Something like the position of these elder dramatists toward exposition is held today by writers of plays on George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. Dealing, as the dramatist ordinarily does, however, with a mixture of historical and fictitious figures or with characters wholly fictitious, he must in most cases carefully inform his audience at the outset who his people are, and what are their relations to one another, where the play is laid, and when.
Examine the first column of what follows: it is not a burlesque, but the beginning of a so-called play. Why is it unsatisfactory?
| Natalie. (To herself.) O-oh,
I'm sleepy this morning. It's
very nice to have your fiancé live
in the next house, but when he
insists on writing his stories and
things until two or three in the
morning—well, I don't think
it's very thoughtful of him.
He might realize that his light
shines directly across into my
eyes and keeps me awake. Oh,
dear, Mary's been putting lilies-of-the-valley
in all the vases
again. I'll not have those everywhere
when we've got orchids
instead. Flowers don't need
fragrance anyway; they're just
meant to be seen. (Dumping the
wilted lilies in a basket by her
side and arranging the newly-cut
orchids in their place.) Tom [Who
is Tom—brother or fiancé?]
always makes a fuss when I have
nothing but orchids, so I suppose
Mary put the others about
to calm him down. [Who is
Mary, then: a maid, a sister,
a girl friend, some one engaged
to Tom?] Really I've
got to speak to him about last
night when he comes. The light
is bad enough, but I won't
have him firing his gun out of
the window besides. It must
have been at that horrid thin
cat that's always clawing Hopeful.
[A cat, a dog, or a small
sister?] I'm glad she [Hopeful
or the thin cat?] was locked up
indoors if Tom's going to act
that way. Oh, dear, these are
the wrong shears again. (Rings
bell. Enter maid.) Mary, bring
me the other shears—and
Mary, where's Hopeful this
morning; I haven't seen her? | Natalie. (To herself.) O-oh,
I'm sleepy this morning. It's
very nice to have your fiancé
live in the next house, but when
(Tom) insists on writing his stories
and things until two and
three in the morning—well, I
don't think it's very thoughtful
of him. He might realize
that his light shines directly
across into my eyes and keeps
me awake. Oh, dear, (that
maid's) been putting lilies-of-the-valley
in all the vases again.
I'll not have those everywhere
when we've got orchids instead.
Flowers don't need fragrance
anyway; they're just meant to
be seen. (Dumping the wilted
lilies in a basket by her side and
arranging the newly-cut orchids
in their place.)
Tom always makes a fuss when
I have nothing but orchids, so
I suppose Mary put the others
about to calm him down.
Really I've got to speak to (Tom
Hammond) about last night,
when he comes. The light is bad
enough, but I won't have him
firing his gun out of the window
besides. It must have been
at that horrid thin cat that's
always clawing Hopeful.
I'm glad (Hopeful)
was locked up indoors if Tom's
going to act that way (with cats).
Oh, dear, these are the wrong
shears again. (Rings bell. Enter
maid.) Mary, bring me the
other shears—and Mary,
where's Hopeful this morning;
I haven't seen her? |
| Mary. The kitten, Miss
Strone? | Mary. The kitten, Miss
Strone? |
| Natalie.. Yes, of course. | Natalie. Yes, of course. |
| Mary. Why—why she hasn’t
been in this morning. (Starts
away.) | Mary. Why—why she hasn’t
been in this morning. (Starts
away.) |
| Natalie. Come back, Mary.
Don’t run off while I’m speaking
to you. Haven’t you seen
her at all? | Natalie. Come back, Mary.
Don’t run off while I’m speaking
to you. Haven’t you seen
her at all? |
| Mary. Well—yes, Miss
Strone—that is Parkins [another
maid, a butler, or a
milkman?] found—I mean— | Mary. Well—yes, Miss
Strone—that is (the butler)
found—I mean— |
| Natalie. (Impatiently.) Well? | Natalie. (Impatiently.) Well? |
| Mary. The shots last night,
Miss Strone—that is we think
it was—although she was on
the other side of the garden
when Parkins came on her—and
there's the wall and the alley
between—still, Mr. Hammond
was shooting out of the
upper windows and— | Mary. The shots last night,
Miss Strone—that is we think
it was—although she was on
the other side of the wall when
Parkins came on her—and
there's the wall and the alley
between—still, Mr. Hammond
was shooting out of the upper
windows and— |
| Natalie. (Quickly.) Has anything
happened to Hopeful? | Natalie. (Quickly.) Has anything
happened to Hopeful? |
| Mary. Why—why, Parkins— | Mary.. Why—why, Parkins— |
| (Enter Parkins.) | (Enter Parkins.) |
| Parkins. (Quietly.) I buried
her all right just now, Miss
Strone. (Louder.) Mr. Hammond. | Parkins. (Quietly.) I buried
her all right just now, Miss
Strone. (Louder.) (Mr. Hammond.) |
| (Exit [sic.] Mary and Parkins,
enter Tom Hammond.) | (Exeunt Mary and Parkins,
enter Tom Hammond.) |
In the left-hand column practically every one in the cast is unidentified when first mentioned. That is, the text fails in the first essential of clearness: we do not for some time know who the people are and their relations to one another. The very slight changes in the right-hand column do away with this fault.
Identify characters, then, as promptly as possible. Writing, “John Paul Jones enters in full Admiral’s uniform,” a dramatist often runs on for some time before the text itself reveals the identity of the person who has entered. Except in so far as the costume or make-up presents a well-known historical figure, or information carefully given before the figure enters may reveal identity, every newcomer is an entirely unknown person. He must promptly make clear who he is and his relation to the story. The following opening of a play shows another instance of the vagueness resulting when this identification is not well managed: