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The Analysis of Play Construction 
 and Dramatic Principle 
 
 BY 
 
 W. T. PRICE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE TECHNIQUE OF 
 THE DRAMA" 
 
 W. T. PRICE, PUBLISHER 
 
 1440 BROADWAY 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ^ OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ) 
 
n^ c o 
 
 Copyright, 1908, W. T. Prick. 
 
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 pf4C 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Delusion About Dramatic Instinct i 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Analysis 9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Method to be Pursued 16 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Theme 19 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^ CHAPTERCY: ,^ 
 
 -1^. The Material r 26"*? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Conditions Precedent 33 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Proposition 50 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 ^ 
 
 4 The Plot > 64 l3 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The Diviiion into Acts 78 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Division into Scenes 86 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 The Scenario 121 
 
 ^ CHAPTER ^E 
 ^ The Action of a Play 123 tl\ 
 
 ^ CHAPTER (^rai 
 -t^ Unity 146 10 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Sequence 156 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Cause and Effect 171 
 
 CHAPTER %V\ 
 
 o 
 
 7v Action (Drama) is not Mere Life 182 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 -^ Action (Drama) is not Story 193 
 
 ,iv 
 
IV CONTKNTS 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 •f Action (Drama) is not Mere Business 206 
 
 chapter{xix) 
 
 ^ Action (Drama) is not Primarily a Matffe*-of Words 220 VL H, 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Indirection is the Dramatic Method, the Opposite of Story Telling. . 232 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Objectivity — The Visual 246 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 The Unexpected 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 Preparation 282 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Action (Drama) Must be Self-explanatory, Self-developing and Self- 
 progressive 294 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 Compulsion 309 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 Facts 321 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 The Necessary and the Unnecessary j-. 328 
 
 O CHAPTER(XXVml 
 X^ Character >rrr<r:. ..,.,... 335 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 Dialogue, Monologues and Asides 343 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 Entrances and Exits 363 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 Episode 381 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 Scenery 390 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 Detail ; Circumstantiality 396 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 The Condescending Fallacy that only the Rudiments can be Taught 408 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 Systematic Study 412 
 
\ 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 After the publication of my "Technique of the Drama," rf 
 sixteen years agOj and while I was acting as playreader for 
 the then leading manager in New York, I was constantly 
 besought by people for advice on their plays. I found that 
 nothing could be done with the individual who, although he 
 had read everything ever written on the subject, knew no- 
 thing of the art of playwriting. It required the expenditure 
 of too much vital energy to combat his self-confident ignor- 
 ance. It was the bottomless pit. T discovered that this 
 ignorance was not altogether his fault, for no book, my own 
 included, had ever been published in any language that was 
 adequate for the practical requirements of the workshop. 
 Such books as had been published were useful as an intro- 
 duction to the study, and they are still absolutely essential 
 to the student, but something more is required. It also be- 
 came plain to me that the art was too large to be compassed 
 by a single volume or by any one method of investigation or 
 instruction. It is not to the purpose now to enquire into 
 the reasons why no dramatist has ever attempted to provide 
 these needed text books for the student, supplying him 
 with the tools of the workshop and not books of literary 
 style addressed to posterity, with the quick delivery stamp 
 on them of an endowed college professor. It was also plain 
 to me that the whole subject required a new investigation 
 and restudy conducted on an entirely independent initiative. 
 It was not possible to meet the demand by a compilation. 
 The process of the amateur's mind had to be considered, 
 that process which is entirely natural to the mind ignorant 
 of dramatic law in all directions. I am free to say that I 
 have learned more on that line of investigation than on any 
 other. It has been to my profit, and I hope to that of the 
 student, that I have read and analyzed thousands of plays 
 by amateurs. The study of false dramatic syntax will be an 
 important element in our work together. This volume con- 
 
VI PREFACE 
 
 cerns Analysis only. In another section of our study I shall 
 trace dramatic law back to nature and the constitution of 
 the human mind, thereby proving to you that the form is 
 not purely artificial and that true plays are not written by 
 "rules;" and then step by step we shall do all that is re- 
 quired of the craftsman to gain his art. My sole and con- 
 stant aim is to be of service to the student by formulating 
 the art in the most practical way and by not writing a sin- 
 gle line for the mere sake of writing. 
 
 W. T. PRICE. 
 New York, June, 1908. 
 
u^?^ 
 
 ') 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DELUSION ABOUT DRAMATIC INSTINCT. 
 
 Reserving for another chapter the vivisection and the 
 complete demolition in every honest mind, I believe, of the 
 absurd and monstrous idea that a playwright is or can be 
 or ever was or ever will be born, I wish now to urge upon 
 you the practical dangers of any belief on your part that 
 you have any dramatic instinct as something apart from 
 a knowledge of dramatic principle that must be gained. If 
 3^ou hug and caress this delusion your progress will be de- 
 layed and the day of your success will be remote. Your 
 mind will not be open. You will not accept the authority 
 of Technique and you will be constantly assuming that you 
 fully understand something of which you really see only 
 the surface. You will be constantly saying that you "knew 
 all that before," when it is something about which you 
 know the least. I am not trying to establish any personal 
 authority over you by these statements, but I have a jeal- 
 ous regard and a profound respect for an Art whose author- 
 ity cannot be denied by any one without his loss of my 
 respect. I am speaking plainly and in the first person, for 
 my feeling on the subject proceeds from a large experience 
 with people of this recalcitrant mind. If one begins this 
 study with the idea that he has a dramatic instinct superior 
 to fixed law, he begins as a fool and usually ends as a fool ; 
 or, he loses years in self-complacent vanity before he yields 
 to the authority of the Art. I think I shall conclusively 
 demonstrate that the idea that one can be born a play- 
 wright is a monstrous lie and fraught with evil. If one 
 personally believes it of himself he is suffering from a forrni 
 of insanity. It is an evil lie, for all lies are evil. It makes 
 vanity a loathesome appanage of a professional career. If 
 you have the dramatic instinct in the misleading and dan- 
 I 
 
2 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E: 
 
 gerous sense that I describe, why are you seeking further 
 knowledge? Instinct does not have to be taught. If 
 you have any instinct about the stage it is something that 
 you have acquired by reading or seeing or hearing or ob- 
 servation of your own initiative. It takes years to gain 
 this "instinct" and even then it may be imperfect instinct. 
 The inherent characteristic of every Art is that it re- 
 duces its principles to terms, and if you do not understand 
 those terms and the full meaning of each principle in all its 
 aspects you are not an artist. You would not be able to 
 discuss intelligently or intelligibly any given scientific sub- 
 ject with the professional scientist. He would not under- 
 stand you and you would not understand him at all. He 
 talks in shorthand, you would be talking ^bberish. You 
 may occasionally see in the depths of night a gang of work- 
 men making some repairs of an electrical trolley way. Great 
 gasoline lamps flare up with a constant roar and throw a 
 lurid light against the darkness and giving picturesqueness 
 to the busy laborers. Here and there flames from a blow- 
 pipe are shot against the joints of the rails. A superintend- 
 ent is standing perhaps on the sidewalk. Address him and 
 ask him what they are doing. My own personal experience 
 in this particular matter was brief. The courteous reply 
 of the superintendent was, "Do you know anything about 
 electricity?" "No." "Then, I am sorry, I cannot explain 
 it to you." In every Art everything, not one or two things, 
 has a definite meaning. You would not think much of a 
 mathematician who could not define a straight line, would 
 you? He might have that idea of a straight line which 
 perhaps every human being has, but if he could not define 
 it, stripped of all manner of verbiage, and in its one scien- 
 tific expression, he would not be a mathematician at all. 
 It is not enough merely to know the terms themiselves. One 
 hears many people who have tinkered at the study of the 
 drama and who think they know something of the Art 
 constantly using terms without knowing what they mean. 
 They talk about Unity with the perfect assurance that it 
 
THE DEIvUSION ABOUT DRAMATIC INSTINCT 3 
 
 is absolutely clear to them and in the practical application 
 of it they may be invariably wide of the mark. They speaks 
 of their plays as being full of Action when, in fact, there 
 may be an utter absence of Action in them. They talk of 
 Plot and have not the slightest idea of the definite and in- 
 evitable requirements of a Plot. In order to become a 
 master of this Art one must rid himself of generalities. 
 
 It is very easy to be misled as to one's own knowledge of 
 the Art of Playwriting. I was told by a dramatist of the 
 highest distinction that it was only after the production 
 of his fourth play that he realized the exacting nature of 
 the Art and saw that there were one or two principles the 
 extent and use of which he had had little or no conception 
 As a play reader for managers I have been in a posi- 
 tion for a score of years and more to note the beginning 
 and progress of practically all the dramatic authors who 
 have succeeded in that time. In most cases, the first manu- 
 scripts submitted by these authors revealed little or no dra- 
 matic instinct. There may have been abundant ability, 
 there may have been very apt portrayal of character and 
 scenes worked out with more or less effectiveness, but an 
 all embracing Technique was invariably lacking. They 
 have since learned the Art, and every honest dramatist 
 among them will tell you that his experience began in 
 comparative ignorance accomjpanied by self-confidence. If 
 the Art is lacking and everything in a play, as a play, is 
 wrong, what kind of instinct is that which instinctively 
 does things wrong? If you have any idea that you have 
 dramatic instinct and that it was born in you, get rid of it. 
 I have a contempt that I cannot begin to express, although 
 my vocabulary is not altogether meagre, for people who 
 claim to have been born with a knowledge of any Art. Art 
 is a human thing. It has to be acquired. I would like to 
 take hold of these people and have them do the exercise 
 work required to bring them to their senses. Many of them 
 think that analytical work is not necessary or that their 
 minds are so constituted that they are not analytical but 
 
4 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 what they call "creative." Get that out of j'our head. In 
 playwriting, at least, there is no distinction between these 
 qualities. You must be analytical or you will never write 
 plays with any professional firmness of touch. (The diffi- 
 culty of enforcing analytical exercise work, however, I 
 have found to be so great that I require it only in the 
 answers to the Question Sheetsy Of course an infinite and 
 serviceable amount of analytical work may be done in the 
 analytical study of plays without committing the results to 
 paper, but the habit of analytical thought should be gained. 
 I do not recognize aptitude except as it comes from knowl- 
 edge, experience and training. You may have an ad-aptitude, 
 but aptitude means skill. If one has been reared on or 
 about the stage he may acquire it unconsciously, but this 
 aptitude comes from having learned the Art in one way 
 or another. Learning it primarily from the stage itself has 
 its dangers, which will be explained later. It is easy 
 enough to learn the Art superficially, but this is an Art 
 that one must master completely if he has any self-respect 
 or hopes for a career uninterrupted by deficiencies. 
 
 Those people who think they have genius, and imagine 
 that man is everything, are misguided egotists. They ig- 
 nore, or pretend to ignore, the existence of Technique, or 
 they may contend that technique is an indefinable thing and 
 personal and private property. They even think that they 
 have created Material. They are all wrong. Technique is 
 what shapes the Material. The three elements, the 
 Man, the Material, the Technique, exist with abso- 
 lute distinctness, and each gets its value when the three 
 are put together in combination. They must fuse as chemi- 
 cal elements do in creating a new substance. As a practi- 
 cal matter in playwriting, they are not only dependent the 
 one upon the other, but the one helps the other. Technique 
 suggests new material and stimulates the imagination. 
 One man uses his technique better than another. Iiidi- 
 vidual qualities are never absent. Everything is co-opera- 
 tive. 
 
THE DELUSION ABOUT DRAMATIC INSTINCT 5 
 
 The art of playwriting, Technique and the Material 
 for plays, are as absolutely distinct from you as are the sci-__ 
 ence and the substances of chemistry. Do you think you 
 could be a born chemist? It \YOuld take you three years of 
 hard study in some laboratory under chemists who labor 
 to give you instruction for you to acquire sufficient know- 
 ledge to obtain a certificate of your proficiency. The State 
 requires this certificate and does not permit born chemists 
 to deal out death at their indiscretion and with their ignor- 
 ance in the prescription departments of a chemical estab- 
 lishment. The text books of the science are enormous in 
 volume. New discoveries are being made constantly. How 
 could you be born to a knowledge of something not yet dis- 
 covered? By what biological process could you be a born 
 chemist? 
 
 Comparisons are not always conclusive, but it is 
 absolutely certain that you can no more be a born play- 
 wright than you can be born a chemist. I want to demol- 
 ish this preposterous and, as I call it, and believe it to be, 
 soul destroying idea for all time, and to attack it in as many 
 different directions as possible. The point in this attack is 
 to urge the distinction between the Man, the Material and 
 the Technique. It alone should be conclusive. Of course, 
 the Material that we have to do with in playwriting is appa- 
 rently not so recondite as in chemistry and would seem to 
 be something of universal experience and apprehension. 
 Nevertheless it is something apart from the individual. 
 This Material cannot be classified with the same complete- 
 ness and minuteness as chemical substances are. Never- 
 theless the emotions that you represent must have been ex- 
 perienced by others than yourself, and you cannot attribute 
 to them that which is impossible for them to have felt. You 
 cannot create any Material in a real play in the sense of 
 making it different from nature. New combinations only 
 can be formed, and this depends upon the man in consulta- 
 tion with his Technique. Naturally one experiences satis- 
 faction in and assumes credit for all the niceties of spirit 
 
6 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 and of form that he gives his Material; but it is easy 
 enou gh for him to attach too much importance to him- 
 se}S<l7et us take the first example that occurs to us, 
 "Browning's "Blot on the 'Scutcheon." Browning is lauded 
 as one of the greatest poetic or creative minds that ever exist- 
 ed. The man undoubtedly had a great scope of mind and 
 was an uncommon word monger, but how much of the ma- 
 terial of ''The Blot on the 'Scutcheon" did he create? Is it 
 not a familiar and, in a sense, common-place bit of material 
 out of literary ultra-romanticism, grounded, of course, in 
 the possibilities_o£4ii£>^ 
 
 Tlie^Slaterial may be so potential or actual in its relations 
 to Technique or form that the play may write itself without 
 any material indebtedness to the dramatist. How false and 
 absurd the claim of dramatic instinct in a case of this sort 
 is demonstrated by a very common result, the dramatist is 
 never heard of again. He doesn't understand the art of 
 playwriting, never succeeds in writing another play, and his 
 subsequent manuscripts afford amazed amusement in the 
 offices of managers. Can you doubt the independent exist- 
 ence of the three elements described when you consider Sir 
 Walter Scott and Dickens? These two novelists, the great- 
 est so far in English literature, in their respective fields, pos- 
 sessed more "dramatic instinct" than an infinite number of 
 successful and even famous dramatists of many countries 
 put together, but they worked with different tools from 
 those of the dramatists. Their processes of thought were 
 different. The form was different, and therein lies the 
 whole matter. Form implies a particular Technique. Sir 
 Walter Scott was observant of the drama and wrote a good 
 deal about it, but he certainly was not a dramatist, and his 
 practical knowledge of the laws of the stage was slight. It 
 is not at all improbable that he could have become a drama- 
 tist. Dickens was very close to the stage, one of the most 
 intimate friends of Macready, constantly behind the scenes, 
 was an excellent amateur actor and wrote a number of 
 small plays, but he did not cultivate the form. Neither Scott 
 
the: DEI.USION ABOUT DRAMATIC INSTINCT 7 
 
 nor Dickens took the trouble to get at the details of the 
 workshop. If the "dramatic instinct" of these men was not 
 sufficient to enable them to write plays of the highest dis^ 
 tinctive quality by what chance is it that you have been 
 born with a "dramatic instinct" that is equivalent to a com- 
 plete Technique? 
 
 If by the possession of dramatic instinct you mean that 
 you have an innate knowledge of all that Aristotle commu- 
 nicated to the world, of all that has been written upon the 
 subject (a considerable part of which, however, is compila- 
 tion of an uninformed kind), of all that the experienced and 
 trained dramatist knows, you have a pitiful misconception 
 of your own relation to the world and to human thought. 
 If you confidently believe that you instinctively know all 
 that some student may have gained in the toil of a well 
 planned and essential obscurity, of privation, in the pursuit 
 of elemental truths, you can take a little time for reflection 
 and then apply to yourself that epitjiet which no one word 
 in the English language can supply and which perhaps you 
 may find in Esperanto, a combination of all languages. "In- 
 stinct" is knowledge, whether it be in a bird building its 
 nest or in a beaver constructing its dam. At all events, 
 Technique is a matter of knowledge ! Technique is science 
 and art. It requires that everything that concerns it be 
 definite and scientific, and "instinct" is too vague to be tol- 
 erated for one instant. Just as the art existed centuries be- 
 fore you were born and will continue to exist centuries af- 
 ter you perish in your vanity, so has existed, does exist, and 
 will exist, independently of you, the Material out of which a 
 play is made. You were no more born with an innate know- 
 ledge of all the Material in the world or one atom of that 
 Material than you were born with a knowledge, an "In- 
 stinct," of the Technique. What are you and your thoughts, 
 your imaginings and your combinations compared with the 
 complexity of emotions and happenings between the my- 
 riads of souls that live and have lived? Do you think you 
 are larger than the Material and more important than the 
 
8 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.K 
 
 Technique? Man was created a little lower than the angels 
 and, we may surmise, in all modesty, is not altogether a 
 worm; but his powers are relative. He has no instincts 
 that are not shared by every other human being in a greater 
 or less degree. You may believe that you have the quali- 
 ties of a dramatist. That is an altogether different matter. 
 But what qualities? The drama or its Material embraces 
 every emotion felt by any human being. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANALYSIS. 
 
 What is analysis ? It is the taking apart of anything, the 
 resolving of it into its elements, in order to discover its na- 
 ture and the principles of its construction whereby it ex- 
 ists and has its functions. It is the source of all scientific 
 knowledge. It is something that every man of good and 
 practical sense exercises in the simplest matter that he 
 wishes to understand. He can tie a sailor's knot only 
 when he finds out how it is done. He is on the road to un- 
 derstanding if he takes a watch to pieces in order to ascer- 
 tain the relations of its various parts. He will not be a 
 watchmaker until he understands also the principles that 
 have led to the devising of these various parts. There is 
 a certain mechanism about playwriting that is just as dis- 
 tinct as the mechanism of a watch. Any contention to the 
 contrary is the prejudice of ignorance. The principles re- 
 main the same in the one case as the other. Remember that 
 this refers only to the mechanism, principles of construc- 
 tion and the law of the drama which must be obeyed by 
 every one who attempts a drama, whether he be a genius 
 or an ordinary human being. I may incidentally remark 
 that many of our best plays are written by so-called ordina- 
 ry people and that many of our worst plays are written by 
 so-called geniuses. I do not believe it is possible for one 
 to become an expert in playwriting without understanding 
 Analysis. Do not make the mistake of thinking that it is 
 not playwriting and that you are not beginning to learn 
 playwriting when you begin with exercises in Analysis. 
 In point of fact, it is playwriting, which, as I have already 
 set forth, is a process of thought first of all. Coming over 
 on a steamer not a great while ago some one cornered Paul 
 Potter, the dramatizer of "Trilby," which was played in 
 many countries, a man whose mastery of Technique is 
 
10 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 as great as that of any other I know, and asked him "How 
 one learned to write a play." That is a question that can- 
 not be answered in a single word; but his answer comes 
 as near covering the case as possible. His reply was "By 
 analyzing plays." He added that he had analyzed a thous- 
 and plays, and Mr. Bronson Howard, the first scientific dra- 
 matist America ever had (apart from Bartley Campbell) told 
 him that he had analyzed twelve hundred or more. Now, 
 what does one discover on analysis? He certainly finds that 
 there are not one hundred new and different principles in 
 each of these thousand plays and that the art of playwriting 
 does not depend upon the caprice of each writer, but that 
 it is systematic and can be reduced to system, one system, 
 not a hundred systems, while the principles are compar- 
 atively few, although there is infinite detail. He finds that 
 it is the same art, whether exercised by Shakespeare or by 
 Ibsen or by Henry Arthur Jones. This art is independent 
 of genius. It is the same thing at all times ! It is a univer- 
 sal keyboard. We analyze with reference to the art, to 
 mechanism, to the Technique. We have nothing to do with 
 the qualities or general nature of a play. The play may be 
 good or it may be bad. The Technique, and perfect Tech- 
 nique, may be applied to something that has no value or 
 which is abhorrent in morals and taste. Reconcile yourself 
 to that at the very outset. You will understand it fully 
 after a little. Of course morality and taste and all the 
 best human qualities should exist in a play, but that is not 
 the question. In making an Analysis of a play we take it 
 apart with reference to the principles. To consider as a 
 whole is not Analysis at all. To read a play for informa- 
 tion, for its historical bearings in any sense, is for the gen- 
 eral reader and not for the student. That kind of informa- 
 tion is useful and perhaps indispensable, but it lies far away 
 from the study of structure and how the play is put to- 
 gether. One might know every play, or every important 
 play, ever written and still have little or no understanding 
 of Technique, which is to say, how they were written. We 
 
ANALYSIS II 
 
 must, then, .take up the Analysis of a play, point by point, 
 with reference to each established principle, such as Pro* 
 position. Plot, Unity, S equen ce, Cause a nd Effect and so on. 
 In that way we master the play in Detail. We examine the 
 application of every principle in every relation. The analyti- 
 cal work at first is almost entirely directed to gaining a fa- 
 miliarity with the meaning of the terms. We then expand the 
 method of Analysis and consider each principle with refer- 
 ence to every other principle. We must first understand 
 the Terms. If two people were talking about electricity, 
 one an expert and the other with only a general and limited 
 knowledge, not knowing exactly what was meant by Ohm, 
 Volt, or Killowatt, a discussion would be fruitless and the 
 expert would abandon it in disgust. Analysis and Criti- 
 cism are two very different things. Any one on earth can 
 criticise, but Analysis can only be applied by him who has 
 a knowledge of the art. Criticism may be empty and ca- 
 pricious. Analysis gets at the truth. One must gain a 
 perfect understanding and command of the principles as a 
 preliminary step toward applying them. How can it be 
 said that any one is applying a principle if he does not know 
 what the principle is ? It is not enough that one may have 
 a general knowledge. His knowledge must be specific. 
 A general knowledge may serve for a while, but a crisis 
 will come when it will not do. If you take the trouble to do 
 the exercise work and to set down everything in black and 
 white, or even if you think it out, following the method 
 herein, you will gradually and finally realize the necessity 
 of it and can apply the principles knowingly when you get 
 to work on your own plays. You will then have a pleasure 
 in the work that is not possible if you do not possess a 
 living Technique. To have Technique on your side in- 
 spires one with confidence. On the artistic side of a play 
 there are many things that are not matters of opinion, but 
 are facts of indisputable principle or Technique. The work 
 of Analysis is of absolute importance, for it forms the habit 
 of mind. It enables one to use the principles as tools. He 
 
12 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 must be so familiar with these tools that he can use them 
 with perfect readiness and take up the exact tool needed for 
 a certain bit of work. Of course, at first you will think 
 that all this is academic and too formal. You will say 
 that it is impossible for one to think of his subject and of 
 all his tools at the same time, whereas, when one has a per- 
 fect knowledge of all the principles he does not have to 
 marshal all the knowledge at one and the same time in any 
 conscious way. His principle will come to his help con- 
 sciously only when he needs it. I have said that the exer- 
 cise of this Analysis in Technique is playwriting itself; 
 but assuming that you had or had not exercised Analysis 
 in the writing of the play, there is a final use of it that can- 
 not possibly be avoided, and that is in the revision of your 
 play. There it has a most definite and final use. For in- 
 stance, if one has not mastered Proposition and Plot and 
 should discover, either on production of the play or on a 
 close consideration of it, or should feel, without knowing 
 why, that there is something wrong with the play, and if 
 the defect were in Proposition and Plot he would never 
 correct the fault, wotk as long as he might. 
 
 I see an infinite number of plays that are faulty, both on 
 the boards and in the manuscript, to which final value 
 could be given if the author knew what was wrong in 
 them. When an author becomes possessed of his subject 
 and gets into the warmth of composition he may easily 
 lose sight of accuracy, and accuracy in spite of the derision 
 in which Technique is sometimes held means truth. In- 
 cidentally it also means money. It stands back of all 
 permanent success. It wards off failure. I am in no de- 
 gree academic and I know from long experience and ob- 
 servation that Technique is not an empty word and that 
 Analysis is the first step toward gaining it. You will find 
 that the whole tendency of this Course is to destroy con- 
 ventionality and to give freedom to the man to establish 
 the art and its methods firmly in him. The art should be 
 gained before writing plays. Refuse to submit to it and 
 
ANAIvYSiS 13 
 
 you may wander in the wilderness all your days long, 
 ^is School was established in order to keep countless 
 people from working in their own way with a contempt- 
 uous disdain for Technique's I have read literally thousands 
 of plays written by inexpert people in their own way, and 
 some of them reveal work that is no better than it was, 
 to my knowledge, twenty years ago. I am convinced that 
 a year devoted largely to analytical work is necessary for 
 most students in order to get them to secure the right at- 
 titude toward drama. The simple question of time is im- 
 portant. If one begins to write too soon, it becomes a 
 process of unlearning, and that throws the burden of the 
 work on the teacher. 
 
 You will ask why these five plays were selected and you 
 will object that they are not modern and recent enough. 
 They were not selected with any particular deliberation, 
 nor entirely at random, but because they answered the pur- 
 pose in hand. They were and are successful and famous 
 plays. Any play or plays of that description could have 
 done just as well. Public taste may change, but dramatic 
 principle does not change. The application of principle is 
 subject to betterment in the technical handling of material; 
 but the principles remains the same in Ibsen or Shaw and 
 no dramatist will ever overturn them. /The modern and 
 the most recent writers will be considered in another 
 section of the course. If dramatic principle had to be de- 
 rived from them, and was absent in all dramas before their 
 time, and was as subject to fluctuation as the stock market, 
 the art would be bottomless; in fact no art; wfeefeas)we 
 can reach rock bottom and the foundation of all dramatic 
 principle in these particular plays as well as in any other 
 plays ever written.^ Analysis and technique have nothing 
 whatever to do witMiistory or the qualities of morality and 
 aesthetics in a play. If ''Camille" is an objectionable 
 play to you, console yourself with this truth which I urge. 
 You may criticise it as you will, but your criticism can 
 never touch the technical side of it. "The Lady of 
 
14 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 Lyons" may be old fashioned in its sentiment, but the art 
 of it, I mean particularly the essential dramatic principles 
 to be found in it, will never become old fashioned. Dra- 
 matic technique has improved in some details since the play 
 was written, but the dramatic principle of it is sound. 
 
 Analysis is only one of the methods that we shall use in 
 our study, but it is one that is involved in every part of 
 it, as we shall find as we attack dramatic principle from 
 various points of approach. Analysis is involved in every 
 step of play writing. As a method of learning it is infinitely 
 more expeditious than the uninformed efforts at plays by 
 one who has made no study of the art in plays written by 
 masters of the craft. The individuality of the student is 
 not concerned. His vanity is not touched. His errors do 
 not have to be uprooted from the soil perhaps of obsti- 
 nate and confirmed ignorance ; ^t would be a superhuman 
 £ask to teach a beginner by correcting his own more 
 or less miserable compositions and to stop at every step 
 ifn order to explain to him fully some dramatic principle^ 
 t)ne might do it with his own child; but he could under- 
 take to train but a few and could give a life time to those 
 few and become prematurely old in the expenditure of his 
 energies. I shall give some description of the labor in- 
 volved ii^ an intercalary chapter which I shall devote to 
 Lmateup 
 
 Analysis has many practical uses. It enables you to be- 
 come familiar with the art in all of its aspects and to ascer- 
 tain the actual methods and the causes of the excellence of 
 any writer whose plays you may choose to subject to the 
 process. You can ascertain to a nicety how Dumas, Sar- 
 dou, Pinero, Clyde Fitch, Augustus Thomas, Suderman or 
 any other writer has arrived at results. Analysis is the 
 golden key to the whole art. 
 
 I shall add, with entire confidence, and with all respect 
 to sucessful dramatists, that the art does not depend upon 
 these writers, but that it exists independent of them, large 
 bountiful and exact, in the same manner in which any form 
 
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ANALYSIS 15 
 
 of nature exists. We can go back of these writers and es- 
 tablish the principles in the very nature of the drama, and- 
 that I shall do in the philosophical section of our studies. 
 Again, instead of learning from one's own self, (in some 
 cases a very poor authority and source of information) 
 one has the whole field before him for self instruction. He 
 can pursue his investigation far beyond what the school 
 attempts. I am only teaching you how to analyze. Until 
 you have made a careful and repeated reading and study 
 of the analysis in these pages of the five plays, confine 
 yourself to these plays. I have not made every illustration 
 of a given principle from the plays. I have simply shown 
 you how to do it and abundant work remains to you to 
 continue your investigation within the limits of these five 
 plays, for the present. The principles and methods could 
 be confirmed by limitless examples. That this is so does 
 in no wise impair the stability of the principles, nor does 
 it mean that one's work of analysis need be limitless. The 
 confirmation of principle which will be encountered 
 throughout your active interest in the drama will always 
 be a pleasant experience, but when you realize a principle 
 and feel secure in it your appointed task is at an end. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE METHOD TO BE PURSUED. 
 
 The first and most important thing for a student to 
 recognize is that Playwriting is an art which has taken 
 centuries to develop; that it requires time and applica- 
 tion to master its requirements, and that he must have it at 
 his fingers' ends before he can possibly possess the pro- 
 fessional touch. It is no longer a crude art to be exercised 
 by the first comer. The attitude to assume in approaching 
 the subject is that the dramatic art is greater than you are, 
 which it assuredly is, whoever you may be. You will find 
 that out whatever may be your present opinion of yourself. 
 We assume that you know nothing of the art, and begin 
 with the elemental principles, proposing to carry you 
 through the principles and methods up to the most complex 
 reasoning. For the present, we shall devote ourselves ex- 
 clusively to the analysis of plays. The method of instruc- 
 tion and the process of learning may be illustrated by that 
 pursued, let us say, in arithmetic or algebra. A text book 
 on either science will, in a given chapter, work out a single 
 example, reducing to rule, explaining the reasons and the 
 law in full, and then furnish a sufficient number of exam- 
 ples for the student to work out unaided except by th^^ 
 process and solution afforded in the model. YThe principle 
 once mastered, it can be applied by way of Analysis to all 
 plays ever written or, in a practical way, to whatever you 
 may be confronted with that needs solution in your own 
 plays. The plays selected for Analysis contain every prin- 
 ciple used in playwriting. They are thoroughly actable and 
 effective. If they were unsuccessful and imperfect plays 
 they would not serve our purpose. The examination and 
 discussion of bad dramatic syntax belongs to another sec- 
 tion of our studies. { No actual exercise is required of you 
 until we reach still another section, the Question Sheets, 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THEME. 
 
 The Theme of a play is the general subject, which holds 
 throughout, but which reduced to a specific form becomes 
 the basis of the play. 
 
 There must be one leading and controlling Theme, with 
 usually a subordinate Theme connected with it. There 
 may be still other incidental Themes, but the main Theme 
 must govern. We see at once that Unity is concerned in 
 this and that the principles are interdependent, not one of 
 them standing alone. We cannot discuss every aspect of 
 a principle with reference to the plays in hand. We must 
 take up things in their order. None of these plays has two 
 or more Themes of equal importance, consequently we 
 shall reserve discussion of plays defective because of such a 
 Technical defect. All great plays or good plays are based 
 on Theme. You have only to refer to Shakespere and 
 Moliere to discover the truth for yourself. The ordinary 
 commercial play is one of situations for the sake of situa- 
 tions, and not for the sake of the Theme. Until we regard 
 Theme of the first importance we shall have few good plays. 
 Proceeding from the general to the particular, we reduce 
 the general Theme to a specific one. "Romeo and Juliet," 
 general theme. Love ; specific theme, Love, according to the 
 limitations and conditions of the Proposition. 
 
 Love, no doubt, has been the staple of the drama and 
 has been more often used as a general Theme than any 
 other; but it can assume so many different forms and exist 
 under so many different conditions that we find it differ- 
 entiated in numberless specific Themes. The general 
 Theme of "Ingomar," its circumference, is Love, but 
 specifically it is Love that conquers a Barbarian. Is not 
 the play filled with Love as with the perfume of a flower? 
 Is not purity in a woman's heart and nature exalted, and 
 
20 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIv]^ 
 
 should not all love be nourished on and be established in 
 purity? Is not the play different from those erotic exposit- 
 ions of so called Love in which a wife, with a marriageable 
 daughter, the mother at least forty, is about to elope or is 
 actually eloping with her "lover?" A general Theme, then, 
 is a very wide thing and may reach to the depths of the 
 universal heart. What reason have you to imagine that 
 there is nothing in Theme and that it is only academic jar- 
 gon? It is persistently and inevitably also a technical mat- 
 ter. Upon what grounds have you a prejudice against 
 Technique? There is not a scene in this play that does not, 
 in one way or another, concern the purity and love of Par- 
 thenia. The author, Baron Muench von Bellinghausen, 
 stuck to his Theme. 
 
 Very often the Theme of a pl^y is expressed in its title 
 or sub-title. In the case of "The Lady of Lyons" we 
 find it Love and Pride. Although the Action of the play is 
 laid at the time of the Revolution, and the atmosphere of 
 war is felt, yet it is obvious that Bulwer did not make war 
 or the Revolution his main Theme; if he had done so it 
 would have been another play. He would have been 
 ploughing another soil. The war and the revolution are in- 
 cidental to the main Action and are called into it only as 
 required. Bulwer stuck to his Theme. You will observe 
 that his Theme is not merely Love, but that Pride is con- 
 joined to it. This is entirely proper, for he makes his gen- 
 eral Theme the idea of Love, then Love as it is influenced 
 by Pride; the Theme of Love thus becoming a specific 
 thing. He had a definite idea to start with in his investi- 
 gation, or, he discovered after looking into his Material 
 what his Theme was to be. If the Deschapelles had been 
 rich aristocrats, Bulwer might easily have made his Theme 
 Aristocracy and Love, or Caste and Love. Many plays 
 have been written on both these Themes. On the other 
 hand, he might have made Claude Melnotte an aristocrat 
 and Pauline an attractive and innocent girl of the peasant- 
 ry; we might have had a play on the order of Faust and 
 
THEME 21 
 
 Marguerite. Love could be modified in so many ways, 
 that by modifying it we could get a number of Themes. It 
 is enough to see that this play has a definite Theme, that 
 it is Love and Pride, and that this Theme influenced Bul- 
 wer throughout the play. 
 
 Dumas was helped to his Theme of "Caniille"-by an exist- 
 ing combination of facts of which he had knowledge from 
 a drama in real life as well as by his philosophy. He de- 
 voted his life to preaching his philosophy concerning the 
 social rights and wrongs of women by means of the drama. 
 In our study of Technique we are not required to combat 
 his point of view in this play. Dumas set out to prove to 
 our hearts, if not to our prejudices, that a woman of the 
 character of Camille may be regenerated by love and a su- 
 preme sacrifice prompted by it. Here was a conviction. 
 His Theme was a philosophical one. In proportion 
 to his sincerity and purpose an author will hold to 
 his theme. It thus takes- care of itself. But suppose 
 Dumas had yielded to the temptation to depict the vices 
 and the manners of the society surrounding Camille, and 
 had been looking for complications and situation mainly 
 for the commercial purpose of making an entertaining 
 play, he would not have held to his present Theme. Innu- 
 merable opportunities for a different treatment were at 
 hand. The Material could have furnished many plays ; but 
 having narrowed his Theme down to a Proposition, he 
 would have been false to hi? Proposition as well as to his 
 Theme if he had not made the whole action bear upon the 
 working out of his object. The Theme in this play is as 
 constant as the note which runs through a piece of music. 
 It is a specific Theme, an earnest Theme, and the Action 
 of every part of the play is instinct with it. 
 
 Byron, the author of "Our Boys," used to deride the idea 
 of "bothering with Theme." Usually, too, there is no need 
 to "bother" with it, but if it is disregarded it has a way of 
 turning up and having its reckoning. It is our business at 
 present to make a study of the elements that we find exist- 
 
22 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvi; 
 
 ent in these plays. While the Theme is the first element 
 in the order of our investigation, this does not imply that 
 Taylor, in writing ''Still Waters Run Deep," began the 
 consideration of his subject with his Theme. Let us as- 
 sume that he came across a story first, in which the princi- 
 pal character, who is misunderstood because of his easy- 
 going nature, loses authority in his own household and 
 then regains it by the assertion of his real man- 
 hood. In that case the Theme was obvious and 
 suggested itself. It became specific as the story was devel- 
 oped, but he retained that Theme necessarily if he retained 
 the idea of writing a play on that Theme. The Theme 
 once established, he could not depart from it, his obligation 
 to the Theme becoming more and more important as he 
 proceeded with the Action. Suppose he had not consulted 
 his Theme and had used the mother-in-law idea instead of 
 that of the dominating aunt. He would have found himself 
 involved with a Theme strong enough to overwhelm his 
 original plan of the play and offering something out of 
 which a new or very different play could be written. Did 
 he not have to "bother" with the Theme when the idea of 
 the mother-in-law occurred to him, as it almost inevitably 
 must have done? Thus, the Proposition is governed by the 
 Theme. It is, at least, the Proposition which you elect 
 to use from the many Propositions that could be made from 
 the Theme. The dramatist has often to stop and consider 
 his Theme when he feels that he is departing from it. The 
 Theme of this play is not the rascality of Hawksley. If that 
 had been the main idea to be worked out, the treatment 
 would have been materially different, and it would, in fact, 
 have made a different play. A Theme may have its comple- 
 mentary Theme, if it does not always have it, and the ras- 
 cality and character of Hawksley was subordinate to and 
 complementary of the main Theme, that of the character 
 misunderstood by those about him. The main Proposition 
 has its subordinate Proposition, and so can the Theme have 
 its subordinate Theme. If Taylor, in thinking his play, or 
 
THEM^ 23 
 
 in writing his scenes, had found himself drifting off to ex- 
 ploiting the detective side of the Action, he would have 
 halted, as an expert dramatist, recognizing that he was not 
 keeping to his Theme. The Unity of this play is very mark- 
 ed in its aspects of Unity of Theme. That the main Theme of 
 the play involves many subordinate Themes does not 
 destroy the Unity of the whole. With the character of 
 Mrs. Sternhold as one of the Themes, the romanticism of 
 Emily another, and with still others, the author proceeded 
 on his way, finding his Proposition and Plot and always 
 considering a proper subordination of his Themes. The 
 dramatist does not necessarily get any part of his play first, 
 not even his Theme. 
 
 We are discussing plays in their finished form. We can 
 begin our analysis with the Theme. It does not necessarily 
 follow that an author has to begin with the Theme. Tay- 
 lor may have suddenly discovered during his process of 
 thought that he was not working on the right Theme and 
 have changed it to the one we now have. There are many 
 ways of proving that a Theme is essential. With the intro- 
 duction of a society element and by making Hawksley sim- 
 ply a spendthrift with reckless business methods and not 
 a criminal, and having Mildmay overcome the influence of 
 Hawksley over his wife in some other way than by defeat- 
 ing his financial schemes, we have a kind not unfamiliar, a 
 society play, with an incidental moral lesson ; but the play 
 would have been something else. Take out of it the felo- 
 nious nature of Hawksley's schemes and have it a business 
 conflict between two men, the woman being played for, 
 we have still another play. You may say that it is idle to 
 imagine such things ; but the possibilities are all there, with 
 the Characters, and unless you are governed by something 
 you are just as apt to go in one direction as another. Theme 
 is the first thing that restrains you. Sooner or later the 
 Theme is absolutely necessary. It tinctures all the scenes. 
 There is not a scene in this play in which the Theme of it, 
 Mildmay's quiet resolution and his relations with his fam- 
 
24 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 ily are not at work. This is a good play to keep' in mind as 
 proof that Theme means something, is entirely practical 
 and cannot be ignored. 
 
 The largest idea in Massinger's play of "A New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts" is plainly the evil of acquir- 
 ing wealth and power by means of oppression and un- 
 fair methods, and particularly with reference to the develop- 
 ment of character animated by such greed. The play is 
 well named as it is, but it could easily be called "Sir Giles 
 Overreach." Combined against Sir Giles are all the active 
 agencies in the piece, and yet he towers above all other 
 characters. He is a force for evil that does not diminish in 
 its effect upon us to the very end. He is relentless and ter- 
 rible in his moments of death. The foundering of a mighty 
 battleship rent asunder in the conflict or the sudden col- 
 lapse of a stately building is portentous and fills the imagi- 
 nation with awe. The removal from earth of such a force 
 for evil as Sir Giles, his existence involving and imperilling 
 the lives of so many others, is of the same nature. Such is 
 the magnitude of the character of Sir Giles, but only good 
 comes from his destruction. The most exalted characters 
 are Lord Lovell and Lady Allworth, but how small a part 
 they play compared with Sir Giles. He is present in the 
 mind of the audience all the time. Wellborn, who sets in 
 motion the Plot of the play, is of slight interest compared 
 with him. Allworth and Margaret are almost purely inci- 
 dental. Sir Giles being acted upon, the Theme was devel- 
 oped indirectly. Undoubtedly Massinger gave his first 
 study to this Theme of Character. Much Material was 
 gathered before the Plot shaped itself. The mechanism 
 or Plot of the play is paltry, ingenious as it is, compared 
 with the laying bare of such a nature. The Theme is very 
 specific. It attached to a condition of affairs in Engla.nd 
 which Massinget- knew intimately. A writer with a seri- 
 ous purpose and a dominating Theme will not easily go 
 astray, but if he is a meretricious writer and is constantly 
 looking out for complications or comedy he can find them 
 
THEME 2^ 
 
 both, but to the detriment of his Theme. Massinger might 
 have made Lord Lovell jealous of Wellborn, Lady Alt^ 
 worth might have mistrusted Lovell's real purpose with 
 Margaret, and comedy scenes might have been obtained, 
 but the more diverting they might be, the more divergent 
 they would be from the Theme. Massinger could have made 
 an Action out of Sir Giles' matrimonial attentions to Lady 
 Allworth. Substantially the same Plot could have been 
 used, but with a somewhat different Action because of 
 some change in the Theme. A great deal of comedy could 
 have been got out of this Material; and if Massinger had 
 been writing only to amuse audiences, which some writers 
 contend is the whole duty of the dramatist, he would not 
 have written this true and noble play. He kept to his 
 Theme and did nothing at its expense. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MATERIAL 
 
 The material of a play is that out of which it is construct- 
 ed, its material elements. 
 
 It is obvious that one might consider a Theme, of Love 
 for example, without having thought of or determined upon 
 a single incident or Character. It does not imply form at 
 all. It may exist or it may have to be found. Of course 
 there are fantastic forms in playwriting in which the un- 
 bridled imagination can do its irresponsible work, but the 
 closer we keep to Life the more worthy is our play. Plays 
 grow out of a condition of affairs and proceed from the 
 general to the particular, each step becoming more definite. 
 
 The first knowledge of the art can best be acquired by 
 analyzing what has been written. We first arrive at the 
 principles and then at how to apply them. One must know 
 the art before he can recognize fit Material. It would be 
 premature to discuss the various processes of discovering 
 or devising the material out of which a play is made. Our 
 present concern is to study the Technique whereby the 
 Material is shaped. Playwriting is a process of reasoning, 
 and the mind cannot co-operate with the heart, with pre- 
 cision, until it is able to think in dramatic terms, just as one 
 must be able to think in a language before he can fairly 
 claim to be its master. The trained dramatic mind is occu- 
 pied much longer in gathering the Material and in con- 
 structing the play, shaping his Material, than in the actual 
 writing. How long or short a time it requires to "write" 
 a play is immaterial, but if we assume that a year is given 
 to it, three fourths of that time had best be applied to the 
 preliminary and tentative research and thought. To dis- 
 cuss Material at this time would lead us into a discussion 
 of Methods for which we are not prepared. We must con- 
 fine ourselves to the plays in hand. 
 
the: matkriai, 27 
 
 The author of 'Tngomar" may have arrived at his Ma- 
 terial, or what we may call the Facts of his play by a pro^ 
 cess of induction or deduction. Both processes may be used 
 in the same play. He may have had the central idea from 
 a legend or story or poem, or he may have worked directly 
 from his Theme. A way had to be found to get Parthenia 
 an.cng the Allobrogi. He had to proceed on Facts. One 
 need suggested another need. A mere story was not suffi- 
 cient; the Material had to be susceptible of dramatic treat- 
 ment. Parthenia must go among Barbarians. What Bar- 
 barians? Where? Why? How? Barbarians?, Let us 
 look up some Barbarians. In looking them up the author 
 found much that he could use as Material and perhaps 
 more that he could not, but he found a custom to hold pri- 
 soners for ransom. That may have suggested for the first 
 time the means of getting Parthenia to the camp. He 
 found that they would cast lots for the possession of a cap- 
 tive girl. Don't you see the advantage of searching for 
 Material and how it will meet you half way if you do? Is 
 not that better than "sitting down and writing a play?'' 
 
 If you read the preface to ''The Lady of Lyons," 
 you will discern Bulwer's process of mind. He found much 
 of the Material ready made and at hand. This does not 
 mean that one should seek for an already existing story, 
 but it so happens that Bulwer did find his first definite idea 
 in a "very pretty little tale" called "The Bellows-Mender." 
 Being thus led to the French Revolution, he instinctively, 
 because he knew drama, felt that there was a drama in those 
 troubled times. In meditating over and reading up his 
 Material, may he not have rejected more Material than he 
 used in the play in its finished form? Of course in its final 
 shape, we have only that Material which he actually used. 
 To that suggestive Material he added more. His raw Ma- 
 terial existed in general facts and ideas and such details as 
 he selected while gathering his Material. It is obvious 
 that he selected his Material with reference to his Theme, 
 which he soon decided upon in his process of thought. In 
 
 h * 'f ? 
 
 .^^' 
 
 ji^ 
 
 $a*j^/Ci5!i. o'S 
 
28 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 determining upon Proposition, Plot, Characters, incidents 
 and Action he was constantly electing Material as called for 
 by the various structural parts of the play. The dramatist 
 must have the Material out of which to make his play, just 
 as a tailor nfust have Material out of which to make his 
 coat. 
 
 The source of Dumas' Material for "Camille" has been 
 referred to in the chapter on Theme. 
 
 In preparing these exercises we are trying to go over the 
 same ground covered by the dramatist himself. We get in 
 "Still Waters Run Deep" an excellent example of what 
 must have been his process of thought and method 
 of construction and writing the play in the matter 
 of gathering the material. Could any one suppose 
 for an instant that when Taylor reached the writing 
 or dialogueing of the scene between Hawksley and 
 Mildmay in the second act, he wrote it off-hand? 
 Hawksley tries his oily persuasion on Mildmay, believing 
 that he had an easy customer for the shares in his Inexplo- 
 sible Galvanic Boat Company. He proceeds : "You under- 
 stand algebra?" Mildmay admits that he knew a little of 
 it at school. Then Hawksley : "Then let X and X/2 denote 
 the respective cost of the two modes of carriage — while the 
 two rates of profit are represented by Y and YI" — "Which, 
 in algebra denotes an unknown quantity," suggests Mild- 
 may. Then Hawksley: "Precisely." "Well A. and B. re- 
 maining constant, let Y-A plus B/X be the formula for pro- 
 fit in the case of steam, then YI equals A plus B/X divided 
 by 2 will be the formula in the case of galvanic transport — 
 or, reducing the quotation, YI equals 2Y, or in plain Eng- 
 lish, the profit on galvanic transport equal to twice the pro- 
 fit on steam carriage. I hope that's clear!" Unquestion- 
 ably, Taylor had this oily, specious and confusing talk in 
 his notes, in his Material, long before he knew exactly 
 where and how he could use it. It is not impossible, of 
 course, that when he reached this scene he found it neces- 
 sary to stop work until he could look up the terms that 
 
the: materiaIv 29 
 
 the rascally promoter would use in order to appear to have 
 a profound and exact knowledge of his subject. Whether 
 Hawksley's algebra has any significance or not in a scienti- 
 fic way, Taylor wanted to make him a very formidable 
 schemer and talker. It would not do to make him utter 
 complete nonsense in figures. It would not have done to 
 have Hawksley present an entirely reasonable proposition. 
 It had to be plausible, susceptible of demonstration by a 
 juggling with figures. The schemes of promoters must 
 have been attracting attention in London. In fact, Dickens 
 gave a novel to the subject about this time. Just as soon 
 as Taylor determined that this was the kind of swindler he 
 wanted, he looked up everything bearing on the subject un- 
 til he felt satisfied that he had all the Material that would 
 be needed, all that would characterize the rascal. Inciden- 
 tally, he had to look up his algebra. Suppose, now, that 
 this was one of the very first things he did investigate. Sup- 
 pose that he had not even thought of Potter and Mrs Stern- 
 hold, or any of the incidents of the Action ; suppose further, 
 that he had no Plot whatever and perhaps no definite Pro- 
 position, what would you call it but Material, pure and sim- 
 ple.? Just as truly Material as that Chaos out of which God 
 made the world. For that matter, the dramatist begins 
 gathering his Material from the moment he selects his 
 Theme — or his Theme selects him, which, perhaps, is the 
 better way. It is by no means improbable that Tom Tay- 
 lor never knew what "earthing up celery" meant before he 
 began gathering his Material for this play. The only diflfer- 
 ence between the material of a play, and the Conditions 
 Precedent of that play is, that the Conditions Precedent are 
 selected from the general Material, and so made specific. 
 The real dramatist goes to real life. He will find every- 
 thing there waiting for him ; he does not create everything, 
 he adapts it. If those characters had not existed in real life, 
 this play would never have been written. They may have 
 had characteristics of the moment which Taylor may have 
 been the first dramatist to make use of, but, in a general 
 
30 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE 
 
 / 
 
 way, they existed before Taylor was born. Go back, then, 
 to nature for your Material, and trust to your art to make 
 use of it. The minerals in the mines have to be delved for. 
 No miner can manufacture gold, and no dramatist can cre- 
 ate human nature. Your play must have substance. You 
 must have Material in order to have everything about 
 something. What shall bring discord into the family? 
 What shall they quarrel about? Surely, they could quarrel 
 about innumerable things. The causes of differences are 
 endless. What shall they be in this case? Is it not worth 
 while to determine beforehand? Does he not have to work 
 gradually toward a given end? The Material that he 
 chooses at one moment he may have to lay aside provision- 
 ally or reject entirely the next. Taylor did not want a 
 mother-in-law, for obvious reasons. He was not writing 
 a play in which he would have to contend with such a dis- 
 turbing force. So he did not select that Material. That 
 Material was before him, however. The mother-in-law 
 would have required her to have been the Theme. Mrs. 
 Sternhold was formidable enough. Hawksley says, "Mag- 
 nificent celery! I congratulate you, my dear Potter, on so 
 horticultural a son-in-law; it's a pursuit at once innocent 
 and economical." Potter replies, "Yes; I calculate every 
 bundle costs about twice as much as in Covent Garden." 
 That is all on that subject at the moment. Hawksley im- 
 mediately turns the subject to the allotment of the shares. 
 The necessity for gradation in opening the scene unques- 
 tionably occurred to Taylor at the time of writing the scene 
 or of preparing it, but it is almost certain that the remarks 
 quoted were down in his notes, in his Material, before he 
 saw where he was going to make use of it. Hawksley's 
 method of paying court to Emily by his reference to Seville 
 was as carefully planned beforehand in his Material by the 
 author as it was planned by Hawksley. 
 / The way to get at substantial things is to get them in a 
 I substantial form to start with. Shakspere almost invaria- 
 I bly had material to work from. It is not advised that you 
 
(UNWE^^^^"^ ) 
 
 
 THE MATEJRIAL 31 
 
 find your story or Plot ready made, but the foundations of 
 your play must be in the earth. All real plays are largely" 
 made up of real facts. Observation of actual things may 
 supply the Material. "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is 
 a real play, one of the most substantial ever written. You 
 feel the truth of everything in it because it is taken from 
 life. We have seen that Bulwer, although he was accre- 
 dited with genius, did not attempt to make his plays out of 
 nothing, that is, out of mere imaginings not based on Facts. 
 It matters not where Massinger got his Material, many 
 of the combinations he made of that Material existed 
 independent of Massinger and before he made use of it. 
 What a trivial vanity it is that some authors have that they 
 must ''create" everything, spin it out of their brains without 
 recourse to the facts of the world. The prototypes of those 
 characters were personally known to Massinger before he 
 attempted to put them in a play, and where his acquaint- 
 ance was limited he instituted investigation. The impres- 
 sion left by this play is that Massinger left out nothing that 
 was essential to a complete picture. He knew his subject 
 inside and out. Sir Giles was not a creature of the imagi- 
 nation. The servants at Lady Allworth's lived. They came 
 into the play out of the abundance of Massinger's Mate- 
 rial. It was his art that enabled him to use them. He had 
 them in mind before he saw what he could do with them. 
 This illustrates exactly what is meant by Material before 
 it is converted into the cloth itself. There may have been one 
 Sir Giles Overreach in England at this time ; there may have 
 been ten, twenty ; the evil of government by the aristocracy, 
 with the appointment of magistrates to do their bidding, 
 may have been a crying one. The play was about some- 
 thing. The wrong suffered by Master Frugal was a serious 
 matter as representing a common injustice. 
 
 Frugal omitted, there would have been so much good 
 Material lost. Frugal and the gentlewoman reduced to ser- 
 vitude and the extortionate creditors of Wellborn not ser- 
 viceable for the building of the main structure, were yet 
 
32 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 available Material as rubble; none of it imaginary; all tan- 
 gible and so substantial, standing up like a Roman viaduct 
 constructed so as to defy the centuries? Times may change, 
 and thank God they do, but here is something human, the 
 very reality of which gives it eternal human sympathy. We 
 got but a glimpse of the gentlewoman serving Margaret, 
 but we pity her and respect her as Margaret did. Some 
 might call that a small part, but can you not imagine it 
 played by an actress of perfect fitness for it, capable of 
 flashing to us that heliograph message from over now three 
 centuries? Material? Of course it is Material. What a 
 bountiful provider with his Material was Massinger ! How 
 substantial the baked meats, the stag, the fawn, with "Nor- 
 folk dumpling in the belly of it," the woodcock, the butter- 
 ed toast and all the savory burden of the table ! Massinger 
 had his foot on his native soil all the time. England for 
 Englishmen was his cry. Cease mere dreaming and empty 
 imaginings and reach out your hand for the Material that 
 lies about you in abundance. Massinger's observation, sym- 
 pathy, philosophy, and the qualities of a many sided nature 
 are here in this play. The Material lay within him as well 
 as without. It was Subjective as well as Objective. But 
 his sympathies and his philosophy were based on external 
 realities. The world is so many magnitudes larger than 
 any single individual that you can do no better than to 
 follow the example of Massinger in "A New Way to Pay 
 Old Debts," and confine yourself to your own horizon. 
 Your Material is within reach of your hand. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CONDITIONS PRECEDENT. 
 
 The Conditions Precedent are those Facts and conditions, 
 active or passive, which exist before the beginning of the 
 Action or the rise of the curtain. 
 
 They are a part of the inchoate Material, but presently 
 they become detachable, require a name or term, and I have 
 elevated them into a principle. We do not know immedi- 
 ately in considering our Material at what point our Action 
 shall begin. As soon as we determine upon that, a part of 
 the Material falls into the past and cannot be represented as 
 happening, but must be introduced into the movement of 
 the play according to the demands of the Action. These 
 Conditions Precedent are not to be told all at once on the 
 rise of the curtain, but they may be so distributed in the ac- 
 tion that they may be more active in their new relations 
 than in their past. The importance of this principle is so 
 great that I give more space to it than it may seem to you, 
 at this time, to require. A certain amount of exercise on the 
 principle is commended as a means of gaining a habit of 
 mind and a method of work. After reading over the Condi- 
 tions Precedent assigned to the other plays, take up "Ingo- 
 mar," find, all the Conditions Precedent in it and note how 
 they were introduced in to the Action. I also commend for 
 exercise work the elaboration, within the play in hand, of 
 every solution that is herein given. Take Action for exam- 
 ple. It would make these pages too voluminous if I should 
 give every illustration in a single play. I am only able to 
 show you how to analyze. To learn rests with you. Once 
 you know the way take the initiative. 
 
 We shall merely point out to you the way of discriminat- 
 ing and designating those facts and relations existing before 
 the rise of the curtain that are distinctly Conditions Prece- 
 3 
 
34 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 dent. We leave to you to minutely enumerate Conditions 
 Precedent other than those we call attention to. Before 
 the rise of the curtain, then, in ''The Lady of 
 Lyons," Pauline is rich and proud, the daughter of 
 a tradesman, living with her father and mother, 
 much sought after in marriage, for she is beautiful, and is 
 ambitious to marry title at the time when the French Revo- 
 lution had abolished all titles; she has a cousin, Damas, a 
 colonel in the army, who has risen from the ranks in two 
 years, and he is democratic and not in sympathy with 
 the pretension of Pauline and her mtother. She has 
 rejected Glavis, and Beauseant was a suitor, a man who 
 retained all the pride of ancestry, but had lost his title in 
 the Revolution; Claude Melnotte, the son of the widow of 
 the gardener, cultivated and known from his manners as 
 "the Prince," is secretly in love with Pauline, has been send- 
 ing her flowers, and believes that, in the social conditions of 
 France, his suit will be listened to; the Innkeeper has 
 heard of all this. Melnotte lives in a cottage with his moth- 
 er, and is a poet and painter ; M. Deschappelles is not a fac- 
 tor in his household in social matters. The state of the 
 country and all the characters and their relations belong to 
 the Conditions Precedent. From these Conditions Prece- 
 dent, the Action springs. They belong to the Material, but 
 •not until Bulwer determined at what point his Action 
 should begin did they become while still remaining Mate- 
 rial, distinctly Conditions Precedent. The spiritual things 
 are also a part of the Material and Conditions Precedent. 
 Brooding over this Material, Bulwer sooner or later dis- 
 covered the luminous point about which the Action should 
 center, the conflict of Love and Pride under the conditions 
 of social upheaval. 
 
 In "Camille," a material part of the past has to be 
 translated into the present. Let us recount the conditions 
 with some fullness. Two years before the opening of the 
 Action, Camille, after a long illness, determined to visit the 
 celebrated waters of Bagneres, to recover, if possible, her 
 
the: conditions precedent 35 
 
 health. Nanine accompanied her. Among the invalids at 
 the hotel there was a lovely young girl, the same age "as" 
 Mademoiselle Camille, suffering with the same complaint, 
 and bearing such a resemblance to her that wherever they 
 went they were called the twin sisters. The young lady was 
 Mademoiselle De Meuriac, daughter of the Duke. Made- 
 moiselle De Meuriac died. The Duke adopted Camille as 
 his child, made her his heiress, and introduced her into soci- 
 ety, where she was loved and honored. This was not two 
 years since. She tried to please the world in which the 
 Duke introduced her and sought to gain a position for her. 
 It was pitiful. She was gentle, so childlike, it seemed that 
 the spirit of the dead girl had left its innocence with her. 
 Day by day all who knew her grew to love her. The Duke 
 was called away. In his absence, the story of her past life 
 reached the circle in which she moved. From that moment 
 it was closed against her. She was shunned; and in their 
 cruel sneers they told her to go back to Paris and wear 
 camelias. She did return to Paris — met old friends — who 
 gave her a warm welcome. She was gayer than she ever 
 was before. People wondered why she tolerated the atten- 
 tion of the old Duke. They thought it strange taste because 
 of the old Duke's tediousness. But Camille had a tender 
 regard for him. He finds in her his only happiness and re- 
 gards her as his own child. He supplies her with money. 
 Varville and others do not take that view of their relations. 
 Camille has been a working girl, an embroideress, and was 
 very fond of Nichette, the pet name of a girl who used to 
 work in the same room, a companion of hers. Camille made 
 no secret of this part of her life. She retained her old friend- 
 ship, and now that she was supplied with money she gave 
 employment to her comrade. When she returned to Paris, 
 Camille entered upon a life of gaiety, and was often at the 
 opera. She is a disappointed woman, caring for no man. 
 But she is given to luxury. Olimpe, Gaston, Prudence 
 and Gustave are friends of Camille, with characters as set 
 iorth in the Action after it begins. Varville is very rich, a 
 
2,6 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 new suitor, persistent. Camille is known as the Queen of 
 Camelias, and is fifty thousand francs in debt. Varville has 
 offered to pay her debts. Camille has told him a hundred 
 times that she does not want to hear of his love. Prudence 
 lives as a neighbor in a house with windows opposite to 
 Camille's. She is a milliner, with but one customer — Ca- 
 mille. She "is a good soul, with a heart as light as her 
 purse." Armand Duval is the son of a gruff, crusty old gen- 
 tleman, who was sometime Receiver-General at Tours. The 
 family is one of distinction, moving in the best circles. His 
 mother is dead. He is not the only child ; he has a sister, a 
 sister whom he loves. Armand has been madly in love with 
 Camille for the last two years ; when she was ill, before she 
 went to Bagneres, confined to her bed for three months, a 
 young man who would never leave his name called every 
 day to learn how she was. She was told of this at the time. 
 It was Armand. Camille's malady still exists. When she 
 has her attacks she is better alone. Her feverish excitement 
 in her mode of life is bringing her to the grave. The Duke 
 allows her thirty thousand francs a year. She is a woman 
 of the world — friendless — fearless, loved by those whose 
 vanity she gratifies — despised by those who ought to pity 
 her. She has heard all kinds of protestations of love, and is 
 inclined to believe none of them. Armand has worshipped 
 her in silence; he has cherished for six months a little but- 
 ton which fell from her glove. Camille's companions are 
 gay; they indulge in all sorts of revelry. They sing and 
 dance; they have much gossip between them; they are ut- 
 terly frivolous and selfish. Olimpe is a gourmand. Camille 
 has learned her lesson of rejection by society, and does not 
 harbor the remotest hope of regaining position. Her own 
 estimate of herself is firm; she does not consider herself 
 worthy of a good man's love. She is not in a state of mind 
 to entertain the thought of it at the time the Action begins. 
 She regards no protestations of the sort seriously. She has 
 had moments when visions of a future flitted across her 
 brain. "Every heart has its silent hours, and so has mine ; 
 
THE CONDITIONS PRECEDENT 37 
 
 and in those hours I often sit and think there is a happier 
 life than the one I lead, if I could find it. I think if I can 
 lend a charm to such a life as this, and win the admiration 
 and respect of the worthless crowd who follows me, what 
 would it be in the sacred circle of a home, among those who 
 loved and cherished me? Can such a future be in store for 
 me, I ask? and then the past spreads over me like a pall. A 
 merry laugh bursts forth in mockery, and I am gay again." 
 Camille's condition of mind is further described. Nichette 
 is engaged to Gustave. Nichette is a good girl ; Camille re- 
 gards her with tender interest because of this. Nichette has 
 often said to Gustave that she wished Camille would meet 
 with some one who would love and cherish her — who would 
 win her from the feverish life she was leading; and teach 
 her contentment in one more tranquil and enduring. Ni- 
 chette is very happy with Gustave. They live in two cham- 
 bers in the fifth story, in the Rue la Blanche — a window 
 that overlooks half Paris — "a trellis where I have planted a 
 geranium, the first flower Gustave ever gave me — and how 
 it grows ! No wonder, for I sit and sew by it, and watch it 
 all day." The home is cozy — just large enough to hold con- 
 tent. Gustave is a lawyer, and has just had his first case, in 
 which his client was condemned to ten years imprisonment. 
 A condition precedent to the scene between Camille and 
 Duval is that Armand's sister is engaged to be married. 
 It is a love that has been the dream of her life. But the 
 family of the man has learned of the relations between Ar- 
 mand and Camille, and declared the withdrawal of their con- 
 sent unless the relations were given up. This withdrawal, 
 of course, does not belong to the Conditions Precedent be- 
 fore the beginning of the Action, but like them this condi- 
 tion does not have to be acted out, but has to be made of 
 the present. That Armand has written a letter to his law- 
 yer directing him to dispose of the gift of property from his 
 dead mother, and that the father is angry with him for it, is 
 a condition of this sort. It has arisen during: the Action, but 
 it does not have to be acted out, for we accept the facts as 
 
38 ANAIvYSiS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 logical. The last act contains only Conditions Precedent 
 which have arisen during the Action ; that is to say, there 
 is nothing new in the way of Conditions Precedent to the 
 beginning of the Action of the play itself. It will be ob- 
 served, however, that certain things have happened or may 
 happen as Conditions Precedent, but these Conditions are 
 always logical and do not require proof. The conditions pre- 
 cedent of Character exist, of course, before the rise of the 
 curtain, but they may be referred to the study which the au- 
 thor makes of them. All this belongs to the careful prepara- 
 tion made by the author and represented in his notes. He 
 makes sure of his ground. He does not wait to invent his 
 Condition Precedent as he goes along. 
 
 The Conditions Precedent in the material of "Still 
 Waters Run Deep" are uncommonly numerous. The 
 criminality of Hawksley in forging two bills existed 
 four years before the beginning of the Action. If 
 we should set down here all the details of this affair, 
 we should have to quote in almost its entirety Mild- 
 rnJ&y's account of it to Hawksley. It is not necessary to 
 do so here, but the student should take the trouble in one 
 or two plays to give every particle of the Conditions Prece- 
 dent, for it is practice work in retracing the steps of the 
 author. He was compelled to be definite. One should fortify 
 himself against doubts before he reaches the critical mo- 
 ment where everything depends upon the selection of the 
 facts. The Conditions Precedent have to be shaped before 
 one begins to write a play ; he cannot safely proceed without 
 them. The Process of thought in gathering the material and 
 shaping the Conditions Precedent is a part of the work de- 
 signed to facilitate execution. If one does not work by 
 method and does not shape his Conditions Precedent, he 
 may be compelled to remodel the structure of his play con- 
 tinually while writing, whereas he should be freed from all 
 anxieties when he wTites, for he has enough to attend to 
 without being disturbed by things which should have been 
 settled. It is in passing this material through the alembic of 
 
the: conditions prkckdent 39 
 
 the mind that the facts become definite. The chyle is con- 
 verted into blood. It is not often that a play can be written 
 off-hand, wtihout this process of preliminary thought. In a 
 way, a play is rehearsed in the mind or "written" over and 
 over again. If this process is not pursued, the play may be 
 "finished," and then follows the foolish labor of having to 
 actually re-write the play, or, as sometimes is the case, to 
 write another play out of the same material. The result is 
 that when a play is written in the slipshod manner of those 
 who do not do any thinking or collecting of material, their 
 finished play is after all merely material. It is not a play at 
 all. 
 
 It is easy to surmise some of the operations of the dramat- 
 ist's mind in shaping some of the Conditions Precedent in 
 this play. For instance, the material may have been got 
 into some order, the attempt of Hawksley against Emily 
 may have become sharply defined, and then it probably 
 occurred to the author that it would be harsh or repulsive 
 and vulgar if Emily had not been acquainted with Hawks- 
 ley before her marriage. Hence comes the touch that oper- 
 ates in the Conditions in the talk between Potter and Mrs. 
 Sternhold. It is of the Conditions Precedent that Hawksley 
 is considered a gentleman. He is a man of the world, a 
 dead shot who can snuff a candle at twenty paces; he is 
 exceedingly crafty and brilliant at figures in a financial 
 transaction. Potter has every confidence in him. Hawks- 
 ley is vastly agreeable, "the sort of man one's always glad 
 to see." He has shown some penchant for Emily before her 
 marriage, as Mrs. Sternhold says; and if, as Potter says, 
 Mrs. Sternhold had not set her face against it, Emily and 
 Hawksley might have made a match of it. Mrs. Sternhold 
 had always thought that Emily had no fancy for Hawksley. 
 Before the Action begins Potter has seen some evidence of 
 the familiarity between Emily and Hawksley which has 
 caused him to suspect their relations. They have been very 
 careful in the presence of Mrs. Sternhold, and she has not 
 had an opportunity to see it ; but they have paid no attention 
 
40 ■ ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 to Potter, ("they don't mind him/') He has intended to 
 talk to Emmy about it ever so long, the Conditions Prece- 
 dent existing for a long time — "but he didn't like to." Pot- 
 ter has been in the habit of taking the "Globe" — the paper 
 published yet — when the postman comes and going to the 
 library to read it. We have seen also that he is in the habit 
 of falling asleep in the afternoon after dinner, but that he 
 would never admit it. How many glimpses of the present 
 and the past conditions of life in the household we get by 
 these little touches introduced in a living way in the Action 
 of the moment; Potter has always thought it was a great 
 comfort to have such a superior sister in the house ; she has 
 always saved him so much trouble in making up his mind. 
 Hawksley has given Bran, the mastiff, to Emily, and Bran 
 knows his old master. Emily always sits up late reading 
 "in this room." The eight thousand pounds under Emmy's 
 settlement should have been paid by Potter two months 
 ago. Mildmay knows that Potter has invested some of the 
 money for him, "thinking that he would not object." In 
 fact, Hawksley had told it to Mildmay last night in trying 
 to persuade him to invest more, urging that Potter thought 
 well of the investment. Mildmay has been having Gimlet 
 look matters up. You can find many more Conditions Pre- 
 cedent in the play and convince yourself that they were 
 thought out, for the most part, before the writing of the 
 play." 
 
 Shakspere bodies forth the time. Massinger does the 
 same thing in "A New Way to Pay Old Debts." While the 
 dramatic art in it is strong, it is not a play of mere expe- 
 diencies, or complication or situation for the mere sake of 
 complication and situation. It is built of substantial mate- 
 rial and is itself solid. 
 
 Let us consider the state of affairs and some of the Condi- 
 tions Precedent before the beginning of the Action : Well- 
 born has been reduced to poverty partly by his riotous liv- 
 ing and excesses in drink, and is "threadbare and tattered." 
 Tapwell, the innkeeper, has profited by the prodigality of 
 
THK CONDITIONS PRE:CEDENT 4I 
 
 the spendthrift. He was born on Wellborn's father's land, 
 "and proud to be a drudge in his house." When WellbornV 
 father died the estate came to him, and Tapwell became his 
 under butler. Wellborn soon ran through his land, his 
 "credit not worth a token," he grew a common borrower 
 from everybody, "no man escaped" him. Poor Tim Tapwell, 
 with a little stock, some forty pounds or so, bought a small 
 cottage, and humbled himself to a marriage with Froth. 
 He is an "ungrateful hound," is this Tapwell. Wellborn 
 had "made purse" for him in his day of prosperity, and 
 Tapwell licked his boots, and thought his holiday cloak was 
 too coarse to clean his young master's boots with. Why, 
 man, it was Wellborn himself who gave Tapwell the money 
 needed to make up the sum required for the purchase of 
 the inn. The way it came about was that Wellborn had 
 heard him say or rather swear "If ever he could arrive at 
 forty pounds, he would live like an emperor," and the 
 young prodigal gave him the wherewithal in "ready gold." 
 Oh, this Tapwell was a wretch from his natal day, a "viper, 
 thankless viper." Wellborn had beggared himself to make 
 such rascals rich. Of course he should not have dissipated 
 his patrimony thus. Old Sir John Wellborn, the quondam 
 master of Tapwell, Wellborn's father, "was a man of wor- 
 ship, bore the whole sway of the shire, kept a great house, 
 relieved the poor, and so forth." He died and left his 
 estate to his son, who then becomes "a lord of acres, the 
 prime gallant." He had a merry time of it; hawks and 
 hounds, with choice of running horses ; mistresses and such 
 other extravagances; which his uncle. Sir Giles Overreach, 
 observing, resolved not to lose the opportunity, on statutes, 
 mortgages, the binding bonds, awhile supplied his folly, and, 
 having got his land, then left him. Wellborn has a friend 
 in Allworth, whose stepmother. Lady Allworth, since his 
 father's death, has been a deep mourner, and, by reason of 
 love for the dead father, favors the son so that he feels that 
 he cannot pay too much observance to her. There were few 
 stepdames as she. She is a noble widow, and keeps her 
 
42 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^E: 
 
 reputation pure and clear. She has suitors in abundance, 
 e'en the best in the shire, such as sue and send and send 
 and sue again; but to no purpose. Their frequent visits 
 have not gained her presence. Yet she is far from sullen- 
 ness and pride. She is about thirty, I think, not too old 
 for a suitable match with Wellborn if her love had lit on 
 him ; charmingly gracious, hospitable to a degree naturally, 
 but she has a house full of retainers and all the means at 
 her command to maintain her estate. To know her was to 
 love her. You would have been charmed, I am sure. She 
 possessed an accomplishment that befitted her station, she 
 was a good housekeeper. Her authority was maintained 
 with dignity. A woman of great resolution of character 
 was Lady Allworth. Wellborn was older than Allworth; 
 it was Allworth's father who was Wellborn's friend first. 
 Young Allorth is in love with Margaret, the daughter of 
 Sir Giles. Wellborn has heard of this love. . He knows of 
 Allworth's "walking in the clouds." Allworth recognizes 
 the character of the base churl, her father ; but he feels that, 
 "if ever the queen of flowers, the boast of spring, the rose, 
 sprang from the envious briar," there is a disparity between 
 the goddess of his soul and Sir Giles. The old cormorant 
 has ruined the state of both these young men. Why, Sir 
 Giles, "to make his daughter great in swelling titles, with- 
 out touch of conscience will cut his neighbor's throat." 
 Young Allworth is a boy that lives at the devotion of a 
 stepmother and the uncertain favor of Lord Lovell. These 
 servants of Lady Allworth's, I think, would have been in 
 better discipline if their mistress had not withdrawn from 
 society and abandoned entertaining. Furnace no doubt was 
 getting his wages regularly, but he was engaged to please 
 her palate, and now she had even foresworn eating. When 
 he "cracks his brains to find out tempting sauces, when 
 he is three parts roasted, and the fourth part parboiled, to 
 prepare her viands, she keeps her chamber, dines with a 
 panada, or water gruel, his sweat never thought on." Still,, 
 there are harpies who come to feed on her, pretending to 
 
the: conditions pr£;cedent 43 
 
 love her; particularly a thin-gutted squire "that's stolen 
 into commission." Meat's cast away on this Justice Greedy, 
 "his stomach's as insatiate as the grave." All this makes 
 Furnace so angry that when provoked, he is even angry 
 at his prayers. This Lady Bountiful has many servants, and 
 idle times were on them so they got fat and saucy. There 
 was Order, the steward, who had his stafif of office, a chain 
 and double ruff, symbols of power. Why, goodness alive, if 
 any of the servants under him missed his function he made 
 him forfeit his breakfast and denied him the privilege in 
 the wine cellar. Amble was my Lady's gobefore. About 
 all the servants had to do at this particular time was to 
 wrangle. No hurt was meant in it all. Allworth was his 
 father's picture in little, and the servants respected him. 
 Lady Allworth had her maids, I warrant you. "Sort those 
 silks well. I'll take the air alone." Allworth's master. 
 Lord Lovell, a soldier, was about to go to the Low Coun- 
 tries. But it is plain that he has a weather eye on our 
 Lady Bountiful, and, first having deputized Allworth to 
 kiss her Ladyship's fair hands, intends to present his ser- 
 vice in person. Lady Allworth looks with great favor on 
 young Allworth, and leaves to him his course of conduct. 
 Allworth is much devoted to Lord Lovell. Still she is 
 always ready to give him good advice, for her ever honored 
 husband, some few hours before the will of heaven took 
 him from her, recommended him to her charge by the 
 dearest ties of love between them. Naturally, Allworth 
 was bound to listen to her with much respect as if his 
 father lived in her. She had showered many bounties on 
 Allworth; he will do whatever she says. The father's 
 message to his son, in case he followed the war, was that 
 it is a school where all the principles tending to honor are 
 taught ; not a place for those who repair thither to presume 
 that they may with license practice their lawless riots; for 
 then they would not merit the noble name of soldiers. No ; 
 he wanted his son to obey his leaders and shun mutinies; 
 to bear with patience the winter's cold and summer's 
 
44 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 scorching heat; to dare boldly in a fair cause; and, far 
 country's sake, to run upon the cannon's mouth undaunted. 
 That was what the old man thought, rest his soul ; for these 
 were the essential parts that made up a soldier ; not swear- 
 ing, dice, or drinking. Again, AUworth was to beware of ill 
 company. It was a wise dead man who was telling these 
 tales; for men are like to those with whom they converse. 
 Lady Allworth had certainly been thinking of Wellborn 
 before the curtain rose, for she had no regard for him ; his 
 manners are so depraved; it is not because he is poor, for 
 that rather claims her pity; but the poor fellow has lost 
 himself in vicious courses. She is well aware that her late 
 husband, Allworth's father, loved Wellborn, while he was 
 worthy of loving, but the late Allworth, senior, would cast 
 Wellborn off now. She most certainly had it in for Well- 
 born — before the curtain rises. Ah, here is an interesting 
 Condition Precedent: Six days since there came from Hull 
 a pipe of rich Canary, which shall spend itself, vital and 
 generous wine that it is, for my Lady's honor. It is of the 
 right race. Besides, there came last night, from the forest 
 of Sherwood, the fattest stag that Furnace ever cooked. 
 In fact, a part of it had been prepared for dinner — before 
 the curtain rises, and baked in puff-paste. Sir Giles is 
 generally accompanied by Marrall, his man of affairs, and 
 Justice Greedy, who is ready to put off the trial of a case 
 at any time for the trial of a dinner, according to statute, 
 Hemici decimo quarto. Greedy is ever ready to grant 
 any warrant called for by his master, the cormorant of for- 
 tunes, he the glutton of food. Wellborn is proud in spite 
 of his rags. He has no humbleness before servants. He 
 knows that blood runs in his veins as noble as that which 
 swells the veins of Lady Bountiful. Before the curtain rose 
 on the second act, no doubt, Wellborn intended to call on 
 Lady Allworth. He knew what he was going to say to her. 
 Was not Lady Allworth's late husband once in his fortune 
 almost as low as Wellborn is now? Wants, debts, and 
 quarrels, lay heavy on him. Did not Wellborn relieve him? 
 
the: conditions precedent 45 
 
 Did not Wellborn's sword on all occasions second his? 
 and when in all men's judgment he was sunk, and in his- 
 own hopes not to be buoyed up, did not Wellborn step unto 
 him, take him by the hand, and set him upright? Of course 
 he did. Lady Allworth knew it all the time, and Wellborn 
 knew she knew it, and everybody knew it, and Wellborn is 
 going to tell her "lest she forget." Lady Bountiful surely 
 had forgotten a few details concerning her late husband. 
 In point of fact, she made him master of her estate when he 
 was little better off than Wellborn is. She married him 
 on his shape, but "to that shape a mind made up of all 
 parts, either great or noble, so winning a behavior, not to 
 be resisted, madam." He knew where he would hit her. 
 He had the facts on her. You may rely on it that when she 
 is reminded of these facts about her late husband she is 
 going to help Wellborn, it matters not what she thought 
 before the rise of the curtain. He is not going to borrow 
 sixpence of her. He intends to touch her for something 
 large. He is going to ask her to "quit all his owings, set 
 him trimly forth, and furnished well with gold." Let us 
 all hope that he will prosper in his design to have Sir Giles 
 believe that Lady Allworth has taken him into her favor 
 as a suitor. I do hope Sir Giles will fall into the trap. He 
 is such a scoundrel, the forerunner and prototype of the 
 magnates who form trusts, employ rascally lawyers, bribe 
 legislatures, and the like. He has no mercy on the weak. 
 He ruins all the poor farmers. It was for "these good ends" 
 he made Greedy a justice. "He that bribes his belly, is 
 certain to command his soul." The reason he put the thin- 
 gut in commission was that he himself, not being a justice, 
 is out of danger. If he himself were a justice, besides the 
 trouble, he might, out of wilfulness, or error, run himself 
 into a praemunire, and so become a prey to the informer. 
 No, Sir Giles would have none of it. He had Greedy to 
 take all the risks and serve his purpose; "Let him hang, 
 or damn, I care not; friendship is but a word"! He does 
 not value anything but worldly wisdom; "for the other 
 
46 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 wisdom that does prescribe us a well-governed life, and to 
 do right to others, as ourselves, I value not an atom." He 
 must have all men sellers and he the only purchaser. He 
 has thought of a way to ruin Master Frugal, who, it is said, 
 will not sell, nor borrow, nor exchange ; and his land, lying 
 in the midst of his many lordships, is a foul blemish. He 
 will buy some cottage near his manor; which done, "m 
 make my men break ope' his fences, ride over his standing 
 corn, and in the night set fire to his barns, or break his 
 cattle's legs; these trespasses draw on suits, and suits ex- 
 penses, which I can spare, but will soon beggar him. When 
 I have harried him thus two or three year, though he sue 
 in forma pauperis, in spite of all his thrift and care, he'll 
 grow behind-hand." Here is a fit opportunity for you to 
 establish your conviction that this is not an idle gathering 
 together of facts from the play but that they are the things 
 that were thought out before a line of the play was written. 
 What has all this to do with the immediate Action as it con- 
 cerns the Plot and Wellborn? In what way is Master 
 Frugal concerned with the fortunes of our young spend- 
 thrift who has invented a new way to pay old debts ? They 
 are Conditions that make the weave thick and strong. W> 
 may even call them passive Conditions Precedent, hardly 
 of the Action of the Plot, but still of the Action. The scene 
 and other details never in the world came into existence on 
 the spur of the moment, but by premeditation. "Then, with 
 the favor of my man of law, I will pretend some title ; want 
 will force him to put it to arbitrament; then, if he sell of 
 half the value, we shall have ready money," (just as mod- 
 ern as Ready Money Mortiby), "and I have his land." Sir 
 Giles has been wondering all the while how it is that cold 
 nor hunger will kill Frank Wellborn. It is a parlous thing, 
 for Marrall caused his host, the tapster, last night, to turn 
 him out of doors, and has been since among all the friends 
 and tenants of Sir Giles to charge them, on the forfeit of 
 the favor of the great man, not to relieve him, though a 
 crust of mouldy bread would keep him from starving. This 
 
TH^ CONDITIONS PRECEDENT 47 
 
 he did before the curtain rose, you will see. Lord Lovell, 
 the gallant-minded, the popular Lord, is the minion of the~ 
 people's love. Sir Giles has had his eye on him as a match 
 for his daughter. His ambition is to have her marry a 
 title, to be honorable, right honorable; and he is willing 
 to give his ill-gotten gains to this end. He has long har- 
 bored this thought. It is a relief to his sordidness, a bit of 
 humanity in him. But he is pitiless in the means which he 
 will use. He will have her well attended in the estate 
 which he shall procure for her. "There are ladies of errant 
 knights decayed, and brought so low, that, for cast clothes 
 and meats, will gladly serve her; and 'tis my glory, though 
 I come from the city, to have their issue, whom I have 
 undone, to kneel to mine, as bond slaves." He will not 
 have a chambermaid that ties her shoes, or any meaner 
 office, but such whose fathers were right worshipful. " 'Tis 
 a rich man's pride! There having ever been more than a 
 strange antipathy," between men like him and true 
 gentry. It may be well to observe that Wellborn is the son 
 of Sir Giles' sister. Surely there is a touch of tenderness 
 in this for any but a heart of flint as Uncle. Wellborn's 
 given name is Frank, if you please. Massinger knew it 
 before the curtain rose and poor Frank's highest wish on 
 Sundays used to be "cheese-parings and brown bread." 
 Yesterday, you thought yourself well in a barn, "wrapped 
 up in pease-straw." Marrall knows the stable of Lady 
 Allworth, and has never dreamt of dining at her table. Sir 
 Giles, by the way, lived in state himself, spending his ill- 
 gained money in his ambition for his daughter. This Sir 
 Giles himself feeds high ; keeps many servants, rich in his 
 habit, vast in his expenses. No wonder, he frights men 
 out of their estates, and breaks through all law nets, made 
 to curb all men, as they were cobwebs. No man dares re- 
 prove him, such a spirit to dare and power to do, were 
 never lodged so unluckily. No doubt many a usurer today 
 is good to his family. If Wellborn succeeded in marrying 
 Lady Allworth he would come into possession of a glebe 
 
48 ANALYSIS or DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 land called Knave's Acre. Sir Giles is somewhat inclined 
 to grow stout, and is not disinclined to walk instead of 
 riding at times, so that he may keep "from being pursy." 
 Sir Giles has attempted to see the widow TEN TIMES 
 since the death of her husband, and has been unable to get 
 audience, though he came as suitor. Allworth has trusted 
 Lord Lovell with his soul's nearest, nay, Margaret's dearest 
 secret, and he will keep it as in a cabinet locked, treachery 
 shall never open it. He has found Allworth more jealous 
 in his love and service to him than he has been in his re- 
 wards. The fact is. Lord Lovell has been more of a father 
 to him than a master. Lord Lovell has been untainted in 
 all his Actions, and he will be faithful to Allworth when he 
 meets Margaret although she has wealth and beauty. Sir 
 Giles Overreach has heaps of ill-got gold, and as much land 
 as would tire a falcon's wings in one day to fly over. It is 
 about a half hour's ride from the outskirts of Lady All worth's 
 park to Overreach's house. Margaret is attended by Lady 
 Downfallen as a servant; she likes her better as a com- 
 panion. She pities her state. Margaret is virtuous, not a 
 woman to agree to what is in her father's mind as to her 
 conduct toward Lord Lovell. Margaret is modest too; 
 she recognizes that she "is of low descent, however rich." 
 Sir Giles has forbidden Allworth in his house; he knew of 
 the affair between him and his daughter. We must not 
 forget, among the Conditions Precedent, Wellborn's "in- 
 ward linings" — "Howe'er his outside's coarse, his inward 
 linings are as fine and fair as any man's." He has pawned 
 a trunk of rich clothes before the rise of the curtain. It is 
 four miles from Sir Giles' manor-house to Lady Allworth's. 
 As it was one mile from the park gate, it must be three 
 miles within the grounds. Sir Giles wears a signet ring. 
 This seat of Lady Allworth's is well wooded and watered, 
 the acres rich and fertile; and the mansion is a well built 
 pile. Much has been herein recited concerning the charac- 
 ter of Sir Giles. We might add much more that properly 
 belongs to the Conditions Precedent; as, for instance, that 
 
THE CONDITIONS PRECEDENT 49 
 
 he is not made wretched by the curses of whole families. 
 No, only as "the rocks are, when foamy billows split them- 
 selves against their flinty ribs, &c." Wellborn used to 
 lodge upon the bankside, and he broke a vintner by not pay- 
 ing for muscadine and eggs, and five pound suppers, with 
 after drinkings. A tailor went down also under his reck- 
 less extravagance without paying his bills. Sir Giles holds 
 the deed by which Wellborn passed over to him his estates. 
 Marrall was a party to the cheat. Parson Wilde is bene- 
 ficed at Overreach's manor at Got'em. The deed from Well- 
 born has slept, with unbroken seal, in Overreach's cabinet 
 these three years. Wellborn has disposed of land that had 
 continued in the family name for twenty descents. It was 
 worth ten times more than Sir Giles paid him. Besides, 
 the original document was a trust deed. All the facts 
 herein set down were established in the author's mind be- 
 fore the writing of the play and not necessarily with refer- 
 ence to where he would use them. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PROPOSITION. 
 
 A dramatic Proposition is the brief logical statement or 
 syllogism of that which has to be demonstrated by the 
 Complete Action of the play. 
 
 Its simplest and perhaps its universal form so far as I 
 have been able to discover, is a statement in three clauses, 
 first, the conditions of the Action, second the cause of the 
 Action, third, the result of the Action. This third clause 
 involves the problem and may be put as a problem. Let 
 us first consider a play that is familiar to every reader and 
 theatre goer, "Romeo and Juliet." Shakspere has 
 his material for this play in the shape of an Italian romance. 
 The wonderful thing he did consists mainly or notably in 
 the application of his art to it. It is sheer nonsense to im- 
 agine that Shakspere wrote unpremeditatedly and without 
 a systematic and conscious Technique. With the possible 
 single exception of Massinger, he was the only dramatist 
 of his period who seemed to possess a complete Technique 
 fitted to the stage of his day. Ben Johnson was a scholar, 
 acquainted with Aristotle and the old classic drama, it is 
 true, but Shakspere was the supreme artist. He has re- 
 duced this romantic Italian story to a definite Proposition. 
 That general Proposition was : — Two young members of 
 families in deadly strife fall in love. They marry; will it 
 result happily and reunite the families? Shakspere, how- 
 ever, had the story before him and could be more definite 
 and could reduce it to individuals at once ;^Komeo and 
 Juliet, members of the house of Montague and Capulet, in 
 deadly strife, fall in love; they marry; will this marriage 
 result happily and reunite the families^ The third clause 
 is the problem to be worked out ; but the result can be put 
 as a statement. Put as a question or problem, its alterna- 
 tives have to be answered with a Yes or No. They marry 
 
THK PROPOSITION 5 1 
 
 with a happy result? No. The families are reunited? 
 Yes! Put as a statement it requires a setting forth of the 
 How. All this has to be worked out. We believe that 
 plays are ordinarily written without a conception of the 
 technical form that we give for a Proposition. To write a 
 play on the general idea that it must have a beginning, a 
 middle and an end, results in many successful plays and 
 just as many failures. What we may call the French 
 method, which undoubtedly involves the idea of a technical 
 Proposition such as we give it, is a little more specific 
 in that it makes a middle of a play the climax and thereby 
 becomes more specific and more scientific. They write to 
 and from that climax. I shall point out later on that cli- 
 max used with reference to the Proposition is a dangerous 
 and misleading term. But, in the hands of a dramatist who 
 understands the art it answers the purpose. We be- 
 lieve it, however, to be less definite and comprehensive 
 than the logical formula of Proposition which we have in- 
 troduced. A full understanding and acceptance of the sec- 
 ond clause of the Proposition, as we frame it, is of the 
 utmost importance. It represents the cause of the Action. 
 Misapprehension and confusion commonly exist in the 
 minds of the inexpert as to the significance of this term. 
 They are apt to imagine that the cause of the Action is that 
 Romeo and Juliet fall in love. Not at all. That is the be- 
 ginning of the Action and belongs to the conditions of it. 
 From that starting point any number of romantic or real 
 happenings could ensue. A play could not be made out of 
 those conditions without something definite, something 
 that we call the cause of the Action. To assign a mere mid- 
 dle and end to a series of happenings would not necessarily 
 make it a play. Even a climax in the general sense of the 
 most interesting scene or situation would not help matters. 
 It is because Romeo and Juliet marry, with the swift fol- 
 lowing consequences that we have Action. Sooner or later 
 the dramatist must determine upon the Proposition of his 
 play. He may not get it at once, but a discussion of the 
 
52 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE; 
 
 method and procuring it must be deferred. It is your 
 business now to understand what a Proposition is and its 
 relation to the other parts of a play. 
 
