Enter Lady Susan25
If the voice does not deftly stress “now” in Lady Darby’s first speech, and the “upstairs” and the “downstairs” of the footman, this opening will fail of its desired effect. Everything in this well-written beginning of an interesting play depends on bringing to the delivery of the lines right use of the dramatist’s greatest aids: gesture, facial expression, pantomime, and above all the exquisite intonations of which the human voice is capable. Write this scene as a novelist would handle it, and see to what different proportions it will swell. Note in the final result how much less connotative, how much more commonplace the dialogue probably is. Contrasting two passages—one from a novel, the other in a play drawn from it—will perhaps best illustrate that the dialogue of the novel and of the play treating the same story usually differ greatly.
And when it became clear that somebody, good or bad, was without, Patty, having regard to the lateness of the hour and the probability of supernatural visitations, was much disposed to make as though the knocking were unheard, and to creep quietly off to bed. But Mistress Beatrice prevailed upon her to depart from this prudent course; and the two peered from an upper window to see who stood before the door.
At first they could see no one; but presently a little figure stepped back from the shadow, looking up to the window above, and Beatrice Cope, although she discerned not the face, felt more than ever certain that this summons was for her.
“’Tis but a child there without, Patty,” she said. “Maybe ’tis some poor little creature that has lost its way, and come here for help and shelter. Heaven forbid that we should leave it to wander about, all the dreary night through!”
Patty’s fears were not much calmed by the sight of this lonely child. “’Twas the Phantom Child,” she murmured, “who comes wailing piteously to honest folks’ doors o’ nights; and if they take it in and cherish it, it works them grievous woe.”
Mistress Beatrice, however, tried to hear as little as she might of what Patty was saying; and she went downstairs and undid the heavy bar very cautiously. Then she opened the door a little space; and Patty Joyce stood by her staunchly, although disapproving of what she did.
And when the door was opened, this persevering applicant proved to be only the boy Bill Lampeter, who was known at White-oaks as at Crowe Hall, and a score of country Granges beside. He did but crave a drink of milk and a bit to eat, he said. He had been a-foot all day, and had had nought to eat; and seeing a light burning in the houseplace, he made bold to knock and ask for what he needed.
The boy’s breath was short and hurried, and his grimy face was pale and damp with toil of hard running. He did not seek to enter, but kept glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind him.
Beatrice sent Patty for food and drink, standing still herself in the doorway; and the maid was no sooner gone than the boy drew nearer and spoke.
“Oh, mistress,” he said, hoarsely, “I have been beat to-night—but I told ’em nought. The corporal he raddled my bones terrible—but I set my teeth, and I told ’un nought. I bit him when he took they shining white things o’ yourn, wi’ the writing; them as I could not give to Mr. Cope, the day I warned the porter at Goodrest that the red-coats was upon ’em. I had the white things safe, mistress, hid in my smock”—(he put his hand to his breast, where the rough garment he wore was heavily quilted and closely drawn).—“And I would ha’ giv’ them to Mr. Cope, the first chance I got—I would, honest and true. But the scouting party caught me; and they says, ’Thee be allays running from one Grange to another, thee little ne’er-do-weel; thee can tell us what we wants to know about Goodrest in the hills’—And I was telling of ’em just what tales comed into my head, for fear of unpleasantness, mistress, when the corporal, a great rough chap, seizes hold of me, and says, says he, ‘’Tis all a pack o’ lies, this here. Search him,’ he says, ‘and see if he carries messages or tokens.’ And then I fought and bit, for I know’d they’d find your bright things in my smock; and I bit his hand nigh upon through, that I did,” said Bill, with grim satisfaction, and an oath at which poor Beatrice shuddered.
“Oh, hush!” she said. “There is no help in swearing, boy.”
“He swore,” Bill replied. “But when he got the tablets, he were fine and pleased. And he said, ‘This is a stag of ten, my boys; and should he snuff the breeze too soon we have means to keep him where he is till morning. Hold that little viper fast,’ says he,’and for your lives don’t let him give us the slip.’—So one of the troopers took me behind him on his horse, with a rope round my body, drawn cruel tight at first. And I panted and groaned, and made as though he were killing of me; and after a bit he slacked the rope a little, so as I could put my head down and gnaw it through in the dark. And at the dip of a valley, where the shadow was deep under the trees, I slipped off quiet-like into the long grass. He knew the rope was loose in a minute, and he snapped his pistol; but the covert was good, and I crope into the heart of a holler tree covered o’er wi’ ivy. I bided there, till they was tired o’ hunting round.—But oh, mistress, the poor gentleman at Goodrest is undone!—They talked together while the trooper was making me fast upon his horse; and I heard a word now and again, for I listened with all my might. There were but four of ’em; and they said they weren’t strong enough to surprise Goodrest, but must ride back to quarters for help. And as we went past Grantford Farm, the corporal called a halt; and one held his horse while he went in and spoke with the farmer. And, mistress, Hugh Stone of Grantford is known for a bitter Whig....And presently Hugh of Grantford comes out, and his little brother with him; and the boy had that as you wrote upon—that as they took from me—in his hand. And the corporal says, looking over his shoulder quick and short, ‘Does he understand?’ says he. ‘Oh, aye,’ says Hugh of Grantford, ‘he understands fine.’ And I could see wee Jock did not like the job he were put upon; and I made a face at him from ahint the trooper’s back, and he liked it less nor ever then.”
“What job, Bill?”
Bill Lampeter looked in amazement at this beautiful, terrified lady, who did not understand.
“Don’t ’ee see?” he said. “Jock o’ Grantford were to take your writing to Goodrest, and play upon the gentleman there, to keep him biding till the red-coats come. What were it as you wrote down that day, mistress?”
As in a flash of painful memory Beatrice saw the dainty tablets once more, with words traced upon them in a hand rendered somewhat unsteady by the slow pace of the sorrel horse—a hand unmistakable, however, to the eyes of Charlie Cope.
I pray you, do not stir far from home. There is risk abroad.
B. C.
She understood then; and she turned quickly to Patty Joyce, who had come back bringing bread and milk ere Bill’s tale was half done. Bill, even in the eagerness of his disclosure, had clutched the bread and cheese; and now he drained the mug of milk, while the good-natured maid stood open-mouthed, her eyes fixed upon Mistress Beatrice.
“Patty,” the young lady whispered, “I think you are faithful and true.... I must trust you with a perilous secret. This gentleman whom they seek at Goodrest is my only brother; he has papers of importance in his keeping, and a warrant is out for his arrest. They will lure him to his destruction by means of me, his sister; he knows my handwriting and will trust to my warning. He will lie close at Goodrest, as a hare upon her form; and they will take him—oh! they will take him prisoner!—ere morning dawns. I must to Goodrest now, in the dark night.—Boy! is there time? is there time?”
Bill Lampeter nodded, munching his bread.
“They’ll not be back afore the dawning, them troopers,” he said. “They’ve limed the twig, ye see; the bird is made fast. If Mr. Cope do hear the country’s up, he’ll bide where he be there at Goodrest, reckoning ’tis safest to keep still. Between now and the first streak as shows over the Black Scaur, mistress, you can do as you will.”
“Eh, Mistress Beatrice, you can’t never go,” said Patty, trembling. “You couldn’t dare to do it. And this here boy,” she whispered, standing close to Mistress Beatrice, “is a very proverb for wicked story-telling. ’Tis a naughty little varlet; who knows that he has not been set on to bring this tale?”
“’Tis true enough, though I be a story-teller,” said Bill, whose ears were sharp. “Yon gentleman at Goodrest has need of thee the night, mistress. And now let me lie down on the straw in the big barn, for my bones do ache, and I be dizzy wi’ running.”
He caught at the doorpost as he spoke; and Patty Joyce’s suspicion vanished in pity for the worn-out creature. She kindled a flame to light the lanthorn which hung in the houseplace; and herself crossed the wide courtyard to make Bill a comfortable resting-place in the soft hay and clean straw which filled the great barn.26
This is the same scene in the play:
(Louder rapping. Trembling with rage and disappointment, Sandiland disappears down the path. Beatrice stands a moment, looking as if waking from a nightmare.)
Patty. (Outside, rapping more.) Miss Beatrice, Miss Beatrice! Quick!
Beatrice. (Crossing dazedly to door. By it, dully.) Who?
Patty. Open quick. Me and Bill.
Beat. (Recovering.) Bill!
