MISCELLANEOUS
Finance in Plays
It is to be hoped that the title will not be misunderstood. The finance
_of_ plays is quite another story, often an ugly story, sometimes with a
comic aspect, and frequently disclosed in a bankruptcy or a winding-up.
Occasionally in pieces supposed to be quite modern we are told,
incorrectly, a good deal about the way in which plays are financed,
which does not mean the mode of spending money on the production and
performance of dramas and in keeping theatres open--or closed--but the
method of raising money for theatrical enterprises. Certainly, the
subject is worthy of consideration, and some day we hope to handle it
almost adequately. The remarks, however, concern the ideas of general
finance exhibited by authors. Mr Sutro's drama _The Perfect Lover_ set
us thinking. No doubt the title does not suggest money, nor, indeed,
does it give an idea of the real subject of the drama. In his new work
the author preaches a sermon about the corrupting influence of wealth
and the desire for it. As business men, in a sort of second-hand way,
most of us were interested in the talk concerning money.
Everything turns upon the fact that Willie, the wicked solicitor, wishes
to buy the Cardew estates, which (though the property of a noble family)
happen to be unsettled, because he has discovered that there is coal
under them, and therefore scents a fortune in the purchase. The moment
that the word "coal" is mentioned to the persons in the play everything
is understood--by them. All assume that the property is multiplied in
value by its existence. Joe is to be offered £5000 to bring about the
sale. A simple practical person, such as a dramatic critic, is inclined
to ask whether Willie is not buying a pig in a poke. He can hardly have
had shafts sunk surreptitiously on the Cardew estates in order to
ascertain whether the coal-mines would be a curse or a blessing to the
owner; and if the property adjoined valuable collieries, the Cardews
would have made some investigation.
For it by no means follows that a coal-mine is a source of wealth, since
the "black diamonds," concerning our available quantity of which
Professor Jevons scared our fathers when some of us were agreeably
younger, may be indifferent in quality or lie with such faults and in a
manner so inconvenient that it can only be worked at a ruinous cost.
Nevertheless, whenever the magic word "coal" is whispered the characters
are thrilled, like housewives reminded by their husband that they have
forgotten to order it at the "lowest summer prices." No doubt the author
will say that after all coal is coal, and may be reminded of the
plaintive retort by the little girl in _Punch_ that "mother said the
last lot was nearly all slates." Willie talks of making a million out of
the purchase; he is fortified in his views by the fact that the Great
Central Railway is going to run through part of the property. Writers of
fiction are apt to believe that in these times land-owners receive on
compulsory purchase the extravagant sums that used to be awarded in past
days and by their magnitude have hampered the railway companies and the
general public ever since; juries or arbitrators have come to their
senses, and compensation no longer spells unmerited fortune, except by
the reaping of a large crop of "unearned increment." And now there are
the new taxes.
It may be suggested that we do not demand exact finance or correct law
in our fiction nowadays. A few, indeed, are meticulous in the matter,
but it is generally assumed that the public would be bored by correct
details. No one has ventured to dramatize Laurence Oliphant's
brilliantly humorous "Autobiography of a Joint Stock Company"--apologies
if by slip of memory the title is given at all incorrectly.
Occasionally, it is true, our plays treat financial matters with some
particularity; one may cite _Mammon_ and _A Bunch of Violets_, both
versions of Feuillet's drama _Montjoie_, and Mr Arthur Jones's clever
piece _A Rogue's Comedy_, and _Business is Business_, the adaptation of
_Les Affaires sont les Affaires_. Moreover, there was a melodrama given
at the Opéra Comique which, despite the care of the Censor, contained
caricatures of several notorious living financiers. They were financiers
touching whom one may record the story, perhaps unpublished, of an
American who asserted vaingloriously that we have no great financiers in
England such as are to be found in the United States, and on being
answered that we have, and thereupon inquiring scornfully where they
could be found, received the curt reply, "In gaol." Unfortunately, the
finances of the Opéra Comique production were almost as unsubstantial as
the finance in the other plays, and it did not last long.
Mr Cecil Raleigh also, in some of the Drury Lane dramas which used to
give us vast entertainment, handled company matters in a broad,
generous, comic fashion which baffled criticism.
