« » r iikiix /rrio- 5V $ ^. r* \f VI ■ MS /r ; N,^i^JO•^VVV' .^.OF-C' :=3 AWFUNIVERJ/a Ca ^—1 -n ' Cc: »..in<:.Aurnr,' '^^ .HVHaiHV*"^ '■JSiBtivsm-"* y V/:>iHAlr^il^'AV' ^. < -< 'j- 1 CO "^/^ajA " EI < \^ .N ^\\^EUNI\ ,NlOSANCtlfj>^ _^^lllBRARYGc^ \RYQ<^ - O wL c LUTHtB. B. ANTHONY The T>RAMA TIST A Journal of Dramatic Technology Kdit«d b7 LUTHER B. ANTHONY Vols. Illandlll THE. DRAMATIST CO. EASTON. PENNA. Copyright 1912 Luther B. ^nthonp / Index A Gentleman From Mississippi go *A Guide to Pictures 267 A Maker of Men .... 89 A Man of Honor .... ig6 American Playgoers .... 228 American Playgoers .... 269 A Million 200 *A New Way to Pay Old Debts 226- A Play in the Pulpit 244 A Single Man .... 2l5 Alias Jimmy Valentine 43 *An Englishman's Home 33.: Another Declaration of Independence 3 *Arizona ..... 252 As a Man Thinks 142" A Specimen Criticism of an Amateur ] 'lay IQ&; Baby Mine ..... 1^9, Belasco on Technique 93 Bobby Burnit .... lOI Bought and Paid For 214. Bunty Pulls the Strings 255 Cameo Kirby .... xq6 ♦Candida 164; Chair of Dramatic Writing 35 Dear Old Billy .... 172, ♦Disraeli .... 241- *Don 155' *Double Cross .... 206. Drifting . . . . ^52, Electricity .... 119, Elevating a Husband 237 *Embers ..... 223 Enchained 55 Enchained (In three Acts) 58. Enchained (Revision) 136. Enduring Success 233 Excuse Me .... 16B • ♦Facing Death (in one Act) IZ3 Facing Death (analyzed) 185 Facing Death (Reconstruction) 2 07-. ♦Footlights Fore and Aft 248. ♦Fritzchen .... 15^ ♦From Ibsen's Workshop 24B., Get Rich Quick V/allingford ii8'. ♦Getting Married 203 Green Stockings 239; Hervieu's Reply to Our Criticism 95 *Ecw He Lied to Her Husband . 31- ♦Husband . 124 Inconstant George 49 ♦Interviewed . . . . 138 Is Matrimony a Failure 2 Israel 16 Just a Wife . . . . 37 *Tustice 128 Kindling 242 ♦Lady Patricia . . . . 244 Leah Kleschna 134 Letter from Charles Rann Keaned y • 250 ♦Lovely Peggy 225 Madame X . . . . ■17 Maggie Pepper 200 Managers Hunting Feverishly for Plays . II ♦Margot 3« ♦Mary Magdalene 121 ♦Maternity . . . . 203 ♦Mid-Channel . . . . 205 Mother .... 97 Mrs. Bumstead-Leigh 169 Mrs. Dot 89 Natural-Bomness 4 New Plays .... I Nobody's Daughter 150 Nobody's Widow 131 Oiir Doctrines Endor«e4 209 Our Third Year 189 Paid in FuU *4 The Thief .... 24 Passers-By 212 ♦Play-Making 268 Plays of the Ne^ Seaso» 93 Playwriting 140 ♦Preserving Mr. Paamure 256 Putting It Over 260 Reading of Plays 167 Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm 130 Calvatiom Nell 50 Samuel Johnson, Playwright 3 Seven Days 15 Seven Days 222 Shore Acres 222 Snobs . . =- . 1 98 Sipeed .... 191 ♦Suderman's One-Act Plays 29 ♦Streaks of Light 29 Sunlurun .... 238 Technical Tendemcies 141 ♦Technique of the Drama 266 ♦The American Dramatist 248 ♦The Appreciation of the Drama 267 The Arab 191 The Barrier 48 The Boss 143 The Call of the WM 135 The City 39 Tlie Climax . I ■♦The Climbers 263 The Coburn Players 269 The Commanding Officer 13 TKe Commuters e 102 The Concert .... 150 The Confession 220 The Cottage in the Air 12 The Country Boy 99 *The Dark Lady of the Sonnets 151 The Deep Purple 148 The Deserters .... 108 *The Doctor's Dilemma 202 *The Faith Healer 33 The Family .... 126 *The Farav/ay Princess 30 The Fatted Calf 247 The Fire Commissioner 137 The Fortune Hunter 20 *Theft 155 The Gamblers .... 123 The Girl He Couldn't Leave Behind Hin 1 91 *The Goddess of Reason 31 The Governor's Lady 253 The Greyhound .... 256 The Harvest Moon 21 The Havoc .... 145 *The Home Thrust 262 *The House Next Door 261 The Intellectual Dramatist 7 *The Last Visit 30 The Lily 45 The Littlest Rebel 220 The Man VHio Stood Still 52 The Marionettes 236 The Melting Pot ... 23 The Model .... 252 The Nest Egg .... 199 *The Nigger 161 The 1909 Record II The Only Son .... 218 The Pearl .... 229 The Pearl (Revision) 248 The Pearl (Fourth Revision) 269 *The Playboy of the Western World 224 The Price .... 215 The Province of Analysis 113 The Rack .... 194 The Rainbow .... 245 The Real Thing 197 The Return of Eve 27 The Return of Peter Grimm 210 The Ringmaster 2 *The Servant in the House 234 *The Showing Up of Blanco Posnet 203 *The Silver Box 158 The Spendthrift 105 The Squaw Man 133 The Talker .... 257 *The Terrible Meek 235 The Test 120 *The Thunderbolt "5 The Trail of the Lonesome Pine 240 The Turning Point 41 The Twelve Pound Look 147 *The Unequal Triangle 243 The Unwritten Law 265 ♦The Voysey Inheritance 258 The Wife Decides 219 The Witness for the Defense 193 The Woman 190 The Woman Pays 15 *The V/oman With the Dagger 264 *The World and His Wife 170 *Three Plays by Brieux 203 *Three Plays by Shaw , 202 Three Books for Playbuilders 247 Thy Neighbor's Wife 192 *Titles from Shakespeare 226 Two Theatrical Seasons Compared 92 Two Theatrical Seasons Compared 188 Two Women .... 154 U. S. Minister Bedloe 147 *Waste .... 259 What is Technic? 251 "World" Prize Play 53 "World" Prize Play Award 108 Your Humble Servant . 17 *The asterisk indicates that the work is published. Index to Plots A Comedy 279 A Double Suicide 276 A Gauntlet 280 Alias Jimmy Valentine 277 Alice Sit by the Fire 278 Anna of Tharau 274 Article 47 279 A Visit . . . . 282 Beyond Their Strength 281 Bought and Paid For 282 Bread 274 Brides of Arrogonia 278 Cinderella 279 Colleen Bawn 282 Damon and Pythias 277 Israel 280 Laboremus 281 London Assurance 282 Lysistrata 277 Madame X 280 Philip II 274 Richelieu 283 Sampson 280 Sauce for the Goose 282 Stained Honor 276 Struensce 278 The Acharians 276 The Admirable Crichton 277 The Cave Man 283 The Dangerous Aunt The Deep Purple The King The Lady of Lyons The Lily The Mistress of St. Tropez The Newly-Weds The Pariah The Perjurer The Priest of Churchfield The Return of Peter Grimm The Thatcher To-day and Yesterday The Ugliest of Seven Zaza ... 274 277 281 282 279 275 281 278 275 276 279 275 281 275 280 Introduction If there is one principle of playrighting that We haVe insisted upon in these pages more than all others, it is that the audience KNOW. In the closing quarter of this year of our Lord 1912 We are still quite alone in this contention. Complete ignorance on the part of the audience can only result in negative interest: surprise. Surprise is the tool of the fiction Writer. Knowledge or eX' pectation in some degree is the indispensible con- dition for generating suspense. If you, dear stu= dent, cannot grasp this subtle dramatic laW at the outset. We ask that you take it on faith, as most of our knowledge is accepted, until its inevitable operation can be Verified. There is one other ingredient that We contin- ually cry for: Conflict. Conflict is a character creator in tWo senses. In life there is no such thing as acquiring character Without conflict. In drama there is no illusion of character possible Without a stage Conflict to mold it in Conflict is the die that casts character. And this is the secret of the salutary poWer of drama. Of all moral instruction it is the most effectual. A gripping play is the nearest substitute for the actual characttr'creating process of life. Easton, Pa. October, 1912 The DRAMATIST LUTHER B. ANTHONY, E.ditor Vol.1 EASTON, PA. No. 1 QUARTERLY 1909 OCTOBER New Plates Karken to the parable of the press agent and you would be persuaded that the author of this remarkable Play was only yesterday a Pittsburg glass-blower. In reality, Mr. Edward Locke, like all other arrivals in stageland, is a graduate of the University of Hard Knocks. He has learned technic through repeated failures and from years of experience as actor and newspaper man. The unrivaled triumph of his first great play lies in its elemental simplicity of direct appeal to the sympathies of every-day people. This characteristic per- meates the plot which is set forth in but three acts, the cast which involves only four people and introduces them in the first five minutes of the Play, the stage setting which requires but one set scene and the theme w^hich is approximately con- fined to its legitimate circumference. The Play abounds in minor flaws and elements foreign to the structure and the "Climax" when reached is merely talked into the audience in- stead of coming out of dramatic invention. The rascal who has tricked a girl into marriage calmly relates his unscrupu- lousness instead of being detected in a truly dramatic manner and the effort to reconcile the girl to such treachery on the plea that this rascal's half-hearted love has matured certain tone qualities in her voice is the merest apology for plot! What is the theme of the Play.' Seeking a wife through dis- honest means ! Can there be but one answer to this proposi- tion? The play leaves the verdict to the audience. Drama must be definite or it is not Drama. The logical end and cli- max of this Play is reached when this rascal is exposed, and the girl's voice is recovered. The only word for him is: "Beat it!" If our theme dealt with this girl's love for this man we might finish with som.e solution of love but in no sense is her love es- tablished and any attempt to make it a part of the play is sim- ply a departure from the immutable limits of the given theme and a step toward the construction of a distinct and separate plot. Love is not a factor in this play and cannot be spliced onto it! The framework of "The Climax" is ideal structure for a play. The acts are ideal divisions of the material. They define the Beginning, the middle and end of a completed ac- tion in a very skillful way. The blending of plot theme with The DRAMATIST melody theme is a master stroke and the Play deserves its place in the ranks, far to the front ! IS MATRIMONY A FAILURE A Successful Adaptation. There is one peculiarity about this work by Mr. Leo Die- trichstein that deserves a word of comment and com.menda- tion. Out of a reigning Berlin success this author has made an American comedy ! It sounds impossible, perhaps, but he has done his work with rare slcill, transposing atmosphere, collo- quialisms and character. Unlike most adaptations the work is clean and free from the odor of vulgarity. But the point that is of value to the aspiring dramatists of this country is the fact that here is a triumph as a result of the strenuous study of technic without the aid of inventive genius required to construct an original Play. This should be a source of hope and inspiration to the Dra- matist who feels after repeated attempts that he does not pos- sess the required degree of creative imagination. There is a wide chance in the field of adaptation and dram^atization for utilizing the fancy of others. But the one ever necessary re- quisite is — Technical skill ! If you cannot be a Fitch be a Die- trichstein ! THE RINGMASTER. The season thus far has not brought forth any plays re- markable for their technical merit such as "The Easiest Way" and "The Clim.ax" of last year but we call attention to "The Ringmaster" more for its want of technic, the negative study often being a more potent lesson than the ideal drama. Here we have the making of a bully good play with a cou- ple of well built scenes but encumbered by the traditional de- sire to "ring in" an abundance of sentiment and comedy. For this purpose the author calls into existence a sister of the Ringmaster who does a wireless, sea-sick, champagne stunt just to delay the principal action of the Play; and a oair of juvenile lovers whose vicissitudes belong to a skit for the vaudeville stage and not in "The Ringmaster." For want of Scene Units in the structure a superfluity of characters is mortgaged onto the production and Drama sleeps while these useless accessories apologize for their intrusion. There is a good scene where the daughter unconsciously de- nounces the unscrupulous business methods of her father, the Ringmaster of Wall Street, in accusing the innocent party of the crimes actually committed by her parent. The DRAMATIST Without a doubt the Play for need of skillful technical treatment. It smacks of the old school of double stories and bi-plots and fails to conform to the new type of Drama so clearly defined in recent successes. SAMUEL JOHNSON, PLAYWRIGHT. David Garrick and Dr. Samuel Johnson were warm friends. Johnson could write a dictionary but not a Play. After a futile attempt to stage "Irene," a tragedy especially written for the actor, Garrick made the following allusion: "When Johnson writes Drama, declamation roars whilst passion sleeps. When Shakespeare wrote he dipned his pen in the blood of human- ity." Will some one kindly tell us why the author of a gem like "Rasselas" could not write Drama? Was it because he tried to write it and not build it? Shakespeare studied Play build- ing along with stage building! As an actor he acquired the Dramatic conscience which is invaluable to the dramatist. If Johnson could have said to Garrick: "David, teach me what you know about the laws of dramatic construction," doubtless the two might have made a fair play of "Irene." But Garrick was Johnson's pupil to begin with and the writer of dictiona- ries was not a man to be taught ! Lytton-Bulwer, on the other hand, had a similar experience with Macready, the famous actor-manager, and profited by the association and advice of an expert in stagecraft. Although a noted writer of the narrative class of composition Bulwer failed utterly in his early attempt at playwriting. "The Duchess de la Vailliere." Critics declared that it was not in his power to attain the Art of dramatic construction and the- atrical effect. Macready came to the rescue ! It was a union of imagination and craft. Macready wrought wonders in the re-shaping of Bulwer's plays and his next offering, "The Lady of Lyons," is a sample of what "Rasselas" might have been had Johnson yielded to the same available expedient. ANOTHER DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE John Bull Backing American Play Builders. The Progressive Play Producing Association is the name of a co-operative company being formed for the purpose of producing N. Y. successes in London and the English Pro- vinces. The tide has turned, my brother! American mana- gers are no longer dependent upon European dram.atists for high-class plays! The success of Henry E. Dixey's "The Man on the Box" and of James Forbes' "The Chorus Lady," re- cently produced in London are practical proof of the drift dra- matic tides have taken. Here is a double source of income for DRAM the Playwright. Pinero, Barrie and Jones have long reaped a Yankee harvest — Johnnie Bull must now pay toll for Uncle Sam's attractions! NATURAL-BORNNESS The following article is written by Arthur F. Sheldon, who calls his great institution "A School of Scientific Salesman- ship." It is virtually a University of Character Construction formulating the Science of SELF — A study of infinite value to the dramatist who also is a salesman, or should be ! One good thing about those of this class who are truly great is their progressiveness. They recognize the fact that "the world do move" and they move right along with it. They see clearly that no one is so great that he cannot become greater. They realize that knowledge is power and they grasp every opportunity to add to their store of knowledge, both general and specific. "They acquire all the general knowledge possible because they know that the broader their range of knowledge, the bet- ter can they appeal to, and put themselves in tune with, the vastly varied degrees of intelligence and types of human na- ture with which they come in contact. "They recognize quickly the value of all specific knowledge pertaining to their own special business of salesmanship, for they realize the fact that their business is a science and the practice of it a profession. "But there are dangers in being a 'natural-born.' The in- centive for work, application and perseverance is largely taken away from the man who inherits a fortune, whether it be in money or natural gifts of qualities. "He comes to rely so thoroughly upon natural gifts that he does not go ahead in the work of self-development, and he leans so hard upon those natural gifts that he sometimes wears them out or breaks them down. He comes to a point pretty soon where his natural gifts will not keep him going ahead, and then he commences going backward, for there is no such thing as standing still. "J. I. C, Maud S., Sunol, Pink Coat, Wyeth and Lou Dil- lon were all 'natural-born' trotters, runners or pacers, but sup- pose their owners had rested content with their good breeding, their pedigrees, their 'natural-born-ness,' and had not em- ployed scientific trainers to develop their speed, do you sup- pose they would have broken world's records and won great races? Not at all. Horses that were not so v/ell blessed in their 'horning,' as the old lady said, but who got down to earth and worked hard would have made them go way back in the stable or pasture and lie down. Don't you think so? D R A M A T I "Now let us go back to mother earth for an illustration. The richest natural soil will not produce its richest harvests except by cultivation. If left alone as nature made it. its owner will not continue to reap abundantly unless he tends, cultivates, enriches and develops it. Without scientific care, it will soon lose its strength and begin to go backward. With that care, its productiveness is ever on the increase, "And to come to man in the line of intellectual effort. Lord Byron was without question a natural-bom poet. But do you suppose his name would now be written among the immortals had he not cultivated the talents which nature gave him? At fifteen years of age he had studied and largely digested some 1,500 volumes. He became the master of many languages. He enriched his mind. He recognized that knowledge was power. He cultivated his natural gifts. He developed them, and he became truly great and left a lasting fame. "And so we might go on and on with illustrations without end, to show how unwise, how dangerous, how absolutely foolish it is to neglect natural gifts. They are but the founda- tion upon which to build. They should be honored and rever- enced and cared for as precious gifts, and the possessor of them should bestow upon them his tenderest care. "I hope you see clearly, therefore, that I in no way belittle the fact and the value of natural gifts ; but, on the other hand, I want you to see clearly how foolish it is to make the claim that because one is bom that way he cannot become stronger by scientific cultivation. "And now I want you to see just as clearly the fact that it is just as foolish to say that unless one is a 'natural-born sales- man' he can never become a great salesman. "Listen to me now while I tell you the truth. I would rather undertake to make a great salesman out of one who was not bom with great natural gifts in that direction than to undertake to make a truly great salesman out of one with those natural gifts who is not progressive enough to see the importance of cultivating and developing those natural gifts. "Do you see clearly what I mean? It, in one sense, is the old case of the tortoise and the hare. The hare, depending upon his natural fleetness, went to sleep ; but the tortoise kept on trying, plugged right along, and beat Mr. Hare out in the race. "Let us go back to mother earth for another illustration. Were you ever out in Colorado or Wyoming or any of those districts that are, or were, arid wastes, with a soil in which nothing good would grow? If you have been there, you have seen here a strip of that barren land upon which nothing good is growing, and there by its side a soil once just like it in every respect, which is now yielding in most bountiful abundance. The D RAMATIST "The natural elements of great abundance were there all the time, and had been for ages ; all that land needed was the application of scientific irrigation and cultivation in order to develop its productiveness. "And did you ever see the little old gnarled crab-apple tree, with its sour and bitter fruit, and counted by the farmer a fail- ure? And have you seen some one come along who under- stood that nature could be assisted by grafting a sprout of use- ful fruit upon its body or one of its limbs? Have you watched that sprout grow and its fruit ripen into the luscious Pippin or Baldwin or some ether fine apple that made our hearts glad and our mouths water when we were boys? Oh! Nature teaches us lots of lessons if we will only look and listen and believe. "And now let us come to man, the highest type of creation and the only creature blessed with reason. "Because he was bom a certain way, must he always re- main in that natural state? Is he the only one of nature's pro- ductions which is chained by environment and natural condi- tions? Is he a slave to inherited traits? No! No! If he will but use his greatest gift, the one so great that God gave it to none but him — reason, pure, reason, I mean — he can break the strongest chains that bind ; he can change the most barren soil and can make it produce what harvest and what fruit he wills it to produce. "Millions have been sleeping long enough. The night of misunderstanding of their own possibilities has been long enough. The day of truth is here, and it's time to wake up. Wake! O man, and know you have it in your power to be- come what you will. "And now let me tell you what it seems to me is one of the drugs which has caused so many to sleep so long in utter un- consciousness of their own possibilities of development. It is the fact of the world's accepting as facts many things that are nothing more than falsehoods. And the one who first gave utterance to statements concerning man's inability to outgrow unfavorable 'natural-born-ness' may have been either an hon- est man who made a mistake, or an insincere man who was trying to say something smart. "Some one, generations ago, said something that sounded all right. The world liked it and handed it down to the next generation, which passed it along to its children, who passed it along to the next generation, which assimilated it, until it finally became a part of the human race and was accepted uni- versally as the truth, when, as a matter of fact, it was all the time 'a lie, and the truth abode not in it.' It has been a drug of misunderstanding all this time, deadening the senses and narrowing the possibilities of millions of human beings. The DRAMATIST "It continues to do its deadening work until the X-ray of concentrated thought comes along and reveals its true nature, and then the world first laughs and scoffs and jeers at the voice of truth; then it listens, and pretty soon it says: 'Why, yes, of course, I always knew that old fogy statement was false.' And then everybody hurries up to get into the band wagon of truth, while the band of enlightenment plays the march of progress. "The old statement and belief that the world was flat was handed down this way for ages, and everybody believed it. There are races today which bow down to and worship wooden gods and tell their children it is true and right for them to so worship; that their pleasure will bless and their wrath will curse ; and the children believe it and hand this lie on down to their children. And so do false ideas of religion and mistakes in every line of thought dam — and damn — the current of prog- ress, until the discernment and courage of truth points the way to better things. Those who are bold enough to smash the graven images of falsehood and error do the world good. "Did you know that Swoboda and Sandow, two of the strongest men in the world today physically, were born weak- lings? Ah, but you say, that's a different thing. You can de- velop muscle by certain methods but you cannot develop those mental, moral and spiritual qualities which go to make certain characteristics. "But please do not make such a statement, my good friend, until you have looked into modem science as applied to char- acter building. If you will reserve your judgment until you look into that, you will never make the mistake of counting yourself so weak and powerless as all that. "Blessed with reason, the greatest gift of God to man, backed up by real desire to do and be, reinforced by the cour- age which makes you dare to try, and with the energy which puts all these to the test of application and perseverance, you are absolutely the architect of your own future; the actual builder of your own self; and you can build as you will, and will realize that verily the reason most men do not accomplish more is because they do not attempt more." THE INTELLECTUAL DRAMATIST. Ibsen, Klein and Others. Schopenhauer told us that simplicity was a mark of truth — of Genius ! And warned the writer against a manifest endea- vor to exhibit more intellect than he possessed! The romantic nature in many persons leads them to soar above the common herd into the realm of the muses little knowing that such flights betray more of the "manifest endeavor" than intelli- gence. The DRAMATIST As a practical lesson in the paramount importance of sim- plicity in Dramatic Art let us take the life and evolution of Ibsen as a master Dramatist. "Peer Gynt," "Brand" and "Em- peror and Galilian," are three high art specimens written in accordance with the ideals of literary critics but as Plays they are far from the pungency and skill of Ibsen's later realistic Drama. For this great playwright whilst he ascended tech- nically had to come down the ladder of intellectual analysis and apply his attacks on idealism to the everyday people of everyday life. Here he found his greatest scope for demonstrating ideal- ism as a social force. Not in the production of Art for art's sake — emperors, saints and rom.antic personages but in the homely, familiar species like doctors, parsons, bankers and builders such as he employed in the "Pillars of Society." This transition in the life of Ibsen the Dramatist is a tre- mendous endorsement in favor of simplicity in dramatic com- position. No highly intellectual scholar has made a successful dramatist for this very reason. He cannot see with the eyes of the multitude nor feel with their hearts. And few are the instances where experience has triumphed in teaching very learned minds that a descent from the heights of philosophic illusion is the only path to play-writing ! It is freedom from these scholarly fetters that explains the remarkable rise of certain playwrights. They are not ham- pered with learning ! They spring from the ranks of the com- mon people and know well the call of the herd ! Charles Klein might be cited as a most conspicuous exam- ple of this type of successful dramatist. In neither of his two pronounced successes, "The Music Master" nor "The Lion and the Mouse," is intellectual supremacy or even technical skill the dominant factor. They are not psychological fantasies, they are crude Plays telling a simple tale in familiar, homely heart language ! There is even an over-abundance of ordinary life in them, ordinary in the sense of being superfluous. But by hook or crook some sort of interest is kept going in each and the Play starts creeping at the tag end of the first Act, and manages to hold interest till the curtain falls. In "The Third Degree" a perceptible improvement in the author's technic is noted. He has relinquished the anti- quated form of double story in a play and maintains his vigi- lant adherence to the throbbing of the heartstrings. Do not gain the impression that this faculty has come to Mr. Klein without years of patient toil and observation. In fact the lack of technic might indicate more observation and research for situation than structure as is evinced in his use of the popular hypnotic device in his latest Play. 8 DRAM Have we made a clear case against the ineffectiveness of the intellectual author? It is quite a journey from Ibsen to Klein but who can say that in simplicity of structure and real dramatic force such plays as the above and "Paid in Full," "A Happy Marriage," "The Witching Hour" and "The Climax" are not the eve of an evolution in playbuilding that will out- Ibsenize Ibsen? "IT IS MORE PROFITABLE TO RECKON UP OUR DEFECTS THAN TO BOAST OF OUR ATTAIN- MENTS."