stage speak in similar fashion, but it is wise when possible to avoid
stating two or three ideas in the same sentence, or developing two or
three ideas in one long speech. An idea to a sentence, with the
development of one thought in a speech, is a fairly safe principle,
though not unalterable. For instance, the daughter of a widowed mother
is facing the fact that if they are to stay in their meagre quarters she
may have to ask this as a favor from her employer, Mr. Hollings. The
mother, not knowing that he has pressed his attentions objectionably,
does not understand the unwillingness of the girl to ask his help. In
answer to her pleadings the girl cries, "Oh, I would do anything for
you! Poor dear father! Mother, go to Mr. Hollings." Here are three
different trains of thought in one speech. The first exclamation is a
direct answer to the mother's preceding speech. For the audience there
is no clearness of transition to the second exclamation, nor from it to
the third. Cut the girl's answer to the first sentence. Then the mother,
seizing on the idea that her daughter is willing to do anything, urges
her for this and that reason to see her employer, emphasizing the idea
that, had the father lived, all their present sorrow would not exist.
In this case the second exclamation falls into its proper place, as a
natural reply of the girl to her mother. If, too, as the mother urges
reason after reason for going to the employer for aid, the girl at last
pleads, "Mother, you go to Mr. Hollings," this sentence also falls into
its proper place. It becomes the first sign of her yielding, for she is
at last willing that some one should intercede with the man. When a
writer finds himself skipping from idea to idea within a speech or a
sentence, with transitions likely to be unclear for the audience, he
should break what he has written into its component parts and let the
other people on the stage, by their interruptions, queries, and
comments, provide the connectives of speech and thought which will bind
these ideas together properly. The following rearrangement by Miss
Anglin of the original text of _Lady Windermere's Fan_ shows her correct
feeling that ideas originally treated together should be separated. Lord
Windermere's reply is to the first sentence of Mrs. Erlynne's speech. It
is therefore much clearer to shift her two succeeding exclamations to
her next speech.
ORIGINAL REVISION
_Mrs. Erlynne._ (_C._) How do _Mrs. Erlynne._ (_C._) How do
you do, again, Lord Windermere? you do, again, Lord Windermere?
How charming your sweet wife
looks! Quite a picture! _Lord Windermere._ (_In a low
voice._) It was terribly rash
_Lord Windermere._ (_In a low of you to come!
voice._) It was terribly rash
of you to come! _Mrs. Erlynne._ (_Smiling._) The
wisest thing I ever did in my
_Mrs. Erlynne._ (_Smiling._) The life. How charming your sweet
wisest thing I ever did in my life. wife looks! Quite a picture! And,
And, by the way, you must pay by the way, you must pay me a
me a good deal of attention this good deal of attention this
evening.[61] evening.
Often dialogue which is clear sentence by sentence is, as a whole,
somewhat confusing to an audience. Frequently a careful re-ordering of
the parts of the speech, or of a group of speeches, will dispose of the
trouble. Occasionally a playwright allows his ordering of his ideas to
obscure the cue, or important idea. Undoubtedly the important word in
what follows is "christenings," but Chasuble runs on into various other
matters before Jack speaks. Consequently a hearer is a little startled
when Jack takes up the idea of christenings instead of anything
following it.
_Chasuble._ In Paris! (_Shakes his head._) I fear that hardly points
to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish
me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction
next Sunday. (_Jack presses his hand convulsively_.) My sermon on the
meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any
occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. (_All
sigh_.) I have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings,
confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last time I
delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of
the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders.
The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies
I drew.
_Jack._ Ah! That reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr.
Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? (_Dr. Chasuble
looks astounded._) I mean, of course, you are continually christening,
aren't you?[62]
It is true that the last part of Chasuble's speech illustrates his
volubility, and that the way in which Jack picks up the idea,
"christening," shows that he is so absorbed in his purpose as to pay no
attention to anything Chasuble says after "christenings." Here,
therefore, the method is probably justified, but ordinarily the end of
one speech leads into the next, and when something which breaks the
sequence stands between, it must prove its right to be there, or be
postponed for later treatment, or be cut out altogether. What
re-ordering will do for a dialogue which is uninteresting and somewhat
confused was shown in the revising of the extract from the John Brown
play (pp. 309-313). There is a brilliant instance, in Miss Anglin's
version of _Lady Windermere's Fan_, of re-ordering such that a climax of
interest develops from groups of somewhat independent sentences.
ORIGINAL REVISION
_Lady Plymdale._ My dear _Dumby._ Awful manners young
Margaret, what a fascinating Hopper has!
woman your husband has been
dancing with! I should be quite _Cecil Graham._ Ah! Hopper is one
jealous if I were you! Is she a of Nature's gentlemen, the worst
great friend of yours? type of gentleman I know.
_Lady Windermere._ No. _Lady Jedburgh._ What a
fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne
_Lady Plymdale._ Really? is! She is coming to lunch
Good night, dear. on Thursday, won't you come too?
(_Looks at Mr. Dumby, and I expect the Bishop and dear
exit._) Lady Merton.
_Dumby._ Awful manners young _Lady Windermere._ I am afraid I
Hopper has! am engaged, Lady Jedburgh.
_Cecil Graham._ Ah! Hopper is _Lady Jedburgh._ So sorry. Good
one of Nature's gentlemen, the night. Come, dear.
worst type of gentleman I know.
(_Exeunt Lady Jedburgh and
Miss Graham._)
_Dumby._ Sensible woman,
Lady Windermere. Lots of wives _Dumby._ Sensible woman,
would have objected to Mrs. Lady Windermere. Lots of
Erlynne coming. But Lady wives would have objected to
Windermere has that uncommon Mrs. Erlynne coming. But
thing called common sense. Lady Windermere has that
uncommon thing called common
_Cecil Graham._ And Windermere sense.
knows that nothing looks
so like innocence as an _Cecil Graham._ And Windermere
indiscretion. knows that nothing looks so like
innocence as an indiscretion.
_Dumby._ Yes; dear Windermere
is becoming almost modern.
Never thought he would. _Dumby._ Yes; dear Windermere
is becoming almost modern. Never
(_Bows to Lady Windermere thought he would.
and exit._)
_Lady Plymdale._ Dumby!
_Lady Jedburgh._ Good night,
Lady Windermere. What a (_Dumby bows to Lady
fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne Windermere and exit._)
is! She is coming to lunch on
Thursday. Won't you come _Lady Plymdale._ My Dear
too? I expect the Bishop and Margaret, what a fascinating
dear Lady Merton. woman your husband has been
dancing with! I should be quite
_Lady Windermere._ I am afraid jealous if I were you! Is she a
I am engaged, Lady Jedburgh. great friend of yours?
_Lady Jedburgh._ So sorry. _Lady Windermere._ No!
Come, dear.
_Lady Plymdale._ Really? Good
night, dear.
(_Exeunt Lady Jedburgh and
Miss Graham._) (_Lady Plymdale exits._)
_Enter Mrs. Erlynne and _Enter Mrs. Erlynne and
Lord Windermere._ Lord Windermere._
_Mrs. Erlynne._ Charming ball _Mrs. Erlynne._ Charming ball
it has been! Quite reminds me it has been! Quite reminds me
of old days. of old days.
(_Sits on the sofa._)[63] (_Sits on the sofa._)
Dialogue may be both clear and characterizing yet fail because it is
difficult to speak. Too many writers, as has been said, do not hear
their words but see them. Could any one who heard his words have penned
the lines, "She says she's sure she'll have a shock if she sees him."
That time "apt alliteration" was so artful that, setting her trap, she
caught a dramatist. Here is the amusing comment of a critic on an
author's protest that her lines have been misquoted and made to sound
difficult to deliver:
In the review of the----Theatre's opening bill there occurred a line
purporting to come from Miss Blank's psychic play, _The Turtle_. Miss
Blank writes, "The line, which was either incorrectly spoken or heard,
was not, 'How does one know one is one's self?' but 'How is one to
know which is one's real self when one feels so different with
different people?'" Naturally the reviewer of a play is as open to
mistakes in noting down lines as the actor is in speaking them,
particularly if the author is much given to the "one-one-one" style of
construction. If, however, Miss Blank prefers her own version of the
sentence, she is welcome to it.
Of course each writer is perfectly sure that his own ear will keep him
from errors of this kind, but even the greatest err. Did Shakespeare
write the opening lines of _Measure For Measure_, he the master of
exquisitely musical and perfectly chosen dramatic speech? Some scholars
believe he did. If so, in that second speech of the Duke which wearies
the jaws and tempts to every kind of slurring, Jove certainly nodded.
_Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants_
_Duke._ Escalus!
_Escalus._ My lord.
_Duke._ Of government the properties to unfold,
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
Since I am put to know that your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice
My strength can give you: then no more remains,
But that, to your sufficiency ...
... as your worth is able,
And let them work.
Are the following straight translations from the old French farce,
_Pierre Patelin_,[64] as easy to speak as the revisions?
TRANSLATION REVISION
_Guillemette._ And don't forget _Guillemette._ And if
your dram, if you can come by any one offers to stand treat,
it for nothing. don't refuse.
* * * * * * * *
(_Patelin is trying to cheat (_Patelin is trying to cheat
the Draper out of a piece the Draper out of a piece
of cloth._) of cloth._)
_Patelin._ I don't care: give me _Patelin._ I don't care: give me
my money's worth. (_Whispering my money's worth. (_Whispering
in the Draper's ear._) I know of in the Draper's ear._) I know of
another coin or two nobody ever some chink--
got a smell of.
_Draper._ Now you're talking! _Draper._ Now you're talking!
That would be capital.
_Patelin._ In a word, I am hot _Patelin._ (_Letting his hand
for this piece, and have some fall on the goods_.) This!
I must.
The first revision certainly gives lines easier to speak. The writer of
the second revision hears it and knows the gesture, facial expression,
and intonation which must go with "This!" Dialogue which is perfectly
clear and characterizing should not be allowed to pass in the final
revision if at any point it is unnecessarily difficult to deliver.
From the preceding discussion it must be clear that the three essentials
of dialogue are clearness, helping the onward movement of the story, and
doing all this in character. Dialogue is, naturally, still better if it
possesses charm, grace, wit, irony, or beauty of its own. Dialogue which
merely states the facts is, as we have seen, likely to be dull or
commonplace. Well characterized dialogue still falls short of all
dialogue may be if it has none of the attributes just mentioned. Feeling
this strongly, the dramatists throughout the ages have striven to give
their dialogue attractiveness because of its style, forgetting that
above all for the dramatist it is true that "style is the man," and that
"style is a thinking out into language." Lyly, Shakespeare, in some of
the scenes of his early plays, Kyd in _The Spanish Tragedy_, John Dryden
in his Heroic Drama, Cibber and Lillo in their rhythmic prose which
often might be perfectly well printed as blank verse, strove to decorate
their dialogue from without--something sure to fail, either with the
immediate audience or with posterity. If the charm, the grace, the wit,
the irony of the dialogue does not come from the characters speaking,
that dialogue fails in what has been shown to be one of its chief
essentials, right characterization. Congreve emphasized this in that
classic of dramatic criticism, his letter _Concerning Humour in
Comedy_.[65] "A character of a splenetic and peevish humour should have
a satirical wit. A jolly and sanguine humour should have a facetious
wit. The former should speak positively; the latter, carelessly: for the
former observes and shows things as they are; the latter rather
overlooks nature, and speaks things as he would have them; and his wit
and humour have both of them a less alloy of judgment than the others."
Undoubtedly, however, the dramatist may do much in helping a character
to reveal these qualities, particularly beauty of thought or phrasing.
It is a conventional use supposed to make for beauty which _The
Rehearsal_ ridicules in the following scene, for at nearly all crises
the Heroic Drama rested on a simile for its strongest effect.
_Prettyman._ How strange a captive am I grown of late!
Shall I accuse my love or blame my fate?
My love I cannot; that is too divine:
And against fate what mortal dares repine?
_Enter Chloris_
But here she comes.
Sure 'tis some blazing comet! is it not? (_Lies down._)
_Bayes._ Blazing comet! Mark that; egad, very fine.
_Prettyman._ But I am so surpris'd with sleep, I cannot speak the
rest. (_Sleeps._)
_Bayes._ Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in the nick?
His spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and,
swop, he falls asleep, as you see. Now, here she must make a simile.
_Smith._ Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?
_Bayes._ Because she's surprised. That's a general rule; you must ever
make a simile when you're surprised; 'tis the new way of writing.
_Chloris._ As some tall pine which we on Aetna find
T' have stood the rage of many a boist'rous wind,
Feeling without that flames within do play,
Which would consume his root and sap away;
He spreads his worsted arms unto the skies:
Silently grieves, all pale, repines, and dies:
So, shrouded up, your bright eye disappears.
Break forth, bright scorching sun, and dry my tears. (_Exit._)
_John._ Mr. Bayes, methinks this simile wants a little application,
too.
_Bayes._ No faith; for it alludes to passion, to consuming, to dying,
and all that, which, you know, are the natural effects of an amour.
(Act II, sc. 3.)[66]
Why is it that the citation from Shakespeare in the left-hand column is
less satisfactory than that in the right-hand?
_York._ To do that office _Viola._ If I did love you
of thine own good will in my master's flame,
Which tired majesty did make thee With such a suffering, such a
offer, deadly life,
The resignation of thy state and In your denial I would find no
crown sense,
To Henry Bolingbroke. I would not understand it.
