Chapter IV: From Subject Through Story to Plot. Clearness Through Wise Selection

Dumas the younger, at twenty, wishing to write his first play, asked his father for the secret of a successful play. That man of many successful novels and plays replied: "It's very simple: First Act, clear; Third Act, short; and everywhere, interest." Though play-writing is not always so easy a matter as when a man of genius like Dumas the elder wrote the relatively simple romantic dramas of his day, he emphasized one of the fundamentals of drama when he called for clearness in the first act. He might well have called for it everywhere. First of all, a dramatist who has found his point of departure must know just what it means to him, what he wants to do with it. Is he merely telling a story for its own sake, satisfied if the incidents be increasingly interesting till the final curtain falls? Is he writing his play, above all, for one special scene in it, as was Mr. H. A. Jones, in _Mrs. Dane's Defence_,[1] in its third act? Does he merely wish to set people thinking about conditions of today, to write a drama of ideas, like Mr. Galsworthy in _The Pigeon_,[2] or M. Paul Loyson, in _The Apostle_?[3] Has he, like Brieux in _Damaged Goods_[4] or _The Cradle_,[5] an idea he wishes to convey, and so must write a problem play? Is his setting significant for one scene only or has it symbolic values for the whole play? As Dumas the younger well said, "How can you tell what road to take unless you know where you are going?"[6]

The trouble with most would-be dramatists is that they make too much of the mere act of writing, too little of the thinking preliminary to composition and accompanying it. With the point of departure clearly in mind, seeing some characters who immediately connect themselves with the subject, forecasting some scenes and a few bits of dialogue, they rush to their desks before they see with equal clearness, we will not say the plot but even the story necessary for the proposed play. What is the result? "They have a general view of their subject, they know approximately the situations, they have sketched out the characters, and when they have said to themselves, 'This mother will be a coquette, this father will be stern, this lover a libertine, this young girl impressionable and tender,' the fury of making their scenes seizes them. They write, they write, they come upon ideas, fine, delicate, and even strong; they have charming details ready to hand: but when they have worked much and come to plotting, for always one must come to that, they try to find a place for this charming bit; they can never make up their minds to put aside this delicate or strong idea, and they will do exactly the opposite of what they should,--make the plot for the sake of the scenes when the scenes should grow out of the plot. Consequently the dialogue will be constrained in movement and much trouble and time will be lost."[7]

A modern play recently submitted to the writer in manuscript showed just this trouble. Act I was in itself good. Act II was good in one scene, bad in the other. Act III was in itself right. Yet at the end of the play one queried: "What is the meaning of it all?" Nothing bound the parts together. There was no clear emphasis on some central purpose. The author, when questioned, admitted that with certain characters in mind, he had written the scenes as they came to him. When pressed to state his exact subject, he advanced first one, then another, at last admitting candidly: "I guess I never have been able to get far enough away from the play to see quite what all of it does mean." Asked whether there was not underlying all his scenes irony of fate, in that a man trying his best to do what the world holds commendable is bound in such relationship to two or three people that always they give his career a tragic turn, he said, after consideration, "Yes. What if I call my play _The Irony of Life_?" With the purpose of making that his meaning he reworked his material. Quickly the parts fell into line, with a clear and interesting play as the result. Many and many a play containing good characterization, good dialogue and some real individuality of treatment has gone to pieces in this way. A recent play opened with a well-written picture of the life of a group of architects' draughtsmen. Apparently we were started on a story of their common or conflicting interests. After that first act, however, the play turned into a story of the way in which one of these young draughtsmen, a kind of mixture of Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford and D'Artagnan, forced his way to professional and social success. Once or twice, scenes seemed intentional satire on our social classes. The fact is, the author had in the back of his mind social satire, characterization of the central figure, and a picture of the life of young draughtsmen. As material for any one of these came to him when he was writing, he gave his attention wholly to it. Though this might do for a rough draft, it must be rewritten to make the chief interest stand out as most important, and to give the other interests clearly their exact part in a perfectly clear whole. Left as written, the play seemed to have a first act somewhat off the question, and a later development going off now and then at a tangent. Its total effect, in spite of some admirable characterization, considerable truth to life, and real cleverness, was confusion for the audience and consequent dissatisfaction.

Another play, often extremely well characterized, had, as an apparent central purpose, study of a mother who has been trying to give her son such surroundings that he cannot go the way of his father who, many years since, had embezzled. Yet almost as frequently the purpose seemed to be a very close study of the son, who, although the mother, blinded by her affection, does not see it, is mentally and morally almost the duplicate of his father. Moved with sympathy, now for one and now for the other, just as the interest of the writer led him, the audience came away confused and dissatisfied. How can an audience be expected to know what a dramatist has not settled for himself, the chief of his interests among several?

When M. de Curel, with his original idea or picture for _L'Envers d'une Sainte_ sat down to reflect, "he noticed that the interest in the subject lies in the feelings a woman must experience when she returns after a long absence to a place full of memories, and finds herself face to face with her past life. There was the psychological idea which seemed to him alluring,--to paint a special phase of emotion."[8] There, for him, lay the heart of his subject. Bulwer-Lytton, writing to Macready in September, 1838, of a proposed play on the life of the Chevalier de Marillac, in which Cardinal Richelieu must also be an important figure, said: "Now look well at this story, you will see that incident and position are good. But then there is one great objection. Who is to do Richelieu? Marillac has the principal part and requires you; but a bad Richelieu would spoil all. On the other hand, if you took Richelieu, there would be two great acts without you, which will never do; and the main interest of the plot would not fall on you. Tell me what you propose. Must we give up this idea?"[9] Bulwer-Lytton had not yet found the dramatic centre in his material. At first the story and character of Marillac blinded him to the fact that the material was best fitted for a dramatic study of the great Cardinal. When, shortly after his letter, he came to see that the dramatic centre lay in Richelieu, his famous play began developing. With that magnet in hand, he quickly drew to him the right filaments of incident to make a unified and interesting story.

