CHAPTER VI

FROM SUBJECT TO PLOT: ARRANGEMENT FOR CLEARNESS, EMPHASIS, MOVEMENT

The chief desideratum of a dramatist beginning to arrange his material within a number of acts already decided on is to create interest as promptly as possible. To that end neither striking dialogue nor stirring situation is of prime consequence. Clearness is. When an audience does not understand who the people are with whom the play opens and their relations to one another, no amount of striking dialogue or stirring situation will create lasting interest. The danger for a later public of allusive reference clear enough at one time is shown by the verses sung when the Helstone Furry, or Flower Dance, takes place in Cornwall. Lines once full of meaning are today so out of date as to be meaningless.

From an early hour the place is alive with drums and fifes, and townsmen hoa.r.s.ely chanting a ballad, the burden of which conveys the spirit of the festival:

With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O, And we are up as soon as any day O, And for to fetch the Summer home, The Summer and the May O; For the Summer is a-come O, And Winter is a-go O!

The verses of the ballad seem to convey topical allusions that have become traditional. One speaks of Robin Hood and Little John as gone to the fair, and the revellers will go too; another triumphs in the Spaniards eating the gray goose feather while the singers will be eating the roast. Another runs thus quaintly:

G.o.d bless Aunt Mary Moses With all her power and might O; And send us peace in merry England Both night and day O.

With Hal-an-tow, Jolly rumble O, And we were up as soon as any day O, And for to fetch the Summer home, The Summer and the May O; For the Summer is a-come O, And Winter is a-go O!

Thus singing they troop through the town; if they find anyone at work, they hale him to the river and make him leap across; arrived at the Grammar School they demand a holiday; at noon they go "fadding" into the country, and come back with oak branches and flowers in their hats and caps; then until dusk they dance hand-in-hand down the streets, and through any house, in at any door, out at another; when night falls they keep up the dancing indoors. The character of the dancing is exactly that of the ancient Comus; and the whole spirit of the Cornish Furry is a fair representation of primitive nature festivals, except, of course, that modern devoutness has banished from the flower dance all traces of a religious festival;--unless a trace is to be found in the fact that the dancers at one point make a collection.[1]

The Greek dramatist, staging religious legends, could a.s.sume in his audience common knowledge as to the ident.i.ty and the historic background of his figures which saved him much exposition. Today, readers of his play demand explanatory notes because of these omissions.

The _Choephori_, like the plays of aeschylus generally, consists of scenes from a story taken as known. Some indispensable parts of it are represented only by allusions. Others can scarcely be said to be represented at all. The history of Pylades belongs to the second cla.s.s; that of Strophius belongs to the first. What is evident is that the author presumes us to be familiar with his conception of both, that as a fact we are not, and that our only way of approaching the play intelligently is by the a.s.sumption of some working hypothesis.[2]

Something like the position of these elder dramatists toward exposition is held today by writers of plays on George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. Dealing, as the dramatist ordinarily does, however, with a mixture of historical and fict.i.tious figures or with characters wholly fict.i.tious, he must in most cases carefully inform his audience at the outset who his people are, and what are their relations to one another, where the play is laid, and when.

Examine the first column of what follows: it is not a burlesque, but the beginning of a so-called play. Why is it unsatisfactory?

ORCHIDS

_Conservatory of the Strones' house. Natalie is walking about among the flowers and plants, arranging them for the day in the vases on the near-by table._

_Natalie._ _Natalie._ (_To herself._) O-oh, (_To herself._) O-oh, I'm sleepy this morning. It's I'm sleepy this morning. It's very nice to have your fiance live very nice to have your fiance in the next house, but when he live in the next house, but when insists on writing his stories and (Tom) insists on writing his stories things until two or three in the and things until two and morning--well, I don't think three in the morning--well, I it's very thoughtful of him. don't think it's very thoughtful He might realize that his light of him. He might realize shines directly across into my that his light shines directly eyes and keeps me awake. Oh, across into my eyes and keeps dear, Mary's been putting me awake. Oh, dear, (that lilies-of-the-valley in all the maid's) been putting vases again. I'll not have those lilies-of-the-valley in all the everywhere when we've got orchids vases again. I'll not have those instead. Flowers don't need everywhere when we've got orchids fragrance anyway; they're just instead. Flowers don't need meant to be seen. (_Dumping the fragrance anyway; they're just meant wilted lilies in a basket by her to be seen. (_Dumping the wilted side and arranging the newly-cut lilies in a basket by her side and orchids in their place._) Tom [Who arranging the newly-cut orchids is Tom--brother or fiance?] in their place._) always makes a fuss when I have Tom always makes a fuss when nothing but orchids, so I suppose I have nothing but orchids, so Mary put the others about I suppose Mary put the others to calm him down. [Who is about to calm him down.

Mary, then: a maid, a sister, a girl friend, some one engaged to Tom?] Really I've got to speak to him about last Really I've got to speak to (Tom night when he comes. The light Hammond) about last night, is bad enough, but I won't when he comes. The light is bad have him firing his gun out of enough, but I won't have him the window besides. It must firing his gun out of the window have been at that horrid thin besides. It must have been cat that's always clawing Hopeful. at that horrid thin cat that's [A cat, a dog, or a small always clawing Hopeful.

sister?] I'm glad _she_ [Hopeful I'm glad (Hopeful) or the thin cat?] was locked up was locked up indoors if Tom's indoors if Tom's going to act going to act that way (with cats).

that way. Oh, dear, these are Oh, dear, these are the wrong the wrong shears again. (_Rings shears again. (_Rings bell. Enter bell. Enter maid._) Mary, bring maid._) Mary, bring me the me the other shears--and other shears--and Mary, Mary, where's Hopeful this where's Hopeful this morning; morning; I haven't seen her? I haven't seen her?

