(Mrs. Rosmer is standing by the farthest window, arranging the flowers. Madam Helset enters from the right with a basket of table linen.)Madam Helset.I suppose I had better begin to lay the tea-table, ma’am?Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, please do. He must soon be in now.Madam Helset.(Laying the cloth.) No, he won’t come just yet; for I saw him from the kitchen—Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, yes—Madam Helset.—on the other side of the millpond. At first, he was going straight across the foot-bridge; but then he turned back—Mrs. Rosmer.Did he?Madam Helset.Yes, and then he went all the way round. Ah, it’s strange about such places. A place where a thing like that has happened—there—. It stays there; it isn’t forgotten so soon.Mrs. Rosmer.No, it is not forgotten.Madam Helset.No, indeed it isn’t. (Goes out to the right.)Mrs. Rosmer.(At the window, looking out.) Forget. Forget, ah!Madam Helset.(In the doorway.) I’ve just seen the rector, ma’am. He’s coming here.Mrs. Rosmer.Are you sure of that?Madam Helset.Yes, he went across the millpond.Mrs. Rosmer.And my husband is not at home.Madam Helset.The tea is ready as soon as you want it.Mrs. Rosmer.But wait; we can’t tell whether he’ll stay.Madam Helset.Yes, yes. (Goes out to the right.)Mrs. Rosmer.(Goes over and opens the door to the hall.) Good afternoon; how glad I am to see you, my dear Rector!18In this version the “white horses” appear, definitely explained, after some sixteen pages:Rosmer.... My former self is dead. I look upon it as one looks upon a corpse.Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, but that is just when these white horses appear.Rosmer.White horses? What white horses?(Madam Helset brings in the tea-urn and puts it on the table.)Mrs. Rosmer.What was it you told me once, Madam Helset? You said that from time immemorial a strange thing happened here whenever one of the family died.Madam Helset.Yes, it’s true as I’m alive. Then the white horse comes.Rosmer.Oh, that old family legend—Mrs. Rosmer.In it comes when the night is far gone. Into the courtyard. Through closed gates. Neighs loudly. Launches out with its hind legs, gallops once round and then out again and away at full speed.Madam Helset.Yes, that’s how it is. Both my mother and my grandmother have seen it.Mrs. Rosmer.And you too?Madam Helset.Oh, I’m not so sure whether I’ve seen anything myself. I don’t generally believe in such things. But this about the white horse—I do believe in that. And I shall believe in it till the day of my death. Well, now I’ll go and—(Goes out to the right.)19
(Mrs. Rosmer is standing by the farthest window, arranging the flowers. Madam Helset enters from the right with a basket of table linen.)
Madam Helset.I suppose I had better begin to lay the tea-table, ma’am?
Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, please do. He must soon be in now.
Madam Helset.(Laying the cloth.) No, he won’t come just yet; for I saw him from the kitchen—
Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, yes—
Madam Helset.—on the other side of the millpond. At first, he was going straight across the foot-bridge; but then he turned back—
Mrs. Rosmer.Did he?
Madam Helset.Yes, and then he went all the way round. Ah, it’s strange about such places. A place where a thing like that has happened—there—. It stays there; it isn’t forgotten so soon.
Mrs. Rosmer.No, it is not forgotten.
Madam Helset.No, indeed it isn’t. (Goes out to the right.)
Mrs. Rosmer.(At the window, looking out.) Forget. Forget, ah!
Madam Helset.(In the doorway.) I’ve just seen the rector, ma’am. He’s coming here.
Mrs. Rosmer.Are you sure of that?
Madam Helset.Yes, he went across the millpond.
Mrs. Rosmer.And my husband is not at home.
Madam Helset.The tea is ready as soon as you want it.
Mrs. Rosmer.But wait; we can’t tell whether he’ll stay.
Madam Helset.Yes, yes. (Goes out to the right.)
Mrs. Rosmer.(Goes over and opens the door to the hall.) Good afternoon; how glad I am to see you, my dear Rector!18
In this version the “white horses” appear, definitely explained, after some sixteen pages:
Rosmer.... My former self is dead. I look upon it as one looks upon a corpse.
Mrs. Rosmer.Yes, but that is just when these white horses appear.
Rosmer.White horses? What white horses?
(Madam Helset brings in the tea-urn and puts it on the table.)
Mrs. Rosmer.What was it you told me once, Madam Helset? You said that from time immemorial a strange thing happened here whenever one of the family died.
Madam Helset.Yes, it’s true as I’m alive. Then the white horse comes.
Rosmer.Oh, that old family legend—
Mrs. Rosmer.In it comes when the night is far gone. Into the courtyard. Through closed gates. Neighs loudly. Launches out with its hind legs, gallops once round and then out again and away at full speed.
Madam Helset.Yes, that’s how it is. Both my mother and my grandmother have seen it.
Mrs. Rosmer.And you too?
Madam Helset.Oh, I’m not so sure whether I’ve seen anything myself. I don’t generally believe in such things. But this about the white horse—I do believe in that. And I shall believe in it till the day of my death. Well, now I’ll go and—
(Goes out to the right.)19
In the final draft, Ibsen put the “white horses” into hisopening page. The beginning of this draft emphasizes particularly a grim, unexplained tragedy. The most mysterious touch in the new arrangement is given by the “white horses,” here treated referentially, not in definite explanation.
(Sitting-room at Rosmersholm; spacious, old-fashioned, and comfortable.)(Rebecca West is sitting in an easy chair by the window and crocheting a large white woolen shawl, which is nearly finished. Now and then she looks out expectantly through the leaves of the plants. Soon after, Madam Helseth enters from the right.)Madam Helseth.I suppose I’d better begin to lay the table, Miss?Rebecca West.Yes, please do. The Pastor must soon be in now.Madam Helseth.Do you feel the draught, Miss, where you’re sitting?Rebecca.Yes, there is a little draught. Perhaps you had better shut the window.(Madame Helseth shuts the door into the hall, and then comes to the window.)Madam Helseth.(About to shut the window, looks out.) Why, isn’t that the Pastor over there?Rebecca.(Hastily.) Where? (Rises.) Yes, it’s he. (Behind the curtain.) Stand aside, don’t let him see us.Madam Helseth.(Keeping back from the window.) Only think, Miss, he’s beginning to take the path by the mill again.Rebecca.He went that way the day before yesterday, too. (Peeps out between the curtains and the window frame.) But let us see whether—Madam Helseth.Will he venture across the foot-bridge?Rebecca.That’s what I want to see. (After a pause.) No, he’s turning. He’s going by the upper road again. (Leaves the window.) A long way round.Madam Helseth.Dear Lord, yes. No wonder the Pastor thinks twice about setting foot onthatbridge. A place where a thing like that has happened—Rebecca.(Folding up her work.) They cling to their dead here at Rosmersholm.Madam Helseth.NowIwould say, Miss, that it’s the dead that clings to Rosmersholm.Rebecca.(Looks at her.) The dead?Madam Helseth.Yes, it’s almost as if they couldn’t tear themselves away from the folk that are left.Rebecca.What makes you fancy that?Madam Helseth.Well, if it weren’t for that, there would be no white horse, I suppose.Rebecca.Now whatisall this about the white horse, Madam Helseth?Madam Helseth.Oh, I don’t like to talk about it. And, besides, you don’t believe in such things.Rebecca.Doyoubelieve in them?Madam Helseth.(Goes and shuts the window.) Now you’re making fun of me, Miss. (Looks out.) Why, isn’t that Mr. Rosmer on the mill path again—?Rebecca.(Looks out.) That man there? (Goes to the window.) No, it’s the Rector!Madam Helseth.Yes, so it is.Rebecca.How glad I am! You’ll see, he’s coming here.Madam Helseth.He goes straight over the foot-bridge,hedoes, and yet she was his sister, his own flesh and blood. Well, I’ll go and lay the table then, Miss West.(She goes out to the right. Rebecca stands at the window for a short time; then smiles and nods to some one outside. It begins to grow dark.)Rebecca.(Goes to the door on the right.) Oh, Madam Helseth, you might give us some little extra dish for supper. You know what the Rector likes best.Madam Helseth.(Outside.) Oh yes, Miss, I’ll see to it.Rebecca.(Opens the door to the hall.) At last! How glad I am to see you, my dear Rector.20
(Sitting-room at Rosmersholm; spacious, old-fashioned, and comfortable.)
