_Hub_. I will not chaunt such _Arth_. And will you?

dolour with my tongue,

Yet must I act the outrage with _Hub_. And I will.

my hand.

My heart, my head, and all my _Arth_. Have you the heart? When

powers beside, your head did but ache,

To aide the office have at once I knit my handkerchief about your

denide. brows,

Peruse this Letter, lines of (The best I had, a princess wrought

treble woe, it me,)

Reade ore my charge, and pardon And I did never ask it you again:

when you know. And with my hand at midnight held

your head,

Hubert, these are to commaund And, like the watchful minutes to

thee, as thou tendrest our quiet the hour,

in minde, and the estate of our Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy

person, that presently upon the time,

receipt of our commaund, thou Saying, What lack you? and, Where

put out the eies of Arthur lies your grief?

Plantaginet. Or, What good love may I perform

for you?

_Arth_. Ah, monstrous damned Many a poor man's son would have

man! his very breath infects the lain still,

elements. And ne'er have spoken a loving word

Contagious venyme dwelleth in to you;

his heart; But you at your sick service had a

Effecting meanes to poyson all prince.

the world. Nay you may think my love was

Unreverent may I be to blame crafty love,

the heavens And call it cunning: do, an if you

Of great injustice, that the will.

miscreant If heaven be pleas'd that you will

Lives to oppresse the innocents use me ill,

with wrong. Why, then you must.--Will you put

Ah, Hubert! makes he thee his out mine eyes?

instrument, These eyes that never did, nor

To sound the tromp that causeth never shall

hell triumph? So much as frown on you?

Heaven weepes, the Saints do

shed celestiall teares, _Hub_. I have sworn to do it,

They feare thy fall, and cyte And with hot irons must I burn them

thee with remorse, out.

To knock thy conscience, moving

pitie there, _Arth._ Ah! none but in this iron

Willing to fence thee from the age would do it.

range of hell, The iron of itself, though heat

Hell, Hubert, trust me all the red-hot,

plagues of hell Approaching near these eyes would

Hangs on performance of this drink my tears,

damned deede. And quench this fiery indignation,

This seale, the warrant of the Even in the matter of mine

bodies blisse, innocence:

Ensureth Satan chieftaine of Nay, after that, consume away in

thy soule: rust,

Subscribe not Hubert, give not But for containing fire to harm

Gods part away, mine eye.

I speake not only for eyes Are you more stubborn hard than

priviledge, hammered iron?

The chiefe exterior that I would An if an angel should have come

enjoy: to me,

But for they perill, farre And told me Hubert should put out

beyond my paine, mine eyes,

Thy sweetes soules losse, more I would not have believ'd him; no

than my eyes vaine lack: tongue but Hubert's.

A cause internall, and eternall

too, _Hub._ Come forth. (_Stamps._)

Advise thee Hubert, for the case

is hard, _Re-enter Attendants, with Cord,

To loose salvation for a Kings Irons, &c._

reward.

Do as I bid you do.

_Hub._ My Lord, a subject

dwelling in the land _Arth._ Oh! save me, Hubert, save

Is tyed to execute the Kings me! my eyes are out,

commaund. Even with the fierce looks of these

bloody men.

_Arth._ Yet God commaunds whose

power reacheth further, _Hub._ Give me the iron, I say, and

That no commaund should stand in bind him here.

force to murther.

_Arth._ Alas! what need you be so

boisterous-rough?

I will not struggle; I will stand

stone-still.

For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me

not be bound.

Nay, hear me Hubert: drive these

men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

_Hub._ But that same Essence hath I will not stir nor wince, nor

ordained a law, speak a word,

A death for guilt, to keepe the Nor look upon the iron angerly.

world in awe. Thrust but these men away, and I'll

forgive you,

_Arth._ I pleade, not guiltie, Whatever torment you do put me to.

treasonlesse and free.

_Hub._ Go, stand within: let me

_Hub._ But that appeale, my alone with him.

Lord, concernes not me.

_1. Attend._ I am best pleas'd to

_Arth._ Why thou art he that be from such a deed.

maist omit the perill.

(_Exeunt Attendants._)

_Hub._ I, if my Soveraigne

would remit his quarrell. _Arth._ Alas! I then have chid away

my friend:

_Arth._ His quarrell is He hath a stern look, but a gentle

unhallowed false and wrong. heart.--

Let him come back that his

_Hub._ Then be the blame to whom compassion may

it doth belong. Give life to yours.

_Arth._ Why thats to thee if _Hub._ Come, boy, prepare yourself.

thou as they proceede,

Conclude their judgement with so _Arth._ Is there no remedy?

vile a deede.

_Hub._ None but to lose your eyes.

_Hub._ Why then no execution can

be lawfull, _Arth._ O heaven!--that there were

If Judges doomes must be reputed but a mote in yours,

doubtfull. A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering

hair,

_Arth._ Yes where in forme of Any annoyance in that precious

Lawe in place and time, sense!

The offended is convicted of the Then, feeling what small things are

crime. boisterous there,

Your vile intent must needs seem

_Hub._ My Lord, my Lord, this horrible.

long expostulation,

Heapes up more griefe, than _Hub._ Is this your promise? go to;

promise of redresse; hold your tongue.

For this I know, and so resolude

I end, _Arth._ Hubert, the utterance of a

That subjects lives on Kings brace of tongues

commaunds depend. Must needs want pleading for a pair

I must not reason why he is your of eyes:

foe, Let me not hold my tongue; let me

But doo his charge since he not, Hubert:

commaunds it so. Or Hubert, if you will, cut out my

tongue.

_Arth._ Then doo thy charge, and So I may keep mine eyes. O! spare

charged be thy soule mine eyes;

With wrongfull persecution don Though to no use, but still to look

this day. on you.

You rowling eyes, whose Lo! by my troth, the instrument is

superficies yet cold,

I doo behold with eyes that And would not harm me.

Nature lent:

Send foorth the terror of your _Hub._ I can heat it, boy.

Moovers frowne,

To wreake my wrong upon the _Arth._ No, in good sooth; the fire

murtherers is dead with grief,

That rob me of your faire Being create for comfort, to be

reflecting view: us'd

Let hell to them (as earth they In undeserv'd extremes: see else

wish to me) yourself;

Be darke and direfull guerdon There is no malice in this burning

for their guylt, coal;

And let the black tormentors of The breath of heaven hath blown his

deepe Tartary spirit out,

Upbraide them with this damned And strew'd repentant ashes on his

enterprise, head.

Inflicting change of tortures on

their soules. _Hub._ But with my breath I can

Delay not Hubert, my orisons are revive it, boy.

ended,

Begin I pray thee, reave me of _Arth._ And if you do, you will but

my sight: make it blush,

But to performe a tragedie And glow with shame of your

indeede, proceedings, Hubert:

Conclude the period with a Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in

mortal stab. your eyes;

Constance farewell, tormenter And like a dog that is compell'd to

come away, fight,

Make my dispatch the Tyrants Snatch at his master that doth tarre

feasting day. him on.

All things that you should use to do

_Hub._ I faint, I feare, my me wrong,

conscience bids desist: Deny their office: only you do lack

Faint did I say? fear was it That mercy, which fierce fire, and

that I named: iron, extends,

My King commaunds, that warrant Creatures of note for mercy-lacking

sets me free: uses.

But God forbids, and he

commandeth Kings, _Hub._ Well, see to live; I will not

That great Commaunder touch thine eyes

counterchecks my charge, For all the treasures that thine

He stayes my hand, he maketh uncle owes:

soft my heart. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose,

Goe cursed tooles, your office boy,

is exempt, With this same very iron to burn

Cheere thee young Lord, thou them out.

shalt not loose an eye,

Though I should purchase it with _Arth._ O! now you look like Hubert;

losse of life. all this while

Ile to the King and say his will You were disguised.

is done,

And of the langor tell him thou _Hubert._ Peace! no more. Adieu.

art dead, Your uncle must not know but you

Goe in with me, for Hubert was are dead:

not borne I'll fill these dogged spies with

To blinde those lampes that false reports;

nature pollisht so. And pretty child, sleep doubtless,

and secure,

_Arth._ Hubert, if ever Arthur That Hubert for the wealth of all

be in state, the world

Looke for amends of this Will not offend thee.

received gift,

I tooke my eyesight by thy _Arth._ O heaven!--

curtesie, I thank you, Hubert.

Thou lentst them me, I will not

be ingrate. _Hub._ Silence! no more. Go closely

But now procrastination may in with me;

offend Much danger do I undergo for thee.

The issue that thy kindness (_Exeunt._)

undertakes:

Depart we Hubert, to prevent the

worst. (_Exeunt._)[36]

For further illustration of Shakespeare's clear understanding that the

emotions of well-characterized figures are better means of controlling

an audience than a merely horrific situation, study his handling of the

ghost scene in _Richard III_ or _Julius Caesar_ in contrast with similar

places in _Hamlet_. What most transmuted the _Ur-Hamlet_ of Thomas Kyd

into one of the greatest tragedies of all time was the characterization

Shakespeare put into it. Certainly, characterization makes for

dramatists the stepping-stones on which they may rise from dead selves

to higher things.

How may all this needed characterization best be done? A dramatist

should not permit himself to describe his characters, for in his own

personality he has no proper place in the text. There the characters

must speak and act for themselves. There has been, however, an

increasing tendency lately to describe the _dramatis personae_ of the

play in programs, either in the list of characters or in a summary of

the plot. Some writers apparently assume that every auditor reads his

program carefully before the curtain goes up. Such an assumption is

false: more than that it is lazy, incompetent, and thoroughly vicious,

putting a play on the level with the motion pictures, which cannot

depend wholly on themselves but would often be wholly vague without

explanatory words thrown upon the canvas. Nor can the practice of the

older dramatists like Wycherley and Shadwell, who often prefixed to

their printed plays elaborate summaries describing the _dramatis

personae_, be cited as a final defense.

Sir William Belfond, a Gentleman of above 3,000 per annum, who in his

youth had been a spark of the town, but married and retired into the

country, where he turned to the other extreme, rigid and morose, most

sordidly covetous, clownish, obstinate, positive, and froward.

Sir Edward Belfond, his Brother, a merchant, who by lucky hits had

gotten a great estate, lives single, with ease and pleasure,

reasonably and virtuously. A man of great humanity and gentleness and

compassion towards mankind; well read in good books possessed with all

gentleman-like qualities.

Belfond, Senior, eldest son to Sir William; bred after his father's

rustic, swinish manner, with great rigour and severity; upon whom his

father's estate is entailed; the confidence of which makes him break

out into open rebellion to his father, and become lewd, abominably

vicious, stubborn, and obstinate.

Belfond, Junior, second Son to Sir William; adopted by Sir Edward, and

bred from his childhood by him, with all tenderness, and familiarity,

and bounty, and liberty that can be, instructed in all the liberal

sciences, and in all gentlemanlike education. Somewhat given to women,

and now and then to good fellowship, but an ingenious,

well-accomplished gentleman: a man of honour, and of excellent

disposition and temper.

Truman, his friend, a man of honour and fortune.

Cheatly, a rascal, who by reason of debts dares not stir out of

Whitefriars, but there inveigles young heirs in tail, and helps them

to goods and money upon great disadvantages; is bound for them, and

shares with them, till he undoes them. A lewd, impudent, debauched

fellow, very expert in the cant about town.

Shamwell, cousin to the Belfonds, an heir, who being ruined by

Cheatly, is made a decoy-duck for others; not daring to stir out of

Alsatia, where he lives. Is bound with Cheatly for heirs, and lives

upon them a dissolute, debauched life.

Captain Hackum, a blockheaded bully of Alsatia; a cowardly, impudent,

blustering fellow; formerly a sergeant in Flanders, run from his

colours, retreated into Whitefriars for a very small debt, where, by

the Alsatians, he is dubbed a captain; marries one that lets lodgings,

sells cherry brandy, and is a bawd.

Scrapeall, a hypocritical, repeating, praying, psalm-singing, precise

fellow, pretending to great piety, a godly knave, who joins with

Cheatly, and supplies young heirs with goods and money.

Attorney to Sir William Belfond, who solicits his business and

receives all his packets.

Lolpoop, a North-country fellow, servant to Belfond, Senior, much

displeased at his master's proceedings.[37]

It is more than doubtful if anything so elaborate could be found in the

manuscripts of Wycherley and Shadwell. Their purpose was doubtless the

same as that of certain modern dramatists who, with a view to making

plays less difficult for those unaccustomed to reading them, greatly

amplify the stage directions before their plays go to print. Mr.

Granville Barker in the manuscripts of his plays is particularly frugal

of stage directions, but in the printed form of _The Madras House_,[38]

practically the whole history of Julia is given in the opening stage

direction:

_Julia started life--that is to say, left school--as a genius. The

head mistress had had two or three years of such dull girls that

really she could not resist this excitement. Watercolour sketches were

the medium. So Julia was dressed in brown velveteen, and sent to an

art school, where they wouldn't let her do watercolour drawing at all.

And in two years she learnt enough about the trade of an artist not

ever to want to do those watercolour drawings again. Julia is now over

thirty, and very unhappy. Three of her watercolours (early

masterpieces) hang on the drawing-room wall. They shame her, but her

mother won't have them taken down. On a holiday she'll be off now and

then for a solid day's sketching; and as she tears up the vain attempt

to put on paper the things she has learnt to see, she sometimes cries.

It was Julia, Emma, and Jane who, some years ago, conspired to present

their mother with that intensely conspicuous cosy corner. A cosy

corner is apparently a device for making a corner just what the very

nature of a corner should forbid it to be. They beggared themselves;

but one wishes that Mr. Huxtable were more lavish with his dress

allowances, then they might at least have afforded something not quite

so hideous._

Such characterizing is an implied censure on the ability of most readers

to see the full significance of deft touches in the dialogue. If not,

then it is necessary because some part of it is not given in the text as

it should be, or it is wholly unnecessary and undesirable, for the text,

repeating all this detail, will be wearisome to an intelligent reader.

The safest principle is, in preparing a manuscript for acting, to keep

stage directions to matters of setting, lighting, essential movements,

and the intonations which cannot, by the utmost efforts of the author,

be conveyed by dialogue.[39] In this last group belong certain every-day

phrases susceptible of so many shadings that the actor needs guidance.

In the last line of this extract from the opening of Act III of _Mrs.

Dane's Defence_, the "tenderly" is necessary.

_Enter Wilson right, announcing Lady Eastney. Enter Lady Eastney.

Exit Wilson._

_Lady Eastney._ (_Shaking hands._) You're busy?

_Sir Daniel._ Yes, trying to persuade myself I am forty--solely on

your account.

_Lady Eastney._ That's not necessary. I like you well enough as you

are.

_Sir Daniel._ (_Tenderly._) Give me the best proof of that.

Notice that the statement just formulated as to stage directions reads,

"cannot be conveyed," not "may not." Cross the line, and differences

between the novel and the play are blurred, for the author runs a fair

chance of omitting exposition needed in the text and of writing

colorless dialogue. A recently published play prefaces not only every

speech, but even parts of the speeches with careful statements as to how

they should be given, even when the text is perfectly clear. Nothing is

left to the imagination, and the text is often emotionally colorless.

Let it be remembered, then, that the stage direction is not a pocket

into which a dramatist may stuff whatever explanation, description, or

analysis a novelist might allow himself, but is more a last resort to

which he turns when he cannot make his text convey all that is

necessary.

The passing of the soliloquy and the aside[40] makes the dramatist of

today much more limited than were his predecessors in letting a

character describe itself. Today everything depends on the naturalness

of the self-exposition. The vainglorious, the self-centered, the

garrulous will always talk of themselves freely. The reserved, the

timid, and persons under suspicion will be sparing of words. When the

ingenuity of the dramatist cannot make self-exposition plausible, the

scene promptly becomes unreal. The point to be remembered is, as George

Meredith once said, that "The verdict is with the observer." Not what

seems plausible to the author but what, as he tries it on auditors,

proves acceptable, may stand.

Description of one character by another is usually more plausible than

the method just treated. Even here, however, the test remains

plausibility. It requires persuasive acting to make the following

description of Tartuffe perfectly natural. There is danger that it will

appear more the detailed picture the dramatist wishes to place in our

minds than the description the speaker would naturally give his

listeners:

_Orgon._ Ah! If you'd seen him, as I saw him first,

You would have loved him just as much as I.

He came to church each day, with contrite mien,

Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,

And drew the eyes of all the congregation,

To watch the fervor of his prayers to heaven;

With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations.

He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;

And when I left the church, he ran before me

To give me holy water at the door.

I learned his poverty, and who he was,

By questioning his servant, who is like him,

And gave him gifts; but in his modesty

He always wanted to return a part.

"It is too much," he'd say, "too much by half;

I am not worthy of your pity." Then,

When I refused to take it back, he'd go,

Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.

At length Heaven bade me take him to my home,

And since that day, all seems to prosper here.

He censures nothing, and for my sake

He even takes great interest in my wife;

He lets me know who ogles her, and seems

Six times as jealous as I am myself.

You'd not believe how far his zeal can go:

He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;

The merest nothing is enough to shock him;

So much so, that the other day I heard him

Accuse himself for having, while at prayer,

In too much anger caught and killed a flea.[41]

The scene in which Melantius draws from his friend Amintor (_The Maid's

Tragedy_, Act III, Scene 2) admission of his wrongs, shows admirable use

of both kinds of description--of oneself and of another person.

_Melantius._ You may shape, Amintor,

Causes to cozen the whole world withall,

And you yourselfe too; but tis not like a friend

To hide your soule from me. Tis not your nature

To be thus idle: I have seene you stand

As you were blasted midst of all your mirth;

Call thrice aloud, and then start, faining joy

So coldly!--World, what doe I here? a friend

Is nothing! Heaven, I would ha told that man

My secret sinnes! Ile search an unknowne land,

And there plant friendship; all is withered here.

Come with a complement! I would have fought,

Or told my friend a lie, ere soothed him so.

Out of my bosome!

_Amintor._ But there is nothing.

_Mel._ Worse and worse! farewell.

From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.

_Amin._ Melantius, stay; you shall know what that is.

_Mel._ See; how you plaid with friendship! be advis'd

How you give cause unto yourselfe to say

You ha lost a friend.

_Amin._ Forgive what I ha done;

For I am so oregone with injuries

Unheard of, that I lose consideration

Of what I ought to doe.--Oh!--Oh!

_Mel._ Doe not weepe.

What ist? May I once but know the man

Hath turn'd my friend thus!

_Amin._ I had spoke at first,

But that--

_Mel._ But what?

_Amin._ I held it most unfit

For you to know. Faith, doe not know it yet.

_Mel._ Thou seest my love, that will keepe company

With thee in teares; hide nothing, then, from me;

For when I know the cause of thy distemper,

With mine old armour Ile adorn myselfe,

My resolution, and cut through my foes,

Unto thy quiet, till I place thy heart

As peaceable as spotless innocence.

What is it?

_Amin._ Why, tis this--it is too bigge

To get out--let my teares make way awhile.

_Mel._ Punish me strangely, Heaven, if he escape

Of life or fame, that brought this youth to this.[42]

The cry with which Electra turns to her peasant husband in the play of

Euripides is perhaps as fine an instance as there is of natural

description by one person of her relations to another.

_Peasant._ What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught

With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft

Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,

And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?

_Electra._ (_Turning to him with impulsive affection._)

O friend, my friend, as God might be my friend,

Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.

Life scarce can be so hard, 'mid many fears

And many shames, when mortal heart can find

Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind

Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure

A little for thine easing, yea, or pour

My strength out in thy toiling fellowship?

Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;

'Tis mine to make all bright within the door.

'Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o'er,

To find home waiting, full of happy things.

_Peasant._ If so it please thee, go thy way.[43]

Unquestionably, however, the best method of characterization is by

action. In the first draft of Ibsen's _A Doll's House_, Krogstad uses

with his employer Helmar, because he is an old school fellow, the

familiar "tu." This under the circumstance illustrates his tactlessness

better than any amount of description. When Helmar is irritated by this

familiarity, his petty vanity is perfectly illustrated. Any one who

recalls the last scene of _Louis XI_ as played by the late Sir Henry

Irving remembers vividly the restless, greedily moving fingers of the

praying King. They told far more than words. The way in which Mrs.

Lindon, throughout the opening scene of Clyde Fitch's _The Truth_,[44]

touches any small article she finds in her way perfectly indicates her

fluttering nervousness.

_At Mrs. Warder's.... A smart, good-looking man-servant, Jenks, shows

in Mrs. Lindon and Laura Fraser. The former is a handsome, nervous,

overstrung woman of about thirty-four, very fashionably dressed; Miss

Fraser, on the contrary, a matter-of-fact, rather commonplace type of

good humor--wholesomeness united to a kind of sense of humor....

Mrs. Lindon nervously picks up check-book from the writing-table,

looks at it but not in it, and puts it down....

She opens the cigar box on the writing-table behind her and then bangs

it shut....

She picks up stamp box and bangs it down.

Rises and goes to mantel, looking at the fly-leaves of two books on a

table which she passes._

Does not the action of this extract from Middleton's _A Chaste Maid in

Cheapside_ help most in depicting the greed and dishonesty of

Yellowhammer, as well as the humor and ingenuity of the suitor?

_Touchwood junior._ (_Aside._) 'Twere a good mirth now to set him

a-work

To make her wedding-ring; I must about it:

Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger,

'Twas honesty in me t' enrich my father.

_Yellowhammer._ (_Aside._) The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear nothing

But that she's taken with some other love,

Then all's quite dashed: that must be narrowly looked to;

We cannot be too wary in our children.--

What is't you lack?

_Touch. jun._ O, nothing now; all that I wish is present:

I'd have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman

With all speed that may be.

_Yel._ Of what weight, sir?

_Touch. jun._ Of some half ounce, stand fair

And comely with the spark of a diamond;

Sir, 'twere pity to lose the least grace.

_Yel._ Pray, let's see it. (_Takes stone from Touchwood junior._)

Indeed, sir 'tis a pure one.

_Touch. jun._ So is the mistress.

_Yel._ Have you the wideness of her finger, sir?

_Touch. jun._ Yes, sure, I think I have her measure about me:

Good faith, 'tis down, I cannot show it to you;

I must pull too many things out to be certain.

Let me see--long and slender, and neatly jointed;

Just such another gentlewoman--that's your daughter, sir?

_Yel._ And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman.

_Touch. jun._ I protest.

I ne'er saw two maids handed more alike;

I'll ne'er seek farther, if you'll give me leave, sir.

_Yel._ If you dare venture by her finger, sir.

_Touch. jun._ Ay, and I'll bide all loss, sir.

_Yel._ Say you so, sir?

Let us see.--Hither, girl.

_Touch. jun._ Shall I make bold

With your finger, gentlewoman?

_Moll._ Your pleasure, sir.

_Touch. jun._ That fits her to a hair, sir.

(_Trying ring on Moll's finger._)

_Yel._ What's your posy, now, sir?

_Touch. jun._ Mass, that's true: posy? i'faith, e'en thus, sir:

"Love that's wise

Blinds parents' eyes."

_Yel._ How, how? if I may speak without offence, sir, I hold my life--

_Touch. jun._ What, sir?

_Yel._ Go to,--you'll pardon me?

_Touch. jun._ Pardon you? ay, sir.

_Yel._ Will you, i' faith?

_Touch. jun._ Yes, faith, I will.

_Yel._ You'll steal away some man's daughter: am I near you?

Do you turn aside? you gentlemen are mad wags!

I wonder things can be so warily carried,

And parents blinded so: but they're served right,

That have two eyes and were so dull a' sight.

_Touch. jun._ (_Aside._) Thy doom take hold of thee!

_Yel._ Tomorrow noon

Shall show your ring well done.

_Touch. jun._ Being so, 'tis soon.--

Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman.

_Moll._ Sir, you're welcome.--

(_Exit Touchwood junior._)

O were I made of wishes, I went with thee![45]

Could any description or analysis by the author or another character

paint as perfectly as does the action of the following lines the wistful

grief of the child pining for his mother?

_Enter Giovanni, Count Lodovico._

_Francisco._ How now, my noble cossin! what, in blacke?

_Giovanni._ Yes, unckle, I was taught to imitate you

In vertue, and you must imitate mee

In coloures of your garments: my sweete mother

Is--

_Fran._ How? where?

_Giov._ Is there; no, yonder; indeed, sir, Ile not tell you,

For I shall make you weepe.

_Fran._ Is dead.

_Giov._ Do not blame me now,

I did not tell you so.

_Lodovico._ She's dead, my lord.

_Fran._ Dead!

_Monticelso._ Blessed lady; thou art now above thy woes!

Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?

(_Exeunt Ambassadors._)

_Giov._ What do the deade do, uncle? do they eate,

Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie,

As wee that live?

_Fran._ No, cose; they sleepe.

_Giov._ Lord, Lord, that I were dead!

I have not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake?

_Fran._ When God shall please.

_Giov._ Good God let her sleepe ever!

For I have knowne her wake an hundredth nights,

When all the pillow, where she laid her head,

Was brine-wet with her teares. I am to complaine to you, sir.