_King Richard._ Give me the _Olivia._ Why, what would you?
crown.--Here cousin, seize
the crown; _Viola._ Make me a willow
Here, cousin, cabin at your gate,
On this side my hand, and on And call upon my soul within the
that side thine. house;
Now is this golden crown like a Write loyal cantons of contemned
deep well love
That owes two buckets, filling And sing them loud even in the
one another, dead of night;
The emptier ever dancing in the Halloo your name to the
air, reverberate hills
The other down, unseen, and And make the babbling gossip of
full of water. the air
That bucket down and full of Cry out "Olivia!" O, you should
tears am I, not rest
Drinking my griefs, whilst you Between the elements of air and
mount up on high, earth,
But should pity me!
_Bolingbroke._ I thought you
had been willing to resign. _Olivia._ You might do much[68]
_King Richard._ My crown I am;
but still my griefs are mine.
You may my glories and my state
depose,
But not my griefs; still I am
king of those.[67]
The second extract is the more effective because the onward sweep of the
emotion of the scene reveals beauty as it moves, but the first shows
King Richard checking the course of his natural emotion in order suavely
and perfectly to develop his comparison. Of course there is beauty in
the first extract, but it is not genuine dramatic beauty. Why does one
find the following passage from _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (Act
I), delightful as it is, less fine than the passage from _The Way of the
World_ (Act II, Scene 5)?
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sitting down._) You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
(_Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil._)
_Jack._ Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.
_Lady Bracknell._ (_Pencil and notebook in hand._) I feel bound to
tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men,
although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We
work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name,
should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do
you smoke?
_Jack._ Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
_Lady Bracknell._ I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an
occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as
it is. How old are you?
_Jack._ Twenty-nine.
_Lady Bracknell._ A very good age to be married at. I have always been
of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either
everything or nothing. Which do you know?
_Jack._ (_After some hesitation._) I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
_Lady Bracknell._ I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of
anything that tempers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a
delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole
theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in
England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it
did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and
probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your
income?
_Jack._ Between seven and eight thousand a year.
_Lady Bracknell._ (_Makes a note in her book._) In land or
investments?
_Jack._ In investments, chiefly.
_Lady Bracknell._ That is satisfactory. What between the duties
expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one
after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a
pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up.
That's all that can be said about land.
_Jack._ I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to
it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that
for my income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the
only people who are making anything out of it.
_Lady Bracknell._ A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point
can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl
with a simple unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be
expected to reside in the country.
_Jack._ Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the
year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at
six months' notice.
_Lady Bracknell._ Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.
_Jack._ Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.
_Lady Bracknell._ Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability
of character. What number in Belgrave Square?
_Jack._ 149.
_Lady Bracknell._ (_Shaking her head._) The unfashionable side. I
thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.
_Jack_. Do you mean the fashion or the side?
_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sternly_.) Both, if necessary, I presume. What are
your politics?
_Jack._ Well, I'm afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.
_Lady Bracknell._ Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come
in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents
living?
_Jack._ I have lost both my parents.
_Lady Bracknell._ Both?--That seems like carelessness. Who was your
father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the
Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the
ranks of the aristocracy?
_Jack._ I'm afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I
said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that
my parents seem to have lost me--I don't actually know who I am by
birth. I was--well, I was found.
_Lady Bracknell._ Found!
_Jack._ The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very
charitable and kindly disposition, found me and gave me the name of
Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for
Worthing at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside
resort.
_Lady Bracknell._ Where did the gentleman who had a first-class ticket
for this seaside resort find you?
_Jack._ (_Gravely._) In a hand-bag.
_Lady Bracknell._ A hand-bag!
_Jack._ (_Very seriously._) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a
hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to
it--an ordinary hand-bag in fact.
_Lady Bracknell._ In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas,
Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?
_Jack._ In the cloak-room at the Victoria Station. It was given to him
in mistake for his own.
_Lady Bracknell._ The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
_Jack._ Yes, the Brighton line.
_Lady Bracknell._ The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I
feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or
at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems
to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life
that remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I
presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the
particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a
railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has
probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could
hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position in
good society.
_Jack._ May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need
hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's
happiness.
_Lady Bracknell._ I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try
and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite
effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the
season is quite over.
_Jack._ Well, I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that. I
can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at
home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
_Lady Bracknell._ Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly
imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only
daughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a
cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr.
Worthing!
(_Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation_.)[69]
THE WAY OF THE WORLD
_Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, Mincing_
_Mirabell._ Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan spread
and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her
mercy.
_Mrs. Fainall._ I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her
woman after him.
_Mirabell._ (_To Mrs. Millamant._) You seem to be unattended,
Madam--you us'd to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock
of gay fine perukes hovering round you.
_Witwoud._ Like moths about a candle,--I had like to have lost my
comparison for want of breath.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Oh, I have denied myself airs today, I have walk'd
as fast through the crowd--
_Witwoud._ As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I
am as sick of 'em--
_Witwoud._ As a physician of good air--I cannot help it, Madam, though
'tis against myself.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.
_Witwoud._ Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I
confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.
_Mrs. Fainall._ But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?
_Mrs. Millamant._ Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have
ask'd every living thing I met for you; I have enquir'd after you, as
after a new fashion.
_Witwoud._ Madam, truce with your similitudes--no, you met her
husband, and did not ask him for her.
_Mrs. Millamant._ By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring
after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.
_Witwoud._ Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.
_Mrs. Fainall._ You were dress'd before I came abroad.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, that's true--O but then I had--Mincing, what had
I? why was I so long?
_Mincing._ O mem, your La'ship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.
_Mrs. Millamant._ O, ay, letters--I had letters--I am persecuted with
letters--I hate letters--nobody knows how to write letters, and yet
one has 'em one does not know why--they serve one to pin up one's
hair.
_Witwoud._ Is that the way? Pray, Madam, do you pin up your hair with
all your letters? I find I must keep copies.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin
up my hair with prose. I think I try'd once, Mincing.
_Mincing._ O mem, I shall never forget it.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.
_Mincing._ 'Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll vow, mem. And all
to no purpose. But when your Laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so
pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.
_Witwoud._ Indeed, so crips.
_Mincing._ You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud.
_Mrs. Millamant._ Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night? O ay,
and went away--now I think on't, I'm angry--no, now I think on't I'm
pleas'd--for I believe I gave you some pain.
_Mirabell._ Does that please you?
_Mrs. Millamant._ Infinitely; I love to give pain.
_Mirabell._ You wou'd affect a cruelty which is not in your nature;
your true vanity is in the power of pleasing.
_Mrs. Millamant._ O I ask your pardon for that--one's cruelty is in
one's power; and when one parts with one's cruelty, one parts with
one's power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one's old and
ugly.
_Mirabell._ Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your
power, to destroy your lover--and then how vain, how lost a thing
you'll be! nay, 'tis true: you are no longer handsome when you've lost
your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the
lover's gift; 'tis he bestows your charms--your glass is all a cheat.
The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after
commendation can be flatter'd by it, and discover beauties in it; for
that reflects our praises rather than our face.
_Mrs. Millamant._ O the vanity of these men! Fainall, d'ye hear him?
If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! now you must know
they cou'd not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the
lover's gift--Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes
lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases,
and they die as soon as one pleases; and then if one pleases, one
makes more.
_Witwoud._ Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers,
Madam, than of making so many card-matches.
_Mrs. Millamant._ One no more owes one's beauty to a lover than one's
wit to an echo; they can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty
things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being.
_Mirabell._ Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the two
greatest pleasures of your life.
_Mrs. Millamant._ How so?
_Mirabell._ To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves
prais'd; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk.
_Witwoud._ But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she
won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of the
tongue, that an echo must wait 'till she dies before it can catch her
last words.
_Mrs. Millamant._ O fiction! Fainall, let us leave these men.[70]
Is not the dialogue of Congreve the finer because one feels in Wilde the
ringmaster showing off his figures, and with Congreve is not conscious
of the author at all? That is, the wit of the first passage is an
assisted wit, edged, underscored, selectively phrased by a skilful
author. In the second, everything springs seemingly unassisted from the
characters. The range of accomplishment from obvious search for beauty
in consciously made similes, through such relatively fine accomplishment
as Wilde shows, to such perfect work as that of Congreve, should be
carefully studied by the would-be dramatist. John Ford's wonderful lines
Parthenophil is like to something I remember,
A great while since, a long, long time ago
hold the memory not merely because of the loveliness of their haunting
melody, but because they are in character and help to portray the
wistful bewilderment of the moment. Why go far afield searching for the
phrase that shall give charm, grace, beauty? Look into the souls of your
characters and find them there. Either you haven't seen them or, not
being there, they cannot properly appear in your text. Mr. W. B. Yeats
tells of rehearsing a young actress who stumbled constantly over the
line
And then I looked up and saw you coming toward me, I know not whether
from the north, the south, the east or the west.
She gave it with no sense of its contained rhythm, and always came to a
full stop after "toward me," adding the last words almost unwillingly.
When asked why she did this, she said that all which followed seemed to
her unnecessary: the important fact was contained in what preceded. It
took much rehearsing to make the young woman see that the music of the
line is characteristic of the dales people, and so has characterizing
value, and that she had totally forgotten the situation of the woman
speaking. A peddler has come to the only hut in a lonely valley. The
woman welcomes him heartily, not that she may buy, but because after
days in which she has seen no one except her "man," she is greedy for
talk. Having bargained as long as she can, very regretfully she sees the
man departing, and, other topics being exhausted, she tells him of her
pleasure in his coming, spinning out her phrase as long as she possibly
can in order to hold him. Out of that set of conditions springs a highly
characterizing phrase that also has beauty. If Synge had done no more by
his plays than to make us recognize in the speech of the peasant the
characterizing power and the beauty for him who has "the eye to see and
the ear to hear," his work would deserve permanent fame. He states his
ideas in the preface to _The Playboy of the Western World._
In writing _The Playboy of the Western World_, as in my other plays, I
have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the
country people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could
read the newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have
heard also from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to
Mayo, or from beggar-women and ballad-singers near Dublin; and I am
glad to acknowledge how much I owe to the folk-imagination of these
fine people. Any one who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish
peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play
are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little
hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a
collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of
literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the
story-teller's or the playwright's hand as the rich cloaks and dresses
of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took
his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had
just heard as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In
Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When
I was writing _The Shadow of the Glen_, some years ago, I got more aid
than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the
old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was
being said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think,
is of importance for in countries where the imagination of the people,
and the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a
writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to
give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive
and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness
is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate
books that are far away from the profound and common interests of
life. One has, on one side, Mallarme and Huysmans producing this
literature; and on the other Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality
of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have
reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual
modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy
of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich
joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play
every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such
speeches cannot be written by any one who works among people who have
shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a
popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that
those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to
writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been
forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been
turned into bricks.[71]
As Ibsen says, "Style must conform to the degree of ideality which
pervades the representation."
You are of opinion that the drama ought to have been written in verse,
and that it would have gained by this. Here I must differ from you.
The play is, as you must have observed, conceived in the most
realistic style; the illusion I wished to produce was that of reality.
I wished to produce the impression on the reader that what he was
reading was something that had really happened. If I had employed
verse I should have counteracted my own intention and prevented the
accomplishment of the task I had set myself. The many ordinary,
insignificant characters whom I have intentionally introduced into the
play would have become indistinct, and indistinguishable from one
another, if I had allowed all of them to speak in one and the same
rhythmical measure. We are no longer living in the days of
Shakespeare. Speaking generally, the style must conform to the degree
of ideality which pervades the representation. My new drama is no
tragedy in the ancient acceptation; what I desired to depict were
human beings, and therefore I would not let them talk "the language of
the Gods."[72]
The dramatist who would write dialogue of the highest order should have
not only an inborn and highly trained feeling for the emotional
significance of the material in hand; a fine feeling for
characterization; ability to write dialogue which states facts in
character; and the power to bring out whatever charm, grace, irony, wit,
or other specially attractive qualities his characters permit; also he
should have, or develop, a strong feeling for the nicest use of
language. Dumas fils said, "There should be something of the poet, the
artist in words, in every dramatist."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _The Far East_, June 6, 1914, p. 295.
[2] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 1-2.
[3] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 26-27.
[4] Act I. Scene 1. Belles-Lettres Series. Austin Dobson, ed. D. C.
Heath & Co.
[5] _Hindle Wakes_, Stanley Houghton. J.W. Luce & Co., Boston;
Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., London.
[6] _York Plays_, p. 363. L. T. Smith, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
[7] _Ludus Coventriae_, p. 322. J. O. Halliwell, ed. Shakespeare
Society.
[8] _Plays_, pp. 71-72 Copyright, 1915, by Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.
[9] B. W. Huebsch. New York.
[10] _Julius Caesar_, Act III, Scene 3.
[11] _The London Merchant, or The History of George Barnwell_, Act I,
Scene 1. George Lillo. Sir A.W. Ward, ed. Belles-Lettres Series. D.
C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
[12] _Works_, R.W. Bond, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.
[13] _Selected Dramas of John Dryden. Conquest of Granada_. G. R.
Noyes, ed.
[14] Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.,
Boston and New York.
[15] _L'Annee Psychologique_, 1894, p. 120.
[16] _The Nigger_, Act I. Edward Sheldon. The Macmillan Co., New
York.
[17] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, p. 99.
[18] _Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready_, p. 130. B. Matthews, ed.
[19] _Fortune by Land and Sea._ T. Heywood and W. Rowley. W. B.
Clarke Co, Boston.
[20] _From Ibsen's Workshop_, p. 162. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.
[21] _Prose Dramas_, vol. 1, p. 377. _Idem_.
[22] _From Ibsen's Workshop_, p. 171. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.
[23] _Prose Dramas_, vol. i, p. 386. _Idem_.
[24] _The Ambassador._ T. Fisher Unwin, London.
[25] Samuel French, New York.
[26] _Mistress Beatrice Cope._ M. E. Le Clerc. D. Appleton & Co., New
York.
[27] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 4, 6.
[28] _Becket._ Tennyson. The Macmillan Co.
[29] _Becket._ Arranged by Sir Henry Irving. _Idem._
[30] _George Riddle's Readings._ Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.
[31] _The Origin of the English Drama_, vol. II, p. 48. T. Hawkins,
ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1773.
[32] _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act I, Scene 1.
[33] Belles-Lettres Series. K. L. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.,
Boston and New York.
[34] _Pre-Shakesperean Drama_, vol. 1, p. 300. J. M. Manly. Ginn &
Co., Boston.
[35] _Early Plays_, p. 72. C. G. Child. Riverside Literature Series,
No. 191. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.
[36] Samuel French, New York.
[37] Note that this is a literary detail effective for readers only.
At best the first row of spectators alone could identify the title of
the book.
[38] _Justice._ Copyright, 1910, by John Galsworthy. Chas. Scribner's
Sons, New York.
[39] _Die Frau im Fenster._ Theater in Versen. H. von Hofmannsthal.
S. Fischer, Berlin.
[40] The final scene of Act IV of _Nathan Hale_ shows effective use
of pantomime.
[41] Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.
[42] _The Great Divide_, Act I. The Macmillan Co., New York.
[43] Translated by Arthur Symons. Brentano, New York.
[44] For such skilful substitution of pantomime for words, see pp.
388-89, _Lady Windermere's Fan_.
[45] _Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist_, p. 15. Sir A.W. Pinero.
Chiswick Press, London. For the play see _Three Plays_, Henley and
Stevenson. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.
[46] Samuel French, New York.
[47] _The Duchesse of Malfi_, Act V, Scene 4. Belles-Lettres Series.
M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.
[48] _Othello_, Act II, Scene 1.
[49] _Othello_, Act III, Scene 3.
[50] _Drama League Series_. Hannah Lynch, tr. Doubleday, Page & Co.
[51] _Plays_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
[52] _Plays_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
[53] _Introduction to Browning_, pp. 85-86. H. Corson. D. C. Heath &
Co.
[54] _The Ring and the Book_. Robert Browning. Tauchnitz ed., vol.
IV. Leipzig.
[55] Act II, Scene 2. Samuel French, New York.
[56] _Plays_, vol. II, pp. 150-51. J. Tonson. London, 1730.
[57] _The Foundations of a National Drama_, p. 23. H. A. Jones.
George H. Doran Company, New York.
[58] _Concerning Humour in Comedy. A Letter. European Theories of the
Drama_, pp. 213-214. Ed. B. H. Clark. Stewart and Kidd Co.,
Cincinnati.
[59] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, p. 28.
[60] Belles-Lettres Series, pp. 271-273. A. Bates, ed. D.C. Heath &
Co., Boston.
[61] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. 1, _Lady Windermere's Fan_. J. W.
Luce & Co., Boston.
[62] _Idem_, vol. II. _The Importance of Being Earnest._
[63] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
[64] Walter H. Baker Co., Boston.
[65] _Dramatic Works_, vol. II, pp. 222-223. London, 1773.
[66] Geo. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. _Selected Dramas of John
Dryden, with The Rehearsal_, p. 399. G.R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Freeman &
Co.
[67] _Richard the Second_, Act IV. Scene 1.
[68] _Twelfth Night_, Act I, Scene 5.
[69] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. II. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
[70] _Dramatic Works of William Congreve_, vol. II. pp. 111-117. S.
Crowder, London, 1773.
[71] J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.
[72] _The Letters of Henrik Ibsen_, p. 269. Letter to Edmund Gosse,
January 15, 1874. Fox, Duffield & Co., New York.
CHAPTER IX
MAKING A SCENARIO
There is frequent and decided divergence of opinion among dramatists as
to the value of a scenario,--the outline of a play which the dramatist
purposes to write or has already written. Some dramatists very carefully
prepare a detailed outline before they settle down to writing a play.
Others, equally well-known on the stage assert: "I never think of
mapping out in detail what I intend to write. When I begin, I may know
only my central situation or little more than my main characters in
broadest outline. I simply write and rewrite until the perfected
manuscript lies before me." Another declares that although he has no
scenario, he does use some notes. Showing these notes,--an accumulation
of ideas as they have come to him from time to time, written anywhere on
a single sheet without apparent order or form,--he asks triumphantly
whether this can be called a scenario. Whatever the opinion of a
dramatist as to the usual value to him of a scenario, he can hardly deny
that there are times when it is very convenient to have a scenario of a
play not yet completed. Plays sometimes have a curious, unexpected way
of forcing themselves on the attention of a writer when his mind should
be engrossed with another play. Ideas wholly irrelevant to the play in
question keep surging into the dramatist's mind and drawing his
attention from the subject in which he wishes to be interested. Often he
can relieve his mind of this Banquo-like play, not by stopping to write
it out in full, but by putting a careful outline of it on paper and
storing this away until such time as he has opportunity to work out the
play from this scenario. Or it may be that a dramatist sees that plays
he has submitted to some manager or actor are not attractive, but that
some subject which as yet lies only half-formed in his mind finds, when
mentioned, a ready response. Here is the best opportunity for use of a
good scenario. Submit such to the actor or manager in question and even
if a contract does not follow, the promise, "I will produce your play if
it is as good as your scenario" is very likely to be made. Admitting
then, for the moment, that some dramatists believe they can get on
equally well without a scenario as a prerequisite for one of their
plays, what are the main characteristics of a good scenario--this form
of outline which some dramatists have found very useful in their work?
In the first place, the word "scenario" has been very carelessly used.
It is often applied to as brief a set of notes as the following,
intended by Ibsen merely to suggest to his correspondent in the broadest
possible way the play which he thinks might be made from the poem which
he has been discussing:
Have you not noticed that you have in the division of your poem
entitled, _A Norwegian Sculptor_, the subject for a five-act popular
play (Folkeskuespil)? Act 1. In the Mountains. The wood-carver. The
art-enthusiast from the capital discovers him and takes him away with
him. Act 2. In Christiania. The boy the hero of the day; great hopes;
sent to Rome. Act. 3. In Rome. Life there among the artists and the
Italian lower class. Act 4. Many years later. Return to Christiania;
forgotten; everything changed. Act 5. At home again in the mountain
parish; ruin. Write this with songs and dances and popular costumes
and irony and devilry.[1] ...
In the following from _Little Stories of New Plays_ we have a far better
summary than in the instance just cited, but surely even this is an
outline and not a dramatic scenario, for intentionally it does not
convey to a reader just that for which he would go to the theatre, the
emotional treatment of the scenes--here given only in the merest
outline.
GENERAL JOHN REGAN
BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM
_Characters_
_Dr. Lucius O'Grady._ _Constable Moriarity, R.I.C._
_Timothy Doyle._ _Tom Kerrigan, bandmaster._
_Major Ken._ _Rev. Father McCormack._
_Thaddeus Golligher._ _Lord Alfred Blakeney._
_Horace P. Billing._ _Mrs. de Courvy._
_C. Gregg, district inspector._ _Mrs. Gregg._
_Sergeant Colgan, R.I.C._ _Mary Ellen._
_Into Ballymoy, a sleepy little town in the west of Ireland, comes
Horace P. Billing, one gentle summer day, and spins in the market
place a tale of a certain General John Regan, who, he said, these many
years agone had been born and had sailed from Ballymoy to free the
oppressed people of Bolivia, and who was the great national hero of
that Republic from that time to the present day._
_Comes there to listen to his tale one Doctor Lucius O'Grady, whose
nose can no more keep out of other people's business than can his busy
brain refrain from all manner of schemings or his tongue from uttering
the grandest, gloriousest, whooping lies that the mouth of man e'er
uttered._
_To the American tourist he unreels anecdote and episode dealing with
the romantic life of the great General while he had been yet a boy in
Ballymoy. He sends Golligher, the editor of the Connaught Eagle, to
show the American gentleman the birthplace of the General, a broken
down cow-shed, in a nearby field._
_The American leaves Ballymoy wildly excited and fermenting under the
constant nagging of the doctor's busy self and never resting tongue,
and promises that he will be back in a few days, and that in the
meantime, should the citizens of Ballymoy have enough patriotism in
them to erect a statue of their great townie in the market place, he
would contribute a hundred pounds towards it._
_This sets the Doctor at work with even more (if possible) vim. He
gets Doyle to promise to contribute ten pounds, the parish priest_
_(though it nearly breaks the good father's heart) ten also, Major
Kent, the local landlord, another ten, and keeps the list
himself--explaining that it is not necessary for him to put himself
down for anything for that reason._
_It develops that Doyle has a nephew in Dublin who is a mortuary
sculptor, and has a statue of some deceased citizen on hand which was
never paid for. This statue Doyle's nephew agrees to sell to Ballymoy
for some eighty-odd pounds. The Doctor arranges to buy it, thus
figuring that there will be a balance of twenty pounds out of the
American's contribution to divide among themselves. This pleases
Doyle, Father McCormack, and Golligher_ (_who form the statue
committee_) _very much; but unfortunately, it develops also that Doyle
has neglected to get the money from the American for the statue before
he left._
_This does not stump the Doctor in the least, however. Among his plans
for the unveiling of the statue is the appearance of Mary Ellen, the
servant in Doyle's hotel, as a green fairy, and the appearance of the
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland to make a speech. He suggests that when the
Lord Lieutenant appears, they ask him for five hundred pounds for a
pier--as the town already has but five or six piers--and that the
money for the statue be taken out of that. The Major objects to this,
but the Doctor's ability to explain does not desert him, and the Major
is satisfied._
_The great day of the unveiling finally arrives. The statue from the
mortuary sculptor in Dublin is standing in the market place, with a
veil over it. A letter comes from the Lord Lieutenant to the effect
that he has never heard of General John Regan, can find no record of
him in any history of any country on the globe, and, in the person of
his aide de camp, Lord Al Blakeney, protests and accuses Ballymoy of
having put a hoax over on him and all that sort of bally rot, by
Jove._
_The Doctor rises to the occasion beautifully. The aide de camp is
made to make a speech as a representative of the Lord Lieutenant, and
Mary Ellen unveils the statue, disclosing a hideous caricature of a
grinning dead man in an ill-fitting business suit._
_At that moment the American appears, explains grandly that there is
no such man as General John Regan, and says that if the Doctor can
prove to him that the General is not a fiction he himself will give
the five hundred pounds for the pier--as, he says, "the show is worth
it!"_
_The Doctor merely asks the American to prove to the satisfaction of
the assembled townsfolk that the General does not exist_.
_Billing gives it up and writes out a check to the Doctor's order for
five hundred pounds, while the Doctor poses grandly before the cheers
of the assembled and admiring populace of Ballymoy._[2]
Here, too, is an outline which led to a very dramatic sermon. Obviously
it is a satisfactory summary of the story underlying the sermon, but
just what it would give a reader, if it were a perfect scenario, is
lacking--namely, suggestion of the emotional treatment of the scenes
which is to make them worth the manager's or actor's producing:
AT THE TOP OF THE TENEMENT
_The arrangement of the platform will suggest the bare condition of
the home in the first part of the sermon, and in the second part will
show the improved condition a year later._
PART I
_Dan Howard comes home discouraged. He cannot get work. Christmas is
approaching. His wife keeps his courage up and that of the family. The
Minister calls and is not received kindly by Dan Howard, who does not
believe in the church. He promises to get Dan work and thus proves
himself a true friend in need. Misfortune has come to the home. The
oldest boy is drinking and the next son has been arrested for theft.
Things looks very black. It is Christmas eve and the father compels
the children to go to bed. He tells them Santa Claus will not come
to-night. But they hang up their stockings by the fireplace._
PART II
_A year later. Things have changed. The home is better. All are happy
tonight. The father has had steady work and so they are to have a good
Christmas this year. The boys are doing well. The family all go to
church now and it has made a difference in them all. The children have
gone to bed with joy tonight. Dan Howard tells his wife what a help
she has been to him through thick and thin. While they stand talking
they hear the carol singers from the church, singing outside their
home. The Minister comes in and is made very welcome. While they
exchange greetings the Christmas Carol is sung and the beautiful
illuminated star shines out in the night._
The following may be full of dramatic suggestion for its writer, but if
we mean by scenario a document which, when handed to a manager or actor,
is to arouse his enthusiasm because it tells him interestingly just what
a proposed play will do, this is not a scenario at all.
THE ETERNAL TRIANGLE: A NIGHTMARE
[Diagram of stage]
_Dramatis Personae_
_Sylvia Macshane, the actress._
_Norman Pritchard, the manager._
_Laddie Benton, the poet._
_The Imp_, sentinel at Ventilator X-10, Hell.
SCENE: _Room in a well-furnished apartment, New York City. Large
round-topped window back right, matched by large semicircular mirror
over fireplace back left. Mirror space later serves as Ventilator
X-10._
SCENARIO
_I. Curtain rises on crimson sunset in room of apartment.
Actress and Manager in jealous love scene.
Enter the bone of contention--the Poet.
Quarrel scene--Poet crushed.
By accident Actress drinks Poet's suicide potion.
Poet strangles Manager, Actress smashes chair on Poet.
The lamp is knocked over.
Black darkness accompanied by shrieks._
_II. In red glow of semi-circular opening appear Imp and two mutes.
Humorous talk of their job, guarding this ventilator of Hell.
The Poet's face appears, followed by Manager's and Actress'.
Both Heaven and Hell have refused them admission.
Explanations by Imp--they are not truly dead.
Renewed quarrels--Actress shows she loves neither one.
She returns to earth.
They pursue her.
Imp is ordered to close ventilator.
Black darkness again._
_III. Moonlight in the apartment.
Actress, Poet, and Manager where they fell on the floor.
They arouse--each believes the others ghosts.
Explanations--light;--the men's quarrel renewed and dropped forever.
Poet and Manager plan to make a play of the nightmare.
Actress is wildly jealous of their new-found friendship.
She cajoles each--then quarrels ferociously with each.
They are proof against her and prepare to go.
She demands a part in the play, gets it, and stamps off to her room.
Poet and Manager depart cheerily planning._
Obviously _General John Regan_ is offered not as a scenario, but a
summary. All the other so-called "scenarios" are planned only to suggest
to the writer or somebody fully acquainted with the content of his mind
on the subject what, in broadest terms, may be done with the material.
They are all too broadly referential, too vague, to be of real use to a
manager or actor looking for a play to produce.
What, then, is the work a real scenario should do? It must show clearly
just what is the story, slight or complicated, which the play is to
present. It must make the reader understand who the people of the play
are, their relations to one another, and anything in their past or
present history which he must know if the play at the outset or in its
course is to produce upon him the effect desired by the writer. It must
tell him where the play takes place--that is, what the settings are, and
in such a way as to create atmosphere if anything more than a mere
suggestion of background is desirable. It must let the reader see into
how many acts the play will break up, and into what scenes if there be
more than one setting to an act. Above all, it must make perfectly clear
what is the nature of the play--comedy, tragedy, tragi-comedy, farce, or
melodrama, and whether it merely tells a story, is a character study, a
play of ideas, a problem play, or a fantasy. Proportioning and emphasis
as already explained in chapters V and VI will, if rightly understood,
bring out correctly in a scenario all these matters of form and purpose.
A good scenario begins with a list of the _dramatis personae_, that is, a
statement of the names and, broadly, the relations of the characters to
one another. If the ages are important, they may be given. Without a
list of _dramatis personae_ a reader must go far into the scenario before
he can decide who the people are and what are their relations to one
another. As the following scenario shows, he may easily guess wrong and
is sure to be uncertain:
SCENARIO. _As the curtain rises Nat is seated at the right of centre
table, planning an attack upon a fort of blocks with an army of wooden
soldiers. A drum lies on the floor beside him. Enter Benny, a bag over
his shoulder. They salute each other and throughout use frequent
military terms in their talk. Benny has just returned from the village
and he gives an account of his trip and his purchases. Mention is made
of the probable war with Spain. Benny then surprises Nat with a letter
from Harold, which proves to contain an announcement that war has been
declared and that Harold has enlisted. The two are proud and delighted
at the thought of their hero. They recall his former discontent on the
farm, the day of his departure to seek his fortune in the city, his
statement that he was "no soldier"--now so gloriously disproved.
Harold enters in the midst of their preparations for dinner. He is
gaunt and shabby and has a nervous hunted air. He receives their
plaudits sullenly. He explains that he is away on a week's furlough
and answers their questions concerning the regiment and his plans with
nervous impatience...._
In this next so-called scenario who is Professor Ward? What is his
relation to Phronie? What is her age? What is the age of Keith Sanford
and what are the relations of each of these to Professor Ward himself? A
good list of _dramatis personae_ would clear all this at once.
THE EYES OF THE BLIND
ACT I
_Professor Ward, roused at daybreak after a night at his desk, shows
intense disappointment and nervous fatigue._
_In brief scene with Phronie, he shows the essential part she plays in
his life as one on whom he can absolutely depend; but when he
expresses his disapproval of her admirer, Keith Sanford, she shows
clear signs of rebellious spirit._
_In rapid scene with Phronie and Keith, their spirit of youthful
romance is made clear; and Keith indicates his college ambition, his
predicament regarding his "cribbed" thesis, and his new attitude
therein, ending with his evident resolve to make a clean breast of the
matter...._
There follows a scenario which is somewhat clearer than the others
because it identifies the figures, but it certainly leaves their
relations rather confused.
_An old white-haired man, the Sire de Maletroit, is seated in the
chair to right of fireplace, in a listening attitude. The sound of a
heavy door banging is heard and a minute later a young man, sword in
hand, parts the curtains on left and stands blinking in the opening.
He enters and explains that he has accidentally gained entrance to the
house and is unable to re-open the door. His name is Denis de
Beaulieu. He seems amazed to have the old man say that he has been
waiting for him. Denis suggests that he must be going, at which the
old man bursts into a fit of laughter. Denis is insulted and offers to
hew the Maletroit's door to pieces. He is convinced that this is
folly; the place is full of armed men. The old man rises, goes to door
on right and calls upon his niece to leave her prayers and receive her
lover. She comes in attended by a priest and protests that this is not
the man. The uncle is incredulous and withdraws with a leer_.
Again a good list of _dramatis personae_ would be helpful.
Prefix to this the following:
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR
_Place: Chateau Landon._
_Time: Fourteenth century._
_Dramatis Personae_
_Blanche, orphan niece of Sire de Maletroit._
_A Priest, chaplain to Sire de Maletroit._
_The Sire de Maletroit._
_Denis de Beaulieu, a stranger._
With this prefixed we can read the scenario just quoted far more
comprehendingly.
Note how clearly the following two lists of _dramatis personae_ take us
to the scenario proper:
THE LEGACY
_The Persons_
_David Brice, a young attorney._
_Reene Brice, his uncle._
_Benjamin Doyle, his fiancee's father._
_Dr. Wangren, family physician._
_Mrs. Brice, the mother._
_"Ditto" Brice, the sister._
_Katherine Doyle, fiancee._
THE CAPTAIN: A MELODRAMA
_Dramatis Personae_
_Captain La Rue, a little sea captain._
_Bromley Barnes, former special investigator for the U.S. customs
service.
Patrick Clancy, his friend.
A burly Butler.
John Felspar, junior partner of the firm of Felspar & Felspar, wine
merchants.
Two Dinner Guests, members of the firm.
Carl Cozzens, the firm's Canadian representative._
It is easy, however, to let this list of characters go too far
descriptively. For instance, this next list tells much which might
better appear first in the body of the scenario. The danger here is one
already mentioned in this book, namely, that such careful characterizing
in the _dramatis personae_ or program is likely to make the
characterization of the scenario or play inadequate.[3]
AN ENCORE
_Adapted from the story by Margaret Deland_
IN TWO ACTS
_Time: About 1830 in June.
Place: Little town of Old Chester.
Between the first and second acts three weeks elapse._
_Dramatis Personae_
_Captain Price: Retired sea-captain, big, bluff, and hearty, with
white hair and big white mustachios, rather untidy as to dress. Age,
about 68._
_Cyrus Price: His son, weak and neat-looking, very thin and of sandy
complexion. Age, about 35._
_Mrs. North: Sprightly, pretty, white-haired little lady of about 65.
Always in black silk._
_Miss North: Her daughter, nervous and shy, but truthful with a mania
for taking care of her mother and no knowledge of how to wear her
clothes; about 40._
_Mrs. Gussie Price: A stout, colorless blond, a weeping, vividly
gowned lady, who rules her husband, Cyrus, through her tears. Age,
about 30._
_Flora: A colored maid_.
The danger is shown to the utmost in the following. The characterization
in the scenario to which this was prefixed was practically _nil_.
_Forsythe Savile: A young lawyer of about thirty, clever, and rather
versatile. While of great promise in his profession, he is not at all
pedantic, but has many interests. He is well-read, widely travelled,
fond of outdoor sports, and is very popular. Perhaps his most
prominent characteristic is his ready wit. He is rarely non-plussed,
and while quick and pointed in his remarks, is yet not ill-natured
with them. He has been Dennings' most intimate friend ever since they
were in college together, although their lives lie along very
divergent lines._
_Richard Dennings: A globe trotter, as a hunter, explorer, and
war-correspondent. He is clever and able, with a tendency to act on
impulse rather than after deliberation. He is the closest kind of
friend to Forsythe. He has been engaged to Frances Langdon, but the
engagement has been broken off. This last fact is not known to any
save the two themselves._
_Judge Savile: A widower, and Forsythe's father. He has been a very
successful man, and holds a high place in his profession. He is
devoted to books, and cannot understand his son's taste for
out-of-door life, and athletics in general. He philosophically accepts
the inevitable, however, and is very proud of Forsythe. The Judge does
not approve of the engagement of Frances Langdon to Dennings; he
cannot understand Dennings' uncertain methods of life. The Judge while
saying very little of his opinion foresees that matters are very far
from being finally settled, and is quietly awaiting developments._
_Margaret Savile: Forsythe's younger sister, and a feminine edition of
him. She is very pretty, bright, and attractive. She and Forsythe are
most intimate, more so than brother and sister usually are._
_Frances Langdon: An intimate friend of Margaret, and familiarly known
as "Frank." She is essentially feminine, attractive, witty and
talented. She is very nervous and high-strung--a strong character, but
susceptible to her feelings. She has known the Saviles since she was a
child and is considered exactly as a relative. She has broken her
engagement to Richard Dennings._
_A butler: The usual English type_.
That list tells so much about the characters that the scenario proper
could do little but repeat. The writer, troubled by his sense of
repetition, rested for his characterization on the slight chance that a
reader would remember every detail of the _dramatis personae_. All that a
reader needs to know at the outset of a scenario is who the characters
are, and, in the broadest way, their relations to one another.
A list of _dramatis personae_ should be followed with a statement of the
time and place if they are important, and of the settings for all the
acts. A detailed description of each new setting should precede its
scene or act.[4] In the scenarios already quoted notice how difficult it
is to place the characters as far as setting is concerned and how much
would be gained if a good description of the setting were added. Keep
the description of a setting to essentials, that is, furniture and
decorations necessary to give requisite atmosphere or required in the
action of the piece. As always in scenarios and acting editions use
"left" and "right" as "left" and "right" of the actor, not of the
audience.
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR (_See p. 428_)
SCENE: _A large room in the house of the Sire de Maletroit; large
fireplace at centre back; curtained door on left leads to stairway;
curtained door right leads to chapel. The room is well illuminated by
candles, reflecting the polish of stone walls. It is scantily
furnished._
THE LEGACY (_See p. 464_)
THE SCENE: _The Brice living-room comfortably furnished in walnut. A
piano centre L., a round table, rear R. Four entrances: upper L., rear
centre, upper right, right centre. Curtained windows rear R. & L._
As has already been pointed out earlier in this book, it is wholly
unwise to call, in a description of a setting, for details not really
necessary. Here is the setting for the _dramatis personae_ quoted on p.
431. It is over-elaborate because the action of the proposed play
involves use of hardly any of the properties called for.
SCENE: _Forsythe Savile's "den." It is an odd room, a curious mixture
of library, smoking-room, and museum. On the right is a large
fireplace, over which are hung an elk's head, a couple of rifles,
queer-looking Eastern weapons, and other sporting trophies and
evidences of travel. The room is panelled in dark oak; low bookcases
line the walls, and on top of the cases are small bronzes,
photographs, strange bits of bric-a-brac, and a medley of
things,--such truck as a man with cultivated tastes would insist on
accumulating. There are numerous pictures, a rather heterogeneous lot;
valuable engravings,--portraits of famous lights of the bench and the
bar, to judge by their wigs,--a few oils of the Meissonier type; and
others which are obviously relics of college, with medals slung across
them by brightly coloured ribbons. The furniture of the room is of
heavy oak, upholstered in dull crimson leather. Capacious club
armchairs are in convenient places, near lamps and books. Around the
hearth is a high English fender, and before it is a great Davenport
sofa. On the left, is a broad-topped table-desk, covered with papers
and books, and bearing a squat bronze lamp with a crimson shade. At
one end of the Davenport is a low cabinet, on which are glasses and
decanters. There is a wide doorway at the back of the stage which
gives the only entrance and is hung with heavy crimson portieres. The
centre of the floor is filled by a huge polar bear-skin rug, with
massive head and the odd spaces are covered by smaller fur rugs. The
stage is dark, save for the uncertain, wavering light cast by the wood
fire._
_Time: The present, and about half-past eight on a winter evening._
A sketch of the desired arrangement of the stage should be prefixed to
the description of the setting. This may be as simple as comports with
clear picturing of the exact conditions required. Such drawings not only
help to clearness, they sometimes bring out difficulties in a proposed
setting not at once evident in a description. Perhaps the staging called
for in what immediately follows may not seem over-elaborate in the
reading. A diagram at once shows its awkwardness, expensiveness, and
undesirability.
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR
_The scene represents a mediaeval outer hall of a powerful nobleman of
Paris with the approach thereto, the streets adjacent and several
other buildings thereon, at 11.30 P.M., the streets in semi-darkness.
This hall runs clear down the stage to within the width of a narrow
street of the footlights. This street is supposed to run clear
across the stage. The approach to the hall from without is through two
doors left which open into a gloomy passageway large enough to contain
a dozen soldiers. The door to the left of these two entrances opens
inward from the street running up left at right angles to the street
by the footlights, leaving room enough at the extreme left for several
doorways which should be set into the houses so as to form a place
sufficient to hide a man who was being searched for on the sidewalk.
