Chapter II: The Technic of the One-Act Play (1)

Once the student satisfies himself as to the singleness of effect or theme of the play, he will do well to set himself to the task of seeing just how the dramatist has achieved this effect. He should keep in mind that the playwright is a skilled workman; that he has predetermined for himself just what he wishes his audience to think, feel, or understand, and has marshalled all his materials to that end. The way by which he accomplishes that end is his technic. Technic is but the practical method by which an artist can most effectively convey his message to his public. In a play the materials that the dramatist uses to this end are character, plot, dialogue, and stage direction. If he is skilled he will use these elements in such a way that the result will be an artistic whole, a singleness of effect, an organized unit that will exemplify and express his theme.

_A._ THE CHARACTERS IN THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Generally speaking, drama grows out of character. Farce, melodrama, and extravaganza usually consist of situation rather than of character. In any event, the student should avail himself of every means to understand the characters in the play under discussion. His real appreciation of the play will be in direct ratio almost to his understanding of the persons in the drama. Any attention given to this end will be energy well spent. The student should get into the very heart of the characters, as it were.

Thus, ADONIJAH, in Beulah Bornstead's _The Diabolical Circle_, is a narrow, self-centred, Puritan egotist who has little about his personality to appeal to the romantic and vivacious BETTY. LADY SIMS, in Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_, is a woman who really is pathetic in her longing for some human independence in the presence of her self-centred husband, "SIR" HARRY SIMS. And MANIKIN and MINIKIN, in Alfred Kreymborg's _Manikin and Minikin_, are conventionalized puppets representing the light yet half-serious bickerings, jealousies, and quarrellings of human nature.

The student will do well to characterize the _dramatis personæ_ deliberately and specifically. He should not now value himself for working fast; for things done in a hurry usually lack depth. He must not be content with vague and thin generalities. In analyzing a character it might be well to apply some specific questions similar to the following: Just what is the elemental human quality in the character? Loving? Trusting? Egotistic? Superstitious? Revengeful? Treacherous? Selfish? Discontented? Optimistic? Romantic? Or what? How does the dramatist characterize them: By action? By dialogue? By spirit of likes and dislikes? By racial trait? By religion? By peculiarity of manner, speech, appearance? Are the characters really dramatic: are they impelled to strong emotional reaction upon each other and upon situation? Do they provoke one's dramatic sympathy? Do they make one feel their own point of view and their own motives for conduct?

_B._ THE PLOT OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Plot and character are integrally interlinked. Plot is not merely story taken from every-day life, where seldom do events occur in a series of closely following minor crucial moments leading to a climax. The dramatist so constructs his material that there is a sequential and causal interplay of dramatic forces, ending in some major crisis or crucial moment. Plot may be said to be the framework and constructed story by which a dramatist exemplifies his theme. It does not exist for its own end, but is one of the fundamental means whereby the playwright gets his singleness of effect, or theme, to his reader or hearer. From the story material at his disposal the playwright constructs his plot to this very end.

Careful attention should be given to the plot. The student should question it carefully. Do the plot materials seem to have been taken from actual life? Or do they seem to be invented? Is the plot well suited to exemplifying the theme? Reconstruct the story out of which the plot may have been built. Since the plot of a one-act play is highly simplified, determine whether there are any complexities, any irrelevancies, any digressions. Does the plot have a well-defined beginning, middle, and end?

1. _The Beginning of the One-Act Play._--Having but a relatively short time at its disposal, usually about thirty minutes and seldom more than forty-five minutes, the beginning of a one-act play is very short. It is characterized by condensation, compactness, and brevity. Seldom is the beginning more than a half-page in length; often the play is got under way in two or three speeches. The student will do well to practise to the end that he will recognize instantly when the dramatic background of a one-act play has been laid.

Whatever else may characterize the beginning, it must be dramatically effective. Instantly it must catch the powers of perception by making them aware of the initial situation out of which the subsequent dramatic action will develop. A good beginning makes one _feel_ that suddenly he has come face to face with a situation which cannot be solved without an interplay of dramatic forces to a given final result.

Thus, when one reads Althea Thurston's _The Exchange_, one is made suddenly to feel that human beings are discontent with their shortcomings and possessed qualities, and that they always feel that they would be happier if they possessed something other than what they have. The JUDGE, who handles the cases as they come in for exchange, is disgusted with the vanities of humankind, and is ready to clear his hands of the whole matter. Here is a situation; it is the beginning of the play. In the beginning of Lady Gregory's _Hyacinth Halvey_ one is brought suddenly to the realization that HYACINTH HALVEY instinctively rebels against the highly colored and artificially created good name that has been unwittingly superimposed upon him. This situation, suddenly presented, is the beginning of the play. Out of this initial situation the subsequent dramatic action evolves.

Is the beginning too short? Too long? Does it make the initial dramatic situation clear? How has the playwright made it clear and effective? Just where is the end of the beginning? Although the beginning and the subsequent plot development are well blended together, so that there is no halting where the beginning ends, usually one can detect where the one ends and the other begins. It is a good idea, for the purpose of developing a sense of the organic structure of the one-act play, to draw a line across the page of the play, just where the one ends and the other begins.

The _setting_ of the play is a part of the beginning. Is the setting realistic? Romantic? Fantastic or bizarre? Are the details of stage design, properties, and especially the atmosphere and color scheme in harmony with the tone of the play itself? Is the setting really an organic part of the play or is it something apart from it? Note that the setting is usually written in the third person, present tense, and in italics.

