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diff --git a/13589-h/13589-h.htm b/13589-h/13589-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7734254 --- /dev/null +++ b/13589-h/13589-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7594 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html lang="en"><!-- FIXME --> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" + content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<meta content="Microsoft FrontPage 5.0" + name="generator"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of + The Theory of the Theatre, + by Clayton Hamilton +</title> +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; } + p { text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6 { text-align: center; } + hr { width: 50%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; } + .foot { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 85%; } + .poem { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; } + .poem .stanza { margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; } + .poem p { margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; } + .poem p.i2 { margin-left: 1em; } + .poem p.i4 { margin-left: 2em; } + .poem p.i6 { margin-left: 3em; } + .poem p.i8 { margin-left: 4em; } + .poem p.i10 { margin-left: 5em; } + .toc { margin-left: 15%; font-size: 80%; margin-bottom: 0em;} + center { padding: 0.8em;} + // --> +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13589 ***</div> + +<br> +<br> + +<h1> + THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE +</h1> +<center> + <h2>AND OTHER PRINCIPLES OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM </h2> +</center> +<center><b> + BY +</b></center> +<center> +<h2><b> + CLAYTON HAMILTON +</b></h2> +</center> +<center> + AUTHOR OF "MATERIALS AND METHODS OF FICTION" +</center> +<center> + NEW YORK +</center> +<center> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY +</center> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <i>Published April, 1910</i> +</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h3> + <i>Uniform with This Volume</i> +</h3> +<h3> + Studies in Stagecraft +</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <i>By</i> CLAYTON HAMILTON +</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <i>Second Printing</i> +</p> +<p> + CONTENT: The New Art of Making Plays. The Pictorial Stage. The Decorative + Drama. The Drama of Illusion. The Modern Art of Stage Direction. A Plea for + a New Type of Play. The Period of Pragmatism. The Undramatic Drama. The + Value of Stage Conventions. The Supernatural Drama. The Irish National + Theatre. The Personality of the Playwright. Themes and Stories of the + Stage. Plausibility in Plays. Infirmity of Purpose. Where to Begin a Play. + Continuity of Structure. Rhythm and Tempo. The Plays of Yesteryear. A New + Defense of Melodrama. The Art of the Moving-Picture Play. The One-Act Play + in America. Organizing an Audience. The Function of Dramatic Criticism. +</p> +<p> + <i>$1.50 net</i> +</p> +<center> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY +</center> +<center> + NEW YORK + <p> </p> + <hr> +</center> +<a name="2H_4_0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + + +<h3> + TO +</h3> +<h3> + BRANDER MATTHEWS +</h3> +<center> + MENTOR AND FRIEND +</center> +<center> + WHO FIRST AWAKENED MY CRITICAL INTEREST IN THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE + <p> </p> + <hr> +</center> + +<h2> + PREFACE +</h2> +<p> + Most of the chapters which make up the present volume have already + appeared, in earlier versions, in certain magazines; and to the editors of + <i>The Forum</i>, <i>The North American Review</i>, <i>The Smart Set</i>, and <i>The + Bookman</i>, I am indebted for permission to republish such materials as I + have culled from my contributions to their pages. Though these papers were + written at different times and for different immediate circles of + subscribers, they were all designed from the outset to illustrate certain + steady central principles of dramatic criticism; and, thus collected, they + afford, I think, a consistent exposition of the most important points in + the theory of the theatre. The introductory chapter, entitled <i>What is a + Play?</i>, has not, in any form, appeared in print before; and all the other + papers have been diligently revised, and in many passages entirely + rewritten. +</p> +<center> + C.H. +</center> +<center> + NEW YORK CITY: 1910. +</center> + + + + +<hr> +<a name="2H_TOC"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + CONTENTS +</h2> + <p style="text-indent: 0em"><a href="#2H_4_0004">THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE</a><br> + <br> + <a href="#2H_4_0005">I. WHAT IS A PLAY? 3 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0006">II. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THEATRE AUDIENCES 30 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0007">III. THE ACTOR AND THE DRAMATIST 59 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0008">IV. STAGE CONVENTIONS IN MODERN TIMES 73 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0009">V. ECONOMY OF ATTENTION IN THEATRICAL + PERFORMANCES 95 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0010">VI. EMPHASIS IN THE DRAMA 112 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0011">VII. THE FOUR LEADING TYPES OF DRAMA 127 </a> +<br> +<a href="#2H_4_0012">VIII. THE MODERN SOCIAL DRAMA 133</a></p> +<p> +<br> +<br> +<a href="#2H_4_0013">OTHER PRINCIPLES OF DRAMATIC +CRITICISM</a><br> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"><a href="#2H_4_0014">I. THE PUBLIC AND THE DRAMATIST 153 +</a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0015">II. DRAMATIC ART AND THE THEATRE BUSINESS 161 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0016">III. THE HAPPY ENDING IN THE THEATRE 169 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0017">IV. THE BOUNDARIES OF APPROBATION 175 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0018">V. IMITATION AND SUGGESTION IN THE DRAMA 179 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0019">VI. HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO NATURE 184 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0020">VII. BLANK VERSE ON THE CONTEMPORARY STAGE 193 </a> +<br> +<a href="#2H_4_0021">VIII. DRAMATIC LITERATURE AND THEATRIC JOURNALISM 199 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0022">IX. THE INTENTION OF PERMANENCE 207 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0023">X. THE QUALITY OF NEW ENDEAVOR 212 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0024">XI. THE EFFECT OF PLAYS UPON THE PUBLIC 217 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0025">XII. PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS 222 </a> +<br> +<a href="#2H_4_0026">XIII. THEMES IN THE THEATRE 228 </a> +<br> + <a href="#2H_4_0027">XIV. THE FUNCTION OF IMAGINATION 233</a></p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"><a href="#2H_4_0028">INDEX 241 +</a> +<br> +<br> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +</p> + + +<hr> +<p style="text-indent: 0em; text-align:center"> </p> + + +<h2> + <a name="page003"></a>THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE</h2> + + +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + I +</h2> +<h3> + WHAT IS A PLAY? +</h3> +<p> + </p> +<p> + A play is a story devised to be presented by actors on a stage before an + audience. +</p> +<p> + This plain statement of fact affords an exceedingly simple definition of + the drama,—a definition so simple indeed as to seem at the first glance + easily obvious and therefore scarcely worthy of expression. But if we + examine the statement thoroughly, phrase by phrase, we shall see that it + sums up within itself the entire theory of the theatre, and that from this + primary axiom we may deduce the whole practical philosophy of dramatic + criticism. +</p> +<p> + It is unnecessary to linger long over an explanation of the word "story." A + story is a representation of a series of events linked together by the law + of cause and effect and marching forward toward a predestined + culmination,—each event exhibiting imagined characters performing imagined + acts in an appropriate imagined setting. This <a name="page004"></a>definition applies, of + course, to the epic, the ballad, the novel, the short-story, and all other + forms of narrative art, as well as to the drama. +</p> +<p> + But the phrase "devised to be presented" distinguishes the drama sharply + from all other forms of narrative. In particular it must be noted that a + play is not a story that is written to be read. By no means must the drama + be considered primarily as a department of literature,—like the epic or + the novel, for example. Rather, from the standpoint of the theatre, should + literature be considered as only one of a multitude of means which the + dramatist must employ to convey his story effectively to the audience. The + great Greek dramatists needed a sense of sculpture as well as a sense of + poetry; and in the contemporary theatre the playwright must manifest the + imagination of the painter as well as the imagination of the man of + letters. The appeal of a play is primarily visual rather than auditory. On + the contemporary stage, characters properly costumed must be exhibited + within a carefully designed and painted setting illuminated with + appropriate effects of light and shadow; and the art of music is often + called upon to render incidental aid to the general impression. The + dramatist, therefore, must be endowed not only with the literary sense, but + also with a clear eye for the graphic and plastic elements of pictorial + effect, a sense of rhythm and <a name="page005"></a>of music, and a thorough knowledge of the + art of acting. Since the dramatist must, at the same time and in the same + work, harness and harmonise the methods of so many of the arts, it would be + uncritical to centre studious consideration solely on his dialogue and to + praise him or condemn him on the literary ground alone. +</p> +<p> + It is, of course, true that the very greatest plays have always been great + literature as well as great drama. The purely literary element—the final + touch of style in dialogue—is the only sure antidote against the opium of + time. Now that Aeschylus is no longer performed as a playwright, we read + him as a poet. But, on the other hand, we should remember that the main + reason why he is no longer played is that his dramas do not fit the modern + theatre,—an edifice totally different in size and shape and physical + appointments from that in which his pieces were devised to be presented. In + his own day he was not so much read as a poet as applauded in the theatre + as a playwright; and properly to appreciate his dramatic, rather than his + literary, appeal, we must reconstruct in our imagination the conditions of + the theatre in his day. The point is that his plays, though planned + primarily as drama, have since been shifted over, by many generations of + critics and literary students, into the adjacent province of poetry; and + this shift of the critical point of view, which has insured the + <a name="page006"></a>immortality of Aeschylus, has been made possible only by the literary + merit of his dialogue. When a play, owing to altered physical conditions, + is tossed out of the theatre, it will find a haven in the closet only if it + be greatly written. From this fact we may derive the practical maxim that + though a skilful playwright need not write greatly in order to secure the + plaudits of his own generation, he must cultivate a literary excellence if + he wishes to be remembered by posterity. +</p> +<p> + This much must be admitted concerning the ultimate importance of the + literary element in the drama. But on the other hand it must be granted + that many plays that stand very high as drama do not fall within the range + of literature. A typical example is the famous melodrama by Dennery + entitled <i>The Two Orphans</i>. This play has deservedly held the stage for + nearly a century, and bids fair still to be applauded after the youngest + critic has died. It is undeniably a very good play. It tells a thrilling + story in a series of carefully graded theatric situations. It presents + nearly a dozen acting parts which, though scarcely real as characters, are + yet drawn with sufficient fidelity to fact to allow the performers to + produce a striking illusion of reality during the two hours' traffic of the + stage. It is, to be sure—especially in the standard English + translation—abominably written. One of the two orphans launches + <a name="page007"></a>wide-eyed + upon a soliloquy beginning, "Am I mad?... Do I dream?"; and such sentences + as the following obtrude themselves upon the astounded ear,—"If you + persist in persecuting me in this heartless manner, I shall inform the + police." Nothing, surely, could be further from literature. Yet thrill + after thrill is conveyed, by visual means, through situations artfully + contrived; and in the sheer excitement of the moment, the audience is made + incapable of noticing the pompous mediocrity of the lines. +</p> +<p> + In general, it should be frankly understood by students of the theatre that + an audience is not capable of hearing whether the dialogue of a play is + well or badly written. Such a critical discrimination would require an + extraordinary nicety of ear, and might easily be led astray, in one + direction or the other, by the reading of the actors. The rhetoric of + Massinger must have sounded like poetry to an Elizabethan audience that had + heard the same performers, the afternoon before, speaking lines of + Shakespeare's. If Mr. Forbes-Robertson is reading a poorly-written part, it + is hard to hear that the lines are, in themselves, not musical. Literary + style is, even for accomplished critics, very difficult to judge in the + theatre. Some years ago, Mrs. Fiske presented in New York an English + adaptation of Paul Heyse's <i>Mary of Magdala</i>. After the first + performance—at which I <a name="page008"></a>did not happen to be present—I asked several + cultivated people who had heard the play whether the English version was + written in verse or in prose; and though these people were themselves + actors and men of letters, not one of them could tell me. Yet, as appeared + later, when the play was published, the English dialogue was written in + blank verse by no less a poet than Mr. William Winter. If such an + elementary distinction as that between verse and prose was in this case + inaudible to cultivated ears, how much harder must it be for the average + audience to distinguish between a good phrase and a bad! The fact is that + literary style is, for the most part, wasted on an audience. The average + auditor is moved mainly by the emotional content of a sentence spoken on + the stage, and pays very little attention to the form of words in which the + meaning is set forth. At Hamlet's line, "Absent thee from felicity a + while"—which Matthew Arnold, with impeccable taste, selected as one of his + touchstones of literary style—the thing that really moves the audience in + the theatre is not the perfectness of the phrase but the pathos of Hamlet's + plea for his best friend to outlive him and explain his motives to a world + grown harsh. +</p> +<p> + That the content rather than the literary turn of dialogue is the thing + that counts most in the theatre will be felt emphatically if we compare + <a name="page009"></a>the mere writing of Molière with that of his successor and imitator, + Regnard. Molière is certainly a great writer, in the sense that he + expresses clearly and precisely the thing he has to say; his verse, as well + as his prose, is admirably lucid and eminently speakable. But assuredly, in + the sense in which the word is generally used, Molière is not a poet; and + it may fairly be said that, in the usual connotation of the term, he has no + style. Regnard, on the other hand, is more nearly a poet, and, from the + standpoint of style, writes vastly better verse. He has a lilting fluency + that flowers every now and then into a phrase of golden melody. Yet Molière + is so immeasurably his superior as a playwright that most critics + instinctively set Regnard far below him even as a writer. There can be no + question that M. Rostand writes better verse than Emile Augier; but there + can be no question, also, that Augier is the greater dramatist. Oscar Wilde + probably wrote more clever and witty lines than any other author in the + whole history of English comedy; but no one would think of setting him in + the class with Congreve and Sheridan. +</p> +<p> + It is by no means my intention to suggest that great writing is not + desirable in the drama; but the point must be emphasised that it is not a + necessary element in the immediate merit of a play <i>as a play</i>. In fact, + excellent plays have often been presented without the use of any words at + all. <a name="page010"></a>Pantomime has, in every age, been recognised as a legitimate + department of the drama. Only a few years ago, Mme. Charlotte Wiehe acted + in New York a one-act play, entitled <i>La Main</i>, which held the attention + enthralled for forty-five minutes during which no word was spoken. The + little piece told a thrilling story with entire clearness and coherence, + and exhibited three characters fully and distinctly drawn; and it secured + this achievement by visual means alone, with no recourse whatever to the + spoken word. Here was a work which by no stretch of terminology could have + been included in the category of literature; and yet it was a very good + play, and <i>as drama</i> was far superior to many a literary masterpiece in + dialogue like Browning's <i>In a Balcony</i>. +</p> +<p> + Lest this instance seem too exceptional to be taken as representative, let + us remember that throughout an entire important period in the history of + the stage, it was customary for the actors to improvise the lines that they + spoke before the audience. I refer to the period of the so-called <i>commedia + dell'arte</i>, which flourished all over Italy throughout the sixteenth + century. A synopsis of the play—partly narrative and partly + expository—was posted up behind the scenes. This account of what was to + happen on the stage was known technically as a <i>scenario</i>. The actors + consulted this scenario before they made an entrance, <a name="page011"></a>and then in the + acting of the scene spoke whatever words occurred to them. Harlequin made + love to Columbine and quarreled with Pantaloon in new lines every night; + and the drama gained both spontaneity and freshness from the fact that it + was created anew at each performance. Undoubtedly, if an actor scored with + a clever line, he would remember it for use in a subsequent presentation; + and in this way the dialogue of a comedy must have gradually become more or + less fixed and, in a sense, written. But this secondary task of formulating + the dialogue was left to the performers; and the playwright contented + himself with the primary task of planning the plot. +</p> +<p> + The case of the <i>commedia dell'arte</i> is, of course, extreme; but it + emphasises the fact that the problem of the dramatist is less a task of + writing than a task of constructing. His primary concern is so to build a + story that it will tell itself to the eye of the audience in a series of + shifting pictures. Any really good play can, to a great extent, be + appreciated even though it be acted in a foreign language. American + students in New York may find in the Yiddish dramas of the Bowery an + emphatic illustration of how closely a piece may be followed by an auditor + who does not understand the words of a single line. The recent + extraordinary development in the art of the moving picture, especially in + France, has taught us that many <a name="page012"></a>well-known plays may be presented in + pantomime and reproduced by the kinetoscope, with no essential loss of + intelligibility through the suppression of the dialogue. Sardou, as + represented by the biograph, is no longer a man of letters; but he remains, + scarcely less evidently than in the ordinary theatre, a skilful and + effective playwright. <i>Hamlet</i>, that masterpiece of meditative poetry, + would still be a good play if it were shown in moving pictures. Much, of + course, would be sacrificed through the subversion of its literary element; + but its essential interest <i>as a play</i> would yet remain apparent through + the unassisted power of its visual appeal. +</p> +<p> + There can be no question that, however important may be the dialogue of a + drama, the scenario is even more important; and from a full scenario alone, + before a line of dialogue is written, it is possible in most cases to + determine whether a prospective play is inherently good or bad. Most + contemporary dramatists, therefore, postpone the actual writing of their + dialogue until they have worked out their scenario in minute detail. They + begin by separating and grouping their narrative materials into not more + than three or four distinct pigeon-holes of time and place,—thereby + dividing their story roughly into acts. They then plan a stage-setting for + each act, employing whatever accessories may be necessary for the action. + If <a name="page013"></a>papers are to be burned, they introduce a fireplace; if somebody is to + throw a pistol through a window, they set the window in a convenient and + emphatic place; they determine how many chairs and tables and settees are + demanded for the narrative; if a piano or a bed is needed, they place it + here or there upon the floor-plan of their stage, according to the + prominence they wish to give it; and when all such points as these have + been determined, they draw a detailed map of the stage-setting for the act. + As their next step, most playwrights, with this map before them, and using + a set of chess-men or other convenient concrete objects to represent their + characters, move the pieces about upon the stage through the successive + scenes, determine in detail where every character is to stand or sit at + nearly every moment, and note down what he is to think and feel and talk + about at the time. Only after the entire play has been planned out thus + minutely does the average playwright turn back to the beginning and + commence to write his dialogue. He completes his primary task of + play-making before he begins his secondary task of play-writing. Many of + our established dramatists,—like the late Clyde Fitch, for example—sell + their plays when the scenario is finished, arrange for the production, + select the actors, and afterwards write the dialogue with the chosen actors + constantly in mind. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page014"></a>This summary statement of the usual process may seem, perhaps, to cast + excessive emphasis on the constructive phase of the playwright's problem; + and allowance must of course be made for the divergent mental habits of + individual authors. But almost any playwright will tell you that he feels + as if his task were practically finished when he arrives at the point when + he finds himself prepared to begin the writing of his dialogue. This + accounts for the otherwise unaccountable rapidity with which many of the + great plays of the world have been written. Dumas <i>fils</i> retired to the + country and wrote <i>La Dame aux Camélias</i>—a four-act play—in eight + successive days. But he had previously told the same story in a novel; he + knew everything that was to happen in his play; and the mere writing could + be done in a single headlong dash. Voltaire's best tragedy, <i>Zaïre</i>, was + written in three weeks. Victor Hugo composed <i>Marion Delorme</i> between June + 1 and June 24, 1829; and when the piece was interdicted by the censor, he + immediately turned to another subject and wrote <i>Hernani</i> in the next three + weeks. The fourth act of <i>Marion Delorme</i> was written in a single day. Here + apparently was a very fever of composition. But again we must remember that + both of these plays had been devised before the author began to write them; + and when he took his pen in hand he had already been working on them in + <a name="page015"></a>scenario for probably a year. To write ten acts in Alexandrines, with + feminine rhymes alternating with masculine, was still, to be sure, an + appalling task; but Hugo was a facile and prolific poet, and could write + very quickly after he had determined exactly what it was he had to write. +</p> +<p> + It was with all of the foregoing points in mind that, in the opening + sentence of this chapter, I defined a play as a story "devised," rather + than a story "written." We may now consider the significance of the next + phrase of that definition, which states that a play is devised to be + "presented," rather than to be "read." +</p> +<p> + The only way in which it is possible to study most of the great plays of + bygone ages is to read the record of their dialogue; and this necessity has + led to the academic fallacy of considering great plays primarily as + compositions to be read. In their own age, however, these very plays which + we now read in the closet were intended primarily to be presented on the + stage. Really to read a play requires a very special and difficult exercise + of visual imagination. It is necessary not only to appreciate the dialogue, + but also to project before the mind's eye a vivid imagined rendition of the + visual aspect of the action. This is the reason why most managers and + stage-directors are unable to judge conclusively the merits and defects of + a new play from reading it in manuscript. One of <a name="page016"></a>our most subtle artists + in stage-direction, Mr. Henry Miller, once confessed to the present writer + that he could never decide whether a prospective play was good or bad until + he had seen it rehearsed by actors on a stage. Mr. Augustus Thomas's + unusually successful farce entitled <i>Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots</i> was + considered a failure by its producing managers until the very last + rehearsals, because it depended for its finished effect on many intricate + and rapid intermovements of the actors, which until the last moment were + understood and realised only in the mind of the playwright. The same + author's best and most successful play, <i>The Witching Hour</i>, was declined + by several managers before it was ultimately accepted for production; and + the reason was, presumably, that its extraordinary merits were not manifest + from a mere reading of the lines. If professional producers may go so far + astray in their judgment of the merits of a manuscript, how much harder + must it be for the layman to judge a play solely from a reading of the + dialogue! +</p> +<p> + This fact should lead the professors and the students in our colleges to + adopt a very tentative attitude toward judging the dramatic merits of the + plays of other ages. Shakespeare, considered as a poet, is so immeasurably + superior to Dryden, that it is difficult for the college student unfamiliar + with the theatre to realise that the former's <i>Antony <a name="page017"> + </a>and Cleopatra</i> is, + considered solely as a play, far inferior to the latter's dramatisation of + the same story, entitled <i>All for Love, or The World Well Lost</i>. + Shakespeare's play upon this subject follows closely the chronology of + Plutarch's narrative, and is merely dramatised history; but Dryden's play + is reconstructed with a more practical sense of economy and emphasis, and + deserves to be regarded as historical drama. <i>Cymbeline</i> is, in many + passages, so greatly written that it is hard for the closet-student to + realise that it is a bad play, even when considered from the standpoint of + the Elizabethan theatre,—whereas <i>Othello</i> and <i>Macbeth</i>, for instance, + are great plays, not only of their age but for all time. <i>King Lear</i> is + probably a more sublime poem than <i>Othello</i>; and it is only by seeing the + two pieces performed equally well in the theatre that we can appreciate by + what a wide margin <i>Othello</i> is the better play. +</p> +<p> + This practical point has been felt emphatically by the very greatest + dramatists; and this fact offers, of course, an explanation of the + otherwise inexplicable negligence of such authors as Shakespeare and + Molière in the matter of publishing their plays. These supreme playwrights + wanted people to see their pieces in the theatre rather than to read them + in the closet. In his own lifetime, Shakespeare, who was very scrupulous + about the publication of his sonnets and his narrative poems, printed + <a name="page018"></a>a + carefully edited text of his plays only when he was forced, in + self-defense, to do so, by the prior appearance of corrupt and pirated + editions; and we owe our present knowledge of several of his dramas merely + to the business acumen of two actors who, seven years after his death, + conceived the practical idea that they might turn an easy penny by printing + and offering for sale the text of several popular plays which the public + had already seen performed. Sardou, who, like most French dramatists, began + by publishing his plays, carefully withheld from print the master-efforts + of his prime; and even such dramatists as habitually print their plays + prefer nearly always to have them seen first and read only afterwards. +</p> +<p> + In elucidation of what might otherwise seem perversity on the part of great + dramatic authors like Shakespeare, we must remember that the + master-dramatists have nearly always been men of the theatre rather than + men of letters, and therefore naturally more avid of immediate success with + a contemporary audience than of posthumous success with a posterity of + readers. Shakespeare and Molière were actors and theatre-managers, and + devised their plays primarily for the patrons of the Globe and the Palais + Royal. Ibsen, who is often taken as a type of the literary dramatist, + derived his early training mainly from the profession of the theatre and + hardly at all from the profession <a name="page019"></a>of letters. For half a dozen years, + during the formative period of his twenties, he acted as producing manager + of the National Theatre in Bergen, and learned the tricks of his trade from + studying the masterpieces of contemporary drama, mainly of the French + school. In his own work, he began, in such pieces as <i>Lady Inger of + Ostråt</i>, by imitating and applying the formulas of Scribe and the earlier + Sardou; and it was only after many years that he marched forward to a + technique entirely his own. Both Sir Arthur Wing Pinero and Mr. Stephen + Phillips began their theatrical career as actors. On the other hand, men of + letters who have written works primarily to be read have almost never + succeeded as dramatists. In England, during the nineteenth century, the + following great poets all tried their hands at plays—Scott, Southey, + Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Browning, Mrs. Browning, + Matthew Arnold, Swinburne, and Tennyson—and not one of them produced a + work of any considerable value from the standpoint of dramatic criticism. + Tennyson, in <i>Becket</i>, came nearer to the mark than any of the others; and + it is noteworthy that, in this work, he had the advantage of the advice + and, in a sense, collaboration of Sir Henry Irving. +</p> +<p> + The familiar phrase "closet-drama" is a contradiction of terms. The species + of literary composition in dialogue that is ordinarily so designated + <a name="page020"></a>occupies a thoroughly legitimate position in the realm of literature, but + no position whatsoever in the realm of dramaturgy. <i>Atalanta in Calydon</i> is + a great poem; but from the standpoint of the theory of the theatre, it + cannot be considered as a play. Like the lyric poems of the same author, it + was written to be read; and it was not devised to be presented by actors on + a stage before an audience. +</p> +<p> + We may now consider the significance of the three concluding phrases of the + definition of a play which was offered at the outset of the present + chapter. These phrases indicate the immanence of three influences by which + the work of the playwright is constantly conditioned. +</p> +<p> + In the first place, by the fact that the dramatist is devising his story + for the use of actors, he is definitely limited both in respect to the kind + of characters he may create and in respect to the means he may employ in + order to delineate them. In actual life we meet characters of two different + classes, which (borrowing a pair of adjectives from the terminology of + physics) we may denominate <a name="page021"></a>dynamic characters and static characters. But + when an actor appears upon the stage, he wants to act; and the dramatist is + therefore obliged to confine his attention to dynamic characters, and to + exclude static characters almost entirely from the range of his creation. + The essential trait of all dynamic characters is the preponderance within + them of the element of will; and the persons of a play must therefore be + people with active wills and emphatic intentions. When such people are + brought into juxtaposition, there necessarily results a clash of contending + desires and purposes; and by this fact we are led logically to the + conclusion that the proper subject-matter of the drama is a struggle + between contrasted human wills. The same conclusion, as we shall notice in + the next chapter, may be reached logically by deduction from the natural + demands of an assembled audience; and the subject will be discussed more + fully during the course of our study of <i>The Psychology of Theatre + Audiences</i>. At present it is sufficient for us to note that every great + play that has ever been devised has presented some phase or other of this + single, necessary theme,—a contention of individual human wills. An actor, + moreover, is always more effective in scenes of emotion than in scenes of + cold logic and calm reason; and the dramatist, therefore, is obliged to + select as his leading figures people whose acts are motivated by emotion + rather than by intellect. Aristotle, for example, would make a totally + uninteresting figure if he were presented faithfully upon the stage. Who + could imagine Darwin as the hero of a drama? Othello, on the other hand, is + not at all a reasonable being; from first to last his intellect is + "perplexed in the <a name="page022"></a>extreme." His emotions are the motives for his acts; and + in this he may be taken as the type of a dramatic character. +</p> +<p> + In the means of delineating the characters he has imagined, the dramatist, + because he is writing for actors, is more narrowly restricted than the + novelist. His people must constantly be doing something, and must therefore + reveal themselves mainly through their acts. They may, of course, also be + delineated through their way of saying things; but in the theatre the + objective action is always more suggestive than the spoken word. We know + Sherlock Holmes, in Mr. William Gillette's admirable melodrama, solely + through the things that we have seen him do; and in this connection we + should remember that in the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from which + Mr. Gillette derived his narrative material, Holmes is delineated largely + by a very different method,—the method, namely, of expository comment + written from the point of view of Doctor Watson. A leading actor seldom + wants to sit in his dressing-room while he is being talked about by the + other actors on the stage; and therefore the method of drawing character by + comment, which is so useful for the novelist, is rarely employed by the + playwright except in the waste moments which precede the first entrance of + his leading figure. The Chorus Lady, in Mr. James Forbes's amusing study of + that name, is <a name="page023"></a>drawn chiefly through her way of saying things; but though + this method of delineation is sometimes very effective for an act or two, + it can seldom be sustained without a faltering of interest through a + full-grown four-act play. The novelist's expedient of delineating character + through mental analysis is of course denied the dramatist, especially in + this modern age when the soliloquy (for reasons which will be noted in a + subsequent chapter) is usually frowned upon. Sometimes, in the theatre, a + character may be exhibited chiefly through his personal effect upon the + other people on the stage, and thereby indirectly on the people in the + audience. It was in this way, of course, that Manson was delineated in Mr. + Charles Rann Kennedy's <i>The Servant in the House</i>. But the expedient is a + dangerous one for the dramatist to use; because it makes his work + immediately dependent on the actor chosen for the leading role, and may in + many cases render his play impossible of attaining its full effect except + at the hands of a single great performer. In recent years an expedient long + familiar in the novel has been transferred to the service of the + stage,—the expedient, namely, of suggesting the personality of a character + through a visual presentation of his habitual environment. After the + curtain had been raised upon the first act of <i>The Music Master</i>, and the + audience had been given time to look about the room which was + <a name="page024"></a>represented + on the stage, the main traits of the leading character had already been + suggested before his first appearance on the scene. The pictures and + knickknacks on his mantelpiece told us, before we ever saw him, what manner + of man he was. But such subtle means as this can, after all, be used only + to reinforce the one standard method of conveying the sense of character in + drama; and this one method, owing to the conditions under which the + playwright does his work, must always be the exhibition of objective acts. +</p> +<p> + In all these general ways the work of the dramatist is affected by the fact + that he must devise his story to be presented by actors. The specific + influence exerted over the playwright by the individual performer is a + subject too extensive to be covered by a mere summary consideration in the + present context; and we shall therefore discuss it fully in a later + chapter, entitled <i>The Actor and the Dramatist</i>. +</p> +<p> + At present we must pass on to observe that, in the second place, the work + of the dramatist is conditioned by the fact that he must plan his plays to + fit the sort of theatre that stands ready to receive them. A fundamental + and necessary relation has always existed between theatre-building and + theatric art. The best plays of any period have been fashioned in + accordance with the physical conditions of the best theatres of that + period. <a name="page025"></a>Therefore, in order fully to appreciate such a play as <i>Oedipus + King</i>, it is necessary to imagine the theatre of Dionysus; and in order to + understand thoroughly the dramaturgy of Shakespeare and Molière, it is + necessary to reconstruct in retrospect the altered inn-yard and the + converted tennis-court for which they planned their plays. It may seriously + be doubted that the works of these earlier masters gain more than they lose + from being produced with the elaborate scenic accessories of the modern + stage; and, on the other hand, a modern play by Ibsen or Pinero would lose + three-fourths of its effect if it were acted in the Elizabethan manner, or + produced without scenery (let us say) in the Roman theatre at Orange. +</p> +<p> + Since, in all ages, the size and shape and physical appointments of the + theatre have determined for the playwright the form and structure of his + plays, we may always explain the stock conventions of any period of the + drama by referring to the physical aspect of the theatre in that period. + Let us consider briefly, for purposes of illustration, certain obvious ways + in which the art of the great Greek tragic dramatists was affected by the + nature of the Attic stage. The theatre of Dionysus was an enormous edifice + carved out of a hillside. It was so large that the dramatists were obliged + to deal only with subjects that were traditional,—stories which had long + been familiar to the entire <a name="page026"></a>theatre-going public, including the poorer and + less educated spectators who sat farthest from the actors. Since most of + the audience was grouped above the stage and at a considerable distance, + the actors, in order not to appear dwarfed, were obliged to walk on stilted + boots. A performer so accoutred could not move impetuously or enact a scene + of violence; and this practical limitation is sufficient to account for the + measured and majestic movement of Greek tragedy, and the convention that + murders and other violent deeds must always be imagined off the stage and + be merely recounted to the audience by messengers. Facial expression could + not be seen in so large a theatre; and the actors therefore wore masks, + conventionalised to represent the dominant mood of a character during a + scene. This limitation forced the performer to depend for his effect mainly + on his voice; and Greek tragedy was therefore necessarily more lyrical than + later types of drama. +</p> +<p> + The few points which we have briefly touched upon are usually explained, by + academic critics, on literary grounds; but it is surely more sane to + explain them on grounds of common sense, in the light of what we know of + the conditions of the Attic stage. Similarly, it would be easy to show how + Terence and Calderon, Shakespeare and Molière, adapted the form of their + plays to the form of their theatres; but enough has already + <a name="page027"></a>been said to + indicate the principle which underlies this particular phase of the theory + of the theatre. The successive changes in the physical aspect of the + English theatre during the last three centuries have all tended toward + greater naturalness, intimacy, and subtlety, in the drama itself and in the + physical aids to its presentment. This progress, with its constant + illustration of the interdependence of the drama and the stage, may most + conveniently be studied in historical review; and to such a review we shall + devote a special chapter, entitled <i>Stage Conventions in Modern Times</i>. +</p> +<p> + We may now observe that, in the third place, the essential nature of the + drama is affected greatly by the fact that it is destined to be set before + an audience. The dramatist must appeal at once to a heterogeneous multitude + of people; and the full effect of this condition will be investigated in a + special chapter on <i>The Psychology of Theatre Audiences</i>. In an important + sense, the audience is a party to the play, and collaborates with the + actors in the presentation. This fact, which remains often unappreciated by + academic critics, is familiar to everyone who has had any practical + association with the theatre. It is almost never possible, even for trained + dramatic critics, to tell from a final dress-rehearsal in an empty house + which scenes of a new play are fully effective and which are not; and the + reason why, in America, new plays <a name="page028"></a>are tried out on the road is not so much + to give the actors practice in their parts, as to determine, from the + effect of the piece upon provincial audiences, whether it is worthy of a + metropolitan presentation. The point is, as we shall notice in the next + chapter, that since a play is devised for a crowd it cannot finally be + judged by individuals. +</p> +<p> + The dependence of the dramatist upon his audience may be illustrated by the + history of many important plays, which, though effective in their own age, + have become ineffective for later generations, solely because they were + founded on certain general principles of conduct in which the world has + subsequently ceased to believe. From the point of view of its own period, + <i>The Maid's Tragedy</i> of Beaumont and Fletcher is undoubtedly one of the + very greatest of Elizabethan plays; but it would be ineffective in the + modern theatre, because it presupposes a principle which a contemporary + audience would not accept. It was devised for an audience of aristocrats in + the reign of James I, and the dramatic struggle is founded upon the + doctrine of the divine right of kings. Amintor, in the play, has suffered a + profound personal injury at the hands of his sovereign; but he cannot + avenge this individual disgrace, because he is a subject of the royal + malefactor. The crisis and turning-point of the entire drama is a scene in + which <a name="page029"></a>Amintor, with the king at his mercy, lowers his sword with the + words:— +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> But there is<br> + Divinity about you, that strikes dead<br> + My rising passions: as you are my king,<br> + I fall before you, and present my sword<br> + To cut mine own flesh, if it be your will. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + We may imagine the applause of the courtiers of James Stuart, the + Presumptuous; but never since the Cromwellian revolution has that scene + been really effective on the English stage. In order fully to appreciate a + dramatic struggle, an audience must sympathise with the motives that + occasion it. +</p> +<p> + It should now be evident, as was suggested at the outset, that all the + leading principles of the theory of the theatre may be deduced logically + from the axiom which was stated in the first sentence of this chapter; and + that axiom should constantly be borne in mind as the basis of all our + subsequent discussions. But in view of several important points which have + already come up for consideration, it may be profitable, before + relinquishing our initial question, to redefine a play more fully in the + following terms:— +</p> +<p> + A play is a representation, by actors, on a stage, before an audience, of a + struggle between individual human wills, motivated by emotion rather than + by intellect, and expressed in terms of objective action. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page030"></a>II +</h2> +<h3> + THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THEATRE AUDIENCES +</h3> +<center> + I +</center> +<p> + The drama is the only art, excepting oratory and certain forms of music, + that is designed to appeal to a crowd instead of to an individual. The + lyric poet writes for himself, and for such selected persons here and there + throughout the world as may be wisely sympathetic enough to understand his + musings. The essayist and the novelist write for a reader sitting alone in + his library: whether ten such readers or a hundred thousand ultimately read + a book, the writer speaks to each of them apart from all the others. It is + the same with painting and with sculpture. Though a picture or a statue may + be seen by a limitless succession of observers, its appeal is made always + to the individual mind. But it is different with a play. Since a drama is, + in essence, a story devised to be presented by actors on a stage before an + audience, it must necessarily be designed to appeal at once to a multitude + of people. We have to be alone in order to appreciate the <i>Venus of Melos</i> + or the <i>Sistine Madonna</i> <a name="page031"></a>or the <i>Ode to a Nightingale</i> or the <i>Egoist</i> or + the <i>Religio Medici</i>; but who could sit alone in a wide theatre and see + <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i> performed? The sympathetic presence of a multitude of + people would be as necessary to our appreciation of the play as solitude in + all the other cases. And because the drama must be written for a crowd, it + must be fashioned differently from the other, and less popular, forms of + art. +</p> +<p> + No writer is really a dramatist unless he recognises this distinction of + appeal; and if an author is not accustomed to writing for the crowd, he can + hardly hope to make a satisfying play. Tennyson, the perfect poet; + Browning, the master of the human mind; Stevenson, the teller of enchanting + tales:—each of them failed when he tried to make a drama, because the + conditions of his proper art had schooled him long in writing for the + individual instead of for the crowd. A literary artist who writes for the + individual may produce a great work of literature that is cast in the + dramatic form; but the work will not be, in the practical sense, a play. + <i>Samson Agonistes</i>, <i>Faust</i>, <i>Pippa Passes</i>, <i>Peer Gynt</i>, and the early + dream-dramas of Maurice Maeterlinck, are something else than plays. They + are not devised to be presented by actors on a stage before an audience. As + a work of literature, <i>A Blot in the 'Scutcheon</i> is immeasurably greater + than <i>The Two Orphans</i>; but as a <a name="page032"></a>play, it is immeasurably less. For even + though, in this particular piece, Browning did try to write for the theatre + (at the suggestion of Macready), he employed the same intricately + intellectual method of character analysis that has made many of his poems + the most solitude-compelling of modern literary works. Properly to + appreciate his piece, you must be alone, just as you must be alone to read + <i>A Woman's Last Word</i>. It is not written for a crowd; <i>The Two Orphans</i>, + less weighty in wisdom, is. The second is a play. +</p> +<p> + The mightiest masters of the drama—Sophocles, Shakespeare, and + Molière—have recognised the popular character of its appeal and written + frankly for the multitude. The crowd, therefore, has exercised a potent + influence upon the dramatist in every era of the theatre. One person the + lyric poet has to please,—himself; to a single person only, or an + unlimited succession of single persons, does the novelist address himself, + and he may choose the sort of person he will write for; but the dramatist + must always please the many. His themes, his thoughts, his emotions, are + circumscribed by the limits of popular appreciation. He writes less freely + than any other author; for he cannot pick his auditors. Mr. Henry James + may, if he choose, write novels for the super-civilised; but a crowd is + never super-civilised, and therefore characters like those of Mr. James + could never be <a name="page033"></a>successfully presented in the theatre. <i>Treasure Island</i> is + a book for boys, both young and old; but a modern theatre crowd is composed + largely of women, and the theme of such a story could scarcely be + successful on the stage. +</p> +<p> + In order, therefore, to understand the limitations of the drama as an art, + and clearly to define its scope, it is necessary to inquire into the + psychology of theatre audiences. This subject presents two phases to the + student. First, a theatre audience exhibits certain psychological traits + that are common to all crowds, of whatever kind,—a political convention, + the spectators at a ball-game, or a church congregation, for example. + Second, it exhibits certain other traits which distinguish it from other + kinds of crowds. These, in turn, will be considered in the present chapter. +</p> +<center> + II +</center> +<p> + By the word <i>crowd</i>, as it is used in this discussion, is meant a multitude + of people whose ideas and feelings have taken a set in a certain single + direction, and who, because of this, exhibit a tendency to lose their + individual self-consciousness in the general self-consciousness of the + multitude. Any gathering of people for a specific purpose—whether of + action or of worship or of amusement—tends to become, because of this + purpose, a <i>crowd</i>, in the scientific sense. Now, a crowd has + <a name="page034"></a>a mind of + its own, apart from that of any of its individual members. The psychology + of the crowd was little understood until late in the nineteenth century, + when a great deal of attention was turned to it by a group of French + philosophers. The subject has been most fully studied by M. Gustave Le Bon, + who devoted some two hundred pages to his <i>Psychologie des Foules</i>. + According to M. Le Bon, a man, by the mere fact that he forms a factor of a + crowd, tends to lose consciousness of those mental qualities in which he + differs from his fellows, and becomes more keenly conscious than before of + those other mental qualities in which he is at one with them. The mental + qualities in which men differ from one another are the acquired qualities + of intellect and character; but the qualities in which they are at one are + the innate basic passions of the race. A crowd, therefore, is less + intellectual and more emotional than the individuals that compose it. It is + less reasonable, less judicious, less disinterested, more credulous, more + primitive, more partisan; and hence, as M. Le Bon cleverly puts it, a man, + by the mere fact that he forms a part of an organised crowd, is likely to + descend several rungs on the ladder of civilisation. Even the most cultured + and intellectual of men, when he forms an atom of a crowd, tends to lose + consciousness of his acquired mental qualities and to revert to his primal + simplicity and sensitiveness of mind. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page035"></a>The dramatist, therefore, because he writes for a crowd, writes for a + comparatively uncivilised and uncultivated mind, a mind richly human, + vehement in approbation, emphatic in disapproval, easily credulous, eagerly + enthusiastic, boyishly heroic, and somewhat carelessly unthinking. Now, it + has been found in practice that the only thing that will keenly interest a + crowd is a struggle of some sort or other. Speaking empirically, the late + Ferdinand Brunetière, in 1893, stated that the drama has dealt always with + a struggle between human wills; and his statement, formulated in the + catch-phrase, "No struggle, no drama," has since become a commonplace of + dramatic criticism. But, so far as I know, no one has yet realised the main + reason for this, which is, simply, that characters are interesting to a + crowd only in those crises of emotion that bring them to the grapple. A + single individual, like the reader of an essay or a novel, may be + interested intellectually in those gentle influences beneath which a + character unfolds itself as mildly as a water-lily; but to what Thackeray + called "that savage child, the crowd," a character does not appeal except + in moments of contention. There never yet has been a time when the theatre + could compete successfully against the amphitheatre. Plautus and Terence + complained that the Roman public preferred a gladiatorial combat to their + plays; a bear-baiting or a cock-fight used to empty <a name="page036"></a>Shakespeare's theatre + on the Bankside; and there is not a matinée in town to-day that can hold + its own against a foot-ball game. Forty thousand people gather annually + from all quarters of the East to see Yale and Harvard meet upon the field, + while such a crowd could not be aggregated from New York alone to see the + greatest play the world has yet produced. For the crowd demands a fight; + and where the actual exists, it will scarcely be contented with the + semblance. +</p> +<p> + Hence the drama, to interest at all, must cater to this longing for + contention, which is one of the primordial instincts of the crowd. It must + present its characters in some struggle of the wills, whether it be + flippant, as in the case of Benedick and Beatrice; or delicate, as in that + of Viola and Orsino; or terrible, with Macbeth; or piteous, with Lear. The + crowd is more partisan than the individual; and therefore, in following + this struggle of the drama, it desires always to take sides. There is no + fun in seeing a foot-ball game unless you care about who wins; and there is + very little fun in seeing a play unless the dramatist allows you to throw + your sympathies on one side or the other of the struggle. Hence, although + in actual life both parties to a conflict are often partly right and partly + wrong, and it is hard to choose between them, the dramatist usually + simplifies the struggle in his plays by throwing the balance of right + <a name="page037"></a>strongly on one side. Hence, from the ethical standpoint, the simplicity + of theatre characters. Desdemona is all innocence, Iago all deviltry. Hence + also the conventional heroes and villains of melodrama,—these to be hissed + and those to be applauded. Since the crowd is comparatively lacking in the + judicial faculty and cannot look upon a play from a detached and + disinterested point of view, it is either all for or all against a + character; and in either case its judgment is frequently in defiance of the + rules of reason. It will hear no word against Camille, though an individual + would judge her to be wrong, and it has no sympathy with Père Duval. It + idolizes Raffles, who is a liar and a thief; it shuts its ears to Marion + Allardyce, the defender of virtue in <i>Letty</i>. It wants its sympathetic + characters, to love; its antipathetic characters, to hate; and it hates and + loves them as unreasonably as a savage or a child. The trouble with <i>Hedda + Gabler</i> as a play is that it contains not a single personage that the + audience can love. The crowd demands those so-called "sympathetic" parts + that every actor, for this reason, longs to represent. And since the crowd + is partisan, it wants its favored characters to win. Hence the convention + of the "happy ending," insisted on by managers who feel the pulse of the + public. The blind Louise, in <i>The Two Orphans</i>, will get her sight back, + never fear. Even the wicked Oliver, <a name="page038"></a>in <i>As You Like It</i>, must turn over a + new leaf and marry a pretty girl. +</p> +<p> + Next to this prime instinct of partisanship in watching a contention, one + of the most important traits in the psychology of crowds is their extreme + credulity. A crowd will nearly always believe anything that it sees and + almost anything that it is told. An audience composed entirely of + individuals who have no belief in ghosts will yet accept the Ghost in + <i>Hamlet</i> as a fact. Bless you, they have <i>seen</i> him! The crowd accepts the + disguise of Rosalind, and never wonders why Orlando does not recognise his + love. To this extreme credulity of the crowd is due the long line of plays + that are founded on mistaken identity,—farces like <i>The Comedy of Errors</i> + and melodramas like <i>The Lyons Mail</i>, for example. The crowd, too, will + accept without demur any condition precedent to the story of a play, + however impossible it might seem to the mind of the individual. Oedipus + King has been married to his mother many years before the play begins; but + the Greek crowd forbore to ask why, in so long a period, the enormity had + never been discovered. The central situation of <i>She Stoops to Conquer</i> + seems impossible to the individual mind, but is eagerly accepted by the + crowd. Individual critics find fault with Thomas Heywood's lovely old play, + <i>A Woman Killed with Kindness</i>, on the ground that though Frankford's noble + forgiveness <a name="page039"></a>of his erring wife is beautiful to contemplate, Mrs. + Frankford's infidelity is not sufficiently motivated, and the whole story, + therefore, is untrue. But Heywood, writing for the crowd, said frankly, "If + you will grant that Mrs. Frankford was unfaithful, I can tell you a lovely + story about her husband, who was a gentleman worth knowing: otherwise there + can't be any story"; and the Elizabethan crowd, eager for the story, was + willing to oblige the dramatist with the necessary credulity. +</p> +<p> + There is this to be said about the credulity of an audience, however,—that + it will believe what it sees much more readily than what it hears. It might + not believe in the ghost of Hamlet's father if the ghost were merely spoken + of and did not walk upon the stage. If a dramatist would convince his + audience of the generosity or the treachery of one character or another, he + should not waste words either praising or blaming the character, but should + present him to the eye in the performance of a generous or treacherous + action. The audience <i>hears</i> wise words from Polonius when he gives his + parting admonition to his son; but the same audience <i>sees</i> him made a fool + of by Prince Hamlet, and will not think him wise. +</p> +<p> + The fact that a crowd's eyes are more keenly receptive than its ears is the + psychologic basis for the maxim that in the theatre action speaks louder + than words. It also affords a reason why plays <a name="page040"></a>of which the audience does + not understand a single word are frequently successful. Mme. Sarah + Bernhardt's thrilling performance of <i>La Tosca</i> has always aroused + enthusiasm in London and New York, where the crowd, as a crowd, could not + understand the language of the play. +</p> +<p> + Another primal characteristic of the mind of the crowd is its + susceptibility to emotional contagion. A cultivated individual reading <i>The + School for Scandal</i> at home alone will be intelligently appreciative of its + delicious humor; but it is difficult to imagine him laughing over it aloud. + Yet the same individual, when submerged in a theatre crowd, will laugh + heartily over this very play, largely because other people near him are + laughing too. Laughter, tears, enthusiasm, all the basic human emotions, + thrill and tremble through an audience, because each member of the crowd + feels that he is surrounded by other people who are experiencing the same + emotion as his own. In the sad part of a play it is hard to keep from + weeping if the woman next to you is wiping her eyes; and still harder is it + to keep from laughing, even at a sorry jest, if the man on the other side + is roaring in vociferous cachinnation. Successful dramatists play upon the + susceptibility of a crowd by serving up raw morsels of crude humor and + pathos for the unthinking to wheeze and blubber over, knowing that these + members of the audience will excite <a name="page041"></a>their more phlegmatic neighbors by + contagion. The practical dictum that every laugh in the first act is worth + money in the box-office is founded on this psychologic truth. Even puns as + bad as Mr. Zangwill's are of value early in a play to set on some quantity + of barren spectators and get the house accustomed to a titter. Scenes like + the foot-ball episodes in <i>The College Widow</i> and <i>Strongheart</i>, or the + battle in <i>The Round Up</i>, are nearly always sure to raise the roof; for it + is usually sufficient to set everybody on the stage a-cheering in order to + make the audience cheer too by sheer contagion. Another and more classical + example was the speechless triumph of Henry V's return victorious, in + Richard Mansfield's sumptuous production of the play. Here the audience + felt that he was every inch a king; for it had caught the fervor of the + crowd upon the stage. +</p> +<p> + This same emotional contagion is, of course, the psychologic basis for the + French system of the <i>claque</i>, or band of hired applauders seated in the + centre of the house. The leader of the <i>claque</i> knows his cues as if he + were an actor in the piece, and at the psychologic moment the <i>claqueurs</i> + burst forth with their clatter and start the house applauding. Applause + begets applause in the theatre, as laughter begets laughter and tears beget + tears. +</p> +<p> + But not only is the crowd more emotional than <a name="page042"></a>the individual; it is also + more sensuous. It has the lust of the eye and of the ear,—the savage's + love of gaudy color, the child's love of soothing sound. It is fond of + flaring flags and blaring trumpets. Hence the rich-costumed processions of + the Elizabethan stage, many years before the use of scenery; and hence, in + our own day, the success of pieces like <i>The Darling of the Gods</i> and <i>The + Rose of the Rancho</i>. Color, light, and music, artistically blended, will + hold the crowd better than the most absorbing story. This is the reason for + the vogue of musical comedy, with its pretty girls, and gaudy shifts of + scenery and lights, and tricksy, tripping melodies and dances. +</p> +<p> + Both in its sentiments and in its opinions, the crowd is comfortably + commonplace. It is, as a crowd, incapable of original thought and of any + but inherited emotion. It has no speculation in its eyes. What it feels was + felt before the flood; and what it thinks, its fathers thought before it. + The most effective moments in the theatre are those that appeal to basic + and commonplace emotions,—love of woman, love of home, love of country, + love of right, anger, jealousy, revenge, ambition, lust, and treachery. So + great for centuries has been the inherited influence of the Christian + religion that any adequate play whose motive is self-sacrifice is almost + certain to succeed. Even when the self-sacrifice is unwise and ignoble, as + <a name="page043"></a>in the first act of <i>Frou-Frou</i>, the crowd will give it vehement approval. + Countless plays have been made upon the man who unselfishly assumes + responsibility for another's guilt. The great tragedies have familiar + themes,—ambition in <i>Macbeth</i>, jealousy in <i>Othello</i>, filial ingratitude + in <i>Lear</i>; there is nothing in these motives that the most unthinking + audience could fail to understand. No crowd can resist the fervor of a + patriot who goes down scornful before many spears. Show the audience a flag + to die for, or a stalking ghost to be avenged, or a shred of honor to + maintain against agonizing odds, and it will thrill with an enthusiasm as + ancient as the human race. Few are the plays that can succeed without the + moving force of love, the most familiar of all emotions. These themes do + not require that the audience shall think. +</p> +<p> + But for the speculative, the original, the new, the crowd evinces little + favor. If the dramatist holds ideas of religion, or of politics, or of + social law, that are in advance of his time, he must keep them to himself + or else his plays will fail. Nimble wits, like Mr. Shaw, who scorn + tradition, can attain a popular success only through the crowd's inherent + love of fads; they cannot long succeed when they run counter to inherited + ideas. The great successful dramatists, like Molière and Shakespeare, have + always thought with the crowd on all essential questions. Their views of + religion, <a name="page044"></a>of morality, of politics, of law, have been the views of the + populace, nothing more. They never raise questions that cannot quickly be + answered by the crowd, through the instinct of inherited experience. No + mind was ever, in the philosophic sense, more commonplace than that of + Shakespeare. He had no new ideas. He was never radical, and seldom even + progressive. He was a careful money-making business man, fond of food and + drink and out-of-doors and laughter, a patriot, a lover, and a gentleman. + Greatly did he know things about people; greatly, also, could he write. But + he accepted the religion, the politics, and the social ethics of his time, + without ever bothering to wonder if these things might be improved. +</p> +<p> + The great speculative spirits of the world, those who overturn tradition + and discover new ideas, have had minds far different from this. They have + not written plays. It is to these men,—the philosopher, the essayist, the + novelist, the lyric poet,—that each of us turns for what is new in + thought. But from the dramatist the crowd desires only the old, old + thought. It has no patience for consideration; it will listen only to what + it knows already. If, therefore, a great man has a new doctrine to expound, + let him set it forth in a book of essays; or, if he needs must sugar-coat + it with a story, let him expound it in a novel, whose appeal will be to the + individual mind. Not until a doctrine is old <a name="page045"></a>enough to have become + generally accepted is it ripe for exploitation in the theatre. +</p> +<p> + This point is admirably illustrated by two of the best and most successful + plays of recent seasons. <i>The Witching Hour</i>, by Mr. Augustus Thomas, and + <i>The Servant in the House</i>, by Mr. Charles Rann Kennedy, were both praised + by many critics for their "novelty"; but to me one of the most significant + and instructive facts about them is that neither of them was, in any real + respect, novel in the least. Consider for a moment the deliberate and + careful lack of novelty in the ideas which Mr. Thomas so skilfully set + forth. What Mr. Thomas really did was to gather and arrange as many as + possible of the popularly current thoughts concerning telepathy and cognate + subjects, and to tell the public what they themselves had been wondering + about and thinking during the last few years. The timeliness of the play + lay in the fact that it was produced late enough in the history of its + subject to be selectively resumptive, and not nearly so much in the fact + that it was produced early enough to forestall other dramatic presentations + of the same materials. Mr. Thomas has himself explained, in certain + semi-public conversations, that he postponed the composition of this + play—on which his mind had been set for many years—until the general + public had become sufficiently accustomed to the ideas which he intended to + set <a name="page046"></a>forth. Ten years before, this play would have been novel, and would + undoubtedly have failed. When it was produced, it was not novel, but resumptive, in its thought; and therefore it succeeded. For one of the + surest ways of succeeding in the theatre is to sum up and present + dramatically all that the crowd has been thinking for some time concerning + any subject of importance. The dramatist should be the catholic collector + and wise interpreter of those ideas which the crowd, in its conservatism, + feels already to be safely true. +</p> +<p> + And if <i>The Servant In the House</i> will—as I believe—outlive <i>The Witching + Hour</i>, it will be mainly because, in the author's theme and his ideas, it + is older by many, many centuries. The theme of Mr. Thomas's play—namely, + that thought is in itself a dynamic force and has the virtue and to some + extent the power of action—is, as I have just explained, not novel, but is + at least recent in the history of thinking. It is a theme which dates + itself as belonging to the present generation, and is likely to lose + interest for the next. But Mr. Kennedy's theme—namely, that when + discordant human beings ascend to meet each other in the spirit of + brotherly love, it may truly be said that God is resident among them—is at + least as old as the gentle-hearted Galilean, and, being dateless, belongs + to future generations as well as to the present. Mr. Thomas has been + <a name="page047"></a>skilfully resumptive of a passing period of popular thought; but Mr. + Kennedy has been resumptive on a larger scale, and has built his play upon + the wisdom of the centuries. Paradoxical as it may seem, the very reason + why <i>The Servant in the House</i> struck so many critics as being strange and + new is that, in its thesis and its thought, it is as old as the world. +</p> +<p> + The truth of this point seems to me indisputable. I know that the best + European playwrights of the present day are striving to use the drama as a + vehicle for the expression of advanced ideas, especially in regard to + social ethics; but in doing this, I think, they are mistaking the scope of + the theatre. They are striving to say in the drama what might be said + better in the essay or the novel. As the exposition of a theory, Mr. Shaw's + <i>Man and Superman</i> is not nearly so effective as the writings of + Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, from whom the playwright borrowed his ideas. + The greatest works of Ibsen can be appreciated only by the cultured + individual and not by the uncultured crowd. That is why the breadth of his + appeal will never equal that of Shakespeare, in spite of his unfathomable + intellect and his perfect mastery of the technique of his art. Only his + more commonplace plays—<i>A Doll's House</i>, for example—have attained a wide + success. And a wide success is a thing to be desired for other than + material reasons. Surely it is <a name="page048"></a>a good thing for the public that <i>Hamlet</i> + never fails. +</p> +<p> + The conservatism of the greatest dramatists asserts itself not only in + their thoughts but even in the mere form of their plays. It is the lesser + men who invent new tricks of technique and startle the public with + innovations. Molière merely perfected the type of Italian comedy that his + public long had known. Shakespeare quietly adopted the forms that lesser + men had made the crowd familiar with. He imitated Lyly in <i>Love's Labour's + Lost</i>, Greene in <i>As You Like It</i>, Marlowe in <i>Richard III</i>, Kyd in + <i>Hamlet</i>, and Fletcher in <i>The Tempest</i>. He did the old thing better than + the other men had done it,—that is all. +</p> +<p> + Yet this is greatly to Shakespeare's credit. He was wise enough to feel + that what the crowd wanted, both in matter and in form, was what was needed + in the greatest drama. In saying that Shakespeare's mind was commonplace, I + meant to tender him the highest praise. In his commonplaceness lies his + sanity. He is so greatly <i>usual</i> that he can understand all men and + sympathise with them. He is above novelty. His wisdom is greater than the + wisdom of the few; he is the heir of all the ages, and draws his wisdom + from the general mind of man. And it is largely because of this that he + represents ever the ideal of the dramatist. He who <a name="page049"></a>would write for the + theatre must not despise the crowd. +</p> +<center> + III +</center> +<p> + All of the above-mentioned characteristics of theatre audiences, their + instinct for contention and for partisanship, their credulity, their + sensuousness, their susceptibility to emotional contagion, their incapacity + for original thought, their conservatism, and their love of the + commonplace, appear in every sort of crowd, as M. Le Bon has proved with + ample illustration. It remains for us to notice certain traits in which + theatre audiences differ from other kinds of crowds. +</p> +<p> + In the first place, a theatre audience is composed of individuals more + heterogeneous than those that make up a political, or social, or sporting, + or religious convocation. The crowd at a foot-ball game, at a church, at a + social or political convention, is by its very purpose selective of its + elements: it is made up entirely of college-folk, or Presbyterians, or + Prohibitionists, or Republicans, as the case may be. But a theatre audience + is composed of all sorts and conditions of men. The same theatre in New + York contains the rich and the poor, the literate and the illiterate, the + old and the young, the native and the naturalised. The same play, + therefore, must appeal to all of these. It follows that the dramatist must + be broader in his <a name="page050"></a>appeal than any other artist. He cannot confine his + message to any single caste of society. In the same single work of art he + must incorporate elements that will interest all classes of humankind. +</p> +<p> + Those promising dramatic movements that have confined their appeal to a + certain single stratum of society have failed ever, because of this, to + achieve the highest excellence. The trouble with Roman comedy is that it + was written for an audience composed chiefly of freedmen and slaves. The + patrician caste of Rome walked wide of the theatres. Only the dregs of + society gathered to applaud the comedies of Plautus and Terence. Hence the + oversimplicity of their prologues, and their tedious repetition of the + obvious. Hence, also, their vulgarity, their horse-play, their obscenity. + Here was fine dramatic genius led astray, because the time was out of + joint. Similarly, the trouble with French tragedy, in the classicist period + of Corneille and Racine, is that it was written only for the finest caste + of society,—the patrician coterie of a patrician cardinal. Hence its + over-niceness, and its appeal to the ear rather than to the eye. Terence + aimed too low and Racine aimed too high. Each of them, therefore, shot wide + of the mark; while Molière, who wrote at once for patrician and plebeian, + scored a hit. +</p> +<p> + The really great dramatic movements of the world—that of Spain in the age + of Calderon and <a name="page051"></a>Lope, that of England in the spacious times of great + Elizabeth, that of France from 1830 to the present hour—have broadened + their appeal to every class. The queen and the orange-girl joyed together + in the healthiness of Rosalind; the king and the gamin laughed together at + the rogueries of Scapin. The breadth of Shakespeare's appeal remains one of + the most significant facts in the history of the drama. Tell a filthy-faced + urchin of the gutter that you know about a play that shows a ghost that + stalks and talks at midnight underneath a castle-tower, and a man that + makes believe he is out of his head so that he can get the better of a + wicked king, and a girl that goes mad and drowns herself, and a play within + the play, and a funeral in a churchyard, and a duel with poisoned swords, + and a great scene at the end in which nearly every one gets killed: tell + him this, and watch his eyes grow wide! I have been to a thirty-cent + performance of <i>Othello</i> in a middle-western town, and have felt the + audience thrill with the headlong hurry of the action. Yet these are the + plays that cloistered students study for their wisdom and their style! +</p> +<p> + And let us not forget, in this connection, that a similar breadth of appeal + is neither necessary nor greatly to be desired in those forms of literature + that, unlike the drama, are not written for the crowd. The greatest + non-dramatic poet and the <a name="page052"></a>greatest novelist in English are appreciated + only by the few; but this is not in the least to the discredit of Milton + and of Meredith. One indication of the greatness of Mr. Kipling's story, + <i>They</i>, is that very few have learned to read it. +</p> +<p> + Victor Hugo, in his preface to <i>Ruy Blas</i>, has discussed this entire + principle from a slightly different point of view. He divides the theatre + audience into three classes—the thinkers, who demand characterisation; the + women, who demand passion; and the mob, who demand action—and insists that + every great play must appeal to all three classes at once. Certainly <i>Ruy + Blas</i> itself fulfils this desideratum, and is great in the breadth of its + appeal. Yet although all three of the necessary elements appear in the + play, it has more action than passion and more passion than + characterisation. And this fact leads us to the theory, omitted by Victor + Hugo from his preface, that the mob is more important than the women and + the women more important than the thinkers, in the average theatre + audience. Indeed, a deeper consideration of the subject almost leads us to + discard the thinkers as a psychologic force and to obliterate the + distinction between the women and the mob. It is to an unthinking and + feminine-minded mob that the dramatist must first of all appeal; and this + leads us to believe that action with passion for its motive is the prime + essential for a play. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page053"></a>For, nowadays at least, it is most essential that the drama should appeal + to a crowd of women. Practically speaking, our matinée audiences are + composed entirely of women, and our evening audiences are composed chiefly + of women and the men that they have brought with them. Very few men go to + the theatre unattached; and these few are not important enough, from the + theoretic standpoint, to alter the psychologic aspect of the audience. And + it is this that constitutes one of the most important differences between a + modern theatre audience and other kinds of crowds. +</p> +<p> + The influence of this fact upon the dramatist is very potent. First of all, + as I have said, it forces him to deal chiefly in action with passion for + its motive. And this necessity accounts for the preponderance of female + characters over male in the large majority of the greatest modern plays. + Notice Nora Helmer, Mrs. Alving, Hedda Gabler; notice Magda and Camille; + notice Mrs. Tanqueray, Mrs. Ebbsmith, Iris, and Letty,—to cite only a few + examples. Furthermore, since women are by nature comparatively inattentive, + the femininity of the modern theatre audience forces the dramatist to + employ the elementary technical tricks of repetition and parallelism, in + order to keep his play clear, though much of it be unattended to. Eugène + Scribe, who knew the theatre, used to say that every important statement in + the exposition of a <a name="page054"></a>play must be made at least three times. This, of + course, is seldom necessary in a novel, where things may be said once for + all. +</p> +<p> + The prevailing inattentiveness of a theatre audience at the present day is + due also to the fact that it is peculiarly conscious of itself, apart from + the play that it has come to see. Many people "go to the theatre," as the + phrase is, without caring much whether they see one play or another; what + they want chiefly is to immerse themselves in a theatre audience. This is + especially true, in New York, of the large percentage of people from out of + town who "go to the theatre" merely as one phase of their metropolitan + experience. It is true, also, of the many women in the boxes and the + orchestra who go less to see than to be seen. It is one of the great + difficulties of the dramatist that he must capture and enchain the + attention of an audience thus composed. A man does not pick up a novel + unless he cares to read it; but many people go to the theatre chiefly for + the sense of being there. Certainly, therefore, the problem of the + dramatist is, in this respect, more difficult than that of the novelist, + for he must make his audience lose consciousness of itself in the + consciousness of his play. +</p> +<p> + One of the most essential differences between a theatre audience and other + kinds of crowds lies in the purpose for which it is convened. This purpose + <a name="page055"></a>is always recreation. A theatre audience is therefore less serious than a + church congregation or a political or social convention. It does not come + to be edified or educated; it has no desire to be taught: what it wants is + to have its emotions played upon. It seeks amusement—in the widest sense + of the word—amusement through laughter, sympathy, terror, and tears. And + it is amusement of this sort that the great dramatists have ever given it. +</p> +<p> + The trouble with most of the dreamers who league themselves for the + uplifting of the stage is that they consider the theatre with an illogical + solemnity. They base their efforts on the proposition that a theatre + audience ought to want to be edified. As a matter of fact, no audience ever + does. Molière and Shakespeare, who knew the limits of their art, never said + a word about uplifting the stage. They wrote plays to please the crowd; and + if, through their inherent greatness, they became teachers as well as + entertainers, they did so without any tall talk about the solemnity of + their mission. Their audiences learned largely, but they did so + unawares,—God being with them when they knew it not. The demand for an + endowed theatre in America comes chiefly from those who believe that a + great play cannot earn its own living. Yet <i>Hamlet</i> has made more money + than any other play in English; <i>The School for Scandal</i> never fails + <a name="page056"></a>to + draw; and in our own day we have seen <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i> coining money + all around the world. There were not any endowed theatres in Elizabethan + London. Give the crowd the sort of plays it wants, and you will not have to + seek beneficence to keep your theatre floating. But, on the other hand, no + endowed theatre will ever lure the crowd to listen to the sort of plays it + does not want. There is a wise maxim appended to one of Mr. George Ade's + <i>Fables in Slang</i>: "In uplifting, get underneath." If the theatre in + America is weak, what it needs is not endowment: it needs great and popular + plays. Why should we waste our money and our energy trying to make the + crowd come to see <i>The Master Builder</i>, or <i>A Blot in the 'Scutcheon</i>, or + <i>The Hour Glass</i>, or <i>Pélléas and Mélisande</i>? It is willing enough to come + without urging to see <i>Othello</i> and <i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>. Give us + one great dramatist who understands the crowd, and we shall not have to + form societies to propagate his art. Let us cease our prattle of the + theatre for the few. Any play that is really great as drama will interest + the many. +</p> +<center> + IV +</center> +<p> + One point remains to be considered. In any theatre audience there are + certain individuals who do not belong to the crowd. They are in it, but not + of it; for they fail to merge their individual <a name="page057"></a>self-consciousness in the + general self-consciousness of the multitude. Such are the professional + critics, and other confirmed frequenters of the theatre. It is not for them + primarily that plays are written; and any one who has grown individualised + through the theatre-going habit cannot help looking back regretfully upon + those fresher days when he belonged, unthinking, to the crowd. A + first-night audience is anomalous, in that it is composed largely of + individuals opposed to self-surrender; and for this reason, a first-night + judgment of the merits of a play is rarely final. The dramatist has written + for a crowd, and he is judged by individuals. Most dramatic critics will + tell you that they long to lose themselves in the crowd, and regret the + aloofness from the play that comes of their profession. It is because of + this aloofness of the critic that most dramatic criticism fails. +</p> +<p> + Throughout the present discussion, I have insisted on the point that the + great dramatists have always written primarily for the many. Yet now I must + add that when once they have fulfilled this prime necessity, they may also + write secondarily for the few. And the very greatest have always done so. + In so far as he was a dramatist, Shakespeare wrote for the crowd; in so far + as he was a lyric poet, he wrote for himself; and in so far as he was a + sage and a stylist, he wrote for the individual. In making sure of his + appeal to the <a name="page058"></a>many, he earned the right to appeal to the few. At the + thirty-cent performance of <i>Othello</i> that I spoke of, I was probably the + only person present who failed to submerge his individuality beneath the + common consciousness of the audience. Shakespeare made a play that could + appeal to the rabble of that middle-western town; but he wrote it in a + verse that none of them could hear:— +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> Not poppy, nor mandragora,<br> + Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,<br> + Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep<br> + Which thou ow'dst yesterday. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + The greatest dramatist of all, in writing for the crowd, did not neglect + the individual. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page059"></a>III +</h2> +<h3> + THE ACTOR AND THE DRAMATIST +</h3> +<p> + We have already agreed that the dramatist works ever under the sway of + three influences which are not felt by exclusively literary artists like + the poet and the novelist. The physical conditions of the theatre in any + age affect to a great extent the form and structure of the drama; the + conscious or unconscious demands of the audience, as we have observed in + the preceding chapter, determine for the dramatist the themes he shall + portray; and the range or restrictions of his actors have an immediate + effect upon the dramatist's great task of character-creation. In fact, so + potent is the influence of the actor upon the dramatist that the latter, in + creating character, goes to work very differently from his literary + fellow-artists,—the novelist, the story-writer, or the poet. Great + characters in non-dramatic fiction have often resulted from abstract + imagining, without direct reference to any actual person: Don Quixote, Tito + Melema, Leatherstocking, sprang full-grown from their creators' minds and + struck the world as strange and new. But the greatest characters in the + drama <a name="page060"></a>have almost always taken on the physical, and to a great extent the + mental, characteristics of certain great actors for whom they have been + fashioned. Cyrano is not merely Cyrano, but also Coquelin; Mascarille is + not merely Mascarille, but also Molière; Hamlet is not merely Hamlet, but + also Richard Burbage. Closet-students of the plays of Sophocles may miss a + point or two if they fail to consider that the dramatist prepared the part + of Oedipus in three successive dramas for a certain star-performer on the + stage of Dionysus. The greatest dramatists have built their plays not so + much for reading in the closet as for immediate presentation on the stage; + they have grown to greatness only after having achieved an initial success + that has given them the freedom of the theatre; and their conceptions of + character have therefore crystallised around the actors that they have + found waiting to present their parts. A novelist may conceive his heroine + freely as being tall or short, frail or firmly built; but if a dramatist is + making a play for an actress like Maude Adams, an airy, slight physique is + imposed upon his heroine in advance. +</p> +<p> + Shakespeare was, among other things, the director of the Lord Chamberlain's + men, who performed in the Globe, upon the Bankside; and his plays are + replete with evidences of the influence upon him of the actors whom he had + in charge. It <a name="page061"></a>is patent, for example, that the same comedian must have + created Launce in <i>Two Gentlemen of Verona</i> and Launcelot Gobbo in the + <i>Merchant of Venice</i>; the low comic hit of one production was bodily + repeated in the next. It is almost as obvious that the parts of Mercutio + and Gratiano must have been intrusted to the same performer; both + characters seem made to fit the same histrionic temperament. If Hamlet were + the hero of a novel, we should all, I think, conceive of him as slender, + and the author would agree with us; yet, in the last scene of the play, the + Queen expressly says, "He's fat, and scant of breath." This line has + puzzled many commentators, as seeming out of character; but it merely + indicates that Richard Burbage was fleshy during the season of 1602. +</p> +<p> + The Elizabethan expedient of disguising the heroine as a boy, which was + invented by John Lyly, made popular by Robert Greene, and eagerly adopted + by Shakespeare and Fletcher, seems unconvincing on the modern stage. It is + hard for us to imagine how Orlando can fail to recognise his love when he + meets her clad as Ganymede in the forest of Arden, or how Bassanio can be + blinded to the figure of his wife when she enters the court-room in the + almost feminine robes of a doctor of laws. Clothes cannot make a man out of + an actress; we recognize Ada Rehan or Julia Marlowe beneath the trappings + and the suits of their disguises; <a name="page062"></a>and it might seem that Shakespeare was + depending over-much upon the proverbial credulity of theatre audiences. But + a glance at histrionic conditions in Shakespeare's day will show us + immediately why he used this expedient of disguise not only for Portia and + Rosalind, but for Viola and Imogen as well. Shakespeare wrote these parts + to be played not by women but by boys. Now, when a boy playing a woman + disguised himself as a woman playing a boy, the disguise must have seemed + baffling, not only to Orlando and Bassanio on the stage, but also to the + audience. It was Shakespeare's boy actors, rather than his narrative + imagination, that made him recur repeatedly in this case to a dramatic + expedient which he would certainly discard if he were writing for actresses + to-day. +</p> +<p> + If we turn from the work of Shakespeare to that of Molière, we shall find + many more evidences of the influence of the actor on the dramatist. In + fact, Molière's entire scheme of character-creation cannot be understood + without direct reference to the histrionic capabilities of the various + members of the <i>Troupe de Monsieur</i>. Molière's immediate and practical + concern was not so much to create comic characters for all time as to make + effective parts for La Grange and Du Croisy and Magdeleine Béjart, for his + wife and for himself. La Grange seems to have been the Charles Wyndham + <a name="page063"></a>of + his day,—every inch a gentleman; his part in any of the plays may be + distinguished by its elegant urbanity. In <i>Les Précieuses Ridicules</i> the + gentlemanly characters are actually named La Grange and Du Croisy; the + actors walked on and played themselves; it is as if Augustus Thomas had + called the hero of his best play, not Jack Brookfield, but John Mason. In + the early period of Molière's art, before he broadened as an actor, the + parts that he wrote for himself were often so much alike from play to play + that he called them by the same conventional theatric name of Mascarille or + Sganarelle, and played them, doubtless, with the same costume and make-up. + Later on, when he became more versatile as an actor, he wrote for himself a + wider range of parts and individualised them in name as well as in nature. + His growth in depicting the characters of young women is curiously + coincident with the growth of his wife as an actress for whom to devise + such characters. Molière's best woman—Célimène, in <i>Le Misanthrope</i>—was + created for Mlle. Molière at the height of her career, and is endowed with + all her physical and mental traits. +</p> +<p> + The reason why so many of the Queen Anne dramatists in England wrote + comedies setting forth a dandified and foppish gentleman is that Colley + Cibber, the foremost actor of the time, could play the fop better than he + could play anything else. <a name="page064"></a>The reason why there is no love scene between + Charles Surface and Maria in <i>The School for Scandal</i> is that Sheridan knew + that the actor and the actress who were cast for these respective roles + were incapable of making love gracefully upon the stage. The reason why + Victor Hugo's <i>Cromwell</i> overleaped itself in composition and became + impossible for purposes of stage production is that Talma, for whom the + character of Cromwell was designed, died before the piece was finished, and + Hugo, despairing of having the part adequately acted, completed the play + for the closet instead of for the stage. But it is unnecessary to cull from + the past further instances of the direct dependence of the dramatist upon + his actors. We have only to look about us at the present day to see the + same influence at work. +</p> +<p> + For example, the career of one of the very best endowed theatrical + composers of the nineteenth century, the late Victorien Sardou, has been + molded and restricted for all time by the talents of a single star + performer, Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. Under the influence of Eugène Scribe, + Sardou began his career at the Théatre Français with a wide range of + well-made plays, varying in scope from the social satire of <i>Nos Intimes</i> + and the farcical intrigue of <i>Les Pattes de Mouche</i> (known to us in English + as <i>The Scrap of Paper</i>) to the tremendous historic panorama of <i>Patrie</i>. + When Sarah Bernhardt <a name="page065"></a>left the Comédie Française, Sardou followed in her + footsteps, and afterwards devoted most of his energy to preparing a series + of melodramas to serve successively as vehicles for her. Now, Sarah + Bernhardt is an actress of marked abilities, and limitations likewise + marked. In sheer perfection of technique she surpasses all performers of + her time. She is the acme of histrionic dexterity; all that she does upon + the stage is, in sheer effectiveness, superb. But in her work she has no + soul; she lacks the sensitive sweet lure of Duse, the serene and starlit + poetry of Modjeska. Three things she does supremely well. She can be + seductive, with a cooing voice; she can be vindictive, with a cawing voice; + and, voiceless, she can die. Hence the formula of Sardou's melodramas. +</p> +<p> + His heroines are almost always Sarah Bernhardts,—luring, tremendous, + doomed to die. Fédora, Gismonda, La Tosca, Zoraya, are but a single woman + who transmigrates from play to play. We find her in different countries and + in different times; but she always lures and fascinates a man, storms + against insuperable circumstance, coos and caws, and in the outcome dies. + One of Sardou's latest efforts, <i>La Sorcière</i>, presents the dry bones of + the formula without the flesh and blood of life. Zoraya appears first + shimmering in moonlight upon the hills of Spain,—dovelike in voice, + serpentining in seductiveness. Next, she <a name="page066"></a>is allowed to hypnotise the + audience while she is hypnotising the daughter of the governor. She is + loved and she is lost. She curses the high tribunal of the Inquisition,—a + dove no longer now. And she dies upon cathedral steps, to organ music. <i>The + Sorceress</i> is but a lifeless piece of mechanism; and when it was performed + in English by Mrs. Patrick Campbell, it failed to lure or to thrill. But + Sarah Bernhardt, because as an actress she <i>is</i> Zoraya, contrived to lift + it into life. Justly we may say that, in a certain sense, this is Sarah + Bernhardt's drama instead of Victorien Sardou's. With her, it is a play; + without her, it is nothing but a formula. The young author of <i>Patrie</i> + promised better things than this. Had he chosen, he might have climbed to + nobler heights. But he chose instead to write, year after year, a vehicle + for the Muse of Melodrama, and sold his laurel crown for gate-receipts. +</p> +<p> + If Sardou suffered through playing the sedulous ape to a histrionic artist, + it is no less true that the same practice has been advantageous to M. + Edmond Rostand. M. Rostand has shrewdly written for the greatest comedian + of the recent generation; and Constant Coquelin was the making of him as a + dramatist. The poet's early pieces, like <i>Les Romanesques</i>, disclosed him + as a master of preciosity, exquisitely lyrical, but lacking in the sterner + stuff of drama. He seemed a new de Banville—<a name="page067"></a>dainty, dallying, and deft—a + writer of witty and pretty verses—nothing more. Then it fell to his lot to + devise an acting part for Coquelin, which in the compass of a single play + should allow that great performer to sweep through the whole wide range of + his varied and versatile accomplishment. With the figure of Coquelin before + him, M. Rostand set earnestly to work. The result of his endeavor was the + character of Cyrano de Bergerac, which is considered by many critics the + richest acting part, save Hamlet, in the history of the theatre. +</p> +<p> + <i>L'Aiglon</i> was also devised under the immediate influence of the same + actor. The genesis of this latter play is, I think, of peculiar interest to + students of the drama; and I shall therefore relate it at some length. The + facts were told by M. Coquelin himself to his friend Professor Brander + Matthews, who has kindly permitted me to state them in this place. One + evening, after the extraordinary success of <i>Cyrano</i>, M. Rostand met + Coquelin at the Porte St. Martin and said, "You know, Coq, this is not the + last part I want to write for you. Can't you give me an idea to get me + started—an idea for another character?" The actor thought for a moment, + and then answered, "I've always wanted to play a <i>vieux grognard du premier + empire—un grenadier à grandes moustaches</i>."... A grumpy grenadier of + Napoleon's <a name="page068"></a>army—a grenadier with sweeping moustaches—with this cue the + dramatist set to work and gradually imagined the character of Flambeau. He + soon saw that if the great Napoleon were to appear in the play he would + dominate the action and steal the centre of the stage from the + soldier-hero. He therefore decided to set the story after the Emperor's + death, in the time of the weak and vacillating Duc de Reichstadt. Flambeau, + who had served the eagle, could now transfer his allegiance to the eaglet, + and stand dominant with the memory of battles that had been. But after the + dramatist had been at work upon the play for some time, he encountered the + old difficulty in a new guise. At last he came in despair to Coquelin and + said, "It isn't your play, Coq; it can't be; the young duke is running away + with it, and I can't stop him; Flambeau is but a secondary figure after + all. What shall I do?" And Coquelin, who understood him, answered, "Take it + to Sarah; she has just played Hamlet, and wants to do another boy." So M. + Rostand "took it to Sarah," and finished up the duke with her in view, + while in the background the figure of Flambeau scowled upon him over + <i>grandes moustaches</i>—a true <i>grognard</i> indeed! Thus it happened that + Coquelin never played the part of Flambeau until he came to New York with + Mme. Sarah Bernhardt in the fall of 1900; and the grenadier conceived in + the Porte St. <a name="page069"></a>Martin first saw the footlights in the Garden Theatre. +</p> +<p> + But the contemporary English-speaking stage furnishes examples just as + striking of the influence of the actor on the dramatist. Sir Arthur Wing + Pinero's greatest heroine, Paula Tanqueray, wore from her inception the + physical aspect of Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Many of the most effective dramas + of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones have been built around the personality of Sir + Charles Wyndham. The Wyndham part in Mr. Jones's plays is always a + gentleman of the world, who understands life because he has lived it, and + is "wise with the quiet memory of old pain." He is moral because he knows + the futility of immorality. He is lonely, lovable, dignified, reliable, and + sound. By serene and unobtrusive understanding he straightens out the + difficulties in which the other people of the play have wilfully become + entangled. He shows them the error of their follies, preaches a + worldly-wise little sermon to each one, and sends them back to their true + places in life, sadder and wiser men and women. In order to give Sir + Charles Wyndham an opportunity to display all phases of his experienced + gentility in such a character as this, Mr. Jones has repeated the part in + drama after drama. Many of the greatest characters of the theatre have been + so essentially imbued with the physical and mental personality of the + actors who created <a name="page070"></a>them that they have died with their performers and been + lost forever after from the world of art. In this regard we think at once + of Rip Van Winkle. The little play that Mr. Jefferson, with the aid of Dion + Boucicault, fashioned out of Washington Irving's story is scarcely worth + the reading; and if, a hundred years from now, any student of the drama + happens to look it over, he may wonder in vain why it was so beloved, for + many, many years, by all America; and there will come no answer, since the + actor's art will then be only a tale that is told. So Beau Brummel died + with Mr. Mansfield; and if our children, who never saw his superb + performance, chance in future years to read the lines of Mr. Fitch's play, + they will hardly believe us when we tell them that the character of Brummel + once was great. With such current instances before us, it ought not to be + so difficult as many university professors find it to understand the vogue + of certain plays of the Elizabethan and Restoration eras which seem to us + now, in the reading, lifeless things. When we study the mad dramas of Nat + Lee, we should remember Betterton; and properly to appreciate Thomas Otway, + we must imagine the aspect and the voice of Elizabeth Barry. +</p> +<p> + It may truthfully be said that Mrs. Barry created Otway, both as dramatist + and poet; for <i>The Orphan</i> and <i>Venice Preserved</i>, the two most pathetic + <a name="page071"></a>plays in English, would never have been written but for her. It is often + thus within the power of an actor to create a dramatist; and his surest + means of immortality is to inspire the composition of plays which may + survive his own demise. After Duse is dead, poets may read <i>La Città + Morta</i>, and imagine her. The memory of Coquelin is, in this way, likely to + live longer than that of Talma. We can merely guess at Talma's art, because + the plays in which he acted are unreadable to-day. But if M. Rostand's + <i>Cyrano</i> is read a hundred years from now, it will be possible for students + of it to imagine in detail the salient features of the art of Coquelin. It + will be evident to them that the actor made love luringly and died + effectively, that he was capable of lyric reading and staccato gasconade, + that he had a burly humor and that touch of sentiment that trembles into + tears. Similarly we know to-day, from the fact that Shakespeare played the + Ghost in <i>Hamlet</i>, that he must have had a voice that was full and resonant + and deep. So from reading the plays of Molière we can imagine the robust + figure of Magdeleine Béjart, the grace of La Grange, the pretty petulance + of the flighty fair Armande. +</p> +<p> + Some sense of this must have been in the mind of Sir Henry Irving when he + strove industriously to create a dramatist who might survive him and + immortalise his memory. The facile, uncreative <a name="page072"></a>Wills was granted many + chances, and in <i>Charles I</i> lost an opportunity to make a lasting drama. + Lord Tennyson came near the mark in <i>Becket</i>; but this play, like those of + Wills, has not proved sturdy enough to survive the actor who inspired it. + For all his striving, Sir Henry left no dramatist as a monument to his art. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page073"></a>IV +</h2> +<h3> + STAGE CONVENTIONS IN MODERN TIMES +</h3> +<center> + I +</center> +<p> + In 1581 Sir Philip Sidney praised the tragedy of <i>Gorboduc</i>, which he had + seen acted by the gentlemen of the Inner Temple, because it was "full of + stately speeches and well-sounding phrases." A few years later the young + poet, Christopher Marlowe, promised the audience of his initial tragedy + that they should "hear the Scythian Tamburlaine threatening the world with + high astounding terms." These two statements are indicative of the tenor of + Elizabethan plays. <i>Gorboduc</i>, to be sure, was a ponderous piece, made + according to the pseudo-classical fashion that soon went out of favor; + while <i>Tamburlaine the Great</i> was triumphant with the drums and tramplings + of romance. The two plays were diametrically opposed in method; but they + had this in common: each was full of stately speeches and of high + astounding terms. +</p> +<p> + Nearly a century later, in 1670, John Dryden <a name="page074"></a>added to the second part of + his <i>Conquest of Granada</i> an epilogue in which he criticised adversely the + dramatists of the elder age. Speaking of Ben Jonson and his contemporaries, + he said: +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> But were they now to write, when critics weigh<br> + Each line, and every word, throughout a play,<br> + None of them, no, not Jonson in his height,<br> + Could pass without allowing grains for weight. + +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> * * * * *</p> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> Wit's now arrived to a more high degree;<br> +Our native language more refined and free:<br> +Our ladies and our men now speak more wit<br> +In conversation than those poets writ. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + This criticism was characteristic of a new era that was dawning in the + English drama, during which a playwright could hope for no greater glory + than to be praised for the brilliancy of his dialogue or the smartness of + his repartee. +</p> +<p> + At the present day, if you ask the average theatre-goer about the merits of + the play that he has lately witnessed, he will praise it not for its + stately speeches nor its clever repartee, but because its presentation was + "so natural." He will tell you that <i>A Woman's Way</i> gave an apt and + admirable reproduction of contemporary manners in New York; he will mention + the make of the automobile that went chug-chugging off the stage at the + second curtain-fall of <i>Man and Superman</i>, or he will assure you that + <i>Lincoln</i> made him feel the <a name="page075"></a>very presence of the martyred President his + father actually saw. +</p> +<p> + These different classes of comments give evidence of three distinct steps + in the evolution of the English drama. During the sixteenth and seventeenth + centuries it was essentially a Drama of Rhetoric; throughout the eighteenth + century it was mainly a Drama of Conversation; and during the nineteenth + century it has grown to be a Drama of Illusion. During the first period it + aimed at poetic power, during the second at brilliancy of dialogue, and + during the third at naturalness of representment. Throughout the last three + centuries, the gradual perfecting of the physical conditions of the theatre + has made possible the Drama of Illusion; the conventions of the actor's art + have undergone a similar progression; and at the same time the change in + the taste of the theatre-going public has made a well-sustained illusion a + condition precedent to success upon the modern stage. +</p> +<center> + II +</center> +<p> + Mr. Ben Greet, in his sceneless performances of Shakespeare during recent + seasons, has reminded us of some of the main physical features of the + Elizabethan theatre; and the others are so generally known that we need + review them only briefly. A typical Elizabethan play-house, like + <a name="page076"></a>the Globe + or the Blackfriars, stood roofless in the air. The stage was a projecting + platform surrounded on three sides by the groundlings who had paid + threepence for the privilege of standing in the pit; and around this pit, + or yard, were built boxes for the city madams and the gentlemen of means. + Often the side edges of the stage itself were lined with young gallants + perched on three-legged stools, who twitted the actors when they pleased or + disturbed the play by boisterous interruptions. At the back of the platform + was hung an arras through which the players entered, and which could be + drawn aside to discover a set piece of stage furnishing, like a bed or a + banqueting board. Above the arras was built an upper room, which might + serve as Juliet's balcony or as the speaking-place of a commandant supposed + to stand upon a city's walls. No scenery was employed, except some + elaborate properties that might be drawn on and off before the eyes of the + spectators, like the trellised arbor in <i>The Spanish Tragedy</i> on which the + young Horatio was hanged. Since there was no curtain, the actors could + never be "discovered" on the stage and were forced to make an exit at the + end of every scene. Plays were produced by daylight, under the sun of + afternoon; and the stage could not be darkened, even when it was necessary + for Macbeth to perpetrate a midnight murder. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page077"></a>In order to succeed in a theatre such as this, the drama was necessarily + forced to be a Drama of Rhetoric. From 1576, when James Burbage built the + first play-house in London, until 1642, when the theatres were formally + closed by act of Parliament, the drama dealt with stately speeches and with + high astounding terms. It was played upon a platform, and had to appeal + more to the ears of the audience than to their eyes. Spectacular elements + it had to some extent,—gaudy, though inappropriate, costumes, and stately + processions across the stage; but no careful imitation of the actual facts + of life, no illusion of reality in the representment, could possibly be + effected. +</p> +<p> + The absence of scenery forced the dramatists of the time to introduce + poetic passages to suggest the atmosphere of their scenes. Lorenzo and + Jessica opened the last act of <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> with a pretty + dialogue descriptive of a moonlit evening, and the banished duke in <i>As You + Like It</i> discoursed at length upon the pleasures of life in the forest. The + stage could not be darkened in <i>Macbeth</i>; but the hero was made to say, + "Light thickens, and the crew makes wing to the rooky wood." Sometimes, + when the scene was supposed to change from one country to another, a chorus + was sent forth, as in <i>Henry V</i>, to ask the audience frankly to transfer + their imaginations overseas. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page078"></a>The fact that the stage was surrounded on three sides by standing + spectators forced the actor to emulate the platform orator. Set speeches + were introduced bodily into the text of a play, although they impeded the + progress of the action. Jacques reined a comedy to a standstill while he + discoursed at length upon the seven ages of man. Soliloquies were common, + and formal dialogues prevailed. By convention, all characters, regardless + of their education or station in life, were considered capable of talking + not only verse, but poetry. The untutored sea-captain in <i>Twelfth Night</i> + spoke of "Arion on the dolphin's back," and in another play the sapheads + Salanio and Salarino discoursed most eloquent music. +</p> +<p> + In New York at the present day a singular similarity to Elizabethan + conventions may be noted in the Chinese theatre in Doyer Street. Here we + have a platform drama in all its nakedness. There is no curtain, and the + stage is bare of scenery. The musicians sit upon the stage, and the actors + enter through an arras at the right or at the left of the rear wall. The + costumes are elaborate, and the players frequently parade around the stage. + Long speeches and set colloquies are common. Only the crudest properties + are used. Two candlesticks and a small image on a table are taken to + represent a temple; a man seated upon an overturned chair is supposed to be + a general on a <a name="page079"></a>charger; and when a character is obliged to cross a river, + he walks the length of the stage trailing an oar behind him. The audience + does not seem to notice that these conventions are unnatural,—any more + than did the 'prentices in the pit, when Burbage, with the sun shining full + upon his face, announced that it was then the very witching time of night. +</p> +<p> + The Drama of Rhetoric which was demanded by the physical conditions of the + Elizabethan stage survived the Restoration and did not die until the day of + Addison's <i>Cato</i>. Imitations of it have even struggled on the stage within + the nineteenth century. The <i>Virginius</i> of Sheridan Knowles and the + <i>Richelieu</i> of Bulwer-Lytton were both framed upon the Elizabethan model, + and carried the platform drama down to recent times. But though traces of + the platform drama still exist, the period of its pristine vigor terminated + with the closing of the theatres in 1642. +</p> +<p> + When the drama was resumed in 1660, the physical conditions of the theatre + underwent a material change. At this time two great play-houses were + chartered,—the King's Theatre in Drury Lane, and the Duke of York's + Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Thomas Killigrew, the manager of the + Theatre Royal, was the first to introduce women actors on the stage; and + parts which formerly had been played by boys were soon performed by + <a name="page080"></a>actresses as moving as the great Elizabeth Barry. To William Davenant, the + manager of the Duke's Theatre, belongs the credit for a still more + important innovation. During the eighteen years when public dramatic + performances had been prohibited, he had secured permission now and then to + produce an opera upon a private stage. For these musical entertainments he + took as a model the masques, or court celebrations, which had been the most + popular form of private theatricals in the days of Elizabeth and James. It + is well known that masques had been produced with elaborate scenic + appointments even at a time when the professional stage was bare of + scenery. While the theatres had been closed, Davenant had used scenery in + his operas, to keep them out of the forbidden pale of professional plays; + and now in 1660, when he came forth as a regular theatre manager, he + continued to use scenery, and introduced it into the production of comedies + and tragedies. +</p> +<p> + But the use of scenery was not the only innovation that carried the + Restoration theatre far beyond its Elizabethan prototype. Play-houses were + now regularly roofed; and the stage was artificially lighted by lamps. The + shifting of scenery demanded the use of a curtain; and it became possible + for the first time to disclose actors upon the stage and to leave them + grouped before the audience at the end of an act. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page081"></a>All of these improvements rendered possible a closer approach to + naturalness of representment than had ever been made before. Palaces and + flowered meads, drawing-rooms and city streets, could now be suggested by + actual scenery instead of by descriptive passages in the text. Costumes + became appropriate, and properties were more nicely chosen to give a flavor + of actuality to the scene. At the same time the platform receded, and the + groundlings no longer stood about it on the sides. The gallants were + banished from the stage, and the greater part of the audience was gathered + directly in front of the actors. Some traces of the former platform system, + however, still remained. In front of the curtain, the stage projected into + a wide "apron," as it was called, lined on either side by boxes filled with + spectators; and the house was so inadequately lighted that almost all the + acting had to be done within the focus of the footlights. After the curtain + rose, the actors advanced into this projecting "apron" and performed the + main business of the act beyond the range of scenery and furniture. +</p> +<p> + With the "apron" stage arose a more natural form of play than had been + produced upon the Elizabethan platform. The Drama of Rhetoric was soon + supplanted by the Drama of Conversation. Oratory gradually disappeared, set + speeches were abolished, and poetic lines gave place <a name="page082"></a>to rapid repartee. + The comedy of conversation that began with Sir George Etherege in 1664 + reached its culmination with Sheridan in a little more than a hundred + years; and during this century the drama became more and more natural as + the years progressed. Even in the days of Sheridan, however, the + conventions of the theatre were still essentially unreal. An actor entered + a room by walking through the walls; stage furniture was formally arranged; + and each act terminated with the players grouped in a semicircle and bowing + obeisance to applause. The lines in Sheridan's comedies were + indiscriminately witty. Every character, regardless of his birth or + education, had his clever things to say; and the servant bandied epigrams + with the lord. +</p> +<p> + It was not until the nineteenth century was well under way that a decided + improvement was made in the physical conditions of the theatre. When Madame + Vestris assumed the management of the Olympic Theatre in London in 1831 she + inaugurated a new era in stage conventions. Her husband, Charles James + Mathews, says in his autobiography, "There was introduced that reform in + all theatrical matters which has since been adopted in every theatre in the + kingdom. Drawing-rooms were fitted up like drawing-rooms and furnished with + care and taste. Two chairs no longer indicated that two persons were to be + seated, the two chairs <a name="page083"></a>being removed indicating that the two persons were + <i>not</i> to be seated." At the first performance of Boucicault's <i>London + Assurance</i>, in 1841, a further innovation was marked by the introduction of + the "box set," as it is called. Instead of representing an interior scene + by a series of wings set one behind the other, the scene-shifters now built + the side walls of a room solidly from front to rear; and the actors were + made to enter, not by walking through the wings, but by opening real doors + that turned upon their hinges. At the same time, instead of the formal + stage furniture of former years, appointments were introduced that were + carefully designed to suit the actual conditions of the room to be + portrayed. From this time stage-settings advanced rapidly to greater and + greater degrees of naturalness. Acting, however, was still largely + conventional; for the "apron" stage survived, with its semicircle of + footlights, and every important piece of stage business had to be done + within their focus. +</p> +<p> + The greatest revolution of modern times in stage conventions owes its + origin directly to the invention of the electric light. Now that it is + possible to make every corner of the stage clearly visible from all parts + of the house, it is no longer necessary for an actor to hold the centre of + the scene. The introduction of electric lights abolished the necessity of + the "apron" stage and made possible <a name="page084"></a>the picture-frame proscenium; and the + removal of the "apron" struck the death-blow to the Drama of Conversation + and led directly to the Drama of Illusion. As soon as the picture-frame + proscenium was adopted, the audience demanded a picture to be placed within + the frame. The stage became essentially pictorial, and began to be used to + represent faithfully the actual facts of life. Now for the first time was realised the graphic value of the curtain-fall. It became customary to ring + the curtain down upon a picture that summed up in itself the entire + dramatic accomplishment of the scene, instead of terminating an act with a + general exodus of the performers or with a semicircle of bows. +</p> +<p> + The most extraordinary advances in natural stage-settings have been made + within the memory of the present generation of theatre-goers. Sunsets and + starlit skies, moonlight rippling over moving waves, fires that really + burn, windows of actual glass, fountains plashing with real water,—all of + the naturalistic devices of the latter-day Drama of Illusion have been + developed in the last few decades. +</p> +<center> + III +</center> +<p> + Acting in Elizabethan days was a presentative, rather than a + representative, art. The actor was always an actor, and absorbed his part + in himself <a name="page085"></a>rather than submerging himself in his part. Magnificence rather + than appropriateness of costume was desired by the platform actor of the + Drama of Rhetoric. He wished all eyes to be directed to himself, and never + desired to be considered merely as a component part of a great stage + picture. Actors at that time were often robustious, periwig-pated fellows + who sawed the air with their hands and tore a passion to tatters. +</p> +<p> + With the rapid development of the theatre after the Restoration, came a + movement toward greater naturalness in the conventions of acting. The + player in the "apron" of a Queen Anne stage resembled a drawing-room + entertainer rather than a platform orator. Fine gentlemen and ladies in the + boxes that lined the "apron" applauded the witticisms of Sir Courtly Nice + or Sir Fopling Flutter, as if they themselves were partakers in the + conversation. Actors like Colley Cibber acquired a great reputation for + their natural representment of the manners of polite society. +</p> +<p> + The Drama of Conversation, therefore, was acted with more natural + conventions than the Drama of Rhetoric that had preceded it. And yet we + find that Charles Lamb, in criticising the old actors of the eighteenth + century, praises them for the essential unreality of their presentations. + They carried the spectator far away from the actual world to a region where + society was more <a name="page086"></a>splendid and careless and brilliant and lax. They did not + aim to produce an illusion of naturalness as our actors do to-day. If we + compare the old-style acting of <i>The School for Scandal</i>, that is described + in the essays of Lamb, with the modern performance of <i>Sweet Kitty + Bellairs</i>, which dealt with the same period, we shall see at once how + modern acting has grown less presentative and more representative than it + was in the days of Bensley and Bannister. +</p> +<p> + The Drama of Rhetoric and the Drama of Conversation both struggled on in + sporadic survivals throughout the first half of the nineteenth century; and + during this period the methods of the platform actor and the parlor actor + were consistently maintained. The actor of the "old school," as we are now + fond of calling him, was compelled by the physical conditions of the + theatre to keep within the focus of the footlights, and therefore in close + proximity to the spectators. He could take the audience into his confidence + more readily than can the player of the present. Sometimes even now an + actor steps out of the picture in order to talk intimately with the + audience; but usually at the present day it is customary for actors to seem + totally oblivious of the spectators and remain always within the picture on + the stage. The actor of the "old school" was fond of the long speeches of + the Drama of Rhetoric and the <a name="page087"></a>brilliant lines of the Drama of + Conversation. It may be remembered that the old actor in <i>Trelawny of the + Wells</i> condemned a new-style play because it didn't contain "what you could + really call a speech." He wanted what the French term a <i>tirade</i> to + exercise his lungs and split the ears of the groundlings. +</p> +<p> + But with the growth of the Drama of Illusion, produced within a + picture-frame proscenium, actors have come to recognise and apply the + maxim, "Actions speak louder than words." What an actor <i>does</i> is now + considered more important than what he <i>says</i>. The most powerful moment in + Mrs. Fiske's performance of <i>Hedda Gabler</i> was the minute or more in the + last act when she remained absolutely silent. This moment was worth a dozen + of the "real speeches" that were sighed for by the old actor in <i>Trelawny</i>. + Few of those who saw James A. Herne in <i>Shore Acres</i> will forget the + impressive close of the play. The stage represented the living-room of a + homely country-house, with a large open fireplace at one side. The night + grew late; and one by one the characters retired, until at last old + Nathaniel Berry was left alone upon the stage. Slowly he locked the doors + and closed the windows and put all things in order for the night. Then he + took a candle and went upstairs to bed, leaving the room empty and dark + except for the flaming of the fire on the hearth. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page088"></a>Great progress toward naturalness in contemporary acting has been + occasioned by the disappearance of the soliloquy and the aside. The + relinquishment of these two time-honored expedients has been accomplished + only in most recent times. Sir Arthur Pinero's early farces abounded with + asides and even lengthy soliloquies; but his later plays are made entirely + without them. The present prevalence of objection to both is due largely to + the strong influence of Ibsen's rigid dramaturgic structure. Dramatists + have become convinced that the soliloquy and the aside are lazy expedients, + and that with a little extra labor the most complicated plot may be + developed without resort to either. The passing of the aside has had an + important effect on naturalness of acting. In speaking a line audible to + the audience but supposed to be unheard by the other characters on the + stage, an actor was forced by the very nature of the speech to violate the + illusion of the stage picture by stepping out of the frame, as it were, in + order to take the audience into his confidence. Not until the aside was + abolished did it become possible for an actor to follow the modern rule of + seeming totally oblivious of his audience. +</p> +<p> + There is less logical objection to the soliloquy, however; and I am + inclined to think that the present avoidance of it is overstrained. Stage + soliloquies are of two kinds, which we may call for <a name="page089"></a>convenience the + constructive and the reflective. By a constructive soliloquy we mean one + introduced arbitrarily to explain the progress of the plot, like that at + the beginning of the last act of <i>Lady Windermere's Fan</i>, in which the + heroine frankly tells the audience what she has been thinking and doing + between the acts. By a reflective soliloquy we mean one like those of + <i>Hamlet</i>, in which the audience is given merely a revelation of a train of + personal thought or emotion, and in which the dramatist makes no + utilitarian reference to the structure of the plot. The constructive + soliloquy is as undesirable as the aside, because it forces the actor out + of the stage picture in exactly the same way; but a good actor may easily + read a reflective soliloquy without seeming in the least unnatural. +</p> +<p> + Modern methods of lighting, as we have seen, have carried the actor away + from the centre of the stage, so that now important business is often done + far from the footlights. This tendency has led to further innovations. + Actors now frequently turn their backs to the audience,—a thing unheard of + before the advent of the Drama of Illusion; and frequently, also, they do + their most effective work at moments when they have no lines to speak. +</p> +<p> + But the present tendency toward naturalness of representment has, to some + extent, exaggerated the importance of stage-management even at the expense + of acting. A successful play by Clyde Fitch <a name="page090"></a>usually owed its popularity, + not so much to the excellence of the acting as to the careful attention of + the author to the most minute details of the stage picture. Fitch could + make an act out of a wedding or a funeral, a Cook's tour or a steamer deck, + a bed or an automobile. The extraordinary cleverness and accuracy of his + observation of those petty details that make life a thing of shreds and + patches were all that distinguished his method from that of the melodramatist who makes a scene out of a buzz-saw or a waterfall, a + locomotive or a ferryboat. Oftentimes the contemporary playwright follows + the method suggested by Mr. Crummles to Nicholas Nickleby, and builds his + piece around "a real pump and two washing-tubs." At a certain moment in the + second act of <i>The Girl of the Golden West</i> the wind-storm was the real + actor in the scene, and the hero and the heroine were but mutes or audience + to the act. +</p> +<p> + This emphasis of stage illusion is fraught with certain dangers to the art + of acting. In the modern picture-play the lines themselves are often of + such minor importance that the success or failure of the piece depends + little on the reading of the words. Many young actors, therefore, cannot + get that rigid training in the art of reading which could be secured in the + stock companies of the generation past. Poor reading is the one great + weakness of contemporary acting. I can think of only <a name="page091"></a>one actor on the + American stage to-day whose reading of both prose and verse is always + faultless. I mean Mr. Otis Skinner, who secured his early training playing + minor parts with actors of the "old school." It has become possible, under + present conditions, for young actresses ignorant of elocution and unskilled + in the first principles of impersonation to be exploited as stars merely + because of their personal charm. A beautiful young woman, whether she can + act or not, may easily appear "natural" in a society play, especially + written around her; and the public, lured by a pair of eyes or a head of + hair, is made as blind as love to the absence of histrionic art. When the + great Madame Modjeska last appeared at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, presenting + some of the most wonderful plays that the world has ever seen, she played + to empty houses, while the New York public was flocking to see some new + slip of a girl seem "natural" on the stage and appear pretty behind the + picture-frame proscenium. +</p> +<center> + IV +</center> +<p> + A comparison of an Elizabethan audience with a theatre-full of people at + the present day is, in many ways, disadvantageous to the latter. With our + forefathers, theatre-going was an exercise in the lovely art of + "making-believe." They were told that it was night and they forgot the + <a name="page092"></a>sunlight; their imaginations swept around England to the trampling of + armored kings, or were whisked away at a word to that Bohemia which is a + desert country by the sea; and while they looked upon a platform of bare + boards, they breathed the sweet air of the Forest of Arden. They needed no + scenery by Alma-Tadema to make them think themselves in Rome. "What + country, friends, is this?", asked Viola. "This is Illyria, lady." And the + boys in the pit scented the keen, salt air and heard the surges crashing on + the rocky shore. +</p> +<p> + Nowadays elaborateness of stage illusion has made spoiled children of us + all. We must have a doll with real hair, or else we cannot play at being + mothers. We have been pampered with mechanical toys until we have lost the + art of playing without them. Where have our imaginations gone, that we must + have real rain upon the stage? Shall we clamor for real snow before long, + that must be kept in cold storage against the spring season? A longing for + concreteness has befogged our fantasy. Even so excellent an actor as Mr. + Forbes-Robertson cannot read the great speech beginning, "Look here, upon + this picture and on this," in which Hamlet obviously refers to two + imaginary portraits in his mind's eye, without pointing successively to two + absurd caricatures that are daubed upon the scenery. +</p> +<p> + The theatre has grown older since the days when <a name="page093"></a>Burbage recited that same + speech upon a bare platform; but I am not entirely sure that it has grown + wiser. We theatre-goers have come to manhood and have put away childish + things; but there was a sweetness about the naïveté of childhood that we + can never quite regain. No longer do we dream ourselves in a garden of + springtide blossoms; we can only look upon canvas trees and paper flowers. + No longer are we charmed away to that imagined spot where journeys end in + lovers' meeting; we can only look upon love in a parlor and notice that the + furniture is natural. No longer do we harken to the rich resonance of the + Drama of Rhetoric; no longer do our minds kindle with the brilliant + epigrams of the Drama of Conversation. Good reading is disappearing from + the stage; and in its place we are left the devices of the stage-carpenter. +</p> +<p> + It would be absurd to deny that modern stagecraft has made possible in the + theatre many excellent effects that were not dreamt of in the philosophy of + Shakespeare. Sir Arthur Pinero's plays are better made than those of the + Elizabethans, and in a narrow sense hold the mirror up to nature more + successfully than theirs. But our latter-day fondness for natural + representment has afflicted us with one tendency that the Elizabethans were + luckily without. In our desire to imitate the actual facts of life, we + sometimes become near-sighted <a name="page094"></a>and forget the larger truths that underlie + them. We give our plays a definite date by founding them on passing + fashions; we make them of an age, not for all time. We discuss contemporary + social problems on the stage instead of the eternal verities lodged deep in + the general heart of man. We have outgrown our pristine simplicity, but we + have not yet arrived at the age of wisdom. Perhaps when playgoers have + progressed for another century or two, they may discard some of the + trappings and the suits of our present drama, and become again like little + children. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page095"></a>V +</h2> +<h3> + ECONOMY OF ATTENTION IN THEATRICAL PERFORMANCES +</h3> +<center> + I +</center> +<p> + According to the late Herbert Spencer, the sole source of force in writing + is an ability to economise the attention of the reader. The word should be + a window to the thought and should transmit it as transparently as + possible. He says, toward the beginning of his <i>Philosophy of Style</i>: +</p> +<blockquote> +<p> A reader or listener has at each moment but a limited amount of + mental power available. To recognise and interpret the symbols + presented to him requires a part of this power; to arrange and + combine the images suggested requires a further part; and only + that part which remains can be used for realising the thought + conveyed. Hence, the more time and attention it takes to receive + and understand each sentence, the less time and attention can be + given to the contained idea; and the less vividly will that idea + be conveyed. +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> + Spencer drew his illustrations of this principle mainly from the literature + of the library; but its application is even more important in the + literature of the stage. So many and so diverse are the elements of a + theatrical performance that, unless the <a name="page096"></a>attention of the spectator is + attracted at every moment to the main dramatic purpose of the scene, he + will sit wide-eyed, like a child at a three-ring circus, with his mind + fluttering from point to point and his interest dispersed and scattered. A + perfect theatrical performance must harmonise the work of many men. The + dramatist, the actors main and minor, the stage-manager, the scene-painter, + the costumer, the leader of the orchestra, must all contribute their + separate talents to the production of a single work of art. It follows that + a nice adjustment of parts, a discriminating subordination of minor + elements to major, is absolutely necessary in order that the attention of + the audience may be focused at every moment upon the central meaning of the + scene. If the spectator looks at scenery when he should be listening to + lines, if his attention is startled by some unexpected device of + stage-management at a time when he ought to be looking at an actor's face, + or if his mind is kept for a moment uncertain of the most emphatic feature + of a scene, the main effect is lost and that part of the performance is a + failure. +</p> +<p> + It may be profitable to notice some of the technical devices by which + attention is economised in the theatre and the interest of the audience is + thereby centred upon the main business of the moment. In particular it is + important to observe how a scattering <a name="page097"></a>of attention is avoided; how, when + many things are shown at once upon the stage, it is possible to make an + audience look at one and not observe the others. We shall consider the + subject from the point of view of the dramatist, from that of the actor, + and from that of the stage-manager. +</p> +<center> + II +</center> +<p> + The dramatist, in writing, labors under a disadvantage that is not suffered + by the novelist. If a passage in a novel is not perfectly clear at the + first glance, the reader may always turn back the pages and read the scene + again; but on the stage a line once spoken can never be recalled. When, + therefore, an important point is to be set forth, the dramatist cannot + afford to risk his clearness upon a single line. This is particularly true + in the beginning of a play. When the curtain rises, there is always a + fluttering of programs and a buzz of unfinished conversation. Many + spectators come in late and hide the stage from those behind them while + they are taking off their wraps. Consequently, most dramatists, in the + preliminary exposition that must always start a play, contrive to state + every important fact at least three times: first, for the attentive; + second, for the intelligent; and third, for the large mass that may have + missed the first two statements. Of course, the method of presentment must + be very deftly varied, in order <a name="page098"></a>that the artifice may not appear; but this + simple rule of three is almost always practised. It was used with rare + effect by Eugène Scribe, who, although he was too clever to be great, + contributed more than any other writer of the nineteenth century to the + science of making a modern play. +</p> +<p> + In order that the attention of the audience may not be unduly distracted by + any striking effect, the dramatist must always prepare for such an effect + in advance, and give the spectators an idea of what they may expect. The + extraordinary nose of Cyrano de Bergerac is described at length by + Ragueneau before the hero comes upon the stage. If the ugly-visaged poet + should enter without this preliminary explanation, the whole effect would + be lost. The spectators would nudge each other and whisper half aloud, + "Look at his nose! What is the matter with his face?", and would be less + than half attentive to the lines. Before Lady Macbeth is shown walking in + her sleep and wringing her hands that are sullied with the damned spot that + all great Neptune's ocean could not wash away, her doctor and her waiting + gentlewoman are sent to tell the audience of her "slumbery agitation." + Thus, at the proper moment, the attention is focused on the essential point + instead of being allowed to lose itself in wonder. +</p> +<p> + A logical development of this principle leads us to the axiom that a + dramatist must never keep a <a name="page099"></a>secret from his audience, although this is one + of the favorite devices of the novelist. Let us suppose for a moment that + the spectators were not let into the secret of Hero's pretty plot, in <i>Much + Ado</i>, to bring Beatrice and Benedick together. Suppose that, like the + heroine and the hero, they were led to believe that each was truly in love + with the other. The inevitable revelation of this error would produce a + shock of surprise that would utterly scatter their attention; and while + they were busy making over their former conception of the situation, they + would have no eyes nor ears for what was going on upon the stage. In a + novel, the true character of a hypocrite is often hidden until the book is + nearly through: then, when the revelation comes, the reader has plenty of + time to think back and see how deftly he has been deceived. But in a play, + a rogue must be known to be a rogue at his first entrance. The other + characters in the play may be kept in the dark until the last act, but the + audience must know the secret all the time. In fact, any situation which + shows a character suffering from a lack of such knowledge as the audience + holds secure always produces a telling effect upon the stage. The + spectators are aware of Iago's villainy and know of Desdemona's innocence. + The play would not be nearly so strong if, like Othello, they were kept + ignorant of the truth. +</p> +<p> + In order to economise attention, the dramatist <a name="page100"></a>must centre his interest in + a few vividly drawn characters and give these a marked preponderance over + the other parts. Many plays have failed because of over-elaborateness of + detail. Ben Jonson's comedy of <i>Every Man in His Humour</i> would at present + be impossible upon the stage, for the simple reason that <i>all</i> the + characters are so carefully drawn that the audience would not know in whom + to be most interested. The play is all background and no foreground. The + dramatist fails to say, "Of all these sixteen characters, you must listen + most attentively to some special two or three"; and, in consequence, the + piece would require a constant effort of attention that no modern audience + would be willing to bestow. Whatever may be said about the disadvantages of + the so-called "star system" in the theatre, the fact remains that the + greatest plays of the world—<i>Oedipus King</i>, <i>Hamlet</i>, <i>As You Like It</i>, + <i>Tartufe</i>, <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>—have almost always been what are called + "star plays." The "star system" has an obvious advantage from the point of + view of the dramatist. When Hamlet enters, the spectators know that they + must look at him; and their attention never wavers to the minor characters + upon the stage. The play is thus an easy one to follow: attention is + economised and no effect is lost. +</p> +<p> + It is a wise plan to use familiar and conventional types to fill in the + minor parts of a play. The <a name="page101"></a>comic valet, the pretty and witty chambermaid, + the <i>ingénue</i>, the pathetic old friend of the family, are so well known + upon the stage that they spare the mental energy of the spectators and + leave them greater vigor of attention to devote to the more original major + characters. What is called "comic relief" has a similar value in resting + the attention of the audience. After the spectators have been harrowed by + Ophelia's madness, they must be diverted by the humor of the grave-diggers + in order that their susceptibilities may be made sufficiently fresh for the + solemn scene of her funeral. +</p> +<p> + We have seen that any sudden shock of surprise should be avoided in the + theatre, because such a shock must inevitably cause a scattering of + attention. It often happens that the strongest scenes of a play require the + use of some physical accessory,—a screen in <i>The School for Scandal</i>, a + horse in <i>Shenandoah</i>, a perfumed letter in <i>Diplomacy</i>. In all such cases, + the spectators must be familiarised beforehand with the accessory object, + so that when the climax comes they may devote all of their attention to the + action that is accomplished with the object rather than to the object + itself. In a quarrel scene, an actor could not suddenly draw a concealed + weapon in order to threaten his antagonist. The spectators would stop to + ask themselves how he happened to have the weapon by him without their + knowing it; and this self-muttered <a name="page102"></a>question would deaden the effect of the + scene. The <i>dénouement</i> of Ibsen's <i>Hedda Gabler</i> requires that the two + chief characters, Eilert Lövborg and Hedda Tesman, should die of pistol + wounds. The pistols that are to be used in the catastrophe are mentioned + and shown repeatedly throughout the early and middle scenes of the play; so + that when the last act comes, the audience thinks not of pistols, but of + murder and suicide. A striking illustration of the same dramaturgic + principle was shown in Mrs. Fiske's admirable performance of this play. The + climax of the piece comes at the end of the penultimate act, when Hedda + casts into the fire the manuscript of the book into which Eilert has put + the great work of his life. The stove stands ready at the left of the + stage; but when the culminating moment comes, the spectators must be made + to forget the stove in their horror at Hedda's wickedness. They must, + therefore, be made familiar with the stove in the early part of the act. + Ibsen realised this, and arranged that Hedda should call for some wood to + be cast upon the fire at the beginning of the scene. In acting this + incident, Mrs. Fiske kneeled before the stove in the very attitude that she + was to assume later on when she committed the manuscript to the flames. The + climax gained greatly in emphasis because of this device to secure economy + of attention at the crucial moment. +</p> +<center> + <a name="page103"></a>III +</center> +<p> + In the <i>Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson</i>, that humorous and human and + instructive book, there is a passage that illustrates admirably the bearing + of this same principle of economy of attention upon the actor's art. In + speaking of the joint performances of his half-brother, Charles Burke, and + the famous actor-manager, William E. Burton, Jefferson says: +</p> +<blockquote> +<p> It was a rare treat to see Burton and Burke in the same play: + they acted into each other's hands with the most perfect skill; + there was no striving to outdo each other. If the scene required + that for a time one should be prominent, the other would become + the background of the picture, and so strengthen the general + effect; by this method they produced a perfectly harmonious + work. For instance, Burke would remain in repose, attentively + listening while Burton was delivering some humorous speech. This + would naturally act as a spell upon the audience, who became by + this treatment absorbed in what Burton was saying, and having + got the full force of the effect, they would burst forth in + laughter or applause; then, by one accord, they became silent, + intently listening to Burke's reply, which Burton was now + strengthening by the same repose and attention. I have never + seen this element in acting carried so far, or accomplished with + such admirable results, not even upon the French stage, and I am + convinced that the importance of it in reaching the best + dramatic effects cannot be too highly estimated. It was this + characteristic feature of the acting of these two great artists + that always set the audience wondering which was the better. The + truth is there was no "better" about the matter. They were not + horses running a race, but artists painting a picture; it was + not in their <a name="page104"></a>minds which should win, but how they could, by + their joint efforts, produce a perfect work. +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> + I am afraid that this excellent method of team play is more honored in the + breach than in the observance among many of our eminent actors of the + present time. When Richard Mansfield played the part of Brutus, he + destroyed the nice balance of the quarrel scene with Cassius by attracting + all of the attention of the audience to himself, whereas a right reading of + the scene would demand a constant shifting of attention from one hero to + the other. When Joseph Haworth spoke the great speech of Cassius beginning, + "Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come!", he was shrouded in the shadow of + the tent, while the lime-light fell full upon the form of Brutus. This + arrangement so distracted the audience from the true dramatic value of the + scene that neither Mansfield's heroic carriage, nor his eye like Mars to + threaten and command, nor the titanic resonance of his ventriloquial + utterance, could atone for the mischief that was done. +</p> +<p> + In an earlier paragraph, we noticed the way in which the "star system" may + be used to advantage by the dramatist to economise the attention of the + audience; but it will be observed, on the other hand, that the