(Rebecca West is sitting in an easy chair by the window and crocheting a large white woolen shawl, which is nearly finished. Now and then she looks out expectantly through the leaves of the plants. Soon after, Madam Helseth enters from the right.)
Madam Helseth.I suppose I’d better begin to lay the table, Miss?
Rebecca West.Yes, please do. The Pastor must soon be in now.
Madam Helseth.Do you feel the draught, Miss, where you’re sitting?
Rebecca.Yes, there is a little draught. Perhaps you had better shut the window.
(Madame Helseth shuts the door into the hall, and then comes to the window.)
Madam Helseth.(About to shut the window, looks out.) Why, isn’t that the Pastor over there?
Rebecca.(Hastily.) Where? (Rises.) Yes, it’s he. (Behind the curtain.) Stand aside, don’t let him see us.
Madam Helseth.(Keeping back from the window.) Only think, Miss, he’s beginning to take the path by the mill again.
Rebecca.He went that way the day before yesterday, too. (Peeps out between the curtains and the window frame.) But let us see whether—
Madam Helseth.Will he venture across the foot-bridge?
Rebecca.That’s what I want to see. (After a pause.) No, he’s turning. He’s going by the upper road again. (Leaves the window.) A long way round.
Madam Helseth.Dear Lord, yes. No wonder the Pastor thinks twice about setting foot onthatbridge. A place where a thing like that has happened—
Rebecca.(Folding up her work.) They cling to their dead here at Rosmersholm.
Madam Helseth.NowIwould say, Miss, that it’s the dead that clings to Rosmersholm.
Rebecca.(Looks at her.) The dead?
Madam Helseth.Yes, it’s almost as if they couldn’t tear themselves away from the folk that are left.
Rebecca.What makes you fancy that?
Madam Helseth.Well, if it weren’t for that, there would be no white horse, I suppose.
Rebecca.Now whatisall this about the white horse, Madam Helseth?
Madam Helseth.Oh, I don’t like to talk about it. And, besides, you don’t believe in such things.
Rebecca.Doyoubelieve in them?
Madam Helseth.(Goes and shuts the window.) Now you’re making fun of me, Miss. (Looks out.) Why, isn’t that Mr. Rosmer on the mill path again—?
Rebecca.(Looks out.) That man there? (Goes to the window.) No, it’s the Rector!
Madam Helseth.Yes, so it is.
Rebecca.How glad I am! You’ll see, he’s coming here.
Madam Helseth.He goes straight over the foot-bridge,hedoes, and yet she was his sister, his own flesh and blood. Well, I’ll go and lay the table then, Miss West.
(She goes out to the right. Rebecca stands at the window for a short time; then smiles and nods to some one outside. It begins to grow dark.)
Rebecca.(Goes to the door on the right.) Oh, Madam Helseth, you might give us some little extra dish for supper. You know what the Rector likes best.
Madam Helseth.(Outside.) Oh yes, Miss, I’ll see to it.
Rebecca.(Opens the door to the hall.) At last! How glad I am to see you, my dear Rector.20
How a dramatist opens his play is, then, very important. He is writing supposedly for people who, except on a few historical subjects, know nothing of his material. If so, as soon as possible, he must make them understand: (1) who his people are; (2) where his people are; (3) the time of the play; and (4) what in the present and past relations of his characters causes the story. Is it any wonder that Ibsen,when writingThe Pillars of Society, said: “In a few days I shall have the first act ready; and that is always the most difficult act of the play”?21
What has just been said as to ordering the details in preliminary exposition is equivalent to saying: Decide where, in this exposition, you will place your emphasis. What a dramatist is trying to do will not be clear throughout his play unless he knows how properly to emphasize his material, for it is above all else emphasis which reveals the meaning of a play. Right emphasis depends basally on knowing what exactly is the desired total effect of the piece,—a picture, a thesis, a character study, or a story. Remember that Dumas fils said: “You cannot very well know where you should come out, when you don’t know where you are going.” Often, too, a play is either meant to set people thinking of undesirable social conditions, or to state a distinct thesis. With these two kinds particularly in mind, Mr. Galsworthy has said: “A drama must be shaped so as to have a spire of meaning.”22
Whatever we make prominent by repetition, by elaborate treatment, by the position given it in an act or in the play as a whole, or by striking illustration, we emphasize, for it stays in the memory and shapes the meaning of a play for an auditor. InOthello, why does Shakespeare bring forward Iago at the end of an act as chorus to his own villainy? In order that the audience may not go astray as to the purposes of Iago and the general meaning of the play. Hence the soliloquies: “Thus do I ever make my fool my purse,” as well as “And what’s he, then, that says I play the villain?” It might almost be said that good drama consists in right selection of necessary illustrative action and in right emphasis.
Even though the general exposition of a play be clear, itis sure, without well-handled emphasis, to leave a confused effect. When a play runs away with its author, its emphasis is always bad. The cause of this trouble usually is that the author drifts or rushes on, as the case may be, lured by an idea which he tries to present dramatically; or by the development of some character who, for the moment, possesses his imagination; or by the handling of some scene of large dramatic possibilities. In a recent play meant to illustrate amusingly a series of situations arising from the gossip of a small town, Act I so ended that a reader could not tell whether the school principal, a woman dentist, or the atmosphere of gossip was meant to be of prime importance. Nor was this poor emphasis ever corrected anywhere. Result: a confusing play.
A story-play in some respects of great merit failed in its total effect because the author never really knew whether it was a study of the deterioration of a young man’s character or of a mother’s self-sacrificing and redeeming love, a mere story-play, or a drama intended to drive home a central idea which, apparently, always eluded the author. Fine realism of detail, good characterization in places, and genuine if scattered interest could not carry this play to success.