(Quickly she unbolts the door. Patty enters, half supporting Bill. She looks about as if surprised at not seeing any one beside Beatrice. Bill’s clothes are torn and he is covered with dirt. There is blood on his hands where cords have torn the flesh. He looks white and wretched and breathes hard as if from recent running. He should play the whole scene with nervous excitement that suggests a collapse at the end of it.)
Bill. (Apologetically, as he stumbles toward Beatrice.) I’ve had a bit of a scrap. (Aside to Beatrice.) Get rid o’ ’er.
Beat. You can trust her. What has happened?
Bill. Scoutin’ party got me. Corporal raddled my bones terrible when I fought and bit, fearin’ they’d find your message hid in my smock. They near tore it off, damn ’em.
Beat. You have the tablets?
Bill. No.
Beat. They have them? (With relief.) Then they haven’t reached James!
Bill. The gentleman? Oh, ay. When we come to Grantford Farm—I were trussed up be’ind a trooper—Corporal called out little Jock o’ Grantford—his fayther’s a bitter Whig—and bade ’im take your message to Goodrest, to keep the gentleman waitin’ till the red coats be come.
Beat. (To Patty.) Where’s Grizel?
Patty. In the paddock’m. But—
Beat. Saddle her at once. I must to Goodrest.
(Patty hesitates.)
Bill. (Menacingly as he reaches for a candle-stick.) She said—To once.
(Unwillingly but quickly, Patty goes out centre.)
Bill. (Pointing to the door where the full moon shines in clearly.) Ay, but that ain’t ’id yet.
Beat. (As if struck by a sudden idea.) How did you get free?
Bill. Gnawed the ropes; slipped off in the long grass. Trooper’s pistol missed me. Stayed in a holler oak I knows till they was tired ’untin’.
Beat. Knowing you are loose, they will start at once.
Bill. If they ain’t fools. But most folks be. Risk somethin’ on that. (Beatrice is busy with her dress and cloak. He starts to help her but has to support himself by table.) Don’t go through Whitecross Village. There the soldiers be. Take the footpath by Guiting; the bridge be shaky but ’twill hold.
(Enter Patty, centre.)
Patty. Grizel’s ready’m.
Beat. (Nodding her understanding to Bill—to Patty.) Close up here. Look after Bill. Be ready to let me in when the first cock crows. My stirrup! (Goes out swiftly, followed protestingly by Patty. Bill drags himself to right of door watching, and says after a minute.) She’s up!
Patty. (Rushing in as there is the sound of swift hoof beats.) She’s gone! (She falls sobbing hysterically by the left side of door.)
Bill. (As he holds himself up at right.) The damned brave lady!
Curtain.
First of all, the novelist permits himself an amount of detail which the dramatist must forego because of his more limited space. Interesting details which do not forward the purpose of the scene or act the wise dramatist denies himself—note in Ibsen’s revision of certain lines in A Doll’s House (p. 350) the cutting, between the first and final versions, of what concerns Dr. Rank. It was in part unnecessary detail which made the dialogue of the play on John Brown (pp. 309-313) so ineffective. In what follows immediately, a skilful hand seems in column one to have cut details of column two which, though interesting in themselves, delay the essential movement of the scene and help to swell the whole play to undue proportions.
Horatio. Mary that can I, at least the whisper goes so,
Our late King, who as you know was by Forten
Brasse of Norway.
Thereto prickt on by a most emulous cause, dared to
The combate, in which our valiant Hamlet,
For so this side of our knowne world esteemed him,
Did slay this Fortenbrasse,
Who by a scale compact well ratified, by law
And heraldrie, did forfeit with his life all those
His lands which he stoode seazed of by the conqueror,
Against the which a moity competent,
Was gaged by our King:
Now sir, young Fortenbrasse,
Of inapproved mettle hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there,
Sharkt up a sight of lawlesse Resolutes
For food and diet to some enterprise,
That hath a stomacke in’t: and this (I take it) is the
Chief head and ground of our watch. Horatio. That can I.
At least the whisper goes so; our last King,
Who[se image even but now appear’d to us,]
Was as you knowe by Fortinbrasse of Norway,
Thereto prickt on by a most emulate pride
Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet,
(For so this side of our knowne world esteemd him)
Did slay this Fortinbrasse, who by a seald compact
Well ratified by lawe and heraldy
Did forfait (with his life) all these his lands
Which he stood seaz’d of, to the conquerour.
