Enter ClaudeClaude.(Sitting beside her on the settle.) I thought I should not see you tonight.Marna.I wondered if you would come.
Enter Claude
Claude.(Sitting beside her on the settle.) I thought I should not see you tonight.
Marna.I wondered if you would come.
Claude must really have entered in character—quickly, impetuously, or ardently. He may have paused an instanton the threshold; he may have dashed in, leaving the door ajar; he may have closed it cautiously; he may have come in through the window. And how did they get to the settle? The author may know all this, but he certainly does not tell. He should visualize his figures as he writes, seeing them from moment to moment as they move, sit, or stand. Otherwise, he will miss much that is significant and characterizing in their actions.
In a play that was largely a study of a self-indulgent, self-centred youth, to the annoyance of all he is late at the family celebration of his cousin’s birthday. Sauntering in, he meets a disappointing silence. Looking about, he says, “Nobody has missed me.” And then, as all wait for his excuses, he shifts the burden of speech to his mother with the words, “Hasn’t her ladyship anything to say?” Surely this entrance characterizes.
Illusion disappears, also, when people needed on the stage, from taxi-cab drivers to ambassadors, are apparently waiting just outside the door. A play of very interesting subject-matter became almost ridiculous because whenever anybody was needed, he or she was apparently waiting just outside one of the doors. As some of these were persons involved in affairs of state and others supposedly lived at a distance, their prompt appearance partook of wizardry. People should not only come on in character, but after time enough has been allowed or suggested to permit them to come from the places where they are supposed to have been.
How much the entrance of a character should be prepared for must be left to the judgment of the dramatist. Whatever is needed to make the entrance produce the effect desired must be planted in the minds of the audience before the character appears. Phormio, in Terence’s play of that name, does not appear before the second act. His entranceis undoubtedly held back both to whet curiosity to the utmost before he appears, and in order to set forth clearly the tangle of events which his ingenuity must overcome. Magda, in Sudermann’sHeimat, also appears first in the second act. This is not done because some leading lady wished to make as triumphant an entrance as possible, an inartistic but time-honored reason in some plays, but because, till we have lived with Magda’s family in the home from which she was driven by her father’s narrowness and inflexibility, we cannot grasp the full significance of her character in this environment when she returns. Usually, of course, a character of importance does appear in the first act, but naturalness first and theatrical effectiveness second determine the point at which it is proper that a character should appear. The supposed need in the audience for detailed information, slight information, or no information as to a figure about to enter must decide the amount of preliminary statement in regard to him. If possible, a character enters, identifies himself, and places himself with regard to the other persons involved in the action as nearly as possible at one and the same time. The more important the character, the more involved the circumstances which we must understand before he can enter properly, the greater the amount of preliminary preparation for him. InPhormio48andHeimat(orMagda) this preparation fills an act; in Tartuffe it fills two acts. More often bits here and there prepare the way, or some one passage of dialogue, as in the introduction of Sir Amorous La-Foole in Ben Jonson’sEpicœne.49
Dauphine.We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that came thither to him, Sir La-Foole.Clerimont.I, that’s a precious mannikin!Daup.Do you know him?Cler.Ay, and he will know you too, if e’er he saw you but once, though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a masque, and put her out. He does give plays and suppers, and invite his guests to them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for the purpose: or to watch when ladies are gone to the china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds’ worth of toys, to be laughed at. He is never without a spare banquet, or sweetmeats in his chamber for their women to alight at, and come up to for bait.Daup.Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is much finer! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.Re-enter PageCler.Sir Amorous La-Foole.Page.The gentleman is here below that owns that name.Cler.’Heart, he’s come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.Daup.Like enough: prithee, let’s have him up.Cler.Boy, marshall him.
Dauphine.We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that came thither to him, Sir La-Foole.
Clerimont.I, that’s a precious mannikin!
Daup.Do you know him?
Cler.Ay, and he will know you too, if e’er he saw you but once, though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a masque, and put her out. He does give plays and suppers, and invite his guests to them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for the purpose: or to watch when ladies are gone to the china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds’ worth of toys, to be laughed at. He is never without a spare banquet, or sweetmeats in his chamber for their women to alight at, and come up to for bait.
Daup.Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is much finer! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.
Re-enter Page
Cler.Sir Amorous La-Foole.
Page.The gentleman is here below that owns that name.
Cler.’Heart, he’s come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.
Daup.Like enough: prithee, let’s have him up.
Cler.Boy, marshall him.
In Scene 1, Act I, ofBecket, as written by Lord Tennyson, we have:
Enter Rosamund de Clifford, flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse, drops her veilBecket.Rosamund de Clifford!Rosamund.Save me, father, hide me—they follow me—and I must not be known.
Enter Rosamund de Clifford, flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse, drops her veil
Becket.Rosamund de Clifford!
Rosamund.Save me, father, hide me—they follow me—and I must not be known.
Sir Henry Irving arranged this for the stage as follows:
Enter Rosamund de Clifford. Drops her veilRosamund.Save me, father, hide me.Becket.Rosamund de Clifford!Rosamund.They follow me—and I must not be known.
Enter Rosamund de Clifford. Drops her veil
Rosamund.Save me, father, hide me.
Becket.Rosamund de Clifford!
Rosamund.They follow me—and I must not be known.
There are real values in these seemingly slight changes. With a rush and in confusion, Rosamund enters. As it isher first appearance in the play, it is of the highest importance that she be identified for the audience. If Becket gives her name as she enters, it may be lost in her onward rush. If entering, she speaks the line, “Save me, father, hide me,” she centers attention on him and he may fully emphasize the identification in, “Rosamund de Clifford!” Note as bearing on what has already been said in regard to unnecessary use of stage direction that Irving cut out “flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse.” He knew that Rosamund’s speeches and her action would make the fleeing clear enough, and that the scene immediately following with Fitz Urse would show who was pursuing her. Entrances, when well handled, therefore, must be in character, prepared for, and properly motivated.
Exits are just as important as entrances. The exit of Captain Nat inShore Acreshas already been mentioned under pantomime. Mark the significance of the exit of Hamlet in the ghost scene, as he goes with sword held out before him. The final exit of Iris in Pinero’s play is symbolic of her passing into the outer and under world.
Maldonado.You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. (She remains motionless, as if stricken.) I’ve nothing further to say.(A slight shiver runs through her frame and she resumes her walk. At the door, she feels blindly for the handle; finding it, she opens the door narrowly and passes out.)
Maldonado.You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. (She remains motionless, as if stricken.) I’ve nothing further to say.
(A slight shiver runs through her frame and she resumes her walk. At the door, she feels blindly for the handle; finding it, she opens the door narrowly and passes out.)
