Dramatic Technique

by George Pierce Baker

Dick. She—gave it to—them—?

Alec. Yes.

Dick. (Laughing.) But they don’t play it, do they?

Alec. No, she plays it—. An’ you oughter hear her play, sir. At evenin’s after supper when the wind’d howl around the house she’d make it sound like Heaven in here. If I ever get up there I don’t want white angels and gold harps in mine,—I jes’ want Miss Helen an’ a grand pianner. (Dick is very sober. [He doesn’t speak.) An’ she can sing, too. You oughter hear her,—little soft things,—none o’ this screechy stuff. An’ all the old dames sit around—an’ then when my work was done out in the barn I’d come in an’ sit over there in the corner out o’ the way like, an’ listen like a old lady myself—with my Adam’s apple getting tight every once in a while thinkin’ o’ things. I tell you she’s—she’s a regular—humdinger.]

Dick. (Quietly.) What time do you expect her back?

Time forbids any form of fiction to be encyclopædic. The drama is, as we have seen, the most selective of the forms of fiction. Failure to remember this has hurt the chances of many a promising dramatist. Few have such skilled and loyal advisers as Lord Tennyson found in Sir Henry Irving when his over-long Becket must be cut for stage production. How much of the following scene in the original do we think at first sight we can spare? Much which Sir Henry removed we should like to keep, but time-limits forbade and he cut with exceeding skill to the best dramatic phrasing offered of the essentials of the scene.

ACT I. SCENE 1. Becket’s House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.

ORIGINAL	REVSION
Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?   Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. Leave me with Herbert, friend.   (Exit Servant.) Help me off, Herbert, with this—and this.   Herbert. Was not the people's blessing as we past Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood?   Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert!   Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe?   Becket. No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear.   Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse?   Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship I more than once have gone against the Church.   Herbert. To please the King?   Becket. Ay, and the King of kings, Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just The Church should pay her scutage like the lords. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, For Henry could not work a miracle— Make an Archbishop of a soldier?   Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.   Becket. Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me, Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven Into her bosom.   Herbert. Ay, the fire, the light, The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd Into thy making.   Becket. And when I was a child, The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream, Or prophecy, that?   Herbert. Well, dream and prophecy both.   Becket. And when I was of Theobald’s household, once— The good old man would sometimes have his jest— He took his mitre off, and set it on me, And said, “My young Archbishop—thou wouldst make A stately Archbishop!” Jest or prophecy there?   Herbert. Both, Thomas, both.	Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?   Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. Leave me with Herbert, friend.   (Exit Servant.) Help me off Herbert, with this—and this.   Herbert. Was not the people's blessing as we past Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood?   Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert!   Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe?   Becket. No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear.   Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Toulouse?   Becket. But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, For Henry could not work a miracle— Make an Archbishop of a soldier?   Herbert. Ay, For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man.
Becket. Am I the man? That rang Within my head last night, and when I slept Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, And spake to the Lord God, and said, “O Lord, I have been a lover of wines and delicate meats, And secular splendours, and a favourer Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes. Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man, and all the more the man.” And then I asked again, “O Lord my God Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me For this thy great archbishoprick, believing That I should go against the Church with him, And I shall go against him with the Church, And I have said no word of this to him: Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man, and all the more the man.” And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell.   Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall.   Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why did he smite me? What? Shall I fall off—to please the King once more? Not fight—tho’ somehow traitor to the King— My truest and mine utmost for the Church?   Herbert. Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be; For how have fought thine utmost for the Church, Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick? And how been made archbishop hadst thou told him, “I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church, Against the King?”   Becket. But dost thou think the King Forced mine election?   Herbert.   I do think the King Was potent in the election, and why not? Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King? Be comforted. Thou art the man—be thou A mightier Anselm.	Becket. Am I the man? That rang Within my head last night, and when I slept Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, And spake to the Lord God and said, “Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me For this thy great archbishoprick, believing That I should go against the Church with him, And I shall go against him with the Church. Am I the man?” And the Lord answer’d me, “Thou art the man and all the more the man.” And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell.   Herbert. God make not thee but thy foes, fall.
Becket. I do believe thee, then. I am the man. And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King. I served our Theobald well when I was with him; I served King Henry well as Chancellor; I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. This Canterbury is only less than Rome, And all my doubts I fling from me like dust, Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind, And all the puissance of the warrior, And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, And all the heap’d experiences of life, I cast upon the side of Canterbury— Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits With tatter’d robes. Laics and barons, thro’ The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms, And goodly acres—we will make her whole; Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, These ancient Royal customs—they are Royal, Not of the Church—and let them be anathema, And all that speak for them anathema.	Becket. And yet I seem appall’d—on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King.
Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much.	Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much.
Becket. Oh, Herbert here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho’ leaving each, a wound: mine own, a grief To show the scar forever—his, a hate Not ever to be heal’d.[28]	Becket. O Herbert, here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho’ leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief To show the scar forever—his, a hate Not ever to be heal’d.[29]

Dialogue, then, should avoid all unnecessary detail, and should avoid repetition except for desired dramatic ends—in other words, must select and again select.

Practically every illustration thus far used in treating dialogue fitted for the stage has shown the enormous importance of facial expression, gesture, and voice. What the voice may do with just two words is the substance of a little one-act piece made famous years ago by Miss Genevieve Ward and later often read by the late George Riddle. An actress applying to a manager is tested as to her power to express in the two words “Come here” all the emotions described by her examiner. As will be seen, the little play, when read in the study, lacks effectiveness. Given by an actress who can put into the two words all that is demanded, it becomes varied, exciting, and even amazing.