same system + is pernicious in its influence on the actor. A performer who is accustomed + to the centre of the stage often finds it difficult to keep himself in the + background at moments when <a name="page105"></a>the scene should be dominated by other, and + sometimes lesser, actors. Artistic self-denial is one of the rarest of + virtues. This is the reason why "all-star" performances are almost always + bad. A famous player is cast for a minor part; and in his effort to exploit + his talents, he violates the principle of economy of attention by + attracting undue notice to a subordinate feature of the performance. That's + villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition, as Hamlet truly says. A rare + proof of the genius of the great Coquelin was given by his performances of + Père Duval and the Baron Scarpia in support of the Camille and Tosca of + Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. These parts are both subordinate; and, in playing + them, Coquelin so far succeeded in obliterating his own special talents + that he never once distracted the attention of the audience from the acting + of his fellow star. This was an artistic triumph worthy of ranking with the + same actor's sweeping and enthralling performance of Cyrano de + Bergerac,—perhaps the richest acting part in the history of the theatre. +</p> +<p> + A story is told of how Sir Henry Irving, many years ago, played the role of + Joseph Surface at a special revival of <i>The School for Scandal</i> in which + most of the other parts were filled by actors and actresses of the older + generation, who attempted to recall for one performance the triumphs of + their youth. Joseph Surface is a hypocrite and a villain; <a name="page106"> + </a>but the youthful + grace of Mr. Irving so charmed a lady in the stalls that she said she + "could not bear to see those old unlovely people trying to get the better + of that charming young man, Mr. Joseph." Something must have been wrong + with the economy of her attention. +</p> +<p> + The chief reason why mannerisms of walk or gesture or vocal intonation are + objectionable in an actor is that they distract the attention of the + audience from the effect he is producing to his method of producing that + effect. Mansfield's peculiar manner of pumping his voice from his diaphragm + and Irving's corresponding system of ejaculating his phrases through his + nose gave to the reading of those great artists a rich metallic resonance + that was vibrant with effect; but a person hearing either of those actors + for the first time was often forced to expend so much of his attention in + adjusting his ears to the novel method of voice production that he was + unable for many minutes to fix his mind upon the more important business of + the play. An actor without mannerisms, like the late Adolf von Sonnenthal, + is able to make a more immediate appeal. +</p> +<center> + IV +</center> +<p> + At the first night of Mr. E.H. Sothern's <i>Hamlet</i>, in the fall of 1900, I + had just settled back in my chair to listen to the reading of the soliloquy + <a name="page107"></a>on suicide, when a woman behind me whispered to her neighbor, "Oh look! + There are two fireplaces in the room!" My attention was distracted, and the + soliloquy was spoiled; but the fault lay with the stage-manager rather than + with the woman who spoke the disconcerting words. If Mr. Sothern was to + recite his soliloquy gazing dreamily into a fire in the centre of the room, + the stage-manager should have known enough to remove the large fireplace on + the right of the stage. +</p> +<p> + Mme. Sarah Bernhardt, when she acted <i>Hamlet</i> in London in 1899, introduced + a novel and startling effect in the closet scene between the hero and his + mother. On the wall, as usual, hung the counterfeit presentments of two + brothers; and when the time came for the ghost of buried Denmark to appear, + he was suddenly seen standing luminous in the picture-frame which had + contained his portrait. The effect was so unexpected that the audience + could look at nothing else, and thus Hamlet and the queen failed to get + their proper measure of attention. +</p> +<p> + These two instances show that the necessity of economising the attention of + an audience is just as important to the stage-manager as it is to the + dramatist and the actor. In the main, it may be said that any unexpected + innovation, any device of stage-management that is by its nature startling, + should be avoided in the crucial situations of a <a name="page108"></a>play. Professor Brander + Matthews has given an interesting illustration of this principle in his + essay on <i>The Art of the Stage-Manager</i>, which is included in his volume + entitled <i>Inquiries and Opinions</i>. He says: +</p> +<blockquote> +<p> The stage-manager must ever be on his guard against the danger + of sacrificing the major to the minor, and of letting some + little effect of slight value in itself interfere with the true + interest of the play as a whole. At the first performance of Mr. + Bronson Howard's <i>Shenandoah</i>, the opening act of which ends + with the firing of the shot on Sumter, there was a wide window + at the back of the set, so that the spectators could see the + curving flight of the bomb and its final explosion above the + doomed fort. The scenic marvel had cost time and money to + devise; but it was never visible after the first performance, + because it drew attention to itself, as a mechanical effect, and + so took off the minds of the audience from the Northern lover + and the Southern girl, the Southern lover and the Northern girl, + whose loves were suddenly sundered by the bursting of that fatal + shell. At the second performance, the spectators did not see the + shot, they only heard the dread report; and they were free to + let their sympathy go forth to the young couples. +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> + Nowadays, perhaps, when the theatre-going public is more used to elaborate + mechanism on the stage, this effect might be attempted without danger. It + was owing to its novelty at the time that the device disrupted the + attention of the spectators. +</p> +<p> + But not only novel and startling stage effects should be avoided in the + main dramatic moments of a play. Excessive magnificence and elaborateness + of setting are just as distracting to the attention <a name="page109"></a>as the shock of a new + and strange device. When <i>The Merchant of Venice</i> was revived at Daly's + Theatre some years ago, a scenic set of unusual beauty was used for the + final act. The gardens of Portia's palace were shadowy with trees and + dreamy with the dark of evening. Slowly in the distance a round and yellow + moon rose rolling, its beams rippling over the moving waters of a lake. + There was a murmur of approbation in the audience; and that murmur was just + loud enough to deaden the lyric beauty of the lines in which Lorenzo and + Jessica gave expression to the spirit of the night. The audience could not + look and listen at the self-same moment; and Shakespeare was sacrificed for + a lime-light. A wise stage-manager, when he uses a set as magnificent, for + example, as the memorable garden scene in Miss Viola Allen's production of + <i>Twelfth Night</i>, will raise his curtain on an empty stage, to let the + audience enjoy and even applaud the scenery before the actors enter. Then, + when the lines are spoken, the spectators are ready and willing to lend + them their ears. +</p> +<p> + This point suggests a discussion of the advisability of producing + Shakespeare without scenery, in the very interesting manner that has been + employed in recent seasons by Mr. Ben Greet's company of players. Leaving + aside the argument that with a sceneless stage it is possible to perform + all <a name="page110"></a>the incidents of the play in their original order, and thus give the + story a greater narrative continuity, it may also be maintained that with a + bare stage there are far fewer chances of dispersing the attention of the + audience by attracting it to insignificant details of setting. Certainly, + the last act of the <i>Merchant</i> would be better without the mechanical + moonrise than with it. But, unfortunately, the same argument for economy of + attention works also in the contrary direction. We have been so long used + to scenery in our theatres that a sceneless production requires a new + adjustment of our minds to accept the unwonted convention; and it may + readily be asserted that this mental adjustment disperses more attention + than would be scattered by elaborate stage effects. At Mr. Greet's first + production of <i>Twelfth Night</i> in New York without change of scene, many + people in the audience could be heard whispering their opinions of the + experiment,—a fact which shows that their attention was not fixed entirely + upon the play itself. On the whole, it would probably be wisest to produce + Shakespeare with very simple scenery, in order, on the one hand, not to dim + the imagination of the spectators by elaborate magnificence of setting, + and, on the other, not to distract their minds by the unaccustomed + conventions of a sceneless stage. +</p> +<p> + What has been said of scenery may be applied <a name="page111"></a>also to the use of incidental + music. So soon as such music becomes obtrusive, it distracts the attention + from the business of the play: and it cannot be insisted on too often that + in the theatre the play's the thing. But a running accompaniment of music, + half-heard, half-guessed, that moves to the mood of the play, now swelling + to a climax, now softening to a hush, may do much toward keeping the + audience in tune with the emotional significance of the action. +</p> +<p> + A perfect theatrical performance is the rarest of all works of art. I have + seen several perfect statues and perfect pictures; and I have read many + perfect poems: but I have never seen a perfect performance in the theatre. + I doubt if such a performance has ever been given, except, perhaps, in + ancient Greece. But it is easy to imagine what its effect would be. It + would rivet the attention throughout upon the essential purport of the + play; it would proceed from the beginning to the end without the slightest + distraction; and it would convey its message simply and immediately, like + the sky at sunrise or the memorable murmur of the sea. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page112"></a>VI +</h2> +<h3> + EMPHASIS IN THE DRAMA +</h3> +<p> + By applying the negative principle of economy of attention, the dramatist + may, as we have noticed, prevent his auditors at any moment from diverting + their attention to the subsidiary features of the scene; but it is + necessary for him also to apply the positive principle of emphasis in order + to force them to focus their attention on the one most important detail of + the matter in hand. The principle of emphasis, which is applied in all the + arts, is the principle whereby the artist contrives to throw into vivid + relief those features of his work which incorporate the essence of the + thing he has to say, while at the same time he gathers and groups within a + scarcely noticed background those other features which merely contribute in + a minor manner to the central purpose of his plan. This principle is, of + course, especially important in the acted drama; and it may therefore be + profitable to examine in detail some of the methods which dramatists employ + to make their points effectively and bring out the salient features of + their plays. +</p> +<p> + It is obviously easy to emphasise by position. <a name="page113"></a>The last moments in any act + are of necessity emphatic because they are the last. During the + intermission, the minds of the spectators will naturally dwell upon the + scene that has been presented to them most recently. If they think back + toward the beginning of the act, they must first think through the + concluding dialogue. This lends to curtain-falls a special importance of + which our modern dramatists never fail to take advantage. +</p> +<p> + It is interesting to remember that this simple form of emphasis by position + was impossible in the Elizabethan theatre and was quite unknown to + Shakespeare. His plays were produced on a platform without a curtain; his + actors had to make an exit at the end of every scene; and usually his plays + were acted from beginning to end without any intermission. It was therefore + impossible for him to bring his acts to an emphatic close by a clever + curtain-fall. We have gained this advantage only in recent times because of + the improved physical conditions of our theatre. +</p> +<p> + A few years ago it was customary for dramatists to end every act with a + bang that would reverberate in the ears of the audience throughout the + <i>entr'-acte</i>. Recently our playwrights have shown a tendency toward more + quiet curtain-falls. The exquisite close of the first act of <i>The Admirable + Crichton</i> was merely dreamfully suggestive of the past and future of the + action; and the second <a name="page114"></a>act ended pictorially, without a word. But whether + a curtain-fall gains its effect actively or passively, it should, if + possible, sum up the entire dramatic accomplishment of the act that it + concludes and foreshadow the subsequent progress of the play. +</p> +<p> + Likewise, the first moments in an act are of necessity emphatic because + they are the first. After an intermission, the audience is prepared to + watch with renewed eagerness the resumption of the action. The close of the + third act of <i>Beau Brummel</i> makes the audience long expectantly for the + opening of the fourth; and whatever the dramatist may do after the raising + of the curtain will be emphasised because he does it first. An exception + must be made of the opening act of a play. A dramatist seldom sets forth + anything of vital importance during the first ten minutes of his piece, + because the action is likely to be interrupted by late-comers in the + audience and other distractions incident to the early hour. But after an + intermission, he is surer of attention, and may thrust important matter + into the openings of his acts. +</p> +<p> + The last position, however, is more potent than the first. It is because of + their finality that exit speeches are emphatic. It has become customary in + the theatre to applaud a prominent actor nearly every time he leaves the + stage; and this custom has made it necessary for the dramatist to precede + an <a name="page115"></a>exit with some speech or action important enough to justify the + interruption. Though Shakespeare and his contemporaries knew nothing of the + curtain-fall, they at least understood fully the emphasis of exit speeches. + They even tagged them with rhyme to give them greater prominence. An actor + likes to take advantage of his last chance to move an audience. When he + leaves the stage, he wants at least to be remembered. +</p> +<p> + In general it may be said that any pause in the action emphasises by + position the speech or business that immediately preceded it. This is true + not only of the long pause at the end of an act: the point is illustrated + just as well by an interruption of the play in mid-career, like Mrs. + Fiske's ominous and oppressive minute of silence in the last act of <i>Hedda + Gabler</i>. The employment of pause as an aid to emphasis is of especial + importance in the reading of lines. +</p> +<p> + It is also customary in the drama to emphasise by proportion. More time is + given to significant scenes than to dialogues of subsidiary interest. The + strongest characters in a play are given most to say and do; and the extent + of the lines of the others is proportioned to their importance in the + action. Hamlet says more and does more than any other character in the + tragedy in which he figures. This is as it should be; but, on the other + hand, Polonius, in the same play, seems to receive <a name="page116"></a>greater emphasis by + proportion than he really deserves. The part is very fully written. + Polonius is often on the stage, and talks incessantly whenever he is + present; but, after all, he is a man of small importance and fulfils a + minor purpose in the plot. He is, therefore, falsely emphasised. That is + why the part of Polonius is what French actors call a <i>faux bon rôle</i>,—a + part that seems better than it is. +</p> +<p> + In certain special cases, it is advisable to emphasise a character by the + ironical expedient of inverse proportion. Tartufe is so emphasised + throughout the first two acts of the play that bears his name. Although he + is withheld from the stage until the second scene of the third act, so much + is said about him that we are made to feel fully his sinister dominance + over the household of Orgon; and at his first appearance, we already know + him better than we know any of the other characters. In Victor Hugo's + <i>Marion Delorme</i>, the indomitable will of Cardinal Richelieu is the + mainspring of the entire action, and the audience is led to feel that he + may at any moment enter upon the stage. But he is withheld until the very + final moment of the drama, and even then is merely carried mute across the + scene in a sedan-chair. Similarly, in Paul Heyse's <i>Mary of Magdala</i>, the + supreme person who guides and controls the souls of all the struggling + characters is never introduced upon the scene, <a name="page117"></a>but is suggested merely + through his effect on Mary, Judas, and the other visible figures in the + action. +</p> +<p> + One of the easiest means of emphasis is the use of repetition; and this is + a favorite device with Henrik Ibsen. Certain catch-words, which incorporate + a recurrent mood of character or situation, are repeated over and over + again throughout the course of his dialogue. The result is often similar to + that attained by Wagner, in his music-dramas, through the iteration of a + <i>leit-motiv</i>. Thus in <i>Rosmersholm</i>, whenever the action takes a turn that + foreshadows the tragic catastrophe, allusion is made to the weird symbol of + "white horses." Similarly, in <i>Hedda Gabler</i>—to take another instance—the + emphasis of repetition is flung on certain leading phrases,—"Fancy that, + Hedda!" "Wavy-haired Thea," "Vine-leaves in his hair," and "People don't do + such things!" +</p> +<p> + Another obvious means of emphasis in the drama is the use of + antithesis,—an expedient employed in every art. The design of a play is + not so much to expound characters as to contrast them. People of varied + views and opposing aims come nobly to the grapple in a struggle that + vitally concerns them; and the tensity of the struggle will be augmented if + the difference between the characters is marked. The comedies of Ben + Jonson, which held the stage for two centuries after their author's death, + owed their success largely to the fact that <a name="page118"></a>they presented a constant + contrast of mutually foiling personalities. But the expedient of antithesis + is most effectively employed in the balance of scene against scene. What is + known as "comic relief" is introduced in various plays, not only, as the + phrase suggests, to rest the sensibilities of the audience, but also to emphasise the solemn scenes that come before and after it. It is for this + purpose that Shakespeare, in <i>Macbeth</i>, introduces a low-comic soliloquy + into the midst of a murder scene. Hamlet's ranting over the grave of + Ophelia is made more emphatic by antithesis with the foolish banter that + precedes it. +</p> +<p> + This contrast of mood between scene and scene was unknown in ancient plays + and in the imitations of them that flourished in the first great period of + the French tragic stage. Although the ancient drama frequently violated the + three unities of action, time, and place, it always preserved a fourth + unity, which we may call unity of mood. It remained for the Spaniards and + the Elizabethan English to grasp the dramatic value of the great antithesis + between the humorous and the serious, the grotesque and the sublime, and to + pass it on through Victor Hugo to the contemporary theatre. +</p> +<p> + A further means of emphasis is, of course, the use of climax. This + principle is at the basis of the familiar method of working up an entrance. + My lady's coach is heard clattering behind the <a name="page119"></a>scenes. A servant rushes to + the window and tells us that his mistress is alighting. There is a ring at + the entrance; we hear the sound of footsteps in the hall. At last the door + is thrown open, and my lady enters, greeted by a salvo of applause. +</p> +<p> + A first entrance unannounced is rarely seen upon the modern stage. + Shakespeare's <i>King John</i> opens very simply. The stage direction reads, + "Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury and others, with + Chatillon"; and then the king speaks the opening line of the play. Yet when + Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree revived this drama at Her Majesty's Theatre in + 1899, he devised an elaborate opening to give a climacteric effect to the + entrance of the king. The curtain rose upon a vaulted room of state, + impressive in its bare magnificence. A throne was set upon a dais to the + left, and several noblemen in splendid costumes were lingering about the + room. At the back was a Norman corridor approached by a flight of lofty + steps which led upward from the level of the stage. There was a peal of + trumpets from without, and soon to a stately music the royal guards marched + upon the scene. They were followed by ladies with gorgeous dresses sweeping + away in long trains borne by pretty pages, and great lords walking with + dignity to the music of the regal measure. At last Mr. Tree appeared and + stood for a moment at the top of the steps, every inch a king. + <a name="page120"></a>Then he + strode majestically to the dais, ascended to the throne, and turning about + with measured majesty spoke the first line of the play, some minutes after + the raising of the curtain. +</p> +<p> + But not only in the details of a drama is the use of climax necessary. The + whole action should sweep upward in intensity until the highest point is + reached. In the Shakespearean drama the highest point came somewhat early + in the piece, usually in the third act of the five that Shakespeare wrote; + but in contemporary plays the climax is almost always placed at the end of + the penultimate act,—the fourth act if there are five, and the third act + if there are four. Nowadays the four-act form with a strong climax at the + end of the third act seems to be most often used. This is the form, for + instance, of Ibsen's <i>Hedda Gabler</i>, of Mr. Jones's <i>Mrs. Dane's Defense</i>, + and of Sir Arthur Pinero's <i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>, <i>The Notorious Mrs. + Ebbsmith</i>, and <i>The Gay Lord Quex</i>. Each begins with an act of exposition, + followed by an act of rising interest. Then the whole action of the play + rushes upward toward the curtain-fall of the third act, after which an act + is used to bring the play to a terrible or a happy conclusion. +</p> +<p> + A less familiar means of emphasis is that which owes its origin to + surprise. This expedient must be used with great delicacy, because a sudden + and <a name="page121"></a>startling shock of surprise is likely to diseconomise the attention of + the spectators and flurry them out of a sane conception of the scene. But + if a moment of surprise has been carefully led up to by anticipatory + suggestion, it may be used to throw into sharp and sudden relief an + important point in the play. No one knows that Cyrano de Bergerac is on the + stage until he rises in the midst of the crowd in the Hôtel de Bourgogne + and shakes his cane at Montfleury. When Sir Herbert Tree played D'Artagnan + in <i>The Musketeers</i>, he emerged suddenly in the midst of a scene from a + suit of old armor standing monumental at the back of the stage,—a <i>deus ex + machina</i> to dominate the situation. American playgoers will remember the + disguise of Sherlock Holmes in the last act of Mr. Gillette's admirable + melodrama. The appearance of the ghost in the closet scene of <i>Hamlet</i> is + made emphatic by its unexpectedness. +</p> +<p> + But perhaps the most effective form of emphasis in the drama is emphasis by + suspense. Wilkie Collins, who with all his faults as a critic of life + remains the most skilful maker of plots in English fiction, used to say + that the secret of holding the attention of one's readers lay in the + ability to do three things: "Make 'em laugh; make 'em weep; make 'em wait." + There is no use in making an audience wait, however, unless you first give + them an inkling of what they are waiting for. <a name="page122"></a>The dramatist must play with + his spectators as we play with a kitten when we trail a ball of yarn before + its eyes, only to snatch it away just as the kitten leaps for it. +</p> +<p> + This method of emphasising by suspense gives force to what are known + technically as the <i>scènes à faire</i> of a drama. A <i>scène à faire</i>—the + phrase was devised by Francisque Sarcey—is a scene late in a play that is + demanded absolutely by the previous progress of the plot. The audience + knows that the scene must come sooner or later, and if the element of + suspense be ably managed, is made to long for it some time before it comes. + In <i>Hamlet</i>, for instance, the killing of the king by the hero is of course + a <i>scène à faire</i>. The audience knows before the first act is over that + such a scene is surely coming. When the king is caught praying in his + closet and Hamlet stands over him with naked sword, the spectators think at + last that the <i>scène à faire</i> has arrived; but Shakespeare "makes 'em wait" + for two acts more, until the very ending of the play. +</p> +<p> + In comedy the commonest <i>scènes à faire</i> are love scenes that the audience + anticipates and longs to see. Perhaps the young folks are frequently on the + stage, but the desired scene is prevented by the presence of other + characters. Only after many movements are the lovers left alone; and when + at <a name="page123"></a>last the pretty moment comes, the audience glows with long-awaited + enjoyment. +</p> +<p> + It is always dangerous for a dramatist to omit a <i>scène à faire</i>,—to raise + in the minds of his audience an expectation that is never satisfied. + Sheridan did this in <i>The School for Scandal</i> when he failed to introduce a + love scene between Charles and Maria, and Mr. Jones did it in <i>Whitewashing + Julia</i> when he made the audience expect throughout the play a revelation of + the truth about the puff-box and then left them disappointed in the end. + But these cases are exceptional. In general it may be said that an + unsatisfied suspense is no suspense at all. +</p> +<p> + One of the most effective instances of suspense in the modern drama is + offered in the opening of <i>John Gabriel Borkman</i>, one of Ibsen's later + plays. Many years before the drama opens, the hero has been sent to jail + for misusing the funds of a bank of which he was director. After five years + of imprisonment, he has been released, eight years before the opening of + the play. During these eight years, he has lived alone in the great gallery + of his house, never going forth even in the dark of night, and seeing only + two people who come to call upon him. One of these, a young girl, sometimes + plays for him on the piano while he paces moodily up and down the gallery. + These facts are expounded to <a name="page124"></a>the audience in a dialogue between Mrs. Borkman and her sister that takes place in a lower room below Borkman's + quarters; and all the while, in the pauses of the conversation, the hero is + heard walking overhead, pacing incessantly up and down. As the act + advances, the audience expects at any moment that the hero will appear. The + front door is thrown open; two minor characters enter; and still Borkman is + heard walking up and down. There is more talk about him on the stage; the + act is far advanced, and soon it seems that he must show himself. From the + upper room is heard the music of the Dance of Death that his young girl + friend is playing for him. Now to the dismal measures of the dance the + dialogue on the stage swells to a climax. Borkman is still heard pacing in + the gallery. And the curtain falls. Ten minutes later the raising of the + curtain discloses John Gabriel Borkman standing with his hands behind his + back, looking at the girl who has been playing for him. The moment is + trebly emphatic,—by position at the opening of an act, by surprise, and + most of all by suspense. When the hero is at last discovered, the audience + looks at him. +</p> +<p> + Of course there are many minor means of emphasis in the theatre, but most + of these are artificial and mechanical. The proverbial lime-light is one of + the most effective. The intensity of the dream scene in Sir Henry Irving's + performance of <i>The <a name="page125"></a>Bells</i> was due largely to the way in which the single + figure of Mathias was silhouetted by a ray of light against a shadowy and + inscrutable background ominous with voices. +</p> +<p> + In this materialistic age, actors even resort to blandishments of costume + to give their parts a special emphasis. Our leading ladies are more richly + clad than the minor members of their companies. Even the great Mansfield + resorted in his performance of Brutus to the indefensible expedient of + changing his costume act by act and dressing always in exquisite and subtle + colors, while the other Romans, Cassius included, wore the same togas of + unaffected white throughout the play. This was a fault in emphasis. +</p> +<p> + A novel and interesting device of emphasis in stage-direction was + introduced by Mr. Forbes-Robertson in his production of <i>The Passing of the + Third Floor Back</i>. This dramatic parable by Mr. Jerome K. Jerome deals with + the moral regeneration of eleven people, who are living in a Bloomsbury + boarding-house, through the personal influence of a Passer-by, who is the + Spirit of Love incarnate; and this effect is accomplished in a succession + of dialogues, in which the Stranger talks at length with one boarder after + another. It is necessary, for reasons of reality, that in each of the + dialogues the Passer-by and his interlocutor should be seated at their + ease. It is also necessary, <a name="page126"></a>for reasons of effectiveness in presentation, + that the faces of both parties to the conversation should be kept clearly + visible to the audience. In actual life, the two people would most + naturally sit before a fire; but if a fireplace should be set in either the + right or the left wall of the stage and two actors should be seated in + front of it, the face of one of them would be obscured from the audience. + The producer therefore adopted the expedient of imagining a fireplace in + the fourth wall of the room,—the wall that is supposed to stretch across + the stage at the line of the footlights. A red-glow from the central lamps + of the string of footlights was cast up over a brass railing such as + usually bounds a hearth, and behind this, far forward in the direct centre + of the stage, two chairs were drawn up for the use of the actors. The right + wall showed a window opening on the street, the rear wall a door opening on + an entrance hall, and the left wall a door opening on a room adjacent; and + in none of these could the fireplace have been logically set. The unusual + device of stage-direction, therefore, contributed to the verisimilitude of + the set as well as to the convenience of the action. The experiment was + successful for the purposes of this particular piece; it did not seem to + disrupt the attention of the audience; and the question, therefore, is + suggested whether it might not, in many other plays, be advantageous to + make imaginary use of the invisible fourth wall. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page127"></a>VII +</h2> +<h3> + THE FOUR LEADING TYPES OF DRAMA +</h3> +<center> + I. TRAGEDY AND MELODRAMA +</center> +<p> + Tragedy and melodrama are alike in this,—that each exhibits a set of + characters struggling vainly to avert a predetermined doom; but in this + essential point they differ,—that whereas the characters in melodrama are + drifted to disaster in spite of themselves, the characters in tragedy go + down to destruction because of themselves. In tragedy the characters + determine and control the plot; in melodrama the plot determines and + controls the characters. The writer of melodrama initially imagines a + stirring train of incidents, interesting and exciting in themselves, and + afterward invents such characters as will readily accept the destiny that + he has foreordained for them. The writer of tragedy, on the other hand, + initially imagines certain characters inherently predestined to destruction + because of what they are, and afterward invents such incidents as will + reasonably result from what is wrong within them. +</p> +<p> + It must be recognised at once that each of these <a name="page128"></a>is a legitimate method + for planning a serious play, and that by following either the one or the + other, it is possible to make a truthful representation of life. For the + ruinous events of life itself divide themselves into two classes—the + melodramatic and the tragic—according as the element of chance or the + element of character shows the upper hand in them. It would be melodramatic + for a man to slip by accident into the Whirlpool Rapids and be drowned; but + the drowning of Captain Webb in that tossing torrent was tragic, because + his ambition for preëminence as a swimmer bore evermore within itself the + latent possibility of his failing in an uttermost stupendous effort. +</p> +<p> + As Stevenson has said, in his <i>Gossip on Romance</i>, "The pleasure that we + take in life is of two sorts,—the active and the passive. Now we are + conscious of a great command over our destiny; anon we are lifted up by + circumstance, as by a breaking wave, and dashed we know not how into the + future." A good deal of what happens to us is brought upon us by the fact + of what we are; the rest is drifted to us, uninvited, undeserved, upon the + tides of chance. When disasters overwhelm us, the fault is sometimes in + ourselves, but at other times is merely in our stars. Because so much of + life is casual rather than causal, the theatre (whose purpose is to + represent life truly) must always rely on melodrama as the most natural and + <a name="page129"></a>effective type of art for exhibiting some of its most interesting phases. + There is therefore no logical reason whatsoever that melodrama should be + held in disrepute, even by the most fastidious of critics. +</p> +<p> + But, on the other hand, it is evident that tragedy is inherently a higher + type of art. The melodramatist exhibits merely what may happen; the + tragedist exhibits what must happen. All that we ask of the author of + melodrama is a momentary plausibility. Provided that his plot be not + impossible, no limits are imposed on his invention of mere incident: even + his characters will not give him pause, since they themselves have been + fashioned to fit the action. But of the author of tragedy we demand an + unquestionable inevitability: nothing may happen in his play which is not a + logical result of the nature of his characters. Of the melodramatist we + require merely the negative virtue that he shall not lie: of the tragedist + we require the positive virtue that he shall reveal some phase of the + absolute, eternal Truth. +</p> +<p> + The vast difference between merely saying something that is true and really + saying something that gives a glimpse of the august and all-controlling + Truth may be suggested by a verbal illustration. Suppose that, upon an + evening which at sunset has been threatened with a storm, I observe the sky + at midnight to be cloudless, and say, "The stars are <a name="page130"></a>shining still." + Assuredly I shall be telling something that is true; but I shall not be + giving in any way a revelation of the absolute. Consider now the aspect of + this very same remark, as it occurs in the fourth act of John Webster's + tragedy, <i>The Duchess of Malfi</i>. The Duchess, overwhelmed with despair, is + talking to Bosola: +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> +<pre><i>Duchess.</i> I'll go pray;— + No, I'll go curse. +</pre> +<pre><i>Bosola.</i> O, fie! +</pre> +<pre><i>Duchess.</i> I could curse the stars. +</pre> +<pre><i>Bosola.</i> O, fearful. +</pre> +<pre><i>Duchess.</i> And those three smiling seasons of the year + Into a Russian winter: nay, the world + To its first chaos. +</pre> +<pre><i>Bosola.</i> Look you, the stars shine still. +</pre> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + This brief sentence, which in the former instance was comparatively + meaningless, here suddenly flashes on the awed imagination a vista of + irrevocable law. +</p> +<p> + A similar difference exists between the august Truth of tragedy and the + less revelatory truthfulness of melodrama. To understand and to expound the + laws of life is a loftier task than merely to avoid misrepresenting them. + For this reason, though melodrama has always abounded, true tragedy has + always been extremely rare. Nearly all the tragic plays in the history of + the theatre have descended at certain moments into melodrama. Shakespeare's + final version of <i>Hamlet</i> stands nearly <a name="page131"></a>on the highest level; but here and + there it still exhibits traces of that preëxistent melodrama of the school + of Thomas Kyd from which it was derived. Sophocles is truly tragic, because + he affords a revelation of the absolute; but Euripides is for the most part + melodramatic, because he contents himself with imagining and projecting the + merely possible. In our own age, Ibsen is the only author who, + consistently, from play to play, commands catastrophes which are not only + plausible but unavoidable. It is not strange, however, that the entire + history of the drama should disclose very few masters of the tragic; for to + envisage the inevitable is to look within the very mind of God. +</p> +<center> + II. COMEDY AND FARCE +</center> +<p> + If we turn our attention to the merry-mooded drama, we shall discern a + similar distinction between comedy and farce. A comedy is a humorous play + in which the actors dominate the action; a farce is a humorous play in + which the action dominates the actors. Pure comedy is the rarest of all + types of drama; because characters strong enough to determine and control a + humorous plot almost always insist on fighting out their struggle to a + serious issue, and thereby lift the action above the comic level. On the + other hand, unless the characters thus stiffen in their purposes, they + usually allow the play to lapse to farce. Pure comedies, <a name="page132"> + </a>however, have now + and then been fashioned, without admixture either of farce or of serious + drama; and of these <i>Le Misanthrope</i> of Molière may be taken as a standard + example. The work of the same master also affords many examples of pure + farce, which never rises into comedy,—for instance, <i>Le Medecin Malgré + Lui</i>. Shakespeare nearly always associated the two types within the compass + of a single humorous play, using comedy for his major plot and farce for + his subsidiary incidents. Farce is decidedly the most irresponsible of all + the types of drama. The plot exists for its own sake, and the dramatist + need fulfil only two requirements in devising it:—first, he must be funny, + and second, he must persuade his audience to accept his situations at least + for the moment while they are being enacted. Beyond this latter requisite, + he suffers no subservience to plausibility. Since he needs to be believed + only for the moment, he is not obliged to limit himself to possibilities. + But to compose a true comedy is a very serious task; for in comedy the + action must be not only possible and plausible, but must be a necessary + result of the nature of the characters. This is the reason why <i>The School + for Scandal</i> is a greater accomplishment than <i>The Rivals</i>, though the + latter play is fully as funny as the former. The one is comedy, and the + other merely farce. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page133"></a>VIII +</h2> +<h3> + THE MODERN SOCIAL DRAMA +</h3> +<p> + The modern social drama—or the problem play, as it is popularly + called—did not come into existence till the fourth decade of the + nineteenth century; but in less than eighty years it has shown itself to be + the fittest expression in dramaturgic terms of the spirit of the present + age; and it is therefore being written, to the exclusion of almost every + other type, by nearly all the contemporary dramatists of international + importance. This type of drama, currently prevailing, is being continually + impugned by a certain set of critics, and by another set continually + defended. In especial, the morality of the modern social drama has been a + theme for bitter conflict; and critics have been so busy calling Ibsen a + corrupter of the mind or a great ethical teacher that they have not found + leisure to consider the more general and less contentious questions of what + the modern social drama really is, and of precisely on what ground its + morality should be determined. It may be profitable, therefore, to stand + aloof from such discussion for a moment, in order to inquire calmly what it + is all about. +</p> +<center> + <a name="page134"></a>I +</center> +<p> + Although the modern social drama is sometimes comic in its mood—<i>The Gay + Lord Quex</i>, for instance—its main development has been upon the serious + side; and it may be criticised most clearly as a modern type of tragedy. In + order, therefore, to understand its essential qualities, we must first + consider somewhat carefully the nature of tragedy in general. The theme of + all drama is, of course, a struggle of human wills; and the special theme + of tragic drama is a struggle necessarily foredoomed to failure because the + individual human will is pitted against opposing forces stronger than + itself. Tragedy presents the spectacle of a human being shattering himself + against insuperable obstacles. Thereby it awakens pity, because the hero + cannot win, and terror, because the forces arrayed against him cannot lose. +</p> +<p> + If we rapidly review the history of tragedy, we shall see that three types, + and only three, have thus far been devised; and these types are to be + distinguished according to the nature of the forces set in opposition to + the wills of the characters. In other words, the dramatic imagination of + all humanity has thus far been able to conceive only three types of + struggle which are necessarily foredoomed to failure,—only three different + varieties of forces so strong as to defeat inevitably any individual + <a name="page135"></a>human + being who comes into conflict with them. The first of these types was + discovered by Aeschylus and perfected by Sophocles; the second was + discovered by Christopher Marlowe and perfected by Shakespeare; and the + third was discovered by Victor Hugo and perfected by Ibsen. +</p> +<p> + The first type, which is represented by Greek tragedy, displays the + individual in conflict with Fate, an inscrutable power dominating alike the + actions of men and of gods. It is the God of the gods,—the destiny of + which they are the instruments and ministers. Through irreverence, through + vainglory, through disobedience, through weakness, the tragic hero becomes + entangled in the meshes that Fate sets for the unwary; he struggles and + struggles to get free, but his efforts are necessarily of no avail. He has + transgressed the law of laws, and he is therefore doomed to inevitable + agony. Because of this superhuman aspect of the tragic struggle, the Greek + drama was religious in tone, and stimulated in the spectator the reverent + and lofty mood of awe. +</p> +<p> + The second type of tragedy, which is represented by the great Elizabethan + drama, displays the individual foredoomed to failure, no longer because of + the preponderant power of destiny, but because of certain defects inherent + in his own nature. The Fate of the Greeks has become humanised and made + subjective. Christopher Marlowe was <a name="page136"></a>the first of the world's dramatists + thus to set the God of all the gods within the soul itself of the man who + suffers and contends and dies. But he imagined only one phase of the new + and epoch-making tragic theme that he discovered. The one thing that he + accomplished was to depict the ruin of an heroic nature through an + insatiable ambition for supremacy, doomed by its own vastitude to defeat + itself,—supremacy of conquest and dominion with Tamburlaine, supremacy of + knowledge with Dr. Faustus, supremacy of wealth with Barabas, the Jew of + Malta. Shakespeare, with his wider mind, presented many other phases of + this new type of tragic theme. Macbeth is destroyed by vaulting ambition + that o'erleaps itself; Hamlet is ruined by irresoluteness and contemplative + procrastination. If Othello were not overtrustful, if Lear were not + decadent in senility, they would not be doomed to die in the conflict that + confronts them. They fall self-ruined, self-destroyed. This second type of + tragedy is less lofty and religious than the first; but it is more human, + and therefore, to the spectator, more poignant. We learn more about God by + watching the annihilation of an individual by Fate; but we learn more about + Man by watching the annihilation of an individual by himself. Greek tragedy + sends our souls through the invisible; but Elizabethan tragedy answers, + "Thou thyself art Heaven and Hell." +</p> +<p> + <a name="page137"></a>The third type of tragedy is represented by the modern social drama. In + this the individual is displayed in conflict with his environment; and the + drama deals with the mighty war between personal character and social + conditions. The Greek hero struggles with the superhuman; the Elizabethan + hero struggles with himself; the modern hero struggles with the world. Dr. + Stockmann, in Ibsen's <i>An Enemy of the People</i>, is perhaps the most + definitive example of the type, although the play in which he appears is + not, strictly speaking, a tragedy. He says that he is the strongest man on + earth because he stands most alone. On the one side are the legions of + society; on the other side a man. This is such stuff as modern plays are + made of. +</p> +<p> + Thus, whereas the Greeks religiously ascribed the source of all inevitable + doom to divine foreordination, and the Elizabethans poetically ascribed it + to the weaknesses the human soul is heir to, the moderns prefer to ascribe + it scientifically to the dissidence between the individual and his social + environment. With the Greeks the catastrophe of man was decreed by Fate; + with the Elizabethans it was decreed by his own soul; with us it is decreed + by Mrs. Grundy. Heaven and Hell were once enthroned high above Olympus; + then, as with Marlowe's Mephistophilis, they were seated deep in every + individual soul; now at last they have been <a name="page138"></a>located in the prim parlor of + the conventional dame next door. Obviously the modern type of tragedy is + inherently less religious than the Greek, since science has as yet induced + no dwelling-place for God. It is also inherently less poetic than the + Elizabethan, since sociological discussion demands the mood of prose. +</p> +<center> + II +</center> +<p> + Such being in general the theme and the aspect of the modern social drama, + we may next consider briefly how it came into being. Like a great deal else + in contemporary art, it could not possibly have been engendered before that + tumultuous upheaval of human thought which produced in history the French + Revolution and in literature the resurgence of romance. During the + eighteenth century, both in England and in France, society was considered + paramount and the individual subservient. Each man was believed to exist + for the sake of the social mechanism of which he formed a part: the chain + was the thing,—not its weakest, nor even its strongest, link. But the + French Revolution and the cognate romantic revival in the arts unsettled + this conservative belief, and made men wonder whether society, after all, + did not exist solely for the sake of the individual. Early eighteenth + century literature is a polite and polished exaltation of society, and + preaches that the majority <a name="page139"></a>is always right; early nineteenth century + literature is a clamorous paean of individualism, and preaches that the + majority is always wrong. Considering the modern social drama as a phase of + history, we see at once that it is based upon the struggle between these + two beliefs. It exhibits always a conflict between the individual + revolutionist and the communal conservatives, and expresses the growing + tendency of these opposing forces to adjust themselves to equilibrium. +</p> +<p> + Thus considered, the modern social drama is seen to be inherently and + necessarily the product and the expression of the nineteenth century. + Through no other type of drama could the present age reveal itself so + fully; for the relation between the one and the many, in politics, in + religion, in the daily round of life itself, has been, and still remains, + the most important topic of our times. The paramount human problem of the + last hundred years has been the great, as yet unanswered, question whether + the strongest man on earth is he who stands most alone or he who subserves + the greatest good of the greatest number. Upon the struggle implicit in + this question the modern drama necessarily is based, since the dramatist, + in any period when the theatre is really alive, is obliged to tell the + people in the audience what they have themselves been thinking. Those + critics, therefore, have no ground to stand on who belittle the importance + <a name="page140"></a>of the modern social drama and regard it as an arbitrary phase of art + devised, for business reasons merely, by a handful of clever playwrights. +</p> +<p> + Although the third and modern type of tragedy has grown to be almost + exclusively the property of realistic writers, it is interesting to recall + that it was first introduced into the theatre of the world by the king of + the romantics. It was Victor Hugo's <i>Hernani</i>, produced in 1830, which + first exhibited a dramatic struggle between an individual and society at + large. The hero is a bandit and an outlaw, and he is doomed to failure + because of the superior power of organised society arrayed against him. So + many minor victories were won at that famous <i>première</i> of <i>Hernani</i> that + even Hugo's followers were too excited to perceive that he had given the + drama a new subject and the theatre a new theme; but this epoch-making fact + may now be clearly recognised in retrospect. <i>Hernani</i>, and all of Victor + Hugo's subsequent dramas, dealt, however, with distant times and lands; and + it was left to another great romantic, Alexander Dumas <i>père</i>, to be the + first to give the modern theme a modern setting. In his best play, + <i>Antony</i>, which exhibits the struggle of a bastard to establish himself in + the so-called best society, Dumas brought the discussion home to his own + country and his own period. In the hands of that extremely gifted + <a name="page141"></a>dramatist, Emile Augier, the new type of serious drama passed over into + the possession of the realists, and so downward to the latter-day realistic + dramatists of France and England, Germany and Scandinavia. The supreme and + the most typical creative figure of the entire period is, of course, the + Norwegian Henrik Ibsen, who—such is the irony of progress—despised the + romantics of 1830, and frequently expressed a bitter scorn for those + predecessors who discovered and developed the type of tragedy which he + perfected. +</p> +<center> + III +</center> +<p> + We are now prepared to inquire more closely into the specific sort of + subject which the modern social drama imposes on the dramatist. The + existence of any struggle between an individual and the conventions of + society presupposes that the individual is unconventional. If the hero were + in accord with society, there would be no conflict of contending forces: he + must therefore be one of society's outlaws, or else there can be no play. + In modern times, therefore, the serious drama has been forced to select as + its leading figures men and women outcast and condemned by conventional + society. It has dealt with courtesans (<i>La Dame Aux Camélias</i>), + demi-mondaines (<i>Le Demi-Monde</i>), erring wives (<i>Frou-Frou</i>), women with a + past (<i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>), free lovers (<i>The Notorious + <a name="page142"></a>Mrs. Ebbsmith</i>), bastards (<i>Antony</i>; <i>Le Fils Naturel</i>), ex-convicts (<i>John + Gabriel Borkman</i>), people with ideas in advance of their time (<i>Ghosts</i>), + and a host of other characters that are usually considered dangerous to + society. In order that the dramatic struggle might be tense, the dramatists + have been forced to strengthen the cases of their characters so as to + suggest that, perhaps, in the special situations cited, the outcasts were + right and society was wrong. Of course it would be impossible to base a + play upon the thesis that, in a given conflict between the individual and + society, society was indisputably right and the individual indubitably + wrong; because the essential element of struggle would be absent. Our + modern dramatists, therefore, have been forced to deal with <i>exceptional</i> + outcasts of society,—outcasts with whom the audience might justly + sympathise in their conflict with convention. The task of finding such + justifiable outcasts has of necessity narrowed the subject-matter of the + modern drama. It would be hard, for instance, to make out a good case + against society for the robber, the murderer, the anarchist. But it is + comparatively easy to make out a good case for a man and a woman involved + in some sexual relation which brings upon them the censure of society but + which seems in itself its own excuse for being. Our modern serious + dramatists have been driven, therefore, in the great majority of cases, + <a name="page143"></a>to + deal almost exclusively with problems of sex. +</p> +<p> + This necessity has pushed them upon dangerous ground. Man is, after all, a + social animal. The necessity of maintaining the solidarity of the family—a + necessity (as the late John Fiske luminously pointed out) due to the long + period of infancy in man—has forced mankind to adopt certain social laws + to regulate the interrelations of men and women. Any strong attempt to + subvert these laws is dangerous not only to that tissue of convention + called society but also to the development of the human race. And here we + find our dramatists forced—first by the spirit of the times, which gives + them their theme, and second by the nature of the dramatic art, which + demands a special treatment of that theme—to hold a brief for certain men + and women who have shuffled off the coil of those very social laws that man + has devised, with his best wisdom, for the preservation of his race. And + the question naturally follows: Is a drama that does this moral or immoral? +</p> +<p> + But the philosophical basis for this question is usually not understood at + all by those critics who presume to answer the question off-hand in a spasm + of polemics. It is interesting, as an evidence of the shallowness of most + contemporary dramatic criticism, to read over, in the course of Mr. Shaw's + nimble essay on <i>The Quintessence of Ibsenism</i>, the collection which the + author has made <a name="page144"></a>of the adverse notices of <i>Ghosts</i> which appeared in the + London newspapers on the occasion of the first performance of the play in + England. Unanimously they commit the fallacy of condemning the piece as + immoral because of the subject that it deals with. And, on the other hand, + it must be recognised that most of the critical defenses of the same piece, + and of other modern works of similar nature, have been based upon the + identical fallacy,—that morality or immorality is a question of + subject-matter. But either to condemn or to defend the morality of any work + of art because of its material alone is merely a waste of words. There is + no such thing, <i>per se</i>, as an immoral subject for a play: in the treatment + of the subject, and only in the treatment, lies the basis for ethical + judgment of the piece. Critics who condemn <i>Ghosts</i> because of its + subject-matter might as well condemn <i>Othello</i> because the hero kills his + wife—what a suggestion, look you, to carry into our homes! <i>Macbeth</i> is + not immoral, though it makes night hideous with murder. The greatest of all + Greek dramas, <i>Oedipus King</i>, is in itself sufficient proof that morality + is a thing apart from subject-matter; and Shelley's <i>The Cenci</i> is another + case in point. The only way in which a play may be immoral is for it to + cloud, in the spectator, the consciousness of those invariable laws of life + which say to man "Thou shalt not" or "Thou shalt"; and the one thing + needful in <a name="page145"></a>order that a drama may be moral is that the author shall + maintain throughout the piece a sane and truthful insight into the + soundness or unsoundness of the relations between his characters. He must + know when they are right and know when they are wrong, and must make clear + to the audience the reasons for his judgments. He cannot be immoral unless + he is untrue. To make us pity his characters when they are vile or love + them when they are noxious, to invent excuses for them in situations where + they cannot be excused—in a single word, to lie about his characters—this + is for the dramatist the one unpardonable sin. Consequently, the only sane + course for a critic who wishes to maintain the thesis that <i>Ghosts</i>, or any + other modern play, is immoral, is not to hurl mud at it, but to prove by + the sound processes of logic that the play tells lies about life; and the + only sane way to defend such a piece is not to prate about the "moral + lesson" the critic supposes that it teaches, but to prove logically that it + tells the truth. +</p> +<p> + The same test of truthfulness by which we distinguish good workmanship from + bad is the only test by which we may conclusively distinguish immoral art + from moral. Yet many of the controversial critics never calm down + sufficiently to apply this test. Instead of arguing whether or not Ibsen + tells the truth about Hedda Gabler, they quarrel with him or defend him for + talking about her at <a name="page146"></a>all. It is as if zoölogists who had assembled to + determine the truth or falsity of some scientific theory concerning the + anatomy of a reptile should waste all their time in contending whether or + not the reptile was unclean. +</p> +<p> + And even when they do apply the test of truthfulness, many critics are + troubled by a grave misconception that leads them into error. They make the + mistake of applying <i>generally</i> to life certain ethical judgments that the + dramatist means only to apply <i>particularly</i> to the special people in his + play. The danger of this fallacy cannot be too strongly emphasised. It is + not the business of the dramatist to formulate general laws of conduct; he + leaves that to the social scientist, the ethical philosopher, the religious + preacher. His business is merely to tell the truth about certain special + characters involved in certain special situations. If the characters and + the situations be abnormal, the dramatist must recognise that fact in + judging them; and it is not just for the critic to apply to ordinary people + in the ordinary situations of life a judgment thus conditioned. The + question in <i>La Dame Aux Camélias</i> is not whether the class of women which + Marguerite Gautier represents is generally estimable, but whether a + particular woman of that class, set in certain special circumstances, was + not worthy of sympathy. The question in <i>A Doll's House</i> is not whether any + woman should forsake her husband <a name="page147"></a>and children when she happens to feel + like it, but whether a particular woman, Nora, living under special + conditions with a certain kind of husband, Torwald, really did deem herself + justified in leaving her doll's home, perhaps forever. The ethics of any + play should be determined, not externally, but within the limits of the + play itself. And yet our modern social dramatists are persistently + misjudged. We hear talk of the moral teaching of Ibsen,—as if, instead of + being a maker of plays, he had been a maker of golden rules. But Mr. Shaw + came nearer to the truth with his famous paradox that the only golden rule + in Ibsen's dramas is that there is no golden rule. +</p> +<p> + It must, however, be admitted that the dramatists themselves are not + entirely guiltless of this current critical misconception. Most of them + happen to be realists, and in devising their situations they aim to be + narrowly natural as well as broadly true. The result is that the + circumstances of their plays have an <i>ordinary</i> look which makes them seem + simple transcripts of everyday life instead of special studies of life + under peculiar conditions. Consequently the audience, and even the critic, + is tempted to judge life in terms of the play instead of judging the play + in terms of life. Thus falsely judged, <i>The Wild Duck</i> (to take an emphatic + instance) is outrageously immoral, although it must be judged moral by the + philosophic critic who <a name="page148"></a>questions only whether or not Ibsen told the truth + about the particular people involved in its depressing story. The deeper + question remains: Was Ibsen justified in writing a play which was true and + therefore moral, but which necessarily would have an immoral effect on nine + spectators out of every ten, because they would instinctively make a hasty + and false generalisation from the exceptional and very particular ethics + implicit in the story? +</p> +<p> + For it must be bravely recognised that any statement of truth which is so + framed as to be falsely understood conveys a lie. If the dramatist says + quite truly, "This particular leaf is sere and yellow," and if the audience + quite falsely understands him to say, "All leaves are sere and yellow," the + gigantic lie has illogically been conveyed that the world is ever windy + with autumn, that spring is but a lyric dream, and summer an illusion. The + modern social drama, even when it is most truthful within its own limits, + is by its very nature liable to just this sort of illogical conveyance of a + lie. It sets forth a struggle between a radical exception and a + conservative rule; and the audience is likely to forget that the exception + is merely an exception, and to infer that it is greater than the rule. Such + an inference, being untrue, is immoral; and in so far as a dramatist aids + and abets it, he must be judged dangerous to the theatre-going public. +</p> +<p> + Whenever, then, it becomes important to determine <a name="page149"></a>whether a new play of + the modern social type is moral or immoral, the critic should decide first + whether the author tells lies specifically about any of the people in his + story, and second, provided that the playwright passes the first test + successfully, whether he allures the audience to generalise falsely in + regard to life at large from the specific circumstances of his play. These + two questions are the only ones that need to be decided. This is the crux + of the whole matter. And it has been the purpose of the present chapter + merely to establish this one point by historical and philosophic criticism, + and thus to clear the ground for subsequent discussion. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page153"></a>OTHER PRINCIPLES OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM +</h2> + + +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + I +</h2> +<h3> + THE PUBLIC AND THE DRAMATIST +</h3> +<p> + No other artist is so little appreciated by the public that enjoys his + work, or is granted so little studious consideration from the critically + minded, as the dramatist. Other artists, like the novelist, the painter, + the sculptor, or the actor, appeal directly to the public and the critics; + nothing stands between their finished work and the minds that contemplate + it. A person reading a novel by Mr. Howells, or looking at a statue by + Saint-Gaudens or a picture by Mr. Sargent, may see exactly what the artist + has done and what he has not, and may appreciate his work accordingly. But + when the dramatist has completed his play, he does not deliver it directly + to the public; he delivers it only indirectly, through the medial + interpretation of many other artists,—the actor, the stage-director, the + scene-painter, and still others of whom the public seldom hears. If any of + these other and medial <a name="page154"></a>artists fails to convey the message that the + dramatist intended, the dramatist will fail of his intention, though the + fault is not his own. None of the general public, and few of the critics, + will discern what the dramatist had in mind, so completely may his creative + thought be clouded by inadequate interpretation. +</p> +<p> + The dramatist is obviously at the mercy of his actors. His most delicate + love scene may be spoiled irrevocably by an actor incapable of profound + emotion daintily expressed; his most imaginative creation of a hard and + cruel character may be rendered unappreciable by an actor of too persuasive + charm. And, on the other hand, the puppets of a dramatist with very little + gift for characterisation may sometimes be lifted into life by gifted + actors and produce upon the public a greater impression than the characters + of a better dramatist less skilfully portrayed. It is, therefore, very + difficult to determine whether the dramatist has imagined more or less than + the particular semblance of humanity exhibited by the actor on the stage. + Othello, as portrayed by Signor Novelli, is a man devoid of dignity and + majesty, a creature intensely animal and nervously impulsive; and if we had + never read the play, or seen other performances of it, we should probably + deny to Shakespeare the credit due for one of his most grand conceptions. + On the other hand, when we witness Mr. Warfield's <a name="page155"></a>beautiful and truthful + performance of <i>The Music Master</i>, we are tempted not to notice that the + play itself is faulty in structure, untrue in character, and obnoxiously + sentimental in tone. Because Mr. Warfield, by the sheer power of his + histrionic genius, has lifted sentimentality into sentiment and + conventional theatricism into living truth, we are tempted to give to Mr. + Charles Klein the credit for having written a very good play instead of a + very bad one. +</p> +<p> + Only to a slightly less extent is the dramatist at the mercy of his + stage-director. Mrs. Rida Johnson Young's silly play called <i>Brown of + Harvard</i> was made worth seeing by the genius of Mr. Henry Miller as a + producer. By sheer visual imagination in the setting and the handling of + the stage, especially in the first act and the last, Mr. Miller contrived + to endow the author's shallow fabric with the semblance of reality. On the + other hand, Mr. Richard Walton Tully's play, <i>The Rose of the Rancho</i>, was + spoiled by the cleverest stage-director of our day. Mr. Tully must, + originally, have had a story in his mind; but what that story was could not + be guessed from witnessing the play. It was utterly buried under an + atmosphere of at least thirty pounds to the square inch, which Mr. Belasco + chose to impose upon it. With the stage-director standing thus, for benefit + or hindrance, between the author and the audience, how is the + <a name="page156"></a>public to + appreciate what the dramatist himself has, or has not, done? +</p> +<p> + An occasion is remembered in theatric circles when, at the tensest moment + in the first-night presentation of a play, the leading actress, entering + down a stairway, tripped and fell sprawling. Thus a moment which the + dramatist intended to be hushed and breathless with suspense was made + overwhelmingly ridiculous. A cat once caused the failure of a play by + appearing unexpectedly upon the stage during the most important scene and + walking foolishly about. A dramatist who has spent many months devising a + melodrama which is dependent for its effect at certain moments on the way + in which the stage is lighted may have his play sent suddenly to failure at + any of those moments if the stage-electrician turns the lights + incongruously high or low. These instances are merely trivial, but they + serve to emphasise the point that so much stands between the dramatist and + the audience that it is sometimes difficult even for a careful critic to + appreciate exactly what the dramatist intended. +</p> +<p> + And the general public, at least in present-day America, never makes the + effort to distinguish the intention of the dramatist from the + interpretation it receives from the actors and (to a less extent) the + stage-director. The people who support the theatre see and estimate the + work of the interpretative artists only; they do not see in itself and + <a name="page157"></a>estimate for its own sake the work of the creative artist whose imaginings + are being represented well or badly. The public in America goes to see + actors; it seldom goes to see a play. If the average theatre-goer has liked + a leading actor in one piece, he will go to see that actor in the next + piece in which he is advertised to appear. But very, very rarely will he go + to see a new play by a certain author merely because he has liked the last + play by the same author. Indeed, the chances are that he will not even know + that the two plays have been written by the same dramatist. Bronson Howard + once told me that he was very sure that not more than one person in ten out + of all the people who had seen <i>Shenandoah</i> knew who wrote the play. And I + hardly think that a larger proportion of the people who have seen both Mr. + Willard in <i>The Professor's Love Story</i> and Miss Barrymore in + <i>Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire</i> could tell you, if you should ask them, that the + former play was written by the author of the latter. How many people who + remember vividly Sir Henry Irving's performance of <i>The Story of Waterloo</i> + could tell you who wrote the little piece? If you should ask them who wrote + the Sherlock Holmes detective stories, they would answer you at once. Yet + <i>The Story of Waterloo</i> was written by the author of those same detective + stories. +</p> +<p> + The general public seldom knows, and almost <a name="page158"></a>never cares, who wrote a play. + What it knows, and what it cares about primarily, is who is acting in it. + Shakespearean dramas are the only plays that the public will go to see for + the author's sake alone, regardless of the actors. It will go to see a bad + performance of a play by Shakespeare, because, after all, it is seeing + Shakespeare: it will not go to see a bad performance of a play by Sir + Arthur Pinero, merely because, after all, it is seeing Pinero. The + extraordinary success of <i>The Master Builder</i>, when it was presented in New + York by Mme. Nazimova, is an evidence of this. The public that filled the + coffers of the Bijou Theatre was paying its money not so much to see a play + by the author of <i>A Doll's House</i> and <i>Hedda Gabler</i> as to see a + performance by a clever and tricky actress of alluring personality, who was + better advertised and, to the average theatre-goer, better known than + Henrik Ibsen. +</p> +<p> + Since the public at large is much more interested in actors than it is in + dramatists, and since the first-night critics of the daily newspapers write + necessarily for the public at large, they usually devote most of their + attention to criticising actors rather than to criticising dramatists. + Hence the general theatre-goer is seldom aided, even by the professional + interpreters of theatric art, to arrive at an understanding and + appreciation, for its own sake, of that share in the entire artistic + production which <a name="page159"></a>belongs to the dramatist and the dramatist alone. +</p> +<p> + For, in present-day America at least, production in the theatre is the + dramatist's sole means of publication, his only medium for conveying to the + public those truths of life he wishes to express. Very few plays are + printed nowadays, and those few are rarely read: seldom, therefore, do they + receive as careful critical consideration as even third-class novels. The + late Clyde Fitch printed <i>The Girl with the Green Eyes</i>. The third act of + that play exhibits a very wonderful and searching study of feminine + jealousy. But who has bothered to read it, and what accredited + book-reviewer has troubled himself to accord it the notice it deserves? It + is safe to say that that remarkable third act is remembered only by people + who saw it acted in the theatre. Since, therefore, speaking broadly, the + dramatist can publish his work only through production, it is only through + attending plays and studying what lies beneath the acting and behind the + presentation that even the most well-intentioned critic of contemporary + drama can discover what our dramatists are driving at. +</p> +<p> + The great misfortune of this condition of affairs is that the failure of a + play as a business proposition cuts off suddenly and finally the + dramatist's sole opportunity for publishing his thought, even though the + failure may be due to any one of many causes other than incompetence on the + part of the <a name="page160"></a>dramatist. A very good play may fail because of bad acting or + crude production, or merely because it has been brought out at the wrong + time of the year or has opened in the wrong sort of city. Sheridan's + <i>Rivals</i>, as everybody knows, failed when it was first presented. But when + once a play has failed at the present day, it is almost impossible for the + dramatist to persuade any manager to undertake a second presentation of it. + Whether good or bad, the play is killed, and the unfortunate dramatist is + silenced until his next play is granted a hearing.</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page161"></a>II +</h2> +<h3> + DRAMATIC ART AND THE THEATRE BUSINESS +</h3> +<p> + Art makes things which need to be distributed; business distributes things + which have been made: and each of the arts is therefore necessarily + accompanied by a business, whose special purpose is to distribute the + products of that art. Thus, a very necessary relation exists between the + painter and the picture-dealer, or between the writer and the publisher of + books. In either case, the business man earns his living by exploiting the + products of the artist, and the artist earns his living by bringing his + goods to the market which has been opened by the industry of the business + man. The relation between the two is one of mutual assistance; yet the + spheres of their labors are quite distinct, and each must work in + accordance with a set of laws which have no immediate bearing upon the + activities of the other. The artist must obey the laws of his art, as they + are revealed by his own impulses and interpreted by constructive criticism; + but of these laws the business man may, without prejudice to his + efficiency, be largely ignorant. On <a name="page162"></a>the other hand, the business man must + do his work in accordance with the laws of economics,—a science of which + artists ordinarily know very little. Business is, of necessity, controlled + by the great economic law of supply and demand. Of the practical workings + of this law the business man is in a position to know much more than the + artist; and the latter must always be greatly influenced by the former in + deciding as to what he shall make and how he shall make it. This influence + of the publisher, the dealer, the business manager, is nearly always + beneficial, because it helps the artist to avoid a waste of work and to + conserve and concentrate his energies; yet frequently the mind of the maker + desires to escape from it, and there is scarcely an artist worth his salt + who has not at some moments, with the zest of truant joy, made things which + were not for sale. In nearly all the arts it is possible to secede at will + from all allegiance to the business which is based upon them; and Raphael + may write a century of sonnets, or Dante paint a picture of an angel, + without considering the publisher or picture-dealer. But there is one of + the arts—the art of the drama—which can never be disassociated from its + concomitant business—the business of the theatre. It is impossible to + imagine a man making anything which might justly be called a play merely to + please himself and with no thought whatever of pleasing also an + <a name="page163"></a>audience + of others by presenting it before them with actors on a stage. But the mere + existence of a theatre, a company of actors, an audience assembled, + necessitates an economic organisation and presupposes a business manager; + and this business manager, who sets the play before the public and attracts + the public to the play, must necessarily exert a potent influence over the + playwright. The only way in which a dramatist may free himself from this + influence is by managing his own company, like Molière, or by conducting + his own theatre, like Shakespeare. Only by assuming himself the functions + of the manager can the dramatist escape from him. In all ages, therefore, + the dramatist has been forced to confront two sets of problems rather than + one. He has been obliged to study and to follow not only the technical laws + of the dramatic art but also the commercial laws of the theatre business. + And whereas, in the case of the other arts, the student may consider the + painter and ignore the picture-dealer, or analyse the mind of the novelist + without analysing that of his publisher, the student of the drama in any + age must always take account of the manager, and cannot avoid consideration + of the economic organisation of the theatre in that age. Those who are most + familiar with the dramatic and poetic art of Christopher Marlowe and the + histrionic art of Edward Alleyn are the least likely to underestimate the + important <a name="page164"></a>influence which was exerted on the early Elizabethan drama by + the illiterate but crafty and enterprising manager of these great artists, + Philip Henslowe. Students of the Queen Anne period may read the comedies of + Congreve, but they must also read the autobiography of Colley Cibber, the + actor-manager of the Theatre Royal. And the critic who considers the drama + of to-day must often turn from problems of art to problems of economics, + and seek for the root of certain evils not in the technical methods of the + dramatists but in the business methods of the managers. +</p> +<p> + At the present time, for instance, the dramatic art in America is suffering + from a very unusual economic condition, which is unsound from the business + standpoint, and which is likely, in the long run, to weary and to alienate + the more thoughtful class of theatre-goers. This condition may be indicated + by the one word,—<i>over-production</i>. Some years ago, when the theatre trust + was organised, its leaders perceived that the surest way to win a monopoly + of the theatre business was to get control of the leading theatre-buildings + throughout the country and then refuse to house in them the productions of + any independent manager who opposed them. By this procedure on the part of + the theatre trust, the few managers who maintained their independence were + forced to build theatres in those cities where they wished <a name="page165"> + </a>their + attractions to appear. When, a few years later, the organised opposition to + the original theatre trust grew to such dimensions as to become in fact a + second trust, it could carry on its campaign only by building a new chain + of theatres to house its productions in those cities whose already existing + theatres were in the hands of the original syndicate. As a result of this + warfare between the two trusts, nearly all the chief cities of the country + are now saddled with more theatre-buildings than they can naturally and + easily support. Two theatres stand side by side in a town whose + theatre-going population warrants only one; and there are three theatres in + a city whose inhabitants desire only two. In New York itself this condition + is even more exaggerated. Nearly every season some of the minor producing + managers shift their allegiance from one trust to the other; and since they + seldom seem to know very far in advance just where they will stand when + they may wish to make their next production in New York, the only way in + which they can assure themselves of a Broadway booking is to build and hold + a theatre of their own. Hence, in the last few years, there has been an + epidemic of theatre building in New York. And this, it should be carefully + observed, has resulted from a false economic condition; for new theatres + have been built, not in order to supply a natural demand from the + theatre-going population, <a name="page166"></a>but in defiance of the limits imposed by that + demand. +</p> +<p> + A theatre-building is a great expense to its owners. It always occupies + land in one of the most costly sections of a city; and in New York this + consideration is of especial importance. The building itself represents a + large investment. These two items alone make it ruinous for the owners to + let the building stand idle for any lengthy period. They must keep it open + as many weeks as possible throughout the year; and if play after play fails + upon its stage, they must still seek other entertainments to attract + sufficient money to cover the otherwise dead loss of the rent. Hence there + exists at present in America a false demand for plays,—a demand, that is + to say, which is occasioned not by the natural need of the theatre-going + population but by the frantic need on the part of warring managers to keep + their theatres open. It is, of course, impossible to find enough + first-class plays to meet this fictitious demand; and the managers are + therefore obliged to buy up quantities of second-class plays, which they + know to be inferior and which they hardly expect the public to approve, + because it will cost them less to present these inferior attractions to a + small business than it would cost them to shut down some of their + superfluous theatres. +</p> +<p> + We are thus confronted with the anomalous condition <a name="page167"></a>of a business man + offering for sale, at the regular price, goods which he knows to be + inferior, because he thinks that there are just enough customers available + who are sufficiently uncritical not to detect the cheat. Thereby he hopes + to cover the rent of an edifice which he has built, in defiance of sound + economic principles, in a community that is not prepared to support it + throughout the year. No very deep knowledge of economics is necessary to + perceive that this must become, in the long run, a ruinous business policy. + Too many theatres showing too many plays too many months in the year cannot + finally make money; and this falsity in the economic situation reacts + against the dramatic art itself and against the public's appreciation of + that art. Good work suffers by the constant accompaniment of bad work which + is advertised in exactly the same phrases; and the public, which is forced + to see five bad plays in order to find one good one, grows weary and loses + faith. The way to improve our dramatic art is to reform the economics of + our theatre business. We should produce fewer plays, and better ones. We + should seek by scientific investigation to determine just how many theatres + our cities can support, and how many weeks in the year they may + legitimately be expected to support them. Having thus determined the real + demand for plays that comes from the theatre-going population, the managers + <a name="page168"></a>should then bestir themselves to secure sufficient good plays to satisfy + that demand. That, surely, is the limit of sound and legitimate business. + The arbitrary creation of a further, false demand, and the feverish + grasping at a fictitious supply, are evidences of unsound economic methods, + which are certain, in the long run, to fail. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page169"></a>III +</h2> +<h3> + THE HAPPY ENDING IN THE THEATRE +</h3> +<p> + The question whether or not a given play should have a so-called happy + ending is one that requires more thorough consideration than is usually + accorded to it. It is nearly always discussed from one point of view, and + one only,—that of the box-office; but the experience of ages goes to show + that it cannot rightly be decided, even as a matter of business expediency, + without being considered also from two other points of view,—that of art, + and that of human interest. For in the long run, the plays that pay the + best are those in which a self-respecting art is employed to satisfy the + human longing of the audience. +</p> +<p> + When we look at the matter from the point of view of art, we notice first + of all that in any question of an ending, whether happy or unhappy, art is + doomed to satisfy itself and is denied the recourse of an appeal to nature. + Life itself presents a continuous sequence of causation, stretching on; and + nature abhors an ending as it abhors a vacuum. If experience teaches us + anything at all, it teaches us that nothing in life is terminal, + <a name="page170"></a>nothing + is conclusive. Marriage is not an end, as we presume in books; but rather a + beginning. Not even death is final. We find our graves not in the ground + but in the hearts of our survivors, and our slightest actions vibrate in + ever-widening circles through incalculable time. Any end, therefore, to a + novel or a play, must be in the nature of an artifice; and an ending must + be planned not in accordance with life, which is lawless and illogical, but + in accordance with art, whose soul is harmony. It must be a strictly + logical result of all that has preceded it. Having begun with a certain + intention, the true artist must complete his pattern, in accordance with + laws more rigid than those of life; and he must not disrupt his design by + an illogical intervention of the long arm of coincidence. Stevenson has + stated this point in a letter to Mr. Sidney Colvin: "Make another end to + it? Ah, yes, but that's not the way I write; the whole tale is implied; I + never use an effect when I can help it, unless it prepares the effects that + are to follow; that's what a story consists in. To make another end, that + is to make the beginning all wrong." In this passage the whole question is + considered <i>merely</i> from the point of view of art. It is the only point of + view which is valid for the novelist; for him the question is comparatively + simple, and Stevenson's answer, emphatic as it is, may be accepted as + final. But the dramatist has yet <a name="page171"></a>another factor to consider,—the factor + of his audience. +</p> +<p> + The drama is a more popular art than the novel, in the sense that it makes + its appeal not to the individual but to the populace. It sets a contest of + human wills before a multitude gathered together for the purpose of + witnessing the struggle; and it must rely for its interest largely upon the + crowd's instinctive sense of partisanship. As Marlowe said, in <i>Hero and + Leander</i>,— +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">When two are stripped, long e'er the course begin,<br> +We wish that one should lose, the other win. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + The audience takes sides with certain characters against certain others; + and in most cases it is better pleased if the play ends in a victory for + the characters it favors. The question therefore arises whether the + dramatist is not justified in cogging the dice of chance and intervening + arbitrarily to insure a happy outcome to the action, even though that + outcome violate the rigid logic of the art of narrative. This is a very + important question; and it must not be answered dogmatically. It is safest, + without arguing <i>ex cathedra</i>, to accept the answer of the very greatest + dramatists. Their practice goes to show that such a violation of the strict + logic of art is justifiable in comedy, but is not justifiable in what we + may broadly call the serious drama. Molière, for instance, nearly always + <a name="page172"></a>gave an arbitrary happy ending to his comedies. Frequently, in the last + act, he introduced a long lost uncle, who arrived upon the scene just in + time to endow the hero and heroine with a fortune and to say "Bless you, my + children!" as the curtain fell. Molière evidently took the attitude that + since any ending whatsoever must be in the nature of an artifice, and + contrary to the laws of life, he might as well falsify upon the pleasant + side and send his auditors happy to their homes. Shakespeare took the same + attitude in many comedies, of which <i>As You Like It</i> may be chosen as an + illustration. The sudden reform of Oliver and the tardy repentance of the + usurping duke are both untrue to life and illogical as art; but Shakespeare + decided to throw probability and logic to the winds in order to close his + comedy with a general feeling of good-will. But this easy answer to the + question cannot be accepted in the case of the serious drama; for—and this + is a point that is very often missed—in proportion as the dramatic + struggle becomes more vital and momentous, the audience demands more and + more that it shall be fought out fairly, and that even the characters it + favors shall receive no undeserved assistance from the dramatist. This + instinct of the crowd—the instinct by which its demand for fairness is + proportioned to the importance of the struggle—may be studied by any + follower of professional <a name="page173"></a>base-ball. The spectators at a ball-game are + violently partisan and always want the home team to win. In any unimportant + game—if the opposing teams, for instance, have no chance to win the + pennant—the crowd is glad of any questionable decision by the umpires that + favors the home team. But in any game in which the pennant is at stake, a + false or bad decision, even though it be rendered in favor of the home + team, will be received with hoots of disapproval. The crowd feels, in such + a case, that it cannot fully enjoy the sense of victory unless the victory + be fairly won. For the same reason, when any important play which sets out + to end unhappily is given a sudden twist which brings about an arbitrary + happy ending, the audience is likely to be displeased. And there is yet + another reason for this displeasure. An audience may enjoy both farce and + comedy without believing them; but it cannot fully enjoy a serious play + unless it believes the story. In the serious drama, an ending, to be + enjoyable, must be credible; in other words, it must, for the sake of human + interest, satisfy the strict logic of art. We arrive, therefore, at the + paradox that although, in the final act, the comic dramatist may achieve + popularity by renouncing the laws of art, the serious dramatist can achieve + popularity only by adhering rigidly to a pattern of artistic truth. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page174"></a>This is a point that is rarely understood by people who look at the + general question from the point of view of the box-office; they seldom + appreciate the fact that a serious play which logically demands an unhappy + ending will make more money if it is planned in accordance with the + sternest laws of art than if it is given an arbitrary happy ending in which + the audience cannot easily believe. The public wants to be pleased, but it + wants even more to be satisfied. In the early eighteenth century both <i>King + Lear</i> and <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> were played with fabricated happy endings; but + the history of these plays, before and after, proves that the alteration, + considered solely from the business standpoint, was an error. And yet, + after all these centuries of experience, our modern managers still remain + afraid of serious plays which lead logically to unhappy terminations, and, + because of the power of their position, exercise an influence over writers + for the stage which is detrimental to art and even contrary to the demands + of human interest. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page175"></a>IV +</h2> +<h3> + THE BOUNDARIES OF APPROBATION +</h3> +<p> + When Hamlet warned the strolling players against making the judicious + grieve, and when he lamented that a certain play had proved caviare to the + general, he fixed for the dramatic critic the lower and the upper bound for + catholicity of approbation. But between these outer boundaries lie many + different precincts of appeal. <i>The Two Orphans</i> of Dennery and <i>The + Misanthrope</i> of Molière aim to interest two different types of audience. To + say that <i>The Two Orphans</i> is a bad play because its appeal is not so + intellectual as that of <i>The Misanthrope</i> would be no less a solecism than + to say that <i>The Misanthrope</i> is a bad play because its appeal is not so + emotional as that of <i>The Two Orphans</i>. The truth is that both stand within + the boundaries of approbation. The one makes a primitive appeal to the + emotions, without, however, grieving the judicious; and the other makes a + refined appeal to the intelligence, without, however, subtly bewildering + the mind of the general spectator. +</p> +<p> + Since success is to a play the breath of life, it is <a name="page176"></a>necessary that the + dramatist should please his public; but in admitting this, we must remember + that in a city so vast and varied as New York there are many different + publics, which are willing to be pleased in many different ways. The + dramatist with a new theme in his head may, before he sets about the task + of building and writing his play, determine imaginatively the degree of + emotional and intellectual equipment necessary to the sort of audience best + fitted to appreciate that theme. Thereafter, if he build and write for that + audience and that alone, and if he do his work sufficiently well, he may be + almost certain that his play will attract the sort of audience he has + demanded; for any good play can create its own public by the natural + process of selecting from the whole vast theatre-going population the kind + of auditors it needs. That problem of the dramatist to please his public + reduces itself, therefore, to two very simple phases: first, to choose the + sort of public that he wants to please, and second, to direct his appeal to + the mental make-up of the audience which he himself has chosen. This task, + instead of hampering the dramatist, should serve really to assist him, + because it requires a certain concentration of purpose and consistency of + mood throughout his work. +</p> +<p> + This concentration and consistency of purpose and of mood may be symbolised + by the figure of <a name="page177"></a>aiming straight at a predetermined target. In the years + when firearms were less perfected than they are at present, it was + necessary, in shooting with a rifle, to aim lower than the mark, in order + to allow for an upward kick at the discharge; and, on the other hand, it + was necessary, in shooting with heavy ordnance, to aim higher than the + mark, in order to allow for a parabolic droop of the cannon-ball in + transit. Many dramatists, in their endeavor to score a hit, still employ + these compromising tricks of marksmanship: some aim lower than the judgment + of their auditors, others aim higher than their taste. But, in view of the + fact that under present metropolitan conditions the dramatist may pick his + own auditors, this aiming below them or above them seems (to quote Sir + Thomas Browne) "a vanity out of date and superannuated piece of folly." + While granting the dramatist entire liberty to select the level of his + mark, the critic may justly demand that he shall aim directly at it, + without allowing his hand ever to droop down or flutter upward. That he + should not aim below it is self-evident: there can be no possible excuse + for making the judicious grieve. But that he should not aim above it is a + proposition less likely to be accepted off-hand by the fastidious: Hamlet + spoke with a regretful fondness of that particular play which had proved caviare to the general. It is, of course, nobler to shoot over the + <a name="page178"></a>mark + than to shoot under it; but it is nobler still to shoot directly at it. + Surely there lies a simple truth beneath this paradox of words:—it is a + higher aim to aim straight than to aim too high. +</p> +<p> + If a play be so constituted as to please its consciously selected auditors, + neither grieving their judgment by striking lower than their level of + appreciation, nor leaving them unsatisfied by snobbishly feeding them + caviare when they have asked for bread, it must be judged a good play for + its purpose. The one thing needful is that it shall neither insult their + intelligence nor trifle with their taste. In view of the many different + theatre-going publics and their various demands, the critic, in order to be + just, must be endowed with a sympathetic versatility of approbation. He + should take as his motto those judicious sentences with which the Autocrat + of the Breakfast-Table prefaced his remarks upon the seashore and the + mountains:—"No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your + place is is the best for you." +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page179"></a>V +</h2> +<h3> + IMITATION AND SUGGESTION IN THE DRAMA +</h3> +<p> + There is an old saying that it takes two to make a bargain or a quarrel; + and, similarly, it takes two groups of people to make a play,—those whose + minds are active behind the footlights, and those whose minds are active in + the auditorium. We go to the theatre to enjoy ourselves, rather than to + enjoy the actors or the author; and though we may be deluded into thinking + that we are interested mainly by the ideas of the dramatist or the imagined + emotions of the people on the stage, we really derive our chief enjoyment + from such ideas and emotions of our own as are called into being by the + observance of the mimic strife behind the footlights. The only thing in + life that is really enjoyable is what takes place within ourselves; it is + our own experience, of thought or of emotion, that constitutes for us the + only fixed and memorable reality amid the shifting shadows of the years; + and the experience of anybody else, either actual or imaginary, touches us + as true and permanent only when it calls forth an answering imagination + <a name="page180"></a>of + our own. Each of us, in going to the theatre, carries with him, in his own + mind, the real stage on which the two hours' traffic is to be enacted; and + what passes behind the footlights is efficient only in so far as it calls + into activity that immanent potential clash of feelings and ideas within + our brain. It is the proof of a bad play that it permits us to regard it + with no awakening of mind; we sit and stare over the footlights with a + brain that remains blank and unpopulated; we do not create within our souls + that real play for which the actual is only the occasion; and since we + remain empty of imagination, we find it impossible to enjoy <i>ourselves</i>. + Our feeling in regard to a bad play might be phrased in the familiar + sentence,—"This is all very well; but what is it <i>to me</i>?" The piece + leaves us unresponsive and aloof; we miss that answering and <i>tallying</i> of + mind—to use Whitman's word—which is the soul of all experience of worthy + art. But a good play helps us to enjoy ourselves by making us aware of + ourselves; it forces us to think and feel. We may think differently from + the dramatist, or feel emotions quite dissimilar from those of the imagined + people of the story; but, at any rate, our minds are consciously aroused, + and the period of our attendance at the play becomes for us a period of + real experience. The only thing, then, that counts in theatre-going is not + what the play can give us, <a name="page181"></a>but what we can give the play. The enjoyment of + the drama is subjective, and the province of the dramatist is merely to + appeal to the subtle sense of life that is latent in ourselves. +</p> +<p> + There are, in the main, two ways in which this appeal may be made + effectively. The first is by imitation of what we have already seen around + us; and the second is by suggestion of what we have already experienced + within us. We have seen people who were like Hedda Gabler; we have been + people who were like Hamlet. The drama of facts stimulates us like our + daily intercourse with the environing world; the drama of ideas stimulates + us like our mystic midnight hours of solitary musing. Of the drama of + imitation we demand that it shall remain appreciably within the limits of + our own actual observation; it must deal with our own country and our own + time, and must remind us of our daily inference from the affairs we see + busy all about us. The drama of facts cannot be transplanted; it cannot be + made in France or Germany and remade in America; it is localised in place + and time, and has no potency beyond the bounds of its locality. But the + drama of suggestion is unlimited in its possibilities of appeal; ideas are + without date, and burst the bonds of locality and language. Americans may + see the ancient Greek drama of <i>Oedipus King</i> played in modern French by + Mounet-Sully, and may experience thereby that inner overwhelming + <a name="page182"></a>sense of + the sublime which is more real than the recognition of any simulated + actuality. +</p> +<p> + The distinction between the two sources of appeal in drama may be made a + little more clear by an illustration from the analogous art of literature. + When Whitman, in his poem on <i>Crossing Brooklyn Ferry</i>, writes, "Crowds of + men and women attired in the usual costumes!", he reminds us of the + environment of our daily existence, and may or may not call forth within us + some recollection of experience. In the latter event, his utterance is a + failure; in the former, he has succeeded in stimulating activity of mind by + the process of setting before us a reminiscence of the actual. But when, in + the <i>Song of Myself</i>, he writes, "We found our own, O my Soul, in the calm + and cool of the daybreak," he sets before us no imitation of habituated + externality, but in a flash reminds us by suggestion of so much, that to + recount the full experience thereof would necessitate a volume. That second + sentence may well keep us busy for an evening, alive in recollection of + uncounted hours of calm wherein the soul has ascended to recognition of its + universe; the first sentence we may dismiss at once, because it does not + make anything important happen in our consciousness. +</p> +<p> + It must be confessed that the majority of the plays now shown in our + theatres do not stimulate us to any responsive activity of mind, and + therefore <a name="page183"></a>do not permit us, in any real sense, to enjoy ourselves. But + those that, in a measure, do succeed in this prime endeavor of dramatic art + may readily be grouped into two classes, according as their basis of appeal + is imitation or suggestion. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page184"></a>VI +</h2> +<h3> + HOLDING THE MIRROR UP TO NATURE +</h3> +<p> + Doubtless no one would dissent from Hamlet's dictum that the purpose of + playing is "to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature"; but this + statement is so exceedingly simple that it is rather difficult to + understand. What special kind of mirror did that wise dramatic critic have + in mind when he coined this memorable phrase? Surely he could not have + intended the sort of flat and clear reflector by the aid of which we comb + our hair; for a mirror such as this would represent life with such sedulous + exactitude that we should gain no advantage from looking at the reflection + rather than at the life itself which was reflected. If I wish to see the + tobacco jar upon my writing table, I look at the tobacco jar: I do not set + a mirror up behind it and look into the mirror. But suppose I had a magic + mirror which would reflect that jar in such a way as to show me not only + its outside but also the amount of tobacco shut within it. In this latter + case, a glance at the represented image would spare me a more laborious + examination of the actual object. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page185"></a>Now Hamlet must have had in mind some magic mirror such as this, which, by + its manner of reflecting life, would render life more intelligible. Goethe + once remarked that the sole excuse for the existence of works of art is + that they are different from the works of nature. If the theatre showed us + only what we see in life itself, there would be no sense at all in going to + the theatre. Assuredly it must show us more than that; and it is an + interesting paradox that in order to show us more it has to show us less. + The magic mirror must refuse to reflect the irrelevant and non-essential, + and must thereby concentrate attention on the pertinent and essential + phases of nature. That mirror is the best that reflects the least which + does not matter, and, as a consequence, reflects most clearly that which + does. In actual life, truth is buried beneath a bewilderment of facts. Most + of us seek it vainly, as we might seek a needle in a haystack. In this + proverbial search we should derive no assistance from looking at a + reflection of the haystack in an ordinary mirror. But imagine a glass so + endowed with a selective magic that it would not reflect hay but would + reflect steel. Then, assuredly, there would be a valid and practical reason + for holding the mirror up to nature. +</p> +<p> + The only real triumph for an artist is not to show us a haystack, but to + make us see the needle buried in it,—not to reflect the trappings and the + suits of <a name="page186"></a>life, but to suggest a sense of that within which passeth show. + To praise a play for its exactitude in representing facts would be a + fallacy of criticism. The important question is not how nearly the play + reflects the look of life, but how much it helps the audience to understand + life's meaning. The sceneless stage of the Elizabethan <i>As You Like It</i> + revealed more meanings than our modern scenic forests empty of Rosalind and + Orlando. There is no virtue in reflection unless there be some magic in the + mirror. Certain enterprising modern managers permit their press agents to + pat them on the back because they have set, say, a locomotive on the stage; + but why should we pay two dollars to see a locomotive in the theatre when + we may see a dozen locomotives in the Grand Central Station without paying + anything? Why, indeed!—unless the dramatist contrives to reveal an + imaginable human mystery throbbing in the palpitant heart—no, not of the + locomotive, but of the locomotive-engineer. That is something that we could + not see at all in the Grand Central Station, unless we were endowed with + eyes as penetrant as those of the dramatist himself. +</p> +<p> + But not only must the drama render life more comprehensible by discarding + the irrelevant, and attracting attention to the essential; it must also + render us the service of bringing to a focus that phase of life it + represents. The mirror which the <a name="page187"></a>dramatist holds up to nature should be a + concave mirror, which concentrates the rays impinging on it to a luminous + focal image. Hamlet was too much a metaphysician to busy his mind about the + simpler science of physics; but surely this figure of the concave mirror, + with its phenomenon of concentration, represents most suggestively his + belief concerning the purpose of playing and of plays. The trouble with + most of our dramas is that they render scattered and incoherent images of + life; they tell us many unimportant things, instead of telling us one + important thing in many ways. They reveal but little, because they + reproduce too much. But it is only by bringing all life to a focus in a + single luminous idea that it is possible, in the two hours' traffic of the + stage, "to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very + age and body of the time his form and pressure." +</p> +<p> + An interesting instance of how a dramatist, by holding, as it were, a + concave mirror up to nature, may concentrate all life to a focus in a + single luminous idea is afforded by that justly celebrated drama entitled + <i>El Gran Galeoto</i>, by Don José Echegaray. This play was first produced at + the Teatro Español on March 19, 1881, and achieved a triumph that soon + diffused the fame of its author, which till then had been but local, beyond + the Pyrenees. It is now generally recognised as <a name="page188"></a>one of the standard + monuments of the modern social drama. It owes its eminence mainly to the + unflinching emphasis which it casts upon a single great idea. This idea is + suggested in its title. +</p> +<p> + In the old French romance of Launcelot of the Lake, it was Gallehault who + first prevailed on Queen Guinevere to give a kiss to Launcelot: he was thus + the means of making actual their potential guilty love. His name + thereafter, like that of Pandarus of Troy, became a symbol to designate a + go-between, inciting to illicit love. In the fifth canto of the <i>Inferno</i>, + Francesca da Rimini narrates to Dante how she and Paolo read one day, all + unsuspecting, the romance of Launcelot; and after she tells how her lover, + allured by the suggestion of the story, kissed her on the mouth all + trembling, she adds, +</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> Galeotto fu'l libro e chi lo scrisse, +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + which may be translated, "The book and the author of it performed for us + the service of Gallehault." Now Echegaray, desiring to retell in modern + terms the old familiar story of a man and a woman who, at first innocent in + their relationship, are allured by unappreciable degrees to the sudden + realisation of a great passion for each other, asked himself what force it + was, in modern life, which would perform for them most tragically the + sinful service of Gallehault. Then it struck him <a name="page189"></a>that the great Gallehault + of modern life—<i>El Gran Galeoto</i>—was the impalpable power of gossip, the + suggestive force of whispered opinion, the prurient allurement of evil + tongues. Set all society to glancing slyly at a man and a woman whose + relation to each other is really innocent, start the wicked tongues + a-babbling, and you will stir up a whirlwind which will blow them giddily + into each other's arms. Thus the old theme might be recast for the purposes + of modern tragedy. Echegaray himself, in the critical prose prologue which + he prefixed to his play, comments upon the fact that the chief character + and main motive force of the entire drama can never appear upon the stage, + except in hints and indirections; because the great Gallehault of his story + is not any particular person, but rather all slanderous society at large. + As he expresses it, the villain-hero of his drama is <i>Todo el + mundo</i>,—everybody, or all the world. +</p> +<p> + This, obviously, is a great idea for a modern social drama, because it + concentrates within itself many of the most important phases of the + perennial struggle between the individual and society; and this great idea + is embodied with direct, unwavering simplicity in the story of the play. + Don Julián, a rich merchant about forty years of age, is ideally married to + Teodora, a beautiful woman in her early twenties, who adores him. He is a + generous and kindly man; and upon the death of <a name="page190"></a>an old and honored friend, + to whose assistance in the past he owes his present fortune, he adopts into + his household the son of this friend, Ernesto. Ernesto is twenty-six years + old; he reads poems and writes plays, and is a thoroughly fine fellow. He + feels an almost filial affection for Don Julián and a wholesome brotherly + friendship for Teodora. They, in turn, are beautifully fond of him. + Naturally, he accompanies them everywhere in the social world of Madrid; he + sits in their box at the opera, acting as Teodora's escort when her husband + is detained by business; and he goes walking with Teodora of an afternoon. + Society, with sinister imagination, begins to look askance at the + triangulated household; tongues begin to wag; and gossip grows. Tidings of + the evil talk about town are brought to Don Julián by his brother, Don + Severo, who advises that Ernesto had better be requested to live in + quarters of his own. Don Julián nobly repels this suggestion as insulting; + but Don Severo persists that only by such a course may the family name be + rendered unimpeachable upon the public tongue. +</p> +<p> + Ernesto, himself, to still the evil rumors, goes to live in a studio alone. + This simple move on his part suggests to everybody—<i>todo el mundo</i>—that + he must have had a real motive for making it. Gossip increases, instead of + diminishing; and the <a name="page191"></a>emotions of Teodora, Don Julián, and himself are + stirred to the point of nervous tensity. Don Julián, in spite of his own + sweet reasonableness, begins subtly to wonder if there could be, by any + possibility, any basis for his brother's vehemence. Don Severo's wife, Doña + Mercedes, repeats the talk of the town to Teodora, and turns her + imagination inward, till it falters in self-questionings. Similarly the + great Gallehault,—which is the word of all the world,—whispers + unthinkable and tragic possibilities to the poetic and self-searching mind + of Ernesto. He resolves to seek release in Argentina. But before he can + sail away, he overhears, in a fashionable cafe, a remark which casts a slur + on Teodora, and strikes the speaker of the insult in the face. A duel is + forthwith arranged, to take place in a vacant studio adjacent to Ernesto's. + When Don Julián learns about it, he is troubled by the idea that another + man should be fighting for his wife, and rushes forthwith to wreak + vengeance himself on the traducer. Teodora hears the news; and in order to + prevent both her husband and Ernesto from endangering their lives, she + rushes to Ernesto's rooms to urge him to forestall hostilities. Meanwhile + her husband encounters the slanderer, and is severely wounded. He is + carried to Ernesto's studio. Hearing people coming, Teodora hides herself + in Ernesto's bedroom, where <a name="page192"></a>she is discovered by her husband's attendants. + Don Julián, wounded and enfevered, now at last believes the worst. +</p> +<p> + Ernesto seeks and slays Don Julián's assailant. But now the whole world + credits what the whole world has been whispering. In vain Ernesto and + Teodora protest their innocence to Don Severo and to Doña Mercedes. In vain + they plead with the kindly and noble man they both revere and love. Don + Julián curses them, and dies believing in their guilt. Then at last, when + they find themselves cast forth isolate by the entire world, their common + tragic loneliness draws them to each other. They are given to each other by + the world. The insidious purpose of the great Gallehault has been + accomplished; and Ernesto takes Teodora for his own. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page193"></a>VII +</h2> +<h3> + BLANK VERSE ON THE CONTEMPORARY STAGE +</h3> +<p> + It is amazing how many people seem to think that the subsidiary fact that a + certain play is written in verse makes it of necessity dramatic literature. + Whether or not a play is literature depends not upon the medium of + utterance the characters may use, but on whether or not the play sets forth + a truthful view of some momentous theme; and whether or not a play is drama + depends not upon its trappings and its suits, but on whether or not it sets + forth a tense and vital struggle between individual human wills. <i>The + Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i> fulfils both of these conditions and is dramatic + literature, while the poetic plays of Mr. Stephen Phillips stand upon a + lower plane, both as drama and as literature, even though they are written + in the most interesting blank verse that has been developed since Tennyson. + <i>Shore Acres</i>, which was written in New England dialect, was, I think, + dramatic literature. Mr. Percy Mackaye's <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i>, I think, was not, + even <a name="page194"></a>though in merely literary merit it revealed many excellent qualities. +</p> +<p> + <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i> was not a play; it was a narrative in verse, with lyric + interludes. It was a thing to be read rather than to be acted. It was a + charming poetic story, but it was not an interesting contribution to the + stage. Most people felt this, I am sure; but most people lacked the courage + of their feeling, and feared to confess that they were wearied by the + piece, lest they should be suspected of lack of taste. I believe thoroughly + in the possibility of poetic drama at the present day; but it must be drama + first and foremost, and poetry only secondarily. Mr. Mackaye, like a great + many other aspirants, began at the wrong end: he made his piece poetry + first and foremost, and drama only incidentally. And I think that the only + way to prepare the public for true poetic drama is to educate the public's + faith in its right to be bored in the theatre by poetry that is not + dramatic. Performances of <i>Pippa Passes</i> and <i>The Sunken Bell</i> exert a very + unpropitious influence upon the mood of the average theatre-goer. These + poems are not plays; and the innocent spectator, being told that they are, + is made to believe that poetic drama must be necessarily a soporific thing. + And when this belief is once lodged in his uncritical mind, it is difficult + to dispel it, even with a long course of <i>Othello</i> and <i>Hamlet</i>. <i>Paolo + <a name="page195"></a>and Francesca</i> was a good poem, but a bad play; and its weakness as a play + was not excusable by its beauty as a poem. <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i> was a good + play, first of all, and a good poem also; and even a public that fears to + seem Philistine knew the difference instinctively. +</p> +<p> + Mme. Nazimova has been quoted as saying that she would never act a play in + verse, because in speaking verse she could not be natural. But whether an + actor may be natural or not depends entirely upon the kind of verse the + author has given him to speak. Three kinds of blank verse are known in + English literature,—lyric, narrative, and dramatic. By lyric blank verse I + mean verse like that of Tennyson's <i>Tears, Idle Tears</i>; by narrative, verse + like that of Mr. Stephen Phillips's <i>Marpessa</i> or Tennyson's <i>Idylls of the + King</i>; by dramatic, verse like that of the murder scene in <i>Macbeth</i>. The + Elizabethan playwrights wrote all three kinds of blank verse, because their + drama was a platform drama and admitted narrative and lyric as well as + dramatic elements. But because of the development in modern times of the + physical conditions of the theatre, we have grown to exclude from the drama + all non-dramatic elements. Narrative and lyric, for their own sakes, have + no place upon the modern stage; they may be introduced only for a definite + dramatic purpose. Only one of the three kinds of blank <a name="page196"> + </a>verse that the + Elizabethan playwrights used is, therefore, serviceable on the modern + stage. But our poets, because of inexperience in the theatre, insist on + writing the other two. For this reason, and for this reason only, do modern + actors like Mme. Nazimova complain of plays in verse. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Percy Mackaye's verse in <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i>, for example, was at certain + moments lyric, at most moments narrative, and scarcely ever dramatic in + technical mold and manner. It resembled the verse of Tennyson more nearly + than it resembled that of any other master; and Tennyson was a narrative, + not a dramatic, poet. It set a value on literary expression for its own + sake rather than for the purpose of the play; it was replete with + elaborately lovely phrases; and it admitted the inversions customary in + verse intended for the printed page. But I am firm in the belief that verse + written for the modern theatre should be absolutely simple. It should + incorporate no words, however beautiful, that are not used in the daily + conversation of the average theatre-goer; it should set these words only in + their natural order, and admit no inversions whatever for the sake of the + line; and it should set a value on expression, never for its own sake, but + solely for the sake of the dramatic purpose to be accomplished in the + scene. Verse such as this would permit of every rhythmical variation known + in English prosody, and <a name="page197"></a>through the appeal of its rhythm would offer the + dramatist opportunities for emotional effect that prose would not allow + him; but at the same time it could be spoken with entire naturalness by + actors as ultra-modern as Mme. Nazimova. +</p> +<p> + Mr. Stephen Phillips has not learned this lesson, and the verse that he has + written in his plays is the same verse that he used in his narratives, + <i>Marpessa</i> and <i>Christ in Hades</i>. It is great narrative blank verse, but + for dramatic uses it is too elaborate. Mr. Mackaye has started out on the + same mistaken road: in <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i> his prosody is that of closet-verse, + not theatre-verse. The poetic drama will be doomed to extinction on the + modern stage unless our poets learn the lesson of simplicity. I shall + append some lines of Shakespeare's to illustrate the ideal of directness + toward which our latter-day poetic dramatists should strive. When Lear + holds the dead Cordelia in his arms, he says: +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p> +Her voice was ever soft,<br> +Gentle, and low,—an excellent thing in woman. +</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p> + Could any actor be unnatural in speaking words so simple, so familiar, and + so naturally set? Viola says to Orsino: +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">My father had a daughter loved a man,<br> +As it might be, perhaps, were I woman,<br> +I should your lordship.</p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + <a name="page198"></a>Here again the words are all colloquial and are set in their accustomed + order; but by sheer mastery of rhythm the poet contrives to express the + tremulous hesitance of Viola's mood as it could not be expressed in prose. + There is a need for verse upon the stage, if the verse be simple and + colloquial; and there is a need for poetry in the drama, provided that the + play remain the thing and the poetry contribute to the play. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page199"></a>VIII +</h2> +<h3> + DRAMATIC LITERATURE AND THEATRIC JOURNALISM +</h3> +<p> + One reason why journalism is a lesser thing than literature is that it + subserves the tyranny of timeliness. It narrates the events of the day and + discusses the topics of the hour, for the sole reason that they happen for + the moment to float uppermost upon the current of human experience. The + flotsam of this current may occasionally have dived up from the depths and + may give a glimpse of some underlying secret of the sea; but most often it + merely drifts upon the surface, indicative of nothing except which way the + wind lies. Whatever topic is the most timely to-day is doomed to be the + most untimely to-morrow. Where are the journals of yester-year? Dig them + out of dusty files, and all that they say will seem wearisomely old, for + the very reason that when it was written it seemed spiritedly new. Whatever + wears a date upon its forehead will soon be out of date. The main interest + of news is newness; and nothing slips so soon behind the times as novelty. +</p> +<p> + With timeliness, as an incentive, literature has <a name="page200"></a>absolutely no concern. + Its purpose is to reveal what was and is and evermore shall be. It can + never grow old, for the reason that it has never attempted to be new. Early + in the nineteenth century, the gentle Elia revolted from the tyranny of + timeliness. "Hang the present age!", said he, "I'll write for antiquity." + The timely utterances of his contemporaries have passed away with the times + that called them forth: his essays live perennially new. In the dateless + realm of revelation, antiquity joins hands with futurity. There can be + nothing either new or old in any utterance which is really true or + beautiful or right. +</p> +<p> + In considering a given subject, journalism seeks to discover what there is + in it that belongs to the moment, and literature seeks to reveal what there + is in it that belongs to eternity. To journalism facts are important + because they are facts; to literature they are important only in so far as + they are representative of recurrent truths. Literature speaks because it + has something to say: journalism speaks because the public wants to be + talked to. Literature is an emanation from an inward impulse: but the + motive of journalism is external; it is fashioned to supply a demand + outside itself. It is frequently said, and is sometimes believed, that the + province of journalism is to mold public opinion; but a consideration of + actual conditions indicates rather that its province <a name="page201"></a>is to find out what + the opinion of some section of the public is, and then to formulate it and + express it. The successful journalist tells his readers what they want to + be told. He becomes their prophet by making clear to them what they + themselves are thinking. He influences people by agreeing with them. In + doing this he may be entirely sincere, for his readers may be right and may + demand from him the statement of his own most serious convictions; but the + fact remains that his motive for expression is centred in them instead of + in himself. It is not thus that literature is motivated. Literature is not + a formulation of public opinion, but an expression of personal and + particular belief. For this reason it is more likely to be true. Public + opinion is seldom so important as private opinion. Socrates was right and + Athens wrong. Very frequently the multitude at the foot of the mountain are + worshiping a golden calf, while the prophet, lonely and aloof upon the + summit, is hearkening to the very voice of God. +</p> +<p> + The journalist is limited by the necessity of catering to majorities; he + can never experience the felicity of Dr. Stockmann, who felt himself the + strongest man on earth because he stood most alone. It may sometimes happen + that the majority is right; but in that case the agreement of the + journalist is an unnecessary utterance. The truth was known before he + spoke, and his speaking <a name="page202"></a>is superfluous. What is popularly said about the + educative force of journalism is, for the most part, baseless. Education + occurs when a man is confronted with something true and beautiful and good + which stimulates to active life that "bright effluence of bright essence + increate" which dwells within him. The real ministers of education must be, + in Emerson's phrase, "lonely, original, and pure." But journalism is + popular instead of lonely, timely rather than original, and expedient + instead of pure. Even at its best, journalism remains an enterprise; but + literature at its best becomes no less than a religion. +</p> +<p> + These considerations are of service in studying what is written for the + theatre. In all periods, certain contributions to the drama have been + journalistic in motive and intention, while certain others have been + literary. There is a good deal of journalism in the comedies of + Aristophanes. He often chooses topics mainly for their timeliness, and + gathers and says what happens to be in the air. Many of the Elizabethan + dramatists, like Dekker and Heywood and Middleton for example, looked at + life with the journalistic eye. They collected and disseminated news. They + were, in their own time, much more "up to date" than Shakespeare, who chose + for his material old stories that nearly every one had read. Ben Jonson's + <i>Bartholomew Fair</i> is glorified journalism. It brims over with + contemporary <a name="page203"></a>gossip and timely witticisms. Therefore it is out of date + to-day, and is read only by people who wish to find out certain facts of + London life in Jonson's time. <i>Hamlet</i> in 1602 was not a novelty; but it is + still read and seen by people who wish to find out certain truths of life + in general. +</p> +<p> + At the present day, a very large proportion of the contributions to the + theatre must be classed and judged as journalism. Such plays, for instance, + as <i>The Lion and the Mouse</i> and <i>The Man of the Hour</i> are nothing more or + less than dramatised newspapers. A piece of this sort, however effective it + may be at the moment, must soon suffer the fate of all things timely and + slip behind the times. Whenever an author selects a subject because he + thinks the public wants him to talk about it, instead of because he knows + he wants to talk about it to the public, his motive is journalistic rather + than literary. A timely topic may, however, be used to embody a truly + literary intention. In <i>The Witching Hour</i>, for example, journalism was + lifted into literature by the sincerity of Mr. Thomas's conviction that he + had something real and significant to say. The play became important + because there was a man behind it. Individual personality is perhaps the + most dateless of all phenomena. The fact of any great individuality once + accomplished and <a name="page204"></a>achieved becomes contemporary with the human race and + sloughs off the usual limits of past and future. +</p> +<p> + Whatever Mr. J.M. Barrie writes is literature, because he dwells isolate + amidst the world in a wise minority of one. The things that he says are of + importance because nobody else could have said them. He has achieved + individuality, and thereby passed out of hearing of the ticking of clocks + into an ever-ever land where dates are not and consequently epitaphs can + never be. What he utters is of interest to the public, because his motive + for speaking is private and personal. Instead of telling people what they + think that they are thinking, he tells them what they have always known but + think they have forgotten. He performs, for this oblivious generation, the + service of a great reminder. He lures us from the strident and factitious + world of which we read daily in the first pages of the newspapers, back to + the serene eternal world of little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness + and of love. He educates the many, not by any crass endeavor to formulate + or even to mold the opinion of the public, but by setting simply before + them thoughts which do often lie too deep for tears. +</p> +<p> + The distinguishing trait of Mr. Barrie's genius is that he looks upon life + with the simplicity of a child and sees it with the wisdom of a woman. + <a name="page205"></a>He + has a woman's subtlety of insight, a child's concreteness of imagination. + He is endowed (to reverse a famous phrase of Matthew Arnold's) with a sweet + unreasonableness. He understands life not with his intellect but with his + sensibilities. As a consequence, he is familiar with all the tremulous, + delicate intimacies of human nature that every woman knows, but that most + men glimpse only in moments of exalted sympathy with some wise woman whom + they love. His insight has that absoluteness which is beyond the reach of + intellect alone. He knows things for the unutterable woman's + reason,—"because...." +</p> +<p> + But with this feminine, intuitive understanding of humanity, Mr. Barrie + combines the distinctively masculine trait of being able to communicate the + things that his emotions know. The greatest poets would, of course, be + women, were it not for the fact that women are in general incapable of + revealing through the medium of articulate art the very things they know + most deeply. Most of the women who have written have said only the lesser + phases of themselves; they have unwittingly withheld their deepest and most + poignant wisdom because of a native reticence of speech. Many a time they + reach a heaven of understanding shut to men; but when they come back, they + cannot tell the world. The rare artists among women, like Sappho and Mrs. + Browning and <a name="page206"></a>Christina Rossetti and Laurence Hope, in their several + different ways, have gotten themselves expressed only through a sublime and + glorious unashamedness. As Hawthorne once remarked very wisely, women have + achieved art only when they have stood naked in the market-place. But men + in general are not withheld by a similar hesitance from saying what they + feel most deeply. No woman could have written Mr. Barrie's biography of his + mother; but for a man like him there is a sort of sacredness in revealing + emotion so private as to be expressible only in the purest speech. Mr. + Barrie was apparently born into the world of men to tell us what our + mothers and our wives would have told us if they could,—what in deep + moments they have tried to tell us, trembling exquisitely upon the verge of + the words. The theme of his best work has always been "what every woman + knows." In expressing this, he has added to the permanent recorded + knowledge of humanity; and he has thereby lifted his plays above the level + of theatric journalism to the level of true dramatic literature. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page207"></a>IX +</h2> +<h3> + THE INTENTION OF PERMANENCE +</h3> +<p> + At Coney Island and Atlantic City and many other seaside resorts whither + the multitude drifts to drink oblivion of a day, an artist may be watched + at work modeling images in the sand. These he fashions deftly, to entice + the immediate pennies of the crowd; but when his wage is earned, he leaves + his statues to be washed away by the next high surging of the tide. The + sand-man is often a good artist; let us suppose he were a better one. Let + us imagine him endowed with a brain and a hand on a par with those of + Praxiteles. None the less we should set his seashore images upon a lower + plane of art than the monuments Praxiteles himself hewed out of marble. + This we should do instinctively, with no recourse to critical theory; and + that man in the multitude who knew the least about art would express this + judgment most emphatically. The simple reason would be that the art of the + sand-man is lacking in the Intention of Permanence. +</p> +<p> + The Intention of Permanence, whether it be conscious or subconscious with + the artist, is a <a name="page208"></a>necessary factor of the noblest art. Many of us remember + the Court of Honor at the World's Columbian Exposition, at Chicago fifteen + years ago. The sculpture was good and the architecture better. In + chasteness and symmetry of general design, in spaciousness fittingly + restrained, in simplicity more decorative than deliberate decoration, those + white buildings blooming into gold and mirrored in a calm lagoon, dazzled + the eye and delighted the aesthetic sense. And yet, merely because they + lacked the Intention of Permanence, they failed to awaken that solemn happy + heartache that we feel in looking upon the tumbled ruins of some ancient + temple. We could never quite forget that the buildings of the Court of + Honor were fabrics of frame and stucco sprayed with whitewash, and that the + statues were kneaded out of plaster: they were set there for a year, not + for all time. But there is at Paestum a crumbled Doric temple to Poseidon, + built in ancient days to remind the reverent of that incalculable vastness + that tosses men we know not whither. It stands forlorn in a malarious + marsh, yet eternally within hearing of the unsubservient surge. Many of its + massive stones have tottered to the earth; and irrelevant little birds sing + in nests among the capitals and mock the solemn silence that the Greeks + ordained. But the sacred Intention of Permanence that filled and thrilled + the souls of <a name="page209"></a>those old builders stands triumphant over time; and if only a + single devastated column stood to mark their meaning, it would yet be a + greater thing than the entire Court of Honor, built only to commemorate the + passing of a year. +</p> +<p> + In all the arts except the acted drama, it is easy even for the layman to + distinguish work which is immediate and momentary from work which is + permanent and real. It was the turbulent untutored crowd that clamored + loudest in demanding that the Dewey Arch should be rendered permanent in + marble: it was only the artists and the art-critics who were satisfied by + the monument in its ephemeral state of frame and plaster. But in the drama, + the layman often finds it difficult to distinguish between a piece intended + merely for immediate entertainment and a piece that incorporates the + Intention of Permanence. In particular he almost always fails to + distinguish between what is really a character and what is merely an acting + part. When a dramatist really creates a character, he imagines and projects + a human being so truly conceived and so clearly presented that any average + man would receive the impression of a living person if he were to read in + manuscript the bare lines of the play. But when a playwright merely devises + an acting part, he does nothing more than indicate to a capable actor the + possibility of so comporting himself upon the <a name="page210"></a>stage as to convince his + audience of humanity in his performance. From the standpoint of criticism, + the main difficulty is that the actor's art may frequently obscure the + dramatist's lack of art, and <i>vice versa</i>, so that a mere acting part may + seem, in the hands of a capable actor, a real character, whereas a real + character may seem, in the hands of an incapable actor, an indifferent + acting part. Rip Van Winkle, for example, was a wonderful acting part for + Joseph Jefferson; but it was, from the standpoint of the dramatist, not a + character at all, as any one may see who takes the trouble to read the + play. Beau Brummel, also, was an acting part rather than a character. And + yet the layman, under the immediate spell of the actor's representative + art, is tempted in such cases to ignore that the dramatist has merely + modeled an image in the sand. +</p> +<p> + Likewise, on a larger scale, the layman habitually fails to distinguish + between a mere theatric entertainment and a genuine drama. A genuine drama + always reveals through its imagined struggle of contesting wills some + eternal truth of human life, and illuminates some real phases of human + character. But a theatric entertainment may present merely a deftly + fabricated struggle between puppets, wherein the art of the actor is given + momentary exercise. To return to our comparison, a genuine drama is carved + out of marble, <a name="page211"></a>and incorporates, consciously or not, the Intention of + Permanence; whereas a mere theatric entertainment may be likened to a group + of figures sculptured in the sand. +</p> +<p> + Those of us who ask much of the contemporary theatre may be saddened to + observe that most of the current dramatists seem more akin to the sand-man + than to Praxiteles. They have built Courts of Honor for forty weeks, rather + than temples to Poseidon for eternity. Yet it is futile to condemn an + artist who does a lesser thing quite well because he has not attempted to + do a greater thing which, very probably, he could not do at all. Criticism, + in order to render any practical service, must be tuned in accordance with + the intention of the artist. The important point for the critic of the + sand-man at Coney Island is not to complain because he is not so enduring + an artist as Praxiteles, but to determine why he is, or is not, as the case + may be, a better artist than the sand-man at Atlantic City. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page212"></a>X +</h2> +<h3> + THE QUALITY OF NEW ENDEAVOR +</h3> +<p> + Many critics seem to be of the opinion that the work of a new and unknown + author deserves and requires less serious consideration than the work of an + author of established reputation. There is, however, an important sense in + which the very contrary is true. The function of the critic is to help the + public to discern and to appreciate what is worthy. The fact of an + established reputation affords evidence that the author who enjoys it has + already achieved the appreciation of the public and no longer stands in + need of the intermediary service of the critic. But every new author + advances as an applicant for admission into the ranks of the recognised; + and the critic must, whenever possible, assist the public to determine + whether the newcomer seems destined by inherent right to enter among the + good and faithful servants, or whether he is essentially an outsider + seeking to creep or intrude or climb into the fold. +</p> +<p> + Since everybody knows already who Sir Arthur Wing Pinero is and what may be + expected of him, the only question for the critic, in considering a + <a name="page213"></a>new + play from his practiced pen, is whether or not the author has succeeded in + advancing or maintaining the standard of his earlier and remembered + efforts. If, as in <i>The Wife Without a Smile</i>, he falls far below that + standard, the critic may condemn the play, and let the matter go at that. + Although the new piece may be discredited, the author's reputation will + suffer no abiding injury from the deep damnation of its taking off; for the + public will continue to remember the third act of <i>The Gay Lord Quex</i>, and + will remain assured that Sir Arthur Pinero is worth while. But when a play + by a new author comes up for consideration, the public needs to be told not + only whether the work itself has been well or badly done, but also whether + or not the unknown author seems to be inherently a person of importance, + from whom more worthy works may be expected in the future. The critic must + not only make clear the playwright's present actual accomplishment, but + must also estimate his promise. An author's first or second play is + important mainly—to use Whitman's phrase—as "an encloser of things to + be." The question is not so much what the author has already done as what + he is likely to do if he is given further hearings. It is in this sense + that the work of an unknown playwright requires and deserves more serious + consideration than the work of an acknowledged master. Accomplishment is + comparatively <a name="page214"></a>easy to appraise, but to appreciate promise requires + forward-looking and far-seeing eyes. +</p> +<p> + In the real sense, it matters very little whether an author's early plays + succeed or fail. The one point that does matter is whether, in either case, + the merits and defects are of such a nature as to indicate that the man + behind the work is inherently a man worth while. In either failure or + success, the sole significant thing is the quality of the endeavor. A young + author may fail for the shallow reason that he is insincere; but he may + fail even more decisively for the sublime reason that as yet his reach + exceeds his grasp. He may succeed because through earnest effort he has + done almost well something eminently worth the doing; or he may succeed + merely because he has essayed an unimportant and an easy task. Often more + hope for an author's future may be founded upon an initial failure than + upon an initial success. It is better for a young man to fail in a large + and noble effort than to succeed in an effort insignificant and mean. For + in labor, as in life, Stevenson's maxim is very often pertinent:—to travel + hopefully is frequently a better thing than to arrive. +</p> +<p> + And in estimating the work of new and unknown authors, it is not nearly so + important for the critic to consider their present technical accomplishment + as it is for him to consider the sincerity with which they have endeavored + to tell <a name="page215"></a>the truth about some important phase of human life. Dramatic + criticism of an academic cast is of little value either to those who write + plays or to those who see them. The man who buys his ticket to the theatre + knows little and cares less about the technique of play-making; and for the + dramatist himself there are no ten commandments. I have been gradually + growing to believe that there is only one commandment for the + dramatist,—that he shall tell the truth; and only one fault of which a + play is capable,—that, as a whole or in details, it tells a lie. A play is + irretrievably bad only when the average theatre-goer—a man, I mean, with + no special knowledge of dramatic art—viewing what is done upon the stage + and hearing what is said, revolts instinctively against it with a feeling + that I may best express in that famous sentence of Assessor Brack's, + "People don't do such things." A play that is truthful at all points will + never evoke this instinctive disapproval; a play that tells lies at certain + points will lose attention by jangling those who know. +</p> +<p> + The test of truthfulness is the final test of excellence in drama. In + saying this, of course, I do not mean that the best plays are realistic in + method, naturalistic in setting, or close to actuality in subject-matter. + <i>The Tempest</i> is just as true as <i>The Merry Wives of Windsor</i>, and <i>Peter + Pan</i> is just as true as <i>Ghosts</i>. I mean merely that the + <a name="page216"></a>people whom the + dramatist has conceived must act and speak at all points consistently with + the laws of their imagined existence, and that these laws must be in + harmony with the laws of actual life. Whenever people on the stage fail of + this consistency with law, a normal theatre-goer will feel instinctively, + "Oh, no, he did <i>not</i> do that," or, "Those are <i>not</i> the words she said." + It may safely be predicated that a play is really bad only when the + audience does not believe it; for a dramatist is not capable of a single + fault, either technical or otherwise, that may not be viewed as one phase + or another of untruthfulness. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page217"></a>XI +</h2> +<h3> + THE EFFECT OF PLAYS UPON THE PUBLIC +</h3> +<p> + In the course of his glorious <i>Song of the Open Road</i>, Walt Whitman said, + "I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes; we convince by + our presence"; and it has always seemed to me that this remark is + peculiarly applicable to dramatists and dramas. The primary purpose of a + play is to give a gathered multitude a larger sense of life by evoking its + emotions to a consciousness of terror and pity, laughter and love. Its + purpose is not primarily to rouse the intellect to thought or call the will + to action. In so far as the drama uplifts and edifies the audience, it does + so, not by precept or by syllogism, but by emotional suggestion. It teaches + not by what it says, but rather by what it deeply and mysteriously is. It + convinces not by its arguments, but by its presence. +</p> +<p> + It follows that those who think about the drama in relation to society at + large, and consider as a matter of serious importance the effect of the + theatre on the ticket-buying public, should devote profound consideration + to that subtle quality of <a name="page218"></a>plays which I may call their <i>tone</i>. Since the + drama convinces less by its arguments than by its presence, less by its + intellectual substance than by its emotional suggestion, we have a right to + demand that it shall be not only moral but also sweet and healthful and + inspiriting. +</p> +<p> + After witnessing the admirable performance of Mrs. Fiske and the members of + her skilfully selected company in Henrik Ibsen's dreary and depressing + <i>Rosmersholm</i>, I went home and sought solace from a reperusal of an old + play, by the buoyant and healthy Thomas Heywood, which is sweetly named + <i>The Fair Maid of the West</i>. <i>Rosmersholm</i> is of all the social plays of + Ibsen the least interesting to witness on the stage, because the spectator + is left entirely in the dark concerning the character and the motives of + Rebecca West until her confession at the close of the third act, and can + therefore understand the play only on a second seeing. But except for this + important structural defect the drama is a masterpiece of art; and it is + surely unnecessary to dwell upon its many merits. On the other hand, <i>The + Fair Maid of the West</i> is very far from being masterly in art. In structure + it is loose and careless; in characterisation it is inconsistent and + frequently untrue; in style it is uneven and without distinction. Ibsen, in + sheer mastery of dramaturgic means, stands fourth in rank among the world's + great dramatists. <a name="page219"></a>Heywood was merely an actor with a gift for telling + stories, who flung together upward of two hundred and twenty plays during + the course of his casual career. And yet <i>The Fair Maid of the West</i> seemed + to me that evening, and seems to me evermore in retrospect, a nobler work + than <i>Rosmersholm</i>; for the Norwegian drama gives a doleful exhibition of + unnecessary misery, while the Elizabethan play is fresh and wholesome, and + fragrant with the breath of joy. +</p> +<p> + Of two plays equally true in content and in treatment, equally accomplished + in structure, in characterisation, and in style, that one is finally the + better which evokes from the audience the healthiest and hopefullest + emotional response. This is the reason why <i>Oedipus King</i> is a better play + than <i>Ghosts</i>. The two pieces are not dissimilar in subject and are + strikingly alike in art. Each is a terrible presentment of a revolting + theme; each, like an avalanche, crashes to foredoomed catastrophe. But the + Greek tragedy is nobler in tone, because it leaves us a lofty reverence for + the gods, whereas its modern counterpart disgusts us with the inexorable + laws of life,—which are only the old gods divested of imagined + personality. +</p> +<p> + Slowly but surely we are growing very tired of dramatists who look upon + life with a wry face instead of with a brave and bracing countenance. In + due time, when (with the help of Mr. Barrie <a name="page220"></a>and other healthy-hearted + playmates) we have become again like little children, we shall realise that + plays like <i>As You Like It</i> are better than all the <i>Magdas</i> and the <i>Hedda + Gablers</i> of the contemporary stage. We shall realise that the way to heal + old sores is to let them alone, rather than to rip them open, in the + interest (as we vainly fancy) of medical science. We shall remember that + the way to help the public is to set before it images of faith and hope and + love, rather than images of doubt, despair, and infidelity. +</p> +<p> + The queer thing about the morbid-minded specialists in fabricated woe is + that they believe themselves to be telling the whole truth of human life + instead of telling only the worser half of it. They expunge from their + records of humanity the very emotions that make life worth the living, and + then announce momentously, "Behold reality at last; for this is Life." It + is as if, in the midnoon of a god-given day of golden spring, they should + hug a black umbrella down about their heads and cry aloud, "Behold, there + is no sun!" Shakespeare did that only once,—in <i>Measure for Measure</i>. In + the deepest of his tragedies, he voiced a grandeur even in obliquity, and + hymned the greatness and the glory of the life of man. +</p> +<p> + Suppose that what looks white in a landscape painting be actually bluish + gray. Perhaps it would be best to tell us so; but failing that, it would + <a name="page221"></a>certainly be better to tell us that it is white than to tell us that it is + black. If our dramatists must idealise at all in representing life, let + them idealise upon the positive rather than upon the negative side. It is + nobler to tell us that life is better than it actually is than to tell us + that it is worse. It is nobler to remind us of the joy of living than to + remind us of the weariness. "For to miss the joy is to miss all," as + Stevenson remarked; and if the drama is to be of benefit to the public, it + should, by its very presence, convey conviction of the truth thus nobly + phrased by Matthew Arnold: +</p> +<blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> + <blockquote> +<p> Yet the will is free:<br> +Strong is the Soul, and wise, and beautiful:<br> +The seeds of godlike power are in us still:<br> +Gods are we, Bards, Saints, Heroes, if we will.