The absurdities in which the ill-managed exit or entrance may land us, Lessing shows amusingly:
Maffei often does not motivate the exits and entrances of his personages: Voltaire often motivates them falsely, which is far worse. It is not enough that a person says why he comes on, we ought also to perceive by the connection that he must therefore come. It is not enough that he say why he goes off, we ought to see subsequently that he went on that account. Else, that which the poet places in his mouth is mere excuse and no cause. When, forexample, Eurykles goes off in the third scene of the second act, in order, as he says, to assemble the friends of the queen, we ought to hear afterwards about these friends and their assemblage. As, however, we hear nothing of the kind, his assertion is a schoolboy “Peto veniam exeundi,” the first falsehood that occurs to the boy. He does not go off in order to do what he says; but in order to return a few lines on as the bearer of news which the poet did not know how to impart by means of any other person. Voltaire treats the ends of acts yet more clumsily. At the close of the third act, Polyphontes says to Merope that the altar awaits her, that all is ready for the solemnizing of their marriage and he exits with a “Venez, Madame.” But Madame does not come, but goes off into another coulisse with an exclamation, whereupon Polyphontes opens the fourth act, and instead of expressing his annoyance that the queen has not followed him into the temple (for he had been in error, there was still time for the wedding) he talks with his Erox about matters he should not ventilate here, that are more fitting conversation for his own house, his own rooms. Then the fourth act closes—exactly like the third. Polyphontes again summons the queen into the temple, Merope herself exclaims, “Courons nous vers le temple où m’attend mon outrage”; and says to the chief priests who come to conduct her thither, “Vous venez à l’autel entrainer la victime.” Consequently we must expect them inside the temple at the beginning of the fifth act, or are they already back again? Neither; good things will take time. Polyphontes has forgotten something and comes back again and sends the queen back again. Excellent! Between the third and fourth, between the fourth and fifth acts nothing occurs that should, and indeed, nothing occurs at all, and the third and fourth acts only close in order that the fourth and fifth may begin.50
Maffei often does not motivate the exits and entrances of his personages: Voltaire often motivates them falsely, which is far worse. It is not enough that a person says why he comes on, we ought also to perceive by the connection that he must therefore come. It is not enough that he say why he goes off, we ought to see subsequently that he went on that account. Else, that which the poet places in his mouth is mere excuse and no cause. When, forexample, Eurykles goes off in the third scene of the second act, in order, as he says, to assemble the friends of the queen, we ought to hear afterwards about these friends and their assemblage. As, however, we hear nothing of the kind, his assertion is a schoolboy “Peto veniam exeundi,” the first falsehood that occurs to the boy. He does not go off in order to do what he says; but in order to return a few lines on as the bearer of news which the poet did not know how to impart by means of any other person. Voltaire treats the ends of acts yet more clumsily. At the close of the third act, Polyphontes says to Merope that the altar awaits her, that all is ready for the solemnizing of their marriage and he exits with a “Venez, Madame.” But Madame does not come, but goes off into another coulisse with an exclamation, whereupon Polyphontes opens the fourth act, and instead of expressing his annoyance that the queen has not followed him into the temple (for he had been in error, there was still time for the wedding) he talks with his Erox about matters he should not ventilate here, that are more fitting conversation for his own house, his own rooms. Then the fourth act closes—exactly like the third. Polyphontes again summons the queen into the temple, Merope herself exclaims, “Courons nous vers le temple où m’attend mon outrage”; and says to the chief priests who come to conduct her thither, “Vous venez à l’autel entrainer la victime.” Consequently we must expect them inside the temple at the beginning of the fifth act, or are they already back again? Neither; good things will take time. Polyphontes has forgotten something and comes back again and sends the queen back again. Excellent! Between the third and fourth, between the fourth and fifth acts nothing occurs that should, and indeed, nothing occurs at all, and the third and fourth acts only close in order that the fourth and fifth may begin.50
At the end of Act II ofThe Princess and the Butterflythe exits are as important as any part of the text. Note particularly the last.
Denstroude.(On the steps, pausing and looking back.) You cycle at Battersea tomorrow morning?Mrs. St. Roche.It’s extremely unlikely.Denstroude.I shall be there at ten. Don’t be later.(He kisses his hand to her and departs. She stands quite still, thinking. A Servant enters, crosses to the billiard-room, and proceeds to cover up the billiard-table. She walks slowly to the ottoman and sits, looking into the fire. St. Roche reappears and comes down the steps. She does not turn her head. He goes to the table and mixes some spirits and water.)St. Roche.(As he mixes the drink.) What d’ye think—what d’ye think that silly, infatuated feller’s goin’ to do?Mrs. St. Roche.Demailly?St. Roche.(Glancing toward the billiard-room.) Sssh! (With a nod.)Um!(He comes to her, bringing her the tumbler in which he has mixed the drink.)Mrs. St. Roche.(Taking the tumbler, her eyes never meeting his.) Well, what is he going to do?St. Roche.Marry that low woman.Mrs. St. Roche.(Callously.) Great heavens! the fool!St. Roche.Yes. Shockin’, ain’t it?Mrs. St. Roche.(Putting the glass to her lips, with a languid air.) She has blinded him, I suppose, with some story or other; or he would hardly have committed the outrage, tonight, of presenting her to me.St. Roche.(Returning to the table and mixing a drink for himself.) That’s it—blinded him. And yet it’s almost incomprehensible how a feller can be as blind as all that. Why, the very man-in-the-street—(The Servant switches off the lights in the billiard-room, and comes out from the room.)St. Roche.(To the man.) I’ll switch off the lights here.(The Servant goes out.)Mrs. St. Roche.Well, you had better let him know that he mustn’t attempt to come to this house again.St. Roche.Poor chap!Mrs. St. Roche.We can’t be associated, however remotely, with such a disgraceful connection.St. Roche.Of course, of course. (Coming down, glass in hand.) I could tell you things I’ve heard about this Mrs. Ware—Mrs. St. Roche.(Rising.) Please don’t! I want no details concerning a person of her world.(She ascends the steps slowly, carrying her cloak and her tumbler—without looking back.)Goodnight.St. Roche.(With a wistful glance at her.) Goodnight.(She departs. He stands for a little while contemplating space; then he switches off the light. The room remains partially illumined by the fire-glow. He turns to examine the fire. Apparently assured on that point, he walks, still carrying his tumbler, to the door which is in the centre wall; where, uttering a little sigh as he opens the door, he disappears.)51
Denstroude.(On the steps, pausing and looking back.) You cycle at Battersea tomorrow morning?
Mrs. St. Roche.It’s extremely unlikely.
Denstroude.I shall be there at ten. Don’t be later.
(He kisses his hand to her and departs. She stands quite still, thinking. A Servant enters, crosses to the billiard-room, and proceeds to cover up the billiard-table. She walks slowly to the ottoman and sits, looking into the fire. St. Roche reappears and comes down the steps. She does not turn her head. He goes to the table and mixes some spirits and water.)
St. Roche.(As he mixes the drink.) What d’ye think—what d’ye think that silly, infatuated feller’s goin’ to do?
Mrs. St. Roche.Demailly?
St. Roche.(Glancing toward the billiard-room.) Sssh! (With a nod.)Um!
(He comes to her, bringing her the tumbler in which he has mixed the drink.)
Mrs. St. Roche.(Taking the tumbler, her eyes never meeting his.) Well, what is he going to do?
St. Roche.Marry that low woman.
Mrs. St. Roche.(Callously.) Great heavens! the fool!
St. Roche.Yes. Shockin’, ain’t it?
Mrs. St. Roche.(Putting the glass to her lips, with a languid air.) She has blinded him, I suppose, with some story or other; or he would hardly have committed the outrage, tonight, of presenting her to me.
St. Roche.(Returning to the table and mixing a drink for himself.) That’s it—blinded him. And yet it’s almost incomprehensible how a feller can be as blind as all that. Why, the very man-in-the-street—
(The Servant switches off the lights in the billiard-room, and comes out from the room.)
St. Roche.(To the man.) I’ll switch off the lights here.
(The Servant goes out.)
Mrs. St. Roche.Well, you had better let him know that he mustn’t attempt to come to this house again.