Any dramatist has the right to decide first, what is the real importance of his subject to him, but before he finishes he may find that he will discard what originally seemed to him important, either because something interests him more as he reflects or because he comes to see in his subject an interest other than his own which will be stronger for the audience. M. de Curel, thinking over his proposed play, abandoned his first idea because "in ten minutes space it transformed itself. He abandoned his first idea in order to try to paint the slightly analogous feelings of a nun. He imagined a young girl who, at a former time, in a moment of madness, had wished to kill the wife of the man with whom she was infatuated. To expiate her crime, she entered a convent, took the vows, and lived in retirement for twenty years. Then she learned that the man whom she loved had just died. Whereupon, perhaps from desire for freedom, perhaps from curiosity, she comes out of her exile, returns to her family and finds herself in the presence of the widow and her child." Here was the beginning, not of _L'Envers d'une Sainte_,[10] but of another play, _L'Invitee_. "It may happen--something certainly surprising--that the idea which allured the author into writing the piece makes no part of the piece itself. It is excluded from it; no trace of it remains. Note that the point of departure of _L'Invitee_ is an idea of a woman capable of murder who is passed off as insane. Of the murder nothing remains, and as to the mother's madness it is reduced to almost nothing: it is no more than a rumor that has been going about, and the mother has not been really insane."[11] Not to yield to such a compelling new aspect of the subject is to find one's way blocked. The resulting tragedy, or comedy, for the unyielding playwright, Mr. Archer states amusingly. "'Here,' says a well-known playwright, 'is a common experience. You are struck with an idea with which you fall in love. "Ha!" you say. "What a superb scene where the man shall find the will under the sofa! If that doesn't make them sit up, what will?" You begin the play. The first act goes all right, and the second act goes all right. You come to the third act and somehow it won't go at all. You battle with it for weeks in vain; and then it suddenly occurs to you, "Why, I see what's wrong! It's that confounded scene where the man finds the will under the sofa. Out it must come!" You cut it out and at once all goes smooth again. But you have thrown overboard the great effect that first tempted you.'"[12]

The point is not that when a dramatist first begins to think over his subject, he must decide exactly what is for him the heart of it. He may shift, reject, and change his own interest again and again, as attractive aspects of his subject suggest themselves. The point is that this shifting of interest should take place before he begins to put his play on paper. Not to be perfectly clear with one's self which of three or four possible interests offered by a subject is the one really interesting is to waste time. As the play develops, a writer wobbles from one subject to another and so leaves no clear final impression. Or he is obliged to rewrite the play, placing the emphasis properly for clearness. In one case he fails. In the other he does his work twice. The present writer has seen many a manuscript, after a year or more of juggling with shifting interests, given up in despair and thrown into the waste basket.

Probably it is best to leave till revision the question whether the interest presented will appeal to the general audience just as it does to the writer. It certainly can do no harm, however, and may save labor, when an author knows just what he wants to treat and how he wishes to treat it, for him to consider whether this interest is likely to be as important for his public as for him. Many years ago, Mr. A.M. Palmer produced _The Parisian Romance_, a play so trite in subject and treatment that, as written, it might easily have failed. A young actor, seeing in a minor role the opportunities for a popular success built up a fine piece of characterization in the part of Baron Chevrial. That gave Richard Mansfield his first real start. The play was remodeled so that this element of novelty, this fresh piece of characterization, became central. Thus re-emphasized the play became known all over the country.[13] Not long since a play written by its author to be wholly amusing, proved so hilarious in the second act that the actors rehearsed it with difficulty. When produced, however, the audience was so won by the hero in Act I that they took his mishaps in the second act with sympathetic seriousness. The play had to be rewritten.

It is at careful planning or plotting that the inexperienced dramatist balks. Scenarios, the outlines which will show any intelligent reader what plot the dramatist has in mind and its exact development, are none too popular. They are, however, the very best means by which a dramatist may force himself to find what for him is the heart of his subject.[14] The moment that is clear to him, it is the open sesame to whatever story his play will demand. It is, too, the magnet which draws to him the bits of thought, character, action and dialogue which he shapes into plot.

With his purpose clearly in mind, the dramatist, as he passes from point of departure through story to plot, selects, and selects, and selects. Among all the possible people who might be the main figure in accomplishing his purpose, he picks the one most interesting him, or which he believes will most interest his public. From all the people who might surround his central figure he chooses the few who will best accomplish his purpose. If his people first appear to him as types, as in the case of _The Country Boy_ to be cited in a moment, selectively he moves from type to individuals. Sooner or later he must determine how many of the possible characteristics of his figures he cares to present. As he writes, he selects from all that his people might say, and from all they might do in the way of illustrative action, only what seems to him necessary for his purpose. No dramatist uses all that occurs to him in the way of dramatic incident, characters, or dialogue. As he shapes his story; as he reshapes his story into plot; in many cases before he touches pen to paper, he has rejected much, always selecting what he uses by the touchstone of the definite purpose which knowing the heart of his subject has given him.

Doubtless some writers see situation first, and others character, but sooner or later all must come to some story. Now as story is only incident so unified that it has interesting movement from a beginning to an end, ultimately the task of all dramatists is to find illustrative action which as clearly and quickly as possible will present the characters of the story or make clear the purpose of the dramatist. Here is the selective process by which Mr. Selwyn got at the story of his _Country Boy_:

It happened to be just before Christmas of last year. The season some
way impressed itself on me, and I began to think what a desolate place
New York must be for a lot of fellows who had come here from small
towns and who were thinking of the homes they had left there, and
longing to go back to them for the Christmas season. Doubtless there
are hundreds of them here who came here years ago vowing that they
would never go back till they had "made good," with the result that
they have never since spent Christmas in the old home. [_The initial
idea._] There is always somebody to whom we are always successful, and
some one to whom we are never successful, and many times, if these
fellows would go back to their old homes, among the people who really
care for them, they would be regarded as successes, whereas in the
great city they are looked upon as failures. [_Type character._]

It seemed to me that a character of that kind would make a good
subject for a play, and then I began to look around for some one
tangible to work from. Suddenly I thought of a newspaper man I used to
know when I lived at a boarding house on 51st Street, here in New
York. He was a free lance, and a grouchy, rheumatic, envious, bitter
fellow, who had all the "dope" on life--was a philosopher and could
tell every one else how to live, but didn't seem to be able to apply
any of his knowledge to himself. He wouldn't even speak to any one in
the boarding house but me, and why he singled me out for the honor I
don't know. But anyway he did, and he used to tell me all of his
troubles--how he had come from a little town with great ambitions, and
had vowed never to go back till he had attained all that he had set
out to get. And yet he had never been back. He was a failure; dressed
shabbily and had given up hope for himself--and still, as I say, he
could tell everybody else just what to do to succeed. When I lived
there in the boarding house and used to see him, I thought he was the
only one of his kind in town, but since then I have found that there
are many others just like him. [_Individual character._]

So it occurred to me that he would be a good subject for _The Country
Boy_, and I worked out his life as it had actually been lived here in
New York. Though the character was good I presently discovered that it
would not do for my central figure, for the reason that he had been
here too long. He had gone through the mill and knew all about it, and
what I really needed was a boy who could be shown to come from the
country, and who could be taken through the temptations and
discouragements that a boy of that sort would have to endure. So I
just drew this younger character from my imagination. [_Selection of
special figure._]

I had to have this chap a bumptious, conceited sort of youth so as to
have the contrast stronger when he met the hard knocks that were to
come to him in the city. There are many boys of that sort in small
towns. They do not see the opportunities around them but imagine
nothing short of a big city has space enough for them to develop in.
[_Purpose determining characterization._][15]

From idea through type-character to the individual Mr. Selwyn worked to the life in New York of the older man, and the story of the temptations and discouragements of the boy. When he had reached these, Mr. Selwyn saw that the best story for his purpose would be a mingling of the two. The boy "worked, in very well with the character of the old newspaper man, because it allowed him to give the youngster the benefit of his experience, and to succeed eventually by taking advantage of it. That brought a happy ending for both of them."[16]

Any one of these stories as it lay in the mind of Mr. Selwyn before he turned it into plot, was a sequence of incidents, actions illustrative of one or both of the two characters, and, through them, of the original idea. Just what is meant by this "illustrative action" so often mentioned? In _Les Oberle_, by Rene Bazin, is a charming chapter describing the Alsatian vintage festival. At their work the women sing the song of the Black Bow of Alsace--in the novel but one detail of an interesting description. The account comes about midway in the book. When the novel was dramatized it became necessary to make the audience understand, even before the hero, Jean, enters in Act I, that absorbed in his studies in Germany, he has been unaware of the constant friction in the home land between the governing Germans and the Alsatians. Here is the way the dramatist, emotionalizing the description of the novel, turned it into dramatic illustration of Jean's ignorance of the condition of the country. Uncle Ulrich, Bastian, a neighbor, and his daughter, Odile, at sunset are waiting in a wood road for Jean, just arrived from Germany and walking home from the station.

(_Outside a voice sings as it approaches in the distance._)

_The Black Bow of the daughters of Alsace
Is like a bird with spreading wings._

_Ulrich._ Ah, look there! Who can be so imprudent as to sing that air
of Alsace?

_The Voice._
_It can overpass the mountains._

_Bastian._ If it should be he!

_The Voice_.
_And watch what goes on there._

_Odile._ I am sure it is Jean's voice.

_Ulrich._ Foolhardy! They will hear him!

_The Voice._ (_Nearer._)
_The Black Bow of the daughters of Alsace--_

_Ulrich._ Again, and louder than ever!

_The Voice._
_Is like a cross we carry
In memory of those men and women
Whose souls were like our own._

_Ulrich._ Jean! Upon my word that young lawyer cannot know the laws.
Jean![17]

Just at the end of the same act it is necessary to illustrate the constant presence, the activity and alertness of the German forces and the irritation all this means to the Alsatians. In a story much of this would be described by the author. In the play we feel with each of the speakers the irritating presence of the troops, and so have perfect dramatic illustrative action.

(_They are just starting off when Bastian stops them._)

_Bastian._ Chut!

_Jean._ What?

_Bastian._ (_Softly._) Listen!

_Jean._ (_Softly._) A rolling stone in the ravine.

_Ulrich._ Another!

_Jean._ Steps!

_Ulrich._ Of horses.

_Jean._ Well?

_Ulrich._ A patrol!

_Jean._ (_Moved._) Ah!

_Bastian._ The Hussars!

_Jean._ What are they doing?

_Ulrich._ They are keeping watch.

_Bastian._ They are drilling.

_Ulrich._ Always!

_Jean._ Ah!

_Bastian._ Day and night.

_Ulrich._ Never resting.

_Bastian._ Perhaps they are trailing some deserter.

_Jean._ Ah! There are deserters?

_Bastian._ They won't tell you so in the town.

_Odile._ But we on the frontiers see them.

_Jean._ Ah!

_Bastian._ They who go out by the Grand' fontaine pass this way.

_Odile._ (_Softly._) Near our farm. From our house one can see them
passing.

_Jean._ Ah!

_Ulrich._ Chut!

_Jean._ I hear the breathing of their horses.

_Ulrich._ Be still.

_Jean._ We are doing nothing wrong.

_Bastian._ Wait.

_Ulrich._ Down there--wait--lean over.

_Jean._ I see--

_Ulrich._ They are coming up.

_Bastian._ They are going by.

_Jean._ They have crossed the road.

_Ulrich._ We can go down for the moment.

_Bastian._ Ouf!

_Jean._ It is strange--twenty times, a hundred times in Germany I have
met the patrols of dragoons, or hussars, and admired their fine form.
Here--

_Ulrich._ Here?

_Jean._ Only to see them gives me a queer feeling at the heart.

_Ulrich._ Don't you understand, my dear Jean? There they were in their
own country, here they are in ours.[18]

Early in the first scene of _The Changeling_, by Thomas Middleton, Beatrice states clearly, and more than once, the physical repulsion De Flores causes her. Knowing full well, however, the dramatic value of illustrative action, Middleton handled the ending of the scene in this way. Beatrice turning to leave the room, starts as she finds De Flores close at hand.

_Beatrice._ (_Aside._) Not this serpent gone yet? (_Drops a glove._)

_Vermandero._ Look, girl, thy glove's fallen,
Stay, stay! De Flores, help a little.
(_Exeunt Vermandero, Alsemero and Servant._)

_De Flores._ Here, lady. (_Offers her glove._)

_Beatrice._ Mischief on your officious forwardness!
Who bade you stoop? they touch my hand no more:
There! for the other's sake I part with this;
(_Takes off and throws down the other glove._)
Take 'em, and draw thine own skin off with 'em.
(_Exit with Diaphanta and Servants._)

_De Flores._ Here's a favour with a mischief now! I know
She had rather wear my pelt tanned in a pair
Of dancing pumps, than I should thrust my fingers
Into her sockets here.[19]

Here the dramatist makes repulsion clear by illustrative action so emotional that it moves us to keenest sympathy or dislike for the woman herself. Dramatically speaking, then, illustrative action is not merely something which illustrates an idea or character, but it must be an illustration mirroring emotion of the persons in the play or creating it in the observer.

What is the relation of illustrative action to dramatic situation? The first is the essence of the second. A dramatic episode presents an individual or group of individuals so moved as to stir an audience to responsive emotion. Illustrative action by each person in the group or by the group as a whole is basal. The glove incident in _The Changeling_ concerns both Beatrice and De Flores. Hers is illustrative action when she shrinks from the glove his hand has touched. He shows it when kissing and amorously fondling the glove she has refused. Their illustrative actions make together the dramatic episode of the glove,--which is in turn a part of Scene 1 of the first act of the play. There are the divisions: play, act, scene, episode, and illustrative action. Just as sometimes the development of a single episode may make a scene, or there may be but one scene to an act, there are cases when an illustrative action is a dramatic episode. The ending of Act II of Ostrovsky's _Storm_ illustrates this.

Varvara, who has just gone out, has put into the hands of Catherine the key to a gate in the garden hedge. This Varvara has taken without the knowledge of her mother, who is the mother-in-law of Catherine. Just as Varvara goes, she has said that if she meets Catherine's lover, Boris, she will tell him to come to the gate. Catherine, terrified, at first tries to refuse the key, but Varvara insists on leaving it with her.

_Catherine._ (_Alone, the key in her hand._) Oh, what is she doing?
What hasn't she courage for? Ah, she is crazy--yes, crazy. Here is
what will ruin me. That's the truth! I must throw this key away, throw
it far away, into the river, so that it may never be found again. It
burns my hand like a hot coal. (_Dreamily._) This is how we are
ruined, people like me! Slavery, that isn't a gay business for any
one. How many ideas it puts into our heads. Another would be enchanted
with what has happened to me, and would rush on full tilt. How can one
act in that way without reflection, without reason? Misfortune comes
so quickly, and afterward there is all the rest of one's life in which
to weep and torment oneself, and the slavery will be still more
bitter. (_Silence._) And how bitter it is, slavery! Oh, how bitter it
is! Who would not suffer from it? And we other women suffer more than
all the rest. Here am I at this moment battling with myself in vain,
not seeing a ray of light, and I shan't see one. The further I go, the
worse it is. And here is this additional sin that I am going to take
on my conscience. (_She dreams a moment._) Were not my
mother-in-law--she has broken me: it is she who has made me come to
hate this house. I hate its very walls. (_She looks pensively at the
key._) Ought I to throw it away? Of course I ought. How did it get
into my hands? To seduce me to my ruin. (_Listening._) Some one is
coming! My heart fails me. (_She puts the key into her pocket._)
No!--no one. Why was I so frightened? And I hid the key--Very well,
that's the way it is to be. It is clear that fate wills it. And after
all, where is the sin in seeing him just once, if at a distance? And
if I were even to talk with him a little, where would the harm
be?--But my husband--Very well, it was he himself who didn't forbid
it! Perhaps I shall never have such another chance in all my life.
Then I shall weep and say to myself, "You had a chance to see him and
didn't know how to take advantage of it." What am I saying? Why lie to
myself? I will die for it if necessary, but see him I will. Whom do I
want to deceive here? Throw away the key? No, not for anything in the
world. I keep it. Come what will, I will see Boris. Ah, if the night
would only come more quickly!

_Curtain._[20]

Sometimes, even a playwright of considerable experience, though his mind is full of dramatic material, finds his plotting at a standstill. The trouble is that he has not sifted his material by means of the purpose he has in mind. When he does, details of setting, bits of characterization or even characters as wholes, parts or all of a scene and many ideas good in themselves but not necessarily connected with his real subject, will drop out. Many plays of modern realism have been overloaded with details of setting, with figures, or even scenes really unessential. In a recent play of Breton life a prominent detail in the setting of a cave was the figurehead of a ship. Even if one missed noticing this striking detail, its presence was emphasized by the text. It turned out, however, that the figurehead had nothing to do with the story or its development, nor was it really needed for any special color it gave. It should, therefore, have been omitted. No fault is more common than the use of unnecessary figures. When Lady Gregory wrote her version of _The Workhouse Ward_, she wisely cut out the matron, the doorkeeper, and all the inmates except two. With three figures her play is a masterpiece. With five actors and voices from off stage, Dr. Hyde's Gaelic version is not. A one-act play adapted from the Spanish showed some dozen or more individual parts and a mob of at least forty. Ultimately, on a small stage, the plot was done full justice with half that number of individual parts and the crowd reduced to twenty or less. An amusing play of mistaken identity had a delightful scene in which an aunt of the heroine is proposed to by a friend of her youth. In it, the dramatist, with admirable characterization, set forth the views on matrimony of many middle-aged women. Yet the whole scene had nothing whatever to do with the story of the heroine. Consequently it was ultimately dropped out. That dramatic ideas must be sifted was shown on page 75 in the play seemingly about architects' draughtsmen.

Not even when a scene, a bit of dialogue or some other detail, is entirely in character may it always keep its position. Though a detail or episode must be in character before it is admitted, it can hold its position only if it is necessary for the purpose of the play. Time limits everything for the dramatist. The final curtain impending inevitably at the end of two hours and a half is the dramatist's "sword of Damocles." It reminds him that in a play, "whatever goes for nothing, goes for less than nothing" because it shuts out something which, in its place, might be effective. In Tennyson's _Becket_ is a fine scene, the washing of the beggars' feet by the Archbishop.[21] It illustrates both customs of the time and a side of Becket's character, yet it contained nothing absolutely necessary to the central purpose of the play. Consequently, as the play must be condensed for acting purposes, Sir Henry Irving cut out the whole scene.

This time limit forces the dramatist, when choosing between two episodes of equal value otherwise, to select that which does more in less space, or to combine desirable parts of the two episodes when possible. In Tennyson's _Becket_, Scene 1 of Act II and Scene 1 of Act III take place in Rosamund's Bower. Henry and Rosamund are the principal speakers in both. There is, too, no marked lapse of time between the scenes, though Tennyson chose to separate them by the "Meeting of the Kings" at Montmirail. Very naturally, therefore, when condensation was necessary, Irving by severe cutting brought these two scenes together as Act II of his version. He not only saved time; he gained in unity of effect. Similarly, Irving brings together the essential parts of Scene 2, Act II, the "Meeting of the Kings," and Scene 3, Act III, "Traitor's Meadow at Freteval," making them the first scene of the third act in his version.

A cluttered play is always a bad play. Such clutter usually comes from including details of setting, characterization or idea, and even whole characters or scenes, not really necessary. Selection with one's purpose clearly in mind is the remedy for such clutter.

Even, however, when a writer has so carefully selected his dramatic episodes that each is one or more bits of illustrative action bearing on the main idea and entirely in character, he may still be short of story. He cannot rouse and maintain interest moving at haphazard. His central idea must appear in dramatic episodes so ordered as to have sequence,--a beginning, a middle, and an end,--and so emphasized as to have the increasing interest which means movement. He cannot have good story till it has unity of action. When Bulwer-Lytton wrote Macready that he had discovered the heart of his proposed play on Marillac to be Richelieu, note that he speaks of the simplification and the unity resulting: "You will be pleased to hear that I have completed the rough Sketch of the Play in 5 acts--& I hope you will like it. I have taken the subject of Richelieu. Not being able to find any other so original & effective, & have employed somewhat of the story I before communicated to you, but simplified and connected.--_You_ are Richelieu, & Richelieu is brought out, accordingly, as the prominent light round which the other satellites move. It is written on the plan of a great Historical Comedy, & I have endeavoured to concentrate a striking picture of the passions & events--the intrigue & ambition of that era--in a familiar point of view."[22]

Thomas Dekker found the source of his _Shoemakers' Holiday_[23] in a pamphlet by Thomas Deloney, _The Pleasant and Princely History of the Gentle-Craft_.[24] This loosely written pamphlet tries to tell three stories supposed to redound to the credit of the shoemakers: that of Prince Hugh and his love for Winifred; that of Crispin and Crispinianus and the brave deeds of the latter in the wars in France; and, finally, that of Simon Eyre, the master shoemaker who rose to be Lord Mayor of London, his wife and his apprentices. What obviously attracted Dekker in the pamphlet was the third story, to which he saw he could give much realism from his knowledge of the shoemakers about Leadenhall. Unfortunately, the story of Simon Eyre, though it provided him with delightful characters, gave him little variety of incident. Perhaps today a dramatist might make such a play carry almost wholly on the characterization of the shoemaker group. The Elizabethans, however, wanted a complicated story of varied action. Dekker, though he had first-rate romantic material in the story of Crispin and Crispinianus, could hardly weave this in with the story of Eyre, a relatively recent historical figure, for one material called for romantic and the other for realistic treatment. There seemed the deadlock. But Dekker, thinking of this Crispin in love with a princess, who disguised himself as a shoemaker in order to win her hand, remembered the wars of 1588 and English sympathy for the Huguenots involved therein. Therefore he turned Crispin into Lacy, a youth of that period. Lacy is not a prince, but a relative of the Earl of Lincoln, and something of a ne'er-do-well, in love with the Lord Mayor's daughter, Rose. He fears that if he goes to the wars in France, his duty as "chief colonel" of the London Companies, he will lose her. Therefore he sends Askew in his stead and stays in London disguised as one of Eyre's shoemaker apprentices. The purpose of Dekker to write a realistic play of complicated plot has helped him to reshape his material till two stories, as in the case of _The Country Boy_, have become one. Unity appears in materials seemingly as irreconcilable as romance and realism.

There are, however, two weaknesses in this story as now developed: Rose and Lacy, though they appear against the background of the wars, do not connect the apprentices with the enlistment, nor do they afford many scenes of marked dramatic force. Wishing one or two scenes of stronger emotion which at the same time would bring the apprentices into closer connection with the wars, Dekker creates Ralph, Jane, and Hammon. Ralph is one of the shoemakers who, pressed to the war, is torn from his protesting wife and fellow apprentices. In his absence, the citizen Hammon falls in love with Jane. Trying to make her believe that Ralph is dead, he wishes to marry her. Ralph, returning from the war to his former work with Eyre, can find no trace of Jane, for after a slight difference with Margery Eyre, she has disappeared. One day a servant brings Ralph a pair of shoes to be duplicated for a wedding gift. The pair to be copied Ralph recognizes as his parting gift to Jane. Summoning his fellow apprentices to aid him, he goes to the place proposed for the wedding and rescues Jane. Thus some scenes of fine if homely emotion are provided. Wedded love is contrasted with that of Rose and Lacy and with Hammon's courtship, and through Ralph the apprentices are brought closely into connection with the wars.

Many a would-be dramatist suffers, however, not from a superabundance of material bearing on his subject but a dearth of it. Again and again one hears the complaint: "I know who my characters are to be, and I have dramatic situation, but I cannot find my story. I haven't enough dramatic situation to round it out." Just this difficulty troubled Bulwer-Lytton when he was preparing for _Richelieu_. He wrote to Macready:

Many thanks for your letter. You are right about the Plot--it is too
crowded & the interest too divided.--But Richelieu would be a splendid
fellow for the Stage, if we could hit on a good plot to bring him
out--connected with some domestic interest. His wit--his
lightness--his address--relieve so admirably his profound
sagacity--his Churchman's pride--his relentless vindictiveness and the
sublime passion for the glory of France that elevated all. He would be
a new addition to the Historical portraits of the Stage; but then he
must be connected with a plot in which he would have all the stage to
himself, & in which some Home interest might link itself with the
Historical. Alas, I've no such story yet & he must stand over, tho' I
will not wholly give him up....

... Depend on it, I don't cease racking my brains, & something must
come at last.[25]

Such difficulty means that a writer forgets or is ignorant of one of the first principles of dramatic composition. When he has three or four good situations which are in character, he should not hunt new situations till he is sure he knows the full emotional possibilities of the situations he already has. To decide after the closest scrutiny of the situations in hand, that others are needed is one thing. On the other hand, the inexperienced workman presents as quickly as possible the climactic moment of the scene he has in mind, and gets away as rapidly as possible to another intense climax. Finding himself, as a result, badly in need of additional dramatic moments, he hunts for situations as situations. Returning triumphantly with some strong emotional effect, he must perforce put the characters of the earlier scenes into these. Usually, as they have no real part in these later scenes, they prove troublesome. Sometimes the new scenes may be so reshaped as to fit the original characters, but usually the result of this method is that the scenes are foisted on the original characters, becoming obvious misfits, or that the original characters are so modified as to fit them. When modified, however, the original characters no longer perfectly fit the original scenes. Driven backward and forward between character and story, the dramatist pursuing this method often gives up the attempt, saying despairingly: "It is no use. My characters will not give me a plot."

The trouble here is that the inexperienced dramatist treats the situation as if its value lay in its most climactic moment. Often, however, there is as much pleasure for the public emotionally in working up to the climax as in the climax itself. To "hold a situation," that is, to get from it the full dramatic possibilities the characters involved offer, a dramatist must study his characters in it till he has discovered the entire range of their emotion in the scene. This will give him not only many and many a new situation within the original situation, but the transitional scenes which will unify situations originally apparently unrelated except as the same figures appeared in them. For example, consider this.

A kindly woman in middle life comes in friendliest fashion to offer to take the daughter of a proud man in great financial straits into her own home. As treated by an inexperienced writer, there was a prompt, clear statement of what the woman desired, with an immediate passionate denial of the request by the jealously affectionate father. In this treatment we lose the best of the scene. Really this worldly-wise woman, talking to such a man, would lead up tactfully to her proposal. As she led up to it, there would be many dramatic moments, with much interesting revelation of her own and the man's character. Caring for the man as she does, and loving the girl deeply, she would not immediately accept a refusal. After the man's first denial, as she tried by turns to cajole, convince or dominate him, there would be strong dramatic conflict, and, once more, interesting revelation of character. Given, then, some happening, the nature of the human being involved in it will affect its look. A second person involved will affect it even more. Two people, influencing each other because affected by the same incident will give still a third look to the original situation. When you have what seems a good situation, don't rush into another at your earliest opportunity, but instead study it till you know every permutation and combination it holds emotionally for every one involved, both because the situation affects every character, and because every character may affect all the others. Then you will know how to "hold a situation." Said Dumas the Younger: "Before every situation that a dramatist creates, he should ask himself three questions. In this situation, what should I do? What would other people do? What ought to be done? Every author who does not feel disposed to make this analysis should renounce the theatre, for he will never become a dramatist."[26] Though every writer may not examine his material by means of such formal categories, he must in some way gain the thorough information about it for which Dumas calls. Then and then only he can select from the results of his thinking that which will best accomplish his purpose in the play.

A one-act play with a very good central situation came to nothing because its author had not grasped the principle just set forth. A young man and a girl, eloping, come to the station of a small settlement. They find no one about, but the door of the ticket office ajar as if the person in charge had stepped out for a moment. They fear that the father and mother of the girl and perhaps another admirer are on their trail. Partly from curiosity and partly from the desire not to be seen till the train comes, they step into the office, closing the door behind them. Then they discover that they are prisoners, for the door can be opened even from their side only by a person with the right key. Just at this point, the father and mother arrive, amazed at finding no trace of the fugitives. They too are puzzled by the absence of the ticket-seller. Just as they start out to find him he appears, apologetic for his absence. He is mildly interested in their story, but as he has seen no young persons, and as he expects the train shortly, he starts to go into his office. Then he discovers the closed door and admits that he went out to look for his key, which he must have dropped somewhere since he opened the station that morning. Here was of course a dramatic situation of large possibilities, but in the play it was treated almost as just stated. Of course the sensations of the two young people cooped up in the ticket office, expecting the parents, the station agent, and the train, should have given us a comic scene before any one else appeared. The effect of the discovery that they are prisoners upon the girl, the effect upon the young man, the way in which the resulting emotions of each affect the other, all this must be given if the potential comedy of the situation inside the ticket office is to be fully used. The arrival of the father and mother offers a chance not only for the individual emotions of each and their effect upon one another, but for the emotion of the concealed elopers as they hear the familiar voices and understand how enraged the parents are. There is opportunity for a good scene of some length here before the station master appears. When he does enter, he should be interesting, not simply for himself, but for the effect he has on father, mother, girl, and young man, and the new interplay of emotions he causes among them. Add the coming of the former admirer with evidence he has found that the elopers have been making for this station; and as the new complications developed by his coming take shape, let the train be heard far up the line. Surely here is a group of very promising situations.

In this play so crowded with dramatic opportunity, its author found only the most dramatic moments, rushing rapidly from one to the other. Result, a failure. Any dramatic situation made up of a congeries of minor situations is like a great desk the pigeon holes of which are crowded with letters and personal documents. The biographer sitting down before it first makes himself thoroughly conversant with all the data. Then he selects for use only what is of value for the biographical purpose he has in mind. The people in a situation are, for a dramatist, the human data he must study till he so completely understands them that he can differentiate clearly in what they offer between what is useful for his purposes and what is not.

Even Shakespeare, in his earliest work, had not grasped the importance of "holding a situation," as a scene in the _First Part of Henry VI_ shows. He knows how to inform his audience in Scene 2 of Act II why it is that Talbot visits the Countess of Auvergne; in the _Whispers_ of the next to the last line of this scene he even prepares for the surprise Talbot springs upon the Countess in the next scene; but Scene 3 itself he treats merely for the broad situation and a few bits of rhetoric.

A Messenger come to the English camp has just asked which of the men before him is the famous Talbot.

_Talbot._ Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him?

_Messenger._ The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,
With modesty admiring thy renown,
By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe
To visit her poor castle where she lies,
That she may boast she hath beheld the man
Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

_Burgundy._ Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars
Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport,
When ladies crave to be encount'red with.
You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

_Tal._ Ne'er trust me then; for what a world of men
Could not prevail with all their oratory,
Yet hath a woman's kindness over-rul'd;
And therefore tell her I return great thanks,
And in submission will attend on her.
Will not your honours bear me company?

_Bedford._ No, truly, 'tis more than manners will;
And I have heard it said, unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.

_Tal._ Well, then, alone, since there's no remedy,
I mean to prove this lady's courtesy.
Come hither, captain. (_Whispers._) You perceive my mind?

_Captain._ I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. (_Exeunt._)

SCENE 3. _The Countess's castle_

_Enter the Countess and her porter_

_Countess._ Porter, remember what I gave in charge;
And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

_Porter._ Madam, I will. (_Exit._)

_Countess._ The plot is laid. If all things fall out right
I shall as famous be by this exploit
As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death.
Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,
And his achievements of no less account;
Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,
To give their censure of these rare reports.

