(Electra has raised herself. She steps down from the threshold, her head thrown back like a Mœnad. She lifts her knees, stretches out her arms; it is an incredible dance in which she steps forward.Chrysothemis appearing again at the door, behind her torches, a Throng, faces of Men and Women.)Chrysothemis.Electra!Electra.(Stands still, gazing at her fixedly.) Be silent and dance.Come hither all of you!Join with me all! I bear the burden of joy,And I dance before you here. One thing aloneRemains for all who are as happy as we;To be silent and dance.(She does a few more steps of tense triumph, and falls a-heap. Chrysothemis runs to her. Electra lies motionless. Chrysothemis runs to the door of the house and knocks.)Chrysothemis.Orestes! Orestes! (Silence.)Curtain.43
(Electra has raised herself. She steps down from the threshold, her head thrown back like a Mœnad. She lifts her knees, stretches out her arms; it is an incredible dance in which she steps forward.
Chrysothemis appearing again at the door, behind her torches, a Throng, faces of Men and Women.)
Chrysothemis.Electra!
Electra.(Stands still, gazing at her fixedly.) Be silent and dance.Come hither all of you!Join with me all! I bear the burden of joy,And I dance before you here. One thing aloneRemains for all who are as happy as we;To be silent and dance.
(She does a few more steps of tense triumph, and falls a-heap. Chrysothemis runs to her. Electra lies motionless. Chrysothemis runs to the door of the house and knocks.)
Chrysothemis.Orestes! Orestes! (Silence.)
Curtain.43
Without question, then, speech in the drama may often give way in part or wholly to pantomime. The inexperienceddramatist should be constantly alert to see to what extent he can substitute it for dialogue.44
In all that has been said of pantomime, of course technical pantomime is not meant. TheCommedia dell’ arte, pantomime artists like the Ravel Brothers or Mme. Pilar-Morin, have a code of gesture to symbolize fixed meanings. What is meant here is the natural human pantomime of people whose faces and bodies portray or betray their feelings.
Another word of warning in regard to pantomime. When a writer of plays once becomes well aware of the great value of pantomime, he is likely to overwork it. Assuming that the actor or actors may convey almost anything by physical movement, he trusts it too much. Let him who is for the moment under the spell of pantomime study the moving picture show. Pantomime may ordinarily convey physical action perfectly. Emotion naturally and easily expressed by action pantomime may convey, but when action for its clearness depends on knowledge of what is going on in the mind of the actor, pantomime begins to fail. Great artists like Mme. Pilar-Morin may carry us far even under these conditions, but most actors cannot. In a motion picture play likeCabiria, contrast the scenes in which the Roman and his slave flee before the crowd from part to part of the temple (mere action), or the scene of the terror of the wine merchant (in which the face and body tell the whole story) with the scene in which the nurse meets the Roman and his slave on the wall of the city and begs their aid in saving the child, or the scenes in which Sophonisba struggles with her anxieties and mad desires. The second group of pictures without the explanations thrown on the screen would have little meaning. Pantomime is safe, not when it pleases us to use pantomime rather than to write dialogue, but whenour characters naturally act rather than speak, or when we can devise for them natural action as clear as speech or clearer than speech. Use pantomime, but use it cautiously. Speech is the greatest emotional weapon of the dramatist. It best reveals emotion, and best of all creates responsive emotion. However, as most inexperienced dramatists use far too many words rather than too few, the value rather than the danger of pantomime should probably be stressed here. What seems natural, what makes for illusion, is the final test.
It is this test of naturalness which has gradually excluded, except in special instances, the soliloquy and the aside. The general movement of drama in the past ten years has been toward better and better characterization in plays of all kinds. The newer melodrama and farce show us, not the mere comic puppets of the past, but people as real as the form represented—be it comedy, farce, tragedy, or melodrama—will permit. This new tendency has largely driven out the soliloquy and the aside. We should not, however, go to extremes, for occasionally we do swear under our breath or comment in asides, and as long as people do either, such people should be so represented. Moreover, we must admit that the insane, the demented, the invalid left much to himself, the hermit, whether of the woods or the hall bedroom in a city boarding house, do talk to themselves and often at great length. Neither the aside nor the soliloquy is, then, objectionable in itself. It is the use of either by persons who would probably use nothing of the sort, or their use in order to avoid exposition otherwise difficult which is to be decried. It is particularly this latter fault to which Sir Arthur Pinero calls attention when treating the faulty technique of R.L. Stevenson as a playwright:
“I will read you one of the many soliloquies—the faulty method of conducting action and revealing characterby soliloquy was one from which Stevenson could never emancipate himself. It is a speech delivered by Deacon Brodie while he is making preparations for a midnight gambling excursion.
(Brodie closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors of his bedroom.)Deacon Brodie.Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! (He goes to the clothes press and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! Eh God! How still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be? The city has its vizard on and we—at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is! How still it is!—My father and Mary—Well! The day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not havehalfa life of his own? not eight hours out of twenty-four? Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet. Where’s the blunt? I must be cool tonight, or—steady Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer! The Deacon’s going to bed—the poor sick Deacon!Allons!Only the stars to see me! I’m a man once more till morning! [ActI, TableauI, Scene 9.]”45
(Brodie closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors of his bedroom.)
Deacon Brodie.Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! (He goes to the clothes press and proceeds to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! Eh God! How still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would the world be? The city has its vizard on and we—at night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is! How still it is!—My father and Mary—Well! The day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not havehalfa life of his own? not eight hours out of twenty-four? Eight shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet. Where’s the blunt? I must be cool tonight, or—steady Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister and pay your debts, and gull the world a little longer! The Deacon’s going to bed—the poor sick Deacon!Allons!Only the stars to see me! I’m a man once more till morning! [ActI, TableauI, Scene 9.]”45
Sir Arthur knows whereof he speaks, for past-master as he has shown himself sinceThe Second Mrs. Tanquerayin the art of giving necessary exposition and characterization without soliloquy, he was a bad offender in his early days, as the following extract from the opening ofThe Money Spinnershows:
(Directly Margot has disappeared, there is a knocking outside the door, right. It is repeated, then the doors slowly open and the head of Monsieur Jules Faubert appears.)Faubert.(Who also speaks with the accent of a foreigner.) Boycott,my friend, are you at home? My friend Boycott, do you hear me? (Receiving no answer, he enters rather cautiously and looks around. He is in black, wearing a long, tightly buttoned frock coat and a tall hat. His hair is red and closely cropped. His voice is soft and his manner stealthy and mechanical.) Where is Boycott, my friend? Ah, he has not yet taken his breakfast. (He crosses over to the curtains, left, and looks through.) No one to be seen. Boycott asks me to call for him at ten o’clock in the morning, and it is now a quarter past ten by the Great Clock, and he is not visible. (Walking round the room, inspecting the objects with curiosity.) Yet he could not have left the house for I have been watching at the front door since eight o’clock. (Takes letters from top of Pianette.) Besides, here are his letters unopened. (Examines them narrowly, scrutinizing the writing, and weighing them in his hand.) One, Mr. Boycott, with the post-mark of London. Two, Monsieur Boycott with the post-mark of Rouen. Three, Madame Boycott with the post-mark of Paris. (Replacing letters.) Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of the acquaintance of Madame Boycott. Poor soul, perhaps she will know me some day. (Going over to the door, right.) Well, I shall call again after breakfast. My friend Boycott is getting very unpunctual—a bad sign—a very bad sign.46
(Directly Margot has disappeared, there is a knocking outside the door, right. It is repeated, then the doors slowly open and the head of Monsieur Jules Faubert appears.)
Faubert.(Who also speaks with the accent of a foreigner.) Boycott,my friend, are you at home? My friend Boycott, do you hear me? (Receiving no answer, he enters rather cautiously and looks around. He is in black, wearing a long, tightly buttoned frock coat and a tall hat. His hair is red and closely cropped. His voice is soft and his manner stealthy and mechanical.) Where is Boycott, my friend? Ah, he has not yet taken his breakfast. (He crosses over to the curtains, left, and looks through.) No one to be seen. Boycott asks me to call for him at ten o’clock in the morning, and it is now a quarter past ten by the Great Clock, and he is not visible. (Walking round the room, inspecting the objects with curiosity.) Yet he could not have left the house for I have been watching at the front door since eight o’clock. (Takes letters from top of Pianette.) Besides, here are his letters unopened. (Examines them narrowly, scrutinizing the writing, and weighing them in his hand.) One, Mr. Boycott, with the post-mark of London. Two, Monsieur Boycott with the post-mark of Rouen. Three, Madame Boycott with the post-mark of Paris. (Replacing letters.) Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of the acquaintance of Madame Boycott. Poor soul, perhaps she will know me some day. (Going over to the door, right.) Well, I shall call again after breakfast. My friend Boycott is getting very unpunctual—a bad sign—a very bad sign.46
The unnaturalness of the two foregoing illustrations needs no comment. The Elizabethan author, knowing that above all else the dramatist must make clear why his people do what they do, used soliloquy with the utmost frankness as the easiest method of exposition. Here are three specimens, one from Webster and two from Shakespeare.
