_Sabine._ Haven't you noticed that she is beginning to look like a governess? I suppose it's because she has been doing a governess' work for so long that she has ceased to have any personal existence. She no longer cares to possess anything of her own, everything belongs to her daughter, and her husband works his fingers to the bone to pay for Beatrice's dresses, while Beatrice lords it over both of them in a way that is beginning to be just a trifle odious.

_Maravon._ I'm afraid I don't agree with you, Madame. With naively natural beings, like these, I enjoy watching the family wheels function with such simplicity. People of this kind conform to the law which begins by demanding of the mother the flesh of her flesh, often her beauty, her health, and, if need be, her life, for the formation of the child. And then, for the profit of the newer generation, Nature exerts herself to despoil the old. She exacts without stint from the parents in the shape of labors, anxieties, expenses, gifts, and sacrifices, all of their vital forces to equip, arm, and decorate their sons and daughters who are descending into the plain of the future. Take my own case, for instance. There was the question of my son's position in life. Didier was able to persuade me very quickly that my property would be better placed, for the future, in his hands.

To show you that Mme. Gribert and her daughter are merely following out a tradition of the remotest antiquity, if you can endure the pedantry of an old college professor, I will give you an example from the cla.s.sics.

_Sabine._ Oh! Please do.

_Maravon._ You have probably never heard of the "Lampadophories," have you? Well, on certain solemn occasions the citizens of Athens placed themselves at regular intervals, forming a sort of chain through the city. The first one lighted a torch at an altar, ran to the second and pa.s.sed to him the light, and he to a third who ran to the fourth and so on, from hand to hand. Each one of the chain ran onward without ever looking back and without any idea except to keep the flame alight and pa.s.s it on to the next man. Then, breathlessly stopping, each saw nothing but the progress of the flaming light, as each followed it with his eyes, his then useless anxiety, and superfluous vows. In that Trail of the Torch has been seen a symbol of all the generations of the earth, though it is not I, but my very ancient friend Plato, and the good poet Lucretius, who made the a.n.a.logy.

_Sabine._ That is not at all my idea of family relations. From my point of view, receiving life entails as great an obligation as giving it. There is a certain sort of link which makes the obligations counter balance. Since Nature has not made it possible for children to bring themselves into the world, of their own accord, I say that it was her intention to impose upon them a debt to those who give them life.

_Maravon._ They absolve that debt by giving life in turn to their children.

_Sabine._ They absolve it by filial piety which has been the inspiration of many deeds of heroism as you seem to forget.[28]

A recent editor of Hauptmann's _Gabriel Schilling's Flight_ writes of it: "His a.n.a.lysis is projected creatively in the characters of the two women--Evelyn Schilling and Hanna Elias. What is it, in these women, that--different as they are--menaces the man and the artist Schilling?

It is a pa.s.sion for possession, for absorption, a hunger of the nerves rather than of the heart. These modern women have abandoned the simple and sane preoccupations of their grandmothers; the enormous garnered nervous energy that is no longer expended in household tasks and in childbearing strikes itself, beak and clawlike, into man. But man has not changed. His occupations are not gone. He cannot endure the double burden. That is why Gabriel Schilling, rather than be destroyed spiritually by these tyrannies and exactions, seeks a last refuge in the great and cleansing purity of the sea.

'The modern malady of love is nerves.'"[29]

It is possible that all this may be derived from the play, but the Berlin audience which watched its first night left the theatre bewildered in more than one respect. There were a half-dozen opinions as to what this ugly story of a very weak man was meant to signify. Was it simply the tale of a weak man? Was it meant to show, as Professor Lewisohn thinks, that creation in an artist not naturally weak at first may be killed if he is pursued by women selfish in their love? Does the ending, however, show that Hanna is entirely selfish? Does the play signify that the man who chooses to follow women rather than his art is lost? Why is there so much emphasis on the awesomeness of Nature on the island? Have these conditions of Nature anything to do with Schilling's death? If so, do they not mitigate the effect upon him of the women?

Lack of well-placed emphasis made _Gabriel Schilling's Flight_ a failure, interesting as were the questions it raised and masterly as is much of its characterization.

Too often young dramatists forget that the beginning and the ending of acts and plays emphasize even when the author does not so intend. As in real life, it is first and final impressions, rather than intermediate, which count most. An able young dramatist complained that though he wished one of his characters to dominate Act I she certainly failed to do this. The trouble was that an attractive old gardener, the character who took the act away from the young woman, opened the play attractively characterized and closed Act I with effective speech and pantomime, when the woman was busy only with unimportant pantomime. The prominence unintentionally given to the old gardener emphasized him at the expense of the young woman.

For the value of openings in emphasizing the meaning of the whole play, see Tennyson's _Becket_ as originally written, and as rearranged by Sir Henry Irving.[30] Tennyson's _Becket_ begins with Henry and the future Archbishop at chess, talking of matters in state and church.

PROLOGUE

_A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the hall. Roofs of a city seen through windows. Henry and Becket at chess._

_Henry._ So then our good Archbishop Theobald Lies dying.

_Becket._ I am grieved to know as much.

_Henry._ But we must have a mightier man than he For his successor.

_Becket._ Have you thought of one?

_Henry._ A cleric lately poison'd his own mother, And being brought before the courts of the Church, They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.

I would have hang'd him.

_Becket._ It is your move.

_Henry._ Well--there. (_Moves._) The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutched the crown; But by the royal customs of our realm The Church should hold her baronies of me, Like other lords amenable to law.

I'll have them written down and made the law.

_Becket._ My liege, I move my bishop.

_Henry._ And if I live, No man without my leave shall excommunicate My tenants or my household.

_Becket._ Look to your king.

_Henry._ No man without my leave shall cross the seas To set the Pope against me--I pray your pardon.

_Becket._ Well--will you move?

_Henry._ There. (_Moves._)

_Becket._ Check--you move so wildly.

_Henry._ There then! (_Moves._)

_Becket._ Why--there then, for you see my bishop Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.

_Henry._ (_Kicks over the board._) Why, there then--down go bishop and king together.

I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy Upon the game I should have beaten thee, But that was vagabond.

_Becket._ Where, my liege? With Phryne, Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?

_Henry._ My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket; And yet she plagues me too--no fault in her-- But that I fear the Queen would have her life.

_Becket._ Put her away, put her away, my liege!

Put her away into a nunnery!

Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek The life of Rosamund de Clifford more Than that of other paramours of thine?

_Henry._ How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?

_Becket._ How should I know?

_Henry._ That is my secret, Thomas.

_Becket._ State secrets should be patent to the statesman Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.

_Henry._ Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop, No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.

I would to G.o.d thou wert, for I should find An easy father confessor in thee.

Irving, transposing, takes us at once into the plotting of the Queen against Becket because of her hatred for Rosamund and Becket's supposed protection of the King's mistress. A secondary interest in Tennyson's presentation becomes by this shifting first interest with Irving.

PROLOGUE

SCENE 1. _A Castle in Normandy. Eleanor. Fitz Urse_

_Eleanor._ Dost thou love this Becket, this son of a London merchant, that thou hast sworn a voluntary allegiance to him?

_Fitz Urse._ Not for my love toward him, but because he hath the love of the King. How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of three kings behind him, outroyaltying royalty?