_Proteus._ Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye.

_Silvia._ O heaven!

_Pro._ I'll force thee yield to my desire.

_Valentine._ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion!

_Pro._ Valentine!

_Val._ Thou common friend, that's without faith or love, For such is a friend now! Treacherous man, Thou hast beguil'd my hopes! Nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.

Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake.

The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

_Pro._ My shame and guilt confounds me.

Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender't here; I do as truly suffer As e'er I did commit.

_Val._ Then I am paid; And once again I do receive thee honest.

Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleas'd.

By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeas'd; And, that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.

_Julia._ O me unhappy! (_Swoons._)

_Pro._ Look to the boy.

_Val._ Why, boy! why, wag! how now! What's the matter? Look up; speak.

_Jul._ O good sir, my master charg'd me to deliver a ring to Madame Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done.

_Pro._ Where is that ring, boy?

_Jul._ Here 'tis; this is it.

_Pro._ How? let me see!

Why this is the ring I gave to Julia.

_Jul._ O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook;

_Pro._ But how cam'st thou by this ring? At my depart I gave this unto Julia.

_Jul._ And Julia herself did give it me; And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

_Pro._ How! Julia!

_Jul._ Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!

O Proteus let this habit make thee blush!

Be thou asham'd that I have took upon me Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love.

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, Women to change their shapes than men their minds.

_Pro._ Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven! were man But constant, he were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins.

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.

What is Silvia's face, but I may spy More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye?

_Vol._ Come, come, a hand from either.

Let me be blest to make this happy close; 'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

_Pro._ Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.

_Jul._ And I mine.

Similar inconsistencies are in many modern plays. A dramatist has a particularly striking scene which he wishes to make the climax of his play. Into it he forces his figures regardless. Lessing made fun of this fault.

... In another still worse tragedy where one of the princ.i.p.al characters died quite casually, a spectator asked his neighbor, "But what did she die of?"--"Of what? Of the fifth act," was the reply. In very truth the fifth act is an ugly evil disease that carries off many a one to whom the first four acts promised a longer life.[21]

Or it may be, as in the case of Shakespeare just cited, that a dramatist feels certain changes of character are necessary if the play is to end as promptly as it must. Such changes, therefore, he brings about even if it means throwing character or truth to the winds. English and American plays of the 1880 and 1890 periods show many instances of theatrically effective endings either forced upon the characters or only one of several possible endings--and not the most probable. According to the conventions of the time, any young woman who had parted with her virtue, no matter what the circ.u.mstances, must make reparation by death. This usually came from some wasting but not clearly diagnosed disease. There was not always a clear distinction between inanition and inanity. A similar convention usually saved from death the male partners of these "faults," provided they indulged at the right moment in self-repentant speeches. Sir Arthur Pinero, writing what he regarded as the logical ending of _The Profligate_, was forced by the sentimentality of his public to keep Dunstan Renshaw alive. Here are the two endings:

THE ENDING AS ACTED

_Dunstan._ (_He is raising the gla.s.s to his lips when he recoils with a cry of horror._) Ah! stop, stop! This is the deepest sin of all my life--blacker than that sin for which I suffer! No, I'll not! I'll not! (_He dashes the gla.s.s to the ground._) G.o.d, take my wretched life when You will, but till You lay Your hand upon me, I will live on!

Help me! Give me strength to live on! Help me! Oh, help me!

(_He falls on his knees and buries his face in his hands. Leslie enters softly, carrying a lamp which she places on the sideboard; then she goes to Dunstan._)

_Leslie._ Dunstan! Dunstan!

_Dunstan._ You! You!

_Leslie._ I have remembered. When we stood together at our prayerless marriage, my heart made promises my lips were not allowed to utter. I will not part from you, Dunstan.

_Dunstan._ Not--part--from me?

_Leslie._ No.

_Dunstan._ I don't understand you. You--will--not--relent? You cannot forget what I am!

_Leslie._ No. But the burden of the sin you have committed I will bear upon my shoulders, and the little good that is in me shall enter into your heart. We will start life anew, always seeking for the best that we can do, always trying to repair the worst that we have done.

(_Stretching out her hand to him._) Dunstan! (_He approaches her as in a dream._) Don't fear me! I will be your wife, not your judge. Let us from this moment begin the new life you spoke of.

_Dunstan._ (_He tremblingly touches her hand as she bursts into tears._) Wife! Ah, G.o.d bless you! G.o.d bless you, and forgive me!

(_He kneels at her side, and she bows her head down to his._)

_Leslie._ Oh, my husband!

THE ENDING AS PRINTED

_Dunstan._ Fool! Fool! Why couldn't you have died in Florence? Why did you drag yourself here all these miles--to end it _here_? I should have known better--I should have known better. (_He takes a phial from his pocket and slowly pours some poison into a tumbler._) When I've proved that I could not live away from her, perhaps she'll pity me. I shall never know it, but perhaps she'll pity me then. (_About to drink._) Supposing I am blind! Supposing there is some chance of my regaining her. Regaining her! How dull sleeplessness makes me! How much could I regain of what I've lost! Why, _she knows me_--nothing can ever undo that--_she knows me._ Every day would be a dreary, hideous masquerade; every night a wakeful, torturing retrospect. If she smiled, I should whisper to myself--"yes, yes, that's a very pretty pretence, but--_she knows you!_" The slamming of a door would shout it, the creaking of a stair would murmur it "_she knows you!_"