Cardinal.The reason why I would not suffer theseAbout my brother is because at midnightI may with better privacy convayJulias body, to her owne lodging. O, my conscience!I would pray now: but the divell takes away my heartFor having any confidence in praier.About this houre I appointed BosolaTo fetch the body: when he hath serv’d my turne,He dies. (Exit.)47Iago.That Cassio loves her I do well believe’t;That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit;The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,And I dare think he’ll prove to DesdemonaA most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;Not out of absolute lust, though peradventureI stand accountant for as great a sin,But partly led to diet my revenge,For that I do suspect the lusty MoorHath leap’d into my seat; the thought whereofDoth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;And nothing can or shall content my soulTill I am even’d with him, wife for wife;Or failing so, yet that I put the MoorAt least into a jealousy so strongThat judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trashFor his quick hunting, stand the putting on,I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb—For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too—Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,For making him egregiously an assAnd practising upon his peace and quietEven to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d;Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. (Exit.)48Emilia.I am glad I have found this napkin;This was her first remembrance from the Moor.My wayward husband hath a hundred timesWoo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the token,For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it,That she reserves it evermore about herTo kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out,And give ’t Iago. What he will do with itHeaven knows, not I;I nothing but to please his fantasy.49
Cardinal.The reason why I would not suffer these
About my brother is because at midnight
I may with better privacy convay
Julias body, to her owne lodging. O, my conscience!
I would pray now: but the divell takes away my heart
For having any confidence in praier.
About this houre I appointed Bosola
To fetch the body: when he hath serv’d my turne,
He dies. (Exit.)47
Iago.That Cassio loves her I do well believe’t;
That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit;
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,
And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure
I stand accountant for as great a sin,
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath leap’d into my seat; the thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife;
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb—
For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too—
Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,
For making him egregiously an ass
And practising upon his peace and quiet
Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d;
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. (Exit.)48
Emilia.I am glad I have found this napkin;
This was her first remembrance from the Moor.
My wayward husband hath a hundred times
Woo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the token,
For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it,
That she reserves it evermore about her
To kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out,
And give ’t Iago. What he will do with it
Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy.49
Echegaray’sThe Great Galeoto(1881), though a part of the newer movement in the drama, shows soliloquy.
SCENE.Madrid of our day.PROLOGUEA study; to the left a balcony; on the right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it. Towards the right a sofa. Night.SCENE 1.Ernest.(Seated at a table and preparing to write.) Nothing—impossible. It is striving with the impossible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to animate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, shouts of sardonic laughter—a whole world of passions alive and struggling—They burst forth from me, extend around me and the air is full of them. Then, then I say to myself: “’Tis now the moment.” I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart-beats, and bend over the paper—Ah, but the irony of impotency! The outlines become blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint away—and nothingness, nothingness encircles me—The monotony of empty space, of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper that lacks the life of thought! Ah, how varied are the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp! So many, many forms. Canvas without color, bits of marble without shape, confused noise of chaotic vibrations. But nothing more irritating, more insolent, meaner than this insolent pen of mine (throws it away), nothing worse than this white sheet of paper. Oh, if I cannot fill it, at least I may destroy it—vile accomplice of my ambition and my eternal humiliation. Thus, thus—smaller and still smaller. (Tears up paper. Pauses.) And then! How lucky that nobody saw me! For in truth, such fury is absurd and unjust. No, I will not yield. I will think and think untilI have conquered or am crushed. No, I will not give up. Let me see, let me see—if in that way—50
SCENE.Madrid of our day.
PROLOGUE
A study; to the left a balcony; on the right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it. Towards the right a sofa. Night.
SCENE 1.
Ernest.(Seated at a table and preparing to write.) Nothing—impossible. It is striving with the impossible. The idea is there; my head is fevered with it; I feel it. At moments an inward light illuminates it, and I see it. I see it in its floating form, vaguely outlined, and suddenly a secret voice seems to animate it, and I hear sounds of sorrow, sonorous sighs, shouts of sardonic laughter—a whole world of passions alive and struggling—They burst forth from me, extend around me and the air is full of them. Then, then I say to myself: “’Tis now the moment.” I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively, restraining my very heart-beats, and bend over the paper—Ah, but the irony of impotency! The outlines become blurred, the vision fades, the cries and sighs faint away—and nothingness, nothingness encircles me—The monotony of empty space, of inert thought, of dreamy lassitude! and more than all the monotony of an idle pen and lifeless paper that lacks the life of thought! Ah, how varied are the shapes of nothingness, and how, in its dark and silent way, it mocks creatures of my stamp! So many, many forms. Canvas without color, bits of marble without shape, confused noise of chaotic vibrations. But nothing more irritating, more insolent, meaner than this insolent pen of mine (throws it away), nothing worse than this white sheet of paper. Oh, if I cannot fill it, at least I may destroy it—vile accomplice of my ambition and my eternal humiliation. Thus, thus—smaller and still smaller. (Tears up paper. Pauses.) And then! How lucky that nobody saw me! For in truth, such fury is absurd and unjust. No, I will not yield. I will think and think untilI have conquered or am crushed. No, I will not give up. Let me see, let me see—if in that way—50
Such soliloquy, even if conventionally justifiable in its own time, is rarely, if ever, necessary. Scene 2 of Echegaray’s play shows Ernest and Don Julian discussing the former’s difficulty in working. What could be easier, then, than to cut the scene just cited to Ernest seated at a writing table and showing by his pantomime how impossible he finds composition? Why should he not act out the lines, “I take up my pen, stare into space, listen attentively,—bend over the paper ... and nothingness, nothingness”? If as a climax he throws away his pen and tears up his paper, it certainly should be clear that he is thoroughly exasperated with his failure to write what he wishes. In Scene 2 a very slight change or amplification in the phrasing will permit him to bring out whatever of importance in Scene 1 the suggested revision has omitted.
