The clever title,Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant, which Mr. Bernard Shaw selected for the earliest issue of his dramatic writings, suggests a theme of criticism that Mr. Shaw, in his lengthy prefaces, might profitably have considered if he had not preferred to devote his entire space to a discussion of his own abilities. In explanation of his title, the author stated only that he labeled his first three plays Unpleasant for the reason that "their dramatic power is used to force the spectator to face unpleasant facts." This sentence, of course, is not a definition, since it merely repeats the word to be explained; and therefore, if we wish to find out whether or not an unpleasant play is of any real service in the theatre, we shall have to do some thinking of our own.
It is an axiom that all things in the universe are interesting. The wordinterestingmeanscapable of awakening some activity of human mind; and there is no imaginable topic, whether pleasant or unpleasant, which is not, in one way, or another, capable of this effect. But the activities of thehuman mind are various, and there are therefore several different sorts of interest. The activity of mind awakened by music over waters is very different from that awakened by the binomial theorem. Some things interest the intellect, others the emotions; and it is only things of prime importance that interest them both in equal measure. Now if we compare the interest of pleasant and unpleasant topics, we shall see at once that the activity of mind awakened by the former is more complete than that awakened by the latter. A pleasant topic not only interests the intellect but also elicits a positive response from the emotions; but most unpleasant topics are positively interesting to the intellect alone. In so far as the emotions respond at all to an unpleasant topic, they respond usually with a negative activity. Regarding a thing which is unpleasant, the healthy mind will feel aversion—which is a negative emotion—or else will merely think about it with no feeling whatsoever. But regarding a thing which is pleasant, the mind may be stirred through the entire gamut of positive emotions, rising ultimately to that supreme activity which is Love. This is, of course, the philosophic reason why the thinkers of pleasant thoughts and dreamers of beautiful dreams stand higher in history than those who have thought unpleasantness and have imagined woe.
Returning now to that clever title of Mr. Shaw's, we may define an unpleasant play as one which interests the intellect without at the same time awakening a positive response from the emotions; andwe may define a pleasant play as one which not only stimulates thought but also elicits sympathy. To any one who has thoroughly considered the conditions governing theatric art, it should be evidenta priorithat pleasant plays are better suited for service in the theatre than unpleasant plays. This truth is clearly illustrated by the facts of Mr. Shaw's career. As a matter of history, it will be remembered that his vogue in our theatres has been confined almost entirely to his pleasant plays. All four of them have enjoyed a profitable run; and it is toCandida, the best of his pleasant plays, that, in America at least, he owes his fame. Of the three unpleasant plays,The Philandererhas never been produced at all;Widower's Houseshas been given only in a series of special matinées; andMrs. Warren's Profession, though it was enormously advertised by the fatuous interference of the police, failed to interest the public when ultimately it was offered for a run.
Mrs. Warren's Professionis just as interesting to the thoughtful reader asCandida. It is built with the same technical efficiency, and written with the same agility and wit; it is just as sound and true, and therefore just as moral; and as a criticism, not so much of life as of society, it is indubitablymore important. Why, then, isCandidaa better work? The reason is that the unpleasant play is interesting merely to the intellect and leaves the audience cold, whereas the pleasant play is interesting also to the emotions and stirs the audience to sympathy. It is possible for the public to feel sorry for Morell; it is even possible for them to feel sorry for Marchbanks: but it is absolutely impossible for them to feel sorry for Mrs. Warren. The multitude instinctively demands an opportunity to sympathise with the characters presented in the theatre. Since the drama is a democratic art, and the dramatist is not the monarch but the servant of the public, the voice of the people should, in this matter of pleasant and unpleasant plays, be considered the voice of the gods. This thesis seems to me axiomatic and unsusceptible of argument. Yet since it is continually denied by the professed "uplifters" of the stage, who persist in looking down upon the public and decrying the wisdom of the many, it may be necessary to explain the eternal principle upon which it is based. The truth must be self-evident that theatre-goers are endowed with a certain inalienable right—namely, the pursuit of happiness. The pursuit of happiness is the most important thing in the world; because it is nothing less than an endeavor to understand and to appreciate the true, the beautiful, and the good. Happiness comes of loving thingswhich are worthy; a man is happy in proportion to the number of things which he has learned to love; and he, of all men, is most happy who loveth best all things both great and small. For happiness is the feeling of harmony between a man and his surroundings, the sense of being at home in the universe and brotherly toward all worthy things that are. The pursuit of happiness is simply a continual endeavor to discover new things that are worthy, to the end that they may waken love within us and thereby lure us loftier toward an ultimate absolute awareness of truth and beauty. It is in this simple, sane pursuit that people go to the theatre. The important thing about the public is that it has a large and longing heart. That heart demands that sympathy be awakened in it, and will not be satisfied with merely intellectual discussion of unsympathetic things. It is therefore the duty, as well as the privilege, of the dramatist to set before the public incidents which may awaken sympathy and characters which may be loved. He is the most important artist in the theatre who gives the public most to care about. This is the reason why Joseph Jefferson'sRip Van Winklemust be rated as the greatest creation of the American stage. The play was shabby as a work of art, and there was nothing even in the character to think about; but every performanceof the part left thousands happier, because their lives had been enriched with a new memory that made their hearts grow warm with sympathy and large with love.
