know nothin' till he's forty, does he, mother? Old baby's!
(_sitting on the arm of Mary's chair_) I ain't too old to love
you, Mary, that's one thing. I've loved you ever since you was
knee-high to a grasshopper. I rocked you in y'r cradle--I'm
blessed if I didn't make the cradle you was rocked in, didn't I,
mother?
_Mother._ Yes, Jack, an' d'ye remember what yeh made it out of?
_Jack._ A herrin' box. (_General laugh._)
_Mary._ (_Tenderly._) I married the man I love, Jack.
_Jack._ Honest?
_Mary._ Honest.
_Jack._ (_Kissing her._) Then what'n thunder you want to talk
about a feller's gettin' old for? Where's my clean shirt? Say,
mother, don't you t' hang up them stockin's.
_Mary._ Oh! Jack, what nonsense.
_Jack._ No nonsense at all about it. Christmas is Christmas. It
only comes once a year an' I'm goin' to have th' stockin's hung
up. So for fear you'd forgit 'em I'll hang 'em up myself.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_Mary._ Please, Jack, give me those stockings.
_Jack._ Now it ain't no use, little woman. Them stockin's is
a-goin' up. Mother, you give me three pins.
_Mary._ Don't you give him _any_ pins, mother. Suppose the
neighbors should come in and see those stockings hangin' up.
_Jack._ Let 'em come in, I don't care a continental cuss. Why,
Mary, everybody wears stockin's nowadays, everybody that can
afford to. I _want_ the neighbors to see 'em, then they'll know
we've got stockin's. (_Holding up the three stockings._) Got one
apiece anyhow.
_Mother._ Oh, Jack, Jack! you'll never be anything but a great
overgrown boy, if you live to be a hundred (_goes off_).
_Mary._ (_Tenderly._) Jack!
_Jack._ Hey?
_Mary._ (_Putting her arms about his neck._) Did you never think
that perhaps next Christmas there might be another stocking, just
a tiny one, to hang in the chimney corner?
_Jack._ Why, Mary, there's tears in your eyes. (_Goes to wipe her
eyes with the work she has in her hands; it is a baby's dress._)
Bless my soul! What's this, Mary?
_Mary._ (_Falteringly._) Do you remember Bella and John in "Our
Mutual Friend" that I read to you?
_Jack._ Yes. Warn't they glorious?
_Mary._ Well, these are sails, Jack, sails for the little ship
that's coming across the water for you and me.
[Illustration: Mr. Herne as Reuben Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See
page 544.]
I quote a few lines from another scene.
Christmas morning. Hester and Silas, some young friends, have
come in to take breakfast. All are seated at the table with much
bustle and laughter. Lish Mead, Mary's foster father, pokes his
head in the door.
_Lish Mead._ Wish you Merry Christmas.
_All._ (_Hilariously._) Merry Christmas! Come in.
_Lish._ Can't less some on ye hol's th' door open.
_Silas._ I'll hold it, Lish. (_Lish enters, hauling a warehouse
truck on which is a barrel of flour and a large hamper._)
_Lish._ Mister Seward wanted I should hand ye these with his
complements.
_Mary._ Oh, how kind of Mr. Seward, and how good of you to bring
'em.
_Jack._ Set down here, Lish, and have a bite o' breakfast.
_Lish._ (_Taking off mittens, cap, comforter, etc._) Whatcher
got? Chicking? Waal, that's good 'nough. (_Seats himself at
table._) Say, Jack, d' you know, you left a goose a-layin' on Jim
Adamses bar las' night? I was goin' to fetch it along but Jim
said you gin it to him, swore you made him a present on it.
_Mother._ Jack Hepburn, did you give that goose--
_Mary._ (_Interrupting her._) Have a cup of coffee, mother.
_Lish._ Jack, have you got the time o' day? (_Chuckles._) Here's
y'r new Waterbury. The boys wanted I should fetch her 'round; ye
went off las' night without her.
_Jack._ Ye can take her back again; I don't want her.
_Mary._ O Jack!
_Jack._ No, Mary, I don't. I wish the durned ol' Waterbury 'd
never been born.
_Mary._ The boys meant well, Jack; I wouldn't send back their
present.
_Jack._ All right, Mary, if you say so, I'll take her. There's
one thing sure, every time I wind her up she'll put me in mind
how durn near I come to losin' the best little wife in the whole
world.