Would a public so abominably engrossed as ours in money, a people that
is exchanging the ascendency of an aristocracy for the despotism of a
plutocracy, a nation a large proportion of which gambles on the Stock
Exchange whilst another plays bridge for shocking stakes, really reject
a drama turning on financial matters and containing a moderate amount of
accurate detail? If there is little poetry in Throgmorton Street, at
least there is plenty of romance, and more imagination is exhibited in
the average prospectus than in the ordinary play. It would not be
impossible to introduce a touch of sentiment, assuming, sadly, that the
playgoers cannot be happy without a little bit of sugar; whilst the
fierce clash of men in the mad pursuit for wealth--a pursuit, after all,
more engrossing than that of love--is often terribly dramatic. There was
a piece called _The Wheat King_, an adaptation of one of the few books
by the powerful American novelist Norris, who died too young. The
version, made by two ladies, very nearly fulfilled the conditions
suggested, and it almost achieved success.
Doubtless everybody connected with theatres believes that love in some
form or another is the only possible basis for a successful drama,
although we are well aware that romantic love such as the dramatists
trade in is only an episode in the lives of a minority of the nation,
and does not come at all to the rest. Apparently it is presumed that
those who have never felt it wish to hear about it, and that those who
have, desire to revive their memories. Indeed, many experts imagine
there are very few topics which will lure the public to the box-office.
There is before us at the moment a letter from Henry Irving, in answer
to a suggestion that Ibsen's great drama _The Pretenders_ was worthy of
production by him, and he says, "Of the power of Ibsen's _Pretenders_ I
am quite sensible, but unfortunately there are considerations which
prevent me from accepting the suggestion. In the first place, I believe
the theme of ambition has no great dramatic hold, or a very slender one,
on the playgoing public of to-day.... I am compelled as a manager to
take these things into account. Were I conducting an endowed theatre,
the case would be different." Many things have happened in Stageland
since April 1897, when this letter was written by Irving, and it is by
no means improbable that the scope of the theatre has been somewhat
extended. After all, it is fantastic that money, the element which plays
the greatest part in the lives of most of us, should generally be
treated superficially if at all, and, as a rule, when not neglected,
should be handled without accuracy or even verisimilitude of detail.
One might refer to _Macbeth_ as a successful play with ambition as its
theme. Since Irving's letter was written a fair number of unsentimental
plays have been produced and well received, such, for instance, as
_Strife_ and _The Silver Box_ and _The Voysey Inheritance_, all works of
great quality.
Some Unsuccessful Dramatists
When considering some of the criticisms upon _Becket_, and accepting
them as accurate, one is inclined to ask why Tennyson failed as a
dramatist. That he did, judged by the ordinary standard, can hardly be
denied, nor could any degree of success with _Becket_ disprove the
statement, since the acted work is a bold, free adaptation of the
printed play. He was anxious for success as a playwright, and in fact no
fewer than five of his plays have been presented on the stage--all of
them published after he was sixty-six years old. Now, Tennyson,
undoubtedly, from every point of view that one can classify exactly, was
far better equipped for playwriting than hundreds of successful
dramatists--yet he failed. Why?
The puzzle does not end nor begin with him. One can name a number of
literary men of great rank who have written vainly for the stage, to say
nothing of others who are authors of works in the form of drama, but
nevertheless, like a Shelley, Swinburne or Longfellow, may not have been
stagestruck.
As conspicuous modern instances Balzac, Byron and Browning may be
selected, and a writer who, if hardly of the same class, has written at
least one masterpiece. This is Charles Reade, whose delightful book "The
Cloister and the Hearth" seems likely to attain immortality. Reade, we
know, was absolutely stagestruck, and wrote dozens of plays and spent a
great deal of money over them; indeed, it is not too much to say that
his mania for the theatre seriously injured his work as a novelist. Yet
who will pretend that any of the pieces that he concocted alone or in
conjunction with others is worth the least valuable of his novels?
Balzac, though not stagestruck in the same degree as Charles Reade, had
a great desire for success as a playwright; part of the desire may have
been due to eagerness to make money with which to pay off those terrible
debts. Yet in one biography of him no mention is made of his dramas.
Nevertheless, he sweated hard over _Vautrin_, _La Marâtre_, _Les
Ressources de Quinola_ and _Mercadet_; none of them helped
substantially to pay off the debts, nor can any be rated equally with
the poorest of his novels. _Mercadet_, certainly, has one brilliant
scene of comedy in it, and under the name of _A Game of Speculation_
proved a trump-card with Charles Mathews. G.H. Lewes was author of the
version which, according to a popular story, was written and rehearsed
between Saturday and Monday. The original, with the full title of
_Mercadet ou Le Faiseur_ was not acted till after the death of Balzac,
when it was reduced to three acts by D'Ennery and given with success at
Le Gymnase.
Everybody knows that Browning wrote a number of plays. _A Soul's
Tragedy_ was lately presented by the Stage Society, an interesting
hardly successful experiment. _A Blot on the 'Scutcheon_ was produced at
Drury Lane in 1842 and revived by Phelps at Sadler's Wells, and also in
1893 by the Independent Theatre, when Miss May Harvey gave an admirable
performance as Mildred; whilst _Strafford_, _Colombe's Birthday_ and _In
a Balcony_ have all seen the footlights and achieved at the most a
_succès d'estime_. Few, however, even putting aside the vulgar,
fallacious test of the box-office, would say that these works are really
valuable stage dramas, despite the superb qualities obvious in them.
Some of Lord Byron's plays have been given upon the boards; but the real
Byron of the stage is the author of _Our Boys_ and goodness knows how
many more successful works, all as dead to-day as the dramas of Sheridan
Knowles. It has been said that _The Cenci_, when produced privately by
Sir Percy Bysshe Shelley, with Miss Alma Murray as heroine, acted very
well. Has the Stage Society ever considered the question of a revival?
How, then, did it happen that Balzac, Byron, Browning and Reade failed
as dramatists, despite the eager desire of three of them, at least, to
win success on the boards? It is undeniable that the three--one may put
aside Byron--are intensely "dramatic" writers. _Les Chouans_ reads
almost as if it were a play converted into a novel, and has been adapted
successfully, and like _Le Père Goriot_, which someone has called the
French _King Lear_, has been used for the stage after the time when the
long-desired marriage with Madame Hanska was ended by the premature
death of the author of the fine phrase, "_Vierges de corps nous étions
hardis en paroles_." Indeed, in half the works composing the prodigious
_Comédie Humaine_ are passages of immense dramatic force. Clearly, too,
the author of "The Cloister and the Hearth" could paint character and
was a splendid storyteller into the bargain. It would be impossible to
say this without certain qualifications in the case of Browning; yet who
that has been fascinated by that colossal work "The Ring and the Book"
can deny it? Why, then, should Balzac and Browning have failed where
Shakespeare and Sardou have succeeded?
The question brings forward another, and it is this: whether
Shakespeare, if he were writing nowadays, would be a successful
dramatist. At first sight it seems an absurd question, but it is
permissible because one must recognize the fact that what perhaps
prevented Balzac and Browning from being successful has not proved an
impediment to the triumph of Shakespeare. The dramas of our national
dramatist are the most heavily thought-burdened plays that have had
popular success in modern times, and in the works of Browning there are
so many ideas that it is often difficult to see the idea. To the modern
writer of anything like Shakespeare's calibre, or Browning's, the simple
joy in the story is no longer possible, and probably Shakespeare, if
born forty years ago, and if content to work for such a medium as the
stage, would, like an Ibsen, have chosen themes that do not appeal to
our people. But was Shakespeare, "Shakespeare"?
It is not merely a want of the knack of playwriting--a vulgar, useful
term--that kept Browning or Tennyson from success on the stage. No one
ever had such a prodigious "knack" as Ibsen, and _Rosmersholm_ is the
most amazing _tour de force_ of craftmanship. Yet despite his influence
upon modern drama, Ibsen--a great poet, a great thinker, a great
observer, and the greatest of craftsmen--has been unpopular as a
dramatist in England.
One begins to see that an element in the answer to be given to the
question is the fact that some of the great writers who have failed upon
the stage owe their want of success in part to their over-estimation of
the power of the acting play to convey ideas, and consequently to their
putting so much more into their work than the average audience can get
out that the public shirks the task of grappling with them at all.
Shakespeare, under peculiar circumstances, was grappled with before our
time, and has been predigested for us; but the others have had no such
fortune. Moreover, much of the national dramatist's finest work is cut
when his works are produced and some are rarely given, others never.
Several able writers, such as Robert Buchanan, have rushed to the
opposite extreme and obtained ephemeral success by empty plays injurious
to their reputation as men of letters, and a few of us think that one of
our most successful and brilliant novelist-playwrights has a dangerous
tendency in this direction. It is, of course, given to few to judge so
perfectly as Pinero what is the extreme quantity of thought that can be
put into a play without frightening the public, and he has had more than
one splendid failure from taking too hopeful a view of the intelligence
of playgoers.
