Читать книгу Dramatic Technique - George Pierce Baker - Страница 4
ОглавлениеACT I. SCENE 1. Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace
Enter two gentlemen
1. Gent. You do not meet a man but frowns. Our bloods
No more obey the heavens than our courtiers
Still seem as does the King.
2. Gent. But what’s the matter?
1. Gent. His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom
He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son—a widow
That late he married—hath referred herself
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s wedded,
Her husband banish’d, she imprison’d; all
Is outward sorrow; though I think the King
Be touched at very heart.
2. Gent. None but the King?
1. Gent. He that hath lost her too; so is the Queen,
That most desir’d the match: but not a courtier,
Although they wear their faces to the bent
Of the King’s look, hath a heart that is not
Glad at the thing they scowl at.
2. Gent. And why so?
1. Gent. He that hath miss’d the Princess is a thing
Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her—
I mean, that married her, alack, good man!
And therefore banish’d—is a creature such
As, to seek through the regions of the earth
For one his like, there would be something failing
In him that should compare. I do not think
So fair an outward, and such stuff within
Endows a man but he.
2. Gent. You speak him far.
1. Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself,
Crush him together rather than unfold
His measure duly.
2. Gent. What’s his name and birth?
1. Gent. I cannot delve him to the root. His father
Was call’d Sicilius, who did gain his honour
Against the Romans with Cassibelan,
But had his titles by Tenantius whom
He serv’d with glory and admir’d success,
So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus;
And hath, besides this gentleman in question,
Two other sons, who in the wars o’ the time
Died with their swords in hand; for which their father
Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow
That he quit being, and his gentle lady,
Big of this gentleman our theme, deceas’d
As he was born. The King he takes the babe
To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus,
Breeds him and makes him of his bed chamber,
Puts to him all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of; which he took,
As we do air, fast as ’twas minist’red,
And in’s spring became a harvest; liv’d in court—
Which rare it is to do—most prais’d, most lov’d,
A sample to the youngest, to the more mature
A glass that feated them, and to the graver
A child that guided dotards; to his mistress,
For whom he is now banish’d—her own price
Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read
What kind of man he is.
2. Gent. I honour him
Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me
Is she sole child to the King?
1. Gent. His only child.
He had two sons—if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it—the eldest of them at three years old,
I’ the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stolen, and to this hour no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.
2. Gent. How long is this ago?
1. Gent. Some twenty years.
2. Gent. That a King’s children should be so convey’d,
So slackly guarded and the search so slow,
That could not trace them!
1. Gent. Howso’er ’tis strange,
Or that the negligence may well be laughed at,
Yet it is true, sir.
2. Gent. I do well believe you.
1. Gent. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman,
The Queen and Princess. (Exeunt.)6
Here Shakespeare trusts mere exposition to rouse interest. His speakers merely question and answer, showing little characterization and practically no emotion. Is this extract as interesting as the following?
Fits Urse. (Catches hold of the last flying monk.) Where is the traitor Becket?
Becket. Here.
No traitor to the King, but Priest of God,
Primate of England. (Descending into the transept.)
I am he ye seek.
What would ye have of me?
Fits Urse. Your life.
De Tracy. Your life.
De Morville. Save that you will absolve the bishops.
Becket. Never—
Except they make submission to the Church.
You had my answer to that cry before.
De Morville. Why, then you are a dead man; flee!
Becket. I will not.
I am readier to be slain than thou to slay.
Hugh, I know well that thou hast but half a heart
To bathe this sacred pavement with my blood.
God pardon thee and these, but God’s full curse
Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm
One of my flock!
Fitz Urse. Seize him and carry him!
Come with us—nay—thou art our prisoner—come!
(Fitz Urse lays hold of Archbishop’s pall.)
Becket. Down!
(Throws him headlong.)
De Morville. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man.
Fitz Urse. (Advances with drawn sword.) I told thee that I should remember thee!
Becket. Profligate pander!
Fitz Urse. Do you hear that? Strike, strike.
(Strikes the Archbishop and wounds him in the forehead.)
