_Introductory._
I take it that every able-bodied man and woman in this country wants to
write a play. Since the news first got about that Orlando
What's-his-name made L50,000 out of _The Crimson Sponge_, there has been
a feeling that only through the medium of the stage can literary art
find its true expression. The successful playwright is indeed a man to
be envied. Leaving aside for the moment the question of super-tax, the
prizes which fall to his lot are worth striving for. He sees his name
(correctly spelt) on 'buses which go to such different spots as
Hammersmith and West Norwood, and his name (spelt incorrectly) beneath
the photograph of somebody else in _The Illustrated Butler_. He is a
welcome figure at the garden-parties of the elect, who are always ready
to encourage him by accepting free seats for his play; actor-managers
nod to him; editors allow him to contribute without charge to a
symposium on the price of golf balls. In short he becomes a "prominent
figure in London Society"--and, if he is not careful, somebody will say
so.
But even the unsuccessful dramatist has his moments. I knew a young man
who married somebody else's mother, and was allowed by her fourteen
gardeners to amuse himself sometimes by rolling the tennis-court. It was
an unsatisfying life; and when rash acquaintances asked him what he did
he used to say that he was reading for the Bar. Now he says he is
writing a play--and we look round the spacious lawns and terraces and
marvel at the run his last one must have had.
However, I assume that you who read this are actually in need of the
dibs. Your play must be not merely a good play but a successful one. How
shall this success be achieved?
Frankly I cannot always say. If you came to me and said, "I am on the
Stock Exchange, and bulls are going down," or up, or sideways, or
whatever it might be; "there's no money to be made in the City nowadays,
and I want to write a play instead. How shall I do it?"--well, I
couldn't help you. But suppose you said, "I'm fond of writing; my people
always say my letters home are good enough for _Punch_. I've got a
little idea for a play about a man and a woman and another woman,
and--but perhaps I'd better keep the plot a secret for the moment.
Anyhow it's jolly exciting, and I can do the dialogue all right. The
only thing is, I don't know anything about technique and stage-craft and
the three unities and that sort of rot. Can you give me a few hints?"
Suppose you spoke to me like this, then I could do something for you.
"My dear Sir," I should reply (or Madam), "you have come to the right
shop. Lend me your ear for a few weeks, and you shall learn just what
stage-craft is." And I should begin with a short homily on