 The play now selected for illustration is an exceedingly 
 simple and effective one, "Ingomar." The Theme of the 
 author's play was love. Endless plays have been and can 
 yet be written on that Theme, but the general Theme is 
 not definite enough for practical purposes. What kind of 
 love? and so you go on narrowing it down. Arrived at 
 the Proposition, whether found in a complete story with 
 a dramatic Proposition or a story be devised to fit a philoso- 
 phy, the play must resolve itself into a Proposition or the 
 dramatist has no starting point. There must be nothing ab- 
 stract about it; it must concern people. A moral Proposi- 
 tion for a play may have its abstract form, but the working 
 Proposition must be concrete. Your first step upon solid 
 ground will be made when you assure yourself of the truth 
 of this dramatic law and when you convince yourself that 
 it is a universal and inevitable requirement. You will find 
 it true with reference to all the plays herein and to all which 
 it is now your independent task to analyze. Again I repeat 
 the admonition that you make sure that you understand 
 and accept the Proposition as the real starting point of the 
 construction and subsequent writing of a play. Unless 
 you can reduce your play to a Proposition you have no play. 
 What is your play about? If you cannot answer that ques- 
 tion in two lines or so, you have no play. The tendency is 
 to throw a Proposition together loosely and mainly in the 
 form of a question, for instance: — Will Ingomar, having 
 in his possession a beautiful girl, he a barbarian, be con- 
 quered by the power of love? Or take the point of view, 
 from Parthenia: — ^Will Parthenia, trusting to the mercy 
 of the savages, accomplish her mission of saving her father 
 by softening the heart of the Barbarian leader? One might 
 stumble through a play by the aid of either of these Pro- 
 positions and, by a bare possibility, the dramatist using 
 either Proposition might have written this identical play, 
 
THE PROPOSITION 53 
 
 but if he did succeed in writing the identical play he would 
 have written something that he did not start out to write, 
 for neither Proposition covers the whole play. Either af- 
 fords a kind of Proposition that serves to hold a play to- 
 gether in a fashion, but one should be scientific and accu- 
 rate from the beginning and not trust to chance. It is 
 sometimes difficult to frame a Proposition that will include 
 everything in the Complete Action. Reducing the Com- 
 plete Action of "INGOMAR" to its lowest terms the follow- 
 ing is more of a Complete Proposition: Parthenia offers 
 herself to Ingomar, chief of a tribe of barbarians, as host- 
 age for her captive father; Ingomar accepts her, with a 
 savage view of using her as the slave of his passions; will 
 she become his slave or subdue him to honest love and will 
 he, for that reason, renounce his tribe to marry her? This 
 covers the case, although it apparently begins with the 
 second act. In reality the first act is a prologue. Now, in 
 this Proposition are involved all sorts of subordinate things 
 necessary to the Plot and the Action and there are included 
 even subordinate Propositions, but it is your one main Pro- 
 position to which you must make your material conform. 
 The subordinate Proposition here is whether Ingomar will 
 renounce his tribe for love of her. The subordinate Propo- 
 sition in "Romeo and Juliet" concerns the reconciliation of 
 the families. It is very common if not usual for a Propo- 
 sition to have this subordinate clause, but it must be sub- 
 ordinate. 
 
 Merely with reference to the wording, the Proposition of 
 a given play is susceptible of different statement, but in 
 substance the Proposition would remain the same. A Pro- 
 position usually, by necessity, includes the few principal 
 Characters around whom the Action revolves. But there 
 are many propositions in a play. Just as each act has its 
 Proposition, so a Proposition may be attached to individual 
 Characters. The main Proposition involves many subordi- 
 nate Propositions, consequently, the danger in framing the 
 main one, the one including all the others, is that we may 
 
54 ANAI^YSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE; 
 
 select a subordinate one and thus not have a complete 
 Action. At first the Proposition of "The Lady of 
 Lyons" may seem to be this: Pauline, rich and proud, a 
 tradesman's daughter, ambitious of marrying a title, is loved 
 by Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son; unrecognized by 
 her, he personates a Prince and marries her; will her love, 
 humbling her pride, cause her to forgive the deception and 
 finally reunite them? Or it may be put as a statement: 
 Pauline, rich and proud, ambitious of marrying a title, is 
 loved by Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son; unrecog- 
 nized by her, he personates a Prince and marries her; love 
 conquers her pride, she forgives the deception and becomes 
 his wife after separation. The one first given does not seem 
 to take in the last act or provide for Melnotte's atonement, 
 and rather leaves the last act as a kind of Epilogue. Let us 
 see if this will not cover the whole case : Pauline, rich and 
 vain, ambitious of marrying a title, is loved by Melnotte, 
 a peasant ; Melnotte deceives her into marriage by pretend- 
 ing to be a Prince ; will her pride be humbled by her love, 
 and will he incidentally, atone for his treachery? Again, 
 the author, mentally reserving all details, would have had 
 a sufficient and definite Proposition in this form : Pauline 
 is loved by Melnotte ; he deceives her into a marriage by 
 personating a Prince ; will he win her love and atone for 
 his treachery? He has a working Proposition when he 
 gets the three clauses, premises, Cause of Action and result. 
 He may not get it all at once, and it may be subject to 
 change as he proceeds, but the incidental processes are to 
 be considered later. We are now concerned with what a 
 Proposition is. This Proposition does not require any de- 
 tail of the Action or how it is to be carried out. It is the 
 Story of the play. The last clause is the problem to be 
 worked out. From the Proposition the Plot is constructed. 
 Thence you proceed to demonstrate, in the Action, how it 
 all happened. 
 
 In "Camille," Camille is honestly loved by Armand, 
 who wishes to withdraw her from her irregular life ; she is 
 
THE PROPOSITION 55 
 
 required to sacrifice herself by giving him up for his own 
 good. Will she be so purified by this love as to do thia^ 
 and v^ill she by the merit of this purified love be finally 
 united with him? 
 
 This is a full statement of the whole case, although it 
 might have a different form as to words. Whether Dumas 
 derived his philosophy of the case from certain facts, or 
 whether he devised or found his facts to fit his philosophy 
 is immaterial. He was convinced that a woman may be 
 purified by love. That was his Theme or philosophy, his 
 general Proposition. But we cannot call the Theme or 
 philosophy of a play its Proposition, for if we are to be 
 scientific or even intelligible to ourselves or others in dis- 
 cussion, our terms must have a specific meaning. We can- 
 not have a definite play from an indefinite or general Propo- 
 sition. Even here, the process is from the general to the 
 particular. In bringing it down from the general we do not 
 depart in the slightest from that general idea. Will love 
 purify a woman would not answer for a Proposition of this 
 play, for there is nothing specific about it; and the drama 
 is specific or nothing. What woman? Under what cir- 
 cumstances? Her age? Her mode of life? Her surround- 
 ings? Make these and all essential things plain; place them 
 in an atmosphere as clear, we may say, as that of Colorado 
 where the mountain peaks a hundred miles away may be 
 seen. Here we h'ave a Proposition divided into three 
 clauses. First, the premises, that is to say, the conditions 
 and active facts upon which the Action is based. Second, 
 we have the cause of Action, the main Cause, that upon 
 which the complete Action turns. Third, what will be the 
 result of this main cause of Action? The third clause con- 
 tains the problem of the play. We could throw the Propo- 
 tion into the form of a statement of a happening, or some- 
 thing that happens, the result being known, as indeed they 
 are known to the dramatist in either case. Then we would 
 have to discover, for playwriting is never perfunctory, and 
 result. In neither event is the problem a riddle or a matter 
 
56 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 of chance to the dramatist. He knows what the result will 
 be before he begins to work the Proposition out. The de- 
 tails of it he may have to discover. Minor details he will 
 have to discover for playwriting is never perfunctory, and 
 this constant discovery or invention is the charm that sus- 
 tains the mettle of the writer. 
 
 A true Proposition is inclusive of all that may be discov- 
 ered and used in the play. All that is used must conform 
 to the proposition. If your discoveries and material prove 
 overpoweringly suggestive of another and better proposi- 
 tion, then you will have to change your Proposition, for 
 your play must conform to it. Sooner or later it becomes 
 fixed. All the better if your original idea is the true one and 
 rooted in a firm philosophy. If the original idea is nOt a 
 strong one and if you are looking for a mere "play" such 
 changes are often made. Dumas wanted to find the highest 
 test of Camille's sincerity and purification. Remember that 
 we are stating it from the French point of view. At any 
 rate, we get the sacrifice, and in the last act we get the 
 purified spirit. 
 
 Observe that the last clause contains two problems, a 
 main and a subordinate one. This is usually if not always 
 the case. The two wheels seem required to balance the 
 vehicle. The Action is not worked out until both are dem- 
 onstrated. And the completion of both must be practically 
 simultaneous. We have in the three clauses a beginning, 
 a middle and an end. Now, see how much this involves. 
 You get a glimpse of Action right off. It plainly is pro- 
 gressive Action. It is all toward a given end. It includes 
 all the facts as they are developed. Why is it not necessary 
 to make mention of Varville or the father of Armand or 
 any of the other characters in this Proposition? Because 
 the next step is a Plot to work out this Proposition, and 
 these characters belong to the Plot. They may exist, to a 
 certain extent, in the mind of the dramatist when he frames 
 his Proposition, but that is no reason why they should 
 be mentioned in the Proposition. In point of fact, a drama- 
 
THE PROPOSITION 57 
 
 tist may actually write a play with a Proposition sufficient, 
 as he may think, and then be under the necessity for the- 
 purpose of revision, to go back and question and reframe 
 his Proposition. If dramatists always did this, for surety, 
 untold sums would be saved and many a play would be 
 rescued from failure. Dumas first saw the absolute neces- 
 sity for Varville when he began to consider Camille^s sacri 
 fice. How was she to convince Armand that she had aban- 
 doned him? By going back to Varville. He connects it 
 at once with the second clause of the Proposition. That 
 made it obligatory to put Varville in the premises of the 
 play, in the development of the first clause. If he belonged 
 to the Proposition the chances are that he would be in the 
 last act in proper person. If we attempted to put into the 
 Proposition every fact in the Plot and every incidental de- 
 tail, how could there be any scientific division of the func- 
 tions of the parts of a play? What would be the use of 
 a distinct Proposition if it was really not distinct ? It is not 
 a mere convenience, indispensably convenient as it is. 
 A consistent Plot is essential to the working out of the 
 Proposition, but there are many details in a play which are 
 at least optional with reference to the Proposition. If you 
 put one thing in the Proposition which did not properly 
 belong to it, you had as well put everything. We can at 
 once see that it was necessary to put Duval in the Proposi- 
 tion, for he is implied in the sacrifice demanded. Prudence 
 is implied, for Armand must be introduced to Camille by 
 her. It may be said that Gustave and Nichette are not ob- 
 vious. Very true. They do not even belong to the Plot. 
 They belong to the Action, which is again something difffer- 
 ent from the Plot. That we shall see in discussing Plot and 
 Action. It is enough to see that out of this Proposition 
 grew the entire play. The Proposition of this play was de- 
 veloped out of the philosophy of the dramatist and his sub- 
 ject. We shall find other plays in which this process is not 
 so certain, and, indeed, not required in the initiative. 
 
 Do not be disturbed at any repetition that you may dis- 
 
 / ^' or -' 
 ,i_...U,N.|V£._„._ ..._. 
 
58 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 cover in these pages. It is orderly repetition and is of the 
 very essence of learning and teaching. I am giving my 
 labors to 'my students and am not primarily addressing 
 myself to the casual reader. 
 
 In "Still Water Runs Deep," Mildmay has lost authority 
 in his own household because of the supremacy of Hawks- 
 ley, who has designs against the purity of his wife and her 
 aunt and against the family fortune; Mildmay confronts 
 Hawksley with a bill forged by him, thereby preventing the 
 scandal against the aunt and forcing him to return the in- 
 vestments already made; by the production of a second 
 forged bill held in reserve he exposes Hawksley in the 
 presence of his family and restores himself to authority. 
 
 This is a working Proposition for it is comprehensive, 
 with premises, cause of Action, and result or problem; a 
 beginning, a middle and an end. The last clause may be 
 made to read: Mildmay defeats Hawksley and restores 
 himself to authority. 
 
 Observe first the Unity of the Proposition. Everything 
 depends upon Mildmay's exposure of Hawksley. The re- 
 gaining of the confidence of the family is subordinate to 
 that. Put it the other way, that Mildmay regains the confi- 
 dence of his family, and thereby is enabled to expose 
 Hawksley. A play might be made for such a Proposition, 
 but it does not present a definite Action as to means, and 
 would certainly require entirely diflferent treatment. The 
 exposure of Hawksley would be the subordinate clause in 
 the problem. Again, suppose that he should defeat Hawks- 
 ley with reference to his wife by showing her the design 
 of Hawksley on the aunt, and then had to turn about on an 
 entirely different line and convince Potter, who holds the 
 purse strings, that Hawksley is a scoundrel? Then you 
 would have two propositions of equal importance or that 
 would require independent treatment. One part of the 
 play would be finished before the other part, neither one 
 or the other would be main or subordinate. There would 
 be no direct relation between them except at the end of the 
 
the: proposition 59 
 
 play perhaps. There would not be that continuous relation- 
 ship which is necessary to the Unity of a Proposition. Go a^ 
 little further by way of experiment and add as a Proposition, 
 Can Mildmay also convert Mrs. Sternhold from a hardshell 
 Baptist to a Roman Catholic? Why not? Amateurs and 
 some dramatists of false reputations who, however, do not 
 know the art, are constantly doing things equally absurd. 
 Indeed, what we have just suggested might be introduced 
 as one of the minor Propositions incidental to Action, for a 
 play has many Propositions, but the Present Proposition 
 of the play hardly suggests the possibility of any such 
 vagary. We must confine the Proposition of the play to the 
 idea that controls the play and holds it together from be- 
 ginning to end. If, then, you can destroy the play by means 
 of a false Proposition, you can also destroy the Proposition 
 by departing from it in the course of the Action of the play. 
 If, in writing a play, a change is made, a departure taken, 
 then you are compelled to go back and make the Proposition 
 conform to it. If you complete a play without having for- 
 mulated a Proposition and then find you cannot formulate 
 one, and cannot make play and Proposition consist, your 
 labor is lost, for there must be a dramatic Proposition or 
 there can be no play. 
 
 A Proposition must be susceptible of being worked out; 
 there must be material for it. If a Plot cannot be evolved 
 from it, the Proposition is inadequate. If it is a Proposition 
 for which a play of not more than one or two acts can be 
 devised, it is folly to try to work it out in three or five acts. 
 In "Still Waters Run Deep" there was material for three 
 acts only. The play could not be padded out by introducing 
 into the second clause of the Proposition a second means of 
 thwarting Hawksley, such, for instance, as showing that 
 he was already a bigamist. Again, in order to show the 
 essential requirement of simplicity and Unity, let us assume 
 that in the first clause, the premises of the Proposition, we 
 had to state that Mildmay was henpecked and a candidate 
 for Congress. Make him a candidate for Congress if you 
 
60 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 will, but you cannot put it into Proposition, for everything 
 in the Proposition must be material to the Plot. A Plot 
 must have Unity above all things. You cannot possibly 
 have any true inspiration for a play or any justification in 
 attempting it, if your idea is not large enough for a play 
 in its singleness. It is a test of your own sanity, your own 
 sincerity, of the genuineness of your material. It is true 
 that you may not be able to formulate at once your Proposi- 
 tion or exactly what your play is to be about. You may not 
 at once discover the practical constituents of the Proposi- 
 tion, nor at all in its clauses. Tom Taylor perhaps first 
 had the idea occur to him that an interesting character 
 would be a man of great firmness, veiled under a quiet 
 manner, cool under all circumstances. It may have been 
 suggested to him by some other character in some other 
 play. Or it may have been an observation original with 
 him. He had to cast about before he found the Action 
 which would bring out these characteristics. He had a 
 part of his Proposition the moment the idea occurred to 
 him. It is immaterial whether he saw how he could defeat 
 Hawksley before or after he formulated his Proposition. 
 He could easily have worked it out algebraicly, confident 
 that he would find the needed equivalent. But sooner or 
 later he had to frame his Proposition. Observe that not all 
 the characters are mentioned in the Proposition. Those 
 omitted are not Proposition characters but belong to the 
 Plot or the Action. 
 
 The difficulty which an untrained writer experiences in 
 reducing a play to its Proposition, its lowest terms, consists 
 in the necessity of excluding from the Proposition charac- 
 ters that belong to the Plot simply or to the Action simply. 
 If we included the means of carrying out a Proposition we 
 would infringe upon the Plot. Any mention of the thirteen 
 letters held by Hawksley would make the Proposition cum- 
 brous, although a working Proposition might include it. 
 The dramatic mind must be able to make distinctions, 
 otherwise the Proposition, the Plot and the Action would 
 
THK PROPOSITION 6l 
 
 all be the same thing to him. If Proposition means Plot, 
 and Plot means Proposition and Action meant Plot, &c., 
 there would be no earthly use in our establishing the terms 
 at all. We must not only make a distinction between the 
 principles and their use, but we must always be specific. 
 
 Taylor might have started out with such a general 
 Proposition as this: — Can a henpecked husband, a very 
 much under-rated individual, rise above the state in which 
 he finds himself and attain his rightful position at the head 
 of the family? One might indeed begin with a very general 
 Proposition, gradually making it more specific until he 
 gets what he wants. In this play there had to be a particu- 
 lar husband and particular existing circumstances which had 
 to be overcome in order that the goal aimed at might be 
 reached. 
 
 The Proposition of "A New Way to Pay Old 
 Debts" is not easy to define, for it has an unusual num- 
 ber of under-plots, and the dominating and overwhelming 
 masterfulness of Sir Giles would seem to absolutely de- 
 mand that we frame our Proposition with reference to the 
 chief character of the play and from our point of view of 
 that character. Massinger's first idea, for the strongest, 
 and he drew his picture from life, was Overreach. He 
 wanted to mete out punishment to him. He would cause 
 him to make restitution of lands fraudulently obtained 
 and have his one social ambition, to be effected by the sac- 
 rifice of his daughter, defeated. The dramatist's interest 
 was not aroused by Wellborn. The interest of the audience 
 now does not center in the spendthrift. If Massinger had 
 wanted that he would have given him a love affair. Mas- 
 singer had to accomplish the ruin of Sir Giles by a com- 
 bination of circumstances, with Wellborn as the starting 
 point, so that the Proposition from which a Plot and 
 Action may grow seems to depend upon Wellborn. The 
 simplest Proposition, the most comprehensive, may seem 
 at first to be something like this: Wellborn, robbed of 
 his estates by Sir Giles, determines to retrieve himself; he 
 
62 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 gets Lady AUworth to pretend that she will marry him ; 
 will Sir Giles then set him up in the world again? That 
 is good enough, comprehensive enough, as far as it goes. 
 Sir Giles does furnish him the money with which to pay 
 off his debts, but that does not cover the last act. It was 
 never a problem whether Wellborn could get Sir Giles 
 to restore his entire property. The two great problems in 
 the play are whether Sir Giles will be duped or made to 
 overreach himself or not, both with reference to his 
 schemes of plundering Wellborn and the marriage of his 
 daughter to Lord Lovell instead of to her rightful lover 
 Allworth. The first point is held in solution to the death 
 of Sir Giles, but there is hardly any doubt at any time, 
 in the mind of the audience, as to the intentions of Lord 
 Lovell. We know that Margaret will not be wed to him. 
 If we put the problem so that it makes Sir Giles ambi- 
 tious for a rich marriage for Margaret, then that part of 
 it is kept in solution to the end. Let us look for that prob- 
 lem again. Sir Giles is to overreach himself in what? 
 In supplying Wellborn with money? That does not com- 
 plete the Action. He overreaches himself in thinking that 
 he can, by some trick, get the estate of Lady Allworth if 
 she is married to Wellborn. But he is really defeated by 
 the betrayal of Marrall, whom he has treated brutally, 
 thereby overreaching him(self. He is overreached by every- 
 body. We must look for the Proposition in the solution 
 of the Action, in the denouement and ending of the play. 
 Massinger wanted to have Sir Giles overreach himself, 
 and there might be a continued hope and expectation that 
 he would do so throughout the Action, but we know that 
 he will never have any chance to rob his nephew of prop- 
 erty when he shall have married Lady Allworth, for that 
 event will never take place. The question would always 
 remain. Will he be duped, not what he will be able to do. 
 It would, then, seem impossible to secure an all-embracing 
 Proposition from either the standpoint of Wellborn or of Sir 
 Giles. A Proposition that seems to cover the case, with a 
 
THE PROPOSITION 63 
 
 beginning, a middle and an end, seems to be something 
 like this: Wellborn has been robbed of his patrimony by 
 Sir Giles, and his friend Allworth, in love with Sir Giles's 
 daughter, Margaret, is prevented from marrying her by 
 being kept from her; Wellborn gets Lady Allworth to 
 pretend that she will n^arry him, and Allworth gets Lord 
 Lovell to pretend to sue for Margaret; will Sir Giles be 
 duped into rehabilitating Wellborn and giving Allworth 
 an opportunity to marry his daughter? This would be a 
 working Proposition and would be perfectly clear to one 
 familiar with the Material and the purposes. The premises 
 seem to be lacking as to the character of Sir Giles with 
 reference to the specific plan to rob his nephew again and 
 as to his intense social ambition, but are they not implied? 
 The problem as to whether Wellborn would secure money 
 from his uncle is answered, and although it goes beyond 
 that point to the production of the razed deed, that is an 
 unexpected and needed turn in the Plot Action. This play 
 is unusually complex and difficult to reduce to a brief Pro- 
 position. I shall return to it again. In the meanwhile 
 you may essay its formulation by way of bettering mine. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PLOT. 
 
 The Plot is that combination of happenings which dem- 
 onstrates or solves the Proposition. 
 
 For the present, we are studying what may be called 
 the physiology and anatomy of a play; consequently we 
 are excluding certain things which really belong to a full 
 understanding of each principle taken up ; but which would 
 only lead to confusion ; one thing at a tim(e. For example, 
 while the Scenario embraces our Plot, and while you must 
 have a Plot beforejjrou can„determine^n_alljthe details 
 oflHFTcenes, or rather what scenes to have, the Scenario 
 goes a little~"lurther than the bare Plot, just as Plot and 
 Scenario include Action, which is to be considered in its 
 order. All of them, again, include Unity which is to be 
 considered in its turn. What you have learned so far is 
 that these divisions must first be made before the actual 
 writing is begun and that object and Proposition are the 
 characteristics of this coming from the general to the 
 particular, getting closer and closer to detail. The Sce- 
 nario is the arrangement of the play into Scenes. The 
 Proposition may be given as a problem or as a Story, that 
 is to say, as a logical statement. The Plot is the way in 
 which you carry out that statement of Story, or solve that 
 Story or problem. There is no absolute need for us to go 
 into a detailed exposition of all this now; for the present 
 purpose it is enough to have you examine the plays and 
 see for yourself the universal application of the method 
 of obtaining one part of the structure at a time. When 
 we get to the Constructive part of the work we will have 
 to put it into practice. Simply note the progressive steps 
 and the specific nature of each component part of the play. 
 You will observe as you proceed, that each act has its 
 
THD PLOT 65 
 
 Plot, as well as the play, and that each scene in which any- 
 thing is at issue has its Plot and is a little play in itself. 
 
 The Plot — that which works out your play — is the ar- 
 rangement of the important happenings — which are the 
 larger wheels. A play being an arrangement of wheels 
 within wheels; the Proposition being the balance wheel, 
 the Acts the hour wheels, the scenes the minute wheels, the 
 incidents in the scenes — and all the smaller turns — the sec- 
 ond wheels, so to speak. The general Plot, then, of the 
 play is implied in the main Proposition, but not stated 
 explicitly. It has to be worked out. The analytic work is 
 the considering of plays that are already complete, from 
 which we can see what a Plot is after a play is completed, 
 but it is the Plot which the author fixes before he begins to 
 write and which we read fully developed after the play 
 is finished. It comes back to the same thing. It existed 
 before he wrote the play just as it exists after. If a mana- 
 ger asks you for the Plot of your play it should not take 
 you an hour or so to tell it; as a practical matter, he has 
 not the time to spare, and you can tell the Plot in a com- 
 paratively few minutes and give him all the essential turns 
 of the main Action, that is, of the Plot. This is substan- 
 tially the Plot of "Ingomar," stripped of anything like a 
 formal Division into Acts, that Division into Acts being a 
 distinct process and part of the structural work to be un- 
 dertaken by the dramatist: Parthenia is a daughter of a 
 poor armorer in Massilia; overburdened with debt. She 
 is at the fulness of her beauty and youth, and her heart has 
 never known love; her mother tells her that she must 
 marry and proposes Polydor, an aged miser, whose money 
 would bring comfort to the family; Parthenia refuses her 
 mother, but on reflection considers it her duty 'to sacrifice 
 herself, to sell herself — but she says to herself that she 
 will make the price and conditions high. Polydor presents 
 his suit, but she is disgusted with his sordidness and 
 spurns him ; he swears revenge. 
 5 
 
66 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 News is brought that her father has been captured and 
 held by the barbarians without the city walls for ransom; 
 she appeals to the neighbors for the money, but none can 
 or will help her; the Timarch refuses; she begs Polydor, 
 but he spurns her in return, and she determines to go her- 
 self to the barbarians and offer herself as hostage. (The 
 problem of the first act was how to get her into the hands 
 of the barbarians; you will note how it is worked out. It 
 required a lot of detail, of cause and effect, but you will ob- 
 serve that it is not necessary to relate all these details and 
 tell the whole play to a mianager in order to give him a 
 completely intelligible account of the play, and when you 
 have your Plot to start with it is not necessary to have 
 all the details in your mind — just as you are being taught, 
 so does the author proceed about his work — one part of 
 the process at a time). Parthenia offers herself to the 
 Barbarians as hostage for Myron, her father, and is accept- 
 •€d by Ingomar, the leader; and Myron returns to raise the 
 ransom. Left alone with Ingomar Parthenia proves her 
 independence and purity of mind, and talks to him artlessly 
 •^of love, and begins to win his heart and protection. (You 
 will observe that the details of the Action are not stated 
 liere; it is enough that the general Action progress is 
 rsufficiently indicated; that you do not do the entire work 
 all at once — something is always left, as, for example, the 
 scenes work out the problem indicated. How Parthenia 
 wins Ingomar's heart is left to be worked out by the scene 
 of the cup and the telling of love as told to her by her 
 mother, and in the making of your' play something is left 
 for invention; you have WHAT you want, and devise in 
 the scenes the HOW). The barbarians decide to dispose 
 of Parthenia by sale or by lot among themselves ; Ingomar 
 himself would enjoy her after this fashion also, but in a 
 fine scene, she abashes himj and makes him love her all the 
 more. He saves her from the other barbarians, and gets 
 her for his own portion, will free her and conduct her 
 safely, the ransom cancelled, to Massilia. It is seen in 
 
THE PLOT d'J 
 
 the city that the citizens have been unable to raise th^ 
 ransom. A fine scene when Ingomar having conducted her 
 safely — the ransom cancelled — to the gates, is about to 
 leave her; but he returns to her, is willing to renounce 
 his tribe for love of her, and will go to Massilia itself with 
 her. The barbarians approach the city and Ingomar is 
 suspected of being a spy. In the meanwhile Polydor is 
 still seeking to ruin Myron, Parthenia's father, by buying 
 up all his debts. The parents still oppose the match. The 
 Timarch makes a proposition to Ingomar relating to trap- 
 ping his old companions which Ingomar refuses and is 
 about to depart; Parthenia will go with him; barbarians 
 make terms; Polydor thwarted; the lovers reunited, and 
 Ingomar is made a Timarch. 
 
 The Plot of "The Lady of Lyons," like that of "Ingo- 
 mar," is compact and simple. Each can be reduced to 
 fewer lines than have been devoted to them. An author's 
 working Plot would be expressed in a kind of shorthand, 
 in so far as the use of words is concerned. An excellent 
 method of familiarizing yourself with the nature and char- 
 acteristics of Plot would be to become familiar with a num- 
 ber of Plots, simple and perfect Plots, susceptible of brief 
 statement, and be able to give them with entire accuracy 
 at a moment's demand. If you were not familiar with the 
 scientific restrictions of Plot you would soon find yourself 
 rambling and entering into innumlerable details in attempt- 
 ing to state the Plot of any play. To master the Plot of 
 a play so as to retain it in the mind and give it briefly 
 is not a feat of the memory, but a natural process follow- 
 ing out the Cause and Effect of the Action. If fifty ex- 
 perts should detail the Plot of a given play already written, 
 those Plots should be substantially identical. Fifty people 
 not acquainted with the art might attempt to give this 
 Plot, and each Plot would fall short of a true scientific Plot, 
 each differing in their superfluities or omissions from the' 
 other. It would be impossible without bringing confusion 
 into the instruction to dwell upon all the characteristics 
 
68 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvi: 
 
 of Plot and those principles which govern or influence 
 the management of all parts of a play as well as the Plot 
 itself. It has been necessary to use certain terms, and ref- 
 erences to principles which you are to learn by degrees. A 
 number of them involve Plot in a most specific way. You 
 will have to read these pages through once and then return 
 to them often enough to assure yourself that you under- 
 stand the discussion of each principle. The Plot is the de- 
 velopment or demonstration of the Proposition and we 
 deduce it from| the Proposition. In "The Lady of Lyons", 
 for instance, how was it possible for Melnotte to personate 
 a Prince successfully? What kind of Prince was he? How 
 did his opportunity come? Why did she forgive the de- 
 ception? Without attempting to follow all the mental 
 processes in devising the means of solving the Proposition, 
 it is enough now to see that there is a Proposition and 
 what the Plot is. The Plot here given is the Plot without 
 reference to the details of the Action, the Action proper 
 being a distinct thing. Observe that everything is given 
 in the order of the happenings. It is the author's working 
 model with reference to the reserved knowledge in his 
 own mind. It is as follows: Pauline, rich and proud, 
 ambitious of marrying rank, is sought after by many suit- 
 ors; she rejects Beauseant, himself rich and proud, but 
 not of sufficient or secure rank, humbling and enraging 
 him ; Beauseant meets with Glavis, also a rejected suitor, 
 and they plan revenge to humble her. At an inn they 
 hear shouts, cheering a Prince; the landlord explains that 
 one Claude Melnotte is so called by the villagers by reason 
 of his accomplishments and manners. They determine to 
 mlake a pseudo-prince of him and introduce him to Pauline. 
 At his humble home Claude is told by the messenger that 
 his message to Pauline was spurned and that he was beaten 
 when it was learned that the sender was the gardener's 
 son ; he is ripe for revenge. He receives a note at this mo- 
 ment from Beauseant and is willing to adopt the scheme. 
 Beauseant succeeds in enforcing Claude's oath to marry 
 
the: pivOT 69 
 
 her and take her to the inn, where all pomp and pretenses 
 should vanish. Damas suspected and tests his Italianv 
 When Claude wishes to retire from his bargain, Beauseant 
 reminds him of this suspicion and the danger he is in if 
 the Directory finds him out. Claude disarms Damas in a 
 duel and gains his friendship ; Beauseant produces a letter 
 telling him of the danger he is in fromj the Directory and 
 immediate marriage is agreed upon. The marriage takes 
 place, as we see when Claude brings his bride to the inn, 
 and, on pretext of the carriage breaking down, he takes 
 her to his mother's cottage. Pauline discovers the truth, 
 and he tells her his story, which touches her, and she 
 ceases to hate him but feels the deep wrong; he will see 
 to her release by law and sends her to rest in care of his 
 mother. The kindness of the widow affects Pauline and 
 we see that she begins to love Claude, and she sees from 
 the portrait painted by him that he was truthful and sin- 
 cere. Beauseant finds entrance and would take advantage 
 of her humiliation to renew his suit ; she resists, and Claude 
 returning rescues her from his embrace ; her parents come ; 
 Claude gives papers empowering divorce; she would re- 
 main but Claude will go to the wars and redeem himself; 
 the opportunity coming in the offer of Damas, now his 
 friend. Claude, under the name of Morier, having won 
 wealth and fame, returns from the wars; Damas has been 
 his friend throughout, and now learns that Pauline is about 
 to marry Beauseant, her father's bankruptcy forcing it. 
 While they believe Pauline is false to Claude, Damas urges 
 hope. The marriage contract is about to be signed. Pau- 
 line begs Beauseant to pay the debt and yet release her. 
 He refuses. In a talk with her, Claude, concealing his face, 
 introduced as Morier, is convinced of her love, throws 
 aside his disguise, offers the money that releases her father 
 and the two are reunited. 
 
 This is the Plot of "Camille," (as a development of the 
 Proposition) as it may be stated in order to be intelligible 
 to one who knew nothing of the play: 
 
70 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE) 
 
 Camille, a woman of irregular life, loves none of her 
 suitors; Arm|and Duval, a young man of good family, v^ho 
 has loved her passionately for two years, without disclos- 
 ing himself, is introduced by Prudence, one of her set; 
 she begins to like him at once because he is different from 
 those who surround her; he declares his passion and 
 wishes to withdraw her from her present life and share 
 with her a pure love ; she is unwilling to grant this demand, 
 but she sees that she is loved as never before. She pre- 
 pares to retire to the country with him, and procures 
 money for the purpose from an old friend, a protector, the 
 Duke de Meuriac; she will accept Armand's plans, feeling 
 that she loves and is loved. Armand makes the condition 
 that she break oflf all other relations; she is not advanced 
 to that understanding of Armand's views, and evades the 
 question. Varville, a suitor who is rich and offers to pay 
 her debts, enters after Armand's departure; Armand is 
 jealous, having seen Varville enter, and writes that he 
 will quit Paris; Camille is in a fever of anxiety; she sends 
 Varville away, and receives Armand; she yields fully to 
 Armand's demjands, and commits herself without reserve 
 by tearing up a letter which comes from Varville. She 
 provides funds for retirement to the country cottage by 
 arranging to sell her diamonds and effects, and Armand 
 prepares to sell an estate derived from his mother. During 
 his absence Duval, his father, appears and demands of 
 Camille that she abandon Armand, saying to her that she 
 is ruining him, urging that Armand has a sister whose en- 
 gagement of marriage will be broken off if she does not 
 immediately and finally discontinue her relations with 
 Armand. Seeing the impossibility of happiness for herself, 
 she sacrifices her love, and in order to convince Armand 
 that she means to abandon him, she writes him a note say- 
 ing that she has gone back to Varville. Heartbroken, but 
 attributing her act to the influence of Varville, he seeks 
 a quarrel with him; at a ball he publicly insults Camille 
 by showering her with money, so that Varville must fight 
 
the: pIvOT 71 
 
 the duel with him. Camille keeps her secret of sacrifice. 
 Deserted by both Varville and Armand she is dying. Duval 
 reveals to his son the truth, and Armand returns to her 
 as she is dying, forgiving and forgiven, united for a mo- 
 ment to be parted by death. 
 
 This statement does not imply that it is the only one that 
 can be made, word for word, of the Plot. Observe that 
 only a limited number of the characters are named. You 
 will also note that many incidents are not given, the sup- 
 per scene, which is in the nature of an Episode, the little 
 ministrations to Camille in her last hours, the scene be- 
 tween Camille and her friends Gustave and Nichette in the 
 third act, for example. The reason is that the Characters 
 and the incidents not included in the statement of the Plot 
 belong to the Action. They are elemifents that serve to 
 work out the Plot. Of course, the Plot itself has Action, 
 but what we choose to specifically call Action, that of the 
 moment, includes the Action of the Plot. The Plot gives 
 only the larger totals; the Action being the itemized ac- 
 count of these various totals. The author's Plot might be 
 still more brief: 
 
 Camille meets Armand, is impressed with his passionate 
 declaration of love, but will not give up her life to be with 
 him, for she doubts the happiness of such a course, but 
 her love prevails; she will take a cottage in the country 
 with him, using the money of others; he refuses on these 
 conditions; she throws over Varville, a rich lover, and 
 agrees to his conditions; the father interrupts their happi- 
 ness by demanding that she sacrifice herself to save his 
 son fromi ruin; she writes a letter to Armand saying that 
 she has abandoned him for Varville ; Armand seeking a 
 duel with Varville, whom he holds responsible, publicly 
 insults Camille ; Camille is abandoned by both ; she is 
 dying; the father reveals to Armand Camille's sacrifice, 
 and he returns forgiving and forgiven, as she dies. 
 
 You will observe that it covers the larger Action, and is 
 substantially the same as the longer Plot, only omitting 
 
'J2 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 certain details. A brief Plot of this kind is possible to the 
 author because he holds in mind all the conditions and 
 qualifying things. They are in his notes, his Material 
 and his Conditions Precedent. For that matter, many of 
 the details of tjie Action may not exist before he finds 
 this Plot; but sooner or later he discovers the ways and 
 means of carrying out the Plot. Until he gets this Plot, 
 susceptible of this short statement, he has no play. 
 
 This play is largely psychological, a conflict of emo- 
 tions; internal rather than external, consequently, the 
 Cause and Effect of it all is more than usually subtle, con- 
 (\ taining many shades of feeling and motive. Now, Cause 
 and Effect is the distinguishing mark of a Plot. Without 
 it there can be no Plot. The moment a link is lost it be- 
 comes to that extent Story. Camille loves no one because 
 she has been disappointed in her social ambitions and has 
 been denied the possibilities of true love ; she has a lovable 
 nature and is loved because of it by Armand; introduced 
 ,^ to him, she recognizes his sincerity, but does not accept 
 ^•"^ them because of the hopelessness of it all; she yields to his 
 proposal to retire to the country with him because of the 
 love which now overpowers her; she refuses to carry out 
 the arrangement because she has not given up her other 
 relations; she throws over Varville because she under- 
 stands him better and her love is being purified ; Duval de- 
 mands that she sacrifice herself because it will save his 
 son, and she consents for that reason; but she cannot con- 
 vince Armand that she no longer loves him in abandoning 
 him, and because of that she writes a letter renouncing him 
 as she goes to Varville ; because Armand thinks Varville is 
 responsible he seeks a duel with him, and insults her pub- 
 licly because that will force the duel ; because of this duel 
 she is abandoned by both Varville and Armand; because 
 she keeps her secret of sacrifice Armand does not return 
 to her; and because of her suffering she is dying; and be- 
 cause Armand's father reveals to him the truth he returns 
 to Camille; and because she has been purified by love and 
 
THE PLOT 73 
 
 his love has been constant they are reunited in spirit as she 
 dies in his arms on his return. Just as we have followed 
 the course of the Plot from Cause to Effect, we can run it 
 backward by means of Cause and Effect. It is this law 
 which enables one often to establish effects before ascer- 
 taining in details the causes. It is that process of thinking 
 backward that every dramatist must acquire. In point of 
 fact, the process of discovering the Action is largely of this 
 nature. Indeed, if this were not so we could not write 
 plays unless they had already happened in life. Invention 
 would die, or we should have to rely upon the inferior inven- 
 tion of the mere story teller, whereby it would be a mere 
 chance whether the story would be dramatic or not, a thing 
 of Cause and Effect. 
 
 Need we again call attention to the fact that the Plot is 
 a development of the Proposition? The Proposition of 
 ''Camille" will be found included in either of the Plots 
 given. 
 
 Given with some fulness the Plot of "Still Waters Run 
 Deep" is substantially this : Mildmlay, a man of mild man- 
 ners, has lost his authority in his own household because 
 Hawksley has infatuated his wife's aunt and his father-in- 
 law, with the design to corrupt the wife and to secure 
 through the aunt money for worthless stocks; in order to 
 defeat Hawksley, Mildmay must remain silent until he pro- 
 cures proof of the criminal career of Hawksley. Mrs. 
 Sternhold, the aunt, is about to persuade Potter, the fath- 
 er-in-law, to invest the desired sum, when her suspicions 
 are aroused as to Hawksley's relations with Mrs. Mildmay 
 by doubts expressed by Potter; she hides and overhears 
 Hawksley trying to force an appointment at night with 
 Mrs. Mildmay; in her jealousy and rage she declares for 
 revenge and that the investment shall not be made; Hawk- 
 sley forces her to keep silent and let the investment be 
 made by Potter, who holds the money, inasmuch as he, 
 Hawksley, holds compromising letters from her; this fact 
 and the state of affairs are overheard by Mildmay; but he 
 
74 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 cannot mbve until he has the proof in his hands of the 
 criminal career of Hawksley, but feeling secure in his 
 plans, Mildmay unexpectedly urges the investment and 
 assumes all responsibilities. In an interview with Hawk- 
 sley, Mildmay produces a forged bill from Hawksley, and 
 in exchange for it obtains Mrs. Sternhold's compromising 
 letters and cash for the bonds already sold to Potter. 
 Hawksley, not recognizing his defeat, intends to regain 
 his ground by humiliating Mildmay at dinner at Mildmay*s 
 home the next day, and offers on that occasion a duel, but 
 his cowardice is exposed by Mildmay's acceptance and 
 Hawksley's refusal to fight with one pistol unloaded and 
 chosen by chance; Hawksley is finally defeated by the in- 
 troduction of a second forged bill by an officer, is hand- 
 cuffed and taken away; the family recognize Mildmay's 
 authority and worth. 
 
 This play has so many conditions Precedent, so much 
 that is in the air and in the nature of story, and is so much 
 a play of character and dwells so much on conditions, that 
 the comjplications are in the Action in general rather than 
 in Plot. Many things happen, but the Plot Action is sim- 
 ple enough : Mildmay is helpless until he secures proof of 
 the criminality of Hawksley; Hawksley is confident of vic- 
 tory until Mildmay produces the forged bill and forces 
 Hawksley to return the compromising letters which gave 
 him power over the fortunes of the family; Mildmay hav- 
 ing to produce a second forged bill, which Hawksley 
 thinks Mildmay knows nothing of, in order to complete 
 the defeat of Hawksley and to restore himself to the 
 affection and confidence of his family. 
 
 We have shown that a Plot can be put in few words, and 
 that if you go beyond a certain point your statement of 
 the Plot is something else, including an account of the 
 Action, which has a distinction of its own from the Plot. 
 The Plot is composed of the decisive happenings, and re- 
 quires inevitably a series of direct Causes and Effects. 
 Let us assume that we are familiar with all the Conditions 
 
THD PLOT 75 
 
 Precedent and all the characters, and that the Proposition 
 has been fixed. We put ourselves in the position of Mas- 
 singer. We do not need to state, for our own information, 
 the innumerable details. Massinger was secure of his play, 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," when he procured his 
 Plot which is substantially as follows: In order to dupe 
 his uncle and rehabilitate himself. Wellborn gets Lady All- 
 worth to consent to pretend that she favors him as a suitor ; 
 Sir Giles is duped into the belief that Wellborn and Lady 
 Allworth will marry, and gives Wellborn the money to 
 re-establish himself with. Allworth gets Lord Lovell to 
 carry on his suit for the hand of Margaret, who loves him ; 
 Sir Giles is duped and gives orders to the curate which 
 enables the two to marry, not knowing that he is defeat- 
 ing himself; in the denouement, Marrall, who has been 
 beaten and mistreated by Sir Giles, produces, in a spirit 
 of revenge, the deed which has robbed Wellborn of his 
 property, having erased the writing; Sir Giles finding him- 
 self balked in his schemes both for money and for the 
 social advancement of his daughter, dies in an excess of 
 mad rage. This takes no account of the subordinate char- 
 acters, and does not specify the means by which the details 
 of the plot are to be carried out in the Plot itself, but it 
 presents a definite, complete Action, with a beginning, a 
 middle and an end. It conforms to the Proposition. It 
 makes no mention of minor characters belonging rather 
 to the Action than to the Plot. That Lord Lovell and 
 Lady Allworth marry is not in the Proposition and is 
 merely Action incidental to the Plot. They do not have 
 to marry to carry out either Proposition or the main Plot. 
 Marrall's trick with the deed is an extension of the idea of 
 duping Sir Giles and may fairly be called a part of the Plot. 
 Justice Greedy belongs almost entirely to the Action, not 
 that of the Plot, but of the detailed movements under the 
 Plot. What we have given was the Author's Plot, at least 
 the outline which assured him that he had a play. We might 
 amplify this and go into what happens, and thus secure 
 
j(y ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE^ 
 
 a more developed plot, the elaborate pattern from which he 
 worked, which would still not be exactly a Scenario, for a 
 Scenario involves detail, technical and otherwise, not of 
 the Plot proper: Wellborn, ruined by Sir Giles, reduced 
 to such tattered want, so low in habits and fortune, that 
 he is turned from the alehouse^ determines to redeem him- 
 self. His friend Allworth offers to assist him, but he will 
 redeem himself in his own way; he advises Allworth to 
 give up his 'love for Sir Giles's daughter, for she will be 
 permitted only to marry for higher social position. This 
 is the foundation of the Plot; it gives merely a glimpse of 
 what may grow out of the condition of affairs. It gives 
 things by way of visible Action leading to the Plot. The 
 treatment of Wellborn by the servants and the advice of 
 Lady Allworth to Tom, which makes him refuse to have 
 anything to do with Wellborn when he presents him- 
 self, belong more to the Action than to the Plot. It is 
 incidentally a part of the Plot, but not absolutely essential 
 to the Plot. They are movemients of the second hand, not 
 the minute hand. Certainly they are a part of the move- 
 ment, but you cannot see any definite Plot movement in 
 the scene of the servants. As soon as Wellborn presents 
 himself there is an obvious movement. He will see her, as 
 he does see her; she consents. Plot. Wellborn persuades 
 Marrall to accompany him to dinner at Lady Allworth's; 
 he consents ; he goes ; he sees and is convinced and duped. 
 Plot. Marrall tells his "fairy story" to Sir Giles and is 
 beaten for it, and being disposed to betray Sir Giles by 
 way of revenge and to go over into the service of Wellborn, 
 we have Plot again. Sir Giles furnishes the money to pay 
 off Wellborn's debts. Plot. But it is not Plot that Well- 
 born punishes Tapwell and Froth. The Plot gets thick to- 
 ward the end, for all the causes reaching far back into the 
 previous Action begin to count. The details of the Plot 
 become a part of it. The ring, the letter, the mistake in be- 
 lieving that Wellborn and Lady Allworth are already mar- 
 ried, the demanding of repayment, the production of the 
 
THK PI<OT 77 
 
 razed deed, all Action, are fairly of the Plot. It is of the 
 Plot when Lord Lovell and Margaret come to an under- 
 standing, and when Sir Giles is thereby duped. The comic 
 interruptions of Greedy are not of the Plot. Don't you 
 see how many things are excluded from the Author's Plot? 
 How could he think of all if he did not think in terms of 
 Plot first? He must first get at what series of happenings 
 will carry out his Proposition, and then only proceed to 
 the details by means of which the Plot itself may be carried 
 out, introducing whatever Episode or character as may be 
 permitted or called for by the circumstances of the Action. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DIVISION INTO ACTS. 
 
 The Division into Acts is primarily a Division of the 
 Plot or Plot Action into Periods of Progression. 
 
 How is this Division accomplished? By assigning to 
 each act its object, which may be given in a word or a 
 line. How can that word or line be a Division of your 
 material in any scientific sense? You could not indicate 
 your material in a word to save your life. Of course as 
 we progress by this scientific method Material is involved, 
 but if we work scientifically what difference does it make 
 whether we indicate if we make this Division into 
 Acts of a play which has already been written, or of a play 
 for which practically all the Material has been collected, 
 or, on the other hand, very little collected. Riddle me this 
 riddle. It may seem paradoxical and utterly without rea- 
 son, but if you will contain yourself in patience you may 
 see within the next few chapters the truth of it, or you 
 mlay never understand it. I shall at least labor to make it 
 clear to you. A Proposition is an absolute necessity and 
 it has its niceties and requirements based on science. You 
 must convince yourself that it is a law of universal appli- 
 cation. Just as we h?ve said that the Material must be 
 reduced to a Proposition before the dramatist's mind can 
 operate in the construction of a play and a use of his Ma- 
 terial, and that he can have no play unless he can state 
 what it is about in a few words, in the same way we beg 
 you to believe that the Division into Acts is based on the 
 same scientific principle of reducing the object of each act 
 of a single word or line. We reduce from the general to 
 the particular all the time, becoming more and more 
 definite all the time, enlarging all our statements all 
 the time. We have seen what a play is about in 
 Proposition and Plot and we are now to see what it is 
 
THE DIVISION INTO ACTS 79 
 
 about in each act. Any one in attempting to write a play, 
 unless he is without the artistic sense, necessarily formu- 
 lates what he knows or thinks he knows about the art and 
 naturally lays out his Material into Acts. To the unin- 
 formed this method is one of those obvious requirements 
 that anyone can see. It is an external thing. It is primi- 
 tive and a matter of course, but if applied without real 
 knowledge the result may be absolutely absurd. Does the 
 beginner always know exactly what an act is? It would 
 be well to now read the chapter in "The Technique of the 
 Drama" on the Division into Acts. The older Technique 
 (which the beginner uses or which he deduces from his 
 own external observation of plays) is misleading in its 
 insistence on climax. We shall discuss this matter in an- 
 other section of our studies. It is enough now that we ac- 
 cept what is commonly called climax at the end as a 
 definite point in the progression of the Action. Each act 
 must have an object or Proposition and carry it out. Each 
 act must accomplish that develoyment of your story which 
 is assigned to it. At the end of each act you have reached 
 a predetermined stage of the journey. The following Di- 
 vision into Acts of "Ingomar" performs its function in in- 
 dicating the progressive main Action of the play: 
 
 ACT FIRST. -^ 
 
 Parthenia starts on her mission of rescuing her father 
 by offering herself as hostage. How to get her started 
 on that mission you mlay not know in detail at this point 
 in your work. The end of the act coincides with the object. 
 
 Parthenia. 
 "The Gods are with us, 
 So, Farewell. 
 
 Theano. 
 Parthenia, hear me. 
 
 Parthenia. 
 Away, away! (rushes off as curtain falls.)" 
 
8o ANALYSIS 0^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Parthenia is captive in the camp of the barbarians, and 
 begins to win the heart of the leader, Ingomar. The clos- 
 ing lines indicate that: — 
 
 Ingomar (after a pause ; in deep abstraction.) 
 "Two souls with a single thought. 
 Two hearts that beat as one." 
 ACT THIRD. 
 Ingomar releases her, and will accompany her on her 
 perilous journey for her protection. Your problem was to 
 bring that about; each act having its problem. 
 
 Parthenia. 
 "Forward, the guide before. I will follow thee, my 
 friend, protector." 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 Ingomar will follow further still, be a slave for her sake. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 She would return with him, for his sake, to his life, but 
 he is made Timarch, and their happiness and union is com- 
 plete. 
 
 '/' In the construction of your play you must know 
 before you put the Divisions down what you want, in a 
 general way, and how you are going to work out your 
 objects and problems, but we are now showing you the 
 process of reducing a well constructed, complete published 
 play to its Divisions. If these Divisions can be found in 
 every successful play, is it your opinion that they exist in 
 those plays by accident or by design? 
 
 The slightest examination will make it obvious to you 
 that "The Lady of Lyons" is divided into Acts with refer- 
 ence to its Plot. It is not a Division of the Material into 
 Acts, for the Plot had to be found before there was any- 
 thing to divide into what could properly be called Acts. 
 Each Act carries the Action forward to a certain point 
 with reference to the Plot as governed by the Proposition. 
 Thus, the first act advances the Action to the point where 
 
V 
 
 
 THE DIVISION INTO ACTS 8l 
 
 Beauseant resolves . on and jplans revenue. The last six 
 words in the preceding sentence constitute a statement of 
 the object of the act. When the end of the act is reached the 
 object of it has been accomplished. That part of the play- 
 is finished v^rhen dialogued. That part of the Plot has been 
 worked out. It has been worked out by the use of all the 
 principles, but not all the principles were called upon by 
 the author in the mere mechanism, but after getting his 
 Proposition and his Plot, and staking off his Divisions, 
 with an object assigned to each act he had to work out 
 the Plot of that act and all the details of the Action. 
 Your study of the Division into Acts must be directed to 
 ascertaining the object of each act, why it had and why it 
 had not that object and why that object was assigned to it. 
 Your analysis of a play furnishes you with the object of 
 an act, and by the abundant use of analysis you are training 
 your mind to the proper method of work. You are learn- 
 ing the art gradually and almost unconsciously. At the 
 
 ^ end of act second Melnotte has succeeded in his deception 
 and has gained Paulme's lo"^^' TITe"nra?nage is atBand. 
 Bulwer^'mighf Tia'veTixed upon this as the object of the 
 second act, in his Division of the Plot, without knowing 
 himself the details that he would have to supply. The 
 success of Beauseant's Plot might be given as the object 
 of this act, but it is better stated above. The third act has 
 for its object to bring the Action up to the point where 
 
 3 Pauline discovers the deception and Melnotte in his shame 
 and repentance"off^rs'"Tb release her- and atone for the de- 
 ception. Act fourth brings the Action up to his^surrender 
 / ofher, her growing love for him and his departure for the~ 
 
 ,•-. war to redeem himself. In Act Fifth Melnotte rescues 
 Pauline from marrying Beauseant by paying the debts of 
 her-fath'Sf "tipon becoming convinced of lier constant lOve. 
 You will observe that the bare statement of the objects of 
 the Acts indicates a constant progress and development, 
 with a beginning a middle and an end and includes Pro- 
 position and Plot. In analyzing plays with reference to the 
 6 
 
82 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Division into Acts you are asked simply to describe in a 
 few words the object of each act. 
 
 We have said that the Division into Acts is a division 
 of Plot, but this does not mean that technique puts a 
 restriction upon the operations of the mind, nor does 
 it mean that science is to be disregarded and that 
 we are not to be technical. The dramatist before getting 
 his real Plot may see certain Divisions in his Material. 
 That is a simple matter. In "Camille" Dumas saw his 
 beginning in bringing the lovers, Armand and Camille, 
 together; the end he had already decided on. Or let us 
 say that he had his middle, the sacrifice, as his central 
 idea. The other two natural points of Division were at 
 hand without further thought, the details being left for 
 future consideration. The second act became an exten- 
 sion of the first and the fourth and fifth acts fell readily 
 into place with the three natural Division. Additional acts 
 may be an after-thought. Abundance of material may 
 have required it in this case or a technical reason may have 
 demanded it. In a way the play could do without the 
 fourth act. Do not for a moment imagine that it could be 
 as effective without it. The object of each act in this play 
 could be put in many ways and be substantially the same. 
 In the complete mastery of his subject and Material Du- 
 mas could have put it : First act, he loves ; second act, she 
 loves also ; third act, she renounces him in sacrifice ; fourth 
 act, she proves her sincerity; fifth act, her expiation and 
 redemption are completed. These are the main general 
 ideas that belong to the acts, and they indicate the progress 
 of the complete Action. The description could be more 
 definite as to actual happenings: i. Armand convinces 
 Camiille of the sincerity of his love and purposes; 2. Ca- 
 mille, after a struggle, comes to his point of view, renounces 
 sordidness and chooses between him and Varville; 3. She 
 is forced by Armand's father for the sake of the happiness 
 of Armand to renounce him; 4. This sacrifice is followed 
 by the further sacrifice of everything, of both lovers; 5. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO ACTS 83 
 
 Purified by her sacrifice, she is rewarded with a reunion 
 with Armand as she dies. This Division into acts is one 
 of the first things that a dramatist does as soon as he can, 
 in order to begin the handling of his Material. It is en- 
 tirely probable that Dumas made his Division into Acts 
 very early. He then readily referred certain things in his 
 Material to the act to which it belonged. After this general 
 Division has been made the Material begins to fall into 
 order, much of it having been determined upon without 
 the slightest reference to any particular act. Obviously 
 the supper scene fell to the first act. Naturally the Episode 
 at the beginning of the third act with Gustave and Nichette 
 at once found its place. Thus each act gathered its proper 
 Material as a magnet. Order came out of disorder ; gradu- 
 ally a place was found for everything. Some things can be 
 used anywhere. Character, for example, is something that 
 in itself must exist throughout, although some of its mani- 
 festations and some of the incidents belonging to it can 
 only be used at the demand of the Action. 
 
 In the case of "Still Waters Run Deep," apart from 
 the general idea suggested in the title, the middle 
 of the play was the most prominent landmark of the dram- 
 atist at the outset. There was a situation. It had to be. 
 There was no hesitation about this Division. The situa- 
 tion had to be reached by a first act, and a third act was 
 needed to show what came of it. The Proposition involved 
 the defeat of Hawksley on two points, his financial swin- 
 dle and his intrigue against Mildmay's domestic peace. The 
 second act goes far to dispose of Hawksley, but to end it 
 there would not satisfy the Proposition; Mildmay had to 
 be restored to authority in his own household. That was 
 absolutely necessary, and the third act was determined on 
 by Taylor before he had the details of it in his mind. This 
 assumes that ALL the details were not at hand in being 
 supplied by the original novel. Even if he followed the 
 novel, the existence of the Material merely saved him 
 thought and invention; he still had to give it dramatic 
 
84 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 form. It is misleading to suppose that the first act of a 
 play is merely introductory and for the purpose of estab- 
 lishing the relations between the characters. There must 
 be Action and progress from the beginning, development 
 not only of character but of Plot. The end of the first 
 act brings it up to the point where we see that Mildinay 
 ^ t holds some weapon behind his back with which he may 
 defend himself against Hawksley and perhaps defeat him 
 ^^'^entirely. Whereas at the opening of the act Hawksley had 
 \A''n\/^ everything his own way, at the end of it the relations had 
 ju^ .^changed and are in process of change. Hawksley has de- 
 
 feated himself with the aunt, although he continues to the 
 
 ^'^^ ii/^ ^^^^ ^^ think that Emily will be silly enough to remain un- 
 J^l^ V^ der his influence. But the audience hopes that Mildmay 
 can produce another concealed weapon and defeat Hawk- 
 sley. Those things that have been definitely settled only 
 add to the tensity of the remaining complications. Mrs. 
 Sternhold, we are sure, will keep safe watch on Emily. 
 Still, unless Mildmay can completely expose Hawksley 
 there is going to be danger in his household. Hawksley 
 might fail in his amorous intrigues, and yet Mildmay may 
 not be restored to authority. What to assign as the object 
 of each act was plain enough. 
 
 The first act of "A New Way to Play Old Debts" 
 |, brings the Action up to the point where Wellborn has 
 gained the consent of Lady Allworth to help him in his 
 new way to pay old debts. At the end of the second act 
 Wellborn has succeeded in getting his deception so far ad- 
 vanced that Sir Giles shall hear of his favor with Lady 
 Allworth through Marrall. At the end of the third act Sir 
 '% Giles has supplied him with money. At the end of the 
 t ^ fourth, the two issues in the Proposition now being joined, 
 Sir Giles is duped into believing that his daughter is to 
 marry Lord Lovell and that he can wrest Wellborn's new 
 estates from him. At the end of the fifth act the decep- 
 tions practiced on him culminate in success. Sir Giles is 
 defeated and dies in an excess of rag-e and madness. Sooner 
 
the: division into acts 85 
 
 or later these five points were all definitely established. 
 Getting the ends of the acts, Massinger constructed back- 
 w^ards from them. Of course, he knew who Wellborn was 
 when he fixed the end of the first act, but he had to estab- 
 lish who he was and he had to supply all the causes and 
 incidents leading up to the end of the act. How to secure 
 the end of each act, how to go back to the beginning of 
 each allotted space in the journey and trace each step was 
 the concern. Did he begin at the beginning without further 
 concern and pace it, or write it, off-hand? Just as he ar- 
 rived at the proper Division into Acts, he arrived at what 
 was to be assigned to each act, and it was a matter of 
 Sequence before he could pace it off step by step. It did 
 not mlatter when the servants' scene came to him ; down 
 it went in his notes, and its proper place was found when 
 the Division into Acts was made. Whether the Plot was 
 definite or not at the time, the probable place for this or 
 that bit of Material suggested itself. In the first form it 
 may have been Life pure and simple ; it had to be converted 
 into the dramatic. Some of the original divisions were 
 necessarily tentative and were changed, but it is common 
 enough to get the Division into Acts at the first throw 
 of the net. The objects of each act as we have given them 
 do not cover and could not cover the details even of the 
 Plot. The subordinate Actions had also to be carried on. 
 Everything gradually fell into place. Much of it came into 
 being after the Action took on continuous form. Oppor- 
 tunities for the use of Greedy caused new material. It is 
 not at all meant that you must have your material first and 
 then distribute it; the creative process continues and it 
 is helped by the growth in form. But the Division into 
 Acts helps that growth and it is one of the first things that 
 the author naturally turns to. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DIVISION INTO SCENES. 
 
 The Division into Scenes is the Division of the Action 
 into units of Action. 
 
 We discuss Action a little later on. It is enough to say 
 now that Action is involved in every part of a play that we 
 have already described, consequently it is not a contradic- 
 tion of terms to refer to the Division into Scenes as a Divi- 
 sion of the Action. In a general way it might also be de- 
 scribed as a Division of the Plot into Scenes, but, the defi- 
 nition as it stands is universal, including the play of only 
 one act. When a play has more than one act the Division 
 into Scenes is made under each act and properly speaking 
 is a Division into Scenes of the Plot Action of that act, 
 but there are many Scenes that do not belong to the Plot 
 but do belong to the Action generally. Some of these 
 Scenes are used to r^eet a technical emergency, to give 
 time for an Entrance, to afford Episode, to provide con- 
 cealed Preparation, or they are Scenes of transition or 
 gradation, with a number of distinctions that it would be 
 premature to make at this point. 
 
 We have seen that each Division so far made has a 
 definite object. Just as a play itself must have a definite 
 object as given in its Proposition, so each act must have a 
 definite object or Proposition; and we are now to see that 
 each scene must have a definite Proposition or object. 
 This applies particularly to Scenes in which there is some- 
 thing at issue, but there are scenes that involve only a tech- 
 nical object and can hardly be described as having a Pro- 
 position. The consequences and essentials of this law that 
 a scene must have one main object will be unfolded as 
 opportunity presents. You must convince yourself of the 
 fact that a play is largely written by means of Scenes and 
 that a Division into Scenes is as important as the Division 
 
rut DIVISION INTO SCENES 87 
 
 into Acts. The English writers have rarely made a formal 
 Division into numbered Scenes in their manuscripts or 
 printed plays. The continental writers invariably do so 
 and it is the proper and scientific method. But, in any 
 event, any play that is a play has its Scenes and they are 
 susceptible of being numbered. If a play cannot be di- 
 vided into distinct scenes it is not a play; but we must 
 reserve a full discussion of the peculiar technical nature 
 and qualities of scene. One thing at a time. A Scene is 
 usually formed and numbered according to the Exit or 
 Entrance of an important character. For the present ac- 
 cept this as the law. Again we take "Ingomar" as a model 
 for instruction: 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Certain facts are conveyed, but they are all subor- 
 dinated to the one object of the scene, — Actea wishes 
 to see her daughter. 
 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 The mother urges her to marry "the rich Polydor," 
 and we have additional facts, arguments, emptions, 
 &c., but the object of the scene is accomplished, and 
 the Proposition of it worked out, when Parthenia 
 refuses to consent to her mother's urgings to marry 
 Polydor. 
 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 (This lesson, by the way, has nothing to do with 
 any discussion as to the use of soliloquies ; one thing 
 at a time; technically and effectively this soliloquy 
 accomplishes its purpose.) Will Parthenia make up 
 her mind to marry Polydor? That is the Proposi- 
 tion of it; the statement of the object of the scene, 
 is: Parthenia makes up her mind to consent, to sell 
 herself and "let the price be well secured." 
 
88 ANAI.YSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E: 
 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 There is much included in this scene, but every- 
 thing is comprehended under the object of the scene; 
 Parthenia refuses Polydor. 
 Scene 5: — 
 
 This scene carries the Action on to another step: 
 Polydor will be revenged on her by driving the father 
 from home and ruining him. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 Object: Lykon comes to bring bad news. 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 Lykon tells Theano that Myron, the father, has 
 been made captive by the Allemanni. 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 A further development of the facts, friends and 
 citizens coming on the stage attracted by the news. 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 Actea, the mother, is told the news. She swoons 
 and is carried into the house. Accurately speaking 
 this makes another scene, but we may count it as 
 one with the two speeches that follow. It is really a 
 scene necessary to give Parthenia her entrance. 
 Scene 10: — 
 
 The object of this scene is to show that Parthenia 
 can get no help for the ransoming of her father from 
 his or her friends and will appeal to the Timarch. 
 Scene 11 : — 
 
 She fails with the Timarch, his explanations being 
 subordinate to the result of the scene. 
 Scene 12: — 
 
 Parthenia changes her mind and appeals to Poly- 
 dor, who scorns her and leaves her helpless indeed. 
 Scene 13: — 
 
 We see that Parthenia has taken a resolve. 
 Scene 14: — 
 
 Parthenia announces her resolve to go to the 
 mountains. So, there you have all the details lead- 
 ing up to what was the object of the Act. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 89 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene i : — 
 
 The camp ; we see that they are barbarians indeed. 
 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 That Ingomar is the chief, and, incidentally, that 
 Myron, Parthenia's father, is captive. 
 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 To show Ingomar's opinion of a woman, — all else 
 is incidental, necessary as it is. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 The freebooters are returning. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 We learn that the daughter has come to entreat 
 for ransom for the whining old mjan. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 Ingomar accepts her as hostage for the father. 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 Parthenia and her father. This is really a part oi 
 the complete scene which does not end until Ingo- 
 mar accepts the offer; but it is marked as a scene to 
 show how distinctly every part of a play should 
 stand out. 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 Parthenia defines her position. And goes to 
 "cleanse the cups." 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 To show the effect on Ingomar of the girl's inde- 
 ^ pendence. 
 Scene 10: — 
 
 Parthenia's growing power over Ingomar brought 
 out in the making of the wreath and their dialogue. 
 Scene 11 : — ' 
 
 Parthenia's state of mind. 
 Scene 12: — 
 
 To show that the barbarian is brought to meditate 
 on the lesson in love that he has had from Parthenia. 
 
90 ANAI.YSIS O? DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 ACT THIRD 
 Scene i : — 
 
 To show that the other barbarians are discontent- 
 ed ; and the danger of Parthenia. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Ingomar, indifferent to war, absorbed in love, puts 
 his warriors off. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 The state of mind shown in his soliloquy, chang- 
 ing his nature gradually. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 A passionate love scene, in which he would enjoy 
 her in his own way; her offer to slay herself, &c., — 
 the object, that he bids her go free. 
 Scene 5: — 
 
 That Parthenia will see him again and soften his 
 heart before she leaves. 
 
 Nearly all these scenes are rich is subordinate 
 things, but this lesson is to get you into the habit of 
 seeing that a scene — like an act and the play itself, 
 must have one ultimate object, that it must accom- 
 plish one specific thing. 
 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 The other savage barbarians, of whose spirit we 
 have been kept in mind, come to settle Parthenia's 
 fate. 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 Ingomar saves her. We could make the two en- 
 trances and exits scenes, but we shall count them as 
 one scene here. 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 Ingomar bargains with the barbarians and gets 
 Parthenia for his portion. 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 Ingomar will conduct her safely home This last 
 scene reaches also the object of the act. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 9 1 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Myron and others trying to raise the ransom. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Lykon is trying to get the citizens together. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 The struggle of the parting of the lovers after In- 
 gomar has conducted Parthenia to the very gates of 
 her home. Seemingly they part — that is the object 
 of the scene, to show their love and seeming parting; 
 all else is incidental. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 To show^ Parthenia's absolute love; her grief at 
 Ingomar's departure. 
 Scene 5: — 
 
 Ingomar's return; his inclination to follow her; 
 renouncing his tribe for love. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 The final and absolute yielding of Ingomar. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Myron is wanted at the council. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 What for? 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 The Allemanni swarm about the city; a spy is 
 suspected. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 Suspicion falls on Ingomar. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 Polydor, still bent on revenge, takes advantage of 
 conditions. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 Parthenia's defense of Ingomar to her mother 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 Parthenia's mother accuses Ingomar of being a 
 spy. 
 
92 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 Parthenia's mother insists on the unfaith of In- 
 gomar. 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 Ingomar and Parthenia, a preparation for his be- 
 coming a Greek. 
 Scene 10: — 
 
 Myron comes to tell Ingomar that the Timarch 
 will honor him — a preparation for the change of re- 
 lations between the lovers. 
 Scene 11: — 
 
 The Timarch makes an offer that seems infamous 
 to Ingomar — involving the betrayal of his old com- 
 rades — but such are the terms only by which he can 
 become a citizen and have Parthenia. 
 Scene 12: — 
 
 To show Myron's character; oppose the marriage. 
 Scene 13: — 
 
 Myron tells Ingomar to go — that he has endan- 
 gered himself by harboring him. 
 Scene 14 : — 
 
 Ingomar gives up hope of gaining Parthenia — 
 determines to leave. 
 Scene 15: — 
 
 Parthenia hearing of his resolution, will go with 
 him, abandoning her people, as he abandoned his for 
 her. 
 Scene 16: — 
 
 Myron and Actea reproach Parthenia. 
 Scene 17: — 
 
 Polydor, having possessed himself of all the notes 
 of indebtedness of Myron, is about to ruin him, &c. ; 
 Ingomar, for Parthenia's sake, will remain as a slave 
 to save him. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 93 
 
 Scene i8: — 
 
 The barbarians, his old companions, come to res- 
 cue and protect Ingomar. He refuses to go with 
 them. Polydor is thwarted ; peace is made ; Ingomar 
 is made Timarch ; the two lovers will be happy. 
 Each lesson teaches you a number of things which are 
 not even revealed in what is immediately in hand; the 
 main thing in this lesson is to have you convince yourself 
 that the division into scenes is essential to good work. 
 
 These pages being intended for the student and not the 
 casual reader, I would suggest that the student omit read- 
 ing the Division into Scenes of the plays that follow, and 
 that he make out his own Divisions after having finished 
 all the remaining pages of this analytical section and then 
 compare his Divisions with those already made. 
 
 This is the Division of Scenes of "The Lady of 
 Lyons" : — 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Set Scene i. 
 
 Scene i : — 
 
 - To introduce the characters and their relations 
 and to show certain facts, but to have all these de- 
 tails conform to the one main idea of the scene, 
 namely, the pride of Pauline. The play concerns her 
 pride; this is the first note. The facts proving such 
 pride are essential in other ways, but everything 
 centers in her pride. It is not, as some students 
 suggest, that flowers are being sent by Claude Mel- 
 notte, for the audience knows nothing of him. That 
 is only an incidental fact showing that she has suit- 
 ors who minister to her pride, his being unknown 
 making it all the more flattery. She is rich, proud 
 and flattered, and expects to marry at her own choice 
 some suitor of high estate. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Object : The rejection of Beauseant and his conse- 
 quent resentment. 
 
94 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.^ 
 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 Is composed of the single speech of the mother. 
 It is a connective scene merely. Its main object in 
 the mind of the author was technical. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 Mainly to show that Damas has no sympathy with 
 her pretensions and pride. That is the visible main 
 object, but it has another concealed and vital object, 
 that of Preparation, the nature of which principle 
 will be pointed out under its proper head. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 A connective scene, or rather one included under 
 the head of Gradation. It rounds the Action off in 
 conclusion of the Action that takes place in the first 
 Act. 
 
 Set Scene 2. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Main object: — to have Beauseant and Glavis con- 
 spire and "think of some plan to humble Pauline." 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 To have them hear of "The Prince," Claude, 
 through the landlord, and to set on foot their Plot. 
 The speeches after the exit of the landlord could 
 be divided, in a close division, into an additional 
 scene. 
 
 Set Scene 3. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 An introductory and connective scene, — Claude's 
 arrival home. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Main object: — to show Claude's love and his hope 
 or expectation of a favorable reply from Pauline to 
 his message of love. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 Melnotte's disappointment, humiliation and rage 
 at his rejection and the treatment of his messenger. 
 
TH^ DIVISION INTO SCENES 95 
 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 A scene supplementary to the preceding, showing, 
 in his outbreak to his mother, his rage and mortifi- 
 cation. 
 Scene 5 : 
 
 The receipt of Beauseant's letter, and his opportu- 
 nity to "bring scorn for scorn." 
 ACT SECOND. 
 Set Scene i. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 The Plot having succeeded so far, it remains for 
 the marriage to take place at once. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 This is to bring in objectively the fact of the suc- 
 cess of Melnotte; but, just as scene first made pro- 
 gress in the design to have the marriage take place 
 at once, this makes progress and has special Action 
 in indicating the danger to Melnotte from the sus- 
 picion of Damas. 
 Scene 3 : — 1 
 
 The technical object of this scene is largely con- 
 nective or conjunctive ; the w^hispered remonstrances 
 of Beauseant and Glavis lead up to the next scene 
 with Damas. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 To cause the outburst of Damas, who affronts 
 and challenges Melnotte. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 Conjunctive, leading up to the scene between the 
 two lovers. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 The real object of this scene (without which it 
 is meaningless and without Action) is Melnotte's 
 struggle with himself and his test of her love, — if 
 she should love him for himself and not as a Prince 
 only. The result of his test is that he believes that 
 she loves him, and he will break his bargain or oath 
 with the two conspirators. 
 
96 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 To have them convince him that he cannot retreat. 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 To convert Damas into a friend through the duel 
 and to hold out the chance for refuge in the army. 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 To have Beauseant spring his trick to hasten the 
 marriage. 
 Scene 10 — 
 
 To carry the trick through. 
 Scene 11: — 
 
 To clench the trick and draw the act to a close. 
 ACT THIRD. 
 Set Scene i. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Introductory, — to shov^ that Melnotte has married 
 Pauline and arrived at the Inn. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Connective ; Beauseant and Glavis at hand to wit- 
 ness results. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 To show the remorse of Melnotte and his scorn 
 of the two conspirators. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 Conjunctive, but indicating that he will not con- 
 fess his villainy until she is at his mother's cottage. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 Conjunctive, — showing that she has no suspicion. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 How to induce her to accompany him to the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Set Scene 2. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Main object, — with reference to the Action, — to 
 show that the mother believes that Melnotte has re- 
 vealed his artifice to Pauline. (Do you not see that 
 the facts brought forward otherwise are incidental?) 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 97 
 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 The revelation to Pauline ; her horror. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 Melnotte's passionate defence and its effect on her 
 to make her "cease to hate him;" his offer to free 
 her. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 He confides her for the night to his mother. 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 Set Scene i. 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Introductory; — he will enlist to atone. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 Connective; talk v^ith the mother, his design to 
 win back an honest name. We may count as a scene 
 the widow's lines when alone, but it is not absolutely 
 necessary to do so. One technical use of them, is to 
 give Pauline her entrance. 
 Scene 3 : — 
 
 Showing the state of mind of Pauline — loving but 
 not ready to forgive. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 The widow's confirmation and proof of Melnotte's 
 love for Pauline plays upon her hesitating position. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 Beauseant's ruse to get the widow away. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 Beauseant's appeal and Pauline's steadfastness; 
 Beausant's familiarity. 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 Melnotte rescues her from his embrace, adding to 
 Beauseant's spirit of revenge, and bringing out Pau- 
 line's state of mind. 
 Scene 8: — 
 
 Conjunctive, but still playing on the state of mind 
 and relation. 
 7 
 
98 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 9: — 
 
 Conjunctive and preparatory for the coming of 
 Pauline's parents, — still playing on Pauline's state 
 of mind and the relations. 
 
 Scene 10: — 
 
 Accomplishes two objects of almost equal import- 
 ance, the separation of the lovers and the departure 
 of Melnotte v^ith Damas for the Wars, the latter 
 being subordinate. The last lines of Pauline may be 
 considered of the one scene. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Set Scene i. 
 
 Scene i : — 
 
 Introductory; — essential facts of Conditions Pre- 
 cedent conveyed. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 To prepare for Morier, as Melnotte is now known. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 To further develop the conditions and to confirm 
 our suspicions of Morier as Melnotte. 
 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 To inform Damas of the real state of affairs, that 
 Pauline is about to consent to a divorce; to make 
 him; believe that Pauline may be constant. (Other 
 facts are subordinate, important as they are in de- 
 veloping the Action here.) 
 Scene 5: — 
 
 To have Deschapelles invite Damas to the signing 
 of the papers. 
 Scene 6: — 
 
 To have Melnotte doubt Pauline's constancy. 
 Scene 7: — 
 
 To have Damas bid him hope and persuade him 
 to go with him to the house, as he would not be 
 known. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 99 
 
 Set Scene 2. 
 
 Scene i : — . ~ 
 
 To show that Pauline still loves, but must sacri- 
 fice herself to save her father. 
 Scene 2: — 
 
 To convince her that there is no hope, — that the 
 sacrifice must be. 
 Scene 3: — 
 
 Beauseant denies Pauline mercy and insists on 
 the contract of marriage. 
 Scene 4: — 
 
 This is a composite scene, that is, one in which 
 several distinct and yet related incidents take place. 
 First, Damas learns why she has consented to marry 
 Beauseant; second, introduces her to Morier; third, 
 their interview in which she gives her message of 
 devotion to Melnotte; fourth, Melnotte's paying of 
 the debt and Beauseant's defeat. 
 Scene 5 : — 
 
 The reconciliation of all concerned; happiness; 
 the end. This division of the Material and the acts 
 into scenes is with reference to the Action ; we have 
 given the object of each scene to that purpose. 
 Scenes have other objects even than the subordinate 
 ones which appear in the scenes as acted and seen. 
 They have objects which are not seen, and which, 
 in a certain sense, are often the main objects, — but 
 of that later. 
 
 THE DIVISION INTO SCENES OF "CAMILLE." 
 
 In the preliminary analytical exercises we have consid- 
 ered the Division into Scenes with reference simply to the 
 main object of each scene. We shall now pass beyond that 
 restriction and discuss Division into Scenes as it is influ- 
 enced by all the principles and by their technical require- 
 ments. For this purpose we first take up "Camille." 
 
lOO ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 Scene i : — Varville awaits Camille. This scene consists o! 
 but four speeches, and ends upon the entrance of 
 Nichette. Every idea conveyed in it is definite. 
 That Camille is not to return until half-past ten, 
 and that it is not yet ten, serves the immediate' 
 purpose of preparing us for the entrance of some 
 one not Camille, and also keeps the audience at 
 ease in the Dialogue between Nanine and Varville 
 in the third scene. Thus not a word in the scene 
 is lost. The scene stands out in its function with 
 absolute distinctness. 
 
 Scene 2: — The second scene begins with the entrance of 
 Nichette and ends with her exit. The immediate 
 technical object of it is to give occasion for the 
 third scene and its Dialogue. 
 
 In the original French these scenes are num- 
 bered ; in French's edition they are not. But if we 
 follow the number of Divisions, a comparison with 
 the original will show that our arrangement is 
 identical except as it may be influenced by slight 
 changes in the adaptation made by Mathilda 
 Heron. In addition to the numbering of scenes, 
 the French author always puts at the head of the 
 scene the characters involved in it; for instance. 
 Scene 2, Varville, Nanine and Nichette. One object 
 of the author was to introduce Nichette at this 
 point in order to avoid the crowding of introduc- 
 tions at other points in the Action. Nichette is 
 made to serve a technical purpose, and her story is 
 incidentally brought out. In the next scene, in- 
 volved in it and as a corellary to it, it is shown that 
 Camille has humble friends, and that they love 
 her. 
 
 Scene 3: — The third scene brings out the fact as its main 
 object that Varville's suit does not thrive, and in- 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES lOI 
 
 cidentally it conveys the previous history of Ca- 
 mille. 
 
 See how naturally the Sequence flows. As soon 
 as Nichette goes out, Varville asks, Who is she? 
 She is a girl that Camille is fond of, for they 
 worked together in the same room. Varville had 
 not known before that Camille had been an em- 
 broideress, a working girl. Everything that is said 
 is so naturally brought out that the essential idea 
 impresses us as one thing, an explanation of Ca- 
 mille's indifference to all men and consequently to 
 Varville. 
 
 Scene 4: — The object of this scene is to show definitely 
 that Camille does not care for Varville. 
 
 Incidental facts are introduced. We see that 
 Camille is ill. We learn that she has been at the 
 Opera, where she has met Olimpe and Gaston who 
 will be here presently. 
 
 Scene 5 : — The object of this scene is to lead up to the com- 
 ing of Prudence with her friend. 
 
 Olimpe and Gaston arrive and the Action de- 
 velopes their character and relations; it is made 
 known that Prudence is a neighbor across the way 
 and who she is. Prudence, on being called from 
 the window, accepts the invitation for supper if 
 she may bring a friend. 
 
 Scene 6: — The object is largely technical: To prepare for 
 the supper by introducing Armand to Camille and 
 getting Varville off. 
 
 However, facts are conveyed and relations de- 
 veloped with, of course, that display of character 
 which is a constant element in all Action. Camille 
 learns of his mad love for her as told by Prudence ; 
 details of his history and family are brought out, 
 and the scene continues to the exit of Varville. 
 This is a composite scene, inasmuch as there are 
 
102 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.1: 
 
 a number of semi-detached incidents and Dia- 
 logues in it. While the Action consists largely in 
 the curiosity and expectation of the audience, 
 aroused by the coming of this new suitor, the sub- 
 ordinate interest is maintained by the presence on 
 the stage of Varville. Observe that he is kept on 
 the stage, and dismissed before the beginning of 
 the supper. When the supper begins the interest 
 naturally centers on Armand and Camille. 
 
 Scene 7: — The main object of this scene is to advance the 
 relations between Camille and Armand. 
 
 That this is the main object of the scene is not 
 so apparent in the text as it is in the intelligent 
 acting of it. This scene is known as the supper 
 scene and as such is distinctly an episode. The 
 chatter is meaningless. That is to say, the talk 
 between the characters has no direct bearing on the 
 Plot. Substitute anything else of the same enter- 
 taining quality and it would answer exactly the 
 same purpose. What the characters do is as frivo- 
 lous as what they say. The episode shows the at- 
 mosphere in which Camille lives, her abandonment 
 to pleasures of the kind, and that Armand is a new 
 experience to her, entirely different from those who 
 surround her. The real significance in the scene 
 is that which is implied in it and hardly expressed 
 in words. It is Armand's increasing devotion and 
 solicitude and Camille's recognition of Armand's 
 character. Out of this the drama is to grow. The 
 other characters are wholly unconscious of the 
 drama which is at hand. We know that Camille 
 is indifferent to men, and little attention do the 
 others pay to the fluttering of this new moth about 
 the flame. Take out of this scene the interest 
 which the audience has in the two principal char- 
 acters and it would be absolutely devoid of Action 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES IO3 
 
 with reference to the development of the Story. It 
 is an excellent example of episode and the inciden- 
 tal use of character contributing incidentally to 
 the progress of the Action. All the chatter and all 
 the incidents of the scene are subordinate to the 
 main impression indicated. The gaiety and aban- 
 donment of Camille's guests cause Camille to be- 
 come weary of it all physically and spiritually 
 and to ask them to leave her. Thus, the very frivoli- 
 ty of the scene serves a technical purpose in get- 
 ting the guests off the stage in order to leave Ca- 
 mille and Armand alone. 
 
 Scene 8 : — Armand's declaration of love for Camille and his 
 offer to "lead her thoughts to content in a home 
 more worthy of her." 
 
 Scene 9: — The object of this scene is expressed in a single 
 sentence which composes it. 
 
 As short as it is this is properly a scene of itself 
 and subject to division as a scene. Camille is 
 alone. No one shares emotion with her. Her rec- 
 ognition that Armand loves her she has not ex- 
 pressed to him. It is not a part of the preceding 
 scene. She does not tell him^ that, "There is a new 
 found meaning in those simple words that never 
 fell upon my ears before." She does not say this 
 to her gay companions of the next scene. Could 
 there be anything more detached? Why, then 
 should it not be a scene by itself. There is a ten- 
 dency in recent productions of this play to have the 
 act close with this scene as a finality, but Dumas 
 wisely chose to end the act with another scene. In 
 a certain sense the object of the act is reached with 
 this scene, but Technique is not so mechanical as 
 to preclude the following scene. 
 
 Scene 10 — The object is to bring the act to a close with the 
 revelry and abandonment of life which make up 
 the feverish existence of Camille, from which Ar- 
 
104 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 mand offers to rescue her and which she is not yet 
 ready to abandon. While it is episodic it is also 
 very definite. The act has shown Armand's sin- 
 cere love for her and that she is in a state of won- 
 derment about this new meaning of love. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene i : — That Camille is in love with Armand. This 
 being the fact, we at once see the progress in the 
 Action. Of course, there are other objects in 
 the scene, but if we do not establish a main ob- 
 ject we bring things into confusion. There is an 
 object, direct or incidental, immediate or remote, in 
 every line. Incidentally we have Madam Pru- 
 dence's greed for money in her borrowing, but to 
 make that the object of the scene would be to re- 
 duce it to insolvency. That is purely incidental. It 
 is incidental also that Camille has obtained the 
 money from the Duke and that she intends to go to 
 the country. Why does she intend to go? Be- 
 cause of her love, and in her pursuance of Ar- 
 mand's offer to withdraw her from her feverish ex- 
 istence in Paris. There are objects of Preparation 
 in the scene, but the main object of the scene must 
 always be considered with reference to the aud- 
 ience, and the predominating effect of this scene on 
 the audience will be Camille's love, and all else 
 will be subordinate. The author has many hidden 
 objects, much that is technical. The dramatist 
 predetermines his main object and subordinates 
 everything in the scene to it. 
 
 Scene 2 : — Purely connective, or transitional, in order to 
 give Madam Prudence her exit. You will observe 
 that in these technical transitional scenes there is 
 always something that pays for itself and interests 
 us so that the technical scene does not become 
 merely technical. When Armand says, 'T saw but 
 
TH^ DIVISION INTO SCENES IO5 
 
 her" we perceive a certain advance in the Action 
 because of this evidence of his grov^ing infatuation 
 for Camille. A like impression has been produced 
 by Camille's saying to Armand that she knew^ his 
 ring. Prudence's lines are characteristic. 
 
 Scene 3: — The main object is to bring out the jealousy of 
 Armand with reference to her plan which involves 
 the use of the money from the Duke, as also to 
 give a reason for Armand's doubt of Camille, which 
 is emphasized by his suspicion that she is waiting 
 for some one. 
 
 Scene 4: — Connective; — incidentally emphasizing Camille's 
 love. 
 
 Scene 5 : — Camille is willing to let Varville pay her debts, 
 not yet fully appreciating Armand's point of view, 
 although she does love Armand and is absolutely 
 indifferent to Varville. The scene takes a new 
 turn when Nanine brings Armand's letter. It 
 could be counted as the beginning of a new scene, 
 but Dumas does not make the Division. The re- 
 sult is that the object of the whole scene is that 
 Camille determines to accept Varville's invitation 
 to supper. 
 
 Scene 6 : — Connective ; — in order to provide time. 
 
 Scene 7: — This scene is also connective, and may be de- 
 scribed as intensive in its purpose, for it serves to 
 emphasize the excitement under which Armand is 
 laboring. 
 
 Scene 8 : — Camille, in a conflict of emotion, sends Nanine to 
 excuse her to Varville, and awaits Armand by rea- 
 son of Prudence's representations. If we were 
 dividing the scenes closer, Nanine's return to an- 
 nounce the departure of Varville and then her exit 
 could be counted as a scene, but it may be reck- 
 oned as a part of scene eight. 
 
I06 ANALYSIS O:^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 9: — It has for its object the development of the con- 
 flict between love and circumstances, at the end of 
 of which they are about to part, Camille telling 
 him, "that is your way, this is mine." The en- 
 trance of Nanine with the letter from Varville 
 might be reckoned as a new scene, and as the con- 
 clusion of scene nine. In the latter event, the ob- 
 ject of the new scene would be the complete re- 
 conciliation of Armand and Camille, Camille de- 
 ciding to throw Varville over. She accepts the 
 touch-stone of her worth. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene i : — Introductory. The action of this scene consists 
 in the development of Facts. In that sense it may 
 be called a passive scene, but these conditions and 
 facts have a bearing on the Action of this Act. 
 
 Scene 2: — A scene of a contrast to show the security of 
 love in the case of Nichette and Gustave which 
 Camille longs for. Incidentally we learn of Ca- 
 mille's plans. The main general object of the first 
 two scenes is to prepare for the entrance of Duval, 
 the father of Armand. The preparation is techni- 
 cal and specific, for the purposes of contrast and 
 unexpectedness, in that Camille is expecting a bro- 
 ker who is to sell her effects in order to enable her 
 to hire and live in a cottage alone with Armand. 
 The main sentimental eiTect sought is the setting 
 forth of her hopes, and then the dashing of them in 
 scene three. 
 
 Scene 3: — Camille consents to sacrifice herself in order to 
 save Armand. This is one of the greatest scenes 
 in the play, the climax to it, and it is compact with 
 the Action. It would be difficult to find a better 
 example of the true meaning of Action. The con- 
 flict is spiritual and internal. The Business of it 
 sinks into contempt and insignificance compared 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES IO7 
 
 with the play of argument, the stern but unanswer- 
 able logic of the father, the defiance, the appeals, 
 the emotions, the humiliation, the desperate de- 
 fence of her right to love, and the complex emo- 
 tions of Camille. Observe that there is hardly a 
 line of Business indicated in the long scene. 
 
 Scene 4: — Camille writes the letter of reunuciation to Ar- 
 mand. 
 
 Scene 5 : — Camille's effort to conceal her purpose from Ar- 
 mand, and to part from him without revealing her 
 resolution. 
 
 Scene 6 : — In the original, Dumas makes one scene of all be- 
 tween this period and the close of the act. The ob- 
 ject of the scene is to effect Camille^s sacrifice by 
 having Armand believe that he has been deserted 
 for Varville. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene i : — That Armand intends to call Varville to account. 
 This is one month later than the close of the last 
 act. Necessarily what has happened in the mean- 
 time and the new conditions have to be set forth. 
 As they are developed, we recognize Action in 
 them of changed relations, and our feelings are at 
 the bottom of the new turns in the Story. Observe 
 that nothing is told for the mere information of the 
 audience, and that the medium of communicating 
 the facts is Prudence. Her gossip is entirely na- 
 tural, and the subjective effect on Armand is ap- 
 parent. 
 
 Scene 2 : — The game of cards in which Armand seeks a dif- 
 ficulty with Varville. 
 
 This is a composite scene ; the first part of it 
 shows Camille's apprehension and unhappiness, 
 and the second, Armand's spirit and cumulative 
 efforts directed toward revenge. 
 
 Scene 3 : — Camille sends Madam Prudence to find Armand. 
 
/ 
 
 I08 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 4: — Armand's bitter denunciation of her. Camille in 
 pursuance of her self-sacrifice falteringly admits 
 she loves Varville. 
 
 Scene 5 : — Armand expresses his contemppt of Camille by- 
 throwing a shower of notes and gold upon her, 
 securing his opportunity for revenge on Varville, 
 who interposes and strikes him, an act which 
 means a duel. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i : — Camille's illness and changed condition. 
 
 Here again we encounter what we may describe 
 as a passive scene in that the Plot Action is almost 
 suspended. Compared with the other acts of the 
 play, this Act has few turns in the larger Action, 
 but abounds in minor Action. The Plot Action, 
 distant as it is, in these passive scenes is supplied 
 by the hope of the audience that Camille will not 
 die, and that Armand may yet return to her. 
 The fact that the room is poorly furnished indi- 
 cates at once that she is no longer under the pro- 
 tection of Varville. 
 
 Scene 2: — Another passive scene, full of minor Action, 
 showing the attention of Nanine. 
 
 Scene 3: — Between Gaston and Camille. This is a contin- 
 uation of the conditions of the present moment 
 with Camille, and there is a constant play of senti- 
 ment and reminiscence. 
 
 Scene 4 : — The introduction of the presents, and the remin- 
 der that it is the wedding day of Nichette. 
 
 Scene 5 : — A connective scene introducing Prudence. 
 
 Scene 6: — That Prudence borrows money is purely inci- 
 dental to the mlain object of the scene, which is 
 that Camille parts company gladly with her own 
 companions. 
 
 Scene 7: — The letter from Armand's father, and Nanine's 
 return and announcing the coming of Armand. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES ICX) 
 
 Here for the first time in this version of the play, 
 we reach a new^ turn in the larger Action. 
 
 Scene 8 : — The reconciliation v^ith Armand. 
 
 Scene 9: — The death of Camille. "All pain is gone, now 
 everything appears to change. Oh ! How Beauti- 
 ful ! Do not wake me — I am so sleepy." 
 
 The Division into Scenes of "Still Waters Run Deep.*' 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene i : — To show that Mildmay is a nonenity in his 
 own household. 
 
 The relations of the characters are all set forth 
 with reference to this state of affairs, and many 
 facts are introduced. But it will be observed that 
 everything is subordinate to the main object of the 
 scene. In this scene of nearly three pages, not a 
 single other element in the Action of the play is 
 introduced. Everything shows why Mildmay is 
 regarded as a m;an without a will of his own, stu- 
 pid, as one "whom you can do what you like with 
 if you only take the trouble/* as Mrs. Sternhold 
 says. All his habits go to show his domestic na- 
 ture, his earthing up the celery, his submissive- 
 ness, his being nagged at by all of them, &c. 
 Everything is incidental to the main idea. Even 
 his statement that he is going to Manchester that 
 night is not put in directUy as a matter that af- 
 fects the Plot, but is really an indication, as the 
 audience takes it, of how indifferent he has become 
 to home life under this state of affairs, or that he 
 can take none of them into his confidence. Still, 
 all the facts in the scene are important, but it 
 would be difficult to find a scene in which the inci- 
 dents and details are so conclusive as to the main 
 desired impression of the scene. 
 
 Scene 2: — Mrs. Mildmay's sentimentality, and her liking 
 for Hawksley whom she compares with Mildmay. 
 
no ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 We have seen from one remark by Mrs. Mild- 
 may that she is sentimental, and this scene ac- 
 centuates it by the suggestion in a line in which 
 she compares Mildmay to Hawksley, of whom we 
 now hear for the first time. 
 
 Scene 3: — To convey Potter's suspicion to Mrs. Sternhold 
 that the relations between Mrs. Mildmay and 
 Hawksley are too intimate. 
 
 It would not do to say that the main object of 
 this scene was the discussion between Mrs. Stern- 
 hold and Potter concerning the investment in 
 Hawksley's shares. Observe that that discussion 
 leads up to Potter's revelation of his suspicion, 
 which is the main object of this scene. The talk 
 about the shares is one object of the scene, but 
 there could be no better illustration of a main ob- 
 ject and a subordinate object than can be found in 
 the management of the two. 
 
 Scene 4: — Mrs. Sternhold determines to satisfy herself in 
 regard to Potter's suspicions. 
 
 Observe that the audience has no inkling of Mrs. 
 Sternhold's relations with Hawksley, but what she 
 does in this scene has direct reference to what Pot- 
 ter has told her, and grows directly out of it. She 
 retires behind the screen to take observations. 
 
 Scene 5: — Captain Hawksley presses his suit with Mrs. 
 Mildmay, explaining to her his design and means 
 of entering the house to her after the others have 
 retired. 
 
 Scene 6 : — Mrs. Sternhold expresses her indignation and in- 
 tention to move against Hawksley. For the first 
 time we learn that Hawksley has trifled with her 
 too. 
 
 Scene 7: — Mildmay has Jessup bring in the ladder so that 
 he can paint the trellis. 
 
 Scene 8: — Potter's caution with Hawksley about buying 
 additional shares. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES III 
 
 Scene 9: — Hawksley delivers the letter from Manchester to 
 Mildmay. 
 
 Scene 10: — Mrs. Sternhold will continue to v^atch Hawks- 
 ley and Mrs. Mildmay for herself and for Mildmay, 
 who she thinks is an unsuspecting fool. 
 
 Scene 11: — Mildmay leaves the impression that he is still 
 going to Manchester. 
 
 Scene 12: — Mildmay seems to commend to Potter further 
 investment with Hawksley. 
 
 Scene 13 : — The letter renders Mildmay's trip to Manchester 
 unnecessary. 
 
 Scene 14: — Mrs. Sternhold tells Mrs. Mildmay what she 
 has overheard, and sends her to her room so as to 
 meet Hawksley in her place. 
 
 Scene 15: — A scene of convenience to get Mrs. Sternhold 
 off. She goes out to see that all is quiet up stairs. 
 
 Scene 16: — Mildmay has seen Gimlet the detective, and 
 now returns to talk with Mrs. Sternhold about the 
 investment. He goes out to deposit his carpet bag 
 in his room. 
 
 Scene 17: — Mildmay overhears the interview between Mrs. 
 Sternhold and Hawksley in which Hawksley 
 threatens her with the letters from her which he 
 holds, and will proceed with his schemes against 
 Mildmay's money and his wife. 
 
 Scene 18: — Mrs. Sternhold assures Mrs. Mildmay that she 
 is safe for the night, and they retire. 
 
 Scene 19: — Mildmay is now in possession of the true state 
 of affairs, and has not lost confidence in his wife. 
 
 Scene 20: — Mildmay leaves his wife in alarm lest he should 
 meet Hawksley as he makes his round of the gar- 
 den and locks all the doors; but the main object 
 is to show that Mildmay has determiined to use 
 other means to dispose of Hawksley than a shot 
 gun. 
 
 OP THE 
 
 ( UNIVERSITY 
 v._- ^^ 
 
112 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 ACT II. 
 Set Scene i. 
 
 Scene i : — Potter tells Mrs. Sternhold, to her consternation, 
 that Mildmay will invest as she wishes, and she 
 sends for Mildmay. 
 
 Scene 2: — Mrs. Sternhold has hopes of getting Mildmay 
 to act for her as a last resort in getting back her 
 letters. 
 
 Scene 3: — Mrs. Sternhold approaches him on the subject, 
 but Mildmay, understanding her perfectly, puts 
 her off by reminding her that he is not a man of 
 spirit, as she herself has said. 
 
 Scene 4: — Potter advises Mildmay to be careful in specu- 
 lating with Hawksley. He thinks Mildmay is 
 stupid. 
 
 Scene 5: — Closes the scene with Potter's belief that Mild- 
 may is inexperienced, and that he himself is a very 
 clever fellow. 
 
 Set Scene 2. 
 
 Scene i : — Hawksley waits for Mildmay, and shows in his 
 reflections that he is uneasy about his affairs, but 
 is confident in his power to dupe the others. 
 
 Scene 2: — Dunbilk and Hawksley. The instability of the 
 Company made plain and Mildmay's confidence in 
 his ability to manage the affair. 
 
 Scene 3 : — Mildmay outwits Hawksley, gets Mrs. Stern- 
 hold's letters, and makes him take back the shares 
 by proving to Hawksley his knowledge of his past 
 forgeries, by producing the forged bill. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene i : — Preparation for sending off the letters postpon- 
 ing the dinner. The ignorance of Potter and the 
 perplexity of Mrs. Sternhold. 
 
 Scene 2: — Potter and Mrs. Sternhold still think Mildmay 
 stupid. 
 
THie DIVISION INTO SCENES II3 
 
 Scene 3: — Mrs. Sternhold is astonished by Mildmay's re- 
 turn of her compromising letters. The notes re- 
 calling the dinner torn up. 
 
 Scene 4 : — Potter is told that the dinner is to be given. 
 
 Scene 5 : — Mildmay forces an understanding on Mrs. Stern- 
 hold, relegating her to a subordinate place in the 
 household. 
 
 Scene 6 :— rMildmay explains to his wife that he understands 
 the danger she w^as in, and she acknowledges with 
 love his authority and that he has rescued her. 
 
 Scene 7: — Potter in his stupidity awaits Dunbilk, "an un- 
 common pleasant fellow," and the other guests. 
 
 Scene 8: — The introduction of the guests, preparatory to 
 the coming of Hawksley. 
 
 Scene 9: — Mildmay introduces Gimlet, the detective, under 
 the name of Maxwell. 
 
 Scene 10 : — Hawksley's arrival, and his impudent attempt to 
 horsewhip Mildmay. 
 
 Scene 11 : — Mildmay forces Hawksley to refuse a duel with 
 one of the pistols unloaded. 
 
 Scene 12: — Gimlet arrests Hawksley for forgery, on evi- 
 dence just completed. 
 
 Scene 13 : — Mildmay is the master of the house. 
 
 THE DIVISION INTO SCENES OF "A NEW WAY 
 TO PAY OLD DEBTS." 
 Set Scene i. 
 Scene i : — That Wellborn is an outcast and friendless. 
 
 Everything under that main idea is detail. We 
 learn why he is friendless, and how friendless he 
 is, his relations with Tapwell and Froth, and their 
 obligations to him. His profligacy, and his ruin 
 by Sir Giles Overreach. That he gives Tapwell 
 forty pounds to buy the cottage, and all other de- 
 tails are subordinate, and derived from and explan- 
 atory of the main object. 
 Scene 2 : — That Wellborn has a friend in Allworth. 
 8 
 
114 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE 
 
 Scene 3 : — That Wellborn refuses aid from Allworth, and 
 will retrieve his fortunes in his own way. 
 
 These are important details, particularly as to 
 Allworth's love for Margaret, but all are incidental 
 to the main object described. 
 Set Scene 2. 
 
 Scene i : — Shows the opulence of Lady Allworth, and the 
 character of the servants. 
 
 This is what may be called a conditional scene. 
 It is introductory, and develops the conditions of 
 the life of Lady Allworth in whom we take an in- 
 terest, provided for by previous dialogue. An im- 
 portant detail is the reference to Justice Greedy, 
 but it will be observed that it is subordinate to the 
 main object of the scene. 
 
 Scene 2: — The cordial reception of Allworth. 
 
 Scene 3 : — The characteristic introduction of Lady All- 
 worth and her maids. 
 
 Scene 4: — Lady Allworth's friendly reception of Allworth, 
 and her warning him against association with 
 Wellborn. 
 
 So far, the scenes have been largely conditional 
 and expository action, but this warning against 
 Wellborn strikes a distinct note in the Action. 
 
 Scene 5 : — The introduction of Greedy and Sir Giles. 
 
 This is also a conditional scene and preparatory 
 for the minor comedy involved in the character of 
 Greedy. 
 
 Scene 6: — Wellborn spurned by Sir Giles. 
 
 Scene 7: — Wellborn's forlorn condition accented by the 
 speech addressed to him by the servants. 
 
 Scene 8: — Wellborn's unexpected rebuff by Allworth. 
 
 Scene 9 : — Another conditional accent of the apparent help- 
 lessness of Wellborn's visit in the attack of Abigail 
 and Tabitha. 
 
 Scene 10: — The culmination of the impudence of the serv- 
 ants. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCENES 1 15 
 
 Scene ii: — Wellborn melts and prevails over Lady All- 
 worth, who falls into his plan and agrees to fur- 
 nish him with the means to beget the opinion of 
 Sir Giles that he is in favor with her. 
 
 Scene 12: — The servants, having witnessed the reconcilia- 
 tion, change their demeanor. 
 
 Scene 13 : — A scene of gradation to close the act. 
 
 ACT II. 
 Set Scene i. 
 
 Scene i : — An exposition of the character and methods of 
 Sir Giles, and specifically his plan to marry his 
 daughter Margaret to Lord Lovell. 
 
 Incidental to the main object of the scene we get 
 the relations of Justice Greedy to his methods. It 
 is clear that Sir Giles' plan to have Marrall com- 
 plete the ruin of Wellborn by persuading him to 
 steal is entirely subordinate to the main object of 
 the scene as stated, for nothing comes of that par- 
 ticular thing. 
 
 Scene 2 : — Connective. The entrance of Wellborn. 
 
 Scene 3: — A turn in the Action. Wellborn inviting Mar- 
 rall to dine with him at Lady Allworth's. 
 Set Scene 2. 
 
 Scene i : — Allworth leaves Lady AUworth's house to return 
 with Lord Lovell, who is to visit her. 
 
 Scene 2: — Connective. Wellborn knocks at the door. 
 
 Scene 3: — Wellborn's cordial reception. 
 
 Scene 4 : — A continuation of the reception of Aml^le. 
 
 Scene 5 : — The same with Furnace, and the amazement of 
 Marrall during these incidents, which may be reck- 
 oned as a single scene. 
 
 Scene 6 : — Wellborn's cordial greeting by Tabitha and Abi- 
 gail. 
 
 These last four scenes practically constitute a 
 single scene. 
 
Il6 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Scene 7: — Wellborn's reception by Lady Allworth. 
 
 Marrall's amazement is completed by his being 
 invited to the surprising honor of a seat at her 
 table, all because of her graciousness to Wellborn. 
 
 Scene 8: — A conditional scene in which the servants ex- 
 press their v^^onder at the turn affairs have taken 
 and discuss Sir Giles Overreach. 
 
 Scene 9: — Amble, Furnace and the servants report the do- 
 ings at the table. 
 
 It has special reference to the effect of all this 
 condescension of Lady Allworth on Marrall. 
 
 Scene 10: — Lady A's instruction to Marrall to reverence 
 Wellborn completes the impression. 
 
 Scene 11: — A scene of gradation in which Lady Allworth 
 forgives her servants. 
 
 Set Scene 3. 
 
 Scene i : — Wellborn completes his deception and mastery 
 of Marrall. 
 
 Scene 2: — Marrall, with a liking for Wellborn's sweet na- 
 ture, is rascally enough to think him "fit^again to 
 be cheated" when he is "possessed of the land and 
 lady." 
 
 Scene 3 : — Sir Giles discredits Marrall's account of the favor 
 bestowed on Wellborn and strikes him. A blow 
 which Marrall receives with humbleness, but with 
 a hidden spirit of revenge. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 Set Scene i. 
 Scene i : — Discloses that Lord Lovell is to appear as suitor 
 for Margaret. 
 
 Sir Giles does not permit Allworth to enter the 
 house, and this is a part of the scheme to further 
 the love affair between Allworth and Margaret. 
 Set Scene 2. 
 Scene i : — Sir Giles' preparation for an impressive reception 
 of Lovell. 
 
THE DIVISION INTO SCKNES II 7 
 
 We have seen at the close of Act II that he ex- 
 pects him|. The presence of Greedy in this scene 
 is incidental and in preparation for the comedy, for 
 Sir Giles gives over to Greedy the control of the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Scene 2: — Connective and preparatory. 
 
 He proposes to lecture his daughter as to her 
 bearing tov^ard Lovell. It will be observed in this 
 ^ct there are more exits and entrances sometimes 
 of "important'' persons than can be assigned to 
 distinct scenes. It is obvious that Massinger 
 v^orked with considerable freedom ; at the same 
 time the scenes followed their natural dramatic 
 order. It is what a scene accomplishes that makes 
 a scene, irrespective of those exits and entrances 
 which do not affect the object of the scene, conse- 
 quently, there is no discrepency in the loose man- 
 ^ agement of the exits and entrances. 
 
 Scene 3 : — Sir Giles unfolds his aim to Margaret, and his 
 ambition for her. Observe that the scene is gen- 
 eral. 
 
 Scene 4: — The comedy relief of Greedy's complaints. 
 
 Scene 5 : — Sir Giles is specific and speaks to Margaret of 
 Lord Lovell. 
 
 Scene 6: — The comedy of Greedy. 
 
 Massinger was a practical dramiatist, and in 
 making all possible use of this comedy episode, 
 he was not making a mere concession to the popu- 
 lar taste for amusement. Back of it all is the Ac- 
 tion implied in the character of Greedy, who is 
 utterly abandoned to his appetite and is Sir Giles's 
 tool in every villainy requiring his assistance. 
 Without this comedy, the play would be baldly 
 villainous. 
 
 Scene 7: — The climax of Sir Giles's expression of his na- 
 ture, and explanation of his plans with Margaret: 
 , "therefore, when he kisses you, kiss close." 
 
Il8 ANAI.YSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,!: 
 
 Scene 8: — Connective and introductory to the entrance of 
 Lord Lovell. 
 
 Scene 9 : — The greeting of Lovell. 
 
 Scene 10: — Margaret's reluctance, and Sir Giles's caution. 
 
 Scene 11: — Lovell plays his part. Sir Giles leaves them 
 to themselves. 
 
 Scene 12: — Paves the v^ay to Margaret's confidence with 
 Lovell, in an aside in which she reveals her secret, 
 their whispering to each other deceiving Sir Giles. 
 
 Scene 13 : — The comedy of Greedy. 
 
 Scene 14: — Shows that Margaret and Lovell had come to 
 an agreement. 
 
 Scene 15: — Sir Giles's having been taken in by appear- 
 ances enables Lord Lovell to introduce Allworth 
 favorably to Sir Giles, who says to Allworth, "Now 
 my house is ever open to you." 
 
 Scene 16 : — Lady Allworth forces Sir Giles to receive Well- 
 born. 
 
 Scene 17: — Connective. Greedy's amazement over Well- 
 born's relations with Lady Allworth. 
 
 Scene 18 : — The comedy episode of Greedy. 
 
 Scene 19: — Sir Giles is comjpletely taken in by Lady All- 
 worth's attention to Wellborn. 
 
 Scene 20: — Connective. Sir Giles proposes to make friends 
 with Wellborn, believing that he can secure for 
 himself by trickery the fortune which Wellborn 
 will marry. He sends for Wellborn. 
 
 Scene 21 : — Connective ; confirming Sir Giles's belief as to 
 Lady Allworth's designs and Wellborn's good 
 fortune. 
 
 Scene 22: — Lady Allworth confirms Sir Giles' belief as to 
 her relations with Wellborn. 
 
 Scene 23 : — The scheme works, and Sir Giles provides Well- 
 born with clothing and money. 
 
THK DIVISION INTO SCENES II 9 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Set Scene i. 
 
 Scene i : — Lovell gives Allworth a letter which is to play a 
 
 decisive part. 
 Scene 2: — Sir Giles sends money to discharge the debt of 
 
 his nephew. 
 Scene 3: — Sir Giles sends Allworth money to procure the 
 
 license for marriage and his ring to take him into 
 
 the presence of Margaret. 
 Scene 4 : — Sir Giles reveals his character to Lord Lovell. 
 
 The scene is conditional, but progressive, and 
 
 it confirms the purpose and resolutions of Lovell 
 
 in the deception of the scheming old man. 
 Scene 5 : — Connective, expressing Lord LovelFs abhorrence 
 
 of Sir Giles. 
 Scene 6 : — Brings Lord Lovell and Lady Allworth together, 
 
 both interested to serve the affair of Margaret. 
 Set Scene 2. 
 Scene i : — Tapwell and Froth apprehensive of Wellborn, 
 
 knowing that he has found out "such a new way to 
 
 pay old debts." 
 Scene 3 : — They meet their just desserts from Wellborn at 
 
 the hands of Greedy, who withdraws their license. 
 Scene 3 : — Wellborn disposes of his other creditors. 
 
 This scene is episodic, but properly a part of 
 
 the Action. 
 Scene 4: — Marrall's weighty secret. He suggests to Well- 
 born to demand that Sir Giles produce the deed 
 
 held over him. 
 
 Set Scene 3. 
 Scene i : — Margaret will brave the wrath of her father in 
 
 mlarrying Allworth. 
 Scene 2 : — Sir Giles is duped by Lovell's letter asking that 
 
 Margaret be secretly married to him. 
 Scene 3 : — Sir Giles feels cocksure, and that it only remains 
 
 for him to ruin Wellborn and possess the widow's 
 
 lands. 
 
120 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i : — Lady Allworth formally accepts Lovell, although 
 
 they remain in doubt as to the issue of their 
 
 scheme for Margaret's marriage. 
 Scene 2 : — Wellborn announces Sir Giles' uneasiness at the 
 
 disappearance of his daughter. 
 Scene 3 : — Sir Giles, uneasy about the deed, berates Marrall. 
 Scene 4: — Sir Giles believes that Lord Lovell and his 
 
 daughter are married and now demands security 
 
 from Wellborn. 
 Scene 5 : — The discovery of the obliterated deed. 
 Scene 6: — The parson confirms the marriage, which Sir 
 
 Giles thinks for the moment is that of Margaret 
 
 and Lord Lovell. 
 Scene 7 : — Sir Giles is completely discomfited by learning of 
 
 Margaret's marriage to Allworth, and the loss of 
 
 his deed. 
 Scene 8 : — The conclusion of the Action. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE SCENARIO. 
 
 There are certain external symptoms of a drama that may 
 be seen at a glance and which are known to everybody. 
 But mere information of this kind is very superficial and 
 does not necessarily iniply any definite or real knowledge 
 of the art of playwriting at all. One may know that a play 
 occupying an entire evening in performance is divided into 
 Acts and into Scenes of locality, but he might be absolutely 
 ignorant of the principles governing these divisions. The 
 principle of Scenery will be discussed under its own head. 
 The set scenes are assigned to the Acts very early in the 
 formative process, selected with reference to the Action 
 as the proper places for the happenings and also with a view 
 to giving external characteristics. This choice is largely 
 dictated by the Material, but a process of technical reason- 
 ing is usually involved before they are fit. In "Ingomar" 
 they are: 
 
 Act. First. 
 
 A Market Place in Massilia. 
 
 Act Second. 
 
 A Wood in Cevennes ; a camp of the AUemanni. 
 Act Third. 
 
 As before. 
 
 Act Fourth. 
 
 A path on the rocky eminence near Massilia. » 
 Act Fifth. 
 
 Same as act first. 
 
 The time of the Action has of course been decided upon, 
 so that we now have time and place. These two things 
 have now become matters of course in the working out of 
 our play. They become a part of the Scenario. The Theme 
 and the Proposition may be set down, and at the beginning 
 of each act the object of the Act may be indicated, but the 
 
122 ANALYSIS O]? DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 gist of a full Scenario, at this mechanical point, is con- 
 tained in the Division into Scenes. We are speaking now 
 of practical work. This Division into Scenes or Scenario 
 should be committed to paper. It cannot be written down 
 of? hand. It might require many weeks and months of 
 thought before you could definitely fix each scene and its 
 Sequence and give to every detail of the Action that form 
 which depends more or less upon all the principles, and, 
 sometimes, absolutely and more particularly, on one princi- 
 ple. It is not necessary to take up Scenario just now for 
 minute discussion. We simply wish to call your attention 
 to the methods of playwriting whereby the construction and 
 mechanical part of a play is substantially reached and ef- 
 fected with the completion of the Division into Scenes, 
 which practically constitutes Scenario. The term Scenario 
 is often loosely used; but the Scenario of a Division into 
 Scenes is the scientific working Scenario for the intelligent 
 dramatist. He might elaborate that Scenario. He might 
 give that Scenario twice as many pages as the play itself 
 will occupy. He might put into it many tentative ideas; 
 it would still be a scenario. It would not be the kind of 
 Scenario submitted to a manager. The manager would 
 want only a succinct statement of the Action or Story. In 
 this case something more should be given than the mere 
 Plot, while all the effective Scenes should be indicated with 
 sufficient fullness. At present let your only concern be the 
 form of a working Scenario. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE ACTION OF A PLAY- 
 
 While we have, so far, gone a little beneath the suface, 
 we have mainly considered the external formation of a 
 drama. We have seen the framework_^ndjthe_reaspns and 
 necessities for the structure bxjneans .of_a^_Proposition^ a 
 Plot ajid a Division into Acts and Scenes, and gained an 
 idea of a Scenario (of the simplest sort). Incidentally you 
 must have caught the idea o£ Unity — ^which is to be treated 
 separately — and you have been really led up to Action, 
 which is involved in all that has gone before, but which 
 we were not.xjeady to discuss, for we are getting at one 
 thing at a time. You will understand it all better after 
 mastering the present principle. Action does not primarily 
 mean the physical movements of the actors in a play. 
 That is a common mistake made by actors when they at- 
 tempt to write a play, for they consider "Business" Action 
 and the only Action that counts. These visible expressions 
 of hopes, fears, emotions and relations often coincide with 
 the Action, but may constitute a sort of Action which rnay 
 be false, misleading or unnecessary. The real Action is 
 confined to the rightful effects produced on the audience. 
 In this way, what an actor may do causes the mind of the 
 audience to act, and often to think of something in" the de- 
 velopment of things of which the character (actor) himself 
 may be entirely unconscious. When a hidden assassin 
 steps from behind a rock and raises his knife to plunge into 
 the back of the "hero" of the play, let us say, the audience 
 knows something that the intended victim does not know, 
 and hope is aroused that the intended victim may escape. 
 Will he turn around in time and see the man? Is he 
 armed? Or we may know that he is armed and the assas- 
 ^'sin thinks he is not armed, we, again, knowing something 
 \that the man does not know. In its final analysis, then, the 
 
124 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Action depends upon the thoughts and emotions of the 
 audience. It is very much like the old discussion whether, 
 if a tree, the giant of the forest, fell, without a human, or 
 any, ear, to hear it, would there be any sound ? The waves 
 of the air would have to strike upon some tympanum. 
 Action, like the Plot, is the development of the Story, the 
 statement or problem. You begin to get the Action in the 
 Proposition and get closer to it as you proceed and make 
 your Division into Acts and then into Scenes from the Plot 
 Your play begins to move; it crawls, then gets on its feet, . 
 and in production we see it in its fullness. Its characteristic ■/ 
 is doubt as to the outcome of the matter in hand. Whether 
 in Episode or in close connection with the Plot there must 
 be Action always. It is the overcoming of some obstacle 
 and, of course^ our doubt. Our doubt is the final test. It is 
 something in solution all the time. Again, it is Action if 
 we-see that something is to come of it. We will not discuss 
 it to its fullest extent at this time, but we must examine all 
 the plays in hand and take note of what Action is. A play 
 without Action is impossible. It must always exist at the 
 present moment. We have seen that the Action must be 
 about some one definite thing, and we were preparing for 
 Action when we reduced the play to one Proposition or 
 Theme about which it was to be. The main Action is about 
 that Proposition — the battle around the body of Patroclus. 
 And now we see the importance of the Division into Acts 
 and Scenes, for in each case the act has its main Action, that 
 is, it must be about something that is of importance to the 
 general Action in conveying it forward. A quarrel between 
 two lovers.Js an Action, for it is about something, how- 
 ever trivial it may be in its nature. Every discussion 
 between people who misunderstand each other is Action. 
 There is usually some misconstruction — some misunder-' 
 standing — some impediment — which may be within, just' 
 as it may be the bashfulness of a young man in trying to 
 propose to his sweetheart,, when the audience knows that 
 she is eager to hear the word. Apply now to all plays that 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY 1 25 
 
 you may study the test throughout and see what Action 
 is; see if it is not true, that the audience must see that 
 something is to come of what is done before them ; if there 
 is not doubt involved as to the issue, if the audience does 
 not know something that some of the people engaged do 
 not know. When the characters all know the same thing, 
 when nothing remains to be done, and there is no longer 
 any doubt as to the issue of the play, it is at ayn_end; and 
 it is a beautiful part of the Art to keep the Action alive — 
 to keep the ball in the air — to the last. The Action seems 
 to come to an end in "Ingomar" at one point. Where? 
 The Plot of a play, as appears in those we have made out, 
 is a statement of the main Action in all its material parts; 
 the Scenario, as we have suggested, it is the simplest form 
 of a Scenario, which could be so amplified as to give such a 
 detailed account of the Action that it would substantially 
 include almost every movement by way of description ; but 
 the full Action is only complete with the completion of the 
 play, for it must be all Action, ever ^resent^ and j)rpgressive. 
 to the end. In the Plot and Scenario of Ihgomar we gave 
 what is included in the second scene of the first act of the 
 play. Now, read it, and you will see that the object of the 
 scene was worked out by a conflict between the mother and 
 daughter that requires two pages of discussion between 
 them. If they both remained seated and held that con- 
 versation it would still be Action, but, of course, animation 
 and relief to the eye, variety and^ many other reasons re- 
 quire them to change position, cross, rise, sit, &c., all con- 
 tributing to the better understanding and appreciation of 
 the feelings of the characters and of the progress of the 
 Action. Notice the points made : The rnother tells Parthe- 
 nia that it is time for her to cease to be a child, that Polydor 
 is rich and asks her hand; we see by her manner that the 
 subject surprises and annoys her; that she hzts rejected 
 other lovers, and why? That she is worthy of love and 
 beautiful; the mother commends to her that love; but 
 Parthenia objects to letting her parents choose a husband 
 
126 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE; 
 
 for her; the girl explains that she will wait until her heart 
 answers, because she has learned from her mother's lips 
 the sanctity of love ; the mother tries to take back what she 
 calls her own prattle and says Polydor is honorable; Par- 
 thenia says No — he beats down her needy father; the 
 mother defends Polydor; the girl begs to be permitted to 
 work — to do anything but marry Polydor; she is sorry to 
 make her mother angry; her mother reproaches her on 
 account of her indifference to her father's struggles. She 
 protests that he is always in her thoughts; and her mother 
 leaves her, calling her an ungrateful and selfish child. 
 There you see a constant state of vibration. You doubt 
 what the girl will do; you hope she will escape Polydor; 
 you sympathize with her; you feel with her regret at her 
 mother's change oJ feeling toward her. The result of the 
 scen^ causes the next scene, for in the next scqgie — which 
 has detarl)^ Action of mind^ in. it^ifce F^s^lveS t& do her 
 -•"duty" as her mother sees it. The play is being developed 
 by means of this Action, Cause and Effect, Cause and Effect, 
 all bearing on the solution of the main problem. Action 
 means change all the time. The relations of the characters 
 are changing all the while, giving new intent to what they 
 say to each other or what is done by them. When the bar- 
 barians dispute one with another we fear for her safety 
 and wonder how her fate will be settled; that is Action. 
 When Ingomar takes her as his share of the booty we are 
 not sure what he will do with her; that is Action; and 
 when he tries to gratify his wild desire we are intent on 
 the result. The scales are wavering and the Action is not 
 over until the scales balance. Observe that Action does not 
 need to be violent or explosive, for drama includes placid 
 plays as well as the intensely melo-dramatic and tragic. 
 But the Action must interest, must conform to the simple 
 requirements described. What is said and done must cause 
 the wheels to move. Note the scene in the second act 
 where Parthenia describes love "as her mother says." 
 What is that Action? Is the mere recital Action, as pretty 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY 12/ 
 
 as it is ? No — we see that her artless talk is spinning a web 
 around Ingomar, although she does not know it. If you 
 think you detect scenes in which there is no Action seek 
 for it. It is there. 
 
 Make sure that you understand what Action is; find out 
 how many points of Action there are in a given scene. 
 Tell what doubts, emotions, &c., are aroused; get into the 
 spirit of Action. 
 
 From the point of view of craftsmanship, the Action is 
 the execution or carrying out in detail of the Divisions 
 which have been made — the scientific definition of Action 
 being development of the Story in the minds of the audi- 
 ence. Consequently, in a good play, all is Action ; it is the 
 final, rounded, detailed fruition, the actual living play, every 
 moment of it, like the blood that courses in the veins, the 
 heart beat which is not to cease for one moment. In "The 
 Lady of Lyons" there is no lapse from Action, and 
 consequently we can cite no instances of what is NOT 
 Action. But our present purpose is mainly to discover 
 what Action is and to become so familiar with it as to re- 
 cognize its presence or its absence instantly. The Propo- 
 sition, the Plot, the Division into Acts and Scenes indicate 
 Action right along; the Action being provided for, but it 
 becomes real, visible Action only when the characters set 
 it in motion. The very first scene, although we have point- 
 ed out littl£_iiiQreL.iiijLJJiaii-^^ of the pride of 
 Pauline and her mother and their expectation of a lofty 
 marriage, is as truly Action as the scene wherein Claude 
 tears up the papers, and throws down his purse to thwart 
 Beauseant, in the last act. Pauline's wondering who sent 
 her the flowers in the first scene is Action because it keeps 
 alive the idea that she is courted and that she has a right 
 and every reason to expect a brilliant marriage. When the 
 maid alters the position of the rose in Pauline's hair it is. 
 Action; because it concerns her pride, and, in particular, 
 her beauty upon which is founded her hope of such mar- 
 riage as she may select. The command to the maid to 
 
128 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 order the carriage is Action, for it shows the wealth that 
 thinks itself entitled to rank, and because it has its bearing 
 on that pride that will scorn the attention of the gardener's 
 son; Action, every word is instinct with Action. Beau- 
 seant's resentment at being rejected is as much Action as 
 his later resolve to be revenged. His confidence as he en- 
 ters is as much Action as his surprise at Madam Deschap- 
 pelles' saying that her husband would not interfere. "We 
 shall always be happy to see you as an acquaintance" is as 
 much Action as the actual refusal. It belongs there and is 
 a part of the res gestae. The emotions are in a state of 
 ebullition. The relations are constantly changing, — Ac- 
 tion. When Damas asks Pauline if she has recovered from 
 last night's ball and remarks that her triumph may be 
 fatiguing, it is Action, for it concerns the very matter of 
 her pride and right to think she can select from her many 
 suitors. When Damas suggests that perhaps they are look- 
 ing to an alliance with Beauseant, when we already know 
 what has happened and Damas does not, could you want 
 a better illustration of Action? Action also concerns what V 
 is to come, what the audience surmises ; but there is also 
 another Action to be described as Reflex Action ; and here 
 we have it, in that the scene of Beauseant's rejection pre- 
 sents itself in a flash to the minds of the audience. The very 
 greeting, " Cousin Deschappelles," is Action, for we see a 
 possible influence on the part of Damas as an adviser. But 
 Action is a larger question than it is designed to fully 
 cover here. With this indication of the abounding and 
 ramifying nature of the Action, and reminding the student 
 of the Action pointed out under the Division into Scenes, 
 we reserve fuller discussion to the sections of our study 
 on play construction and the philosophy of the principles. 
 One thing at a time. For the present discover what the 
 Action IS in these plays, adding it to the examples that 
 we have given. It may require volumes to indicate and 
 explain every particle of Action in these plays. If you are 
 a real student you will exercise j^our mind in the matter 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY 1 29 
 
 and supplement what is here given. The principle has 
 been pointed out to you. See to its application in Detail. 
 
 In a successful and artistic play like "Camille" in which 
 the Action is correct in every detail, it is not profitable to 
 seek examples of the absence of Action. Consequently, 
 the only form of exercise on the negation of the principle 
 in this play is to convert Action into Inaction. This we 
 shall do without directing our attention particularly to the 
 Action which is included and suggested in the Proposi- 
 tion, the Plot and the Division into Acts. We shall treat 
 of them incidentally and concern ourselves mainly with 
 that Action which is within the scenes themselves. Speak- 
 ing generally, the Action may be destroyed in many ways: 
 by wrong Sequence, Story, lack of Cause and Effect, lack 
 of Preparation, or by the non use or misuse of any one of 
 the principles. 
 
 If at the rise of the curtain Nanine and Varville chat- 
 tered on indifferent subjects and had not confined them- 
 selves to the one fact that Varville was waiting for Ca- 
 mille ; if Nichette called for the bundle, leaving the impres- 
 sion that it was a matter of importance, from which we 
 were to expect something; and if Varville and Nanine had 
 discussed Camille on general principles, as a matter of gos- 
 sip, without reference to Varville's suit, the Action would 
 be imperfect, if not altogether entirely lacking. The inter- 
 est would have been too languid. Interest is almost a 
 
 synonym of Action. As introductory talk the scenes might 
 have contained a mild kind of Action so far as the audience 
 was concerned, but do you not see that they might have 
 talked of many things of great interest to themselves but 
 of none whatever to the audience? If Camille, on her re- 
 turn, had treated Varville politely, and if he had then pre- 
 ferred his suit and she had smilingly put him off for his 
 answer, there would have been lack of Action because of 
 its aimlessness. There are innumerable ways of making a 
 scene insufferably tame. In this play the Action has been 
 9 
 
130 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 built Up from the very beginning in the structure, and it 
 only remained to make the scene Action effective. There 
 are a great many possible ways of doing a thing wrong 
 and undramatically, and the amateur will do the wrong 
 thing ninety times in a hundred opportunities. He em- 
 braces false methods with alacrity because they are conven- 
 ient. If Armand had been introduced into the house with- 
 out the information that he loved Camille to madness there 
 would have been no Action to speak of. If Camille had not 
 been drawn to Armand by the reference to his sister, and 
 the conversation not have been overheard by her, the point 
 of the scene would have been lost. The fact as to the sis- 
 ter would have remained, but it would not have been 
 Action. The fact that Armand's father is a "gruff," crusty 
 old gentleman comes into the Action later on, and is 
 necessary to the gradation here of the Dialogue, but the 
 immediate Action is the sister used in the way it is. /if 
 /Armand had engaged in the frivolities of the supper talk, 
 \ whereby Camille would have observed that he was not 
 v<iifferent from the other men, the scene would be absolutely 
 ■without Action and tedious to a degree. It may be said 
 that no one would have written these scenes in the wrong 
 way and without these points. Preposterous! No ama- 
 teur would have constructed it in the masterly fashion of 
 Dumas. Let us assume that he would have had the scene 
 between Armand and Camille in which he tells her of his 
 love. Even so, the scene would not have its proper basis 
 to rest on. Destroying previous scenes we destroy the 
 effect of a given scene. li Camille had not seen that 
 Armand was different from the others, his talk would 
 hardly have convinced her or the audience. We want to 
 ^et full effects. Half a loaf in the drama is generally worth 
 less than no loaf at all. Of what use is half a yard of cloth 
 when you need a full yard? If Camille had doubted Arm- 
 and's love, or had not been touched by it and had laughed 
 at him, the scene would not have had any value. She might 
 have done all these things — in some other play. In this 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY I3I 
 
 play everything is done with reference to something at 
 issue^J What would be Action in one play is not necessarily 
 Action in another. Let Camille accept Armand's Propo- 
 sition in this scene, let her not send him away unsatisfied, 
 and the charm of the scene (interest again) or its true 
 Action in another. Let Camille accept Armand's propo- 
 Camille and Armand in the Second Act take out the fact 
 that Camille is to use the money sent to her by the Due de 
 Meuriac, which is unknown to Armand, and the fact that 
 Armand's point of view is loftier than hers, the value of 
 the scene would be lost, and while their Dialogue might 
 have been prolonged it would have been largely a repeti- 
 tion and would have destroyed the future Action. There 
 would have been no development in the spirituality of 
 Camille, not to speak of the utterly inconsistent character 
 of Arn^and. Take out the secret opposition of Camille to 
 Armand's plans and the open opposition of Armand to 
 Camille's plans, as he suspects and finally learns them, 
 there would be no constant progress of the Action. Let 
 them both agree, the tides meet and the Action becomes 
 slack and without current. The remaining scenes in the 
 act could only be changed into Inaction by departing from 
 the Plot and the proper object of the scenes. The scene 
 between Camille, Gustave and Nichette would be converted 
 into Inaction itthuay talked only of the affairs of Nichette 
 and Gustave. 7 In the great scene between Camille and 
 Armand's fatner the Action would be destroyed if she 
 accepted a money compensation from the father. In the 
 scene between Camille and Armand there would be no 
 Action if he suspected that his father had talked with her 
 and, therefore, had reason to believe that the note which 
 he does not secure from her was one of farewell. Of course, 
 a scene with Action in it might be written including those 
 two points, but not this particular scene in this particular 
 play. We wish to show conclusively that a scene must be 
 written according to the specifications of the scene, and 
 that nothing must be left to chance, else the fly may and 
 
132 ANAlwYSiS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 will creep into the ointment. If you are writing at random 
 why could you not have Armand suspect that his father 
 had talked with Camille and separated them? Without a 
 plan involving every object of a scene you may not go 
 astray all the time, but you will do so often enough to 
 ruin the Action. The Action of the fourth act is so com- 
 pact that it would be profitless to speculate with it. The 
 Action of the last act would be impaired if not destroyed 
 if we introduced at the beginning of it that Camille was 
 S momentarily expecting the arrival of Armand or if we 
 1 coul'd keep out of it the hope of the audience that he would I 
 I return. """^ 
 
 In making out the Plot we provide for the Plot Action, 
 and carry out the Action still further by means of the ar- 
 rangement of the Action of the scenes as scenes. Of course, 
 all this tends to a practical and consistent result, but it is 
 the theoretical Action of the play until the Action in each 
 moment of the play develops scene and act, unfolding and 
 demonstrating each division, until a complete, inclusive 
 whole is formed and everything resolves itself into the Pro- 
 position. You get back to your starting point. Q. E. D. 
 We designate and treat a principle in our formulation of 
 the science and art according to its greatest power and 
 radiating activity. 
 
 The audience does not see Plot except as it is unfolded 
 and accomplished. Action must be seen and felt all the 
 time. We have examined the nature of Action and know 
 something of its elements. The safest general test of Ac- 1/ 
 tion is, Does.it .interest? If you witness or have read to 
 you a scene, and it does not interest you, you may be sure 
 that there is something wrong with the Action. That is 
 enough. There is no need to try such final tests, if we may 
 so illustrate it, as a mirror suspended over the mouth of 
 your character to catch a possible vapor of breath, or hold 
 its fingers to the candle light to see if the red corpuscles of 
 the blood are in slight circulation. Don't waste any refine- 
 ments of logic over it. It does not interest, hence there is- 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY 1 33 
 
 no Action of a kind to satisfy the drama. There must be 
 Action, and it must interest at every moment of the play, 
 and always interest with reference to the Action of the play ; 
 mere local Action or excitation or interest is not really 
 worth a pin head. Is it not important then, to consider 
 Action with reference to this quality? In analyzing "Still 
 Waters Run Deep" have we not already disposed of the 
 Action of the Plot, and of the scenes as scenes? Are we 
 not, then, ready to continue our dissection to the filaments 
 and smallest nerves? Let us examine the Action of the 
 play from this point of view. 
 /^.'•'The curtain rises upon a scene that is obvioftsly one of 
 ^'^a family fireside. The first six speeches apprise us who 
 the principals are, their relations and state of mind toward 
 each other. You are at once in possession of enough in- 
 formation to have your interest and curiosity excited. 
 Forthwith we see that the wife, the aunt and the father- 
 in-law agree in holding that a man who prefers "Auld 
 Robin Gray" to "Beethoven" "has no soul for music." 
 Potter even adds that he has no soul "for anything." 
 Wouldn't this rile you? What is Mildmay going to do 
 about it? Surely, at least, here is a promising state of 
 affairs. We appreciate Mildmay's self-restraint. There is 
 Action in his reply: "Very well." We sympathize with 
 him when he suggests to his wife a quiet little dinner at 
 Richmond tomorrow, and it is a new and interesting de- 
 velopment when his amiable suggestion is not entertained, 
 on account of the aunt's dinner. Oh, ho, Mildmay, you 
 are in a hard way if the aunt who has probably raised 
 Emily from a bottle is really the head of the house ! What 
 in the world did you ever let your wife's aunt and your 
 father-in-law come into the house to live with you for, 
 Mildmay? What's the use? Hasn't Mrs. Sternhold said 
 that she certainly expected her to dine with them? and did 
 not Emily nod approvingly, and did not old Potter blow 
 his nose on his bandana at this moment in a most exasper- 
 ating way, not from any necessity, but as a token of en- 
 
134 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 couragement to the women, as you well know? You are 
 not going to have any music. Oh, get up and go out ! And 
 go out he does to earth up the celery. He can't do anything 
 to please his wife, it is plain. She has driven him off, and 
 lays all the blame on the vegetables. But Mildmay will 
 stay if she wants him to do so. Emily, bless you, doesn't 
 care whether he stays or not. And Mrs. Sternhold attacks 
 him in the rear with the aggravating statement that his 
 wife "would be the last person to thwart your wishes." 
 The illogical old cat! He doesn't know what to do. He 
 settles down on the sofa. The man has tried his best to 
 be agreeable, and he makes it worse. The aunt requests 
 music. Oh, yes, Emily'll play for Auntie. What? Oh, 
 any thing, old thing or new thing. This is Action, reflex 
 Action, present Action, facing backwards and forwards. 
 Mrs. Mildmay is nagging at Mildmay whether he is awake 
 or asleep. We begin to see what a prosaic fellow Mildmay 
 is. He works in the garden all day. The fact that comes 
 out that they have been married only a year is Action in 
 the circumstances. Mrs. Sternhold pokes up the fire of con- 
 tention and sends a constant chain of sparks flying up 
 the domestic chimney. It is Action when Mrs. Sternhold 
 ADMITS that Mildmay is stupid, but says that he can be 
 managed, having no will of his own. Somehow, we doubt 
 it. We feel sure that the poor worm is going to turn in 
 good time. This entire scene has been establishing the 
 premises of the Action. It was all about something. If we 
 knew what was coming, why Mildmay was going to Man- 
 chester, we might say that we heard the first click of the 
 Plot Action in his announcement that he was going to 
 Manchester that night. But we do distinctly hear a click 
 of the Plot Action in Mrs. Mildmay's comparing her hus- 
 band with Hawksley. Now we understand what is the 
 matter with you, you silly creature. The Plot Action 
 clicks again when we learn that Hawksley has enough in- 
 fluence with Mrs. Sternhold to have her urge her brother 
 to invest in his schemes. The minor Action is kept up all 
 
THE ACTION OF A PLAY 135 
 
 the time in developing the character of Mrs. Sternhold. 
 The bare facts are Action and interest us. Hawksley has 
 been a suitor for Emily's hand. There is danger, Emily. 
 Even Potter thinks so, and gives very good reasons for so 
 thinking; and we agree with him. We hardly suspect that 
 Mrs. Sternhold is in love with Hawksley herself, although 
 it is well enough if it is a slight impression, but there is 
 enough to occupy us in our apprehensions for Emily. There 
 is business on hand, in any event. We suspected that Pot- 
 ter knew what he was talking about; now we know it. 
 Hawksley is more of a rascal than we thought. He is 
 taking advantage of the romanticism of a silly woman. 
 Every line of the interview is full of Action. Hawksley 
 learns that Mildmay is going out of town. We hope he 
 isn't. But, in any event, we want to see this matter de- 
 veloped. The scene has Action enough of its own, but it 
 is rendered more intense by our knowledge that Mrs. 
 Sternhold is behind the screen and listening to it all. Now 
 we know that he has been trifling with the mature Mrs. 
 Sternhold. It will be an interesting scene when they meet. 
 We are thinking of Mildmay all the time, too. But we are 
 sure that Mrs. Sternhold is gomg to settle this business 
 with Hawksley in person. Mildmay isn't oiT yet, but he 
 is going. He overhears the negotiations between Hawk- 
 sley and Potter while he is on the ladder painting the 
 trellis. We now see that he is in possession of the facts 
 as to Hawksley's financial schemes. We know that Potter 
 is going to refer the matter to Mrs. Sternhold, and we know 
 her state of mind. Will she advise against it now? What 
 will be the outcome of the interview which we are looking 
 forward to with such interest. A double interest is in it 
 now. Hawksley delivers the letter which makes Mildmay's 
 trip to Manchester unnecessary ; so then he will be at home 
 when Hawksley attempts to visit Mrs. Mildmay after all 
 have retired. The Action as to Mildmay is rather exas- 
 perating, but still it moves. The scene between Emily 
 and Mrs. Sternhold is good Action ; that between Mrs. 
 
136 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 Sternhold and Hawksley is peppery with it. If we were 
 not sure that Mildmay is playing his game and that his 
 information about Hawksley restrains him from interfer- 
 ing at this moment, we should expect him to interrupt the 
 interview. The countercheck by Hawksley with the threat 
 as to the compromising letters gives a sharp turn to the 
 Action here. We know now that Hawksley will not return 
 that night, for Mrs. Sternhold has intercepted the inter- 
 view he had planned; consequently when Mildmay sur- 
 prises his wife on her return to the room we are prepared 
 for his reticence and his simulated pursuit of the burglar. 
 The act closes with a state of affairs, everything in solu- 
 tion, and prepares for Mildmay's movement against Hawk- 
 sley. The Action was only possible by reason of the de- 
 velopment of the Plot. All this was arranged before the 
 dialogue was written; the Action followed naturally. Mrs. 
 Sternhold has been checkmated to the extent that she 
 cannot prevent the investments. It is necessary for Mild- 
 may to get the shares in his possession. He does this. We 
 know his purpose, without seeing the exact means by 
 which he will force Hawksley to terms. The talk between 
 Hawksley and Dunbilk is Action, for we see plainly the 
 rascally nature of his schemes and his immediate necessity 
 for cash. He is expecting Mildmay with money to invest. 
 How is Mildmay going to defeat him? We are interested 
 in Hawksley's argument about the value of the shares be- 
 cause we know that Mildmay is not going to invest or be 
 duped and we wish to see his next move. We feel that 
 Hawksley's confident glibness will lead to nothing but his 
 own discomfiture. We know something that he does not 
 know. The Action becomes rapid, new points coming 
 quick and fast, the apparent advantage now on this side, 
 then on the other. The whole matter would come to an 
 end with this transaction if we knew positively that Mild- 
 may knew of or had in his possession the second forged 
 bill. In point of fact, Mildmay has not got it yet. We have 
 the perspective of Hawksley's going to dinner tomorrow 
 
THE ACTION OF A. PLAY 137 
 
 with the design of humiliating Mildmay before his own 
 family and regaining his control. The Action of the Plot 
 is sustained to the last by means of the Action of the 
 moment. 
 
 Destroy the Plot or impair the Plot and you destroy the 
 Action in the scenes and in the details of the moment, or 
 you impair them. Action is referable back to Proposition 
 and Plot. Complete Action is dominated by them. We 
 have seen how Sequence and Cause and Effect are the 
 absolute requirements and characteristics of Plot, so that if 
 you get them out of order there can be no effective Action 
 in the scenes. The object of the first scene was mainly to 
 show that Mildmay was henpecked and without authority. 
 Devote" tlie first scene to a discussion of Hawksley and 
 follow it with a scene showing that Mildmay was hen- 
 pecked and the interest would be gone. If it had not been 
 shown first that Mrs. Sternhold was dominant in the house 
 and that Potter deferred to her, and that the investment 
 depended upon her, the interview between Hawksley and 
 Mrs. Sternhold would have lost the material part of its 
 Action. If it were not Self-explanatory why Mildmay ex- 
 ercised his policy of "laissez faire," our interest would not 
 follow his movements. The very same scenes and ideas in 
 a different arrangement would make the whole vapid. If 
 discussion of Hawksley, particularly as to his financial 
 schemes, had been introduced in the first scene, the oppor- 
 tunity itself to show the relations in the household would 
 have been lost. It would have been on a different key. It 
 would have been about something else, and might have 
 been Action, but not of the right kind. Mere Action is 
 nothing. If the first scene had not been objective and' Bad 
 b£en deypted to an abstract talk about Mildmay's charac- 
 ter, his gardening and his prosaic ways and habits of 
 thought, the Action would have been slow and dreary. We 
 dwell on this first scene because it is a fine example of 
 minute Action about One thing, its minuteness being made 
 possible only because it is about one thing. Variety under 
 
138 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLlS 
 
 one main object in a scene is drama; variety under two 
 or three main or equal objects is impossible and is not 
 drama. There is no better example of minor Action than 
 this scene. 
 
 We started out to show the Action of the moment, that 
 Action must exist in every syllable. The Action of Plot 
 might be destroyed by the absence, among other things, of 
 the Unexpected. Let us apply that principle to the mo- 
 ment. Suppose Mrs. Sternhold had let the audience know 
 before she began her interview with Hawksley that he had 
 thirteen compromising letters from her. The dialogue 
 would have been very tame when he countered on her by 
 threatening her with them. 
 
 There are many good examples in this play of Action im- 
 plied rather than expressed. This may be noted in the 
 scene between Mildmay and Mrs. Sternhold in the second 
 act. She seems to make up her mind to confide in Mild- 
 may and see if she can "inspire his sluggish nature with 
 one spark of chivalry or sentiment." We are all interest, 
 for we know that it is a dangerous secret and that she dis- 
 trusts the courage of Mildmay. Will she disclose the se- 
 cret and ask him to defend her? Mildmay answers that 
 if a man has insulted her he would do the right thing, of 
 course. "Might I trouble you for the sugar basin?" We see 
 at once that he has made up his mind to take his own 
 course. He knows the secret, and he does not invite confi- 
 dence. We know that he is going to take care of the case 
 in his own way. "Butter, please." We soon see that she 
 wants him to fight Hawksley on general principles and is 
 not anxious to reveal her secret. She does not even tell 
 by whom she has been insulted, and we know why he does 
 not enquire as to the name of the offender. "I see ; a lady 
 has been insulted, and she wishes me to insist on gentle- 
 manly satisfaction on her account." He then reminds her 
 of the opinion she expressed of him as he was lying on the 
 sofa. She does not remember saying it. Action, for we 
 know that she did say it. He then lays down a little do- 
 
THi: ACTION 01^ A PLAY 1 39 
 
 mestic law to her, and she leaves indignant. It is going to 
 be a surprise to her when Mildmay turns over the letters to 
 her. If Mildmay has a hold on Hawksley he is going to 
 get those letters ; we feel sure of that. Potter enters. "Well, 
 Mildmay, have you settled matters with my sister?'' "Well, 
 I think I have pretty well; it was about these shares of 
 Hawksley's." We know how well he has settled matters 
 with Mrs. Sternhold, and also that their talk has not been 
 about Hawksley's shares. Fine Action, Action down to the 
 last syllable. Potter doesn't know. We do. It would have 
 been very tame Action indeed if Mrs. S. had told Mildmay 
 of Hawksley's threat and his possession of the letters, and 
 he had assured her that he intended to get them back for 
 her. It would have destroyed the future scene in which he 
 returns them to her, converting it, at least, to mere acted 
 Story. In all these scenes something is left in solution by 
 means of doubt, opposition, hope,"¥ympathy, insight into 
 character and all the elements of Action available. 
 
 In "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" Massinger, 
 having in his mind all the potentialities of his mate- 
 rial, sought to present it in the most active, effective, 
 and interesting manner. He had to reduce it, in all its parts, 
 to dramatic shape. Action may have a great many differ- 
 ent forms. When we see a tramp refused drink it may 
 be the beginning of many kinds of subsequent Action, and, 
 in America, the only country which makes the tramp a 
 staple article of humor, we would expect comedy. The 
 very minute Wellborn changes his manner toward Tapwell 
 and Froth a very definite Action begins. "Verity, you 
 brache ! the devil turned precisian ! rogue, what am I ?" 
 We are surprised at this turn of affairs, at his spirit, and it 
 is plain that the man in tattered apparel asking for drink 
 is no common person. But he is in extremities, and we do 
 not yet know who is in the right or wrong. Tapwell seems 
 confident enough when he threatens the tramp with the 
 constable. What right has Wellborn to such anger? Our 
 curiosity is answered when we hear the statement that he 
 
 i 
 
140 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 had given the inn to Tapwell. Tapwell does not directly 
 admit it, and we do not know the details; we would like 
 to hear more before determining our sympathies. The situ- 
 ation makes the dialogue and the recital exceedingly inter- 
 esting. As we listen we see that what Tapwell says is the 
 truth ; we also note that Wellborn interrupts him but once 
 or twice, but we see his varying emotions and finally that 
 he is even amused at the unaccustomed facility of speech 
 of the tapster. All the facts have a bearing on the present 
 moment of the action and interest in themselves and with 
 reference to other things. Beginning without any sympa- 
 thy with Wellborn, and agreeing that he has reached his 
 degradation by his own fault, we are entirely on his side 
 in his quarrel with Tapwell when we understand all the 
 circumstances. Every quarrel is an Action; we want to 
 know the matter at issue if we are witnesses of it. Life is 
 made up of right and wrong, and wherever it is involved we 
 stop, even, if it is on a street corner, and listen. This scene, 
 then, is full of Action. We heartily assent to every blow 
 that Wellborn gives the ingrate. True, Tapwell is not worth 
 his anger, and when Allworth appears and causes him to 
 desist, the Action of the quarrel is brought to an end. It 
 has had a completeness in itself. We have shown how 
 friendless Wellborn is, and now it is a new Action when 
 we find that he has a friend in a young gentleman of evi- 
 dent prosperity. The facts that are brought out in the 
 talk between the two were not needed for the first scene 
 any more than the fact which we get in the second act that 
 Tapwell was acting on the orders of Marrall, under instruc- 
 tions from Sir Giles. In the talk between Wellborn and 
 Allworth there is none of that movement and physical 
 activity which some people confuse with Action proper. 
 The upshot of it is that Wellborn refuses all aid and will 
 retrieve his fortunes in his own way. That is a consid- 
 erable advance from the point where we saw him demand- 
 ing drink. We are entirely on his side by this time. We 
 have been getting new facts and new developments all the 
 
THi: ACTION 01^ A PLAY I4I 
 
 \ 
 
 time. Everything has been in a state of evolution, par- 
 ticularly our feeling toward Wellborn. The young lover, 
 too, is in trouble, and Wellborn is compelled to give him 
 good advice. Observe that the Action is confined to the 
 advice to abandon all thought of Margaret, and Allworth's 
 acquiescence in it. That is to say, we expect nothing more 
 from a thing that is really to become a material part of the 
 later Action. The immediate Action was to develop the 
 character of Wellborn, his relations with other characters 
 and the justice of his opinion of Sir Giles. It is all inter- 
 esting and pertinent, and therefore Action. There has been 
 little or no Plot Action so far, but the Plot of the first set 
 scene has been carried out admirably. Wellborn will re- 
 trieve himself. Imagine the introduction of the many addi- 
 tional facts that might have been talked about between 
 Tapwell and Wellborn, and you will see at once that the 
 Action would have been so diluted as to have lost all 
 interest. The slightest elaboration of the dialogue even on 
 its present lines would have impaired the Action, or even, 
 in a manner, defeated it. If they had talked of Marrall's in- 
 structions, that would have led to some account of that 
 person and of the methods of Sir Giles; all of which 
 would have been premature and have taken away our 
 attention from the one main purpose of the scene. There 
 is no Plot Action discernible in the scene between the ser- 
 vants in the hall at Lady Allworth's. How futile, then, to 
 attempt to make all Action Plot Action, for, surely, this is 
 a most interesting scene and full of minor Action. It is 
 complete in itself, and it had to be, for its most important 
 uses are for subsequent scenes and later Action. Lady 
 Allworth's advice to her step-son to shun Wellborn is 
 merely incidental to her interest in him, but instinct with 
 Action, for it makes us much doubt the success of the hap- 
 less Wellborn when he sets in motion his plans to rehabili- 
 tate himself. The scorn of the servants, and this further 
 obstacle of the expressed resolve of Lady Allworth to listen 
 to no representations on behalf of Wellborn add doubt and 
 
142 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 every element of strong Action. Everything that goes to 
 show the character and state of this Lady Bountiful is Ac- 
 tion and not mere Life, for it would seem to make her ad- 
 amantine in her austere morals, presenting a hopeless front 
 to Wellborn. She is a person of authority and order. 
 When she tells Tabitha and Abigail to "sort those silks 
 well," the thing of real importance is not the silks, but as 
 we have indicated. Observe the brevity of such incidents. 
 The very minute you attempt to depict character beyond the 
 Action involved and implied the force of the Action abates. 
 It is a bit of color, a single stroke of the brush by the true 
 artist. If the servants had merely talked of the seclusion 
 of their mistress, and if the Action of the quarrel between 
 them had not been used, how monotonous would have 
 been the reiterated talk about her refusing to see any one. 
 Here we realize the value of minor Action as distinguished 
 from Plot Action. If Wellborn had told his friend that he 
 intended to visit Lady AUworth, Tom would have an- 
 nounced the intention to Lady Allworth, and, in that event, 
 the Action of the scene in which she counsels him against 
 Wellborn would have been different and the dialogue some- 
 thing else. We had almost forgotten Wellborn, but now 
 that we see him utterly friendless we wonder what he is 
 going to do. There is an immediate connection. If Lady 
 Allworth and Tom talked exclusively about Lord Lovell, 
 and she had given him her advice on general principles 
 there would have still been character, the Material of the 
 play would have been wrongly used, and the Action would 
 not have stirred it. Add Action to Character and it becomes 
 exceedingly interesting. It is possible that a modern play- 
 wright would have the Plot Action more constantly and 
 visibly in motion. He might have regarded Wellbom's 
 contemplated visit as a part of the Plot Action or at least 
 one of the turns in the Action which should be placed in 
 view earlier in this scene. But as it is we are so interested 
 in all that she says, the Action as to Wellborn comes in 
 exactly the right place. Her warning against the spend- 
 
f UN!V' 
 
 OF 
 
 THE ACTION OF A PLAY I43 
 
 thrift who had forfeited respect and friendship is more in- 
 teresting than her general advice, and would have swallowed 
 it up if it had been placed first ; it is in its proper Sequence 
 and leads up to the Action proper. Moreover, there is 
 Action in our feeling that the foundations are being laid, 
 and that something must come of these relations indicated. 
 Tom does not say one word about Wellborn. What his 
 step-mother says "is to him an oracle." How much more 
 delicate and yet substantial this is than if there had been 
 a striving after Plot Action or complication. When Sir- 
 Giles comes on with Marrall and Justice Greedy we have a 
 full abundance of minor Action again. It is Action be- 
 cause it has a completeness of its own and is interesting. 
 The scene is there for technical purposes in order to have 
 Wellborn spurned by his uncle. If you had placed the 
 Action in the knowledge on the part of the audience that 
 Wellborn was coming in a minute, what interest could 
 there have been in Greedy? Greedy is to serve a future 
 and a constant purpose, in addition to the humor he pro- 
 vides, and the scene pays for itself. The Action must not 
 be an accidental thing, and simply because it is Action does 
 not save the case; it must be the right Action. Massinger 
 is looking out for the future, too. Lady Allworth, we see, 
 will admit no one, not even her neighbor. Sir Giles. That 
 is a point that counts and makes the visit of Sir Giles 
 Action and worth the while. From the time Wellborn 
 enters to the close of the Act there is not a word that is 
 not Action. There is a constant vibration of emotion, of 
 doubts, of chances, of everything that makes Action. Ac- 
 tion is a constant changing of the molecules until a new 
 form is reached. It begins here with apparent hopelessness 
 in an object to be gained, and ends with complete triumph. 
 It had to go through many states to reach it. In the open- 
 ing scene of the second act we have plenty of Action, gen- 
 eral in its nature at first, but soon coming to a specific 
 relation to Wellborn. It would be very weak Action if we 
 did not first have proof of the character of Marrall and of 
 
144 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLK 
 
 the methods of Sir Giles. This is a wonderful play; there is 
 a phosphorescent glow of Character Action in it every- 
 where. It is a play with a somewhat complicated Plot, 
 and yet it is preponderatingly a character play. The Plot 
 Action is directly at work when we know that Marrall is 
 to seek the ruin of Wellborn; and now he comes on. Is 
 there not plenty of Action in the scene between Marrall 
 and Wellborn? It has great excellence in its treatment. 
 It is full of detail. It is only at the end of the scene that 
 Wellborn announces that it is to Lady Allworth's that he 
 invites Marrall to dine. How beautifully it is led up to. 
 The scene at Lady Allworth's and the following one, end- 
 ing the act, advance the Plot Action rapidly. It is much 
 more rapid than the scenes in the second part of the first 
 act up to the time of the entrance of Wellborn, for there 
 the Plot Action really begins in earnest. Now we see the 
 outlines of the play; the minor Action has carried it well 
 and almost alone, but now the Plot Action is strengthened 
 and illuminated with the details of the minor Action also. 
 You can see the footprints of the Plot. It is good Action 
 at the close of the second act when we see that Sir Giles 
 discredits Marrall's story and beats him for his supposed 
 lies. We know that Marrall has told the truth. That alone 
 goes far to constitute Action. It is not so much that we 
 anticipate the result of Marrall's resentment. We may or 
 may not suspect that it will have something to do with 
 the Plot. Marrall's aside gives a little promise on which 
 to hang some expectation, but we are particularly inter- 
 ested in what will be the effect on Sir Giles of his discovery 
 of the truth. Will he be duped as Marrall has been? With 
 the third act begins a new development in the Plot Action, 
 Allworth's plan to get Margaret with the assistance of 
 Lord Lovell. The Action of the scene may be measured 
 always by the object of the scene. The Action, then, in the 
 scene between Lovell and Allworth is perfect, full of vi- 
 bration and accomplishing some definite progress in the 
 general Action. We are now so well committed to a visible 
 
THE ACTION OI' A PLAY 145 
 
 Plot that its progress cannot fail to interest us, and Mas- 
 singer holds our constant attention. We may have doubted 
 some of the earlier Action, some of the Dialogue, before all 
 the issues had been joined, but after the Action of the Plot 
 is once in motion, and to the end of the play, there can be 
 no disputing its effectiveness. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 UNITY. 
 
 Dramatic UnitV is the conformation of Proposition, Plqt^ 
 and Action. ^ 
 
 You must have perceived by this time that a law of Unity- 
 runs through a play, each principle in a play and each part 
 of a play being distinct in itself, but with relations to the 
 other principles and parts. At the very outset the Theme 
 demanded Unity. You considered the Proposition and saw 
 that it must be ONE thing, one definite thing, so that when 
 asked what your play was about you could reply briefly 
 and would not wander off into a multitude of Details. You 
 saw that each act was about one thing, each scene about 
 one thing, and that each step was a development toward 
 one given end. Following this out, you have seen that a 
 play is a Unit made up of many other Units. The characters 
 themselves are units, consistent in themselves. Unity, then, 
 is the cohesive force. ^ It means that a play must have its 
 centre of gravity, the centre of a circle, with the Theme at 
 its circumference. Technically, dramatic Unity is the con- 
 formation of Proposition, Plot and Action. It is suscepti- 
 ble of scientific proof, by means of this law. If you will 
 now refer to the first chapter of "The Technique" you will 
 find that part of the very definition of a drama which defines 
 or implies Unity. Aristotle's fragment of the art of the 
 drama is wonderfully clear, as far as it goes, and his defini- 
 tion of the drama, slightly added to in "The Technique," 
 really comprehends the whole art. Ponder that definition 
 well. It cannot be understood at once. It does not involve, 
 on the surface, many things which will have to be learned 
 through toil and experience. But in the words "a com- 
 plete Action" you have a test of Unity, a constant monitor 
 and a safe guide. You are now to make a close, careful 
 and repeated study of everything contained in these pages 
 
UNITY 147 
 
 and to apply the principles to plays, by way of analysis, in 
 order to confirm you in a religious belief in and acceptance 
 of the principles. Not to accept Unity is to remain a pagan, 
 in other words, an amateur and believe in many gods and 
 not to be a wise and creative artist and believe in only 
 ONE! We will not go deeper into this subject now, for 
 the illustrations are sufficient, and you will find the actual 
 thing itself in examining not only these plays, but all good 
 and successful plays ever written. It is the general princi- 
 ple that you are to understand at first. To apply that- prin- 
 ciple is not always easy. Man is prone to evil, and you 
 will at first find it hard to keep the faith, to stick to one 
 thing, to reduce to Unity. But we have shown you that to 
 reduce to Unity is absolutely essential as the first real step 
 in thinking of your play, in considering the material, and 
 in getting it into shape. You may find that you may often 
 have to reject much, much that may seem precious to you, 
 in order to bring about Unity. You are not through with 
 Unity until you finish the play. It is not settled by obtain- 
 ing any one Unity, for there are many Unities to consult. 
 Does your play have a Beginning, a Middle and an End? 
 It cannot begin nowhere and end nowhere, nor can it begin 
 somewhere and end nowhere or at a somewhere that the 
 Action did not start for. It is useless to say that this is 
 obvious and implies an absurdity. Many plays, professional 
 as well as amateur, accomplish this absurdity. This cannot 
 well be illustrated from the plays that we are considering, 
 but we shall reach work in which we will have to contend 
 with this very tendency toward Disunity. In extending our 
 examination to principles we shall encounter misapplied 
 principle and shall find examples of what is not Unity. It is 
 sufficient for the present to see wherein Unity consists 
 and how it is secured. Faults of a minor kind may be dis- 
 covered in these plays, but not faults of Disunity. We shall 
 have much to do with the principle of Unity in our future 
 work. It would seem to be a most simple and natural 
 principle with every honest worker, but it is a very tech- 
 
148 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,e: 
 
 riical principle, and it is impossible for any one who does 
 not understand it technically to be honest with himself, 
 his subject or his public. 
 
 We ascertain the Unity of "The Lady of Lyons" by 
 noting that it has a definite and correct Proposition, that it 
 has a Plot which develops and carries out this Proposition, 
 the acts being so divided as to afford the proper point of 
 progression, the scenes still further dividing it for the 
 Action; Proposition, Plot and Scenes and Action being 
 about one thing in their respective activities; the whole 
 exemplifying Unity. The process is easy to see, the Unity 
 first being secured by means of structure and then con- 
 firmed at every step. Nothing is done that does not bear 
 on the progressive and consistent development of the Ac- 
 tion; all the happenings and all the characters having the 
 proper consistency toward a given end. Without this 
 Unity the play would not interest, and would not be suc- 
 cessful. It is not a Unity in one thing only, but a Unity in 
 all things. It is impossible to point out Disunity in a play 
 like this, consequently, we can only see wherein the Unity 
 consists. We might devise means whereby Disunity could 
 be introduced. We can find Disunity in perfection in ama- 
 teur plays. Amateurs are experts at it. It is obvious that 
 if the Proposition, Plot and Action were not in conformity 
 there would be no complete Unity. The Unity, then, must 
 be specific and not merely general. If it had only Unity 
 of Theme, Love and Pride, it would not necessarily be a 
 play at all. But, in working out the play, Bulwer could 
 have departed from the Unity of his Theme, and introduced 
 too much about the Revolution and war, and thus have 
 destroyed the Unity at the very source of the play. He 
 could have made it about one thing at the beginning, and 
 about another thing at the end. This Unity has to be 
 effected by the use of all the principles, else it would not 
 be dramatic Unity, although it might be some other kind 
 of Unity. We must get acquainted, then, with all the prin- 
 ples and their combinations, whereby we shall learn that 
 
UNITY 149 
 
 Unity in its fullness and down to the last detail is influ- 
 enced by the bearing of one principle on another. 
 
 "Camille" naturally has Unity of Theme, for Dumas was 
 very much in earnest in his convictions and views of life 
 and knew his subject thoroughly. But to be "all about" 
 the Theme would not necessarily make it a play and cer- 
 tainly would not necessarily impart that Unity of form 
 which is essential in a play. Of course in a genuine drama 
 the Theme takes care of the play and the play takes care 
 of the Theme. Unity must exist, but if the play had only 
 Unity of Theme as the one thing w^hich it was about it 
 might fall into an indefinite definite something or a definite 
 indefinite something because of lack of form. The drama 
 is definite throughout or nothing. The Unity of this play 
 is proved by three things, above all, conformity of Propo- 
 sition, Plot and Action. Wherever it has incidents of a 
 casual kind and Episodes they are necessarily structural 
 according to our rule of the nature of Action. Refer to 
 the pages on Proposition and Plot and Action in "Camille" 
 and you will find the Unity designated and proved. 
 /~;^' Any departure from the set Proposition would impair or 
 / destroy the Unity. The Proposition requires that Camille 
 make the sacrifice of herself because of love for Armand ; 
 consequently, if she did not love Armand, but was mer- 
 cenary when called on to make the sacrifice, and did it for a 
 price; or if she wanted to throw the responsibility on 
 Armand, keep up appearances with Duval, and not really 
 keep faith with Duval, and contrive to have Nanine ex- 
 plain the situation to Armand, that would not have been in 
 conformity with the " Proposition and Plot at all. If the 
 play did not have a single main proposition, with its sub- 
 ordinate supplementary Proposition, with all the minor 
 Propositions held in check, with the result that it had no 
 main Proposition whatever, there could be no consistent 
 progressive Action, which is one aspect of Unity. If it 
 had several main or equal Propositions, all pulling in direc- 
 tions more or less divergent, there would be no Unity. We 
 
150 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 could disintegrate the main Action or the Unity by assum- 
 ing the following state of affairs required to be worked out 
 in an Action : Camille and Olimpe will both try to cajole or 
 dupe the rich Varville out of a large sum of money. Let 
 Camille be really in love with Gaston and try to get him 
 away from Nichette. Let Armand begin by loving Camille, 
 but be gradually attracted to Nichette and finally marry 
 her. Have Camille seek to convince Armand of her love 
 and to make the sacrifice, believing that Armand will then 
 surely marry her and rehabilitate her. You may say that 
 this would lead to another play and that a Unity might 
 be contrived out of it. Very true, but it proves that each 
 play must have its own Unity and may reject any part 
 of the Unity of another play even though the characters 
 be nominally the same. Why, in this play, could not 
 Olimpe try her wiles on Varville ? He is not really in love 
 with Camille. You could devise any number of complica- 
 tions, if complications in themselves made drama without 
 regard to Unity. The characters, if permitted to do every- 
 thing or anything they might do, would soon destroy Unity. 
 In the supposed case above, the audience would be first 
 interested in one Proposition and then in another, never 
 holding to the ONE. You may say that this confusion 
 could not have occurred with the Material of this play. 
 Certainly not with Dumas; but an amateur could have 
 brought it about. He does such things every day. In fact, 
 if he does not understand the necessity and nature and 
 value of Proposition he cannot avoid, except by accident, 
 \the commission of such cardinal sins. Olimpe would lead 
 him astray in some way. The Unity of Theme held Dumas 
 to truth. If you were writing the play and had no sincere 
 appreciation of the Theme, or did not understand the 
 Theme in its full significance, your play would not be the 
 same play. We have elsewhere shown how the Unity of im- 
 pression could be destroyed by converting the Action into 
 Story. A wrong Sequence or Effects before Causes would 
 have the same result. You might use exactly the same Mate- 
 
UNITY 151 
 
 rial, but convey it in Story fashion, and you would effect a 
 lack of dramatic Unity. As we proceed, the arrangement and 
 management of treatment of the Material would decide the 
 Dramatic Unity. We have said that the test of Unity is 
 the conformity of Proposition, Plot and Action. Now, a 
 Plot cannot exist without Cause and Effect in proper Se- 
 quence. You might have all the parts of a watch, all the 
 large and small wheels, but if you cannot put them to- 
 gether so that they will fit into each other and form a 
 working arrangement, where is your Unity? Does this 
 statement sound academic to you or practical? As with 
 a serviceable watch, so it is with a living play. Unity of\ 
 character will be discussed under its proper head; but it/ 
 may be observed that mere Unity of Character is not/ 
 enough, for that Unity is governed by the Plot and the/ 
 consequent function of the Character. We have selectedy 
 Olimpe as the one character in the play which would in- 
 vite an inexperienced author to a much larger use of it 
 than Dumas has exercised. The first thing to get is the 
 structural Unity, but the observance of the Unities is 
 obligatory down to the last detail. You get things right 
 at the start, and keep on getting them right. . In other 
 words, it may be said of Unity, as of every other principle, 
 that we secure it first in the structure and by working from 
 the general to the particular. Unity may be destroyed by 
 a disobedience of any principle. Suppose we were led to 
 believe in the opening of the play that Varville's suit did 
 thrive and soon discovered that it did not. The Unity of 
 idea would be broken, would it not? A false Sequence 
 would lead us to believe one thing and then inform us of 
 the contrary, would it not? If we had not been straight- 
 way told that Camille is indifferent to men, and if we had 
 not heard the history which accounts for it, we might have 
 formed any idea we chose as to her state of mind, and if 
 an audience can have any number, if only two, possible 
 ideas, there is no Unity in the mind of the audience, al- 
 though the hidden facts may be perfectly consistent. It is 
 
152 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 hard work to imagine and contrive disunity in a play which 
 has its Unity so marked as has "Camille." Our most 
 profitable study would be with plays in which Unity is 
 actually lacking in Plot, Proposition, Character or what 
 not. Still, as an exercise, we may essay some of this trans- 
 lation of Unity into Disunity. Mark the point that we have 
 made, that Unity depends upon the effect upon the audi- 
 ence. You will remember that Action, in its last analysis, 
 has been traced down to that final arbitration and test. 
 Suppose we destroy the Unexpectedness of the coming of 
 Duval. Wherein would the Unity be affected? If Camille 
 or Armand had known that this ordeal was in store, the 
 scene between the two lovers would have been impossible. 
 If the audience had also known, it would have been im- 
 possible ; there could have been no concentration of interest 
 on previous scenes, and concentration of interest is in itself 
 Unity. 
 
 If a scene is uninteresting because the audience is inter- 
 ested in something else, where is the Unity of attention? 
 Let Camille and Armand both join in the gayety of the 
 supper, and the Unity would be broken. There is no Unity 
 in a broken chain. 
 
 The Unity of "Still Waters Run Deep," like that of any 
 other play and of all plays, is determined by its Proposition, 
 Plot and Action. We have seen that Proposition and Plot 
 may be given in a few words. To merely describe or give 
 an outline of the Action requires many words, and to carry 
 out the Action requires every word in the play. It may not 
 be an exact illustration, but it is practically the case, that 
 the Proposition stands in the background, like a point in 
 the horizon which remains stationary as you speed along; 
 the Plot is in the middle distance, where the developments 
 afford changing pictures, and the Action is in the imme- 
 diate foreground, changing every moment. The most sig- 
 nificant thing about the dramatic is FORM, not intensity. 
 And so with Unity, it depends more upon FORM than it 
 does upon the prevalence of any one element; in other 
 
UNITY 153 
 
 words, it is the union, the oneness, of all the elements. 
 Structural Unity a play must have. Our work has accus- 
 tomed us to the method of obtaining structural Unity in 
 that we divide the Plot into Acts and Scenes. The Scenario 
 establishes the details of that structure. Unity of character 
 or of anything else helps not a whit if this structural Unity 
 is lacking. Unity of Theme is a mere illusion, form lack- 
 ing. The Unity of Story, in the sense of a novel or narra- 
 tive, avails nothing. There must be form, dramatic FORM. 
 The further we go back the more fatal a defect is as to 
 Unity. One mistake in the Proposition is more destructive 
 than a hundred small ones in the Action ; and that one mis- 
 take breeds myriads of mistakes, like some fast-spreading, 
 deadly microbe. It is the germ of iniquity and the source 
 of putrefaction. In calculating distances in astronomy the 
 angles and lines used, are called a parallax. It is obvious 
 that if the angle at the starting point of the computation 
 is too large you will be millions of miles away from the 
 answer or solution when you get through figuring up. You 
 will be far away in space demonstrating a lie. In like man- 
 ner, if you begin to depart from the truth of Unity in the 
 beginning you will go widely astray. Let us suppose that 
 you somehow make it a question as to whether Mildmay 
 or Hawksley forged the bill; that the shrewd Hawksley 
 tried to make it appear that the junior partner was the 
 guilty one. Why not make a fourth act, a new one, to fol- 
 low the present third act? Here is a chance if you are after 
 complication merely or mainly. You would at least have 
 to go back and change the Proposition ; and thereafter very 
 little of the present play would remain. Those who talk 
 loosely and glibly about letting the characters do as they 
 please and write the play, if they really understood the 
 drama, cannot mean what they say to the logical extent 
 implied. The Unity of the possible play just indicated 
 could not be the Unity of the present play. The characters 
 would have to be different and have a different Unity. 
 Thus, the Unity of the play can be referred back to the 
 
154 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Unity of the Proposition; and you might have a Proposi- 
 tion with perfect Unity and then destroy the JUnity of the 
 play by destroying the Unity of the Plot. /"The Plot should 
 carry out the Proposition. Now, if Potter should take his 
 daughter in hand and convince her of Mildmay's superior- 
 ity or of her duty without reference to Mildmay's superior- 
 ity over Hawksley, Mildmay would still regain his wife's 
 confidence and love by what he does, but not in the way 
 required by the Proposition. The structural Unity of the 
 play was further obtained or confirmed by the arrangement 
 of the Plot into Acts and Scenes. If there is a link missing 
 there is as much absence of Unity as there would be in a 
 chain with a missing link. Leave out Mrs. Sternhold's 
 thirteen letters, and she would never have been convinced 
 of Mildmay's resolute character, for she would have given 
 all the credit for the exposure of Hawksley to Gimlet. The 
 Plot would have been defective. 
 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" carries out a 
 double Proposition, in which, however, there is Unity, and 
 which sustains our interest in a number of Actions all so 
 woven together that it becomes one fabric. The Unity of 
 it would have been greatly impaired by any disproportion 
 in the use of any one of the three Actions. It is only in 
 the very last act that Lord Lovell and Lady Allworth come 
 together, in discussing affairs, so as to form any definite 
 Plot as concerns them. They fall together naturally. There 
 has never been any obstacle between them to be overcome 
 by struggle and necessary to be set forth in the detail. As 
 said, in speaking of their relations to the Plot, their per- 
 sonal relations do not belong to the Plot of the play itself, 
 except in an incidental way. If you had made them jealous 
 of each other, the Unity of the Plot would have been de- 
 stroyed. In fact, if anything more than has been done had 
 been made of their personal relations, the Unity would 
 have been vastly impaired. We have shown that Episode 
 and incidental Action do not destroy Unity. Justice Greedy 
 is as integral a part of this play as any other character in 
 
UNITY 155 
 
 it. There is a complete conformity of Proposition, Plot 
 and Action in this play, consequently, its Unity is perfect. 
 We can only conjecture what might have impaired its 
 Unity. If Sir Giles had set his heart on marrying the 
 widow, there might have been many additional complica- 
 tions, and a Unity might have been secured in it all, but it 
 would have been the Unity of some other play. The Pro- 
 position does not call for his continued pursuit of Lady 
 Allworth. If a woman had been introduced into the Ac- 
 tion in order to have some one to bestow on Wellborn 
 as a sentimental compensation, some kind of Unity might 
 have been obtained, but it would not have been the Unity 
 of this play. You might have had him in love with the 
 widow, too. But the Unity of impression desired was to 
 come from a concentration of the efforts of the characters 
 combined against Sir Giles. In the early part of the play 
 there are several breaks in the continuity of the Plot Action 
 apparently, but it is a kind of disunity that soon cures 
 itself. Much of this comes from the old freedom in the 
 shifting of scenes of locality. But having more Unity in 
 the scenery does not necessarily give more Unity to the 
 Action. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SEQUENCE. 
 
 One of the most important distinctions between the 
 dramatic and mere story telling is the Sequence of happen- 
 ings and ideas. The drama has an idiom — an arrangement 
 of its own. It is what, in grammar, is called collocation. 
 You cannot claim to speak any language foreign to your 
 own and with a different collocation until you are perfectly 
 familiar with the arrangement of words in a sentence in 
 that language. We encounter this difficulty less in the 
 French, more in the German, and to a marked degree in 
 the Latin. The following sentence is entirely natural to us 
 in its arrangement of the words and ideas: *'Mithridates, 
 King of twenty-two nations, pronounced judicial decisions 
 in as many languages." The Latin arrangement would be : 
 **Mithridates, of two and twenty nations king, in as many 
 languages judicial decisions pronounced." You will have 
 to become reconciled to the idiomatic arrangement of ideas 
 and facts in the drama, just as you have to in learning 
 Latin or any foreign language. Just as the sway of Action 
 and Unity runs entirely through the drama so does Se- 
 quence. In every step of our work so far we have been 
 treading over the ground of Sequence. The Division into 
 Acts — their Sequences — had to be effective or the play 
 would have failed — or succeeded imperfectly. Do not im- 
 agine that the author of any of the successful plays which 
 you may have read found his Sequence without more or 
 less thought. The proper Sequence of the acts may have 
 given him little trouble, although this Sequence of the acts 
 may be found wrong even after the completion of the man- 
 uscript. One who has had experience in revising the manu- 
 scripts of amateurs often finds it necessary to transpose 
 the acts. Macready once transposed the last act of a play — 
 which had not been successful — and made it the first act, 
 
SEQU^NC^ 157 
 
 thus securing the triumph of a long disused drama. When 
 you get to the arrangement of the Sequence of the scenes 
 the difficulties become more numerous, and even in the 
 writing of a scene, care must be taken, as we shall more 
 fully and definitely see, in adjusting each idea and every 
 word to its proper relative position. It depends, of course, 
 upon the material and the purpose of the author what the 
 Sequence shall be, and he could, in certain cases, reach the 
 same results by a different Sequence here and there, but 
 given the same story to tell in dramatic form all real drama- 
 tists would make use of the same Sequence, differing only 
 according to nicety of art and temperament. Refer now to 
 the Plpt_o^f Ingornar, as supplied to you, and note how one 
 thing grows out of another. /Now, Cause produces Effect. 
 The Cause should not be given after an Effect, for that 
 would be explaining the Effect, and that is not dramatic. 
 You have to make certain facts clear before a succeeding 
 scene will count, at all, otherwise, you rob it of its true 
 effectiveness. Transpose the scene between Polydor and 
 Parthenia, where she refuses him ; that is, make the fourth 
 scene the first, and you will get into difficulties at once. It 
 would be plumped in without any explanation of her state 
 of mind toward him or of her state of life, its Action would 
 be feeble compared to what it is now ; for now we know 
 that she has refused her mother and that she has made up 
 her mind to drive a bargain with him. This interests us 
 very much. As it stands, we have become interested in the 
 girl, knowing the conditions and her spirit, the mood in 
 which she receives him, and many facts that have been un- 
 folded in the three preceding scenes which have cleared 
 the ground for the Action of the scene. In this way you 
 make everything Self-explanatory. That is to say, you sup- 
 ply everything that it is essential for the audience to know 
 so as to understand the development of the Action before 
 -its eyes^l And this "Everything that is essential" may be one 
 single thing or many things, which if reserved in 
 your own mind would defeat your purpose. Begin now to 
 
158 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 attach definite ideas to all terms that are used. Some of 
 them have been withheld at times so as to save confusion or 
 unclarity of ideas while you were gaining the gist of some 
 principle — one thing at a time. When we come to con- 
 structive work you will be able to understand the discus- 
 sion necessary. Thus, you will see how important an ad- 
 junct to the Action itself Sequence is. You can run a play 
 backwards, and you will find it a Sequence of results and 
 causes. Take the first act of Parthenia; she goes to offer 
 herself as hostage for her father; why? Because her father 
 is captive there. What of that? They demand ransom. 
 What of that? He cannot raise it; why? Because the 
 neighbors will not or cannot give it to her. No one? No; 
 she appeals to Polydor — who is Polydor? A suitor for her 
 hand, who seeks revenge on her. For what? Because she 
 rejected him? Why? Because he was a miserable 
 miser, old and unsuited to her age. Why, then, should 
 she not have rejected Polydor? and without concern? Be- 
 cause her parents, her mother, urged her. Why? Because 
 they were poor and he was rich. The Sequence should be 
 made out more closely than this, but it is sufficient to show 
 that a play — worked out backwards or forwards — will show 
 this result of Sequences. The thing is to get them in their 
 right order, otherwise you will not have the Action of 
 drama, but a mere story or narrative. Surely, if you have 
 given any attention to the study of rhetoric you must un- 
 derstand the importance of Sequence in prose composition ; 
 but in the drama it is of multiplied more importance. And 
 this importance, as with the other principles, extends to 
 every particle of a drama, to the words, to two words, some- 
 times. Adam, in "As You Like It," is described as "an old, 
 poor man;" "poor, old man," would not have suited the 
 nicety of Shakespeare's meaning. So, you see, you have to 
 look out for a great many things in playwriting, but they 
 will not be burdensome to you in the application of your 
 art when you know how to apply it ; on the contrary, a plea- 
 sure. Now make a study of the plays in hand with refer- 
 
SEQUENCE 159 
 
 ence to the Sequence in them. See if you can make a dif- 
 ferent arrangement here and there and preserve the design 
 of the author ; see if you can better anything by a different 
 arrangement ; and note the effect of changing the Sequence. 
 Go into the arrangement of the ideas and happenings within 
 the Scenes and then into the arrangement of the Scenes 
 with reference to themselves for the purpose of the Plot. 
 Do not go faster than you learn ; be diligent and patient. 
 Learn to work now, too, for real work is ahead when the 
 Constructive exercises begin. 
 
 Sequence and Cause and Effect are distinct principles 
 although their application often coincides. It is necessary 
 that we treat them separately. Let us examine "The Lady 
 of Lyons" to see how the principle of proper Sequence has 
 been observed. Each act here has its proper Se- 
 quence; and each scene and each idea in its order 
 in the sentences was subjected to the law of Sequence. 
 First we have it that Pauline is rich and proud. Observe 
 that not a word is said about the gardener's son or of his 
 love for Pauline until the Landlord speaks of it, on page 11. 
 In the form of Conditions Precedent, the facts existed in 
 Bulwer's mind, did they not? The amateur with the same 
 raw material would have been impatient to introduce the 
 character, by reference at least, much earlier. Merely ob- 
 serve that the Sequence here is arranged as it is, that all 
 information is withheld up to the point indicated. Sequence 
 involves the proper placing of ideas and facts only when 
 and where they are needed. That is something to note in 
 making the analysis of a play. Why is nothing said of 
 Damas's experience in the army earlier than page 21 in 
 the second act? It would have been out of place, or, at 
 least, ineffective elsewhere ; its time had not come. Cause 
 and Effect, which we shall next take up, is a kind of Se- 
 quence; but we must distinguish, as we have just done, in 
 order to get a scientific basis and to extract points of value 
 in playmaking. Everything in this play is in its proper 
 Sequence, but it took labor to get it so. The work began 
 
l60 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 with the Plot, and then continued through the fixing of the 
 Sequence of the acts and of the scenes. Analysis enables 
 you to read all plays with profit. You can thereby learn 
 from them the niceties of an author's art. In this matter of 
 Sequence you will observe that some fact comes up for the 
 first time. Your attention being thus directed to it, natu- 
 rally you enquire why the author did not introduce it soon- 
 er and your investigation results in profit. Such analysis 
 by way of observation is sufficient. It would be well, how- 
 ever, to note on the margin of the plays you read what you 
 discover. For instance — why did not Melnotte sooner de- 
 mand the release from his oath? 
 
 It was not until after his interview with Pauline, and he 
 had seen that the effect of his lie about his rank and his pal- 
 ace was to leave her in a state of molten love, that he real- 
 ized that his love for her was so great as to make him re- 
 gret his bargain. With the realization came the prickings 
 of conscience, forbidding him to carry the deception fur- 
 ther, and forcing him to ask to be released. Why does not 
 the duel between Damas and Melnotte take place sooner? 
 Bulwer had determined that there should be such a scene. 
 He had to consider it and fix upon the proper place for it. 
 He put it in its proper place in the Sequence, if for no other 
 reasons than it leaves Damas upon the scene to become 
 convinced of the love of the two young people, at the close 
 of the act, and to bring the act itself to its close, with him 
 as Melnotte's friend. The duel was necessary in order to 
 reconcile him fully to Melnotte, through that peculiar 
 friendship which, when he fights another, comes to the 
 man who loves combat. The monologue of the widow, 
 page 32, is another example of proper Sequence. 
 