The Ending of the Play
A large number of readers begin a novel at the wrong end, particularly
those of the sex many members of which are threatened with moustaches,
according to the latest hysterical shriek of certain medicine-men,
because of their weakness for putting cigarettes between their dainty
lips. They look at the last chapter before reading the first; the
practice is indefensible, criminal. Authors take an immense amount of
trouble in working up logically to a conclusion and preparing the minds
of their readers for it, and most of this trouble goes by the board if
you begin by reading the last chapter. In the case of the humbler
classes of fiction the injury to the writer is even greater: he has
endeavoured by manoeuvres, limited in character by certain laws of the
game, to spring a surprise upon the reader by puzzling her as to the
ending of the story and she, instead of "playing the game" and trying to
unravel it, "cuts the Gordian knot," the most hackneyed _cliché_ in the
_répertoire_ of the journalist. This grossly unfair treatment of
novelists ought to be punished, or at least be subject to procedure in
the Chancery Division for breach of confidence.
The really honest reader shrinks from such an offence as if it were
eavesdropping. It is well known that many novels actually begin with the
last chapter. The Irishism represents the fact that the author starts
by exhibiting people in a dramatic position and then proceeds to show
how they came to be there.
There is always something of this method in a play. One cannot
conveniently begin, like Sterne, with the birth of the hero--and even a
little before--and work steadily forward. "Tristram Shandy," it may be,
is a poor example, since "steadily" is perhaps the worst adjective in
the dictionary to describe the progress of that novel. Of course there
are plays in which a prologue is employed, but the device is clumsy; and
in these instances, when the real drama is reached, an explanation of
what has happened during the gap between the prologue and the first act
is necessary.
In other words, part of the author's work and a great part of his
difficulty lie in telling the audience a number of antecedent facts. The
task has grown very difficult since soliloquies have gone out of vogue
and audiences become so sophisticated as to smile at the old-fashioned
conversations in which information is given to the house by causing the
hero to tell to his friend--"his friend Charles"--a number of matters
with which, to the knowledge of everybody, Charles is already well
acquainted.
It is a misfortune that in the case of cleverly constructed dramas the
uncritical members of the playgoing world, whilst half-conscious of the
fact that the preliminary circumstances are not being told to them in
the clumsy method now out of date, fail to get the full amount of
pleasure from the technical skill exhibited. Take, for instance, what in
this respect is perhaps the masterpiece, _Rosmersholm_. Few spectators
consider it closely enough to appreciate the wonderful skill shown in
conveying to the audience the vast number of facts and ideas necessary
to explain the exact relations between Rosmer and Rebecca West when the
play begins. However, it is hardly worth the while of the casual
playgoer to study the structure of dramas sufficiently to appreciate
fully such marvels of technique--the marvels are very rare.
Something might be said in favour of plays--and it was said by Prosper
Mérimée--in which no knowledge of the previous histories of the parties
is necessary. It is doubtful, however, whether there exists any specimen
of this class of drama, and perhaps it is impossible completely to
comply with such conditions.
Whether much or little is told to the audience of the things that have
happened and the characters before the play begins, the last act in the
ordinary drama is of an extravagant importance in relation to the whole.
It has been said, with a fair amount of truth, that anybody can write a
good first act, and that most plays fail towards the end. Instead of
putting his confidence in the maxim "Well begun is half done," the
author must rely on another which may be expressed as "Well ended is
much mended."
The question how to bring a play to a close has been terribly difficult
on very many occasions to the dramatist. There are various kinds of
conclusion, most of them more or less formal or conventional. For
instance, everyone knows what will happen towards the last fall of the
curtain in the peculiarly exasperating species of drama founded upon a
misunderstanding which in real life would be cleared up in five minutes,
but on the stage remains unsolved for three hours or so. Countless plays
end with a definite engagement of young sweethearts the course of whose
love became rough at the close of the first act, or with the
reconciliation of youthful spouses who quarrelled in the earlier part
of the piece.
This, of course, is the so-called "happy-ever-after" ending: in most
cases the comedies of this type are so artificial that few of the
audience take sufficient interest in the characters to think of them as
people who live after the play, and to notice the fact that the
sweethearts are from their nature unlikely to live happily together, or
that the young husband and wife, on account of their dispositions, are
certain to quarrel within a week of the reconciliation. Plays of these
kinds are essentially unimportant. Nobody cares very much how they end
provided that the curtain falls not later than at a quarter-past eleven.
Real tragedies, whether of the classic, modern or romantic type, end in
death or deaths. Obviously there is no other solution in most cases.
Perhaps in real life Hamlet would have remained letting I dare not wait
upon I would until his mother and stepfather died in the ordinary course
of nature; without any amazing interposition of Providence, Romeo and
Juliet might have healed the quarrel between their hostile houses and
established a large family of little Montague-Capulets, and so on; but
one accepts the proposition that such outcomes would be contrary to the
essential laws of the existence of such plays.
Difficulties grow when we come to comedy that seeks to represent,
however timidly, the life of real human beings. The bold dramatists who
endeavour to represent a slice of life--Jean Jullien invented the
phrase--find more difficulty in the beginning of their plays than the
conventional writer: to bring them to anything like a full stop is a
very rare achievement. A great many end at a comma, a semi-colon is
noteworthy, a colon superb, and very often one has a mere mark of
interrogation at the last fall of the curtain. Of course a full stop
sometimes is achieved, for instance in the case of _The Second Mrs
Tanqueray_; but _Iris_ ends with something very much like a comma, and
_The Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith_ can scarcely boast of more than a colon.
Ibsen has not always been successful in coming to his conclusions. In a
sense _A Doll's House_ might be called a failure: the case is one of the
note of interrogation, and the audience is left in a mood of
dissatisfaction, since, being deeply interested in the character of
Nora, it is intensely curious to know what she will do next. Homes have
been broken up and friendships wrecked by discussion upon the question,
though it must be admitted that most of the quarrels concerning the play
have been upon the irrelevant question whether the child-wife ought to
have left her husband and children. One half of the disputants fail to
see that the fact that she does abandon them is the catastrophe and not
the conclusion of the comedy. In _An Enemy of Society_ and _A Lady from
the Sea_ the author has been remarkably adroit in getting to a definite
conclusion.
On the other hand, one sees that even such a master of his craft was
forced to call death to his aid in many cases; for instance, _Hedda
Gabler_, _The Master-Builder_, _Rosmersholm_, _John Gabriel Borkmann_,
and _When we Dead awaken_. In nearly all of these the death is not
accidental but inevitable. _The Wild Duck_ has a tragic death in it
which is by no means conclusive; indeed, it is a horrible humour of the
work that the last idea of all is the suggestion of a continuing tragic
comedy.
The inconclusive conclusion is unpopular. There is a strong craving in
the public to have plays nicely rounded off, and this is a serious
obstacle to writers who seek to represent real life, which seems to have
a sort of prejudice against rounding-off human affairs neatly. In a vast
number of cases the great crises in human life are followed by a tedious
kind of dragging anti-climax.
Great monarchs still live after their fall. The Napoleon of the stage
would have died at Waterloo instead of crawling out of life at St
Helena. One need not multiply instances after such a prodigious example.
Managers naturally respect--some will say "pander to"--the public taste;
wherefore our real life plays rarely see the footlights, and when they
do sometimes are cruelly forced into an artificial ending.
From time to time one even sees quaint announcements that, owing to the
wishes of the public, the conclusion of a particular play has been
twisted from the author's original idea into some termination that
gratifies the audience's desire to leave the theatre in a mood to enjoy
a supper afterwards. The question of art involved in the matter hardly
needs discussion. No one will deny that, in comedy at least, the
greatest suggestion of truth is the greatest art, even whilst admitting
that the inevitable circumstances of the production of a play demand
certain modifications and adjustment of truth. The dramatist can never
hold the mirror up to Nature; he can only reflect her in a distorting
glass.
A few years ago in a play that made a sensation came the worst example
of the forced conventional "happy-ever-after" ending on record. The case
was that of _An Englishman's Home_, where there was foisted upon the
author, who was abroad, a quite imbecile happy ending which caused much
discussion: it is not unlikely that this crime against drama and the
dramatist prevented the piece from enjoying the immense success
confidently prophesied for it.
Nowadays authors are in a greater difficulty, because
people--particularly the so-called "smart" folk--are eager to get away
early for supper, whilst many are compelled to steal off to catch trains
to Brighton and other suburbs, and leave the theatre before the ending
of a play. The result threatens to be curious. The dramatists will be
induced to make their big effort in the penultimate act, leaving nothing
for the last but some tranquil rounding off which you may miss without
serious loss. Instead of the notice, often, alas! untrue: "The audience
is requested to be seated punctually at eight o'clock, since the
interest in the play begins at the rise of the curtain," we shall have:
"Members of the audience anxious for supper or to catch suburban trains
are requested to leave before the curtain rises on the last act, which
is only a kind of needless epilogue."