Against the which a moitie competent
Was gaged by our King, [which had returne
To the inheritance of Fortinbrasse,
Had he bin vanquisher; as by the same comart,
And carriage of the article desseigne,
His fell to Hamlet;] now Sir young Fortinbrasse
Of unimprooved mettle, hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway heere and there
Sharkt up a list of lawelesse resolutes
For foode and diet to some enterprise
That hath a stomacke in’t [which is no other
As it doth well appeare unto our state
But to recover of us by strong hand
And tearmes compulsatory, those foresaid lands
So by his father lost;] and this I take it
Is [the maine motive of our preparations
The source of this our watch, and] the chiefe head
Of this post hast and Romadge in the land.
[Bar. I thinke it be no other, but enso;
Well may it sort that this portentous figure
Comes armed through our watch so like the King
That was and is the question of these warres.
Hora. A moth it is to trouble the mindes eye:
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell
The graves stood tenantlesse, and the sheeted dead
Did squeake and gibber in the Roman streets
As starres, with traines of fier, and dewes of blood
Disasters in the sunne; and the moist starre,
Upon whose influence Neptunes Empier stands,
Was sicke almost to doomesday with eclipse.
And even the like precurse of feare events
As harbindgers preceading still the fates
And prologue to the Omen comming on
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our Climatures and countrymen.]
Enter the Ghost. Enter Ghost.
But loe, bemold, see where it comes againe.
Ile crosse it, though it blast me: stay illusion,
If there be any good thing to be done,
That may doe ease to thee, and grace to mee,
Speake to mee. But softe, behold, loe where it comes againe
It spreads his arms
Ile crosse it though it blast mee: stay illusion,
[If thou hast any sound or use of voyce
Speake to me,] if there be any good thing to be done
That may to thee doe ease, and grace to mee,
Speake to me.27
Unnecessary detail should, then, be cut from dialogue both because it is usually the chief offender in making the play unduly long, and because it weakens the dialogue of which it is a part. In argument it is a time-honored principle that it is far better not to pile up all the evidence you can on a given point, but by selecting your best argument, or two or three of the better type, to strike hard with the selected material. The same principle underlies writing good dramatic dialogue. Say what you have to say as well as you can, and except for emphasis or when repetition produces some desired effect, don’t repeat. In the speech quoted below it became clear in rehearsal that the bracketed part was not necessary because what preceded showed sufficiently the affection Miss Helen had roused in the faithful old servant, Alec. However characterizing or amusing the remainder might be, it clogged the movement of the scene. Consequently it went out.
Dick. Hello—what’s this Alec?
Alec. A grand pianner, sir.
Dick. Of course, but where did it come from?
Alec. Miss Helen, she gave it to ’em at Christmas.
Dick. She—gave it to—them—?
Alec. Yes.
Dick. (Laughing.) But they don’t play it, do they?
Alec. No, she plays it—. An’ you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin’s after supper when the wind’d howl around the house she’d make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don’t want white angels and gold harps in mine,—I jes’ want Miss Helen an’ a grand pianner. (Dick is very sober. [He doesn’t speak.) An’ she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,—little soft things,—none o’ this screechy stuff. An’ all the old dames sit around—an’ then when my work was done out in the barn I’d come in an’ sit over there in the corner out o’ the way like, an’ listen like a old lady myself—with my Adam’s apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin’ o’ things. I tell you she’s—she’s a regular—humdinger.]
Dick. (Quietly.) What time do you expect her back?
Time forbids any form of fiction to be encyclopædic. The drama is, as we have seen, the most selective of the forms of fiction. Failure to remember this has hurt the chances of many a promising dramatist. Few have such skilled and loyal advisers as Lord Tennyson found in Sir Henry Irving when his over-long Becket must be cut for stage production. How much of the following scene in the original do we think at first sight we can spare? Much which Sir Henry removed we should like to keep, but time-limits forbade and he cut with exceeding skill to the best dramatic phrasing offered of the essentials of the scene.
ACT I. SCENE 1. Becket’s House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.
ORIGINAL REVSION
Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?
Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself
That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out
With this day’s work, get thee to thine own bed.
Leave me with Herbert, friend.
(Exit Servant.)
Help me off, Herbert, with this—and this.
