CHAPTER VI
FROM SUBJECT TO PLOT: ARRANGEMENT FOR CLEARNESS, EMPHASIS, MOVEMENT
Thechief 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 Lines once full of meaning are today so out of date as to be meaningless.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 MosesWith all her power and might O;And send us peace in merry EnglandBoth 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
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!
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 MosesWith all her power and might O;And send us peace in merry EnglandBoth 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!
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.
TheChoephori, 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 ofboth, 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
TheChoephori, 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 ofboth, 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?
ORCHIDSConservatory 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 needfragrance 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 gladshe[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. (Startsaway.)Mary.Why—why she hasn’t been in this morning. (Startsaway.)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 shewason theotherside 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 shewason theotherside 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.)
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.
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-knownhistorical 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 ACTSACT IEvening of a June day. John Hathaway’s Study. Door at right and at left back. Heavy, old-fashioned library furnishings. Walls lined with shelves of books. General disorder of books to produce the effect of recent using. Large flat-topped desk with a double row of drawers stands at front, half way between center and right wall. Desk is covered with books and loose manuscript. Chair at left front. Stool in front of desk. Other chairs toward back.When the curtain rises, John Hathaway is seated at desk working. Anne enters at right, bangs the door, and stands with back to it.Anne.I hate Aunt Caroline. (She hurries forward to stand at opposite side of desk.) Oh, I know what you will say—just preach and preach and call me “Anne” and tell me I must ask her pardon.—Why don’t you begin?John.(Smiling.) Now, Anne!Anne.Yes, there’s the “Anne.” I know the rest without your going on:—“Aunt Caroline is a peculiar woman, but ismostworthy. Her Puritanism keeps her from understanding your temperament, and you are too young to understand hers,—” and you’ll go on preaching and smiling in that horrid way—you always do—and you’ll make me see how wrongI’vebeen and how saintlyAunt Carolineis, and at last I’ll slink out of the room like a good little pussy-cat to find Aunt Caroline and beg her pardon. But it won’t dothistime, for I begged her pardonbeforeI lost my temper so that youcouldn’tsend me back.—Oh, Duke,can’twe send Aunt Caroline away, and just you and me live here always together. (She swings round the desk to sit on the stool at his side, her back to him. He turns a little in his chair, letting a hand fall on her shoulder.) When Dad died, he left me with you because next to me he loved you best in all the world. Hundreds and hundreds of times he toldme that.—It would have been very nice, Duke, if Dad hadn’t died, wouldn’t it?John.Yes, Nan.Anne.In just that one thing God has not been quite fair to me. Aunt Caroline tries so hard to make me think I am wrong about it.—I know you think so too, but you never argue about it with me. I like you for that, Duke. You see, if Dad had lived, our kingdom would have been complete. Why! a kingdom’s onlyhalfa kingdom without a king.John.That’s true,—but there are still a few of us left. There’s the Prime Minister, and the Countess, and the Slave, every one of them loyal to the Princess. Even the War Department is loyal—in warfare. Perhaps, who knows, some day from out a great foreign land a great king may come riding, and the Princess will place him beside her on the throne—and—live happily ever afterward.Anne.(Inattentively.) Perhaps. Duke, did you ever think that the Prime Minister was very fond of the Countess?John.Why, I have thought so at times.Anne.And did you ever think that perhaps the Prime Minister would like tomarrythe Countess?John.Why, yes, now you mention it, that also has occurred to me.Anne.Well, why doesn’t he?John.Perhaps the Countess isn’t willing.
ANNE—A PLAY IN TWO ACTS
ACT I
Evening of a June day. John Hathaway’s Study. Door at right and at left back. Heavy, old-fashioned library furnishings. Walls lined with shelves of books. General disorder of books to produce the effect of recent using. Large flat-topped desk with a double row of drawers stands at front, half way between center and right wall. Desk is covered with books and loose manuscript. Chair at left front. Stool in front of desk. Other chairs toward back.
When the curtain rises, John Hathaway is seated at desk working. Anne enters at right, bangs the door, and stands with back to it.
Anne.I hate Aunt Caroline. (She hurries forward to stand at opposite side of desk.) Oh, I know what you will say—just preach and preach and call me “Anne” and tell me I must ask her pardon.—Why don’t you begin?
John.(Smiling.) Now, Anne!
Anne.Yes, there’s the “Anne.” I know the rest without your going on:—“Aunt Caroline is a peculiar woman, but ismostworthy. Her Puritanism keeps her from understanding your temperament, and you are too young to understand hers,—” and you’ll go on preaching and smiling in that horrid way—you always do—and you’ll make me see how wrongI’vebeen and how saintlyAunt Carolineis, and at last I’ll slink out of the room like a good little pussy-cat to find Aunt Caroline and beg her pardon. But it won’t dothistime, for I begged her pardonbeforeI lost my temper so that youcouldn’tsend me back.—Oh, Duke,can’twe send Aunt Caroline away, and just you and me live here always together. (She swings round the desk to sit on the stool at his side, her back to him. He turns a little in his chair, letting a hand fall on her shoulder.) When Dad died, he left me with you because next to me he loved you best in all the world. Hundreds and hundreds of times he toldme that.—It would have been very nice, Duke, if Dad hadn’t died, wouldn’t it?
John.Yes, Nan.
Anne.In just that one thing God has not been quite fair to me. Aunt Caroline tries so hard to make me think I am wrong about it.—I know you think so too, but you never argue about it with me. I like you for that, Duke. You see, if Dad had lived, our kingdom would have been complete. Why! a kingdom’s onlyhalfa kingdom without a king.
John.That’s true,—but there are still a few of us left. There’s the Prime Minister, and the Countess, and the Slave, every one of them loyal to the Princess. Even the War Department is loyal—in warfare. Perhaps, who knows, some day from out a great foreign land a great king may come riding, and the Princess will place him beside her on the throne—and—live happily ever afterward.
Anne.(Inattentively.) Perhaps. Duke, did you ever think that the Prime Minister was very fond of the Countess?
John.Why, I have thought so at times.
Anne.And did you ever think that perhaps the Prime Minister would like tomarrythe Countess?
John.Why, yes, now you mention it, that also has occurred to me.
Anne.Well, why doesn’t he?
John.Perhaps the Countess isn’t willing.
Who is this “Anne”? What is her last name? Is she the niece of “Duke”? How could we learn from the text that “Duke” is John Hathaway? It is the stage direction which gives us that information. And what are we to do with this whole Burke’s Peerage,—the Prime Minister, the Countess, the Slave? The author is depending for identification upon a list ofdramatis personæjust preceding what has been quoted:
Time, present day.Characters:Anne Chesterfield, “The Princess.”John Hathaway, Anne’s guardian, “The Duke.”Caroline Hathaway, John’s aunt, “Head of the War Department.”Doctor Stirling, a friend, “The Prime Minister.”Katharine Bain, a friend, “The Countess.”Tommy Bain, Katharine’s young brother, “The Slave.”Professor Heinrich Adler, “The Foreign Ambassador.”James, a Servant.
Time, present day.
Characters:
Anne Chesterfield, “The Princess.”
John Hathaway, Anne’s guardian, “The Duke.”
Caroline Hathaway, John’s aunt, “Head of the War Department.”
Doctor Stirling, a friend, “The Prime Minister.”
Katharine Bain, a friend, “The Countess.”
Tommy Bain, Katharine’s young brother, “The Slave.”
Professor Heinrich Adler, “The Foreign Ambassador.”
James, a Servant.
Cut out this list of characters; in the stage directions strike out “John Hathaway,” substituting “A man”; strike out “Anne,” substituting “A young woman.” At once it is clear that the dialogue reveals nothing about these people, except that a young woman who speaks is a niece of “Aunt Caroline.” Yet these substitutions show what the scene looks like to a man entering the theatre without a program. Whenever such substitution of a type name for that of an individual in the titles prefixed to the speeches leaves the speakers unidentified, it is time to re-phrase the material for greater clearness.
Scenery and costume, of course, may show where the opening or later action of a play takes place. If these make clear the nationality of the speakers, or, at most, the province to which they belong, this is in many instances enough for any audience. In some cases, however, the nature of the plot is so dependent on the customs of a particular community that it is necessary or wise to make the text farther particularize any placing of the play by scenery or costumes. Simple interiors, too, are not always easily identifiable as of this or that province, or even country. If province or country at all determines the action of the piece, the text should help out the setting. One reason why the plays of Synge aroused bitter opposition was that some auditors believed them representations of life anywhere in Ireland and not, as they were meant to be, pictures of the manners of Aran Islanders, a group so isolated as to retain much savagery. Also, if the text is clear as to place, suggestion may take the place of realism in the scenery, thus decreasing expense. The emphasis onplace in the opening ofThe Rising of the Moonboth permits scenery that merely suggests a quay and plants in the minds of hearers a setting essential to the whole development of the play:
Scene:Side of a quay in a seaport town. Some posts and chains. A large barrel. Enter three policemen. Moonlight.Sergeant, who is older than the others, crosses the stage to right and looks down steps. The others put down a pastepot and unroll a bundle of placards.Policeman B.I think this would be a good place to put up a notice. (He points to a barrel.)Policeman X.Better ask him. (Calls to Sergeant..) Will this be a good place for a placard? (No answer.)Policeman B.Will we put up a notice here on the barrel? (No answer.)Sergeant.There’s a flight of steps here that leads to the water. This is a place that should be minded well. If he got down here, his friends might have a boat to meet him; they might send it in here from outside.Policeman B.Would the barrel be a good place to put a notice up?Sergeant.It might; you can put it there. (They paste the notice up.)Sergeant.(Reading it.) Dark hair—dark eyes, smooth face, height five feet five—there’s not much to take hold of in that—It’s a pity I had no chance of seeing him before he broke out of jail. They say he’s a wonder, that it’s he makes all the plans for the whole organization. There isn’t another man in Ireland would have broken jail the way he did. He must have some friends among the jailers.Policeman B.A hundred pounds reward is little enough for the Government to offer for him. You may be sure any man in the force that takes him will get promotion.Sergeant.I’ll mind this place myself. I wouldn’t wonder at all if he comes this way. He might come slipping along there (points to side of quay) and his friends might be waiting for him there (points down steps), and once he got away it’s little chance we’d have of finding him; it’s maybe under a load of kelp he’d be in a fishing boat, and not one to help a married man that wants it to the reward.3
Scene:Side of a quay in a seaport town. Some posts and chains. A large barrel. Enter three policemen. Moonlight.
Sergeant, who is older than the others, crosses the stage to right and looks down steps. The others put down a pastepot and unroll a bundle of placards.
Policeman B.I think this would be a good place to put up a notice. (He points to a barrel.)
Policeman X.Better ask him. (Calls to Sergeant..) Will this be a good place for a placard? (No answer.)
Policeman B.Will we put up a notice here on the barrel? (No answer.)
Sergeant.There’s a flight of steps here that leads to the water. This is a place that should be minded well. If he got down here, his friends might have a boat to meet him; they might send it in here from outside.
Policeman B.Would the barrel be a good place to put a notice up?
Sergeant.It might; you can put it there. (They paste the notice up.)
Sergeant.(Reading it.) Dark hair—dark eyes, smooth face, height five feet five—there’s not much to take hold of in that—It’s a pity I had no chance of seeing him before he broke out of jail. They say he’s a wonder, that it’s he makes all the plans for the whole organization. There isn’t another man in Ireland would have broken jail the way he did. He must have some friends among the jailers.
Policeman B.A hundred pounds reward is little enough for the Government to offer for him. You may be sure any man in the force that takes him will get promotion.
Sergeant.I’ll mind this place myself. I wouldn’t wonder at all if he comes this way. He might come slipping along there (points to side of quay) and his friends might be waiting for him there (points down steps), and once he got away it’s little chance we’d have of finding him; it’s maybe under a load of kelp he’d be in a fishing boat, and not one to help a married man that wants it to the reward.3
The period in which the play is supposed to take place, if of importance to the action, needs careful statement. Helped out by setting and costumes, the following shows that the play is taking place at the time of the French Revolution.
At rise of curtain, drums are heard beating, trumpets sounding the charge in the distance. A report of a cannon as the curtain rises.Jennie.(R., going up to door C.) Did you hear that? It must be somewhere near the Rue d’Echelle now.Julie.(L. crossing to R.) My! I’m frightened to death.Marie.(Carrots—up C.) I only hope they won’t come fighting downourstreet.Julie.(Kneeling.) Bless us and save us!Jennie.(Up C.) Down our street. What should they come here for? It’s the Tuileries and the King they’re after.(Going to window L.)First Neighbor and Omnes.(At back.) Of course they are. That’s it.First Woman.(Up C.) I tell you they’re at the Carrousel.(Report of cannon.)Marie.It will be a mercy if they don’t smash every pane of glass in the shop.Julie.Well I shan’t forget this 10th of August in a hurry.(At back a National Guard wounded in the leg supported by two other guards enters at L., is taken into the druggist’s shop. All the people move towards the shop.)4
At rise of curtain, drums are heard beating, trumpets sounding the charge in the distance. A report of a cannon as the curtain rises.
Jennie.(R., going up to door C.) Did you hear that? It must be somewhere near the Rue d’Echelle now.
Julie.(L. crossing to R.) My! I’m frightened to death.
Marie.(Carrots—up C.) I only hope they won’t come fighting downourstreet.
Julie.(Kneeling.) Bless us and save us!
Jennie.(Up C.) Down our street. What should they come here for? It’s the Tuileries and the King they’re after.
(Going to window L.)
First Neighbor and Omnes.(At back.) Of course they are. That’s it.
First Woman.(Up C.) I tell you they’re at the Carrousel.
(Report of cannon.)
Marie.It will be a mercy if they don’t smash every pane of glass in the shop.
Julie.Well I shan’t forget this 10th of August in a hurry.
(At back a National Guard wounded in the leg supported by two other guards enters at L., is taken into the druggist’s shop. All the people move towards the shop.)4
Lapse of time between two acts, if important to the development of the plot, should also be clearly stated. Dramatists like to depend on the programs for such information, but they run the chance that many auditors will not see the printed note. Doubtless a program would give these words from the stage direction at the beginning of the fourth act of Hauptmann’sLonely Lives: “Time between 4 and 5P.M.,” but the quick passage of time is so important a fact in the development of the plot that six or seven pages later there is the following dialogue:
Braun.(Looks at telegram.) It is the six o’clock train that Mr. Vockerat is coming by? What o’clock is it now?Mrs. Vockerat.Not half-past four yet.Braun.(After a moment of reflection.) Has there been no change in the course of the week?Mrs. Vockerat.(Shakes her head hopelessly.) None.Braun.Has she given no hint of any intention to go?5
Braun.(Looks at telegram.) It is the six o’clock train that Mr. Vockerat is coming by? What o’clock is it now?
Mrs. Vockerat.Not half-past four yet.
Braun.(After a moment of reflection.) Has there been no change in the course of the week?
Mrs. Vockerat.(Shakes her head hopelessly.) None.
Braun.Has she given no hint of any intention to go?5
InThe Galloper, by Richard Harding Davis, what the audience hears will place the play in a hotel at Athens, even if the scenery does not:
Before the curtain rises one hears a drum-and-fife corps playing a lively march, and the sound of people cheering. This comes from the rear and to the left, and continues after the curtain is up, dying away gradually as though the band, and the regiment with it, had passed and continued on up the street.Anstruther is discovered seated on the lower right-end corner of the table, with his right foot resting on the chair at that corner. He is reading the Paris “New York Herald” and smoking a cigarette. He is a young man of good manner and soldierly appearance. He wears gray whipcord riding breeches, tan riding boots, and Norfolk jacket of rough tweed. His slouch hat, with a white puggaree wrapped round it, lies on the table beside him. Griggs stands at the edge of the French window looking off left. In his hand he holds a notebook in which he takes notes. He is supposed to be watching the soldiers who are passing. He is a pompous little man of about forty with eyeglasses. He wears a khaki uniform similar to that of an officer of the British army, with the difference that the buttons are of bone. His left chest is covered with ribbons of war medals. Hewitt, a young man with a pointed beard and moustache, stands to the left of Griggs, also looking off left. He wears a khaki coat made like a Norfolk jacket, khaki riding breeches, and canvas United States Army leggings and tan shoes. On the table are his slouch hat and the khaki-colored helmet of Griggs.Captain O’Malley enters right. He is a dashing young Irishman, in the uniform of an officer of the Greek Army. He halts to right of Anstruther and salutes.Capt. O’Malley.Pardon, I am Captain O’Malley of the Foreign Legion. Am I addressing one of the foreign war correspondents?Capt. Anstruther.Yes.Capt. O’Malley.(Showing him a visiting card.) Pardon, is this your card?Capt. Anstruther.(Reading card.) “Mr. Kirke Warren.” No.Capt. O’Malley.Do you know if Mr. Warren is in this hotel?Capt. Anstruther.I couldn’t tell you. We arrived in Athens only last night.Capt. O’Malley.(Saluting and moving off left.) I thank you.(He exits left.)6
Before the curtain rises one hears a drum-and-fife corps playing a lively march, and the sound of people cheering. This comes from the rear and to the left, and continues after the curtain is up, dying away gradually as though the band, and the regiment with it, had passed and continued on up the street.
Anstruther is discovered seated on the lower right-end corner of the table, with his right foot resting on the chair at that corner. He is reading the Paris “New York Herald” and smoking a cigarette. He is a young man of good manner and soldierly appearance. He wears gray whipcord riding breeches, tan riding boots, and Norfolk jacket of rough tweed. His slouch hat, with a white puggaree wrapped round it, lies on the table beside him. Griggs stands at the edge of the French window looking off left. In his hand he holds a notebook in which he takes notes. He is supposed to be watching the soldiers who are passing. He is a pompous little man of about forty with eyeglasses. He wears a khaki uniform similar to that of an officer of the British army, with the difference that the buttons are of bone. His left chest is covered with ribbons of war medals. Hewitt, a young man with a pointed beard and moustache, stands to the left of Griggs, also looking off left. He wears a khaki coat made like a Norfolk jacket, khaki riding breeches, and canvas United States Army leggings and tan shoes. On the table are his slouch hat and the khaki-colored helmet of Griggs.
Captain O’Malley enters right. He is a dashing young Irishman, in the uniform of an officer of the Greek Army. He halts to right of Anstruther and salutes.
Capt. O’Malley.Pardon, I am Captain O’Malley of the Foreign Legion. Am I addressing one of the foreign war correspondents?
Capt. Anstruther.Yes.
Capt. O’Malley.(Showing him a visiting card.) Pardon, is this your card?
Capt. Anstruther.(Reading card.) “Mr. Kirke Warren.” No.
Capt. O’Malley.Do you know if Mr. Warren is in this hotel?
Capt. Anstruther.I couldn’t tell you. We arrived in Athens only last night.
Capt. O’Malley.(Saluting and moving off left.) I thank you.
(He exits left.)6
But the dramatist prefaced this with a careful description of the setting. What has just been quoted shows that the dramatist risked no chance that what would probably identify this setting,—“Greek letters of gilt” on the picture frames, and the distant view of the Acropolis,—might fail him. He added what has just been quoted.
This scene shows the interior of the reading room in the Hotel Angleterre at Athens. It is large, cheerful-looking, and sunny, with a high ceiling. Extending nearly across the entire width of the rear wall is a French window, which opens upon the garden of the hotel. Outside it are set plants in green tubs, and above it is stretched a striped green-and-white awning. To the reading room the principal entrance is through a wide door set well down in the left wall. It is supposed to open into the hall of the hotel. Through this door one obtains a glimpse of the hall, where steamer trunks and hatboxes are piled high upon a black-and-white tiled floor. In the right wall there is another door, also well down on the stage. It is supposed to open into a corridor of the hotel. Below it against the wall are a writing desk and chair. A similar writing desk is placed against the rear wall between the right wall and the French window. On the left of the stage, end-on to the audience, is a long library table over which is spread a dark-green baize cloth. On top of it are ranged periodicals and the illustrated papers of different countries. Chairs of bent wood are ranged around this table, one being placed at each side of the lower end. Of these two, the chair to the left of the table is not farther from the left door than five feet. The walls of the room are colored a light, cool gray in distemper, with a black oak wainscot about four feet high. On the walls are hung photographs ofthe Acropolis and of classic Greek statues. On the black frames holding these photographs appear the names of shopkeepers in Greek letters of gilt. The floor is covered with a gray crash. The back drop, seen through the French window, shows the garden of the hotel, beyond that the trees of a public park, and high in the air the Acropolis. The light is that of a bright morning in May.
This scene shows the interior of the reading room in the Hotel Angleterre at Athens. It is large, cheerful-looking, and sunny, with a high ceiling. Extending nearly across the entire width of the rear wall is a French window, which opens upon the garden of the hotel. Outside it are set plants in green tubs, and above it is stretched a striped green-and-white awning. To the reading room the principal entrance is through a wide door set well down in the left wall. It is supposed to open into the hall of the hotel. Through this door one obtains a glimpse of the hall, where steamer trunks and hatboxes are piled high upon a black-and-white tiled floor. In the right wall there is another door, also well down on the stage. It is supposed to open into a corridor of the hotel. Below it against the wall are a writing desk and chair. A similar writing desk is placed against the rear wall between the right wall and the French window. On the left of the stage, end-on to the audience, is a long library table over which is spread a dark-green baize cloth. On top of it are ranged periodicals and the illustrated papers of different countries. Chairs of bent wood are ranged around this table, one being placed at each side of the lower end. Of these two, the chair to the left of the table is not farther from the left door than five feet. The walls of the room are colored a light, cool gray in distemper, with a black oak wainscot about four feet high. On the walls are hung photographs ofthe Acropolis and of classic Greek statues. On the black frames holding these photographs appear the names of shopkeepers in Greek letters of gilt. The floor is covered with a gray crash. The back drop, seen through the French window, shows the garden of the hotel, beyond that the trees of a public park, and high in the air the Acropolis. The light is that of a bright morning in May.
The test in deciding whether the place and the time should be stated is not, “Has it been given in the program?” nor, “May it with ingenuity be guessed from the settings and costumes?” but, first, “Does place or time, or do both at all determine the action of the piece?” secondly, “Will any intelligent observer be vague as to place or time, as the play develops?” If the answer to either of these questions is yes, it is wisest to make these matters clear in the text.
Far more troublesome than merely identifying the characters or emphasizing the place and time of the play is showing the relations of the characters to one another. This usually requires exposition of past history which must be clearly understood if the play is to have its full emotional effect. More than one reader has been disposed to believe the theory thatMacbeth, as we know it, is a cut stage version because, when Lady Macbeth first enters, she seems less prepared for and less clearly related to the other figures than is Shakespeare’s custom.
SCENE 5.Inverness. Macbeth’s castleEnter Lady Macbeth, alone, with a letterLady Macbeth. (Reads.) “They met me in the day of success; and I have learn’d by the perfect’st report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burn’d in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanish’d. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hail’d me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referr’d me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, King thou shalt be!’ This I have thoughtgood to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.”Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt beWhat thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature;It is too full o’ the milk of human kindnessTo catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,Art not without ambition, but withoutThe illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis,That which cries, “Thus thou must do, if thou have it”;And that which rather thou dost fear to doThan wishest should be undone. Hie thee hitherThat I may pour my spirits in thine ear,And chastise with the valour of my tongueAll that impedes thee from the golden roundWhich fate and metaphysical aid doth seemTo have thee crown’d withal.
SCENE 5.Inverness. Macbeth’s castle
Enter Lady Macbeth, alone, with a letter
Lady Macbeth. (Reads.) “They met me in the day of success; and I have learn’d by the perfect’st report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burn’d in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanish’d. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hail’d me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referr’d me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, King thou shalt be!’ This I have thoughtgood to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.”
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt beWhat thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature;It is too full o’ the milk of human kindnessTo catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great,Art not without ambition, but withoutThe illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis,That which cries, “Thus thou must do, if thou have it”;And that which rather thou dost fear to doThan wishest should be undone. Hie thee hitherThat I may pour my spirits in thine ear,And chastise with the valour of my tongueAll that impedes thee from the golden roundWhich fate and metaphysical aid doth seemTo have thee crown’d withal.
The Dumb Show, Chorus, and Soliloquy are now outworn devices for setting forth necessary initial expository facts. Today any experienced dramatist knows that such preliminary exposition demands the art which conceals art, for an audience resents a mere recital of necessary facts. Examine the first act of Schnitzler’sThe Lonely Way.7All of it is interesting for characterization and statement of facts essential to an understanding of the play, but it does not grip the attention as do the other acts where drama, not exposition, is of first consequence.
Early steps in advance on the Chorus were the butler and the maid servant, garrulously talking of what each must have known ever since he came into his position. A closely related form is unbosoming oneself to a male or female confidant.
ACT I(Enter Hippolytus, Theramenes.)Hippolytus.My mind is settled, dear Theramenes,And I can stay not more in lovely Troezen.In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish,I grow ashamed of such long idleness.Six months and more my father has been gone,And what may have befallen one so dearI know not, nor what corner of the earthHides him.Theramenes.And where, prince, will you look for him?Already, to content your just alarm,Have I not cross’d the seas on either sideOf Corinth, ask’d if aught were known of TheseusWhere Acheron is lost among the Shades,Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus,And sail’d into the sea that saw the fallOf Icarus? Inspired with what new hope,Under what favor’d skies think you to traceHis footsteps? Who knows if the king, your father,Wishes the secret of his absence known?Perchance, while we are trembling for his life,The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue,And only waits till the deluded fair—Hippolytus.Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the nameOf Theseus. Youthful errors have been leftBehind, and no unworthy obstacleDetains him. Phædra long has fix’d a heartInconstant once, nor need she fear a rival.In seeking him I shall but do my duty,And leave a place I dare no longer see.Theramenes.Indeed! When, prince, did you begin to dreadThese peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood,Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay,Rather than meet the tumult and the pompOf Athens and the court? What danger shun you,Or shall I say what grief?Hippolytus.That happy timeIs gone, and all is changed, since to these shoresThe gods sent Phædra.Theramenes.I perceive the causeOf your distress. It is the queen whose sightOffends you. With a step-dame’s spite she schemedYour exile soon as she set eyes on you.But if her hatred is not wholly vanish’d,It has at least taken a milder aspect.Besides, what danger can a dying woman,One too who longs for death, bring on your head?Can Phædra, sick’ning of a dire diseaseOf which she will not speak, weary of lifeAnd of herself, form any plots against you?Hippolytus.It is not her vain enmity I fear;Another foe alarms Hippolytus.I fly, it must be owned, from Aricia,The soul survivor of an impious race.Theramenes.What! You become her persecutor too!The gentle sister of the cruel sonsOf Pallas shared not in their perfidy;Why should you hate such charming innocence?Hippolytus.I should not need to fly, if it were hatred.Theramenes.May I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?8
ACT I
(Enter Hippolytus, Theramenes.)
Hippolytus.My mind is settled, dear Theramenes,And I can stay not more in lovely Troezen.In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish,I grow ashamed of such long idleness.Six months and more my father has been gone,And what may have befallen one so dearI know not, nor what corner of the earthHides him.Theramenes.And where, prince, will you look for him?Already, to content your just alarm,Have I not cross’d the seas on either sideOf Corinth, ask’d if aught were known of TheseusWhere Acheron is lost among the Shades,Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus,And sail’d into the sea that saw the fallOf Icarus? Inspired with what new hope,Under what favor’d skies think you to traceHis footsteps? Who knows if the king, your father,Wishes the secret of his absence known?Perchance, while we are trembling for his life,The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue,And only waits till the deluded fair—Hippolytus.Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the nameOf Theseus. Youthful errors have been leftBehind, and no unworthy obstacleDetains him. Phædra long has fix’d a heartInconstant once, nor need she fear a rival.In seeking him I shall but do my duty,And leave a place I dare no longer see.Theramenes.Indeed! When, prince, did you begin to dreadThese peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood,Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay,Rather than meet the tumult and the pompOf Athens and the court? What danger shun you,Or shall I say what grief?Hippolytus.That happy timeIs gone, and all is changed, since to these shoresThe gods sent Phædra.Theramenes.I perceive the causeOf your distress. It is the queen whose sightOffends you. With a step-dame’s spite she schemedYour exile soon as she set eyes on you.But if her hatred is not wholly vanish’d,It has at least taken a milder aspect.Besides, what danger can a dying woman,One too who longs for death, bring on your head?Can Phædra, sick’ning of a dire diseaseOf which she will not speak, weary of lifeAnd of herself, form any plots against you?Hippolytus.It is not her vain enmity I fear;Another foe alarms Hippolytus.I fly, it must be owned, from Aricia,The soul survivor of an impious race.Theramenes.What! You become her persecutor too!The gentle sister of the cruel sonsOf Pallas shared not in their perfidy;Why should you hate such charming innocence?Hippolytus.I should not need to fly, if it were hatred.Theramenes.May I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?8
Hippolytus.My mind is settled, dear Theramenes,
And I can stay not more in lovely Troezen.
In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish,
I grow ashamed of such long idleness.
Six months and more my father has been gone,
And what may have befallen one so dear
I know not, nor what corner of the earth
Hides him.
Theramenes.And where, prince, will you look for him?
Already, to content your just alarm,
Have I not cross’d the seas on either side
Of Corinth, ask’d if aught were known of Theseus
Where Acheron is lost among the Shades,
Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus,
And sail’d into the sea that saw the fall
Of Icarus? Inspired with what new hope,
Under what favor’d skies think you to trace
His footsteps? Who knows if the king, your father,
Wishes the secret of his absence known?
Perchance, while we are trembling for his life,
The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue,
And only waits till the deluded fair—
Hippolytus.Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the name
Of Theseus. Youthful errors have been left
Behind, and no unworthy obstacle
Detains him. Phædra long has fix’d a heart
Inconstant once, nor need she fear a rival.
In seeking him I shall but do my duty,
And leave a place I dare no longer see.
Theramenes.Indeed! When, prince, did you begin to dread
These peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood,
Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay,
Rather than meet the tumult and the pomp
Of Athens and the court? What danger shun you,
Or shall I say what grief?
Hippolytus.That happy time
Is gone, and all is changed, since to these shores
The gods sent Phædra.
Theramenes.I perceive the cause
Of your distress. It is the queen whose sight
Offends you. With a step-dame’s spite she schemed
Your exile soon as she set eyes on you.
But if her hatred is not wholly vanish’d,
It has at least taken a milder aspect.
Besides, what danger can a dying woman,
One too who longs for death, bring on your head?
Can Phædra, sick’ning of a dire disease
Of which she will not speak, weary of life
And of herself, form any plots against you?
Hippolytus.It is not her vain enmity I fear;
Another foe alarms Hippolytus.
I fly, it must be owned, from Aricia,
The soul survivor of an impious race.
Theramenes.What! You become her persecutor too!
The gentle sister of the cruel sons
Of Pallas shared not in their perfidy;
Why should you hate such charming innocence?
Hippolytus.I should not need to fly, if it were hatred.
Theramenes.May I, then, learn the meaning of your flight?8
Another device is an intensely inquisitive stranger just returned from foreign parts who listens with patience not always shared by an auditor to any needed preliminary exposition.
The Opportunity,9by James Shirley, shows an ingenious adaptation of the device of the inquisitive stranger newly come to some city. Aurelio, a gentleman of Milan, coming to Urbino with his friend Pisauro, is mistaken for Borgia, who has been banished from Urbino. As one person after another, greeting Aurelio as Borgia, naturally talks to him of his past, his family, and what is to be expected of him now that he is returned, they identify and relate clearly to one another the chief people whom Aurelio is to meet in the play.A hearer would take in almost unconsciously the needed exposition, so amused would he be at the increasing bewilderment of Aurelio.
Such ways and means as these three—the servant, the confidant, the stranger—Buckingham ridiculed in the late seventeenth century in hisRehearsal:
Enter Gentleman-Usher and PhysicianPhysician.Sir, by your habit, I should guess you to be the Gentleman-Usher of this sumptuous palace.Usher.And by your gait and fashion, I should almost suspect you rule the healths of both our noble Kings, under the notion of Physician.Physician.You hit my function right.Usher.And you mine.Physician.Then let’s embrace.Usher.Come.Physician.Come.Johnson.Pray, sir, who are those so very civil persons?Bayes.Why, sir, the Gentleman-Usher and Physician of the two Kings of Brentford.Johnson.But, pray, then, how comes it to pass that they know one another no better?Bayes.Phoo! that’s for the better carrying on of the plot.10
Enter Gentleman-Usher and Physician
Physician.Sir, by your habit, I should guess you to be the Gentleman-Usher of this sumptuous palace.
Usher.And by your gait and fashion, I should almost suspect you rule the healths of both our noble Kings, under the notion of Physician.
Physician.You hit my function right.
Usher.And you mine.
Physician.Then let’s embrace.
Usher.Come.
Physician.Come.
Johnson.Pray, sir, who are those so very civil persons?
Bayes.Why, sir, the Gentleman-Usher and Physician of the two Kings of Brentford.
Johnson.But, pray, then, how comes it to pass that they know one another no better?
Bayes.Phoo! that’s for the better carrying on of the plot.10
Another method, talking back to people off stage, as one enters, in such a way as to bring out necessary facts, erence both used and ridiculed centuries ago. This is his use of the device:
Enter MysisMysis.(Speaking to the housekeeper within.) I hear, Archilis, I hear: Your orders are to fetch Lesbia. On my word she’s a drunken reckless creature, not at all a fit person to take charge of a woman in her first labour: am I to fetch her all the same? (Comes forward.)11
Enter Mysis
Mysis.(Speaking to the housekeeper within.) I hear, Archilis, I hear: Your orders are to fetch Lesbia. On my word she’s a drunken reckless creature, not at all a fit person to take charge of a woman in her first labour: am I to fetch her all the same? (Comes forward.)11
In the last lines of the following he ridicules this very use:
Re-enter LesbiaLesbia.(Speaking through the doorway.) So far, Archilis, the usual and proper symptoms for a safe delivery, I see them all here. After ablution give her the drink I ordered and in the prescribed quantity. I shall be back before long. (Turning round.) Lor’ me, but a strapping boy is born to Pamphilus. Heaven grant it live, for the father’s a noble gentleman and has shrunk from wronging an excellent young lady.(Exit.)Simo.For example now, wouldn’t any one who knew you think you were at the bottom of this?Davus.Of what, sir?Simo.Instead of prescribing at the bedside what must be done for the mother, out she plumps and shouts it at them from the street.12
Re-enter Lesbia
Lesbia.(Speaking through the doorway.) So far, Archilis, the usual and proper symptoms for a safe delivery, I see them all here. After ablution give her the drink I ordered and in the prescribed quantity. I shall be back before long. (Turning round.) Lor’ me, but a strapping boy is born to Pamphilus. Heaven grant it live, for the father’s a noble gentleman and has shrunk from wronging an excellent young lady.
(Exit.)
Simo.For example now, wouldn’t any one who knew you think you were at the bottom of this?
Davus.Of what, sir?
Simo.Instead of prescribing at the bedside what must be done for the mother, out she plumps and shouts it at them from the street.12
Lately the telephone, the stenographer, and most recently the dictaphone have seemed to puzzled dramatists the swift road to successful initial exposition. To all these human or unhuman aids some overburdened soul has felt free to say anything the audience might need to hear. Probably this use of the telephone has come to stay, for daily there is proof that nothing is too intimate for it. There are, however, more ambitious workers who, weary of servants, confidants, telephones, stenographers, and dictaphones, want to set forth necessary information so naturally that no one may question whether it might have come out in this way. Also, they want the information to be so interestingly conveyed that an auditor thinks of what is happening rather than merely of the facts.
In the first act ofThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray,13the audience must hear a narrative setting forth Aubrey Tanqueray’s position in society, his first marriage, his relations with his daughter, and the nature of his proposed second marriage. What complicates the task is that the narrative must betold to old friends, so that much of it is to them well known. What device will make the narrative, under the circumstances, plausible? Here is where a modern dramatist sighs for the serviceable heralds, messengers, and chorus of plays of decades long past or for the freer methods in narrative of the novelist. How easy to tell much of this in your own person, as have Thackeray or Meredith, in comparison with stating it through another so placed that he will be glad to hear again much which he already knows! The necessity creates with Sir Arthur the device of the little supper party in Aubrey Tanqueray’s chambers in the Albany, to which he has invited four of his oldest friends. The moment chosen for the opening of the play is when the old friends, over the coffee, fall quite naturally into reminiscent vein. What helps to freer exposition is their chance to talk of Cayley Drummle, who, even yet, though bidden, has not appeared. Before the chat is over and Cayley enters, much needed information is in the minds of the audience. Cayley brings news of a terriblemésalliancein a family known to all the supper party. In his efforts to advise and comfort the distracted mother he has been kept from the meeting of old friends. The news leads Aubrey Tanqueray to avow his quixotic scheme for a second marriage. Through the contrasting comments of the friends, even through their reservations, the audience becomes perfectly informed as to the view the world will take of this second marriage. Indeed, as the supper party breaks up, all the audience requires in order to listen intelligently to the succeeding acts, is a chance to see Paula herself. Her impulsive visit to Tanqueray, just after the supper party ends, provides the information needed, for in it her character is sketched in broadly as it will be filled out in detail in the succeeding acts. Evidently device, the ingenious discovery of a plausible reason for exposition necessary in a play, is basal in the best stage narrative. Without it, character issacrificed to mere necessary exposition; with it, the spectator, absorbed by incident or characterization, learns unconsciously that without which he cannot intelligently and sympathetically follow the story of the play. In other words, successful discovery of devices for such exposition clearly means that disguising which is essential to the best narrative in drama.
The first quality of good expository device is clearness. Secondly, it should be an adequate reason for the exposition it contains: i.e., it must seem natural that the facts should come out in this way. Thirdly, and of the utmost importance, the device must be something so interesting in itself as to hold the attention of an auditor while necessary facts are insinuated into his mind. Lastly, the device should permit this preliminary exposition to be given swiftly. It is hard to conceal exposition as such if the movement is as slow as in the first two scenes of Act I ofThe Journey of Papa Perrichon.
ACT IThe Lyons railway station at Paris. At the back, a turn-stile opening on the waiting-rooms. At the back, right, a ticket window. At the back, left, benches, a cake vender; at the left, a book stall.SCENE 1.Majorin, A Railway Official, Travelers, PortersMajorin.(Walking about impatiently.) Still this Perrichon doesn’t come! Already I’ve waited an hour.... Certainly it is today that he is to set out for Switzerland with his wife and daughter. (Bitterly.) Carriage builders who go to Switzerland! Carriage builders who have forty thousand pounds a year income! Carriage builders who keep their carriages! What times these are! While I,—I am earning two thousand four hundred francs ... a clerk, hard-working, intelligent, always bent over his desk.... Today I asked for leave ... I said it was my day for guard duty.... It is absolutely necessary that I see Perrichon before his departure.... I want to ask him to advance me my quarter’s salary.... Six hundred francs! He is going to put on his patronizing air ... make himself important ... a carriage builder! It’s a shame! Still hedoesn’t come! One would say that he did it on purpose! (Addressing a porter who passes, followed by travelers.) Monsieur, at what time does the train start for Lyons?Porter.(Brusquely.) Ask the official. (He goes out at the left.)Majorin.Thanks ... clodhopper! (Addressing the official who is near the ticket window.) Monsieur, at what time does the through train start for Lyons?The Official.(Brusquely.) That doesn’t concern me! Look at the poster. (He points to a poster in the left wings.)Majorin.Thanks.... (Aside.) The politeness of these corporations! If ever you come to my office, you...! Let’s have a look at the poster.... (He goes out at the left.)SCENE 2.The Official, Perrichon, Madame Perrichon, Henriette(They enter at the right)Perrichon.Here we are! Let’s keep together! We couldn’t find each other again.... Where is our baggage? (Looking to the right; into the wings.) Ah, that’s all right! Who has the umbrellas?Henriette.I, papa.Perrichon.And the carpet bag? The cloaks?Madame Perrichon.Here they are!Perrichon.And my panama? It has been left in the cab! (Making a movement to rush out and checking himself.) Ah! No! I have it in my hand!... Phew, but I’m hot!Madame Perrichon.It is your own fault!... You hurried us, you hustled us!... I don’t like to travel like that!Perrichon.It is the departure which is tiresome ... once we are settled!... Stay here, I am going to get the tickets.... (Giving his hat to Henriette.) There, keep my panama for me.... (At the ticket window.) Three, first class, for Lyons!...The Official.(Brusquely.) Not open yet! In a quarter of an hour!Perrichon.(To the official.) Ah! pardon me! It is the first time I have traveled.... (Returning to his wife.) We are early.Madame Perrichon.There! When I told you we should have time. You wouldn’t let us breakfast!Perrichon.It is better to be early! ... one can look about the station! (To Henriette.) Well, little daughter, are you satisfied?... Here we are, about to set out!... A few minutes yet, and then, swift as the arrow of William Tell, we rush toward the Alps! (To his wife.) You brought the opera glasses?Madame Perrichon.Of course!Henriette.(To her father.) I’m not criticizing, papa, but it is now two years, at least, since you promised us this trip.Perrichon.My daughter, I had to sell my business.... A merchant does not retire from business as easily as his little daughter leaves boarding school.... Besides, I was waiting for your education to be ended in order to complete it by revealing to you the splendid spectacle of nature!Madame Perrichon.Are you going on in that strain?Perrichon.What do you mean?Madame Perrichon.Phrase-making in a railway station!Perrichon.I am not making phrases.... I’m improving the child’s mind. (Drawing a little notebook from his pocket.) Here, my daughter, is a notebook I’ve bought for you.Henriette.For what purpose?Perrichon.To write on one side the expenses, and on the other the impressions.Henriette.What impressions?Perrichon.Our impressions of the trip! You shall write, and I will dictate.Madame Perrichon.What! You are now going to become an author?Perrichon.There’s no question of my becoming an author ... but it seems to me that a man of the world can have some thoughts and record them in a notebook!Madame Perrichon.That will be fine, indeed!Perrichon.(Aside.) She is like that every time she doesn’t take her coffee!A Porter.(Pushing a little cart loaded with baggage.) Monsieur, here is your baggage. Do you wish to have it checked?Perrichon.Certainly! But first, I am going to count them ... because, when one knows the number ... One, two, three, four, five, six, my wife, seven, my daughter, eight, and for myself, nine. We are nine.Porter.Put it up there!Perrichon.(Hurrying toward the back.) Hurry!Porter.Not that way, this way! (He points to the left.)Perrichon.All right! (To the women.) Wait for me there! We mustn’t get lost!(He goes out running, following the porter.)14
ACT I
The Lyons railway station at Paris. At the back, a turn-stile opening on the waiting-rooms. At the back, right, a ticket window. At the back, left, benches, a cake vender; at the left, a book stall.
SCENE 1.Majorin, A Railway Official, Travelers, Porters
Majorin.(Walking about impatiently.) Still this Perrichon doesn’t come! Already I’ve waited an hour.... Certainly it is today that he is to set out for Switzerland with his wife and daughter. (Bitterly.) Carriage builders who go to Switzerland! Carriage builders who have forty thousand pounds a year income! Carriage builders who keep their carriages! What times these are! While I,—I am earning two thousand four hundred francs ... a clerk, hard-working, intelligent, always bent over his desk.... Today I asked for leave ... I said it was my day for guard duty.... It is absolutely necessary that I see Perrichon before his departure.... I want to ask him to advance me my quarter’s salary.... Six hundred francs! He is going to put on his patronizing air ... make himself important ... a carriage builder! It’s a shame! Still hedoesn’t come! One would say that he did it on purpose! (Addressing a porter who passes, followed by travelers.) Monsieur, at what time does the train start for Lyons?
Porter.(Brusquely.) Ask the official. (He goes out at the left.)
Majorin.Thanks ... clodhopper! (Addressing the official who is near the ticket window.) Monsieur, at what time does the through train start for Lyons?
The Official.(Brusquely.) That doesn’t concern me! Look at the poster. (He points to a poster in the left wings.)
Majorin.Thanks.... (Aside.) The politeness of these corporations! If ever you come to my office, you...! Let’s have a look at the poster.... (He goes out at the left.)
SCENE 2.The Official, Perrichon, Madame Perrichon, Henriette
(They enter at the right)
Perrichon.Here we are! Let’s keep together! We couldn’t find each other again.... Where is our baggage? (Looking to the right; into the wings.) Ah, that’s all right! Who has the umbrellas?
Henriette.I, papa.
Perrichon.And the carpet bag? The cloaks?
Madame Perrichon.Here they are!
Perrichon.And my panama? It has been left in the cab! (Making a movement to rush out and checking himself.) Ah! No! I have it in my hand!... Phew, but I’m hot!
Madame Perrichon.It is your own fault!... You hurried us, you hustled us!... I don’t like to travel like that!
Perrichon.It is the departure which is tiresome ... once we are settled!... Stay here, I am going to get the tickets.... (Giving his hat to Henriette.) There, keep my panama for me.... (At the ticket window.) Three, first class, for Lyons!...
The Official.(Brusquely.) Not open yet! In a quarter of an hour!
Perrichon.(To the official.) Ah! pardon me! It is the first time I have traveled.... (Returning to his wife.) We are early.
Madame Perrichon.There! When I told you we should have time. You wouldn’t let us breakfast!
Perrichon.It is better to be early! ... one can look about the station! (To Henriette.) Well, little daughter, are you satisfied?... Here we are, about to set out!... A few minutes yet, and then, swift as the arrow of William Tell, we rush toward the Alps! (To his wife.) You brought the opera glasses?
Madame Perrichon.Of course!
Henriette.(To her father.) I’m not criticizing, papa, but it is now two years, at least, since you promised us this trip.
