(Louder rapping. Trembling with rage and disappointment, Sandiland disappears down the path. Beatrice stands a moment, looking as if waking from a nightmare.)Patty.(Outside, rapping more.) Miss Beatrice, Miss Beatrice! Quick!Beatrice.(Crossing dazedly to door. By it, dully.) Who?Patty.Open quick. Me and Bill.Beat.(Recovering.) Bill!(Quickly she unbolts the door. Patty enters, half supporting Bill. She looks about as if surprised at not seeing any one beside Beatrice. Bill’s clothes are torn and he is covered with dirt. There is blood on his hands where cords have torn the flesh. He looks white and wretched and breathes hard as if from recent running. He should play the whole scene with nervous excitement that suggests a collapse at the end of it.)Bill.(Apologetically, as he stumbles toward Beatrice.) I’ve had a bit of a scrap. (Aside to Beatrice.) Get rid o’ ’er.Beat.You can trust her. What has happened?Bill.Scoutin’ party got me. Corporal raddled my bones terrible when I fought and bit, fearin’ they’d find your message hid in my smock. They near tore it off, damn ’em.Beat.You have the tablets?Bill.No.Beat.They have them? (With relief.) Then they haven’t reached James!Bill.The gentleman? Oh, ay. When we come to Grantford Farm—I were trussed up be’ind a trooper—Corporal called out little Jock o’ Grantford—his fayther’s a bitter Whig—and bade ’im take your message to Goodrest, to keep the gentleman waitin’ till the red coats be come.Beat.(To Patty.) Where’s Grizel?Patty.In the paddock’m. But—Beat.Saddle her at once. I must to Goodrest.(Patty hesitates.)Bill.(Menacingly as he reaches for a candle-stick.) She said—To once.(Unwillingly but quickly, Patty goes out centre.)Bill.(Pointing to the door where the full moon shines in clearly.) Ay, but that ain’t ’id yet.Beat.(As if struck by a sudden idea.) How did you get free?Bill.Gnawed the ropes; slipped off in the long grass. Trooper’s pistol missed me. Stayed in a holler oak I knows till they was tired ’untin’.Beat.Knowing you are loose, they will start at once.Bill.If they ain’t fools. But most folks be. Risk somethin’ on that. (Beatrice is busy with her dress and cloak. He starts to help her but has to support himself by table.) Don’t go through Whitecross Village. There the soldiers be. Take the footpath by Guiting; the bridge be shaky but ’twill hold.(Enter Patty, centre.)Patty.Grizel’s ready’m.Beat.(Nodding her understanding to Bill—to Patty.) Close up here. Look after Bill. Be ready to let me in when the first cock crows. My stirrup! (Goes out swiftly, followed protestingly by Patty. Bill drags himself to right of door watching, and says after a minute.) She’s up!Patty.(Rushing in as there is the sound of swift hoof beats.) She’s gone! (She falls sobbing hysterically by the left side of door.)Bill.(As he holds himself up at right.) The damned brave lady!Curtain.
(Louder rapping. Trembling with rage and disappointment, Sandiland disappears down the path. Beatrice stands a moment, looking as if waking from a nightmare.)
Patty.(Outside, rapping more.) Miss Beatrice, Miss Beatrice! Quick!
Beatrice.(Crossing dazedly to door. By it, dully.) Who?
Patty.Open quick. Me and Bill.
Beat.(Recovering.) Bill!
(Quickly she unbolts the door. Patty enters, half supporting Bill. She looks about as if surprised at not seeing any one beside Beatrice. Bill’s clothes are torn and he is covered with dirt. There is blood on his hands where cords have torn the flesh. He looks white and wretched and breathes hard as if from recent running. He should play the whole scene with nervous excitement that suggests a collapse at the end of it.)
Bill.(Apologetically, as he stumbles toward Beatrice.) I’ve had a bit of a scrap. (Aside to Beatrice.) Get rid o’ ’er.
Beat.You can trust her. What has happened?
Bill.Scoutin’ party got me. Corporal raddled my bones terrible when I fought and bit, fearin’ they’d find your message hid in my smock. They near tore it off, damn ’em.
Beat.You have the tablets?
Bill.No.
Beat.They have them? (With relief.) Then they haven’t reached James!
Bill.The gentleman? Oh, ay. When we come to Grantford Farm—I were trussed up be’ind a trooper—Corporal called out little Jock o’ Grantford—his fayther’s a bitter Whig—and bade ’im take your message to Goodrest, to keep the gentleman waitin’ till the red coats be come.