Ile tell you how they have used her now shees dead:

They wrapt her in a cruell fould of lead,

And would not let me kisse her.

_Fran._ Thou didst love her.

_Giov._ I have often heard her say she gave mee sucke,

And it would seeme by that shee deerely lov'd mee

Since princes seldome doe it.

_Fran._ O, all of my poore sister that remaines!

Take him away, for Gods sake!

(_Exeunt Giovanni, Lodovico, and Marcello._)[46]

In brief, then, understand your characters thoroughly, but do not, in

your own personality, describe them anywhere. Let them describe

themselves, or let other people on the stage describe or analyze them,

when this is naturally convincing or may be made plausible by your

skill. Trust, however, above all, to letting your characters live

before your audience the emotions which interest you, thus making them

convey their characters by the best means of communication between actor

and audience--namely, action.

In the chapter (VI) dealing with clearness in exposition the extreme

importance of identifying the characters for the audience has been

carefully treated.[47] Closely connected with this identifying is the

matter of entrances and exits.

The characterizing value of exits and entrances is usually little

understood by the inexperienced dramatist. Yet in real life, men and

women cannot enter or leave a room without characterization. Watch the

people in a railroad car as it nears the terminus. The people who rise

and stand in the aisles are clearly of different natures from those who

remain quietly seated till the train reaches its destination. The twenty

or thirty standing wait differently and leave the car with different

degrees of haste, nervousness or anticipation. Those who remain seated

differ also. Some are absorbed in conversation, oblivious of the

approaching station; others, somewhat ostentatiously, watch the waiters

in the aisles with amused contempt. Study, therefore, exits and

entrances. Very few will be found negative in the sense that they add

nothing to the knowledge of the characters. How did Claude enter in the

following extract from a recent play? Claude, it should be said, has

been mentioned just in passing, as a suitor of Marna. Other matters,

however, have been occupying attention.

_Enter Claude_

_Claude._ (_Sitting beside her on the settle._) I thought I should not

see you tonight.

_Marna._ I wondered if you would come.

Claude must really have entered in character--quickly, impetuously, or

ardently. He may have paused an instant on the threshold; he may have

dashed in, leaving the door ajar; he may have closed it cautiously; he

may have come in through the window. And how did they get to the settle?

The author may know all this, but he certainly does not tell. He should

visualize his figures as he writes, seeing them from moment to moment as

they move, sit, or stand. Otherwise, he will miss much that is

significant and characterizing in their actions.

In a play that was largely a study of a self-indulgent, self-centred

youth, to the annoyance of all he is late at the family celebration of

his cousin's birthday. Sauntering in, he meets a disappointing silence.

Looking about, he says, "Nobody has missed me." And then, as all wait

for his excuses, he shifts the burden of speech to his mother with the

words, "Hasn't her ladyship anything to say?" Surely this entrance

characterizes.

Illusion disappears, also, when people needed on the stage, from

taxi-cab drivers to ambassadors, are apparently waiting just outside the

door. A play of very interesting subject-matter became almost ridiculous

because whenever anybody was needed, he or she was apparently waiting

just outside one of the doors. As some of these were persons involved in

affairs of state and others supposedly lived at a distance, their prompt

appearance partook of wizardry. People should not only come on in

character, but after time enough has been allowed or suggested to permit

them to come from the places where they are supposed to have been.

How much the entrance of a character should be prepared for must be left

to the judgment of the dramatist. Whatever is needed to make the

entrance produce the effect desired must be planted in the minds of the

audience before the character appears. Phormio, in Terence's play of

that name, does not appear before the second act. His entrance is

undoubtedly held back both to whet curiosity to the utmost before he

appears, and in order to set forth clearly the tangle of events which

his ingenuity must overcome. Magda, in Sudermann's _Heimat_, also

appears first in the second act. This is not done because some leading

lady wished to make as triumphant an entrance as possible, an inartistic

but time-honored reason in some plays, but because, till we have lived

with Magda's family in the home from which she was driven by her

father's narrowness and inflexibility, we cannot grasp the full

significance of her character in this environment when she returns.

Usually, of course, a character of importance does appear in the first

act, but naturalness first and theatrical effectiveness second determine

the point at which it is proper that a character should appear. The

supposed need in the audience for detailed information, slight

information, or no information as to a figure about to enter must decide

the amount of preliminary statement in regard to him. If possible, a

character enters, identifies himself, and places himself with regard to

the other persons involved in the action as nearly as possible at one

and the same time. The more important the character, the more involved

the circumstances which we must understand before he can enter properly,

the greater the amount of preliminary preparation for him. In

_Phormio_[48] and _Heimat_ (or _Magda_) this preparation fills an act;

in Tartuffe it fills two acts. More often bits here and there prepare

the way, or some one passage of dialogue, as in the introduction of Sir

Amorous La-Foole in Ben Jonson's _Epicoene_.[49]

_Dauphine._ We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that

came thither to him, Sir La-Foole.

_Clerimont._ I, that's a precious mannikin!

_Daup._ Do you know him?

_Cler._ Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he saw you but once,

though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is

one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a

judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is

pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a masque, and

put her out. He does give plays and suppers, and invite his guests to

them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a

lodging in the Strand for the purpose: or to watch when ladies are

gone to the china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by

chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds'

worth of toys, to be laughed at. He is never without a spare banquet,

or sweetmeats in his chamber for their women to alight at, and come up

to for bait.

_Daup._ Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is much

finer! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.

_Re-enter Page_

_Cler._ Sir Amorous La-Foole.

_Page._ The gentleman is here below that owns that name.

_Cler._ 'Heart, he's come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.

_Daup._ Like enough: prithee, let's have him up.

_Cler._ Boy, marshall him.

In Scene 1, Act I, of _Becket_, as written by Lord Tennyson, we have:

_Enter Rosamund de Clifford, flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse, drops

her veil_

_Becket._ Rosamund de Clifford!

_Rosamund._ Save me, father, hide me--they follow me--and I must not

be known.

Sir Henry Irving arranged this for the stage as follows:

_Enter Rosamund de Clifford. Drops her veil_

_Rosamund._ Save me, father, hide me.

_Becket._ Rosamund de Clifford!

_Rosamund._ They follow me--and I must not be known.

There are real values in these seemingly slight changes. With a rush and

in confusion, Rosamund enters. As it is her first appearance in the

play, it is of the highest importance that she be identified for the

audience. If Becket gives her name as she enters, it may be lost in her

onward rush. If entering, she speaks the line, "Save me, father, hide

me," she centers attention on him and he may fully emphasize the

identification in, "Rosamund de Clifford!" Note as bearing on what has

already been said in regard to unnecessary use of stage direction that

Irving cut out "flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse." He knew that

Rosamund's speeches and her action would make the fleeing clear enough,

and that the scene immediately following with Fitz Urse would show who

was pursuing her. Entrances, when well handled, therefore, must be in

character, prepared for, and properly motivated.

Exits are just as important as entrances. The exit of Captain Nat in

_Shore Acres_ has already been mentioned under pantomime. Mark the

significance of the exit of Hamlet in the ghost scene, as he goes with

sword held out before him. The final exit of Iris in Pinero's play is

symbolic of her passing into the outer and under world.

_Maldonado._ You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the

morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. (_She remains

motionless, as if stricken._) I've nothing further to say.

(_A slight shiver runs through her frame and she resumes her walk. At

the door, she feels blindly for the handle; finding it, she opens the

door narrowly and passes out._)

The absurdities in which the ill-managed exit or entrance may land us,

Lessing shows amusingly:

Maffei often does not motivate the exits and entrances of his

personages: Voltaire often motivates them falsely, which is far worse.

It is not enough that a person says why he comes on, we ought also to

perceive by the connection that he must therefore come. It is not

enough that he say why he goes off, we ought to see subsequently that

he went on that account. Else, that which the poet places in his mouth

is mere excuse and no cause. When, for example, Eurykles goes off in

the third scene of the second act, in order, as he says, to assemble

the friends of the queen, we ought to hear afterwards about these

friends and their assemblage. As, however, we hear nothing of the

kind, his assertion is a schoolboy "Peto veniam exeundi," the first

falsehood that occurs to the boy. He does not go off in order to do

what he says; but in order to return a few lines on as the bearer of

news which the poet did not know how to impart by means of any other

person. Voltaire treats the ends of acts yet more clumsily. At the

close of the third act, Polyphontes says to Merope that the altar

awaits her, that all is ready for the solemnizing of their marriage

and he exits with a "Venez, Madame." But Madame does not come, but

goes off into another coulisse with an exclamation, whereupon

Polyphontes opens the fourth act, and instead of expressing his

annoyance that the queen has not followed him into the temple (for he

had been in error, there was still time for the wedding) he talks with

his Erox about matters he should not ventilate here, that are more

fitting conversation for his own house, his own rooms. Then the fourth

act closes--exactly like the third. Polyphontes again summons the

queen into the temple, Merope herself exclaims, "Courons nous vers le

temple ou m'attend mon outrage"; and says to the chief priests who

come to conduct her thither, "Vous venez a l'autel entrainer la

victime." Consequently we must expect them inside the temple at the

beginning of the fifth act, or are they already back again? Neither;

good things will take time. Polyphontes has forgotten something and

comes back again and sends the queen back again. Excellent! Between

the third and fourth, between the fourth and fifth acts nothing occurs

that should, and indeed, nothing occurs at all, and the third and

fourth acts only close in order that the fourth and fifth may

begin.[50]

At the end of Act II of _The Princess and the Butterfly_ the exits are

as important as any part of the text. Note particularly the last.

_Denstroude._ (_On the steps, pausing and looking back._) You cycle at

Battersea tomorrow morning?

_Mrs. St. Roche._ It's extremely unlikely.

_Denstroude._ I shall be there at ten. Don't be later.

(_He kisses his hand to her and departs. She stands quite still,

thinking. A Servant enters, crosses to the billiard-room, and

proceeds to cover up the billiard-table. She walks slowly to the

ottoman and sits, looking into the fire. St. Roche reappears and

comes down the steps. She does not turn her head. He goes to the

table and mixes some spirits and water._)

_St. Roche._ (_As he mixes the drink._) What d'ye think--what d'ye

think that silly, infatuated feller's goin' to do?

_Mrs. St. Roche._ Demailly?

_St. Roche._ (_Glancing toward the billiard-room._) Sssh! (_With a

nod._) _Um!_

(_He comes to her, bringing her the tumbler in which he has mixed the

drink._)

_Mrs. St. Roche._ (_Taking the tumbler, her eyes never meeting his._)

Well, what is he going to do?

_St. Roche._ Marry that low woman.

_Mrs. St. Roche._ (_Callously._) Great heavens! the fool!

_St. Roche._ Yes. Shockin', ain't it?

_Mrs. St. Roche._ (_Putting the glass to her lips, with a languid

air._) She has blinded him, I suppose, with some story or other; or he

would hardly have committed the outrage, tonight, of presenting her to

me.

_St. Roche._ (_Returning to the table and mixing a drink for

himself._) That's it--blinded him. And yet it's almost

incomprehensible how a feller can be as blind as all that. Why, the

very man-in-the-street--

(_The Servant switches off the lights in the billiard-room, and comes

out from the room._)

_St. Roche._ (_To the man._) I'll switch off the lights here.

(_The Servant goes out._)

_Mrs. St. Roche._ Well, you had better let him know that he mustn't

attempt to come to this house again.

_St. Roche._ Poor chap!

_Mrs. St. Roche._ We can't be associated, however remotely, with such

a disgraceful connection.

_St. Roche._ Of course, of course. (_Coming down, glass in hand._) I

could tell you things I've heard about this Mrs. Ware--

_Mrs. St. Roche._ (_Rising._) Please don't! I want no details

concerning a person of her world.

(_She ascends the steps slowly, carrying her cloak and her

tumbler--without looking back._)

Goodnight.

_St. Roche._ (_With a wistful glance at her._) Goodnight.

(_She departs. He stands for a little while contemplating space;

then he switches off the light. The room remains partially illumined

by the fire-glow. He turns to examine the fire. Apparently assured

on that point, he walks, still carrying his tumbler, to the door

which is in the centre wall; where, uttering a little sigh as he

opens the door, he disappears._)[51]

The passages quoted (pp. 268-275) from _The Troublesome Reign of King

John_ and Shakespeare's play show crude and perfect handling of exits

and entrances. In the old play the murderers merely enter and go out

again as ordered. In Shakespeare they enter at the moment which makes

them the climactic touch in the terror of Arthur and the audience. When

Hubert orders them to go, it is the first sign that he may relent.