Doubtless it would not be so easy to get rid of the soliloquies of the Cardinal, Iago, and Emilia, but ingenuity in handling the scene preceding and the scene following soliloquies will usually dispose of all or most of them. WhenLady Windermere’s Fanof Wilde first appeared, hardly any one seriously objected to its soliloquies. They were an accepted convention of the stage. When Miss Margaret Anglin revived the play very successfully a year or two ago, she rightly felt these soliloquies to be outworn. By use of pantomime, in some cases hardly more than the pantomime called for in the stage directions, she disposed of all except an occasional line or two of the original soliloquies. The instances cited from her prompt book of the play show one soliloquy cut to stage directions and two lines of the original, and the second cut to mere stage direction.
ACT I.
ACT III.
Soliloquy when a character is left alone on the stage is a perfect illustration of the difference between permanent and ephemeral technique. As a device for easy exposition, it has been popular from the beginning of drama till recently. Now, though one may use it in a rough draft, a technique which is likely to become permanent in this respect forces us to go over this draft, cutting soliloquy to mere action and the few exclamations which the character might utter under the circumstances. Soliloquy has no such permanent place in technique as have preliminary exposition, suspense, and climax. Soliloquy, when other people are on the stage and known by the speaker to be listening is also absurd. It is because of this fact that the dramatic or psychologic monologue, the form taken by a very large portion of Browning’s voluminous poetry, breaks down if we attempt to stage it. “Some speaker is made to reveal his character, and, sometimes,by reflection, or directly, the character of some one else—to set forth some subtle and complex soul-mood, some supreme, all-determining movement or experience of a life, or, it may be, to ratiocinate subtly on some curious question of theology, morals, philosophy, or art. Now it is in strictly preserving the monologue character that obscurity often results. A monologue often begins with a startling abruptness, and the reader must read along some distance before he gathers what the beginning means. Take the monologue of Fra Lippo Lippi for example. The situation is necessarily left more or less unexplained. The poet says nothingin propria persona, and no reply is made to the speaker by the person or persons addressed. Sometimes a look, a gesture or a remark must be supposed on the part of the one addressed, which occasions a responsive remark. Sometimes a speakerimputesa question, and the reader is sometimes obliged to stop and consider whether a question is imputed by the speaker to the one he is addressing, or is a direct question of his own. This is often the case throughoutThe Ring and the Book.”53
Giuseppe Caponsacchi. Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—So things disguise themselves,—I cannot seeMy own hand held thus broad before my faceAnd know it again. Answer you? Then that meansTell over twice what I, the first time, toldSix months ago: ’twas here, I do believe,Fronting you same three in this very room,I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,As good as laugh, what in a judge we styleLaughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,The pen’s pretence at play with the pursed mouth,The titter stifled in the hollow palmWhich rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,When first I told my tale: they meant, you know,“The sly one, all this we are bound believe!Well, he can say no other than what he says.We have been young, too,—come, there’s greater guilt!Let him but decently disembroil himself,Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!”And now you sit as grave, stare as aghastAs if I were a phantom: now ’tis—“Friend,Collect yourself!”—no laughing matter more—“Counsel the Court in this extremity,Tell us again!”—tell that, for telling which,I got the jocular piece of punishment,Was sent to lounge a little in the placeWhence now of a sudden here you summon meTo take the intelligence from just—your lips,You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—That she I helped eight months since to escapeHer husband, is retaken by the sameThree days ago, if I have seized your sense.54
Giuseppe Caponsacchi. Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: ’twas here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen’s pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When first I told my tale: they meant, you know,
“The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
Well, he can say no other than what he says.
We have been young, too,—come, there’s greater guilt!
Let him but decently disembroil himself,
Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!”
