Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors (24 page)

No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance, and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance from him in the Hall.

‘See!’ cried madame pointing with her knife. ‘See the old villain bound with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!’ Madame put her knife under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.

The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of brawl, and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge’s frequent expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvelous quickness, at a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner’s head. The favour was too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him!

It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace—Madame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied—The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high perches—when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, ‘Bring him out! Bring him to the lamp!’

Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go—as a cat might have done to a mouse—and silently and composedly looked at him while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him, shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.

Exploration Points

1.
What is the contrast between the Inner Rhythm
of the citizens in Saint Antoine and the outer action in the beginning of this scene? How does the Inner Rhythm
position the people to react so quickly to Defarge’s announcement?

The outer rhythm in the beginning of the scene is quiet, slow-paced, with little occurring. Folks are sitting around, observing. Women are knitting. Yet their Inner Rhythm is fast and furious, and full of vengeance. Their blood is boiling for more action as they pride themselves on their recent victory and keenly watch for their next round of revolutionary fighting. This Inner Rhythm is displayed in the very way they sit and dress. Dickens infuses even the “raggedest nightcap” or a “lean, bare arm” with a dreadful cockiness. The women knit viciously, “with the experience that they could tear.” With deft prose, Dickens shows us that every person in the room is a bomb waiting to explode.

2.
As the crowd moves into action, their outer and Inner Rhythms converge. Here is a moment of surprising emotive action. Some women are so overcome at the mere thought of revenge that they spend themselves in fits before they can take part in fulfilling their long-awaited chance. What types of traits and mannerisms might these women have? How might their Action Objectives differ from those of the other women?

There are numerous conjectures for this answer. I imagine that these women could possess very opposite traits. Some may have a tendency toward impulsiveness and/or easily displaying emotion. These traits in themselves could lead to their “blind frenzy.” Others may usually be very self-contained and viewed as emotionally strong. But a woman such as this, who has kept herself together in spite of her loss of loved ones, may react to the news of Foulon’s arrest quite differently. Although, like the other women, her initial Action Objective may be: “To kill Foulon”, as she’s caught up in the fray, another objective could arise: “To release the pent-up emotion I’ve held inside for so long.” As a result, she falls into a “blind frenzy,” fighting against her own friends, and so spends herself that she cannot take part in killing Foulon. Dickens’ masterful understanding of the Inner Rhythm of such women lends believability and an even more chilling aura to the scene.

3.
The crowd rushes to the Hotel de Ville and sees the old man, tied and helpless. Then more surprising emotive action. They stop. For a long time they mock him, play with him. How has their Inner Rhythm changed? How does this new rhythm reflect their years of hardship?

Their Action Objective to kill Foulon has not changed. But their Inner Rhythm has slowed as a good bit of their energy has been spent in the headlong rush to find him. Again, Dickens shows his masterful understanding of human emotions. Once the revolutionaries know that Foulon—the symbol of the aristocracy, who have caused their impoverishment—is absolutely helpless in their hands, a new Action Objective arises within them: “To revel again in our long-awaited, sudden place of power.” And so they stop their headlong rush to kill in order to mock Foulon at length. They want to see him face the helplessness they’ve endured for years. He and his peers have mocked them as their loved ones died in wretchedness; now they mock him as he faces an inevitable, wretched death.

Dickens’ understanding of this Inner Rhythm led him to use a simple sun ray as the instigation for their renewed frenzy. The people of Saint Antoine are reveling in Foulon’s suddenly “dark” existence. How dare the sun shine on him! The time has come for the sun to shine only on them. The merest metaphorical hint of any ray of hope for Foulon is too much for the revolutionaries, and they swarm in for the kill. But even then they want to enjoy it, and they drag the deed out, pouring all of their past humiliation upon Foulon as they make him suffer, as he once made them suffer.

FROM: 
Over The Edge
(stand-alone suspense) by Brandilyn Collins.

SETTING: Palo Alto, California. Present day. Janessa (Jannie) McNeil is very sick with Lyme disease. She can barely walk, she’s in a lot of pain, her mind is foggy, and she stutters and pauses when talking, groping for the word she wants. Her husband, Brock, a doctor and researcher, has seemed distant for the past six months. She doesn’t know why. Now things are worse between them, as he has accused her of faking her illness and lying about a man stalking her. In this scene’s excerpt Brock comes home unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon.