Herbert. Was not the people’s blessing as we past
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood?
Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength,
A bulwark against Throne and Baronage.
Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert!
Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor’s robe?
Becket. No; but the Chancellor’s and the Archbishop’s
Together more than mortal man can bear.
Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse?
Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship
I more than once have gone against the Church.
Herbert. To please the King?
Becket. Ay, and the King of kings,
Or justice; for it seem’d to me but just
The Church should pay her scutage like the lords.
But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot
That I am not the man to be your Primate,
For Henry could not work a miracle—
Make an Archbishop of a soldier?
Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.
Becket. Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me,
Dream’d that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven
Into her bosom.
Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light,
The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter’d
Into thy making.
Becket. And when I was a child,
The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep,
Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream,
Or prophecy, that?
Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy both.
Becket. And when I was of Theobald’s household, once—
The good old man would sometimes have his jest—
He took his mitre off, and set it on me,
And said, “My young Archbishop—thou wouldst make
A stately Archbishop!” Jest or prophecy there?
Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?
Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself
That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out
With this day’s work, get thee to thine own bed.
Leave me with Herbert, friend.
(Exit Servant.)
Help me off Herbert, with this—and this.
Herbert. Was not the people’s blessing as we past
Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood?
Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength,
A bulwark against Throne and Baronage.
Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert!
Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor’s robe?
Becket. No; but the Chancellor’s and the Archbishop’s
Together more than mortal man can bear.
Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Toulouse?
Becket. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot
That I am not the man to be your Primate,
For Henry could not work a miracle—
Make an Archbishop of a soldier?
Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.
Becket. Am I the man? That rang
Within my head last night, and when I slept
Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster,
And spake to the Lord God, and said, “O Lord,
I have been a lover of wines and delicate meats,
And secular splendours, and a favourer
Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder
Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes.
Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me,
“Thou art the man, and all the more the man.”
And then I asked again, “O Lord my God
Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother
And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me
For this thy great archbishoprick, believing
That I should go against the Church with him,
And I shall go against him with the Church,
And I have said no word of this to him:
Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me,
“Thou art the man, and all the more the man.”
And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me,
And smote me down upon the Minster floor.
I fell.
Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall.
Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why did he smite me? What?
Shall I fall off—to please the King once more?
Not fight—tho’ somehow traitor to the King—
My truest and mine utmost for the Church?
Herbert. Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be;
For how have fought thine utmost for the Church,
Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick?
And how been made archbishop hadst thou told him,
“I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church,
Against the King?”
Becket. But dost thou think the King
Forced mine election?
Herbert. I do think the King
Was potent in the election, and why not?
Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King?
Be comforted. Thou art the man—be thou
A mightier Anselm. Becket. Am I the man? That rang
Within my head last night, and when I slept
Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster,
And spake to the Lord God and said,
“Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother
And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me
For this thy great archbishoprick, believing
That I should go against the Church with him,
And I shall go against him with the Church.
Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me,
“Thou art the man and all the more the man.”
And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me,
And smote me down upon the Minster floor.
I fell.
Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall.
Becket. I do believe thee, then. I am the man.
And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden
At such an eagle-height I stand and see
The rift that runs between me and the King.
I served our Theobald well when I was with him;
I served King Henry well as Chancellor;
I am his no more, and I must serve the Church.
This Canterbury is only less than Rome,
And all my doubts I fling from me like dust,
Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind,
And all the puissance of the warrior,
And all the wisdom of the Chancellor,
And all the heap’d experiences of life,
I cast upon the side of Canterbury—
Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits
With tatter’d robes. Laics and barons, thro’
The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt
Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms,
And goodly acres—we will make her whole;
Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs,
These ancient Royal customs—they are Royal,
Not of the Church—and let them be anathema,
And all that speak for them anathema. Becket. And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden
At such an eagle-height I stand and see
The rift that runs between me and the King.
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much. Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much.
Becket. Oh, Herbert here
I gash myself asunder from the King,
Tho’ leaving each, a wound: mine own, a grief
To show the scar forever—his, a hate
Not ever to be heal’d.28 Becket. O Herbert, here
I gash myself asunder from the King,
Tho’ leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief
To show the scar forever—his, a hate
Not ever to be heal’d.29
Dialogue, then, should avoid all unnecessary detail, and should avoid repetition except for desired dramatic ends—in other words, must select and again select.
Practically every illustration thus far used in treating dialogue fitted for the stage has shown the enormous importance of facial expression, gesture, and voice. What the voice may do with just two words is the substance of a little one-act piece made famous years ago by Miss Genevieve Ward and later often read by the late George Riddle. An actress applying to a manager is tested as to her power to express in the two words “Come here” all the emotions described by her examiner. As will be seen, the little play, when read in the study, lacks effectiveness. Given by an actress who can put into the two words all that is demanded, it becomes varied, exciting, and even amazing.
Actress.... Your selection may not be in my repertoire.
Manager. Oh! yes, it is. I only require two words: “Come here.”
Actress. Come here?
Manager. Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, and expressions, that situation, character, and the surroundings would command.
Actress. (Takes off her bonnet and shawl.) Well, then, I am ready.
Manager. Before a mother stand a loving couple, who pray for her consent; the lover is poor; she battles with her pride, it is a great struggle for her; at last with open arms she cries—
Actress. Come here!
Manager. A mother calls her little daughter, who has done something to vex her.
Actress. Come here!
Manager. And now it is her step-child.
Actress. Come here!
Manager. A carriage is dashing by, the child is in the street, the mother’s heart is filled with terror, she calls her darling and cries out—
Actress. Come here!
Manager. In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her departing husband, whom the State has called to defend his country on the battlefield; her only consolation is in her children, these she calls, and presses to her heart.
Actress. Come here!
Manager. The husband has returned, and full of joy she calls her children as she observes him coming home.
Actress. Come here!
Manager. While in his arms, she now observes his servant, and as with every one she would divide her joy she calls to him—
Actress. Come here!
Manager. The feelings of a mother in all her joys and tribulation, you have most perfectly sustained. Now show me, how in despair a widow, who has lost all she possessed through fire, confronts the creditors, who clamor for their dues, and whose cruelty has killed her husband. She stands by his body and points to all that now is left her, the remains of her dead husband, and calls on them to look at their work.
Actress. Come here!
Manager. I must confess you depict pain as if you felt it.30
Mark, when running through the scene in which Iago tempts Othello to his final undoing (Act III, Scene 3.), the variety of intonation required in the repetitions of “Honest” and “Think.” In a novel containing this scene the absence of the actors’ trained intonations would cost the author much labor in describing how the words should be uttered.
Othello. Farewell, my Desdemona; I’ll come to thee straight.
Desdemona. Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you;
Whate’er you be, I am obedient.
(Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.)
Othello. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
Iago. My noble lord,—
Othello. What dost thou say, Iago?
Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,
Know of your love?
Othello. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?
Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought;
No further harm.
Othello. Why of thy thought, Iago?
Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
Othello. O, yes; and went between us very oft.
Iago. Indeed!
Othello. Indeed! ay, indeed. Discern’st thou aught in that?
Is he not honest?
Iago. Honest, my lord?
Othello. Honest, ay, honest.
Iago. My lord, for aught I know.
Othello. What dost thou think?
Iago. Think, my lord?
Othello. Think, my lord!
By heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something.
I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that,
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?
And when I told thee he was of my counsel,
Of my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, “Indeed!”
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
Even passages in a play which look very unpromising should not be finally judged till a flexible, well-trained voice has done its best to bring out any emotion latent in the words. If they were originally chosen by an author writing in full sympathetic understanding of his figures, they will, properly spoken, reveal unexpected emotional values. Here is a passage from Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy at which many a critic has poked fun. At first sight it undoubtedly seems merely “words, words, words.”
Hieronimo. O eyes! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears:
O life! no life but lively form of death:
O world! no world but mass of public wrongs,
Confus’d and fill’d with murder and misdeeds:
O sacred heav’ns! if this unhallow’d deed,
If this inhuman and barbarous attempt;
If this incomparable murder thus,
Of mine, but now no more my son,
Should unreveal’d and unrevenged pass,
How should we term your dealings to be just
If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?31
If we remember what the play has already told us of Hieronimo: that having found his son hanging murdered in the arbor, he enters in a perfect ecstasy of grief; and if we recall that the Elizabethan loved a style as ornate as this, feeling it no barrier between him and the thought behind it; the look of the passage begins to change. Put the feeling of the father into the voice as one reads, and lo, these lines are not a bad medium for expressing Hieronimo’s grief. They may lack the simplicity we demand today, but strong, clear feeling may be brought out from behind them for any audience. For an Elizabethan audience it came forth in a style delightful in itself. The fact is, time cannot wholly spoil the value even of lines phrased according to the standards of some literary vogue of the moment if the author originally wrote them with an imagination kindled to accuracy of feeling by complete sympathy with his characters. Never judge the dialogue of a play only by the eye. Hear it adequately, interpretively spoken. Then, and then only, judge it finally.
