? Becket. No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear. Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Toulouse? Becket. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, For Henry could not work a miracle— Make an Archbishop of a soldier? Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.

Becket. Am I the man? That rang Within my head last night, and when I slept Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, And spake to the Lord God, and said, “O Lord, I have been a lover of wines and delicate meats, And secular splendours, and a favourer Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes. Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man, and all the more the man.” And then I asked again, “O Lord my God Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me For this thy great archbishoprick, believing That I should go against the Church with him, And I shall go against him with the Church, And I have said no word of this to him: Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man, and all the more the man.” And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell. Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall. Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why did he smite me? What? Shall I fall off—to please the King once more? Not fight—tho’ somehow traitor to the King— My truest and mine utmost for the Church? Herbert. Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be; For how have fought thine utmost for the Church, Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick? And how been made archbishop hadst thou told him, “I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church, Against the King?” Becket. But dost thou think the King Forced mine election? Herbert. I do think the King Was potent in the election, and why not? Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King? Be comforted. Thou art the man—be thou A mightier Anselm. Becket. Am I the man? That rang Within my head last night, and when I slept Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, And spake to the Lord God and said, “Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me For this thy great archbishoprick, believing That I should go against the Church with him, And I shall go against him with the Church. Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man and all the more the man.” And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell. Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall.

Becket. I do believe thee, then. I am the man. And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King. I served our Theobald well when I was with him; I served King Henry well as Chancellor; I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. This Canterbury is only less than Rome, And all my doubts I fling from me like dust, Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind, And all the puissance of the warrior, And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, And all the heap’d experiences of life, I cast upon the side of Canterbury— Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits With tatter’d robes. Laics and barons, thro’ The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms, And goodly acres—we will make her whole; Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, These ancient Royal customs—they are Royal, Not of the Church—and let them be anathema, And all that speak for them anathema. Becket. And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King.

Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much. Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much.

Becket. Oh, Herbert here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho’ leaving each, a wound: mine own, a grief To show the scar forever—his, a hate Not ever to be heal’d.28 Becket. O Herbert, here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho’ leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief To show the scar forever—his, a hate Not ever to be heal’d.29

Dialogue, then, should avoid all unnecessary detail, and should avoid repetition except for desired dramatic ends—in other words, must select and again select.

Practically every illustration thus far used in treating dialogue fitted for the stage has shown the enormous importance of facial expression, gesture, and voice. What the voice may do with just two words is the substance of a little one-act piece made famous years ago by Miss Genevieve Ward and later often read by the late George Riddle. An actress applying to a manager is tested as to her power to express in the two words “Come here” all the emotions described by her examiner. As will be seen, the little play, when read in the study, lacks effectiveness. Given by an actress who can put into the two words all that is demanded, it becomes varied, exciting, and even amazing.

Actress. ... Your selection may not be in my repertoire.

Manager. Oh! yes, it is. I only require two words: “Come here.”

Actress. Come here?

Manager. Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, and expressions, that situation, character, and the surroundings would command.

Actress. (Takes off her bonnet and shawl.) Well, then, I am ready.

Manager. Before a mother stand a loving couple, who pray for her consent; the lover is poor; she battles with her pride, it is a great struggle for her; at last with open arms she cries—

Actress. Come here!

Manager. A mother calls her little daughter, who has done something to vex her.

Actress. Come here!

Manager. And now it is her step-child.

Actress. Come here!

Manager. A carriage is dashing by, the child is in the street, the mother’s heart is filled with terror, she calls her darling and cries out—

Actress. Come here!

Manager. In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her departing husband, whom the State has called to defend his country on the battlefield; her only consolation is in her children, these she calls, and presses to her heart.

Actress. Come here!

Manager. The husband has returned, and full of joy she calls her children as she observes him coming home.

Actress. Come here!

Manager. While in his arms, she now observes his servant, and as with every one she would divide her joy she calls to him—

Actress. Come here!

Manager. The feelings of a mother in all her joys and tribulation, you have most perfectly sustained. Now show me, how in despair a widow, who has lost all she possessed through fire, confronts the creditors, who clamor for their dues, and whose cruelty has killed her husband. She stands by his body and points to all that now is left her, the remains of her dead husband, and calls on them to look at their work.