Beat.(To Patty.) Where’s Grizel?
Patty.In the paddock’m. But—
Beat.Saddle her at once. I must to Goodrest.
(Patty hesitates.)
Bill.(Menacingly as he reaches for a candle-stick.) She said—To once.
(Unwillingly but quickly, Patty goes out centre.)
Bill.(Pointing to the door where the full moon shines in clearly.) Ay, but that ain’t ’id yet.
Beat.(As if struck by a sudden idea.) How did you get free?
Bill.Gnawed the ropes; slipped off in the long grass. Trooper’s pistol missed me. Stayed in a holler oak I knows till they was tired ’untin’.
Beat.Knowing you are loose, they will start at once.
Bill.If they ain’t fools. But most folks be. Risk somethin’ on that. (Beatrice is busy with her dress and cloak. He starts to help her but has to support himself by table.) Don’t go through Whitecross Village. There the soldiers be. Take the footpath by Guiting; the bridge be shaky but ’twill hold.
(Enter Patty, centre.)
Patty.Grizel’s ready’m.
Beat.(Nodding her understanding to Bill—to Patty.) Close up here. Look after Bill. Be ready to let me in when the first cock crows. My stirrup! (Goes out swiftly, followed protestingly by Patty. Bill drags himself to right of door watching, and says after a minute.) She’s up!
Patty.(Rushing in as there is the sound of swift hoof beats.) She’s gone! (She falls sobbing hysterically by the left side of door.)
Bill.(As he holds himself up at right.) The damned brave lady!
Curtain.
First of all, the novelist permits himself an amount of detail which the dramatist must forego because of his more limited space. Interesting details which do not forward thepurpose of the scene or act the wise dramatist denies himself—note in Ibsen’s revision of certain lines inA Doll’s House(p. 350) the cutting, between the first and final versions, of what concerns Dr. Rank. It was in part unnecessary detail which made the dialogue of the play on John Brown (pp. 309-313) so ineffective. In what follows immediately, a skilful hand seems in column one to have cut details of column two which, though interesting in themselves, delay the essential movement of the scene and help to swell the whole play to undue proportions.
Unnecessary detail should, then, be cut from dialogue both because it is usually the chief offender in making the play unduly long, and because it weakens the dialogue ofwhich it is a part. In argument it is a time-honored principle that it is far better not to pile up all the evidence you can on a given point, but by selecting your best argument, or two or three of the better type, to strike hard with the selected material. The same principle underlies writing good dramatic dialogue. Say what you have to say as well as you can, and except for emphasis or when repetition produces some desired effect, don’t repeat. In the speech quoted below it became clear in rehearsal that the bracketed part was not necessary because what preceded showed sufficiently the affection Miss Helen had roused in the faithful old servant, Alec. However characterizing or amusing the remainder might be, it clogged the movement of the scene. Consequently it went out.
Dick.Hello—what’s this Alec?Alec.A grand pianner, sir.Dick.Of course, but where did it come from?Alec.Miss Helen, she gave it to ’em at Christmas.Dick.She—gave it to—them—?Alec.Yes.Dick. (Laughing.) But they don’t play it, do they?Alec.No, she plays it—. An’ you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin’s after supper when the wind’d howl around the house she’d make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don’t want white angels and gold harps in mine,—I jes’ want Miss Helen an’ a grand pianner. (Dick is very sober. [He doesn’t speak.) An’ she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,—little soft things,—none o’ this screechy stuff. An’ all the old dames sit around—an’ then when my work was done out in the barn I’d come in an’ sit over there in the corner out o’ the way like, an’ listen like a old lady myself—with my Adam’s apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin’ o’ things. I tell you she’s—she’s a regular—humdinger.]Dick.(Quietly.) What time do you expect her back?
Dick.Hello—what’s this Alec?
Alec.A grand pianner, sir.
Dick.Of course, but where did it come from?
Alec.Miss Helen, she gave it to ’em at Christmas.
Dick.She—gave it to—them—?
Alec.Yes.
Dick. (Laughing.) But they don’t play it, do they?
Alec.No, she plays it—. An’ you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin’s after supper when the wind’d howl around the house she’d make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don’t want white angels and gold harps in mine,—I jes’ want Miss Helen an’ a grand pianner. (Dick is very sober. [He doesn’t speak.) An’ she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,—little soft things,—none o’ this screechy stuff. An’ all the old dames sit around—an’ then when my work was done out in the barn I’d come in an’ sit over there in the corner out o’ the way like, an’ listen like a old lady myself—with my Adam’s apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin’ o’ things. I tell you she’s—she’s a regular—humdinger.]
