TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

iHARLTON ANDREWS

".' : 'ON
iY LBERG ESENWEIN

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 The
Technique of Play Writing

BY

CHARLTON ANDREWS
AUTHOR OF
"THE DRAMA TO-DAY,"
"HIS MAJESTY THE FOOL," ETC.

INTRODUCTION BY J. BERG ESENWEIN

THE WRITER'S LIBRARY

EDITED BY J. BERG ESENWEIN

THE HOME CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL

SPRINGFIELD, MASS.
PUBLISHERS
 Copyright, 1915
THE HOME CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
To MY WIFE
 Table of Contents
Pe
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD ix

THE MODERN PLAY: AN INTRODUCTION ... xvir

GLOSSARY xxvn

CHAPTER I THE PLAY AND ITS WRITER . . i

CHAPTER II THE THEME 9

CHAPTER III THE ELEMENTS 24

CHAPTER IV THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUN-

DAMENTALS 37
CHAPTER V SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 48
CHAPTER VI OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION .
63
CHAPTER VII THE EXPOSITION 75

CHAPTER VIII THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARA-

TION IN THE PLOT 85
CHAPTER IX SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE ... 94
CHAPTER X CLIMAX AND THE ENDING ... 106

CHAPTER XI DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS . . 118

CHAPTER XII THE CHARACTERS 133

CHAPTER XIII DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE .
144
CHAPTER XIV PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY 158
CHAPTER XV THE DIALOGUE 166

CHAPTER XVI KINDS OF PLAYS . 181

Viii THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Pae
CHAPTER XVII THE ONE-ACT PLAY .... 194
CHAPTER XVIII SCENARIO MAKING AND ME-
CHANICAL PROCESSES 201

CHAPTER XIX SELF-CRITICISM 212

CHAPTER XX PLACING THE PLAY .... 226

APPENDICES
APPENDIX A SPECIMEN SCENARIO 235
APPENDIX B SPECIMEN PAGES OF PLAY MANU-
SCRIPT 249
APPENDIX C LIST OF PLAYS 252
APPENDIX D LIST OF HELPFUL BOOKS ... 256
APPENDIX E ABBEY THEATRE ADVICE TO PLAY-
WRIGHTS 258

GENERAL INDEX 260

 Author's Foreword

Although there are several recent treatises on the art

of writing plays,none of them, generally speaking, is pre-
cisely a text-book of the subject "dogmatic in theory,
so as not to muddle the student with alternatives before
he has grasped any one rule; detailed in the analysis of

examples and in the statement of principles, so that he

may see just how a certain thing is done; full of the little
maxims and tricks of the trade; and supported at every
point with practical exercises." The present volume is
not offered as one conforming in every detail to the
foregoing standard. Nevertheless, it aims to embody
some of these characteristics, in the hope that
at least
it prove of service as a guide to him who would
may
make his first experiments in the art of dramatic compo-
sition.

It is obvious that in all primers, after the first authori-

tative one, much repetition of admitted truth is inevitable.

Unless the writer be one of the perverse whose chief

pleasure in life is derived from stout denials of all the

established principles of art, he will need to refer to the
dicta of Aristotle, of Hegel perhaps, of Brunetiere certainly,
of Lessing, Sarcey, Dumas fils, Hugo, and a score of other
critics and dramatists foreign and domestic, when he is

laying down the fundamentals of the play-writing craft.

There be those of lesser breeds than such leaders in art

and criticism who, having once restated these principles
X THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

sometimes without credit have come thereafter to regard

them as their own. Of course,their claims to proprietary

rights in these many truisms are at best about as valid as

would be an assertion of copyright on the multiplication
table, announced by the author of a new elementary
arithmetic. No acknowledgment can be due to such
compilers.
In a preliminary way, it will be well to survey quickly
some of the pretty generally acknowledged foundation-
theories first formulated by the great trail-blazers of
dramatic art.

Action is the soul of tragedy, or of drama generally,

asserted Aristotle. This action means a conflict of wills,
Hegel and others hinted, and Brunetiere succinctly de-
clared. Drama deals with the cruces of existence when
duty and inclination come to the grapple, Stevenson
repeated. Periods of great national vitality have accord-
ingly given birth to the greatest drama, added Sarcey
and others.
That the theatre is a place of illusion, based on many
conventions, is an obvious matter which dozens of critics

have emphasized.
Dramatic composition, like every other sort, must
recognize Spencer's doctrine of the economy of attention.
Stage dialogue, for instance, must be divested of the
tautologies of real life.

In the theatre the appeal is primarily to the eye. A

gesture, a facial expression, is often far more eloquent
than much speech. Actions speak louder than words, as
 AUTHOR'S FOREWORD xi

we say. Hence plays start well that start with their

essential conflicts visualized in action.

A play must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Its characters reveal themselves through what they
say and do, and their speech and conduct must harmonize
with the author's evident estimate of his personages.
Gozzi, Schiller, and others have tabulated all possible
plot-materials and found only thirty-six different situa-
tions.

The most telling dramatic action is that which takes

place within the hearts and souls of men and women.

The theatre is a democratic institution, and coopera-
tion on the part of the audience is the first essential of

success.

The drama of to-day differs from the drama of other

times chiefly in that it deals with commonplace subject-
matter in a realistic way.

We might prolong this catalogue of familiar generalities

almost indefinitely. Indeed, for the purposes of this
treatise it will be necessary in a sense to list the majority

of them as we proceed. Practically every one has been

stated or restated by virtually all writers on the drama;
therefore as I have said, it is difficult to agree that any of

them is private property. Moreover, it is surprising how

readily these matters lend themselves to phraseological
similarity. Once an axiom has been well said, few writers
find worth while to try to say it otherwise than in time-
it

honored language. I could quote interesting parallels ad

libitum. To cite one very brief example:
XU THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"It is the convention of opera," writes one critic, "that

there exists a race of human beings whose natural speech
is song."
And
another asserts, "The Wagnerian opera is written
and composed about a race of beings whose only mode of
vocal communication is that of song."
Much longer and consequently more striking paral-
lelisms are the easiest things in the world to find. They
abound in all criticism particularly in that of the drama;
and they are, I dare say, in the majority of instances in-
significant. At all events, primers dealing with the stage
and its art cannot hope to avoid them, any more than
such works, to be of practical value, can fail to take into
account the theatre's most recent developments.

"The drama," says Sir Arthur Wing Pinero, "is not

stationary but progressive." And he adds, "By this I do
not mean that it is always improving; what I do mean is

that its conditions are always changing, and that every

dramatist whose ambition it is to produce live plays is

absolutely bound to study carefully the conditions that

hold good for his own day and generation."
This quotation serves here in a double capacity. In the
first place, it illustrates what has just been emphasized.
The suggestion not a new one and manifestly the
is

brilliant British playwright was not offering it as a dis-

covery. "The theatre," wrote Sarcey many years ago,
"like all the other arts, lives only by virtue of incessant

change, of modelling itself upon the dominant taste of

each generation. Transformation does not mean deca-
 AUTHOR'S FOREWORD riii

dence; I dare say and all those who know the theatre
will agree with me that our time has been, on the con-

trary, one of the most fruitful in great dramatic works."

In the second place, the quotation expresses the obvious
reason why, in the present work, the aim is to consider
the subject of play writing from the viewpoint not only
of its immemorial traditions, but also of its most recent
phases, and so to try to present fundamental principles

with the greatest possible amount of accuracy and sim-

plicity and a constant view to their practical application
in dramatic composition.

Now, it is well known that recent years have constituted

a sort of "open season" for radicals fond of gunning for
dramatic technique. Exceptions to the rules have been
greatly emphasized in a specious effort to upset the funda-
mentals altogether. Aristotle has been made a universal
target and has reappeared after each fusillade manifestly
unscathed. Perhaps in an effort to contribute a new
idea as well as to gain the support of enthusiastic reformers,
critics have fired broadsides at Brunetiere though to no
perceptible effect. In the words of the familiar war report
of the day, the situation remains unchanged. It is true

that certain minor, nonessential traditions of the drama

have become obsolete or have undergone a gradual altera-
tion; but the essentials are, and have of late been re-

peatedly demonstrating that they remain, exactly as they

have continued since the age of Pericles and before.
As a matter of fact, the alterations in the technique of
the drama prove upon examination to be mere shifts of
XIV THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

emphasis. The stage has, for the time being, at least, done
away with such devices as the soliloquy and the aside.
(Who achieved this all-important reform, I have no idea.
It appears that there exist in America two "schools"
founded upon divergent views of this mighty matter: the
"school" that asserts Ibsen, and the "school" that insists
Edison, gave the death-blow to the soliloquy.) The
emphasis upon action has been largely shifted from the
merely physical to the psychological aspects of conflict.
Undoubtedly the true doctrine in this matter is that both
sorts of action should coexist in the drama, and that the
physical should body forth the psychological. Further-

more, manyexperiments have been made in plotless,

actionless, emotionless "drama," practically all of which
have failed in the theatre or have achieved at best a
negligible, non-dramatic success.
In spite of all efforts to dispense with them in the drama,
conflict, climax, character portrayed in action, humor,

pathos, pantomime, preparation, suspense, surprise, and

a score of other such fundamentals remain unchanged.
And all the many desperate efforts to redefine the drama,
so as to substitute for the dynamic and the emotional the
static and the intellectual have proved vain. The student
of dramatic composition need have no fear on this point.
If there is no technique of the drama with reasonably
is no technique
positive principles to rely upon, then there
of any sort of composition; then unity, coherence, and

emphasis are mere idle chatter, and we may as well

abandon thought- and writing-processes to the de-
all

lirious gibberings of the ultra-futuristic.

 AUTHOR'S FOREWORD xv

Of course, there is, after all, only one cardinal rule of

dramatic technique: Be interesting. First act clear, last
act short, and the whole interesting, said Dumas. Or,
as Cosmo Hamilton and others have negatived it: Never

be dull. All the rest of the technique of the drama merely

concerns itself with HOW to be interesting. Throughout
the long history of the stage, playwrights have found that
there are certain ways of attaining, maintaining, and
augmenting These discoveries, from which have
interest.

developed so-called rules though they must not be

regarded as rigid regulations are all in consonance with
recognized laws of psychology. Since the only way to
interest a human being in your product, of whatever sort,
is to adapt in its appeal to the workings of his mind and
it

heart, be found that the really fundamental princi-

it will

ples are few, for the simple reason that the basic laws of
psychology are not many.
When one hears that such and such a play, with a
seemingly novel plan, has upset the rules of dramatic
technique, examination will usually show that it is only
pseudo-rules that have suffered; "rules" based on sweep-
ing generalizations uttered before the class of situa-
tions to be covered had been thoroughly canvassed.
"You must never keep a secret from your audience," the
theatre pundits have told us sagely and repeatedly, only
to have to modify their dictum so often that they finally
take- refuge in the feeble assertion that all rules for the
drama are only temporary and autres temps, autres
m&urs.
The real rules of the technique of play writing merely
XVI THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

insist that you must early gain the emotional interest of

your audience, hold it and heighten it till the close, and

then dismiss it satisfied. Plans and devices which experi-
ence has shown to be reliable, if not always immutable,
furnish the working basis for this treatise.

The author with pleasure takes this occasion for record-

ing his indebtedness to the editor of this series of text-
books, Dr. J. Berg Esenwein, for valuable suggestions,
the admirable Introduction, and the series of questions
and exercises he has contributed out of his long experience
with fiction writing of every sort.
CHARLTON ANDREWS.
New York City,
August, 1915.
 The Modern Play
AN INTRODUCTION
BY J. BERG ESENWEIN

Dramatic art at its best is the apotheosis of all the arts

combined in one; and in such measure as the play-maker
understands and believes this truth will his eyes be open
to the wonderful store of material which invites him to build
it into that consummately satisfying thing, an effective

modern play.
First of all and it must always be first of all is the
art of the play itself as a whole, considered apart from
mere accessories. While modern stage- writing is less

rhetorical, less poetical, less literarythan that of earlier

centuries, its artistic merit stands out in easy competition

with any other one product of twentieth century art.
When done supremely well, its solely literary qualities of
dialogue, characterization, and plot-progress bring it into

worthy comparison with other fictional forms. But its

literary qualities do not stop here, for just as a good song-
poem must be judged by its fitness to be linked with

music, so that play is best whose theme, situations, plot-

development, characters, dialogue, and whole atmosphere

most perfectly suggest all that goes to make up an artistic

stage production. Since public performance is its chief

end, for that purpose it is conceived and its working out

is directed. In precisely the same spirit as realism in the
novel lays stronger emphasis on the truthful characteriza-
XV111 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

tion of the people in the story than on the mere literary

quality of their speech, dialogue in the play should be

literary only so far as an effective performance of the
piece will permit.
Growing out of this fact that the modern play is meant
primarily to be acted, and in most cases to appear in
printed form not at all, is another condition: The first
great aid to the apotheosis of the play as art is the power
of trained vocal expression. The lines of the drama, whose

"lilting fluency flowers every now and then into a phrase

of golden melody" to quote a charming, if mixed, meta-
phor of Mr. Clayton Hamilton's need an adequate
reading to show their full value.

Add to the effect of the "word fitly spoken" the mag-

netic presence of an impressive personality, and to this
add again the delight of a subtle phrase delicately inter-

preted by one who has given the lines a hundred-fold more

consideration than we could ourselves usually give to the

printed page, and we begin to see the artistic values of

the play piling up. Yet we have only begun the evalua-
tion. To and not merely imagine, the characters in
see,
the play working out some action; to catch in one posture,
one gesture, one look, more than the novelist might con-
vey in a page; tofeel that two, three, a dozen characters

each speaking to the eye by his dress, and gait, and

behavior are actually living their lives before us, is
immeasurably more real-seeming than to meet them one
at a time in a book. Shattered Ophelia by the water's

edge lives in our sympathies when her every word has

been forgotten.
 THE MODERN PLAY AN INTRODUCTION XIX

In setting, too, we find one more, and a very great,

addition to the apotheosis.In the modern play the realis-
no longer an accessory but part of the dramatist's
tic set is

conception of the story he is telling in sound, action, form,

and color to those who listen and look. It is a far cry from
the sceneless and uncovered stage of Shakespeare's era to
the perfect illusions of present-day inscenierung, the child of
Science wedded with Art. The artistic beauty and reality
of setting, the carefully placed dramatic emphasis, the
essential harmony of scene and tone, the effect of sug-

gested atmosphere, are proving wonderful helpers in the

presentation of the play as an artistic whole. Indeed,
even a new art stage designing has leaped forth to
help the scene designer produce his effects at the call of
the playwright. How notable has been the progress in
this field alone may be read in Mr. Hiram Kelly Moder-
well's recent book, "The Theatre of Today."
The kindred arts of painting, sculpture, architecture,

and interior and exterior decorating, all bring gifts to aid

dramatic presentment. Incidental music has a delicate
and that playwright is happy whose producer
share, too,

lays no more than due emphasis on the contributory

musical accompaniment.
But modern stage art owes more to the new effects of

decorative and symbolic color and light than to any other

accessories. From the Elizabethan daylight performances,

through the oil-lamp period with its feeble lights focused

on the stage apron, down to the gas footlights and over-
head lights, was a long road; yet the miraculous schemes
of electric lighting in vogue today mark a still greater
XX THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

advance they have created a new stage and a new stage

art. No longer need the author's lines forsake the story of
the play in order to approaching twilight or herald
tell of

the rise of a storm. When day dawns with all its soften-
ing shadows and crimsoning hill tops to make nature

lovely, we now "As You Like It" a shepherd leading

see in
his flock of sheep down the glade and feel ourselves to be
on the scene with the time and atmosphere attuned to the
mood of the action.

Thus the magic of trained human voices, the charm and

reality of the actor's representative and interpretive art,
the truthful setting which emphasizes yet does not
obtrude the essentials of time and place and circumstance,
the harmonies and contrasts of color, the beauty or the
studied ugliness of form, the eloquence of designed move-

ment, the contribution of music, and the variation of light

and darkness, unite with the lines of the play to produce
what I have ventured to call the apotheosis of all the arts
centred in this one. Singly, each of these arts may find

greaterand more complete expression elsewhere, but

nowhere else do they so wonderfully work together.

Now, all this is emphasized not so much to show, what

we all admit, that the stage of today is a new place, but
to stress the importance of recognizing the new materials
for play-making. In other words, the efficient play-
writer is more than his title explicitly shows: he is a
pizy-wright. As such, he is concerned with all the possi-

present-day stage-craft, for while the installa-

bilities of

tion and management of "effects" belong to the pro-

 THE MODERN PLAY AN INTRODUCTION XXI

ducer and the stage director, the playwright must be

aware of his resources and reckon with each one of them

when he devises the means by which his story is to be

presented.
The new stage-art, therefore, is not only an asset to the
playwright, but a liability as well. By so much as his
play may be helped by the use of "effects," will their
absence or misuse mar the production. For who must put
them into the play? It will not do to suppose that Mr.
Aladdin Producer will supply all these helps and thus trans-
mute a manuscript into a golden play. But, not every
play lends itself to scenic effects, and to cloak a weak fable
with an elaborate staging would smother it; and besides,
the true, the best, use of setting and its artistic accessories

is by no means always an elaborate one, but is oftenest

simple, and always unobstrusively secondary to the play
itself. It is for the author to plan the contrasts and har-

monies of time, place, and incident, invent a use for prop-

erties that will most effectively show the action of the story,

and so devise his climaxes that the characters may be seen

in striking relationships both to each other and to the set-

ting, in part and entire; but how these physical matters

may best be handled is at last the problem of the stage
director. The essential point is, the producer and the
director must have picture-inspiring materials wherewith
to work.

That all the literary arts have much in common is

obvious, and equally so that the novel and the drama

are of all the most closely allied. In both we have
XXli THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

the same stress on plotted story and on characters in

contrast as they work out the story in a given setting.

The play, too, in further similarity to the novel, often

exemplifies a theme, and is designed to give a unified
picture of life.

But he who attempts the play must forget the primary

appeal of the novelist, which is to the fancy, and visualize
everything for the spectator the dramatist's appeal is
directly to the eye, and if he makes any demands on the
reflective and imaging faculties of his audience it is only

in a secondary way, through what they see and feel.

This brings up the fundamental question, so often dis-

cussed and yet so hard to answer: What is dramatic?

The perennial nature of this inquiry is not chiefly
theoretical for the playwright, as it is for the critic, be-

cause the maker of plays is momently confronted with the

problem of what sort of material he must choose and how
he must handle it so as to make his play more than a
series of pictures of life. And it is precisely here that the
differentiation between dramatic and non-dramatic must
be made it is the difference between a plotted story and
a literary sketch: the former hinges its action on a crisis,
a tangle, a cross-purpose, a struggle, in the affairs of its
chief characters, and then shows how that crisis is brought

to its solution; the latter a mere picture of static emo-

is

tion and as such may be most effective, be it said.

The essence of the dramatic in a situation lies in action

and counter-action not merely in action, but in both. The

;

initial action may arise in the inner man in the will, or in

the emotions but it must not end there. Unless the mo-
 THE MODERN PLAY AN INTRODUCTION XX111

tivating force is strong enough to make feelings and will

come to a grapple with some antagonist, whether seen or

unseen, material or immaterial, the impulse dies. Then,
indeed, we might have the motif for -a literary sketch, a
lyric poem, or a painted picture; but for a drama, never.
On the other hand, let the man push his impulse first

to resolve and later to action, and let that action run

counter, say, to his own nature, his training, his surround-

ings, his friends, or his enemies, thus resulting in a definite
issue then we have the beginnings of a struggle whose

outworkings, as Mr. Andrews has clearly pointed out in

this volume, make the very heart of drama.

But, further, there must be counter-action. A walk-over

makes a poor a play as in a baseball game. Hence
fight, in
the action must arouse opposition worth wrestling with,
and whose outcome seems so significant to the spectators
that they more or less consciously take sides. The feeblest
dramatic action in the world is that which arouses in no
one a single pang when defeat comes to one side or the
other.

By all odds the greatest number of successful plays,

however, begin t'other way about: the action starts not
from within the man but from without, moves upon the
will of the person attacked, and arouses him to opposition,
which in turn brings out greater effort against him and
so on, shuttlecock and battledore, until the high point in
the struggle is reached, when, by some force expected or
unexpected, the issue is decided and a quick aftermath is
either shown or suggested.
Mr. Andrews has dwelt at sufficient length on this essen-
XXIV THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

tialelement of struggle in the drama, but I may be per-

mitted a further word on the reasons why the spectators
feel such deep interest in the contest.
Mr. Clayton Hamilton has pointed out, in an interesting
chapter on "The Psychology of Theatre Audiences,"
1

that the drama is written for "a crowd," composed of

many kinds of folk, but mostly women, who are prone to

sink their normal differences in a common interest; and

further, "that characters are interesting to a crowd only

emotion that bring them to the grapple."
in those crises of

This is quite true, so far as it goes, but something more

than the joy of witnessing a struggle must be found to
account for the deep, partisan, and often unmoral interest
feltby an audience in the struggle on which the play
hinges, particularly an audience in which women are in
the majority.
Other critics, notably M. Brunetiere, as Mr. Hamilton
observes, have insisted on the essential nature of struggle
in the drama, but I do not remember seeing it noted that
the element of danger to a character engaged in, or concerned
in, a struggle is the crucial point of interest for the spectators.
The dramatist rarely begins with a struggle but
skillful

uses every device short of a tour de force to win interest

and sympathy for his chief character; so that when the
issue is joined, sides will have been already taken by the
on-lookers, both on the stage and in the audience; for the
opponent the "villain," in old parlance must "de-

serve" little sympathy, if not actual reprobation, from the

judges of the contest.

*Tke Theory of the Theatre.
 THE MODERN PLAY AN INTRODUCTION XXV

But the dramatist goes further he sees to it that the

object striven for is of importance, not only to the con-

testants but in the estimation of the audience. And it

must be worthily fought for by the hero, since he must

retain thesympathy he has won.
But over and above all this lies the element of danger.

What will victory win, is rarely so poignant a question as

what defeat will cost. The enthralling thing in "The
Easiest Way" was the terrible alternative that opened
up before the young woman; though it must be said that
what chiefly revolted the audience was that Miss Starr
had put so much charm into the character she essayed
that when the girl chose "Broadway" one felt that so
sweet a spirit could not have made so low a choice. The
play was well motivated, but the acting was not down to
the level of a woman who was weak enough to fall a second
time.
It is the element of reward and penalty of danger, in
other words that forms yet another big plot-factor in the

play: that of suspense. Of this, too, Mr. Andrews has

written effectively. The
joys of reward are great only to
those who face the danger of loss or non-attainment. What
the defeat of the protagonist may mean is what makes
the fight "for blood." We almost know the outcome yet
we tremble! It is the championship games that count,
for defeat means no "look in" for the finals.

We are nowadays more ready to believe that books such

as the present treatise are of serious value to those who
would master an art, yet there are still those in high places
XXVI THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WBITING

who maintain that experience is the only teacher. But is

it not plain that principles gathered by induction, after

fairly observing a large number of cases, ought to merit

careful consideration? And is it not worth while to be
told how successful writers have secured their effects?
No one, I suppose, would seriously maintain that students,
however faithful, could be taught to write any piece of
creative literary work without possessing an alert mind,
some degree of native endowment for invention and self-

expression,and a well developed taste for the art to be

essayed. But, given these, together with a teachable
spirit, and it seems to me that the rest is patient labor,
under intelligent instruction. The danger of unguided
practise in dramatic art lies here: the playwright may fail
to discriminate between defects in popular plays, defects

which are mitigated by unusually competent or popular

actors and the meritorious points in those same plays: as
in "Ready Money," for instance. One strong dramatic
situation is likely to gloss over the essential weakness of
another situation in the same play. The public likes
what it likes, almost or quite irrespective of adjacent
things it does not like, therefore strong approval for the
one case begets a tolerance for the other.
So in taking up the study of dramatic art, whether for
the larger enjoyment of the play as a spectator or with the

purpose of dramaturgic writing, I can think of no guid-

ance so helpful as the sort offered by the present volume.
 Glossary
ACTION. "Thething represented as done in a drama; the event or
series of events, real or imaginary, forming the subject of a fable,

poem, or other composition." (Murray's English Dictionary.)

"Action," asserts Professor Butcher, commenting on Aristotle,
"embraces not only the deeds, the incidents, the situations, but also
the mental processes, and the motives which underlie the outward
events or which result from them. It is the compendious expression
for all these forces working together toward a definite end."

ANTAGONIST. The chief opposer of the protagonist (which see).

ASIDE. A speech spoken within sight of the other actors, but obvi-
ously not for their ears.

CATASTROPHE. "The change or revolution which produces the

conclusion or final event of a dramatic piece." (Johnson.) The
denouement (which see).

CHARACTER. "A personality invested with distinctive attributes

and qualities, by a novelist or dramatist. (Murray.)

CHARACTERIZE. "To describe or delineate the character or

peculiar qualities of a person or thing." (Murray.)
CLIMAX. "The highest point of anything reached by gradual
ascent; the culmination, height, acme, apex. (Murray.) The sum-
mit of interest; the point of greatest emotional tension.

COMEDY. "A stage play of a light and amusing character, with a

happy conclusion to its plot." "That branch of the drama which
adopts a humorous or familiar style, and depicts laughable characters
and incidents." (Murray.) In high, or true, comedy, the plot is
governed by the characters; and human nature, rather than incident,
is stressed.

COMPLICATION. The interweaving of the strands of action so as

to bring out the struggle.

CONNOTATION. "That which is implied in a word [a look, a

gesture, a situation, etc.,] in addition to its essential or primary
meaning." (Murray.)
XXV111 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

CRISIS. "A vitally important or decisive stage in the progress of

anything; a turning-point; also, a state of affairs in which a decisive
change for better or worse is imminent." (Murray.)

DENOUEMENT. "The final unravelling of the complications of a

plot in a drama, novel, etc.; the catastrophe; the final solu-
. . .

tion or issue of a complication, difficulty, or mystery." (Murray.)

DRAMA. A story, containing a fundamental element of conflict;

composed of a unified sequence of events; having a beginning, a
middle, and an end; and told in action usually by means of dia-
logue by the personages taking part in it.

DRAMATURGY. "Dramatic composition; the dramatic art."

(Murray.)

EPISODE. "A digression in a play, separable from the main sub-

ject, yet arising naturally from it." (Murray.)

EXPOSITION. "The part of the play in which the theme or

subject is opened out." (Webster's Dictionary.) The conveyance to
the audience of preliminary information necessary to a comprehension
of what is to follow.

FABLE. "The plot or story of a play." (Murray.)

FARCE. "A dramatic work which has for its sole object to excite
laughter." (Murray.) A play, chiefly of plot, farced, or stuffed, with
ludicrous situations.

GENRE. "Kind; sort; style." (Murray.)

INCIDENT. "A distinct piece of action in a play." (Murray.)

INTRIGUE. "The
plot of a play . ; . . a complicated scheme
of designs, actions, and events." (Webster.)

INVENTION. "The devising of a subject, idea, or method of treat-

ment, by exercise of the intellect or imagination; 'the choice and
production of such objects as are proper to enter into the composi-
tion of a work of art.'" (Murray.)

LOGIC."Something that tends to convince as completely as

reasoning; anything that as an antecedent determines what must
 GLOSSARY

follow; as, the logic of the situation made surrender inevitable.

(Webster.)

"A dramatic piece characterized by sensational

incident and violent appeals to the emotions, but with a happy end-
(MELODRAMA. In melodrama takes over char-
ing." (Murray.) plot precedence
acterization.

MISE EN SCENE. "The necessary preparations, as scenery, proper-

the representation of a play; stage setting; also, the
ties, etc., for

arrangement of the scenery and players in a scene; scene." (Web-

ster.)

PLOT. "The arrangement of the incidents." (Aristotle.) The

plan or scheme of a play, resultant on the interweaving and subse-
quent disentangling of the strands of action.

PROTAGONIST. "The chief personage in a drama." (Murray.)

PROPERTY. portable article, as an article of costume or

"Any
furniture, used in acting a play; a stage requisite, appurtenance, or
accessory." (Murray.)

REALISM. "Close resemblance to what is real; fidelity of repre-

sentation, rendering the precise details of the real thing or scene."
(Murray.)

SCENARIO. "A sketch or outline of the plot of a play, giving par-

ticulars of the scenes, situations, etc." (Murray.)

SITUATION. "A group of circumstances; a posture of affairs;

specifically, in theatrical art, a crisis or critical point in the action of
a play." (Century Dictionary.)

STORY. "The plot or intrigue of a drama." (Century.)

TRAGEDY. "That form of the drama which

represents a somber
or a pathetic character involved in a situation of extremity or despera-
tion by the force of an unhappy passion." (Century.) The spectacle
of an inadequate struggle against an invincible and relentless antago-
nist or overwhelming force. In tragedy the plot is subsidiary to the
characterization.
 The art the great and fascinating and most difficult art of the
modern dramatist is nothing else than to achieve that compression
of life which the stage undoubtedly demands without falsification.
If Stevenson had ever mastered that art and I do not question that
if he had properly conceived it he had it in him to master it he might
have found the stage a gold mine, but he would have found, too, that
it is a gold mine which cannot be worked in a smiling, sportive, half-

contemptuous spirit, but only in the sweat of the brain, and with
every mental nerve and sinew strained to its uttermost. He would
have known that no ingots are to be got out of this mine, save after
sleepless nights, days of gloom and discouragement, and other days,
again, of feverish toil, the result of which proves in the end to be

misapplied and has to be thrown to the winds. When you sit in your
stall at the theatre and see a play moving across the stage, it all seems

so easy and natural, you feel as though the author had improvised it.

The characters, being, let us hope, ordinary human beings, say noth-
ing very remarkable, nothing, you think, thereby paying the author
the highest possible compliment, that might not quite well have
occurred to you. When you take up a playbook (if ever you do take
one up) it strikes you as being a very trifling thing a mere insub-
stantial pamphlet beside the imposing bulk of the latest six-shilling
novel. Little do you guess that every page of the play has cost more
care, severer mental tension, if not more actual manual labor, than
any chapter of a novel, though it be fifty pages long. It is the height
of the author's art, according to the old maxim, that the ordinary
spectator should never be clearly conscious of the skill and travail
that have gone to the making of the finished product. But the artist
who would achieve a like feat must realize its difficulties, or what are
his chances of success? ARTHUR WING PINESO, Robert Louis Steven-
son: The Dramatist, in the Critic, 1903.
 CHAPTER I

THE PLAY AND ITS WHITER

Let us ask this direct question of every man and woman who
reads these pages: Have you taken any pains to satisfy yourself
that you possess this Inborn Talent? If not, do so without delay,
before you scatter futile ink over another sheet of wasted paper.
And not a question of having or not having the creative
it is

instinct,but of having it in sufficient degree to make its develop-

ment really worth while. For the Inborn Talent in a writer
may be compared to the grade of ore in a mine the question
is not simply whether there is any precious metal there at all,

but whether it is present in paying quantities. It is well to find

out, if you can, just how richly your talent will assay, and then
work it accordingly. FREDERIC TABER COOPER, The Crafts-
manship of Writing.

I would not willingly say one word which might discourage

those who are attracted to this branch of literature; on the con-
trary, I would encourage them in every possible way. One de-
sires, however, that they should approach their work at the out-
set with the same and earnest appreciation of its im-
serious
portance and with which they undertake the study
its difficulties

of music and painting. I would wish, in short, that from the

very beginning their minds should be fully possessed with the

knowledge that Fiction [of which genus the drama is, of course,
a species] is an Art, and that, like all other arts, it is governed

by certain laws, methods, and rules, which it is their first business

to learn. SIR WALTER BESANT, The Art of Fiction.

"A play," declares Mr. H. Granville Barker, "is any-

made effective upon the stage of a theatre
thing that can be
by human agency. And I am not sure," he adds, in revolu-
2 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

tionary good measure, "that this definition is not too

narrow."
To most people, however, the definition that is pos-
sibly narrow would seem amply comprehensive.
too
At any rate, in spite even of Mr. Barker's earnest
efforts toprove his proposition by means of homemade
examples, the playgoing public continues to differentiate,
if somewhat hazily, between "a play" and mere wise,
verbose, or witty dialogues, or simple galleries of passive
types.
After all, even if Aristotle, being human and not
omniscient, did err in the matter of the ten pounds of
lead,which Galileo proved would not fall a whit faster
than a single pound of the same metal, still the Stagyrite
was and remains fairly sound in the less scientific, more
aesthetic matter of the drama, in which he was naturally
somewhat more adept. Moreover Mr. Barker and
others have not succeeded in demolishing the Aristo-
telianview with quite the same degree of success that
attended Galileo's experimentation.

Fundamentals of the Drama

Aristotle, then, in discussing the nature of a play,

insisted primarily upon plot. "Drama" etymologically
indicates action; and the action in a play must, first of
all, tell a story. This includes a unified sequence of
events, having a beginning, a middle, and an end, and is

represented by means of individuals imitating the person-

ages taking part in the story.

 THE PLAY AND ITS WRITER 3

Story and people, therefore, are two fundamental ele-

ments of a play. They depend upon each other in fact,
the delicacy and the harmony of their inter-relations

present the main problem of the dramatist. For it should

be noted that neither element alone is sufficient. Story,
indeed, cannot exist without people, or at least symbols
of people; while people merely, not involved in any story,
cannot constitute a play. "Drama," says Professor A.
W. Ward, "is not reached till the imitation or representa-
tion extends to action."
As without a plot there can be no drama, so without a
procedure from cause to effect there can be no plot. The
third fundamental to be remembered, then, is logic. It

applies not only to the element of story, but also to the

element of people, in their characterization. In fact,
logic is, in a sense, the binding principle which cements

the plot and the people in a play. Another name for this

principle is "probability;" still another, "consistency;"

neither of these terms, however, is so satisfying, because

not so inclusive, as "logic."

The Endowments of the Playwright

The aspiring playwright should first introspectively

consult his creative equipment for the purpose of dis-

covering whether it includes aptitudes in line with the

three essentials of the drama so far mentioned. Is he

gifted with the ability to imagine stories? he not only Is

something of a born plot-maker, but also a sound, if

intuitive, psychologist? Has he that power of observa-
4 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

tion which enables him unerringly to single out and to

classify the traits, regular and eccentric, of human nature?
And, finally, is he endowed with a relentlessly logical
thinking apparatus, which will never allow itself to be
thrown out of gear or off the track, no matter how much
pressuremay be brought to bear upon it by the power of
mental habit or the tyranny of precedent?
The probably successful playwright must have this
triple gift. He needs to be, in fact, a combination of the
scientific and the type of mind. The science of
artistic

humanity is the foundation of the art of the drama, and

it is in both fields that the dramatist must be an expert.

Manifestly, not all men and women can be made into

playwrights. Life is infinitely too short. Writers for the

stage must be born saturated with drama, oozing drama

from their finger-tips, living their lives largely in an imag-
inative realm of the mimetic, thinking in terms of drama,

seeing all life, indeed, from the special angle of its

effective theatrical representation.

1
Sarcey quotes Sardou as insisting on the fact that "the
true character, the distinctive sign, of the man born for
the theatre, is to see nothing, to hear nothing, which does
not immediately take on, for him, the theatrical aspect:
"
'This landscape he admires, what a beautiful setting!
This charming conversation he listens to, what pretty
dialogue! This delicious young girl that passes, how
adorable an ingenue! Finally, this misfortune, this

crime, this disaster one describes to him, what a situation!

what a scene! what drama! The special faculty of drama-

Quarante Ans de Theatre.
1
 THE PLAY AND ITS WRITER 5

tizing everything constitutes the power of the dramatic

author.' .
Unfortunately, it must be at once admitted
. .

that this thing is not easy or common. We are forever

passing by dramatic incidents and situations which do

not strike us at all, because they are affairs of ordinary
life; but which others, gifted with a special vision, per-
ceive, and from which they extract the drama we never
even suspected
"To see a true thing and to feel that it would be effective
on the stage, that is the first part of this special gift
Sardou talks about; to imagine the dramatic form which
would reveal this true thing, that is, to find a means of
giving it verisimilitude in the eyes of twelve hundred
people assembled before the footlights, is the second and
last part which makes up the whole. And there is nothing
rarer in the world than this gift."
In insisting on this element of congenital endowment
as being necessarily fundamental to all training in play-
making, we might go further and say that the successful
dramatist, even our latter-day species, must be a poet,
So, indeed, he was usually named a century or two ago,
not because he wrote in verse, but because he dealt in an
art-form closely related to poetry pure and simple. The
drama aims primarily at the emotions. A story acted out
by characters, however logical it may be, if it fails to
arouse the feelings of the audience, is not a play. Drama
to-day is oftenest written in prose; but, if it is to succeed, it
does not confine itself to a purely intellectual appeal.
Rather are we accustomed to believe that drama rises
above mere spoken dialogue and pantomime to its own
6 THE TECHNIQUE OP PLAY WRITING

peculiar plane solely when it produces a distinct emotion-

al reaction.

This, then, is drama, reduced to its elements: A unified

and logical story told in action by its own characters and
making a sustained emotional appeal. Its proper con-

struction requires a certain innate poetic ability specialized

in the direction of what is effective for the stage the

expression of life in terms of concrete action, the visualiza-

tion of truth. Without the power to embody the abstract,
without a mentality combining the clearest thinking with
the deepest feeling, the aspirant to honors in writing

plays will probably fall short even of mediocrity.

Underlying and infusing all worthy dramatic writing is

the individualized and emphatic personality of the

dramatist. Personality is, after all, the prime requisite.
Are you a man or a woman gifted with a mental, moral,
and spiritual constitution that sufficiently differentiates
you from the mass of humanity to make your viewpoint,

your utterances, your creative endeavors of whatsoever

sort, inherently attractive merely because they have in
them the flavor of yourself? If so, you may safely begin to
take stock of your other native endowments with a view
to determining your fitness to write plays. The ability
to effect mere rearrangements of antiquated situations
and characters is far from sufficient. Ibsen, Brieux,
Pinero, Shaw, Rostand, Maeterlinck, Barrie these are

personalities constantly revealing themselves through the

mimic world they create. There is no set formula for the
process. The style is the man, and it can be neither mis-
taken nor imitated. What the men and women on the
 THE PLAY AND ITS WRITER 7

stage say and do, or refrain from saying and doing, in

some mysterious manner reveals the sympathies and
antipathies, the tastes, the foibles, and the ideals of their

creator; and him we like, abhor, or are indifferent to,

according as he is strong and sincere, feeble and disingen-
uous, or commonplace and dull.

Endowment Plus Preparation

If, however, the self-consulting aspirant thinks he finds

the necessary endowment present in germ, as is most

likely, rather than in total development there will still

remain by way of preparation the mastering of a consid-
erable number of time-tried technical processes. The
drama, like all other arts or crafts, hasbody of doctrine
its

gained from experimentation. One must know as many

facts about ways and means before broaching the con-
struction of a play, at least as one must know, for instance,
before beginning to build a house.
To set forth as simply and concretely as possible these
basic tenets of the art of dramatic composition will be the
aim of the chapters to follow.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Formulate your own definition for the drama.
2. Quote as many definitions as you can from
authorities.

3. Make a list of the elements generally agreed on.

4. What elements in these definitions seem to you to

be not properly included?
8 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

5. Are one's native mental and emotional endowments

generally in plain evidence at the age, say, of from
twenty-five to thirty?
6. What sort of experiences and exercises are likely to

reveal to oneself his own native gifts?

7. Compare the necessity for native gifts in the play-

wright and in the painter; in the poet; in the novelist.
8. Restate in your own words the qualities that the

present author holds must be inborn in the truly success-

ful playwright.

9. Would you add to or subtract from this list? Why?

10. What relation does intelligent study bear to native

endowment?
 CHAPTER II

THE THEME
"
Beginning with the Fils naturel" he [Dumas Jtts] engaged in
the development of social theories. To paint characters, ridi-
cules, and passions was not enough. He wished to leave with
the spectators "something to think over," to make them hear
"things good to be said." GEORGES PELLISSIER, Le Mouvement
Litteraire au XIX Siecle.

The truth is that plays of ideas must, first of all, be plays of

emotion. "Primum vivere, deinde philosophari. " The "idea"
is excellent, as giving a meaning and unity to the play, but if
it be allowed to obtrude itself so as to impair the sense of reality,
the flow of emotion is immediately arrested. Emotion, not logic,
is the stuff of drama. A play that stirs our emotions may be
"
absolutely "unidea'd. That is a case of emotion for emotion's
sake the typical case of melodrama. The play really great
is the play which first stirs our emotions profoundly and then

gives a meaning and direction to our feelings by the unity and

truth of some underlying idea. A. B. WALKLEY, Drama and L*'fe.

Directions for writing plays usually commence with the

choice of a theme, and properly so; for, theoretically, a
drama supposed to be the development of an abstract
is

truth, which is its germ, which may be summed up in a

sentence or two, and which is thought out in advance of

any actual composition.

The theme of "Macbeth," for instance, may be thus
stated:
A man of high position is led to commit a great crime
to attain his ambition.
10 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

To maintain his position he is led to other crimes.

no enjoyment from the attainment of
Finally, gaining
his ambition, he is put to death by forces aroused by his

own crimes.
Or the theme of "Hamlet" may be somewhat more
elaborately couched as follows:
Hamlet, a student and a dreamer, has been made aware
of his father's murder and his mother's seduction by his
uncle, now king. This he has learned from the ghost of
his father, who incites him to revenge. Hamlet is hesitant,
dilatory, incredulous: he loses time while he devises a test

of the worth of the ghost's word, and again for fear of

sending his enemy's soul to heaven by killing him while
he is at prayer.
His inactivity results in his killing by mistake an inno-
cent man, and thus maddening that man's daughter,
Hamlet's sweetheart. His purpose almost blunted, he
departs, returns, and, finally in killing his enemy, is him-

selfinvolved in a general destruction which his own

hesitancy has brought about.

Or, much more briefly, the matter might be phrased as
a thesis thus:
Placed in a position demanding heroic action, a dreamer,
though of superb mentality, can only involve himself and

others in ruin.

The Thesis as a Theme

Between these two ways of stating the Hamlet theme we

find a distinction that is worth noting: the former is

chiefly a compression of the plot, with a hint of the truth

 THE THEME II

that underlies it; the latter is the precise formulation of

the argument, or thesis, which the story works out by way
of illustration. Most of the great serious plays may be
shown to support such theses, though not necessarily to
have started out with that chief purpose of which more
later.

A further distinction must be pointed out between both

of the foregoing theme-types and the kind that sets forth
certain facts of life in a sort of unprejudiced, reportorial

way, without formulating a thesis as in certain obvious

instances presently to be cited.

Theoretically we should conceive of Shakespeare as

having first selected a thesis and afterward casting about

him for a fable, or story, and a set of characters, that

would give the idea suitable and adequate dramatic illus-

tration. Similarly, Mr. George Bernard Shaw would
begin "Man and Superman" by reflecting on the para-
doxical notion that woman is really the pursuer in love;
Mr. Augustus Thomas would start to work on "The
Witching Hour" after due consideration of the dynamic
power of thought; Henrik Ibsen would preface the writing
of "Ghosts" by recalling the fact that the sins of the
fathers are visited on the children; and Messrs. Arnold
Bennett and Edward Knoblauch would deliberately select
as the underlying idea for "Milestones" the conflict of
the radicalism of youth with the conservatism of age.
But I do not know whether these latter-day writers
actually thus set to work. Shakespeare, as scores of
have pointed out, began "Macbeth" and "Hamlet"
critics

by in each instance taking an old story ready-made and

12 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

then altering and rearranging its incidents and characters.

Possibly this process was carried out, too, with little
definite conception, or at least with no definite phrasing,
of a central thought as theme. Most serious playwrights,

upon analysis, do turn out to have themes; but it may be

that they generally have them as children have parents
without much previous selection. So we must not insist
too firmly on this theory.
when the dramatic poet
"I will not say that it is a fault
arranges his fable in such a manner that it serves for the
exposition or confirmation of some great moral truth.
But I may say that this arrangement of the fable is any-
thing but needful; that there are very instructive and
perfect plays that do not aim at such a single maxim, and
that we err when we regard the moral sentence such as is

found at the close of many ancient tragedies, as the key-

note for the existence of the entire play." 1
In writing "The Witching Hour," as has just been sug-
gested, Mr. Augustus Thomas doubtless began with the
conviction as thesis that the stronger and more whole-
some thought vanquishes the weaker and less healthful.
In "Arizona," however, which is essentially a story-play,
he did not require so clear and concrete a germ idea.
And if in "As a Man Thinks" he purposed to illustrate
the poison of hatred and its antidote forgiveness, it is
obvious that he added thereto certain ancillary themes,
such as the modern relations of Jew and Gentile, and the
double standard of morals for the sexes. This last in a
sense amounts to a specific denial that this is, after all,
a man's world a sort of reversal of Ibsen's theme in
"A Doll's House."

1
Leasing, Dramatic Notes.
 THE THEME 13

But which comes first, abstract notion or concrete

incident? The question is of minor importance: what
matters is that the idea be properly embodied in the
event. Note the case of "A Doll's House." Its basic

thought the author himself thus worded:

"A woman cannot be herself in the society of the
present day, which is an exclusively masculine society,
with laws framed by men and with a judicial system
that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point
of view." As a matter of fact, however,
appears it

that Ibsen's real starting-point was the account of a

woman's forgery; though the circumstances and the cause
of her action doubtless led to the formulation, by an
inductive process, of the drama's thesis.

Absence of Thesis in Some Forms of Drama

On the other hand, it is quite apparent thatMr. Paul
Armstrong had no definite thesis in mind when he dashed
off "Alias Jimmy Valentine" in the course it is said
of a single week; nor had Mr. Graham Moffat, when he
wrote "A Scrape o' the Pen." The former work was, of
course, merely the adaptation and expansion of a story
by O. Henry; the latter a picture of humble Scotch life
and character.
Plays are sometimes roughly divided into three classes:
story-plays, character-plays, and plays of ideas. It seems
obvious that a writer may set out to tell a story, or to
exhibit characters in action, without laying down for his

work any fundamental thesis. Perhaps, after all, the only

story-plays and character-plays that actually grow out of
14 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

a preconceived theme are those that are also in a measure

plays of ideas. Farce and melodrama "The Deep

Purple," "Within the Law," "Kick In," "Twin Beds,"
"Over Night," "Seven Days," "Hernani," "Virginius,"
"The Whip," "The Importance of Being Earnest,"
"Officer 666," "The Dictator "scarcely need any ante-
cedent themes other than the purpose to amuse or to
thrill.

Other Play-Bases than the Set Theme

The playwright, then, may start his play with a basic

idea the vaulting ambition of Macbeth or the unpracti-
calness of Hamlet and often such is his method.
However, it is equally feasible that he should begin
merely with an incident noted in real life or described
in a periodical. Mr. Charles Kenyon is said to have
found the entire plot of "Kindling" ready-made, in a
single newspaper clipping. Less fortunate story-play
writers will perhaps combine various incidents similarly
gleaned, with figures eclectically assembled. As for the

writers of character-plays, they will gather their men and

women where they can and set them forth on the boards,
often also without having connected them with any
abstraction to be illustrated.

How Some Plays Were Born

"One we are told,
blindingly foggy night in London,"
"Messrs. Haddon Chambers and Paul Arthur were
trudging from the theatre to the former's lodgings. Sud-
denly out of the impenetrable mist loomed what Mr.
 THE THEME 15

Chambers calls a 'smear,' 'a stain on humanity,' a typical

London tramp, one who neither sows nor spins. Mr.
Chambers and the tramp collided, but the latter was
quick with apologies well worded and gently spoken. The
man, whose name was Burns, interested Mr. Chambers,
who finally invited him home, along with his friend Mr.
Arthur, for a bite of supper. Without realizing it, the
playwright had received the stimulus which was to result
"
in 'Passers-By.'

Almost anything, apparently, may suggest a play. Mr.

Hubert Henry Davies, it is said, wishful of success in the

drama, suddenly reflected that there are many admirable

actresses past their prime of beauty, who need only good
plays to demonstrate that they still have talent. There-
upon he set about the writing of such a vehicle and pro-
duced "Mrs. Goringe's Necklace."
Once upon a time, we learn, a man assaulted Mr. Charles
Klein, who threatened his arrest. The assailant defied
him, openly relying upon his influence at the office of the
public prosecutor. This intimated corruption suggested
the play, "The District Attorney." Magazine and news-
paper reports of Congressional proceedings and of monop-
oly methods are said to have furnished the inspiration for
"The Lion and the Mouse." The phrase "the one-man
power" was what first drew the playwright's attention.
"I wrote the play," he explains, "to show the terrible
possibility for evil of unlicensed money-power." A remark
by a well-known psychologist, that a man might be forced
through suggestion to confess a crime of which he was
innocent, combined with the idea of police graft to inspire
"The Third Degree."
16 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"The ideas of my plays," Sir Arthur Wing Pinero is

quoted as having explained, "are born I do not know

how. They come to me most readily when there is plenty
of activity and excitement around me. They are sug-

gested by my
observation of simple, everyday things

perhaps a mere incident will become the cornerstone of a

dramatic theme."
Though he had often travelled in the far Southwest,
William Vaughn Moody did not there acquire the idea of
"The Great Divide." Instead, the story came to him in
a Chicago drawing-room, where a friend was relating the
episode of a Sabine union that had actually occurred in
the wilderness. This gave Moody his now celebrated first

act originally, by the way, Act II from which he

developed his psychological melodrama.
Certainly this sort of play origin is very different from
the method of logical formulae. The four most important

figures in Victor Hugo's "Ruy Bias," for example, "repre-

sent the principal features observed by the philosopher-
historian in contemplating the Spanish monarchy of a
hundred and forty years ago." The idea underlying
"Le Roi s'amuse" is that paternal love will transform a
creature utterly degraded by physical inferiority. The
idea of "Lucrtce Borgia" is that maternal love purifies even
moral deformity.
Monsieur Pellissier points out that this rational view of
the subject leads naturally to the abstract. "All the
activity of the personages has as its preconceived goal the
realization of an 'idea,' a 'thought' of the playwright.
We have what is no longer the development of characters,
 17

but merely the deduction of a thesis." And after Hugo

comes Alfred de Vigny, ready to substitute the "drame de
la pensee" for that of life and of action. Directly opposed
to him, however, was Dumas the elder, with his gifts of

movement, brilliancy, and color.

At all events, it would be hard to determine whether
abstract ideas or concrete individuals and incidents form
the starting-point of the majority of plays. Doubtless in

many cases it is impossible for even the dramatist himself

how his play took rise. Often enough,
to explain exactly

indeed, has simply been "begot in the ventricle of

it

memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered

upon the mellowing of occasion."

The Value of Themes

Meanwhile, however, it appears reasonable that a play

that is actually developed from a definite theme is most
likely to possessboth the unity and the simplicity, to say
nothing of the freshness, which good drama requires.
Purposeless stories in and from real life are apt to be
digressive; all too readily they absorb incidents and
characters that distract rather than concentrate the
attention. Story for story's sake has a natural tendency
to become involved and intricate beyond the bounds of

good dramatic art. A character-play without a theme,

too, may not readily find any satisfactory unifying
principle;whereas a drama that deliberately sets out to
demonstrate a clear-cut basic idea will likely be held by its
very purpose to organic oneness. Moreover, if there be

any possible plot novelty nowadays, it will probably arise

l8 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

from the sincere and vigorous treatment of a heartfelt

conviction. Playwrights with definite themes, it is true,

often enough go astray into the easy highroads of con-

ventionality, but they are much better safeguarded against

this defection than are the mere story-tellers of the stage.
It is certainly preferable for a play to be about
something.
"The 'well-made' play," says Mr. H. T. Parker, "the
play of artful and vigorous mechanics, from Scribe and
Sardou to Bernstein and sometimes Jones is indeed a
poor thing, with its personages as puppets or cogs, with its
emotions made according to prescriptions for more or less
assured effects, with its dialogue as a kind of lubricating
oil, with no vitalizing spirit except the spirit of the theatre
as an exciting show place. A play with an underlying and
informing idea, if only the idea be significant, is a better
thing,however ineptly the idea may be expressed and
developed through the speech and the action on the stage.
The ideal play, as the ideals of the contemporary stage go

(when it is lucky enough to have any) is the play that is

born of such an idea, and that by the artistic means of the
theatre brings it to full and persuasive impartment."

Theme Difficulties

There are two main difficulties with regard to dramatic

themes: first, new ones are exceedingly rare; and, second,
once chosen, they are often next to impossible of adequate
illustration. "The New Sin," for example, was planned
to demonstrate the rather novel notion that the right to
live is sometimes nullified by the duty to die. However,
 THE THEME 19

the fable devised is insufficient to make this difficult idea

acceptable. Again, as has been frequently said, in Clyde

Fitch's "The City," the powerful central scene the
revelation to Hannock of his marriage to his own half-

sister is totally disconnected from the theme of the

drama, which is the influence of urban life upon character.
In the case of Mr. George M. Cohan's ambitious effort,
"The Miracle Man," the power of faith for physical and
moral regeneration is obviously the thesis much as it was
in "The Servant in the House," and "The Passing of the
Third Floor Back." In Mr. Cohan's play, however,
neither plot nor characterization is sufficient for a convinc-

ing demonstration of the thesis. Similarly, in "What Is

Love?" Mr. George Scarborough signally failed to illus-

trate the difference between the real and the false founda-
tion for marriage. In this case, the author was unsuccess-
ful, it is true, largely because his own conception of the

theme was vague and abortive. One went away from both
and " What Is Love? with a distinct
"
"The Miracle Man "
feeling that the playwright had undertaken something as

yet beyond his powers. Excellent themes had been chosen,

but they had not been adequately exemplified.
Themes, then, though not indispensable to the story-play
at least, not in the sense of abstract underlying ideas
are reasonably presupposed in the art of the drama, and in

many plays may be found and concisely expressed with

little difficulty. Thus, upon analysis, it will be seen that
the theme of "L'Aiglon" repeats that of "Hamlet," and
that the fundamental idea of "The Master Builder"
resembles that of "Macbeth." In "Kindling" we note
20 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

how children have a right to be well born; in "The Second

Mrs. Tanqueray," how hopeless is the struggle of such a
woman as Paula with a "past;" in "The Blue Bird,"
how happiness, which men are prone to seek far afield,
oftenest lies at home; in "The Pigeon," how worse than
useless is misplaced charity; in "Joseph Entangled," how

eagerly people will put the worst interpretation on inno-

cent occurrences; in "The Phantom Rival," how ill a
woman's romantic souvenirs are likely to accord with

reality; in "The Well of the Saints," how much more

pleasant are illusions than grim facts; in "The Elder

Brother," how second marriages beget family quarrels;

in "The Thunderbolt," how prospective legacies intensify
natural depravity; in "Pygmalion," how the gap between
the flower-girl and the duchess may be bridged by pho-
netics at least, to the satisfaction of Mr. Shaw; in

"Outcast," how serious a business it is for a man to

regenerate a woman's soul; in "What Is Love?" how
real love, as Mr. Scarborough sees it, is that which lends
to a kiss the sensation ordinarily produced by drinking

apple toddy; in "The Legend of Leonora," how superior

to the laws and logic of mere man is charming and in-
scrutable femininity; in "Magda," how impossible of

adjustment are social conservatism and radicalism; in

"Ruy Bias," how essential nobility may shatter itself

against the barriers of caste; in "A Woman of No Import-

ance," how unjust is a double standard of morals for the
sexes; "Hindle Wakes," how poor a "reparation"
in

marriage may be for a wronged girl; in "Polygamy," how

dire are the consequences of polygamy; in "Waste," how
 THE THEME 21

an impulsive violation of the moral code may result in

much waste of power and life;how com-
in "Chains,"

pletely responsibility chains us down to humdrum monot-

ony; in "The Blindness of Virtue," how blind is ignorant
virtue; in "You Never Can Tell," how you never can
tell; in "It Pays to Advertise," how it pays to advertise.

I am aware that hasty summaries of the gists of plays

lay one liable to much scornful criticism. Dramas often

have more than one, and the appraisal of underlying
sides

ideas is likely to vary. It remains, however, that plays do

often have themes, in spite of the fact that we usually
cannot determine whether the themes preceded or fol-
lowed the plots in point
of time or were cognate with them.

But, in any event, as critics are constantly reiterating, the

beginner at play-writing may rest confident that dramatic
work springing from a definite germ of thought will logi-
cally stand a better show of success than will that which is

accreted indiscriminately from mere scraps of story and

character and dialogue.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Point out the difference usually found between a

theme and a title, and illustrate from two modern plays.
2. State the themes of three modern plays, each couched
in two forms: first in the "plot" manner illustrated on

page 10, and second manner, on page 13.

in the thesis

3. Give an instance from your own observation in which

the thesis-theme is imperfectly sustained or illustrated
by the action of the play.
22 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

4. Have you ever seen a weak play on a really big theme?

Criticise it from your present viewpoint.

5. Formulate the theme of any one of Shakespeare's

comedies.
6. State the thesis of any one of Shakespeare's tragedies.
In your opinion, can the permanency of any of the
7.

world's great plays be in large measure attributed to the

greatness of its theme?

8. What factors lend permanency of interest to a
theme? Illustrate.

9. Cite themes from popularly successful plays that in

your opinion are doomed to only a passing interest on

account of their themes. Give reasons.
10. Give the themes in any form of six modern plays.
11. Express in the form of a proverb the theme of one
modern play.
12. Invent theses for three possible plays. Try to
avoid triteness in expression.

13. Invent three subjects for plays, but do not use the
thesis form of statement.
14. Criticise any of the theme statements on page 20
that you can intelligently.

15. Tell how any one dramatic theme came to you

personally.
1 6. What habits and practices would seem to you likely
to bring about a mood productive of theme ideas?
17. Do themes occur to you readily?
1 8. Does it encourage originality or imitation to sit

down and try to think of a theme?

 THE THEME 23

19. Relate any one experience in life that has come to

you that suggests a dramatic theme.

20. Try to find in the newspapers a theme suitable for

a play. Clip it and present it in class.

21. The foregoing suggestion may prove to be no more

than a theme in embryo. If so, develop the germ until
it is expressed clearly and fully in a single sentence.
22. What short-stories or novels recently read by you
disclose themes for plays?
23. State the themes of from three to five of these,

briefly but fully.

24. Give a modern example of a play on a trite theme

that has been redeemed by fresh treatment.
 CHAPTER III .

THE ELEMENTS
One other law is no less essential: it is that which indicates
that an action in the theatre must be conducted by wills, if not
always free, always at least self-conscious. This law. . .

is nothing more than the expression ... of that which in the

very definition of the theatre is essential, peculiar, and, to re-

peat, absolutely specific. That which peculiarly belongs
. . .

only to the theatre, that which through all literatures, from the
Greek to our own, forms the permanent and continued unity of
the dramatic species, is the spectacle of a will which unfolds
itself; and that is why action, and action thus defined, will
always be the law of the theatre. FERDINAND BRUNETI^RE, Les
Epoques du Thedtre Fran$ais.

It is sometimes supposed that the drama consists of incident.

It consists of passion, which gives the actor his opportunity;
and that passion must progressively increase, or the actor, as
the piece proceeded, would be unable to carry the audience from
a lower to a higher pitch of interest and emotion. A good serious
play must therefore be founded on one of the passionate cruces
of life, where duty and inclination come nobly to the grapple.
ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, A Humble Remonstrance.

Roughly speaking, all plays are compounded primarily

of plot, characters, and dialogue. Dialogue, it is true, is
wholly absent in the case of pantomimes; but then it is in
a sense supplied by gesture and facial expression, much as
in opera it is supplied by song, and as in still other forms
of drama it appears as poetry or rhetoric. These ele-
ments fully treated later must now be viewed broadly
in a preliminary way.
 THE ELEMENTS 2$

Assuming that the dramatist has chosen his theme, he

has next to devise a plot, or story-framework, and char-
acters that will be adequate to its expression. The charac-
ters will reveal the story by means of dialogue, in addition

to appearance, physical action, and pantomime. The

story, being for the stage, will have to be emotionally
exciting. Moreover, it must not trespass upon the truth
of the characterization too far, in the case of melodrama
or farce; atall, in the case of comedy or tragedy. On the
other hand, the characterization must not be developed at
the expense, or at least to the exclusion of, the plot. And
the dialogue, always including pantomime, must, to fulfill
its function, both reveal character and advance the story

from line to line.

Struggle an Essential Plot Element

The action of a drama meaning the doings and the

sayings of the characters hi a unified fable, or plotted
story most readily takes on the emotional quality
through the portrayal of conflict. It has generally been
1
asserted that the essence of the drama is a struggle; and,
1
Mr. Archibald Henderson, an article in The Drama (August,
in
1914; pages 441-442), reiterates the observation I made in The
Drama To-day that a play appeals as does a fight prize fight,
bull fight, cock fight, etc. struggle naturally being the thing
best adapted to emotional excitation. Mr. Brander Matthews
had previously quoted the assertion of Professor Groos that "the
pleasure afforded by the drama has one very essential feature in
common with ring contests, animal fights, races, etc., namely,
that of observing a struggle in which we may inwardly partici-
pate." The gist of the matter, of course, as most writers on the
26 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

while exceptions have been taken to this view, they are

for the most part feeble and quibbling. There are dramas
without struggle, we are told, but this is true only in a
special sense of the word. A conflict is made up of effort
and resistance, even though that resistance may be as

passive as that of a mountain resisting the climber. With-

out both of these elements, there can be little, if any, drama.
How can there be a play of any important appeal, through
which a protagonist simply wanders without purpose,
meeting with no obstacle, human or otherwise? How can
there be a play of any vital consequence in which the hero
proceeds straight forward on his resolute course, with no
let or hindrance, to the final curtain?

It has been suggested by Mr. William Archer that it is

not conflict that is essential to drama, but rather crisis.

As many reviewers have promptly seen, this is scarcely a
satisfactory substitution. There is crisis in drama, certain-
ly, but does it not invariably appear as the real or supposed

turning-point in some sort of antagonism? Of plays said to

contain no struggle, we are cited to " (Edipus Rex," "
Othel-

lo," "As You Like It," "Ghosts," "Hamlet," "Lear," as

examples. Conflict in the drama does not necessarily
mean "a stand-up fight between will and will." It is not
1
Continued
drama have observed, is simply that every good play is at
bottom some sort of fight.
As Mr. Chester S. Lord, of the New York Sun, recently pointed
out to a group of journalism teachers, the same principle holds
true with regard to the newspaper. "Were you to ask me to
name the kind of news for which the people surge and struggle,"
"
he said, I surely must reply that it is the details of a contest
a fight, whether between men or dogs or armies."
 THE ELEMENTS 27

even essential that the fight should be a resolute knock-

down affair: all men are not constituted to wage that kind
of battle. (Edipus contends as best he may against the
tremendous antagonism of the Fates. Hamlet hacks
fitfully at the opposing circumstances that hem him in.
Even the monotony-haunted clerks in Miss Elizabeth
"
Baker's Chains" make some effort to break their shackles.
And it has been pointed out, also, that Richard Wilson's
attempt to cut loose from the routine that is gradually
subjugating his soul is typical of the underlying conflict of
certain great forces that mark our modern civilization

the yearning for land ownership and the rebellion against

being a mere cog in the machine. In "As You Like It"

the element that most interests us, not to mention various
conflicts with wicked relatives, is that war of the sexes

and of wits that is the staple of high comedy today as

ever. And as for "Ghosts," what more fearful, if impo-
tent, struggle was ever waged than that of Mrs. Alving,
backed up by conventional morality as personified in
Pastor Manders? Her great antagonist is Natural Law,
the modern prototype of the Fates, here masked as horrid
and relentless Heredity. Moreover, the play as a whole
exemplifies the terrific battle of the dead present with the
living past. What underlies true tragedy, after all, but a
helpless grapple with the overwhelming forces of destiny?
Hamlet, Lear, Othello, (Edipus, Agamemnon, Brutus,
Paula Tanqueray, all are involved in this strife, though it
be not a hand-to-hand combat with destiny incarnate. 1
1
Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, in an introduction, dated July,
1914, for a reprint of Brunetiere on the law of the drama, I find,
 28 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Moreover, there is in all drama, not only central, but

also ancillary conflict in many phases. "We start from a
state of calm which contains in it the elements of a dra-
matic conflict; we see these elements rush together and
effervesce; and we watch the effervescence die back again
into calm, whether it be that of triumph or disaster, of
2
serenity or despair."
It appears that there are some critical playgoers who are
as insistent on stand-up-and-knock-down battle as was
Polonius for his jig or his tale of bawdry. Without a sheer
him they sleep. It is neither a necessary
physical fight, like
nor a probable course, however, for the playwright in
every instance to set about the illustration of his theme by
deliberately choosing two antagonists and, Cadmus-like,
putting them at odds with each other. But it is well to
remember that conflict is nearly if not quite the first state
of drama, and that it is most naturally adapted to the

excitation of emotion.

Setting the Struggle in Array

Mr. Augustus Thomas quoted in a newspaper article

is

as thus describing the process by which a play takes form:

"There must be, to begin with, a proponent for the idea,
a character who believes in it, who preaches it, who guides
* Continued
has similarly refuted the "crisis theory." What here appears
on the subject was written within a few weeks after the publica-
tion of Mr. Archer's "Play Making" in 1912. Of course, the
weakness of the theory is perfectly obvious, and it can be shown
in no other way than to point out the struggle in the examples
cited.
*
William Archer, in The Forum; March, 1910.
 THE ELEMENTS 3p

his life by it. Next, there must be an opponent. He is to

oppose the idea, to bring about the conflict upon which

drama lives. There must then be a third person, a person
in dispute, as it were. Not so much a person for whom the
first two are struggling such as the heroine of melodrama,
for instance more a character whose life and fortunes are
to be shaped, heightened, or despoiled according as the
idea of the play conquers or falls. Lastly, there must be a
detached character, whom we might call the Attorney for
the People. He is an outsider, a doubter. He represents
the audience. He
sees the struggles of the proponent and
the opponent. Like us in the audience, he must be
affected one way or the other, for or against. Often this
'

attorney is the familiar family friend,' a fine comedy part,

because so human, so real just like the audience that he
represents."
This is, indeed, a specific formula. One will probably
not agree to follow it so closely as has Mr. Thomas in
certain of his later plays. One may object, for example,
to the raisonneur out of Dumas fils the Judge Prentice,
the Lew Ellinger, or the Doctor Seelig. Nevertheless,
roughly the procedure indicated is ; n part
speaking,
at least the one usually adopted. Reflection upon the
theme or whatever else may serve as a starting-point
will presently suggest the kind of men and women by
me,ans of whom theme may be visualized.
in action the

Gradually they will take shape and be delimited. As they

are mentally revolved and molded, the conduct possible
tothem in the realm of the logical will appear. Then will
come the effect of this conduct upon their fellows, indi-
30 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

vidually and in the mass. Action and reaction will result

in inevitable crisis and climax. From all this must be
chosen what seems best adapted to the original purpose
and what does no violence to truth by producing incon-
sistency. After selection, proportion. To each incident
and each individual the appropriate allotment of time and
space. This means, of course, relative importance, which
is, in turn, a matter of emphasis. Thus the drama slowly
looms forth, chaotic at first, then vaguely outlined, and
at length clear-cut and solid, if still unpolished.

Marshalling the Characters for the Struggle

An illustration may be of service. Suppose that the

theme chosen is that vital thesis that Wordsworth em-
bodied when he wrote,

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers."
What figures and what fable might we devise to give this

truth dramatic expression? The opportunities are large.

We will start with a worldling, perhaps recalling an
individual of our own acquaintance, at least compound
one from our own observations. We shall want to portray
him in his attachment to the mundane and to show the
consequences of his infatuation. Is our protagonist to be
man or woman? Say, a man. Is he young or old? Per-
haps old, because it takes time for chickens to come home
to roost. How will he suffer? We look about us for

examples, and observe that it is often in their children that

men find their retribution. Here, then, is the father of,
 THE ELEMENTS 3!

say, two children, a son and a daughter. Through them

he will chiefly pay the penalty of having early sold himself
to the devil of commercialism. Three figures already.
What will the son be like? What the daughter? Is their

mother yet living? If so, how has she fared? Let us

think her out of nothingness into being. Perhaps for our

purposes we decide to let her die, or rather to let her never

have existed. What then? We shall need other charac-
ters. Our protagonist suggests, by the highly effective

dramatic principle of contrast, his counterpart: another

man, not a worldling. Has he a family? Shall we carry the
balanced structure so far? There is some danger in it.
But somehow we think out this man and his connections.

So the process goes. The children of the protagonist

suggest their husbands or wives, their lovers or sweet-
hearts. A lover perhaps suggests a rival. Very soon we
find we must stop to consider whether the as yet ghostly
figures that have been evoked are all likely to prove

adapted, or which of them may prove best adapted, to

the original aim.

Meanwhile, the plot element is not standing still. In-

deed, we can make little headway with our selection of
characters without taking the plot into account and
watching it evolve. Our protagonist, for example, to
show himself for what he is what he has become as a
result of his worldliness must do something. He must
exhibit an attitude, say toward his children, oppose their
wishes, forceupon them his own plans, and so involve
himself and them in the natural consequences. Each will
react from a given stimulus in harmony with the prin-
32 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

ciples of his character. Of course, human nature is

unfathomably complex. That is why Zola's scientific,
laboratory method for its study is impracticable. But,
after all, on the stage as in all fiction, simplicity must be
cultivated in the treatment of character. We should avoid
the old exploded "ruling passion" or "humour" plan
except perhaps in farce and melodrama and aim to show
figures that are more than mere personifications of single
principles. Our people should be sufficiently rounded to
appear human. they be developed with anything
Yet, if

like the completeness of a George Eliot treatment, no time

will be left for the fable. Therefore the need of economy.

Character must be shown in swift and telling strokes.

Plot must be unfolded in striking and vital incident. And
the two processes must be interwoven. The playwright
cannot be always alternating between characterizing
speeches and plot-advancing speeches. He must seek, as
far as possible, to use double-purpose lines.

Dialogue

So, then, the characters having been developed in a

completed story, there is still to be considered the dialogue,

including pantomime. And this, again, of course, is really

no separate element but part and parcel of the character

revelation and the story-telling. In fact, they two have

produced the dialogue as they have evolved.

Dialogue is subject to the same principles that apply to
all correlated language: unity, selection, proportion, coher-

ence, emphasis, and elegance are all to be considered.

 THE ELEMENTS 33

Moreover, the dramatic line has its own special require-

ments. Chief of these is absolute economy. Then comes
connotation, for dramatic speech constantly suggests
more than it says in words.
Furthermore, the relation of speech to action must be
In fact, when a play has been finally
specially considered.
passed upon as correct in plot and characterization, there
yet remains no mean task in the mere cutting and fitting
and polishing of the dialogue to harmonize with the busi-
ness of pantomime and with the tone of the play.

Starting with an Incident

Manifestly, all these processes we have been considering

are quite the same, whether one starts out to develop a
definite theme or finds the first suggestion in a newspaper

paragraph, and makes the aim merely that of telling an

interesting story on the stage. Suppose the playwright
comes across the account of a man who, after having been
for many years considered dead, turns up to declare his
kinship with a family that has grown rich and powerful.
In real life, the claimant is regarded as an impostor. He
has experienced a variegated career, including a blow on
the head which temporarily destroyed his memory, and a
term in the penitentiary.In the printed accounts of the
trial of his suit for recognition there is some suggestion as
to the characteristics of the various persons he claims as
his relatives. There are glimpses of his alleged boyhood
acquaintances who testify for or against The
him.
reporters describe especially his own appearance and
manner.
34 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

One sees that here is a considerable mass of available

material. In a general way the leading figures are already
sketched out, together with the leading incidents. There
is, probably, only the germ of a plot, but it is exceedingly
fertile. Of course, the story is not entirely new. But
there are no new plots. The best we can hope for, in the

way of novelty, is the fresh treatment and combination

of old situations.
In the present instance, from the characters suggested
in the newspaper cuttings, those that seem vital to the
story will be chosen. Others will be added, from any
source. Perhaps some will be combined. It all depends
on the plot, which will be similarly built up. We shall
haye first to decide whether our hero is really an impostor
or not, and then whether we wish to reveal his true

identity in the start, or later on. Imagination will recon-

struct the boyhood of the man who has so long been miss-

ing, and we shall choose such points as may bear upon our
fable. The incidents of the memory-destroying blow and
the penitentiary sentence will require consideration, first
as to whether they shall be employed or discarded, and then
as to how they shall be used. Has our hero actually been
in the penitentiary? And, if so, did he commit a crime, or
was he unjustly punished? We will reflect that it is often
hard to gain real sympathy for a criminal. This is a story
play, and first of all the story must be a success. How-
ever, it must not be allowed to do violence to the charac-
ters.

And so we proceed along exactly the same lines as in the

case of the play which had its inception in a poet's wording

 THE ELEMENTS 35

of a profound truth. Plot, characterization, dialogue, and

pantomime: these are our principal ingredients. They
must not be merely mixed, but compounded with the
most delicate chemical accuracy. Not an atom too much
or too little. Perfect balance and proportion. Complete
fusion and blending.
In chapters to follow we shall give each of these prime
elements a separate consideration.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Do you know any one important play that does not
feature a struggle?
2. Briefly state the nature of the conflict in five modern
plays.
3. Do the same for five of Shakespeare's dramas.

4. Invent five themes involving struggles; state each in

one short sentence.
5. Discuss two diverse modern plays, contrasting a
spiritual struggle with that of a business or social nature.
6. Take one of the original themes asked for in question

four and roughly select the characters in the manner

indicated on page 30.

7. Define proponent, protagonist.

8. own language, with any changes you
Restate, in your
prefer, Mr. Thomas's formula, pages 28 and 29.
9. Make a list of at least twenty-five obstacles con-
tributory to struggle, whether found in short-stories,
novels, or plays. State the source specifically in each
instance.
10. Make an original list of five such obstacles.
36 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

11. Find five such obstacles in newspaper accounts, and,

if necessary, modify them for dramatic plot purposes.

12. Are some struggles essentially tragic, others essen-

tially social comedy, and others essentially comic? Illus-

trate.
 CHAPTER IV

THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS

Novices in the art attain to finish of diction and precision of

portraiture before they can construct the plot. ARISTOTLE,

Poetics.

The common notion seems to be in favor of mere complexity;

but a plot, properly understood, is perfect only inasmuch as we
shall find ourselves unable to detach from it or disarrange any
single incident involved, without destruction to the mass. This
we say is the point of perfection, a point never yet attained,
but not on that account unattainable. Practically, we may con-
sider a plot as of high excellence when no one of its component
parts shall be susceptible of removal without detriment to the
whole. Here, indeed, is a vast lowering of the demand, and with
less than this no writer of refined taste should content himself.
EDGAR ALLAN POE, Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Willis, and the Drama.

"
The plot is the skeleton of the play. The word means,"
1
explains Professor Bliss Perry, "as its
etymology implies,
a weaving together. Or, still more simply, we understand
by plot that which happens to the characters, the various
ways in which the forces represented by the different
personages of the story are made to harmonize or clash
2
through external action."
The plot of a play attracts the attention largely through
1
A Study of Prose Fiction, Chapter VI.
1
To this it may be added that an effective plot is one that
arranges its character-forces so as to rise with progressive interest
to the main crisis, bring out that "big scene" strongly, and then
adequately end all. Editor.
38 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

the element of suspense, or the curiosity to know what is

going to happen next. Primarily, however, plots are

interesting because they deal with people, the most allur-
ing subject humanity can contemplate. We could not

possibly be so fascinated by the most artfully constructed

chain of adventures participated in by mere inanimate

objects, unless, indeed, they had been thoroughly per-

sonified.

The Relation of Character to Plot

It is obvious that in the consideration of human nature,

upon the stage as elsewhere, the vital thing is what the
people are; and this we can satisfactorily learn only
through what they do. Strictly speaking, character is
the fundamental in drama; but, since character reveals
itself so exclusively through conduct, the action has come

to stand first, in all discussions from Aristotle on.

The Plot Exhibits the Characters in Action

"Without action there cannot be a tragedy," declared

the Stagyrite; "there may be without character." By
"action," to repeat, Aristotle intended a story directed by
the human and having a beginning, a middle, and an
will

end what we now call a plotted story. But, on the stage,

every such action (plot) must be worked out by means of
the outward movements of the characters, accompanying
their words. Thus the action of the play is illustrated by
the actions of the players that is, the characters.
We have seen how reflection upon a theme or an incident
will suggest illustrative characters, who will in turn indi-
 THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS 39

cate illustrative action. It is by this united means that

the drama progresses. Speech is but an auxiliary not at
all essential, entirely secondary. The playwright will do
well to make sure early in his labors that he is telling his

story concretely to the eye. This is what especially counts

in our day. A little surreptitious, dishonest movement on
the part of a protesting "saint" will convey volumes of
information on the subject of his hypocrisy. All that he
can possibly say, or that others can say about him, may
not accomplish half so much. The keen-eyed dramatist
looks about him in life for these character-revealing
motions which are of the essence of drama.

What is Novelty in Plot?

Perhaps the foremost difficulty in the weaving of a plot

concerns the question of novelty. As has often been
pointed out, absolutely new incidents are practically impos-
sible. The thirty-six fundamental situations counted by
Gozzi and Schiller or perhaps only the twenty-four pro-
nounced by Gerard de Nerval to be fit for the theatre
have probably been utilized in every conceivable grouping. 1
Goethe as he told Eckermann a hundred years ago gave
up the search for a new story. We must distinguish, how-
ever, between the fresh and the trite use of old materials in

plot building. As a matter of fact, the greatest dramatists

Sophocles, Shakespeare, Calderon, Moliere have been

1
The student interested in this subject, which has been men-
tioned by practically all writers dealing with the structure of the
drama, should consult The Thirty-six Dramatic Situations, by
Georges Polti.
4O THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

content to deal with familiar narratives, but they have all

by their handling, more particularly through the infusion

of their personalities, made the old material distinctly
theirown: the Athenian dramatists, like the Elizabethan,
took twice-told tales and revitalized them with new mean-
ing. Indeed, there are certain dramatic combinations that
are legendary, and that one or another playwright is for-

ever reverting to as the basis of a new play. So the Don

Juan story is fish to the nets of dramatists so diverse as
Moliere and George Bernard Shaw. So the Faust legend
affordsample opportunity to Marlowe and to Goethe. So
Paolo and Francesca serve Boker and Maeterlinck and
Stephen Phillips. So various authors can find various
treatments for Antony and Cleopatra. So the love of a

sophisticated woman and an unsophisticated man can

furnish forth pieces like
"Captain Jinks,"
"Thais,"
"Michael and his Lost Angel," "The Garden of Allah,"
and "Romance." So the winning back of a husband's or
a wife's lost love is at the bottom of all manner of plays,

such as "The Thief," "The Real Thing," "A Woman's

Way," "The Marionettes," "Divorcons," "The Gover-
nor's Lady," "The Lady from Oklahoma," and "The
Master of the House." Where one writer aims at senti-
ment, another attempts tragedy; and melodrama and
farce spring with equal facility from almost the same
material. 1
Actual dramatic novelty, then, is perhaps possible only
in characterization. Old expedients must be combined for

1
For differentiations among kinds of plays see the chapter so
entitled, and the Glossary which prefaces this volume.
 THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS 4!

use with fresh figures. But, when both figures and expe-
dients are trite, the probability of failure is strong. Thus,
forexample, Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, in his medley,
"We Can't Be as Bad as All That," employed characters
and situations which not only many other writers but
also he himself had already utilized in other plays. There

was the woman with a past, endeavoring to forestall dis-

covery, as in "Mrs. Dane's Defense," together with the
one honest man contending against general insincerity,
as in "The Liars." The very combination itself had
formerly been made by the same writer in his "White-

washing Julia."
On the other hand, the "Heimat" of Sudermann,
which appeared in America under the title of " Magda," set
a fashion for plays wherein advanced young women who
have been betrayed deliberately refuse the so-called
reparation of marriage. And many of these plays, includ-

ing such recent ones as Mr. Stanley Houghton's "Hindle

Wakes," Mr. John Galsworthy's "The Eldest Son," and
Mr. St. John G. Ervine's "The Magnanimous Lover,"
are quite free from the accusation of conventionality.
Each is original in its characterization, as well as in the
treatment of the incidents and the revealed personality
of the author.

The Need for Consistency in the Plot

But if the plot of any play can scarcely pretend to abso-

lute freshness, it can at least achieve consistency. This
a quality bound up with, and dependent on,
latter is also

the characterization. Because it is easiest to devise a com-

42 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

plicated fable in frequently disregarding the logical actions

of the people portrayed in it, dramatists of lesser rank
often sacrifice consistency. The best dramaturgy, how-

ever, let us repeat, fuses plot and people in a skilful

blending that sacrifices neither element to the other.

The playgoer's sense of logic is more and more easily
offended these days with stage personages who act out of
accord with probability. That is one reason why co-
incidence more concerning which subject will be said
later is considered an amateurish expedient in plot
building. For example, we are likely to resent being asked
to believe that the fortuitous Colonel Smith, who turns

up, in Mr. A. E. W. Mason's ''Green Stockings," on the

very day the spinster heroine has had his death notice
published, should be able to guess, on the strength of the
meagre data in his possession, all the details of the fabrica-

tion she has foisted on her relatives. Our resentment in

such cases, of course, varies in proportion to the serious-

ness of the attempt to portray life, for much is accepted in
farce that would prove unconvincing in serious drama.

The Use of Art in Gaining Continuity of Plot

Next after consistency, the plot of a play stands most in

need of continuity. Its parts must be clearly related in
an unbroken and cumulative narrative. We all know that
the naturalistic school long since endeavored to suppress

plot, todo away, in fact, with art itself, and to substitute

mere fragments of reality. Arno Holz and his followers
labored valiantly in this collecting of graphophonic con-
versations. With such men as Gerhart Hauptmann, how-
 THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS 43

ever, a coherence was sought which should at the same

time be as nearly plotless as possible and without suspicion
of heightening or of culminating effect.
Monsieur Augustin Filon has almost satirized this
extreme of tendency in his volume, De Dumas a Rostand:
"Place these personages in an initial situation
. . .

which will give free play to their dominant vices, their

master passions. Then let them go it alone; meddle not

you will spoil everything. No complica-

in their affairs;

tions, no climax, nothing but the development of the

characters. Above all, no intervention of Providence. . .

With M. Becque, the gods never arrive, and men disen-

tangle themselves as best they can. How does one know
when the play ends? By the fact that the curtain falls.
And when does the curtain fall? When the author has
extracted from his characters all that is contained in
them in a given situation."

It is true that there is very little plot in real life. Never-

theless, the must, like any other art, be
drama, to satisfy,
finished and not fragmentary. The Torso Belvedere is all

very well in its way, but even though we can appreciate

a "Walking Man" by Rodin, no one would think of
amputating the limbs and head of the Apollo as a means
of improvement. And equally of course, if there were no
value in selection, composition, and the personal equation,
mere color photography would entirely substitute for
landscape painting. The soundest critics have had fre-
quent need to reiterate that a play, like a picture, must
begin, not simply start, and end, not merely break off.
It may be that "the constant and bitter conflict in the
44 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

world does not arise from pointed and opposed notions of

honor and duty held at some rare climacteric moment,
but from the far more tragic grinding of a hostile environ-
ment upon man or of the imprisonment of alien souls in
the cage of some bondage." But even such forms of
social

conflict be more effectively portrayed by artistic

may
selection and arrangement of typical scenes than with the

undiscriminating camera. Indeed, the first of the realists

himself declared that "the dramatic author who shall
know man as did Balzac and the theatre as did Scribe will

be the greatest that ever lived." We are undoubtedly

made so that we understand

"First when we see them painted, things we

have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;

God uses us to help each other so,

Lending our minds out."

And prominent among the tried and proved expedients of

the dramatic art are beginning, complication, climax, end,

plot, in short.

Says Monsieur Filon, again in De Dumas a Rostand,

referring to Augier and Dumas, "They saw clearly one
thing that escapes our young authors to-day: that is that
the intrigue is necessary, not only for the amusement of
the spectator, but also for the psychological development
itself. Characters are not studied like insects under the

microscope. They do not even know themselves, and it

 THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS 45

might be said that they do not exist, except potentially,

until the moment when they come into contact and con-
flict with events or with other characters."
The plot of a drama, then, is the indispensable story
formed of interwoven strands of action, wherein the
characters unconsciously reveal themselves. If there are

under the sun no new stories, there are at least endless

possibilities for the novel treatment of freshly drawn

figures studied from life and placed in unhackneyed

relationships and environments. And the problem of
emotional interest aside this sequence of motive and
incident in which the personages involve themselves
should have a definite beginning, a logical continuity,
and a convincing and satisfying end.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. From any available works on the technique of the
drama or of fiction select the definition of plot that to
1
you seems best.
2. Try to formulate a definition of your own. Remem-
ber that a definition must include neither too little nor
too much.

3. Distinguish between the action of a play and the

actions of the characters.

4. Why is the play as a type more given to external

action than is the novel?
1
Full chapters on plot are given in Writing the Short-Story,
by J. Berg Esenwein, Writing the Photoplay, by Esenwein and
Leeds, and The Art of Story-Writing, by Esenwein and Chambers,
issued uniform with the present volume of "The Writer's
Library."
46 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

5. Does the relation of conduct to character hold on

the stage as it does in real life?

6. In which realm would the relation be more marked?

7. Give one example of a modern play in which fresh
handling has saved a trite plot.

8. Give examples of your own discovery of at least two

playwrights' use of the same fundamental plot idea.
9. Discuss briefly the fitness of the following compari-
son: The plot brings the leading character in the play to a
cross-roads in his career and shows dramatically the force
or forces that determine his course, and then swiftly

suggests the end of the road.

10. From some present-day play show how the follow-

ing statement applies: The drama shows by means

plot in
of action a soul in its hour of crisis, what brought about
the crisis, what constitutes the problem, and how it is
solved.
some modern play from the standpoint of
11. Criticise

itshandling of struggle as a plot element.

"
12. Does crisis a mix-up" brought to a breathless
query of "What will be the outcome?" apply to lighter
forms of drama as well as to the more serious? Illustrate
from actual plays.
13. What do you understand by "consistency" of plot?
Illustrate.

14. What do you mean by "continuity?" Illustrate.

15. What is Realism? Naturalism?

16. Take a simple though vivid happening as found in

the newspapers and show how by artistic arrangement

selection, elimination, addition, shaping, shifting of the

 THE PLOT AND SOME OF ITS FUNDAMENTALS 47

order of events you could make a dramatic plot. Do not

forget to make
the struggle central, and indicate not only
the outcome but the means by which it is brought about.
 CHAPTER V
SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS
It [the "action," or plot] embraces not only the deeds, the
incidents, the situations, but also the mental processes, and the
motives which underlie the outward events or which result from
them. It is the compendious expression for all these forces

working together toward a definite end. S. H. BUTCHER, A ristotle's

Theory of Poetry and Fine Art.

In the plot of any story, whether it be a mere thread of inci-

dent, as in the stories of the Bible, or the slow complicated move-
ment of some modern novels, the one necessity which underlies
everything is that a throng of things which happened all together
must be straightened out into single file in order to be put into
words. . . . Your first act. ... is to get your material into
a natural and orderly sequence. J. H. GARDINER, The Forms
of Prose Literature.

Before the author ventures upon the start of a play,

there are several important considerations to be taken into
account.
How many acts are there to be? Modern dramaturgy
prefers three or four; although there are noteworthy
recent examples of the five and even of the two-act
drama. How many scenes to the act? Present-day cus-
tom, except in the case of spectacular melodrama, usually
prescribes but one.
"
On Trial," " My Lady's Dress," and
"The Phantom Rival" are noteworthy exceptions, illus-
trating the moving picture influence. It is always well to
consider material economy.
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 49

Elaborate and numerous settings, as well as extensive

casts, rarely appeal to the prospective producer; and,
besides, they often serve to dissipate the attention of the
audience. Spectators doubtless take a passing pleasure in
seeing the curtain rise on new and interesting settings;
but if the play itself be what it should, scenic monotony
will be readily forgiven. Everyone knows that it is a
common occurrence nowadays for a slender play to be

quite lost in an elaborate mise en scene. Recent cases in

point are "The Garden of Allah," "The Highway of Life,"
and perhaps to a considerable extent "The Battle Cry."
Mr. Edward Sheldon's "The Garden of Paradise," founded
on Hans Christian Andersen's lovely story of the little
mermaid, was fairly swamped by the superb settings
devised for it by Mr. Joseph Urban.
But it may be noted that it is not always the excess of

scenery that is at fault. The negro lad in the familiar

anecdote, who became ill, explained ruefully that it was a

case not of too much watermelon, but of "too little
niggah." In many instances it is not too much scenery
unless the time limit be overstepped that brings failure,
but rather too little play. The author should remember
that only a big picture can take a massive frame.
All the foregoing bears directly and vitally on the ques-
tion of plot handling, as regards not only the finished

product but also the preliminary considerations.

Where to Begin the Play

In formulating his plot itself, obviously the first ques-

tion that confronts the playwright is, Where to begin?
5O THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Some leisurely dramatists commence like the eighteenth

century novelists, if not at or before the birth, at least

early in the youth of hero or heroine. "The High Road,"
of Mr. Edward Sheldon, follows this course, long intervals
elapsing between the acts. Mr. Thompson Buchanan's
melodrama, "Life," gives us our first glimpse of the pro-
tagonist while he is still an undergraduate that is,
manifestly, before he has "commenced" life.

The opposite plan is to seize the story near the crisis, to

let the causes be briefly suggested in the exposition, and
to produce in the whole play, as critics have told us that
Ibsen so often did, only a sort of elaborated fifth act.
"The Second Mrs. Tanqueray" is a familiar example,
though "Rosmersholm" is a more extreme instance.
On the whole, this second scheme is preferable. It makes
for concentration and avoids the unessential.
And, gen-
erally speaking, it gives a better opportunity for the more

comprehensive character-drawing. The point where one

begins, however, depends largely on the purpose in mind.
A detective story, whether in print or on the stage, usually
starts at what is, chronologically, almost the end of the tale,

namely, the crime, and works back to the start, the motive
of the criminal. In Mr. Elmer L. Reizenstein's "On
Trial" much heralded by the osteocephalous asarevolu-
tionizer of all established usage the narrative commences
with the trial of the murderer and proceeds by stages into
the past, in the detective-story manner, reverting occa-

sionally to the courtroom, where, of course, the tale is

being told as the trial progresses. In "Innocent" the
hero shoots himself during the prologue, leaving a diary,
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 51

the events of which are acted out in the regular time

order. There is, obviously, nothing revolutionary about
this method, not even in the frequent flitting from scene
to scene, as in "On Trial," a procedure in itself certainly
not younger than the Elizabethan drama.

Relative Prominence of the Characters

Another important preliminary consideration deals with

is to have a "star" part.
the question of whether the play

Formerly few dramas lacked a central figure about whom,

as the story unfolded, the other dramatis persona revolved.

