There are the divisions: play, act, scene, episode, and ill.u.s.trative action. Just as sometimes the development of a single episode may make a scene, or there may be but one scene to an act, there are cases when an ill.u.s.trative action is a dramatic episode. The ending of Act II of Ostrovsky's _Storm_ ill.u.s.trates this.

Varvara, who has just gone out, has put into the hands of Catherine the key to a gate in the garden hedge. This Varvara has taken without the knowledge of her mother, who is the mother-in-law of Catherine. Just as Varvara goes, she has said that if she meets Catherine's lover, Boris, she will tell him to come to the gate. Catherine, terrified, at first tries to refuse the key, but Varvara insists on leaving it with her.

_Catherine._ (_Alone, the key in her hand._) Oh, what is she doing?

What hasn't she courage for? Ah, she is crazy--yes, crazy. Here is what will ruin me. That's the truth! I must throw this key away, throw it far away, into the river, so that it may never be found again. It burns my hand like a hot coal. (_Dreamily._) This is how we are ruined, people like me! Slavery, that isn't a gay business for any one. How many ideas it puts into our heads. Another would be enchanted with what has happened to me, and would rush on full tilt. How can one act in that way without reflection, without reason? Misfortune comes so quickly, and afterward there is all the rest of one's life in which to weep and torment oneself, and the slavery will be still more bitter. (_Silence._) And how bitter it is, slavery! Oh, how bitter it is! Who would not suffer from it? And we other women suffer more than all the rest. Here am I at this moment battling with myself in vain, not seeing a ray of light, and I shan't see one. The further I go, the worse it is. And here is this additional sin that I am going to take on my conscience. (_She dreams a moment._) Were not my mother-in-law--she has broken me: it is she who has made me come to hate this house. I hate its very walls. (_She looks pensively at the key._) Ought I to throw it away? Of course I ought. How did it get into my hands? To seduce me to my ruin. (_Listening._) Some one is coming! My heart fails me. (_She puts the key into her pocket._) No!--no one. Why was I so frightened? And I hid the key--Very well, that's the way it is to be. It is clear that fate wills it. And after all, where is the sin in seeing him just once, if at a distance? And if I were even to talk with him a little, where would the harm be?--But my husband--Very well, it was he himself who didn't forbid it! Perhaps I shall never have such another chance in all my life.

Then I shall weep and say to myself, "You had a chance to see him and didn't know how to take advantage of it." What am I saying? Why lie to myself? I will die for it if necessary, but see him I will. Whom do I want to deceive here? Throw away the key? No, not for anything in the world. I keep it. Come what will, I will see Boris. Ah, if the night would only come more quickly!

_Curtain._[20]

Sometimes, even a playwright of considerable experience, though his mind is full of dramatic material, finds his plotting at a standstill. The trouble is that he has not sifted his material by means of the purpose he has in mind. When he does, details of setting, bits of characterization or even characters as wholes, parts or all of a scene and many ideas good in themselves but not necessarily connected with his real subject, will drop out. Many plays of modern realism have been overloaded with details of setting, with figures, or even scenes really unessential. In a recent play of Breton life a prominent detail in the setting of a cave was the figurehead of a ship. Even if one missed noticing this striking detail, its presence was emphasized by the text.

It turned out, however, that the figurehead had nothing to do with the story or its development, nor was it really needed for any special color it gave. It should, therefore, have been omitted. No fault is more common than the use of unnecessary figures. When Lady Gregory wrote her version of _The Workhouse Ward_, she wisely cut out the matron, the doorkeeper, and all the inmates except two. With three figures her play is a masterpiece. With five actors and voices from off stage, Dr. Hyde's Gaelic version is not. A one-act play adapted from the Spanish showed some dozen or more individual parts and a mob of at least forty.

Ultimately, on a small stage, the plot was done full justice with half that number of individual parts and the crowd reduced to twenty or less.

An amusing play of mistaken ident.i.ty had a delightful scene in which an aunt of the heroine is proposed to by a friend of her youth. In it, the dramatist, with admirable characterization, set forth the views on matrimony of many middle-aged women. Yet the whole scene had nothing whatever to do with the story of the heroine. Consequently it was ultimately dropped out. That dramatic ideas must be sifted was shown on page 75 in the play seemingly about architects' draughtsmen.

Not even when a scene, a bit of dialogue or some other detail, is entirely in character may it always keep its position. Though a detail or episode must be in character before it is admitted, it can hold its position only if it is necessary for the purpose of the play. Time limits everything for the dramatist. The final curtain impending inevitably at the end of two hours and a half is the dramatist's "sword of Damocles." It reminds him that in a play, "whatever goes for nothing, goes for less than nothing" because it shuts out something which, in its place, might be effective. In Tennyson's _Becket_ is a fine scene, the washing of the beggars' feet by the Archbishop.[21] It ill.u.s.trates both customs of the time and a side of Becket's character, yet it contained nothing absolutely necessary to the central purpose of the play. Consequently, as the play must be condensed for acting purposes, Sir Henry Irving cut out the whole scene.

This time limit forces the dramatist, when choosing between two episodes of equal value otherwise, to select that which does more in less s.p.a.ce, or to combine desirable parts of the two episodes when possible. In Tennyson's _Becket_, Scene 1 of Act II and Scene 1 of Act III take place in Rosamund's Bower. Henry and Rosamund are the princ.i.p.al speakers in both. There is, too, no marked lapse of time between the scenes, though Tennyson chose to separate them by the "Meeting of the Kings" at Montmirail. Very naturally, therefore, when condensation was necessary, Irving by severe cutting brought these two scenes together as Act II of his version. He not only saved time; he gained in unity of effect.

Similarly, Irving brings together the essential parts of Scene 2, Act II, the "Meeting of the Kings," and Scene 3, Act III, "Traitor's Meadow at Freteval," making them the first scene of the third act in his version.

A cluttered play is always a bad play. Such clutter usually comes from including details of setting, characterization or idea, and even whole characters or scenes, not really necessary. Selection with one's purpose clearly in mind is the remedy for such clutter.

Even, however, when a writer has so carefully selected his dramatic episodes that each is one or more bits of ill.u.s.trative action bearing on the main idea and entirely in character, he may still be short of story.

He cannot rouse and maintain interest moving at haphazard. His central idea must appear in dramatic episodes so ordered as to have sequence,--a beginning, a middle, and an end,--and so emphasized as to have the increasing interest which means movement. He cannot have good story till it has unity of action. When Bulwer-Lytton wrote Macready that he had discovered the heart of his proposed play on Marillac to be Richelieu, note that he speaks of the simplification and the unity resulting: "You will be pleased to hear that I have completed the rough Sketch of the Play in 5 acts--& I hope you will like it. I have taken the subject of Richelieu. Not being able to find any other so original & effective, & have employed somewhat of the story I before communicated to you, but simplified and connected.--_You_ are Richelieu, & Richelieu is brought out, accordingly, as the prominent light round which the other satellites move. It is written on the plan of a great Historical Comedy, & I have endeavoured to concentrate a striking picture of the pa.s.sions & events--the intrigue & ambition of that era--in a familiar point of view."[22]

Thomas Dekker found the source of his _Shoemakers' Holiday_[23] in a pamphlet by Thomas Deloney, _The Pleasant and Princely History of the Gentle-Craft_.[24] This loosely written pamphlet tries to tell three stories supposed to redound to the credit of the shoemakers: that of Prince Hugh and his love for Winifred; that of Crispin and Crispinia.n.u.s and the brave deeds of the latter in the wars in France; and, finally, that of Simon Eyre, the master shoemaker who rose to be Lord Mayor of London, his wife and his apprentices. What obviously attracted Dekker in the pamphlet was the third story, to which he saw he could give much realism from his knowledge of the shoemakers about Leadenhall.

Unfortunately, the story of Simon Eyre, though it provided him with delightful characters, gave him little variety of incident. Perhaps today a dramatist might make such a play carry almost wholly on the characterization of the shoemaker group. The Elizabethans, however, wanted a complicated story of varied action. Dekker, though he had first-rate romantic material in the story of Crispin and Crispinia.n.u.s, could hardly weave this in with the story of Eyre, a relatively recent historical figure, for one material called for romantic and the other for realistic treatment. There seemed the deadlock. But Dekker, thinking of this Crispin in love with a princess, who disguised himself as a shoemaker in order to win her hand, remembered the wars of 1588 and English sympathy for the Huguenots involved therein. Therefore he turned Crispin into Lacy, a youth of that period. Lacy is not a prince, but a relative of the Earl of Lincoln, and something of a ne'er-do-well, in love with the Lord Mayor's daughter, Rose. He fears that if he goes to the wars in France, his duty as "chief colonel" of the London Companies, he will lose her. Therefore he sends Askew in his stead and stays in London disguised as one of Eyre's shoemaker apprentices. The purpose of Dekker to write a realistic play of complicated plot has helped him to reshape his material till two stories, as in the case of _The Country Boy_, have become one. Unity appears in materials seemingly as irreconcilable as romance and realism.

There are, however, two weaknesses in this story as now developed: Rose and Lacy, though they appear against the background of the wars, do not connect the apprentices with the enlistment, nor do they afford many scenes of marked dramatic force. Wishing one or two scenes of stronger emotion which at the same time would bring the apprentices into closer connection with the wars, Dekker creates Ralph, Jane, and Hammon. Ralph is one of the shoemakers who, pressed to the war, is torn from his protesting wife and fellow apprentices. In his absence, the citizen Hammon falls in love with Jane. Trying to make her believe that Ralph is dead, he wishes to marry her. Ralph, returning from the war to his former work with Eyre, can find no trace of Jane, for after a slight difference with Margery Eyre, she has disappeared. One day a servant brings Ralph a pair of shoes to be duplicated for a wedding gift. The pair to be copied Ralph recognizes as his parting gift to Jane.

Summoning his fellow apprentices to aid him, he goes to the place proposed for the wedding and rescues Jane. Thus some scenes of fine if homely emotion are provided. Wedded love is contrasted with that of Rose and Lacy and with Hammon's courtship, and through Ralph the apprentices are brought closely into connection with the wars.

Many a would-be dramatist suffers, however, not from a superabundance of material bearing on his subject but a dearth of it. Again and again one hears the complaint: "I know who my characters are to be, and I have dramatic situation, but I cannot find my story. I haven't enough dramatic situation to round it out." Just this difficulty troubled Bulwer-Lytton when he was preparing for _Richelieu_. He wrote to Macready:

Many thanks for your letter. You are right about the Plot--it is too crowded & the interest too divided.--But Richelieu would be a splendid fellow for the Stage, if we could hit on a good plot to bring him out--connected with some domestic interest. His wit--his lightness--his address--relieve so admirably his profound sagacity--his Churchman's pride--his relentless vindictiveness and the sublime pa.s.sion for the glory of France that elevated all. He would be a new addition to the Historical portraits of the Stage; but then he must be connected with a plot in which he would have all the stage to himself, & in which some Home interest might link itself with the Historical. Alas, I've no such story yet & he must stand over, tho' I will not wholly give him up....

... Depend on it, I don't cease racking my brains, & something must come at last.[25]

Such difficulty means that a writer forgets or is ignorant of one of the first principles of dramatic composition. When he has three or four good situations which are in character, he should not hunt new situations till he is sure he knows the full emotional possibilities of the situations he already has. To decide after the closest scrutiny of the situations in hand, that others are needed is one thing. On the other hand, the inexperienced workman presents as quickly as possible the climactic moment of the scene he has in mind, and gets away as rapidly as possible to another intense climax. Finding himself, as a result, badly in need of additional dramatic moments, he hunts for situations as situations. Returning triumphantly with some strong emotional effect, he must perforce put the characters of the earlier scenes into these.

Usually, as they have no real part in these later scenes, they prove troublesome. Sometimes the new scenes may be so reshaped as to fit the original characters, but usually the result of this method is that the scenes are foisted on the original characters, becoming obvious misfits, or that the original characters are so modified as to fit them. When modified, however, the original characters no longer perfectly fit the original scenes. Driven backward and forward between character and story, the dramatist pursuing this method often gives up the attempt, saying despairingly: "It is no use. My characters will not give me a plot."

The trouble here is that the inexperienced dramatist treats the situation as if its value lay in its most climactic moment. Often, however, there is as much pleasure for the public emotionally in working up to the climax as in the climax itself. To "hold a situation," that is, to get from it the full dramatic possibilities the characters involved offer, a dramatist must study his characters in it till he has discovered the entire range of their emotion in the scene. This will give him not only many and many a new situation within the original situation, but the transitional scenes which will unify situations originally apparently unrelated except as the same figures appeared in them. For example, consider this.

A kindly woman in middle life comes in friendliest fashion to offer to take the daughter of a proud man in great financial straits into her own home. As treated by an inexperienced writer, there was a prompt, clear statement of what the woman desired, with an immediate pa.s.sionate denial of the request by the jealously affectionate father. In this treatment we lose the best of the scene. Really this worldly-wise woman, talking to such a man, would lead up tactfully to her proposal. As she led up to it, there would be many dramatic moments, with much interesting revelation of her own and the man's character. Caring for the man as she does, and loving the girl deeply, she would not immediately accept a refusal. After the man's first denial, as she tried by turns to cajole, convince or dominate him, there would be strong dramatic conflict, and, once more, interesting revelation of character. Given, then, some happening, the nature of the human being involved in it will affect its look. A second person involved will affect it even more. Two people, influencing each other because affected by the same incident will give still a third look to the original situation. When you have what seems a good situation, don't rush into another at your earliest opportunity, but instead study it till you know every permutation and combination it holds emotionally for every one involved, both because the situation affects every character, and because every character may affect all the others. Then you will know how to "hold a situation." Said Dumas the Younger: "Before every situation that a dramatist creates, he should ask himself three questions. In this situation, what should I do? What would other people do? What ought to be done? Every author who does not feel disposed to make this a.n.a.lysis should renounce the theatre, for he will never become a dramatist."[26] Though every writer may not examine his material by means of such formal categories, he must in some way gain the thorough information about it for which Dumas calls. Then and then only he can select from the results of his thinking that which will best accomplish his purpose in the play.

A one-act play with a very good central situation came to nothing because its author had not grasped the principle just set forth. A young man and a girl, eloping, come to the station of a small settlement. They find no one about, but the door of the ticket office ajar as if the person in charge had stepped out for a moment. They fear that the father and mother of the girl and perhaps another admirer are on their trail.

Partly from curiosity and partly from the desire not to be seen till the train comes, they step into the office, closing the door behind them.

Then they discover that they are prisoners, for the door can be opened even from their side only by a person with the right key. Just at this point, the father and mother arrive, amazed at finding no trace of the fugitives. They too are puzzled by the absence of the ticket-seller.

Just as they start out to find him he appears, apologetic for his absence. He is mildly interested in their story, but as he has seen no young persons, and as he expects the train shortly, he starts to go into his office. Then he discovers the closed door and admits that he went out to look for his key, which he must have dropped somewhere since he opened the station that morning. Here was of course a dramatic situation of large possibilities, but in the play it was treated almost as just stated. Of course the sensations of the two young people cooped up in the ticket office, expecting the parents, the station agent, and the train, should have given us a comic scene before any one else appeared.

The effect of the discovery that they are prisoners upon the girl, the effect upon the young man, the way in which the resulting emotions of each affect the other, all this must be given if the potential comedy of the situation inside the ticket office is to be fully used. The arrival of the father and mother offers a chance not only for the individual emotions of each and their effect upon one another, but for the emotion of the concealed elopers as they hear the familiar voices and understand how enraged the parents are. There is opportunity for a good scene of some length here before the station master appears. When he does enter, he should be interesting, not simply for himself, but for the effect he has on father, mother, girl, and young man, and the new interplay of emotions he causes among them. Add the coming of the former admirer with evidence he has found that the elopers have been making for this station; and as the new complications developed by his coming take shape, let the train be heard far up the line. Surely here is a group of very promising situations.

In this play so crowded with dramatic opportunity, its author found only the most dramatic moments, rushing rapidly from one to the other.

Result, a failure. Any dramatic situation made up of a congeries of minor situations is like a great desk the pigeon holes of which are crowded with letters and personal doc.u.ments. The biographer sitting down before it first makes himself thoroughly conversant with all the data.

Then he selects for use only what is of value for the biographical purpose he has in mind. The people in a situation are, for a dramatist, the human data he must study till he so completely understands them that he can differentiate clearly in what they offer between what is useful for his purposes and what is not.

Even Shakespeare, in his earliest work, had not grasped the importance of "holding a situation," as a scene in the _First Part of Henry VI_ shows. He knows how to inform his audience in Scene 2 of Act II why it is that Talbot visits the Countess of Auvergne; in the _Whispers_ of the next to the last line of this scene he even prepares for the surprise Talbot springs upon the Countess in the next scene; but Scene 3 itself he treats merely for the broad situation and a few bits of rhetoric.

A Messenger come to the English camp has just asked which of the men before him is the famous Talbot.

_Talbot._ Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him?

_Messenger._ The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

_Burgundy._ Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

_Tal._ Ne'er trust me then; for what a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness over-rul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks, And in submission will attend on her.

Will not your honours bear me company?

_Bedford._ No, truly, 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.

_Tal._ Well, then, alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy.

Come hither, captain. (_Whispers._) You perceive my mind?

_Captain._ I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. (_Exeunt._)

SCENE 3. _The Countess's castle_

_Enter the Countess and her porter_

_Countess._ Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

_Porter._ Madam, I will. (_Exit._)

_Countess._ The plot is laid. If all things fall out right I shall as famous be by this exploit As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.

Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account; Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, To give their censure of these rare reports.

_Enter Messenger and Talbot_

_Messenger._ Madam, According as your ladyship desir'd, By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come.

_Countess._ And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

_Mess._ Madam, it is.

_Countess._ Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes?

I see report is fabulous and false.

I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect, And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.

Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!

It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies.