The Merchant of Venice.A room in Belmont. Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A great round window framed in the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale clear sky of Northern Italy.
The Merchant of Venice.A room in Belmont. Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A great round window framed in the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale clear sky of Northern Italy.
Writing of his own work shortly after, Mr. Jones says: "While the scenery of a play is truly important, it should be so important that the audience should forget that it is present.There should be fusion between the play and the scenery. Scenery isn't there to be looked at, it's really there to be forgotten. The drama is a fire, the scenery is the air that lifts the fire and makes it bright.... The audience that is always conscious of the back drop is paying a doubtful compliment to the painter.... Even costumes should be the handiwork of the scenic artist. Yes, and if possible, he should build the very furniture."[11]Robert Edmond Jones has not only designed settings and costumes for poetic and fantastic forms of drama, but he has also been called upon to plan the productions of realistic modern plays.
Three of his designs introducing three different aspects of his work have been here reproduced. The model for Maeterlinck'sThe Seven Princessesis an example of an attempt to present the essential significant structure of a setting in the simplest way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative environment of the play. His design for a room in Belmont forThe Merchant of Veniceshows a great round window framed in the heavy molding of Mantegna and the pale, clear sky of Northern Italy. The scene forGood Gracious Annabelleis a corridor in an hotel. This scene is a typical example of a more or less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as possible, in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.[12]
When Sam Hume was connected with the Detroit Theatre of Arts and Crafts, he used a symbolic and suggestive method for the setting of poetic plays the scene of which was laid in no definite locality. In this theatre he installed a permanent setting, including the following units: "Four pylons [square pillars], constructed of canvas on wooden frames, each of the three covered faces measuring two and one-half by eighteen feet; two canvas flats each three by eighteen feet; two sections of stairs three feet long, and one section eight feet long, of uniform eighteen-inch height; three platforms of the same height, respectively six, eight, and twelve feet long; dark greenhangings as long as the pylons; two folding screens for masking, covered with the same cloth as that used in the hangings, and as high as the pylons; and two irregular tree forms in silhouette.
"The pylons, flats, and stairs, and such added pieces as the arch and window, were painted in broken color ...[13]so that the surfaces would take on any desired color under the proper lighting."[14]The economy of this method is illustrated by the fact that in one season nineteen plays were given in the Arts and Crafts Theatre at Detroit, and the settings for eleven of these were merely rearrangements of the permanent setting. This kind of setting is sometimes called "plastic"—a term which refers to the fact that the separate units are in the round, and not flat. The effect secured in settings representing outdoor scenes was made possible only by the use of a plaster horizon of the general type described in connection with the exhibition of the Stage Society.
Good Gracious Annabelle.A corridor in a hotel. Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A typical example of a more or less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as possible in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.
Good Gracious Annabelle.A corridor in a hotel. Design by Robert Edmond Jones. A typical example of a more or less abstract rendering of a literal scene. It was designed primarily with the idea of giving as many different exits and entrances as possible in order that the action of the drama might be swift and varied.
Robert Edmond Jones and Sam Hume are two of an increasingly large number of artists in America, among whom should be mentioned Norman-bel Geddes, Maurice Browne, and Lee Simonson, who are experimenting with design, color, and light. Underlying the work of all of these is the belief that the whole production, the play, the acting, the lighting, and the setting, should be unified by some one dominating mood. In the work of these new artists, there is no place for the old-fashioned painted back drop, the use of which emphasizes the disparity between the painted and the actual perspective, though their backgrounds are by no means necessarily either screens or draperies. Another new style of background is the skeleton setting, a permanent structural foundation erected on the stage, which through the addition of draperies and movable properties, or the variation of lights, or the manipulation of screens, may serve for all the scenes of a play. A permanent structure of this sort, representing the Tower of London, was used by Robert Edmond Jones in a recent production ofRichard IIIin New York, at the Plymouth Theatre. When Jacques Copeau conducted the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier in New York he had a permanent structure built on the stage of the Garrick Theatre,that he used for all the plays he produced; at times the upper half of the stage was masked, at times the recess back of the two central columns was used. The aspect of the stage was often completely changed by the addition of tapestries, stairs, panels, screens, and furniture.
In the description of the equipment of the Detroit Theatre of Arts and Crafts, reference has been made to a method of painting the plastic units in broken color. This is so important a principle that it should be more generally understood by those who are interested in the theatre. The principle was put into operation by the Viennese designer, Joseph Urban. In practice it means that a canvas painted with red and with green spots upon which a red light is played, throws up only the red spots blended so as to produce a red surface, and that the same canvas under a green light shows a green surface; and, if both kinds of lights are used, then both the green and red spots are brought out, according to the proportion of the mixture of green and red in the light.
Color is being used now not only for decorative purposes, but also symbolically. The decorative use of color on the stage is, obviously, like the decorative use of color in the design of textiles, or stained glass, or posters. The symbolic use of color is less easy to interpret, but it is plain that in most people's minds red is connected with excitement and frenzy, and blues and grays, with an atmosphere of mystery. This is a very bald suggestion of some of the very subtle things that have been done with color on the modern stage.
The new methods of stage lighting make possible all kinds of color combinations and effects. The use of the plaster horizon (or of the cyclorama, a cheaper substitute, usually a straight semi-circular curtain enclosing the stage, made of either white or light blue cloth), combined with high-powered lights set at various angles on the stage, makes outdoor effects possible, the beauty of which is new to the theatre.[15]Nowadays footlights are not invariably discarded, but where they are used they are wired so that groups of them can be lighted when other sections are dimmed or darkened. When the setting shows an interior scene with a window, though the scene may be lighted from all sides, the window seems to be thesource of all light. A good deal of the lighting on the stage is what is known in the interior decoration of houses as indirect lighting; colored lights are produced most simply by the interposition between the source of light and the stage of transparent colored slides, gelatine or glass.
In any production that is made under the influence of the new stagecraft, the costumes, like the setting of the play, are considered in connection with the resources of lighting. The costumes, whether historically correct or historically suggestive, whether of a period or conventionalized, are conceived in their three-fold relation to the characters of the play, the background, and the scheme of lights, by the designer or the director under whose general supervision the play is staged.
In general, American audiences are hardly conscious of the existence of these reforms. Here and there, it is true, the manager of a commercial theatre or an opera house has called in an artist to supervise his productions and has thus given publicity to the new way of making the arts of the theatre work together. Certain Little Theatres, also, have educated their followers in the significance of the new use of light and design to represent the mood of a play. The demands that the new method makes on craftsmanship have also commended it to students in schools and colleges interested in play production. Both the Little Theatres and the school theatres are doing a real service when they educate their communities in these new arts, for not only will this education increase the capacity of these particular audiences to enjoy the good things of the theatre, but the influence of these groups is bound in the long run to popularize the new stagecraft.
Shortly before the death of William Dean Howells, he related the experience that he had had of being circularized by a correspondence school that offered to teach him the art of writing fiction in a phenomenally short time at a ridiculously low rate. In this instance, there was something wrong with the mailing list, but the fact remains that in universities successful courses in writing short-stories and plays are given and the best of these courses actually have turned out writers who achieve various degrees of success financially and artisticallyIt is plain that a brief treatise like the present one makes no such pretensions; it means merely to suggest some of the most obvious points of departure for students in the drama who wish to exercise themselves in the composition of the one-act play, much as a student of poetry will try his hand at aballadeor a sonnet without taking himself or his metrical exercises too seriously.
Courtesy of Theatre Arts MagazineThe Seven Princesses.Design by Robert Edmond Jones. An example of the attempt to present the essential significant structure of a setting in the simplest way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative environment of the play.
Courtesy of Theatre Arts Magazine
The Seven Princesses.Design by Robert Edmond Jones. An example of the attempt to present the essential significant structure of a setting in the simplest way conceivable and by so doing to stimulate the imagination of the spectator to create for itself the imaginative environment of the play.
In the famous Perse School in Cambridge, England, the boys begin at the age of twelve to practise playmaking as an aid to the fuller understanding of Shakespeare's dramatic workmanship, and this work is developed throughout the rest of the course. The boys, having learned that Shakespeare himself used stories that he found ready to hand, discover in their own reading a story that will lend itself to dramatization. The story is told and retold from every angle. The class is then divided up into committees to every one of which is entrusted some part of the dramatization. One little committee busies itself with the setting, another with the structure, another with the comic characters, another with the songs that are interspersed and so on. These committees prepare rough notes to be presented in class. These notes may propose an outline of successive scenes, present the part of some principal character, or the "business" (illustrative action) of some minor part. Lessons of this sort are followed by composition rehearsals, where the dramatic and literary value of the proposed plot, characterization, pantomime, and dialogue are tested, and subjected to the criticism of teacher and boys. In the next lessons, the teacher brings to bear on the special problems on which the boys are working all the criticism that his wider range of reading and experience can suggest. In the light of his suggestions the various points are debated and the boys then proceed to careful fashioning, shaping, and writing. A rehearsal of the nearly finished product is held, followed by a final revision of the text. The work then goes forward to a public performance given with all due ceremony. In the higher classes playmaking is taught more especially in connection with writing and the boys are trained to imitate the style of various dramatists. Synge was used as a model at one time for, as one of the masters of the school explained: "The style of Synge is easy to copy because it is so largely composed of a certain phraseology. The same words, phrases, and turns ofsentence occur again and again. Here are a few taken at random; the reader will find them in a context on almost any page of the plays:It's myself—Is it me fight him?—I'm thinking—It's a poor(fine, great, hard, etc.)thing—A little path I have—Let you come—God help us all—Till Tuesday was a week—The end of time—The dawn of day—Let on—Kindly—Now, as inWalk out now—Surely—Maybe—Itself—At all—Afeard—Destroyed—It curse. Synge is also mighty fond of the wordsditchandewe. And there are certain forms of rhythm about Synge's prose which are used with equal frequency, and are quick and easy to catch. So far from this imitation of style being an artificial method, the fact is that once a boy of sixteen or over has read a play or two of Synge's, if he has any power of style in him, it will be all but impossible to stop him writing like Synge for a few weeks." Learning playwriting from models recalls the method of Benjamin Franklin and Robert Louis Stevenson who in their youth wrote slavish imitations of the great masters in order to form their own prose style. Of course, it is not claimed that this work at the Perse School makes playwrights, only that it gives the boys a deeper appreciation of dramatic workmanship and furnishes a new kind of intellectual game to add to the joy of school life.
The one-act plays contained in this collection are, as has been suggested in what has been said about their construction, illustrative of various kinds of workmanship. Certain of them are excellent models for those who are experimenting with playwriting. The one-act play, not nearly so difficult a form as the full-length play, offers undergraduates in school and college and inexperienced writers generally unlimited scope for experiment.
The testimony of Lord Dunsany is to the effect that his play is made when he has discovered a motive. Asked whether he always began with a motive, "'Not always,' he said; 'I begin with anything or next to nothing. Then suddenly, I get started, and go through in a hurry. The main point is not to interrupt a mood. Writing is an easy thing when one is going strong and going fast; it becomes a hard thing only when the onward rush is impeded. Most of my short plays have been written in a sitting or two.'"[16]This passage is quoted because insightinto the practice of professional writers is always helpful to amateurs. Dunsany uses "motive," it seems, as a convenient term for denoting the idea, the character, the incident or the mood that impels the dramatist to start writing a play. Such material is to be found everywhere. Many professional writers accumulate vast stores of such themes against the day when they may have the necessary leisure, energy, and insight to develop them.
It has been pointed out that there are only thirty-six possible dramatic situations in any case, and that no matter how the plot shapes itself, it is bound to classify itself somehow or other as one of the inescapable thirty-six. There is comfort also in the suggestion that Shakespeare drew practically all the dramatic material that he used so transcendently direct from the familiar and accessible narrative stores of his day. The young or inexperienced playwright need have no hesitation, then, in turning to such sources as the Greek myths for inspiration. Quite recently a highly successful one-act play of Phillip Moeller's proved that Helen of Troy is as eternally interesting as she is perennially beautiful. Maurice Baring draws on the old Greek stories, too, for several of hisDiminutive Dramas. The Bible has proved dramatically suggestive to Lord Dunsany and to Stephen Phillips. The old ballads ofFair AnnieandThe Wife of Usher's Wellhave been found dramatically available. The myths of the old Norse Gods, used by Richard Wagner for his music dramas, contain much unmined dramatic gold. John Masefield and Sigurjónsson have converted Saga material to the uses of the drama. In old English literature, inWidsith, in theBattle of Brunanburh, the seeking dramatist may find. The romances of the Middle Ages, the fairy lore of all peoples, and the old Hindu animal fables are fertile in suggestion to the intending dramatist. What a wonderful one-act play, steeped in the mellow atmosphere of the Renaissance in Italy, might be made out of Browning'sMy Last Duchess!At least one new literary precedent has recently been created by the author who wrote a sequel toDombey and Son. Certainly many famous novels and plays may be conceived as calling out for similar treatment at the hands of the experimental playwright. Famous literary and historic characters offer themselves as promising dramatic material. When Robert Emmons Rogers, author of the well-knownplay,Behind a Watteau Picture, was a sophomore at Harvard, he wrote the following charming little play on Shakespeare which is reprinted here, with the author's permission, as a pleasing example of a promising piece of apprentice work:[17]
Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582.The room is of heavy-beamed dark oak, stained by age and smoke, with a great, hooded fireplace on the left. At the back is a door with the upper half thrown back, and two wide windows through whose open lattices, overgrown with columbine, one can see the fresh country side in the setting sun. Under them are broad window seats. At the right, a door and a tall dresser filled with pewter plates and tankards. A couple of chairs, a stool and a low table stand about.Anne,a slim girl of sixteen, is mending the fire.Master George Peele,a bold and comely young man, in worn riding dress and spattered boots, sprawls against the disordered table.Giles,a plump and peevish old rogue in tapster's cap and apron, stands by the door looking out.