We had some trace of this new epilogue method in _Leah Kleschna_, as
well as in _Letty_. How the critics of the morning papers would bless
such a system! At the same time, it is imaginable that the authors will
raise a difficulty--they are such an exacting race!
However, a brilliant suggestion has been made of a way of dealing with
the difficulty. "Why not," asks a fair correspondent, whose letter has
incited this article--"why not begin with the last act?" The scornful
may answer with the question, "Why begin at all if you've nothing better
than our ordinary drama?" but they must be kept out of court. There
really is something in the idea. Public interest flags somewhat in the
case of ordinary plays because the house knows too well the things that
are going to happen; it might be stimulated by seeing them happen and
then watching the development of the facts leading up to them. This
suggestion is not protected in any way, either in England or the United
States.
Preposterous Stage Types
The title may sound a little misleading, Ruskinian, Horne-Tookian:
probably the word "preposterous" would not have been used but for an
accidental remembrance of De Quincey, who was so fond of using and
explaining it, of pointing out that it signified the behind-before, the
cart before the horse, the hysteron-proteron. By-the-by, why has De
Quincey gone out of fashion? There are charming reprints of almost
everybody who is somebody, and of somebodies who really are nobodies;
even Alexander Smith is being talked of; yet, if you want a full feast
of De Quincey you must go to ill-printed pages bound horribly. However,
except so far as Shakespeare is concerned, the author of a famous essay
on Wilhelm Meister has left us little on the topic of the stage. A
casual question brought forward the subject: it was whether Sothern's
Dundreary really represented an English type. To answer this is a matter
of some difficulty.
The fact remains that if Dundreary did not represent a type, at least it
created one. Dundrearys became quite numerous after Sothern's success;
and the observant have remarked that not infrequently a stage character
has verified itself by a species of ratification--a remark that has a
flavour of Ireland, or, if a famous essay by Miss Edgeworth is to be
accepted, a flavour of France--this is a reference to her essay on Irish
bulls, a title itself which happens to be unconsciously a bull.
The "mashers" and "crutch and toothpick brigade" of the stage were
rather the progenitors than imitators of the type, and the Gibson girls
were more numerous after the appearance of Miss Camille Clifford than
before she came to London. It might be indiscreet to go further into
details and cite more modern instances on the topic.
One can hardly call this, holding the mirror up to Nature, yet, in a
curious roundabout way, the stage seems to justify itself and become
true after the event. There was a rather bitter discussion some time ago
between an author and a critic; the latter had remarked that the
language of the dramatist's people did not sound true, that it seemed
composed of scraps from the stage, that he generally could guess from
the cue the words of the answering speech.
This, of course, is very often the case; probably to the simple-minded
playgoer when it happens there seems to be evidence that the dialogue is
true. The characters say what he expects them to say--therefore, that
which to him it seems natural for them to say. Perhaps the judgment of
the simple-minded playgoer is sounder on this point than that of the
critic, who is hoping that the characters will utter something that he
does not expect them to say. Probably a large number of the stereotyped
phrases of our actual speech come from the novel or stage, and although
when they were first spoken the truth was not in them, they have come to
be truly representative of the characters.
Novelists of standing are more nicely squeamish on the subject than
dramatists of similar rank; they endeavour to avoid--in dialogue--the
ready-made article; at the same time one notes that the important
dramatist is very anxious to keep clear of the stage-worn phrases.
We know that to some extent people do accept the judgments in plays as
judgments on life, and mould their conduct on that of the characters.
Even the daughter in _Alice Sit-by-the-Fire_, with her views based on
melodrama concerning her mother, was not wholly extravagant. Of course
this puts a rather heavy responsibility upon dramatists. The _Jack
Sheppard_ and _Dick Turpin_ plays are said to have fired many youths
with a desire to become romantic criminals, and even caused them to make
efforts to carry out their desires. Nowadays--at least in the theatres
within our province--such pieces are not presented; nor would one
quarrel with the Censor if he were to prohibit one of them. There is
little peril in a work like _Raffles_; for though it would not be
difficult to exhibit skill in crime as great as that of the hero, a
capacity for being a first-class cricketer and an education at Eton seem
to be essential elements of the character, and these serve as
insurmountable stumbling-blocks to many. Yet a Raffles may set a fashion
and have humble imitators, so far as personal style is concerned, among
the professors of the fine art of crib-cracking.
The Professor Moriarty of _Sherlock Holmes_ really employed too much
machinery to be copied by the crowd.