_Enter Messenger and Talbot_

_Messenger._ Madam,
According as your ladyship desir'd,
By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come.

_Countess._ And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

_Mess._ Madam, it is.

_Countess._ Is this the scourge of France?
Is this the Talbot, so much fear'd abroad
That with his name the mothers still their babes?
I see report is fabulous and false.
I thought I should have seen some Hercules,
A second Hector, for his grim aspect,
And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.
Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!
It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies.

_Tal._ Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;
But since your ladyship is not at leisure,
I'll sort some other time to visit you. (_Going._)

_Countess._ What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.

_Mess._ Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves
To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

_Tal._ Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief,
I go to certify her Talbot's here.

_Reenter Porter with keys_

_Countess._ If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

_Tal._ Prisoner! To whom!

_Countess._ To me, blood-thirsty lord;
And for that cause I train'd thee to my house.
Long time, thy shadow hath been thrall to me,
For in my gallery thy picture hangs;
But now the substance shall endure the like,
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,
That hast by tyranny these many years
Wasted our country, slain our citizens,
And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

_Tal._ Ha, ha, ha!

_Countess._ Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan.

_Tal._ I laugh to see your ladyship so fond
To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow
Whereon to practice your severity.

_Countess._ Why, art not thou the man?

_Tal._ I am indeed.

_Countess._ Then have I substance too.

_Tal._ No, no, I am but shadow of myself.
You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here.
For what you see is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity.
I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,
It is of such a spacious, lofty pitch,
Your roof were not sufficient to contain't.

_Countess._ This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;
He will be here, and yet he is not here.
How can these contrarieties agree?

_Tal._ That will I show you presently.

(_Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal of ordnance. The gates are
forced._)

_Enter Soldiers_

How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded
That Talbot is but shadow of himself?
These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,
With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,
Razeth your cities and subverts your towns
And in a moment makes you desolate.

_Countess._ Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse.
I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited
And more than may be gathered by the shape.
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath;
For I am sorry that with reverence
I did not entertain thee as thou art.

_Tal._ Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconstrue
The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake
The outward composition of his body.
What you have done hath not offended me;
Nor other satisfaction do I crave,
But only with your patience, that we may
Taste of your wine and see what cates you have;
For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.

_Countess._ With all my heart, and think me honoured
To feast so great a warrior in my house. (_Exeunt._)

Except for a few lines of rhetoric, could the account in Scene 3 be shortened? The Countess awaits Talbot; he comes; she reviles him in a few lines; he turns to go; she declares him a prisoner; he laughs at her; and as she stands amazed, calls in his forces brought in secret to the castle. When Talbot invites himself and his men to feast at her expense, the Countess immediately agrees. Reading the scene, one recalls the words of Dumas fils: "Any one can relate a dramatic situation: the art lies in preparing it, getting it accepted, making it plausible, especially in untying the knot."[27] Here Shakespeare does not untie the knot; the Countess merely yields. What she feels, what happened thereafter,--all these are omitted. It is merely the situation which counts. Before Talbot comes in, the scene could easily be made to reveal much more of the character of the Countess. When he does enter, the play of wits between them, even as it disclosed character, might provide interesting dramatic conflict. Surely the moment when the Countess thinks Talbot trapped and he coolly jeers at her, is worth more development. Here it is treated so quickly that the surprise in the entrance of the soldiers hardly gets its full effect. All this is the work of a tyro, even if he be Shakespeare.

In _Richard II_, there is a scene, not as long as that just quoted, in which the central situation might seem to many people less dramatic than that of Talbot and the Countess, yet note to what a clear and convincing conclusion Shakespeare brings it, how plausible he makes the scene, how thoroughly he prepares it for the largest emotional effect by entering thoroughly into the characters involved.

_Enter Aumerle_

_Duchess._ Here comes my son Aumerle.

_York._ Aumerle that was;
But that is lost for being Richard's friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in Parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new made king.

_Duch._ Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

_Aum._ Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not
God knows I had as lief be none as one.

_York._ Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?

_Aum._ For aught I know, my lord, they do.

_York._ You will be there, I know.

_Aum._ If God prevent not, I purpose so.

_York._ What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the writing.

_Aum._ My lord, 'tis nothing.

_York._ No matter, then, who see it.
I will be satisfied: let me see the writing.

_Aum._ I do beseech your grace to pardon me.
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

_York._ Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear,--

_Duch._ What should you fear?
'Tis nothing but some hand, which he has ent'red into
For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day.

_York._ Bound to himself! What doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.

_Aum._ I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it.

_York._ I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.
(_He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it._)
Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

_Duch._ What is the matter, my lord?

_York._ Ho! who is within there?

_Enter a Servant_

Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

_Duch._ Why, what is it, my lord?

_York._ Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.
(_Exit Servant._)
Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,
I will appeach the villain.

_Duch._ What is the matter?

_York._ Peace, foolish woman.

_Duch._ I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?

_Aum._ Good mother, have content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

_Duch._ Thy life answer!

_York._ Bring me my boots; I will unto the King.

_Reenter Servant with boots_

_Duch._ Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.
--Hence villain! never more come in my sight.

_York._ Give me my boots, I say.

_Duch._ Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons? Or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother's name?
Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?

_York._ Thou fond mad woman.
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the King at Oxford.

_Duch._ He shall be none;
We'll keep him here; then what is that to him?

_York._ Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son,
I would appeach him.

_Duch._ Hadst thou groan'd for him
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me or any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

_York._ Make way, unruly woman! (_Exit._)

_Duch._ After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;
Spur post and get before him to the King,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I'll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York.
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone!
(_Exeunt._)

So far as the situation is concerned we might go directly from York's "fealty to the new made King" to his "What seal is that?" omitting some ten lines. We should lose, however, the deft touches which make the discovery all the more dramatic,--the words of York which show that he has no idea that his son is really involved in any disloyalty; the affectionate effort of the mother to draw the talk from unpleasant subjects; and the distrait mood of Aumerle. Again, the discovery of the contents of the seal might be made at once, but the fifteen intervening lines before York cries "Treason! foul treason!" increase our suspense by their clear presentation of the emotions of father, mother, and son. Once more the situation is held when York does not declare at once the nature of the treason and the frantic mother demands again and again the contents of the paper before Aumerle says bitterly, and in perfect character with his first speeches of the scene,

"it is no more
Than my poor life must answer."

Still again we should have the necessary action of the scene perfectly if York, as soon as he has his boots, flung out of the room, to be followed immediately by the Duchess, crying that she will follow him to the King and ask the boy's pardon. However, had Shakespeare's treatment here been that he used in the scene of Talbot and the Countess we should have lacked the perfect portrayal of the mother who loses all sense of right and wrong in fear that her loved child may die. Finally, do we not gain greatly by the characterization of the Duchess in the last lines of the scene? Five times, then, Shakespeare, by entering into his characters, "holds the situation."

The second act of _The Magistrate_,[28] by Sir Arthur Pinero, is in central situation broadly this. Cis Farringdon, represented by his mother to his stepfather, Mr. Posket, as fourteen, because she does not like to admit her own age, is really nineteen and precocious at that. He has brought Mr. Posket to one of his haunts, a supper room in the Hotel des Princes, Meek Street, London, where they are to sup together. As Mr. Posket is a police justice, he has been induced to figure for the evening as "Skinner of the stock exchange." Shortly after the arrival of the two comes word that a frequenter of the restaurant twenty years ago, now returned to London, wants to sup in their chosen room for the sake of old times. Therefore Mr. Posket and Cis are put into an adjoining room. Colonel Lukyn, the returned stranger, and a friend, Captain Vale, enter. Just as they are ordering supper, a note comes to the effect that Mrs. Posket, with a woman friend, is below, begging to speak with her old acquaintance, Colonel Lukyn. As Mrs. Posket asks a private interview, Captain Vale is put out on the balcony. With Mrs. Posket comes her sister Charlotte. We have already learned from Vale that he is deeply depressed because he thinks Charlotte no longer cares for him. Mrs. Posket has come to beg Colonel Lukyn, who knew her before she became a widow, not to reveal the truth about her age.

Watch now the permutations and combinations the author develops from this general situation. Cis is hardly in the room before Isadore presents his bill for past meals. Cis sees the chance, by borrowing from his stepfather, to settle a long postponed account. Three figures, moved in turn by shrewdness, trickiness, and gullibility, stir us to amusement, giving us Situation I. Even as the bill is paid, Cis asks Isadore to show Mr. Skinner the trick of "putting the silver to bed." Three people amused or interested by a trick, amuse us--Situation II. With the coming of the note from Alexander Lukyn, and the assignment of the room adjoining to Cis and Mr. Skinner-Posket, there is a hint of future complication which amuses us--Situation III. Lukyn and Vale entering, the former sentimental over his memories of the place, and the latter comically depressed over what he thinks to be the faithlessness of Charlotte Verrinder, give us Situation IV. The note saying Mrs. Posket is below with a friend, asking a private interview, produces Situation V, for it amuses us to think what may happen with Mr. Posket and Cis just on the other side of the door. Placing Vale on the balcony leads to Situation VI, for he goes with amusing regret for the delayed supper.

Up to this point the situations may be declared parts of the main situation, which must now itself be developed. Just after Blond, the proprietor, ushers in the ladies, the pattering of rain outside is heard.

_Lukyn._ Good gracious, Blond! What's that?

_Blond._ The rain outside. It is cats and dogs.

_Lukyn._ (_Horrified._) By George, is it? (_To himself, looking
towards window._) Poor devil! (_To Blond._) There isn't any method of
getting off that balcony is there?

_Blond._ No--unless by getting on to it.

_Lukyn._ What do you mean?

_Blond._ It is not at all safe. Don't use it.

(_Lukyn stands horror-stricken. Blond goes out. Heavy rain is
heard._)--Situation VII.

As Mrs. Posket reveals to Lukyn the complications in which her lie is involving her, voices from the next room, not clearly distinguished by those on the stage, but known to us as the voices of Cis and Mr. Skinner-Posket, are heard--Situation VIII. Just when Lukyn is straining every nerve to get the ladies away so that he may release Vale, Charlotte, overwhelmed by hunger, invites herself to supper--Situation IX. As the two women eat, Lukyn sits in anxious despair, at times forgetful of his guests. This brings Situation X, when Vale reaches out from behind the curtains of the balcony and passes to the absent-minded Lukyn from the buffet the dishes Charlotte desires. When Charlotte, turning suddenly, sees the outstretched arm, we have Situation XI. When Vale reenters, thoroughly irritated and quarrels with Lukyn, we have Situation XII. The reunion of Charlotte and Vale makes the thirteenth. That is, if six initial situations produced the situation when all the characters were upon the stage, Sir Arthur has developed seven new situations from the sixth. Now by adding a fresh complication through some new figures, he develops six more situations.

Just as Lukyn, Mrs. Posket, Charlotte, and Vale are about to leave amicably, Blond rushes in to say that the police are below because the prescribed hour for closing has passed. The names and addresses of all persons found on the premises will be taken--Situation XIV. Lukyn, Vale, Mrs. Posket and Charlotte hide themselves in different parts of the room, putting out the lights. Situation XV is the entrance in the darkness of Blond leading Cis and Mr. Skinner-Posket, in order that the other room may be searched safely. At last, the room where all are hidden is examined by the police. All try to hold their breath, but in vain. The police detect some one breathing--Situation XVI. In the resulting confusion, Cis escapes, dragging his stepfather with him--Situation XVII. The other four when caught, foolishly give false names. Lukyn, thoroughly irritated by the officers, flings one of them aside and attempts to force his way out, when he and his party are promptly arrested for assault--Situation XVIII.

_Lukyn._ You'll dare to lock us up all night?

_Messiter._ It's one o'clock now, Colonel--you'll come on first thing
in the morning.

_Lukyn._ Come on? At what court?

_Messiter._ Mulberry Street.

_Agatha Posket._ Ah! The Magistrate?

_Messiter._ Mr. Posket, Mum.

(_Agatha Posket sinks into a chair, Charlotte at her feet; Lukyn,
overcome, falls on Vale's shoulders._)--Situation XIX.

Five situations of nineteen lead up to the sixth. Seven are developed from that sixth by means of four people. The new complication, the search of the restaurant by the police and the bringing into one room of all the figures, gives us six more situations. Certainly Sir Arthur knows how to "hold a situation."