Peele[rousing himself]. Giles! Gi-les!Giles[hurries to him]. What more, zur? Wilt ha' the pastry or—?Peele. Another quart of sack.Giles. Yus, zur! Anne, bist asleep? [The girl rises slowly.]Anne[takes the tankard]. He hath had three a'ready.Peele[cheerfully]. And shall have three more so I will. This player's life of mine is a weary one.Anne[pertly]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks.Giles[scandalized]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking about, and haste! [Annegoes at right.] 'Er be a forrard gel, zur, though hendy. I be glad 'er's none o' mine, but my brother's in Shottery. He canna say I love 'is way o' making wenches so saucy.Peele. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen in Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have her like your blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? I have seen no one so comely since I left London.Giles[feebly]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford—Peele[hotly]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! Another day here and I should die in torment. Your grass lanes, your rubbly houses, fat burgesses, old women, your young clouter-heads who have no care for a bravely acted stage-play. [Bitingly.] "Can any good come out of Stratford?"Giles.Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more fairly—Peele[impatiently]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it?Giles.Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne!Anne[hurries in and servesPeele]. I heard you.Giles.Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my loongs over 'ee?Anne[simply]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the butt'ry door. Will hath not been home all day, and she is fair anxious. She bade me send him home once I saw him.Peele[drinking noisily]. Who is it? [Anneis clearing the table.]Giles[shortly]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will.Peele.A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods!Giles.Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest work, but dreams the day long, or poaches the graät woods wi' young loons o' like stomach.Anne[indignantly, dropping a dish]. It's not true! He is no poacher.Peele[grinning]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh?Anne.Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He hath learning beyond the rest of us—and if he likes to wander i' the woods, 'tis for no ill—he loves the open air—and you should hear the little songs he makes!Peele.Do all the lads find in you such a defender, oronly—? [She turns away.] Nay, no offense! I should like to see this Will.Giles[grumpily]. 'E 'ave noa will to help 'is father in these sorry times, but ever gawks at stage-plays. 'E 'ull come to noa good end. [The player starts up.]Peele. Stage-plays—no good end? Have a care, man!Giles. Nay, zur—noa harm, zur! I—I—canna bide longer. [Backs out.]Anne[at the window, wonderingly]. He should be here. He hath never lingered till sunset before. [Peelecomes up behind her.]Peele. Troubled, lass?Anne. Nay, sir, but—but—[Suddenly] Listen!Peele[blankly]. To what? [A faint singing without.]Anne[eagerly]. Canst hear nothing—a lilt afar off?Peele[nodding]. Like a May-day catch? I hear it.Anne. 'Tis Will! Cousin, Will is coming. [Gilescomes back.]Giles[peevishly]. I canna help it. Byunt 'e later'n common?A Voice. [The clear, boyish singing is coming very near.]When springtime frights the winter cold,5(Hark to the children singing!)The cowslip turns the fields to gold,The bird from 's nest is winging—Peele. Look you! There the boy comes.Anne[leaning out the window]. Isn't he coming here? Will! Will! [He passes by the window singing the last wordsYoung hearts are gay, while yet 'tis May,Hark to the children singing!and leaps in over the lower part of the door, a sturdy, ruddy boy, with merry face and a mop of brown hair.Annegreets him with outstretched hands.]Anne[reproachfully]. Will! Thy mother was so anxious!Will. I did na' think. I ha' been in the woods all day and forgot everything till the sun set.Anne. All the day long? Thou must be weary.Will[frankly]. Nay, not very weary—but hungry.Anne. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now.Giles[protesting]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna a-bear it. Let him sup at his own whoam.Will[shaking his head]. I dare na go home, for na doubt my father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. [He places himself easily in the armchair by the fire.]Giles[going sulkily]. Thriftless young loon!Anne[laying the table]. Hast had a splendid day?Will[absently]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. There you can lie on your back in the grass under the high arches of the trees, where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can listen to the wind in the trees, and see it shake the blossoms about you, and watch the red deer and the rabbits and the birds—where everything is lovely and still. [His voice trails off into silence.Annesmiles knowingly.]Anne. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?—Will? [ToPeele] The boy hath not heard a word I spoke.Peele[coming forward]. Would he hear me, I wonder! Boy!Will[starting]. Sir? [Peelelooks down on him sternly.]Peele. Dost know thou'rt in my chair?Will[coolly]. Thine? Indeed, 'tis very easy.Peele. Hark 'ee! Dost know my name?Will. I canna say I do.Peele[distinctly]. Master George Peele.Will. I thank thee, sir.Peele. Player in my Lord Admiral's Company.Will. [His whole manner changes and he jumps up eagerly.] A player? Oh—I did not know. Pray, take the seat.Peele[amused]. Dost think players are as lords? Most men have other views. [Sits.Willwatches him, fascinated.]Will. Nay, but—oh, I love to see stage-plays! Didst not play in Coventry three days agone, "The History of the Wicked King Richard"?Peele. Aye, aye. Behold in me the tyrant.Will. Thou? Rarely done! I mind me yet how the hump-backed king frowned and stamped about—thus [imitating]. Ha! Ha! 'Twas a brave play!Anne. Thy supper is ready, Will.Peele[amused]. The true player-instinct, on my soul!Will[flattered]. Dost truly think so? [Anneplucks his sleeve.]Anne. Will, where are thy wits? Supper waits.Will[apologetically]. Oh—I—I—did na hear thee. [He tries to eat, but his attention is ever distracted by the player's words.]Peele. Is my reckoning ready, girl?Anne. Reckoning now, sir? Wilt thou—?Peele. Yes, yes, I go to-night. To-morrow Warwick, then the long road to Oxford, playing by the way—and London at last!Anne. And then? [Willlistens intently.]Peele. Then back to the old Blackfriars, where all the city will flock to our tragedies and chronicles—a long, merry life of it.Anne[interested]. And does the Queen ever come?Peele. Nay, child, we go to her. Last Christmas I played before her at court, in the great room at Whitehall, before the nobles and ambassadors and ladies—oh, a gay time—and the Queen said—Will[starting up]. What was the play?Anne. Eat thy supper, Will.Will[impatiently]. I want no more.Peele. So my young cockerel is awake again. Will, a boy of thy stamp is lost here in Stratford. Thou shouldst be in London with us. By cock and pie, I have a mind to steal thee for the company! [Rises to pace the floor.]Will[breathlessly]. To play in London?Anne. Nay, Will, he but jests. Thou'rt happier here than traipsing about wi' the players. [Gilesappears at back.]Giles. Nags be ready, zur, at sunset as thee'st bid. Shall I put the gear on?Peele[sharply]. Well fed and groomed? Nay, I will see them myself. [Gilesvanishes.Peeleturns at the door.] Hark'ee, lass. Thy lad could do far worse than become a player. Good meat and drink, gold in 's pouch, favor at court, and true friends. I like the lad's spirit. [He goes.Annedrops into his chair by the fire. Twilight is coming on rapidly.Willstands silent at the window looking after the player.]Anne[troubled]. Will, what is it? Thou'rt very strange to-night.Will[wistfully]. I—I—Oh, Anne, I want to go to London. I am a-weary of rusting in Stratford, where I can learn nothing new, save to grow old, following my father's trade.Anne. But in London?Will[kindling]. In London one can learn more marvels in a day than in a lifetime here; for there the streets are in a bustle all day long, and the whole world meets in them, soldiers and courtiers and men of war, from France and Spain and the new lands beyond the sea, all full of learning and pleasant tales of foreign wars and the wondrous things in the colonies. My schoolmaster told me of it. You can stand in St. Paul's and the whole world passes by, mad for knowledge and adventure. And then the stage-plays—!Anne. Oh, Will, why long for them?Will. Think how