In another play, Act I ended with the failure of a well-intentioned friend to take a child from her father for her better bringing-up. Apparently, we were entering upon a study of parental affection. In Act II, however, this interest practically disappeared, and we were asked to give all our attention to the way in which a son-in-law was bringing ruin upon this same parent. In Act III, another cause for anxiety on the part of the parent appeared, the other disappearing. At the end of the play, however, we were expected to understand that the fond parent was in sight of calm weather. Proper emphasis which would have brought outthe central idea illustrated by each of the acts was missing.
InThe Trap, a four-act play developed from a vaudeville sketch, lack of good emphasis went far to spoil an interesting play. In the original sketch, a woman, induced by lies of the villain, comes to the apartment of a man who has at one time been in love with her. She is determined to know whether what the villain has told her is true or not. All is a trap which the villain has set for her. From it the astuteness and quick decision of her former admirer rescue her. In the vaudeville sketch, it was the former lover who was the active person,—advising, scheming, and controlling the situation. When this was made over, in Act I the heroine was the central figure; in Act II the villain took this position away from her; in Act III the hero, as in the original sketch, had the centre of the stage; in Act IV there was an attempt to bring the heroine back into prominence, but she divided interest with the hero. As a result of this uncertain emphasis, the play seemed intended for the heroine but taken away from her by the greater human appeal of the hero. Just as the lecturer keeps clear from start to finish the main theme of his discourse and the bearing upon it of the various divisions of the work, the dramatist keeps his main purpose clear and also the relations to it of scenes and acts. This he does by well-handled emphasis. Othello, for instance, must have some proof which the audience will believe conclusive for him of Desdemona’s infidelity. This is the handkerchief which Iago tells Othello that Desdemona gave to Cassio. Notice the iteration with which this handkerchief is impressed upon the attention of the public just before it is used as conclusive proof of Desdemona’s guilt.
Othello.I have a pain upon my forehead here.Desdemona.Faith, that’s with watching; ’twill away again:Let me but bind it hard, within this hourIt will be well.Othello.Your napkin is too little; (Lets fall her napkin.)Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.Desdemona.I am very sorry that you are not well.(Exeunt Othello and Desdemona.)Emilia.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 it to Iago. What he will do with itHeaven knows, not I;I nothing but to please his fantasy.(Re-enter Iago)Iago.How now! what do you here alone?Emilia.Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.Iago.A thing for me? It is a common thing—Emilia.Ha!Iago.To have a foolish wife.Emilia.Oh, is that all? What will you give me nowFor that same handkerchief?Iago.What handkerchief?Emilia.What handkerchief!Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;That which so often you did bid me steal.Iago.Hast stolen it from her?Emilia.No, faith; she let it drop by negligence,And, to the advantage, I, being here took’t up.Look, here it is.Iago.A good wench; give it me.Emilia.What will you do with’t, that you have been so earnestTo have me filch it?Iago.(Snatching it.) Why, what is that to you?Emilia.If it be not for some purpose of import,Give’t me again. Poor lady, she’ll run madWhen she shall lack it.Iago.Be not acknown on’t; I have use for it,Go, leave me. (Exit Emilia.)I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin,And let him find it. Trifles light as airAre to the jealous confirmations strongAs proofs of holy writ; this may do something.The Moor already changes with my poison,Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,But with a little act upon the blood,Burn like the mines of sulphur.23
Othello.I have a pain upon my forehead here.
Desdemona.Faith, that’s with watching; ’twill away again:
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.
Othello.Your napkin is too little; (Lets fall her napkin.)
Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.
Desdemona.I am very sorry that you are not well.
(Exeunt Othello and Desdemona.)
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 it to Iago. What he will do with it
Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy.
(Re-enter Iago)
Iago.How now! what do you here alone?
Emilia.Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.
Iago.A thing for me? It is a common thing—
Emilia.Ha!
Iago.To have a foolish wife.
Emilia.Oh, is that all? What will you give me now
For that same handkerchief?
Iago.What handkerchief?
Emilia.What handkerchief!
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal.
Iago.Hast stolen it from her?
Emilia.No, faith; she let it drop by negligence,
And, to the advantage, I, being here took’t up.
Look, here it is.
Iago.A good wench; give it me.
Emilia.What will you do with’t, that you have been so earnest
To have me filch it?
Iago.(Snatching it.) Why, what is that to you?
Emilia.If it be not for some purpose of import,
Give’t me again. Poor lady, she’ll run mad
When she shall lack it.
Iago.Be not acknown on’t; I have use for it,
Go, leave me. (Exit Emilia.)
I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin,
And let him find it. Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ; this may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison,
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,
But with a little act upon the blood,
Burn like the mines of sulphur.23
Five times the handkerchief is mentioned. The first time the action is such that Othello specially notices the handkerchief. The second time we find another reason why the Moor should specially remember the handkerchief, and learn that Iago wants it for some reason of his own. The third time appears the iteration,
... that same handkerchief?Iago.What handkerchief?Emilia.What handkerchief!
... that same handkerchief?
Iago.What handkerchief?
Emilia.What handkerchief!
and emphasis on the ideas already stated:
Emilia.Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;That which so often you did bid me steal.
Emilia.Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal.
The next time, the action, as Iago snatches the handkerchief and Emilia tries to get it back, holds it before our attention. Finally, Iago, left alone, tells us his malicious scheme in regard to it. Surely, after all this, the audience has been properly prepared for the scenes in which Iago deceives and enrages Othello by means of this very handkerchief.
In the first few minutes of the play,Lady Windermere’s Fan,the attention of the audience is drawn to the fan:
Lady Windermere.My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren’t they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning.Lord Darlington.They are quite perfect. (Sees a fan lying on the table.) And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it?Lady Windermere.Do. Pretty, isn’t it! It’s got my name on it, and everything. [Note the emphasis here.] I have only just seen it myself. It’s my husband’s birthday present to me. You know today is my birthday?Lord Darlington.No? Is it really?24
Lady Windermere.My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren’t they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning.
Lord Darlington.They are quite perfect. (Sees a fan lying on the table.) And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it?
Lady Windermere.Do. Pretty, isn’t it! It’s got my name on it, and everything. [Note the emphasis here.] I have only just seen it myself. It’s my husband’s birthday present to me. You know today is my birthday?
Lord Darlington.No? Is it really?24
Just before the close of the first act, it is with this fan that Lady Windermere points her threat against Mrs. Erlynne:
Lady Windermere.(Picking up fan.) Yes, you gave me this fan today; it was your birthday present. If that woman crosses my threshold I shall strike her across the face with it.
Lady Windermere.(Picking up fan.) Yes, you gave me this fan today; it was your birthday present. If that woman crosses my threshold I shall strike her across the face with it.
That Lady Windermere owns a fan; that it bears her name; that, as a gift chosen by her husband and recently given her, he must recognize it on sight: all these important facts have been planted by neat emphasis when Act I ends. Even in Act II, the fan is kept before the public. Just before Mrs. Erlynne enters, we have:
Lady Windermere.Will you hold my fan for me, Lord Darlington? Thanks.·········Lady Windermere.(Moves up.) Lord Darlington, will you give me back my fan, please? Thanks.... A useful thing, a fan, isn’t it?