— Carlyle. "GET BUSY!" IS THE SLOGAN OF THE AGE! IT REQUIRES NOT TALKERS BUT DOERS! SAME WITH DRAMA— DON'T TALK! ACT! DRAM Jl Vlay is the lengthened shadow of a man — the man Who Writes it. Yes, he is a miracle of genius because he is a miracle of labor; because instead of trusting to the resources of his own single mind he has ransacked a thousand minds; because he makes use of the accumulated wisdom of ages and takes as his point of departure the very last line and boundary to which science has advanced; because it has ever been the object of his life to assist every intellectual gift of Nature, however mu- nificent and however splendid, with every resource that art could suggest and every attention that diligence could bestow. — Business Philosopher. 10 ATIST LUTHER B. ANTHONY, E.ditor Vol. I. EASTON, PA. No. 2 QUARTERLY 1910 JANUARY The 1 909 R ecord How Many Young Authors Master the Fundamentals? ONE IN 500. Out of fifteen thousand plays by unknown authors sent to managers during igog thirty were accepted! What of the re- maining fourteen thousand nine hundred and seventy? Mana- gers unanimously agree that the great majority of them gave no evidence whatever of a mastery even of the fundamentals of dramatic construction! 500 to !!! Is the proportion over- whelming? Begin the New Year with a resolution to reduce that fourteen thousand ! Study your art ! MANAGERS HUNTING FEVERISHLY FOR PLAYS. Theatres Close for Want of Attractions. What does it all mean? Is it possible that there is actually a dearth of plays? Is the demand greater than the supply in a profession that surpasses all others as a short cut to fame and fortune? For surely no other occupation brings a man half a million dollars for a year's work! There is no scarcity of plays of the sort that answered the purpose only a few years back, but the fact of the matter is that an entirely new species has developed in Dram.a in this short space of time. This transition is due to the awakening of the audience. The pub- lic of this strenuous age has become many times more critical and has ceased to submit to the irrational artificiality hereto- fore served up as Drama. The old style play was a mere vehicle for the absurd hys- teria of the emotional capacities of the actor. The new or naturalistic type depicts life in its real aspects exposing its virtues and vices and drawing conclusions therefrom. We only need refer to the plays of yesterday to see in the philosophy of many writers, this tenor: Put it on the stage and the people will think it is true. The play of today and of the future is the one whose author carefully considers the logic of his average onlooker if not the severest test that sound common sense will II The DRAMATIST afford. This is an era of Scientific thought and the most mag- nificent discovery of the searching modem spirit is the pres- ence of law, order and harmony in all the world around us; that creation is not a chaos, a collection of simple isolated facts, but that all is correlative and interdependent. The same law holds true of the highest and best of human creations. Art is Nature passed through the alembic of man. The reign of law has crept into every department of life trans- forming knowledge ever5rwhere into Science. And the pursuit of law is the passion of Science. Our finest mental structures are built upon laws or principles and every branch of modern education has a classified knowledge resolving in general laws and scientific principles. For the first time in the history of Dramatic Literature can Drama boast of a Science! The Sci- ence of Drama shows the student the underlying laws and in- terdependent principles upon which good plays must be con- structed. It is this enlightened method of studying the Art of Playwriting that has enabled Dramatists to advance the standards of plays to meet the modern demand for higher Art. The imbecile play does not fit the scientific spectator! This new type of play is clearly defined in recent successes and the characteristics above mentioned are conspicuously absent in the most pronounced failures. The New Drama has evolved as rapidly in this country as elsewhere and in the mat- ter of simple, straightforward technic the Yankee genius leads ! Eight years ago sixty per cent of the plays in America were foreign importations. Today the foreign product is scarcer than the native was then. Here is a practical evidence of progress! In another similar epoch the United States will be the foremost exponent of Theatrical Art in the World ! The increasing tendency is to reflect contemporary life. Managers want plays by American authors taking a firm hold on Modern American life ! They m.ay deal with life in the East or life in the West, in the heart of civilization or on its frontiers; social, commercial, domestic, political and even re- ligious so long as the quality of the output is abreast with the progressive standards dem^anded by the strenuous public. "For the most perfect production of Art in ALL its forms, the needful preparation is still— SCIENCE!"— Herbert Spen- cer. THE COTTAGE IN THE AIR. First New Play at the New Theatre. It seems incredible to think that The New Theatre does not know a Play when it sees one? It seems still more diffi- cult to believe that it would have selected "The Cottage in the Air" for its opening week had it realized that this piece is not 12 The DRAMATIST a Play. If we can show, therefore, that it is not a Play, we must take for granted that the "New" conception of Dramatic Composition is not altogether clear. For technical purposes we may define a play as A Completed Action having a begin- ning, a middle and an end. Can this definition be applied to "A Cottage in the Air?" Let us see what constitutes its Theme: The folly of indis- criminate almsgiving. How is this theme carried into Plot? A young princess chooses a life devoted to charity in prefer- ence to a royal union. She finds her indiscriminate almsgiving a harmful influence and finally consents to marry the prince. This is a tale of adventure, but not a completed action. Action implies doubt. Drama is Conflict always. There should be a clash of interests and an obstacle to be overcome, but here we have a tranquil little tale of fairyland as languid as a lullaby. There is no doubt. There is no conflict. There is nothing at issue. None of the dramatic elements of anxiety, suspense, curiosity or sympathy are dramatically employed in its devel- opment. The "Comedy" was adapted from a fairy tale and re- mains nothing but a simple fable for want of proper technical treatment. There is plenty of material in it for a Play, but it is not moulded into a sustained action ! The presentation of a young girl's adventures, even though she be a runaway prin- cess, does not constitute action. "The Cottage in the Air" is a most excellent example of what Drama is not. If "The New Theatre" knows exactly what a Play is, it has found out since selecting this first bill, for surely no evidence of that know- ledge is manifest in the virgin effort. THE COMMANDING OFFICER. Does the Play Reader Know? The important question about this play written by a man who has acted as Play reader for Charles Frohman for the last eleven years is: Does Burt Sayre really know how bad his Play is? Would he allow it to be staged if he did? These are the points that concern the many American playwrights who forward their manuscripts to managers for approval. "The Commanding Officer" violates every law of Drama that the science of Playwriting has thus far formulated ! It is a child's conception of what a Play should be dealing with a monstrous subject which the play gives no excuse for venti- lating. It is the oldest of the "old school" melodrama written by a man who is supposed to judge modern dramatic material. Some years ago Thomas wrote a play on this order called "Ari- zona," but he has long since graduated from that obsolete standard! 13 The DRAMATIST There are so many useless characters employed in this play that it may be likened to the Three-ring circus with the usual supplement of side shows. And while Mr. Sayre is said to en- joy the distinction of never having abstracted ideas from the plays presented to him for reading it is at least evident that this crude document is nothing more than a conglomerate compilation of little "stunts" assembled from somewhere. The author's process is plainly discernible. He wishes to write a Play — he refers to his scrapbook of situations — here he finds a clever device for procuring indelible evidence by means of a camera. "All right," says Mr. Sayre, "we will take a snap shot of a wife kissing the villain No. i," and he begins to construct his Plot around this inspiring incident. On page "23" of the said scrap book he also finds a memorandum that a shadow cast upon a window curtain is a rare bit of compromising tes- timony, and in consequence he inserts the episode of the sha- dow of a "Man in the room" which turns out to be only a wo- man in male attire. The trick compromises the character of his heroine and away he goes writing all around this little scandal splitting his Plot into half a dozen shreds of disunity. The continual run of such digression soon establishes the fact that his play is a collection of "thrillers" drawn from the read- er's notebook and that his melodrama is merely a net work strung around these incidents as compared with a legitimate play BUILT upon a theme by a process of creative imagina- tion. We have referred to villian No. i because like the double Topsy's and Eva's in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," this new melo- drama has pairs of everything — villains, lovers, sweethearts, leading men and leading women. "Stilly" music is also a fac- tor in painting the dime novel atmiosphere that pervades this piece. Strange as it may seem, however, there are good spots in this crude specimen of "workmanship," and stranger still is the fact that these commendable scenes have only resulted when Mr. Sayre evidently quit his scrap book for a moment and put his own pen to the paper. Act II has a very respecta- ble bit of dramatic composition in the way of a cross-examina- tion of an innocent girl who finds difficulty in defending her innocence without exposing the dishonor of her dearest friend. The Scene is a good one. There are possibilities in this material for a good Play which a dramatist with a clear vision of Unity could clarify and reduce to a simple, compact play. But judging from this specimen of Mr. Sayre's work, it is safe to say that he will never in a thousand years write a Play in the modern accept- ance of that term, unless he wakens to the fact that an entirely 14 The DRAMATIST new type of Drama has evolved — a scientific Drama which re- quires systematic structure and until he studies this Drama and masters its principles (all of which we have said are trans- gressed in "The Commanding Officer") he will not even know how to efficiently perform the functions of his office as reader of plays for the most prominent manager in America. SEVEN DAYS AND THE WOMAN PAYS. The Advantage of Collaboration. That a writer with some notion of stage requirements may fail utterly in his own attempt and yet make good in collabo- ration with another is clearly illustrated in the joint effort of Avery Hopwood and Mrs, Rinehart : "Seven Days" which is a tremendous success following Hopwood's dramatic disaster "The Woman Pays." In "The Woman Pays" Hopwood attempted a morbid problem play which is conspicuous for its absence of technical problem and which manifests little skill in any feature of its creation save a fair notion of stage require- ments. But in collaboration with Mrs. Rinehart who furnished the humorous material highly susceptible of dramatization he succeeded in bringing out a Play of the lighter vein which threatens to rival "Charley's Aunt" in a record breaking run on Broadway. Nothing could testify more profoundly to the demand for consistent Cause and Effect even in a farce than the success of this play. It is highly improbable in many details but the great big Cause that binds the complete action into one whole is logical and rational. The house is quarantined for smallpox and hence the reason for keeping this jolly bunch of fun mak- ers in continued relations of merriment for the seven days. "The Woman Pays" is a much feebler argument logically. A woman forces her betrayer to marry her at the point of a pistol. She rears the child in solitude but because of its ap- peal to both of them the man and wife are reunited. The Cause for this reunion is not convincing. It could doubtless be wrought into the play if the characters and conditions were modified to make such an issue plausible but the play as it stands fails for want of rational Cause. Of course the Theme to start with is morbid and unsympathetic. These two plays are cited as an instance of collaborative success follovt^ing individual failure. It is frequently advisable for an author to join efforts with one of an entirely different point of view. Readers of "The Dramatist" who would like to enter into arrangement to collaborate with other authors are invited to forward their manuscript to the editor who after reading same will suggest, if possible some name with whom 15 DRAM the applicant may correspond. Two heads are ofttimes bet- ter than one ! ISRAEL. By the French Builder of Gigantic Scenes. Bernstein's new play "Israel" is a startling example of the French structural method of building backward from a huge situation. This play conforms so closely to that plan of pro- cedure that the one Big Scene virtually constitutes the play despite all backward or forward attempt at construction. It might be said in a strictly technical sense that the play does not begin in the first act nor end in the last act. We lis- ten to a great deal of talk in Act I about Thibault's hatred for the Jews, and see him challenge a prominent Hebrew gentle- man to a duel. We see no purpose in the duel, and it is for this reason that the first act does not begin the play. The con- ditions of the actions are not shared with the audience. We have nothing to arouse our emotions to any dramatic degree because we are not given the facts which should arouse them. The author could have done this had he imparted to his audi- ence (not necessarily to the characters in the play) some sub- tle inference that Thibault is challenging his own father to mortal combat. We would then have something for our emo- tions to feed upon — fear, hope, sympathy, and solicitude, all would spring from such an inference, but in absolute ignorance of the premises of the play how can we be expected to "Take Notice" of the first, or anticipate anything for the second act. The same author has accomplished this feat most dexter- ously in "The Thief," where he allows the boy to be charged with the theft but gives the audience two clues to the con- trary: the fact that the young wife is inconsistently extrava- gant and that the boy has strong reason for concealing his er- rand in the room where the thefts had been committed. On the other hand the Third or last act of "Israel" does not conclude the action that really gets a going in the magnificent second act for the reason that it deals with a love affair be- tween Thibault and a girl who drops from the clouds, instead of bringing the race prejudice problem to a solution. The au- thor skilfully illustrates that a Jew, under the pressure of Gen- tile environment and misconception as to his own blood can be taught to despise the Jews just as religiously as any misguided Christian, but here the magnitude of the play is thrown to the winds. The denouement is ignored and the opportunity of making an exalted triumph for the transcending personality created in the character of Thibault's father, is cast asunder. The father appeals to his natural son in vain. Thibault calmly replies "I hate you," and the insipid, manufactured mush above i6 The DRAMATIST mentioned is allowed to end the play — a love scene truckling to the traditional demand for a "Happy-ever-afterward." But we can well afford to forget all this distorted structure (and it is rumored that the conventional happy ending is an American amendment) while witnessing the Second act, for here we have the acme of technical perfection. The act is practically one extended scene between mother and son, in which the boy wrings the awful intelligence (which now dawns dramatically upon the audience and would carry fully as well if the first act were entirely omitted) that the man whom Thibault is about to fight, once cared for her ; then, that she cared for this man; that the affection was entirely pure and innocent ; and finally after a harrowing cross-examination, that she had sinned and that this Hebrew is Thibault's own father. The master stroke in this scene is the skilfull treat- ment which enables every atom of evidence to be confined to the tense dialog between these two people — mother and son. The marriage certificate, the wedding ring, the witnesses, and all the thousand hum-drum devices familiar in common- place Dram.a are dispensed with. The Dramatist places these two characters before us and out of the strongest exigency of circumstances and relations between them, builds this power- ful situation of plain, pungent Drama. As a scene it has few rivals in recent playwriting, the nearest approach being the second act of "The Thief" by the same author, which is treated under separate heading in this issue. YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT. Excellent Example of Amateur Infirmities. Picture two writers helplessly drifting in a current of clever play ideas, unable to gain a foothold where they might deter- mine which to select and which to reject; and you have an adequate conception of the whirlpool of conflicting thoughts that submerged Newton Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson in their futile efforts to make a consistent Play of "Your Humble Servant." It is the purpose of the following analysis to show conclu- sively that a certain circumscribed area of material contains the possible structure for ONE Play and that any departure from that inherent course of development after the boundaries are once laid out, merely invites disunity and confusion. It is not always easy to ascertain this native structure from the au- thor's staged production for his intended idea is often obscured by hazy technic. In "Your Humble Servant" it is neces- sary to search diligently for the dramatic germ which the au- thors attempted to exploit but it is about as follows: 17 The DRAMATIST An actor discovers that he loves his ward upon her an- nouncement that she is infatuated with a younger member of their company. Financial distress confronts them disillusion- ing the boy but stimulating the man who attains success as well as the love of his ward. This is the legitimate play idea intimated in the chaos of distracted stuff which the authors have endeavored to merge into one dram.a. It is the view of their material which a su- perior altitude would have afforded them — a height they must climb before being able to survey the prospect and determine what legitimately constitutes their own play-territory. According to the synopsis above, the fundamental condi- tion is that the guardian discovers his love for his ward when he learns that she loves the younger fellow. This element should be introduced as soon as possible for it is one of the cardinal points upon which the action rests. Where do we first encounter it in the play? At the end of the Third Act! To be sure there is some intimation of the situation shown in the first act by the guardian's behavior when the girl tells him of her love for the lad, but a basic factor in the primal struc- ture of a play cannot be left to guesswork or the symptoms of love-lorn sighs. These bulwarks of construction must be built with strong lines of permanence and the only effective method of doing this is by means of Scenes! Some such scene does occur at the end of the third act but not being the outgrowth of what precedes it is little more than a one act play in itself. This scene should precede the entire action of the play for if we do not know beyond the shadow of a doubt that this man loves his ward what foundation is there for the play to rest upon? What basis is there to stimulate that hope — hope — hope — that the "worthy one will win her." Instead of confin- ing doubt to this issue the play casts a doubt upon the love of the guardian which our summary shows to be one of the fore- most essentials of demonstration. Instead of fixing the premises firmly in the minds of their audience the authors start off the play with a diverting piece of episode. The sheriff, who rightfully belongs in the first act to convey the impending financial disaster, is made to do a lit- tle amateur theatrical stunt; not because it in any way ad- vances the Plot but simply for the reason that the vaudeville stage in ages past has endorsed the stunt as "funny." It is funny just as a thousand other tricks might be. But there is no place in a real Play for the most humorous thing in the world unless it contributes in some perceptible degree to the progress of Plot or the Action. Of course this rule does not apply to farce or the fantastic Play. The next impression given us in the first act of this play is that the Plot will concern a young man's choice between home i8 The DRAMATIST and a stage sweetheart. In a special scene the boy's father is introduced. He appeals to his runaway son to renounce this life of folly for a home of luxury and a career in the financial world. Haven't we every right to presume from this empha- sized condition that the play will involve a struggle between these two contending forces? But this predicted struggle is no material factor in the play ! In the summary above you will note that the true cause for the boy's desertion of the girl is the financial distress that confronts them. The father's protest is brought in as an addi- tional motive and results in diluting the main cause. The fact that the authors wish to establish is that the boy's love is not equal to the test! He is out of the running! The mature love of the actor is of superior quality. The father's opposition to the stage and the fine home that awaits the boy might be inci- dental factors in the action but they are not facts that warrant whole Scenes to pronounce them ! Particularly if such Scenes subordinate the Plot essentials. If is in this regard that the authors need more perspective in their play plans ! All of the second act is given over to proving two things. That the boy is pigeon-hearted and surrenders — that the man is eternally optimistic and strikes luck. But here again Unity is impaired, for the luck that he strikes is a precarious horse race — not the legitimate success that is in keeping with what has gone before. This resort to irrelevant chance is the flimsi- est subterfuge. The success consistent with the Plot is stage success ! If the second act ended with the young cub's capitu- lation coincident with a gleam of triumph for the guardian, the third and fourth acts might easily be merged into one epoch of the action setting forth the triumph. As it is, these two acts ramble aimlessly about taking artistic success as a matter of course instead of attaining it out of the natural development of the play. All sorts of mock martyrdom artificially defer the conclusion of the love story and the fourth act is only made possible by the mechanical stage hysterics of the girl in act III, who, after warmly declaring her love for the guardian frantically asserts she didn't mean it ! This is the author's con- trivance irrespective of the nature of their plot. Besides these principal violations of technic there is the spurious episode of the juggler who is supposed to have aroused the jealousy of the young lover (This promises an en- tirely new play) — the guardian's drink contest with the society sot, which prompts us to expect some complication arising from this debauch ; and the Yiddish stagemanager who works overtime to give us an accurate account of the vicissitudes of his profession : all of which encumber the legitimate progress of the Plot without bearing essential relation to any minor de- tail of Plot action. 19 DRAM "Your Humble Servant" is the strongest argument for complete plans and specifications in the project of Play build- ing! If the novice does not know what constitutes the frame- work of a house how can he construct one? He is very apt to fall into the error of the authors of this piece building more rooms than the walls will contain or the roof shelter ! THE FORTUNE HUNTER. Another Example of the New Type. "The Fortune Hunter" takes first place in the igog edition of productions for two reasons. It is the new type of simple story and construction and it is an IDEA Play ventilating a vital problem of social welfare. The moral of the Play is: Don't marry a rich "lady," for you may some day be able to support yourself and the woman you love! Let us reduce the Play to a synopsis and survey the result. A young man seeks a rich man's daughter but declines the match upon discovering his business ability to provide for the girl he really loves. It is a very wholesome little story and Mr. Winchell Smith has handled it with rare skill and humor. He can study with pr.ofit, however, the superior technic of Eugene Walter in "the Easiest Way" and "Paid in Full." Particularly is this advisable in the denouement of his play. The solution is not obtained from a logical manipulation of the material but is patched up out of foreign threads of irrelevant fabric. The closing situation is as follows. The young man has attained the fullest measure of success in his undertaking. The heiress has proposed marriage. But alas! He now finds himself capable of earning money and to cap the climax he really loves a bewitching little lass! The question that now confronts the playwright is: How can he shake the heiress? Mr. Smith loses courage. He does not see a legitimate way to accomplish this feat so he trumps up a second story of ru- mored embezzlement, permits this rumor to repel the moneyed maiden and bluntly tosses his hero into the arms of his hero- ine. But this is not playwriting ! The Play is still unfinished. The ending affixed is not a conclusion dramatically drawn from the proposition he started with. The materials are all there to work with but the builder has laid them down just at a moment when the completed structure was promised. Deserting his firm foun- dation he selects another building site, sticks a few straws in the sand and says: "My building is finished!" The true solu- tion of this Play is in the plot itself. The young man's discov- ery of self-sufficiency is the real cause that dispels the feminine financial fancy and not the haphazard device of a false rumor of embezzlement. Such clap-trap contrivance puts a farce- comedy end to a Play that is otherwise original and funny. 