Dick.(Quietly.) What time do you expect her back?
Time forbids any form of fiction to be encyclopædic. The drama is, as we have seen, the most selective of the forms offiction. Failure to remember this has hurt the chances of many a promising dramatist. Few have such skilled and loyal advisers as Lord Tennyson found in Sir Henry Irving when his over-longBecketmust be cut for stage production. How much of the following scene in the original do we think at first sight we can spare? Much which Sir Henry removed we should like to keep, but time-limits forbade and he cut with exceeding skill to the best dramatic phrasing offered of the essentials of the scene.
ACT I. SCENE 1.Becket’s House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.
ACT I. SCENE 1.Becket’s House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.
Dialogue, then, should avoid all unnecessary detail, and should avoid repetition except for desired dramatic ends—in other words, must select and again select.
Practically every illustration thus far used in treating dialogue fitted for the stage has shown the enormous importance of facial expression, gesture, and voice. What the voice may do with just two words is the substance of a littleone-act piece made famous years ago by Miss Genevieve Ward and later often read by the late George Riddle. An actress applying to a manager is tested as to her power to express in the two words “Come here” all the emotions described by her examiner. As will be seen, the little play, when read in the study, lacks effectiveness. Given by an actress who can put into the two words all that is demanded, it becomes varied, exciting, and even amazing.
Actress.... Your selection may not be in my repertoire.Manager.Oh! yes, it is. I only require two words: “Come here.”Actress.Come here?Manager.Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, and expressions, that situation, character, and the surroundings would command.Actress.(Takes off her bonnet and shawl.) Well, then, I am ready.Manager.Before a mother stand a loving couple, who pray for her consent; the lover is poor; she battles with her pride, it is a great struggle for her; at last with open arms she cries—Actress.Come here!Manager.A mother calls her little daughter, who has done something to vex her.Actress.Come here!Manager.And now it is her step-child.Actress.Come here!Manager.A carriage is dashing by, the child is in the street, the mother’s heart is filled with terror, she calls her darling and cries out—Actress.Come here!Manager.In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her departing husband, whom the State has called to defend his country on the battlefield; her only consolation is in her children, these she calls, and presses to her heart.Actress.Come here!Manager.The husband has returned, and full of joy she calls her children as she observes him coming home.Actress.Come here!Manager.While in his arms, she now observes his servant, and as with every one she would divide her joy she calls to him—Actress.Come here!Manager.The feelings of a mother in all her joys and tribulation, you have most perfectly sustained. Now show me, how in despair a widow, who has lost all she possessed through fire, confronts the creditors, who clamor for their dues, and whose cruelty has killed her husband. She stands by his body and points to all that now is left her, the remains of her dead husband, and calls on them to look at their work.Actress.Come here!Manager.I must confess you depict pain as if you felt it.30
Actress.... Your selection may not be in my repertoire.
Manager.Oh! yes, it is. I only require two words: “Come here.”
Actress.Come here?
Manager.Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, and expressions, that situation, character, and the surroundings would command.
Actress.(Takes off her bonnet and shawl.) Well, then, I am ready.
Manager.Before a mother stand a loving couple, who pray for her consent; the lover is poor; she battles with her pride, it is a great struggle for her; at last with open arms she cries—
Actress.Come here!
Manager.A mother calls her little daughter, who has done something to vex her.
Actress.Come here!
Manager.And now it is her step-child.
Actress.Come here!
Manager.A carriage is dashing by, the child is in the street, the mother’s heart is filled with terror, she calls her darling and cries out—
Actress.Come here!
Manager.In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her departing husband, whom the State has called to defend his country on the battlefield; her only consolation is in her children, these she calls, and presses to her heart.
Actress.Come here!
Manager.The husband has returned, and full of joy she calls her children as she observes him coming home.
Actress.Come here!
Manager.While in his arms, she now observes his servant, and as with every one she would divide her joy she calls to him—
Actress.Come here!
Manager.The feelings of a mother in all her joys and tribulation, you have most perfectly sustained. Now show me, how in despair a widow, who has lost all she possessed through fire, confronts the creditors, who clamor for their dues, and whose cruelty has killed her husband. She stands by his body and points to all that now is left her, the remains of her dead husband, and calls on them to look at their work.
Actress.Come here!
Manager.I must confess you depict pain as if you felt it.30
Mark, when running through the scene in which Iago tempts Othello to his final undoing (Act III, Scene 3.), the variety of intonation required in the repetitions of “Honest” and “Think.” In a novel containing this scene the absence of the actors’ trained intonations would cost the author much labor in describing how the words should be uttered.