This play brought me to know Mr. and Mrs. Herne. It needed but an
hour's talk to convince me that I had met two of the most intellectual
artists in the dramatic profession, and also to learn how great were
the obstacles which lay in the way of producing a real play, each year
adding to the insuperableness of the barriers. Mr. Herne was at that
time (two years ago) working upon a new play, in some respects,
notably in its theme, finer than _Drifting Apart_. It was the result
of several summers spent on the coast of Maine, and is called
_Shore-Acres_. The story is mainly that of two brothers, Nathaniel and
Martin Berry, who own a fine "shore-acre" tract near a booming summer
resort. An enterprising grocer in the little village gets Martin
interested in booms and suggests that they form a company and cut the
shore-acre tract up into lots and sell to summer residents.
Martin comes with the scheme to Nathaniel.
_Martin._ I'd like t' talk to yeh, an' I d' know's I'll hev a
better chance.
_Uncle Nat._ I d' know's yeh will.
_Martin._ (_Hesitates, picks up a stick and whittles._) Mr.
Blake's ben here.
_Uncle Nat._ (_Picks up a straw and chews it._) Hez 'e?
[Illustration: Mrs. Herne as Dorothy Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See
page 544.]
_Martin._ Yes. He 'lows thet we'd ought to cut the farm up inter
buildin' lots.
_Uncle Nat._ Dooze 'e?
_Martin._ Yes. He says there's a boom a-comin' here, an' thet the
lan's too valu'ble to work.
_Uncle Nat._ I want t' know 'f he dooze. Where d's he talk o'
beginnin'?
_Martin._ Out there at the nothe eend o' the shore pint?
_Uncle Nat._ Yeh don't mean up yander? (_Pointing with his thumb
over his shoulder._)
_Martin._ (_Slowly._) Y-e-s.
_Uncle Nat._ Dooze 'e calkalate t' take in the knoll thet looks
out t' Al'gator Reef?
_Martin._ I reck'n he dooze.
_Uncle Nat._ Did yeh tell him thet mother's berried there?
_Martin._ He knows thet 's well 's you do. (_Sulkily._)
_Uncle Nat._ What's he calkalate t' do with mother?
_Martin._ He advises puttin' her in a cimitry up to Bangor.
_Uncle Nat._ She'd never sleep comfort'ble in no cimitry, mother
wouldn't.
_Martin._ He says thet's the choice lot o' the hull pass'll.
_Uncle Nat._ Then who's got so good a right to it as mother hez?
It was all her'n once. Thet's the only piece she ast t' keep. Yeh
don't begrutch it to her, do yeh, Martin?
_Martin._ I don't begrutch her nothin', only he says folks hain't
a-goin' to pay fancy prices 'thout they hev ther pick.
_Uncle Nat._ D'ye think any fancy price hed ought to buy mother's
grave?
[Illustration: Mrs. Herne as Mary Miller. "Here was tragedy that
appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living." "Drifting
Apart." Act IV. See page 545.]
_Martin._ Yeh seem to kinder shameface me fer thinkin' o' partin'
with it.
_Uncle Nat._ Didn't mean to. Law sakes! who'm I thet I should set
my face agin improvemints, I'd like t' know? Go ahead, an' sell,
'n build, an' git rich, an' move t' Bangor, unly don't sell thet!
Leave me jes' thet leetle patch, an' I'll stay an' take keer th'
light, keep the grass cut over yander, an' sort o' watch eout fer
things gin'rally....
_Ann._ Sakes alive! Martin Berry, bean't you a-comin' to your
dinner t'day? Come, Nathan'l, y'r dinner'll be stun cold. I say
yer dinner'll be stun cold. 'T won't be fit f'r a hawg t'eat.
_Little Mildred. (Going to Nat, looks up into his face._) He's
cryin', momma.
This estrangement, and the results that flow from it, form the simple
basis of _Shore-Acres_, a play full of character studies, and
permeated by that peculiar flavor of sea and farm, which the New
England coast abounds with. The theme is the best and truest of all
Mr. Herne's plays of humble life.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne have lived for twelve years in Ashmont, a suburb of
Boston. They have a comfortable and tasteful home, with three
children, Julie, Crystal, and Dorothy [aged ten, eight, and five], to
give them welcome when they come back from their seasons on the road.
Mr. Herne is very domestic and lives a very simple and quiet life. And
he enjoys his pretty home as only a man can whose life is spent so
largely in fatiguing travel. He is fond of the fields which lie near
his home, and very many are the long walks we have taken together. He
is very fond of wild flowers, especially daisies and clover blossoms,
and in their season is never without a bunch of them upon his desk.
Books are all about him. He writes at a flat-top desk in the room he
calls his, but his terrific orders to be left alone are calmly ignored
by the three children who invade this "study," and throw themselves
upon him at the slightest provocation. He is much tyrannized over by
Dorothy, whose dolls he is forced to mend, no matter what other
apparently important work is going forward.
[Illustration: Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act II. See
page 545.]
Mrs. Herne is a woman of extraordinary powers, both of acquired
knowledge and natural insight, and her suggestions and criticisms have
been of the greatest value to her husband in his writing, and she had
large part in the inception as well as in the production of _Margaret
Fleming_. Her knowledge of life and books, like that of her husband,
is self-acquired, but I have met few people in any walk of life with
the same wide and thorough range of thought. In their home oft-quoted
volumes of Spencer, Darwin, Fiske, Carlyle, Ibsen, Valdes, Howells,
give evidence that they not only keep abreast but ahead of the current
thought of the day. Spencer is their philosopher, and Howells is their
novelist, but Dickens and Scott have large space on their shelves. All
this does not prevent Mr. Herne from being an incorrigible joker, and
a wonderfully funny story-teller. All dialects come instantly and
surely to his tongue. The sources of his power as a dramatist are
evident in his keen observation and retentive memory. Mrs. Herne's
poet is Sidney Lanier, and she knows his principal poems by heart.
"Sunrise" is her especial delight. But to see her radiant with
intellectual enthusiasm, one has but to start a discussion of the
nebular hypothesis, or to touch upon the atomic theory, or doubt the
inconceivability of matter. She is perfectly oblivious to space and
time if she can get someone to discuss Flammarion's supersensuous
world of force, Mr. George's theory of land-holding, or Spencer's law
of progress.
[Illustration: Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act III. See
page 545.]
Her enthusiasms bear fruit not only in her own phenomenal
development, but in her power over others, both as an artist and
friend. Wherever she goes she carries the magnetic influence of one
who lives and thinks on high planes. Her earnestness is tremendous.
They are both individualists in the sense of being for the highest and
purest type of man, and the elimination of governmental control.
"Truth, Liberty, and Justice," form the motto over their door. Mr.
Herne has won great distinction as a powerful and ready advocate of
the single tax theory, and they are both personal valued friends of
Mr. George. It is Ibsen's individualism as well as his truth that
appeals so strongly to both Mr. and Mrs. Herne. They are in deadly
earnest like Ibsen, and _Margaret Fleming_ sprang directly from their
radicalism on the woman question. The home of these extraordinary
people is a charged battery radiating the most advanced thought. As
one friend said: "No one ever leaves this house as he came. We all go
away with something new and vital to think about."
I give these personal impressions in order that those who saw them in
_Margaret Fleming_ may know that its power was certainly a reflection
of the high thought and purity of moral conviction and life which Mr.
and Mrs. Herne brought to its production and its performance. It
voices their love of truth in art, and freedom in life, and
specifically their position on the woman question.
The story of _Margaret Fleming_ is briefly:--
Philip Fleming is a fairly successful business man in a town near
Boston. He has a devoted wife, a child just reaching its first year's
birthday. The first scene develops the situation by a conversation
between Fleming and his family physician. Fleming offers a cigar which
Dr. Larkin refuses.
_Philip._ You used to respect my cigars. (_Laughing._)
_Doctor._ I used to respect you....
_Philip._ Why not, for heaven's sake?
_Doctor._ Because you've no more moral nature than Joe Fletcher
has.
_Philip._ Oh! come now, Doctor, that's rather--
_Doctor._ (_Looking sternly at him._) At two o'clock last night,
Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.
_Philip._ (_His eyes meet those of the Doctor, then drop to the
floor._) How in God's name did they come to send for you?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_Doctor._ I don't believe she'll ever leave that bed alive.
_Philip._ Well, I've done all I can to--
_Doctor._ Yeh have, eh?
_Philip._ She's had all the money she needed.... If she'd a' done
as I wanted her to, this never'd a' happened. I tried to get her
away six months ago, but she wouldn't go. She was as obstinate as
a mule.
_Doctor._ Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it?
If she'd got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn't have let
her.
_Philip._ (_With a sickly smile._) You must think I'm--
_Doctor._ I don't think anything about it. I _know_ just what
such animals as you are.
_Philip._ Why, I haven't seen her for a--
_Doctor._ Haven' t yeh! well, then, suppose you go and see her
to-day.
_Philip._ (_Alarmed._) No, I won't. I can't do that!
_Doctor._ You will do just that.
_Philip._ (_Showing temper._) I won't go near her.