20 D R A M A T I There is a third story lightly sketched in this play which serves more as an obstacle to the progress of the main plot than any other purpose. It retards the beginning of the play and clogs the essential action which we are only too eager to see. We refer to the water-gas invention. Considerable talk is necessary in the first act to prepare for this impediment and it comes to nothing of plot value. The Theme purpose of the author is to show that his young hero has in him the qualities that win success which faculty only the exigency of circum- stances could arouse. Instead of that he divides the issue and decides to "ring in" a cheap, irrelevant episode of speculation to achieve the young man's success. His ability had already been illustrated. The get-rich-quick element only dilutes the force of the principal story and impairs the Problem which calls for that moderate degree of success financially which would naturally accrue from the honest efforts of newly at- tuned personality in developing a business enterprise. The author should choose one course of action and cling to it. By all odds the regular commercial method of legitimate trade is preferable. It enforces the character of our hero. To prevent a sacrifice sale of an old man's invention is a fortuitous expedi- ent and to become rich through a clever sale of this patent, (which does not take place before the audience) is not dra- matic method, it is story. THE HARVEST MOON. Intellect Against Art. In his new play "The Harvest Moon" Augustus Thomas boldly defies the fundamental principles of play construction. The play deals with a metaphysical theory that is fast becom- ing science but while it is an evidence of intellect it is a lapse of art. The result is a preachment — not a Play. This may be due to deliberate intention in the belief that he, the author, is bigger than his art, or it may come through utter surrender to an absorbing theme. The death of Clyde Fitch leaves Thomas his lenial succes- sor as the leading exponent of American drama, but the latter certainly inherits no liberal legacy of Fitch's mastery of tech- nic. Thomas is a capable scene builder. He has created one scene in the second act of his new play which is supreme in itself, but the great gaps in Plot structure all about it natu- rally detract from its potency and render the absence of tech- nic painfully apparent. He expects to arouse our sympathy concerning a young girl's ill-treatment, but from the very out- set neglects to share with his audience the information that is expected to generate these emotions. In dissecting the first act we see the author's intention to lead us to hope that a cer- tain French visitor will turn out to be the girl's father. This 21 The DRAMATIST parental relation is one of the vital conditions upon which he builds his play as well as the basis of authority for this man's meddling with the domestic affairs of the girl's family. The only clue we have to the blood relation between these two people is the information that the girl's mother had some love affair in France and the Frenchman's observation: "She is very like her mother — but not like me." We see that the au- thor is endeavoring to make us suspect some such outcome, but this factor of kinship being one of the cardinal essentials of Plot should not be left to any such precarious guess-work so far as the audience is concerned. It is not necessary that the characters in the play be given this bit of information until the proper time, but the audience should know or at least sur- mise it from the very first. The province of the playwright is to lead his audience to think in a certain direction, not to baffle or bewilder them. It is in this respect that Mr. Thomas has defied an immutable law of his art, transposing drama into mere fiction simply for want of conditions properly laid to gen- erate and sustain Dramatic Action. The Harvest Moon is made to shine upon a separate Plot of irrelevant romance concerning a dissolute old judge and a widow of startling sophistication. This sub-plot is in no way joined to the main story. It is a little vaudeville skit grafted on to the main Plot to meet the traditional notion that Drama is a blending of "Laughs and Tears!" Such episode should be exceedingly strong to warrant an interruption of a Play, and it must be said that technically this specimen is far below the standard Mr. Thom.as has set, both in scene construction and character study. In the absence of any evidence that this Frenchman is the girl's father the play makes a desperate effort to put an end to itself at the close of Act III where she and her lover are re- united by the light of the Harvest Moon. The fourth act which attempts to separate them again, is a gross transgres- sion upon the Unity of the principal theme, for we are now witnessing a melodrama concerning the illegitimate birth of our heroine which complication is dissolved only by the trumped-up testimony of the Frenchman whose evidence is so devoid of conviction as to reveal the author's pen sticking through the thin fabric of invention. If such a Play were of- fered by any writer other than a man of Mr. Thomas' prestige the advice would be: "Go study technic! Take Eugene Walter for a model !" 22 The DRAMATIST THE MELTING POT. Mr. Zangwill Evades the Issue. The gist of the Melting Pot is as follows : A girl of the Russian aristocracy falls in love with a Jew- ish musician whose family her father has massacred. The Russian aristocrat relinquishes his Life Prejudice. He and the Jew are fully reconciled. The daughter marries him. Purged of all detail these are the essentials of Zangwill's new Play. In every good Play the essentials are invariably proven. Do we find that the case here? The young Russian girl is fascinated with the Hebrew's musical skill but her love for the man is far from being firmly established. There is no reasonable basis for love between these radically opposed types. The author requires this condi- tion in his premises and practically assumes the fact. The young people have a little quarrel and then: "Nothing shall separate us !" But if we accept the author's proposition that the most vio- lent class hatred in the world may be overcome by a little mu- sic and love, we are still face to face with the opposition of the Russian father, who is bitterly opposed to the match to say nothing of the Jew's attitude toward an enemy who had mas- sacred the members of his own family! Here we have two firm wills in violent conflict. There may be some subtle agency in the realm of Dramatic invention that could reconcile two such enemies but Mr. Zangwill has not shown it to us. He merely evades the issue ! By the aid of a little eloquent preaching the author gives us to believe that the battle is over and that the Jew wins. For after listening to a sermon con- demning his bloody deeds the Russian calmly surrenders. The weapon he was about to use on his young adversary he now offers in abject resignation, saying: "You're right — shoot me!" Despite the fact that ex-president Roosevelt and "Collier's Weekly" commend this play for its lofty motif it cannot be called good Drama for it is not convincing. The dramatist like the jurist must firmly establish every link in his chain of evidence. When he fails to do so he reveals the naked hand of an author writing his personal views into the play instead of causing them to be brought out through the clashing inter- ests of his characters. Very much after the fashion of "The Harvest Moon," "The Melting Pot" contains a spurious fourth act which is almost wholly foreign to the Play itself, containing none of the essen- tials in the syllogism above outlined. What does the fourth act accomplish? The third act ends with the reconciliation of enemies. The daughter could easily find herself in the arms of her sweetheart, now. But no, Mr. Zangwill wishes further opportunity to shout his theories! 23 The DRAMATIST from the housetops. He places his hero on the roof garden of a city building — to preach to us — for the character has nothing more to say in his relation to the other characters. The au- thor is so intent on this sermonizing that he soon forgets to take in a valuable violin out of the rain. The play has long since stopped, but we are asked to listen to a manufactured quarrel between the lovers, long-drawn-out, and not until his eloquence is exhausted does Mr. Zangwill allow us to go home. The motive involved is highly commendable. Our purpose, however, is technical discussion and study — and the secret of the play's success is its appeal to the Jewish element. If it were not for his own tribe Mr. Zangwill would soon exhaust his audience. PAID IN FULL AND THE THIEF. Comparing Technical Attributes. These two plays have been praised by nearly every critic in the country and have received the stamp of approval of mil- lions of people. On that basis we will call them the two best modern plays extant. There may be better types of drama but they have either not been pronounced good or they have not had the final test of time. It is the duty of the aspiring drama- tist to study such specimens very closely not alone from a financial outlook but from the standpoint that only as a play succeeds is the dramatist successful for his object is to reach the greatest number of people with the message he has to con- vey. We will therefore inquire into the Dramatic elements that evidently give these plays their distinction and determine their success. Each play tells a simple, straightforward story embodying a single and simple Theme. That of "Paid in Full" is : "The reward of selfishness." That of "The Thief" is: "Theft for Love." Our next step of analysis is the reduction of each play to its least common denominator or its briefest possible syllog- ism. We will quote the following proposition done by one of the students of the Institute of the Drama. PAID IN FULL. Conditions. A Clerk steals money from his employer who loves his wife. Cause. The clerk compels his wife to make "any terms" for his escape from imprisonment. 24 DRAM Conclusion. She accomplishes her husband's release without losing her honor. THE THIEF. Conditions. A woman steals money from a friend to hold her husband's admiration. Cause. She induces a boy who is madly in love with her to assume the theft. Conclusion. Her husband repudiates her when he learns the truth. Of course these Plays contain m-any twists and turns not indicated in these brief summaries but the above problems contain the essential germ that is the seed from which the Play grows. All further details belong to Plot development. Like the postage stamp they stick to one thing until they get there. The action is not clogged with secondary story or biplot. The author signifies his purpose and sets about at once to accomplish it. The method in each case is much the same. No time is wasted on the antiquated theory that there must be an "exposition" of all the characters in the Play. From the very outset the conditions out of which the action is to grow are planted firmly with the audience. The characters take care of themselves as they always will where Theme and Proposition are adhered to. Now do not gain a misconception of our meaning. Neither Bernstein nor Walter may have fol- lowed any set chart like the foregoing but the Theme was a guiding star, nevertheless, and the flaws that do crop out in their Plays result from a departure from Theme and Propo- sition. In "Paid in Full" the wife is shown to be a stoic amidst the faultfinding relatives who remind her constantly of the hus- band's poverty. We also get a glimpse of the husband's self- ishness and of the bachelor employer's partiality for the wife and his appreciation of her merits. We are prepared for the husband's salacious proposal that his wife barter her chastity for his freedom but we are also given reason to expect her strength sufficient to resist and conquer even such a monster as the employer is seen to be. The author does not tell us how he will solve the problem but he skillfully leads us to hope — hope — hope — for the issue he finally arrives at. In "The Thief" we learn of the unwarranted extravagance of this young wife so madly in love with her own husband — a man of modest income. Then we see that the young man of 25 DRAM the house is sorely smitten with her. But there is no sugges- tion of impurity. The news of the theft in the house is given out and under rather suspicious circumstances the boy is made to confess the crime. But we are only half convinced. The author has imparted a subtle hint to us that this boy has a rea- son for confessing rather than expose certain things that would reveal his secret love for the young wife and by this means we are allowed to divine the error awaiting develop- ments in breathless suspense. We do not suspect the wife at first because of the infallible evidence apparently convicting the boy, but when the proper time comes we connect the ex- travagance with the dawning proof against her and our sympa- thy is only intensified for this little soul who has transgressed man's law in her desperation to exchange even earthly things for a fuller portion of her husband's love. This is not a lax lesson? It is merely a tribute to the old maxim that "Love is blind." The climax in each play is a struggle between man and wom.an. The one between a pure woman and her would-be seducer. The other betv^^een a pure woman and her own hus- band. In each conflict only two people are concerned and each constitutes one big scene which is the making of the Play. The Thief has one advantage over its contemporary in the matter of physical form. It is put forth in three acts. This is the ideal division for a Play! The first conveys the Conditions, the second, the Cause and the third the Conclusion. "Paid in Full" is susceptible of this ideal arrangement but a fourth Act has been attached which accomplishes nothing that could not have been settled in the third. In fact the wife's denunciation of her selfish husband could have been many times intensified if backed up by the old employer's presence and his over- whelming evidence of her heroic strength and honor! Think what a scathing reckoning the young imp would receive at the hands of a monster she had virtually sanctified ! Jimsie's love theme is a slight tendency to Disunity of the main Theme but the episode is so well handled it makes its own apology. It may be seen in the above outline of the Play that no such issue is a part of the Proposition. It is a side story spliced on to achieve the "happy ending" but so cleverly interwoven with the main fabric as to retard action the least bit possible. A like criticism may be made of the husband's jealousy in Bernstein's Play. The complication is startling and the temp- tation for the author to incorporate it in his play is overpower- ing but it is nevertheless Disunity for it bears little or no direct relation to the Proposition of the real Play and hinders the progress of the main Theme demanding a solution apart from the denouement of "The Thief." In the chaos that results the author fails to allay the jealousy he has aroused in the husband 26 The DRAMATIST and the Play is allowed to end in a very pretty but a very tame and undramatic talk condoning the wife's actions. This is true of all the Plays written by this young Frenchman. He is a winner at the climax but a "dead one" when the battle is once past. And what accounts for this sluggish denouement? It is the Disunity created by the jealousy motive. The mo- ment the wife makes public confession of her guilt the Play is at an end and the proposition solved for the husband's love is restored and any foreign element interposed to defer this pro- per end vexes us unawares and generates the sighs and yawns that greet the labored efforts that precede the final curtain. The flaw no doubt arises in transposing and transplanting the Play from France to America. Slight modifications are the usual thing and a good Play cannot be tampered with even in the tiniest parts. In France the evidence of a wife's love might not be fortified by the fact that she committed theft only that she might appear the lovelier in her husband's eyes. The American ideal is a trifle loftier. And any attempt to make a husband suspect such a wife of a monstrous sin de- bases both the man and the Play. The flaw is just as truly technical for it is a direct violation of both Proposition and Theme. The summary does not call for a jealous motive and the Theme is love, not jealousy. The purpose of analysing these two Plays is to illustrate the supremacy of ART in even the most popular form of Drama. In other words these Plays please because they ap- proach perfection in craftsmanship and not because they in- volve sensational subject matter. They mark a very noticea- ble trend in the evolution of Drama toward Unity and sim- plification of Plot. It is a stride forward in perfect keeping with the tremendous progress of this scientific age! It is the only sort of Play that will fit the age ! It is standard ! THE RETURN OF EVE. A Fantasy Because it is Not Drama. As an evidence that this is the AGE of the NEW AUTHOR no better proof can be advanced than the fact that such pro- ducts as "The Return of Eve" by Lee Wilson Dodd, are able to obtain a metropolitan hearing. The program styled it "A modern fantasy in four acts," but we shall treat of it as a Play, there being no musical accompaniment to admit it to the realm of opera. There are some good spots in the Eve character — a woman reared in total ignorance of the conventions of the inhabited world — but she is not framed in a dramatic picture; merely sketched off with very little heed to theatrical requirments. Instead of allowing conditions to unfold themselves in the 27 DRAM inevitable dramatic way, the author elects an orator in the per- son of "Old Winters" to talk the premises of his Play into the audience. There is little or no compulsive origin in this talk. It happens simply because the author so ordained it. The one thing that should be less conspicuous in a Play than any other is the AUTHOR! Or the author's purpose ! The moment his will dominates the spontaniety of the speech of the characters that moment the dramatic illusion is threatened ! What there is of coherent Plot in this piece is highly me- chanical. This is the apparent reason for naming it a "fan- tasy." It is too fantastic or artificial to come under the title of Play. But even a Phantasy in this day and age must pos- sess some logical cohesion if it is to exist upon its capacity to hold and entertain an audience. Mere stage pictures and smart epigram are no provocation for a fee of admittance. For want of consistent Plot the author finds difficulty in dividing his Play into Act units. The material is not suffi- ciently shaped to allow any such decision. An attempt is made in Act III to work up to a big Scene on the supposition that here is where the climax begins. But the emotional exhibition hangs in mid air. It is no climax for it has no foundation to rest upon. It is situation for situation sake ! The Play has no central story that leads up to climax. Some effort is devoted to creating a struggle between Adam and a worldly suitor for the hand and heart of Eve, but Adam drops completely out of the contest after a first hint at the contention and no continued purpose is seen. In Act III the Plot becomes an intrigue to swindle Eve out of her legacy. At no point in the Play are the lines of battle openly drawn. Attention is concentrated on character contrast and catchy epigram. There is no tendency toward a completed action or a concluded argument with a Beginning, a Middle and an End. As is so often the case in crude Drama the fourth Act is spurious, being nothing more than an unnecessary "stretching out of the agony." Three Acts are as a rule sufficient and the third and fourth in this Play should have been merged into one. There is no rational reason for keeping Adam and Eve apart. There is a fake misunderstanding sustained on the stage but not in the minds of the audience. Drama is definite ! If there is an obstacle it must be clearly apparent ! The spec- tator loves to submit to such an illusion when the obstacle is genuine, but when he sees that it is merely a device of the author's — action is killed outright! And it should require a pretty substantial reason to keep two unconventional lovers apart ! We call attention to the favorable attitude of managers to- ward untried Plays to remind you of the fact that this is the AGE of the NEW AUTHOR! His opportunity is Ripe ! A 28 The DRAMATIST demand has been created for the Native product and producers are willing to risk their capital to secure such financial prizes as "Paid in Full" and "The Climax." These Plays, however, were not the virgin efforts of gifted men. They represent the final victory of a long lonesorne struggle with the subtle se- crets of stagecraft! Numerous failures preceded them. Take courage, Mr. Dodd! In 1850 Ibsen manufactured documents just as undramatic as yours ! SUDERMANN'S ONE-ACT PLAYS. Streaks of Light, The Last Visit, Margot and The Faraway Princess. The one act play is a severe test of the author's skill, for if properly done it must accomplish the purpose of a full even- ing's Drama setting forth the Conditions of the action, the Cause and the Conclusion. It is really a Drama in miniature. It is a Gem. Sudermann, however, does not endorse this theory in this new group of one act plays recently translated into the English under the title of "Roses"=^. In fact he does not make a great difference between Drama and Story ex- cept for the Dialogue. These specimens do not speak well for the progress of German Dramatic Composition if Suder- mann is taken as a criterion and he is recognized in that coun- try as one of the leading exponents of dramatic literature. They do not compare favorably with the best English or American standards and are behind the age in most of the technical attributes which characterize a brand new species in the evolution of Drama, "Streaks of Light" approaches nearest the mark of modem craftsmanship. The Theme is a morbid one but the funda- mental principles of Playwriting are not so flagrantly violated as in the other three. There is excellent Preparation on Page 13 in the mother's reference to the mysterious disappearance of the roses. We at once see the clue that will lead the hus- band to the hiding place of his runaway wife. On page 32 the author employs the obsolete method of allowing two persons to converse in the presence of a third character struck tempo- rarily deaf. No author would do this who knew how to sub- stitute real art for the subterfuge. It is a survival of that antiquated form which relied upon speech instead of the actor's art for interpreting the author's meaning. All of these asides and aparts belong to the actor's facial or pantomimic performance. They destroy the illusion, if uttered aloud un- der circumstances that would not be reasonably probable in actual life. *Chas. Scribner's Sons, $1.25 net. 29 The DRAMATIST "Margot" is a gem of character drawing in so far as the in- troduction of the persons of the playlet is concerned. On page 53 the intimation that the attorney himself loves the girl is conveyed in the subtlest manner. The Scene between her mother and the attorney abounds in the liveliest germs of ac- tion. But the Theme is perverted at the very climax of the skit and its possibilities are scattered to the four winds. After the author's philosophy^ has exposed the shallowness of that social law which prescribes that a girl shall marry the man who has betrayed her pven though he be a veritable beast and after he has created a wholesome self-reliant man broad enough to rescue this girl from the fate her own mother de- signs for her — he deliberately abandons this Theme transform- ing this purified girl into a depraved creature of base appetite. This is no part or product of the premises which concern the imperious caprice of a young and innocent girl. In this at- tempt to spring an irrelevant sequel the author descends from the dramatic to the most ordinary of illogical narrative. It is rank Disunity! "The Last Visit" is another example of transgressed Unity with a surprise introduced at the end which in slight degree results from anything that has preceded. It cannot be too em- phatically impressed upon the Dramatist that any extraneous climax not a healthful outgrowth of the primary conditions of the play is diametrically opposed to Dramatic Law ! To merely dismay your audience is not to win their confidence ! In this little sketch an officer has been killed in a duel. A certain countess is supposed to be the cause of the quarrel. The countess calls to secure the love letters she had written the officer and snubs a young girl on the premises. This young girl turns out to be the officer's wife or widow as it were. Is this a Play? No! It is merely a page of weird fiction. The author sets out to fool us and succeeds. He apparently ignores the fact that the basis of dramatic action is the knowledge of preliminary conditions imparted to his audience. The Play is conversational to a degree of being wordy. Little really happens before our eyes. It is all talked ABOUT. The greatest genius under the sun could not make a good Play after this process. There must be a predominant Cause in a Play and we must SEE that all things evolve around it. Things must happen. We lose interest when they are merely told us. "The Far-Away Princess" like "The Last Visit" is mostly talk. The introduction comes to us from parties not vitally concerned in the action — the landlady and her waitress. The piece is devoid of a tangible proposition. Nothing is solved when it is over. 30 The DRAMATIST A young man cherishes the ideal of a princess whom he woos through a telescope. He meets a very ordinary looking girl who proves to be the princess and his ideal vanishes. This is the substance of the thesis of this sketch. It is far — — far away from anything that would be defined as dramatic action. It would not arouse interest either in the reading or the acting. It is the result of affecting exalted purpose in play philosophy. But true dram.a can only be conveyed in the simple language of the soul and such attitude toward Art merely dilutes the effect strived for. HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND. A Four-day Composition. Compare the foregoing efforts with a technical masterpiece like Shaw's little four day composition "How He Lied to Her Husband." See what the skill of a trained dramatist can do with the most hackneyed of situations — Husband, Wife and Lover. Action begins at the very rise of the curtain, even before a word is uttered, and continues through every moment of the Playlet. Study the structure and you will note that the panto- mime of the actors interprets the author's meaning almost without words. This is the crucial test, after all ! What story will your play tell to the deaf mute? THE GODDESS OF REASON. A Product of Penmanship. Do not spend two dollars for the printed copy of this Play unless you desire to read a delusion in blank verse that has hypnotized the leading actress in America into believing that a collection of scattered phrases and pretty speeches consti- tute a Play. Julia Marlowe produced this piece probably for the reason that she saw opportunities for much talk. For it is practically talk — talk from cover to cover. There are few in- stances where the author has departed from the story telling method which made her "To Have and to Hold" famous. It is true the thing is done into Dialog but not in a dramatic sense and the descriptive method is carried on by means of the characters just the same. There is little or no play construc- tion and Scene writing is a principle that has never dawned upon the novelist. Up to page sixteen, for instance, there is not the slightest glimpse of dramatic action. The author merely addresses the audience through the agency of her characters relating the conditions upon which the action of her composition is based. In a well made Play not a single word is uttered that is not compelled by the relations shown to exist 31 The DRAMATIST between the characters. This story meanders along with no ultimate purpose, taking first one course then another, much after the popular narrative method. The history of individual characters, who bear no vital rela- tion to Plot is given as much attention as an essential point and on the other hand many of the biggest moments are al- lowed to occur offstage or between Acts, reaching the audience only through second hand chatter. One such instance is^ Yvette's election to the office of "Goddess." How did she get there? Nothing that preceded gave us any reason to believe she was entitled to such honors. Another essential which should be seen but is merely heard of is Yvette's plea for De Vardes' pardon. Yvette merely tells DeVardes that she ob- tained his pardon. There is a systematic way to go about building a Play. It is not by beginning with the Dialog as Miss Johnston has evidently done. The scenario must be built step by step, each successive Scene denoting material progress in the action. Miss Johnston sees a possible stage picture and she jots it down whether it concerns the Plot or not. The fact that the piece reached production proves one thing : that even an actress of Miss Marlowe's intellect can be de- ceived readily by alluring opportunities of heroic declamation irrespective of the fact that these recitations are not substan- tial parts of that completed whole familiarly known as a Play. And this talented actress was highly enthusiastic at the time over the part she played thoroughly believing it good dramatic material. Even actors, you see, would do well to learn the Art of Playwriting. It would enable them to KNOW a Play. And novelists should take up the subject with all the reverence of a printer's devil aspiring to journalism. For study, read the knitting song on page 115 reposed in the din and slaughter of French revolution. Note on the same the undramatic way in which Nanon and Celeste talk into the audience the intervening history and election of Yvette as Goddess. On page 182 read the tiresome soliloquy and see if you can determine any possible use of it. Shakespeare used soliloquy we'll admit, but that doesn't retard the law of evolu- tion in playwriting. Science is pointing out the truer way, dramatically. "The world do move" and Drama keeps apace with it! If you are in search of a modern Play, a pretty safe guide would be to follow the dramatic laws which in this Play Are Not! And at the top of your page of "Don'ts" place the taboo: "Blank Verse!" As far as Dramatic quality is con- cerned it is a snare and a delusion. 