Lady Windermere.Will you hold my fan for me, Lord Darlington? Thanks.
·········
Lady Windermere.(Moves up.) Lord Darlington, will you give me back my fan, please? Thanks.... A useful thing, a fan, isn’t it?
When Mrs. Erlynne enters, Lady Windermere “clutches at her fan, then lets it drop on the floor”:
Lord Darlington.You have dropped your fan, Lady Windermere. (Picks it up and hands it to her.)
Lord Darlington.You have dropped your fan, Lady Windermere. (Picks it up and hands it to her.)
Such careful emphasizing makes sure that Lord Windermere’s instant recognition of the significance of finding the fan in Lord Darlington’s rooms, in the critical scene of the third act, will be immediately shared by any audience.
Mr. Augustus Thomas, in Act II ofAs a Man Thinks, wishes his audience to feel instantly the full significance ofthe opera libretto picked up by Hoover, as he watches Elinor enter the apartment of De Lota. Therefore, earlier in the act he emphasizes as follows:
Elinor.(To Burril.) Here’s a libretto of Aida. Find that passage of which you spoke.Burril.There were several.Mrs. Seelig.Our coffee won’t interfere with your cigars.De Lota.Do you mind?Elinor.This room is dedicated to nicotine. (To Mrs. Seelig.) Besides, we’re going to take Dr. De Lota to the piano.De Lota.Are you?Elinor.(To Vedah.) Aren’t we?Vedah.We are.Burril.Here’s one place. (His pencil breaks.) Ah!Clayton.(Offering a pencil attached to his watch chain.) Here.Burril.(Giving libretto to Clayton.) Just mark that passage—“My native land,” etc. (To Elinor.) Now follow that when Aida sings Italian and note how the English stumbles.25
Elinor.(To Burril.) Here’s a libretto of Aida. Find that passage of which you spoke.
Burril.There were several.
Mrs. Seelig.Our coffee won’t interfere with your cigars.
De Lota.Do you mind?
Elinor.This room is dedicated to nicotine. (To Mrs. Seelig.) Besides, we’re going to take Dr. De Lota to the piano.
De Lota.Are you?
Elinor.(To Vedah.) Aren’t we?
Vedah.We are.
Burril.Here’s one place. (His pencil breaks.) Ah!
Clayton.(Offering a pencil attached to his watch chain.) Here.
Burril.(Giving libretto to Clayton.) Just mark that passage—“My native land,” etc. (To Elinor.) Now follow that when Aida sings Italian and note how the English stumbles.25
Two pages later, as Elinor goes out to the automobile, in order that the audience may see the libretto of which we have heard so much pass into the hands of De Lota, we have this:
Elinor.Take this for me. (Hands libretto to De Lota.)
Elinor.Take this for me. (Hands libretto to De Lota.)
Later in the act, when Judge Hoover is telling Clayton that he saw some woman with De Lota as he was entering the apartment, the dialogue runs:
Clayton.You spoke to him?Hoover.Calledto him.Clayton.Called?Hoover.Yes—I was forty feet away.Clayton.Had your nerve with you.Hoover.The girl dropped something—I thought it was a fan.Clayton.Well?Hoover.’Twasn’t—but that’s why I called De Lota.Clayton.How do you know it wasn’t?Hoover.I picked it up.Clayton.What was it?Hoover.A libretto.Clayton.What libretto?Hoover.Don’t know—but grand opera—I remember that and libretto—Clayton.You threw it away?Hoover.No—kept it.Clayton.Where is it?Hoover.Overcoat pocket.Clayton.(Pause.) I’d like to see it. Think I could have some fun with De Lota.Hoover.(Going up the hallway.) My idea too—fun and word of caution. (Gets coat and returns, feeling in pocket for libretto.)Clayton.Caution—naturally.Hoover.Here it is. (Reads.) Aida.Clayton.(Taking libretto savagely.) Aida—let me see it.Hoover.What’s the matter? (Puts coat on a chair.)Clayton.(In sudden anger, throws book.) The dog! Damn him—damn both of them!Hoover.What is it? See here—Who’s with Dick?Clayton.Not his mother—no! (Points to libretto on the floor.) Marked.Idid that myself, not an hour ago, and gave it to her.Hoover.To Elinor?Clayton.(Calling as he rushes to the hall.) Sutton! Sutton!Hoover.Hold on, Frank—there’s some mistake.Clayton.Get me a cab—never mind—I’ll take Seelig’s machine. (Disappears.) Here! Doctor Seelig says to take me to—(He goes out. Door bangs.)Sutton enters from the dining-roomSutton.Is Master Dick in danger, sir?Hoover.(Nervously.) I don’t know, Sutton. Where’s his mother?Sutton.Opera, sir.Hoover.With whom?Sutton.Mr. De Lota.
Clayton.You spoke to him?
Hoover.Calledto him.
Clayton.Called?
Hoover.Yes—I was forty feet away.
Clayton.Had your nerve with you.
Hoover.The girl dropped something—I thought it was a fan.
Clayton.Well?
Hoover.’Twasn’t—but that’s why I called De Lota.
Clayton.How do you know it wasn’t?
Hoover.I picked it up.
Clayton.What was it?
Hoover.A libretto.
Clayton.What libretto?
Hoover.Don’t know—but grand opera—I remember that and libretto—
Clayton.You threw it away?
Hoover.No—kept it.
Clayton.Where is it?
Hoover.Overcoat pocket.
Clayton.(Pause.) I’d like to see it. Think I could have some fun with De Lota.
Hoover.(Going up the hallway.) My idea too—fun and word of caution. (Gets coat and returns, feeling in pocket for libretto.)
Clayton.Caution—naturally.
Hoover.Here it is. (Reads.) Aida.
Clayton.(Taking libretto savagely.) Aida—let me see it.
Hoover.What’s the matter? (Puts coat on a chair.)
Clayton.(In sudden anger, throws book.) The dog! Damn him—damn both of them!
Hoover.What is it? See here—Who’s with Dick?
Clayton.Not his mother—no! (Points to libretto on the floor.) Marked.Idid that myself, not an hour ago, and gave it to her.
Hoover.To Elinor?
Clayton.(Calling as he rushes to the hall.) Sutton! Sutton!
Hoover.Hold on, Frank—there’s some mistake.
Clayton.Get me a cab—never mind—I’ll take Seelig’s machine. (Disappears.) Here! Doctor Seelig says to take me to—
(He goes out. Door bangs.)
Sutton enters from the dining-room
Sutton.Is Master Dick in danger, sir?
Hoover.(Nervously.) I don’t know, Sutton. Where’s his mother?
Sutton.Opera, sir.
Hoover.With whom?
Sutton.Mr. De Lota.