 Why could it not have been brought out later that the 
 widow was ignorant of Claude's deception? Why could 
 not the monologue be omitted? Why should she not enter 
 by the stairway and greet her son ? Because the proper Se- 
 quence is to have the audience know her character first, to 
 see her. Leave that out and it would make a material dif- 
 
SEQUENCE l6l 
 
 ference^ It is in its right place. All that she says in the 
 monologue could be introduced into the Dialogue on the 
 next page, but the Dramatist evidently thought that by in- 
 troducing it in that way he would interrupt the natural Se- 
 quence of ideas in the situation on that page. He was fol- 
 lowing a method that is now, for the most part, in disuse. 
 In the present exercises we are turning our attention to 
 discovering as many aspects of a principle as we can in 
 these particular plays. It is only after we have gained an 
 understanding of the structure of a play that we have free- 
 dom in such an investigation. Of course, your first task 
 is to discover and point out the best examples of a prin- 
 ciple and as many of them as you can. But we are now 
 also to concern ourselves with Constructive and Destruc- 
 tive analysis. Sequence is of such universal and constant 
 use in a play and in playwriting that we not only see it exer- 
 cised but must exercise it in a specific way with other 
 specific principles and methods. Thus, we have seen that 
 the decisive principle in the Plot is Cause and Effect and 
 that Sequence is sometimes identical with it; consequently, 
 we now only refer to the chapter on Cause and Effect in 
 the Plot for an understanding of its function there. The 
 Sequence of scenes is also another aspect of the principle. The 
 Sequence of words in the Dialogue belongs to Dialogue. 
 We shall find it profitable, then, to confine our investiga- 
 tion to that Sequence of ideas which we are compelled to 
 determine upon when we are considering the material 
 itself of a play. We want to get at the living principle 
 just as it is exercised. Finding the material of a play is a 
 distinct process, and in it we do not concern ourselves par- 
 ticularly about Sequence. We know that we can use. cer- 
 tain Facts and certain data. In a way, the material is in- 
 choate. Order is brought out of it only after deliberation, 
 and when we apply Sequence to the ideas collected. There 
 are certain Conditions Precedent which must be introduced 
 somewhere. We know that they can be introduced only inci- 
 II 
 
l62 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 dentally, and we must create the occasion for their use. 
 They are the facts and conditions upon which the Action 
 is based, and we retain them without regard, at first, to 
 where they are to be introduced. Of course, from time to 
 time, we see the proper place for them, or approximately 
 where we could use them. We may in our notes assign 
 even a turn of expression to a definite scene. A practical 
 method of work is, after making your general notes, to 
 distribute these notes on fresh sheets of paper among the 
 acts to which they respectively belong. Sometimes a scene 
 or even an entire act will take possession of an author, and 
 his accumulation of notes will bear on that Act or that scene, 
 leaving no difficulty as to the order in which they will be 
 used, except in the matter of detail. If we get the larger 
 Sequences first, of the acts, for instance, it becomes easier 
 to assign the ideas in your notes. The structure once pro- 
 vided for, many points have to be introduced incidentally 
 in the right place. Camille's mode of feverish life is finally 
 to kill her. Merely to have her die of consumption would be 
 an exceedingly disagreeable idea. She really dies of broken 
 heart, the result of her sacrifice. Her malady is spiritual 
 as well as physical. Dumas did not choose to carry out 
 to its logical moral his philosophy of the right of such a 
 w^oman to live and to be united happily with the man she 
 loves; so that while he provided his Proposition, he made 
 a successful compromise with inexorable social prejudice. 
 It is obvious, then, that the idea of her physical weakness 
 should not be urged too early or too strongly. It is brought 
 out by a light touch, a slight cough. Nothing has been said 
 about it in the first three scenes, nothing by Nanine when 
 she gives an account of her life. We are prepared for her 
 physical frailty by what has been said of the illness which 
 caused her to visit the waters of Bagneres. If her 
 present state of health had been discussed in the opening 
 Scenes, it would have made the idea disproportionately 
 prominent. It becomes prominent later on as a matter of 
 development or Sequence. That Madam Prudence is a 
 
SEJQU^NCE 163 
 
 gourmand is kept to enliven the supper. What earthly 
 weight would it have had if introduced earlier. There was 
 no need of showing Prudence's propensity to borrow mo- 
 ney until the second act. We have heard before this that 
 "she is a good soul with a heart as light as her purse." 
 It is essential to introduce in the first act that Varville is 
 rich and willing to pay Camille's debts. The fact that 
 Gustave is a lawyer did not require emphasis in any part 
 of the play, except in the scene where Nichette and he, with 
 Camille, laugh over the misadventures in his practice. That 
 was the right place and the only place for it. If the idea 
 had been emphasized or had even been made to appear any- 
 where else it might have been misleading, in having us ex- 
 pect something to come from his Character as a lawyer. At 
 any rate, the fact in itself has no significance. It is only 
 the humor derived from it in a single scene which has any 
 value. The notable Sequence in Camille is largely struc- 
 tural, with reference to the Plot. There are other plays 
 that will afford a better opportunity to study the difficulties 
 and alternative possibilities of Sequence. We have seen 
 enough to realize that Sequence is an active principle, that 
 it begins working even in the darkness, while the Material 
 is being collected, and when light is reached it is a domi- 
 nant activity or mental process until some other activity 
 takes its place, but, in a way, always existent; in the com- 
 plete work absolutely essential. 
 
 derstand Sequence; the general principle perhaps you do. 
 Its meaning is apparently very plain, things following in 
 their proper order ; but you must understand it anew when- 
 ever your mind operates upon your Material. The mere 
 word or definition has no cabalistic power. A general knowl- 
 edge of the principles in itself accomplishes nothing. Each 
 matter of Sequence requires specific management. One 
 may try innumerable Sequences in various parts of the 
 structure of the play, including the Dialogue, before get- 
 ting the right Sequence. Perhaps there is nothing in the 
 art which requires more tentative work, more transposition, 
 
l64 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 more balancing of events. We begin to have to do with 
 Sequence v^ith the Proposition. We encounter it again in 
 connection v^^ith the inexorable law of Cause and Effect in 
 the Plot. We grapple with it again in arranging the order 
 of the Acts ; it confronts us again in our arrangement of the 
 order of the Scenes, and so on down to the last syllable. 
 Inasmuch as Sequence in "Still Waters Run Deep" has 
 been discussed in its relation with the various other princi- 
 ples and methods, it is enough now that we discuss it in a 
 general way. We may note some aspects of it which have 
 not been pointed out elsewhere. We are getting now past 
 definitions and close to the active properties of living prin- 
 ciples. The dramatist gathers his Material for his play, and 
 it is no discredit to him or lack of art in the mind of him 
 that this Material is as inchoate as was the void out of 
 which the world was made "in the beginning." It is possi- 
 ble that the main Sequence of your play may find itself im- 
 mediately. A Plot with its Sequence may suggest itself at 
 once, but you are not yet done with Sequence, by any 
 means. There are a thousand Sequences to find. It may 
 be that Taylor, when he began to gather his Material for 
 "Still Waters Run Deep" saw first the scene between Mild- 
 may and Hawksley in which the shares are taken back and 
 the letters returned. In other words, he saw the middle of 
 his play ; he recognized it as the middle of his play. He may 
 have dimly felt the beginning of the play as it is now. 
 The play reaches its consistency by shooting off Se- 
 quences from definite points. The mind, in dealing with 
 its Material, is constantly assigning places for its 
 use. From what has just been said, it is obvious 
 that the principle or method involved in the chap- 
 ter on Material is properly made a distinct one for your 
 study and exercise. One may spend a year, at least, in 
 gathering his Material. We may assume that, in his Ma- 
 terial, Taylor figured Mrs. Sternhold to himself as sharp 
 in temper and impatient of contradiction. Where was he 
 to introduce this trait distinctly and to the best advantage? 
 
SEQUENCE 165 
 
 Of course, we see her asperity in the first lines which she 
 utters. Her impatience of contradiction is suggested 
 throughout the first scene, but it becomes very definite 
 when we see Potter's apologetic manner toward her, when 
 he says, "Well, but sister — " She forbids discussion. In 
 the scene between her and Potter, it has stronger ex- 
 pression: "Nonsense, brother! I don't wish for any dis- 
 cussion; I only want an answer, yes or no." The drama- 
 tist finds occasion as well as place for everything. In his 
 Material, the dramatist had the thirteen letters. He may 
 have had to ponder long before he determined at what 
 point to bring out the fact of their existence. Wisely, at 
 last, he brought it out actively and not passively, in a 
 scene in which these letters furnish a startling surprise 
 and an astonishing turn to the Action. If the play had 
 begun by a discussion of Hawksley, his character, his for- 
 mer attentions to Emily, and his present financial scheme, 
 we would have lost the quiet humor of the first scene, 
 and difficulty would have been had in demonstrating Mild- 
 may's patience. Sequence is of importance always, , but 
 after you have overcome its demands as to the structure of 
 a play, all else becomes comparatively easy. It would be 
 good exercise if you should destroy the Sequence in this 
 play at various points and then note the difficulties that will 
 ensue. Mildmay had two objects in visiting Hawksley, the 
 one to have Hawksley take up the shares, and the other 
 to force him to return Mrs. Sternhold's letters. The Se- 
 quence is that Mildmay finally announces the object, first 
 the one and then the other, saying that he had taken mea- 
 sures to compel Hawksley to grant both demands. He then 
 reveals Hawksley's criminal history as to the forging of 
 one of the bills, and the promise to surrender the bill 
 brings Hawksley to terms on both Propositions. The Se- 
 quence might have been the procuring of the return of the 
 money for the shares, and then, or, just as the exchange 
 was about to be made, the demand also for the letters. It 
 
l66 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 is possible that this slight rearrangement would not de- 
 stroy the strength of the Action, and might give a moment 
 of additional surprise. It is a matter of treatment. The 
 Unity of the two objects which brought Mildmay there 
 is perhaps better preserved as it stands. It certainly gives 
 a turn to the Dialogue which keeps in mind all the time 
 Mildmay's whole case, and consequently sustains the Pro- 
 position of the play itself. 
 
 In the other plays so far, we have given our attention to 
 Sequence mainly to see how effective the proper arrange- 
 ment of ideas and happenings is, and also to discover what 
 would be the effect of disarrangement. We begin to be con- 
 cerned with Sequence as an active principle from the mo- 
 ment we begin to accumulate Material and to develop a 
 central idea. The Sequence of Cause and Effect in the Plot 
 is so exacting that really the proper place to treat it pro- 
 fitably is under the head of Plot. We will assume that 
 Massinger, in *'A New Way to Pay Old Debts," had made 
 a careful study of his principal character. Sir Giles ; that the 
 other characters necessary to the Plot in which Sir Giles 
 would be the principal figure came at his bidding, and that 
 he had thought of many characteristics of the people and of 
 many incidents before he determined upon his Plot in de- 
 tail. We may assume that he had fixed upon a scene in 
 which he would show Wellborn as an outcast. It seems 
 so natural that this should be the first scene that it is 
 difficult to imagine it placed anywhere else in the play. 
 The play is such a good one humanly and technically that 
 it is difficult to imagine a different Sequence of the scenes 
 from that which exists; still, so many Sequences are pos- 
 sible that it is not at all certain that he did not deliberate 
 long over its place, as he must have done over some of the 
 arrangements of other scenes and ideas. It is exactly right 
 as it is. It strikes the right note on the first touch of the 
 instrument. You will observe that this is the case with 
 all the plays that we have undertaken to analyze; but it 
 is not at all certain that each author discovered what his 
 
SEQUENCE) 167 
 
 first note should be without having played a bar or two 
 wrongly conceived. In short, the proper Sequence is not 
 necessarily the first one that occurs to you. Inasmuch as 
 we have Sequence in Plot, Sequence of Acts, Sequence of 
 Scenes, Sequence in Dialogue and finally that general Se- 
 quence which must be consulted in the use of ideas or 
 even significant bits here and there, it is not easy to anal- 
 yze this play in a way detached from the various parts of 
 it indicated in the preceding sentence; consequently, we 
 shall treat of its Sequence in a general way. We shall note 
 those points which are helpful in the study of the principle. 
 We observe first that the dramatist does not immediately 
 let us know that Tapwell and Froth are driving from the 
 house a vagabond who was once their master. The circum- 
 stances of a play might require such a fact to be made 
 known at the very outset, but that is not the desirable Se- 
 quence of ideas here. Massinger makes us see Wellborn at 
 the lowest point of his degradation. We have no sympa- 
 thy with him whatever. It is a very important thing to get 
 an idea before an audience distinctly and unhampered by 
 other ideas of equal importance and not to subordinate the 
 main idea. One idea at a time is the law. We have seen 
 that this law holds with reference to the objects of scenes, 
 and when we triturate it down into the Dialogue the same 
 law holds. One idea at a time. The proper place 
 for our learning in what way Tapwell is an un- 
 thankful villain is after we have seen him unthank- 
 ful. The proper place to bring out what he is 
 unthankful for is after we have seen that which proves 
 the charge of unthankfulness, and later on, in proper Se- 
 quence come the details of the gift. The quarrel had to be, 
 in order to bring out the facts in the Dialogue. At the end 
 of the quarrel come the blows. In introducing the fact that 
 Allworth is in love with Margaret, Massinger provided the 
 occasion by having Wellborn, in return for the kindness 
 of Allworth, give him well meant advice. The introduction 
 of the fact of the love affair is made possible by a scene 
 
l68 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 which has for its object something else. Massinger is very- 
 careful not to have Wellborn reveal his plans in this scene. 
 The time has not arrived for him to disclose them from a 
 technical point of view. Massinger's art is plainly visible 
 in this. If Wellborn had disclosed what he intended to do 
 in his attempt to retrieve his fortune, it would have been 
 over-preparation. Very well, the technical knowledge of 
 the principle of Preparation, its use and misuse, could guide 
 an author in a similar moment of his Action, but an appre- 
 ciation of right Sequence could also serve him. It is ob- 
 vious that the Plot is best served by introducing us next, 
 in the second scene of the Act, to Lady Allworth's home 
 and household. We might enquire here why could not 
 the scene between Marrall and Sir Giles, which opens 
 the second act, follow the scene between Allworth and 
 Wellborn? It would entertain and would have a bearing on 
 what we have just seen. Of course, it is so arranged now 
 that it fits into that part of the play where it stands, but 
 we assume it to be very probable that this talk between 
 Marrall and Sir Giles may have presented itself to Mas- 
 singer as an independent scene, and that it and other inde- 
 pendent scenes had finally to be assembled like the parts 
 of a machine. It is certainly entirely legitimate to imagine 
 and determine on and even to write scenes before their 
 functional use or place in the mechanism is fixed. The 
 scene of the second act ending with the determination of Sir 
 Giles to prevent his nephew from ever rising again could 
 certainly be used in the first act. Of course, it would 
 have to be changed to some extent in order to make it fit 
 the proposed Sequence; but depend upon it, in the writing 
 of any play one has to hesitate constantly as to where he 
 will place a scene, and, indeed, has even to transpose a scene 
 from where he has placed it. No unfavorable criticism 
 can be made of the present Sequence. Lady Allworth's 
 state has first to be shown, but observe that no material is 
 wasted, for the servants who show her state are needed to 
 bring out first the apparent helplessness of Wellborn's 
 
SEQUENCE 169 
 
 quest, which presently takes a favorable turn, the Sequence 
 of events leading to the complete success of Wellborn's 
 scheme, in so far as the favor of Lady AUworth is con- 
 cerned. The scenes have carried along the Action of the 
 play with a splendid stride, but every foot of the ground is 
 covered as to detail. For a long time on the English stage, 
 it was thought indispensable to have a distinct sub-plot, 
 and to work out the stories connected with each character 
 into rounded out perfection. This is good art, but there 
 has been a growing disposition to break away, to a large 
 extent, from the complete worked out sub-plot. This play 
 has a number of subordinate Plots which may be described 
 as sub-plots. In seeking scientific accuracy, it is a little 
 difficult to reduce the general plot of this play to its main 
 Plot. The Plot element of the drama is discussed in an- 
 other place. Attention is here called to the management of 
 the various Plots, in order to emphasize the important func- 
 tions of Sequence. Without a nice exercise of Sequence, 
 the Plots would have fallen into inextricable confusion. A 
 distinct beginning is first made with the Plot as it concerns 
 Wellborn, then the Plot, or added Sub-Plot, as it concerns 
 Allworth and Margaret is taken up, and then follows, and is 
 easily solved, the sub-plot of the union of Lord Lovell and 
 Lady Allworth. The ambition and effort of Sir Giles to 
 marry Margaret to Lord Lovell has also the distinctness of 
 sub-plot and becomes the dominant plot of the play as 
 the end is reached. It may seem that Sir Giles's plans as 
 to Margaret and Lord Lovell are not mentioned at all in 
 the first act. It is true that Wellborn in his talk with All- 
 worth warns him against the hopelessness of continuing 
 his suit for Margaret, for, as he says, Sir Giles, "to make 
 her great in swelling titles, without touch of conscience 
 will cut his neighbor's throat." It is enough at this point 
 to convey a general idea. It is excellent Preparation. We 
 get the one fact of Sir Giles's ambition, which is enough. 
 If either Wellborn or Allworth had told of the specific de- 
 sign of Sir Giles, it would have been adding another fact, 
 
170 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLi; 
 
 out of proper Sequence, to no avail. It would have given 
 the audience too much to think about at the time. The im- 
 proper Sequence and multiplicity of idea would have 
 brought about needless complication. It is time enough at 
 the close of the first scene in the second act to have Sir 
 Giles's definite ambition brought out, not, as it would have 
 been in the scene in the first act referred to, at second hand^ 
 but at first hand. At the end of the second act, in its 
 proper Sequence, there is another definite idea brought 
 out which would have been out of place at the end of the 
 first scene of the first act, namely, that Sir Giles expects 
 Lord Lovell to dine with him tomorrow. Now, imagine 
 all these things jumbled up in the talk between Wellborn 
 and Allworth in the first act, and you can readily see how 
 weak would have been the effect in every way. It is the 
 Sequence that gives the value, or even makes the play 
 possible by a succession of ideas and events. ^^ 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT. 
 
 "The Lady of Lyons" dwells a good deal on states of 
 affairs and, while there is full adequacy of complication, the 
 Causes and Effects which are essential to the Plot are sim- 
 ple. Pauline is proud because she is beautiful and has 
 many suitors; her mother incites her to marry rank. Why? 
 Because their riches have been gained in trade. Beau- 
 seant seeks her because he loves her for her beauty; and 
 she rejects him because he has lost his title in the upheaval 
 and levelling of the Revolution ; he is angered because of 
 his confidence in making the proposal, and because of the 
 real affront to a man above her. Because he is a blunt 
 man and has adopted the principles of the Revolution, 
 Damas has no sympathy with the silly ambitions of mother 
 and daughter. Because of the fancied insult, Beauseant 
 wishes revenge; because Glavis has also been rejected he 
 joins Beauseant to devise some plan of revenge. Because 
 they hear Melnotte hailed a prince, they think of the plan 
 of marrying Pauline to a pretended Prince. They think this 
 is feasible because he is represented as accomplished and 
 with the manners of the well-born, and that he is secretly 
 in love with Pauline. Melnotte has sent his verses to Pau- 
 line only this day, because he has seen her wearing his 
 anonymously sent flowers; he expects a favorable reply 
 because he thinks she will forget that he is peasant born, 
 for it is in the days of the Revolution and desert is true 
 rank; he wishes revenge because of the insult to his pride 
 and the injury and contumely to his servant messenger. 
 He accepts the offer in Beauseant's letter because the op- 
 portunity for revenge and the gratification of love seem 
 at hand. Melnotte succeeds in winning Pauline because of 
 the vanity and blind ambition of the women, who do not 
 doubt his genuineness because he has been represented as 
 
172 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 travelling incognito for fear of the Directory; the plotters 
 have furnished him v^^ith funds and jewelry because Mel- 
 notte must sustain the character ; and they think their plot 
 is safe because Melnotte is bound by oath. Damas sus- 
 pects because he sees Beauseant and Glavis remonstrating 
 with Melnotte after he has given away the ring and the 
 box; he tries him with Italian because he knows the lan- 
 guage and wants to test him. ; Melnotte tells Pauline of his 
 palace by the Lake of Como because he would test her. 
 Damas becomes Melnotte's friend because one, particularly 
 a soldier, likes a man after having fought with him and 
 because he must be a man of honor to fence so well. The 
 marriage is hastened because of the letter from the Direc- 
 tory and the apparent danger to Melnotte. He takes her to 
 his mother's cottage because he has not the courage to 
 abandon her among the jeering peasants and servants at 
 the Inn. She begins to cease to hate him because of his 
 explanation and proof of his love; he gives her into the 
 hand of his mother, because he will pursue the revenge no 
 further, and will give her her freedom. Melnotte will now 
 seek to redeem himself and his honor in the wars because 
 he has lost his honor and because the opportunity has been 
 offered him by Damas, or, at least, the idea of promotion 
 suggested. Pauline thinks better of Melnotte because of 
 his surrender of her and is piqued by the mother's confi- 
 dence that her son could marry any of the beauties. 
 She begins to feel a wifely duty and love because of 
 many sensible reflections. She repels Beauseant because 
 she hates him and really has not given up her love that 
 was won by Melnottee in his assumed character and which 
 is partly confirmed in his real one. Melnotte refuses her 
 offer to remain as his wife because he must redeem him- 
 self on account of his base treachery. Damas takes Mel- 
 notte to the house of the Deschappelles because he has ad- 
 mission there and because he thinks there may be a chance 
 that Pauline may still love Melnotte. Pauline is to marry 
 Beauseant because he will save her father from bank- 
 
CAUSE AND EFFECT 173 
 
 ruptcy; Melnotte does not speak at first because he be- 
 lieves that she is doing it because she is faithless. He 
 reveals himself finally because she discovers her love for 
 him and he pays the money that releases her and her 
 father. Thus by running the Causes forward you get all 
 the Effects. By running the results backward you may 
 get all the Causes, proving the same thing, getting the 
 same result by adding up the line from bottom to top. 
 Indeed, there is a reason and a result in every line of this 
 play, and in every real play. These Causes and Effects lie 
 in the material and its arrangement; they are inherent, 
 and while it is not a question of mathematics, the results 
 are just as exact. 
 
 Cause and Effect extends to every fibre of a play, and is 
 particularly the characteristic of Plot. It is very clear in 
 "Camille." This being the case, let us take up some other 
 aspects and applications of the principle. By means of it 
 we get the reason why of everything. We obtain that 
 clarity which prevents an audience from "thinking," the 
 Self-Explanatory. We do not need to see the full extent 
 of every Cause at once. That would, for that matter, be 
 impossible, but we do see enough to partly answer and to 
 excite our curiosity. A man is waiting. For whom? Ca- 
 mille. Who is Camille? The mistress of the house no 
 doubt, for Nanine is evidently not, but a servant. Nichette 
 enters. Who is she? What does she come for? We are 
 soon answered. Varville waits for something. Nichette 
 loves Camille. Why? Because of the goodness of her 
 heart and an unaffectedness of character that we at once 
 divine. Nichette goes because Gustave is waiting for her. 
 She is happy in a single love because she is wise, sage. 
 Varville's suit does not thrive because Camille does not 
 love him "the least bit in the world." Varville wonders at 
 her strange taste in enduring the visits of Monsieur de 
 Meuriac. Why does she? Because he has befriended her. 
 Nanine tells Varville the story, not because he has not 
 heard it before, but because he does not believe it, and she 
 
174 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^E 
 
 urges it with all the details. True, the recital is required 
 for technical reasons, but that is not the because of its 
 telling. And Varville did not know all the story, for 
 Nanine says : "Ah, sir, you would have pitied her had you 
 seen her efforts to please the world in which the Due de 
 Meuriac sought to gain her a position \" Camille is rude to 
 Varville and impatient with him because she has told him 
 a hundred times not to importune her. She is irritated 
 at him because she does not wish to have her liberty in- 
 truded on. Gaston and Olimpe come in, although they had 
 just parted with Camille, because Gaston had a happy 
 thought in passing the Cafe de Paris to order some fine 
 oysters and a basket of Champagne. Olimpe does not 
 know that Prudence is a neighbor and in consequence ex- 
 presses surprise. Because Camille has only to open the 
 window to call Prudence, she does so. This may be a very 
 small "because," but see the variety it gives to the en- 
 trance. Dumas had purpose in all that he did, much of it 
 technical, pure and simple. Prudence cannot come at once 
 because she is detained by a young man she has not seen 
 for a long time. Because of that Camille invites her to 
 bring him along. Because she wishes the fire replenished, 
 Camille turns to Varville because he is sitting at the fire- 
 place, to make himself useful in putting on some wood. 
 It may be said that this reasonableness of Business and 
 Dialogue would occur to any writer. But not so unless he 
 reasoned and had purpose in mind. He would let these 
 things happen without immediate Cause and Effect. He 
 would stumble too often. He would have Causes without 
 Effects and Effects without Causes. He would not join 
 them soon enough. They would exist in his mind perhaps, 
 but not be in immediate active evidence. There is also a 
 nicety that determines those things. Would you or I not 
 perhaps have had Camille ask the name of Prudence's 
 friend when she was talking from the window? We would 
 possibly have been in too much of a hurry to communicate 
 our story and would not have permitted it to develop itself 
 
CAUSE AND EFFECT 1/5 
 
 in the better way. Dialogue must have its Cause and Effect, 
 else we would not have responsiveness. Armand speaks 
 of his father because Gaston speaks of him first. Gaston 
 also enquires concerning his mother. And so as to his 
 sister, Armand replies because Gaston suggests that Ar- 
 mand is an only child. Do you not see how Cause and Ef- 
 fect operates here as a distinctly better thing than the 
 direct method of having Armand tell at once on slight pro- 
 vocation all about his family? He could have said: "Yes, 
 M. Duval is my father. He is still living at Tours with my 
 sister. My mother has been dead for three years." The 
 effect upon Camille is to make her "begin to like" Pru- 
 dence's friend. The Cause of that Effect lies not only in 
 the Facts brought out, and her own views of life, but also 
 in the way they are brought out. The Effect on the audi- 
 ence is also stronger. Causes would not happen so appro- 
 priately by chance as to relieve an author of reasoning and 
 of providing his Causes. ( He wants certain results and he 
 must devise Causes.) Dumas wanted to have Armand and 
 Camille alone. Ho^ does he get the others off? By rea- 
 son of her spell of coughing and faintness. "She is better 
 alone when those attacks arrive," says Prudence. Camille 
 has also asked Gaston to step into the other room and take 
 the gentlemen along with him for cigars, saying that she 
 would soon join them, and in an aside telling the ladies to 
 go with them. Dumas got his means of having them alone 
 from the circumstances. The others might simply have 
 happened to go out, but how ineffective would have been 
 the Cause. In this interview between the two, if the Causes 
 were not deep laid in the Conditions, we would not have 
 enough to make the Dialogue. He loves her, she likes 
 him; he urges his love, she thinks he jests; why had he 
 never told her of it before? Because he had not known her. 
 Why should he not tell his love? She answers: "Be- 
 cause it can result in but one or two things: First, that 
 I will not believe it, or, believing it, cause you to wish I 
 never had." Because she doubts, he says, "for eternity." 
 
 UNIVERSITY ) 
 
 OF J 
 
 FQ 
 
 rh:^ 
 
176 ANAI.YSIS O]^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 She has found a new meaning in the words. She intends 
 to go to the country, and we know it was Armand's sug- 
 gestion. She gets the money from the Duke, and Armand 
 reproves her, and will not consent. So the Action moves 
 along on the lines of Cause and Effect, not only in mechan- 
 ism, but in details, j 
 
 Cause and Effect exists in dramatic form in every part of 
 a good play and it is associated with every principle. 
 Cause and Effect in the Plot of "Still Waters Run Deep" 
 belongs more particularly to the study of the Plot. There 
 Cause and Effect follow in strict Sequence. Probably Cau- 
 sation would be a better description for that minor Cause 
 and Effect that governs the details. Thus, when the cur- 
 tain rises we see a condition of affairs, the effect of some- 
 thing we have not seen, the causes being unfolded gradu- 
 ally, until we rise to that definite and organic succession 
 of Causes and Effects that makes the play move and form 
 the Plot. In the first scene of this play, we get the condi- 
 tion of affairs in an active state. Little or nothing is done 
 or effected. No absolutely radical change in the relations 
 of the characters is made. Similar scenes have been en- 
 acted often before in this household, we say to ourselves. 
 Much that happens is to affect the Action later on, the din- 
 ner and Mrs. Sternhold' opinion of Mildmay, for example. 
 The effect of Mrs. Sternhold's words as he lies asleep, as 
 she thinks, is that he determines to punish her by refusing 
 to understand her attempt to explain her troubles. ,;In the 
 Causation we do not get the definite Cause alwayg before 
 the Effect. Thus we do not at first learn that Emily is 
 rude to her husband, and dissatisfied with him because she 
 is sentimental or because he is a prosaic person. In what 
 way he is prosaic we do not know until he speaks of going 
 to earth up his celery. We do not suspect at first that the 
 chief cause of his discontent is that she has fallen under 
 the fascination of Hawksley. But Cause and Effect is very 
 plain in what happens. He wants to go to his gardening 
 because he does not seem to be wanted and because Emily 
 
CAUSE AND KFFECT I77 
 
 will not play. He remains because he sees that he will 
 further offend his unreasonable wife should he leave. He 
 is a peace loving man. Emily plays for her aunt, because 
 she is perverse. Mrs. Sternhold gives her opinion of Mild- 
 may because she thinks he is asleep. The entire Dialogue 
 has causation in its responsiveness. There is reason for 
 everything that is said, and it would not be said if each 
 point were not led up to. Mildmay wants the dinner alone 
 with Emily because it is the anniversary of their wedding 
 and because the aunt is a disturbing influence. She refuses 
 because her aunt has appointed the day for a dinner at 
 home. He goes to sleep, apparently, because it is his cus- 
 tom, and because nothing more can be said to get his wife 
 in good humor. All these causes lie right at hand and are 
 understood at once, everything being Self-Explanatory. He 
 goes out because he is awakened rudely. Taylor even pro- 
 vides a reason why Mildmay has not told Emily that he 
 was going to Manchester. "Why should I? I shall return 
 by the express tomorrow." The real reason, which could 
 not be conveyed now, is that he could not confide his secret 
 to his wife. It might easily be said that there would be a 
 cause for the exit of Mildmay if he woke up, yawned and 
 said that he was going to earth up his celery, but the man- 
 ner of the waking is better caused. More of the Material 
 or conditions are used, her petulance, the patience of Mild- 
 may, &c. Suppose the whole scene between Potter and 
 Mrs. Sternhold were placid, that he agreed with her in 
 everything, there would be a cause for everything that 
 might be said, but it would be too uniform, and the scene 
 would be tiresome. Potter denies that what he proposes 
 is "stuff and nonsense," He is irritated at her reference to 
 his "death." He does not like to propose the matter to Mild- 
 may. There is just enough of give and take to fill the 
 scene with animation, an animation that comes from causa- 
 tion. There is variety in the causes brought to the surface 
 by the discussion between them. Then we have the reason 
 for his saying that he would be just as well pleased if 
 
178 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Hawksley did not visit the house so often. We do not 
 see why he objects until he explains. All this could have 
 been brought out story-fashion. Causation does it better. 
 Potter is timid and uncertain in his opinions. Mrs. Stern- 
 hold, on the other hand, is one who is resolute, and acts. 
 The cause of her agitation is enough for the moment; it 
 lies, we think, at the time, in her character. We do not 
 know yet that she is moved by jealousy. The real cause 
 comes to the surface^iater. For the present, in this analy- 
 sis, let us rest at that: that the mechanism of the Action 
 requires its causes .w:heji_. the mechanism of the Plot for- 
 bids the relation at the time of certain definite Causes. 
 
 '**A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is as solid as a Roman 
 arch and cemented with Cause and Effect. We shall first 
 consider the larger Causes and Effects, those more closely 
 related to the Plot and the Action immediately connected 
 with it. Sir Giles has defrauded Wellborn of his heritage, 
 but he himself is partly to blame, for he has spent all in 
 riotous living; by reason of which he is reduced to want 
 and beggary ; by reason of this he is turned away from the 
 inn and humiliated by the innkeeper who owed his very 
 house to him ; because of the sense of shame he determines 
 to redeem himself; his friend, AUworth, because Sir Giles 
 will marry Margaret only to a man of rank and wealth, 
 determines to get Lord Lovell to help him; because Well- 
 born has been a friend-in-need of her husband. Lady All- 
 worth agrees to pretend she might marry him; because of 
 being taken by Wellborn to dine with Lady AUworth, Mar- 
 rall reports to Sir Giles the sudden change in Wellborn's 
 fortunes, and because Sir Giles believes that he lies he 
 beats him, because of which Marrall determines to revenge 
 himself on him and seek reward from Wellborn; because 
 convinced that Lady AUworth is to marry Wellborn, Sir 
 Giles furnishes him with money to pay off his creditors; 
 because Lord Lovell pretends to be a suitor for Margaret, 
 and because she seems to be content. Sir Giles is duped; 
 and because he is duped into this belief he sends the word 
 
CAUSE AND DFFEJOT 179 
 
 to the curate that enables Margaret and Allworth to marry ; 
 because he thinks the real marriage of which he hears ru- 
 mors is between Wellborn and Lady Allworth, he demands 
 the return of money advanced ; because so advised by Mar- 
 rail, Wellborn asks for the deed, which when produced is 
 found razed because of the revenge of Marrall, and because 
 of the double defeat of his schemes as to Wellborn and 
 his daughter he suddenly goes mad, and dies, his punish- 
 ment being complete on the two sides of his nature, the 
 two aims, love of money and social advancement of his 
 daughter that filled his life. To enumerate the Cause and 
 Effect Jn the Action and in the Dialogue would require 
 pages. I Innumerable Causes and Effects are obvious and 
 yet minute. Wellborn asks for drink; the innkeeper and 
 wife refuse ; because of their manner in doing'^o, he resents 
 it and reminds them of who he was and really is; because 
 of his own insolence Tapwell further insults him; by rea- 
 son of this he raises his cudgel to strike him; because of 
 which Tapwell threatens him with the bailiff; and because 
 of further quarrel Wellborn reminds him of the gifts he 
 had made him; and because Wellborn speaks of Sir John, 
 Tapwell describes the past relations, "But since you talk 
 of father, in my hope it will torment you, Fll briefly tell 
 your story." Why does Wellborn listen to it? He is 
 amazed at the impudence of the fellow; but he has hardly 
 begun before he says, "Stop, slave! or I shall lose myself." 
 When Tapwell continues and speaks of his profligacy, could 
 not Wellborn have ruminated over the truth of it? Or ^^ #• 
 could he not have been moved to listen to the unwonted 
 volubility of his old servant by reason of what he shortly 
 says, "Some curate has penned this invective, mongrel?" It 
 is not so difficult for a dramatist to give motives to his 
 characters ; the art is to bring those motives into Action at 
 the right time and in their right order so as to make that 
 Action fluent and pellucid. If you give the Effect before 
 the Cause, it would still be Cause and Effect so far as the 
 Material is concerned, but not as to the audience. With 
 
l80 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 reference to the ultimate story it would still be Cause and 
 Effect, but not with reference to the Action. Some illus- 
 tration of this is had in the exercise on the Self-Explana- 
 tory. We are never in doubt in this play why people do 
 things. If we do not get the full reason we get enough for 
 the moment, just as it is entirely clear to us why Tapwell 
 turns Wellborn out, although we do not learn at the mo- 
 ment that he is acting under instructions. There is no 
 direct Cause and Effect that brings Lord Lovell and Lady 
 Allworth together, at least nothing in the requirements of 
 the Proposition and Plot; their affairs are disposed of in 
 the single scene in the opening of the fifth act; but indi- 
 rectly there is beautiful Cause and Effect. "Sweet reason- 
 ableness" is an almost wornout expression, but it comes 
 into its full meaning when applied here. There was no 
 obstacle to overcome between these two; their union was 
 entirely natural and was brought about without any effort 
 in a dramatic way. Massinger was profoundly philosophi- 
 cal and knew human nature to its depths. Sir Giles was not 
 duped by the machinations of others alone. As Lord Lovell 
 says: 
 
 "Hard things are compassed oft by easy means. 
 The cunning statesman, that believes he fathoms 
 The counsels of all kingdoms on earth, 
 Is by simplicity oft over-reached." 
 
 Sir Giles duped himself. His own cunning and greed and 
 blindness caused his own downfall. What may be called 
 minor Cause and Effect is to be observed in the conduct of 
 the dialogue. Everything that is said is caused by some- 
 thing, a Cause or an Effect, thrusting or parrying, or what- 
 ever may be required at the moment. Cause and Effect 
 should be constant,^ otherwise there would be small or no 
 Action. There must be immediate Effect, although the 
 remote Effect may be of the utmost importance. The Ef- 
 fect on Sir Giles of Marrall's recital of his feast is to have 
 
CAUSi: AND EFFE^CT l8l 
 
 the former beat him. That is enough for the moment. The 
 most important effect is the betrayal later on. It was abso- 
 lutely essential to the plot that he should get this beating; 
 it had to have a definite Cause. A general course of cruelty 
 toward Marrall would not have been enough, consequently, f 
 Massinger has the Cause to grow out of the development ' 
 of events. ^,^^"'-^"^ 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ACTION (DRAMA) IS NOT MERE LIFE. 
 
 ' It is of the utmost importance that the student, at the 
 very outset, rid himself of the idea or delusion that because 
 he sees his characters, in his mind's eye, move and dance, 
 and laugh and weep, and otherwise disport themselves, they 
 necessarily constitute between themselves any fraction or 
 part of a play. Their Actions, even if you created them 
 man and woman, might fall very far short of drama. You 
 cannot have fai led to observe, by this time, that the drama 
 has^laws^f its own; it is a distinct thin^, an entity, with 
 organs, such as Plot, Scenes, Action, Sequence, just as es- 
 se ntial to Its being as are your own heart j ^rtpripg^ nprvp^^ 
 to your own entity aad_£xistence. I t has as muf^h righ^ tn 
 its own law s as Nature has . The drarnaj3_an ;^ rt .i f'<'i^l ^"d 
 yet a perfectly natural thing. This sounds paradoxical, 
 and yet it is perfectl y simple. L ife is as vast and boundless 
 as the sea. A dipper filled from the sea had as well be 
 called the sea as two hours of life drawn from the vastness 
 of existence be called a play. Now, this does not mean that 
 Nature is opposed to art, or that art is opposed to Nature. 
 The ver y artificial ity of the drama is but a means of reduc - 
 ing your Material t o Lif e The drama, a play, can be but 
 a part of life. So far as the actual playing of it on the stage 
 is concerned it should conform exactly to life, and it will 
 require all your skill to make it do that. The significance 
 of what is here said will come to you only with experience. 
 A play is built up like a house, out of Nature; in the one 
 case out of Material that is inanimate, in the other out of 
 material that is active and alive. Surely, the novel deals 
 with life, the very same Material, and poems likewise, but 
 they are often wholly unsusceptible of being converted into 
 drama. It is a matter of form. It is more a matter of form 
 than it is of life ; for a play can be laid in the clouds, with 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERK LIFE 183 
 
 its characters imaginary creatures, and still it will be a 
 play, because of its form. But life when used for the pur- 
 pose of the drama cannot be without dramatic form. The^ 
 drama is a form of expression of Life, and admits Life only 
 under its own conditions. For present purposes an illus- 
 tration outside of the plays in hand will be sufficient. In 
 the Drama of ''Ben Hur" there is an act laid in the Grove of 
 Daphne. Ben Hur watches the festivities and the dancing. 
 Every incident in it might have occurred in life, but there is 
 a momentary lapse in the continuity of the Action. If we 
 knew that he were in search of the man who had robbed 
 him of mother and sister or that he had given up his search 
 for information about his lost mother and sister, and that 
 if he remained a witness of this Scene he might find some 
 clue, it would be more dramatic ; we would have some- 
 thing to build our hopes on, for, as is said in reference to 
 Action, Action is rnade up of the hopes and expectations 
 and interest of the audience. Whenever and wherever the 
 Action ceases it becomes Mere Life and ceases to be drama, 
 and it is not the less Life when it is and becomes Drama. 
 In real Life a wife would weep inconsolably for an indefi- 
 nite time over the loss of a loved one, but in a play it would 
 not be entertainment to listen to a woman's sobs for three 
 hours. Then, if you recognize that Life is subject to the 
 laws of the drama in this one particular case, why not 
 make it subject in all particulars? In the plays upon which 
 this investigation is based you will find few examples of a 
 lapse from the dramatic into Mere Life. Perhaps you may. 
 Try it. When you reach constructive work, when you be- 
 gin working on plays and original exercises, in all likeli- 
 hood, you will find yourself constantly lapsing into Mere 
 Life. The difference between Life and Drama, is very lit- 
 tle, but that little makes all the difference in the world. It 
 would be Life if a young man talked to a young woman 
 about the weather, and very commonplace ; but if the audi- 
 ence saw before he met her that he intended to propose 
 to her and was too bashful to think of anything but the 
 
184 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 weather, it would become dramatic. Perhaps a better way 
 of stating what is meant to be conveyed by this is : 
 that Mere Life is not necessarily Action or Drama. You 
 will observe that whenever a Scene or passage in a play 
 begins (and continues, for that matter) to bore you it is 
 usually because the Action has ceased and the play is no 
 longer dramatic in the technical sense. Why is it that the 
 love Scene between Claude Melnotte and Pauline where he 
 describes his palace by the lake to which he would take her, 
 if he had his wish, is not Mere Life? It could have hap- 
 pened in Life. It is Life, but what gives it its interest? 
 R emember that a drama requires Action, and that withou t 
 it it is Merg Life ; and that a D rama requires Sequence, a 
 certain arrangement of happenings, dou bt as to th e~ issue, 
 obstacle, and various other defi nite el ements. Drama is 
 lurking all about us in real life ; we see it and experience it 
 every day, every time we laugh, or cry or experience a 
 hope. And when we attempt to put it into a play the 
 Drama welcomes us, but with a stern authority. An inex- 
 perienced writer can so arrange his Material, innocently 
 thinking that he had a play, that there would not be a 
 particle of drama in it. And yet, as said, it is almost impos- 
 sible to escape Drama in real Life, for Life is made up of 
 doubt, which is the very essence of Drama. This infatua- 
 tion with Mere "Life" is the bane of the amateur. But when 
 he becomes a professional in his knowledge he knows how 
 to give real Action to that Life. Turn now to the ending 
 of the fourth act of "Ingomar," beginning with page 42, 
 where Parthenia and Ingomar appear on the cliff. All 
 you have to do to convert all that follows into Mere Life 
 is to have them, as soon as they appear, begin to 
 talk lovingly, everything settled, he determined to go with 
 her to the city, &c. True, you would not have the same 
 ending to the act, but you could get any amount of Detail 
 and talk which would be true to Life, but you would have 
 converted those finely dramatic Scenes into Mere Life, and 
 in representation it would bore an audience beyond ex- 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE LIFE 185 
 
 pression. Mere "Life" on the stage is the most abhorrent 
 of all things. Give up the delusion that mere fidelity to 
 life is the one characteristic of the Drama. "Holding up 
 the mirror to Life" will not secure a true reflection unless 
 tSe"^mlffor is held at the proper dramatic angle. 
 
 In a properly constructed and well written play like 
 "The Lady of Lyons" it is practically useless to look for 
 examples of Mere Life. It is almost impossible for a dra- 
 matist, a real dramatist, to use Mere Life; it is almost 
 equally impossible for an inexperienced one not to do so. 
 The danger from it confronts the beginner always, and it is 
 useful in the analysis of a play to discover this "means of 
 weakness and debility." This Mere Life may even lie 
 perdue somewhere in a real dramatist's play and cause 
 failure. We can only profit from this play on this point 
 by seeing what would have ^een Mere Life if the author 
 had not exercised his art. /tf, in the last act, Damas and 
 Melnotte had gone to the house of the Deschappelles know- 
 ing that Pauline was true and not faithless, we would have 
 had the material for a series of incidents, but it would not 
 have been drama; the elements of doubt, the essence of 
 Action, the Unexpected, Cause and Effect, would have 
 been absent. It would have been Mere life. The last act, 
 in that event, could have been over in two minutes and 
 a half, or it might have been devoted to talk of indefinite 
 length, hours of it. You, the celebrated and rich Col. 
 Morier are Melnotte? Oh my, oh my! what battles were 
 you in? Did you see much of Napoleon? Howdy do, 
 Cousin Damas, why didn't you tell rne? And so it might 
 run, this interminable stream of life, yVEere Life, the Gulf 
 Stream of the amateur. As it is, the. entire play is Life but 
 not Mere Life; it is dramatic life. If we could see exactly 
 what is to be the outcome in the last act it would be Life, 
 but lifeless life.' Life without Action is impossible in the 
 drama. Exposition of the relations of Life to the princi- 
 ples of the drama must await further discussion. This life 
 must conform to the requirements of the drama, and is 
 
l86 ANAIvYSlS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 available only if it can be subjected to structure. Again, 
 it depends upon the way in which it is used. The very 
 same material could be so used that the effect would be 
 Mere Life. Pauline and her mother could have conveyed to 
 us in conversation all that is beheld in the first set scene. 
 
 In a thoroughly dramatic play, it is not possible to find 
 any of what we technically call Mere Life. What we do 
 find is Life reduced to dramatic terms. It is identical with 
 Life, and is Life itself, within the restriction of the drama. 
 This statement should be absolutely conclusive as to the 
 happenings, the characters and the Action in "Camille," 
 for it is obviously as close a transcript of life as may be 
 found in a drama. If an author ever knew his subject and 
 his play, it was Dumas in this play. We may assume 
 that all the characters and many of the facts existed in his 
 mind from his own experience before he translated them all 
 into a play. In our discussion of Action and Episode else- 
 where we have shown how very close some of the scenes 
 come to Mere Life, saved from it only by the skill and tech- 
 nical purpose of the dramatist. We have only to refer to 
 the supper scene and the episodes of the last act. Having 
 assumed and demonstrated that there is no life in the objec- 
 tionable sense in the play, our only profitable exercise can 
 be in translating the dramatic life of ^'Camille" back again 
 into the mere life from which it was derived. This may 
 be done in many different ways. Qne of the ch ar- 
 acte ristics of mere life is lack of Unity. . If we destroy 
 the Ijnity of the Flot or of any of the many elements in a 
 play, we might begin the work of tearing down what 
 drama has built up. Drama never takes a part for the 
 whole. It is never satisfied with imperfection when that 
 imperfection amounts to an insufficiency. If the play had 
 half a dozen main objects, it might have many scenes of 
 momentary interest, and those scenes might be absolutely 
 true to life, but it would not be drama, and consequently 
 not dramatic life. We could destroy the drama in a play 
 by disarranging the Sequence of events. Much that hap- 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT W^Rt LIFE 187 
 
 pens in this play might have happened without the Se- 
 quence at present in the play. We would have become ac- 
 quainted with facts in their wrong order and the 
 effect would be entirely different. The interest 
 would be entirely different. The interest would not 
 be sustained and drama would be lost. If convey- 
 ed by means of Story there would be no drama. 
 One departure from dramatic methods would lead to 
 other departures, and defects would be piled upon 
 defects. By means of wrong Sequence and Story the 
 Unexpected would be destroyed. In Life, practically any- 
 thing may happen and in any order. Why could not Var- 
 ville know in the opening of the play that he had a pros- 
 pective rival in Armand ? It is useless to reply to this that 
 the facts do not permit it, for we must remember that all 
 the facts in this Material used by Dumas were inchoate 
 to begin with. It is true that there could have been more 
 than one Sequence, but that Sequence must not be a chance 
 Sequence of Life, but according to the dramatic arrange- 
 ment of the author. If Varville had known of Armand's 
 love and of his family, he might have consumed an indefi- 
 nite time in disclosing out of their order these facts which 
 are involved in the proper dramatic progress of the play. 
 The Action would have been destroyed by means of this 
 anticipation. Again, if the play had no proper development, 
 Characters would constantly have to be informed of what 
 had happened and there would be an unendurable amount 
 of repetition. In other words, you must make life conform 
 to the needs of the drama. If Varville had known of the 
 danger of a rival, his whole attitude toward Camille would 
 have changed and he could not be got rid of so easily be- 
 fore the supper. Of course, it would not have been impos- 
 sible for Dumas to have made Varville know of the danger 
 of a rival from the beginning, but the Action would have 
 taken a different course. He would have made it dramatic, 
 but, in any event, he would have had to translate life into 
 drama. A dramatist must certainly fight against the pos- 
 
l88 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 sibilities of Life. What would be more natural in the last 
 act than to have Armand expected? It would be life, but it 
 would destroy the present Action completely. We have 
 in another chapter called attention to Dumas' device of 
 withholding from the audience even the fact that Camille 
 had received a letter from Armand's father six weeks be- 
 fore the opening of the act. It might be said that it would 
 not be an impossible dramatic Sequence to have this Mono- 
 logue in which this fact is disclosed come at the begin- 
 ning of the act. But the dramatist is always looking for 
 the dramatic and constant improvement of the dramatic. 
 He gets as far away from Mere Life as he can. We show, 
 in its proper place, why the Episode in which Prudence bor- 
 rows the money is Action. Take that Action out of it and 
 it would still be Life, but it would not be Dramatic Life. 
 Could you demand a closer example of dramatic conditions? 
 Indeed, the happenings of this play could be presented in 
 such a way that there would be no Plot. It could be reduc- 
 ed to Life by means of destroying the Cause and Effect. 
 Nothing could be easier than to give certain effects and to 
 explain them afterwards. 
 
 \J The definition of -Drama, brief as it is, expressly states 
 in one of its clauses that it is an imitation of I^ife. It is 
 more to afford the illusion of Life, so that, without now 
 dwelling upon the definitions and differences involved be- 
 tween Life and the imitation of it, we may conveniently 
 say that the aim of the Drania is the_reproduction of Life_. 
 Many "dramatists," however, imagine that the reproduc- 
 tion of Life is all that is required. We have advanced far 
 enough in these exercises to become convinced that every- 
 thing is referable back to structure. Mere Life has no 
 standing in Court. Thinking for yourself, you must have 
 observed that a number of these principles are corollary 
 principles, fundamental as they are. Thus, we find that in 
 their nearest relation Mere Words, Mere Business, and 
 Mere Life, for example, are subordinate to Action. They 
 are governed by other things also, but more directly by 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE U^E 189 
 
 Action. Now^ Mere Life could be illustrated by the same 
 examples which we have in Mere Business and Were 
 Words; but there is a distinction in each case, as for ex- 
 ample, Business does not necessarily require Words. In 
 short, the mistake of Mere Life for Drama by the "drama- 
 tists" proceeds from a general or partial misunderstanding 
 or lack of understanding of drarnatic law.TTf3^u"o1T!*w^ 
 to undertake to write a scene in the place of the present 
 first scene of "Still Waters Run Deep" we might make it 
 very animated perhaps, very interesting, full of repartee, 
 full of human nature, entirely true to all the facts in the 
 case, and yet it might not be Drama. It would not be Dra- 
 ma if we wrote Subjectively and not Objectively in the 
 sense of we, ourselves, understanding everything that was 
 said and done, but withholding from the audience the same 
 understanding. Let us suppose that the scene opened in the 
 same room with Emily and Mrs. Sternhold engaged in con- 
 versation. There are infinite bits of talk and Business that 
 could be introduced which would be perfectly true to Life. 
 Suppose they talk at great length about Mr. Mildmay, but 
 without giving to the audience the slightest hint as to who 
 Mr. Mildmay is. .This may seem absurd as a matter of writ- 
 ing by any "dramatist," but it is a very common thing to 
 be seen in manuscripts. The author knows everything, the 
 audience knows nothing, and yet the scene could have hap- 
 pened in Life in every detail and in every word and in 
 every emotion ; but if there was any fun going the charac- 
 ters on the stage would have it all to themselves, with the 
 "dramatist" a self-deluded and imaginary spectator, or, if a 
 real spectator, immensely pleased, wondering why the audi- 
 ence seemed so dreadfully bored. It would be Life, but 
 might be absolutely without Proposition, Plot, Sequence, 
 Objectivity of the right kind, and, for many reasons, not a 
 scene of a play, however true it might be to Life. I It would 
 be profitable for a student to write a few such scenes by 
 way of exercise. The student may be inclined to think 
 that he understands exactly what is meant by Mere Life, 
 
190 ANAluYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE) 
 
 but a material aim of the exercise work is to make sure 
 that he understands it, and to have him so disgust himself 
 by a sufficient amount of exercise in writing Mere Life 
 scenes that he will, by no possibility, in his own original 
 dramatic work, fall into any delusion and mistake. Some 
 of these scenes from "Real Life," of which the ignorant 
 are so fond of prating, would be Drama in certain circum- 
 stances, and again, they could not possibly be used for dra- 
 matic purposes. This is always the case when the scene 
 is not confined to one main object ; it might not be a scene 
 at all in the dramatic sense. In "Real Life" perhaps, a pre- 
 ponderating number of people cannot keep their minds 
 upon and hold the conversation to one thing for two min- 
 utes at a time. Very often the divergence of conversation 
 in Real Life may afford a certain animation. In Real Life 
 Mrs. Sterhold may have had some friend, not now in the 
 play, to whom she may have confided her trouble with 
 Hawksley and his threat and have requested him to secure 
 the letters. It is obvious that this would have destroyed all 
 Unity in the play, and have required a different Proposi- 
 tion, consequently, if such a friend had existed, he would 
 have had to be eliminated from the scheme of the play. 
 That would have been dreadful, wouldn't it, to have laid a 
 destructive hand on Life? Potter might have told Mildmay 
 of his suspicions about Emily and Hawksley. It is true 
 that he had no confidence in the manliness of his son-in- 
 law, but it would not have been unnatural for him to have 
 done so. You can see what a disturbing effect it would 
 have had on the Action of the play. This might also have 
 been the first scene in Real Life. In point of fact, there are 
 thousands of Sequences in which what we now see in the 
 play may have happened. Perhaps somewhere in the play 
 there should be a scene between Gimlet and Mildmay. But 
 in order to determine whether this would have been wise 
 technically, it would require an amount of investigation 
 that would involve considerable thought. At any rate, 
 such a scene could have taken place in a play on this ma- 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE LIFE IQI 
 
 terial reproducing the real facts. Unquestionably, Mild- 
 may had many interviews with Gimlet, and, in fact, did 
 see him off stage during the Action of the play. If Taylor 
 had to rely upon Mere Life for his play he might never 
 have been able to write it, for he would have had to follow 
 the happenings exactly in their order of happening. So it 
 is that Sequence determines how we are to use Life. The 
 whole aim of Taylor was to reduce everything to Life, but 
 not necessarily to follow the original form of his Material. 
 This drama is a rearrangement even of the reproduction 
 of Life in the novel which suggested it. Even if many of 
 the dramatic requirements were in perfect Sequence and 
 form in actual Life, there would be sure to be something 
 lacking which would require an addition to the real Life. 
 We must add to and subtract from it according to techni- 
 cal necessities. In Life Mildmay may have overheard Mrs. 
 Sternhold's opinion of him as expressed to Emily while he 
 pretended to be asleep on some other occasion. In Life 
 Emily may not have used the knotted handkerchief to drive 
 the fly away from her husband's face, but in the play it 
 was necessary for Mildmay to overhear Mrs. Sternhold's 
 remark without her knowing it, and then for him to be got- 
 ten off the stage. The knotted handkerchief was used for 
 the technical purpose of giving him an exit. It was not 
 Emily's purpose, but the author's purpose. Inasmuch as 
 dramas are, after all, not drawn from real Life in their en- 
 tirety, but come from the process of imagination and rea- 
 soning, the life that is depicted is a compromise, conse- 
 quently those people who pretend to go back to real life are 
 unconsciously betraying ignorance of dramatic method. 
 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is as nearly imperisha- 
 ble as a play can be because it is so true to Life. It leaves 
 the impression of actuality in spite of the verse form. 
 Genius like Massinger's has the insight that can get at 
 truth in the characters and circumstances within its hori- 
 zon and environment. It does not need to take flight to 
 some distant sphere and to depend upon imagination. It 
 
192 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE; 
 
 can idealize while it remains realistic. Lady Allworth and 
 Lord Lovell are ideal figures, but human. There is no 
 Mere Life in this play, because it all belongs to the Action. 
 But even so it could have dropped into Mere Life had it 
 been improperly managed. By referring to the discussion 
 of Episode in this play you will see why it is that scenes 
 which start out with a certain independence of the Plot 
 and Action are not Mere Life. rThe first Episode, that of 
 the servants, would be Mere Life if the Audience was ex- 
 pecting some definite progress in the Action at this point, 
 and if the servants had been presented in a meaningless 
 exhibition of themselves, or if they had exhibited perfectly 
 natural traits of character which had no connection with the 
 Action. No progress is made in the Action of the Plot in 
 this scene, but we are led to expect something in the devel- 
 opment of conditions. The first scene in the second act 
 between Sir Giles and Marrall would be Mere Life if noth- 
 ing were to come of his character and his designs against 
 Wellborn. Make them talk about any other thing than 
 that which bears on the traits of character from which Well- 
 born is to suffer and has suffered, and it would not be to the 
 purpose. Let Lady Allworth and Lord Lovell discuss the 
 qualities needed in a soldier, (as she does with Tom) they 
 would be doing something that would be natural enough in 
 Life, but they are not permitticd to do so in the play. Merely 
 to show Character in that way would be too remote from 
 the real concern of the Action. Talk may be devoted to 
 abstractions in Life, but not in a play. If Lady Allworth 
 had gone one step further when she told her maids to sort 
 the silk and had given details about it, it would have been 
 Life, Mere Life, because wholly Unnecessary to the Action^. 
 It was useful if not absolutely Necessary for her to be 
 shown, and this particular bit of Life was required for a 
 technical reason; the maids were to be used in the incidents 
 of the appearance of Wellborn. Lady Allworth's entrance 
 was made lifelike by the touch of what was in no degree 
 disturbing. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ACTION (DRAMA) IS NOT STORY. 
 
 You have seen what Action is and what it is not, 
 both serving to keep you from the many mistakes that are 
 universally and continually made by the novice. The drama 
 depending always on what happens NOW, before the eye, 
 whatever is said or done must affect the characters and 
 the Action in the present time. Things have to happen in 
 a given order or the play falls into Story. A play must be 
 acted in all its material parts. Story is that material some- 
 thing which is told whereas it should be acted. By this to- 
 ken, at least, you may perceive it most plainly. The Dis- 
 ease of Story in a play has many symptoms. Expression by 
 means of words is not necessarily Story, and Story is not 
 confined to words. An essential thing may be acted and 
 not told and yet be Story because out of Sequence. 
 The acting or telling of something in advance of its proper 
 place of communication to the audience is also Story. Cer- 
 tain essential things must be withheld until they can pro- 
 perly happen. In a really good play, after the Action is 
 once set going, everything that happens should happen by 
 reason of what has happened in preceding scenes. "Ingo- 
 mar" is a fine example of the entire absence of Story or any 
 occasion for it. True, something of the past, not seen, may 
 at times have to be narrated, but it is always something that 
 affects the Action of the moment. The present time always. 
 Every play has what is called the Conditions Precedent. 
 Now, Story can creep into a play in many ways, and it often 
 does so when the Conditions Precedent are inexpertly 
 handled. 
 
 In "Ingomar" among the Conditions Precedent are 
 that Parthenia lives in Massillia, the daughter of a poor 
 armorer; is now of a marriageable age, and her mother 
 13 
 
194 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 wants her to marry an aged and repulsive suitor, who is a 
 miser. The neighboring tribes are savages or barbarians 
 who often take captive and hold for hostage the citizens of 
 Massillia. Massillia is governed by a Timarch. Parthe- 
 nia's parents are needy. Her mother wishes her to marry 
 a rich old miser. She is heartwhole and fancy free. These 
 Facts and many other Conditions and Details exist before 
 the Action begins. The play is unusually free from active 
 dramatic happenings before the rise of the curtain, but the 
 conditions for the Action are perfect. The beginner is al- 
 ways impatient to get in all his facts immediately. In this 
 play they are brought out only as the Action calls for them. 
 The Facts are certainly not told by any of the characters 
 simply for the information of the audience. The dramatist 
 must distinguish, in his Material, the Conditions Precedent 
 in order to be able to handle them in the proper way. 
 
 A play is defective where it is conveyed by means of 
 Story, in which Words are involved. In. fact there should 
 be no Story in the strict technical sense. It is-^not by 
 Words alone that Story may creep into a play.] Story is 
 where essential things are described and not r ^rese hte^t I 
 if it is essential that they be seen in the Action. I It would « 
 be Story if Beauseant, in "The Lady of Lyons," while try- 
 ing to devise with Glavis some means of revenge, had be- 
 thought him of Melnotte, and had told Glavis of the cir- 
 cumstances of his being called ''The Prince;" but 
 the true method was followed by Bulwer in having 
 Melnotte heard acclaimed the "Prince" in the shouts 
 of the peasants^LThe further account of Melnotte 
 as given in words by the Landlord is not Story, for 
 the essential thing has been established and the rest is de- 
 tail. It is not Story when Caspar tells of his treatment. 
 On the contrary, if there were a scene showing this treat- 
 ment, it would be Story, because unnecessary. The essen- 
 tial thing is the return of Caspar smarting from a beating 
 and the effect of his message on the hopeful Melnotte. In 
 a Story in the shape of a novel such a scene might be de- 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT STORY 195 
 
 scribed, for the medium used in the novel is words, but in 
 this play such a scene would have destroyed all interest in 
 the very scene in which he tells of his treatment. It is not 
 Story at the opening of the last act where we learn of 
 Morier. If the facts had been brought out in another way 
 through a monologue by Damas, it would have closely ap- 
 proached Story. It would have been undramatic. Several 
 new charac ters had to be created to keep it from becoming 
 storyy ' If in the last act Melnotte and Pauline had held an 
 interview in which she told of her father's bankruptcy, and 
 >»we had not the visible facts in this scene before us, it 
 would have been Story to the extent of robbing the Action 
 of its details and progression^ There being no Story in 
 plays like this our only way is^to imagine how what is now 
 dramatic might be converted into Story. 
 
 Various disarrangements create Story, but more of this 
 later. 
 
 In making a study of "Camille" with reference to Story in 
 its objectionable sense, we are again confronted with the 
 impossibility of finding examples of it in a thoroughly dra- 
 matic play. The introduction of narrative in order to get 
 into the Action the Conditions Precedent by telling the 
 things which are matters of course and which have origi- 
 nally happened and do not need to be shown, is not Story 
 in the objectionable sense of being undramatic. It 
 would be a confusion of terms to describe as Story Nan- 
 ine's account of Camille's experience in being denied ad- 
 mission into society under the patronage of the Due de 
 Meuriac. There are many details in this account given by 
 Nanine, but they are of the past, and we are concerned 
 simply with the results and the bearing of this past on the 
 present. Again, it is not Story in the last act where the 
 letter from Armand's father tells us of what has happened 
 since the duel. The happenings are logical and readily 
 accepted. We find here also many details, that Varville is 
 out of danger, that six weeks have passed, that Duval has 
 written to Armand, and that Armand quitted France, and 
 
196 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 that the father in writing to him told him of Camille's sac- 
 rifice. Both in Nanine's recital and in this letter the im- 
 portant things concern the present. If, for any reason, 
 these facts should be acted, these scenes would be Story. 
 It would be easy to divert much of what has 
 been done and said by Nichette and Gustave into 
 Story. If Nichette had not been shown in the second scene 
 of the first act as a working girl, and if Nanine had engaged 
 in a conversation with Varville, in the course of which she 
 had told of the life of Camille as an embroideress and of 
 her association with Nichette, it would have been Story. 
 It may be said that this Story would have served. That 
 may be, but not properly within the conditions of this dra- 
 ma and its plain requirements. It is not enough that one 
 method may serve, it depends upon the artistic manage- 
 ment of the material. A case might be imagined in which 
 the present effect of telling the story of Nichette and Gus- 
 tave would have been strong enough to justify the Story, 
 but not as this play stands. Practically the whole play 
 could not only be told, but could be acted in ^tory fashion. 
 It takes mjany touches to make the dramatic./ If there had 
 been no /cause shown for Nanine to tell the life of Camille 
 to Varville, it would have been Story, because it would 
 have been intended for the audience and not for Varville^J 
 In a certain diluted story fashion there might have been 
 some Action in this according to our ultimate analysis of 
 what Action is, namely, the effect upon the audience, but 
 Action by way of information is a very slight part of Ac- 
 tion. The whole story of Armand's love and the two years 
 of silence might easily have been conveyed to the audience 
 in story fashion, but Dumas used the true dramatic method 
 in considering the Characters first. Tit is very easy for an 
 inexperienced dramatist to fall into the Story meth- 
 od in developing his play in his eagerness to con- 
 vey facts to the audience at oncel Thus, it is 
 plain that the danger and the evil of*^ory telling may 
 be traced back to the mistake that an inexperienced author 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT STORY 197 
 
 SO often makes in trying to get into direct personal com- 
 munication with the audience. Again, all the facts about 
 Armand's family might have been conveyed by him to 
 Camille in his interview with her. In an awkward way 
 that might have served, but a dramatist is measured by 
 the niceties of his art. He considers always all the bearings 
 of the Action, and is not concerned solely with Story. The 
 larger Action requires that the other characters take no 
 interest in his reference to his sister, consequently, there 
 is something more than Story in his telling of his family. 
 The use of the term "mere" has a direct value in treatment. 
 Mere Story, Mere Life, Mere Business, mere anything is 
 an abomination and an impossibility in the drama. Many 
 plays fail because they have too much Story. It depends 
 upon treatment. It is Story or it is Action according to the 
 happenings. The gossip about the yellow carriage would 
 seem to be story, and would be Story if it meant anything 
 in and for itself. But the purpose is not to tell the story, 
 but to show the frivolity of Camille's companions. Ca- 
 mille's relations with Due de Meuriac during the progress 
 of the play would seem to be Story, but they are not, for 
 the only material things in it are that he sends her money 
 and that he naturally withdraws his support. If his pres- 
 ence in the Action were needed, then all that concerns him 
 if merely told would be Story. When Prudence re- 
 turns in the second act and tells Camille of Armand^s state 
 of mind and his wish to see her, it is not Story, for the 
 most important thing at this moment is Camille's state of 
 agitation and the necessity of ridding herself of Varville 
 If Prudence's account of Armand's state of mind had not 
 been to the purp'ose, and if it had concerned the mere con- 
 dition of affairs, it wo.uld have been Story. If she had re- 
 tailed to Camille what Armand himself tells her in the 
 interview which shortly follows between them, it would 
 have been Story. And it is plain that we can convert Ac- 
 tion into Story by having one character speak the words 
 which belong to another. We have already shown why the 
 
198 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 talk between Nichette and Gaston and Camilley about 
 Gustave's first case as a lawyer is not Story. Its use is of 
 the present, and the fact that Gustave's first client was 
 condemned to ten years hard labor is of no consequence 
 in itself. The story has simply an indirect value and is 
 dramatic, not because of the Story, but because of the 
 effect of it in the scene. It is not Story when we are told 
 in the last act of the marriage of Gustave and Nichette, for 
 we did not have to see this marriage, and their return to 
 her just before her death is controlling in its nature. It is 
 not Story when we are told of Gaston's reconciliation with 
 his mother, for the fact as told is of controlling importance 
 and is of the present time. Story is also brought into a 
 play by means of lack of Preparation. This being absent 
 intelligent expectation is lacking and the "Action" at once 
 falls into Story, for it is not Self-Explanatory. Again, if 
 Indirection were not used. Story would take its place. If 
 facts were not seen, Story would have to supply the ab- 
 sence of necessary visible proof. 
 
 In a good play there is no Story in the undramatic sense. 
 In order to make a profitable exercise upon any principle 
 which is not misapplied in a given play, (and consequently 
 a good play in that respect), we must invent misapplica- 
 tions that might be made by the inexpert writer. The work 
 of analysis would become perfunctory if the student fol- 
 lowed one form or model all the time, and was not on the 
 lookout for the various proper forms of application and the 
 innumerable forms and aspects of misapplication. It would 
 be traveling around in a circle, whereas analysis is meant 
 for the discovery of virtues and defects real or possible in 
 all their forms. The material for a play, with its Condi- 
 tions Precedent, is almost invariably in the form of Story. 
 The Material as it is collected in the notes or in the mind 
 of the writer, if he is a dramatist, gradually become more 
 and more dramatic. Let us, in this exercise, consider the 
 improper handling of the material by an amateur, who may 
 be described as one who does not know his business or art 
 
ACTION (drama) is not STORY 1 99 
 
 thoroughly. He may know it superficially and have some 
 understanding of the fundamental principles ; but he knows 
 it just as one who may have travelled over the waters of 
 the bay and river and sound of New York knows them. He 
 may point out localities, he may have a picture in his mind 
 of the general outlines, but he does not have that complete 
 knowledge which is essential to the pilot, who must know 
 all the shallows and depths and rocks. In other words, to 
 put any knowledge to practical use he who would use it 
 must know it all. 
 
 The inexpert writer or "dramatist" would be inclined to 
 set forth at once in his "play" all that which is contained 
 in our worked out exercise on the Conditions Precedent. 
 Let us further suppose that he developed after his fashion, 
 the natural one to him of telling a Story, all the Condi- 
 tions Precedent and all that happens in "Still Waters Run 
 Deep" in the form of a novel or a Story. He would natu- 
 rally first give an account of Hawksley, describing his char- 
 acter, his career and his business methods. He would tell 
 of the forged note, of Mildmay's former employment in the 
 same house, of Hawksley's attentions to Emily before her 
 marriage with Mildmay, and would proceed in the develop- 
 ment of a Story with reference to the time of all occur- 
 rences, beginning at the beginning. He would make an in- 
 teresting Story, and so far as the Material is concerned, ex- 
 actly the same thing as the drama which we now have. All 
 the facts would be there, all the characters and their charac- 
 teristics and all the happenings, but they would be 
 presented in a different order. You will at once re- 
 cognize the principle which would make such a vast 
 difference in the form used, the difference between Story 
 and Drama, as Sequence. We do not stop to dwell upon 
 all the difficulties involved between the telling and the 
 acting. That study belongs to the further pursuit of the 
 analysis. We will assume that this Material elaborated 
 into the form of a novel by the inexpert "dramatist" is 
 dialogued after being divided into Acts and Scenes. It 
 
200 ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 would Still be Story, not only because of the difference in 
 the Sequence, but because of a hundred other differences. 
 Thus you will see that Story is not confined to the mere 
 telling of a thing. This novel or Story so dialogued might, 
 at various points, coincide with a proper dramatic version 
 of the Material, and might intermittently be truly drama- 
 tic, but just as one must know the whole art to write a play 
 properly, so must the whole play be dramatic. A play 
 that is half Story and half drama may be just as bad as a 
 play that is all Story. The very minute you go wrong you 
 stir up a nest of hornets. The imperfections and the vio- 
 lations of principle attack you venomously on all sides. If 
 you were able intelligently to consult all the principles you 
 would see where you had made your first misstep and had 
 then violated and outraged them all. Dialogue and Material 
 without a proper Sequence, and without a consideration of 
 the proper structure, will destroy unexpectedness, logic, 
 effect, everything. Assuming that you do not get every- 
 thing wrong, you get enough wrong to destroy your play. 
 It is obvious from what has been said above, that play writ- 
 ing consists largely in converting Story into Drama. This 
 converting Story into Drama is not confined to converting 
 the past into the present. The amateur will often convert 
 the future into the present. If the Material is dramatic, it 
 is almost impossible to destroy every bit of the drama in it, 
 and because a little bit of this drama, in spots, remains, the 
 amateur is deluded into thinking his work is a drama. If 
 we take up the first scene in "Still Waters Run Deep" we 
 find that it must have been written after the structure of 
 the play had been decided upon. If one does not make his 
 structure perfect, or at least serviceable to his ,dramatic us€, 
 he will inevitably fall into Story. Emily and Mrs. Stern- 
 hold might have had a scene in the beginning of the play, 
 (remembering that we have abandoned all ideas of struc- 
 ture and are writing offhand, and not having in our minds 
 at all the possibilities of this first scene] in which they could 
 have discussed Tennyson, and Emily's romanticism could 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT STORY 20I 
 
 have been shown. They could have talked of 
 Hawksley and how near Emily came to marrying 
 him; they could have described his business, his 
 brilliancy and his appearance, and could have talked 
 at some length on the prosaic nature of Mildmay and 
 their idea as to his weak character. In short, they could 
 have used up so much material by way of Story, that a 
 dozen scenes in the present Action could have been de- 
 stroyed. It would have been Story. It would have been a 
 use of the details of the Material in their wrong order. 
 There could have been a scene between Mildmay and Pot- 
 ter in which they might have talked of the dominating 
 character of Mrs. Sternhold. Thus we would have had a 
 second scene utterly destructive of other scenes as they 
 now properly exist, and the whole material might have 
 been so wasted in Story that the entire act would have been 
 without effect. In Story fashion the Act would have been 
 exhausted in one third the space now given to it. We would 
 have seen little or nothing and heard a great deal. We 
 would not have seen the thing itself. The tendency to tell 
 things instead of showing them would have prevented cer- 
 tain of the most effective scenes that we now have from 
 even entering into the mind of the "dramatist." The "dra- 
 matist" with the Story habit might have omitted the scene 
 between Emily and Hawksley. He might have omitted 
 the scene between Mrs. Sternhold and Hawksley in which 
 Hawksley threatens her with exposure by publishing the 
 letters. He might have had the scene offstage and had her 
 tell Mildmay about the interview, describing it perhaps in 
 a very animated way, but this would not have taken the 
 place of the scene itself. Certain parts of the Material and 
 Action must be in the form of Scenes. When the dramatist 
 determines upon what he must use in the form of Scenes, 
 he then has left a part of his Material which can be told, 
 and this telling does not constitute "Story." It is not Story 
 when Potter confides to Mrs. Sternhold his suspicion that 
 the relations between Hawksley and Emily are too inti- 
 
202 ANAIvYSIS 01? DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,!: 
 
 mate. It is the fact of his suspicion that is Objective, and 
 it is of Action all compact. In the first place, it would 
 have been impossible for us to have had presented to us on 
 the stage happenings of the past which have caused Potter 
 to be suspicious. Potter's suspicion is surely made Objec- 
 tive, is it not? What has happened is ^^f nothing like as 
 important as what is going to happen Objectively between 
 Emily and Hawksley. What does happen between the 
 weakly sentimental woman and the seductive rascally 
 swindler is of the utmost importance and complicates the 
 Action which has been visible from, the start. It is not 
 Story when we are told that Hawksley had been a suitor 
 of Emily's before her marriage to Mildmay. It belongs to 
 the category of Potter's suspicion. It did not have to be 
 shown or otherwise proved. Those things of which we 
 cannot make a scene of the present moment must necessa- 
 rily be subordinated to and included in such scenes as are 
 essentialj Narrative is not necessarily "Story." Some of 
 the confusion of the idea in relation to Story comes from 
 the different meanings of the word. In consequence of this 
 I sometimes adopt the device of quoting "Story" when it is 
 meant in the undramatic sense. The Story of a play is that 
 which is contained in its Proposition and Plot. Again, 
 Story could easily be applied to the synopsis or Scenario 
 of a play; but both uses of the term indicate something 
 distinctly different from "Story." It must be confessed that 
 Hawksley's past career, particularly with reference to the 
 •forged bill, looks very much like "Story." But, on the 
 .whole, it might be well claimed that Taylor's use of his 
 material and the way in which he has introduced the past 
 constitute the best Treatment in the circumstances. Taylor 
 was a very voluminous dramatist, and the play bears some 
 marks of haste in composition. It is a dramatization of a 
 novel, and may have been done to order. Certainly the im- 
 pression of truth as to this forgery is conveyed in every par- 
 ticular. If a play of four or five acts had been called for 
 Taylor might have probably made more of this forgery.. 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT STORY 203 
 
 He might have gone into more detail about it, and had 
 Other characters involved in the proof. He might have 
 made more of it Objective, with some changes in the Plot. 
 But the moral depravity of Hav^ksley is so thoroughly 
 proved that we accept Mildmay's narrative as absolutely 
 true. The effect of the narrative and the production of the 
 bill exchanged for the letters are- in themselves concuusive 
 proof. That Gimlet has been searching for proof and 
 finally gets into his possession the remaining bill makes a 
 fact of what Mildmay tells. It is the nearest approach to 
 Story that we have in any of the plays which we have 
 analyzed. Our object is not to be academic, and it is pro- 
 fitable for us to closely question everything that seems to 
 be irregular. If Taylor had made more of the notes and 
 had added one or two more acts, the play would have been 
 more of a melodrama, and the interest might have turned 
 too largely on the punishment of Hawksley in itself. The 
 balance would not have been kept between the main and 
 the minor problems in the Proposition, namely, whether 
 Mildmay could defeat Hawksley's financial rascality, and 
 incidentally regain the mastery of his own household. 
 
 ''A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is so concrete, so com- 
 pact, so full of Action, subjective and objective, that there 
 is no "Story" in it. It has an extraordinary number of Con- 
 ditions Precedent, but it is never mere story. Everything 
 is brought out by the necessities of the dialogue between 
 the characters. The greater part of the first scene is taken 
 up with an account of Old Sir John Wellborn, the riotous 
 living of the young man which has brought him so low, 
 the ingratitude of Tapwell, &c. It is much of the past, 
 but the thing of living interest is of the present. There is 
 not a detail that does not really concern the present more 
 than the past. What has happened before the rise of the 
 curtain is merely incidental to what is now happening, and 
 we would not take the slightest interest in what is told ex- 
 cept for the present conditions and the Action going on be- 
 fore our eyes. Let us suppose that this first scene had been 
 
204 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,E 
 
 omitted and the play should open with Wellborn standing 
 outside the alehouse when Tom Allworth appears. Well- 
 born could have told him all that had happened, but which 
 we have not seen. That would have been in the nature 
 of Story; but whether it would be story depends upon the 
 circumstances and the object of the author. If the happen- 
 ings had been unimportant, it would not necessarily fall 
 under the designation of "Story." But it was something 
 that had to be shown. Consequently, if Wellborn had merely 
 recited it it would have been story. Wellborn's humiliation 
 is the very keynote of the play. It is because of it that he 
 determines to mend his ways and his fortunes. The talk 
 between Tom Allworth and Wellborn is not Story, because 
 we get the conditions out of which the Action is to pro- 
 ceed; we accept them for the moment and we await their 
 verification. The statements are to be made facts as we 
 proceed. The facts are living and promise even more for 
 the future than they afford of the present so far as the in- 
 terest is concerned. What we hear is cumulative. The talk 
 between Sir Giles and Marrall is not Story, because what 
 they say would have no particular interest in itself, and is 
 not told, for example, to interest us in Frugal or the par- 
 ticular law suits projected, but in the character of Sir Giles 
 in his relation to his nephew. Lady Allworth's advice to 
 her step-son is the very antithesis of story, although she 
 dwells on the counsel of a husband of whom she has been 
 bereft. What Wellborn has said of his relations with that 
 husband, what she now says, and what Wellborn is to say 
 of him to her all make for an issue of the present moment, 
 perilous to the spendthrift. It is very much of the present, 
 subordinating the past. If these histories had been told 
 without Cause and Effect they would have been sterile, 
 story pure and simple, of small interest, inactive. The hap- 
 penings of the last act relating to the marriage by the par- 
 son would be story if it was necessary to act them out, but 
 everything relating to it and leading up to it is so circum- 
 stantial that we know it must be true. We know the power 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT STORY 20$ 
 
 of Sir Giles, and that his word to the parson is ample. 
 There is not a single reason to doubt the happenings. The 
 play is so solidly built of Fact that it would not be easy, 
 by way of exercise, to reduce it to Story. Do not think there 
 is Story in Amble's description of the conduct of Marrall at 
 Lady Allworth's table. It did not have to be shown, and 
 yet it is of the present moment, although it has happened 
 off stage. In fact, we can hardly describe it as having hap- 
 pened off stage, for Amble is directly from the dining room. 
 It is a Preparation for the very next scene, in which we 
 have Marrall subdued to a belief in the favor granted to 
 Wellborn by Lady AUworth. 
 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ACTION (DRAMA) IS NOT MERE BUSINESS. 
 
 Your attention is now called to the "Business" of a play. 
 
 Business is the physical expression of the actor's partici- 
 pation in the Action of the play, as it concerns him at the 
 moment. Naturally, where there are a number of people on 
 the stage the Business extends to their disposition and the 
 combinations of expression and movement ordered by the 
 stage-manager 
 
 The Business and the stage directions in these 
 printed plays are to be seen in the bracketed and itali- 
 cised passages. Business is one of the means of the expres- 
 sion of the Action, sometimes supplementary to the Action 
 as expressed in words and sometimes corresponding to the 
 Action as expressed in words and sometimes corresponding 
 to the Action itself.^he actor esteems Business as the very 
 life of his art, and in consequence the actor-author attaches 
 too much importance to it and is misled. He is apt to be 
 fascinated with Mere Business, just as the amateur writer 
 is with Mere Life. But now that you have seen that a play 
 is constructed from the Proposition up, with a Plot domi- 
 nated by one purpose, it must be evident to you that Busi- 
 ness must be subordinate and necessarily of the moment. 
 S tructu r e comes fi rst.jtnd is fixed, then__cqmes_tli£_A£tion^ 
 without which the play is not complete until acted; and 
 the Business^. to that Action jnaybe^^ifferent with each 
 actoTpIaying a g iven p art. The actor himself, in this way, 
 contrTbutes to your play and has considerable latitude. You 
 will observe, however, that Business is often incidentally 
 provided in the text of a play. It is necessary to garnish 
 out the Action in this way. The actor is much more at ease 
 if while he is serving as your mouthpiece he is engaged in 
 something on his own account. Thus, a woman is seen 
 ""sewing on a sampler" and at the same time occupied in 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT Umt BUSINESS 20/ 
 
 dialogue. While Parthenia talks of love she is provided 
 with the Business of weaving the garland of flowers. The 
 barbarians have something to do in the way of Business 
 when they play at dice. There is nothing merely conven- 
 tional about this. If we did not use Business we would not 
 be true to the details of life. It belongs to the economy of 
 playwriting. It saves words. The author should put in 
 the manuscript of his play all such Business as in his con- 
 ception is necessary and should not burden it unnecessa- 
 rily with directions which are already implied or expressed 
 in the text. Much can be left to the stagemanager ; he and 
 the actor develop the Action by means of Business. A 
 stagemanager or an actor-author may be very full in his 
 Business and stage directions, but it is best for you not to 
 be too full in regard to rising, crossing, place of entran<he, 
 exit, positions and stage details of the acting. For the pres- 
 ent, at least, do not be impatient for information on these 
 stage matters. They will be imparted later. This chapter 
 is intended to have you read all the plays with reference to 
 the Business only to note its value and peculiarities. A pan- 
 tomime is all Business, and a play itself may be intelligible 
 from its Business alone, but it must all be provided for by 
 the previous process of construction. Business, for the 
 most part, is a means of expression and is subordinate. It 
 is the pictorial and interpretative part of the art. You will 
 observe some passages where it is Action itself; you may 
 find other passages in which you think the Business could 
 be better or different without changing the Action. 
 
 It is important to warn against a process of thought that 
 seizes hold of Business too soon. Stage managers, authors 
 and actors are prone to be misled by it. For the present, 
 note the nature, value and function of Business. An ex- 
 perienced author leaves to the actor all Business which 
 is plainly implied in the lines and the context. But Bulwer 
 directs that Pauline say languidly "Dear Mother, you spoil 
 your child." Marian's altering the rose in Pauline's hair 
 is good Business. That she has a maid is of consequence 
 
208 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 and she must be given something to do. Pauline rises dis- 
 dainfully as Beauseant approaches her. She goes back to 
 the table and takes up the flowers. The Business itself is 
 important for no reference has been made to the flowers 
 for two scenes, and her Business with them strikes the 
 right note just as she makes her exit. If she had had the 
 flowers in her hand and made the remark, it would have 
 been obvious and disturbing mechanism. Bulwer indicates 
 no Business whatever for Damas in his scene with the two 
 women. The actor, in playing the part, could have used 
 snuff if he chose. But Bulwer had something more im- 
 portant in mind than the mere accidental things; he was 
 after the essential things. If anything had depended on, or 
 was to turn on Damas's taking snuff, he would have had 
 it there. Bulwer does not put in all the crossings, but he 
 seemed to think that it would be significant to have Beau- 
 seant cross to Glavis when the Landlord mentions Pauline 
 as the object of Melnotte's love. The Widow's descending 
 the stairs during the shouts is good Business. You will 
 observe that all the Business here is illustrative. Bulwer 
 notes Mad. Deschappelles fanning herself. See how im- 
 portant and yet incidental it all is. Bulwer has it. "Mel- 
 notte and Pauline pace the stage during this speech, and 
 at the end Melnotte stands "L." Mrs. Langtry sat with Mel- 
 notte on a marble bench, a convenient place for embrace 
 and languishing attitudes. Servants peeping and laughing 
 over the shoulder of the Landlord is good Business. Not 
 all of Bulwer's Business is usually followed. His Business 
 of having the Widow use the staircase so often is curious, 
 and it serves a good idea of having her completely out 
 of the way at times, and the room upstairs has a value; 
 consequently, the Business has a bearing. We take it that 
 he is not going to sleep on the same floor with Pauline, 
 for his mother takes her upstairs. Besides, it gives oppor- 
 tunity for good Business not indicated in the text. In the 
 next act he rises and goes to the foot of the staircase and 
 listens. The Widow draws back the window curtains, 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE BUSINESS 209 
 
 showing that it is daybreak. The Business of opening the 
 lattice and looking in before entering by the door is very 
 old. The Widow stands at the door watching the de- 
 parture of Melnotte. The Business here employs all the 
 people appropriately. M. Deschappelles takes snuff on 
 page 50. Bulwer merely gives the essential Business. 
 
 Business is something that, in an overwhelming degree, 
 belongs to the art of the actor. An author does not and 
 cannot aet his own play in all its parts, and it would be 
 folly for him to restrict all the business to his own pre- 
 scribed directions. Fortunate is the author who has genius 
 in the actors added to his own labors to interpret his work. 
 No man succeeds in any commercial undertaking who tries 
 to do everything himself. The stage manager and actor 
 have their functions. Business and "plenty of it," as the 
 people close to the stage insist on, is exceedingly import- 
 ant and absolutely essential, but the author need concern 
 himself only about that which he wishes to fix as a part of 
 the Action itself or as to what to him is the best expression, 
 or for which an equivalent must be given by the actor. In 
 the acting, few plays contain more Business than "Ca- 
 mille;" in the text of the play itself the stage direction or 
 business is uncommonly meagre. This goes far to prove 
 that the Action of a play provides business without the 
 need of its being prescribed in every case. It confirms the 
 warning we have given the student not to think primarily 
 in Business. Business is a detail, a means of expression, 
 usually. We may express an idea in many different ways, 
 but the idea is the one valuable thing, it matters not what 
 synonyms you choose. An author may depend upon his 
 conception of a scene for the appropriate behavior of the 
 characters. Varville is seen, as the first act opens, sitting, 
 Nanine arranging the furniture. Let us assume that bet- 
 ter Business could be devised ; still, why should Dumas, at 
 this point, have taken out his tape line and measured the 
 distance between the two, and the number of steps re- 
 quired for each movement? Let the stage manager do 
 14 
 
210 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 that. I The Business as to the bundle is essential and it is 
 noted by the author. Nichette comes for certain work, and 
 there it is in the bundle. It is a bit of Objectivity. It has 
 to be. Camille, entering, throws her cloak on a chair. The 
 luxury of the opera cloak and the manner of throwing it 
 aside express character and habit and provide appropriate 
 Business for Camille's entrance. The value of Business 
 largely consists in the little incidental something to do. 
 It helps to divert the mind of the audience from what 
 would otherwise become plain artificiality in the play it- 
 self. But much of it is so natural that there is nothing 
 technical about it. Varville rises and bows, a matter of 
 course. He goes and sits at the fire ; she goes to the piano 
 and plays. She wants to get rid of him, and bids him 
 good-night. He wants to stay. The Business is not for the 
 sake of Business, but it is good Business, and it demon- 
 strates how much better it is to go e-^en further than Mere 
 Business, that it is a matter of course to find and devise 
 Business from the opportunities at hand. There was the 
 piano, the fireplace. We may well imagine Dumas taking 
 advantage of them for Business, but he was not thinking 
 in Business. He had an idea to express. Here is a very 
 good example of how to devise Business for the better 
 expression of an idea. But it is not primarily thinking in 
 Business. "Ugh ! how cold it is ! Monsieur de Varville, do 
 pray put some wood on the fire, I am frozen here. Make 
 yourself useful, for you are not agreeable." Varville fixes 
 the fire. While the professional author tries to provide the 
 characters with something to do all the while, the pri- 
 mary object of this is to remind the audience of Camille's 
 state of health. Varville's drumming on the piano has an- 
 other purpose also than Mere Business, but it is an excel- 
 lent means, by way of Business, of bringing out Camille's 
 impatience at his presence. It is words and feeling plus 
 Business. Naturally it is more effective than if it were 
 confined to words only. If left to words it would have 
 been a repetition without variety of expression. Dumas 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE BUSINESS 211 
 
 undoubtedly thought of the piano as a bit of Business, but 
 in a secondary way. Still, the operation of the dramatist's 
 mind shows how the use of Business becomes a living prin- 
 ciple. Dumas also invented Business for bringing the flip- 
 pant characters on at the close. This device is also closely 
 allied with the creative power of the Objective. It is 
 Objectivity and Business when Prudence gives Camille the 
 bank notes in the opening of the Second Act. Whether 
 Camille should be standing or sitting when Armand enters 
 is perhaps material in that she is not prepared to show her 
 emotion or any eagerness to see Armand. When Camille 
 says "It has been a beautiful day," Armand's business is to 
 look out of the window. It is not absolutely necessary, but 
 it indicates the dramatic tendency to connect incidental 
 things, visible expression. It is something in addition to 
 the thought which is in itself adequate. It is something 
 among the many things which the actor may well add. To 
 whom hath (the author) shall be given. Again we see the 
 tendency to add to and illustrate in every convenient way 
 when Varville looks at his watch in saying that he was 
 punctual. Camille could have recounted her debts in a way, 
 but the tendency to objective illustration involving Busi- 
 ness is seen in the use of the account book. Looking at the 
 watch is a matter of course and involves no creative Busi- 
 ness. The change from a shawl to a wrap was never in the 
 world invented merely for Business. Tearing the letter is 
 good Business. The natural Business for the talk between 
 Camille and her simple friends, Gustave and Nichette, is to 
 sit close together. Observe that little or no Business is in- 
 dicated in the great scene between Duval and Camille; 
 nearly all is left to the actor; at the last moment he must 
 be relied upon to give outward and visible expression to 
 the inward and spiritual emotion. Thus the limitations of 
 author and actor are clear, their functions delimited, the 
 difference between creative and interpretative Business is 
 plain. In the Fourth Act, Armand, when he meets Gus- 
 tave, takes his hand. The author thought it worth while 
 
212 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 to make the point. That is something that he did not leave 
 to the actor. Again, we have the Objective and Business 
 hand in hand, the invention of the author something not 
 left to the actor, something creative. In the fifth act, look- 
 ing at the clock, placing the pillow, giving the purse, &c., 
 are matters of course.^ There is nothing particularly crea- 
 tive except the flowers taken from the casket, teusiness is 
 a good servant, but a poor master. The absu¥"^ities, hor- 
 rors and dangers of Business for the sake of Business can 
 be better explained in some other relation, 
 f'^'^he Business expressly indicated in "Still Waters Run 
 I Deep" would bear a small proportion to the Business that 
 we would see in its actual production. Of course, a good 
 part of this additional Business would be implied in the 
 lines, but the author has only put down such Business as 
 he thought the best expression of the moment. No part 
 of the Plot proper in this play is left entirely to Business, is 
 it? Some of its Business is famous. It may not have been 
 originated by Taylor, but it has come into universal use. 
 At one time, Business with a cigar became a positive nuis- 
 ance on the stage. Nothing could be more effective, it is 
 true, than Mildmay's "seating himself comfortably in an 
 easy chair, putting his legs on another chair and lighting 
 a cigar." Quite a sedative is a cigar. It belongs to one's 
 moments of ease and unconcern. Holding it between the 
 fingers and lighting it with a match is surely a test of com- 
 posure, when a firm hand shows no tremor. Hawksley 
 knew the trick, for it is he who does as is described. "You 
 have no objection to smoke?" Mildmay: "None in the 
 world." Hawksley : "Now, my dear sir, fire away." Mild- 
 may "sits, and then in a very calm voice after watching 
 him," begins his statement. We then have the Business of 
 Hawksley's "starting," "appearing uneasy," "puffing at his 
 cigar with an effort;" Mildmay's "taking out his cigar case, 
 lighting his cigar by Hawksley's." Mildmay has beaten 
 Hawksley at his own trick of self-composure and firm 
 nerves. Hawksley falls back into his chair after Mildmay 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT U^t BUSINESS 213 
 
 announces that Hawksley is a forger, and then with an 
 effort denies it. After another speech from Mildmay, 
 Hawksley "rises" as he tells Mildmay that he lies. If this 
 Business of rising had not been indicated by Taylor, no 
 actor would have failed to introduce it, for Hawksley was 
 ready to proceed to extremities. Indeed, he aims a "blow 
 at Mildmay which he stops and forces Hawksley down into 
 an easy chair." Taylor took no chances on the actor not 
 rising, for he wanted the Business of Mildmay's forcing 
 Hawksley into the chair. He also indicates the Business 
 minutely as to Hawksley's "rising, going around the table, 
 and taking notes out of the drawer." Mildmay's position 
 being indicated as at the upper end of the table. Mildmay 
 counts out notes and gives him the shares. Hawksley 
 ''takes bundle of letters from drawer, and throws them 
 down on table." Taylor considers it important to make 
 these points. He considers it worth while indicating that 
 Mildmay "counts letters." He was giving the actor oppor- 
 tunity after opportunity to show how firm his nerves were. 
 Hawksley "puts letters into an envelope and is about to 
 light taper." Mildmay observes that Hawksley's hand 
 shakes, "takes matches from him and lights taper." Taylor 
 permits Hawksley to "seal the packet and hand it to Mild- 
 may." Hawksley "examines the bill, then burns it by 
 taper, and throws it to the ground stamping on it." Mild- 
 may "takes his hat from table." All this is good Business, 
 and was so plain to Taylor that he put it down. In fact, 
 where Hawksley lifts up his hand as if about to strike him, 
 there are no words in the text to indicate that Action, and 
 to call forth what Mildmay says, "don't try that on again, I 
 may be less patient the second time. I might send you 
 into the street without the trouble of going down stairs, 
 there's two story's fall, not to speak of area spikes; you 
 might hurt yourself/^ A little later on Hawksley says, 
 ''do you wish to provoke me to murder you?" Taylor in- 
 dicates the Business to accompany this line as "grinding 
 his teeth." Perhaps it is not always feasible for every 
 
214 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINC1PI.E: 
 
 actor playing Hawksley to carry out this stage direction. 
 It would be all right to substitute any other convenient 
 Business. pThis scene closes with Business accompanied 
 ^by no text whatever: "Hawksley seems to meditate a rush, 
 but checks himself, and stands biting his lips and tremb- 
 V ling all over." This scene is written largely with reference 
 ^to its Business, and the business is very properly minutely 
 indicated. It is such an easy matter for any author to pro- 
 vide all the Business that is absolutely essential, and it is 
 so incidental and so ready at hand, that it takes care of 
 itself. At the same time, if we hold in mind the relative 
 positions and emotions of the Characters, we must see ta 
 it that not only the responsive Business is implied in the 
 text, but we must provide a lifelikeness by giving the 
 Characters some occupation that is helpful to the illusion. 
 For instance, in the opening scene, Mildmay is seated at the 
 writing table looking at a book. The ^ole disposition of 
 the Characters as the curtain rises gives opportunities for 
 the Business of the Scene. The writer must have a vivid 
 enough conception of what will happen on the stage to give 
 sufficient form to the picture that he will present to the 
 stagemanager who will take the manuscript in hand, and 
 thereby guard against misconceptions. The stagemanager 
 might change all the Business, but he would at least have 
 the advantage of the author's picture and Business. Tay- 
 lor's Business is good, but by far the chief merit lies in the 
 text and in the management of his spiritual Action. It is 
 worth while to note that there is no Business here for the 
 mere sake of Business. Taylor did not have Emily "knot 
 the handkerchief and bring it down smartly on Mildmay's 
 face" merely for the sake of a laugh, which Business is 
 very often provocative of. This Business was merely or 
 mainly to provide for the Exit of Mildmay. Throughout 
 the play we may note that the Exits are often made on 
 lines fitting to the Action or Character. Emily was going 
 out of the room anyhow, but the words for her exit are 
 occasioned by her seeing her husband with his coat off in 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE BUSINESS 21 5 
 
 the garden, which causes her to say, "Oh ! what a contrast 
 to Hawksley! Heigh ho!" There is a great deal of Busi- 
 ness indicated or implied in the scene between Hawksley 
 and Emily. "Taking stage backwards and forwards" 
 and "both going up stage" is very familiar Business. 
 The Business of Mildmay's painting the trellis while 
 on the ladder was necessarily introduced because he was 
 to overhear a conversation by accident. The Business sug- 
 gested itself, but it was not for the sake of Business that 
 it was introduced. In the scene between Potter and Mild- 
 may, when Mildmay tells Potter that he has not the slight- 
 est objection to the purchase of fifty more shares of Hawk- 
 sley's stock, "he goes up for his hat, &c." This Business 
 was in order to permit Mildmay to assume indifference. 
 This is a small point, and shows the difference between 
 mere incidental Business and Business with a purpose of 
 its own. There is Action in this Business, for the audience 
 gets a point on Mildmay's state of mind. Taylor indicates 
 the Business of Hawksley's "looking at his watch" as he 
 says "half-past twelve o'clock." Without this stage direc- 
 tion, an actor who would not look at his watch or a clock 
 or hear a distant bell, would not understand the first rudi- 
 ments of his business. It is peculiarly the actor's part to 
 furnish Business. Mrs. Sternhold, in the second act, when 
 Mildmay enters, "crosses to R., resumes her seat and 
 pours out tea, &c." The actress is always happy at a tea 
 table. Taylor has indicated just sufficient Business there 
 to determine one or two little points. He could well rely 
 upon the actor to furnish plenty of Business "at a tea 
 table." The actor-author writing a play with a tea table 
 in it usually loses all his bearings, and sacrifices much that 
 should be in the text to Business. We need not go into 
 every bit of Business indicated in this play. Hawksley's 
 "sitting on corner of table" is familiar Business. The Busi- 
 ness at the opening of the third act where Mrs. Sternhold, 
 Mrs. Mildmay and Potter are occupied in preparing the 
 letters putting off the dinner is natural and requires no 
 
2l6 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 discussion. The play has been popular in its use for the 
 last fifty years largely by reason of its Business. 
 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is a great acting 
 play, and consequently the opportunities for Business 
 must be good. But Massinger did not write for the 
 sake of Business. He gives very little Business, but a great 
 deal of it, all that an actor can invent, is implied in the 
 lines and the situations. A stagemanager could take this 
 manuscript and fill it with indicated Business. He could do 
 it a great deal better than you could, if you were inex- 
 perienced, but you too could do much in that direction. 
 The ordinary stagemanager would give the positions of 
 the characters on the stage and have them cross and rise 
 and sit with a greater variety and propriety, technically, 
 than you could, but you might interpret the lines even 
 better than he. "Raising his cudgel," Wellborn finally 
 "beats Tap well over to L." Between these two points 
 there is no Business indicated. They talk at some length 
 Wellborn, for the most part, listening. He controls him- 
 self. Why? Is it to permit Massinger to get certain facts 
 before the audience? It could appear so if it were not for 
 the Business to be supplied by the actor. There is no di- 
 rect explanation given in the text. Wellborn is filled with 
 emotions of various kinds. They must be expressed in 
 some way, facially, by posture, &c. He is amazed, for one 
 thing, at the impudence and ingratitude of Tapwell. He 
 wants to see how far he will go. He is not hesitating 
 whetlj^rjie\ shall beat him or not. Perhaps he did not hesi- 
 tate a moment when Tapwell spoke of the bailiff. Vv^hy 
 should not Wellborn remind him of what he had done for 
 him before he laid the "rough stick on him?" When the 
 tapster recited the history of Old Sir John, why should not 
 Wellborn sink into meditation for a moment? Tapwell has 
 never spoken in this way and with such command of words 
 before. Why is Wellborn not puzzled a little by the cir- 
 cumstance? "Some curate hath penned this invective, and 
 you have studied it." "Offers him money." The Business 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERE BUSINESS 21/ 
 
 is essential. It is inevitable, a matter of course in acting, 
 and a very different thing from the mere gestures of elocu- 
 tion. "In a line across." See the authority of Order at 
 once. "Crosses to Furnace and shakes hands." Massinger 
 probably did not put that in the manuscript. A stagemana- 
 ger v^ould have done so, for he writes primarily from the 
 point of view of Business. Note the stagemanager's direc- 
 tions for the reception of Allworth by the servants : "All- 
 worth crosses to Furnace; Allworth crosses to Order; 
 crosses to Amble; crosses R. ; Order retires up R." All 
 this in six sentences or speeches. When Sir Giles enters, 
 with others, "Marrall goes behind to R." It disperses the 
 Overreach group, makes them stand out singly when re- 
 quired in the changing picture, and permits Sir Giles and 
 Marrall to "confer apart" while Greedy has his talk about 
 the food. Sir Giles "crosses, followed by Marrall" when 
 Sir Giles denounces Wellborn. "Marrall eyeing Wellborn 
 contemptuously, — who takes a chair and sits, C." This 
 may not be Massinger. But good points are made in this 
 stage-direction. Now, the Business for Greedy, implied 
 only and not expressed, is as good as that expressed for 
 Marrall. How would he say that he would grant the war- 
 rant? with perfect indifference, not with a withering look 
 at Wellborn, for he is thinking of his eating, and at once 
 turns as he makes his exit, all grace and full of hope for 
 culinary favors, to the cook: "Think of pye-corner. Fur- 
 nace !" Rely on the actor who plays Greedy to supply plen- 
 ty of good Business. How much better Wellborn can utter 
 "This is rare," if he is sitting. Imagine him stretching out 
 his legs, relaxed, the tattered gentleman feeling a bit like 
 himself. He "starts up" only when Amble threatens to 
 use bodily force. Remember that he is sitting center. He 
 remains a picture. It would be bad Business indeed if he 
 were moving about. The Business is so good that Mas- 
 jeinger must have so conceived the happenings. After a 
 /business he sees everything as it happens. Then he neces- 
 ^dramatist has the mechanism of his play and reaches the 
 
2l8 ANAIvYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.K 
 
 sarily thinks in Business, but not merely for the sake of 
 Business. If he is borrowing something from some other 
 play, or, as an actor-author, from some reminiscence, he 
 thinks Business for its own sake primarily. Let us refer to 
 the original. I find that the Business is not there. Proba- 
 bly Kean put it in. Kean was an actor of genius. This 
 play has been greatly bettered in the acting edition. It 
 would seem to appear, when we make a comparison of the 
 acting version with the original, that the actor of the period 
 of the play, in his art, like the author, relied much upon the 
 words. The proof is clear here that not so much import- 
 ance was attached to Business at that time as now. But, 
 even if we assume that Massinger conceived different Busi- 
 ness, we may rest easy that it was effective. The offering 
 of the pocketbook is implied as explained in similar condi- 
 tions. The original or one of the early editions has the 
 Business, "Whispers to her," just before she says, "Noth- 
 ing else?" This is omitted in the present version. It is a 
 proper stage direction when "Lady Allworth signs to the 
 servants, who retire to the top of the stage." This is im- 
 plied, but one must read between the lines. "Placing hand 
 on Marrall's shoulder" is a small point, but fitting. Other 
 Business in this act is a matter of course. "Speaking off 
 as he enters" is still a much used Business in our day and 
 always will be. Sir Giles "walks around Margaret, and re- 
 mains on her L." He is inspecting her in "these orient 
 pearls and diamonds well placed, too." He would prefer 
 her in another gown which he describes. It is a modern 
 interpolation that "Greedy enters, R., with a napkin around 
 his neck, and a dumpling in his hand," and later with a 
 towel and then with "a napkin under his chin." Greedy 
 starts to the dinner table; Marrall stops him. Sir Giles 
 "leans on back of the chair" as he pictures to Lord Lovell 
 the advantages offered by the match with Margaret. The 
 Business is not absolutely essential, but it is good, proba- 
 bly Kean's. The last act necessarily involves and implies 
 much Business, for it is a great acting opportunity, particu- 
 
ACTION (drama) is NOT MERIJ BUSINESS 21^ 
 
 larly for Sir Giles. Massinger may have conceived it all 
 differently, and it is obvious or demonstrable that, in cer- 
 tain passages, he did not have the same Business in mind 
 at all. But the opportunity for it was afforded by the dra- 
 matist. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ACTION (DRAMA) IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER 
 OF WORDS. 
 
 Assuming that the author of "Ingomar" (as did the 
 author of each of the other plays in the list) made his 
 division into acts and scenes, then framed his scenario, be- 
 fore beginning the actual composition or wording of his play, 
 it must be evident to you that Words are a secondary con- 
 sideration. By referring to the definition of a Drama in 
 **The Technique" you w^ill see that Words are but one of 
 the means of expression. What has been said about Busi- 
 ness applies largely to Words. There are millions of words 
 and combinations of words, but the combination of emo- 
 tions and happenings in a play are infinitely more limited. 
 A play is written by means, primarily of the emotions, of 
 the relationship of the characters and of those happenings 
 that find play in the structure and which cause and require 
 structure and delimitation into scenes. >T he wor ds used .in 
 mapping out your Play, for example, are merely descrip- 
 tive ; and words become of importance only when, your play 
 being to all intents and purposes already practically com- 
 pleted, you must give speech to your characters. This 
 is the important one point to be learned in this division of 
 our study. Things are important in the drama as you reach 
 them. Never begin writing a play by means of Words. Re- 
 member that the drama is full of economies ; the stage set- 
 ting, the business, the dress, what has happened before the 
 Action — ^and hundreds of things that obviate the use of 
 words or the necessity of them. They are t o be used only 
 when jie^essary. That the play is largely written by means 
 of the emotions and technically by means of scenes, as we 
 shall see, may be illustrated by the anecdote told of a cer- 
 tain British Lord who, in commenting on a celebrated scene 
 in blank verse in a popular play of the day, contended that 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER OF WORDS 221 
 
 the words were fustian, and wagered that he could supply 
 the scene, as to its long speech, with words meaning abso- 
 lutely nothing, and that the actress, in delivering them, 
 with the same passion, would at least get equal applause. 
 It was tried and the applause was even greater, the actress 
 having entered into the spirit of the wager. The situation 
 and the emotion were the real, definite and effective ele- 
 ments. Take any one of the plays in the list and cut out 
 as many words and lines as you think you safely can do 
 without destroying the Action, and you will see the force 
 of the statement that words alone do not make a play. 
 Learn to abhor words as words. The value of words we 
 shall appreciate in their proper use, when we reach Dia- 
 logue. 
 
 That words are, in a measure, elements in a drama is 
 apparent from the very definition of a drama, but we have 
 seen that a play is constructed before there is any occasion 
 for Words. The limitation of this element will be fully 
 discussed later on. In analyzing plays see wherein Words 
 are used falsely, taking the place of proper construction and 
 the thing itself. There is no illustration of their misuse in 
 "The La dy of Lyons" except by way of superfluity and 
 bombast^ If Bulwer had been relying upon Words, he 
 T'would have had Beauseant, in his talk with Glavis, 
 say that he knew a means of revenge, that he knew 
 a gardener's son, Melnotte, that he was called Prince 
 by the peasantry, &c. He would have destroyed the 
 dramatic qualities of the Action in every direction. On the 
 contrary, he lets the facts take the place of Words. Surely, 
 Words are abundant in Melnotte's description of his pal- 
 ace, but they are merely incidental to a definite purpose. 
 It is the scene and the idea that do the business 
 and not the words as words. Words are means of expres- 
 sion only, subordinate always. To avoid Words Business 
 is often used, as where Melnotte throws away his brush 
 at the easel. They are connected with Facts and thus 
 have a concreteness. He. had sent the rarest flowers to 
 
222 ANAI^YSIS 01? DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,E 
 
 Pauline, as we know. He had sent verses signed by his 
 own name and expects the return of his messenger. If 
 Words had an unlimited value, he could give an indefinite 
 number of reasons why he thought Pauline would receive 
 his suit with favor. The fact that Melnotte has succeeded 
 in gaining the favor of Pauline and her mother is told in 
 words at the beginning of the second act, but it is a logical 
 statement of a fact that we accept, and is accompanied by 
 concrete things. It does not take the place of what should 
 have been shown. Words appear in a badly written play 
 in the form of talk without Action, examples of which 
 must be found elsewhereJi Macready, with his great stage- 
 craft, revised this play, and little has been left to cut. He 
 no doubt did a great deal of cutting out of the surplusage 
 from the original manuscript. 
 
 x^ Dumas has himself said that a difficulty in pla)rwriting 
 is, not what to say, so much as what not to say. It is not 
 likely, then, that we would find unnecessary words in his 
 play. Here and there we might cut without destroying the 
 Action, but we would reduce it. Words become the me- 
 dium of theAction after the other mediums have been 
 established.y It is by means of the construction that Dumas 
 
 Ifavoided the use of Words as Words and finally reached 
 them with an almost independent, primary purpose and 
 function. Had he not introduced Nichette by means of a 
 scene, the scene accomplishing something else besides in- 
 troducing her, he would have been compelled to resort to 
 Words to describe her and her relations to Camille and 
 Gustave. He would have had Words taking the place 
 of Action and Objectivity, and we would have missed that 
 Indirectness which conveys the fact of the friendship be- 
 tween Camille and Nichette and why they were friends. 
 They formerly worked together, and here is the working 
 girl coming after work left iof her. It is not impossible that 
 these facts could have been conveyed by words in some 
 other connection, but if left entirely or mainly to Words 
 the effect would be diminished in proportion to the lack 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER OF WORDS 223 
 
 of the Other qualities pointed out in the scenes. Suppose 
 Nanine had thought that she heard the bell ring and re- 
 marked that it might be Nichette, but was mistaken, the 
 bell not having been rung; Varville could have asked who 
 Nichette was, and the Dialogue might have proceeded as 
 now; but it would be a feeble impression even if the audi- 
 ence caught every word. Dumas had to rely on words in 
 giving the history of Camille as a part of the Conditions 
 Precedent, which could not by any possibility be acted. 
 But those Words live in their effect upon Varville and in 
 defining the Action in the mind of the audience with refer- 
 ence to Varville. If the conversation had continued so as 
 to include a description of the various friends of Camille, 
 it would have been mere talk and words. With an in- 
 experienced writer what would there be to prevent him 
 from having Camille and Varrille enter into an extended 
 conversation when Camille comes on? What saves the 
 scene from Words? The prearranged mechanism of the 
 play. The conversation takes the only turn it can and is 
 kept within the limitations o£ the object of the scene. Every 
 syllable beyond the accomplishment of the object of a scene 
 is mere talk, so many words. A wrong arrangement in the 
 scene or in the Dialogue itself will convert everything into 
 Mere Words. If Words are made the first thing in the 
 process of writing a play it will inevitably fall into Words. 
 While Construction prevents the process of mere Words, 
 which is the instinct of the mind not trained to the dra- 
 matic, the proper Sequence of ideas promotes the economy 
 of the moment. These ideas are distributed so as to appear 
 at the right time and with the greatest effect. Prudence 
 calls from her window that "a young man whom I have 
 not seen for a long time has just stepped in to see me, and 
 I cannot leave him alone." "Then bring him along," says 
 Camille. Could not Prudence have given his name and told 
 all about him? As it is, Camille's indifference is shown, 
 and we get a new turn in connection with the actual pres- 
 -ence of Armand when he enters. Something has been saved 
 
224 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 for the following scenes. The situation did not demand 
 that Prudence should say more. The audience knows 
 nothing of Armand, and does not see what else she could 
 say or why she shauld say it. If they did there would 
 be a sense of something lacking. The fact that Prudence 
 was to bring a young man was enough. Then comes his 
 name, then that he is "the man of all Paris w^ho loves you 
 most," then who his father is, then as to his sister. If all 
 these facts had been jumbled together in one speech by 
 Prudence either before she came on or after she entered 
 they would have been Words; the audience would not 
 have remembered them, for the points would not have 
 been made. There would have been a blur instead of a 
 distinct impression with reference to each fact. These are 
 living facts in their use in the immediate Action J A long 
 history is told in the third scene in order to bring out Con- 
 ditions Precedent but they effect one thing; these facts 
 effect constant change before the eye. We have already 
 seen why the talk at the supper table is not Mere Words. 
 Every Word in these scenes counts at the present moment. 
 In the Fourth Act, if Prudence had gossiped about Ca- 
 mille's extravagance and recklessness in her mode of liv- 
 ing, "scarcely an hour at home — operas, balls, suppers — 
 and as for sleep, that scarcely visits her any more," with 
 any character other than Armand, the effect would be lack- 
 ing, and it would fall into Words. If it were not for the 
 Preparation in the one scene in the first act, and a few 
 bits of Preparation in the course of the Action, many 
 Words of explanation would be required for the scene 
 between Camille, Nichette and Gustave. In point of fact, 
 no use of mere words would have made the scene more 
 effective. This play is so compact, its construction is so 
 inevitable, and its Action so fitting, that it is difficult to 
 frame examples by way of changing anything. It is re- 
 markable in its economy of Words. The fact that Arm- 
 and's father is a judge saves all description of Character, 
 and Gaston's remark that he was a gruff, crusty old 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER OF WORDS 225 
 
 gentleman added the touch needed. We know his social 
 position, we know of his daughter. We learn that she is 
 engaged when the father urges the fact as a reason why 
 Camille should give up Armand. To have introduced this 
 and the objection of the girl's parents to the marriage 
 earlier would have been waste of Words. We have the 
 Unexpected by reason of this forbearance. The Action at 
 all points is Self-Explanatory, in itself a great saving of 
 Words. The Compulsion that determines in the great 
 scene with the father depends largely upon what we have 
 already seen and know. All the words that are used apply 
 to the present moment of the Action. The Indirection used 
 also obviates the use of Words. The character of Olimpe 
 is particularly notable for the absolute economy of Words. 
 It is not what is said about her, but what she does and in- 
 cidentally says. The play was plainly worked out in all 
 its parts before the Dialogue was written. It is true that 
 Dumas dramatized it from his novel, but he wrote with 
 reference to Drama and recast the material when he put 
 it into dramatic form. Economy of Words by means of 
 Business is to be noted particularly in the last act. 
 
 An inordinate use of Words usually comes from defec- 
 tive structure. The play having been built and being com- 
 plete in its outlines, the scenes which we are to clothe with 
 Words having been provided, we come to a distinct danger. 
 The inexperienced writer who may have acquired his art 
 up to the point of Dialogue, if not fully acquainted 
 with the principles governing Words, would then upset 
 all the good work he had done before. It is in the Dialogue 
 which is carried out by Words that his judgment and tech- 
 nique must again control him. We shall give parts of the 
 Dialogue of the first scene in "Still Waters Run Deep" in 
 a way that the amateur might give it, indicating by brack- 
 ets the superfluous words that he might use. 
 
 Mildmay. 
 
 [It is a very tedious evening, I have tried to introduce 
 15 
 
226 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 several topics of conversation, but all of you seem to be 
 grumpy. They say music has charms to soothe the savage 
 breast, and I do not see why the piano should stand idle. 
 I have heard it said that wherever you find a piano you 
 find a happy home.] Suppose, Emily, you give us a little 
 music? 
 
 Mrs. Sternhold. 
 
 [And it is a very good piano indeed, but no thanks to 
 you, I selected it myself and gave a hundred pounds for it. 
 What care you for music ? Asking Emily to give us a little 
 music!] Nonsense! that you may have an opportunity of 
 snoring without detection, Mr. Mildmay. 
 
 Mildmay. 
 
 (Deprecatingly) [I do not think I snore in the way to 
 disturb people, bul we shall let that pass]. I think perhaps 
 Emily [who is so fond of playing the piano] might indulge 
 tne with Auld Robin Gray. 
 
 Mrs. Mildmay. 
 
 [Listen to the man talking!] Auld Robin Gray! Now, 
 Aunt, only conceive of his asking for a stupid old melody 
 like that [a simple little thing that any schoolgirl who 
 hardly knows her scales could play.] 
 
 Mildmay. 
 
 [I remember the time, and you were quite a skillful mu- 
 sician even then, when you played it.] You used to like 
 playing it to me before we were married. 
 Mrs. Mildmay. 
 
 Before we were married ! when you know I adore Beeth- 
 oven, [the divine master of music. To play his pieces re- 
 quires more skill than I had in those days. I can assure 
 you I have not had much to amuse myself during my mar- 
 ried life except to play, and my skill is very much admired 
 I shall let you know] 
 
 Mrs. Sternhold. 
 
 To appreciate Beethoven, Emily, requires a soul for mu- 
 sic: Mr. Mildmay has no soul for music. [I don't believe 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARII^Y A MATTER O^ WORDS 22/ 
 
 he can tell one note from another ; knowing that you prefer 
 the higher music he certainly should have taken some 
 means to cultivate himself ; no, he has no soul for music] 
 
 Potter. 
 No, no, John, you know you haven't. [I heard you try- 
 ing to whistle a popular melody the other day and it made 
 my teeth stand on edge.] 
 
 Mildmay. 
 [Your teeth!] 
 
 Potter. 
 [Bah!] You have no soul for anything, 
 
 Mildmay. 
 Very well, [have it your own way.] By the by, Emily, 
 what do you say to a quiet little dinner at Richmond to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 Mrs. Sternhold. 
 It's quite out of the question, Mr. Mildmay. [You are al- 
 ways making some absurd suggestion, and trying to dis- 
 turb the family arrangements.] I can't allow Emily to go, 
 [and for a very good reason] I have issued invitations for 
 a dinner here. 
 
 Mildmay. 
 [I must say that you are always doing something to up- 
 set my calculations, but let it go.] I thought as it was the 
 anniversary of our wedding day, Emily, you would like a 
 tete-a-tete with me at the Star and Garter, [which you 
 know is celebrated for some of its dishes.] 
 Mrs. Mildmay. 
 [I know Mr. Mildmay, that you have an inordinate appe- 
 tite for good eating, and I have no doubt that you are cor- 
 rectly informed about the excellence of the food prepared 
 at the Star and Garter. I am not inclined to be propitiated 
 
 Lby any such means. If you cannot make yourself agreeable 
 at home, I am sure that you cannot away from home in 
 what you call a tete-a-tete.] But you hear that it is quite 
 impossible, and that my aunt has made a party at home. 
 B 
 
228 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE) 
 
 If a play were thus Dialogued, correct in every way ex- 
 cept that the blue pencil would have to be drawn through 
 the sentences in the brackets, you may be sure that the 
 expert to whom it might be submitted would unerringly 
 mark out the sentences indicated by the brackets. A num- 
 ber of these sentences are simply superfluous in the matter 
 of Words. Others are mere Words, because divergent from 
 the immediate purpose of the Dialogue or scene. What 
 we have given as the unnecessary use of words could also 
 be applied to Mere Life. It would be an easy and most 
 valuable exercise for the student to elaborate scenes from 
 plays, add superfluous words and sentences, and then rea- 
 son it out why they are not essential and may be harmful 
 although in perfect keeping with the Characters and the 
 circumstances. So far as mere talk is concerned, the stu- 
 dent will thereby acquire a mortal hatred of mere talk and 
 mere words. He will learn the exacting nature of the re- 
 quirement of economy in this respect in a play. 
 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" belongs to the 
 highest form of the literary acting drama, and is conse- 
 quently much concerned with Words as a form of expres- 
 sion, as a decidedly technical element in the work. In no 
 drama are Words to be disregarded, but are to be used with 
 reference to their effect and importance in the scheme, and 
 are to be considered seriously at the time they become im- 
 portant in the dialogue. In the literary drama the drama- 
 tist begins to consider the form of expression somewhat 
 earlier than he does in the prose forms. Many of the pas- 
 sages and phrases employed by Massinger came to him in 
 his notes. Detached expressions may occur to you in 
 your material and be set down. Structural form of 
 course comes first. From papers .left by Schiller we know 
 that his method was to get his structure first, to make out 
 his scenari6 and then to translate into verse, stopping at 
 times to work out complete passages in verse. We recog- 
 nize the power of the element of words in this play, but 
 as powerful as it is, Massinger could no more have relied 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER OF WORDS 229 
 
 Upon it than the veriest amateur who attempts everything 
 by means of Words. Note how fully the character of Sir 
 Giles is built up by means of Words even before we have 
 seen him, but these descriptive Words belong to the Action 
 of the moment and advance the Action of the play. Tap- 
 well reminds Wellborn and tells us of the time when Sir 
 Giles, resolving not to lose his opportunity, "on statutes, 
 mortgages and bidding bonds, awhile supplied his folly, 
 and, having got his land, then left him/' When Wellborn 
 and Tom AUworth talk, we are told of the "cormorant," 
 Overreach, who had ruined both Wellborn and Allworth. 
 We learn of his vast ambition for his daughter Margaret. 
 The same facts could have been conveyed by Wellborn in 
 the opening of the play by means of a soliloquy, and there 
 would have been some Action in them, but not as now, 
 where they are raised to the Nth power; not as now when 
 they are in combination with happenings and have a pro- 
 pulsive force, and gather force always from their signifi- 
 cance as to the past, the present and the future. In the 
 opening scene of the Second Act, the multiplicity of Words 
 used by Sir Giles and Marrall is saved from being Words, 
 mainly or merely, by reason of the Action. Massinger does 
 not put Words above Action, or try to accomplish by means 
 of them what should be accomplished by Action itself. 
 Wellborn is not mentioned by name until the latter part 
 of the Scene, but the object of the scene is to have all that 
 is said bear on Wellborn, directly or indirectly. If noth- 
 ing had been said about Sir Giles before the opening of the 
 scene the Action would not begin until Wellborn is men- 
 tioned, and all preceding that point would be Words. It is 
 the connection of the ideas that gives force to the Words 
 spoken of Farmer Frugal, whom we never see, and of Jus- 
 tice Greedy, of whom we now hear for th e first time, and 
 not by name until the talk has advancedjif Wellborn or~7 
 Allworth had described in any way tHeinsolence of the 
 pampered servants at Lady Allworth's (and Massinger's 
 description would have been choice), what is now 
 
230 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvB 
 
 Action would have declined into Words, for they 
 would not have been to the immediate purpose. This 
 insolence was something that had to be shown and 
 could not be left to WordsJ If the substance of what 
 is said between Sir Giles and Marrall had been 
 given to us in the talk between Tapwell and Wellborn, it 
 might have served to give us a definite idea of Overreach's 
 methods and his tools, but it would have been out of place, 
 in wrong Sequence, and in that way have been Words. 
 There w ould have been too much of it, and therefore 
 WordsJ The object of the first scene of the play refers 
 less to the Uncle than to the Nephew. After we learn the 
 circumstance and realize the heartless ingratitude of Tap- 
 well, we are impatient to see Wellborn administer merited 
 blows, and talk about Sir Giles would be mere Words. They 
 would leave little or no impression or an impression at 
 the wrong time. We have no more Words than are necessary 
 to the Action of the scene. It is just as possible to use too 
 few Words as it is to use too many. Without the details con- 
 veyed in the quarrel in the first scene, we would not un- 
 derstand the circumstances ; we could not appreciate Well- 
 born's wrath. Every word concerns the present in a vital 
 way, although they are talking largely of the past, and it 
 is preparation of an admirable kind for the future. Words 
 are saved by getting the structure first, and confining the 
 Words to the object of the scene. Massinger, in this way, 
 did not write by means of Words. Facts, feeling and 
 character are conveyed all the time and in their proper 
 place and with the proper effect. The characters do not 
 talk to hear themselves talk, and Massinger did not write 
 for the mere sake of writing. The worst fault of any writer 
 in any form of literature is self-consciousness, just as the 
 damnable sin of any actor is self-consciousness, and Mas- 
 singer has not a bit of it. All his gifts were at the service 
 of the drama; all subdued to that in which he worked. 
 Drama abhors an abstraction no less severely than nature 
 abhors a vacuum. Lady All worth's description of the 
 
ACTION IS NOT PRIMARILY A MATTER OF WORDS 23 1 
 
 qualities of a soldier is so general in its application that it 
 could be used as widely as a universal truth and stand by 
 itself; but it is in its connection absolutely concrete, a part 
 of the wonderfully substantial structure. Note its many 
 bearings. She begins her talk with her step-son, Tom All- 
 worth, with an inquiry about his "noble master," and then 
 turns to the giving of good advice. They are the words 
 of his own father that she repeats to him about the true 
 soldier, and, "to conclude," as she says, she bids him beware 
 of evil company. It all leads up directly to warning him 
 against companionship with Wellborn. It is concrete and 
 practical. It has also a subtle bearing on her admiration 
 for Allworth's "noble master." It is a bit of Preparation 
 for her union with him. It is not meant to be obvious at 
 the moment, but when the time arrives we are prepared 
 to see those two lofty souls come together. Lord Lovell 
 is the soldier whom she describes in repeating the words 
 of Allworth's father. Lady Allworth says, for "often men 
 are like those with whom they do converse." This is a pro- 
 verb which Massinger puts in his own way. But see how 
 concrete she makes it in her application by immediately 
 adding "and, from one man I warn you, and that's Well- 
 born." There is much in this play that is of universal ap- 
 plication, but its immediate use is always to the point. The 
 play, indeed, is remarkable in seeming to verify objectively 
 everything that is said. The words at the time of utterance 
 have a concrete use and later on they are demonstrated 
 Objectively. In the first scene of the Second Act, for ex- 
 ample. Sir Giles declares that he will not have a chamber- 
 maid who ties Margaret's shoes or does any meaner office, 
 but such whose fathers were worshipful. We see this veri- 
 fied when Margaret appears accompanied by Lady Down- 1 
 fallen. ^ 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD, THE 
 OPPOSITE OF STORY TELLING. 
 
 f Indirectness is that essential and distinctive quality in 
 I the Drama whereby all that is said and done by the charac- 
 N ters is said and done through the necessities of the moment 
 Y and because the Action calls for it ; so that everything indi- 
 / rectly reaches the audience through the Action, nothing be- 
 v^ing addressed to it 
 
 By learning how to do a thing your mind acquires the 
 habit of doing it in the right way, and if by chance or in- 
 advertance you do it the wrong way, that moment you feel 
 it. Until one understands the principles of the drama and 
 the art of playwriting, his entire method, absolutely natural 
 to him, is the wrong method. He naturally expresses him- 
 self in the method most habitual to him. We commonly 
 impart our experiences by narrative and description, and 
 in beginning to write drama the novice uses words, and 
 words only, the medium to which he is accustomed. How- 
 ever animated his account of a happening, it remains a 
 description, whereas, so far as the Action of a play is con- 
 cerned, description is an utter impossibility. The drama- 
 tist removes himself from any Direct communication with 
 the Action and sees to it, further, that there is no Direct 
 communication from the characters to the audience. What- 
 ever the characters say is for themselves and without refer- 
 ence to us. It is the part of the author to put them in 
 relations and positions where they have to say the desired 
 things necessary for the understanding of the audience and 
 the progress of the Action. Sq far away is the drama from 
 the need of telling things that its first care is to provide 
 agaTnst words in every possible way, by means of scenery, 
 the costumes, the make-up, the mechanism of the play and 
 the Action generally. Every detail of information that is 
 
INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD 233 
 
 imparted to us is revealed as if we did not exist. Surely 
 there can be no Direct communication with anything 
 that does not exist. The slightest variation from what 
 is implied in this law of Indirection is undramatic 
 and weakens the Action. We see that Parthenia 
 is humble from the house of her parents out 
 of which her mother comes. The mother tells of Parthe- 
 nia's character; but how? By way of remonstrance with 
 her, not for the sake of the audience. That Parthenia is in 
 love with no one is brought out in the same Indirect way. 
 The smallest details are thus introduced Indirectly, that 
 Parthenia's father is a poor armorer, that the family is in 
 needy circumstances, that the girl has reached a marriage- 
 able age, that she is no longer free to dream and that she 
 must consider a certain marriage. It is a great part of the 
 art to introduce desired facts in the right way and at the 
 right time. Here it is that Sequence comes into play. It is 
 all Indirect. Do we not see, in the first scene between Par- 
 thenia and her mother that her character is the exact oppo- 
 site to what the mother says? She is a loving and dutiful 
 daughter. The amateur's tendency to Directness is destruc- 
 ^ve of the Detail, color, emotion and everything that gives 
 the drama its charm. Ti\e.more you let an audience see for 
 itself the better pleased it will be. It resents as an im- / 
 pertinence anything Direct from author or character; and ' 
 in as much as an author must misuse his character to make / 
 him speak Directly, there is a double iniquity about Direct- \ 
 ness that an audience feels, if it does not recognize the j 
 cause of its discomfort. ^ 
 
 All the principles are connected each with the other. In 
 "The Lady of Lyons" the amateur's way would have been 
 to have Pauline's pride told of in words before she ap- 
 peared, but that pride is conveyed in an indirect way by 
 showing her at her toilet and by the actual state of mind 
 of the two women. The appearance of wealth in the cir- 
 cumstances and the incident of the ordering of the carriage 
 tell of that wealth indirectly. We are informed that the 
 
234 ANAI<YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIylS 
 
 family is in trade by Indirection when Beauseant makes 
 his aside remark. This Indirection consists in that nothing- 
 whatever is told to the audience, but is understood by the 
 audience from the circumstances. The vanity of the moth- 
 er all comes out without a comment. Nobody tells us that 
 Damas is a blunt and democratic old soldier. It comes out 
 in his rebuke of the women. It is by Indirection that we 
 learn that they are looking for a prince. The Landlord's 
 account of Melnotte, that he is well to do and accompished 
 is Indirection because it is not addressed to the audience or, 
 in the slightest degree, given with reference to anything 
 but the information of the questioners. The opening scene 
 of act second is good Indirection. When Melnotte asks 
 who planned the gardens, it Indirectly shows that he is 
 playing a part. What need was there for him to say in an 
 aside to the audience that he must pretend ignorance? That 
 would have been a clumsy and superfluous device of Di- 
 rectness. Damas' suspicion is sufficiently indicated and In- 
 directly by his saying that he had heard the porter say 
 Melnotte was "much like his highness." A clumsier writer 
 would have had him express his suspicion definitely and 
 Directly. Note the Indirectness by which Pauline discov- 
 ers that the widow is Melnotte's mother. The amateur 
 would go straight at it and lose all his points. We know 
 that Beauseant is lying when he sends the widow off for 
 Melnotte by the Indirection. When Damas says : "There 
 is something fine in the rascal, after all," it is the Indirect 
 way of saying "I am for him." In the opening of the last 
 act the amateur would have Damas, in a monologue, tell 
 about Morier and what had happened in the meanwhile. 
 Bulwer creates characters in order to have it Indirect. 
 
 "Camille" is of Indirection all compact. Inasmuch 
 as everything in a play must be indirectly conveyed, it is 
 not necessary to call attention to every example in every 
 line in "Camille." What reaches an audience must come- 
 through the medium of the Characters and not be directly 
 imparted. If a character should step to the front of the stage,. 
 
INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD 235 
 
 like Bottom the Weaver, and explain matters to the audi- 
 ence, it would be direct. This may seem to be an extreme 
 case, but all monologue and all dialogue not justified by the 
 necessity of the characters for themselves is exactly the 
 same thing. The characters are unconscious of the audi- 
 ence, and by no possibility can they convey anything di- 
 rectly to it. It may be said that scenery and costume are 
 direct, but their relations to the Action of the play depend 
 upon Indirection. It may seem at first that Nanine's ac- 
 count of Camille is direct, but it is not, for she is under the 
 necessity of explaining to Varville, and that necessity 
 would exist even if the audience did not hear it. If she 
 had given the Story in a monologue at the opening of the 
 play without any apparent necessity, it would have been 
 in the nature of the direct. It is very difficult in writing a 
 play to escape the exercise of any and all of the principles, 
 and this false monologue which we indicate might be pre- 
 pared with a certain measure of Indirectness; but every- 
 thing should be done in a play in the proper way. Tlie 
 drama is not satisfied with half measures and apologetic 
 art, or mere artifice. The tendency is toward perfect art, 
 and no dramatist should be satisfied with that which is de- 
 fective. That Nichette is a working girl is Indirectly 
 shown by her calling for the bundle. Her affection for 
 Camille is indirectly led up to by her taking the bundle 
 instead of having it sent to her, for, as she says, ''nothing 
 is a trouble that I do for Camille." The fact that Camille 
 is fond of her is Indirectly brought out by Varville's com- 
 ment on the name and Nanine's reply that it was a pet 
 name and that they are very fond of each other. It imme- 
 diately follows by Indirection that they used to be com- 
 panions, worked together in the same room, and that 
 Camille was an embroideress. All this could have been 
 Indirectly told by Nanine in a Monologue, or less directly 
 in a talk with Varville. But the slight indirection would not 
 have been sufficient after the dramatic method. The work- 
 man must never quarrel with his tools. In the case of this 
 
236 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 principle, he must seek the Indirect without compromise. 
 It is brought out Indirectly that Nichette is Avise, in the 
 French meaning of the word, and that she is to be married 
 to Gaston, who is waiting below. Do you not see the 
 value of this Indirection in the manner of furnishing ani- 
 mated Dialogue? Story is commonly long winded, de- 
 scriptive and without that vibration between the speakers 
 which should exist. Everything in these three first scenes 
 up to the Entrance of Camille is brought out Indirectly, 
 and yet it would be possible to make it all direct, in the 
 manner indicated. That Camille is not pleased to see Var- 
 ville is brought out by Indirection in the speeches which 
 pass between them. t-fe.me^ns_j;)f this Indirectioii.^ 
 DetaiU Camille's life of luxury and her feverish love of 
 pleasure are indirectly conveyed by the facts that she has 
 just returned from the opera, has about her her rich 
 cloak and is expecting friends to supper with whom she is 
 to continue her occupation of amusement. These ideas 
 are conveyed to the audience in addition to the things 
 actually seen. To call the Objectivity of these things direct 
 would not be wholly true, and the observation and thought 
 of the audience goes beyond, for example, the mere splen- 
 dor of the cloak and gown. That Camille is ill may be said 
 to be conveyed by her cough, but it is to be observed that 
 the purpose of the author is in the nature of Indirection, 
 because no emphasis is laid upon the incident. The par- 
 ticular thing at this moment is to repel Varville's solicitude 
 and have her say "I will be better when you are gone." To 
 be fully dramatic, the essential tendency of the dramatic 
 is to be followed even in details. Thus it would be Direct 
 if she should say at once, "She is my next door neighbor; 
 I shall see." But the Indirect way is the best. Do you not 
 see the fine distinction in the method? She goes to the 
 window and calls; the audience sees that Prudence is Ca- 
 mille's neighbor, and Olimpe learns that she is her neigh- 
 bor for the first time. Camille could have directly de- 
 scribed Prudence, a milliner, "a good soul, with a heart as 
 
indire:ction is the dramatic method 237 
 
 light as her purse," but with one customer, herself, all in a 
 single speech. But Indirection is secured by having Gaston 
 not know Prudence and ask who she is, by Olimpe saying 
 that she has but one customer. Indirection of this sort 
 is not a mere arbitrary rule, and, in this case, it is saved 
 from artificiality by the circumstances and the naturalness 
 of the dialogue. The Indirection makes the Dialogue crisp 
 and responsive, full of ideas and facts and relations. All 
 the facts about the family of Armand are brought out In- 
 directly. Prudence could have imparted the information, 
 but that would have been too direct and would not have 
 involved the other characters. Dumas had all the facts in 
 his material and notes, those and other facts he had to in- 
 troduce Indirectly, and his art being a living one within 
 him, he contrived a scene by means of which he could util- 
 ize the facts. This indirectness has also the value of af- 
 fording lightness of touch. Imagine, for example, Armand's 
 reference to his sister being withheld until the interview 
 between the two. It would be sudden and direct, without 
 light and shade. It is obvious that more points are made 
 by this method,^ and every point that is made in a play is 
 that much money. How horribly sordid that sounds, but 
 Art nods her head in approval. The use of the Indirect is 
 an exercise of the living art. The supper scene is not an 
 accident in the composition of the play. Dumas had in his 
 notes substantially all that appears in the Dialogue of the 
 scene. He had to introduce all this Indirectly. It is all 
 purely incidental. It is not important enough to be used 
 in the structure. It could by no possibility be utilized in 
 any other way. Imagine Camille's describing Prudence as 
 a greedy creature. Of course, Sequence has everything to 
 do with the withholding of this trait in Prudence. It is a 
 good bit of Indirectness when Varville says to Camille that 
 she will be cold with a a light shawl and she replies, "Cold ! 
 I am on fire \" also "Camille : Give me my mantle, Nanine, 
 I must go." Nanine: "You have it, mademoiselle." Pru- 
 dence advises Camille not to see Armand, with whom Pru- 
 
238 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 dence has just been talking. Camille (weeping) "That is 
 your advice?" Prudence: "It is." Camille: "What else 
 did he say?" The Action itself is Indirect, by means of 
 which Armand, at the close of the second act, has Camille 
 renounce Varville. The letter from Varville arrives, Arm- 
 and makes it the "touchstone of her worth." If her renun- 
 ciation and choice had been the Direct result of his talk 
 with her the method would have been more Direct, but 
 the end is obtained better by this form of Indirectness. The 
 gayety of Nichette and Gaston is arrived at Indirectly ; they 
 talk of his first case and laugh over his losing it, &c. To 
 have talked about their happiness merely would have been 
 a repetition and would have been very tiresome. Duval's 
 entrance is accomplished in an Indirect way. The result 
 of the interview between Duval and Camille is reached by 
 many paths of Indirection. "You must tell him that you do 
 not love him." "He will not believe me." "You must 
 leave Paris." "He will follow me." "What will you do?" 
 
 "I must teach him to despise me." Prudence's account of 
 Camille's return to her luxurious life, her debts paid, and 
 under the protection of Varville is Indirect, for she t^Us 
 it all with another purpose than the talk effects. In the last 
 act there are many examples of the Indirect. The Direct 
 method used by the inexpert would have announced at the 
 beginning of the act, in so many words, that Camille 
 has been deserted by most of her friends. 
 
 In "Still Waters Run Deep" let us first consider the oper- 
 ation of the dramatist's mind which causes him to select 
 those things which he wants to bring in Indirectly. Many 
 small or even important points may have occurred to him 
 as he was writing the dialogue, but, in the main, they were 
 ascertained and carefully assigned in his notes, mental or 
 written, to the particular scene. He constantly refers back 
 to the Material and the Conditions Precedent. The thought 
 has occurred that the Mildmays have been married a year. 
 Emily is young and, disappointed, in away, in her marriage, 
 and not yet beyond the period of girlish romance. It is a 
 
indire:ction is the; dramatic method 239 
 
 little touch, worth the while to consider, and is put down in 
 the notes. Nothing structural depends upon the date of the 
 marriage. The Plot is not concerned with it. It is an in- 
 cidental idea to be introduced incidentally; and if inciden- 
 tally, Indirectly. Trifles can be thus introduced, and being 
 subordinate ideas, their proportions are preserved. The ob- 
 ject of the first scene in the play is to show the Conditions, 
 but in an active way. To show that Mildmay is not consid- 
 ered in his own household we must also show why, and 
 the incidents must turn on facts ; in other words, the Action 
 must be about something. Where does the author find the 
 somethings about which it all is? Naturally, in his mate- 
 rial. It could be about things off stage and not of the real 
 Action, and the effect desired for the first scene could be 
 produced, but the scene would lack compactness. As it is, 
 everything has a direct bearing though introduced Indi- 
 rectly. Mildmay is a home loving man and admires his 
 wife's accomplishments. "Suppose, Emily, you give us a 
 little music." Her reply shows at once that she does not 
 appreciate his admiration. The fact that they are married 
 comes out very simply, but with beautiful Indirectness. 
 "You used to like playing it to me before we were married," 
 says Mildmay. Indirectly we see the change in her. Forth- 
 with by Indirection we see that Mrs. Sternhold and Potter 
 hold him in little esteem, for by reason of what has been 
 said they proclaim that he has no soul for music or any- 
 thing. The suggestion of the dinner at Richmond tomor- 
 row indirectly brings out the fact that Mrs. Sternhold is to 
 have a dinner at home, and incidentally we see that she is 
 in control of the domestic arrangements. It has all been 
 led up to Indirectly and Conditions have been brought out 
 Indirectly. Because he cannot get them to agree with him 
 on anything, Mildmay is about to go to earth up the 
 celery. That he was given to raising vegetables did not 
 come into the scene by accident. Here was the proper 
 place for its introduction ; it is only an incidental fact ; and 
 it belongs to the Conditions Precedent and the Material 
 
240 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE^ 
 
 of the play. It existed before this particular scene was 
 thought of.|^ The author wanted to show also that Mrs. 
 Sternhold was in authority in the house and he does that 
 by having her shut off Potter when he starts to protest 
 against both Potter and Mildmay show that authority which 
 dinner. Observe that in doing this the main object of the 
 scene is not forgotten, for Mrs. Sternhold's accusations 
 against both Potter and Mildmay show that authority that 
 goes far to explain the subjugation of Mildmay. The author 
 had Mildmay fall asleep in order to allow Mrs. Sternhold 
 to speak of him as stupid and "without a will of his own." 
 It was the Indirect way of .getting at it. He wanted to in- 
 troduce this opinion. < Indirectly we have gathered from 
 the scene all the relations of the people. Mildmay and 
 Emily are husband and wife, have been married just one 
 year. Potter is the brother of Mrs. Sternhold who is the 
 aunt of Emily; Mildmay employs himself working in the 
 garden, earths up celery, used to be fond of "Auld Robin 
 Gray" before he and Emily were married, Emily adores 
 Beethoven, Potter and the aunt think he has no soul for 
 music or anything, the aunt and the wife are hand in glove, 
 Mrs. Sternhold dominates Potter, she has a sharp temper, 
 will not permit argument with herself; and she is a prac- 
 tical person, for she says that poetry and romance are not 
 such safe investments as the three per cents. In the talk 
 between Mrs. Sternhold and Potter we learn Indirectly that 
 Emily is his only daughter and that she is to inherit every- 
 thing at his death. We even hear that Potter is eighteen 
 years older than his sister. The exact difference in their 
 ages is not important enough to be brought in in any other 
 way. This, indeed, may have been a bit of material created 
 under the inspiration of the moment in writing the dialogue. 
 The author may not have to go in search of this partic- 
 ular bit of material ; it may have come to him, but it is possi- 
 ble that he had fixed the ages in the Conditions Precedent. 
 We get the facts about the settlement of eight thousand 
 pounds on Emily and Mrs. Sternhold's insistence on Pot- 
 
INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD ^4! 
 
 ter's investment with Hawksley. Could it be more Indi- 
 rect, how Potter's suspicions of Hawksley's relations with 
 Emily are led up to? Indirection is a scale with fine bal- 
 ances in which to weigh things. If Potter had begun the 
 conversation with the expression of his suspicions too much 
 importance would have been given to him in the matter. 
 Personally, he is not thereafter concerned in the affair. 
 But by the Indirection of it all Mrs. Sternhold's suspicions 
 are aroused. Here we have the use of Indirection as an 
 active principle purposely applied in order to promote the 
 Action. It is no longer the mere introduction of facts 
 in the right way and in the right place by Indirection, but 
 a larger thing, the Action. In serving that purpose, how- 
 ever, the Indirection of the scene purveys a great deal of 
 information derived from the Conditions Precedent. So 
 far we have seen two activities of Indirection as a living 
 Principle. We have applied it to "getting in" facts from 
 the Material and the Conditions Precedent, firstly, as Facts, 
 secondly, in the right place. For that matter Sequence is 
 to be considered within the scenes and with reference ta 
 the scene itself as a scene. That is to say, we introduce" 
 the facts according to the structure of the play and theni: 
 to the structure of the scenes. The less important a fact or 
 an idea is the more Indirectly it will be introduced. That 
 both Mildmay and Potter fall asleep after dinner is a de- 
 tail of the kind. It is as remote from the Proposition of the 
 play as can be imagined. Mildmay's freeing himself from 
 the existing domination is the thing, but his position in 
 the household remains incidental until he exposes and 
 thwarts the shrewd financial scheme. The same may be said 
 of the facts introduced incidentally as to the criminal his- 
 tory of Hawksley. If the play had to be worked out in de- 
 tail on that point of attack and conflict the facts or prem- 
 ises would have been made specific in the beginning and the 
 treatment would have been different. 
 
 To return to the first scene. We see many things about 
 which not a word is said between the characters directly. 
 16 
 
242 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Mildmay is patient, forbearing, domestic, affectionate, fond 
 of gardening, simple in his tastes for music, respectful in 
 manner, bored by the state of affairs, but with love for 
 his wife; Emily is sentimental, accomplished, and she 
 shows that by a few bars of Beethoven on the piano under 
 the control of the aunt, nagging, unreasonable and discon- 
 tented with her prosaic husband. Mrs. Sternhold orders 
 the arrangement of the house, she is sharp and domineer- 
 ing^. Potter is nobody, and has spoiled his daughter by the 
 very lack of exercise of authority. That he does not at- 
 tempt to control her is seen later on when he confides to 
 Mrs. Sternhold his suspicions as to the relations between 
 his daughter and Hawksley instead of taking the matter in 
 hand himself. Did these points that impress one so clearly 
 on reading or witnessing the play get into it accidentally, 
 the author "making it up as he went along," or had he de- 
 termined the substantial things from the beginning? It 
 all came from the Material and Conditions Precedent. It 
 began to take shape in Proposition and Plot and finally 
 through the division into Acts and Scenes reached the 
 Action which we see. 
 
 We get at the relations between Mrs. Sternhold and 
 Hawksley Indirectly. That he has incriminating letters 
 from her is not disclosed until toward the end of the scene 
 between them, and yet without the letters and what is in- 
 volved in them the scene would be tame. 
 
 Imagine the case, — that within five minutes after the rise 
 of the curtain it should be communicated to the audience, 
 by means known best to the amateur and usually by solilo- 
 quy or other clumsy device, (for there is no more intricate 
 "art" than that of the amateur) that Mildmay knows of the 
 existence of bills forged by Hawksley, that Mrs. Sternhold 
 knows of Hawksley's duplicity and designs on Emily, and 
 that Hawksley has thirteen love letters from her, &c., &c., 
 the Action would be stunted from its birth; the charm of 
 Indirection in the progressive Action would be lost. We 
 could no longer see the grass grow, no longer watch Nature 
 
INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD 243 
 
 developing the bud into the mature beauty of the flower; 
 for the drama enables us to witness nature in the develop- 
 ment of human ideas. 
 
 This play is particularly good in the matter of Indirec- 
 tion^^ 
 
 Pin "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" we have a very 
 Striking example of Indirection in the very first scene, for 
 we could hardly expect that the downfallen wretch who 
 was being thrust from the inn has the moral right of in- 
 dignation against the tapster, and would, before the scene 
 is over, enlist our sympathies on his side. We see him as 
 he is and then hear what he was. He is abject at first and 
 then rises to his inborn dignity and just wrath. It would 
 seem to be a roundabout way of bringing out the Story of 
 the past, but that Story is in itself an active conflagration 
 concerning the present, kindled by what happens before our 
 eyes. It is Indirect, because the past is summoned up by the 
 exigencies of the living moment. It is almost impossible to 
 destroy every trace of a dramatic principle, but if we im- 
 agine Wellborn sitting on the steps of the inn and narrat- 
 ing to us directly, as might be said, his woes and his past, 
 and then compare it with the animated scene which has in 
 it all the Action, objective and subjective and physical, 
 we may realize how paltry would be the direct method of 
 conveying to us these facts. Of course, there would be 
 some Indirection if Wellborn were sitting there refused 
 admission, because his reflections would be caused by the 
 circumstances, and in that way would be Indirect. But the 
 drama is not satisfied with anything but the best of its 
 kind. A better Indirection was found by Massinger, and 
 we enjoy the same largely by reason of its Indirectness. 
 Massinger is so fine in the practical application of the car- 
 dinal principles of the drama, that an exercise in trying to 
 convert his something into nothing would be a rather for- 
 midable task. It partakes of the nature of desecration to try 
 to distort by way of exercises the wonderfully compact reali- 
 ties of this play. Probably one of the best uses of Indirection 
 
 \ 
 
244 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE) 
 
 made by Massinger may be seen in his subtle method of 
 showing the developing relations between Lord Lovell and 
 Lady Allworth. One is almost inclined to believe that Lord 
 Lovell is making his visit to Lady Allworth by her per- 
 mission, and with a tacit understanding on the part of 
 these noble characters of the possibilities of the future. She 
 has refused to admit any of her many suitors to her pres- 
 ence. Indeed, she turns away strangers whether they are 
 suitors or not. Sir Giles visits her in vain. Now, such an 
 impression does each word or sentence make upon the 
 mind that we find it constantly going back of the text, and 
 we often discern a reflex Action in passages which con- 
 stantly are brought to the mind and live again long after 
 their utterance. Thus, when Wellborn and Allworth talk 
 apart, two speeches between Tapwell and Froth intervene, 
 and in the meanwhile Allworth has imparted to Wellborn 
 what is evidently a secret. Wellborn's first sentence is, 
 "sent to your mother?" Now, at this point, and indeed 
 later on, it is Jeft to us to imagine why he is sent to his 
 mother. Details are not necessary in the Dialogue at this 
 point as to Lovell's state of feeling or conditional purpose 
 as to Lady Allworth, but we must assume that Allworth is 
 to get his mother's consent to accompany Lord Lovell to 
 the lowlands. At any rate. Lord Lovell is to follow. Lady 
 Allworth's inquiries of Allworth about his "noble master" 
 indirectly tell us of her regard for her future master. It is 
 a kind of Indirection whereby Justice Greedy's character 
 is so divertingly brought out, in that occasions are inci- 
 dentally provided for his talk and his antics. Everything 
 in the play is brought out Objectively as the result of the 
 clash of conflicting interest and characters, and this, again, 
 is a kind of Indirectness. Attention has been called to the 
 Indirection throughout the relations between Lord Lovell 
 and Lady Allworth. So much for conditions and passive 
 facts. The Indirection of the Plot or the Action directly 
 concerning them is also distinctly admirable. The coming 
 together of these two people is brought about Indirectly 
 
INDIRECTION IS THE DRAMATIC METHOD 245 
 
 by events. Lady Allworth is led to talk with Lord Lovell 
 concerning Sir Giles's open offer to give him his daughter 
 Margaret in marriage. The audience knows that he is act- 
 ing for Tom Allworth in all honesty. Lady Allworth thinks 
 it proper to remind him that men of noble blood and fame 
 and honor would not make sordid wealth the object and 
 sole end of their aims. Naturally, he tells her that he does 
 not intend to wed with the rich Margaret. She then asks 
 him why-pretend his suit; in reply he asks her why she has 
 so prodigally bestowed her favors on Wellborn ; but she an- 
 swers that she is innocent and that her ends are good. They 
 come to an understanding of each other, and the way is 
 paved for future talk between them. A beautiful scene 
 would have been lost and Indirection would have been de- 
 stroyed if, in the making of the play, Massinger had had 
 them arrange between them their respective plans and du- 
 plicity in the aid of Wellborn and Allworth. The Indirect- 
 ness of the Plot has led to Indirectness in the Action and in 
 the scenes themselves. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 OBJECTIVITY— THE VISUAL. 
 
 f Objectivity is that quality in the Drama whereby Facts^ 
 1 ideas and emotions are visualized or are expressed by phy- 
 I sical means. 
 
 The effect of the drama depends largely upon the eye, 
 what is seen, consequently the dramatist must constantly 
 seek to translate everything possible into the visible. Busi- 
 ness accomplishes something of this, but the necessity of 
 showing things bodily applies in a larger sense. In "Ingo- 
 mar" the author wishes to show that the Allemani are bar- 
 barians. Note how he does this in the second act. They 
 are throwing dice, and finally they quarrel and are about to 
 slay each other. It was absolutely essential to show their 
 nature in some way in a scene devoted mainly to this pur- 
 pose. The incident also serves to show the authority of In- 
 gomar over his men when he parts them. That Myron is 
 used as a slave is shown by his having a bundle of wood on 
 his shoulders as he enters. He is ordered to perform servile 
 duties. That is: The author translates into the Objective 
 and visible these things: They are savages, Ingomar was 
 their master in fierceness and spirit, Myron was a slave. He 
 wanted to show Ingomar's opinion of women, and devised 
 the incident of Myron's weeping because he is separated 
 from his daughter and wife, so as to give Ingomar a reason 
 to express himself on the subject of women. These oppor- 
 tunities did not come by accident or by the wandering im- 
 agination of the author. He invented them for a particular 
 use in a particular place. How poor it would be if Parthe- 
 nia should preach love to Ingomar offhand. The author 
 gave her the occasion to describe it as she weaves the gar- 
 lands and puts the flowers about the cup, the picture resolv- 
 ing itself into one of lovers. A writer of genius, but not of 
 dramatic genius or experience, might have these two char- 
 
OBJECTIVITY — the: VISUAI. 247 
 
 acters say pretty much all they do say with no more occa- 
 sion than is involved in the talk itself. Why could not 
 Parthenia argue the point w^ith him that she is no slave? 
 She could. But the dramatist translates and expresses that 
 by having her disobey Ingomar. "I go to cleanse the cup.** 
 See also the use made of the spear and the shield. A 
 drama is pictorial above all things. These pictures, how- 
 ever, must be bound together by the Plot and the Action. 
 Try to recall any play you have seen and you will recog- 
 nize that you can do so mainly by what you have seen 
 rather than by what you have heard. What you have seen 
 is far more distinct, at least. The essential thing must be 
 seen, symbolized. Imagine Juliet describing her falling in 
 love with Romeo at sight, and the scene between the lovers 
 omitted. Yet substantially that same thing is done in 
 many plays which fail. But, observe that no one principle 
 stands by itself. What is shown must be the right things 
 in the right place, and must be drama. We call your par- 
 ticular attention to this process of the dramatist's mind in 
 providing Objective scenes which include all the other 
 means of expression. The whole tendency of the drama is 
 toward symbolizing everything, and when a miser is de- 
 picted, his greed and spirit are shown as he gloats over his 
 coin. This is not suggested as inevitable. It does not 
 mean that that is the only symbolism that can be used. 
 Neptune is symbolized with his trident, and thus is conven- 
 tionalized. Polydor is a miser and his leading passion is 
 expressed sufficiently in what he says and does. 
 
 Certain things in a play must be made visual, that is to 
 say, Objective. Immaterial things need not be shown, but 
 the Material things must be. In the very first scene of 
 "The Lady of Lyons" we see the pride. Instigated by her 
 mother, Pauline is out for an exalted marriage ; that is plain 
 enough. She has suitors ; the flowers show that ; Beauseant 
 appears to ask for her hand; and the reference by Damas 
 to the ball adds to the proof. It is not necessary to go 
 into further detail by way of proof. That she wants a title 
 
248 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 appears in the talk with Damas. We are left in no doubt 
 about that, for she rejects Beauseant because he has lost his 
 in the revolution. That Melnotte was in love with her is 
 made Objective by means of a scene specially devised for 
 the purpose, where he talks with her mother. He has given 
 his days to painting her picture; his thoughts have been 
 occupied with her image. Beauseant's mortification at his 
 rejection is actually seen, also his rage and desire for re- 
 venge when he talks with Glavis. That Beauseant discov- 
 ers the very man for his scheme is actually seen. It was not 
 material to show Pauline's scorn of the flowers and verse 
 sent by Melnotte and her treatment of Gasper, for we ac- 
 cept the facts as logical, but we do see the effect on Mel- 
 notte when Gasper relates his experience. Imagine this 
 scene omitted and Melnotte's telling his mother, at second 
 hand, of the treatment accorded to his messenger. He is 
 seen to receive the note from Beauseant. Imagine Beause- 
 ant and Glavis merely telling of Melnotte's disposition of 
 their jewels, and the Objective scene omitted. In certain 
 circumstances it might have been omitted, but it plays a 
 part in the Plot and the Action. It was needed as a visible 
 thing. The duel between Damas and Melnotte had to be 
 made Objective, for it not only confirms the accomplished 
 character of the "Prince," but turns Damas into a friend, 
 and that is of the utmost importance. If for no other rea- 
 son, the scene of love in which Melnotte tells of his palace 
 was necessary to show Pauline's complete surrender. Ob- 
 |/"^jectivity also means the pictorial element in a play, the 
 f conveyance of Facts by means of the eye. Thus, Objec- 
 tivity saves words and is one of the greatest economies in 
 a play. Melnotte's humble home had to be shown, and in 
 like way everything that had to be shown was predeter- 
 mined. 
 
 Objectivity, or the reduction to the visible, concrete ex- 
 pression is aimed at and secured in every good drama. It 
 is of Objectivity all compact, so that we need not point out 
 every example, and we shall dwell more particularly on cer- 
 
OBJECTIVITY — THE VISUAL 249 
 
 tain necessities of it from the Constructive point of view. 
 Nothing in a play stands alone; being merely Objective 
 does not necessarily count, but only vi^hen the Objectivity ' 
 has reference to the objects of the play and the relations of *^ 
 the parts. In all probability, before he had finally shaped * 
 his Plot of "Camille" Dumas saw^ the necessity of ' 
 certain Objective scenes; among them the supper 
 scene of gayety and revelry in order to give the ' 
 atmosphere and surroundings of Camille, and the gay dance « 
 at the close of the act. The last act may also have been 
 pretty well advanced, because obligatory and determined 
 upon before the completion of the Plot in detail. Thinking 
 in Objective scenes is a much larger matter than frivoling 
 one's time away in details of Business before you are ready 
 for the Business. r'Scenery and costumes are the readiest 
 resources of the Objective. Passing oveF'tKe Objectivity 
 revealed at the rise of the curtain, the handsome apartment, 
 the maid in simple attire and a gentleman of fashion, we 
 come to the constructive device of showing Nichette as a 
 working girl. /The bundle she calls for is Objective, and ^^ 
 none the less so are her relations with Camille and with 
 Gustave, whom she is so impatient to rejoin. ^A fine Objec- ^ 
 tive point is gained in Camille's entrance in the opera cloak, 
 which she throws aside. ; Her indifference to Varville is 
 Objectively shown in various ways and by several inci- 
 dents. \lt may be thought that Objectivity is thus made - 
 almost identical with acting; very true, but acting is only a 
 part of it, and the occasion is provided by the authorj Act- 
 ing is the final realization of the art of the playwright.| 
 When, in the previous scene, Varville says that his suit 
 does not thrive, the Objective consists in his despondency 
 and perplexity; the fact of Camille's indifference remained 
 to be shown. It is not a repetition. She bids him go ; he sits 
 by the fire ; she goes to the piano and plays ; and when, later 
 on, he drums on the piano she expresses her impatience at 
 the "noise." We do not confine the Objective solely to the 
 visible, for the words may also give open expression to 
 
250 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIy^ 
 
 sentiment, aided by voice and gesture and facial expression. 
 In the supper scene the characters are all made Objective. 
 There is no description; it is the thing itself. An admir- 
 able scene, the author playing on the instrument with both 
 hands and all his fingers. Note how many changes are 
 rung on the greed of Prudence. A number of small but im- 
 portant points are missed in this version. Attention is 
 called in the original to the seriousness of Armand, and it 
 is noted that Camille addresses him by his first name. Her 
 illness is made Objective; then Armand's solicitude and 
 passion. Camille gives Armand the camelia, which is objec- 
 tive and symbolic. The final scene is an object lesson in 
 folly, they come dancing in, "dressed fantastically in each 
 other's hats and bonnets." A fine use is made of Objectiv- 
 ity in the matter of the light shawl and the heavier wrap. 
 Then we have the letter from Varville, a tangible thing, and 
 then her tearing it up to signify her break with Varville. 
 How much stronger this is than if it were mere talk,- how- 
 ever definite and conclusive, ending with her agreement to 
 have nothing more to do with Varville. The idea would have 
 been conveyed, but here we have a specific example of .the 
 tendency of the drama toward the Objective. It is essen- 
 tially and fully dramatic ; the other method would not have 
 been. This Objectivity is not a matter of chance, but was 
 carefully devised by Dumas. How shall I express this or 
 that in an Objective way, was his constant thought. He 
 determined upon the What first and then the How. In the 
 
 ( third act: "Are not these sweet flowers which Armand 
 gave me this morning?" Objectivity. How much stronger 
 
 ' than if it were "Armand sent me flowers this morning," 
 and no flowers to bury her face in. It is also Objective 
 that the flowers are simple and culled by Armand's hands, 
 in contrast with those seen in the first act when she "used 
 to spend as much on bouquets as would have kept a poor 
 family a whole year." The gaiety that comes from love 
 is made Objective in the scenes between Camille and Gus- 
 tave and Nichette. The great scene between Camille and 
 
OBJECTIVITY — THE VISUAI. 25 1 
 
 Duval is the thing itself. That is v^hat Objectivity really is 
 —the real thing itself. Camille writes the letter ; her anx- 
 iety at his absence is seen, and finally her broken heart. 
 Passing over introductory incidents in the Fourth Act we» 
 come to the gaming table. This game was devised in order 
 to supply Armand Objectively with the money which he, 
 is to shower over her, in his scorn, by way of repayment, at • 
 the end of the act. He might have secured the money while- 
 he was away at Tours, and just as conveniently showered' 
 it on her. Why not? Because Dumas knew his trade; he' 
 accounted for the possession of the money Objectively, and. 
 using this means wasted no Words and needed no explana- 
 tion. On top of it comes the climax of the inevitable duel. 
 What an economy of talk? The Objectivity of the last act 
 is obvious and natural. Much of it belongs to Business, 
 such as the Business of looking into the glass to be horrified \*^ 
 by the face of death that meets her gaze. The play is un- 
 commonly full, however, of the Objectivity of Business. 
 
 The dramatist is constantly required to exercise the 
 power of discrimination. It is easy to fall into error if one 
 does not realize the exacting and precise nature of dramatic 
 principle. Nothing short of a certain quality will satisfy 
 drama. For instance, one may say of a scene he may have 
 written: It is objective. No? why not? are not the char- 
 acters there on the stage Objectively before the eye? Are 
 they not bringing out certain facts Objectively by discuss- 
 ing them? Very true, the p eople are Objective, but their 
 ideas are not; what you want to show is not shown Objec- 
 tively. You miss the real thi|ig^J 
 J in the first scene of "Still Waters Run Deep" the drama- 
 tist wants to show that Mildmay is without authority in 
 his own house, that he is regarded as a man without 
 pirit or a will of his own. Imagine Mildmay out of the 
 cene while Potter, Mrs. Sternhold and Mrs. Mildmay 
 alked about him. Pretty much all that happens in the 
 scene might be described as having happened. Mrs. Stern- 
 hold may have arranged for the dinner; Mrs. Mildmay may 
 
252 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 have refused to take the quiet dinner with her husband 
 at Richmond on this account; Potter might easily concur 
 with them that Mildmay had no spirit for music or any- 
 thing. All this might have shown their opinion of Mild- 
 may, and we might infer that Mildmay was henpecked 
 and without authority, but it would be at second 
 hand. It would not be Objectivity as applied to 
 showing that Mildmay was without consideration in his 
 own household. It would have gone a part of the way, 
 but the drama wants the thing itself. Objectivity is asso- 
 ciated in practice with concrete things. It must be about 
 sjomething. Here we have the music, the proposed dinner, 
 the interference by Mrs. Sternhold's dinner, a reason for the 
 charge that Mildmay is without a soul for anything, the 
 vegetables, falling asleep, playing for Mrs. Sternhold and 
 not for Mildmay, the dissatisfaction of the women with all 
 that he does. Nothing is merely talked about; everything 
 is shown. Not only the one thing is put before us, happen- 
 ing before our eyes, but all the correlative things. The fam- 
 ily are against him. Why? Partly because he has not 
 chosen to assert himself against the domination of the 
 women. He never quarrels. They are unreasonable; we 
 see it. The dramatist had to show it all, not by talk about 
 abstract things, but giving occasion to the talk on specific 
 things. He takes from his material. His notes help him. 
 He has fixed the relations of the characters. He has ascer- 
 tained all their characteristics. He has determined on his 
 Plot. He requires this scene. His business is then to make 
 it Objective. He wishes to show that Mrs. Sternhold con- 
 trols the investments, consequently, we have the scene in 
 which Potter defers to her judgment. Potter merely sus- 
 pects the influence of Hawksley over Mrs. Mildmay. This 
 is Objective enough, for his reason for suspecting those re- 
 lations, or rather for expressing them, is his growing lack of 
 confidence in the integrity of Hawksley. But if he had 
 later described the scene that ensues between the rascal and 
 Emily that scene would certainly not have been Objective. 
 
OBJJeCTIVITY — the; visual 253 
 
 It would not have been the thing itself, but a description of 
 it. It is not that everything has to be made Objective, but 
 jail essential things have to be. Take no substitutes. By- 
 mean s of that interview we see that Hawksley is a rascal. 
 It is not hearsay. There are things that cannot be de- 
 scribed. The "way of a man with a maid" or a silly, senti- 
 mental woman is one of them. The undramatic "person" 
 only will describe them, and thereby confess his inability 
 to present the thing as it was. To destroy the Objective 
 right and left^ convert it into talk. Get far away from the 
 real thing and shoot at it with the primitive bows and ar- 
 rows of the amateur, and never hit it. We must show 
 whatever it is necessary to show. The letters have been 
 written and Hav^ksley has them in his possession. Do we 
 have to show the actual letters in order to convince the 
 audience? No. Hawksley might be carrying them about 
 with him and produce them, but Mrs. Sternhold's conster- 
 nation when the threat is made that they will be used 
 against her is sufficient. Her quarrel with him proves that 
 there has been an affair ; we see a part of it. These letters 
 have to be in evidence later on. Still, we must get as close 
 to Objectivity as we can. If Mrs. Sternhold had spoken of 
 the letters before the interview it would not have been close 
 enough. Her jealousy and anger are shown. 
 
 It usually takes a whole scene to show Objectively a par- 
 ticular thing, and it is for that reason that the dramatic 
 mind thinks in scenes. Hawksley is a polished villain and 
 he is playing on the romantic nature of Emily. We see him 
 at his game when we hear him talk of Seville. 
 
 When the author determined on the scene in Hawks- 
 ley's rooms he realized that he had something concrete. 
 
 Here was Objectivity. Here was his chance to show 
 Mildmay in his resolute character. He filled it with many 
 little touches of fine Action. Mildmay troubles Hawksley 
 for a light; Hawksley is agitated; we see that Mildmay's 
 nerves are firm ; his hand does not tremble. 
 
 In short, Taylor demonstrates Character, emotions, Plot, 
 
254 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 everything". He had, for example, to show the subjugation 
 of Mrs. Sternhold. The scene in which Mildmay returns to 
 her the letters is absolutely conclusive. The secret is held 
 by these two only. Mrs. Sternhold controlled the house- 
 hold. Her subjugation was absolutely necessary and had 
 to be shown. Once the Action is started, the Plot is worked 
 out by what happens, by what people DO. If they do 
 things, the things are seen. If material to the Action they 
 must be done on the stage, and not off stage. Certain 
 things may happen off stage, but there must be a reason 
 for it. The Greek drama has much happen off stage which 
 we now would show. Death and suicide the Greeks did not 
 tolerate on the stage. But what happened off stage was 
 usually inevitable. It may be that we are left too much in 
 the dark as to the purpose of Mildmay's intended trip to 
 Manchester in the beginning. Possibly something Objec- 
 tive showing that he was on the track of the scoundrel by 
 means of his detectives might have helped the Action, but 
 the author probably considered everything and weighed ef- 
 fects properly. The play is at least remarkable in its abso- 
 lute fidelity to life in a number of its objective scen es. ( 
 
 Every effective and technically good play is an object 
 lesson. The theatre is the kindergarten of humanity. While 
 every play should be of Objectivity compact, ^ dif ference 
 between them may, at times, be noted or felt, jit would be 
 difficult to find a play more markedly Objective than "A 
 New Way to Pay Old Debts." The efifect, in large mea- 
 sure proceeds from the dramatic habit of Massinger's mind. 
 He projected himself entirely away from the limitations of 
 self. The result is that the characters stand out with abso- 
 lute distinctness. He built it with material that existed, as it 
 were, without his agency. There is a foolish notion among 
 writers of a certain kind that they must "create" things 
 that have never before existed on earth. Massinger saw 
 things as they were and was content to use them in their 
 proper shape. His mind was none the less creative in the 
 combinations it formed, and the degree of sentiment and 
 
OBJECTIVITY — THE VISUAL 255 
 
 character it worked with. His art is visible in the very- 
 opening of the play. We realize it just as we do the merit 
 or mastery of a musician with the first touch of his fingers 
 upon the keys. He intended to show us at once the des- 
 perate extremity of a spendthrift outcast. We see it not 
 alone in the aspect and sorry habiliment of Wellborn, but 
 every circumstance of the past and the present conform 
 Objectively to that which was made known Objectively on 
 the instantj {In many other plays of his, Massinger was 
 often irflfault technically in comparison with methods of 
 tfap- present state of the art, but he was always Objective, 
 'fi have called attention to that operation of the dramatic 
 mind which, in gathering the material for a play, fixes upon 
 scenes. It makes an entire idea or part of the play, with 
 subordinate and incidental ideas grouped under it, into a 
 scene; and then it assembles the parts. We are ready now 
 to look into the methods of Construction, and we find at 
 once that Objectivity is largely governed after the manner 
 indicated. It refers back to the material. Take the scene 
 between Sir Giles and MarralU with which the second act 
 opens. The main object of the scene is to show Sir Giles's 
 unrelenting pursuit of his nephew, but incidental to that it 
 is Objectively shown to us the use that Sir Giles makes 
 of his tools, Marrall and Greedy. Except for this scene 
 with this particular object, no reference could be made in 
 the play to Master Frugal and Overreach's methods in get- 
 ting possession of the coveted property and it was not nec- 
 essary to introduce Frugal. It was necessary to show 
 Sir Giles in contact with Wellborn. That is accomplished in 
 the brief scene, and it is followed by a scene in which Mar- 
 rail's attitude to the spendthrift is shown. These things 
 had to be at first hand. It was necessary to make Objec- 
 tive the state in which Lady Allworth lived, the pampered 
 insolence of her retainers, and her own beautiful well poised 
 character. These scenes had to be, and they are worked out 
 in fine detail. It finally resolves itself down to a question 
 of determining upon what things must be actually shown 
 
256 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 and seen. It is not avoidable by way of Preparation to sug- 
 gest Character and Facts in advance if the Action so de- 
 mands, but if essential to the play these Facts and charac- 
 teristics are confirmed in visible scenes later oijj It was 
 necessary to show Tom Allworth's repudiation of his friend 
 Wellborn. Note that it is accomplished in a single sentence 
 on the part of Allwojjth. It is a short scene, but the 
 scene had to bef^ \just as we can at times, anticipate 
 things and confirm them afterwards, so the event that 
 has taken place becomes operative in the Action by its 
 previous objectivity. In this way, when Marrall tells Sir 
 Giles of his having feasted with Wellborn and Lady All- 
 worth, the previous Objectivity of the scene which he de- 
 scribes merges into the Objectivity involved in Marrall's 
 talk with Sir Giles. Sir Giles's treatment of Marrall and 
 his blows had to be shown. Now, whenever anything has 
 to be shown there must be occasion for it. We have the 
 reason why Sir Giles strikes Marrall; we have the Objec- 
 tive reason as the play proceeds why Marrall turns traitor 
 to his master. The Necessary and the Unnecessary and Facts 
 are involved in this question of Objectivity. It was to 
 be shown that Lord Lovell was to hold faith with Tom 
 Allworth in pretending to pay suit to the beautiful heiress. 
 Nothing could be better in the way of Objectivity than the 
 management of the character of Justice Greedy. No amount 
 of description would have sufficed to make him stand out 
 as a living creature, but the occasion is provided for his 
 manifestation of character. Not only are the characters 
 living figures by reason of what they do, but every detail 
 of the Action required by the Plot is bodied forth. A writer 
 intent more on Plot than on realities might have omitted 
 the two scenes between Lord Lovell and Lady Allworth 
 which prepare the way for their union and finally make it 
 stire. The play is eminently substantial because it is 
 worked out in all of its essential parts. That a fraudulent 
 deed of conveyance had been put upon Wellborn has been 
 made known from the beginning of the Action, but the 
 
OBj:eCTlVlTY — THE VISUAL 257 
 
 existence of the deed is clinched Objectively by bringing in 
 the box, whereupon it is discovered that the writing has 
 been razed. What a powerful Objective scene it is when 
 Sir Giles defeated in all his ambitions and schemes falls 
 into madness. The scene would not have effectiveness if 
 his character and his evil doings had not been brought 
 plainly to our view in leading up to this great scene. The 
 very violence of his passion at the supreme moment is but 
 the culmination of the unbridled passion which we have 
 seen at every step in the play in which he appears. Usually, 
 scenes of sudden madness have the effect of theatrical arti- 
 fice, but not so in this case. There is nothing charged 
 against Sir Giles that is not made manifest sooner or 
 later. The cumulative proof of Facts in this play is ad- 
 mirable. We first see that Wellborn has been brought 
 to his low state through the machinations of his uncle. 
 The fact is repeated again and again, but each time it is 
 called forth under different circumstances. The fact that 
 he has defrauded his nephew is made absolutely convinc- 
 ing in our minds by the methods which he pursues against 
 every one who stands in his way to wealth and power. 
 Massinger was not satisfied with the mere exercise of Sir 
 Giles's craft against Wellborn. Note how conclusively 
 Massinger demonstrates and makes Objective the purity 
 and sweetness of Margaret. Observe that it is always 
 about something that these proofs come before us. How 
 remote from the mere telling, however elaborate such tell- 
 ing might be, of the purity and sweetness of the girl. These 
 qualities are made Objective in the scene with her father 
 in which she resents his advice as to her proper conduct 
 with Lord Lovell. When Allworth describes her purity 
 and sweetness to Wellborn in one scene, and to Lord 
 Lovell in another the Objectivity consists in showing his 
 love for the girl, and his esteem for her sweetness and her 
 purity. But it is in the latter scenes that these qualities 
 are established. The Proposition of the play itself re- 
 17 
 
258 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 quires that Sir Giles be tricked, that he is tricked is shown 
 in a succession of scenes. It would seem hardly possible 
 for any dramatist not to make Objective that which the 
 very Proposition requires, but it is not uncommon in im- 
 perfectly written plays. The Plot of all parts of the play 
 should be set forth Objectively. Certainly Massinger made 
 sure of these points. Sir Giles in speaking of his ambitions 
 for his daughter, describes how he wishes to have her 
 served by decayed gentlewomen. Did Massinger's objec- 
 tive mind let that pass, strong as it is, as sufficient? No, 
 he has Margaret seen with two female attendants. It is 
 true that he does not bring forward the decayed gentle- 
 women in a speaking part, but you may be sure that one 
 of her attendants is that decayed gentlewoman. It is a 
 touch of Objectivity. The giving of the signet ring by Sir 
 Giles, which plays such a part in his own ruin, is plainly 
 according to the dramatic habit of Massinger to be Objec- 
 tive. Word of mouth was not enough. How can I make 
 it Objective, asked Massinger? And he sought a means in 
 objects and customs lying at hand. His whole tendency is 
 toward the Objective, even in details. Of course, mere 
 Objectivity is not enough, but when fortified by Proposi- 
 tion, Sequence, Cause and Effect and other co-operative 
 dramatic principles, the ultimate aim of Objectivity is 
 reached in every good play, if not always in the masterly . 
 way in which it is compassed in "A New Way to Pay Old j 
 Debts." 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED. 
 
 The Unexpected is that inherent quality in dramatic Ac- 
 tion which must manifestly exist at all moments, as to 
 means and results, until everything at issue is solved. 
 
 We now come to a most important principle, the Unex- 
 pected, the very opposite of ''Story," for the Unexpected thing 
 must arise out of the active relations and conditions of the 
 moment and must, consequently, be absolutely new, be- 
 cause the unexpected would be otherwise impossible. It 
 is an absolute test of whether your play is dramatic and has 
 Action or not. In other words, unless, the happenings in a 
 play are Unexpected or lead to the Unexpected, you have 
 no play. This dramatic Unexpectedness cannot exist in 
 Mere Life, for it would cease to be mere life if the happen- 
 ings had significance with reference to a progressive Action. 
 This does not imply that the principle is an artificial one. In 
 what does the interest in Life itself consist? In that we do 
 not know what the next day will bring forth, (in drama it 
 must be in the next moment). After the next day has pass- 
 ed, what has happened becomes Story. We may hope for 
 something to happen in the future, but uncertainty gives 
 the hope its zest. Apply this to "Ingomar." Parthenia 
 refuses to accede to her mother's demand that she marry 
 Polydor, unexpectedly to us she reconsiders and will 
 marry him under conditions; unexpectedly, Polydor is too 
 sordid ; unexpectedly Myron is made captive ; unexpectedly, 
 the citizens cannot or will not help her to secure the ran- 
 som ; unexpectedly, the Timarch cannot aid, for there is an 
 ancient law against it ; unexpectedly, Polydor will not listen 
 to her, now that she relents ; unexpectedly, by reason of the 
 development of circumstances, she determines to go and 
 oflfer herself as hostage for her father. In the second act 
 it is so worked up that we feel that Parthenia's going can 
 
26o ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 result in her own ruin only; to impart this feeling in the 
 audience the author shows the savagery of the barbarians 
 first. We are shown in the scene between Ingomar and 
 Myron that Ingomar despises a woman, and we feel that 
 Parthenia's mission is hopeless, particularly if she comes 
 there to plead. Unexpectedly, she is accepted as hostage; 
 unexpectedly she defines her position as not that of a slave, 
 and wins the love of Ingomar ; and so substantially all that 
 happens is Unexpected ; not by way of caprice, but through 
 the development of the Action. It is by means of the Un- . 
 expected that you get Action and progress at every step. | 
 The Proposition of a play, in its problem, in its last clause, 
 involves the Unexpected; we provide for it in the Plot, 
 set it down in the scenes, and in the handling of the Action 
 and the Dialogue of those scenes we take care that we reach 
 these Unexpected structural things in an Unexpected way. 
 To have an audience know or anticipate what was going to 
 happen and how it was going to happen would deprive a 
 play of all interest. This Unexpectedness may be destroyed 
 in a great many ways by an improper technical use of the 
 other principles. If you will examine the play more mi- 
 nutely than has just been done you will encounter Unex- 
 pectedness at every step and in every line. 
 
 Why things must arise Unexpectedly, the philosophy 
 of it all, will be fully discussed later; it is enough, for the 
 present, to be convinced that Unexpectedness is a neces- 
 sity of the Action and a universal element in a play. 
 Doubt as to results is always existent, it being almost the 
 definition of Action ; so that every happening is, in a man- 
 ner. Unexpected. Beauseant in "The Lady of Lyons" is 
 rejected Unexpectedly; Damas ridicules the pretentions 
 of the women Unexpectedly ; the expression of a wish for a 
 plan to humble Pauline is Unexpected; the opportunity of 
 executing that plan in hearing of Melnotte as a prince is 
 Unexpected; that Melnotte, the gardener's son, loves Pau- 
 line is Unexpected; that he has sent a message to her 
 with love verses; that his messenger has been spurned; 
 
the: unexpected 261 
 
 that he is in a state of mind to consider the offer of the 
 conspirators; that he accepts; are also in a manner Un- 
 expected. Even the details of the treatment of the jewels 
 confided to him are new to us. The cause of the suspicion 
 of Damas and his means of testing Melnotte, the result of 
 the duel which makes a friend of Damas, the effect on the 
 conscience of Melnotte, the oath that binds Melnotte, the 
 manner in which Beauseant forces an immediate marriage 
 through fear of the Directory, taking Pauline to his moth- 
 er's cottage, all the happenings there, the coming of Beau- 
 seant, the conduct of Melnotte and the general change 
 from resentment to love on the part of Pauline, and all 
 the happenings in the last act are either Unexpected in 
 themselves or in the manner of their evolution. Examine 
 every line, and innumerable details of Unexpectedness will 
 be found. Destroy, by giving Unnecessary and precipitate 
 information, this Unexpectedness and you have no play. 
 Suppose the audience had known in the first scene that 
 the flowers were from Melnotte? Suppose Beauseant had 
 known of the love of the gardener's son and of the title 
 given him by the villagers from the opening of the play? 
 Suppose the messenger had been spurned before the open- 
 ing of the play? The present dramatic development of the 
 story, largely by means of the Unexpected, would be impos- 
 sible. Entire scenes would not have occurred to the author 
 at all. 
 
 The Unexpected is a resultant rather than a primary 
 element in a play. It is to be found in the Plot, but be- 
 comes of more and more use as we proceed, having a con- 
 siderable function in the Dialogue itself. The Construc- 
 tion of a play provides for a certain part of it. It is such a ' 
 valuable element that it is largely used^by way of trick ' V 
 in melodramas and plays of situation. Camille, being a 
 drama of emotion, does not furnish us With any extraor- 
 dinary number of examples. Still, its influence and use 
 extend through the play, and we find a number of marked 
 illustrations. It is in the nature of the drama that the 
 
262 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE^ 
 
 development of the Action should constantly unfold new 
 things, new relations, and a multiplied series of Causes 
 and Effects. If it did not do so, it would not be drama, 
 and would be exceedingly stale and unprofitable. In the 
 opening of the play we are expecting Camille; Unexpect- 
 edly, it is Nichette who comes. This is not exactly a trick, 
 but it counts. The Construction of the scene and the 
 Sequence of ideas require that we should first see Var- 
 ville waiting for Camille. In a sense, all that develops 
 concerning Nichette is Unexpected, because new to us, 
 but for the present we shall confine the examples to the 
 more significant things and turns in the Action. It 
 is Unexpected that Camille once worked as an embroid- 
 eress. Even Varville did not know that before. It 
 is a new fact, and in that sense the Unexpected, that Var- 
 ville's suit does not thrive, while the whole history of Ca- 
 mille in her relations with the Due de Meuriac is Unex- 
 pected. It may be said that Camille's entrance is Unex- 
 pected at the moment, for we have been interested and 
 wholly absorbed in her history by Nanine. The nature of 
 her illness when it first comes to our attention is Unex- 
 pected. That Prudence has a young man with her when 
 she is called is Unexpected, and Prudence's announcement 
 to Camille that this young man is "the man of all Paris 
 who loves you the most" is Unexpected. This modesty and 
 seriousness of character is Unexpected. That Camille should 
 begin to like him, in view of the fact that we know that 
 she cares for no one, is Unexpected. That his reference 
 to his sister attracts Camille's attention, is Unexpected.! 
 Apart from the Action of the supper scene, which has been 
 fully discussed, it is well to note that the scene is full of 
 the Unexpected in the way of repartee. For instance, 
 Madam Prudence: Age! and what age do you think I 
 am?" Gaston: "I do not know. Indeed, I never studied 
 ancient history, but you do not look more than forty, 
 upon my honor!" Prudence: "Forty! thirty-six, if you 
 please." Gaston: "Forty and thirty-six. Seventy — well, 
 
THE UNEXPE:CTED 263 
 
 it does look more like that, I confess." The character of 
 Armand's talk with Camille is wholly Unexpected, for it 
 is on a loftier plane than could have been anticipated. 
 There are also many turns of Unexpected emotion in this 
 scene. The result of the scene is Unexpected. For the 
 first time Camille finds "a new found meaning in those 
 simple words that never fell upon my ears before." The 
 second act opens with the Unexpected turn of affairs, 
 when we see Camille preparing to seek the retirement of a 
 country home and receiving money for that purpose from 
 De Meuriac. In a minor way, the little incident of Pru- 
 dence's borrowing the three or four hundred francs is 
 Unexpected. That Armand has seen Varville leave the 
 house and is jealous is Unexpected. The letter from Arm- 
 and is Unexpected. Camille's giving the letter to Varville 
 to read is Unexpected. That she accepts Varville's invi- 
 tation to supper is Unexpected, and the incidents of her 
 eddying passion are Unexpected, as when Camille enters- 
 quickly for a warmer wrap than a shawl. That Varville 
 leaves in anger instead of waiting for her outside is Un- 
 expected. There is some preparation for Camille's return, 
 but Armand's impetuous urgings in the scene which follows 
 are Unexpected, and her Action in tearing up Varville's let- 
 ter and yielding to Armand are all the more Unexpected in 
 that the moment before receiving the Unexpected letter, 
 she has told Armand to leave. The strongest example of 
 the Unexpected is the entrance of Armand's father. The 
 Unexpectedness is emphasized by Camille believing him to^y 
 be the agent who has charge of the sale. This is art, 
 and not a mere trick. The surprise, however, is carefully 
 managed. Almost from the very beginning of the scene 
 we learn with surprise that it is the father of Armand. If 
 one word had been spoken before this to lead us to antici- 
 pate his appearance the effect would have been destroyed. 
 While it is Unexpected, it is exactly what might have 
 been expected in the circumstances; it is Self- Explana- 
 tory. The Unexpected extends throughout the scene. 
 
