Part 7 (2/2)

[8] _Macaire._ By R. L. Stevenson and W. E. Henley. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York. Copyright, 1895, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.

[9] R. M. DeWitt, New York City.

[10] _Theatre Complet_, vol. v. Dumas fils. Calmann Levy, Paris.

[11] Marlowe's _Faustus_, Act v. Mermaid Series or Everyman's Library.

[12] _The Romancers._ Translated by Mary Hendee. Doubleday & McClure Co., New York.

[13] _The Blind._ Translated by Richard Hovey. Copyright, 1894 and 1896, by Stone & Kimball, Chicago.

[14] _etudes Critiques_ vol. VII, p. 207.

[15] _Play-Making_, p. 48. William Archer. Small, Maynard & Co., Boston.

CHAPTER III

FROM SUBJECT TO PLOT. CLEARING THE WAY

A play may start from almost anything: a detached thought that flashes through the mind; a theory of conduct or of art which one firmly believes or wishes only to examine; a bit of dialogue overheard or imagined; a setting, real or imagined, which creates emotion in the observer; a perfectly detached scene, the antecedents and consequences of which are as yet unknown; a figure glimpsed in a crowd which for some reason arrests the attention of the dramatist, or a figure closely studied; a contrast or similarity between two people or conditions of life; a mere incident--noted in a newspaper or book, heard in idle talk, or observed; or a story, told only in the barest outlines or with the utmost detail. ”How do the ideas underlying plays come into being? Under the most varying conditions. Most often you cannot tell exactly how. At the outset you waste much time hunting for a subject, then suddenly one day, when you are in your study or even in the street, you bring up with a start, for you have found something. The piece is in sight. At first there is only an impression, an image of the brain that wholly defies words. If you were to write out exactly what you feel at the moment--provided that were at all possible--it would be exceedingly difficult to indicate its attractiveness. The situation is similar to that when you dream that you have discovered an idea of profound significance; on awaking you write it down; and on rereading perceive that it is commonplace or stale. Then you follow up the idea; it tries to escape, and when captured at last, still resists, ceaselessly changing form. You wish to write a comedy; the idea cries, 'Make a tragedy of me, or a story-play.' At last, after a struggle you master the idea.”[1]

Back of _La Haine_ of Sardou was the detached thought or query: ”Under what circ.u.mstances will the profound charity of woman show itself in the most striking manner? In the preface to _La Haine_, Sardou has told how his plays revealed themselves to him. 'The problem is invariable. It appears as a kind of equation from which the unknown quant.i.ty must be found. The problem gives me no peace till I have found the answer.'”[2]

Maeterlinck wrote several of his earlier plays, _The Intruder_, _Princess Maleine_, _The Blind_, to demonstrate the truth of two artistic theories of his: that what would seem to most theatre-goers of the time inaction might be made highly dramatic, and that partial or complete repet.i.tion of a phrase may have great emotional effect. _Magda_ (_Heimat_) of Sudermann was written to ill.u.s.trate the possible inherent tragedy of Magda's words: ”Show them [people thoroughly sincere and honest but limited in experience and outlook] that beyond their narrow virtues there may be something true and good.” In _Le Fils Naturel_ of Dumas the younger, the illegitimate son, till late in the play, believes his father to be his uncle. ”The logical development would seem to be obvious: father and son falling into each other's arms. Dumas, on the contrary, arranged that the son should not take the family name, and that the play should end with the following dialogue:

_The Father._ You will surely permit me, when we are alone together, to call you my son.

_The Son._ Yes, uncle.

It seems that Montigny, Director of the Gymnase Theatre, was shocked by the frigidity of this denouement. He said to Dumas, 'Make them embrace each other; the play, in that case, will have at least thirty additional performances.' Dumas answered, 'I can't suppress the last word. It is for that I wrote the piece.'”[3] One suspects that Lord Dunsany feels the same about the last words of his _King Argimenes_. The whole play apparently ill.u.s.trates the almost irresistible effect of habit and environment. At the opening of the play, King Argimenes is the hungry, overworked slave of the captors who deprived him of his kings.h.i.+p. He talks eagerly with his fellow slaves of the King's sick dog, who will make a rich feast for them if he dies. At the end, Argimenes, completely successful in his revolt, is lord of all he surveys. Surprised by the news of the incoming messenger, he suddenly reverts to a powerful desire of his slavehood, speaking instinctively as did _Le fils_ of Dumas.

_Enter running, a Man of the household of King Darniak. He starts and stares aghast on seeing King Argimenes_

_King Argimenes._ Who are you?

_Man._ I am the servant of the King's dog.

_King Argimenes._ Why do you come here?

_Man._ The King's dog is dead.

_King Argimenes and His Men._ (_Savagely and hungrily._) Bones!

_King Argimenes._ (_Remembering suddenly what has happened and where he is._) Let him be buried with the late King.

_Zarb._ (_In a voice of protest._) Majesty!

_Curtain._[4]

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