Because of the emphasis given the libretto in the first quotation, the audience’s suspicions are roused at the same time as Clayton’s and his emotions are theirs. Yet, even inthis last scene, note the care of Mr. Thomas to make all absolutely clear. He does not stop when Hoover says “A libretto,” and “Of grand opera,” but he lets the audience see the same libretto which passed from Elinor to De Lota pass from Hoover to Clayton, the latter identifying it in his cry, “Aida.” That there may be absolutely no doubt in the evidence piling up against Elinor, he has Clayton point to the marked place with the words: “I did that myself.”
Emphasis, as in these three instances, may come on some detail—handkerchief, fan, libretto—which is to be made important later in the development of the plot. It may come within a scene or act, or at the end of either to emphasize a part or the whole of the scene or act. The soliloquies of Iago referred to on page 183 are of this sort. Emphasis may stress little by little or with one blow what the play means. The significance of the whole playStrife—the utter uselessness of the conflict chronicled—is thus emphasized in the last lines of the play:
Harness.A woman dead; and the two best men both broken!Tench.(Staring at him—suddenly excited.) D’you know, sir—these terms, they’re thevery samewe drew up together, you and I, and put to both sides before the fight began? All this—all this—and—and what for?Harness.(In a slow, grim voice.) That’s where the fun comes in!(Underwood without turning from the door makes a gesture of assent.)The curtain falls26
Harness.A woman dead; and the two best men both broken!
Tench.(Staring at him—suddenly excited.) D’you know, sir—these terms, they’re thevery samewe drew up together, you and I, and put to both sides before the fight began? All this—all this—and—and what for?
Harness.(In a slow, grim voice.) That’s where the fun comes in!
(Underwood without turning from the door makes a gesture of assent.)
The curtain falls26
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray27illustrates the play in which emphasis little by little brings out the meaning of the whole piece. Examine even the first act. It is full of the feeling: “It cannot nor it will not come to good.” Tanqueray himself says frankly, “My marriage is not even the conventional sort of marriage likely to satisfy society.” Drummle comingin declares that George Orreyed is “a thing of the past,” because he has married Mabel Hervey. The group of old friends show anxiety, and it is clear that to the mind of Cayley Drummle Tanqueray is but repeating the rash step of Orreyed. The whole act prepares for the finale of the play.
Hervieu’sThe Trail of the Torchshows the emphasis which strikes one hard blow and leaves to the rest of the play illustration of what has been clearly stressed. About one third of the way through Act I, Maravon explains to Sabine the thesis which the entire play illustrates:
Sabine.(Pointing to the two who have just gone.) Ah, my dear Maravon, what an absurd friend I have there!Maravon.Mme. Gribert, you mean?Sabine.Haven’t you noticed that she is beginning to look like a governess? I suppose it’s because she has been doing a governess’ work for so long that she has ceased to have any personal existence. She no longer cares to possess anything of her own, everything belongs to her daughter, and her husband works his fingers to the bone to pay for Beatrice’s dresses, while Beatrice lords it over both of them in a way that is beginning to be just a trifle odious.Maravon.I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Madame. With naively natural beings, like these, I enjoy watching the family wheels function with such simplicity. People of this kind conform to the law which begins by demanding of the mother the flesh of her flesh, often her beauty, her health, and, if need be, her life, for the formation of the child. And then, for the profit of the newer generation, Nature exerts herself to despoil the old. She exacts without stint from the parents in the shape of labors, anxieties, expenses, gifts, and sacrifices, all of their vital forces to equip, arm, and decorate their sons and daughters who are descending into the plain of the future. Take my own case, for instance. There was the question of my son’s position in life. Didier was able to persuade me very quickly that my property would be better placed, for the future, in his hands. To show you that Mme. Gribert and her daughter are merely following out a tradition of the remotest antiquity, if you can endure the pedantry of an old college professor, I will give you an example from the classics.Sabine.Oh! Please do.Maravon.You have probably never heard of the “Lampadophories,” have you? Well, on certain solemn occasions the citizens of Athens placed themselves at regular intervals, forming a sort of chain through the city. The first one lighted a torch at an altar, ran to the second and passed to him the light, and he to a third who ran to the fourth and so on, from hand to hand. Each one of the chain ran onward without ever looking back and without any idea except to keep the flame alight and pass it on to the next man. Then, breathlessly stopping, each saw nothing but the progress of the flaming light, as each followed it with his eyes, his then useless anxiety, and superfluous vows. In that Trail of the Torch has been seen a symbol of all the generations of the earth, though it is not I, but my very ancient friend Plato, and the good poet Lucretius, who made the analogy.Sabine.That is not at all my idea of family relations. From my point of view, receiving life entails as great an obligation as giving it. There is a certain sort of link which makes the obligations counter balance. Since Nature has not made it possible for children to bring themselves into the world, of their own accord, I say that it was her intention to impose upon them a debt to those who give them life.Maravon.They absolve that debt by giving life in turn to their children.Sabine.They absolve it by filial piety which has been the inspiration of many deeds of heroism as you seem to forget.28
Sabine.(Pointing to the two who have just gone.) Ah, my dear Maravon, what an absurd friend I have there!
Maravon.Mme. Gribert, you mean?
Sabine.Haven’t you noticed that she is beginning to look like a governess? I suppose it’s because she has been doing a governess’ work for so long that she has ceased to have any personal existence. She no longer cares to possess anything of her own, everything belongs to her daughter, and her husband works his fingers to the bone to pay for Beatrice’s dresses, while Beatrice lords it over both of them in a way that is beginning to be just a trifle odious.
Maravon.I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Madame. With naively natural beings, like these, I enjoy watching the family wheels function with such simplicity. People of this kind conform to the law which begins by demanding of the mother the flesh of her flesh, often her beauty, her health, and, if need be, her life, for the formation of the child. And then, for the profit of the newer generation, Nature exerts herself to despoil the old. She exacts without stint from the parents in the shape of labors, anxieties, expenses, gifts, and sacrifices, all of their vital forces to equip, arm, and decorate their sons and daughters who are descending into the plain of the future. Take my own case, for instance. There was the question of my son’s position in life. Didier was able to persuade me very quickly that my property would be better placed, for the future, in his hands. To show you that Mme. Gribert and her daughter are merely following out a tradition of the remotest antiquity, if you can endure the pedantry of an old college professor, I will give you an example from the classics.
Sabine.Oh! Please do.
Maravon.You have probably never heard of the “Lampadophories,” have you? Well, on certain solemn occasions the citizens of Athens placed themselves at regular intervals, forming a sort of chain through the city. The first one lighted a torch at an altar, ran to the second and passed to him the light, and he to a third who ran to the fourth and so on, from hand to hand. Each one of the chain ran onward without ever looking back and without any idea except to keep the flame alight and pass it on to the next man. Then, breathlessly stopping, each saw nothing but the progress of the flaming light, as each followed it with his eyes, his then useless anxiety, and superfluous vows. In that Trail of the Torch has been seen a symbol of all the generations of the earth, though it is not I, but my very ancient friend Plato, and the good poet Lucretius, who made the analogy.