Othello.Farewell, my Desdemona; I’ll come to thee straight.Desdemona.Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you;Whate’er you be, I am obedient.(Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.)Othello.Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,Chaos is come again.Iago.My noble lord,—Othello.What dost thou say, Iago?Iago.Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,Know of your love?Othello.He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?Iago.But for a satisfaction of my thought;No further harm.Othello.Why of thy thought, Iago?Iago.I did not think he had been acquainted with her.Othello.O, yes; and went between us very oft.Iago.Indeed!Othello.Indeed! ay, indeed. Discern’st thou aught in that?Is he not honest?Iago.Honest, my lord?Othello.Honest, ay, honest.Iago.My lord, for aught I know.Othello.What dost thou think?Iago.Think, my lord?Othello.Think, my lord!By heaven, he echoes me,As if there were some monster in his thoughtToo hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something.I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that,When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?And when I told thee he was of my counsel,Of my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, “Indeed!”And didst contract and purse thy brow together,As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brainSome horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,Show me thy thought.
Othello.Farewell, my Desdemona; I’ll come to thee straight.
Desdemona.Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you;
Whate’er you be, I am obedient.
(Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.)
Othello.Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
Iago.My noble lord,—
Othello.What dost thou say, Iago?
Iago.Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,
Know of your love?
Othello.He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?
Iago.But for a satisfaction of my thought;
No further harm.
Othello.Why of thy thought, Iago?
Iago.I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
Othello.O, yes; and went between us very oft.
Iago.Indeed!
Othello.Indeed! ay, indeed. Discern’st thou aught in that?
Is he not honest?
Iago.Honest, my lord?
Othello.Honest, ay, honest.
Iago.My lord, for aught I know.
Othello.What dost thou think?
Iago.Think, my lord?
Othello.Think, my lord!
By heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something.
I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that,
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?
And when I told thee he was of my counsel,
Of my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, “Indeed!”
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
Even passages in a play which look very unpromising should not be finally judged till a flexible, well-trained voice has done its best to bring out any emotion latent in the words. If they were originally chosen by an author writing in full sympathetic understanding of his figures, they will, properly spoken, reveal unexpected emotional values. Here is a passage from Kyd’sSpanish Tragedyat which many a critic has poked fun. At first sight it undoubtedly seems merely “words, words, words.”
Hieronimo.O eyes! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears:O life! no life but lively form of death:O world! no world but mass of public wrongs,Confus’d and fill’d with murder and misdeeds:O sacred heav’ns! if this unhallow’d deed,If this inhuman and barbarous attempt;If this incomparable murder thus,Of mine, but now no more my son,Should unreveal’d and unrevenged pass,How should we term your dealings to be justIf you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?31
Hieronimo.O eyes! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears:
O life! no life but lively form of death:
O world! no world but mass of public wrongs,
Confus’d and fill’d with murder and misdeeds:
O sacred heav’ns! if this unhallow’d deed,
If this inhuman and barbarous attempt;
If this incomparable murder thus,
Of mine, but now no more my son,
Should unreveal’d and unrevenged pass,
How should we term your dealings to be just
If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?31
If we remember what the play has already told us of Hieronimo: that having found his son hanging murdered in the arbor, he enters in a perfect ecstasy of grief; and if we recall that the Elizabethan loved a style as ornate as this, feeling it no barrier between him and the thought behind it; the look of the passage begins to change. Put the feeling of the father into the voice as one reads, and lo, these lines are not a bad medium for expressing Hieronimo’s grief. They may lack the simplicity we demand today, but strong, clear feeling may be brought out from behind them for any audience. For an Elizabethan audience it came forth in a style delightful in itself. The fact is, time cannot wholly spoil the value even of lines phrased according to the standards of some literary vogue of the moment if the author originally wrote them with an imagination kindled to accuracy of feeling by complete sympathy with his characters. Never judge the dialogue of a play only by the eye. Hear it adequately, interpretively spoken. Then, and then only, judge it finally.