The inexperienced dramatist is almost always wasteful in the number of

characters used. An adaptation of a Spanish story called for a cast of

about a dozen important figures and some sixty supernumeraries as

soldiers and peasants--all this in a one-act play. It meant very little

labor to cut the soldiery to a few officers and some privates, and the

peasantry to some six or eight people. Ultimately, the total cast did

not contain a quarter as many people as the original, yet nothing

important had been lost. Rewriting a play often is, and should be, a

"slaughter of the innocents." Don't use unneeded people. You must

provide them with dialogue, and as the play goes on, some justification

for existence. The manager must pay them salaries. First of all, get rid

of entirely unnecessary people. They usually hold over from the story as

originally heard or read. For instance, a recent adaptation used from

the original story a blinking dwarf sitting silent, forever watchful, at

a table in the restaurant where the story was placed. His smile simply

emphasized the cynicism of the story enacted in his sight. He was in no

way necessary to the telling of the story,--and so he disappeared in the

final form of the play. One is constantly tempted to bring in some

figure for purposes of easy exposition only to find that one must either

bind him in with the story as it develops, or drop him out of sight the

moment his expository work is done. The trouble with such figures is

that they are likely to give false clues, stirring a hearer to interest

in them or their apparent relation to the story, when nothing is to come

of one or the other. Usually a little patience and ingenuity will give

this needed exposition to some character or characters essential to the

plot. In a recent play of Breton life during the Chouan War, an

attractive peasant boy was introduced in order to plant in the minds of

the audience certain ideas as to immediate conditions of the war, and

the relation of the woman to whom he is talking with the Prince, his

leader. Wishing to show the devotion of the Prince's followers, the

author had the boy talk much of his own loyalty to his leader. Just

there was the false clue. Every auditor expected his loyalty to lead to

something later in the play; but the youth, having told his tale,

disappeared for good. It took very little time to discover that all the

young man told could perfectly well be made clear in one preceding scene

between the woman and her son, and two of the other scenes immediately

following, between the woman and the young Prince. It is these

unnecessary figures who are largely responsible for the scenes already

spoken of in chapter IV which clog the movement of a play.

Sometimes, too, similar figures at different places in a play do exactly

or nearly the same work,--servants for instance. When it does not

interfere with verisimilitude, give the tasks to one person rather than

two, or two rather than three. That is, use only people absolutely

needed. Sometimes these carelessly introduced figures stray through a

play like an unquiet spirit. In _The Road to Happiness_ one character,

Porter, was of so little importance that most of the time, when on the

stage, he had nothing to do. When really acting, it was largely in

pantomime, or with speech that, not effectively, reiterated what some

one else was saying. He existed really for two scenes. In the first act

he might just as well have been talked about as shown, and in the second

act what he did could well have been done by one of the other important

characters. When any character in a play shows a tendency not to get

into the action readily; when for long periods he is easily overlooked

by the author; it is time to consider whether he should not be given the

_coup de grace_.

Today we are fortunately departing from an idea somewhat prevalent in

the middle of the nineteenth century, that a figure once introduced into

a play should be kept there until the final curtain. That is exalting

technique, and the so-called "well-made" play, above truth to life. When

a character is doing needed work, use him when and as long as he would

appear in real life, and no longer. Use each character for a purpose,

and when it is fulfilled, drop him. Naturalness and theatrical economy

are the two tests: the greater of these is naturalness.

All that has been said comes to this. Know your characters so intimately

that you can move, think, and feel with them, supplied by them with far

more material than you can use in any one play. See that they are

properly introduced to the audience; that they are clearly and

convincingly presented. Do not forget the importance of entrances and

exits. Cut out all unnecessary figures.

There follow three bits of characterization from very different types of

play: Sir John Vanbrugh's _The Provoked Wife_, a comedy of manners; G.

B. Shaw's farce-comedy, _You Never Can Tell_; and Eugene Brieux's thesis

play, _The Cradle_. The first scene aims merely to present vividly the

riotous and drunken squire. The second, while characterizing William,

aims to illustrate that contentment lies in doing that to which one is

accustomed, under accustomed conditions. The third not only

characterizes; it shows that no law of man can wholly give a woman to a

second husband when common anxiety with the first husband for the child

of their marriage draws them together. Note in all three the use of

action as compared with description or analysis; the connotative value

of the phrasings; the succint sureness.

THE PROVOKED WIFE

ACT IV. SCENE, _Covent Garden_

_Enter Lord Rake, Sir John, &c., with Swords drawn_

_Lord Rake._ Is the Dog dead?

_Bully._ No, damn him, I heard him wheeze.

_Lord Rake._ How the Witch his Wife howl'd!

_Bully._ Ay, she'll alarm the Watch presently.

_Lord Rake._ Appear, Knight, then; come you have a good Cause to fight

for, there's a Man murder'd.

_Sir John._ Is there? Then let his Ghost be satisfy'd, for I'll

sacrifice a Constable to it presently, and burn his body upon his

wooden Chair.

_Enter a Taylor, with a Bundle under his Arm_

_Bully._ How now; what have we here? a Thief.

_Taylor._ No, an't please you, I'm no Thief.

_Lord Rake._ That we'll see presently: Here; let the General examine

him.

_Sir John._ Ay, ay, let me examine him, and I'll lay a Hundred Pound I

find him guilty in spite of his Teeth--for he looks--like a--sneaking

Rascal.

Come, Sirrah, without Equivocation or mental Reservation, tell me of

what opinion you are, and what Calling; for by them--I shall guess at

your Morals.

_Taylor._ An't please you, I'm a Dissenting Journyman Taylor.

_Sir John._ Then, Sirrah, you love Lying by your Religion, and Theft

by your Trade: And so, that your Punishment may be suitable to your

Crimes--I'll have you first gagg'd--and then hang'd.

_Taylor._ Pray, good worthy Gentlemen, don't abuse me; indeed I'm an

honest Man, and a good Workman, tho I say it, that shou'd not say it.

_Sir John._ No words, Sirrah, but attend your Fate.

_Lord Rake._ Let me see what's in that Bundle.

_Taylor._ An't please you, it is the Doctor of the Parish's Gown.

_Lord Rake._ The Doctor's Gown!--Hark you, Knight, you won't stick at

abusing the Clergy, will you?

_Sir John._ No. I'm drunk, and I'll abuse anything--but my wife; and

her I name--with Reverence.

_Lord Rake._ Then you shall wear this Gown, whilst you charge the

Watch: That tho the Blows fall upon you, the Scandal may light upon

the Church.

_Sir John._ A generous Design--by all the Gods--give it me.

(_Takes the Gown, and puts it on._)

_Taylor._ O dear Gentlemen, I shall be quite undone, if you take the

Gown.

_Sir John._ Retire, Sirrah; and since you carry off your Skin--go

home, and be happy.

_Taylor._ (_Pausing._) I think I had e'en as good follow the

Gentleman's friendly Advice; for if I dispute any longer, who knows

but the Whim may take him to case me? These Courtiers are fuller of

Tricks than they are of Money; they'll sooner cut a Man's Throat, than

pay his Bill. (_Exit Taylor._)

_Sir John._ So, how d'ye like my Shapes now?

_Lord Rake._ This will do to a Miracle; he looks like a Bishop going

to the Holy War. But to your Arms, Gentlemen, the Enemy appears.

_Enter Constable and Watch_

_Watchman._ Stand! Who goes there? Come before the Constable.

_Sir John._ The Constable's a Rascal--and you are the Son of a Whore.

_Watchman._ A good civil answer for a Parson, truly!

_Constable._ Methinks, Sir, a Man of your Coat might set a better

Example.

_Sir John._ Sirrah, I'll make you know--there are Men of my Coat can

set as bad Examples--as you can, you Dog you.

(_Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, disarm him,

and seize him. Lord Rake &c. run away._)

_Constable._ So, we have secur'd the Parson however.

_Sir John._ Blood, and Blood--and Blood.

_Watchman._ Lord have mercy upon us! How the wicked Wretch raves of

Blood. I'll warrant he has been murdering some body tonight.

_Sir John._ Sirrah, there's nothing got by Murder but a Halter: My

Talent lies towards Drunkenness and Simony.

_Watchman._ Why that now was spoke like a Man of Parts, Neighbours;

it's pity he should be so disguis'd.

_Sir John._ You lye--I'm not disguis'd; for I am drunk bare-fac'd.

_Watchman._ Look you here again--This is a mad Parson, Mr. Constable;

I'll lay a Pot of Ale upon's Head, he's a good Preacher.

_Constable._ Come, Sir, out of Respect to your Calling, I shan't put

you into the Round house; but we must secure you in our Drawing-Room

till Morning, that you may do no Mischief. So, come along.

_Sir John._ You may put me where you will, Sirrah, now you have

overcome me--But if I can't do Mischief, I'll think of Mischief--in

spite of your Teeth, you Dog you. (_Exeunt._)[52]

YOU NEVER CAN TELL

ACT IV

_Waiter. (Entering anxiously through the window._) Beg pardon, ma'am;

but can you tell me what became of that--(_He recognizes Bohun, and

loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull

himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he

recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly, but

coherently._) Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure, sir. Was--was it you, sir?

_Bohun._ (_Ruthlessly._) It was I.

_Waiter._ (_Brokenly._) Yes, sir. (_Unable to restrain his tears._)

You in a false nose, Walter! (_He sinks faintly into a chair at the

table._) I beg your pardon, ma'am, I'm sure. A little giddiness--

_Bohun._ (_Commandingly._) You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I

inform you that he is my father.

_Waiter._ (_Heartbroken._) Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your

father on the top of a false nose! What will they think of you?

_Mrs. Clandon._ (_Going to the waiter's chair in her kindest manner._)

I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an

excellent friend to us since we came here. (_Bohun bows gravely._)

_Waiter._ (_Shaking his head._) Oh, no, ma'am. It's very kind of

you--very ladylike and affable indeed, ma'am; but I should feel at a

great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the

gentleman's father, ma'am: it is only the accident of birth, after

all, ma'am. (_He gets up feebly._) You'll excuse me, I'm sure, having

interrupted your business.

(_He begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from

chair to chair, with his eye on the door._)

(_Bohun._) One moment. (_The waiter stops, with a sinking heart._) My

father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon?

_Mrs. Clandon._ Yes, most of it, I think.

_Bohun._ In that case we shall want him.

_Waiter._ (_Pleading._) I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy

evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir.

_Bohun._ (_Inexorably._) We shall want you.

_Mrs. Clandon._ (_Politely._) Sit down, won't you?

_Waiter._ (_Earnestly._) Oh, if you please, ma'am, I really must draw

the line at sitting down. I couldn't let myself be seen doing such a

thing, ma'am: thank you, I am sure, all the same.

(_He looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression

that would melt a heart of stone._)

_Gloria._ Don't let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking

care of us. I should like a cup of coffee.

_Waiter._ (_Brightening perceptibly._) Coffee, miss? (_He gives a

little gasp of hope._) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely,

miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (_To Mrs. Clandon,

timidly, but expectantly._) Anything for you, ma'am?

_Mrs. Clandon._ Er--oh, yes: it's so hot, I think we might have a jug

of claret cup.

_Waiter._ (_Beaming._) Claret cup, ma'am! Certainly ma'am.

_Gloria._ Oh, well, I'll have claret cup instead of coffee. Put some

cucumber in it.

_Waiter._ (_Delightedly._) Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (_To Bohun._)

Anything special for you, sir? You don't like cucumber, sir.

_Bohun._ If Mrs. Clandon will allow me--syphon, Scotch.

_Waiter._ Right, sir. (_To Crampton._) Irish for you, sir, I think

sir? (_Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at

Valentine._)

_Valentine._ I like the cucumber.

_Waiter._ Right, sir. (_Summing up._) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch,

and one Irish?

_Mrs. Clandon._ I think that's right.

_Waiter._ (_Perfectly happy._) Right ma'am. Directly, ma'am. Thank

you.

(_He ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of

human happiness, from the bottom to the top in a little over two

minutes_.)[53]

THE CRADLE (LE BERCEAU)

ACT I. SCENE 9

[Laurence and Raymond, her first husband, meet by chance by the sick bed

of their little boy, M. de Girieu, the second husband, who is madly

jealous of Raymond, and of Laurence's love for her boy, has just refused

Raymond's request to be allowed to watch by the child till he is out of

danger. Resting confidently on the control over Laurence and the boy

which the laws give him, M. de Girieu is sure he can keep his wife and

her former husband apart.]

_Long silent scene. The door of little Julien's room opens softly.

Laurence appears with a paper in her hand. The two men separate,

watching her intently. She looks out for a long time, then shuts the

door, taking every precaution not to make a noise. After a gesture of

profound grief, she comes forward, deeply moved, but tearless. She

makes no more gestures. Her face is grave. Very simply she goes

straight to Raymond._

_Raymond._ (_Very simply to Laurence._) Well?

