Act I
The stage is cut in two by an old wall, mossy and garlanded by luxurious vines. To the right, a corner of Bergamin’s park; to the left a corner of Pasquinot’s. On each side, against the wall, a bench.
SCENE 1. Sylvette. Percinet. When the curtain rises, Percinet is seated on the wall, with a book on his knees, from which he is reading to Sylvette. She stands on the bench in her father’s park, her chin in her hands, her elbows against the wall, listening attentively.
Sylvette. O Monsieur Percinet, how beautiful it is!
Percinet. Isn’t it? Hear Romeo’s reply! (He reads.)
“It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale; look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:
I must be gone....”
Sylvette. (Alert, with animation.) Sh!
Percinet. (Listens a moment, then) No one! So, mademoiselle, don’t have the air of an affrighted birdling on a branch, ready to spread wing at the slightest sound. Hear the immortal lovers talking:
She. “Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch bearer.”
He. “Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye;
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads;
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.”
Sylvette. Oh, no! I won’t have him talk of that; if he does, I shall cry.
Percinet. Then we’ll shut our book till tomorrow, and, since you wish it, let sweet Romeo live.
(He closes the book and looks about him.)
What an adorable spot! It seems made for lulling one’s self with the lines of the great William.12
Here is great activity, but it is mental rather than physical action. To make it rouse us to the desired emotional response, good characterization and wisely chosen words are necessary.
Examine also the opening scene of Maeterlinck’s The Blind. A group of sightless people have been deserted in a wood by their guide, and consequently are so bewildered and timorous that they hardly dare move. Yet all their trepidation, doubt, and awe are clearly conveyed to us, with a very small amount of physical action, through skilful characterization, and words specially chosen and ordered to create and intensify emotion in us.
An ancient Norland forest, with an eternal look, under a sky of deep stars.
In the centre and in the deep of the night, a very old priest is sitting, wrapped in a great black cloak. The chest and the head, gently upturned and deathly motionless, rest against the trunk of a giant hollow oak. The face is fearsome pale and of an immovable waxen lividness, in which the purple lips fall slightly apart. The dumb, fixed eyes no longer look out from the visible side of Eternity and seem to bleed with immemorial sorrows and with tears. The hair, of a solemn whiteness, falls in stringy locks, stiff and few, over a face more illuminated and more weary than all that surrounds it in the watchful stillness of that melancholy wood. The hands, pitifully thin, are clasped rigidly over the thighs.
On the right, six old men, all blind, are sitting on stones, stumps, and dead leaves.
On the left, separated from them by an uprooted tree and fragments of rock, six women, also blind, are sitting opposite the old men. Three among them pray and mourn without ceasing, in a muffled voice. Another is old in the extreme. The fifth, in an attitude of mute insanity, holds on her knees a little sleeping child. The sixth is strangely young and her whole body is drenched with her beautiful hair. They, as well as the old men, are all clad in the same ample and sombre garments. Most of them are waiting, with their elbows on their knees and their faces in their hands; and all seem to have lost the habit of ineffectual gesture and no longer turn their heads at the stifled and uneasy noises of the Island. Tall funereal trees,—yews, weeping-willows, cypresses,—cover them with their faithful shadows. A cluster of long, sickly asphodels is in bloom, not far from the priest, in the night. It is unusually oppressive, despite the moonlight that here and there struggles to pierce for an instant the glooms of the foliage.
First Blind Man. (Who was born blind.) He hasn’t come back yet?
Second Blind Man. (Who also was born blind.) You have awakened me.
First Blind Man. I was sleeping, too.
Third Blind Man. (Also born blind.) I was sleeping, too.
First Blind Man. He hasn’t come yet?
Second Blind Man. I hear something coming.
Third Blind Man. It is time to go back to the Asylum.
First Blind Man. We ought to find out where we are.
Second Blind Man. It has grown cold since he left.
First Blind Man. We ought to find out where we are!
The Very Old Blind Man. Does any one know where we are?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We were walking a very long while; we must be a long way from the Asylum.
First Blind Man. Oh! the women are opposite us?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We are sitting opposite you.