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now ’tis—“Friend,
Collect yourself!”—no laughing matter more—
“Counsel the Court in this extremity,
Tell us again!”—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips,
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, is retaken by the same
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense.54
It may be true that when one reads a dramatic monologue, the changes in thought caused by some movement or look of an imagined hearer may seem sufficiently motivated. When, on the other hand, this monologue is staged, it becomes exceedingly unreal because we feel that the second person would not be silent but would interrupt with question or comment. More than this, unless the listening actor changes from pose to pose with rapid plasticity, he will become stiff in attitude, thus making us conscious of him when we should be listening to the speaker. Increasing the number of hearers does not relieve the situation, but merely increases the number of possible interrupters or of people who stand about the stage more and more stiffly. Soliloquy is,therefore, to be avoided except when it seems or can be made to seem perfectly natural. Monologue, acceptable perhaps to a reader, becomes well-nigh impossible on the stage.
The aside must be subjected to very nearly the same tests. InTwo Loves and a Lifeof Tom Taylor and Charles Reade, Musgrave and his daughter, Anne, are opening letters surreptitiously. They come to the letter of William Hyde, which the girl opens with reluctance, crying,—
Ah, see, father, it is a blank!Musgrave.A blank! Then it is as I thought!Anne.How?Musgrave.Here, girl!(He takes the letter and holds it to the fire in the brazier.)Anne.See! Letters become visible!Musgrave.A stale trick. ’Tis done with lemon juice or milk, when folks would keep what they write from those who are in their secret. Politicians correspond so, Anne, and rebels.Anne.But William Hyde is neither, father.Musgrave.Of course not. Now then!Anne.(Aside.) Thank Heaven! ’tis all about his calling!Musgrave.Read! (Aside.) I have learned the key to their cypher, which I have copied from the priest’s letter.Anne.(Reads.) “Dear Will, we have thine advices, and shall be at Lancaster Fair. All the smart fellows—”Musgrave.(To himself.) Ah! Bardsea Hole—all the Jacobite gentlemen—good.Anne.(Reads.) “By the time the grilse come ashore—”Musgrave.(To himself.) Grilse? ammunition. Go on.Anne.(Reads.) “Which shall be as you fix, on Tuesday the 16th, at ten of the clock,P.M.There is a bill against you and the old clothier, payable at Ulverstone today, drawn by the butcher. Look out and see that he does not nab either of you—”Musgrave.(Aside.) The proclamation!Anne.(Reads.) “For your friends assembled. John Trusty.”Musgrave.From Townley. Itisas I suspected.(He starts up.)Anne.Father!Musgrave.I’m a made man, Anne. Give me joy—joy!55
Ah, see, father, it is a blank!
Musgrave.A blank! Then it is as I thought!
Anne.How?
Musgrave.Here, girl!
(He takes the letter and holds it to the fire in the brazier.)
Anne.See! Letters become visible!
Musgrave.A stale trick. ’Tis done with lemon juice or milk, when folks would keep what they write from those who are in their secret. Politicians correspond so, Anne, and rebels.
Anne.But William Hyde is neither, father.
Musgrave.Of course not. Now then!
Anne.(Aside.) Thank Heaven! ’tis all about his calling!
Musgrave.Read! (Aside.) I have learned the key to their cypher, which I have copied from the priest’s letter.
Anne.(Reads.) “Dear Will, we have thine advices, and shall be at Lancaster Fair. All the smart fellows—”
Musgrave.(To himself.) Ah! Bardsea Hole—all the Jacobite gentlemen—good.
Anne.(Reads.) “By the time the grilse come ashore—”
Musgrave.(To himself.) Grilse? ammunition. Go on.
Anne.(Reads.) “Which shall be as you fix, on Tuesday the 16th, at ten of the clock,P.M.There is a bill against you and the old clothier, payable at Ulverstone today, drawn by the butcher. Look out and see that he does not nab either of you—”
Musgrave.(Aside.) The proclamation!
Anne.(Reads.) “For your friends assembled. John Trusty.”
Musgrave.From Townley. Itisas I suspected.
(He starts up.)
Anne.Father!