That the stage sometimes takes the lead in the matter of costume cannot
be disputed--possibly the day will arrive when the emancipation of man
from the thrall of the "topper," the frock-coat and stiff collar is
brought about through the energies of the theatre--though it will
require a London actor of the Le Bargy type to achieve such a triumph,
and he is not yet in sight, and may not appear until after the motorist
has accomplished the miracle. At present, even in the matter of ladies'
frocks, the London stage has less influence than one might have
expected.
At the moment one seeks vainly for any stage type likely to create a
character which afterwards it will seem to reflect. Perhaps Mr G.P.
Huntley has had some success in this respect; certainly it is imaginable
that if he were to represent a well-written part in comedy as a kind of
twentieth-century Dundreary we should meet imitators of him in shoals;
but this has yet to come, and if it does a good many people will fail to
rejoice--a phrase without prejudice to admiration for a player
concerning the limits of whose power as a comedian one may well have
real curiosity.
Turning back for a moment to the dialogue, one can hardly feel surprised
that playwrights are easily satisfied with ready-made phrases; we
journalists cannot "throw stones" at them--a figure the almost
unintentional use of which illustrates the difficulty. It is a very hard
task to invent new phrases for your characters that will seem congruous,
and there is always the peril of appearing affected in style. Yet
success is possible, as may be seen in the works of a few, such as
Pinero; even he shows a tendency, noteworthy in _Letty_ and, to a less
degree, in _His House in Order_, towards causing some characters to talk
"bookily," which, after all, is better than making them speak
journalistically. Still, in dealing with this point the dramatist must
remember that many people in real life use habitually a large number of
ready-made phrases, even when they are in a serious mood.
The Professions of the Dramatis Personae
If the historian of the future, in the endeavour to get a clear idea of
the social life of our times, turns to the contemporary drama in search
for information, he will find very little matter of value. Yet the mere
fact of the success of some of the plays will give him an idea of the
taste, or lack of taste, of the public, and the failure of others will
speak eloquently, but sadly, to him about the audiences of to-day.
The first phenomenon to impress him must be the fact that in a large
proportion of the dramas professing to deal with current social life the
chief persons are the drones of society and the rich people of leisure
or labour, most of them with handles or tails to their names. Half of
our comedies are supposed to pass among the "nobs," and the middle-class
characters are merely introduced as a necessary part of the machinery.
It has been said that the British people dearly loves a lord, and a
belief in this may be one reason why the upper ten thousand furnish so
many of the heroes and heroines.
A further fact is that certain managers are alleged to think that their
theatres gain in dignity by presenting Mayfair plays, and perhaps there
are players who take a great joy in appearing as Lord this, or Lady
that, or the Honourable somebody. Indeed, there was a case where an
actor-manager usurped a king's prerogative and transferred the chief
characters in a play by a young dramatist to the celestial regions of
Burke, notwithstanding the protest of the author, who admitted his
absolute ignorance of the manners, ways of thought, and style in
conversation of the inhabitants of Belgravia: no changes were made
except in the names, and yet nobody suggested that the play was
particularly rich in solecisms.
This form of snobbery has at least one advantage, it saves the
playwright from the trouble of considering the questions of money in the
play. If there is to be an elopement in it there is no difficulty on the
score of expense--a difficulty that, in vulgar real life, has caused
some intrigues to become sordid hole-and-corner divorce dramas instead
of idylls of passionate irregular love.
One notices that certain professions are under a kind of ban upon the
stage. The country contains thousands of solicitors, most of them well
educated and drawn from the class that feeds the Bar, the Church, the
Army, Navy, Medicine, Science and the Arts. This body of solicitors has
an enormous influence upon the conscience of the country--more influence
than any other class, except, perhaps, that of the parsons. How is the
solicitor treated on the stage? Almost always with contempt, at the best
as a humble adviser. He is the comic character or the villain;
generally, as a further insult, the secondary villain. The attorney is
sometimes the hero of a farce, as in _The Headless Man_--never in
comedy, or to be more correct, hardly ever, for Mr Granville Barker in
_The Voysey Inheritance_ gave a very fine and sympathetic study of a
young solicitor. The dramatist may say in defence that he is truthful,
that he merely reflects the vulgar prejudice against the profession,
founded upon the misdeeds of a very small proportion of its members.
