It was not a case for cold analytic judgment. It was not an occasion when long-haired critics could draw a diagram, and prate learnedly of “technique” and other topics that often make critics such insensate bores. “A Light from St. Agnes” was recognized intuitively as great. The soul of an audience never makes a mistake, though the brain frequently errs. A brain might perhaps prove that this play was artistically admirable, but the soul reached that conclusion instantly and unreasoningly. The effect was marvelous.
I wonder if you quite grasp my meaning. You know there are some things that refuse to be reduced to diagram form. They decline to answer to the call of a, b and c. They won’t be x’d and y’d algebraically. Very material people of course rebel at this. They want everything cut and dried. They would dissect the soul with a scalpel, and reduce psychic effects to the medium of pounds and ounces. That is what certain reviewers tried to do with “A Light from St. Agnes.”
Their material eyes saw that the end of the little play was murder; that its motive was a sacrilegious robbery—the theft of a diamond cross from the body of a woman lying dead in a church; that the man was a drink-besotted ruffian; that the woman was his illicit partner; that the atmosphere was assuredly brutal. Material eyes saw all this. Material senses reasoned that, given all these qualities, such a play must be horrible, and unduly strenuous. But intuition set all this reasoning awry. You see, intuition doesn’t reason; it knows. It is better to know than to reason. Get a dozen people to prove to you that “A Light from St. Agnes” was a dismal and unnecessary tragedy. Oh, they might be able to do it. Then go and see it, and you will understand precisely what I am driving at.
Plays that appeal to intuition are the most wonderful offerings that the theater can make. Nothing can stay their effect; nobody can successfully argue against them. Rare indeed they are. When some playwright, as the result of a genuine emotion, makes a drama, in the sheer delight of that emotion, and with a disregard for conventionality, and no hope of box-office approval—then you get a work of art. Incidentally, I may remark that such a work of art is so irresistible that it literally forces the box office to tinkle. It would be a pity if it didn’t.
The scene of “A Light from St. Agnes” is laid in a Louisiana village called Bon Hilaire. Michel and Toinette occupy a rude hut, in the vicinity of St. Agnes’ Church. The light from the church sometimes irradiates the sordid, loathsome room. In fact, Toinette places her couch in such a position that the light may shine upon her eyes, and awaken her in time to call Michel, her befuddled partner.
A woman who has tried to reform the lawless life of this section of Louisiana has died. Her body lies in the church. Toinette and Michel have both been cynically amused, in their reckless way, at her efforts, unavailing, to reform them. And she is dead! Father Bertrand visits Toinette, and tells her this. The peasant laughs. The priest gives her a crucifix that the woman left for her, and its influence—though the playwright is far too subtle even to suggest this—is the “moral” of the little play for those who want their i’s dotted and their t’s crossed.
The drama moves quickly. The drama is tragedy. Michel returns, more hopelessly intoxicated than ever. She lies on the rude couch, seeking sleep. He talks, as he plies himself with drink. The subject is the dead woman in the church of St. Agnes. Some one had placed a lily in her hand. He hopes that nobody will ever dare to place a lily in his! There are long silences; significant pauses. Through the open window he looks into the church. He sees the dead woman, laid out on a gold-embroidered cloth. On her breast is a cross of diamonds.
More long silences; more significant pauses. He must possess that diamond cross. Why not? He hated the dead woman. He would steal into the church and rob the body; nay, more, he would hurl insults at it. Toinette has the crucifix. Perhaps it is that; perhaps it is the awakening of some forgotten instinct within her. The horror of the man’s intention convulses her. There is a terrible conflict between the two. It is the very intensity of drama. The audience, wrought up, holds its breath. Then Toinette, by a ruse, escapes from the man, and, rushing from the dwelling, gives an alarm. The bells ring, in wildest chime. Michel realizes that he is trapped; that the woman has undone him. He goes after her, finds her, brings her back. He wrestles with her, forces her back upon the rude couch, and plunges his knife into her throat.
The stage is in darkness. Yet you can dimly see him hovering over the body; you watch him in a sort of fascination, as he washes the blood from his hands, and then furtively, in the silence, steals away. Toinette lies, extended on the couch, motionless—dead. From the window the light from St. Agnes creeps into the room. It is cast tenderly over Toinette’s body, which it irradiates strangely as the curtain falls slowly.
One must “describe” plays, even when in so doing one runs the risk of doing them an injustice. My recital of the story of “A Light from St. Agnes” sounds bald, as I recall the effect that the play produced. I insist that never for one moment was it “morbid” or unnecessarily horrible. It rang true, without one hysterical intonation. It was sincere, dignified, artistic, beautiful. It was admirably staged; it was acted by John Mason, William B. Mack and Fernanda Eliscu with exquisite appeal.