2. _The Middle of the One-Act Play._--The middle of a one-act play is concerned primarily with the main crucial moment or climax and the dramatic movement that from the beginning leads up to it. A good play consists of a series of minor crises leading up to a major crisis or crucial moment. It is for this crucial moment that the play exists; it is for this big scene precisely that the play has been written. Indeed, the play succeeds or fails as the crucial moment is strongly dramatic or flabbily weak. This is the part of the play that is strongest in dramatic tension, strongest in emotional functioning.

A study of Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_ shows that the crucial moment comes at the point where "SIR" HARRY SIMS in his self-centred egotism discovers that his wife's, LADY SIMS'S, heart-longing could easily be satisfied if she were permitted no other freedom than merely operating a typewriter. In Althea Thurston's _The Exchange_ the crucial moment comes when the several characters, who unwittingly had exchanged one ill for a worse one, find that they can never re-exchange, and that they must endure the torments and displeasure of the newly acquired ill throughout life.

Just where is the crucial moment or climax in the play under consideration? Determine the several minor crises that lead up to the crucial moment. Is the crucial moment delayed too long for good dramatic effect? Or is it reached too soon, so that the play is too short and too sudden in reaching the climax? Does it make one _feel_ that some vital result has been attained in the plot movement? Is it characterized by strong situation and by strong emotional reactions of character on character or of character on situation?

For purposes of impressing a sense the organic structure of a one-act play, it is a good plan to draw a horizontal line across the page at the close of the crucial moment. Keep in mind, however, that the crucial moment is _not_ the end of the play as it appears on the printed page or as it is acted on the stage.

3. _The End of the One-Act Play._--The end of the one-act play is an important consideration. Too often it is entirely lost sight of. It is the part that frequently makes or mars a play. When the crucial moment or climax has been reached, the plot action of the play is completed, but the play is not yet completed. The play needs yet to be rounded out into an artistic and dramatic whole. In life the actual crisis in human affairs is not often our chiefest interest, but the reaction of characters immediately _after_ the crisis has occurred. Thus, in a play, the emotional reaction of the characters on the crucial moment and the more or less sudden readjustment between characters after the crucial moment must be presented. For this very purpose the end of the one-act play is constructed. The end is of need very short--usually even shorter than the beginning. Usually the end consists of but a speech or two, or sometimes only of pantomime that more effectively expresses the emotional reactions of the characters on the crucial moment than dialogue.

Thus, in Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_, the end consists of but pantomime, in which "SIR" HARRY expresses his emotional reaction upon his wife's longing for the human liberty that even the operating of a typewriter would provide her. The end of Bosworth Crocker's _The Last Straw_ comes immediately after the pistol-shot is heard in the adjoining room and MRS. BAUER'S voice is heard: "Fritz! Fritz! Speak to me! Look at me, Fritz! You didn't do it, Fritz! I know you didn't do it!" etc.

Is the end of the play under consideration in terms of dialogue? In pantomime? Or both? Is it too long? Too short? Is it dramatic? Is it conclusive and satisfying?

_C._ DIALOGUE OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Dialogue, like plot and characterization, is another means whereby the theme of the play is got to the reader or audience. Good dramatic dialogue is constructed to this very end. It is not the commonplace, rambling, uncertain, and realistic question and answer of every-day life. Usually good dramatic dialogue is crisp, direct, condensed. It is the substance but not the form of ordinary conversation. Its chiefest characteristic is spontaneity.

_The highest type of dramatic dialogue is that which expresses the ideas and emotions of characters at the points of highest emotional functioning._ It will readily be seen, then, that not all dialogue in a play is necessarily dramatic. In truth, the best dramatic dialogue occurs in conjunction with the series of minor crises and the crucial moment that go to make up the dramatic movement of the play. Often there is much dialogue in a play that essentially is not dramatic at all.

In analyzing dramatic dialogue it is well to inquire whether in the play it serves (1) to express the ideas and emotions of characters at points of highest emotional functioning, (2) to advance the plot, (3) to reveal character, or (4) what. Is it brief, clear, direct, spontaneous? Or is it careless, loose, insipid? Wit, repartee? Didactic, moralizing? Satirical, cynical?

_D._ STAGE-BUSINESS AND STAGE-DIRECTION IN THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--The stage-business and stage-direction, usually printed in italics, of a play are an essential part of a drama. They must not be ignored in either reading or staging a play. The novel or short story generally uses narration and description to achieve its desired result; a play, on the contrary, uses dialogue and concrete objective pantomime that may be seen readily with the eye. A play is not a story narrated in chronological order of events, but it is a story so handled and so constructed that it can be acted on a stage by actors before an audience. It is a series of minor crises leading to a major crisis, presented to a reader or to an audience by characters, dialogue, and stage-business and pantomime. For purposes of indicating the pantomimic action of the play, the dramatist resorts to stage-business and stage-direction.

Does the stage-direction aid in making (1) the dialogue, (2) the plot, (3) the dramatic action, or (4) the character more clear? Does it shorten the play? Does it express idea, emotion, or situations more effectively than could dialogue, if it were used?

And, finally, do not judge any play until all the evidence is in, until you have thoroughly mastered every detail and have fully conceived the _author's idea_ and _purpose_. It is not a question whether _you_ would have selected such a theme or whether _you_ would have handled it in the same way in which the author did; but the point is does the _author_ in _his_ way make _his_ theme clear to you. The author has conceived a dramatic problem in his _own mind_ and has set it forth in _his own way_. The question is, does he make you see his result and his method?

Do you like the play? Or do you not like it? State your reason in either case. Is it because of the author? Is it because of the theme? Is it because of the technic--the way he gets his intent to his reader or audience? Is it because of your own likes or dislikes; preconceived notions or prejudices? Is it because of the acting? Of the staging or setting? Does it uplift or depress? Does it provoke you to emotional functioning?

"Though old the thought and oft expressed,
'Tis his at last who says it best."

THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK

BY

SIR JAMES M. BARRIE

_The Twelve-Pound Look_ is reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, the publisher in America of the works of Sir James M. Barrie. For permission to perform, address the publisher.

SIR JAMES M. BARRIE

Sir James M. Barrie is rated as the foremost English dramatist of the day; and his plays, taken together, make the most significant contribution to English drama since Sheridan. Practically his entire life has been given to the writing of novels and plays, many of the latter having their heroines conceived especially for Maude Adams, one of America's greatest actresses. He was born in Kirriemuir, Scotland, in 1860. He received his education at Dumfries and Edinburgh University. His first work in journalism and letters was done at Nottingham, but soon he took up his work in London, where he now resides.

Sir James M. Barrie's literary labors have been very fruitful. His _The Professor's Love Story_, _The Little Minister_, _Quality Street_, _The Admirable Crichton_, _Peter Pan_, _What Every Woman Knows_, and _Alice Sit-by-the-Fire_ are well known to every one.

In 1914 there appeared a volume of one-act plays, _Half Hours_, the most important of which is _The Twelve-Pound Look_. And in 1918 appeared a volume, _Echoes of the War_, the most important one-act play therein being _The Old Lady Shows Her Medals_.

Barrie is a great playwright because he is so thoroughly human. All the little whimsicalities, sentiments, little loves, and heart-longings of human beings are ever present in his plays. He is no reformer, no propagandist. He appeals to the emotions rather than to the intellect. He continues the romantic tradition in English drama and gives us plays that are wholesome, tender, and human. And with all this, he has the added saving grace of a most absorbing humor.

While Barrie is not a devotee of the well-made play, his _The Twelve-Pound Look_ is one of the most nearly perfect one-act plays of contemporary drama. His interest in human personalities is not more manifest in any of his plays than in LADY SIMS and "SIR" HARRY SIMS in this play.

CHARACTERS

"SIR" HARRY SIMS
LADY SIMS
KATE
TOMBES

THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK[A]

_If quite convenient (as they say about checks) you are to conceive
that the scene is laid in your own house, and that_ HARRY SIMS _is
you. Perhaps the ornamentation of the house is a trifle
ostentatious, but if you cavil at that we are willing to
redecorate: you don't get out of being_ HARRY SIMS _on a mere
matter of plush and dados. It pleases us to make him a city man,
but (rather than lose you) he can be turned with a scrape of the
pen into a K.C., fashionable doctor, Secretary of State, or what
you will. We conceive him of a pleasant rotundity with a thick red
neck, but we shall waive that point if you know him to be thin._

_It is that day in your career when everything went wrong just when
everything seemed to be superlatively right._

_In_ HARRY'S _case it was a woman who did the mischief. She came to
him in his great hour and told him she did not admire him. Of
course he turned her out of the house and was soon himself again,
but it spoiled the morning for him. This is the subject of the
play, and quite enough too._

HARRY _is to receive the honor of knighthood in a few days, and we
discover him in the sumptuous "snuggery" of his home in Kensington
(or is it Westminster?), rehearsing the ceremony with his wife.
They have been at it all the morning, a pleasing occupation._ MRS.
SIMS _(as we may call her for the last time, as it were, and
strictly as a good-natured joke) is wearing her presentation gown,
and personates the august one who is about to dub her_ HARRY
_knight. She is seated regally. Her jewelled shoulders proclaim
aloud her husband's generosity. She must be an extraordinarily
proud and happy woman, yet she has a drawn face and shrinking ways,
as if there were some one near her of whom she is afraid. She claps
her hands, as the signal to_ HARRY. _He enters bowing, and with a
graceful swerve of the leg. He is only partly in costume, the sword
and the real stockings not having arrived yet. With a gliding
motion that is only delayed while one leg makes up on the other, he
reaches his wife, and, going on one knee, raises her hand superbly
to his lips. She taps him on the shoulder with a paper-knife and
says huskily: "Rise, Sir Harry." He rises, bows, and glides about
the room, going on his knees to various articles of furniture, and
rises from each a knight. It is a radiant domestic scene, and_
HARRY _is as dignified as if he knew that royalty was rehearsing it
at the other end_.

SIR HARRY. [_Complacently._] Did that seem all right, eh?

LADY SIMS. [_Much relieved._] I think perfect.

SIR HARRY. But was it dignified?

LADY SIMS. Oh, very. And it will be still more so when you have the sword.

SIR HARRY. The sword will lend it an air. There are really the five moments--[_suiting the action to the word_]--the glide--the dip--the kiss--the tap--and you back out a knight. It's short, but it's a very beautiful ceremony. [_Kindly._] Anything you can suggest?

LADY SIMS. No--oh, no. [_Nervously, seeing him pause to kiss the tassel of a cushion._] You don't think you have practised till you know what to do almost too well?

[_He has been in a blissful temper, but such niggling criticism
would try any man._

SIR HARRY. I do not. Don't talk nonsense. Wait till your opinion is asked for.

LADY SIMS. [_Abashed._] I'm sorry, Harry. [_A perfect butler appears and presents a card._] "The Flora Typewriting Agency."

SIR HARRY. Ah, yes. I telephoned them to send some one. A woman, I suppose, Tombes?

TOMBES. Yes, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Show her in here. [_He has very lately become a stickler for etiquette._] And, Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I am not Sir Harry till Thursday.

TOMBES. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a satisfaction to us.

SIR HARRY. [_Good-naturedly._] Ah, they like it down-stairs, do they?