At the extreme rear of the street going up the stage is stone
pavement. The walls of the palace are of thick stones and the
furnishings of the hall are plain and gloomy consisting of chairs and
a table, a tall clock with a loud tick, curtains at the doors; and
over the fireplace, which is huge, hang a shield and helmet, the
former emblazoned with the device of the family, the latter beplumed,
while under them are two long swords, crossed, with their points
hidden behind the shield, these blades both in their scabbards. The
floors are all of stone._
_At the right of the fireplace are two wide doors which when opened
give a full view of the chapel beyond, with the attar to the rear in
the centre. The chapel need show no more than a private altar, the
accompanying candles, drapery, and steps, lighted with a single
hanging lamp of the period that swings before the first step of the
altar._
_The chairs and table in the hall are of mission style. The doors
opening on the street from all of the establishments are very wide,
embossed in iron bands and supplied with knockers, heavy bolts and
bars on the inside wherever the inside is exposed. There is a large
fire in the fireplace. A lamp of the period is swung with heavy chains
over the table._
The diagram on the next page shows how this would look.
[Illustration]
It is in many ways a bad setting. Waiving all question whether any
attempt to suggest the fourth wall of a room, as in _The Passing of the
Third Floor Back_ by the fireplace at centre front of stage is wise,
surely there can be no doubt that to ask an audience to imagine a street
between them and the room into which they are looking, particularly when
no necessary action takes place in that street, is undesirable.
Therefore the suggested "street" across the front of the stage may go.
Where is the value of the street at the side? Little, if any, action
in it will be seen except by the very small part of the audience
directly in line with it. For these the settings below the doors at
stage left must be decidedly pushed back or they will lose important
action by the fireplace. It is questionable, too, whether the fireplace
should not be moved down stage to one side or the other, so important is
the facial expression of the Sire de Maletroit as he sits by it. For
effective action, it is better, also, to separate fireplace and chapel
entrance. It is both easy and for acting purposes better, to stage this
proposed play with a setting as simple as this:
[Illustration: _Gothic stone interior: Doors, centre leading to Chapel
or Oratory; lower right and up left. All doors with old tapestry
curtains. Deep mullioned window up right with landscape backing. Large
Gothic fireplace, with hooded chimney, left. Corridor backings for all
doors. Large armchair left centre in front of fireplace; large oak table
right centre, with chairs on either side; other furniture of period to
dress stage. Altar and furnishings for Chapel._]
Nowadays descriptions of settings are noticeably free from the mystic
R.U.E., L. 2 E., D.L.C., etc., which characterized stage directions of
the early Victorian period. When wings and flats, as in some wood-scenes
today, were used for indoor as well as outdoor scenes--that is, before
the coming of the box-set--the stage was divided in this way:
[Illustration]
Now that the box-set has replaced the older fashion and new devices are
steadily improving on the old wood-wings, it is enough to indicate
clearly in the diagram and in the description what doors, windows,
fireplaces, and properties are necessary, and exactly where, if their
positions are essential in the action. If not, they may be placed to
suit the sense of proportion of the designer of the scenery and the
sense of fitness of the producer. In any case, rarely today does an
author need to use all or many of these stage divisions of an older day.
The first of the following diagrams shows how simply an interior set
which makes no special demands may be indicated.
THE DANCING GIRL. ACT I[5]
_Diana Valrose's boudoir at Richmond. A very elegantly furnished room,
with light, pretty furniture. Discover Drusilla in handsome morning
dress arranging flowers in large china bowl. Enter footman, announcing
Mr. Christison. Enter John. Exit Footman._
[Illustration]
It is often desirable to vary the usual shape given a room on the
stage--exactly rectangular or nearly square. The next diagram shows a
more complicated setting, of unusual shape.
THE WALLS OF JERICHO. ACT I[6]
_An ante-room in Marquis of Steventon's house during a ball. Miss
Wyatt, a vivacious young American, has cake-walked with Twelvetrees
all the way from the ball-room._
_Music under stage._
[Illustration]
Act II of _Young America_ calls for a setting in which the placing of
heavy properties is important.
YOUNG AMERICA. ACT II[7]
SCENE. _The Juvenile Court, 10_ A.M._--Two days later._
_Two entrances, R. U. door leading to Judge's chamber. L.2 door
leading to corridor._
_Right--Judge's bench. It extends up and down stage. Below it Clerk's
bench upon which are two card catalogue filing cases for court records
for children. At L. of Judge's bench small docket for prisoner. At L.
of docket, witness stand. It is an 18-inch platform with chair on it.
The docket and witness stand face front._
_Left--three benches for spectators and witnesses. They face front and
are enclosed within a picket railing. Gate with spring lock, near left
end of front railing_.
[Illustration]
How the setting for an outdoor scene may be indicated the diagram for
Act I of _The Dancing Girl_ shows.
THE DANCING GIRL. ACT I[8]
_I. Call.
John Christison.
Faith Ives.
David Ives.
Drusilla Ives._
SCENE. _The Island of Saint Endellion, off the Cornish Coast. At the
back is a line of low rocks, and beyond, the sea. A pathway leads
through the rocks down to the sea. On the right side of the stage is
the Quakers' meeting-house, a plain square granite building, showing a
door and two windows. The meeting-house is built on a low insular rock
that rises some three or four feet above the stage; it is approached
by pathways, leading up from the stage. On the left side of the stage,
down towards the audience, is David Ives's house; another plain
granite building, with a door down stage, and above the door, a
window. The house is built into a cliff that rises above it. Beyond
the house is a pathway that leads up the cliff and disappears amongst
the rocks on the left side towards the centre of the stage; a little
to the right is a piece of rock rising about two feet from the stage._
_Time, An Autumn evening._
[Illustration]
As the chief purpose of the writer of a scenario is immediately to grip
the interest of the reader, this dramatic outline must obviously provide
any historical background necessary to sympathetic understanding of the
story. In other words, a scenario must very briefly summarize the
preliminary exposition about which so much has already been said in the
body of this book.[9] The opening of the scenario, already quoted in
part on p. 428, may be interesting, but it is also puzzling, for a
reader is not told enough in regard to the past of the figures involved
to know how to receive what information is given. Much depends on
whether Denis de Beaulieu is lying or not. Make the reader somehow
understand that Denis and Blanche have never met before and that
although the uncle believes Denis is her lover, he is completely in the
wrong. Then comedy immediately emerges, interest increases.
Here is a scenario which remained vague and confusing, till just before
the final curtain, because the writer thought surprise more valuable
than suspense. Consequently he held back the one bit of information
which gives significance and comic value to the conduct of Mr. and Mrs.
Brede.
[Diagram of setting]
SCENE. _The piazza of a mountain boarding-house. R, practicable door.
L, practicable window. C, practicable step. On the piazza are a number
of chairs. The bit of lawn in front is not too well kept._
_Characters_
_Mr. Jones \ ordinary, well-educated people.
Mrs. Jones /
Major Halkit, retired business man, interested in stock companies.
Mrs. Halkit, his wife, an old gossip, prim and censorious.
Mr. Brede \ young, handsome, "nice."
Mrs. Brede /
Jacobus, Yankee boarding-house keeper_.
_Brede and Jones come from the house and discuss the view from the
piazza. Brede is enthusiastic and compares it with that from the
Matterhorn. Mrs. Brede and Mrs. Jones come from the house in time to
hear "Matterhorn" and Mrs. Brede expresses surprise that her husband
has climbed it. Mr. Brede, confused, says it was five years ago, and
Mrs. Brede gently chides him for doing such a thing during the first
year of their marriage. Mr. Jones and Mrs. Brede talk aside while Mr.
Brede explains to Mrs. Jones that he had left his wife in New York
some months after their marriage for a hasty trip to Europe and had
climbed the Matterhorn then._
_Mr. and Mrs. Brede go down the side steps and off at R.C. for a
stroll. Mr. and Mrs. Jones discuss them, and decide that they are very
"nice" people. During their talk it develops that while Mr. Brede had
been telling Mr. Jones that Mrs. Brede had been in this country when
he climbed the Matterhorn, Mrs. Brede had informed Mrs. Jones that her
husband had left her at Geneva and afterwards taken her to Basle,
where their first child was born._
_At this point Mrs. Halkit comes from the house. She censures Mrs.
Brede for not knowing how to care for her husband and children and it
comes out that Mrs. Brede has told Mrs. Halkit that they have two
children who have been left with her aunt, whereas Mr. Brede has told
Mr. Jones that they have three children at present under the care of
his mother-in-law._
_Enter Major Halkit from the house. He criticises Mr. Brede, who
purports to be looking for a business opening, for his failure to take
a fine chance the Major has pointed out to him._
_The party come to the conclusion that there is something queer about
the couple and are about to call Jacobus when he appears, coming from
the left. Before any of the boarders have a chance to speak, Jacobus
asks some question about the numbering of streets in New York and the
fact is brought out that Mr. Brede told Mrs. Jacobus, when he was
engaging the room, that he lived at number thirty-four of his street,
and that the day before Mrs. Brede had informed Mrs. Jacobus that
their number was thirty-five...._
A reader struggling through the paragraphs of this scenario finds very
little that is dramatic because the dramatic values the writer feels in
his sentences cannot be the reader's till he learns that Mr. and Mrs.
Brede are a newly married couple who wish to conceal the fact. Re-read
the quotation with that in mind and all confusion disappears.
On the other hand, it is not always easy to convey needed preliminary
exposition interestingly. When much is needed, there is always danger
that the opening of the scenario will be talky and referential rather
than definite and full of dramatic action. The following is by no means
as bad an example as might be found of a slow opening caused by need for
much historical exposition, but it certainly lacks gripping action:
SCENARIO OF CONISTON
_When the curtain is raised, Millicent Skinner is working about; a
second later Chester Perkins comes slinking in, looking back as though
pursued by the Evil One, and close on his heels, another local
politician, Mr. Dodd, of the Brampton prudential school committee,
enters with the same stealthy and harassed air. Millicent twits them
with having run away from Bijah Bixby who is at Jonah Winch's store.
They deny that they are afraid of Bije or any one. It is brought out
in a sentence or two that Jethro Bass, Cynthia and Ephraim Prescott
are away on their Washington trip, and that Bijah, knowing of Jethro's
absence, is not likely to come here, which is why the two men have
chosen the yard for a refuge; as they have been planning petty treason
against the political control of the town by Jethro Bass. Millicent
laughs at them and goes in the house. Mr. Dodd and Chester recover
their swagger and begin to discuss Bijah and his sneaking ways. Bob
Worthington enters, goes to the porch and calls Millicent. She
responds from a nearby window. He enquires when she expects Cynthia to
return. She tells him they will be here today. Bob announces that he
will return, a little later, and goes out. Chester and Dodd discuss
Bob's attention to Cynthia and how furious the elder Worthington will
be if his son marries the ward of Jethro Bass. Then they drift back to
their first topic and are soon absorbed in their wordy revolt against
Jethro Bass and Bijah._
_Chester._ This town's tired of puttin' up with a king!
(_Behind them Bijah enters silently and stands at their elbows
unperceived._)
_Bijah._ Leetle early for campaignin', Chester, leetle early.
(_The other two stand aghast._)
_The scene which follows between the three men gives their characters,
the Coniston political atmosphere, Jethro's position as boss of the
State and his character, the cumulating antagonism between Jethro
Bass and Isaac Worthington, the relation between Jethro and Cynthia,
his ward. Bijah confides to the two that a new era is dawning; that
"the railroads, represented by Worthington, Sr., are tired of paying
tribute" to Jethro and are about to turn and exterminate him. Bixby
says that Jethro's power is gone, that a greater than he has risen,
that Isaac Worthington's campaign, brought forth under cover of a
great reform movement, will sweep the State in the next few months and
leave Jethro politically dead. Bijah brings out a copy of the last
issue of the Newcastle Guardian (leading newspaper of the State), and
reads them "The scathing arraignment of Jethro Bass ... showing how he
had debauched his own town of Coniston; how, enlarging on the same
methods, he had gradually extended his grip over the county and
finally over the State; how he had bought and sold men for his own
power and profit, deceived those who had trusted him, corrupted
governors and legislators ... how he had trafficked ruthlessly in the
enterprises of the people." Bijah tells them that the whole State is
in a stir over this article, that it is the open declaration of war
against Jethro._
_Here Alva Hopkins and his daughter Cassandra enter. Hopkins has read
the article and come post-haste to see Jethro. He and Bijah discuss
the situation and Bijah tells them that the postmastership which
Jethro has promised to Ephraim Prescott (and which it is surmised they
have gone to Washington to secure) is to go to Dave Wheelock; that
that will be the first tangible sign to the public of the fall of
Jethro Bass...._
The cardinal principle in scenario writing, as in the play itself, is
that not talk but action is basal. In a scenario, however, action is
described rather than represented. As we have just seen, the lengthy
historical account of what lies behind the opening scene is hard to
convey without talkiness. Many would-be dramatists dodge this
difficulty, indeed the whole task of making clear the emotional
significance of the action which the play involves, by writing scenarios
which are little more than schedules of the entrances and exits of their
characters. There was something of this in the "Coniston" scenario. The
difficulty is still more marked in the following:
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR
SCENE: _The Maletroit Entrance-Hall_
[Diagram of Setting]
_Characters_
_A Priest.
The Sire de Maletroit.
Blanche de Maletroit, his niece.
Denis de Beaulieu.
Retainer._
_Discovered, Retainer finishing work on the door, C. Enter Priest,
L.U.E. Slight exposition suggesting that a trap is being set for a
girl's gallant. Exit Priest. Enter R.U.E. the Sire. Commends the
workman's results, increasing the suspense regarding purpose. Rope
outside window R, examined without explanation. Retainer, questioned
as to news in the town, remarks the presence of a dare-devil young
French soldier under safe-conduct who is likely to get into trouble
with the troops quartered in town, unless he keeps a civil tongue in
his head. Retainer dismissed R, with suggestion that he understands
what is expected of him._
_The Sire calls Priest, questions him regarding Blanche, furthering
the exposition._
_Blanche enters, dressed as bride, and bursts forth in troubled
questions as to the meaning of her uncle's orders regarding her
appearance at this hour in such costume. The cause is hinted at as an
intrigue, and Blanche is ordered to retire and wait in the chapel._
_The Sire indicates that the hour is approaching for the "arrival" and
the lights are extinguished._
As has been pointed out already,[10] entrances and exits are of the
slightest possible consequence except when they count in
characterization or dramatic action. It is what takes place for the
characters between an entrance and exit which a scenario must bring out
as briefly yet clearly as possible.
