A Dramatic Point Page #2

"A Dramatic Point" by Robert Barr is a captivating short story that explores themes of suspense and human psychology. The narrative centers around a pivotal moment filled with tension, where characters are faced with difficult choices that reveal their true natures and motivations. Through Barr's deft storytelling, the reader is drawn into a world of intrigue, showcasing his skill in crafting dramatic tension and profound insights into the complexities of human relationships. With its engaging plot and insightful character development, the story is a thought-provoking examination of the choices that define us.

• Short story

								

smiling at the other's vehemence.

"Balmeceda is a fool," retorted the younger actor. "If he were out of
the way, the war would not last another day. I believe he is playing a
losing game, anyhow. It's a pity he hasn't to go to the front himself,
and then a stray bullet might find him and put an end to the war, which
would save the lives of many better men."

"I say, Lemoine, I wish you wouldn't talk like that," expostulated the
manager gently, "especially when there are so many listeners."

"Oh! the larger my audience, the better I like it," rejoined Lemoine.
"I have all an actor's vanity in that respect. I say what I think, and
I don't care who hears me."

"Yes, but you forget that we are, in a measure, guests of this country,
and we should not abuse our hosts, or the man who represents them."

"Ah, does he represent them? It seems to me you beg the whole question;
that's just what the war is about. The general opinion is that
Balmeceda misrepresents them, and that the country would be glad to be
rid of him."

"That may all be," said the manager almost in a whisper, for he was a
man evidently inclined towards peace; "but it does not rest with us to
say so. We are French, and I think, therefore, it is better not to
express an opinion."

"I'm not French," cried Lemoine. "I'm a native Chilian, and I have a
right to abuse my own country if I choose to do so."

"All the more reason, then," said the manager, looking timorously over
his shoulder--"all the more reason that you should be careful what you
say."

"I suppose," said Dupré, by way of putting an end to the discussion,
"it is time for us to get our war-paint on. Come along, Lemoine, and
lecture me on our common art, and stop talking politics, if the
nonsense you utter about Chili and its president is politics."

The two actors entered the theatre; they occupied the same dressing-
room, and the volatile Lemoine talked incessantly.

Although there were but few people in the stalls the gallery was well
filled, as was usually the case.

When going on for the last act in the final scene, Dupré whispered a
word to the man who controlled the falling of the curtain, and when the
actor, as the villain of the piece, received the fatal knife-thrust
from the ill-used heroine, he plunged forward on his face and died
without a struggle, to the amazement of the manager, who was watching
the play from the front of the house, and to the evident bewilderment
of the gallery, who had counted on an exciting struggle with death.

Much as they desired the cutting off of the villain, they were not
pleased to see him so suddenly shift his worlds without an agonising
realisation of the fact that he was quitting an existence in which he
had done nothing but evil. The curtain came down upon the climax, but
there was no applause, and the audience silently filtered out into the
street.

"There," said Dupré, when he returned to his dressing-room; "I hope you
are satisfied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are the only satisfied
person in the house. I fell perfectly flat, as you suggested, and you
must have seen that the climax of the play fell flat also."

"Nevertheless," persisted Lemoine, stoutly, "it was the true rendering
of the part."

As they were talking the manager came into their dressing-room. "Good
heavens, Dupré!" he said, "why did you end the piece in that idiotic
way? What on earth got into you?"

"The knife," said Dupré, flippantly. "It went directly through the
heart, and Lemoine here insists that when that happens a man should
fall dead instantly. I did it to please Lemoine."

"But you spoiled your curtain," protested the manager.

"Yes, I knew that would happen, and I told Lemoine so; but he insists
on art for art's sake. You must expostulate with Lemoine, although I
don't mind telling you both frankly that I don't intend to die in that
way again."

"Well, I hope not," replied the manager. "I don't want you to kill the
play as well as yourself, you know, Dupré."

Lemoine, whose face had by this time become restored to its normal
appearance, retorted hotly--

"It all goes to show how we are surrounded and hampered by the
traditions of the stage. The gallery wants to see a man die all over
the place, and so the victim has to scatter the furniture about and
make a fool of himself generally, when he should quietly succumb to a
well-deserved blow. You ask any physician and he will tell you that a
man stabbed or shot through the heart collapses at once. There is no
jumping-jack business in such a case. He doesn't play at leapfrog with
the chairs and sofas, but sinks instantly to the floor and is done
for."

"Come along, Lemoine," cried Dupré, putting on his coat, "and stop
talking nonsense. True art consists in a judicious blending of the
preconceived ideas of the gallery with the usual facts of the case. An
instantaneous photograph of a trotting-horse is doubtless technically
and absolutely correct, yet it is not a true picture of the animal in
motion."

"Then you admit," said Lemoine, quickly, "that I am technically correct
in what I state about the result of such a wound."

"I admit nothing," said Dupré. "I don't believe you are correct in
anything you say about the matter. I suppose the truth is that no two
men die alike under the same circumstances."

"They do when the heart is touched."

"What absurd nonsense you talk! No two men act alike when the heart is
touched in love, why then should they when it is touched in death? Come
along to the hotel, and let us stop this idiotic discussion."

"Ah!" sighed Lemoine, "you will throw your chances away. You are too
careless, Dupré; you do not study enough. This kind of thing is all
very well in Chili, but it will wreck your chances when you go to
Paris. If you studied more deeply, Dupré, you would take Paris by
storm."

"Thanks," said Dupré, lightly; "but unless the rebels take this city by
storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again. To tell the
truth, I have no heart for anything but the heroine's knife. I am sick
and tired of the situation here."

As Dupré spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly
towards the theatre. The man in charge evidently recognised them, for,
saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors. The
sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said--

"It is my duty to arrest you, sir."

"In Heaven's name, why?" asked Lemoine.

The man did not answer, but a soldier stepped to either side of
Lemoine.

"Am I under arrest also?" asked Dupré.

"No."
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