(Exit Dulcie. The two men are left alone. Another slight pause. Sir Brice walks very deliberately up to David. The two men stand close to each other for a moment or two.)Sir Brice.You’ve come to settle your little account, I suppose?David.I owe you nothing.Sir Brice.But I owe you six thousand pounds. I haven’t a penny in the world. I’ll cut you for it, double or quits.David.I don’t play cards.Sir Brice.You’d better begin.(Rapping on the table with the cards.)David.(Very firmly.) I don’t play cards withyou.Sir Brice.And I say you shall.David.(Very stern and contemptuous.) I don’t play cards with you.(Going towards door; Sir Brice following him up.)Sir Brice.You refuse?David.I refuse.Sir Brice.(Stopping him.) Once for all, will you give me a chance of paying back the six thousand pounds that Lady Skene has borrowed from you? Yes or no?David.No.Sir Brice.No?David.(Very emphatically.) No. (Goes to door, suddenly turns round, comes up to him.) Yes. (Comes to the table.) Idoplay cards with you. You want my money. Very well. I’ll give you a chance of winning all I have in the world.Sir Brice.(After a look of astonishment.) Good. I’m your man. Any game you like, and any stakes.David.(Very calm, cold, intense tone all through.) The stakes on my side are some two hundred thousand pounds. The stakes on your side are—your wife and child.Sir Brice.(Taken aback.) My wife and child.David.Your wife and child. Come—begin!(Points to the cards.)Sir Brice.(Getting flurried.) My wife and child? (Puts his hand restlessly through his hair, looks intently at David. Pause.) All right. (Pause. Cunningly.) I value my wife and child very highly.David.I value them at all I have in the world. (Pointing to the cards.) Begin!Sir Brice.You seem in a hurry.David.I believe I haven’t six months to live. I want to make the most of those six months. If I have more I want to make the most of all the years. Begin!Sir Brice.(Wipes his face with his handkerchief.) This is the first time I’ve played this game. We’d better arrange conditions.David.There’s only one condition. We play till I’m beggared of every farthing I have, or till you’re beggared of them. Sit down!Sir Brice.(Sits down.) Very well. (Pause.) What game?David.The shortest.Sir Brice.Simple cutting?David.What you please. Begin!Sir. Brice.There’s no hurry. I mean to have a night’s fun out of this.David.Look at me. Don’t trifle with me! I want to have done with you. I want them to have done with you. I want to get them away from you. Quick! I want to know now—now—this very moment—whether they are yours or mine. Begin.Sir Brice.(Shuffles the cards.) All right. What do we cut for?David.Let one cut settle it.Sir Brice.No. It’s too much to risk on one throw.David.One cut. Begin.Sir Brice.It’s too big. I can’t. (Gets up, walks a pace or two.) I like high play, but that’s too high for me. (David remains at back of table, very calm; does not stir all through the scene; Sir Brice walking about.) No, by Jove! I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Three cuts out of five. Damn it all! I’m game! Two out of three. By Jove, two out of three! Will that do?David.So be it! Shuffle. Sit down!(Sir Brice sits down; begins shuffling the cards. All through the scene he is nervous, excited, hysterical, laughing. David as cold as a statue.)34
(Exit Dulcie. The two men are left alone. Another slight pause. Sir Brice walks very deliberately up to David. The two men stand close to each other for a moment or two.)
Sir Brice.You’ve come to settle your little account, I suppose?
David.I owe you nothing.
Sir Brice.But I owe you six thousand pounds. I haven’t a penny in the world. I’ll cut you for it, double or quits.
David.I don’t play cards.
Sir Brice.You’d better begin.
(Rapping on the table with the cards.)
David.(Very firmly.) I don’t play cards withyou.
Sir Brice.And I say you shall.
David.(Very stern and contemptuous.) I don’t play cards with you.
(Going towards door; Sir Brice following him up.)
Sir Brice.You refuse?
David.I refuse.
Sir Brice.(Stopping him.) Once for all, will you give me a chance of paying back the six thousand pounds that Lady Skene has borrowed from you? Yes or no?
David.No.
Sir Brice.No?
David.(Very emphatically.) No. (Goes to door, suddenly turns round, comes up to him.) Yes. (Comes to the table.) Idoplay cards with you. You want my money. Very well. I’ll give you a chance of winning all I have in the world.
Sir Brice.(After a look of astonishment.) Good. I’m your man. Any game you like, and any stakes.
David.(Very calm, cold, intense tone all through.) The stakes on my side are some two hundred thousand pounds. The stakes on your side are—your wife and child.
Sir Brice.(Taken aback.) My wife and child.
David.Your wife and child. Come—begin!
(Points to the cards.)
Sir Brice.(Getting flurried.) My wife and child? (Puts his hand restlessly through his hair, looks intently at David. Pause.) All right. (Pause. Cunningly.) I value my wife and child very highly.