Actress. Come here!

Manager. I must confess you depict pain as if you felt it.30

Mark, when running through the scene in which Iago tempts Othello to his final undoing (Act III, Scene 3.), the variety of intonation required in the repetitions of “Honest” and “Think.” In a novel containing this scene the absence of the actors’ trained intonations would cost the author much labor in describing how the words should be uttered.

Othello. Farewell, my Desdemona; I’ll come to thee straight.

Desdemona. Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you;

Whate’er you be, I am obedient.

(Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.)

Othello. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,

Chaos is come again.

Iago. My noble lord,—

Othello. What dost thou say, Iago?

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,

Know of your love?

Othello. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?

Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.

Othello. Why of thy thought, Iago?

Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

Othello. O, yes; and went between us very oft.

Iago. Indeed!

Othello. Indeed! ay, indeed. Discern’st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?

Iago. Honest, my lord?

Othello. Honest, ay, honest.

Iago. My lord, for aught I know.

Othello. What dost thou think?

Iago. Think, my lord?

Othello. Think, my lord!

By heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought

Too hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something.

I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that,

When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?

And when I told thee he was of my counsel,

Of my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, “Indeed!”

And didst contract and purse thy brow together,

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain

Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,

Show me thy thought.

Even passages in a play which look very unpromising should not be finally judged till a flexible, well-trained voice has done its best to bring out any emotion latent in the words. If they were originally chosen by an author writing in full sympathetic understanding of his figures, they will, properly spoken, reveal unexpected emotional values. Here is a passage from Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy at which many a critic has poked fun. At first sight it undoubtedly seems merely “words, words, words.”

Hieronimo. O eyes! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears:

O life! no life but lively form of death:

O world! no world but mass of public wrongs,

Confus’d and fill’d with murder and misdeeds:

O sacred heav’ns! if this unhallow’d deed,

If this inhuman and barbarous attempt;

If this incomparable murder thus,

Of mine, but now no more my son,

Should unreveal’d and unrevenged pass,

How should we term your dealings to be just

If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?31

If we remember what the play has already told us of Hieronimo: that having found his son hanging murdered in the arbor, he enters in a perfect ecstasy of grief; and if we recall that the Elizabethan loved a style as ornate as this, feeling it no barrier between him and the thought behind it; the look of the passage begins to change. Put the feeling of the father into the voice as one reads, and lo, these lines are not a bad medium for expressing Hieronimo’s grief. They may lack the simplicity we demand today, but strong, clear feeling may be brought out from behind them for any audience. For an Elizabethan audience it came forth in a style delightful in itself. The fact is, time cannot wholly spoil the value even of lines phrased according to the standards of some literary vogue of the moment if the author originally wrote them with an imagination kindled to accuracy of feeling by complete sympathy with his characters. Never judge the dialogue of a play only by the eye. Hear it adequately, interpretively spoken. Then, and then only, judge it finally.

It is almost impossible, also, to separate the voice from gesture and facial expression as aids in dramatic dialogue. Unquestionably each of these would help the voice in the illustrations just given from Come Here, Othello, and the Spanish Tragedy. When Antony, absorbed in Cleopatra, and therefore unwilling to listen to the messenger bearing tidings of the utmost importance from Rome, cries, “Grates me: the sum!”32 it is not merely the intonation but the accompanying gesture in the sense of general bodily movement, and the facial expression, which make the condensed phrasing both natural and immensely effective. When Frankford (A Woman Killed With Kindness, Act III, Scene 2)33 asks his old servant, Nicholas, for proof of Mrs. Frankford’s unfaithfulness the answer is not, “I saw her,” or “I saw her and her lover with my eyes,” but simply “Eyes, eyes.” The last are what rightly, in dramatic dialogue, may be called “gesture words,” words demanding for their full effect not only the right intonation, but facial expression and all that pantomime may mean. The old man lifts his head, and, though unwillingly, looks his master straight in the face as he speaks. Perhaps he even emphasizes by lifting his hand toward his eyes. With the concomitants of action and voice, the words take on finality and equal: “What greater proof could I have? I saw the lovers with these eyes.”