Becket. (Covers his eyes with his hand.) I do commend my cause to God.
Fitz Urse.. Strike him, Tracy!
Rosamund. (Rushing down the steps from the choir.) No, no, no, no. Mercy, Mercy,
As you would hope for mercy.
Fitz Urse. Strike, I say.
Grim. O, God, O, noble knight, O, sacrilege!
Fitz Urse. Strike! I say.
De Tracy. There is my answer then.
(Sword falls on Grim’s arm, and glances from it, wounding Becket.)
This last to rid thee of a world of brawls!
Becket. (Falling on his knees.) Into thy hands, O Lord—into thy hands—! (Sinks prone.)
De Brito. The traitor’s dead, and will arise no more.
(De Brito, De Tracy, Fitz Urse rush out, crying “King’s men!” De Morville follows slowly. Flashes of lightning through the Cathedral. Rosamund seen kneeling at the body of Becket.)7
The physical action of this extract instantly grips attention. Interested at once by this action, shortly we rush on unthinking, but feeling more and more intensely. In this extract action is everywhere. The actionless Cymbeline is undramatic. This extract is intensely dramatic.
Just what, however, is this action which in drama is so essential? To most people it means physical or bodily action which rouses sympathy or dislike in an audience. The action of melodrama certainly exists largely for itself. We expect and get little but physical action for its own sake when a play is announced as was the well-known melodrama, A Race for Life.
| As Melodramatically and Masterfully Stirring, Striking and Sensational as Phil Sheridan’s Famous Ride. Superb, Stupendous Scenes in Sunset Regions. Wilderness Wooings Where Wild Roses Grow. The Lights and Shades of Rugged Border Life. Chinese Comedy to Make Confucius Chuckle. The Realism of the Ranch and Race Track. The Hero Horse That Won a Human Life. An Equine Beauty Foils a Murderous Beast. Commingled Gleams of Gladness, Grief, and Guilt. Dope, Dynamite and Devilish Treachery Distanced. Continuous Climaxes That Come Like Cloudbursts. |
Some plays depend almost wholly upon mere bustle and rapidly shifting movement, much of it wholly unnecessary to the plot. Large portions of many recent musical comedies illustrate this. Such unnecessary but crudely effective movement Stevenson burlesqued more than once in the stage directions of his Macaire.
ACT I. SCENE I
Aline and maids; to whom Fiddlers; afterwards Dumont and Charles. As the curtain rises, the sound of the violin is heard approaching. Aline and the inn servants, who are discovered laying the table, dance up to door L.C., to meet the Fiddlers, who enter likewise dancing to their own music. Air: “Haste to the Wedding.” The Fiddlers exeunt playing into house, R.U.E. Aline and Maids dance back to table, which they proceed to arrange.
Aline. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don’t mind extra work, I don’t, so long as there’s fun about it. Hand me up that pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in the Notary’s glass: that’s the girl he’s courting.
Dumont. (Entering with Charles.) Good girls, good girls! Charles, in ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!
ACT II. SCENE 2
To these all the former characters, less the Notary. The fiddlers are heard without, playing dolefully. Air: “O, dear, what can the matter be?” in time to which the procession enters.
Macaire. Well, friends, what cheer?
Aline. No wedding, no wedding! Together
Goriot. I told ’ee he can’t, and he can’t!
Dumont. Dear, dear me.
Ernestine. They won’t let us marry. Together
Charles. No wife, no father, no nothing.
Curate. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the Notary.
Macaire. I perceive I must reveal myself.8
If physical action in and of itself is so often dramatic, is all physical action dramatic? That is, does it always create emotion in an onlooker? No. It goes for naught unless it rouses his interest. Of itself, or because of the presentation given it by the dramatist, it must rouse in the onlooker an emotional response. A boy seeing “Crazy Mary” stalking the street in bedizened finery and bowing right and left, may see nothing interesting in her. More probably her actions will move him to jeer and jibe at her. Let some spectator, however, tell the boy of the tragedy in Crazy Mary’s younger life which left her unbalanced, and, if he has any right feeling, the boy’s attitude will begin to change. He may even give over the jeering he has begun. Reveal to him exactly what is passing in the crazed mind of the woman, and his mere interest will probably turn to sympathy. Characterization, preceding and accompanying action, creates sympathy or repulsion for the figure or figures involved. This sympathy or repulsion in turn converts mere interest into emotional response of the keenest kind. Though physical action is undoubtedly fundamental in drama, no higher form than crude melodrama or crude farce can develop till characterization appears to explain and interpret action.
The following extracts from Robertson’s Home show physical action, silly it is true, yet developing characterization by illustrative action. The first, even as it amuses, characterizes the timid Bertie, and the second shows the mild mentality and extreme confusion of the two central figures.
Mr. Dorrison. Will you give Mrs. Pinchbeck your arm, Colonel? Dora, my dear. (Taking Dora’s.) Lucy, Captain Mountraffe will—(Sees him asleep.) Ah, Lucy, you must follow by yourself.
(Colonel takes off Mrs. Pinchbeck; Dorrison, Dora. At that moment, Bertie enters window, R., and runs to Lucy, kneels at her feet, and is about to kiss her hand. Mountraffe yawns, which frightens Bertie. He is running off as the drop falls quickly.)
End of Act I
Colonel. I’d always give my eyes to be alone with this girl for five minutes, and whenever I am alone with her, I haven’t a word to say for myself. (Aloud.) That music, Miss Thornhaugh?
Dora. (At piano.) Yes.
Col. (Aside.) As if it could be anything else. How stupid of me. (Aloud.) New music?
Dora. Yes.
Col. New laid—I mean, fresh from the country—fresh from London, or—yes—I—(Dora sits on music stool at piano. This scene is played with great constraint on both sides. Colonel bends over Dora at piano.) Going to play any of it now?
Dora. No. I must practise it first. I can’t play at sight.
Col. Can’t you really? Don’t you believe in—music—at first sight?
(Dora drops a music book. Colonel picks it up. Dora tries to pick it up. They knock their heads together; mutual confusion. As they rise, each has hold of the book.)
Dora. } I beg your pardon. (Both trembling.) Col. }
Dora. It’s nothing.
Col. Nothing, quite so.
(Dora sits on music stool. As she does so, both leave hold of the book and it falls again.)
Dora. I thought you had the book.
Col. (Picking it up.) And I thought you had it, and it appears that neither of us had it. Ha! ha! (Aside.) Fool that I am! (Dora sits thoughtfully, Colonel bending over her; a pause.) Won’t you play something?
Dora. I don’t know how to play.
Col. Oh, well, play the other one. (They resume their attitudes; a pause.) The weather has been very warm today, has it not?
Dora. Very.
Col. Looks like thunder to me.
Dora. Does it?
Col. Are you fond of thunder—I mean fond of music? I should say are you fond of lightning? (Dora touches keys of piano mechanically.) Do play something.
Dora. No, I—I didn’t think of what I was doing. What were you talking about?
Col. About? You—me—no! About thunder—music—I mean lightning.
Dora. I’m afraid of lightning. (Act II.)9
The first scene of Act I of Romeo and Juliet is full of interesting physical action—quarrels, fighting, and the halting of the fight by the angry Prince. The physical action, however, characterizes in every instance, from the servants of the two factions to Tybalt, Benvolio, the Capulets, the Montagues, and the Prince. Moreover, this interesting physical action, which is all the more interesting because it characterizes, is interesting in the third place because in every instance it helps to an understanding of the story. It shows so intense an enmity between the two houses that even the servants cannot meet in the streets without quarreling. By its characterization it prepares for the parts Benvolio and Tybalt are to play in later scenes. It motivates the edict of banishment which is essential if the tragedy of the play is to occur.
SCENE 1. Verona. A public place
Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Capulet, with swords and bucklers
Sampson. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.
Gregory. No, for then we should be colliers.
Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.
Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.
Sam. I strike quickly, being mov’d.
Gre. But thou art not quickly mov’d to strike.
Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
·········
Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of Montague.
Enter two other serving-men. (Abraham and Balthasar.)
Sam. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel, I will back thee.
Gre. How! turn thy back and run?
Sam. Fear me not.
Gre. No, marry; I fear thee!
Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.
Gre. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.
Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them if they bare it.
Abraham. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir.
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. (Aside to Gre.) Is the law of our side, if I say ay?
Gre. No.
Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.
Gre. Do you quarrel, sir?
Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir.
Sam. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.
Abr. No better.
Sam. Well, sir.
Enter Benvolio.
Gre. Say “better”; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.
Sam. Yes, better, sir.
Abr. You lie.
Sam. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. (They fight.)
Benvolio. Part, fools! Put up your swords; you know not what you do. (Beats down their swords.)
Enter Tybalt
Tybalt. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.
Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.
Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward! (They fight.)
Enter three or four citizens, and officers, with clubs or partisans
Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!
Enter Capulet in his gown and Lady Capulet
Capulet. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
Lady Capulet. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?
Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me.
Enter Montague and Lady Montague
Montague. Thou villain, Capulet—Hold me not, let me go.
Lady Montague. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
Enter Prince, with his train
Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel—
Will they not hear?—What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona’s ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,
Cank’red with peace, to part your cank’red hate;
If ever you disturb our streets again
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away.
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgement place,
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.
(Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio.)
Even physical action, then, may interest for itself, or because it characterizes, or because it helps on the story, or for two or more of these reasons.
If we examine other extracts from famous plays we shall, however, find ourselves wondering whether action in drama must not mean something besides mere physical action. In the opening scene of La Princesse Georges, by Dumas fils, the physical action is neither large in amount nor varied, but the scene is undeniably dramatic, for emotions represented create prompt emotional response in us.
ACT I. SCENE 1
A Drawing Room
Severine, watching near the window, with the curtain drawn a little aside, then Rosalie
Severine. Rosalie! At last! What a night I have gone through! Sixteen hours of waiting! (To Rosalie, who enters.) Well?
Rosalie. Madame, the Princess must be calm.
Severine. Don’t call me Princess. That’s wasting time.
Rosalie. Madame has not slept?
Severine. No.
Rosalie. I suspected as much.
Severine. Tell me, is it true?
Rosalie. Yes.
Severine. The details, then.
Rosalie. Well, then, last evening I followed the Prince, who went to the Western Railway, as he had told Madame that he would do, to take the train at half past nine; only, instead of buying a ticket for Versailles, he took one for Rouen.
Severine. But he was alone?
Rosalie. Yes. But five minutes after he arrived, she came.
Severine. Who was the woman?
Rosalie. Alas, Madame knows her better than I!
Severine. It is some one whom I know?
Rosalie. Yes.
Severine. Not one of those women?—
Rosalie. It is one of your intimate friends, of the best social position.
Severine. Valentine? Bertha? No.—The Baroness?
Rosalie. The Countess Sylvanie.
Severine. She? Impossible! She stayed here, with me, until at least nine o’clock. We dined alone together.
Rosalie. She was making sure that you didn’t suspect anything.
Severine. Indeed, nothing. And she came to the train at what hour?
Rosalie. At twenty-five minutes past nine.
Severine. So, in twenty-five minutes—
Rosalie. She went home; she changed her dress (she arrived all in black); she went to the St. Lazare Station. It is true that only your garden and hers separate her house from yours; that she has the best horses in Paris; and that she is accustomed to doing this sort of thing, if I may believe what I have heard.
Severine. To what a pass we have come! My most intimate friend! Did they speak to each other?10
This scene wins our attention because it reveals in Severine a mental state which in itself interests and moves us far more than the mere physical action.
What has been said of La Princesse Georges is even more true of the ending of Marlowe’s Faustus.
Faustus. Ah, Faustus: Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn’d perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature’s eye, rise, rise again and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente, lente currite, noctis equi! The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus will be damn’d. … … . … All beasts are happy, For when they die, Their souls are soon dissolv’d in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu’d in hell. Curs’d be the parents that engender’d me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
(The clock strikes twelve.)
O, it strikes, it strikes! Now body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
(Thunder and lightning.)
O, soul, be chang’d into little water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne’er be found!
Enter Devils
My God, my God, look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!—Ah, Mephistophilis!
(Exeunt Devils with Faustus.)11
Though this scene doubtless requires physical action as the tortured Faustus flings himself about the stage, would that action be clear enough to move us greatly were it not for the characterization of the preceding scenes and the masterly phrasing which exactly reveals the tortured soul? Is it not a mental state rather than physical action which moves us here? Surely.
The fact is, the greatest drama of all time, and the larger part of the drama of the past twenty years, uses action much less for its own sake than to reveal mental states which are to rouse sympathy or repulsion in an audience. In brief, marked mental activity may be quite as dramatic as mere physical action. Hamlet may sit quietly by his fire as he speaks the soliloquy “To be, or not to be,” yet by what we already know of him and what the lines reveal we are moved to the deepest sympathy for his tortured state. There is almost no physical movement as Percinet reads to Sylvette from Romeo and Juliet in the opening pages of Rostand’s Romancers, yet we are amused and pleased by their excited delight.
ACT I
The stage is cut in two by an old wall, mossy and garlanded by luxurious vines. To the right, a corner of Bergamin’s park; to the left a corner of Pasquinot’s. On each side, against the wall, a bench.
SCENE 1. Sylvette. Percinet. When the curtain rises, Percinet is seated on the wall, with a book on his knees, from which he is reading to Sylvette. She stands on the bench in her father’s park, her chin in her hands, her elbows against the wall, listening attentively.
Sylvette. O Monsieur Percinet, how beautiful it is!
Percinet. Isn’t it? Hear Romeo’s reply! (He reads.) “It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night’s candles are burnt out and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops: I must be gone. …”
Sylvette. (Alert, with animation.) Sh!
Percinet. (Listens a moment, then) No one! So, mademoiselle, don’t have the air of an affrighted birdling on a branch, ready to spread wing at the slightest sound. Hear the immortal lovers talking:
She. “Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch bearer.”
He. “Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye; ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads; I have more care to stay than will to go: Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.”
Sylvette. Oh, no! I won’t have him talk of that; if he does, I shall cry.
Percinet. Then we’ll shut our book till tomorrow, and, since you wish it, let sweet Romeo live.
(He closes the book and looks about him.)
What an adorable spot! It seems made for lulling one’s self with the lines of the great William.12
Here is great activity, but it is mental rather than physical action. To make it rouse us to the desired emotional response, good characterization and wisely chosen words are necessary.
Examine also the opening scene of Maeterlinck’s The Blind. A group of sightless people have been deserted in a wood by their guide, and consequently are so bewildered and timorous that they hardly dare move. Yet all their trepidation, doubt, and awe are clearly conveyed to us, with a very small amount of physical action, through skilful characterization, and words specially chosen and ordered to create and intensify emotion in us.
An ancient Norland forest, with an eternal look, under a sky of deep stars.
In the centre and in the deep of the night, a very old priest is sitting, wrapped in a great black cloak. The chest and the head, gently upturned and deathly motionless, rest against the trunk of a giant hollow oak. The face is fearsome pale and of an immovable waxen lividness, in which the purple lips fall slightly apart. The dumb, fixed eyes no longer look out from the visible side of Eternity and seem to bleed with immemorial sorrows and with tears. The hair, of a solemn whiteness, falls in stringy locks, stiff and few, over a face more illuminated and more weary than all that surrounds it in the watchful stillness of that melancholy wood. The hands, pitifully thin, are clasped rigidly over the thighs.
On the right, six old men, all blind, are sitting on stones, stumps, and dead leaves.
On the left, separated from them by an uprooted tree and fragments of rock, six women, also blind, are sitting opposite the old men. Three among them pray and mourn without ceasing, in a muffled voice. Another is old in the extreme. The fifth, in an attitude of mute insanity, holds on her knees a little sleeping child. The sixth is strangely young and her whole body is drenched with her beautiful hair. They, as well as the old men, are all clad in the same ample and sombre garments. Most of them are waiting, with their elbows on their knees and their faces in their hands; and all seem to have lost the habit of ineffectual gesture and no longer turn their heads at the stifled and uneasy noises of the Island. Tall funereal trees—yews, weeping-willows, cypresses—cover them with their faithful shadows. A cluster of long, sickly asphodels is in bloom, not far from the priest, in the night. It is unusually oppressive, despite the moonlight that here and there struggles to pierce for an instant the glooms of the foliage.
First Blind Man. (Who was born blind.) He hasn’t come back yet?
Second Blind Man. (Who also was born blind.) You have awakened me.
First Blind Man. I was sleeping, too.
Third Blind Man. (Also born blind.) I was sleeping, too.
First Blind Man. He hasn’t come yet?
Second Blind Man. I hear something coming.
Third Blind Man. It is time to go back to the Asylum.
First Blind Man. We ought to find out where we are.
Second Blind Man. It has grown cold since he left.
First Blind Man. We ought to find out where we are!
The Very Old Blind Man. Does any one know where we are?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We were walking a very long while; we must be a long way from the Asylum.
First Blind Man. Oh! the women are opposite us?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We are sitting opposite you.
First Blind Man. Wait, I am coming over where you are. (He rises and gropes in the dark.) Where are you?—Speak! let me hear where you are!
The Very Old Blind Woman. Here; we are sitting on stones.
First Blind Man. (Advances and stumbles against the fallen tree and the rocks.) There is something between us.
Second Blind Man. We had better keep our places.
Third Blind Man. Where are you sitting?—Will you come over by us?
The Very Old Blind Woman. We dare not rise!
Third Blind Man. Why did he separate us?
First Blind Man. I hear praying on the women’s side.
Second Blind Man. Yes; the three old women are praying.
First Blind Man. This is no time for prayer!
Second Blind Man. You will pray soon enough, in the dormitory!
(The three old women continue their prayers.)
Third Blind Man. I should like to know who it is I am sitting by.
Second Blind Man. I think I am next to you.
(They feel about them.)
Third Blind Man. We can’t reach each other.
First Blind Man. Nevertheless, we are not far apart. (He feels about him and strikes with his staff the fifth blind man, who utters a muffled groan.) The one who cannot hear is beside us.
Second Blind Man. I don’t hear anybody; we were six just now.
First Blind Man. I am going to count. Let us question the women, too; we must know what to depend upon. I hear the three old women praying all the time; are they together?
The Very Old Blind Woman. They are sitting beside me, on a rock.
First Blind Man. I am sitting on dead leaves.
Third Blind Man. And the beautiful blind girl, where is she?
The Very Old Blind Woman. She is near them that pray.
Second Blind Man. Where is the mad woman, and her child?
The Young Blind Girl. He sleeps; do not awaken him!
First Blind Man. Oh! How far away you are from us! I thought you were opposite me!
Third Blind Man. We know—nearly—all we need to know. Let us chat a little, while we wait for the priest to come back.13
Many an inexperienced dramatist fails to see the force of these words of Maeterlinck: “An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently, with his lamp beside him—submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny—motionless as he is does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, and more universal life than the lover who strangles his mistress, the captain who conquers in battle, or the husband who ‘avenges his honor.’ ” If an audience can be made to feel and understand the strong but contained emotion of this motionless figure, he is rich dramatic material.
In the extracts from La Princesse Georges, Faustus, The Romancers, The Blind, in the soliloquy of Hamlet referred to, and the illustration quoted from Maeterlinck, it is not physical outward expression but the vivid picture we get of a state of mind which stirs us. Surely all these cases prove that we must include mental as well as physical activity in any definition of the word dramatic. Provided a writer can convey to his audience the excited mental state of one or more of his characters, then this mental activity is thoroughly dramatic. That is, neither physical nor mental activity is in itself dramatic; all depends on whether it naturally arouses, or can be made by the author to arouse, emotion in an audience. Just as we had to add to physical action which arouses emotional response of itself, physical action which is made to arouse response because it develops the story or illustrates character, we must now add action which is not physical, but mental.
There is even another chance for confusion. A figure sitting motionless not because he is thinking hard but because blank in mind may yet be dramatic. Utter inaction, both physical and mental, of a figure represented on the stage does not mean that it is necessarily undramatic. If the dramatist can make an audience feel the terrible tragedy of the contrast between what might have been and what is for this perfectly quiet unthinking figure, he rouses emotion in his hearers, and in so doing makes his material dramatic. Suppose, too, that the expressionless figure is an aged father or mother very dear to some one in the play who has strongly won the sympathy of the audience. The house takes fire. The flames draw nearer and nearer the unconscious figure. We are made to look at the situation through the eyes of the character—some child or relative—to whom the scene, were he present, would mean torture. Instantly the figure, because of the way in which it is represented, becomes dramatic. Here again, however, the emotion of the audience could hardly be aroused except through characterization of the figure as it was or might have been, or of the child or relative who has won our sympathy. Again, too, characterization so successful must depend a good deal on well-chosen words.
This somewhat elaborate analysis should have made three points clear. First, we may arouse emotion in an audience by mere physical action; by physical action which also develops the story, or illustrates character, or does both; by mental rather than physical action, if clearly and accurately conveyed to the audience; and even by inaction, if characterization and dialogue by means of other figures are of high order. Secondly, as the various illustrations have been examined, it must have become steadily more clear that while action is popularly held to be central in drama, emotion is really the essential. Because it is the easiest expression of emotion to understand, physical action, which without illuminating characterization and dialogue can express only a part of the world of emotion, has been too often accepted as expressing all the emotion the stage can present. Thirdly, it should be clear that a statement one meets too frequently in books on the drama, that certain stories or characters, above all certain well-known books, are essentially undramatic material is at least dubious. The belief arises from the fact that the story, character, or idea, as usually presented, seems to demand much analysis and description, and almost to preclude illustrative action. In the past few years, however, the drama of mental states and the drama which has revealed emotional significance in seeming or real inaction, has been proving that “nothing human is foreign” to the drama. A dramatist may see in the so-called undramatic material emotional values. If so, he will develop a technique which will create in his public a satisfaction equal to that which the so-called undramatic story, character, or idea could give in story form. Of course he will treat it differently in many respects because he is writing not to be read but to be heard, and to affect the emotions, not of the individual, but of a large group taken as a group. He will prove that till careful analysis has shown in a given story, character, or idea, no possibility of arousing the same or dissimilar emotions in an audience, we cannot say that this or that is dramatic or undramatic, but only: “This material will require totally different presentation if it is to be dramatic on the stage, and only a person of acumen, experience with audiences, and inventive technique can present it effectively.”
The misapprehension just analyzed rests not only on the misconception that action rather than emotion is the essential in drama, but also largely on a careless use of the word dramatic. In popular use this word means material for drama, or creative of emotional response, or perfectly fitted for production under the conditions of the theatre. If we examine a little, in the light of this chapter, the nature and purpose of a play, we shall see that dramatic should stand only for the first two definitions, and that theatric must be used for the third. Avoiding the vague definition material for drama, use dramatic only as creative of emotional response and the confusion will disappear.
A play exists to create emotional response in an audience. The response may be to the emotions of the people in the play or the emotions of the author as he watches these people. Where would satirical comedy be if, instead of sharing the amusement, disdain, contempt or moral anger of the dramatist caused by his figures, we responded exactly to their follies or evil moods? All ethical drama gets its force by creating in an audience the feelings toward the people in the play held by the author. Dumas fils, Ibsen, Brieux prove the truth of this statement. The writer of the satirical or the ethical play, obtruding his own personality as in the case of Ben Jonson, or with fine impersonality as in the case of Congreve or Molière, makes his feelings ours. It is an obvious corollary of this statement that the emotions aroused in an audience need not be the same as those felt by the people on the stage. They may be in the sharpest contrast. Any one experienced in drama knows that the most intensely comic effects often come from people acting very seriously. In Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (Act I, Scene 2), the morning reception of M. Jourdain affords an instance of this in his trying on of costumes, fencing, and lessons in dancing and language. Serious entirely for M. Jourdain they are as presented by Molière, exquisitely comic for us. In brief, the dramatic may rouse the same, allied, or even contrasting emotions in an onlooker.
Nor need the emotion roused in an audience by actor or author be exactly the same in amount. The actress who abandons herself to the emotions of the part she is playing soon exhausts her nervous vitality. It would be the same if audiences listening to the tragic were permitted to feel the scenes as keenly as the figures of the story. On the other hand, in some cases, if the comic figure on the stage felt his comicality as strongly as the audience which is speechless with laughter, he could not go on, and the scene would fail. Evidently, an audience may be made, as the dramatist wills, to feel more or less emotion than the characters of the play.
That it is duplication of emotion to the same, a less, or a greater extent or the creation of contrasting emotion which underlies all drama, from melodrama, riotous farce and even burlesque to high-comedy and tragedy, must be firmly grasped if a would-be dramatist is to steer his way clearly through the many existing and confusing definitions of dramatic. For instance, Brunetière said, “Drama is the representation of the will of man in contrast to the mysterious powers of natural forces which limit and belittle us; it is one of us thrown living upon the stage, there to struggle against fatality, against social law, against one of his fellow mortals, against himself, if need be, against the emotions, the interests, the prejudices, the folly, the malevolence of those around him.”14 That is, by this definition, conflict is central in drama. But we know that in recent drama particularly, the moral drifter has many a time aroused our sympathy. Surely inertness, supineness, stupidity, and even torpor may be made to excite emotion in an audience. Conflict covers a large part of drama but not all of it.
Mr. William Archer, in his Play-Making, declares that “a crisis” is the central matter in drama, but one immediately wishes to know what constitutes a crisis, and we have defined without defining. When he says elsewhere that that is dramatic which “by representation of imaginary personages is capable of interesting an average audience assembled in a theatre,”15 he almost hits the truth. If we rephrase this definition: “That is dramatic which by representation of imaginary personages interests, through its emotions, an average audience assembled in a theatre,” we have a definition which will better stand testing.
Is all dramatic material, theatric? No, for theatric does not necessarily mean sensational, melodramatic, artificial. It should mean, and it will be so used in this book, adapted for the purpose of the theatre. Certainly all dramatic material, that is, material which arouses or may be made to arouse emotion, is not fitted for use in the theatre when first it comes to the hand of the dramatist. Undeniably, the famous revivalists, Moody, J.B. Gough, Billy Sunday, have worked from emotions to emotions; that is, they have been dramatic. Intentionally, feeling themselves justified by the ends obtained, they have, too, been theatric in the poor and popular sense of the word, namely, exaggerated, melodramatic, sensational. Yet theatric in the best sense of the word these highly emotional speakers, who have swept audiences out of all self-control, have not been. They worked as speakers, not as playwrights. Though they sometimes acted admirably, what they presented was in no sense a play. To accomplish in play form what they accomplished as speakers, that is, to make the material properly theatric, would have required an entire reworking. From all this it follows that even material so emotional in its nature as to be genuinely dramatic may need careful reworking if it is to succeed as a play, that is, if it is to become properly theatric. Drama, then, is presentation of an individual or group of individuals so as to move an audience to responsive emotion of the kind desired by the dramatist and to the amount required. This response must be gained under the conditions which a dramatist finds or develops in a theatre; that is, dramatic material must be made theatric in the right sense of the word before it can become drama.
To summarize: accurately conveyed emotion is the great fundamental in all good drama. It is conveyed by action, characterization, and dialogue. It must be conveyed in a space of time, usually not exceeding two hours and a half, and under the existing physical conditions of the stage, or with such changes as the dramatist may bring about in them. It must be conveyed, not directly through the author, but indirectly through the actors. In order that the dramatic may become theatric in the right sense of the word, the dramatic must be made to meet all these conditions successfully. These conditions affect action, characterization, and dialogue. A dramatist must study the ways in which the dramatic has been and may be made theatric: that is what technique means.
