| Lady Windermere. How horrible! I understand now what Lord Darlington meant by the imaginary instance of the couple not two years married. Oh! it can’t be true—she spoke of enormous sums of money paid to this woman. I know where Arthur keeps his bank book—in one of the drawers of that desk. I might find out by that. I will find out. (Opens drawer.) No, it is some hideous mistake. (Rises and goes C.) Some silly scandal! He loves me! He loves me! But why should I not look? I am his wife, I have a right to look! (Returns to bureau, takes out book and examines it, page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of relief.) I knew it, there is not a word of truth in this stupid story. (Puts book back in drawer. As she does so, starts and takes out another book.) A second book—private—locked! (Tries to open it but fails. Sees paper knife on bureau, and with it cuts cover from book. Begins to start at the first page.) Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400. Oh! it is true! it is true! How horrible! (Throws book on floor.)[51] | (Lady Windermere sits left
of centre, looks toward
desk, rises, starts toward
desk, hesitates centre, goes
to desk, tries drawer, hunts
for and finds key, unlocks
drawer, takes out check
book, looks over stubs, finds
nothing and is relieved,
then sees first entry.) Lady Windermere. Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400. Oh! it is true! it is true! |
ACT III.
| Lady Windermere. (Standing
by the fireplace.) Why doesn’t
he come? This waiting is horrible.
He should be here. Why
is he not here, to wake by passionate
words some fire within
me? I am cold—cold as a loveless
thing. Arthur must have
read my letter by this time. If
he cared for me, he would have
come after me, and have taken
me back by force. But he doesn’t
care. He’s entrammeled by this
woman—fascinated by her—dominated
by her. If a woman
wants to hold a man, she has
merely to appeal to what is
worst in him. We make gods of
men and they leave us. Others
make brutes of them and they
fawn and are faithful. How
hideous life is! ... Oh! it was
mad of me to come here, horribly
mad. And yet which is the
worst, I wonder, to be at the
mercy of a man who loves one,
or the wife of a man who in one’s
own house dishonors one? What
woman knows? What woman
in the whole world? But will he
love me always, this man to
whom I am giving my life?
What do I bring him? Lips that
have lost the note of joy, eyes
that are blighted by tears, chill
hands and icy heart. I bring
him nothing. I must go back—no;
I can’t go back, my letter
has put me in their power—
Arthur would not take me back!
That fatal letter! No! Lord
Darlington leaves England tomorrow.
I will go with him—I
have no choice. (Sits down for a
few moments. Then starts up and
puts on her cloak.) No, no! I
will go back, let Arthur do with
me what he pleases. I can’t wait
here. It has been madness my
coming. I must go at once. As
for Lord Darlington—Oh! here
he is! What shall I do? What
can I say to him? Will he let me
go away at all? I have heard
that men are brutal, horrible.
... Oh! (Hides her face in her
hands.) Enter Mrs. Erlynne, L.[52] | (Lady Windermere discovered at fireplace, L., crosses to chair, L. of C., takes cloak from chair, puts cloak on crossing to door U.L., stops, decides to stay, crosses to R. of D.C. Enter Mrs. Erlynne.) |
Soliloquy when a character is left alone on the stage is a perfect illustration of the difference between permanent and ephemeral technique. As a device for easy exposition, it has been popular from the beginning of drama till recently. Now, though one may use it in a rough draft, a technique which is likely to become permanent in this respect forces us to go over this draft, cutting soliloquy to mere action and the few exclamations which the character might utter under the circumstances. Soliloquy has no such permanent place in technique as have preliminary exposition, suspense, and climax. Soliloquy, when other people are on the stage and known by the speaker to be listening is also absurd. It is because of this fact that the dramatic or psychologic monologue, the form taken by a very large portion of Browning’s voluminous poetry, breaks down if we attempt to stage it. “Some speaker is made to reveal his character, and, sometimes, by reflection, or directly, the character of some one else—to set forth some subtle and complex soul-mood, some supreme, all-determining movement or experience of a life, or, it may be, to ratiocinate subtly on some curious question of theology, morals, philosophy, or art. Now it is in strictly preserving the monologue character that obscurity often results. A monologue often begins with a startling abruptness, and the reader must read along some distance before he gathers what the beginning means. Take the monologue of Fra Lippo Lippi for example. The situation is necessarily left more or less unexplained. The poet says nothing in propria persona, and no reply is made to the speaker by the person or persons addressed. Sometimes a look, a gesture or a remark must be supposed on the part of the one addressed, which occasions a responsive remark. Sometimes a speaker imputes a question, and the reader is sometimes obliged to stop and consider whether a question is imputed by the speaker to the one he is addressing, or is a direct question of his own. This is often the case throughout The Ring and the Book.”[53]
Giuseppe Caponsacchi. Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means