This fault of over-emphasizing entrances and exits is closely related to
the "referential" treatment of possible dramatic material. The method
for this is: "Mr. and Mrs. Brown enter and talk passionately about their
future." "Anne and Sarah now have a tempestuous scene in which Anne
discloses to the full her agony." Such scenario writing is all too easy,
for the value of the scenario, like the value of the play, will depend
upon the ability of the author to make the first scene passionate and
the second tempestuous and agonizing. A scenario which constantly states
that at a given point something of interest will be done or a very
powerful scene dealing with the emotions of one or more of the
characters will be written is both useless and exasperating. Nobody
wants to buy such a dramatic "pig in a poke." Compare a referential
scenario, the first of the three which follow, with the other two. They
may, as parts of scenarios, have faults, but at least they move, not by
references to "sarcasm, a horror that transfixes, violent threats,"
etc., but by definitely roused emotional interest.
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR
[Diagram of Setting]
SCENE. _A baronial apartment in heavy polished stone. At the back a
large doorway hung with rich tapestry leads to a small chapel. At the
right are two doors also with tapestry. In the left back corner is a
huge fireplace carved with the arms of the Maletroits. At the left is
a large open window looking over the parapets of the castle. A heavy
table and a chair or two are all the furnishings_.
_Place: Chateau Landon.
Time: Fourteenth Century._
_Dramatis Personae_
_Blanche, orphan niece of Sire de Maletroit.
A Priest, chaplain to Sire de Maletroit.
Sire de Maletroit.
Denis de Beaulieu, a stranger._
_As the curtain rises Blanche is seen in the chapel kneeling as the
priest is finishing the chanting of the vesper service. At the close
she rises and walks toward the window, glancing hastily about to see
that no one is in the room. As soon as the priest has left she draws
from her breast a letter which she starts to read. She is soon
interrupted by the entrance of her uncle the Sire de Maletroit, whose
keen glance detects her hasty crumpling of the note which she has not
had time to conceal. He greets her jovially and starts to walk hand in
hand with her. Forcing open her hand, he finds the note, which he
reads in a bitterly sarcastic tone, while Blanche stands transfixed
with horror. It is a note asking her to leave the house door open at
midnight so that the writer may enter and exchange words with her on
the stairs. With cold sarcasm, ill concealing his rage, the Sire
forces from her the story that a young captain has met her in church
and given her the note. She denies that she knows his name, and the
most violent threats will not induce her to tell it. She is then sent
to her room to dress in sackcloth of repentance and told to prepare to
spend the night in the chapel._
THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR
_Persons represented_
_The Sire de Maletroit.
Blanche de Maletroit, his niece.
Denis de Beaulieu, a young soldier.
A Priest._
SCENE. _Large apartment of stone. On each of the three sides of the
room, three doors curtained with tapestry. On left, beside the door a
window. Stone chimney-piece, carved with arms of the Maletroits.
Furniture, mainly consisting of table, and heavy chair beside
chimney._
_Place: Chateau Landon, France.
Time: September, 1429._
_Curtain rises showing an old gentleman in a fur tipped coat seated in
the heavy chair. The old man is mumbling to himself a sort of strange
murmur, smiling and nodding, as he sips a cup of wine. The room is
silent save for the muttering of the old man._
_Suddenly, from the direction of the arras covering the door to left,
a muffled sound begins to obtrude itself. This sound, at first vague,
then waxing more and more distinct, resolves itself into steps
cautiously mounting a flight of stairs. The steps, gradually less
vague, finally firm and assertive, reach the tapestried doorway. The
click of metal, probably that of a sword, accompanying the steps,
echoes in the hush of the room._
_The arras parts, and a young man blinking from dark into sudden
light, stumbles into the room. (As the tapestry closes behind the
youth, a dark passageway and shadowy flight of stairs beyond are
visible.)_
_Another pause ensues, during which the young man and the old man
continue to gaze at one another._
_"Pray step in," begins the old man; "I have been expecting you all
the evening."_
_The youth shivers slightly, hesitating for speech. Finally he manages
to answer...._
MISTRESS BEATRICE COPE
ACT III. SCENE 1
_Next day, White Oaks. Late twilight. Night falls during early part of
scene. Later, moonlight. The great dining hall. It opens at the back
on a terrace with a large door at centre. Dame Pettigrew, Joyce and
Eliza discovered in a flutter over the news of the war. Scotch raids
are threatened from over the border. There are terrible tales of the
lootings by the King's soldiers of places suspected of Jacobitry. Dame
Pettigrew, as she hears now this story, now that, is first Whig and
then Jacobite, until she bewilders herself and the maids. They play on
one another's nerves until they are in sore fright. Pettigrew begins
to collect her goods against leaving on the morrow, regretting that
she has sent for Beatrice to stay with her, who is momentarily
expected. At height of nervous strain, when all windows have been
closed, all lights but the fire are out, and the women sit cowering
and silent, the mournful shrilling of bagpipes and the heavy tread of
feet coming nearer and nearer are heard. Joyce gasps about ghosts.
Chilled with terror, no one dares go to the window. The procession
reaches the end of the lane and passes. Sudden sharp rapping at door.
Frightened parley with spirits, as maids think. Beatrice forces them
to open, and appears. The pipes are the funeral train of a Jacobite
killed on the neighboring border and now on the way to Goodrest for a
final mass. Beatrice is excited and anxious but brings order out of
chaos in the room. Turns up lights, gets rid of Dame Pettigrew, and
one maid, and sends other maid for supper. Bids Joyce, should Bill
Lampeter appear, send him to her at once. She has a message for Crowe
Hall. When Joyce has departed wonderingly, it appears that all day
Beatrice has been trying to warn Cope at Goodrest that they were
watched the day before, but has been unable till as she rode over with
Jessie she met Bill Lampeter on the road. Dropping behind, she wrote
hastily on her tablets a warning, and dropping them into Bill's hands
made him fly to Goodrest, he to report his success at once. A knock at
the big door softly. Raymond's voice. When she opens to him, a
passionate scene follows. She is at first full of affection, mingled
with dread of what he may know. He is fighting suspicion, passion for
her, and inability to believe her guilty. Seeking her at Crowe Hall,
he has followed her thither. At first she is too sincere to play with
him. He is too anxious to be able to diplomatize. He shows his
fears--that she is intriguing with another, with the Pretender. She is
maddeningly incomprehensible--swears she knows no Pretender, but will
not say yes or no as to meeting any one in the wood. In his anger and
his desire to force the truth from her, by making her feel the
uselessness of protecting the Pretender, he lets drop more than he
realizes of plans to catch him and for the campaign. Seeing that, had
her message not gone, her brother would have been trapped, Beatrice
works to delay Raymond. She is first coldly repellent, then alluring,
then silent, then apparently almost on the point of revelation. At
last in despair he breaks away into the night, vowing vengeance on the
destroyer of his happiness and cursing her for a fickle, ambitious
thing, unworthy a good man's love. She stands motionless by the table,
then hurries to the wide open door through which the moonlight streams
in from the garden, calls again and again softly, staggers back, and
falls sobbing on the great settle. Van Brugh appears at the open
doors, closes them softly and speaks. He is leaving the Hunters for
good, for the final Jacobite blows are to be struck. Seeing Raymond
ahead of him, he hid in the garden till Raymond went. He calls on "The
Daughter of Charles Cope" to tell him for the good of the cause what
she knows of Raymond's plans. She denies that she knows them fully,
but cannot deny that she knows something of them. He shows that
everything depends for the Jacobites on knowing the movements of the
local forces for the next few days. He uses every appeal he can, her
brother among others. To this she only answers that she has warned and
saved him. All his appeals are in vain. "Raymond is my husband in the
sight of God. His secrets should be my secrets, but my brother I
cannot help to kill. To save him I must deceive the man I love best in
all the world; so be it. So much I must do, more I will not."
Sandiland, the fanatic breaking out in him, curses her as a renegade
and unworthy her name and race. He goes. As she stands murmuring:
"Unworthy love, unworthy my father's name!" suddenly her face softens.
She drops to the settle and prays for a moment. Quietly she rises,
saying, "Why count the cost if Charles' life be saved." The door
opens and Joyce enters in great excitement to say, "Bill has come, but
in bad plight." She fetches the boy, his clothes torn, his hands
bleeding where ropes have cut the wrists. He has been taken shortly
after leaving Beatrice and searched. He snatched the tablets from a
captor's hand and licked off the message before it was read. He was
then trussed up behind a soldier on horseback, and started for the
"Maid in the Valley" Tavern, the rendezvous from which the journey to
Goodrest was to begin. By daring and ingenuity he slipped away at the
inn. "Then my brother knows nothing." "No, and they'll be starting by
now from the Maid in the Valley. They were waiting for the moon to be
covered." "Where's Philly, my mare?" "In the paddock, miss." "What do
you mean?" cries Joyce. "I am going to Goodrest." "Alone? To-night,
with these rake-hell soldiers abroad?" Beatrice's only answer is to
find her whip and pass quickly out into the night. Joyce sinks down
sobbing in window seat. Bill is in the doorway, wild with excitement.
"Now, ride, ride, Miss Beatrice. Ride, like Hell!"_
_Quick Curtain_
If it is clear that illustrative action is as essential in a scenario as
in a play, it is as true for one form as the other that right
proportioning and emphasis must make clear the purpose of the author in
writing the scenario and must take a reader clearly to its conclusion.
Read any one of the following three scenarios and decide whether you are
clear as to the purpose of the author. What did he think was
attractively dramatic in his material? What is the central interest of
his proposed play? Just what is the suspense created near the beginning
of the play and developed throughout from sub-climaxes to a final
climax? As has been carefully explained, plays must do all this.
Therefore their scenarios must also.
THE FISHING OF SUZANNE
SCENARIO. _Curtain rises discovering Madame knitting in chair, upper
right, Helene embroidering in window-seat, Suzanne on sofa, trying to
sew. Suzanne gets into trouble and Helene helps her. Then grandmother
offers to tell her a story. Suzanne says that her stories are so sad,
always about her dead parents. Helene represses her. Enter
grandfather, the Colonel, rear. Suzanne starts to show him her sewing
and is repulsed. Colonel denounces the Dreyfus situation; Madame
trying to interfere when he begins on the American attitude, finally
gets Helene and Suzanne from room. Then Colonel learns that George
Williams, an American, loves Helene. He is overcome. Enter George
rear. Embarrassing situation; finally George gets up courage and asks
for Helene's hand, is refused, but goes away undaunted. Enter Helene,
side. Colonel says, "I will have no friend of traitors place his foot
in my house." Scene. Exit Helene sobbing angrily. Colonel disturbed,
but when wife starts after her, forbids her going. Exit the Colonel.
Madame again starts toward door. Suzanne and Marie enter. Madame has
Suzanne play with fishing rod; dismisses Marie from room. Suzanne
hears Helene's sobs. Asks if she is sick. Says she will comfort her.
Madame feels guilty and leaves. Suzanne persuades Helene to come out
and watch her fish. Catches some imaginary ones. Discovers George. He
sends up notes like fish. Later Helene furnishes bait. Then she fishes
him up. Suzanne is dismissed with candy, and he persuades Helene to
elope. Suzanne comes and says the cab is there. Steps heard. George
goes down rope. Marie tells of the cab. Helene rushes into packing.
Leaves note for mother with Suzanne, who wins a promise for a speedy
return from her. Exit Helene rear. Marie and Suzanne wave from window.
Talk. Soon Colonel and Madame enter. See disorderly room. Suzanne
gives them the note. Madame reads it and breaks news to her husband.
Defends Helene; reminds Colonel of their parents' political
differences. Suzanne tells how Helene thought they did not care for
her in her sorrow. Both in tears. Colonel in desperation starts to
send for them by Marie. Enter George and Helene; Helene unable to
leave without seeing them. Colonel says he may have been too hasty.
Then Suzanne discovers George's Legion of Honor badge. He and Colonel
shake on the old friendship of the Republics._
_Curtain_
AN ENCORE
_Adapted from a Story by Margaret Deland_
_Time: About 1830, in June.
Place: Little town of Old Chester.
Between the first and second act three weeks elapse._
_Dramatis Personae_
_Captain Price: Retired sea-captain, big, bluff, and hearty, with
white hair and big white mustachios, rather untidy as to dress. Age,
about 68._
_Cyrus Price: His son, weak and neat-looking, very thin and of sandy
complexion. Age, about 35._
_Mrs. North: Sprightly, pretty, white-haired little lady of about 65.
Always in black silk._
_Miss North: Her daughter, nervous and shy, but truthful with a mania
for taking care of her mother and no knowledge of how to wear her
clothes; about 40._
_Mrs. Gussie Price: A stout, colorless blond, a weeping, vividly
gowned lady, who rules her husband, Cyrus, through her tears. Age,
about 30._
_Flora: A colored maid._
_Stage setting: A drawing-room with a door on either side of the back,
leading into the long front hall. A window at the right, looking into
the street. Between the window and the door, a stuffed armchair, a
hair-cloth sofa. Between the doors, under a mantel-shelf, a Franklin
stove, on either side of which, but a little down stage, are two
rockers just alike. To the left and back, grand piano. To the left,
front, another big chair. Hassocks; and a knit shawl on almost every
chair. The only ornament on the shelf is a stuffed bird in a glass
case._
ACT I
_Miss North is discovered in a very much starched gown, big apron,
dusting-cap, and gloves; arranging the chairs more evenly and dusting.
