The Tyranny of Tears Part 1

t.i.tle: The Tyranny of Tears.

A Comedy in Four Acts.

Author: Charles Haddon Chambers.

PLEASE READ CAREFULLY.

The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Performance is strictly forbidden unless his express consent, or that of his representatives, has first been obtained, and attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any infringements of his rights, as follows:- "Sec. 4966:-Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and a.s.signs, shall be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be a.s.sessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year."-U. S. Revised Statutes, t.i.tle 60, Chap. 3.

TO.

MY MOTHER.

PERSONS CONCERNED.

Mr. Parbury.

Mr. George Gunning.

Colonel Armitage, Mrs. Parbury's father.

Mrs. Parbury.

Miss Hyacinth Woodward.

Evans, Parbury's butler.

Caroline, Mrs. Parbury's maid.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

"The Tyranny of Tears," a comedy of the emotions, is most ingeniously constructed on the simplest lines; it is a triumph of the commonplace. Played virtually by five characters, and with but one change of scene, it has that specious appearance of ease which is due to dexterity of craftsmans.h.i.+p. It is refres.h.i.+ng, free from theatrical expedients, and save perhaps for the somewhat accelerated wooing in Act Four, knots which we are accustomed to see snipped by the scissors of an erratic fate are here gently untangled by the fingers of probability. The germ of it, a matter of fortunate selection, is a human foible so universal that if a man is not conscious of it in his own proper person, he has not failed to smile over it among his neighbors: that combination of fondness and egoism out of which tyranny is legitimately born. This is the keynote; it announces itself speedily upon the raising of the curtain, and it is never for a moment after obscured by those modern subtilties calculated to provoke discussion among the elect. The hearer equipped with ordinary experience finds himself listening to it with an acquiescent stream of running comment. He knows this alphabet. It spells familiar words, and they come frequently. Here are commonplaces which he has failed perhaps to formulate; but now they flash upon the inward eye with a convincing vividness. This, he sees at once, is a picture of pink and white tyranny, the triumph of the weak. Domestic life has been caught and fixed at the culmination of a strain: one of those dramatic moments when the cord snaps because it has been for a long time fraying. One party to the contract has drawn up a code and imposed it upon his mate. The tyrant has some piquancy; she disarms suspicion because, although a despot, she is masquerading as something else. Another sort of bully we know: the buckram female, loud-voiced, militant, announcing herself, like the mosquito, by a vicious trumpeting. Invulnerability sits on her helm; her armor clanks a little while she strides. But this new tyrant wears another mien. Behold her! a soft-cheeked, gentle-handed ministrant, who would have husbands happy, provided they show the chivalrous courtesy of becoming so in woman's way. She knows the rules of the game according as her s.e.x interprets them, and it never enters her ingenuous mind that "in marriage there are two ideals to be realized." Thus does she make her gentle progress, the victim beside her crowned with garlands, but yet a victim. She is the arch destroyer, the juggernaut in muslin.

As soon, therefore, as she is recognized, there is a great p.r.i.c.king-up of ears all over the house. Few are they whose withers are unwrung. Every man among them, primed with his own warfare or that of some defeated chum, settles down to the play, and wives follow suit with a guilty sense that such things are, though "not, thank heaven! under roof of mine."

A sly humor runs through the piece like a warm-colored thread, a humor always faithful to those universal traits that make us kin. It a.s.serts itself robustly from time to time, once, for a notable instance, in the fact that Parbury is moderately well content in his fool's paradise until Gunning appears to beckon him out of it. Heretofore he has accepted his experience like a chronic indigestion or a lameness to which he was born; but now comes another man like unto himself, and welds the data of his martyrdom into a cannonball. This man generalizes, and Parbury at once perceives that husbands are not the victims of special visitation, but of an epidemic. The thing is universal. It can be cla.s.sified; it can even be attacked. He stands shoulder to shoulder with his suffering brothers, and makes his stroke for liberty.

This is everyday life and the dialogue expresses it; the lines are neither too bright nor good for any drawing-room. Here are no sky-rocketings to make the hearer gasp at the playwright's cleverness, while at the same time they accentuate the difference between his own world and the world as it glitters from the stage. It is the talk to be expected out of the mouths of admirable yet matter-of-fact persons with whom we are quite at home. This is the man you meet at any corner, who is living his life as he conceives it, and is vaguely discomfited when the pattern comes out wrong. He and his fellow puppets are related in the most intimate and delightful way to our own cousins and aunts. It is a group of sharply differentiated types: Parbury, honey-combed with something that pa.s.ses for amiability; his charming ruler; worldly-wise Gunning, fitted like a glove with amiable cynicisms; the Colonel, clad in rejuvenescence like the spring; and Miss Woodward, an original piquing to the intelligence of any actress ambitious to "create a part."

