Chapter VI From Subject to Plot: Arrangement for Clearness, Emphasis, Movement
The chief desideratum of a dramatist beginning to arrange his material within a number of acts already decided on is to create interest as promptly as possible. To that end neither striking dialogue nor stirring situation is of prime consequence. Clearness is. When an audience does not understand who the people are with whom the play opens and their relations to one another, no amount of striking dialogue or stirring situation will create lasting interest. The danger for a later public of allusive reference clear enough at one time is shown by the verses sung when the Helstone Furry, or Flower Dance, takes place in Cornwall. Lines once full of meaning are today so out of date as to be meaningless.
From an early hour the place is alive with drums and fifes, and townsmen hoarsely chanting a ballad, the burden of which conveys the spirit of the festival:
With Hal-an-tow,
Jolly rumble O,
And we are up as soon as any day O,
And for to fetch the Summer home,
The Summer and the May O;
For the Summer is a-come O,
And Winter is a-go O!
The verses of the ballad seem to convey topical allusions that have become traditional. One speaks of Robin Hood and Little John as gone to the fair, and the revellers will go too; another triumphs in the Spaniards eating the gray goose feather while the singers will be eating the roast. Another runs thus quaintly:
God bless Aunt Mary Moses
With all her power and might O;
And send us peace in merry England
Both night and day O.
With Hal-an-tow,
Jolly rumble O,
And we were up as soon as any day O,
And for to fetch the Summer home,
The Summer and the May O;
For the Summer is a-come O,
And Winter is a-go O!
Thus singing they troop through the town; if they find anyone at work, they hale him to the river and make him leap across; arrived at the Grammar School they demand a holiday; at noon they go “fadding” into the country, and come back with oak branches and flowers in their hats and caps; then until dusk they dance hand-in-hand down the streets, and through any house, in at any door, out at another; when night falls they keep up the dancing indoors. The character of the dancing is exactly that of the ancient Comus; and the whole spirit of the Cornish Furry is a fair representation of primitive nature festivals, except, of course, that modern devoutness has banished from the flower dance all traces of a religious festival;—unless a trace is to be found in the fact that the dancers at one point make a collection.1
The Greek dramatist, staging religious legends, could assume in his audience common knowledge as to the identity and the historic background of his figures which saved him much exposition. Today, readers of his play demand explanatory notes because of these omissions.
The Choephori, like the plays of Æschylus generally, consists of scenes from a story taken as known. Some indispensable parts of it are represented only by allusions. Others can scarcely be said to be represented at all. The history of Pylades belongs to the second class; that of Strophius belongs to the first. What is evident is that the author presumes us to be familiar with his conception of both, that as a fact we are not, and that our only way of approaching the play intelligently is by the assumption of some working hypothesis.2
Something like the position of these elder dramatists toward exposition is held today by writers of plays on George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. Dealing, as the dramatist ordinarily does, however, with a mixture of historical and fictitious figures or with characters wholly fictitious, he must in most cases carefully inform his audience at the outset who his people are, and what are their relations to one another, where the play is laid, and when.
Examine the first column of what follows: it is not a burlesque, but the beginning of a so-called play. Why is it unsatisfactory?
ORCHIDS
Conservatory of the Strones’ house. Natalie is walking about among the flowers and plants, arranging them for the day in the vases on the near-by table.
