Dramatic Technique Part 7

_First Blind Man._ Oh! How far away you are from us! I thought you were opposite me!

_Third Blind Man._ We know--nearly--all we need to know. Let us chat a little, while we wait for the priest to come back.[13]

Many an inexperienced dramatist fails to see the force of these words of Maeterlinck: "An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently, with his lamp beside him--submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny--motionless as he is does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, and more universal life than the lover who strangles his mistress, the captain who conquers in battle, or the husband who 'avenges his honor.'" If an audience can be made to feel and understand the strong but contained emotion of this motionless figure, he is rich dramatic material.

In the extracts from _La Princesse Georges_, _Faustus_, _The Romancers_, _The Blind_, in the soliloquy of Hamlet referred to, and the ill.u.s.tration quoted from Maeterlinck, it is not physical outward expression but the vivid picture we get of a state of mind which stirs us. Surely all these cases prove that we must include mental as well as physical activity in any definition of the word _dramatic_. Provided a writer can convey to his audience the excited mental state of one or more of his characters, then this mental activity is thoroughly dramatic. That is, neither physical nor mental activity is in itself dramatic; all depends on whether it naturally arouses, or can be made by the author to arouse, emotion in an audience. Just as we had to add to physical action which arouses emotional response of itself, physical action which is made to arouse response because it develops the story or ill.u.s.trates character, we must now add action which is not physical, but mental.

There is even another chance for confusion. A figure sitting motionless not because he is thinking hard but because blank in mind may yet be dramatic. Utter inaction, both physical and mental, of a figure represented on the stage does not mean that it is necessarily undramatic. If the dramatist can make an audience feel the terrible tragedy of the contrast between what might have been and what is for this perfectly quiet unthinking figure, he rouses emotion in his hearers, and in so doing makes his material dramatic. Suppose, too, that the expressionless figure is an aged father or mother very dear to some one in the play who has strongly won the sympathy of the audience. The house takes fire. The flames draw nearer and nearer the unconscious figure. We are made to look at the situation through the eyes of the character--some child or relative--to whom the scene, were he present, would mean torture. Instantly the figure, because of the way in which it is represented, becomes dramatic. Here again, however, the emotion of the audience could hardly be aroused except through characterization of the figure as it was or might have been, or of the child or relative who has won our sympathy. Again, too, characterization so successful must depend a good deal on well-chosen words.

This somewhat elaborate a.n.a.lysis should have made three points clear.

First, we may arouse emotion in an audience by mere physical action; by physical action which also develops the story, or ill.u.s.trates character, or does both; by mental rather than physical action, if clearly and accurately conveyed to the audience; and even by inaction, if characterization and dialogue by means of other figures are of high order. Secondly, as the various ill.u.s.trations have been examined, it must have become steadily more clear that while action is popularly held to be central in drama, emotion is really the essential. Because it is the easiest expression of emotion to understand, physical action, which without illuminating characterization and dialogue can express only a part of the world of emotion, has been too often accepted as expressing all the emotion the stage can present. Thirdly, it should be clear that a statement one meets too frequently in books on the drama, that certain stories or characters, above all certain well-known books, are essentially undramatic material is at least dubious. The belief arises from the fact that the story, character, or idea, as usually presented, seems to demand much a.n.a.lysis and description, and almost to preclude ill.u.s.trative action. In the past few years, however, the drama of mental states and the drama which has revealed emotional significance in seeming or real inaction, has been proving that "nothing human is foreign" to the drama. A dramatist may see in the so-called undramatic material emotional values. If so, he will develop a technique which will create in his public a satisfaction equal to that which the so-called undramatic story, character, or idea could give in story form. Of course he will treat it differently in many respects because he is writing not to be read but to be heard, and to affect the emotions, not of the individual, but of a large group taken as a group. He will prove that till careful a.n.a.lysis has shown in a given story, character, or idea, no possibility of arousing the same or dissimilar emotions in an audience, we cannot say that this or that is dramatic or undramatic, but only: "This material will require totally different presentation if it is to be dramatic on the stage, and only a person of ac.u.men, experience with audiences, and inventive technique can present it effectively."

The misapprehension just a.n.a.lyzed rests not only on the misconception that action rather than emotion is the essential in drama, but also largely on a careless use of the word _dramatic_. In popular use this word means _material for drama_, or _creative of emotional response_, or _perfectly fitted for production under the conditions of the theatre_.

If we examine a little, in the light of this chapter, the nature and purpose of a play, we shall see that _dramatic_ should stand only for the first two definitions, and that _theatric_ must be used for the third. Avoiding the vague definition _material for drama_, use _dramatic_ only as _creative of emotional response_ and the confusion will disappear.

A play exists to create emotional response in an audience. The response may be to the emotions of the people in the play or the emotions of the author as he watches these people. Where would satirical comedy be if, instead of sharing the amus.e.m.e.nt, disdain, contempt or moral anger of the dramatist caused by his figures, we responded exactly to their follies or evil moods? All ethical drama gets its force by creating in an audience the feelings toward the people in the play held by the author. Dumas fils, Ibsen, Brieux prove the truth of this statement. The writer of the satirical or the ethical play, obtruding his own personality as in the case of Ben Jonson, or with fine impersonality as in the case of Congreve or Moliere, makes his feelings ours. It is an obvious corollary of this statement that the emotions aroused in an audience need not be the same as those felt by the people on the stage.

They may be in the sharpest contrast. Any one experienced in drama knows that the most intensely comic effects often come from people acting very seriously. In _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ (Act I, Scene 2), the morning reception of M. Jourdain affords an instance of this in his trying on of costumes, fencing, and lessons in dancing and language. Serious entirely for M. Jourdain they are as presented by Moliere, exquisitely comic for us. In brief, the dramatic may rouse the same, allied, or even contrasting emotions in an onlooker.

Nor need the emotion roused in an audience by actor or author be exactly the same in amount. The actress who abandons herself to the emotions of the part she is playing soon exhausts her nervous vitality. It would be the same if audiences listening to the tragic were permitted to feel the scenes as keenly as the figures of the story. On the other hand, in some cases, if the comic figure on the stage felt his comicality as strongly as the audience which is speechless with laughter, he could not go on, and the scene would fail. Evidently, an audience may be made, as the dramatist wills, to feel more or less emotion than the characters of the play.

That it is duplication of emotion to the same, a less, or a greater extent or the creation of contrasting emotion which underlies all drama, from melodrama, riotous farce and even burlesque to high-comedy and tragedy, must be firmly grasped if a would-be dramatist is to steer his way clearly through the many existing and confusing definitions of _dramatic_. For instance, Brunetiere said, "Drama is the representation of the will of man in contrast to the mysterious powers of natural forces which limit and belittle us; it is one of us thrown living upon the stage, there to struggle against fatality, against social law, against one of his fellow mortals, against himself, if need be, against the emotions, the interests, the prejudices, the folly, the malevolence of those around him."[14] That is, by this definition, conflict is central in drama. But we know that in recent drama particularly, the moral drifter has many a time aroused our sympathy. Surely inertness, supineness, stupidity, and even torpor may be made to excite emotion in an audience. Conflict covers a large part of drama but not all of it.

Mr. William Archer, in his _Play-Making_, declares that "a crisis" is the central matter in drama, but one immediately wishes to know what const.i.tutes a crisis, and we have defined without defining. When he says elsewhere that that is dramatic which "by representation of imaginary personages is capable of interesting an average audience a.s.sembled in a theatre,"[15] he almost hits the truth. If we rephrase this definition: "That is dramatic which by representation of imaginary personages interests, through its emotions, an average audience a.s.sembled in a theatre," we have a definition which will better stand testing.

Is all dramatic material, _theatric?_ No, for _theatric_ does not necessarily mean _sensational, melodramatic, artificial_. It should mean, and it will be so used in this book, _adapted for the purpose of the theatre_. Certainly all dramatic material, that is, material which arouses or may be made to arouse emotion, is not fitted for use in the theatre when first it comes to the hand of the dramatist. Undeniably, the famous revivalists, Moody, J.B. Gough, Billy Sunday, have worked from emotions to emotions; that is, they have been dramatic.

Intentionally, feeling themselves justified by the ends obtained, they have, too, been _theatric_ in the poor and popular sense of the word, namely, _exaggerated, melodramatic, sensational_. Yet _theatric_ in the best sense of the word these highly emotional speakers, who have swept audiences out of all self-control, have not been. They worked as speakers, not as playwrights. Though they sometimes acted admirably, what they presented was in no sense a play. To accomplish in play form what they accomplished as speakers, that is, to make the material properly theatric, would have required an entire reworking. From all this it follows that even material so emotional in its nature as to be genuinely dramatic may need careful reworking if it is to succeed as a play, that is, if it is to become properly _theatric_. Drama, then, is presentation of an individual or group of individuals so as to move an audience to responsive emotion of the kind desired by the dramatist and to the amount required. This response must be gained under the conditions which a dramatist finds or develops in a theatre; that is, dramatic material must be made theatric in the right sense of the word before it can become drama.

To summarize: accurately conveyed emotion is the great fundamental in all good drama. It is conveyed by action, characterization, and dialogue. It must be conveyed in a s.p.a.ce of time, usually not exceeding two hours and a half, and under the existing physical conditions of the stage, or with such changes as the dramatist may bring about in them. It must be conveyed, not directly through the author, but indirectly through the actors. In order that the dramatic may become theatric in the right sense of the word, the dramatic must be made to meet all these conditions successfully. These conditions affect action, characterization, and dialogue. A dramatist must study the ways in which the dramatic has been and may be made theatric: that is what technique means.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Early Plays_, pp. 5-6. Riverside Literature Series. C. G. Child.

Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.

[2] _The Ancient Cla.s.sical Drama_, pp. 3-4. R. G. Moulton. Clarendon Press, Oxford.

[3] Quoted in _The Development of the Drama_, pp. 10-11. Copyright, 1903, by Brander Matthews. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.

[4] For these two plays see _Early Plays_. Riverside Literature Series. C. G. Child. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.

[5] _Works._ 6 vols. Pearson, London.

[6] _Cymbeline_, Act I, Scene 1.

[7] _Becket: A Tragedy._ Lord Tennyson. Arranged for the stage by Henry Irving. Macmillan & Co., London and New York.

[8] _Macaire._ By R. L. Stevenson and W. E. Henley. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York. Copyright, 1895, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.

[9] R. M. DeWitt, New York City.

[10] _Theatre Complet_, vol. v. Dumas fils. Calmann Levy, Paris.

[11] Marlowe's _Faustus_, Act v. Mermaid Series or Everyman's Library.

[12] _The Romancers._ Translated by Mary Hendee. Doubleday & McClure Co., New York.

[13] _The Blind._ Translated by Richard Hovey. Copyright, 1894 and 1896, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.

[14] _etudes Critiques_ vol. VII, p. 207.

[15] _Play-Making_, p. 48. William Archer. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.

CHAPTER III

FROM SUBJECT TO PLOT. CLEARING THE WAY

A play may start from almost anything: a detached thought that flashes through the mind; a theory of conduct or of art 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, or a figure closely studied; a contrast or similarity between two people or conditions of life; a mere incident--noted in a newspaper or book, heard in idle talk, or observed; or a story, told only in the barest outlines or with the utmost detail. "How do the ideas underlying plays come into being? Under the most varying conditions. Most often you cannot tell exactly how. At the outset you waste much time hunting for a subject, then suddenly one day, when you are in your study or even in the street, you bring up with a start, for you have found something. The piece is in sight. At first there is only an impression, an image of the brain that wholly defies words. If you were to write out exactly what you feel at the moment--provided that were at all possible--it would be exceedingly difficult to indicate its attractiveness. The situation is similar to that when you dream that you have discovered an idea of profound significance; on awaking you write it down; and on rereading perceive that it is commonplace or stale. Then you follow up the idea; it tries to escape, and when captured at last, still resists, ceaselessly changing form. You wish to write a comedy; the idea cries, 'Make a tragedy of me, or a story-play.' At last, after a struggle you master the idea."[1]

Back of _La Haine_ of Sardou was the detached thought or query: "Under what circ.u.mstances will the profound charity of woman show itself in the most striking manner? In the preface to _La Haine_, Sardou has told how his plays revealed themselves to him. 'The problem is invariable. It appears as a kind of equation from which the unknown quant.i.ty must be found. The problem gives me no peace till I have found the answer.'"[2]

Maeterlinck wrote several of his earlier plays, _The Intruder_, _Princess Maleine_, _The Blind_, to demonstrate the truth of two artistic theories of his: that what would seem to most theatre-goers of the time inaction might be made highly dramatic, and that partial or complete repet.i.tion of a phrase may have great emotional effect. _Magda_ (_Heimat_) of Sudermann was written to ill.u.s.trate the possible inherent tragedy of Magda's words: "Show them [people thoroughly sincere and honest but limited in experience and outlook] that beyond their narrow virtues there may be something true and good." In _Le Fils Naturel_ of Dumas the younger, the illegitimate son, till late in the play, believes his father to be his uncle. "The logical development would seem to be obvious: father and son falling into each other's arms. Dumas, on the contrary, arranged that the son should not take the family name, and that the play should end with the following dialogue:

_The Father._ You will surely permit me, when we are alone together, to call you my son.

_The Son._ Yes, uncle.

It seems that Montigny, Director of the Gymnase Theatre, was shocked by the frigidity of this denouement. He said to Dumas, 'Make them embrace each other; the play, in that case, will have at least thirty additional performances.' Dumas answered, 'I can't suppress the last word. It is for that I wrote the piece.'"[3] One suspects that Lord Dunsany feels the same about the last words of his _King Argimenes_. The whole play apparently ill.u.s.trates the almost irresistible effect of habit and environment. At the opening of the play, King Argimenes is the hungry, overworked slave of the captors who deprived him of his kingship. He talks eagerly with his fellow slaves of the King's sick dog, who will make a rich feast for them if he dies. At the end, Argimenes, completely successful in his revolt, is lord of all he surveys. Surprised by the news of the incoming messenger, he suddenly reverts to a powerful desire of his slavehood, speaking instinctively as did _Le fils_ of Dumas.

_Enter running, a Man of the household of King Darniak. He starts and stares aghast on seeing King Argimenes_

_King Argimenes._ Who are you?

_Man._ I am the servant of the King's dog.

_King Argimenes._ Why do you come here?

_Man._ The King's dog is dead.

_King Argimenes and His Men._ (_Savagely and hungrily._) Bones!

_King Argimenes._ (_Remembering suddenly what has happened and where he is._) Let him be buried with the late King.

_Zarb._ (_In a voice of protest._) Majesty!

_Curtain._[4]