Isabella.But here’s a claim more tender yet—your Indiana, sir, your long lost daughter.Mr. Sealand.O my child! my child!Indiana.All-gracious Heaven! Is it possible? Do I embrace my father?Mr. Sealand.And I do hold thee—These passions are too strong for utterance—Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears their way—O my sister! (Embracing her)Isabella.Now, dearest niece, my groundless fears, my painful cares no more shall vex thee. If I have wronged thy noble lover with too hard suspicions, my just concern for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon.Mr. Sealand.O! make him then the full amends, and be yourself the messenger of joy: Fly this instant!—Tell him all thesewondrous turns of Providence in his favour! Tell him I have now a daughter to bestow, which he no longer will decline: that this day he still shall be a bridegroom: nor shall a fortune, the merit which his father seeks, be wanting: tell him the reward of all his virtues waits on his acceptance. (Exit Isabella.) My dearest Indiana!(Turns and embraces her.)Indiana.Have I then at last a father’s sanction on my love? His bounteous hand to give, and make my heart a present worthy of Bevil’s generosity?Mr. Sealand.O my child, how are our sorrows past o’erpaid by such a meeting! Though I have lost so many years of soft paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one day, to find thee thus, and thus bestow thee, in such perfect happiness! is ample! ample reparation! And yet again the merit of thy lover—Indiana.O! had I spirits left to tell you of his actions! how strongly filial duty has suppressed his love; and how concealment still has doubled all his obligations; the pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would warm your heart, as he has conquered mine.Mr. Sealand.How laudable is love, when born of virtue! I burn to embrace him—Indiana.See, sir, my aunt already has succeeded, and brought him to your wishes.(Enter Isabella, with Sir John Bevil, Bevil Junior, Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, Myrtle, and Lucinda.)Sir John Bevil.(Entering.) Where! where’s this scene of wonder! Mr. Sealand, I congratulate, on this occasion, our mutual happiness.24
Isabella.But here’s a claim more tender yet—your Indiana, sir, your long lost daughter.
Mr. Sealand.O my child! my child!
Indiana.All-gracious Heaven! Is it possible? Do I embrace my father?
Mr. Sealand.And I do hold thee—These passions are too strong for utterance—Rise, rise, my child, and give my tears their way—O my sister! (Embracing her)
Isabella.Now, dearest niece, my groundless fears, my painful cares no more shall vex thee. If I have wronged thy noble lover with too hard suspicions, my just concern for thee, I hope, will plead my pardon.
Mr. Sealand.O! make him then the full amends, and be yourself the messenger of joy: Fly this instant!—Tell him all thesewondrous turns of Providence in his favour! Tell him I have now a daughter to bestow, which he no longer will decline: that this day he still shall be a bridegroom: nor shall a fortune, the merit which his father seeks, be wanting: tell him the reward of all his virtues waits on his acceptance. (Exit Isabella.) My dearest Indiana!
(Turns and embraces her.)
Indiana.Have I then at last a father’s sanction on my love? His bounteous hand to give, and make my heart a present worthy of Bevil’s generosity?
Mr. Sealand.O my child, how are our sorrows past o’erpaid by such a meeting! Though I have lost so many years of soft paternal dalliance with thee, yet, in one day, to find thee thus, and thus bestow thee, in such perfect happiness! is ample! ample reparation! And yet again the merit of thy lover—
Indiana.O! had I spirits left to tell you of his actions! how strongly filial duty has suppressed his love; and how concealment still has doubled all his obligations; the pride, the joy of his alliance, sir, would warm your heart, as he has conquered mine.
Mr. Sealand.How laudable is love, when born of virtue! I burn to embrace him—
Indiana.See, sir, my aunt already has succeeded, and brought him to your wishes.
(Enter Isabella, with Sir John Bevil, Bevil Junior, Mrs. Sealand, Cimberton, Myrtle, and Lucinda.)
Sir John Bevil.(Entering.) Where! where’s this scene of wonder! Mr. Sealand, I congratulate, on this occasion, our mutual happiness.24
The inexperienced dramatist sending a servant out for wraps, brings him back so speedily that, apparently, in a well-ordered Fifth Avenue or Newport residence, garments lie all about the house or replace tapestries upon the walls. The speed with which servants upon the stage do errands shows that they have been trained in a basic principle of drama: “Waste no time.” A more experienced dramatist, realizing that such speed destroys illusion, writes a brief scene which seems to allow time for the errand.
