Act II Scene 2
To these all the former characters, less the Notary. The fiddlers are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: “O, dear, what can the matter be?” in time to which the procession enters.
Macaire. Well, friends, what cheer?
Aline. No wedding, no wedding! Together
Goriot. I told ’ee he can’t, and he can’t!
Dumont. Dear, dear me.
Ernestine. They won’t let us marry. Together
Charles. No wife, no father, no nothing.
Curate. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary.
Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself.8
If physical action in and of itself is so often dramatic, is all physical action dramatic? That is, does it always create emotion in an onlooker? No. It goes for naught unless it rouses his interest. Of itself, or because of the presentation given it by the dramatist, it must rouse in the onlooker an emotional response. A boy seeing “Crazy Mary” stalking the street in bedizened finery and bowing right and left, may see nothing interesting in her. More probably her actions will move him to jeer and jibe at her. Let some spectator, however, tell the boy of the tragedy in Crazy Mary’s younger life which left her unbalanced, and, if he has any right feeling, the boy’s attitude will begin to change. He may even give over the jeering he has begun. Reveal to him exactly what is passing in the crazed mind of the woman, and his mere interest will probably turn to sympathy. Characterization, preceding and accompanying action, creates sympathy or repulsion for the figure or figures involved. This sympathy or repulsion in turn converts mere interest into emotional response of the keenest kind. Though physical action is undoubtedly fundamental in drama, no higher form than crude melodrama or crude farce can develop till characterization appears to explain and interpret action.
The following extracts from Robertson’s Home show physical action, silly it is true, yet developing characterization by illustrative action. The first, even as it amuses, characterizes the timid Bertie, and the second shows the mild mentality and extreme confusion of the two central figures.
Mr. Dorrison. Will you give Mrs. Pinchbeck your arm, Colonel? Dora, my dear. (Taking Dora’s.) Lucy, Captain Mountraffe will—(Sees him asleep.) Ah, Lucy, you must follow by yourself.
(Colonel takes off Mrs. Pinchbeck; Dorrison, Dora. At that moment, Bertie enters window, R., and runs to Lucy, kneels at her feet, and is about to kiss her hand. Mountraffe yawns, which frightens Bertie. He is running off as the drop falls quickly.)
End of Act I
Colonel. I’d always give my eyes to be alone with this girl for five minutes, and whenever I am alone with her, I haven’t a word to say for myself. (Aloud.) That music, Miss Thornhaugh?
Dora. (At piano.) Yes.
Col. (Aside.) As if it could be anything else. How stupid of me. (Aloud.) New music?
Dora. Yes.
Col. New laid—I mean, fresh from the country—fresh from London, or—yes—I—(Dora sits on music stool at piano. This scene is played with great constraint on both sides. Colonel bends over Dora at piano.) Going to play any of it now?
Dora. No. I must practise it first. I can’t play at sight.
Col. Can’t you really? Don’t you believe in—music—at first sight?
(Dora drops a music book. Colonel picks it up. Dora tries to pick it up. They knock their heads together; mutual confusion. As they rise, each has hold of the book.)
Dora. } I beg your pardon. (Both trembling.)
Col. }
Dora. It’s nothing.
Col. Nothing, quite so.
(Dora sits on music stool. As she does so, both leave hold of the book and it falls again.)
Dora. I thought you had the book.
Col. (Picking it up.) And I thought you had it, and it appears that neither of us had it. Ha! ha! (Aside.) Fool that I am! (Dora sits thoughtfully, Colonel bending over her; a pause.) Won’t you play something?
Dora. I don’t know how to play.
Col. Oh, well, play the other one. (They resume their attitudes; a pause.) The weather has been very warm today, has it not?
Dora. Very.
Col. Looks like thunder to me.
Dora. Does it?
Col. Are you fond of thunder—I mean fond of music? I should say are you fond of lightning? (Dora touches keys of piano mechanically.) Do play something.
Dora. No, I—I didn’t think of what I was doing. What were you talking about?
Col. About? You—me—no! About thunder—music—I mean lightning.
Dora. I’m afraid of lightning. (Act II.)9
The first scene of Act I of Romeo and Juliet is full of interesting physical action—quarrels, fighting, and the halting of the fight by the angry Prince. The physical action, however, characterizes in every instance, from the servants of the two factions to Tybalt, Benvolio, the Capulets, the Montagues, and the Prince. Moreover, this interesting physical action, which is all the more interesting because it characterizes, is interesting in the third place because in every instance it helps to an understanding of the story. It shows so intense an enmity between the two houses that even the servants cannot meet in the streets without quarreling. By its characterization it prepares for the parts Benvolio and Tybalt are to play in later scenes. It motivates the edict of banishment which is essential if the tragedy of the play is to occur.
SCENE 1. Verona. A public place
Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Capulet, with swords and bucklers
Sampson. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.
Gregory. No, for then we should be colliers.
Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.
Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.
Sam. I strike quickly, being mov’d.
Gre. But thou art not quickly mov’d to strike.
Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of Montague.
Enter two other serving-men. (Abraham and Balthasar.)
Sam. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel, I will back thee.
Gre. How! turn thy back and run?
Sam. Fear me not.
Gre. No, marry; I fear thee!
Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.
Gre. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.
Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them if they bare it.
Abraham. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir.
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. (Aside to Gre.) Is the law of our side, if I say ay?
Gre. No.
Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.
Gre. Do you quarrel, sir?
Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir.
Sam. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.
Abr. No better.
Sam. Well, sir.
Enter Benvolio.
Gre. Say “better”; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.
Sam. Yes, better, sir.
Abr. You lie.
Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. (They fight.)
Benvolio. Part, fools!
Put up your swords; you know not what you do. (Beats down their swords.)
Enter Tybalt
Tybalt. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.
Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Have at thee, coward! (They fight.)
Enter three or four citizens, and officers, with clubs or partisans
Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
Enter Capulet in his gown and Lady Capulet
Capulet. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
Lady Capulet. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?
Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
Enter Montague and Lady Montague
Montague. Thou villain, Capulet,—Hold me not, let me go.
Lady Montague. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
Enter Prince, with his train
Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—
Will they not hear?—What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona’s ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Cank’red with peace, to part your cank’red hate;
If ever you disturb our streets again
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away.
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgement place,
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
(Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio.)
Even physical action, then, may interest for itself, or because it characterizes, or because it helps on the story, or for two or more of these reasons.
If we examine other extracts from famous plays we shall, however, find ourselves wondering whether action in drama must not mean something besides mere physical action. In the opening scene of La Princesse Georges, by Dumas fils, the physical action is neither large in amount nor varied, but the scene is undeniably dramatic, for emotions represented create prompt emotional response in us.