"The Tyranny of Tears" was first produced at the Criterion Theatre in London, April 6, 1899, with the following CAST OF CHARACTERS:.

Mr. Parbury Mr. Charles Wyndham Mr. George Gunning Mr. Fred Kerr Colonel Armitage Mr. Alfred Bishop Mrs. Parbury Miss Mary Moore Miss Hyacinth Woodward Miss Maude Millett The comedy made an instant and striking success, and ran to enormous business until the end of the season. It was revived on January 29, 1902, when the press, previously unstinting in its praise, greeted it with a renewed enthusiasm. The Times says of it, at this second hearing: "No English dramatist of our time has turned out more humorous or more human work than this delightful comedy. Every feeling in it is, as the French say, lived,' and every word of it tells. There is not a false note, no over-strained sentiment, no over-emphasized phrase in it from one end to the other. Wit it has in abundance, but not in superabundance-wit, that is, that obviously belongs to the speaker and does not delusively suggest the author. Truth, too, it has, but always simple, straightforward, fundamental truth, truth that comes home to men's business and bosoms, not the far-fetched truth which costs a headache to master it. . . . The Comic Spirit, as expounded by Mr. George Meredith, inhabits it. We laugh at its personages and forgive them with an intimate solace, for in forgiving them we laughingly forgive ourselves. . . . The whole tone of the play is quiet, it soothes, it provokes smiles, chuckles, gentle ripples of laughter. It is a rebuke, a kindly, playful rebuke to the wild and whirling zealots of theatrical violence. We are reminded of the praise which Matthew Arnold bestowed upon the style of Addison-perfect,' he said, in measure, balance and propriety.'"

Equally warm tributes to the comedy as an unusual work of dramatic art were accorded on its presentation, September 11, 1899, at the Empire Theatre, New York, with the following CAST OF CHARACTERS:.

Mr. Parbury Mr. John Drew Mr. George Gunning Mr. Arthur Byron Colonel Armitage Mr. Harry Harwood Mrs. Parbury Miss Isabel Irving Miss Hyacinth Woodward Miss Ida Conquest Of this performance Mr. J. Ranken Towse, in the New York Evening Post, says: "Mr. Drew played Parbury with his accustomed neatness and dexterity. . . . The play, perhaps, may not be quite highly seasoned enough with dramatic incident for the great ma.s.s of the public, but its ingenuity, its simplicity, its truthfulness and its humor will commend it strongly to connoisseurs."

It was afterwards given in the princ.i.p.al cities of the United States with Mr. Drew as the victimized husband, and met everywhere with the same enthusiastic favor. This year, 1902, the play was done into German by Bertha Pozson, and it has been given with extraordinary success throughout the German Empire.

Mr. Chambers's earlier work lay more in the direction of strong dramas such as "Captain Swift," "The Idler," and "John a' Dreams," but the comedy of these plays, especially the last, was of a character to foreshadow to some extent the praiseworthy achievement represented by "The Tyranny of Tears."

ALICE BROWN.

THE TYRANNY OF TEARS.

ACT I.

Scene.-Mr. Clement Parbury's study at his house in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath. The main entrance leading from the hall is C. A door, R., leads to the dining-room. A gla.s.s door, R.C., opens into a garden. The fireplace is C. The room is comfortably and not severely furnished. The furniture is made up of "odds and ends" selected with taste. The couch down L. is a deep and cosy one; the desk or writing-table about R.C. is a large and serviceable one. There is a smaller desk higher up, and near it on wall, R., a telephone apparatus. The apartment altogether represents the workshop of a literary man of careless good taste. There is a touch, too, of femininity in its decorations, and a portrait of Mrs. Parbury is the only picture on the walls, which otherwise are mostly hidden by bookcases.

[For a few moments before and when the curtain rises the noise of street singers is heard. Miss Woodward and Evans are discovered. Miss Woodward is dressed with severe simplicity in a costume of dark colour, with linen collar and cuffs; her dark hair is drawn back from her forehead. Her costume, being well cut, does not conceal the graceful outline of her figure. She is a handsome, innocent, yet determined-looking girl of twenty. She is at the window looking out.

Evans.

[Raising his voice above the outside singers.] They wouldn't listen to me, Miss Woodward! [Suddenly the music stops. A pause.] Ah, they've listened to Mr. Parbury! [Miss Woodward goes to desk, R., sits.] Mr. Parbury's a very masterful man-outside his house-isn't he, Miss? [Miss Woodward favours Evans with a cold stare, then resumes work at desk.] [Aside.] What an iceberg that young woman is! [Telephone bell rings.]

[Exit Evans, L.

[Miss Woodward goes to telephone and takes line.

Miss Woodward.

[Speaking into telephone-very sweetly.] Yes, are you there?-yes-who are you? Speak a little louder, please. Oh!-Well? Yes-I don't know-Mr. Parbury's just coming in now-he'll speak to you-keep the line.

[She returns to the desk.

Enter Mr. Parbury from garden. His hair is untidy; he is fl.u.s.tered and cross. He is an agreeable-looking man of about forty.

Parbury.

Thank heaven, they're gone! This house is a mistake! With the nerve force one expends in swearing at street singers one might do some good work. Make a note, please-look for house in secluded part of country. [Miss Woodward makes note.] And make a note-write Times re Street Music; suggest Local Option.

Miss Woodward.

The Sat.u.r.day Sentinel is waiting to speak to you on the telephone.

Parbury.

Oh, worrying about the article, I suppose. [Goes to telephone.] Hullo! hullo! [Gives them a ring up.] Are you there? [Crossly.] Are you there? Well? [Pause; he listens.] Oh, of course, still harping on my article. I suppose that's you, Jackson? Oh, well, if you'll keep this confounded telephone quiet, and send a man to clear the neighbourhood of street singers, you'll have a chance of receiving the copy in half-an-hour. What? All right, old man. Yes, yes. I'll send it by special messenger. Yes. Goodbye! [Rings off, and hangs up tube.] That is another mistake-that telephone.

Miss Woodward.

I was afraid you would find it so.

Parbury.

You were right! You are always right! But my wife thought it would save me a lot of correspondence and a lot of going out. [Aside, with a sigh.] I always liked going out. [Aloud.] Make a note, please-get rid of the telephone. [Miss Woodward makes note.] [Goes to top of table, R.C.] Now we'll get on, please. I've promised the article in half-an-hour. [Looks at his watch.] They go to press this afternoon.

Miss Woodward.

[Sits at desk, note-book before her.] Shall I read the last sentence?

Parbury.

Please.

Miss Woodward.

[Reading.] "The pity of it is that Mr. Theodore Bellevue seems to enjoy a positively huge contentment of his own achievement--"

Parbury.

[Thinking.] The pity of it-yes-yes, of his own achievement. Yes. [Walks the stage.] Achievement [Under his breath.] d.a.m.n the street singers! d.a.m.n the telephone! [Aloud.] What is it? Oh-ah! Contentment of his own achievement-er-er- [Dictates.] "One gathers from the complacency of his manner-[Pause]-that his iconoclasm is its own reward-" Er-"What follows in the approval of the unthinking-the applause of the uncultured-" [Pause.] What's that?

Miss Woodward.

The applause of the uncultured.

Parbury.

"Makes up-makes up-" Er- [Pulls his hair.] Er-- Enter Mrs. Parbury, L. She is a pretty, fragile, little woman of about twenty-eight, and is charmingly dressed.

Mrs. Parbury.

I'm not interrupting, am I, darling?

Parbury.

[Concealing his irritation.] No, darling, but-- Mrs. Parbury.

I'll be ever so quiet. [Comes to couch, sits L.]

Parbury.

Yes, I know, dear-but, I fear-I fear you'll be rather bored. I'm dictating an article that must be finished this afternoon-- Mrs. Parbury.

Oh, I shall like it! Go on as if I were not in the room. But oh, how tumbled your hair is. [Rises, goes to him.] I must put it straight. Then you'll be able to think better. There! Now I can see his clever forehead again! [Goes to couch and sits.]

[Parbury walks up C. and back, trying to collect his thoughts; then he looks at Mrs. Parbury with the wish in his face that she were not there; finally he goes over to Miss Woodward and speaks in a lowered voice.

Parbury.

[At top of table, R.] What was that last?

Miss Woodward.

[Reading in a lowered voice.] "What follows in the approval of the unthinking, the applause of the uncultured makes up."

Parbury.

Yes, yes. Makes up! [Fidgeting.] Makes up- [Vaguely.] What does it make up? I'm d.a.m.ned if I know what it does make up now? I've forgotten.

Miss Woodward.

[Looking up at him with discreet sympathy after a glance at Mrs. Parbury.] Shall I go back a little?

Parbury.

Please do. Cut the other; it doesn't make up anything.

Miss Woodward.

[Reading.] "One gathers from the complacency of his manner that his iconoclasm is its own reward."

Parbury.

Thanks. Where's his article?