David.I value them at all I have in the world. (Pointing to the cards.) Begin!
Sir Brice.You seem in a hurry.
David.I believe I haven’t six months to live. I want to make the most of those six months. If I have more I want to make the most of all the years. Begin!
Sir Brice.(Wipes his face with his handkerchief.) This is the first time I’ve played this game. We’d better arrange conditions.
David.There’s only one condition. We play till I’m beggared of every farthing I have, or till you’re beggared of them. Sit down!
Sir Brice.(Sits down.) Very well. (Pause.) What game?
David.The shortest.
Sir Brice.Simple cutting?
David.What you please. Begin!
Sir. Brice.There’s no hurry. I mean to have a night’s fun out of this.
David.Look at me. Don’t trifle with me! I want to have done with you. I want them to have done with you. I want to get them away from you. Quick! I want to know now—now—this very moment—whether they are yours or mine. Begin.
Sir Brice.(Shuffles the cards.) All right. What do we cut for?
David.Let one cut settle it.
Sir Brice.No. It’s too much to risk on one throw.
David.One cut. Begin.
Sir Brice.It’s too big. I can’t. (Gets up, walks a pace or two.) I like high play, but that’s too high for me. (David remains at back of table, very calm; does not stir all through the scene; Sir Brice walking about.) No, by Jove! I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Three cuts out of five. Damn it all! I’m game! Two out of three. By Jove, two out of three! Will that do?
David.So be it! Shuffle. Sit down!
(Sir Brice sits down; begins shuffling the cards. All through the scene he is nervous, excited, hysterical, laughing. David as cold as a statue.)34
An almost similar situation in a play set in a remote part of the West,Believe Me, Xantippe, is more convincing. A loutish beast agrees to gamble for a woman he is kidnapping with a young adventurer who sees at the moment no other way to save her from the other man’s clutches. The sceneis not at all improbable for either man. InThe Princess and the Butterfly, all the preceding acts are but a preparation for what the world will call the unreason, in the last act, of the marriages of Sir George and the Princess Pannonia,—of middle age with youth. Their final conduct would seem unplausible were it not entirely in keeping with their characters as carefully developed in the earlier parts of the play.The Rising of the Moonof Lady Gregory shows a final situation for the Police Sergeant which, at the opening of the play, would seem impossible for him. In a few pages, however, the dramatist so develops the character that we are perfectly ready to accept his sacrifice of the “hundred pounds reward” which he so coveted at the outset.
Motivation should not, however, be allowed to obtrude itself, but should be subordinated to the emotional purpose of the scene. The modern auditor prefers to gather it almost unconsciously as the action of the play proceeds rather than to have it emphasized for him, as does Iago, at the end of several acts ofOthello. Another instance of this frank motivation among the Elizabethans may be found in the soliloquy fromThe Duchess of Malfi:
Cardinal.The reason why I would not suffer theseAbout my brother is because at midnightI may with better privacy convayJulias body, to her owne lodging. O, my conscience!I would pray now: but the divell takes away my heartFor having any confidence in praier.About this hour I appointed BosolaTo fetch the body: when he hath serv’d my turne,He dies.35
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 hour I appointed Bosola
To fetch the body: when he hath serv’d my turne,
He dies.35
Good motivation, then, must be clear; either plausible naturally or made so by the art of the dramatist; should in each particular instance comport with the preceding actions and speech of the character; and should not be so stressedas to draw attention away from the emotional significance of the scene.
It is by well-motived characterization that drama passes from melodrama to story-play and so to tragedy; or, from the broadest farce or extravaganza through low comedy to high. As long as we care little what the people in our play are, and greatly for comic or serious happenings, we may string situations together almost at will. The moment that our figures come alive, as has been pointed out, selection in our possible material has begun. Some of the incidents in our melodrama or broad farce will drop out as wholly impossible for these figures which have come to life. Others must be modified if the figures are to take part in them. Give a melodrama sustaining, convincing characterization and it must at least turn into a story-play, something which after a mingling of the serious and the comic does not end tragically. So characterize in a story with a serious ending that the tragic result develops inevitably from the sequence of preceding scenes, and tragedy is born. Watch the way in which Shakespeare lifts the Hubert and Arthur scene of the old play ofKing Johnby the infused characterization. In the old play the author presents us with puppets depending for their effect on the contained horror of the scene. Shakespeare creates a winsome, brave young prince, and a very human Hubert. The scene moves us, not, simply from our dread of physical torture, but because of our growing intense sympathy for the lad who is fighting for his life.
For further illustration of Shakespeare’s clear understanding that the emotions of well-characterized figures are better means of controlling an audience than a merely horrific situation, study his handling of the ghost scene inRichard IIIorJulius Cæsarin contrast with similar places inHamlet. What most transmuted theUr-Hamletof Thomas Kyd into one of the greatest tragedies of all time was the characterization Shakespeare put into it. Certainly, characterization makes for dramatists the stepping-stones on which they may rise from dead selves to higher things.