The telephone and the automobile have been godsends to the young dramatist. By use of the first, a lover can telephone from the drug-store just around the corner, run all the way in his eagerness, take an elevator, and be on the scene with a speed that saves the young dramatist any long Cover Scene. Of course, if said lover be rich or extravagant enough to own an automobile, the distance from which he may telephone increases as the square of the horse-power of his machine. In the old days, and even today, if the truth be regarded, something must be taking place on the stage sufficient to allow time for a lover, however ardent, to cover the distance between the telephone booth and the house.
Here, however, a dramatist meets his Scylla and Charybdis. He yields to Scylla, if he does not write any such scene; to Charybdis, if he writes such a scene but does not advance his play by it—that is, if he merely marks time. In a recent play, whenever a time space was to be covered, a group of citizens talked. What they said was not uninteresting. The characters were well sketched in. But the scene did not advance the story at all. Bulwer-Lytton faced this difficulty in writingMoney:
I think in the first 3 acts you will find little to alter. But in Act 4—the 2 scenes with Lady B. & Clara—and Joke & the Tradesman don’t help on the Plot much—they were wanted, however, especially the last to give time for change of dress & smooth the lapse of the theme from money to dinner; you will see if this part requires any amendment.25
I think in the first 3 acts you will find little to alter. But in Act 4—the 2 scenes with Lady B. & Clara—and Joke & the Tradesman don’t help on the Plot much—they were wanted, however, especially the last to give time for change of dress & smooth the lapse of the theme from money to dinner; you will see if this part requires any amendment.25
The principle here is this: Whatever is written to cover a time space, long or short, must help the movement of the play to its climax. It may be said that the fourth act of neitherMacbethnorHamletcomplies with this statement; but more careful thought will show that in each case the act is very important to the whole story. The title of each play,and present-day interest in its characterization rather than its story, make us miss greatly the leading figure, wholly absent in the act. Therefore we hasten to declare, not recognizing that story was of first importance in Shakespeare’s day, that because this act is not focused on Macbeth or Hamlet the act in question clogs the general movement.
Otway, inVenice Preserved, handles passage of time admirably. Toward the end of the first act, Pierre makes an appointment with Jaffier to meet him that night on the Rialto at twelve. Exit Pierre. Immediately Belvidera enters to Jaffier. Their talk, only about four pages in length, is so passionately pathetic that a hearer loses all accurate sense of time. There is anentr’acte, and then a scene between Pierre and Aquilina. Again it is brief, only three and a half pages, but it is dramatic, and complicates the story. Consequently, when Jaffier does meet Pierre on the Rialto, we are quite ready to believe that considerable time has passed and it is now twelve o’clock. Otway has used three devices to cover a time space: an absorbing emotional scene, anentr’acte, and a Cover Scene.26
All the methods just described have had to do with representing time on stage. When time necessary for the telling of a story may be treated as passing off stage, other devices may be used. Most of them gather about a dropping of the curtain. Recently there has been much use of the curtain to denote, without change of set, the passing of some relatively brief time. When a group of people leave the stage for dinner, the curtain is dropped, to rise again as the group, returning from dinner, take up the action of the play. Just this occurs in Act I of Pinero’sIris.27Mr. Belasco, inThe Woman, dropped the curtain at the beginning of a cross examination, to raise it for the next act as the examinationnears its climax. InThe Silver Box,28dropping the curtain twice in Act I makes it possible to see the Barthwicks’ dining-room “just after midnight,” “at eight-thirtyA.M.,” and at “the breakfast hour of Mr. and Mrs. Barthwick.” Such curtains, though justifiable, have one serious objection. They bring us back with a jolt from absorbed following of the play to the disturbing truth that we are not looking at life, but at life selectively presented under obvious limitations of the stage. Scene 1 ofThe Silver Box, which began “just after midnight,” lasts only a few minutes; yet when the curtain “rises again at once,” we are to understand that eight hours have elapsed.
The simplest method of handling time off stage is to treat it as having elapsed between acts or on the dropping of a curtain within an act.29In how many, many plays—for instance, Sir Arthur Pinero’s earlyLady Bountiful—has the hero, in whatever length of time between the fourth and fifth acts the dramatist has preferred, become the regenerated figure of the last act! All that is needed inThe Man Who Came Back, as produced, to change the dope-ridden, degenerating youth into a firm character, even into a landed proprietor, is a sea voyage from San Francisco to Honolulu—and anentr’acte! What takes place between acts is far too often—medicinally, morally, dare we say dramatically?—more significant than what we see. Yet why deride this refuge of the dramatist? Such use is merely an extension of what we permit any dramatist who, writing two plays on the same subject or person, implies or states that very many years have elapsed between the two parts. No one seriously objects when thousands of years are supposed to elapse between thePrometheus Boundand thePrometheus Unboundof Æschylus.30Surely, it is logical to treat spaces betweenacts like spaces between plays on related subjects. The trouble lies, not in the time supposed to have elapsed, but in the changes of character said to have taken place. As long as our drama was primarily story, and not, as it has come to be increasingly, a revealer of character, we were content, if each act contained a thrilling dramatic incident, to be told that this or that had happened between the acts. The early drama did this by the Dumb Show and the Chorus.