—<br> + Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery?</p> +<p> </p> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> + </blockquote> +</blockquote> +<a name="2H_4_0025"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page222"></a>XII +</h2> +<h3> + PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS +</h3> +<p> + The clever title, <i>Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant</i>, which Mr. Bernard Shaw + selected for the earliest issue of his dramatic writings, suggests a theme + of criticism that Mr. Shaw, in his lengthy prefaces, might profitably have + considered if he had not preferred to devote his entire space to a + discussion of his own abilities. In explanation of his title, the author + stated only that he labeled his first three plays Unpleasant for the reason + that "their dramatic power is used to force the spectator to face + unpleasant facts." This sentence, of course, is not a definition, since it + merely repeats the word to be explained; and therefore, if we wish to find + out whether or not an unpleasant play is of any real service in the + theatre, we shall have to do some thinking of our own. +</p> +<p> + It is an axiom that all things in the universe are interesting. The word + <i>interesting</i> means <i>capable of awakening some activity of human mind</i>; and + there is no imaginable topic, whether pleasant or unpleasant, which is not, + in one way, or another, capable of this effect. But the activities of the + <a name="page223"></a>human mind are various, and there are therefore several different sorts of + interest. The activity of mind awakened by music over waters is very + different from that awakened by the binomial theorem. Some things interest + the intellect, others the emotions; and it is only things of prime + importance that interest them both in equal measure. Now if we compare the + interest of pleasant and unpleasant topics, we shall see at once that the + activity of mind awakened by the former is more complete than that awakened + by the latter. A pleasant topic not only interests the intellect but also + elicits a positive response from the emotions; but most unpleasant topics + are positively interesting to the intellect alone. In so far as the + emotions respond at all to an unpleasant topic, they respond usually with a + negative activity. Regarding a thing which is unpleasant, the healthy mind + will feel aversion—which is a negative emotion—or else will merely think + about it with no feeling whatsoever. But regarding a thing which is + pleasant, the mind may be stirred through the entire gamut of positive + emotions, rising ultimately to that supreme activity which is Love. This + is, of course, the philosophic reason why the thinkers of pleasant thoughts + and dreamers of beautiful dreams stand higher in history than those who + have thought unpleasantness and have imagined woe. +</p> +<p> + Returning now to that clever title of Mr. Shaw's, we may define an + unpleasant play as one which interests the intellect without at the same + time awakening a positive response from the emotions; and <a name="page224"> + </a>we may define a + pleasant play as one which not only stimulates thought but also elicits + sympathy. To any one who has thoroughly considered the conditions governing + theatric art, it should be evident <i>a priori</i> that pleasant plays are + better suited for service in the theatre than unpleasant plays. This truth + is clearly illustrated by the facts of Mr. Shaw's career. As a matter of + history, it will be remembered that his vogue in our theatres has been + confined almost entirely to his pleasant plays. All four of them have + enjoyed a profitable run; and it is to <i>Candida</i>, the best of his pleasant + plays, that, in America at least, he owes his fame. Of the three unpleasant + plays, <i>The Philanderer</i> has never been produced at all; <i>Widower's Houses</i> + has been given only in a series of special matinées; and <i>Mrs. Warren's + Profession</i>, though it was enormously advertised by the fatuous + interference of the police, failed to interest the public when ultimately + it was offered for a run. +</p> +<p> + <i>Mrs. Warren's Profession</i> is just as interesting to the thoughtful reader + as <i>Candida</i>. It is built with the same technical efficiency, and written + with the same agility and wit; it is just as sound and true, and therefore + just as moral; and as a criticism, not so much of life as of society, it is + indubitably <a name="page225"></a>more important. Why, then, is <i>Candida</i> a better work? The + reason is that the unpleasant play is interesting merely to the intellect + and leaves the audience cold, whereas the pleasant play is interesting also + to the emotions and stirs the audience to sympathy. It is possible for the + public to feel sorry for Morell; it is even possible for them to feel sorry + for Marchbanks: but it is absolutely impossible for them to feel sorry for + Mrs. Warren. The multitude instinctively demands an opportunity to + sympathise with the characters presented in the theatre. Since the drama is + a democratic art, and the dramatist is not the monarch but the servant of + the public, the voice of the people should, in this matter of pleasant and + unpleasant plays, be considered the voice of the gods. This thesis seems to + me axiomatic and unsusceptible of argument. Yet since it is continually + denied by the professed "uplifters" of the stage, who persist in looking + down upon the public and decrying the wisdom of the many, it may be + necessary to explain the eternal principle upon which it is based. The + truth must be self-evident that theatre-goers are endowed with a certain + inalienable right—namely, the pursuit of happiness. The pursuit of + happiness is the most important thing in the world; because it is nothing + less than an endeavor to understand and to appreciate the true, the + beautiful, and the good. Happiness comes of loving things <a name="page226"> + </a>which are + worthy; a man is happy in proportion to the number of things which he has + learned to love; and he, of all men, is most happy who loveth best all + things both great and small. For happiness is the feeling of harmony + between a man and his surroundings, the sense of being at home in the + universe and brotherly toward all worthy things that are. The pursuit of + happiness is simply a continual endeavor to discover new things that are + worthy, to the end that they may waken love within us and thereby lure us + loftier toward an ultimate absolute awareness of truth and beauty. It is in + this simple, sane pursuit that people go to the theatre. The important + thing about the public is that it has a large and longing heart. That heart + demands that sympathy be awakened in it, and will not be satisfied with + merely intellectual discussion of unsympathetic things. It is therefore the + duty, as well as the privilege, of the dramatist to set before the public + incidents which may awaken sympathy and characters which may be loved. He + is the most important artist in the theatre who gives the public most to + care about. This is the reason why Joseph Jefferson's <i>Rip Van Winkle</i> must + be rated as the greatest creation of the American stage. The play was + shabby as a work of art, and there was nothing even in the character to + think about; but every performance <a name="page227"></a>of the part left thousands happier, + because their lives had been enriched with a new memory that made their + hearts grow warm with sympathy and large with love. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0026"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page228"></a>XIII +</h2> +<h3> + THEMES IN THE THEATRE +</h3> +<p> + As the final curtain falls upon the majority of the plays that somehow get + themselves presented in the theatres of New York, the critical observer + feels tempted to ask the playwright that simple question of young Peterkin + in Robert Southey's ballad, <i>After Blenheim</i>,—"Now tell us what 't was all + about"; and he suffers an uncomfortable feeling that the playwright will be + obliged to answer in the words of old Kaspar, "Why, that I cannot tell." + The critic has viewed a semblance of a dramatic struggle between puppets on + the stage; but what they fought each other for he cannot well make out. And + it is evident, in the majority of cases, that the playwright could not tell + him if he would, for the reason that the playwright does not know. Not even + the author can know what a play is all about when the play isn't about + anything. And this, it must be admitted, is precisely what is wrong with + the majority of the plays that are shown in our theatres, especially with + plays written by American authors. They <a name="page229"></a>are not about anything; or, to say + the matter more technically, they haven't any theme. +</p> +<p> + By a theme is meant some eternal principle, or truth, of human life—such a + truth as might be stated by a man of philosophic mind in an abstract and + general proposition—which the dramatist contrives to convey to his + auditors concretely by embodying it in the particular details of his play. + These details must be so selected as to represent at every point some phase + of the central and informing truth, and no incidents or characters must be + shown which are not directly or indirectly representative of the one thing + which, in that particular piece, the author has to say. The great plays of + the world have all grown endogenously from a single, central idea; or, to + vary the figure, they have been spun like spider-webs, filament after + filament, out of a central living source. But most of our native + playwrights seem seldom to experience this necessary process of the + imagination which creates. Instead of working from the inside out, they + work from the outside in. They gather up a haphazard handful of theatric + situations and try to string them together into a story; they congregate an + ill-assorted company of characters and try to achieve a play by letting + them talk to each other. Many of our playwrights are endowed with a sense + of situation; several of them have a gift for characterisation, or at least + for <a name="page230"></a>caricature; and most of them can write easy and natural dialogue, + especially in slang. But very few of them start out with something to say, + as Mr. Moody started out in <i>The Great Divide</i> and Mr. Thomas in <i>The + Witching Hour</i>. +</p> +<p> + When a play is really about something, it is always possible for the critic + to state the theme of it in a single sentence. Thus, the theme of <i>The + Witching Hour</i> is that every thought is in itself an act, and that + therefore thinking has the virtue, and to some extent the power, of action. + Every character in the piece was invented to embody some phase of this + central proposition, and every incident was devised to represent this + abstract truth concretely. Similarly, it would be easy to state in a single + sentence the theme of <i>Le Tartufe</i>, or of <i>Othello</i>, or of <i>Ghosts</i>. But + who, after seeing four out of five of the American plays that are produced + upon Broadway, could possibly tell in a single sentence what they were + about? What, for instance—to mention only plays which did not fail—was + <i>Via Wireless</i> about, or <i>The Fighting Hope</i>, or even <i>The Man from Home</i>? + Each of these was in some ways an interesting entertainment; but each was + valueless as drama, because none of them conveyed to its auditors a theme + which they might remember and weave into the texture of their lives. +</p> +<p> + <a name="page231"></a>For the only sort of play that permits itself to be remembered is a play + that presents a distinct theme to the mind of the observer. It is ten years + since I have seen <i>Le Tartufe</i> and six years since last I read it; and yet, + since the theme is unforgetable, I could at any moment easily reconstruct + the piece by retrospective imagination and summarise the action clearly in + a paragraph. But on the other hand, I should at any time find it impossible + to recall with sufficient clearness to summarise them, any of a dozen + American plays of the usual type which I had seen within the preceding six + months. Details of incident or of character or of dialogue slip the mind + and melt away like smoke into the air. To have seen a play without a theme + is the same, a month or two later, as not to have seen a play at all. But a + piece like <i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>, once seen, can never be forgotten; + because the mind clings to the central proposition which the play was built + in order to reveal, and from this ineradicable recollection may at any + moment proceed by psychologic association to recall the salient concrete + features of the action. To develop a play from a central theme is therefore + the sole means by which a dramatist may insure his work against the + iniquity of oblivion. In order that people may afterward remember what he + has said, it is necessary for him <a name="page232"></a>to show them clearly and emphatically at + the outset why he has undertaken to talk and precisely what he means to + talk about. +</p> +<p> + Most of our American playwrights, like Juliet in the balcony scene, speak, + yet they say nothing. They represent facts, but fail to reveal truths. What + they lack is purpose. They collect, instead of meditating; they invent, + instead of wondering; they are clever, instead of being real. They are avid + of details: they regard the part as greater than the whole. They deal with + outsides and surfaces, not with centralities and profundities. They value + acts more than they value the meanings of acts; they forget that it is in + the motive rather than in the deed that Life is to be looked for. For Life + is a matter of thinking and of feeling; all act is merely Living, and is + significant only in so far as it reveals the Life that prompted it. Give us + less of Living, more of Life, must ever be the cry of earnest criticism. + Enough of these mutitudinous, multifarious facts: tell us single, simple + truths. Give us more themes, and fewer fabrics of shreds and patches. +</p> +<p> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0027"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page233"></a>XIV +</h2> +<h3> + THE FUNCTION OF IMAGINATION +</h3> +<p> + Whenever the spring comes round and everything beneath the sun looks + wonderful and new, the habitual theatre-goer, who has attended every + legitimate performance throughout the winter season in New York, is moved + to lament that there is nothing new behind the footlights. Week after week + he has seen the same old puppets pulled mechanically through the same old + situations, doing conventional deeds and repeating conventional lines, + until at last, as he watches the performance of yet another play, he feels + like saying to the author, "But, my dear sir, I have seen and heard all + this so many, many times already!" For this spring-weariness of the + frequenter of the theatre, the common run of our contemporary playwrights + must be held responsible. The main trouble seems to be that, instead of + telling us what they think life is like, they tell us what they think a + play is like. Their fault is not—to use Hamlet's phrase—that they + "imitate humanity so abominably": it is, rather, that they do not imitate + humanity at <a name="page234"></a>all. Most of our playwrights, especially the newcomers to the + craft, imitate each other. They make plays for the sake of making plays, + instead of for the sake of representing life. They draw their inspiration + from the little mimic world behind the footlights, rather than from the + roaring and tremendous world which takes no thought of the theatre. Their + art fails to interpret life, because they care less about life than they + care about their art. They are interested in what they are doing, instead + of being interested in why they are doing it. "Go to!", they say to + themselves, "I will write a play"; and the weary auditor is tempted to + murmur the sentence of the cynic Frenchman, "<i>Je n'en vois pas la + nécessité</i>." +</p> +<p> + But now, lest we be led into misapprehension, let us understand clearly + that what we desire in the theatre is not new material, but rather a fresh + and vital treatment of such material as the playwright finds made to his + hand. After a certain philosophic critic had announced the startling thesis + that only some thirty odd distinct dramatic situations were conceivable, + Goethe and Schiller set themselves the task of tabulation, and ended by + deciding that the largest conceivable number was less than twenty. It is a + curious paradox of criticism that for new plays old material is best. This + statement is supported historically by the fact that all the great Greek + dramatists, nearly all <a name="page235"></a>of the Elizabethans, Corneille, Racine, Molière, + and, to a great extent, the leaders of the drama in the nineteenth century, + made their plays deliberately out of narrative materials already familiar + to the theatre-going public of their times. The drama, by its very nature, + is an art traditional in form and resumptive in its subject-matter. It + would be futile, therefore, for us to ask contemporary playwrights to + invent new narrative materials. Their fault is not that they deal with what + is old, but that they fail to make out of it anything which is new. If, in + the long run, they weary us, the reason is not that they are lacking in + invention, but that they are lacking in imagination. +</p> +<p> + That invention and imagination are two very different faculties, that the + second is much higher than the first, that invention has seldom been + displayed by the very greatest authors, whereas imagination has always been + an indispensable characteristic of their work,—these points have all been + made clear in a very suggestive essay by Professor Brander Matthews, which + is included in his volume entitled <i>Inquiries and Opinions</i>. It remains for + us to consider somewhat closely what the nature of imagination is. + Imagination is nothing more or less than the faculty for + <i>realisation</i>,—the faculty by which the mind makes real unto itself such + materials as are presented to it. <a name="page236"></a>The full significance of this definition + may be made clear by a simple illustration. +</p> +<p> + Suppose that some morning at breakfast you pick up a newspaper and read + that a great earthquake has overwhelmed Messina, killing countless + thousands and rendering an entire province desolate. You say, "How very + terrible!"—after which you go blithely about your business, untroubled, + undisturbed. But suppose that your little girl's pet pussy-cat happens to + fall out of the fourth-story window. If you chance to be an author and have + an article to write that morning, you will find the task of composition + heavy. Now, the reason why the death of a single pussy-cat affects you more + than the death of a hundred thousand human beings is merely that you + realise the one and do not realise the other. You do not, by the action of + imagination, make real unto yourself the disaster at Messina; but when you + see your little daughter's face, you at once and easily imagine woe. + Similarly, on the largest scale, we go through life realising only a very + little part of all that is presented to our minds. Yet, finally, we know of + life only so much as we have realised. To use the other word for the same + idea,—we know of life only so much as we have imagined. Now, whatever of + life we make real unto ourselves by the action of imagination is for us + fresh and instant and, in a deep sense, new,—even though + <a name="page237"></a>the same + materials have been realised by millions of human beings before us. It is + new because we have made it, and we are different from all our + predecessors. Landor imagined Italy, realised it, made it instant and + afresh. In the subjective sense, he created Italy, an Italy that had never + existed before,—Landor's Italy. Later Browning came, with a new + imagination, a new realisation, a new creation,—Browning's Italy. The + materials had existed through immemorable centuries; Landor, by + imagination, made of them something real; Browning imagined them again and + made of them something new. But a Cook's tourist hurrying through Italy is + likely, through deficiency of imagination, not to realise an Italy at all. + He reviews the same materials that were presented to Landor and to + Browning, but he makes nothing out of them. Italy for him is tedious, like + a twice-told tale. The trouble is not that the materials are old, but that + he lacks the faculty for realising them and thereby making of them + something new. +</p> +<p> + A great many of our contemporary playwrights travel like Cook's tourists + through the traditional subject-matter of the theatre. They stop off here + and there, at this or that eternal situation; but they do not, by + imagination, make it real. Thereby they miss the proper function of the + dramatist, which is to imagine some aspect of the <a name="page238"></a>perennial struggle + between human wills so forcibly as to make us realise it, in the full sense + of the word,—realise it as we daily fail to realise the countless + struggles we ourselves engage in. The theatre, rightly considered, is not a + place in which to escape from the realities of life, but a place in which + to seek refuge from the unrealities of actual living in the contemplation + of life realised,—life made real by imagination. +</p> +<p> + The trouble with most ineffective plays is that the fabricated life they + set before us is less real than such similar phases of actual life as we + have previously realised for ourselves. We are wearied because we have + already unconsciously imagined more than the playwright professionally + imagines for us. With a great play our experience is the reverse of this. + Incidents, characters, motives which we ourselves have never made + completely real by imagination are realised for us by the dramatist. + Intimations of humanity which in our own minds have lain jumbled + fragmentary, like the multitudinous pieces of a shuffled picture-puzzle, + are there set orderly before us, so that we see at last the perfect + picture. We escape out of chaos into life. +</p> +<p> + This is the secret of originality: this it is that we desire in the + theatre:—not new material, for the old is still the best; but familiar + material rendered new by an imagination that informs it with significance + and makes it real.</p> +<p> + </p> +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> +<a name="2H_4_0028"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + <a name="page241"></a>INDEX +</h2> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Adams, Maude, <a href="#page060">60</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0">Addison, Joseph, <a href="#page079">79</a>;<br> + + <i>Cato</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0">Ade, George, <a href="#page056">56</a>;<br> + + <i>Fables in Slang</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>;<br> + + <i>The College Widow</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Admirable Crichton, The</i>, <a href="#page113">113</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Aeschylus, <a href="#page005">5</a>, <a href="#page006">6</a>, + <a href="#page135">135</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>After Blenheim</i>, <a href="#page228">228</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Aiglon, L'</i>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Allen, Viola, <a href="#page109">109</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Alleyn, Edward, <a href="#page163">163</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>All for Love</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Alma-Tadema, Sir Lawrence, <a href="#page092">92</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Antony</i>, <a href="#page140">140</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Aristophanes, <a href="#page202">202</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Aristotle, <a href="#page018">18</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Arnold, Matthew, <a href="#page008">8</a>, <a href="#page019">19</a>, + <a href="#page205">205</a>, <a href="#page221">221</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>As You Like It</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, + <a href="#page051">51</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, + <a href="#page077">77</a>, <a href="#page078">78</a>, <a href="#page092">92</a>, + <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page172">172</a>, <a href="#page186">186</a>, + <a href="#page220">220</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Atalanta in Calydon</i>, <a href="#page020">20</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Augier, Emile, <a href="#page009">9</a>, <a href="#page141">141</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson</i>, <a href="#page103">103</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, The</i>, <a href="#page178">178</a>.</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Bannister, John, <a href="#page086">86</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Banville, Théodore de, <a href="#page066">66</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Barrie, James Matthew, <a href="#page204">204</a>, +<a href="#page205">205</a>, <a href="#page206">206</a>, <a href="#page219">219</a>;<br> + + <i>Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>;<br> + + <i>Peter Pan</i>, <a href="#page215">215</a>;<br> + + <i>The Admirable Crichton</i>, <a href="#page113">113</a>;<br> + + <i>The Professor's Love Story</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Barry, Elizabeth, <a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page080">80</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Barrymore, Ethel, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Bartholomew Fair</i>, <a href="#page202">202</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Beau Brummel</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page114">114</a>, + <a href="#page210">210</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Beaumont, Francis, <a href="#page028">28</a>;<br> + + <i>The Maid's Tragedy</i>, <a href="#page028">28</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Becket</i>, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page072">72</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <a name="Bejart">Béjart, Armande</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, + <a href="#page071">71</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Béjart, Magdeleine, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Belasco, David, <a href="#page155">155</a>;<br> + + <i>The Darling of the Gods</i>, <a href="#page042">42</a>;<br> + + <i>The Girl of the Golden West</i>, <a href="#page090">90</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Bells, The</i>, <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Bensley, Robert, <a href="#page086">86</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Bernhardt, Sarah, <a href="#page040">40</a>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, + <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>, + <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page107">107</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Betterton, Thomas, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, + <a href="#page056">56</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Boucicault, Dion, <a href="#page070">70</a>, +<a href="#page083">83</a>;<br> + + <i>London Assurance</i>, <a href="#page083">83</a>;<br> + + <i>Rip Van Winkle</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Brown of Harvard</i>, <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Browne, Sir Thomas, <a href="#page177">177</a>;<br> + + <i>Religio Medici</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page205">205</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Browning, Robert, <a href="#page010">10</a>, +<a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page032">32</a>, +<a href="#page237">237</a>;<br> + + <i>A Blot in the 'Scutcheon</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page056">56</a>;<br> + + <i>A Woman's Last Word</i>, <a href="#page032">32</a>;<br> + + <i>In a Balcony</i>, <a href="#page010">10</a>;<br> + + <i>Pippa Passes</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Brunetière, Ferdinand, <a href="#page035">35</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Bulwer-Lytton, Sir Edward, <a href="#page079">79</a>;<br> + + <i>Richelieu</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Burbage, James, <a href="#page077">77</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Burbage, Richard, <a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, + <a href="#page079">79</a>, <a href="#page093">93</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Burke, Charles, <a href="#page103">103</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Burton, William E., <a href="#page103">103</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Byron, George Gordon, Lord, <a href="#page019">19</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Calderon, Don Pedro C. de la Barca, <a href="#page026">26</a>, + <a href="#page050">50</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, <a href="#page066">66</a>, <a href="#page069">69</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Candida</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>, <a href="#page225">225</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Cato</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Cenci, The</i>, <a href="#page144">144</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Charles I</i>, <a href="#page072">72</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Chinese theatre, <a href="#page078">78</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Chorus Lady, The</i>, <a href="#page022">22</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Christ in Hades</i>, <a href="#page197">197</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Cibber, Colley, <a href="#page063">63</a>, <a href="#page085">85</a>, + <a href="#page164">164</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Città Morta, La</i>, <a href="#page072">72</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, <a href="#page019">19</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>College Widow, The</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Collins, Wilkie, <a href="#page121">121</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Colvin, Sidney, <a href="#page170">170</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Comedy of Errors, The</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Commedia dell'arte</i>, <a href="#page010">10</a>, <a href="#page011">11</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Congreve, William, <a href="#page009">9</a>, <a href="#page164">164</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Conquest of Granada, The</i>, <a href="#page074">74</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Coquelin, Constant, <a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>, + <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>, + <a href="#page105">105</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Corneille, Pierre, <a href="#page050">50</a>, <a href="#page235">235</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Cromwell</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Crossing Brooklyn Ferry</i>, <a href="#page182">182</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Cymbeline</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page056">56</a>, + <a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>, + <a href="#page098">98</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, + <a href="#page121">121</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Dame aux Camélias, La</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, + <a href="#page053">53</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page141">141</a>, + <a href="#page146">146</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Dante Alighieri, <a href="#page162">162</a>, +<a href="#page188">188</a>;<br> + + <i>Inferno</i>, <a href="#page188">188</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Darling of the Gods, The</i>, <a href="#page042">42</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Darwin, Charles, <a href="#page021">21</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Davenant, Sir William, <a href="#page080">80</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Dekker, Thomas, <a href="#page202">202</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Demi-Monde, Le</i>, <a href="#page141">141</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Dennery, Adolphe, <a href="#page006">6</a>, +<a href="#page175">175</a>;<br> + + <i>The Two Orphans</i>, <a href="#page006">6</a>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, +<a href="#page032">32</a>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Diplomacy</i>, <a href="#page101">101</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Doll's House, A</i>, <a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, + <a href="#page146">146</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Don Quixote</i>, <a href="#page059">59</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, <a href="#page022">22</a>;<br> + + <i>Sherlock Holmes</i>, <a href="#page022">22</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>;<br> + + <i>The Story of Waterloo</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Dr. Faustus</i>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Dryden, John, <a href="#page016">16</a>, +<a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page073">73</a>;<br> + + <i>All for Love</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>;<br> + + <i>The Conquest of Granada</i>, <a href="#page074">74</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Duchess of Malfi, The</i>, <a href="#page130">130</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Du Croisy, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Dumas, Alexandre, <i>fils</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>;<br> + + <i>La Dame aux Camélias</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, +<a href="#page053">53</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page141">141</a>, +<a href="#page146">146</a>;<br> + + <i>Le Demi-Monde</i>, <a href="#page141">141</a>;<br> + + <i>Le Fils Naturel</i>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Dumas, Alexandre, <i>père</i>, <a href="#page140">140</a>;<br> + + <i>Antony</i>, <a href="#page140">140</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Duse, Eleanora, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Echegaray, Don José, <a href="#page187">187</a>, +<a href="#page188">188</a>, <a href="#page189">189</a>;<br> + + <i>El Gran Galeoto</i>, <a href="#page187">187</a>-192. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Egoist, The</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Emerson, Ralph Waldo, <a href="#page202">202</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Enemy of the People, An</i>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, + <a href="#page201">201</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Etherege, Sir George, <a href="#page082">82</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Euripides, <a href="#page131">131</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Every Man in His Humour</i>, <a href="#page100">100</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fables in Slang</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fair Maid of the West</i>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, <a href="#page219">219</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Faust</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fédora</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fighting Hope, The</i>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fils Naturel, Le</i>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Fiske, John, <a href="#page143">143</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Fiske, Mrs. Minnie Maddern, <a href="#page007">7</a>, <a href="#page087">87</a>, + <a href="#page102">102</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Fitch, Clyde, <a href="#page013">13</a>, +<a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page089">89</a>, <a href="#page090">90</a>, +<a href="#page159">159</a>;<br> + + <i>Beau Brummel</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page114">114</a>, +<a href="#page210">210</a>;<br> + + <i>The Girl with the Green Eyes</i>, <a href="#page159">159</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Fletcher, John, <a href="#page028">28</a>, +<a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>;<br> + + <i>The Maid's Tragedy</i>, <a href="#page028">28</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Forbes, James, <a href="#page022">22</a>;<br> + + <i>The Chorus Lady</i>, <a href="#page022">22</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Forbes-Robertson, Johnstone, <a href="#page007">7</a>, <a href="#page092">92</a>, + <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Fourberies de Scapin, Les</i>, <a href="#page051">51</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Frou-Frou</i>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page141">141</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Gay Lord Quex, The</i>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page134">134</a>, + <a href="#page213">213</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Ghosts</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, + <a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>, + <a href="#page219">219</a>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Gillette, William, <a href="#page022">22</a>, +<a href="#page121">121</a>;<br> + + <i>Sherlock Holmes</i>, <a href="#page022">22</a>, <a href="#page121">121</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Girl of the Golden West, The</i>, <a href="#page090">90</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Girl with the Green Eyes, The</i>, <a href="#page159">159</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Gismonda</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, <a href="#page234">234</a>;<br> + + <i>Faust</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Gorboduc</i>, <a href="#page073">73</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Gossip on Romance, A</i>, <a href="#page128">128</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Gran Galeoto, El</i>, <a href="#page187">187</a>-192. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Great Divide, The</i>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Greene, Robert, <a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Greet, Ben, <a href="#page075">75</a>, <a href="#page109">109</a>, + <a href="#page110">110</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"><i>Hamlet</i>, <a href="#page008">8</a>, +<a href="#page012">12</a>, <a href="#page038">38</a>, <a href="#page039">39</a>, +<a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page051">51</a>, <a href="#page055">55</a>, +<a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, +<a href="#page068">68</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>, <a href="#page079">79</a>, +<a href="#page089">89</a>, <a href="#page092">92</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, +<a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, +<a href="#page107">107</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, +<a href="#page121">121</a>, <a href="#page122">122</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, +<a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page177">177</a>, +<a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page184">184</a>, <a href="#page185">185</a>, +<a href="#page187">187</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page203">203</a>, +<a href="#page233">233</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Haworth, Joseph, <a href="#page104">104</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Hedda Gabler</i>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, + <a href="#page087">87</a>, <a href="#page102">102</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, + <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, + <a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>, + <a href="#page220">220</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Henry V</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>, <a href="#page077">77</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Henslowe, Philip, <a href="#page164">164</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Hernani</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page140">140</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Herne, James A., <a href="#page087">87</a>;<br> + + <i>Shore Acres</i>, <a href="#page087">87</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Hero and Leander</i>, <a href="#page171">171</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Heyse, Paul, <a href="#page007">7</a>, +<a href="#page116">116</a>;<br> + + <i>Mary of Magdala</i>, <a href="#page007">7</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Heywood, Thomas, <a href="#page038">38</a>, +<a href="#page039">39</a>, <a href="#page202">202</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, +<a href="#page219">219</a>;<br> + + <i>A Woman Killed with Kindness</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>;<br> + + <i>The Fair Maid of the West</i>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, +<a href="#page219">219</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + "Hope, Laurence," <a href="#page206">206</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Hour Glass, The</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Howard, Bronson, <a href="#page108">108</a>, +<a href="#page157">157</a>;<br> + + <i>Shenandoah</i>, <a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page108">108</a>, +<a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Howells, William Dean, <a href="#page153">153</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Hugo, Victor, <a href="#page014">14</a>, +<a href="#page015">15</a>, <a href="#page052">52</a>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, +<a href="#page116">116</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page135">135</a>, +<a href="#page140">140</a>;<br> + + <i>Cromwell</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>;<br> + + <i>Hernani</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page140">140</a>;<br> + + <i>Marion Delorme</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>;<br> + + <i>Ruy Blas</i>, <a href="#page052">52</a>.</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Ibsen, Henrik, <a href="#page018">18</a>, +<a href="#page025">25</a>, <a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page088">88</a>, +<a href="#page102">102</a>, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, +<a href="#page123">123</a>, <a href="#page131">131</a>, <a href="#page133">133</a>, +<a href="#page135">135</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page141">141</a>, + +<a href="#page145">145</a>, <a href="#page147">147</a>, <a href="#page148">148</a>, +<a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>;<br> + + <i>A Doll's House</i>, <a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, +<a href="#page146">146</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>;<br> + + <i>An Enemy of the People</i>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, <a href="#page201">201</a>;<br> + + <i>Ghosts</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>, +<a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>, +<a href="#page219">219</a>, <a href="#page230">230</a>;<br> + + <i>Hedda Gabler</i>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, +<a href="#page087">87</a>, <a href="#page102">102</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, +<a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page145">145</a>, +<a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>, +<a href="#page220">220</a>;<br> + + <i>John Gabriel Borkman</i>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>;<br> + + <i>Lady Inger of Ostråt</i>, <a href="#page019">19</a>;<br> + + <i>Peer Gynt</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>;<br> + + <i>Rosmersholm</i>, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, +<a href="#page219">219</a>;<br> + + <i>The Master Builder</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>;<br> + + <i>The Wild Duck</i>, <a href="#page147">147</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Idylls of the King</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>In a Balcony</i>, <a href="#page010">10</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Inferno</i>, <a href="#page188">188</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Inquiries and Opinions</i>, <a href="#page108">108</a>, + <a href="#page235">235</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Iris</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Irving, Sir Henry, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>, + <a href="#page072">72</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, + <a href="#page124">124</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Irving, Washington, <a href="#page070">70</a>;<br> + + <i>Rip Van Winkle</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>.