Some Platitudes2 Concerning Drama
A drama must be shaped so as to have a spire3 of meaning. Every grouping of life and character has its inherent moral; and the business of the dramatist is so to pose the group as to bring that moral poignantly5 to the light of day. Such is the moral that exhales6 from plays like ‘Lear’, ‘Hamlet’, and ‘Macbeth’. But such is not the moral to be found in the great bulk of contemporary Drama. The moral of the average play is now, and probably has always been, the triumph at all costs of a supposed immediate7 ethical8 good over a supposed immediate ethical evil.
The vice9 of drawing these distorted morals has permeated10 the Drama to its spine11; discoloured its art, humanity, and significance; infected its creators, actors, audience, critics; too often turned it from a picture into a caricature. A Drama which lives under the shadow of the distorted moral forgets how to be free, fair, and fine — forgets so completely that it often prides itself on having forgotten.
Now, in writing plays, there are, in this matter of the moral, three courses open to the serious dramatist. The first is: To definitely set before the public that which it wishes to have set before it, the views and codes of life by which the public lives and in which it believes. This way is the most common, successful, and popular. It makes the dramatist’s position sure, and not too obviously authoritative12.
The second course is: To definitely set before the public those views and codes of life by which the dramatist himself lives, those theories in which he himself believes, the more effectively if they are the opposite of what the public wishes to have placed before it, presenting them so that the audience may swallow them like powder in a spoonful of jam.
There is a third course: To set before the public no cut-and-dried codes, but the phenomena13 of life and character, selected and combined, but not distorted, by the dramatist’s outlook, set down without fear, favour, or prejudice, leaving the public to draw such poor moral as nature may afford. This third method requires a certain detachment; it requires a sympathy with, a love of, and a curiosity as to, things for their own sake; it requires a far view, together with patient industry, for no immediately practical result.
It was once said of Shakespeare that he had never done any good to any one, and never would. This, unfortunately, could not, in the sense in which the word “good” was then meant, be said of most modern dramatists. In truth, the good that Shakespeare did to humanity was of a remote, and, shall we say, eternal nature; something of the good that men get from having the sky and the sea to look at. And this partly because he was, in his greater plays at all events, free from the habit of drawing a distorted moral. Now, the playwright14 who supplies to the public the facts of life distorted by the moral which it expects, does so that he may do the public what he considers an immediate good, by fortifying15 its prejudices; and the dramatist who supplies to the public facts distorted by his own advanced morality, does so because he considers that he will at once benefit the public by substituting for its worn-out ethics16, his own. In both cases the advantage the dramatist hopes to confer on the public is immediate and practical.
But matters change, and morals change; men remain — and to set men, and the facts about them, down faithfully, so that they draw for us the moral of their natural actions, may also possibly be of benefit to the community. It is, at all events, harder than to set men and facts down, as they ought, or ought not to be. This, however, is not to say that a dramatist should, or indeed can, keep himself and his temperamental philosophy out of his work. As a man lives and thinks, so will he write. But it is certain, that to the making of good drama, as to the practice of every other art, there must be brought an almost passionate19 love of discipline, a white-heat of self-respect, a desire to make the truest, fairest, best thing in one’s power; and that to these must be added an eye that does not flinch20. Such qualities alone will bring to a drama the selfless character which soaks it with inevitability21.
The word “pessimist22” is frequently applied23 to the few dramatists who have been content to work in this way. It has been applied, among others, to Euripides, to Shakespeare, to Ibsen; it will be applied to many in the future. Nothing, however, is more dubious24 than the way in which these two words “pessimist” and “optimist25” are used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the world as it is, and is forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot only bear the world as it is, but loves it well enough to draw it faithfully. The true lover of the human race is surely he who can put up with it in all its forms, in vice as well as in virtue26, in defeat no less than in victory; the true seer he who sees not only joy but sorrow, the true painter of human life one who blinks nothing. It may be that he is also, incidentally, its true benefactor27.
In the whole range of the social fabric28 there are only two impartial29 persons, the scientist and the artist, and under the latter heading such dramatists as desire to write not only for today, but for tomorrow, must strive to come.
But dramatists being as they are made — past remedy it is perhaps more profitable to examine the various points at which their qualities and defects are shown.
The plot! A good plot is that sure edifice30 which slowly rises out of the interplay of circumstance on temperament18, and temperament on circumstance, within the enclosing atmosphere of an idea. A human being is the best plot there is; it may be impossible to see why he is a good plot, because the idea within which he was brought forth31 cannot be fully17 grasped; but it is plain that he is a good plot. He is organic. And so it must be with a good play. Reason alone produces no good plots; they come by original sin, sure conception, and instinctive32 after-power of selecting what benefits the germ. A bad plot, on the other hand, is simply a row of stakes, with a character impaled33 on each — characters who would have liked to live, but came to untimely grief; who started bravely, but fell on these stakes, placed beforehand in a row, and were transfixed one by one, while their ghosts stride on, squeaking34 and gibbering, through the play. Whether these stakes are made of facts or of ideas, according to the nature of the dramatist who planted them, their effect on the unfortunate characters is the same; the creatures were begotten35 to be staked, and staked they are! The demand for a good plot, not unfrequently heard, commonly signifies: “Tickle my sensations by stuffing the play with arbitrary adventures, so that I need not be troubled to take the characters seriously. Set the persons of the play to action, regardless of time, sequence, atmosphere, and probability!”