Perrichon.My daughter, I had to sell my business.... A merchant does not retire from business as easily as his little daughter leaves boarding school.... Besides, I was waiting for your education to be ended in order to complete it by revealing to you the splendid spectacle of nature!
Madame Perrichon.Are you going on in that strain?
Perrichon.What do you mean?
Madame Perrichon.Phrase-making in a railway station!
Perrichon.I am not making phrases.... I’m improving the child’s mind. (Drawing a little notebook from his pocket.) Here, my daughter, is a notebook I’ve bought for you.
Henriette.For what purpose?
Perrichon.To write on one side the expenses, and on the other the impressions.
Henriette.What impressions?
Perrichon.Our impressions of the trip! You shall write, and I will dictate.
Madame Perrichon.What! You are now going to become an author?
Perrichon.There’s no question of my becoming an author ... but it seems to me that a man of the world can have some thoughts and record them in a notebook!
Madame Perrichon.That will be fine, indeed!
Perrichon.(Aside.) She is like that every time she doesn’t take her coffee!
A Porter.(Pushing a little cart loaded with baggage.) Monsieur, here is your baggage. Do you wish to have it checked?
Perrichon.Certainly! But first, I am going to count them ... because, when one knows the number ... One, two, three, four, five, six, my wife, seven, my daughter, eight, and for myself, nine. We are nine.
Porter.Put it up there!
Perrichon.(Hurrying toward the back.) Hurry!
Porter.Not that way, this way! (He points to the left.)
Perrichon.All right! (To the women.) Wait for me there! We mustn’t get lost!
(He goes out running, following the porter.)14
The first scene undoubtedly helps to create the atmosphere of a large railway station, but everything in it could be brought out in what is now Scene 2. Even the way in which Majorin is passed from one employee to the other could be transferred to Perrichon. Every fact in Majorin’s soliloquy is either repeated in the scenes which follow, or could easily be brought out in them.
What has made necessary this swifter preliminary exposition is, probably, the growing popularity of three or four acts as compared with five. Less space has forced a swifter movement. Contrast, in the five-act pieceUne Chaine15by Scribe, the slow exposition in a first act of thirty-two pages with the perfectly adequate re-statement in six and a half pages in the one-act adaptation by Sidney Grundy,In Honour Bound.16
It is easy, however, to overload a first act with what seems needed exposition but is not. Careful consideration may show that some part may be postponed for “later exposition.” Here is the history which lies behind Act I of Sudermann’sHeimat, orMagda.17The famous singer, Dall’Orto, who was Magda Schwartze, has returned to her native place for a music festival. Ten years before she was driven from home by her father, an army officer, because she would not marry the man of his choice, Pastor Hefferdingt. Going to Berlin to train her voice, she was betrayed by young von Keller, a former acquaintance. After six months he deserted her. A child was born to whom she is passionately devoted. Von Keller is now a much respected citizen of the home town, who lives in awe of public opinion. He and Magda have not met since their Berlin days and he does not know there was a child. Since his return to the town he has kept away from the Schwartzes. Hefferdingt has remained single, devoting himself to good works. Magda’s fathernearly lost his mind from an apoplectic shock when he learned of her flight, but he has won back some part of his health through the wise and tender aid of Hefferdingt. There has been no communication between Magda and her family in the ten years. Now the younger sister Marie is engaged to the nephew of von Keller, Max, but the young people have not enough money to marry. They have been hoping that an aunt, Franziska, who caused Magda much unhappiness in the old days, will aid them. The narrow life of the town and the subservience of the Schwartzes to it had much to do with the rebelliousness of Magda as a girl. Through hard work and much bitter experience, she has won a supreme place in the world of music. She has developed a somewhat cynical philosophy of life which calls for complete self-expression, at any cost to others. She craves sight of her family again, and especially of Marie, a mere child when Magda left home.
Somewhere in the course of the play an audience must learn all these facts. How many of them must be set forth in Act I, and how many may be set apart for “later exposition”? Sudermann decided to postpone till Act II any detailed statement of the past relations between Magda and Hefferdingt. In Act I we learn only that he wished to marry Magda, and that there is anger in the family because of the way in which she refused him. What that was is not stated. Thus by giving mystery to these past relations of Magda and Hefferdingt, curiosity and interest are aroused and suspense created.
Of Magda’s relations with von Keller we really learn nothing in Act I. We are, it is true, made to suspect that his admitted meeting with her in Berlin covers more than he is willing to reveal, and that his avoidance of the Schwartzes means something, but we learn nothing clearly until Act III. Not till then do we know a child was born and is still alive.In other words, postponing detailed exposition of these matters provides the most important scene of Act II, that of Hefferdingt and Magda, and the central scene of Act III between von Keller and Magda. Note that deciding what shall be preliminary and what later exposition has much to do here, as always, with creating Suspense, a subject which will be treated under Movement. A difficult task for the dramatist is this determining what in the historical background of his play must be treated as preliminary exposition, and what may be postponed for later treatment, when the real action of the play is well under way.
Even when it is clear just what must go into preliminary exposition the ordering of the details chosen is very important. Look again atMagda. It is love for Marie which, in large part, draws Magda to her home, and at first keeps her there. The love affair which Magda fled from seemed to her conventional. Sudermann opens his play, therefore, with a picture of the thoroughly conventional engagement of Max and Marie, but remembering that the sooner a dramatist creates interest the better, he starts with the mysterious bouquet, far too expensive if sent by Max to Marie and wholly unacceptable if sent by any one else. When Max, entering, says that the flowers are not from him, there is a chance to emphasize two points of importance: the lovers’ lack of money, and their fear of gossip. Meantime the fact has been planted that there is a music festival in the town. As the two young people talk of their need and the people who might help them, we learn that the father thinks Magda’s departure was for some reason a “blot” on the family, and that Hefferdingt wished to marry her. The call of von Keller shows that since his return home he has been distant toward the Schwartzes; that he is afraid of public opinion; and that he met Magda in Berlin, “but only for a moment, on the street.” With the entrance of the father and mother we havethe petty social ambitions of the latter, and the tyrannical attitude of the former toward his family. The scene with von Klebs and Beckmann not only illustrates social conditions in the town, but begins to connect Dall’Orto with the lost daughter by showing the extraordinary interest of Hefferdingt in meeting the singer. The coming of Aunt Franziska with her announcement that the Dall’Orto is Magda ends the preliminary exposition, for with the arrival of Hefferdingt and his effort to bring Magda home, the real action of the play begins. Obviously much thought and care have gone into the re-ordering of these details, so that the facts which must be first understood are stated first and so that there shall be growing interest through the creation of more and more suspense.
In one of the early drafts ofRosmersholm, the opening page ran as follows. Note that there is no mention of any “white horses.”