_Laurence._ (_In the same manner._) He has just dropped asleep.

_Ray._ The fever?

_Lau._ Constant.

_Ray._ Has the temperature been taken?

_Lau._ Yes.

_Ray._ How much?

_Lau._ Thirty-nine.

_Ray._ The cough?

_Lau._ Incessant. He breathes with difficulty.

_Ray._ His face is flushed?

_Lau._ Yes.

_Ray._ The doctor gave you a prescription?

_Lau._ I came to show it to you. I don't thoroughly understand this.

(_They are close to each other, examining the prescription which

Raymond holds._)

_Ray._ (_Reading._) "Keep an even temperature in the sick room."

_Lau._ Yes.

_Ray._ "Wrap the limbs in cotton wool, and cover that with oiled

silk." I am going to do that myself as soon as he wakes. Tell them to

warn me.

_Lau._ What ought he to have to drink? I forgot to ask that, and he is

thirsty.

_Ray._ Mallow.

_Lau._ I'm sure he doesn't like it.

_Ray._ Yes, yes. You remember when he had the measles.

_Lau._ Yes, yes. How anxious we were then, too!

_Ray._ He drank it willingly. You remember perfectly?

_Lau._ Yes, of course I remember. Some mallow then. Let us read the

prescription again. I haven't forgotten anything? Mustard plasters.

The cotton wool, you will attend to that. And I will go have the drink

made. "In addition--every hour--a coffee-spoonful of the following

medicine."

(_The curtain falls slowly as she continues to read. M. de Girieu has

gone out slowly during the last words._)[54]

Finally, contrast the treatment by John Webster and Robert Browning of

the same dramatic situation. Which is the clearer, which depends more on

illustrative action?

_Enter Antonio_

_Duchess._ I sent for you; sit downe:

Take pen and incke, and write: are you ready?

_Antonio._ Yes.

_Duch._ What did I say?

_Ant._ That I should write some-what.

_Duch._ Oh, I remember:

After this triumph and this large expence,

It's fit (like thrifty husbands) we enquire,

What's laid up for tomorrow.

_Ant._ So please your beauteous excellence.

_Duch._ Beauteous?

Indeed I thank you: I look yong for your sake.

You have tane my cares upon you.

_Ant._ I'le fetch your grace

The particulars of your revinew and expence.

_Duch._ Oh, you are an upright treasurer: but you mistooke,

For when I said I meant to make enquiry

What's layd up for tomorrow, I did meane

What's layd up yonder for me.

_Ant._ Where?

_Duch._ In heaven.

I am making my will (as 'tis fit princes should

In perfect memory), and I pray sir, tell me

Were not one better make it smiling, thus,

Then in deepe groanes, and terrible ghastly lookes,

As if the guifts we parted with procur'd

That violent distraction?

_Ant._ Oh, much better.

_Duch._ If I had a husband now, this care were quit:

But I intend to make you over-seer.

What good deede shall we first remember? say.

_Ant._ Begin with that first good deede began i' th' world,

After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage.

I'ld have you first provide for a good husband:

Give him all.

_Duch._ All?

_Ant._ Yes, your excellent selfe.

_Duch._ In a winding sheete?

_Ant._ In a cople.

_Duch._ St. Winifrid, that were a strange will!

_Ant._ 'Twere strange if there were no will in you

To marry againe.

_Duch._ What doe you thinke of marriage?

_Ant._ I take't, as those that deny purgatory,

It locally containes or heaven or hell;

There's no third place in't.

_Duch._ How doe you affect it?

_Ant._ My banishment, feeding my mellancholly,

Would often reason thus--

_Duch._ Pray let's heare it.

_Ant._ Say a man never marry, nor have children,

What takes that from him? onely the bare name

Of being a father, or the weake delight

To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse

Upon a painted sticke, or heare him chatter

Like a taught starling.

_Duch._ Fye, fie, what's all this?

One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to't.

They say 'tis very soveraigne; 'twas my wedding-ring,

And I did vow never to part with it,

But to my second husband.

_Ant._ You have parted with it now.

_Duch._ Yes, to helpe your eye-sight.

_Ant._ You have made me starke blind.

_Duch._ How?

_Ant._ There is a sawcy and ambitious divell

Is dauncing in this circle.

_Duch._ Remoove him.

_Ant._ How?

_Duch._ There needs small conjuration, when your finger

May doe it: thus, is it fit?

_Ant._ What sayd you? (_He kneeles._)

_Duch._ Sir,

This goodly roofe of yours is too low built;

I cannot stand upright in't, nor discourse,

Without I raise it higher: raise yourselfe,

Or if you please, my hand to help you: so.

_Ant._ Ambition, madam, is a great man's madnes,

That is not kept in chaines and close-pentoomes,

But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt

With the wild noyce of pratling visitants,

Which makes it lunatique, beyond all cure.

Conceive not I am so stupid but I ayme

Whereto your favours tend: but he's a foole

That (being a cold) would thrust his hands i' th' fire

To warme them.

_Duch._ So, now the ground's broake,

You may discover what a wealthy mine

I make you lord of.

_Ant._ Oh my unworthiness!

_Duch._ You were ill to sell your selfe:

This darkning of your worth is not like that

Which trades-men use i' th' city; their false lightes

Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,

If you will know where breathes a compleat man

(I speake it without flattery), turne your eyes,

And progresse through your selfe.

_Ant._ Were there nor heaven, nor hell,

I should be honest: I have long serv'd vertue,

And nev'r tane wages of her.

_Duch._ Now she paies it.

The misery of us that are borne great,

We are forc'd to woe, because none dare woe us:

And as a tyrant doubles with his words,

And fearefully equivocates, so we

Are forc'd to expresse our violent passions

In ridles and in dreames, and leave the path

Of simple vertue, which was never made

To seeme the thing it is not. Goe, go brag

You have left me heartlesse; mine is in your bosom:

I hope 'twill multiply love there. You doe tremble:

Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh,

To feare, more then to love me. Sir, be confident,

What is't distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;

'Tis not the figure cut in allablaster

Kneeles at my husbands tombe. Awake, awake, man,

I do here put off all vaine ceremony,

And onely doe appeare to you a yong widow

That claimes you for her husband, and like a widow,

I use but halfe a blush in't.

_Ant._ Truth speake for me,

I will remaine the constant sanctuary

Of your good name.[55]

This is Browning's version:

_Duchess._ Say what you did through her, and she through you--

The praises of her beauty afterward!

Will you?

_Valence._ I dare not.

_Duch._ Dare not?

_Val._ She I love

Suspects not such a love in me.

_Duch._ You jest.

_Val._ The lady is above me and away.

Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,

And the great heart combine to press me low--

But all the world calls rank divides us.

_Duch._ Rank!

Now grant me patience! Here's a man declares

Oracularly in another's case--

Sees the true value and the false, for them--

Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see.

You called my court's love worthless--so it turned:

I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,

And here you stickle for a piece or two!

First--has she seen you?

_Val._ Yes.

_Duch._ She loves you, then.

_Val._ One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night:

And all's at darkest now. Impossible!

_Duch._ We'll try: you are--so to speak--my subject yet?

_Val._ As ever--to the death.

_Duch._ Obey me, then!

_Val._ I must.

_Duch._ Approach her, and ... no! first of all

Get more assurance. "My instructress," say,

"Was great, descended from a line of kings,

"And even fair"--(wait why I say this folly)--

"She said, of all men, none for eloquence,

"Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)

"The heart they sprung from,--none deserved like him

"Who saved her at her need: if she said this,

"Why should not one I love, say?"

_Val._ Heaven--this hope--

Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!

_Duch._ Say this!--nor think I bid you cast aside

One touch of all the awe and reverence;

Nay, make her proud for once to heart's content

That all this wealth of heart and soul's her own!

Think you are all of this,--and, thinking it,

... (Obey!)

_Val._ I cannot choose.

_Duch._ Then, kneel to her!

(_Valence sinks on his knee._)

I dream!

_Val._ Have mercy! yours, unto the death,--

I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!

_Duch._ Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?

Even with you as with the world? I know

This morning's service was no vulgar deed

Whose motive, once it dares avow itself,

Explains all done and infinitely more,

So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause.

Your service names its true source,--loyalty!

The rest's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,

Rise, sir! The Prince's words were in debate.

_Val._ (_Rising._) Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you!

I should rise--I who spoke for Cleves, can speak

For Man--yet tremble now, who stood firm then.

I laughed--for 'twas past tears--that Cleves should starve

With all hearts beating loud the infamy,

And no tongue daring trust as much to air:

Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?

Oh, lady, for your sake look on me!

On all I am, and have, and do--heart, brain,

Body and soul,--this Valence and his gifts!

I was proud once: I saw you, and then sank,

So that each, magnified a thousand times,

Were nothing to you--but such nothingness,

Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,

A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?

What is my own desert? But should your love

Have ... there's no language helps here ... singled me,--

Then--oh, that wild word "then!"--be just to love,

In generosity its attribute!

Love, since you pleased to love! All's cleared--a stage

For trial of the question kept so long:

Judge you--Is love or vanity the best?

You, solve it for the world's sake--you, speak first

What all will shout one day--you, vindicate

Our earth and be its angel! All is said.

Lady, I offer nothing--I am yours:

But, for the cause' sake, look on me and him,

And speak!

_Duch._ I have received the Prince's message:

Say, I prepare my answer!

_Val._ Take me, Cleves! (_He withdraws._)[56]

The formula for the would-be dramatist so far as his people are

concerned is this: A play which aims to be real in depicting life must

illustrate character by characterization which is in character.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] For all of these except _Hyckescorner_ see _Specimens of

Pre-Shakespearean Drama_. J. M. Manly. 2 vols. Ginn & Co., Boston.

For _Hyckescorner_ see _The Origin of the English Drama_, Vol. I. T.

Hawkins, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.

[2] _Induction, Every Man in His Humour._ Mermaid Series or

Everyman's Library.

[3] See _Two Loves and a Life_, _The Ticket of Leave Man_, _The Lady

of Lyons_. All published by Samuel French, New York.

[4] Belles-Lettres Series. F. E. Schelling, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.;

Mermaid Series, vol. III, or Everyman's Library.

[5] Mermaid Series, vol. II. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.

[6] _Play-Making_, pp. 376, 378. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.

[7] _Plays_. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.

[8] Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.

[9] _Some Platitudes Concerning Drama_, _Atlantic Monthly_, December,

1909.

[10] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, Act I, pp. 9-10.

[11] _Dramatic Essays._ William Hazlitt.

[12] _The Stage in America_, pp. 81-82. N. Hapgood. The Macmillan Co.

[13] _Some Platitudes Concerning Drama_, _Atlantic Monthly_,

December, 1909.

[14] See the quotation from Stevenson, p. 243, as to _Weir of

Hermiston._

[15] _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, p. 324. Lessing. Bohn ed.

[16] Belle-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.,

Boston and New York.

[17] Mermaid Series for both plays. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.

[18] _A New Rehearsal, or Bays the Younger._ Charles Gildon. 1714-15.

[19] _At the New Theatre_, pp. 189-192. W. P. Eaton. Small, Maynard &

Co., Boston.

[20] _Idem_, pp. 47-48.

[21] _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, p. 238. Bohn ed.

[22] Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.

[23] P. V. Stock, Paris. Published in translation by J. W. Luce &

Co., Boston.

[24] Walter E. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.

[25] _Letters of Henrik Ibsen_, p. 437.

[26] _Au Public, La Princesse Georges._ Calmann Levy, Paris.

[27] _Oeuvres_, vol. VII, p. 320. Garnier Freres, Paris.

[28] _The Theatrical World for 1893_, pp. 46-47. W. Archer. Walter

Scott, Ltd., London.

[29] The Macmillan Co., New York.

[30] P. V. Stock, Paris.

[31] _Selected Dramas of John Dryden_, p. 230. Preface, _All for

Love_. G. R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Foresman & Co., New York.

[32] _Theatre_, vol. II. Michel Levy Freres, Paris.

[33] Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.

[34] The Macmillan Co., New York. Act III.

[35] Belles-Lettres Series, p. 373. M.W. Sampson, ed. D.C. Heath &

Co., Boston.

[36] _Shakespeare's Library_, vol. v, pp. 267-271. W. C. Hazlitt, ed.

[37] _Squire of Alsatia_ Mermaid Series. G. Saintsbury, ed. Chas.

Scribner's Sons, New York.

[38] Mitchell Kennerley, New York.

[39] For illustration of good work, see pp. 25-26, 36, 49, 162, 174,

181, 190.

