The Sunny Side Part 8

They were married a month later. John, who did not look his best in a frock-coat, had pleaded for a quiet wedding, and only the d.u.c.h.ess of Bilberry and Mr. Pump were present at the simple ceremony which took place at the Bloomsbury registry-office. Then the happy couple drove away.

And where are they spending the honeymoon?

Ah, do you need to ask?

"At Greenwich?" No, fathead, not at Greenwich.

"At Clacton-on-Sea?" Look here, I don't believe you're trying. Have another shot....

Yes, dear reader, you are right. They are going back to Polwollop.

It might be a good plan to leave them there.

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST

I take it that every able-bodied man and woman in this country wants to write a play. Since the news first got about that Orlando What's-his-name made 50,000 out of "The Crimson Sponge," there has been a feeling that only through the medium of the stage can literary art find its true expression. The successful playwright is indeed a man to be envied.

Leaving aside for the moment the question of super-tax, the prizes which fall to his lot are worth something of an effort. He sees his name (correctly spelt) on 'buses which go to such different spots as Hammersmith and West Norwood, and his name (spelt incorrectly) beneath the photograph of somebody else in "The Ill.u.s.trated Butler." He is a welcome figure at the garden-parties of the elect, who are always ready to encourage him by accepting free seats for his play; actor-managers nod to him; editors allow him to contribute without charge to a symposium on the price of golf b.a.l.l.s. In short he becomes a "prominent figure in London Society"--and, if he is not careful, somebody will say so.

But even the unsuccessful dramatist has his moments. I knew a young man who married somebody else's mother, and was allowed by her fourteen gardeners to amuse himself sometimes by rolling the tennis-court. It was an unsatisfying life; and when rash acquaintances asked him what he did, he used to say that he was for the Bar. Now he says he is writing a play--and we look round the s.p.a.cious lawns and terraces and marvel at the run his last one must have had.

However, I a.s.sume that you who read this are actually in need of the dibs. Your play must be not merely a good play, but a successful one. How shall this success be achieved?

Frankly I cannot always say. If you came to me and said, "I am on the Stock Exchange, and bulls are going down," or up, or sideways, or whatever it might be; "there's no money to be made in the City nowadays, and I want to write a play instead. How shall I do it?"--well, I couldn't help you. But suppose you said, "I'm fond of writing; my people always say my letters home are good enough for 'Punch.' I've got a little idea for a play about a man and a woman and another woman, and--but perhaps I'd better keep the plot a secret for the moment. Anyhow it's jolly exciting, and I can do the dialogue all right. The only thing is, I don't know anything about technique and stagecraft and the three unities and that sort of rot. Can you give me a few hints?"--suppose you spoke to me like this, then I could do something for you. "My dear Sir," I should reply (or Madam), "you have come to the right shop. Lend me your ear for ten minutes, and you shall learn just what stagecraft is." And I should begin with a short homily on

SOLILOQUY

If you ever read your "Shakespeare"--and no dramatist should despise the works of another dramatist; he may always pick up something in them which may be useful for his next play--if you ever read your "Shakespeare," it is possible that you have come across this pa.s.sage:

"_Enter_ Hamlet.

_Ham._ To be, or not to be--"

And, so on in the same vein for some thirty lines.

These few remarks are called a soliloquy, being addressed rather to the world in general than to any particular person on the stage. Now the object of this soliloquy is plain. The dramatist wished us to know the thoughts which were pa.s.sing through Hamlet's mind, and it was the only way he could think of in which to do it. Of course, a really good actor can often give a clue to the feelings of a character simply by facial expression. There are ways of s.h.i.+fting the eyebrows, distending the nostrils, and exploring the lower molars with the tongue by which it is possible to denote respectively Surprise, Defiance and Doubt. Indeed, irresolution being the keynote of Hamlet's soliloquy, a clever player could to some extent indicate the whole thirty lines by a silent working of the jaw. But at the same time it would be idle to deny that he would miss the finer shades of the dramatist's meaning. "The insolence of office, and the spurns"--to take only one line--would tax the most elastic face.

So the soliloquy came into being. We moderns, however, see the absurdity of it. In real life no one thinks aloud or in an empty room.

The up-to-date dramatist must certainly avoid this hallmark of the old-fas.h.i.+oned play.

What, then, is to be done? If it be granted, first, that the thoughts of a certain character should be known to the audience, and, secondly, that soliloquy, or the habit of thinking aloud, is in opposition to modern stage technique, how shall a soliloquy be avoided without damage to the play?