So close, indeed, is the relation between action and phrasing that often we cannot tell whether dialogue is good or bad till we have made sure of the “business” implied by it, or to be found in it by an imaginative worker. The following passage from The Revesby Sword Play is distinctly misleading because of the word, “looking-glass” unless one studies the context closely for implied business, and above all, understands the sword dances of the period in which the play was written.

Fool. Well, what dost thou call this very pretty thing?

Pickle Herring. Why, I call it a fine large looking-glass.

Fool. Let me see what I can see in this fine large looking-glass. Here’s a hole through it, I see. I see, and I see!

Pickle Herring. You see and you see, and what do you see?

Fool. Marry, e’en a fool,—just like thee!

Pickle Herring. It is only your own face in the glass.34

A “looking-glass” with “a hole through it” seems nearly a contradiction in terms, but the word “glass” is synonymous with “nut,” a name given to the swords of English Folk Dances when so interwoven as to make a kind of frame about a central space. This space is often large enough for a man’s head. The Fool has seen the dancers make such a nut. Holding it up, he asks Pickle Herring what it is. Pickle Herring, seeing the Fool’s face through the opening and seizing his chance for a jest, calls the nut a “looking-glass.” The Fool carries on the conceit. Looking through the hole he and Pickle Herring jibe at each other. The whole Revesby Sword Play provides illustration after illustration of the inseparability of words and business in good dramatic dialogue.

By “business” is meant ordinarily either illustrative action called for by a stage direction or clearly implied in the text. By “latent business” is meant the illustrative action which a sympathetic and imaginative producer finds in lines either ordinarily left without business or treated with some conventional action. Mr. William Poel’s historic revival of Everyman was crowded with such imaginative and richly interpretive business. When Death cried,

Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast thy wits five, And here on earth will not amend thy life! For suddenly I do come—

on that last line he stretched out one arm and with the index finger of his hand barely touched the heart of Everyman. In the gesture there was a suggestion of what might be going to happen, even a suggestion that already Death thus claimed Everyman for his own. It pointed finely the immediate cry of Everyman,

O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee, That I might scape this endless sorrow?35

The text did not call for this gesture: it belongs to the best type of interpretive business.

Few untrained persons hear what they write: they merely see it. The skilled dramatist never forgets that he has to help him in his dialogue all that intonation, facial expression, gesture, and the general action of his characters may do for him. Which, after all, is the more touching, the cry of pleasure with which some child of the streets, at a charity Christmas tree, gazes at a rag doll some one holds out to her, or the silent mothering gesture with which she draws it close to her, her face alight? It is just because, at times, facial expression, gesture, and movement may so completely express all that is needed that pantomime is coming to play a larger and larger part in our drama. Older readers of this book may recall the late Agnes Booth and her long silent scene in Jim, The Penman. By comparison of a letter and a cheque, Kate Ralston becomes aware that her husband is a famous forger, Jim, the Penman. Through all this great scene of an otherwise cheap play, the physical movement was very slight. The actress, three-quarters turned toward the audience, sat near a table. It was her facial expression and, rarely, a slight movement of the arms or body which conveyed her succession of increasingly intense emotions. The significant pantomime began with “She puts cheque with others.” The acting of the next seven lines of stage direction held an audience with increasing intensity of feeling for some five minutes.

Nina (Mrs. Ralston) has just told her husband that she discovered Captain Redwood asleep in the conservatory at the end of Act I. Though she does not know it, this shows her husband that all his incriminating interview with Dr. Hartfeld may have been overheard. He falls into disturbed reverie and is so absorbed in thinking out the situation that he is oblivious to what she does.

Nina. Now then, for my pass-book.

(Opens pass-book and takes passed cheques out of side pocket of book. Music.)

Ralston. (Aside.) He heard all! If she had told me, she would have saved me.

Nina. (Looking at a cheque.) What is this cheque? I don’t remember it. A cheque for five guineas in favor of Mrs. Chapstone. I never gave her a cheque. Oh, I recollect, that same evening she bothered you to take some tickets and you took them in my name. I never had the tickets, by-the-bye. I suppose she sold them over again. Yes, to be sure, you wrote the cheque. You asked permission to sign my name. How wonderfully like my writing! Why, it quite deceives me, it’s so marvelous!

(Ralston, in chair, is lost in thought, and hardly attends to what she says. She puts cheque with others and goes through accounts. Pauses, puts pass-book down, and takes up cheque again, examines it; turns her head and looks at Ralston, observes his absorption, and after another look at him takes from drawer the letter which Percival gave her and the other. She places them and the cheque together, almost in terror; comparing them, a look of painful conviction comes over her face, which changes into one of terrible determination. She rises from chair. Stop music on the word “James.”)36

The greatest recent instance of pantomime is undoubtedly the third scene of Act III of Mr. Galsworthy’s Justice. Set in Falder’s cell, it is meant to illustrate the loneliness, the excitability, and even the brutishness of a prisoner’s life. Many people, while admitting the effectiveness of this wordless scene, have declared it emotionally so overwhelming that they could not endure seeing it a second time.

Falder’s cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is a narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair-brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator over the window, and another over the door. Falder’s work (a shirt to which he is putting button holes) is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel, “Lorna Doone,”37 lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window.

In the fast failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright—as if at a sound, and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hands with a clatter, the only sound that has broken the silence—and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness—he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen gasping for breath.

A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder’s hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it.

The curtain falls.38

Perhaps an even more interesting illustration of pantomime, because it gives us, instead of the heightening emotion of one person, the action of two characters upon each other, is found in Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s Die Frau im Fenster.

She remains leaning over the parapet thus for a long time. Suddenly she thinks she hears something as the curtain behind her, separating her balcony from the room, is thrown open. Turning her head she sees her husband standing in the doorway. She springs up; her features become distorted with the utmost anguish. Messer Braccio stands silent in the doorway. He wears a simple dark green dressing-gown, without weapons; low shoes. He is very tall and strong. His face has the quality that often shows itself in the old pictures of great lords and condottieri. He has an exceedingly large forehead, and little, dark eyes, thick black hair, short and curly, and a small beard round his face. Dianora wishes to speak, but can bring no sound from her throat. Messer. Braccio motions for her to draw in the ladder. Dianora does so automatically, rolls it together, and as though unconscious, lets the bundle fall at her feet. Braccio regards her calmly. Then he grasps his left hip with his right hand, also with his left hand, and looking down, notes that he has no dagger. Making an impatient movement of the lips he glances down into the garden and behind him. He lifts his right hand for an instant and looks at its palm. He goes back into the room with firm, unhurried steps.

Dianora looks after him continually; she cannot take her eyes from him. When the curtain falls behind him, she passes her fingers over her cheeks and through her hair. Then she folds her hands and with wildly twitching lips silently prays. Then she throws her arms backward and grasps the stone coping with her fingers, a movement revealing firm resolution and a hint of triumph.

Braccio steps out through the door again, carrying in his left hand a stool which he places in the doorway, and then sits down opposite his wife. His expression has not changed. From time to time he lifts his right hand mechanically and regards the small wound in its palm.

Braccio. (His tone is cold, slightly disdainful. He indicates the ladder with his foot and his eyes.) Who is it?

(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly.)

Braccio. I know.

(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly. Her teeth are pressed tightly together.)

Braccio. (Raising his hand with the movement but touching his wife only with his glance; then he turns his gaze toward the garden again.) Palla degli Albizzi.39

Such elaborate pantomime as the cases just cited is naturally rare, but a dramatist is always watching for an opportunity to shorten by pantomime a speech or the dialogue of a scene, or to intensify by it the effect of his words.40 Is anything in Shore Acres, by James A. Herne, more memorable than the last scene? In it Uncle Nat, who has established the happiness of the household, lights his candle deliberately and goes slowly up the long staircase to his bedroom, humming softly. He is the very picture of spiritual content. Words would have spoiled that scene as they have spoiled many and many a scene of an inexperienced dramatist.