_Mary._ The kitten, Miss _Mary._ The kitten, Miss Strone? Strone?

_Natalie._. Yes, of course. _Natalie._ Yes, of course.

_Mary._ Why--why she hasn't _Mary._ Why--why she hasn't been in this morning. (_Starts been in this morning. (_Starts away._) away._)

_Natalie._ Come back, Mary. _Natalie._ Come back, Mary.

Don't run off while I'm speaking Don't run off while I'm speaking to you. Haven't you seen to you. Haven't you seen her at all? her at all?

_Mary._ Well--yes, Miss _Mary._ Well--yes, Miss Strone--that is Parkins [another Strone--that is (the butler) maid, a butler, or a found--I mean-- milkman?] found--I mean--

_Natalie._ (_Impatiently._) Well? _Natalie._ (_Impatiently._) Well?

_Mary._ The shots last night, _Mary._ The shots last night, Miss Strone--that is we think Miss Strone--that is we think it was--although she _was_ on it was--although she _was_ on the _other_ side of the garden the _other_ side of the wall when when Parkins came on her--and Parkins came on her--and there's the wall and the alley there's the wall and the alley between--still, Mr. Hammond between--still, Mr. Hammond was shooting out of the was shooting out of the upper upper windows and-- windows and--

_Natalie._ (_Quickly._) Has _Natalie._ (_Quickly._) Has anything happened to Hopeful? anything happened to Hopeful?

_Mary._ Why--why, Parkins-- _Mary._. Why--why, Parkins--

(_Enter Parkins._) (_Enter Parkins._)

_Parkins._ (_Quietly._) I buried _Parkins._ (_Quietly._) I buried her all right just now, Miss her all right just now, Miss Strone. (_Louder._) Mr. Hammond. Strone. (_Louder._) (Mr. Hammond.)

(_Exit [sic.] Mary and Parkins,_ (_Exeunt Mary and Parkins,_ _enter Tom Hammond._) _enter Tom Hammond._)

In the left-hand column practically every one in the cast is unidentified when first mentioned. That is, the text fails in the first essential of clearness: we do not for some time know who the people are and their relations to one another. The very slight changes in the right-hand column do away with this fault.

Identify characters, then, as promptly as possible. Writing, "John Paul Jones enters in full Admiral's uniform," a dramatist often runs on for some time before the text itself reveals the ident.i.ty of the person who has entered. Except in so far as the costume or make-up presents a well-known historical figure, or information carefully given before the figure enters may reveal ident.i.ty, every newcomer is an entirely unknown person. He must promptly make clear who he is and his relation to the story. The following opening of a play shows another instance of the vagueness resulting when this identification is not well managed:

ANNE--A PLAY IN TWO ACTS

ACT I

_Evening of a June day. John Hathaway's Study. Door at right and at left back. Heavy, old-fashioned library furnishings. Walls lined with shelves of books. General disorder of books to produce the effect of recent using. Large flat-topped desk with a double row of drawers stands at front, half way between center and right wall. Desk is covered with books and loose ma.n.u.script. Chair at left front. Stool in front of desk. Other chairs toward back._

_When the curtain rises, John Hathaway is seated at desk working. Anne enters at right, bangs the door, and stands with back to it._

_Anne._ I hate Aunt Caroline. (_She hurries forward to stand at opposite side of desk._) Oh, I know what you will say--just preach and preach and call me "Anne" and tell me I must ask her pardon.--Why don't you begin?

_John._ (_Smiling._) Now, Anne!

_Anne._ Yes, there's the "Anne." I know the rest without your going on:--"Aunt Caroline is a peculiar woman, but is _most_ worthy. Her Puritanism keeps her from understanding your temperament, and you are too young to understand hers,--" and you'll go on preaching and smiling in that horrid way--you always do--and you'll make me see how wrong _I've_ been and how saintly _Aunt Caroline_ is, and at last I'll slink out of the room like a good little p.u.s.s.y-cat to find Aunt Caroline and beg her pardon. But it won't do _this_ time, for I begged her pardon _before_ I lost my temper so that you _couldn't_ send me back.--Oh, Duke, _can't_ we send Aunt Caroline away, and just you and me live here always together. (_She swings round the desk to sit on the stool at his side, her back to him. He turns a little in his chair, letting a hand fall on her shoulder._) When Dad died, he left me with you because next to me he loved you best in all the world.

Hundreds and hundreds of times he told me that.--It would have been very nice, Duke, if Dad hadn't died, wouldn't it?

_John._ Yes, Nan.

_Anne._ In just that one thing G.o.d has not been quite fair to me. Aunt Caroline tries so hard to make me think I am wrong about it.--I know you think so too, but you never argue about it with me. I like you for that, Duke. You see, if Dad had lived, our kingdom would have been complete. Why! a kingdom's only _half_ a kingdom without a king.

_John._ That's true,--but there are still a few of us left. There's the Prime Minister, and the Countess, and the Slave, every one of them loyal to the Princess. Even the War Department is loyal--in warfare.

Perhaps, who knows, some day from out a great foreign land a great king may come riding, and the Princess will place him beside her on the throne--and--live happily ever afterward.

_Anne._ (_Inattentively._) Perhaps. Duke, did you ever think that the Prime Minister was very fond of the Countess?

_John._ Why, I have thought so at times.

_Anne._ And did you ever think that perhaps the Prime Minister would like to _marry_ the Countess?

_John._ Why, yes, now you mention it, that also has occurred to me.

_Anne._ Well, why doesn't he?

_John._ Perhaps the Countess isn't willing.

Who is this "Anne"? What is her last name? Is she the niece of "Duke"?