Musgrave.I’m a made man, Anne. Give me joy—joy!55
In this once popular drama we have five asides close together, for of course “to himself” is the equivalent of an aside. All are bad, for in each case the other person on the stage must be supposed not to hear, and the aside is merely a device for telling us what the speaker is thinking. They vary in badness, however, for while Musgrave might well explain “grilse” to Anne as “ammunition,” he says, “I have learned the key to their cipher, which I have copied from the priest’s letter,” not as something which he is necessarily thinking at the time, but as something which the audience needs to know at this point. An aside is objectionable when a man speaks what he would be careful only to think, either because of the very nature of his thought or because somebody is near at hand who should not overhear. Asides should be kept for confidential remarks which may be made to some person standing near the speaker, but could not be heard by persons standing at a greater distance; and to what naturally breaks from us in a moment of irritation, terror, or other strong emotion. Asides of the first group, confidential remarks, gain much in naturalness if spoken in half tones. Nothing could be more preposterous than the old stage custom of coming down to the footlights to tell an audience in clear-cut tones confidences which must not be overheard by people close at hand on the stage. Asides which are only brief soliloquies are little better. Asides in which the speaker merely says to the audience what he might perfectly well say to the people on the stage are foolish unless the author wishes to make the point that the character has the habit of talking to himself. The following from Vanbrugh’sThe Provoked Wifeshows two entirely natural uses of the aside by Lady Brute, and one debatable use by Sir John.
ACT III.Scene opens. Sir John, Lady Brute, and Belinda rising from the TableSir John.Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase it, (sitting and smoaking) I shall take my own House for a Papermill.Lady Brute.(To Belinda aside.) Don’t let’s mind him; let him say what he will.Sir John.(Aside.) A Woman’s Tongue a Cure for the Spleen—Oons—If a Man had got the Head-ach, they’d be for applying the same Remedy.Lady Brute.You have done a great deal, Belinda, since yesterday.Belinda.Yes, I have work’d very hard; how do you like it?Lady Brute.O, ’tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin, you have the happiest fancy. Prithee advise me about altering my Crimson Petticoat.Sir John.A Pox o’ your Petticoat; here’s such a Prating, a Man can’t digest his own Thoughts for you.Lady Brute.(Aside.) Don’t answer him.—Well, what do you advise me?Belinda.Why really I would not alter it at all. Methinks ’tis very pretty as it is.56
ACT III.Scene opens. Sir John, Lady Brute, and Belinda rising from the Table
Sir John.Will it so, Mrs. Pert? Now I believe it will so increase it, (sitting and smoaking) I shall take my own House for a Papermill.
Lady Brute.(To Belinda aside.) Don’t let’s mind him; let him say what he will.
Sir John.(Aside.) A Woman’s Tongue a Cure for the Spleen—Oons—If a Man had got the Head-ach, they’d be for applying the same Remedy.
Lady Brute.You have done a great deal, Belinda, since yesterday.
Belinda.Yes, I have work’d very hard; how do you like it?
Lady Brute.O, ’tis the prettiest Fringe in the World. Well, Cousin, you have the happiest fancy. Prithee advise me about altering my Crimson Petticoat.
Sir John.A Pox o’ your Petticoat; here’s such a Prating, a Man can’t digest his own Thoughts for you.
Lady Brute.(Aside.) Don’t answer him.—Well, what do you advise me?
Belinda.Why really I would not alter it at all. Methinks ’tis very pretty as it is.56
Sir John’s aside, if addressed to the audience, is bad; if meant to illustrate his habit of grumbling to himself, it is permissible.
Mr. Henry Arthur Jones protests against complete disuse of the aside. “In discarding the ‘aside’ in modern drama we have thrown away a most valuable and, at times, a most necessary convention. Let any one glance at the ‘asides’ of Sir John Brute inThe Provoked Wife, and he will see what a splendid instrument of rich comedy the ‘aside’ may become. How are we as spectators to know what one character on the stage thinks of the situation and of the other characters, unless he tells us; or unless he conveys it by facial play and gestures which are the equivalent of an‘aside’? The ‘aside’ is therefore as legitimate a convention of drama as the removal of the fourth wall. More and more the English modern drama seems to be sacrificing everything to the mean ambition of presenting an exact photograph of real life.”57
Of course Mr. Jones is quite right in wishing to keep the aside for cases in which it is perfectly natural. His illustration of Sir John Brute is, however, not wholly fortunate, for his asides are not conventional but are characterizing touches. Surely we must all admit that a certain type of drunkard likes to mumble to himself insulting speeches which he hasn’t quite the courage to speak directly to other people, but rather hopes they may overhear. Study the asides of Sir John Brute—they are not very many after all—and note that practically every one might be said directly to the people on the stage. All of them help to present Sir John as the heavy drinker who talks to himself and selects for his speeches to himself his particularly insulting remarks.
Why, too, are “facial play and gestures” more objectionable than the conventional aside? The fundamental trouble with the aside which should not be overheard by people on the stage is that, if spoken naturally, it would be too low for the audience to hear, and if spoken loud enough to be heard, would so affect the other characters as to change materially the development of the scene. The aside should, therefore, be used with great care.
