Part 39 (2/2)

Nor is it only the literary conventions of an audience which affect the problem of plausibility set an author. The French public of 1841 which came to the five-act play of Eugene Scribe, _Une Chaine_,[32] asked, not a convincing picture of life, but mere entertainment. Therefore they accepted insufficient motivation and artificiality in handling the scenes. Louise, the wife, discovering from words of her husband as she enters the room that her former lover, Emmeric, now prefers Aline to her, sits down and dashes off a signed letter releasing him. Just why is not clear. In order that she may do this writing un.o.bserved of her husband, two characters must, for some time, be so managed as to stand between him and her. In order that the husband may never know she has been in love with Emmeric, the letter must be kept out of his hands, and read only by the guardian of Aline, Clerambeau. All this requires constant artifice. Sidney Grundy made a one-act adaptation of _Une Chaine_ called _In Honor Bound_.[33] In this, Lady Carlyon, waking from sleep on the divan in her husband's study, hears, un.o.bserved by Philip and Sir George, the young man's admission that he no longer cares for her. When her cry reveals her, Sir George, her husband, thinking her unwell, goes to bring her niece, Rose, to her aid. Lady Carlyon learns promptly from Philip that the guardian of the girl he is engaged to demands a letter releasing him from any former entanglement. Lady Carlyon, to cover her chagrin, with seeming willingness writes and signs a letter. Thus the writing takes place when the husband is off stage, and the evident chagrin of Lady Carlyon motivates it better. The relation of the husband to the letter is also handled better than in the original. He, unlike St. Geran, strongly suspects that his wife has cared for the younger man. Lady Carlyon is unaware that Sir George is the guardian in question and that the girl is her niece, Rose.

Consequently she lets slip that Philip possesses the desired letter. Sir George demands it as his right, noting her disturbance when she learns that her husband is involved in the situation. When Philip refuses to surrender the letter, Sir George courteously permits him to read it aloud. Just before the signature is reached, he stops Philip, asking him if the letter is signed. When Philip admits that it is, Sir George insists on having the letter, then, without looking at it, burns it at the lamp with words of sympathy for the writer. All this turns the husband in this scene from a mere lay figure into a character, and greatly lessens the artificiality of the original. By means of better characterization a motivation fundamentally more plausible is provided.

Why? Because an English audience of 1880-90 expected much more probability in a play than did a French or English audience of 1841.

Of course, conduct initially unconvincing may be so treated as to become entirely satisfactory. One of the delights in characterization is so preparing for an exhibition of character likely to seem unreal of itself that when it is presented it is accepted either at once or before the scene closes. Any motive which a dramatist can make acceptable to his audience is ultimately just as good as one accepted unquestioningly.

Shylock's demand for the pound of flesh is in itself unplausible enough--the act of one demented or insane. But Shakespeare's emphasis on his racial hate lends it possibility. His presentation of the other people in the play as accepting the bond with the minimum of question makes it seem probable. If a would-be dramatist were to rule out as material not to be treated whatever at the outset seems improbable or impossible, think what our drama would lose: such plays as _Faust_, _Midsummer Night's Dream_, _The Blue Bird_, and even _Hamlet_.

Repeatedly in treating plausibility it has been implied or stated that what is said or done must be ”in character.” This suggests another test of good motivation. What happens must be plausible, not only in that it accords with known human experience, but with what has been done by the character in preceding portions of the play. In _The Masqueraders_, when Sir Brice and David stake Dulcie and her child against the fortune of the latter, and let all turn upon a game of cards, a reader is skeptical, for even if it be admitted that Sir Brice might do this, it does not accord with what we know of David from the earlier scenes of the play.

(_Exit Dulcie. The two men are left alone. Another slight pause. Sir Brice walks very deliberately up to David. The two men stand close to each other for a moment or two._)

_Sir Brice._ You've come to settle your little account, I suppose?

_David._ I owe you nothing.

_Sir Brice._ But I owe you six thousand pounds. I haven't a penny in the world. I'll cut you for it, double or quits.

_David._ I don't play cards.

_Sir Brice._ You'd better begin. (_Rapping on the table with the cards._)

_David._ (_Very firmly._) I don't play cards with _you_.

_Sir Brice._ And I say you shall.

_David._ (_Very stern and contemptuous._) I don't play cards with you.

(_Going towards door; Sir Brice following him up._)

_Sir Brice._ You refuse?

_David._ I refuse.

_Sir Brice._ (_Stopping him._) Once for all, will you give me a chance of paying back the six thousand pounds that Lady Skene has borrowed from you? Yes or no?

_David._ No.

_Sir Brice._ No?

_David._ (_Very emphatically._) No. (_Goes to door, suddenly turns round, comes up to him._) Yes. (_Comes to the table._) I _do_ play cards with you. You want my money. Very well. I'll give you a chance of winning all I have in the world.

_Sir Brice._ (_After a look of astonishment._) Good. I'm your man. Any game you like, and any stakes.

_David._ (_Very calm, cold, intense tone all through._) The stakes on my side are some two hundred thousand pounds. The stakes on your side are--your wife and child.

_Sir Brice._ (_Taken aback._) My wife and child.

_David._ Your wife and child. Come--begin! (_Points to the cards._)

_Sir Brice._ (_Getting flurried._) My wife and child? (_Puts his hand restlessly through his hair, looks intently at David. Pause._) All right. (_Pause. Cunningly._) I value my wife and child very highly.

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