In other words, part of the author's work and a great part of his difficulty lie in telling the audience a number of antecedent facts. The task has grown very difficult since soliloquies have gone out of vogue and audiences become so sophisticated as to smile at the old-fashioned conversations in which information is given to the house by causing the hero to tell to his friend--"his friend Charles"--a number of matters with which, to the knowledge of everybody, Charles is already well acquainted.

It is a misfortune that in the case of cleverly constructed dramas the uncritical members of the playgoing world, whilst half-conscious of the fact that the preliminary circ.u.mstances are not being told to them in the clumsy method now out of date, fail to get the full amount of pleasure from the technical skill exhibited. Take, for instance, what in this respect is perhaps the masterpiece, _Rosmersholm_. Few spectators consider it closely enough to appreciate the wonderful skill shown in conveying to the audience the vast number of facts and ideas necessary to explain the exact relations between Rosmer and Rebecca West when the play begins. However, it is hardly worth the while of the casual playgoer to study the structure of dramas sufficiently to appreciate fully such marvels of technique--the marvels are very rare.

Something might be said in favour of plays--and it was said by Prosper Merimee--in which no knowledge of the previous histories of the parties is necessary. It is doubtful, however, whether there exists any specimen of this cla.s.s of drama, and perhaps it is impossible completely to comply with such conditions.

Whether much or little is told to the audience of the things that have happened and the characters before the play begins, the last act in the ordinary drama is of an extravagant importance in relation to the whole.

It has been said, with a fair amount of truth, that anybody can write a good first act, and that most plays fail towards the end. Instead of putting his confidence in the maxim "Well begun is half done," the author must rely on another which may be expressed as "Well ended is much mended."

The question how to bring a play to a close has been terribly difficult on very many occasions to the dramatist. There are various kinds of conclusion, most of them more or less formal or conventional. For instance, everyone knows what will happen towards the last fall of the curtain in the peculiarly exasperating species of drama founded upon a misunderstanding which in real life would be cleared up in five minutes, but on the stage remains unsolved for three hours or so. Countless plays end with a definite engagement of young sweethearts the course of whose love became rough at the close of the first act, or with the reconciliation of youthful spouses who quarrelled in the earlier part of the piece.

This, of course, is the so-called "happy-ever-after" ending: in most cases the comedies of this type are so artificial that few of the audience take sufficient interest in the characters to think of them as people who live after the play, and to notice the fact that the sweethearts are from their nature unlikely to live happily together, or that the young husband and wife, on account of their dispositions, are certain to quarrel within a week of the reconciliation. Plays of these kinds are essentially unimportant. n.o.body cares very much how they end provided that the curtain falls not later than at a quarter-past eleven.

Real tragedies, whether of the cla.s.sic, modern or romantic type, end in death or deaths. Obviously there is no other solution in most cases.

Perhaps in real life Hamlet would have remained letting I dare not wait upon I would until his mother and stepfather died in the ordinary course of nature; without any amazing interposition of Providence, Romeo and Juliet might have healed the quarrel between their hostile houses and established a large family of little Montague-Capulets, and so on; but one accepts the proposition that such outcomes would be contrary to the essential laws of the existence of such plays.

Difficulties grow when we come to comedy that seeks to represent, however timidly, the life of real human beings. The bold dramatists who endeavour to represent a slice of life--Jean Jullien invented the phrase--find more difficulty in the beginning of their plays than the conventional writer: to bring them to anything like a full stop is a very rare achievement. A great many end at a comma, a semi-colon is noteworthy, a colon superb, and very often one has a mere mark of interrogation at the last fall of the curtain. Of course a full stop sometimes is achieved, for instance in the case of _The Second Mrs Tanqueray_; but _Iris_ ends with something very much like a comma, and _The Notorious Mrs Ebbsmith_ can scarcely boast of more than a colon.