[40] See for discussion of these, pp. 382-96.

[41] _Tartuffe_, Act I. _Chief European Dramatists._ Brander

Matthews, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.

[42] Act III, Scene 2. Belles-Lettres Series. A. H. Thorndike, ed. D.

C. Heath & Co.

[43] Act I. Tr. Gilbert Murray. Geo. Allen & Sons, London.

[44] The Macmillan Co., N.Y.

[45] Mermaid Series. Vol. I, Act. I, Scene 1. Chas. Scribner's Sons,

New York.

[46] _Vittoria Corambona_, Act III, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres

Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.

[47] See pp. 154-161.

[48] _Chief European Dramatists._ Brander Matthews, ed. Houghton

Mifflin Co., Boston.

[49] Act I, Scene 1. Mermaid Series, vol. III, of Everyman's Library.

[50] _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, pp. 367-368. Bohn ed.

[51] Samuel French, New York; W. Heinemann, London.

[52] _Plays._ Vol. I. J. Tonson, London, 1730.

[53] _Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant._ Brentano, New York.

[54] P. V. Stock, Paris.

[55] _The Duchess of Malfi_, Act I, Sc. 2. Webster. Belles-Lettres

Series. M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.

[56] _Colombe's Birthday_, Act IV Scene 1. Robert Browning.

Belles-Lettres Series A. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New

York.

CHAPTER VIII

DIALOGUE

Modern dramatic dialogue had beginnings far from realistic. It

originated, as the Latin tropes show, in speeches given in unison and to

music--a kind of recitative. What was the aim of this earliest dramatic

dialogue? It sought to convey, first, last, and always, the facts of the

episode or incident represented: "Whom seek ye here, O Christians? Jesus

of Nazareth, the Crucified, O Heavenly Ones." And that is what good

dramatic dialogue has always done, is doing, and must always do as its

chief work--state clearly the facts which an auditor must understand if

the play is to move ahead steadily and clearly. Already enough has been

said (chapter VI, pp. 154-183) as to the need of clear preliminary and

later exposition to show how axiomatic is the statement that the chief

purpose of good dialogue is to convey necessary information clearly.

Even, however, when dialogue is clear in its statement of needed

information, it may still be confusing for reader or hearer. What is the

trouble with the text in the left-hand column--from an early draft of a

play dealing with John Brown and his fortunes?

SCENE: _The Prison at Harper's Ferry_

_Brown._ Mary! I'm glad to _Brown._ Mary! I'm glad to

see you, Mary. see you, Mary.

(_For a few seconds, silence._) (_For a few seconds, silence._)

_Mrs. Brown._ (_Crying out._) _Mrs. Brown._ (_Crying out._)

Oh, my dear husband, it is a Oh, my dear husband, it is a hard

hard fate. fate. It's been so long since

I heard your voice.

_Brown._ (_Strong in his _Brown._ (_Strong in his

composure._) Well, well, Mary, compposture._) Well, well, Mary,

let us be cheerful. We must all let us be cheerful. We must all

bear it the best we can. bear it the best we can.

(_Stroking her hair._) (_Stroking her hair._)

_Mrs. Brown._ Oh! You to go _Mrs. Brown._ Oh! You to go

from me forever. from me forever.

(_Sinks her head on his breast (_Sinks her head on his breast

again._) again._)

_Brown._ It must be,--and all _Brown._ It must be,--and all

is for the best. There, there. is for the best. There, there.

(_Pats her head in an effort (_Pats her head in an effort

to comfort her._) to comfort her._)

_Mrs. Brown._ But our poor _Mrs. Brown._ (_After a moment's

children, John. silence._) Do they treat you

well here John?

_Brown._ Those that have died

are at peace in the next world.

(_She breaks out weeping again._) _Brown._ Like Joseph, I have

Come, come, dry your tears; sit gained favor in the sight of the

down and tell me about those at prison-keeper. He is a most humane

home. (_He tries to lead her to gentleman--never mistreats or

chair on right of table, but she tries to humiliate me.

checks her grief and seats

herself. He goes slowly back to _Mrs. Brown._ May God bless such

the other chair._) It weakens a man. Do you sleep any, John?

me to stand. Now tell me about

home. _Brown._ Like a child,--all

night in peace.

_Mrs. Brown._ It's a sad place. _Mrs. Brown._ I am glad of

We couldn't believe the first that. I worried about it. Are

reports about you and the boys the days long and lonesome?

being taken prisoners. We

_couldn't_ believe you had _Brown._ All hours of the day

_failed._ Then a New York paper glorious thoughts come to me.

came. We sat by the fire in the I am kept busy reading and

living room. There was Watson's answering letters from my

widow-- friends. I have with me my Bible,

here. (_Placing his hand_

_Brown._ Poor Isabel, with _on the leather-bound volume at

her little Freddie. the end of the table._) It is of

infinite comfort. I never enjoyed

_Mrs. Brown._ And William life more than since coming to

Thompson's widow, our Ruth, prison. I wish all my poor family

and Annie, and Oliver's widow-- were as composed and as happy.

_Brown._ Poor Martha. When

the time came it was hard for

her to leave the farm house and _Mrs. Brown._ But our poor

Oliver behind. She kind of felt children, John. Poor Oliver and

that she wouldn't see him any Watson. We shall never see

more. them again.

_Mrs. Brown._ We said almost

nothing while Salmon read. We _Brown._ Those that have died

felt in our blindness God had are at peace. (_She breaks out

been unfaithful to you and the weeping again._) But we shall

boys. meet together in that other world

where they do not shoot and

_Brown._ My dear wife, you hang men for loving justice and

must keep up your spirits. desiring freedom for all men.

Don't blame God. He has taken Come, come, dry your tears.

away my sword of steel, but He Sit down and tell me about those

has given me the sword of the at home. (_He tries to lead her

Spirit. to chair on right of table, but

she checks her grief and seats

_Mrs. Brown. (Looking up herself. He goes slowly back to

into his face with almost a sad the other chair._) It weakens me

smile upon hers._) That sounds to stand. Now, tell me about home,

just like you, John. Oh, it's for that will give me comfort,

been so long since I heard your Mary. No man can get into

voice. difficulties too big to be

surmounted if he has a firm

_Brown._ Tell me more about foothold at home.

the family.

_Mrs. Brown._ Owen doesn't dare _Mrs. Brown._ It's a sad place.

come home yet. We couldn't believe the first

reports about you and the boys

_Brown._ Do you know where he is? being taken prisoners. _We

wouldn't_ believe you had failed.

_Mrs. Brown._ Hiding among

friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is

called all kinds of vile names,

just for being with you. _Brown._ I have been a great

deal disappointed in myself for

_Brown._ For the cause we have not keeping to my plan.

all suffered much in the past;

we shall have to in the future. _Mrs. Brown._ You made a mistake

We should rejoice at his escape. only in judging how much you could

do.

_Mrs. Brown._ I do, John, but

O, poor Oliver and Watson! We _Brown._ I acted against my better

shall never see them again. judgment.

_Brown._ Not in this world, _Mrs. Brown._ But after taking the

but arsenal, why didn't you flee to the

we shall meet together in that mountains, as we thought you would?

other world where they do not

shoot and hang men for loving

justice and desiring freedom for _Brown._ The delay was my mistake.

all men. But in God's greater and broader

plan maybe it was infinitely

_Mrs. Brown._ Yes, and they _did better. It was fore-ordained to

die_ for a great and good cause! work out that way, determined

(_Said with spirit._) before the world was made.

_Brown._ Some day all the _Mrs. Brown._ His ways are

people of the earth will say mysterious and wonderful.

that. (_A moment's silence._) (_A slight pause as both think._)

_Mrs. Brown._ Do they treat _Brown._ How did you first get

you well here, John? the news?

_Brown._ Like Joseph, I have _Mrs. Brown._ A New York paper

gained favor in the sight of the came. We sat by the fire in the

prison-keeper. He is a most living room. There was Watson's

humane gentleman--never mistreats widow--

or tries to humiliate me.

_Brown._ Poor Isabel, with her

_Mrs. Brown._ May God bless little Freddie.

such a man. Do you sleep any,

John? _Mrs. Brown._ And William

Thompson's widow, our Ruth, and

_Brown._ Like a child,--all Annie, and Oliver's widow--

night in peace.

_Mrs. Brown._ I'm glad of that. _Brown._ Poor Martha.

I worried about it. Are the days When the time came, it was hard for

long and lonesome? her to leave the farm house and

Oliver behind. She kind of felt

_Brown._ All hours of the day she wouldn't see him any more.

glorious thoughts come to me.

I am kept busy reading and _Mrs. Brown._ We said almost

answering letters from my nothing while Salmon read. We

friends. I have with me my felt in our blindness God had

Bible, here. (_Placing his hand been unfaithful to you and the

on the leather-bound volume at the boys.

end of the table._) It is of

infinite comfort. I never enjoyed _Brown._ My dear wife, you must

life more than since coming to keep up your spirits. Don't blame

prison. I wish all my poor family god. He has taken away my sword of

were as composed and as happy. steel, but He has given me the

sword of the Spirit.

_Mrs. Brown._ We have become more _Mrs. Brown_. (Looking up _into

and more resigned. his face with almost a sad smile

upon her._) That sounds just like

_Brown._ Do any feel disgrace or you, John. We have become more

shame? and more resigned.

_Mrs. Brown._ Not one, John. _Brown._ Do any feel disgrace

You are, in our eyes, a noble or shame?

martyr. The chains on your legs

bind our hearts all the closer _Mrs. Brown._ Not one, John.

to you. You are, in our eyes, a noble

martyr. The chains on your

legs bind our hearts all the

_Brown._ That gives me comfort, closer to you.

Mary. No man can get

into difficulties too big to be _Brown._ Tell me more about the

surmounted, if he has a firm family.

foothold at home.

_Mrs. Brown._ Owen doesn't dare

_Mrs. Brown._ You made a mistake come home yet.

only in judging how much you

could do. _Brown._ Do you know where he is?

_Brown._ I have been a great

deal disappointed in myself for _Mrs. Brown._ Hiding among

not keeping to my plan. I acted friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is

against my better judgment. called all kinds of vile names,

just for being with you.

_Mrs. Brown._ But after taking

the arsenal, why didn't you flee _Brown._ For the cause we have

to the mountains, as we thought all suffered much in the past;

you would? we shall have to in the future.

We should rejoice at his escape.

_Brown._ The delay was my mistake.

But in God's greater and broader _Mrs. Brown._ I do, John. And

plan, maybe it was infinitely Oliver and Watson _did die_ for

better. It was fore-ordained to a great and good cause!

work out that way, determined

before the world was made. (_Said with spirit._)

_Mrs. Brown._ His ways are _Brown._ Some day, all the

mysterious and wonderful. people of the earth will say that.

(_Avis comes in._) (_Avis comes in._)

There are several faults in the original dialogue, but perhaps the chief

is not regarding the principle that clearness dramatically consists, not

merely in stating needed facts, but in so stating them that interest is

not allowed to lapse. The original dialogue was scrappy, lacking

sequence, not so much of thought as of emotion. If it be said that at

such a moment talk is often fitful, it must be remembered that our

time-limits forbid giving every word said in such a scene. We must

present merely its essentials. Only in that way may a play, a condensed

presentation of life, hope to give a total effect for a scene equal to

that of the original. The re-ordered dialogue of the right-hand column

seeks merely to bring together ideas really closely related, and to

move, in a way in keeping with the characters, from lesser to stronger

emotion. With the disappearance of the scrappy effect, is not the result

clearer? Even now, the dialogue might well be condensed and made

emotionally more significant.

If we let the dialogue of a play merely state necessary facts, what is

the result? At the worst, something like the left-hand column. Two young

women, one the married hostess and the other the friend of her girlhood,

are opening their morning mail on the piazza. Serena, the hostess, has

known nothing of the engagement of Elise to Teddy.

ORIGINAL REVISION

_Elise._ (_Looking up from her_ _Elise._ Is he coming?

_letters._) Is he coming?

_Serena._ I don't know yet, but I

_Serena._ I don't know yet, but I wish he were still in South Africa.

wish he were still in South Look at this: (_Showing letter_.) A

Africa. If he does come, I don't letter from Aunt Deborah.

know what will happen. There's a

letter from Aunt Deborah. _Elise._ Yes?

_Elise._ Yes? What does she _Serena._ Aunt Deborah had a

want? terrible quarrel with Teddy just

before he went!

_Serena._ Did you know she

had a terrible quarrel with _Elise._ Oh, that must be all made

Teddy just before he went to up now.

South Africa?