TOMBES. [_Unbending._] Especially the females, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Exactly. You can show her in, Tombes. [_The butler departs on his mighty task._] You can tell the woman what she is wanted for, Emmy, while I change. [_He is too modest to boast about himself, and prefers to keep a wife in the house for that purpose._] You can tell her the sort of things about me that will come better from you. [_Smiling happily._] You heard what Tombes said: "Especially the females." And he is right. Success! The women like it even better than the men. And rightly. For they share. _You_ share, _Lady_ Sims. Not a woman will see that gown without being sick with envy of it. I know them. Have all our lady friends in to see it. It will make them ill for a week.

[_These sentiments carry him off light-heartedly, and presently the
disturbing element is shown in. She is a mere typist, dressed in
uncommonly good taste, but at contemptibly small expense, and she
is carrying her typewriter in a friendly way rather than as a badge
of slavery, as of course it is. Her eye is clear; and in odd
contrast to_ LADY SIMS, _she is self-reliant and serene_.

KATE. [_Respectfully, but she should have waited to be spoken to._] Good morning, madam.

LADY SIMS. [_In her nervous way, and scarcely noticing that the typist is a little too ready with her tongue._] Good morning. [_As a first impression she rather likes the woman, and the woman, though it is scarcely worth mentioning, rather likes her._ LADY SIMS _has a maid for buttoning and unbuttoning her, and probably another for waiting on the maid, and she gazes with a little envy perhaps at a woman who does things for herself_.] Is that the typewriting machine?

KATE. [_Who is getting it ready for use._] Yes. [_Not "Yes, madam" as it ought to be._] I suppose if I am to work here I may take this off. I get on better without it. [_She is referring to her hat._

LADY SIMS. Certainly. [_But the hat is already off._] I ought to apologize for my gown. I am to be presented this week, and I was trying it on.

[_Her tone is not really apologetic. She is rather clinging to the
glory of her gown, wistfully, as if not absolutely certain, you
know, that it is a glory._

KATE. It is beautiful, if I may presume to say so.

[_She frankly admires it. She probably has a best and a second best
of her own; that sort of thing._

LADY SIMS. [_With a flush of pride in the gown._] Yes, it is very beautiful. [_The beauty of it gives her courage._] Sit down, please.

KATE. [_The sort of woman who would have sat down in any case._] I suppose it is some copying you want done? I got no particulars. I was told to come to this address, but that was all.

LADY SIMS. [_Almost with the humility of a servant._] Oh, it is not work for me, it is for my husband, and what he needs is not exactly copying. [_Swelling, for she is proud of_ HARRY.] He wants a number of letters answered--hundreds of them--letters and telegrams of congratulation.

KATE. [_As if it were all in the day's work._] Yes?

LADY SIMS. [_Remembering that_ HARRY _expects every wife to do her duty_.] My husband is a remarkable man. He is about to be knighted. [_Pause, but_ KATE _does not fall to the floor_.] He is to be knighted for his services to--[_on reflection_]--for his services. [_She is conscious that she is not doing_ HARRY _justice_.] He can explain it so much better than I can.

KATE. [_In her businesslike way._] And I am to answer the congratulations?

LADY SIMS. [_Afraid that it will be a hard task._] Yes.

KATE. [_Blithely_] It is work I have had some experience of. [_She proceeds to type._

LADY SIMS. But you can't begin till you know what he wants to say.

KATE. Only a specimen letter. Won't it be the usual thing?

LADY SIMS. [_To whom this is a new idea._] Is there a usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

[_She continues to type, and_ LADY SIMS, _half-mesmerized, gazes at
her nimble fingers. The useless woman watches the useful one, and
she sighs, she could not tell why._

LADY SIMS. How quickly you do it! It must be delightful to be able to do something, and to do it well.

KATE. [_Thankfully._] Yes, it is delightful.

LADY SIMS [_Again remembering the source of all her greatness._] But, excuse me, I don't think that will be any use. My husband wants me to explain to you that his is an exceptional case. He did not try to get this honor in any way. It was a complete surprise to him----

KATE. [_Who is a practical_ KATE _and no dealer in sarcasm_.] That is what I have written.

LADY SIMS. [_In whom sarcasm would meet a dead wall._] But how could you know?

KATE. I only guessed.

LADY SIMS. Is that the usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

LADY SIMS. They don't try to get it?

KATE. I don't know. That is what we are told to say in the letters.

[_To her at present the only important thing about the letters is
that they are ten shillings the hundred._

LADY SIMS. [_Returning to surer ground._] I should explain that my husband is not a man who cares for honors. So long as he does his duty----

KATE. Yes, I have been putting that in.

LADY SIMS. Have you? But he particularly wants it to be known that he would have declined a title were it not----

KATE. I have got it here.

LADY SIMS. What have you got?

KATE. [_Reading._] "Indeed, I would have asked to be allowed to decline had it not been that I want to please my wife."

LADY SIMS. [_Heavily._] But how could you know it was that?

KATE. Is it?

LADY SIMS. [_Who, after all, is the one with the right to ask questions._] Do they all accept it for that reason?

KATE. That is what we are told to say in the letters.

LADY SIMS. [_Thoughtlessly._] It is quite as if you knew my husband.

KATE. I assure you, I don't even know his name.

LADY SIMS. [_Suddenly showing that she knows him._] Oh, he wouldn't like that!

[_And it is here that_ HARRY _re-enters in his city garments,
looking so gay, feeling so jolly, that we bleed for him. However,
the annoying_ KATHERINE _is to get a shock also_.

LADY SIMS. This is the lady, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Shooting his cuffs._] Yes, yes. Good morning, my dear.

[_Then they see each other, and their mouths open, but not for
words. After the first surprise_ KATE _seems to find some humor in
the situation, but_ HARRY _lowers like a thunder-cloud_.

LADY SIMS. [_Who has seen nothing._] I have been trying to explain to her----

SIR HARRY. Eh--what? [_He controls himself._] Leave it to me, Emmy; I'll attend to her.

[LADY SIMS _goes, with a dread fear that somehow she has vexed her
lord, and then_ HARRY _attends to the intruder_.

SIR HARRY. [_With concentrated scorn._] You!

KATE. [_As if agreeing with him._] Yes, it's funny.

SIR HARRY. The shamelessness of your daring to come here.

KATE. Believe me, it is not less a surprise to me than it is to you. I was sent here in the ordinary way of business. I was given only the number of the house. I was not told the name.

SIR HARRY. [_Withering her._] The ordinary way of business! This is what you have fallen to--a typist!

KATE. [_Unwithered._] Think of it!

SIR HARRY. After going through worse straits, I'll be bound.

KATE. [_With some grim memories._] Much worse straits.

SIR HARRY. [_Alas, laughing coarsely._] My congratulations!

KATE. Thank you, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Who is annoyed, as any man would be, not to find her abject._] Eh? What was that you called me, madam?

KATE. Isn't it Harry? On my soul, I almost forget.

SIR HARRY. It isn't Harry to you. My name is Sims, if you please.

KATE. Yes, I had not forgotten that. It was my name, too, you see.

SIR HARRY. [_In his best manner._] It was your name till you forfeited the right to bear it.

KATE. Exactly.

SIR HARRY. [_Gloating._] I was furious to find you here, but on second thoughts it pleases me. [_From the depths of his moral nature._] There is a grim justice in this.

KATE. [_Sympathetically._] Tell me?

SIR HARRY. Do you know what you were brought here to do?

KATE. I have just been learning. You have been made a knight, and I was summoned to answer the messages of congratulation.

SIR HARRY. That's it, that's it. You come on this day as my servant!

KATE. I, who might have been Lady Sims.

SIR HARRY. And you are her typist instead. And she has four men-servants. Oh, I am glad you saw her in her presentation gown.

KATE. I wonder if she would let me do her washing, Sir Harry? [_Her want of taste disgusts him._

SIR HARRY. [_With dignity._] You can go. The mere thought that only a few flights of stairs separates such as you from my innocent children----

[_He will never know why a new light has come into her face._

KATE. [_Slowly._] You have children?

SIR HARRY. [_Inflated._] Two. [_He wonders why she is so long in answering._

KATE. [_Resorting to impertinence._] Such a nice number.

SIR HARRY. [_With an extra turn of the screw._] Both boys.

KATE. Successful in everything. Are they like you, Sir Harry?

SIR HARRY. [_Expanding._] They are very like me.

KATE. That's nice. [_Even on such a subject as this she can be ribald._

SIR HARRY. Will you please to go.

KATE. Heigho! What shall I say to my employer?

SIR HARRY. That is no affair of mine.

KATE. What will you say to Lady Sims?

SIR HARRY. I flatter myself that whatever I say, Lady Sims will accept without comment.

[_She smiles, heaven knows why, unless her next remark explains
it._

KATE. Still the same Harry.

SIR HARRY. What do you mean?

KATE. Only that you have the old confidence in your profound knowledge of the sex.

SIR HARRY. [_Beginning to think as little of her intellect as of her morals._] I suppose I know my wife.

KATE. [_Hopelessly dense._] I suppose so. I was only remembering that you used to think you knew her in the days when I was the lady. [_He is merely wasting his time on her, and he indicates the door. She is not sufficiently the lady to retire worsted._] Well, good-by, Sir Harry. Won't you ring, and the four men-servants will show me out? [_But he hesitates._

SIR HARRY. [_In spite of himself._] As you are here, there is something I want to get out of you. [_Wishing he could ask it less eagerly._] Tell me, who was the man?

[_The strange woman--it is evident now that she has always been
strange to him--smiles tolerantly._

KATE. You never found out?

SIR HARRY. I could never be sure.

KATE. [_Reflectively._] I thought that would worry you.

SIR HARRY. [_Sneering._] It's plain that he soon left you.

KATE. Very soon.

SIR HARRY. As I could have told you. [_But still she surveys him with the smile of Mona Lisa. The badgered man has to entreat._] Who was he? It was fourteen years ago, and cannot matter to any of us now. Kate, tell me who he was?

[_It is his first youthful moment, and perhaps because of that she
does not wish to hurt him._

KATE. [_Shaking a motherly head._] Better not ask.

SIR HARRY. I do ask. Tell me.

KATE. It is kinder not to tell you.

SIR HARRY. [_Violently._] Then, by James, it was one of my own pals. Was it Bernard Roche? [_She shakes her head._] It may have been some one who comes to my house still.

KATE. I think not. [_Reflecting._] Fourteen years! You found my letter that night when you went home?

SIR HARRY. [_Impatient._] Yes.

KATE. I propped it against the decanters. I thought you would be sure to see it there. It was a room not unlike this, and the furniture was arranged in the same attractive way. How it all comes back to me. Don't you see me, Harry, in hat and cloak, putting the letter there, taking a last look round, and then stealing out into the night to meet----

SIR HARRY. Whom?

KATE. Him. Hours pass, no sound in the room but the tick-tack of the clock, and then about midnight you return alone. You take----

SIR HARRY. [_Gruffly._] I wasn't alone.

KATE. [_The picture spoiled._] No? Oh. [_Plaintively._] Here have I all these years been conceiving it wrongly. [_She studies his face._] I believe something interesting happened.

SIR HARRY. [_Growling._] Something confoundedly annoying.

KATE. [_Coaxing._] Do tell me.

SIR HARRY. We won't go into that. Who was the man? Surely a husband has a right to know with whom his wife bolted.

KATE. [_Who is detestably ready with her tongue._] Surely the wife has a right to know how he took it. [_The woman's love of bargaining comes to her aid._] A fair exchange. You tell me what happened, and I will tell you who he was.

SIR HARRY. You will? Very well.

[_It is the first point on which they have agreed, and, forgetting
himself, he takes a place beside her on the fire-seat. He is
thinking only of what he is to tell her, but she, womanlike, is
conscious of their proximity._

KATE. [_Tastelessly._] Quite like old times. [_He moves away from her indignantly._] Go on, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Who has a manful shrinking from saying anything that is to his disadvantage._] Well, as you know, I was dining at the club that night.

KATE. Yes.

SIR HARRY. Jack Lamb drove me home. Mabbett Green was with us, and I asked them to come in for a few minutes.

KATE. Jack Lamb, Mabbett Green? I think I remember them. Jack was in Parliament.

SIR HARRY. No, that was Mabbett. They came into the house with me and--[_with sudden horror_]--was it him?

KATE. [_Bewildered._] Who?

SIR HARRY. Mabbett?

KATE. What?

SIR HARRY. The man?

KATE. What man? [_Understanding._] Oh, no. I thought you said he came into the house with you.

SIR HARRY. It might have been a blind.

KATE. Well, it wasn't. Go on.

SIR HARRY. They came in to finish a talk we had been having at the club.

KATE. An interesting talk, evidently.

SIR HARRY. The papers had been full that evening of the elopement of some countess woman with a fiddler. What was her name?

KATE. Does it matter?

SIR HARRY. No. [_Thus ends the countess._] We had been discussing the thing and--[_he pulls a wry face_]--and I had been rather warm----

KATE. [_With horrid relish._] I begin to see. You had been saying it served the husband right, that the man who could not look after his wife deserved to lose her. It was one of your favorite subjects. Oh, Harry, say it was that!

SIR HARRY. [_Sourly._] It may have been something like that.

KATE. And all the time the letter was there, waiting; and none of you knew except the clock. Harry, it is sweet of you to tell me. [_His face is not sweet. The illiterate woman has used the wrong adjective._] I forget what I said precisely in the letter.

SIR HARRY. [_Pulverizing her._] So do I. But I have it still.

KATE. [_Not pulverized._] Do let me see it again.

[_She has observed his eye wandering to the desk._

SIR HARRY. You are welcome to it as a gift.

[_The fateful letter, a poor little dead thing, is brought to light
from a locked drawer._

KATE. [_Taking it._] Yes, this is it. Harry, how you did crumple it! [_She reads, not without curiosity._] "Dear husband--I call you that for the last time--I am off. I am what you call making a bolt of it. I won't try to excuse myself nor to explain, for you would not accept the excuses nor understand the explanation. It will be a little shock to you, but only to your pride; what will astound you is that any woman could be such a fool as to leave such a man as you. I am taking nothing with me that belongs to you. May you be very happy.--Your ungrateful KATE. _P.S._--You need not try to find out who he is. You will try, but you won't succeed." [_She folds the nasty little thing up._] I may really have it for my very own?

SIR HARRY. You really may.

KATE. [_Impudently._] If you would care for a typed copy----?

SIR HARRY. [_In a voice with which he used to frighten his grandmother_.] None of your sauce! [_Wincing._] I had to let them see it in the end.

KATE. I can picture Jack Lamb eating it.

SIR HARRY. A penniless parson's daughter.

KATE. That is all I was.

SIR HARRY. We searched for the two of you high and low.

KATE. Private detectives?

SIR HARRY. They couldn't get on the track of you.

KATE. [_Smiling._] No?

SIR HARRY. But at last the courts let me serve the papers by advertisement on a man unknown, and I got my freedom.

KATE. So I saw. It was the last I heard of you.

SIR HARRY. [_Each word a blow for her._] And I married again just as soon as ever I could.

KATE. They say that is always a compliment to the first wife.

SIR HARRY. [_Violently._] I showed them.

KATE. You soon let them see that if one woman was a fool, you still had the pick of the basket to choose from.

SIR HARRY. By James, I did.

KATE. [_Bringing him to earth again._] But still, you wondered who he was.

SIR HARRY. I suspected everybody--even my pals. I felt like jumping at their throats and crying: "It's you!"

KATE. You had been so admirable to me, an instinct told you that I was sure to choose another of the same.

SIR HARRY. I thought, it can't be money, so it must be looks. Some dolly face. [_He stares at her in perplexity._] He must have had something wonderful about him to make you willing to give up all that you had with me.

KATE. [_As if he was the stupid one._] Poor Harry.

SIR HARRY. And it couldn't have been going on for long, for I would have noticed the change in you.

KATE. Would you?

SIR HARRY. I knew you so well.

KATE. You amazing man.

SIR HARRY. So who was he? Out with it.

KATE. You are determined to know?

SIR HARRY. Your promise. You gave your word.

KATE. If I must--[_She is the villain of the piece, but it must be conceded that in this matter she is reluctant to pain him._] I am sorry I promised. [_Looking at him steadily._] There was no one, Harry; no one at all.

SIR HARRY.. [_Rising._] If you think you can play with me----

KATE. I told you that you wouldn't like it.

SIR HARRY. [_Rasping._] It is unbelievable.

KATE. I suppose it is; but it is true.

SIR HARRY. Your letter itself gives you the lie.

KATE. That was intentional. I saw that if the truth were known you might have a difficulty in getting your freedom; and as I was getting mine it seemed fair that you should have yours also. So I wrote my good-by in words that would be taken to mean what you thought they meant, and I knew the law would back you in your opinion. For the law, like you, Harry, has a profound understanding of women.

SIR HARRY. [_Trying to straighten, himself._] I don't believe you yet.

KATE. [_Looking not unkindly into the soul of this man._] Perhaps that is the best way to take it. It is less unflattering than the truth. But you were the only one. [_Summing up her life._] You sufficed.

SIR HARRY. Then what mad impulse----

KATE. It was no impulse, Harry. I had thought it out for a year.

SIR HARRY. A year? [_Dazed._] One would think to hear you that I hadn't been a good husband to you.

KATE. [_With a sad smile._] You were a good husband according to your lights.

SIR HARRY. [_Stoutly._] _I_ think so.

KATE. And a moral man, and chatty, and quite the philanthropist.

SIR HARRY. [_On sure ground._] All women envied you.

KATE. How you loved me to be envied.

SIR HARRY. I swaddled you in luxury.

KATE. [_Making her great revelation._] That was it.

SIR HARRY. [_Blankly._] What?

KATE. [_Who can be serene because it is all over._] How you beamed at me when I sat at the head of your fat dinners in my fat jewelry, surrounded by our fat friends.

SIR HARRY. [_Aggrieved._] They weren't so fat.

KATE. [_A side issue._] All except those who were so thin. Have you ever noticed, Harry, that many jewels make women either incredibly fat or incredibly thin?

SIR HARRY. [_Shouting._] I have not. [_Is it worth while to argue with her any longer?_] We had all the most interesting society of the day. It wasn't only business men. There were politicians, painters, writers----

KATE. Only the glorious, dazzling successes. Oh, the fat talk while we ate too much--about who had made a hit and who was slipping back, and what the noo house cost and the noo motor and the gold soup-plates, and who was to be the noo knight.

SIR HARRY. [_Who it will be observed is unanswerable from first to last._] Was anybody getting on better than me, and consequently you?

KATE. Consequently me! Oh, Harry, you and your sublime religion.

SIR HARRY. [_Honest heart._] My religion? I never was one to talk about religion, but----

KATE. Pooh, Harry, you don't even know what your religion was and is and will be till the day of your expensive funeral. [_And here is the lesson that life has taught her._] One's religion is whatever he is most interested in, and yours is Success.

SIR HARRY. [_Quoting from his morning paper._] Ambition--it is the last infirmity of noble minds.

KATE. Noble minds!

SIR HARRY. [_At last grasping what she is talking about._] You are not saying that you left me because of my success?

KATE. Yes, that was it. [_And now she stands revealed to him._] I couldn't endure it. If a failure had come now and then--but your success was suffocating me. [_She is rigid with emotion._] The passionate craving I had to be done with it, to find myself among people who had not got on.

SIR HARRY. [_With proper spirit._] There are plenty of them.

KATE. There were none in our set. When they began to go down-hill they rolled out of our sight.

SIR HARRY. [_Clenching it._] I tell you I am worth a quarter of a million.

KATE [_Unabashed._] That is what you are worth to yourself. I'll tell you what you are worth to me: exactly twelve pounds. For I made up my mind that I could launch myself on the world alone if I first proved my mettle by earning twelve pounds; and as soon as I had earned it I left you.

SIR HARRY. [_In the scales._] Twelve pounds!

KATE. That is your value to a woman. If she can't make it she has to stick to you.

SIR HARRY. [_Remembering perhaps a rectory garden._] You valued me at more than that when you married me.

KATE. [_Seeing it also._] Ah, I didn't know you then. If only you had been a man, Harry.

SIR HARRY. A man? What do you mean by a man?

KATE. [_Leaving the garden._] Haven't you heard of them? They are something fine; and every woman is loath to admit to herself that her husband is not one. When she marries, even though she has been a very trivial person, there is in her some vague stirring toward a worthy life, as well as a fear of her capacity for evil. She knows her chance lies in him. If there is something good in him, what is good in her finds it, and they join forces against the baser parts. So I didn't give you up willingly, Harry. I invented all sorts of theories to explain you. Your hardness--I said it was a fine want of mawkishness. Your coarseness--I said it goes with strength. Your contempt for the weak--I called it virility. Your want of ideals was clear-sightedness. Your ignoble views of women--I tried to think them funny. Oh, I clung to you to save myself. But I had to let go; you had only the one quality, Harry, success; you had it so strong that it swallowed all the others.

SIR HARRY. [_Not to be diverted from the main issue._] How did you earn that twelve pounds?

KATE. It took me nearly six months; but I earned it fairly. [_She presses her hand on the typewriter as lovingly as many a woman has pressed a rose._] I learned this. I hired it and taught myself. I got some work through a friend, and with my first twelve pounds I paid for my machine. Then I considered that I was free to go, and I went.

SIR HARRY. All this going on in my house while you were living in the lap of luxury! [_She nods._] By God, you were determined.

KATE. [_Briefly._] By God, I was.

SIR HARRY. [_Staring._] How you must have hated me.

KATE. [_Smiling at the childish word._] Not a bit--after I saw that there was a way out. From that hour you amused me, Harry; I was even sorry for you, for I saw that you couldn't help yourself. Success is just a fatal gift.

SIR HARRY. Oh, thank you.

KATE. [_Thinking, dear friends in front, of you and me perhaps._] Yes, and some of your most successful friends knew it. One or two of them used to look very sad at times, as if they thought they might have come to something if they hadn't got on.

SIR HARRY. [_Who has a horror of sacrilege._] The battered crew you live among now--what are they but folk who have tried to succeed and failed?

KATE. That's it; they try, but they fail.

SIR HARRY. And always will fail.

KATE. Always. Poor souls--I say of them. Poor soul--they say of me. It keeps us human. That is why I never tire of them.

SIR HARRY. [_Comprehensively._] Bah! Kate, I tell you I'll be worth half a million yet.

KATE. I'm sure you will. You're getting stout, Harry.

SIR HARRY. No, I'm not.

KATE. What was the name of that fat old fellow who used to fall asleep at our dinner-parties?

SIR HARRY. If you mean Sir William Crackley----

KATE. That was the man. Sir William was to me a perfect picture of the grand success. He had got on so well that he was very, very stout, and when he sat on a chair it was thus [_her hands meeting in front of her_]--as if he were holding his success together. That is what you are working for, Harry. You will have that and the half million about the same time.

SIR HARRY. [_Who has surely been very patient._] Will you please to leave my house?

KATE. [_Putting on her gloves, soiled things._] But don't let us part in anger. How do you think I am looking, Harry, compared to the dull, inert thing that used to roll round in your padded carriages?

SIR HARRY. [_In masterly fashion._] I forget what you were like. I'm very sure you never could have held a candle to the present Lady Sims.

KATE. That is a picture of her, is it not?

SIR HARRY. [_Seizing his chance again._] In her wedding-gown. Painted by an R.A.

KATE. [_Wickedly._] A knight?

SIR HARRY. [_Deceived._] Yes.

KATE. [_Who likes_ LADY SIMS--_a piece of presumption on her part_.] It is a very pretty face.

SIR HARRY. [_With the pride of possession._] Acknowledged to be a beauty everywhere.

KATE. There is a merry look in the eyes, and character in the chin.

SIR HARRY. [_Like an auctioneer._] Noted for her wit.

KATE. All her life before her when that was painted. It is a _spirituelle_ face too. [_Suddenly she turns on him with anger, for the first and only time in the play._] Oh, Harry, you brute!

SIR HARRY. [_Staggered._] Eh? What?

KATE. That dear creature, capable of becoming a noble wife and mother--she is the spiritless woman of no account that I saw here a few minutes ago. I forgive you for myself, for I escaped, but that poor lost soul, oh, Harry, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Waving her to the door._] I'll thank you--If ever there was a woman proud of her husband and happy in her married life, that woman is Lady Sims.

KATE. I wonder.

SIR HARRY. Then you needn't wonder.

KATE. [_Slowly._] If I was a husband--it is my advice to all of them--I would often watch my wife quietly to see whether the twelve-pound look was not coming into her eyes. Two boys, did you say, and both like you?

SIR HARRY. What is that to you?

KATE. [_With glistening eyes_.] I was only thinking that somewhere there are two little girls who, when they grow up--the dear, pretty girls who are all meant for the men that don't get on! Well, good-by, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Showing a little human weakness, it is to be feared._] Say first that you're sorry.

KATE. For what?

SIR HARRY. That you left me. Say you regret it bitterly. You know you do. [_She smiles and shakes her head. He is pettish. He makes a terrible announcement._] You have spoiled the day for me.

KATE. [_To hearten him._] I am sorry for that; but it is only a pin-prick, Harry. I suppose it is a little jarring in the moment of your triumph to find that there is--one old friend--who does not think you a success; but you will soon forget it. Who cares what a typist thinks?

SIR HARRY. [_Heartened._] Nobody. A typist at eighteen shillings a week!

KATE. [_Proudly._] Not a bit of it, Harry. I double that.

SIR HARRY. [_Neatly._] Magnificent!

[_There is a timid knock at the door._]

LADY SIMS. May I come in?

SIR HARRY. [_Rather appealingly._] It is Lady Sims.

KATE. I won't tell. She is afraid to come into her husband's room without knocking!

SIR HARRY. She is not. [_Uxoriously._] Come in, dearest.

[_Dearest enters, carrying the sword. She might have had the sense
not to bring it in while this annoying person is here._

LADY SIMS. [_Thinking she has brought her welcome with her._] Harry, the sword has come.

SIR HARRY. [_Who will dote on it presently._] Oh, all right.

LADY SIMS. But I thought you were so eager to practise with it.

[_The person smiles at this. He wishes he had not looked to see if
she was smiling._

SIR HARRY. [_Sharply._] Put it down.

[LADY SIMS _flushes a little as she lays the sword aside_.

KATE. [_With her confounded courtesy._] It is a beautiful sword, if I may say so.

LADY SIMS. [_Helped._] Yes.

[_The person thinks she can put him in the wrong, does she? He'll
show her._

SIR HARRY. [_With one eye on_ KATE.] Emmy, the one thing your neck needs is more jewels.

LADY SIMS. [_Faltering._] More!

SIR HARRY. Some ropes of pearls. I'll see to it. It's a bagatelle to me. [KATE _conceals her chagrin, so she had better be shown the door. He rings._] I won't detain you any longer, miss.

KATE. Thank you.

LADY SIMS. Going already? You have been very quick.

SIR HARRY. The person doesn't suit, Emmy.

LADY SIMS. I'm sorry.

KATE. So am I, madam, but it can't be helped. Good-by, your ladyship--good-by, Sir Harry.

[_There is a suspicion of an impertinent courtesy, and she is
escorted off the premises by_ TOMBES. _The air of the room is
purified by her going._ SIR HARRY _notices it at once_.

LADY SIMS. [_Whose tendency is to say the wrong thing._] She seemed such a capable woman.

SIR HARRY. [_On his hearth._] I don't like her style at all.

LADY SIMS. [_Meekly._] Of course you know best.

[_This is the right kind of woman._

SIR HARRY. [_Rather anxious for corroboration._] Lord, how she winced when I said I was to give you those ropes of pearls.

LADY SIMS. Did she? I didn't notice. I suppose so.

SIR HARRY. [_Frowning._] Suppose? Surely I know enough about women to know that.

LADY SIMS. Yes, oh yes.