St. Roche.Poor chap!
Mrs. St. Roche.We can’t be associated, however remotely, with such a disgraceful connection.
St. Roche.Of course, of course. (Coming down, glass in hand.) I could tell you things I’ve heard about this Mrs. Ware—
Mrs. St. Roche.(Rising.) Please don’t! I want no details concerning a person of her world.
(She ascends the steps slowly, carrying her cloak and her tumbler—without looking back.)
Goodnight.
St. Roche.(With a wistful glance at her.) Goodnight.
(She departs. He stands for a little while contemplating space; then he switches off the light. The room remains partially illumined by the fire-glow. He turns to examine the fire. Apparently assured on that point, he walks, still carrying his tumbler, to the door which is in the centre wall; where, uttering a little sigh as he opens the door, he disappears.)51
The passages quoted (pp. 268-275) fromThe Troublesome Reign of King Johnand Shakespeare’s play show crude and perfect handling of exits and entrances. In the old play the murderers merely enter and go out again as ordered. In Shakespeare they enter at the moment which makes them the climactic touch in the terror of Arthur and the audience. When Hubert orders them to go, it is the first sign that he may relent.
The inexperienced dramatist is almost always wasteful in the number of characters used. An adaptation of a Spanish story called for a cast of about a dozen important figures and some sixty supernumeraries as soldiers and peasants—all this in a one-act play. It meant very little labor to cut the soldiery to a few officers and some privates, and the peasantry to some six or eight people. Ultimately, the total cast did not contain a quarter as many people as the original, yet nothing important had been lost. Rewriting a play often is, and should be, a “slaughter of the innocents.” Don’t use unneeded people. You must provide them with dialogue, and as the play goes on, some justification for existence. The manager must pay them salaries. First of all, get rid of entirely unnecessary people. They usually hold over from the story as originally heard or read. Forinstance, a recent adaptation used from the original story a blinking dwarf sitting silent, forever watchful, at a table in the restaurant where the story was placed. His smile simply emphasized the cynicism of the story enacted in his sight. He was in no way necessary to the telling of the story,—and so he disappeared in the final form of the play. One is constantly tempted to bring in some figure for purposes of easy exposition only to find that one must either bind him in with the story as it develops, or drop him out of sight the moment his expository work is done. The trouble with such figures is that they are likely to give false clues, stirring a hearer to interest in them or their apparent relation to the story, when nothing is to come of one or the other. Usually a little patience and ingenuity will give this needed exposition to some character or characters essential to the plot. In a recent play of Breton life during the Chouan War, an attractive peasant boy was introduced in order to plant in the minds of the audience certain ideas as to immediate conditions of the war, and the relation of the woman to whom he is talking with the Prince, his leader. Wishing to show the devotion of the Prince’s followers, the author had the boy talk much of his own loyalty to his leader. Just there was the false clue. Every auditor expected his loyalty to lead to something later in the play; but the youth, having told his tale, disappeared for good. It took very little time to discover that all the young man told could perfectly well be made clear in one preceding scene between the woman and her son, and two of the other scenes immediately following, between the woman and the young Prince. It is these unnecessary figures who are largely responsible for the scenes already spoken of in chapter IV which clog the movement of a play.
Sometimes, too, similar figures at different places in a play do exactly or nearly the same work,—servants forinstance. When it does not interfere with verisimilitude, give the tasks to one person rather than two, or two rather than three. That is, use only people absolutely needed. Sometimes these carelessly introduced figures stray through a play like an unquiet spirit. InThe Road to Happinessone character, Porter, was of so little importance that most of the time, when on the stage, he had nothing to do. When really acting, it was largely in pantomime, or with speech that, not effectively, reiterated what some one else was saying. He existed really for two scenes. In the first act he might just as well have been talked about as shown, and in the second act what he did could well have been done by one of the other important characters. When any character in a play shows a tendency not to get into the action readily; when for long periods he is easily overlooked by the author; it is time to consider whether he should not be given thecoup de grâce.
Today we are fortunately departing from an idea somewhat prevalent in the middle of the nineteenth century, that a figure once introduced into a play should be kept there until the final curtain. That is exalting technique, and the so-called “well-made” play, above truth to life. When a character is doing needed work, use him when and as long as he would appear in real life, and no longer. Use each character for a purpose, and when it is fulfilled, drop him. Naturalness and theatrical economy are the two tests: the greater of these is naturalness.
All that has been said comes to this. Know your characters so intimately that you can move, think, and feel with them, supplied by them with far more material than you can use in any one play. See that they are properly introduced to the audience; that they are clearly and convincingly presented. Do not forget the importance of entrances and exits. Cut out all unnecessary figures.
There follow three bits of characterization from very different types of play: Sir John Vanbrugh’sThe Provoked Wife, a comedy of manners; G. B. Shaw’s farce-comedy,You Never Can Tell; and Eugène Brieux’s thesis play,The Cradle. The first scene aims merely to present vividly the riotous and drunken squire. The second, while characterizing William, aims to illustrate that contentment lies in doing that to which one is accustomed, under accustomed conditions. The third not only characterizes; it shows that no law of man can wholly give a woman to a second husband when common anxiety with the first husband for the child of their marriage draws them together. Note in all three the use of action as compared with description or analysis; the connotative value of the phrasings; the succint sureness.
THE PROVOKED WIFEACT IV. SCENE,Covent GardenEnter Lord Rake, Sir John, &c., with Swords drawnLord Rake.Is the Dog dead?Bully.No, damn him, I heard him wheeze.Lord Rake.How the Witch his Wife howl’d!Bully.Ay, she’ll alarm the Watch presently.Lord Rake.Appear, Knight, then; come you have a good Cause to fight for, there’s a Man murder’d.Sir John.Is there? Then let his Ghost be satisfy’d, for I’ll sacrifice a Constable to it presently, and burn his body upon his wooden Chair.Enter a Taylor, with a Bundle under his ArmBully.How now; what have we here? a Thief.Taylor.No, an’t please you, I’m no Thief.Lord Rake.That we’ll see presently: Here; let the General examine him.Sir John.Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I’ll lay a Hundred Pound I find him guilty in spite of his Teeth—for he looks—like a—sneaking Rascal.Come, Sirrah, without Equivocation or mental Reservation, tellme of what opinion you are, and what Calling; for by them—I shall guess at your Morals.Taylor.An’t please you, I’m a Dissenting Journyman Taylor.Sir John.Then, Sirrah, you love Lying by your Religion, and Theft by your Trade: And so, that your Punishment may be suitable to your Crimes—I’ll have you first gagg’d—and then hang’d.Taylor.Pray, good worthy Gentlemen, don’t abuse me; indeed I’m an honest Man, and a good Workman, tho I say it, that shou’d not say it.Sir John.No words, Sirrah, but attend your Fate.Lord Rake.Let me see what’s in that Bundle.Taylor.An’t please you, it is the Doctor of the Parish’s Gown.Lord Rake.The Doctor’s Gown!—Hark you, Knight, you won’t stick at abusing the Clergy, will you?Sir John.No. I’m drunk, and I’ll abuse anything—but my wife; and her I name—with Reverence.Lord Rake.Then you shall wear this Gown, whilst you charge the Watch: That tho the Blows fall upon you, the Scandal may light upon the Church.Sir John.A generous Design—by all the Gods—give it me.(Takes the Gown, and puts it on.)Taylor.O dear Gentlemen, I shall be quite undone, if you take the Gown.Sir John.Retire, Sirrah; and since you carry off your Skin—go home, and be happy.Taylor.(Pausing.) I think I had e’en as good follow the Gentleman’s friendly Advice; for if I dispute any longer, who knows but the Whim may take him to case me? These Courtiers are fuller of Tricks than they are of Money; they’ll sooner cut a Man’s Throat, than pay his Bill.(Exit Taylor.)Sir John.So, how d’ye like my Shapes now?Lord Rake.This will do to a Miracle; he looks like a Bishop going to the Holy War. But to your Arms, Gentlemen, the Enemy appears.Enter Constable and WatchWatchman.Stand! Who goes there? Come before the Constable.Sir John.The Constable’s a Rascal—and you are the Son of a Whore.Watchman.A good civil answer for a Parson, truly!Constable.Methinks, Sir, a Man of your Coat might set a better Example.Sir John.Sirrah, I’ll make you know—there are Men of my Coat can set as bad Examples—as you can, you Dog you.(Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake &c. run away.)Constable.So, we have secur’d the Parson however.Sir John.Blood, and Blood—and Blood.Watchman.Lord have mercy upon us! How the wicked Wretch raves of Blood. I’ll warrant he has been murdering some body tonight.Sir John.Sirrah, there’s nothing got by Murder but a Halter: My Talent lies towards Drunkenness and Simony.Watchman.Why that now was spoke like a Man of Parts, Neighbours; it’s pity he should be so disguis’d.Sir John.You lye—I’m not disguis’d; for I am drunk bare-fac’d.Watchman.Look you here again—This is a mad Parson, Mr. Constable; I’ll lay a Pot of Ale upon’s Head, he’s a good Preacher.Constable.Come, Sir, out of Respect to your Calling, I shan’t put you into the Round house; but we must secure you in our Drawing-Room till Morning, that you may do no Mischief. So, come along.Sir John.You may put me where you will, Sirrah, now you have overcome me—But if I can’t do Mischief, I’ll think of Mischief—in spite of your Teeth, you Dog you.(Exeunt.)52YOU NEVER CAN TELLACT IVWaiter. (Entering anxiously through the window.) Beg pardon, ma’am; but can you tell me what became of that—(He recognizes Bohun, and loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly, but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Was—was it you, sir?Bohun.(Ruthlessly.) It was I.Waiter.(Brokenly.) Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) Youin a false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. A little giddiness—Bohun.(Commandingly.) You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you that he is my father.Waiter.(Heartbroken.) Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! What will they think of you?Mrs. Clandon.(Going to the waiter’s chair in her kindest manner.) I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. (Bohun bows gravely.)Waiter.(Shaking his head.) Oh, no, ma’am. It’s very kind of you—very ladylike and affable indeed, ma’am; but I should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the gentleman’s father, ma’am: it is only the accident of birth, after all, ma’am. (He gets up feebly.) You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, having interrupted your business.(He begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.)(Bohun.) One moment. (The waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) My father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon?Mrs. Clandon.Yes, most of it, I think.Bohun.In that case we shall want him.Waiter.(Pleading.) I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir.Bohun.(Inexorably.) We shall want you.Mrs. Clandon.(Politely.) Sit down, won’t you?Waiter.(Earnestly.) Oh, if you please, ma’am, I really must draw the line at sitting down. I couldn’t let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma’am: thank you, I am sure, all the same.(He looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.)Gloria.Don’t let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care of us. I should like a cup of coffee.Waiter.(Brightening perceptibly.) Coffee, miss? (He gives a little gasp of hope.) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (To Mrs. Clandon, timidly, but expectantly.) Anything for you, ma’am?Mrs. Clandon.Er—oh, yes: it’s so hot, I think we might have a jug of claret cup.Waiter.(Beaming.) Claret cup, ma’am! Certainly ma’am.Gloria.Oh, well, I’ll have claret cup instead of coffee. Put some cucumber in it.Waiter.(Delightedly.) Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (To Bohun.) Anything special for you, sir? You don’t like cucumber, sir.Bohun.If Mrs. Clandon will allow me—syphon, Scotch.Waiter.Right, sir. (To Crampton.) Irish for you, sir, I think sir? (Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at Valentine.)Valentine.I like the cucumber.Waiter.Right, sir. (Summing up.) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch, and one Irish?Mrs. Clandon.I think that’s right.Waiter.(Perfectly happy.) Right ma’am. Directly, ma’am. Thank you.(He ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top in a little over two minutes.)53THE CRADLE (LE BERCEAU)ACT I. SCENE 9
THE PROVOKED WIFE
ACT IV. SCENE,Covent Garden
Enter Lord Rake, Sir John, &c., with Swords drawn
Lord Rake.Is the Dog dead?
Bully.No, damn him, I heard him wheeze.
Lord Rake.How the Witch his Wife howl’d!
Bully.Ay, she’ll alarm the Watch presently.
Lord Rake.Appear, Knight, then; come you have a good Cause to fight for, there’s a Man murder’d.
Sir John.Is there? Then let his Ghost be satisfy’d, for I’ll sacrifice a Constable to it presently, and burn his body upon his wooden Chair.
Enter a Taylor, with a Bundle under his Arm
Bully.How now; what have we here? a Thief.
Taylor.No, an’t please you, I’m no Thief.
Lord Rake.That we’ll see presently: Here; let the General examine him.
Sir John.Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I’ll lay a Hundred Pound I find him guilty in spite of his Teeth—for he looks—like a—sneaking Rascal.
Come, Sirrah, without Equivocation or mental Reservation, tellme of what opinion you are, and what Calling; for by them—I shall guess at your Morals.
Taylor.An’t please you, I’m a Dissenting Journyman Taylor.
Sir John.Then, Sirrah, you love Lying by your Religion, and Theft by your Trade: And so, that your Punishment may be suitable to your Crimes—I’ll have you first gagg’d—and then hang’d.
Taylor.Pray, good worthy Gentlemen, don’t abuse me; indeed I’m an honest Man, and a good Workman, tho I say it, that shou’d not say it.
Sir John.No words, Sirrah, but attend your Fate.
Lord Rake.Let me see what’s in that Bundle.
Taylor.An’t please you, it is the Doctor of the Parish’s Gown.
Lord Rake.The Doctor’s Gown!—Hark you, Knight, you won’t stick at abusing the Clergy, will you?
Sir John.No. I’m drunk, and I’ll abuse anything—but my wife; and her I name—with Reverence.
Lord Rake.Then you shall wear this Gown, whilst you charge the Watch: That tho the Blows fall upon you, the Scandal may light upon the Church.
Sir John.A generous Design—by all the Gods—give it me.
(Takes the Gown, and puts it on.)
Taylor.O dear Gentlemen, I shall be quite undone, if you take the Gown.
Sir John.Retire, Sirrah; and since you carry off your Skin—go home, and be happy.
Taylor.(Pausing.) I think I had e’en as good follow the Gentleman’s friendly Advice; for if I dispute any longer, who knows but the Whim may take him to case me? These Courtiers are fuller of Tricks than they are of Money; they’ll sooner cut a Man’s Throat, than pay his Bill.
(Exit Taylor.)
Sir John.So, how d’ye like my Shapes now?
Lord Rake.This will do to a Miracle; he looks like a Bishop going to the Holy War. But to your Arms, Gentlemen, the Enemy appears.
Enter Constable and Watch
Watchman.Stand! Who goes there? Come before the Constable.
