There is a theory of the late Ferdinand Brunetière about the periods of
dramatic activity which the time we are now passing through ought to put
to the test. Brunetière was an incorrigible generalizer, first because
he was a Frenchman, and next because he was a born critic. Criticism
without general ideas, without a substructure of principle and theory to
build upon, is an idle thing, the mere expression of likes and dislikes,
or else sheer verbiage. This French critic was always throwing theories
at the drama, and some of them have stuck. Perhaps the soundest of them
and the most lasting was his theory of the drama as the spectacle of the
struggle of will against obstacles. There has been much controversy about
it, there has been no difficulty in instancing cases which it fails to
cover, but I venture to think that as a rough generalization it still
holds good. I am not, however, concerned with that famous theory for the
moment. I am thinking of another theory—a historical one. Brunetière
asserted that every outburst of dramatic activity in a nation will be
found to have followed close upon a great manifestation of national
energy—Greek tragedy, for instance, after the Persian War, Calderon and
de Vega after the Spanish conquests in the New World, Shakespeare after
the Armada, the French romantic drama after the Napoleonic campaigns.
He might have added that the war of 1870 was followed by the best work
of Dumas fils, by the Théâtre Libre, by Ibsen and Björnson, Hauptmann
and Sudermann, and the Russo-Japanese War by the Moscow Art Theatre and
Tchekhov.
I confess, then, my doubts about the soundness of this theory. Throughout
the past history of any nation wars have been of so constant occurrence
that it would be difficult not to find one preceding, by a fairly short
term, any particular outburst of dramatic activity you like to fix
upon. One is always _post_ the other; it is not necessarily _propter_.
And instances to the contrary will readily occur: periods of dramatic
activity that were not immediately preceded by, but rather synchronized
with, great manifestations of national energy; for instance, the period
of Corneille, Racine, and Molière. And sometimes, when you look for your
dramatic sequel to your national energizing, you only draw a blank. Did
any outburst of dramatic production follow the American Civil War? The
theory, in short, is “an easy one,” relying on lucky coincidence and
ignoring inconvenient exceptions.
In any case, we ought to be able now, if ever, to put it to the “acid
test.” The leading nations of the world have just fought the biggest of
all their wars. Has the promised sequel followed? Is there any sign
at home or abroad of a fresh outburst of dramatic energy? In Germany
they seem to be merely “carrying on,” or tending to be a little more
pornographic than usual. In Vienna they are still translating Mr. Shaw.
No new dramatic masterpiece is reported from Italy, D’Annunzio being
“otherwise engaged,” Mr. Boffin. Paris is still producing its favourite
little “spicinesses” or, for the high brows, translating Strindberg.
(Outside the theatre the effect of the war on Paris seems not merely
negative but stupefying. They have achieved Dadaism and, so I read in
a recent _Literary Supplement_, a distaste for the works of M. Anatole
France!) In America the drama is in no better case than before the war.
And what about London? An absolutely unprecedented dearth of not merely
good but of actable plays. People will give you other causes, mainly
economic, for the theatrical “slump.” They will tell you, truly enough,
that playgoers have less money to spend, and that the cheaper “cinema”
is diverting more and more money from the theatre. And yet, whenever the
managers produce anything really worth seeing there is no lack of people
to see it.
There is nothing, then, to discourage the aspiring dramatist. Only he
won’t aspire! Or his aspiration is not backed by talent! It seems as
though the war, instead of stimulating dramatic energy, had repressed and
chilled it. What on earth (if I may use a colloquialism condemned by Dr.
Johnson) would poor M. Brunetière have said if he had lived to see his
pet theory thus falsified? Probably he would have invented a new one. He
would have said that wars mustn’t be _too_ big to fit into a law devised
only for usual sizes. Also he might have said, wait and see. The war
is only just over; give your young dramatists a little breathing time.
Shakespeare’s plays didn’t immediately follow the Armada. The French
Romantic Drama didn’t begin till a good dozen years after Waterloo.
Well, we can’t afford to wait. While we playgoers are waiting for
good plays, our young men are all frittering away their talent in
minor poetry, which war seems to bring as relentlessly in its train as
shell-shock. But the victims of both maladies ought by now to be on
the high-road to recovery, and it is time that the young minor poets
turned their attention to something useful, _e.g._, the reintroduction
of the British drama. They have a capital opportunity, since most of
our old stalwarts seem to have left the field. Sir Arthur Pinero gives
us nothing. Mr. Arthur Henry Jones gives us nothing. Mr. Maugham is,
I am told, far away in Borneo, so now is the chance for the young
aspirants; the world is all before them where to choose. Of course it is
understood that they will drop their verse. That used to be the natural
form for plays over two centuries ago. It may come into fashion again,
you never can tell, but, quite clearly, the time is not yet. I have
heard people ask, “What are the chances for a revival of poetic drama?”
They really mean verse-drama, but the answer is, that the essence of
poetry is not verse, which is merely ornament, but the expression of
a certain spiritual state, a certain _état d’âme_, and that there is
always room for poetic plays. _Dear Brutus_ contained much of the poetic
essence; so does _Mary Rose_. But their language is prose, and our
young aspirants may be recommended to write in prose, for which their
previous verse-exercises will have been a useful preparation. Only let
them hurry up! Let their hearts swell with the proud hope of creating
that magnificent affair, which demands capital letters, the Drama of the
Future. Mr. Bergson told us at Oxford that when an interviewer invited
him to forecast the drama of the future he answered, “If I could do that
I’d write it.” So we can only wonder what it will be like. “Sir,” said
Dr. Johnson to Boswell who was “wondering,” “you _may_ wonder.”