The barrister receives better treatment, but, of course, he is generally
deemed to be a more "genteel" person; yet, in considering stage
barristers, one notices that they are drawn very superficially, that
their profession is accidental to the play, and little or nothing turns
on the influence of the career upon the man. Judges, like solicitors,
are usually regarded as comic.
Our stage has hardly inherited Molière traditions concerning the
doctors; there were two important plays, _The Medicine Man_ and _The
Physician_, in which members of the healing art are treated
seriously--though Dr Tregenna in the former was rather a caricature, and
in _The Doctor's Dilemma_ we had a brilliantly painted group of medical
men. The Christian Scientist may complain of neglect, even if there was
some anticipation of him in _Judah_, and a humble branch of the craft
was handled ably by Mrs Merrick in _Jimmy's Mother_. The real quack has
remained almost unscathed.
The army, of course, has not been neglected. Half the Lotharios of
modern drama belong to the destructive profession, and the peppery or
tedious colonel is an old stock friend; whilst the "Dobbin" type is
handled very frequently, and the V.C. has been bestowed more often by
dramatists than by royalty. The modern officer of the good type, the man
with an honest, energetic interest in his profession, is rarely
presented.
What about the navy? There was _The Flag-Lieutenant_ and also _Captain
Drew on Leave_, the latter a somewhat unpleasant picture, fortunately
exhibiting no trace of the sailor's spirit or style of thought. One
cannot complain nowadays of a lack of parsons or Nonconformist
ministers, though it is irksome to see that the latter, as a rule, are
presented in an odious light, by way, probably, of a mean little revenge
for the hostility of the Nonconformist to the theatre--a hostility which
could hardly surprise any dispassionate person who considers the present
state of the stage.
The architect, save in _The Master Builder_, is almost unknown; the
engineer, unspecialised as a rule, figures vaguely sometimes.
Perhaps one ought to write guardedly concerning the journalist. Still,
at least, facts may be stated. As a rule he appears as reporter or
interviewer, and is treated comically. In _The Perfect Lover_ Mr Sutro
handles him seriously, and that play contains an elaborate picture of a
weak-minded journalist as well as a wicked solicitor. Of the existence
of thousands of men, highly educated and many of them possessing
brilliant degrees, connected with the enormous newspaper interest of
this country, the stage takes no cognizance. A dramatic critic
occasionally is exhibited--as a rule in connexion with the
champagne-and-chicken theory.
The vast army devoted to science is almost ignored, though sometimes the
inventor has a kind of "innings": in _The Middleman_ Mr Henry Arthur
Jones made a striking figure of him. Financiers, business men, merchants
and the like have little justice done to them. To the dramatist the
fraudulent is the only interesting financier. He certainly is very fond
of working on the _Mercadet_ basis. He commonly confounds the
stockbroker with the bucket-shop keeper, and invariably assumes that the
company promoter is a thief. The merchant or manufacturer tends to
replace the French uncle from America, and his wealth rather than
himself is employed by the playwright to get his characters out of a
mess.
The novelist or poet is a difficult person for stage treatment; the
pictures of the dramatist in the theatre are curiously unlifelike--as
unlifelike as the theatrical managers on the stage. There are reasons
for this that need not be discussed.
It seems a pity that the playwrights, when dealing with life in the
strata above shopkeeping, should not apply themselves more fully to the
study of the enormous class which is the backbone of the country,
instead of choosing so often merely the idle classes, members of which
as a rule are less highly individualized. One may apply to the
characters in many of our comedies certain phrases used by Théophile
Gautier: "The personages belong to no particular time or country. They
come and go without our knowing why or how; they neither eat nor drink,
they do not live in any particular place, and have no _métier_."
The "neither eat nor drink," of course, is quite inapplicable; we have
far too much eating and drinking on the stage. The low, comic meals of
the Adelphi are replaced by similar or slightly more "genteel" humours
of comic eating in comedies. It may be that this phenomenon is due to a
belief that playgoers want to see something in the theatres far divorced
from its ordinary life, but this belief seems hardly consistent with
certain notable tendencies towards realism. Undoubtedly the public has
not grown tired of plays dealing seriously with current human life; it
has had no opportunity of growing tired of them.
Since this was written the "Yellow Journalism" editor has twice
appeared, once in the brilliant comedy called _What the Public Wants_,
by Mr Arnold Bennett, where Mr James Hearn represented him superbly, and
on the other occasion in Mr Fagan's clever work called _The Earth_, when
Mr M'Kinnel acted ably. Also we have had an engineer in _The Building of
Bridges_ and a doctor in _Fires of Fate_.