First Blind Man. Wait, I am coming over where you are. (He rises and gropes in the dark.) Where are you?—Speak! let me hear where you are!
The Very Old Blind Woman. Here; we are sitting on stones.
First Blind Man. (Advances and stumbles against the fallen tree and the rocks.) There is something between us.
Second Blind Man. We had better keep our places.
Third Blind Man. Where are you sitting?—Will you come over by us?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We dare not rise!
Third Blind Man. Why did he separate us?
First Blind Man. I hear praying on the women’s side.
Second Blind Man. Yes; the three old women are praying.
First Blind Man. This is no time for prayer!
Second Blind Man. You will pray soon enough, in the dormitory!
(The three old women continue their prayers.)
Third Blind Man. I should like to know who it is I am sitting by.
Second Blind Man. I think I am next to you.
(They feel about them.)
Third Blind Man. We can’t reach each other.
First Blind Man. Nevertheless, we are not far apart. (He feels about him and strikes with his staff the fifth blind man, who utters a muffled groan.) The one who cannot hear is beside us.
Second Blind Man. I don’t hear anybody; we were six just now.
First Blind Man. I am going to count. Let us question the women, too; we must know what to depend upon. I hear the three old women praying all the time; are they together?
The Very Old Blind Woman. They are sitting beside me, on a rock.
First Blind Man. I am sitting on dead leaves.
Third Blind Man. And the beautiful blind girl, where is she?
The Very Old Blind Woman. She is near them that pray.
Second Blind Man. Where is the mad woman, and her child?
The Young Blind Girl. He sleeps; do not awaken him!
First Blind Man. Oh! How far away you are from us! I thought you were opposite me!
Third Blind Man. We know—nearly—all we need to know. Let us chat a little, while we wait for the priest to come back.13
Many an inexperienced dramatist fails to see the force of these words of Maeterlinck: “An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently, with his lamp beside him—submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny—motionless as he is does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, and more universal life than the lover who strangles his mistress, the captain who conquers in battle, or the husband who ‘avenges his honor.’” If an audience can be made to feel and understand the strong but contained emotion of this motionless figure, he is rich dramatic material.
In the extracts from La Princesse Georges, Faustus, The Romancers, The Blind, in the soliloquy of Hamlet referred to, and the illustration quoted from Maeterlinck, it is not physical outward expression but the vivid picture we get of a state of mind which stirs us. Surely all these cases prove that we must include mental as well as physical activity in any definition of the word dramatic. Provided a writer can convey to his audience the excited mental state of one or more of his characters, then this mental activity is thoroughly dramatic. That is, neither physical nor mental activity is in itself dramatic; all depends on whether it naturally arouses, or can be made by the author to arouse, emotion in an audience. Just as we had to add to physical action which arouses emotional response of itself, physical action which is made to arouse response because it develops the story or illustrates character, we must now add action which is not physical, but mental.
There is even another chance for confusion. A figure sitting motionless not because he is thinking hard but because blank in mind may yet be dramatic. Utter inaction, both physical and mental, of a figure represented on the stage does not mean that it is necessarily undramatic. If the dramatist can make an audience feel the terrible tragedy of the contrast between what might have been and what is for this perfectly quiet unthinking figure, he rouses emotion in his hearers, and in so doing makes his material dramatic. Suppose, too, that the expressionless figure is an aged father or mother very dear to some one in the play who has strongly won the sympathy of the audience. The house takes fire. The flames draw nearer and nearer the unconscious figure. We are made to look at the situation through the eyes of the character—some child or relative—to whom the scene, were he present, would mean torture. Instantly the figure, because of the way in which it is represented, becomes dramatic. Here again, however, the emotion of the audience could hardly be aroused except through characterization of the figure as it was or might have been, or of the child or relative who has won our sympathy. Again, too, characterization so successful must depend a good deal on well-chosen words.
This somewhat elaborate analysis should have made three points clear. First, we may arouse emotion in an audience by mere physical action; by physical action which also develops the story, or illustrates character, or does both; by mental rather than physical action, if clearly and accurately conveyed to the audience; and even by inaction, if characterization and dialogue by means of other figures are of high order. Secondly, as the various illustrations have been examined, it must have become steadily more clear that while action is popularly held to be central in drama, emotion is really the essential. Because it is the easiest expression of emotion to understand, physical action, which without illuminating characterization and dialogue can express only a part of the world of emotion, has been too often accepted as expressing all the emotion the stage can present. Thirdly, it should be clear that a statement one meets too frequently in books on the drama, that certain stories or characters, above all certain well-known books, are essentially undramatic material is at least dubious. The belief arises from the fact that the story, character, or idea, as usually presented, seems to demand much analysis and description, and almost to preclude illustrative action. In the past few years, however, the drama of mental states and the drama which has revealed emotional significance in seeming or real inaction, has been proving that “nothing human is foreign” to the drama. A dramatist may see in the so-called undramatic material emotional values. If so, he will develop a technique which will create in his public a satisfaction equal to that which the so-called undramatic story, character, or idea could give in story form. Of course he will treat it differently in many respects because he is writing not to be read but to be heard, and to affect the emotions, not of the individual, but of a large group taken as a group. He will prove that till careful analysis has shown in a given story, character, or idea, no possibility of arousing the same or dissimilar emotions in an audience, we cannot say that this or that is dramatic or undramatic, but only: “This material will require totally different presentation if it is to be dramatic on the stage, and only a person of acumen, experience with audiences, and inventive technique can present it effectively.”
The misapprehension just analyzed rests not only on the misconception that action rather than emotion is the essential in drama, but also largely on a careless use of the word dramatic. In popular use this word means material for drama, or creative of emotional response, or perfectly fitted for production under the conditions of the theatre. If we examine a little, in the light of this chapter, the nature and purpose of a play, we shall see that dramatic should stand only for the first two definitions, and that theatric must be used for the third. Avoiding the vague definition material for drama, use dramatic only as creative of emotional response and the confusion will disappear.
A play exists to create emotional response in an audience. The response may be to the emotions of the people in the play or the emotions of the author as he watches these people. Where would satirical comedy be if, instead of sharing the amusement, disdain, contempt or moral anger of the dramatist caused by his figures, we responded exactly to their follies or evil moods? All ethical drama gets its force by creating in an audience the feelings toward the people in the play held by the author. Dumas fils, Ibsen, Brieux prove the truth of this statement. The writer of the satirical or the ethical play, obtruding his own personality as in the case of Ben Jonson, or with fine impersonality as in the case of Congreve or Molière, makes his feelings ours. It is an obvious corollary of this statement that the emotions aroused in an audience need not be the same as those felt by the people on the stage. They may be in the sharpest contrast. Any one experienced in drama knows that the most intensely comic effects often come from people acting very seriously. In Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (Act I, Scene 2), the morning reception of M. Jourdain affords an instance of this in his trying on of costumes, fencing, and lessons in dancing and language. Serious entirely for M. Jourdain they are as presented by Molière, exquisitely comic for us. In brief, the dramatic may rouse the same, allied, or even contrasting emotions in an onlooker.
Nor need the emotion roused in an audience by actor or author be exactly the same in amount. The actress who abandons herself to the emotions of the part she is playing soon exhausts her nervous vitality. It would be the same if audiences listening to the tragic were permitted to feel the scenes as keenly as the figures of the story. On the other hand, in some cases, if the comic figure on the stage felt his comicality as strongly as the audience which is speechless with laughter, he could not go on, and the scene would fail. Evidently, an audience may be made, as the dramatist wills, to feel more or less emotion than the characters of the play.
That it is duplication of emotion to the same, a less, or a greater extent or the creation of contrasting emotion which underlies all drama, from melodrama, riotous farce and even burlesque to high-comedy and tragedy, must be firmly grasped if a would-be dramatist is to steer his way clearly through the many existing and confusing definitions of dramatic. For instance, Brunetière said, “Drama is the representation of the will of man in contrast to the mysterious powers of natural forces which limit and belittle us; it is one of us thrown living upon the stage, there to struggle against fatality, against social law, against one of his fellow mortals, against himself, if need be, against the emotions, the interests, the prejudices, the folly, the malevolence of those around him.”14 That is, by this definition, conflict is central in drama. But we know that in recent drama particularly, the moral drifter has many a time aroused our sympathy. Surely inertness, supineness, stupidity, and even torpor may be made to excite emotion in an audience. Conflict covers a large part of drama but not all of it.