Ibsen has not always been successful in coming to his conclusions. In a sense _A Doll's House_ might be called a failure: the case is one of the note of interrogation, and the audience is left in a mood of dissatisfaction, since, being deeply interested in the character of Nora, it is intensely curious to know what she will do next. Homes have been broken up and friendships wrecked by discussion upon the question, though it must be admitted that most of the quarrels concerning the play have been upon the irrelevant question whether the child-wife ought to have left her husband and children. One half of the disputants fail to see that the fact that she does abandon them is the catastrophe and not the conclusion of the comedy. In _An Enemy of Society_ and _A Lady from the Sea_ the author has been remarkably adroit in getting to a definite conclusion.

On the other hand, one sees that even such a master of his craft was forced to call death to his aid in many cases; for instance, _Hedda Gabler_, _The Master-Builder_, _Rosmersholm_, _John Gabriel Borkmann_, and _When we Dead awaken_. In nearly all of these the death is not accidental but inevitable. _The Wild Duck_ has a tragic death in it which is by no means conclusive; indeed, it is a horrible humour of the work that the last idea of all is the suggestion of a continuing tragic comedy.

The inconclusive conclusion is unpopular. There is a strong craving in the public to have plays nicely rounded off, and this is a serious obstacle to writers who seek to represent real life, which seems to have a sort of prejudice against rounding-off human affairs neatly. In a vast number of cases the great crises in human life are followed by a tedious kind of dragging anti-climax.

Great monarchs still live after their fall. The Napoleon of the stage would have died at Waterloo instead of crawling out of life at St Helena. One need not multiply instances after such a prodigious example.

Managers naturally respect--some will say "pander to"--the public taste; wherefore our real life plays rarely see the footlights, and when they do sometimes are cruelly forced into an artificial ending.

From time to time one even sees quaint announcements that, owing to the wishes of the public, the conclusion of a particular play has been twisted from the author's original idea into some termination that gratifies the audience's desire to leave the theatre in a mood to enjoy a supper afterwards. The question of art involved in the matter hardly needs discussion. No one will deny that, in comedy at least, the greatest suggestion of truth is the greatest art, even whilst admitting that the inevitable circ.u.mstances of the production of a play demand certain modifications and adjustment of truth. The dramatist can never hold the mirror up to Nature; he can only reflect her in a distorting gla.s.s.

A few years ago in a play that made a sensation came the worst example of the forced conventional "happy-ever-after" ending on record. The case was that of _An Englishman's Home_, where there was foisted upon the author, who was abroad, a quite imbecile happy ending which caused much discussion: it is not unlikely that this crime against drama and the dramatist prevented the piece from enjoying the immense success confidently prophesied for it.

Nowadays authors are in a greater difficulty, because people--particularly the so-called "smart" folk--are eager to get away early for supper, whilst many are compelled to steal off to catch trains to Brighton and other suburbs, and leave the theatre before the ending of a play. The result threatens to be curious. The dramatists will be induced to make their big effort in the penultimate act, leaving nothing for the last but some tranquil rounding off which you may miss without serious loss. Instead of the notice, often, alas! untrue: "The audience is requested to be seated punctually at eight o'clock, since the interest in the play begins at the rise of the curtain," we shall have: "Members of the audience anxious for supper or to catch suburban trains are requested to leave before the curtain rises on the last act, which is only a kind of needless epilogue."

We had some trace of this new epilogue method in _Leah Kleschna_, as well as in _Letty_. How the critics of the morning papers would bless such a system! At the same time, it is imaginable that the authors will raise a difficulty--they are such an exacting race!

However, a brilliant suggestion has been made of a way of dealing with the difficulty. "Why not," asks a fair correspondent, whose letter has incited this article--"why not begin with the last act?" The scornful may answer with the question, "Why begin at all if you've nothing better than our ordinary drama?" but they must be kept out of court. There really is something in the idea. Public interest flags somewhat in the case of ordinary plays because the house knows too well the things that are going to happen; it might be stimulated by seeing them happen and then watching the development of the facts leading up to them. This suggestion is not protected in any way, either in England or the United States.