Iris, at the end of Act III of Pinero’s play of that name, is on the point of leaving Bellagio. Maldonado has left lying on her table a checkbook on a bank in which he has placed a few hundred pounds in her name. Because of the defalcation of her lawyer, she is in financial straits. Maldonado wishes to help her but also to gain power over her. Unwilling to take the checkbook, she has urged him to remove it. Lacking firmness of character, however, she lets him leave it, saying she will destroy it.

With a troubled, half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her hat and cape; after which, carrying her gloves, she returns to her dressing-bag. Glancing round the room to assure herself that she has collected all her small personal belongings, her eyes rest on the checque-book which lies open on the writing-table. She contemplates it for a time, a gradually increasing fear showing itself in her face. Ultimately she walks slowly to the table and picks up a book. She is fingering it in an uncertain, frightened way when the servant returns.

Man-servant. (Standing over the bag.) Is there anything more, ma’am—?

(She hesitates helplessly; then, becoming conscious that she is being stared at, she advances, drops the book into the bag, and passes out. The man shuts the bag and is following her as the curtain falls.)41

This passage from Act I of The Great Divide shows pantomime supplementing speech as the dramatist of experience frequently employs it. A writer of less sure feeling would have permitted his characters some unnecessary or involved speech.

(Ruth selects a red flower, puts it in the dark mass of her hair, and looks out at the open door.) What a scandal the moon is making out in that great crazy world! Who but me could think of sleeping on such a night?

(She sits down, folds the flowers in her arms, and buries her face in them. After a moment, she starts up, listens, goes hurriedly to the door, draws the curtains before the window, comes swiftly to the table, and blows out the light. The room is left in total darkness. There are muttering voices outside, the latch is tried, then a heavy lunge breaks the bolt. A man pushes in, but is hurled back by a taller man, with a snarling oath. A third figure advances to the table, and strikes a match. As soon as the match is lighted Ruth levels the gun, which she has taken from its rack above the mantel. There is heard the click of the hammer, as the gun misses fire. It is instantly struck from her hand by the first man (Dutch), who attempts to seize her. She evades him and tries to wrest a pistol from a holster on the wall. She is met by the second man (Shorty), who frustrates the attempt, pocketing the weapon. While this has been going on, the third-man (Ghent) has been fumbling with the lamp, which he has at last succeeded in lighting. All three are dressed in rude frontier fashion, the one called Shorty is a Mexican half-breed, the others are Americans. Ghent is younger than Dutch, and taller, but less powerfully built. All are intoxicated, but not sufficiently so to incapacitate them from rapid action. The Mexican has seized Ruth and attempts to drag her toward the inner room. She breaks loose and flies back again to the chimney place, where she stands at bay. Ghent remains motionless and silent by the table, gazing at her.)

Dutch. (Uncorking a whiskey flask.) Plucky little catamount. I drink its health.

(Drinks.)

Ruth. What do you want here?42

Hofmannsthal, in his Electra, uses pantomime as only one detail, but no words could so paint the mad triumph of the sister of Orestes as does her “incredible dance.”

(Electra has raised herself. She steps down from the threshold, her head thrown back like a Mœnad. She lifts her knees, stretches out her arms; it is an incredible dance in which she steps forward.

Chrysothemis appearing again at the door, behind her torches, a Throng, faces of Men and Women.)

Chrysothemis. Electra!

Electra. (Stands still, gazing at her fixedly.) Be silent and dance. Come hither all of you! Join with me all! I bear the burden of joy, And I dance before you here. One thing alone Remains for all who are as happy as we; To be silent and dance.

(She does a few more steps of tense triumph, and falls a-heap. Chrysothemis runs to her. Electra lies motionless. Chrysothemis runs to the door of the house and knocks.)

Chrysothemis. Orestes! Orestes! (Silence.)

Curtain.43

Without question, then, speech in the drama may often give way in part or wholly to pantomime. The inexperienced dramatist should be constantly alert to see to what extent he can substitute it for dialogue.44

In all that has been said of pantomime, of course technical pantomime is not meant. The Commedia dell’ arte, pantomime artists like the Ravel Brothers or Mme. Pilar-Morin, have a code of gesture to symbolize fixed meanings. What is meant here is the natural human pantomime of people whose faces and bodies portray or betray their feelings.

Another word of warning in regard to pantomime. When a writer of plays once becomes well aware of the great value of pantomime, he is likely to overwork it. Assuming that the actor or actors may convey almost anything by physical movement, he trusts it too much. Let him who is for the moment under the spell of pantomime study the moving picture show. Pantomime may ordinarily convey physical action perfectly. Emotion naturally and easily expressed by action pantomime may convey, but when action for its clearness depends on knowledge of what is going on in the mind of the actor, pantomime begins to fail. Great artists like Mme. Pilar-Morin may carry us far even under these conditions, but most actors cannot. In a motion picture play like Cabiria, contrast the scenes in which the Roman and his slave flee before the crowd from part to part of the temple (mere action), or the scene of the terror of the wine merchant (in which the face and body tell the whole story) with the scene in which the nurse meets the Roman and his slave on the wall of the city and begs their aid in saving the child, or the scenes in which Sophonisba struggles with her anxieties and mad desires. The second group of pictures without the explanations thrown on the screen would have little meaning. Pantomime is safe, not when it pleases us to use pantomime rather than to write dialogue, but when our characters naturally act rather than speak, or when we can devise for them natural action as clear as speech or clearer than speech. Use pantomime, but use it cautiously. Speech is the greatest emotional weapon of the dramatist. It best reveals emotion, and best of all creates responsive emotion. However, as most inexperienced dramatists use far too many words rather than too few, the value rather than the danger of pantomime should probably be stressed here. What seems natural, what makes for illusion, is the final test.

It is this test of naturalness which has gradually excluded, except in special instances, the soliloquy and the aside. The general movement of drama in the past ten years has been toward better and better characterization in plays of all kinds. The newer melodrama and farce show us, not the mere comic puppets of the past, but people as real as the form represented—be it comedy, farce, tragedy, or melodrama—will permit. This new tendency has largely driven out the soliloquy and the aside. We should not, however, go to extremes, for occasionally we do swear under our breath or comment in asides, and as long as people do either, such people should be so represented. Moreover, we must admit that the insane, the demented, the invalid left much to himself, the hermit, whether of the woods or the hall bedroom in a city boarding house, do talk to themselves and often at great length. Neither the aside nor the soliloquy is, then, objectionable in itself. It is the use of either by persons who would probably use nothing of the sort, or their use in order to avoid exposition otherwise difficult which is to be decried. It is particularly this latter fault to which Sir Arthur Pinero calls attention when treating the faulty technique of R.L. Stevenson as a playwright:

“I will read you one of the many soliloquies—the faulty method of conducting action and revealing character by soliloquy was one from which Stevenson could never emancipate himself. It is a speech delivered by Deacon Brodie while he is making preparations for a midnight gambling excursion.

(Brodie closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors of his bedroom.)

Deacon Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! (He goes to the clothes press and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! Eh God! How still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be? The city has its vizard on and we—at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is! How still it is!—My father and Mary—Well! The day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have half a life of his own? not eight hours out of twenty-four? Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet. Where’s the blunt? I must be cool tonight, or—steady Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer! The Deacon’s going to bed—the poor sick Deacon! Allons! Only the stars to see me! I’m a man once more till morning! [Act I, Tableau I, Scene 9.]”45

Sir Arthur knows whereof he speaks, for past-master as he has shown himself since The Second Mrs. Tanqueray in the art of giving necessary exposition and characterization without soliloquy, he was a bad offender in his early days, as the following extract from the opening of The Money Spinner shows:

(Directly Margot has disappeared, there is a knocking outside the door, right. It is repeated, then the doors slowly open and the head of Monsieur Jules Faubert appears.)

