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 circumstances 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 quantity 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 repetition of a phrase may have great emotional effect. _Magda_ (_Heimat_) of Sudermann was written to illustrate 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 illustrates 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 kingship. 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]

John G. Whittier's poem, _Barbara Frietchie_, provided the picture or incident which started Clyde Fitch on his play of the same name. In _Cyrano de Bergerac;_ in the numerous adaptations of _Vanity Fair_ usually known as _Becky Sharp;_ in _Peg O' My Heart_, _Rip Van Winkle_, and _Louis XI_, it is characterization of a central figure which was probably the point of departure for the play. Whether the source was an observed or an imagined figure, a character from history or fiction, the problem of the dramatist was like that of Sardou in _Rabagas_,--to find the story which will best illustrate the facets of character of the leading figure. Sometimes, as in _Nos Bons Villageois_, by the same author, the point of departure is a group of country people whose manners and customs must be portrayed,--in this case to illustrate the reception these rapacious peasants give pleasure-seeking Parisians, whom they detest and seek to turn to monetary advantage.[5] Mr. William Archer points out that _Strife_ "arose in Mr. Galsworthy's mind from his actually having seen in conflict the two men who were the prototypes of Anthony and Roberts, and thus noted the waste and inefficacy arising from the clash of strong characters unaccompanied by balance. It was accident that led him to place the two men in an environment of capital and labour. In reality, both of them were, if not capitalists, at any rate, on the side of capital." [6] In _Theodora_, Sardou tried to reconstitute an historical epoch which interested him.[7] Still another source is this: "The point of departure of the plays of M. de Curel is psychological. What allures him is a curious situation which raises some problem. He asks himself, 'What, under such circumstances, can have been going on in our minds?' This was the case with _L'Envers d'une Sainte_. M. de Curel was thinking of this: A woman was arrested for murder; thanks to protection in high places, the action of the courts was held up. The woman was represented to be insane and shut up in an asylum. Years pass by; the woman succeeds in escaping, and returning home secretly, suddenly opens the door of the room where her children are playing. It is in this picture-like form that the idea of the piece came to him, a picture so detailed and concrete that in imagination he saw the astonishment of the children, the terror of the nurse calling for aid, and the husband hurrying to prevent his wife from stepping into the room."[8] The origin of _A Doll's House_, of Ibsen, we have in these, his first, "Notes for the Modern Tragedy":

Rome, 19.10, 78.

There are two kinds of spiritual law, two kinds of conscience, one in
man, and another, altogether different, in woman. They do not
understand each, other; but in practical life the woman is judged by
man's law, as though she were not a woman but a man.

The wife in the play ends by having no idea of what is right or wrong;
natural feeling on the one hand and belief in authority on the other
have altogether bewildered her.

A woman cannot be herself in the society of the present day, which is
an exclusively masculine society, with laws framed by men and with a
judicial system that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point of
view.

She has committed forgery and she is proud of it; for she did it out
of love for her husband, to save his life. But this husband with his
commonplace principles of honour is on the side of the law and regards
the question with masculine eyes.

Spiritual conflicts. Oppressed and bewildered by the belief in
authority, she loses faith in her moral right and ability to bring up
her children. Bitterness. A mother in modern society, like certain
insects who go away and die when she has done her duty in the
propagation of the race. Love of life, of husband and children and
family. Here and there a womanly shaking off of her thoughts. Sudden
return of anxiety and terror. She must bear it all alone. The
catastrophe approaches, inexorably, inevitably. Despair, conflict, and
destruction.

(Krogstad has acted dishonourably and thereby become well-to-do; now
his prosperity does not help him, he cannot recover his honour.)[9]

It is a truism, first, that Shakespeare wrote story plays, and secondly that he did not endeavor to imagine a new story. Instead, he made over plays grown out of date in his time, or adapted to the stage what today we should call novelettes which came to him in the original or translation from Italy, Spain, or France. Never did he find a story which seemed to him fully shaped and ready for the stage.[10] The tales may be verbose and redundant; they may be mere bare outlines of the action, little if at all characterized, with unreal dialogue; or they may provide Shakespeare with only a part of the story he uses, the rest coming from other tales or from his own imagination. Widely different as they are, however, one and all they were points of departure for Shakespeare's plays.

No matter which one of the numerous starting points noted may be that of the dramatist, he must end in story even if he does not begin with it. Suppose that he starts with a character. He cannot merely talk about the figure. This might produce a kind of history; it cannot produce drama. Inevitably, he will try to illustrate, by means of action, some one dominant characteristic, or group of characteristics, or to the full, the many-sided nature of the man. Very nearly the same thing may be said of any attempt to dramatize an historical epoch. Its chief characteristic or characteristics must be illustrated in action. Some story is inevitable. Suppose, for the moment, that as in Morose of Ben Jonson's _Silent Woman_,[11] the dramatist is stressing one characteristic, in this instance morbid sensitiveness to noise of any kind. It is well known that Jonson cared more for character and less for story than most dramatists of his day. Yet even in this play we find the story of the tricking of Morose by his nephew, Dauphine, resulting in the marriage of Morose to Dauphine's page. The reason why the three parts of _Henry VI_ of Shakespeare are little read and very rarely acted is not merely that they are somewhat crude early work, but that crowding incident of all kinds lacks the massing needed to give it clearness of total effect to round it out into a well-told story. Illustrative incidents, unrelated except that historically they happen to the same person, and that historically they are given in proper sequence, are likely to be confusing. We need the Baedeker of a biographer or an historian to emphasize the incidents so that the meaning they have for him may be clear to us. The first part of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine_,[12] when quickly read, seems but a succession of conquests, not greatly unlike, leading to his control of the world of his day. He who sees no deeper into the play than this praises certain scenes or passages, but finds the whole repetitious and confusing. Closer examination shows, however, that behind these many incidents of war and slaughter is an interest of Marlowe's own creation which keeps us waiting for, anticipating the final scene--the desire of Zenocrate, at first captive of Tamburlaine, and later his devoted wife, to reconcile her father, the Soldan, and her husband. The satisfaction of her desire makes the spectacular ending of Part I. This thread of interest gives a certain unity to the material presented, creates a slight story in the mass of incident,--that is, something with a beginning, a middle, and an end. What gives unity to the Second Part of _Tamburlaine_ is the idea that, even as Tamburlaine declares himself all-conquering, he faces unseen forces against which he cannot stand--the physical cowardice of his son, so incomprehensible to him that he kills the boy; the illness and death of his beloved Zenocrate, though he spares nothing to save her; his own growing physical weakness, his breakdown and death even as the generals he has never called on in vain before prove unable to aid him. Again we find an element of story to unify the material.

A moment's thought will show that if, beginning with character we must ultimately reach some story, however slight, this is just as true of a play which begins with an idea, a bit of dialogue, a detached scene, or a mere setting. The setting must be the background of some incident. This, in turn, must be part of a story or we shall have the episodic form already found undesirable. Similarly, a detached scene must become part of a series of scenes. Get rid of the effect of episodic scenes, that is, give them unity, and lo, we have story of some sort. The bit of dialogue must become part of a larger dialogue belonging to characters of the play; and characterization, as we have seen, results in some story. The artistic or moral idea of the dramatist can be made clear only by human figures, the pawns with which he makes his emotional moves. At once we are on the way to story. _The Red Robe_[13] of Brieux aims to illustrate the idea that in France the administration of justice has been confused by personal ambition and personal intrigue. Is it without story? Surely we have the story of Mouzon,--his hopes, his consequent intrigues for advancement, and his resulting death. Here is a group of incidents developing something from a beginning to an end, that is, providing story. The play contains, too, the story of Yanetta and Etchepare. May we not say that the Vagret family provides a third story?

A play, then, may begin in almost anything seen or thought. Speaking broadly, there is no reason why one source is better than another. The important point is that something seen or thought should so stir the emotions of the dramatist that the desire to convey his own emotion or the emotions of characters who become connected with what he has seen or thought, forces him to write till he has worked out his purpose. Undoubtedly, however, he who begins with a story is nearer his goal than he who begins with an idea or a character. Disconnected episodes, then, may possibly make a vaudeville sketch or the libretto of a lower order of musical comedy. Unless unified in story, even though it be very slight, they cannot make a play.

This point needs emphasis for two reasons: because lately there has been some attempt to maintain that a newer type of play has no story, and because many a beginner in dramatic writing seems to agree with Bayes in _The Rehearsal_. "What the devil's a plot except to stuff in fine things?" In good play-writing it is not a question of bringing together as many incidents or as many illustrations of character as you can crowd together in a given number of acts, but of selecting the illustrative incidents, which, when properly developed will produce in an audience the largest amount of the emotional response desired. Later this error will be considered in detail.