</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + James, Henry, <a href="#page032">32</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i>, <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>, + <a href="#page196">196</a>, <a href="#page197">197</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Jefferson, Joseph, <a href="#page070">70</a>, +<a href="#page103">103</a>, <a href="#page210">210</a>, <a href="#page226">226</a>;<br> + + <i>Autobiography</i>, <a href="#page103">103</a>;<br> + + <i>Rip Van Winkle</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page210">210</a>, +<a href="#page226">226</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Jerome, Jerome K., <a href="#page125">125</a>;<br> + + <i>The Passing of the Third Floor Back</i>, <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Jew of Malta, The</i>, <a href="#page136">136</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>John Gabriel Borkman</i>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Jones, Henry Arthur, <a href="#page069">69</a>, +<a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a>;<br> + + <i>Mrs. Dane's Defense</i>, <a href="#page120">120</a>;<br> + + <i>Whitewashing Julia</i>, <a href="#page123">123</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Jonson, Ben, <a href="#page074">74</a>, +<a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page202">202</a>, +<a href="#page203">203</a>;<br> + + <i>Bartholomew Fair</i>, <a href="#page202">202</a>;<br> + + <i>Every Man in His Humour</i>, <a href="#page100">100</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Julius Caesar</i>, <a href="#page104">104</a>, <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Keats, John, <a href="#page019">19</a>;<br> + + <i>Ode to a Nightingale</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Kennedy, Charles Rann, <a href="#page023">23</a>, +<a href="#page045">45</a>, <a href="#page046">46</a>, <a href="#page047">47</a>;<br> + + <i>The Servant in the House</i>, <a href="#page023">23</a>, <a href="#page045">45</a>, +<a href="#page046">46</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Killigrew, Thomas, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>King John</i>, <a href="#page119">119</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i><a name="Lear">King Lear</a></i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, + <a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, + <a href="#page174">174</a>, <a href="#page197">197</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Kipling, Rudyard, <a href="#page052">52</a>;<br> + + <i>They</i>, <a href="#page052">52</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Klein, Charles, <a href="#page155">155</a>;<br> + + <i>The Lion and the Mouse</i>, <a href="#page203">203</a>;<br> + + <i>The Music Master</i>, <a href="#page023">23</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Knowles, Sheridan, <a href="#page079">79</a>;<br> + + <i>Virginius</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Kyd, Thomas, <a href="#page048">48</a>, +<a href="#page131">131</a>;<br> + + <i>The Spanish Tragedy</i>, <a href="#page076">76</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lady Inger of Ostråt</i>, <a href="#page019">19</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lady Windermere's Fan</i>, <a href="#page089">89</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + La Grange, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, + <a href="#page071">71</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Lamb, Charles, <a href="#page085">85</a>, <a href="#page200">200</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Landor, Walter Savage, <a href="#page237">237</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Launcelot of the Lake</i>, <a href="#page188">188</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lear</i>, see <i><a href="#Lear">King Lear</a></i>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Leatherstocking Tales</i>, <a href="#page059">59</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Le Bon, Gustave, <a href="#page034">34</a>, +<a href="#page049">49</a>;<br> + + <i>Psychologie des Foules</i>, <a href="#page034">34</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Lee, Nathaniel, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Letty</i>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lincoln</i>, <a href="#page074">74</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lion and the Mouse, The</i>, <a href="#page203">203</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>London Assurance</i>, <a href="#page083">83</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Lope de Vega, <a href="#page051">51</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Lord Chamberlain's Men, <a href="#page060">60</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Love's Labour's Lost</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Lyly, John, <a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Lyons Mail, The</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Macbeth</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, + <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page076">76</a>, <a href="#page077">77</a>, + <a href="#page098">98</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, + <a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Mackaye, Percy, <a href="#page193">193</a>, +<a href="#page196">196</a>, <a href="#page197">197</a>;<br> + + <i>Jeanne d'Arc</i>, <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>, +<a href="#page196">196</a>, <a href="#page197">197</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Macready, William Charles, <a href="#page032">32</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Maeterlinck, Maurice, <a href="#page031">31</a>;<br> + + <i>Pélléas and Mélisande</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Magda</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, <a href="#page220">220</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Maid's Tragedy, The</i>, <a href="#page028">28</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Main, La</i>, <a href="#page010">10</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Man and Superman</i>, <a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page074">74</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Man from Home, The</i>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Man of the Hour, The</i>, <a href="#page203">203</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Mansfield, Richard, <a href="#page041">41</a>, <a href="#page070">70</a>, + <a href="#page104">104</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Marion Delorme</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Marlowe, Christopher, <a href="#page048">48</a>, +<a href="#page073">73</a>, <a href="#page135">135</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>, +<a href="#page163">163</a>, <a href="#page171">171</a>;<br> + + <i>Dr. Faustus</i>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page137">137</a>;<br> + + <i>Hero and Leander</i>, <a href="#page171">171</a>;<br> + + <i>The Jew of Malta</i>, <a href="#page136">136</a>;<br> + + <i>Tamburlaine the Great</i>, <a href="#page073">73</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Marlowe, Julia, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Marpessa</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Mary of Magdala</i>, <a href="#page007">7</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Mason, John, <a href="#page063">63</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Massinger, Philip, <a href="#page007">7</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Master Builder, The</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Mathews, Charles James, <a href="#page082">82</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Matthews, Brander, <a href="#page067">67</a>, +<a href="#page108">108</a>, <a href="#page235">235</a>;<br> + + <i>Inquiries and Opinions</i>, <a href="#page108">108</a>, <a href="#page235">235</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Measure for Measure</i>, <a href="#page220">220</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Medecin Malgré Lui, Le</i>, <a href="#page132">132</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Merchant of Venice, The</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, + <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page077">77</a>, <a href="#page078">78</a>, + <a href="#page109">109</a>, <a href="#page110">110</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Meredith, George, <a href="#page052">52</a>;<br> + + <i>The Egoist</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Merry Wives of Windsor, The</i>, <a href="#page215">215</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Middleton, Thomas, <a href="#page202">202</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Miller, Henry, <a href="#page016">16</a>, <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Milton, John, <a href="#page052">52</a>;<br> + + <i>Samson Agonistes</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Misanthrope, Le</i>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, <a href="#page132">132</a>, + <a href="#page175">175</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Modjeska, Helena, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page091">91</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Molière, J.-B. Poquelin de, <a href="#page009">9</a>, +<a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page018">18</a>, <a href="#page025">25</a>, +<a href="#page026">26</a>, <a href="#page032">32</a>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, +<a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page050">50</a>, <a href="#page055">55</a>, +<a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, +<a href="#page071">71</a>, <a href="#page132">132</a>,<a href="#page163">163</a>, +<a href="#page171">171</a>, <a href="#page172">172</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, +<a href="#page235">235</a>;<br> + + <i>Les Fourberies de Scapin</i>, <a href="#page051">51</a>;<br> + + <i>Le Medecin Malgré Lui</i>, <a href="#page132">132</a>;<br> + + <i>Le Misanthrope</i>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, <a href="#page132">132</a>, +<a href="#page175">175</a>;<br> + + <i>Les Précieuses Ridicules</i>, <a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>;<br> + + <i>Le Tartufe</i>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>, +<a href="#page230">230</a>, <a href="#page231">231</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Molière, Mlle., see <a href="#Bejart">Armande Béjart</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Moody, William Vaughn, <a href="#page230">230</a>;<br> + + <i>The Great Divide</i>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Mounet-Sully, <a href="#page181">181</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Mrs. Dane's Defense</i>, <a href="#page120">120</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Mrs. Warren's Profession</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>, + <a href="#page225">225</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page099">99</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Music Master, The</i>, <a href="#page023">23</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Musketeers, The</i>, <a href="#page121">121</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Nazimova, Alla, <a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>, + <a href="#page196">196</a>, <a href="#page197">197</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Nicholas Nickleby</i>, <a href="#page090">90</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, <a href="#page047">47</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Nos Intimes</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith, The</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, + <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Novelli, Ermete, <a href="#page154">154</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Ode to a Nightingale</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Oedipus King</i>, <a href="#page025">25</a>, <a href="#page038">38</a>, + <a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page144">144</a>, + <a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page219">219</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Orphan, The</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Othello</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page021">21</a>, + <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page051">51</a>, + <a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page058">58</a>, <a href="#page099">99</a>, + <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>, + <a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Otway, Thomas, <a href="#page070">70</a>;<br> + + <i>The Orphan</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>;<br> + + <i>Venice Preserved</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Paestum, Temple at, <a href="#page208">208</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Paolo and Francesca</i>, <a href="#page194">194</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Passing of the Third Floor Back, The</i>, <a href="#page125">125</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Patrie</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Pattes de Mouche, Les</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Peer Gynt</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Pélléas and Mélisande</i>, <a href="#page056">56</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Peter Pan</i>, <a href="#page215">215</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Philanderer, The</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Phillips, Stephen, <a href="#page019">19</a>, +<a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>, +<a href="#page197">197</a>;<br> + + <i>Christ in Hades</i>, <a href="#page197">197</a>;<br> + + <i>Marpessa</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>;<br> + + <i>Paolo and Francesca</i>, <a href="#page194">194</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Philosophy of Style</i>, <a href="#page095">95</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Pinero, Sir Arthur Wing, <a href="#page019">19</a>, +<a href="#page025">25</a>, <a href="#page069">69</a>, <a href="#page088">88</a>, +<a href="#page093">93</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page158">158</a>, +<a href="#page212">212</a>, +<a href="#page213">213</a>;<br> + + <i>Iris</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>;<br> + + <i> Letty</i>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>;<br> + + <i>The Gay Lord Quex</i>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page134">134</a>, +<a href="#page213">213</a>;<br> + + <i>The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, +<a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page142">142</a>;<br> + + <i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, +<a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page069">69</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, +<a href="#page141">141</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page231">231</a>;<br> + + <i>The Wife Without a Smile</i>, +<a href="#page213">213</a>;<br> + + <i>Trelawny of the Wells</i>, <a href="#page087">87</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Pippa Passes</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Plautus, <a href="#page035">35</a>, <a href="#page050">50</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant</i>, <a href="#page222">222</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Plutarch, <a href="#page017">17</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Praxiteles, <a href="#page207">207</a>, <a href="#page211">211</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Précieuses Ridicules, Les</i>, <a href="#page060">60</a>, + <a href="#page063">63</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Professor's Love Story, The</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Psychologie des Foules</i>, <a href="#page034">34</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Quintessence of Ibsenism, The</i>, <a href="#page143">143</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Racine, Jean, <a href="#page050">50</a>, <a href="#page235">235</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Raffles</i>, <a href="#page037">37</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Raphael, <a href="#page162">162</a>;<br> + + <i>Sistine Madonna</i>, <a href="#page030">30</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Regnard, J.-F., <a href="#page009">9</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Rehan, Ada, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Religio Medici</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Richard III</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Richelieu</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Rip Van Winkle</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>, <a href="#page210">210</a>, + <a href="#page226">226</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Rivals, The</i>, <a href="#page132">132</a>, <a href="#page160">160</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Romanesques, Les</i>, <a href="#page066">66</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page076">76</a>, + <a href="#page174">174</a>, <a href="#page232">232</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Romola</i>, <a href="#page059">59</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Rose of the Rancho, The</i>, <a href="#page042">42</a>, + <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Rosmersholm</i>, <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page218">218</a>, + <a href="#page219">219</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Rossetti, Christina Georgina, <a href="#page206">206</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Rostand, Edmond, <a href="#page009">9</a>, +<a href="#page066">66</a>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>;<br> + + <i>Cyrano de Bergerac</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page056">56</a>, +<a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>, +<a href="#page098">98</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, +<a href="#page121">121</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>;<br> + + <i>L'Aiglon</i>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>;<br> + + <i>Les Romanesques</i>, <a href="#page066">66</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Round Up, The</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Ruy Blas</i>, <a href="#page052">52</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Saint-Gaudens, Augustus, <a href="#page153">153</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Samson Agonistes</i>, <a href="#page031">31</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sappho, <a href="#page205">205</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sarcey, Francisque, <a href="#page122">122</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Sardou, Victorien, <a href="#page012">12</a>, +<a href="#page018">18</a>, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, +<a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>;<br> + + <i>Diplomacy</i>, <a href="#page101">101</a>;<br> + + <i>Fédora</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>;<br> + + <i>Gismonda</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>;<br> + + <i>Nos Intimes</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>;<br> + + <i>Patrie</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>;<br> + + <i>La Sorcière</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>;<br> + + <i>La Tosca</i>, <a href="#page040">40</a>, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>;<br> + + <i>Les Pattes de Mouche</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sargent, John Singer, <a href="#page153">153</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich, <a href="#page234">234</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>School for Scandal, The</i>, <a href="#page040">40</a>, + <a href="#page055">55</a>, <a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page086">86</a>, + <a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, + <a href="#page132">132</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Schopenhauer, Arthur, <a href="#page047">47</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Scott, Sir Walter, <a href="#page019">19</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Scrap of Paper, The</i>, <a href="#page064">64</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Scribe, Eugène, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, + <a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page098">98</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The</i>, <a href="#page053">53</a>, + <a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page069">69</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, + <a href="#page141">141</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page231">231</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Servant in the House, The</i>, <a href="#page023">23</a>, + <a href="#page045">45</a>, <a href="#page046">46</a>, <a href="#page047">47</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Shakespeare, William, <a href="#page007">7</a>, +<a href="#page016">16</a>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page018">18</a>, +<a href="#page025">25</a>, <a href="#page026">26</a>, <a href="#page032">32</a>, +<a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page044">44</a>, +<a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page051">51</a>, <a href="#page055">55</a>, +<a href="#page057">57</a>, <a href="#page058">58</a>, <a href="#page060">60</a>, +<a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, +<a href="#page071">71</a>, <a href="#page075">75</a>, <a href="#page093">93</a>, +<a href="#page109">109</a>, <a href="#page113">113</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, +<a href="#page119">119</a>, <a href="#page120">120</a>, <a href="#page122">122</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, +<a href="#page132">132</a>, <a href="#page135">135</a>, +<a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>, +<a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page163">163</a>, <a href="#page172">172</a>, +<a href="#page197">197</a>, <a href="#page202">202</a>, <a href="#page220">220</a>;<br> + + <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>;<br> + + <i>As You Like It</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, +<a href="#page051">51</a>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, +<a href="#page077">77</a>, <a href="#page078">78</a>, <a href="#page092">92</a>, +<a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page172">172</a>, <a href="#page186">186</a>, +<a href="#page220">220</a>;<br> + + <i>Cymbeline</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>;<br> + + <i>Hamlet</i>, <a href="#page008">8</a>, <a href="#page012">12</a>, +<a href="#page038">38</a>, <a href="#page039">39</a>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, +<a href="#page051">51</a>, <a href="#page055">55</a>, <a href="#page060">60</a>, +<a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page067">67</a>, <a href="#page068">68</a>, +<a href="#page071">71</a>, <a href="#page079">79</a>, <a href="#page089">89</a>, +<a href="#page092">92</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, +<a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page106">106</a>, +<a href="#page107">107</a>, <a href="#page115">115</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, +<a href="#page121">121</a>, <a href="#page122">122</a>, <a href="#page130">130</a>, +<a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>, <a href="#page177">177</a>, +<a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page184">184</a>, <a href="#page185">185</a>, +<a href="#page187">187</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page203">203</a>, +<a href="#page233">233</a>;<br> + + <i>Henry V</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>, <a href="#page077">77</a>;<br> + + <i>Julius Caesar</i>, <a href="#page104">104</a>, <a href="#page125">125</a>;<br> + + <i>King John</i>, <a href="#page119">119</a>;<br> + + <i>King Lear</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, +<a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page174">174</a>, +<a href="#page197">197</a>;<br> + + <i>Love's Labour's Lost</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>;<br> + + <i>Macbeth</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, +<a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page076">76</a>, <a href="#page077">77</a>, +<a href="#page098">98</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>, +<a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page195">195</a>;<br> + + <i>Measure for Measure</i>, <a href="#page220">220</a>;<br> + + <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page099">99</a>;<br> + + <i>Othello</i>, <a href="#page017">17</a>, <a href="#page021">21</a>, +<a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page043">43</a>, <a href="#page051">51</a>, +<a href="#page056">56</a>, <a href="#page058">58</a>, <a href="#page099">99</a>, +<a href="#page136">136</a>, <a href="#page144">144</a>, <a href="#page154">154</a>, +<a href="#page194">194</a>, <a href="#page230">230</a>;<br> + + <i>Richard III</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>;<br> + + <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page076">76</a>, +<a href="#page174">174</a>, <a href="#page232">232</a>;<br> + + <i>The Comedy of Errors</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>;<br> + + <i>The Merchant of Venice</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, +<a href="#page077">77</a>, <a href="#page078">78</a>, <a href="#page109">109</a>, +<a href="#page110">110</a>;<br> + + <i>The Merry Wives of Windsor</i>, <a href="#page215">215</a>;<br> + + <i>The Tempest</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>;<br> + + <i>Twelfth Night</i>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, +<a href="#page078">78</a>, +<a href="#page092">92</a>, <a href="#page109">109</a>, <a href="#page110">110</a>, +<a href="#page197">197</a>, <a href="#page198">198</a>;<br> + + <i>Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Shaw, George Bernard, <a href="#page043">43</a>, +<a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page143">143</a>, <a href="#page147">147</a>, +<a href="#page222">222</a>, <a href="#page223">223</a>, <a href="#page224">224</a>;<br> + + <i>Candida</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>, <a href="#page225">225</a>;<br> + + <i>Man and Superman</i>, <a href="#page047">47</a>, <a href="#page074">74</a>;<br> + + <i>Mrs. Warren's Profession</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>, +<a href="#page225">225</a>;<br> + + <i>Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant</i>, <a href="#page222">222</a>;<br> + + <i>The Philanderer</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>;<br> + + <i>The Quintessence of Ibsenism</i>, <a href="#page143">143</a>;<br> + + <i>Widower's Houses</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Shelley, Percy Bysshe, <a href="#page019">19</a>, +<a href="#page144">144</a>;<br> + + <i>The Cenci</i>, <a href="#page144">144</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Shenandoah</i>, <a href="#page101">101</a>, <a href="#page108">108</a>, + <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, <a href="#page009">9</a>, +<a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page082">82</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, +<a href="#page160">160</a>;<br> + + <i>The Rivals</i>, <a href="#page132">132</a>, <a href="#page160">160</a>;<br> + + <i>The School for Scandal</i>, <a href="#page040">40</a>, <a href="#page055">55</a>, +<a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page086">86</a>, <a href="#page101">101</a>, +<a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, <a href="#page132">132</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Sherlock Holmes</i>, <a href="#page022">22</a>, <a href="#page121">121</a>, + <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>She Stoops to Conquer</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Shore Acres</i>, <a href="#page087">87</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sidney, Sir Philip, <a href="#page073">73</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Sistine Madonna</i>, <a href="#page030">30</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Skinner, Otis, <a href="#page091">91</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Socrates, <a href="#page201">201</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Song of Myself</i>, <a href="#page182">182</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Song of the Open Road</i>, <a href="#page217">217</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sonnenthal, Adolf von, <a href="#page106">106</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Sophocles, <a href="#page032">32</a>, +<a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page131">131</a>, <a href="#page135">135</a>;<br> + + <i>Oedipus King</i>, <a href="#page025">25</a>, <a href="#page038">38</a>, +<a href="#page060">60</a>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page144">144</a>, +<a href="#page181">181</a>, <a href="#page219">219</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Sorcière, La</i>, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page066">66</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Sothern, Edward H., <a href="#page106">106</a>, <a href="#page107">107</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Southey, Robert, <a href="#page019">19</a>, +<a href="#page228">228</a>;<br> + + <i>After Blenheim</i>, <a href="#page228">228</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Spanish Tragedy, The</i>, <a href="#page076">76</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Spencer, Herbert, <a href="#page095">95</a>;<br> + + <i>Philosophy of Style</i>, <a href="#page095">95</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Stevenson, Robert Louis, <a href="#page031">31</a>, +<a href="#page128">128</a>, <a href="#page170">170</a>, <a href="#page214">214</a>, +<a href="#page221">221</a>;<br> + + <i>A Gossip on Romance</i>, <a href="#page128">128</a>;<br> + + <i>Treasure Island</i>, <a href="#page033">33</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Story of Waterloo, The</i>, <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Strongheart</i>, <a href="#page041">41</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Sunken Bell, The</i>, <a href="#page194">194</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Sweet Kitty Bellairs</i>, <a href="#page086">86</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Swinburne, Algernon Charles, <a href="#page019">19</a>;<br> + + <i>Atalanta in Calydon</i>, <a href="#page020">20</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Talma, <a href="#page064">64</a>, <a href="#page071">71</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Tamburlaine the Great</i>, <a href="#page073">73</a>, <a href="#page136">136</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Tartufe, Le</i>, <a href="#page100">100</a>, <a href="#page116">116</a>, + <a href="#page230">230</a>, <a href="#page231">231</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Tears, Idle Tears</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Tempest, The</i>, <a href="#page048">48</a>, <a href="#page215">215</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, <a href="#page019">19</a>, +<a href="#page031">31</a>, <a href="#page072">72</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>, +<a href="#page195">195</a>, <a href="#page196">196</a>;<br> + + <i>Becket</i>, <a href="#page019">19</a>, <a href="#page072">72</a>;<br> + + <i>Idylls of the King</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>;<br> + + <i>Tears, Idle Tears</i>, <a href="#page195">195</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Terence, <a href="#page026">26</a>, <a href="#page035">35</a>, + <a href="#page050">50</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Thackeray, William Makepeace, <a href="#page035">35</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>They</i>, <a href="#page052">52</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Thomas, Augustus, <a href="#page016">16</a>, +<a href="#page045">45</a>, <a href="#page046">46</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, +<a href="#page203">203</a>, <a href="#page230">230</a>;<br> + + <i>Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>;<br> + + <i>The Witching Hour</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>, <a href="#page045">45</a>, +<a href="#page046">46</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, <a href="#page203">203</a>, +<a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Tosca, La</i>, <a href="#page040">40</a>, <a href="#page065">65</a>, <a href="#page105">105</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Treasure Island</i>, <a href="#page033">33</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm, <a href="#page119">119</a>, <a href="#page121">121</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Trelawny of the Wells</i>, <a href="#page087">87</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Troupe de Monsieur</i>, <a href="#page062">62</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Tully, Richard Walton, <a href="#page155">155</a>;<br> + + <i>The Rose of the Rancho</i>, <a href="#page042">42</a>, <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Twelfth Night</i>, <a href="#page036">36</a>, <a href="#page062">62</a>, + <a href="#page078">78</a>, +<a href="#page092">92</a>, <a href="#page109">109</a>, <a href="#page110">110</a>, + <a href="#page197">197</a>, <a href="#page198">198</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>, <a href="#page061">61</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Two Orphans, The</i>, <a href="#page006">6</a>, <a href="#page031">31</a>, + <a href="#page032">32</a>, <a href="#page037">37</a>, <a href="#page175">175</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Venice Preserved</i>, <a href="#page070">70</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Venus of Melos</i>, <a href="#page030">30</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Vestris, Madame, <a href="#page082">82</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Via Wireless</i>, <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Virginius</i>, <a href="#page079">79</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Voltaire, François Marie Arouet de, +<a href="#page014">14</a>;<br> + + <i>Zaïre</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Wagner, Richard, <a href="#page117">117</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Warfield, David, <a href="#page154">154</a>, <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Webb, Captain, <a href="#page128">128</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Webster, John, <a href="#page130">130</a>;<br> + + <i>The Duchess of Malfi</i>, <a href="#page130">130</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Whitewashing Julia</i>, <a href="#page123">123</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Whitman, Walt, <a href="#page180">180</a>, +<a href="#page182">182</a>, <a href="#page213">213</a>, <a href="#page217">217</a>;<br> + + <i>Crossing Brooklyn Ferry</i>, <a href="#page182">182</a>;<br> + + <i>Song of Myself</i>, <a href="#page182">182</a>;<br> + + <i>Song of the Open Road</i>, <a href="#page217">217</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Widower's Houses</i>, <a href="#page224">224</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Wiehe, Charlotte, <a href="#page010">10</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Wife Without a Smile, The</i>, <a href="#page213">213</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Wild Duck, The</i>, <a href="#page147">147</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Wilde, Oscar, <a href="#page009">9</a>;<br> + + <i>Lady Windermere's Fan</i>, <a href="#page089">89</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Willard, Edward S., <a href="#page157">157</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Wills, William Gorman, <a href="#page072">72</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Winter, William, <a href="#page008">8</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Witching Hour, The</i>, <a href="#page016">16</a>, <a href="#page045">45</a>, + <a href="#page046">46</a>, <a href="#page063">63</a>, <a href="#page203">203</a>, + <a href="#page230">230</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Woman Killed with Kindness, A</i>, <a href="#page038">38</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Woman's Last Word, A</i>, <a href="#page032">32</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Woman's Way, A</i>, <a href="#page074">74</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Wordsworth, William, <a href="#page019">19</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Wyndham, Sir Charles, <a href="#page062">62</a>, <a href="#page069">69</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Yiddish drama, <a href="#page011">11</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em">Young, Mrs. Rida Johnson, <a href="#page155">155</a>;<br> + + <i>Brown of Harvard</i>, <a href="#page155">155</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0em"> </p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + <i>Zaïre</i>, <a href="#page014">14</a>. +</p> +<p style="text-indent: 0"> + Zangwill, Israel, <a href="#page041">41</a>.</p> + +<p> + </p> + +<hr> +<p> + </p> + +<h3> + BEULAH MARIE DIX'S +</h3> +<h2> + ALLISON'S LAD AND OTHER MARTIAL INTERLUDES +</h2> +<p> + By the co-author of the play, "The Road to Yesterday," and author of the + novels, "The Making of Christopher Ferringham," "Blount of Breckenlow," + etc. 12mo. $1.35 net; by mail, $1.45. +</p> +<p> + <i>Allison's Lad</i>, <i>The Hundredth Trick</i>, <i>The Weakest Link</i>, <i>The Snare and + the Fowler</i>, <i>The Captain of the Gate</i>, <i>The Dark of the Dawn.</i> +</p> +<p> + These one-act plays, despite their impressiveness, are perfectly + practicable for performance by clever amateurs; at the same time they make + decidedly interesting reading. +</p> +<p> + Six stirring war episodes. Five of them occur at night, and most of them in + the dread pause before some mighty conflict. Three are placed in + Cromwellian days (two in Ireland and one in England), one is at the close + of the French Revolution, another at the time of the Hundred Years' War, + and the last during the Thirty Years' War. The author has most ingeniously + managed to give the feeling of big events, though employing but few + players. The emotional grip is strong, even tragic. +</p> +<p> + Courage, vengeance, devotion, and tenderness to the weak, are among the + emotions effectively displayed. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p> "The technical mastery of Miss Dix is great, but her spiritual mastery is greater. For this book lives in memory, and the +spirit of its teachings is, in a most intimate sense, the spirit of its teacher.... Noble passion holding the balance between +life and death is the motif sharply outlined and vigorously + portrayed. In each interlude the author has seized upon a vital +situation and has massed all her forces so as to enhance its +significance."—<i>Boston Transcript.</i> (Entire notice on +application to the publishers.)</p> + +<p>"Highly dramatic episodes, treated with skill and art ... a high pitch of emotion."—<i>New York Sun.</i> +</p> + +<p>"Complete and intense tragedies well plotted and well sustained, +in dignified dialogue of persons of the drama distinctly + differentiated."—<i>Hartford Courant.</i> +</p> + +<p>"It is a pleasure to say, without reservation, that the half +dozen plays before us are finely true, strong, telling examples +of dramatic art.... Sure to find their way speedily to the stage, justifying themselves there, even as they justify themselves at a reading as pieces of literature."—<i>The Bellman.</i> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<h2> + BY BARRETT H. CLARK +</h2> +<h3> + THE CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY +</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <i>Outlines for Its Study</i> +</p> +<p> + Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies with outlines, of + half a dozen pages or less each, of the more important plays of twenty-four + Continental dramatists. While intended to be used in connection with a + reading of the plays themselves, the book has an independent interest, + <i>12mo. $1.50 net</i>. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p><i>Prof. William Lyon Phelps, of Yale</i>: "... One of the most useful works on the contemporary drama.... Extremely practical, +full of valuable hints and suggestions...." +</p> +</blockquote> +<center> + <h3>BRITISH & AMERICAN DRAMA OF TO-DAY</h3> +</center> +<p style="text-align: center"> + <i>Outlines for Its Study</i> +</p> +<p> + Suggestions, biographies and bibliographies, together with historical + sketches, for use in connection with the important plays of Pinero, Jones, + Wilde, Shaw, Barker, Hankin, Chambers, Davies, Galsworthy, Masefield, + Houghton, Bennett, Phillips, Barrie, Yeats, Boyle, Baker, Sowerby, Francis, + Lady Gregory, Synge, Murray, Ervine, Howard, Herne, Thomas, Gillette, + Fitch, Moody, Mackaye, Sheldon, Kenyon, Walters, Cohan, etc. <i>12mo. $1.60 + net</i>. +</p> +<center> + <h3>THREE MODERN PLAYS FROM THE FRENCH </h3> +</center> +<p> + Lemaître's <i>The Pardon</i> and Lavedan's <i>Prince D'Aurec</i>, translated by + Barrett H. Clark, with Donnay's <i>The Other Danger</i>, translated by Charlotte + Tenney David, with an Introduction to each author by Barrett H. Clark and a + Preface by Clayton Hamilton. One volume. <i>12mo. $1.50 net</i>. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p><i>Springfield Republican</i>: "'The Prince d'Aurec' is one of his best and most representative plays. It is a fine character +creation.... 'The Pardon' must draw admiration for its remarkable technical efficiency.... 'The Other Danger' is a work +of remarkable craftsmanship." + +</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<h2> + By GEORGE MIDDLETON +</h2> +<h3> + THE ROAD TOGETHER +</h3> +<p> + A powerful four-act drama of American life. $1.20 net. (Just published.) +</p> +<center> + <h3>POSSESSION </h3> +</center> +<p> + With THE GROOVE, THE BLACK TIE, A GOOD WOMAN, CIRCLES, and THE UNBORN. + One-act American Plays. $1.35 net. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p><i>New York Times</i>: "... Mr. Middleton's outlook on life, his conceptions of the relations of men and women to each other and +to society is a fine one, generous and tolerant, but not sentimental.... No one else is doing his kind of work and his +books should not be missed by readers looking for a striking presentation of the stuff that life is made of." +</p> +</blockquote> +<center> + <h3>EMBERS </h3> +</center> +<p> + With THE FAILURES, THE GARGOYLE, IN HIS HOUSE, MADONNA and THE MAN + MASTERFUL. One-act American Plays. $1.35 net. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p>PROF. WILLIAM LYON PHELPS, <i>of Yale</i>: "The plays are admirable; the conversations have the true style of human speech, and show +first-rate economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend +them in my public lectures." +</p> +</blockquote> +<center> + <h3>TRADITION </h3> +</center> +<p> + With ON BAIL, MOTHERS, WAITING, THEIR WIFE, and THE CHEAT OF PITY. One-act + American Plays. $1.35 net. +</p> +<p>CLAYTON HAMILTON, in <i>The Bookman</i>: "Admirable in technique; soundly constructed and written in natural and lucid dialogue. +He reveals at every point the aptness of the practiced playwright. It is most impressive that Mr. Middleton has +successfully broken ground, as a pioneer among us, in the general cause of the composition of the one-act play." +</p> +<center> + <h3>NOWADAYS </h3> +</center> +<p> + A three-act comedy of American life. $1.20 net. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p><i>The Nation</i>: "Without a shock or a thrill in it, but steadily interesting and entirely human. All the characters are depicted +with fidelity and consistency; the dialogue is good and the plot logical." + +</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK +</p> + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + +<h2> + NOTEWORTHY RECENT DRAMA BOOKS +</h2> +<h3> + Arthur Edwin Krows' PLAY PRODUCTION IN AMERICA +</h3> +<p> + A book on The Theater, both "backstage" and "the front of the house." We + follow a play from its acceptance for a big theater to its last nights in + rural "stock." +</p> +<p> + The author, recently of the staff of Winthrop Ames, has learned his + subjects thoroughly during ten years' experience in many theatrical + capacities. Many of these subjects are here treated for the first time in a + book, and most of the others for the first time in their American aspect. + His style is clear and vivid. There are many and unusual illustrations and + a full index. Large 12mo. 400 pp. $2.25 net. +</p> +<h3 style="text-align: center"> + Richard Burton's BERNARD SHAW: THE MAN AND THE MASK +</h3> +<p> + Shaw is shown as revealed in his plays, which are all considered in + chronological order with dates of first performances, etc. There are + separate chapters on him as social thinker, poet-mystic, and theater + craftsman, and a concluding one on his place in the modern drama. The + author is a member of The National Institute, and a former President of The + Drama League of America and very widely and favorably known, both as + lecturer and writer. With index 305 pp. $1.60 net. +</p> +<h3 style="text-align: center"> + Constance D'Arcy Mackay's THE FOREST PRINCESS, etc. +</h3> +<p> + A much needed book of masques by a noted producer and author. The other + masques are <i>The Gift of Time</i> and another <i>Masque of Christmas</i>, <i>A Masque + of Conservation</i>, <i>The Masque of Pomona</i>, <i>The Sun Goddess</i> (Old Japan). + There are also chapters on <i>The Revival of the Masque</i>, <i>Masque Costumes</i>, + and <i>Masque Music</i>. 181 pp. $1.35 net. +</p> +<h3> + Louise Burleigh and Edward Hale Bierstadt's PUNISHMENT +</h3> +<p> + Probably the most significant American prison play so far written, but + first of all a human drama, not devoid of humor. Ex-Warden Osborne of Sing + Sing says "It rings true," and Edith Wynne Matthison declares it "one of + the most engrossing plays I have ever read." Four acts. 127 pp. $1.00 net. +</p> +<h3> + Percival Wilde's CONFESSIONAL and Other American Plays +</h3> +<p> + Includes also <i>According to Darwin</i>, a grim irony in two scenes. <i>The + Beautiful Story</i> (Santa Claus), and two joyous playlets, <i>The Villain in + the Piece</i> and <i>A Question of Morality</i>. <i>The Independent</i> finds them "Well + worth reading ... the treatment is fresh and sincere." 173 pp. $1.25 net. +</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK +</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<h3> + SIXTH EDITION, ENLARGED AND WITH PORTRAITS +</h3> +<h2> + HALE'S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY +</h2> +<center> + ROSTAND, HAUPTMANN, SUDERMANN, PINERO, SHAW, PHILLIPS, MAETERLINCK +</center> +<p> + By PROF. EDWARD EVERETT HALE, JR., of Union College. With gilt top, $1.60 + net. +</p> +<p> + Since this work first appeared in 1905, Maeterlinck's SISTER BEATRICE, THE + BLUE BIRD and MARY MAGDALENE, Rostand's CHANTECLER and Pinero's MID-CHANNEL + and THE THUNDERBOLT—among the notable plays by some of Dr. Hale's + dramatists—have been acted here. Discussions of them are added to this new + edition, as are considerations of Bernard Shaw's and Stephen Phillips' + latest plays. The author's papers on Hauptmann and Sudermann, with slight + additions, with his "Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of + Tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of + their first performance or publication, complete the volume. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p><i>Bookman</i>: "He writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy way.... He accepts things chiefly at their face value, but he describes +them so accurately and agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we have seen and the pleasure we have found in them." +</p> +<p> +<i>New York Evening Post</i>: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so free from gush and mere +eulogy, or so weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full index ... uncommonly useful for +reference."</p> +<p><i>Dial</i>: "Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most Interesting of literary fields.... Provides a varied menu of +the most interesting character.... Prof. Hale establishes confidential relations with the reader from the start.... Very +definite opinions, clearly reasoned and amply fortified by example.... Well worth reading a second time." +</p> +<p><i>New York Tribune</i>: "Both instructive and entertaining."</p> +<p><i>Brooklyn Eagle</i>: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' himself with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable +dramatic critic.... Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound critic.... Most people will be surprised and +delighted with Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness."</p> + +<p><i>The Theatre</i>: "A pleasing lightness of touch.... Very readable book." + +</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK +</p> + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<hr> +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<h3> + NEW POPULAR EDITION, WITH APPENDIX +</h3> +<h3> + Containing tables, etc., of the Opera Season 1908-11. +</h3> +<blockquote> +<p>"The most complete and authoritative ... pre-eminently the man to write the book ... full of the spirit of discerning +criticism.... Delightfully engaging manner, with humor, allusiveness and an abundance of the personal note."—<i>Richard +Aldrich in New York Times Review.</i> (Complete notice on application.) +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<h2> + CHAPTERS OF OPERA +</h2> +<p> + Being historical and critical observations and records concerning the Lyric + Drama in New York from its earliest days down to the present time. +</p> +<p> + By HENRY EDWARD KREHBIEL, musical critic of the New York <i>Tribune</i>, author + of "Music and Manners in the Classical Period," "Studies in the Wagnerian + Drama," "How to Listen to Music," etc. With over 70 portraits and pictures + of Opera Houses. 450 pp. 12mo. $3.00 net. +</p> +<p> + This is perhaps Mr. Krehbiel's most important book. The first seven + chapters deal with the earliest operatic performances in New York. Then + follows a brilliant account of the first quarter-century of the + Metropolitan, 1883-1908. He tells how Abbey's first disastrous Italian + season was followed by seven seasons of German Opera under Leopold Damrosch + and Stanton, how this was temporarily eclipsed by French and Italian, and + then returned to dwell with them in harmony, thanks to Walter Damrosch's + brilliant crusade,—also of the burning of the opera house, the + vicissitudes of the American Opera Company, the coming and passing of Grau + and Conried, and finally the opening of Oscar Hammerstein's Manhattan Opera + House and the first two seasons therein, 1906-08. +</p> +<blockquote> +<p>"Presented not only in a readable manner but without bias ... extremely interesting and valuable."—<i>Nation.</i></p> + +<p>"The illustrations are a true embellishment ... Mr. Krehbiel's style was never more charming. It is a delight."—<i>Philip Hale in +Boston Herald.</i></p> + +<p>"Invaluable for purpose of reference ... rich in critical passages ... all the great singers of the world have been heard +here. Most of the great conductors have come to our shores.... Memories of them which serve to humanize, as it were, his +analyses of their work."—<i>New York Tribune.</i> + +</p> +</blockquote> +<hr> +<p> + *** If the reader will send his name and address, the publishers will send, + from time to time, information regarding their new books. +</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY</p> + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + PUBLISHERS</p> + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + NEW YORK +</p> + + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + + + +<p style="text-align: center"> + </p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13589 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + + + |