Chapter VIII: Part III: The Romantic Dramas (2)

The first of all Wilde's plays was "The Duchess of Padua." It was written at the time when he was living at the Hotel Voltaire in Paris and taking Balzac as his model. The title of the play was doubtless inspired by Webster's gloomy tragedy of another Italian duchess; and the play itself is in five acts. Although many students of his works consider that it is worthy to rank with the masterpieces of the Elizabethan drama, it must be confessed that the work, though full of promise, is immature and too obviously indebted in certain scenes to some of Shakespeare's most obvious stage tricks. He had written the play with a view to its being played by Miss Mary Anderson, but to his great disappointment she declined his offer of it.

His biographer's description of his reception of her refusal is worth quoting:

"I was with him at the Hotel Voltaire on the day when he heard from
Mary Anderson, to whom he had sent a copy of the drama which was
written for her. He telegraphed in the morning for her decision,
and whilst we were talking together after lunch her answer came. It
was unfavourable; yet, though he had founded great hopes on the
production of this play, he gave no sign of his disappointment. I
can remember his tearing a little piece off the blue telegraph-form
and rolling it up into a pellet and putting it into his mouth, as,
by a curious habit, he did with every paper or book that came into
his hands. And all he said, as he passed the telegram over to me,
was, 'This, Robert, is rather tedious.'"

The scene of the play is laid in Padua, the period being the sixteenth century, and the characters are as follows:--

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SIMONE GESSO Duke of Padua.
BEATRICE His Wife.
ANDREA POLLAIUOLO Cardinal of Padua.
MAFFIO PETRUCCI }
JEPPO VITELOZZO }Of the Ducal Household.
TADDEO BARDI }
GUIDO FERRANTI
ASCANIO CRISTOFANO His Friend.
COUNT MORANZONE
BERNARDO CAVALCANTI Chief Justiciar of Padua.
HUGO The Public Executioner.
LUCIA A Tirewoman.

Serving-Men, Burghers, Soldiers, Falconers, Monks, etc.

The scene opens in the market, where Ascanio and Guido are awaiting the arrival of the writer of a letter who has promised to enlighten the latter as to his birth, and who will wear a violet cloak with a silver falcon embroidered on the shoulder. The stranger arrives and proves to be Count Moranzone, who, Ascanio having been dismissed, informs the lad that he is the son of Lorenzo, the late Duke of Padua, betrayed to an ignominious death by the reigning Duke, Simone Gesso. He works on the youth's feelings and induces him to swear to avenge his father's death by slaying his betrayer, but not until Moranzone sends him his parent's dagger. Guido left alone, in a fine speech renews his oath, and as he is vowing on his drawn dagger to "forswear the love of women and that hollow bauble men call female loveliness," Beatrice descends the steps of the church, their eyes meet for a second and as she leaves the stage she turns to look at him again. "Say, who is yonder lady?" inquires the young man, and a burgher answers, "The Duchess of Padua."

In the second act the Duchess is seen pleading with her husband that he should feed and assist his starving people. On his exit she is joined by Guido, who, for the first time, declares his love, while she avows hers in turn. A pretty love scene full of tenderness and poetry is interrupted by the appearance of Count Moranzone, whom Beatrice alone catches sight of, and presently a messenger enters and hands Guido a parcel containing the fatal dagger. He will have no more to do with love--for will not his soul be stained with murder?--and steeling his heart against Beatrice he bids her farewell, telling her that there is a barrier between them. The Duke makes a brief entrance. The Duchess will not go hunting with him. He suspects, and inquires for Guido, and with a veiled threat leaves her. She will end her life that very night, she soliloquises, and yet, why should she die, why not the Duke?

She is interrupted by Moranzone, whom she taxes with taking Guido from her. He answers that the young man does not love her nor will she ever see him more, and leaves her. She determines that that very night she will lie in Death's arms.

The third act takes place at night within the Palace. Guido enters the apartment from without by means of a rope ladder, and is met by Moranzone, to whom he declares that he will not stoop to murder, but will place the dagger, with a paper stating who he is, upon the Duke's bed and then take horse to Venice and enlist against the Infidels. Nothing Moranzone urges can move him and the latter at last leaves him.

As Guido lifts the curtain to enter the Duke's chamber he is met by Beatrice, who, after a while, confesses that she has stabbed her husband. Guido, horrified, refuses to have aught to do with her, and despite all her blandishments and entreaties remains adamant. She then begs him to draw his sword on her "and quick make reckoning with Death, who yet licks his lips after this feast."

He wrests the dripping knife from her hand, and although she explains that 'twas for love of him she did the deed he bids her begone to her chamberwomen.

Finally she turns on him with the threat "Who of us calls down the lightning on his head let him beware the hurt that lurks within the forked levin's flame," she leaves him. Left alone, his heart goes forth to her and he calls her back, but soon her voice is heard without, saying, "This way fled my husband's murderer." Soldiers enter, and Guido is arrested, the bloodstained knife being taken from him.

The fourth act is laid in the hall of justice. The Duchess has accused Guido of the murder. He will not defend himself though Moranzone, who has recognised the dagger as the Duchess's, urges him to do so. Guido tells his evil genius that he himself did the deed. He then begs leave of the Justiciar to let him name the guilty one who slew the Duke, but Beatrice, who is fearful he will accuse her, urges that he shall not be allowed speech. A lengthy wrangle takes place between her, the judges, and Moranzone, and the court retires to consider the point. During the interval, the accused holds conference with the Cardinal, who will only hear him in the Confessional. Beatrice tells him, "An thou dost meet my husband in Purgatory with a blood-red star over his heart, tell him I send you to bear him company." When at last the judges return they decide that Guido may have speech. Beatrice, who has arranged for a horse to be in waiting that it may convey her to Venice, endeavours to leave the court, but is prevented. At last Guido speaks and confesses to the murder. He is condemned to death, and is led forth as Beatrice, calling out his name, "throws wide her arms and rushes across the stage towards him."

The last act takes place in the prison. Guido is asleep, and Beatrice, wearing a cloak and mask, enters to him. By wearing these and using her ring of State she hopes he will be enabled to escape. Presently she drinks the poison which, as he is of noble birth, has been placed near him and when he awakes a reconciliation takes place between them. It is too late, the poison has begun to work. "Oh, Beatrice, thy mouth wears roses that do defy Death," exclaims Guido, and later on--"Who sins for love, sins not," to which Beatrice replies, "I have sinned, and yet mayhap shall I be forgiven. I have loved much." They kiss each other for the first time in this act, and in a final spasm she expires, and he, snatching the dagger from her belt, stabs himself as the executioner enters.

The play was read for copyright purposes in March, 1907, by an amateur dramatic society connected with St James's Church, Hampstead Road, Mr George Alexander, lending his theatre for the purpose. It has been produced, but without much success, in America by Miss Gale and the late Lawrence Barrett, and in 1904 at one of the leading theatres in Hamburg. The German production was, however, marred by a series of unfortunate incidents, so that it can hardly be held to have been a fair test of the merits of the play. The Guido had a severe cold, and during Beatrice's long speech in the last act, when he is supposed to be asleep, kept on spoiling the situation by repeated sneezes, while the Duchess herself was uncertain of her words. On the third night the Cardinal went mad on the stage and had to be taken off to an asylum.

"The Duchess of Padua" is much more a play for the study than the stage, although replete with dramatic possibilities, for its gloomy character would always militate against its success in this country. The plot is finely elaborated, and yet perfectly clear. The characterisation is keenly aware of the value of contrast in art and packed with a psychology which, buried as it is, nevertheless is just and accurate. No one can read the truly poetical dialogue with its stately cadence and rich volume of sound without being moved by the dignity of tragedy, and what blemishes there may be are more due to inexperience than to any departure from the ideals in art that the author had set up for himself.

"VERA, OR THE NIHILISTS"

And now in the survey of the Romantic Dramas we come to a play totally different from any other work of the author's--"Vera, or the Nihilists."

This is a melodrama pure and simple, the action taking place in Russia in 1795. It is described as "A Drama in a prologue and four acts," and was written in 1881. Badly produced and acted in America it was printed for private circulation.

The dramatis personae are:

PERSONS IN THE PROLOGUE

PETER SABOUROFF (an Innkeeper).
VERA SABOUROFF (his Daughter).
MICHAEL (a Peasant).
COLONEL KOTEMKIN.

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

IVAN THE CZAR.
PRINCE PAUL MARALOFFSKI (Prime Minister of Russia).
PRINCE PETROVITCH.
COUNT ROUVALOFF.
MARQUIS DE POIVRARD.
BARON RAFF.
GENERAL KOTEMKIN.
A PAGE.

_Nihilists_

PETER TCHERNAVITCH, President of the Nihilists.
MICHAEL.
ALEXIS IVANACIEVITCH, known as a Student of Medicine.
PROFESSOR MARFA.
VERA SABOUROFF.

Soldiers, Conspirators, etc.

Scene, Moscow. Time, 1800.

The plot is briefly as follows:--

Dmitri Sabouroff, the son of an innkeeper, is, with other prisoners, on his way to an exile in Siberia to which he has been sentenced for participation in Nihilist conspiracies. The band of prisoners in its melancholy progress halts at the paternal inn. Dmitri is recognised by his sister Vera, and manages to pass her a piece of paper on which is written the address of the Nihilist centre, together with the form of oath used on joining. Then the old innkeeper recognises his son and tries to get to him as the prisoners are being marched off. The colonel in charge of the detachment (Kotemkin), closes the door on him and the old man falls senseless to the ground. A peasant admirer of Vera's (Michael) kneels down and tends the stricken father while Vera recites the oath: "To strangle whatever nature is in me; neither to love nor to be loved; neither to pity nor to be pitied; neither to marry nor to be given in marriage, till the end is come." This tableau ends the prologue.

In the first act the Nihilists are assembled at their secret meeting place and are anxiously waiting the return of Vera, who has gone to a ball at the Grand Duke's to "see the Czar and all his cursed brood face to face."

Amongst the conspirators is a young student of medicine, Alexis, who has incurred the suspicions of Vera's admirer, Michael, the most uncompromising of the revolutionists. Vera returns with the news that martial law is to be proclaimed. She is in love with Alexis and reproves him for running the risk of being present. Meanwhile, Michael and the President confer together. Michael proposes to don the uniform of the Imperial Guard, make his way into the courtyard of the palace, and shoot the Czar as he attends a council to be held in a room, the exact location of which he has learnt from Alexis. He has followed Alexis and seen him enter the palace, but has not seen the young man come out again though he had waited all night upon the watch.

Vera defends Alexis whom the conspirators wish to kill. Suddenly soldiers are heard outside, the conspirators resume their masks as Kotemkin and his men enter. In reply to his inquiries Vera informs him that they are a company of strolling players. He orders her to unmask. Alexis steps forward, removes his mask, and proclaims himself to be the Czarevitch! The conspirators fear he will betray them, but he backs up Vera's tale as to their being strolling players, gives the officer to understand that he has an affair of gallantry on hand with Vera, and with a caution to the General dismisses him and his men. The curtain comes down, as, turning to the Nihilists, he exclaims, "Brothers, you trust me now!"

The second act is laid in the Council Chamber, where the various councillors are assembled, including the cynical Prime Minister, Prince Paul Maraloffski. Presently the Czarevitch enters, followed later by the Czar, whose fears Prince Paul has worked on to induce him to proclaim martial law. He is about to sign the document when the Czarevitch intervenes with a passionate appeal for the people and their rights, and finally proclaims himself a Nihilist. His father orders his arrest, and his orders are about to be carried out when a shot is heard from without and the Czar, who has thrown open the window, falls mortally wounded, and dies, denouncing his son as his murderer.

The third act takes place in the Nihilists' meeting place. Alexis has been proclaimed Czar, and has dismissed his father's evil genius, Prince Paul. The passwords are given and it is discovered that there is a stranger present. He unmasks, and proves to be no other than Prince Paul, who desires to become a Nihilist and revenge himself for his dismissal. Alexis has not obeyed the summons to the meeting, and in spite of Vera's protests is sentenced to death. The implacable Michael reminds her of her brother's fate and of her oath. She steels her heart and demands to draw with the others for the honour of carrying out the sentence on Alexis. It falls to her, and it is arranged that she shall make her way to the Czar's bedchamber that night, Paul having provided the key and the password, and stab him in his sleep. Once she has carried out her mission she is to throw out the bloodstained dagger to her fellow-conspirators, who will be waiting outside, as a signal that the Czar has been assassinated.

The fourth act is set in the antechamber of the Czar's private room, where the various ministers are assembled discussing the Czar and his plans of reform (he has already dismissed his guards and ordered the release of all political prisoners).

Alexis enters and listens to their conversation. Stepping forward he dismisses them all, depriving them of their fortunes and estates. Left alone he falls asleep and Vera, entering, raises her hand to stab him, when he awakes and seizes her arm. He tells her he has only accepted the crown that she should share it with him. Vera realises that she loves him and that she has broken her oath. A love scene follows. Midnight strikes, the conspirators are heard clamouring in the streets. Vera stabs herself, throws the dagger out of the window, and in answer to Alexis's agonised, "What have you done?" replies with her dying breath, "I have saved Russia."

The play, as I have already said, is quite different from any other of Wilde's, and in reading it one cannot help regretting that he did not turn some of his attention and devote a portion of his great talents to the reform of English melodrama. He might have founded a strong, virile, and healthy dramatic school, and by so doing raised the standard of the popular everyday play in this country. Nevertheless, that "Vera" was not a success when produced is not to be wondered at, apart from the fact of its having been vilely acted. Pure melodrama, especially, despite a very general idea to the contrary, requires an acquaintance with technique and stage mechanism that is only obtainable after many years of practice. At this period the author had not enjoyed this practice in technique. Nevertheless, the play is essentially dramatic and had Mr Wilde at this early time in his dramatic career called in the assistance of some experienced actor or stage-manager, with a very little alteration a perfectly workmanlike drama could have been made out of it. The prologue and the first act could have been run into one act divided into two separate scenes. More incident and action could have been introduced into Act Two and some of the dialogue curtailed. Acts Three and Four want very little revision, and it would have been easy to introduce one or two female characters and perhaps a second love interest. Some light-comedy love scenes would have helped to redeem the gloom of the play and afforded a valuable contrast to the intensity of the hero and heroine in their amorous converse.

The dialogue is crisp and vigorous and the language at times of rare beauty. It is a pity that such a work should be wasted, and it is to be hoped that some manager will have the astuteness and ability to produce it in a good acting form. The experiment would certainly be worth trying.

The play as a whole is certainly not one of its author's finest productions. As has been said, it was written before he had mastered stage technique and learned those secrets of dramaturgy which in later years raised him to such a pinnacle of fame as a dramatic author. Yet it can be said of it with perfect confidence that it is far and away superior to nine-tenths of modern, and successful, melodramatic plays. Indeed, whenever we discuss or criticise even the less important works of Oscar Wilde we are amazed at their craftsmanship and delighted with their achievement. The most unconsidered trifles from his pen stand out among similar productions as the moon among stars, and his genius is so great that work for which other writers would expect and receive the highest praise in comparison with _his_ greatest triumphs almost fails to excite more than a fugitive and passing admiration.

"THE FLORENTINE TRAGEDY"

An interesting story attaches to "The Florentine Tragedy," a short play by Wilde which was produced on 18th June 1906, by the Literary Theatre Club.

The history of the play was related by Mr Robert Ross to a representative of _The Tribune_ newspaper.

"The play was written," he said, "for Mr George Alexander, but for certain reasons was not produced by him. In April 1895, Mr Wilde requested me to go to his house and take possession of all his unpublished manuscripts. He had been declared a bankrupt, and I reached the house just before the bailiffs entered. Of course, the author's letters and manuscripts of two other unpublished plays and the enlarged version of 'The Portrait of Mr W. H.' upon which I knew he was engaged--had mysteriously disappeared. Someone had been there before me.

"The thief was never discovered, nor have we ever seen 'The Florentine Tragedy,' the 'Mr W. H.' story, or one of the other plays, 'The Duchess of Padua'--since that time. Curiously enough, the manuscript of the third play, a tragedy somewhat on the lines of 'Salome,' was discovered by a friend of Mr Wilde's in a secondhand bookshop in London, in 1897. It was sent to the author in Paris, and was not heard of again. After his death in 1900 it could not be found. With regard to 'The Duchess of Padua,' the loss was not absolute, for this play, a five-act tragedy, had previously been performed in America, and I possessed the 'prompt' copy.

"To return to 'The Florentine Tragedy.' I had heard portions of it read, and was acquainted with the incidents and language, but for a long time I gave it up as lost. Then, after Mr Wilde's death, I had occasion to sort a mass of letters and papers which were handed to me by his solicitors. Among them I found loose sheets containing the draft of a play which I recognised as 'The Florentine Tragedy.' By piecing these together I was able to reconstruct a considerable portion of the play. The first five pages had gone, and there was another page missing, but some 400 lines of blank verse remained. Now the introductory scene of the single act of which the play consists has been rewritten by Mr Sturge Moore, and the 'Tragedy' will be presented to an English audience for the first time at the King's Hall, Covent Garden, next Sunday.

"On the same occasion the Literary Theatre Club will give a performance of Mr Wilde's 'Salome,' which, as you know, cannot be given publicly in this country, owing to the Biblical derivation of the subject. But 'Salome' has been popular for years in Germany, and it has also been played in Sweden, Russia, Italy, and Holland."

It seems that "The Florentine Tragedy" has also been played with great success in Germany. It was translated by Dr Max Meyerfeld, and was produced first at Leipsic, and afterwards at Hamburg and Berlin. According to Mr Ross, "The Florentine Tragedy" promises to become almost as popular with German playgoers as "Salome" is now.

"The Florentine Tragedy," as already indicated, is a brief one-act drama. There are only three characters: an old Florentine merchant, his beautiful wife, and her lover. The simple plot may be briefly indicated. The merchant, arriving suddenly at his home after a short absence, finds his wife and his rival in her affections together at supper. He makes a pretence at first of being profoundly courteous, and the ensuing conversation (as need hardly be said) is pointed, epigrammatic, and witty. Then the old man gradually leads up to what, it becomes obvious, had been his fixed purpose from the beginning. He draws the lover into a duel. This takes place in the presence of the wife, who, indeed, holds aloft a torch in order that the two swordsmen may fight the more easily. The contest waxes fiercer, and the swords are exchanged for daggers. The wife casts the torch to the ground as the two men close with each other, and the younger one falls mortally wounded. The ending is dramatic. The infuriated husband turns to his shrinking wife and exclaims, "Now for the other!" The woman, in mingled remorse and fear, says, "Why did you not tell me you were so strong?" And the husband rejoins, "Why did you not tell me you were so beautiful?" As the curtain descends, the couple, thus strangely reconciled, fall into each other's arms.

The character of outstanding importance, of course, is that of the old merchant. According to those who have studied the play, he is a strikingly effective figure, most cleverly and delightfully drawn. In the opinion of Mr Moore the part is one that would have fitted Sir Henry Irving excellently well. The action of the drama occupies less than half-an-hour.

In this connection it may be well to recall the testimony of an Irish publisher quoted by Mr Sherard in his "Life of Oscar Wilde." This gentleman attended the sale of the author's effects in Tite Street, and in a room upstairs found the floor thickly strewn with letters addressed to the quondam owner of the house and a great quantity of his manuscripts. He concluded that as the various pieces of furniture had been carried downstairs to be sold their contents had been emptied out on to the floor of this room. Presently a broker's man came up to him and inquired what he was doing in the room, and on his replying that finding the door open he had walked in, the man said, "then somebody has broken open the lock, because I locked the door myself." This gentleman surmises that it was from this room that various manuscripts that have never been recovered were stolen!

When the piece was produced by the Literary Theatre Club it suffered from inadequate acting. Mr George Ingleton was quite overweighted by the part of Simone, the Florentine merchant. It is a part that requires an Irving to carry it through, or, at anyrate, an actor of great experience, and for anyone else to attempt it is a piece of daring which can only result in failure.

It is curious that the denouement, which was so severely handled by the critics when the play was produced in Berlin, was the part of the piece that seemed most to impress an English audience. The epigram and the praises of strength and beauty provoked no protest or dissatisfaction, as those who had seen the German production expected they would, nor was the audience in the least shocked when the wife holds the torch for her husband and lover to fight, nor when, at the close of the encounter, she purposely throws it down. This, of course, is the unlooked-for climax of the piece, and the dramatic character of the situation completely saved it.

"THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS"

Finally we have arrived at what must always be the most tantalising of all Wilde's plays because the MS. has been lost and very little is known about it. It had for title "The Woman Covered With Jewels." The only copy of it known to exist, a small quarto book of ruled paper in the author's own handwriting, was presumably stolen with the copies of "The Incomparable and Ingenious History of Mr W. H. Being the true Secret of Shakespeare's Sonnets, now for the first time here fully set forth," and "The Florentine Tragedy," at the time of the Tite Street sale. But little is known about the play--a very few privileged persons having been favoured with a perusal of it, and the only information the public have been able to gather about it is from an article by a well-known book-lover that appeared in a weekly paper. I myself have not been able to discover any further information.

The play was in prose and, like "Salome," was a tragedy in one act. It was written about 1896.

According to the writer of the article referred to, it was "presented by its author to a charming and cultured Mayfair lady, well known in London Society." He goes on to say that she allowed a few well-known _litterateurs_ to peruse it, but that the manuscript is now lost and that he has not succeeded in tracing a second copy anywhere. There seems to be some confusion here, for if this were the only copy it could not have been stolen from the Tite Street sale, as, according to the biography, was the case. One thing, at anyrate, appears certain, and that is that there is no copy in existence, or rather--for if it was stolen it must be in someone's possession--available at the present moment. It would be interesting to know how the lady to whom the book was presented came to lose it. Perhaps she herself destroyed it at the period when so many of his friends were so anxious to conceal all traces of their friendship with its author. Again, the MS. may only have been lent her, and may have been returned by her to Wilde before the crash. At anyrate, it seems incredible that he should have parted with the manuscript without keeping even a rough copy. The point needs elucidation.

According to the writer of the article--"There is little doubt that the lost tragedy by Wilde was intended originally--like 'Salome'--for Sarah Bernhardt. It contains a part somewhat like her _Izeil_. The period of the play is that of the second century after Christ, a century of heresy and manifold gospels that had made the Church of the day a thing divided by sects and scarred with schisms. Fairly vigorous Christian churches existed at Athens and Corinth. From one of these there seceded a most holy man. He withdrew into the desert, and at the time the play begins was dwelling in a cave 'whose mouth opened upon the tawny sand of the desert like that of a huge lion.' His reputation for holiness had gone forth to many cities. One day there came to his cave a beautiful courtesan, covered with jewels. She had broken her journey in order to see and hear the wonderful priest who had striven against the devil in the desert. He sees the strange, beautiful intruder, and, speaking of the faith that was within him, tries to win one more convert to its kingdom, glory, and power. She listens as Thais listened to Paphnutius. The hermit's eloquence sways her reason, while her exquisite beauty of face and form troubles his constancy. She speaks in turn and presses him to leave his hermit home and come with her to the city. There he may preach to better effect the gospel of the Kingdom of God. 'The city is more wicked than the desert,' she says, in effect.

"While they are talking two men drew near and gazed upon the unusual scene. 'Surely it must be a king's daughter,' said one. 'She has beautiful hair like a king's daughter, and, behold, she is covered with jewels.'

"At last she mounts her litter and departs, and the men follow her. The priest has been troubled, tortured by her beauty. He recalls the melting glory of her eyes, the softly curving cheeks, the red humid mouth. Recalls, too, the wooing voice that was like rippling wind-swept water. Her hair fell like a golden garment; she was, indeed, covered with jewels.

"Evening draws near and there comes to the mouth of the cave a man who says that robbers have attacked and murdered a great lady who was travelling near that day. They show the horror-struck priest a great coil of golden hair besmeared with blood. Here the tragedy ends.

"One sees that 'The Woman Covered With Jewels' is an outcome, and one more expression, of that literary movement that gave us 'Salambo,' 'Thais,' 'Aphrodite,' 'Imperial Purple,' and many more remarkable works of a school, or group of writers, who, wearied of the _jejune_, the effete, and much else, have sought solace for their literary conscience in a penman's reconquest of antiquity. Probably the old-world story of Paphnutius and Thais inspired the tragedy and Maeterlinck's plays suggested its technique. Who can know? Assuredly its tragic picture of devotion, passion, cupidity, and murder would thrill and enthrall those who could know it better than in this imperfect portrayal. 'The Woman Covered With Jewels' is worthy of the pen that wrote 'Salome,' and 'The Sphinx.'

"Yet it is lost!"