Nor will the recent attempt to maintain that there is a new type of play with "absolutely no story in it" stand close analysis. The story may be very slight, but story is present in all such plays. Take two cases. Mr. William Archer, in his excellent book on _Play-Making_,[14] sums up Miss Elizabeth Baker's _Chains_[15] as follows: "A city clerk, oppressed by the deadly monotony of his life, thinks of going to Australia--and doesn't go: that is the sum and substance of the action. Also, by way of underplot, a shopgirl, oppressed by the deadly monotony and narrowness of her life, thinks of escaping from it by marrying a middle-aged widower--and doesn't do it." He then declares that the play has "absolutely no story." Does any reader believe that this play could have succeeded, as it has, if the audience had been left in any doubt as to _why_ the city clerk and the shopgirl did not do what they had planned? Yet surely, if this play makes clear, as it does, _why_ these two people changed their minds, it must have story, for it shows us people thinking of escaping from conditions they find irksome, and explains why they give up the idea. If that isn't story, what is it?

_The Weavers_ of Hauptmann,[16] giving us somewhat loosely connected pictures of social conditions among the weavers of Germany in the forties of the nineteenth century, is said to be another specimen of these plays without story. Now such plays as _The Weavers_ have one of two results: they rouse us to thought on the social conditions represented, or they do not. To succeed they must rouse us; but if our stirred feelings are to lead anywhere, we must be not only stirred but clear as to the meaning of the play. There have been many who have thought that _The Weavers_, though it stirs us to sympathy, leaves us nowhere because not clear. Be this as it may, even _The Weavers_ has some story, for it tells us of the rise and development of a revolt of the weavers against their employers.

Confusion as to "story" results from two causes. First, story in drama is often taken to imply only complicated story. To say that every play must have complicated story is absurd. To say that every play must have some story, though it may be very slight, is undeniable. Secondly, story is frequently used to mean plot, and plot of the older type, namely a play of skilfully arranged suspense and climax in a story of complicated and extreme emotion. It is the second cause which underlies Mr. Archer's curious statement about _Chains_. He says that the play has no "emotional tension worth speaking of," and assumes that where there is no emotional tension there cannot be story. Tension in the sense of suspense the play has little, but Mr. Archer states that it held "an audience absorbed through four acts" and stirred "them to real enthusiasm." In these words he grants the emotional response of the audience. Miss Baker substitutes sympathy for the characters and deft dealing with ironic values (see the ends of Act II and Act III) for complicated plot and dependence on suspense. One kind of play, however, no more precludes story than another.

What, then, is the difference between story and plot? In treating drama, what should be meant by story is what a play boils down to when you try to tell a friend as briefly as possible what it is about--what Mr. Knobloch calls the vital active part, the "verb" of the play. Here is the story of the play, _Barbara Frietchie_, as it re-shaped itself in Clyde Fitch's mind from Whittier's poem:[17] "A Northern man loves a Southern girl. She defies her father and runs away to marry him. By a sudden battle the ceremony is prevented. The minister's house is seized by the rebels, and soldiers stationed there. Barbara, who has remained, seeing a Confederate sharpshooter about to fire on her lover passing with his regiment, drops on her knees, slowly levels a gun she has seized, and shoots the Southerner. Her lover is wounded and she struggles to protect him from her father, brother, and rebel suitor, and from every little noise which might cost his life. He dies, and she, now wholly wedded to the Northern cause, waves the flag, as does the old woman in Whittier's poem, in defiance of the Southern army, and is shot by her crazy rebel lover."[18] Note that this summary, though it makes the story clear, in no way presents the scenes of the play as to order, suspense, or climax. This is the story, not the plot of _Barbara Frietchie_. Plot, dramatically speaking, is the story so moulded by the dramatist as to gain for him in the theatre the emotional response he desires. In order to create and maintain interest, he gives his story, as seems to him wise, simple or complex structure; and discerning elements in it of suspense, surprise, and climax, he reveals them to just the extent necessary for his purposes. Plot is story proportioned and emphasized so as to accomplish, under the conditions of the theatre, the purposes of the dramatist. Compare the plot of _Barbara Frietchie_ with its story.