Sir John.The Constable’s a Rascal—and you are the Son of a Whore.
Watchman.A good civil answer for a Parson, truly!
Constable.Methinks, Sir, a Man of your Coat might set a better Example.
Sir John.Sirrah, I’ll make you know—there are Men of my Coat can set as bad Examples—as you can, you Dog you.
(Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake &c. run away.)
Constable.So, we have secur’d the Parson however.
Sir John.Blood, and Blood—and Blood.
Watchman.Lord have mercy upon us! How the wicked Wretch raves of Blood. I’ll warrant he has been murdering some body tonight.
Sir John.Sirrah, there’s nothing got by Murder but a Halter: My Talent lies towards Drunkenness and Simony.
Watchman.Why that now was spoke like a Man of Parts, Neighbours; it’s pity he should be so disguis’d.
Sir John.You lye—I’m not disguis’d; for I am drunk bare-fac’d.
Watchman.Look you here again—This is a mad Parson, Mr. Constable; I’ll lay a Pot of Ale upon’s Head, he’s a good Preacher.
Constable.Come, Sir, out of Respect to your Calling, I shan’t put you into the Round house; but we must secure you in our Drawing-Room till Morning, that you may do no Mischief. So, come along.
Sir John.You may put me where you will, Sirrah, now you have overcome me—But if I can’t do Mischief, I’ll think of Mischief—in spite of your Teeth, you Dog you.
(Exeunt.)52
YOU NEVER CAN TELL
ACT IV
Waiter. (Entering anxiously through the window.) Beg pardon, ma’am; but can you tell me what became of that—(He recognizes Bohun, and loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly, but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Was—was it you, sir?
Bohun.(Ruthlessly.) It was I.
Waiter.(Brokenly.) Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) Youin a false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. A little giddiness—
Bohun.(Commandingly.) You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you that he is my father.
Waiter.(Heartbroken.) Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! What will they think of you?
Mrs. Clandon.(Going to the waiter’s chair in her kindest manner.) I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. (Bohun bows gravely.)
Waiter.(Shaking his head.) Oh, no, ma’am. It’s very kind of you—very ladylike and affable indeed, ma’am; but I should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the gentleman’s father, ma’am: it is only the accident of birth, after all, ma’am. (He gets up feebly.) You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, having interrupted your business.
(He begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.)
(Bohun.) One moment. (The waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) My father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon?
Mrs. Clandon.Yes, most of it, I think.
Bohun.In that case we shall want him.
Waiter.(Pleading.) I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir.
Bohun.(Inexorably.) We shall want you.
Mrs. Clandon.(Politely.) Sit down, won’t you?
Waiter.(Earnestly.) Oh, if you please, ma’am, I really must draw the line at sitting down. I couldn’t let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma’am: thank you, I am sure, all the same.
(He looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.)
Gloria.Don’t let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care of us. I should like a cup of coffee.
Waiter.(Brightening perceptibly.) Coffee, miss? (He gives a little gasp of hope.) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (To Mrs. Clandon, timidly, but expectantly.) Anything for you, ma’am?
Mrs. Clandon.Er—oh, yes: it’s so hot, I think we might have a jug of claret cup.
Waiter.(Beaming.) Claret cup, ma’am! Certainly ma’am.
Gloria.Oh, well, I’ll have claret cup instead of coffee. Put some cucumber in it.
Waiter.(Delightedly.) Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (To Bohun.) Anything special for you, sir? You don’t like cucumber, sir.
Bohun.If Mrs. Clandon will allow me—syphon, Scotch.
Waiter.Right, sir. (To Crampton.) Irish for you, sir, I think sir? (Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at Valentine.)
Valentine.I like the cucumber.
Waiter.Right, sir. (Summing up.) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch, and one Irish?
Mrs. Clandon.I think that’s right.
Waiter.(Perfectly happy.) Right ma’am. Directly, ma’am. Thank you.
(He ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top in a little over two minutes.)53
THE CRADLE (LE BERCEAU)
ACT I. SCENE 9
[Laurence and Raymond, her first husband, meet by chance by the sick bed of their little boy, M. de Girieu, the second husband, who is madly jealous of Raymond, and of Laurence’s love for her boy, has just refused Raymond’s request to be allowed to watch by the child till he is out of danger. Resting confidently on the control over Laurence and the boy which the laws give him, M. de Girieu is sure he can keep his wife and her former husband apart.]
Long silent scene. The door of little Julien’s room opens softly. Laurence appears with a paper in her hand. The two men separate, watching her intently. She looks out for a long time, then shuts the door, taking every precaution not to make a noise. After a gesture of profound grief, she comes forward, deeply moved, but tearless. She makes no more gestures. Her face is grave. Very simply she goes straight to Raymond.Raymond.(Very simply to Laurence.) Well?Laurence.(In the same manner.) He has just dropped asleep.Ray.The fever?Lau.Constant.Ray.Has the temperature been taken?Lau.Yes.Ray.How much?Lau.Thirty-nine.Ray.The cough?Lau.Incessant. He breathes with difficulty.Ray.His face is flushed?Lau.Yes.Ray.The doctor gave you a prescription?Lau.I came to show it to you. I don’t thoroughly understand this.(They are close to each other, examining the prescription which Raymond holds.)Ray.(Reading.) “Keep an even temperature in the sick room.”Lau.Yes.Ray.“Wrap the limbs in cotton wool, and cover that with oiled silk.” I am going to do that myself as soon as he wakes. Tell them to warn me.Lau.What ought he to have to drink? I forgot to ask that, and he is thirsty.Ray.Mallow.Lau.I’m sure he doesn’t like it.Ray.Yes, yes. You remember when he had the measles.Lau.Yes, yes. How anxious we were then, too!Ray.He drank it willingly. You remember perfectly?Lau.Yes, of course I remember. Some mallow then. Let us read the prescription again. I haven’t forgotten anything? Mustard plasters. The cotton wool, you will attend to that. And I will go have the drink made. “In addition—every hour—a coffee-spoonful of the following medicine.”(The curtain falls slowly as she continues to read. M. de Girieu has gone out slowly during the last words.)54
Long silent scene. The door of little Julien’s room opens softly. Laurence appears with a paper in her hand. The two men separate, watching her intently. She looks out for a long time, then shuts the door, taking every precaution not to make a noise. After a gesture of profound grief, she comes forward, deeply moved, but tearless. She makes no more gestures. Her face is grave. Very simply she goes straight to Raymond.
Raymond.(Very simply to Laurence.) Well?
Laurence.(In the same manner.) He has just dropped asleep.
Ray.The fever?
Lau.Constant.
Ray.Has the temperature been taken?
Lau.Yes.
Ray.How much?
Lau.Thirty-nine.
Ray.The cough?
Lau.Incessant. He breathes with difficulty.
Ray.His face is flushed?
Lau.Yes.
Ray.The doctor gave you a prescription?
Lau.I came to show it to you. I don’t thoroughly understand this.
(They are close to each other, examining the prescription which Raymond holds.)
Ray.(Reading.) “Keep an even temperature in the sick room.”
Lau.Yes.
Ray.“Wrap the limbs in cotton wool, and cover that with oiled silk.” I am going to do that myself as soon as he wakes. Tell them to warn me.
Lau.What ought he to have to drink? I forgot to ask that, and he is thirsty.
Ray.Mallow.
Lau.I’m sure he doesn’t like it.