ACT IIPROLOGUEFlourish. Enter ChorusChorus.Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man.They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With winged heels, as English Mercuries.For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets,Promis’d to Harry and his followers.The French, advis’d by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear, and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart,What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!But see thy fault! France hath in thee found outA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fillsWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!—Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France;And by their hands this grace of kings must die,If hell and treason hold their promises,Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.Linger your patience on, and we’ll digestThe abuse of distance, force a play.The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;The King is set from London; and the sceneIs now transported, gentles, to Southampton.There is the playhouse now, there must you sit;And thence to France shall we convey you safe,And bring you back, charming the narrow seasTo give you gentle pass; for, if we may,We’ll not offend one stomach with our play.But, till the King come forth, and not till then,Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. (Exit.)Henry V.
ACT II
PROLOGUE
Flourish. Enter Chorus
Chorus.Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man.They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With winged heels, as English Mercuries.For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets,Promis’d to Harry and his followers.The French, advis’d by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear, and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart,What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!But see thy fault! France hath in thee found outA nest of hollow bosoms, which he fillsWith treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!—Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France;And by their hands this grace of kings must die,If hell and treason hold their promises,Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.Linger your patience on, and we’ll digestThe abuse of distance, force a play.The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;The King is set from London; and the sceneIs now transported, gentles, to Southampton.There is the playhouse now, there must you sit;And thence to France shall we convey you safe,And bring you back, charming the narrow seasTo give you gentle pass; for, if we may,We’ll not offend one stomach with our play.But, till the King come forth, and not till then,Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. (Exit.)Henry V.
Chorus.Now all the youth of England are on fire,
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought
Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,
Following the mirror of all Christian kings,
With winged heels, as English Mercuries.
For now sits Expectation in the air,
And hides a sword from hilts unto the point
With crowns imperial, crowns, and coronets,
Promis’d to Harry and his followers.
The French, advis’d by good intelligence
Of this most dreadful preparation,
Shake in their fear, and with pale policy
Seek to divert the English purposes.
O England! model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart,
What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural!
But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out
A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills
With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,
One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,
Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,
Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,
Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed!—
Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France;
And by their hands this grace of kings must die,
If hell and treason hold their promises,
Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.
Linger your patience on, and we’ll digest
The abuse of distance, force a play.
The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;
The King is set from London; and the scene
Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton.
There is the playhouse now, there must you sit;
And thence to France shall we convey you safe,
And bring you back, charming the narrow seas
To give you gentle pass; for, if we may,
We’ll not offend one stomach with our play.
But, till the King come forth, and not till then,
Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. (Exit.)Henry V.
As audiences, becoming more interested in characterization and less in mere story, grew to expect that each act would show the central figure growing out of the preceding act and into the next, they balked more and more at hearing of changes instead of seeing them. They insisted that the effective forces must work before their eyes. Hence the disappearance of Dumb Show and Chorus. WithLady Bountiful31the public did not object strongly to what was supposed to happen between the fourth and fifth acts, because it took the whole play as a mere story. But inIris, when the author asked it to accept all the important stages in the moral breakdown of Iris as taking place between the fourth and fifth acts, there was considerable dissent. Contrast the greater satisfactoriness when an auditor can watch important changes, as he may with Sophy Fullgarney in the third act of theGay Lord Quex,32or with Mrs. Dane in the fourth act ofMrs. Dane’s Defence. To assume that a lapse of time stated to have passed in a just precedingentr’acte, and achange of environment there, have produced marked difference in character is not today enough. A dramatist may assume that only as much time has passed between acts as he makes entirely plausible by the happenings and characterization of the next act. For any needed statement of what has happened since the close of a preceding act he must depend only on deft exposition within the act in question.
Recent usage no longer insists that acts may not somewhat overlap. “Toward the end of Act II of Eugene Walter’sPaid in Full, Emma Brooks is disclosed making an appointment with Captain Williams over a telephone. In the next act we are transferred to Captain Williams’s quarters, and the dramatic clock has, in the meanwhile, been turned back some fifteen minutes, for presently the telephone bell rings, and the same appointment is made over again. In other words, Act II partly overlaps Act I in time, but the scene is different.”33There is a similar use inUnder Cover. At the beginning of the last act, a group, sleepily at cards, is startled by the burglar alarm. The climax of the preceding act was that same alarm.
The most difficult kind of off-stage time to treat comes not within or between the acts. It is the time before the play begins in which events took place which must be known as soon as the play opens, if auditors are to follow the play understandingly. Every dramatist, as he turns from his story to his plot, faces the problem: How plant in the mind of the audience past events and facts concerning the characters which are fundamental in understanding the play. The Chorus and the Dumb Show again were, among early dramatists, the clumsy solution of this problem.
THE PROLOGUE
In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of GreeceThe princes orgillous, their high blood chaf’d,Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,Fraught with the ministers and instrumentsOf cruel war. Sixty and nine, that woreTheir crownets regal, from the Athenian bayPut forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is madeTo ransack Troy, within whose strong immuresThe ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen,With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the quarrel.To Tenedos they come,And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorgeTheir warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan plainsThe fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitchTheir brave pavilions. Priam’s six-gated city,Dardan, and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,And Antenorides, with massy staplesAnd corresponsive and fulfilling boltsSpar up the sons of Troy.Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits,On one and other side, Troyan and Greek,Sets all on hazard; and hither am I comeA prologue arm’d, but not in confidenceOf author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suitedIn like conditions as our argument,To tell you, fair beholders, that our playLeaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,Beginning in the middle, starting thence awayTo what may be digested in a play.Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are.Now good or bad; ’tis but the chance of war.34
In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece
The princes orgillous, their high blood chaf’d,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,
Fraught with the ministers and instruments
Of cruel war. Sixty and nine, that wore
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay
Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made
To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures
The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen,
With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the quarrel.
To Tenedos they come,
And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge
Their warlike fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch
Their brave pavilions. Priam’s six-gated city,
Dardan, and Timbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,
And Antenorides, with massy staples
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts
Spar up the sons of Troy.
Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits,
On one and other side, Troyan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard; and hither am I come
A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence
Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited
In like conditions as our argument,
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play
Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,
Beginning in the middle, starting thence away
To what may be digested in a play.
Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are.
Now good or bad; ’tis but the chance of war.34
A growing technique led the dramatists from Dumb Show and Chorus to soliloquy, in order to provide this necessary preliminary exposition. Is Richard, Duke of Gloucester, at the opening ofRichard III, much more than a re-christened Chorus?
ACT I. SCENE I. (London. A street.)
Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus
Gloucester.Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York;And all the clouds that lour’d upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.Grim-visag’d War hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;And now, instead of mounting barbed steedsTo fright the souls of fearful adversaries,He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamberTo the lascivious pleasing of a lute.But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majestyTo strut before a wanton ambling nymph;I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my timeInto this breathing world, scarce half made up,And that so lamely and unfashionableThat dogs bark at me as I halt by them;Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,Have no delight to pass away the time,Unless to see my shadow in the sunAnd descant on mine own deformity.And therefore, since I cannot prove a loverTo entertain these fair well-spoken days,I am determined to prove a villainAnd hate the idle pleasures of these days.Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,To set my brother Clarence and the KingIn deadly hate the one against the other;And if King Edward be as true and justAs I am subtle, false, and treacherous,This day should Clarence closely be mew’d upAbout a prophecy, which says that GOf Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.Dive, thoughts, down to my soul; here Clarence comes.
Gloucester.Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag’d War hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate the one against the other;
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up
About a prophecy, which says that G
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul; here Clarence comes.
Led by Shakespeare, dramatists have come to understand that such information should, if in any way possible, be conveyed not by soliloquy but within the play itself. It should, too, be so incorporated with the text that it is acquired almost unconsciously by an auditor held absorbed by the immediate dramatic action.
Sometimes, however, it is well-nigh impossible thus to incorporate needed exposition with the dramatic action. For instance, a play depicted the fortunes of a Jacobite’s daughter. All that is dramatic in her story as a young woman is predetermined by terrible scenes attending the death of her father, when she was a child of six. Somehow the audience must be made to understand very early in the play what these scenes were which made a lasting, intense impression on the child. That the young woman, when twenty, should recall the scenes with such minuteness as to make the audience perfectly understand their dramatic values is hardly plausible. To have some one come out of the past to reawaken the old memories is commonplace, and likely, by long descriptions to clog the movement of the act. Facing this problem, present-day dramatists, avoiding chorus, soliloquy, and lengthy description, have chosen to put such needed material into a division which, because it is preliminary, they have at will distinguished from the other acts as the Induction or more frequently the Prologue. The latter term is a confusing use. Historically, it signifies the single figure or group of figures who, before the curtain, bespeak the favor of the audience for the play to follow. Very rarely, the Prologue partook a little of the nature of Chorus, stating details that must be understood, were the play to have its full effect. Dramatists,feeling that the relation of this introductory division to the other divisions is not so close as are the inter-relations of the other divisions, have called this preliminary action, notAct I, butPrologue. A similar situation exists for what has been dubbed Epilogue. Historically, a figure from the play just ended, or an entirely new figure, strove, often in lines not written by the dramatist, to point the story or, at least, to win for it the final approval of the audience. Today, when a dramatist wishes to point the meaning of a play which he seems to have brought to a close, or to include it in some larger scheme, he writes what he prefers to call, not an additional act, but an Epilogue.
A dramatist should be very careful that what he calls Prologue or Epilogue is not merely an additional act. An act does not cease to be an act, and become a prologue or an epilogue, because its length is shorter than that usual for an act. True it is that most prologues and epilogues are short, but that is not their distinguishing characteristic. If they are brief, it is because the dramatist wants to move as quickly as possible from his induction or prologue to his main story, or knows that when the play proper is ended, he cannot with his epilogue hold his audience long. Not always, however, are prologues, or epilogues short. That ofMadame Sans Gêne35has the same number of pages as Act II, seventeen. The Prologue ofThe Passing of the Third Floor Back36fills some sixty-two pages. The Epilogue of the same play covers fifty-six pages. An act in this play makes seventy-eight pages. InA Celebrated Case37the Prologue covers twenty-one pages; the subsequent acts run from eight to twelve pages each.
Nor is an act changed into a prologue or epilogue because the space of time between it and the other divisions islonger than between any two of them. Does an act cease to be an act and become a prologue or epilogue, when the space of time between it and the other acts is twenty-five years, or should it be thirty? The absurdity of making the use of the words Prologue or Epilogue depend upon the space of time between one division and another is evident. It is true that the Prologue ofMadame Sans Gênetakes place nineteen years before the three acts which follow, but it concerns the same people. It might equally well be called Act I.The Passing of the Third Floor Backmight just as correctly be announced as a play in three acts instead of “An idle fancy in a Prologue, a Play, and an Epilogue.” RecentlyA Successful Calamitywas stated to be in two acts, each preceded by a Prologue. Except for the novel appearance of the statement in the program, it might more correctly have been called a play in four acts. Little except the will of the dramatist settled that the last division of Pinero’sLettyshould be called an Epilogue. It occurs only two years and a half after the preceding act. It presents the same people. Similarly the Prologue to Tennyson’sBecketmight just as well be called Act I, except that this nomenclature would give the play six acts. In the stage version by Henry Irving, the four acts and a Prologue might correctly be called five acts.
The anonymous play,The Taming of a Shrew,38on which Shakespeare founded his farce-comedy of similar title, shows a good use of Prologue and Epilogue. By a practical joke,Christopher Slythe beggar is made to believe he is a Lord. As a part of the joke, the play is acted before him. Now and again, in the course of it, he comments on it. He and his group finish the performance in a sort of Epilogue. When Shakespeare uses Sly, only to let him shortly withdraw for good, the arrangement seems curiously incomplete and unsatisfactory.Romance, by Edward Sheldon, shows right useof so-called epilogue and prologue. As the curtain falls on the brief prologue, the aged Bishop is telling his grandson the story of his love for the Cavallini. Then the play, which is the Bishop’s story, unrolls itself for three acts. In turn they fade into the epilogue, in which the grandson, as the Bishop finishes his story, goes off in spite of it to marry the girl he loves. By means of the epilogue and prologue Mr. Sheldon gains irony and contrast, relates the main play to larger values, and answers the inevitable question of his audience at the end of his third act: What happened to them afterward? Not to have used the so-called epilogue and prologue here would have forced total reconstruction of the material and probably a clumsier result. Such setting of a long play within a very brief play is one of the conditions for the legitimate use of the so-called prologue and epilogue.
Another legitimate use, though perhaps not so clear-cut, is illustrated by the Prologue toA Celebrated Case.39The play might, perhaps, be written without it, but, if it were, the scene of Act I in which Adrienne recognizes the convict as her father, would be filled with much more exposition, and the present emphasis on the powerful emotions of the moment would be somewhat blurred by the emotions called up by exposition of the past. Clearly, the play gains rather than loses by the presence of the prologue. Obviously the latter stands somewhat apart from the three acts which follow, less definitely related to them than they are to one another. So it may, perhaps, better be called a prologue than an act.
Of course, the distinction between prologue and act is a matter of nomenclature, not of effectiveness in acting. Look atMy Lady’s Dress, by Edward Knobloch. Scene 1, Act I, and Scene 3, Act III, have the same setting, a boudoir, and are more closely related to each other than to the rest of theplay.40Indeed, what stands between are one-act plays making the dream of Anne. According to present usage, Mr. Knobloch could have called these scenes Prologue and Epilogue, and treated all that stands between as the play proper. That he did or didn’t makes no difference in the acting. The growing use of the two words, Prologue and Epilogue, merely marks an increasing sense of dramatic technique which tries by nomenclature to emphasize for a reader nice differences which the dramatist discerns in the inter-relations of his material.
To sum up, there is real significance, though present confusion, in recent use of the words, Prologue and Epilogue. The use rests on a fact: that sometimes a play is best proportioned, when it has at the beginning or end, or both, a brief division related to the story and essential to it, but not so closely related to any act as are the acts to one another. The names Prologue and Epilogue should not, however, be used interchangeably for acts. They should be kept for their historical use—verse or prose spoken in front of the curtain before or at an end of the play, in order to win or intensify sympathy for it. We should find different names for these divisions,—perhaps, Induction and Finale?
What should be the length of an act? There can be no rule as to this. Naturally, the work of the first and last acts differs somewhat from the intervening acts, whether one or three in number. While it is the chief business of the intervening acts to maintain and increase interest already created, the first act must obviously create that interest as swiftly as possible, and the last act bring that interest to a climactic close. The first act, because in it the characters must be introduced, necessary past history stated, and the story well started, is likely to be longer than the other acts. The last act, inasmuch as even at its beginning we are usuallynot distant from the climax of the play, is most often the shortest division, for as soon as the climax is reached, we should drop the curtain as quickly as possible. A glance at certain notable plays of different periods will show, however, that the length of an act most depends, not on any given rule, but on the skill of the dramatist in accomplishing what he has decided the particular act must do. In the Cambridge edition of Shakespeare’sLear(printed in two columns of fine type) the acts run as follows:
Kismet, a play modeled on the Elizabethan, shows this division:
For three plays of Richard Steele it is possible to give the exact playing-time:41
Two recent plays divide thus:
The plays just cited are of very different lengths:Kismet42took nearly three hours in performance;Candida43andThe Silver Box44are so short that they force a manager, if he is to provide an entertainment of the usual length, to a choice: he must begin his performance late, or allow long waits between the acts, or give a one-act piece with the longer play. Yet it is noteworthy that in all these plays except Steele’s, the first is as long as any other act, or longer, and the last act is the shortest. However, the only safe principle is that of Dumaspèrealready quoted: “First act clear, last act short, and everywhere interest.”
In proportioning the whole material into acts, it should be remembered, of course, that the time allowed for a theatrical performance ranges from two hours to two hours and three quarters. Five to fifteen minutes should be allowed for eachentr’acteunless the usual waits are to be avoided by some mechanical device. Figure that a double-spaced type-written page takes in acting something more than a minute, though necessary dramatic pauses and “business” make it difficult to estimate exactly the playing time of any page. Speaking approximately, it may be said that a three-act play of one hundred and twenty typewritten pages will fill, with theentr’actes, at least two hours and a half. In apportioning the story into acts the first requisite is, then, that the total, even with the necessary waits between acts, shall not exceed the length of time during which the public will be attentive.
The length of each act must in every case be determined by the work in the total which it has to do. Since pre-Shakespearean days, the artistry of the act has been steadily developing. Untilcirca, 1595, what dramatists “strove to do was, not so to arrange their material that its inner relations should be perfectly clear, but to narrate a series ofevents that did not, of necessity, possess such inner relations. It is much to be doubted whether any thought of such relations ever entered their heads.”45Influenced particularly by Shakespeare, the drama from that time has steadily improved in knowledge of what each act should do in the sum total, and how it should be done. The act is “more than a convenience in time. It is imposed by the limited power of attention of the human mind, or by the need of the human body for occasional refreshment. A play with a well-marked, well-balanced act-structure is a higher artistic organism than a play with no act-structure, just as a vertebrate animal is higher than a mollusc. In every crisis of real life (unless it be so short as to be a mere incident) there is a rhythm of rise, progress, culmination, and solution. Each act ought to stimulate and temporarily satisfy an interest of its own, while definitely advancing the main action.”46Each act, then, should be a unit of the whole, which accomplishes its own definite work.
Here is Ibsen’s rough apportioning of the work for each act in a play of which he was thinking.
Do you not think of dramatising the story of Faste? It seems to me that there is the making of a very good popular play in it. Just listen!Act 1.—Faste as the half-grown boy, eating the bread of charity and dreaming of greatness.Act 2.—Faste’s struggle in the town.Act 3.—Faste’s victory in the town.Act 4.—Faste’s defeat and flight from the country.Act 5.—Faste’s return as a victorious poet. He has found himself.It is a fine adventurous career to depict dramatically. But of course you would have to get farther away from your story first.You perhaps think this a barbarous and inhuman suggestion. But all your stories have the making of a drama in them.47
Do you not think of dramatising the story of Faste? It seems to me that there is the making of a very good popular play in it. Just listen!