Faubert. (Who also speaks with the accent of a foreigner.) Boycott, my friend, are you at home? My friend Boycott, do you hear me? (Receiving no answer, he enters rather cautiously and looks around. He is in black, wearing a long, tightly buttoned frock coat and a tall hat. His hair is red and closely cropped. His voice is soft and his manner stealthy and mechanical.) Where is Boycott, my friend? Ah, he has not yet taken his breakfast. (He crosses over to the curtains, left, and looks through.) No one to be seen. Boycott asks me to call for him at ten o’clock in the morning, and it is now a quarter past ten by the Great Clock, and he is not visible. (Walking round the room, inspecting the objects with curiosity.) Yet he could not have left the house for I have been watching at the front door since eight o’clock. (Takes letters from top of Pianette.) Besides, here are his letters unopened. (Examines them narrowly, scrutinizing the writing, and weighing them in his hand.) One, Mr. Boycott, with the post-mark of London. Two, Monsieur Boycott with the post-mark of Rouen. Three, Madame Boycott with the post-mark of Paris. (Replacing letters.) Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of the acquaintance of Madame Boycott. Poor soul, perhaps she will know me some day. (Going over to the door, right.) Well, I shall call again after breakfast. My friend Boycott is getting very unpunctual—a bad sign—a very bad sign.46

The unnaturalness of the two foregoing illustrations needs no comment. The Elizabethan author, knowing that above all else the dramatist must make clear why his people do what they do, used soliloquy with the utmost frankness as the easiest method of exposition. Here are three specimens, one from Webster and two from Shakespeare.

Cardinal. The reason why I would not suffer these

About my brother is because at midnight

I may with better privacy convay

Julias body, to her owne lodging. O, my conscience!

I would pray now: but the divell takes away my heart

For having any confidence in praier.

About this houre I appointed Bosola

To fetch the body: when he hath serv’d my turne,

He dies. (Exit.)47

Iago. That Cassio loves her I do well believe’t;

That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit;

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,

And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;

Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure

I stand accountant for as great a sin,

But partly led to diet my revenge,

For that I do suspect the lusty Moor

Hath leap’d into my seat; the thought whereof

Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;

And nothing can or shall content my soul

Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife;

Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor

At least into a jealousy so strong

That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,

If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash

For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,

I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,

Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb—

For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too—

Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,

For making him egregiously an ass

And practising upon his peace and quiet

Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d;

Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. (Exit.)48

Emilia. I am glad I have found this napkin;

This was her first remembrance from the Moor.

My wayward husband hath a hundred times

Woo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the token,

For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it,

That she reserves it evermore about her

To kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out,

And give ’t Iago. What he will do with it

Heaven knows, not I;

I nothing but to please his fantasy.49

Echegaray’s The Great Galeoto (1881), though a part of the newer movement in the drama, shows soliloquy.

SCENE. Madrid of our day.

PROLOGUE

A study; to the left a balcony; on the right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it. Towards the right a sofa. Night.

SCENE 1.

Ernest. (Seated at a table and preparing to write.) Nothing—impossible. It is striving with the impossible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to animate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, shouts of sardonic laughter—a whole world of passions alive and struggling—They burst forth from me, extend around me and the air is full of them. Then, then I say to myself: “’Tis now the moment.” I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart-beats, and bend over the paper—Ah, but the irony of impotency! The outlines become blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint away—and nothingness, nothingness encircles me—The monotony of empty space, of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper that lacks the life of thought! Ah, how varied are the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp! So many, many forms. Canvas without color, bits of marble without shape, confused noise of chaotic vibrations. But nothing more irritating, more insolent, meaner than this insolent pen of mine (throws it away), nothing worse than this white sheet of paper. Oh, if I cannot fill it, at least I may destroy it—vile accomplice of my ambition and my eternal humiliation. Thus, thus—smaller and still smaller. (Tears up paper. Pauses.) And then! How lucky that nobody saw me! For in truth, such fury is absurd and unjust. No, I will not yield. I will think and think until I have conquered or am crushed. No, I will not give up. Let me see, let me see—if in that way—50

Such soliloquy, even if conventionally justifiable in its own time, is rarely, if ever, necessary. Scene 2 of Echegaray’s play shows Ernest and Don Julian discussing the former’s difficulty in working. What could be easier, then, than to cut the scene just cited to Ernest seated at a writing table and showing by his pantomime how impossible he finds composition? Why should he not act out the lines, “I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively,—bend over the paper ... and nothingness, nothingness”? If as a climax he throws away his pen and tears up his paper, it certainly should be clear that he is thoroughly exasperated with his failure to write what he wishes. In Scene 2 a very slight change or amplification in the phrasing will permit him to bring out whatever of importance in Scene 1 the suggested revision has omitted.

Doubtless it would not be so easy to get rid of the soliloquies of the Cardinal, Iago, and Emilia, but ingenuity in handling the scene preceding and the scene following soliloquies will usually dispose of all or most of them. When Lady Windermere’s Fan of Wilde first appeared, hardly any one seriously objected to its soliloquies. They were an accepted convention of the stage. When Miss Margaret Anglin revived the play very successfully a year or two ago, she rightly felt these soliloquies to be outworn. By use of pantomime, in some cases hardly more than the pantomime called for in the stage directions, she disposed of all except an occasional line or two of the original soliloquies. The instances cited from her prompt book of the play show one soliloquy cut to stage directions and two lines of the original, and the second cut to mere stage direction.

ACT I.

Lady Windermere. How horrible! I understand now what Lord Darlington meant by the imaginary instance of the couple not two years married. Oh! it can’t be true—she spoke of enormous sums of money paid to this woman. I know where Arthur keeps his bank book—in one of the drawers of that desk. I might find out by that. I will find out. (Opens drawer.) No, it is some hideous mistake. (Rises and goes C.) Some silly scandal! He loves me! He loves me! But why should I not look? I am his wife, I have a right to look! (Returns to bureau, takes out book and examines it, page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of relief.) I knew it, there is not a word of truth in this stupid story. (Puts book back in drawer. As she does so, starts and takes out another book.) A second book—private—locked! (Tries to open it but fails. Sees paper knife on bureau, and with it cuts cover from book. Begins to start at the first page.) Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400. Oh! it is true! it is true! How horrible! (Throws book on floor.)51 (Lady Windermere sits left of centre, looks toward desk, rises, starts toward desk, hesitates centre, goes to desk, tries drawer, hunts for and finds key, unlocks drawer, takes out check book, looks over stubs, finds nothing and is relieved, then sees first entry.) Lady Windermere. Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400. Oh! it is true! it is true!

ACT III.

Lady Windermere. (Standing by the fireplace.) Why doesn’t he come? This waiting is horrible. He should be here. Why is he not here, to wake by passionate words some fire within me? I am cold—cold as a loveless thing. Arthur must have read my letter by this time. If he cared for me, he would have come after me, and have taken me back by force. But he doesn’t care. He’s entrammeled by this woman—fascinated by her—dominated by her. If a woman wants to hold a man, she has merely to appeal to what is worst in him. We make gods of men and they leave us. Others make brutes of them and they fawn and are faithful. How hideous life is! ... Oh! it was mad of me to come here, horribly mad. And yet which is the worst, I wonder, to be at the mercy of a man who loves one, or the wife of a man who in one’s own house dishonors one? What woman knows? What woman in the whole world? But will he love me always, this man to whom I am giving my life? What do I bring him? Lips that have lost the note of joy, eyes that are blighted by tears, chill hands and icy heart. I bring him nothing. I must go back—no; I can’t go back, my letter has put me in their power— Arthur would not take me back! That fatal letter! No! Lord Darlington leaves England tomorrow. I will go with him—I have no choice. (Sits down for a few moments. Then starts up and puts on her cloak.) No, no! I will go back, let Arthur do with me what he pleases. I can’t wait here. It has been madness my coming. I must go at once. As for Lord Darlington—Oh! here he is! What shall I do? What can I say to him? Will he let me go away at all? I have heard that men are brutal, horrible. ... Oh! (Hides her face in her hands.) Enter Mrs. Erlynne, L.52 (Lady Windermere discovered at fireplace, L., crosses to chair, L. of C., takes cloak from chair, puts cloak on crossing to door U.L., stops, decides to stay, crosses to R. of D.C. Enter Mrs. Erlynne.)