Ray.Yes, yes. You remember when he had the measles.
Lau.Yes, yes. How anxious we were then, too!
Ray.He drank it willingly. You remember perfectly?
Lau.Yes, of course I remember. Some mallow then. Let us read the prescription again. I haven’t forgotten anything? Mustard plasters. The cotton wool, you will attend to that. And I will go have the drink made. “In addition—every hour—a coffee-spoonful of the following medicine.”
(The curtain falls slowly as she continues to read. M. de Girieu has gone out slowly during the last words.)54
Finally, contrast the treatment by John Webster and Robert Browning of the same dramatic situation. Which is the clearer, which depends more on illustrative action?
Enter AntonioDuchess.I sent for you; sit downe:Take pen and incke, and write: are you ready?Antonio.Yes.Duch.What did I say?Ant.That I should write some-what.Duch.Oh, I remember:After this triumph and this large expence,It’s fit (like thrifty husbands) we enquire,What’s laid up for tomorrow.Ant.So please your beauteous excellence.Duch.Beauteous?Indeed I thank you: I look yong for your sake.You have tane my cares upon you.Ant.I’le fetch your graceThe particulars of your revinew and expence.Duch.Oh, you are an upright treasurer: but you mistooke,For when I said I meant to make enquiryWhat’s layd up for tomorrow, I did meaneWhat’s layd up yonder for me.Ant.Where?Duch.In heaven.I am making my will (as ’tis fit princes shouldIn perfect memory), and I pray sir, tell meWere not one better make it smiling, thus,Then in deepe groanes, and terrible ghastly lookes,As if the guifts we parted with procur’dThat violent distraction?Ant.Oh, much better.Duch.If I had a husband now, this care were quit:But I intend to make you over-seer.What good deede shall we first remember? say.Ant.Begin with that first good deede began i’ th’ world,After man’s creation, the sacrament of marriage.I’ld have you first provide for a good husband:Give him all.Duch.All?Ant.Yes, your excellent selfe.Duch.In a winding sheete?Ant.In a cople.Duch.St. Winifrid, that were a strange will!Ant.’Twere strange if there were no will in youTo marry againe.Duch.What doe you thinke of marriage?Ant.I take’t, as those that deny purgatory,It locally containes or heaven or hell;There’s no third place in’t.Duch.How doe you affect it?Ant.My banishment, feeding my mellancholly,Would often reason thus—Duch.Pray let’s heare it.Ant.Say a man never marry, nor have children,What takes that from him? onely the bare nameOf being a father, or the weake delightTo see the little wanton ride a cock-horseUpon a painted sticke, or heare him chatterLike a taught starling.Duch.Fye, fie, what’s all this?One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to’t.They say ’tis very soveraigne; ’twas my wedding-ring,And I did vow never to part with it,But to my second husband.Ant.You have parted with it now.Duch.Yes, to helpe your eye-sight.Ant.You have made me starke blind.Duch.How?Ant.There is a sawcy and ambitious divellIs dauncing in this circle.Duch.Remoove him.Ant.How?Duch.There needs small conjuration, when your fingerMay doe it: thus, is it fit?Ant.What sayd you? (He kneeles.)Duch.Sir,This goodly roofe of yours is too low built;I cannot stand upright in’t, nor discourse,Without I raise it higher: raise yourselfe,Or if you please, my hand to help you: so.Ant.Ambition, madam, is a great man’s madnes,That is not kept in chaines and close-pentoomes,But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girtWith the wild noyce of pratling visitants,Which makes it lunatique, beyond all cure.Conceive not I am so stupid but I aymeWhereto your favours tend: but he’s a fooleThat (being a cold) would thrust his hands i’ th’ fireTo warme them.Duch.So, now the ground’s broake,You may discover what a wealthy mineI make you lord of.Ant.Oh my unworthiness!Duch.You were ill to sell your selfe:This darkning of your worth is not like thatWhich trades-men use i’ th’ city; their false lightesAre to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,If you will know where breathes a compleat man(I speake it without flattery), turne your eyes,And progresse through your selfe.Ant.Were there nor heaven, nor hell,I should be honest: I have long serv’d vertue,And nev’r tane wages of her.Duch.Now she paies it.The misery of us that are borne great,We are forc’d to woe, because none dare woe us:And as a tyrant doubles with his words,And fearefully equivocates, so weAre forc’d to expresse our violent passionsIn ridles and in dreames, and leave the pathOf simple vertue, which was never madeTo seeme the thing it is not. Goe, go bragYou have left me heartlesse; mine is in your bosom:I hope ’twill multiply love there. You doe tremble:Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh,To feare, more then to love me. Sir, be confident,What is’t distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;’Tis not the figure cut in allablasterKneeles at my husbands tombe. Awake, awake, man,I do here put off all vaine ceremony,And onely doe appeare to you a yong widowThat claimes you for her husband, and like a widow,I use but halfe a blush in’t.Ant.Truth speake for me,I will remaine the constant sanctuaryOf your good name.55
Enter Antonio
Duchess.I sent for you; sit downe:
Take pen and incke, and write: are you ready?
Antonio.Yes.
Duch.What did I say?
Ant.That I should write some-what.
Duch.Oh, I remember:
After this triumph and this large expence,
It’s fit (like thrifty husbands) we enquire,
What’s laid up for tomorrow.
Ant.So please your beauteous excellence.
Duch.Beauteous?
Indeed I thank you: I look yong for your sake.
You have tane my cares upon you.
Ant.I’le fetch your grace
The particulars of your revinew and expence.
Duch.Oh, you are an upright treasurer: but you mistooke,
For when I said I meant to make enquiry
What’s layd up for tomorrow, I did meane
What’s layd up yonder for me.
Ant.Where?
Duch.In heaven.
I am making my will (as ’tis fit princes should
In perfect memory), and I pray sir, tell me
Were not one better make it smiling, thus,
Then in deepe groanes, and terrible ghastly lookes,
As if the guifts we parted with procur’d
That violent distraction?
Ant.Oh, much better.
Duch.If I had a husband now, this care were quit:
But I intend to make you over-seer.
What good deede shall we first remember? say.
Ant.Begin with that first good deede began i’ th’ world,
After man’s creation, the sacrament of marriage.
I’ld have you first provide for a good husband:
Give him all.
Duch.All?
Ant.Yes, your excellent selfe.
Duch.In a winding sheete?
Ant.In a cople.
Duch.St. Winifrid, that were a strange will!
Ant.’Twere strange if there were no will in you
To marry againe.
Duch.What doe you thinke of marriage?
Ant.I take’t, as those that deny purgatory,
It locally containes or heaven or hell;
There’s no third place in’t.
Duch.How doe you affect it?
Ant.My banishment, feeding my mellancholly,
Would often reason thus—
Duch.Pray let’s heare it.
Ant.Say a man never marry, nor have children,
What takes that from him? onely the bare name
Of being a father, or the weake delight
To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse
Upon a painted sticke, or heare him chatter
Like a taught starling.
Duch.Fye, fie, what’s all this?
One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to’t.
They say ’tis very soveraigne; ’twas my wedding-ring,
And I did vow never to part with it,
But to my second husband.
Ant.You have parted with it now.
Duch.Yes, to helpe your eye-sight.
Ant.You have made me starke blind.
Duch.How?
Ant.There is a sawcy and ambitious divell
Is dauncing in this circle.
Duch.Remoove him.
Ant.How?
Duch.There needs small conjuration, when your finger
May doe it: thus, is it fit?
Ant.What sayd you? (He kneeles.)
Duch.Sir,
This goodly roofe of yours is too low built;
I cannot stand upright in’t, nor discourse,
Without I raise it higher: raise yourselfe,
Or if you please, my hand to help you: so.
Ant.Ambition, madam, is a great man’s madnes,
That is not kept in chaines and close-pentoomes,
But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt
With the wild noyce of pratling visitants,
Which makes it lunatique, beyond all cure.
Conceive not I am so stupid but I ayme
Whereto your favours tend: but he’s a foole
That (being a cold) would thrust his hands i’ th’ fire
To warme them.
Duch.So, now the ground’s broake,
You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you lord of.
Ant.Oh my unworthiness!
Duch.You were ill to sell your selfe:
This darkning of your worth is not like that
Which trades-men use i’ th’ city; their false lightes
Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,
If you will know where breathes a compleat man
(I speake it without flattery), turne your eyes,
And progresse through your selfe.
Ant.Were there nor heaven, nor hell,
I should be honest: I have long serv’d vertue,
And nev’r tane wages of her.
Duch.Now she paies it.
The misery of us that are borne great,
We are forc’d to woe, because none dare woe us:
And as a tyrant doubles with his words,
And fearefully equivocates, so we
Are forc’d to expresse our violent passions
In ridles and in dreames, and leave the path
Of simple vertue, which was never made
To seeme the thing it is not. Goe, go brag
You have left me heartlesse; mine is in your bosom:
I hope ’twill multiply love there. You doe tremble:
Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh,
To feare, more then to love me. Sir, be confident,
What is’t distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;
’Tis not the figure cut in allablaster
Kneeles at my husbands tombe. Awake, awake, man,
I do here put off all vaine ceremony,
And onely doe appeare to you a yong widow
That claimes you for her husband, and like a widow,
I use but halfe a blush in’t.
Ant.Truth speake for me,
I will remaine the constant sanctuary
Of your good name.55
This is Browning’s version:
Duchess.Say what you did through her, and she through you—The praises of her beauty afterward!Will you?Valence.I dare not.Duch.Dare not?Val.She I loveSuspects not such a love in me.Duch.You jest.Val.The lady is above me and away.Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,And the great heart combine to press me low—But all the world calls rank divides us.Duch.Rank!Now grant me patience! Here’s a man declaresOracularly in another’s case—Sees the true value and the false, for them—Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see.You called my court’s love worthless—so it turned:I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,And here you stickle for a piece or two!First—has she seen you?Val.Yes.Duch.She loves you, then.Val.One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night:And all’s at darkest now. Impossible!Duch.We’ll try: you are—so to speak—my subject yet?Val.As ever—to the death.Duch.Obey me, then!Val.I must.Duch.Approach her, and ... no! first of allGet more assurance. “My instructress,” say,“Was great, descended from a line of kings,“And even fair”—(wait why I say this folly)—“She said, of all men, none for eloquence,“Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)“The heart they sprung from,—none deserved like him“Who saved her at her need: if she said this,“Why should not one I love, say?”Val.Heaven—this hope—Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!Duch.Say this!—nor think I bid you cast asideOne touch of all the awe and reverence;Nay, make her proud for once to heart’s contentThat all this wealth of heart and soul’s her own!Think you are all of this,—and, thinking it,... (Obey!)Val.I cannot choose.Duch.Then, kneel to her!(Valence sinks on his knee.)I dream!Val.Have mercy! yours, unto the death,—I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!Duch.Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?Even with you as with the world? I knowThis morning’s service was no vulgar deedWhose motive, once it dares avow itself,Explains all done and infinitely more,So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause.Your service names its true source,—loyalty!The rest’s unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,Rise, sir! The Prince’s words were in debate.Val.(Rising.) Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you!I should rise—I who spoke for Cleves, can speakFor Man—yet tremble now, who stood firm then.I laughed—for ’twas past tears—that Cleves should starveWith all hearts beating loud the infamy,And no tongue daring trust as much to air:Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?Oh, lady, for your sake look on me!On all I am, and have, and do—heart, brain,Body and soul,—this Valence and his gifts!I was proud once: I saw you, and then sank,So that each, magnified a thousand times,Were nothing to you—but such nothingness,Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?What is my own desert? But should your loveHave ... there’s no language helps here ... singled me,—Then—oh, that wild word “then!”—be just to love,In generosity its attribute!Love, since you pleased to love! All’s cleared—a stageFor trial of the question kept so long:Judge you—Is love or vanity the best?You, solve it for the world’s sake—you, speak firstWhat all will shout one day—you, vindicateOur earth and be its angel! All is said.Lady, I offer nothing—I am yours:But, for the cause’ sake, look on me and him,And speak!Duch.I have received the Prince’s message:Say, I prepare my answer!Val.Take me, Cleves! (He withdraws.)56
Duchess.Say what you did through her, and she through you—
The praises of her beauty afterward!
Will you?
Valence.I dare not.
Duch.Dare not?
Val.She I love
Suspects not such a love in me.
Duch.You jest.
Val.The lady is above me and away.
Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,
And the great heart combine to press me low—
But all the world calls rank divides us.
Duch.Rank!
Now grant me patience! Here’s a man declares
Oracularly in another’s case—
Sees the true value and the false, for them—
Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see.
You called my court’s love worthless—so it turned:
I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,
And here you stickle for a piece or two!
First—has she seen you?
Val.Yes.
Duch.She loves you, then.
Val.One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night:
And all’s at darkest now. Impossible!
Duch.We’ll try: you are—so to speak—my subject yet?
Val.As ever—to the death.
Duch.Obey me, then!
Val.I must.
Duch.Approach her, and ... no! first of all
Get more assurance. “My instructress,” say,
“Was great, descended from a line of kings,
“And even fair”—(wait why I say this folly)—
“She said, of all men, none for eloquence,
“Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)
“The heart they sprung from,—none deserved like him
“Who saved her at her need: if she said this,
“Why should not one I love, say?”
Val.Heaven—this hope—
Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!
Duch.Say this!—nor think I bid you cast aside
One touch of all the awe and reverence;
Nay, make her proud for once to heart’s content
That all this wealth of heart and soul’s her own!
Think you are all of this,—and, thinking it,
... (Obey!)
Val.I cannot choose.
Duch.Then, kneel to her!
(Valence sinks on his knee.)
I dream!
Val.Have mercy! yours, unto the death,—
I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!
Duch.Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?
Even with you as with the world? I know
This morning’s service was no vulgar deed
Whose motive, once it dares avow itself,
Explains all done and infinitely more,
So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause.
Your service names its true source,—loyalty!
The rest’s unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,
Rise, sir! The Prince’s words were in debate.
Val.(Rising.) Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you!
I should rise—I who spoke for Cleves, can speak
For Man—yet tremble now, who stood firm then.
I laughed—for ’twas past tears—that Cleves should starve
With all hearts beating loud the infamy,
And no tongue daring trust as much to air:
Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?
Oh, lady, for your sake look on me!
On all I am, and have, and do—heart, brain,
Body and soul,—this Valence and his gifts!
I was proud once: I saw you, and then sank,
So that each, magnified a thousand times,
Were nothing to you—but such nothingness,
Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,
A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?
What is my own desert? But should your love
Have ... there’s no language helps here ... singled me,—
Then—oh, that wild word “then!”—be just to love,
In generosity its attribute!