Sabine.That is not at all my idea of family relations. From my point of view, receiving life entails as great an obligation as giving it. There is a certain sort of link which makes the obligations counter balance. Since Nature has not made it possible for children to bring themselves into the world, of their own accord, I say that it was her intention to impose upon them a debt to those who give them life.
Maravon.They absolve that debt by giving life in turn to their children.
Sabine.They absolve it by filial piety which has been the inspiration of many deeds of heroism as you seem to forget.28
A recent editor of Hauptmann’sGabriel Schilling’s Flightwrites of it: “His analysis is projected creatively in the characters of the two women—Evelyn Schilling and Hanna Elias. What is it, in these women, that—different as they are—menaces the man and the artist Schilling? It is a passion for possession, for absorption, a hunger of the nerves rather than of the heart. These modern women have abandoned the simple and sane preoccupations of their grandmothers; the enormous garnered nervous energy that is no longer expended in household tasks and in childbearing strikes itself, beak and clawlike, into man. But man has notchanged. His occupations are not gone. He cannot endure the double burden. That is why Gabriel Schilling, rather than be destroyed spiritually by these tyrannies and exactions, seeks a last refuge in the great and cleansing purity of the sea.
‘The modern malady of love is nerves.’”29
It is possible that all this may be derived from the play, but the Berlin audience which watched its first night left the theatre bewildered in more than one respect. There were a half-dozen opinions as to what this ugly story of a very weak man was meant to signify. Was it simply the tale of a weak man? Was it meant to show, as Professor Lewisohn thinks, that creation in an artist not naturally weak at first may be killed if he is pursued by women selfish in their love? Does the ending, however, show that Hanna is entirely selfish? Does the play signify that the man who chooses to follow women rather than his art is lost? Why is there so much emphasis on the awesomeness of Nature on the island? Have these conditions of Nature anything to do with Schilling’s death? If so, do they not mitigate the effect upon him of the women? Lack of well-placed emphasis madeGabriel Schilling’s Flighta failure, interesting as were the questions it raised and masterly as is much of its characterization.
Too often young dramatists forget that the beginning and the ending of acts and plays emphasize even when the author does not so intend. As in real life, it is first and final impressions, rather than intermediate, which count most. An able young dramatist complained that though he wished one of his characters to dominate Act I she certainly failed to do this. The trouble was that an attractive old gardener, the character who took the act away from the young woman, opened the play attractively characterized and closed Act Iwith effective speech and pantomime, when the woman was busy only with unimportant pantomime. The prominence unintentionally given to the old gardener emphasized him at the expense of the young woman.
For the value of openings in emphasizing the meaning of the whole play, see Tennyson’sBecketas originally written, and as rearranged by Sir Henry Irving.30Tennyson’sBecketbegins with Henry and the future Archbishop at chess, talking of matters in state and church.
PROLOGUEA Castle in Normandy. Interior of the hall. Roofs of a city seen through windows. Henry and Becket at chess.Henry.So then our good Archbishop TheobaldLies dying.Becket.I am grieved to know as much.Henry.But we must have a mightier man than heFor his successor.Becket.Have you thought of one?Henry.A cleric lately poison’d his own mother,And being brought before the courts of the Church,They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.I would have hang’d him.Becket.It is your move.Henry.Well—there. (Moves.)The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen’s timeHath climb’d the throne and almost clutched the crown;But by the royal customs of our realmThe Church should hold her baronies of me,Like other lords amenable to law.I’ll have them written down and made the law.Becket.My liege, I move my bishop.Henry.And if I live,No man without my leave shall excommunicateMy tenants or my household.Becket.Look to your king.Henry.No man without my leave shall cross the seasTo set the Pope against me—I pray your pardon.Becket.Well—will you move?Henry.There. (Moves.)Becket.Check—you move so wildly.Henry.There then! (Moves.)Becket.Why—there then, for you see my bishopHath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.Henry.(Kicks over the board.) Why, there then—down go bishop and king together.I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancyUpon the game I should have beaten thee,But that was vagabond.Becket.Where, my liege? With Phryne,Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?Henry.My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;And yet she plagues me too—no fault in her—But that I fear the Queen would have her life.Becket.Put her away, put her away, my liege!Put her away into a nunnery!Safe enough there from her to whom thou art boundBy Holy Church. And wherefore should she seekThe life of Rosamund de Clifford moreThan that of other paramours of thine?Henry.How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?Becket.How should I know?Henry.That is my secret, Thomas.Becket.State secrets should be patent to the statesmanWho serves and loves his king, and whom the kingLoves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.Henry.Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.I would to God thou wert, for I should findAn easy father confessor in thee.
PROLOGUE
A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the hall. Roofs of a city seen through windows. Henry and Becket at chess.
Henry.So then our good Archbishop TheobaldLies dying.Becket.I am grieved to know as much.Henry.But we must have a mightier man than heFor his successor.Becket.Have you thought of one?Henry.A cleric lately poison’d his own mother,And being brought before the courts of the Church,They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.I would have hang’d him.Becket.It is your move.Henry.Well—there. (Moves.)The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen’s timeHath climb’d the throne and almost clutched the crown;But by the royal customs of our realmThe Church should hold her baronies of me,Like other lords amenable to law.I’ll have them written down and made the law.Becket.My liege, I move my bishop.Henry.And if I live,No man without my leave shall excommunicateMy tenants or my household.Becket.Look to your king.Henry.No man without my leave shall cross the seasTo set the Pope against me—I pray your pardon.Becket.Well—will you move?Henry.There. (Moves.)Becket.Check—you move so wildly.Henry.There then! (Moves.)Becket.Why—there then, for you see my bishopHath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.Henry.(Kicks over the board.) Why, there then—down go bishop and king together.I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancyUpon the game I should have beaten thee,But that was vagabond.Becket.Where, my liege? With Phryne,Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?Henry.My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;And yet she plagues me too—no fault in her—But that I fear the Queen would have her life.Becket.Put her away, put her away, my liege!Put her away into a nunnery!Safe enough there from her to whom thou art boundBy Holy Church. And wherefore should she seekThe life of Rosamund de Clifford moreThan that of other paramours of thine?Henry.How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?Becket.How should I know?Henry.That is my secret, Thomas.Becket.State secrets should be patent to the statesmanWho serves and loves his king, and whom the kingLoves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.Henry.Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.I would to God thou wert, for I should findAn easy father confessor in thee.
Henry.So then our good Archbishop Theobald
Lies dying.
Becket.I am grieved to know as much.
Henry.But we must have a mightier man than he
For his successor.
Becket.Have you thought of one?
Henry.A cleric lately poison’d his own mother,
And being brought before the courts of the Church,
They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.
I would have hang’d him.
Becket.It is your move.
Henry.Well—there. (Moves.)
The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen’s time
Hath climb’d the throne and almost clutched the crown;
But by the royal customs of our realm
The Church should hold her baronies of me,
Like other lords amenable to law.
I’ll have them written down and made the law.
Becket.My liege, I move my bishop.
Henry.And if I live,
No man without my leave shall excommunicate
My tenants or my household.
Becket.Look to your king.
Henry.No man without my leave shall cross the seas
To set the Pope against me—I pray your pardon.
Becket.Well—will you move?
Henry.There. (Moves.)
Becket.Check—you move so wildly.
Henry.There then! (Moves.)
Becket.Why—there then, for you see my bishop
Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.
Henry.(Kicks over the board.) Why, there then—down go bishop and king together.
I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy
Upon the game I should have beaten thee,
But that was vagabond.
Becket.Where, my liege? With Phryne,
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?
Henry.My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;
And yet she plagues me too—no fault in her—
But that I fear the Queen would have her life.
Becket.Put her away, put her away, my liege!
Put her away into a nunnery!
Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound
By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more
Than that of other paramours of thine?
Henry.How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?
Becket.How should I know?
Henry.That is my secret, Thomas.
Becket.State secrets should be patent to the statesman
Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king
Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.
Henry.Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.
I would to God thou wert, for I should find
An easy father confessor in thee.
Irving, transposing, takes us at once into the plotting of the Queen against Becket because of her hatred for Rosamund and Becket’s supposed protection of the King’s mistress. A secondary interest in Tennyson’s presentation becomes by this shifting first interest with Irving.
PROLOGUESCENE 1.A Castle in Normandy. Eleanor. Fitz UrseEleanor.Dost thou love this Becket, this son of a London merchant, that thou hast sworn a voluntary allegiance to him?Fitz Urse.Not for my love toward him, but because he hath the love of the King. How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of three kings behind him, outroyaltying royalty?Eleanor.Pride of the plebeian!Fitz Urse.And this plebeian like to be Archbishop!Eleanor.True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the Papacy. Archbishop? I can see farther into man than our hot-headed Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do not charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor.Fitz Urse.Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled, but the back methought was Rosamund—his paramour, thy rival. I can feel for thee.Eleanor.Thou feel for me!—paramour—rival! No paramour but his own wedded wife! King Louis had no paramours, and I loved him none the more. Henry had many and I loved him none the less. I would she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies; but I fear this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever she goes; track her, if thou can’st, even into the King’s lodging, that I may (clenches her fist)—may at least have my cry against him and her,—and thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, what shall I call it, affect her thine own self.Fitz Urse.Ay, but the young filly winced and whinnied and flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying about her, and this Becket, her father’s friend, like enough staved us from her.Eleanor.Us!Fitz Urse.Yea, by the blessed Virgin! There were more than I buzzing round the blossom—De Tracy—even that flint De Brito.Eleanor.Carry her off among you; run in upon her and devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful to herself and to the King as she is to me.Fitz Urse.I and all should be glad to wreak our spite on the rose-facedminion of the King, and bring her to the level of the dust, so that the King—Eleanor.If thou light upon her—free me from her!—let her eat it like the serpent and be driven out of her paradise!
PROLOGUE
SCENE 1.A Castle in Normandy. Eleanor. Fitz Urse
Eleanor.Dost thou love this Becket, this son of a London merchant, that thou hast sworn a voluntary allegiance to him?
Fitz Urse.Not for my love toward him, but because he hath the love of the King. How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of three kings behind him, outroyaltying royalty?
Eleanor.Pride of the plebeian!
Fitz Urse.And this plebeian like to be Archbishop!
Eleanor.True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the Papacy. Archbishop? I can see farther into man than our hot-headed Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do not charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor.
Fitz Urse.Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled, but the back methought was Rosamund—his paramour, thy rival. I can feel for thee.
Eleanor.Thou feel for me!—paramour—rival! No paramour but his own wedded wife! King Louis had no paramours, and I loved him none the more. Henry had many and I loved him none the less. I would she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies; but I fear this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever she goes; track her, if thou can’st, even into the King’s lodging, that I may (clenches her fist)—may at least have my cry against him and her,—and thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, what shall I call it, affect her thine own self.
Fitz Urse.Ay, but the young filly winced and whinnied and flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying about her, and this Becket, her father’s friend, like enough staved us from her.
Eleanor.Us!
Fitz Urse.Yea, by the blessed Virgin! There were more than I buzzing round the blossom—De Tracy—even that flint De Brito.
Eleanor.Carry her off among you; run in upon her and devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful to herself and to the King as she is to me.
Fitz Urse.I and all should be glad to wreak our spite on the rose-facedminion of the King, and bring her to the level of the dust, so that the King—
Eleanor.If thou light upon her—free me from her!—let her eat it like the serpent and be driven out of her paradise!
The story of Nathan Hale might be made into a play with patriotism as its dominant idea, a close character study of Hale himself, or little more than a love story. Notice the way in which with Clyde Fitch the close of the acts steadily emphasizes the love story as the central interest. The first scene is in the school room where Hale is the teacher of Alice Adams.
(Hale goes toward Alice with his arms outstretched to embrace her; Alice goes into his arms—a long embrace and kiss; a loud tapping on a drum outside startles them.)Hale.The Tory meeting!Alice.Fitzroy will be back. I don’t want to see him!Hale.Quick—we’ll go by the window! (Putting a chair under the window he jumps onto chair; then leans in the window and holds out his hands to Alice, who is on the chair.) And if tomorrow another drum makes me a soldier—?Alice.It will make me a soldier’s sweetheart!Hale.Come.(She goes out of the window with his help, and with loud drum tattoo and bugle call, the stage is left empty and the curtain falls.)
(Hale goes toward Alice with his arms outstretched to embrace her; Alice goes into his arms—a long embrace and kiss; a loud tapping on a drum outside startles them.)
Hale.The Tory meeting!
Alice.Fitzroy will be back. I don’t want to see him!
Hale.Quick—we’ll go by the window! (Putting a chair under the window he jumps onto chair; then leans in the window and holds out his hands to Alice, who is on the chair.) And if tomorrow another drum makes me a soldier—?
Alice.It will make me a soldier’s sweetheart!
Hale.Come.
(She goes out of the window with his help, and with loud drum tattoo and bugle call, the stage is left empty and the curtain falls.)
The second act at Colonel Knowlton’s house closes on Hale’s decision to serve his country as a spy:
Alice.(In a whisper.) Youwillgo?Hale.I must.Alice.(A wild cry.) Then I hate you!Hale.And Ilove youand always will so long as a heart beats in my body. (He wishes to embrace her.)Alice.No!(She draws back her head, her eyes blazing, she is momentarily insane with fear and grief, anger and love. Hale bows his head and slowly goes from the room. Alice, with a faint heartbroken cry, sinks limply to the floor, her father hurrying to her as the curtain falls.)
Alice.(In a whisper.) Youwillgo?
Hale.I must.
Alice.(A wild cry.) Then I hate you!
Hale.And Ilove youand always will so long as a heart beats in my body. (He wishes to embrace her.)
Alice.No!
(She draws back her head, her eyes blazing, she is momentarily insane with fear and grief, anger and love. Hale bows his head and slowly goes from the room. Alice, with a faint heartbroken cry, sinks limply to the floor, her father hurrying to her as the curtain falls.)
This is the close of Act III.