32 The DRAMATIST AN ENGLISHMAN'S HOME. Dramatizing National Defence. This is the best example extant of Theme for Theme sake. The Play is simply swamped with Them.e ! An Army Propa- gandist takes advantage of the psychological moment to dra- matize a public sentiment — a moment when England is all agog over possible invasion by Germany, and the result is success — for that moment ! Taking as his Theme the inadequacy of England's National defense to repel the attack of a formidable adversary, Major Du Maurier has done one of the best bits of atmosphere ever achieved on the stage. But it is not a Plav ! It is a charade ! None of the characters employed in the stage pictures are en- gaged in that personal conflict which in itself is the very fibre of Drama. The remarkable quality of his portrayed conditions may be seen on pages 15 and 16, where the old man is mastering the technic of Ping Pong Art to a microscopic degree of perfec- tion; and on pages 12-15 where the young folks fix the impres- sion that Football is life's paramount issue. Out of these conditions an excellent Play could grow with the care and attention of a dramatic gardener. But the Major fails to bring his theory down to personal interests, — it re- mains a National issue and a Play cannot take place on the or- dinary stage with Nations constituting its cast of characters, THE FAITH HEALER. A Play Without an Impression. No better example of the absurd, unreal and idiotic Drama can be found than this bit of artificial character study written by the author of "The Great Divide." What is he? That is about as definite as the question can frame itself concerning the principal person in the Play. This supposed human crea- ture is so utterly intangible that it does not appeal to a mortal audience. We subscribe to the dramatist's invention only because it is based upon the real — all else in stage-land is rele- gated to the fantastic or fairy tale farce and opera. The striking feature technically in this piece is that it is practically devoid of problem or proposition. It starts no where and ends in mid air. There is noxnmg at issue — a mere tale of a faith healer's adventure. The author strives for ex- alted Theme but aims so high that he shoots above his own head as well as ours. But Art is the law of gravity that brings his arrow down to earth! And science bumps his air ship with a stilly thud ! 33 The DRAMATIST The most valuable lesson taught by "The Faith Healer" is, that the author avails nothing in mystifying his audience. His purpose should be as clear and straightforward as con- sistent logic can make it. To bewilder his spectators as Mr. Moody proceeds to do in the third Act by introducing frag- ments of the past career of his heroine, Rhoda, is the wildest of crude Disunity! He leads us to anticipate all sorts of en- tanglements regarding her thin-skinned love affair with the "healer" by flinging in little inferences that the Doctor had had an affair with her of some unclean description. We feel in a very vague sort of way that some sensational exposure is the author's intended climax but the whole effort at play writing is so ineffectual that no enduring impression of any nature is made. In fact the nearest approach to a theme is "Unstable equilibrium." The author perhaps wishes to indicate that faith healing is merely a fictitious name for positive mental suggestion but his method is too faltering to carry any conviction with it. The moral for young drama- tists is: "Go thou and do otherwise !" COMPETITION. ...DO NOT PREACH! THE PUBLIC CAN SECURE FREE SEATS IN A CHURCH! Manager Savage's Advice to Tyros. 34 The DRAMATIST LUTHER B. ANTHONY, Elditor Vol. I. EASTON, PA. No. 3 QUARTERLY 1910 APRIL CHAIR OF DRAMATIC WRITING. Need of Real Plays. A very prominent New York Theatrical manager would be one of ten to contribute $25,000 each to establish a chair of dramatic writing in an American University. He is very much in earnest on this subject and does not believe that any Playwright ever made a real, genuine success until he first had learned the rudiments of his art. He doesn't believe in the heaven-born brand of playvv^right — the man who comes down to the office in the morning with one finger on his brow in a high-art pose and dictates a Play before he goes to lunch. He believes pla5rwriting is as serious a profession today as any other of the so-called learned ones, and that before a man ventures to practice it he ought at least to know what he wants to do and how it ought to be done. "We have 3500 theatres in this country," said he, "not to speak of one-night stands. We have more actors than can find work. We have plenty of managers, an excellent ma- chinery for the production of Plays, all the money that is needed — far more money than can be utilized — a vast organi- zation ready. The one thing that is needed, and that we can't get is real Plays. Every day managers produce Plays with which they privately find fault, or of the success of which they are in doubt. They are forced to it by the dearth of good material. Think of it; the really successful American drama- tists can be counted almost on the fingers of one hand. It isn't because of any lack of the raw material of which dramatists are made, but because that raw material isn't properly trained. Before the budding dramatist learns his trade he is apt to starve to death." Plenty of Reward Waits. And he is ready with proof that the successful playwright can depend on financial rewards which few of the other pro- fessions offer their votaries. He mentioned one American author as an example. If not a leading author, he is at least the most voluminous American writer. He turns out fiction and humor and pathos, and the other set pieces, as fast as any other writer in the world. It is rare, indeed, that some one 35 The DRAMATIST of his stories is not running in one of the periodicals which make a feature of fiction, and his personal clientele is, perhaps, larger than that of any other American writer. "That man got for his latest story $31,000. Mr. James Forbes has already drawn $60,000 in royalties from his play 'The Traveling Salesman.' He has received more than $100,- 000 for 'The Chorus Lady.' Charles Klein has drawn several hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties from his various productions. The list might be extended indefinitely. A suc- cessful play means more to the author than ten years of suc- cessful practice in one of the other professions in many in- stances." "I read everything that is submitted to me. When a play comes in I number it, and take it up in turn in my moments of leisure. But — I receive from 1500 to 1600 plays a year. Many of them may be dismissed with hardly a glance, because the writer has very obviously broken every rule of dramatic con- struction. Others need careful study. I give them that study, because I believe in the American dramatist. I have made money in producing American plays by American playwrights. In all my life I have produced only two English plays. They were this season's crop — one 'The Earth,' and the other 'The Noble Spaniard.' Both were failures. I was driven to them because I could not find a play by an American that promised success. Yet in a large percentage of the plays offered to me — in the rough, so to speak — I find good ideas." Good Ideas Poorly Handled. "The writers have happened upon a great theme. They have a good situation. They have a strong central idea. But they have not worked it out in such form that it could be pro- duced on the stage. Many of them would make excellent novels, I am persuaded. They have every element that enters into a good seller between green covers ; but they are not han- dled in that particular way that is demanded of the drama — and until they are I cannot touch them. But I have faith in some of these writers. There are, perhaps, a dozen young fel- lows whom I have 'grubstaked,' as they say in the West. I have furnished them with enough money to go on with while they try to hammer their stories into dramatic form. I may lose money on them all. I may find one great play in the bunch — and come out a winner in the end." Nor does this manager believe that a dramatic author may hammer out a play while he waits. "Too many people quote the example of Dion Boucicault," said he "who wrote 'London Assurance' in tv/enty-four hours. The best authors take the longest time. Fitch's plays would 36 The DRAMATIST have been bettered if he had worked them over. Pinero is lei- surely in his treatment. He lets the idea for a new play mull in his mind before he touches it. Thom.as and Klein never attempt to turn out more than one play a year. There are 20,- 000 plays written in this country every year — and perhaps 2 per cent, of them are really successful. There should be fewer plays written — and more good ones." "What good, he asks, "is the endowment of a theatre if no good Plays can be furnished it? Better endow a means by which the country, that wants new plays — is crying for them — can get them. JUST A WIFE. Walter's High Water Mark. Again the laurel wreath must be awarded Mr. Eugene W^al- ter who has surpassed all other American Dramatists and out- classed his own prior efforts in this latest drama "Just a Wife." An author matures only as he rises above the hidebound convention of the society he lives in, to a position where he can observe the human condition that lurks beneath the veneer of form and custom. The Dramatist matures only as he rises above traditional theatric situation and builds about the bigger, deeper basis of Theme. On both these counts Mr. Walter has made good in "Just a Wife" and his play which received the censure of critics of the immature class has been approved by that higher tribunal — public opinion — and if it does not make a long run at The Be- lasco Theatre it will simply prove that the Theme is above the heads of the average playgoer. In other words the length of its run will measure the length of New York's intelligent play- going public. What is this Theme so highly commendable? It has long been the custom of a large majority of well-to- do mothers to train their daughters for "just a wife" and noth- ing more. Not for motherhood — not for womanhood — but sheer wifery. And wifery of wealth ! Now it might be possible to show up the suicide of this cus- tom by merely parading the misery of some such marriage upon the stage. But this is not the province of Drama! Drama is Conflict and to drive home his argument Mr. Walter saw that he must engage two extreme types in combat. He knew that no commonplace contrast would awaken the moth- ers who have been slumbering peacefully thru such criminal conditions for centuries. 37 DRAM And it was for this reason that he chose the shocking asso- ciation of mistress and wife. How better could he illustrate the immortality of the "just a wife" system? The husband married one woman who had nothing but her beautiful sex to offer. She was a splendid feminine specimen! He gave this woman the position of wife but gave his love to another woman who had sex plus — she had business ability and strong personality which brought the husband half his success. Both women were selling their sex! Here is the horrible truth of his Play! It is not the wife but the WOMAN who makes the helpmeet. After six years of thinking the legal wife evolved into a fitter mate and succeeded to the fuller execution of the contract she had agreed to fill. Isn't this a Theme worth exploiting? Isn't this a blow to hollow social form? Isn't Mr. Walter a more potent preacher than any dozen parsons in the land? And now that we have dealt with the greatness of this play let us turn our attention to the imperfections which are equally the office of this journal. A little more attention to physical anatomy would have shown the author the true structural di- visions of his action. Nothing really happens in the first Act as it stands, and it is therefore not a correct sub-division of the play. Acts I and II set forth the Conditions and should consti- tute the first legitimate division in the structure. The drama really gets a going by this time and we have the true Begin- ning of a Play. A similar mistake occurs in "Paid in Full" by the same au- thor, with respect to the third and fourth Acts. In that in- stance the action had ended with Act III save for a touch of Theme which could easily have been interwoven and the Con- flict closed. In the modern simplicity Play three acts are sufficient. The author may deceive himself that the peculiar nature of his ma- terial demands a greater number of divisions. But is he sim- ply lapsing in Art? The rightful portions of a Play were un- consciously named by Aristotle hundreds of years ago — "The Beginning, the Middle and the End !" The only serious lapse of Logic in Mr. Walter's Play is the character of Maxcy, a chum of the wife's brother who "butts in" on the most delicate and personal domestic occasions. It must be that the part was tailor-made to afford a friend a comic opportunity. For the fellow does please even though we feel in our bones that he has no rational right in the Con- flict. But how many other plays have so few flagrant foreign- alities? 38 The DRAMATIST THE CITY. Was the Work Finished by Fitch? Although Mr. Fitch may have drawn the general outlines for "The City" it is difficult for one familiar with the excellent technique of "The Truth" to believe that this master American craftsman finished the scenes and dialog of this alleged "last play." "The City" abounds in structural transgressions of almost every sort, yet technical skill was the author's predominant faculty. Hence the hesitation in accepting this crude speci- men as the final product of his prolific pen. Disunity is rampant throughout the structure. Theme is one thing, Plot another, and the actual success of the piece de- pends upon a tremendous blast of dramatic dynamite which is still a third and distinct factor in the divergent ideas which permeate this Play. It is the purpose of this article to show that the Play idea which is intended to conform to a Theme consistent with its title is distinct and separate from the main Plot of the struc- ture, and that the strongest single incident Fitch ever wrote which ends the second Act, constitutes a Conflict all by itself that could best be presented in a one-act sketch. These three ideas will be traced out to their solitary unities to show cause for the question: "Was the play finished by Fitch?" The theme which endeavors to exploit the effects of the searching spirit of city publicity upon the character of all who come within its walls is not embodied in the main Plot of the Play. The story that contains this Theme is the one that opens the Play showing the aspiration of a young attorney for that larger opportunity afforded by the city. After the father's death he goes to New York but his poHtical career is headed off by an exposure of his own moral obliquity (evidence of which is not brought out but merely talked) and this story is wound up with the young man's resolution to mend his ways and begin the battle of life on a clean field. But not until virtue is rewarded is the curtain allowed to descend for at this juncture a beautiful heroine is cast at his feet without the slightest warning. She assures him that his past life is no obstacle to her eternal affection and all ends hap- pily. The only recent blunder of like magnitude that this can be compared v/ith is a similar resort to sentimentality in the last act of "Israel." In the latter play the happy-ever-after was said to be the interpolation of an American carpenter. Who knows but the same tinkerer "finished" the Fitch Play? The second story is by far the most effective one dramatic- ally. There are fragments of it entwined in the Theme story 39 The DRAMATIST of Act I, but these particles could easily be woven into the thirty minute sketch which embraces most of the material in Act II ending with the catastrophe that brings down the cur- tain. This sketch has nothing in common with Act III. It is a completed action in itself and if treated as such would unfold itself as follows : A young girl falls in love with a man em- ployed by her brother. The latter knows that the man is his illegitimate half-brother but conceals this fact from him and from all others while he employs the illicit relative out of a sense of duty. The brother learns of their clandestine mar- riage — an hour since — and is compelled to tell his employee- half-brother of the terrible mistake. The latter refuses to be- lieve the monstrous secret but rather than have the brother tell the girl the truth he draws a gun and shoots her straight in the heart! This is the sum and substance of the little one- act tragedy but there is much more by way of a morphine fiend's frenzied writhings which might be tacked onto the sketch, just as it is spliced on to the play proper, if mere the- atric sensation were desired. And this little playlet is a thing apart from the first and third acts and does not require that part of Act II which deals with the brother's political career which we have designated story #i. There is a third story which retards the legitimate action of Act II and consumes much of III while it makes a feeble ef- fort to conform to theme. This story drags in details of the marital corruption of a second sister to the young attorney. Her husband is a drunken sot who provokes a little comedy. But their divorce and reconciliation has about as much to do with either of the foregoing play ideas as does the comet Halley. These three stories comprise the divergent branches of Plot that rend the Unity of the whole. The only one that partakes of the real definition of drama having Conditions, Cause and Conclusion is the second one. The first story is utterly devoid of Cause for in the original the Cause of the second story is interjected as a substitute. The third story is a mere episode from life which fails to assume semblance of drama in any sense. Perhaps Clyde Fitch wrote this play but his earliest and crudest efforts give no warrant for the belief that he could wander so far astray in technic. None of his other half hun- dred plays violate the canons of dramatic art with half the fe- licity. His ripest efforts have been models of good construc- tion. If this master craftsman really did perpetrate this artistic crime in its entirety his dramatic conscience must have been deadened by the roar and echo of the one big scene. 40 he DRAM T" Profit could not have blinded him to the laws of his Art. It may have been that death reached the m^ental man within be- fore it claimed the mortal man without. THE TURNING POINT. Most Censured Play of the Season. Most young dramatists are prone to condemn the manager who rejects their coveted manuscripts and waste their years yearning for the financial wherewith to produce their own works of Art "Just to show him," We wish that we might send every aspiring author in America to see "The Turning Point" so that the prevailing notion that "money makes the dramatic mare go" could be forever discarded. This may be the case in some professions but it is not true of the Theatrical filly ! Preston Gibson, the author of this piece, had ample funds to give its production every financial provision of success. His effort surpasses the average amateur offering and yet it failed miserably. Why? Because it is not a Play! All the money in America cannot bribe the play going public to place their stamp of approval on something that does not appeal to their em.otional faculties, and this is precisely the fate that would attend the financially forced production of q8 out of loo plays written by intelligent, yes, highly cultivated men and women who have not mastered the fundamentals of play Construc- tion. Wild disunity abounds in the main Plot and punctures the many minor plots of this distracted attempt at drama. Condi- tions forecasting a dozen developments of disonant and dis- tinct actions are reeled off thick and fast in the first few min- utes of Act I. At the end of this act no palmist or conjurer could say what this play is to be about. It is simply a mess — a mix-up — and there you are. In order to clearly convey the violations of Unity to those who have not seen the production it will be necessary to out- line, primarily, the author's possible play material. If he had not resorted to monstrosities of biplot his Problem would have been as follows : Conditions. 1. A broker buys a valuable coal land for a mere song. Cause. 2. The owner retains the only right of way to market. Conclusion. 3. He defeats the broker's game? 41 The DRAMATIST It is not illogical that in the development of this Problem a love interest should be introduced in which both men are striving for the hand of the same girl. Such a complica- tion in the execution of Plot is easily legitimate and crudely outlined in the play as presented. And so much of the native Plot is raw material for a splendid play! But Mr. Gibson would not confine his efforts to the con- struction of a play of normal proportions. He would not stop here. He continued to pile on the agony thick and deep, with sub-plots and counterplots till every character in his play ceases rational existence and becomes a theatrical puppet of artificial stageology. Besides the legitimate features of Plot above mentioned, he "rings in" a parodized parson and his matronly inamorata: an insipid widov/ who is an unscrupulous flirt (in no slight de- gree attached to the Plot) : an entirely separate conflict be- tween the broker and a juvenile lover centering in the former's betrayal of the latter's sweetheart — her abrupt death and sub- sequent resurrection — all of which is foreign matter crudely TALKED into the play to the detriment of main plot. The parson's inamorata is plunged into another plot, needlessly defiling a mother with the embezzlement of her daughter's funds merely to float still another plot of the old-time mock heroic variety wherein the daughter is forced to marry the "heavy villain" to prevent her mother's name "from being dragged in the dust." But lest you think absurdity ends here let us relate a couple of counterplots whereupon the leading lady beholds the South- erner giving counsel to the juvenile lover's sweetheart and straightway proceeds to hate our hero ^i, and at the same in- stant the juvenile himself sees the Southerner "chinning his gal" and storms off in a fit of jealous rage ! If a contest were instituted to award a gold medal for the most flagrant violation of the law of Unity; in these two last mentioned instances, Mr. Gibson would deserve the honors ! No loftier examples of a desecration of that cardinal principle could well be invented! And yet do you know there is ma- terial in this chaotic mass of incongruity for a good play? The veil between playwriting and mere penmanship is sometimes an invisible thread. With less real effort than the author has applied to this imperfect piece, his same energies, properly directed, might have done a play worth while. Re- member the moral, young dramatist, that money never made a makeshift manuscript marketable. 42 The DRAMATIST ALIAS JIMMY VALENTINE. A Photograph of Paul Armstrong. The proof of a Plajrwright is his play. A portrait of a writer's plajrwriting proclivities is plainly depicted in the posi- tive and negative qualities of his work. You can't get away from it — the camera doesn't lie ! "Alias Jimmy Valentine" is a snap shot of Mr, Paul Armstrong and the likeness is won- derful ! It does not portray a dramatist, however, but a clever workman with eye and ear trained for detecting the possi- bilities in another fellow's story. He is more the curator than the creator. The play reveals both his ignorance and aptness of Art. It proves one thing ; that the author's method of construction is not a safe, scientific system but a loose hap- hazard process. He begins with no conscious grasp of what he is about and thus allows irrelevant absurdity to supersede the fundamental factors of Plot. In order to demonstrate this assertion let us reduce the play to its native Problem — not the Problem that we thin'K best but the one that actually exists in Mr. Armstrong's ma- terial — the one broad legitimate syllogism of the play which should have governed Unity from curtain to curtain. We will state this Problem in its three clauses; Conditions, Cause and Conclusion. Problem. 1. An ex-convict baffles a detective's attempt to identify him. 2. In the latter's presence he is compelled to pick a lock. 3. The detective is so pleased he lets him go. This is the Problem of "Alias Jimmy Valentine," which in other words might be termed the beginning, the middle and the end. Without some such working plan the author is very apt to begin somewhere else than the beginning as does Mr. Armstrong in this latest play. Instead of starting with evi- dence that "Jimmy" was a convict he takes us into the prison where we see that he actually is a convict and reviews the whole history of his being pardoned just to work in some inane episode contained in his scrap book. It is for this reason that Acts I and II appear to drag heavily. They are not a legitimate part of the play. The real play does not begin until Act III which sets forth the first clause of our proposition; that "Jimmy" is an ex-convict and that he successfully baffles the detective who is hunting him down. "Jimmy" passes him- self for another in one of the best made scenes in the play. 43 The DRAMATIST Nearly all of Acts I and II are taken up with an effort to "ring in" a pretty little romance of the following PLAUSI- BLE stripe : A girl happens to visit Sing Sing and there hap- pens to recite an adventure wherein she happened to be res- cued from one bandit by another. She happens to be the niece of the lieutenant governor of the state who happens to call at the prison with her and they happen here to meet the identical hero of her bandit fairy tale. He in turn happens to appear innocent and happens to be pardoned by the girl's uncle and happens to be placed in a position of trust in a national bank by the girl's own father who happens to be credulous enough to take stock in her innocent convict. Of course all this improbable stuff could be transformed into Drama by proper treatment and adherence to Sequence but it is not worth while for it is not in keeping with Prob- lem ! The same could be condensed into a fev/ words, if ne- cessary, or a better Condition Precedent could be invented v/ithout consuming two whole acts which even then fail to get the play going. Another glance at Problem will show that four acts are not required. The first act should set forth the Conditions. As mentioned before the conditions do not call for the past history of "Jimmy's" im.prisonment, or the romance of his res- cuing the girl, or a host of stunts performed by the inmates of Sing Sing, or Mr, Armstrong's theory concerning the in- sanity of criminals. The Conditions merely call for evidence of "Jimmy's" rehabilitation and the efforts of the authorities to recapture him on an old charge. The second act should develop the love story which is inci- dental to "Jimmy's" reform and lead up to the splendid clim.ax where he is compelled to practice the criminal art of his past "profession." The curtain falls at the moment this predica- ment is realized. The third act is represented by the fourth act of the original play. "Jimmy" is seen actually operating on the combination lock by means of touch highly sensitized in the sandpapering of his finger tips. He does this in the presence of the detec- tive. There should be some logical solution of the action, however, which is v/anting in the original play. This detec- tive who has journeyed all the way to Illinois to secure this culprit announces: "The lady needs you more than the state of Massachusetts." And calmly relinquishes his prize! Is this drama? If a detective gives up a prisoner he has been seeking for years there must be some valid reason for his doing it. But it is dishonest to dodge the issue! Dramatic dis- honesty ! How easy it would be to adjust all this by the slightest turn in Plot. In the play a child wanders into the vault and 44 The DRAMATIST "Jimmy" must pick the lock to save its life. Let us intensify action by placing the sweetheart in the vault. She was in "Jimmy's" arms when "Doyle" the detective entered and she slyly dodged into this hiding place. "Doyle" has utterly failed to identify "Jimmy" although he is morally certain of his man. He has gone so far as to guarantee "Jimmy" his freedom if he will merely show him the subtle secrets of his craft. "Jimmy" is still obstinate in his declaration that he is not the man. As a last resort "Doyle" slams the huge safe door which locks with a combination. "Jimmy" exclaims that his sweetheart is locked in there and that he does not know the combination! "Pick it!" challenges the detective! Act III is but a moment later. "Jimmy's" fingers itch v/ith conscious ability to do the old trick. It is too late to mince matters I We hear a faint cry from within ! The splendid feat of the criminal locksmith now follows! The girl is rescued and the lovers reunited ! With some degree of rational proba- bility it can nov/ be imagined that "Jimmy" will hold "Doyle" to his prom.ise. He has shown him the secrets of his craft. This is an exchange for his liberty! There is one other detail that goes to show the eternal vigil- ance required of the Dramatist who would observe Logic in everjrthing. It is the matter of the combination lock. Mr. Arm-Strong introduces this vault as a new one recently in- stalled in the bank. He has undoubtedly aimed at immunity by placing the scene out in Illinois. He has not gone far enough. Even the back-woods banker has long since rele- gated this sort of security to the junk heap. The village banker has his time-lock equipment which challenges the smoothest locksmith in the business. Nothing can persuade its tumblers to turn before the hour set by the clock in its mechanism! To meet this contingency the time of the play should be set back to a period when combination locks were in vogue or the point should be established that this particular vault is an obsolete factor in the bank's security. The drama- tist who is sincere in his Art will not compromise with the slightest detail of Dramatic Fact. THE LILY. A Vr/retched Structure Artistically Staged. No better instance of the prevailing paucity of good plays can be cited than David Belasco's adaptation of this deficient French Drama. Not that he has failed to see his opportunity to create one great scene and one intensely human type but to the artist all discord is painful and without the wizard's in- comparable stage management this piece would be absolutely intolerable. 45 The DRAMATIST Do you think that he would concentrate all the powers of his craft on one solitary situation if he could obtain Plays that were Drama from start to finish? He could write such a Play, to be sure, but he is a very busy man. He hasn't the time and when a vacancy occurs by the abrupt end of another produc- tion he is obliged to take what he can lay his hands on. His triumph in this instance is not the Dramatist's success but the stage master's achievement. He knows the call of the mob so well that he can bank upon a single moment of tremendous magnetism portrayed with utmost skill. The fact that few critics, even, saw the yawning gaps in structure speaks vol- umes for the supremacy of his craftsmanship ! If we were to accept this as a specimen of David's original composition it would simply show that the Dramatist had not kept pace with the procession which is advancing the struc- tural standards of his chosen profession at break neck speed. And heaven knows they needed advancement! But the adaptor is apt to be blinded to the flaws of the original writers, particularly if they be authors of renowned fame, and again he may not be licensed by them to cut and slash at liberty. The first act of "The Lily" is without exception the most slipshod construction of any play in the entire Belasco group. It ranks only in inferiority with Preston Gibson's "The Turn- ing Point" treated elsewhere in this journal. There is no definite purpose in the act and the few Plot essentials that do crop out in a desultory fashion give little evidence of the keen oversight of a master mind. The chief cause of the ineffec- tiveness of Act I is that it performs no legitimate function in the whole play. The minor elements presented in it are so out of Sequence that Action limps with a crutch. The Act does not advance the Action as such an epoch in the Plot should. The first act should set forth the Beginning of the Play. Many of the Conditions given are not essential to the main Plot and could well be left to inference or be taken as a matter of course. All could be worked into Act II which is the legiti- mate Beginning or first Act of the play. PROBLEM. Conditions. An old maid has sacrificed matrimonial chances for a pater- nal despot. Cause. The younger sister's happiness meets the same opposition. Conclusion. The old maid's bitter life strengthens her to defy the irate father? 46 The DRAMATIST Of course, this broad structural synopsis does not prescribe what course the working Plot will take but it serves as a guide to the cardinal requisites of same. The arbitrary father fla- vors the thing as French. No Yankee girl submits to such tyranny. The foreign point of view, therefore is a funda- mental in Problem for without this basis the Plot would have no foundation to rest upon. We must therefore accept it if we would have a play even though the outrage is incon- sistent with parental obedience as we practice it in America. As implied in the Problem the old maid's sacrifice is neces- sarily a matter of history for she is already withered wjien we first see her as a result of the life sacrifice. This Condition is readily established as the Plot proceeds but begins with the second Act of Mr. Belasco's play and therefore the second Act really begins the Conflict. It is the valid first act. The next step would be to show the younger sister's clandes- tine love affair against the background of the fossilized old wretch of a father who would almost eat the child alive that ran counter to his pleasure ! At this point the degenerate French standard has made the girl's lover a married man who has no right to love her. This moral slope could well be eliminated for there is abundant Plot material in the powerful climax which takes its origin in the old maid's motherly protection from the father of the lit- tle sister who has loved without license in her natural effort to escape the old man's rule. In a stricter sense even to mar the girl's chastity might be deemed Disunity. It adds spice to the scene but the line between legitimate drama and effect for effect's sake is sometimes dift^icult to discern. The great force of the scene is the operation of the second law of Nature — the love of parent for child — which is portrayed in this motherly old maid's affection for her child-sister. Through the medium of this girl she craves the realization of the love that was lost to her. It is now the only outlet of that pent up affectation in her bosom which in youth had been crushed out by the iden- tical tyrant who now attempts a repetition of such arbitrary rule. There is much to admire in Act III. The superb gradation with which the girl's confession is wrung from her lips — little by little — is a height of Art most worthy of Belasco. The old maid's final rise to the defence of her tender little sister is a scene that will live with indelible life in the minds of the spec- tator. There is every temptation to let loose here, tooth and nail ! The audience is ready to riddle the old rascal them- selves. But the restraint with which the moment is handled! Ah! There's the Art! Most any author must have shown his teeth a trifle! But the cold full tones that emanate and 47 The DRAMATIST echo from the years of wretched subjugation suffered by this poor woman penetrate the soul and find a sympathy that is the personification of DRAMA ! Now after such a tribute to the skill of this workman our comment on the paucity of plays might be a trifle incoherent. But we said good plays. And by a good play is meant a uni- formly well built drama of specific Theme and purpose which sets about unfolding its Conditions, developing its Cause and attaining its Conclusion in a simple, subtleized, straightfor- ward fashion. This definition does not admit a makeshift hastily patched up merely to SELL to the public a few power- ful scenes no matter what their effectiveness. Mr. Belasco can construct a good play, we are certain. But this case is much like that of Mr. Fitch with "The City." If America's foremost stage master had much to do with "The Lily" his mind was dazzled by the one culminating moment of stupend- ous dramatic magnitude ! THE BARRIER. Presbrey's Dramatization of Beach's Novel. "The Barrier" is an example of good Play material so bun- gled in one instance of the dramatization as to impair its effec- tiveness. If properly treated, however, there is little hope for such a Play. Undisguised melodrama is a thing of the past. This thrilling tale of border life fails to produce the illusion of reality upon a tenderfoot audience. Its failure is not entirely a matter of vogue, however. There are technical reasons why "The Barrier" does not grip with the power inherent in it. The chief of these causes lies in the fact that the cart is hitched before the horse. We get effect before cause. Long before there is any reason assigned for "John Gale's" trepidation we see terror written in every move he makes. This is not Action. It is a flagrant violation of Sequence. Our sympathies are solicited before we have a knowledge of the source of this old man's anxiety. In other words the first es- sential of Action is omitted. What the audience does not know it cannot act upon and an undefined danger is not capable of arousing Action. The information that is necessary to our in- telligent comprehension of Acts I and II does not cross the footlights till Act III. Here we find out that "Gale" was charged with murder actually committed by another. This is one of the first conditions that should have been established in Act I. It is not one of the elements of doubt that need be held in solution for the climax of the play. It is precedent fact that is necessary to the interpretation of Plot. 48 DRAM Kere we get the difference between the dramatist's and the storyteller's treatment. The latter may build his conflict be- tween himself and the reading public — the former must make his struggle between the characters on the stage. The novel- ist may spring all sorts of surprises on his reader whereas to bewilder your auditor is to deal a deathblow to Drama. This does not mean that the playwright must tell his audience how he is going to solve the problem of his play but that he cannot obey the laws of his Art and allow characters to perform stunts that are unintelligible. You will find spectators con- stantly asking WHY. A play is a rational structure and each particle in its building must be recognized as belonging to the whole. To introduce the minutest atom of foreign or incoher- ent matter merely confuses the auditor needlessly. This one instance of structural deficiency is cited not be- cause it is the only one but because it is of magnitude suffi- cient to destroy any play written. "The Barrier" abounds in trifling incongruities but on the whole is a remarkably well built drama. In spite of the fact that New York does not want melodrama in the nude state we believe that this play would have made a better showing had the one cardinal weakness been rectified. The Plot for the most part is admirably con- ceived and more skill is manifested than in many of the more successful plays now running. INCONSTANT GEORGE. An Insipid Horse-play Farce. The specimens of French plays seen here this season do not sustain the supremacy of technic heretofore accredited the dramatists of that nation. "Inconstant George" at least is not a good type in its American raiment. But there's the rub. We never know how much the original has been robbed when it has passed through the importing processes of translation and transplantation. For the French point of view and moral stan- dard will not fit the American audience without considerable modification. Bronson Howard once wrote a farce "Saratoga" as insipid as "Inconstant George." He was writing then, however, a style fully up to the times. No sane manager would attempt to stage "Saratoga" today without labeling it a relic of an- tiquity. It fitted the unevolved audience of former days who assembled to witness the antics of the actors punctuated with occasional puns. That audience has passed with the contem- porary species of drama that suited it and the dramatist who goes along writing the obsolete form must hope for a fossil- ized producer to appreciate his plays. He must also look for 49 The DRAMATIST an antediluvian actor to take the part. Poor old "Uncle" John Drew hobbles obediently through the role of "George" with the perfunctory pitifulness of a well trained work horse. Like "Israel" this play opens with the clumsy three-ring circus introduction. There are four women and three men on stage of whom we know nothing and care less. These people whom we do not know talk of others we have not seen and the auditor who has lost the art of making up the deficit by continual reference to his program is adrift. He cannot see all that is going on in the "three rings" with an eye that has been trained to observe a solitary story simply told where every atom of acting is self-explanatory. There is no coherent Plot to this silly farce and the wobbly structure defies analysis on legitimate standards. It is a con- glomeration of marital infidelity, horse-play and snatches of vaudeville and burlesque. It would not even serve as a com- prehensive negative model for study. The structural infringe- ments are too wide of technical definition. At best the thing is a hopeless relic of antiquity. SALVATION NELL. A Hopeless String of Dissociated Episodes. With the popular amateur misconception that a succession of disconnected episodes, occasional uproar and haphazard happenings constitute that dramatic Action known as a play, Mr. Sheldon did his best to live up to the highest ideal of drama visible to the naked eye at the time he wrote this piece. For in this Art as in all others we must see the image be- fore we can give expression to it. The only part of the dra- matic picture that penetrated Mr. Sheldon's comprehension was that curious little flirt of the brush which distributes the pigment. And he was in no wise watchful of where he applied it. A dab on the canvas or one on the wall was immaterial to him. Any old swish of the brush only so it simulated the ex- pert stroke of the painter. This play belongs to the spineless species for it has no structural backbone. It has no central support for the ana- tomy. The connecting cartilage is also missing. The one common characteristic contained in every real play from Sophocles to Shakespeare, from Shakespeare to Sheldon IS NOT THERE! A slum girl loves a worthless convict who is sent to prison for accidental murder leaving her the mother of his child. She is rescued by a Salvation sister (in a very thrilling mo- ment of the triumph of good over evil). "Jim," the convict, re- turns and drags poor Nell from her pedestal. After a ram- bling conflict between them she crawls back to the higher 50 The DRAMATIST plane and in a most humorous duet with her young son prays for the forsaken criminal father. An attempt is made to show that this prayer is materialized and "Jim" joins the "Army." This is the nearest approach to Plot — though it is not Plot for it lacks the one fundamental factor CAUSE! There is no suggestion of underlying Cause for the completed Action. Without Cause there can be no Conclusion. Without this prime requisite the most skillful Dramatist on earth could not produce a plausible play. To illustrate more clearly the missing link in the three loop chain of Problem we will devise an imaginary CAUSE that would make this play conform to the elementary Law of Structure, the only suggestion of which, in the original, is the supposed efficacy of prayer which is a new means of placing God in the cast of characters. PROBLEM. Conditions. A convict loves a slum girl who becomes the illicit mother of his child- Cause. She is raised to a higher moral plane which causes her to be repelled at her former suitor. Conclusion. Her repulse awakens the dormant manhood within him. Do you see the slight turn that converts an indefinite noth- ing into a precise something? It is only necessary to change the rambling uncertainty of Nell's attitude toward this con- vict into a decided refusal to consider him in his present de- pravity, to transform mere narrative into dramatic Action. There is a problem — something to be done — something to be solved. Instead of relying on the heavenly power to reform poor "Jim" we come down to earth and rehabilitate him by hu- man means. For Drama is a conflict between human wills — not between superhuman and human. The superhuman is not susceptible of convincing presentation upon the stage. In addition to Structural neglect, "Salvation Nell" abounds in absurdities of all sorts. The goat love of Nell for this wretch of a convict is an example of carnal lust unfit for pub- lic presentation. Particularly is this true when the chimpan- zee sphere of affection is uncalled for in Plot. The prayer re- ferred to is a most preposterous thing. The concert cackle of mother and son could produce nothing save emotions of mirth and sacrilege. The effort to stir up a counter affection of one of the Salvation officers for "Nell" is misapplied invention and 51 The DRAMATIST dangerous disunity. A telephone episode where "Nell" threat- ens to call up the police and expose "Jim" is illogical farce. Why wouldn't this dare-devil pulverize the telephone with one pass of his brawny fist? As an accompaniment for the prayer Providence throws in a thunderstorm for full mea- sure. Anything plumped in after this fashion merely reveals the will of the author — it never becomes a part of the play. Against such feeble Action a prostitute stands out as the one bit of virile truth in the Plot. We have been so bored with irrelevant stuff that we welcome the harlot in contrast who is at least consistent with herself. In Act III the issue is helplessly adrift! Several sub-plots scramble for momentary existence but no sign of the main Plot is in sight. Of course, the absence of Cause obviates a Conclusion and no definite solution can be reasonably ex- pected. There is no Sequence of events in this act. We flit from one incongruity to another. The lovers wish to make love in the public street and the playwright waves his magic wand ! All of the hundred heads that hung from the windows a moment before now kindly duck and the accommodating fruit man deserts his stand leaving his wares an open treat to the boys of the Bowery. All is quiet! Save the cooing of the lovers and the steady beating of the pulse of common sense — "False! False! False! For an audience will feel the fake if they cannot define their feelings. From curtain to curtain in this final act there is not the feeblest breath of Dramatic Action to sustain or stimulate in- terest. The play with no beginning, with no middle part — can have no end! The three clauses of Problem are so cor- related and interdependent that one cannot exist without an- other — without the other two. Moral: Let PROBLEM Rule Supreme! THE MAN WHO STOOD STILL. Not a Play. Several subscribers have requested an analysis of "The Man Who Stood Still," but we regret to admit our inability to perform such an operation on something that is not a play. The piece was evidently a hasty pudding made as a vehicle for Mr. Louis Mann's eccentric acting. It appears to be a hodge-podge of particles copied from successful plays such as "The Music Master" and "Way Down East." There is pain- ful effort at Action but little or no success in the creation of that subtle principle. The promulgators of the piece seem to have confused activity with Action. Every character bustles 52 The DRAMATIST about with undue attempt at excitement but this is not Dra- matic Action, The piece is of the old school of many-story drama which is now obsolete. Its only possible value to the student is its example of the sort of drama to be avoided. YOUR VOTE COUNTS. Each subscriber is invited to express his preference of the plays to be treated technically in "The Dramatist" from time to time. If your selection does not appear in the list you will know it is for one of two reasons. Either that we are un- able to see the play for purposes of analysis or that a larger majority of votes have been cast in favor of the ones criticized. "WORLD" PRIZE PLAY. $500 Prize Awarded a Modern Play Idea. The great lesson to be learned from the New York "World" prize contest award is that a picked board of Judges selected the New Type of Drama with a single centred story, devoid of all suggestion of sub-plot, confining every moment to the ONE Theme and thought contained in the Problem, which is as follows: PROBLEM. Conditions. To relieve the poverty of the household a mother resumes her professional work as an actress. Her child dies. Cause. Piqued by her superiority the husband charges her with maternal neglect. Conclusion. Will she tolerate this monster of selfishness? Here is a foundation for a play intensely human and real- istic. The dramatist (for she has well earned her title to the distinction) has eliminated all silly sentimentality and clung to the legitimate purpose of propounding her One Straight- forward Story of this husband and wife. The people are real creatures of the sort she has seen and known and no effort is made to besmear them with a varnish of theatric-ideality. They LIVE and breathe the same air continually inhaled by the spectator and for this reason will bind the interest of the audience. Mrs. Martha Fletcher Bellinger, the winner of this remark- able prize, has made one serious mistake in the Scenario draft of her Play idea. The Action is divided into four Acts where 53 The DRAMATIST the material calls for but three. Instead of a first act to show the poverty of the home and the mother's decision to resume her stage career; a second act to portray her stage success, interrupted by the terrible news of her baby's fatal illness; a third act for the husband's charge of ambitious neglect and a fourth act to end this struggle; she should divide the Action as follows: Act I. and Act II. same as original. Act III. Husband's charge of neglect really actuated by pique at her superior talents. Wife's meek decision to resign stage career. Further despotism which causes wife to desert this selfish wretch. Here the Action ends as finally as Problem can pre- scribe; Any attempt to attach further complications merely threaten the beginning of another play in Act IV which is so clearly the case in "Paid in Full" and "The Third Degree." It is a great thing to know when to stop ! Problem tells you. Just to achieve the happy ending, the author of this prize play expects to "ring in" lover for the wife in the charac- ter of a playwright. If this is done an economy could be at- tained by making a composite of the stage manager who em- ploys her and the playwright who writes the play in which she is to star. Another structural defect that will probabjy receive attention under the advice of professional management is the elimination of spurious set scenes in the second and fourth Acts. This is an antedeluvian form seldom resurrected by modern Dramatists! But before we dismiss the subject let us glance into the his- tory of this woman whose work has won favor with five worthy judges and see if this Scenario was a thing dashed off in a fit of inspiration or the result of careful study of the fundamentals of Drama. Mrs. Bellinger left college in 1892. She had already given much thought to dramatic and literary pursuits. Year after year she toiled and struggled with her hobby availing the best technical advice obtainable until she finally became a public lecturer on the subject in the schools of New York. Twenty years, at least, may be reckoned as her preparatory period and this is her first play to be produced 1 Does this look to you like a flash of genius? A spell of inspiration? Or the re- ward of work, work, work? 54 LUTHER B. ANTHONY, E.ditor Vol. I. EASTON. PA. No. 4 QUARTERLY 1910 JULY Enchained A Rare Specimen of Modem Construction. It may be deemed an assumption on the part of an Ameri- can to sit in judgment on the work of the Grand Prize winner of the French Academy, but even though the French pay more attention to structure than any other dramatic writers in the world, they have yet to resolve the art of playwrit- ing into a safe and sound science. Of course, the French moral standard is bound to infest their drama and unfit much of their best product for American presentation despite the maudlin efforts of our own play butchers to chop them to fit our stage. But the ethics of any play should be measured in- side the limits the author has imposed upon himself and not by any external standard. The commendable qualities of structure in this play out- number the negatives in a greater proportion than any manu- script we have reviewed, comprising a list of many thousands. The fundamentals of Play construction are observed in nearly every instance so that it serves as an excellent model for the student. Drama. This subtle dramatic agent so little understood by the ama- teur is well illustrated in "Enchained." By Dram.a we mean that effect produced upon the audience by the things that HAPPEN upon the stage. If you want to see this principle in full operation, calling forth doubt, sympathy and suspense, read Scene VI of the first Act. Note how the constantly drift- ing relations between these two characters keep interest alive. Note the superb dignity and extreme fidelity of the author's art. The Scene is brief, so brief that we all want more of it. We sit in breathless suspense wondering what is to come of this complicity. In Scene VIII another phase of Action is created by an opposite course. It may not vibrate our sympathies with as much delight but to the Plot this Scene is just as essential. It promotes the Play. It is a decided stride for progress, advanc- ing the completed Conflict perceptibly. 55 The DRAM. ATIST Scene VI of Act II is fully as powerful as the same number in Act I. No one, better than the beginner, knows how to make a sameness in all Scenes that occur between the same characters. You will note no similarity here, even though we have the same characters, dealing with the same emotion, but creating an entirely new effect for the reason that there is in- finite progress in the Conflict. The pot is boiling! New fuel is thrown into the fire continually. See what restraint is exer- cised by the dramatist toward the end of Scene VI Act II. How readily the novice would have thrown them into each other's arms, thereby destroying that potent sympathy in- spired with the audience by their nobler conduct. Scenes. Please notice that the Scene divisions refer to the struc- tural units and do not mean a change of stage setting. This is what we invariably mean when we speak of Scenes in techni- cal discussion. Without Scenes there can be no Play. A Scene is a little Play in itself. Note what marvellous headway Her- vieu makes in a brief Scene of less than a page at times. Take Scene VIII in Act I, for instance. The author wishes to show that Irene keeps her promise to Michel : "I shall forever keep myself for myself." Pages of dialog could not accomplish what he does here in seventeen speeches ! And strange to say the poorest Scene in the whole play is one of the longest. It is Scene I in Act III. In a well written Scene there is not a word of the dialog that is said with- out inevitable Cause. The character must say it, either because of the predicament in which he is placed or by mere reason of his nature of which we must have seen traits that give credence to his utterance. There is hardly a line in the above mentioned Scene that has the dramatic force back of it. The words are there because the author wanted to get cer- tain information before the audience and for this moment lapsed in his art and employed the amateur's method of TELLING the audience first hand. Valanton is as foreign to this Scene as the king of the cannibal islands. The informa- tion that is pumped across the footlights should come out in- directly and inevitably through the dialog of the principals concerned. There is nothing doing between Valanton and Fergan and where there is nothing at issue you may be sure that mere rhetoric and inaction will result. A splendid contrast to this flaw may be found in Scene VI of the first Act. Here there IS an issue. These two beings are in Love. Circumstances are keeping them separated. The pur- pose of the Scene makes it throb with life and emotion ! Ob- serve this difference in these two examples and you have the main secret of Scene construction, which is half of the art of Playwriting. 56 The DRAMATIST Sequence. And now we come to the gravest transgression of principle in the Play; an effort to "ring in" a factor of preparation for subsequent effect at a juncture entirely out of Sequence. In Scene V of Act I as Valanton is getting ready to depart Pau- line says : "You were very delicate when you were little," and Michel admits it, citing heredity as the cause. The thought is plumped into the midst of another Scene where its violation of Sequence destroys effectiveness. And the hint itself is a very important one. Without this intimation of Michel's affliction we cannot properly comprehend the impending catastrophe in Act III when we see the son of Michel the heir to his father's malady. Lack of such comprehension dilutes suspense, for the audience should begin to see Fergan's impending doom. If we do not, the rudiments of Action are at fault ! But this preparation must come in somewhere, you will say. Yes, and there is a place for it, just as there is a real har- bor for every thought waiting to be launched. Look at Scene VI of this Act. Michel is going away. Irene does not want him to go. Wouldn't it be the most natural thing in the world for her to advance the argument that he was not strong enough to make this trip. Michel would retort that he was never stronger, that this delicacy is a thing of heredity with him. All the more reason for Irene wanting him to remai^ where she could watch over him. And there you are! The item of preparation has here crept in without obtruding itself upon a foreign Scene, and besides fusing with the dialog in hand it has served to advance the sentiment of the Scene of which it is now truly a part. Future Study. We dedicate this Play to the sincere student of the Drama who wants a model of good structure. When helplessly adrift in accomplishing your point refer to this masterpiece and see hovv Hervieu did it. You will find few patterns that will serve as veil. We shall refer to this Play from time to time for illustra- tion, to drive home our discussion on principle. Please feel at liberty to communicate on any point that confuses you. If you care to rewrite Scene I in Acts I or III we will analyse your tffort. These are the two weakest Scenes in the play. Persevere and study! Look upon your art as the physician- candidate contemplates his course at the University. The dra- matic is the most subtle Science of them all. \ 57 DRAM E.NCH AIN ED A PLAY IN THREE ACTS By Paul Hervieu Translated by Ysidor Asckenasy Copyright 1910 by Ysidor Atckenisy Characters: Michael Davernier. Ferdinand Valanton. Robert Fergan. A Servant (man.) Rene Fergan. Pauline Valanton. Irene Fergan. ACT I The Stage represents an elegant drawing-room. In the rear a conservatory. Doors at right and left. Lamps lit. Light as for small reception. Scene I. Irene, Pauline. (As the curtain rises PAULINE questions her sister with tenderness. IRENE, agitated, nervous, traverses the stage its entire length. The men are smoking and can be seen behind the glazed door of the conservatory.) PAULINE. — Finally, for what can you reproach your hus- band? IRENE (with vehemence). — His incapacity to make me love him. v PAULINE. — Whose fault is it? You accuse him of not loving you. Perhaps he could answer that you are not affec- tionate. IRENE. — Ah! I feel that I would know how to cherish some one, if that some one for whom I am longing with all my heart would only come ! But Robert, after ten years of nar- ried life, of life in common, has not even made me resigned, and I am now in despair. PAULINE. — Ah ! when I saw last month that that devilish law of divorce was voted, I immediately thought of the new stimulant you would find in it; you and all like you, rry poor Irene, who until now were contented with making s'mply a very bad household IRENE. — I was never satisfied. 58 The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — Why don't you arrange your life differently? You have no child to console you; go into society to amuse yourself. Do not refuse the opportunities of being outdoors as much as possible. Here, in this house so excellently planned for receiving guests ; with such comfort ; with a jolly fellow as a husband and a charming woman as hostess, — you should be- gin to entertain again. Reopen your circle, which you have narrowed, so that it scarcely counts any one but myself, your old sister, not exceedingly amusing, and your brother-in-law. By and by have an occasional evening with us. IRENE. — It is not pleasure that I need; it is happiness. I crave and weep for the lack of it; you advise me to take only drugs. PAULINE. — I repeat, Robert, no doubt, is not ideal; but it is yourself who makes your misfortune, with your dreams and your lively and excitable disposition. This will all pass, alas ! and sooner than you know IRENE. — Can you reproach me for being different from this man who feels enthusiasm for nothing, who revolts against nothing, who is nothing, nothing but my master, for me PAULINE. — For you, who are ready to listen to every- thing, who feel all things passionately, who are ready to live and die for everything. IRENE. — I do not pretend to be of a superior nature. I have no vanity. I should not ask my husband to be a great man. It would have been enough, perhaps, that he were a man, an ordinary man, possessing the ordinary virtues, and even vices, but also emotions, the power to feel pain, to be in- terested in life. But my husband does not give me even the possibility of commiserating him, to spend for him a bit of my heart, which is so large ! PAULINE. — Notwithstanding, you have very fine occa- sions to show a little pity! Just see: your disagreements in everything, your discords, your quarrels; see; There is much to anger, to enrage him, IRENE (with a restrained irony). — You don't know him. Such men as he are always calm, in their conviction of being right. When he rises in the morning he is ready to be right all day. He is right with the servants, with the horses, with everything. In all stories that he relates there is always one who was wrong, while he was right. PAULINE. — He is not right, then, against you? IRENE (wild, sullen). — Yes! As a husband he uses his power against me whenever it is convenient to him, but with- out the least regard whether it is convenient to me. PAULINE. — I take the liberty of giving you a sermon. It is I who caused you to be married and in a manner exactly as 59 The DRAMATIST I was married by our mother. My husband is identical with yours. They both have the same manner of conduct, the same kind of idleness in their equal wealth. Their habits of clubs, sports, hunting are almost similar. Both are sons of rich fami- lies, having had fathers who worked hard ; they and others like them form a legion of similar husbands, who have wisely married, before being too baldheaded, before being too ugly, young girls richly endowed like us, excellently educated and reared in convents like ours. Their households compose the good middle class of society. And as for my part, I am very well satisfied with my lot. Ferdinand and I love each other sincerely — just as we should. IRENE. — Oh ! I know that. You are one of a certain lim- ited number of wives always satisfied with their lives. But it is you who at the right moment will make also the most re- signed widows. The one and the other are of the same kind. PAULINE (a little offended). — I don't quite see the con- nection. IRENE. — Is that so? Just a few months ago, at the dinner when Michel Davemier told us of his trip to Greece, do you recall what your husband said? He said very naturally: "Should I have the misfortune to lose my wife, and were I still young enough, I should take just such a trip? You seemed to find this also very natural." PAULINE.— Why, was it not? IRENE. — What? Is that a good husband, who in presence of his wife should thus foresee a possibility of becoming a wi- dower, to start a trip with just a little baggage? PAULINE. — You always go to the extreme. IRENE. — And you? Is that, then, the manner of being in perfect accord in a household? It is not like that I want to be loved; nor do I care to love like that. It is against such misery that I cry and struggle here. PAULINE (maliciously). — If I gave but little attention to what my husband said, it is, no doubt, because I amused my- self watching you. IRENE.— Me? PAULINE. — Yes, you. While Michel Davemier kept us under the charm of his speech, his ideas seemed to me devil- ishly advanced in every respect; but you gave the impression of finding them very eloquent. IRENE (with embarrassment). — What do you mean to say? PAULINE. — Would you like me to add even the reason to v/hich I attribute the particular nervous irritation that you feel against your husband? It is because he lacked, I confess it, 60 The DRAMATIST ability and refinement, which Michel showed during the dis- cussion. Since we have again met the friend of our childhood, your husband has given you but very little opportunity to show how small he is. IRENE (agitated). — Then you think — what do you think? PAULINE. — I think that you were wounded in your self- love, and that there is nothing in it. All this will pass (point- ing to the back of the stage). The smokers are coming back. Your eyes are red. You should perhaps — IRENE. — Yes, make myself presentable. (She goes into her chamber — right). Scene II. Pauline, Fergan. FERGAN. — How is this, my dear Pauline? My wife leaves you alone? PAULINE. — You came just in time to take her place. FERGAN. — In fact, I came to take leave of you. Irene did not think it necessary to tell me that we would have guests. I had to pretend urgent business to avoid the company of your Mr. Davemier. I have come to believe that he is a fellow of great value, but he is poison to me. I left him with Ferdinand, who, it seems, can endure him more than I. PAULINE. — And you go away to make your indispensa- ble visit to the club? FERGAN.— Oh! indispensable? No! But there is a little group of friends who play the game among themselves. When we take leave at seven o'clock, we say: 'Will you be here this evening?' 'I will be if you will be.' 'Well, then, I'll be.' Then we have a mark, an aim, our little word to keep. PAULINE. — Did you never ask yourself if there was no other thing of more importance to you? Yes; the peace of your home. What do you think your wife feels whenever you leave her alone at home? FERGAN. — My wife? She is enchanted! You could cer- tainly see how^ sullen and disobliging she acted towards me all the time at dinner. Well, the moment she knows that I am away, I wager she will become very amiable, very joyous. The moment I come where she is, she becomes gloomy. When I depart, she feels at once an air of deliverance. PAULINE. — Instead of being contented with things as they are, you should try to change them. The situation is in- deed grave. FERGAN. — What would you have me do? It is Irene who does not suffer me any more. That began, I do not know when; and continues, I do not know why; and I don't care even to give the impression of perceiving it. 6z The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — If you become stubborn on your side, she will become stubborn on hers, and the breach between you will become more and more wide. FERGAN.— The worse ! I have thought a great deal. My conscience does not reproach me for anything. Of what does Irene complain? PAULINE. — Of nothing precisely — of not being happy. FERGAN. — Does she believe I am? With her singular, capricious character, her continual hostilities, her glum and scowling look! She should bear that in mind: the more she comports herself so, the more I shall go for fresh air and shall wait until that passes. PAULINE. — But then, what will become of her during that time? FERGAN. — She will think the matter over. PAULINE. — Oh ! She is of such a nature that you might wait a long while for her submission. FERGAN (with authority). — She is my wife. PAULINE. — She is first herself, and then your wife. FERGAN. — I married her to give her a peaceful and agreeable home. I ask her to share with me an ordinary, pos- sible life, like all the world. PAULINE. — Irene is a person who is not like all the world. FERGAN. — I pity her. Whoever is not like the rest of the people is of necessity wrong. As you see, it is not I who must change. For my part I take life as it presents itself. Irene is constantly dreaming. I never dream. And I do not under- stand how one can wish for anything better than a peaceful life. It is your sister who must change, and you should tell her so. PAULINE. — I told her the best I could, just a few min- utes ago. FERGAN. — Did you? And what argument did she use against me? PAULINE. — The most adroit of all — it is beyond your comprehension. Scene III. Pauline, Fergan, Irene. (IRENE scowls as she sees her husband; she stops for a while.) FERGAN (low to PAULINE).— There she is. (Loud.) Here you have company. I shall go away. (Irene cheers up.) (Low.) Do you see? (Loud.) Good by. (He bows slightly to IRENE, who lets him pass, and he goes out through the left.^ 62 The DRAMATIST Scene IV. Pauline, Irene. IRENE.— Did you speak of me? PAULINE.— Certainly! We had a heart to heart talk. IRENE. — Oh! Then you should understand each other very well! PAULINE. — Just as well as I understand you. Scene V. The same, Valanton, Michel Davemier. (The last two ar- rive from the conservatory.) VALANTON.— So, did I not convince you? MICHEL.— Not in the least VALANTON. — I was about to marry off Mr. Davernier. IRENE.— To whom? VALANTON.— To whom? How do I know? We did not reach that far. I said to him: "Now look, you are thirty years old. Your personal merits, your eminent situation in the university, entitle you to a wife v/ith a large dowry, and it is for you to find her. It is only a short time since you returned to Paris ; you did not make undesirable acquaintances nor any entangling alliances " PAULINE.— Oh! VALANTON. — "Consequently, you don't love any one; then go ahead and marry ! The first thing to do in such a case is to say to oneself, 'I want to marry.' Afterwards, there is nothing left but to look for a desirable match. Of course, as usual, one compares, chooses, and gives preference. This is worth more than the opposite method; to provide one's self with a woman first, and decide to marry her later — " PAULINE (to MICHEL)— And what did you answer to these exhortations? MICHEL. — To me marriage, birth, and death constitute the three great solemnities of our existence. I attribute to each an equal importance. I look at them with the same spirit. Personally, we do not anticipate our birth; we die involuntar- ily when our time comes. So, also, I think that marriage should be accomplished without our intervention, just as well as our birth; without preparing for it more than we prepare for death. I should like marriage to come suddenly, fatally, instinctively, through the sovereign action of nature. The sac- ramental "yes," it seems to me, should come forth from our hearts, because it was put therein mysteriously, unknown to us, as if it were the first mewing, as it shall be the last sigh. IRENE. — Nature takes care to give us birth and make us die. It does not care to marry us. 63 The DRAMATIST MICHEL. — In fact, it watches how we fall in love in spite of ourselves, with one that excludes every one else. And this sentiment is as arbitrary, as undefinable, as divine, as is the law which first opens our eyes, and then closes them to the light. PAULINE. — Still, one has the liberty to get married or not; we are free to marry without love, and even against love. MICHEL. — Exactly. Here nature inspired itself on the subject. It is not brutal, as in the question of life and death. It is more humble and very gallant. It insinuates, beseeches, delays, and torments. IRENE. — And after all it is powerless to make people re- frain from marrying for family reasons, for reasons of conve- nience, or any other reasons, which are naught but reasons. MICHEL. — We may disregard nature for a while, or we may not wait till it announces itself, but you may rest assured that sooner or later it will assert itself; it will either confirm through love the marriage of those who disregarded it at the beginning, or will make them unite with some one else outside — as in nature. VALANTON. — I know only one way of marrying; the city hall and the church. MICHEL. — Marriage is love, to which the virtuous cus- toms have nobly added the city hall and the church. In your system, it would be nothing else but the serious action of sign- ing an important contract. I can see in this kind of engage- ment the most notable act of the bourgeoisie, but I deny it the character, the fatal beauty, of being one of the three great hu- man acts. PAULINE. — Is it at the French schools in Athens that one learns things like that? MICHEL. — No, in the school of life, where, my dear madam, you were present at my debut. VALANTON. — It is true, then, that you were the first playmate of my little sister-in-law? MICHEL. — We were neighbors in our gardens at St. James. A day came when I had no father, no mother, no gar- den. But the illusion of still having a family, of a place in the world, I found in the good neighboring home. A Servant (coming in). — The carriage of Mr. Valanton is ready. VALANTON (to the Servant) .—All right. Give us our coats. (The servant goes out.) PAULINE. — You were very delicate when you were little. MICHEL. — Yes, very sickly. I inherited that from my pa- rents. IRENE. — And he was a bad boy, too. MICHEL.— Truly? 64 The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — Not at alL I have a vague recollection that he was very gentle. IRENK — You did not know what more things to invent, that I should not always end by crying, and above all, you used to assume such a haughty air, and become angry, and then go away. MICHEL (melancholy). — That is probably the way the boys cry. (During this VALANTON has risen and made a sign to his wife, who also is ready to go away.) VALANTON (to Irene). — You will excuse us, dear friend, but I arose this morning at five o'clock to go hunting, and I ought to start again tomorrow morning. I am literally worn out, it simply kills me, IRENE. — If that were work, yes; but as it is amusement — (goes toward MICHEL). — Good by, Mr. Davernier. MICHEL (who also rose). — I go. I beg your pardon, per- haps I detained you by my staying a little too long. (To PAU- LINE and to IRENE.) But it was in some respects my fare- wells that I wanted to bid, and which I prolonged. IRENE (with emotion).— Farewell? PAULINE (with a simple curiosity). — Are you going away again? MICHEL, — I am charged with a mission of researches in Asia Minor. IRENE. — And you must depart at once? MICHEL. — I should be ready in a very short time. PAULINE (whom her husband hastens to the door of the conservatory). — Will you not come to pay me a last visit? MICHEL.— Certainly. (MICHEL stays to take leave of IRENE, whUe PAULINE and VALANTON go out) Scene VI. Irene, Michel. IRENE. — Why must you go? Tell me about this project which is so unexpected? MICHEL. — I should have preferred not to speak at all. IRENE. — And it seemed to you best to let us know through a letter that you had gone, and would remain away for a long time? MICHEL. — Don't scold me, please. IRENE. — What made you take such a resolution? MICHEL. — I once went away for reasons known by no one but myself. The time passed slowly. I tried to delude myself, and then I made the mistake of coming back. To-day I have first realized that mistake — I must depart. IRENE. — The reasons that you had and still have, is it im- possible to let me know them? 65 The D R A M A T I S T MICHEL. — No. There is no one else to whom I could tell them. IRENE (confused).— Ah! MICHEL.— Ask me. IRENE.— I do not dare. MICHEL. — Well, then, it is I who shall dare. Above all, the long months that I passed in the very heart of antique things have undoubtedly diverted my attention from m.y own life. Leave the present, and let me take you with me in my recollections along a sweet and sad walk through a temple in ruins. IRENE. — I understand very well that you are going to in- vent one of those games of which I spoke a few minutes ago, and which always made me shed tears. MICHEL. — When your marriage was decided upon you were eighteen years old. I was twenty and had just left the normal school. You became the wife of Mr. Fergan. All this fell upon me heavily, like a judgment. I do not know how a woman feels at the age of eighteen, but I know that a boy of twenty is something which is not yet fully conscious. I con- tinued to see you, to see you again and again, until one day I realized that I loved you distractedly. When one finds out that such is the circumstance, he is fully aware of his future. I was destined to love you forever, and it was forbidden me to ever love you. Then I looked for a refuge in work, and then in exile. I was going to live three years in the far East, trying to drown my thought, which you occupied, in the sun, in the vast pure sky of those shores. It is not becaiTse I felt healed that I returned, but it is because I felt no better. But here, here was something even worse to meet. IRENE (interrupting him), — I did not want to follow you in the past. MICHEL. — Now, I have nothing else to tell you, (A pause). IRENE. — Perhaps there is something missing in woman's soul. As for my part I shall never understand how one is able to leave the person he loves. To me it seems everything would be supportable but the absence. Of course I realize that the first sentiment was not to depart from the one we love so dearly. MICHEL. — And if I were to tell you that it was a kind of folly which compelled me to run away from you would you not see in that impulsive action a most humble and passionate confession, the most painful proof of my sincerity and my sub- mission? IRENE. — But if you came to realize that the sacrifice of remaining near me would be still greater — would you not con- sent? (Silence from MICHEL.) Even if I should ask it? 66 The DRAMATIST MICHEL. — I did not say that. I never thought this ques- tion would present itself. IRENE.— Nor did I, until now. MICHEL.— And now? IRENE. — It seems to me I cease to be the woman who has ignored herself for such a long time. And at the news that came so suddenly that I was going to lose you again (she be- gins to shed tears), I felt that I had come to consider you something that belongs to me, I do not know how, but never- theless very much to me. MICHEL. — You feel ill. I am very culpable. I beg your pardon. I have not the right to understand what you say, to dare to believe it. It is only I alone who has to suffer. I learned it. You should not do it. IRENE (supplicating). — Promise that you will go away no more ! MICHEL.— What will become of us? IRENE. — Ah! whatever the future reserves for us please do not abandon me. Be my providence, my consolation. If you only knew how unhappy I am. No. Remain. Let us share our sorrows. MICHEL. — You believe me stronger than I am. IRENE. — I believe you are strong, and I feel that I am strong. MICHEL. — Yes, but in my love for you, you think that I am capable of wishing anything which shall be in the least in- jurious to you. But did you never stop to think that the most unspeakable anguish can soil even the purest sentiment? IRENE. — I do not understand you. MICHEL. — I see here beside you a man whose rights and caprices can dispose of you. IRENE (palpitating with shame). — You are not generous. MICHEL.— I am jealous. (IRENE covers her face.) And you will understand that there will not be room enough for me and the man to whom you belong. (A long pause.) IRENE. — You have made me feel how great a part of my heart you occupy — and I know also that I cannot belong to you. I ought not to belong to anybody. Help me. Remain to defend me ; you will always see my eyes resting sincerely on yours. From this moment I shall forever keep myself for my- self. (She extends him her hand, which he very respectfully kisses.) Return as soon as you can — thanks; this evening I feel my soul was born again. MICHEL. — You have also renewed my life. (Exit Michel through the conservatory.) 67 DRAM Scene VII. IRENE (alone after watching MICHEL'S departure, falls in an elbow chair, in a pensive attitude). Scene VIII. Irene, Fergan. (Fergan returns through the door of his room, left. He is still in his evening dress, except the dressing gown that he has on. He comes in without being noticed by IRENE, until he puts his hands upon the back of the armchair where she sits.) FERGAN.— Are you asleep? IRENE (jumping). — You frighten me! FERGAN (amiably). — I did not mean to. I thought I would not find you in the drawing room at this hour. There is no more fire here. (Feeling her hands.) Your hands are frozen. IRENE (freeing herself). — Let me alone, please. FERGAN.— What is the matter? IRENE.— I thought I should be left alone. FERGAN. — Your nerves again? IRENE.— Yes. FERGAN (very gallant). — That suits you very well. You look still prettier. IRENEv — Pray, let me alone. FERGAN. — Are you really angry? But I am determined not to become angry. (He embraces her.) IRENE (breaking away). — You are stepping on my dress. FERGAN (whispering in her ear). — Come, it's bedtime. IRENE.— No ! FERGAN.— Listen! IRENE (she exits and closes the door abruptly). — Good night ! FERGAN.— No ! Irene ! (He tries to open, but the lock resists. He shouts furiously). — You shall pay for this. ACT II The same setting as in Act I. Daylight. The spring roller blinds of the glazed back door are lowered. Scene I Irene, Fergan. (As the curtain rises, FERGAN is ready to drink a cup of coffee at the table at the right. IRENE, seated in an armchair, at the other extremity of the room, reads, ob- stinately, a book. FERGAN, after manifestations of impa- tience, closes the book in the hands of his -wife, and takes it away with a move of firm resolution.) 68 The D R A M A T I S T FERGAN. — Although you have tried it, I think I can de- lay no longer from telling you the changes I wish to make, and which I think are absolutely necessary. (IRENE, her arms crossed, listens to him, without looking at him.) It has been a long time, several months, since you mentioned the subject of your health. The state of your nerves, your migrims and your hysterics alarmed me only at first; to-day my opinion is settled as to these imaginary ills, which I deplore you still simulate. I have resolved to adopt extreme measures — to cure you. If life in Paris still continues to disagree with you I shall take advantage of the opportunity to terminate the lease of this residence, whose term of renewal is just approaching. Have you any objection to offer? IRENE.— None. FERGAN (with a cunning and spiteful tone). — Then, all that remains for me to do is to consult you as to your choice between two estates that I have in view. They have equal reasons for furnishing you a salutary climate. Both are in the country, far from any town, and receive excellent breezes from the neighboring forests. I would willingly abide by your pre- ference, because you are destined to live at one of these two places more constantly than I, because I shall be compelled to be away frequently. The administration of our estates or some unforeseen events will make this necessary. Such ab- sence will not annoy you whose life is so uniformly arranged. When do you think you will be disposed to examine the de- tails of this question? IRENE (rising). — Never! I refuse to interfere in what- ever you may bring before me regarding the future. We shall never form any plans together. I cannot conceive of the possi- bility of a common existence between us; you hate me as I hate you. FERGAN. — It is you who compel me to hate you. You impose upon me, your husband, a situation which is singular, ridiculous, outrageous ! Change and I will change too. IRENE. — This does not depend on me. I feel something which is stronger than I am. FERGAN. — You were not always like that? Were you? IRENE. — Why not! At first, as any other girl who mar- ries, I asked nothing else but to love the man whose wife I had become. I tried, I struggled, I tormented my heart, but I could not triumph over myself. I cannot, I cannot! And I swear it from the depth of my heart, I shall never be able. It is from experience that I know I cannot love you at all. FERGAN (beside himself). — There is not one single word in what you say which is not a violation of your duty eind a defiance of all my rights. 69 The DRAMATIST IRENE. — I do not utter one word which does not express the sorrow and the truest outburst of my soul. FERGAN. — Do you realize where this will lead to? IRENE.— I don't care ! FERGAN.— Then you are a fool! This at least can be cured. IRENE. — And I hope that you will be wise. Scene II The same, PAULINE. The latter comes in just when the quarrel begins. PAULINK— My God! My God! Again? Is it then really impossible for you to be of accord? FERGAN. — I give up. You may listen to her. It's use- less to argue with her. Let her talk. I predict that in time you will visit a cell. (Exit.) Scene III Irene, Pauline. PAULINE.— Still quarreling? IRENE. — Appalling! From week to week, from hour to hour the thing becomes more evil. PAULINE.— Oh ! Still more patience ! IRE^E. — The end has come! Yesterday you heard his vague menaces. To-day they are about to be executed. Yes, he wants to take me away from here, isolate me from the rest of the world, sequestrate me, I do not know where, in prison, with him as my jailor ! PAULINE. — Irene, my poor sister Irene ! IRENE. — Under such circumstances I think nothing bet- ter than divorce, or PAULINE.— Or what? IRENE (despairingly). — Out through the door; or, if — jump from the window! PAULINE.— You frighten me! IRENE. — Will you desert me? If you are with me there is no time to lose. PAULINE (embracing her). — You are wicked! But it is for your good that I try to convince you of your error. Your husband is not a villain. Let's see! Do you suspect there is another woman? Perhaps some gratitude is due him. IRENE.— For what? PAULINE. — For not being brutal, as many others permit themselves to be; and which would be nothing less than you deserve. IRENE. — No, Pauline, you cannot with full conscience ad- vise the immolation of this great sentiment, — one that a wo- man feels above all others! 70 The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — And still it is your duty to remain an honest woman. IRENE. — No ! I shall never admit that there is an honest duty under a similar constraint. PAULINE. — Religion also commands obedience. IRENE. — No. Religion, though based on abnegation, can- not command such extreme humility to any of its creatures. And in fact, does not religion teach us that chastity is the state nearest to God? I cannot conceive a more miserable sin than to impose complaisance, affection for one's flesh. Yes, this is marriage. People have transformed this lie into a sa- cred religious institution ! To feel and realize the only obsta- cle to one's happiness, to abominate it with all one's strength, and to be compelled to accept as a pleasure, what you really feel a deadly poison ! Ah, the profanation, the shame ! PAULINE. — Irene, you love somebody? IRENE.— Why? PAULINE. — Because people do not exalt themselves against something, but for something IRENE. — Suppose I do. I would then have another rea- son to long for my deliverance. PAULINE. — But, my poor darling, a new husband — for another you will feel the same as you have felt for the first; you, with those caprices and indefinite ideas of yours, IRENE. — I am no longer the unsophisticated girl who fol- lowed your advice more than her own, when you made me marry Robert Fergan. You had your experience. And I obeyed your great and dear authority. It was not I who mar- ried ten years ago; it was another that hardly existed then, and of whom I hardly remember anything. But now I feel I am somebody, I have become myself. I know what I want, and what I cannot endure longer. This struggle tears me to pieces, my heart suffocates me, and I have a terrible desire to kill myself ! PAULINE.— Ah! Be quiet. For God's sake ; what shall I do, what shall I do? IRENE. — You know what to do; it is understood, you pro- mised me. It was you who postponed the hour — now it has arrived. You are just in time. PAULINE. — Then do you really want it? IRENE. — Go to my husband immediately. Tell him what you think best, be explicit and decisive. I would go, but I have no influence whatever upon him. He would simply treat me once more as a fool. To you he will listen. He always wanted me to have your seriousness, your commonsense. The gravity of your advice would make him reflect. PAULINE. — Yes, all this is right, but for divorce one should have at least a reason, present a pretext, 71 The DRAMATIST IRENE, — It will be enough that my husband be of accord with me ; as to the means that we shall adopt, invent, simulate, to obtain the grant which will give me the liberty, we'll see. Oh, tell him anything, until he concedes. Do not allow your- self to be repulsed from the very beginning. Insist, suppli- cate, frighten him. Go, you can do that — you are afraid? I suppose you have reason to be. Scene IV. The Same. A Servant. THE SERVANT.— Mr. Davemier asks if madam is dis- posed to receive him. IRENE. — Ask him to come in. (Exit servant.) Scene V. Irene, Pauline. PAULINE. — What have you to say to Michel in such a moment as this? (With an air of mistrust.) Does he know? IRENE. — No. Michel does not even suspect what you are going to do. (Very loyally.) But — if he should know? (With anguish) Would you abandon me? (PAULINE is silent a moment, in emotion. Then embraces her sister with infinite tenderness.) PAULINE.— My poor dear sister! (She goes to FER- GAN.) Scene VI. Irene, Michel. MICHEL. — I beg your pardon for coming here. IRENE (tenderly). — Yes. (Gravely.) But you should not have done it. You should not do it. MICHEL. — I know. I promised that to you. I swore that to myself. But, supposing that you love me just as much as I love you. IRENE, — Let us suppose. MICHEL. — ^Then the resolution of not seeing you is more difficult for me to keep than for you. IRENE.— In what way? MICHEL. — Because I know if I should not come I should not see you at all, while you, you could always think that I am coming. IRENE.— And then? MICHEL. — Then your time flies, hoping I might come, whereas with me, I feel from minute to minute the certitude repeating itself of not seeing you — should I obey your warn- ing. 72 The DRAMATIST IRENE. — During those days, so long and so numerous, in which we live apart, so far from one another, have you not thought that our fate can change? MICHEL. — I dare not wish for anything. Do you think of it, do you? IRENE. — During your absence I always see your pale forehead, all these dolorous characteristics of a malady that I would like to cure, and which engenders in me a pity still greater than the pity I feel for both of us. I dream of you as being delivered of this air of suffering, as being happy, very happy. When I am not with you, do you not see me — such as I am, and then, such as I could be? MICHEL. — Yes. There are hours when you appear be- fore me all distracted, full of love, and all unknown as yet by me, and still it is certainly you; yes, you, belonging to me for- ever, as through a miracle, without even a shadow of remorse or reproach, or even of mourning caused by the death of an- other ! IRENE. — How similar your soul is to mine! and how our love seems to me greater with all the intensity of our pride! Neither you nor I have conceived of the possibility of a happi- ness in disloyalty. So, for a long time, without having spoken to you, I have thought of nothing else except to be with you forever. MICHEL.— What do you mean? IRENE. — Just at this moment our fate is being decided. Pauline is meeting my husband to ask him whether he is dis- posed that we give each other legally our rights as well as our liberty. MICHEL (eagerly). — And do you hope? IRENE.— I hope he will concede. I could not expect a senseless tenacity from his part against the only imaginable solution. Why, does he not need to-day his liberty just as well as I do? Nobody likes to remain in hell! MICHEL. — I want to believe that, I believe it. IRENE. — But, to respond to the great event that now ap- proaches, a great resolution is imposed upon you and me. The project of your going away, which I opposed at first, becomes now a necessity. MICHEL.— To leave you? IRENE.— Yes. If there shall be any prospect for me to become your wife — it will probably be after one year. Then you might return — but if I am not able to break my chains (with a sob) we shall see each other no more MICHEL.— Irene! 73 The DRAMATIST IRENE. — We shall always be apart, each of us in the dig- nity of our mourning, in the mourning of promised marriages, which never culminate ! From the bottom of your soul are we in accord? MICHEL. — No, I cannot go away from you any more. I have lost that rough energy that sustained me long ago. I could not live without you, without seeing you, or feeling that you are near me. When we are not together, I need the warm recollection of having touched — so — your hands, and the hope that I shall soon bend over your eyes, drink in the sweetness of your words — (he wants to embrace her, to press her close to his bosom, and she shows great emotion.) IRENE. — Michel, please do not unnerve me, do not take away from me the confidence I have in myself, do not diminish the faith I sincerely have in my honesty. If our happiness is to last from to-day, let me remain all-deserving, let there be no memory to reproach me. Let me ! (She withdraws herself quickly.) I am your betrothed ! MICHEL. — I adore you. Your will shall be obeyed. IRENE (showing much uneasiness). — You have stayed quite long. You must go. MICHEL. — Without knowing? What will become of me? How could my patience endure the uncertainty? IRENE. — I shall let you know immediately. MICHEL. — But if you could not? What if something or some one would interfere or oppose your writing or going out? IRENE (pointing to the conservatory). — Then wait there. But take care not to be seen. That is all. Go, go ; time passes. I am full of anguish. I hear steps approaching. (Michel dis- appears into the conservatory.) Scene VII. Irene, then Pauline. (With attentive ear IRENE goes to the other door, through which PAULINE enters swiftly.) PAULINE.— Where is Michel? Did he go away? (Al- most out of breath.) Don't get angry, don't wonder. I just had a terrible fright, that your husband might meet him — and catch an impression — in his wrath. IRENE.— Does he refuse? PAULINE. — He wants to tell you about that. Here he comes now. Scene VIII. The Same. Fergan. FERGAN. — So this is, then, the beautiful plot that you have prepared for me with your sister ! PAULINE.— We did not plot. 74 The DRAMATIST FERGAN (to IRENE).— This is the pitiful proposition that you calculated, in which your headaches and nervous spells would culminate? IRENE. — You know very well that I never played at di- plomacy with you. Since I have suffered in being your wife I never dissimulated that. I told you very loyally, very plainly. To-day I tell you again that I am not able to suffer more. And as this depends on you I sent some one to ask you to be kind enough not to cause me further suffering. FERGAN. — Dear me ! You ask of me, of me, who repre- sents the defense of the right and the respect of morals, to ac- cede to you, who represent the revolt against society ! PAULINE (interfering). — Listen, Robert, do not assume the authority of principles. It is not a question here of being right or wrong, FERGAN.— Is that so? PAULINE. — As for myself, I tried my hardest to prevent this crisis. FERGAN. — My compliments. PAULINE. — But in the name of my tenderness for my sis- ter, and of my very affectionate esteem for you, I adjure you, be generous. Be good, be even weak, if this is necessary at this moment ; be nobly human. FERGAN. — My dear Pauline, your sister had thought ne- cessary to ask you to act as mediator. As for myself, I need none. And I wish to settle our debate once for all by our- selves, between her and myself. IRENE (to PAULINE).— Do not leave me! FERGAN. — Do not be afraid. I shall not strike you. Or, at any rate — that depends, (To PAULINE), But I repeat, my dear friend, that if you do not obey me at once you will oblige me to convince your sister that I am master here. PAULINE. — You are very cruel. IRENE. — No ! (preventing her from passing through the conservatory). — Wait for me in my chamber. PAULINE (embracing her), — I regret I am helpless to do anything for you, (Exit PAULINE,) Scene IX. Irene, Fergan. IRENE. — You want then to push me to the limit, reduce me to, I don't know what extremity? FERGAN. — I want simply to bring you to reason. IRENE. — But what argument do you oppose to my re- quest for a separation? It cannot be that you still love me, after all ! 75 The D RAMATIST FERGAN. — No, I do not love you any more. I even re- proach you for having spoiled my life — and if it were to make it over again — IRENE. — Then you feel a desire for revenge, to inflict upon me an expiation without end? FERGAN. — That would be my right. But I have some- thing else to answer, and that is : On the day of our marriage I concluded with you with all my heart a very clear contract that made of me a married man. This contract doubled my situation morally and materially. Of this contract I observed all the clauses; I conformed to its spirit without any hesita- tion. Today you come deliberately to ask me to lessen, to be- come a divorced man, a man who sells half of his furniture, who empties half his portfolio, and who remains with a half facade in society. And all these because it pleases you to have no more liking for my company? Well, now confess that my motives are a little more serious than yours. At least such would be the advice of all the family counsels, and all the tri- bunals on earth. IRENE. — And I cry out in horror against this dissembling life of marriage, where we are naught to one another, where hatred alone exists. Have we the love which makes one happy through the happiness we give? You talk to me of human re- spect, of deeds of notary public, and things of that kind. FERGAN. — But it is you who insisted that your existence in my home should be that of a stranger to me; I treat you therefore as the adverse party, against whom I have titles and signatures, without any other sentiment than that of my rights. IRENE. — Oh, yes, I admit all the laws which govern for- tunes, determine the fate of wealth, assure to one his money, and even somebody else's; — for mine, I do not even think of it — but I do not admit that the law should make a person for- ever the property of another. FERGAN. — All you say is nothing but the negation of marriage itself whose first principle is that one cannot leave of his own will ! IRENE. — Now let us talk seriously. There is an instance, very recent too, in which here in France the decision of only one of the spouses would be sufficient to break marriage. FERGAN.— Who told you that? IRENE.— The attorney. FERGAN. — Ah ! ah ! Have you gone that far already ? IRENE. — In the first years of this century, — a time which perhaps was better than ours, that was the law of married life. As you see, I do not dream of monstrous things, incompatible with the social order. To hate despairingly one's spouse, to hate him to-day more than yesterday, and to-morrow more 76 The DRAMATIST than to-day, this was a cause won for divorce. And I think that should be the supreme reason. I do not see another as worthy as that ! FERGAN (contemptuously). — The new law has not even admitted the divorce by mutual consent ! IRENE. — Eh! When a husband and a wife are capable of understanding a divorce, they would have no more necessity of it ! It is for those who are incapable of any accord, even in that, that the divorce has been invented. FERGAN. — Do whatever you please; all the ways are closed before you. IRENE.— I shall find one. FERGAN. — None! I do not impose services, nor serious injuries upon you. I am faithful, and as far as I know, no word of condemnation was ever uttered against me. Without these three grounds, and against a husband such as I am, you cannot ask anything of the tribunals. IRENE. — I can do and shall do much that it will be you w^ho will ask to be released from me ! FERGAN.— Nothing! IRENE. — Nevertheless, suppose I create for you a situa- tion which shall be intolerable? FERGAN. — You shall not triumph over my character. IRENE.— We will see. FERGAN. — Whatever grief you would bring upon me I would not answer except by keeping you more and more under my domination. IRENE. — I shall leave home, I shall run away. FERGAN. — And I will bring you back with gendarmes. (IRENE suddenly springs up.) I have the right to do it. IRENE (outraged). — And if the revolt should make of me a woman such as no man of honor could keep in his house? FERGAN (un5delding) . — I shall keep you! It pleases me to not give you your liberty. Even my pleasure gives me a le- gitimate right to oppose yours. I shall keep you and shall not let you go ! IRENE. — Oh ! and they say there are no more slaves in the world ! And still I must be a slave because I have a husband ! There is no eternal oath before God any longer, because a sis- ter nowadays may leave the convent, and yet there is one eter- nal oath, of a ^vife to her husband ! No, this is above me ; I do not accept it, I will not endure it ! FERGAN. — Little by little you will become accustomed to it. Mark well ! I am more than ever resolute about the reform of our habits, of which I advised you. We shall leave Paris. I am going to procure for you a calmer atmosphere, which will undoubtedly do you the necessary good; and then I will also profit by a little rest. 77 The DRAMATIST IRENE (lost). — Is this your last word? FERGAN.— Yes. IRENE (imploringly with joined hands). — You will not be pitiless. You will not desire my ruin. FERGAN (repulsing her). — Ah, I pray, do not be foolish! When you would not yield to me I spared you from my sup- plications. My decision is now firmly made. IRENE (kneeling). — Mercy! Mercy! Save me! FERGAN. — My will is resolute. Arrange your toilet. Later on, some day, I am convinced you yourself will praise me for having kept you in the regular way. (Fergan goes out through the door which leads to his chamber.) Scene X. Irene (alone) then Michel. (IRENE remains for a mo- ment in an attitude of despair. Then, as if blinded, she goes towards the conservatory, wherefrom MICHEL springs upon her and receives her in his arms. IRENE. — Ah! You! You! Do whatever you please with me. ACT III The action takes place in the drawing room of a castle out in the country. In the back a porch which opens into a park. Doors at right and left. Scene I. Fergan, Valanton. (As the curtain rises, FERGAN is busy arranging some volumes on his book shelves. He has the aspect of a mature man. VALANTON, who has also grown old, enters through the right, carrying with him a fishing outfit.) VALANTON. — Are you not going with me? Are you busy? FERGAN. — You see, my dear fellow, it is I who continues to be the hostess of this home. Ever since we came here, al- most ten years ago, I have never been able to persuade Irene to give the least attention to the little arrangements of the in- terior. VALANTON.— To be sure! But you must admit that it was not for her pleasure she came to reside in this country place. FERGAN.— Yes, but after ten years ! VALANTON (taking a seat in order to arrange a fishing line). — Oh, the women; they can continue to be that way for a long time. People have even written special plays on this very theme. They had their boudoir a century before men came to have the smoking-room. 78 The DRAMATIST FERGAN. — But you should not believe that Irene shows at present any ill will. I attribute her neglect of the house to a little fault in her character. But, thank God, I do not com- plain of her. We have come to an end, once for all, of that hor- rible time, when I certainly was compelled to make her feel an iron hand. VALANTON.— In an iron glove. FERGAN. — Undoubtedly. But this way I accomplished the mission I had to. VALANTON. — Certainly, first the mission towards your- self. FERGAN (with satisfaction). — Especially towards her. I assured her the existence of an honest, honorable woman. With all her exuberances of ideas, there is no telling of what she was capable, had I allowed her the direction of her actions. I tell you, I congratulate myself every day for having insisted sternly on that subject. In this retreat the physical condition of my wife has rapidly improved. She has become a mother. Her sentiments have modified. At last she understands life as one should understand it, as something which in fact is not so very bad, and in which we needed nothing more but to live a good life near one another. VALANTON. — Oh, evidently. In marriage there is no strife except during the first fifteen or twenty years. After that everything is serene. FERGAN. — Notwithstanding, this does not exclude the possibility of questions arising now and then which do not pass so easily. As, for example, just now I am going to settle a difficulty for which I foresee I shall need to summon all my courage. VALANTON (with an air of consternation). — Are you go- ing to renew the strife with your wife? FERGAN. — Yes. A rather serious one, I am afraid. The trouble is in regard to the instruction of our Rene, and my wife seems not to be disposed to teach him as he should be taught. VALANTON. — Oh! my dear friend, will you not wait un- til Pauline and I have finished our sojourn at your home? FERGAN. — Impossible. The opening of the schools takes place today. I have sent word to the college of St. Christophe, fifteen miles from here, that Rene will sleep there to-night. On various occasions Irene was so hostile to the idea of parting with the lad that I preferred to put off the discussion until the last moment. VALANTON. — What? Have you not even obtained her consent? FERGAN. — She always refused it in the same nervous manner that v/e know she had a long time ago. Then it seemed preferable to me to keep silent on this subject in order to save 79 The DRAMATIST her a priori excitement and superfluous trepidation. In fact is not this right? The crisis of the separation was inevitable. Now, as you see, it is better to reason with Irene but once, at just the moment of the execution of what I think I must do. VALANTON.