How may all this needed characterization best be done? A dramatist should not permit himself to describe his characters, for in his own personality he has no proper place in the text. There the characters must speak and act for themselves. There has been, however, an increasing tendency lately to describe thedramatis personæof the play in programs, either in the list of characters or in a summary of the plot. Some writers apparently assume that every auditor reads his program carefully before the curtain goes up. Such an assumption is false: more than that it is lazy, incompetent, and thoroughly vicious, putting a play on the level with the motion pictures, which cannot depend wholly on themselves but would often be wholly vague without explanatory words thrown upon the canvas. Nor can the practice of the older dramatists like Wycherley and Shadwell, who often prefixed to their printed plays elaborate summaries describing thedramatis personæ, be cited as a final defense.
Sir William Belfond, a Gentleman of above 3,000 per annum, who in his youth had been a spark of the town, but married and retired into the country, where he turned to the other extreme, rigid and morose, most sordidly covetous, clownish, obstinate, positive, and froward.Sir Edward Belfond, his Brother, a merchant, who by lucky hits had gotten a great estate, lives single, with ease and pleasure,reasonably and virtuously. A man of great humanity and gentleness and compassion towards mankind; well read in good books possessed with all gentleman-like qualities.Belfond, Senior, eldest son to Sir William; bred after his father’s rustic, swinish manner, with great rigour and severity; upon whom his father’s estate is entailed; the confidence of which makes him break out into open rebellion to his father, and become lewd, abominably vicious, stubborn, and obstinate.Belfond, Junior, second Son to Sir William; adopted by Sir Edward, and bred from his childhood by him, with all tenderness, and familiarity, and bounty, and liberty that can be, instructed in all the liberal sciences, and in all gentlemanlike education. Somewhat given to women, and now and then to good fellowship, but an ingenious, well-accomplished gentleman: a man of honour, and of excellent disposition and temper.Truman, his friend, a man of honour and fortune.Cheatly, a rascal, who by reason of debts dares not stir out of Whitefriars, but there inveigles young heirs in tail, and helps them to goods and money upon great disadvantages; is bound for them, and shares with them, till he undoes them. A lewd, impudent, debauched fellow, very expert in the cant about town.Shamwell, cousin to the Belfonds, an heir, who being ruined by Cheatly, is made a decoy-duck for others; not daring to stir out of Alsatia, where he lives. Is bound with Cheatly for heirs, and lives upon them a dissolute, debauched life.Captain Hackum, a blockheaded bully of Alsatia; a cowardly, impudent, blustering fellow; formerly a sergeant in Flanders, run from his colours, retreated into Whitefriars for a very small debt, where, by the Alsatians, he is dubbed a captain; marries one that lets lodgings, sells cherry brandy, and is a bawd.Scrapeall, a hypocritical, repeating, praying, psalm-singing, precise fellow, pretending to great piety, a godly knave, who joins with Cheatly, and supplies young heirs with goods and money.Attorney to Sir William Belfond, who solicits his business and receives all his packets.Lolpoop, a North-country fellow, servant to Belfond, Senior, much displeased at his master’s proceedings.37
Sir William Belfond, a Gentleman of above 3,000 per annum, who in his youth had been a spark of the town, but married and retired into the country, where he turned to the other extreme, rigid and morose, most sordidly covetous, clownish, obstinate, positive, and froward.
Sir Edward Belfond, his Brother, a merchant, who by lucky hits had gotten a great estate, lives single, with ease and pleasure,reasonably and virtuously. A man of great humanity and gentleness and compassion towards mankind; well read in good books possessed with all gentleman-like qualities.
Belfond, Senior, eldest son to Sir William; bred after his father’s rustic, swinish manner, with great rigour and severity; upon whom his father’s estate is entailed; the confidence of which makes him break out into open rebellion to his father, and become lewd, abominably vicious, stubborn, and obstinate.
Belfond, Junior, second Son to Sir William; adopted by Sir Edward, and bred from his childhood by him, with all tenderness, and familiarity, and bounty, and liberty that can be, instructed in all the liberal sciences, and in all gentlemanlike education. Somewhat given to women, and now and then to good fellowship, but an ingenious, well-accomplished gentleman: a man of honour, and of excellent disposition and temper.
Truman, his friend, a man of honour and fortune.
Cheatly, a rascal, who by reason of debts dares not stir out of Whitefriars, but there inveigles young heirs in tail, and helps them to goods and money upon great disadvantages; is bound for them, and shares with them, till he undoes them. A lewd, impudent, debauched fellow, very expert in the cant about town.
Shamwell, cousin to the Belfonds, an heir, who being ruined by Cheatly, is made a decoy-duck for others; not daring to stir out of Alsatia, where he lives. Is bound with Cheatly for heirs, and lives upon them a dissolute, debauched life.
Captain Hackum, a blockheaded bully of Alsatia; a cowardly, impudent, blustering fellow; formerly a sergeant in Flanders, run from his colours, retreated into Whitefriars for a very small debt, where, by the Alsatians, he is dubbed a captain; marries one that lets lodgings, sells cherry brandy, and is a bawd.
Scrapeall, a hypocritical, repeating, praying, psalm-singing, precise fellow, pretending to great piety, a godly knave, who joins with Cheatly, and supplies young heirs with goods and money.
Attorney to Sir William Belfond, who solicits his business and receives all his packets.
Lolpoop, a North-country fellow, servant to Belfond, Senior, much displeased at his master’s proceedings.37
It is more than doubtful if anything so elaborate could be found in the manuscripts of Wycherley and Shadwell. Their purpose was doubtless the same as that of certain modern dramatists who, with a view to making plays less difficult for those unaccustomed to reading them, greatly amplify the stage directions before their plays go to print. Mr. Granville Barker in the manuscripts of his plays is particularly frugal of stage directions, but in the printed form ofThe Madras House,38practically the whole history of Julia is given in the opening stage direction:
Julia started life—that is to say, left school—as a genius. The head mistress had had two or three years of such dull girls that really she could not resist this excitement. Watercolour sketches were the medium. So Julia was dressed in brown velveteen, and sent to an art school, where they wouldn’t let her do watercolour drawing at all. And in two years she learnt enough about the trade of an artist not ever to want to do those watercolour drawings again. Julia is now over thirty, and very unhappy. Three of her watercolours (early masterpieces) hang on the drawing-room wall. They shame her, but her mother won’t have them taken down. On a holiday she’ll be off now and then for a solid day’s sketching; and as she tears up the vain attempt to put on paper the things she has learnt to see, she sometimes cries. It was Julia, Emma, and Jane who, some years ago, conspired to present their mother with that intensely conspicuous cosy corner. A cosy corner is apparently a device for making a corner just what the very nature of a corner should forbid it to be. They beggared themselves; but one wishes that Mr. Huxtable were more lavish with his dress allowances, then they might at least have afforded something not quite so hideous.
Julia started life—that is to say, left school—as a genius. The head mistress had had two or three years of such dull girls that really she could not resist this excitement. Watercolour sketches were the medium. So Julia was dressed in brown velveteen, and sent to an art school, where they wouldn’t let her do watercolour drawing at all. And in two years she learnt enough about the trade of an artist not ever to want to do those watercolour drawings again. Julia is now over thirty, and very unhappy. Three of her watercolours (early masterpieces) hang on the drawing-room wall. They shame her, but her mother won’t have them taken down. On a holiday she’ll be off now and then for a solid day’s sketching; and as she tears up the vain attempt to put on paper the things she has learnt to see, she sometimes cries. It was Julia, Emma, and Jane who, some years ago, conspired to present their mother with that intensely conspicuous cosy corner. A cosy corner is apparently a device for making a corner just what the very nature of a corner should forbid it to be. They beggared themselves; but one wishes that Mr. Huxtable were more lavish with his dress allowances, then they might at least have afforded something not quite so hideous.
Such characterizing is an implied censure on the ability of most readers to see the full significance of deft touches in the dialogue. If not, then it is necessary because some part of it is not given in the text as it should be, or it is wholly unnecessary and undesirable, for the text, repeating all this detail, will be wearisome to an intelligent reader. The safest principle is, in preparing a manuscript for acting, to keepstage directions to matters of setting, lighting, essential movements, and the intonations which cannot, by the utmost efforts of the author, be conveyed by dialogue.39In this last group belong certain every-day phrases susceptible of so many shadings that the actor needs guidance. In the last line of this extract from the opening of Act III ofMrs. Dane’s Defence, the “tenderly” is necessary.
Enter Wilson right, announcing Lady Eastney. Enter Lady Eastney. Exit Wilson.Lady Eastney.(Shaking hands.) You’re busy?Sir Daniel.Yes, trying to persuade myself I am forty—solely on your account.Lady Eastney.That’s not necessary. I like you well enough as you are.Sir Daniel.(Tenderly.) Give me the best proof of that.
Enter Wilson right, announcing Lady Eastney. Enter Lady Eastney. Exit Wilson.
Lady Eastney.(Shaking hands.) You’re busy?
Sir Daniel.Yes, trying to persuade myself I am forty—solely on your account.
Lady Eastney.That’s not necessary. I like you well enough as you are.
Sir Daniel.(Tenderly.) Give me the best proof of that.
Notice that the statement just formulated as to stage directions reads, “cannot be conveyed,” not “may not.” Cross the line, and differences between the novel and the play are blurred, for the author runs a fair chance of omitting exposition needed in the text and of writing colorless dialogue. A recently published play prefaces not only every speech, but even parts of the speeches with careful statements as to how they should be given, even when the text is perfectly clear. Nothing is left to the imagination, and the text is often emotionally colorless.
Let it be remembered, then, that the stage direction is not a pocket into which a dramatist may stuff whatever explanation, description, or analysis a novelist might allow himself, but is more a last resort to which he turns when he cannot make his text convey all that is necessary.
The passing of the soliloquy and the aside40makes the dramatist of today much more limited than were his predecessorsin letting a character describe itself. Today everything depends on the naturalness of the self-exposition. The vainglorious, the self-centered, the garrulous will always talk of themselves freely. The reserved, the timid, and persons under suspicion will be sparing of words. When the ingenuity of the dramatist cannot make self-exposition plausible, the scene promptly becomes unreal. The point to be remembered is, as George Meredith once said, that “The verdict is with the observer.” Not what seems plausible to the author but what, as he tries it on auditors, proves acceptable, may stand.
Description of one character by another is usually more plausible than the method just treated. Even here, however, the test remains plausibility. It requires persuasive acting to make the following description of Tartuffe perfectly natural. There is danger that it will appear more the detailed picture the dramatist wishes to place in our minds than the description the speaker would naturally give his listeners:
Orgon.Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,You would have loved him just as much as I.He came to church each day, with contrite mien,Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,And drew the eyes of all the congregation,To watch the fervor of his prayers to heaven;With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations.He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;And when I left the church, he ran before meTo give me holy water at the door.I learned his poverty, and who he was,By questioning his servant, who is like him,And gave him gifts; but in his modestyHe always wanted to return a part.“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,When I refused to take it back, he’d go,Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.At length Heaven bade me take him to my home,And since that day, all seems to prosper here.He censures nothing, and for my sakeHe even takes great interest in my wife;He lets me know who ogles her, and seemsSix times as jealous as I am myself.You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;The merest nothing is enough to shock him;So much so, that the other day I heard himAccuse himself for having, while at prayer,In too much anger caught and killed a flea.41
Orgon.Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,
You would have loved him just as much as I.
He came to church each day, with contrite mien,
Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,
And drew the eyes of all the congregation,
To watch the fervor of his prayers to heaven;
With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations.
He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;
And when I left the church, he ran before me
To give me holy water at the door.
I learned his poverty, and who he was,
By questioning his servant, who is like him,
And gave him gifts; but in his modesty
He always wanted to return a part.
“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;
I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,
When I refused to take it back, he’d go,
Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.
At length Heaven bade me take him to my home,
And since that day, all seems to prosper here.
He censures nothing, and for my sake
He even takes great interest in my wife;
He lets me know who ogles her, and seems
Six times as jealous as I am myself.
You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:
He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;
The merest nothing is enough to shock him;
So much so, that the other day I heard him
Accuse himself for having, while at prayer,
In too much anger caught and killed a flea.41
The scene in which Melantius draws from his friend Amintor (The Maid’s Tragedy, ActIII, Scene 2) admission of his wrongs, shows admirable use of both kinds of description—of oneself and of another person.
Melantius.You may shape, Amintor,Causes to cozen the whole world withall,And you yourselfe too; but tis not like a friendTo hide your soule from me. Tis not your natureTo be thus idle: I have seene you standAs you were blasted midst of all your mirth;Call thrice aloud, and then start, faining joySo coldly!—World, what doe I here? a friendIs nothing! Heaven, I would ha told that manMy secret sinnes! Ile search an unknowne land,And there plant friendship; all is withered here.Come with a complement! I would have fought,Or told my friend a lie, ere soothed him so.Out of my bosome!Amintor.But there is nothing.Mel.Worse and worse! farewell.From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.Amin.Melantius, stay; you shall know what that is.Mel.See; how you plaid with friendship! be advis’dHow you give cause unto yourselfe to sayYou ha lost a friend.Amin.Forgive what I ha done;For I am so oregone with injuriesUnheard of, that I lose considerationOf what I ought to doe.—Oh!—Oh!Mel.Doe not weepe.What ist? May I once but know the manHath turn’d my friend thus!Amin.I had spoke at first,But that—Mel.But what?Amin.I held it most unfitFor you to know. Faith, doe not know it yet.Mel.Thou seest my love, that will keepe companyWith thee in teares; hide nothing, then, from me;For when I know the cause of thy distemper,With mine old armour Ile adorn myselfe,My resolution, and cut through my foes,Unto thy quiet, till I place thy heartAs peaceable as spotless innocence.What is it?Amin.Why, tis this—it is too biggeTo get out—let my teares make way awhile.Mel.Punish me strangely, Heaven, if he escapeOf life or fame, that brought this youth to this.42
Melantius.You may shape, Amintor,
Causes to cozen the whole world withall,
And you yourselfe too; but tis not like a friend
To hide your soule from me. Tis not your nature
To be thus idle: I have seene you stand
As you were blasted midst of all your mirth;
Call thrice aloud, and then start, faining joy
So coldly!—World, what doe I here? a friend
Is nothing! Heaven, I would ha told that man
My secret sinnes! Ile search an unknowne land,
And there plant friendship; all is withered here.
