The second act in this play for tenderness and truth has not been surpassed in any American play. A daring thing exquisitely done was that holiest of confidences between husband and wife. The vast audience sat hushed as death before that touching, almost sacred scene, as they do when sitting before some great tragedy.
What does this mean, if not that our dramatists have been too distrustful of the public? They have gone round the earth in search of material for plays, not knowing that the most moving of all life is that which lies closest at hand, after all.
Mrs. Herne's acting of Mary Miller was my first realization of the compelling power of truth. It was so utterly opposed to the "tragedy of the legitimate." Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living. No noise, no contortions of face or limbs, yet somehow I was made to feel the dumb, inarticulate, interior agony of a mother. Never before had such acting faced me across the footlights. The fourth act was like one of Millet's paintings, with that mysterious quality of reserve--the quality of life again.
In this play, as in _Hearts of Oak_, there was no villain and no plot. The scene was laid in a fishing village near Gloucester. I can do no better than to give you a taste of the quaint second act.
It is Christmas eve and Jack and Mary have been married a year. Jack is preparing to go out. Mary is secretly disturbed over his going but hides it. "Mother" sits by the fire knitting. Mary is sewing by the window.
_Jack._ Say, Mary! D'you know, I can shave myself better'n any barber thet ever honed a razor?
_Mary._ I always told you you could, Jack, if you'd only try.
_Jack._ Feel my face now--ain't it as smooth as any baby's?
_Mary._ (_Feeling his face._) Yes, Jack, as smooth as any _old_ baby's.
_Jack._ Oh! say, look here now, thet ain't fair; a feller don't know nothin' till he's forty, does he, mother? Old baby's! (_sitting on the arm of Mary's chair_) I ain't too old to love you, Mary, that's one thing. I've loved you ever since you was knee-high to a grasshopper. I rocked you in y'r cradle--I'm blessed if I didn't make the cradle you was rocked in, didn't I, mother?
_Mother._ Yes, Jack, an' d'ye remember what yeh made it out of?