Mr. William Archer, in his Play-Making, declares that “a crisis” is the central matter in drama, but one immediately wishes to know what constitutes a crisis, and we have defined without defining. When he says elsewhere that that is dramatic which “by representation of imaginary personages is capable of interesting an average audience assembled in a theatre,”15 he almost hits the truth. If we rephrase this definition: “That is dramatic which by representation of imaginary personages interests, through its emotions, an average audience assembled in a theatre,” we have a definition which will better stand testing.
Is all dramatic material, theatric? No, for theatric does not necessarily mean sensational, melodramatic, artificial. It should mean, and it will be so used in this book, adapted for the purpose of the theatre. Certainly all dramatic material, that is, material which arouses or may be made to arouse emotion, is not fitted for use in the theatre when first it comes to the hand of the dramatist. Undeniably, the famous revivalists, Moody, J.B. Gough, Billy Sunday, have worked from emotions to emotions; that is, they have been dramatic. Intentionally, feeling themselves justified by the ends obtained, they have, too, been theatric in the poor and popular sense of the word, namely, exaggerated, melodramatic, sensational. Yet theatric in the best sense of the word these highly emotional speakers, who have swept audiences out of all self-control, have not been. They worked as speakers, not as playwrights. Though they sometimes acted admirably, what they presented was in no sense a play. To accomplish in play form what they accomplished as speakers, that is, to make the material properly theatric, would have required an entire reworking. From all this it follows that even material so emotional in its nature as to be genuinely dramatic may need careful reworking if it is to succeed as a play, that is, if it is to become properly theatric. Drama, then, is presentation of an individual or group of individuals so as to move an audience to responsive emotion of the kind desired by the dramatist and to the amount required. This response must be gained under the conditions which a dramatist finds or develops in a theatre; that is, dramatic material must be made theatric in the right sense of the word before it can become drama.
To summarize: accurately conveyed emotion is the great fundamental in all good drama. It is conveyed by action, characterization, and dialogue. It must be conveyed in a space of time, usually not exceeding two hours and a half, and under the existing physical conditions of the stage, or with such changes as the dramatist may bring about in them. It must be conveyed, not directly through the author, but indirectly through the actors. In order that the dramatic may become theatric in the right sense of the word, the dramatic must be made to meet all these conditions successfully. These conditions affect action, characterization, and dialogue. A dramatist must study the ways in which the dramatic has been and may be made theatric: that is what technique means.
1 Early Plays, pp. 5-6. Riverside Literature Series. C. G. Child. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
2 The Ancient Classical Drama, pp. 3-4. R. G. Moulton. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
3 Quoted in The Development of the Drama, pp. 10-11. Copyright, 1903, by Brander Matthews. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
4 For these two plays see Early Plays. Riverside Literature Series. C. G. Child. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
5 Works. 6 vols. Pearson, London.
6 Cymbeline, Act I, Scene 1.
7 Becket: A Tragedy. Lord Tennyson. Arranged for the stage by Henry Irving. Macmillan & Co., London and New York.
8 Macaire. By R. L. Stevenson and W. E. Henley. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York. Copyright, 1895, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.
9 R. M. DeWitt, New York City.
10 Théâtre Complet, vol. v. Dumas fils. Calmann Lévy, Paris.
11 Marlowe’s Faustus, Act v. Mermaid Series or Everyman’s Library.
12 The Romancers. Translated by Mary Hendee. Doubleday & McClure Co., New York.
13 The Blind. Translated by Richard Hovey. Copyright, 1894 and 1896, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.
14 Études Critiques vol. VII, p. 207.
15 Play-Making, p. 48. William Archer. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.