Congreve, writing of ordinary human speech said, “I believe if a poet should steal a dialogue of any length, from the extempore discourse of the two wittiest men upon earth, he would find the scene but coldly received by the town.”58In everyday speech, that is, we do not say our say in the most compact, characteristic, and entertaining fashion. To gain all that, we must use more concentration and selection than we give to ordinary human intercourse. Just that concentration of attention, which produces needed selection, a dramatist must give his dialogue. To this concentration and selection he is forced by the time difficulty already explained. Into the period sometimes consumed by a single bit of gossiping, perhaps shot through with occasional flashes of wit, but more probably dull,—into the space of two hours and a quarter,—the dramatist must crowd all the happenings, the growth of his characters, and the close reasoning of his play. Dramatic dialogue is human speech so wisely edited for use under the conditions of the stage that far more quickly than under ordinary circumstances the events are presented, in character, and perhaps in a phrasing delightful of itself.
Picking just the right words to convey with gesture, voice and the other stage aids of dialogue the emotions of the characters is so exacting a task that many a writer tries to dodge it. He thinks that by prefacing nearly every speech with “Tenderly,” “Sarcastically,” “With much humor,” in other words a statement as to how his lines should be read, commonplace phrasings may be made to pass for the right emotional currency. This is a lazy trick of putting off on the actor what would be the delight of the writer if he really cared for his work and knew what he wished to say. Of course, from time to time one needs such stage directions, but the safest way is to insist, in early drafts, on making the text convey the desired emotion without such statements. Otherwise a writer easily falls into writing unemotionalized speeches, the stage directions of which call upon the actor to provide the emotion.
A similar trick is to write incomplete sentences, usuallyending with dashes. Though it is true, as Carlyle long ago pointed out, that a thought or a climax which a reader or hearer completes for himself is likely to give him special satisfaction, the device is easily overdone, and too often the uncompleted line means either that the author does not know exactly what he wishes to say, or that, though he knows, the hearer or reader may not complete the thought as he does. The worst of this last trick is that it may confuse the reader and, as was explained earlier in this chapter, clearness in gaining the desired effect is the chief essential in dialogue.
An allied difficulty comes from writing dialogue in blocks, the author forgetting, in the first place, that the other people on the stage are likely to interrupt and break up such speech, and secondly, that when several ideas are presented to an audience in the same speech, they are likely to confuse hearers. In these parallel passages from the two quartos ofHamlet, is not the right-hand column, with its mingling of rapidly exchanged speech and description, much more vivid and moving?
Is it probable that in the following extract fromA Soul’s Tragedyof Browning the deeply interested and excited audience would permit the first bystander to complete uninterrupted his third and very long speech? Are the phrasing and thought really his, or Robert Browning’s?
ACT II.Scene. The market place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with the Populace assembled opposite the Provost’s Palace.1st Bystander.(To Luitolfo.) You, a friend of Luitolfo’s? Then, your friend is vanished,—in all probability killed on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost was loyally suppressed here, exactly a month ago, by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,—Chiappino!·········Luitolfo.(Aside.) (If I had not lent that man the money hewanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude?3rd Bystander.Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir...Luitolfo.Ah, I suspected you of imposing upon me with your pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.1st Bystander.(Our friend has the bile. After all, I do not dislike finding somebody vary a little this general gape of admiration at Chiappino’s glorious qualities.) Pray, how much may you know of what has taken place in Faenza since that memorable night?Luitolfo.It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept.1st Bystander.Sir, I’ll tell you. That night was indeed memorable. Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children; out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant; we were to defy the world; but, next gray morning, “What will Rome say?” began everybody. You know we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome. And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by name, with the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly through the streets humming a “Cur fremuere gentes,” and makes directly for the Provost’s Palace—there it faces you. “One Messer Chiappino is your leader? I have known three-and-twenty leaders of revolts!” (laughing gently to himself)—”Give me the help of your arm from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar—So! And now, my revolters and good friend what do you want? The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost; and, having had a little talk with him, I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method: ’tis I come, and not another, from a certain love I confess to, of composing differences. So, do you understand, you are about to experience this unheard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no heading nor hanging, no confiscation nor exile: I insist on your simply pleasing yourselves. And, now, pray, what does please you? To live without any government at all? Or having decided for one, to see its minister murdered by the first of your body that chooses to find himself wronged, or disposed for reverting to first principles and a justice anterior to all institutions,—and so will you carry matters, that the rest of the worldmust at length unite and put down such a den of wild beasts? As for vengeance on what had just taken place,—once for all, the wounded man assures me that he cannot conjecture who struck him; and this so earnestly, that one may be sure he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could find admission to speak with him late last evening. I come not for vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do next.” And thus he ran on, easily and volubly, till he seemed to arrive quite naturally at the praise of law, order, and paternal government by somebody from rather a distance. All our citizens were in the snare and about to be friends with so congenial an adviser; but that Chiappino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly and set things right again.Luitolfo.Do you see? I recognize him there!60
ACT II.Scene. The market place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with the Populace assembled opposite the Provost’s Palace.