Fitzroy.Look!(And he bends Alice’s head back upon his shoulder to kiss her on the lips.)Hale.Blackguard!(With a blow of his right arm he knocks Cunningham on the head, who, falling, hits his head against the pillar of the porch and is stunned. Meanwhile, the moment he has hit Cunningham, Hale has sprung upon Fitzroy, and with one hand over his mouth has bent his head back with the other until he has released Alice. Hale then throws Fitzroy down and seizing Alice about the waist dashes off with her to the right, where his horse is. Fitzroy rises and runs to Cunningham, kicks him to get his gun, which has fallen under him.)Fitzroy.Get up! Get up! You fool!(Horse’s hoofs heard starting off.)Third Picket’s Voice.(Off stage.) Who goes there?Fitzroy.(Stops, looks up, and gives a triumphant cry.) Ah, the picket! They’re caught! They’re caught!Hale.Returning with Alice Adams on private business.Picket.The password.Hale.“Love!”Fitzroy.Damnation! Of course he heard! (Runs off right, yelling.) Fire on them! Fire! For God’s sake, fire!(A shot is heard, followed by a loud defiant laugh from Hale, and echoed “Love,” as the clatter of the horse’s hoofs dies away, and the curtain falls.)
Fitzroy.Look!
(And he bends Alice’s head back upon his shoulder to kiss her on the lips.)
Hale.Blackguard!
(With a blow of his right arm he knocks Cunningham on the head, who, falling, hits his head against the pillar of the porch and is stunned. Meanwhile, the moment he has hit Cunningham, Hale has sprung upon Fitzroy, and with one hand over his mouth has bent his head back with the other until he has released Alice. Hale then throws Fitzroy down and seizing Alice about the waist dashes off with her to the right, where his horse is. Fitzroy rises and runs to Cunningham, kicks him to get his gun, which has fallen under him.)
Fitzroy.Get up! Get up! You fool!
(Horse’s hoofs heard starting off.)
Third Picket’s Voice.(Off stage.) Who goes there?
Fitzroy.(Stops, looks up, and gives a triumphant cry.) Ah, the picket! They’re caught! They’re caught!
Hale.Returning with Alice Adams on private business.
Picket.The password.
Hale.“Love!”
Fitzroy.Damnation! Of course he heard! (Runs off right, yelling.) Fire on them! Fire! For God’s sake, fire!
(A shot is heard, followed by a loud defiant laugh from Hale, and echoed “Love,” as the clatter of the horse’s hoofs dies away, and the curtain falls.)
Act IV has a double ending: the closing of the love story and the execution. The chief interest thus far created for the audience could end with the parting of the lovers.
(The soldiers sing the air of what is now called “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.” Hale stands listening for the sound of Alice’s coming. The Sentinel retires to the farther corner of the tent, and stands with arms folded, his back towards Hale. Tom comes on first, bringing Alice. As they come into Hale’s presence, Alice glides from out of Tom’s keeping, and her brother leaves the two together. They stand looking at each other a moment without moving andthen both make a quick movement to meet. As their arms touch in the commencement of their embrace, they remain in that position a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes. Then they embrace, Hale clasping her tight in his arms and pressing a long kiss upon her lips. They remain a few moments in this position, silent and immovable. Then they slowly loosen their arms—though not altogether discontinuing the embrace—until they take their first position and again gaze into each other’s faces. Alice sways, about to fall, faint from the effort to control her emotions, and Hale gently leads her to the tree stump at right. He kneels beside her so that she can rest against him with her arms about his neck. After a moment, keeping her arms still tight about him, Alice makes several ineffectual efforts to speak, but her quivering lips refuse to form any words, and her breath comes with difficulty. Hale shakes his head with a sad smile, as if to say, “No, don’t try to speak. There are no words for us.” And again they embrace. At this moment, while Alice is clasped again tight in Hale’s arms, the Sentinel, who has his watch in his hand, slowly comes out from the tent. Tom also re-enters, but Alice and Hale are oblivious. Tom goes softly to them and touches Alice very gently on the arm, resting his hand there. She starts violently, with a hysterical taking-in of her breath, and an expression of fear and horror, as she knows this is the final moment of parting. Hale also starts slightly, rising, and his muscles grow rigid. He clasps and kisses her once more, but only for a second. They both are unconscious of Tom, of everything but each other. Tom takes her firmly from Hale, and leads her out, her eyes fixed upon Hale’s eyes, their arms outstretched toward each other. After a few paces she breaks forcibly away from Tom, and with a wild cry of “No! No!” locks her hands about Hale’s neck. Tom draws her away again and leads her backward from the scene, her lips dry now and her breath coming in short, loud, horror-stricken gasps. Hale holds in his hand a red rose she wore on her breast, and thinking more of her than of himself, whispers, as she goes, “Be brave! be brave!” The light is being slowly lowered, till, as Alice disappears, the stage is in total darkness.)
(The soldiers sing the air of what is now called “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.” Hale stands listening for the sound of Alice’s coming. The Sentinel retires to the farther corner of the tent, and stands with arms folded, his back towards Hale. Tom comes on first, bringing Alice. As they come into Hale’s presence, Alice glides from out of Tom’s keeping, and her brother leaves the two together. They stand looking at each other a moment without moving andthen both make a quick movement to meet. As their arms touch in the commencement of their embrace, they remain in that position a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes. Then they embrace, Hale clasping her tight in his arms and pressing a long kiss upon her lips. They remain a few moments in this position, silent and immovable. Then they slowly loosen their arms—though not altogether discontinuing the embrace—until they take their first position and again gaze into each other’s faces. Alice sways, about to fall, faint from the effort to control her emotions, and Hale gently leads her to the tree stump at right. He kneels beside her so that she can rest against him with her arms about his neck. After a moment, keeping her arms still tight about him, Alice makes several ineffectual efforts to speak, but her quivering lips refuse to form any words, and her breath comes with difficulty. Hale shakes his head with a sad smile, as if to say, “No, don’t try to speak. There are no words for us.” And again they embrace. At this moment, while Alice is clasped again tight in Hale’s arms, the Sentinel, who has his watch in his hand, slowly comes out from the tent. Tom also re-enters, but Alice and Hale are oblivious. Tom goes softly to them and touches Alice very gently on the arm, resting his hand there. She starts violently, with a hysterical taking-in of her breath, and an expression of fear and horror, as she knows this is the final moment of parting. Hale also starts slightly, rising, and his muscles grow rigid. He clasps and kisses her once more, but only for a second. They both are unconscious of Tom, of everything but each other. Tom takes her firmly from Hale, and leads her out, her eyes fixed upon Hale’s eyes, their arms outstretched toward each other. After a few paces she breaks forcibly away from Tom, and with a wild cry of “No! No!” locks her hands about Hale’s neck. Tom draws her away again and leads her backward from the scene, her lips dry now and her breath coming in short, loud, horror-stricken gasps. Hale holds in his hand a red rose she wore on her breast, and thinking more of her than of himself, whispers, as she goes, “Be brave! be brave!” The light is being slowly lowered, till, as Alice disappears, the stage is in total darkness.)
The second ending merely connects the play more closely with history.