264 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 What will Camille do? The Unexpected is not answered 
 until, at the very close, she proceeds to the table to write 
 the letter which is so fateful to her. But her sacrifice 
 is not accomplished without a struggle in which the Unex- 
 pected is constantly playing a part. The Unexpected in 
 this scene is all embracing, for it involves Camille and Arm- 
 and's father, as well as the audience. It is Unexpected that 
 Armand arrives just as she finishes the letter. It is also 
 Unexpected that she is able to stand the ordeal of her in- 
 terview without revealing to him her secret. The rapid 
 incidents that close the act are all incidental surprises. 
 Certain facts are Unexpected by Armand, and the manner 
 in which they are conveyed to the audience is Unexpected 
 by the audience. We are kept in a constant state of ex- 
 pectation during the Fourth act, and whenever there is a 
 doubt as to the issue, this expectation necessarily involves 
 the Unexpected. Thus, the Unexpected is of the very es- 
 sence of the drama. Camille would not have sent for 
 Armand in order to talk with him if it had not been for 
 the Unexpected reference to the duel, and their talk is 
 wholly Unexpected in nature, while the act Unexpectedly 
 ends by Armand's throwing a shower of notes and gold 
 upon Camille in payment for her sacrifice. Varville's re- 
 senting this is not Unexpected, but the action is. It is Unex- 
 pected that Camille, in the last act, should be abandoned 
 by all. The Episodic happenings in the first part of the 
 act are Unexpected while the audience hopes Armand will 
 come, the fact that Camille expects him to come is with- 
 held until, in her monologue, she reads the letter from 
 Armand's father which she has had for six weeks. She 
 has reason to give up hope for Armand's appearance be- 
 fore her death. Armand's Unexpected appearance is man- 
 aged well. Camille realizes it is he who is coming before 
 she is actually told. Of course, at this point, the resources 
 of the play are about exhausted, and it only remains for 
 the Unexpected, which was in the Proposition of the play, 
 to be realized at the very last, the purification of Camille 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 265 
 
 by love and sacrifice and the reuniting of the lovers. Inas- 
 much as the play opens with expectancy, it is obvious that, 
 while the Unexpected is a dominant and distinct dramatic 
 principle, we cannot exclude expectancy. The Action is 
 compounded of both. Expectancy is usually on tiptoe, but 
 there is a great difference between Expectancy and the 
 Expected. A part only of the Expected is given at a time. 
 There is always something remaining to whet the appe- 
 tite and leave it unsatisfied up to the solution of that par- 
 ticular thing. The Unexpected is the larger element and 
 involves the Expected. The Unexpected is the prevailing 
 element to that extent that the very opposite of what may 
 be expected often takes place. Of course, this cannot 
 happen to the reversal of that which is structural and a 
 logical result, but it proves the domination of the Unex- 
 pected. The Unexpected may occur in varying degrees, 
 from a fulfillment of the Expected (only perhaps in a dif- 
 ferent way, or by means that are not foreseen) or it may 
 be absolutely Unexpected, but immediately Self-Explana- 
 tory. Thus, it may be noted what great care is taken by 
 Dumas to have the entrance of Duval, the father, a com- 
 plete surprise. No one could expect his arrival at that 
 particular moment, but we have called attention to the 
 device of having it supposed that it is the agent. Prepa- 
 ration involves the Expected, but it will be observed that 
 the conflict in the Action is always so arranged that there 
 is doubt, otherwise there would be no Action whatever. If 
 the Preparation is too obvious and too elaborate, the ex- 
 pectation becomes a certainty, and the Action is either im- 
 paired or destroyed. In the early scene of the first act, 
 preparation is made for the supper; that is absolute. 
 There is no doubt whatever involved at this moment, or 
 any other moment, as to the holding of the supper, but it 
 is early in the Action, and is a presentation of Facts. The 
 Unexpected is to happen during the supper. The devel- 
 opment of new things has in it a certain Unexpectedness 
 of the moment, but it is of the Unexpectedness of the 
 
266 ANAIvYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 future that we speak in using the term Unexpected. There 
 is no over-preparation in this case. The supper is the back- 
 ground for the real Action. What Camille's companions 
 say and do develops character and supplies atmosphere, 
 but it does not advance the Plot proper in the slightest 
 degree. It is full of little bits of Unexpectedness and is 
 an excellent example of minor Action. Expectancy or 
 Preparation was needed for the coming of Camille; ex- 
 pectation or Preparation for the entrance of Nichette was 
 wholly unnecessary. The moment she made her appear- 
 ance there was a rapid development of Unexpected facts 
 and relations. All the Unexpectedness of the immediate 
 Action while she is on the stage would have been utterly 
 destroyed by too much Preparation. Unexpectedness is 
 commonly an element that is almost invariably destroyed 
 by the beginner by means of Story. Why could not Var- 
 ville and Nanine have discussed Camille's friends? Why 
 could not Nanine in the very first scene have told all about 
 Nichette? It would have been natural enough, it could 
 have happened in Life, and the unknowing writer would 
 have inevitably fallen into mere talk and Words. It would 
 have been matter in its wrong place. It would have been 
 disorder; it would have been undramatic; it would have 
 been taking out all the force from the scene in which 
 Nichette figures. There would have been little or nothing 
 for her to do or say. It would have been in wrong Se- 
 quence, without Cause and Eflfect, and would have been 
 lacking as to the structure of the play and as to the details 
 of treatment; all economy would have been disregarded 
 and repetition would have ensued. On the other hand, ex- 
 pectations in regard to Camille, her personal appearance 
 and character, are excited by means of the Preparation, . 
 which is careful and not over elaborate, as elaborate as it is.- J 
 Naturally enough, in the preliminary work and in the 
 process of thought in working toward a complete play, 
 Unexpected ideas and combinations come to the dramatist. 
 It is one of his pleasures and compensations. As the work 
 
TH^ UNEXPECTED 267 
 
 progresses, and the actual writing of the Dialogue is in 
 hand, it narrows down to turns of expression, repattee 
 and smaller combinations. But to imagine that everything 
 that happens in a play is as Unexpected to the author as 
 to the characters and to the audience would be the wildest 
 kind of absurdity. For the most part, the Unexpected 
 things which happen in the play have happened in the 
 mind of the dramatist long before. He is the wizard who 
 can tell you the past and the future, and he can do it 
 in the right way only if he is a master of his art. |We have 
 already exposed the absurdity of telling in advance what 
 is going to happen, and have urged the necessity of things 
 happening as they do in life. Unexpectedly, inasmuch as 
 no man can tell the future. A natural tendency of the be- * 
 ginner is to tell the audience at once all that he has in ' 
 mind ; whereas, Facts and ideas and relations have to be ' 
 unfolded gradually and by means of the Action, and there ( / 
 are innumerable things belonging to the Conditions Prece- 
 dent that cannot be brought into the Action until the prop- ' 
 er time, at a much later period than the opening of the play. 
 Thus it is that matters of the past are presented in an 
 Unexpected way. Matters of the future can by no possi- 
 bility be presented in any other way. They must be Un- 
 expected. This Unexpectedness is provided for, beginning 
 with the beginning, in the Sequence of the Plot, and this 
 Sequence must be a dramatic Sequence which in its nature 
 is a progressive development of new things all the time. If 
 we take the first scene in "Still Waters Run Deep," we 
 see at once that Mildmay is considered of no consequence 
 in his own household. It is an admirable scene, devoted 
 entirely to establishing the premises. The one fact, it is 
 true, remains throughout the scene, but we are constantly 
 getting new details of the manner in which he is treated 
 and of the conditions which lie at the bottom of this state 
 of affairs. We see that the wife is distempered. Unex- 
 pectedly, we see that the aunt is encouraging her in her 
 state of mind ; Unexpectedly, we see that Potter joins with 
 
268 ANALYSIS 0^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,!: 
 
 them in their chorus of nagging; Unexpectedly, we get 
 the fact that Mildmay and Emily have been married one 
 year; Unexpectedly, that Mrs. Sternhold has appointed a 
 dinner party which Unexpectedly interferes with Mild- 
 may's invitation to a quiet little dinner with his wife ; Un- 
 expectedly, we get one of the causes of the wife's disil- 
 lusionment as to Mildmay, for he is domestic and simple 
 in his tastes, loving the old songs rather than the classic 
 music which she plays, and is prosaic enough to earth up 
 the celery. Unexpectedly, we get the little detail of Emi- 
 ly's playing for her aunt after she had refused to play for 
 her husband. Unexpectedly, we see that Potter, too, is 
 under the dominion of Mrs. Sternhold, for he is apologetic 
 and self-depreciative and avoids exciting the temper of his 
 sister. Unexpectedly, we hear Mrs. Sternhold's astound- 
 ing assertion as Mildmay apparently lies asleep, "that he 
 has no will of his own, you can do what you will with him 
 if you only take the trouble." Unexpectedly, it is devel- 
 oped that Emily is not interested in her husband because 
 he does not share her feelings, and does not "invest her 
 life with something of poetry— of romance." Unexpectedly, 
 we see that Mrs. Sternhold is a practical woman of busi- 
 ness with her mind on safe investments in three per cents. 
 It is expected that Mildmay is going to Manchester that 
 night by the mail train. It has no particular significance 
 apparently at this moment, but it is of the utmost im- 
 portance to the future development of the Action. When 
 Emily inquires for her Tennyson it is not Unexpected ex- 
 cept as to detail, but it brings out more clearly the senti- 
 mentality of Mrs. Mildmay, who now speaks of her with- 
 ered heart. The little scene in which this occurs is connec- 
 tive, is designed to get her off the stage, and has that 
 minor quality of the Unexpected meant for intensive effect 
 and for the mechanical purpose of the Action. The scene 
 between Mrs. Sternhold and Potter is full of Unexpected 
 things; Conditions Precedent, emotions of the moment, 
 conflicts of character, and facts and developments that 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 269 — 
 
 belong to the structure of the play and the development of 
 the Action. Unexpectedly important Conditions Precedent 
 are brought out. The talk is now about the request that 
 Mrs. Sternhold has made that Potter make certain invest- 
 ments. Observe that nothing has been said about Hawk- 
 sley's schemes to get them to invest up to this point. The 
 thirteen speeches between them up to the time of the 
 mention of Hawksley's "Galvanic Navigation Company" 
 are sustained almost entirely by means of the Unexpected. 
 Consider the beginning of this scene with reference to the 
 Action, and you will find that the audience's interest in it 
 is sustained by the curiosity to know what she wants Pot- 
 ter to do, why Potter is reluctant to do it, and whether she 
 will succeed in getting him to do it. It is a matter of 
 treatment, of Sequence. If she had at once conveyed to 
 the audience that the money was to be invested, the atten- 
 tion of the audience would not be so closely directed to 
 what we pointed out as the true Action of the scene, for 
 Potter would have immediately told of his suspicions of 
 Hawksley. The facts which Potter states about Emily's 
 eight thousand pounds and the discussion over it 
 interests us sufficiently for the moment. When 
 Hawksley's Company is mentioned we get progress, de- 
 velopment, the Unexpected. We have a development of 
 facts, conditions and relations up to this point also, and 
 these facts and Conditions and Relations are anything but 
 passive, anything but mere facts. As small as the details 
 are, they are Unexpected. When Mrs. Sternhold urges 
 that Emily is Potter's only child, and that all Potter has 
 will be hers at his death, it is an active argument, not 
 merely a passive fact, and interests us for its bearing on 
 the state of mind of these two people. It is not a passive 
 fact that is Unexpectedly given in the statement that there 
 is a difference of ^ eighteen years between Potter's age 
 and Jane's. It is not the mere Unexpectedness of these 
 facts that interests us so much as that they stir up the 
 Action, they amuse us in their bearings on the moment. 
 
270 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 We Unexpectedly get the fact that Potter has already in- 
 vested one thousand pounds in the shares, and Mrs. Stern- 
 hold, for the first time, in an Unexpected way at least, re- 
 veals to us what she asked Potter to do before dinner, 
 namely, that Potter should take Hawksley's offer for a 
 thousand more of the shares, as she had promised Hawk- 
 sley that he would. Unexpectedly, we find that Potter 
 is a little doubtful about the safety of the investment. 
 Unexpectedly, we hear the womanlike argument of Mrs. 
 Sternhold that Hawksley is a gentleman. Unexpectedly, we 
 hear that Hawksley is to call that evening to arrange the 
 business matter. You may weary of this iteration or giv- 
 ing of the Unexpected, and may consider it a matter of 
 course, but you will discover how wide of the mark you 
 are the very moment you attempt to make all or any ma- 
 terial part of these Unexpected things Expected. It was 
 the author's art alone, his dramatic art, that made these 
 things Unexpected; Unexpected in the smallest details, 
 and so giving vitality to the Action. Then comes a sur- 
 prisingly Unexpected thing. Potter tells of his having 
 observed some questionable conduct between Emily and 
 Hawksley. In bringing this out, many Unexpected details 
 from the Conditions Precedent are involved. Hawksley 
 had shown attention to Emily before her marriage, Potter 
 fancied she might have married him if Mrs. Sternhold had 
 not set her face against it ; and we see from the Conditions 
 Precedent that Mrs. Sternhold never thought she liked him 
 at all. This is a material point, for it provides an Unex- 
 pected tonic to her when she learns exactly what Potter 
 has seen. Is there enough of the Unexpected in this to sus- 
 tain the Action? or would you have anticipated in this 
 scene or before it one of the most startling bits of Unex- 
 pectedness in the play, namely, that Mrs. Sternhold her- 
 self had been carrying on a very serious flirtation with 
 Hawksley! Does not the Action of the play maintain 
 itself, and is not the attention of the audience sufficiently 
 excited in the little connective scene, scene four, in which 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 27 1 
 
 Mrs. Sternhold is alone, and determines to be satisfied 
 when she sees Hawksley and Emily come into the house, 
 he gathering a rose for her? If it were not for the Unex- 
 pected, the potency of which the dramatist thoroughly un- 
 derstood, he would not have been satisfied here without 
 having Mrs. Sternhold reveal to us that which she does 
 only after she witnesses the scene between Emily and 
 Hawksley. Nor does that little monologue, scene sixth, 
 reveal the extent of her relations with Hawksley, and no 
 hint is given of the thirteen letters. If the dramatist had 
 revealed prematurely these Unexpected things he might 
 still have left a few other Unexpected details, but he would 
 not have enough left to make a ragout out of it. I call 
 attention to the value of the Unexpected here particularly 
 to emphasize the fact that the value of the Unexpected is 
 not in mere Unexpectedness. The Unexpected must be 
 managed with reference to the Plot and the development 
 of the Action. The Plot, which is made up of a certain 
 number of happenings or results. Causes and Effects, is 
 compact with the Unexpected. The Plot being further di- 
 vided into scenes, each scene has the Unexpected in one 
 form or another, and the Action of the scene is full of Un- 
 expected details.! Thus, we may give the Unexpected 
 object or result of the scene between Mrs. Mildmay and 
 Hawksley as one thing, that Hawksley has designs against 
 her, the proof of which we have, and that Mrs. Sternhold 
 hears it. The scene Action is replete with the Unexpected. 
 The very manner in which Hawksley is making his cam- 
 paign against Emily, attacking her heart on the one side 
 which is undefended, namely, her sentimentality, is some- 
 thing of a surprise. The way in which he does this, his 
 ^carefully studied fiction of Seville, is Unexpected to us. 
 rThe proposals which he makes are new and startling; the 
 ^ means which he has taken have a surprising audacity. That 
 a man should have given a watchful mastiff to a woman 
 whom he is pursuing, knowing that the mastiff would ad- 
 mit him night or day, and the further fact that the uncon- 
 
272 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 scionable rascal had taken the bolt off the glass door, are 
 as Unexpected as anybody could ask for.; You most cer- 
 tainly are getting your money's wOfth in Unexpectedness. 
 We have had just enough to know that Mrs. Sternhold, 
 who is waiting behind the screen overhearing things, has 
 had a little of the same kind of cajolery, minus the bolt and 
 the mastiff. It does not impair the Unexpectedness of 
 what is going to happen to Hawksley when she talks with 
 him that we expect a lively interview. In point of fact, 
 we get a great deal more than we expect. We know that 
 Mrs. Sternhold has a temper of her own, and we expect 
 her to sail into Hawksley with beak and talon, but we do 
 not expect Hawksley to be quite so cool and resourceful. 
 We never dream of these thirteen letters ; we have not had 
 an inkling of any of them. The object of the scene be- 
 tween Hawksley and Mrs. Sternhold is to checkmate Mrs. 
 Sternhold. This was the Unexpected Plot Action involv- 
 ing innumerable Unexpected little turns. We rather ex- 
 pect that Mrs. Sterhold will interrupt the conversation be- 
 tween Emily and Hawksley, but, Unexpectedly, she does 
 not. We get the reason why she does not forthwith when 
 the two go off, for we learn for the first time that she has 
 been in love with Hawksley herself. She would hardly 
 want to expose herself to Emily. She is saving it up for 
 Hawksley, and we expect good interest in an interview 
 that is bound to come. 
 
 While there are a multitude of Unexpected things in the 
 Plot of "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," with one coup de 
 theatre, that of the razed deed, the play is more remarkable 
 for its solidity and its richness of its Material. Massinger 
 does not use the Unexpected as a trick but there is some- 
 thing new all the time, either heard for the first time, or put 
 in a new light under different conditions. We see a drunk- 
 en outcast refused "the dropping of the tap for his morn- 
 ing's draught," treated with scorn, contumely, by Tapwell 
 and Froth, when we are suddenly surprised by the fact 
 that this outcast has given them the Inn; that Tapwell 
 
THK UNEXPECTED 273 
 
 was born on Wellborn's father's estate. These facts arouse 
 our curiosity, and we listen with interest to the details 
 as they are unfolded. They are new, because they are par- 
 ticularly pertinent and subordinate to the situation. We 
 are interested in the detailed account of the career of the 
 spendthrift, and every detail is new. The quarrel brings 
 out little facts of the past which have a new bearing on the 
 present, all contributing to our desire that Wellborn, when 
 he gets his stick into play, will not "leave one bone unbro- 
 ken." There is a newness throughout the entire scene, for 
 the Action of the moment is in constant play. Surely this 
 outcast is without friends, else these time servers would 
 not have dared to treat him thus. But suddenly and Un- 
 expectedly appears Allworth, whose friendly address to 
 him, "Frank !" assures us that he is Wellborn's friend. A 
 friend with social position, well dressed, sober, in full pos- 
 session of his manhood. Thereupon is developed that upon 
 which our curiosity is excited. Who is this young man? 
 He has a step-mother, the widow of his father, who mourns 
 for him still, who denies herself to suitors. Every detail is 
 new, for our whetted curiosity is answered. Unexpectedly, 
 it develops that the outcast has been the friend of All- 
 worth's father, and he has reason to give him advice. About 
 what? You will see that we are anticipating indefinitely 
 those things which are on the moment to become definite, 
 but new to us, and to gratify our curiosity. Curiosity 
 draws us on. Soon our sympathies are to ally themselves 
 with our curiosity, and other elements join themselves 
 thereto, and we are to surrender to the compelling Action of 
 the play. We had heard of Sir Giles Overreach in the 
 quarrel between Tapwell and Wellborn, and Unexpectedly, 
 we learn that Sir Giles has a daughter, Margaret, and that 
 Allworth loves her. Why should Wellborn warn him 
 against a union with this fair and blameless creature? We 
 have the new fact, that Sir Giles, the base churl, had ruined 
 Allworth's father. The victim, then, of Sir Giles reasons 
 well, and puts his remonstrance on a firm basis. Allworth 
 18 
 
274 ANAI^YSIS OlP DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 is amply able to help Wellborn, and it is surely Unexpected 
 when Wellborn refuses his offer to relieve his wants. The 
 very reasons that Wellborn gives are Unexpected to us. 
 We have seen that Allworth is "a boy," but we had not 
 considered that he was so dependent that he lived at the 
 uncertain favor of a Lord. It is Unexpected to us that a 
 man, accoutered as he is, who has just been thrust out of 
 an ale house, and knows not where to eat, or drink, or 
 sleep but underneath the canopy of the heavens, should 
 have so much spirit as to refuse even that which would 
 buy him what would allay his thirst. It is amazing that 
 the experience which he has just had has wrought such a 
 change in him, aroused the nobility of character in him, 
 and, on the instant, made a man of him. The scene closes 
 with Wellborn's announcement that as "in his madness he 
 broke his state" he will rehabilitate it "without the assist- 
 ance of another's brain." How will he do it? We are left 
 wholly unsatisfied, and surely when we do see the means 
 which he adopts, it will be Unexpected and new to us. 
 The closer we examine the operations of the principles, the 
 more clearly we see what a strong ally it is of Action. The 
 Unexpectedness which we can distinguish so plainly in its 
 own function, seems to be the very essence of the Action. 
 Still, it is only a part of the Action. See how beautiful a 
 principle it is! See how it involves doubt, hope, expecta- 
 tion, curiosity, awakens interest and keeps interest alive. 
 It is a lambent spirit that runs throughout the plav^^jjid 
 suddenly at the appointed time bursts into flame. /When 
 the Action is true, when the play is a real play, everything 
 is bound to be new, because it has never before existed on 
 earth. It grows out of the development of the moment. It 
 must be Unexpected. |Even the development of what may 
 be called passive facts, or what seem to be mere conditions 
 at the time, are interesting, if the dramatist has the skill 
 to make them interesting. The servants whom we see in 
 the hall of Lady Allworth's house interest us because we 
 know that Lady Allworth is the step-dame of the young 
 
TH^ UNEXPECTED 275 
 
 man who had proffered his assistance to Wellborn. No 
 doubt Massinger's dramatic instinct was correct in with- 
 holding from us the expectation of Wellborn's application 
 to Lady Allworth in the visit which he is about to make. 
 Up to the point where Lady Allworth Unexpectedly warns 
 her step-son against companionship with Wellborn, every- 
 thing is introductory to and leads up to these passages, 
 which immediately take up the main Action again. The 
 scenes themselves are filled with newness in the way of 
 facts and the development of the conditions, and perhaps 
 the very setting forth of these conditions, the bounty and 
 the kindness, the purity, and the reverence for the memory 
 of the husband, of Lady Allworth make the warning to her 
 step-son all the more surprising. There were technical 
 reasons that governed Massinger's treatment of the scenes 
 leading up to the point of Unexpectedness, after the Unex- 
 pected arrival of Wellborn, by Lady Allworth's Unexpected 
 consent to serve him. It will be observed that where there 
 are no immediate turns in the main Action, the minor Action 
 is made diverting and pays its own way. Of course, there is 
 an element of Unexpectedness in finding that Sir Giles has 
 provided himself with such a cormorant as Justice Greedy. 
 We have our curiosity excited at once as to why the sordid 
 old man should keep in his employ a man obsessed with 
 such an appetite. The reason why he does so soon appears. 
 Justice Greedy has plenty of appetite and no conscience, 
 and the manifestations of his greed take many diverting 
 forms, in which he is new all the time. In point of fact, as 
 to the whole play, it is eternally new, it will never grow 
 old ; and no small part of that newness is made up of those 
 Unexpected things which make each moment alive. Note 
 how Unexpectedly Wellborn enters. There is no announce- 
 ment. Wise old Massinger ! He might have had Wellborn 
 in altercation "without." He might have done many things, 
 dear Inexpert. Massinger merely wished him to appear; 
 presto, he was there. Goodness! how Unexpectedly those 
 wizards like Massinger do things. What a complicated 
 
276 ANAIvYSiS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Unexpectedness it is that Wellborn should come at the 
 very moment that Sir Giles is there. Of course, every 
 atom of a play is not Unexpected, but there is never an 
 absence of the Unexpected. The Unexpected situation em- 
 braces all the details of the situation or scene. We do not 
 get over our wonder at the apparition of the outcast in this 
 lordly home, where even the attire of the servants puts 
 him to shame, before there is a turn in the Action. Per- 
 haps we are not surprised at the treatment of Wellborn 
 by the servants, or even at Wellborn's disposal of their 
 conduct with the simple comment, "this is rare." But here 
 is a surprise: Tom Allworth enters, Frank addresses Tom 
 Allworth. Note that when they first meet, in the first scene 
 of the play, it is Allworth who addresses him as Frank, 
 Wellborn does not then address him as Tom, but now he 
 does it heartily : "Oh ! here's Tom Allworth, Tom !" All 
 this conjecture that the Elizabethan dramatists wrote from 
 the outpourings of genius simply is discreditable to any 
 man of intelligence. It may be that Massinger in many 
 of his plays was not observant of his art, but he was an 
 artist. The little point to which we call attention here 
 demonstrates his art. It was no accident whereby Mas- 
 singer made Wellborn greet Allworth with the familiar 
 name. We have been prepared for Allworth's discounte- 
 nance of Wellborn, but we are surprised at Allworth's Un- 
 expected announcement that they must be strangers, and 
 at his sudden exit. The conduct of Tabitha and Abigail is 
 not exactly Unexpected, but it gives a certain newness to 
 the scene which has a technical use; its object being con- 
 nective mainly. Y Wellborn has been so quiet under the 
 taunts of Furnace, Order and Amble, and the finicky re- 
 marks of Tabitha and Abigail, after he has been disowned 
 by Allworth, we are somewhat surprised at his Unexpected 
 outbreak of anger and independence when he will not go 
 at the bidding of the servants. Here comes my Lady. Not 
 Unexpected, it is true; but it fills us with the expectation 
 of Unexpected things. We have seen that our Lady is dead 
 
the: unexpected 2^^ 
 
 set against our scapegrace, her whole moral nature is 
 against him, what chance has he in an interview with her? 
 Will she listen to him at all? Has she not kept herself so 
 closely guarded against intrusion since her husband's death 
 that she has received no one? She says at the outset that 
 she cannot be expected to fall so low as to exchange words 
 with him. The persuasiveness and gentleness with which 
 Wellborn claims to be heard is in such contrast to his man- 
 ner when first we saw him that it is Unexpected. True, we 
 have heard before that he was the friend of Lady All- 
 worth's husband, but we did not know before that this hus- 
 band was once as low in his fortune almost as Wellborn, 
 and that Wellborn relieved him, that Wellborn stood by 
 him with his sword in all affairs of honor, and that Well- 
 born's counsels and help rehabilitated him. We gradually 
 lose our belief that she will turn him away, for he has 
 already won us over, while Furnace and Order have echoed 
 our thoughts and anticipated her Action. Observe that she 
 speaks hardly a word, except to admit the truth of what he 
 says in a single line, and then to offer him her purse, and 
 the full extent of his plan to set himself upright again is 
 disclosed to us in Unexpected minuteness. Every detail 
 of it is interesting. It is Unexpected that she yields every- 
 thing, receiving Wellborn with open favor and charging 
 her servants "to throw away a little respect upon him." 
 An Unexpected ending to the Act surely ; it is indeed a new 
 way to pay old debts. 
 
 In the opening of the second act there is a constant new 
 development of the character of Sir Giles and his relations 
 with Marrall. The Plot also in a preparatory way takes on 
 new developments. We learn for the first time of Over- 
 reach's definite plans for his daughter. In the scene be- 
 tween Wellborn and Marrall, the newness consists mainly 
 in the development of the Action. We know how matters 
 stand between Wellborn and Lady Allworth, and appreci- 
 ate the irreverent skepticism of Marrall in accepting Well- 
 born's invitation to dine with him at Lady Allworth's. 
 
278 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE 
 
 It is a development which promises a multitude of Unex- 
 pected things. The courtesy of the servants to Wellborn 
 is not Unexpected, but the situation is novel because of its 
 effect on Marrall. Inasmuch as we are in a lively state of 
 interest, there is a touch of the Unexpected in all the de- 
 tails of the manner in which Wellborn is received. Amaz- 
 ing thing! Lady Allw!orth receives him with a kiss, "this 
 first kiss is for form, I allow a second to such a friend." 
 We are not surprised that Marrall is completely taken in by 
 what he has seen, and that he offers to serve Wellborn, nor 
 is it Unexpected that he should tell Sir Giles what he has 
 seen, nor is it wholly Unexpected in the circumstances 
 that Sir Giles should disbelieve him and should strike "the 
 idiot;" but it is all in the nature of the Unexpected, even 
 of the impossible when we remember the opening of the 
 play. IWe expect results from these combinations and hap- 
 pdKngs, but these expectations are necessarily indefinite, 
 so that the future is not wholly discounted. There is some- 
 thing beyond any of the certainties of imagination. New 
 facts and bits of Action are carried along in the Dialogue, 
 keeping the play filled with newness. For instance. Sir 
 Giles dismisses Marrall's "feast and Lady" as imaginary, 
 and bids Marrall to prepare to receive Lord Lovell who 
 dines with him tomorrow. 
 
 With the opening of the third act, we hear for the first 
 time Allworth's plans. These are absolutely new. Of 
 course, the ground has been laid for the Action, but we 
 have merely heard before this time that Allworth was in 
 love with Margaret Overreach. Now we learn that Lord 
 Lovell is to seek out Margaret and play his part for him. 
 Exactly how all this is to be done, the details of the plan, 
 we do not learn. We can only expect indefinitely. Per- 
 haps the most Unexpected thing so far, although perfectly 
 consistent with Sir Giles's nature, is the baseness of his 
 instructions to Margaret; "and therefore, when he kisses 
 you, kiss close." It is not surprising that this fair creature 
 should resent her father's plans for her and suggestions to 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 279 
 
 her, but Unexpectedness covers the entire scene. The man- 
 ner in which Sir Giles is taken in by the diplomacy of Lord 
 Lovell is Unexpected.; We have not spoken of the Unex- 
 pected little turns with which the diverting episodes are 
 filled, and in which Greedy entertains us, but it is worth 
 while to call attention to a little turn that is absolutely 
 Unexpected. It is after we have seen Greedy's preparation 
 for the dinner and his own ardent expectation of its de- 
 lights, that Marrall enters and makes this announcement : 
 
 " My master. 
 Knowing you are his good friend, makes bold with you. 
 And does entreat you, more guests being come in 
 Than he expected, especially his nephew. 
 The table being full too, you would excuse him. 
 And wait to sup with him on the cold meat." 
 This gastronomic injustice to the squire is a beautiful bit 
 of comedy, and owes much of its seasoning to the Unex- 
 pectedness of the turn. It is not Unexpected that Sir Giles 
 should offer to assist his nephew after he has become con- 
 vinced that he is likely to marry Lady Allworth. While 
 the Unexpected must exist in abundance, and so far as it 
 goes is identical with the Action, y^t Action is not wholly 
 dependent upon it. This offer to help his nephew is cer- 
 tainly relatively Unexpected, it is an Unexpected result, at 
 all events. The Action, however, at this point, depends 
 largely upon our wondering whether the deception of 
 Overreach will hold out. It is an unsettled matter. In 
 certain details of this Dialogue between nephew and Uncle 
 which closes the act, Unexpected little points are observ- 
 able, for instance. Sir Giles offers to redeem for Wellborn "a 
 trunk of rich clothes, not far hence in pawn." Is not that 
 a little touch of newness wlorth the while? Is not Sir Giles 
 ordering his carriage fqr his nephew a detail worth the 
 while? Is it not n^w? 
 
 With the beginning of the fourth act we have some- 
 thing entirely new in the coming together of Lord 
 Lovell and Lady Allworth. Assuredly, Lady Allworth, 
 
/ 
 
 280 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 who had denied herself to all suitors, the best in the land, 
 had given no thought to Lord Lovell before the opening of 
 the play. Only the events that have occurred in the three 
 preceding acts could make Lord Lovell's suit even possi- 
 ble. Xo have given any hint of a possible marriage be- 
 tween the two would not have been rational. The matter 
 was reserved for the fourth act and comes into play rather 
 Unexpectedly. The Plot now begins to be rapidly devel- 
 oped by Unexpected happenings; the ring given to All- 
 worth by Sir Giles which enables him to get the license, 
 and the means whereby AUworth is given access to the 
 presence of Margaret. The second scene pf the fourth act 
 is Episodic, and the Unexpectedness in it' consists largely 
 of details. Greedy exercises his authority to carry out the 
 just punishment of Tapwell and Froth by Wellborn. The 
 close of the fourth act shows Sir Giles eflfecting his own 
 undoing by unknowingly providing for the clandestine 
 marriage of his daughter with Allworth. It is full of Un- 
 ^expected details. 
 -^'■^ht fifth act is hurried along with Unexpected turns. 
 True, we know much that Sir Giles does not know, and 
 what has been planned has, we hope, been carried out; but 
 although we know much, we do not know all; much is 
 left in solution, much for expectation, which may be dis- 
 appointed, for accident may at any time defeat the purpose 
 of our hopes. This is a real play. The people are living 
 beings. The most Unexpected thing happens in the last 
 act, amounting to a coup de theatre. Marrall has had 
 no plan to thwart Sir Giles in his schemes against Well- 
 born. He himself was a party to the fraudulent deed. The 
 deed is in his custody. It is natural enough, after he is 
 beaten again by Sir Giles, that he should wish to square 
 accounts with him. We do not expect him to raze the 
 deed, but when the fact that he has Unexpectedly done so 
 is sprung upon us as a coup de theatre, we recognize the 
 naturalness of it. It is Unexpected that Sir Giles should 
 turn upon Wellborn and demand security for the money he 
 
THE UNEXPECTED 281 
 
 had loaned him recently "upon the mere hope of his great 
 match," but he does this Unexpectedly, because he has 
 heard rumors. Unexpectedly, of a stolen marriage. He thinks 
 they are married. He is ready to act. After the discovery 
 of the razed document come the Unexpected appearance 
 of Parson Willdo and moments of suspense until it is 
 clear to Sir Giles that his daughter is married to Allworth. 
 We are intent upon seeing the effect of these combinations 
 of circumstances upon him. The Unexpected happens. He 
 loses his mind; the Proposition and the Plot are solved 
 by the Action, and the expected, in the sense of the hoped 
 for has happened. In the happiness of the blameless, and 
 the discomfiture of the unworthy, the play ends. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 PREPARATION. 
 
 Preparation is the arrangement of a condition in an ear- 
 lier part of the Action which comes into play in a later part 
 of the Action and becomes Unexpectedly effective by means 
 of the Reflex Action. 
 
 Sogyence and Cause and EfiFect involve Preparation, a 
 principle which is so important that it must be constantly 
 in the author's mind. You will find that each scene re- 
 counted under the Unexpected is, in its turn, a Preparation 
 for a succeeding or later scene. The one between Parthe- 
 nia and her mother, in the first act showing that she is in 
 love with no one is important with reference to the later 
 Action. Can you not believe that in writing it the drama- 
 tist realized that he was building, then and there, a se- 
 cure foundation for his future Action and that he had to 
 dwell upon the facts of her freedom of heart and her idea 
 of the purity of love, in order to give full value to the 
 scenes in which her awakened love would be operating? 
 While he could not reveal his purpose to the audience, he 
 wrote with a full appreciation of the bearing of this early 
 scene on certain succeeding ones. The audience could not 
 by any possibility anticipate the use that was to be made 
 later on of Parthenia's state of mind with reference to love. 
 It is concealed Preparation. In this case it could not be 
 anything else but concealed Preparation. In some cases it 
 requires considerable art to conceal the Preparation. Many 
 plays fail through too much Preparation. But if there is 
 no Preparation at all it is just as bad, for something is 
 plumped in that has to be explained — the cart being put 
 before the horse. And this Preparation must, like the 
 Action, proceed from what happens on the stage, else you 
 will be constantly introducing new matter. The inexpert 
 author often has several acts of explanation or Preparation 
 
PRE^PARATION 283 
 
 before he gets down to the real Action. This kind of Pre- 
 paration, without real progressive Action, no doubt pro- 
 ceeds from a misunderstanding of the old technical term of 
 "Introductory" applied to the first act. While there should t 
 be something new all the time, it should be something new \ 
 that the Action calls for, something for which there has, 
 been some kind of Preparation and which is simply a new 
 turn in the constant material. Preparation in its general 
 meaning is a very significant word, and puts to shame the 
 inexpert and hasty writers ; for, does it not suggest care and 
 thought ? It means that an author considers each scene and 
 is careful to weigh the effects. Is such and such a scene or 
 incident or fact strong enough or clear enough to have its 
 influence on the later scenes and Action? Note all that 
 would be called Preparation in the plays in hand. When 
 we reach Character and creative work we shall have so 
 much to encounter in the way of Preparation that we need 
 not dwell on the subject here and now. No expressed 
 Preparation is needed for a given Action when that Action • 
 explains itself. This is seen in what is called the "Coup de * 
 Theatre," as in some melo-dramatic situation where the res-; 
 cuing hero comes all at once, when you are not looking^ 
 for him ; even if we have seen him in chains in the previous 
 act, we jump to the fact that he has escaped, and the im- 
 portant fact of the moment is that he is at hand, not how 
 he escaped — but this illustration is drawn from melo- 
 drama. 
 
 Preparation is something that you very frequently dis- 
 cern after you have finished reading a play ; for, if Prepara- 
 tion is too obvious it prevents that Unexpectedness which 
 we have already seen to be an essential ; consequently. Pre- 
 paration is often absolutely concealed, pains even being 
 taken to direct the attention away from any hint of the 
 future. This may be seen in the talk between Beauseant 
 and Glavis, in "The Lady of Lyons," where Beau- 
 seant says, "As we have no noblemen left in 
 France, — she can only hope that some English 
 
284 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Milord or German Count, &c." Bulwer carefully avoids 
 suggesting an Italian nobleman. \ In a way, again, every- 
 thing is in the nature of Preparation. Causes prepare for 
 (^ effects. At the same time, Preparation is a specific ele- 
 ment] otherwise, it wlould not be in a classification by it- 
 self. The first notable and specific instance of Preparation 
 'unseen by the audience at the time, is where Damas shows 
 V'that he has no sympathy with the social ambitions of his 
 , cousins. Preparation of this kind is often the most import- 
 ant object of a scene, the immediate object being entirely 
 distinct, rtlie thinking of some plan to humble Pauline is 
 necessarily a Preparation for the scene in which the oppor- 
 tunity is presented. The Preparation for the close friend- 
 ship of Damas, so necessary in order to take Melnotte to 
 the war, and for the last act in which Damas, as a cousin, 
 takes him to the house, is carefully worked out. Before 
 Melnotte receives the note from Beauseant, Preparation 
 had to be made to have him in a state of mind to accede. 
 Imagine Damas, at the close of the Fourth Act, without any 
 Preparation, expressing his friendship for Melnotte and 
 offering to get him a place in the army. Proper Pre- 
 ; paration often requires a scene which otherwise would not 
 ^ ' be called for. Before Melnotte brings Pauline to the cot- 
 . tage, it was necessary to have ^he scene with the mother 
 ; alone in order to have us know tnat she was ignorant of the 
 . fact that Pauline had not been told of the true rank in 
 • society of her son. She is not in the scheme and naturally 
 addresses Melnotte as her son, and that precipitates the 
 discovery. That Beauseant falls upon the idea of using 
 Melnotte, known as the "Prince," is prepared for by the 
 ambition of Pauline to marry rank. The flowers that we 
 see in the first scene afford Preparation also. They have 
 no immediate disclosed relation with Melnotte whatever. 
 
 Preparation exists in all parts of a play, for it is in- 
 volved in the Construction, the Plot, Sequence, Cause and 
 Effect and other principles^ We are to point out that which 
 is distinctly Preparation in "Camilla" and essay to arrive 
 
PREPARATION 285 
 
 at the author's reason for the exercise of this distinct 
 method. In writing, one often finds that sufficient Prepara- 
 tion has not been made, and he is forced perhaps to intro- 
 duce a scene to effect the purpose. The first distinct scene 
 of Preparation in "Camille" is the second one, which in- 
 troduces Nichette. Her pure relations with Gustave and 
 her marriage to him are to serve for a contrast to Camille's 
 hapless life. This background of happy virtue is most im- 
 portant and is to play a considerable part in the Action. 
 Nichette is a working girl and comes for a bundle left for 
 her by Camille. She has formerly worked with Camille, 
 and her very name is a pet one given to her by Camille. The 
 essential Facts are conveyed. The immediate purpose of 
 the scene is a technical one to lead up to the Dialogue in 
 the next scene. The story of Camille's life is naturally in- 
 troduced, the facts serving as Preparation. This Prepara- 
 tion enables future passages to be Self-Explanatory. Later 
 on a word or two from Camille to Armand disposes of her 
 relations with de Meuriac. In the Dialogue leading up to 
 Camille's history there is Preparation, for Varville wonders 
 how Camille can endure de Meuriac's tedious visits; Nan- 
 ine explains. Camille's entrance, ordering supper is Prepa- 
 ration. It is obvious Preparation, Requiring no dramatic 
 finesse. It is a matter of course..] Camille's cough, as Var- 
 ville runs to her, is distinctly a touch of Preparation. Its 
 primary purpose is that alone, but Camille's reply is dis- 
 tinctly of the Action of the moment: "Nothing, I will be 
 better — when you are gone." It would have been false 
 Preparation if the Characters before this scene had show^n 
 solicitude about her health ; this touch would have been 
 impaired. Nor is it obvious Preparation. It is the author's 
 Preparation, a mere hint. There are little bits of matter- 
 of-course Preparation, in the nature of Sequence, until we 
 get to Armand's account of his family and his loving men- 
 tion of his sister; the effect of it upon Camille soon ap- 
 pears, and, in the Third Act, is to determine her in her 
 sacrifice. That Armand has loved her madly in silence for 
 
286 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 two years is Preparation. His silence during the gayety 
 of the supper is Preparation. The very gayety of the sup- 
 per is Preparation for Armand's saying to Camille : 
 "You are killing yourself. I would that I had the 
 right to save you from yourself." It is a note of Prepara- 
 tion when Varville tells of having been watched by "that 
 odd-looking sort of person" as he ascended the steps ; and 
 further Preparation is made for Armand's return by what 
 Prudence says in a scene or two later. It would be false 
 or bad Preparation if We were sure that he would come 
 back, but Dumas had it that Camille is about to go out 
 with Varville. After some hesitation she dismisses Var- 
 ville, whereupon Armand enters. If Varville had gone 
 away of his own volition, if there had been no difficulties 
 in the way of Armand's return, and he had appeared imme- 
 diately upon Prudence's announcement, it would have been 
 in the nature of Story rather than Action. Besides, what 
 Prudence says pictures to us the state of his mind. Without 
 her words his return would have been somewhat absurd. 
 This Preparation coincides with Action. The scene between 
 Camille, Nichette and Gustave is really Preparation for the 
 dashing of Camille's every hope in the interview which 
 follows with Armand's father. The appearance of Duval is 
 an instance of where it is not necessary to make any Pre- 
 paration whatever except what lies in the Self-Explanatory 
 nature of the case. The slightest word of Preparation 
 would have destroyed the effect. Instead of any immediate 
 Preparation, the author, on the contrary, has Camille be- 
 lieve it is the agent who comes. With reference to this 
 scene all that Camille has said in her talks with Armand 
 was Preparation, for the father uses the very arguments 
 which she herself has used with her infatuated lover whom 
 now she loves with an abandonment that makes it almost 
 impossible to endure this argument. JThe Preparation in 
 the Fourth Act is more in the natiire of Cause and Effect, 
 (the one immediately following the other, Action proper), 
 than the Preparation which we call distinctly Preparation. 
 
PREPARATION 287 
 
 vJi 
 
 Special Preparation usually concerns results or effects not 
 immediately at hand.] In the Fifth Act the Characters have 
 been carefully Prepared, in their scenes, in the previous 
 acts, to give effect to the passive and pathetic Action of 
 the closing Acts. Without this careful Preparation the Act 
 would be impossible. The Characters could not develop 
 their traits for the first time. The Preparation for Arm- 
 and's return is contained in the letter from Armand's father 
 which Camille has received six weeks before. Observe that 
 this information is withheld from the audience up to a cer- 
 tain point, and that doubt is still left in her mind if he will 
 see her again ; but a sufficient Preparation is the subtle one 
 provided by the author in our belief that he will return. 
 In making distinct principles of the elements of a play, 
 we must bear in mind always that one principle involves 
 another. Preparation, for example, is identical in many 
 points and aspects with Sequence and Cause and EflEegt/ 
 And yet what would be the use in defining a principle if 
 it were only another name for another principle? Would 
 it not be a multiplication of means to an end if each Princi- 
 ple were not delimited and did not have functions peculiarly 
 its own? Sequence and Cause and Effect could be observed 
 if in the very first scene in "Still Waters Run 
 Deep" we saw that Mrs. Mildmay had fallen under 
 the influence of Hawksley by reason of her roman- 
 ticism and the prosaic character of her husband. But 
 the dramatist has wisely not even permitted us to see the 
 romanticism of Mrs. Mildmay in this scene, so far as any 
 expression to him is concerned. He does not show that 
 the woman considers him prosaic, without a soul for music, 
 in fact, "no soul for anything!" There we have it, prose 
 first, romance next. We are thus prepared for the second 
 scene in which we see that the wife reads Tennyson, "ri- 
 diculous poetry," for "the comfort it brings to her with- 
 ered heart.'^That is true Preparation, husbanding effects 
 and ideas, f An instance of Preparation which has no imme- 
 diate relation to the Plot, is that Mrs. Sternhold has issued 
 
288 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 invitations to dinner tomorrow. The fact is given as a rea- 
 son v^hy Emily cannot have the quiet little dinner with 
 her husband at Richmond on the anniversary of the wed- 
 ding. If the dinner of the third act were plumped in when 
 occasion arose for it later on it would be very lame and 
 obviously mechanical. This is Preparation which has noth- 
 ing whatever to do with the immediate Cause and Effect as 
 to the Plot. But observe that it does serve an immediate 
 purpose./ It is shown in the first scene that Mrs. Sternhold 
 is in authority in the house. The value of incidental Prepa- 
 ration, but specific as Preparation, is to be noted in the 
 talk between Potter and Mrs. Sternhold, in which Potter 
 expresses his doubts as to the attentions of Hawksley to 
 Emily. The immediate object of the scene is to arouse 
 the jealousy of the aunt and have her overhear the inter- 
 view between Hawksley and Emily. 
 t^ What Potter says as to the acquaintance of the 
 ' two before the marriage of Emily with Mildmay 
 has a softening effect on the scene in which Hawks- 
 ley makes his impudent proposal. If we did not 
 know that they were old acquaintances, that he 
 sought to marry her at one time, the scene would be so 
 abrupt and vulgar that it would be intolerable. Emily is 
 romantic, so w« are prepared for Hawksley's mode of at- 
 tack "Oh, were this but Seville ! Sweet Seville V The very 
 moment Hawksley makes his base proposal we know that 
 he is a scoundrel ; that is preparation enough for the facts 
 that he has removed the bolt of the glass door and that he 
 has stolen the key to the garden gate. It falls into the self- 
 explanatory. No preparation was needed for the fact 
 that the mastiff was a present from Hawksley. There had 
 been no need to make the fact known before this point that 
 Mrs. Sternhold had lost the key. Why not? Because the 
 important fact is that Hawksley has it, and the loss by Mrs. 
 Sternhold is a mere detail. It is a fact of the moment, a 
 thing of the Action, not continuous in bearing, requiring 
 no treatment before or after the fact. The law takes no 
 
PREPARATION 289 
 
 account of fractions of a day; the drama does not halt at 
 material immaterial things, fractions. It is important to 
 understand Preparation as a distinct principle, with func- 
 tions of its own, else it may be confounded with the func- 
 tions of Cause and Effect. The Preparation involved in 
 the Action or the Plot is of a tangible sort ; from this comes 
 that, by reason of this that happens, &c. But Preparation, 
 in its distinct function, is usually intangible, concealed 
 Preparation. The inexperienced writer might easily have 
 destroyed the Unexpected in the scene between Hawksley 
 and Mrs. Sternhold by bringing out the fact of the exist- 
 ence of the thirteen compromising letters too soon, "pre- 
 paring" for them. Her jealousy, her reproaches, their inti- 
 macy, his rascality, her folly, her sentimentality, «:hat of a 
 woman of a certain age who loves in spite of her judgment, 
 all suffice to make us accept the fact without any formal 
 Preparation. If we knew nothing about these compromis- 
 ing letters until Mildmay confronted Hawksley in his room, 
 the fact would be plumped in; we would feel the lack of 
 Preparation. As it is, it is a part of our interest whether 
 he will secure the letters or not. We know that to secure 
 them is one of the objects of his visit. The story of the 
 forged bill is without Preparation as to the facts, but we 
 have become so thoroughly convinced of the rascality of 
 Hawksley that we are prepared to believe anything about 
 him, and we know that Mildmay has been pursuing inves- 
 tigations. pThe method of arriving at this scene is unusuaL 
 It is seldom that Story can be used so effectively. It is 
 made possible in being reduced down to one material fact, 
 the forged bill and Mildmay's possession of it. The details 
 did not have to be proved. Nothing in the Plot or the Ac- 
 tion turns upon the proof of the details. We are prepared 
 for any charge against Hawksley, and we know that Mild- 
 may has definite proof of some sort. There is no Prepara- 
 tion for the statement that Hawksley can snuff a candle 
 at twenty paces with a pistol, but the accomplishment pro- 
 19 
 
/ 
 
 290 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 bably belonged to the character of the period of this play. 
 If Hawksley*s deadly aim were the material thing at this 
 point Preparation would have been required. Perhaps Pre- 
 paration in detail was inexpedient in parts of the structure 
 of this play, consequently there is much use made of Story ; 
 whereas proper Preparation is the most potent means of 
 obviating Story. 
 
 If we attempted to give all the Sequences and every bit 
 of Cause and Effect as Preparation we would get a con- 
 fused idea of the principle. Preparation is involved in and 
 provided for in many of the elements of a play, but those 
 elements do not always coincide. In "A New Way 
 to Pay Old Debts,'^ Wellborn is turned away and 
 humiliated by Tapwell and Froth in the first scene, 
 and in the second scene of the fourth act, an Episode, he 
 metes out punishment to them, but this Episode is too in- 
 cidental as to Tapwell and Froth to require the first scene 
 to have for its principal object Preparation for the scene 
 of punishment. The Episode has something more import- 
 ant to attend to than the punishment of the Innkeeper and 
 while it makes Objective the fact that Overreach has sup- 
 plied Wellborn with money the Episode serves distinctly 
 for Plot. We could hardly define Sir Giles's furnishing 
 Wellborn with money to discharge his debts as Preparation 
 for the Episode either. So many things contribute to it 
 and are ready for it when it can be introduced that no spe- 
 cific Preparation was needed. Both Marrall and Justice 
 Greedy have been won over by Wellborn, and incidentally 
 this fact, with many other circumstances, works for the 
 Episode, but the Episode is a by-product. We are en- 
 tirely prepared for Greedy's ready acquiescence in Well- 
 born's suggestion to forget the "couple of fat turkeys" pro- 
 mised every Christmas by Tapwell in favor of the venison 
 that he will send him every season, enough to feast a mayor 
 and corporation. But it is all too indirect and incidental 
 to be called specific Preparation. The character of Greedy 
 has been developed for other purposes and not for this 
 
PREPARATION 291 
 
 scene. The necessity for specific Preparation often pre- 
 sents itself to a dramatist after he has practically or appa- 
 rently completed his Plot or play. It would be difficult to 
 find an easier or more natural Episode than this! In the 
 Dialogue between Tapwell and Froth note that she says 
 that Wellborn *'knows all the passages of our house ; as the 
 receiving of stolen goods, and so forth." This is the first 
 we have heard of it. If it had been made known in the 
 opening scene of the play as a bit of Preparation for the 
 Episode, it would have thrown everything into dispropor- 
 tion. Here it is in the right place and acts as Preparation, 
 in a certain degree, for it makes Wellborn's treatment of 
 them justice and not revenge. Massinger, in his first draft, 
 might have begun the Episode without this introduction, 
 having the characters on the stage, as now, Tapwell pre- 
 senting his petition. Suppose Massinger had incorporated 
 the idea of Tapwell's being a fence in the Episode proper, 
 and have had Wellborn say that he knew "all the passages 
 of the house, as the receiving of stolen goods, and so forth," 
 then it would have been plumped in and would otherwise 
 have taken away from the simplicity of the scene. The 
 Facts are immediately Self-explanatory and doubly forceful 
 although mentioned now for the first time. Certain things 
 are spoken of as having happened which need not have 
 been by way of Preparation. For instance, Tapwell says 
 that Wellborn has Greedy at his command because he has 
 fed him. We needed no previous account of the various 
 creditors in order to understand the details which are un- 
 folded. To have given it would have been over-prepara- 
 tion. The treatment of Wellborn by the servants and the 
 maids was a necessary Preparation, by way of contrast, for 
 the scene in which their demeanor is the exact opposite. 
 Massinger had the latter scenes in mind when he wrote 
 the first ones. There is a very careful Preparation for solv- 
 ing the relations betw:een Lord Lovell and Lady Allworth. 
 Long before the two have occasion to come to an under- 
 
292 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 standing, we see that explanations between them will be 
 brief. This Preparation begins before there is any issge 
 joined as to them. It enters into the Plot later on. \The 
 Preparation for Marrall's betrayal and desertion of Sir 
 Giles is Plot Preparation largely. In working out the 
 scenes of wrath and beating, Massinger had constantly in 
 mind that he was making the Cause strong enough to cor- 
 respond with the EflFect. There is a good deal of Prepara- 
 tion in this play by previous description and giving of 
 Facts, something that often leads to over-preparation, but 
 Massinger is so skillful that he gives the facts and descrip- 
 tions necessarily and incidentally. Thus, Wellborn de- 
 scribes Overreach's designs for his daughter in the first 
 scene with Allworth. But its force, at that moment, is to 
 complete the relentless character of the man who has 
 wrought the ruin of Wellborn. There is no hint of Plot in 
 it. Had we, later on, suddenly got our first intimation or 
 statement or showing of this side of the character of Sir 
 Giles it would have been plumped in. Or if it had been 
 revealed to us in the first scene of the play that Sir Giles 
 intended to offer the hand of his daughter to Lord Lovell it 
 would have been over-preparation and the affairs of All- 
 worth wbuld have had undue prominence. To have inti- 
 mated that Marrall was already tired of the ill-treatment 
 of his master was wholly unnecessary. Consequently, Mas- 
 singer first showed him as the willing and eager tool, per- 
 mitting us to see the character and its relations to the Ac- 
 tion develop under our own eyes. When we hear the com- 
 plainings of the cook we understand the circumstances. 
 The opening scene of the servants was evidently designed, 
 for the greater part, as Preparation for "The thin gutted 
 squire that's stolen into commission." Omit the cook from 
 the scene and there would be no scene. Some students, in 
 analyzing this play, iancy that they see traces of insanity in 
 Sir Giles in the course of the Action which makes the Pre- 
 paration for his final madness. His uncontrollable temper 
 
PREPARATION 293 
 
 may be a kind of insanity, but the defeat of all his hopes, 
 might well have brought on an access of madness without 
 any previous lesion of the brain or imperfection of reason. 
 It is not likely that Massinger intended to represent him 
 with the seeds of madness in him in any other sense than 
 that abnormal passion implies madness. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ACTION (DRAMA) MUST BE SELF-EXPLANATORY, 
 SELF-DEVELOPING AND SELF-PROGRESSIVE. 
 
 The principles and methods already explained and which 
 have concerned the actual structure of a play provide large- 
 ly for the qualities of the Self-explanatory, the Self-develop- 
 ing and the Self-progressive. One principle involves an- 
 other principle, sometimes very closely, but an art must be 
 precise and must make distinctions in order to secure a safe 
 point of view in every emergency. The very term Self-Ex- 
 planatory explains itself, but if we are to exercise a self- 
 reliant Technique we must know why a Self-Explanatory 
 dramatic thing is Self-Explanatory. It is jnade so and does 
 not merely happen so. If we at once understand why a 
 character does a certain thing, it is because we understand 
 the present conditions and what has led up to them. 'That 
 a thing is Self-Explanatory is one of the first qualities of 
 Action, almost a definition. If we have seen in a preceding 
 scene that one character has insulted, let us say, the sister 
 of another, we understand his state of mind when he meets 
 that other. If we see a cause we understand the effect. 
 Should a blow be struck it is at once Self-Explanatory, Self- 
 developing and Self-progressive. One thing grows out of 
 another or makes it clear. "Ingomar" has this Sequence of 
 happenings in perfect clarity. Are we not assured of the 
 ideality and purity of Parthenia from her talk with her 
 mother? Has she to protest or explain her innocence when 
 confronted with the passion of Ingomar and is in his 
 power? We have usually seen in the Action of a play what 
 explains the conduct of a character, and it does not make it 
 less Self-explanatory when, for example. Uncle Nat, in the 
 lighthouse scene, in "Shore Acres," tells Martin, his broth- 
 er, for the first time that he loved Martin's wife before Mar- 
 tin married her. How can a play be Self-developing unless 
 
ACTION MUST BD SELF-EXPLANATORY, ETC. 295 
 
 we see it develop before our eyes? Cause and Effect and 
 motives constantly accumulating as the Action progresses, 
 are the marks of the dramatic. You will observe that, in 
 a correctly written play, there is no occasion to explain 
 after something has happened, provided the Action had 
 been sufficiently Self-explanatory for the moment. One 
 does not have to give every Detail in order to make a thing 
 sufficiently Self-explanatory. The dramatist must know 
 what to withhold. What may seem to be explanations are 
 made in the course of the Action, but, by reason of the ex- 
 planation, the Action becomes Self-progressive. Action is 
 itself Self-progressive, for it is a part of a complete Action. 
 It is like the expansion of a drop of water into steam that 
 creates the motive power. 
 
 It is Self-explanatory why Parthenia rejects Poly- 
 dor after the discussion between them, because of 
 his avarice, meanness, and wholly unsympathetic na- 
 ture, which develop as they talk, and it is Self- 
 progressive because it brings about a constant change of 
 affairs: She started to accept him, and rejects him. It is 
 Self-explanatory when he refuses, later on, to help to ran- 
 som her father, for he has expressed his wish for revenge, 
 and his opportunity has come. It is Self-developing, Self- 
 explanatory and Self-progressive. The obverse side of this 
 you will see in your own first plays, when you will have to 
 ask yourself : Is this Self-explanatory, Self-developing and 
 Self-progressive, Whenever you make the characters talk 
 for the information of the audience and not because of the 
 necessity of so talking between themselves, it is you, the 
 author, who is explaining or feeling or talking, and con- 
 sequently the Action is not Self-developing. Any one who 
 succeeds with an anecdote, knowing the art of telling one, 
 will have the point, at the climax, Self-explanatory. As 
 simple as all this seems, from our study and analysis of well 
 constructed plays, you will find that it is one of the most 
 frequent problems to solve when writing a play, f 
 
 In a play from a novel by a well known Arfierican au- 
 
296 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 thor produced several years ago, at the rise of the curtain a 
 young man from R. and a young woman from L. rushed 
 into each other's arms and embraced rapturously; it was 
 not Self-explanatory; were they brother and sister? Lov- 
 ers ? The audience did not know the relationship and broke 
 into a roar of laughter; like Ananias the author had kept 
 back too much. 
 
 You can see that everything in "The Lady of Lyons" is 
 Self-explanatory and Self-developing. If it were not 
 the play would not be walking on its own legs. It 
 would not be alive. If a thing were done in the wrong 
 place, in the wrong Sequence, it would not be Self-explan- 
 atory; if you saw an Eflfect without having seen the Cause, 
 it would not be Self-explanatory, although it might be all 
 right in another form of literature, the novel, for_example. 
 The author could explain as he went along. The drama 
 is the thing itself, it must explain itself, the author has no 
 part in it so far as the actual performance is concernecl. 
 The play begins to be Self-explanatory with the first step 
 you take in the structure. The Proposition and the Plot 
 are Self-explanatory. How unintelligible at times or how 
 dreadful a bore a play would be if the characters had to stop 
 and explain things. When Damas takes a fancy to Melnotte 
 after fighting the duel with him, we understand why, not 
 only from what he says as to liking a man after fighting 
 with him, but because we know his bluff character and 
 democracy. When the time comes it is entirely clear why 
 Damas offers to have Melnotte serve in his regiment. That 
 Melnotte can rise to rank in the army is Self-explanatory 
 from the career of Damas himself. It does not depend 
 upon any explanation from him. Melnotte explains his mo- 
 tives to Pauline more than once, but not for the mere pur- 
 pose of explaining, only for new results and purposes. The 
 very reason for the explanation is Self-explanatory. Beause- 
 ant does not have to explain to the audience why he comes 
 to see Pauline at the cottage. We know that he had not 
 given up hope, and that it was indeed a part of his plan 
 
ACTION MUST BE) SELF-EXPLANATORY, ETC. 297 
 
 to humble her and to gain her. His discussion of the situa- 
 tion with her is not for the sake of explanation. If it had 
 required a monologue from him to tell the audience why- 
 he had come, there would have been something wrong in 
 the arrangement of the piece, his monologue would 
 have been explanation and the Self-explanatory would 
 have been lacking. If Damas, in the opening of the last 
 act, had advanced to the footlights and explained in a mo- 
 nologue that he and Melnotte were back from the wars, 
 Melnotte now known as Morier, &c., &c., it would not have 
 been Self-explanatory, because nothing in the Action forces 
 him to a monologue. Why does not Melnotte reveal him- 
 self at once? It is Self-explanatory. It is all cared for by 
 structure and the other principles. One thing being wrong 
 in a play, other things will be wrong, but here we have 
 skilled work. \ 
 
 "^ The Self-explanatory comes from technical management. 
 The inexperienced writer yielding to Story, Words, bad 
 Sequence and lack of Preparation, will too often fail to 
 make what takes place explain itself. It is Self-explana- 
 tory that Varville is waiting for Camille. That is all that\ 
 the immediate situation requires. The inexpert writer j 
 would be inclined to explain the whole. That it is not ' 
 Camille who rings the bell is Self-explanatory by what i 
 Nanine says as to the time of her return, and it is Self- 
 explanatory why they are not interrupted by the Entrance 
 of Camille during the two scenes preceding her return. It 
 is Self-explanatory why Nichette calls ; a bundle is left fbr ^ , 
 her. It is Self-explanatory why she does not wait for Ca- 
 mille, for Gustave is at the door. It is Self-Explanatory i 
 why she is fond of Camille, and why Camille is fond of her ; 
 they had worked together in the same shop. Camille's pet 
 name of Nichette indicates the degree of intimacy. All 
 these points are brought out 'by the necessity of the occa- 
 sion, and nothing is told directly or without Cause. In 
 other words, it all tells itself, and in that case it is Self- 
 explanatory. That Camille is indifferent to Varville is 
 
298 ANAIvYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvD 
 
 Self-explanatory in her conduct toward him and in her 
 conversation with him. It is true that Nanine has told 
 Varville that Camille does not love him the least bit in 
 the world, but that does not render it the less necessary 
 for Camille to show the fact by her conduct toward him. 
 It is her conduct that is Self-explanatory. We see that 
 Olimpe has not been to see Camille recently. That is 
 brought out in the conversation between them. When Ca- 
 mille goes to the window and calls for Prudence it is Self- 
 explanatory that she is a neighbor. It is not superfluous that 
 Camille in answer to Olimpe explains that Prudence lives 
 just opposite. It is all Self-explanatory because every- 
 thing that is said and done is in demand by the immediate 
 pressure of the moment and thus Self-Acting. If Nanine, 
 in that possible scene at the beginning of the play had told 
 all about Prudence being a neighbor, then this incidental 
 going to the window and of explaining to Olimpe would 
 have been robbed of the better part of the quality of the 
 Self-explanatory. There would have been repetition and 
 an absence of the Unexpected. In other words, it would 
 have been too Self-explanatory. It is Self-explanatory 
 that Camille lightly passes off Prudence's remark that 
 Armand loves her to madness. She does not take it se- 
 riously, and we know why. We have seen that she does 
 not love Varville, and we know from her history that 
 she cares for no one. She attaches no importance to the 
 sincerity of anybody's love. When Camille orders Varville 
 to cease that noise on the piano, it is Self-explanatory, for 
 we have seen her impatience with him in previous scenes. 
 If Armand had joined in the revelry and had taken part 
 in the frivolous talk at the table, his interest in Camille 
 in the interview after the others had gone out would not 
 be Self-explanatory. It is the Preparation for it that makes 
 it so. Without the frivolous character of her companions 
 having been seen, it would not be Self-explanatory when 
 Camille says that "There is a new found meaning in these 
 simple words" of Armand. Camille's agitation in the sec- 
 
ACTION MUST B^ SELF-EXPI,ANATORY^ ETC. 299 
 
 ond act, and her conflict of emotion with reference to Arm- 
 and have their basis in the previous act, and what she 
 now does explains itself. The strongest example of the 
 Self-explanatory is the Entrance of Duval. Here is a case 
 in which there has been no obvious Preparation at all. 
 Camille does not expect him, and is ignorant of his coming, 
 and yet the very moment he enters the audience knows 
 why he comes. There is not a word of immediate expla- 
 nation from him. The argument between them is based 
 on Facts and emotions which have been presented in pre- 
 vious scenes. The new fact is introduced that Armand's 
 sister is about to marry, and that the family of the man 
 who seeks her will not consent to the marriage unless 
 Camille gives up Armand. The very statement of these 
 facts is Self-explanatory. We need no details about the 
 family of the young man who will marry Armand's sister 
 under conditions. The facts are ample and absolutely defi- 
 nite and Self-explanatory. There was absolutely no Pre- 
 paration needed for the announcement of the intended mar- 
 riage any more than there was for the coming of Armand's 
 father. There is marked dramatic economy in all this. 
 After the interview to the close of the act, everything that 
 is done explains itself. There is no Story to be told in the 
 fourth act, and the Action being Self-developing and Self- 
 progressive, jt is by the nature of the Action itself. Self- 
 explanatory. Whenever each moment provides the reason 
 for each Action, then we have the principle in its purest 
 elemental form. When Camille falteringly says that she 
 loves Varville it is Self-explanatory, for there is no ex- 
 pression from her of the reason why she tells this false- 
 hood; we know why. The very utterance of her renuncia- 
 tion of Armand has back of it the reason known to us and 
 not to Armand. It would be inconceivable perhaps to im- 
 agine this interview between Armand and Camille taking 
 place without the interview between Camille and Armand's 
 father having been seen. But, for the sake of illustration, 
 you will imagine a scene in which Camille should explain 
 
300 . ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 to Armand why she renounces him, the scene between her 
 and the father having taken place off stage. This will seem 
 almost impossible, but instances of the kind could be found 
 in inexpert plays. If much of the last act w^re not Self- 
 explanatory it would be slow in movement and unintelli- 
 gible. But it is Self-explanatory from the rise of the cur- 
 tain. We know at once that she is without resources, and 
 has been abandoned by Varville and just as certainly by 
 Armand. The devotion of the two friends that remain to 
 her after her wealth is gone is Self-explanatory. Arm- 
 and's return is Self-explanatory because it is prepared for 
 by the letter which Camille reads from the father. It 
 would not be Self-explanatory if Armand on his return 
 explained these things which we now know but which 
 an unskilled dramatist might have left to him. It would 
 have been the very same Story, the facts would have re- 
 mained the same. Why then could not Dumas have re- 
 served to Armand the telling of that? Simply because in 
 the tense moments of the Action there is no time for ex- 
 planation. It must be got out of the way. Armand does 
 not waste one word in telling her of his misunderstanding 
 or about his father's letter to him. If a play were a condi- 
 tion of affairs and not an Action wherein the most vital 
 thing is the present moment, Armand could dwell upon 
 the many unhappy combinations of circumstances which 
 have thrown them apart, and which have now brought 
 them together. Indeed, if an aiithor, (he could hardly be 
 called a dramatist) wanted to dwell on sentiment and de- 
 tail and explanation, he could easily do so in this scene, but 
 to its utter destruction as to the vital thing of the moment. 
 The very term Self-explanatory implies that the Action 
 as it develops before us is intelligible to the extent required 
 at the moment. Every fact and all the relations of the peo- 
 ple cannot be conveyed at one and the same moment, con- 
 sequently, the Self-explanatory is provided for and pre- 
 pared for in many different ways. Thus, before we come 
 to the scene itself we have developed the Proposition into a 
 
ACTION MUST BE) SElvI'-EXPI.ANATORY, trC. 3OI 
 
 Plot, and the Plot into Acts and scenes ; and if this is prop- 
 erly done, much becomes Self-explanatory, while much is 
 left to the details of the scenes to make what happens and 
 is said in them Self-explanatory at the moment. A scene 
 becomes a microcosm of a play ; Sequence, Proposition and 
 Plot within the scene repeat the same process used in get- 
 the means of producing the Self-explanatory, the most pri- 
 the means of producing the Self- Explanatory, tihe most pri- 
 mitive are those of Scenery and Costume and Objectivity. 
 When the curtain rises on the drawing room of Mildmay's 
 villa, we see that the group of four people indicate a 
 family. We see their social position. Certain general facts 
 are conveyed in a Self-explanatory way. It is a kind of 
 Action that is thus afforded by the inanimate things and 
 the tableau, for the mind of the audience begins to operate. 
 The picture itself does not suggest the exact relations be- 
 tween the people. It would be impossible almost to con- 
 vey all these facts except by way of development. We are 
 attendant upon the Action in order to discover exactly what 
 are the relations of these people. It has been sufficiently 
 Self-explanatory up to the time that Mrs. Mildmay ad- 
 dresses her aunt as "Aunt," "only conceive of him asking 
 for a stupid melody like that." We next get the relation 
 between Mildmay and Emily, for he says, "you used to 
 like playing to me before we were married." It is a minute 
 or two, or a considerable space, after this before we learn 
 that Mrs. Sternhold is Potter's sister. It was not abso- 
 lutely essential up to this point to define Potter, for atten- 
 tion had to be centered on the attitude of Mildmay's wife 
 and her Aunt toward Mildmay, and these relations all come 
 out in a Self-explanatory way. These characters are en- 
 gaged in a conversation about affairs of their own, and are 
 in no wise concerned with the audience. All that they say 
 is perfectly natural and required by their discussion.? Mrs. 
 Sternhold's first speech shows that Mildmay gives little 
 attention to the music of his wife, and has the habit of 
 silently snoring through it. We see at once that husband 
 
302 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 and wife are at odds ; that even Potter, the fourth member 
 of the household, thinks that Mildmay has no soul for any- 
 thing. Mrs. Sternhold replies to Mildmay's suggestion to 
 Emily that they have a quiet little dinner at Richmond to- 
 morrow, that she cannot allow Emily to go, and that she 
 has issued invitations for a dinner here. It is Self-ex- 
 planatory that she has the upper hand in the house. This 
 is immediately confirmed by Emily's assenting to the dicta- 
 tion of her Aunt, although the previous speech has made 
 us acquainted with the fact that tomorrow comes the anni- 
 versary of the wedding day of Emily and Mildmay. We 
 have had a reason why for everything in the progress of 
 this conversation. It was Self-explanatory that Mildmay 
 would like to have a tete-a-tete with his wife, free from the 
 control and presence of her Aunt. A further Self-explan- 
 atory reason follows in his speech that he wanted it because 
 it was their wedding anniversary. The first offer was Self- 
 explanatory enough at the time, and the additional reason 
 is new and convincing. It is Self-explanatory that Mild- 
 may rises and says he had as well go and earth up his 
 celery, because he has made two requests and urged them 
 in several speeches, and has in that way exhausted his 
 efforts at conciliation that evening. That Emily and Mrs. 
 Sternhold are perverse is Self-explanatory, because they 
 think Mildmay is stupid, and we see one reason why they 
 think he is stupid in that he wishes to engage in the prosaic 
 occupation of earthing up his celery. At the same time, it 
 is perfectly Self-explanatory that he is willing to do any- 
 thing to please the women, at least Emily, for he offers 
 to remain if she only says so. In short, the scene is a per- 
 fect glimpse into the life which they have been latterly 
 leading. It will be observed that Mildmay never replies 
 harshly to Emily, but that he is inclined to quietly resent 
 the interpositions of the Aunt. It is plain that he can do 
 nothing more, so he settles himself comfortably on the 
 sofa. The author is holding the note here for a while for 
 the technical purpose of allowing Mildmay to fall asleep. 
 
ACTION MUST BE^ SEl<F-EXPI.ANATORY, ETC. 303 
 
 but, in doing so, he does not fail to make his points, for 
 when Mrs. Sternhold asks Emily to give her a little music, 
 Emily replies, "with pleasure, what shall I play you?" Mrs. 
 Sternhold, "anything you like." Note that a number of lit- 
 tle facts are repeated, but always in some new relation. 
 Thus we find that Potter is promptly snubbed on the same 
 ground that Mildmay had once before been nagged at 
 about, namely, that he always falls asleep after dinner. 
 Mildmay is now apparently asleep. The most pointed ac- 
 cusation as to Mildmay's stupidity comes up in the Dia- 
 logue between the two women after the two men are 
 apparently in a doze. We have some of the reasons why 
 Emily is dissatisfied with her husband, and in this talk 
 with Mrs. Sternhold she conveys to us an additional reason 
 that makes her conduct Self-explanatory, namely, her ro- 
 mance, and in Mrs. Sternhold's reply to her we get a 
 glimpse of a money-loving woman. All this has been Self- 
 explanatory, sufficient for the moment, and, immediately 
 thereafter, and later on we get new facts and confirmation 
 for what has been partly but sufficiently Self-explanatory. 
 The whole scene has moved forward by the forces within 
 itself. It has not had the aid of anything outside of it and 
 belonging to the Plot proper. It has been Self-explanatory 
 from beginning to end. It has been without a Monologue 
 or an Aside. It is a perfect example of the Self-explana- 
 tory, the Self-developing and the Self-progressive. It would 
 not be improper to divide this material into three scenes, 
 considering the incident of the little interchange of talk be- 
 tween Mrs. Sternhold and Potter and then between Emily 
 and Mrs. Sternhold as the second scene, and the incident 
 of Emily's knotting her handkerchief and bringing it down 
 on Mildmay's face, up to Mildmay's Exit the third scene; 
 but it will be observed that it is all practically one scene, 
 for it carries out the one object of showing that Mildmay 
 is held in no esteem in his own household. Indeed, this 
 fact has been sufficiently established in what we might call 
 the first scene up to the time that both Mildmay and Potter 
 
304 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 fall asleep. But the author had other things in his mind. 
 He had not the slightest intention of permitting the audi- 
 ence to see what use he was going to make of Mrs. Stern- 
 hold's significant observations on Mildmay. He kept the 
 attention fixed upon one object of the scene, namely, the 
 loss of all authority by Mildmay in the household. The 
 two or three speeches between Emily and Mrs. Sternhold 
 are a continuation of the main object of the one scene. We 
 are getting, however, something new all the time, or a con- 
 firmation of what we already know with new aspects. In 
 the second incident, where Mildmay announces that he is 
 going to Manchester that night, the author had not the 
 slightest intention of conveying to the audience Mildmay's 
 object in making the trip, but it is Self-explanatory to the 
 degree required. The only comment that is made on it is 
 Emily's remark that "you never said a wbrd about it until 
 now." Mildmay replies, "why should I?" These two inci- 
 dents do not advance the Action except as they confirm the 
 state of affairs between man and wife. The two scenes, as 
 we may call them, are scenes of Preparation. That Mild- 
 may is going to Manchester is not Self-explanatory as to 
 the object, but it is Self-explanatory in that he has said 
 nothing to his wife about it before. It cannot be Self-ex- 
 planatory that he is going to Manchester to look into the 
 history of Hawksley, because the name of Hawksley has, 
 not been mentioned up to this point. It is mentioned only 
 after Mildmay makes his Exit. The scene so far has been 
 Self-explanatory within itself; after that point the Action 
 becomes Self-explanatory by reason of what has gone be- 
 fore, beginning with what has happened in the first scene. 
 It is a common mistake to suppose that the first part of a 
 play should be a mere exposition of the relations between 
 people. It is sometimes stated that the first act is intended 
 for exposition. On the contrary, if this scene were merely 
 Self-explanatory as to the relations between the people, it 
 would amount to nothing. There must be Action always, 
 
ACTION MUST BK SEIv^-e:XPLANATORY, ETC. 305 
 
 and that Action must be • Self-explanatory, but this scene 
 holds the future in its embrace. 
 ^ "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" begins in a Self- 
 \ explanatory way and continues so throughout. It is true 
 that Tapwell turns Wellborn adrift on the orders of Marrall 
 in pursuance of Sir Giles's plan to ruin him. That fact, 
 however, was not required in this first scene. To have a 
 scene Self-explanatory does not mean that everythmg must 
 be told or brought out at one time. TapwelFs reason for 
 doing what he does is one that is universally understood. 
 "If you haven't any money you needn't come around." That 
 certainly is simple enough. What is talked about between 
 them comes from the necessities of the case. The charges 
 and the replies arise naturally from the circumstances. It 
 is Self-explanatory in every sentence. We see why Well- 
 born is angry and why he beats the inkeeper, an ingrate. 
 Above all we see how and why Wellborn is humiliated and 
 feels his humiliation to that degree that he determines to 
 rise, if he can, now that his feet have touched bottom. If 
 Wellborn had knocked at the door demanding entrance, and 
 Tapwell had told him to go away to sleep under the canopy 
 of the heavens or in a barn, and Wellborn had asserted that 
 he had given him the money to set himself up in business, 
 etc., we would not have had essential facts explained to us 
 in their right ofder. Wellborn may have lost his money in 
 speculation and not in dissipation. We must see him first 
 as the drunkard. If his dissipation is explained later it is 
 the cart before the horse. It might still be Self-explana- 
 tory, but not in the dramatic w'ay. Sequence and Cause 
 and Effect have to do with it. Wellborn might have knock- 
 ed at the door, been turned away, and then in a monologue, 
 have told the audience all about Tapwell, Old Sir John 
 Wellborn, his own career as a spendthrift, etc., but the 
 manner of it would have been so lamely Self-explanatory 
 that we could not admit it as dramatic. As it is, the needed 
 explanations are brought out in flash and fire in the contro- 
 versy between them. It is not one man explaining things, 
 20 
 
306 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 but the Action itself that explains; the Action itself ex- 
 plains itself. It is what happens before our eyes, the matter 
 of the moment, that explains itself and incidentally conveys 
 needed information not only for immediate use, but for fu- 
 ture bearing. The Dialogue between Wellborn and All- 
 worth does not explain anything for the benefit of the audi- 
 ence, but what they do and feel is explained by what they 
 say. Their subjective Action is Self-explanatory, their mo- 
 tives made clear, and the impressions conveyed to us, the 
 objective Action, affording us that clear intelligence which 
 is needed for sympathy and interest. Why does not Well- 
 born accept aid and money from his young friend. It is an- 
 swered in what he says to AUworth. His present plight 
 was his own fault, he will redeem himself alone. Let us 
 suppose that Wellborn and Allwbrth had come on together 
 at the rise of the curtain, their identity and relations would 
 not have been Self-explanatory. As it is we have only one 
 thing presented at the time. Of course, if they had come on 
 at the rise of the curtain, AUworth's first words might have 
 explained at once that he was Wellborn's friend and that he 
 wished to help him, but we would have known nothing of 
 what is now conveyed in the first scene, and Wellborn's re- 
 cital of his treatment would have been explanation and not 
 Self-explanatory. Such a scene might be made Self-expla- 
 natory, but it would probably be so awkward, so lame, com- 
 pared with Massinger's way of doing it that it would not be 
 dramatic in the proper degree. What a confusion there 
 would be in our minds if Wellborn, the tramp, came on in 
 a great fury, followed by Allworth, declaiming against the 
 ingratitude of Tapwell. Let him explain to Allworth; it 
 would merely be Self-explanatory of his anger. We would 
 not learn the things we wanted to know. Inexperienced 
 writers fail to provide the Self-explanatory by reason of 
 not wiriting objectively, by reason of withholding from the 
 audience what the writer is familiar with and is necessary 
 for an understanding, of the situation, but of which the au- 
 dience is ignorant. To have had Wellborn in a rage at be- 
 
ACTION MUST BEJ S^LF-EXPI^ANATORY, ETC. 2P7 ~ ' 
 
 ing refused drink would not have touched the point intend- 
 ed by Massinger. "Rogue, what am I ?" The first sentence 
 shows that he is angered because of the treatment of under- 
 lings, of people beneath him in his former state. It is seen 
 at once. It is enough. Then we have a number of inter- 
 vening points, including his history, and finally that it was 
 Wellborn who supplied the ready gold for the purchase of 
 the inn. If this point had not been kept to the last, all the 
 account of Old Sir John would have been pure explanation 
 for the audience. After the Action is once fairly started it 
 becomes Self-explanatory by reason of the prearranged 
 Plot. /Could anything be more Self-Explanatory than Lady 
 Atlwbrth's counselling her step-son against associating 
 with Wellborn? Her high character and what she says be-, 
 fore she mentions the name of Wellborn, coupled with our 
 knowledge of the facts, make it Self-explanatory. The ne- 
 cessary Facts have been predigested. When Wellborn ar- 
 rives, we know exactly the state of affairs. If we did not 
 know< of, had not been absolutely persuaded of, her rever- 
 ence for the memory of her husband, how lame would have 
 been the scene in which Wellborn gains her sympathy by 
 reason of it, and if she had to explain to the audience why 
 she yielded. It is Preparation, then, that provides for the 
 Self-explanatory. Omit the beatings of Marrall by Sir 
 Giles, and have Marrall explain his final conduct by tellmg 
 of them, and his conduct is or would certainly not be Self- 
 explanatory; there would have been no Self-development, 
 and the Action would not have been Self-progressive. You 
 may say that no one would make omission of such obvious 
 needs to the Action ; but mistakes of an equivalent kind are 
 constantly made by the unpracticed dramatist. It occurs 
 in minor things, in the simplest dialogue. This very play 
 could be so arranged that pretty much everything would be 
 explanation, and it wxDuld yet preserve all the material and 
 the present Plot. Omit Wellborn's advice to Allworth con- 
 cerning Margaret and his description of the character and 
 plans of Sir Giles and reserve the substance of it for expla- 
 
308 ANAI^YSIS Olf DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^K 
 
 nation on the part of Allworth to Lord Lovell in the first 
 scene between them, we would not have room to make Self- 
 explanatory that which the present scene between them, 
 Allworth and Lord Lovell, requires. The scene would be 
 too diffuse if Self-explanatory about too many things. It 
 would become merely Self-explanatory and devoid of Ac- 
 tion or would pulsate too weakly. It would be explanatory 
 of the Story and not of the immediate Action. We already 
 know the Facts and why he asks Lord Lovell to do this ser- 
 vice for him. The immediate Action concerns the request. 
 Sir Giles is duped first as to the marriage of Wellborn and 
 the intentions of Lord Lovell, consequently, all that hap- 
 pens afterwards is Self-explanatory, Self-developing and 
 Self-progressive. The forces within the play give the Ac- 
 tion this quality of self. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 COMPULSION. 
 
 Compulsion is that force operating on the mind and de- 
 termining the conduct of a character which compels him to 
 J act according to the circumstances that have arisen in the 
 Action, and which, in the very nature of the drama, cannot 
 constantly be controlled by him. 
 
 One characteristic of the drama which differentiates it 
 more distinctly from the novel than perhaps any other is 
 that the etiaracters do not have their own way in anything 
 like the same^egree. Cause and Effect and other principles 
 h^rv^ already been explained, making it clear that a logical 
 series of happenings, caused one by the other make a dra- 
 matic Action. There is an unexpectedness about these 
 happenings, of a necessity. In "Ingomar'' Parthenia is forced 
 to make the journey and offer herself as hostage. This Com- 
 pulsion exists in life and comes from the very nature and con- 
 stitution of our social and personal relations ; but absolutely 
 does not exist at all times in life or Story; while in drama 
 it is constanaly existent until the matter at issue is solved. 
 There must be something to overcome all the time. The 
 Compulsion, of course, may come from within as well as 
 without. Ingomar is forced by his love for a pure woman 
 and the circumstances of that love to choose between his 
 tribe and the woman he loves. He has to make a comprcH 
 mise with his savage followers in order to gain possession 
 of Parthenia as his part of the booty. He is about to be 
 forced to betray his countrymen, but is compelled by his 
 own sense of honor and the circumstances of the case to 
 even abandon Parthenia and return to his savage life, but 
 circumstances change, and he remains with Parthenia and 
 becomes a Timarch. It is an evolution of circumstances, 
 a constant series of compromises and struggles with con- 
 flicting interests and selfishness. Nobody has his own 
 
3IO ANAIyYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE 
 
 sweet will in a play. You have to add, subtract, multiply 
 and perform all sorts of mathematical calculations before 
 you get the final result. See in each of these plays which 
 we are considering, how and why it is that such and such 
 things happen, and WHY such and such people have to do 
 such and such things. 
 
 In a manner, people are compelled to act according to 
 their character and desire to do things ; but a character that 
 has everything his own way simply in accordance with his 
 character and desire would not be a very useful dramatic 
 figure. The definite application of the principle comes from 
 the conditions and the Action which make what the 
 character does the one thing to do in his judg- 
 ment, in these conditions and circumstances. He is 
 not deprived of volition and motive. His judgment 
 may be wrong, and what he does may be agree- 
 able or disagreeable to him, but he does it because of 
 some circumstance which arises. Melnotte is impelled 
 rather than compelled to send flowers and verse to Pauline, 
 for it is volition and comes from within ; but when his mes- 
 senger is sent back to him, scorned and beaten, something 
 has happened which compels him to resentment and further 
 (Action. Although the distinction between Impulsion and 
 Compulsion is apparently fine sometimes, it is well to make 
 the distinction. The play is full of Compulsion, absolute 
 and marked. Melnotte is compelled, against his nature, to 
 attempt the deception; and there is no doubt that he is 
 compelled to carry on the deception and fulfill his contract 
 by reason of the danger from the Directory. Otherwise, he 
 would have been exposed and punished ; besides, after hav- 
 ing compromised Pauline, he saw that she loved him, and 
 that if he abandoned her she would fall a prey to Beauseant. 
 Hope urges and compels him to accompany Damas to the 
 wars. It is the only way for him to redeem himself. His 
 sense of infamy will not permit him to accept Pauline^s sac- 
 rifice. Their lives would be ruined. Pauline is compelled 
 to believe in Melnotte's sincerity of love by various circum- 
 
COMPUI.SION 3^1 
 
 Stances. Melnotte, as well as Beauseant, is compelled to . 
 seek revenge. Pauline is compelled to sacrifice herself in 
 order to save her father in his bankruptcy. Beauseant and 
 Glavis are compelled to submit to Melnotte's disposal of 
 their jewels, because they cannot interfere without seeing 
 their plan fail. True, it is a form of Cause and Effect, but 
 the Cause is from wiithout. The fancy of Damas for Mel- 
 notte is caused rather than actually compelled by circum- 
 stances, but while the volition of Damas has much to do ' 
 with it, it is what Melnotte does that compels his friend- 
 ship. If Damas had taken a fancy to him from the begin- 
 ning, it would be much weaker; we would have had no, 
 duel. It is by means of this Compulsion that we have 
 scenes and Action. 
 T^ In one form or another Compulsion exists in every play, 
 ' but is more evident in plays of Plot than in plays of emotion 
 and character. Compulsion is found in Cause and Effect, 
 but that which we distinctly call Compulsion is what 
 is done by reason of a happening beyond the control of 
 the Character influenced compelling him to act as he does 
 and as it is necessary that the particular character should 
 act for the purpose of your play. It is from without rather 
 than from within that this compelling force comes, — and 
 more from judgment and necessity than from motive. It is 
 something apart from free will, the opposite of design, and 
 produced by the clash of opposing wills or the 
 combination of circumstances. The most striking bit^ 
 of Compulsion in "Camille" is the self-sacrifice of 
 Camille by reason of the representations of Du- 
 val. Purely as a matter of emotion Camille would not have 
 yielded ; she stands her ground valiantly until facts compel 
 her judgment. Duval says: "I have a daughter young, 
 beautiful and pure as an angel. . She loves as you do. That 
 love has been the dream of her life. But the family of the 
 man about to marry her has learned the relation between 
 you and Armand and declared the withdrawal of their con- 
 sent unless he gives you up. You see, then, how much de- 
 
312 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 pends on you. Let me entreat you in the name of your love 
 for her brother, to save my daughter's peace." That deter- 
 mines Camille. "I understand you and you are right/' she 
 replies. It usually takes a fact or some happening to 
 amount to Compulsion. Duval is compelled to respect her 
 gradually, by her bearing and utterance. True; but by 
 what conclusive fact is his full respect accomplished? Ca- 
 mille shows him a list of all she possesses on earth. She is 
 compelled to show him this list in self defence. He sees that, 
 she was about to abandon all for her love for Ar- 
 mand. Nothing that she could have said in mere 
 words could have had the same effect. In each case there 
 were Unexpected facts operating against the will. This 
 Compulsion may be noted not alone in the Plot, but in the 
 minute movements of the Action which may be called me- 
 chanical, but which are wholly natural. Nichette, it is true, 
 has a motive for making her exit in the second scene, but it 
 depends upon something apart from her mere will; Gustave 
 is waiting for her. That comes within our definition of 
 Compulsion. The Dialogue which follows between Var- 
 ville and Nanine is compelled by what has happened, and is 
 not mere curiosity, neither is it a mere convenience of the 
 author. Camille has been compelled to give up her 
 effort to enter society. This Compulsion, then, is a dis- 
 tinct motive power in the Action apart from individual mo- 
 tive. It makes the wheels, large and small, go round. Var- 
 ville is compelled to leave because of his treatment, because 
 he is not invited to remain to supper, and because he sees 
 that his "star is not propitious." It is not Camille's initia- 
 
 ^tiy^that brings Armand to her. 
 