1st Bystander.(To Luitolfo.) You, a friend of Luitolfo’s? Then, your friend is vanished,—in all probability killed on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost was loyally suppressed here, exactly a month ago, by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,—Chiappino!
·········
Luitolfo.(Aside.) (If I had not lent that man the money hewanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude?
3rd Bystander.Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir...
Luitolfo.Ah, I suspected you of imposing upon me with your pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.
1st Bystander.(Our friend has the bile. After all, I do not dislike finding somebody vary a little this general gape of admiration at Chiappino’s glorious qualities.) Pray, how much may you know of what has taken place in Faenza since that memorable night?
Luitolfo.It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept.
1st Bystander.Sir, I’ll tell you. That night was indeed memorable. Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children; out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant; we were to defy the world; but, next gray morning, “What will Rome say?” began everybody. You know we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome. And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by name, with the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly through the streets humming a “Cur fremuere gentes,” and makes directly for the Provost’s Palace—there it faces you. “One Messer Chiappino is your leader? I have known three-and-twenty leaders of revolts!” (laughing gently to himself)—”Give me the help of your arm from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar—So! And now, my revolters and good friend what do you want? The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost; and, having had a little talk with him, I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method: ’tis I come, and not another, from a certain love I confess to, of composing differences. So, do you understand, you are about to experience this unheard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no heading nor hanging, no confiscation nor exile: I insist on your simply pleasing yourselves. And, now, pray, what does please you? To live without any government at all? Or having decided for one, to see its minister murdered by the first of your body that chooses to find himself wronged, or disposed for reverting to first principles and a justice anterior to all institutions,—and so will you carry matters, that the rest of the worldmust at length unite and put down such a den of wild beasts? As for vengeance on what had just taken place,—once for all, the wounded man assures me that he cannot conjecture who struck him; and this so earnestly, that one may be sure he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could find admission to speak with him late last evening. I come not for vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do next.” And thus he ran on, easily and volubly, till he seemed to arrive quite naturally at the praise of law, order, and paternal government by somebody from rather a distance. All our citizens were in the snare and about to be friends with so congenial an adviser; but that Chiappino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly and set things right again.
Luitolfo.Do you see? I recognize him there!60
People who think ramblingly and not clearly must undoubtedly on the stage speak in similar fashion, but it is wise when possible to avoid stating two or three ideas in the same sentence, or developing two or three ideas in one long speech. An idea to a sentence, with the development of one thought in a speech, is a fairly safe principle, though not unalterable. For instance, the daughter of a widowed mother is facing the fact that if they are to stay in their meagre quarters she may have to ask this as a favor from her employer, Mr. Hollings. The mother, not knowing that he has pressed his attentions objectionably, does not understand the unwillingness of the girl to ask his help. In answer to her pleadings the girl cries, “Oh, I would do anything for you! Poor dear father! Mother, go to Mr. Hollings.” Here are three different trains of thought in one speech. The first exclamation is a direct answer to the mother’s preceding speech. For the audience there is no clearness of transition to the second exclamation, nor from it to the third. Cut the girl’s answer to the first sentence. Then the mother, seizing on the idea that her daughter is willing to do anything, urges her for this and that reason to see her employer, emphasizing the idea that, had the father lived, alltheir present sorrow would not exist. In this case the second exclamation falls into its proper place, as a natural reply of the girl to her mother. If, too, as the mother urges reason after reason for going to the employer for aid, the girl at last pleads, “Mother, you go to Mr. Hollings,” this sentence also falls into its proper place. It becomes the first sign of her yielding, for she is at last willing that some one should intercede with the man. When a writer finds himself skipping from idea to idea within a speech or a sentence, with transitions likely to be unclear for the audience, he should break what he has written into its component parts and let the other people on the stage, by their interruptions, queries, and comments, provide the connectives of speech and thought which will bind these ideas together properly. The following rearrangement by Miss Anglin of the original text ofLady Windermere’s Fanshows her correct feeling that ideas originally treated together should be separated. Lord Windermere’s reply is to the first sentence of Mrs. Erlynne’s speech. It is therefore much clearer to shift her two succeeding exclamations to her next speech.
Often dialogue which is clear sentence by sentence is, as a whole, somewhat confusing to an audience. Frequently a careful re-ordering of the parts of the speech, or of a group of speeches, will dispose of the trouble. Occasionally a playwright allows his ordering of his ideas to obscure the cue, or important idea. Undoubtedly the important word in what follows is “christenings,” but Chasuble runs on into various other matters before Jack speaks. Consequently a hearer is a little startled when Jack takes up the idea of christenings instead of anything following it.