Preposterous Stage Types

The t.i.tle may sound a little misleading, Ruskinian, Horne-Tookian: probably the word "preposterous" would not have been used but for an accidental remembrance of De Quincey, who was so fond of using and explaining it, of pointing out that it signified the behind-before, the cart before the horse, the hysteron-proteron. By-the-by, why has De Quincey gone out of fashion? There are charming reprints of almost everybody who is somebody, and of somebodies who really are n.o.bodies; even Alexander Smith is being talked of; yet, if you want a full feast of De Quincey you must go to ill-printed pages bound horribly. However, except so far as Shakespeare is concerned, the author of a famous essay on Wilhelm Meister has left us little on the topic of the stage. A casual question brought forward the subject: it was whether Sothern's Dundreary really represented an English type. To answer this is a matter of some difficulty.

The fact remains that if Dundreary did not represent a type, at least it created one. Dundrearys became quite numerous after Sothern's success; and the observant have remarked that not infrequently a stage character has verified itself by a species of ratification--a remark that has a flavour of Ireland, or, if a famous essay by Miss Edgeworth is to be accepted, a flavour of France--this is a reference to her essay on Irish bulls, a t.i.tle itself which happens to be unconsciously a bull.

The "mashers" and "crutch and toothpick brigade" of the stage were rather the progenitors than imitators of the type, and the Gibson girls were more numerous after the appearance of Miss Camille Clifford than before she came to London. It might be indiscreet to go further into details and cite more modern instances on the topic.

One can hardly call this, holding the mirror up to Nature, yet, in a curious roundabout way, the stage seems to justify itself and become true after the event. There was a rather bitter discussion some time ago between an author and a critic; the latter had remarked that the language of the dramatist's people did not sound true, that it seemed composed of sc.r.a.ps from the stage, that he generally could guess from the cue the words of the answering speech.

This, of course, is very often the case; probably to the simple-minded playgoer when it happens there seems to be evidence that the dialogue is true. The characters say what he expects them to say--therefore, that which to him it seems natural for them to say. Perhaps the judgment of the simple-minded playgoer is sounder on this point than that of the critic, who is hoping that the characters will utter something that he does not expect them to say. Probably a large number of the stereotyped phrases of our actual speech come from the novel or stage, and although when they were first spoken the truth was not in them, they have come to be truly representative of the characters.

Novelists of standing are more nicely squeamish on the subject than dramatists of similar rank; they endeavour to avoid--in dialogue--the ready-made article; at the same time one notes that the important dramatist is very anxious to keep clear of the stage-worn phrases.

We know that to some extent people do accept the judgments in plays as judgments on life, and mould their conduct on that of the characters.

Even the daughter in _Alice Sit-by-the-Fire_, with her views based on melodrama concerning her mother, was not wholly extravagant. Of course this puts a rather heavy responsibility upon dramatists. The _Jack Sheppard_ and _d.i.c.k Turpin_ plays are said to have fired many youths with a desire to become romantic criminals, and even caused them to make efforts to carry out their desires. Nowadays--at least in the theatres within our province--such pieces are not presented; nor would one quarrel with the Censor if he were to prohibit one of them. There is little peril in a work like _Raffles_; for though it would not be difficult to exhibit skill in crime as great as that of the hero, a capacity for being a first-cla.s.s cricketer and an education at Eton seem to be essential elements of the character, and these serve as insurmountable stumbling-blocks to many. Yet a Raffles may set a fashion and have humble imitators, so far as personal style is concerned, among the professors of the fine art of crib-cracking.

The Professor Moriarty of _Sherlock Holmes_ really employed too much machinery to be copied by the crowd.

That the stage sometimes takes the lead in the matter of costume cannot be disputed--possibly the day will arrive when the emanc.i.p.ation of man from the thrall of the "topper," the frock-coat and stiff collar is brought about through the energies of the theatre--though it will require a London actor of the Le Bargy type to achieve such a triumph, and he is not yet in sight, and may not appear until after the motorist has accomplished the miracle. At present, even in the matter of ladies'

frocks, the London stage has less influence than one might have expected.

At the moment one seeks vainly for any stage type likely to create a character which afterwards it will seem to reflect. Perhaps Mr G.P.