Come with a complement! I would have fought,
Or told my friend a lie, ere soothed him so.
Out of my bosome!
Amintor.But there is nothing.
Mel.Worse and worse! farewell.
From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.
Amin.Melantius, stay; you shall know what that is.
Mel.See; how you plaid with friendship! be advis’d
How you give cause unto yourselfe to say
You ha lost a friend.
Amin.Forgive what I ha done;
For I am so oregone with injuries
Unheard of, that I lose consideration
Of what I ought to doe.—Oh!—Oh!
Mel.Doe not weepe.
What ist? May I once but know the man
Hath turn’d my friend thus!
Amin.I had spoke at first,
But that—
Mel.But what?
Amin.I held it most unfit
For you to know. Faith, doe not know it yet.
Mel.Thou seest my love, that will keepe company
With thee in teares; hide nothing, then, from me;
For when I know the cause of thy distemper,
With mine old armour Ile adorn myselfe,
My resolution, and cut through my foes,
Unto thy quiet, till I place thy heart
As peaceable as spotless innocence.
What is it?
Amin.Why, tis this—it is too bigge
To get out—let my teares make way awhile.
Mel.Punish me strangely, Heaven, if he escape
Of life or fame, that brought this youth to this.42
The cry with which Electra turns to her peasant husband in the play of Euripides is perhaps as fine an instance as there is of natural description by one person of her relations to another.
Peasant.What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraughtWith toil to lighten my toil? And so softThy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?Electra.(Turning to him with impulsive affection.) O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend,Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.Life scarce can be so hard, ’mid many fearsAnd many shames, when mortal heart can findSomewhere one healing touch, as my sick mindFinds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endureA little for thine easing, yea, or pourMy strength out in thy toiling fellowship?Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;’Tis mine to make all bright within the door.’Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o’er,To find home waiting, full of happy things.Peasant.If so it please thee, go thy way.43
Peasant.What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught
With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft
Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,
And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?
Electra.(Turning to him with impulsive affection.) O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend,
Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.
Life scarce can be so hard, ’mid many fears
And many shames, when mortal heart can find
Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind
Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure
A little for thine easing, yea, or pour
My strength out in thy toiling fellowship?
Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;
’Tis mine to make all bright within the door.
’Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o’er,
To find home waiting, full of happy things.
Peasant.If so it please thee, go thy way.43
Unquestionably, however, the best method of characterization is by action. In the first draft of Ibsen’sA Doll’s House, Krogstad uses with his employer Helmar, because he is an old school fellow, the familiar “tu.” This under the circumstance illustrates his tactlessness better than any amount of description. When Helmar is irritated by this familiarity, his petty vanity is perfectly illustrated. Any one who recalls the last scene ofLouis XIas played by the late Sir Henry Irving remembers vividly the restless, greedily moving fingers of the praying King. They told far more than words. The way in which Mrs. Lindon, throughout the opening scene of Clyde Fitch’sThe Truth,44touches any small article she finds in her way perfectly indicates her fluttering nervousness.
At Mrs. Warder’s.... A smart, good-looking man-servant, Jenks, shows in Mrs. Lindon and Laura Fraser. The former is a handsome, nervous, overstrung woman of about thirty-four, very fashionably dressed; Miss Fraser, on the contrary, a matter-of-fact, rather commonplace type of good humor—wholesomeness united to a kind of sense of humor....Mrs. Lindon nervously picks up check-book from the writing-table, looks at it but not in it, and puts it down....She opens the cigar box on the writing-table behind her and then bangs it shut....She picks up stamp box and bangs it down.Rises and goes to mantel, looking at the fly-leaves of two books on a table which she passes.
At Mrs. Warder’s.... A smart, good-looking man-servant, Jenks, shows in Mrs. Lindon and Laura Fraser. The former is a handsome, nervous, overstrung woman of about thirty-four, very fashionably dressed; Miss Fraser, on the contrary, a matter-of-fact, rather commonplace type of good humor—wholesomeness united to a kind of sense of humor....
Mrs. Lindon nervously picks up check-book from the writing-table, looks at it but not in it, and puts it down....
She opens the cigar box on the writing-table behind her and then bangs it shut....
She picks up stamp box and bangs it down.
Rises and goes to mantel, looking at the fly-leaves of two books on a table which she passes.