Now, true dramatic action is what characters do, at once contrary, as it were, to expectation, and yet because they have already done other things. No dramatist should let his audience know what is coming; but neither should he suffer his characters to, act without making his audience feel that those actions are in harmony with temperament, and arise from previous known actions, together with the temperaments36 and previous known actions of the other characters in the play. The dramatist who hangs his characters to his plot, instead of hanging his plot to his characters, is guilty of cardinal37 sin.
The dialogue! Good dialogue again is character, marshalled so as continually to stimulate38 interest or excitement. The reason good dialogue is seldom found in plays is merely that it is hard to write, for it requires not only a knowledge of what interests or excites, but such a feeling for character as brings misery40 to the dramatist’s heart when his creations speak as they should not speak — ashes to his mouth when they say things for the sake of saying them — disgust when they are “smart.”
The art of writing true dramatic dialogue is an austere41 art, denying itself all license42, grudging43 every sentence devoted44 to the mere39 machinery45 of the play, suppressing all jokes and epigrams severed46 from character, relying for fun and pathos47 on the fun and tears of life. From start to finish good dialogue is hand-made, like good lace; clear, of fine texture48, furthering with each thread the harmony and strength of a design to which all must be subordinated.
But good dialogue is also spiritual action. In so far as the dramatist divorces his dialogue from spiritual action — that is to say, from progress of events, or toward events which are significant of character — he is stultifying49 the thing done; he may make pleasing disquisitions, he is not making drama. And in so far as he twists character to suit his moral or his plot, he is neglecting a first principle, that truth to Nature which alone invests art with handmade quality.
The dramatist’s license, in fact, ends with his design. In conception alone he is free. He may take what character or group of characters he chooses, see them with what eyes, knit them with what idea, within the limits of his temperament; but once taken, seen, and knitted, he is bound to treat them like a gentleman, with the tenderest consideration of their mainsprings. Take care of character; action and dialogue will take care of themselves! The true dramatist gives full rein51 to his temperament in the scope and nature of his subject; having once selected subject and characters, he is just, gentle, restrained, neither gratifying his lust52 for praise at the expense of his offspring, nor using them as puppets to flout53 his audience. Being himself the nature that brought them forth, he guides them in the course predestined at their conception. So only have they a chance of defying Time, which is always lying in wait to destroy the false, topical, or fashionable, all — in a word — that is not based on the permanent elements of human nature. The perfect dramatist rounds up his characters and facts within the ring-fence of a dominant54 idea which fulfils the craving55 of his spirit; having got them there, he suffers them to live their own lives.
Plot, action, character, dialogue! But there is yet another subject for a platitude1. Flavour! An impalpable quality, less easily captured than the scent56 of a flower, the peculiar57 and most essential attribute of any work of art! It is the thin, poignant4 spirit which hovers58 up out of a play, and is as much its differentiating59 essence as is caffeine of coffee. Flavour, in fine, is the spirit of the dramatist projected into his work in a state of volatility60, so that no one can exactly lay hands on it, here, there, or anywhere. This distinctive61 essence of a play, marking its brand, is the one thing at which the dramatist cannot work, for it is outside his consciousness. A man may have many moods, he has but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle, unconscious way to all his work. It waxes and wanes62 with the currents of his vitality63, but no more alters than a chestnut64 changes into an oak.
For, in truth, dramas are very like unto trees, springing from seedlings65, shaping themselves inevitably66 in accordance with the laws fast hidden within themselves, drinking sustenance67 from the earth and air, and in conflict with the natural forces round them. So they slowly come to full growth, until warped68, stunted69, or risen to fair and gracious height, they stand open to all the winds. And the trees that spring from each dramatist are of different race; he is the spirit of his own sacred grove70, into which no stray tree can by any chance enter.
One more platitude. It is not unfashionable to pit one form of drama against another — holding up the naturalistic to the disadvantage of the epic71; the epic to the belittlement72 of the fantastic; the fantastic to the detriment73 of the naturalistic. Little purpose is thus served. The essential meaning, truth, beauty, and irony74 of things may be revealed under all these forms. Vision over life and human nature can be as keen and just, the revelation as true, inspiring, delight-giving, and thought-provoking, whatever fashion be employed — it is simply a question of doing it well enough to uncover the kernel75 of the nut. Whether the violet come from Russia, from Parma, or from England, matters little. Close by the Greek temples at Paestum there are violets that seem redder, and sweeter, than any ever seen — as though they have sprung up out of the footprints of some old pagan goddess; but under the April sun, in a Devonshire lane, the little blue scentless76 violets capture every bit as much of the spring. And so it is with drama — no matter what its form it need only be the “real thing,” need only have caught some of the precious fluids, revelation, or delight, and imprisoned77 them within a chalice78 to which we may put our lips and continually drink.
And yet, starting from this last platitude, one may perhaps be suffered to speculate as to the particular forms that our renascent79 drama is likely to assume. For our drama is renascent, and nothing will stop its growth. It is not renascent because this or that man is writing, but because of a new spirit. A spirit that is no doubt in part the gradual outcome of the impact on our home-grown art, of Russian, French, and Scandinavian influences, but which in the main rises from an awakened80 humanity in the conscience of our time.
What, then, are to be the main channels down which the renascent English drama will float in the coming years? It is more than possible that these main channels will come to be two in number and situate far apart.
The one will be the broad and clear-cut channel of naturalism, down which will course a drama poignantly shaped, and inspired with high intention, but faithful to the seething81 and multiple life around us, drama such as some are inclined to term photographic, deceived by a seeming simplicity82 into forgetfulness of the old proverb, “Ars est celare artem,” and oblivious83 of the fact that, to be vital, to grip, such drama is in every respect as dependent on imagination, construction, selection, and elimination84 — the main laws of artistry — as ever was the romantic or rhapsodic play: The question of naturalistic technique will bear, indeed, much more study than has yet been given to it. The aim of the dramatist employing it is obviously to create such an illusion of actual life passing on the stage as to compel the spectator to pass through an experience of his own, to think, and talk, and move with the people he sees thinking, talking, and moving in front of him. A false phrase, a single word out of tune85 or time, will destroy that illusion and spoil the surface as surely as a stone heaved into a still pool shatters the image seen there. But this is only the beginning of the reason why the naturalistic is the most exacting86 and difficult of all techniques. It is easy enough to reproduce the exact conversation and movements of persons in a room; it is desperately87 hard to produce the perfectly88 natural conversation and movements of those persons, when each natural phrase spoken and each natural movement made has not only to contribute toward the growth and perfection of a drama’s soul, but also to be a revelation, phrase by phrase, movement by movement, of essential traits of character. To put it another way, naturalistic art, when alive, indeed to be alive at all, is simply the art of manipulating a procession of most delicate symbols. Its service is the swaying and focussing of men’s feelings and thoughts in the various departments of human life. It will be like a steady lamp, held up from time to time, in whose light things will be seen for a space clearly and in due proportion, freed from the mists of prejudice and partisanship89. And the other of these two main channels will, I think, be a twisting and delicious stream, which will bear on its breast new barques of poetry, shaped, it may be, like prose, but a prose incarnating90 through its fantasy and symbolism all the deeper aspirations91, yearning92, doubts, and mysterious stirrings of the human spirit; a poetic93 prose-drama, emotionalising us by its diversity and purity of form and invention, and whose province will be to disclose the elemental soul of man and the forces of Nature, not perhaps as the old tragedies disclosed them, not necessarily in the epic mood, but always with beauty and in the spirit of discovery.
Such will, I think, be the two vital forms of our drama in the coming generation. And between these two forms there must be no crude unions; they are too far apart, the cross is too violent. For, where there is a seeming blend of lyricism and naturalism, it will on examination be found, I think, to exist only in plays whose subjects or settings — as in Synge’s “Playboy of the Western World,” or in Mr. Masefield’s “Nan”— are so removed from our ken50 that we cannot really tell, and therefore do not care, whether an absolute illusion is maintained. The poetry which may and should exist in naturalistic drama, can only be that of perfect rightness of proportion, rhythm, shape — the poetry, in fact, that lies in all vital things. It is the ill-mating of forms that has killed a thousand plays. We want no more bastard94 drama; no more attempts to dress out the simple dignity of everyday life in the peacock’s feathers of false lyricism; no more straw-stuffed heroes or heroines; no more rabbits and goldfish from the conjurer’s pockets, nor any limelight. Let us have starlight, moonlight, sunlight, and the light of our own self-respects.
1909.
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platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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poignantly
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exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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stultifying
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的现在分词 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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differentiating
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| [计] 微分的 | |
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volatility
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| n.挥发性，挥发度，轻快，（性格）反复无常 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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seedlings
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| n.刚出芽的幼苗( seedling的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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70
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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71
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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72
belittlement
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| 轻视 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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76
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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renascent
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| adj.新生的 | |
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80
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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81
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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82
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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83
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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84
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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85
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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86
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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87
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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90
incarnating
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的现在分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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93
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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