The Arena. Volume 4, No. 23, October, 1891

They are both individualists in the sense of being for the highest and purest type of man, and the elimination of governmental control. “Truth, Liberty, and Justice,” form the motto over their door. Mr. Herne has won great distinction as a powerful and ready advocate of the single tax theory, and they are both personal valued friends of Mr. George. It is Ibsen’s individualism as well as his truth that appeals so strongly to both Mr. and Mrs. Herne. They are in deadly earnest like Ibsen, and Margaret Fleming sprang directly from their radicalism on the woman question. The home of these extraordinary people is a charged battery radiating the most advanced thought. As one friend said: “No one ever leaves this house as he came. We all go away with something new and vital to think about.”

I give these personal impressions in order that those who saw them in Margaret Fleming may know that its power was certainly a reflection of the high thought and purity of moral conviction and life which Mr. and Mrs. Herne brought to its production and its performance. It voices their love of truth in art, and freedom in life, and specifically their position on the woman question.

The story of Margaret Fleming is briefly:—

Philip Fleming is a fairly successful business man in a town near Boston. He has a devoted wife, a child just reaching its first year’s birthday. The first scene develops the situation by a conversation between Fleming and his family physician. Fleming offers a cigar which Dr. Larkin refuses.

Philip. You used to respect my cigars. (Laughing.)

Doctor. I used to respect you….

Philip. Why not, for heaven’s sake?

Doctor. Because you’ve no more moral nature than Joe Fletcher has.

Philip. Oh! come now, Doctor, that’s rather—

Doctor. (Looking sternly at him.) At two o’clock last night, Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.

Philip. (His eyes meet those of the Doctor, then drop to the floor.) How in God’s name did they come to send for you?

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Doctor. I don’t believe she’ll ever leave that bed alive.

Philip. Well, I’ve done all I can to—

Doctor. Yeh have, eh?

Philip. She’s had all the money she needed…. If she’d a’ done as I wanted her to, this never’d a’ happened. I tried to get her away six months ago, but she wouldn’t go. She was as obstinate as a mule.

Doctor. Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it? If she’d got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn’t have let her.

Philip. (With a sickly smile.) You must think I’m—

Doctor. I don’t think anything about it. I know just what such animals as you are.

Philip. Why, I haven’t seen her for a—

Doctor. Haven’ t yeh! well, then, suppose you go and see her to-day.

Philip. (Alarmed.) No, I won’t. I can’t do that!

Doctor. You will do just that.

Philip. (Showing temper.) I won’t go near her.

Doctor. (Quietly.) Yes, you will. She sha’n’t lie there and die like a dog.

Philip. You wouldn’t dare—to tell—

Doctor. I want you to go and see this girl! (They face each other.) Will yeh or won’t yeh?

Philip. (After a pause subdued.) What d’ ye want me to say to her?

Fleming had been unfaithful to his wife at the time when he should have been most devoted. The next two scenes show us Margaret in her lovely home with the baby crowing about her. Fleming, with the easy shift of such natures, has thrown off his depression, and is in good spirits the following morning. Dr. Larkin calls to warn Fleming that he had better take Margaret away at once. She has trouble with her eyes which a nervous shock might intensify. He promises to do so, but the act closes with Margaret’s departure to visit Lena Schmidt, who has sent for her. The third act takes place in Mrs. Burton’s cottage, where the girl is dying. Dr. Larkin enters, finds Mrs. Burton holding the babe in her arms. I quote the conversation as a fine example of its truth and suggestion.

Mrs. Burton. O Doctor! I didn’t hear ye knawk. Did I keep y’ waitin’?

Doctor. No. How’re the sick folks?

Mrs. Burton. Haven’t y’ seen Dr. Taylor! Didn’t he tell yeh?

Doctor. Haven’t seen him. I suppose you mean—

Mrs. Burton. Yes.

Doctor. Humph! When’d she die?

Mrs. B. ‘Bout half an hour ago.

Doctor. I had two calls on my way here. When did the change come?

Mrs. B. Ther’ wa’n’t no change t’ speak ‘f. About two hours ago, she et a nice cup o’ grule, and asked me to fix the pillers so’s her head ‘d be higher. I done it. Then she asked f’r a pensul ‘n paper, an’ she writ f’r quite some time. After that she shet her eyes an’ I thought she was asleep. She never moved till the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes ‘n smiled at him. He asked how she felt, an’ she gave a l-o-n-g sigh—an’ that was all there was to it.

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Margaret comes in and Dr. Larkin, horrified, tries in vain to get her to return. Maria, the dead girl’s sister, comes out of the bedroom, with a letter in her hand, and with barbaric ferocity turns upon Margaret. A scene of great dramatic power follows, and under the stress of her suffering, Margaret goes blind. It all ends in the flight of Fleming, and the destruction of their home. Several years later a chain of events brings wife and husband together in the office of the Boston Inspector of Police. Joe Fletcher, a street pedler, and husband of Maria, the sister of Lena Schmidt, was the means of bringing them together again. Fleming runs across Joe on the Common, and Joe takes him to see Maria. Margaret has found Maria and her child, which Maria had taken. Philip’s altercation with Maria brings them into the police office. After explanations, the inspector turns to the husband and wife, and voicing conventional morality, advises them to patch it up. “When you want me, ring that bell,” he says, and leaves them alone. There is a hush of suspense, and then Fleming, seeing the work he had wrought in the blind face before him, speaks.

Philip. Margaret!

Margaret. Well!

Philip. This is terrible

Marg. You heard the inspector. He calls it a “common case.”

Philip. Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said it.

Marg. I guess he meant it, Philip. We’ll be crowded out of his thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.

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Marg. Ah, well, it’s done now, and—

Philip. Yes, it’s done. For four years I’ve been like an escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the punishment. I’m captured at last, and without hope or fear,—I was going to say without shame,—I ask you, my judge, to pronounce my sentence.

Marg. That’s a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip…. (She hesitates.)