Love, since you pleased to love! All’s cleared—a stage
For trial of the question kept so long:
Judge you—Is love or vanity the best?
You, solve it for the world’s sake—you, speak first
What all will shout one day—you, vindicate
Our earth and be its angel! All is said.
Lady, I offer nothing—I am yours:
But, for the cause’ sake, look on me and him,
And speak!
Duch.I have received the Prince’s message:
Say, I prepare my answer!
Val.Take me, Cleves! (He withdraws.)56
The formula for the would-be dramatist so far as his people are concerned is this: A play which aims to be real in depicting life must illustrate character by characterization which is in character.
1For all of these exceptHyckescornerseeSpecimens of Pre-Shakespearean Drama. J. M. Manly. 2 vols. Ginn & Co., Boston. ForHyckescornerseeThe Origin of the English Drama, Vol.I. T. Hawkins, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.2Induction, Every Man in His Humour.Mermaid Series or Everyman’s Library.3SeeTwo Loves and a Life,The Ticket of Leave Man,The Lady of Lyons. All published by Samuel French, New York.4Belles-Lettres Series. F. E. Schelling, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.; Mermaid Series, vol.III, or Everyman’s Library.5Mermaid Series, vol.II. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.6Play-Making, pp. 376, 378. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.7Plays. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.8Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.9Some Platitudes Concerning Drama,Atlantic Monthly, December, 1909.10The Devonshire Hamlets, ActI, pp. 9-10.11Dramatic Essays.William Hazlitt.12The Stage in America, pp. 81-82. N. Hapgood. The Macmillan Co.13Some Platitudes Concerning Drama,Atlantic Monthly, December, 1909.14See the quotation from Stevenson, p. 243, as toWeir of Hermiston.15Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 324. Lessing. Bohn ed.16Belle-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.17Mermaid Series for both plays. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.18A New Rehearsal, or Bays the Younger.Charles Gildon. 1714-15.19At the New Theatre, pp. 189-192. W. P. Eaton. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.20Idem, pp. 47-48.21Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 238. Bohn ed.22Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.23P. V. Stock, Paris. Published in translation by J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.24Walter E. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.25Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 437.26Au Public, La Princesse Georges.Calmann Lévy, Paris.27Œuvres, vol.VII, p. 320. Garnier Frères, Paris.28The Theatrical World for 1893, pp. 46-47. W. Archer. Walter Scott, Ltd., London.29The Macmillan Co., New York.30P. V. Stock, Paris.31Selected Dramas of John Dryden, p. 230. Preface,All for Love. G. R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Foresman & Co., New York.32Théâtre, vol.II. Michel Lévy Frères, Paris.33Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.34The Macmillan Co., New York. Act III.35Belles-Lettres Series, p. 373. M.W. Sampson, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston.36Shakespeare’s Library, vol. v, pp. 267-271. W. C. Hazlitt, ed.37Squire of AlsatiaMermaid Series. G. Saintsbury, ed. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.38Mitchell Kennerley, New York.39For illustration of good work, see pp. 25-26, 36, 49, 162, 174, 181, 190.40See for discussion of these, pp. 382-96.41Tartuffe, ActI.Chief European Dramatists.Brander Matthews, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.42ActIII, Scene 2. Belles-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.43ActI. Tr. Gilbert Murray. Geo. Allen & Sons, London.44The Macmillan Co., N.Y.45Mermaid Series. Vol.I, Act.I, Scene 1. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.46Vittoria Corambona, ActIII, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.47See pp. 154-161.48Chief European Dramatists.Brander Matthews, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.49ActI, Scene 1. Mermaid Series, vol.III, of Everyman’s Library.50Hamburg Dramaturgy, pp. 367-368. Bohn ed.51Samuel French, New York; W. Heinemann, London.52Plays.Vol.I. J. Tonson, London, 1730.53Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant.Brentano, New York.54P. V. Stock, Paris.55The Duchess of Malfi, ActI, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.56Colombe’s Birthday, ActIVScene 1. Robert Browning. Belles-Lettres Series A. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
1For all of these exceptHyckescornerseeSpecimens of Pre-Shakespearean Drama. J. M. Manly. 2 vols. Ginn & Co., Boston. ForHyckescornerseeThe Origin of the English Drama, Vol.I. T. Hawkins, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
2Induction, Every Man in His Humour.Mermaid Series or Everyman’s Library.
3SeeTwo Loves and a Life,The Ticket of Leave Man,The Lady of Lyons. All published by Samuel French, New York.
4Belles-Lettres Series. F. E. Schelling, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.; Mermaid Series, vol.III, or Everyman’s Library.
5Mermaid Series, vol.II. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
6Play-Making, pp. 376, 378. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.
7Plays. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
8Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
9Some Platitudes Concerning Drama,Atlantic Monthly, December, 1909.
10The Devonshire Hamlets, ActI, pp. 9-10.
11Dramatic Essays.William Hazlitt.
12The Stage in America, pp. 81-82. N. Hapgood. The Macmillan Co.
13Some Platitudes Concerning Drama,Atlantic Monthly, December, 1909.
14See the quotation from Stevenson, p. 243, as toWeir of Hermiston.
15Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 324. Lessing. Bohn ed.
16Belle-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
17Mermaid Series for both plays. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
18A New Rehearsal, or Bays the Younger.Charles Gildon. 1714-15.
19At the New Theatre, pp. 189-192. W. P. Eaton. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.
20Idem, pp. 47-48.
21Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 238. Bohn ed.
22Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
23P. V. Stock, Paris. Published in translation by J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
24Walter E. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
25Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 437.
26Au Public, La Princesse Georges.Calmann Lévy, Paris.
27Œuvres, vol.VII, p. 320. Garnier Frères, Paris.
28The Theatrical World for 1893, pp. 46-47. W. Archer. Walter Scott, Ltd., London.
29The Macmillan Co., New York.
30P. V. Stock, Paris.
31Selected Dramas of John Dryden, p. 230. Preface,All for Love. G. R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Foresman & Co., New York.
32Théâtre, vol.II. Michel Lévy Frères, Paris.
33Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.
34The Macmillan Co., New York. Act III.
35Belles-Lettres Series, p. 373. M.W. Sampson, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston.
36Shakespeare’s Library, vol. v, pp. 267-271. W. C. Hazlitt, ed.
37Squire of AlsatiaMermaid Series. G. Saintsbury, ed. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
38Mitchell Kennerley, New York.
39For illustration of good work, see pp. 25-26, 36, 49, 162, 174, 181, 190.
40See for discussion of these, pp. 382-96.
41Tartuffe, ActI.Chief European Dramatists.Brander Matthews, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
42ActIII, Scene 2. Belles-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.
43ActI. Tr. Gilbert Murray. Geo. Allen & Sons, London.
44The Macmillan Co., N.Y.
45Mermaid Series. Vol.I, Act.I, Scene 1. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
46Vittoria Corambona, ActIII, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
47See pp. 154-161.
48Chief European Dramatists.Brander Matthews, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
49ActI, Scene 1. Mermaid Series, vol.III, of Everyman’s Library.
50Hamburg Dramaturgy, pp. 367-368. Bohn ed.
51Samuel French, New York; W. Heinemann, London.
52Plays.Vol.I. J. Tonson, London, 1730.
53Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant.Brentano, New York.
54P. V. Stock, Paris.
55The Duchess of Malfi, ActI, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
56Colombe’s Birthday, ActIVScene 1. Robert Browning. Belles-Lettres Series A. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.