splendid they must be when the Queen herself loves to see 'em. If I were like this player-fellow, and acted with the Admiral's company! He laughed that he would take me with him—to be a player and perchancewriteplays, interludes, and noble tragedies! Think of it, Anne—to live in London and be one of all the rare company there, to write brave plays wi' sounding lines for all to wonder at, and have folk turn on the streets when I passed and whisper, "That be Will Shakespeare, the play-maker"—to act them even at court and gain the Queen's own thanks! Anne, London is so great and splendid! It beckons me wi' all its turmoil of affairs and its noble hearts ready to love a new comrade. [Disconsolately] And I must bide in Stratford?Anne[gently]. Come now, Will. No need to be so feverish. Sit down by me. What canst thou know of play-making? What canst thou do in London?Will[he sits down by the hearth at her feet, looking into the firelight]. I'll tell thee, Anne. Thy father and half the village call me a lazy oaf, that I stray i' the woods some days instead of helping my father. I canna help it. The fit comes on me, and I must be alone, out i' the great woods.Anne[gladly]. Then thou dost not poach?Will[hastily]. No, no—that is—sometimes I am with Hodge and Diccon and John a' Field, and 'tis hard not to chase the deer. Nay, look not so grave—I try to do no harm.Anne[quietly]. And when thou'rt alone?Will. Then I lie under the trees or wander through thefields, and make plays to myself, as though I writ them in my mind, and cry the lines forth to the birds—they sound nobly, too—or make little songs and sing them i' the sunshine. They are but dreams, I know, but splendid ones—and the player looked wi' favor on me, and said I might make a good player, and he would take me with him.Anne. But he only jested.Will. No jest to me! I'll take him at his word and go with him to London. [He starts up eagerly.]Anne[troubled]. Will, Will! [Peeleenters at the back.]Peele. Hark 'ee, Giles, I go in half an hour!Will. Master Peele! [Catches at his arm.]Peele. Well, youngster?Will[slowly]. Thou—thou saidst I had a good spirit and would do well in London—in a stage company. Thou wert in jest, but—I will go with thee, if I may.Peele[taken all aback]. Go with me?Will[earnestly]. With the player's company—to London.Peele[laughing]. 'S wounds! Thou hast assurance! Dost think to become a great player at once?Will[impatiently]. Oh, I care not for the playing. Let me but be in London, to see the people there and be near the theatre. I'll be the players' servant, I'll hold the nobles' horses in the street—I'll do anything!Peele[seriously]. And go with us all over England on hard journeys to play to ignorant rustics?Will. Anywhere—I'll follow on to the world's end—only take me with you to London! [As he speaksGilesandMistress Shakespeare,a kindly faced woman of middle age, dressed in housewife's cap and gown, appear at the door.]Giles. There 'e be, Mistress Shixpur.Mistress S.[as she enters]. Oh, Will. [He turns sharply.]Will[confusedly]. Mother! I—I—did not know thou wert here.Mistress S.Why didst not come home—and what dost thou want with this stranger?Anne. He would go to London with him.Mistress S.[aghast]. To London. My Will?Will[quietly]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told thee, things I told to no other, and now the good time has come that I can see more of England.Mistress S.But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew the boy was restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is only a boy.Will[coloring]. In two years I shall be a man—I am a man now in spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [Mistress Shakespearesinks down in a chair.]Mistress S.What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy father's heart! [Willlooks ashamed.]Will. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He must not know till I be gone.Mistress S.[ToPeele]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad away? Hath not London enough a'ready?Peele[who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her gravely]. I but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But, boy, I'll tell thee fairly, thou'lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the people turn away—the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now cold—and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before him, and the fickle folk, crying after anewfavorite, leave the old to starve.Anne. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here—Will[bravely]. I know—all this may wait me—but I must go.Mistress S.[alarmed]. Must go, Will? [He kneels by her side.]Will. [tenderly]. Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not entirely my longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy—Giles. Ha, poaching again, young scamp!Will. Brought me before him—I was na poaching, I'll swear it, not so much as chasing the deer—but Sir Thomas had no patience, and bade me clear out, else he would seize me. I—I—dare na stay.Mistress S.I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the great park. And now—Oh, Will, Will—I know well how thou'st longed to go from here—and now thou must—what shall I do, lacking thee?Peele[frankly]. Will, if thou must go, thou must. London is greater than Stratford, and there is much evil there, but thou'rt true-hearted, and—by my player's honor—I will stand by thee, till the hangman get me. But we must go soon. 'Tis a dark road to Warwick—I'll see to the horses. Is it a compact? [Willgives him his hands.]Will[huskily]. A compact, sir—to the end. [Peelehurries out.]Giles. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and mad wi' joy to revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she.Will[hotly]. Thou liest. [Bending over her] Mother, 'tis not true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll never forget it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to gain learning and do things i' the world, that I may bring home all I get; fame, if God grant it, money, if I gain it, all to those at home.Anne. Thou'rt over-confident.Will. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is enough pain in London, and I'll get my share—but I'myoung! Mother, thou'rt not angry?Mistress S.I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. We will always wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary.Giles[at the door]. The horses are waiting. 'Tis dark, Will.Will[breaking down]. Mother, mother!Mistress S.The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. [He bends over her, then stumbles to the door,Annefollowing.]Will[turning]. Anne—Anne—thou dost not despise me for deserting Stratford. Imustgo.Anne. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget us all.Will.No, no, thou—I couldn't forget. I'll remember thee, Anne—I'll put thee in my plays; all my young maids and lovers shall be thee, as thou'rt now—and I'll bring thee rare gifts when I come home.Anne. I do na want them. Will—I—I—did na mean to be unkind. We were good friends, and I trust in thee, for the future, that thou'lt be great. Good-by—and do na forget the little playmate.Will. I will na forget [kissing her], and, Anne, be good tomy mother. [She goes back toMistress Shakespeare,and he stands watching them in the dusk.]Peele[at the window]. Come, come, Will! We must go.Will[turning slowly]. I—I'm coming, sir.
Peele[rousing himself]. Giles! Gi-les!
Giles[hurries to him]. What more, zur? Wilt ha' the pastry or—?
Peele. Another quart of sack.
Giles. Yus, zur! Anne, bist asleep? [The girl rises slowly.]
Anne[takes the tankard]. He hath had three a'ready.
Peele[cheerfully]. And shall have three more so I will. This player's life of mine is a weary one.
Anne[pertly]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks.
Giles[scandalized]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking about, and haste! [Annegoes at right.] 'Er be a forrard gel, zur, though hendy. I be glad 'er's none o' mine, but my brother's in Shottery. He canna say I love 'is way o' making wenches so saucy.
Peele. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen in Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have her like your blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? I have seen no one so comely since I left London.
Giles[feebly]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford—
Peele[hotly]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! Another day here and I should die in torment. Your grass lanes, your rubbly houses, fat burgesses, old women, your young clouter-heads who have no care for a bravely acted stage-play. [Bitingly.] "Can any good come out of Stratford?"
Giles.Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more fairly—
Peele[impatiently]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it?
Giles.Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne!
Anne[hurries in and servesPeele]. I heard you.
Giles.Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my loongs over 'ee?
Anne[simply]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the butt'ry door. Will hath not been home all day, and she is fair anxious. She bade me send him home once I saw him.
Peele[drinking noisily]. Who is it? [Anneis clearing the table.]
Giles[shortly]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will.
Peele.A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods!
Giles.Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest work, but dreams the day long, or poaches the graät woods wi' young loons o' like stomach.
Anne[indignantly, dropping a dish]. It's not true! He is no poacher.
Peele[grinning]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh?
Anne.Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He hath learning beyond the rest of us—and if he likes to wander i' the woods, 'tis for no ill—he loves the open air—and you should hear the little songs he makes!
Peele.Do all the lads find in you such a defender, oronly—? [She turns away.] Nay, no offense! I should like to see this Will.
Giles[grumpily]. 'E 'ave noa will to help 'is father in these sorry times, but ever gawks at stage-plays. 'E 'ull come to noa good end. [The player starts up.]
Peele. Stage-plays—no good end? Have a care, man!
Giles. Nay, zur—noa harm, zur! I—I—canna bide longer. [Backs out.]
Anne[at the window, wonderingly]. He should be here. He hath never lingered till sunset before. [Peelecomes up behind her.]
Peele. Troubled, lass?
Anne. Nay, sir, but—but—[Suddenly] Listen!
Peele[blankly]. To what? [A faint singing without.]
Anne[eagerly]. Canst hear nothing—a lilt afar off?
Peele[nodding]. Like a May-day catch? I hear it.
Anne. 'Tis Will! Cousin, Will is coming. [Gilescomes back.]
Giles[peevishly]. I canna help it. Byunt 'e later'n common?
A Voice. [The clear, boyish singing is coming very near.]
When springtime frights the winter cold,5(Hark to the children singing!)The cowslip turns the fields to gold,The bird from 's nest is winging—
Peele. Look you! There the boy comes.
Anne[leaning out the window]. Isn't he coming here? Will! Will! [He passes by the window singing the last words
Young hearts are gay, while yet 'tis May,Hark to the children singing!
and leaps in over the lower part of the door, a sturdy, ruddy boy, with merry face and a mop of brown hair.Annegreets him with outstretched hands.]
Anne[reproachfully]. Will! Thy mother was so anxious!
Will. I did na' think. I ha' been in the woods all day and forgot everything till the sun set.
Anne. All the day long? Thou must be weary.
Will[frankly]. Nay, not very weary—but hungry.
Anne. Poor boy. He shall have his supper now.
Giles[protesting]. 'E be allus eating 'ere, and I canna a-bear it. Let him sup at his own whoam.
Will[shaking his head]. I dare na go home, for na doubt my father'll beat me rarely. I'll bide here till he be asleep. [He places himself easily in the armchair by the fire.]
Giles[going sulkily]. Thriftless young loon!
Anne[laying the table]. Hast had a splendid day?
Will[absently]. Aye. In the great park at Charlecote. There you can lie on your back in the grass under the high arches of the trees, where the sun rarely peeps in, and you can listen to the wind in the trees, and see it shake the blossoms about you, and watch the red deer and the rabbits and the birds—where everything is lovely and still. [His voice trails off into silence.Annesmiles knowingly.]
Anne. Thou'lt be making poetry before long, eh, Will?—Will? [ToPeele] The boy hath not heard a word I spoke.
Peele[coming forward]. Would he hear me, I wonder! Boy!
Will[starting]. Sir? [Peelelooks down on him sternly.]
Peele. Dost know thou'rt in my chair?
Will[coolly]. Thine? Indeed, 'tis very easy.
Peele. Hark 'ee! Dost know my name?
Will. I canna say I do.
Peele[distinctly]. Master George Peele.
Will. I thank thee, sir.
Peele. Player in my Lord Admiral's Company.
Will. [His whole manner changes and he jumps up eagerly.] A player? Oh—I did not know. Pray, take the seat.
Peele[amused]. Dost think players are as lords? Most men have other views. [Sits.Willwatches him, fascinated.]
Will. Nay, but—oh, I love to see stage-plays! Didst not play in Coventry three days agone, "The History of the Wicked King Richard"?
Peele. Aye, aye. Behold in me the tyrant.
Will. Thou? Rarely done! I mind me yet how the hump-backed king frowned and stamped about—thus [imitating]. Ha! Ha! 'Twas a brave play!
Anne. Thy supper is ready, Will.
Peele[amused]. The true player-instinct, on my soul!
Will[flattered]. Dost truly think so? [Anneplucks his sleeve.]
Anne. Will, where are thy wits? Supper waits.
Will[apologetically]. Oh—I—I—did na hear thee. [He tries to eat, but his attention is ever distracted by the player's words.]
Peele. Is my reckoning ready, girl?
Anne. Reckoning now, sir? Wilt thou—?
Peele. Yes, yes, I go to-night. To-morrow Warwick, then the long road to Oxford, playing by the way—and London at last!
Anne. And then? [Willlistens intently.]
Peele. Then back to the old Blackfriars, where all the city will flock to our tragedies and chronicles—a long, merry life of it.
Anne[interested]. And does the Queen ever come?
Peele. Nay, child, we go to her. Last Christmas I played before her at court, in the great room at Whitehall, before the nobles and ambassadors and ladies—oh, a gay time—and the Queen said—
Will[starting up]. What was the play?
Anne. Eat thy supper, Will.
Will[impatiently]. I want no more.
Peele. So my young cockerel is awake again. Will, a boy of thy stamp is lost here in Stratford. Thou shouldst be in London with us. By cock and pie, I have a mind to steal thee for the company! [Rises to pace the floor.]
Will[breathlessly]. To play in London?
Anne. Nay, Will, he but jests. Thou'rt happier here than traipsing about wi' the players. [Gilesappears at back.]
Giles. Nags be ready, zur, at sunset as thee'st bid. Shall I put the gear on?
Peele[sharply]. Well fed and groomed? Nay, I will see them myself. [Gilesvanishes.Peeleturns at the door.] Hark'ee, lass. Thy lad could do far worse than become a player. Good meat and drink, gold in 's pouch, favor at court, and true friends. I like the lad's spirit. [He goes.Annedrops into his chair by the fire. Twilight is coming on rapidly.Willstands silent at the window looking after the player.]
Anne[troubled]. Will, what is it? Thou'rt very strange to-night.
Will[wistfully]. I—I—Oh, Anne, I want to go to London. I am a-weary of rusting in Stratford, where I can learn nothing new, save to grow old, following my father's trade.
Anne. But in London?
Will[kindling]. In London one can learn more marvels in a day than in a lifetime here; for there the streets are in a bustle all day long, and the whole world meets in them, soldiers and courtiers and men of war, from France and Spain and the new lands beyond the sea, all full of learning and pleasant tales of foreign wars and the wondrous things in the colonies. My schoolmaster told me of it. You can stand in St. Paul's and the whole world passes by, mad for knowledge and adventure. And then the stage-plays—!
Anne. Oh, Will, why long for them?
Will. Think how splendid they must be when the Queen herself loves to see 'em. If I were like this player-fellow, and acted with the Admiral's company! He laughed that he would take me with him—to be a player and perchancewriteplays, interludes, and noble tragedies! Think of it, Anne—to live in London and be one of all the rare company there, to write brave plays wi' sounding lines for all to wonder at, and have folk turn on the streets when I passed and whisper, "That be Will Shakespeare, the play-maker"—to act them even at court and gain the Queen's own thanks! Anne, London is so great and splendid! It beckons me wi' all its turmoil of affairs and its noble hearts ready to love a new comrade. [Disconsolately] And I must bide in Stratford?
Anne[gently]. Come now, Will. No need to be so feverish. Sit down by me. What canst thou know of play-making? What canst thou do in London?
Will[he sits down by the hearth at her feet, looking into the firelight]. I'll tell thee, Anne. Thy father and half the village call me a lazy oaf, that I stray i' the woods some days instead of helping my father. I canna help it. The fit comes on me, and I must be alone, out i' the great woods.
Anne[gladly]. Then thou dost not poach?
Will[hastily]. No, no—that is—sometimes I am with Hodge and Diccon and John a' Field, and 'tis hard not to chase the deer. Nay, look not so grave—I try to do no harm.
Anne[quietly]. And when thou'rt alone?
Will. Then I lie under the trees or wander through thefields, and make plays to myself, as though I writ them in my mind, and cry the lines forth to the birds—they sound nobly, too—or make little songs and sing them i' the sunshine. They are but dreams, I know, but splendid ones—and the player looked wi' favor on me, and said I might make a good player, and he would take me with him.
Anne. But he only jested.
Will. No jest to me! I'll take him at his word and go with him to London. [He starts up eagerly.]
Anne[troubled]. Will, Will! [Peeleenters at the back.]
Peele. Hark 'ee, Giles, I go in half an hour!
Will. Master Peele! [Catches at his arm.]
Peele. Well, youngster?
Will[slowly]. Thou—thou saidst I had a good spirit and would do well in London—in a stage company. Thou wert in jest, but—I will go with thee, if I may.
Peele[taken all aback]. Go with me?
Will[earnestly]. With the player's company—to London.
Peele[laughing]. 'S wounds! Thou hast assurance! Dost think to become a great player at once?
Will[impatiently]. Oh, I care not for the playing. Let me but be in London, to see the people there and be near the theatre. I'll be the players' servant, I'll hold the nobles' horses in the street—I'll do anything!
Peele[seriously]. And go with us all over England on hard journeys to play to ignorant rustics?
Will. Anywhere—I'll follow on to the world's end—only take me with you to London! [As he speaksGilesandMistress Shakespeare,a kindly faced woman of middle age, dressed in housewife's cap and gown, appear at the door.]
Giles. There 'e be, Mistress Shixpur.
Mistress S.[as she enters]. Oh, Will. [He turns sharply.]
Will[confusedly]. Mother! I—I—did not know thou wert here.
Mistress S.Why didst not come home—and what dost thou want with this stranger?
Anne. He would go to London with him.
Mistress S.[aghast]. To London. My Will?
Will[quietly]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told thee, things I told to no other, and now the good time has come that I can see more of England.
Mistress S.But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew the boy was restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is only a boy.
Will[coloring]. In two years I shall be a man—I am a man now in spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [Mistress Shakespearesinks down in a chair.]
Mistress S.What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy father's heart! [Willlooks ashamed.]
Will. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He must not know till I be gone.
Mistress S.[ToPeele]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad away? Hath not London enough a'ready?
Peele[who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her gravely]. I but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But, boy, I'll tell thee fairly, thou'lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the people turn away—the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now cold—and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before him, and the fickle folk, crying after anewfavorite, leave the old to starve.
Anne. Will, canst not see? Thou'rt better here—
Will[bravely]. I know—all this may wait me—but I must go.
Mistress S.[alarmed]. Must go, Will? [He kneels by her side.]
Will. [tenderly]. Hush, mother, I'll tell thee. 'Tis not entirely my longing, for this morning the keeper of old Lucy—
Giles. Ha, poaching again, young scamp!
Will. Brought me before him—I was na poaching, I'll swear it, not so much as chasing the deer—but Sir Thomas had no patience, and bade me clear out, else he would seize me. I—I—dare na stay.
Mistress S.I feared it; thy father forbade thee in the great park. And now—Oh, Will, Will—I know well how thou'st longed to go from here—and now thou must—what shall I do, lacking thee?
Peele[frankly]. Will, if thou must go, thou must. London is greater than Stratford, and there is much evil there, but thou'rt true-hearted, and—by my player's honor—I will stand by thee, till the hangman get me. But we must go soon. 'Tis a dark road to Warwick—I'll see to the horses. Is it a compact? [Willgives him his hands.]
Will[huskily]. A compact, sir—to the end. [Peelehurries out.]
Giles. Look at 'e now, breaking 'is mother's heart, and mad wi' joy to revel in London. 'Tis little 'e recks of she.
Will[hotly]. Thou liest. [Bending over her] Mother, 'tis not true. I do love thee and father, I love Stratford. I'll never forget it. But 'tis so little here, and I must get away to gain learning and do things i' the world, that I may bring home all I get; fame, if God grant it, money, if I gain it, all to those at home.
Anne. Thou'rt over-confident.
Will. Aye, because I'm young. God knows there is enough pain in London, and I'll get my share—but I'myoung! Mother, thou'rt not angry?
Mistress S.I knew 'twas coming, and 'tis not so hard. We will always wait for thee at home, when thou'rt weary.
Giles[at the door]. The horses are waiting. 'Tis dark, Will.
Will[breaking down]. Mother, mother!
Mistress S.The good God keep thee safe. Kiss me, Will. [He bends over her, then stumbles to the door,Annefollowing.]
Will[turning]. Anne—Anne—thou dost not despise me for deserting Stratford. Imustgo.
Anne. Oh, I know. Thou'lt go to London and forget us all.
Will.No, no, thou—I couldn't forget. I'll remember thee, Anne—I'll put thee in my plays; all my young maids and lovers shall be thee, as thou'rt now—and I'll bring thee rare gifts when I come home.
Anne. I do na want them. Will—I—I—did na mean to be unkind. We were good friends, and I trust in thee, for the future, that thou'lt be great. Good-by—and do na forget the little playmate.
Will. I will na forget [kissing her], and, Anne, be good tomy mother. [She goes back toMistress Shakespeare,and he stands watching them in the dusk.]
Peele[at the window]. Come, come, Will! We must go.
Will[turning slowly]. I—I'm coming, sir.
[THE CURTAIN.]
All the dramatic motives that have been enumerated so far have been more or less literary in origin, but "A play may start from almost anything: a detached thought that flashes through the mind; a theory of conduct or an act which one firmly believes or wishes only to examine; a bit of dialogue overheard or imagined; a setting, real or imagined, which creates emotion in the observer; a perfectly detached scene, the antecedents and consequences of which are as yet unknown; a figure glimpsed in a crowd which for some reason arrests the attention of the dramatist ... a mere incident—heard in idle talk or observed; a story told only in barest outline or with the utmost detail."[18]
The great dramatic critic, William Archer, has said that "the only valid definition of the dramatic is: Any representation of imaginary personages which is capable of interesting an average audience assembled in a theater." For the purposes of the definition the Boy Will of Robert Emmons Rogers's little piece and Drinkwater's Abraham Lincoln are equally imaginary personages. In the case of the one-act play the theatre in question is more often than not a Little Theatre or a school theatre, the representation is more frequently at the moment by amateur than by professional actors and the audience, being small and close to the stage, is likely to assume a co-operative attitude towards the playwright, the actor, and the other immediate factors in the production. Since the success of a play depends on its adaptability to the requirements of actor, theatre, and audience, it is well for inexperienced playwrights to study the conditions under which one-act plays are likely to be produced.
One very practical consideration to hold in mind is that the one-act play has a shorter time in which to focus attention thanthe full-length play and so the indispensable preliminary exposition must be quickly disposed of and an urgent appeal to the emotional interest of the audience must be made at the beginning. As has been said, every artistic consideration that calls for singleness of impression in the short-story is of equal importance in determining the unified structure of the one-act play. For the reason that a one-act play is almost never given by itself, if for no other, its effect will be dissipated if plot, characterization, or atmosphere fails in unity.
The writer exercising himself in the art of play-making had best begin with the procedure common to many professional playwrights. This first step is the drawing up of a scenario, which is an outline showing the course of the story, identifying the characters, indicating the setting and atmosphere and explaining the nature of the play; that is, whether, for example, it is to be a fantasy likeThe Pierrot of the Minute, or a comedy of manners likeWurzel-Flummery.
Here for instance is such a scenario as might have been drawn up forThe Boy Will:
THE BOY WILL (Historical fantasy)Scenario for a one-act play, byRobert Emmons Rogers
Characters(in order of their appearance)
Within the White Luces Inn on a late afternoon in spring, 1582. (Here a description of the interior would follow.)
The scenario drawn up, the next step is to develop the plot. The plot of a one-act play, to be effective, must be extraordinarily compact. The accepted laws of plot construction for all artistic narratives are the same. The climax must be carefully prepared for, as in Synge'sRiders to the Sea, and the various devices used for heightening the suspense should be discovered and applied.
Characterization is more difficult for the tyro to manage than plot. Consistency of characterization is attained through discovering in the beginning a motive that will sufficiently account for the part taken by the character by means of speech and action, and through constantly testing the characterization by this motive. Such consistency of characterization is illustrated to perfection in Tarkington'sBeauty and the Jacobin. The writer of the one-act play does not use many characters. "Examination of several hundred one-act plays has revealedthat the average number of characters to a play is between three and four."[19]
Facility in writing dialogue is gained like facility in plot construction and in characterization only by the patient study of the work of experienced and successful playwrights. Dialogue that is witty, charming, ironical, or graceful is of dramatic value only as it is in character.
A little experience on the stage is a great help. Such experience teaches the value of skillfully planned exits and entrances for characters; helps the beginner to distinguish between action that should be related and action that should be seen; shows him how a scene must be devised to occupy the time it takes for a character to appear after he has telephoned that he is coming; and a variety of other practical considerations.
Stage directions are likely to be over-elaborated by the inexperienced. The best stage directions are those that deal only with matters of setting, lighting and essential pantomime or action. They should not, in general, be used for characterization.
But after all there can be no infallible recipes for dramatic writing. With the successful professional playwright, apprenticeship is often an unconscious stage. Plays succeed that break all the rules laid down by critics and professors of dramatic literature, but after all those rules were, to begin with, based on practices productive of success under other conditions. In any case some insight into the mechanics of dramatic art does make the reading of plays more interesting and does give an added zest to theatre going.
The giving of plays in schools is no new thing. One of the earliest English comedies,Ralph Roister Doister, was written in the middle of the sixteenth century by Nicholas Udall, a schoolmaster, probably to be performed at Westminister School at Christmas time. Many generations of boys in the English public schools have presented the plays of the Greek and Latindramatists; and schools and colleges in this country have also at times given performances of the classic drama. But until recently Shakespeare and the comedies of Sheridan and Goldsmith have been the chief dramatic fare both in the classroom and on the stage in American schools.
Modern plays are coming, however, to be more generally introduced into the course of study. The following significant list, prepared by Miss Anna H. Spaulding, is in use in the senior classes in English in the Brookline High School, at Brookline, Massachusetts:
Thirty-five of these plays are distinctly modern. Another list, in use as part of a course in contemporary literature given in the last half of the third year at the Washington Irving High School and including only modern plays, is reprinted below:
These plays are read and studied; that is to say, such topics as dramatic workmanship, theme, setting, characterization, dialogue, and diction are taken up in connection with each one and each one is made the starting point for a new interest in the drama of to-day.[20]
In another high school in New York, the Evander Childs, there is a four years' course of two periods a week in classroom study of the drama, old and new. All composition work is connected with this special interest.
Another kind of work based on contemporary drama was carried on by a group of first-year students in a certain high school who were much interested in a program of one-act plays to be presented in the school theatre. The teacher of English who had charge of this young class discussed the subject of the theatre audience with them both before and after the performance. The outcome of this analysis of the interests of the audience was an outline. These fourteen-year old girls said that the next time that they went to the theatre they would keep in mind the following considerations:
One cannot help feeling that these young people were being effectively trained to enjoy the best drama in the best way.
Not only is modern drama being read and studied in the English classes, but the schools are becoming centres of Little Theatre movements and leading their communities in pageants and dramatic festivals. An editorial inThe New York Evening Postin 1918 put it in this way: "As Froude states that in Tudor England there was acting everywhere from palace to inn-yard and village green, so, the prediction is made, future historians will record that in our America there was acting everywhere—in neighborhood theatres, portable theatres, church clubs, high schools and universities, settlements, open amphitheatres, and hotel ballrooms."
One reason that amateur dramatics have taken on a new lease of life in the schools is because other teachers besides teachers of English have become interested in the project of giving a play. Students in physics classes have planned and executed lighting systems for the school theatre, students in carpentering and manual arts have built the scenery from designs made in drawing classes, curtains have been stenciled, costumes made and cloths dyed in domestic art classes, programs printed by the school printing squad, music furnished by the school orchestra and dances taught by the physical training department. In most cases the line coaching and the general direction of the play have been part of the work in English.
A concrete example will illustrate this kind of co-operation. Several years ago the department of English at the Washington Irving High School gave two plays,Three Pills in a Bottle, a product of the 47 Workshop, by Rachel Lyman Field, andThe Goddess of the Woven Wind, by Alice Rostetter.TheGoddess of the Woven Windhad grown out of class-room work. The girls in an industrial course were studying the origin of the silk industry. A pamphlet stated that the wife of Hoangti, Si-Ling-Chi, was the first to prepare and weave silk. This legend offered suggestive dramatic material peculiarly appropriate for a girls' high school.
The work of obtaining the setting and the properties was divided between two committees, each working under the direction of a chairman. Since fifty dollars had been fixed as the limit of expenditure for the two plays, the problem was rather a difficult one. Fortunately,Three Pills in a Bottlecalls for a small cast. The cast of TheGoddess of the Woven Wind, however, included thirty-four girls, most of whom had to be orientally clad and equipped. The teacher who contemplates putting on a rather elaborate costume play in his or her high school will be interested to learn that the amount was so exactly fixed and the department so resourceful that fifty-one dollars and nine cents was the total sum spent on the two plays. Then, lest anyone think that there had been a miscalculation, let it be added that this sum included the money spent for hot chocolate to serve to the casts of the plays, between the afternoon and evening performances.
The problem of stagingThree Pills in a Bottlewas greatly simplified by the fact that the frontispiece of the play gives a simple, effective setting not difficult to copy. With the aid of some amateur carpentering, the regular interior set was easily transformed to suit the purpose. The problem of color was solved when the chairman of the committee found a patchwork quilt in the attic, during a visit to her mother's home; a conference with the janitress of her city apartment developed the fact that she possessed a freshly scrubbed wash-tub, which she was willing not only to donate to the cause, but to have painted green.
The task of stagingThe Goddess of the Woven Windwas difficult and interesting, because it was decidedly a costume play, and because it was a first production. Some of the difficulties that confronted the chairman of the committee for that play were amusing.
For instance, after some perplexed thought on the subject, she tacked the following list of costumes and properties on the Bulletin Board of the English office:
She also advertised the need of these things and many others in all her classes. Within two weeks nearly everything had either appeared or been promised, except a Chinese gong with a proper "whang" to it, an unbreakable sky-blue bowl and the mulberry tree! A teacher in a neighboring school lent the company a splendid gong, sometimes used in their orchestra; a student transformed a wooden chopping bowl by means of clay and tempera into an exquisite piece of pottery, copied from a priceless bowl on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
The mulberry tree was still an unsolved problem, when Dugald Stuart Walker, the artist who has produced a number of plays at the Christadora House in New York, was consulted. He suggested that the tree be a conventionalized one of flat "drapes" of green and brown poplin, with cocoons sewn on in a simple border design.
The staging of the play then became a project for members of a third-year art class. During their English period they read the play, recited on the subject of the China of remote dynasties, constructed a miniature stage, and then, forming committees among themselves, worked out the practical details. One group purchased the necessary paint, another painted the vermilion sun. Her neighbor affixed it to a bamboo rod. To emphasize the Chinese setting, two girls made a frame with a dragon as head-piece and huge, colorful Chinese medallions to be sewn on the side drapery. The design for the medallions was obtained from a Chinese brass plate. Almost every girl in the class took part in the project. Interest was easily aroused, as a number of girls in this class took part in the play.
As for the costumes, for the thirty-four members of thecast, only eight dollars' worth was hired. The rest were either borrowed or made by the girls. The most successful one, perhaps, that worn by the empress, was copied from an Edmund Dulac illustration of the Princess Badoura. The astrologers' costumes were obtained from photographs ofThe Yellow Jacket, lent by Mrs. Coburn. To complete the project, the girls wrote a composition explaining how to organize the staging of a costume play.
Meanwhile, the selection and coaching of the two casts was going on. Competition for the parts was open to the girls of the entire school. A great many girls were tried out before the two committees made a choice. In fact, every girl who was recommended by her English teacher was given an opportunity to read a part. In a number of cases two girls were assigned for one part and it was not known until almost the last moment who was to have the rôle or who was to understudy. Rehearsals were held at least three times a week, for three weeks, and a full-dress rehearsal was held two days before the final performance. It was thought advisable to allow a day to elapse between the last rehearsal and the real performance, in order to give the girls an opportunity to rest.
In coaching the plays, an effort was made to have a girl read the line properly without having it read to her. The members of the coaching committee would explain the mood or frame of mind to the speaker; the girl would then interpret the mood in her reading.
In addition to the coaching committee, several teachers sat at the back of the auditorium during rehearsals, to warn the speakers when they could not be heard.
The advertising campaign began soon after a choice of plays had been made. In compliance with the request of the Publicity Committee, one of the teachers of an art class and a teacher in the English Department assigned to their pupils the problem of making posters to advertise the plays. To the painter of the best one a prize was awarded.
Announcements of the play were posted by pupils in various parts of the building. Tiny brochures decorated with Chinese motives were prepared by students during an English period, and later were circulated among the faculty, and placed upon office bulletin boards, and in diaries. In writing these brochures the girls applied the knowledge they had gained instudying the writing of advertisements. Two illustrated advertisements made in one class were displayed in other high schools; a number were sent in an envelope with tickets to patrons and distinguished friends of the schools. One class wrote letters to firms of wholesale silk merchants and importers, advertisingThe Goddess of the Woven Wind, the story of silk.
In order to increase the sale of tickets and to prepare an appreciative audience, various subjects were suggested to English teachers for projects in class work connected with the plays. In many classes every girl wrote and illustrated a paper on some topic pertaining to Chinese life, such as customs, costumes, religion, occupations, silk, China, umbrellas, fireworks, fans, position of women, objects of art. Oral compositions were devoted to phases of some of these subjects. In the oral work and in the written composition, accurate knowledge of authorities consulted was insisted upon. Chinese proverbs were studied. "A man knows, but a woman knows better," used by the author in her play, was one of the most popular ones. Translations, found in theLiterary Digest, of Chinese poems of the sixteenth and of the eighteenth century were produced and read by the girls, many of whom brought to class all the Chinese articles they could find at home. Incense burners, fans, pitchers, embroideries, chop sticks, beads, shoes, vases, and even a Chinese newspaper, found their way to the class-room and were exhibited with pride. Interest in things Chinese was so great that clippings and prints continued coming in for almost two weeks after the play had been presented. Class visits were made to the Chinese exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to importing houses in the neighborhood.
The kind of co-operation described has led in some schools to the establishment of workshops similar to those conducted in connection with certain university courses in playwriting and dramatics and with many of the Little Theatres. A paragraph that appeared recently in a calendar of the New York Drama League explains in a convincing way the necessity for a workshop in connection with all amateur producing. "One of the most vital problems that the amateur group has to solve," says the writer, "is that of securing a proper place for the preparing of a production. Not all organizations can hold rehearsals, paint scenery, experiment with lighting on costumes and scenery onthe stage on which they are finally to play. Even where this is possible, it is costly. Much of the activity is now carried on in the homes of members so far as rehearsals go; in barns or garages as regards the painting of scenery and not at all so far as the lighting question is concerned. More often than not, a few hasty final rehearsals are relied upon to pull into shape some of the most important elements of a satisfactory performance.
"The remedy lies in the acquisition of a workshop. A large room with a very high ceiling will serve admirably. But you must be able to work recklessly in it, sawing wood, hammering nails, mussing things up generally with paint and riddling the walls and ceiling with hooks and screws to hang lighting apparatus and other properties. An old-fashioned barn can be converted into an ideal workshop, if provision is made for proper heating. All the activity should be concentrated in the workshop and there is no reason why all the experimentalists cannot be at work at once—the carpenters, the scene painters, the electricians, the property men, and even the actors with their director."
The use of miniature model stages is becoming more and more common in the schools, the preliminary model serving the workshop, until the background, lighting, properties, and costumes are completed. It is an excellent thing for schools to start a collection of models of famous theatres and notably successful stage-sets. The material for these exists in illustrated books and magazines and in the mass of descriptive material in regard to the stage that is now being published.[21]