Pastiche and prejudice

by Arthur Bingham Walkley

A THEORY OF BRUNETIÈRE

There is a theory of the late Ferdinand Brunetière about the periods of dramatic activity which the time we are now passing through ought to put to the test. Brunetière was an incorrigible generalizer, first because he was a Frenchman, and next because he was a born critic. Criticism without general ideas, without a substructure of principle and theory to build upon, is an idle thing, the mere expression of likes and dislikes, or else sheer verbiage. This French critic was always throwing theories at the drama, and some of them have stuck. Perhaps the soundest of them and the most lasting was his theory of the drama as the spectacle of the struggle of will against obstacles. There has been much controversy about it, there has been no difficulty in instancing cases which it fails to cover, but I venture to think that as a rough generalization it still holds good. I am not, however, concerned with that famous theory for the moment. I am thinking of another theory—a historical one. Brunetière asserted that every outburst of dramatic activity in a nation will be found to have followed close upon a great manifestation of national energy—Greek tragedy, for instance, after the Persian War, Calderon and de Vega after the Spanish conquests in the New World, Shakespeare after the Armada, the French romantic drama after the Napoleonic campaigns. He might have added that the war of 1870 was followed by the best work of Dumas fils, by the Théâtre Libre, by Ibsen and Björnson, Hauptmann and Sudermann, and the Russo-Japanese War by the Moscow Art Theatre and Tchekhov.

I confess, then, my doubts about the soundness of this theory. Throughout the past history of any nation wars have been of so constant occurrence that it would be difficult not to find one preceding, by a fairly short term, any particular outburst of dramatic activity you like to fix upon. One is always post the other; it is not necessarily propter. And instances to the contrary will readily occur: periods of dramatic activity that were not immediately preceded by, but rather synchronized with, great manifestations of national energy; for instance, the period of Corneille, Racine, and Molière. And sometimes, when you look for your dramatic sequel to your national energizing, you only draw a blank. Did any outburst of dramatic production follow the American Civil War? The theory, in short, is “an easy one,” relying on lucky coincidence and ignoring inconvenient exceptions.

In any case, we ought to be able now, if ever, to put it to the “acid test.” The leading nations of the world have just fought the biggest of all their wars. Has the promised sequel followed? Is there any sign at home or abroad of a fresh outburst of dramatic energy? In Germany they seem to be merely “carrying on,” or tending to be a little more pornographic than usual. In Vienna they are still translating Mr. Shaw. No new dramatic masterpiece is reported from Italy, D’Annunzio being “otherwise engaged,” Mr. Boffin. Paris is still producing its favourite little “spicinesses” or, for the high brows, translating Strindberg. (Outside the theatre the effect of the war on Paris seems not merely negative but stupefying. They have achieved Dadaism and, so I read in a recent Literary Supplement, a distaste for the works of M. Anatole France!) In America the drama is in no better case than before the war.

And what about London? An absolutely unprecedented dearth of not merely good but of actable plays. People will give you other causes, mainly economic, for the theatrical “slump.” They will tell you, truly enough, that playgoers have less money to spend, and that the cheaper “cinema” is diverting more and more money from the theatre. And yet, whenever the managers produce anything really worth seeing there is no lack of people to see it.

There is nothing, then, to discourage the aspiring dramatist. Only he won’t aspire! Or his aspiration is not backed by talent! It seems as though the war, instead of stimulating dramatic energy, had repressed and chilled it. What on earth (if I may use a colloquialism condemned by Dr. Johnson) would poor M. Brunetière have said if he had lived to see his pet theory thus falsified? Probably he would have invented a new one. He would have said that wars mustn’t be too big to fit into a law devised only for usual sizes. Also he might have said, wait and see. The war is only just over; give your young dramatists a little breathing time. Shakespeare’s plays didn’t immediately follow the Armada. The French Romantic Drama didn’t begin till a good dozen years after Waterloo.

Well, we can’t afford to wait. While we playgoers are waiting for good plays, our young men are all frittering away their talent in minor poetry, which war seems to bring as relentlessly in its train as shell-shock. But the victims of both maladies ought by now to be on the high-road to recovery, and it is time that the young minor poets turned their attention to something useful, e.g., the reintroduction of the British drama. They have a capital opportunity, since most of our old stalwarts seem to have left the field. Sir Arthur Pinero gives us nothing. Mr. Arthur Henry Jones gives us nothing. Mr. Maugham is, I am told, far away in Borneo, so now is the chance for the young aspirants; the world is all before them where to choose. Of course it is understood that they will drop their verse. That used to be the natural form for plays over two centuries ago. It may come into fashion again, you never can tell, but, quite clearly, the time is not yet. I have heard people ask, “What are the chances for a revival of poetic drama?” They really mean verse-drama, but the answer is, that the essence of poetry is not verse, which is merely ornament, but the expression of a certain spiritual state, a certain état d’âme, and that there is always room for poetic plays. Dear Brutus contained much of the poetic essence; so does Mary Rose. But their language is prose, and our young aspirants may be recommended to write in prose, for which their previous verse-exercises will have been a useful preparation. Only let them hurry up! Let their hearts swell with the proud hope of creating that magnificent affair, which demands capital letters, the Drama of the Future. Mr. Bergson told us at Oxford that when an interviewer invited him to forecast the drama of the future he answered, “If I could do that I’d write it.” So we can only wonder what it will be like. “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson to Boswell who was “wondering,” “you may wonder.”