At present there is a growing tendency to emphasize a

small group of significant characters, rather than merely
one of them. However, the playwright of to-day who
looks to the actor's interest, so far as gaining production

for his play is concerned, will do well to provide for the

emphasized opportunities demanded by the "star"

system.
Above all, in this connection, be sure to make your

protagonist sympathetic. He may be a forger like Jim the

Penman, or a burglar like Arsene Lupin; she may be a
courtesan like Zaza or Marguerite Gautier; but the
utmost skill must be exercised to make him or her appeal-
ing, lest there turn out to be no differentiation between
"hero" or "heroine" and villain or adventuress. By way
of illustration, the student of dramatic technique would
find it enlightening to consider the causes for the stage

inadequacy of Stevenson and Henley's "Macaire."

52 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Unity and Symmetry of Plot

Unity of thought and feeling, as well as simplicity, is

essential to the drama, as to all good art. Symmetry, too,
is often a valuable asset, though it may be exaggerated
into a defect.For example, in "The House Next Door,"
a comedy adapted from the German by Mr. J. Hartley
Manners, there are, to begin with, two homes. At the
head of each is a baronet, whose household consists of a
wife, a son, a daughter, and at least one servant. This
elaborate balance is maintained in the plot, the son of each

family being in love with the daughter of the other. In

Mr. Rudolf Besier's "Lady Patricia," to cite another often
cited instance, the romantic heroine and her husband each
carries on a supposed love affair with a susceptible young-
ster. Eventually the two couples are reasserted as they
properly should be; and, meanwhile, the uniform suc-
cession of balanced scenes has made for a considerable

monotony.
But excessive symmetry is a far less serious defect than
a lack of unity, meaning, of course, the only "unity" that
matters that of "action," idea, tone. The old-fashioned
"underplot" frequently caused this latter failing.

Indeed, it was often difficult to distinguish the minor from

the major action. In the finished plays of to-day at least,
the comic relief is not separated from the central plot, as
it is, for "Held by the
instance, in "Secret Service," or
Enemy." Rather, the amusing characters, like the juvenile
lovers, are woven into the main story.
Generally speaking, a play should elaborate only one
theme or action and a "problem" play should attempt
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 53

only one problem. Otherwise there may be a falling

between In Mr. Henry Arthur Jones's melodrama,
stools.

"Lydia Gilmore," there is, first, a mother who perjures

herself for the sake of her child, and, second, her lover, an
attorney who
connives at perjury to save her husband.
Here are obviously two striking problems; but the play
balks them both, as such plays almost invariably do.
As for unity of feeling, it is quite as essential to good
dramatic composition as to any other kind. This does not
mean that we must strictly adhere to the pseudo-classic
differentiation of the genres. On the contrary, we may
in fact, nearly always must mingle the comic with the
tragic, the humorous and the pathetic, the lofty and the
humble, since, as romanticists have so long pointed out,
these elements are not separated in actual life. But there
are distinct types of the drama, and they are not with
impunity to be confused. Farce, for example, is pitched in
a very different key from comedy, and melodrama from
1
tragedy. Moreover, satire and seriousness must be
handled discreetly in conjunction with each other. Only
the master hand can be trusted to blend them safely, as
Pinero has done in "The Thunderbolt."
"The impression must be one," insisted Sarcey, in his
"./Esthetics of the Theatre:" "every mixture of laughter

and tears threatens to confuse it. It is better, then, to

abstain, and there nothing more legitimate than the

is

absolute distinction of the comic and the tragic, of the

grotesque and the sublime.

However," the good "Uncle"
added somewhat amusingly, "every rule is subject to
1
See the chapter on "Kinds of Plays."
54 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

numerous exceptions." This one is, certainly. Never-

theless as the same shrewd critic pointed out when
"Le Crocodile" of Sardou begins as comedy of manners,
turns into philosophical satire, changes then to drame

noir, at length becomes idyllic, and ends in fantasy, one is

at every moment disconcerted, thrown off the track.

Violations of Unity of Feeling

In vaudeville recently there was performed a playlet

which had as its main content and its sole source of inter-
est, the grotesque antics of an alcoholic, chiefly in the

repeated negotiation of a spiral stairway. Into this

vehicle of low comedy acrobatics, however, was introduced
an absurd and serious version of that ancient melo-
dramatic expedient the girl who sells herself to save her
father from debt. Eventually the clown inebriate, himself
enamored of the heroine, learning the reason of her com-
plaisance, paid the paternal bills and, after an uninten-
tionally ridiculous moment of "agony," handed the girl
over to her poor but honest lover.
It all constituted an extreme instance of that violated

unity of impression, that totally unsuccessful effort to

blend the humorous and the pathetic, against which so
many authorities have repeatedly warned us. While the
crudity of it was no great matter in vaudeville, obviously
it would have gone far toward ruining the chances of any
full-length effort at play writing.

Certainly the "confusion of the genres," in almost

any circumstances, must prove a dangerous pastime.

Desirable and even necessary as it is to provide the relief
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 55

of humor in serious plays, to sweep an audience along

through an act of obvious melodrama, and then to switch
suddenly into settled high comedy or perhaps even
tragedy, is to bewilder and render us impatient. The
failure of "The Big Idea" of Messrs. A. E. Thomas and
Clayton Hamilton was probably due as much to the fact
that it skipped continually from melodrama to farcical

burlesque and back again as to any of the other contribu-

tory causes. The gist of the matter is that, in such cir-
cumstances, the spectator loses all confidence in what he is

observing, because the fundamental illusion upon which

as Sarcey and numerous of his faithful followers have

repeatedly pointed out the success of the theatre

depends, is shattered again and again.
In the case of "My Lady's Dress," the conditions are
quite different, Mr. Edward Knoblauch's entertainment
being little more than astring of distinct and separate

playlets. Although taken together the work comprises

farce, melodrama, comedy, and tragedy, each of these
elements keeps pretty strictly to its own galley. Of
course, the thing as a whole lacks the full appeal of actually
unified drama.

The Relations of the Genres

Almost everybody who writes about the theatre nowa-

days takes frequent occasion to remind us that farce is to
comedy as melodrama is to tragedy; that in farce and
melodrama the plot is emphasized at the expense of the
characterization; and that in comedy and tragedy the
characterization takes precedence of the plot. It is
56 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

evident that, of the four forms, farce and melodrama,

comedy and tragedy, are respectively the nearest akin.

1
Melodramatic farce, or farcical melodrama, like tragi-

comedy, is not impossible. In fact, the markedly success-

ful "Officer 666," of Mr. Augustin MacHugh, is a case in
point, as in a lesser degree is Mr. James Montgomery's
"Ready Money." "Seven Keys to Baldpate," "The
Ghost Breaker," "Hawthorne of the U. S. A." and "Under
Cover" are examples of similar combination.
Occasionally we meet with a successful farce that

depends on a distinctly comedy treatment, as in the case

of Messrs. Wilfred T. Coleby and Edward Knoblauch's

amusing skit, "The Headmaster," which draws its effec-

tiveness from the display of an elaborately sketched char-

acter confronting a preposterous combination of circum-
stances. On the other hand, Sir Arthur Pinero's "Pre-

serving Mr. Panmure" failed largely because of the

incompatibility of its comedy subject-matter with its

farcical form; and such hybrids as a

have not proved
rule

hardy. As for a piece that wavers between farce and

tragedy, or between high comedy and melodrama, it will
certainly find existence a struggle.
Just what moods may be safely mixed, it is the business
of the playwright to determine if he can. I recall at least

one case in which the friendly criticism of an unproduced

play that mingled comedy with a type of neurotic tragedy
resulted in both the emasculation of the piece and delay
until another equally mixed embodiment of the same
1
Robert Louis Stevenson and William Ernest Henley, for
example, thus classified their play, "Macaire."
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 57

novel subject had been successfully acted. In all such

matters we are constantly thrown back upon the signifi-
cant fact that whatever persistent audiences unquestion-
it be a scene like the first
ingly accept will do, even though
act climax of a popular version of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
wherein simultaneously the serious villain isshot and the
comic villain is spanked!
The "happy ending" is notoriously responsible for
countless abrupt changes of dramatic key. Many a play-
wright, as will be elsewhere emphasized, starts out with
potential tragedy and winds up in sudden comedy or
farce,presumably in response to a relentless popular
demand. All too obviously, this is the sheerest prostitu-
tion of the art. Of course, there is slight excuse for arbi-

trarily killing off characters in a play that might with

reason end pleasantly; but to portray clear-cut characters
in an action and an environment that make for tragedy,

and at the last moment belie them for the sake of a trite

marriage or an incredible reconciliation, is indeed to sell

one's birthright for a mess of pottage.

Perhaps the most serious violation of the unity of feeling

or tone in plays is produced by the injection of melodrama

into what should be comedy or tragedy. There are several

latter-day writers who are chronically troubled by this

tendency. Mr. Eugene Walter 1 allowed it to militate

1 " ' '

In Paid in Full Mr. Walter starts out with the very modern
and very general problem of living according to latter-day
standards upon an inadequate income. Much as Mr. Broadhurst
does in "Bought and Paid For," and as Sir Arthur Pinero does
in "Mid-Channel," as Clyde Fitch does in "The City," and as
scores of lesser lights have done in scores of other plays, however,
58 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

against his success in "Paid in Full," much as Mr. James

Forbes did in "The Chorus Lady," or Mr. Henry Arthur
Jones in "Michael and his Lost Angel."

A Logical Plan Necessary

The plot of a drama, then, requires consistency, con-

tinuity, unity, in addition or rather as contributing ele-
ments to interest. It would seem manifest that these
qualities cannot be attained unless the play is constructed
upon a preconceived plan.
definite, It has been asserted

that the stage itself supplies the element of imagination by

means of its interpreters, its scenery, and its accessories,

and that in a sense invention really does not exist for the

modern realistic dramatist, who merely reproduces

actuality for the theatre. The supreme element remaining
is logic. Dumas fils, the master logician of the stage,
advises the playwright never to commence his work until

he is sure of the scene, the movement, the very language

Mr. Walter here quickly throws problem overboard

his initial
and launches into a conventional, rugged and brutal narrative.
if

It is the old story of the plot-ridden characters who, instead of

doing the inevitable things that would result from all the con-
ditions according to the logic of life, do the usual things which
are merely theatrically effective according to the quite different
unlogic of the footlights. Before we have progressed far into
Act II we have broken with our fundamental social and economic
problem one, besides, that teems with unexplored dramatic
possibilities and we are deep in the old, old melodrama of the
woman tempted to sacrifice her honor to save a man from ruin."
The Drama To-day.
The beginner should study, by way of contrast, the remorseless

working out of the tragic theme in the same gifted author's,

"The Easiest Way."
 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 59

1
of the final act . In fact, the end of the play should be the

goal toward which the author proceeds from the beginning.

At the moment of departure he should have his eyes fixed
upon his destination.

"With what fulness, with what firmness of logic,"

Sarcey exclaims, "has Dumas exposed and sustained his
thesis! The whole play bears its weight on this conclu-

sion, on this final point, after which one might write, as

do the geometricians: Q. E. D.: quod erat demonstrandum.
The thesis-comedies of Dumas are, indeed, living and
passionate theorems."
Manifestly, however, only the most spiritless of mortals
would allow himself to be indissolubly bound by any pre-
liminaries of his own devising. Few persons build so much
as a humble dwelling-house in exact accordance with the

original specifications. We discover from Ibsen's carefully

preserved notes and sketches that he often learned to know
his characters only after he had begun to reduce his
scenario to dialogue, and that, in consequence, he fre-
quently rewrote his play entire. This is, of course, the
rational procedure. The dramatist lays out his ground-

plan and follows it only so far as it is capable of leading

him. Once he finds himself beginning to transcend it, he

"Dumas is, in dramatic art, the most logical man I know; his
1

plays Ispeak of the good ones are built with mathematical

precision; we can, then, with the aid of the denouement which
was his ultimate object, reconstruct through a process of reason-
ing the entire drama and show the part each element must of
necessity play in the common action." Francisque Sarcey,
Quarante Ans de Thedtre.
60 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

alters it to whatever extent is indicated, even to that of

complete re-invention. It was thus with "The Wild

Duck," the elaboration of which resulted in an entire
readjustment of the original outlines.
It is safe to say, then, that some preliminary sketch
usually written down, though perhaps occasionally merely
mental is invariably the forerunner of a successful
drama. Such a document generally contains a plan of

the plot as divided into acts, together with a notion

of the characters, and certain hints as to the dialogue.

Frequently, as the resultant play takes shape, new

developments arise, and there is an increase of illu-

mination. Only the formalist, let it be emphasized,

would under such conditions allow himself to be cir-
cumscribed by his own preconceived limitations; certainly
not the ebullient, creative dramatist dealing enthusias-

tically with the infinite complexity of human life and

character.
Before beginning work upon any play, accordingly, the
dramatist should determine the scheme of division, the
locale, and the importance and appeal of his leading
character. Singleness of theme or purpose and, perhaps,
symmetry of structure should be utilized to insure unity
of idea, of impression, and of tone. Finally, there should
be a reasonably definite preconceived plan; but its terms
should in no case be allowed to dictate a character-

belying compromise for any purposes of plot, including

the "happy ending," nor in any way to hamper the full
and free development of the personages and of the

impeccable logic of their conduct.

 SOME FURTHER PLOT FUNDAMENTALS 61

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. From your own observation, how many acts and
scenes are used in five specified plays?
2. What changes in this respect would, in your opinion,
have added to popular interest and the effectiveness of the

production? Consider the questions of cost and practi-

cability in making your answer.

3. Have you ever seen a play that degenerated into a

mere blur of many successive scenes? If so, criticise it

constructively that is, so as to suggest improvements.

4. Show where, in the plot, five modern plays made

their beginnings. Criticise any two of these favorably or

adversely from the standpoint of effectiveness, or atten-

tion-winning value.
5. What modern plays divide prominence among
several, or even all the characters?
6. do you like this system? Do your
Personally,
friends? Find out, and give reasons.
7. What were the "Three Unities" (see any encyclo-

pedia) and how do our modern standards differ from them?

8. What modern Unities are especially important?

9. Illustrating from modern plays, show how some of

them are (a) effectively used, or (6) neglected.

10. Does the saying "Nothing succeeds like success"

have any bearing on such dramatic "laws" as the modern
Unities?

11. Show how Balance, or Symmetry, may be over-

emphasized.
12. Does Poe's dictum regarding the short-story, that
62 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

it should leave a completely unified impression, apply to

the play? If so, can you give several instances in point?

13. Does the use of a clear-cut theme have any bearing

on the unity of a play?

14. What forces in the audience tempt a playwright to

disregard unity?
15. In your opinion, what technical defects in "Macaire"
seem calculated to make the play ineffective for stage

purposes?
1 6. Show why a carefully elaborated outline ought to
help the playwright to produce a unified, consistent,
climacteric, and logical play.

17. Using one of your own themes, construct such an

outline for a play.
 CHAPTER VI

OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION

Every alteration or crossing of a design, every new-sprung

passion, and turn of it, is a part of the action, and much the
noblest, except we conceive nothing to be action till they come
to blows. DRYDEN, Essay of Dramatic Poesy.

I remember very
distinctly his saying to me: "There are, so
know, three ways, and three ways only, of writing a story.
far as I
You may take a plot and fit characters to it, or you may take a
character and choose incidents and situations to develop it, or
lastly you must bear with me while I try to make this clear"
(here he made a gesture with his hand as if he were trying to
shape something and give it outline and form) "you may take
a certain atmosphere and get action and persons to express and
realize it. I'll give you an example 'The Merry Men.' There
I began with the feeling of one of those islands on the west coast
of Scotland, and I gradually developed the story to express the
sentiment with which the coast affected me." GRAHAM BAL-
FOUR, Life and Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson.

"The crux of the plot is what the word implies a cross."

(I take these illuminating passages from Dr. Esenwein.)
"It may be like a cross-roads, with its consequent choice
of ways, or it may be the crossing of wills in individuals, or
the unintentional crossing of one's purposes by some
innocent person, or the rising of an evil deed out of one's

past to cross his ambitions, or any one of a countless num-

ber of such complications. The types are limited, but the
variations are unlimited and invite the resourceful play-

wright.
64 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"In a full-length play a single complication of major

importance and strength may result in struggle enough
to keep the characters embroiled down to the very end.
In this way minor complications will weave in and out,
allcontributory to or growing out of the main struggle.
The one thing to be avoided, as has already been sug-
gested, is that two complications of major calibre should
war for possession of the auditor's interest. Minor com-
plications must resolutely be kept in their places."

Planning the Complication

By means of such devices as are discussed in the

immediately succeeding chapters, as well as by use of the

ordinary chain of events in the story, the beginner will
build a plot outline. Having laid out the strands of
interest and motive provided by the characters in their
initial situation, he proceeds to the interweaving of those
strands. New incidents, personages, or motives are intro-
duced. Something happens which changes the trend of
affairs.Two or more characters coming together clash,
and proceed along diverted courses. A loves B and
react,
would marry her. But C arrives and conceives a similar
ambition. A and C contend, and D intervenes, with his
own peculiar motive, to lend his influence to A. However,
E and F are interested in the contest in divers ways, and
they take sides accordingly. So the process goes, all
designed to interest the audience intensely, as any hard-
fought contest must providing, always, that it does not
lapse into mere wrangling or "sparring for wind."
The beginner will find it helpful to examine the plot
 OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION 6$

structure of a number of representative plays. For a good

American example, let us take Mr. Augustus Thomas's

masterpiece, "The Witching Hour."

"I snare anidea, arrange a half-dozen characters, and

begin on the plot. The second act comes out in the writing
of the first, and the third act develops itself out of the

second." The is from Mr. George M. Cohan.

quotation
Obviously, "The Witching Hour," the theme
in
"snared" by Mr. Thomas is to put it most simply
telepathy. Assuming that such a phenomenon actually
exists, we must at once realize its dramatic possibilities.
We can perhaps fancy the author casting about in memory
and imagination for characters fitted to work out the
psychic theme. According to his own prescribed formula,
quoted in Chapter III from a newspaper interview or
article, there will be a proponent, an opponent, a person
in dispute, and a detached character, "the Attorney for
the People."
Mr. Thomas chose Kentucky as the scene of three of his
four acts. Perhaps it was because he knew an actual
Kentuckian who was fitted to serve as his proponent.
Perhaps it was because the author saw in the Goebel
murder case material suited to his purpose. It may be
that the proverbial quick temper and readiness for gun-

play associated with Kentuckians had something to do

with the choice. Doubtless there were numerous other
determining considerations. At all events, the play-

wright's mind shaped Jack Brookfield, a gambler, a man

of physical and mental strength and magnetic personality,
doubtless unscholarly but by no means uneducated.
66 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Complication in "The Witching Hour"

Toward the close of a midnight supper in Brookfield's

luxurious house, Tom Denning, a worthless gilded youth,
comes to play cards. He is told to wait until the guests
have gone. Among them are Clay Whipple, a promising
young architect, son of the former sweetheart of the

gambler, and Viola, Brookfield's niece. The youngsters

are in love; and Clay is much exercised when he ascertains
that Frank Hardmuth, assistant district attorney, has

proposed to Viola. The girl greatly prefers Clay, however ;

and the opposition the mothers of the pair evince with

regard to the match seems likely to prove brief.

Hardmuth comes to enlist for his suit the support of
Brookfield. At this point, manifestly Proponent and
Opponent are for the first time brought face to face.
Hardmuth's moral fibre is too weak, the gambler tells him
in all frankness; the attorney, who has sworn to uphold
the law, is betraying his duty, and is therefore unfit to
become Viola's husband. When the angry lawyer stoops
to belittle his young rival for the girl's hand, Brookfield

retorts, "Some day the truth'll come out as to who mur-

dered the governor-elect of this state. ... I don't want
my niece mixed up in it."
In a conversation between Brookfield and Clay's mother,
we are told how Jack's "profession" came between thetn

years ago. The obstacle apparently still persists; Jack

confesses his inability to give up gambling. get also We
the play's second reference to his unusual psychic power:
when he was in college, Jack used to compel Helen to
write to him, merely by fixing his mind upon the idea.
 OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION 67

A belated visitor, Justice Prentice, formerly of Ken-

tucky, now of the United States Supreme Court, drops in.

After he has astonished Brookfield by casually answering

the latter's unspoken questions, the jurist first voices the
thesis of the play: "Every thought is active that is,
born of a desire and travels from us or it is born of the
desire of someone else and comes to us. We send them
out or we take them in that is all. . . . If we are idle
and empty-headed, our brains are the playrooms for the

thoughts of others frequently rather bad. If we are

active, whether benevolently or malevolently, our brains
are workshops power-houses."
Meanwhile, the vapid Denning, now tipsy, has been
mercilessly teasing young Whipple, who has an inherited
aversion to cat's-eyes. One of these jewels Tom maudlinly
persists in thrusting into Clay's face. In a moment of

frenzy the latter youth snatches up the heavy ivory paper

knife which the audience has already seen Helen let fall

by accident and, striking Denning with it, kills him.

Hardmuth has gone to the telephone, when Brookfield
checks him, saying Clay himself shall have the credit of
notifying the police.
It will be observed that Act I is largely explanatory.
The main characters have ail been introduced; the theme
has been defined; through the visit of the Justice, an
element of preparation has been brought in; and the
battle of Brookfield versus Hardmuth is on. Clay Whipple,
the "person in dispute," has by his rashness put a weapon
into the Opponent's hands. But there is another weapon,
as yet unrevealed, which chance is preparing for the
68 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Proponent's use. we adopt the not inappro-

If for a figure
we may say that Round
priate parlance of the prize ring,
One ends with the advantage on Hardmuth's side. What
will happen in Round Two?

Coincidence has
it that the appeal of Clay Whipple for

a new trial,an unfair hearing during which he has

after

been condemned to death, is taken to the United States

Supreme Court, and Justice Prentice has the deciding
voice in the matter. Brookfield, Helen Whipple, and
Viola call on the Justice to plead in behalf of Clay. Coinci-
dence again has it this time in no feeble terms that
Helen should be no other than the daughter of Margaret
Price, withwhom Prentice as a youth was in love. His
letter to the old sweetheart, referring to a duel he had

fought with a man who had frightened her with a cat's-eye

jewel, causes the Justice to reverse his determination not
to grant Clay a rehearing. In fact, Prentice promises to
testify in the lad's behalf at the second trial. Later, when
he is left alone with Margaret Price's handkerchief, her

miniature, and the perfume of mignonette, the jurist as

the clock strikes two is convinced that the spirit of the
"
long-dead woman has been in that room and has directed
a decision of the Supreme Court of the United States."
So Round Two in the fight is Jack Brookfield's round.
But the battle is by no means over: the honors are merely
even.

Again at midnight, we are in Kentucky. While Clay

Whipple's friends are awaiting the verdict after his second
trial, Brookfield, thinking hard, strives for a telepathic

influence over the one apparently friendly juryman. Jack

 OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION 69

has just told the newspapers what he knows about Hard-

muth's connection with the murder of the governor-elect.
The two antagonists again come face to face, and the
attorney threatens the death of the gambler if the "story"
is published. "I'll print it myself and paste it on the

fences," retorts Brookfield, resolved to thwart Hard-

muth's ambition to become governor, as well as to reckon
with him for the "hounding of Clay to the gallows." If
the youth is again convicted, there will be an appeal to
the governor. What if the governor were Hardmuth?
Brookfield's efforts at a telepathic influence over the

juryman appear to have been not in vain. Shortly after

Jack has learned this fact, he gets a warning that Hard-
muth, who has now seen the printed murder charge, will
shoot on sight. This news moves Helen to confess her
now reformed gambler. To his friend Ellinger
love for the
a "comic relief" character and incidentally to the
audience Brookfield explains that, when all Kentucky is

thinking about the charge against Hardmuth, the general

thought cannot fail to reach the deliberating jury. Mean-
while, the newspaper "story" has prevented the unscru-
pulous lawyer's nomination for governor.
Then Clay Whipple suddenly returns acquitted.
While his friends are rejoicing, Hardmuth rushes in and
thrusts a revolver against Brookfield's body. Again Jack
resorts to dynamic thought, with the result that the

enraged attorney, not able even to hold the weapon in his

hand, recoiling slowly, says, "I'd like to know how in
hell you did that to me."
It appears that Round Three has ended with the
70 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Opponent down, if not quite out. So far as conflict is con-

cerned, there is, in fact, little to carry tense interest over

into the last act. However, the referee's decision has not
yet been formally announced; and for this reason
among others the spectators are entirely willing to stay
on.
For the last time at the witching hour we find ourselves
in Brookfield's library. When Clay Whipple is tempted
to revenge himself on Hardmuth by reporting for a
newspaper the former prosecutor's trial on the murder
charge, Jack rebukes the young man and tells him of the

mental poison engendered by hatred. In spite of the

women's protests, Brookfield by suggestion cures Clay of

his senseless antipathy to the cat's-eye and sends him to

fetch to the house Hardmuth, whose hiding-place has
been discovered by Ellinger. While waiting, the Pro-
ponent first practically buys his antagonist's releasefrom
Ellinger and then demonstrates, to the latter's profound
amazement, that it is possible by telepathy to read the
cards in another player's hand.
When Clay returns with Hardmuth, Jack declares his
resolve to help the attorney flee the state. "Hardmuth
planned the assassination of the governor-elect exactly as
I dreamed
it," Brookfield explains; "and a guilty thought
isalmost as criminal as a guilty deed. I've always had a
considerable influence over that poor devil that's running

away tonight, and I'm not sure that before the Judge of
both of us the guilt isn't mostly mine." And Helen
promises to stand by Jack as he has stood by her
boy.
 OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION 71

Simplicity and Adaptation

In considering this basic narrative, here so roughly

sketched, the student will note first of all its simplicity

and its adaptation to both thesis and characters. Brook-
field and Hardmuth fight over Clay Whipple's life and
happiness. The protagonist's advantage lies largely if

by no means entirely in the fact that he employs the

potency of dynamic thought in his style of warfare. The
antagonists clash first over Viola and immediately there-
after over her lover. The attorney's profession and posi-
tion give him unusual opportunities of offense and defense.
It is true that luck comes to the gambler's aid, in the
matter of coincidence already noted; but we feel that,
even if Justice Prentice had not happened to be the man
who had once loved and fought for Clay Whipple's grand-

mother, nevertheless the resourceful Brookfield would

have found means material or psychic of overcoming his
opponent. Winning the youth's freedom, moreover, the
gambler wins back his own self-respect and the love of the
woman his heart desires.
Three or four characters are used to conduct the funda-
mental action; the others are essentially minor figures,
some of them, like Justice Henderson, Colonel Bagley,
and Emmett, existing merely for purposes of exposition
and atmosphere. Mrs. Whipple's onslaught on the mind
and sensibilities of Justice Prentice in Act II is obviously
under the explicit direction of Brookfield. Tom Denning
comes into the piece solely to bring out Clay's congenital

antipathy, and, by dying, to tie the first hard knot in the

72 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

web of conflict. Lew Ellinger, as has been noted, is for

comic relief. Furthermore, he shares with Justice Prentice
the r61e of "Attorney for the People" prescribed by the
author. Viola is only a temporary bone of contention;
her mother, too, merely a pawn in the game.
Jack antagonizes Frank, who wants Viola. Clay, who
is to have her, puts himself in Frank's power. Jack gains
his friend and fellow-psychic, Prentice, as a potent

auxiliary. Jack strikes a knock-out blow with his murder

charge against Frank. Frank in his extremity would kill
Jack, but the latter by sheer strength of thought completes
his conquest over his opponent. Then Jack rounds out
his achievements in the realm of the pseudo-scientific by
abolishing Clay's fear and hatred and by taking on him-
self a share in Hardmuth's guilt. That is the plot in its

bare essentials. The student will have no difficulty in

tracing its movement, the crossing of its strands, the dis-

entangling of its threads.

It will be observed that in this somewhat extended dis-

cussion of a single example, little has been said of the all-

important elements of characterization and dialogue.

Both, however, may well be studied in the case of "The

Witching Hour." Here we have been concerned as
exclusively as possible with plot and its complication.
There may be better plots in modern drama than the one
here analyzed: certainly there are many worse. At ail

events, the student should diligently familiarize himself

with the mechanism of many typical plays, to the end
that the art of plotting may be mastered by the best pos-
 OUTLINING THE COMPLICATION 73

sible means next to the actual construction of plots

themselves, and for this is important with a view to

making original plots, in due time.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

NOTE: Skill in plotting comes from much plotting,
even in those who are born intriguers. Therefore practice
a great deal. Do not now concern yourself with prepara-
tion, suspense, climax, and such other elements of good
plot-work as are discussed later, but use these ideas only
as you now understand them. Later you will be able to

perfect these preliminary plot-drafts by revision.

1. In about three hundred words, make an outline of a

plot in which the whole action is manifestly preparing for
a great struggle in the last act, with a swiftly-brought-
about result.

2. Briefly outline a plot in which the complication

occurred before the play opens, and in which, therefore,
the whole play is made up of the conflict of forces resulting
from the complication.
3. Briefly outline a plot in which the complication
occurs almost at the outstart of the first act.

4. Briefly outline a plot in which you handle the com-

plication to suit yourself.
NOTE: In the foregoing four plots do not overlook the
value of contributory minor complications, but do not let
them in any sense rival the major complications make
them actually contributory.

5. Point out the complications in five modern plays.

74 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WKITING

6. Briefly outline the plots of three modern plays,

showing clearly how the pivotal points are placed and
how the determining forces move.
7. In "The Witching Hour" find fourteen references to
the basic idea of the play.
 CHAPTER VII

THE EXPOSITION
He [Alfieri] adds that he has made it an invariable rule to
introduce the action by lively and passionate dialogue, so far
as is consistent with the opening of the piece, and between
personages who have a direct interest in the plot. J. C. L. de
SISMONDI, The Literature of the South of Europe.

It is Scribe's habit, in the plays which are to extend through

five acts, to employ the whole of the first one in patiently and
ingeniously laying out the strands of the intrigue to follow. For
the time being he does not concern himself with amusing the
public; he contents himself with putting it in touch with the
situation. It is necessary that such and such events be known
he relates them; to a first account of them succeeds another.

It is necessary thatyou make the acquaintance of the personages

who are to conduct the action he presents them to you one
by one: this is Mr. So-and-so; he has such and such a character;
he is capable, things falling out thus, of behaving himself in this

or that manner. FRANCISQUE SARCEY, Quarante Ans de Theatre.

I remember reading somewhere that "the comedy of

'Richelieu,' which has held the stage for seventy years,

contains action, story, character, situation, suspense, con-

trast, and picture, and it blends humor and pathos; while

the central character is unique, sympathetic, essentially
human, and continuously interesting." That description
would at first glance seem to epitomize all that is most
desirable in drama; though, on reflection, one might

reasonably add such elements as surprise, climax, har-

mony, logic, and truth to life.
70 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Undoubtedly the fundamental qualities are action and

feeling. As the rhymester puts it:

"If you desire to write a play,

Then here's the vital notion:
Each act and scene should well display
Both motion and emotion."

And again:

"In plays, you see, Demosthenes' old law

Once more will fit the case without a flaw.
Upon the rostrum and the stage, we find,
'Tis action, action, action chains the mind."

The playwright, having selected his starting-point and

his main characters, and having in fancy and in plan

allowed these latter in their juxtaposition naturally to

work out a certain progressive action, which will include a
complication of motives and conflicting lines of conduct,
reactions and clashes having come thus far, he must set
to work to reduce this movement to a definite plot, and
then to body forth the plot in the most effective and stir-

ring manner.

The Route of the Play

As Mr. Augustus Thomas puts it, there is the route of the

play to be considered, and this route is "much like a
trajectory. It springs upward and outward in a fine, easy,
even curve, mounts higher and higher to a final sharp
crest, and then, very close to the end, drops suddenly
off." It is the path of the sky-rocket.
 THE EXPOSITION 77

"This route," continues Mr. Thomas, "this line, is

made up of short scenes that partake pretty much of the

nature of the whole. Each must have its similar rise and
stroke. At first, when the story is unfolding, when the
audience is not yet thoroughly keyed up, and there are at
the same time so many new things to grasp, these scenes
will be relatively long and thin curves. As they reach the
summit of the route, they will thicken and shorten. Their
importance, their weight, the blow that they give, will be
steadily greater."
Let us suppose that the playwright has reached that
stage of his work when, having mapped out his drama,
time-scheme and act-division, and being certain that he
has sufficient material for an evening's diversion, he finds
that he must make a beginning in the actual writing of his

play. His first problem is that of setting forth his charac-

ters and conveying to the audience such preliminary

information concerning their past history as is necessary

to a speedy comprehension of what is to follow. This is
what is commonly called the exposition.

An American novelist is quoted as asserting that "there

are two types ofmodern play: one in which the hero and
heroine marry, and all their troubles are over; and the
other in which they marry, and all their troubles begin."
At any rate, hero and heroine, or at least leading male and
female characters, the dramatist must deal with; and
they and the conditions in which they exist, to begin with,
must quickly be made clear.

"The playwright has no time to lose after the curtain

78 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

1
has once risen," Professor Bliss Perry tells us, asserting
that "every moment of opening action counts heavily for
or against his chances of interesting the audience in the

personages of the play." Conversely, other writers

on the subject assure us that it is futile to say any-
thing of importance during the first five or ten minutes
of the play, since that period will be one of disturb-
ance caused by late-comers and by the various processes
of self-adjustment on the part of the spectators.

However, the whole matter depends pretty largely on the

play itself. Late-comers not only will fail to disturb the
audience greatly but will, indeed, be inconsiderable in
number, if the drama is from its earliest moment suffi-

ciently absorbing. It is said that, during the first season

of "On Trial," spectators often ran down the aisles in

order to reach their seats before the curtain rose. The play
was from the open-
so constructed as to grip the audience

ing instant. Five or ten minutes of preliminary sweet

nothings, on the contrary, will inevitably be accompanied
by seat-slamming, programme-rustling, and the buzz of
whispered conversation.
In connection with a recent vaudeville playlet, there
was printed in the programme the following note: "The
audience is requested to follow very closely the dialogue
from the very beginning of the play, as it all has bearing
on situations following later in the act." Such an ad-
monition would seem to confess an inadequacy in the
exposition. The opening speeches in this particular
sketch, by the way, were no more indispensable to a
1
A Study of Prose Fiction.
 THE EXPOSITION 79

comprehension of the plot than is usual in one-act

plays. The note was merely a bit of over-cautiousness.
In good dramaturgy the only way for the author to obtain
the general attention is by his skill to command it.

Methods of Exposition

An old-fashioned method of presenting the exposition

utilized a conversation between two characters, perhaps a

pair of courtiers or of menials, who told each other facts
which they and the audience well knew were familiar to
both speakers. Such a device, in fact, is employed in so
recent a play as Thompson Buchanan's melodrama, "Life."
And in even so carefully constructed a piece of dramaturgy
"
as Mr. Edward Knoblauch's Marie-Odile," we find the
novice and the Mother Superior re-informing each other
for our benefit of the circumstances of the young girl's

upbringing in the convent.

Formerly, French drama provided a confidant for the
hero, a confidante for the heroine, largely for expository pur-
poses. Various critics, including Mr. William Archer, have
remarked how, in "His House
in Order," Sir Arthur

Pinero hits upon the scheme of having a reporter interview

the private secretary of a leading character a device
similar to that employed by Mr. William Dean Howells in

"The Rise of Silas Lapham." Since the journalist lacks

the information to begin with, we can listen while
he" acquires it and not feel that probability has been
strained. The scene, however, is none the less non-dram-
atic; though the arrangement is more admirable than
that of the traditional footman and the parlor-maid, who
80 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

have opened such hosts of plays by gossiping about master

and mistress. Many a first act, too, has been wearisomely
delayed while two characters have sat on a bench or a log,
and one has told the other "the story of his life." No
matter that they rose and "crossed" from time to time,
nor even that the orchestra at certain emotional moments
in the narrative discoursed "creepy" music; the story-
telling was only narrative and not drama.
In recent years the telephone has supplied so facile a
substitute for the confidant that its use in a new play now
is likely to arouse ridicule, especially since the device was
satirized, along with many others equally overworked, by
Sir James M. Barrie in "A Slice of Life."
Mr. Brander Matthews1 truly says that the exposition
"is one of the tests by which we can guage the dexterity
of a dramatist, and by which we can measure his command

over the resources of his craft. Some playwrights have to

perfection a knack of taking the playgoer right into the
middle of things in the opening scenes of the first act, with a
simplicity apparently so straightforward that he has never
a suspicion of the artfulness whereby he has been supplied
with all sorts of information." These attainments are
certainly the ones most worth striving for in expository

writing: to get in medias res with the least possible delay,

and to convey the information "sugar-coated."

Time and Manner of Exposition

The exposition belongs, of course, as early as possible in

the first act. In the beginning the audience is naturally
1
A Study of the Drama.
 THE EXPOSITION 81

patient and willing, if need be, to wait a while for the

action to get under way. Later, when the story has been
fairly started, anything that obviously holds it up will be
resented. Of course, the amount of exposition required
varies with the play; but it stands to reason that the sooner
the dramatic struggle can be broached and the emotional
interest of the audience aroused, the better will be the
chances for success.
It is true that a number of successful dramatists still

employ something of the more leisurely method of Scribe,

which gives over much of the first act to the process of

simply laying the foundation; witness "The Hawk,"

"The Phantom Rival," and "Outcast." More and more,
however, it is becoming the fashion to combine the exposi-
tion with the action, or at least to start with a scene of
real dramatic movement and then to convey the needed
information, disguised as action. Commentators rarely
fail to point out that Shakespeare begins "Romeo and
Juliet" with a quarrel between the servitors of the
Montagues and the Capulets, which concretely illustrates
the feud of the two houses. Thereafter the characteriz-

ing dialogue of Montague, Lady Montague, Benvolio, and

Romeo proceeds apace with a conversational exposition.
First of all, then, the exposition should be clear; second,
it should be brief; and, third, it should, if possible, be
emotionalized by combination with the action. Failing
this last, there is the device of the general conversation

between shifting characters, like that which Mr. George

M. Cohan employs in "Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford."
The fragmentary and frequently interrupted dialogue at
82 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

least gives the impression of movement and of actuality.

An excellent example of this sort of exposition is afforded
by Mr. Augustus Thomas's play, "As a Man Thinks."
The problem before the writer is, first, to introduce Dr.
and Mrs. Seelig, their daughter Vedah, and her betrothed,
Benjamin De Lota, all Jews; and Vedah's other lover*
and Frank Clayton and Mrs. Clayton,
Julian Burrill,
Gentiles. Second, to make it known that Clayton, who
has already been forgiven by his wife for one infidelity, has
since been involved in an affair with a Parisian model.

Third, to convey the further information that De Lota,

not only was formerly a suitor of Mrs. Clayton's, but also
has served a term in a French prison after conviction on a
criminal charge. The author, to the expressed delight of
many critics, deftly manages the revelation of this infor-

mation bit by bit, through a series of fragmentary con-

versations,allowing the significant facts to reach the
audience at the same time that they impinge upon the
consciousness of certain characters in whom they must
necessarily produce a strong emotional reaction. It is,

accordingly, of interest not only to knqw that De Lota

was once a prisoner, but also to observe the effect of the
revelationupon his fiancee; not only to learn of Clayton's
second lapse from marital fidelity, but also to note the
manner in which his wife receives the information. Fur-
thermore, the exposition is skilfully unified through con-
nection with Burrill's figurine of the dancing girl, for which
Mimi, the French model, posed. As the statuette is new,
all comers are instigated to discuss it and so to refer to its

original, who is further identified by means of a photograph

brought by Burrill.
 THE EXPOSITION 83

Disregarding for the moment the question of the coinci-

dence involved which will be considered in a later
chapter we cannot but realize that Mr. Thomas's method
of exposition in this play is masterly in its effectiveness.

An even more striking instance is to be found in Mr.

Elmer L. Reizenstein's "On Trial." In fact, it would be
hard to cite a parallel for the gripping tenseness of the
opening instant of this melodrama the scene in the
courtroom, the trial in full progress, the prisoner on the

verge of conviction. While admitting that in a sense

"On Trial" is a "freak" play "a story told backward"
and therefore abnormal, we should feel nevertheless that
its example is worth imitating in respect at least of this

initial interest and clarity.

There is, indeed, no valid reason why almost any play
nowadays, whether of story or of characters, should not
set off its indispensable sky-rocket plot within a very few
moments after the curtain first rises. We have passed
the period of lazy devices in this process, and of leisurely
and patent procedure. Exposition not only should be
clear; it should be brief and dramatic.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

i. Draw as carefully as you can a diagram of your con-

ception of Mr. Thomas's "trajectory," pages 76 and 77.

-2. In your own words define the exposition.

3. What methods of exposition, other than those noted

in the text, have you observed?
4. Criticise one of them.
84 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

5. Try to suggest a fresh device for presenting the

exposition.
6. Invent a fundamental opening situation for a plot;

then give the exposition in outline, saying how you would

present it to the audience.

7. Could your plan profitably be altered so as to work

in the expository information along with the action?
8. Make a rapid but well considered draft of so much
of the first act as would be required to include all the

exposition.
 CHAPTER VIII

THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARATION

IN THE PLOT

The liner with hastily constructed boilers will flounder when

she comes to essay the storm; and no stoking however vigorous,
no oiling however eager, if delayed till then, will avail to aid
her to ride through successfully. It is not the time to strengthen
a wall when the hurricane threatens; prop and stay will not
brace it then. Then the thing that tells is the plodding, slow,
patient, brick-by-brick work, that only half shows down there
at the foot half-hidden in the grass, obscure, unnoted. No genius
is necessary for this sort of work, only great patience and a
willingness to plod, for the time being. FRANK NORMS, The
Mechanics of Fiction.

There is no idle detail; not one that lacks its utility in

the action; no word that is not to have at an appointed moment
its repercussion in the comedy. And this word I do not know
how the thing is done it is the dramatic author's gift this word
buries itself in our memory and reappears just at the moment
when it is to throw a bright light on some incident which we

were not expecting, but which nevertheless seems quite natural,

which charms us at the same time by the fact that it has been
unforseen and by the impression that we ought to have fore-
seen it. FRANCISQUE SARCEY, Quarante Ans de Theatre. (The
reference is to Monsieur Feydeau's "La Dame de chez Maxim.")

.With the exposition set forth, and his chief characters

introduced, the playwright is face to face with the develop-

ment and the complication of his intrigue. If, in fact, he
has not already largely done so, he must now proceed with
the interweaving of the strands of character and conduct.
86 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Here again logic is his chief guide. What his people are
and the conditions in which they are placed will determine
both what they will do and their reactions from the behav-
ior of others. The playwright must first be sure that the

personages do things that would reasonably and naturally

result. But he must also select from this field of possible

conduct the deeds that develop his plot so that it may

will

best illustrate his theme, or at least so that his story will

be of the utmost interest.

At the same time that the dramatistis informing his

audience of events that have happened in the past, he

should be making ready for the things that are to occur in
the future. This is the "art of preparation," emphasized

by Dumas fits, as the art of the theatre. I do not mean

that a play should develop along a route which everyone
foresees after the first few lines. Under such conditions
there can be no suspense, to say nothing of surprise. But
many matters that are to come up later require advance
explanation, in order that, when they do happen, they
may be instantly and completely understood.
In "The Whole Art of the Stage," which was written at
Cardinal Richelieu's command, the Abbe" d'Aubignac
treats this subject at some length. He says, in the words
of the quaint translation of 1684:
"But there are another sort of things, which are to be
laid asa foundation to build others upon, according to
the Rules of Probability, and yet nevertheless do not at
all discover these second ones, which they are to produce;
not only because there is no necessity they should come
to pass in consequence of the first; but also because the
 THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARATION IN THE PLOT 87

firstare shew'd with colours and pretexts so probable,

according to the state of the Affairs of the Stage, that the

Minds of the Spectators pass them over, not thinking that
from thence there can spring any new Incident, so that
the preparation of an Incident, is not to tell or do any-

thing that can discover it, but rather that may give occa-
sion to it without discovering it; and all the Art of the
Poet consists in finding Colours and Pretexts to settle
these Preparations, so, that the Spectator may be con-

vinc'd, that that is not thrown into the Body of the Play
for any other design than what appears to him. . . .

"But the main thing to be remembred, is, that all that

is said or done as a Preparative or Seed for things to come,
must have so apparent a Reason, and so powerful a
Colour to be said and done in that place, that it may seem
to have been introduc'd only for that, and that it never
give a hint to prevent [foretell] those Incidents, which it

is to prepare."

Examples of Preparation

Preparation is of various kinds. It may be an impres-

sive prophecy, a word let fall unwittingly, a stammering
admission wrung from a guilty conscience, or even a bit of
"business" or pantomime. A letter is brought in and
laid on the mantel, to be discovered later at a crucial

instant by an involved personage. The mannerism,

perhaps the antipathy, of a character is briefly mentioned
at an early moment in order that, when it presently dis-
plays itself with significant consequences, we may be ready
to comprehend and to recognize it. Mr. Augustus Thomas
88 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

explains how, in his play,"The Witching Hour," he pre-

pared even his "properties" for the murder that was to be
committed. "A dagger," he says, "would have been too
lethal, would have startled the audience too much. So a
two-foot ivory paper-knife from my own desk served
instead. The audience had to learn three things about it

its position, its purpose, and its ability to kill. The first

two were accomplished by having a girl pick it up to cut

a magazine; the third by a woman's knocking it to the
floor, where it made a resounding bump." All this prep-
aration is merely to avoid puzzling the audience with a
minor question at a critical moment a precaution upon
which may easily depend the success of a play.
In "Kick In," to cite a recent instance, not only is a
revolver displayed, remarked, and ostentatiously placed
in a drawer, but a hypodermic syringe filled with cocaine is

discussed at length so that the spectators will promptly

understand, when both are used during a fight which

serves as the climax of the play.

Again, in "Under Cover" much is said in advance about

a very conspicuous burglar alarm, which is to be sounded
later at a crucial moment. So emphatic was this bit of
"preparation," indeed, that Mr. Channing Pollock said he
waited through the rest of the act to see that burglar alarm
used.

The Triangle of Information

Mr. Thomas refers to what is practically another phase of

preparation, when he cites examples of Scribe's " triangle

of information." "In one of his pieces a priest tells a
 THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARATION IN THE PLOT 89

casual acquaintance, in answer to queries as to the respon-

sibilities of the confessional, that the first man he ever
confessed had owned to a murder. Then the principal
character of the play comes in, says 'Good day' to the
priest, and, turning to the other man, explains: 'You
know, I was the first penitent Father Blank ever had.'
In a flash the audience is startled, stirred, and at the same
time pleased. Little bits of recognition, such as that,

make the spectator feel that he has discovered something."

On his wedding day Mr. Smith puts ten one-hundred-
dollar bills in an envelope, which his "best man" is to
convey to the officiating clergyman. Perhaps years after-
ward, at a dinner, various ministers get to naming the
sums they have received and Mr. Smith's
as marriage fees,
rector remarks that the largest amount ever given him was
one hundred dollars. Naturally Smith is startled. He
questions the clergyman in private and is ready to lodge
an accusation against his groomsman. The information
has been conveyed by means of the dramatic triangle.
Mr. Thomas himself makes a telling use of this device in
"
the first act of As a Man Thinks." Burrill has told Vedah
Seelig how Mimi, the model, out of gratitude to the man
who had got her a place in Antoine's theatre, had dragged
off her friends to the court house in an effort to free that

man, when he was on upon a criminal charge. Some

trial

time later Benjamin De

Lota, Vedah's fiancg, arrives and,
becoming interested in Burrill's statuette of Mimi, casu-
ally remarks that he got the model her place with Antoine.
Vedah, like the audience, is acquiring information in a
startling, indirect fashion.
pO THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Again, in Act II of the same play, Judge Hoover, coming

to the home of his son-in-law Clayton, relates how he has
just chanced to see DeLota entering his lodging-house in
company with a woman. This woman dropped on the
pavement a libretto of "Aida" which Hoover has brought
with him. As it happens that the audience has just seen
Clayton himself mark this libretto and hand it to his wife,
who went off in company with De Lota, presumably to the

opera, the knowledge of her apparent infidelity is thus

conveyed to both husband and audience through a triangle

of information. If the co-incidence here involved is

credible, certainly the bit of preparation has served its

purpose well.
For still another example of this device, take Mr. W. C.
De Mille's play, "The Woman." A political boss and his

son-in-law have set out to ruin the reputation of an

unknown woman once the mistress of a rival. This
woman's identity is revealed to both the hotel telephone

operator and the audience when, first, her former lover

calls her up to warn her, and, a few minutes later, the

boss's son-in-law calls up his own wife: both ask for the

same number.

Explanation in Advance

Naturally there are many sorts of preparation other

than those just cited. The general principle is that,

whatever is to be abruptly utilized at some important
later moment in the play whether character, "property,"
or fact must in advance be made clear and memorable
to the audience, but not destructive of surprise. A crucial
 THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARATION IN THE PLOT 91

instant in a dramatic conflict is manifestly no time for

explaining comparative trifles. Necessary explanations
should always be made while there is yet leisure, and
when emotional tension need not suffer by interruption.
The thing for which the preparation is made may be,
for example, simply a bit of dialogue. The most pleas-

urable moment in that interesting play, "The Dummy,"

comes when the sleeping lad, whom the unsuspecting
crooks are harboring as a deaf-mute, suddenly exclaims,
"I'm a detectuv!" The audience's delight, however, is
dependent on the fact that already at other important
moments in the play the boy has consciously used the
same amusing phrase.
Again, the preparation may be made in advance of the
introduction of a character: witness Ragueneau's speech

descriptive of the grotesque and terrible Cyrano, which

smoothes the way for an instant recognition of that
doughty Gascon when he abruptly rises above the heads
of the crowd in the H6tel de Bourgogne and shakes his
menacing cane at the actor Montfleury. As a matter of
fact, stage heroes rarely walk on before they have been
talked about.

Preparation, it will be seen, in a sense merges with

exposition. This markedly the case in "On Trial," for
is

instance, where the courtroom prologues are ingeniously

contrived to prepare us for the scenes of melodrama to be
enacted before our eyes instead of being merely described
by the witnesses.
Readers of plays and theatre-goers can readily identify
innumerable examples of every sort of preparation. As
92 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

has been made clear, the "art" in its simpler forms at

least, is one which the dramatist dare not neglect; while
in its subtler phases it becomes one of the most valuable
aids to the expert craftsman. First of all, the beginner
must make sure that no sudden bewilderment can arise
at a crucial moment when distracted attention would be
fatal. He will find in practice that a frequent procedure
is work back through the play or, better, the pre-
to

liminary scenario and to insert, where it best fits in, the

preparation demanded by later developments. Ordinarily
this should not prove a difficult matter. But the pre-
caution is indispensable.
As for the more complicated forms of preparation the
kinds referred to by Sarcey in the second quotation at
the head of this chapter manifestly no rules can be laid
down for their practice. It is "the dramatic author's

gift;" and
probably can be neither developed nor cul-
it

tivated by any means other than the study of great

models and much laborious exercise in invention.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Cite as many instances as you can of "preparation"

in plays.

2. Cite one or two from novels.

3. How do the forms differ in the two literary types, if

at all?

4. Invent two complete "triangle of information"

situations, giving one in rough outline, the other in full

dialogue.
 THE MANAGEMENT OF PREPARATION IN THE PLOT 93

5. Devise the necessary "preparation" for lending

effectiveness to any tentative play climaxes you may
have in mind.
6. In several noteworthy plays show how a lack of
careful "preparation" would have proved a serious
drawback.
 CHAPTER IX
SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE

To sumup: when once a play has begun to move, its move-

ment ought to proceed continuously and with gathering momen-
tum; stands still for a space, the stoppage ought to be
or, if it
deliberate and purposeful. It is fatal when the author thinks
it is moving, while in fact it is only revolving on its own axis.
WILLIAM ARCHER, Play-Making.

There are two theories in the theatre: the theory of expecta-

tion and the theory of surprise; in other words, some authors
want the public let into the secret of the play, while others prefer
that the spectators should not be initiated, but should guess
ifthey can or be surprised if they cannot guess. I am of the
latter party. ALEXANDRE DUMAS fils. Note to "Le Demi-
Monde."

The interest of the story must not simply be maintained

after the "exciting moment:" it must be constantly
ened, rising step by step, pausing only at the minor
climaxes which mark the breathing-spaces, and then taking
up its ascent again until the main climax is reached.
would be only too easy to cite good examples of this
It

ever-increasing tension toward climax. To tell in a

general way how it, on the other hand, is no
to attain

simple matter. no power on the part of the

There is

dramatist that depends more completely upon a native

endowment than this ability to screw up the emotional
interest in a play from point to point, without ever allow-
ing the key to slip in one's fingers and the tension to
slacken.
 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE 95

Suspense the Chief Element of Rising Tension

The element upon which interest in the drama chiefly

depends is that of suspense. Suspense is largely an
anxious curiosity emotional, of course to know what is

going to result from certain given causes and what in turn

will happen as the consequence of these results.

A and B are bitter enemies whom circumstances have

for long kept apart. A leaves the room on a brief errand,

and B, not knowing where he is, enters. The evident

question is What will happen when A returns? Undoubt-
:

edly some form of conflict, for this has been clearly indi-
cated. Woe be to the playwright who fails to gratify such
an expectation, once he has aroused it! And when the
conflict has come and gone, it must leave in its train other

still more absorbing possibilities of struggle unless,

indeed, it be the end of the play.

It is not to be understood that the process of continued

and rising tension must be hastened forward with never a
moment of delay from the first curtain to the last. On the

contrary, the element of suspense itself may often be best

heightened by means of pause. To play on the word

justifiably, expectation is held up suspended. One must
simply make sure that whatever delay is admitted has
been carefully calculated with reference to its possible
effect: it will either whet general curiosity as desired, or
dissipate it.

An Example of Suspense

Supreme suspense is best revealed through a highly

emotionalized situation that is held, revolved, viewed from
96 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

one angle after another, rather than hastily terminated,

and that inevitably gathersforce from the very process of

delay, always providing the movement is constantly

upward from a lower stage of tension to a higher. For a

striking example consult the bedroom scene of "The Gay

Lord Quex," which has been practically duplicated, by
the way, in "Under Cover." In uJL'Ange gardien" of
Monsieur Andre* Picard there is a remarkably similar
instance of tension. Therese Duvigneau has discovered
the amour of Georges Charmier and his hostess Suzanne

Trelart, whose husband Therese has threatened to inform

ifGeorges does not instantly leave the Trelarts' chateau.
Determined to silence this strange guardian angel, Char-
mier forces upon her a tete-a-tte the outcome of which
the audience naturally awaits with keenest interest. Dur-

ing this interview, little by little the true character of

Therese, hitherto unguessed, reveals itself; and a conflict

which started in mutual hatred terminates in the most

unexpected manner possible. In "The Gay Lord Quex"
we assist at a stubborn battle of wits, relieved at the end
by a touch of chivalry; in "L'Ange gardien" the struggle is
one of intense passions, and it is by so much the more
dramatic. At the end of Monsieur Picard's gripping if
morbid climax, moreover, we are left in the utmost eager-
ness to learn the outcome of the bizarre situation.
In this connection, too, the novice, whether aiming at
the more artificial or the serious drama, may well consider
the method of Monsieur Henri Bernstein, who always
works up his crescendo to an apparent climax of revelation,
only to seize it afresh and carry it on up to still loftier and
 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE 97

more thrilling heights. Thus, in "UAssaut" the hero,

alone with bis fiancee, forcefully refutes the charges against
his integrity, only to break down at what seems the grand

climax and confess his guilt. Or, in "Israel," the tortured

mother succeeds in persuading her son to call off the duel

he is involved in. The curtain seems just on the point of

falling, when an idea suddenly strikes him and he begins

the gradual extortion of the confession that the Jew he
hates is his own father. These last instances are here cited
for their technical skill, without regard to the question of

their artificiality of which more later.

This leads us naturally to a consideration of the ele-

ment of surprise, which furnishes a delicate problem for

the dramatist, since it depends upon a certain degree of

mystification. Mr. George M. Cohan, in his "Hello,

Broadway!" amusingly satirizes the professorial warnings
against keeping an important secret from the audience, a
procedure said to account for the failures of numerous
plays. Everybody knows that, in spite of the objection
raised by Lessing and other critics, one of the chief
pleasures of the theatre results from the shock which
follows an unexpected revelation or turn of events. "Ar-
sene- Lupin," for instance, is chiefly concerned with the

pursuit of a certain bold and mysterious burglar; and,

though the audience is kept in the dark as to the thief's
some time in the third act, the interest of
identity until
the play does not suffer.
98 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

In the case of "Under Cover," as has been remarked,

it is not until the last few minutes of the piece that we
learn that the "smuggler" hero is in reality a secret service

detectivewho has been following the trail of a grafting

customs official. The validity of Mr. William Archer's
contention 1 that the majority of subsequent audiences will
be apprised of the startling disclosures and mechanical
trues of the first night of a play is certainly discredited by
the success of this "daring innovation." As a matter of

fact, Mr. Archer greatly overestimates the amount of

advance information possessed by the average playgoer.

He assures us that "the clock-trick in 'Raffles' was none
the less amusing because every one was on the lookout for
it." Personally, I must subscribe myself as a chronic
playgoer who was entirely unprepared for this ingenious
method of escape adopted by the "amateur cracksman."
Moreover, it was apparent that the great majority of the
audience shared in the complete surprise. One perhaps
reads about such matters in the reviewer's column, but
does one generally retain them in memory? As for
"Arsene Lupin," the masked lift similarly utilized at the
close of that similar play was also entirely unexpected.
The identity of the burglar, however, was vaguely recalled
"
in advance. And the chief trouble with Under Cover" is
precisely that the experienced playgoer, knowing that the
hero of a melodrama, in love with an honest girl, cannot

possibly be permitted to remain a crook and cannot be

"reformed," and having heard mention of a
satisfactorily

mysterious "R. J." as a world-beating sleuth, instinctively

1
Play-Making.
 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE 99

senses from an early moment what the author is at such

pains to conceal that Stephen Denby and R. J. are one

and the same. In other words, for the sophisticated at
least, the surpriseis diminished, if not defeated. I for one
would certainly be far from grateful to a neighbor at the
performance of "Under Cover" who would take the trouble
to warn me in advance of Denby's real business. And I
am no more grateful to the critic who details to me the
plot of any new play that I am likely to have an oppor-
tunity to see performed. "Within the Law," I remember
proved quite tame to me, because I had read the plot
the principal part of melodrama so often before I saw
the production.
In another recent play in which Mr. Roi Cooper Megrue
has had a hand, "It Pays to Advertise," there are some
effective bits of surprise. One comes when the apparently
stern father, who has violently antagonized the girl of
his son's choice, suddenly proves to be merely conspiring
with her to stimulate the youth to enterprise. Much more
delightful is the totally unexpectable moment when the
Parisian "countess," before whom everyone has spoken
so freely on private and personal matters in the belief that

she cannot understand English, abruptly drops her voluble

French and starts talking in Bowery lingo.

Although "crude surprise" is, indeed, to be avoided, a

story -play that gave the spectator no gentle shocks at
unexpected turns would be unquestionably handicapped
in its bid for favor. Knowing the story of a new play
before one sees it does not prevent one's taking pleasure
in it, as one often does in a second performance; but the
IOO THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

pleasure then is somewhat different. The main source of

watching the reaction of events

interest, of course, lies in

upon the given characters. Still, we always take keen de-

light in unguessed means of escape from seemingly blind-

alley situations, especially when skill has entered into

the preparation for the surprise.
In "The Playboy of the Western World," for example,
when the swaggering Christy Mahon, just arrayed in his
new clothes, has in words deepened the wound he gave
"
his father to the point where the old man was cleft with
one blow to the breeches belt," it is certainly pleasant to
behold without warning the supposedly dead Mahon
Senior suddenly appear in quest of his son. Fortunately }

however, this shock of surprise is not kept for the climac-

teric moment of Christy's triumph in the sports, but

occurs some time before. In consequence, we have the

added pleasure of anticipation in watching to see what will

happen when the conquering hero is confronted with his

battered "Da," and how Pegeen Mike will take the

unexpected downfall of a poet-lover robed by her in

romantic illusion. We have the double delight of surprise,
again, when after being "killed in Kerry and Mayo too''

old Mahon comes to life a second time. "Expectation

mingled with uncertainty is one of the charms of the
theatre."

How Much to Keep from the Audience

As for keeping a secret from the audience, this tentative

rule, nowadays often cited, may possibly be of service:

If the information withheld be essential to an understand-
 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE IOI

ing of what is happening on the stage, failure is probably

inevitable; but, on the other hand, if the concealment
takes place without obscuring the action or unduly bewil-

dering the spectator, it may prove a source of added

pleasure at the moment of revelation.
The skill of exposition, as we have seen, often manifests
itself in the way the author parcels out the information to
his audience bit by bit. Meanwhile, he is keeping secret
after secret, for a longer or a shorter period; and his

entire play will, in a sense, have to proceed upon the same

plan. "On Trial" is a remarkable example.
In all drama some eventualities are predicted, others are

merely foreshadowed, while still others are abruptly pre-

sented without preparation. In many cases, nothing
short of the innate dramatic instinct could be relied upon
to determine which of the three courses ought to be fol-
lowed.
One common failing is the practice of telling too much in

advance, which generally results in useless repetitions as

well as the blunting of the dramatic point. For instance,
in Messrs. Paul Armstrong and Wilson Mizner's melo-
drama, "The Greyhound," a climacteric scene in which
the detective outwits the sharper in a game of cards is
rendered tame because it has already been explained just
how the scheme will be worked. The reader will doubtless

be able to multiply similar instances from his own experi-

ence as a playgoer.
In that extraordinary psychological comedy already
referred to in the present chapter, "L'Angegardien," these
matters of surprise and mystification, in their relation to
102 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

the element of suspense, are well illustrated. Frederic

Trelart and his pretty young wife Suzanne are entertain-

ing a house-party at their chateau, including the latter's

lover, an impetuous artist, Georges Charmier, and his
good-natured friend, Gounouilhac. In the course of the
first act, the "good Gounou," having been mercilessly

bantered by Georges, repeatedly threatens him with a

practical joke by way of revenge. Presently the guests
go for a stroll in the night air, after turning out all the

lights by means of a switch located just inside the door.

A few minutes later Madame Trelart and the painter meet
clandestinely in the pitch-dark room, and presently the
lights are switched on for the space of five seconds, after

which someone is heard rapidly retreating along the path.

The consternation of Suzanne and Georges is naturally

shared by the audience. Who was it that turned on the

lights? Not Monsieur Trelart, probably; for he would not

have gone away. But, then, it must have been someone
who has gone to inform him! Georges, however, recalls
the threat of Gounouilhac and insists that they are simply
the victims of the latter's promised vengeance.
The unsolved problem, of course, carries the keenest
interest over into the second act; but the author is too
skilful to weary his audience
by a prolonged mystification.
Though there is at first some difficulty in getting any
reassurance from Gounouilhac, he presently makes it
known that he was not responsible for the tell-tale

illumination, and that none of the others of the party

followed Suzanne to the rendezvous. So the thing is
narrowed down to Therese Duvigneau, who very soon
 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE 103

acknowledges that it was she who manipulated the elec-

tric switch.

The judicious employment of this frank device the

careful preparation for the sudden shock of the brilliant

illumination after the total darkness, with all its implica-

tionsand the consequent alarm may perhaps seem to
smack of artificiality and the melodramatic. However,
"L'Ange gardien," far from being primarily a mere story
play, is in reality a profoundly subtle
study in psychology,
comprising, in addition to a group of cleverly drawn types,
at least one full-length portrait, so remarkably complex,
so nuance, indeed, that Monsieur Henri de Regnier, com-
menting on the piece, was led to suggest that such minute
characterization belongs rather to the novel than to the

play. The point is that wise and competent dramatists

do not scruple to devise fresh theatrical expedients and
to make the best use of all the possibilities of plot, even
when engaged in the sincerest and most thoroughgoing
realism. The interest in "L'A nge gardien" passes quickly to
the psychological indeed, it were ever primarily any-
if,

thing else; but cunningly fostered and heightened

it is

step by step through scenes of suspense to a powerful

climax and an equally moving conclusion.

Danger of Misleading the Audience

If it be dangerous to mystify your audience, it is usually

fatal seriously to mislead it. To set forth manifest in-

citements to expect certain important developments, and

then not to furnish them, will scarcely be forgiven. What-
104 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

ever reasonable anticipation is aroused must be fulfilled.

Among the things the audience has a special right to

expect and demand, as most writers on the drama have

pointed out, are those incidents which are of such vital
importance that they must not be allowed to take place off
stage what Sarcey called the scenes d faire. Here again
the inborn gift is the final guide. What may be narrated?
What must be actually shown? I remember that, when
Mr. Booth Tarkington's interesting and popular story,
"The Gentleman from Indiana," was presented in a stage
version by the gifted Edward Morgan, the play failed

quite obviously because the crucial events were not ex-

hibited in action, but merely described in dialogue. It is

a mistake to happen "off stage," whether

let essentials

prior to the play, or between acts.

Finally, in this connection, be it remembered that the
audience is entitled not only to the scenes it has been led
to anticipate, but also to the treatment indicated from the

beginning. Many an author has really made a promising

start and got no farther, usually because the temptation
to let drama degenerate into melodrama, or comedy into

farce, has been irresistible.

Dramatic interest, then, is best maintained and height-

ened by means of suspense, the very nature of which indi-
cates delay, but delay without relaxation. Surprise also
serves the playwright's purpose in this respect, though
it is a means which must be handled with caution, owing
to the often dangerous element of mystification it involves.

Coleridge has pointed out that Shakespeare in contra-

distinction, one sees, to Dumas fils relies rather on

 SUSPENSE AND SURPRISE IOS

expectation in his dramaturgy than on surprise. "As

the feeling with which we startle at a shooting star, com-
pared with that of watching the sunrise at the pre-
established moment, such and so low is surprise compared
with expectation." 1 Nevertheless, this lower expedient, so
long as it is not overdone, has its effectiveness and its legiti-
mate place in the drama. And more than one noteworthy
character-play or play of ideas has gained excellent advan-
tage from the employment of this device as of all the others-

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Commit to memory the first sentence of this chapter.
2. Make a diagram of any play plot, showing the prog-
ress of suspense and surprise.
3. Do the same for one of your own plots.

4. Point out the use of suspense in any modern play.

5. Show how augmented suspense is used to work up

to a climax.
6. What do you understand by a minor climax, and the
resolution of suspense, as a part of the main action?
7. Cite an instance in which the expectation of the
audience is favorably disappointed by introducing a
surprise.
8. What do you understand by crescendo in a plot?

9. Is it permissible to mislead an audience for a short

time in order to effect a surprise? Support your answer
by giving examples.
10. Is there any safe middle ground between misleading

an audience and mystifying them for the sake of a surprise?

1
Literary Remains.
 CHAPTER X
CLIMAX AND THE ENDING
The climax must seem inevitable, though perhaps unexpected.
The reader [the spectator, in the theatre] will almost surely look
back and trace the movement of forces in the story which lead
from the first causes up to the climax, and he demands that the
climax be what its name implies a ladder; and he is keen to note
missing and unsafe rungs. It is important to remember that
while one may slide down a ladder, he must ascend it step by step.
The gradation toward the climax is no small matter. J. BERG
ESENWEIN, Writing the Short-Story.

The "highest point" or "climax" of a typical drama marks the

division of the two processes out of which the plot of a play is
made. These processes are frequently described as the "com-
plication" the weaving together of the various threads of
interest and the "resolution" the untangling of the threads
again. "Tying" and "untying" are still simpler terms; and the
French word for untying, the denouement, has grown familiar to
us, though it is often used for what is technically known as the
"catastrophe," rather than as descriptive of the entire "falling
action," of which the catastrophe is only the final stage. BLISS
PERRY, A Study of Prose Fiction.

The tension of emotional interest in drama should be

gradually increased from the beginning up to the highest
point, known as the climax. To be sure, the rate of speed
is not always the same. At first, the movement will neces-

sarily be more leisurely; but as the summit is approached

the pace should be quickened.

Nevertheless, as has been indicated, there are resting-

points on the way particularly at the end of the first act,
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING 107

ina three-act play, and also at the close of the second in a

four-act play. As a rule, however, a sort of temporary
spurt a minor climax just before each of these minor
rests is attained, serves to compensate, as it were, for the

short delay to come.

Naturally, such other minor pauses as occur during the

acts must be skilfully handled lest they result in actual
lapses of interest and that broken-backed effect produced
where the attention is alternately gripped and relaxed.

In proportion as the and therefore minor, cli-

earlier,
maxes are high, the danger of flat reactions becomes

greater.
The climax is "the scene where the dramatic forces
which are contending for the mastery are most evenly
balanced. One cannot say whether the hero or the

intriguer, the protagonist or the antagonist, will conquer.

It is the point of greatest tension between the opposing
1
powers." Generally speaking, it is the function of climax
in a play to illustrate with accumulated and electrifying

brilliancy the theme, or at least the central incident or

character, by exhibiting it in the moments when the
struggle can grow no more tense, but must be decided.

Climax and the Falling Movement

The climacteric moments at the ends of acts are often

" "
referred to as curtains. Modern dramaturgy has shown
a distinct dislike to "curtains" whose artificiality is glar-

ingly apparent. "Formerly," Sarcey observes, in dis-

1
A Study of Prose Fiction, Bliss Perry.
IO8 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

cussing the "Francillon" of Dumas the younger, "the

author tried to end an act on some effective speech which
gave impetus to the piece and aroused curiosity as to the
next act. In this business Dumas pere was inimitable. At
present we like to end with some trifle which, insignificant
in itself, suggests the image of real life."
Radicals like Mr. Galsworthy and Mr. Barker take

special delight in closing their actsupon comparatively

commonplace speeches or pantomime. Analysis in such
cases, however, will generally show that there has merely
been appended to the climax a little added dialogue,
the effect of which, like the delayed final curtain of "The
Thunderbolt," is intended to suggest this indefinite-
ness of reality. Of course, this is not an actual gain in
truth, but simply the substitution of one artificial device
for another. Dramatic structure, when it exhibits itself

over-boldly, is doubtless reprehensible; its labored con-

cealment, on the other hand, may

prove equally repellent.
Clyde Fitch, always on the lookout for the startling, was
among the first to drop his curtains at unexpected mo-
ments. The greater the surprise, of course, the more
effective the expedient. But, naturally, this device is not

adapted to much repetition.

"In a tragedy the grand climax is usually preceded or
followedby what is called the 'tragic moment,' the event
which makes a tragic outcome unavoidable and foredooms
to failure every subsequent struggle of the hero against
his fate. The speech of Mark Antony, the killing of Polo-
'

nius, the escape of Fleance, are examples of the tragic

moment,' and it will be seen how closely this is associated
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING IOQ

with what the Greeks named the 'turn,' the beginning

of the 'falling action.'
"* it is the climax
Usually after
that we find the falling movement, the catastrophe, the
solution, the denouement, the untying of the knot.
Modern plays in four acts, with the climax at the end
of the third, devote Act IV, or at least the latter portion

of it, to bringing matters to a conclusion. A moment's

thought will show that this decline after the high point is
a necessary part of most dramatic actions and is therefore
not to be confused with the bungb'ng anti-climax, or flat-
tening of interest, against which a warning has just been
uttered.

The Ending

Doubtless the simplest way to put an end to a fight is

for one of the antagonists, human or otherwise, to with-
draw as it were, to "holler 'miff." But it frequently
happens that neither of the contestants is of the quitting
kind, in which case one or the other must be definitely
"knocked out," if there is to be any satisfactory termina-
tion of hostilities. In the old Greek drama the deus ex
machina would sometimes descend from Olympus at the
last moment and straighten out an apparently hopeless

situation by superhuman means. Later on, the play-

wright himself all too frequently employed a supernatural

power in making his characters belie their innate selves

that the story might terminate, "happily" or otherwise.

But eleventh-hour changes of heart on the part of hero,
heroine, or antagonist are distinctly out of fashion on the
1
A study of Prose Fiction, Bliss Perry.
IIO THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

stage to-day. Just as there is an effort to avoid even the

semblance of artificiality in the matter of climaxes, so
there is an even stronger and far more praiseworthy

determination to abolish the unmotived and illogical

about-facing that has made possible so many last-act

reconciliations, marriages, and general rightings of wrongs.

The last act, though it follow the climax, should sustain

the interest to the end. Generally speaking, it should be
brief and compact. In tragedy there will, of course, be
the death-scene, or at least its modern equivalent
separation, or other recognition of the futility of the
struggle. In comedy there will be the reconciliation, the
rehabilitation, the betrothal, or perhaps simply the quiet
termination of a contest or an intrigue now definitely
ended. In any event, there should be a disentangling of
the complication, but the untying of the knot should be so

managed that suspense is continued, based on doubt as to

the outcome, or the manner of its accomplishment, and, if

possible, re-enforced by skilfully manipulated surprise.

As has lately been demonstrated in "Under Cover" and
"On Trial," for instance, nothing gives a drama a more
than an abrupt and resourceful, yet wholly
effective ending

probable, denouement held practically till the last cur-

tain.

In one farce that comes to mind, wherein two different

persons have in turn pretended to be a certain noted
foreigner, with seemingly insoluble resultant complica-
tions, the unexpected arrival upon the scene at the last
moment of the foreigner in person straightens matters out
in a jiffy. The two impersonators are simultaneously
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING III

unmasked and rendered agreeable to compromise. This

is, of course, a trite form of the expedient.

Playwrights of to-day avoid antiquated solutions like

the unexpected will that turns up at the last moment and
leaves the estate to the hero, as in "The Lights o' London"
and others of its ilk. Arbitrary conclusions are more
tolerable in farce than elsewhere. We feel no resentment,
for instance, when, in Mr. James Montgomery's "Ready
Money," Stephen Baird's dubiously exploited mine
ultimately turns out really rich in gold; but when in a
play of serious comedy intent like Mr. Thompson Buchan-
an's "The Bridal Path" the heroine, having unmercifully
flouted and ignored her newly acquired husband, about-
faces at the very first intimation that even this worm
might turn, we sense the puppet-master pulHng his

strings.
1
Sarcey wrote in 1867: "Real life has no denouements.
Nothing in it ends, because nothing in it begins. Every-

thing continues. Every happening reaches back at one

end into the which preceded it, and passes
series of facts

on at the other end to lose itself in the series of facts which

follow. The two extremities fade into the shadows and
escape us. In the theatre one must cut at some definite
point this interrupted stream of life, stop it at some
accident du rivage."
Brunetiere, on the other hand, regarded such a theory as
a jest and not a very pleasing one. As an excuse for

1
Studies in Stagecraft, Clayton Hamilton, pages
Compare
164-165. And
again, The Theory of the Theatre, Clayton Hamil-
ton, page 169.
112 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Moliere's illogical "happy endings," it did not satisfy the

author of Les Epoqites du Thedtre. Mere concessions to
1
popular demand, which insists that comedies should end
with marriages, were these terminations, asserts the second
critic, adding, "If we are not incapable of comprehension,
we shall have to postulate the contrary in order to have
the true thought of the poet."
As for the termination that is neither of comedy nor of

tragedy, but the "deliberate blank," according to Pro-

fessor A. W. Ward it is a "confession of incompetence."
The exponents of naturalism will, of course, quarrel with
" "
this dictum. They will insist that as life has no endings

other than death, and not even that there may be

none in a drama which aims at the closest possible approxi-

mation of life. They will continue the play for two hours
and then chop it off in the midst of a speech, as Mr.
Barker does with "The Madras House." Presumably a
plotless play will no more require a conclusion than it will
need a beginning. But it has not yet been generally agreed
that an absolutely plotless play is a play at all, by the

commonly accepted definitions of the term.

At all events, the rule in our day is that the playwright
should by all means seek an ending that is an ending and at
the same time the logical and convincing outcome of the
facts of character and action that have preceded it.

Illustrating Climax and Ending

Purists are fond of reiterating that the word "climax"

1
Compare A Study of the Drama, Brander Matthews, pages
195, 196, 197.
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING 113

means only the series of gradations by which a culmina-

tion is reached, and not the culmination, or acme, or
apex itself. Authoritative use and dictionary makers,

however, fail to bear out the purists on this point. But

since the top of a ladder is reached as Dr. Esenwein

suggests only by means of the series of rungs leading up

to it, these steps themselves are necessarily presupposed
even when our reference is to the apex alone. A climax
in drama is a high point of emotional interest that has
been attained by climbing upward by degrees.
For the sake of illustration let us refer to "The Witching
Hour," which we have already discussed with regard to
its plot complication. To begin with, the student will note
how in Act I the atmosphere is established, and the
characters are introduced. Properly enough, both ele-

ments are inherently interesting. The gradual exposition

is disguised, for the most part, in characterizing dialogue.

The theme is first casually referred to and presently

defined by Justice Prentice, whose visit also prepares us
for the developments of Act II.

When Clay questions Viola as to Hardmuth's pro-

posal, we Soon thereafter the antagonists
scent the battle.
themselves clash before our eyes, and our emotional
interestis fully aroused: we are taking sides, hoping and

waiting. Then comes the abrupt, swift, upward step to

the primary climax: Clay, taunted to the verge of madness,
kills Denning and we are left in suspense as to the con-
sequences of his deed.
After the curtain has risen for the second time, there is

some necessary explanation of inter-act developments by

114 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

means of the conversation of the two Supreme Court

justices. Pleasing surprise, with increased interest,
results from the coincidence that Clay's fate now rests

largely in Prentice's hands. The student will note the

deft "atmosphere" and theme-emphasis introduced by
the Bret Harte reference, which is at the same time by

way of preparation for what is to follow. A much greater

surprise,connected with the more significant coincidence,
further absorbs us when Helen produces Prentice's old
letter to her mother, telling of his cat's-eye duel. We are
held in suspense for a time until the resentment of the

Justice 'at this attempt to influence him is overcome.

Then expectation leaps forward, when he promises a new
trial and own testimony in
his Clay's behalf. The act
ending extremely effective, with its moving and pic-
is

turesque resume of the theme.

In the beginning of Act III the suspense felt by the
characters is passed over the footlights to add to that of
the audience. Immediately the hand-to-hand fighting is
resumed before our eyes, the combatants now in a death
grapple. The hero who has so completely won our sym-
pathies we now see in imminent danger of his life. We
watch him fight on unflinchingly, battering down his
opponent. Moment by moment more and more swiftly
and certainly the good thought is driving out the bad.
Suddenly, in a shock of welcome surprise, Clay bursts
upon our sight, a free man. Then the main antagonism
is bodied forth in a tense moment of climacteric con-

flict and brute force is finally cowed by the power of

mind.
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING 11$

With the climax of the play at the end of the third act,
the author must exert his skill to hold complete interest

throughout the "falling movement," the dZnomment, the

"untying," of Act IV. Even here some further inter-act
exposition is necessary, but it is swiftly conveyed and is

made to serve the play's thesis now so freely and fre-

quently in evidence. Act III has left at least Hardmuth's

fate in some doubt, as it has left Clay still the victim of
his own weakness and of a bitter hatred. Let the student
observe how the playwright utilizes these few loose ends
to create fresh suspense, first, when Brookfield forces

Clay to look unflinchingly at the cat's-eye the influence of

which had wrought so much evil; and especially second
when Jack sends the boy to fetch his persecutor. What
will Brookfield do with his conquered enemy? No danger
of our not waiting to see! Meanwhile, by means of
Ellinger, the author entertains us with some skilful char-

acter humor which is not only amusing but also intensely

illuminating. As Prentice has summed up the play's
thesis in serious terms, so Lew Ellinger presents it from
the angle of epigrammatic whimsy: "God A'mighty gives

you a mind like that, and you won't go with me to Cin-

cinnati!"
Then Clay returns with the fugitive Hardmuth; and
we have the swift, telling, theses-clinching termination,

definite, logical, and satisfying. Brookfield has shared in

the evil thought, if not in the actual deed, that has put
Scovil out of the world. Relentlessly abiding by bis con-
viction as to telepathic responsibility, the ex-gambler
determines to help Hardmuth flee the state and the
Il6 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

woman Jack loves, now also convinced, declares she will

aid him in this act of generosity to the relentless prose-

cutor of her son.

The beginner will find it decidedly worth while to dissect
out and study minutely the framework of many notable

plays. He will readily see that methods of construction

vary widely; that there is no rigid form of climax-building

to be exactly followed in every instance; that plans differ

according to the purpose involved, the period of the

writing, the playwright's degree of orthodoxy, and many
other considerations. Nevertheless, the student will

observe, the trajectory or sky-rocket path is rarely

neglected by any play that wins for itself a large measure
of popular approval. And such a scheme of movement

necessarily involves the onward, upward, culminating

course of climax.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Formulate a definition for Climax.
2. Define Motivation.

3. Pick out the grand climax (a) in any play of the

Elizabethan period; (6) in any modern play.

4. In a short sentence for each, trace the various minor

climaxes, in any modern plays, by which the author
step by step increases the tension of interest and expecta-
tion. This is an important question because it discloses one

of the dramatist's most useful devices in bringing a story

gradually to its high point.
5. Show, in any play, how a minor (lesser because only
 CLIMAX AND THE ENDING 117

a contributory) climax is followed by a short period of

easement.
6. Can you point out in any play a place where the

dramatist lost his grip on his audience by too great a

reversal of interest after such a minor climax?

7. Though climax and denouement are never identical,

point to a story or a play in which the resolution follows

the climax so quickly that they are almost simultaneous in
time?
8. What is the difference between a crisis and a climax?

9. Cite a play in which the ending is artificial because

the denouement has been forced badly motivated.
" "
10. What is your opinion of the happy ending?
11. In what sort of plays are we less insistent on a well
motivated denouement? Give examples, if you can.
12. Revise one of your old plots, in view of the principles
of this chapter. In presenting it, show what changes you
have made.
13. Briefly summarize the first two acts of an original

comedy, farce-comedy, or farce, and then describe fully

the grand climax and denouement, without giving the dia-

logue in full form.

 CHAPTER XI
DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS

The drama ought not to correspond in every respect with the

scenes which we daily witness in real life. The mimic powers of
the art are not without their bounds; and it is ever necessary
that its deceptions should not be altogether concealed from our
view. SISMONDI, The Literature of the South of Europe.

The dramatic art is the ensemble of the conventions universal

or local, eternal or temporary, by the aid of which, in representing
human life on the stage, one gives to the public the illusion of
truth. . . .

not cease to repeat it: the theatre like the other arts,
I shall
after all is only a great and magnificent deception. It has not
at all for its object actual truth, but verisimilitude. Now, veri-
similitude exists much less in the reality of facts than in the
impassioned imagination of the spectators before, whose eyes the
dramatic author exhibits these facts. FRANCISQUE SARCEY,
Quarante Ans de The&tre.

Before proceeding to a discussion of the characterization,

it would seem advisable to consider certain devices and
conventions by means of which plots are erected, sus-
tained, or relieved.
Time was when a sub-plot or secondary fable was a
familiar element in play structure, a story within the main
story, emphasizing the latter by similarity orby contrast,
but not directly building it up in a vital way, and therefore
not strictly part and parcel of the main action of the play.

Thus the love affair of Lorenzo and Jessica mirrors that of

Bassanip and Portia, and the tragic experiences of Laertes
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS IIQ

parallel those of Hamlet, but are not really essential to

either story. Nowadays, however, it is generally assumed

that neither playing time on the stage nor unity of impres-

sion allows for secondary development. Exceptions to
this almost axiomatic principle are rare.

The Element of Relief

Perhaps the chief relic of the sub-plot may be found in

the element of As everybody knows, characters
relief.

such as comic servants, quaint old people, and juvenile

lovers, have long been employed to furnish a humorous or
a sentimental contrast to the main action, particularly
when it has been deeply serious. Neither hero nor villain,

however, is at present considered above contributing to

mirth, and the youthful amorists are now given some-

thing more to do in the story than mere billing and

cooing.
After all, the best relief possible is that of contrast. The
scenes of a drama ought to be as carefully varied as are the

constituents of a concert programme, and such variety is

to be obtained by changing the number of characters
participating in the scenes, as well as by alternating the

graver incidents with the gay.

Humor
Humor is displayed in drama by means of verbal
witticisms, which retain their flavoreven when detached
from the text; of lines that are amusing because they
illuminate amusing traits of the speaker's character; and
120 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

of situations or contretemps depending on the development

of the story. In other words, there is a type of humorous
effect peculiar to each of the three elements dialogue,
character, and plot.
Humor of dialogue is merely a facile means of provoking
laughter, and is dependent solely on the author's ability
to devise and to insert his jests or epigrams in such a
manner as neither unduly to delay the action nor seriously
to belie the characters that utter them. The plays of
Oscar Wilde are even overloaded with dazzling collections
of this superimposed ornamentation. We know, when we
hear them uttered, that they are the achievements, not of
the personages giving voice to them, but of the brilliant
author only. Less clever writers run great risks in imi-
tating the manner of "Lady Windermere's Fan" or of
"Fanny's First Play."
Above all things, certainly, the dialogue humor of a
drama should be original. A few years ago a play was pro-
duced in New York which boldly repeated many of the
best epigrams of Wilde. Every really experienced thea-
tre-goer promptly recognized them. And it is so with
"
most of the "pickings from 'Puck' with which some
authors are prone to lard their stage works. In "Under
Cover," for example, to quote a single instance, one notes
the interpolation of that antique bit of dialogue wherein
the "juvenile" with the "tango mustache" says, "Some-

thing's been trembling on my lip for weeks;" and the

ingenue protests, "Oh, please don't shave it off, Monty!"
It must be confessed that though this good old jest has
been circulating in the public prints since before the days
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS 121

of Joe Miller, everybody seems willing to laugh at it just

once more.
Plot humor, and especially character humor, are much
more valuable in the drama than is mere detached verbal
cleverness. It would be easy to cite no end of examples of

both, alone and in combination. Plot humor is, naturally,

the principal ingredient of farce; character humor of

comedy; though each is often found in melodrama, and

even in tragedy. The absurdly simple-minded Sam Thorn-
hiU's remark in the last act of "A Pair of Silk Stockings,"
that he thought his wife knew he was "a subtle sort of

chap," is a rich instance of character humor. And when

the young Assyriologist in "The High Cost of Loving"

greets a conscience-stricken pillar of society as "Father,"

we have an obvious illustration of humor of plot.

Coincidence and Probability

As has been seen, events may occur, on the stage as in

life, either inevitably, as in the case of pure comedy and
tragedy, or arbitrarily, as in the case of melodrama or
farce. It is the mingling of these two kinds that makes for
much of that confusion of the genres elsewhere considered.
The arbitrary determination of plot, moreover, is illus-

trated in the matter of the forced "happy ending," the

sudden and incredible conversion of a character, the over-
night reform or reconciliation.Of course, at any point in
a drama the arbitrary may intervene at the sacrifice of

inevitability.
One prominent example of this intervention takes the
122 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

form of the greatly over-worked coincidence. There are,

doubtless, frequent strange accidents in real life which

wholly upset all rational courses of events. On the stage,

however, the workings of chance at least in serious

drama are regarded with suspicion. Time, that arch
satirist, as Mr. William Archer and others have reminded

us, has his joke out with Tess of the D'Urbervilles because a
letter slipped under a door happens to slip also under a car-
pet. In the employment of this expedient in his novel
Mr. Hardy is as usual doing the thing best fitted to his pur-

pose. On the other hand, critics have often pointed out

that arbitrarily controlled action on the part of a main
character in a comedy or a tragedy, to bring about a
desired plot development, necessarily renders the person-

age unconvincing. And likewise, if the intervention of

chance be utilized to produce a major movement in the
plot, the audience will be apt to lose faith and interest in
all that follows.
This is, of course, merely going back to our fundamental
principle of logic, here traveling under the name of proba-

bility. In real a long-lost daughter, reared among

life

gypsies and ignorant of her parentage, might, indeed, by

pure chance stroll one evening unawares into the home of
her unsuspecting father; but nowadays, when such an
event occurs upon the stage, we grow restive and sus-
picious of the author's inventiveness or his good faith.
Time was when important coincidence was accepted in the
theatre as a matter of course, or even of preference.

To-day, however, it has been for the most part consigned

to that limbo of antiquated devices and conventions which,
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS 123

for the present at least, has swallowed up the soliloquy,

the "apart," and the "aside," along with eavesdropping
behind portieres and letters fortuitously left lying about.
One recalls how purely coincidental it is that Paula

Tanqueray's former lover should become engaged to

her step-daughter. In Mr. Augustus Thomas's play,
"As a Man Thinks," it is pure coincidence that discovers
to Vedah Seelig, in Act I,that her fiance De Lota has
been in serious trouble: De Lota happens to have been
involved with the very model Burrill employed and whose

photograph the latter is exhibiting because he happened

to have sold to the father of Vedah the figurine of
which Mimi was the original. Moreover, this coinci-
dence is doubled in strangeness as well as in usefulness

when it is also made to serve as the means of apprising

Elinor Clayton that her husband, who happens to have
become involved with this self-same model, is justifying
her fears as to his infidelity. Again, in Act II of this play,

Clayton learns of the apparent infamy of his wife through

the highly improbable coincidence which leads her father
j

on his way to Clayton's home, actually to see her entering

with De Lota the apartment building in which he lodges.

Perhaps it is the effectiveness of Scribe's "triangle of

information," which the author employs in each instance,

that reconciles us if we are reconciled to this bold use
of the arbitrary.
This explanation, however, certainly does not apply in
the case of the telephone incident in Act III. For the
purposes of the plot it has become necessary for the
Seeligs to learn of De Lota's evil record. The only person
124 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

who could inform them, however, is Julian Burrill; but, as

an honorable rival of De Lota for Vedah Seelig's hand,
Burrill would be going contrary to his character if he were
to turn informer. So the author has De Lota, who is alone
with Burrill, start to answer a telephone call and then,
when the receiver is off the hook, admit his guilt in full.
It happens that the confession is heard not only by Dr.
Seelig, answering the on a branch instrument, but also
call

by Frank Clayton, who is the husband of the woman with

whom De Lota is involved, and who happens to be at the
other end of the line. Thus a third astonishing coincidence
is utilized, and the common sense of De Lota is belied by
his stupidity in making damaging admissions into the con-
nected transmitter of a telephone.
In Mr. Haddon Chambers's "Passers-by," the female
waif who is called in from the London night turns out to
be the mother of the hero's child. In Mr. Augustus
Thomas's play, "The Model," the girl the Frenchman

urges the painter to make his mistress, it develops, is the

Frenchman's own daughter. In Messrs. John Stapleton
and P. G. Wodehouse's farce, "A Gentleman of Leisure,"
the hero on a bet goes with a burglar to rob a house and
enters thehome of the very girl he has just been flirting
with from the second cabin of the Lusitania. In Mr. W.
C. DeMille's melodrama, "The Woman," a political boss
and his son-in-law set out to ruin a woman unknown, who
proves to be the former's daughter and the latter's wife.
Each of these plays has won its measure of success, I am
sure, not because, but rather in spite of this sort of expe-

dient.
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS 125

One hastens to admit that it is evident from the box-

office records that this frequent use of coincidence let

the critics rail as they will is condoned. In that exceed-

ingly popular play, "The Man from Home," for example,

the personage whom the unsuspecting hero makes friends

with and thereafter addresses as "Doc," turns out to
be the very Russian grand duke whose intervention can
save the Kokomo lawyer's protege. When presently,
moreover, this fugitive proves to be the former husband of
the woman who is conspiring to ensnare the hero's ward,
the agglomeration of the fortuitous becomes fairly

bewildering. When Victor

abuses the arbitrary, as
Hugo
in "Ruy Bias," Sarcey explains that it is no great matter,

since over "this strange fairy tale" is flung "the purple of

his poetry." 1 The French critic finds excuse in the fact
that "Ruy Bias" is "precisely a marvel of style and of

versification . . . Et quel vers! comme U est toujours

plein et sonore!" It would be interesting to consider the
"
possible excuses that might be offered in the case of The
Man from Home."
In the writing of serious plays, by all means the beginner
should avoid the fortuitous coincidence that makes
dramatic problem-solving over-easy.
Generally speaking, the expedient may be safely em-
ployed in the serious modern realistic drama only to adapt
Sarcey's familiar and often quoted principle when it

brings about comparatively unimportant changes. Mon-

sieur Tristan Bernard, speaking of his play "Le Danseur
"
inconnu," observes that the events in it are ordered some-

Compare A Study Drama, Brander Matthews, page 207.

