Chapter XLIII: 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 _Servant._ Shall I not help
your lordship to your rest? your lordship to your rest?

_Becket._ Friend, am I so _Becket._ Friend, am I so
much better than thyself much better than thyself
That thou shouldst help me? That thou shouldst help me?
Thou art wearied out Thou art wearied out
With this day's work, get thee With this day's work, get thee
to thine own bed. to thine own bed.
Leave me with Herbert, friend. Leave me with Herbert, friend.
(_Exit Servant.) (Exit Servant_.)
Help me off, Herbert, with Help me off, Herbert, with
this--and this. this--and this.

_Herbert._ Was not the people's _Herbert._ Was not the people's
blessing as we past blessing as we past
Heart-comfort and a balsam to Heart-comfort and a balsam to
thy blood? thy blood?

_Becket._ The people know _Becket._ The people know
their Church a tower of their Church a tower of
strength, strength,
A bulwark against Throne and A bulwark against Throne and
Baronage. Baronage.
Too heavy for me, this; off Too heavy for me, this; off
with it, Herbert! with it, Herbert!

_Herbert._ Is it so much heavier _Herbert._ Is it so much heavier
than thy Chancellor's robe? than thy Chancellor's robe?

_Becket._ No; but the Chancellor's _Becket._ No; but the Archbishop's
and the Archbishop's Chancellor's and the

Together more than mortal man Together more than mortal man
can bear. can bear.

_Herbert._ Not heavier than _Herbert._ Not heavier than
thine armour at Thoulouse? 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 _Becket._ But hast thou heard
Gilbert Foliot this cry of Gilbert Foliot
That I am not the man to be That I am not the man to be
your Primate, your Primate,
For Henry could not work a For Henry could not work a
miracle-- miracle--
Make an Archbishop of a soldier? Make an Archbishop of a soldier?

_Herbert._ Ay, _Herbert._ Ay,
For Gilbert Foliot held himself For Gilbert Foliot held himself
the man. 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.

_Becket._ Am I the man? That _Becket._ Am I the man? That
rang rang
Within my head last night, and Within my head last night, and
when I slept when I slept
Methought I stood in Canterbury Methought I stood in Canterbury
Minster, Minster,
And spake to the Lord God, and And spake to the Lord God and
said, "O Lord, said,
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 "Henry the King hath been
friend, my brother my friend, my brother
And mine uplifter in this And mine uplifter in this world,
world, and chosen me and chosen me
For this thy great For this thy great
archbishoprick, believing archbishoprick, believing
That I should go against the That I should go against the
Church with him, Church with him,
And I shall go against him with And I shall go against him with
the Church, the Church.
And I have said no word of this
to him:
Am _I_ the man?" And the Am _I_ the man?" And the
Lord answer'd me, Lord answer'd me,
"Thou art the man, and all the "Thou art the man and all the
more the man." more the man."
And thereupon, methought, He And thereupon, methought, He
drew toward me, drew toward me,
And smote me down upon the And smote me down upon the
Minster floor. Minster floor.
I fell. I fell.

_Herbert._ God make not thee but _Herbert._ God make not thee
thy foes, fall. 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._ I do believe thee,
then. I am the man.
And yet I seem appall'd--on such _Becket._ And yet I seem
a sudden appall'd--on such a sudden
At such an eagle-height I stand At such an eagle-height I stand
and see and see
The rift that runs between me The rift that runs between me
and the King. 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.

_Herbert._ Thomas, thou art _Herbert._ Thomas, thou art
moved too much. moved too much.

_Becket._ Oh, Herbert here _Becket._ O Herbert, here
I gash myself asunder from the I gash myself asunder from the
King, King,
Tho' leaving each, a wound: mine Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine
own, a grief own, a grief
To show the scar forever--his, To show the scar forever--his,
a hate a hate
Not ever to be heal'd.[28] 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._

_The curtain falls_.[38]

Perhaps an even more interesting illustration of pantomime, because it gives us, instead of the heightening emotion of one person, the action of two characters upon each other, is found in Hugo von Hofmannsthal's _Die Frau im Fenster_.

_She remains leaning over the parapet thus for a long time. Suddenly
she thinks she hears something as the curtain behind her, separating
her balcony from the room, is thrown open. Turning her head she sees
her husband standing in the doorway. She springs up; her features
become distorted with the utmost anguish. Messer Braccio stands silent
in the doorway. He wears a simple dark green dressing-gown, without
weapons; low shoes. He is very tall and strong. His face has the
quality that often shows itself in the old pictures of great lords and
condottieri. He has an exceedingly large forehead, and little, dark
eyes, thick black hair, short and curly, and a small beard round his
face. Dianora wishes to speak, but can bring no sound from her throat.
Messer. Braccio motions for her to draw in the ladder. Dianora does so
automatically, rolls it together, and as though unconscious, lets the
bundle fall at her feet. Braccio regards her calmly. Then he grasps
his left hip with his right hand, also with his left hand, and looking
down, notes that he has no dagger. Making an impatient movement of the
lips he glances down into the garden and behind him. He lifts his
right hand for an instant and looks at its palm. He goes back into the
room with firm, unhurried steps._

_Dianora looks after him continually; she cannot take her eyes from
him. When the curtain falls behind him, she passes her fingers over
her cheeks and through her hair. Then she folds her hands and with
wildly twitching lips silently prays. Then she throws her arms
backward and grasps the stone coping with her fingers, a movement
revealing firm resolution and a hint of triumph._

_Braccio steps out through the door again, carrying in his left hand a
stool which he places in the doorway, and then sits down opposite his
wife. His expression has not changed. From time to time he lifts his
right hand mechanically and regards the small wound in its palm._

_Braccio._ (_His tone is cold, slightly disdainful. He indicates the
ladder with his foot and his eyes._) Who is it?

(_Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly._)

_Braccio._ I know.

(_Dianora lifts her shoulders, then lets them fall again slowly. Her
teeth are pressed tightly together._)

_Braccio._ (_Raising his hand with the movement but touching his wife
only with his glance; then he turns his gaze toward the garden
again._) Palla degli Albizzi.[39]

Such elaborate pantomime as the cases just cited is naturally rare, but a dramatist is always watching for an opportunity to shorten by pantomime a speech or the dialogue of a scene, or to intensify by it the effect of his words.[40] Is anything in _Shore Acres_, by James A. Herne, more memorable than the last scene? In it Uncle Nat, who has established the happiness of the household, lights his candle deliberately and goes slowly up the long staircase to his bedroom, humming softly. He is the very picture of spiritual content. Words would have spoiled that scene as they have spoiled many and many a scene of an inexperienced dramatist.

Iris, at the end of Act III of Pinero's play of that name, is on the point of leaving Bellagio. Maldonado has left lying on her table a checkbook on a bank in which he has placed a few hundred pounds in her name. Because of the defalcation of her lawyer, she is in financial straits. Maldonado wishes to help her but also to gain power over her. Unwilling to take the checkbook, she has urged him to remove it. Lacking firmness of character, however, she lets him leave it, saying she will destroy it.

_With a troubled, half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her hat
and cape; after which, carrying her gloves, she returns to her
dressing-bag. Glancing round the room to assure herself that she has
collected all her small personal belongings, her eyes rest on the
checque-book which lies open on the writing-table. She contemplates it
for a time, a gradually increasing fear showing itself in her face.
Ultimately she walks slowly to the table and picks up a book. She is
fingering it in an uncertain, frightened way when the servant
returns_.

_Man-servant._ (_Standing over the bag._) Is there anything more,
ma'am--?

(_She hesitates helplessly; then, becoming conscious that she is
being stared at, she advances, drops the book into the bag, and
passes out. The man shuts the bag and is following her as the
curtain falls_.)[41]

This passage from Act I of _The Great Divide_ shows pantomime supplementing speech as the dramatist of experience frequently employs it. A writer of less sure feeling would have permitted his characters some unnecessary or involved speech.

(_Ruth selects a red flower, puts it in the dark mass of her hair, and
looks out at the open door_.) What a scandal the moon is making out in
that great crazy world! Who but me could think of sleeping on such a
night?

(_She sits down, folds the flowers in her arms, and buries her face
in them. After a moment, she starts up, listens, goes hurriedly to
the door, draws the curtains before the window, comes swiftly to the
table, and blows out the light. The room is left in total darkness.
There are muttering voices outside, the latch is tried, then a heavy
lunge breaks the bolt. A man pushes in, but is hurled back by a
taller man, with a snarling oath. A third figure advances to the
table, and strikes a match. As soon as the match is lighted Ruth
levels the gun, which she has taken from its rack above the mantel.
There is heard the click of the hammer, as the gun misses fire. It
is instantly struck from her hand by the first man (Dutch), who
attempts to seize her. She evades him and tries to wrest a pistol
from a holster on the wall. She is met by the second man (Shorty),
who frustrates the attempt, pocketing the weapon. While this has
been going on, the third-man (Ghent) has been fumbling with the
lamp, which he has at last succeeded in lighting. All three are
dressed in rude frontier fashion, the one called Shorty is a Mexican
half-breed, the others are Americans. Ghent is younger than Dutch,
and taller, but less powerfully built. All are intoxicated, but not
sufficiently so to incapacitate them from rapid action. The Mexican
has seized Ruth and attempts to drag her toward the inner room. She
breaks loose and flies back again to the chimney place, where she
stands at bay. Ghent remains motionless and silent by the table,
gazing at her.)_