— Hm! Hm! This may not be an easy mat- ter. (Ready to go away with his outfit) At least try to have the reconciliation made before I return. I go to install myself with my fishing lines in a little corner that I discovered. FERGAN.— What kind of fish do you catch? VALANTON (modestly).— Oh, I do not exclude any. FERGAN.— But do you catch any? VALANTON.— None. FERGAN. — That is because you do not know your busi- ness. VALANTON.— It is the fishes that ignore theirs! They pass, they look, they scent, but do not bite. They do not know even how to play with the cork. They are sad — like all this country of stones and ravines. Well, good by. (Eixit through the left) Scene II. Fergan, Irene and Pauline. (The two women enter through the door of the porch. IRENE has gray hair, her appearance austere and her habili- ments somber. PAULINE carries an armful of dainty grasses and water flowers.) PAULINE. — Ah, how tired we are ! FERGAN.— Did you go very far? PAULINE. — We began with the woods, then arrived down at the field ; we wanted to go out from the park and re- turn through the hamleL FERGAN (with the certainty of a landowner aware of everything). — Yes, but the hedge was an obstacle on your way. PAULINE. — Not at all. The path was cleared of its bushes. A peasant woman was just going in to wash some clothes in the river. The wife of a neighbor — wasn't it, Irene? FERGAN.— This is a little too much. (To IRENE.) And what did you say to her? IRENE. — I asked her how her child was getting along. FERGAN.— And that is all? IRENE. — No. I gave her what she needed for the medi- cine. FERGAN (taking his hat).— Well, I— I shaU go and ask her to be kind enough to leave there. PAULINE. — Oh! I should never have expected that of you ! At least do not abuse her. She is a very poor woman. FERGAN. — Well, has she any right to my property? 80 The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — Do you never get tired of always insisting on your rights? FERGAN. — Were all the people as I am, society would do better. I can guarantee that. (Exit.) Scene III. Irene and Pauline. PAULINE. — You should have detained your husband. IRENE. — He does what he wants, and I do all in my power to oppose his will. PAULINE. — So neither the past years nor the situations that changed with age modified your attitude toward him? IRENE.— No! PAULINE. — But you do not quarrel any more, do you? IRENE. — At present between us there is only one quarrel that is possible; and this we have in our hearts as yet unex- pressed. PAULINE. — And what is that quarrel? IRENE.— The education of Rene. PAULINE. I think he finds your maternal tenderness a little exaggerated. IRENE, — Oh, yes, I adore my son. It is to make him live that I renounced death. And, if I am still alive, it is for this child, through this child, from whom nobody would be able to separate me. Ah ! this little unquiet life, his little sad soul, which it seems to me is made but of my sighs; never shall I consent to trust him out of this home to teachers, strangers, others ! PAULINE. — Has your husband spoken to you in regard to this? IRENE. — Yes, several times his explanations and insist- ences on this question have carried me to the lowest depths of despair. Until the last few days I trembled secretly, fearing that he may try to put his intention into action. But this year, as you see, he neglected to pay any attention to date when col- leges begin, and he did not renew^ his efforts. He who is so resolute in everything! One would say that in this respect he sees in me a creature guarding his little one. And in this he sees correctly; I would dispute it with him desperately, even to the death ! PAULINE. — Poor sister! I realize that you live only for your child. But were you not destined to live your own life? Sometimes I think of what might have been if you had married the other; and I realize that you certainly were not marked for happiness. IRENE (thoughtfully).— Who knows? 8i The DRAMATIST PAULINE. — Oh ! no ! certainly not ! Your life would have been somber, rigorous and extremely painful. IRENE.— Why? PAULINE. — I am thinking of what sorrow you would have been condemned to endure afterwards if you had realized your dreams of long ago ; you have never told me about them, but I have guessed them. IRENE. — I do not understand you. PAULINE. — My God, I should not recall this to you. But I have thought of it often, very often. IRENE. — Will you please explain? PAULINE. — Why should you not confess it now? Is it not true that you intended to marry Michel Davernier? IRENE. — (turning aside). — Perhaps. PAULINE. — There ! Ah ! how many times have I thought that the worst of your sufferings would have been to lose the happiness after you had gained it ! IRENE, — Then the only thing they should have done was to have granted me my share of happiness. As to the rest, I was willing to endure all. PAULINE. — No, this is not so. Then you would have truly known the depths of human sorrow and suffering ; when, ascended to the greatest height of bliss with your beloved, you would have fallen suddenly, — he dead, in your arms! IRENR — Had I married Michel he would not be dead now! I could have preserved him from death. I could have been there at any m.oment to care for him with love, and cure him with caresses. I could have saved him from what in his life without a home destroyed him little by little! solitude, anxiety, imprudence, all that one does not know — (as she would talk to herself) — all that one cannot know! PAULINE. — Pfff! A consumptive, son of a consump- tive — IRENE (agitated).— Keep still! PAULINE.— What is it? IRENE (restraining herself).— Nothing. The dreadful thought of death! (Evasively.) The recollection. Why did you talk to me of that? Scene IV. The same, Rene, Fergan. RENE (enters running). — Mamma, mamma! IRENE (opens her arms). — Rene! My treasure! my little one so weak ! Come, let me embrace you (she entwines him) that I may see you looking better! Oh! become strong (the boy babbles) and noisy (he wants to free himself), even bad, like a good little rascal. 82 The DRAMATIST RENE. — Papa promised me that he was going to take me in his dog cart. IRENE. — No, sir, no! Don't you know that you are not allowed to go out without me? RENE.— Oh ! IRENE. — First of all, just see, you are wet.. What fool- ishness have you been doing? When I left you, you were going to write your lessons with mademoiselle. Scene V. The same, Fergan. FERGAN. — This proves that mademoiselle ceased for some time to have any influence upon the lad. IRENE, — You must change your clothes from head to foot FERGAN (raising his shoulders) .—Tut, tut, tut! PAULINE (taking RENE by the hand, to IRENE).— Leave him with me. I am going upstairs. I shall give him a scolding, like all the aunties know how to scold. (With a feint of gravity.) That will not make him laugh (tenderly) nor cry. (Exit PAULINE and RENE.) Scene VI. Irene, Fergan. FERGAN (a bit embarrassed). — I want to discuss with you the education of Rene. IRENE (frightened).— Why to-day? FERGAN. — Because the matter cannot be delayed any longer. IRENE.— Why? FERGAN. — He is almost ten years of age. IRENE.— Well? FERGAN.— Well, up to this time I gladly recognized that it was best to let you have authority over him. There are thousands of primary cares which only the mother under- stands perfectly. I think you will find me right in that. Al- though disapproving of your excess of attention, I never crossed you. IRENE.— And now? FERGAN. — Now, as our son grows to be a little man, it is not pleasing to me that you should make a young lady of him. IRENE. — Then why not tell me how to rear him? FERGAN. — I am no more competent than you are in the details of education. I only know that Rene is in need to-day of a broader instruction. We should not limit him only to that which is given in the family. 83 The DRAMATIST IRENE. — If you think I alone am not sufficient, let us take a teacher, or if necessary several teachers. FERGAN.— No, that is not the point. We should thus render a very bad service to the boy. When of age he will find himself unaccustomed to discipline, to emulation. He would have no self-confidence; and these things can never be acquired except in a college. IRENE. — Then we stand again at the vital question. How many times must I tell you that this will be a murder, a real murder, to take Rene from my care? FERGAN. — Let us forego inordinate imagining. Let us be serious. Our son will never work well enough at our side. You love him too much in a very passionate manner. You will never know^ how to be severe enough. IRENE (indignantly). — And you would like to hire people to be severe with him? A poor little child that I his mother did not dare to believe she would be able to rear? But don't you see that he is always in need of some one to take care of him? At the slightest indisposition he coughs. At times I rise during the night and find him in perspirations which frighten me. FERGAN. — Well, this is just exactly what angers me, and what I find quite ridiculous. It is your luxury of precautions that does not give him enough sunshine and good fresh air. The little gentleman, I think, will be better off when he is less spoiled. IRENE. — My son will never leave me. FERGAN. — He will follow my example. At his age I had already been two years in a boarding school. He will do as the children of all our neighbors, as the children of all the people do. He will come here Sunday; I shall go to see him. You might go and see him whenever you want — and when the con- dition of our horses will permit it. IRENE. — Rene is sick, I tell you, very sick, his life is in doubt. Oh ! I know it ! The doctors have told me. FERGAN.— What doctors? IRENE.— All. All that I could consult in the neighbor- hood. FERGAN.— Did you do that? Without my knowledge? IRENE.— Yes. FERGAN. — This is absurd. And what kind of sickness did they find our son has? IRENE.— They recognize that FERGAN.— What? IRENE. — That only my love would be able to preserve him, to save him, through a daily regime and by an every mo- ment treatment. 84 The DRAMATIST FERGAN. — Enough empty phrases! When somebody is sick his malady has aname. Please be precise. IRENE. — How you torment me ! Don't you see how over- wrought I am? FERGAN, — Oh! the doctors could easily realize what you want them to do. You brought accommodating diagnostics. And then, how is it? You are a healthy woman; I, by Jove! I have a sound body. Is it with such antecedents that sickly children are born? (IRENE bends her head during these words, which embarrass her.) And then we shall see how our son has profited from his first year away from home. IRENE.— Never. FERGAN.— What? IRENE. — You will never convince me on this point. I shall never give him up ! FERGAN. — Well, then, let us finish immediately this use- less discussion. Will you please prejjare the necessary bag- gage for Rene? IRENE.— For what? FERGAN.— I take him with me to the college IRENE.— Will you? Do you dare? FERGAN. — In the course of one hour I want to leave. IRENE. — Oh! this will never happen. It is the life of my son that I defend against your horrible error. I shall keep him if it were necessary day and night in my arms. FERGAN. — I see you are exactly as I knew you long ago. You compel me now to exert all the power as a father tliat I exerted once as a husband ! IRENE. — Don't speak of what you have done. It was too great a triumph for you, that you should try again. I bend my head with still more hatred in my heart. I hid my face, and since then I have never looked you straight in the face. But to-day it is not your wife who stands before you, and whom you oblige to defy you ; it is the mother, a mother whom noth- ing will move. FERGAN. — You don't know the rights of the mother. IRENE (with a fierce contempt). — It is not the mothers who abuse their rights ! We women feel them. They assume form with us just as the child forms within us, and our eyes see those rights growing, bound to our own beings. FERGAN. — Once more I say I am right by law, in spite of your Utopian ideas. IRENE. — Oh! this dreadful word comes forth again. You also, I think, are playing with my son's life, just as you did when you destroyed mine, without any remorse, with these eyes of yours as imperturbable as an executioner in accom- plishing his duty! 85 The DRAMATIST FERGAN. — You may say whatever you please, nothing will deter me from disposing of our son. IRENE (in a tragic hesitation), — Do you think I do not know what to offer as an argument? FERGAN, — Our son belongs to me more than to you, ac- cording to law. IRENE (out of breath).— That is not right. FERGAN, — In spite of you, it is. IRENE.— No, no ! FERGAN, — Go see to his departure. IRENE,— Listen ! FERGAN (going away). — No, I will order the horses hitched. IRENE (barring his way). — Before God, this child is only mine! FERGAN (pushing her back). — He is mine, I am his father ! IRENE (violently, with a great decisive move). — You are not his father ! FERGAN (stupefied). — What? are you becoming a fool? IRENE (almost restored to serenity). — No, I become frank, open. FERGAN (suffocated). — You say that? Do you know what you say? IRENE.— I know. FERGAN. — You want to mislead me. This phrase. Un- believable. This outrage. This is your last recourse. Talk rapidly, but talk. IRENE. — You ask for proofs? Well, I'll give them to you. Do you remember I closed the door of my chamber against you? I tried all in every possible manner to go out of your way. You took me in servitude. FERGAN (with a fierce voice). — And then? IRENE. — Through what sentiment do you think I could again become your wife? FERGAN (beginning to understand). — Oh! IRENE, — I had my secret. To keep my child safe I kept the truth hidden, just as to have him now I speak ! FERGAN (rushing upon her). — You contemptible harlot! IRENE (at the door bell). — I shall call your servants. FERGAN (mastering himself). — The scandal! In fact, I know now that no infamy could have kept you. IRENE. — It is your pitiless logic which compelled me to lie — to do evil. And it is I who do not pardon now. FERGAN,— That man? Did I ever meet him? IRENE.— Perhaps. FERGAN.— What is his name? IRENE.— I shall never say. 86 The DRAMATIST FERGAN.— Did he come here? IRENE.— No, near here. FERGAN. — I cannot realize how you came to see him. IRENE.— Nor do I. FERGAN.— Did you see him often? IRENE.— ! ! ! FERGAN.— Do you still see him? IRENE (hiding from him the sorrow of her answer). — No; it is a long time since he went away, very far, forever FERGAN. — And don't you think it is abominable that the son of your lover should be my son, and must remain always my son? IRENE. — Who says so? It is your own law, which said that in spite of me, in spite of all, I shall remain your wife ! FERGAN. — I never could have suspected you. I knew you as my enemy, but — (tears rise in his eyes, because of his van- quished pride) — but I honored you as such. IRENE. — Everybody makes war according to his means. You employed aU your might ; I had naught to use against you (with a soft voice), but my weakness ! FERGAN. — I did nothing but stand firmly for my rights. IRENE. — Nature has her rights also. FERGAN (maliciously). — At least haste made you very imprudent. By exempting me from my duties of father you cannot take away my authority. You have betrayed this child with whom I can do whatever I please. IRENE. — Now, after I have told you everything, you can do nothing. FERGAN.— Is that so? IRENE (with authority). — Nothing which would not be a cowardice, an impossible vengeance. FERGAN.— The worse ! IRENE. — No. I dared make this revelation because I wanted to get my son back forever, and free him from your very polite and obliging sentiments of a man pure and simply civilized. FERGAN (menacing). — And if I become a savage now? Scene VII. The Same. Rene. IRENE.— Rene! My God ! RENE (going toward FERGAN, between him and IRENE.) Don't we go out soon, papa? FERGAN (agitated).— Hush! IRENE (embracing him). — Yes, hush! FERGAN. — Send him away, that we may say all we have yet to say. 87 The DRAMATIST IRENE (to RENE).— Go and wait for me with Aunt Pau- line. RENE. — Why did papa cry? He never cries. IRENE (willing to make him go, with a soft voice). — Go on! RENE. — How is it that you don't cry, too, you who always cry — when you think that nobody is seeing you? Oh, I have seen you often, I IRENE (embracing him). — Ah! my dear, no more tears. (Accompanying him.) Go, go. (Exit RENE.) Scene VIII. FERGAN. — The child is now your own — yes ! I leave him to you. You may do with him whatever you choose. You were right when you said that I cannot do him any injustice. (Weakening). It is enough that I realize that I do not love him, (With authority.) You will take him with you. You shall go away with him. IRENE. — I shall not go away. FERGAN.— What? IRENE. — I shall never consent to be cast out. For my son I shall sacrifice nothing of his regular situation and of the con- sideration which is attached to his legal — birth ! FERGAN.— I shall compel you then. IRENE.— No. FERGAN. — It was you who pleaded so ardently for di- vorce. It is I who ask it now. IRENE. — I shall not accept it now. My youth has gone, my hopes lost, my future as a woman is dead. I refuse to change the course of my life, to budge, to move out, I have but the will to remain till the last where I am and what I am. FERGAN. — And you expect me to support you? IRENE. — You should. You have nothing against me ex- cept my confession. FERGAN.— Would you deny it? IRENE. — Would you dare to make it public? (A pause.) FERGAN (annihilated). — Then what do you want me to do, live face to face with you always? Do you expect me to endure such a life? IRENE. — You have to endure the same life that you have imposed upon me until today. We have come to the same shore. Now make yourself comfortable, so that you can feel the weight and carry it also. It is quite a long while that I have carried it alone. 88 The DRAMATIST IRENE. — There is no justice! IRENE. — There is only one, of a common unhappiness. FERGAN. — You are guilty and I am innocent. IRENE. — We are both unhappy. And at the bottom of misfortune there are only equals. THE END. MRS. DOT. A Play Without a Cause. Few plays of the past season have been so utterly unworth technical discussion as "Mrs. Dot" by W. Somerset Maugham. The piece was doubtless designed as the lighter vein of dra- matic composition, but the thing is so fearfully shallow it hardly fits the definition of farce or comedy. Considerable com- mon sense would have to be injected to give it even the sub- stance of high class comic opera. We have come to measure all manuscripts worthy of the name by the standards of human life. If we encountered such a simpering fiiirt in real form as "Mrs. Dot" is portrayed to be, we would condemn her as an artificial idiot. The character is without motive for the reason that the Play is without Cause. And here we draw a lesson from negative qualities. Conflict creates character. Drama is not primarily built upon character. There must be a Cause and this Cause creates Conflict and Conflict is the dominant key in play Construction. But who can imagine strong situation without relatively forceful character to enact it? Potent Dramatic Conflict, then, is the thing to strive for. Create this and a wealth of personality permeates your Play as inevitably as the apple falls to the ground. A MAKER OF MEN. Alfred Sutro's One-Act Drama. This little narrative from the pen of a noted playwright is positive evidence of the crying need of scientific study of Drama. If Mr. Sutro understood the anatomy of the creature he is trying to create it would be impossible for him to commit so gross a blunder. A husband rebels at his belated promotion in a bank. A younger man attains the honor. The wife consoles him with the fact that she is content with her children, the product of their great and wonderful love. He becomes reconciled. Is this a Play? 89 The DRAMATIST Is it a Conflict between human wills or is this bit of recita- tion a mere psychological illustration of the force of suggested thought? The drama takes place in the husband's mind. He is cajoled out of the blues by the mental suggestion of the wife. Compare this Plot with the contending forces that go to make up the struggle in any real Play and you will see that "A Maker of Men" is mere chatter. A GENTLEMAN FROM MISSISSIPPI. The Stuff That Real Plays Are Made Of. It would be a sad blow to the advocates of Dramatic Sci- ence if a play could enjoy the long run accorded "A Gentleman from Mississippi" and still be a worthless thing structurally! The frank endorsement of public opinion would tend to offset Science. But this is not the case. Public opinion and Science Concur. The Play has traits of master workmanship. It has a Theme. The authors have something to say. The simple little sermon of their story ranks the Play among the first. A Southern Senator of untested moral fibre encounters the customary bribery of the legislature. To overflow his cup of temptation the financial affairs of his family will be hopelessly wrecked if he does not yield to the lure of graft. He resists ! This is the legitimate story of the Play. The triumph of Good in a rugged heart ! The typ^ of the Play is extremely modern and drama throbs while the valid portion of the Play performs. But unfortu- nately there are foreign features of construction that hark back to the old school situation of complication for complication sake. If the Plot were confined to this excellent story and concluded when this story is told we would have one of the strongest specimens of modem playwriting extant. But the Play is not allowed to stop when Conflict ceases. At the end of Act III the verdict is practically rendered but the authors proceed with a fourth to stretch out something we al- ready know and in their helplessness to quit a thing already finished they "ring in" spurious episode. This results in dis- unity and the Plot ingredients of several other Play possibili- ties. Think of marrying off this honest old codger to a sophisti- cated Washington widow after the sanctifying effect he has had on us ! Much of the melodramatic plottiness of Plot could be ripped out to the benefit of the reality of illusion. The tra- ditional stage-made villain could well be relegated to the age that knew him intimately. 90 The DRAMATIST THE GIRL HE COULDN'T LEAVE BEHIND HIM. Devoid of Sound Sense. While farce is not supposed to be of a serious texture there must nevertheless be a shadow of sense in the Conditions of its Action or there results nothing upon which the audience can rest its supposition or hypothesis. To persuade us that any married man would feel obliged to keep his word with a Spanish dancer to the effect that he is to devote one day a year to said dancer, is hardly within the province of the loosest fan- tasy. The husband, through such inane conduct loses all claim to interest, let alone sympathy, and the Conditions of the Ac- tion being lame, the Cause limps and the Conclusion lan- guishes. The production should be a lesson to those who have not learned that this brand of vapid farce is obsolete. Its failure was foredoomed! There is as much difference between "The Girl He Couldn't Leave Behind Him" and a farce like "Seven Days" as between "Enchained" and "Chinatown Charlie." It may also be true that the American audience is sick of marital infidelity and masculine depravity. At least they know the dif- ference instinctively, between true dramatic action and old time "rough-house" horseplay. For lifeless, unconvincing types of character this cast of fourteen takes the jelly cake. And even the negative qualities of structure are so remote from rational standards that it would be futile to discuss them in parallel. The fact that Wil- liam Collier directed the thing is an added evidence that the player knoweth not the Play. 91 The DRAMATIST TWO THEATRICAL SEASONS COMPARED EVENTS IN PRODUCING THEATRES. 1908-9 1909-10 Number of new plays 74 102 Number of new musical comedies 29 26 Number of revived plays 34 38 Number of revived musical comedies 8 4 Shakespearian revivals 11 13 Totals 156 183 CLASSIFICATION OF PLAYS. Serious and sentimental dramas 23 37 Melodramas 19 26 Romantic comedies 4 10 Light comedies 16 10 Tragedies 2 3 Farces 10 16 Totals 74 102 SOURCES OF NEW PLAYS Original plays 59 74 Adapted from foreign plays 9 15 Dramatized from novels or stories 6 13 Totals 74 102 NATIONALITY OF AUTHORS By native authors 56 63 By foreign authors 18 39 Totals 74 102 NEW MUSICAL COMEDIES By native composers 26 18 By foreign composers 3 8 Totals 29 26 A study of the foregoing table may assist the dramatist in determining what kind of play to write. The serious and sen- timental drama appears to hold the record for popularity. The new author's chances are indicated by the 102 new plays pro- jected. 92 The DRAMATIST LUTHER B. ANTHONY, £.ditor Vol.2 EASTON. PA. No. I QUARTERLY 1910 OCTOBER Plays of the Nets) Season It is with deep regret that we find no one example in the Plays of the opening season that is actually worthy of praise. Several half-hearted efforts have received the approval of New York Critics but the fact remains that there is not a specimen among those thus far produced that will rank with Fitch or Walter. The great majority of the new arrivals seem designed for that hilarious style of stage management familiar to farce or musical comedy. Authors are temporarily laboring under the delusion that boisterous activity is related to Dramatic Action little heeding the fact that the most placid happenings on the stage frequently contain the liveliest essence of that subtle force. Nothing is more certain of remedy than an abundance of this tickling in the ribs for while the sensation may delight the infant mind of an audience momentarily, a continued application of the author's knuckles in the region of the wishbone ceases to be a source of ecstatic joy. Welcome to the avalanche of fun forcers born of a commercial effort to fill the overbuilt theatre situation! For despite the praise of critics these mirth producers are failing one by one and before many days it is safe to say the legitimate brand of drama as advocated by our friend Belasco will again hold sway. The class who attend the comic opera are hardened to this snicker- ing sort of silliness but when the playgoer is confronted with horseplay farce put up in the shape of drama he is apt to com- plain of false pretense. Here's to the Art of Playwriting, conspicuous for its ab- sence ! BELASCO ON TECHNIQUE. His Advice to the Novitiate. <