It is almost impossible, also, to separate the voice from gesture and facial expression as aids in dramatic dialogue. Unquestionably each of these would help the voice in the illustrations just given fromCome Here, Othello, and theSpanish Tragedy. When Antony, absorbed in Cleopatra, and therefore unwilling to listen to the messenger bearing tidings of the utmost importance from Rome, cries, “Grates me: the sum!”32it is not merely the intonation but the accompanying gesture in the sense of general bodily movement, and the facial expression, which make the condensed phrasing both natural and immensely effective. When Frankford (A Woman Killed With Kindness, Act III, Scene 2)33asks his old servant, Nicholas, for proof of Mrs. Frankford’sunfaithfulness the answer is not, “I saw her,” or “I saw her and her lover with my eyes,” but simply “Eyes, eyes.” The last are what rightly, in dramatic dialogue, may be called “gesture words,” words demanding for their full effect not only the right intonation, but facial expression and all that pantomime may mean. The old man lifts his head, and, though unwillingly, looks his master straight in the face as he speaks. Perhaps he even emphasizes by lifting his hand toward his eyes. With the concomitants of action and voice, the words take on finality and equal: “What greater proof could I have? I saw the lovers with these eyes.”
So close, indeed, is the relation between action and phrasing that often we cannot tell whether dialogue is good or bad till we have made sure of the “business” implied by it, or to be found in it by an imaginative worker. The following passage fromThe Revesby Sword Playis distinctly misleading because of the word, “looking-glass” unless one studies the context closely for implied business, and above all, understands the sword dances of the period in which the play was written.
Fool.Well, what dost thou call this very pretty thing?Pickle Herring.Why, I call it a fine large looking-glass.Fool.Let me see what I can see in this fine large looking-glass. Here’s a hole through it, I see. I see, and I see!Pickle Herring.You see and you see, and what do you see?Fool.Marry, e’en a fool,—just like thee!Pickle Herring.It is only your own face in the glass.34
Fool.Well, what dost thou call this very pretty thing?
Pickle Herring.Why, I call it a fine large looking-glass.
Fool.Let me see what I can see in this fine large looking-glass. Here’s a hole through it, I see. I see, and I see!
Pickle Herring.You see and you see, and what do you see?
Fool.Marry, e’en a fool,—just like thee!
Pickle Herring.It is only your own face in the glass.34
A “looking-glass” with “a hole through it” seems nearly a contradiction in terms, but the word “glass” is synonymous with “nut,” a name given to the swords of English Folk Dances when so interwoven as to make a kind of frame about a central space. This space is often large enough for a man’s head. The Fool has seen the dancersmake such a nut. Holding it up, he asks Pickle Herring what it is. Pickle Herring, seeing the Fool’s face through the opening and seizing his chance for a jest, calls the nut a “looking-glass.” The Fool carries on the conceit. Looking through the hole he and Pickle Herring jibe at each other. The wholeRevesby Sword Playprovides illustration after illustration of the inseparability of words and business in good dramatic dialogue.
By “business” is meant ordinarily either illustrative action called for by a stage direction or clearly implied in the text. By “latent business” is meant the illustrative action which a sympathetic and imaginative producer finds in lines either ordinarily left without business or treated with some conventional action. Mr. William Poel’s historic revival ofEverymanwas crowded with such imaginative and richly interpretive business. When Death cried,
Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast thy wits five,And here on earth will not amend thy life!For suddenly I do come—
Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast thy wits five,
And here on earth will not amend thy life!
For suddenly I do come—
on that last line he stretched out one arm and with the index finger of his hand barely touched the heart of Everyman. In the gesture there was a suggestion of what might be going to happen, even a suggestion that already Death thus claimed Everyman for his own. It pointed finely the immediate cry of Everyman,
O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee,That I might scape this endless sorrow?35
O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee,
That I might scape this endless sorrow?35
The text did not call for this gesture: it belongs to the best type of interpretive business.
Few untrained persons hear what they write: they merely see it. The skilled dramatist never forgets that he has to help him in his dialogue all that intonation, facial expression,gesture, and the general action of his characters may do for him. Which, after all, is the more touching, the cry of pleasure with which some child of the streets, at a charity Christmas tree, gazes at a rag doll some one holds out to her, or the silent mothering gesture with which she draws it close to her, her face alight? It is just because, at times, facial expression, gesture, and movement may so completely express all that is needed that pantomime is coming to play a larger and larger part in our drama. Older readers of this book may recall the late Agnes Booth and her long silent scene inJim, The Penman. By comparison of a letter and a cheque, Kate Ralston becomes aware that her husband is a famous forger, Jim, the Penman. Through all this great scene of an otherwise cheap play, the physical movement was very slight. The actress, three-quarters turned toward the audience, sat near a table. It was her facial expression and, rarely, a slight movement of the arms or body which conveyed her succession of increasingly intense emotions. The significant pantomime began with “She puts cheque with others.” The acting of the next seven lines of stage direction held an audience with increasing intensity of feeling for some five minutes.
