II.--Exits and Entrances.
To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to
the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them
something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without
hesitation "_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to
bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for
inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for
dramatic technique will hang. Why did _Lord Arthur Fluffinose_ enter?
The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as
supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor
is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and
that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know
is why _Lord Arthur_ chose that very moment to come in--the very moment
when _Lady Larkspur_ was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur
Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers
callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage
whatever. In that case I needn't go on with these articles.
However, it will be more convenient to assume, dear reader, that in your
play _Lord Arthur_ had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he
must explain it. It won't do to write like this:--
_Enter_ Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur _starts suddenly and turns towards
him._
_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur! _You_ here? (_He gives a nod of confirmation.
She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden passionate movement flings
herself into his arms._) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life
any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the _third_ time. I
want to get away from it all. [_Swoons._
The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it
is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not
expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for
yourself if you consider the passage as it should properly have been
written:--
_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur _looks at him with
amazement._
_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur, what are _you_ doing here?
_Lord Arthur._ I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I
walked over from the station. It's only a mile. (_At this-point he looks
at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his
eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully
natural._) I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.
_Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest and gazing broodingly
at the footlights)._ Larkspur!
_Lord Arthur (anxiously)._ What is it? (_Suddenly_) Has he been
ill-treating you again?
_Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms)._ Oh, Arthur, Arthur, he
bit me this morning----
And so on.
But it may well be that _Lord Larkspur_ has an intrigue of his own with
his secretary, _Miss Devereux_, and, if their big scene is to take place
on the stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them in some way.
Your natural instinct will be to say, "_Exeunt_ Fluffinose _and_ Lady
Larkspur, _R. Enter_ Lord Larkspur _and_ Miss Devereux, _L._" This is
very immature, even if you are quite clear as to which side of the stage
is L. and which is R. You _must_ make the evolutions seem natural.
Thus:--_Enter from the left_ Miss Devereux.
_She stops in surprise at seeing_ Lord Arthur _and holds out her hand._
_Miss D._ Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever----
_Lord A._ How d'you do? I've just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to----
_Miss D._ He's in the library. At least he----
_Lord A. (taking out his watch)._ Ah, then perhaps I'd better----
[_Exit by door on left._
_Miss D. (to Lady L.)._ Have you seen _The Times_ about here? There is a
set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted
to----(_She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter _Lord Larkspur_ by
door at back_). Why, here you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the
library to----
_Lord L._ I went out to speak to the gardener about----
_Lady L._ Ah, then I'll go and tell Lord----
[_Exit to library, leaving_ Miss Devereux _and_ Lord Larkspur _alone._
And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished
sentences not only save time, but also make the manoeuvring very much
more natural.
So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your
play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the
first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering,
are you to begin your masterpiece?
The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the
length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15
play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you
should therefore let loose the lesser-paid members of the cast on the
opening scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In a 9 o'clock
play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is
much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should
certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.
As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald stout gentleman is
kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and
wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins
behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable,
but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short
sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises,
and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable
splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once
we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited.
Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.
_As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano._
_The Bishop of Sploshington (£2 10s. a week)._ Charming. Quite one of my
favourites. Do play it again. [_Relapses into silence for the rest of
the evening._
_The Duchess of Southbridge (35s. per week, to_ Lord Reggie). Oh,
Reggie, what _did_ you say?
_Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass--they get five shillings a week
extra if they can manage an eyeglass properly)._ Said I'd bally
well--top-hole--what?--don'cherknow.
_Lady Evangeline (to_ Lady Violet, _as they walk across the stage)._ Oh,
I _must_ tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. [_Doesn't._ Lady
Violet, _none the less, trills with happy laughter._
_Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed
gentleman)._ What your country ought to do----[_He finishes his remarks
in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At
any rate he nods several times._
_There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf-and-dumb
language. Then_
_Lord Tuppeny._ Well, what about auction?
_Amid murmurs of_ "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" _and_ "Auction,
Archbishop?" _the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone
in the middle of the stage._
And then you can begin.