 \ The tendency of the drama is strongly against having 
 things happen according to individual volition. Ca- 
 mille is compelled, in a manner, to like Armand, 
 from something that is said in a conversation in 
 which she takes no part. She is also interested in the story 
 of his devotion, which she now hears for the first time, al- 
 though she has known of attentions by an unknown caller 
 
COMPULSION 313 
 
 during an illness. She is compelled to believe his sincerity 
 by the evidences of it. She is compelled to discourage his 
 attentions by reason of her mode of life and her regard for 
 his social position and this new form of devotion. Of course, 
 the Compulsion of emotion largely prevails, but the Com- 
 pulsion of Fact is strong and decisive. Armand's jealousy 
 and his note compel her to hesitate in receiving his further 
 attentions, although there is a marked conflict between her 
 love and her judgment. In order to see Armand she is com- 
 pelled to send Varville off, and Varville is compelled to go. 
 A note is received from Varville, and when Armand makes 
 it "the touchstone of her worth" she is compelled to make 
 her choice of Action. Do you not see the difference be- 
 tween Compulsion and mere volition when you assume that 
 this very same result could have been reached at the end of 
 the interview between the lovers without the inter- 
 vention of this note? < Of course, drama does not 
 exclude volition, but the whole tendency is toward outside 
 Compulsion of some sort, direct or incidental. ^Camille's 
 first impulse is to retire and not to talk with Duval, but an 
 outside matter, a fact, the letter which Duval produces com- 
 pels her to remain and stand her ground. These two people 
 are arguing for their lives, so to speak. If you were under 
 a charge affecting your honor and safety would you speak 
 merely because you wanted to or because of the Compul- 
 sion ? V Everything that happens in the fourth act down to 
 its conclusion is against the will. Camille is compelled to 
 remain at the ball once she is there. She did not expect Ar- 
 mand to be there. She is compelled to keep her secret of self- 
 sacrifice, but is also compelled to talk with Armand in order 
 to prevent, if possible, the duel. Armand is compelled to seek 
 the duel in a roundabout way, for he has no real rights in 
 the matter and would make himself ridiculous otherwise. 
 Varville is compelled to fight. It might be said that Ar- 
 mand's act in showering Camille with the money in con- 
 tempt is pure volition. No, the circumstances are back of 
 it. It is not caprice, vacillation or volition merely that 
 
314 ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 causes Duval to write to Camille and to reveal her sacrifice 
 to Armand. He is compelled to do so by the circumstances. 
 And so, to the end of the play, volition goes hand in hand 
 with circumstances. The mere will does not govern cir- 
 cumstances, t 
 
 Compulsi(>n m "Still Waters Run Deep" is very marked. 
 Characters act according to circumstances, according to 
 happenings either not of their direct causing or beyond 
 their immediate control. We feel in the very beginning of 
 the Action that Mildmay has a reason for his patient con- 
 duct. The principal and controlling reason does not appear 
 in the first scene, but we soon realize, in analysis, what we 
 know from the Proposition of the play, that he can not re- 
 gain his influence in his household and master the three 
 people in it until he has thwarted Hawksley at every point. 
 That he has to thwart him first is nominated in the bond, 
 stated in the Proposition; if this plan were not carried out 
 it would be some other play, not the play that has held the 
 boards so long and afforded such opportunities to so many 
 good actors. It would be an easy matter to have a wrong 
 Sequence, to drop a stitch somewhere in the construction, 
 and put Mildmay in a position where he would be compell- 
 ed to act otherwise than he does. If he, instead of Mrs. 
 Sternhold, had overheard the conversation between Emily 
 and Hawksley the compulsion for him to emerge and settle 
 matters then and there would have been stronger than the 
 very Proposition and premises of the play. But the drama- 
 tist does not put him in that position. Hawksley is forced 
 to give up his plan with Emily for the night by his scene with 
 Mrs. Sternhold, for he knows that she is on the watch. 
 Emily could have no better duenna now than her aunt. At 
 all events, it is all up with Hawksley, for the night. There 
 is a slight distinction between an act that is Caused and one 
 that is Compelled. Mrs. Sternhold's hiding behind the 
 screen of plants is caused by what has been told her by Pot- 
 ter. Of course, she is compelled by a sense of duty as well 
 as by the spirit of jealousy. It is true that she does some- 
 
COMPULSION 315 
 
 thing not of her own initiative and that is dramatic Compul- 
 sion, but it is not as distinctly Compulsion as Mildmay's ap- 
 parent inaction or silence, or as Mrs. Sternhold's necessity 
 to keep silence after she is threatened with the making pub- 
 lic of her thirteen letters to Hawksley. She is in a tight fix, 
 is the dame with the rouge pot and a temper. She has lost 
 faith in the shares as well as in the adorable Hawksley as a 
 gentleman. Dare say, she would use her claws on the ad- 
 venturer if it came to the worst, but in the meanwhile she is 
 compelled to stand by and see matters take their course. 
 Hawksley played it low down on her. He plays a gambit 
 opening on her and checkmates her in about three moves. 
 Is there anything to test one's temper more than that? She 
 is humiliated, bound and gagged, and can't move a foot. If 
 you have not been able to see Dramatic Compulsion before 
 this time, behold it now. No doubt Emily would have told 
 her husband about Hawksley's conduct, in the last scene, if 
 she had not felt compelled to remain silent because Mild- 
 may is about to survey the premises with the shot gun. She 
 was compelled to remain silent or expose herself at a mo- 
 ment when she might have involved herself in a tragedy. 
 The amiable suggestion may also be made that Emily was 
 compelled to do a little lying when her husband asks her 
 how the garden door came to be open. Fortunately, neither 
 the natural nor the dramatic necessity required her to do any 
 elaborate and detailed lying. Mrs. Sternhold sends Potter to 
 get Mildmay to come to her so that she may have a talk 
 with him and lay her cause before him. She has a definite 
 purpose, but she is compelled to forego it when she sees 
 that Mildmay has no sympathy with her and when he re- 
 minds her of what she has said about him that morning. 
 The mild Mildmay takes occasion to lay down the law to 
 her, and she does what she has not intended to do, keeps sil- 
 ent about Hawksley and the letters. Compulsion. There 
 could be no better example of Compulsion than the manner 
 and means taken by Mildmay to compel Hawksley to give 
 up the letters and return the money for the shares and take 
 
3l6 ANAI.YSIS Oi^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.^ 
 
 back the shares. Is there any absolute Compulsion that 
 forces Mildmay to listen to Hawksley's algebraic demon- 
 stration of his scheme? Yes, in order to make Hawksley 
 feel that the mild Mildmay sees through his chicanery and 
 pretensions. That effect is conveyed perfectly. Hawksley 
 feels that the ground is giving away from under him with 
 every cool and penetrating remark made by his antagonist. 
 It comes within the definition of Compulsion whenever 
 characters shape their conduct according to circumstances. 
 We cannot insist that it must be the only possible thing 
 they could do, but it is what a person of a certain character 
 would do under given circumstances or what he does if it is 
 not inconsistent with the character. It may not be what 
 you would do in the same circumstances if you knew what 
 you do know as a spectator. Hawksley is in desperate 
 straits for money; we have seen that from his talk with 
 Dunbilk. He is not going to lose his chances. He does not 
 purpose to permit himself to be ruined by Mildmay's talk. 
 He has what he supposes is the only evidence of his crimi- 
 nality. He does not expect, perhaps, to get Potter to invest 
 or to regain his influence over Mrs. Sternhold or to suc- 
 ceed with Mrs. Mildmay, but he must humiliate Mildmay 
 and shut his mouth. If practical motives did not compel 
 him to put in an appearance at the dinner at Mildmay's and 
 to horsewhip him, his conduct would be preposterous and 
 merely for the purposes of the play. Probably such an au- 
 dacious character existed in London at the period of this 
 play, but he would not have taken his course merely out of 
 bravado. He does take it and falls into the trap prepared 
 by Mildmay. Some of the incidents in the last act are over- 
 drawn, and Compulsion, mainly implied in this case, is the 
 only thing that makes it possible. 
 
 "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" is substantial, 
 so rooted in character, that every movement in it is motived. 
 The discrimination, however, which you will have to make 
 between Motive and Compulsion, or that which gives occa- 
 sion to conduct, will be helpful in enabling you to see the 
 
COMPULSION 317 
 
 principal function of Compulsion in playwriting. Character 
 is educed by circumstances. The play opens with Compul- 
 sion. Here is a spendthrift turned out of a taproom by for- 
 mer tenants of his to whom he had given the sum necessary 
 to buy the inn. He had reached the lowest step of degrada- 
 tion. There is no reason to believe that Wellborn had 
 formed the design which he puts into execution later on, be- 
 fore he was refused even "the dropping of the tap for his 
 morning's draught." He had exhausted his last resource. 
 He could go no further in the downw^ard path. He was com- 
 pelled to pull himself together and mount again. What else 
 was there for him to do? True, his design was voluntary, 
 but it was compelled by the circumstances. His plan of 
 procedure compelled him to refuse Allworth's tender of mo- 
 ney and help. Compulsion is more plainly visible in Plot 
 than elsewhere, but it can exist in the minor passages of a 
 play. It exists there in the reasonableness of things. One 
 of Wellborn's reasons for refusing aid from Allworth is that 
 he is a boy and lives at the devotion of a stepmother and the 
 uncertain favor of a lord ; but he is compelled to refuse the 
 oifer more by reason of circumstances that force him to fol- 
 low a certain plan. Tom Allworth, the boy, is compelled to 
 obey his stepmother's injunction to give up the company 
 of Wellborn. It was no voluntary act of his own. It is true 
 that Lady Allworth's point of view as to Wellborn, who had 
 lost himself in vicious courses, was taken from her elevation 
 of character ; but even here, the initiative of her thoughts is 
 to be referred back to the degradation of Wellborn. Cir- 
 cumstances compelled her. In like manner, she was com- 
 pelled to grant the request for her apparent favor made by 
 Wellborn. Her point of view is changed entirely by the 
 pious remembrance of her husband, which had been stirred 
 by him who is a suitor for her kindness. It cannot be said 
 that Justice Greedy is compelled to be as vicious as he is, 
 but it is apparent that he is in the power of Sir Giles, and 
 practically compelled to carry out his purposes. Marrall is 
 in much the same position. We have said that the play 
 
3l8 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^E 
 
 opens with Compulsion, but we did not and could not begin 
 by calling attention to a bit of Compulsion which is reveal- 
 ed for the first time in the talk between Sir Giles and Mar- 
 rail. We were satisfied with the knowledge of the sordid 
 and heartless nature of Tapwell and Froth ; but it now ap- 
 pears that they were compelled to turn Wellborn out, be- 
 cause Marrall expressly says that "last night he caused his 
 host, the tapster, to turn him out of doors." Here again, we 
 have a minute added ray of light on the state of affairs which 
 was apparent with sufficient force for technical purposes at 
 the moment, namely, that Wellborn had lost his last footing 
 through the machinations of Sir Giles. Marrall's motive in 
 accompanying Wellborn to dine with Lady Allworth is cu- 
 riosity. The circumstances compel him to accompany 
 Wellborn. The servants were compelled by their mistress 
 to receive Wellborn with every observance of courtesy. No 
 doubt, Wellborn was better clad when he presented himself 
 with Marrall at Lady Allworth's house than when we first 
 saw him. Necessarily, Marrall was compelled to believe his 
 own eyes when he saw the favor in which Wellborn seemed 
 to stand. At all events, Marrall is completely cozened. Sir 
 Giles is certainly warranted by all the circumstances in be- 
 lieving that Marrall is mad to tell him such fantastic stories 
 of Wellborn's favor with Lady Allworth and of having been 
 taken by him to dine with her. The change which is going 
 to compel Marrall to become Sir Giles's enemy is surely 
 caused largely by the Compulsion of Sir Giles's stick. He is 
 compelled by a sense of injustice and by the smarting of the 
 blows. It matters not how much his emotions are involved, 
 the initiative influence is from outside. He is drawn to 
 Wellborn by his apparent rise and prospects in the world. 
 \' Sometimes we get to a point where the distinction between 
 Motive and Compulsion is very fine, but whenever the infiu- 
 S ence from without is directly at work, Compulsion has its 
 I'sFTare in what is done. The result may come from Motive 
 Lsuperinduced by outside circumstances^^\ Margaret is a du- 
 tiful child, and perhaps would not have deceived her father 
 
COMPULSION 319 
 
 in the most critical circumstances of a woman's life and of a 
 father's love and ambition for her, if Sir Giles had not re- 
 vealed to her his ow^n baseness in instructing her as to her 
 conduct in the coming interview with Lord Lovell. _The 
 drama does not^giieyent characters from being free agents 
 excepT wiRen fate and circumstances control. It provides 
 |or the Action and reaction of volition and circumstance. A 
 certain Compulsion is always present. Sir Giles is forced 
 to deceive himself by reason of the deception practiced on 
 him by his daughter and Lord Lovell. The motive power of 
 the Action of the Plot proceeds from this deception. The 
 Compulsion which orders the giving of the ring to AUworth 
 to carry him to the presence of his daughter and also to 
 obtain a license for her marriage at Nottingham, is not the 
 less Compulsion because Sir Giles is not conscious of it. 
 Lady Allworth and Lord Lovell are brought together by 
 reason of circumstances ; they were both, on different lines, 
 aiding and abetting in the conspiring against the brutal old 
 miser, and each had to do with the love affair of Tom All- 
 worth, the beloved stepson of one, and the equally beloved 
 follower of the other. Love wtas in the air. Except for 
 these compelling circumstances, Lady Allworth would have 
 listened to no suitor. Certainly the Compulsion that un- 
 consciously hastens Overreach's footsteps to his own ruin, 
 an unrelenting and fierce Compulsion, is a different degree 
 from the gentle Compulsion which brings together in life 
 two people beyond the ardors of the passion of youth. Just 
 as we have said that drama is not determined by its in- 
 tensity (else we could have only melodrama) so Compulsion 
 has its different degrees. The Compulsion in the^case of the 
 razed deed is absolute and decisive. Sir Giles is powerless. 
 He has been compelled to believe by circumstances that 
 Wellborn is married to Lady Allworth. True, he might be 
 able to proceed against his nephew for moneys recently 
 loaned, but events are hurrying him on to his own ruin, and 
 his madness compels him to forego his immediate scheme of 
 revenge for his latest defeats. His madness even is com- 
 
320 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 pelled first by his helplessness in the matter of retaining the 
 land out of which he has defrauded his nephew, and then by 
 the positive and unexpected refusal of Marrall to 
 bear witness as to the former drawing and deliver- 
 ing of the deed. Circumstances compel his madness. 
 Sir Giles is compelled to accept the facts at which 
 his reason totters; Margaret is married to the lover 
 of her choice, and the workings of his signet ring can- 
 not be undone. Marrall is defeated in his own treachery, 
 for he has been associated in the ruining of Wellborn, and 
 can gain no foothold of favor with him. Wellborn is dou- 
 bly bound by the happy turn of affairs to redeem himself in 
 some noble way. Until then he is "but half made up.'' Be- 
 lief in his sincerity compels the other characters to give him 
 their admiration and friendship ; and finally comes the most 
 needful of all Compulsion, "a fair favor due to the poet's 
 labors." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 FACTS. 
 
 Dramatic Fact is that which is accepted by the audience 
 for the purposes of the Action and made actual by the pro- 
 cess of Dramatic law. 
 
 There should be no such thing as "probability" in a 
 play. A thing must be one way or the other. It matters 
 not how "improbable" the general theme of the play may 
 be, we accept as Facts the wildest extravagances, in plays 
 expressly improbable. In plays dealing with ordinary life 
 the Facts must be real Facts and not merely Facts on suf- 
 ferance. Here, again, we see how one principle in the 
 drama is linked with another, for if we have a Cause that we 
 accept or an Effect that we accept there is going to be no 
 improbability. One might say that it was very "improba- 
 ble" for Parthenia to risk herself among the barbarians. 
 But why so? She does it, and there was every justification 
 for her doing it.» But we must prove our Facts as in a i- 
 Court at law.* All the Facts necessary to prove the reason- 
 ableness of Parthenia's expedition are clearly set forth. We 
 have seen them; we have experienced them in our sym- 
 pathetic attention; we have lived them in surrendering 
 ourselves to the illusion of the Action of the pJ^cJlngo- 
 mar is not only possible and "probable," he is actual in 
 the play. He possibly never existed, but he has been made 
 to exist, and several generations of actors and managers 
 concerned in the production of the play have lived and 
 passed away since he and Parthenia began to live on the 
 stage. Facts^ -Facts, Facts, make a play. It is in the Con- 
 str;ictive work that you will meet your difficulties in secur- 
 ing Facts and proving everything. Because of missing or 
 unproved Facts many plays fail. The tendency in good 
 writing is to make secure your Facts. Objectivity has a 
 
 21 
 
322 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 good deal to do with this, but all the principles con- 
 tribute. 
 •HI^^The Lady of Lyons" is so romantic that it might 
 I easily have fallen into a mass of improbabilities if every- 
 thing had not been referred to dramatic Fact. A Fact from 
 real life would not serve in the drama if it could not be ac- 
 cepted by the audience or if it were too improbable. Mel- 
 notte lived several leagues from Lyons, as may be seen 
 where Beauseant stops at the inn and hears him acclaimed 
 "Prince." ^If Melnotte had lived in the immediate neighbor- 
 hood of Pauline, the story would have been absurd. ) She 
 would have known of the title which Melnotte bore by cour- 
 tesy. He assumes an Italian title when he is presented to 
 the Deschappelles. Many things are made Facts by 
 means of Objectivity. Such Facts are proved. Thus, Mel- 
 notte's love is made a Fact by the scene with his mother; 
 and so on throughout the play. It requires the rejection of 
 Beauseant to make a Fact of the charge made by Damas that 
 they would be wanting a Prince next. It is important to es- 
 tablish the Fact, in the last act, that Melnotte thinks Pau- 
 line is faithless, that she is really making a sacrifice of her- 
 self ; that Melnotte has made a fortune in the wars; that he 
 has not been known to Pauline and others under the name 
 of Col. Morier; otherwise we would not understand how it 
 was possible that Pauline had heard nothing of him in the 
 meantime. Not only is Melnotte bronzed and changed in 
 appearance, in name and in dress, but he is muffled up and 
 partly conceals his face. Moreover, improbable things hap- 
 pened in these romantic times. The mother and the daugh- 
 ter were blinded by their folly, to begin with. The father 
 was absorbed in business and had nothing to say in the so- 
 cial aspirations and aims of his family, a common case. 
 Damas was an active character, consequently, Dumas made 
 a fact of his suspicions, of his bluntness and democracy and 
 final friendship with Melnotte. Some of these Facts had to 
 be proved Objectively, others were acceptable from the 
 statement at once or were proved later. Again, a Fact from 
 
I^ACTS 323 
 
 real life or in the Material must be treated in the dramatic 
 way in order to serve. If Melnotte's mother had not con- 
 veyed to us before the arrival of her son with Pauline that 
 she thought her son had told Pauline the truth about his 
 identity, there would have been an undramatic use of the 
 
 yYou have certain Facts in your Conditions Precedent, 
 trhey are Facts. But it remains to convert them into dra- 
 matic Fact and introduce them into your play so as to make 
 them count for the most. Do it in the wrong way, and they 
 are half Fact or no Fact at all. All that Material has to be 
 translated into the dramatic, otherwise it may not be even 
 intelligible. That Camille has worked as an embroideress 
 in the same establishment with Nichette is a Fact hardly of 
 any importance in itself, but when we see that Camille is 
 not forgetful of her old companions, it predisposes us to- 
 ward her at the outset. Nichette loves her. It becomes per- 
 fectly clear why Camille takes such an interest in the pure 
 girl and her happiness in marriage. It makes the subse- 
 quent Episodes possible and natural. Observe that it is 
 used almost entirely for Episode. If any part of the Plot 
 Action had turned on it, more would have been made of it. 
 We might have had to prove it additionally. The Plot Ac- 
 tion does turn on the existence of Armand's sister. But 
 there is no reason to doubt either Armand or his father as 
 to her. She does not figure except through others, conse- 
 quently, she is sufficiently a Fact. After the Action is start- 
 ed the characters and their emotions become visible Facts. 
 Prudence is a gormand ; we see it at the supper. She is im- 
 provident and always in need of money ; scenes are provided 
 to show it. Without them the scene in the last act would 
 count for nothing. Everything that happens offstage and 
 between the Acts is so logical that we accept it instantly. 
 The causes have to be shown. We know that Duval has 
 learned to respect and sympathize with the true love of 
 Camille from his interview with her, and that he knows that 
 her death is, in some degree, the result of her sacrifice 
 
324 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 which she has so sufficiently maintained. Then we have the 
 letter shown to us Objectively. If Duval had parted from 
 Camille in anger, and without sympathy, his letter might 
 still be Fact, but it would be in the nature of "Story" Fact. 
 The verity and reasonableness of everything is proved logic- 
 ally or circumstantially ; or even the obvious sincerity of the 
 speaker. The history of Camille's relations with the Due de 
 Meuriac is essential to the Action and requires no further 
 proof, although we have incidents that make us sure of his 
 individuality. They are also introduced in such a way as 
 not to disturb the Action. Such Facts are so subordinate 
 that we are much more interested in some dominating and 
 more important Fact in the same connection. The Fact that 
 Camille has friends in her illness who have not forgotten her 
 entirely is more important than the gifts themselves. The 
 fact that Gustave lost his first case at law is of far less im- 
 portance than the merriment that it causes. Does it pay for 
 itself in the spirit of the talk between Camille and Nichette ? 
 It would have been the same if the Plot had been that Gus- 
 tave won the case if we had got the humor of it. We might 
 have imagined the Fourth Act omitted entirely, but it would 
 make a great difference in the value of the Facts. The duel 
 could still have been fought, but Armand would not have 
 been in the same state of emotion and appreciation of the 
 sufferings of Camille when he arrived lovingly to forgive 
 her and ask forgiveness. The play is built solidly of Facts, 
 and it is difficult to contrive examples of how these Facts 
 could have been destroyed utterly. The very reason of the 
 long vogue of this play is bound up in the impression of 
 actuality that it gives in performance. The vicissitudes of 
 emotion that are actually lived by Armand and Camille are 
 not of a kind that could be simulated. Omit the great scene 
 between Duval and Camille and you subtract from the con- 
 sequent Facts. That Camille is suffering from consumption 
 is purely incidental. Dumas could not unite her with Ar- 
 mand except by her death at the end of the play. It is thus 
 an important Fact, but the Action does not turn on it. It 
 
L 
 
 FACTS 325 
 
 excites the apprehension of Armand and is technically used 
 to give them an opportunity for their first talk. The Fact 
 that Camille is a consumptive is usually too much emphasiz- 
 ed^ in the actingj 
 
 Still Waters Run Deep" being largely a play of Charac- 
 ter the Facts of Character are well taken care of. There 
 is a certain weakness in the demonstration of the Facts re- 
 garding the forged notes, but the truth of this part of the 
 Action in detail was not absolutely needed. Hawksley is 
 such an infamous scoundrel, so typical of a class, that we 
 cannot doubt anything against him. Hawksley's conduct 
 and his own tacit admission as to the forged bills is suffi- 
 cient in the scene in the second act. The case did not turn 
 upon any further proof than is given whether Hawksley had 
 forged the bills or not, but in Mildmay's possession of them 
 we know now what it was that Mildmay had in hand with 
 Gimlet. There are many minor Facts in this play which it 
 is convenient for the author to make visible proof of. When 
 Hawksley says that he will not need to climb the garden 
 wall, but will use the door, and Emily asks who would open 
 it, Hawksley produces a key. That a savage mastiff has 
 been presented to Emily by Hawksley and that he would 
 not bite his former master is not of enough importance to 
 require further proof than the statement. One would be 
 Fact-mad to provide a glimpse of the dog or to have him 
 assert his existence by a bark or to have him seen respond- 
 ing to the call and touch of his former master. That the bolt 
 has been removed from the glass door of the conservatory 
 is proved objectively. It wias so convenient to prove the 
 Fact that to have omitted the proof would have impaired 
 the gact. J The Fact that Hawksley was a coward because 
 he wished to fight Mildmay with pistols when he knew that 
 Mildmay was not expert in their use is perhaps unduly 
 insisted on. However, the real Fact of importance was to 
 prove to those present in the room that Hawksley had rea- 
 son to wish to kill him without taking chances. 
 There is something very artificial in the scene, at best, a 
 
326 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.S 
 
 scoundrel offering to kill a man in his own house by means 
 of an unequal duel. But the play is about at an end at this 
 po^nt, and the mechanism may be tolerated. 
 ^^''K New Way to Pay Old Debts" is no more re- 
 Jmarkable in any other respect than in the impression it 
 gives that everything in it is Fact. And yet it is full of Con- 
 ditions Precedent and what might easily have fallen into the 
 form of Story. It exemplifies in a remarkable degree what 
 and how much we will believe and accept as Fact when it 
 is conveyed under emotion, when no circumstance points to 
 incredibility, and when dramatic requirements have been 
 followed. Look at the detail of Facts in the first scene. If 
 Tapwell had made an issue of Wellborn's statement that he 
 had lent him the money with which to buy the inn, and if 
 proof were material, we would not accept the Facts as they 
 now are. They are brought out in such a way, however, 
 that they are proved incidentally by more than mere state- 
 ment. We see that Tapwell is exactly the kind of person to 
 be so ungrateful. After we once hear Wellborn speak and 
 see that he has been a gentleman we accept his present con- 
 dition as proof of what Tapwell describes as his career. He 
 has spent his patrimony in dissipation and but a moment 
 ago he was asking for drink. We have no reason to doubt 
 the Facts set forth in the talk between Wellborn and All- 
 worth. We do accept them provisionally and without re- 
 serve, but many of these Facts are yet to be proved. They 
 are too important not to be shown visually, and it is a part 
 of the Action that they should be so shown. We expect 
 them to be shown, and that is one reason that we accept 
 them. Other Facts we see as the Action is developed. It is 
 a Fact that Wellborn determines to redeem himself because 
 he has suffered such humiliation at the hands of the un- 
 grateful former servant. He has reached the lowest step in 
 his downward career, and realizes that he is friendless. We 
 would have believed him if we had seen him turning from 
 the door of the inn and heard him tell of the refusal of drink, 
 but the fact would not have served so well as it does now. 
 
I^ACTS 327 
 
 It would have been only a part of the Fact. Other Facts 
 had to be brought out in connection with that Fact. If we 
 had not seen the Facts of Wellborn's desperate condition 
 the result of his reckless expenditures, the Facts of the 
 scene with the creditors later on would have lost much of 
 its force. We would perhaps have accepted the Facts, but 
 they would have been less vivid. This play is full to over- 
 flowing with Facts, and in innumerable instances the proof 
 of them is wholly circumstantial. They require no other 
 proof. That Sir Giles practiced fraud in obtaining 
 the deed is not demonstrated in detail, and, indeed, 
 if absolute demonstration were needed in the play, 
 the Action would have to be made equivalent to 
 the proceedings in a court of law. Property, at 
 that time, was held by the possession of deeds, but no doubt 
 then, as now. Wellborn might have recovered his property 
 in a suit in equity ; but the play was not about that ; the es- 
 sential thing in the Action is that Sir Giles overreaches him- 
 self and dies in an access of madness. We may assume that 
 the property reverts to Wellborn. It really does not matter 
 whether it does or not. The whole business of the razed 
 deed is in the nature of a coup de theatre. It is proved by 
 the objective exhibition of the parchment that the deed has 
 been erased. The circumstances make us believe that Mar- 
 rail has executed his revenge on Sir Giles in this way. Mar- 
 rail, in fact, explains his own motives in asking for a reward. 
 Marrall was Sir Giles's confidential man. Massinger ar- 
 rayed Fact after Fact and fortified them all with circum- 
 stances and motive. Cause and Effect. / 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE NECESSARY AND THE UNNECESSARY. 
 
 What is Necessary and what is Unnecessary applies to 
 every part and particle of a play. Your whole play may be 
 Unnecessary, for that matter. [Even after you have the 
 structure of your play, (which depends on working out 
 your problem after the manner already pointed out), in 
 which you encountered occasion for your judgment as to 
 what is essential or immaterial, until your very last line is 
 written you will not be free from the need of being always 
 on the enquiry as to whether this or that detail is Necessary 
 or Unnecessary, or as to whether you have all the essential 
 things and do not have to introduce something that has 
 been omitted. Play writing is a process of thought. Bear 
 that in mind always. In certain Scenes and Dialogue, it is 
 always well to have the enquiry at hand: — "What of it?" — 
 This applies to Words, sentences, ideas, Facts, happenings, 
 everything. "What difference does it make?" — for every- 
 thing in a play must have a significance and bear some rela- 
 tion to matters in hand. This includes the superfluous. 
 Suppose a ship is referred to in the course of the Action of 
 a play, the ship being very important to the Action ; would 
 you stop to describe its spars and furnish all the Details 
 about it? It might be Necessary to speak of its speed if 
 that has a bearing on the Action, but not otherwise. You 
 would not bring in Unnecessary and detailed description. 
 Of course not; but in amateur plays the Unnecessary and 
 superfluous characterize them. In the present analytic 
 part of our work it is enough, and essential and Necessary 
 for you, to observe the Necessary things in the plays in 
 hand, why they are used, for what purpose, and how. j In 
 the constructive part of your work you will have to take up 
 arms against a sea of unnecessary things that will surge 
 in on you. rlThe structural parts of a play must be consist- 
 
THE NECESSARY AND THE UNNECESSARY 329 
 
 ent, logical and dramatic, and soon become fixed. When 
 we get to the Action of the moment the manner of doing 
 things becomes less absolute, for the fixed thing may often 
 be accomplished in more ways than one. To express My- 
 ron's servitude it was not absolutely necessary to represent 
 him with a fagot of wood in his armsj but to show his ser- 
 vitude in some manner was Necessary. \ 
 
 Everything in "The Lady of Lyons" was necessary 
 from the point of view of the author. In this respect there 
 is great liberality. With this liberty the individuality of 
 the dramatist is safeguarded. In those things that are tech- 
 nically Necessary he has no choice except as to means ; but 
 he is not hampered in making use of this principle or Meth- 
 od of the Necessary and the Unnecessary, for it is an imple- 
 ment of the craftsman. To provide all that is Necessary 
 and to guard against all that is Unnecessary reaches to 
 every part of the play. The play could be done, and often is 
 done, in omitting the first set scene entirely and beginning 
 with the meeting and wish for a plan to humble Pauline be- 
 tween Beauseant and Glavis, but it can only proceed from 
 the sordid purpose of the manager to save scenery or ex- 
 pense. Of course there are many things that are Necessary 
 to the Action, but not to the Plot proper. It is not Neces- 
 sary to the Plot that Glavis should look at the bill of fare at 
 the Inn, but it is Necessary to his Character and, techni- 
 cally, to the gradation of the scene. There are differences 
 between the fixed essence of a play and the accidental and 
 incidental. But everything must be essential, in its way, 
 and Necessary, absolutely or incidentally. Some of the lines 
 are not absolutely Necessary. It was Necessary, at the very 
 outset, to make Melnotte a peasant in order to humiliate the 
 pride of Pauline, and it was Necessary NOT to make her an 
 aristocrat, for, otherwise, it would have been a play involv- 
 ing something wholly different in treatment and purpose. 
 It was not Necessary that the widow should appear in the 
 last act. It was not Necessary. to go into the Details of the 
 iDankruptcy of Deschappelles,/ No doubt it was Macready 
 
330 ANAIvYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 who made the amount of the debt of Deschappelles definite, 
 in a way ; Damas shows the paper : "This is the schedule — 
 this the total — ", while Melnotte "gives pocket-book" and 
 outbids "yon sordid huckster for the precious jewel." 
 "There is the sum twice told." It is theatric, and the fat 
 wallet is almost worn out for dramatic use, but it illustrates 
 soundness of theory, and practice Objectivity and Fact. 
 As a business proposition the Notary would not have ac- 
 cepted Morier's note of hand; besides, the Action would 
 have fallen into Story. 
 
 Of course, we begin to determine the essential things the 
 very moment we attempt the structure of a play, beginning 
 with the Proposition. The Plot, in particular, has its neces- 
 sity and its absolute requirements. It is not to such obvious 
 things that we are to give our attention in making this 
 analysis. It would be profitable to study the Necessities of 
 Plot and the like also, but we wish to confine the present 
 study of "Camille" to specific Necessities of a smaller kind 
 which are often overlooked. The first striking example of a 
 Necessity is the technical Necessity of introducing Nichette 
 at the opening of the play. It would have been very awk- 
 ward to place her anywhere else. Apparently there is no 
 room for her on and after the arrival of the guests for the 
 supper. To have got her in after the first act would have in- 
 terrupted the progress of the Action; consequently, she is 
 got in and disposed of, having served also the purpose of 
 the author in bringing about the conversation between Na-^j 
 nine and Varville that sets forth the Conditions Precedent^ 
 Fxcept for the contrast in the Epistles, and the Necessity of 
 making Nichette a former friend of Camille it would not 
 have been Necessary to bring out the fact that she has also 
 been an embroideress. No precise details are given of Ca- 
 mille's family. \^t was Necessary for Camille to make the 
 sacrifice, for it was required by the Proposition itself. It 
 had to be made visible and a fact, an Objective Fact. A 
 great deal depends upon the author's point of view as to 
 what he considers necessary. Thus, from the French point 
 
THIS Ni:CESSARY AND THIS UNNECESSARY 33I 
 
 of view, the love and veneration of a son for a mother is a 
 point that is exceedingly touching. That Armand should 
 dispose of property coming as an inheritance from his moth- 
 er in order to live with Camille is a strong case against him. 
 The father urges it in his talk w"ith Camille. In discussing 
 Episode we show that it was Necessary to have the 
 apparently aimless talk from Camille's companions at the 
 Supper. In that way, the yellow cab was Necessary, not in 
 itself, but something of the kind was, in order to show the 
 frivolity of these people. ^ 
 
 The most striking point i*fc"Still Waters Run Deep'' in the 
 matter of what Was considered Unnecessary by Taylor is 
 that he did not at once reveal in precise terms Mildmay's 
 means of defeating Hawksley with the forged notes. We 
 know that it is something, but do not learn until the prin- 
 cipal scene, in the second act, exactly what it is. Taylor 
 considered it entirely Unnecessary to impart the information 
 that Mildmay had been in the counting house when the bills 
 were presented. Other things were more important to the 
 development of the particular Action than to give us details 
 of that transaction. It would have involved too much com- 
 plication. The chase would have led too far afield. The 
 play would have been about it and not about Mildmay's loss 
 of authority in his household. He did not think it Neces- 
 sary to bring out Gimlet's personality in the first act. He 
 sought to confine the play within certain limits. He found it 
 Necessary to have a second bill in order to have the third 
 act. You will observe that Potter is kept in ignorance of ex- 
 actly what has been done by Mildmay. It is not Necessary, 
 for that matter, to restore Mildmay's influence over Potter, 
 for he was wholly under the influence of his sister. We may 
 well imagine that the Facts will reach him eventually, and 
 it is a fine stroke to leave it as it is. Potter remaining at the 
 very close a doddering, pliant, old easygoing, retired man of 
 business. "John Mildmay," says Potter, *T ask your par- 
 don — Jane and Emily say I ought; though what I've done, 
 or what there is to ask pardon for—". Mildmay's reply is 
 
332 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.E 
 
 "perhaps you will learn in ti me."^ In the exercise on Char- 
 acter in the play we call attention to some of the Necessities 
 of the case there. The Necessities of the Plot belong to a 
 distinct part of our investigation.' We show in the exercise 
 on Dialogue how many Unnecessary things were avoided. 
 The mathematical computations of Hawksley in the second 
 act were thought Necessary from Taylor's point of view. 
 Absolutely Necessary they were not. / 
 
 rTThe question as to the Necessary or the Unnecessary ap- 
 ( plies to every part of a play, is applicable to every principle, 
 and is, consequently, in its exercise, more of a method than 
 a distinct principle. We shall call attention only to a few 
 striking examples of the operation of Massinger's mind in 
 this particular. Undoubtedly questions as to the use, how 
 and where, of certain things arose and he had to decide 
 them. It was not an accident that gave us the first know- 
 ledge, in the second act, that it was Sir Giles, through Mar- 
 rail, that caused Tapwell to refuse further credit to Well- 
 born. It was not Necessary for the audience to know it at 
 the time. In the same scene it was not Necessary for the 
 audience to know that Tapwell was a receiver of stolen 
 goods. In both cases the knowledge would have been harm- 
 ful. In the matter of the Necessary, the Proposition and 
 the Plot are the most exacting, perhaps. There must be 
 Cause and Effect and Sequence. There must be Action. 
 The Necessary things, those that are absolutely Necessary, 
 the trained mind easily determines. The untrained mind is 
 constantly doing the Unnecessary things ; whereas the fine- 
 ness of the art is best proved by the rejection of Unneces- 
 sary things. The drama is the most economical of arts. The 
 completion of a play rests with the words ; after everything 
 else is done they must be supplied. This is a play in which 
 the medium of words is relied upon to a considerable extent, 
 as is the case with all dramas in verse, and yet its compact- 
 ness is nowhere more evident than in its words. Every one 
 counts. There is an excess of words now and then in the 
 
THH NECESSARY AND THE UNNECESSARY 333 
 
 original play, but the stage version is remarkably free from 
 redundancy. In the actual writing of a play the question of 
 what is Necessary comes up with constant frequency with 
 reference to Preparation. "I must go back and do so and 
 so," the dramatist finds himself saying to himself. "This 
 scene is too long. That one is too short." It was not Ne- 
 cessary to develop Margaret more than she is developed. 
 A good deal depends upon the point of view of the author 
 as to what is Necessary. The episode of paying off the cre- 
 ditors by Wellborn is not absolutely necessary to the Plot, 
 but there is a great latitude permissable to the author in 
 the Action. The Episode is certainly not Unnecessary, eith- 
 er absolutely or relatively. It proves the fact that Sir Giles 
 has supplied him with money. This connects it very close- 
 ly with the main Action. The Vintner and the other credi- 
 tors are not Necessary to the Plot, but they are surely not 
 Unnecessary to the Episode. Creditors of some de- 
 scription, other than Tapwell and Froth, were absolutely 
 Necessary, for an Episode devoted solely to paying off Tap- 
 well and Froth in their own coin would have been absurd. 
 Inasmuch as they get nothing, not a penny of the money 
 supplied by Sir Giles, the Vintner and others were abso- 
 lutely Necessary. Lady Downfallen and the Maids were 
 Necessary to the purposes of Massinger. The Necessity of 
 making Greedy a comedy character arose from the nature 
 of the case and not from any demand of the Plot proper. 
 The modern manager insists upon comedy at all hazards. 
 It is a very reasonable demand from a business point of 
 view. In this case the comic relief was Necessary. To 
 have had both Marrall and Greedy sombre instruments of a 
 cruel old cormorant would have made the play unneces- 
 sarily disagreeable. But comedy which seems necessary 
 from a business point of view must be made Necessary 
 from a technical point of view. Greedy pays his way all the 
 time, never disturbs the Action of the Plot, and aids the Ac- 
 tion of the scenes. The tumult raised by the attempt to 
 
334 ANALYSIS 0^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,^ 
 
 eject Wellborn wias Necessary to bring on Lady Allworth. 
 If we go to all such little Causes and Effects we see the ne- 
 cessities of the Technique. Certainly she could have enter- 
 ed without having heard the noise of the quarrel. Thus 
 throughout a play we must do things in a certain way, for 
 technical reasons which are not inconsistent with nature. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 /^^ CHARACTER. 
 
 ) "^^You will observe that the only warrant for the existence 
 of any character in a play is his employment in the Action 
 with reference to what is desired to be accomplished. He "^ 
 does not exist in real life; consequently, his opinions onj 
 any subject not essential to the Action have no value. He 
 is employed for certain functions, just as you employ ser- 
 vants in a household. K Characters in a play can only exist 
 with reference to the Action, and Character can be brought 
 out in no other way than by throwing people into given re- 
 lations. Mere Character is nothing, pile it on as you may^ 
 A Character is subject to all the principles. Two charac- 
 ters should not be employed for what one can do, for that 
 would be a form of Disunity and opposed to the natural ' 
 economy of the art. Unity has also to be observed in the 
 conduct of the character itself. The larger details of char- 
 acter are arrived at in the Plot, other details come with the 
 part borne in the scene, and innumerable details are ef- f\ 
 fected incidentally, and brought out still^urther by the 
 actor. Mere Character, then, is nothing. Real Character, 
 ^of course, comes from your full knowledge of the Character 
 yt>u^wish to portray; Technique will tell you only how to 
 manage it. The Plot grows out of Character, but the Plot 
 must be fixed before any use can be made of Character^ 
 This may sound paradoxical, and will be understood when 
 you reach Constructive work, where you will also see how 
 an author may often find it necessary to create a new 
 character, after he has made some progress in the construc- 
 tion of his play, in order to overcome some technical diffi- 
 culty. "How am I to show that Parthenia is absolutely 
 heart whole and fancy free?" must have asked himself the 
 author of "Ingomar." "She must have a suitor, a per- 
 son so repugnant as to leave no doubt in the matter, an 
 
336 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 old man, a miser, the character to be developed according 
 to the opportunities of the play.'* The author did not con- 
 ceive Polydor independent of the Action before he began 
 the process of thinking out the play and its Action, r You 
 will see, then, that all Characters have their uses. Look into 
 the play and see if you can find a useless Character. Per- 
 haps you may, or one seemingly so. Ask him searchingly 
 what he is doing there, and he will respond clearly. It is 
 all right to have incidental Characters which belong rather 
 to a scene or to some other Character. In the older days 
 
 rcnearly every character had something to do with the Plot, — 
 to too great a degree, — but the practice was sound enough 
 for that kind of play. But he must have something to do 
 with the Action, and so. Directly or Indirectly, belong to 
 the Plot. The only time a character can do exactly as he 
 pleases is during the period in which you are ruminating 
 on your material, before you have fixed Plot and Scenes. 
 When you get him to the scene he must confine himself to 
 business, and he must talk and feel to the purpose on the lines 
 already prescribed by the mechanism. And he will have plenty 
 of freedom, and will do and say all that he wants to. 
 He can do and say exactly as he pleases because 
 the author has so arranged it. The conventional writer 
 will select his characters according to "heavy," "low com- 
 edy," &c. It is best to get them from your Material first; 
 
 j see if they exist in life first.> Your material and purpose de- 
 termine everything ;' such as the number required, although 
 the changing demands of the hour may ask you to do things 
 not absolutely required by the Material and real Plot, as, 
 for instance, where formerly, many of our best plays had 
 not more than two female characters, the managers now de- 
 mand femininity in abundance. For the present, confine 
 the exercise to finding out the functions of each character 
 in the play, why introduced, &c. Remember that the au- 
 thor, in each case, must have rejected dozens of characters, 
 possible characters, in the same environment. Why did 
 he select these and not others ? 
 
CHARACTER 337 
 
 The characters of a play as in "The Lady of Lyons" be- 
 long either to the main Plot or are incidental to scenes that 
 belong to the Plot or to the Action. The main characters 
 are in mind all the time, whether present or absent. The 
 servants at the inn belong only to the inn scenes, Caspar 
 only to one scene. The officers in the last act are there 
 merely for the purposes of a scene or so. We expect noth- 
 ing more from them. They have exercised their functions. 
 They belong to the Action, not exactly to the Plot. And 
 even the main characters of the Plot are not always plot- 
 ting, but, in turn, may belong merely to the Action. This 
 is the case in the jewel scene. Observe that the characte rs 
 d o not do as they plea^se^ The;^are governed by the conye- 
 nien ces o f the play, but_are.always made to art (-fvngigtpnt.1y 
 with their characters-and-the dixu^^ They are sub- '"^ 
 
 ject to the laws of thedraim_iust_a^s_m 
 ^^tJE^^U^Llh^'^-^^^ ^^ ^^'^ ^ ^^^^— To note here the innumer- 
 able little expressions of character is not feasible, but it may 
 be pointed out that the conditions of the Action_and the 
 scenes alone make the particular character possible, and 
 that ifTshever mere character for itself; that is impossible. 
 
 For the present, we are studying Characters as they exist 
 in the play and, as well as we may, the process by which 
 they are created. We see that these Characters are needed 
 and used for c ertain distinct purposes. The father of Pau- A ' 
 line is required only for certain scenes, and is very subor- 
 dinate, for only at the close of the play does anything con- 
 nected with the Plot demand him. Finally, his bankruptcy 
 affords a turn in the Action. Clavis is needed technically 
 for scenes of Dialogue with Beauseant, the Landlord for 
 a specific purpose, and so the officers in the last act. Jj^ll 
 the characters are necessary either for the Plot or the Ac- ^ 
 tion. I 
 
 The process of the mind in providing the Characters of a 
 play is not always the same, but it is very much as de- 
 scribed here or in other chapters. A not uncommon way is to 
 have the Characters first and provide a Plot for them. This is 
 
 I 
 
338 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 invariably the method of the empirics and conventionalists. 
 Every play is not written in the same way, because the state 
 of the material is not always the same. Your Material may 
 furnish you the Characters, in the main, ready made. In 
 that case, it will be some other element of the play that will 
 require your invention. Whatever the methods, the result 
 is always governed by Technique. It comes to the same 
 thing. When the need of a particular Character will pre- 
 sent itself to you depends upon circumstances. We must 
 understand playwriting to determine. Thus, Nichette and 
 Gustave probably came to Dumas after he had gone some 
 distance in the collecting and the imagining of the Material 
 for his play. They may have had their birth from various 
 sources. We see the uses made of them, and analysis could 
 undoubtedly trace the operations of the mind of the drama- 
 tist. You would inevitably, in some of your conjectures, 
 fix upon the point of their first conception. Perhaps it was 
 the need of contrasting a happy marriage and undisturbed 
 love with the hapless fate of Camille. The idea was general 
 at first. No Gustave, no Nichette. Dumas could have had a 
 happy marriage in her own particular set of careless roys- 
 ters. But that would not do. The other woman must not 
 participate in her life of pleasure. Make her a working 
 girl. In what way shall they be brought together? Let 
 Camille herself have been a working girl also. Perhaps the 
 idea of having this a part of Camille's history had not oc- 
 curred to Dumas before. Thus, in creating one Character 
 another, even the principal one, has to be modified. It was 
 not at once determined that the functions of these two new 
 characters should be episodic only. That required reason- 
 ing and analysis. The frivolous ones of Camille's set came 
 first from the general necessities, from the philosophy and 
 reasoning of the case. Camille and Armand were at hand 
 from the beginning. The germinal idea of the play, the 
 Proposition, which in this case came at once, required a 
 sacrifice on the part of Camille. How was it to be brought 
 about? Some powerful force was needed. The idea of the 
 
CHARACTER 339^ 
 
 father had nothing to do with the contemplation of the 
 theme at first. He was not necessary to the infatuation of 
 Armand for Camille. What right had he to intrude on the 
 author's mind before he was wanted? Prudence may have 
 come from the technical necessity of having the stranger 
 introduced and brought to her house. He was not of the 
 set, not a reveller. After a character is obtained for one es- . 
 tential service, the author consults every other possible use ^ 
 to which he can put him. Prudence must not be a mere 
 mechanical puppet. She must have some traits and charac- 
 teristics which will give her individuality. The supper Epi- 
 sode may have been decided on. Where can Prudence be 
 used incidentally? At the supper, of course. Her greed, 
 for food put her in that scene, her greed for money put her 
 in the last act. The last act required that Camille be not 
 wholly abandoned by her former companions. Some one 
 was needed to minister to her as she lay dying. Shall it be 
 Gustave? No; to use him would disturb the unity of im- 
 pression desired as to him and Nichette. He could have 
 been used, certainly. But it was not a matter of chance and 
 capricious "imagination" with Dumas. He exercised his 
 reason. Gaston was light hearted and good of spirit, wit- 
 ness his song, his grotesque dancing, his caprisoning him- 
 self, in the original play, in a woman's bonnet. It is Gaston 
 only that does this. Here we have contrast. It is delight- 
 ful to find him so sympathetic and generous. He is also to 
 lead a better life. Gustave was saved from the beginning. 
 These Characters were not accidents, they served purposes 
 of the Action. It was at Olimpe's that the scene of the 
 fourth act was to be laid. There is use for them all. As 
 said, Camille, Armand and Varville were the first born. _j 
 
 There are books written on the characters in Shakespere. 
 Years are wasted in this way in the study of a few plays at 
 the Universities. That kind of analysis is not to the pur- 
 pose in the study of technical principles. At the same time, 
 if we wanted to go over the same ground covered by Tay- 
 lor, we would have to know these characters or make a 
 
340 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Study of them from life. 'Knowi your Characters. Taylor 
 got his from a novel by Bernard in French, but he adapted 
 them to English realities.''| While it is distinctly a Character 
 play, he evidently built it from the great scene in the second 
 act. There was the strongest situation for bringing out the 
 coolness, courage and sagacity of Mildmay. There was the 
 climax of the proverb that "Still Waters Run Deep." For 
 Taylor's purposes in the play the Characters had to have 
 certain precise limitations. The slightest variation would 
 have brought confusion into it. If Emily had been passion- 
 ate and really in love with Hawksley, instead of being 
 merely sentimental and silly, the Action would have taken 
 a different turn entirely, and different things would have 
 happened. We have already pointed out that Mrs. Stern- 
 hold had to be the aunt and not the mother-in-law. If Pot- 
 ter had been given more decision of character the present 
 play would have been impossible. If Hawksley had not 
 been such a consummate scoundrel in his attitude toward 
 women in a moral sense the Action would have had to turn 
 on the financial transactions exclusively, and it would 
 have been difficult indeed to dislodge the attractive adven- 
 turer from the admiration and confidence of the women. It 
 would have been another play entirely, v Sometimes we 
 have to get a Plot for the Characters, and, again, we often 
 have to make the Characters conform to the Plot. This lat- 
 ter method was probably the case in the making of "Still 
 Waters Run Deep." Corners had to be clipped off with the 
 trowel to make the stones fit. Thus, while we should go to 
 life for our Characters, mere life will no more serve in Char- 
 acter than it will in Action. Five principal characters are 
 sufficient for the complications necessary to carry the play 
 through three acts.J It is so domestic and personal that al- 
 though there is a dinner party in it it is not needed to give 
 glimpses of "society." The introduction of other characters 
 even incidentally would have impaired the simplicity and 
 force of the play, but the author and manager of the present 
 day would be inclined to have the stage filled with "guests" 
 
CHARACTER 34 1 
 
 in the last act. Stage management is so skillful nowadays 
 that it could be done effectively too. It would not be better 
 perhaps, but it would please some people. 
 
 Endless essays could be written on the character 
 of the characters in a play, and a good deal of 
 the study of Shakespere in the Universities is 
 wasted in this wiay. Of course the dramatist must 
 make a certain study of his characters, and he may be- 
 gin with abstractions, but finally it is the practical use he 
 —v—can make of certain traits in the characters.) Drama is the 
 reduction of the philosophy of life into concrete dramatic 
 form, but in analyzing a play we need not concern ourselves 
 largely with anything but the technical side of the charac- 
 ters. How did Massinger create them? in what order? we 
 can only conjecture, but there is little doubt that some of 
 our footsteps will fall exactly in those of the author himself. 
 Sir Giles was a living character known to Massinger. So 
 was Justice Greedy. Indeed, all the characters are too 
 natural to be mere products of the imagination. Sir Giles 
 was to be the leading person in the play, a real play, not a 
 mere play. To begin with, he was an unconscionable 
 scoundrel, with two passions, money and the social ad- 
 vancement of himself and family through his daughter. 
 Greedy being the living tool of the living man, the two pro- 
 totypes were at hand, and Margaret followed. Whom shall 
 he direct his cruel and fraudulent practices against? Some 
 one close to him, his nephew. We have Wellborn. He 
 must be easily defrauded, else the play will be about a mo- 
 ney transaction, and that is not the purpose of the play at 
 all. This relative and victim must be reduced to the most 
 abject want. He shall be a spendthrift; he must finally re- 
 deem himself and regain the lands of which he has been de- 
 prived, but the open struggle must not be over that parti- 
 cular thing. Sir Giles must overreach himself, for it is the 
 only way, without too much complication, to defeat him in 
 a dramatic action of reasonable length and compactness. 
 Wellborn cannot make a direct fight against this powerful 
 
342 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE: 
 
 kinsman. Overreach must be duped; it can be done in no 
 other way. We certainly cannot get him to restore the 
 lands in any direct way ; all we can hope for is to have him 
 give him money enough to re-establish himself in the world. 
 He will not do that except with a selfish motive. What 
 can it be ? Ah, he shall expect to rob somebody ; then Well- 
 born will pretend to marry rich. This brings Lady All- 
 worth out of the depths of Massinger's imagination. No 
 thought so far of Lord Lovell, but when the attack is to be 
 made on the side of the daughter, means must be found. A 
 like deception must be practiced, for we cannot have dis- 
 similar means used, or we will have difficulty in joining the 
 Action. Lord Lovell being a necessity, the relations be- 
 tween him and Lady AUworth came about naturally. In 
 this way, some of the characters were born with the Propo- 
 sition, others with the Plot, and others with the Action. 
 Tapwell and Froth were needed only to emphasize the low- 
 est depth of Wellborn's fall and humiliation. Amble and 
 Furnace, Order and Watchall come into existence as the 
 Action progressed. Characters once created, the dramatist 
 makes as much use of them as may be needed, and for 
 many purposes. We see that Furnace "feeds" Greedy his 
 lines, as the expression goes among actors. Massinger pro- 
 vides situations to draw out the characters. There is a 
 good deal of description of Character, but everything is 
 verified. Sir Giles is as distinct as a portrait by Rembrandt. 
 He is in the Action or of it all the time, i 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 DIALOGUE, MONOLOGUES AND ASIDES. 
 
 Dialogue, is commonly said to be the easiest part of a 
 play to write, and the uninformed writer can and does 
 write yards of it to no purpose. ^But it is not Dialogue, it\/ 
 is conversation. IThe true dramatist might, on occasion, 
 spend ten times the time on one-tenth of the space that 
 the amateur writer does and he might have equal facility 
 in "writing" Dialogue or thrice the facility. * The dramatist \ ^ 
 prepares Plot, Sequences, Scenes, Action, everything pos- 1 
 sible or practicable, before he thinks of writing Dialogue/ 
 Of course there is a certain freedom reserved in the matter 
 of detail during the composition of it. It is made easy only 
 by this means. But it is often difficult, as we shall see 
 when we reach the actual doing of it. After a play is 
 Divided into Acts and Scenes, it is the Dialogue that works 
 out each scene. Thus, the Dialogue is confined to the 
 business in hand. "^The distinctive mark of real Dialogue is -/ 
 Vthat it is and must be responsive. It is give and take. If 
 you have a difficulty or misunderstanding with any one 
 it is a series of thrusts and parries, is it not? People in the 
 drama are never at one — there is always a disagreement or 
 some obstacle which requires discussion. Something is 
 always in solution. The emotions are alive. ^The fact that 
 a character might be talking with a deaf man does not 
 disturb the principle, for the obstacle or misunderstanding 
 would still exist. Never close a sentence so that the audi- 
 ence will not understand or surmise what its completion 
 should be. Merely dividing Dialogue into short sentences 
 does not necessarily make the Dialogue dramatic. It is 
 true that a manager, in glancing at a manuscript and see- 
 ing that all the speeches are long, uniformly half a page or 
 so, will at once know that the play lacks Action, is full of 
 description and in every way undramatic. The old classic 
 
n/ 
 
 344 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^E; 
 
 French dramatist could indulge in declamation, but they 
 were masters of their art and kept up their Action. In a 
 modern prose play it would be impossible. If you do "not 
 know what to have the characters say to each other" it is 
 because you have not made out Plot and Scenes before- 
 hand. The only difficulty that could arise with a true dra- 
 matist at this point would be as to how to make them 
 say in the best way what is already prearranged. ' Dialogue 
 depends upon the Action and the purpose of the scene; it 
 does not stand alone. * The characters cannot say what they 
 want to — that is — it must be so arranged that they will 
 want to say only certain things. If you get them into a 
 position where they can say everything and anything, there 
 comes your ''easy-writing." There comes your "Oh! I 
 have no difficulty in Dialogue!" See if you can find any 
 Dialogue in the play which is not confined to the object of 
 the scene. 
 
 The Monologue is antiquated and the tendency wrong; 
 the best writers do not use it at all. It is artificial, 
 but not altogether contrary to dramatic principle. That is 
 to say, the Action can be carried forward by means of it, 
 but we get closer to nature by avoiding itj It is a pitfall 
 for the beginner, for it is an easy refuge, a clumsy method, 
 and the artistic necessity for it must be strong for a capa- 
 ble playwright to use it. It is a short cut and should be 
 shunned by the inexpert. The plays in this Cpurse contain 
 monologues, but we shall have some exercises to enable you 
 to translate them into Dialogue and real Action. Many ex- 
 ercises on each of the Principles are deferred necessarily, for 
 you are not and will not be prepared for them until you have 
 gone through considerable analytical study, whereupon the 
 constructive work will begin. In the poetic drama mono- 
 logue is more permissible than in modern prose, but you 
 will observe that the Monologue there is not for the rela- 
 tion of Story or for the mere information of the audience ; 
 the amateur uses it to tell Story. The Aside is yet used in 
 rapid farce but even there it can be avoided if proper Pre- 
 
DIAU)GUE, MONOIjOGUES AND ASIDES 345 
 
 paration has been made so that what is said and done is 
 Self-explanatory, so that the Aside may usually be reduced 
 to "Business." As, indeed, a wink to another, a glance, a 
 significant movement unseen by the second character and 
 the like, may be equivalent to an aside. To sum up the 
 advice at this point, all monologues which merely tell Story, 
 or asides for the same purpose, are to be avoided and are 
 usually bad art. Read over the scenes then with reference 
 solely to these points. 
 
 The Dialogue of a play, or, better said, of a scene, is gov- 
 erned by the object of the scene itself. You are not writing 
 Plot when you are writing Dialogue. The scene stands be- 
 tween you and that. The scenes have their responsibility 
 to the Plot, and the Dialogue is directly responsible to its 
 scene. The Plot is subject directly to the Proposition: Na- 
 tion, State, County, District, &c. The Dialogue accom- 
 plishes the purpose of the scene. It has many niceties and 
 has large liberty in spite of the apparent narrow restriction. 
 The Characters have their rights within these limits also, 
 and there is plenty to look after in writing a scene. Refer 
 to the Division into Scenes, and you will see that the main 
 object of the first scene in "The Lady of Lyons" 
 is to convey the Pride of Pauline, and under that 
 we have a number of essential facts, the principal 
 subordinate thing being that Pauline is destined by 
 her mother to marry rank. A careful study of that chap- 
 ter will make you realize the value and necessity of having 
 distinct scenes. How could the scenes be distinct or carried 
 out at all except by confining the Dialogue to the function 
 of the scene? The progressive Action of the play puts the 
 Characters in different relations with each other all the 
 time, and that change of relation is going on and is affected 
 all the time by the details of the Dialogue. Thus, the Dia- 
 logue is governed by the circumstances, by the relations of 
 the Characters at the moment and the specific object of the 
 scene. Thus, the first scene with Beauseant involves Plot 
 Action in its main object. He is to be rejected, much to his 
 
34^ ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 astonishment and indignation. The Dialogue is conducted 
 with reference to this result, the state of mind of each Char- 
 acter being held in view and expressed. He is confident; 
 he tells of his fortune, that he is noble except for the recent 
 loss of his title. She declines. He thinks it incredible and 
 suggests that he call on M. Deschappelles. Then the moth- 
 er interferes with her state of mind. His rejection is made 
 more humiliating by her pretensions. Many points are in- 
 troduced, and his rejection and indignation constitute the 
 substance of the scene. 
 ^""'The Dialogue of a scene is controlled by the object of 
 \ that scene. Do you want a better example of that principle 
 I and method than the four speeches that compose the first 
 scene in "Camille?" Varville is waiting for Camille who is 
 out. That is all. Who Varville is; where Camille has gone; 
 those and other details are not needed at this point and are 
 not included in the object of the scene. A simple, single 
 impression is produced. A child can understand it. Your 
 amateur would "set them to talking," confident that they 
 would write the play for him. What limits would you set 
 to their talk if the scene had no definite object? Or would 
 it be an object to have them tell everything. Would a 
 hundred objects be the main object? Nichette appears. 
 She is not writing the play ; she has no idea that the play is 
 in progress; she does not come in in order to give Nanine 
 and Varville occasion to talk about her. Why could not 
 Nichette tell about her former comradeship with Camille 
 in the shop? Who could better describe the goodness of 
 Camille? Why could she not give full expression to her ad- 
 miration, love and sympathy for Camille ? She is prevented 
 from doing so by scores of things, by Sequence, by Prepara- 
 tion, by Indirection, by Objectivity, by economies of va- 
 rious kinds. She is the servant of the Scenario. She is ab- 
 solutely free to say anything she chooses — within the limits 
 of the objects of the scene. She is not deprived of a single 
 right to free speech. She is not made a puppet by the law 
 of the scenes. If she would and should have wished to say 
 
dialoguh:, monou)Gues and asides 347 _ 
 
 more than she does there would be something wrong with 
 the object of the scene. Nichette has five speeches. Just 
 as a play is finally written from a Scenario we can imagine 
 the following Scenario for this scene in a detailed Scenario ^ 
 including some of the notes which may have been prepared 
 by Dumas: "Introduce Nichette: She must appear now in 
 order to save explanation later on. The only immediate use 
 that I can make of her in the Action is to have her appear- , 
 ance lead up to the third scene. Bring out the fact that \ 
 she is a working girl, and that she is devoted to Camille. 
 Have the occasion of her call insignificant to the extent of 
 not having the audience expect any result from it. She will 
 drop in as she was passing. I want to get her off as soon 
 as the object of her scene is accomplished. For this pur- | »/ 
 pose let Gustave be waiting for her. She is a working girl 
 and comes for a bundle which Camille will have left for her, 
 thus requiring the explanation. Give these Facts that pro- 
 per Sequence and Dialogue it." Do you suppose that 
 Dumas had the slightest inclination while framing the Dia- 
 logue to wander into talk outside of the limit? We have 
 shown that Nichette did not. The management of the Dia- y 
 logue illustrates dramatic method. Note how everything 
 is evoked and is responsive. It has dramatic Indirection. 
 Nichette thought Camille was in and apologizes. No, says 
 Nanine, she is out. Do you wish to see her? She does not 
 speak of the bundle right off, for that belongs to the later 
 speech properly. Nichette's main idea was to see Camille 
 as she was passing. Will you wait? No, Gustave is at the 
 door. Cause and Effect right along. Did she leave the 
 bundle? Yes. Going to carry it? Why not? it is not ' 
 heavy. Again, logically and straight to the purpose of the 
 scene as outlined. "Nothing is a trouble that I do for Ca- 
 mille." It might have been possible to give it a somewhat 
 different Sequence, but it is often an infinitesimal sense of 
 touch. Note how the minor Action is kept up. Indirectly 
 we see that Nichette is a person well known to Nanine, for 
 she recognizes her voice before she comes on. Does she tell 
 
348 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Varville who Nichette is? Varville does not know, for he 
 asks after she has gone off. It might have been natural 
 that he ask before she enters. True, but there was no time, 
 and purposely so. The audience wonders who Nichette is. 
 Indirectly we learn a good deal about her before Nanine 
 tells us. Your amateur would have delayed Nichette's en- 
 trance in order to give Varville time to ask Nanine and 
 have had her answer questions. The same facts would 
 have been brought out but at the expense of the minor Ac- 
 tion. Minor Action? Yes, constant vibration, things left 
 in solution in a small way, things unanswered, for Nanine 
 had to answer them for the audience as well as for Varville 
 in the next scene. Who is Gustave? We wonder until 
 Nanine tells us. You would have brought all that out in 
 a second scene, eh? Why should it not have been brought 
 out? Simply because it is not good playwriting. The scene 
 needed these little touches of Minor Action for the intro- 
 duction of Nichette at this point is largely technical, al- 
 though perfectly natural, and care had to be taken to make 
 it not only natural, but highly interesting. The mere pres- 
 entation of Facts is very often Action, but there should be 
 Minor Action along with it and animation. The third 
 scene flows naturally from the talk about Nichette and 
 leads up to the logical remark of Varville that "so thrives 
 everybody's suit but mine." Everything serves its pur- 
 pose; not a bit of the breeze is spilled from the sails. Ca- 
 mille comes on. We get new Facts. Why could not Var- 
 ville have said in the first of the third scene that he had ask- 
 ed Camille a hundred times for her favor? The Scenario of 
 the scene would have provided for the proof that Camille 
 did not care for Varville, and incident to that would have 
 been the details showing why she is annoyed. She never 
 enters the house without finding him there. She would not 
 have time to breakfast if she listened to such pleas from 
 every man. Varville says she thought differently a year 
 ago at Bagneres. Yes, but that was a year ago and Camille 
 was sick and bored. Things have changed. This is Paris. 
 
DIALOGUE, MONOLOGUES AND ASIDES 349 
 
 He angered her by referring to DeMeuriac. She wastes no 
 Words. "You are a fool." Something new all the time, 
 minor Action, vibration. We need not take up every scene 
 in order to prove that the Dialogue is written in strict ac- 
 cordance with the Scenario previously determined, that the 
 Dialogue is substantially provided for before a line of it is 
 written. There are little details and turns which come to 
 the writer, of course, as he writes. Naturally, the charac- 
 ters are free within the law. They will help you, but not if 
 you merely "set them to talking." !Even within the limita- 
 tions they may get it right or they may not. You may have 
 to revise what they say. Note in the scene where Camille 
 and Armand are left alone the minor things in the way of 
 Cause and Effect that make the Dialogue flow easily and 
 give progress to the scene. Armand remains behind when 
 the others go out because he is solicitous about her illness. 
 The Dialogue begins with it. Because of her illness he 
 wishes that he had the right to save her from herself. "It is 
 too late." "Why, what's the matter with you ?" "You make 
 me ill." "Don't be foolish, pray go into the next room and 
 enjoy yourself with the others. See, they don't mind me." 
 This Dialogue is constantly evoked, always responsive, al- 
 ways proceeding by Cause and Effect, always with the main 
 object of the scene in view. Armand has shown his love; 
 now he expresses it passionately in words. "Are you seri- 
 ous?" "Very." "Trust me." "For how long?" "Forever." 
 "How long has this lasted?" "For two years." "How 
 came it that you never told me of this before?" Here we 
 have Dialogue in which we use every principle of the 
 drama. It is very dramatic in every syllable. It is in the 
 briefest sentences because there is vibration in every utter- 
 ance and moment of it. There is constant change. It is 
 progressive. At the end of the scene Armand has convinc- 
 ed her of the sincerity of his love. She has doubted. She 
 resists. She urges. The extent of the impression made on 
 her is symbolized by the gift of the flowers. She holds out 
 little promise and does not give her full consent to his love, 
 "only remember me, now go." Note the Sequence. How 
 
350 ANAI.YSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 absurd it would have been if Armand had begun the inter- 
 view by telling her that he has cherished for six months a 
 little button which fell from her glove. The growth of the 
 Action in this scene is admirable, the development of Ca- 
 mille's emotions perfect art and true nature. "Ah, still you 
 laugh." "Speak Armand. I am not laughing now." "Will 
 you be loved?" "For how long?" "For eternity!" "Alas! 
 my life may yet be happy — it cannot be long — and short as 
 it may be — it may outlive your promise!" "Now who is 
 melancholy." Dumas may have written this scene at a sit- 
 ting, but never without a Scenario. The probabilities are 
 that, even with a Scenario, he did not Dialogue it at a sit- 
 ting. The play is an excellent play for the study of Dia- 
 logue; but its strongest scenes are between two people in 
 Dialogue. But it is not merely by means of Words that the 
 strength of them was obtained. A substantial part is not 
 alone in the structure of a scene but in the structure of the 
 play itself. The reflex Action is strong. The compactness 
 and the relations of the parts wonderful. If, for a moment, 
 we now turn to what we may call Constructive Analysis, 
 we will find at once that Dialogue cannot be treated inde- 
 pendently of the scenes. In all these exercises we have 
 tried to lead the application of the principles back to struc- 
 ture, to impress the fact that the process is from the general 
 to the particular, that the regular order is a development 
 from Proposition to Plot, followed by the Action which is 
 regulated by the scenes. A play cannot be constructed by 
 means of Dialogue ; the Dialogue is simply the execution of 
 the scenes. Constructively, then, we cannot consider it 
 apart from the scenes. Again, if we turn to what we may 
 call Destructive Analysis, we can only Destroy the value 
 and purpose of the Dialogue with reference to the given 
 scene. Wrong 'Sequence is the powerful destructive factor. 
 That is to say, wrong Sequence in the order of the ideas in 
 the scene itself. Of course, a wrong Sequence of the scenes 
 with reference to the other scenes will destroy the value of 
 the Dialogue, but the Sequence of the Scenes would have 
 
DlALOGUZj MONOIX)GUES AND ASIDES 35I _ _ 
 
 been determined before any Dialogue is undertaken. It is 
 when we get to the Dialogue that the niceties of the art 
 challenge us. The scene between Duval and Camille re- 
 quired consummate art. All the Facts are familiar to us; 
 we have seen everything in the Action as unfolded. There 
 are new things, of course, such as the engagement of the 
 daughter and the determination of the family of the man 
 who is to marry her to break off the match if the relations 
 between Camille and Armand continue. The scene is a ter- 
 rible struggle. Full of emotion. Let us see some of the 
 niceties. The moment that Duval introduces himself, to 
 the consternation of Camille, we know what is coming in a 
 general way. It is Self-Explanatory. First, the audience 
 must be put at rest as to the possible appearance of Armand 
 by way of interruption. We know that Armand is not 
 there, that he has gone to Paris for the day, we are remind- 
 ed of the fact at once to set us at ease. Camille does not 
 wish to have any discussion with the father and she at once 
 says that Armand is not there. Duval says he knows that. 
 We immediately see, by Indirection, that his business is with 
 her. By Indirection we see that the father understands the 
 infatuation of his son and our interest is intense as to 
 whether he can prevail over Camille. He begins with the 
 reproach that she is ruining his son. Duval believes that 
 his son is accepting maintenance from Camille. We know 
 the circumstances. Camille resents his charge. The con- 
 versation seems to be at an end, for she will not listen. By 
 degrees the asperity of the father softens, and always with 
 Cause. She makes proof of the fact that she has sacrificed 
 her property for the sake of love. Duval could have begun 
 his plea with the representation of the facts as to Armand's 
 sister, his daughter ; but he brings this into play at the right 
 moment. He could not have effectually used the argument 
 before this point in the Dialogue. He ventures to do it 
 only after he sees that she has a good heart, and is not a 
 "dangerous woman." Dumas plays on all the emotions in- 
 volved, bringing up new turns constantly. Camille con- 
 
352 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 sents to make the sacrifice in her own way. She is yielding 
 inch by inch. She suggests that Armand may write to her 
 after the daughter's marriage. Duval: "Thanks, my child, 
 but I fear that you do not wholly understand me. I would 
 ask more." "What more could I do?" "A temporary ab- 
 sence would not suffice." "Ah, you would have me quit 
 Armand forever?" "You must." "Never!" The conflict is 
 renewed. She makes another appeal. She is sincere in say- 
 ing that the shock would kill her. She begs. He represents 
 to her the futility of her love. We know that she uses the 
 very same arguments as to the stability of their happiness 
 in trying to dissuade Armand in the earlier acts. We see 
 the inevitable, as she does. She confesses that her punish- 
 ment has come. Her dream is passed. Her resignation has 
 begun in actuality. She has become a better woman from 
 the moment and realizes that Armand's love was different 
 from that which she had been used to. It is only at the last 
 that she sees that it is for Armand's good that she must 
 make the sacrifice. Then she suggests the difficulties in the 
 way of accomplishing the sacrifice. This aspect is entirely 
 new. It has come up by the general process of the struggle 
 between them. It was no easy matter to Dialogue the 
 scene^ and it is not at all likely that it was done at one sit- 
 ting. 
 
 In order to make our analysis, we must first know the na- 
 ^ture and function of Dialogue. We have seen that the Plot 
 is a development of the Proposition, and that the Division 
 into Acts and Scenes is a development of the Plot. We 
 have seen that the structure is established before there is 
 any occasion for Dialogue. To attempt to write a play 
 without this structure, and without recognizing that Dia- 
 logue is dependent upon this structure, and immediately 
 subject to the object of the scene, would be folly. We have 
 seen that the Dialogue in the opening scene of "Still Wa- 
 ters Run Deep," conforms to the principle and methods 
 just indicated. The scene is introductory and hard- 
 ly touches anywhere upon the Plot of the play. 
 
DIAIX)GU4 MONOW)GUES AND ASIDES 353 
 
 The Dialogue is full of Action in showing discord in 
 the house, but it is only when Mrs. Mildmay makes her re- 
 ference to Hawksley that the Plot begins to stir. It is plain 
 that the author is not concerning himself about Plot so far 
 as the audience is concerned. He was writing the scene, 
 and not attempting to write the play at the same time. He 
 had freed his mind of the danger of trying to do this or of 
 accidentally writing unnecessary Dialogue, by having al- 
 ready prepared the outline of his play. With the outlined 
 Scenario, he might have elaborated it by making out a Sce- 
 nario for each scene. Scenarios within a Scenario. The gen- 
 eral notes which he had taken on his play now serve for use 
 in the Scenario of the given scene. He knows what the 
 Conditions Precedent are, and who the Characters are, what 
 his play is to be about, and how everything is to be effected 
 as to the general structure. The notes that might be pro- 
 vided for this first scene, or the material that may be held 
 in mental solution, might be voluminous. 
 
 Many of those notes are general in their character, and 
 not only available in one form or another for any particular 
 part of a play, but, in the very nature of the case for all 
 parts of a play. Of this kind are the notes on Character. 
 Character and characteristics must be maintained through- 
 out the play, and the relations of the people stable in some 
 particulars, unstable in others, because of the progressive 
 Action which is kept in mind all the while. In this very 
 first scene we establish the relations of the people^ entirely/ 
 and incidentally under the object of the scene, i Without a* 
 Scenario of the scene, or a preconceived idea of what we are 
 going to accomplish in the scene by means of details of Ac-^ 
 tion and Character, one would not know how to set about 
 writing a scene. It does not convey everything to say that 
 the Dialogue carries out the object of the scene. We must 
 come back to the similarity or identity of procedure of con- 
 struction in the other parts of the play. We must regard 
 the scene as a little play in itself, with its divisions, and 
 usually with its distinct Proposition, which necessitates a 
 23 
 
/ 
 
 354 ANAI<YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLIJ 
 
 Plot. Of course, not every scene is susceptible of being di- 
 vided into minute parts corresponding to a play, but the 
 similarity always exists. The Dialogue, then, is the devel- 
 opment of the Action by means of, or the addition or ex- 
 pression of, words. It must be practically all there before 
 the words are used^J 
 
 .'^We cannot make brick without its proper material, clay 
 ( and straw, or whatever ingredients may be required. We 
 do not begin a structure until all the materials are at hand. 
 We do not stop work in order to send after materials which 
 we suddenly find that we need, and then idly wait until the 
 order is filled. In that case, one, in building a house, might 
 have to wait for his structural iron for months. No, the 
 material for this scene has already been gathered. In order 
 to make these principles clear, we have had separate chapters 
 on Material and Conditions Precedent. We now see how 
 they came into practical use in "Still Waters Run Deep." 
 By what means is the dissension in the family to 
 be proved? How is Mrs. Sternhold to show her au- 
 thority? In gathering his Material, and outlining 
 his Plot, Taylor saw occasion for a dinner in the last 
 act. This is Material which he could use for the purpose of 
 showing Mrs. Sternhold's authority. A little incidental fact 
 in his Material is that Mildmay and Emily have been mar- 
 ried just one year. Mildmay would naturally want his wife 
 to dine with him on the anniversary. This leads up to the 
 assertion of Mrs. Sternhold's authority in announcing a 
 dinner that she had already arranged without consulting 
 Mildmay. Thus, the dinner is used in the first scene with- 
 out the slightest apparent reference to the future Action of 
 the play. The discussion and proof of Mrs. Sternhold's au- 
 thority is made strictly with reference to this scene. Speci- 
 fic Material is used, reflex Action is provided for, and noth- 
 ing is lost. Herein we see the economy of playwriting. In 
 our preparatory notes in the way of gathering Material, we 
 have found the causes for Emily's distaste for her husband. 
 She is young and romantic, and under the authority of her 
 
DIAIvOGU^, MONOI.OGUES AND ASIDE^S 355' 
 
 aunt. No better place to show it than in the first scene. 
 We have the Material for it, and the scene is comparatively 
 easy to write because of the existence of the Material. 
 Many of the little points introduced into this first scene are 
 purely incidental, and yet they have particular value be- 
 cause the author has purposely weighed every particle of 
 the Material which he is going to use. It is not an aimless 
 point that the two have been married but one year, for if 
 they had been married a number of years, then the cause of 
 Emily's dislike might well be satiety, and the misunder- 
 standing as to the character of Mildmay would either be ab- 
 solute, or his development into self-assertion would not be 
 easily accepted. The actuality would be that Mildmay was 
 hopelessly stupid and mild, and that his wife was hopelessly 
 perverse and romantic; consequently, it is clear that the 
 points which we have indicated are specific Material. Emily 
 has a distaste for her husband because he is prosaic enough 
 to busy himself with the garden. That is Material. He 
 likes one kind of music, and she likes another. That is Ma- 
 terial. It would have been well nigh impossible for the au- 
 thor to have invented all this Material while he was writing 
 the Dialogue. He simply converted his Material into Dia- 
 logue. He had to give Sequence to the Action whereby he 
 introduced the points which he had already selected for use 
 in this Dialogue. I 
 
 Our method in examining into and analyzing the Dialogue 
 requires us to go back to work already performed in the 
 construction of the play. The Scenario or arrangement into 
 scenes has provided the structure. Up to this point there 
 has been no need for words, except that the Scenario may 
 have, on occasion, more or less complete parts of the Dia- 
 logue sketched or noted down. What is to be said is in a 
 large measure predestined and foreordained. When we 
 reach the Dialogue we are not writing Dialogue in order to 
 construct the play, for that part of the work has been done. 
 It is true that, inasmuch as the material remains plastic un- 
 til the end, something may arise in the Dialogue or relations 
 
 im. 
 
356 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^ie 
 
 between the people which may require a change in the 
 structure, but that does not happen often enough to disturb 
 us in carrying out the object of each scene as already deter- 
 mined on. Care is to be taken that we do not attempt to 
 write Plot as Plot while we are writing Dialogue. We are 
 simply dialoguing a scene. We are carrying out by means of 
 words the object of that scene, as it affects and effects Plot, 
 and writing specifically for the purpose of the moment. Of 
 course, the Dialogue has its bearing on the past and on the 
 future, but it$ specific quality concerns the present moment. 
 We now see the value of the Scenario or Division into 
 Scenes. The object of the first scene in "A New Way to 
 Pay Old Debts" is to show that Wellborn is 
 friendless, and an outcast; that is the most general 
 idea. Everything that is said is subordinate to it. We 
 demonstrated that every idea in the first scene of "The 
 Lady of Lyons" was subordinated to the general idea of 
 vanity. We see exactly the same technical condition in the 
 first scene of this play. Wellborn is friendless, and we 
 thereupon see why he is friendless, and the Dialogue which 
 sets this forth furnishes facts upon which the Action is bas- 
 ed. But with reference to the scene they are plainly subor- 
 dinate. In both' cases occasion has been given for setting 
 forth the facts. If the mere setting forth of the facts had 
 been the main object in either case, we would have had an 
 undramatic method, but wkh the occasion provided the 
 facts are properly presented. It will be observed that 
 everything that is said concerns the present moment. We 
 have Wellborn and Tap well and Froth before us in certain 
 relations, and what they say proceeds from that state of af- 
 fairs and their state of mind. There is an immediate rea- 
 son for them to say all that is said. The Dialogue is made 
 up of the necessities of the situation. If this were not so, 
 and if the author were presenting facts merely for his con- 
 venience and not from the necessities of the relations of 
 these people, the sense of immediate Action would at once 
 depart from the scene. The recalling of the past history of 
 
diai,ogue:^ monologues and asides 357 _ 
 
 the profligate is necessary not so much for our understand- 
 ing of the Plot of the play as it is for the wrath of Well- 
 born after the impudent underling and former tenant had 
 expressed his insults. We really care less for the fact than 
 we do for the effect it is having upon Wellborn, with whom 
 we entirely sympathize, and hope that he will administer 
 just punishment to the thankless creature. It would be al- 
 most impossible for one to imagine the conversation taking 
 a different turn; they are not discussing Sir Giles Over- 
 reach with reference to his character, for it will be observ- 
 ed that Wellborn pays no attention whatever to what is 
 said about Sir Giles. That comes later. His feeling to- 
 ward Sir Giles is expressed in the scene with Allworth. 
 Here we have not a single expression from Wellborn as to 
 his feeling toward his uncle. His sole resentment is against 
 Tapwell, whom he has set up in business. Everything that 
 he says in this Dialogue bears on Tapwell and increases our 
 desire that the blows that we hope he will administer to 
 him will not lack in force. Thus we see that the Dialogue 
 of the first scene, while it conveys many facts that are ab- 
 solutely essential to the foundation of the Action, bears 
 upon the moment only. ' It matters not how important those 
 facts may be, how significant the Dialogue may be about 
 the subordinate things, it must concern the moment. The 
 object of the scene is accomplished, Wellborn administers 
 the blows to Tapwell. Of course they are important so far 
 as results go toward rehabilitating him, and, in that way, 
 finally demonstrate, at the very close of the scene, the ob- 
 ject of the scene, which is to show that Wellborn is friend- 
 less. The object of the scene summed up everything that 
 had to be written in it and which now appears in it. The 
 second scene simply demonstrates that Wellborn has a 
 friend. Of course, there are many ideas and many objects 
 in a scene, but the well ordered mind always finds in it the 
 dominating idea. For example, how futile it would be to 
 assign as the object of this scene that Allworth saves Tap- 
 well from further punishment. That is certainly the imme- 
 
358 ANAIvYSIS OF- DRAMATIC PRINCIPI,^ 
 
 diate result of his appearance, but it has no significance as 
 it relates to the Plot. Allworth tells Wellborn that they 
 are not worth his anger. That is a fact, but it is purely su- 
 bordinate. The main idea is that Wellborn, whom we have 
 seen friendless has a friend. This friend is Allworth. We 
 see it in his manner. We see the potentialities of such 
 friendship in his dress. In fact, that he is Wellborn's friend 
 — that Wellborn has a friend — is the most significant fact, 
 and no more Dialogue is required than to set that forth. The 
 details of that friendship require a separate scene. To com- 
 plete the scene it is only required to get Tapwell and Froth 
 off the stage. The object of the third scene is to show that 
 Wellborn refuses aid from Allworth, and will retrieve his 
 fortune in his own way. Obviously, this object has breadth 
 and dimensions and requires considerable detail, and it is 
 the business of the Dialogue to give it. It will be observed 
 that everything that is talked about in this scene is subor- 
 dinate to the purpose already indicated. He will not accept 
 aid from Allworth because he lived at the devotion of a 
 stepmother and the uncertain favor of a Lord. We learn 
 who his stepmother is and that Allworth is in the army 
 serving under a noble commander. These are the details 
 necessary to the elucidation of the Proposition of our scene. 
 It is true that Wellborn's counsel to Allworth in regard to 
 his love for Sir Giles's daughter does not seem to have any 
 bearing on the reason why he refuses aid from Allworth. 
 But examine it closely and you will find that his state of 
 feeling toward the father of the girl that Allworth loves ex- 
 plains the reason why he intends to retrieve his own for- 
 tunes in his own way. The fact that Sir Giles has ruined 
 Allworth's father, too, who was Wellborn's friend is com- 
 plementary to his own spirit of revenge and his resolve to 
 redeem himself, which is prompted by the abject state of 
 humiliation which he just experienced at the hands of an 
 ungrateful old tenant, and which has been witnessed by 
 Allworth and by us. It would seem that Wellborn's state- 
 ment that Sir Giles would never consent to the marriage 
 
DIALOGUE:, MONOLOGUES. AND ASIDES 359 
 
 between Margaret and Allworth is not to the purpose of 
 the scene as given, but it is. He does not tell of Sir Giles's 
 ambition for his daughter simply for the information of the 
 audience, but by way of counsel to his friend. Then again, 
 it leads back at the end of the scene to Allworth's renewed 
 offer to help. It also establishes in our minds confidence in 
 Wellborn's resolution, and gives us certain facts which lead 
 us to hope for the success of his plan, which is purposely 
 left indefinite as to detail, one which inspires us with hope 
 from the very facts brought out in the Dialogue. The open- 
 ing scene of the second set scene is to show the opulence of 
 Lady Allworth and the character of the servants. The 
 scene is purely introductory, so far as we can see it has no 
 bearing on the plot. That is to say, we cannot see what 
 can come from their overfed and pampered impudence, but 
 it is introductory and preparatory and a part of the Action. 
 It may be that there is some Action in the apprehension of 
 the audience as to what will be the reception of Wellborn 
 when he presents himself. But strictly speaking, this 
 would be an afterthought for we have no direct information 
 that Wellborn is to visit Lady Allworth at all. It is true 
 that Tom Allworth has assured Wellborn that he would 
 meet from her a liberal entertainment, but Wellborn has 
 not given us any intimation of his plan, which as it turns 
 out involves this very visit. These characters, whatever 
 may be their personal designs and plans, are utterly uncon- 
 scious of any Plot, as, indeed, no characters can by any 
 possibility concern themselves in the technical Plot of a 
 play. It is also always the case with preparatory and intro- 
 ductory scenes with apparently unimportant characters, 
 that these characters and the scene itself are made con- 
 spicuously interesting. The important point here was to 
 lay the foundation for future Action. The use of it all we 
 see later on, and for the moment we are entertained by the 
 servants, and are put in possession of certain fundamental 
 facts. Occasion is provided for these facts, the immediate 
 
360 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIvE 
 
 object is not the facts, a mistake which can easily be made, 
 but to enforce the general idea, the largest idea, which is 
 the state in which Lady Allworth lives. Everything else 
 is subordinate to that. We even get information about Jus- 
 tice Greedy in this little scene, but what significance does 
 the reference to him have, except as it shows the discontent 
 of the servants at the idleness under wages, while their mis- 
 tress has retired from the world and no longer entertains? 
 A great deal is brought out in this scene, but it is all subor- 
 dinate to the object as given. The next scene is the cordial 
 reception of young Allworth. It is short and all that is said 
 is entirely natural, and merely by way of gradation. Order 
 remarks he is his father's picture in little. Allworth thanks 
 him. Scene third is simply a characteristic introductory 
 scene of Lady Allworth and her maids. The fourth scene 
 is one of some length and of serious purpose. It is concern- 
 ed with the Plot. Up to this point we have had no reflex 
 Action, but now that Lady Allworth warns her stepson 
 against association with Wellborn, we immediately connect 
 the Actio;i with the fortunes of the outcast in whom we 
 have begun to take an interest, and of whose resolution to 
 redeem himself we have had a glimpse. We first saw him 
 friendless, then saw him with a friend, and now we see him 
 deprived of this friend. The Dialogue is of some length, 
 but it strictly carries out the object of the scene. We 
 get the reasons why she warns Allworth to beware of ill 
 company. She admits that Wellborn had been a friend of 
 her husband whose memory she reveres, that if he had lived 
 to have known him as he is, he too would have cast him off 
 "as you must do." It should be a part of our pleasure to 
 realize that we are now dealing with the work of a master. 
 Among the many objects of this scene, with its many minor 
 objects we have Lady Allworth's reverence for the memory 
 of her husband and her own nobility of character. But as 
 strongly as they are presented, is it not plain to you that 
 they are subordinate to the object of the scene, which is to 
 
DIAIXXiUE, MONOLOGUES AND ASIDSS 361- 
 
 warn Allworth against association with Wellborn? The 
 scene which introduces Sir Giles and Greedy is one of con- 
 venience only, and, as in the case of scenes already 
 pointed out which have no apparent bearing on the Plot, it 
 is made vastly entertaining. Now that the author has in- 
 troduced Sir Giles, we see his technical purpose in having 
 him meet Wellborn whom he spurns. By following out the 
 division into scenes, which we have already prepared, we 
 see that the Dialogue simply executes the object of each 
 scene. The two most important scenes in the Act are those 
 in which we are first prepared to expect that Lady Allworth 
 would refuse assistance or countenance of any kind to 
 Wellborn, when she warns Allworth against him, and a 
 subsequent scene in which Wellborn prevails over her, and 
 gains her confidence and promise of assistance. Surely in 
 each of these important scenes there is ample opportunity 
 for Dialogue which need not have been worked out in de- 
 tail until the structure of the play has been completed. 
 Surely, when we reach the eleventh scene, in which Well- 
 born prevails over Lady Allworth, there is enough to en- 
 gage Dialogue. Surely Wellborn cannot prevail over her 
 in a few words. Surely he will have to exercise diplomacy, 
 surely he must urge facts and arguments of sufficient 
 weight to move a woman of such force of character. To 
 carry out the objects of such important scenes requires De- 
 tail and Dialogue. Surely the dramatist had enough to do 
 to conduct his Dialogue without attempting to construct 
 the play in all its parts at the same time. No, he is Dia- 
 loguing his Scenario. He is giving us the details of the pre- 
 ordained scenes. Inasmuch as the scenes have determined, 
 in a general way, what is to be said by the characters in 
 the scenes, it would be wholly unprofitable to us to ima- 
 gine what they should not say, except by way of exercise. 
 If limitations had not been put to what they should say, we 
 would have to struggle constantly against circumstances 
 and ideas not already determined, but our particular care 
 
362 ANALYSIS 01? DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.^ 
 
 with reference to Sequence now in writing the Dialogue is 
 as to Sequence within the scene. We ask you to establish 
 your understanding of the method of Dialoguing that 
 which has already been predetermined; to have you accept 
 as an absolute truth that the Dialogue must be confined to 
 the object of the scene. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ENTRANCES AND EXITS. 
 
 The beginner often says with naive confidence : *T can do 
 everything else, but I do not know how to get the Charac- 
 ters on and off." If your Plot and Scenes are properly 
 ordered, if you really have "done everything else," you will 
 not be in such straits in the matter. Note the Entrances 
 and Exits of the Characters in "Ingomar," particularly with 
 reference to their technical management. See if you can 
 observe any peculiarities about them ; note the care the au- 
 thor takes to give the characters, in many cases, something 
 pertinent to do. Do you not yourself, in leaving a room, 
 feel a certain necessity of timing your last word of depar- 
 ture ? See how the author provides for the matter in detail, 
 generally making the Entrance or Exit characteristic, util- 
 izing it for a point of some kind. Parthenia's Entrance 
 after it is made known that Myron, her father, has been 
 made captive, is provided for by the announcement first to 
 the mother, who is carried into the house in a swoon. Does 
 not Parthenia's rushing out, exclaiming, "Where is the man 
 who brings this fearful news?" explain itself? Does not 
 getting the mother off give Parthenia a particularly good 
 Entrance? She bursts on in the highest state of emotion. 
 Do you not see the technical reason for the management of 
 this and other Entrances? Do you not suppose that it was 
 all reasoned out by the author? Or did he put it all down 
 as he first fancied it? Letting the people do as they please? 
 You will observe that Polydor's house is opposite Myron's, 
 affording easy occasion for some of the Entrances and 
 Exits. If you understand the plastic nature of dramatic 
 art, that is, changing and perfecting in order to meet points 
 as they arise, you will have no great trouble about En- 
 trances beyond what common sense, with the resources of 
 your art, will meet if, J^ou hayejgroger^ljf arranged the Plot and 
 
364 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 the structure generally in the Action. In regard to the stage 
 itself, with its stage directions of R.'; L. ; R. U. E.; D. F. 
 (door in Flat) ; R. I. E. ; &c. ; &c. ; &c. ; it may be said that 
 there is nothing more delusive to the beginner than the im- 
 portance he attaches to such "knowledge." For the pres- 
 ent, do not concern yourself about it particularly. Many 
 acting editions of plays have Scene-Plots and Diagrams. 
 You can get all the misleading and almost superfluous jar- 
 gon from them. First get acquainted with the human, dra- 
 matic point of view; the other, the stage point of view, 
 will come to you soon enough. Of course, you should 
 know the terms and the limitations of the stage, but these 
 particular details belong more properly to stage manage- 
 ment than to authorship. It is enough^that you ma ke sure 
 that what you have the chaTacteirTs do is possible for them 
 to do on the stage. The stage is no longer bare and ma- 
 nipulated by means of obvious wings, borders, flies, drops, 
 and shifted Scenes in numbered grooves a few feet apart ac- 
 cording to the depth of the stage, with correspondingly 
 numbered Entrances between. Of course, a point of En- 
 trance may be indicated, but the stage manager, as is his 
 right as a rule, will change it all as he sees fit. He may 
 have an entirely different room in arrangement from yours. 
 The Action of the play, what your people do and say after 
 they get on the stage is what should concern you in the 
 early stages of acquiring the art. Naturally, you must have 
 a clear and consistent movement in your mind and positions 
 for your people while writing the play, but let that take care 
 of itself until you are unfortunately compelled by close as- 
 sociation with the stage to know all about "raking pieces," 
 "backing," "profile trees," (whereas your mind should scorn 
 anything short of a real tree while writing), "boxed inte- 
 riors," &c., &c. Describe your Scenery, if you choose, and 
 the Entrances, R. and L., &c., up stage, down stage, &c., if 
 you will, but do not try to deceive yourself or any one else 
 by a display of stage knowledge, the pedantry of ignorance, 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 365 
 
 the real knowledge itself of the stage being a poor thing 
 at best compared with playwriting itself. 
 