It is almost impossible, also, to separate the voice from gesture and facial expression as aids in dramatic dialogue. Unquestionably each of these would help the voice in the illustrations just given from Come Here, Othello, and the Spanish Tragedy. When Antony, absorbed in Cleopatra, and therefore unwilling to listen to the messenger bearing tidings of the utmost importance from Rome, cries, “Grates me: the sum!”32 it is not merely the intonation but the accompanying gesture in the sense of general bodily movement, and the facial expression, which make the condensed phrasing both natural and immensely effective. When Frankford (A Woman Killed With Kindness, Act III, Scene 2)33 asks his old servant, Nicholas, for proof of Mrs. Frankford’s unfaithfulness the answer is not, “I saw her,” or “I saw her and her lover with my eyes,” but simply “Eyes, eyes.” The last are what rightly, in dramatic dialogue, may be called “gesture words,” words demanding for their full effect not only the right intonation, but facial expression and all that pantomime may mean. The old man lifts his head, and, though unwillingly, looks his master straight in the face as he speaks. Perhaps he even emphasizes by lifting his hand toward his eyes. With the concomitants of action and voice, the words take on finality and equal: “What greater proof could I have? I saw the lovers with these eyes.”
So close, indeed, is the relation between action and phrasing that often we cannot tell whether dialogue is good or bad till we have made sure of the “business” implied by it, or to be found in it by an imaginative worker. The following passage from The Revesby Sword Play is distinctly misleading because of the word, “looking-glass” unless one studies the context closely for implied business, and above all, understands the sword dances of the period in which the play was written.
Fool. Well, what dost thou call this very pretty thing?
Pickle Herring. Why, I call it a fine large looking-glass.
Fool. Let me see what I can see in this fine large looking-glass. Here’s a hole through it, I see. I see, and I see!
Pickle Herring. You see and you see, and what do you see?
Fool. Marry, e’en a fool,—just like thee!
Pickle Herring. It is only your own face in the glass.34
A “looking-glass” with “a hole through it” seems nearly a contradiction in terms, but the word “glass” is synonymous with “nut,” a name given to the swords of English Folk Dances when so interwoven as to make a kind of frame about a central space. This space is often large enough for a man’s head. The Fool has seen the dancers make such a nut. Holding it up, he asks Pickle Herring what it is. Pickle Herring, seeing the Fool’s face through the opening and seizing his chance for a jest, calls the nut a “looking-glass.” The Fool carries on the conceit. Looking through the hole he and Pickle Herring jibe at each other. The whole Revesby Sword Play provides illustration after illustration of the inseparability of words and business in good dramatic dialogue.
By “business” is meant ordinarily either illustrative action called for by a stage direction or clearly implied in the text. By “latent business” is meant the illustrative action which a sympathetic and imaginative producer finds in lines either ordinarily left without business or treated with some conventional action. Mr. William Poel’s historic revival of Everyman was crowded with such imaginative and richly interpretive business. When Death cried,
Everyman, thou art mad! Thou hast thy wits five,
And here on earth will not amend thy life!
For suddenly I do come—
on that last line he stretched out one arm and with the index finger of his hand barely touched the heart of Everyman. In the gesture there was a suggestion of what might be going to happen, even a suggestion that already Death thus claimed Everyman for his own. It pointed finely the immediate cry of Everyman,
O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee,
That I might scape this endless sorrow?35
The text did not call for this gesture: it belongs to the best type of interpretive business.
Few untrained persons hear what they write: they merely see it. The skilled dramatist never forgets that he has to help him in his dialogue all that intonation, facial expression, gesture, and the general action of his characters may do for him. Which, after all, is the more touching, the cry of pleasure with which some child of the streets, at a charity Christmas tree, gazes at a rag doll some one holds out to her, or the silent mothering gesture with which she draws it close to her, her face alight? It is just because, at times, facial expression, gesture, and movement may so completely express all that is needed that pantomime is coming to play a larger and larger part in our drama. Older readers of this book may recall the late Agnes Booth and her long silent scene in Jim, The Penman. By comparison of a letter and a cheque, Kate Ralston becomes aware that her husband is a famous forger, Jim, the Penman. Through all this great scene of an otherwise cheap play, the physical movement was very slight. The actress, three-quarters turned toward the audience, sat near a table. It was her facial expression and, rarely, a slight movement of the arms or body which conveyed her succession of increasingly intense emotions. The significant pantomime began with “She puts cheque with others.” The acting of the next seven lines of stage direction held an audience with increasing intensity of feeling for some five minutes.
Nina (Mrs. Ralston) has just told her husband that she discovered Captain Redwood asleep in the conservatory at the end of Act I. Though she does not know it, this shows her husband that all his incriminating interview with Dr. Hartfeld may have been overheard. He falls into disturbed reverie and is so absorbed in thinking out the situation that he is oblivious to what she does.
Nina. Now then, for my pass-book.
(Opens pass-book and takes passed cheques out of side pocket of book. Music.)
Ralston. (Aside.) He heard all! If she had told me, she would have saved me.
Nina. (Looking at a cheque.) What is this cheque? I don’t remember it. A cheque for five guineas in favor of Mrs. Chapstone. I never gave her a cheque. Oh, I recollect, that same evening she bothered you to take some tickets and you took them in my name. I never had the tickets, by-the-bye. I suppose she sold them over again. Yes, to be sure, you wrote the cheque. You asked permission to sign my name. How wonderfully like my writing! Why, it quite deceives me, it’s so marvelous!
(Ralston, in chair, is lost in thought, and hardly attends to what she says. She puts cheque with others and goes through accounts. Pauses, puts pass-book down, and takes up cheque again, examines it; turns her head and looks at Ralston, observes his absorption, and after another look at him takes from drawer the letter which Percival gave her and the other. She places them and the cheque together, almost in terror; comparing them, a look of painful conviction comes over her face, which changes into one of terrible determination. She rises from chair. Stop music on the word “James.”)36
The greatest recent instance of pantomime is undoubtedly the third scene of Act III of Mr. Galsworthy’s Justice. Set in Falder’s cell, it is meant to illustrate the loneliness, the excitability, and even the brutishness of a prisoner’s life. Many people, while admitting the effectiveness of this wordless scene, have declared it emotionally so overwhelming that they could not endure seeing it a second time.
Falder’s cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In the middle of the opposite end wall is a narrow door. In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up (two blankets, two sheets, and a coverlet). Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black hair-brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark ventilator over the window, and another over the door. Falder’s work (a shirt to which he is putting button holes) is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which the novel, “Lorna Doone,”37 lies open. Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set under the window.
In the fast failing daylight, Falder, in his stockings, is seen standing motionless, with his head inclined towards the door, listening. He moves a little closer to the door, his stockinged feet making no noise. He stops at the door. He is trying harder and harder to hear something, any little thing that is going on outside. He springs suddenly upright—as if at a sound, and remains perfectly motionless. Then, with a heavy sigh, he moves to his work, and stands looking at it, with his head down; he does a stitch or two, having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is, as it were, a coming to life. Then turning abruptly, he begins pacing the cell, moving his head, like an animal pacing its cage. He stops again at the door, listens, and, placing the palms of his hands against it with his fingers spread out, leans his forehead against the iron. Turning from it, presently, he moves slowly back towards the window, tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall. He stops under the window, and, picking up the lid of one of the tins, peers into it. It has grown very nearly dark. Suddenly the lid falls out of his hands with a clatter, the only sound that has broken the silence—and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness—he seems to be seeing somebody or something there. There is a sharp tap and click; the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up. The cell is brightly lighted. Falder is seen gasping for breath.
A sound from far away, as of distant, dull beating on thick metal, is suddenly audible. Falder shrinks back, not able to bear this sudden clamour. But the sound grows, as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell. And gradually it seems to hypnotise him. He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door. The banging sound, travelling from cell to cell, draws closer and closer; Falder’s hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating, and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell. He suddenly raises his clenched fists. Panting violently, he flings himself at his door, and beats on it.