Huntley has had some success in this respect; certainly it is imaginable that if he were to represent a well-written part in comedy as a kind of twentieth-century Dundreary we should meet imitators of him in shoals; but this has yet to come, and if it does a good many people will fail to rejoice--a phrase without prejudice to admiration for a player concerning the limits of whose power as a comedian one may well have real curiosity.

Turning back for a moment to the dialogue, one can hardly feel surprised that playwrights are easily satisfied with ready-made phrases; we journalists cannot "throw stones" at them--a figure the almost unintentional use of which ill.u.s.trates the difficulty. It is a very hard task to invent new phrases for your characters that will seem congruous, and there is always the peril of appearing affected in style. Yet success is possible, as may be seen in the works of a few, such as Pinero; even he shows a tendency, noteworthy in _Letty_ and, to a less degree, in _His House in Order_, towards causing some characters to talk "bookily," which, after all, is better than making them speak journalistically. Still, in dealing with this point the dramatist must remember that many people in real life use habitually a large number of ready-made phrases, even when they are in a serious mood.

The Professions of the Dramatis Personae

If the historian of the future, in the endeavour to get a clear idea of the social life of our times, turns to the contemporary drama in search for information, he will find very little matter of value. Yet the mere fact of the success of some of the plays will give him an idea of the taste, or lack of taste, of the public, and the failure of others will speak eloquently, but sadly, to him about the audiences of to-day.

The first phenomenon to impress him must be the fact that in a large proportion of the dramas professing to deal with current social life the chief persons are the drones of society and the rich people of leisure or labour, most of them with handles or tails to their names. Half of our comedies are supposed to pa.s.s among the "n.o.bs," and the middle-cla.s.s characters are merely introduced as a necessary part of the machinery.

It has been said that the British people dearly loves a lord, and a belief in this may be one reason why the upper ten thousand furnish so many of the heroes and heroines.

A further fact is that certain managers are alleged to think that their theatres gain in dignity by presenting Mayfair plays, and perhaps there are players who take a great joy in appearing as Lord this, or Lady that, or the Honourable somebody. Indeed, there was a case where an actor-manager usurped a king's prerogative and transferred the chief characters in a play by a young dramatist to the celestial regions of Burke, notwithstanding the protest of the author, who admitted his absolute ignorance of the manners, ways of thought, and style in conversation of the inhabitants of Belgravia: no changes were made except in the names, and yet n.o.body suggested that the play was particularly rich in solecisms.

This form of sn.o.bbery has at least one advantage, it saves the playwright from the trouble of considering the questions of money in the play. If there is to be an elopement in it there is no difficulty on the score of expense--a difficulty that, in vulgar real life, has caused some intrigues to become sordid hole-and-corner divorce dramas instead of idylls of pa.s.sionate irregular love.

One notices that certain professions are under a kind of ban upon the stage. The country contains thousands of solicitors, most of them well educated and drawn from the cla.s.s that feeds the Bar, the Church, the Army, Navy, Medicine, Science and the Arts. This body of solicitors has an enormous influence upon the conscience of the country--more influence than any other cla.s.s, except, perhaps, that of the parsons. How is the solicitor treated on the stage? Almost always with contempt, at the best as a humble adviser. He is the comic character or the villain; generally, as a further insult, the secondary villain. The attorney is sometimes the hero of a farce, as in _The Headless Man_--never in comedy, or to be more correct, hardly ever, for Mr Granville Barker in _The Voysey Inheritance_ gave a very fine and sympathetic study of a young solicitor. The dramatist may say in defence that he is truthful, that he merely reflects the vulgar prejudice against the profession, founded upon the misdeeds of a very small proportion of its members.

The barrister receives better treatment, but, of course, he is generally deemed to be a more "genteel" person; yet, in considering stage barristers, one notices that they are drawn very superficially, that their profession is accidental to the play, and little or nothing turns on the influence of the career upon the man. Judges, like solicitors, are usually regarded as comic.

