How to Write a Play | Page 4

their superiors:
They feel that the artist can always reply to any criticism: "Have you
learned painting, sculpture, music? No? Then don't talk so vainly. You
cannot judge. You must be of the craft to understand the beauties," and
so on. It is thus that the good-natured public is frequently imposed on,
in painting, in sculpture, in music, by certain schools and celebrities. It
does not dare to protest. But with regard to drama and comedy the
situation is altered. The public is an interested party to the proceedings
and appears, so to speak, for the prosecution in the case.
The language that we use in our play is the language used by the
spectators every day; the sentiments that we depict are theirs; the
persons whom we set to acting are the spectators themselves in
instantly recognized passions and familiar situations. No preparatory
studies are necessary; no initiation in a studio or school is indispensable;
eyes to see, ears to hear--that's all they need. The moment we depart, I
will not say from the truth, but from what they think is truth, they stop
listening. For in the theater, as in life, of which the theater is the
reflexion, there are two kinds of truth; first, the absolute truth, which
always in the end prevails, and secondly, if not the false, at least the
superficial truth, which consists of customs, manners, social
conventions; the uncompromising truth which revolts, and the pliant
truth which yields to human weakness; in short, the truth of Alceste and
that of Philinte.
It is only by making every kind of concession to the second that we can
succeed in ending with the first. The spectators, like all sovereigns--like
kings, nations, and women--do not like to be told the truth, all the truth.

Let me add quickly that they have an excuse, which is that they do not
know the truth;--they have rarely been told it. They therefore wish to be
flattered, pitied, consoled, taken away from their preoccupations and
their worries, which are nearly all due to ignorance, but which they
consider the greatest and most unmerited to be found anywhere,
because their own.
This is not all; by a curious optical effect, the spectators always see
themselves in the personages who are good, tender, generous, heroic
whom we place on the boards; and in the personages who are vicious or
ridiculous they never see anyone but their neighbors. How can you
expect then that the truth we tell them can do them any good?
But I see that I am not answering your question at all.
You ask me to tell you how a play is made, and I tell you, or rather I try
to tell you, what must be put into it.
Well, my dear friend, if you want me to be quite frank, I'll own up that
I don't know how to write a play. One day a long time ago, when I was
scarcely out of school, I asked my father the same question. He
answered: "It's very simple; the first act clear, the last act short, and all
the acts interesting."
The recipe is in reality very simple. The only thing that is needed in
addition is to know how to carry it out. There the difficulty begins. The
man to whom this recipe is given is somewhat like the cat that has
found a nut. He turns it in every direction with his paw because he
hears something moving in the shell--but he can't open it. In other
words, there are those whom from their birth know how to write a play
(I do not say that the gift is hereditary); and there are those who do not
know at once--and these will never know. You are a dramatist, or you
are not; neither will-power nor work has anything to do with it. The gift
is indispensable. I think that every one whom you may ask how to write
a play will reply, if he really can write one, that he doesn't know how it
is done. It is a little as if you were to ask Romeo what he did to fall in
love with Juliet and to make her love him; he would reply that he did
not know, that it simply happened.

Truly yours,
A. Dumas fils.
* * * * *

V.
From Edmond Gondinet.
My dear friend:
What is my way of working? It is deplorable. Do not recommend it to
any one. When the idea for a play occurs to me, I never ask myself
whether it will be possible to make a masterpiece out of it; I ask
whether the subject will be amusing to treat. A little pleasure in this life
tempts me a great deal more than a bust,