Nina (Mrs. Ralston) has just told her husband that she discovered Captain Redwood asleep in the conservatory at the end of Act I. Though she does not know it, this shows her husband that all his incriminating interview with Dr. Hartfeld may have been overheard. He falls into disturbed reverie and is so absorbed in thinking out the situation that he is oblivious to what she does.
Nina.Now then, for my pass-book.(Opens pass-book and takes passed cheques out of side pocket of book. Music.)Ralston.(Aside.) He heard all! If she had told me, she would have saved me.Nina.(Looking at a cheque.) What is this cheque? I don’t remember it. A cheque for five guineas in favor of Mrs. Chapstone. I never gave her a cheque. Oh, I recollect, that same evening she bothered you to take some tickets and you took them in my name. I never had the tickets, by-the-bye. I suppose she sold them over again. Yes, to be sure, you wrote the cheque. You asked permission to sign my name. How wonderfully like my writing! Why, it quite deceives me, it’s so marvelous!(Ralston, in chair, is lost in thought, and hardly attends to what she says. She puts cheque with others and goes through accounts. Pauses, puts pass-book down, and takes up cheque again, examines it; turns her head and looks at Ralston, observes his absorption, and after another look at him takes from drawer the letter which Percival gave her and the other. She places them and the cheque together, almost in terror; comparing them, a look of painful conviction comes over her face, which changes into one of terrible determination. She rises from chair. Stop music on the word “James.”)36
Nina.Now then, for my pass-book.
(Opens pass-book and takes passed cheques out of side pocket of book. Music.)
Ralston.(Aside.) He heard all! If she had told me, she would have saved me.
Nina.(Looking at a cheque.) What is this cheque? I don’t remember it. A cheque for five guineas in favor of Mrs. Chapstone. I never gave her a cheque. Oh, I recollect, that same evening she bothered you to take some tickets and you took them in my name. I never had the tickets, by-the-bye. I suppose she sold them over again. Yes, to be sure, you wrote the cheque. You asked permission to sign my name. How wonderfully like my writing! Why, it quite deceives me, it’s so marvelous!
(Ralston, in chair, is lost in thought, and hardly attends to what she says. She puts cheque with others and goes through accounts. Pauses, puts pass-book down, and takes up cheque again, examines it; turns her head and looks at Ralston, observes his absorption, and after another look at him takes from drawer the letter which Percival gave her and the other. She places them and the cheque together, almost in terror; comparing them, a look of painful conviction comes over her face, which changes into one of terrible determination. She rises from chair. Stop music on the word “James.”)36
The greatest recent instance of pantomime is undoubtedly the third scene of Act III of Mr. Galsworthy’sJustice. Set in Falder’s cell, it is meant to illustrate the loneliness, the excitability, and even the brutishness of a prisoner’s life. Many people, while admitting the effectiveness of this wordless scene, have declared it emotionally so overwhelming that they could not endure seeing it a second time.
Falder’s cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is a narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair-brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator over thewindow, and another over the door. Falder’s work (a shirt to which he is putting button holes) is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel, “Lorna Doone,”37lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window.In the fast failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright—as if at a sound, and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hands with a clatter, the only sound that has broken the silence—and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness—he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen gasping for breath.A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder’s hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell.He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it.The curtain falls.38
Falder’s cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is a narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair-brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator over thewindow, and another over the door. Falder’s work (a shirt to which he is putting button holes) is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel, “Lorna Doone,”37lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window.
In the fast failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright—as if at a sound, and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hands with a clatter, the only sound that has broken the silence—and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness—he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen gasping for breath.
A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder’s hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell.He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it.
The curtain falls.38
Perhaps an even more interesting illustration of pantomime, because it gives us, instead of the heightening emotion of one person, the action of two characters upon each other, is found in Hugo von Hofmannsthal’sDie Frau im Fenster.
She remains leaning over the parapet thus for a long time. Suddenly she thinks she hears something as the curtain behind her, separating her balcony from the room, is thrown open. Turning her head she sees her husband standing in the doorway. She springs up; her features become distorted with the utmost anguish. Messer Braccio stands silent in the doorway. He wears a simple dark green dressing-gown, without weapons; low shoes. He is very tall and strong. His face has the quality that often shows itself in the old pictures of great lords and condottieri. He has an exceedingly large forehead, and little, dark eyes, thick black hair, short and curly, and a small beard round his face. Dianora wishes to speak, but can bring no sound from her throat. Messer. Braccio motions for her to draw in the ladder. Dianora does so automatically, rolls it together, and as though unconscious, lets the bundle fall at her feet. Braccio regards her calmly. Then he grasps his left hip with his right hand, also with his left hand, and looking down, notes that he has no dagger. Making an impatient movement of the lips he glances down into the garden and behind him. He lifts his right hand for an instant and looks at its palm. He goes back into the room with firm, unhurried steps.Dianora looks after him continually; she cannot take her eyes from him. When the curtain falls behind him, she passes her fingers over her cheeks and through her hair. Then she folds her hands and with wildly twitching lips silently prays. Then she throws her arms backward and grasps the stone coping with her fingers, a movement revealing firm resolution and a hint of triumph.Braccio steps out through the door again, carrying in his left hand a stool which he places in the doorway, and then sits down opposite his wife. His expression has not changed. From time to time he lifts his right hand mechanically and regards the small wound in its palm.Braccio.(His tone is cold, slightly disdainful. He indicates the ladder with his foot and his eyes.) Who is it?(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly.)Braccio.I know.(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly. Her teeth are pressed tightly together.)Braccio.(Raising his hand with the movement but touching his wife only with his glance; then he turns his gaze toward the garden again.) Palla degli Albizzi.39
She remains leaning over the parapet thus for a long time. Suddenly she thinks she hears something as the curtain behind her, separating her balcony from the room, is thrown open. Turning her head she sees her husband standing in the doorway. She springs up; her features become distorted with the utmost anguish. Messer Braccio stands silent in the doorway. He wears a simple dark green dressing-gown, without weapons; low shoes. He is very tall and strong. His face has the quality that often shows itself in the old pictures of great lords and condottieri. He has an exceedingly large forehead, and little, dark eyes, thick black hair, short and curly, and a small beard round his face. Dianora wishes to speak, but can bring no sound from her throat. Messer. Braccio motions for her to draw in the ladder. Dianora does so automatically, rolls it together, and as though unconscious, lets the bundle fall at her feet. Braccio regards her calmly. Then he grasps his left hip with his right hand, also with his left hand, and looking down, notes that he has no dagger. Making an impatient movement of the lips he glances down into the garden and behind him. He lifts his right hand for an instant and looks at its palm. He goes back into the room with firm, unhurried steps.
Dianora looks after him continually; she cannot take her eyes from him. When the curtain falls behind him, she passes her fingers over her cheeks and through her hair. Then she folds her hands and with wildly twitching lips silently prays. Then she throws her arms backward and grasps the stone coping with her fingers, a movement revealing firm resolution and a hint of triumph.
Braccio steps out through the door again, carrying in his left hand a stool which he places in the doorway, and then sits down opposite his wife. His expression has not changed. From time to time he lifts his right hand mechanically and regards the small wound in its palm.
Braccio.(His tone is cold, slightly disdainful. He indicates the ladder with his foot and his eyes.) Who is it?
(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly.)
Braccio.I know.
(Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly. Her teeth are pressed tightly together.)
Braccio.(Raising his hand with the movement but touching his wife only with his glance; then he turns his gaze toward the garden again.) Palla degli Albizzi.39
Such elaborate pantomime as the cases just cited is naturally rare, but a dramatist is always watching for an opportunity to shorten by pantomime a speech or the dialogue of a scene, or to intensify by it the effect of his words.40Is anything inShore Acres, by James A. Herne, more memorable than the last scene? In it Uncle Nat, who has established the happiness of the household, lights his candle deliberately and goes slowly up the long staircase to his bedroom, humming softly. He is the very picture of spiritual content. Words would have spoiled that scene as they have spoiled many and many a scene of an inexperienced dramatist.
Iris, at the end of Act III of Pinero’s play of that name, is on the point of leaving Bellagio. Maldonado has left lying on her table a checkbook on a bank in which he has placed a few hundred pounds in her name. Because of the defalcation of her lawyer, she is in financial straits. Maldonado wishes to help her but also to gain power over her. Unwilling to take the checkbook, she has urged him to remove it. Lacking firmness of character, however, she lets him leave it, saying she will destroy it.
With a troubled, half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her hat and cape; after which, carrying her gloves, she returns to her dressing-bag. Glancing round the room to assure herself that she has collected all her small personal belongings, her eyes rest on the checque-book which lies open on the writing-table. She contemplates it for a time, a graduallyincreasing fear showing itself in her face. Ultimately she walks slowly to the table and picks up a book. She is fingering it in an uncertain, frightened way when the servant returns.Man-servant.(Standing over the bag.) Is there anything more, ma’am—?(She hesitates helplessly; then, becoming conscious that she is being stared at, she advances, drops the book into the bag, and passes out. The man shuts the bag and is following her as the curtain falls.)41
With a troubled, half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her hat and cape; after which, carrying her gloves, she returns to her dressing-bag. Glancing round the room to assure herself that she has collected all her small personal belongings, her eyes rest on the checque-book which lies open on the writing-table. She contemplates it for a time, a graduallyincreasing fear showing itself in her face. Ultimately she walks slowly to the table and picks up a book. She is fingering it in an uncertain, frightened way when the servant returns.
Man-servant.(Standing over the bag.) Is there anything more, ma’am—?
(She hesitates helplessly; then, becoming conscious that she is being stared at, she advances, drops the book into the bag, and passes out. The man shuts the bag and is following her as the curtain falls.)41
This passage from Act I ofThe Great Divideshows pantomime supplementing speech as the dramatist of experience frequently employs it. A writer of less sure feeling would have permitted his characters some unnecessary or involved speech.
(Ruth selects a red flower, puts it in the dark mass of her hair, and looks out at the open door.) What a scandal the moon is making out in that great crazy world! Who but me could think of sleeping on such a night?(She sits down, folds the flowers in her arms, and buries her face in them. After a moment, she starts up, listens, goes hurriedly to the door, draws the curtains before the window, comes swiftly to the table, and blows out the light. The room is left in total darkness. There are muttering voices outside, the latch is tried, then a heavy lunge breaks the bolt. A man pushes in, but is hurled back by a taller man, with a snarling oath. A third figure advances to the table, and strikes a match. As soon as the match is lighted Ruth levels the gun, which she has taken from its rack above the mantel. There is heard the click of the hammer, as the gun misses fire. It is instantly struck from her hand by the first man (Dutch), who attempts to seize her. She evades him and tries to wrest a pistol from a holster on the wall. She is met by the second man (Shorty), who frustrates the attempt, pocketing the weapon. While this has been going on, the third-man (Ghent) has been fumbling with the lamp, which he has at last succeeded inlighting. All three are dressed in rude frontier fashion, the one called Shorty is a Mexican half-breed, the others are Americans. Ghent is younger than Dutch, and taller, but less powerfully built. All are intoxicated, but not sufficiently so to incapacitate them from rapid action. The Mexican has seized Ruth and attempts to drag her toward the inner room. She breaks loose and flies back again to the chimney place, where she stands at bay. Ghent remains motionless and silent by the table, gazing at her.)Dutch.(Uncorking a whiskey flask.) Plucky little catamount. I drink its health.(Drinks.)Ruth.What do you want here?42
(Ruth selects a red flower, puts it in the dark mass of her hair, and looks out at the open door.) What a scandal the moon is making out in that great crazy world! Who but me could think of sleeping on such a night?
(She sits down, folds the flowers in her arms, and buries her face in them. After a moment, she starts up, listens, goes hurriedly to the door, draws the curtains before the window, comes swiftly to the table, and blows out the light. The room is left in total darkness. There are muttering voices outside, the latch is tried, then a heavy lunge breaks the bolt. A man pushes in, but is hurled back by a taller man, with a snarling oath. A third figure advances to the table, and strikes a match. As soon as the match is lighted Ruth levels the gun, which she has taken from its rack above the mantel. There is heard the click of the hammer, as the gun misses fire. It is instantly struck from her hand by the first man (Dutch), who attempts to seize her. She evades him and tries to wrest a pistol from a holster on the wall. She is met by the second man (Shorty), who frustrates the attempt, pocketing the weapon. While this has been going on, the third-man (Ghent) has been fumbling with the lamp, which he has at last succeeded inlighting. All three are dressed in rude frontier fashion, the one called Shorty is a Mexican half-breed, the others are Americans. Ghent is younger than Dutch, and taller, but less powerfully built. All are intoxicated, but not sufficiently so to incapacitate them from rapid action. The Mexican has seized Ruth and attempts to drag her toward the inner room. She breaks loose and flies back again to the chimney place, where she stands at bay. Ghent remains motionless and silent by the table, gazing at her.)
Dutch.(Uncorking a whiskey flask.) Plucky little catamount. I drink its health.
(Drinks.)
Ruth.What do you want here?42
Hofmannsthal, in hisElectra, uses pantomime as only one detail, but no words could so paint the mad triumph of the sister of Orestes as does her “incredible dance.”