Expression of heavy responsibility in her face and manner._
_Flora announces Mrs. Price, who enters--right door--at once. Though
Mary explains she is busy, Mrs. Price stays. Sits on the sofa. Mary in
rocking-chair to left of stove. Dialogue in which Mary explains she is
determined to let her mother end life happily in her native town and
she expects her to arrive any moment. Mrs. Price offers assistance
in fixing up the house and begins to gossip about the fact that her
father-in-law, the Captain, who lives in the Price house just across
the street, tried to elope with Mrs. North when she was eighteen. Mary
becomes very indignant, but sees her mother through the window and
dismisses Mrs. Price politely but not sweetly. Exit Mrs. Price by the
right door, Mary by the left. Enter Mrs. North by the right and Mary
is seen hurrying by the right door with a small wooden chair in her
hand._
_Mrs. North begins to look about the room while she takes off her
calash and leaves it on the piano, her shawl and puts it on the shelf,
her gloves and leaves them on a chair. Mary enters, right, with the
chair, during this business and remonstrates with her mother for
getting out of the chaise without the aid of the chair. As Mrs. North
drops her things Mary picks them up. Mrs. North sees the Price house
through the window and mentions, cheerily, that the Captain used to be
her beau. Mary is shocked. Tries to have her mother put on one of the
little shawls and goes to make her some beef-tea. Hangs her things on
the hat-tree in hall beyond left door as she goes out._
_Mrs. North discovers the Captain going down street and calls him in.
Enters right door with his pipe. Both sit in the rockers before the
stove and are deep in reminiscences when Mary enters left door. The
Captain is requested to put up his pipe, not to talk quite so loud,
and not to stay long because of Mrs. North's delicacy. When Mary
offers to make him some beef-tea, too, so her mother can take hers, he
leaves precipitately, very much cowed._
_While Mary is trying to soothe Mrs. North after the undue excitement,
Flora announces Cyrus Price who has come in search of his father--at
Gussie's tearful instigation. Mary and Cyrus hold an anxious aside,
while Mrs. North expresses her pleasure at seeing the Captain again.
Curtain falls on Mrs. North trying to pick out some of the old tunes
on the piano, and Cyrus and Mary bidding each other a stiff
"Good-morning."_
ACT II
_The Captain and Mrs. North discovered, the Captain with his harmonica
trying to teach Mrs. North the old airs. Enter Mary at right door,
from outdoors. Consternation ensues and in a few moments the Captain
leaves guiltily. Then Mary explains that she has been over to the
Prices and requested Cyrus to tell the Captain he must keep away, for
they are both too old to be married. Mrs. North exits left, in
despair. Flora announces Mr. and Mrs. Price: a conference of war is
held during which it is decided that Cyrus must consult the minister,
Dr. Lavender, and Gussie must speak to the Captain himself. Exeunt Mr.
and Mrs. Price._
_Enter Mrs. North for her knitting. Mary wraps her up in a shawl, puts
a hassock at her feet, suggests lighting a fire in the stove, and
tries to comfort her mother by telling her she will take her away from
Old Chester if the Captain keeps on bothering her. Mrs. North
remonstrates feebly, and Mary decides she needs some beef-tea after
the excitement. Exit Mary to make the tea._
_Enter the Captain without ringing or knocking, in great wrath. Gussie
has spoken to him. At first they laugh at the children's stupidity and
by degrees decide to carry out and confirm the children's suspicions
by eloping. Enter Mary. Confusion, but the Captain pretends he has
come to say good-bye to her because he is going away for a few weeks
and under that cover, makes the appointment for the eloping._
_Curtain with his exit_
THE CAPTAIN, A MELODRAMA
[Diagram]
_Dramatis Personae_
_Captain La Rue, a little sea captain.
Bromley Barnes, former special investigator for the U.S. Customs
Service.
Patrick Clancy, his friend.
A burly Butler.
John Felspar, junior partner of the firm of Felspar & Felspar, wine
merchants.
Two Dinner Guests, members of the firm.
Carl Cozzens, the firm's Canadian representative._
SCENE. _The dining-room of Felspar's Summer Cottage_
_Time: Early evening_
_The Captain is discovered sitting on the end of the table next the
window with his legs dangling dejectedly. Suddenly he sees something
and, rushing to the window, goes through a violent pantomime imploring
help and caution from some one without and indicating the way to
enter the house. He then wrings his hands and paces the floor
excitedly ending at D. R. C. where he listens. The key turns in the
lock and Barnes and Clancy enter cautiously. The Captain throws
himself at their feet and tells them of being kidnapped and confined
and his Ship's papers taken from him and asks frantically for the
time. Barnes tells him, and the Captain becomes at once dejected and
silent. The other two, however, draw from him the story of how he has
been racing over the Atlantic to get a cargo of champagne to an
American port in time to get the benefit of the old tariff rate, just
increased by the governments concerned. He got in in time but was
drugged and confined in this house till too late and his papers taken
from him. They advise him to stay where he is and, promising to help
him at once, slip out as they came. The Butler comes in D. R. C. and
begins setting table, joking the Captain about the supper to be held
in his honor, but growling about the suddenness of his master's
decision to have it. The Captain is excited and helps him in mock
politeness. As they are working, Felspar comes in. Butler tells him
that he has hired a waiter for the evening, subject to his approval--a
man who happened to be walking by, with a friend. Felspar
congratulates him and the new waiter is called. It is Clancy. La Rue
controls himself as he recognizes him. Felspar orders the Butler to
lock La Rue in the up-stairs bedroom, which has been prepared, till he
shall be wanted, telling him at the same time that all the guests have
arrived but Mr. Cozzens, who is to be brought directly to the
dining-room when he arrives. The others will not wait for him. The
Butler hurries La Rue off. Felspar gives a few parting instructions to
the new waiter and goes to bring the guests. Clancy finishes the
preparations and signals out the window to Barnes to come. Felspar
comes back with the guests D. L. C. The Butler reappears, is called to
the door-bell and ushers in Barnes as "Mr. Cozzens." Felspar
introduces him as the Canadian representative of the firm whom he has
never seen before. Barnes takes the cue and excuses his costume,
saying that he arrived late and has not had time to change. All sit
again and Felspar, telling the Butler to bring La Rue, tells the
company that the ship's papers of the rival business house have come
into his hands. These he produces and passes along the table. Barnes,
at the opposite end, pockets them as they come to him and refuses to
give them up. All are astonished and half-angry. The Butler, having
brought in the Captain at Felspar's order (who stands unnoticed at the
back) again answers the bell and ushers in Mr. Cozzens, announcing him
in a doubtful voice. Felspar stutters, "You--you Mr. Cozzens?" "So me
mother and father says," the new-comer replies. "And you?" says the
wine-merchant wheeling on Barnes. Barnes presents his card which is
read aloud by Felspar, who goes into a white heat and demands the
papers back. Barnes blandly refuses. Felspar threatens, saying he has
four to one. At this point Clancy and La Rue step forward and signify
their readiness to side with Barnes. Felspar laughs and tells them to
take the papers then as the new law went into effect at four-thirty
that afternoon. But Barnes informs him that the provisions of the
French-American commercial treaty demand that the customs houses
remain open till midnight when such a law goes through, and that they
still have several hours. Felspar is again furious and orders them out
and the three go together leaving the company in an angry stupor._
_Curtain_
Let it be clearly understood that there is no definitely established
length for a scenario. It may run from one to two pages for a play of
one act to twenty or more pages for a longer play. Obviously, a scenario
should be as brief as clear presentation of what it must give permits,
for it primarily exists as a short cut for the person who reads it to
necessary information about a proposed play. Clearness is the first
essential; brevity the second. The exact length must in each case be
decided by the particular needs of the subject treated and the best
judgment of the writer.
Above all, it should be remembered that a scenario unless it is simply
an abbreviated presentation of a play already in manuscript should be
considered something flexible. What is meant by this is that many a
writer working with a scenario which has been approved by a manager or
actor feels hampered because as he writes he has almost irresistible
impulses to break away from the scenario as planned into situations or
details of characterization and even of general treatment which, though
they occur to him at the moment, seem to him undoubted improvements. Yet
he hesitates to change his plan because it has been approved. This is
folly. A scenario is at its best when it concerns not a completed but a
proposed play and is held to be not fixed but thoroughly flexible. If
changes suggesting themselves are felt by the writer to be improvements,
he should by all means incorporate them. A good scenario bears much the
same relation to a completed play that an architect's plans bear to a
completed house. Where would the carpenter be without such plans, yet
where is the set of plans which has not been modified or even greatly
changed while the building is in construction? "Ibsen had no respect for
any dramatist who proceeded otherwise [than from a carefully prepared
scenario]. Once besought by a young dramatist to read the manuscript of
his new play, Ibsen curtly asked for the scenario. When the young man
proudly replied that he needed no scenario, having followed his
inspiration whithersoever it led him from scene to scene, Ibsen grew
furious and showed the pseudo-dramatist the door, declaring that any one
who dispensed with a scenario didn't know what a drama was and couldn't
possibly write one. And yet, after all, the scenario as first outlined
by Ibsen may best be regarded as an experimental foreshadowing subject
to radical modification as the writing of the play itself proceeds. It
serves as the skeleton framework for Ibsen's later ideation. ... While
it is true, then, that the material took shape in his mind long before
he wrote a word of actual dialogue, yet Ibsen expressly acknowledged
that it never took such unalterable shape in his mind as to permit him
to write the last act first or the first act last. During the course of
the work the details emerged by degrees."[11]
The fact is, a scenario is almost always a photograph of the mind of the
person who writes it. If he is not ready to write his play, the scenario
will show it, making clear whether this unreadiness comes from
insufficiently understood characterization; thin or incomplete story; a
lack of right proportioning of the material so that what is unimportant
seems important; or a general vagueness as to what the author wants to
do with his material. Just here lies the strong reason why every
would-be dramatist will do well to become expert in scenario writing. He
may for a long time fool himself into thinking that he can work better
without a scenario; he may be able to write without putting on paper all
that in this chapter has been required from the writer of a scenario,
but sooner or later he goes through all the processes in his mind and
either on paper or in his brain fulfils these requirements. The very
people who shrink from forcing themselves to work out all the details
required by a good scenario are merely dodging the inevitable. They
avoid something irksome as a preliminary merely to do all this work
before the completed play is ready. He who wants to write his play
rapidly will find that he makes time in his final composition by taking
all the time he needs in the preliminary task of drawing a good
scenario. Undeniably, a scenario is the most effective way of forcing
oneself to know the characters and the story of a play before one begins
to write the play in detail. Work out a scenario carefully and all the
difficult problems the play involves will have been solved except those
of dialogue and perhaps some subtleties of characterization. Regard the
resulting scenario as something entirely flexible and the composition of
the play should be safe and even sure. He who steers by the compass
knows how with safety to change his course. He who steers by dead
reckoning is liable to error and delay.
Often questions as to scenarios are asked which imply that there must be
some set form fulfilling all the requirements stated which can be
adhered to strictly. Not at all. These various requirements may be met
in almost as many ways as there are writers. One man may use more
description. Another writer may use more narration. Some will use
dialogue very freely. Some will characterize more than others. Yet all
these different workers may produce scenarios equally good in that they
are clear, brief, move by suggested dramatic action, are definite in
_genre_, and make thoroughly evident their elements of suspense and
climax.
Here are some scenarios which use dialogue rather freely. They are given
not because such use is especially commendable but merely to illustrate
it.
THE LEGACY
_The persons_
_David Brice, a young attorney.
Reene Brice, his uncle.
Benjamin Doyle, his fiancee's father.
Dr. Wangren, family physician.
Mrs. Brice, the mother.
"Ditto" Brice, the sister.
Katherine Doyle, fiancee._
_The Time: The present.
The Place: Any city._
SCENE. _The Brice living-room comfortably furnished in walnut. A piano
centre L., a round table rear R. Four entrances: upper L., rear
centre, upper right, right centre. Curtained windows rear R. & L._
Joy seems to radiate through the household. Ditto and Katherine are
discovered; Katherine, a pretty enthusiast of 22 playing diminuendo a
joy-melody at piano; Ditto, pretty, 20 and nervous, crossing R. with
an armload of tagged packages of various sizes and prettily
tied--birthday presents for her brother David. Arrived at table, rear
R., she deposits them.
_Ditto._ (_Stacking packages._) Don't you wish you were getting these
birthday presents, Katherine?
_Katherine._ (_Playing._) I am, Ditto, dear. David is mine; therefore,
what is David's belongs to me.
_Ditto._ (_Petulantly._) And what is yours....
_Katherine._ (_In fun._) ... Belongs to father.
(_Begins to sing merrily._)
(_Exit Ditto, R._)
_Enter Mrs. Brice, L., a thoughtful woman of 50, quite grey and
though careworn, attractive. She carries a linen spread and goes to
the table. Katherine sings softly, playing diminuendo._
_Mrs. Brice._ (_Covering presents_.) You are very happy tonight,
aren't you?
_Katherine._ (_Cheerily._) Why shouldn't I be, Mrs. Brice? It is
David's birthday. (_Going to her._) But you aren't.
_Mrs. Brice._ (_Bravely._) Yes, I am. But you see this is probably
David's last birthday at home and....
_Katherine._ (_Lovingly._) By no means! I shall bring him home every
birthday. (_Kissing her._) ... And once in a while between.