_Doctor._ (_Quietly._) Yes, you will. She sha'n't lie there and
die like a dog.
_Philip._ You wouldn't dare--to tell--
_Doctor._ I want you to go and see this girl! (_They face each
other._) Will yeh or won't yeh?
_Philip._ (_After a pause subdued._) What d' ye want me to say to
her?
[Illustration]
Fleming had been unfaithful to his wife at the time when he should
have been most devoted. The next two scenes show us Margaret in her
lovely home with the baby crowing about her. Fleming, with the easy
shift of such natures, has thrown off his depression, and is in good
spirits the following morning. Dr. Larkin calls to warn Fleming that
he had better take Margaret away at once. She has trouble with her
eyes which a nervous shock might intensify. He promises to do so, but
the act closes with Margaret's departure to visit Lena Schmidt, who
has sent for her. The third act takes place in Mrs. Burton's cottage,
where the girl is dying. Dr. Larkin enters, finds Mrs. Burton holding
the babe in her arms. I quote the conversation as a fine example of
its truth and suggestion.
[Illustration: Mr. Herne as Joe Fletcher in "Margaret Fleming." Act I.
"Can't I sell ye a bath sponge?" See page 553.]
_Mrs. Burton._ O Doctor! I didn't hear ye knawk. Did I keep y'
waitin'?
_Doctor._ No. How're the sick folks?
_Mrs. Burton._ Haven't y' seen Dr. Taylor! Didn't he tell yeh?
_Doctor._ Haven't seen him. I suppose you mean--
_Mrs. Burton._ Yes.
_Doctor._ Humph! When'd she die?
_Mrs. B._ 'Bout half an hour ago.
_Doctor._ I had two calls on my way here. When did the change
come?
_Mrs. B._ Ther' wa'n't no change t' speak 'f. About two hours
ago, she et a nice cup o' grule, and asked me to fix the pillers
so's her head 'd be higher. I done it. Then she asked f'r a
pensul 'n paper, an' she writ f'r quite some time. After that she
shet her eyes an' I thought she was asleep. She never moved till
the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes 'n smiled at him. He
asked how she felt, an' she gave a l-o-n-g sigh--an' that was all
there was to it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Mrs Herne as Margaret Fleming. Act II. See page 554.]
Margaret comes in and Dr. Larkin, horrified, tries in vain to get her
to return. Maria, the dead girl's sister, comes out of the bedroom,
with a letter in her hand, and with barbaric ferocity turns upon
Margaret. A scene of great dramatic power follows, and under the
stress of her suffering, Margaret goes blind. It all ends in the
flight of Fleming, and the destruction of their home. Several years
later a chain of events brings wife and husband together in the office
of the Boston Inspector of Police. Joe Fletcher, a street pedler, and
husband of Maria, the sister of Lena Schmidt, was the means of
bringing them together again. Fleming runs across Joe on the Common,
and Joe takes him to see Maria. Margaret has found Maria and her
child, which Maria had taken. Philip's altercation with Maria brings
them into the police office. After explanations, the inspector turns
to the husband and wife, and voicing conventional morality, advises
them to patch it up. "When you want me, ring that bell," he says, and
leaves them alone. There is a hush of suspense, and then Fleming,
seeing the work he had wrought in the blind face before him, speaks.
_Philip._ Margaret!
_Margaret._ Well!
_Philip._ This is terrible
_Marg._ You heard the inspector. He calls it a "common case."
_Philip._ Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said
it.
_Marg._ I guess he meant it, Philip. We'll be crowded out of his
thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_Marg._ Ah, well, it's done now, and--
_Philip._ Yes, it's done. For four years I've been like an
escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the
punishment. I'm captured at last, and without hope or fear,--I
_was_ going to say without shame,--I ask you, my judge, to
pronounce my sentence.
_Marg._ That's a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip.... (_She
hesitates._)
_Philip._ Of course you'll get a divorce?
_Marg._ Don't let us have any more ceremonies, Philip.... I gave
myself to you when you asked me to. We were married in my
mother's little home. Do you remember what a bright, beautiful
morning it was?
_Philip._ Yes.
_Marg._ That was seven years ago. To-day we're _here!_...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I _am_ calm. My eyes have simply been turned in upon myself for
four years. I see clearer than I used to.
_Philip._ Suppose I could come to you some day and say, Margaret,
I'm now an honest man. Would you live with me again?
_Marg._ The wife-heart has gone out of me, Philip.
_Philip._ I'll wait, Margaret. Perhaps it may come back again.
Who knows?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_Philip._ Is it degrading to forgive?
_Marg._ No; but it is to condone. Suppose _I_ had broken faith
with you?
_Philip._ Ah, Margaret!
_Marg._ I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the
whole stigma of infidelity? Isn't it just as revolting in a
husband?...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Then can't you see that it is simply impossible for me to live
with you again? _Philip._ That's my sentence.... We'll be
friends?
_Marg._ Yes, friends. We'll respect each other as friends. We
never could as man and wife.
As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her.
She masters it, puts his hand aside: "Ring that bell!"
[Illustration: Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little
Lena on the Common. See page 557.]
Played as Mrs. Herne plays it, this act is the supreme climax toward
which the action moves from the first. It is her knowledge of its
significance, her belief in its justice, and her faith in its
beneficence that makes her reading so intellectually powerful and
penetrating. She seems to be all of the woman, and something of the
seer, as she stands there as Margaret whose blindness has somehow
given her inward light, and conviction, and strength. She seemed to be
speaking for all womankind, whose sorrowful history we are only just
beginning to read truthfully. It is no wonder that Mrs. Herne appealed
with such power to the thinking women of Boston. Never before has
their case been so stated in America.
One of the most noticeable and gratifying results of Mr. and Mrs.
Herne's performance was the forced abandonment by the critics of
conventional standards of criticism. Every thoughtful word, even by
those most severe, was made from the realist's standpoint. It forced a
comparison with life and that was a distinct gain.
[Illustration: Margaret. Act V. "It is simply impossible for me to
live with you again.... Ring that bell." See page 557.]
The critics got at last the point of view of those who praise an
imperfect play simply for its honesty of purpose, and its tendency.
My own criticism of _Margaret Fleming_ is that it lacks the simplicity
of life. It has too much of plot. Things converge too much, and here
and there things happen. Measured by the standard of truth it fails at
two or three points in its construction, though its treatment is
markedly direct and honest. Measured by any play on the American
stage, it stands above them all in purpose, in execution, in power,
and is worthy to stand for the new drama. It was exposed to the
severest test, and came out of it triumphantly. What the effect will
be upon the American drama, it would be hard to say. Certainly whether
great or small, that influence will be toward progress, an influence
that is altogether good.
Already it has precipitated the discussion of an independent American
theatre, where plays of advanced thought and native atmosphere can be
produced. It has given courage to many who (being in the minority) had
given up the idea of ever having a play after their ideal. It has
cleared the air and showed the way out of the _cul de sac_ into which
monopoly seemed to have driven plays and players. It demonstrated that
a small theatre makes the production of literary plays possible, and
the whole field is opening to the American dramatist. The fact that
the lovers of truth and art are in the minority, no longer cuts a
figure. The small theatre makes a theatre for the minority not only
possible, but inevitable.
In the immediate advance in truth, both in acting and play-writing,
Mr. and Mrs. Herne are likely to have large part. The work which they
have already done entitles them not only to respect, but to gratitude.
They have been working for many years to discredit effectism in
acting, and to bring truth into the American drama. They have set a
high mark, as all will testify who saw the work in Chickering Hall.
Now let who can, go higher.
SOME WEAK SPOTS IN THE FRENCH REPUBLIC.
BY THEODORE STANTON.
Last autumn the third French republic completed the second decade of
its checkered existence, and has thus proved itself to be the most
long-lived government which France has known since the advent of the
great Revolution a century ago. No previous government has been able
to stand eighteen years, so that the present republic has outstripped
all its predecessors, whether republican, imperial, or monarchical,
leaving even the most fortunate of them two or three years behind, and
bidding fair to increase the distance indefinitely. Its longevity has
been greater than the first and second republics taken together, which
covered a period of a little over sixteen years; while if we combine
the existence of all three republics, equal to about thirty-six years,
we again find that no other regime has shown such prolonged
vitality,--the two empires having lived for only twenty-eight years,
and the two monarchies for about thirty-three and a half years.
But the early years of the third republic--from 1870 to 1879--like the
declining period of the first and second republics, were more
monarchical than republican. And again, there are so many weakening
influences in the present institutions of France, that the decisive
conclusions which might otherwise be drawn from the foregoing
considerations need, I regret to say, to be considerably qualified.
Previous to the election to the presidency of M. Grevy, in 1879, the
government was happily styled "a republic without republicans." But
since that date the same party--the republican--has had supreme
control. Practically, therefore, the third republic has been in
operation about twelve years, and has, therefore, still to pass that
dangerous turning-point in the history of French governments, the
twentieth year.