“Jannie, we need to talk.”

Funny, how those words carried a kind of finality.

I edged back and closed the freezer door. Turned myself around. The bottoms of my feet sizzled, and the fatigue made me sway. I needed to sit down, but I wasn’t about to suggest it.

Brock gestured with his head. “Let’s go in the den.”

The den.
For a moment I couldn’t remember what room that was.

Brock headed into the TV room. Through the pass-through window I watched him aim for his armchair. I made my slow way out of the kitchen to the couch and sat down, trying to keep my back straight, my face calm. What was I to do with the cane? I didn’t want to rest my palms on its handle like some old dowager. I hesitated, then leaned it against a cushion so it wouldn’t fall. I didn’t want to have to bend over and retrieve it from the floor.

“What is it, Brock?” Maybe I could feign control of this conversation. “You want to discuss my f-faked illness?”

He sat, hands on his knees, his expression almost defensive. It took him a long while to respond.

“You know. Don’t you, Jannie.”

A statement, not a question.

I gave my head a tiny shake.
What?

He pulled in air. Let it out. “About Alicia.”

In drugged motion the name wafted through my brain. Alicia. One of his lab assistants.

“And me.”

My head pulled back, my eyelids weighted. I think my heart stopped beating. I fixed on my husband’s face, waiting for him to say more. To explain that it wasn’t as it sounded. The second stretched out, my fingers rubbing against my jeans, my legs heavy as logs. How strange, hearing news that could upend my life, and I was just . . . sitting there.

“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I didn’t.”

Was that a smirk that flashed? “Oh, I think you did.”

My eyes slipped closed. What was the important topic here? Not the fact that my husband was apparently doing something horrible and immoral, but that I’d
known
about it? I took a deep breath. It ransacked my lungs. “Tell you what, B-Brock, why don’t you humor me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers laced. “I was prepared to have this talk three days ago.”

Thursday—when Stalking Man first called. Well. Wasn’t that quite the fated day.

“I’m leaving, Jannie. I’m moving in with her.”

I floated to the ceiling and looked down, a detached spirit. At first my brain couldn’t grasp what I’d heard. Then vague realization filtered in. Brock’s plan to tell me three days ago. Then the weekend, Lauren staying at Katie’s rather than at home. “You were with her. This weekend.”

Brock shrugged.

“You’d planned that already?”

No answer.

What to ask next? Where to even go from here? “How old is this person?” Was I not young
enough
for him?

“That hardly matters.”

I’d seen her at last year’s Christmas function. She couldn’t be even thirty yet. A real beauty. Dark-eyed and tanned, even in winter. An insane figure, accentuated in a perfectly fitted red dress. Brock had introduced us and given her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. At the time I’d thought
my husband works with that every day
?

My thoughts wandered further back. Our marital problems started well before Christmas. That party—he’d been with her even then.

A disgusted sound puffed from my throat. “I can’t believe this.” It was so . . . Hollywood. The successful older man taking up with the younger, beautiful woman at work. I knew men really did this—all too often. But only someone else’s husband. Not mine. Never mine.

“What are you going to tell Lauren? You’re going to leave your only . . . child for someone who’s y-young enough to be your daughter?”

“Jan—”

“You’ll break Lauren’s heart. And for that I’ll break you in two!” I picked up my cane and shook it at him, like some mad old lady. I’d have laughed if the whole thing wasn’t so awful. Just look at me. Thirty-six years old and already ancient. Used up.

“Put that thing down.”

The cane slipped from my hands, the pain in my knuckles too great to hold its weight. It hit the floor with a rattle that pierced my ears. I ogled the thing, shiny and slick, my mouth ajar and sweat trickling down my spine. Despair sucked me in until I nearly fell over. I grasped the sofa cushions, steadying myself. There. There went my heart, pulsing again. Draining so much energy.

How miserable that I was sick at this moment, my anger left with no way to vent, my muscles like puddles of water.