Well, there are more ways than one; and now we come to what is meant by stagecraft. Stagecraft is the art of getting over these and other difficulties, and (if possible) getting over them in a showy manner, so that people will say, "How remarkable his stagecraft is for so young a writer," when otherwise they mightn't have noticed it at all. Thus, in this play we have been talking about, an easy way of avoiding Hamlet's soliloquy would be for Ophelia to speak first.

_Oph._ What are you thinking about, my lord?

_Ham._ I am wondering whether to be or not to be, whether 'tis n.o.bler in the mind to suffer--

And so on, till you get to the end, when Ophelia might say, "Ah, yes," or something non-committal of that sort. This would be an easy way of doing it, but it would not be the best way, for the reason that it is too easy to call attention to itself. What you want is to make it clear that you are conveying Hamlet's thoughts to the audience in rather a clever manner.

That this can now be done we have to thank the well-known inventor of the telephone. (I forget his name.) The telephone has revolutionized the stage; with its aid you can convey anything you like across the footlights. In the old badly-made play it was frequently necessary for one of the characters to take the audience into his confidence. "Having disposed of my uncle's body," he would say to the stout lady in the third row of the stalls, "I now have leisure in which to search for the will.

But first to lock the door lest I should be interrupted by Harold Wotnott." In the modern well-constructed play he simply rings up an imaginary confederate and tells him what he is going to do. Could anything be more natural?

Let us, to give an example of how this method works, go back again to the play we have been discussing.

_Enter_ Hamlet. _He walks quickly across the room to the telephone, and takes up the receiver impatiently._

_Ham_. Hallo! Hallo! I want double-nine--hal-_lo_! I want double-nine two--hal-_lo_! Double-nine two three, Elsinore.... Double-_nine_, yes.... Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet speaking. I say, I've been wondering about this business. To be or not to be, that is the question; whether 'tis n.o.bler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows--What?

No, Hamlet speaking. _What_? Aren't you Horatio? I want double-nine two three--sorry.... Is that you, Exchange? You gave me double-_five_, I want double-_nine_.... Hallo, is that you, Horatio? Hamlet speaking.

I've been wondering about this business. To be or not to be, that is the--What? No, I said, To _be_ or _not_ to be.... No, "be"--b-e. Yes, that's right. To be or not to be, that is the question; whether 'tis n.o.bler--

And so on. You see how effective it is.

But there is still another way of avoiding the soliloquy, which is sometimes used with good results. It is to let Hamlet, if that happen to be the name of your character, enter with a small dog, pet falcon, mongoose, tame bear or whatever animal is most in keeping with the part, and confide in this animal such sorrows, hopes or secret history as the audience has got to know. This has the additional advantage of putting the audience immediately in sympathy with your hero. "How _sweet_ of him," all the ladies say, "to tell his little bantam about it!"

If you are not yet tired (as I am) of the Prince of Denmark, I will explain (for the last time) how a modern author might re-write his speech.

_Enter_ Hamlet _with his favourite_ boar-hound.

_Ham. (to B.-H.)_. To be or not to be--ah, Fido, Fido! That is the question--eh, old Fido, boy? Whether 'tis n.o.bler in--how now, a rat!

Rats, Fido, _fetch_ 'em--in the mind to suffer the slings and--_down_, Sir!--arrows--put it down! Arrows of--_drop_ it, Fido; good old dog--

And so on. Which strikes me as rather sweet and natural.

Let us now pa.s.s on to the very important question of

EXITS AND ENTRANCES

To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without hesitation "_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for dramatic technique will hang. Why did Lord Arthur Fluffinose enter? The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know is why Lord Arthur chose that very moment to come in--the very moment when Lady Larkspur was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage whatever. In that case I needn't go on with this article.

However, it will be more convenient to a.s.sume, dear reader, that in your play Lord Arthur had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he must explain it. It won't do to write like this:---

_Enter_ Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur _starts suddenly and turns towards him._

_Lady Larkspur_. Arthur! _You_ here? (_He gives a nod of confirmation.

She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden pa.s.sionate movement flings herself into his arms_.) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the _third_ time. I want to get away from it all. [_Swoons_.]

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for yourself if you consider the pa.s.sage as it should properly have been written:--

_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur _looks at him with amazement_.

_Lady Larkspur_. Arthur, what are _you_ doing here?

_Lord Arthur_. I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. It's only a mile. _(At this point he looks at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully natural.)_ I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.