Transcript of Alice Sit-by-the-Fire
ACT I of Alice Sit by the Fire by J .M. Barrie Dramatis Personae Amy Gray Red by Jen Broda Cosmo Gray David Purdy Ginevra Dunbar Red by Grace Whirly Brass Fanny Red by Sandra Nurse Red by Sonia Mrs. Gray Alice Red by Dawn Sutton Colonel Robert Gray Red by caveat Steve Rollo Red by Adrian Stevens Richardson Red by T .J. Burns Stage Directions Red by Todd Alice Sit by the Fire Act I One would like to peep covertly into Amy's diary, octavo with the word Amy in gold letters wandering across the soft brown leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a deer. To take such a liberty and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as they often invite you to do in novels, which, however, are much more coquettish things and plays, would be very helpful to us. We should learn at once what sort of girl Amy is, and why today finds her washing her hair. We should also get proof, or otherwise, that we are interpreting her all right, for it is our desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings about herself. Not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book, to be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept—in the lower drawer of that hand -painted escoture. Some time in the night, Amy, waking up, wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to make sure. On these occasions, she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, rereading the peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday, so we could peep over her shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure our hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It cannot be that. Because the novel is a do -it. It is because, in a play, we must tell nothing that is not revealed by the spoken words. You must find out all you want to know from them. There is no weather even in plays nowadays, except in melodrama. The novelist can have sixteen chapters about the hero's grandparents, but we cannot even say he had any unless he says it himself. There can be no rummaging in the past for us to show what sort of people our characters are. We are allowed only to present them as they toe the mark. Then the handkerchief falls, and off they go. So now we know why we must not spy into Amy's diary. Perhaps we have not always been such sticklers for the etiquette of the thing, but we are always sticklers on Thursdays, and this is a Thursday. As you are to be shown Amy's room, we are permitted to describe it, though not to tell, which would be