Without an observance of this rule no play can ever be permanently successful as a general thing. There have been some poor plays with little interest, that have been bolstered up for a time by the force of a single character, portrayed by a peculiar actor, but in that case the play becomes a mere "star play," not amenable to the common rules, and useless out of the hands of the peculiar star who owns it. Of such are those multiform dramas, constantly varying, of which Mr. Sothern makes Lord Dundreary and Sam the central figures. The actor found he had made a lucky hit in his character, and he hired out the work of altering the play to any sort of literary hacks, so that he himself is really the creator of the plays, and when he dies they will die. In the "American Cousin," as it was first played, the interest lay entirely in Asa Trenchard, and the drama was very skilfully constructed, with ascending interest, to develop the ideal Yankee. In that part Jefferson made his first public hit. As soon as he found that Dundreary had stolen the play from its hero, Jefferson was wise enough to drop the contest between high comedy and broad farce, in which the latter must conquer when they come together. By taking up the ideal Dutchman (or rather German, as he makes it) in Rip Van Winkle, he created a part of which no one can deprive him, but which will probably die with him. No one else has succeeded with it to the same degree, and "Rip Van Winkle" stands as a model of a successful star play, wherein all the interest hangs on a single character.
It is not the intention of this article to enter into the question of what constitutes the interest of such plays as "Rip Van Winkle." To do so would be to enter into a field where everything is uncertain, and where judgment is only an expression of individual liking. The main elements of the success appear to be humor and pathos, those twin brethren of genius whose identity and individuality are frequently so inextricable from each other. Both are drawn in broad, simple lights and shadows, so that the simplest audience can take the points, while the most cultivated members of that audience are studying the delicate touches of the actor. The contrast between—but we must refrain from the digression, however tempting. We are examining the dramatic canons, and the only settled canons about which there is little doubt are those relating to construction, not to sources of interest. In the kingdom of invention genius is supreme, and amenable to no rules. Each writer must work out his own salvation.
Constructively it is obvious that the number of acts in a play must be regulated by the number of natural episodes in the action of its subject; and the perfection of its construction is tested by the liberties that can be taken with the acts and scenes. Of late years it has become the fashion to alter and remodel Shakespeare's and other old plays, by changing scenes and acts, cutting out and putting in. To an ardent worshipper of Shakespeare as read, these alterations frequently appear desecrations, but there is little question that they were and are improvements. The construction of many of Shakespeare's plays is decidedly faulty, and the nature of the improvements made by managers and actors is best illustrated when the original play unaltered is tried against the adaptation. The acting edition of "Richard III." is a familiar instance of this. Colley Cibber arranged it, he being a shrewd old actor and manager. His edition holds the stage today, and always succeeds, where the original "Richard" fails. In this matter of construction the chances are all in favor of the improvement of a work by a shrewd adapter. His attention is directed to only one thing, the successful presentation of the play. He is not an artist so much as a workman. He creates nothing, he only alters and improves. He may be perfectly incapable of creating an ideal character, while yet he can make its language more compact, can concentrate its action. Such an adapter is a skilful gardener. He cannot create the fruit tree, but he can prune it, and stimulate it to the perfection of fruit-bearing.
The French stage has been a prolific nursery for these skilful workmen, and they have managed to extract splendid successes from their work. It is by comparing their English adaptations with a simple translation of the work that one best sees the improvement. For instance, there is the "Two Orphans," with a plot and incidents so repulsive in the original that its translation failed in London in spite of its weird power. Adapted and cleansed by a clever American author, it was the great success of last year in New York, and is now running a fresh career of success. Another instance that occurs is Sardou's "Fernande." It was altered and adapted in New York by Augustin Daly, and succeeded. Another version by Mr. Schönberg, then of Wallack's, a straight translation, failed to secure a hearing in Boston, and ended in a lawsuit. This was not for want of merit in the translation, which was excellent, but, as appears from a comparison of the two plays, simply because Daly had improved on Sardou. The alterations were small, but masterly, and showed that Daly understood his business. In Sardou's play there appears a certain character, a young count (I forget his name) who comes in at the beginning of the first act, the close of the last. In the last he has some very important business to do, but he appears nowhere else. Of himself he does not aid the plot, but his last action is indispensable. In the original play also appears the Spanish Commander, a mere sketch in the first act. Daly suppressed the Count altogether, gave his best business to the Commander, and brought the latter in all through the play. The result was one good character instead of two poor ones, and indicates a canon which can be confirmed by many other instances. This canon shapes itself something like this:
XII. Concentrate the interest on few characters, and avoid numerous unimportant parts.
This canon rests on the necessities of a stock company, as those before rest on the nature of scenery and audiences. Every company has its leading man, leading lady, low comedians, old man and old woman, and those ordinary characters which all playgoers know by heart. If the play does not fit these, it will not succeed. The appreciation of this fact is one secret of the great success of Boucicault, Daly, and Lester Wallack as play writers. They know the exact capacity of their stages and companies from long experience, and write their plays to fit them. With even ordinary talents they would have a great advantage to start with over writers of greater genius, writing with vague ideas of what the manager wants. As managers they know exactly what they want, and what their companies can do. To a young writer the difficulties are all in the start, unless he be an actor, or so closely related to actors or managers as to be able to get behind the scenes at all times, and become familiar with scenery, traps, machinery, rehearsals, and all the details of the business of theatricals. In former times, especially two centuries ago, the task of writing a good acting play was far easier than now. Scenery was simple, access behind the scenes easier—there was not such a wall of separation as now exists between actors and audience in a first-class city theatre. Even in those days, however, the writing of plays was confined chiefly to actors, managers, and those men of fashion who were given to haunting the green room. In the present day no amount of talent in a writer seems capable of overcoming the difficulties of technical construction of a drama. It is rare to find an author of acknowledged talent in other departments, especially in America, distinguished as a dramatist, and when one of them tries his hand at playwriting he fails, not from lack of good dialogue and literary finish, but solely from lack of knowledge of the business of the drama, the limitations of actors and scenery, and the technique of dramatic construction.
There is more hope to the American stage in the future in the production of such undeniably original if mechanically faulty plays as Bret Harte has given us in the "Two Men of Sandy Bar," than in the rapid carpentry and skilful patchwork of hosts of French adaptations, whether they run ten or five hundred nights. Our Hartes and our yet unknown writers daily coming to the front, with freshness in their hearts and brains in their heads, lack only technique and the custom of the stage, which no one can give them but the managers and actors, who shall welcome them as apprentices to learn the trade. That these latter will find it to their advantage in the end to encourage a cordial alliance between the men of the quill and the men of the sock and buskin, follows from a simple calculation. If men of confessedly small talent and low character, such as the host of lesser playwrights who furnish pabulum for the outlying theatres, can write fair acting plays, simply by using mechanical knowledge and stolen materials, it is probable that men of original talent, already experienced writers in other branches of literature, will end by producing much better and fresher work, when they are offered and have enjoyed the same technical advantages.
Frederick Whittaker.