_Serena._ Listen! (_Reading from

_Elise._ I had a vague idea letter_.) "If I see that man I'll

of it. It must all be made up have a shock," and (_with a

now and they'll be delighted despairing gesture_) she very

to meet here. gladly accepts our invitation!

_Serena._ No, she won't. She

says she's sure she'll have a

shock if she sees him and very

gladly accepts our kind

invitation because so she can

avoid meeting him.

From the left-hand column we surely do learn that a before-mentioned

Teddy has been in South Africa; that he and a certain Aunt Deborah have

quarreled; and that though she particularly does not wish to meet Teddy,

she is coming, as he is, to visit at this house--three important points.

Like everyday speech, the quoted dialogue lacks compactness. Let us

first, therefore, cut out all that is not absolutely necessary. We do

not need, in the first speech of Elise, anything more than the query,

"Yes?" The inflection will give the rest. In the second speech of Serena

we can cut "to South Africa," for we have already mentioned where Teddy

has been. In the second speech of Elise, it is the words "It must be all

made up now" that are important. What precedes and what follows may be

omitted. Similarly, in the first and second speeches of Serena, it is

the first and the third sentences which are important. The second, if

given, really anticipates an effect which will be stronger later. If we

change the second speech from a query to an assertion or an exclamation,

we shall gain and slightly condense. It will then read, "Aunt Deborah

had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went!" Because we have

cut the last speech of Elise, the first sentence of the next speech of

Serena becomes unnecessary. It will be necessary, however, to re-phrase

what remains of this final speech, so hard is it to deliver. The revised

dialogue may still be poor enough, but it says all the original did in

less space--that is condensation. The effect is better because we have

cut out some parts, and have slightly changed others. That is selection.

The slight changes have been made in order to make the sequence of ideas

clearer, to suggest emotion more clearly, or to make the dialogue

natural--and all that means the beginning of characterization. The final

word on this dialogue is, however, that even now either speaker could

utter the words of the other, and that is all wrong. Clearly, then,

even in stating facts, dialogue may be bad, indifferent, and good.

The following opening of a Japanese No drama shows that even more

trained writers may write dialogue with no virtue except its clearness:

TWO HEARTS

_A drama by J. Mushakoji_

SCENE: _A forest glade on the nobleman's estate. A cross for

crucifixion in the foreground. Two men A and B standing on either side

of the cross holding spears._

_A._ That fellow has behaved foolishly!

_B._ Yes, and the girl also.

_A._ It was certain that they would be killed when found out.

_B._ And nothing could prevent the discovery.

_A._ Our master is extremely indignant.

_B._ There has not been one person crucified since the present lord

succeeded.

_A._ Although the stewards have assured him that it is the established

law of the land, the present master has never given permission for the

punishment of criminals by crucifixion and fire. But now he has

announced that he will kill them in this manner, and we are

commissioned to carry out the disagreeable duty.

_B._ Even though we refused to obey the command at first and requested

him to excuse us he would not listen to our petition.

_A._ The master must have been very fond of this young girl.

_B._ Yes. Rumour has it that he became attached to her while the late

mistress was still living.

_A._ He did not care very much for his wife. Anyway, she was too

inferior to be his companion.

_B._ It was said that he did not grieve over her death.

_A._ And I have heard that the girl fainted when her mistress died.

_B._ She must have been a favourite among the other attendants who

accompanied the lady when she became the wife of the lord.

_A._ She was clever and pretty and had a strong character.

_B._ Why did the girl fall in love with that fellow, I wonder?

_A._ He is the kind of a man a woman admires.

_B._ And because the girl loved him he now receives such severe

punishment.

_A._ We can never tell. What seems good luck may mean unexpected

misfortune.

_B._ She would have been happier if she had obeyed the master's will

instead of rejecting him.

_A._ Probably she did not like him.

_B._ But he seemed to care a great deal for her.

_A._ It may not be right to say so, but his decision seems to have

been taken because of his jealousy.

_B._ Yes, that is true. I wonder why he has commanded us to prepare

only one cross.

_A._ Perhaps it is his plan to save one of them.

_B._ I don't think that could be done very well.

_A._ But someone said the master told the girl that he would save her

life if she would only desert the young man for him.

_B._ That may be so. Perhaps he intends to crucify the young man first

in the presence of the girl so as to break her obstinate spirit and

thus gain her love.

_A._ That may be so.

_B._ It is said that the young man has already repented of his love

for the girl. But she was not at all frightened when the punishment

was announced and she was informed that she was to be crucified. The

man, on the contrary, at once turned white and almost fainted when he

heard the judgment passed upon him.

_A._ But a woman is much braver in love affairs than a man.

_B._ You speak as though you had had experience!

_A._ Ha! Ha! Ha!

_B._ Perhaps the master wishes to kill the young man in as cruel a

manner as possible.

_A._ Hush! The lord is here! We are now obliged to remain silent and

witness a living drama.

_B._ And we have a dreadful task to perform.[1]

Though this omits nothing in the way of necessary information, how

colorless it is! When we note how perfectly either A or B could speak

the lines of the other, we see where the difficulty lies. The lines lack

all characterization. The history of the drama shows that while the

facts of a play may be interesting in themselves, they are much more

interesting to an audience which hears them as they present themselves

to well-defined characters of the story. It is axiomatic that sympathy

quickens interest. Take a much better known illustration of the same

point. The left-hand column gives the opening lines of the first quarto,

_Hamlet_. The right-hand column shows the opening of the second quarto.

_Enter Barnardo and Francisco,

_Enter two Centinels_ two Centinels_

_1._ Stand: who is that? _Barnardo._ Whose there?

_2._ Tis I. _Francisco._ [Nay answere me.]

Stand and unfolde your selfe.

_Bar._ Long live the King.

_Fran._ Barnardo.

_Bar._ Hee.

_1._ O you come most carefully

upon your watch. _Fran._ You come most carefully

upon your houre.

_Bar._ Tis now strooke twelfe,

get thee to bed Francisco.

_Fran._ For this relief much

thanks, [tis bitter cold,] And I

am sick at heart.

_Bar._ Have you had quiet guard?

_Fran._ [Not a mouse stirring.]

_Bar._ Well, good night:

_2._ And if you meete Marcellus If you doe meete Horatio and

and Horatio, Marcellus,

The partners of my watch, bid The rivals of my watch, bid them

them make haste. make hast.

_1._ I will: See who goes there.

_Enter Horatio and Marcellus_ _Enter Horatio and Marcellus_

_Fran._ I think I heare them,

stand ho, who is there?

_Horatio._ Friends to this _Horatio._ Friends to this

ground. ground.

_Marcellus._ And leegemen to _Marcellus._ And leegemen to the

the Dane, Dane.

_Fran._ Give you good night.

O farewell honest souldier, who _Mar._ O, farewell honest souldiers,

hath relieved you? who hath relieved you?

_1._ Barnardo hath my place, _Fran._ Barnardo hath my

give you good night. place; give you good night.

(_Exit Francisco._)[2]

The first of these extracts, without question gives the necessary facts

of the changing of the watch. It busies itself only with this absolutely

necessary action. The second quarto identifies the speakers, and, by a

different phrasing with additional lines, both characterizes them and

gives the scene atmosphere. Study the re-phrasings and bracketed

additions of the second scene--"Nay answere me," "Tis bitter cold," "Not

a mouse stirring"--and note that this dialogue gains over the first in

that it interests by what it adds as much as by the essential action.

A second quotation from _Hamlet_ in the two quartos illustrates the same

point even better. The text in the left-hand column, merely stating the

facts necessary to the movement of the scene, leaves to the actor all

characterizing of Montano, and gives the player of Corambis only the

barest hints. The second quarto text, in the right-hand column, makes

Polonius so garrulous that he cannot keep track of his own ideas; shows

his pride in his would-be shrewdness; indeed, rounds him out into a real

character. It even makes Reynaldo a man who does not yield at once, but

a person of honorable instincts who is overborne. Can there be any

question which scene holds the attention better?

_Enter Corambis and Montano_ _Enter old Polonius, with his_

_man or two_

_Corambis._ Montano; here, _Polonius._ Give him this money and

these letters to my sonne, these notes Reynaldo.

And this same money with my

blessing to him, _Reynaldo._ I will my Lord.

And bid him ply his learning

good Montano. _Pol._ You shall doe marviles wisely

good Reynaldo

Before you visite him to make inquire

Of his behaviour.

_Montano._ I will my lord. _Rey._ My Lord, I did intend it.

_Cor._ You shall do very well _Pol._ Mary well said, very well

Montano, to say thus, said; look you sir,

Enquire me first what Danskers are

in Parris,

And how, and who, what meanes and

where they keepe,

What companie, at what expence, and

finding

By this encompasment, and drift of

question

That they doe know my sonne, come you

more neerer

Then your particular demands will

tuch it,

Take you as t'were some distant

knowledge of him,

I knew the gentleman, or know As thus, I know his father, and his

his father friends,

To inquire the manner of his And in part him, doe you marke this,

life, Reynaldo?

And thus; being amongst his

acquaintance, _Rey._ I, very well my Lord.

You may say, you saw him at

such a time, marke you mee, _Pol._ And in part him, but you may

say, not well,

But y'ft be he I meane, hee's very

wilde,

Adicted so and so, and there put on

him

What forgeries you please, marry none

so ranck

As may dishonour him, take heede of

that,

But sir, such wanton, wild, and

usuall slips

As are companions noted and most

knowne

To youth and libertie.

_Rey._ As gaming my Lord.

At game, or drincking, _Pol._ I, or drinking, fencing,

swearing, or drabbing, swearing.

You may go so farre. Quarrelling, drabbing, you may

go so far.

_Mon._ My Lord, that will

impeach his reputation. _Rey._ My Lord, that would dishonour

him.

_Cor._ I faith not a whit, no

not a whit, _Pol._ Fayth as you may season it in

the charge.

You must not put another scandell on

him,

That he is open to incontinencie.

That's not my meaning, but breath his

faults so quently

That they may seeme the taints of

libertie,

The flash and out-breake of a fierie

mind,

A savagenes in unreclamed blood

Of generall assault.

_Rey._ But my good Lord.

_Pol._ Wherefore should you do this?

_Rey._ I my Lord, I would know that.

_Pol._ Marry, sir, heer's my drift,

And I believe it is a fetch of wit,

You laying these slight sallies on my

sonne

As t'were a thing a little soyld with

working,

Marke you, your partie in converse,

him you would sound

Having ever seene in the prenominat

crimes

The youth you breath of guiltie, be

assur'd

Now happely hee closeth with He closes with you in this

you in the consequence, consequence,

As you may bridle it not Good sir, (or so,) or friend, or

disparage him a iote. gentleman,

According to the phrase, or the

addition

Of man and country.

_Rey._ Very good my Lord.

_Pol._ And then sir, doos a this,

What was I about to say, a doos, what was I about to say?

By the masse I was about to say

something,

Where did I leave?

_Mon._ He closeth with you _Rey._ At closes in the

in the consequence. consequence.[3]

Even the dialogue, which with broad characterization states necessary

facts clearly, is by no means so effective as dialogue so absorbing by

its characterization that we assimilate the facts unconsciously.

Contrast the opening of _The Good Natur'd Man_ with that of _Hindle

Wakes_. The first is so busy in characterizing an absent but important

figure that it presents the two speakers only in the broadest way. That

is, exposition exists here as its only excuse for being. In _Hindle

Wakes_, the rapid development of an interesting situation through two

characters who as individuals become more distinct and interesting with

every line, probably conceals from most auditors or readers the fact

that seven important bits of information are given before Fanny enters.

ACT I

SCENE--_An apartment in Young Honeywood's house

Enter Sir William Honeywood, Jarvis_

_Sir William._ Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest

bluntness. Fidelity like yours is the best excuse for every freedom.

_Jarvis._ I can't help being blunt, and being very angry, too, when I

hear you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as

your nephew, my master. All the world loves him.

_Sir Will._ Say, rather, that he loves all the world; that is his

fault.

_Jarv._ I'm sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are,

tho' he has not seen you since he was a child.

_Sir Will._ What signifies his affection to me, or how can I be proud

of a place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb find an easy

entrance?

_Jarv._ I grant you that he's rather too good natur'd; that he's too

much every man's man; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries

the next with another; but whose instructions may he thank for all

this?

_Sir Will._ Not mine, sure? My letters to him during my employment in

Italy taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend

his errors.

_Jarv._ Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him

any philosophy at all; it has only served to spoil him. This same

philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a

journey. For my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name on't,

I'm always sure he's going to play the fool.

_Sir Will._ Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy, I

entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature rises rather from his fears

of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving

happy.

_Jarv._ What it arises from, I don't know. But to be sure, everybody

has it that asks it.

_Sir Will._ Ay, or that does not ask it. I have been now for some time

a concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as

his dissipation.

_Jarv._ And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other for them all.

He calls his extravagance generosity; and his trusting everybody,

universal benevolence. It was but last week he went security for a

fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he call'd an act of exalted

mu-mu-munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

_Sir Will._ And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, tho' with very

little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and

I have taken up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him in

fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity.

To arrest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and

then let him see which of his friends will come to his relief.[4]

ACT I. SCENE 1

_The scene is triangular, representing a corner of the living-room of

No. 137, Burnley Road, Hindle, a house rented for about 7s. 6d. a

week. In the left-hand wall, low down, there is a door leading to the

scullery. In the same wall, but further away from the spectator, is a

window looking on to the backyard. A dresser stands in front of the

window. About half-way up the right-hand wall is the door leading to

the hall or passage. Nearer, against the same wall, a high cupboard

for china and crockery. The fire-place is not visible, being in one of

the walls not represented. However, down in the L. corner of the stage

is an arm-chair, which stands by the hearth. In the middle of the room

is a square table, with chairs on each side. The room is cheerful and

comfortable. It is nine o'clock on a warm August evening. Through the

window can be seen the darkening sky, as the blind is not drawn.

Against the sky an outline of roof tops and mill chimneys. The only

light is the dim twilight from the open window. Thunder is in the air.

When the curtain rises, Christopher Hawthorn, a decent, white-bearded

man of nearly fifty, is sitting in the arm-chair, smoking a pipe. Mrs.

Hawthorn, a keen, sharp-faced woman of fifty-five, is standing, gazing

out of the window. There is a flash of lightning and a rumble of

thunder far away._

_Mrs. Hawthorn._ It's passing over. There'll be no rain.

_Christopher._ Ay! We could do with some rain.

(_There is a flash of lightning._)

_Chris._ Pull down the blind and light the gas.

_Mrs. H._ What for?

_Chris._ It's more cozy-like with the gas.

_Mrs. H._ You're not afraid of the lightning?

_Chris._ I want to look at that railway guide.

_Mrs. H._ What's the good. We've looked at it twice already. There's

no train from Blackpool till half-past ten, and it's only just on nine

now.

_Chris._ Happen we've made a mistake.

_Mrs. H._ Happen we've not. Besides, what's the good of a railway

guide? You know trains run as they like on Bank Holiday.

_Chris._ Ay! Perhaps you're right. You don't think she'll come round

by Manchester!

_Mrs. H._ What would she be doing coming round by Manchester?

_Chris._ You can get that road from Blackpool.

_Mrs. H._ Yes. If she's coming from Blackpool.

_Chris._ Have you thought she may not come at all?

_Mrs. H._ (_Grimly_.) What do you take me for?

_Chris._ You never hinted.

_Mrs. H._ No use putting them sort of ideas into your head.

(_Another flash and a peal of thunder._)

_Chris._ Well, well, those are lucky who haven't to travel at all on

Bank Holiday.

_Mrs. H._ Unless they've got a motor car, like Nat Jeffcote's lad.

_Chris._ Nay, _he's_ not got one.

_Mrs. H._ What? Why I saw him with my own eyes setting out in it last

Saturday week after the mill shut.

_Chris._ Ay! He's gone off these Wakes with his pal George Ramsbottom.

A couple of thick beggars, those two!

_Mrs. H._ Then what do you mean telling me he's not got a motor car?

_Chris._ I said he hadn't got one of his own. It's his father's. You

don't catch Nat Jeffcote parting with owt before his time. That's how

he holds his lad in check, as you might say.

_Mrs. H._ Alan Jeffcote's seldom short of cash. He spends plenty.

_Chris._ Ay! Nat gives him what he asks for, and doesn't want to know

how he spends it either. But he's _got_ to ask for it first. Nat can

stop supplies any time if he's a mind.

_Mrs. H._ That's likely, isn't it?

_Chris._ Queerer things have happened. You don't know Nat like I do.

He's a bad one to get across with.

(_Another flash and gentle peal. Mrs. H. gets up._)

_Mrs. H._ I'll light the gas.

(_She pulls down the blind and lights the gas._)

_Chris._ When I met Nat this morning he told me that Alan had

telegraphed from Llandudno on Saturday asking for twenty pounds.

_Mrs. H._ From Llandudno?

_Chris._ Ay! Reckon he's been stopping there. Run short of brass.

_Mrs. H._ And did he send it?

_Chris._ Of course he sent it. Nat doesn't stint the lad. (_He laughs

quietly._) Eh, but he _can_ get through it, though!

_Mrs. H._ Look here. What are you going to say to Fanny when she

comes?

_Chris._ Ask her where she's been?

_Mrs. H._ Ask her where she's been. Of course we'll do that. But

suppose she won't tell us?

_Chris._ She's always been a good girl.

_Mrs. H._ She's always gone her own road. Suppose she tells us to mind

our own business?

_Chris._ I reckon it _is_ my business to know what she's been up to.

_Mrs. H._ Don't you forget it. And don't let her forget it either. If

you do, I promise you I won't.

_Chris._ All right. Where's that post-card?

_Mrs. H._ Little good taking heed of that.

(_Christopher rises and gets a picture post-card from the dresser._)

_Chris._ (_Reading._) She'll be home before late on Monday. Lovely

weather. (_Looking at the picture._) North Pier, Blackpool. Very like,

too.

_Mrs. H._ (_Suddenly._) Let's have a look. When was it posted?

_Chris._ It's dated Sunday.

_Mrs. H._ That's nowt to go by. Any one can put the wrong date. What's

the postmark? (_She scrutinizes it._) "August 5th, summat P.M." I

can't make out the time.

_Chris._ August 5th. That was yesterday all right. There'd only be one

post on Sunday.

_Mrs. H._ Then she was in Blackpool till yesterday, that's certain.

_Chris._ Ay!

_Mrs. H._ Well, it's a mystery.

_Chris._ (_Shaking his head._) Or summat worse.

_Mrs. H._ Eh? You don't think _that_, eh?

_Chris._ I don't know what to think.

_Mrs. H._ Nor me neither.

(_They sit silent for a time. There is a rumble of thunder, far

away. After it has died away, a knock is heard at the front door.

They turn and look at each other. Mrs. Hawthorn rises and goes out

in silence. In a few moments, Fanny Hawthorn comes in, followed by

Mrs. Hawthorn._)[5]

What usually keeps a writer from passing to well characterized dialogue

from dialogue merely clear as to essential facts is that he is so bound

to his facts that he sees rather than feels the scene. The chief trouble

with the dialogue of the John Brown play was an attempt to keep so close

to historical accounts of the particular incident that sympathetic

imagination was benumbed. One constantly meets this fault in the earlier

Miracle Plays before writers had come to understand that audiences care

more for the human being in the situation than for the situation itself,

and that only by representing a situation not for itself but as felt by

the people involved can it be made fully interesting. At the left is a

speech of Mary in _The Crucifixion_ of the York Cycle; at the right is

her speech in the Hegge or so-called Coventry Plays.

_Mary_. Alas! for my sweet _Mary_, O my son, my son! my darling

son, I say, dear!

That dolefully to deed thus is What have I defended [offended] thee?

dight, Thou hast spoke to all of those that

Alas! for full lovely thou lay be here,

In my womb, this worthely wight And not a word thou speakest to me.

Alas! that I should see this To the Jews thou art full kind,

sight Thou hast forgiven all here

Of my son so seemly to see, misdeed;

Alas! that this blossom so And the thief thou hast in mind,

bright For once asking mercy heaven is his

Untruly is tugged to this tree, meed.

Alas! Ah! my sovereign lord, why wilt thou

My lord, my life, not speak

With full great grief, To me that am thy mother in pain for

Hanges as a thief, thy wrong?

Alas! he did never trespass.[6] Ah, heart, heart why wilt thou not

break?

That I were out of this sorrow so

strong![7]

The writer of the Hegge speech had discovered long before Ralph Waldo

Emerson that the secret of good dialogue is "truth carried alive into

the heart by passion." The second requisite, then, of good dialogue is

that it must be kindled by feeling, made alive by the emotion of the

speaker. For the would-be dramatist the secret is so to know his

characters that facts are not mere facts, but conditions moving him

because they move the characters he perfectly understands. As he

interprets between character and audience, he must be like Planchette or

the clairvoyant, the creature of another's will, whose ideas and

emotions rather than his own he tries with all the power that is in him

to convey. In brief, then, though it is absolutely necessary that

dialogue give the facts as to what happens, who the people are, their

relations to one another, etc., it is better dialogue if, while doing

all this, it seems to be busied only with characterization.

Unassigned dialogue usually makes a reader or hearer promptly recognize

his preference for characterized rather than uncharacterized speech.

When a group, as in many stage mobs, speaks in chorus, or at best in

sections, the result is unreality for many hearers and absurdity for the

more critical. Every hearer knows that people do not really, when part

of a mob, say absolutely the same thing, and rarely speak in perfect

unison. Common sense cries out for individualization among the possible

speakers. When we read the following extract from Andreiev's _Life of

Man_, we may agree with what is apparently the author's idea, that it

makes no difference which one of the speakers delivers a particular line

or sentence; but the moment the scene is staged everything changes.

_A profound darkness within which nothing moves. Then there can be

dimly perceived the outlines of a large, high room and the grey

silhouettes of Old Women in strange garments who resemble a troop of_

_grey, hiding mice. In low voices and with laughter to and fro the

Old Women converse_.

* * * * *

When they sent him to the drug store for some medicine he rode up and

down past the store for two hours and could not remember what he

wanted. So he came back.

(_Subdued laughter. The crying again becomes louder and then dies

away. Silence_.)

What has happened to her? Perhaps she is already dead.

No, in that case we should hear weeping. The doctor would run out and

begin to talk nonsense, and they would bring out her husband

unconscious, and we should have our hands full. No, she is not dead.

Then why are we sitting here?

Ask Him. How should we know?

He won't tell.

He won't tell. He tells nothing.

He drives us here and there. He rouses us from our beds and makes us

watch, and then it turns out that there was no need of our coming.

We came of our own accord. Didn't we come of our own accord? You must

be fair to Him. There, she is crying again. Aren't you satisfied?

Are _you_?

I am saying nothing. I am saying nothing and waiting.

How kind-hearted you are!

(_Laughter. The cries become louder_.)[8]

Of course every rule has its exception, and it may be urged that the

final lines of David Pinski's _The Treasure_ need no assigning to

special speakers. This, if true, results from the fact that Mr. Pinski,

as the last touch in his study of the universal perversion of man

through lust for money, wishes to represent even all the dead as sharing

in this greed. Even here, however, Mr. Pinski is careful, by his

headings "Many" and "The Pious Rabbi," to distinguish among speeches to

be given by one person, the chorus, and a figure he wishes specially to

individualize, the Rabbi.

_The Dead_

(_In shrouds and praying shawls appear singly and in groups amid the

graves. They whisper and breathe their words._) Swiftly into the

synagogue!... Hasten!... The hour of midnight is long past....

Hasten....

(_They hasten to the gate. One sees only their silhouettes in the

dim light of the veiled moon._)

I thought we would not come out today at all.

The dead fear the breath of the living.

We fear them more than they do us. There is no peace betwixt life and

death....

No peace ... no peace....

Indeed life vexed me grievously today.

Vexed is not the word. I lived in their life so really that I

shuddered and feared.

Shuddered with fear or with longing? Did you feel a yearning for your

money?

(_Ghostly laughter shakes the rows of the dead._)

The distinguished and the wealthy must surely have had a bad day.

It fairly smelled of money and they had to lie with the worms.

It almost threw them out of their graves.

_Many_

Money ... money ... money.... (_Ghostly laughter._)

But you poor devils hadn't a much better time either. It smelled of

money and you couldn't even beg. (_Laughter._)

It is high time for all of you to be forgetting life.... Come quickly

into the synagogue.... (_Many of the dead vanish._)

It gave me really an exalted feeling to see how little fear of us they

felt.

Don't flatter yourself. We would have been no better. We were no

better either.

_Many_

(_At the same time._) Money ... Money ... Money....

_Others_

And that is life ... that is life ... that is life....

It exalted me in my grave too. So many women walked about here

today. Young ones and pretty ones, I wager.... (_Laughter._)

Who speaks thus? Who opens his mouth to speak such ugly words?

It's the petty field surgeon who lies buried by the wall.

_The Pious Rabbi_

(_In passing. His praying shawl hangs but loosely over his left

shoulder._) They have dug up my whole grave.... They have dug away my

right arm. Woe, how shall I now put on my praying shawl? How shall I

appear before God? (_To a group._) Will not some one help me to put on

my praying shawl?