| Natalie. (To herself.) O-oh, I’m sleepy this morning. It’s very nice to have your fiancé live in the next house, but when he insists on writing his stories and things until two or three in the morning—well, I don’t think it’s very thoughtful of him. He might realize that his light shines directly across into my eyes and keeps me awake. Oh, dear, Mary’s been putting lilies-of-the-valley in all the vases again. I’ll not have those everywhere when we’ve got orchids instead. Flowers don’t need fragrance anyway; they’re just meant to be seen. (Dumping the wilted lilies in a basket by her side and arranging the newly-cut orchids in their place.) Tom [Who is Tom—brother or fiancé?] always makes a fuss when I have nothing but orchids, so I suppose Mary put the others about to calm him down. [Who is Mary, then: a maid, a sister, a girl friend, some one engaged to Tom?] Really I’ve got to speak to him about last night when he comes. The light is bad enough, but I won’t have him firing his gun out of the window besides. It must have been at that horrid thin cat that’s always clawing Hopeful. [A cat, a dog, or a small sister?] I’m glad she [Hopeful or the thin cat?] was locked up indoors if Tom’s going to act that way. Oh, dear, these are the wrong shears again. (Rings bell. Enter maid.) Mary, bring me the other shears—and Mary, where’s Hopeful this morning; I haven’t seen her? | Natalie. (To herself.) O-oh, I’m sleepy this morning. It’s very nice to have your fiancé live in the next house, but when (Tom) insists on writing his stories and things until two and three in the morning—well, I don’t think it’s very thoughtful of him. He might realize that his light shines directly across into my eyes and keeps me awake. Oh, dear, (that maid’s) been putting lilies-of-the-valley in all the vases again. I’ll not have those everywhere when we’ve got orchids instead. Flowers don’t need fragrance anyway; they’re just meant to be seen. (Dumping the wilted lilies in a basket by her side and arranging the newly-cut orchids in their place.) Tom always makes a fuss when I have nothing but orchids, so I suppose Mary put the others about to calm him down. Really I’ve got to speak to (Tom Hammond) about last night, when he comes. The light is bad enough, but I won’t have him firing his gun out of the window besides. It must have been at that horrid thin cat that’s always clawing Hopeful. I’m glad (Hopeful) was locked up indoors if Tom’s going to act that way (with cats). Oh, dear, these are the wrong shears again. (Rings bell. Enter maid.) Mary, bring me the other shears—and Mary, where’s Hopeful this morning; I haven’t seen her? |
| Mary. The kitten, Miss Strone? | Mary. The kitten, Miss Strone? |
| Natalie.. Yes, of course. | Natalie. Yes, of course. |
| Mary. Why—why she hasn’t been in this morning. (Starts away.) | Mary. Why—why she hasn’t been in this morning. (Starts away.) |
| Natalie. Come back, Mary. Don’t run off while I’m speaking to you. Haven’t you seen her at all? | Natalie. Come back, Mary. Don’t run off while I’m speaking to you. Haven’t you seen her at all? |
| Mary. Well—yes, Miss Strone—that is Parkins [another maid, a butler, or a milkman?] found—I mean— | Mary. Well—yes, Miss Strone—that is (the butler) found—I mean— |
| Natalie. (Impatiently.) Well? | Natalie. (Impatiently.) Well? |
| Mary. The shots last night, Miss Strone—that is we think it was—although she was on the other side of the garden when Parkins came on her—and there’s the wall and the alley between—still, Mr. Hammond was shooting out of the upper windows and— | Mary. The shots last night, Miss Strone—that is we think it was—although she was on the other side of the wall when Parkins came on her—and there’s the wall and the alley between—still, Mr. Hammond was shooting out of the upper windows and— |
| Natalie. (Quickly.) Has anything happened to Hopeful? | Natalie. (Quickly.) Has anything happened to Hopeful? |
| Mary. Why—why, Parkins— | Mary.. Why—why, Parkins— |
| (Enter Parkins.) | (Enter Parkins.) |
| Parkins. (Quietly.) I buried her all right just now, Miss Strone. (Louder.) Mr. Hammond. | Parkins. (Quietly.) I buried her all right just now, Miss Strone. (Louder.) (Mr. Hammond.) |
| (Exit [sic.] Mary and Parkins, enter Tom Hammond.) | (Exeunt Mary and Parkins, enter Tom Hammond.) |
In the left-hand column practically every one in the cast is unidentified when first mentioned. That is, the text fails in the first essential of clearness: we do not for some time know who the people are and their relations to one another. The very slight changes in the right-hand column do away with this fault.
Identify characters, then, as promptly as possible. Writing, “John Paul Jones enters in full Admiral’s uniform,” a dramatist often runs on for some time before the text itself reveals the identity of the person who has entered. Except in so far as the costume or make-up presents a well-known historical figure, or information carefully given before the figure enters may reveal identity, every newcomer is an entirely unknown person. He must promptly make clear who he is and his relation to the story. The following opening of a play shows another instance of the vagueness resulting when this identification is not well managed:
ANNE—A PLAY IN TWO ACTS