Mildmay. Yes, and there is another old proverb and one much more to the purpose that says, “Still waters run deep.”
The convention which made that sort of ending desirable has passed. However, today another convention,—the quiet ending,—might make it possible to end this same play with the speech just preceding the two quoted.
Potter. John Mildmay the master of this house? Emily, my dear, has your aunt been—I mean has your aunt lost her wits?
Mrs. Mildmay. No, she has found them, papa, as I have done, thanks to dear John. Ask his pardon, papa, as we have, for the cruel injustice we have done him.
Potter. Oh, certainly, if you desire it. John Mildmay, I ask your pardon—Jane and Emily say I ought; though what I have done, or what there is to ask pardon for—
Mildmay. Perhaps you’ll learn in time. But we’re forgetting dinner—Langford, will you take my wife? (He does so.) Markham, you’ll take Mrs. Sternhold?[51]
Add to this, “They all go out to dinner,” and you have one of the “quiet endings” dear to the hearts of some recent dramatists. These writers, after an act has swept to a strong emotional height, add some very quiet ending such as going out to dinner or the conventional farewells of the group assembled, as if for some reason either were more artistic than to close on the moment of strong emotion. This is bad. On the other hand, if the quiet ending carries characterization, or irony, to point the scene, act, or play, or really illustrates the meaning, this and not the absence of strong emotion or physical action is what gives both real value and genuine climax. For instance, at the end of Act I of Monsieur Poirier’s Son-in-Law, by Augier, this is the dialogue:
Enter a Servant.
Servant. Dinner is served.
Poirier. (To the Servant.) Bring up a bottle of 1811 Pomard— (To the Duke.) The year of the comet, Monsieur le duc—fifteen francs a bottle! The king drinks no better. (Aside to Verdelet.) You mustn’t drink any—neither will I!