Act 1.—Faste as the half-grown boy, eating the bread of charity and dreaming of greatness.
Act 2.—Faste’s struggle in the town.
Act 3.—Faste’s victory in the town.
Act 4.—Faste’s defeat and flight from the country.
Act 5.—Faste’s return as a victorious poet. He has found himself.
It is a fine adventurous career to depict dramatically. But of course you would have to get farther away from your story first.You perhaps think this a barbarous and inhuman suggestion. But all your stories have the making of a drama in them.47
InThe Princess and the Butterfly,48Act I not only disposes of preliminary necessary exposition, but depicts different kinds of restlessness in a group of women at or nearing middle age. Act II does the same for a group of men, and in the proposed duel provides what later may be made to reveal to Sir George how much Fay Zuliani cares for him. Act III complicates the story by showing that Fay is not the niece of Sir George, and illustrates the growing affection between the Princess and Edward Oriel. Act IV reveals to Sir George and Fay how much each cares for the other. The fifth act shows how Sir George and the Princess, who have tried to be wise and restrained, impulsively and instinctively choose the path of seeming unwisdom but immediate happiness.
InThe Trail of the Torch,49Act I states the thesis of the play and offers the first great sacrifice by Sabine for her daughter, Marie-Jeanne. Sabine gives up Stangy in order to be with Marie-Jeanne, only to find that her daughter is in love with Didier. Act II illustrates that a mother will make every sacrifice for her children: Madame Fontenais, the grandmother, when her daughter Sabine begs her to sacrifice her fortune in order that Marie-Jeanne’s anxiety as to the finances of Didier may be set at rest, refuses, thinking to protect Sabine’s future. In turn, Sabine, putting aside all pride, calls Stangy back to her, believing that he will give her the aid she desires for Marie-Jeanne. Act III shows the extremes of sacrifice to which a mother may go,—here the forgery, and the sacrifice by Sabine of her mother to her daughter. Act IV illustrates the retribution for Sabine: the revelation by Stangy that, after Sabine sent him away, he married; Marie-Jeanne’s announcement to her mother thatshe is to go to America with her father and that Sabine cannot go; and the death of Madame Fontenais caused, at least indirectly, by Sabine.
In all three cases we have only the baldest outline of what the act must do. The illustrative dramatic action by which each act is to accomplish its task is either in hand as part of a clearly defined story in the mind of the dramatist, or must be found immediately. Granted that it has been discovered (see chap. III, pp. 47-72), then as each act is shaped up from this material it should have certain qualities. It should be clear. It should lead the hearer on to the acts which follow: in other words, it should at least maintain an interest already established, and in most cases should increase that interest. To put these requisites more briefly, each act should have clearness and movement. Movement in an act means that, while thoroughly interesting itself, the act leads a hearer on to its immediate successor and, above all, the finale. Good movement depends on clearness and right emphasis. The emphasis in each act and in the whole play should be such that ultimately it accomplishes the purpose of the dramatist. How may these qualities, clearness, right emphasis, and consequent movement be gained?
1Essay on Comedy, p. 8. George Meredith. Copyright, 1897, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.2The Trojan Women.Translated by Gilbert Murray. G. Allen & Sons, London.3Electra. Von Hofmannsthal. Translated by A. Symons. Brentano, New York.4Introduction toMiss Julia. Translated by E. Björkman. Copyright, 1912, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.5Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 370. Lessing. Bohn ed.6P. 13. Harper & Bros., New York.7Chief Contemporary Dramatists, pp. 517-546. T. H. Dickinson, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.8For all these plays,idem.9Belles-Lettres Series. W. Strunk, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.10In the seventh edition, a scene, “The place of execution,” is inserted to replace the original brief final scene which apparently took place in the “room.” Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.11Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready,XXVIII. Brander Matthews, ed.12The Influence of Local Theatrical Conditions upon the Drama of the Greeks.Roy C. Flickinger.Classical Journal, October, 1911.13See p. 83.14Introduction toMacbeth. Cambridge ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.15Introduction to Marlowe’sEdward II. Tatlock and Martin. The Century Co.16SeePlay Production in America. A. E. Krows. Henry Holt & Co., New York.17Plays, pp. 33, 42. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.18J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.19Théâtre Complet, vol.I. Calmann Lévy, Paris.20Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.21Not often does a dramatist succeed in making real and supposed time agree as well as does Sir Arthur Pinero in Act III ofThe Gay Lord Quex. From seven to nine pages of absorbing action come between one chiming of the quarter hour and the next. Though a stopwatch would quickly reveal the somewhat disordered condition of that boudoir clock, an auditor, absorbed in the action of the moment, merely feels his tension increase if he notes the passing of time.22See p. 35.23Eugène Scribe, adopted by Mrs. Burton Harrison. Dramatic Publishing Co., Chicago.24Mermaid Series. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.25Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready,LXIII. Brander Matthews, ed.26Belles-Lettres Series. C. F. McClumpha, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.27Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.28Plays.G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.29Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.30Everyman’s Library. Plumptre, ed.31Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.32R. H. Russell & Co., New York.33The Influence of Local Theatrical Conditions upon the Drama of the Greeks.R. C. Flickinger.Classical Journal, October, 1911.34Troilus and Cressida.35Samuel French, New York.36Hurst & Blackett, Ltd., London.37Penn Publishing Co., Philadelphia.38Shakespeare’s Library, vol.VI. W. C. Hazlitt, ed. Reeves & Turner, London.39Penn Publishing Co., Philadelphia.40Drama League Series. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York.41Life of Richard Steele, vol.II, p. 368. G. Aitken. Wm. Isbister, London.42Methuen & Co., Ltd., London.43Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant.Brentano, New York.44Plays.G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.45A Note on Act Division as practiced in the Early Elizabethan Drama.Bulletin of Western Reserve University.46Play-Making, p. 136. Wm. Archer. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.47Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 236; to Jonas Lie.48Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.49P. Hervieu. Drama League Series. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York.
1Essay on Comedy, p. 8. George Meredith. Copyright, 1897, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
2The Trojan Women.Translated by Gilbert Murray. G. Allen & Sons, London.
3Electra. Von Hofmannsthal. Translated by A. Symons. Brentano, New York.
4Introduction toMiss Julia. Translated by E. Björkman. Copyright, 1912, by Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
5Hamburg Dramaturgy, p. 370. Lessing. Bohn ed.
6P. 13. Harper & Bros., New York.
7Chief Contemporary Dramatists, pp. 517-546. T. H. Dickinson, ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
8For all these plays,idem.
9Belles-Lettres Series. W. Strunk, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
10In the seventh edition, a scene, “The place of execution,” is inserted to replace the original brief final scene which apparently took place in the “room.” Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.
11Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready,XXVIII. Brander Matthews, ed.
12The Influence of Local Theatrical Conditions upon the Drama of the Greeks.Roy C. Flickinger.Classical Journal, October, 1911.
13See p. 83.
14Introduction toMacbeth. Cambridge ed. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
15Introduction to Marlowe’sEdward II. Tatlock and Martin. The Century Co.
16SeePlay Production in America. A. E. Krows. Henry Holt & Co., New York.
17Plays, pp. 33, 42. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.
18J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
19Théâtre Complet, vol.I. Calmann Lévy, Paris.
20Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D.C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
21Not often does a dramatist succeed in making real and supposed time agree as well as does Sir Arthur Pinero in Act III ofThe Gay Lord Quex. From seven to nine pages of absorbing action come between one chiming of the quarter hour and the next. Though a stopwatch would quickly reveal the somewhat disordered condition of that boudoir clock, an auditor, absorbed in the action of the moment, merely feels his tension increase if he notes the passing of time.
22See p. 35.
23Eugène Scribe, adopted by Mrs. Burton Harrison. Dramatic Publishing Co., Chicago.
24Mermaid Series. Chas. Scribner’s Sons, New York.
25Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready,LXIII. Brander Matthews, ed.
26Belles-Lettres Series. C. F. McClumpha, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
27Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
28Plays.G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.
29Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
30Everyman’s Library. Plumptre, ed.
31Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
32R. H. Russell & Co., New York.
33The Influence of Local Theatrical Conditions upon the Drama of the Greeks.R. C. Flickinger.Classical Journal, October, 1911.
34Troilus and Cressida.
35Samuel French, New York.
36Hurst & Blackett, Ltd., London.
37Penn Publishing Co., Philadelphia.
38Shakespeare’s Library, vol.VI. W. C. Hazlitt, ed. Reeves & Turner, London.
39Penn Publishing Co., Philadelphia.
40Drama League Series. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York.
41Life of Richard Steele, vol.II, p. 368. G. Aitken. Wm. Isbister, London.
42Methuen & Co., Ltd., London.
43Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant.Brentano, New York.
44Plays.G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.
45A Note on Act Division as practiced in the Early Elizabethan Drama.Bulletin of Western Reserve University.
46Play-Making, p. 136. Wm. Archer. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.
47Letters of Henrik Ibsen, p. 236; to Jonas Lie.
48Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
49P. Hervieu. Drama League Series. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York.