The impression has always prevailed with me that one who might properly
be classed as a genius is not precisely the person best fitted to
expound rules and methods for the carrying on of his particular branch
of endeavor. I have rather avoided looking the matter up for fear it
might not turn out to be so after all. But doesn't it sound as if it
ought to be? And isn't a superficial glance about rather confirmatory?
We do not--so far as I know--find that Shakspere or Milton or Tennyson
or Whitman ever gave out rules and regulations for the writing of
poetry; that Michael Angelo or Raphael was addicted to formulating
instructive matter as to the accomplishment of paintings and frescoes;
that Thackeray or Dickens or Meredith or George Sand were known to have
answered inquiries as to 'How to write a Novel'; or that Beethoven or
Wagner or Chopin or Mendelsohn paused in the midst of their careers in
order to tell newspaper men what they considered the true method of
composing music. These fortunate people--as well as others of their
time--could so easily be silent and thus avoid disclosing the fact that
they could not--for the lives of them--tell about these things; but in
our unhappy day even geniuses are prodded and teased and tortured into
speech. In this case we may be more than grateful that they are, for the
result is most delightful reading--even tho it falls a trifle short of
its purpose as indicated by the rather far-reaching title.
There are no workable rules for play-writing to be found here--nor,
indeed, any particular light of any kind on the subject, so the letters
may be approacht with a mind arranged for enjoyment. I would be sorry
indeed for the trying-to-be dramatist who flew to this volume for
consolation and guidance. I'm sorry for him any way, but this additional
catastrophe would accelerate my sympathy, making it fast and furious.
Any one sufficiently inexperienced to consult books in order to find out
how to write a play will certainly undergo a severe touch of confusion
in this case, for four of the letter-writers confess quite frankly that
they do not know--two of these thereupon proceeding to tell us, thus
forcibly illustrating their first statement. One author exclaims, "Have
instinct!"--another, "Have genius!" Where these two necessaries are to
be obtained is not revealed. Equally discouraging is the Dumas
declaration that "Some from birth know how to write a play and the
others do not and never will." That would have killed off a lot of
us--if we had seen it in time.
One approaches the practical when he counsels us to "Take an
interesting theme." Certainly a workable proposition. Many dramatists
have done that--wherever they could find it. The method is not
altogether modern. Two insist upon the necessity of a carefully
considered plan, while two others announce that it is a matter of no
consequence what one does; and another still wants us to be sure and
begin work at the end instead of the beginning. Gondinet--most
delightful of all--tells us that his method of working is simply
atrocious, for all he asks when he contemplates writing a play is
whether the subject will be amusing to him. Tho that scarcely touches
the question of how to write it, it is a practical hint on favoring
conditions, for no one will dispute that one's best work is likely to be
preformed when he him self enjoys it. Sardou comes nearest to projecting
a faint ray of practical light on the subject when he avers that there
is no one necessary way to write a play, but that a dramatist must know
where he is going and take the best road that leads there. He omits,
however, to give instructions about finding that road--which some might
think important.
The foregoing indicates to some extent the buffeting about which a
searcher for practical advice on play-writing may find himself subject
in this collection of letters. He had better go for mere instruction to
those of a lower order of intellect, whose imaginative or creative
faculties do not monopolize their entire mental area.
But that will hardly serve him better, for the truth is that no one can
convey to him--whether by written words or orally--or even by signs and
miracles--the right and proper method of constructing a play. A few
people know, but they are utterly unable to communicate that knowledge
to others. In one place and one only can this unfortunate person team
how to proceed, and that is the theatre; and the people to see about it
there are situated in front of the foot-lights and not behind them.
A play or drama is not a simple and straight-told story; it is a
device--an invention--a carefully adjusted series of more or less
ingenious traps, independent yet inter-dependent, and so arranged that
while yet trapping they carry forward the plot or theme without a break.
These traps of scene, of situation, of climax, of acts and tableaux or
of whatever they are, require to be set and adjusted with the utmost
nicety and skill so that they will spring at the precise
instant and in the precise manner to seize and hold the
admiration--sympathy--interest--or whatever they may be intended to
capture, of an audience. Their construction and adjustment--once one of
the simplest--is now of necessity most complicated and intricate. They
must operate precisely and effectively, otherwise the play--no matter
how admirable its basic idea--no matter how well the author knows life
and humanity, will fail of its appeal and be worthless--for a play is
worthless that is unable to provide itself with people to play _to_.
The admiration of a few librarians on account of certain arrangements
of the words and phrases which it may contain can give it no value as
drama. Such enthusiasm is not altogether unlike what a barber might
feel over the exquisite way in which the hair has been arranges on
a corpse; despite his approval it becomes quite necessary to bury it.
The play-writer's or playwright's work, then, supposing that he
possesses the requisite knowledge of life as it is lived to go on with,
is to select or evolve from that knowledge the basic idea, plot or
theme, which, skillfully displayed, will attract; and then to invent,
plan, devise, and construct the trap wherein it is to be used to snare
the sympathies, etc., of audiences.
But audiences are a most undependable and unusual species of game. From
time immemorial their tastes, requirements, habits, appetites,
sentiments and general characteristics have undergone constant change
and modification; and thus continues without pause to the present day.
The dramatic trap that would work like a charm not long ago may not work
at all to-day; the successful trap of to-day may be useless junk
tomorrow.
It must be obvious, then, that for light and instruction on the
judicious selection of the bait, and on the best method or methods of
devising the trap wherein that bait is to be displayed (that is to say
the play) but one thing can avail; and that one thing is a most diligent
and constant study of the habits and tastes of this game which it is our
business to capture--if we can. To go for information about these things
to people sitting by their firesides dreaming of bygone days, or,
indeed, to go to anyone sitting anywhere, is merely humorous. The
information which the dramatist seeks cannot be told--even by those who
know. For the gaining of such knowledge is the acquirement of an
instinct which enables its possessor automatically to make use of the
effective in play-writing and construction and devising, and
automatically to shun the ineffective. This instinct must be planted and
nourisht by more or less (more if possible) _living_ with audiences,
until it becomes a part of the system--yet constantly alert for the
necessary modifications which correspond to the changes which the tastes
and requirements of these audiences undergo.
An education like this is likely to take the dramatist a great deal of
time--unless he is so fortunate as to be a genius. Perhaps the main
difference between the play-writing genius and the rest of us is that he
can associate but briefly with audiences and know it all, whereas we
must spend our lives at it and know but little. I have never happened to
hear of a genius of this description; but that is no argument against
the possibility of his existence.
As to the talented authors of these letters, they know excellently
well--every one of them--how to write a play--or did while still
alive--even tho some of them see fit to deny it; but they cannot tell
_us_ how to do it for the very good reason that it cannot be told.
Their charming efforts to find a way out when cornered by such an
inquiry as appears to have been made to them are surely worth all
their trouble and annoyance--not to speak of their highly
probable exasperation.
William Gillette
(May, 1916)
* * * * *