_Mrs. Brice._ (_As they go down, arm in arm._) I know you will,
Katherine, but we mothers ...
_David._ (_Entering centre rear, overcoat, hat and traveling grip._)
Hello everybody!... (_Tosses grip on table and makes for them._) ...
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year (_kisses mother_) and a quiet Fourth
of July. (_Kisses Katherine._)
(_David is a well-built handsome man of 28 neatly dressed in
business suit, light-weight overcoat and hat._)
_David._ (_Removing coat, Katherine assisting._) Well, how are all the
little details?
(_Coat off, he begins kissing Katherine again. Enter Ditto, R._)
_Ditto._ (_Petulantly._) Do you realize this is your birthday?
_David._ (_Kissing mother._) I am doing my best to show it! (_Tossing
Ditto his coat._) Hang that up and I will show you. (_Exit Ditto, R.,
with his coat and hat._)
_David._ (_Coming down from table with blue-print in hand._) Now,
mother and child, look ye!
(_He shows them the architectural plans of the new cottage he is
going to build as a wedding present to Katherine. They like them
very much. More joy. Ditto, reentering, is also enthusiastic over
plans._
_David next announces that he has been invited to become a member of
his employer's law firm, one of the most successful in the State.
More joy, manifested by another round of kisses._
_But he has not only been asked to join the firm; the firm has
promised him a straight loan, without interest, with which to build
his house. Otherwise he would have had to borrow from a building and
loan association. Therefore, bids are now being advertised for and
work will begin very soon. Great joy. Ditto seizes mother's hand and
Katherine's and dances a ring around David._
_As the jollification subsides, David inquires for his uncle, Reene.
He must approve the plans, for he was a great architect in his day.
His mother informs him that the uncle went for a ride with Doctor
Wangren.)_
_David._ How is he feeling today?
_Mrs. Brice._ Not quite so well. In fact, I never saw him so
despondent.
_David._ He must not look at it that way. We all have our little
troubles. (_To Katherine._) Don't we?
(_They go toward piano. Exit Mrs. Brice, L., taking Ditto with her._
_In a short scene at the piano, during which Katherine plays
diminuendo, the fact is revealed that her father opposes the match
between her and David; not because he does not like David but for
reasons which he has not divulged to his daughter. This cloud passes
by quickly, however._)
THE CONSULTATION
_The persons of the play_
_Marian.
Katherine.
Dr. Thomas Wells.
Dr. Benjamin Crawford._
_The scene represents a sitting room in Marian's home. It is very
cheaply furnished. There is a door at back centre, and also one at R.
At upper left is a curtained window, not practicable. In the centre is
a table, on which is a lighted lamp. Near the window is a couch. There
are chairs about the room, and a few cheap pictures on the walls. It
is evening, and the room is dimly lighted._
[Diagram]
_When the curtain rises, there is no one in the room, but in a moment
the door at rear opens, and Katherine enters noiselessly. She is a_
_pleasant looking woman of 30. She is followed by Dr. Wells, who
closes the door behind him very softly. He is a young man, with a Van
Dyke beard. The two go to right of table, and Katherine looks at the
doctor inquiringly. He speaks with some hesitation._
_Dr. Wells._ You want the truth?
_Katherine._ Of course.
_Dr. Wells._ I think he's dying. This is the crisis, and the chances
are a thousand to one against him.
_Katherine._ I'm afraid my sister can't bear the shock. She loves her
husband more than I can tell you, Doctor.
(_They are discussing the case when Marian enters from the rear. She
lingers a moment and looks back into the other room. Then she slowly
closes the door, and advances towards the others. She is a pretty
woman, about 25, but she looks pale and anxious._
_Dr. Wells and Katherine stop talking when she comes near and watch
her. She turns to the Doctor and asks for his verdict. He doesn't
reply, but looks inquiringly at Katherine. After a moment, she says
he'd better tell her. Very gently he breaks the news, and informs
her that her husband will probably die. The disease is vicious and
can't be checked._)
_Marian._ (_Anxiously._) You mean my husband will die?
_Dr. Wells._ I fear so.
_Marian._ Don't say that, Doctor. It will kill me. You don't know what
John means to me.
(_The Doctor assures her that he has done his best, and the patient
is now in the hands of God. He's sorry but in all honesty he
believes the man will die._
_Marian refuses to believe, and maintains that her husband will not
die. No doubt he's a very sick man, but he will live. She declares
she has sent for a man who can save him._)
_Marian._ You've been good, Doctor, and God will bless you. But you
won't blame me for saying that perhaps some one else might look at the
case differently. You don't feel hurt? Don't blame me, but I've sent
for Dr. Crawford, so you can have--what do you call it?--a
consultation. I know he can save my husband's life.
_Dr. Wells._ (_Surprised_.) You mean Dr. William Crawford, the famous
specialist?
_Marian._ Yes. Oh, Doctor, he's so wonderful!
_Dr. Wells._ (_Enthusiastically._) Wonderful? I should say so. He's
one of the most remarkable men in the profession. If there's any one
in the world who can save your husband's life, he is the man.
(_Doubtfully._) But can you pay his fee?
SCENARIO
THE WINNING OF GENERAL JANE
(_A farce of three persons, a dog, and a gun "that wasn't loaded"_)
_Cast_
_Jane, about twenty.
Aunt Sophy, her maiden aunt, about 45.
Bobby Holloway, a lodger, about 23._
_Place, Jane's bedroom. Time about 11 at night_
SETTING. _Lower left a closet, door opening inward. Upper left a door
leading to Aunt Sophy's room, opening inward. Rear centre,
double-windows set in a shallow alcove. The curtains are draped to
right and left. Right, up stage, a fireplace without a fire. Left,
down stage, a dressing-table with mirror. A low stool stands before
it. Against rear wall to left a washstand half-hidden by a Japanese
screen, shoulder height. Against right wall and about halfway down
stage a bed. It is low and preferably wooden._
[Diagram of Setting]
_At rise Jane is discovered at dressing-table occupied in braiding her
hair. Enter Aunt Sophy. She asks Jane if Mr. Holloway, their single
lodger, is in for the night. Jane replies with some petulance that she
does not know. A dissection of that gentleman's character ensues in
which Jane anathematizes him, while Aunt Sophy, despite her avowed
dislike for all things masculine, champions his cause. At last Jane
intimates that in all probability Mr. Holloway will propose to Aunt
Sophy at a very early date. The latter cannot conceal her delight. She
is not content with Jane's assurance on this point but must know how
she discovered the state of Bobby's affections. Jane finally admits
that she bases her deduction upon the fact that he "proposes to
everybody, in season and out!"--that he has proposed to her, Jane, no
less than 237 times._
_Aunt Sophy is hurt and shocked at this revelation of perfidy and
immediately sides with Jane, declaring that she will oust Mr.
Holloway on the following morning. Jane however does not want to be
sided with. With true feminine variability she shifts her attitude as
completely as Aunt Sophy has hers, and pleads with the outraged old
maid to reverse her decision. She shows that she really cares for
Bobby more than at first appeared. Aunt Sophy however is obdurate, and
departs, leaving Jane almost dissolved in tears._
_At this juncture a racket arises outside Jane's window. It is a
mixture of blasphemous English, growls and hurried footsteps. Jane
starts to investigate, but seeing an arm and a leg thrust hastily over
the sill, retreats to the door in alarm. Immediately Bobby climbs in,
and a smothered exclamation from Jane identifies him. He glances about
hurriedly, and not perceiving her, turns his attention to the dog who
still growls below. He epitomizes him with surprising fluency, until
Jane, unable to stand more, interrupts. This precipitates a profuse
apology for the intrusion and other things, an explanation, and later
a proposal._
_Jane is angered beyond measure not only at this invasion of her
privacy but also at Bobby's attitude towards the whole affair. She
orders him to leave. He attempts to do so by way of the door._
_Jane._ (_Frightened._) W-w-where are you going?
_Bobby._ (_Shrugging._) Hump!--to heaven--eventually!
_Jane._ (_Barring way._) N-n-not through Aunt Sophy's room!
(_She informs him that he must depart the way he came. He consents
but only in a very half-hearted manner. Between Aunt Sophy and
Towser he is in a quandary. After several unsuccessful starts he
flatly refuses to descend, and upbraids Jane for her cruelty. He
dwells at length on the horrors of dog-bites, hydrophobia, madness,
and death._)
_Bobby._ (_Injured._) As if I had not already been chewed up so that I
can scarcely sit--(_hastily_)--I mean walk.
_Jane._ (_Relenting._) Gracious! Bobby, did he bite you?
_Bobby. Did_ he?
_Jane._ (_Seizing bottle from table._) Heavens! You must put something
on it! Some antiseptic! Bobby come here!
_Bobby._ Oh, no, no! No, it's not serious!
_Jane._ Come here this instant!
_Bobby._ (_Flatly._) I won't do it!
(_He succeeds so well in working upon her sympathies that even a
knock at Aunt Sophy's door is not enough to make her change her
attitude. She now as obstinately refuses to let him descend to
certain death as previously he had refused to do it. The knocks are
continued. Jane is rapidly losing her head when it suddenly occurs
to her that if she stores Bobby away under the bed until Towser has
departed or Aunt Sophy has gone to sleep, all may yet be well. While
Bobby is ensconcing himself in this new position a three cornered
conversation takes place, in which Jane becomes more and more
involved._)
_Aunt Sophy._ (_Outside._) Jane, Jane, are you ill?
_Jane._ Ill? Oh, oh! I don't know!
_Aunt Sophy._ Open the door this minute or I'll break it down!
_Jane._ Break it down?
_Aunt Sophy._ Yes, this instant!
_Jane._ Oh, oh! Don't do that! It's not locked! ...
It may be interesting to compare the scenario of _A Doll's House_ from
which Ibsen wrote his first draft with his original notes. Here is
perfect illustration of the difference between sketchy notes which mean
much to the writer and a scenario which at least broadly will convey to
a reader the artistic and ethical purposes in the play the dramatist
means to write.
NOTES FOR THE MODERN TRAGEDY
_Rome_, 19. 10, 78.
There are two kinds of spiritual law, two kinds of conscience, one in
man and another, altogether different, in woman. They do not
understand each other; but in practical life the woman is judged by
man's law, as though she were not a woman but a man.
The wife in the play ends by having no idea of what is right or wrong;
natural feeling on the one hand and belief in authority on the other
have altogether bewildered her.
A woman cannot be herself in the society of the present day, which is
an exclusively masculine society, with laws framed by men and with a
judicial system that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point of
view.
She has committed forgery, and she is proud of it; for she did it out
of love for her husband, to save his life. But this husband, with his
commonplace principles of honour is on the side of the law and regards
the question with masculine eyes.
Spiritual conflicts. Oppressed and bewildered by the belief in
authority, she loses faith in her moral right and ability to bring up
her children. Bitterness. A mother in modern society, like certain
insects who go away and die when she has done her duty in the
propagation of the race.[12] Love of life, of home, of husband and
children and family. Here and there a womanly shaking-off of her
thoughts. Sudden return of anxiety and terror. She must bear it all
alone. The catastrophe approaches, inexorably, inevitably. Despair,
conflict, and destruction.
(Krogstad has acted dishonourably and thereby become well-to-do; now
his prosperity does not help him, he cannot recover his honour.)[13]
_Persons_
_Stenborg, a Government clerk.
Nora, his wife.
Miss (Mrs.) Linde (a widow).
Attorney Krogstad.
Karen, nurse at the Stenborgs'.
A Parlour-Maid at the Stenborgs'.
A Porter.
The Stenborgs' three little children.
Doctor Hank._
SCENARIO. FIRST ACT
_A room comfortably, but not showily, furnished. In the back, on the
right, a door leads to the hall; on the left another door leads to the
room or office of the master of the house, which can be seen when the
door is opened. A fire in the stove. Winter day._
_She enters from the back, humming gaily; she is in outdoor dress and
carries several parcels, has been shopping. As she opens the door, a
Porter is seen in the hall, carrying a Christmas-tree. She: Put it
down there for the present. (Taking out her purse.) How much? Porter:
Fifty ore. She: Here is a crown. No, keep the change. The Porter
thanks her and goes. She continues humming and smiling with quiet glee
as she opens several of the parcels she has brought. Calls off, is he
at home? Yes! At first, conversation through the closed door; then he
opens it and goes on talking to her while continuing to work most of
the time, standing at his desk. There is a ring at the hall-door;
he does not want to be disturbed; shuts himself in. The maid opens
the door to her mistress's friend, just arrived in town. Happy
surprise. Mutual explanation of the position of affairs. He has
received the post of manager in the new joint-stock bank and is to
enter on his duties at the New Year; all financial worries are at an
end. The friend has come to town to look for some small employment in
an office or whatever may present itself. Mrs. Stenborg gives her good
hopes, is certain that all will turn out well. The maid opens the
front door to the debt-collector. Mrs. Stenborg, terrified; they
exchange a few words; he is shown into the office. Mrs. Stenborg and
her friend; the circumstances of the debt-collector are touched upon.
Stenborg enters in his overcoat; has sent the collector out the other
way. Conversation about the friend's affairs; hesitation on his part.
He and the friend go out; his wife follows them into the hall; the
Nurse enters with the children. Mother and children play. The
collector enters. Mrs. Stenborg sends the children out to the left.
Great scene between her and him. He goes. Stenborg enters; has met him
on the stairs; displeased; wants to know what he came back for? Her
support? No intrigues. His wife cautiously tries to pump him. Strict
legal answers. Exit to his room. She (repeating her words when the
collector went out): But that's impossible. Why, I did it from love!_
SCENARIO. SECOND ACT