1
of the
126 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

times through the will of the personages, as in comedie de

caractere,sometimes by pure chance, as in comidie
romanesque. And is it not thus, after all," he queries,
"that happens in life, wherein we labor to construct our
it

destiny with our own energies and the collaboration,

benevolent or malign, of fate?" Because it is thus in
life, however, by no means makes it necessarily correct in
art.

Certainly, in the more artificial forms the variants of

farce and melodrama coincidence may be used much
more freely. Time was and that not so very long ago
when the romantic costume melodrama, with all its

extravagances of arbitrary plotting, was the most popular

form of stage amusement. To-day, however, when the
fashion calls for an approximation oflife, unexaggerated,

unemphasized, even unselected, the coincidental is largely

under the ban. First-nighters show their sophistication
by laughing at it, in their sleeves if not openly, as they
have been known to laugh at the use of the "apart," the

"aside," and the soliloquy.

Weak Illusions

What future decades will find amusing in the other con-

ventions of our present-day stage, it is, of course, impossi-

ble to predict. Undoubtedly, however, we are accept-

ing quite soberly what will eventually serve as food for

ridicule. We still allow ourselves to be startled, thrilled,

emotionally played upon by all manner of childlike

devices, some but not all depending upon an elusive
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS 127

novelty for their effect. Sophisticated audiences of to-day

that scorn the soliloquy, for instance, yet find little diffi-

culty in accepting such an expedient as that employed

in Mr. Edgar Wallace's "Switchboard," wherein an
exchange girl hears, presumably over the telephone, the
remarks of numerous actors concealed behind a thin cur-
tain. What seems most to matter is whether the partic-
ular device happens to be in or out of fashion.
I know of few more interesting subjects connected with
the stage than that of the conventions on which the illu-
sion of the theatre is based a subject, by the way, which

Sarcey has treated at length in his "Quarante de Am

The&tre." How these conventions vary in different lands
and periods, we need not here discuss. A single instance,
however, may be cited. In Monsieur Rostand's miracle
play, "La Samaritaine" there is a scene in which various
disciples hold a discussion intended to be delivered in
a "stage whisper." When the Master, who is across
the stage, breaks into the conversation, they are amazed
at His presumably miraculous hearing. As the specta-
tors have heard very plainly all that has been said, how-
ever, they do not share in the disciples' astonishment.

Instead, at least here in America, a discordant titter

passes over the audience, when Peter exclaims somewhat
grotesquely, "He hears everything!"

Trite Expedients

There is a manifest distinction between stage conven-

tions and stage conventionalities. The former are largely
128 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

necessitated by the physical conditions of theatrical

representation. The latter, however, are chiefly the result
of a lazy uninventiveness on the part of playwrights who
prefer following beaten paths to striking out into newer
territory. By dint of much repetition a vast number of

stage expedients have become thoroughly hackneyed and,

for the time being at least, should be regarded as taboo by
amateur dramatists. Persecuted foundlings who turn out
to be noblemen's heirs, hidden wills, dropped or miscarried

letters, and innocent ladies caught in villains' apartments,

are no longer so useful for dramatic purposes as they were
when they were new if, indeed, they ever were new.

Still,they are constantly turning up, even in our modern

realistic drama. The marked libretto that Elinor Clayton

drops in the second act of "As a Man Thinks" is prob-

ably only a variant of the lost handkerchief or fan of
ancient vintage. In "The Thunderbolt" Sir Arthur
Pinero boldly and superbly deals with the stolen will
and the cross-examined woman.
Perhaps, after all, it is impossible to go very far in drama
without being obliged to make use of one or more antiques.
In that event, it were doubtless better to select such as
have not been especially overworked in recent days.
When, for example, "The Lady from Oklahoma" was

produced, it was found to deal with two conventionalities

that had already been exploited during the season: the

neglected wife who wins back her successful husband's

interest, as in "The Governor's Lady;" and the faded
woman who regains her bloom artificially, as in "Years of
Discretion." The fact that "The Lady from Oklahoma"
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS I2Q

had been written before either of the other pieces did not

save it from failure. That, however, was the author's

misfortune, not his fault.
The following satirical recipes for conventional plays,
taken from the New York Dramatic Mirror, may well
serve to warn the beginner with regard to several dramatic
schemes he should sedulously avoid:
POLITICAL PLAY A boss, thick-necked and large of
stature, who a bullying tone and smokes fat cigars
talks in

at an angle of forty-five degrees, and who in the end is

completely outwitted by a resourceful little girl weighing

about one hundred and ten pounds.
COMEDY OF MANNERS New twist given to Oscar
Wilde's epigrams. At least two butlers. In tea scenes
characters must wear summery clothes and discuss with

just a trace of malice the approaching nuptials of Lady

Vere de Vera Rich. In last act dress clothes are essential.

AMERICAN PROBLEM PLAY Woman must visit man's

apartment at night unescorted. Extravagance of the wife
discovered at 10:15, after which there must follow a

stormy repetition of "Why did you do it?" until the

climax is reached by the demolition of the chamber door.

AMERICAN MELODRAMA One Colt automatic. One

stupid and heartless detective. One or more slangy
women characters, who furnish comedy relief. Theme to
concern the chief form of whatever vice or corruption is

occupying the immediate attention of the public.

RURAL COMEDY OF PRESENT TIME A broken-down
emporium run by a lazy, shiftless individual in the first
130 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

act. A well-kept emporium run by an energetic, ambitious

individual in the last act. Reason? A good-looking vixen
who knows the art of flattery.

RURAL COMEDY OF PAST TIME City chap with riding

breeches. One mortgage on the farm. A ruined daughter
and an erring son. One saw-mill.

If it is hard to avoid the trite in the construction of plots,

it is possible to make up for such defects by means of

novelty more especially of truth of characterization.

Plots are necessarily but human nature is always
artificial,

new and always a Seeking reality wherever he can

fact.

find it, the latter-day playwright can follow no better

course than that outlined by Stevenson in one of his

essays. "Let him," writes this high authority, "choose a

motive, whether of character or of passion; carefully con-
struct his plot so that every incident is an illustration of
the motive, and every property employed shall bear to it

a near relation of congruity or contrast; avoid a sub-plot,

unless, as sometimes in Shakespeare, the sub-plot be a
reversion or complement of the main intrigue; . . . and
allow no ... character in the course of the dialogue to
utter one sentence that is not part and parcel of the busi-
ness of the story."And, as the root of the whole matter,
continues R. L. S., whose words concern the novel but

apply equally to the play, it is to be borne in mind that the

work "is not a transcript of life, to be judged by its

exactitude, but a simplification of some side or point of

life, to stand or fall by its significant simplicity."

"The germ of a story with him," asserts Henry James
 DEVICES AND CONVENTIONS 131

in writing of Turgenieff," was never an affair of plot that

was the last thing he thought of: it was the representation
of certain persons." The critic goes on to explain, how-
ever, that Turgenieff realized his own defect want of
"architecture," or composition. The playwright is rather
more dependent upon this element of "architecture" than
is the novelist; but he is none the less obligated if he
takes his art at all seriously to the utmost veracity in
"the representation of certain persons."
It is obvious that the skilful dramatist will make full use
of the many legitimate devices of his craft. He will, for

instance, provide the element of relief and variety through

humor and especially through contrast. He will bear in
mind that humor of plot or of character is usually the
most telling and certainly the most dramatic. He will

learn to look askance on the overworked coincidence,

which so often mars the logic of characterization, and
which is generally regarded as "old-fashioned." In fact,
he will so long as our modern realistic attitude prevails

ignore illusion-shattering expedients of every sort and

devote himself to those conventions which are the founda-
tion of verisimilitude. Above all things, the painstaking

playwright will scrupulously avoid hackneyed themes,

situations, and types, and depend for his material upon
first-hand observation of human nature.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

From any plays, give examples of the distinctions
i.

between humor of dialogue, of plot, and of character.

132 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

2. Do the same by giving original examples. Repeat

this exercise at your own option, or that of the instructor.
3. Substitute a more natural and convincing device for
any one of the weak coincidences cited in this chapter.
4. Cite an instance you have observed or read in a play
in which mere coincidence is made more plausible by
fresh and clever handling.
NOTE: The student of drama can undertake no more
helpful exercise than the practice of inventing fresh devices
to take the place of lame coincidences in plays seen, read,
and offered in the class-room. This exercise should be
continued until real invention is shown.

5. Devise a plan to do away with the necessity for the

use of (a) the "aside," (b) the "apart," (c) the "soliloquy,"
in some definite case you may either invent or cite from
a play.
 CHAPTER XII

THE CHARACTERS
There a gallery of them, and of all that gallery I may say
is

that I know
the tone of the voice, and the color of the hair, every
flame of the eye, and the very clothes they wear. Of each man
I could assert whether he would have said these words or the
other words; of every woman, whether she would then have
smiled or so have frowned. When I shall feel that this intimacy
ceases, then I shall know that the old horse should be turned
out to grass. ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Autobiography.

The characters must be real, and such as might be met with in

actual at least, the natural developments of such people
life, or,
as any of us might meet; their actions must be natural and con-
sistent; the conditions of place, ofmanners, and of thought must
be drawn from personal observation. To take an extreme case:
a young lady brought up in a quiet country village should avoid
descriptions of garrison life; a writer whose friends and personal
experiences belong to what we call the lower middle class should
carefully avoid introducing his characters into Society. SIR
WALTER BESANT, The Art of Fiction.

Since characters in plays are supposed to be drawn from

real life, the playwright's success will obviously depend,

first, on his powers of observation; and, second, on his

ability to portray what he observes. Neither of these
qualifications can be acquired through the study of rules.
Hundreds of thousands of American collegians have had
some four years of experience with the amusing types that
animate "The College Widow," but only Mr. George Ade
has had the gifts and the enterprise to reproduce them for
134 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

the stage. "Why couldn't I have done that?" is the

question the amateur writer invariably asks himself when

he has come in contact with so simple, yet so veracious
and just a piece of work as the character drawing in "The
County Chairman" or in "The Pigeon" or in "Outcast."
Oftenest the reason lies in an inherent lack of aptitude.

At any without the ability to observe and the skill to

rate,

reproduce, no writer can hope to learn the processes of

character portrayal. One can, however, profit by certain

general suggestions.
Aristotle called action the essential in drama; but, just
as in literature, form, whichis essential, is less important

than content, so it is with story in the drama, as com-

pared with the characterization. This is, of course, truer
in the case of comedy and tragedy character plays than
in that of melodrama and farce story plays; though it is
in any event next to impossible to insist upon either
element alone, simply because character is necessarily
portrayed in action, and action is ever resultant upon
character.

Planning the List of Characters

In devising a drama the author will probably determine

early whether he will use few or many characters, and
whether they are to be portrayed in detail or merely
sketched. Character plays require more, story plays
fewer elaborately drawn figures. A farce or a melodrama
can get along very nicely with a group of easily recognized
types. A comedy or a tragedy will want at least one or
more highly individualized personages to give it a reason
 THE CHARACTERS 135

for being. And farce and melodrama will, in all likelihood,

be lifted into the realm of comedy and tragedy by the

development of the types into individuals, of outlines into
portraits. Of this distinction, more presently.
It has often been pointed out that the drama relies for

permanency upon its characterizations. There are, of

course, some plays of plot enacted by mere puppets,
which flourish for a season or oftener less. There are
other plays of slight story-interest which endure because
of the real men and women that animate them. Literary
qualities aside, "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is impor-
tant chiefly as the setting for Sir Giles Overreach. So
"Caste" emerges from the mass of Victorian stage con-
ventionality because of the Eccles family and their

friends. What were "Liberty Hall" without the lovable

old bookseller? Or "The Drone" without that prepos-
terous fraud, Daniel Murray? "Hindle Wakes" is valu-
able for its headstrong Lancashire folk. "Pomander
Walk" we love for its crusty admiral, its pompous butler,
its figures out of Elia. "Chains" is fundamentally a
human document. Truly we cherish the classics much
more for their soul-portraits than for their antique fables.

The Place of Realism in Characterization

Latter-day realism and naturalism, indeed, have tended

toward over-emphasis upon the element of characteriza-
tion. Disdaining all the artifices of the theatre, the
realisticplaywright has sought a photographic reproduc-
tion of nature. Artistic selection, it has been argued, has
136 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

become excessively facile and therefore self-conscious:

we must "return to nature" and throw technique to the

dogs. As we have seen, to such reformers whatever
savors of the theatre, even by remote suggestion, is to be
avoided as the pestilence. There must be no more climax
and solution; no more situation and plot; no hero or
heroine even; no beginning and no end. The recipe is:
Take two hours out of real life and put them absolutely
without change upon the stage. Of course, a million
chances to one there will be no plot. By the same token
there will be an immense surplus of the insignificant in

thought, word, and deed. This will be so, even though a

crucial two hours be chosen. And it is doubtful whether
extreme naturalism would really permit such a choice.
Plot being eliminated, at any rate characterization will
remain. Obviously it too will be without selection, if it is
orthodox. And it is equally obvious that plays so written
willhardly succeed in getting anywhere.
Unquestionably there has been a great need for this sort
of reaction. Unquestionably, too, it provides its own
automatic check. The excesses of romanticism and the
artificial have been as notorious as the excesses of classicism
and the artificial. The "return to nature" is the only

remedy in either case. And after we have had a surfeit of

nature, there will always be the return to art. After all,

humanity loves to improve on the natural; to set the

imagination to work; to combine, select, proportion; to

build the ideal; to rise.
The recent Irish drama has sometimes been cited as

exemplary of extreme modern realism. It is true that

 THE CHARACTERS 137

character, rather than plot, is stressed in the majority of

the Irish plays, for they are, most of them, either comedy
or tragedy. "Lady Gregory," writes one critic, 1 "does
not work the situation up to any emphatic climax; but,
having opened a momentary little vista upon life, she
smilingly remarks 'That's all' and rings the curtain
down." This would seem to be fitting facts rather hastily
"
to a theory.Surely there is true farce climax in Hyacinth
Halvy," true tragic climax in "The Gaol Gate," true
melodramatic climax in "The Rising of the Moon," true
dramatic structure and climax in an entire group of her
little comedies. Moreover, there is in practically all the

Irish plays not only admirable characterization, but well-

defined plot, having in all case3 a beginning, a middle, and
an end. The fact is Synge and
that the Irish dramatists
Yeats and Ervine and Murray and Lady Gregory and all
the rest instead of discarding dramatic technique, have
refreshed and revivified it with their simple artistry in the
manipulation of the actual. Doubtless their success is
chiefly founded on veracious characterization; and this,
in turn, is satisfying because it is sure.

The Sources of Character Material

Where does the dramatist acquire the material he must

work over into the characterization of his plays? From
observation, primarily, as has been said;though also, in
part,from reading, from hearsay, and from a combination
of these sources. Moving through life, he notes the
1
Studies in Stagecraft, Clayton Hamilton, page 133.
138 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

peculiarities, the eccentricities, the special qualities that

go with this, that, or the other mental and physical

make-up. He ponders and selects and rearranges.
Sometimes he reproduces on the stage a figure accurately
drawn from a single living model. More often he con-
structs harmonious combinations built of the shreds and
patches of long experience. Strangely enough, characters
composed after this latter plan are often the best: there
are few figures in real life that can be transplanted bodily
to the stage and yet remain effective. Selection and com-
bination judiciously performed usually produce the finest
results. There is no rule for this labor. One man will

work marvels with materials that others can only botch

into chaos. Books and teachers can say little, other than
to warn against excess and to advise reliance upon personal
knowledge.
The following humorous account of first-hand character

observation is credited by the New York Evening Sun to

Mr. Earl Derr Biggers. It should be most suggestive to
the beginner at play or other fiction writing.

"Scarcely a single character that appears in 'Inside

the Lines,' my war play," said Mr. Biggers, "is a native
of the Rock of Gibraltar, where the scene is laid. They
all owe allegiance to countries far away, and often by
wistful little speeches they show that they are thinking
of 'the old home town.'

"Of all these homesick people the one to whom my own

sympathies go out most generously is Sherman from
Kewanee. I am sure that his type the rich old man

dragged through Europe by his family has long been a

 THE CHARACTERS 139

favorite with cartoonists and humorists; but it was not

from this source I took him. I have met him often in real

life. And I have never known him but to love him. He

is so wonderfully human.
"The first time I met a Sherman in real life was when
I was a boy in a little town in the middle West. ... I
guess he was about the first man from our town to go
abroad. He was president of the First National Bank,
had all the honors that go with it, and was a happy man
until his wife got theEuropean fever.
"They went, of course. A. D. said a long farewell to
all the boys along Main Street, got on a train at the Erie

station, and disappeared for a season. The only word

that came from him during his trip was received by a man
who had a nephew in the diplomatic service somewhere
on the other side. The boy wrote that A. D. was glooming
hisway through Europe and bemoaning the fact that he
wasn't able to meet up with a piece of squash pie.
"A. D. got back at last, and the only information any-
body was able to get out of him about the 'old country'
'
was the statement that there's an awful lot of room going
to waste in them old castles over there.' He lived ten
years longer and referred frequently to the scandalous
number of empty rooms 'all fixed up and nobody livin' in
'em.' The boys at the bank said they would often come
upon him, sitting sad and disconsolate, brooding over the
wasted castle room of Europe. I imagine at such times
he was fixing up the Grand Trianon or Sans Souci as a
first-class boarding and rooming house.
"The last Sherman I met," continued Mr. Biggers,
I4O THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"was a fine, sweet old character who crossed with us to

Naples Like A. D., he had Europe coming to

last spring.

him, and he was the kind that makes the best of things.
Every morning his daughter gave him a guide book with
instructions to bone up on Rubens and the rest, but safe
inside thesmoking room he put it away and told us about
the boys back in Ada, Ohio, where he came from, and how

glad he'd be to get back.

"I used to come upon him late at night, smoking a
cigar quietly in a cornerand looking out over the water
in the wake of the ship out toward Ada. Then he'd tell

me about his eldest son, who was a lawyer and 'doing

fine,' and of his house, and his garden, and the neighbors,
and the spring election, and the time Garfield spoke
in Ada.
"He and I stood together on the deck the afternoon we
came into the Bay of Naples, and saw the villas of the
town lying white and wonderful at the foot of the famous
mountains. Below us the steerage, mostly Italian, was
likea bleachers crowd at a ball game with the home team
winning frantic with joy, climbing high in the rigging
to get the first glimpse, cheering, mad.
"The Italian doctor, a silent, fat little man, came
running up to us, his face flushed, his eyes shining.
"
'See, gentlemen,' he cried, 'that little patch of the
white at the foot of old Vesuve. That is my town my
home I go there to-night. Not for a year have I seen

it my own town so beautiful.'

"The old boy from Ada straightened up and showed
more interest than ever before.
 THE CHARACTERS 141

"
'By golly,' he said, as the doctor left us, 'it's hard to
realize it all suppose he does live
looks so foreign I

there. That makes the whole landscape real for me. I

can just see him jumping off the train running up Main
Street the town traveller, home again. I suppose
to-night he'll be down at the cigar store telling the boys
what he's seen on his travels.'
"I saw my friend from Ada a moment that evening
after the ship had docked. It was Saturday night in

Naples; the stars had begun to twinkle up above the

unlovely old warehouses along the waterfront; alongside
our ship amateur Carusos in leaky boats were warbling
1
O sole mia' to the twang of hoarse guitars. We were
watching our baggage as it was trundled down a precipitous
gangplank and through a hooting mob to the customs.
The man from Ada was nervous.
"
didn't
"They give us any checks for the trunks,' he
complained. 'I hate to let things go without checks.
How am I going to get them back from that mob of dagos

that don't speak a human tongue? I tell you we do things

better out in Ada.'
"
Somebody gave a shove, and we all went hastily down
that gangplank into Italy.
"Four months passed, and I saw my friend from Ada
again in London it was, on the Strand. He was smiling,

happy.
"
'Passage booked sail to-morrow,' he said. 'Going
back to Ada. I figure I'll get there two weeks from
Thursday band concert night. I can sit on my porch
and hear 'em play "The Star Spangled Banner." Say,
 142 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

those boys in Naples sure was out for the tips, wasn't
they?'
"
'What did you like best in Naples?' I asked.
"
'The braying donkeys under our windows,'
of the

said the original of Sherman from Kewanee. 'Do you

know, it sounded for all the world like the blowing of the
"
factory whistles at noon in Ada?'
The history of the stage is full of examples of failure due
largely to the attempt to picture phases of life with which

the author was himself unfamiliar. Mr. Jerome K.

Jerome has given us some unforgettable portraits drawn
from London boarding-house life. When he has tried to
depict the less familiar environment of the New York
drawing-room, in "Esther Castways," however, he has
failed to convince even London critics of the truthfulness

of his work. Mr. Stanley Houghton, likewise, knew his

Lancashire from A but his presentation of the

to Z;
cabinet ministers in "Trust the People" is far from real.

Indeed, the last act of this play, which returns to his own
peculiar locale, seems strikingly true in contrast with
what has gone before. Perhaps the chief secret of the
success of the Irish playwrights has lain in the fidelity
with which they have clung to familiar settings and people
in all their work. They have made their observations of

humanity always at first hand; and, in consequence,

mere "stock" rdles or types have not sufficed for the

animation of their stage.

"What I insist upon," wrote Francisque Sarcey, in a

feuilleton dealing with "Les Idees de Mme. Aubray," "is

that the personage be consistent to the end with the char-
 THE CHARACTERS 143

acter the author has given him, that he have a particular

physiognomy, that he be living. ... I reproach the fig-

ures in "La Femme de Claude,
1'
not with being symbolical,
but with being not alive. Never, no, never will an abstrac-
tion, or, if you prefer, an entity, interest me at the theatre,
for the simple reason that I do not go there to see entities
which symbolize ideas, but rather beings of flesh and
blood, who suffer and weep as I do, in whom I find the

echo of my own joys and sorrows in a word, beings

that live."
The playwright's source of material is Life. From what
he sees of his fellow beings in all manner of circumstances,
he selects those traits of character which to him seem sig-
nificant and adapted to his purpose. By a process of com-
bination and condensation he achieves his figures, letting
them develop always in strict accord with logic. If he
hopes to make them in any sense credible and real, he
will draw them solely from his own personal experience.

And, above all things, if he have the gift to do it, from

curtain to curtain throughout his drama he will make
them live.

NOTE: The Questions and Exercises appended to the

next chapter cover also the contents of this one.
 CHAPTER XIII

DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE

Addison had sketched the Tory fox-hunter, clothing him in

the characteristics of the class, "that he might give his readers
an image of these rural statesmen." Squire Western has all the
distinguishing marks of Addison's type, and beyond this, he is
individualized. WILBUR L. CROSS, The Development of the
English Novel.

Verisimilitude, a quality much insisted on at this time [the

eighteenth century], and in origin a restricted interpretation of
Aristotle's preference for the probable, was exalted into a
tyrannical principle which again excluded the individual, in its
fear of the abnormal or self-contradictory, and reduced the
delineation of character to a simplicity which belied human
nature. A king must be kingly, and nothing else; an official
must be officious, and nothing else; a maid must be modest,
and nothing else; and so through the whole range of humanity;
until in the perfection of decorum and verisimilitude, all interest

evaporated, and a dead monotony reigned. WILLIAM ALLAN

NEILSON, Essentials of Poetry.

Individual and Type

In all fiction, of course, the individual is very much more

delimited and defined than the type, which stands for a
whole species in the genus homo. The swashbuckler, the
hypocrite, the villain are types; Falstaff, Tartuffe, lago
are individuals. "Why is it," inquires Professor Bliss
1
Perry, "that the artist allows himself to substitute
1
A Study of Prose Fiction.
 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE 145

typical for individual traits and hence to lose the power

of imparting a sense of actuality to his fictitious per-

sonages? It is often true, no doubt, that the author fails

to see clearly what he wants to express. He falls into

abstract, typical delineation through mere irresolution or

inattention, or it may be the over-fondness for what he

may like to call the 'ideal,' that is, for the abstract rather

than for the concrete. . . .

Then, too, the prevalence of
a fashionable artistic type is often found to overpower
the artist's originality. ... In the third place, although
the fiction-writer may see the individual with perfect

distinctness, either as actually present before him or in

imaginative vision, he may nevertheless not be able to

express what he sees. He draws the general characteris-
tics of the type rather than the individual characteristics
of the person, because his vocabulary is not sufficiently

delicate and precise for the task of portrayal . . . The

defect is be attributed to the lack of training in
chiefly to
flexible and precise expression. We have had cer-
. . .

tain types drawn over and over again with wearisome

reiteration, but we have had few fictitious personages
who have given us the impression of actuality. It must
be remembered after all that the type is, in the last

analysis, only a subjective abstraction. ... If the per-

sonage be so drawn as to convey a vivid sense of reality,

the individual characteristics will be firmly outlined; and
if he gives ... an impression of moral unity, there is
little doubt that he will in the true sense contain the type.
For the type, so far as it is of any artistic value, is implicit

in the individual."
146 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

All this was said primarily of the novel, but it is equally

applicable to the drama. In the theatre, for a long time
now, characters have been grouped in certain familiar
categories: the "leads" or "straight" parts heroes and
heroines; the "eccentrics" or "character" parts odd
and whimsical persons; the "heavies" villains and
adventuresses; the "old men" and "old women" and
the "juveniles;" the "ingenues" and "soubrettes;" the

"walking gentlemen and ladies;" the "utility men and

women;" and the "supers," or supernumeraries. Obvi-
ously such a cut-and-dried classification emphasizes the
preponderance of types over individuals on the stage.
The present-day tendency is to individualize, to give

to every figure, whether heroic or otherwise, its peculiar

characteristics, and especially to reproduce actuality in

the matter of blending the good and the bad, the attractive
and the repellent, in men and women, old and young.
There is no reason, why the "character old
for example,

man" should not also be the hero, as in "Grumpy," or

even both hero and villain, as in "Rutherford and Son."
The old stereotyped set of characters in the old stereo-

typed story is, in fact, no longer sufficient on our serious

stage. These things were of the theatre merely senti-
mental claptrap born of tradition rather than of truth.
That they have been largely displaced by more worthy
matter manifestly one of the effects of modern realism.
is

To-day the first step toward success in the drama is the

careful choice and the accurate portrayal of real human
individuals. Therein only, indeed, can reside the supremely
desired trait of freshness and novelty.
 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE 147

Direct and Indirect Characterization

Scores of critics have reassured us as to the fact that
the playwright is naturally limited, in his depiction of
humanity, to the self-revelatory manners, words, and
deeds of his characters, together with their reactions upon
their fellows and their environment. In other words, the
portrayal of character upon the stage may be either
direct or indirect.

Always the first thing to be remembered is the truism

that,on the stage as in real life, actions speak infinitely

louder and more distinctly than words. We may take
into account, in making up our final estimate of a man,
what he tells us about himself and what his friends and
enemies tell us about him; but we will be influenced in
our judgment if we are ordinarily wise, at least far
more by what we see him
His carriage, his manner,
do.
his personal habits, and his conduct in the commonplace

as well as in the crucial moments of life observation of

these things will inevitably guide us to our eventual
verdict upon the individual. Of course, it will be well if
his deeds and his words harmonize unless he be meant
for a hypocrite or a villain. Certainly it will be indis-
pensable that he succeed in passing, if not for what he
himself claims to be, at least for what his creator obviously
intends him.
Directly, stage personages display themselves through
action, speech, mannerisms, class and professional traits
through conduct in incidents which reveal character, and
in situations which determine it. Indirectly, they are
shown by means of their effect upon others.
148 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

The character of Weinhold, the tutor in Hauptmann's

"The Weavers," briefly sketched as it is, reveals itself
both directly and indirectly with striking clearness. The
author does not even indulge in a long stage direction
concerning him, but merely informs us that he is "a
theological graduate, nineteen, pale, thin, tall, with lanky
fair hair; restless and nervous in his movements." In his

remark Weinhold ventures to disagree with the smug

first

and sententious pastor Kittelhaus, who has just opened

the fourth act by observing with finality:
"You are young, Mr. Weinhold, which explains every-
thing. At your age we old fellows held well, I won't say
the same opinions but certainly opinions of the same
tendency. And there's something fine about youth

youth with its grand ideals. But, unfortunately, Mr.

Weinhold, they don't last; they are as fleeting as April
sunshine. Wait till you are my age. When a man has
said his say from the pulpit for fifty years fifty-two
times every year, not including saints' days he has

inevitably calmed down. Think of me, Mr. Weinhold,

when you come to that pass."
"With all due respect, Mr. Kittelhaus," hesitantly
replies the tutor, "I can't think people have such dif-
ferent natures."

"My dear Mr. Weinhold," persists the pastor reproach-

fully, "however restless-minded and unsettled a man may
be and you are a case in point however violently and
wantonly he may attack the existing order of things, he
calms down in the end."
A few minutes later, when the rebellious weavers are
 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE 149

heard singing in the street outside, Kittelhaus, approach-

ing the window, says, "See, see, Mr. Weinhold! These
are not only young people. There are numbers of steady-

going old weavers among them, men whom I have known

for years and looked upon as most deserving and God-

fearing. There they are, taking part in this unheard-of

mischief, trampling God's law under foot. Do you mean
to tell me that you still defend these people?"

"Certainly not," rejoins Weinhold. "That is, sir

cum grano sails. For, after all, they are hungry and they
are ignorant. They are giving expression to their dis-
satisfaction in the only way they understand. I don't
"
expect that such people
Mrs. Kittelhaus, "short, thin, faded, more like an old
maid than a married woman," interrupts reproachfully,
" "
Mr. Weinhold, Mr. Weinhold, how can you? And then
Dreissiger, the tutor's rich employer, bursts forth, "Mr.
Weinhold, I am sorry to be obliged to I didn't bring you
into my house to give me lectures on philanthropy, and I
must request that you will confine yourself to the educa-
tion ofmy boys, and leave my other affairs entirely to
"
me entirely! Do you understand?
Weinhold "stands for a moment rigid and deathly pale,
then bows, with a strained smile," and answers "in a low
voice," "Certainly, of course I understand. I have seen
this, coming. It is my wish, too." And he goes out.
When Mrs. Dreissiger remonstrates with her husband
for his rudeness, he retorts, "Have you lost your senses,
Rosa, that you're taking the part of a man who defends
"
a low, blackguardly libel like that song?
150 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"But, William, he didn't defend it."

"Mr. Kittelhaus," demands Dreissiger, "did he defend

it or did he not?"
"His youth must be his excuse," replies the pastor

evasively.
And Mrs. Kittelhaus exclaims, "I can't understand it.
The young man comes of such a good, respectable family.
His father held a public appointment for forty years,
without a breath on his reputation. His mother was over-
joyed at his getting this good situation here. And now
he himself shows so little appreciation of it."
That is all. We hear almost nothing more of Weinhold
during the remainder of the play; he has spoken scarcely
four lines of dialogue; and yet he stands out sharply, both
on his own account and by means of the effect he pro-
duces upon other clearly drawn figures.
If one is interested to know this author's methods in

full-length portraiture, let him study the acute and un-

scrupulous Mrs. Wolff, of "The Beaver Coat" and "The
Conflagration." In these two plays Herr Hauptmann has
set forth every conceivable phase of this cunning, sarcastic,
iron-willed woman, one of the most completely individu-
alized figures in the whole the modern stage.
field of

Progressive Versus Stationary Characters

Should characters in drama develop or remain sta-

tionary? Briefly, that must depend on the nature of the
"
play. Mr. Edward Sheldon's heroine in The High Road,"
who traverses half a century in the course of five acts, or
Messrs. Bennett and Knoblauch's initial figures in "Mile-
 DRAMATIS PERSON2E AND LIFE 151

stones/' who live a lifetime in three acts, might reasonably

be expected to change. Since the majority of plays

depict so much shorter periods, however, character evolu-

tion is usually obviated. To the playwright the individual
isvaluable only for the two hours taken out of his life, with
due allowance for the effects of the indicated intervals.
This does not mean, on the other hand, that the dra-
matist cares nothing for his people's past careers, as Mr.
Brander Matthews would have us believe. 1 "Who was
Tartuffe," he inquires, "before his sinister shadow crossed
the threshold of Orgon's happy home? What misdeeds
had he been already guilty of and what misadventures had
he already met? Moliere does not tal us; and very likely
he could not have told us. Probably he would have
explained that it did not matter, since Tartuffe is what he

is; he is what we see him; we have only to look at him

and to listen to him to know all we need to know about
him. . . . We find the melancholy Jaques in the Forest
and bandying repartees with
of Arden, moralizing at large

a chance clown; he talks and we know him at once, as we

know a man we have met many times. But who is he?
What is his rank? Where does he come from? What
brought him so far afield and so deep into the greenwood?
Shakespeare leaves us in the dark as to all these things;
and perhaps he was in the dark himself."

On the other hand, we have the testimony of no less a

master than Ibsen himself in "Nachgelassene Schriften"
that he lived decades with his characters till he knew them.

When comment was made to him upon the name of Nora

1
A Study of the Drama, pages 156-157.
1 52 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

in "A Doll's House," he replied, "Oh, her full name was

Leonora; but that was shortened to Nora when she was
quite a little girl. Of course, you know she was terribly
spoiled by her parents." And then there is the interesting
anecdote of the conversation between Ibsen and his
fellow-dramatist, Gunnar Heiberg, who insisted that
Irene in "When We Dead Awaken" must be at least
forty years old, whereas her creator sternly declared her
to be but twenty-eight. Next day Heiberg received the
following note:

"Dear Gunnar Heiberg:

You were right and I was wrong. I have looked up my
notes. Irene is about forty years old.
Yours,
Henrik Ibsen."

In fact, the great Scandinavian in almost every instance

apparently turned his theme over and over in his mind,
slowly working out the psychology of his characters and
never recording them permanently until "he had them
wholly in his power and knew them down to the last fold
of their souls." Obviously such procedure requires an
imaginative acquaintance with the past history, almost
with the family trees, of the dramatis persona.
In Monsieur Andre Picard's "L'Ange gardien" to cite a

play already referred to in the chapter on plot we are

introduced to the mysterious Therese Duvigneau, a rather

plain and taciturn widow of thirty, who at first impresses

us as she does the other personages as being distinctly

unpleasant. Little by little, however, as the action

 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE 153

progresses, this strange, complex creature reveals herself,

not as the cold, repellent misanthrope she first appears,
but incredibly enough as a woman at bottom capable
of ungovernable emotional outbursts, and instinct with

a subtle and imperious charm. The chief part of this

revelation takes place in the course of a rapid and tense
scene during which our attitude toward this character

undergoes a complete change, and we pass from dislike

to a sympathetic comprehension.

Individuals and Types May Balance

Of course, the inevitable penalty exacted for such com-

plexity in the portrayal of one individual is forced con-
tentment with mere types for the other figures. The
dramatist sacrifices his auxiliary characters to the pro-

tagonist much "as the father of a family who would

sacrifice his children to one among them. His play tends
to be only a monograph."
"The dramatist," says Sir Arthur Wing Pinero, "is
only the mouthpiece of his characters, plus, of course, his
knowledge of the technique of the theatre, which enables
him to manoeuvre them. So he must assume an imper-
sonal attitude toward them and permit them, so to speak,
to develop out of themselves." This, doubtless, means a
development not during the course of the play, but rather
during the long period rarely less than a year with
Pinero of the writing of the play. It is only this intimate

acquaintance with the characters as individual men and

women, this living on terms of complete familiarity with
154 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

them through all the occurrences commonplace and

extraordinary that go to make up a lifetime, that can

guarantee absolute logic and consistency to say nothing

of freshness of plot, and that can result in the rigid

economy of materials the conditions of the theatre demand.

Naturally, it is the leading figures, rather than the

auxiliary ones, that determine the action of the drama.

Generally speaking, character plays utilize fewer per-
sonages than do story plays. This is, of course, because it
takes time to portray character: the method must be

leisurely. Of late years compression has often been

carried to the extreme. Not so long ago a prominent
theatrical manager refused to read farther than the first

page of a manuscript play when he saw that its cast

numbered only five. Within a few weeks "The Climax,"
with four characters, had attained great popularity, after
"The Easiest Way," with six, had already demonstrated
its value. In the latter piece, in fact, there is slight reason

why the optimistic showman and the negro maid should

not have been omitted: neither contributes to the action
or seriously bears upon the significance of the play. Of
course, an undue sense of isolation is to be avoided, but
there is always the possibility of producing the illusion of
off-stage life by means of familiar sounds and passing
figures. As a rule, the would-be playwright will be con-
sulting his own best interests so far as possible produc-
tion of his work is concerned by avoiding a superfluity
of parts as of other expense-making elements. The four-
act play with only three characters in it, on the other
hand, not unreasonably excites prejudice. So, perhaps,
 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LITE 155

such a piece, if it is very, very good, had better be sub-

mitted to the manager without a preliminary list of the
dramatis personal

Generally speaking, types alone are usually sufficient

for the purposes of story plays, whereas character plays

require individualized figures. Although to display freshly

drawn personages in hackneyed situations is somewhat
like putting new wine into old bottles and new wine in
new bottles is certainly best nevertheless stereotyped

figures are taboo in the successful drama even more than

are trite incidents. Furthermore, as a rule, the charac-

ters, which rarely develop in the play itself, should first

have undergone a complete evolution in the mind of their

creator. And in most instances the fewer the essential
figures, the better the play will be.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. From one of Shakespeare's plays "Hamlet" sug-
gested make a list of the characters actually essential
to the plot.

2. Why are they essential while others are not?

3. Do modern plays employ characters not essential to

the plot? If so, name an instance and show briefly why.

4. What sort of names do you find given to characters

in plays of today?
5. Are the symbolic names, like Colonel Bully and

Molly Millions, in vogue in the eighteenth and early nine-

teenth centuries, in good taste today?
6. Take one of your own plots, used in a previous
 156 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

assignment, and make a list of the characters, with out-

lines of their relations each to the other.

7. Criticise the characterization in any recent play

from the standpoint of reality or of symbolism, as the
case may require.
8. What do you understand by an individualized char-
acter and a typical character? Cite examples.

9. Which sort do you find most common in present-

day plays? Cite examples.

10. Give the full dialogue of so much of an original
scene as may be necessary to delineate a character
indirectly, in the manner of Hauptmann, page 148.

11. In brief outline only, give the biographical and

personal details of a character, real or imaginary, who is
individual enough to be the big figure in a play.

12. In your own way, show how you might make him
live on the stage.

13. In psychological character drawing we are taken

into a human soul and enabled to see how it works in

given circumstances. Write a dialogue scene psycho-

logically showing a woman struggling with the problem of
whether she will sacrifice the interests of her second
husband in order to further the interests of her son by a
former marriage.

14. Outline the same character before and after the

great crisis in his life which has involved marked char-

acter change.

15. In the case of this husband, would you show his

character directly or indirectly?
 DRAMATIS PERSONS AND LIFE 157

1 6. Clip five items from magazines or newspapers con-

taining material for dramatic characterization.

17. For practice, take all the central characters in these

five accounts and weave them together into a plot. What
were your chief difficulties?

1 8. Make a list of the sources for character study open

to you personally.

19. Should characters be modified, or even combined

with others, for stage use? Give reasons.
"
20. Draft a plot around The Man from Ada," page 138,

taking care to avoid any similarity to Mr. Biggers's play,

"Inside the Lines."
21. Cite any instance you can of plays in which char-
acterization was badly done because of imperfect knowl-
edge of the subject.
22. Briefly describe six characters all of whom might
well appear in the same play. Do not overlook the

principle of contrast.

23. Invent two dramatic situations which result in

character changes in the characters. Note the distinction
between "character" and "characters."
24. Invent two dramatic situations which result from
changes in character of the characters.
25. Describe the actions of five comedy characters.

NOTE: Invention assignments of this sort should be

multiplied indefinitely. Special emphasis should be laid
upon small self-revealing actions and remarks by the dram-
atis persona; and also upon remarks by one character

about another which connote more than they say.

 CHAPTER XIV
PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY
The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is
ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be con-
structed. ARISTOTLE, Poetics.

Though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type,

be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. Ibid.

It may be observed, too, that although the representation of

no human character should be quarrelled with for its inconsist-
ency, we yet require that the inconsistencies be not absolute
antagonisms to the extent of neutralization; they may be per-
mitted to be oils and waters, but they must not be alkalies and
acids. When in the course of the denouement, the usurer bursts
forth into an eloquence we cannot sympathize
virtue-inspired,
very heartily in his they proceed from the
fine speeches, since
mouth of the selfsame egotist who, urged by a disgusting vanity,
uttered so many sotticisms ... in the earlier passages of the
play. EDGAR ALLAN POE, Mr. Longfellow, Mr. Willis, and the
Drama.

The fundamental problem of the dramatist, as has

been said, is the
problem of plot-and-character harmony
which, being reduced to its lowest terms, amounts merely
to a strict observance of natural logic. Observation may
be most just and acute, and as a result men and women in
plays may be exhibited with all manner of skill in con-
trastand grouping, as well as with sympathetic individual
portraiture;and yet, if what they are fails to accord with
what they do, they most likely amount to no more than
 PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY I $9

wasted effort. In spite of this fact, however, a common

defect in drama is the tendency to "plot-ridden" per-

sonages, who, for the sake of the fable, are forever belying
their own selves.

To repeat, in the best serious plays everything of

importance occurs as the result of an obvious and rea-

sonable motive. We are never content to see a bad man
do good deeds, or a good man bad ones; a wise man work
stupidity, or a stupid man wisdom merely that the
story may easily advance. Such contradictions are
always occurring in everyday life, but people act so for
reasons of their own which are rarely apparent. In the
play, however, we must be more than merely natural
probability is a sine qua non.

Lack of Harmony Between Plot and Character

In "The Big Idea," for instance, we are actually asked

New York theatrical producer would pay
to believe that a
an unknown playwright twenty-two thousand dollars for
an untried play. If the sum named had been a reason-
able one say five hundred dollars at the utmost then
the postulate upon which the extravaganza hangs
that the banker father cannot raise so much money to
avoid ruin would have fallen to pieces. In "A Pah- of
Silk Stockings," we must do the best we can to harmonize
with' the eccentric but straightforward character of Sam
Thornhill the fact that, when piqued at his wife's prefer-
ence in motors, he ostentatiously took up with a disrepu-
table woman just to show that he was "a bit knocked."
l6o THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Doubtless this difficulty is largely a matter of opinion;

certainly it does not suffice to diminish the charm of the
bright little comedy.
One notes the obvious fact that when these credulity-

straining postulates deal with matters antecedent to the

play itself as Sarcey and others have pointed out the

spectator is usually willing to swallow the whole affair

without much protest, providing that, these fundamentals
being granted, the characters thereafter seem probable
and consistent. In other words, resentment is likely to
be aroused only when during the progress of the piece the
characters are made to do what we feel they being what

they are could not do, and all for the mere sake of

furthering the advancement of the plot. Thus the char-

acter of the hero in Mr. Hubert Henry Davies's "Outcast"
by his obstinate clinging to the inferior creature,
is belittled

who once heartlessly threw him over for a rich old suitor,
in the face of the vastly more desirable love and per-

sonality of the girl his kindness has helped to develop into

a woman of the strongest charm. In fact, the hero of this

drama, in marked contrast to the heroine, throughout a

is

vague, indefinite figure. And the chief reason for this

state of affairs is that Mr. Davies has not enough plot for
a full evening's play. Certainly, if Geoffrey had been a
convincing human being, in all the circumstances, the

piece would have ended one act earlier than it did. Yet,
whatever its deficiencies, "Outcast," at least for the char-
acter study of its heroine, is most moving and effective.

The unconvincing is always turning up. In Mr. B.

Macdonald Hastings's arbitrary and conventional play
 PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY l6l

"That Sort," reminiscent as it is of "East Lynne," "Miss

Moulton," "Lady Windermere's Fan," "The Second
Mrs. Tanqueray," and even others, the ultimate self-
sacrifice of Diana Laska is wholly unacceptable. In Mr.
Henry Arthur Jones's "Mary Goes First," a political
leader, among other personages, is portrayed as of an
incredible stupidity merely in order that the cleverness of
the heroine may be emphasized by contrast.
It should be understood that, in such criticism of specific
defects as is offered here and elsewhere in this book
sweeping condemnation of the plays mentioned is neither
always nor often intended. Practically every drama
referred to could be cited as exemplifying also innum-
erable excellences of technique and matter. Many of
these pieces have won a deserved popularity: the point
of the criticism is simply that they might have been even
better. There are, of course, plays almost totally devoid
of merit, but they have been generally so short-lived and
so little known as to be useless for purposes of illustration.
In Mr. Augustus Thomas's "Arizona" a sensible army
officer, having been told that his former friend, who is
accused of attempted murder, has, at the noise of an

unexpected shot, merely fired his pistol mechanically into

the floor, does not, in seeking evidence, even think of

probing there for the bullet that fits the prisoner's weapon.
In Mr. James Forbes's play, "The Traveling Salesman,"
when a question of vital importance arises, a supposedly
intelligent heroine is made to put implicit confidence in
the obvious villain, refusing to believe the manifestly
honest hero. In "Nobody's Daughter," the parents of an
l62 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

though young, prosperous, and in love,

illegitimate child,
do not marry for no apparent reason except that the
heroine would then be somebody's daughter. In Mr.
Arnold Bennett's "The Great Adventure," an artist with
the fame and skill of a Titian is made to give up his art

as well as his name and state of life for no credible reason

other than the purposes of a highly improbable plot.
These are all in a sense instances of the "plot-ridden"
character in the drama: in each case somebody is forced

by the exigencies of the fable to do what he could not

possibly have done in real life and so to incite the imme-
diate resentment of the thoughtful spectator, because, in

asking him to believe the unbelievable, the playwright

casts an inferential slur on the playgoer's intelligence.
Often enough, too, it is for the sake of the most conven-
tional melodrama that these distressing compromises occur.
More frequently still, as has previously been noted, the

dramatic personage is made to barter his birthright of

actuality for that most specious mess of pottage, the

"happy ending." For example, the American adaptor
of Miss Elizabeth Baker's "Chains," made the monot-
ony-mad clerk, about to escape from the deadening

bondage, hail with joy that news of his prospective

paternity which in the original was the death-blow to his
last hopes of relief. Obviously this tampering merely
perverted not only the character of Richard Wilson, but
also the entire purpose of the play.
A few years ago, on the other hand, when Mr. Joseph
Medill Patterson's play, "The Fourth Estate," was first
produced, it ended with the suicide of the hero, an idealistic
 PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY 163

young journalist who had been baffled at every turn in his

struggle to emancipate the press. Though thus invested

with a specious air of tragedy, neither story nor hero was

worthy of the dignity of death. Purely melodramatic, the

termination was entirely arbitrary. For its probability it

depended chiefly upon the exact interpretation of the

protagonist's character. If he was a half-mad fanatic or
an overwrought neurotic, suicide might be expected of
him. But he was hardly either. As a result, when an
alternative "happy ending" was substituted, wherein the
hero accepted temporary defeat, set his jaw, and resolved
on eventual victory, the play had not suffered in effec-
tiveness.
But all melodrama is not capable of similar adjustment.
In the case of Monsieur Henri Bernstein's "Israel," the
American version was made to accord with the alleged
national requirement by means of a peculiarly atrocious
violation of the sense and spirit of the play. The young
hero, who has been an ardent Jew-baiter, has just learned
that the Hebrew he has particularly assailed is his own
father. In the original version this intelligence suddenly
thrust upon him drives the protagonist to suicide as the

only possible relief from the terrific race-conflict that

wages within him. For American gratification, in the
last act there was evoked practically from nowhere a

young woman who considerately married the hero to save

his life. Even in melodrama strict logic of denouement
is more to be desired than an arbitrary conclusion which
strains probability to the breaking point and destroys
character consistency.
164 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Of late years it has been fairly well demonstrated that

the demand for conventional endings is not inevitable.

Laura Murdock's tragic relapse into the "easiest way" is a

case in Farce and melodrama, being chiefly
point.
dependent upon plot, require a definite rounding up of
loose ends. And surely we may say, in general, that
serious comedy should at least be finished and not simply
stopped. Of course, if it be mere photography, it will man-

age to subsist without much reference to the rules of art.

Plot-and-character harmony, let it be repeated, is both
the chief problem of the dramatist and the first essential
of a good play. Even in sheer melodrama, if it is to be

worth while, the personages must not for the sake of the
story be forced into glaring inconsistency. And the
popular demand for the "happy ending" is decidedly
not to be regarded as a legitimate excuse for last-act
insults to the spectators' common sense.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Suggest improved harmony between character and
plot in any two of the cases criticised with which you are
familiar.

2. In your cpinion, in any of the successful plays

cited, which show weakness in plot-and-character har-
mony, would a correction of these defects have resulted in

greater success?

3. Examine two of your previously constructed plots

to see if you have offended in character probability.

Frankly state your view.

 PLOT-AND-CHARACTER HARMONY 165

4. If you have found any such defect, say how you

propose to correct it.

5. In your observation, do audiences easily discover

defective harmony between plot and character, or are
they usually blindly complacent? Give examples, if pos-
sible.

6. How have these matters previously affected you?

7. From plays you have read or seen cite other instances

of a lack in plot-and-character harmony.
 CHAPTER XV
THE DIALOGUE

Every phrase, with Dumas, hits the mark; as there is not in

his plays an idle word, there is likewise none that is lost. His
language is all muscles and nerves; it is action. And at the same
time it gives to the idea a strict and decisive form, it sculptures
it. If it often lacks literary purity and grammatical correctness,
it has always dramatic relief. GEORGES PELLISSIER, Le Mouve-
ment Litteraire au XIX 6 Siecle.

I do not know whether one could find a single mot [detachable

witticism] in Moliere. ...

In revenge, the mots of passion,
of character, of situation sparkle on every hand. . You will
. .

find not a single thing that is amusing because the person who
utters it wishes to be amusing. He is so, without knowing it,

by the sole fact of the situation in which he finds himself and of

the character which the author has given him. FRANCISQUE
SARCEY, Le Mot et la Chose.

After action, pantomime and dialogue are the chief

means by which the personages in a drama reveal them-
selves and tell the story in which they are involved.

Pantomime

Pantomime I name first because, from the dramatic

standpoint, it is the more effective agency. Quantita-
tively, it is by its nature limited. Gesture, attitude, and
play of countenance aside, a hundred things are usually
said for every one that is done. Yet, in a broad sense,
as has often been averred, a good play should be reducible
 THE DIALOGUE 167

in its essentials to pantomime: otherwise it is likely to

prove upon analysis to be largely composed of non-dra-

matic conversation.
The pantomime element lies chiefly, of course, in the
hands than of the playwright. The
of the player rather

author, however, must have full knowledge of all the

feasible expedients of dumb show that may best be

utilized in the expression of his story and characters, and

he must provide for them in advance, if merely to avoid
their duplication in the dialogue. Wherever pantomime
may be employed, repetitive dialogue is not only uneco-
nomical, it is positively devitalizing. What can be shown
by gesture, movement, facial expression, significant pause,
should rarely also be said in words. On the other hand,
it must be remembered that pantomime has its limita-
"
tions, that, after all, it is not possible to indicate by
the wriggling of the left shoulder that one's paternal

grandfather was born in Shropshire."

Kinds of Dialogue

Dialogue in the English drama may usually be classed as

poetic, rhetorical, or realistic.
The poetic is generally in the form of blank verse. It

belongs to a convention that is now rarely employed a

form of the ancient assumption that the heroic personages
of tragedy in particular speak an exalted and ornate

language not common to ordinary mortals. Similarly the

characters in grand opera, as everybody knows, discourse
in song.
1 68 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Rhetorical dialogue partakes of the same heightened

nature as the poetical, though it is usually mere orna-
mented and elaborately wrought prose. At the present
time neither poetic nor rhetorical dialogue is in much
demand in the theatre. Dramatists like Rostand and
Hauptmann and Stephen Phillips still employ verse;
others, likeMr. Percy Mackaye in several of his plays,
choose for their medium a decorated and highly polished

prose; but the large majority of playwrights assiduously

cultivate realism in the speech of their characters.
There are occasional hybrid efforts to combine the
realisticcontent with the poetic form, to put everyday

speech into blank verse, or to mingle the realistic and the

symbolical in iambic pentameters. Mr. Witter Bynner's
little tragedy, "Tiger," is an example of the former;
Mr. Israel Zangwill's "The War God," of the latter
endeavor. In both these plays, for the most part,
ordinary, unheightened speech is cut into five-foot lengths.
The presence of the symbolical element in "The War
God" perhaps justifies the expedient. But to me the

gutter-speech of the vile creatures in "Tiger" when put

into blank verse produces the effect of a horrible bur-

lesque and detracts from the forcefulness of the narrative.

For the sake of the meter, moreover, the characters are
made to use interchangeably complete forms or contrac-
tions "I'll, I will; cannot, can't," and the like without
regard to the probabilities, and so in opposition to the
very effect of realism desired.

Generally speaking, model realistic dialogue is that of

which the playgoer can say that it sounds as if it were
 THE DIALOGUE 1 69

being spoken for the first time, had not been written, and
could not, on another occasion, be exactly repeated. Of

course, there are plays making some pretense to lifelikeness

that employ a dialogue that is frankly artificial, crowded

with clever conceits and generally reflecting the tradition
of euphuism that has clung to the English drama for cen-
turies. "Half the young ladies in London spend their

evenings making their fathers take them to plays that are

not fit for elderly people to see," is a typical Shavian
wrong-side-out witticism from "Fanny's First Play."

But, amusing though it may be, it is not nearly so telling

as Dora's genially impudent retort to old Gilbey's heart-
broken cry, "My son in gaol!" "Oh, cheer up, old dear,"
she says, "it won't hurt him: look at me after fourteen

days of it: I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet.
You mustn't let it prey on your mind." Or compare
Duvallet's elaborate, "You have made an end of the

despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown

to you; everywhere in this island one can enjoy the soul-

liberating spectacle of men quarreling with their brothers,

defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their mothers"
with this other delicious bit:

Mrs. Gilbey. Bobby must have looked funny in your

hat. Why did you change hats with him?
Dora. I don't know. One does, you know.
Mrs. Gilbey. The things people do! I
I never did.
can't understand them. Bobby never told me he was
keeping company with you. His own mother!

The latter passage obviously appeals because of its

170 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

naturalness; it does not impress upon you the fact that it

has been thought up in advance.

The Principles of Dialogue

Every line of dialogue, Mr. Augustus Thomas tells us,

should either reveal character, advance the story, or get a

laugh. As for the detachable witticism, it is justifiable in

the realistic drama to the extent that it is probable. A
clever man say clever things; a dull man will not.
will

And even the wit will not always be at his best though
it is no deadly sin if, on the stage, he is.

Any speech that does not harmonize with the mood or

tone of the scene or with the general atmosphere is, of
course, strictly out of place. Hamlet has said his say
about certain villainous practices that make the judicious
grieve, and it applies as thoroughly to the tasteless play-
wright as to the tasteless clown. In farce and fantastic
plays wit per se will be much more welcome than in serious
drama. Indeed, keynote and tone may sometimes be
struck and maintained to the best advantage by means of
detachable witticisms. All the rest of the dialogue, how-
ever, should be composed of that which reveals character
or advances plot or does both.
The principles that chiefly apply to satisfactory dra-
matic dialogue are selection, or economy, and emphasis.
The characters should speak in what appears to be their
natural everyday language, and yet they must avoid the

repetition and digression of ordinary conversation, and

what they say must be carefully arranged with a view to
forceful effect. Above all, the dialogue must never be
 THE DIALOGUE 1 71

allowed to get in the way of either plot or characteriza-

tion, lest one or the other trip over it.

An inevitable concomitant of naturalism has been the
introduction of inconsequent verbosity on the stage. Com-
pare the leisurely irrelevancies of a play, say by Mr.
Granville Barker, with the crisp, abbreviated, fragmentary

speech of the characters in, say Mr. Augustus Thomas's

play, "As a Man Thinks." In the one case you find
interminable disquisitions, which impede action and are
at best only slightly revelatory of character sometimes
not at all. In the latter case you are more likely to come
across a page like this:

VEDAH
I don't want Mr. Burrill and Mr. De Lota to meet.

SEELIG
Not meet?
VEDAH
Just yet.
SEELIG
Why not?
VEDAH
I haven't told anybody of my engagement to Mr.
De Lota.
SEELIG
Well?
VEDAH
Well he carries himself so so

SEELIG
Proudly?
172 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

VEDAH
So much like a proprietor that it's hard to explain to
others strangers especially.

SEELIG
By "strangers especially" you mean Mr. Burrill?

VEDAH
Yes.
SEELIG
Is Mr. Burrill's opinion important?

VEDAH
His refinement is important.

SEELIG
Refinement?
VEDAH
Yes the quality that you admire in men the quality
that Mr. De Lota sometimes lacks.

Here, obviously enough, we are getting swift exposition,

story,and character all with the least possible expendi-
ture of language.
The amateur playwright will find that, in first drafts at

words, speeches, even scenes, will creep

least, superfluous
in with an amazing facility. His only defense is eternal

vigilance coupled with a tireless blue pencil. I fancy the

original page of the dialogue just quoted was considera-

bly more elaborate. But the useless has been rigidly
eliminated, with a distinct gain, not only in speed and
effectiveness, but also in the realistic approximation of life.
As for emphasis, the dramatic line, it has been said,
 THE DIALOGUE 173

should be like an arrow feathered at one end and barbed

at the other. It is hiding one's light under a bushel to
conceal the point in the unemphatic middle of a sentence,
no matter if that be the habitual practice of the
average
conversationalist in real life.

Things Taboo

On the other hand, it is well to avoid the needless

repetition by the second speaker of the emphatic word

last uttered by the first. Thus:

JOHN
Don't you remember about to-morrow?

MARY
To-morrow?
JOHN
To-morrow is my birthday.

MARY
Your birthday?

Necessarily this makes for monotony and, if continued long

enough, for madness.
Equally reprehensible is the use of long and involved

sentences, where short staccato abbreviations and frag-

mentary phrases are indicated by both the characters and
the situation. As a matter few of us speak
of fact, very
much in full-rounded sentences: a word or a phrase does
ample duty, and what is suggested suffices without being
"
actually said. Create characters that are human beings,"
was Clyde Fitch's formula for success in the drama;
174 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"place them in situations that are reflections of life itself;

make them act and, above all things, have them talk
like human beings."

The soliloquy, the monologue, the "aside," the "apart,"

as we are so often reminded, are practically taboo on the

stage of to-day. It is not worth while to spend time in a

discussion of the reasons and justification for their banish-
ment. The would-be playwright should simply avoid
them. As a matter of fact, in view of our universal lean-
ings toward strict realism, he would do well also to discard

certain related devices which, though still in fashion, are

essentially unnatural. Such, for example, is the dialogue

carried on "down stage" by two characters, which the
audience can distinctly hear, but which is supposed to be
inaudible to the other actors on the scene. Cases in point
are the restaurant scenes in "The Phantom Rival" and
"Life." Similarly, the pantomime conversation indulged
in "up stage" and letters read aloud purely for the
benefit of the audience are artifices which the ultra-realistic

might reasonably regard with contempt. Occasionally

some of these conventions actually lead to a deplorable
absurdity, as in the case already cited of "La Samari-
1
taine."

Connotation in Dialogue

Naturally, the best dramatic dialogue of all is that which

isnot merely denotative but also connotative that which

implies and suggests a freightage of emotional significance

it could not possibly carry in actual expression. For ex-
1
See page 127.
 THE DIALOGUE 175

ample, in "UAnge gardien" the audience as well as several

of the characters are eager to ascertain who it was that
for five seconds turned on the electric switch beside the

outer door and so discovered Madame Trelart tete-d-t$te

with her lover, Georges Charmier. At length, in the

presence of Monsieur Trelart, when direct speech would
be out of the question, Therese Duvigneau, Madame's
self-constituted guardian angel, remarks in reply to
another's platitude, "So many things can happen in
"
half an hour," Even in half a second. The instant of a
flash of lightning is long enough to change a destiny."
"Very true," observes someone.
"And very banal," adds Therese with a smile.
Georges Charmier watches her narrowly as he suggests,
"Banalities sometimes have a very specific meaning."

"That," replies Therese, sustaining his gaze, "which

one wishes to give them."
And a moment later she casually remarks to Georges,
apropos of his quarters, which are under discussion, "You
don't even have electricity here!" adding, "Though I'm

quite sure you have had plenty of it!"

In the fourth act of "Cyrano de Bergerac," after

Roxane has arrived at the camp with her carriage-load of
provisions, the famished cadets of Gascony, who have been
stuffing themselves, observe the approach of the unpopular
Comte de Guiche. Quickly hiding victuals and drink,
they proceed to make merry at his expense. He has just
signalled for an attack of the enemy, which is to be directed
at their position, and he announces that he has had a
cannon brought up for their use in case of need.
176 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

"As you are not accustomed to cannon," he adds dis-

dainfully, "beware of the recoil."

"Pfft!" sneers a cadet. "Gascon cannon never recoil."

"You're tipsy," says Guiche in surprise. "But what

with?"
"The smell of powder!" isthe proud reply.
Earlier in the play, it will be recalled, the Comte, angered
at Cyrano's defiance, demands, "Have you read 'Don
"
Quixote?'
"I have," replies Bergerac, "and I take off my hat to
him."
"Meditate, then, upon the episode of the windmills,"
says Guiche, going; "for when a man attacks them, it
often happens that the sweep of their great wings lands
him in the mud."
"Or else," retorts Cyrano, "in the stars!"
In "Within the Law" Mary Turner marries Richard
Gilder as part of her scheme of revenge for the wrongs
done her by his father. When in the Gilder home a
"stool pigeon" is shot by an accomplice of Mary, the
police at first accuse her of being guilty. This she denies;
whereupon the officer, pointing to her husband, asks,
"
Did fo kill him?"
"Yes," she answers.
Naturally, the immediate suggestion is that she intends
to add the disgrace and possible death of Richard to her
revenge upon the elder Gilder.
However, the next moment Mary adds, "The dead man
was a burglar: my husband shot him in defense of his

home."
 THE DIALOGUE 177

Perhaps these examples are not the most apt; but they
will probably suffice to illustrate connotative dramatic
dialogue. Mastery of this medium is, of course, to be

gained only through much practice and an infinite capacity

for revision, as well as through the most complete imagina-
tive grasp of character and situation.

Connotation in Pantomime

As may readily be understood, this element of connota-

tion or suggestiveness in the drama does not confine itself

exclusively to speech. Pantomime, "business," depends

1
largely on the same quality for its effectiveness.

"Cyrano de Bergerac" is rich in instances. The proud

cadets, unwilling to let Guiche see that they suffer from
their hunger, pretend absorption in their playing and
smoking, as he enters the camp. When he boasts of
his trick in escaping the enemy by throwing away his
white scarf, asking, "What do you think of that for a
stroke?" the other Gascons feign not to be listening for

Cyrano's reply. But they keep their cards and dice-boxes

poised in the air, and the smoke of their pipes stays in
their cheeks, Bergerac answers, "I think that Henri IV
till

would never have consented, even though the enemy were

overwhelming him, to have stripped himself of his white
1
"The objective writer tries to discover the action or gesture
which the state of mind must inevitably lead to in the personage
under certain given circumstances. And he makes him so con-
duct himself . that all his actions, all his movements shall
. .

be the expression of his inmost nature, of all his thoughts and

all his impulses or hesitancies. GUY DE MAUPASSANT, Preface
to Pierre el Jean.
178 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

plume." Then there is silent delight among the cadets.

The cards fall, the dice rattle, the smoke is puffed out.
"The ruse succeeded, though!" Guiche maintains.
And there ensues the same general suspension of play and
of smoking.
"Still one does not lightly resign the honor of being a
target," retorts Cyrano. And again cards and dice fall,

and smoke is exhaled.

Bergerac's superb "gestes" the tossing of the purse of

gold to the discomfited comedians; the flinging at the
feet of their employer, Guiche, of his vanquished bravos'
tattered hats; the unexpected production of the white
scarf which the Comte had said no man could retrieve,
and live and many others are obvious examples of
these
connotative pantomime. And, to repeat what must be
often said, dialogue in the drama should never begin until
after pantomime has That which the "business"
left off.

has so emphatically expressed is only weakened by repe-

tition in words.

Sarcey, writing of the "Fedora" of Sardou, tells us,

"This whole first act is a marvel of mise en scene. It is

made up of nothings, and yet there issues from it an

inexpressible emotion. It is life itself, real life, placed
upon the stage. The author, in his malice (I use this
word purposely), has set the inquest on the front stage,
while the wounded man is being cared for behind a closed
door. Each time this door opens for some detail of serv-
ice, the image of the dying man appears to interrupt the

investigation, which a moment later is resumed."

It all springs from the fundamental fact which Sarcey
 THE DIALOGUE 179

himself more than once avers he will not cease to repeat

and which his followers have often enough reiterated:
"Tout est illusion au thtdtre."

Dialogue Not a Substitute for Character or Plot

So far as dialogue is concerned, above all else the play-

wright must remember that no mere verbal felicity will

ever substitute for character and story in the drama.
There are, as I have said, whole scenes of scintillant

epigram-making in Wilde, but there are also brilliancy of

characterization and ingenuity of plot. There are many
lines of fresh and captivating music in "The Playboy of

the Western World," but there are humanity and struggle

in generous measure besides.
In the plays of lesser yet able playwrights action often
lags while dialogue flourishes. It is thus even in so inter-

esting a conception asMr. Israel Zangwill's "The Melting

Pot," where at times declamation too greatly predominates
"
over dramatic incident. It is so, too, in The Trail of the
Lonesome Pine," oddly enough, dramatized by that arch-
realist, Mr. Eugene Walter, in "The Winterfeast" of

Mr. Charles Rann Kennedy, and in the "To-morrow" of

Mr. Percy Mackaye.
"The work of the theatre," Sarcey avers, "is above all a
work of condensation. The mind of the author must make
all the reflections, his heart must experience all the senti-
ments the subject comprises, but on condition that he
give to the spectator only the substance of them. This
phrase should sum up twenty pages; that word should
contain the gist of twenty phrases. It is for the playgoer,
l8o THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

who is our collaborator much more than we realize, to find

in the little that is said to him all that which is not said;
and he will never fail to do so, so long as the phrase is

just, and the word true."

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. From one of your own plots, describe a situation and

give explicit directions for the "business" all pantomime.

2. From any printed modern play quote a specimen of
excellent poetic dialogue. Be sure to choose a play that
has had actual stage production.

3. Similarly, give a good specimen of rhetorical dialogue.

4. Similarly, of realistic dialogue.

5. Write two specimens of realistic dialogue based on

one of your own plots.

6. Write a specimen of dialogue using either epigram

or delicate humor.

7. Write a bit of dialogue intended to reveal character.

8. Write a bit of dialogue intended to advance the plot.
Base it on one of your own plots and explain your object

in using the dialogue.

9. Cite as many instances as you can of (a) connotative

dialogue; (b) connotative pantomime.

 CHAPTER XVI
KINDS OF PLAYS

If the struggle is that of a will against nature or against

destiny, against itself or against another will, the spectacle will

generally be tragic. It will generally be comic, if the struggle is
that of a will against some base instinct, or against some stupid
prejudice, against the dictates of fashion, against the con-
or^
ventions we call social. FERDINAND BRUNETIERE, Les Epoques
du Theatre Fran$ais.

It is true that the tragic fused with the comic, Seneca mingled
with Terence, produces no less a monster than was Pasiphae's
Minotaur. But this abnormity pleases: people will not see any
other plays but such as are half serious, half ludicrous; nature
herself teaches this variety from which she borrows part of her
beauty. LOPE DE VEGA, as quoted by LESSING, Dramatic Notes.

Under the general division of story plays will naturally

fall melodrama and farce. As character plays, comedy and
tragedy may be classified. Nondescript dramatic pieces
in which story, character, or neither, may predominate
may be conveniently designated when they at all

deserve the title as plays of ideas.

Dr. Hennequin, in his "Art of Playwriting," mentions
the following different kinds of plays: tragedy; comedy;

drome, or Schauspiel; the society play, otherwise known

as the piece, or the emotional drama; melodrama; spec-
tacular drama; musical drama; farce comedy, or farcical

comedy; farce; burlesque; burletta; comedietta. And

1 82 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

he further subdivides comedy into ancient classic comedy,

romantic comedy, comedy of manners, and comedy
drama.
At least when considering the drama historically, we
have to take into account also the mystery, the morality,

the miracle, the interlude, the chronicle, the history play,

the tragedy of blood, the tragi-comedy, the comedy of

humors, and the heroic play. And nowadays the satire

such as "What the Public Wants," or "Fanny's First
Play;" and the fantasy "Chantecler," "The Yellow
Jacket," "The Poor Little Rich Girl," "The Lady from
the Sea," "The Legend of Leonora" have almost
assumed the proportions and distinctiveness of separate
forms.

Obviously, these are all to a large extent overlapping

categories. Moreover, when we boil the entire nomen-

clature down to its essentials, we find that only comedy
and tragedy are fundamental, and the principal distinc-
tions arise according as the stress is laid on characteriza-
tion or on plot.
Dramatists of to-day frequently hesitate to classify
their works. They call their pieces "plays" and leave it
to the critics to be more specific. Often enough, too, the
dramatists are amply justified by the critics' disagreement.
As a rule, the tendency has been to put on the loftier

interpretation to speak of farce or farce-comedy as

comedy, and of melodrama and its variants as tragedy.
It must not be inferred, however, that it is unimportant
for the playwright to be reasonably certain as to the
proper classification of his work. On the contrary, one of
 KINDS OF PLAYS 183

the principal sources of failure is the "romantic" mingling

of the genres in drama, the variation in the same piece
1

from true comedy to mere farce, and vice versa; from

comedy to melodrama; from character stress to strictly

plot emphasis. As has been pointed out, this does not

mean and comedy, farce and melodrama,
to say that farce
melodrama and tragedy, comedy and tragedy, may not
be combined in successful plays. But such blendings are
full of risk, except where managed with the utmost skill.

Nothing is more confusing to the spectator than an

abrupt and awkward shift of emphasis or key. Yet such
an effect is only too easy for the playwright who has ill
considered his characters, and who accordingly is prone
to slip into conventional grooves of story-telling.

Tendency toward Melodrama

Since the public likes plot, and the muthos is really more
essential than the tthos, and, furthermore, because it is

easier to tell a story than it is to portray character effec-

tively in the play, the tendency is always toward the

predominance of farce and melodrama. In fact, realistic
melodrama is the classification that blankets the majority
of successful American plays. Our "romantic dramas"
all the cloak-and-sword pieces of the end of the last

century are sheer melodrama. So is most of our

"tragedy." Now there is distinctly no shame attached to

the writing of the melodramatic, at least not when it con-
fesses its identity frankly. The harm lies merely in the
1
Fordefinitions of, and distinctions among, the various kinds
of plays, see the glossary which prefaces this volume.
184 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

tendency to excess, the temptation to disregard truth and

logic to the point of absurdity and to produce a lying

"picture of life" capable of misleading the unsophisticated

whileit grieves the judicious. This is not to inveigh against

idealism and fictional dreaming. By all means let us gild

the dull realities of life with innocent illusions. But let

us not deceive ourselves into accepting impractical visions

for truth, since by so doing we are likely to lead ourselves
into hypocrisy and sloth.
It has already been noted how dramatists have often
exhibited a tendency to get away from reality into
theatricism somewhere about the middle of a play. Mr.
Porter Emerson Browne, for example, began his melo-

drama, "The Spendthrift," with an excellent' portrayal of

the extravagant wife who heedlessly ruins her husband.
In the second act, however, he departed incontinently
from material inherently of true drama and plunged into
an artificial melodramatic situation, for the purposes of
which he had to bring on a character that had scarcely
been named theretofore and that was utterly unreal.
Frankly fabricated stage fables, like Mr. Browne's "A
Fool There Was," or "Madame X," or "The Master
Mind," or "The Hawk," have their place; but authors
and we should know what it is.

Improvement in Melodrama
An inevitable result of the workings of the realistic
movement has been the moderation and general improve-
ment of the tone of both melodrama and farce. We are
forcibly struck with this fact when we read and more
 KINDS OF PLAYS 185

especially when we witness revivals of old specimens of

these genresand compare them with the modern product.
The old-style melodrama was a fabric of what we now
consider absurd fustian and bombast. The hero was
outrageously heroic, the villain incredibly villainous, and
the heroine unspeakably guileless and na'ive. Obviously

they were but puppets: when their strings became inex-

tricably tangled, the Master of the Show appeared in the
character of Deus ex Machina and swiftly straightened
them out. For example, after George R. Sims, in
"The Lights London," has made his hero lose
o' wife,

liberty, and fortune, he restores all three at the final

curtainby means of a sub-villain turned state's evi-

dence and an unsuspected will that gets conveniently
discovered.
In our melodrama to-day we require unconventional
1
complications, soft-pedalling upon the arbitrary, and at
least some pretense of inevitability, together with a
naturalness of dialogue directly opposed to the stilted
rhetoric of the early Victorian period. In other words,
we are elevating our melodrama, at least in some respects.
We certainly are not impressed as we used to be, in the

theatre, with blood-and-thunder mountain feuds and

Wild West primitivism witness the recent experience of
"The Battle Cry" and "Yosemite." Heaven knows, we
get, more than enough of this sort of claptrap in our
motion pictures.
However, the fact of this change of attitude does not
mean that we are not still willing to swallow almost
1
See page 121.
1 86 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

unlimited doses of the arbitrary, particularly when the

dialogueis fairly realistic and there is a superficial pretense

of actuality in the characterization. We strain at a gnat

like we make no bones of swallowing

"Rosedale," but
camels like "The Nigger" or "La Rafale." In Mr. Shel-
don's piece we have a hero who happens to be of the proud-
est and most conspicuous family in a Southern state and at
the same time of negro blood. The envious villain happens
to discover a letter that reveals the taint. The hero's
negro cousin happens to be in danger of lynching and to
appeal to him for protection. And when, in Act I, this
cousin's mother goes to the very verge of revealing to the
hero this undesirable consanguinity, the hero happens not
to grow curious enough to ask her what she is so obviously
on the point of disclosing. All this is of the theatre merely
and wholly foreign to life as everyone knows it. Yet
"The Nigger" gets a much more respectful hearing than
"The Lights o' London" gets almost the hearing, in
fact, that it would have deserved had it been the great
tragedy its theme implies.
As for Monsieur Henri Bernstein,
his popular pieces

are all artificialspecimens of theatrical joinery, built

often of specious materials: he is obviously Scribe plus
Sardou plus the trappings of modern realism, and his
contribution to the drama is a renewed emphasis on the
climax which delivers "the punch" by seeming to reach
itsheight and then resuming its activities on a still loftier
emotional level. The device is similar to that of the idol-

ized tenor of the hour, who wins and holds favor through
reserving a super-high-note for the moment when the top
 KINDS OF PLAYS 187

of human lung-power would already appear to have been

reached.
After all, the legitimate business of melodrama, like that
of the astonishing tenor, is to furnish thrills. At the Grand
Guignol in Paris the thrill is founded upon horror. In
our popular detective-and-criminal shockers "The Con-
spiracy," "Within the Law," "The Deep Purple," "The
Argyle Case," "Jim the Penman," "Arsene Lupin,"
"Raffles," "Sherlock Holmes," "Under Cover," "Kick
In" it is audacity and the narrow escape that make us
grip our chair-arms and lean forward in our seats. Melo-
drama, then, will be successful in proportion as it provides
ever-heightening suspense and a series of pulse-quicken-
ing situations in the order of climax.

Farce

As is to provoke hilarity, not

for farce, its business

merely intermittent and casual, but continual and increas-

ing. Its situations must be always more and more excru-

ciatingly funny up to a grand climax of mirth, and thence

quickly to a still laughable solution. No mere aggregation
of verbal felicities and inserted jests will suffice: the humor

must chiefly arise from the complications of the plot, like

those in "Twin Beds" or "A Full House," and whenever

the fun lags disaster is imminent.
Amateur melodramatists usually err on the side of

excess, amateur farceurs on the side of insufficiency of

situations. There is less necessity, indeed, for humanizing

the figures in farce than there is in melodrama. The

puppets must be dexterously manipulated every moment.
1 88 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

And success usually depends upon the spectator's willing-

ness not to look forany actual relation between the play
and life. Everyone knows that as a rule in farce the story
would end almost any time that one of the characters
became human enough to explain to his fellows the point
of mystification upon which the entire action turns. And
likewise one may be interested in the violent manoeuvres
of the figures in a melodrama like "A Fool There Was" or

"To-day" or "The Story of the Rosary" only so long as

he makes no effort to see in it a reflection of life. When
one does that, the whole preposterous fabric becomes
intolerably grotesque. Illusion voluntary illusion is the

spectator's only passport to enjoyment.

Character Plays

If an excess of plot with a deficiency of characterization

is likely to fail of public approval in the theatre, so also
mere stage galleries of portraits, even though of distinct
individuals, unrelated in an interesting fable, are ill
if

calculated for success. Many of the pundits of to-day

would doubtless be pleased if drama demanded nothing
more than casual revelations of human nature, but the
populace persists in requiring that these revelations be
made through stories. And primarily the theatre de-
pends for its existence on the populace.
Of course, there have been character plays of very slight
plot that have won a deservedly large measure of success.

One readily recalls "Pomander Walk" and "The Passing

of the Third Floor Back." But one can also remember
many plotless plays that have regularly "died a-bornin'."
 KINDS OF PLAYS 1 89

There is, to be sure, the so-called "comedy of atmos-

phere," which is a mere representation of some specific

phase of existence, without emphasis upon either plot or

character. "The Weavers" of Hauptmann and "The
Madras House" of Barker belong in this class neither of
them calculated to make a popular appeal in the theatre.
In view of the attitude common to the mass of playgoers,

the dramatist certainly should select from the lives of the

real men and women he is putting into his comedy or his

tragedy those possible incidents and episodes of conflict

which not only best reveal the characters themselves but
can also be arranged in an orderly and climacteric series
adapted to the maintenance of suspense. Beyond doubt*
it requires much skill and patience to do this well far

more, indeed, than merely to troop the personages cine-

matographically across the stage in insignificant disorder
but the effort is richly worth the while.
"To combine as much as possible of the theatric," says
Mr. Henry James, 1 "with as much of the universal as the

theatric will take that is the constant problem, and one

in which the maximum and minimum of effect are separ-

ated from each other by a hair-line. The theatric is so

apt to be the outward, and the universal to be the inward,

that, in spite of their enjoying scarcely more common
ground than fish and fowl, they yet often manage to peck
at each other with fatal results. The outward insists on
the inward's becoming of its own substance, and the
inward resists, struggles, bites, kicks, tries at least to drag
the outward down. The disagreement may be a very
1
The Critic, November, 1901.
I QO THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

pretty quarrel and an interesting literary case; it is only

not likely to be a successful play."

Plays of Ideas

Doubtless the recipe for writing the play of ideas begins

"First catch your idea." And when it has been captured,
it will have to be mirrored by means of more or less
human personages, in at least some semblance of a plot.
As a matter of fact, almost any good play is a play of ideas
plus a play of characters plus a play of plot. It is the
piece that is deficient in the last two ingredients that often
enough falls back upon its ideas for its only means of

support. A play that is most readily and exclusively

classifiable as a play of ideas is likely to be a very poor play,
if, indeed, it does not turn out to be no play at all. It may
be a mere series of scenes, with almost no story and the
merest types for personages. In that case, it is really an
animated tract little more than a modern Pseudo-
Augustinian sermon dependent for its success upon the
moral it involves, and therefore not amenable to the
ordinary canons of art.

Much isbeing said nowadays about this "new" drama,

which is in reality only the result of an increased effort

on the part of the theatre to relate itself to the character-

istic social and political unrest of the times. After all,

the very term "drama of ideas" is in a sense self-contra-

dictory, since the drama is essentially not a matter of

intellectual, but of emotional appeal. And so far as

morals are concerned, and as for problems individual or
social, the theatre is far more available and effective as a
 KINDS OF PLAYS igi

teacher by example than by precept. The play of ideas is

usually only a masquerading preachment; and, of course,

if there is an ass in the lion's skin, sooner or later he is

recognized by his braying.

We are told that in Paris, which is the home of cubism

and futurism and every other bizarre and outre pretense of
artistic evolution and reform, the "new" drama has been

carried even to the point where silence or mere general

talk about the weather is to be employed for conveying

the impressions of the most violent passion since in real

lifepeople who are angry or jealous usually remain silent
or employ language only to conceal emotion! After all,

this preposterous only the logical out-

undertaking is

growth of Monsieur Maeterlinck's mystic endeavors to

"
express the inexpressible by means of that which does
not occur."

Perhaps the only thing of significance about the "new"

drama is the fact that it is urging forward the slowly

developing popular feeling for character and for the

spiritual and the psychological, rather than for mere

physical action in the theatre. As the masses grow in

discrimination, they will naturally put less and less em-
phasis upon mere narrative, more and more upon the
significant facts of human nature and experience. But
this process may be easily urged too far, with consequent
reaction and perhaps retrogression. Certainly there is

no possibility of abruptly wrenching the drama out of the

emotional and into the intellectual realm. When that
can be done, drama will, in fact, have ceased to be drama.
What is chiefly desirable in the theatre is not so much
IQ2 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

plays of ideas as plays with ideas. As men like Huxley

have frequently and the intel-
reiterated, the emotional
lectual processes are not separate and distinct; and the

higher the degree of general civilization the more com-

pletely will these two phases of self-activity coalesce and
cooperate. The great questions of human conduct and
relationships are nearly all worthy, not only of debate,
but also of dramatic treatment. Character in conflict
with environment and heredity is at the bottom of all our
chief individual problems, and such conflict is essentially

dramatic in the extreme.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. From all the sources at your command, make as full
a list of kinds of plays as you can.

2. Adopt some general scheme of grouping and place

each kind in a suitable category.

3. In a sentence or two, describe the essential nature of

each. Try to differentiate each kind from others akin to it.
4. Without forcing, try to find a play that illustrates
each kind, but remember that many popular and enter-
taining plays overlap as to kind. We are now trying to
differentiatetypes with technical accuracy, not con-
demning plays as worthless because they contain technical
defects. They would be better plays technically had their
authors observed more carefully these well-known laws
that is the viewpoint to take in trying to fulfill this assign-
ment.

5. After you have succeeded in completing this table as

 KINDS OF PLAYS 193

well as possible, copy it in a note book, being careful to

leave room for additions.

6. In a considerable number of plays point out the

passages embodying exposition, characterization, con-

flict, situation, complication, increased suspense, crisis,

contrast, connotative dialogue, humor of plot and of

character, surprise, climax, denouement, and the expres-

sion of the theme.

7. It is now time
to be about writing your full-length

play. Reread
volume, note-book in hand. Decide
this

on a theme or a foundation incident, outline your plot,

sketch the grouping of characters, develop your char-
acters by description for your own guidance, determine on
their relative prominence, and assign the space to be given
to each act.Before beginning the actual writing, however,

study carefully the next two chapters and leave the

material gathered for the longer piece of work until you
shall have labored faithfully at the writing of several one-
act plays, both adapted and original. Take plenty of
time to revise and re-revise; study the stage-books of
successful modern plays; and lay your work aside to cool.
 CHAPTER XVII
THE ONE-ACT PLAY
In both the short story and the play the space is narrow, and
the action or episode must be complete in itself. In each case,
therefore, you must find or invent scenes which put the greatest
amount of the story into the least space: in more technical words,
scenes which shall have the greatest possible significance. J.
H. GARDINER, The Forms of Prose Literature.

I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect.

Keeping originality always in view for he is false to himself

who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable
a source of interest I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the
innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, intellect,
or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I on
the present occasion choose?" EDGAR ALLAN POE, The Phi-
losophy of Composition.

The one-act play is to the play of three, four, or five

acts much as the short-story is to the novel. And, as there
are novelists who fail at short-story writing, and vice versa,
so there are dramatists qualified to deal in full-evenings'
entertainments who are helpless in the realm of the

playlet, and the reverse.

Singleness of Effect and Economy

It will be remembered that Edgar Allan Foe's theory
of the short-story is summed up in the word "effect."
The fiction writer labors from the very first sentence of
his story to the very last with an eye single to the working
 THE ONE-ACT PLAY 1 95

out of "a certain unique or single effect." "If his very

initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect,

then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composi-

tion there should be no word written, of which the ten-
dency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established

design."
As much may be said for the one-act play. Within the
limits of a half-hour or less and oftener less the author
can produce by means of a single incident only a single
effect, and to that purpose all else must be subordinated.
Therefore if it is dangerous to mingle the genres in ordi-
nary drama, it is next to fatal to do so in the one-act

piece.
After unity or singleness of purpose, economy is the most
vital principle. Every moment between curtains is
precious. There is little enough room for being leisurely
in the long play, and certainly none at all in the playlet.
For the same reason, there is no possibility of character
development. All must be swiftly drawn connoted

suggested. There is little time for exposition. A one-act

play cannot succeed if much preliminary information is

requisite to a comprehension of the plot. The initial
situation must be set forth in the first few moments by
means of broad and telling strokes. Here more than
ever is there need of that perfect dialogue which both
reveals character and tells the story. The mere de-
tachable jest that ventures to
impede either process
must be extraordinary not to be excessive. In gen-
eral, selection of details operates most effectively in the
short play.
Ip6 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

A Desirable Vehicle for the Playwright

Obviously the one-act piece offers the amateur author

the easiest opportunity for testing his skill. The tune and
labor involved in its composition is perhaps less than a
fourth or a fifth of that demanded for the four- or five-act

drama. Beginners will do well to practice the various

forms of composition in the brief sketch, before venturing
upon the full-fledged play. There are numerous important
collections of playlets available for study, including
Sudermann's Morituri and the noteworthy work of the
Irish dramatists. For one-act tragedy what can surpass
Synge's superb "Riders to the Sea"? And the other

genres are well exemplified in the work of Lady Gregory,

of Mr. William Butler Yeats, and of their distinguished

colleagues.
On the other hand, the opportunities for securing the
production of one-act pieces is, particularly in America,
exceedingly limited. Our better vaudeville houses use a
considerable number of sketches, a few of which are worth
mentioning as drama such, for instance, as Sir James
M. Barrie's "The Twelve Pound Look," Mr. Austin
Strong's "The Drums of Oude," or Mr. George Ade's
"Mrs. Peckham's Carouse" but most of which are
either mere buffoonery or penny dreadfuls.
slapstick
Occasionally an American theatre follows the English
custom and precedes a longer piece with a one-act play,
or "curtain-raiser." Still more rarely there are pro-

grammes of one-act dramas, and the example of the

Grand Guignol at Paris has been followed in one or two

instances.
 THE ONE-ACT PLAY IQ7

Range, and General Qualities

The horrible can be successfully utilized in the short

play as in the short-story, whereas it is not adapted to the

longer drama or the novel. "If it were done, when 'tis
done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."
In fact, the range of subject-matter open to the one-act
play is almost unlimited. A taste of anything is often

acceptable where a mouthful would be repellent. Cer-

tainly whatever is presented should be given with the
utmost emphasis. The conclusion, in particular, requires
forcefulness; and nothing is more effective than a novel or
unexpected climax, followed, as it should be, by a next-to-
instantaneous denouement. The ironical termination of
Mr. Booth Tarkington's "Beauty and the Jacobin" is a
specimen of excellence in this respect.
In "The Drums of Oude" the hero and the heroine are
waiting in an Indian palace for the sound of a bugle which
will tell them that the Sepoysare commencing a massacre.
There is powder stored under the floor of the room, with
a fuse attached. When the bugle call comes, the hero

lights the fuse and holds the girl in his arms. Then they
hear the pibrochs of a Scotch regiment to the rescue, and
the fuse is extinguished at almost the last possible instant.

Obviously, this little melodrama concentrates suspense

and concludes with telling effect.
In "The Man in Front," which is said to be the work of
Mr. Alfred Sutro, a husband is informed by his wife that
his friend is her lover. The husband is on the point of

strangling the friend, but at the crucial moment the wife

explains that her story was merely intended to make the
198 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WHITING

husband himself disprove his own theory that, in such an

instance in real the lover would be in no special
life,

danger. In reality, her motive has been anger over her

lover's announcement that he is affianced. In the end
him the whispered choice between remaining a
she offers
live and suffering the consequences of her
bachelor
husband's rage. The lover promptly chooses the former
alternative.
In a playlet of similar basis, "The Woman Intervenes,"
by Mr. Hartley Manners, the lover is saved from the
J.
husband's wrath through the heroic offices of an old flame,
who announces her engagement to the lover and so makes
apparent his innocence. The means of suspense in both
pieces is the same that, indeed, which is at the bottom of
" "
the eternal triangle situation. In "The Man in Front,"

however, there is novelty in the expedient adopted by the

woman to save her lover's life, with a consequent surprise
which greatly heightens the effectiveness of the little play.
Especially in vaudeville is this sort of final knock-out blow
a sine qua non.
Certainly there is even less excuse or hope for the con-
ventional in the short drama than in the long. This
'

naturally follows from the fact that in the playlet there

is no opportunity to redeem triteness of plot with excel-
lence of characterization. Mr. Richard Harding Davis is
the author of a sketch entitled "Miss Civilization," which
is a case in point. In this piece we encounter such ancient
friends as the young woman in a dressing-gown, alone in a

country house, entertaining three serio-comic burglars

until rescuers arrive whereupon, in accord with the
 THE ONE-ACT PLAY 1 99

feminine tradition, she faints. One sees readily that she

would have to be an extraordinarily accomplished and
facile young person to entertain, not only her burglars,

but also the audience during the considerable interval

while she is waiting for help. Here characters and situa-

tion alike are too antiquated to win sustained interest.

The Ironical Playlet

The one-act play has often been successfully employed

in satire. In fact, brevity is the soul of irony. Prolonged
ridicule soon loses its effectiveness: a seasoning which,
it is

unless used sparingly, dulls the palate. In any case, the

successful dramatic satire is that which utilizes the dis-
tinctive means of the drama, making its points concretely
in illustrative action rather than in mere talk. One can
find amusement in a trifle like Mr. William C. DeMille's
"Food," which is scarcely more than a dialogue of clever

exaggeration, but one's pleasure becomes indefinitely

heightened at sight of the travesty figures, in Sir James
M. Barrie's "A Slice of Life," really acting out his exposure
of what is most absurd in our modern realistic problem
drama.
In Mr. Bernard Shaw's "How He Lied to Her Hus-
band," the student will find much delightful and telling
paradox in both the talk and the behavior of the
"Candida" triangle in miniature, but little in the way of
distinct characterization.

That the one-act piece affords a large opportunity for

dramatic portraiture, however, has been frequently proved.
A recent example is Mr. Willard Mack's "Vindication,"
200 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

so excellently acted in vaudeville by Mr. Frank Keenan

and his company. Except for some brief expository talk
intended to reveal the impulsive warm-heartedness of the

governor, the play is largely a sort of interrupted mono-

logue, in the course of which the old Confederate soldier,
waging a valiant and almost hopeless fight for his boy's

good name, sets himself before us in all his weakness and

strength, pitiful, laughable, lovable as wholly "sympa-
thetic" a figure as one could well imagine. Throughout,
the little drama grips us with its spectacle of a brave,
frank, shrewd struggle against big odds, as well as with its
representation of a human soul.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Outline, analyze, and criticise any one- act play you
have seen.

2. Solely for practice, and not with a view to produc-

tion, map out a playlet from a well-known short-story.

3. Invent two or three themes or situations for one-

act plays.

4. In the manner outlined on page 193 (Exercise 7,

Chapter XVI) set about writing a one-act play.

 CHAPTER XVIII

SCENARIO MAKING AND MECHANICAL

PROCESSES

The scenario or skeleton is so manifestly the natural ground-

work of a dramatic performance that the playwrights of the
Italian commedia dell' arte wrote nothing more than a scheme
of scenes, and left the actors to do the rest. The same practice

prevailed in early Elizabethan days, as one or two MS. "Plats,"

designed to be hung up in the wings, are extant to testify.
WILLIAM ARCHER, Play-Making.

Hand-script is difficult to read at best and irritates your very

busy judge; the manuscript reader cannot give full attention
to your work if the act of reading becomes laborious; uncon-
sciously he regards hand-script as the sign manual of inex-
perience Neatness counts for as much in a manuscript
as do clean cuffs on a salesman. J. BERG ESENWEIN, Writing
the Short-Story.

There is a relation between the one-act play and the

scenario, if only a quantitative one. The scenario is in
reality a condensed version of the longer play, partaking
of the tabloid features of the playlet. Practice in writing
either form should help in the other. Certainly the
ability to devise a good outline isthe natural precedent
of- successfulplay writing. It is an idle fear that taboos
the scenario as restricting the author's and the characters'
freedom in the development of the play. After the

personages have been conceived and thrown together

under the basic conditions, it can be a question of but a
202 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

short time until the playwright will want to cast, in at

least some definite, if tentative form, the sequence of
events that issue from the combination. And even though
he out a detailed story, incident by incident, act by
map
act, even though he include bits of dialogue or whole

scenes, there is no valid reason why, should he later see

fit, he should not revise the entire programme or rewrite

every word of it. On the other hand, unless he have an

extraordinarily retentive memory, he will find it difficult

to bear in mind the many threads of conduct and character
it is his business to weave together.
In the preparation of the scenario for use in the
actual writing of the play, every freedom is, of course,
available. During the fine frenzy of invention, ideas
will be jotted down pell-mell; and even when the first
effort at the establishment of order takes place, the
author will pay little heed to strict proportion and em-
phasis.
Having his environment and characters and the first

indefinite intimations of the trend of the plot, he will

probably begin by mapping out a scheme of time and

place,which will depend upon or result in the preliminary
division into acts and scenes.

General Suggestions

In planning the one-act play it will usually be best to

employ only one scene and to make the time of action
continuous. Latter-day realism demands that acting-
time and actual time should be identical. The stage clock
that strikes ten-thirty six minutes after it has struck ten
 SCENARIO MAKING AND MECHANICAL PROCESSES 203

is likely to excite derision. Besides, in nearly every

instance, a little ingenuity should suffice to synchronize
with actuality the time of any single scene.
Furthermore, in the drama to-day the author must take
into consideration the events and changes that may
have occurred during the periods intervening between the
occasions represented in the different acts. Thus each
act following the first will often require a brief exposition
of its own, which will account for the entr'acte develop-

ments, somewhat after the fashion of "Lennox and

another Lord" and "Ross and an Old Man" in the inter-

vals between Acts II and III and Acts III and IV of

"Macbeth." Much, may occur off-stage in the

indeed,
drama particularly scenes of violence and be the more
always providing that there
effective for the invisibility,

shall be omitted from actual representation no incident

that is vitally illustrative, that has been deliberately pre-
pared for, that is, indeed, a Sarceyan scene a faire, or
scene- that-ws/-be-shown .

Actual Scenario Making

Once the rough plan is drawn up, the procedure of

scenario making will continue apace with the process of

thinking out the play. Unless one is a follower of that
advanced "technique" which abhors rising and falling

actign as over-artificial, he will naturally build up to a

climax. He prepare for a solution not devoid of
will also

suspense and surprise clear down to the final curtain.

Of course, at every step the plot should be tested by the
characters in strictest logic; and, wherever it exceeds or
204 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

falls short of consistency and probability, it should be

halted indefinitely for ruthless alteration.

Eventually the working scenario, when it has been

copied into legibility, will probably be a rather chaotic
conglomerate of first and third person remarks. Here
and there, in important scenes especially, there will be
passages in dialogue; though, for the most part the out-
be chiefly composed of narrative and description,
line will

probably in the historical present. In this form and at

this stage the scenario offers almost every opportunity
for that preliminary self-criticism which may be as pro-
ductive of the greatest progress as it will be saving of

hasty and ill-considered labor. In many cases, in fact, it

will be found both expedient and profitable to put the

work aside to "cool," in order that a fresher and a more

detached and impersonal attitude may be adopted by the
author later on, when he considers his project anew.

Preparing the Scenario for the Producer

As for the scenario which is intended to set forth the

gist of a drama to one who may possibly be interested in

its production, that is quite another matter. To begin
with, it is written not before but after the actual composi-
tion of the play itself. Generally it will aim to interest a

busy and critical manager or actor, in the hope of arousing

his desire to read the completed play. The theories in

seem to vary. One producer refuses to read a

this regard

play by an unknown author until a scenario has been

submitted; another will perhaps return the scenario with
a statement to the effect that, while it appears interest-
 SCENARIO MAKING AND MECHANICAL PROCESSES 205

ing, one can form no satisfactory estimate without a con-

sideration of the entire play. Perhaps the only safe
policy is to submit both play and scenario, and let the
reader take his choice.
At all events, this finished outline of a finished play

requires care in its construction, if it is to interest and

satisfy. To begin with, it must be brief. That means
that the writer will have to exercise his sense of proportion
in laying out his account of characters and incidents. He
will have to blue-pencil the non-essential in all ruthless-
ness. Yet, on the other hand, he must avoid a sketchy
summary which produces vagueness and uncertainty in
the reader. Moreover, really good ideas are valuable in
the world of the theatre. Stated baldly in brief scenario

form, they are perhaps more at the mercy of the unscrupu-

lous than when they have been worked up into finished

plays, or at least into complete outlines which represent

plays written and capable of copyright.
Above all, the scenario should be dramatic. Upon the
manner in which one selects and emphasizes in the outline

the significant moments of one's play will its general

quality be judged.
When a play has been finally completed to the full satis-
faction of the author and, so far as possible, has had such
reliable criticism as he may have been able to obtain, it is

then put in form for submission to producers and for

copyright. Of course, it is typewritten in duplicate.
Three or even more carbon copies, in addition to the

original, can readily be made. The size of manuscript

sheets should be about eight by ten and a half, or perhaps
206 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

eight and a half by eleven inches. The first copy should,

if possible, be typed in two colors: all the dialogue should

be, preferably, in blue or purple; all the stage directions,

in red. In the carbon copies the stage directions should
be underscored with red ink. Do not use a "copying
ribbon" on the typewriter the script smudges too
easily and annoyingly stains the fingers of the reader.

Stage Directions

There are various plans for arranging directions and

dialogue on the typewritten page. Most writers place the
name of each character in the center of the line above his
speech. Any direction concerning the speech is then

placed in parenthesis on the line following. Stage direc-

tions, by the way except perhaps the description of the
setting at the beginning of the scene should all be
enclosed in parentheses.
A few writers adopt the plan of placing the name of the
character, followed by any required direction, at the

beginning of the first line of his speech. Name and

direction are either typed or underscored in red; the

speech, in purple, blue, black, or some other contrasting

color.

Longer stage directions than the mere phrase that char-

acterizes a single speech are generally arranged in a sort of
reversed paragraph, all the lines after the first, instead of
the being indented, and typed or underscored in red.
first,

The left-hand margin for stage directions should be placed

an inch or more to the right of the ordinary type-margin.
The dialogue should be double spaced; but single spacing
208 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

for the stage directions may serve as an additional means

of convenient contrast. Appended to this volume will be
found fac-simile pages of play manuscript that will illus-

trate the most common usage.

It should be borne in mind that the arrangement of the

manuscript is for the benefit of the reader. In these days

of multitudinous scripts and leisureless producers, many a

play probably fails of a hearing because of a disorderly or

confusing appearance.
Each act of a play should be preceded by a description
and a diagram of the setting. Both should be complete
yet simple. The description notes the details of the mise
en scene and their relative locations. The diagram still
more definitely places them, indicating walls, doors,
windows, entrances, and exterior and interior surroundings
of every sort. The best usage requires that the name of
each object be written on or beside the representation of
the object in the diagram.
The present-day movement is toward a simplification of
stage terminology.The old manner of describing entrances
as "Right first," "Right third," or "Left upper" except
for generally locating positions in exteriors has passed
with the passing of the old-fashioned wing-and-groove
settings. Nowadays interiors are completely boxed in,
the side walls being as solid, the side doors and windows
as "practicable," as the rear ones, with usually a solid

ceiling in place of the unrealistic "borders" of other days.

The stage, however, still retains its general divisions,

Right, Left, and Center, customarily designated as R, L,

and C. "Right" and "Left" on the stage are, of course,
 SCENARIO MAKING AND MECHANICAL PROCESSES 209

the actor's right and left as he faces the audience. More-

over, the terms "up stage" and "down stage" are still

employed to indicate locations toward the rear and toward

the front of the stage respectively. Similarly, one speaks
of a chair as being "above" a table; though there is no
earthly reason why "behind" should not be equally

expressive only, it is not used.

However, an extensive knowledge of stage terminology

is not actually requisite to the preparation of play manu-

scripts. What is essential is that the author should
thoroughly know the capabilities of the stage for producing
or heightening the effects at which he aims. Flies, rigging-

loft, dock, stage-cloth, tormentors, traps, drops, flats,

set-pieces, wood-cuts, runs, bunch-lights, dimmers,

foots, strips, olivettes, flood lights, spotlights, stage
pockets, gridiron, lines, battens, tabs, jogs, etc., etc., are
all characteristic and interesting terms; but, for the most
part, they may be left to the players, more especially to
the manager and the stage hands. At all events, the
entire special terminology of the theatre can be learned

by any ordinary mind with a half-hour's application.

And this in spite of the fact that schools of acting and of

playwriting sometimes detail the subject in their cata-

logues as though it were one of the full courses of instruc-
tion.

In writing the stage directions, it is customary to give

at the first entrance of each character a brief description

of his personal appearance and dress. This usually

suffices for the entire play unless some marked change in
an individual is to be indicated. Napoleon in the first
210 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

act of "Madame Sans-Gene" is, naturally, a very differ-

ent-looking person from Napoleon in the third act.
At the beginning of the play there should be prefixed
for convenient reference a list of the dramatis pers ones.

The growing and rational usage is to name the characters

in the order of their appearance. This list is, of course,

to be printed in the programme. And it should include

no more than the names of the personages, without

explanation other than an occasional descriptive word.

"Manson, a butler" and "William, his son" would
perhaps not be out of place; but any detailed description
or explanation here of a character, his business, or his
relations to other characters, is nowadays interpreted as
a confession that the play itself does not succeed in con-

veying the necessary information as it should. In fact,

the stage directions in the version of the play intended for
the purposes of theatrical production should usually con-
fine themselves, with regard to the characters, to the

simplest essential account of the appearance and conduct

of each personage. Monsieur Rostand may embalm his

stage directions in the form of sonnets, but he does it, of

course, with an eye on the reader of his play, not on the

producer. When the professed naturalistic playwright
adopts a similar custom, even though he write in prose,
he is certainly guilty of an inconsistency.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

i. Revise the outline asked for in Exercise 6, Chapter
XVI, in accordance with the instructions of this chapter.
 SCENARIO MAKING AND MECHANICAL PROCESSES 211

2. For exercise, prepare a scenario of any modern play

whose full text is available.

3. Referring to Exercise 7, Chapter XVI, proceed with

the writing of your long play. When you have finally
done this work to the best of your ability, you should
revise painstakingly according to the suggestions in the
next chapter.
 CHAPTER XIX
SELF-CRITICISM

Others may tell him whether his work is good or bad; but
only the author himself is in a position to know just what he was
trying to do and how far short he has fallen of doing it. ...
Suppose, for instance, that an author's trouble is plot construc-
tion. It may be easy to tell him where his plot is wrong and
explain to him the principle that he has violated. But if he is
to obtain any real and lasting profit, he must find out for him-
self how Of course, you might con-
to set the trouble right.
struct the plot for him would be your plot and not
but then it

his; you would be, not his teacher, but his collaborator; and
his working out of your plot would almost surely result in bad
work. FREDERIC TABER COOPER, The Craftsmanship of Writing.

The paramount danger is haste, with its resultant careless-

ness. . . . To
exhibit the superficial aspects of a situation, to
invent melodramatic incidents that obscure the solution, and
to express half-baked views in place of thoughtful convictions,
if indeed the duty of thinking out the problem be not dodged
entirely, is so often quite sufficient to win applause and pelf,
that it is perhaps a counsel of perfection to ask our playmakers,
in the present infancy of their art, to do more. And yet, more
they must do, in time, if our theatre is to be reckoned as a national
asset; the appeal to history settles that. RICHARD BURTON, The
New American Drama.

Before the dramatist takes his trusty typewriter in

hand or if he be so opulent turns his play over to the

typist, let him submit it to the most patient and searching

process of criticism, beginning with the first fundamentals
and not ending till he has taken into account the last
 SELF-CRITICISM 213

details. Let him read his work carefully, read it aloud for
the detection of cacophony and other faults still more
vital. Preferably, first of all, he should lay the manuscript

away for several months and try to forget it. Then he

should assume and cultivate the most detached and

impersonal attitude possible, putting himself imaginatively

in the place not only of the average playgoer, but also of
the manager and the actor.

Testing the Amount of Dramatic Material

The fundamental question that he should relentlessly

ask concerning his work is, Is this drama? Or perhaps
we should word it, How much of this is drama, and how
much merely dialogue, narrative, descriptive, didactic?
Too often a few bright lines and interesting situations that
could readily be condensed into a vaudeville sketch are

spread out thin over the surface of a whole evening's

performance. Mr. George M. Cohan's "Broadway Jones"
occupies four acts when it might as well have been con-
fined to three. Mr. A. E. W. Mason's play, "Green
Stockings," indeed, was thus condensed after its first

production and for some time appeared in three acts

while its original "paper" advertised it as "a four-act

comedy."
Naturally, few plays are drama from the very start.

The exigencies of exposition usually require a preliminary

narrative dialogue. Sometimes this extends throughout
the entire first act. Too often it never ceases till the
final curtain. Purely expository beginnings should be
disguised by means of interesting movement, manoeuvres,
214 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

and characterization. In other words, the exposition

should be contrived so as to hold the attention of the spec-
tator with the least possible, if any, voluntary effort on

his part. It has previously been pointed out that the

exposition may often be sprinkled along in small doses

throughout the first act, or even throughout the entire

play, instead of being massed at the beginning.

Testing the Interest

In reviewing his completed work, the playwright should

be able to determine at exactly what point the emotional
interestcommences. And, if this point be long delayed,
he should labor to condense what precedes it, to shift the
order of revelation, and by all available means to main-
tain attention from the beginning of his play.
Where does emotional that is, dramatic interest

begin? Briefly, it starts with the struggle that underlies

the play. The moment we see persons actually engage
in a conflict, with each other, with society, with cir-

cumstances, with fate, with themselves in short, with

any conceivable antagonist that moment, being human,
we are inspired with a feeling of suspense as to the out-
come of the fight. We are curious as to who shall win, and
meanwhile as to how the battle will be fought. It
behooves the dramatist, therefore, to dispense with use-
less preliminaries and let his antagonists come to the

grapple with the least possible delay.

Having determined the matter of the dramatic start,
the self-criticising playwright will proceed to make
certain that he has maintained the initial interest he has
 SELF-CRITICISM 21$

aroused. It is distinctly his business not to allow this

emotional curiosity to lag. In fact, it is distinctly his

business to be constantly heightening it toward his climax.
One of the easiest faults to commit in play- writing is that
of continually raising and dropping the tension from
situation to situation, that is, of presenting a series of

incidents, each dramatic in itself but not carrying over the

final interest to what follows and proceeding ever up and
up on higher levels to the summit. The prognosis for this
broken-backed structure is usually most unfavorable. It

should be avoided from the scenario stage. In any event,

it should be carefully sought out in the final self-criticism

and, when found, eliminated even at the cost of an entire

recasting and rewriting of the play.
This process of self-criticism further includes a deter-
mination as to whether the structure itself is actually
climacteric always excepting plotless photography and
as to whether the climax indeed, the plot in general is
illustrative of the theme. Then comes the question of the
denouement. It perhaps a natural tendency to con-
is

struct plays so that the interest both culminates and con-

cludes at the same moment. In such a case, however, an

appended act merely to tell us that They were married and

lived happily ever after, or that, having been definitely

conquered, He gave up the struggle, will be a matter of

supererogation. Final self-criticism must determine
whether a important part of the story has been
sufficiently
left to be told in the last act. In fact, every act but the
last should be concluded in such a way as to carry the

spectator's interest over into what is to follow. Where

2l6 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

this procedure is found to have been neglected, recasting

is again obligatory.

Testing the Characterization

When these matters of story have been disposed of

or, rather, simultaneously with the process the charac-

terization and itsrelation to the plot must be painstakingly

scrutinized. It is assumed that from the beginning every

effort has been made to avoid the conventional. The
playwright has modelled upon real life as he knows it,
rather than upon the artificialities traditional to the
theatre and fiction generally. It is more than possible,
however, that, in the haste of composition, he has admitted
to his work defects of probability and complete motiva-
tion. He has made A, who is ordinarily a hard-headed,
shrewd man of affairs, incredibly commit some careless-
ness or omit some caution. In other words, everything has
not always been taken into consideration when a char-
acter has been made to say or do things. With the final
self-criticism comes the playwright's opportunity to

remedy any such possible oversights, and so to avoid the

condemnation that is sure to descend upon even the most
trivial improbabilities of conduct among his dramatis
persona. Indeed, the more accurate and thorough the
characterization, the more glaring will be the smallest
inconsistency.
There must be, then, every attention given to such
matters of detail. The entrances and exits of the char-
acters, for example, must be carefully, though not obtru-
sively, motivated. It is repeatedly necessary to get this or
 SELF-CRITICISM 2 17

that person on or off the stage; and in our day their

comings and goings may not simply happen arbitrarily.

In "As a Man Thinks," for example, Dr. Seelig comes
home at tea-time and finds his daughter alone in the

drawing-room. Several friends have been invited in

they are already late and so we are prepared for their

corning presently. Mrs. Clayton calls to speak with the
doctor professionally; this gets her into the house; and

then, in order that Vedah and her father may continue

their confidential expository chat a little longer, Mrs.
Clayton's desire to see Mrs. Seelig, who is upstairs, gets
the former off the stage again. Later, to leave Vedah and
Burrill alone together after the apparently casual, but
of course carefully calculated announcement by her
father of her engagement to De Lota Dr. Seelig carries
the two vases into the library. And, a short time after-
ward to give De Lota and Elinor an opportunity for con-
fidential dialogue Dr. Seelig calls to Vedah and Burrill
to come to him in the library.

So it goes. People do not drop in by chance or disappear

without reason: every movement is rationalized made
the effect of an obvious, though never obtrusive cause.

Testing the Play for Action

And
always what must be borne steadily in mind is the
importance of action. A play is a play, and not merely a
by virtue of this element alone. You have a
narrative,
theme: must be shown in action. You have a story: it
it

must be related in action. You have characters: they

must be portrayed in action. Whatever there is in your
2l8 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

drama that is worth while must be illustrated concretely

by and not merely said.
things done,
For an example consider Mr. Rudolf Besier's "Don"
in contrast with Mr. George Bernard Shaw's "Fanny's

First Play." At bottom, the theme of both is the same:

the helplessness of middle-class respectability in the face
of the unconventional. But "Don" illustrates this
problem in terms of concrete action, while the other piece
presents it chiefly in the form of debate. In fact, with
Mr. Shaw there is so much scintillant dialogue that there

is no time left for the doing of things. When we eliminate

this verbal felicity and substitute "the great realities of
our modern life meaning, apparently," as Mr. William
Winter puts it, "photographs of the coal-scuttle, and
other such tremendous facts of actual, everyday exist-

ence," we no longer draw the playgoer's attention away

from the fundamental lack of action. Indeed, "Fanny's

First Play," as a play, was only what might have been

expected of so youthful an amateur as Fanny, and conse-

quently had to be eked out not only with Shavian girdings at

middle-class morality, but also with the resurrected device
1
of a satirical prologue and epilogue forestalling the critics.

Testing the Play for Finish

Finally, there will remain in this process of self-criticism,

the ultimate condensation and polishing of the dialogue,
1
Much the same sort of comparison might profitably be made
between Mr. Shaw's "Pygmalion" and Mr. Hubert Henry
Davies's "Outcast." In the matter of structure, however,
"Don" surpasses "Outcast," and "Pygmalion" is better than
"Fanny's First Play."
 SELF-CRITICISM 2 19

and even of the stage directions. It seems almost endlessly

possible to eliminate superfluous words and phrases and

toimprove diction and form. Of course, all must be done
with an eye single in the realistic drama to that com-
pact and selective kind of speech which yet gives the illu-

sion of the ordinary.

Above all, the dialogue must be kept consistent with
the characterization; and the last test, again, will deter-
mine whether anybody has been made to say what he
would not probably have said hi real life.
After everything possible seems to have been done by

way of improvement, a final reading aloud will invariably

discover unguessed imperfections. In fact, it is doubtful
whether any playwright who types his own manuscripts
ever does so without numerous pauses to reconstruct a
b'ne or to delete a phrase.

Important General Tests

There are, of course, many special considerations other
than those mentioned that must enter into the process of
final self-criticism. Authors will perhaps ask themselves
whether they have provided the sort of leading role that

willappeal to the particular player or manager that it is

hoped to interest; whether opportunity has been pro-
vided for necessary changes of costume; whether the
scenes and the time-scheme have been devised so as to
give occasion for a desirable sartorial display in certain
types of drama; whether general ease and inexpensiveness
of production have been made possible in fact, scores of

eminently practical considerations will come to mind.

220 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

There is the important matter of the unity of tone,

since plays, as has been seen, occasionally fail through a

shifting viewpoint that fatally confuses the spectator.

Then there is the whole problem of preparation, of advance
information and suggestion that arouses suspense and
makes intelligible what occurs later. And finally, there
is the question of repetition and the rigid deletion of what
has perchance been twice told to no special advantage.

Digest of Dramatic Rules

Perhaps the beginner will be stimulated by some of the

various collections of miscellaneous rules for dramatic

composition.
He will at least remember Dumas' "Let your first act
be clear, your last act brief, and the whole interesting,"
and Wilkie Collins's famous "Make 'em laugh; make
'em weep; make 'em wait." For the rest, here are some
fragments of advice from many sources, which the ama-
teur dramatist may take for what they are worth:

1. Get a good, simple story.

2. Let it be human and appeal to all kinds of people,
the gallery as well as the stalls.

3. Do not let too many important things have

"happened" before the rise of the curtain.

4. Center your interest on one or two people.

5. The fewer characters the better.

6. The fewer settings the better.

7. Do not change your scene during an act.

8. Do not have more than four acts.
 SELF-CRITICISM 221

9. Let there be between eighteen and thirty-five type-

written pages to the act.
10. Mere topics of the hour are dangerous themes,
since by the time plays are read and produced their
subject-matter is likely to be stale. Themes universal
and eternal, yet timely, are the ones that are most worth
while.

n. To-day is the best time to write about; where you

live, the likeliest place.

12. Read the master playwrights of to-day: Suder-

mann, Pinero, Thomas, Hervieu, Rostand these will do

to start with.

13. Technique as in all the arts must be mastered

and forgotten. It must be at the finger-tips, like the
mechanics of piano-playing.

14. "The exit of each character must bear the same

relation to him that the curtain bears to the plot. Every
time a man leaves the stage, the audience should wonder
what he is going to do and what effect it will have on his
next appearance."

15. See that the play is always moving straight toward

its goal: divagation is usually death.
16. Plays that are "enlarged fifth acts," that is,

that present only the culminating scenes of the story

are usually the swiftest and the most compact.

17. Express as much as possible in pantomime, gesture,

and facial play: by so doing you take the audience into
collaboration and thus tickle its vanity. It is worth
while to develop the significant "business" for the player.
222 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

1 8. If it is consistent with story and characters, give

the women opportunities to dress and more than once.

19. Remember that interior settings are usually less

expensive than exteriors. Moreover, entrances and exits

are more clear-cut, definite, and effective in interiors.

20. Work to bring about a logical conclusion dimly

foreseen and ardently desired, by surprising yet thor-
oughly convincing means.
21. "The essence of the play's entertainment is

surprise the pleasant shock which breaks the crust of

habitual thought in which each spectator is imprisoned
and releases him new and more spacious world."
into a

22. Base all your work ultimately upon Spencer's

principle of the economy of attention.

23. Strive to people situation with character and to

make situation significant as an opportunity for character
to express itself. Character should always dominate
situation. Character is destiny.

24. Avoid the didactic: a play should point its own

moral without the aid of a raisonneur.

25. Settings should be characteristic and suggestive of

the persons and the theme of the play. The first setting

ought, in some measure, to strike the keynote.

26. Ponder Ibsen's avowed purpose in play- writing:

to evoke "the sensation of having lived through a passage

of actual life."

27. Remember proportion: the minor, however inter-

esting per se, is pernicious when it distracts attention from
the major matter.
 SELF-CRITICISM 223

28. "Plays aren't written; they're rewritten." "It's

a wise author that knows his own play on its first night."
29. "In the matter of local color, of atmosphere, the

playwright cannot spend too much pains. He must be

effective in all these superficial things."

30. The first rule of the stage, as of oratory, is to

paraphrase Danton De faction, encore de Faction,

toujours de Vaction. The constant desire of the spectator

is to see something happen.

"These few precepts" it will hardly be necessary to

analyze or discuss. For the most part, they are repetitive
of what has already, and more than once, been counselled
in detail. Some of them, of course, merely repeat each
other. Others challenge instant antagonism. They are
drawn, as was said, from various sources and are offered
simply with the thought that, as they stand, they may
stimulate helpful reflection.

Finally, perhaps the most vital rule that could be

phrased would be Avoid haste. Sir Arthur Wing Pinero
declares that one play a year is enough. Monsieur Edmond
Rostand takes as long as nine years at least in the case
of "Chantecler." Whatever else he produces, we may be
sure, will not lack maturest consideration.
Shakespeare
wrote his three dozen dramas, in addition to his other
works, in about twenty-five years.
" " 1
'Stop Thief,' says Mr. George M. Cohan, "was
one of the most logical, smooth-running farces ever pro-
duced on any stage. Moore rewrote it six times before it

1
In the Green Book Magazine, April, 1915.
224 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

was approved by us. He must have written at least five

entirely new plays we accepted 'Stop Thief;' but

before
he is one of the few playwrights who work on the theory
that the other fellow is likely to have some ideas, and that
the author does not know everything. He is willing to
take advice and suggestions and for that reason, if for
no other, I believe he
prove a greater success, and
will

eventually become a greater craftsman, than those who

will not.

"Reizenstein threw away not literally, of course the

first manuscript of 'On Trial.' ... I told Reizenstein
to write an entirely different story into his scenes, and in

three or four weeks he came back with the play as it was

later produced. . . . Had Reizenstein been an older and

accepted playwright, he might have turned up his nose

when we asked him to rewrite what some of them choose
to call their 'soul's blood.' . . .
McHugh literally ripped
the manuscript [of "Officer 666"] to pieces, changing it

here, there, and everywhere, and then changing it again,

until the play as produced would never have been recog-
nized as the original."
Of course, many playwrights have won success while

working at incredibly high speed. "La Dame aux Came-

lias was composed in eight days, to anticipate a pirated

version of the novel from which it was taken. Dion Bouci-

cault wrote four hundred plays in fifty years, one piece
having been composed in forty-eight hours. Lope de
Vega wrote dramas at the rate of forty-four a year until
he had become responsible for more than two thousand
titles.
 SELF-CRITICISM 22$

On the other hand, when Mr. Edward Sheldon produces

three plays in a single season, and only one of them is

really worth while, the fact appears significant. Mr.

Augustus Thomas, too, apparently suffers now and then

by haste, as "Mere Man" and "The Model," to say

nothing of a few other plays, would seem to indicate;
and the late Clyde Fitch gave the impression of owing

most of his deficiencies to the speed with which he turned

out his frequently inconsequential trifles of entertainment.
After all, it is much easier to scribble off new pieces at
white heat than it is to subject a single drama to the long
and relentless pressure of hard thinking that such an
enterprise deserves and requires. As for success, one
good play will certainly land its author high above what
he could gain from a dozen comparative failures.

QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES

1. Apply the tests of this chapter to the text of some
modern play. What are your conclusions, specifically?
2. Frankly say what defects you find in your own
manuscripts, after self-criticism.

3. Indicate which points you think may be amended,

and how.
 CHAPTER XX
PLACING THE PLAY

Good plays are always wanted, and the anxiety to get hold of
them is very great, the multiplicity of theatres increasing the
demand. But is it to be wondered at, that a busy and harassed
manager is not in a position to give serious thought to the
enormous mass of written or printed matter that is being per-
petually brought under his notice? ... It is a marvel that
managers are as patient as they are, when one thinks of the
absolute rubbish that is constantly asking their suffrages. . . .

Going "through the mill" not a pleasant operation, but it is

is

the only way to get associated with the grist. FRANK ARCHER,
How to Write a Good Play.
Don't ever send in a play without first having obtained permis-
sion to do so. Don't, when it is in, worry the manager about it
too soon or too often. Don't write to the papers about your
ill-treatment. ... Do not argue with managers, but accept
their decisions, and appear to be impressed with, and grateful
for, ... Be guided by common sense in your
their views.
tactics. Donot send drawing-room comedy to the Adelphi, and
sensational melodrama to Terry's. Do not try to talk Mr. Toole
over into playing a heavy, emotional drama, because you will
only be wasting your own valuable time, to say nothing of that
versatile comedian's. . Send one-part plays to the actors
. .

or actresses that they would best suit. . Mind, however,

. .

that the play is a one-part play; actors do not relish rivalry.

And take care that the part suits your man all through. Play-
writing: a Handbook for Would-be Dramatic Authors (By "A
Dramatist.")

And after you have performed the Herculean labors

involved in the writing, criticising, revising, and copying
 PLACING THE PLAY 22 f

ofyour play, you find that your work has only just begun!
Next you have to consider the task of getting the play
"placed."
For achieving this highly desirable consummation
since "no man is a recognized dramatist till he is pro-
duced" there are various procedures. You may mail
your play to a manager, to a "star," or to a play agent;
or you may carry the manuscript in person.
What happens to plays mailed or expressed to managers?
That depends. Write to the average producer, and he
will reply that, if
you will send him your play, he will read

it as soon as possible. Ifyou call on the manager yourself

and succeed in seeing him he is likely to assure you of
just that much. One producer frankly asserts that, since
not one play out of a thousand ordinarily received is worth
looking into, he is much too busy a man to read plays
against such odds. To attract his attention the author
must have gained the interest of some noted actor, or
first

must submit a record of some successful minor production.

Most theatrical firms employ play-readers, who perhaps
occasionally recommend promising manuscripts for pro-

duction. It is quite true, however, that though, according

to recurrent newspaper interviews, most managers are
actually on the lookout for undiscovered dramatists, they
often seem unwilling to seek these elusive wheat-grains in
the oceans of chaff which flow in via the post office.

Copyrighting the Play

Playwrights are frequently warned in more or less direct

language that in submitting manuscripts indiscriminately

228 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

they run the risk of losing the ideas of their plays, when
novel, if not the
plays entire. Of course, modern copy-
right arrangements insure a certain amount of protection.
By filling out a blank and sending it with one dollar, a
ten-cent revenue stamp, and a carbon copy of an original
play to the Register of Copyrights at Washington, the
author can obtain a certificate of copyright good for
twenty-eight years. This certificate, together with
evidence that a producer has had access to a copy of the

play, makes a basis for a damage suit against the producer,

when he brings out under another title a strikingly similar
piece. Perhaps this accounts for the fact that many
managers carefully avoid mentioning the title of any play
in their letters: "I have received your play," they will

write, or "I have read your play;" but they rarely make

any further identification. Anyhow, it is notorious that

producers are often harassed and victimized in the matter

of plagiary accusations.

Manager and Actor

The experience in submitting plays to managers, if only
because of the delay, is usually disheartening. Sooner or
later, the author is tempted to try the play broker. Some
If they like a play, they will
of these agents are reliable.

say so; and sometimes they will succeed in placing it for

production. Then they will charge a commission of ten
per cent, of the author's profits, which is a very reasonable
fee indeed, since the agent looks after the drawing of con-

tracts, the collection of royalties, and all other necessary

business. However, some play brokers also have a habit
 PLACING THE PLAY 229

of storing manuscripts away indefinitely, even after

having warmly approved them.
There remains the actor. If he reads your play and
becomes interested in it, he will of course be likely to urge
its production by his manager. But actors, too, are busy
people. They often carry trunkfuls of manuscripts about
with them and find time to read none. And as a rule,
when the actor glances over a play and finds in it no part
suited to himself, his interest in it as a working possibility
ceases.

The process of seeing a manager usually includes making

an appointment by letter, waiting long beyond the hour

named, accepting rebuffs from the Napoleonic office-boy,

and at last being dismissed by the producer himself with
scant encouragement. Play brokers can generally be seen
with less delay. In the event of an interview, few man-
agers, actors, or agents will do more than take a manu-
script and promise to read it at some indefinite future date.
And personal visits rarely accomplish more than do
courteous letters toward securing immediate action.

Obviously, watchful waiting is usually the only practicable

policy for the beginner.
Producers' promises to read, doubtless for the most part
made in good faith, are often not fulfilled before the

author's patience has become exhausted. One rising

Western manager, for example, agreed to consider an
amateur's manuscript. After it had been in his office for

some months, he an inquiry that he was much

replied to
interested in the play and would in all probability pro-
duce it. At the end of eighteen months, the author
230 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

requested its return. Meanwhile, the manager had

written some fifteen letters of excuse for postponement,
while he was repeatedly announcing through the press
the acquisition of new pieces, and his desire to consider

manuscripts from "unknown" authors.

In the present state of vaudeville, except for the rare
one-act play theatres, there are almost no producing

managers, as in the "legitimate," to whom playlets may

to any purpose be submitted. Few if any booking offices
or other business enterprises connected with the variety

stage will consider unsolicited manuscripts with a view to

production. There are, however, play brokers who fre-
quently place sketches; and vaudeville actors are usually
on the lookout for next year's "vehicle." One means of
getting a sketch seriously considered for vaudeville is to

arrange for a "try-out" that the booking office reviewers

may witness. This, of course, is beyond the possibilities

of the average author.
And so it goes. Nevertheless, the self-confident pseudo-
dramatist will not allow even an apparently endless series
of rebuffs utterly to dishearten him. The prize is no
and, anyhow, a good fight is its own reward.
trivial one;

There are many interesting stories of frequently rejected

plays that eventually won renown for their authors.
Mr. Augustin MacHugh, for example, is quoted as saying
that in at least three offices his farce, "Officer 666," was
never taken from its wrappings.
The secret history of many latter-day stage successes
would, indeed, make interesting reading, if all the facts
were available. Certainly, if rumors are to be credited,
 PLACING THE PLAY 231

"The Great Divide," "The Witching Hour," "My Friend

from India," and "Paid in Full" not to mention dozens
of others would each serve as the subject of a prominent
chapter, as "D'Arcy of the Guards" has done for a whole
book.
Meanwhile, from time to time unheard-of playwrights
do become known through the submission of manuscripts,

by mail or in person, to producers, brokers, and actors.

Moreover, there remains at least one other possible open-

ing, and that is the stock company.

The Stock Company Opening

Nearly every American city of considerable size now

has its resident troupe of players. Many of these com-
panies occasionally vary their repertoire of standard
successes with "try-outs" of new plays. A proved play
is, of course, a valuable property; and resident stock
managers are often willing to wade through piles of

manuscripts in the hope of securing a promising drama.

Plays are generally produced by stock companies upon
terms providing for a joint ownership of future rights,
three-fourths or two-thirds accruing to the author. The
manager, having demonstrated the worth of the play in
stock, endeavors to place it with some regular producer
and naturally in this effort enjoys unusual opportunities.

From time to time stock managers, newspapers, and

various organizations conduct contests, in which the
prize is a production of the winning play. These contests
have frequently resulted in bringing promising work to
the producer's attention. All in all, the stock companies
232 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

probably offer the most satisfactory opportunity, though

a limited one, for the young writer seeking a hearing.

Terms of Contract

Whenthe play has at last been accepted by the metro-

politan manager, there arises the question of the terms of

the contract. Most producers have regular forms, which

they submit to new authors with but slight variations.

Some managers will offer to buy a play outright, for, say,
five hundred or a thousand dollars. Others will stipulate
that after the payment of fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars royalty the author shall relinquish all proprietary

rights in the play. Ordinarily, however, the terms of the

contract give the new author from three to five per cent,
of the gross receipts, with perhaps a sliding scale, following
an initial success, of five per cent, on the first four thousand
dollars a week; seven and a half per cent, on the next
two or three thousand; and ten per cent, on all additional
receipts. Naturally, dramatists of established fame get
more generous terms. When a play is accepted, even
from a beginner, an advance royalty of from two hundred
and fifty to a thousand dollars is often paid.
The contract in any case should stipulate that the play
is to be produced within a given time limit six months
or a year from date. If possible, the manager should be
bound to give a definite number of performances each

year to retain his control of the piece; and details, such

as weekly box office statements and payments of royalty,

manuscript changes, and the ownership of novelization,

foreign, and stock rights, should be included in the agree-
 PLACING THE PLAY 233

ment. However, in view of the manifold difficulties of

securing even so much as a hearing, the unknown author

may well be willing to accept any honorable terms pro-
posed.

The Play as a Collaboration

After the acceptance and the contract, there remains

what many authors regard as the hardest work of all
the production. The beginner can, of course, leave his
manuscript to the producer and concern himself with it
no further: indeed, it is more than likely that he will be
fully urged so to do. However, he may have insisted on
a clause in the contract giving him the right to participate
in such changes as are deemed necessary. And in any
event, he knows he must stand or fall by the play as it is
performed, rather than as he wrote it.
A well-known novelist, who has produced a single piece
for the stage, is quoted as saying, "The reason that I do

not want to write another play is simply that I want

anything to which my name is attached to be wholly and

entirely mine." On the other hand, it must be remembered
that an acted play is always a collaboration, not only of

author and actors, but also of producer and audience.

All the possibilities in any one manuscript are rarely
foreseen by any one person, not even by the author.
And, while some plays have been spoiled through bungling
manipulation at the hands of the incompetent, many
others have been virtually infused with the breath of life

through skilful and experienced production. "It's a wise

author that knows his own play when it is acted;" and
234 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

certainly a foolish author that complains when his half-

baked work has really been lifted out of mediocrity.
The amateur dramatist who has finished, typed, and
copyrighted anew play should watch the columns of the

newspapers and especially of the higher class periodicals

devoted to the stage or to the writing craft, for announce-
ments of play-reading bureaus established by managers,
of prize contests of various kinds, of the immediate wants
of noted actors, and of such opportunities as are afforded

by the semi-professional playhouses or companies. If he

feels confident that his dramaadapted to the needs and
is

abilities of some particular "star," the author should

address the player, usually by letter, asking permission

to submit his manuscript. In dealing with play brokers,
it is generally best to select those of established reputation.
And wherever possible, the beginner should endeavor to
interest in his work the manager of the local stock com-
pany.
Above all, throughout the often trying experiences of
the unknown author seeking to "place" his play, let him
resolutely keep a stiff upper lip in the earnest conviction
that sooner or later such merit as his work possesses
must be recognized.
 APPENDIX A
SPECIMEN SCENARIO

CYRANO DE BERGERAC
An Heroic Comedy in Five Acts

BY EDMOND ROSTAND

Act I

The interior of the Hdtel de Bourgogne in 1640. The

public begins to assemble for the play. Soldiers refuse to

pay; lackeys gamble; musketeers flirt with flower-girls;

bourgeois peer about for notables; spectators eat and
drink; cavaliers fence; pages play pranks; a pickpocket
instructs his young pupils; a barmaid vends beverages;

foppish noblemen arrive late.

Ligniere, a drunkard, brings in Christian de Neuvillette,
a handsome youth lately come to Paris, who seeks here the
fair unknown with whom he has fallen in love. As the
precieuses appear in the galleries, Christian scans their
faces, but in vain.
Ragueneau, a pastry-cook and poet, arriving, asks
anxiously after Cyrano, who has forbidden Montfleury,
the actor billed for this performance, to appear on the

stage during a month. Several spectators ask who this

redoubtable Cyrano is, and Ragueneau, aided by the
serious-minded Le Bret, another of Bergerac's friends,
236 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

makes an extended reply. Cyrano poet, duellist, physi-

cist, musiciana bizarre, extravagant, fantastic fellow
is

with a nose of extraordinary size and a sword which

menaces all who dare remark on his personal appear-

ance.
Christian's inamorata appears in a box. Ligniere
explains tohim that she is Roxane, an ultra.-precieuse and
a cousin of Cyrano. With her is the Comte de Guiche,
who is enamored of her and would force her to wed a sorry
and complaisant fellow, the Vicomte de Valvert. Ligniere
himself has exposed the nefarious project in a ballad which
must have greatly enraged the comte. Christian instantly
declares he will seek out Valvert and challenge him.
However, the youth remains in rapt admiration of Roxane,
who returns his gaze, while Ligniere staggers off to a
tavern.

Guiche, descending from the gallery, calls one of his

flatteringfollowers "Valvert." Christian feels in his

pocket for a glove, but finds instead a pickpocket's hand.

The thief buys his pardon by revealing that a nobleman,

angered by a ballad of Ligniere's, has posted a hun-

dred cutthroats to assassinate the drunkard on his way
home. Honor-bound, Christian hurries forth to warn
Ligniere.
The play La Clorise begins in the midst of general
excitement. The Falstaffian Montfleury appears and
recites three lines of the opening speech. Then a voice
exclaims from the pit, "Rascal! Did I not forbid you to
show your face here for a month?"
The audience is amazed. Montfleury hesitates. Cy-
 APPENDICES 237

rano, brandishing a cane, rises above the throng, stand-

ing on a chair, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible
to behold. The indignant spectators side with the actor.
Cyrano whole audience one by one. His
offers to fight the

challenge not accepted, he causes Montfleury, that full

moon, to eclipse. When other actors complain of their

loss, Cyrano tosses them a purse of gold.

At the suggestion of Guiche, Valvert seeks to insult

Cyrano, who, noting the vicomte's dulness, suggests a
score of witty remarks that might be made regarding his
own immense nose. The throng is delighted: this Gascon
is better than a play. Cyrano overwhelms Valvert,
answering the latter's ultimate taunt "Poet!" by

fighting a duel with the vicomte, and at the same time

composing an appropriate ballade. At the end of the

envoi Valvert iswounded, and his friends carry him off.
Cyrano is acclaimed on all sides. After the admiring

spectators have departed, in explaining his conduct to his

anxious friend Le Bret, the Gascon confesses that he is in
love hopelessly, of course, because of his nose with
Roxane. Le Bret encourages him; and when the lady's
duenna comes to make an appointment for her with

Cyrano, the latter is much elated.

Ligniere, quite drunk,brought in. He tells of the

is

warning he has had in a note left for him at a tavern by

Christian. Cyrano, in his elation, eagerly seizes the
opportunity. He forms a procession of actors and officers
and marches forth at the head of it to do battle single-
handed with the hundred men posted to assassinate

Ligniere, his friend.

238 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

ACT II

The kitchenRagueneau's pastry shop. The poet-

of

cook amusingly mixes his two arts, as he directs his

apprentices. Cyrano conies to keep his appointment here
with Roxane. While waiting he composes a love letter to
her and takes occasion to warn the wife of Ragueneau

against the gallantry of the tall musketeer who is flirting

with her.
Roxane arrives. With tarts and cream puffs Cyrano
bribes the duenna to leave them alone together. Roxane
thanks him for ridding her of Valvert and tenderly binds
up her cousin's wounded hand. She confesses that she
is in love with a man who does not guess it, but who shall
soon be Cyrano's hopes are inspired; but when she
told.

describes her hero as handsome, their knell is, of course, rung.

Itis Christian that Roxane loves. She knows nothing
of him except that he belongs to Cyrano's company, the
Cadets of Gascony. She feels certain the youth must be
as witty as he is handsome; if it should turn out other-

wise, she the precieuse would die of it. She leaves her
cousin proudly dissimulating his broken heart, after he
has given his promise to protect her lover from duels..
The cadets come with a crowd eager to hear the account
of Cyrano's fight with the hundred men. At his captain's

request, Bergerac controls his feelings and improvises a

set of triolets by way of presentation of his comrades to
Guiche. The latter patronizes Cyrano, whose resent-
ment is instantaneous and bitter. One of the cadets hav-

ing brought a collection of battered hats left behind by

the ruffians dispersed the night before, Bergerac flings
 APPENDICES 239

them at the feet of the comte, the cutthroats' employer,

who departs with his followers in a rage.
Le Bret expostulates with Cyrano for his rashness in

neglecting his opportunities; but Bergerac, scornfully

asserting his independence, repudiates the compromises
wherewith courtiers are wont to rise. His friend at length
understands that this bitterness is largelydue to the fact
that Roxane does not love him.
Christian, as a new-comer to the company of the cadets,
isinformed by them of the danger of making the slightest
reference to their comrade's huge nose. The youth, against
whose courage insinuations have been made, deliberately
insults Bergerac during the latter's recital of his feat of

arms of the previous night. Cyrano is about to hurl him-

self upon his insulter, when for the first time he learns the
latter's identity. Bergerac orders all but Christian from
the room. The cadets go, convinced that they have seen
the last of the young man.
When the two rivals are left alone, Cyrano astounds
"
Christian by saying, Embrace me. You are brave. I am
her brother Roxane's at least, her fraternal cousin.
She has told me all! " Informed that the precieuse expects
a letter from him that very evening, Christian sadly con-
fesses his inability to compose one that will satisfy her

fastidious tastes. Cyrano, wishing only that he had, to

express his soul, such a handsome interpreter, strikes a
bargain with the youth: Christian is to supply the physical
exterior, Bergerac the essential love eloquence. Between
them they will make a real hero of romance. Producing
the love letter he has just written, Cyrano explains that
240 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

poets always have such unaddressed epistles about them

and gives it to the delighted youth to send to Roxane.
The cadets, venturing to return, are amazed to find the
two antagonists in each other's arms.
The immediate inference is that the terrible Gascon has
been tamed. musketeer, against whom Bergerac
The tall

has warned Ragueneau's wife, concludes that one may

now speak with impunity to Cyrano about his nose.

Calling the woman to witness, the gallant approaches

Bergerac, sniffing affectedly. "What a surprising odor!"

"
he exclaims. But you, sir, surely must have noticed it?
What is it that I smell here? " And Cyrano, punning on a
word that means both a blow of the hand and the gilli-

flower, replies, as he slaps the tall musketeer's face,

"Lagiroflee!"

Act III

An open place before the house of Roxane; a balcony,

a garden, trees. The knocker of the house opposite is
swathed in linen, like a sore thumb. Inside, the duenna
Ragueneau, the precieuses have gathered to
tells listen to

a "Discourse on the Tender."

Cyrano appears, singing, followed by two pages strum-
ming theorbos. He is instructing them in their art. He
tells Roxane how he has obtained their services as the

a wager. Weary of them, he sends them to sere-

result of
nade Montfleury, commanding them to play a long time
and out of tune. When Roxane overflows with praise of
the wit and eloquence of Christian's letters, Cyrano makes
light of them.
 APPENDICES 241

Guiche comes, and Bergerac conceals himself within

the house. The comte is about to depart with an army
to relieve the city of Arras, which is besieged by the
Spaniards. She artfully persuades him that he can best
revenge himself on her boastful cousin by leaving the
latter's company behind.
When the comte has gone, Roxane bids Bergerac detain

Christian, should the latter arrive while she is in the house

opposite. For the first time the youth in person is to

speak to her of love this evening.

Cyrano calls Christian, who has been waiting outside,
and bids him prepare his memory for the eloquence he is
to offer Roxane. However, Christian declares he will
borrow his words no longer, but will speak for himself.
Roxane abruptly reappears, and Bergerac leaves them.
As night is falling, the precieuse sits beside her young
lover and bids him speak to her in the Euphuistic strain
which she adores, and in which the letters written by
Cyrano have been couched. But Christian can only
exclaim bluntly, "I love you," and she presently dismisses
him in disappointment. " When you lose your eloquence,"
she asserts, "you displease me as much as if you had
become ugly."
Christian in despair summons Bergerac and implores
his aid. When Roxane appears in the balcony, Cyrano
firstwhispers to the youth the words of passion which
the latter repeats. Presently, taking Christian's place,
in the darkness, the Gascon woos his enraptured cousin

in the poetic style she so highly values. When she at

length suggests that the speaker mount to her side, Cyrano

242 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

is compelled to let Christian climb the ivy and take the

kisswhich the grotesque hero's love-making has won.
The latter's consolation is that on the lips of Christian
Roxane kisses the words Cyrano has just spoken.
They are interrupted by a monk bringing a letter from
Guiche to Roxane. Cyrano now makes his presence
known to her as if he had just returned. The comte has
lingered at the monastery, after the departure of his regi-
ment for Arras, and desires to see Roxane at once. She
pretends to read in the letter an order that the stupid
monk shall at once marry her to Christian. Cyrano is
posted before the house to detain any visitors, while the
other three go inside for the ceremony.
Left alone, Bergerac climbs to the balcony, pulls his hat
over his eyes, and wraps his cloak about him. When the
anxious Guiche enters, Cyrano by means of the branch
of a tree swings himself down at the feet of the astonished
comte. As a pretended voyager from the moon, the
versatile Gascon manages to prevent Guiche from enter-
"
ing the house until the newly married pair appear. Say
good-bye to your husband," then exclaims the angry
comte. "I change my mind. His regiment shall go at
once to Arras."
Roxane in despair confides Christian to Cyrano's pro-

tection, making her cousin promise as he does most

readily that the youth will write to her often.

Act IV
The post of the Gascon cadets at the siege of Arras.
When the tattered, half-starved soldiers at the sound of
 APPENDICES 243

shots stir from their early morning slumber, their captain

reassures them, saying, "It is only Cyrano coming back."
The latter, appearing over the breastworks, is scolded by
Le Bret for thus risking his life so frequently. "I promised
her," replies Bergerac, "that this handsome fellow should
write often;" and he points to the sleeping Christian.
The reveille is sounded, and the cadets awaken. When
they grow almost mutinous with hunger, Cyrano, at the
captain's request, rallies them out of their ill-humor with
his ready wit and his moving eloquence.
They observe Guiche approaching, foppishly clad, and
revile him as a false Gascon. Resolved not to let him see

that they suffer, they play at dice and cards. Their air
of contentment enrages Guiche, who upbraids them for
their criticism of his dress and conduct. He reminds
them of his prowess in battle the day before, describing
how he dropped his white scarf on the field and so escaped
without attracting attention to his rank.
"Henry IV," says Cyrano, "would never have con-
sented, even though the enemy were overwhelming him,
to have stripped himself of his white plume. Had I been
present when your scarf fell and where our types
this is

of courage differ, monsieur I should have picked it up

and worn it myself. Lend it to me: I'll wear it this

evening and lead the assault." "Gascon boasting!"

retorts the comte. "You know
well enough that the
scarf lies at a point which grapeshot has been riddling
ever since, and where nobody can go to get it." Where-
upon Cyrano calmly draws the white scarf from his

pocket, saying, "Here it is."

244 TTTE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

By way of revenge the enraged commander gives a

signal which will, within half an hour, bring an assault of
the Spaniards on this point in the entrenchments. Prepa-
rations are made to sustain the attack.
Christian asks Cyrano for another letter to Roxane.

Bergerac has one ready. But there is a tear-stain on it,

which arouses the youth's suspicions.

Roxane arrives in a carriage driven by Ragueneau:
she has prevailed on the gallantry of the Spanish officers
to let her through their lines. She gives the cadets her
handkerchief to serve as their company flag. They dis-
cover that her carriage contains quantities of well-
concealed provisions. Guiche returns, and they hide
from him the newly-received supplies. As Roxane will
not leave, he determines to remain and share the danger.
The cadets thereupon relent, but their commander scorns
"their leavings." "You're making progress!" says
Bergerac, saluting him.
Cyrano draws Christian aside and, troubled, explains
to him that letters have gone to Roxane more often than
the youth has known. In fact, twice a day the Gascon
has risked his life to post a love missive to his cousin. It
is these letters which have inspired her to come here
through so many dangers. She tells Christian she loves
him no longer for his beauty, but for his soul alone. She
would still love him even if he were hideous. Christian,
broken-hearted, bids Cyrano tell her all, that she may
choose between them, and goes.
Convinced by her that Roxane now really cares only for
the soul that has dictated these letters, Cyrano, trembling
 APPENDICES 24$

with happiness, is about to reveal to her his bargain with

Christian. At that moment, however, Le Bret brings
word that the young soldier has been shot; and Bergerac
murmurs, "It is ended. I can never tell her again!" A
moment later, when Christian is brought in, dying,
Cyrano whispers to him, "I have explained everything.
She loves you still."
In her dead husband's bosom Roxane finds the
letter;
it is stained now not only with the tears of Bergerac, but
also with Christian's blood.

The assault is on. Guiche carries off the fainting

Roxane. Cyrano, brandishing the lance bearing her
handkerchief, rallies his company. He has two deaths to
avenge: Christian's and that of his own happiness. The
Frenchmen charge into the ranks of the Spaniards, who
are pouring over the embankment, Bergerac chanting his
triolet:

"These are the Gascon cadets

Of Carbon de Castel-Jaloux!"

ActV
The park of a Parisian convent, whither Roxane has
retired to pass her widowhood; an autumn afternoon,
fifteen years later than the date of Act IV. The nuns
speak of Cyrano's long-standing custom of coming every
Saturday to distract the grief of his cousin with his droll
gossip. He is poor and too proud to accept aid, ill and
broken. He is due on the stroke of the hour.
Guiche comes, and Roxane assures him that she will
Sometimes it
continue to remain here, "vainly blonde."
246 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

to her that Christian is only half-dead, that his

love floats about her, living.
Le Bret in anxiety interrupts. Cyrano, he says, is
abandoned and friendless. Everywhere he attacks
hypocrisy and cant, thus making for himself a multitude
of enemies. Roxane feels confidence in her cousin's
sword. But "solitude, hunger, December entering with
wolf-steps into his dark chamber they are the scoundrels
who will more likely slay him. Every day he tightens his
belt one hole more. His poor nose begins to take on the
tones of old ivory."
Guiche goes, unable to conceal an amicable envy for
Bergerac'slife of uncompromising integrity, and warning

Le Bret that his old friend is in danger of assassination.

A few moments later Ragueneau arrives and tells Le Bret
that Cyrano has been wounded: a lackey has dropped a
stick of wood on the Gascon's head. Without telling
Roxane, the two friends hasten off to find the injured man.
Roxane takes up her embroidery. The clock strikes.
Is Cyrano going to be late for the first time? A dead leaf
flutters down upon her embroidery-frame. Bergerac is

announced. She does not look up from her work. He is

very pale and feeble, but he forces a gay tone of voice.
He has had a most troublesome Visitor, to whom he has
said, "Excuse me, but to-dayis Saturday, the day I must

call ata certain place; nothing can make me fail. Return

in an hour." He closes his eyes in a moment of weakness

and pain.
Rallied by Roxane, Cyrano teases a gentle nun, swearing
he ate meat on Friday and granting her permission to pray
 APPENDICES 247

for him this evening. "I have not waited for your per-
mission," replies the sister, as she goes.
Then, struggling against his pain, he rattles off his

"gazette" of amusing gossip, stopping abruptly when

he comes to Saturday. For the first time Roxane looks
up at him. Then she hastens to his side, but he reassures
her it is merely his old wound of Arras.
Roxane produces Christian's last letter, and Cyrano
claims the present fulfilment of her old promise to let him
read it some day. Twilight is falling. His voice rings
with passion as it did that night he spoke to her from
beneath her balcony. It grows too dark for him to see,
yet he continues to recite the fervent words of the letter
which she, too, knows by heart. Roxane understands at
"
last. Why have you been silent all these fourteen years,"
she exclaims, "when on this letter which he did not write
these tears were your tears?" "This blood was his

blood," replies Bergerac.

Ragueneau and Le Bret enter in great apprehension.

Cyrano takes off his hat, revealing his bandaged head,

and finishes his "gazette" with: "And Saturday, the
twenty-sixth, an hour before dinner, Monsieur de Bergerac
died assassinated." His friends weep, as he swiftly
summarizes his life he has won the laurel and
of failure:

the rose only for others. One hears the organ in the
chapel. The moonlight descends. "I have loved but one
being," wails Roxane, "and him I lose twice!"

Delirium seizes Cyrano. He declaims scraps of his own

compositions, and begs Roxane to let her mourning be
"a little for him" too. With his back against a tree, he
248 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

fights off his imaginary foes Lies, Prejudices, Compro-

mise, Cowardice, Folly. The Visitor he put off for an
hour has returned for him. Cyrano dies, boasting that
with a spotless white plume he will this night enter God's
house.
 APPENDIX B
SPECIMEN PAGES OF THE MANUSCRIPT OF A PLAY

As explained on page 206, there are two recognized

forms for the typing of play manuscripts, both of which
use red ink together with some other color, preferably
black though blue or purple is quite acceptable. Page
250 shows a manuscript page in reduced facsimile as it
appears when a combination red and black typewriter
ribbon has been used. Page 251 illustrates a page in which
the underscoring in red has been done with pen and ink.
Act I)
Booth
Heavenal It reads like B fairy tale, doesn't it?

Henry
I don't know; does it?

Booth
Yes; and many thanks. I'll do my best not to let you re-

gret it. Only, in the old fairy tale, you know, it always

ended with the the young man's marrying the the rich

old geezer's daughter I

Henry

(Chuckling)
And I'm the rich old geezer, eh? Well, I mightn't 'a* been

half as rich this minute if it wasn't for youl -fleighol

(Sizes up Booth)
Bow, I suppose my cantankerous daughter wouldn't have you,

Plercy; not if I said anything to her about it. But if she

would and you was willin 1

(Helen and Booth exchange eloquent glances)

...why, you're Just about the feller I'd want her to have.

(Helen dances a little skirt dance of delight between

the door L and the screen. Then she darts into
the adjoining room, being observed only by Booth)

Booth
(Wta spontaneity)
Say, Boss, put her there again!

(Another handshake)
Do you know, you and I are getting to be better friends
 Yes. (Turns to dictionary) That's all.

(Sllen, though curious, continues reading

fend J6hn. Gi*aveS 6pen5 The diction-

snatenes it up wi^n tremoxing ringers ,

a pause, crumpling tne note, ne turns

"

GRAVSS. Bur ton I

(Startled by his tone, the others turn and

BURTOII. Yes, sir.

GRA7SS. Where's Sam?

BURTOH. He went out, sir

Went out?

BURTOH. Y-yes, sir. About a quarter of an hour ago.

GRAVES. Where to?

BURTOH. He didn't say, sir.

(Graves turns away helplessly. Burton

XisTe'ilS 'find TtteH SSltlS C. GT'UVes

MEAD. Anything wrong?

GHAY33 (Lamely) Ho, no. Don't mind me. Margin's

proposition's all right ---

(Pauae. Susan enters R and is troubled at

USAU (Approaches him) Father '.

GRAVES (Unable longer to restrain himself ) Hell's

fire I

Christopher'.
 APPENDIX C
LIST OF PLAYS

The following miscellaneous list of plays available in

English includes such as would be likely to interest the
student of the technique of the drama:

fimile Augier, The Post-Seriptum.

fimile Augier, The House of Fourchambault.
Granville Barker, The Madras House.
Granville Barker, The Voysey Inheritance.
Granville Barker, Waste.

J. M. Barrie, The Admirable Crichton.

J. M. Half Hours.
Barrie,
A. Bennett and E. Knoblauch, Milestones.
Arnold Bennett, What the Public Wants.
Rudolph Besier, Don.
Bjornstjerne Bjornson, A Lesson in Marriage.

Eugene Brieux, Maternity.

Eugene Brieux, The Red Robe.
Eugene Brieux, The Three Daughters of M. Dupont.
Alfred Capus, Brignol and His Daughter.
C. Haddon Chambers, The Tyranny of Tears.
H. H. Davies, The Mollusc.
Richard Harding Davis, The Galloper.
Jose Echegaray, The Great Galeoto.
J. B. Fagan, The Earth.

Clyde Fitch, The Truth.

 APPENDICES 253

J. O. Francis, Change.

John Galsworthy, The Eldest Son.

John Galsworthy, The Pigeon.
John Galsworthy, The Silver Box.

John Galsworthy, Strife.

Giuseppe Giacosa, The Stronger.

Lady Gregory, Short Plays.

Angel Guimera, Marta of the Lowlands.

Gerhart Hauptmann, The Beaver Coat.
Gerhart Hauptmann, The Conflagration.
Gerhart Hauptmann, Rose Bernd.
Gerhart Hauptmann, The Weavers.
Paul Hervieu, Know Thyself.
Paul Hervieu, The Labyrinth.
Stanley Houghton, Hindle Wakes.
Victor Hugo, Hernani.
Victor Hugo, Ruy Bias.
Henrik Ibsen, A Doll's House.
Henrik Ibsen, An Enemy of the People.
Henrik Ibsen, Ghosts.
Henrik Ibsen, Pillars of Society.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm.
J. K. Jerome, The Passing of the Third Floor Back.
Henry Arthur Jones, The Liars.
Henry Arthur Jones, Michael and His Lost Angel.
Henry Arthur Jones, Mrs. Dane's Defence.
Henry Arthur Jones, Whitewashing Julia.
C. R. Kennedy, The Servant in the House.
Charles Kenyon, Kindling.

Percy Mackaye, The Scarecrow.

254 THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY WRITING

Maurice Maeterlinck, The Blue Bird.

Maurice Maeterlinck, Monna Vanna.
J. Hartley Manners, The House Next Door.

George Middleton, Embers (and other one-act plays).

Langdon Mitchell, The New York Idea.
William Vaughn Moody, The Great Divide.
L. N. Parker, Disraeli.
A. W. Pinero, The Gay Lord Quex.
A. W. Pinero, His House in Order.
A. W. Pinero, Iris.
A. W. Pinero, The Magistrate.
A. W. Pinero, Mid-Channel.
A. W. Pinero, The Thunderbolt.
A. W. Pinero, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
Edmond Rostand, L'Aiglon.
Edmond Rostand, Chanteder.
Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac.
Edmond Rostand, The Romancers.
Victorien Sardou, The Black Pearl.
Victorien Sardou, Diplomacy.
Victorien Sardou, Divorqons.
Victorien Sardou, Patriet

Eugene Scribe, A Scrap of Paper.

G. B. Shaw, Arms and the Man.
G. B. Shaw, Candida.
G. B. Shaw, Fanny's First Play.
G. B. Shaw, Man and Superman.
G. B. Shaw, Pygmalion.
G. B. Shaw, You Never Can Tell.
Edward Sheldon, The Nigger.
 APPENDICES 255

Edward Sheldon, Romance.

Githa Sowerby, Rutherford and Son.
August Strindberg, The Father.
Hermann Sudermann, The Joy of Living.
Hermann Sudermann, Magda.
Hermann Sudermann, The Vale of Content.
J. M. Synge, Deirdre of the Sorrows.

J. M. Synge, The Playboy of the Western World.

]. M. Synge, Riders to the Sea.

J. M. Synge, The Well of the Saints.

B. Tarkington and H. L. Wilson, The Man from Home.
Augustus Thomas, As a Man Thinks.
Augustus Thomas, Arizona.
Augustus Thomas, The Witching Hour.
Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband.
Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest.
Oscar Wilde, A Woman of no Importance.
Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan.
W. B. Yeats, The Hour-Glass.
W. B. Yeats, The Land of Heart's Desire.
Israel Zangwill, The Melting Pot.
 APPENDIX D
LIST OF HELPFUL BOOKS

The beginner at play writing will find the following

books for the most part interesting and helpful:

William Archer, Play Making.

Elizabeth Baker, The Play of To-day.

George P. Baker (announced), The Technique of the Drama.

Richard Burton, The New American Drama.
W. P. Eaton, At the New Theatre and Others.
Gustav Freytag, The Technique of the Drama.
E. E. Hale, Dramatists of To-day.

Clayton Hamilton, Studies in Stagecraft.

Brander Matthews, A Study of the Drama.
H. K. Moderwell, The Theatre of To-day.
M. J. Moses, The American Dramatist.
Richard G. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Thinker.
Arthur Huntington Nason, James Shirley, Dramatist.
Ludwig Lewisohn, The Modern Drama.

"Chief Contemporary Dramatists," edited by Thomas

H. Dickinson, is a convenient collection of twenty modern
plays, including"The Second Mrs. Tanqueray," "The
Witching Hour," "Riders to the Sea," "The Vale of Con-
tent," and "Know Thyself."
"The Continental Drama of To-day," "The British

and American Dramas of To-day," and "Contemporary

 APPENDICES 257

French Dramatists," all by Barrett H. Clark, are valuable

reference books. "Three Modern Plays from the French "

includes translations by Mr. Clark of Lavedan's "The
Prince d'Aurec," Lemaitre's "The Pardon," and Donnay's
"The Other Danger." Mr. Clark is also the editor of an
important and rapidly increasing series of plays published
by Samuel French. Among the authors already repre-
sented are Augier, Meilhac and Halevy, Hervieu, Tchek-

hoff, Giacosa,Sardou, Capus, and Bernard.

Another noteworthy series of plays is that published
under the auspices of the Drama League of America, by
Doubleday, Page & Company. The list now includes
Charles Kenyon's "Kindling," Echegaray's "The Great

Galeoto," Sardou's "Patrie!" Francis's "Change," and

other interesting examples of play technique.
 APPENDIX E
ADVICE TO PLAYWRIGHTS WHO ARE SENDING PLAYS TO
THE ABBEY THEATRE, DUBLIN*

"The Abbey Theatre is a subsidized theatre with an

educational object. It will, therefore, be useless as a rule
to send plays intended as popular entertainment and
it

that alone, or originally written for performance by some

popular actor at the popular theatres. A play to be

suitable for performance at the Abbey should contain
some criticism of life, founded on the experience or per-
sonal observation of the writer, or some vision of life, of
Irish life by preference, important from its beauty or from
some excellence of style; and this intellectual quality is

not more necessary to tragedy than to the gayest comedy.

"We do not desire propagandist plays, nor plays
written mainly to serve some obvious moral purpose; for
art seldom concerns itself with those interests or opinions
that can be defended by argument, but with realities of
emotion and character that become self-evident when
made vivid to the imagination.
"The dramatist should also banish from his mind the
thought that there are some ingredients, the love-making
of the popular stage for instance, especially fitted to give
dramatic pleasure; for any knot of events, where there is
passionate emotion and clash of will, can be made the

Quoted in Our Irish Theatre, by Lady Gregory.

1
(G. P. Put-
nam's Sons.)
 APPENDICES 359

subject matter of a play, and the less like a play it is at

the first sight the better play may come of it in the end.

Young writers should remember that they must get all

their effects from the logical expression of their subject,

and not by the addition of extraneous incidents; and that
a work of art can have but one subject. A work of art,
though it must have the effect of nature, is art because it

is not nature, as Goethe said: and it must possess a unity

unlike the accidental profusion of nature.
"The Abbey Theatre is continually sent plays which
show that their writers have not understood that the
attainment of this unity by what is usually a long shaping
and reshaping of the plot, is the principal labour of the

dramatist, and not the writing of the dialogue.

"Before sending plays of any length, writers would
often save themselves some troubleby sending a scenario,
or scheme of the plot, together with one completely
written act, and getting the opinion of the Reading Com-
mittee as to its suitability before writing the whole play."
 INDEX
BARKER, H. GRANVILLE, i-
Action, x, xi, xvni, xxi- 2, 108, 171; The Madras

xxv, 2, 3, 24, 38, 48, 75- House, 112, 189, 252;

76, 81, 134, 217-218, 223. Waste, 20-21, 252; The
Actors (See Star Parts). Voysey Inheritance, 252.
ADE, GEORGE, The Col- BARRIE, SIR JAMES M., 6,
lege Widow, 133-134; The 252 The Legend of Leon-
;

County Chairman, 134; ora, 20, 182; The Twelve-

Mrs. Peckham's Carouse, Pound Look, 196; A Slice
196. of Life, 80, 199.
ANDERSEN, HANS CHRIS- Beginning the Play, 49-51.
TIAN, 49. BENNETT, ARNOLD, The
"Apart," The, xiv, 123, Great Adventure, 162;
126, 174. Milestones, n, 150-151,
ARCHER, FRANK, 226. 252; What the Public
ARCHER, WILLIAM, 26-28, Wants, 182, 252.
79, 94, 98-100, 122, 201, BERNARD, TRISTAN, 257;
256. Le Danseur inconnu, 125.
ARISTOTLE, ix, x, xra, 2, BERNSTEIN, HENRI, 18, 96;
37, 38, 134, 158. The Assault, 97; Israel,
ARMSTRONG, PAUL, Alias 97, 163; La Rafale, 186;
Jimmy Valentine, 13; The The Thief, 40.
Deep Purple, 14, 187; The BESANT, SIR WALTER, i 133. ,

Greyhound, 101. BESIER, RUDOLF, Don, 218,

"Aside, "The, (See 252; Lady Patricia, 52.
"Apart"). BIGGERS, EARL DERR, In-
AUBIGNAC, ABBE D', 86-87. side the Lines, 138-142.
AUGIER, SMILE, 44, 252, BISSON, ALEXANDRE,
257- Madame X, 184.
Blank Verse, 5, 167-168.
B BOUCICAULT, DION, 224.
BAKER, ELIZABETH, Chains, BRIEUX, EUGENE, 6, 252.
21, 27, 135, 162. BROADHURST, GEORGE,
BALFOUR, GRAHAM, 63. Bought and Paid For, 57;
BALZAC, HONORE DE, 44. Innocent, 50; To-day, 188.
 INDEX 26l

Brokers, Play (See Placing Climax, xiv, xxi, 30, 94, 96,
the Play). 106-116, 136, 137, 186,
BROWNE, PORTER EMERSON, 187, 189, 203.
A Fool There Was, 184, COHAN, GEORGE M., 65,
188; The Spendthrift, 184. 223-224; Broadway Jones,
BRUNETIERE, FERDINAND, 213; Hello, Broadway! 97;
IX, X, XIII, XXIV, 24, III- Get-Rich-Quick Walling-
112, 181. ford, 81; The Miracle
BUCHANAN, THOMPSON, The Man, 19; Seven Keys to
Bridal Path, 111 ; Life, 50, Baldpate, 56.
79- Coincidence, 68, 71, 90,
BURTON, RICHARD, 212, 256. 114, 121-126, 186.
"Business" (See Panto- COLEBY, WILFRED T., The
mime). Headmaster, 56.
BUTCHER, S. H., 48. COLERIDGE, S. T., 104.
BYNNER, WITTER, 7^r, COLLINS, WILKIE, 220.
COMEDY, 25, 53, 55-58, 121.
122, 126, 129-130, 134,
Calderon, 39. 135, 137-143, 181-183,
CHAMBERS, C. HADDON, !89.
252; Passers-by, 14, 15, Comic Relief (See Humor).
124. Complication, 63-73, 85- 86.
Characterization, xvi, xvii, Conflict, xi, xiv, xxn-xxv,
4, 25, 33-35, 40-41, 50, 24, 25-29, 37, 43-44, 64,
55, 130, 131, 134-155, 70-72, 81, 86, 95, 114,
170, 171, 173-174, 179, 115, 181, 189, 192, 200,
182, 188, 195, 198, 200, 214, 258-259.
216. Connotation, 33, 174-179,
Character-plays, 13, 14, 17, 195-
134, 181, 188-190. Consistency (See Logic).
Characters, xi, xvra, xxi, Continuity, 42-45, 58.
xxiv, xxx, 2-4, 16, 17, Contract, The, 232-233.
24, 29-32, 34, 37-39, 51, Conventionalities, Stage, 41,
52, 56, 59, 60, 63, 65, 71- 127-131.
72, 77, 86, 91, 109, 115, Conventions, xii, xin, 118-
119, 121, 122, 133-163, I3 I -

189, 190-192, 202, 209- COOPER, FREDERIC TABER,

2IO, 217, 22O, 222. I, 212.
262 INDEX

Copyright, 227-228.
Crisis, xxn-xxv, 26, 30, 37, Economy, 33, 48-49, 77-78,
63- 130, 154-155, 167, 170-
CROISSET, FRANCIS DE, Ar- 172, 179-180, 195, 205,
stne Lupin, 51, 97, 98,
219, 22O, 222.
187; The Hawk, Si, 184.
ELIOT, GEORGE, 32.
CROSS, WILBUR L., 144.
Emphasis, 32, 172.
"Entrances," 216-217.
ERVINE, ST. JOHN G., 137;
DAVIES, HUBERT HENRY, The Magnanimous Lover,
Outcast, 20, 81, 160, 218; 41.
Mrs. Goringe's Necklace, ESENWEIN, J. BERG, xvi-
15; The Mollusc, 252. xxvi, 106, 113, 201.
DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING, "Exits," 216-217, 221.
The Dictator, 14; The
Exposition, 67, 75-83, 91,
Galloper, 252; Miss Civ-
113, 172, 195, 203, 213-
ilization, 198-199.
214, 220.
DEMILLE, W. E., Food,
199; The Woman, go, 124.
Denouement, 58-59, 1 06, 109-
Fable (See Plot).
116, 136, 158, 187, 203,
215, 222. Fantasy, 54, 182.
Farce, 14, 25, 40, 53, 55-58,
Devices, 118-131.
IIO-III, 121, 126, 134,
Dialogue, x, xvii-xvm, 4,
135, 137, I8I-I84, 187-
5, 18, 24, 25, 32-35, 39,
188, 223-224.
60, 79- 82 > Qi, i8,
75,
FIELD, SALISBURY, Twin
113, 119, 166-180, 185,
Beds, 14, 187.
195, 204, 218, 220, 259.
DRYDEN, JOHN, 63. FlLON, AUGUSTIN, 43, 44-
DUMAS, ALEXANDRE, fits, 45-
rx, xv, 9, 29, 44, 58-59, FITCH, CLYDE, 108, 173-
86, 94, 104, 108, 142-143, 174, 225; Captain Jinks,
1 66, 220; La Dame aux 40; The City, 19, 57;
Camillas, 51, 224; Le Fils The Truth, 252.
naturel, 9. FORBES, JAMES, The Chorus
DUMAS, ALEXANDRE, pere, Lady, 58; The Traveling
17, 108. Salesman, 161.
 INDEX 263

FORD, HARRIET, The Argyle HASTINGS, B. MACDONALD,

Case, 187; The Dummy, That Sort, 160-161; The
91 ; Polygamy, 20. New Sin, 18.
HAUPTMANN, GERHART, 42-
43, 1 68, 153; The Beaver
Coat, 150, 153; The Con-
GALSWORTHY, John, 108, flagration, 150, 253; The
253; The Eldest Son, 41, Weavers, 148-150, 189,
253; The Pigeon, 20, 253-
253. HEGEL, G. W. F., rx, x.
GARDINER, J. H., 48, 194. HENDERSON, ARCHIBALD,
Genres, Confusion of, 53- 25-
58- HENLEY, W. E., Macaire,

Gift, The
dramatist's, i, 3- 5i> 56.

7, 85, 92, 94, 101.

HENNEQUIN, ALFRED, 181.
GILLETTE, WILLIAM, Held HENRY, O., 13.
by the Enemy, 52; Secret HERVIEU, PAUL, 221, 253,
Service, 52; Sherlock 257; Know Thyself, 253,
Holmes, 187. 256.

GOETHE, HOLZ, ARNO, 42.

39, 40, 259.
HOUGHTON, STANLEY, Bin-
Gozzi, G., xi, 39. die Wakes, 20, 41, 135,
GREGORY, LADY, 137, 196, 253; Trust the People, 142.
253- HOWELLS, W. D., The Rise
of Silas Lapham, 79.
H HUGO, VICTOR, Hernani, 14,
HAMILTON, CLAYTON, xvm, 253; Lucrece Borgia, 16;
xxrv, 256; The Big Idea, Le Roi s' amuse, 16; Ruy

55, 159- Bias, 16, 20, 125, 253.

HAMILTON, COSMO, xv; The Humor, xiv, 52, 53, 69, 72,
Blindness of Virtue, 21. 75, 115, 119-121, 131,

"Happy Ending," The, 57, 166, 187, 195, 213.

60, 162-164.
I
HARCOURT, CYRIL, A Pair
of Silk Stockings, 121, IBSEN, HENRIK, xiv, 6, 50,

159-160. 59, 151-152, 222, 253; A

HARDY, THOMAS, Tess of Doll's House, 12-13, 151-
the d'Urbervilles, 122. 152, 253; Ghosts, n, 26,
2 64 INDEX

2 7 253; The Lady from KENYON, CHARLES, Kin-

the Sea, 182; The Master dling, 14, 19, 253, 257.
Builder, 19; Rosmersholm, KLEIN, CHARLES, 15; The
50, 253; The Wild Duck, District Attorney, 15; The
60. Lion and the Mouse, 15;
Ideas, Plays of, 181, 190-
The Third Degree, 15.
192. KNOBLAUCH, EDWARD, The
Illusion (See Verisimili- Headmaster, 56; Marie-
tude). Odile, 79; Milestones, n,
Incident, 4-5, 14, 24, 259.
150-151, 252; My Lady's
Irish Theatre, Dress, 48, 55.
The, 136-137,
KNOWLES, J. SHERIDAN,
142, 196, 258-259.
Virginius, 14.

J
JAMES, HENRY, 130-131, LEBLANC, MAURICE, Ar-
189-190. stne Lupin, 51,97,98, 187.
JEROME, JEROME K., Esther LESSING, G. E., ix, 12, 97,
Castways, 142 The Pass-
; 181.
ing of the Third Floor Logic, xi, 3, 4, 5, 16, 29-30,
Back, 19, 188, 253. 41-42,58-60,86,122,14,3
JONES, HENRY ARTHUR, 18, 154, 158-164, 203-204,
27, 253; Mrs. Dane's De- 216-217, 222, 259.
fense, 41, 253; Joseph LORD, CHESTER S., 26.

Entangled, 20; The Liars, LYTTON, BULWER, Riche-

41, 253; Lydia Gilmore, lieu, 75.
53 Mary Goes First, 161
;

Michael and His Lost An-

;

M
gel, 40, 58, 253; We Can't MACHUGH, AUGUSTIN, Of-
Be as Bad as All That, 41 ; ficer 666, 14, 56, 224, 230.
Whitewashing Julia, 41, MAETERLINCK, MAURICE,
253- 6, 40, 191, 254; The Blue
Bird, 20, 254.
K MACK, WILLARD, Kick In,
KENNEDY, CHARLES RANN, 88, 187; Vindication, 199-
The Servant in the House, 200.
19, 253; The Wintetfeast, MACKAYE, PERCY, 168, 253;
179. To-morrow, 179.
 INDEX 265

Managers (See Placing the MONTGOMERY, JAMES,

Play). Ready Money, xxvi, 56,
MANNERS, J. HARTLEY, The in.
House Next Door, 52, 254; MOODY, WILLIAM VAUGHN,
The Woman Intervenes, The Great Divide, 16, 231,
198. 254-
Manuscript, Specimen MOORE, CARLISLE, Stop
Pages of, 249-251. Thief, 223-224.
MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER, Motivation (See Logic).
40. MURRAY, T. C., 137; The
MASSINGER, PHILIP, A New Drone, 135.
Way to Pay Old Debts, 135. Mystification (See Secret).
MASON, A. E. W., Green
Stockings, 42, 213. N
MATTHEWS, BRANDER, 25,
NEILSON, WILLIAM ALLAN,
80, 151, 256.
144.
MAUPASSANT, GUY DE, 177.
NERVAL, GERARD DE, 39.
MAYO, MARGARET, Twin NORRIS, FRANK, 85.
Beds, 14, 187.
Novelty of Plot, 39-41.
MEGRUE, Roi COOPER, It
Pays to Advertise, 21, 99; O
Under Cover, 56, 88, 96,
98-99, no, 120, 187. O'HiGGiNS, HARVEY J., The
Argyle Case, 187; The
Melodrama, 14, 25, 40, 55-
58, 91, 121, 126, 129, 134,
Dummy, 91 ; Polygamy,
20.
135, 137, 162, 163, 164,
One-Act Play, The, 194-
181-187.
Mise en scSne (See Setting). 201, 230.

MODERWELL, H. K., XIX,

256.
MOFFAT, GRAHAM, A Scrape Pantomime, x-xi, xiv,
o' the Pen, 13. xvin, 5, 24, 25,
32-33, 35,
MOLIERE, 39, 40, 1 66; Tar- 39, 87, 108, 166-167, 174,
'tu/e, 144, 151. 177-179, 221.
MOLNAR, FERENC, The PARKER, H. T., 18.
Phantom Rival, 20, 48, 81, PARKER, Louis N., 254;
174. The Highway of Life, 49;
Monologue (See Soliloquy). Pomander Walk, 135, 188.
266 INDEX

" "
PATTERSON, JOSEPH, ME- Plot-ridden Characters
DILL, The Fourth Estate, (See Plot-and-Character
162-163. Harmony).
PELLISSIER, GEORGES, 9, POE, EDGAR ALLAN, 37, 158,
16-17, J 66. 194-195.
POLLOCK, CHANNING, 88.
PERRY, BLISS, 37, 78, 106,
108-109, 144-145. POLTI, GEORGES, 39.
PHILLIPS, STEPHEN, 40, 168. Preparation, xrv, 67, 85-92,
114, 220.
PICARD, ANDRE, L'Ange
PRESBREY, EUGENE W.,
gardien, 96, 101-103, 152-
Raffles, 98, 187.
153, 175-
Probability (See Logic).
PINERO, SIR ARTHUR WING,
Problem Play, The, 52-53,
xii, xxx, 6, 16, 153, 221,
129.
223, 254; The Gay Lord
Production, 233-234.
Quex, 96, 254; His House
in Order, 79, 254; Mid- "Properties," 88, 90.
Channel, 57, 254; Pre- Proportion, 32, 35, 222.
serving Mr. Panmure, 56;
The Second Mrs. Tan-
queray, 20, 27, 50, 123,
Realism, xi, xvn-xrx, 42-
161, 254, 256; The Thun-
45, 126, 135-143* 164,
derbolt, 20, 53, 108, 128,
168-170, 172, 173, 174,
254- 202-
178-179, 183-186,
Placing the Play, 204-205, 203, 218-219.
208, 226-234.
REGNIER, HENRI DE, 103.
Plot, xvn, xxi, 2, 3, 5, n- REIZENSTEIN, ELMER L.,
12,17-18,24-74,112,119, On Trial, 48, 50-51, 78,
121, 122, 130, 131, 135, 82, 91, 101, no, 224.
136, 154, 161-164, 170,
ROBERTSON, TOM, Caste,
171, 179, 182, 188, 190-
135-
192, 195, 202, 2O3, 212,
ROSTAND, EDMOND, 6, 168,
215,217, 220, 259. 210, 221, 254; L'Aiglon,
Plot-and-Character Harmo-
19, 254; Chantecler, 182,
ny, 2, 25, 29-30, 41-42, 223, 254; Cyrano de Ber-
6O, I09-IIO, 158-164, 222, gerac, 175-176, 177"
91,
259 (See Logic). 178, 235-248, 254; La
Plot Novelty, 17-18, 39-41. Samaritaine, 127, 174.
 INDEX 267

"Rules," Dramatic, xn- 19, 108,203; The Mer-

xvi, xxv-xxvi, i, 7, 9, chant of Venice, 118;
220-223. Othello, 26, 27, 144.
SHAW, GEORGE BERNARD,
6, 40,254; Candida, 199,
254; Fanny's First Play,
SARCEY, FRANCISQUE, ix,
120, 169, 182, 218, 254;
x, xn, 4, 53-54, 55, 59,
How He Lied to Her Hus-
75, 85, 92, 104, 107-108,
band, 199; Man and Su-
in, 1x8, 125, 127, 142-
perman, n, 40, 254; Pyg-
143, 160, 166, 178-179,
1 80, 203.
malion, 20, 218, 254; You
Never Can Tell, 21, 254.
SARDOU, VICTORIEN, 4, 18,
SHELDON, EDWARD, 225;
186, 254, 257; Le Croco-
The Garden of Paradise,
dile, 54; Divorfons, 40,
49; The High Road, 50,
254; Ftdora, 178;
Madame 150; The Nigger, 186,
Sans-GQne, 210.
254; Romance, 40, 255.
Satire, 53, 54, 182, 199.
SIMS, GEORGE R., The
SCARBOROUGH, GEORGE, Lights o' London, in,
What Is Love? 19, 20.
185-186.
Scenario, 59-60, 92, 201-
SISMONDI, J. C. L. DE, 75,
205, 235-248, 259. 118.
Scenery (See Setting). Situation, xi, 4-5, 39, 136,
SCHILLER, xi, 39. 213.
SCRIBE, EUGENE, 18, 44, 75, Soliloquy, xrv, 123, 126,
81, 88, 186, 254. 127, 174.
Secret (Kept from Audi- Solution (See Denouement).
ence) xv, 97-105. SOPHOCLES, 39; (Edipus
Self-criticism, 204, 212-225. Rex, 26, 27.
Setting, xix-xxi, 48-49, SOWERBY, GITHA, Ruther-
220, 222. ford and Son, 146, 255.
SHAKESPEARE, xix, 39, 104, SPENCER, HERBERT, x, 222.
130, 223; As You Like It,
-
Stage Directions, 206-210,
xx, 26, 27, 151; Hamlet, 219.
xvm, 10, n, 19, 26, 27, STAPLETON, JOHN, A Gen-
108, 118-119, 170; Julius tleman of Leisure, 124.
Ceesar, 108; King Lear, Star Parts, 51, 219, 226,
26, 27; Macbeth, 9-10, n, 227, 229-230, 234.
268 INDEX

STEVENSON, ROBERT Louis, Theme, xvii, xxn, 9-21,

x, xxx, 24, 63, 130; 29-30, 67, 113, 114, 215,
Macaire, 51, 56. 217, 221.
Stock Companies, 231-232. Thesis (See Theme).
Story (See Plot). THOMAS, A. E., The Big
Story-play, The, 13, 14, 33" Idea, 55, 159.
34, 134, 181. THOMAS, AUGUSTUS, 28-29,
STRONG, AUSTIN, The 76-77, 87-90, 170, 221,
Drums of Oude, 196, 197. 255, 256; Arizona, 12,
Sub-plot, The, 52, 118-119, 161, 255; ,4s a Man
130. Thinks, 12, 82,
89-90,
SUDERMANN, HERMANN, 123- 124, 128, 171- 172,
221, 255; Magda (Hei- 217, 255; Mere Man, 225;
mat), 20, 41, 255; Mori- The Model, 124, 225; The
turi, 196. Witching Hour n, 12, 65-
Surprise, xiv, 86, 90, 94- 72, 113-116, 231, 255,
105, 114, 115, 189, 203. 256-

Suspense, xiv, xxv, 38, 86, Tragedy, 25, 40, 53, 55-58,
121, 122, 134, 135, 137,
94-105, 106-109, IJ 4> II 5>
189, 203, 220. 181-183, 189.
SUTRO ALFRED, The Man "Triangle of Information,"
in Front, 197-198. The, 88-90.
TROLLOPE, ANTHONY, 133.
Symmetry, 52, 60.
TURGENIEFF, I. S., 130-131.
SYNGE, JOHN MILLINGTON,
Types, 133-135, 144-146,
137, 255; The Playboy of
I53-I55-
the Western World, 100,
Typewriting the Play, 205-
179, 255; Riders to the 208, 219, 221, 249-251.
Sea, 196, 255, 256; The
Well of the Saints, 20, U
255-
Underplot (See Sub-plot).
T Unity, 17, 32, 52-60, 220, 259.
TARKINGTON, BOOTH, Beau- URBAN, JOSEPH, 49.

ty and the Jacobin, 197;

The Gentleman from In-
diana, 104; The Man Vaudeville, 54, 78-79, 196-
from Home, 125, 255. 200, 213, 230.
Tension (See Suspense). VEGA, LOPE DE, 181, 224.
 INDEX

VEILLER, BAYARD, Within Earnest, 14, 255; Lady

the Law, 14, 99, 176-177, Windermere's Fan, 120,
187. 161, 255; A Woman of No
Verisimilitude, 5, 55, 58, Importance, 20, 255.
130, 131, 133, 144. WILSON, HARRY LEON, The
Verse, Blank, 5, 167-168. Man from Home, 125,
VIGNY, ALFRED DE, 17. 255-
Wit (See Humor).
W WODEHOUSE, P. G., A Gen-
WALKLEY, A. B., 9. tleman of Leisure, 124.
WALLACE, EDWARD, The
Switchboard, 127.
WALTER, EUGENE, The
Easiest YEATS, W. B., 137, 196.
Way, xxv, 58,
154, 164; Paid in Full,
57-58, 231; The Trail of
the Lonesome Pine, 179. ZANGWILL, ISRAEL, The
WARD, A. W., 3, 112. Melting Pot, 179, 255;
WILDE, OSCAR, 120, 179; The War God, 168.
The Importance of Being ZOLA, EMILE, 32.
 in
A 000026364