Does not the action of this extract from Middleton’sA Chaste Maid in Cheapsidehelp most in depicting the greed and dishonesty of Yellowhammer, as well as the humor and ingenuity of the suitor?
Touchwood junior.(Aside.) ’Twere a good mirth now to set him a-workTo make her wedding-ring; I must about it:Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger,’Twas honesty in me t’ enrich my father.Yellowhammer.(Aside.) The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear nothingBut that she’s taken with some other love,Then all’s quite dashed: that must be narrowly looked to;We cannot be too wary in our children.—What is’t you lack?Touch. jun.O, nothing now; all that I wish is present:I’d have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewomanWith all speed that may be.Yel.Of what weight, sir?Touch. jun.Of some half ounce, stand fairAnd comely with the spark of a diamond;Sir, ’twere pity to lose the least grace.Yel.Pray, let’s see it. (Takes stone from Touchwood junior.)Indeed, sir ’tis a pure one.Touch. jun.So is the mistress.Yel.Have you the wideness of her finger, sir?Touch. jun.Yes, sure, I think I have her measure about me:Good faith, ’tis down, I cannot show it to you;I must pull too many things out to be certain.Let me see—long and slender, and neatly jointed;Just such another gentlewoman—that’s your daughter, sir?Yel.And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman.Touch. jun.I protest.I ne’er saw two maids handed more alike;I’ll ne’er seek farther, if you’ll give me leave, sir.Yel.If you dare venture by her finger, sir.Touch. jun.Ay, and I’ll bide all loss, sir.Yel.Say you so, sir?Let us see.—Hither, girl.Touch. jun.Shall I make boldWith your finger, gentlewoman?Moll.Your pleasure, sir.Touch. jun.That fits her to a hair, sir.(Trying ring on Moll’s finger.)Yel.What’s your posy, now, sir?Touch. jun.Mass, that’s true: posy? i’faith, e’en thus, sir:“Love that’s wiseBlinds parents’ eyes.”Yel.How, how? if I may speak without offence, sir, I hold my life—Touch. jun.What, sir?Yel.Go to,—you’ll pardon me?Touch. jun.Pardon you? ay, sir.Yel.Will you, i’ faith?Touch. jun.Yes, faith, I will.Yel.You’ll steal away some man’s daughter: am I near you?Do you turn aside? you gentlemen are mad wags!I wonder things can be so warily carried,And parents blinded so: but they’re served right,That have two eyes and were so dull a’ sight.Touch. jun.(Aside.) Thy doom take hold of thee!Yel.Tomorrow noonShall show your ring well done.Touch. jun.Being so, ’tis soon.—Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman.Moll.Sir, you’re welcome.—(Exit Touchwood junior.)O were I made of wishes, I went with thee!45
Touchwood junior.(Aside.) ’Twere a good mirth now to set him a-work
To make her wedding-ring; I must about it:
Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger,
’Twas honesty in me t’ enrich my father.
Yellowhammer.(Aside.) The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear nothing
But that she’s taken with some other love,
Then all’s quite dashed: that must be narrowly looked to;
We cannot be too wary in our children.—
What is’t you lack?
Touch. jun.O, nothing now; all that I wish is present:
I’d have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman
With all speed that may be.
Yel.Of what weight, sir?
Touch. jun.Of some half ounce, stand fair
And comely with the spark of a diamond;
Sir, ’twere pity to lose the least grace.
Yel.Pray, let’s see it. (Takes stone from Touchwood junior.)
Indeed, sir ’tis a pure one.
Touch. jun.So is the mistress.
Yel.Have you the wideness of her finger, sir?
Touch. jun.Yes, sure, I think I have her measure about me:
Good faith, ’tis down, I cannot show it to you;
I must pull too many things out to be certain.
Let me see—long and slender, and neatly jointed;
Just such another gentlewoman—that’s your daughter, sir?
Yel.And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman.
Touch. jun.I protest.
I ne’er saw two maids handed more alike;
I’ll ne’er seek farther, if you’ll give me leave, sir.
Yel.If you dare venture by her finger, sir.
Touch. jun.Ay, and I’ll bide all loss, sir.
Yel.Say you so, sir?
Let us see.—Hither, girl.
Touch. jun.Shall I make bold
With your finger, gentlewoman?
Moll.Your pleasure, sir.
Touch. jun.That fits her to a hair, sir.
(Trying ring on Moll’s finger.)
Yel.What’s your posy, now, sir?
Touch. jun.Mass, that’s true: posy? i’faith, e’en thus, sir:
“Love that’s wise
Blinds parents’ eyes.”
Yel.How, how? if I may speak without offence, sir, I hold my life—
Touch. jun.What, sir?
Yel.Go to,—you’ll pardon me?
Touch. jun.Pardon you? ay, sir.
Yel.Will you, i’ faith?
Touch. jun.Yes, faith, I will.
Yel.You’ll steal away some man’s daughter: am I near you?
Do you turn aside? you gentlemen are mad wags!
I wonder things can be so warily carried,
And parents blinded so: but they’re served right,
That have two eyes and were so dull a’ sight.
Touch. jun.(Aside.) Thy doom take hold of thee!
Yel.Tomorrow noon
Shall show your ring well done.
Touch. jun.Being so, ’tis soon.—
Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman.
Moll.Sir, you’re welcome.—
(Exit Touchwood junior.)
O were I made of wishes, I went with thee!45
Could any description or analysis by the author or another character paint as perfectly as does the action of the following lines the wistful grief of the child pining for his mother?
Enter Giovanni, Count Lodovico.Francisco.How now, my noble cossin! what, in blacke?Giovanni.Yes, unckle, I was taught to imitate youIn vertue, and you must imitate meeIn coloures of your garments: my sweete motherIs—Fran.How? where?Giov.Is there; no, yonder; indeed, sir, Ile not tell you,For I shall make you weepe.Fran.Is dead.Giov.Do not blame me now,I did not tell you so.Lodovico.She’s dead, my lord.Fran.Dead!Monticelso.Blessed lady; thou art now above thy woes!Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?(Exeunt Ambassadors.)Giov.What do the deade do, uncle? do they eate,Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie,As wee that live?Fran.No, cose; they sleepe.Giov.Lord, Lord, that I were dead!I have not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake?Fran.When God shall please.Giov.Good God let her sleepe ever!For I have knowne her wake an hundredth nights,When all the pillow, where she laid her head,Was brine-wet with her teares. I am to complaine to you, sir.Ile tell you how they have used her now shees dead:They wrapt her in a cruell fould of lead,And would not let me kisse her.Fran.Thou didst love her.Giov.I have often heard her say she gave mee sucke,And it would seeme by that shee deerely lov’d meeSince princes seldome doe it.Fran.O, all of my poore sister that remaines!Take him away, for Gods sake!(Exeunt Giovanni, Lodovico, and Marcello.)46
Enter Giovanni, Count Lodovico.
Francisco.How now, my noble cossin! what, in blacke?
Giovanni.Yes, unckle, I was taught to imitate you
In vertue, and you must imitate mee
In coloures of your garments: my sweete mother
Is—
Fran.How? where?
Giov.Is there; no, yonder; indeed, sir, Ile not tell you,
For I shall make you weepe.
Fran.Is dead.
Giov.Do not blame me now,
I did not tell you so.
Lodovico.She’s dead, my lord.
Fran.Dead!
Monticelso.Blessed lady; thou art now above thy woes!
Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?
(Exeunt Ambassadors.)
Giov.What do the deade do, uncle? do they eate,
Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie,
As wee that live?
Fran.No, cose; they sleepe.
Giov.Lord, Lord, that I were dead!
I have not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake?
Fran.When God shall please.
Giov.Good God let her sleepe ever!
For I have knowne her wake an hundredth nights,
When all the pillow, where she laid her head,
Was brine-wet with her teares. I am to complaine to you, sir.
Ile tell you how they have used her now shees dead:
They wrapt her in a cruell fould of lead,
And would not let me kisse her.
Fran.Thou didst love her.
Giov.I have often heard her say she gave mee sucke,
And it would seeme by that shee deerely lov’d mee
Since princes seldome doe it.
Fran.O, all of my poore sister that remaines!
Take him away, for Gods sake!
(Exeunt Giovanni, Lodovico, and Marcello.)46
In brief, then, understand your characters thoroughly, but do not, in your own personality, describe them anywhere. Let them describe themselves, or let other people on the stage describe or analyze them, when this is naturally convincing or may be made plausible by your skill. Trust,however, above all, to letting your characters live before your audience the emotions which interest you, thus making them convey their characters by the best means of communication between actor and audience—namely, action.
In the chapter (VI) dealing with clearness in exposition the extreme importance of identifying the characters for the audience has been carefully treated.47Closely connected with this identifying is the matter of entrances and exits.
The characterizing value of exits and entrances is usually little understood by the inexperienced dramatist. Yet in real life, men and women cannot enter or leave a room without characterization. Watch the people in a railroad car as it nears the terminus. The people who rise and stand in the aisles are clearly of different natures from those who remain quietly seated till the train reaches its destination. The twenty or thirty standing wait differently and leave the car with different degrees of haste, nervousness or anticipation. Those who remain seated differ also. Some are absorbed in conversation, oblivious of the approaching station; others, somewhat ostentatiously, watch the waiters in the aisles with amused contempt. Study, therefore, exits and entrances. Very few will be found negative in the sense that they add nothing to the knowledge of the characters. How did Claude enter in the following extract from a recent play? Claude, it should be said, has been mentioned just in passing, as a suitor of Marna. Other matters, however, have been occupying attention.