As the final curtain falls upon the majority of the plays that somehow get themselves presented in the theatres of New York, the critical observer feels tempted to ask the playwright that simple question of young Peterkin in Robert Southey's ballad,After Blenheim,—"Now tell us what 't was all about"; and he suffers an uncomfortable feeling that the playwright will be obliged to answer in the words of old Kaspar, "Why, that I cannot tell." The critic has viewed a semblance of a dramatic struggle between puppets on the stage; but what they fought each other for he cannot well make out. And it is evident, in the majority of cases, that the playwright could not tell him if he would, for the reason that the playwright does not know. Not even the author can know what a play is all about when the play isn't about anything. And this, it must be admitted, is precisely what is wrong with the majority of the plays that are shown in our theatres, especially with plays written by American authors. Theyare not about anything; or, to say the matter more technically, they haven't any theme.
By a theme is meant some eternal principle, or truth, of human life—such a truth as might be stated by a man of philosophic mind in an abstract and general proposition—which the dramatist contrives to convey to his auditors concretely by embodying it in the particular details of his play. These details must be so selected as to represent at every point some phase of the central and informing truth, and no incidents or characters must be shown which are not directly or indirectly representative of the one thing which, in that particular piece, the author has to say. The great plays of the world have all grown endogenously from a single, central idea; or, to vary the figure, they have been spun like spider-webs, filament after filament, out of a central living source. But most of our native playwrights seem seldom to experience this necessary process of the imagination which creates. Instead of working from the inside out, they work from the outside in. They gather up a haphazard handful of theatric situations and try to string them together into a story; they congregate an ill-assorted company of characters and try to achieve a play by letting them talk to each other. Many of our playwrights are endowed with a sense of situation; several of them have a gift for characterisation, or at least forcaricature; and most of them can write easy and natural dialogue, especially in slang. But very few of them start out with something to say, as Mr. Moody started out inThe Great Divideand Mr. Thomas inThe Witching Hour.
When a play is really about something, it is always possible for the critic to state the theme of it in a single sentence. Thus, the theme ofThe Witching Houris that every thought is in itself an act, and that therefore thinking has the virtue, and to some extent the power, of action. Every character in the piece was invented to embody some phase of this central proposition, and every incident was devised to represent this abstract truth concretely. Similarly, it would be easy to state in a single sentence the theme ofLe Tartufe, or ofOthello, or ofGhosts. But who, after seeing four out of five of the American plays that are produced upon Broadway, could possibly tell in a single sentence what they were about? What, for instance—to mention only plays which did not fail—wasVia Wirelessabout, orThe Fighting Hope, or evenThe Man from Home? Each of these was in some ways an interesting entertainment; but each was valueless as drama, because none of them conveyed to its auditors a theme which they might remember and weave into the texture of their lives.
For the only sort of play that permits itself to be remembered is a play that presents a distinct theme to the mind of the observer. It is ten years since I have seenLe Tartufeand six years since last I read it; and yet, since the theme is unforgetable, I could at any moment easily reconstruct the piece by retrospective imagination and summarise the action clearly in a paragraph. But on the other hand, I should at any time find it impossible to recall with sufficient clearness to summarise them, any of a dozen American plays of the usual type which I had seen within the preceding six months. Details of incident or of character or of dialogue slip the mind and melt away like smoke into the air. To have seen a play without a theme is the same, a month or two later, as not to have seen a play at all. But a piece likeThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray, once seen, can never be forgotten; because the mind clings to the central proposition which the play was built in order to reveal, and from this ineradicable recollection may at any moment proceed by psychologic association to recall the salient concrete features of the action. To develop a play from a central theme is therefore the sole means by which a dramatist may insure his work against the iniquity of oblivion. In order that people may afterward remember what he has said, it is necessary for himto show them clearly and emphatically at the outset why he has undertaken to talk and precisely what he means to talk about.
Most of our American playwrights, like Juliet in the balcony scene, speak, yet they say nothing. They represent facts, but fail to reveal truths. What they lack is purpose. They collect, instead of meditating; they invent, instead of wondering; they are clever, instead of being real. They are avid of details: they regard the part as greater than the whole. They deal with outsides and surfaces, not with centralities and profundities. They value acts more than they value the meanings of acts; they forget that it is in the motive rather than in the deed that Life is to be looked for. For Life is a matter of thinking and of feeling; all act is merely Living, and is significant only in so far as it reveals the Life that prompted it. Give us less of Living, more of Life, must ever be the cry of earnest criticism. Enough of these mutitudinous, multifarious facts: tell us single, simple truths. Give us more themes, and fewer fabrics of shreds and patches.
Whenever the spring comes round and everything beneath the sun looks wonderful and new, the habitual theatre-goer, who has attended every legitimate performance throughout the winter season in New York, is moved to lament that there is nothing new behind the footlights. Week after week he has seen the same old puppets pulled mechanically through the same old situations, doing conventional deeds and repeating conventional lines, until at last, as he watches the performance of yet another play, he feels like saying to the author, "But, my dear sir, I have seen and heard all this so many, many times already!" For this spring-weariness of the frequenter of the theatre, the common run of our contemporary playwrights must be held responsible. The main trouble seems to be that, instead of telling us what they think life is like, they tell us what they think a play is like. Their fault is not—to use Hamlet's phrase—that they "imitate humanity so abominably": it is, rather, that they do not imitate humanity atall. Most of our playwrights, especially the newcomers to the craft, imitate each other. They make plays for the sake of making plays, instead of for the sake of representing life. They draw their inspiration from the little mimic world behind the footlights, rather than from the roaring and tremendous world which takes no thought of the theatre. Their art fails to interpret life, because they care less about life than they care about their art. They are interested in what they are doing, instead of being interested in why they are doing it. "Go to!", they say to themselves, "I will write a play"; and the weary auditor is tempted to murmur the sentence of the cynic Frenchman, "Je n'en vois pas la nécessité."
But now, lest we be led into misapprehension, let us understand clearly that what we desire in the theatre is not new material, but rather a fresh and vital treatment of such material as the playwright finds made to his hand. After a certain philosophic critic had announced the startling thesis that only some thirty odd distinct dramatic situations were conceivable, Goethe and Schiller set themselves the task of tabulation, and ended by deciding that the largest conceivable number was less than twenty. It is a curious paradox of criticism that for new plays old material is best. This statement is supported historically by the fact that all the great Greek dramatists, nearly allof the Elizabethans, Corneille, Racine, Molière, and, to a great extent, the leaders of the drama in the nineteenth century, made their plays deliberately out of narrative materials already familiar to the theatre-going public of their times. The drama, by its very nature, is an art traditional in form and resumptive in its subject-matter. It would be futile, therefore, for us to ask contemporary playwrights to invent new narrative materials. Their fault is not that they deal with what is old, but that they fail to make out of it anything which is new. If, in the long run, they weary us, the reason is not that they are lacking in invention, but that they are lacking in imagination.
That invention and imagination are two very different faculties, that the second is much higher than the first, that invention has seldom been displayed by the very greatest authors, whereas imagination has always been an indispensable characteristic of their work,—these points have all been made clear in a very suggestive essay by Professor Brander Matthews, which is included in his volume entitledInquiries and Opinions. It remains for us to consider somewhat closely what the nature of imagination is. Imagination is nothing more or less than the faculty forrealisation,—the faculty by which the mind makes real unto itself such materials as are presented to it.The full significance of this definition may be made clear by a simple illustration.
Suppose that some morning at breakfast you pick up a newspaper and read that a great earthquake has overwhelmed Messina, killing countless thousands and rendering an entire province desolate. You say, "How very terrible!"—after which you go blithely about your business, untroubled, undisturbed. But suppose that your little girl's pet pussy-cat happens to fall out of the fourth-story window. If you chance to be an author and have an article to write that morning, you will find the task of composition heavy. Now, the reason why the death of a single pussy-cat affects you more than the death of a hundred thousand human beings is merely that you realise the one and do not realise the other. You do not, by the action of imagination, make real unto yourself the disaster at Messina; but when you see your little daughter's face, you at once and easily imagine woe. Similarly, on the largest scale, we go through life realising only a very little part of all that is presented to our minds. Yet, finally, we know of life only so much as we have realised. To use the other word for the same idea,—we know of life only so much as we have imagined. Now, whatever of life we make real unto ourselves by the action of imagination is for us fresh and instant and, in a deep sense, new,—even thoughthe same materials have been realised by millions of human beings before us. It is new because we have made it, and we are different from all our predecessors. Landor imagined Italy, realised it, made it instant and afresh. In the subjective sense, he created Italy, an Italy that had never existed before,—Landor's Italy. Later Browning came, with a new imagination, a new realisation, a new creation,—Browning's Italy. The materials had existed through immemorable centuries; Landor, by imagination, made of them something real; Browning imagined them again and made of them something new. But a Cook's tourist hurrying through Italy is likely, through deficiency of imagination, not to realise an Italy at all. He reviews the same materials that were presented to Landor and to Browning, but he makes nothing out of them. Italy for him is tedious, like a twice-told tale. The trouble is not that the materials are old, but that he lacks the faculty for realising them and thereby making of them something new.
A great many of our contemporary playwrights travel like Cook's tourists through the traditional subject-matter of the theatre. They stop off here and there, at this or that eternal situation; but they do not, by imagination, make it real. Thereby they miss the proper function of the dramatist, which is to imagine some aspect of theperennial struggle between human wills so forcibly as to make us realise it, in the full sense of the word,—realise it as we daily fail to realise the countless struggles we ourselves engage in. The theatre, rightly considered, is not a place in which to escape from the realities of life, but a place in which to seek refuge from the unrealities of actual living in the contemplation of life realised,—life made real by imagination.
The trouble with most ineffective plays is that the fabricated life they set before us is less real than such similar phases of actual life as we have previously realised for ourselves. We are wearied because we have already unconsciously imagined more than the playwright professionally imagines for us. With a great play our experience is the reverse of this. Incidents, characters, motives which we ourselves have never made completely real by imagination are realised for us by the dramatist. Intimations of humanity which in our own minds have lain jumbled fragmentary, like the multitudinous pieces of a shuffled picture-puzzle, are there set orderly before us, so that we see at last the perfect picture. We escape out of chaos into life.
This is the secret of originality: this it is that we desire in the theatre:—not new material, for the old is still the best; but familiar material rendered new by an imagination that informs it with significance and makes it real.
Adams, Maude,60.
Addison, Joseph,79;Cato,79.
Ade, George,56;Fables in Slang,56;The College Widow,41.
Admirable Crichton, The,113.
Aeschylus,5,6,135.
After Blenheim,228.
Aiglon, L',67,68.
Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire,157.
Allen, Viola,109.
Alleyn, Edward,163.
All for Love,17.
Alma-Tadema, Sir Lawrence,92.
Antony,140,142.
Antony and Cleopatra,16.
Aristophanes,202.
Aristotle,18.
Arnold, Matthew,8,19,205,221.
As You Like It,38,48,51,61,62,77,78,92,100,172,186,220.
Atalanta in Calydon,20.
Augier, Emile,9,141.
Autobiography of Joseph Jefferson,103.
Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, The,178.
Bannister, John,86.
Banville, Théodore de,66.
Barrie, James Matthew,204,205,206,219;Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire,157;Peter Pan,215;The Admirable Crichton,113;The Professor's Love Story,157.
Barry, Elizabeth,70,80.
Barrymore, Ethel,157.
Bartholomew Fair,202.
Beau Brummel,70,114,210.
Beaumont, Francis,28;The Maid's Tragedy,28.
Becket,19,72.
Béjart, Armande,62,63,71.
Béjart, Magdeleine,62,71.
Belasco, David,155;The Darling of the Gods,42;The Girl of the Golden West,90.
Bells, The,125.
Bensley, Robert,86.
Bernhardt, Sarah,40,64,65,66,68,105,107.
Betterton, Thomas,70.
Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A,31,56.
Boucicault, Dion,70,83;London Assurance,83;Rip Van Winkle,70.
Brown of Harvard,155.
Browne, Sir Thomas,177;Religio Medici,31.
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett,19,205.
Browning, Robert,10,19,31,32,237;A Blot in the 'Scutcheon,31,56;A Woman's Last Word,32;In a Balcony,10;Pippa Passes,31,194.
Brunetière, Ferdinand,35.
Bulwer-Lytton, Sir Edward,79;Richelieu,79.
Burbage, James,77.
Burbage, Richard,60,61,79,93.
Burke, Charles,103.
Burton, William E.,103.
Byron, George Gordon, Lord,19.
Calderon, Don Pedro C. de la Barca,26,50.
Campbell, Mrs. Patrick,66,69.
Candida,224,225.
Cato,79.
Cenci, The,144.
Charles I,72.
Chinese theatre,78.
Chorus Lady, The,22.
Christ in Hades,197.
Cibber, Colley,63,85,164.
Città Morta, La,72.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor,19.
College Widow, The,41.
Collins, Wilkie,121.
Colvin, Sidney,170.
Comedy of Errors, The,38.
Commedia dell'arte,10,11.
Congreve, William,9,164.
Conquest of Granada, The,74.
Coquelin, Constant,60,66,67,68,71,105.
Corneille, Pierre,50,235.
Cromwell,64.
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,182.
Cymbeline,17,62.
Cyrano de Bergerac,31,56,60,67,71,98,100,105,121,195.
Dame aux Camélias, La,14,37,53,105,141,146.
Dante Alighieri,162,188;Inferno,188.
Darling of the Gods, The,42.
Darwin, Charles,21.
Davenant, Sir William,80.
Dekker, Thomas,202.
Demi-Monde, Le,141.
Dennery, Adolphe,6,175;The Two Orphans,6,31,32,37,175.
Diplomacy,101.
Doll's House, A,47,53,146,158.
Don Quixote,59.
Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan,22;Sherlock Holmes,22,157;The Story of Waterloo,157.
Dr. Faustus,136,137.
Dryden, John,16,17,73;All for Love,17;The Conquest of Granada,74.
Duchess of Malfi, The,130.
Du Croisy,62,63.
Dumas, Alexandre,fils,14;La Dame aux Camélias,14,37,53,105,141,146;Le Demi-Monde,141;Le Fils Naturel,142.
Dumas, Alexandre,père,140;Antony,140,142.
Duse, Eleanora,65,71.
Echegaray, Don José,187,188,189;El Gran Galeoto,187-192.
Egoist, The,31.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo,202.
Enemy of the People, An,137,201.
Etherege, Sir George,82.
Euripides,131.
Every Man in His Humour,100.
Fables in Slang,56.
Fair Maid of the West,218,219.
Faust,31.
Fédora,65.
Fighting Hope, The,230.
Fils Naturel, Le,142.
Fiske, John,143.
Fiske, Mrs. Minnie Maddern,7,87,102,115,218.
Fitch, Clyde,13,70,89,90,159;Beau Brummel,70,114,210;The Girl with the Green Eyes,159.
Fletcher, John,28,48,61;The Maid's Tragedy,28.
Forbes, James,22;The Chorus Lady,22.
Forbes-Robertson, Johnstone,7,92,125.
Fourberies de Scapin, Les,51.
Frou-Frou,43,141.
Gay Lord Quex, The,120,134,213.
Ghosts,53,142,144,145,215,219,230.
Gillette, William,22,121;Sherlock Holmes,22,121.
Girl of the Golden West, The,90.
Girl with the Green Eyes, The,159.
Gismonda,65.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von,234;Faust,31.
Gorboduc,73.
Gossip on Romance, A,128.
Gran Galeoto, El,187-192.
Great Divide, The,230.
Greene, Robert,48,61.
Greet, Ben,75,109,110.
Hamlet,8,12,38,39,48,51,55,60,61,67,68,71,79,89,92,100,101,105,106,107,115,118,121,122,130,136,175,177,181,184,185,187,194,203,233.
Haworth, Joseph,104.
Hedda Gabler,37,53,87,102,115,117,120,145,158,181,215,220.
Henry V,41,77.
Henslowe, Philip,164.
Hernani,14,140.
Herne, James A.,87;Shore Acres,87,193.
Hero and Leander,171.
Heyse, Paul,7,116;Mary of Magdala,7,116.
Heywood, Thomas,38,39,202,218,219;A Woman Killed with Kindness,38;The Fair Maid of the West,218,219.
"Hope, Laurence,"206.
Hour Glass, The,56.