_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 _Sh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.ses out. The man shuts the bag and is following her as the curtain falls_.)[41]

This pa.s.sage 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 ma.s.s 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 subst.i.tute 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. a.s.suming 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 emanc.i.p.ate 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 G.o.d! 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; d.a.m.n 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 b.u.t.toned 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 ill.u.s.trations 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 Ca.s.sio 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, n.o.ble nature, And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too; Not out of absolute l.u.s.t, though peradventure I stand accountant for as great a sin, But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I do suspect the l.u.s.ty 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 Ca.s.sio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb-- For I fear Ca.s.sio with my night-cap too-- Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me, For making him egregiously an a.s.s 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._

PROLOGUE

_A study; to the left a balcony; on the right a door; in the middle a table strewn with papers and books, and a lighted lamp upon it.