 The Entrances and Exits in "The Lady of Lyons" were /" 
 provided or revised by Macready, one of the greatest stage- 
 managers ever known, and are consequently worth close 
 observation. Attention has already been called to the En- 
 trance of Beauseant at the cottage and the various En- 
 trances and Exits of the Widow, and the use made gen- 
 erally of the stairway. Observe that a few lines are usually 
 given to one of the characters after the announcement of 
 some one to enter and before that Entrance. Damas enters 
 to his cousins without announcement. Beauseant makes 
 his first Exit with, "Ladies, I have the honor of wishing you 
 a very good morning." You may be sure that he was near 
 the door, or possibly the actor may wish the business of 
 uttering his aside, gradually nearing the door. Or he 
 may wish to sail out from a distance ; a woman likes that. 
 Note Pauline's Exit after coming back for the flowers. Da- 
 mas exits with an epigram. Beauseant enters the inn after 
 we have heard him giving directions behind the scenes as to 
 baiting the horses. The Landlord enters naturally from the 
 Inn. Beauseant Exits with something definite, "You think 
 only of the sport, — I of the revenge." Caspar exits with a 
 passionate expression relating to his experience. /'The epi- 
 grammatic for an Exit is very noticeable naturally in a 
 work revised by a stagemanager. The Entrances and Exits 
 are usually Self-explanatory, as when Damas enters with 
 two swords. The Exits and "curtains" for the principals 
 are forceful. Note the first Entrance of Melnotte. Pauline also 
 is generally provided with a good Entrance. She is discov- 
 ered in the last act, but the Business is good. In what 
 scenes the Characters are to Exit and Enter is determined 
 gradually as the structure of the play is framed. Finally, 
 the Scenario makes all this definite. These characters do 1 
 not come and go as they will, but as the structure and tech- 
 nique demand. 
 
 Before we begin "writing" a play we have determined 
 
366 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 Upon the Entrances and Exits, which depend upon the ar- 
 rangement of the Scenes as shaped in the Scenario. Char- 
 acters cannot come and go as they please or as often as they 
 may choose. Their functions have been determined by and 
 are controlled by the prearranged Plot, the order of the 
 scenes and the object of the scenes. To have Varville dis- 
 covered is not the only w^ay in which he could have been in- 
 troduced, but it was the best way. It was necessary to 
 show first that Varville was a persistent suitor and that Ca- 
 mille did not care for him, and that her heart was free. It 
 was necessary to introduce Nichette at this point in order 
 to clear the ground and lay the foundation for a material 
 part of the Action. It was proper to give her some Cause 
 for coming, the little bundle, and a cause for her going, that 
 Gustave was waiting for her. There is obviously no Plot 
 in this so far as Nichette is concerned. Why she is intro- 
 duced is more important than the manner of her Entrance 
 and Exit, which could have been accomplished in other 
 ways, but hardly in a better way. In the Dialogue shortly 
 before Camille enters we learn that she is at the Opera, and 
 she enters with her cloak, which she throws aside; she 
 comes on hurriedly and orders supper, which takes Nanine 
 off. She orders supper because she expects friends whom 
 she has met. Nanine ushers in the expected Olimpe and 
 Gaston. Armand and Prudence enter because called for, 
 and admitted by Nanine. Varville's exit is effected capital- 
 ly, for Camille does not invite him to remain. The guests 
 are off and Camille is left alone with Armand because Ca- 
 mille asks to be left alone and Olimpe urges that she is bet- 
 ter alone when she has these attacks. Now, all this did not 
 happen by accident. Natural as it all is, it is art that makes 
 it so. The scene between Camille and Armand was abso- 
 lutely essential ; it had to be, and Dumas contrived the way 
 of getting the guests off by the use of means existent in the 
 material and the circumstances. That Armand remained 
 with her is Self-explanatory. It is not her trick to be alone 
 with Armand, for she ~says, ''Monsieur Duval, and you. Gas- 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 367 
 
 ton, step into the other room, and before you have your ci- 
 gars lit I will be with you." Armand exits when the Dia- 
 logue has reached the point desired by the dramatist and 
 when Camille gives him the flower and says, "now go." The 
 re-entrance of the frivolous guests is accomplished by a , 
 dance. There is nothing tame in the resources of true art. / 
 In the second act Nanine and Prudence are discovered. 
 Prudence, no doubt, with her bonnet on, at once indicating 
 a visit of some sort; Camille enters, and we at once learn 
 the nature of the business; Nanine goes off to answer the 
 bell ; Armand, whom we are half expecting at that moment, 
 enters, and Prudence goes off, partly because she has 
 her money and partly because she knows that she is in the 
 way, her exit being accomplished by her speech, which is 
 based partly on the fact that Armand did not notice her at 
 first. The object of the Dialogue between Armand and Ca- 
 mille effected, Armand leaves, promising to breakfast with 
 her. Camille's short monologue gives time for the entrance 
 of Varville, in itself natural, and has a particular cause 
 back of it in the note which Camille has received from 
 him. Nanine's entrances and exits are matters of course. 
 Camille goes with Varville for supper. Nanine's little 
 monologue, as she reads Armand's note to Camille, is need- 
 ed for time and for the entrance of Prudence. Her en- 
 trance is directly connected with the letter and Armand's 
 presence at her house wishing to see Camille. Camille's re- 
 entrance is provided for by the need of a heavier wrap, not 
 to speak of the more significant agitation of her mind. Na- 
 nine is sent off to dismiss Varville. Prudence goes to sum- 
 mon Armand. Observe that what she says as she goes out 
 is characteristic, and has reference to the matter in hand. 
 Armand's entrance is expected and natural. At the begin- 
 ning of the third act. Prudence enters, asking for Camille. 
 Nanine exits after answering her questions, saying that 
 Nichette and Gustave are in the garden and that Camille is 
 with them. Camille enters, asks a question relative to the 
 papers (for the sale of her articles) . The information was a 
 
368 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 material something for the advancement of the Action ; and 
 Prudence goes off with her characteristic appetite "to din- 
 ner, for I am dying of hunger." Any stage direction on the 
 manner of her Exit is needless. Gustave and Nichette en- 
 ter naturally ; we have been told that they are spending the 
 day with Camille. They are got off by the announcement 
 of the man "in charge of the sale" : "So walk in the garden, 
 you and Gustave. He will soon be gone, and I will join 
 you." Armand's father, Duval enters, to our surprise, but 
 naturally. He prevails vdth her, and Exits with "Heaven 
 bless you for the sacrifice." After she completes her letter 
 for Armand he enters. We know from Nanine in the first 
 scene that he has been in Paris, and we now know that he 
 has just returned. The Dialogue concerns the letter which 
 she does not let him see, and she departs bidding him her 
 veiled farewell. She leaves him to wait until his father 
 comes. Natural Entrances and Exits rapidly bring the act 
 to a close. In the opening of the fourth act, after the dance, 
 Armand enters. It is a neat touch that he was supposed to 
 be at Tours, and consequently not expected, for, later on, 
 his presence is a surprise to Camille. The fact that he is 
 there unexpectedly leads to the Dialogue between him and 
 Prudence. She tells him that Camille will be there, and we 
 get at his state of mind. Gustave is present, and a scene 
 follows between the two men. Camille and Varville enter 
 just from the Opera. This confirms what Prudence has 
 said as to her revelry at the expense of her health. In addi- 
 tion, she enters at the proper moment in the development of 
 the Action. They all remain on the stage in a composite 
 scene until Armand wins the game, when Camille is left 
 with Varville. She gets him off with the plea that she 
 would speak to Prudence. Prudence is sent off to bring 
 Armand. Armand comes by reason of the message. When 
 "she confesses, in order to be true to her sacrifice, that she 
 loves Varville, Armand throws open the supper-room door, 
 and bids all enter, the succeeding Action ending with a 
 tableau. The Entrances and Exits in the concludmg act are 
 
ENTRANCE'S AND EXITS 369 
 
 natural and simple, requiring no comment except as to the 
 lines at Entrance and Exit. Nanine enters naturally as Ca- 
 mille's maid. Gaston goes out to get his coat which he has 
 left in the entry, bidding Nanine to get Camille up. He re- 
 turns with a cheering word, and finally, after his talk with 
 Camille, who begs him to remember all that she has said, 
 goes out with: "It shall lie upon my heart like a prayer." 
 Nanine does not like to go out when Prudence enters, but 
 does so at Camille's assurance. Prudence comes with the 
 purpose of borrowing money and goes out when she gets 
 it, gently bidden to go by Camille, and with the remark that 
 she has some purchase to make, and that she is so sleepy 
 that she can hardly keep her eyes open. Camille says to 
 herself, "and that was one of my friends," Armand's en- 
 trance is remotely prepared for by the letter which Camille 
 reads from his father, and directly prepared for by 
 Nanine's breathless and half expressed announcement. Ni- 
 chette, Gustave and Gaston enter naturally; and it is to be 
 remembered that Nanine had carried a letter to Nichette to 
 be given to Nichette after the ceremony of her marriage. 
 
 The tendency toward economy, which we found so mark- 
 ed as to Words, extends to all parts of the drama, and with 
 particular force to Exits and Entrances. We have seen that 
 an_jmportant Exit or Entrance usually begins or ends a 
 S£ene. If we permitted Characters to come and go with too 
 much frequency a point would be reached where the Ac- 
 tion would become unintelligible. As an experienced dra-. 
 matist, Taylor probably gave no consideration to any other 
 opening to "Still Water Runs Deep" than the present first 
 scene. In the first place, the play is a domestic one, and 
 the first scene, having the four members of the family in 
 the drawing room, afforded him the opportunity of charac- 
 terizing them and their relations and setting forth the con- 
 ditions from which the Action was to proceed. An inexpert 
 "dramatist" might have used a number of scenes with their 
 Exits and Entrances for the same purpose. These Exits and 
 Entrances are not left to chance. There is a process of rea- 
 24 
 
370 ANAI.YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPI^E 
 
 soning about them as imperative as is the process of form- 
 ing the Plot or attending to any part of the structure or 
 any of the details of the play. I have called attention to the 
 fact somewhere, that this first scene, ending with the Exit 
 of Mildmay, has three incidents in it which might afford a 
 division into three scenes. If, indeed, the purposes of the 
 author had been different from what they are, it would be 
 necessary to make three scenes of the first scene, although 
 both Mildmay and Potter remain on the stage and do not 
 Exit. Mildmay was made to simulate sleep by the 
 author in order that he should overhear what Mrs. Sternhold 
 says to Emily about him. Potter was kept on the stage, 
 really dozing, in order to make the third scene, that be- 
 tween Mrs. Sternhold and Potter, more convenient. Thus 
 Exits and Entrances are provided against. The inexperienc- 
 ed writer could not conceive of the annoyance and damage 
 caused by the too frequent coming and going of Characters. 
 Mildmay having been kept on the stage for a purpose must 
 have an Exit provided for him. It v^^uld have been easy 
 enough to have had Mildmay drowsily rub his eye and 
 make his Exit with some remark. The tendency of 
 the author who understands his business is to utilize every 
 part of his Material. In this case he had Mildmay awaken- 
 ed by Emily in bringing down her knotted handkerchief on 
 his face to drive away the wasp. This is purely Episodical, 
 still, it keeps pace with the Action. It shows the impa- 
 tience of the wife who has lost that reverent feeling that 
 every wife should have for a true husband. But what is 
 shown of her momentary disposition is purely incidental. 
 The bit of Business was devised almost purely and simply 
 in order to afford Mildmay his Exit. It works well, too, for 
 it brings out the relations between the two, and it makes 
 more natural his statement that he is going to Manchester 
 that night. Observe how every word counts. Emily ex- 
 claims that he has never said a word about it until now; 
 still keeping their relations in play. When Mildmay says 
 that he will see her again before he starts, we have a prepa- 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 37^"" 
 
 ration for his Entrance later on without explanation. You 
 will note also that he goes into the conservatory. He is in 
 no apparent haste for his journey. Some students, in ana- 
 lyzing this scene, imagine that they see the purpose for 
 which he is going to Manchester. Not a bit of it. The only 
 impression that an audience could have would be that he 
 may have business of some indefinite kind at Manchester, 
 and was glad to get away because of being bored at home. 
 Something that drives many a man from home, the most 
 natural thing in the world. If any great importance had 
 been attached at this point to his going to Manchester, the 
 incident would be out of proportion. You will observe 
 that the author knew his business purposes better than 
 the audience, or rather where the audience did not, for one 
 of his purposes in sending Mildmay into the conservatory 
 was to have him seen there by Emily "with his coat off, 
 just like a common market gardener. Oh, what a contrast 
 to Hawksley!" Potter having been retained on the scene, 
 but taking no part in what happens and what practically 
 constitutes other scenes, is awakened by his sister. An en- 
 trance is saved. The object of the scene being accomplish- 
 ed. Potter goes out with a characteristic remark showing 
 how he bows to "such a superior woman." The first En- 
 trance seen by the audience is that of Hawksley who fol- 
 lows Emily in. We have had some concealed Preparation 
 for what we now see. The specific Preparation for Hawks- 
 ley's conduct consists in Emily's sentimental comparison of 
 Hawksley with her husband and what is talked about be- 
 tween Mrs. Sternhold and Potter. The very moment he en- 
 ters we know who he is. Jessop's entering with the carpet 
 bag does not make a new scene of it, for it is a part of this 
 scene to have the audience know that Mildmay is in the 
 garden, and, more than that, to bring the fact to Hawksley's 
 attention that Mildmay is going away that night, which ob- 
 viates the necessity of having Emily inform Hawksley of it 
 in "Story" fashion. It also provides the Exit for Emily and 
 Hawksley as may be seen in Hawksley's lines "at least let 
 
372 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 US walk around by the garden, I w^ish to congratulate Mild- 
 may on his celery — and then it is so much longer." Now, it 
 might seem to the writer who does not believe that play- 
 writing is an art, that these Exits and this particular Exit 
 came into the author's mind as naturally as they read. On 
 the contrary, although Taylor may have provided for this 
 scene and its Sequence in his Scenario, he may not have de- 
 termined upon the method of getting Emily and Hawksley 
 off. He could have sent them off by some other door. It 
 is easy enough merely to get characters off, but a mere 
 Exit or a mere Entrance is nothing. If it is not done w.ith 
 art, the Entrances and Exits are simply a series of jolts_^| If 
 he had sent them out by some other door the effect would 
 not have been the same. The reappearance and Exit of 
 Mrs. Sternhold is sufficiently clear. Mildmay's Entrance, 
 followed by Joseph with carpet bag, through center door of 
 conservatory is natural. When it comes to weighing all the 
 little equations of the play, one is inclined to think that 
 there is more artifice than art in having Mildmay come in 
 prepared for his journey and to decide, because he has 
 half an hour to spare, that he will paint the trellis. He 
 sends Jessop for the ladder and begins to paint. Of course, 
 Taylor's object was to have Mildmay overhear the conver- 
 sation between Potter and Hawksley, and incidentally to 
 prepare for the scene which follows when Mrs. Sternhold 
 and Emily join them. While the artifice in having him 
 paint the trellis seems a little crude, Taylor does make one 
 very strong point in making it the occasion for Hawksley's 
 "playing postman." The entrance of Mrs. Sternhold and 
 Emily is natural, for they have the freedom of the house. 
 Hawksley takes himself off in his affable way. We see 
 through his politeness and know that he will return. Mrs. 
 Sternhold is got off the stage because technical require- 
 ments demand her absence. We know that she will return 
 to watch Hawksley. The frequency of the Entrances and 
 Exits in this first act almost reaches a danger point; still, 
 they are largely technical and unimportant except in that 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 373 
 
 way. It is necessary for Jessop to enter in order to an- 
 nounce that the cab is at the door, so that we can have a 
 little scene between Mildmay and his wife, she showing her 
 uneasiness at his departure. Potter has been kept on the 
 stage and occupied sufficiently to have him ready for the 
 scene with Mildmay in which Hawksley's shares are dis- 
 cussed. Potter goes out with a characteristic remark aside. 
 Mildmay makes his Exit in order to see Gimlet, for he has 
 read the letter delivered by Hawksley. In this case, he 
 goes out with a purpose. It is not necessary to have Char- 
 acters always go out with a purpose. Of course, there is a 
 purpose somewhere always, but it is just as often the pur- 
 pose of the author, that is to say, of Technique as it is of 
 Character. The purpose of the author always exists. 
 Emily's purpose in returning is to comfort Hawksley, 
 and, in her feeble way, if he comes, to dissuade him from his 
 pursuit. She is forced to leave by her Aunt, and then 
 Mrs. Sternhold thinks she hears some one ' "stirring over- 
 head,'" and Exits with "let me see if all is quiet up stairs — 
 then for you." This is plainly artificial; perhaps the Exit 
 might have had a better occasion, but it is sufficient now to 
 call attention to the technical feature of its handling. There 
 seems to be an unnecessary kind of Detail in the scene con- 
 sisting of Mildmay's monologue when he re-enters, still, 
 Taylor has purpose in every line. There are some points in 
 the management of the Action here that belong to other 
 parts of our study ; we are now considering merely how and 
 why the Entrances and Exits are provided. We have been 
 thoroughly prepared for the scene between Mrs. Sternhold 
 and Hawksley. Mrs. Sternhold's absence from the stage 
 was necessary, for one thing, to have her assure us when 
 she returned that "all is quiet, my brother and the servants 
 asleep." The manner of Hawksley's Exit, with his usual 
 composure and affability, need not have been planned in ad- 
 vance. It is entirely in character. An Exit is provided for 
 Mrs. Sternhold in the next scene, and one for Emily in the 
 following one. Mildmay has overheard the scene between 
 
'374 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPIv^ 
 
 Hawksley and Mrs. Sternhold, his Entrance and remarks 
 explaining themselves. Mrs. Mildmay is afforded a re- 
 entrance, not from what has gone before and what would 
 give her a purpose at once recognizable by the audience, but 
 in the line which she speaks. She is going to her own room 
 in order to get some ether to compose the agitated Mrs. 
 Sternhold. The act closes according to the requirements of 
 this scene, Mildmay going up stage and Emily sinking into 
 a chair and clasping her hands. Mildmay is going off, and 
 the curtain comes down on a tableau. 
 
 Just as we have seen that Dialogue is a matter of detail 
 in execution, depending upon the object of the scene which 
 has already been brought into Sequence, so you will find 
 that an Exit or Entrance is also a detail of the scene and 
 governed by its opportunities. The Exits and Entrances 
 having been foreordained we have only to examine into the 
 details of the Exits and Entrances in "A New Way to 
 Pay Old Debts" in order to note the active use of 
 Technique in them. To have a character discovered is 
 practically the same thing as an entrance. Naturally, a 
 character that is discovered is usually occupied with some 
 business. We discover Wellborn with a large rough stick, 
 in tattered apparel knocking at the alehouse door, Tapwell 
 and Froth enter from the house. He asks them for liquor 
 and is refused credit. Thereafter the scene is conducted ac- 
 cording to the dialogue already described until Wellborn 
 beats Tapwell and Allworth enters. The entrance of All- 
 worth requires no explanation because it is a public place. 
 Why he enters at this point has already been determined by 
 the dramatist in his structure of the play. The occasion for 
 the going off of Tapwell and Froth is natural, for their part 
 in the scene is over. Wellborn and Allworth exeunt when the 
 purpose of their scene has been accomplished, Allworth^ 
 L., Wellborn, R. There is no difficulty and no particular 
 ingenuity required in getting people on and off so far. All- 
 worth and Wellborn go off in different directions. In the 
 second set scene, the servants are discovered in line across 
 
^NTRANCJ^S AND EXITS 375 
 
 the stage taking their orders from Order. The scene is 
 broken up by the knocking at the door and the entrance of 
 Allworth. Lady Allworth enters with her maids. The 
 maids go out on her direction to them to sort the silks well. 
 They have simply served the purpose of showing the ample 
 service at her disposal. The other servants go out at Lady 
 Allworth's command. Lady Allworth and her stepson go 
 out naturally together, although the subject of their conver- 
 sation has been practically brought to an end. The ser- 
 vants enter again with Sir Giles Overreach, Marrall and 
 Greedy. Wellborn enters. His coming has been tacitly 
 prepared for. It may be observed that the presence of the 
 servants on the stage may explain why this tattered man 
 has found unobstructed entrance, but, in any event, his 
 coming requires no explanation and is perfectly natural. All 
 the Exits and Entrances here are of a kind that explain 
 themselves. Tom Allworth enters, having the freedom of 
 the house, and his only salutation is to announce to his 
 friend that they must be strangers, whereupon he goes out. 
 We have another entrance, almost as brief, of Abigail and 
 Tabitha to show the unpropitious circumstances and pro- 
 mise of his visit. An altercation between Wellborn and the 
 servants, whereupon they all cry out for help, brings on 
 Lady Allworth. Having given her consent to further Well- 
 born's plans, Lady Allworth goes out. The servants see- 
 ing the favor into which Wellborn is received, make their 
 apologies and are forgiven. Wellborn makes his Exit at 
 the close of the scene, with the declaration of his hope and 
 belief that he has found a new way to pay old debts. No 
 difficulty has been found so far in the management of the 
 Exits and Entrances, for the structure provides for that. 
 We have not encountered any details in which forced inge- 
 nuity had to be exercised in regard to the manner of Exits 
 and Entrances, something that lies so close to the heart of 
 the stagemanager. An open field or a public place is very 
 often used for the management of Exits and Entrances, for 
 no explanation of the presence of the people is required. 
 
376 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 This is the case in the first scene of the second act where 
 enter Marrall and Sir Giles. No Exit is required to this 
 scene, because it is followed by the scene caused by the En- 
 trance of Wellborn, whose coming also requires no explana- 
 tion. It is a foreordained thing according to the construc- 
 tion of the play. We note, however, that a cause is given 
 for the Exit of Sir Giles. We see from the text, from Sir Giles's 
 aside to Marrall, that he wishes to leave Wellborn with him 
 in order that Marrall can "work him." The bearing of this we 
 know from the previous scene between Sir Giles and Mar- 
 rall. The scene closes with Marrall and Wellborn going off 
 together, Marrall believing that Wellborn's brain is cracked, 
 from the story which Wellborn tells him of Lady All- 
 worth's favor. Wellborn's Entrance with Marrall in the 
 hall of Lady Allworth's house is self-explanatory. The 
 servants disperse at the command of Order, when a knock- 
 ing is heard. We learn that they know their cue, and Order 
 and Amble remain in order to give Wellborn his courteous 
 reception. AUworth who is on the stage at the opening of 
 this new scene goes out, for he has made his apology to 
 Wellborn. Nothing further is required of him, and the 
 whole significance of his presence was satisfied with his 
 apology. The Exits and Entrances proceed naturally, each 
 scene accomplishing its object. Lady All worth enters to 
 carry out her deception and take Marrall with them to the 
 dinner which is waiting. The servants discuss the strange 
 turn of affairs, and Furnace goes out after Amble has re- 
 ported to them the incidents of the dinner and that they 
 have risen. They leave the stage free to Lady Allworth, 
 Wellborn and Marrall. Wellborn and Marrall go out at- 
 tended by Watchall, who evidently is to see them off with 
 a show of service. Lady Allworth takes the servants off to 
 give them further directions. In all these Exits and En- 
 trances there is a naturalness and a reason. Massinger 
 used many scenes in public places, the third set scene being 
 in the open country. Wellborn and Marrall are returning 
 from the dinner. The object of the scene is to impress on 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS Z17~ 
 
 Marrall Wellborn's prospects with Lady Allworth; and 
 Wellborn exits with a veiled promise to favor a certain peti- 
 tion of Marrairs. When Marrall is left alone Sir Giles is 
 heard without ordering some attendant to take his horse. 
 This is the first time so far, except for the knocking at the 
 door, that we have had any example of immediate technical 
 preparation. Here we have the noise "heard without," giv- 
 ing specific directions, and the reason why he will walk : "to 
 give me an appetite ; 'tis but a mile ; and exercise will keep 
 me from being pursy." It will be observed that in the other 
 entrance of Sir Giles explanation was not necessary; here 
 Massinger deemed it proper to account for his presence in 
 "the open country." Observe that he did not appear at this 
 moment purposely in order to discuss with Marrall what 
 Marrall had been able to do in further humiliating and 
 ruining Wellborn. The marvelous story that Marrall tells 
 him is regarded by Sir Giles as the fiction of a lying or dis- 
 ordered brain, and he beats the servant, upon which they go 
 out. With the first set scene of the third act we again have 
 a scene in the open country, or, as it is described, the out- 
 skirts of Lady Allworth's Park. Here again there is some 
 explanation needed as seemed meet to Massinger, for Lord 
 Lovell has come from a distance ; he is travelling. His pres- 
 ence would not be self-explanatory as in the other cases 
 which we have seen. As he enters, Lord Lovell speaks off, 
 "drive the coach around the hill, something in private I 
 must impart to Allworth ;" there we have at once the gen- 
 eral object of the scene. We have the natural and the tech- 
 nical explanation of the Entrance. They go off naturally 
 without the need of any device in the Dialogue, when the 
 object of the scene is accomplished. The second set scene 
 is in the hall of Sir Giles's house. We already know that 
 Sir Giles's plan is to entertain Lord Lovell and secure him 
 as a husband for his daughter. The purpose of the gather- 
 ing in the hall is immediately seen. Sir Giles's first words 
 indicate that a feast is preparing. Marrall's exit is caused 
 by Sir Giles's order to him to call in his daughter. Greedy 
 
378 ANAIvYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 is got off the stage by having the command of the kitchen 
 bestowed on him. Margaret enters, brought in by Marrall 
 and accompanied by two female attendants. The female 
 attendants are sent out by Sir Giles because he wishes to 
 speak with her alone. It will be seen that there is a cause 
 for all these Exits and Entrances. There was a cause in the 
 dramatist's mind for the two attendant women to appear for 
 the single moment. It will be seen that one of Sir Giles's 
 first enquiries to her is "How like you your new woman, 
 Lady Downfallen?" We then have several immediate di- 
 versions by Greedy, his Exits and Entrances being pro- 
 vided for purely by the comic opportunities. Of course, the 
 comedy furnished by Greedy has no direct bearing on the 
 Plot, his coming and going is not advancing the main Ac- 
 tion in the slightest way, and his relations with the very se- 
 rious scenes between Sir Giles and Margaret are purely by 
 way of diversion, and not by any influence on the Action 
 itself. V It is well to observe at once that Exits and En- 
 ^ ytrances are not necessarily made to concern the Plot. Char- 
 A^ acters necessarily are utterly unconscious of any Plot, cer- 
 tainly of the author's Plot. These Entrances and Exits of 
 Greedy are incidents or comic scenes which are purely Epi- 
 sodic. It is not altogether the place to discuss the functions 
 of Greedy in this play, but it is well to observe at this point 
 that we are always conscious that this comedy glutton 
 serves a purpose in the extortionate and heartless plans of 
 Sir Giles in crushing his hapless victims. It may be ob- 
 served of the Exits and Entrances of Greedy, that the 
 scenes being purely comedy scenes, the Exits and En- 
 trances are made on comedy lines. He always enters with 
 a complaint, and goes out with some reflection bearing on 
 what is uppermost in his mind at the time, namely, the din- 
 ner which is in his charge. Marrall enters hastily, to an- 
 nounce the arrival of Lord Lovell. Margaret goes out, be- 
 ing bid by her father to await his call. Marrall is sent out 
 by Sir Giles to give a princely welcome to Lord Lovell. The 
 Exits and Entrances led to thereafter are caused naturally; 
 
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 379 
 
 Sir Giles bids Greedy, Marrall and Allworth leave the 
 room so that he and Margaret may be alone with Lord 
 Lovell. With a whispered word of caution to Margaret, 
 Sir Giles leaves her with Lord Lovell. Sir Giles re-enters 
 and from their whisperings imagines that she has carried 
 out his instructions. Greedy enters at this moment in great 
 excitement and is thrust off by Sir Giles. There are twenty- 
 five or more Exits and Entrances in this second set scene. 
 Except where the Action is very lively and the scenes are 
 very distinct, and the current of the Action very strong, 
 this number reaches a danger point. But, as we have seen, 
 many of the Exits and Entrances constitute little Episodic 
 scenes. This is the case with Greedy's numerous Exits and 
 Entrances. It must be remembered that his little Episodes 
 pay for themselves in the diversion that they afford, and 
 that they are really about the same thing, his appetite, the 
 development of his character. If these Exits and Entrances 
 concerned the development of the Plot, there certainly 
 would be too many in number. But the mind of the audi- 
 ence is not burdened by new complications, and, after all, 
 the Plot of this second set scene is simple enough. We call 
 attention to the unusual number of Exits and Entrances 
 here because, in a general way, it is very important not to 
 have too many of them, and we wish to explain why it is 
 that Massinger, a master of his craft, has not erred or 
 brought things into confusion by a multiplicity of Exits 
 and Entrances. Exits and Entrances usually determine the 
 boundaries of a scene, but here we have seen what may be 
 termed separate scenes having no disturbing effect. \^ The 
 Entrance of Lady Allworth has some immediate Prepara- 
 tion in the announcement of her arrival and the commotion 
 among the servants without. That she should come is per- 
 fectly natural and needs no explanation. It was necessary 
 by way of Preparation to have the audience know that she 
 was coming. Wellborn is now on his old footing with Sir 
 Giles, and they go out to dinner. Greedy is astonished at 
 Sir Giles's reception of Wellborn, remains behind a moment 
 
380 ANAI.YSIS 0^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 to express his astonishment to himself, and then starts to 
 go to his much anticipated dinner. Marrall re-enters to 
 bear to him the message from Sir Giles that the table is full 
 and he must wait. Marrall goes out after comforting him 
 with the direction to proceed to the servants' hall, where 
 he can have dumpling, woodcock and buttered toast with 
 the maids. Greedy goes out in pursuit of dinner. Sir Giles 
 re-enters, expressing himself as confident that his daughter 
 has captured Lord Lovell. Marrall comes to seek him be- 
 cause the whole board is troubled at his rising and his ab- 
 sence, and goes out at his bidding to invite his nephew to 
 speak with him in private. Everything is so natural so far, 
 in that every Exit and Entrance has a cause or promises 
 further developments, that no artifice is visible whatever, 
 for everything belongs to the very nature of the happen- 
 ings. Lady Allworth is heard speaking without as she re- 
 turns. Marrall is sent out by Sir Giles. The act closes 
 with Wellborn and Sir Giles going out in diflferent direc- 
 tions, the final word being the apt conclusion of the object 
 of the scene. It will be observed that as the act closes in 
 these older plays, the characters are usually seen going off. 
 While there is no reason in many of these cases why they 
 should go off, there is not always a reason why it would be 
 better that they remain; but it seems to be the custom 
 among the older dramatists to so take them off at the end of 
 an act, in all probability, because of the stage management 
 in which drop curtains were not used. At any rate, the 
 close of an act in those older plays seemed to be indicated 
 by the stage being cleared in this way. With scene one of 
 Act four, we have characters discovered. Business being 
 employed to give immediate Action. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 EPISODE. 
 
 In every play there is a great deal that is in the nature of 
 Episode, Episodic ; and there is a tendency in modern play- 
 writing, particularly comedy, to introduce Episode. The 
 scene in "The Lady of Lyons" in which Melnotte' 
 disposes of the ring and the snuffbox is distinct 
 Episode. All Episode should, in some way, belong 
 to the Action, and this Episode is plainly connected with 
 the Plot. The whispering dismay of Beauseant and Glavis 
 serves to arouse the suspicions of Damas. At first we do 
 not see this object in the scene, but are exclusively inter- 
 ested in the humor of the incident. It is a relaxation of the 
 tensity of the Action. For a moment, we are not conscious 
 of a Plot at all. The little scene at the opening of the third 
 act is episodic, but a necessary part of the Action by way of 
 gradation. The act might have opened with Beauseant and 
 Glavis. Their talk of Pauline being at that moment at the 
 inn would have conveyed the Fact, but more is to be look- 
 his mother, in which he describes his love for Pauline, is 
 to complain presently of the rudeness of the servants, and 
 the servants are to be seen peering over the landlord's 
 shoulders and laughing. The first scene then is Prepara- 
 tion for what we are to see confirmed. Melnotte's talk with 
 his mother in which he describes his love for Pauline is 
 something in the nature of Episode. We know that he loves 
 her, that he has sent her flowers, but there is something 
 new in it, in that he has sent verses to Pauline and awaits 
 her answer, believing that he will be answered as was the 
 "poor Troubadour" by the Queen of Navarre. Consequent- 
 ly, there is Action here and not a mere state of mind. It is 
 Episodic that Melnotte has won the prize. It is a rifle, and 
 he did not miss one shot in the contest. Episodic as the 
 rifle is, it is more to the purpose than if he had won a med- 
 
X. 
 
 382 ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 al. Observe the magnetic tendency of Action in such de- 
 tails. After Caspar enters we have a kind of radio-activity 
 that removes the scene very far from Episode. True, Gas- 
 par does not appear again, and this is the only time we do 
 see him, and he may be called an Episodic character, but 
 the scene is one of intense Action and closely connected 
 with the Plot Action. 
 
 "Camille" affords a good study of the Episodic. More 
 than four fifths of the last act is made up of Scenes which 
 are Episode pure and simple. In a play in which the senti- 
 ment is so compact and so individually pertinent, there is 
 no occasion for that trickery in this matter of Episode which 
 is often used to fill out an insubstantial play. The Unity of 
 sentiment is so persuasive that not a particle of matter is 
 either lost or out of place. A true Episode does not destroy 
 or impair the Unity of a play. The first scene which is dis- 
 tinctly an Episode is the supper scene. We have explain- 
 ed why it belongs to the Action, and it is to be noted that 
 the scene in and for itself is diverting and stands out in its 
 own right. When we come to the gambling scene in the 
 fourth act, we find that the game between Armand and 
 Varville is an absolutely interesting diversion. It had to be 
 made an Episode, for its purpose was to furnish Armand 
 with the money by which the close of the act was to be 
 made Objective by means of his showering his gains upon 
 Camille as an expression of his contempt for her sordidness. 
 The Episode illustrates the nature of the Indirect. 
 Armand, in his state of mind, might easily have gone direct- 
 ly to the purpose of his presence at the ball and brought to 
 an issue his quarrel with Varville. That would have been a 
 clumsy dramatic method for the author, for he had two ob- 
 jects in the act, namely, that Armand should humiliate Ca- 
 mille and that he should pick his quarrel with Varville. 
 Just as soon as the Action gathered itself into the supreme 
 moment in which this was accomplished, it ceased to be 
 Episode. Episode, then, is a secondary thing by means 
 
EPISODE 383 
 
 of which an object is entirely reached. If is often required 
 to show a state of emotion out of which direct Action is to 
 proceed. It is something that holds the note ; by means of 
 it we dwell upon sentiment and present conditions. It is' 
 something apart from the main Action, and it serves to \ 
 bring out character and relations. It must contain Action 
 in itself, and have some relation to the main Action, but it ' 
 is so interesting in itself, that the main Action is held in 
 abeyance. /Thus, in the last act, we see Gaston elevated to 
 a pathetic nobility of character, fitting him for companion- 
 ship with Camille in her moments of refined distress which 
 touch every heart. Certainly nothing could be more Epi- 
 sodic than Prudence's borrowing the money. The scene 
 cannot possibly effect the destiny of the regenerated wo- 
 man. No deflection is made in the course of events; but 
 there is a touch of nature in it that is needed to bring out 
 the conditions of the Plot at this point. If we measure the 
 Action by the emotion, there is very strong Action in it, 
 but it is all remote from Plot Action, although it is of a 
 piece with the development and rounding off of the general 
 Action. 
 
 We shall now call attention to the little details of 
 Dialogue, and the relations of the characters which may be 
 described as Episodic in mature. This aspect of the Epi- 
 sodic as we again see, is closely allied with the Indirect, 
 and it is to be found constantly in the dialogue and can be 
 handled best by the dramatist skilled in Technique. In this 
 way, the second scene of the first act, in which Nichette is 
 introduced, is Episodic. Nothing whatever comes of the 
 immediate personal object of her visit. It is closely con- 
 nected with and is a part of the condition of affairs, but it 
 is not absolutely needed for the development of the imme- 
 diate events of the play except by way of convenience. The 
 idea of Episode involves the happenings during the prog- 
 ress of the Action only. If Armand had been killed in the 
 duel the true Action of the play would have come to an end. 
 The fourth act might have been added as an Epilogue; 
 
384 ANALYSIS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 but its interest could not have been sustained to the same 
 extent. In the Episode of Prudence's borrowing the mo- 
 ney, the Action is not yet over, and while we may be amus- 
 ed at the rapacity of this creature, we are saddened by the 
 proof it gives of the hollowness of all the friendships enjoy- 
 ed by Camille except the few that prove true at the close. 
 Thus, the scene or the Episode has a real importance with 
 reference to Camille. It belongs to the Action such as it is. 
 It rounds off the history of Prudence and her relations with 
 the Action. It is true that this Episode could be omitted 
 without impairing in the slightest degree the Plot of the 
 play, but drama, in its emancipated estate of the present 
 day, indulges us graciously by not making such a deterrent 
 rule as is sought to be imposed by some dramatic grammar- 
 ians. It must necessarily be subordinate, for if out of pro- 
 portion it would be a disturbing element. 
 
 Episode has always been in use, but it has grown in im- 
 portance and application as the art has widened, and as it 
 has thrown off the rigid limitations of what is specifically 
 known as the classic drama. In plays of domestic life and 
 of character. Episode necessarily plays a considerable part. 
 "Still Waters Run Deep" is a play of domestic life and of 
 Character, but it is not so marked by the use of Episode as 
 it is of Detail. It should be borne in mind that different 
 plays do not necessarily furnish the same amount of illus- 
 tration of any given principle. The very first scene in this 
 V play is in the nature of the Episodic, for much of its Mate- 
 \ rial, such as the use made of the music and the discussion 
 about it, is confined to the scene and may be described as 
 parenthetical. We will not now dwell upon what is "in the 
 nature of the Episodic," but will point out the few instances 
 of Episode in the play. The little scene between Mrs. Mild- 
 may and Mrs. Sternhold in which the aunt describes the 
 character and stupidity of Mildmay, is Episodic, because it is 
 merely a parenthesis in the scene within which it is a scene. 
 There is no immediate new development from it, and it 
 comes into active use later on when Mildmay reminds Mrs. 
 
episode; 385 
 
 Sternhold of her expression of opinion of him. Emily's 
 knotting her handkerchief and bringing it down smartly on 
 Mildmay's face is Episodic, for its use is not to advance the 
 Action of the play, but to afford an exit. It is an Episodic 
 incident when Mildmay is discovered on the ladder, with 
 the result that there is an incidental conversation.! The 
 final scene in the act itself is something of an Episode. It 
 brings the curtain down on a situation from which we ex- 
 pect no immediate collision between Mildmay and Hawks- 
 ley, although the scene has an apparent bearing at times to- 
 ward such an issue. In the second act, the scene between 
 Dunbilk and Hawksley is Episodic, because it is mainly pre- 
 paratory, and would not necessarily have to be enumerated 
 in the Plot Action. Hawksley's demonstration, by means of 
 algebra, of the scientific nature of his new motive principle 
 is Episodic, because it goes beyond the actual requirements 
 of the Plot Action and is meant for the purpose of impress- 
 ing character. In the reading, the scene seems to impress 
 many students as being too long, but it was written by an 
 author who knew his business and the effects he wished to 
 produce, and it is likely that in the acting there is not a 
 word too much. The Action of the play is so compact that 
 it does not afiford us that study of Episode which can be 
 more profitably pursued in certain other plays. 
 ■" "A New Way To Pay Old Debts" is strong at all 
 points, and in no particular does Massinger manifest his art 
 more beautifully than his management of the Episodes. An 
 Episode must necessarily be diverting, for it is usually a 
 relaxation of the main Action, affording a period of rest or 
 diversion. It gives variety, like the dactyl to the spondee 
 in verse. When the Action is tense there is no time for it. 
 It should be a part of the Action, but not necessarily of the 
 Action of the Plot. Its immediate purpose may be for the 
 development of character or by way of preparation or for 
 bringing out elements which are required by and for the Ac- 
 tion. It takes away strained attention to the mechanism of 
 the play. By means of it there is an indirect progress. The 
 
 25 
 
386 ANAI^YSIS 0]P DRAMATIC PRINCIPI.]^ 
 
 first scene in this play that is a distinct Episode is where, 
 in the second set scene, the servants are discovered in the 
 hall of Lady Allworth's house, drawn up in a line across the 
 stage. So far as the Action of the play is concerned we 
 see only a condition of affairs. We are interested, it is true, 
 in the proof of the fact that Lady Allworth keeps herself in 
 seclusion, that she lives in state, and that these are her ser- 
 vants, but apart from that we do not see and do not have to 
 see the purpose of the author. We have not the slightest 
 hint that these servants are to be used to bar the entrance 
 of Wellborn. Massinger could easily have made it known 
 to us that Wellborn was going to present himself, but, in 
 that event, the Action of the scene would have been very 
 much disturbed ; instead of an Episode, it would have been 
 a scene of the Action proper. It would have had a turn 
 whereby the arrogance of the servants would have concern- 
 ed Wellborn and our expectation would have been aroused 
 as to the reception they would give him. On the contrary, 
 the scene or Episode is about something entirely indepen- 
 dent of Wellborn. These servants do not mention him ; the 
 audience hardly thinks of him. To have had it otherwise 
 would have made the Action too rigid. Our attention 
 would not be so completely absorbed by the drolleries of 
 the servants. As it is, we get Furnace who is to serve as a 
 foil to Greedy. We get an independent Action, something 
 that keeps the scene moving with a story of its own. There 
 is a quarrel between Furnace and Amble, with Order trying 
 to compose it. There is nothing to cause us to expect any- 
 thing that will bear on the Plot Action. Everything is set- 
 tled within the scene. Conditions only are established. It 
 is easy enough to see that it is an Episode, pure and simple. 
 But we want to discover more than this by our analysis. 
 Why did Massinger use the Episode? What was the ope- 
 ration of his mind? Where did he get it from? What is 
 the necessity of it? It came from the Material. He wished 
 to make use of it in some way. It was too good to throw 
 away. He had to connect what they said and did with the 
 
b;pisode; 387 
 
 events and characters of the play. After the servants are 
 introduced in this Episodic way they are active enough in 
 succeeding scenes. It was the only place or the best place 
 to make us acquainted with them. If they had been repre- 
 sented as throwing dice or devising means of cheating their 
 mistress, it would have been a false Episode. It would have 
 been foreign to the Action, whereas it is now a piece of it. 
 It joins it later on serviceably. We are sufficiently inter- 
 ested already in Lady Allworth to be diverted by what the 
 servants say and do in this scene. The scene between Tom 
 Allworth and Lady Allworth is distinctly not an Episode, 
 for we see a turn in the Action bearing on the Plot. She 
 warns him against his friend whom he had offered to assist 
 and whom he assured of a welcome at her hands. The 
 movement of the play turns aside to Episode again when 
 Greedy gets our attention when Sir Giles visits the house 
 of Lady Allworth. There is a certain amount of Action in 
 it, for we see the character of the man, already described as 
 the tool of Sir Giles. We are amused at the Episode, but 
 we do not forget the use to which Greedy is put. It is Epi- 
 sodic when Abigail and Tabitha express their repugnance 
 to Wellborn, such a wretched object, that thing. It is some- 
 thing that adds to the impression. Leave it out, and the 
 Plot Action would still be there. But do we not feel that 
 they will report to their mistress? Are we not willing to 
 see all the circumstances of the reception of Wellborn? 
 Would not the Action be very bare if the servants at once 
 proceeded to attempt to throw Wellborn out? The scene 
 between Wellborn and Lady Allworth is distinctly not an 
 Episode, nor was it an Episode when the struggle with the 
 servants brought out their mistress. The Cause and the 
 Effect made the cogs revolve. When the end of the scene 
 between Wellborn and Lady Allworth is reached a most 
 important step forward had been taken. The first part of 
 the scene opening the second act is Episode, and has indi- 
 rect Action, but the direct Action does not begin until 
 Wellborn is referred to. This is our first absolute confirma- 
 
A 
 
 388 ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 tion of the merciless character of Sir Giles. We are glad to 
 stop long enough to take a good look at him, his schemes 
 interest us, for we know their indirect bearing on his 
 nephew whom we have seen him spurn, and whom we 
 know he has defrauded. We would take little interest in 
 Master Frugal's history if we were not interested in the 
 designs of the cruel extortioner against his nephew. Sir 
 Giles would be a mere melodramatic villain if we did not 
 have these sidelights. We get his character at first hand, 
 and by means of the Episode. How else could these inci- 
 dental facts have been introduced so conveniently and ef- 
 fectively ?/ Transpose the first part of this scene to the last 
 and the effectiveness of the Episodic part of it would be lost. 
 Pity is excited for Frugal, whom we hear of, passingly, for 
 the first time, but the chief interest is in the development of 
 the cruel methods of Sir Giles and the use made of Greedy 
 and of Marrall, all having a bearing on Wellborn. The first 
 part of the scene, then, is Episodic, but it has a closer and 
 more varied connection with the Action than the scene be- 
 tween the servants. The use of the servants now becomes 
 less and less Episodic. Amble's description of the conduct 
 of Marrall at the table is Episodic, but actively Episodic. It 
 is such scenes that may well be described as adverbial or 
 qualifying, that give breadth and life to the Action. From 
 now on the Episodes and the Action proper never lose sight 
 of Sir Giles and the principal characters. Even in such an 
 Episode as that which opens the third act we are in the 
 midst of the Action of the play. The banquet is preparing 
 for the reception of Lord Lovell at Sir Giles's house. All 
 that Greedy says and does in such a diverting way is Epi- 
 sode. You may ask of what use? See it acted and you will 
 not question the skill and purpose of Massinger. Does he 
 disturb the Action or progress of the play ? Not at all. He 
 exasperates Sir Giles, but we expect nothing from his 
 mouthings about food. Besides, it is largely Preparation 
 for that most delightful, pure Episode in which Marrall an- 
 nounces to Greedy that he must eat below with the maids. 
 
Was it not worth while to have him interrupt such import- 
 ant scenes of the Action proper as he did in order to get 
 Episode of the kind ? Of. course, there was no other pur- 
 pose in Massinger's mindj Must you always be looking for 
 Plot purpose in everything that is done and said? That 
 tendency to the making of rigid Plots makes the plotty 
 play — an abomination. Certainly there are some subjects 
 that admit of less Episode than others. The more Plotty 
 the less Episode, as a rule. There is no room for it, but 
 here is a rather complicated Plot, with a great deal of Epi- 
 sode. It is here certainly a mark of mastery. The oppor- 
 tunity for Episode comes from the preponderance of char- 
 acter in the play. Massinger does not labor over the com- 
 plications in forgetfulness of opportunities for diversion. 
 In the Greedy Episodes we feel that the "thin gutted 
 squire" is less the fool and cormorant than Sir Giles him- 
 self; besides, there should be some relie f from the sombre- 
 ness of the villainy of the master,/ Some students of this 
 play do not seem to recognize the effectiveness and artistic 
 value of the Greedy Episodes. Make a good study of it. 
 Episode is getting to be of more and more value and use as 
 our drama develops. It is almost pure Episode where Well- 
 born pays his creditors back, in one way or another. It 
 does not advance the Action of the Plot with any quick 
 movement. It does prove that Wellborn has been put on 
 his feet again by his Uncle, who is moved to do so because 
 he thinks Wellborn is about to marry Lady AUworth. It 
 also strengthens Marrall's belief in the growing power of 
 Wellborn, so that we are prepared for his confiding to 
 Wellborn the "weighty secret" that Sir Giles is going to 
 demand security from him, which is followed by the advice 
 that Wellborn urge Sir Giles to produce the deed. The Epi- 
 sode leads up to Action, the kind that turns the wheels. 
 Again observe how interesting in themselves are all the 
 Episodes of this character. The fifth and last act is with- 
 out distinct Episodes. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 SCENERY. 
 
 The use of three Set Scenes in the first act of "The Lady 
 of Lyons," two in the third and two in the fifth, might be 
 called "old-fashioned," but any other arrangement might 
 have hampered the treatment of this particular Material. 
 No valid objection can be made to the Division. The Ac- 
 tion requires the localities. Two scenes were inevitable, 
 the interior of Pauline's home and that of Melnotte's. The 
 exterior of the village inn was chosen rather than the inter- 
 ior. The exterior of the house of the Deschappelles gives 
 variety, and the gardens are connected with the very idea 
 of the origin of Melnotte. If there had been any hesitation 
 between the interior or exterior, this would have decided 
 the choice. A street in Lyons was required by way of con- 
 venience, a place for the casual meeting with the officers. 
 Finally a room in the house of the Deschappelles. All these 
 scenes of locality were properly arranged with reference to 
 the entrances and exits. This is a part of the stage man- 
 agement that need not be considered very closely now. No 
 mention is made of the lattice in the description or stage 
 directions but the lattice window has a use when Beauseant 
 makes his visit to the cottage to taunt Pauline and induce 
 her to go with him. He is first seen at the lattice before he 
 enters. The stage direction says, "A staircase to the right 
 conducts to the upper story." It makes no material differ- 
 ence whether it be at the right or left; the stage manager 
 of any production of the play might change it according to 
 his convenience. He cannot, however, change the scenes of 
 locality. Proper entrances and exits must be provided, of 
 course, but the details of the scene itself belong rather to 
 the stagemanager than to the playwright. At the same time, 
 the^ dramatist^s conception of the scene must be practicable 
 and vivid enough to be secure in his own mind. Various 
 
SCENERY 391 _ 
 
 things, such as the easel and the portrait, are fixed by the 
 dramatist himself; they are essential details. All the Scen- 
 ery is in keeping and none is unnecessary, none for the mere 
 sake of Scenery. 
 
 The selection of the scenes of locality in "Camille" pro- 
 bably gave Dumas little occasion for hesitation. The 
 choice was obvious, and there was no problem to consider 
 in order to fit the Action to them or them to the Action. 
 There was no demand for exteriors, the play being almost 
 entirely one of emotion within doors; the consequence is 
 that the first two acts pass in the apartment of Camille, the 
 third act in the country house, the fourth act in the house of 
 Olimpe, and the fifth Act in Camille's poorly furnished 
 rooms. It only remains to make these interiors appropriate 
 in furnishing, and with doors to suit the required entrances 
 and exits. The first scene requires a mirror, for Camille is 
 to look in it and note her paleness. The folding doors, cen- 
 tre, lead to a room into which the revelers go, and from whidh 
 at the end of the act they emerge in a fantastic dance. The 
 fire place with its fire indicates, in a manner, the time of year, 
 March, and adds to the appearance of comfort with which 
 Camille surrounds herself. The piano is not a mere acces- 
 sory of luxury ; it is for use in several material incidents, as 
 when Varville strums upon it and is asked by Camille to 
 cease his noise, and is also used as an accompaniment to the 
 singing and dancing and the revelry. The entrances are ar- 
 ranged so as to give variety and meet the exigencies of the 
 going and coming. There is no need to call attention to the 
 particular arrangement, for the entrances and exits are 
 purely incidental to the Action and any stage manager 
 could arrange the doors to suit himself with proper regard 
 to the movements of the characters. It is not at all impera- 
 tive that the set scene should be exactly as Dumas has ar- 
 ranged it, but, in any event, the properties used must re- 
 main the same. In point of fact, it may be noted that in the 
 second act, Nanine's exit (L. i E.) to get the shawl for Ca- 
 mille is not down in the direction of the first act at all. 
 
392 ANAI^YSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE; 
 
 However, we do not call attention to that as a particular 
 defect ; but provision must be made in the set scene for dis- 
 tinguishing as to the doors of the main entrance and as to 
 the doors that lead to the other special apartments. Those 
 points are really matters of course. The dramatist edits 
 his set scene according to the exigencies of the Action and 
 the movement. Of course, it would be absurd to prepare a 
 diagram of a scene and have it so fixed that the Action and 
 the movement must conform to it. The room in the coun- 
 try house is provided with a large window reaching to the 
 floor, so that Nanine is discovered walking in the garden. 
 This is a natural device in order to give the scene the air 
 of the country. Different exits and entrances are also pro- 
 vided so as to enable characters to come and go off with- 
 out meeting each other. The arrangements in this play are 
 not meaningless. The supper room door in the fourth act 
 is so arranged that the entrance of the characters as they 
 rush in after Armand violently dashes it open, may be effec- 
 tive. This matter of arrangement of the stage largely be- 
 longs to the stage manager. The dramatist has to see to it 
 that his diagram of the scene does not bring conflict into 
 the effective movements of the characters. To what extent 
 he should go into the details of his set scene lies in his judg- 
 ment as to essential things. The tendency is to make the 
 Scenery helpful to the Action. A window for Camille to 
 open and look out is provided in the last act: "Oh, how 
 bright and beautiful everything appears." As important as 
 this scenic arrangement is, the more important function of 
 the dramatist is to provide the Action. The arrangements 
 in "Camille" are so simple that a discussion of set scenes 
 will be fore profitable in some play that is more complex in 
 this particular. 
 
 "Still Waters Run Deep" is simple enough in Scenery 
 and scenic arrangement. After the locality and char- 
 acter of the Scenery have been determined it becomes 
 a fixed matter of detail to which the Action may conform. 
 The real importance or difficulty is in securely selecting 
 
SCBNERY 393- 
 
 wjhat the Scenery is to be. Taylor did not select his Scen- 
 ery first and then accommodate his play to it. In his notes 
 of his play, or in his mental reservation, he placed the 
 scene of the first act in the drawing room of Mildmay's 
 villa. That villa had to be situated at a certain distance 
 from Manchester. He placed it at Brompton. As the play 
 developed in his mind, he saw that he needed a conserva- 
 tory across the stage at back, communicating with the gar- 
 den by folding glass doors. He had a use for everything. 
 It is not likely that he built the house with wooden folding 
 doors first and then tore it down again and put in glass 
 doors, although it is not impossible, from the plastic nature 
 of playwriting, that he may have done so. At any rate, he 
 arranged the Scenery according to the demands as they 
 came up. He had the French windows with curtains, open- 
 ing to gardens, for certain exits and entrances. He need- 
 ed those exits and entrances according to the development 
 of the play in his Scenario. He did not particularly con- 
 cern himself with L. 3 E. or R. i E., until he found occasion 
 to make these exits and entrances distinct. The play 
 could be done just as well with one arrangement of the 
 scene Plot as another, just so the arrangement provided for 
 the exigencies. There is a reason why for «very stage di- 
 rection as to this Scenery. The question of Scenery, as 
 Scenery, for effect hardly enters into the scheme of the 
 play. The stage management, however, is involved. There 
 is no particular point in the process of thought at which 
 locality and Scenery are fixed upon, but they naturally sug- 
 gest themselves almost immediately. Could Taylor have 
 hesitated between an exterior or an interior for his first 
 scene, which is wholly and intimately domestic in its na- 
 ture ? 
 
 There is nothing in "A New Way To Pay Old Debts*' for 
 the mere sake of Scenery. In the first place, it was written 
 before the days of elaboration in that particular. More was 
 left to the imagination than would now be done, and, in 
 consequence, the text often gained verbally. And yet with 
 
394 ANAI^YSIS O? DRAMATIC PRINCIPLie 
 
 the modern use of Scenery in this play not a line need be 
 omitted. On "the skirts of Lady Allworth's Park," Lovell, 
 speaking off as he enters, says, "Drive the coach around the 
 hill: Something in private I must impart to Allworth." 
 This is the first set scene in act third; we had seen it as 
 the first set scene in act second. Indirectly from the text 
 we know that the characters engaged in the dialogue are 
 on their way to the house of Lady Allworth ; in the second 
 use of it, the way leads from Lady Allworth's to Sir Giles's. 
 The third exterior, the third scene in act second, is, "The 
 open country." It requires no definite locality, the Scenery 
 having no bearing on the movements of the people. It is 
 plain that Massinger wrote with the natural pictures in his 
 mind. What a relief from those plays in which it is so ob- 
 vious that the dramatist had the stage ONLY in his mind ! 
 Certainly he was always conscious of the limitations of the 
 stage, and his vivid imagination furnished entrances and 
 exits, right, left, etc., but the stage directions to be seen in 
 the acting edition are, to a great extent, modern. The ale- 
 house is also an exterior. Massinger may have first thought 
 of an interior, but this is better. Attention is at once, when 
 the curtain rises, centered on the wretched man, with a 
 large rough stick, in tattered apparel, who knocks at the 
 door. Besides, the talk between Wellborn and Allworth 
 could be better held in the open. If all this had taken place 
 within the house, the first incident would not have been so 
 conclusively disposed of. There Wellborn is, at the end of 
 the scene, homeless, no prospect of a renewal of the quarrel, 
 spurned, resolved to leave his old haunts and seek to re- 
 habilitate himself. Little things may determine the pro- 
 priety. There was hardly any hesitation about determining 
 upon an alehouse for the opening scene, but whether an ex- 
 terior, may have given some thought. The Scenery, belong- 
 ing as it does, to the external and accidental things of a 
 play, is soon fixed upon. It is chosen for certain conveni- 
 ences and proprieties and remains fixed, being then elimi- 
 nated from the plastic necessities of the work. Something 
 
SCENJ^RV 395 
 
 may arise in the process of construction requiring a change, 
 but usually the selection of the localities of the scenery is 
 made without difficulty. A hall in Lady Allworth's house ; 
 a hall in Sir Giles's house; a room in Lady Allworth's, a 
 room in Sir Giles's, are interiors. The directions are simple, 
 such as, "Table and two chairs, Pens, Ink, Paper, Wax, and 
 lighted Taper." We must include the decoration and pro- 
 perties in the Scenery. No one can read this play without 
 feeling the substantial state in which Lady Allworth lives 
 or the display of opulence of which Sir Giles is capable. A 
 "table and two chairs" is enough for Massinger. It is plain 
 why he selected the hall for the first scene in which Well- 
 born appears at the house. Lady Allworth receives no one, 
 but her house is open to every one. She provides food for 
 the needy, as ever, and her table is free to those who come. 
 Sir Giles can reach the hall. It is there he meets Wellborn 
 and reviles him. The interiors and feastings were inciden- 
 tally necessary for Justice Greedy. The actual disposition 
 of the rooms and doors belong to the surface of things and 
 not to the substance. It may be that if Massinger had giv- 
 en elaborate descriptions of architecture and decoration and 
 the internal arrangement of the rooms and the houses, he 
 might have contributed something that historical records 
 have omitted, but if he had relied too much upon the pic- 
 torial and the objective, his lines would not now be so rich 
 and descriptive, in the proper sense. It is not by descrip- 
 tion alone that he produces scenic effects in our minds, but 
 also by the vital necessity of everything that is said. What- 
 ever is described in the Dialogue belongs to the Action. 
 
 ¥ 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 DETAIL; CIRCUMSTANTIALITY. 
 
 The process of coming from the general to the particular 
 must now be well established in the student's mind. He 
 must understand the value, the inevitable necessity, of hav- 
 ing an idea of ample magnitude to start with, that a play is 
 constructed first, and that the greater part of the thinking 
 precedes the execution; the writing of a play being the 
 execution of it. When you begin to develop the idea from 
 which you start, each succeeding step is a detail; at first 
 large, then small. The successive steps in the Plot, for ex- 
 ample, are the Details of that Plot. We may call them the 
 larger Details of the play. You see a building at a dis- 
 tance, and as you approach it closer you perceive more and 
 more of the Details. So it is with a play as you proceed 
 in the work. Now, the amateur begins the writing or exe- 
 cution of a play by means of Details at once. It is really 
 an almost impossible method. The large and small Details 
 are jumbled together. In the absence of structure, the 
 Details cannot be assigned to any proper divisions. 
 Details used in this way would soon exhaust 
 all sources of inspiration. The Details would be- 
 come more lifeless and more useless the more of them you 
 accumulated. It is only by pursuing the proper workman- 
 like method that true and abundant Detail can be procured. 
 Your mind is constantly kept in a state of exhilaration by 
 the new things that come to you with each step. Indeed 
 this discovery of Detail as you need it is one of the com- 
 pensations of the dramatist who works with a proper 
 method. An appreciation of Detail is proof of interest in 
 Life and of a knowledge of the subject you are handling. You 
 will observe attention given to Detail in any good anecdote, 
 particularly if one is relating a personal experience ; and it 
 is through the proper arrangement of this Detail that the 
 
dei'ail; circumstantiality 397 ~ 
 
 narrator keeps his hearers constantly interested. The sense j . 
 of Detail is, moreover, a striking characteristic of the dra-' 
 matic mind. The undramatic mind, or the merely philo- 
 sophic mind, is content with the mere statement of the pro- 
 position, the philosophy of things. Such a mind is willing to 
 admit without going back to the small actualities of Life, 
 that love can subdue the heart of the barbarian ; and it does 
 not care to know the Details of how Parthenia managed it. 
 It is when you get to the Scenes that you confront Detail. 
 In the production and the acting, the stage manager and the 
 actor add infinite Detail to what you have written, the 
 inflection of the voice and every movement becoming im- 
 portant. But all that Detail can amount to nothing unless 
 that Detail has been reached after the manner that we 
 have indicated. Every Detail should count. 
 
 In this analytical part all that can be done is to have you 
 note the Detail in the plays and the manner in which it has 
 been introduced. In these plays you see how things are done 
 rightly; it is only in bad plays or in your own work, as a 
 beginner, that you can experience or see how Detail is 
 wrongly practiced. Absolutely ruinous is all Detail that is 
 mere "Story," oil stage, which should be seen in order to 
 be retained in the mind. But if you master the method of 
 having all your Action take place on the stage you will never 
 think of having Detail off-stage; you will not have too 
 many words by way of Detail if you have made your Plot 
 and mapped out the play so as to save words. 
 
 The smallest Detail may be of the utmost importance. De- 
 tail becomes important in its place. When the barbarians are 
 throwing dice Novio stakes a black colt fleet as the winds, 
 and Ambivar two fat rams. Do you not see that this is Detail 
 in the right place ? What use could you have for that Detail 
 outside of this particular Scene? It need not have entered 
 into your mind until you reached the execution of the 
 Scene, but with the general necessities of the Scene pre- 
 determined you would resume your process of thought and 
 the proper Detail would come to you as called for by the 
 
398 ANAI^YSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLlS 
 
 Action. These Details were not required for the Plot. Note 
 Details which belong only to the Scenes. 
 
 Detail comes from a perfect or sufficient knowledge, of 
 the subject or material. It is of the utmost importance, 
 then, in the creative part of the work, and must be had be- 
 fore there can be any use for the application of the Tech- 
 nique. To discover by means of analysis the Details in 
 these plays is more to confirm the truth of this than any- 
 thing else. In descending from the general to the particu- 
 lar, from the Proposition to the Plot, and further to the 
 technical divisions, we get further and further into Detail 
 until the full effect depends absolutely upon Detail. The 
 Landlord gives some account of Melnotte, "a wonderful 
 young man." Beauseant: "How wonderful? Are his cab- 
 bages better than other people's?" Landlord: "Nay, he 
 don't garden any more; his father left him well off. He's 
 only a genus." Glavis — : "A what?" Landlord: "A ge- 
 nus; a man who can do anything in life except an3rthing 
 that's useful; — that's a genus." Bulwer may have had the 
 expression of "genus" in his notes ready for this scene or it 
 may have occurred to him in writing the scene, but it is a 
 detail. It is a much smaller detail than these other Details 
 which are, in a certain measure, essential to the Plot. Pau- 
 line's mother says: "Any girl, however inexperienced, 
 knows how to accept an offer, but it requires a vast deal of 
 address to refuse one with proper condescension and dis- 
 dain. I used to practice it at school with the dancing-mas- 
 ter." In the mechanism, the play could do without this de- 
 tail although there was a technical occasion for the use of 
 it. It was not merely to give Character. Time had to be 
 given for the entrance of Damas after the exit of Beau- 
 seant. And yet how valuable this detail is ! Whatever in a 
 play secures a laugh is worth money. Nor is this a com- 
 mercial way of looking at the matter. See also how useful 
 Detail is in the monologue of Damas at the close of the first 
 set scene. We know well what his opinion of women is, 
 but here is new detail that serves technical purpose. If 
 
DETAII.; CIRCUMSTANTIALITY 399 
 
 you know your subject thoroughly, this Detail will come to 
 you at command. You cannot rely upon its coming to you 
 by accident. 
 
 A play like "Camille" that has had universal acceptance 
 must have general ideas that are understood by all people, 
 but it would not be a Parisian play if it were not for its De- 
 tails. It is absolute proof of the soundness and necessity of 
 knowing of what you write or informing yourself of your 
 material in all its aspects and minute accidents. If Nichette 
 is a grisette or a working girl, she must be seen with her 
 cap and all the characteristics of her class. To have her 
 dressed like a school girl and played like one is to destroy 
 all proportions and truth. Life cannot be disentangled of De- 
 tails. Some one rings the bell; Louis will attend the door; 
 it is not Camille, she said she would return at half past ten, 
 and it is not yet ten. Here we have a technical Detail for 
 the purpose of permitting Nanine, in a later scene, to re- 
 count the history of Camille without having the attention 
 of the audience distracted with the expectation of seeing 
 Camille at any moment. The short exchange of talk with 
 Nichette is all Detail. It could be nothing else, for there is 
 not a particle of subjective purpose in its bearing on the 
 Plot. The Details constitute the chief interest. The bun- 
 dle does not make the slightest difference in the Plot Action 
 of the play, but the incident of the call would have been too 
 bare, too general without it. Besides, it gives a specific 
 cause for the coming of Nichette. Again, it shows Objec- 
 tively her relations with Camille. It occasions the remark 
 that "nothing is a trouble that I do for Camille." She can- 
 not remain. Why? Gustave is waiting. There is some 
 new detail in every sentence, and these details are animate 
 as well as inanimate. That Camille calls her Nichette, a pet 
 name, that they worked together, with other details, are 
 brought out. Varville says, "Oh, then he is Monsieur Ni- 
 chette !" surely that is a detail of passing humor. If a char- 
 acter did not have liberty for such little trifles, the Action of 
 the Dialogue would have the rigidity of cast iron. This is 
 
400 ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 an excellent example of Detail, trifling as it is. It is born 
 of the spirit of the moment and of circumstances, the gen- 
 eral outline of which has been provided in the Structure. 
 The trifling Detail need not have been set down in the 
 notes preparatory to the writing. The dramatist has as 
 much as he can do to attend to the additional Details when 
 he takes up the writing. This trifling Detail does not re- 
 appear. Nanine's reference to the camelias that Camille 
 wears is a larger detail. Use is to be made of it later. The 
 Details of Camille's history have to be got out of the way 
 in the opening of the play. There are many little Details 
 that can be summed up in a single scene ; this is always the 
 proper procedure. So cohesive and correlated are all these 
 details in the recital by Nanine that they are remembered. 
 They count at the moment. Business is all and always De- 
 tail, attention having been called to this in the discussion 
 of that subject. Varville sits at the fire place ; Camille gives 
 herself something to do at the piano in order to express her 
 indifference. Brightness in Dialogue, repartee, in particu- 
 lar, comes from the detail induced by the Action of the mo- 
 ment. "Mademoiselle Olimpe, you wicked woman," says 
 Gaston. "No wonder, I keep bad company," is her reply. 
 Indirectly and by detail alone is character conveyed for the 
 most part. The strongest situation in the play, the scene 
 between Camille and Duval, is made up of infinite Detail of 
 sentiment and Facts. The structure has provided for the 
 sum total of the scene. The product, in its crude state, is 
 ready, the dramatist reduces it to its elements and Details. 
 He goes from the general to the particular. The supper 
 scene, apart from its purpose to show the beginning of the 
 love of the two, could not exist without its Detail. Dumas 
 had to show gayety and frivolity. The purposes of the 
 scene settled, he could lay it aside and proceed with his con- 
 struction of the play, and then return, when ready, to sup- 
 ply the details. Do you suppose Dumas at first was think- 
 ing of the yellow cab when his mind and heart were en- 
 gaged in the problem of entangling two hearts and lives? 
 
detail; CIRCUMSTANtlAWTY 4OI 
 
 What has the yellow cab or Prudence's age or appetite to 
 do with structure? And why should an author encumber 
 his mind with such details when he is establishing the 
 mechanism of the play? 
 
 In his Plot of "Still Waters Run Deep" Taylor has avoid- 
 ed the complications of Detail that would have resulted 
 from the introduction of much that he leaves to Story and 
 happenings "offstage." He goes the limit in this respect. 
 Too much detail of Plot is to be avoided else you will be 
 overwhelmed with Mere Plot. Too much Detail of Plot 
 could easily have perverted this play into a melodrama. 
 Taylor's object, on the contrary, was to depict Character. 
 We had to give in Detail the characteristics of the two op- 
 posing men, Mildmay and Hawksley, consequently, we find 
 the very minute mathematical calculations of Hawksley in 
 the second act. The Details of Hawksley's argument or 
 demonstrations were necessary, more to show the methods 
 of the promoter and to explain his success with investors in 
 a general way than for the immediate Plot necessities of the 
 scene. Hawksley's demonstration, reduced by the common 
 sense, Mildmay to an absurdity, was not required to con- 
 vince Mildmay of the fraudulent nature of the scheme, or 
 even to make the slightest impression on him in favor of 
 Hawksley. It was not a Plot necessity, it was pure Detail 
 for the purpose of Character. We have pointed out the un- 
 common amount of Business in the play, either implied or 
 expressed. Business is almost always Detail and it is es- 
 sential for Character and Action. The first scene abounds 
 in Detail, and there is no unnecessary Detail in it or in any 
 part of the play.^" Unnecessary Detail is as ruinous to the 
 Action of the play aTliecessary Detail is helpful. The ten- 
 dency of all perfect knowledge of one's material is toward 
 Detail. If Mildmay had invited his wife to a tete-a-tete 
 with him at some hotel or public house, name not given, the 
 effect would not be the same as it is when he speaks of the 
 Star and Garter. We can feel a local color here which 
 stands out much more clearly with those who know defin- 
 26 
 
402 ANAI.YSIS 0]P DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 itely the locality of the play. It would have been unneces- 
 sary Detail for him to have gone into the particulars about 
 the Star and Garter. The absurdity of this unnecessary 
 Detail we have shown in the examples of unnecessary 
 Words in the exercise on that subject. To have Mildmay 
 ask Emily to indulge him with "Auld Robin Gray" is surely- 
 more significant than if he merely requested some simple 
 music. Observe also that these Details are not always 
 mere Details, for, if you remember the song, the wife re- 
 grets her marriage. That both Potter and Mildmay go to 
 
 sleep after dinner is a Detail, not necessarily for Character, 
 although it fits into the scene perfectly, but in the case of 
 Potter, in order to keep him on the stage and save an exit 
 and re-entrance, and, in the case of Mildmay, to have him 
 overhear Mrs. Sternhold's opinion of him. The wasp is a 
 Detail used for a specific purpose. That Mildmay is going 
 to Manchester that night by the mail train is, at this point, 
 purely a Detail. The play abounds in little Details, to all 
 of which you should give your attention. They are all lit- 
 tle touches which give completeness to the conditions of 
 the Action and the relations of the characters. It is not very 
 important that the difference between the ages of Potter and 
 Jane is eighteen years, but that difference does afford a 
 great deal of character and makes much more definite the 
 superiority of Jane over her complacent brother. It is an 
 important detail that Emily is Potter's only child. Taylor 
 might have left that fact unexpressed, but with an instinct 
 and knowledge of a true author, he conveyed the point by 
 expressing the Detail. The significance of a little fact of 
 that kind is immensely helpful to a play in suggesting ideas 
 to an audience and not expressing them. Surely the audi- 
 ence will find some explanation in the spoiled vanity and 
 weakness of Emily in the fact that she is an only child. 
 The Details of the Business in the play we have already 
 touched upon. In point of fact, any amount of proper De- 
 tail may be and should be introduced into a play if it can be 
 
DETAII.; CIRCUMSTANTIALITY 4^3 
 
 shown incidentally and if it belongs to the actual facts. It 
 requires skill to introduce these little things where they will 
 not disturb, but where they will be helpful. Mrs. Mildmay 
 and Mrs. Sternhold might have introduced the Detail in the 
 very first scene that Mildmay was a north-country boy from 
 Lancashire; but that Detail has its only significance when 
 Dunbilk warns Hawksley to be cautious with Mildmay for 
 *'Thim North-counthry boys is as cute as Dublin car dhri- 
 vers." For the present, let us content ourselves in this ex- 
 ercise with noting that the Detail comes from the perfect 
 knowledge of one's Material, and that its use is governed by 
 Indirection, Sequence, the Action and other elements in a 
 play, and that Necessary detail is helpful and indispensable, 
 while unnecessary Detail is harmful^] 
 
 Taine somewhere says that when a tiger presented itself 
 to Shakespeare's mind, he saw that tiger with all its marks 
 and peculiarities, to the hair. We may attribute this to 
 imagination ; I prefer to call it knowledge. There have been 
 been painters celebrated for their landscapes, who, if they 
 wished to introduce a figure of a man or animal had it done 
 by a special artist. This was because they did not know 
 animate nature as they did inanimate. They did not com- 
 mand the details. Our best profit in the examination of 
 Massinger's play with reference to details is to become con- 
 vinced that a previous study of one's subject, that upon 
 which he vn-ites, is essential to the dramatist. This play is 
 incomparably richer in details than any we have so far ex- 
 amined. i It will not be necessary to enumerate them all be- 
 /"fore we recognize this fact and wonder at the completeness 
 (^ of Massinger's vision. He not only gives all the details di- 
 ^ rectly adhering to his personages, but illustrative sentences, 
 with a wide sweep, give us pictures, far and near, of the pe- 
 riod. Tapwell refuses Wellborn drink, 
 
 I 
 
 "Nor the remainder of a single can. 
 Left by a drunken porter," 
 
 While Froth adds, "Not the dropping of the tap." Tapwell 
 
404 ANAIvYSiS 01^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE: 
 
 does not find the claims on Wellborn for money given ''in 
 chalk." The precise sum of forty pounds fixes exactly the 
 humhle beginnings of Tapwell as a landlord, and Tapwell 
 distinguishes between tavern and taphouse. If Tapwell had 
 simply said that he would give him no drink because he had 
 no money any longer, it would have lost the appearance of 
 detail, whereas what he does say is rich in it : 
 
 "For, from the tavern to the taphouse, all 
 On forfeiture of their licenses, stand bound 
 Ne'er to remember who their best guests were. 
 If they grow poor, like you." 
 We need not dwell upon the details of Massinger's im- 
 agery, for imagery universally involves detail, and we are 
 now considering the Details of the subject proper. The 
 scene of the servants in Lady Allworth's hall gives 
 us an actual scene from the life of three hundred years ago 
 with such minuteness that its verity is manifest. The stage 
 direction as to the furnishings is oddly meagre, "Table and 
 four chairs." Not much Detail there. Stage management 
 itself had not reached Detail. Order has his staff of office. 
 His "chain and double ruffs" are symbols of power. 
 I "Whoever misses in his function, 
 
 i For one whole week makes forfeiture of his breakfast, 
 
 \ And privilege in the wine-cellar." 
 
 "Tis not twelve o'clock yet, nor dinner taken up." Fur- 
 nace complains that when he cracks his brains to find out 
 tempting sauces, "when I am three parts roasted, and the 
 fourth part parboiled, to prepare her viands, she keeps her 
 chamber, dines with a panada, or water-gruel." The charm 
 of all this is its definiteness, its Detail. The general idea 
 was all provided for in the Plot or Scenario. For that mat- 
 ter, that Lady Allworth refrained from her customary food 
 is not exactly a part of the Plot, and if it is of minor im- 
 portance, how are we to attach value to the Detail, for ex- 
 ample, that she "dines with panada, or water-gruel?" For 
 one thing, because the complaining of the cook is the one 
 
detail; circumstantiality 405 
 
 really important thing in placing the character before us 
 for the purpose of Episode. Much of this Detail existed in 
 Massinger's notes, mental or written, before he found a 
 place for it. He found his Episode first, and then used the 
 Detail in this scene. "Sort those silks well. Fll take the air 
 alone." Note the Detail of ideas in Lady Allworth's advice 
 to her step-son. Order says, 
 
 "There came, not six days since, from Hull, a pipe 
 Of rich Canary," &c. 
 Greedy's remarks are full of Detail. Here we see one 
 very valuable aspect of Detail. Without it, how could his 
 humor be picked out. His minute descriptions of baked 
 meats and pastries and cooked food show him to be an ex- 
 pert connoisseur. The stag must be baked in puff-paste. 
 The stag came from the forest of Sherwood, and it is one 
 of the fattest that Furnace has ever cooked. The chine of 
 beef is "ponderous," which gives us a clue to the old expres- 
 sion that represents the table as "groaning" with its burden. 
 The pheasant is larded. Greedy is bound to have, if noth- 
 ing else, "but a corner of that immortal pastry." Wellborn 
 is rudely received by the servants and reprimanded be- 
 cause he had not stayed "to be served, among your fellows, 
 from the basket, but you must press into the hall." Is not 
 that a little Detail of this Lady Bountiful's house? Well- 
 born describes the servants in a few words of choice Detail, 
 "created only to make legs and cringe, to carry in a dish, 
 and shift a trencher." The opening scene of the second act 
 has much of its interest, a kind of Action in itself, from De- 
 tail. Sir Giles "will buy some cottage near his manor," 
 Master Frugal's "which done, I'll make my men break ope 
 his fences, ride o'er his standing corn, and in the night set 
 fire to his barns, or break his cattle's legs ; these trespasses 
 draw on suits, and suits expenses," &c. Passage after pas- 
 sage, page after page, would have to be quoted in order to 
 put down here what is plain to any one who will read the 
 lines of the play. Does Marrall make his reflections on the 
 sudden change in the fortunes of Wellborn in general 
 
406 ANALYSIS 0]P DRAMATIC PRINCIPUe 
 
 phrases? No, he reflects that but lately he was glad to get 
 "but cheese parings and brown bread on Sundays!" Mas- 
 singer thus reduces everything, the slightest, to the con- 
 crete; his illustrations are Details. Wellborn assures Mar- 
 rail that they will not dine under a hedge. Marrall is as- 
 tonished, for 
 
 "But yesterday, you thought t 
 
 Yourself well in a barn, wrapped up in pease-straw/j 
 
 Note Amble's description of Marrall's conduct at the ta- 
 ble: 
 
 "As I live, he rises, and takes up a dish 
 In which there were some remnants of a boiled capon. 
 And pledged her in white broth !" 
 
 Sir Giles has his servant take his horse that he himself 
 may walk "to get me an appetite ; it is but a mile distant to 
 the house :" exercise will keep him from getting pursy. Be- 
 fore this, Marrall, wishing to ingratiate himself with Well- 
 born, has offered him a horse, a horse, is that all ? No, that 
 is not enough for Massinger. Marrall's horse is a gelding. 
 Marrall would like to have, as a favor from Wellborn, when 
 the time comes, "the lease of glebe land, called Knave's 
 Acre." As Lovell enters, he calls off that his coach should 
 be driven "around the hill." It is half an hour's riding to 
 the house of Sir Giles. Again we come to Greedy, and his 
 sentences are compact with Detail. He would be impossi- 
 ble without it. Sir Giles has much Detail in his talk with 
 Margaret. She is wearing orient pearls and a gown of 
 quaint fashion. Sir Giles has taken up the serving gentle- 
 woman "in an old tamin gown." Confound Greedy! here 
 he is again with his Details. He can't make the cook cook 
 the fawn whole with a Norfolk dumpling in its belly. Greedy 
 has to sit with the maids below. Sir Giles speaks of the 
 trunk of rich clothes, "not far hence, in pawn," belonging 
 to Wellborn. He will redeem them. It is four miles dis- 
 tance between Sir Giles's manor house and Lady All- 
 worth's. The scene of Episode in which Wellborn meets 
 with and disposes of his creditors is particularly full of De- 
 
DUTAlh; CIRCUMSTANTIALITY 4^7 
 
 tail. There is no need to reproduce it all. The Vintner 
 reminds Wellborn of the "muscadine and eggs" he trusted 
 him for, "five pound suppers, with your after-drinkings, 
 when you lodged upon the bank-side." In the fifth act, 
 note that Wellborn is dressed in "lavender robes." The 
 land had been in Wellborn's name "twenty descents." "Vil- 
 lage nurses revenge their wrongs with curses," but Sir Giles 
 will "not waste a syllable," as he advances to kill Marrall. 
 In his madness Sir Giles sees Furies "with steel whips." 
 Detail is one of the charms of the play. The deed is "three 
 years old." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE CONDESCENDING FALLACY THAT ONLY THE 
 RUDIMENTS CAN BE TAUGHT. 
 
 The "born" playwright will graciously condescend to ad- 
 mit that some instruction in playwriting might be useful 
 for beginners. He himself was never a "beginner." The 
 idea implied in this is that some poor creature, in 
 need of making a living, might possibly by a close 
 study of his plays evolve some understanding of the ele- 
 mentary principles and impart them to people less fortunate 
 than they and who need to have the faltering steps of their 
 childhood supported and guided by some mechanical knave 
 who has himself never got beyond the rudiments. It im- 
 plies further that only the rudiments of the art can be 
 taught; that when it gets beyond the rudiments only a su- 
 perior mind working in its own inscrutable way applies 
 principles and methods that cannot be reduced to terms. 
 This assumption or theory has never been applied to any 
 other art. It is certain that no one is satisfied with the 
 "rudiments," either as a matter of teaching or learning, in 
 any other School than the one which I have had the pre- 
 sumption to found. Something more than the a, b, c's are 
 taught us when we get our first schooling. 
 
 Unquestionably, much more can be taught about mathe- 
 matics than the elementary things of addition, subtraction, 
 multiplication and division. The student is not left to his 
 own resources to discover square root and the bi-nomial 
 theorem. If the higher mathematics of playwriting cannot 
 be taught, it can only be because there are no higher mathe- 
 matics. If the art of playwriting consists only in a few ru- 
 diments, then it differs from any other art, and is a poor 
 thing indeed. The great trouble, for the present, is to con- 
 vince people that playwriting is really a complicated art, 
 and that something more, much more, is to be known about 
 
THB CONDESCENDING FAI^I^CY 4Q9__ 
 
 it than the a, b, c's of it. Of course, there may be kinder- 
 gartens for any art, but instruction in it need not be confin- 
 ed to the rudiments, although it necessarily begins with 
 the a, b, c's. 
 
 Every art should be taught in its completeness if it be an 
 art and if the institution teaching it is worthy of existence. 
 Art or Technique is simply the way of doing things, and 
 this applies to a trade or craft or anything that is worth do- 
 ing or which affords a livelihood or the accomplishment of 
 aims that are in no wise sordid. It is a practical thing, and 
 a practical thing will hear to no nonsense such as is uttered 
 in regard to the ^'rudiments" of playwriting. 
 
 If one attempts a career of electrical engineering as an 
 expert, will he be satisfied with some elementary informa- 
 tion about the Ley den jar, conductors and non-conductors, 
 the positive and negative pole and such elementary infor- 
 mation as is possessed by any person of general education ? 
 If his aim is practical and he wishes to exercise an art he 
 wants the whole thing if he can get it, and he can always 
 get everything that is known of any art according to its 
 state of advancement. Fifty years ago there was no career 
 open to the electrical engineer, for the art had not advanced 
 far enough to require the services of a practical expert. 
 There is no such thing as an artist possessing secret laws of 
 any art, which, moreover, he could not impart to any one 
 else if he wanted to or tried to. 
 
 What stupidity, what futility, it would be if surveying 
 were taught in the schools in such a way that one could 
 not survey land and accomplish the practical requirements? 
 The world would stand still if only the rudiments of any art 
 could be taught. 
 
 If playwriting could be taught only as to its rudiments, 
 then beyond that point every playwright has a complicated 
 art of his own which cannot be reduced to terms and which, 
 in the very nature of the case, must be different from the art 
 of every other playwright that exists or ever has existed or 
 ever will exist, for no two men are alike ; but that is not true 
 
4IO ANALYSIS OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 as to art. Its principles are exactly the same, exercised by 
 whom you will. A scene written by any dramatist, known 
 or unknown, of repute or of no repute, if technically perfect 
 and if it is all that the material and the conditions require 
 is as good as if Shakspeare had written it. It is as much 
 art, for there can be but one art applied to that particular 
 purpose. The writer who does not understand these princi- 
 ples, it matters not what his genius may be, is not a dra- 
 matist. A play is good or bad, effective or ineffective, in 
 proportion as it conforms to the one universal art. 
 
 It has been like preaching in the wilderness to overcome 
 the soul destroying dictum of such dramatists as contend 
 that playwriting cannot be taught and therefore is not an 
 art. Many playwrights would like to have you believe that 
 they did not have to learn the art. Ibsen learned his art. 
 In principle it does not differ in the slightest degree from 
 the universal art. His very freedom from conventionality 
 shows that he is a master of the art, for if he had not been 
 a master of it he would have been conventional. Shaw 
 learned the art and rejected the conventionalities. Do you, 
 for a moment, imagine that neither of these men read Aris- 
 totle or that they pursued no investigation of the art as an 
 art? ,Has either of them ever pretended that he did not 
 learn the art ? Has either of them ever said that it was born 
 in them and that they knew things in the art which could 
 not be communicated to any one else? Does the individual- 
 ity of Shaw as seen in his plays mean that his art is differ- 
 ent in principle from that of Shakspeare or Sophocles or of 
 any other thorough dramatist? The fact of individuality in 
 these writers is simply proof that this universal art does not 
 destroy individuality. Could they have written their plays 
 with only an understanding of the rudiments ? 
 
 There is no art in the world which cannot be taught to 
 you in its fullness according to your capacity for receiving 
 it. If you have that capacity for receiving what is taught to 
 you and if you have a teacher who means to give you all 
 that he knows, and if that teacher sees great qualities in you 
 
THB CONX>^SCENDING FALLACY 4II 
 
 and foresees your future, will he not gladly give to you 
 without reserve? It is simply a question of whether you 
 are worth the while. Some of the greatest painters and mu- 
 sicians and artists in the world have been teachers, but few 
 have ever finally been unable to say to some pupil, with af- 
 fection and admiration: "I can teach you no more. Fare- 
 well and God speed you." Would such teachers have con- 
 descended to teach only the rudiments? 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 SYSTEMATIC STUDY. 
 
 Time is an essential element in the learning of anything 
 of magnitude, of detail, and of consequence. Expedition in 
 the work is desirable in so far as it is consistent with thor- 
 oughness, and thoroughness requires that we Make Haste 
 Slowly. The foundation should be solidly laid and be per- 
 mitted to settle. There is always a method of instruction 
 which finally proves to be indispensable and the best. It is 
 easy enough to begin at the wrong end. Practical creative 
 work should be reached as soon as possible, but it is a waste 
 of time to attempt it before one has an understanding of the 
 principles and their intercommunicability. I am often in- 
 clined to think there is something wrong with the moral 
 character of one who will not take the trouble to make a 
 systematic study of an art which he wishes to acquire and 
 who, in his perversity, will submit to no guidance or re- 
 straint. It is important that the study be made as interest- 
 ing as possible, beginning with the simple before reaching 
 the complex. Interest in the work depends absolutely upon 
 an understanding of the principles as they are encountered. 
 One takes no interest in a game that he does not under- 
 stand. This period of learning the nature of Principle is a 
 necessary preparation for actual playwriting. The prelimi- 
 nary work required is in effect playwriting itself, for the 
 same processes of thought are employed. During this pe- 
 riod there should be no interruption in the study. One 
 should let it take hold of him like a fever that runs its course. 
 One should saturate himself with the intelligent analytical 
 reading of plays. In every education a point is reached where 
 one can abandon his research and can proceed with confi- 
 dence in applying what he has mastered in theory. It 
 would be a mistake, however, to believe that any form of 
 this preliminary exercise work is mere theory. Playwriting 
 
SYSTEMATIC STUDY 413 
 
 is practical or nothing. The student who simply reads 
 through a chapter of a text book and tosses it aside with the 
 idea and the remark that he thoroughly understands it does 
 not impress me. He should be eager to demonstrate to 
 himself that he understands it and the best way to do that 
 is to do an amount of work corresponding to that in the 
 text book and to submit it to the expert who has no defer- 
 ence to the individual except in so far as the student gains 
 that deference by a complete submission to the art. Play- 
 writing itself has its compensation for the labor bestowed 
 on it only for those who understand the art. Nor is there 
 any pleasure or compensation for the student who does not 
 know every foot of the ground that he traverses. Other- 
 wise the study is not exhilarating, but painful. The amount 
 of one's wbrk is in proportion to the interest he takes in it 
 and the benefit to be derived is in proportion to the labor. 
 If you take the trouble to understand as you proceed the 
 work becomes fascinating. There is a very great difference 
 in the feeling of knowing that you understand a thing and 
 of believing you do, with or without misgivings. When 
 you really understand a thing, you know you know it. It 
 is the difference between the amateur and the skilled. As- 
 suming that you think you know it, in a hasty, superficial 
 and unjustified self-confidence, you may have a humiliating 
 awakening later on to a realization of having spent an in- 
 definite time in ignorance of what you might have learned 
 without delay. By making sure that you understand, as 
 you proceed, your work becomes easier and easier. A dis- 
 tinct advantage of exercise work also is that you can better 
 your instruction by taking that initiative which is required 
 in discovering these principles in plays that are not ana- 
 lyzed in the text. By finding an example or illustration of 
 your own you possess yourself of the principle by your own 
 labor and research. I can only give you the principle and 
 explain it in its various aspects, but for me to attempt to 
 exhaust illustration would be an impossible task. As much 
 as I may do, there is infinitely more that is left for you to 
 
414 ANALYSIS O^ DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE 
 
 do. If each principle had to be illustrated from every play- 
 that was ever written there would be no end to it. It is the 
 principle we are after, and that is enough. When you are 
 absolutely satisfied that you understand it, then sustained 
 systematic work has reached its period. By continuing 
 your study, of your own initiative, according to the system 
 laid down, the very illustrations that you will find of your- 
 self will be new, and this newness will help to sustain your 
 interest. You may have the foolish idea that work of the 
 kind is like "going to School," again. The people who do 
 things in this world are never out of school. Do not be- 
 come impatient at going over the same ground a number of 
 times. To him who understands there is constant variety 
 and newness of interest. The deeper you go the more inter- 
 ested you will become. The more facile and correct your 
 work the greater the gratification to you. You will note 
 your gradual acquirement of thinking in drama. A dra- 
 matic study requires that you become acquainted first with 
 each principle singly and then in combination with other 
 principles. When you have them firmly fixed in mind and 
 come to apply them to original work you will not be dis- 
 turbed as to uncertainty as to meaning and application. It 
 is often difficult to make a completely satisfactory applica- 
 tion of a given principle, it matters not how well you under- 
 stand it. Until you do understand it you cannot use it 
 as a tool, and you have no right to have the tool in your 
 hand until you fully understand its use. This preliminary 
 study wins half the battle. Why wait to have yourself 
 committing in your own plays every mistake which you 
 would have guarded against by following the systematic 
 study? Play writing requires the patient process of thought. 
 This very work over the exercises will give you that pa- 
 tience of thought, and it will be fruitful if you have plowed 
 deep and turned up the sub-soil. You want to get under 
 the surface. It is not enough that you discover why and 
 how the principles are rightly applied; you must discern 
 how and why they might have been misapplied by the writ- 
 
SYSTEMATIC STUDY 415 
 
 «rs of the plays which you analyze. Even an inexperienced 
 writer might have in his manuscript of a play many exam- 
 ples of a principle and yet be profoundly ignorant of the 
 principle itself. If you know the Hows and Whys you are 
 the superman. We are studying the plays written by dra- 
 matists who knew what they were doing. They had a rea- 
 son for everything. They were exercising their art all the 
 while. It matters not how easily and naturally they exer- 
 cised it, they always did it with intelligence. Try to follow 
 the processes of their minds and get at all their reasons, 
 and imagine all their difficulties, for they had many difficul- 
 ties. It is important for you to learn why it takes time to 
 ivrite a play. 
 
M;:t 
 
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