_Dutch._ (_Uncorking a whiskey flask._) Plucky little catamount. I
drink its health. (_Drinks_.)

_Ruth._ What do you want here?[42]

Hofmannsthal, in his _Electra_, uses pantomime as only one detail, but no words could so paint the mad triumph of the sister of Orestes as does her "incredible dance."

(_Electra has raised herself. She steps down from the threshold, her
head thrown back like a Moenad. She lifts her knees, stretches out
her arms; it is an incredible dance in which she steps forward._

_Chrysothemis appearing again at the door, behind her torches, a
Throng, faces of Men and Women._)

_Chrysothemis._ Electra!

_Electra._ (_Stands still, gazing at her fixedly._) Be silent and
dance. Come hither all of you!
Join with me all! I bear the burden of joy,
And I dance before you here. One thing alone
Remains for all who are as happy as we;
To be silent and dance.

(_She does a few more steps of tense triumph, and falls a-heap.
Chrysothemis runs to her. Electra lies motionless. Chrysothemis runs
to the door of the house and knocks._)

_Chrysothemis._ Orestes! Orestes! (_Silence._)

_Curtain_.[43]

Without question, then, speech in the drama may often give way in part or wholly to pantomime. The inexperienced dramatist should be constantly alert to see to what extent he can substitute it for dialogue.[44]

In all that has been said of pantomime, of course technical pantomime is not meant. The _Commedia dell' arte_, pantomime artists like the Ravel Brothers or Mme. Pilar-Morin, have a code of gesture to symbolize fixed meanings. What is meant here is the natural human pantomime of people whose faces and bodies portray or betray their feelings.

Another word of warning in regard to pantomime. When a writer of plays once becomes well aware of the great value of pantomime, he is likely to overwork it. Assuming that the actor or actors may convey almost anything by physical movement, he trusts it too much. Let him who is for the moment under the spell of pantomime study the moving picture show. Pantomime may ordinarily convey physical action perfectly. Emotion naturally and easily expressed by action pantomime may convey, but when action for its clearness depends on knowledge of what is going on in the mind of the actor, pantomime begins to fail. Great artists like Mme. Pilar-Morin may carry us far even under these conditions, but most actors cannot. In a motion picture play like _Cabiria_, contrast the scenes in which the Roman and his slave flee before the crowd from part to part of the temple (mere action), or the scene of the terror of the wine merchant (in which the face and body tell the whole story) with the scene in which the nurse meets the Roman and his slave on the wall of the city and begs their aid in saving the child, or the scenes in which Sophonisba struggles with her anxieties and mad desires. The second group of pictures without the explanations thrown on the screen would have little meaning. Pantomime is safe, not when it pleases us to use pantomime rather than to write dialogue, but when our characters naturally act rather than speak, or when we can devise for them natural action as clear as speech or clearer than speech. Use pantomime, but use it cautiously. Speech is the greatest emotional weapon of the dramatist. It best reveals emotion, and best of all creates responsive emotion. However, as most inexperienced dramatists use far too many words rather than too few, the value rather than the danger of pantomime should probably be stressed here. What seems natural, what makes for illusion, is the final test.

It is this test of naturalness which has gradually excluded, except in special instances, the soliloquy and the aside. The general movement of drama in the past ten years has been toward better and better characterization in plays of all kinds. The newer melodrama and farce show us, not the mere comic puppets of the past, but people as real as the form represented--be it comedy, farce, tragedy, or melodrama--will permit. This new tendency has largely driven out the soliloquy and the aside. We should not, however, go to extremes, for occasionally we do swear under our breath or comment in asides, and as long as people do either, such people should be so represented. Moreover, we must admit that the insane, the demented, the invalid left much to himself, the hermit, whether of the woods or the hall bedroom in a city boarding house, do talk to themselves and often at great length. Neither the aside nor the soliloquy is, then, objectionable in itself. It is the use of either by persons who would probably use nothing of the sort, or their use in order to avoid exposition otherwise difficult which is to be decried. It is particularly this latter fault to which Sir Arthur Pinero calls attention when treating the faulty technique of R.L. Stevenson as a playwright:

"I will read you one of the many soliloquies--the faulty method of conducting action and revealing character by soliloquy was one from which Stevenson could never emancipate himself. It is a speech delivered by Deacon Brodie while he is making preparations for a midnight gambling excursion.