Our stage has hardly inherited Moliere traditions concerning the doctors; there were two important plays, _The Medicine Man_ and _The Physician_, in which members of the healing art are treated seriously--though Dr Tregenna in the former was rather a caricature, and in _The Doctor's Dilemma_ we had a brilliantly painted group of medical men. The Christian Scientist may complain of neglect, even if there was some antic.i.p.ation of him in _Judah_, and a humble branch of the craft was handled ably by Mrs Merrick in _Jimmy's Mother_. The real quack has remained almost unscathed.

The army, of course, has not been neglected. Half the Lotharios of modern drama belong to the destructive profession, and the peppery or tedious colonel is an old stock friend; whilst the "Dobbin" type is handled very frequently, and the V.C. has been bestowed more often by dramatists than by royalty. The modern officer of the good type, the man with an honest, energetic interest in his profession, is rarely presented.

What about the navy? There was _The Flag-Lieutenant_ and also _Captain Drew on Leave_, the latter a somewhat unpleasant picture, fortunately exhibiting no trace of the sailor's spirit or style of thought. One cannot complain nowadays of a lack of parsons or Nonconformist ministers, though it is irksome to see that the latter, as a rule, are presented in an odious light, by way, probably, of a mean little revenge for the hostility of the Nonconformist to the theatre--a hostility which could hardly surprise any dispa.s.sionate person who considers the present state of the stage.

The architect, save in _The Master Builder_, is almost unknown; the engineer, unspecialised as a rule, figures vaguely sometimes.

Perhaps one ought to write guardedly concerning the journalist. Still, at least, facts may be stated. As a rule he appears as reporter or interviewer, and is treated comically. In _The Perfect Lover_ Mr Sutro handles him seriously, and that play contains an elaborate picture of a weak-minded journalist as well as a wicked solicitor. Of the existence of thousands of men, highly educated and many of them possessing brilliant degrees, connected with the enormous newspaper interest of this country, the stage takes no cognizance. A dramatic critic occasionally is exhibited--as a rule in connexion with the champagne-and-chicken theory.

The vast army devoted to science is almost ignored, though sometimes the inventor has a kind of "innings": in _The Middleman_ Mr Henry Arthur Jones made a striking figure of him. Financiers, business men, merchants and the like have little justice done to them. To the dramatist the fraudulent is the only interesting financier. He certainly is very fond of working on the _Mercadet_ basis. He commonly confounds the stockbroker with the bucket-shop keeper, and invariably a.s.sumes that the company promoter is a thief. The merchant or manufacturer tends to replace the French uncle from America, and his wealth rather than himself is employed by the playwright to get his characters out of a mess.

The novelist or poet is a difficult person for stage treatment; the pictures of the dramatist in the theatre are curiously unlifelike--as unlifelike as the theatrical managers on the stage. There are reasons for this that need not be discussed.

It seems a pity that the playwrights, when dealing with life in the strata above shopkeeping, should not apply themselves more fully to the study of the enormous cla.s.s which is the backbone of the country, instead of choosing so often merely the idle cla.s.ses, members of which as a rule are less highly individualized. One may apply to the characters in many of our comedies certain phrases used by Theophile Gautier: "The personages belong to no particular time or country. They come and go without our knowing why or how; they neither eat nor drink, they do not live in any particular place, and have no _metier_."

The "neither eat nor drink," of course, is quite inapplicable; we have far too much eating and drinking on the stage. The low, comic meals of the Adelphi are replaced by similar or slightly more "genteel" humours of comic eating in comedies. It may be that this phenomenon is due to a belief that playgoers want to see something in the theatres far divorced from its ordinary life, but this belief seems hardly consistent with certain notable tendencies towards realism. Undoubtedly the public has not grown tired of plays dealing seriously with current human life; it has had no opportunity of growing tired of them.

Since this was written the "Yellow Journalism" editor has twice appeared, once in the brilliant comedy called _What the Public Wants_, by Mr Arnold Bennett, where Mr James Hearn represented him superbly, and on the other occasion in Mr f.a.gan's clever work called _The Earth_, when Mr M'Kinnel acted ably. Also we have had an engineer in _The Building of Bridges_ and a doctor in _Fires of Fate_.