The dramatist, in writing, labors under a disadvantage that is not suffered
by the novelist. If a passage in a novel is not perfectly clear at the
first glance, the reader may always turn back the pages and read the scene
again; but on the stage a line once spoken can never be recalled. When,
therefore, an important point is to be set forth, the dramatist cannot
afford to risk his clearness upon a single line. This is particularly true
in the beginning of a play. When the curtain rises, there is always a
fluttering of programs and a buzz of unfinished conversation. Many
spectators come in late and hide the stage from those behind them while
they are taking off their wraps. Consequently, most dramatists, in the
preliminary exposition that must always start a play, contrive to state
every important fact at least three times: first, for the attentive;
second, for the intelligent; and third, for the large mass that may have
missed the first two statements. Of course, the method of presentment must
be very deftly varied, in order that the artifice may not appear; but this
simple rule of three is almost always practised. It was used with rare
effect by Eugène Scribe, who, although he was too clever to be great,
contributed more than any other writer of the nineteenth century to the
science of making a modern play.
In order that the attention of the audience may not be unduly distracted by
any striking effect, the dramatist must always prepare for such an effect
in advance, and give the spectators an idea of what they may expect. The
extraordinary nose of Cyrano de Bergerac is described at length by
Ragueneau before the hero comes upon the stage. If the ugly-visaged poet
should enter without this preliminary explanation, the whole effect would
be lost. The spectators would nudge each other and whisper half aloud,
"Look at his nose! What is the matter with his face?", and would be less
than half attentive to the lines. Before Lady Macbeth is shown walking in
her sleep and wringing her hands that are sullied with the damned spot that
all great Neptune's ocean could not wash away, her doctor and her waiting
gentlewoman are sent to tell the audience of her "slumbery agitation."
Thus, at the proper moment, the attention is focused on the essential point
instead of being allowed to lose itself in wonder.
A logical development of this principle leads us to the axiom that a
dramatist must never keep a secret from his audience, although this is one
of the favorite devices of the novelist. Let us suppose for a moment that
the spectators were not let into the secret of Hero's pretty plot, in _Much
Ado_, to bring Beatrice and Benedick together. Suppose that, like the
heroine and the hero, they were led to believe that each was truly in love
with the other. The inevitable revelation of this error would produce a
shock of surprise that would utterly scatter their attention; and while
they were busy making over their former conception of the situation, they
would have no eyes nor ears for what was going on upon the stage. In a
novel, the true character of a hypocrite is often hidden until the book is
nearly through: then, when the revelation comes, the reader has plenty of
time to think back and see how deftly he has been deceived. But in a play,
a rogue must be known to be a rogue at his first entrance. The other
characters in the play may be kept in the dark until the last act, but the
audience must know the secret all the time. In fact, any situation which
shows a character suffering from a lack of such knowledge as the audience
holds secure always produces a telling effect upon the stage. The
spectators are aware of Iago's villainy and know of Desdemona's innocence.
The play would not be nearly so strong if, like Othello, they were kept
ignorant of the truth.
In order to economise attention, the dramatist must centre his interest in
a few vividly drawn characters and give these a marked preponderance over
the other parts. Many plays have failed because of over-elaborateness of
detail. Ben Jonson's comedy of _Every Man in His Humour_ would at present
be impossible upon the stage, for the simple reason that _all_ the
characters are so carefully drawn that the audience would not know in whom
to be most interested. The play is all background and no foreground. The
dramatist fails to say, "Of all these sixteen characters, you must listen
most attentively to some special two or three"; and, in consequence, the
piece would require a constant effort of attention that no modern audience
would be willing to bestow. Whatever may be said about the disadvantages of
the so-called "star system" in the theatre, the fact remains that the
greatest plays of the world--_Oedipus King_, _Hamlet_, _As You Like It_,
_Tartufe_, _Cyrano de Bergerac_--have almost always been what are called
"star plays." The "star system" has an obvious advantage from the point of
view of the dramatist. When Hamlet enters, the spectators know that they
must look at him; and their attention never wavers to the minor characters
upon the stage. The play is thus an easy one to follow: attention is
economised and no effect is lost.
It is a wise plan to use familiar and conventional types to fill in the
minor parts of a play. The comic valet, the pretty and witty chambermaid,
the _ingénue_, the pathetic old friend of the family, are so well known
upon the stage that they spare the mental energy of the spectators and
leave them greater vigor of attention to devote to the more original major
characters. What is called "comic relief" has a similar value in resting
the attention of the audience. After the spectators have been harrowed by
Ophelia's madness, they must be diverted by the humor of the grave-diggers
in order that their susceptibilities may be made sufficiently fresh for the
solemn scene of her funeral.
We have seen that any sudden shock of surprise should be avoided in the
theatre, because such a shock must inevitably cause a scattering of
attention. It often happens that the strongest scenes of a play require the
use of some physical accessory,--a screen in _The School for Scandal_, a
horse in _Shenandoah_, a perfumed letter in _Diplomacy_. In all such cases,
the spectators must be familiarised beforehand with the accessory object,
so that when the climax comes they may devote all of their attention to the
action that is accomplished with the object rather than to the object
itself. In a quarrel scene, an actor could not suddenly draw a concealed
weapon in order to threaten his antagonist. The spectators would stop to
ask themselves how he happened to have the weapon by him without their
knowing it; and this self-muttered question would deaden the effect of the
scene. The _dénouement_ of Ibsen's _Hedda Gabler_ requires that the two
chief characters, Eilert Lövborg and Hedda Tesman, should die of pistol
wounds. The pistols that are to be used in the catastrophe are mentioned
and shown repeatedly throughout the early and middle scenes of the play; so
that when the last act comes, the audience thinks not of pistols, but of
murder and suicide. A striking illustration of the same dramaturgic
principle was shown in Mrs. Fiske's admirable performance of this play. The
climax of the piece comes at the end of the penultimate act, when Hedda
casts into the fire the manuscript of the book into which Eilert has put
the great work of his life. The stove stands ready at the left of the
stage; but when the culminating moment comes, the spectators must be made
to forget the stove in their horror at Hedda's wickedness. They must,
therefore, be made familiar with the stove in the early part of the act.
Ibsen realised this, and arranged that Hedda should call for some wood to
be cast upon the fire at the beginning of the scene. In acting this
incident, Mrs. Fiske kneeled before the stove in the very attitude that she
was to assume later on when she committed the manuscript to the flames. The
climax gained greatly in emphasis because of this device to secure economy
of attention at the crucial moment.