(_Brodie closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors of his bedroom._)

_Deacon Brodie._ Now for one of the Deacon's headaches! Rogues all,
rogues all! (_He goes to the clothes press and proceeds to change his
coat._) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with the
Deacon and up with the robber! Eh God! How still the house is! There's
something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what
would the world be? The city has its vizard on and we--at night we are
our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, knives are
stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he
is! How still it is!--My father and Mary--Well! The day for them, the
night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, and
all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a life of
his own? not eight hours out of twenty-four? Eight shall he have
should he dare the pit of Tophet. Where's the blunt? I must be cool
tonight, or--steady Deacon, you must win; damn you, you must! You must
win back the dowry that you've stolen, and marry your sister and pay
your debts, and gull the world a little longer! The Deacon's going to
bed--the poor sick Deacon! _Allons!_ Only the stars to see me! I'm a
man once more till morning! [Act I, Tableau I, Scene 9.]"[45]

Sir Arthur knows whereof he speaks, for past-master as he has shown himself since _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ in the art of giving necessary exposition and characterization without soliloquy, he was a bad offender in his early days, as the following extract from the opening of _The Money Spinner_ shows:

(_Directly Margot has disappeared, there is a knocking outside the
door, right. It is repeated, then the doors slowly open and the head
of Monsieur Jules Faubert appears._)

_Faubert._ (_Who also speaks with the accent of a foreigner._)
Boycott, my friend, are you at home? My friend Boycott, do you hear
me? (_Receiving no answer, he enters rather cautiously and looks
around. He is in black, wearing a long, tightly buttoned frock coat
and a tall hat. His hair is red and closely cropped. His voice is soft
and his manner stealthy and mechanical._) Where is Boycott, my friend?
Ah, he has not yet taken his breakfast. (_He crosses over to the
curtains, left, and looks through._) No one to be seen. Boycott asks
me to call for him at ten o'clock in the morning, and it is now a
quarter past ten by the Great Clock, and he is not visible. (_Walking
round the room, inspecting the objects with curiosity._) Yet he could
not have left the house for I have been watching at the front door
since eight o'clock. (_Takes letters from top of Pianette._) Besides,
here are his letters unopened. (_Examines them narrowly, scrutinizing
the writing, and weighing them in his hand._) One, Mr. Boycott, with
the post-mark of London. Two, Monsieur Boycott with the post-mark of
Rouen. Three, Madame Boycott with the post-mark of Paris. (_Replacing
letters._) Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of the acquaintance of
Madame Boycott. Poor soul, perhaps she will know me some day. (_Going
over to the door, right._) Well, I shall call again after breakfast.
My friend Boycott is getting very unpunctual--a bad sign--a very bad
sign.[46]

The unnaturalness of the two foregoing illustrations needs no comment. The Elizabethan author, knowing that above all else the dramatist must make clear why his people do what they do, used soliloquy with the utmost frankness as the easiest method of exposition. Here are three specimens, one from Webster and two from Shakespeare.

_Cardinal._ The reason why I would not suffer these
About my brother is because at midnight
I may with better privacy convay
Julias body, to her owne lodging. O, my conscience!
I would pray now: but the divell takes away my heart
For having any confidence in praier.
About this houre I appointed Bosola
To fetch the body: when he hath serv'd my turne,
He dies. (_Exit._)[47]

_Iago._ That Cassio loves her I do well believe't;
That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit;
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,
And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure
I stand accountant for as great a sin,
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife;
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb--
For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too--
Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,
For making him egregiously an ass
And practising upon his peace and quiet
Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confus'd;
Knavery's plain face is never seen till us'd. (_Exit._)[48]

_Emilia._ I am glad I have found this napkin;
This was her first remembrance from the Moor.
My wayward husband hath a hundred times
Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token,
For he conjur'd her she should ever keep it,
That she reserves it evermore about her
To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out,
And give 't Iago. What he will do with it
Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy.[49]

Echegaray's _The Great Galeoto_ (1881), though a part of the newer movement in the drama, shows soliloquy.

SCENE. _Madrid of our day._